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20638	----	From Plotzk to Boston BY MARY ANTIN WITH A FOREWORD BY ISRAEL ZANGWILL BOSTON, MASS. W. B. CLARKE & CO., PARK STREET CHURCH 1899 COPYRIGHT, 1899 BY MARY ANTIN PRESS OF PHILIP COWEN NEW YORK CITY * * * * * DEDICATED TO HATTIE L. HECHT WITH THE LOVE AND GRATITUDE OF THE AUTHOR * * * * * FOREWORD The "infant phenomenon" in literature is rarer than in more physical branches of art, but its productions are not likely to be of value outside the doting domestic circle. Even Pope who "lisped in numbers for the numbers came," did not add to our Anthology from his cradle, though he may therein have acquired his monotonous rocking-metre. Immaturity of mind and experience, so easily disguised on the stage or the music-stool--even by adults--is more obvious in the field of pure intellect. The contribution with which Mary Antin makes her début in letters is, however, saved from the emptiness of embryonic thinking by being a record of a real experience, the greatest of her life; her journey from Poland to Boston. Even so, and remarkable as her description is for a girl of eleven--for it was at this age that she first wrote the thing in Yiddish, though she was thirteen when she translated it into English--it would scarcely be worth publishing merely as a literary curiosity. But it happens to possess an extraneous value. For, despite the great wave of Russian immigration into the United States, and despite the noble spirit in which the Jews of America have grappled with the invasion, we still know too little of the inner feelings of the people themselves, nor do we adequately realize what magic vision of free America lures them on to face the great journey to the other side of the world. Mary Antin's vivid description of all she and her dear ones went through, enables us to see almost with our own eyes how the invasion of America appears to the impecunious invader. It is thus "a human document" of considerable value, as well as a promissory note of future performance. The quick senses of the child, her keen powers of observation and introspection, her impressionability both to sensations and complex emotions--these are the very things out of which literature is made; the raw stuff of art. Her capacity to handle English--after so short a residence in America--shows that she possesses also the instrument of expression. More fortunate than the poet of the Ghetto, Morris Rosenfeld, she will have at her command the most popular language in the world, and she has already produced in it passages of true literature, especially in her impressionistic rendering of the sea and the bustling phantasmagoria of travel. What will be her development no one can say precisely, and I would not presume either to predict or to direct it, for "the wind bloweth where it listeth." It will probably take lyrical shape. Like most modern Jewesses who have written, she is, I fear, destined to spiritual suffering: fortunately her work evidences a genial talent for enjoyment and a warm humanity which may serve to counterbalance the curse of reflectiveness. That she is growing, is evident from her own Introduction, written only the other day, with its touches of humor and more complex manipulation of groups of facts. But I have ventured to counsel delay rather than precipitation in production--for she is not yet sixteen--and the completion of her education, physical no less than intellectual; and it is to this purpose that such profits as may accrue from this publication will be devoted. Let us hope this premature recognition of her potentialities will not injure their future flowering, and that her development will add to those spiritual and intellectual forces of which big-hearted American Judaism stands sorely in need. I should explain in conclusion, that I have neither added nor subtracted, even a comma, and that I have no credit in "discovering" Mary Antin. I did but endorse the verdict of that kind and charming Boston household in which I had the pleasure of encountering the gifted Polish girl, and to a member of which this little volume is appropriately dedicated. I. ZANGWILL. PREFATORY In the year 1891, a mighty wave of the emigration movement swept over all parts of Russia, carrying with it a vast number of the Jewish population to the distant shores of the New World--from tyranny to democracy, from darkness to light, from bondage and persecution to freedom, justice and equality. But the great mass knew nothing of these things; they were going to the foreign world in hopes only of earning their bread and worshiping their God in peace. The different currents that directed the course of that wave cannot be here enumerated. Suffice it to say that its power was enormous. All over the land homes were broken up, families separated, lives completely altered, for a common end. The emigration fever was at its height in Plotzk, my native town, in the central western part of Russia, on the Dvina River. "America" was in everybody's mouth. Business men talked of it over their accounts; the market women made up their quarrels that they might discuss it from stall to stall; people who had relatives in the famous land went around reading their letters for the enlightenment of less fortunate folks; the one letter-carrier informed the public how many letters arrived from America, and who were the recipients; children played at emigrating; old folks shook their sage heads over the evening fire, and prophesied no good for those who braved the terrors of the sea and the foreign goal beyond it;--all talked of it, but scarcely anybody knew one true fact about this magic land. For book-knowledge was not for them; and a few persons--they were a dressmaker's daughter, and a merchant with his two sons--who had returned from America after a long visit, happened to be endowed with extraordinary imagination, (a faculty closely related to their knowledge of their old country-men's ignorance), and their descriptions of life across the ocean, given daily, for some months, to eager audiences, surpassed anything in the Arabian Nights. One sad fact threw a shadow over the splendor of the gold-paved, Paradise-like fairyland. The travelers all agreed that Jews lived there in the most shocking impiety. Driven by a necessity for bettering the family circumstances, and by certain minor forces which cannot now be named, my father began to think seriously of casting his lot with the great stream of emigrants. Many family councils were held before it was agreed that the plan must be carried out. Then came the parting; for it was impossible for the whole family to go at once. I remember it, though I was only eight. It struck me as rather interesting to stand on the platform before the train, with a crowd of friends weeping in sympathy with us, and father waving his hat for our special benefit, and saying--the last words we heard him speak as the train moved off-- "Good-bye, Plotzk, forever!" Then followed three long years of hope and doubt for father in America and us in Russia. There were toil and suffering and waiting and anxiety for all. There were--but to tell of all that happened in those years I should have to write a separate history. The happy day came when we received the long-coveted summons. And what stirring times followed! The period of preparation was one of constant delight to us children. We were four--my two sisters, one brother and myself. Our playmates looked up to us in respectful admiration; neighbors, if they made no direct investigations, bribed us with nice things for information as to what was going into every box, package and basket. And the house was dismantled--people came and carried off the furniture; closets, sheds and other nooks were emptied of their contents; the great wood-pile was taken away until only a few logs remained; ancient treasures such as women are so loath to part with, and which mother had carried with her from a dear little house whence poverty had driven us, were brought to light from their hiding places, and sacrificed at the altar whose flames were consuming so much that was fraught with precious association and endeared by family tradition; the number of bundles and boxes increased daily, and our home vanished hourly; the rooms became quite uninhabitable at last, and we children glanced in glee, to the anger of the echoes, when we heard that in the evening we were to start upon our journey. But we did not go till the next morning, and then as secretly as possible. For, despite the glowing tales concerning America, people flocked to the departure of emigrants much as they did to a funeral; to weep and lament while (in the former case only, I believe) they envied. As everybody in Plotzk knew us, and as the departure of a whole family was very rousing, we dared not brave the sympathetic presence of the whole township, that we knew we might expect. So we gave out a false alarm. Even then there was half the population of Plotzk on hand the next morning. We were the heroes of the hour. I remember how the women crowded around mother, charging her to deliver messages to their relatives in America; how they made the air ring with their unintelligible chorus; how they showered down upon us scores of suggestions and admonitions; how they made us frantic with their sympathetic weeping and wringing of hands; how, finally, the ringing of the signal bell set them all talking faster and louder than ever, in desperate efforts to give the last bits of advice, deliver the last messages, and, to their credit let it be said, to give the final, hearty, unfeigned good-bye kisses, hugs and good wishes. Well, we lived through three years of waiting, and also through a half hour of parting. Some of our relatives came near being carried off, as, heedless of the last bell, they lingered on in the car. But at last they, too, had to go, and we, the wanderers, could scarcely see the rainbow wave of colored handkerchiefs, as, dissolved in tears, we were carried out of Plotzk, away from home, but nearer our longed-for haven of reunion; nearer, indeed, to everything that makes life beautiful and gives one an aim and an end--freedom, progress, knowledge, light and truth, with their glorious host of followers. But we did not know it then. The following pages contain the description of our journey, as I wrote it four years ago, when it was all fresh in my memory. M. A. FROM PLOTZK TO BOSTON. The short journey from Plotzk to Vilna was uneventful. Station after station was passed without our taking any interest in anything, for that never-to-be-forgotten leave taking at the Plotzk railway station left us all in such a state of apathy to all things except our own thoughts as could not easily be thrown off. Indeed, had we not been obliged to change trains at Devinsk and, being the inexperienced travellers we were, do a great deal of bustling and hurrying and questioning of porters and mere idlers, I do not know how long we would have remained in that same thoughtful, silent state. Towards evening we reached Vilna, and such a welcome as we got! Up to then I had never seen such a mob of porters and isvostchiky. I do not clearly remember just what occurred, but a most vivid recollection of being very uneasy for a time is still retained in my memory. You see my uncle was to have met us at the station, but urgent business kept him elsewhere. Now it was universally believed in Plotzk that it was wise not to trust the first isvostchik who offered his services when one arrived in Vilna a stranger, and I do not know to this day how mother managed to get away from the mob and how, above all, she dared to trust herself with her precious baggage to one of them. But I have thought better of Vilna Isvostchiky since, for we were safely landed after a pretty long drive in front of my uncle's store, with never one of our number lost, never a bundle stolen or any mishap whatever. Our stay in Vilna was marked by nothing of interest. We stayed only long enough for some necessary papers to reach us, and during that time I discovered that Vilna was very much like Plotzk, though larger, cleaner and noisier. There were the same coarse, hoarse-voiced women in the market, the same kind of storekeepers in the low store doors, forever struggling and quarrelling for a customer. The only really interesting things I remember were the horsecars, which I had never even heard of, and in one of which I had a lovely ride for five copeiky, and a large book store on the Nemetzka yah Ulitza. The latter object may not seem of any interest to most people, but I had never seen so many books in one place before, and I could not help regarding them with longing and wonder. At last all was in readiness for our start. This was really the beginning of our long journey, which I shall endeavor to describe. I will not give any description of the various places we passed, for we stopped at few places and always under circumstances which did not permit of sightseeing. I shall only speak of such things as made a distinct impression upon my mind, which, it must be remembered, was not mature enough to be impressed by what older minds were, while on the contrary it was in just the state to take in many things which others heeded not. I do not know the exact date, but I do know that it was at the break of day on a Sunday and very early in April when we left Vilna. We had not slept any the night before. Fannie and I spent the long hours in playing various quiet games and watching the clock. At last the long expected hour arrived; our train would be due in a short time. All but Fannie and myself had by this time fallen into a drowse, half sitting, half lying on some of the many baskets and boxes that stood all about the room all ready to be taken to the station. So we set to work to rouse the rest, and with the aid of an alarm clock's loud ringing, we soon had them at least half awake; and while the others sat rubbing their eyes and trying to look wide awake, Uncle Borris had gone out, and when he returned with several droskies to convey us to the station, we were all ready for the start. We went out into the street, and now I perceived that not we alone were sleepy; everything slept, and nature also slept, deeply, sweetly. The sky was covered with dark gray clouds (perhaps that was its night-cap), from which a chill, drizzling rain was slowly descending, and the thick morning fog shut out the road from our sight. No sound came from any direction; slumber and quiet reigned everywhere, for every thing and person slept, forgetful for a time of joys, sorrows, hopes, fears,--everything. Sleepily we said our last good-byes to the family, took our seats in the droskies, and soon the Hospitalnayah Ulitza was lost to sight. As the vehicles rattled along the deserted streets, the noise of the horses' hoofs and the wheels striking against the paving stones sounded unusually loud in the general hush, and caused the echoes to answer again and again from the silent streets and alleys. In a short time we were at the station. In our impatience we had come too early, and now the waiting was very tiresome. Everybody knows how lively and noisy it is at a railroad station when a train is expected. But now there were but a few persons present, and in everybody's face I could see the reflection of my own dissatisfaction, because, like myself, they had much rather have been in a comfortable, warm bed than up and about in the rain and fog. Everything was so uncomfortable. Suddenly we heard a long shrill whistle, to which the surrounding dreariness gave a strangely mournful sound, the clattering train rushed into the depot and stood still. Several passengers (they were very few) left the cars and hastened towards where the droskies stood, and after rousing the sleepy isvostchiky, were whirled away to their several destinations. When we had secured our tickets and seen to the baggage we entered a car in the women's division and waited impatiently for the train to start. At last the first signal was given, then the second and third; the locomotive shrieked and puffed, the train moved slowly, then swiftly it left the depot far behind it. From Vilna to our next stopping place, Verzbolovo, there was a long, tedious ride of about eight hours. As the day continued to be dull and foggy, very little could be seen through the windows. Besides, no one seemed to care or to be interested in anything. Sleepy and tired as we all were, we got little rest, except the younger ones, for we had not yet got used to living in the cars and could not make ourselves very comfortable. For the greater part of the time we remained as unsocial as the weather was unpleasant. The car was very still, there being few passengers, among them a very pleasant kind gentleman travelling with his pretty daughter. Mother found them very pleasant to chat with, and we children found it less tiresome to listen to them. At half past twelve o'clock the train came to a stop before a large depot, and the conductor announced "Verzbolovo, fifteen minutes!" The sight that now presented itself was very cheering after our long, unpleasant ride. The weather had changed very much. The sun was shining brightly and not a trace of fog or cloud was to be seen. Crowds of well-dressed people were everywhere--walking up and down the platform, passing through the many gates leading to the street, sitting around the long, well-loaded tables, eating, drinking, talking or reading newspapers, waited upon by the liveliest, busiest waiters I had ever seen--and there was such an activity and bustle about everything that I wished I could join in it, it seemed so hard to sit still. But I had to content myself with looking on with the others, while the friendly gentleman whose acquaintance my mother had made (I do not recollect his name) assisted her in obtaining our tickets for Eidtkunen, and attending to everything else that needed attention, and there were many things. Soon the fifteen minutes were up, our kind fellow-passenger and his daughter bade us farewell and a pleasant journey (we were just on the brink of the beginning of our troubles), the train puffed out of the depot and we all felt we were nearing a very important stage in our journey. At this time, cholera was raging in Russia, and was spread by emigrants going to America in the countries through which they travelled. To stop this danger, measures were taken to make emigration from Russia more difficult than ever. I believe that at all times the crossing of the boundary between Russia and Germany was a source of trouble to Russians, but with a special passport this was easily overcome. When, however, the traveller could not afford to supply himself with one, the boundary was crossed by stealth, and many amusing anecdotes are told of persons who crossed in some disguise, often that of a mujik who said he was going to the town on the German side to sell some goods, carried for the purpose of ensuring the success of the ruse. When several such tricks had been played on the guards it became very risky, and often, when caught, a traveller resorted to stratagem, which is very diverting when afterwards described, but not so at a time when much depends on its success. Some times a paltry bribe secured one a safe passage, and often emigrants were aided by men who made it their profession to help them cross, often suffering themselves to be paid such sums for the service that it paid best to be provided with a special passport. As I said, the difficulties were greater at the time we were travelling, and our friends believed we had better not attempt a stealthy crossing, and we procured the necessary document to facilitate it. We therefore expected little trouble, but some we thought there might be, for we had heard some vague rumors to the effect that a special passport was not as powerful an agent as it used to be. We now prepared to enjoy a little lunch, and before we had time to clear it away the train stopped, and we saw several men in blue uniforms, gilt buttons and brass helmets, if you may call them so, on their heads. At his side each wore a kind of leather case attached to a wide bronze belt. In these cases they carried something like a revolver, and each had, besides, a little book with black oilcloth covers. I can give you no idea of the impression these men (they were German gendarmes) made on us, by saying they frightened us. Perhaps because their (to us) impressive appearance gave them a stern look; perhaps because they really looked something more than grave, we were so frightened. I only know that we were. I can see the reason now clearly enough. Like all persons who were used to the tyranny of a Russian policeman, who practically ruled the ward or town under his friendly protection, and never hesitated to assert his rights as holder of unlimited authority over his little domain, in that mild, amiable manner so well known to such of his subjects as he particularly favored with his vigilant regard--like all such persons, I say, we did not, could not, expect to receive any kind treatment at the hands of a number of officers, especially as we were in the very act of attempting to part with our much-beloved mother country, of which act, to judge by the pains it took to make it difficult, the government did not approve. It was a natural fear in us, as you can easily see. Pretty soon mother recovered herself, and remembering that the train stops for a few minutes only, was beginning to put away the scattered articles hastily when a gendarme entered our car and said we were not to leave it. Mamma asked him why, but he said nothing and left the car, another gendarme entering as he did so. He demanded where we were going, and, hearing the answer, went out. Before we had had time to look about at each other's frightened faces, another man, a doctor, as we soon knew, came in followed by a third gendarme. The doctor asked many questions about our health, and of what nationality we were. Then he asked about various things, as where we were going to, if we had tickets, how much money we had, where we came from, to whom we were going, etc., etc., making a note of every answer he received. This done, he shook his head with his shining helmet on it, and said slowly (I imagined he enjoyed frightening us), "With these third class tickets you cannot go to America now, because it is forbidden to admit emigrants into Germany who have not at least second class tickets. You will have to return to Russia unless you pay at the office here to have your tickets changed for second class ones." After a few minutes' calculation and reference to the notes he had made, he added calmly, "I find you will need two hundred rubles to get your tickets exchanged;" and, as the finishing stroke to his pleasing communication, added, "Your passports are of no use at all now because the necessary part has to be torn out, whether you are allowed to pass or not." A plain, short speech he made of it, that cruel man. Yet every word sounded in our ears with an awful sound that stopped the beating of our hearts for a while--sounded like the ringing of funeral bells to us, and yet without the mournfully sweet music those bells make, that they might heal while they hurt. We were homeless, houseless, and friendless in a strange place. We had hardly money enough to last us through the voyage for which we had hoped and waited for three long years. We had suffered much that the reunion we longed for might come about; we had prepared ourselves to suffer more in order to bring it about, and had parted with those we loved, with places that were dear to us in spite of what we passed through in them, never again to see them, as we were convinced--all for the same dear end. With strong hopes and high spirits that hid the sad parting, we had started on our long journey. And now we were checked so unexpectedly but surely, the blow coming from where we little expected it, being, as we believed, safe in that quarter. And that is why the simple words had such a frightful meaning to us. We had received a wound we knew not how to heal. When mother had recovered enough to speak she began to argue with the gendarme, telling him our story and begging him to be kind. The children were frightened by what they understood, and all but cried. I was only wondering what would happen, and wishing I could pour out my grief in tears, as the others did; but when I feel deeply I seldom show it in that way, and always wish I could. Mother's supplications, and perhaps the children's indirect ones, had more effect than I supposed they would. The officer was moved, even if he had just said that tears would not be accepted instead of money, and gave us such kind advice that I began to be sorry I had thought him cruel, for it was easy to see that he was only doing his duty and had no part in our trouble that he could be blamed for, now that I had more kindly thoughts of him. He said that we would now be taken to Keebart, a few versts' distance from Verzbolovo, where one Herr Schidorsky lived. This man, he said, was well known for miles around, and we were to tell him our story and ask him to help us, which he probably would, being very kind. A ray of hope shone on each of the frightened faces listening so attentively to this bearer of both evil and happy tidings. I, for one, was very confident that the good man would help us through our difficulties, for I was most unwilling to believe that we really couldn't continue our journey. Which of us was? I'd like to know. We are in Keebart, at the depot. The least important particular even of that place, I noticed and remembered. How the porter--he was an ugly, grinning man--carried in our things and put them away in the southern corner of the big room, on the floor; how we sat down on a settee near them, a yellow settee; how the glass roof let in so much light that we had to shade our eyes because the car had been dark and we had been crying; how there were only a few people besides ourselves there, and how I began to count them and stopped when I noticed a sign over the head of the fifth person--a little woman with a red nose and a pimple on it, that seemed to be staring at me as much as the grayish-blue eyes above them, it was so large and round--and tried to read the German, with the aid of the Russian translation below. I noticed all this and remembered it, as if there was nothing else in the world for me to think of--no America, no gendarme to destroy one's passports and speak of two hundred rubles as if he were a millionaire, no possibility of being sent back to one's old home whether one felt at all grateful for the kindness or not--nothing but that most attractive of places, full of interesting sights. For, though I had been so hopeful a little while ago, I felt quite discouraged when a man, very sour and grumbling--and he was a Jew--a "Son of Mercy" as a certain song said--refused to tell mamma where Schidorsky lived. I then believed that the whole world must have united against us; and decided to show my defiant indifference by leaving the world to be as unkind as it pleased, while I took no interest in such trifles. So I let my mind lose itself in a queer sort of mist--a something I cannot describe except by saying it must have been made up of lazy inactivity. Through this mist I saw and heard indistinctly much that followed. When I think of it now, I see how selfish it was to allow myself to sink, body and mind, in such a sea of helpless laziness, when I might have done something besides awaiting the end of that critical time, whatever it might be--something, though what, I do not see even now, I own. But I only studied the many notices till I thought myself very well acquainted with the German tongue; and now and then tried to cheer the other children, who were still inclined to cry, by pointing out to them some of the things that interested me. For this faulty conduct I have no excuse to give, unless youth and the fact that I was stunned with the shock we had just received, will be accepted. I remember through that mist that mother found Schidorsky's home at last, but was told she could not see him till a little later; that she came back to comfort us, and found there our former fellow passenger who had come with us from Vilna, and that he was very indignant at the way in which we were treated, and scolded, and declared he would have the matter in all the papers, and said we must be helped. I remember how mamma saw Schidorsky at last, spoke to him, and then told us, word for word, what his answer had been; that he wouldn't wait to be asked to use all his influence, and wouldn't lose a moment about it, and he didn't, for he went out at once on that errand, while his good daughter did her best to comfort mamma with kind words and tea. I remember that there was much going to the good man's house; much hurrying of special messengers to and from Eidtkunen; trembling inquiries, uncertain replies made hopeful only by the pitying, encouraging words and manners of the deliverer--for all, even the servants, were kind as good angels at that place. I remember that another little family--there were three--were discovered by us in the same happy state as ourselves, and like the dogs in the fable, who, receiving care at the hands of a kind man, sent their friends to him for help, we sent them to our helper. I remember seeing night come out of that mist, and bringing more trains and people and noise than the whole day (we still remained at the depot), till I felt sick and dizzy. I remember wondering what kind of a night it was, but not knowing how to find out, as if I had no senses. I remember that somebody said we were obliged to remain in Keebart that night and that we set out to find lodgings; that the most important things I saw on the way were the two largest dolls I had ever seen, carried by two pretty little girls, and a big, handsome father; and a great deal of gravel in the streets, and boards for the crossings. I remember that we found a little room (we had to go up four steps first) that we could have for seventy-five copecks, with our tea paid for in that sum. I remember, through that mist, how I wondered what I was sleeping on that night, as I wondered about the weather; that we really woke up in the morning (I was so glad to rest I had believed we should never be disturbed again) and washed, and dressed and breakfasted and went to the depot again, to be always on hand. I remember that mamma and the father of the little family went at once to the only good man on earth (I thought so) and that the party of three were soon gone, by the help of some agent that was slower, for good reasons, in helping us. I remember that mamma came to us soon after and said that Herr Schidorsky had told her to ask the Postmeister--some high official there--for a pass to Eidtkunen; and there she should speak herself to our protector's older brother who could help us by means of his great power among the officers of high rank; that she returned in a few hours and told us the two brothers were equal in kindness, for the older one, too, said he would not wait to be asked to do his best for us. I remember that another day--so-o-o long--passed behind the mist, and we were still in that dreadful, noisy, tiresome depot, with no change, till we went to spend the night at Herr Schidorsky's, because they wouldn't let us go anywhere else. On the way there, I remember, I saw something marvellous--queer little wooden sticks stuck on the lines where clothes hung for some purpose. (I didn't think it was for drying, because you know I always saw things hung up on fences and gates for such purposes. The queer things turned out to be clothes-pins). And, I remember, I noticed many other things of equal importance to our affairs, till we came to the little house in the garden. Here we were received, I remember with much kindness and hospitality. We had a fire made for us, food and drink brought in, and a servant was always inquiring whether anything more could be done for our comfort. I remember, still through that misty veil, what a pleasant evening we passed, talking over what had so far happened, and wondering what would come. I must have talked like one lost in a thick fog, groping carefully. But, had I been shut up, mentally, in a tower nothing else could pierce, the sense of gratitude that naturally sprung from the kindness that surrounded us, must have, would have found a passage for itself to the deepest cavities of the heart. Yes, though all my senses were dulled by what had passed over us so lately, I was yet aware of the deepest sense of thankfulness one can ever feel. I was aware of something like the sweet presence of angels in the persons of good Schidorsky and his family. Oh, that some knowledge of that gratitude might reach those for whom we felt it so keenly! We all felt it. But the deepest emotions are so hard to express. I thought of this as I lay awake a little while, and said to myself, thinking of our benefactor, that he was a Jew, a true "Son of Mercy." And I slept with that thought. And this is the last I remember seeing and feeling behind that mist of lazy inactivity. The next morning, I woke not only from the night's sleep, but from my waking dreaminess. All the vapors dispersed as I went into the pretty flower garden where the others were already at play, and by the time we had finished a good breakfast, served by a dear servant girl, I felt quite myself again. Of course, mamma hastened to Herr Schidorsky as soon as she could, and he sent her to the Postmeister again, to ask him to return the part of our passports that had been torn out, and without which we could not go on. He said he would return them as soon as he received word from Eidtkunen. So we could only wait and hope. At last it came and so suddenly that we ran off to the depot with hardly a hat on all our heads, or a coat on our backs, with two men running behind with our things, making it a very ridiculous sight. We have often laughed over it since. Of course, in such a confusion we could not say even one word of farewell or thanks to our deliverers. But, turning to see that we were all there, I saw them standing in the gate, crying that all was well now, and wishing us many pleasant things, and looking as if they had been receiving all the blessings instead of us. I have often thought they must have purposely arranged it that we should have to leave in a hurry, because they wouldn't stand any expression of gratefulness. Well, we just reached our car in time to see our baggage brought from the office and ourselves inside, when the last bell rang. Then, before we could get breath enough to utter more than faint gasps of delight, we were again in Eidtkunen. The gendarmes came to question us again, but when mother said that we were going to Herr Schidorsky of Eidtkunen, as she had been told to say, we were allowed to leave the train. I really thought we were to be the visitors of the elder Schidorsky, but it turned out to be only an understanding between him and the officers that those claiming to be on their way to him were not to be troubled. At any rate, we had now really crossed the forbidden boundary--we were in Germany. There was a terrible confusion in the baggage-room where we were directed to go. Boxes, baskets, bags, valises, and great, shapeless things belonging to no particular class were thrown about by porters and other men, who sorted them and put tickets on all but those containing provisions, while others were opened and examined in haste. At last our turn came, and our things, along with those of all other American-bound travellers, were taken away to be steamed and smoked and other such processes gone through. We were told to wait till notice should be given us of something else to be done. Our train would not depart till nine in the evening. As usual, I noticed all the little particulars of the waiting room. What else could I do with so much time and not even a book to read? I could describe it exactly--the large, square room, painted walls, long tables with fruits and drinks of all kinds covering them, the white chairs, carved settees, beautiful china and cut glass showing through the glass doors of the dressers, and the nickel samovar, which attracted my attention because I had never seen any but copper or brass ones. The best and the worst of everything there was a large case full of books. It was the best, because they were "books" and all could use them; the worst, because they were all German, and my studies in the railway depot of Keebart had not taught me so much that I should be able to read books in German. It was very hard to see people get those books and enjoy them while I couldn't. It was impossible to be content with other people's pleasure, and I wasn't. When I had almost finished counting the books, I noticed that mamma and the others had made friends with a family of travellers like ourselves. Frau Gittleman and her five children made very interesting companions for the rest of the day, and they seemed to think that Frau Antin and the four younger Antins were just as interesting; perhaps excepting, in their minds, one of them who must have appeared rather uninteresting from a habit she had of looking about as if always expecting to make discoveries. But she was interested, if not interesting, enough when the oldest of the young Gittlemans, who was a young gentleman of seventeen, produced some books which she could read. Then all had a merry time together, reading, talking, telling the various adventures of the journey, and walking, as far as we were allowed, up and down the long platform outside, till we were called to go and see, if we wanted to see, how our things were being made fit for further travel. It was interesting to see how they managed to have anything left to return to us, after all the processes of airing and smoking and steaming and other assaults on supposed germs of the dreaded cholera had been done with, the pillows, even, being ripped open to be steamed! All this was interesting, but we were rather disagreeably surprised when a bill for these unasked-for services had to be paid. The Gittlemans, we found, were to keep us company for some time. At the expected hour we all tried to find room in a car indicated by the conductor. We tried, but could only find enough space on the floor for our baggage, on which we made believe sitting comfortably. For now we were obliged to exchange the comparative comforts of a third class passenger train for the certain discomforts of a fourth class one. There were only four narrow benches in the whole car, and about twice as many people were already seated on these as they were probably supposed to accommodate. All other space, to the last inch, was crowded by passengers or their luggage. It was very hot and close and altogether uncomfortable, and still at every new station fresh passengers came crowding in, and actually made room, spare as it was, for themselves. It became so terrible that all glared madly at the conductor as he allowed more people to come into that prison, and trembled at the announcement of every station. I cannot see even now how the officers could allow such a thing; it was really dangerous. The most remarkable thing was the good-nature of the poor passengers. Few showed a sour face even; not a man used any strong language (audibly, at least). They smiled at each other as if they meant to say, "I am having a good time; so are you, aren't you?" Young Gittleman was very gallant, and so cheerful that he attracted everybody's attention. He told stories, laughed, and made us unwilling to be outdone. During one of his narratives he produced a pretty memorandum book that pleased one of us very much, and that pleasing gentleman at once presented it to her. She has kept it since in memory of the giver, and, in the right place, I could tell more about that matter--very interesting. I have given so much space to the description of that one night's adventures because I remember it so distinctly, with all its discomforts, and the contrast of our fellow-travellers' kindly dispositions. At length that dreadful night passed, and at dawn about half the passengers left, all at once. There was such a sigh of relief and a stretching of cramped limbs as can only be imagined, as the remaining passengers inhaled the fresh cold air of dewy dawn. It was almost worth the previous suffering to experience the pleasure of relief that followed. All day long we travelled in the same train, sleeping, resting, eating, and wishing to get out. But the train stopped for a very short time at the many stations, and all the difference that made to us was that pretty girls passed through the cars with little bark baskets filled with fruit and flowers hardly fresher or prettier than their bearers, who generally sold something to our young companion, for he never wearied of entertaining us. Other interests there were none. The scenery was nothing unusual, only towns, depots, roads, fields, little country houses with barns and cattle and poultry--all such as we were well acquainted with. If something new did appear, it was passed before one could get a good look at it. The most pleasing sights were little barefoot children waving their aprons or hats as we eagerly watched for them, because that reminded us of our doing the same thing when we saw the passenger trains, in the country. We used to wonder whether we should ever do so again. Towards evening we came into Berlin. I grow dizzy even now when I think of our whirling through that city. It seemed we were going faster and faster all the time, but it was only the whirl of trains passing in opposite directions and close to us that made it seem so. The sight of crowds of people such as we had never seen before, hurrying to and fro, in and out of great depots that danced past us, helped to make it more so. Strange sights, splendid buildings, shops, people and animals, all mingled in one great, confused mass of a disposition to continually move in a great hurry, wildly, with no other aim but to make one's head go round and round, in following its dreadful motions. Round and round went my head. It was nothing but trains, depots, crowds--crowds, depots, trains, again and again, with no beginning, no end, only a mad dance! Faster and faster we go, faster still, and the noise increases with the speed. Bells, whistles, hammers, locomotives shrieking madly, men's voices, peddlers' cries, horses' hoofs, dogs' barking--all united in doing their best to drown every other sound but their own, and made such a deafening uproar in the attempt that nothing could keep it out. Whirl, noise, dance, uproar--will it last forever? I'm so--o diz-z-zy! How my head aches! And oh! those people will be run over! Stop the train, they'll--thank goodness, nobody is hurt. But who ever heard of a train passing right through the middle of a city, up in the air, it seems. Oh, dear! it's no use thinking, my head spins so. Right through the business streets! Why, who ever--! I must have lived through a century of this terrible motion and din and unheard of roads for trains, and confused thinking. But at length everything began to take a more familiar appearance again, the noise grew less, the roads more secluded, and by degrees we recognized the dear, peaceful country. Now we could think of Berlin, or rather, what we had seen of it, more calmly, and wonder why it made such an impression. I see now. We had never seen so large a city before, and were not prepared to see such sights, bursting upon us so suddenly as that. It was like allowing a blind man to see the full glare of the sun all at once. Our little Plotzk, and even the larger cities we had passed through, compared to Berlin about the same as total darkness does to great brilliancy of light. In a great lonely field opposite a solitary wooden house within a large yard, our train pulled up at last, and a conductor commanded the passengers to make haste and get out. He need not have told us to hurry; we were glad enough to be free again after such a long imprisonment in the uncomfortable car. All rushed to the door. We breathed more freely in the open field, but the conductor did not wait for us to enjoy our freedom. He hurried us into the one large room which made up the house, and then into the yard. Here a great many men and women, dressed in white, received us, the women attending to the women and girls of the passengers, and the men to the others. This was another scene of bewildering confusion, parents losing their children, and little ones crying; baggage being thrown together in one corner of the yard, heedless of contents, which suffered in consequence; those white-clad Germans shouting commands always accompanied with "Quick! Quick!"; the confused passengers obeying all orders like meek children, only questioning now and then what was going to be done with them. And no wonder if in some minds stories arose of people being captured by robbers, murderers, and the like. Here we had been taken to a lonely place where only that house was to be seen; our things were taken away, our friends separated from us; a man came to inspect us, as if to ascertain our full value; strange looking people driving us about like dumb animals, helpless and unresisting; children we could not see, crying in a way that suggested terrible things; ourselves driven into a little room where a great kettle was boiling on a little stove; our clothes taken off, our bodies rubbed with a slippery substance that might be any bad thing; a shower of warm water let down on us without warning; again driven to another little room where we sit, wrapped in woollen blankets till large, coarse bags are brought in, their contents turned out and we see only a cloud of steam, and hear the women's orders to dress ourselves, quick, quick, or else we'll miss--something we cannot hear. We are forced to pick out our clothes from among all the others, with the steam blinding us; we choke, cough, entreat the women to give us time; they persist, "Quick, quick, or you'll miss the train!" Oh, so we really won't be murdered! They are only making us ready for the continuing of our journey, cleaning us of all suspicions of dangerous germs. Thank God! Assured by the word "train" we manage to dress ourselves after a fashion, and the man comes again to inspect us. All is right, and we are allowed to go into the yard to find our friends and our luggage. Both are difficult tasks, the second even harder. Imagine all the things of some hundreds of people making a journey like ours, being mostly unpacked and mixed together in one sad heap. It was disheartening, but done at last was the task of collecting our belongings, and we were marched into the big room again. Here, on the bare floor, in a ring, sat some Polish men and women singing some hymn in their own tongue, and making more noise than music. We were obliged to stand and await further orders, the few seats being occupied, and the great door barred and locked. We were in a prison, and again felt some doubts. Then a man came in and called the passengers' names, and when they answered they were made to pay two marcs each for the pleasant bath we had just been forced to take. Another half hour, and our train arrived. The door was opened, and we rushed out into the field, glad to get back even to the fourth class car. We had lost sight of the Gittlemans, who were going a different way now, and to our regret hadn't even said good-bye, or thanked them for their kindness. After the preceding night of wakefulness and discomfort, the weary day in the train, the dizzy whirl through Berlin, the fright we had from the rough proceedings of the Germans, and all the strange experiences of the place we just escaped--after all this we needed rest. But to get it was impossible for all but the youngest children. If we had borne great discomforts on the night before, we were suffering now. I had thought anything worse impossible. Worse it was now. The car was even more crowded, and people gasped for breath. People sat in strangers' laps, only glad of that. The floor was so thickly lined that the conductor could not pass, and the tickets were passed to him from hand to hand. To-night all were more worn out, and that did not mend their dispositions. They could not help falling asleep and colliding with someone's nodding head, which called out angry mutterings and growls. Some fell off their seats and caused a great commotion by rolling over on the sleepers on the floor, and, in spite of my own sleepiness and weariness, I had many quiet laughs by myself as I watched the funny actions of the poor travellers. Not until very late did I fall asleep. I, with the rest, missed the pleasant company of our friends, the Gittlemans, and thought about them as I sat perched on a box, with an old man's knees for the back of my seat, another man's head continually striking my right shoulder, a dozen or so arms being tossed restlessly right in front of my face, and as many legs holding me a fast prisoner, so that I could only try to keep my seat against all the assaults of the sleepers who tried in vain to make their positions more comfortable. It was all so comical, in spite of all the inconveniences, that I tried hard not to laugh out loud, till I too fell asleep. I was awakened very early in the morning by something chilling and uncomfortable on my face, like raindrops coming down irregularly. I found it was a neighbor of mine eating cheese, who was dropping bits on my face. So I began the day with a laugh at the man's funny apologies, but could not find much more fun in the world on account of the cold and the pain of every limb. It was very miserable, till some breakfast cheered me up a little. About eight o'clock we reached Hamburg. Again there was a gendarme to ask questions, look over the tickets and give directions. But all the time he kept a distance from those passengers who came from Russia, all for fear of the cholera. We had noticed before how people were afraid to come near us, but since that memorable bath in Berlin, and all the steaming and smoking of our things, it seemed unnecessary. We were marched up to the strangest sort of vehicle one could think of. It was a something I don't know any name for, though a little like an express wagon. At that time I had never seen such a high, narrow, long thing, so high that the women and girls couldn't climb up without the men's help, and great difficulty; so narrow that two persons could not sit comfortably side by side, and so long that it took me some time to move my eyes from the rear end, where the baggage was, to the front, where the driver sat. When all had settled down at last (there were a number besides ourselves) the two horses started off very fast, in spite of their heavy load. Through noisy, strange looking streets they took us, where many people walked or ran or rode. Many splendid houses, stone and brick, and showy shops, they passed. Much that was very strange to us we saw, and little we knew anything about. There a little cart loaded with bottles or tin cans, drawn by a goat or a dog, sometimes two, attracted our attention. Sometimes it was only a nurse carrying a child in her arms that seemed interesting, from the strange dress. Often it was some article displayed in a shop window or door, or the usually smiling owner standing in the doorway, that called for our notice. Not that there was anything really unusual in many of these things, but a certain air of foreignness, which sometimes was very vague, surrounded everything that passed before our interested gaze as the horses hastened on. The strangest sight of all we saw as we came into the still noisier streets. Something like a horse-car such as we had seen in Vilna for the first time, except that it was open on both sides (in most cases) but without any horses, came flying--really flying--past us. For we stared and looked it all over, and above, and under, and rubbed our eyes, and asked of one another what we saw, and nobody could find what it was that made the thing go. And go it did, one after another, faster than we, with nothing to move it. "Why, what _is_ that?" we kept exclaiming. "Really, do you see anything that makes it go? I'm sure I don't." Then I ventured the highly probable suggestion, "Perhaps it's the fat man in the gray coat and hat with silver buttons. I guess he pushes it. I've noticed one in front on every one of them, holding on to that shining thing." And I'm sure this was as wise a solution of the mystery as anyone could give, except the driver, who laughed to himself and his horses over our surprise and wonder at nothing he could see to cause it. But we couldn't understand his explanation, though we always got along very easily with the Germans, and not until much later did we know that those wonderful things, with only a fat man to move them, were electric cars. The sightseeing was not all on our side. I noticed many people stopping to look at us as if amused, though most passed by as though used to such sights. We did make a queer appearance all in a long row, up above people's heads. In fact, we looked like a flock of giant fowls roosting, only wide awake. Suddenly, when everything interesting seemed at an end, we all recollected how long it was since we had started on our funny ride. Hours, we thought, and still the horses ran. Now we rode through quieter streets where there were fewer shops and more wooden houses. Still the horses seemed to have but just started. I looked over our perch again. Something made me think of a description I had read of criminals being carried on long journeys in uncomfortable things--like this? Well, it was strange--this long, long drive, the conveyance, no word of explanation, and all, though going different ways, being packed off together. We were strangers; the driver knew it. He might take us anywhere--how could we tell? I was frightened again as in Berlin. The faces around me confessed the same. The streets became quieter still; no shops, only little houses; hardly any people passing. Now we cross many railway tracks and I can hear the sea not very distant. There are many trees now by the roadside, and the wind whistles through their branches. The wheels and hoofs make a great noise on the stones, the roar of the sea and the wind among the branches have an unfriendly sound. The horses never weary. Still they run. There are no houses now in view, save now and then a solitary one, far away. I can see the ocean. Oh, it is stormy. The dark waves roll inward, the white foam flies high in the air; deep sounds come from it. The wheels and hoofs make a great noise; the wind is stronger, and says, "Do you hear the sea?" And the ocean's roar threatens. The sea threatens, and the wind bids me hear it, and the hoofs and the wheels repeat the command, and so do the trees, by gestures. Yes, we are frightened. We are very still. Some Polish women over there have fallen asleep, and the rest of us look such a picture of woe, and yet so funny, it is a sight to see and remember. At last, at last! Those unwearied horses have stopped. Where? In front of a brick building, the only one on a large, broad street, where only the trees, and, in the distance, the passing trains can be seen. Nothing else. The ocean, too, is shut out. All were helped off, the baggage put on the sidewalk, and then taken up again and carried into the building, where the passengers were ordered to go. On the left side of the little corridor was a small office where a man sat before a desk covered with papers. These he pushed aside when we entered, and called us in one by one, except, of course children. As usual, many questions were asked, the new ones being about our tickets. Then each person, children included, had to pay three marcs--one for the wagon that brought us over and two for food and lodgings, till our various ships should take us away. Mamma, having five to pay for, owed fifteen marcs. The little sum we started with was to last us to the end of the journey, and would have done so if there hadn't been those unexpected bills to pay at Keebart, Eidtkunen, Berlin, and now at the office. Seeing how often services were forced upon us unasked and payment afterwards demanded, mother had begun to fear that we should need more money, and had sold some things to a woman for less than a third of their value. In spite of that, so heavy was the drain on the spare purse where it had not been expected, she found to her dismay that she had only twelve marcs left to meet the new bill. The man in the office wouldn't believe it, and we were given over in charge of a woman in a dark gray dress and long white apron, with a red cross on her right arm. She led us away and thoroughly searched us all, as well as our baggage. That was nice treatment, like what we had been receiving since our first uninterrupted entrance into Germany. Always a call for money, always suspicion of our presence and always rough orders and scowls of disapproval, even at the quickest obedience. And now this outrageous indignity! We had to bear it all because we were going to America from a land cursed by the dreadful epidemic. Others besides ourselves shared these trials, the last one included, if that were any comfort, which it was not. When the woman reported the result of the search as being fruitless, the man was satisfied, and we were ordered with the rest through many more examinations and ceremonies before we should be established under the quarantine, for that it was. While waiting for our turn to be examined by the doctor I looked about, thinking it worth while to get acquainted with a place where we might be obliged to stay for I knew not how long. The room where we were sitting was large, with windows so high up that we couldn't see anything through them. In the middle stood several long wooden tables, and around these were settees of the same kind. On the right, opposite the doctor's office, was a little room where various things could be bought of a young man--if you hadn't paid all your money for other things. When the doctor was through with us he told us to go to Number Five. Now wasn't that like in a prison? We walked up and down a long yard looking, among a row of low, numbered doors, for ours, when we heard an exclamation of, "Oh, Esther! how do you happen to be here?" and, on seeing the speaker, found it to be an old friend of ours from Plotzk. She had gone long before us, but her ship hadn't arrived yet. She was surprised to see us because we had had no intention of going when she went. What a comfort it was to find a friend among all the strangers! She showed us at once to our new quarters, and while she talked to mamma I had time to see what they were like. It looked something like a hospital, only less clean and comfortable; more like the soldiers' barracks I had seen. I saw a very large room, around whose walls were ranged rows of high iron double bedsteads, with coarse sacks stuffed with something like matting, and not over-clean blankets for the only bedding, except where people used their own. There were three windows almost touching the roof, with nails covering all the framework. From the ceiling hung two round gas lamps, and almost under them stood a little wooden table and a settee. The floor was of stone. Here was a pleasant prospect. We had no idea how long this unattractive place might be our home. Our friend explained that Number Five was only for Jewish women and girls, and the beds were sleeping rooms, dining rooms, parlors, and everything else, kitchens excepted. It seemed so, for some were lounging on the beds, some sitting up, some otherwise engaged, and all were talking and laughing and making a great noise. Poor things! there was nothing else to do in that prison. Before mother had told our friend of our adventures, a girl, also a passenger, who had been walking in the yard, ran in and announced, "It's time to go to dinner! He has come already." "He" we soon learned, was the overseer of the Jewish special kitchen, without whom the meals were never taken. All the inmates of Number Five rushed out in less than a minute, and I wondered why they hurried so. When we reached the place that served as dining room, there was hardly any room for us. Now, while the dinner is being served, I will tell you what I can see. In the middle of the yard stood a number of long tables covered with white oilcloth. On either side of each table stood benches on which all the Jewish passengers were now seated, looking impatiently at the door with the sign "Jewish Kitchen" over it. Pretty soon a man appeared in the doorway, tall, spare, with a thin, pointed beard, and an air of importance on his face. It was "he", the overseer, who carried a large tin pail filled with black bread cut into pieces of half a pound each. He gave a piece to every person, the youngest child and the biggest man alike, and then went into the kitchen and filled his pail with soup and meat, giving everybody a great bowl full of soup and a small piece of meat. All attacked their rations as soon as they received them and greatly relished the coarse bread and dark, hot water they called soup. We couldn't eat those things and only wondered how any one could have such an appetite for such a dinner. We stopped wondering when our own little store of provisions gave out. After dinner, the people went apart, some going back to their beds and others to walk in the yard or sit on the settees there. There was no other place to go to. The doors of the prison were never unlocked except when new passengers arrived or others left for their ships. The fences--they really were solid walls--had wires and nails on top, so that one couldn't even climb to get a look at the sea. We went back to our quarters to talk over matters and rest from our journey. At six o'clock the doctor came with a clerk, and, standing before the door, bade all those in the yard belonging to Number Five assemble there; and then the roll was called and everybody received a little ticket as she answered to her name. With this all went to the kitchen and received two little rolls and a large cup of partly sweetened tea. This was supper; and breakfast, served too in this way was the same. Any wonder that people hurried to dinner and enjoyed it? And it was always the same thing, no change. Little by little we became used to the new life, though it was hard to go hungry day after day, and bear the discomforts of the common room, shared by so many; the hard beds (we had little bedding of our own), and the confinement to the narrow limits of the yard, and the tiresome sameness of the life. Meal hours, of course, played the most important part, while the others had to be filled up as best we could. The weather was fine most of the time and that helped much. Everything was an event, the arrival of fresh passengers a great one which happened every day; the day when the women were allowed to wash clothes by the well was a holiday, and the few favorite girls who were allowed to help in the kitchen were envied. On dull, rainy days, the man coming to light the lamps at night was an object of pleasure, and every one made the best of everybody else. So when a young man arrived who had been to America once before, he was looked up to by every person there as a superior, his stories of our future home listened to with delight, and his manners imitated by all, as a sort of fit preparation. He was wanted everywhere, and he made the best of his greatness by taking liberties and putting on great airs and, I afterwards found, imposing on our ignorance very much. But anything "The American" did passed for good, except his going away a few days too soon. Then a girl came who was rather wanting a little brightness. So all joined in imposing upon her by telling her a certain young man was a great professor whom all owed respect and homage to, and she would do anything in the world to express hers, while he used her to his best advantage, like the willing slave she was. Nobody seemed to think this unkind at all, and it really was excusable that the poor prisoners, hungry for some entertainment, should try to make a little fun when the chance came. Besides, the girl had opened the temptation by asking, "Who was the handsome man in the glasses? A professor surely;" showing that she took glasses for a sure sign of a professor, and professor for the highest possible title of honor. Doesn't this excuse us? The greatest event was the arrival of some ship to take some of the waiting passengers. When the gates were opened and the lucky ones said good bye, those left behind felt hopeless of ever seeing the gates open for them. It was both pleasant and painful, for the strangers grew to be fast friends in a day and really rejoiced in each other's fortune, but the regretful envy could not be helped either. Amid such events as these a day was like a month at least. Eight of these we had spent in quarantine when a great commotion was noticed among the people of Number Five and those of the corresponding number in the men's division. There was a good reason for it. You remember that it was April and Passover was coming on; in fact, it began that night. The great question was, Would we be able to keep it exactly according to the host of rules to be obeyed? You who know all about the great holiday can understand what the answer to that question meant to us. Think of all the work and care and money it takes to supply a family with all the things proper and necessary, and you will see that to supply a few hundred was no small matter. Now, were they going to take care that all was perfectly right, and could we trust them if they promised, or should we be forced to break any of the laws that ruled the holiday? All day long there was talking and questioning and debating and threatening that "we would rather starve than touch anything we were not sure of." And we meant it. So some men and women went to the overseer to let him know what he had to look out for. He assured them that he would rather starve along with us than allow anything to be in the least wrong. Still, there was more discussing and shaking of heads, for they were not sure yet. There was not a crumb anywhere to be found, because what bread we received was too precious for any of it to be wasted; but the women made a great show of cleaning up Number Five, while they sighed and looked sad and told one another of the good hard times they had at home getting ready for Passover. Really, hard as it is, when one is used to it from childhood, it seems part of the holiday, and can't be left out. To sit down and wait for supper as on other nights seemed like breaking one of the laws. So they tried hard to be busy. At night we were called by the overseer (who tried to look more important than ever in his holiday clothes--not his best, though) to the feast spread in one of the unoccupied rooms. We were ready for it, and anxious enough. We had had neither bread nor matzo for dinner, and were more hungry than ever, if that is possible. We now found everything really prepared; there were the pillows covered with a snow-white spread, new oilcloth on the newly scrubbed tables, some little candles stuck in a basin of sand on the window-sill for the women, and--a sure sign of a holiday--both gas lamps burning. Only one was used on other nights. Happy to see these things, and smell the supper, we took our places and waited. Soon the cook came in and filled some glasses with wine from two bottles,--one yellow, one red. Then she gave to each person--exactly one and a half matzos; also some cold meat, burned almost to a coal for the occasion. The young man--bless him--who had the honor to perform the ceremonies, was, fortunately for us all, one of the passengers. He felt for and with us, and it happened--just a coincidence--that the greater part of the ceremony escaped from his book as he turned the leaves. Though strictly religious, nobody felt in the least guilty about it, especially on account of the wine; for, when we came to the place where you have to drink the wine, we found it tasted like good vinegar, which made us all choke and gasp, and one little girl screamed "Poison!" so that all laughed, and the leader, who tried to go on, broke down too at the sight of the wry faces he saw; while the overseer looked shocked, the cook nearly set her gown on fire by overthrowing the candles with her apron (used to hide her face) and all wished our Master Overseer had to drink that "wine" all his days. Think of the same ceremony as it is at home, then of this one just described. Do they even resemble each other? Well, the leader got through amid much giggling and sly looks among the girls who understood the trick, and frowns of the older people (who secretly blessed him for it). Then, half hungry, all went to bed and dreamed of food in plenty. No other dreams? Rather! For the day that brought the Passover brought us--our own family--the most glorious news. We had been ordered to bring our baggage to the office! "Ordered to bring our baggage to the office!" That meant nothing less than that we were "going the next day!" It was just after supper that we received the welcome order. Oh, who cared if there wasn't enough to eat? Who cared for anything in the whole world? We didn't. It was all joy and gladness and happy anticipation for us. We laughed, and cried, and hugged one another, and shouted, and acted altogether like wild things. Yes, we were wild with joy, and long after the rest were asleep, we were whispering together and wondering how we could keep quiet the whole night. We couldn't sleep by any means, we were so afraid of oversleeping the great hour; and every little while, after we tried to sleep, one of us would suddenly think she saw day at the window, and wake the rest, who also had only been pretending to sleep while watching in the dark for daylight. When it came, it found no watchful eye, after all. The excitement gave way to fatigue, and drowsiness first, then deep sleep, completed its victory. It was eight o'clock when we awoke. The morning was cloudy and chilly, the sun being too lazy to attend to business; now and then it rained a little, too. And yet it was the most beautiful day that had ever dawned on Hamburg. We enjoyed everything offered for breakfast, two matzos and two cups of tea apiece--why it was a banquet. After it came the good-byes, as we were going soon. As I told you before, the strangers became fast friends in a short time under the circumstances, so there was real sorrow at the partings, though the joy of the fortunate ones was, in a measure, shared by all. About one o'clock (we didn't go to dinner--we couldn't eat for excitement) we were called. There were three other families, an old woman, and a young man, among the Jewish passengers, who were going with us, besides some Polish people. We were all hurried through the door we had watched with longing for so long, and were a little way from it when the old woman stopped short and called on the rest to wait. "We haven't any matzo!" she cried in alarm. "Where's the overseer?" Sure enough we had forgotten it, when we might as well have left one of us behind. We refused to go, calling for the overseer, who had promised to supply us, and the man who had us in charge grew angry and said he wouldn't wait. It was a terrible situation for us. "Oh," said the man, "you can go and get your matzo, but the boat won't wait for you." And he walked off, followed by the Polish people only. We had to decide at once. We looked at the old woman. She said she wasn't going to start on a dangerous journey with such a sin on her soul. Then the children decided. They understood the matter. They cried and begged to follow the party. And we did. Just when we reached the shore, the cook came up panting hard. She brought us matzo. How relieved we were then! We got on a little steamer (the name is too big for it) that was managed by our conductor alone. Before we had recovered from the shock of the shrill whistle so near us, we were landing in front of a large stone building. Once more we were under the command of the gendarme. We were ordered to go into a big room crowded with people, and wait till the name of our ship was called. Somebody in a little room called a great many queer names, and many passengers answered the call. At last we heard, "Polynesia!" We passed in and a great many things were done to our tickets before we were directed to go outside, then to a larger steamer than the one we came in. At every step our tickets were either stamped or punched, or a piece torn off of them, till we stepped upon the steamer's deck. Then we were ordered below. It was dark there, and we didn't like it. In a little while we were called up again, and then we saw before us the great ship that was to carry us to America. I only remember, from that moment, that I had only one care till all became quiet; not to lose hold of my sister's hand. Everything else can be told in one word--noise. But when I look back, I can see what made it. There were sailors dragging and hauling bundles and boxes from the small boat into the great ship, shouting and thundering at their work. There were officers giving out orders in loud voices, like trumpets, though they seemed to make no effort. There were children crying, and mothers hushing them, and fathers questioning the officers as to where they should go. There were little boats and steamers passing all around, shrieking and whistling terribly. And there seemed to be everything under heaven that had any noise in it, come to help swell the confusion of sounds. I know that, but how we ever got in that quiet place that had the sign "For Families" over it, I don't know. I think we went around and around, long and far, before we got there. But there we were, sitting quietly on a bench by the white berths. When the sailors brought our things, we got everything in order for the journey as soon as possible, that we might go on deck to see the starting. But first we had to obey a sailor, who told us to come and get dishes. Each person received a plate, a spoon and a cup. I wondered how we could get along if we had had no things of our own. For an hour or two more there were still many noises on deck, and many preparations made. Then we went up, as most of the passengers did. What a change in the scene! Where there had been noise and confusion before, peace and quiet were now. All the little boats and steamers had disappeared, and the wharf was deserted. On deck the "Polynesia" everything was in good order, and the officers walked about smoking their cigars as if their work was done. Only a few sailors were at work at the big ropes, but they didn't shout as before. The weather had changed, too, for the twilight was unlike what the day had promised. The sky was soft gray, with faint streaks of yellow on the horizon. The air was still and pleasant, much warmer than it had been all the day; and the water was as motionless and clear as a deep, cool well, and everything was mirrored in it clearly. This entire change in the scene, the peace that encircled everything around us, seemed to give all the same feeling that I know I had. I fancied that nature created it especially for us, so that we would be allowed, in this pause, to think of our situation. All seemed to do so; all spoke in low voices, and seemed to be looking for something as they gazed quietly into the smooth depths below, or the twilight skies above. Were they seeking an assurance? Perhaps; for there was something strange in the absence of a crowd of friends on the shore, to cheer and salute, and fill the air with white clouds and last farewells. I found the assurance. The very stillness was a voice--nature's voice; and it spoke to the ocean and said, "I entrust to you this vessel. Take care of it, for it bears my children with it, from one strange shore to another more distant, where loving friends are waiting to embrace them after long partings. Be gentle with your charge." And the ocean, though seeming so still, replied, "I will obey my mistress." I heard it all, and a feeling of safety and protection came to me. And when at last the wheels overhead began to turn and clatter, and the ripples on the water told us that the "Polynesia" had started on her journey, which was not noticeable from any other sign, I felt only a sense of happiness. I mistrusted nothing. But the old woman who remembered the matzo did, more than anybody else. She made great preparations for being seasick, and poisoned the air with garlic and onions. When the lantern fixed in the ceiling had been lighted, the captain and the steward paid us a visit. They took up our tickets and noticed all the passengers, then left. Then a sailor brought supper--bread and coffee. Only a few ate it. Then all went to bed, though it was very early. Nobody expected seasickness as soon as it seized us. All slept quietly the whole night, not knowing any difference between being on land or at sea. About five o'clock I woke up, and then I felt and heard the sea. A very disagreeable smell came from it, and I knew it was disturbed by the rocking of the ship. Oh, how wretched it made us! From side to side it went rocking, rocking. Ugh! Many of the passengers are very sick indeed, they suffer terribly. We are all awake now, and wonder if we, too, will be so sick. Some children are crying, at intervals. There is nobody to comfort them--all are so miserable. Oh, I am so sick! I'm dizzy; everything is going round and round before my eyes--Oh-h-h! I can't even begin to tell of the suffering of the next few hours. Then I thought I would feel better if I could go on deck. Somehow, I got down (we had upper berths) and, supporting myself against the walls, I came on deck. But it was worse. The green water, tossing up the white foam, rocking all around, as far as I dared to look, was frightful to me then. So I crawled back as well as I could, and nobody else tried to go out. By and by the doctor and the steward came. The doctor asked each passenger if they were well, but only smiled when all begged for some medicine to take away the dreadful suffering. To those who suffered from anything besides seasickness he sent medicine and special food later on. His companion appointed one of the men passengers for every twelve or fifteen to carry the meals from the kitchen, giving them cards to get it with. For our group a young German was appointed, who was making the journey for the second time, with his mother and sister. We were great friends with them during the journey. The doctor went away soon, leaving the sufferers in the same sad condition. At twelve, a sailor announced that dinner was ready, and the man brought it--large tin pails and basins of soup, meat, cabbage, potatoes, and pudding (the last was allowed only once a week); and almost all of it was thrown away, as only a few men ate. The rest couldn't bear even the smell of food. It was the same with the supper at six o'clock. At three milk had been brought for the babies, and brown bread (a treat) with coffee for the rest. But after supper the daily allowance of fresh water was brought, and this soon disappeared and more called for, which was refused, although we lived on water alone for a week. At last the day was gone, and much we had borne in it. Night came, but brought little relief. Some did fall asleep, and forgot suffering for a few hours. I was awake late. The ship was quieter, and everything sadder than by daylight. I thought of all we had gone through till we had got on board the "Polynesia"; of the parting from all friends and things we loved, forever, as far as we knew; of the strange experience at various strange places; of the kind friends who helped us, and the rough officers who commanded us; of the quarantine, the hunger, then the happy news, and the coming on board. Of all this I thought, and remembered that we were far away from friends, and longed for them, that I might be made well by speaking to them. And every minute was making the distance between us greater, a meeting more impossible. Then I remembered why we were crossing the ocean, and knew that it was worth the price. At last the noise of the wheels overhead, and the dull roar of the sea, rocked me to sleep. For a short time only. The ship was tossed about more than the day before, and the great waves sounded like distant thunder as they beat against it, and rolled across the deck and entered the cabin. We found, however, that we were better, though very weak. We managed to go on deck in the afternoon, when it was calm enough. A little band was playing, and a few young sailors and German girls tried even to dance; but it was impossible. As I sat in a corner where no waves could reach me, holding on to a rope, I tried to take in the grand scene. There was the mighty ocean I had heard of only, spreading out its rough breadth far, far around, its waves giving out deep, angry tones, and throwing up walls of spray into the air. There was the sky, like the sea, full of ridges of darkest clouds, bending to meet the waves, and following their motions and frowning and threatening. And there was the "Polynesia" in the midst of this world of gloom, and anger, and distance. I saw these, but indistinctly, not half comprehending the wonderful picture. For the suffering had left me dull and tired out. I only knew that I was sad, and everybody else was the same. Another day gone, and we congratulate one another that seasickness lasted only one day with us. So we go to sleep. Oh, the sad mistake! For six days longer we remain in our berths, miserable and unable to eat. It is a long fast, hardly interrupted, during which we know that the weather is unchanged, the sky dark, the sea stormy. On the eighth day out we are again able to be about. I went around everywhere, exploring every corner, and learning much from the sailors; but I never remembered the names of the various things I asked about, they were so many, and some German names hard to learn. We all made friends with the captain and other officers, and many of the passengers. The little band played regularly on certain days, and the sailors and girls had a good many dances, though often they were swept by a wave across the deck, quite out of time. The children were allowed to play on deck, but carefully watched. Still the weather continued the same, or changing slightly. But I was able now to see all the grandeur of my surroundings, notwithstanding the weather. Oh, what solemn thoughts I had! How deeply I felt the greatness, the power of the scene! The immeasurable distance from horizon to horizon; the huge billows forever changing their shapes--now only a wavy and rolling plain, now a chain of great mountains, coming and going farther away; then a town in the distance, perhaps, with spires and towers and buildings of gigantic dimensions; and mostly a vast mass of uncertain shapes, knocking against each other in fury, and seething and foaming in their anger; the grey sky, with its mountains of gloomy clouds, flying, moving with the waves, as it seemed, very near them; the absence of any object besides the one ship; and the deep, solemn groans of the sea, sounding as if all the voices of the world had been turned into sighs and then gathered into that one mournful sound--so deeply did I feel the presence of these things, that the feeling became one of awe, both painful and sweet, and stirring and warming, and deep and calm and grand. I thought of tempests and shipwreck, of lives lost, treasures destroyed, and all the tales I had heard of the misfortunes at sea, and knew I had never before had such a clear idea of them. I tried to realize that I saw only a part of an immense whole, and then my feelings were terrible in their force. I was afraid of thinking then, but could not stop it. My mind would go on working, till I was overcome by the strength and power that was greater than myself. What I did at such times I do not know. I must have been dazed. After a while I could sit quietly and gaze far away. Then I would imagine myself all alone on the ocean, and Robinson Crusoe was very real to me. I was alone sometimes. I was aware of no human presence; I was conscious only of sea and sky and something I did not understand. And as I listened to its solemn voice, I felt as if I had found a friend, and knew that I loved the ocean. It seemed as if it were within as well as without, a part of myself; and I wondered how I had lived without it, and if I could ever part with it. The ocean spoke to me in other besides mournful or angry tones. I loved even the angry voice, but when it became soothing, I could hear a sweet, gentle accent that reached my soul rather than my ear. Perhaps I imagined it. I do not know. What was real and what imaginary blended in one. But I heard and felt it, and at such moments I wished I could live on the sea forever, and thought that the sight of land would be very unwelcome to me. I did not want to be near any person. Alone with the ocean forever--that was my wish. Leading a quiet life, the same every day, and thinking such thoughts, feeling such emotions, the days were very long. I do not know how the others passed the time, because I was so lost in my meditations. But when the sky would smile for awhile--when a little sunlight broke a path for itself through the heavy clouds, which disappeared as though frightened; and when the sea looked more friendly, and changed its color to match the heavens, which were higher up--then we would sit on deck together, and laugh for mere happiness as we talked of the nearing meeting, which the unusual fairness of the weather seemed to bring nearer. Sometimes, at such minutes of sunshine and gladness, a few birds would be seen making their swift journey to some point we did not know of; sometimes among the light clouds, then almost touching the surface of the waves. How shall I tell you what we felt at the sight? The birds were like old friends to us, and brought back many memories, which seemed very old, though really fresh. All felt sadder when the distance became too great for us to see the dear little friends, though it was not for a long time after their first appearance. We used to watch for them, and often mistook the clouds for birds, and were thus disappointed. When they did come, how envious we were of their wings! It was a new thought to me that the birds had more power than man. In this way the days went by. I thought my thoughts each day, as I watched the scene, hoping to see a beautiful sunset some day. I never did, to my disappointment. And each night, as I lay in my berth, waiting for sleep, I wished I might be able even to hope for the happiness of a sea-voyage after this had been ended. Yet, when, on the twelfth day after leaving Hamburg, the captain announced that we should see land before long, I rejoiced as much as anybody else. We were so excited with expectation that nothing else was heard but the talk of the happy arrival, now so near. Some were even willing to stay up at night, to be the first ones to see the shores of America. It was therefore a great disappointment when the captain said, in the evening, that we would not reach Boston as soon as he expected, on account of the weather. A dense fog set in at night, and grew heavier and heavier, until the "Polynesia" was closely walled in by it, and we could just see from one end of the deck to the other. The signal lanterns were put up, the passengers were driven to their berths by the cold and damp, the cabin doors closed, and discomfort reigned everywhere. But the excitement of the day had tired us out, and we were glad to forget disappointment in sleep. In the morning it was still foggy, but we could see a little way around. It was very strange to have the boundless distance made so narrow, and I felt the strangeness of the scene. All day long we shivered with cold, and hardly left the cabin. At last it was night once more, and we in our berths. But nobody slept. The sea had been growing rougher during the day, and at night the ship began to pitch as it did at the beginning of the journey. Then it grew worse. Everything in our cabin was rolling on the floor, clattering and dinning. Dishes were broken into little bits that flew about from one end to the other. Bedding from upper berths nearly stifled the people in the lower ones. Some fell out of their berths, but it was not at all funny. As the ship turned to one side, the passengers were violently thrown against that side of the berths, and some boards gave way and clattered down to the floor. When it tossed on the other side, we could see the little windows almost touch the water, and closed the shutters to keep out the sight. The children cried, everybody groaned, and sailors kept coming in to pick up the things on the floor and carry them away. This made the confusion less, but not the alarm. Above all sounds rose the fog horn. It never stopped the long night through. And oh, how sad it sounded! It pierced every heart, and made us afraid. Now and then some ship, far away, would answer, like a weak echo. Sometimes we noticed that the wheels were still, and we knew that the ship had stopped. This frightened us more than ever, for we imagined the worst reasons for it. It was day again, and a little calmer. We slept now, till the afternoon. Then we saw that the fog had become much thinner, and later on we even saw a ship, but indistinctly. Another night passed, and the day that followed was pretty fair, and towards evening the sky was almost cloudless. The captain said we should have no more rough weather, for now we were really near Boston. Oh, how hard it was to wait for the happy day! Somebody brought the news that we should land to-morrow in the afternoon. We didn't believe it, so he said that the steward had ordered a great pudding full of raisins for supper that day as a sure sign that it was the last on board. We remembered the pudding, but didn't believe in its meaning. I don't think we slept that night. After all the suffering of our journey, after seeing and hearing nothing but the sky and the sea and its roaring, it was impossible to sleep when we thought that soon we would see trees, fields, fresh people, animals--a world, and that world America. Then, above everything, was the meeting with friends we had not seen for years; for almost everybody had some friends awaiting them. Morning found all the passengers up and expectant. Someone questioned the captain, and he said we would land to-morrow. There was another long day, and another sleepless night, but when these ended at last, how busy we were! First we packed up all the things we did not need, then put on fresh clothing, and then went on deck to watch for land. It was almost three o'clock, the hour the captain hoped to reach Boston, but there was nothing new to be seen. The weather was fair, so we would have seen anything within a number of miles. Anxiously we watched, and as we talked of the strange delay, our courage began to give out with our hope. When it could be borne no longer, a gentleman went to speak to the captain. He was on the upper deck, examining the horizon. He put off the arrival for the next day! You can imagine our feelings at this. When it was worse the captain came down and talked so assuringly that, in spite of all the disappointments we had had, we believed that this was the last, and were quite cheerful when we went to bed. The morning was glorious. It was the eighth of May, the seventeenth day after we left Hamburg. The sky was clear and blue, the sun shone brightly, as if to congratulate us that we had safely crossed the stormy sea; and to apologize for having kept away from us so long. The sea had lost its fury; it was almost as quiet as it had been at Hamburg before we started, and its color was a beautiful greenish blue. Birds were all the time in the air, and it was worth while to live merely to hear their songs. And soon, oh joyful sight! we saw the tops of two trees! What a shout there rose! Everyone pointed out the welcome sight to everybody else, as if they did not see it. All eyes were fixed on it as if they saw a miracle. And this was only the beginning of the joys of the day! What confusion there was! Some were flying up the stairs to the upper deck, some were tearing down to the lower one, others were running in and out of the cabins, some were in all parts of the ship in one minute, and all were talking and laughing and getting in somebody's way. Such excitement, such joy! We had seen two trees! Then steamers and boats of all kinds passed by, in all directions. We shouted, and the men stood up in the boats and returned the greeting, waving their hats. We were as glad to see them as if they were old friends of ours. Oh, what a beautiful scene! No corner of the earth is half so fair as the lovely picture before us. It came to view suddenly,--a green field, a real field with grass on it, and large houses, and the dearest hens and little chickens in all the world, and trees, and birds, and people at work. The young green things put new life into us, and are so dear to our eyes that we dare not speak a word now, lest the magic should vanish away and we should be left to the stormy scenes we know. But nothing disturbed the fairy sight. Instead, new scenes appeared, beautiful as the first. The sky becomes bluer all the time, the sun warmer; the sea is too quiet for its name, and the most beautiful blue imaginable. What are the feelings these sights awaken! They can not be described. To know how great was our happiness, how complete, how free from even the shadow of a sadness, you must make a journey of sixteen days on a stormy ocean. Is it possible that we will ever again be so happy? It was about three hours since we saw the first landmarks, when a number of men came on board, from a little steamer, and examined the passengers to see if they were properly vaccinated (we had been vaccinated on the "Polynesia"), and pronounced everyone all right. Then they went away, except one man who remained. An hour later we saw the wharves. Before the ship had fully stopped, the climax of our joy was reached. One of us espied the figure and face we had longed to see for three long years. In a moment five passengers on the "Polynesia" were crying, "Papa," and gesticulating, and laughing, and hugging one another, and going wild altogether. All the rest were roused by our excitement, and came to see our father. He recognized us as soon as we him, and stood apart on the wharf not knowing what to do, I thought. What followed was slow torture. Like mad things we ran about where there was room, unable to stand still as long as we were on the ship and he on shore. To have crossed the ocean only to come within a few yards of him, unable to get nearer till all the fuss was over, was dreadful enough. But to hear other passengers called who had no reason for hurry, while we were left among the last, was unendurable. Oh, dear! Why can't we get off the hateful ship? Why can't papa come to us? Why so many ceremonies at the landing? We said good-bye to our friends as their turn came, wishing we were in their luck. To give us something else to think of, papa succeeded in passing us some fruit; and we wondered to find it anything but a great wonder, for we expected to find everything marvellous in the strange country. Still the ceremonies went on. Each person was asked a hundred or so stupid questions, and all their answers were written down by a very slow man. The baggage had to be examined, the tickets, and a hundred other things done before anyone was allowed to step ashore, all to keep us back as long as possible. Now imagine yourself parting with all you love, believing it to be a parting for life; breaking up your home, selling the things that years have made dear to you; starting on a journey without the least experience in travelling, in the face of many inconveniences on account of the want of sufficient money; being met with disappointment where it was not to be expected; with rough treatment everywhere, till you are forced to go and make friends for yourself among strangers; being obliged to sell some of your most necessary things to pay bills you did not willingly incur; being mistrusted and searched, then half starved, and lodged in common with a multitude of strangers; suffering the miseries of seasickness, the disturbances and alarms of a stormy sea for sixteen days; and then stand within, a few yards of him for whom you did all this, unable to even speak to him easily. How do you feel? Oh, it's our turn at last! We are questioned, examined, and dismissed! A rush over the planks on one side, over the ground on the other, six wild beings cling to each other, bound by a common bond of tender joy, and the long parting is at an END. 
27057	----	IRELAND AND POLAND A COMPARISON BY T. W. ROLLESTON FIRST HON. SECRETARY OF THE IRISH LITERARY SOCIETY, LONDON; LATE ASSISTANT EDITOR OF THE "NEW IRISH LIBRARY," AND CO-EDITOR OF "A TREASURY OF IRISH POETRY"; AUTHOR OF "MYTHS AND LEGENDS OF THE CELTIC RACE," ETC. NEW YORK GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY Publishers in America for Hodder & Stoughton MCMXVII IRELAND AND POLAND The United Kingdom is composed of four distinct nationalities. Each of these has retained its own distinct character, its own national history, its own patriotism and self-respect. Their affairs, great and small, general or local, are administered by one Parliament in which each is fully represented. A large majority of the Irish people have, however, asked that in addition to some representation in the united Parliament they shall be granted a local Parliament for the management of their own internal affairs. The fact that this demand, which has an important imperial as well as local bearing, has not yet been complied with has constantly been used by the enemies of the Entente Powers to represent as false and hypocritical the claims of those Powers to be regarded as the champions of the rights of small nationalities; and the case of Ireland has been compared with that of Prussian Poland, as though the peoples of these two countries were suffering the same kind of oppression, the same injustice, the same denial of the right of every man to live and prosper in his own land on equal terms with his fellow-citizens in every other part of the realm. The best answer to this charge is to tell plainly, without contention or exaggeration, what the united Parliament has done for Ireland since the beginning of the period of reform nearly fifty years ago. That is what is here attempted, so far as it can be done in a few pages. It must be fully understood that on the Home Rule question the present statement has no bearing whatever. That difficult problem lies in an altogether different sphere of politics, and must he judged by considerations which cannot be touched on here. Without, however, trenching in any degree on controversial ground, it may be pointed out that the crucial difficulty of the Home Rule question lies, and has always lain, in the fact that in Ireland a substantial and important minority amounting to about 25 per cent. of the population, and differing from the rest of the country in religion, national traditions, and economic development, has hitherto been resolutely opposed to passing from the immediate government of the imperial Parliament to that of any other body. This minority being, for the most part, grouped together in the North-east counties, the late Government attempted to solve the difficulty by offering immediate Home Rule to that section of Ireland which desires it, while leaving the remainder as it is until Parliament should otherwise decree. This proposal was rejected by the general opinion of Nationalist Ireland, which was firmly opposed to the partition of the country for any indefinite period. The question, therefore, remains for the present in suspense, until a solution can be found which will not only ensure the integrity and security of the Empire but reconcile the conflicting desires and interests of Irishmen themselves. Ireland Fifty Years Ago So much to clear the ground in regard to the Home Rule controversy. I shall now ask the reader to glance for a moment at the condition of Ireland fifty years ago. At that time almost the whole agricultural population were in the position of tenants-at-will, with no security either against increased rents or arbitrary eviction. The housing of the rural population, and especially of the agricultural labourers, was wretched in the extreme. Local taxation and administration were wholly in the hands of Grand Juries, bodies appointed by the Crown from among the country gentlemen in each district. Irish Roman Catholics were without any system of University education comparable to that which Protestants had enjoyed for three hundred years in the University of Dublin. A Church which, whatever its historic claims may have been, numbered only about 12 per cent. of the population was established by law and supported by tithes levied on the whole country. Technical education was inaccessible to the great bulk of the nation; and in no department of public education, of any grade or by whomsoever administered, was any attention paid to Irish history, the Irish language, Irish literature, or any subject which might lead young Irishmen to a better knowledge and understanding of the special problems of their country and its special claims to the love and respect of its children. That was the Ireland of fifty years ago. It is an Ireland which at the present day lives only on the lips of anti-British orators and journalists. It is an Ireland as dead as the France of Louis XIV. Of the abuses and disabilities just recounted not one survives to-day. The measures by which they have been removed place to the credit of the United Kingdom a record of reform the details of which, for the benefit of friends or foes, may be here very briefly set down. Religious Equality In 1869 the Protestant Episcopal Church was disestablished and disendowed, and is now--many Churchmen believe to its great spiritual advantage--on the same level as regards its means of support as every other denomination in Ireland. It may be mentioned that the Roman Catholic Church in Ireland was long in the enjoyment of a State subsidy for the education of its clergy, a subsidy commuted in 1869 for a capital sum of 370,000 pounds. Land Reform As comparisons have been drawn between the systems of government in Ireland and in Poland, let us consider for a moment the condition of the Polish rural population under German rule. It must be noted that the recent promises of Polish autonomy made by Germany--obviously for military and temporary reasons--refer only to those portions of Polish territory held by other States. No change is to be made in the position of Prussian Poland. Here, for many years, it has been, and still is, the avowed object of the Prussian Government either to extirpate or forcibly Teutonise this Slavonic population, and to replant the country with German colonists. The German Chancellor in 1900, Prince von Buelow, defended this anti-Polish policy in the cynical saying that "rabbits breed faster than hares," and the meaner animal, the Pole, must therefore be drastically kept down in favour of the German. Between 1886 and 1906 the Prussian Government was spending over a million sterling a year in buying out Polish landowners, great and small, and planting Germans in their stead. The measure proved futile; the "rabbits" still multiplied, for the Poles bought land from German owners faster than the Government did from them. In 1904, in order to check the development of Polish agriculture and land-settlement, the Government took the extreme step of forbidding Poles to build new farmhouses without a licence. A still more oppressive measure came in 1908, when, in clear defiance of the German Constitution, the Prussian Government actually took powers and were voted funds--from taxation paid by Poles and Germans alike--for the compulsory expropriation of Polish owners against whom nothing whatever could be alleged except their non-German nationality. These powers have been put into operation, and every Pole in Prussia now holds his patrimony on his own soil on the sufferance of a Government which regards his very existence as a nuisance, because he occupies a place which a German might otherwise fill. During precisely the same period the British Government in Ireland has been bending the wealth and credit of the United Kingdom to objects precisely the reverse. Ireland, owing to the wars and confiscations of the seventeenth century, had come to have a land-owning aristocracy mainly of English descent with a Celtic peasantry holding their farms as yearly tenants. The object of British land-legislation has been to expropriate the landlords, so far as their tenanted land is concerned, and to establish the Irish peasant, as absolute owner of the land he tills. The Irish tenant is now subject only to rents fixed by law; he can at any time sell the interest in his farm, which he has, therefore, a direct interest in improving; he is also assisted by a great scheme of land-purchase to become owner of his land on paying the price by terminable instalments, which are usually some 20 per cent. less than the amount he formerly paid as rent. Under this scheme about two-thirds of the Irish tenantry have already become owners of their farms, while the remainder enjoy a tenure which is almost as easy and secure as ownership itself. It is not surprising, then, that a German economist who has made a special study of this subject should declare that "the Irish tenants have had conditions assured to them more favourable than any other tenantry in the world enjoy"; adding the dry comment that in Ireland the "magic of property" appears to consist in the fact that it is cheaper to acquire it than not.[*] That magic has been worked for Ireland by the British Legislature and by British credit. As in Prussia, compulsory powers (limited by certain conditions and to certain districts) stand behind the schemes of the Government; but the compulsion is exercised not against the Irishman in favour of the English settler, but against the (usually) English landlord in favour of the Irish tenant. The State is now pledged to about 130,000,000 pounds for the furtherance of this scheme, the instalments and sinking fund to the amount of about 5,000,000 pounds a year being paid with exemplary regularity by the farmers who have taken advantage of it. [Footnote *: Professor M. Bonn, of Munich University. "Modern Ireland and her Agrarian Problem," pp. 151, 162, translated from "Die irische Agrarfrage." _Archiv fuer Sozialwissenschaft_; Mohr, Tuebingen.] The Congested Districts Board In the poorer and more backward regions of the West it has been felt that the above measures are not enough, and a special agency has been constituted with very wide powers to help the Western farmer, and not only the farmer, but the fisherman, the weaver, or anyone pursuing a productive occupation there, to make the most of his resources and to develop his industry in the best possible way. This Board commands a statutory endowment of 231,000 pounds a year. A system of light railways which now covers these remote districts has given new and valuable facilities for the marketing of fish and every kind of produce. The various Boards and other agencies by which these measures are carried into execution are manned almost exclusively by Irishmen. The Agricultural Labourer There is a world of difference between the present lot of the Irish agricultural labourer and his condition in 1883, when reform in this department was first taken in hand. Cottages can now be provided by the Rural District Councils and let at nominal rents. Nearly nine millions sterling have been voted for this purpose at low interest, with sinking fund, and up to the present date 47,000 cottages have been built, each with its plot of land, while several thousand more are sanctioned. Of the results of the Labourers' Act a recent observer writes: "The Irish agricultural labourer can now obtain a cottage with three rooms, a piggery, and garden allotment of an acre or half an acre, and for this he is charged a rent of one to two shillings a week ... These cottages by the wayside give a hopeful aspect to the country ... flowers are before the doors of the new cottages and creepers upon the walls. The labourer can keep pigs, poultry, and a goat, and grow his potatoes and vegetables in his garden allotment."[*] [Footnote *: Padraic Colum: "My Irish Year," pp. 18, 19.] Local Government In 1898 a Local Government Bill was passed for Ireland which placed the administration of the poor law and other local affairs for rural districts on the same footing as in England. The rule of the Grand Juries, which had lasted for two and a half centuries, and which had, on the whole, carried on local affairs with credit and success, was now entirely swept away, and elected bodies were placed in full control of local taxation, administration, and patronage. In the case of the larger towns free municipal institutions had already existed for some sixty years. In these the franchise was now reduced, and is wide enough both in town and country to admit every class of the population. Since 1899 the new elective bodies have had important duties to fulfil in regard to the development of agriculture and technical instruction. The Department of Agriculture and Technical Instruction This new Irish Department of State grew out of a demand formulated after long inquiry and discussion by a voluntary Irish committee representing both Unionist and Nationalist opinion. It was established in 1899, and now commands the large endowment of 197,000 pounds a year, with a capital sum of over 200,000 pounds. The annual endowment is clear of all charges for offices and staff, which are on the Civil Service Estimates. Its head is a Minister responsible to Parliament, but associated with him are Boards of Agriculture and Technical Instruction, two-thirds of which are elected respectively by County and Borough Councils. Without their concurrence no expenditure can be undertaken, and local work is largely carried on through committees appointed by these Councils. The people at large are therefore intimately and responsibly associated with the work of the Department, the annual meetings of which form a kind of industrial Parliament, where the whole economic organisation of Ireland can be reviewed, debated, and developed. The Department works by teaching, by inquiry, by experiment, and has an immense field of activity in dealing with cattle diseases, the improvement of stock, the control of creameries, the marketing of produce, etc. It has also brought facilities for technical instruction into every important centre of population. University Education This important question was settled in 1908 by the foundation of a new University, the "National University," with its central authority in Dublin and colleges in Dublin (the old Catholic University of which Cardinal Newman was rector), in Cork, and in Galway. The University is open to all creeds, and may not impose religious tests upon its students, but its government is mainly in the hands of the Roman Catholic hierarchy, and it is accepted as a fair settlement of the question of Catholic higher education in Ireland. In the management of its internal affairs, the appointment of professors, the selection of textbooks, etc., the National University is wholly autonomous and free from Government interference. One of its most remarkable features is that the Irish language has been made an obligatory subject for matriculation. The endowment of the University, with its constituent colleges, amounts to 74,000 pounds a year, and it was voted a capital sum for building and equipment of 170,000 pounds. It need hardly be said that no parallel to this institution exists in Prussian Poland. Language and Native Culture In this as in other respects a comparison with the theory and practice of German administration may help to place the policy of the United Kingdom in its proper light. When at the Congress of Vienna, 1815, Prussia definitely acquired her present share of Polish territory, King Friedrich Wilhelm III promised for himself and his successors, "on my kingly word," that the Poles should have religious freedom, the use of the Polish language in administration, in the Law Courts and in the schools, and be in all respects on an equality with their German fellow-citizens. We have already seen how these promises were kept in regard to the vital question of the ownership of land. They have been no less flagrantly broken in regard to the national language. The use of Polish is strictly prohibited at all public meetings. No Polish deputy to the Reichstag may address his constituents in the only language they understand. Since 1873 German alone may be taught in the national schools. The language of instruction must be German wherever half the pupils are capable of understanding it, and after 1928 it is decreed that no other language must be heard in the schoolroom. A decree of 1899 forbids teachers to use Polish even in their own family circles. Anyone who is caught teaching Polish, even gratuitously, is punished by fine or imprisonment. Polish literature found in the houses of private persons is confiscated, and its possessors imprisoned, if the police consider it to bear the least trace of any propagandist character.[*] [Footnote *: "The Evolution of Modern Germany," by W. H. Dawson, brings together in its twenty-third chapter most of the facts relating to this question. See especially a letter from a prominent member of the Polish aristocracy quoted on p. 475.] All this, it will be seen, is merely the drastic execution tion of the policy laid down by Treitschke, the prophet of modern Germany, and more recently urged by the most popular living representative of Prussian ideals, H. S. Chamberlain. "There is," writes Chamberlain, "no task before us so important as that of forcing the German language on the world (_die deutsche Sprache der Welt aufzuzwingen_.)" The German has "a twofold duty" laid on him: "never must a German abandon his own speech, neither he nor his children's children; and in every place, at every time, he must remember to compel others to use it until it has triumphed everywhere as the German Army has done in war. ... So far as the German Empire extends, the clergy must preach in German alone, in German alone the teacher must give his lessons ... Mankind must be made to understand that anyone who cannot speak German is a pariah."[*] [Footnote *: "Kriegsaufsaetze," 1914.] Such are the ideals and such the practice of the people whom Roger Casement and one or two other enthusiasts for Gaelic culture in Ireland have sought to make the dominant power in that country, because it will rid them of "English" rule. Let us now see what "English" rule (it is not really English at all, but the rule of the United Kingdom) is actually like in regard to this particular subject. Up to the decade 1830-40 it may be said that the Irish language was spoken by fully half the population of Ireland. No restrictive measures were in force against it. But during that decade a general system of elementary education was introduced, and in the Board Schools the language withered away with astonishing rapidity. At the last census (1911) only 16,000 persons were recorded as speaking Irish alone, while the number of those who knew anything of the language was only about 13 per cent. of the population. Whether this change was a blessing or a bane to Ireland is a subject which is outside the range of this discussion, but whatever it was the Irish people themselves had a full share of responsibility for the result. With scarcely an exception, the abandonment of Irish was approved by the clergy, the political leaders, and the masses of the people "The killing of the language," writes Dr. Douglas Hyde, "took place under the eye of O'Connell and the Parliamentarians, and, of course, under the eye and with the sanction of the Catholic priesthood and prelates ... From a complexity of causes which I am afraid to explain, the men who for the last sixty years have had the ear of the Irish race have persistently shown the cold shoulder to everything that was Irish and racial."[*] Their attitude is easily understood. Irish had long ceased to be used for literary purposes. No Irish newspapers, no Irish books were printed; English was regarded as the only available key to the world of modern culture, and Ireland became an English-speaking country without a struggle and almost without a regret. [Footnote *: "Beside the Fire," pp. xliii, xliv (1890). Dr. Hyde was the first president of the Gaelic League, and is now Professor of Modern Irish in the National University.] In the early 'nineties, however, a popular movement took shape for the rescue of what still remained of the language and for its restoration, so far as was practically possible. Classes for the study of Irish were formed all over the country, folk-tales were collected, MSS. of half-forgotten poets were disinterred and edited, the first scholarly and adequate dictionary of modern Irish was compiled,[*] and plays, poems, and stories began to be written in the re-discovered language. These activities were mostly organised and directed by the Gaelic League, a body founded in 1893. One can easily imagine how a Prussian Government would have dealt with such a movement, especially as a certain disaffected element in the country immediately began to make use of it for its own ends. The British Government looked on not only calmly but approvingly. When a general demand arose for the effective teaching of Irish in the elementary schools--though at this time only about 21,000 old people were recorded in the census as ignorant of English--it was at once agreed to. Irish had been permitted and paid for, though not markedly encouraged, since 1879. It was now placed on a list of subjects which might be taught in school hours, and extra fees were allotted for teaching it at the rate of ten shillings per pupil--twice the amount allowed for French, Latin, or music. Grants are also made to certain colleges where teachers of the language can be trained. All this began in 1901, and since that time over 12,000 pounds a year has been paid for Irish teaching directly from Imperial funds--about twice the amount collected in the same period by voluntary contributions from Ireland and the rest of the world. Nor is this the limit of the grant; it is limited only by the willingness of school managers and parents to make use of it. Indirectly, the State is paying much more, for the various professorships and lectureships in Irish subjects--language history, archaeology, and economies--established under the National University account for well over 3,500 pounds a year. Taking the direct expenditure on elementary education alone, the State has paid for Irish teaching since 1879 a sum of no less than 209,000 pounds. It may therefore be claimed that in cultivating her ancient language and native traditions, Ireland enjoys the fairest and most liberal treatment ever accorded to a small nationality incorporated in a great Empire. [Footnote *: By the Rev. P. S. Dineen; published by the Irish Tests Society.] Reforms and Their Results On the reforms which have been thus briefly sketched, one or two general remarks may be in place. It has sometimes been contended that except by violence, or the menace of violence, Ireland has never obtained anything from the English Legislature. It would be truer to say that she has never obtained anything at all. England is not a sovereign Power, and does not administer Irish affairs, nor even her own. What has been gained has been gained from the Legislature of the United Kingdom, in which Irishmen, like every other race inhabiting that kingdom, have had their full share of representation and of influence. And if in Ireland, as in other countries, the necessity of reform has sometimes been made evident by disorder, it is wholly untrue to say that this has been always or even usually the case. Land-reform in its earliest stages, like trade unionism in England, was accompanied by disorder. But the greatest measure of Irish land-reform--the Wyndham Act of 1903--was worked out on Irish soil by peaceable discussion among the parties concerned, and Parliament acted at once upon their joint demand. It was in precisely the same way that the Department of Agriculture came into being; nor did the great measures of Local Government, of University education for Catholics, of the Labourers' Acts, or the recognition extended to the Gaelic movement, owe their origin to any other cause than the wholesome influences of reason and goodwill. The internal condition of Ireland already shows a marked response to the altered state of things. It is visible, as many travellers have noticed, in the face of the country; it is proved by official records and statistics. Emigration has declined to its lowest point; education has spread amongst the people. Irish emigrants, when they do leave their own shores, take higher positions than ever before. A population of some four millions, largely composed of small farmers, has lent forty-seven millions sterling to the Government; and, what is still more significant, the deposits in Post Office Savings Banks have risen from six millions in 1896 to over thirteen millions the year before the war. The new War Loan is reported to have had an extraordinary success in Ireland. On the last day of subscription a single Dublin bank took in one million sterling.[*] With some self-appointed champions of Ireland abuse of the British Empire is a very popular amusement, but the Irish farmer and the Irish trader put their money in it, and with it they stand to win or lose. [Footnote *: The Times, Feb. 17, 1917.] Irish agriculture, partly owing to climatic conditions and partly to the fact that Ireland has a monopoly of the export of live cattle to England, has developed hitherto rather in the direction of cattle-raising than of tillage; and cattle have increased since 1851 from three million to over five million head, and sheep from two millions to three million six hundred thousand. Poultry have nearly quadrupled in the same period. The gross railway receipts--another significant symptom--were 2,750,000 pounds in 1886. In 1915 they had risen to 4,831,000 pounds. The co-operative agricultural associations, in which Ireland has shown the way to the English-speaking world, now number about 1,000, and do a trade of well over five millions a year. The thousands of labourers' cottages which have sprung up, each with its plot of land, have been to the Irish labourers what the Land Acts have been to the farmer--they have completely transformed his economic status in the country. Accompanying these symptoms of material progress, we have witnessed in recent years a striking outburst of intellectual activity. Irish literature, in poetry and drama, has attracted the attention of the whole world of culture, and exact and scholarly research in history and archaeology have flourished and found audiences as they were never known to do in Ireland till now. This has not been the work of any one section of the people, either in creed or in politics; but the whole movement has been inspired by an Irish patriotism which no sane person regards as conflicting in any degree with allegiance to the Empire under the shelter of which it has grown and prospered. The circumstances above set forth do not pretend to be the whole story about modern Ireland, nor do they show that the millennium has arrived in that country. Apart from Home Rule, which is outside our present field, much still remains to be done--there is elementary education to be advanced, commercial facilities to be developed, land-purchase to be completed. But it is contended that the real facts about Ireland are wholly and absurdly inconsistent with the picture of that country which the friends of Germany circulate so industriously at the present time. Ireland is not an oppressed and plundered nation, ground under the heel of a foreign Power, and with her individual life deliberately stifled like that of Poland in the German Empire. Only through ignorance or malice could such an illusion gain currency, and it needs only the touch of reality--reality which every one can easily see or verify for himself--to dispel it for ever from the mind of every candid inquirer. 
36668	----	POLISH FAIRY TALES [Illustration: THE FAIRY GIRLS MAKE THE CARPET] POLISH FAIRY TALES TRANSLATED FROM A J GLINSKI By MAUDE ASHURST BIGGS ILLUSTRATED By CECILE WALTON LONDON: JOHN LANE THE BODLEY HEAD NEW YORK JOHN LANE COMPANY 1920 _The Mayflower Press, Plymouth, England._ William Brendon & Son, Ltd. [Illustration: The pictures in this book are dedicated to my sons ... Gavril and Teddy. Cecile Walton.] TALES FROM POLAND These are selections from a large collection made by A. J. Glinski, printed at Wilna in 1862. These fairy tales come from a far past and may even date from primitive Aryan times. They represent the folklore current among the peasantry of the Eastern provinces of Poland, and also in those provinces usually known as White Russia. They were set down by Glinski just as they were related to him by the peasants. In the translation it was of course necessary to shorten them considerably; the continual repetition--however quaint and fascinating in the original--cannot easily be reproduced. Portions, too, are often told in rhyme, or in a species of rhyming prose that we associate with the ancient ballad. The obvious likenesses between these and the folklore of Germany, the Celtic nations, or to the Indian fairy-tales, will strike every reader. MAUDE ASHURST BIGGS. CONTENTS THE FROG PRINCESS PRINCESS MIRANDA AND PRINCE HERO THE EAGLES THE WHIRLWIND THE GOOD FERRYMAN AND THE WATER NYMPHS THE PRINCESS OF THE BRAZEN MOUNTAIN THE BEAR IN THE FOREST HUT APPENDIX THE FROG PRINCESS There was once a king, who was very old; but he had three grown-up sons. So he called them to him, and said: "My dear sons, I am very old, and the cares of government press heavily upon me. I must therefore give them over to one of you. But as it is the law among us, that no unmarried prince may be King, I wish you all to get married, and whoever chooses the best wife shall be my successor." So they determined each to go a different way, and settled it thus. They went to the top of a very high tower, and each one at a given signal shot an arrow in a different direction to the others. Wherever their arrows fell they were to go in search of their future wives. The eldest prince's arrow fell on a palace in the city, where lived a senator, who had a beautiful daughter; so he went there, and married her. The second prince's arrow struck upon a country-house, where a very pretty young lady, the daughter of a rich gentleman, was sitting; so he went there, and proposed to her, and they were married. But the youngest prince's arrow shot through a green wood, and fell into a lake. He saw his arrow floating among the reeds, and a frog sitting thereon, looking fixedly at him. But the marshy ground was so unsafe that he could not venture upon it; so he sat down in despair. "What is the matter, prince?" asked the frog. "What is the matter? Why, I cannot reach that arrow on which you are sitting." "Take me for your wife, and I will give it to you." "But how can you be my wife, little frog?" "That is just what has got to be. You know that you shot your arrow from the tower, thinking that where it fell, you would find a loving wife; so you will have her in me." "You are very wise, I see, little frog. But tell me, how can I marry you, or introduce you to my father? And what will the world say?" "Take me home with you, and let nobody see me. Tell them that you have married an Eastern lady, who must not be seen by any man, except her husband, nor even by another woman." The prince considered a little. The arrow had now floated to the margin of the lake; he took the arrow from the little frog, put her in his pocket, carried her home, and then went to bed, sighing very deeply. Next morning the king was told that all his sons had got married; so he called them all together, and said: "Well children, are you all pleased with your wives?" "Very pleased indeed, father and king." "Well, we shall see who has chosen best. Let each of my daughters-in-law weave me a carpet by to-morrow, and the one whose carpet is the most beautiful shall be queen." The elder princes hastened at once to their ladies; but the youngest, when he reached home, was in despair. "What is the matter, prince?" asked the frog. "What is the matter? My father has ordered that each of his daughters-in-law shall weave him a carpet, and the one whose carpet proves the most beautiful shall be first in rank. My brothers' wives are most likely working at their looms already. But you, little frog, although you can give back an arrow, and talk like a human being, will not be able to weave a carpet, as far as I can see." "Don't be afraid," she said; "go to sleep, and before you wake the carpet shall be ready." So he lay down, and went to sleep. But the little frog stood on her hind-legs in the window and sang: "Ye breezes that blow, ye winds that sigh, Come hither on airy wing; And all of you straight to my dwelling hie, And various treasures bring. Two fleeces I crave of the finest wool, And of the loveliest flowers a basketful; From the depths of the ocean bring sands of gold, And pearl-drops of lustre manifold; That so I may fashion a carpet bright, Adorned with fair flow'rets and gems of light, And weave it in one short day and night, When my true love's hands must the treasure hold." There was a gentle murmur of the breezes, and from the sunbeams descended seven lovely maidens, who floated into the room, carrying baskets of various coloured wools, pearls, and flowers. They curtsied deeply to the little frog, and in a few minutes they wove a wonderfully beautiful carpet; then they curtsied again, and flew away. Meanwhile the wives of the other princes bought the most beautifully coloured wools, and the best designs they could find, and worked hard at their looms all the next day. Then all the princes came before the king, and spread out their carpets before him. The king looked at the first and the second; but when he came to the third, he exclaimed: "That's the carpet for me! I give the first place to my youngest son's wife; but there must be another trial yet." And he ordered that each of his daughters-in-law should make him a cake next day; and the husband of the one whose cake proved the best should be his successor. The youngest prince came back to his frog wife; he looked very thoughtful, and sighed deeply. "What is the matter, prince?" she asked. "My father demands another proof of skill; and I am not so sure that we shall succeed so well as before; for how can you bake a cake?" "Do not be afraid," she said: "Lie down, and sleep; and when you wake you will be in a happier frame of mind." The prince went to sleep; and the frog sprang up to the window, and sang: "Ye breezes that blow, ye winds that sigh, Come hither on airy wing; And all of you straight to my dwelling hie, These various gifts to bring. From the sunbeams bright Bring me heat and light; And soft waters distil From the pure flowing rill. From the flowers of the field The sweet odours they yield. From the wheatfields obtain Five full measures of grain, That so I may bake In the night-time a cake, For my true love's sake." The winds began to rise, and the seven beautiful maidens floated down into the room, carrying baskets, with flour, water, sweetmeats, and all sorts of dainties. They curtsied to the little frog, and got the cake ready in a few minutes; curtsied again, and flew away. The next day the three princes brought their cakes to the king. They were all very good; but when he tasted the one made by his youngest son's wife, he exclaimed: "That is the cake for me! light, floury, white, and delicious! I see, my son, you have made the best choice; but we must wait a little longer." The two elder sons went away much depressed; but the youngest greatly elated. When he reached home he took up his little frog, stroked and kissed her, and said: "Tell me, my love, how it was that you, being only a little frog, could weave such a beautiful carpet, or make such a delicious cake?" "Because, my prince, I am not what I seem. I am a princess, and my mother is the renowned Queen of Light, and a great enchantress. But she has many enemies, who, as they could not injure her, were always seeking to destroy me. To conceal me from them she was obliged to turn me into a frog; and for seven years I have been forced to stay in the marsh where you found me. But under this frog-skin I am really more beautiful than you can imagine; yet until my mother has conquered all her enemies I must wear this disguise; after that takes place you shall see me as I really am." While they were talking two courtiers entered, with the king's orders to the young prince, to come to a banquet at the king's palace, and bring his wife with him, as his brothers were doing by theirs. He knew not what to do; but the little frog said: "Do not be afraid, my prince. Go to your father alone; and when he asks for me, it will begin to rain. You must then say that your wife will follow you; but she is now bathing in May-dew. When it lightens say that I am dressing; and when it thunders, that I am coming." The prince, trusting to her word, set out for the palace; and the frog jumped up to the window, and standing on her hind-legs, began to sing: "Ye breezes that blow, ye winds that sigh, Come hither on airy wing; And all of you straight to my dwelling hie, These several gifts to bring. My beauty of yore; And my bright youth once more; All my dresses so fair; And my jewels so rare; And let me delight My dear love by the sight." Then the seven beautiful damsels, who were the handmaidens of the princess--when she lived with her mother--floated on the sunbeams into the room. They curtsied, walked three times round her, and pronounced some magical words. Then the frog-skin fell off her, and she stood among them a miracle of beauty, and the lovely princess she was. Meanwhile the prince, her husband, had arrived at the royal banquet-hall, which was already full of guests. The old king welcomed him warmly, and asked him: "Where is your wife, my son?" Then a light rain began to fall, and the prince said: "She will not be long; she is now bathing herself in May-dew." Then came a flash of lightning, which illuminated all the palace, and he said: "She is now adorning herself." But when it thundered, he ran to the door exclaiming: "Here she is!" And the lovely princess came in, seeming to bring the sunshine with her. They all stood amazed at her beauty. The king could not contain his delight; and she seemed to him all the more beautiful, because he thought her the very image of his long-deceased queen. The prince himself was no less astonished and overjoyed to find such loveliness in her, whom he had only as yet seen in the shape of a little frog. "Tell me, my son," said the king, "why you did not let me know what a fortunate choice you had made?" The prince told him everything in a whisper; and the king said: "Go home then, my son, at once, and pick up that frog-skin of hers; throw it in the fire, and come back here as fast as you can. Then she will have to remain just as she is now." The prince did as his father told him, went home, and threw the frog-skin into the fire, where it was at once consumed. But things did not turn out as they expected; for the lovely princess, on coming home, sought for her frog-skin, and not finding it, began to cry bitterly. When the prince confessed the truth, she shrieked aloud, and taking out a green poppy-head, threw it at him. He went to sleep at once; but she sprang up to the window, sang her songs to the winds; upon which she was changed into a duck, and flew away. The prince woke up in the morning, and grieved sadly, when he found his beautiful princess gone. Then he got on horseback, and set out to find her, inquiring everywhere for the kingdom of the Queen of Light--his princess's mother--to whom he supposed she must have fled. He rode on for a very, very long time, till one day he came into a wide plain, all covered with poppies in full flower, the odour of which so overpowered him, that he could scarce keep upright in his saddle. Then he saw a queer little house, supported on four crooked legs. There was no door to the house; but knowing what he ought to do, he said: "Little house, move On your crooked legs free; Turn your back to the wood, And your front door to me." The hut with the crooked legs made a creaking noise, and turned round, with its door towards the prince. He went straight in, and found an old fury, whose name was Jandza,[1] inside; she was spinning from a distaff, and singing. [1] _Jandza_ pronounced Yen-jar. "How are you, prince?" she said, "what brings you here?" So the prince told her, and she said: "You have done wisely to tell me the truth. I know your bride, the beautiful daughter of the Queen of Light; she flies to my house daily, in the shape of a duck, and this is where she sits. Hide yourself under the table, and watch your opportunity to lay hold of her. Hold her fast, whatever shapes she assumes; when she is tired she will turn into a spindle; you must then break the spindle in two, and you will find that which you are seeking." [Illustration: THE LITTLE HOUSE TURNS] Presently the duck flew in, sat down beside the old fury, and began to preen her feathers with her beak. The prince seized her by the wing. The duck quacked, fluttered, and struggled to get loose. But seeing this was useless she changed herself into a pigeon, then into a hawk, and then into a serpent, which so frightened the prince, that he let her go; on which she became a duck again, quacked aloud, and flew out of the window. The prince saw his mistake, and the old woman cried aloud: "What have you done, you careless fellow! you have frightened her away from me for ever. But as she is your bride, I must find some other way to help you. Take this ball of thread, throw it before you, and wherever it goes follow after it; you will then come to my sister's house, and she will tell you what to do next." So the prince went on day and night, following the ball of thread, till he came to another queer little house, like the first, to which he said the same rhyme, and going in, found the second old fury, and told her his story. "Hide under the bench," she exclaimed; "your bride is just coming in." The duck flew in, as before, and the prince caught her by the wing; she quacked, and tried to get away. Then she changed herself into a turkey, then into a dog, then into a cat, then into an eel, so that she slipped through his hands, and glided out of the window. The prince was in despair; but the old woman gave him another ball of thread, and he again followed it, determining not to let the princess escape again so easily. So going on after the thread, as it kept unwinding, he came to a funny little house, like the two first, and said: "Little house, move On your crooked legs free; Turn your back to the wood, And your front door to me." The little house turned round, so that he could go in, and he found a third old fury inside; much older than her sisters, and having white hair. He told her his story, and begged for help. "Why did you go against the wishes of your clever and sensible wife?" said the old woman. "You see she knew better than you what her frog-skin was good for; but you must needs be in such a hurry to display her beauty, to gain the world's applause, that you have lost her; and she was forced to fly away from you." [Illustration: THE WAY HOME] The prince hid himself under the bench: the duck flew in and sat at the old woman's feet; on which he caught her by the wings. She struggled hard; but she felt his strength was too great for her to resist; so she turned herself into a spindle at once. He broke it across his knee.... And lo! and behold! instead of the two halves of the spindle he held the hands of his beautiful princess, who looked at him lovingly with her beautiful eyes, and smiled sweetly. And she promised him that she would always remain as she was then, for since her mother's enemies were all dead she had nothing to fear. They embraced each other, and went out of the old fury's hut. Then the princess spoke some magical spells; and in the twinkling of an eye there appeared a wonderful bridge, reaching from where they stood hundreds of miles, up to the very gallery of the palace, belonging to the prince's father. It was all made of crystal, with golden hand-rails, and diamond bosses upon them. The princess spoke some more magical words, and a golden coach appeared, drawn by eight horses, and a coachman, and two tall footmen, all in golden liveries. And there were four outriders on splendid horses, riding by the side of the coach, and an equerry, riding in front, and blowing a brazen trumpet. And a long procession of followers, in splendid dresses, came after them. Then the prince and princess got into the golden coach, and drove away, thus accompanied, along the crystal bridge, till they reached home, when the old king came out to meet them, and embraced them both tenderly. He appointed the prince his successor; and such magnificent festivities were held on the occasion, as never were seen or heard of before. [Illustration: THROUGH THE TELESCOPE] PRINCESS MIRANDA AND PRINCE HERO Far away, in the wide ocean there was once a green island where lived the most beautiful princess in the world, named Miranda. She had lived there ever since her birth, and was queen of the island. Nobody knew who were her parents, or how she had come there. But she was not alone; for there were twelve beautiful maidens, who had grown up with her on the island, and were her ladies-in-waiting. But a few strangers had visited the island, and spoken of the princess's great beauty; and many more came in time, and became her subjects, and built a magnificent city, in which she had a splendid palace of white marble to live in. And in course of time a great many young princes came to woo her. But she did not care to marry any of them; and if anyone persisted, and tried to compel her by force to be his wife, she could turn him and all his soldiers into ice, by merely fixing her eyes upon them. One day the wicked Kosciey,[2] the king of the Underground realm, came out into the upper world, and began to gaze all round it with his telescope. Various empires and kingdoms passed in review before him; and at last he saw the green island, and the rich city upon it; and the marble palace in this city, and in this palace the twelve beautiful young ladies-of-honour, and among them he beheld, lying on a rich couch of swansdown, the Princess Miranda asleep. She slept like an innocent child, but she was dreaming of a young knight, wearing a golden helmet, on a gallant steed, and carrying an invisible mace, that fought of itself; ... and she loved him better than life. [2] _Kosciey_ pronounced Kósh-che-eh, literally "Boney." Kosciey looked at her; he was delighted with her beauty; he struck the earth three times, and stood upon the green island. Princess Miranda called together her brave army, and led them into the field, to fight the wicked Kosciey. But he, blowing on them with his poisonous breath, sent them all fast asleep, and he was just going to lay hands upon the princess, when she, throwing a glance of scorn at him, changed him into a lump of ice, and fled to her capital. Kosciey did not long remain ice. So soon as the princess was away, he freed himself from the power of her glance, and regaining his usual form, followed her to her city. Then he sent all the inhabitants of the island to sleep, and among them the princess's twelve faithful damsels. She was the only one whom he could not injure; but being afraid of her glances, he surrounded the castle--which stood upon a high hill--with an iron rampart, and placed a dragon with twelve heads on guard before the gate, and waited for the princess to give herself up of her own accord. The days passed by, then weeks, then months, while her kingdom became a desert; all her people were asleep, and her faithful soldiers also lay sleeping on the open fields, their steel armour all rusted, and wild plants were growing over them undisturbed. Her twelve maidens were all asleep in different rooms of the palace, just where they happened to be at the time; and she herself, all alone, kept walking sadly to and fro in a little room up in a tower, where she had taken refuge--wringing her white hands, weeping, and her bosom heaving with sighs. Around her all were silent, as though dead; only every now and then, Kosciey, not daring to encounter her angry glance, knocked at the door asking her to surrender, promising to make her queen of his Underground realm. But it was all of no use; the princess was silent, and only threatened him with her looks. But grieving in her lonely prison Princess Miranda could not forget the lover of whom she had been dreaming; she saw him just as he had appeared to her in her dream. And she looked up with her blue eyes to heaven, and seeing a cloud floating by, she said: "O cloud! through the bright sky flying! Stay, and hearken my piteous sighing! In my sorrow I call upon thee; Oh! where is my loved one? say! Oh! where do his footsteps stray? And does he now think of me?" "I know not," the cloud replied. "Ask the wind." And she looked out into the wide plain, and seeing how the wind was blowing freely, she said: "O wind! o'er the wide world flying! Do thou pity my grief and crying! Have pity on me! Oh! where is my loved one? say! Oh! where do his footsteps stray? And does he now think of me?" "Ask the stars," the wind replied; "they know more than I do." So she cried to the stars: "O stars! with your bright beams glowing! Look down on my tears fast flowing! Have pity, have pity on me! Oh! where is my loved one? say! Oh! where do his footsteps stray? And does he now think of me?" "Ask the moon," said the stars; "who being nearer to the earth, knows more of what happens there than we do." So she said to the moon: "Bright moon, as your watch you keep, From the starry skies, o'er this land of sleep, Look down now, and pity me! Oh! where is my loved one? say! Where? where do his footsteps stray? And does he now think of me?" "I know nothing about your loved one, princess," replied the moon; "but here comes the sun, who will surely be able to tell you." And the sun rose up in the dawn, and at noontide stood just over the princess's tower, and she said: "Thou soul of the world! bright sun! Look on me, in this prison undone! Have pity on me! Oh! where is my loved one? say! Through what lands do his footsteps stray? And does he now think of me?" "Princess Miranda," said the sun; "dry your tears, comfort your heart; your lover is hastening to you, from the bottom of the deep sea, from under the coral reefs; he has won the enchanted ring; when he puts it on his finger, his army will increase by thousands, regiment after regiment, with horse and foot; the drums are beating, the sabres gleaming, the colours flying, the cannon roaring, they are bearing down on the empire of Kosciey. But he cannot conquer him by force of mortal weapons. I will teach him a surer way; and there is good hope that he will be able to deliver you from Kosciey, and save your country. I will hasten to your prince. Farewell." The sun stood over a wide country, beyond the deep seas, beyond high mountains, where Prince Hero in a golden helmet, on a gallant horse, was drawing up his army, and preparing to march against Kosciey, the besieger of the fair princess. He had seen her three times in a dream, and had heard much about her, for her beauty was famous throughout the world. "Dismiss your army," said the sun. "No army can conquer Kosciey, no bullet can reach him; you can only free Princess Miranda by killing him, and how you are to do it, you must learn from the old woman Jandza; I can only tell you where you will find the horse, that must carry you to her. Go hence towards the East; you will come to a green meadow, in which there are three oak trees; and among them you will find hidden in the ground an iron door, with a brazen padlock; behind this door you will find a battle charger, and a mace; the rest you will learn afterwards; ... farewell!" Prince Hero was most surprised; but he took off his enchanted ring and threw it into the sea; with it all his great army vanished directly into mist, leaving no trace behind. He turned to the East and travelled onwards. After three days he came to the green meadow, where he found the three oak trees, and the iron door, as he had been told. It opened upon a narrow, crooked stairway, going downwards, leading into a deep dungeon, where he found another iron door, closed by a heavy iron padlock. Behind this he heard a horse neighing, so loudly that it made the door fall to the ground, and at the same moment eleven other doors flew open and there came out a war-horse, which had been shut up there for ages by a wizard. The prince whistled to the horse; the horse tugged at his fastenings, and broke twelve chains by which he had been fettered. He had eyes like stars, flaming nostrils, and a mane like a thunder-cloud; ... he was a horse of horses, the wonder of the world. "Prince Hero!" said the horse, "I have long waited for such a rider as you, and I am ready to serve you for ever. Mount on my back, take that mace in your hand, which you see hanging to the saddle; you need not fight with it yourself, for it will strike wherever you command it, and beat a whole army. I know the way everywhere; tell me where you want to go, and you will presently be there." The prince told him everything; took the self-fighting mace in his hand, and sprang on his back. The horse reared, snorted, spurned the ground, and they flew over mountains and forests, higher than the flying clouds, over rapid rivers, and deep seas; but when they flew along the ground the charger's light feet never trampled down a blade of grass, nor raised an atom of dust on the sandy soil. Before sunset Prince Hero had reached the primeval forest in which the old woman Jandza lived. He was amazed at the size and age of the mighty oaks, pine trees and firs, where there reigned a perpetual twilight. And there was absolute silence--not a leaf or a blade of grass stirring; and no living thing, not so much as a bird, or the hum of an insect; only amidst this grave-like stillness the sound of his horse's hoofs. The prince stopped before a little house, supported on crooked legs, and said: "Little house, move On your crooked legs free: Turn your back to the wood, And your front to me." The house turned round, with the door towards him; the prince went in, and the old woman Jandza asked him: "How did you get here, Prince Hero, where no living soul has penetrated till now?" "Don't ask me; but welcome your guest politely." So the old woman gave the prince food and drink, made up a soft bed for him, to rest on after his journey, and left him for the night. Next morning he told her all, and what he had come for. "You have undertaken a great and splendid task, prince; so I will tell you how to kill Kosciey. In the Ocean-Sea, on the island of Everlasting Life, there is an old oak tree; under this tree is buried a coffer bound with iron; in this coffer is a hare; under the hare sits a grey duck; this duck carries within her an egg; and in this egg is enclosed the life of Kosciey. When you break the egg he will die at once. Now good-bye, prince; and good luck go with you; your horse will show you the way." The prince got on horseback, and they soon left the forest behind them, and came to the shore of the ocean. On the beach was a fisherman's net, and in the net was a great fish, who when he saw the prince, cried out piteously: "Prince Hero! take me out of the net, and throw me back into the sea; I will repay you!" The prince took the fish out of the net, and threw it into the sea; it splashed in the water, and vanished. The prince looked over the sea, and saw the island in the grey distance, far, far away; but how was he to get there? He leaned upon his mace, deep in thought. "What are you thinking of, prince?" asked the horse. "I am thinking how I am to get to the island, when I cannot swim over that breadth of sea." "Sit on my back, prince, and hold fast." So the prince sat firm on the horse's back, and held fast by the thick mane; a wind arose, and the sea was somewhat rough; but rider and horse pushed on, through the billows, and at last came to shore on the island of Everlasting Life. The prince took off his horse's bridle, and let him loose to feed in a meadow of luxuriant grass, and walked on quickly to a high hill, where grew the old oak tree. Taking it in both hands he tugged at it; the oak resisted all his efforts; he tugged again, the oak began to creak, and moved a little; he mustered all his strength, and tugged again. The oak fell with a crash to the ground, with its roots uppermost, and there, where they had stood firmly fixed so many hundred years, was a deep hole. Looking down he saw the iron-bound coffer; he fetched it up, broke open the lock with a stone, raised the lid, picked up the hare lying in it by its ears; but at that moment the duck, which had been sitting under the hare, took the alarm, and flew off straight to sea. The prince fired a shot after her; the bullet hit the duck; she gave one loud quack, and fell; but in that same instant the egg fell from her--down to the bottom of the sea. The prince gave a cry of despair; but just then a great fish came swimming, dived down to the depths of the sea, and coming to the shore, with the egg in its jaws, left it on the sand. [Illustration: THE DRAGON WHO KEPT WATCH] The fish swam away; but the prince, taking up the egg, mounted his horse once more; and they swam till they reached Princess Miranda's island, where they saw a great iron wall stretching all round her white marble palace. There was only one entrance through this iron wall to the palace, and before this lay the monstrous dragon with the twelve heads, six of which kept guard alternately; when the one half slept the other six remained awake. If anyone were to approach the gate he could not escape the horrid jaws. Nobody could hurt the dragon; for he could only suffer death by his own act. The prince stood on the hill before that gate, and commanded his self-fighting mace, which also had the faculty of becoming invisible, to go and clear his entrance to the palace. The invisible, self-fighting mace fell upon the dragon and began to thunder on all his heads with such force, that all his eyes became bloodshot, and he began to hiss fiercely; he shook his twelve heads, and stretched wide his twelve horrid jaws; he spread out his forest of claws; but this helped him not at all, the mace kept on smiting him, moving about so fast, that not a single head escaped, but could only hiss, groan, and shriek wildly! Now it had given a thousand blows, the blood gushed from a thousand wounds, and there was no help for the dragon; he raged, writhed about, and shrieked in despair; finally, as blow followed blow, and he could not see who gave them, he gnashed his teeth, belched forth flame, and at length turned his claws upon himself, plunging them deep into his own flesh, struggled, writhed, twisted himself round, and in and out; his blood flowed freely from his wounds ... and now it was all over with the dragon. The prince, seeing this, went into the courtyard of the palace, put his horse into the stable, and went up by a winding stair, towards the tower, whence the Princess Miranda, having seen him, addressed him: "Welcome, Prince Hero! I saw how you disposed of the dragon; but do be careful, for my enemy, Kosciey, is in this palace; he is most powerful, both through his own strength, and through his sorceries; and if he kills you I can live no longer. "Princess Miranda, do not trouble about me. I have the life of Kosciey in this egg." Then he called out: "Invisible self-fighting mace, go into the palace and beat Kosciey." The mace bestirred itself quickly, battered in the iron doors, and set upon Kosciey; it smote him on the neck, till he crouched all together, the sparks flew from his eyes, and there was a noise of so many mills in his ears. If he had been an ordinary mortal it would have been all over with him at once; as it was, he was horribly tormented, and puzzled--feeling all these blows, and never seeing whence they came. He sprang about, raved, and raged, till the whole island resounded with his roaring. At last he looked through the window, and behold there he saw Prince Hero. "Ah! that is all your doing!" he exclaimed; and sprang out into the courtyard, to rush straight at him, and beat him to a jelly! But the prince held the egg in one hand ready; and he squeezed it so hard, that the shell cracked and the yolk and the white were all spilled together ... and Kosciey fell lifeless! And with the death of the enchanter all his charms were dissolved at once; all the people in the island who were asleep woke up, and began to stir. The soldiers woke from sleep, and the drums began to beat; they formed their ranks, massed themselves in order, and began to march towards the palace. And in the palace there was great joy; for Princess Miranda came towards the prince, gave him her white hand, and thanked him warmly. They went to the throne-room, and following the princess's example, her twelve waiting-maids paired off with twelve young officers of the army, and the couples grouped themselves round the throne, on which the prince and princess were sitting. And then a priest, arrayed in all his vestments, came in at the open door, and the prince and princess exchanged rings, and were married. And all the other couples were married at the same time, and after the wedding there was a feast, dancing, and music, which it is a pleasure to think of. Everywhere there was rejoicing. [Illustration: THE CHILDREN TRANSFORMED] THE EAGLES There was once a king, who had lost his wife. They had a family of thirteen--twelve gallant sons, and one daughter, who was exquisitely beautiful. For twelve years after his wife's death the king grieved very much; he used to go daily to her tomb, and there weep, and pray, and give away alms to the poor. He thought never to marry again; for he had promised his dying wife never to give her children a stepmother. One day, when visiting his dead wife's grave as usual, he saw beside him a maiden so entrancingly fair, that he fell in love with her, and soon made her his second queen. But before long he found out that he had made a great mistake. Though she was so beautiful she turned out to be a wicked sorceress, and not only made the king himself unhappy, but proved most unkind to his children, whom she wished out of the way, so that her own little son might inherit the kingdom. One day, when the king was far away, at war against his enemies, the queen went into her stepchildren's apartments, and pronounced some magical words--on which every one of the twelve princes flew away in the shape of an eagle, and the princess was changed into a dove. The queen looked out of the window, to see in what direction they would fly, when she saw right under the window an old man, with a beard as white as snow. "What are you here for, old man?" she asked. "To be witness of your deed," he answered. "Then you saw it?" "I saw it." "Then be what I command!" She whispered some magical words. The old man disappeared in a blaze of sunshine; and the queen, as she stood there, dumb with terror, was changed into a basilisk. The basilisk ran off in fright; trying to hide herself underground. But her glance was so deadly, that it killed every one she looked at; so that all the people in the palace were soon dead, including her own son, whom she slew by merely looking at him. And this once populous and happy royal residence quickly became an uninhabited ruin, which no one dared approach, for fear of the basilisk lurking in its underground vaults. [Illustration: THE OLD MAN BLESSES THE PRINCESS] Meanwhile the princess, who had been changed into a dove, flew after her brothers the eagles, but not being able to overtake them, she rested under a wayside cross, and began cooing mournfully. "What are you grieving for, pretty dove?" asked an old man, with a snow-white beard, who just then came by. "I am grieving for my poor dear father, who is fighting in the wars far away; for my loved brothers, who have flown away from me into the clouds. I am grieving also for myself. Not long ago I was a happy princess; and now I must wander over the world as a dove, to hide from the birds of prey--and be parted for ever from my dear father and brothers!" "You may grieve and weep, little dove; but do not lose hope," said the old man. "Sorrow is only for a time, and all will come right in the end." So saying he stroked the little dove, and she at once regained her natural shape. She kissed the old man's hand in her gratitude, saying: "How can I ever thank you enough! But since you are so kind, will you not tell me how to rescue my brothers?" The old man gave her an ever-growing loaf, and said: "This loaf is enough to sustain, not only you, but a thousand people for a thousand years, without ever diminishing. Go towards the sunset, and weep your tears into this little bottle. And when it is full...." And the old man told her what else to do, blessed her, and disappeared. The princess travelled on towards the sunset; and in about a year she reached the boundary of the next world, and stood before an iron door, where Death was keeping guard with his scythe. "Stop, princess!" he said; "You can proceed no further, for you are not yet parted by death from your own world." "But what am I to do?" she asked. "Must I go back without my poor brothers?" "Your brothers," said Death, "fly here every day in the guise of eagles. They want to reach the other side of this door, which leads into the other world; for they hate the one they live in; nevertheless they, and you also, must remain there, until your time be come. Therefore every day I must compel them to go back, which they can do, because they are eagles. But how are you going to get back yourself?--look there!" The princess looked around her, and wept bitterly. For though she had not perceived this before, nor seen how she got there, she saw now that she was in a deep abyss, shut in on all sides by such high precipices, that she wondered how her brothers, even with eagle wings, could fly to the top. But remembering what the mysterious old man had said she took courage, and began to pray and weep, till she had filled the little bottle with her tears. Soon she heard the sound of wings over her head, and saw twelve eagles flying. The eagles dashed themselves against the iron portal, beating their wings upon it, and imploring Death to open it to them. But Death only threatened them with his scythe, saying: "Hence! ye enchanted princes! you must fulfil your penance on earth, till I come for you myself." The eagles were about to turn and fly, when all at once they perceived their sister. They came round her, and caressed her hands lovingly with their beaks. She at once began to sprinkle them with her tears from the lachrymatory; and in one moment the twelve eagles were changed back into the twelve princes, and joyfully embraced their sister. The princess then fed them all round from her ever-growing loaf; but when their hunger was appeased they began to be troubled as to how they were to ascend from the abyss, since they had no longer eagles' wings to fly up. But the princess knelt down and prayed: "Bird of heavenly pity here, By each labour, prayer and tear, Come in thine unvanquished power, Come and aid us in this hour!" And all at once there shot down from heaven to the depth of the abyss a ray of sunshine, on which descended a gigantic bird, with rainbow wings, a bright sparkling crest, and peacock's eyes all over his body, a golden tail, and silvery breast. "What are your commands, princess?" asked the bird. "Carry us from this threshold of eternity to our own world." "I will, but you must know, princess, that before I can reach the top of this precipice with you on my back, three days and nights must pass; and I must have food on the way, or my strength will fail me, and I shall fall down with you to the bottom, and we shall all perish." "I have an ever-growing loaf, which will suffice both for you and ourselves," replied the princess. "Then climb upon my back, and whenever I look round, give me some bread to eat." The bird was so large that all the princes, and the princess in the midst of them, could easily find place on his back, and he began to fly upwards. He flew higher and higher, and whenever he looked round at her, she gave him bits of the loaf, and he flew on, and upwards. So they went on steadily for two nights and days; but upon the third day, when they were hoping in a short time to view the summit of the precipice, and to land upon the borders of this world, the bird looked round as usual for a piece of the loaf. The princess was just going to break off some to give him, when a sudden violent gust of wind from the bottom of the abyss snatched the loaf from her hand, and sent it whistling downwards. Not having received his usual meal the bird became sensibly weaker, and looked round once more. The princess trembled with fear; she had nothing more to give him, and she felt that he was becoming exhausted. In utter desperation she cut off a piece of her flesh, and gave it to him. Having eaten this the bird recovered strength, and flew upwards faster than before; but after an hour or two he looked round once more. So she cut off another piece of her flesh; the bird seized it greedily, and flew on so fast that in a few minutes he reached the ground at the top of the precipice. When they alighted, and he asked her: "Princess, what were those two delicious morsels you gave me last? I never ate anything so good before." "They were part of my flesh, I had nothing else for you," replied the princess in a faint voice, for she was swooning away with pain and loss of blood. The bird breathed upon her wounds; and the flesh at once healed over, and grew again as before. Then he flew up again to heaven, and was lost in the clouds. The princess and her brothers resumed their journey, this time towards the sunrise, and at last arrived in their own country, where they met their father, returning from the wars. The king was coming back victorious over his enemies, and on his way home had first heard of the sudden disappearance of his children and of the queen, and how his palace was tenanted only by a basilisk with a death-dealing glance. He was therefore most surprised and overjoyed to meet his dear children once more, and on the way his daughter told him all that had come to pass. When they got back to the palace the king sent one of his nobles with a looking-glass down into the underground vaults. The basilisk saw herself reflected in this mirror, and her own glance slew her immediately. They gathered up the remains of the basilisk, and burnt them in a great fire in the courtyard, afterwards scattering the ashes to the four winds. When this was done the king, his sons, and his daughter, returned to live in their former home and were all as happy as could be ever after. [Illustration: TO TRICK THE BASILISK] [Illustration: THE BRIDE CARRIED OFF BY THE WHIRLWIND] THE WHIRLWIND In a far-off country, beyond the sea and the mountains, there lived a king and queen, with a beautiful daughter, who was called Princess Ladna. A great many princes came to woo her; but she liked only one of them, called Prince Dobrotek; so they confessed their love for one another to the king, who gave his consent, and the wedding-day was fixed. Now among the princess's rejected suitors there was one, who though he had changed himself into the shape of a prince, in order to come to court and make love to her, really was an ugly dwarf, only seven inches high, but with a beard more than seven feet long, and a great hump on his back. He was so offended with the princess for refusing him, that he determined to carry her off; so he watched his opportunity. As the young couple, with all their followers and their guests, were leaving the palace to go to church, a violent wind began to blow, a regular whirlwind, raising a column of sand, and lifting the princess off her feet. She was carried up over the clouds, to the top of some inaccessible mountains, and dropped down into a magnificent palace, with a golden roof, and a high wall all round. After a while the princess woke up from the fainting-fit into which she had fallen. She looked round the splendid apartment in which she was, and came to the conclusion that some young and handsome prince must have carried her off. In the room there was a table ready spread; all the plates and dishes, as well as the knives, forks, and spoons, were of silver and gold; and the dinner itself was so good, that in spite of her grief and terror, she could not refrain from tasting it; and she had no sooner tasted, than she ate, till her appetite was appeased. Then the doors opened, and there came in a company of negroes, bearing a great chair, in which sat the ugly dwarf, with the long beard and the great hump. The dwarf now began to pay his court to the princess, and explain how he had carried her off in the guise of the whirlwind, because he loved her so much. But she would not listen to him, and gave him a sounding slap with her open hand right in his face, so that sparks danced before his eyes. Of course he was in a great passion; but for love of her he managed to keep his temper, and turned round to leave the room. But in his haste he caught his feet in his long beard, and was thrown down on the threshold, and in his fall he dropped his cap, which he was holding in one hand. The negroes helped him again into the chair, and carried him out; but the princess jumped up, locked the door, and took up the cap that was lying on the ground. She put it on; and went to the glass to see how she looked in it. But what was her surprise to find that she could not see herself, till she took it off! So she came to the wise conclusion that this was an invisible cap; at which she was highly delighted; she put on the cap again, and began to walk about the room. The door opened once more with a loud noise, and the dwarf came in with his long beard thrown back and twisted all round his hump, to be out of the way. But not seeing either his cap, or the princess, he guessed what had happened; so full of wild despair he began to rush madly about the room, knocking himself against the tables and chairs, while the princess made her escape through the door, and ran out into the garden. The garden was very extensive, and full of beautiful fruit-trees; so she lived upon these fruits, and drank the water of a spring in the garden for some time. She used to make fun of the dwarf's impotent rage. Sometimes when he rushed wildly about the garden, she would tease him by taking off the invisible cap, so that he saw her before him, in all her beauty; but when he made a rush after her she would put it on again, and become invisible to him; she would then throw cherry-stones at him, come close to him, and laugh loudly: and then run away again. One day, when she was playing about in this manner, her cap got caught in the boughs of a tree, and fell upon a gooseberry bush. The dwarf saw it, and seized hold of the princess with one hand, and of the cap with the other. But just then--from the summit of the mountain, above the garden itself, was heard the sound of a trumpet-challenge, three times repeated. At this the dwarf trembled with rage; but first breathing upon the princess, he put her to sleep with his breath, then placed his invisible cap on her head. Having done this he seized his two-edged sword, and flew up into the clouds, so as to strike the knight who had challenged him from above, and destroy him at one stroke. But where did this knight come from? When Princess Ladna had been carried off on her wedding-day by the whirlwind, there was the greatest consternation among all the bystanders. Her distracted father and her bridegroom rushed about in all directions, and sent courtiers everywhere in search of her; but the princess had been neither seen nor heard of, nor was any trace left of her. The king (very unnecessarily) told Prince Dobrotek that if he did not get back his daughter, the princess, he would not only put him to death, but would reduce his whole country to ashes. He also told all the princes there that whoever should bring back his daughter should have her to wife, and receive half of his kingdom into the bargain. When they heard this they all got to horse, and galloped in various directions; among them Prince Dobrotek. He went on for three days, never stopping for food or rest; but on the fourth day, at dusk, he felt overcome by sleep; so he let his horse go free in a meadow, and himself lay down on the grass. Then all at once he heard a piercing shriek, and straight before him beheld a hare, and an owl perched upon it--its claws digging into the poor creature's side. The prince caught up the first thing that lay near him, and aimed at the screech-owl, so truly that he killed it on the spot, and the hare ran up to him, like a tame creature, licked his hands, and ran away. Then the prince saw that the thing he had thrown at the owl was a human skull. And it spoke to him, in these words: "Prince Dobrotek, I thank you for what you have done for me. When I was alive I committed suicide, and was therefore condemned to lie unburied at this cross-way, till I should be the means of saving life. I have lain here for seven hundred and seventy-seven years; and Heaven knows how much longer I should have had to remain, if you had not chanced to throw me at the screech-owl, and so saved the life of the poor hare. Now bury me, so that I may lie peacefully in the ground at this same place, and I will tell you how to summon the Grey Seer-horse, with the golden mane, who will always help you in case of need. Go out into a plain, and without looking behind you, call out: "Grey Seer-horse, with golden mane! Like a bird--and not like steed, On the blast--and not the mead, Fly thou hither unto me!" Thus having spoken, the head was silent; but a blue light shot up from it towards the sky; it was the soul of the deceased, which having now expiated its sin by its long imprisonment in the skull, had attained heaven. The prince then dug a grave, and buried the skull. He then called out: "Grey Seer-horse, with golden mane! Like a bird--and not like steed, On the blast--and not the mead, Do thou hither fly to me!" The wind rose, the lightning flashed, the thunder roared, and the wonderful horse with the golden mane appeared. He flew as fast as the storm-wind, flames shot from his nostrils, sparks from his eyes, and clouds of smoke from his mouth. He stood still, and said in human tones: [Illustration: THE HORSE APPEARS IN THE STORM] "What are your commands, Prince Dobrotek?" "I am in trouble; I wish you to help me." And he told him all that had occurred. "Creep in at my left ear," said the horse, "and creep out again at the right." So the prince crept in at the horse's left ear, and came out again at the right one, all clad in golden armour. He also found himself miraculously increased in strength, so that when he stamped on the ground it trembled; and when he shouted a storm arose, which shook the leaves from the trees. Then he asked the horse: "What is to be done next?" "Your betrothed, Princess Ladna," said the horse, "was carried off by the seven-inch-high dwarf, with the seven-foot-long beard; he is a powerful magician; he dwells beyond the seven seas, among inaccessible mountains. He can only be conquered by the All-Cutting Sword, which sword is jealously guarded by his own brother, the Giant-Head, with basilisk eye. To this Giant-Head we must therefore go." Prince Dobrotek mounted on horseback, and they flew like an arrow, over lands and seas, high mountains and wide oceans. They stopped at length upon a wide plain strewn with bones, before a moving mountain. And the horse said: "This moving mountain, which you see before you, is the giant's head with the basilisk eyes; and the bones strewn so thickly hereabouts prove how deadly his looks are--so be careful. He is now asleep from the heat of the sun; but only two steps before him lies the sword, with which alone you can conquer your enemy. Lie down along my back, so that his glance cannot reach you through my neck and mane; but when you get near to it, lay hold of the sword; when you have it you will not only be safe from his basilisk glances, but you will even have the giant's head at your mercy." And the horse drew near lightly, and the prince bent down, and secured the wonderful sword; but he shouted so loud that the Giant-Head woke up, sniffed hard, and looked about with his bloodshot eyes; and seeing the wonderful sword in the prince's hand, he called out: "Sir knight! are you weary of the world, that you court speedy death?" "You need not boast like that, you empty head!" replied Prince Dobrotek. "Your looks cannot hurt me now; and you shall die by this All-Cutting Sword! But I would first know who, and what you are." "Then I confess, prince," replied the head; "that I am in your power; but be merciful to me, for I am worthy of pity. I am a knight of the race of giants, and were it not for the envy of my brother, I should still have been happy. He was the black sheep of our family, and was born an ugly dwarf, with a long beard; and my handsome giant-like proportions caused him to hate me bitterly. His only good point is his great strength, and it all resides in his long beard, and so long as it is not cut he cannot be conquered, and this can only be done by that sword, which you now hold. "One day, being bent upon my destruction, he said to me: "'Brother, do not refuse to help me. I have read in my books of magic that beyond the mountains, on a plain lies buried a certain sword, whereby a knight, seeking for his betrothed, shall compass the destruction of us both; let us therefore go and dig it up, so that we shall escape the threatened doom!' "To this I agreed. I took a hundred-year-old pine--torn up from its roots--on one arm, and carried my brother on my other. We set out; he showed me the spot, and I dug up the sword, on this same plain. Then we began to quarrel about who should possess it. After a long dispute he said: "'We were best decide it by lot, brother. Let each of us lay his ear to the ground, and whoever first hears the sound of the evening bell shall have the sword.' "So he laid his ear to the ground, and I mine. I listened; but heard nothing; and he meantime, having got hold of the sword, crept up to me, and cut my head from my shoulders. "My headless trunk, left unburied, rotted away, and the grass grew over it; but my head, endowed with supernatural life by the malicious dwarf, my brother, was left here, with charge to guard this sword, and kill every one who came near with my deadly glance. After many centuries you have won it; so I implore you to cut off his seven-foot beard, and make him into mince-meat; and avenge me." "You shall be avenged," said the prince; "and at once. Grey Seer-Horse, carry me to the kingdom of the dwarf magician, with the seven-foot-long beard." So they set off at once, flying with lightning speed through the air, over the seas and over the forests. In an hour or two they halted on the summit of a high mountain, and the horse said: "These mountains are the kingdom of the dwarf magician, who carried off your betrothed, and they are both now in the garden; challenge him to fight." Prince Dobrotek sounded a challenge three times, and the dwarf, as we have seen, flew up into the air, so as to swoop down upon his antagonist, unperceived of him. All at once the prince heard a murmuring sound above him, and he saw when he looked up, the dwarf soaring above him, like an eagle in the clouds--for he had the magic power of increasing his size and strength--with his sword drawn, ready to fall upon him. The prince sprang aside, and the dwarf came down, with such an impetus, that his head and neck were rammed into the ground. The prince dismounted, seized the dwarf by the beard, wound it about his left hand, and began to sever it with the All-Cutting Sword. The dwarf saw that he had to do with no feather-bed knight; so he tugged with all his strength, and flew up again into the clouds; but the prince, holding fast with his left hand to the beard, kept on severing it with his sword, so that he had nearly cut half of it through; and the dwarf became weaker and weaker the more hair he lost, so he began to cry for mercy. "Drop down to the ground, off which you took me," said the prince. The dwarf dropped down slowly, but the prince cut off the remainder of his beard and threw him--when thus deprived of his charms and his strength alike--on to the ground, wreathed the severed beard round his own helmet, and entered the palace. The invisible servants of the dwarf, seeing their master's beard, wreathed about the prince's helmet, threw open all the doors to him at once. He went through all the rooms; but not finding his princess anywhere, went into the garden, traversing all the paths and lawns, and calling her name. He could find her nowhere. But thus running from one place to another he chanced to touch the invisible cap; he caught hold of it, and pulled it away from where it was, on the head of the princess, and saw her at once in all her loveliness, but fast asleep. Overcome with joy, he called her by her name; but she had been cast into such a deep sleep by the dwarf's poisonous breath, that he could not rouse her. He took her up in his arms, put the invisible cap into his pocket, also picking up the wicked dwarf, whom he carried along with him. He then mounted his horse, flew like an arrow, and in a few minutes stood before the Giant-Head, with the basilisk eyes. He threw the dwarf into its open jaws, where he was ground at once into powder; the prince then cut up the monstrous head into small pieces, and scattered them all over the plain. Thus having got rid of both the dwarf and the giant, the prince rode on with the sleeping princess, upon the Golden-Mane horse, and at sunset they came to the same cross-roads, where he had first summoned him. "Here, prince, we must part," said the Golden-Mane; "but here in the meadow is your own horse, and it is not far to your own home, so creep into my right ear, and come out at my left." [Illustration: THE DWARF DEFEATED] The prince did as he was told, and came out as he was before. His own horse recognized him, and came running with a joyful neigh to meet his master. The prince was tired out with the long journey, so, having laid down his betrothed wife, still sleeping, on the soft grass, and covered her up from the cold, he laid down himself and went to sleep. But that very night, one of Princess Ladna's rejected suitors, riding that way, saw by the light of the moon those two asleep, and he recognized in them the princess, and the prince, his fortunate rival. So first stabbing the latter through with his sabre, he carried off the princess, and bore her on horseback before him to her father. The king welcomed him rapturously, as his daughter's deliverer. But when he found, to his dismay, that he could not awake her, with all his caresses, he asked the supposed rescuer what this meant. "I do not know, Sir King," replied the knight. "After I had overtaken and slain the great enchanter, who was carrying off the princess, I found her as she is now, sound asleep." Prince Dobrotek meanwhile, mortally wounded, had just strength enough left to summon the Wonderful Grey Horse, who came instantly; and seeing what was the matter, flew off to the top of the mountain of Everlasting Life. On its summit were three springs--the Water of Loosening, the Water of Healing, and the Water of Life. He sprinkled the dead prince with all three; Prince Dobrotek opened his eyes, and exclaimed: "Oh! how well I have slept!" "You were sleeping the sleep of death," returned the Golden-Mane; "one of your rivals killed you sleeping, and carried off your princess home to her father, pretending to be her deliverer, in the hope of gaining her hand. But do not be afraid; she is still asleep, and only you can awaken her, by touching her forehead with the beard of the dwarf, which you have with you. Go then to her; I must be elsewhere." The Golden-Mane vanished, and the prince, calling his own horse, and taking with him his invisible cap, betook himself to the court of his loved one's father. But when he drew near he found that the city was all surrounded by enemies, who had already mastered the outer defences, and were threatening the town itself; and half of its defenders being slain, the rest were thinking of surrender. Prince Dobrotek put on his invisible cap, and drawing his All-Cutting Sword, fell upon the enemy. They fell to right and left as the sword smote them on each side, till one half of them were slain, and the rest ran away into the forest. Unseen by anyone the prince entered the city, and arrived at the royal palace, where the king, surrounded by his knights, was hearing the account of this sudden attack, whereby his foes had been discomfited; but by whom no one could inform him. Then Prince Dobrotek took off his invisible cap, and appearing suddenly in the midst of the assembly, said: "King and father! it was I who beat your enemies. But where is my betrothed, Princess Ladna, whom I rescued from the wizard dwarf, with the seven-foot beard? whom one of your knights treacherously stole from me? Let me see her, that I may waken her from her magic sleep." When the traitor knight heard this he took to his heels; Prince Dobrotek touched the sleeping princess's forehead with the beard, she woke up directly, gazed at him fondly with her lovely eyes, but could not at first understand where she was, or what had happened to her. The king caught her in his arms, pressed her to his heart, and that very evening he married her to Prince Dobrotek. He gave them half his kingdom, and there was a splendid wedding, such as had never been seen or heard of before. [Illustration: THE GOOD FERRYMAN CAPTURES THE MERMAID] THE GOOD FERRYMAN AND THE WATER NYMPHS There was once an old man, very poor, with three sons. They lived chiefly by ferrying people over a river; but he had had nothing but ill-luck all his life. And to crown all, on the night he died, there was a great storm, and in it the crazy old ferry-boat, on which his sons depended for a living, was sunk. As they were lamenting both their father and their poverty, an old man came by, and learning the reason of their sorrow said: "Never mind; all will come right in time. Look! there is your boat as good as new." And there was a fine new ferry-boat on the water, in place of the old one, and a number of people waiting to be ferried over. The three brothers arranged to take turns with the boat, and divide the fares they took. They were however very different in disposition. The two elder brothers were greedy and avaricious, and would never take anyone over the river, without being handsomely paid for it. But the youngest brother took over poor people, who had no money, for nothing; and moreover frequently relieved their wants out of his own pocket. One day, at sunset, when the eldest brother was at the ferry the same old man, who had visited them on the night their father died, came, and asked for a passage. "I have nothing to pay you with, but this empty purse," he said. "Go and get something to put in it then first," replied the ferry-man; "and be off with you now!" Next day it was the second brother's turn; and the same old man came, and offered his empty purse as his fare. But he met with a like reply. The third day it was the youngest brother's turn; and when the old man arrived, and asked to be ferried over for charity, he answered: "Yes, get in, old man." "And what is the fare?" asked the old man. "That depends upon whether you can pay or not," was the reply; "but if you cannot, it is all the same to me." "A good deed is never without its reward," said the old man: "but in the meantime take this empty purse; though it is very worn, and looks worth nothing. But if you shake it, and say: 'For his sake who gave it, this purse I hold, I wish may always be full of gold;' it will always afford you as much gold as you wish for." [Illustration: THE PURSE THAT WAS EVER FULL] The youngest brother came home, and his brothers, who were sitting over a good supper, laughed at him, because he had taken only a few copper coins that day, and they told him he should have no supper. But when he began to shake his purse and scatter gold coins all about, they jumped up from the table, and began picking them up eagerly. And as it was share and share alike, they all grew rich very quickly. The youngest brother made good use of his riches, for he gave away money freely to the poor. But the greedy elder brothers envied him the possession of the wonderful purse, and contrived to steal it from him. Then they left their old home; and the one bought a ship, laded it with all sorts of merchandize, for a trading voyage. But the ship ran upon a rock, and every one on board was drowned. The second brother was no more fortunate, for as he was travelling through a forest, with an enormous treasure of precious stones, in which he had laid out his wealth, to sell at a profit, he was waylaid by robbers, who murdered him, and shared the spoil among them. The youngest brother, who remained at home, having lost his purse, became as poor as before. But he still did as formerly, took pay from passengers who could afford it, ferried over poor folks for nothing, and helped those who were poorer than himself so far as he could. One day the same old man with the long white beard came by; the ferry-man welcomed him as an old friend, and while rowing him over the river, told him all that had happened since he last saw him. "Your brothers did very wrong, and they have paid for it," said the old man; "but you were in fault yourself. Still, I will give you one more chance. Take this hook and line; and whatever you catch, mind you hold fast, and not let it escape you; or you will bitterly repent it." The old man then disappeared, and the ferry-man looked in wonder at his new fishing-tackle--a diamond hook, a silver line, and a golden rod. All at once the hook sprang of itself into the water; the line lengthened out along the river current, and there came a strong pull upon it. The fisherman drew it in, and beheld a most lovely creature, upwards from the waist a woman, but with a fish's tail. "Good ferry-man, let me go," she said; "take your hook out of my hair! The sun is setting, and after sunset I can no longer be a water-nymph again." But without answering, the ferry-man only held her fast, and covered her over with his coat, to prevent her escaping. Then the sun set, and she lost her fish-tail. "Now," she said: "I am yours; so let us go to the nearest church and get married." She was already dressed as a bride, with a myrtle garland on her head, in a white dress, with a rainbow-coloured girdle, and rich jewels in her hair and on her neck. And she held in her hand the wonderful purse, that was always full of gold. They found the priest and all ready at the church; were married in a few minutes; and then came home to their wedding-feast, to which all the neighbours were invited. They were royally entertained, and when they were about to leave the bride shook the wonderful purse, and sent a shower of gold pieces flying among the guests; so they all went home very well pleased. The good ferry-man and his marvellous wife lived most happily together; they never wanted for anything, and gave freely to all who came. He continued to ply his ferry-boat; but he now took all passengers over for nothing, and gave them each a piece of gold into the bargain. Now there was a king over that country, who a year ago had just succeeded to his elder brother. He had heard of the ferry-man, who was so marvellously rich, and wishing to ascertain the truth of the story he had heard, came on purpose to see for himself. But when he saw the ferry-man's beautiful young wife, he resolved to have her for himself, and determined to get rid of her husband somehow. At that time there was an eclipse of the sun; and the king sent for the ferry-man, and told him he must find out the cause of this eclipse, or be put to death. He came home in great distress to his wife; but she replied: "Never mind, my dear. I will tell you what to do, and how to gratify the king's curiosity." So she gave him a wonderful ball of thread, which he was to throw before him, and follow the thread as it kept unwinding--towards the East. He went on a long way, over high mountains, deep rivers, and wide regions. At last he came to a ruined city, where a number of corpses were lying about unburied, tainting the air with pestilence. The good man was sorry to see this, and took the pains to summon men from the neighbouring cities, and get the bodies properly buried. He then resumed his journey. He came at last to the ends of the earth. Here he found a magnificent golden palace, with an amber roof, and diamond doors and windows. The ball of thread went straight into the palace, and the ferry-man found himself in a vast apartment, where sat a very dignified old lady, spinning from a golden distaff. "Wretched man! what are you here for?" she exclaimed, when she saw him. "My son will come back presently and burn you up." He explained to her how he had been forced to come, out of sheer necessity. "Well, I must help you," replied the old lady, who was no less than the Mother of the Sun, "because you did Sol that good turn some days ago, in burying the inhabitants of that town, when they were killed by a dragon. He journeys every day across the wide arch of heaven, in a diamond car, drawn by twelve grey horses, with golden manes, giving heat and light to the whole world. He will soon be back here, to rest for the night.... But ... here he comes; hide yourself, and take care to observe what follows." So saying she changed her visitor into a lady-bird, and let him fly to the window. Then the neighing of the wonderful horses and the rattling of chariot wheels were heard, and the bright Sun himself presently came in, and stretching himself upon a coral bed, remarked to his mother: "I smell a human being here!" "What nonsense you talk!" replied his mother. "How could any human being come here? You know it is impossible." The Sun, as if he did not quite believe her, began to peer anxiously about the room. "Don't be so restless," said the old lady; "but tell me why you suffered eclipse a month or two ago." "How could I help it?" answered the Sun; "When the dragon from the deep abyss attacked me, and I had to fight him? Perhaps I should have been fighting with the monster till now, if a wonderful mermaid had not come to help me. When she began to sing, and looked at the dragon with her beautiful eyes, all his rage softened at once; he was absorbed in gazing upon her beauty, and I meanwhile burnt him to ashes, and threw them into the sea." The Sun then went to sleep, and his mother again touched the ferry-man with her spindle; he then returned to his natural shape, and slipped out of the palace. Following the ball of thread he reached home at last, and next day went to the king, and told him all. But the king was so enchanted at the description of the beautiful sea-maiden, that he ordered the ferry-man to go and bring her to him, on pain of death. He went home very sad to his wife, but she told him she would manage this also. So saying she gave him another ball of thread, to show him which way to go, and she also gave him a carriage-load of costly lady's apparel and jewels, and ornaments--told him what he was to do, and they took leave of one another. On the way the ferry-man met a youth, riding on a fine grey horse, who asked: "What have you got there, man?" "A woman's wearing apparel, most costly and beautiful"--he had several dresses, not simply one. "I say, give me some of those as a present for my intended, whom I am going to see. I can be of use to you, for I am the Storm-wind. I will come, whenever you call upon me thus: 'Storm-wind! Storm-wind! come with speed! Help me in my sudden need!'" The ferry-man gave him some of the most beautiful things he had, and the Storm-wind passed. A little further on he met an old man, grey-haired, but strong and vigorous-looking, who also said: "What have you got there?" "Women's garments costly and beautiful." "I am going to my daughter's wedding; she is to marry the Storm-wind; give me something as a wedding present for her, and I will be of use to you. I am the Frost; if you need me call upon me thus: 'Frost, I call thee; come with speed; Help me in my sudden need!'" The ferry-man let him take all he wanted and went on. And now he came to the sea-coast; here the ball of thread stopped, and would go no further. The ferry-man waded up to his waist into the sea, and set up two high poles, with cross-bars between them, upon which he hung dresses of various colours, scarves, and ribbons, gold chains, and diamond earrings and pins, shoes, and looking-glasses, and then hid himself, with his wonderful hook and line ready. As soon as the morning rose from the sea, there appeared far away on the smooth waters a silvery boat, in which stood a beautiful maiden, with a golden oar in one hand, while with the other she gathered together her long golden hair, all the while singing so beautifully to the rising sun, that, if the ferry-man had not quickly stopped his ears, he would have fallen into a delicious reverie, and then asleep. She sailed along a long time in her silver boat, and round her leaped and played golden fishes with rainbow wings and diamond eyes. But all at once she perceived the rich clothes and ornaments, hung up on the poles, and as she came nearer, the ferry-man called out: "Storm-wind! Storm-wind! come with speed! Help me in my sudden need!" "What do you want?" asked the Storm-wind. The ferry-man without answering him, called out: "Frost, I call thee; come with speed, Help me in my sudden need!" "What do you want?" asked the Frost. "I want to capture the sea-maiden." Then the wind blew and blew, so that the silver boat was capsized, and the frost breathed on the sea till it was frozen over. [Illustration: THE MEETING OF THE SISTERS] Then the ferryman rushed up to the sea-maiden, entangling his hook in her golden hair; lifted her on his horse, and rode off as swift as the wind after his wonderful ball of thread. She kept weeping and lamenting all the way; but as soon as they reached the ferry-man's home, and saw his wife, all her sorrow changed into joy; she laughed with delight, and threw herself into her arms. And then it turned out that the two were sisters. Next morning the ferry-man went to court with both his wife and sister-in-law, and the king was so delighted with the beauty of the latter, that he at once offered to marry her. But she could give him no answer until he had the Self-playing Guitar. So the king ordered the ferry-man to procure him this wonderful guitar, or be put to death. His wife told him what to do, and gave him a handkerchief of hers, embroidered with gold, telling him to use this in case of need. Following the ball of thread he came at last to a great lake, in the midst of which was a green island. He began to wonder how he was to get there, when he saw a boat approaching, in which was an old man, with a long white beard, and he recognized him with delight, as his former benefactor. "How are you, ferry-man?" he asked. "Where are you going?" "I am going wherever the ball of thread leads me, for I must fetch the Self-playing Guitar." "This guitar," said the old man, "belongs to Goldmore, the lord of that island. It is a difficult matter to have to do with him; but perhaps you may succeed. You have often ferried me over the water; I will ferry you now." The old man pushed off, and they reached the island. On arriving the ball of thread went straight into a palace, where Goldmore came out to meet the traveller, and asked him where he was going and what he wanted. He explained: "I am come for the Self-playing Guitar." "I will only let you have it on condition that you do not go to sleep for three days and nights. And if you do, you will not only lose all chance of the Self-playing Guitar; but you must die." What could the poor man do, but agree to this? So Goldmore conducted him to a great room, and locked him in. The floor was strewn with sleepy-grass, so he fell asleep directly. Next morning in came Goldmore, and on waking him up said: "So you went to sleep! Very well, you shall die!" And he touched a spring in the floor, and the unhappy ferry-man fell down into an apartment beneath, where the walls were of looking-glass, and there were great heaps of gold and precious stones lying about. For three days and nights he lay there; he was fearfully hungry. And then it dawned upon him that he was to be starved to death! He called out, and entreated in vain; nobody answered, and though he had piles of gold and jewels about him, they could not purchase him a morsel of food. He sought in vain for any means of exit. There was a window, of clearest crystal, but it was barred by a heavy iron grating. But the window looked into a garden whence he could hear nightingales singing, doves cooing, and the murmur of a brook. But inside he saw only heaps of useless gold and jewels, and his own face, worn and haggard, reflected a thousand times. He could now only pray for a speedy death, and took out a little iron cross, which he had kept by him since his boyhood. But in doing so he also drew out the gold-embroidered handkerchief, given him by his wife, and which he had quite forgotten till now. Goldmore had been looking on, as he often did, from an opening in the ceiling to enjoy the sight of his prisoner's sufferings. All at once he recognized the handkerchief, as belonging to his own sister, the ferry-man's wife. He at once changed his treatment of his brother-in-law, as he had discovered him to be; took him out of prison, led him to his own apartments, gave him food and drink, and the Self-playing Guitar into the bargain. Coming home, the ferry-man met his wife half-way. "The ball of thread came home alone," she explained; "so I judged that some misfortune had befallen you, and I was coming to help you." He told her all his adventures, and they returned home together. The king was all eagerness to see and hear the Self-playing Guitar; so he ordered the ferry-man, his wife, and her sister to come with it to the palace at once. Now the property of this Self-playing Guitar was such that wherever its music was heard, the sick became well, those who were sad merry, ugly folks became handsome, sorceries were dissolved, and those who had been murdered rose from the dead, and slew their murderers. So when the king, having been told the charm to set the guitar playing, said the words, all the court began to be merry, and dance--except the king himself!... For all at once the door opened, the music ceased, and the figure of the late king stood up in his shroud, and said: "I was the rightful possessor of the throne! and you, wicked brother, who caused me to be murdered, shall now reap your reward!" So saying he breathed upon him, and the king fell dead--on which the phantom vanished. But as soon as they recovered from their fright, all the nobility who were present acclaimed the ferry-man as their king. The next day, after the burial of the late king, the beautiful sea-maiden, the beloved of the Sun, went back to the sea, to float about in her silvery canoe, in the company of the rainbow fishes, and to rejoice in the sunbeams. But the good ferry-man and his wife lived happily ever after, as king and queen. And they gave a grand ball to the nobility and to the people.... The Self-playing Guitar furnished the music, the wonderful purse scattered gold all the time, and the king entertained all the guests right royally. [Illustration: THE FIGHT FOR THE MAGIC BOOTS] THE PRINCESS OF THE BRAZEN MOUNTAIN There was a young prince, who was not only most handsome and well-grown, but also most kind-hearted and good. Now sooner or later kindness always meets its reward, though it may not seem so at first. One summer's evening the prince was walking on the banks of a lake, when he looked up, and saw to his great surprise, in the air, against the rosy clouds of the sunset, three beautiful beings with wings--not angels, nor birds--but three beautiful damsels. And having alighted on the ground they dropped their wings and their garments, and left them lying on the shore and leaped into the cool water, and began splashing and playing about in it, like so many waterfowl. As soon as the prince saw this he came out from his hiding-place in the bushes, picked up one pair of wings and hid himself again. When they had been long enough in the water, the beautiful damsels came again to land, and dressed themselves quickly. Two of them soon had on both their white dresses and their wings; but the youngest could not find hers. They held a short consultation, and the result was, that the two elder flew away in the shape of birds, as fast as they could, to fetch another pair of wings for their younger sister. They soon vanished in the blue sky; but she remained alone, wringing her hands, and crying. "What are you crying for, you lovely maiden?" asked the prince, emerging from the bushes. "Oh! I am so unhappy!" she replied. "I am a princess of the Brazen Mountain; my sisters and I came here to bathe in the lake; and somebody has stolen my wings; so I must wait here, until they bring me another pair." "I am a prince," he replied; "this is my father's kingdom; be my wife, and I will give you back your wings." "Very well," she said; "I consent, only you must give me back my wings at once." "Let us first go to church, and get married," he answered, and taking the lovely princess by the hand, he brought her to his father and mother, and asked their permission to marry her. [Illustration: THE PRINCE STEALS THE WINGS] The king and queen were delighted with their beautiful daughter-in-law, gave them their blessing, and all was got ready for the wedding. And directly they came back from church the prince, overcome with joy, kissed his bride, and gave her back her wings. She took them joyfully, fastened them to her shoulders; then flew out of the window, and vanished. All the wedding-guests were in consternation; the king looked very serious; the queen wept bitterly; but the prince so grieved after his bride, that, having obtained his parents' consent, he went out into the wide world to search for that Brazen Mountain, where he hoped to find her. He travelled for a long time, inquiring about it of every one he met; but nobody had ever heard of such a mountain; and he began to give up all hope of ever finding it. Late one evening he saw a twinkling light before him, which he followed, in the hope of coming to some habitation. It led him on a long way, across level plains, through deep defiles, and at length some way into a dark forest. But at last he came to whence the light proceeded--from a solitary hermitage. He went in; but found the hermit lying dead, with six wax candles burning around him. He had evidently been dead for some time. Yet there seemed to be nobody near him, nor any inhabitants at all in this desolate region. The prince's first thought was how to get him buried, and with proper rites, when there was no priest--nor indeed any people at all--to be found in the neighbourhood. While he was thinking over this, something fell from a peg in the wall, close beside him; it was a leather whip. The prince took it up, and read on the handle these words: "The Magic Whip." As he knew its virtue, he called out: "Ho! Magical Whip! To right and left skip! And do what I will!" The whip jumped from his hand, became invisible, and flew away. In a short time there was the hum of a multitude through the forest; and the head-forester entered, breathless, followed by a crowd of under-keepers, and many more people with them. Some set about making a coffin, others began digging a grave, and the head-keeper rode off to fetch a priest. And as soon as it was dawn mass was said; the bells began ringing from several far-distant churches; and at sunrise the corpse was decently buried. When the funeral was over all the people dispersed to their homes, and the Magical Whip returned of itself to the prince's hand. He stuck it into his girdle, and went on, till after an hour or two he came to a clearing in the forest, where twelve men were fighting desperately among themselves. "Stop, you fellows!" exclaimed the prince. "Who are you? and what are you fighting about?" "We are robbers," they replied, "and we are fighting for these boots, which were the property of our deceased leader. Whoever has them can go seven leagues at one step; and he who gets them will be our leader. As you are a stranger we will abide by your decision, as to whom this pair of boots shall belong, and give you a heap of gold into the bargain for your trouble." The prince drew on the boots, took the Magical Whip from his girdle, and said: "Ho! Magical Whip! To right and left skip! And do what I will!" The whip jumped from his hand, became invisible, and well thrashed the robbers. In the midst of the confusion the prince made his escape, and having the boots on he went seven miles at every step, and was soon far enough away from the robbers' den. But as he was no nearer to finding out where the Brazen Mountain was, he had no need to go quite so fast; so he took off the seven-league boots, put them under his arm, and the Magic Whip in his girdle, and went at his ordinary pace, till he came to a narrow path between some rocks, where again he came upon twelve men fighting. They explained that they were fighting for an invisible cap, which had belonged to their late leader; and asked him, as a stranger, to decide who should have it. So he set the Magical Whip, as before, to work; and there was a nice confusion among these robbers, for not seeing where the blows came from they fell upon one another; and at last, frightened out of their senses, they took flight, and scattered in all directions. The prince, having put on the invisible cap, was able to walk among them, and talk to them; and they all heard, though they could not see him. He now began to consider whether he could not use all these treasures to help him to find the Brazen Mountain. So he drew on the seven-league boots, settled the invisible cap on his forehead, and taking the Magical Whip from his girdle, said: "Oh! thou wondrous Magic Whip! Lead me on; I'll follow thee! Onward to the Brazen Mountain Lead me, where I fain would be!" The whip sprang from his hand. It did not become invisible this time, but glided rapidly a little above the ground, like a boat over a calm sea. Though it flew like a bird, the prince was quite able to keep pace with it, because he had on the seven-league boots. He was scarcely aware of the fact, when in less than a quarter of an hour they came to a standstill--at the Brazen Mountain. At first the prince was overjoyed at having reached the goal of his wishes; but when he looked more closely at its smooth perpendicular sides, hard as adamant--its summit lost in the clouds--he was in despair; for how was he ever to get to the top of it? However, he thought there must be some way up after all; so taking off his boots and cap, he set off to walk round the base of the mountain. In half an hour he came to a mill, with twelve millstones. The miller was an old wizard, with a long beard down to the ground. He stood beside a stove--whereupon a kettle was boiling--stirring the contents with a long iron spoon, and piling wood on the fire. The prince looked into the kettle. "Good morning to you, gaffer. What are you doing there?" "That's my own business," replied the miller gruffly. "What mill is this?" the prince next asked. "That's no business of yours," replied the miller. The prince was not going to be satisfied with this; so he gave his usual orders to the Magical Whip, which forthwith became invisible, and began to lash the miller soundly. He tried to run away; but it was no use; till the prince took pity on him, and called the whip back again. He put it up, and then said: "Whose mill is this?" "It belongs to the three princesses of the Brazen Mountain," replied the miller. "They let down a rope here every day, and draw up all the flour they want by the rope." As he said this a thick silken rope came down, with a loop at the end, which struck the threshold of the mill. The prince made ready; and when the usual sack of wheat flour was bound fast in the loop, he climbed upon it, having first put on his invisible cap, and was thus drawn up to the top of the Brazen Mountain. The three princesses, having drawn up their supply of flour, put it into their storehouse, and went back to their dwelling. Their palace was most beautiful, all silver without, and all gold within. All the windows were of crystal; the chairs and tables were made of diamonds, and the floors of looking-glass. The ceilings were like the sky, with mimic stars and moon shining therein; and in the principal saloon there was a sun, with rays all round; beautiful birds were singing, monkeys were telling fairy tales; and in their midst amongst all this sat three most beautiful princesses. The two eldest were weaving golden threads in their looms; but the youngest, the prince's wife, sat silently apart from her sisters, listening to the murmur of a fountain, her head leaning on her hand, in deep thought. And as she sat there two pearly tears coursed down her lovely face. [Illustration: THE TRUANT WIFE IS CAPTURED] "What are you thinking of, sister?" asked the two elder princesses. "I am thinking of the prince, my husband. I love to think of him, and I am so sorry for him, poor fellow! To think I left him for no fault at all; and when we loved one another so dearly! Oh! sisters! I shall have to leave you, and go back to him; only I fear he will never forgive me, however I entreat him, for having behaved so unkindly to him." "I forgive you, I forgive you everything, darling!" exclaimed the prince throwing off the invisible cap, and embracing her rapturously. Then she gave him wings like her own, and they flew away together. In an hour or two they arrived in his father's kingdom. The king and queen welcomed them joyfully, and all was greatest joy and happiness henceforward. [Illustration: THE MOUSE SAVES THE GOOD LITTLE GIRL] THE BEAR IN THE FOREST HUT. There was once an old man, who was a widower, and he had married an old woman, who was a widow. Both had had children by their first marriage; and now the old man had a daughter of his own still living, and the old woman also had a daughter. The old man was an honest, hard-working, and good-natured old fellow, but too much under his wife's thumb. This was very unfortunate, because she was wicked, cunning, and sly, and a bad old witch. Her daughter was only too like her in disposition; but she was her mother's darling. But the old man's daughter was a very good sweet girl; nevertheless her stepmother hated her; she was always tormenting her, and wishing her dead. One day she had beaten her very cruelly, and pushed her out of doors; then she said to the old man: "Your wretched daughter is always giving me trouble; she is such an ill-tempered, spoilt hussy, that I cannot do anything with her. So if you wish for peace in the house, you must put her into your waggon, drive her away into the forest, and come back without her." The old man was very sorry to have to do this; for he loved his own little daughter most dearly. But he was so afraid of his wife that he dared not refuse; so he put the poor girl into his waggon, drove a long way into the forest, took her out, and left her there alone. She wandered about a long time, gathering wild strawberries, to eat with a little piece of bread, which her father had given her. Towards evening she came to the door of a hut in the forest, and knocked at the door. Nobody answered her knock. So she lifted the latch, went in, and looked round--there was nobody there. But there was a table in one corner, and benches all round the walls, and an oven by the door. And near the table, close to the window, was a spinning-wheel, and a quantity of flax. The girl sat down to the spinning-wheel, and opened the window, looked out, and listened; but nobody came. [Illustration: THE GOOD LITTLE GIRL IS SENT AWAY] But as it grew dusk she heard a rustle not far off, and from somewhere not far from the hut, a voice was heard, singing: "Wanderer, outcast, forsaken! Whom the night has overtaken; If no crime your conscience stain, In this hut to-night remain." When the voice ceased, she answered: "I am outcast and forsaken; Yet unstained by crime am I: Be you rich, or be you poor; For this night here let me lie!" Once more there was a rustle in the branches; the door opened, and there came into the room--a bear! The girl started up, very frightened; but the bear only said: "Good evening, pretty maiden!" "Good evening to you, whoever you are," she replied, somewhat reassured. "How did you come here?" he asked. "Was it of your own free will, or by compulsion?" The maiden told him all, weeping; but the bear sat down beside her, and stroking her face with his paw, replied: "Do not cry, pretty one; you shall be happy yet. But in the meantime you must do just what I tell you. Do you see that flax? You must spin it into thread; of that thread you must weave cloth, and of that cloth you must make me a shirt. I shall come here to-morrow at this same time, and if the shirt is ready I will reward you. Good-bye!" So saying the bear made her a parting bow, and went out. At first the girl began to cry, and said to herself: "How can I do this in only twenty-four hours--spin all that flax, weave it into cloth, and make a shirt out of it? Well! I must set to work! and do what I can.... He will at least see that my will was good, though I was unable to perform the task." Thus saying, she dried her tears, ate some of her bread and strawberries, sat down to the spinning-wheel, and began to spin by the light of the moon. The time went by quickly, as she worked, and it was daylight before she knew. And there was no more flax left; she had spun out the last distaff-full. She was astonished to see how fast the work had gone, and began to wonder how she was to weave the thread without any loom. Thinking, she fell asleep. When she woke the sun was already high in the heavens. There was breakfast ready on the table, and a loom under the window. She ran down to the neighbouring brook, washed her face and hands, came back, said grace, and ate her breakfast; then she sat down to the loom. The shuttle flew so fast that the cloth was all ready by noon. She took it out into a meadow, sprinkled it from the brook, spread it out in the sun, and in one hour the cloth was bleached. She came back with it to the hut, cut out the shirt, and began to stitch at it diligently. The twilight was falling, and she was just putting in the last stitch, when the door opened, and the bear came in, and asked: "Is the shirt ready?" She gave it to him. "Thank you, my good girl; now I must reward you. You told me you had a bad stepmother; if you like, I will send my bears to tear her and her daughter in pieces." "Oh! don't do that! I don't want to be revenged; let them live!" "Let it be so then! Meanwhile make yourself useful in the kitchen; get me some porridge for supper. You will find everything you want in the cupboard in the wall; but I will go and fetch my bedding, for I shall spend to-night at home." The bear left the room, and the maiden made up the fire in the oven, and began to get the porridge ready. Just then she heard a sound under the bench, and there ran out a poor, lean little mouse, which stood up on its hind-legs, and said in human tones: "Mistress! help me lest I die A poor weak, little mouse am I! I am hungry, give me food; And to you will I be good." The girl was sorry for the mouse, and threw it a spoonful of porridge. The mouse ate it, thanked her, and ran away to its hole. The bear soon came in, with a load of wood and stones; these he laid upon the stove, and having eaten a basin of porridge, he climbed upon the stove, and said: "Here, girl, is a bunch of keys on a steel ring. Put out the fire; but you must walk about the room all night, and keep on jingling these keys, till I get up; and if I find you alive in the morning you shall be happy." The bear began snoring directly, and the old man's daughter kept walking about the hut, jingling the keys. Soon the mouse ran out of its hole, and said: "Give me the keys, mistress, I will jingle them for you; but you must hide yourself behind the stove, for the stones will soon be flying about." So the mouse began to run up and down by the wall, under the bench. The maiden hid behind the oven, and about midnight the bear woke up, and threw out a stone into the middle of the room. But the mouse kept running about, and jingling the keys. And the bear asked: "Are you alive?" "I am," replied the girl, from behind the oven. The bear began to throw stones and billets of wood, thick and fast from the stove, and every time he did so, he asked: "Are you alive?" "I am," replied the girl's voice from behind the oven; and the mouse still ran up and down, jingling the keys. With the dawn the cocks began to crow, but the bear did not wake. The mouse gave up the keys, and ran back to its hole; but the old man's daughter began to walk about the room, and jingled the keys. At sunrise the bear came off the stove, and said: "O daughter of the old man! you are blest of heaven! For here was I, a powerful monarch, changed by enchantment into a bear, until some living soul should spend two nights in this hut. And now I shall soon become a man again, and return to my kingdom, taking you for my wife. But before this comes to pass, do you look into my right ear." The old man's daughter threw back her hair, and looked into the right ear of the bear. And she saw a beautiful country, with millions of people, with high mountains, deep rivers, impenetrable forests, and pastures covered with flocks, well-to-do villages, and rich cities. "What seest thou?" asked the bear. "I see a lovely country." "That is my kingdom. Look into my left ear." She looked, and could not enough admire what she saw--a magnificent palace, with many carriages and horses in the courtyard, and in the carriages rich robes, jewels, and all kinds of rarities. "What do you see?" asked the bear. She described it all. "Which of those carriages do you prefer?" "The one with four horses," she replied. "That is yours then," answered the bear, as he opened the window. There was a sound of wheels in the forest, and a golden carriage presently drew up before the cottage drawn by four splendid horses, although there was no driver. The bear adorned his beloved with a gown of cloth-of-gold, with diamond ear-rings, a necklace set with various precious stones, and diamond rings, saying: "Wait here a little while; your father will come for you presently; and in a few days, when the power of the enchantment is over, and I am a king again, I will come for you, and you shall be my queen." So saying the bear disappeared into the forest, and the old man's daughter looked out of the window to watch for her father's coming. The old man, having left his daughter in the wood, came home very sad; but on the third day he harnessed his waggon again, and drove into the forest, to see if she were alive or dead; and if she were dead at least to bury her. Towards evening the old woman and her own daughter looked out of the window, and a dog, the favourite of the old man's daughter, suddenly rushed to the door, and began to bark: "Bow! wow! wow! the old man's here! Bringing home his daughter dear, Decked with gold and diamonds' sheen, Gifts to please a royal queen." The old woman gave the dog an angry kick. "You lie, you big ugly dog! Bark like this! 'Bow! wow! wow! the old man's come! His daughter's bones he's bringing home!'" So saying she opened the door; the dog leaped forth; and she went with her daughter into the courtyard. They stood as if transfixed! For in drove the carriage with four galloping horses, the old man sitting on the box, cracking his whip, and his daughter sat inside, dressed in cloth of gold, and adorned with jewels. The old woman pretended she was overjoyed to see her, welcomed her with many kisses, and was anxious to know where she got all these rich and beautiful things. The girl told her that they were all given to her by the bear in the forest hut. Next day the old woman baked some delicious cakes, and gave them to her own daughter, saying to the old man: "If your wretched, worthless daughter has had such good luck, I am sure my sweet, pretty darling will get a deal more from the bear, if he can only see her. So you must drive her out in the waggon, leave her in the forest, and come back without her." And she gave the old man a good push, to hasten his departure, shut the door of the cottage in his face, and looked out of the window to see what would happen. The old man went to the stable, got out the waggon, put the horse to, helped his stepdaughter in, and drove away with her into the forest. There he left her, turned his horse's head, and drove quickly home. The old woman's daughter was not long in finding out the hut in the forest. Confident in the power of her charms she went straight into the little room. There was nobody within; but there was the same table in one corner, the benches round the walls, the oven by the door, and the spinning-wheel, under the window, with a great bundle of flax. She sat down on one of the benches, undid her bundle, and began eating the cakes with great relish, looking from the window all the time. It soon began to get dark, a strong wind began to blow, and a voice was heard singing outside: "Wanderer! outcast, forsaken! Whom the night has overtaken; If no crime your conscience stain, Here this night you may remain." When the voice ceased she answered: "I am outcast and forsaken; Yet unstained by crime am I: Be you rich, or be you poor, For this night here let me lie." Then the door opened, and the bear walked in. The girl stood up, gave him a winning smile, and waited for him to bow first. The bear looked at her narrowly, made a bow, and said: "Welcome, maiden ... but I have not much time to stay here. I must go back to the forest; but between now and to-morrow evening you must make me a shirt, out of this flax; so you must set at once about spinning, weaving, bleaching, washing, and then about sewing it. Good-bye!" So saying the bear turned, and went out. "That's not what I came here for," said the girl, so soon as his back was turned, "to do your spinning, weaving, and sewing! You may do without a shirt for me!" So saying, she made herself comfortable on one of the benches, and went to sleep. Next day, at evening twilight, the bear came back, and asked: "Is the shirt ready?" She made no answer. "What's this? the distaff has not been touched." Silence as before. "Get me ready my supper at once. You will find water in that pail, and the groats in that cupboard. I must go and fetch my bedding, for to-night I will sleep at home." The bear went out, and the old woman's daughter lit the fire in the stove, and began to prepare the porridge. Then the little mouse came out, stood on its hind-legs, and said: "Mistress! help me, or I die! A poor, weak little mouse am I! I am hungry, give me food; And to you will I be good." But the unkind girl only caught up the spoon with which she was stirring the porridge, and flung it at the poor mouse, which ran away in a fright. The bear soon came back with a huge load of stones and wood; instead of a mattress he arranged a layer of stones on the top of the stove, and covered this with the wood, in place of a sheet. He ate up the porridge, and said: "Here! take these keys; walk all night about the hut, and keep on jingling them. And if, when I get up to-morrow, I find you still alive, you shall be happy." The bear was snoring at once, and the old woman's daughter walked up and down drowsily, jingling the keys. But about midnight the bear woke up, and flung a stone towards the quarter whence he heard the jingling. It hit the old woman's daughter. She gave one shriek, fell, and expired instantly. Next morning the bear descended from the top of the oven, looked once at the dead girl, opened the cottage door, stood upon the threshold, and stamped upon it three times with all his force. It thundered and lightened; and in one moment the bear became a handsome young king, with a golden sceptre in his hand, and a diamond crown on his head. And now there drew up before the cottage a carriage, bright as sunshine, with six horses. The coachman cracked his whip, till the leaves fell from the trees, and the king got into the carriage, and drove away from the forest to his own capital city. The old man having left his stepdaughter in the forest came home rejoicing in his daughter's joy. She was expecting the king every day. In the meantime he busied himself with looking after the four splendid horses, cleaning the golden carriage, and airing the costly horse-clothes. On the third day after his return the old woman came down upon him and said: "Go and fetch my darling; she is no doubt all dressed in gold by this time, or married to a king; so I shall be a queen's mother." The old man, obedient as ever, harnessed the waggon, and drove off. When evening came the old woman gazed from the window; when the dog began to bark: "Bow! wow! wow! the old man's come! Your daughter's bones he's bringing home!" "You lie!" exclaimed the old woman; "bark like this: 'Bow! wow! wow! the old man's here! Driving home your daughter dear, Decked in gold and diamonds' sheen, Gifts to please a royal queen.'" So saying she ran out of the house to meet the old man, coming back in the waggon; but she stood as if thunderstruck, sobbed, and wept, and was hardly able to articulate: "Where is my sweetest daughter?" The old man scratched his head, and replied: "She has met with a great misfortune; this is all I have found of her--a few bare bones, and blood-stained garments; in the wood, in the old hut ... she has been devoured by wolves." The old woman, wild with grief and despair, gathered up her daughter's bones, went to some neighbouring cross-ways, and when a number of people had gathered together, she buried them there with weeping and lamentation; then she fell face downward on the grave--and was turned to stone. [Illustration: THE REWARD OF THE GOOD LITTLE GIRL] Meanwhile a royal carriage drew up in the courtyard of the old man's cottage, bright as the sun, with four splendid horses, and the coachman cracked his whip--till the cottage fell to pieces with the sound. The king took both the old man and his daughter into the carriage, and they drove away to his capital, where the marriage soon took place. The old man lived happily in his declining years, as the father-in-law of a king, and with his sweet daughter, who had once been so miserable, a queen. APPENDIX NOTE I THE FROG PRINCESS This is certainly a "Nature story." The princess and her attendants are clearly personification of the elemental forces. The classical scholar cannot fail to be struck by the likeness of her metamorphoses to the story of Peleus and Thetis. Indeed the "Protean myth" so repeatedly occurs in these primitive Slavonic stories that it is impossible not to suspect a common origin. NOTE II PRINCESS MIRANDA AND PRINCE HERO The old woman "Jandza"--which word Polish dictionary-makers translate by "fury"--appears very often both in Polish and Russian fairy tales, as a witch of witches. She is sometimes "Jaga"; and seems pretty malevolent, though capable of serving those who know how to manage her. This story--probably a symbolic one--of the Spring and Winter, or the triumph of Light over Darkness, might be read at the present moment into an allegory of Poland, overrun, her people oppressed, starved, and all but extirpated by the malignant spirit of German militarism. Princess Miranda, herself unsleeping, awake, and watching, while all is desolation and despair around her, might be taken for the Spirit of Poland herself, undying, but waiting for deliverance. But where is the Prince Hero, who shall deliver her? _Princess Miranda_--her name is _cud-dziewica_, i.e. "Wonder Maiden"--but is not "admired Miranda" the most obvious rendering? NOTE III THE WHIRLWIND The name of the heroine "Ladna" signifies "pretty" or "beautiful" in Polish. It is not the word originally used; but being nearly equivalent, and of similar meaning, appears preferable. The prince's name "Dobrotek," signifies "good," or "benefactor." Being easy of pronunciation, but not easily Englished into a proper name, it seemed best to retain it. The whole story has a very Eastern cast. The mention of the "Seven seas," and the high mountains beyond them, suggest Persian or Indian influence. The ugly dwarf, with the long beard and diminutive stature, seems a malignant "Jinn," and to have his counterpart in a well-known legend of the Arabian Nights. But this is not the only Polish tale that gives this impression; more than one appears directly taken from these tales. P. 50. "The Water of Loosening." Loosening is not perhaps an exact rendering, which is rather "unstiffening," or destroying the _rigor mortis_, as a preparative to healing a mortal wound, and breaking the sleep of death. These three waters always appear in stories, where this incident is used. NOTE IV THE PRINCESS OF THE BRAZEN MOUNTAIN This story is rather freely translated, and much shortened from the original. There is much pious reflection, too long for insertion. The conversation between the prince and the sorcerer-miller is somewhat changed as much of it seemed rather irrelevant to the chief interest of the story, and lacking in pithiness. The story of a supernatural maiden, compelled by the theft of her wings to remain temporarily as a mortal with a mortal husband, has its counterpart in many lands. The oldest perhaps is a Persian story, related in Keightly's "Fairy Mythology," of a Peri, who being thus entrapped, lives several years as an ordinary woman; but accidently finding her wings again, puts them on, and deserts her mortal husband and children, remarking as she does so: "I loved you well enough, while we remained together; but I love my former husband better"--and so vanishes away to Peristan. The parallel legend of "Little Sealskin" will readily occur to memory. THE END Transcriber's Notes: The two footnotes in the original text were indicated by small symbols rather than numbers as shown here. 
43513	----	Our Little Polish Cousin THE Little Cousin Series (TRADE MARK) Each volume illustrated with six or more full-page plates in tint. Cloth, 12mo, with decorative cover, per volume, 60 cents LIST OF TITLES BY MARY HAZELTON WADE (unless otherwise indicated) =Our Little African Cousin= =Our Little Alaskan Cousin= By Mary F. Nixon-Roulet =Our Little Arabian Cousin= By Blanche McManus =Our Little Argentine Cousin= By Eva Canon Brooks =Our Little Armenian Cousin= =Our Little Australian Cousin= By Mary F. Nixon-Roulet =Our Little Belgian Cousin= By Blanche McManus =Our Little Bohemian Cousin= By Clara V. Winlow =Our Little Brazilian Cousin= By Mary F. Nixon-Roulet =Our Little Brown Cousin= =Our Little Canadian Cousin= By Elizabeth R. MacDonald =Our Little Chinese Cousin= By Isaac Taylor Headland =Our Little Cuban Cousin= =Our Little Danish Cousin= By Luna May Innes =Our Little Dutch Cousin= By Blanche McManus =Our Little Egyptian Cousin= By Blanche McManus =Our Little English Cousin= By Blanche McManus =Our Little Eskimo Cousin= =Our Little French Cousin= By Blanche McManus =Our Little German Cousin= =Our Little Grecian Cousin= By Mary F. Nixon-Roulet =Our Little Hawaiian Cousin= =Our Little Hindu Cousin= By Blanche McManus =Our Little Hungarian Cousin= By Mary F. Nixon-Roulet =Our Little Indian Cousin= =Our Little Irish Cousin= =Our Little Italian Cousin= =Our Little Japanese Cousin= =Our Little Jewish Cousin= =Our Little Korean Cousin= By H. Lee M. Pike =Our Little Mexican Cousin= By Edward C. Butler =Our Little Norwegian Cousin= =Our Little Panama Cousin= By H. Lee M. Pike =Our Little Persian Cousin= By E. C. Shedd =Our Little Philippine Cousin= =Our Little Polish Cousin= By Florence E. Mendel =Our Little Porto Rican Cousin= =Our Little Portuguese Cousin= By Edith A. Sawyer =Our Little Russian Cousin= =Our Little Scotch Cousin= By Blanche McManus =Our Little Siamese Cousin= =Our Little Spanish Cousin= By Mary F. Nixon-Roulet =Our Little Swedish Cousin= By Claire M. Coburn =Our Little Swiss Cousin= =Our Little Turkish Cousin= L. C. PAGE & COMPANY 53 Beacon Street, Boston, Mass. [Illustration: MARYA OSTROWSKA] OUR LITTLE POLISH COUSIN By Florence E. Mendel Illustrated by Harriet O'Brien [Illustration] Boston L. C. Page & Company _MDCCCCXII_ _Copyright, 1912_ BY L. C. PAGE & COMPANY (INCORPORATED) _All rights reserved_ First Impression, April, 1912 _Electrotyped and Printed by THE COLONIAL PRESS C. H. Simonds & Co., Boston, U.S.A._ TO My Husband Edward Preface THERE is no doubt whatever but that every little girl and every little boy has heard of the country of Poland, and of its inhabitants the Polacks, or Poles, as you hear them more often spoken of. But there are countless numbers of these same children, I fear, who have not the slightest idea where Poland lies, except in a most vague way; nor how the people live, what they eat, what their pleasures and enjoyments are, and how they dress. Of course, you say at once, "Why, they eat the same things we do; every one eats meat and vegetables, and drinks milk or coffee," but right there you are mistaken. The nations of other lands do _not_ live as we do, for we are the most extravagant nation in the whole world; indeed, other peoples cannot afford to live like us, for most of them are extremely poor; so poor and ignorant, as applied to Polacks, that it would make your heart ache to see them in their homes; they know very little of happiness, and comfort is a thing unknown to them, except for the wealthy, landed class. But these Polish peasants never think of complaining of their lot. They accept it as their fate, to which they were born; and, with light hearts, they make the best of their surroundings and their holidays; and I believe they derive more real pleasure from their infrequent play-days than we are able to do every day in our blessed, happy lives. The story of Poland, like the story of every other nation, is not dry and dull. It is intensely interesting. It reads like a fairy-tale, and I am certain you will agree with me after you have finished this little volume. I can but hope it will give you a better and clearer understanding of the life of the Polacks, not only as to the rich, but to the poor. Contents CHAPTER PAGE PREFACE vii I. THE ORIGIN OF POLAND 1 II. THE ARRIVAL AT THE DWÓR 10 III. THE SENDING OF THE OPLATKI 23 IV. CHRISTMAS AT THE DWÓR 35 V. THE VISIT TO THE GAILY PAINTED COTTAGE 56 VI. CARNIVAL SEASON 77 VII. THE VILLAGE WEDDING 99 VIII. THE ORPHANAGE IN THE WOODS 111 IX. WHAT HAPPENED WHEN THE BROTHERS DISAGREED 124 X. THE HARVEST FESTIVAL 139 List of Illustrations PAGE MARYA OSTROWSKA _Frontispiece_ "HENRYK LEANED DOWN AND KISSED THE HAND OF THE LITTLE FELLOW" 14 "THE LITTLE ONES THREW QUANTITIES OF SMALL COINS" 49 "THE PROCESSION FORMED, THE MARCH BEGINS TO THE CHURCH" 79 "SHE WAS BUNDLED INTO THE VILLAGE CART" 103 "HER HEART WAS BEATING FASTER AND FASTER" 137 Our Little Polish Cousin CHAPTER I THE ORIGIN OF POLAND WE cross the Atlantic Ocean in one of the great floating palaces which sail from New York; after seven days of good times on board, with not too much sea-sickness, we sight land, the glorious, sunny land of France. We all know and love France, for it has been endeared to us in many ways. Lafayette helped us in our time of need long years ago, and the French school-children have given us that token of their esteem, the Goddess of Liberty, which stands at the entrance of the harbor in New York, a welcome to all the poor, homeless refugees and immigrants who come to this beloved land of ours in search of rest. After passing through the custom-house at Havre, and our baggage being examined by the officials in charge, to see that we have brought nothing dutiable into their country, we board the waiting train, and are whirled along by the side of the sparkling river Seine, which winds its way lazily among beautiful green fields under the highest state of cultivation, mostly in vegetables, until we reach the charming city of Paris. As we may not linger here, much as we should love to, we are off again in the morning. We leave behind us the sunny, fair skies of France and emerge into the peaceful country of Germany with its rows upon rows of hops so symmetrically strung upon high poles, and its fertile vegetable gardens, where we see whole families, from the old grandparents, much too old to labor, down to the tiny but sturdy four-year-old, bending over the growing plants, weeding and hoeing and ridding of plant-pests. To see the endless truck gardens, as we pass by in the Schnell-zug (express train), one would be justified in believing that the people of Europe ate nothing but vegetables. And it is quite true. The masses have little else to feed upon, as meat is a rarity in poor families. Even the salaried people are not able to afford that luxury more than once a week, and then it frequently happens that only the head of the house may indulge. As night descends, our train pulls in at the depot at Dresden; but this is not Poland; a little further, and we find ourselves in the city of Cracow, the ancient city of Chief Krakus, which we find nestled snugly and boldly at the junction of the three powerful countries, Russia, Austria-Hungary and Germany. It is here we purpose spending a cycle of months visiting, as Cracow is most typically Polish, with its surrounding vicinities. What a glorious country we are in! It is true, it is broad, and flat and low, with rugged mountains and rapid rivers separating it, one part from another; nevertheless, it is a wonderful land. At one time it was a large country: now it is divided into three parts, each belonging to a different nation, the Russians, the Austrians and the Germans. The conquering nations have tried very hard to introduce their own customs into this captive land, but the Polacks will not accept them. We shall not enter into this phase of the question, but will visit the native as he is and not as the conquerors would have him. It is very much more interesting to know just where the country lies about which we are reading, so we shall first learn where Poland lies upon the map of Europe. We open our books, and search the map through, but there is no country marked Poland. We are grieved to say there is no longer any country by that name; it was not enough to wrest the country asunder, but even its very name must be torn from it; therefore, it is in the southwestern part of Russia, the very northeast tip of Austria-Hungary, and the ragged northeast portion of Germany that we must trace the boundaries of Poland. From Riga on the north to the Black Sea on the south Poland had ample outlets for its great quantities of wheat and sugar which it raised, and which brought enormous wealth into the country. Everything must have a beginning, even countries, and Poland was no exception. It wasn't like Topsy, who wasn't ever born but just "growed;" so here is the story of the birth of Poland. Once upon a time, oh, very long ago, there lived a king or chief over the lands which lay near the mouth of the Danube River. Now you all know that the Danube rises at the Black Sea on the west, quite close to the southern border of Russia. This chief had three sons, who were great, strong men. At length the king died, leaving his lands and all his wealth to the care of these sons. Now, in those far-away days, the tribes who lived thereabouts were very savage; they had no learning or education. All they cared for was to fight, and make conquests of other nations so as to enlarge their own possessions. When the three brothers found themselves left with their father's small domain, they were not satisfied. They could not all rule upon the same throne and be at peace, one with the other. The estate was too small to divide into three separate kingdoms. Consequently, they determined to go in search of other lands which would be large enough to satisfy their demands. They set out and journeyed along happily for some time, meeting with many dangers by the way, for the land was full of wild beasts of all sorts, dangerous reptiles and savage men, who were worse, indeed, than all the wild things of the earth. While walking along the highroad, one of the brothers chanced to gaze upward. He saw three eagles high in the air. He thought nothing of this, however, for the air was full of all sorts of birds, large and small. But finally he noticed that the birds were following along with them. At last the brothers began to joke about the incident. "I choose the white bird," said Lekh, the eldest. "And I the black one," said Russ. "Then I must take the only one left," remarked Tchekh. And, in this merry manner, they passed the time as they continued their march. At length the travellers came to three roads, diverging like the rays of a fan. One road led to the north, the direction they were then pursuing; another turned to the northeast, and the third to the northwest. "Which shall we take?" asked one of them, as they halted their footsteps in order to decide the important question. "I am for going straight on," Lekh said. "And I, too," spoke up the other. "There is no use in separating so soon. Let us wait a while!" As they were arguing the point back and forth, Lekh saw the white eagle, _his_ eagle, winging its way due north. The other two birds were each following the direction of the other two diverging roads. "There goes your bird," Lekh said to his brother Russ, as he pointed to the black eagle flying toward the right. "Mine goes straight onward, and so shall I. As for the rest of you, you may do what you like." "Then I shall follow my bird," Russ replied. "Perhaps it will bring us good luck." So the three brothers bade one another an affectionate farewell and parted. Russ followed the black eagle until he came to the present country of Russ-ia, which he founded and named. Tchekh founded the country of Bohemia, the people of which are even to-day known as Czechs; as for Lekh, he wandered due north until he came to the broad plain where he settled. As his guide had been a white eagle, he thought it but appropriate to make that his emblem; and, in this way, it happened that Poland has a white eagle upon its flag. Lekh, as I have just said, settled in an immense plain, the Polish word for which is "Pola." Then Lekh added his own name to that, making Po-Lekh, sometimes written Lakh, and now we have the word Po-lakh, meaning the people of Lekh who lived in the plain. CHAPTER II THE ARRIVAL AT THE DWÓR IT was snowing fast. The flakes fell in great, thick showers about the occupants of the heavy sleigh, who were fairly covered in a blanket of white, crisp snow. The driver lashed his sturdy, thoroughbred beasts with his long-handled whip, for they were in danger of becoming hopelessly sunk in the heavy drifts which filled the road, and there were yet some miles to go. The sleigh-bells jingled merrily, nevertheless. What cared they whether they were snow-bound or not, so long as they could make their music ring out over the clear, frosty air? It was their purpose in life to chime, and they were doing their best. The harder the horses tugged and the more they floundered about in the great drifts, the more merrily the bells rang out. Some one must keep good-natured, and so they took that task upon themselves. Happy bells! The horses panted and halted a moment for the much-needed rest. The driver slapped his great arms across his chest to keep the circulation moving; but the occupants in the rear of the sleigh made no motion whatever. For all one could see of them, the sleigh might have been empty except as to fur robes, for not even the tip of a nose was visible. As the driver called out to his team, "Gee up," one corner of the fur robe in the rear seat moved, and a little voice piped up: "Mother, are we almost there?" "Just a little while yet, my dear," the mother replied, as she raised her head from the protecting warmth of the robe and looked about her. "I can see the tall trees of the drive now, just ahead of us. Peep your head out, Jan, and see if you can catch sight of grandfather's dwór," said Mrs. Teczynska, as she rearranged the robes so that Jan could sit upright. Before them, some mile away, lay an immense park enclosed within a high stone fence. The sleigh made headway easier now, for the road about the entrance to the dwór was in better condition than the ordinary public road. Soon they passed the stone brama or gateway, sped down the splendid broad driveway lined on both sides with overhanging trees, mounted the rise at the top, and with a whoop and a hurrah, the driver pulled rein at the porch of the dwór or country-home of Mr. Ostrowski, the father of Mrs. Teczynska. The tinkle of the sleigh bells had announced the arrival of the guests long before they had reached the porch; and the entire family, big and little, with innumerable servants, were awaiting within the reception-hall to greet the newcomers. The villa was just the hospitable-looking home in which to meet at the Christmas season. One knew, from its very appearance, that it sheltered a warm welcome. It was built of stone, was two stories high and had a red-tiled roof; red chimneys dotted it all over; you never did see so many chimneys all on one house before. There was an immense veranda running along the entire front of the house, supported by heavy columns, giving it a most substantial air, the air of a home and not merely an expensive residence. Mr. Ostrowski assisted his daughter and the little grandson Jan to disentangle themselves from the heavy fur robes, and they were hurried into the warm reception-room, where a bright fire was burning on an open hearth. As Mrs. Teczynska passed through the massive front door, which was opened for her by an elderly, not to say old, man-servant, she greeted him kindly. "And how does Henryk find himself?" [Illustration: "HENRYK LEANED DOWN AND KISSED THE HAND OF THE LITTLE FELLOW"] The old man, toothless and very infirm, bowed respectfully. "Thank you, Mlle. Martha, I keep very well; but it does my old eyes good to see you once more. How you have grown!" "This is the little Jan, Henryk," Mrs. Teczynska said, as she drew her little son toward the old man. Henryk leaned down and kissed the hand of the little fellow, and tears dimmed his eyes. He had been an old and trusted servant of the family for many, many years, long before Mrs. Teczynska had been born, and was now relegated to the position of doorkeeper, being much too infirm for other duties. Although it is not necessary to have a man sitting in attendance at the front door, yet it is the Polish custom in the upper circles, so as to give employment to as many peasants as possible, and for this service, they receive but a pittance, yet it suffices. It makes the aged feel independent, and that they are not a burden in the already overburdened family. What a happy reunion! Such hugging and bustle! All the children of the Ostrowski family were once more gathered together under the home-roof for the Christmas season, which was now at the beginning. Mr. Ostrowski, the father, was a tall man of spare build; he had the kind, blue eye of the Slav and his heavy head of brown hair was tinged slightly with white. He wore a long coat, quite resembling a dressing-gown, edged with fur about the bottom and along the front, and tied about his waist with a long sash of crimson silk. This was the house costume of Mr. Ostrowski, who leaned toward the former luxurious style of dress in Poland. His wife was a handsome woman, even in her elderly years; her complexion was as fresh and rosy as a young matron's, and her eye as soft a blue as in her younger days. The Polish women of culture do not age; they live a life of luxury and ease, and Time is gentle with them. But for all their seeming idleness they devote many hours of each day among their poor, and Mrs. Ostrowska was no exception to this rule. Besides the father and mother, there was the younger brother, Peter, a tall, manly-looking fellow of about sixteen years, and Marya, the young sister, who had just passed her fourteenth birthday. Then there was the married sister, Mrs. Lechowicz, her husband and two sons, Francis and Frederic, and the oldest brother, Jan Ostrowski, with his wife and two children, Ignace and Marcella. You may well believe there was much to tell each other, and a great deal of commotion, for the married children lived in dwórs of their own or in the city, and were separated, not only by distance, but by family cares and business interests, so that it was not more often than at the Christmas season they were able to meet. Jan Teczynski was overwhelmed with so many cousins and aunts and uncles; he was but five years old, and had not made their acquaintance before. He gazed about him in wonderment at all he saw; he could not withdraw his big, blue eyes from the immense boar's head which decorated the chimney-piece, and he asked all sorts of questions concerning it. It amused the older children immensely to hear him ask who had killed it. When told his grandfather had done so, he was very proud to think that _his_ grandfather had been so brave; then he wanted to know if the boar had hurt grandfather with his sharp, curved tusks; but Mr. Ostrowski laughingly told him he had not been harmed, whereupon Jan seemed much relieved. But when he inquired if grandfather was sure the boar had been quite dead before he had cut off its head, the other children burst into roars of merriment. Jan didn't think it a matter to laugh over at all, but from that day he regarded his grandfather as one of the bravest men in the whole world. The young folks now made off for sports of their own, while Mrs. Teczynska, much fatigued after her long and tiresome journey, went at once to her room to rest before luncheon should be served. The maid-servant carried up the valises and bags of Mrs. Teczynska and set them down in the room that she had occupied from childhood. Fresh, hot water being brought by yet another maid, and cool drinking water placed upon the night-stand by the side of the great bed, the servants retired and left Mrs. Teczynska alone in her old, familiar room. It was a very large room, as are all the rooms in Polish homes. The floor was beautifully inlaid in a fancy design with hardwoods of two colors, and polished so highly one had to walk carefully so as not to fall. Against one wall stood a magnificent stove of white glazed tile, with a door of shining brass, most exquisitely designed, and which could be closed so tightly that not one bit of dust or ash could penetrate through into the room. The peculiarity of this stove was, that only half of it was in the room; the other half extended into the adjoining room, so that, in this manner, one stove did duty for two rooms, thus saving expense, space and chimneys. It reached, too, quite to the ceiling; but, as the ceiling was low, it was not as tall as many other European stoves. And the bed! It looked quite like any other wooden bed, but what a covering! There were no sheets or blankets such as we have. Instead, there was a blue silk comforter of down, so light you would have thought there was nothing in it, daintily tied here and there with little strands of silk. This silk comforter was put over a white linen sheet, much larger every way than the comforter; the edges were then folded over the silk and buttoned to it, the button-holes being worked in the border of the sheet and the buttons placed upon the comforter. At the top, which we usually turn over the blanket, the sheet was shaped like a triangle. In the middle of the point was worked the monogram of the hostess, while the remainder of the space was filled with the most elaborate and exquisite embroidery imaginable, done by the young peasant girls upon the estate. This was not a "company" sheet; no, indeed, not at all; the same kind was used every day in the week and in the year. The pillows, too, were covered with blue silk, and over this was buttoned, just to fit, a handsome pillow-case all inset with lace insertion so that the color of the silk beneath might show through. What a luxurious bed in which to sleep! It certainly was inviting. In one corner of the room stood a small altar to the Holy Virgin, upon which stood freshly gathered flowers from the greenhouses of the estate, and wax candles were burning. As the majority of the Polacks are Roman Catholics, these altars are found in almost every home, each bedroom having its own altar for its occupant's special devotion. Four large windows, opening inwards like double doors, looked over the covered veranda without, toward the fields stretching as far as the eye could see, covered now with their blanket of snow, while further yet lay great forests, the tops of whose trees were barely discernible in the dim distance. Just below the windows lay a most magnificent garden, with fountains and bordered walks; but they, too, like everything else, lay under their blanket of winter's white. The ponds beyond, which supplied the estate with fresh fish, were frozen solid, and here the children had gone for an hour's skating in the crisp air, while their childish voices carried up to where Mrs. Teczynska lay resting upon her couch. CHAPTER III THE SENDING OF THE OPLATKI AT the luncheon table there was great excitement. Something was astir in the air. "Take your time, children," Mr. Ostrowski said forcibly, as he watched their hurried anxiety. "Brother Paul will be here shortly; but there is p-l-e-n-t-y of time." "We wish he had come before luncheon," spoke up Peter. "It is now almost too late for Cousin Frederic to receive his oplatki before Christmas." "A few hours more or less, my son," Mrs. Ostrowska answered, "will make very little difference. We could not have Brother Paul come sooner because we were waiting for your sister to arrive. We all wanted to be together to receive the good Brother." Turning toward her eldest daughter, Mrs. Lechowicz, she continued: "Brother Paul, as well as the priest, has had his hands full this winter. There has been a great deal of sickness among the poor." "It has been so in our part of the country, too," replied the daughter. "It seems to be a bad year all round." "The crops are poor; but we are thankful to say there will be sufficient for our own people. What the rest of Poland's poor will do, it is difficult to say. I had planned to take the children to Cracow for St. John's Night--" "Oh, mother," interrupted the young Marya, "will you?" "Don't interrupt, Marya; it is very bad manners. I was going to say," Mrs. Ostrowska continued, addressing her children, "I had planned to take you to the feast of St. John's Night in the City if all went well upon the estate. But I know you would not care to go and enjoy yourselves if there were sickness and distress here at home among our people." "But June is so far away," the young girl pleaded, "there is yet lots of time for a good season." "But illness lingers," the mother added. "I will join you, mother," Mrs. Teczynska spoke up. "It will not be a long run up and Jan would love to see the celebration of the Wianki, I am sure." "Let us all plan to go," added the younger married daughter. "It would be great fun." "And will you take us?" added a chorus of young voices from around the great table, while expectant faces beamed. "Yes, all of you," the elders replied in one voice. "What is it all about, mother?" Jan managed to say, after vainly endeavoring for some time to edge in his question. "Once every year," Mrs. Teczynska replied, "in the city of Cracow, where we got off the train and took the sleigh to come up here, the people have a holiday. They call it the celebration of the Wianki, or wreaths, and it takes place on the twenty-fourth day of June, which is the eve of St. John's Night. They have fireworks and all sorts of gayeties." "But what does it all mean?" the child persisted. "Well," his mother continued, seeing that the child did not comprehend as the older children did, "many, many years ago there was a good and very wise king in Cracow named Krakus. He had a most beautiful daughter, Wanda, who was so handsome that the fame of her beauty travelled all over the country. Princes and noblemen from other lands sent their messengers to ask her hand in marriage; but the Princess Wanda did not care for any of them. At length, a fierce, determined German prince, named Rytyger, fell so madly in love with the princess that he swore he would win her for his own. But the father of the princess had meantime died, leaving her in full possession of the kingdom; and, whether it was really the fair princess Rytyger craved, or the kingdom over which she ruled, we may not know for a certainty. However that may be, he sent his messengers to ask her hand in marriage, but the Princess Wanda promptly refused his offer. As soon as the envoys returned with the refusal, Prince Rytyger was more determined than ever to possess the Polish princess. He wrote her a most impertinent letter, demanding that she become his wife at once or else he would march into her domains and carry her off, whether she were willing or not. The Princess Wanda read the letter from the haughty German prince. She set her lips hard with firm determination. If _he_ were determined, so was she. Without a moment's loss of time, she gathered her army together, marched out of Poland and into the country of the German prince. She sent word to him of her arrival, and added that she meant to give battle. The prince was very much surprised at this news, you may be certain; however, there was nothing to do but accept the challenge so long as he had been the one to open the argument. After the battle was finished many of the Germans were left upon the field, while Wanda returned to her castle-fortress of Wawel in Cracow. "Seeing there was no use to refuse the offers of marriage that were made her, and fearing that other foreign princes might come into her land and wage war against her subjects on her account, she jumped from the top of the great stone wall that surrounded her palace, and fell into the river Vistula, which runs at the foot. And ever since, the Polish people have commemorated her death by casting wreaths into the river, at about the spot where Princess Wanda jumped into the waters. This is the meaning of the feast of St. John's Eve celebration of the Wianki." "I should love to see it," the little fellow said, after a few moments' silence. "Will you surely take me?" "Yes, indeed, if the other little cousins go," his mother replied. "When I was a little girl, like your Aunt Marya here," she continued, glancing at her young sister, "I went to the celebration. And you will open your eyes wide, Jan, I'll tell you that." "Oh, goody, I wish it was the twenty-fourth of June now." "But we have the Christmas season now," his grandfather spoke up. "That is much better, for we are all together. We have the fine snow for sleighing and snowballing. We have the ponds to skate upon, and we have--the Jaselki." "What's that?" little Jan asked. "Jan, dear," his mother said, "please do not ask so many questions. Let your grandfather finish before you interrupt." "But he says so many things I don't know anything about," the child answered. "That is right, Martha," Mr. Ostrowski said, "let the little chap learn. Of course he doesn't know what the Jaselki are, for he is too little to know everything. But that is a secret, Jan," the grandfather continued, as he shook a gentle finger at the boy. "You will see something wonderful at this Christmas season." The maid entered; she said a few words in a low tone to Mrs. Ostrowska, and left the room. "How we have lingered!" the grandmother said, as she rose from her seat at the table. "Brother Paul has been waiting some little time. Let us all rise to greet him!" As they obeyed, the door at the farther end of the long dining-room opened, and a monk, clad in a long black robe with a girdle of rope about his waist, stood upon the threshold. In his hand he held his black beaver hat, and under his arm was a small package upon which the children kept their eyes assiduously glued. "Welcome, Brother Paul," Mr. Ostrowski said as he greeted the monk. "The little folks have been in a fever of impatience; you are well come." "I hear the same story in every home," the monk replied, as he turned and smiled at the row of happy faces. "They are all anxious for their oplatki." "Let us go into the library," Mr. Ostrowski said, as he threw open the heavy doors communicating with that room; "the fire burns brightly there, and you must be cold." "It certainly is raw without," the monk replied. "We are to have a long, hard winter, I fear." "We just arrived this morning, Brother Paul," Mrs. Teczynska said. "We had a dreadfully cold ride from Cracow. I thought little Jan's nose would be nipped." "Come here, son, and let's see if Jack Frost got away with any of it," the monk said. The little fellow obeyed with a very serious face. He had quite an awe for the brotherhood; he held up his face for inspection. "I believe it's all there," the brother laughingly said, as he examined the boy's serious face. "But you had a narrow escape." Brother Paul drew up to the great table in the centre of the room, having sufficiently warmed his numbed hands at the welcome fire. Surrounded by the anxious, waiting children he untied the package he had brought. With keen interest they watched the monk draw forth a neat packet which he handed to Mr. Ostrowski, who untied it. Within, lay a quantity of small, round wafers, thin enough to be almost transparent, made from flour and water, upon each of which was impressed a religious picture. Upon one was the image of the Christ, another bore the resemblance of the manger, or of a saint. "I shall get mine off right away," Peter said. "May I?" turning to his father. Seeing there was no holding back the children's impetuosity, Mrs. Ostrowska handed the children some of the oplatki, which they at once proceeded to enclose in letters already waiting. "I hope Cousin Frederic will get this before Christmas Day," Peter said, "but it is pretty late." The rest of the afternoon was spent in writing letters and sending off the oplatki or Christmas cards to such of the relatives as were unable to be present with the family at this season. It is as much an event in Polish families to send these cards as it is with us; they bear messages of love and good-will, although they have no verses upon them. The priest of the village has put his blessing upon them, and these blessings go forth to the dear, absent ones. No written sentiment is necessary, for the absent know that the home-folks are thinking of them. It is a beautiful custom, and if it should happen that any of you children should receive an oplatki at the Christmas season, you will know what it is meant to convey. Perhaps some of you more observant readers have remarked the difference in spelling the name of Mr. Ostrowski and his wife. While Mr. Ostrowski's name ends in "i," his wife's name ends with an "a;" this is simply a peculiarity of the Polish language, being the masculine and feminine ending of the name. CHAPTER IV CHRISTMAS AT THE DWÓR MR. TECZYNSKI arrived the day before Christmas; business had detained him until then. Jan was delighted to see his father again, from whom he had never been separated so long. Three weeks seemed a very long time to him. He had had such a glorious time at grandfather's, though, with the new cousins and the uncles and the aunts, he had quite forgotten everybody and everything, except when bedtime came. Then he missed his father greatly, for there was no one to tell him his customary stories, and Papa Teczynski was a famous story-teller. There was no one at home to receive Mr. Teczynski, except little Jan; the entire family had gone to the village to attend service. But then, Jan's father did not mind that; he was glad to be alone with his little son for a while; they had so many things to tell each other, and the time passed too rapidly. They did not even notice that the hour was getting late and that the electric lamps were lighted, nor did they hear the return of the others from their devotions. There is no festival in the land of Poland which is observed with as much rigor and ceremony as that of the Christmas season. Almost the entire day is spent in fasting and prayer, after which comes the evening meal. Scarcely were the family returned, and the greetings over between them and the new arrival, than dinner was announced. With great ceremony, they formed in line, the father and mother leading the way, and in this most formal manner the family procession passed through the high folding doors opening from the library into the immense dining-hall. There were few occasions during the year when the younger children were allowed the privilege of sitting at the dinner table with their parents; and these occasions were most awe-inspiring to them. But upon this Christmas Eve there was an atmosphere of reserve and restraint in the attitude of the elders which had its quieting effect upon the younger ones, as they brought up the rear of the line and seated themselves about the great table. At a glance, one could readily see that something was different from the ordinary course of events. The air was heavy with the scene of fresh hay, which lay in a thick padding under the table cloth, and in various parts of the large room. Straw was upon the sideboard, straw upon the window-sills, and some was even sprinkled lightly about the highly polished floor, as though dropped carelessly. The usually gorgeously decorated dining-table was now quite devoid of all ornamentation; not even a bouquet of flowers brightened the centre of the board. Christmas, for Polish families, means fasting and prayer, and not feasting; it is looked upon as a day apart for the observance of religious rites, and to keep before their minds the memory of their Christ and his life of self-denial and goodness. There was no gayety in the conversation about the table during the meal; all was as solemn and reserved as though some great sorrow had descended upon the family. In almost absolute silence the various courses were brought in and partaken of. Meat was prohibited during this day, but, as if to make up for this deficiency, there were many courses of soups and fish, so that the bill-of-fare was exceedingly lengthy and somewhat tedious. Not content with serving one kind of soup, there were as many as three upon this occasion, and it was no uncommon thing to serve several more, in very pretentious homes where the head of the house did not consider it unseemly to waste of his plenty. There was a delicious soup made from almonds, then one called barszcz, which was made of fish, and a third made from the juice of beets, which had been allowed to ferment, giving the soup a very sour taste; and, while neither you nor I may care for this sort of broth, yet the Polacks are very fond of it, and have honored it by making it the national soup of the country. The soup course finished, fish is served. There is tench and pike and carp, besides herring and several kinds of smaller fish, mostly from the great ponds just at the back of the manor-house. It might seem a bit monotonous to eat such quantities of fish at one meal, but each was served with a different kind of gravy or sauce, which quite changed the taste of the dish. Besides, there were vegetables which accompanied them, each differing from the other with each course: mushrooms, and lettuce and cabbages. Plebeian as it may sound to the ears of American children, who are brought up in such a luxuriant manner, the cabbage is a great factor in Polish menus; not being confined to the tables of the poor alone, either. Salads are now served, with crisp lettuce or water-cress, and a most delicious dish known as "kutia," which is made from oats and honey with poppy seeds added, to give it zest. This is the national dish of the Lithuanians, who have annexed their province to that of Poland. At last we have arrived at the dessert; but, as puddings and pies are unknown upon the Continent, dessert, or "sweets," as the Polacks call it, consists of fruit, both uncooked and conserved, and a variety of small cakes, or pirogi which are filled with almond paste, or, sometimes, cheese or other toothsome combinations such as poppy seeds, of which the Polacks are very fond. The meal is finished; the hour draws near that marks the close of day. And now, as a last addition to the feast, the oplatki are broken, each with the other, just as we are accustomed to call out in the wee, small hours of the night, "Merry Christmas," and in this manner do the Polacks wish each other all the compliments of the season. Mrs. Ostrowska arose from the table first; the children knew full well where she was going, and they eagerly hastened for their heavy wraps and fur caps. Then the little procession filed down the road to the bottom of the hill, merrily singing carols and Christmas hymns, passing from house to house breaking the wafers with the peasants and wishing them all sorts of good things for the coming year. This custom brings master and mistress closer to the tenants, and forms between them a bond of brotherhood. Mrs. Ostrowska stroked one young girl gently under the chin, as she said: "This will be your last Christmas under the home-roof, Emilia?" "I hope so," the girl replied blushingly, as she curtsied and kissed the finger-tips of her patroness. "Francois and I are to be married at the Easter time." "And then the young sister Helena will find her young man?" "I hope so," the young girl reiterated. "We shall be on the lookout for some fine fellow for her," Mrs. Ostrowska said lightly. "There are some very fine young men over to the village at the east of the estate; we must see what we can do," and she moved on, the troop of children at her heels. Their round of the village over, the whole party returned to the dwór, where they found a servant carrying away the straw which had adorned the dining-hall. The man stopped as he encountered the mistress of the house, and bowed his head, as if in apology. "Our cow was taken ill last night, Madame," he explained guiltily. "We thought, perhaps, this might bring her back to health again. We need her milk for the babies. May I?" and he questioned his mistress' face hopefully. "Take it and welcome," the latter replied kindly, "and may you realize your hopes." Well she knew the superstitions of the peasants in regard to the straw from the Christmas table, which was now supposed to be holy. They had been taught from childhood, and for centuries back from one generation to another had the story been handed down, that this straw possessed remarkable virtues and would not only cure illness in cattle but ward off evil spirits from their homes. It is a harmless delusion, and Mrs. Ostrowska did not interfere in any way with the beliefs of her people. She had even known them to tie the sacred straw about the trunks of the fruit trees, when scale would attack them, and if it chanced that they bore well the following year, they attributed it entirely to the efficacy of the straw. The younger children were now sent off to bed, while the older ones, with their parents, awaited the hour of Pasterka, or midnight mass. Service over, in the dim light of early morning, the occupants of the manor made their way slowly homewards on foot. They passed groups of peasant girls, shawls over their heads, loitering on their way to their homes. "For what are they waiting, mother?" Marya asked, as she noticed that the girls were evidently lingering for an object. "They are waiting to accost the first young man they meet," the mother replied, "in order to learn his name." "But what for?" asked Marya a second time. "That is a peasant custom," the mother answered. "Whatever name is given her, she believes that that will be the name of the man she is destined to marry with. As the girls do not meet with many strangers outside of their own village, it is quite a certainty that they will eventually happen to wed with the one accosted." "I should like to learn who my future husband will be," the girl said, somewhat in an undertone, scarce daring to voice her wish. "Marya!" the mother reproved. "What ideas! There is no harm in a peasant girl stopping a stranger on the road upon Christmas Eve; but for you to do so would be unpardonable." "But I'm a child, mother, too," she persisted, "just as they are children. I don't see any harm in it. It's all in fun, anyway. Please let me," she pleaded, "just this once." "No, Marya," the mother replied, in a tone of finality. "But you may draw near so as to listen to the girls as they address this young man who approaches around the turn," and the two moved closer toward the knot of village maidens, tittering and giggling among themselves, as they slowly wended their way along the road, half-lingering so that the eligible might overtake them, as if by accident. "Good evening, sir," the eldest of them said, half timidly, almost afraid of her own boldness, for peasant maidens are modest, "and may I know your name?" The young man stopped; he swept his fur cap from his head with a lordly air, and replied: "With pleasure, mademoiselle. Thaddeus." The village girls tittered; the young man replaced his cap upon his thick hair, and passed on. The "fun" was over until the next "victim" should appear for the next young lady. Every one understands this Christmas Eve custom, and no one would think, even for one instant, of violating its freedom by forcing attention upon the unescorted young girls. "It wasn't a bit pretty name at all," Marya said. "I'm glad _I_ didn't ask him. I should not like to have _my_ husband's name Thaddeus." "Don't say that, Marya," the mother reproved gently, "for you know that one of Poland's grandest men was named Thaddeus; Kosciuszco, I mean." "Yes, mother, I know," the young girl answered; nevertheless she knew it was not a name she would choose for her own particular swain were she able to make her choice. However, she wisely said nothing, but walked briskly along by her mother's side, believing that, perhaps, her mother had been quite right in the matter. There was very little sleep, if any, for the family the remainder of the night, or rather, morning. No sooner were they arrived at their home and in their beds, than they were awakened by the shouts of the younger children, who pranced about the house in their night-robes in a most injudicious manner. There was music somewhere; some one was singing the kolendy, or Christmas carol. At length the music was discovered to issue from beneath one of the windows in the rear of the house. Pressing their faces against the cold panes, the children saw below them a most wonderful sight. A group of men were singing as they accompanied themselves upon various instruments. Some of them were clad in long, flowing robes, with hair descending upon their shoulders, who represented characters in the Bible, at the time of Christ's life; others wore the aspect of birds, all decked out with gay plumage, and yet another man, the one who wore a golden crown upon his white hair, waved aloft a long wand, upon the very top of which rested a golden star which sparkled in the dim light of the frosty morning. [Illustration: "THE LITTLE ONES THREW QUANTITIES OF SMALL COINS"] As soon as he saw the children at the windows he held out his hands, into which the little ones threw quantities of small coins begged from their elders. With profound thanks the procession moved on, still singing their kolendy, while the children crept back to their beds, but not to sleep. The Gwiazda, or "Star," had been too much excitement for their little heads, and for full an hour they talked in muffled voices about the wonderful Star of Bethlehem and the queer antics of the men in the cocks' feathers. Christmas Day dawned; the fasting and penance were finished; merry-making could begin. But, unlike the little American cousin, the Polish cousin does not celebrate Christmas Day with a tree and gifts and romping. It is for him strictly a religious day; there is no gift-giving, these being reserved for his birthdays, which are made occasions for great festivity. And this custom prevails throughout nearly, if not all, the countries in Europe; the birthday is more thought of and celebrated with great gayety than any other holiday in the year. The day wore on quietly. The older folks sat in the library about the roaring fire and chatted or read, while the younger ones spent their time out of doors, snowballing, sledding and skating. After luncheon little Jan said: "Grandfather, you never told me your secret yet, and Christmas Day is almost over." "What secret?" asked the grandfather, somewhat astonished. "We know," rang out a small chorus from the older ones. "Don't you remember what you told me the day I came? You said I should see something wonderful; you told me the name, but I don't remember, it was such a big one." "Oh, yes," Mr. Ostrowski replied slowly, as he stroked his chin and a merry twinkle came into his eye. "The Jaselki. I had quite forgotten." "Then we shall not have it," Jan said disappointedly. "Oh, yes, you shall," his grandfather replied. "It will come just the same. I have already arranged for it. But I wonder what keeps them?" And he pulled out his watch and looked at it. "The snow is very deep, and the roads bad," Mrs. Ostrowska said, as she looked out of the window toward the avenue of linden trees. "There is no one in sight yet." "Maybe they won't come," Jan said doubtingly. "They always do," his grandfather replied. "They haven't missed a single year. But it is only three o'clock; there is plenty of time." "Will it come by the road?" Jan asked. "Yes; that is the only way it can come," his grandfather said. "Then I shall watch," the child said. "When I see them I shall call you." Jan seated himself at the library window so that he might be able to look far down the wide road leading to the entrance of the park. There was silence for a long time. Then he suddenly called out: "What will they look like, grandfather?" "They will come in a covered wagon," Mr. Ostrowski answered. Silence again. After some little time, Jan called out excitedly: "I see them; they have just come through the brama." Such a jumping and scampering as there was then in the great house! There was no holding the children back from running out to the front porch to meet the arrivals. It was indeed a peculiar-looking crowd that made its appearance. A huge wagon, mounted on runners, most gorgeously decorated with tinsel of gold and silver, and covered with strings upon strings of tiny bells, was making its way slowly up the driveway. Had it been a little American child who had seen it, he would at once have remarked that it was a circus-wagon. The sleigh bells jingled merrily; and, as the wagon pulled up at the entrance of the manor, the driver smiled pleasantly at the children's welcome. He knew Peter and Marya well, for he had come every year to their home upon Christmas Day to present his plays. He nodded to them and wished them a happy Christmastide; he bowed respectfully to the other children, with whom he was unacquainted, for he considered all children as his own peculiar property. Before the wondering eyes of the excited children, the driver and his assistants set up the show. They watched them, with wide-opened eyes, light the numberless small candles about the stage arch; the gold and silver tinsel now sparkled out like a miniature fairy-land. The old horse would look around every little while, as though trained to do so, to see that everything was being done in an approved manner. This set the strings of bells to vibrating, so that their melody rang out over the snow, attracting the attention of the peasants in the village beyond, who promptly gathered to witness the exhibition. Jaselki means a manger; and because these travelling showmen give scenes from the life of Christ they are called jaselki, or manger-men. For over an hour the children, not to mention the grown folks, were fascinated by the miracle-play. Then, the entertainment over, the men were ushered into the servants' quarters, where they received warm food and drink, after which they packed up their wagon and departed for Cracow, where they were to give more representations during the evening upon the rynek, or public square. It is only at Christmas that these plays are given; during other seasons of the year these showmen present other sorts of entertainments, so that from one year's end to the other, they travel about in their gorgeously decorated wagons, sometimes on wheels, sometimes on runners, living in the open air, the life of nomads. Christmas Day is over. Night descends and quiet reigns at the dwór. The great house is early wrapped in slumber, and thus ends the holiday season. CHAPTER V THE VISIT TO THE GAILY PAINTED COTTAGE A DAY or two later, the guests departed, and the Ostrowski family took up its daily routine. The boy Peter resumed his studies under the care and instruction of his tutor, while the little Marya returned to the guidance of her governess, for each child in a wealthy family in Poland has his or her own tutor or tutoress. Child life in upper circles is quite a thing apart from the lives of the grown-ups. Their hours are widely different; they dress simply and live simply, receiving instruction in the arts and languages; the girls to be fine housekeepers and womanly; the boys to be courteous, manly and well versed in those matters which pertain to the care and interest of the estate which is later to devolve upon their shoulders. Mrs. Ostrowska never breakfasted with her children. She rose about eleven o'clock, had her morning meal in her own rooms, and after tending to her household duties, devoted the better part of the afternoon to the needs of her peasantry. She was a very charitable woman, as are all the upper-class Polacks, and devoted many hours among these people. She had sewing classes for the young girls, where they were taught to do, not only the plain sewing necessary for their own use, but embroidery of the most exquisite kind, so that they might employ their idle moments, during the long, cold winter days, in making articles to sell in the cities. Furthermore, she established cooking classes; she aided the sick; and doctors being very far away, the mistress of the manor was usually called upon in case of illness among the peasantry; even the children were taught that most useful and beneficial branch of science, first aid to the injured. Were it not for the generosity and far-sightedness of the landed proprietors in looking after the interests and education of these peasants, there would be most abject poverty and suffering among them. The Ostrowski estate is one of the oldest in Poland; it numbers fully four hundred thousand acres; and, in order to grasp the immensity of this, you must know that one ordinary city block measures five acres, so that it would require about six hundred and twenty-five blocks each way to cover this enormous estate. And you may be quite certain, it is no small task to properly look after and make profitable an estate of this size. There is a distillery which distils spirits from the potatoes raised upon one portion of the estate; there is a sugar refinery, which transforms the juicy red beets into snowy white sugar; there are cotton-mills, which are kept going by the thousands of bales of soft, fluffy cotton grown upon the place; there are endless factories and mills of every description, all under the care of the master of the manor. He would much prefer not to add these industries to his business cares, but he is a charitable man; he knows that to every rich man there are thousands of poor. If the beets and the potatoes, the grain and the cotton were allowed to go out in their raw state, for manufacture elsewhere, there would be many workmen thrown out of employment. Perhaps these same poor might be compelled to seek their fortunes in our own beloved land, and this would mean the loss of many valuable citizens, who will be wanted some day, to stand up for Poland and help her win back her lost liberty. Therefore, Mr. Ostrowski, having a clear head, decided to use his products upon his land, and, in this way, he gave employment to thousands of families, for not only were the men put to work at the heavier tasks, but the women helped out with the spinning and the lighter tasks. The villages attached to the Ostrowski estate are model ones. They are naturally situated at great distances apart, each village clustering itself about the particular factory near by. The huts nestle snugly at the foot of the hill upon which stands the dwór, as if they craved protection from their superior. In groups of two and threes they huddle together, these low-roofed, whitewashed, plastered houses, a door in the centre, a window at either side affording scant light to the two rooms within. The European peasants seem greatly to object to admitting light into their home; perhaps it is but the lingering custom of barbaric days when man feared to present an entrance into his sacred precincts to a possible enemy; perhaps it is but the relic of an ancient law, but recently repealed in France, that every opening, be it door or window, giving upon the street or road, is taxed; and if there is one bugbear in the vocabulary of the peasant, it is "taxes." A bit of a garden lies in front of each home, while at the rear is the truck garden, where enough vegetables are raised to last during the winter season. Some of the more prosperous tenants possess a cow, or a pig, or perhaps even a goose; nevertheless, whatever the size of the family, brute and otherwise, they all live in harmony and happiness together in the two low-ceiled rooms. The roof of thatch, covered with its thick coating of mud, moss-grown, tones the scene to one of great picturesqueness, as seen from the distance. Toward one of these huts Mrs. Ostrowska bent her steps this bright, sunny morning in early January. It was much like all the other huts in the village, but infinitely gayer. Over the doors and windows were broad bands of red and blue and yellow painted with a rude hand, with dabs of triangles and other geometrical forms. There were all sorts of attempts at decoration. Mrs. Ostrowska smiled as she viewed the fresh colors, and knocked loudly at the heavy wooden door. It was opened by an elderly woman, whose gray hair fell carelessly from its loose coil upon her head. She was greatly surprised to see the mistress of the manor, but motioned her graciously to enter. "Good morning," Mrs. Ostrowska said, as she stepped into the smoky atmosphere of the room, "and how do you find yourself this morning, Mrs. Gadenz?" "Oh, very well, thank you, Madame, except that the little Henryk is not so well; his cough is worse." "I must have the doctor look after him when he makes his rounds," the mistress answered. Then she added, "I see by the decorations upon your home that Helena is to be allowed to receive visits from the young men. Any prospects of a husband yet?" "No," the woman replied. "Thad put the colors on just before Christmas, so there hasn't been much time for the young men to know that Helena is old enough to have callers. Now that Emilia is to be married at the Easter time, we thought it better to get her sister started." "She isn't fifteen yet, is she?" "No," answered the peasant, "but then there are so many of us we must not keep them all at home. Some must make way for the younger ones. _I_ did it, and my daughters must do so, too." "You were married very young, were you not?" Mrs. Ostrowska asked kindly, not meaning to be inquisitive, but Mrs. Gadenz was a comparative stranger upon the estate; that is, she was not born there, as so many of the other peasants had been; she had come with her husband and small children from other parts to find work in the distillery of Mr. Ostrowski. "At thirteen," the peasant woman replied proudly. She was now in her thirty-eighth year, although she appeared much older; taking up her wifely burdens at such a tender age, so common to the peasants of Poland, had made her seem much older. But despite her faded cheeks and hair fast turning gray, she was strong and active, and the fire of the Slav still shone in her eye. The three or four younger children, ranging from ten to three, were playing upon the floor, tumbling one another about over the cat and her kittens, and frolicking with the shaggy-coated dog, who was monopolizing the warmest corner of the great stove. "Be quiet, children," the mother spoke sharply, as she reproved the boisterous youngsters. "Don't you know that the lady of the manor is here?" "Let them play," the lady interposed, "they get but little of it, at best." Meanwhile, Emilia had left her duty of stirring the porridge on the great plaster stove and withdrawn into the only other room. In a moment she returned, followed by the younger sister, who approached the mistress of the dwór and respectfully kissed her hand. "I wish to be the first to congratulate you," the great lady said, "upon being out in the world now. You are, indeed, growing to be quite a young lady. Not yet fifteen, and waiting for a lover. I want you to come up to the manor Thursday afternoon with Emilia. I have some sewing for you, and perhaps we shall be able to fill out that linen chest so that you may find a most superior husband." The young girl blushed and thanked her benefactress kindly, promising to be on hand promptly. Then she retired to the next room to finish her tasks there. "I'm glad to see you so housewifely," Mrs. Ostrowska said, as she watched the young Emilia move about the room, stirring the great pot of porridge one moment, while in the next she was tending to the little wants of the younger ones. "Jan will have need of a good cook." Emilia blushed deeply and her face brightened up; into her soft blue eyes came a look of tenderness, for was she not thinking of her own dear one, beloved Jan, to whom she was to be married at the Easter-tide? And these latter days she was indeed busy with the last preparations; there was much left to do, for she herself was to make the wedding gown. "You will be glad to have your own little home, Emilia?" the lady queried kindly. "Yes," came the quick reply. "There are so many of us, and the house is very crowded. It will be far better when I have a home of my own." Emilia set the iron pot on the back of the stove, where its contents might keep warm until the visitor had departed, when the children might then have their midday meal. She turned to still the whimpering of the little child in the far corner, stretched upon the straw, the child with the cough. "You are nearly ready for the wedding day?" continued the interlocutor of the young girl, as the latter stooped to pick up the child and hold him in her lap. "Almost. There is yet the wedding gown to make, besides some small household things not quite ready. Oh, how I wish the day would hasten!" she added, with a long-drawn sigh, drawing the young child's fair head closer to her breast and pressing a warm, tender kiss upon the glossy curls. Mrs. Ostrowska could understand why. She regarded the young girl carefully. She knew that the poor have very few pleasures, that the older must always care for the younger, and that young girls crave merriment and company. With a house full of young children, the mother away all day in the mills or the fields, it devolved upon her, the eldest, to manage the little household, to hush the sobs of the offended baby, or bind up a hurt finger; she it was who prepared the meals for the many mouths, who washed the few necessary articles of apparel, and the common every-day round of family cares was distasteful to her simply because she had no recreations interspersed among them, for we all know the old adage, "All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy." Mrs. Ostrowska understood very well the wants of her people; it was for this reason she came among them every day; seeing an opportunity here to lighten the burden of one young girl, or helping a talented young boy to gain instruction in the art or trade that appealed to him. She was attempting to teach her peasantry that each one should be given the chance for which he so longed; and that he should not be brought up to follow such and such a calling simply because his father had followed the same calling from boyhood, which he, in turn, had followed after his father. The elder peasants sometimes resented this interference in their family affairs, as they were sometimes wont to call it, in moments of peevishness, but Mrs. Ostrowska did her good work quietly and unostentatiously; she helped the marriageable girls fill their linen chests, which somewhat ameliorated the feelings of the elders toward her, for it meant a saving of much expense to them; she introduced social etiquette in her sewing circles on Friday mornings; she taught the valuable science of aiding the sick and injured so that there should be less illness among the poor; for rather than spend their hard-earned pence for medical services they will suffer uncomplainingly. Furthermore, she was slowly making progress in instilling into them the need and benefits of sanitation in their homes. Every week Mr. Ostrowski made the rounds of his estate on horseback, to inspect the cottages which he took such pride in; he argued with the tenants to compel them to maintain these homes in cleanliness; for it is a difficult matter to keep things ship-shape when a dozen or more often occupy two or three rooms, to make no mention of the four-footed occupants, or the feathered tribe. "I want you to come up to the dwór Thursday afternoon with Helena," Mrs. Ostrowska said, after a long silence. "You can begin your gown then, and you two sisters can work together." "I should love to," the young girl replied, as her face brightened. She was glad of the opportunity to get away from the confinement of the hut and the household duties for a short time, and this meant an afternoon of extreme pleasure for her. All the peasant girls loved to be invited to the manor, for a cup of warm, delicious tea served with lemon, and pirogi, those most delectable cakes filled with almond meal which were such luxuries to them, awaited them. "I have a woman coming from Cracow," Mrs. Ostrowska continued, as she rose to leave, "who is bringing some very pretty little trinkets from the city. I should like to have you there to make a selection of such as you would care to have." "You are more than kind," the girl replied, in a low voice. "You are always thinking of our pleasure and happiness." "That is my duty," the older woman answered; "you are all my children, and I must give you as much happiness as I can, for some day you will be beyond my care and protection, and will have no one but your Jan to look after you." Again the girl blushed a deep red, and the tender look returned to her soft eyes at the mention of her fiancé. She escorted her patroness to the door of the cottage and closed it after her. Then she resumed her tasks about the kitchen, giving the little ones their meal of barszcz and a slice cut from a cake of cabbage which had been pressed into a solid loaf. Mrs. Ostrowska was glad to be in the clear, crisp air once more, after the stifling atmosphere of the cottage, for her peasants were slow to learn the value of ventilation. As she continued her way down the road toward the manor-house, she thought of her "young people," as she called them fondly, for she took a personal interest in each of them, whether large or small, girl or boy. She reviewed their lives, as they live them from one generation to the other. How they roll and toss upon the floor of their cabins or upon the greensward, in unconscious bliss of childhood. How they attain the age of youth when they must begin to help share the burdens of the elders either in the fields or the mills, if they be boys, or in spinning and caring for the helpless ones at home, if they be girls. How they grow up to manhood and womanhood with very little time for pleasures and holidays, for all hands must take hold that the weight may not fall upon one. How finally, the young girls attain the age of fifteen or more, when they are allowed to consider the question of marriage. Then comes to them courters, and love enters into their lives, to brighten the eye and redden the cheek. They live for months and months upon the delights they will experience in attending church, the wedding procession, and the carrying-off of the bride; then the settling down in their own nests. After that, they are no longer helpers in the household, they are the mainstays of their own homes, and they realize then what it really means to be home-makers. They take up their cares and their duties; they arise early, but then, they have always been used to that; they must spin and knit, and sew and darn, and there are no other fingers to help them. For many years they must do all, until the little fingers are big enough and strong enough to aid. Sometimes, they must go out into the forest and gather fagots for their fires so that the little one may not suffer from the chill; they must learn the wonderful art of making a few pence do duty of many. And year by year passes; they see their daughters grow up to that age when they, in turn, must leave their homes for homes of their own; they see their sons going away to the army or to other lands, perhaps, to seek their fortunes; and thus, from generation to generation, they continue in this routine, living in memory, throughout those days when their lives are filled with busy cares, that day, so long ago, when they drove to the village church, the bridal veil falling about their slender shoulders, the wedding supper and the gay dance, and the clamor of voices as they rolled away with their loved ones in the village cart for the honeymoon. And all the burdens of their lives, all the toil, all the care and the endless sameness are more than compensated for by that one glorious day of their existence--their wedding day. Mrs. Ostrowska planned and planned how she could educate these peasants in such wise as to fit them for more than mere care-takers; that they might learn a little of the refinements of life, and that, by education, they might gradually raise themselves to a higher and better plane. Her work was slow, but she felt that already she could see signs of having accomplished something material of betterment in their lives. CHAPTER VI CARNIVAL SEASON JANUARY has passed, and February is ushered in with the Feast of the Candles, or Candlemas Day, which takes place upon the second day of the month. This is one of the most devout religious celebrations in the land, for the peasants believe, were they to forget this ceremony even once, that their villages would be devastated by the wolves which prowl about over the plains in search of food when the ground is covered thick with snow, and it is difficult for them to find sustenance. Long years before, the villages were not as frequent, nor as well protected as they now are; therefore, it did happen that the wild beasts would descend in droves upon the homes of these poor people, who were powerless to drive them away. Sometimes, these voracious animals would even carry off the peasants' children before their very eyes. Consequently, as the peasants were unable to cope with the enemy, they must seek assistance somewhere, and where more naturally than of their patron saint? This chanced to be the good St. Michael; but even he was at times without sufficient power to repel the advances of these beasts. Therefore, with one accord, the villagers banded together and made a vow to offer up their prayers to the Virgin Mother. They pleaded with her, on bended knees, in the village church, to ward off this dread enemy and to send them protection. Whether the prayer was effective or not is a question. But the story goes that the Holy Mother seized a lighted candle in her hand, and holding it in such a manner as to send the bright flame in the faces of the animals that preyed at the very borders of the village, so frightened them that they turned tail and fled, leaving the peasants in peace and security, for wild beasts do not take kindly to fire. It was because they were so miraculously saved from this dreadful menace that the people thenceforth celebrated the day each year, which is known as the Gromnice. And to-day, when they hear the familiar voices of their tormentor in the far distance of the woods, they mutter in their half-waking sleep, "In Thy care, O Mary," and they leave the rest of the responsibility to their intercessor. [Illustration: "THE PROCESSION FORMED, THE MARCH BEGINS TO THE CHURCH"] Early in the morning of the second of February, the peasants begin to congregate in the village square, which is the usual meeting place on all occasions of public demonstration. Each one, whether he be an old, bowed man or a tiny tot just able to stand, holds in his hand a candle, whose light falls upon his face all lit up with religious fervor. The procession formed, the march begins to the church, the oldest leading. It is not the custom of European churches to provide pews for the worshippers; consequently, unless one is able to afford the luxury of a low-seated chair upon which to kneel, for the chairs are never used to sit upon, he must content himself with kneeling upon the hard, cold stone floor. It is truly an imposing sight to see the tall aisle of the church lighted by the flicker of hundreds of candles, the peasants, in their vari-colored garments, kneeling devoutly upon the floor, heads bowed. It is very real to them, this service for their deliverance from the fangs of the wolf; and so strong is their faith that they even place the blessed candles, after the ceremony is finished, safely away in some treasured chest or upon their own private altar, that they may serve them in time of sickness, trouble or any calamity. But woe betide the one whose candle blows out! Evil is certain to follow in his footsteps; from that moment, he believes himself a doomed man. Should it prove to be the candle of a young girl, perhaps one upon the verge of her wedding day, it would instantly throw her into hysterics, for she would know to a certainty that she will never get a husband. And what a disgrace she would be in the eyes of the whole village! A girl without a husband, an "old maid," as commonly known in our parlance, would be an unpardonable offence to the relatives, who would look askance at her, so strongly is the idea of marriage imparted to them. It is quite as much of a disgrace for a woman to remain unmarried, among the Polish peasantry, as it is for a man to have no home of his own. When a Polish peasant dies, he usually leaves behind him a small bit of ground, upon which stands his cottage with its tiny garden-space. This is partitioned equally among the man's children, be they many or few. But all men are not fortunate. It sometimes happens that illness will rob a man of his little he has saved during his years of toil, or careless habits, perhaps, will dwindle his patrimony to almost nothing, so that when at last he leaves this world, he has nothing which may be divided among his children. But the peasants do not take these matters into consideration at all. They have one code and they can see no other way of looking at things. If a child has been willed no patrimony, then he must get one of his own, for he is looked down upon as thoroughly worthless who is compelled to find lodgings in the home of a stranger. These men are known as kormorniki, from the word komora, meaning room. In Poland a kormorniki has about the same reputation among his companions as a tramp has among respectable people in America. After Candlemas Day comes the Carnival week, which is the week, as you all know, preceding Lent. As a final respite before the forty days of fasting and prayer which will follow so soon, the people allow themselves all sorts of liberties and gayeties. Balls are given, "hunts" are on, and joy reigns supreme, not only in the city, but in the remote country places. Again the manor-house is alive with brilliant lights and many faces. The owners of adjoining estates, with their wives and grown-up sons and daughters, friends of the family, from quite remote parts even, are gathered together for one week of holidays. It is a pleasure to see such wit and beauty gathered together under one roof; for Polish women are almost all handsome, with their soft eyes, their beautiful complexions and their glossy, dark hair. Their manners are a marvel, and their bearing graceful and easy. They are capital company and well informed on all the topics of the day, so that conversation never lags, nor are they obliged to fall back upon the inevitable "cards" for amusement. With them the art of conversation has not died out, nor the art of entertaining. The snow lay thick upon the ground; the branches of the tall fir trees were clothed in a heavy coating of whiteness. The sky overhead was a dull, leaden color; but the guests at the manor-house were pleased with the wintry conditions, for it but aided them in the "hunt" that was "on" that morning. Breakfast finished, a hearty affair of meat, cheese and beverages of various sorts, the sleighs drew up to the portico with boisterous jangling of sleigh-bells and champing of horses' bits; the thoroughbred animals pawing in impatience to be off in the crisp, frosty air. Gay with red tassels, which swept the front dash of the heavy sleighs, and joyful with the chime of the tiny bells, the party drove off to the neighboring woods, where lay, in unconscious innocence of their fate, the fleet deer. The chill of the winter's morning did not affect the spirits of the party in any degree, for they were all snugly wrapped in thick fur robes, and large fur caps completely swathed their heads, so that nothing visible remained of them but their vivacious eyes and their ruddy noses. Along the broad road the sleighs sped, in single file, past the peasant village around the bend of the hill, and off toward the forest stretching miles ahead of them, the tall tops of the trees nodding a "good morning" to them as they approached. Among the firs and oaks the sleighs were soon lost to sight, winding in and out among the dark trees until the wagon-road came abruptly to an end and only a path stretched in front. It was but the work of a few moments to clear a considerable circle, and light the huge bonfire around which every one gathered, stretching out their half-benumbed hands. Such a chattering and rumpus! Instead of grown-ups, you might have imagined them to be a bunch of school-children just out for recess. But Polish aristocracy understand how to enjoy themselves under all conditions. Not long did they tarry about the camp-fire. It was not for this they had taken the long, chilly drive. Gathering together their equipment, and shouldering their guns, off they tramped through the heavy underbrush; only a few of the more delicate ladies remained by the warmth of the cheery flame. Slowly, slowly they made their way cautiously, until they came within sight of the tiny tracks, for the freshly fallen snow was a sorry telltale for the "game." Shivering, but happy under their load of game, the party returned a couple of hours later, to find everything prepared for the ensuing meal. The great iron pot hung steaming over the glowing coals, the aroma of something therein greeting their nostrils with delight. For all were famished and in good mood to enjoy a camp dinner. It seemed but a matter of a few minutes before the cook and his assistants had the game ready for the steaming sauce which awaited it in the iron pot; and while the company regaled themselves with jokes and talk of the day's sport, the sauce bubbled and boiled, but tantalizing the group about the fire. However, all things come to those who wait, and it really was not such a great wait before they were all "falling-to" with keen appetites. The cuisine was excellent, and the gamey meat had a relish all its own. But now the party must hasten home. Too long have they lingered among the pine trees, and much longer yet could they tarry, were there not other arrangements for the evening. But dinner was awaiting them at the dwór; and at nine o'clock, as the dining-hall filled with the gay company, in evening dress, you scarce would have recognized them as the same persons who had gathered about the camp-fire among the pine trees but a few hours previously. There is always time for everything in Poland, for the rich. The dinner lengthened itself out until well toward eleven o'clock. Then came the "grand ball," for this is Ash Wednesday, the last day of gayety before the Lenten season begins. What a delight it is to watch the Polish men and women dance! It comes naturally to them, and I really believe they would much prefer dancing to any other occupation. While the manor-folks confine themselves to the more conventional forms of the dance, down in the village the peasants dance to the wild mazurkas and sing weird folk-songs. But in hut or mansion, there is gayety abroad this last night of freedom; a short hour, and then, Lent, fasting, prayer for forty days, observed in most rigorous manner. Forty days, nearly six weeks, pass after all, and before the Lenten days are two-thirds over, preparations are already begun for the Easter day. Those indeed are busy times in the culinary quarters at the dwór. Such heaps and heaps of food as are prepared in the great kitchens! Such stacks and stacks of bread as are baked in the huge ovens, so different from our own cook-stoves. Gas stoves are unknown in Poland; all the ovens are brick affairs, such as are used by bakers, in to which great logs of heavy wood are placed. And, when the bricks have been heated to the degree necessary for the food which is to be cooked, the fire is withdrawn by long rakes of iron and this heat is retained for a long enough time to bake. The Saturday before Easter the table is set in the long dining-room. This table presents quite a different appearance from that of the Christmas table. Now there is every sort of decoration one could wish for. Hot-house flowers everywhere; colored Easter eggs, just as we have, fruit, and sugar lambs. We American folks can scarce conceive of such lavishness in articles of food. Not only is there a young pig served whole upon a gayly decorated platter, but there are, at intervals the length of the great table, immense roasts of all kinds; hams with accompanying sauces, beef, mutton, and not even the "sweets" are forgotten. All being in readiness, the village priest enters and places his blessing upon the food which graces the groaning board. This is really quite a serious custom, this blessing of the food, the houses and everything that pertains to existence. The peasants are most superstitious in this, and would no more dare to enter a new home or even a theatre which had not received this blessing at the hands of the priest or bishop, than they would purposely run into danger. Easter day itself is quiet. There is the heavy dinner in the early part of the day, when Easter wishes are bestowed upon one and all, even the giving of Easter eggs, as we do, not being omitted. And now dawns Easter Monday. The religious ceremonies are finished; the Sabbath has passed, and on Monday may begin the merry-making once more. The Polacks are very fond of life and merriment. They take advantage of every occasion upon which to indulge in relaxation from work, and always, in a quiet way, they get the most out of living that is possible. Just as we celebrate Hallowe'en with pranks and games, so the Polacks celebrate the Smigus on Easter Monday. Among the peasantry, the jokes are a trifle rougher than in upper circles, but they are always good-natured, and never do they allow themselves to overstep, even in the slightest degree. The Smigus is, indeed, a merry romp. Watch this jaunty little chap as he whistles gayly on his way to the home of his adored one. Much courage does it take to venture forth such a night as this. But when one goes to visit _her_, he cares not; he is only too proud to display his courage, for will not _she_ love him the better for it? Swish! The whistling is stopped. A series of muffled sounds, and the young man regains his equilibrium once again. He journeys on, but not quite so merrily. His teeth chatter just a little in his head, and he walks a trifle quicker. For the water was cold, and it is not very comfortable to be drenched unawares. Nevertheless, he feels himself more or less of a martyr for _her_ sake, and he carries his head high with self-satisfied pride. And hark! There is tittering somewhere. Now we can trace it to the village well. Let us go and enjoy the sport. My, but what a screaming! It fairly makes one's ears tingle. We hasten our steps, for we know there are girls mixed up in _this_ affair; their shrill, nervous voices proclaim it upon the still, clear air of the night. As Helena and her two young friends from across the road were making their way to the public well, they, too, were drenched in exactly the same manner as the young man had been but a moment before. But, then, Helena and her friends should have known better than to venture out upon Easter Monday evening. Who can say but that they rather enjoyed the experience? However, they had their reward, for the young gallants, good-hearted men if somewhat rough, filled the pitchers for the maidens and carried them to the doors of their homes upon their own stout shoulders. And they all laughed heartily at the joke. Perhaps, who knows, but that they might meet their future husbands here? While the peasants amuse themselves in these harmless, jolly pranks, the occupants of the dwór enjoy similar ones, but somewhat differently. There, the young men are more courtly. Catching their prey unawares, they shower her with delicate cologne-water, or twine gayly colored ribbons about her neck, making her their captive. And thus, in hut and manor-house, passes Easter Monday. But you must not believe that the sports are all confined to the country-side. Indeed not. The city folks have their own form of entertainment, and in the City of Cracow there is observed a most peculiar custom known as Renkawka or the Sleeve. In very olden times, I believe about the year 560 A. D., there lived in the south, among the Carpathian Mountains, a very unimportant chief named Krakus. He was a good man, a most unusual thing in that age; therefore everybody loved him, and that was a great honor, because the times were warlike and people cared more for a chief who showed himself brave but fierce than they did about one who was gentle and kind. It so happened that Krakus made a journey to the north. He came to a fine hill, about whose foot ran a broad, clear river called the Vistula. As he was looking for a site upon which to build himself a fortress, he decided this was just the very place for his. But he found it one thing to wish and quite another thing to obtain. The hill was guarded by a fierce dragon who kept watch, day and night, that no one might take it away. However, Krakus was a brave man, and he longed so intensely for the hill, especially now that he knew he ought not to have it, that he decided to fight the dreadful dragon. Therefore, he took his trusty sword and shield, mounted the hill, fought the monster and conquered it. Had he not done so, there would have been no story. He then set to work to build his castle upon the very top of that impregnable hill, with the beautiful river running around its base. He called the fortress-castle the Wawel, because that was the name of the hill upon which it stood. This castle of Krakus still is standing, but it is in a sad state of ruin. However, the Russian government, to whom it now belongs, is putting it in repair, so that it may present the same appearance of grandeur and splendor that it did in the days of good King Krakus. You all know what a castle is; but perhaps there are few of you who understand what it means when applied to an ancient stronghold. The Wawel castle really included quite a small village inside its massive walls, for here the chief or king, with his retainers and his army, were wont to lock themselves safely in at close of day, that the enemy, who was always lurking in wait in those times, could do them no harm. It is here, to this Wawel, that Mrs. Ostrowska had promised to take the children in the June time, upon St. John's Eve, to witness the ceremony of the Wianki. Now, when King Krakus died, his people mourned him exceedingly. They erected a huge mound outside the city on the further side of the river in his honor. The peasants wore a sort of tunic, at that time, with very wide sleeves, much like the sleeves worn by Japanese women. It was in these convenient sleeves they carried the earth with which to erect the mound, hence the ceremony takes its name Renkawka or Sleeve. It is a peculiarity of the Polish peasant that, once a custom is established, it is never abandoned, even though the necessity has long since passed away. I doubt very much if any of those who participate in the Renkawka could tell you why the custom is observed; nevertheless each Easter Monday they gather about the mound, dressed in these old-fashioned garments with wide sleeves. They no longer carry earth with them, as in the old days, however; they bring nothing, but they return with full sleeves, for it has developed into a custom for the rich to send the food which has been left from the Easter feast, that it might be distributed among the needy. CHAPTER VII THE VILLAGE WEDDING SOME few days after Easter, while the children at the dwór were reading to their mother in the library, the clatter of hoofs was heard upon the hard road without. Marya jumped up from her chair and ran, with fleet steps, to the front window overlooking the entrance-porch. Such a clatter and racket as there was! One would almost imagine himself back in the days of post-horses and outriders. There, under cover of the carriage entrance, were four gayly dressed young peasants, proudly seated upon slick horses, who were stamping their feet and neighing most strenuously. "Mother," cried Marya excitedly, "see what's here! Quick!" Mrs. Ostrowska smiled, but did not hasten, for she well knew the meaning of this hubbub. This was the formal invitation to the krakowich, the wedding of Emilia. She approached the French window and stepped out upon the wide veranda, and she smiled a welcome to the druzbowie, who had come to extend their best wishes from the bride and the groom, and all their relatives, to the mistress and master of the manor, together with their family and their guests, and to request their presence at the wedding of the fair Emilia at the village church at noon. After Mrs. Ostrowska assured the best men of their acceptance and that they all would be most pleased to accept the kind invitation, the four young men rode gayly down the sloping driveway and disappeared at the bend of the road, their gorgeous feathers flowing free in the breeze. And only the clatter of their horses' feet were heard in the distance. In great state, the family coach drew up to the entrance-porch some time later and the Ostrowski family drove off toward the home of the bride. It seemed as though the entire populace had turned out for the occasion. Such a crowd as there was gathered before the tiny home! And such colors! And yet more people pouring out of the one small door of the humble cottage. One would scarce believe it possible for so small a space to hold so many persons! But no one asks or wishes much room upon such a festal occasion as this; and there was nothing but smiling faces, bright eyes, and gay colors to be seen. One wondered, too, where the simple peasant girls could have obtained such gorgeous raiment. There were black velvet gowns, all tight-fitting, with short sleeves, and ankle length. Some were exquisitely embroidered in gold or silver thread, others in bright silks, or even in colored cotton thread. But there was every conceivable hue and shade. If they have nothing else, these peasant maidens will have a holiday attire of the most gorgeous, and they take delight and pride in saving up for years in order to make their own costumes more beautiful than their neighbors'. Over their dark, glossy hair a brilliant handkerchief is knotted, one in one manner, one in another, but all of them picturesque. It would seem impossible for the Polish peasant to be other than charming in her holiday dress. [Illustration: "SHE WAS BUNDLED INTO THE VILLAGE CART"] Some of the more fortunate ones wore long pendants from their brown ears, while yet others had on long strings of beads, some of coral, others of pearls, or yet of a bluish stone resembling turquoise. Every bit of finery, some handed down from one generation to another, priceless treasures, was in evidence upon this occasion, and even the young men were scarce outdone in their velvet jackets and gay sashes. The occupants of the carriage from the manor-house saluted the assembled peasants warmly, who returned their salute. Marya looked in vain for the young bride; she was nowhere to be seen. But Helena, the younger sister, approached and offered the master and mistress a drink in which to toast her sister. At length Marya spied her; she was just issuing forth from the cottage-door. Her white veil fell over her young shoulder with grace as she made her way slowly to the carriage in order to receive the blessing of her master and mistress. Suddenly, kneeling in respect, the bride was seized by several burly men in gala attire. With a scream of terror, and amid copious tears, all of which were part of the programme, she was bundled into the village cart and the procession moved onwards, headed by two of the best men, while the other two druzbowie brought up the rear to escort the bridal couple to the church. This is one of the pretty customs left of the old days when the grooms were in the habit of virtually and truly stealing away their brides before the very eyes of their fond parents, often without the consent of the young lady herself. It is a harmless practice at this day, and a pretty one, affording much pleasure to the bride, and much satisfaction to the groom. Besides, the peasants would scarce believe themselves properly married unless this ceremony prevailed. The longest part of a wedding is not at the church; the service lasted but a very short time when every one wended his way back to the home of the bride once again. During their absence the tables had been laid for the wedding supper, supplied by the generosity of the master of the dwór, and then having drank a last health to the young couple, the rooms were cleared for the wedding dance. The village had not seen such a wedding for many years as Emilia had. She was a general favorite, with her quiet manners, her soft voice and her kind ways to all. After the grand march, led by the bride, who leaned upon the arm of Mr. Ostrowski himself, followed by the groom with Mrs. Ostrowska, the master and mistress withdrew from the scene, leaving the peasants to enjoy the dancing and gayety to their hearts' content without the consequent restraint of their presence. Now, indeed, did the stout old walls of the plastered hut ring with merriment! The beams fairly shook under the heavy tread of so many husky feet, and it was not until a late hour of the afternoon that the bride and her husband were able to make their escape. Until every ceremony has been gone through with, the young Polish peasant bride may not free herself from the attentions of the four best men, who take it upon themselves to act as a sort of body-guard and chaperones. Therefore, under their protection, the newly-weds repaired to the top of the hill for their final blessing, as well, no doubt, as a substantial wedding gift. The day for them was about finished. The visit to the village photographer was the end; here they were photographed in all the finery of their wedding dress, the one leaning lovingly upon the arm of the other; and what a comfort it will be to them, in the years that are to come, when trials and tribulations come to them, to look upon the picture of themselves as they were upon that delightful day of their wedding, young, care-free and happy. And thus the wedding day of Emilia drew to a close. There was one very amusing incident which occurred at the wedding, but not at all out of the ordinary among the Polish peasantry. Necessarily, being poor, they economize in those things which are not absolute necessities; and shoes being one of these, they are in the habit of going barefoot. But they always possess one pair of best shoes, usually with very high French heels, of which they are inordinately proud. It would amount almost to sacrilege for them to wear these creations on any but the grandest and most important occasions. It would be a pity to scuff them out upon the dusty, rocky roads; so, as the women made their way to the church, they carried their shoes and put them on at the entrance of the church. I really believe they did this more because they would be unable to walk in such high-heeled affairs, for it is somewhat of an art to manage one's feet properly, even at best. As soon as the occasion was over, the shoes were laid carefully aside for use upon another gala day. In this way, one pair of shoes will last a life-time, and no doubt many of them descend to the younger members of the family, as the older ones outgrow them. And now the weeks are speeding by, and Corpus Christi Day has come, a religious festival which takes place about eight weeks after Easter. It is a national holiday, and in the city of Cracow the procession Bozé Cialo takes place. Here, in the rynek, or public square, gather the entire population of the city, from the oldest infirm inhabitant to the youngest toddler each with his candle in his hand. The bishop of the church conducts the ceremony of the day with great solemnity; and the procession marches around the great square with banners and images of the Christ, while little flower girls, crowned with white flowers, scatter rose-petals from the dainty baskets hung from their shoulders. The soldiers, with their bright uniforms and their gay helmets, mingle with the worshippers, and all is bustle, light and solemnity. After the ceremony, however, the crowds disperse to make merry during the remainder of the day; for in Europe, upon fast days, after the religious services are ended, the people are at liberty to enjoy themselves as they best care to. * * * * * Spring has truly arrived; the leaves are budding forth now in all their new greenness. The spring flowers are shooting forth from their winter shelter and the sun shines warmly, but the air is yet a trifle crisp. There has been a general house-cleaning during the past few days among the Polish peasantry, just as we have a general house-cleaning time, so much dreaded by our fathers. The huts in the villages have been freshly whitewashed; some, even, have been tinted blue to vary the monotony. About the doors and windows are bound great boughs of green, for the Spring Festival has come, and the peasants have been taught to be ever grateful to, and appreciative of, the goodness of their Father, for all the benefits they have received, and for another springtime; believing that, upon the quantity of boughs and leaves with which they decorate their homes, will depend the fruitfulness of the coming crops. And thus, with great joy, is spring welcomed in Poland. CHAPTER VIII THE ORPHANAGE IN THE WOODS AS the spring season advanced, the two children at the dwór grew more and more excited. They were awaiting, with great impatience, the arrival of St. John's Eve, the 24th of June. Marya was seated upon the stiff-looking sofa in the reception salon, while her brother Peter was looking through a book of photographs, depicting the celebration of the Wianki. "Do you suppose mother will allow us to cast a wreath into the Vistula?" asked Peter, without looking up from his book, so intensely wrapped up was he in the illustrations. "Certainly," Marya replied. "If we go to the celebration at all, we will be allowed to do as the others do. I shall ask her," Marya continued, "for it wouldn't be a bit of fun to go all the way to Cracow just to watch the others; I want some of the fun for myself." "You don't imagine you will be allowed to go in search of the wonderful fern, do you, Marya?" the boy questioned. "Why not? Of course I know I may not go alone, but I shall have Mademoiselle with me. It would be quite proper then, and Mademoiselle would enjoy it herself, I am sure. She has never seen the celebration, Peter, and she's just as crazy over it as we are. If sister Martha comes we will be allowed to go," the girl continued, "for she knows what it is to be shut off from every pleasure that even the commonest people have." "Marya," warned Peter, in a low tone. At the warning, the girl looked up. She saw her mother upon the threshold. She arose instantly from her seat upon the sofa and advanced toward her mother, saluting her with a kiss upon the cheek. Her brother did likewise, and together they gently led her toward the sofa and seated her, drawing up two chairs for themselves, so as to face her. But Marya did not seat herself by the side of her mother. It is a curious custom throughout Europe that the sofa is the seat of honor, to be occupied by the person highest in rank, and, while one may occupy a sofa when alone in the room, it is considered the height of impoliteness to seat one's self upon that sacred article of furniture when one of superior rank, or an elder, is in the room; therefore it was for this reason that the children placed their mother upon the sofa while they occupied chairs by her side. "Now, children, listen," Mrs. Ostrowska said, as she gathered her two children to her. "You need not be a bit afraid that you will not enjoy yourselves in Cracow. I have promised to take you to the celebration of the Wianki, and you have looked forward to it for a long time with great expectation. You shall not be disappointed. We will forget everything for that night, and you may enter into all the sports of the people, if you choose. Even Marya, dear, if she wishes, may penetrate into the depths of the forest and search for the sacred fern which may blossom for her alone this year. Perhaps you may be the fortunate one to find it, Marya. What do you think?" "I hope I shall," the girl replied. "But suppose Mademoiselle should become frightened and want to return?" "In that event," the mother said, smiling, "so long as you have the courage, you may continue alone," for she felt quite safe in granting this privilege, as she did not truly believe her little daughter would be brave enough to continue alone. "When shall we start?" Marya asked, in great excitement. "It is now the twentieth of June," Mrs. Ostrowska replied. "Your father has some business to attend to in Cracow, so we shall leave here on the twenty-second, which will give us ample time to look about the city and have a good visit with your sister Martha, for you know she promised to meet us there." "So did sister Gabriele," added Peter. "Yes," the mother replied, "we shall all be together, I hope." "And may I go now and tell Mademoiselle?" Marya inquired, eagerly, as she rose. "Run along," the mother answered. "And what was my boy reading as I came in?" she continued, turning to her son, who had not had a chance to say much while the irrepressible sister was in the room. "Oh, I was looking at some old books I found in the library, about the celebration of the Wianki. I wanted to know all about it; there are some wonderful pictures of it too." "It is a curious custom, no doubt," the mother replied, as she walked to the table, where the book still remained open. And, for some time, the two looked over the great volume of illustrations, remarking every little while about this one or that. "You remember the story of the Princess Wanda, and how she threw herself into the Vistula in order to save her country from wars?" the mother asked. "Very well, indeed," the boy replied. "She was a brave princess. But is it really true, mother?" the boy inquired. "There _was_ a Princess Wanda at one time, but as to the rest of the story, that is what people say about her." At this moment Marya re-entered the room, leading her governess by the hand. "Mother," the child said, as she advanced toward the table where the mother and son were engrossed in their book, "Mademoiselle is as delighted as I am, with the prospect of seeing the celebration, aren't you, Mademoiselle?" "Indeed I am," the young lady replied. "I have read much about it, in France, but have never witnessed one of the festivals; besides, it happens to be my birthday, so it will be an added pleasure." "I have arranged for the children of the Orphanage to come out to us just after our return," Mrs. Ostrowska said, addressing the tall, bright-eyed young lady who served in capacity of governess to her daughter; "I wish you would take Marya down to the Bosquet and help prepare the cottage for their reception. The maids are there now, airing the place out, and I will drive over later in the afternoon, when I shall have everything together that I want sent down." "Very well, Madame," Mademoiselle replied. "Marya and I will attend to it as soon as luncheon is finished. Shall we take the pony cart?" "Yes, you might," Mrs. Ostrowska said, "and, when you arrive there, see that the beds are well aired, for the maids are apt to be a little careless, and we can't afford to have any of the children take cold." "There's luncheon now," Marya called out, impulsively. "Run along then, children," the mistress said, "and remember, day after to-morrow we are off for Cracow." With hurried steps the two children left the room, followed by Mademoiselle, while Mrs. Ostrowska busied herself about her domestic arrangements, for she never entrusted these duties to any one. After luncheon Marya and Mademoiselle drove off in the pony cart, through the beautiful gardens, which were blossoming with all sorts of magnificent flowers, past the great fish-ponds at the rear, and on through the thick woods. Finally they pulled rein at a most picturesque maisonette, or cottage, situated in the very heart of the forest. It was built of logs; a wide veranda ran across the entire front. The house was large enough to accommodate one hundred girls with their chaperones. Inside everything was as comfortable as could be. There was a general sitting-room where the orphaned girls could gather in the evening and listen to the folk-tales their hostess or her substitutes would tell. There were great dormitories, with twenty or thirty snowy, white beds arranged in rows against the walls, with large airy windows between. There was the dining-room, with its long table spread with good, substantial food; and how the walls did ring with the laughter and joyousness of these little orphaned children from the city, who were invited each year to spend two weeks or more as the guests of the benevolent proprietor's wife, Mrs. Ostrowska. And all over the country of Poland this is the custom for the wives of the landed proprietors to do. They give of their wealth for the betterment of the poor and to ease their burden a little. Each morning a group of girls, selected by the mistress in charge, tramp off through the woods, baskets on arms, to receive from the kitchen of the dwór the supplies for the following day; and you may be sure this is no small matter, to fill fifty or one hundred hungry mouths. In the afternoons, after the day's work is finished, for these girls do all their own housekeeping in the maisonette, they gather berries or wood-flowers, which they present to their kind hostess, a delicate thoughtfulness which she fully appreciates, for these poor little orphaned ones have no other way in which to express their gratitude for the pleasures they accept. Everything being in readiness, Marya and her governess returned home through the woods, driving leisurely so as to enjoy the fresh odor of the firs. It was quite late when they reached the dwór; tea was being served on the veranda. Here they sought out Mrs. Ostrowska and reported their progress. Then Marya was whisked off by Mademoiselle to attend to her practising. The morning of the twenty-second dawned bright and warm. Immediately after breakfast, the great carriage pulled up at the porch, and all were soon installed within. The whips were cracked, and away the horses sped down the wide avenue of linden trees, through the great stone brama and out into the country road. They had not gone very far when the animals were reined in most emphatically, for the highway had become a horrible mass of mud and ruts. The public roads of Poland are proverbial for their wretchedness. The carriage swayed from side to side as it lurched from one deep rut into another; and had it not been for the splendid springs of the carriage, it would have been much more comfortable to have walked. You may imagine what it would mean to jolt over these same roads in a britschka, or public cart, which is so widely in use in Poland. It is a sort of open carriage, without springs of any kind, with a hood which can either be raised or lowered, at the will of the occupant. I fear a ride in such a contrivance would not be very enjoyable. However, in spite of the ill condition of the road, Cracow was reached safely late in the afternoon. Upon reaching the hotel where accommodations had been reserved, they found the two sisters awaiting them. Mrs. Ostrowska had found the journey very fatiguing, consequently she did not care to dress and descend for dinner; dinner, therefore, was served upstairs in her private sitting-room, and the family spent the remainder of the evening in discussing their plans for the morrow, and in visiting. CHAPTER IX WHAT HAPPENED WHEN THE BROTHERS DISAGREED IT is market-day in Cracow; but then it is always market-day in Cracow, so that would be nothing extraordinary. The rynek, or square, is crowded with groups of peasants, some sitting on stools beside their vegetables exposed for sale; others sheltered under huge umbrellas, knitting stockings for their family, while awaiting customers. Here are displayed laces, vegetables, also chickens and ducks, alive and squawking. There is scarcely anything one would have need of that is not displayed in this square. Indeed, it is a lively spot and a beautiful sight. We have some hours to pass before evening comes, when we may ascend to the Wawel for the celebration; therefore, we shall look about us in this active part of the city and see some of the interesting sights and ancient buildings, for most cities are interesting only as they can present some historical reference. Here is an ancient-looking castle at this side of the rynek; indeed, it not only looks ancient, but it _is_ ancient. Like everything else in Poland, it has a queer-sounding name to us; it is known as Pod Baranami, which means Under the Ram's Head, from its heraldic sign over the front. This is the home of the Potockis, one of the very ancient families of the country. So prominent is this castle in the history of Poland that the Emperor has chosen it as his residence when he is in the city of Cracow. But it would be quite improper for the Emperor to accept quarters in the home of another; he must be the veritable head of the house; therefore it happens that, from an old custom, it is usual for the family to move to other quarters and to permit the sovereign full possession. The Emperor, however, is not without graciousness. He accepts the generosity of his subject, and atones for the inconvenience he has been put to by inviting the owner and his family to dine with him. It must seem very strange to be invited to dinner in one's own home with another at the head. And here, a little further along, is the most interesting building known as the Sukiennice, nothing more nor less than the Cloth Hall. In early days, when there were no great department stores and selling agents for goods, the makers of cloth formed a guild or club, which became known throughout the land as the Cloth Guild. They built a great hall in which to display their goods, for there were no shops in those times, as there are now. This building became known as the Cloth Hall. Here the Guild met to discuss the prices they should ask for the finished material, and how much they ought to pay for the raw. The Cloth Guild was one of the richest and most influential of all the Guilds, for people were extravagant in their dress and wore most exquisite materials. The Sukiennice is a great building of stone with the stairway to the second story running up on the outside of the building; there are queer little turrets, one at each corner, and heavy arcades upon the ground floor, which protect the passers-by from the elements, as well as assist in rendering the interior very dark. Here, in the city of Cracow, the peasants will tell you of a curious belief among them. The founder of Poland was Lekh, as you all have read. He was supposed to have come from the far south, when quite a grown man; but there are always two sides to every story, as the saying is. And no two historians can agree as to which version is really the correct one concerning Lekh. The peasants here believe that Lekh was born in this very city, and they absolutely refuse to believe anything else. In any event, the story goes that when he was a very young baby, as he was lying in his cradle one day, without any one near, a fierce dragon with three heads tried to devour him; but no harm came to the child, for he grew up safely to manhood. Perhaps his faithful nurse returned in time to avert the threatened danger. However, many, many years later, in this same city of Cracow, in the year 1846, the country of Poland suffered its greatest humiliation, for Cracow was the very last city in the country to fall into the hands of the enemy. And now once more comes the dragon with the three heads; it is the enemy, Austria, Germany and Russia, who joined their forces together to tear beloved Poland into pieces, and this time it won the victory. The people of Poland will tell you that once upon a time, in the early days of the country's history, there was a certain king reigning over the land, who was very good and wise. He saw that his beloved people and the land in which they lived was not what it should be; that something was wrong. Being a solicitous father for his country, he left no stone unturned to discover some remedy for the malady which ailed Poland. Physicians, famed throughout the land, were sent for and consultations held, but all in vain. There seemed no cure for the patient. However, there was yet one resource left. In the land was a woman who was very clever at divinations; to her, in his last extremity, the good, kind king went and stated his trouble. "Fear not," the prophetess answered, after listening to the king's tale, "I will endeavor to aid you." The king was delighted at her encouraging words, but he felt somewhat doubtful of the result, as so many had failed before her. The old woman selected three brothers from out the land; to each of them she gave a third part of a flute. "You are to journey together," she said to them, "until you have crossed over seven mountains, and crossed seven flowing rivers. When you reach a certain peak in the Carpathian Mountains to the southwest of Poland, you are to halt, put the pieces of the flute together, and blow upon it. At the sound, your brave old king, Boleslaw, and his valiant knights, will arise from their sleep of death, take up their weapons, and conquer your enemy, when Poland will once more be restored to her former state of splendor and glory." The king thanked the prophetess kindly, adding a most substantial gift for her services. He saw the three brothers set off upon their task of salvation for the country. The three young men journeyed together, as they had been bid, until they crossed seven running rivers and had climbed over seven mountains. At length they reached the Carpathian Mountains as the old woman had told them. Upon the top of the peak she had named they halted, and pieced the flute together. Then arose the important question of which they had not thought before: _who_ should blow upon the flute. The oldest brother thought he should, for was he not the eldest? The second brother thought he had just as much right to blow upon the flute as his older brother. Why should he have all the glory when they, too, had made the long journey as well as the eldest? But the youngest brother was not content with this arrangement. He felt that he should have a turn at the flute as well as the other two. And, in this manner, they bickered and bickered. The days sped by without the question being settled. And thus it remained. As they could not agree as to which one should blow upon the flute, no one blew upon it. King Boleslaw did not awaken from his sleep. His knights, in their suits of armor, remained by his side, tranquil and at rest, and Poland, poor Poland, the ill one, was left to its fate. The legend runs, that the names of the three brothers were Aristocracy, Bourgeoisie and Peasantry. And to-day, were they given another opportunity to show their worth, there would be no question as to which one of the three would blow upon the flute, for all Poland has agreed that its hope and life are due to the youngest brother, Peasantry. And in this hope the upper class Polacks are bending every effort towards improving the condition and education of the common people, for thereby they believe the day will come when the peasantry will arise, like the knights of King Boleslaw, and fight for their liberty. The inference is that the peasants are now asleep; they do not see their opportunities, nor know their strength; but that when they do arise they will bring peace and prosperity once more to dear Poland. Peter and Marya were so interested in the history of the city, and in looking at its magnificent old buildings, they were not aware how rapidly the time was passing, until their mother told them it was time to return to the hotel for dinner. As soon as the first rays of dusk crept on, they insisted upon making their way to the Wawel, so as not to miss anything; for well they knew, these little children of the aristocracy, they would not be again permitted this privilege. As they drove from the hotel to the top of the hill they passed great crowds, and yet more and more, all making their way on foot up the toilsome incline to the castle, the one spot of activity that night. A bright fire was already burning within the fortress courtyard. The flames leaped higher and higher until they fairly seemed to reach to the vaulted blue above. About the fire were gathered thousands and thousands of people: old men and women, young men and their wives and sweethearts, for the entire populace had turned out to celebrate the Wianki, or wreaths. Each one bore in his hand a wreath of flowers or leaves, all of different colors; and while the band played entrancing music, wild polonaises and mazurkas, the people cast their wreaths into the waters of the Vistula. Brilliant fireworks of every description lighted up the scene, making the sky one mass of light and color. Every one looked very happy and gave himself up to the joy of the moment. The wreaths having been cast into the river, the young folks joined hands in a great circle about the blazing fire. They danced round and round, singing Polish airs; strangers all they were, but enjoying each other's company. From among the circle, two young folks were chosen, a man and a young girl, the circle of singers coupling the names of the two together, prophesying that these two might become affianced and wed happily. What mattered it that they were unknown to each other? What mattered anything that night, when all hearts were light, and youth was abroad? In games and sports of this character, the evening wore away and the hour of midnight approached. Marya was becoming more and more excited. She grasped the hand of Mademoiselle tighter, for fear she should lose her; then she might not penetrate into the forest. One by one the young girls of the group slipped away and disappeared into the gloom of the surrounding woods; Marya believed it was about time that she, too, were making good her escape. Holding tightly to the hand of her governess, she walked slowly in the direction the others had taken. She had at last set out on her search for the magic fern which grows in the forest. She would try to discover its hiding-place; for she longed for a happy and successful life. It is no small task, this, that Marya had set for herself. In the first place the fern is magic; it is not to be seen by every one; it blooms just a second, exactly as the midnight hour strikes, and then is gone. And another full year must roll by before the maiden may search a second time. [Illustration: "HER HEART WAS BEATING FASTER AND FASTER"] "I shall find it," Marya kept repeating to herself, over and over again. But she knew she could not hope to do so if she persisted in holding fast to the hand of Mademoiselle. No one must have an escort who would find the precious flower. But Marya was timid. Never before had she been permitted out after dark, even alone with her governess. The woods were very dark. The moon shone through the leaves, 'tis true, but the beams only added to the fright of the young girl, for they cast weird shadows upon the tree-trunks and more than once she was for turning back. She dared not call out for fear of breaking the magic spell, and she did so want to find the magic fern. Her heart was beating faster and faster; she groped her way through the thick trees, keeping her eyes riveted upon the ground in search of the prize. Suddenly she saw a bright light ahead of her. She wondered what it could be; whether it was some sprite's home in the forest, and what was going to happen to her next. Then she heard the tinkle of a bell. "The hejnal," she told herself. "Midnight." She counted the strokes one by one. So intent was she upon her task that she forgot the magic fern. She forgot Mademoiselle. She forgot everything but the musical tones of the church bell tolling the midnight hour. She kept her course toward the light in the distance. When she approached it, she found herself once more on the Wawel hill, by the side of the great fire about which she had danced so happily the early part of the evening. She had been walking in a circle; and there, not ten feet from her, was Mademoiselle; but neither of them had discovered the magic fern. "Well, it was fun anyway," Marya said, when twitted by her brother for her failure. "And I am sure if I could try again, I would walk in a straight line next time." The party returned to the hotel; the festival was ended, and on the morrow the Ostrowski family returned to their dwór beyond Cracow. CHAPTER X THE HARVEST FESTIVAL AND now our vacation is about ended. The year is drawing to a close. Harvest time has arrived; the crops are stacked up in the fields to be garnered in. The peasants have finished their year's work out-of-doors. They have served their master's interests well; all that remains is his inspection to see that all is satisfactory, and his approval that they earned their wages. Mr. Ostrowski, accompanied by his good wife, left their home upon the hill and walked towards the great fields of yellow grain. It was not permitted the peasant to garner in these sheaves until the master had passed by. Suddenly, they were seized from behind. They were seized gently but forcibly. While one young man held the wrists of the mistress, and others the wrists of the master, other peasants picked up strands of the golden straw and assisted in securely binding their captives. The master and mistress pleaded for their liberty, but their captors were adamant. No ransom, no liberty. At length, after promises of ransom, the peasants unbound their victims, the money was paid over, and the master and mistress were free. Laughing, they passed on their way across the field, while the merry peasants then began to stack the golden grain upon their carts and haul it away to the barns. It is a very pretty custom, this one of the Harvest Festival; and master and laborer enter into the spirit of it with keen zest. It but endears their patron to them the more that he permits this privilege; the ransom is not more than a few pennies; but the master must pay it before he may regain his liberty. All over the estate, from one field to the other, the same ceremony is indulged in for the harvest crops. What merry-making there is in the village during the rest of the day and all through the evening, after the crops are safely stowed away for the winter! The fairest maiden of the village is the queen of the day. She wears her white dress with a queenly air, too; and holds her proud head high, crowned with flowers. Forming in line, the queen at the head, the bridesmaids following, and then the other villagers in the order of their importance, the gay procession marches slowly up the hill, singing folk songs as they mount. Their sweet, musical voices announce their arrival long beforehand to the mistress of the dwór. She meets them at the porch with graciousness. The queen kneels for her mistress' blessing, and once more they return down the hill toward the village, but now they are enriched with a quantity of small money, with which they straightway proceed to set up a supper, after which they dance the rest of the hours away. They have good cause to be light-hearted, for they know their work is finished for the season, and there are full barns for the winter. * * * * * And we have now spent a full year in the delightful, quaint land of Lekh; dear Poland, from whose brow has never vanished the one cloud that mars it. It has learned its tragic lesson too late, that what it does not sow it may not reap. The nobles had been too much enwrapped in their own gayety, in their exclusiveness, to turn their hands to the task of setting things straight. The bourgeoisie were neither of one class nor another; they could not afford to compromise themselves by turning either way, consequently they turned neither, and were useless as aids. The peasants were raised in ignorance, were overburdened and kept constantly under the leash, so to speak, and while their strength might have saved the country, they had not the brain-power to solve a means therefor. So that neither of the three brothers being able to decide which should blow upon the flute, as neither class would take upon itself to save the land, so they now await the decision. In the meantime, Poland belongs to the three conquering nations, the Russians, the Austrians and the Germans, neither of which the Polacks are devoted to. And yet, with all its indecision, Poland has given the world some glorious men and women. Copernicus, the world-famed astrologer, was born in the city of Thorn upon the River Vistula, on February 19, 1473. Chopin, the great musical composer, was the son of a Polish woman, although he is buried in France. Marcella Sembrich, Edouard De Reszke and his brother Jean, of grand opera fame, Helena Modjeska, our beloved actress, now passed away, and Jan Paderewski, the celebrated pianist, are all Polacks. And we Americans have much to be indebted for to a great Polish soldier. You may not even know his name; had it not been for Tadeusz Kosciuszko, I doubt very much whether Washington, our dearly beloved George Washington, would have proven so successful in his endeavors for independence. It is a long way from Warsaw in Poland to the American colonies; especially was it so in the year 1776, when transportation was not what it now is. But Tadeusz did not consider distance or hardship. He was willing to go anywhere, so long as it would take him from the place where he had suffered so keenly. For back in Poland, Tadeusz loved a beautiful girl. The father of this young lady did not approve of Kosciuszko as a lover. He feared the two might elope, which they had really planned to do. Therefore, he carried off his daughter in the dead of night, so that Tadeusz never saw her again. Kosciuszko roamed first here and then there in his sorrow; he did not care much where he went to. At last he went to Paris. All the modern world was talking about the courage of the American colonists in taking up their struggle against the mother country. And it happened that during his stay in Paris, Kosciuszko chanced to meet our minister, Benjamin Franklin. When Franklin learned that Tadeusz was skilled in military tactics, and, furthermore, that it made no particular difference to him where he strayed, he at once offered to give him a letter to Washington. Our general was indeed glad to receive such a valuable aid, and appointed him colonel of engineers and placed him upon his staff. Soon his proficiency in fort-building won for him the honor of scientist of the American Army. He worked by the side of Washington for eight years, until he was no longer needed. Then he returned to Poland, for his heart was ever there. He gained a glorious victory, the victory of Raclawie, which the Polacks can never forget. They have erected a mound to his honor, and even the American government has not been ungrateful to this grand man. Another Polack, Count Casimir Pulaski, also served us well in our early struggles; he was killed at the battle of Savannah in 1779. Henryk Sienkiewicz has given us some wonderful masterpieces in literature, and there are countless other Polish authors who might be mentioned, but they are too numerous and one is not as familiar with their works as with those of Sienkiewicz. We may linger no longer. The Christmas season approaches, when we must return to our own again. Homewards we turn our steps, with intense regret. We leave behind us the flat, broad plains of Lekh, we recross the Continent, take ship at Havre, and are once again in our beloved America, where we see our poor happy and comfortable; where all is bustle and prosperity, and we feel thankful that our independence has lasted throughout these years and that no nation may come in and rob us of our heritage. THE END. THE LITTLE COLONEL BOOKS (Trade Mark) _By ANNIE FELLOWS JOHNSTON_ _Each 1 vol., large 12mo, cloth, illustrated, per vol._ $1.50 =THE LITTLE COLONEL STORIES= (Trade Mark) Being three "Little Colonel" stories in the Cosy Corner Series, "The Little Colonel," "Two Little Knights of Kentucky," and "The Giant Scissors," in a single volume. =THE LITTLE COLONEL'S HOUSE PARTY= (Trade Mark) =THE LITTLE COLONEL'S HOLIDAYS= (Trade Mark) =THE LITTLE COLONEL'S HERO= (Trade Mark) =THE LITTLE COLONEL AT BOARDING-SCHOOL= (Trade Mark) =THE LITTLE COLONEL IN ARIZONA= (Trade Mark) =THE LITTLE COLONEL'S CHRISTMAS VACATION= (Trade Mark) =THE LITTLE COLONEL, MAID OF HONOR= (Trade Mark) =THE LITTLE COLONEL'S KNIGHT COMES RIDING= (Trade Mark) =MARY WARE: THE LITTLE COLONEL'S CHUM= (Trade Mark) =MARY WARE IN TEXAS= =MARY WARE'S PROMISED LAND= _These 12 volumes, boxed as a set_, $18.00. =THE LITTLE COLONEL= (Trade Mark) =TWO LITTLE KNIGHTS OF KENTUCKY= =THE GIANT SCISSORS= =BIG BROTHER= Special Holiday Editions Each one volume, cloth decorative, small quarto, $1.25 New plates, handsomely illustrated with eight full-page drawings in color, and many marginal sketches. =IN THE DESERT OF WAITING=: THE LEGEND OF CAMELBACK MOUNTAIN. =THE THREE WEAVERS=: A FAIRY TALE FOR FATHERS AND MOTHERS AS WELL AS FOR THEIR DAUGHTERS. =KEEPING TRYST.= =THE LEGEND OF THE BLEEDING HEART.= =THE RESCUE OF PRINCESS WINSOME=: A FAIRY PLAY FOR OLD AND YOUNG. =THE JESTER'S SWORD.= Each one volume, tall 16mo, cloth decorative $0.50 Paper boards .35 There has been a constant demand for publication in separate form of these six stories which were originally included in six of the "Little Colonel" books. =JOEL: A BOY OF GALILEE=: BY ANNIE FELLOWS JOHNSTON. Illustrated by L. J. Bridgman. New illustrated edition, uniform with the Little Colonel Books, 1 vol., large 12mo, cloth decorative $1.50 A story of the time of Christ, which is one of the author's best-known books. =THE LITTLE COLONEL GOOD TIMES BOOK= Uniform in size with the Little Colonel Series $1.50 Bound in white kid (morocco) and gold 3.00 Cover design and decorations by Peter Verberg. Published in response to many inquiries from readers of the Little Colonel books as to where they could obtain a "Good Times Book" such as Betty kept. =THE LITTLE COLONEL DOLL BOOK= Large quarto, boards $1.50 A series of "Little Colonel" dolls. There are many of them and each has several changes of costume, so that the happy group can be appropriately clad for the rehearsal of any scene or incident in the series. =ASA HOLMES=; OR, AT THE CROSS-ROADS. By ANNIE FELLOWS JOHNSTON. With a frontispiece by Ernest Fosbery. Large 16mo, cloth, gilt top $1.00 "'Asa Holmes; or, At the Cross-Roads' is the most delightful, most sympathetic and wholesome book that has been published in a long while."--_Boston Times._ =TRAVELERS FIVE: ALONG LIFE'S HIGHWAY.= By ANNIE FELLOWS JOHNSTON. With an introduction by Bliss Carman, and a frontispiece by E. H. Garrett. Cloth decorative $1.25 "Mrs. Johnston's ... are of the character that cause the mind to grow gravely meditative, the eyes to shine with tender mist, and the heart strings to stir to strange, sweet music of human sympathy."--_Los Angeles Graphic._ =THE RIVAL CAMPERS=; OR, THE ADVENTURES OF HENRY BURNS. By RUEL PERLEY SMITH. Square 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated $1.50 A story of a party of typical American lads, courageous, alert, and athletic, who spend a summer camping on an island off the Maine coast. =THE RIVAL CAMPERS AFLOAT=; OR, THE PRIZE YACHT VIKING. By RUEL PERLEY SMITH. Square 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated $1.50 This book is a continuation of the adventures of "The Rival Campers" on their prize yacht _Viking_. =THE RIVAL CAMPERS ASHORE= By RUEL PERLEY SMITH. Square 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated $1.50 "As interesting ashore as when afloat."--_The Interior._ =THE RIVAL CAMPERS AMONG THE OYSTER PIRATES=; OR, JACK HARVEY'S ADVENTURES. By RUEL PERLEY SMITH. Illustrated $1.50 "Just the type of book which is most popular with lads who are in their early teens."--_The Philadelphia Item._ =A TEXAS BLUE BONNET= By EMILIA ELLIOTT. 12mo, illustrated $1.50 "The book's heroine Blue Bonnet has the very finest kind of wholesome, honest lively girlishness and cannot but make friends with every one who meets her through the book as medium."--_Chicago Inter-Ocean._ =BLUE BONNET'S RANCH PARTY= A Sequel to "A Texas Blue Bonnet." By EMILIA ELLIOTT. 12mo, illustrated $1.50 The new story begins where the first volume leaves off and takes Blue Bonnet and the "We Are Seven Club" to the ranch in Texas. The tables are completely turned: Blue Bonnet is here in her natural element, while her friends from Woodford have to learn the customs and traditions of another world. =THE GIRLS OF FRIENDLY TERRACE= OR, PEGGY RAYMOND'S SUCCESS. By HARRIET LUMMIS SMITH. 12mo, illustrated $1.50 This is a book that will gladden the hearts of many girl readers because of its charming air of comradeship and reality. It is a very interesting group of girls who live on Friendly Terrace and their good times and other times are graphically related by the author, who shows a sympathetic knowledge of girl character. =FAMOUS LEADERS SERIES= _By CHARLES H. L. JOHNSTON_ _Each, large 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated_ $1.50 =FAMOUS CAVALRY LEADERS= Biographical sketches, with anecdotes and reminiscences, of the heroes of history who were leaders of cavalry. "More of such books should be written, books that acquaint young readers with historical personages in a pleasant informal way."--_N. Y. Sun._ =FAMOUS INDIAN CHIEFS= In this book Mr. Johnston gives interesting sketches of the Indian braves who have figured with prominence in the history of our own land, including Powhatan, the Indian Cæsar; Massasoit, the friend of the Puritans; Pontiac, the red Napoleon; Tecumseh, the famous war chief of the Shawnees; Sitting Bull, the famous war chief of the Sioux; Geronimo, the renowned Apache Chief, etc. =FAMOUS PRIVATEERSMEN AND ADVENTURERS OF THE SEA.= In this volume Mr. Johnston tells interesting stories about the famous sailors of fortune. There are tales of Captain Otway Burns, patriot, privateer and legislator; Woodes Rogers, scourge of the South Sea trade; Captain William Death, wolf of the ocean; and of many others. =FAMOUS SCOUTS= "It is the kind of a book that will have a great fascination for boys and young men and while it entertains them it will also present valuable information in regard to those who have left their impress upon the history of the country."--_The New London Day._ =FAMOUS FRONTIERSMEN AND HEROES OF THE BORDER= This book is devoted to a description of the adventurous lives and stirring experiences of many pioneer heroes who were prominently identified with the opening of the great west. The stories of these border heroes are graphically presented, and their desperate battles with Indians, border desperadoes, and wild beasts are splendidly told. =BEAUTIFUL JOE'S PARADISE.=; OR, THE ISLAND OF BROTHERLY LOVE. A Sequel to "Beautiful Joe." By MARSHALL SAUNDERS, author of "Beautiful Joe." One vol., library 12mo, cloth illustrated $1.50 "This book revives the spirit of 'Beautiful Joe' capitally. It is fairly riotous with fun, and is about as unusual as anything in the animal book line that has seen the light."--_Philadelphia Item._ ='TILDA JANE.= By MARSHALL SAUNDERS. One vol., 12mo, fully illustrated, cloth decorative, $1.50 "I cannot think of any better book for children than this. I commend it unreservedly."--_Cyrus T. Brady._ ='TILDA JANE'S ORPHANS.= A sequel to "'Tilda Jane." By MARSHALL SAUNDERS. One vol., 12mo, fully illustrated, cloth decorative, $1.50 'Tilda Jane is the same original, delightful girl, and as fond of her animal pets as ever. ='TILDA JANE IN CALIFORNIA.= A Sequel to "'Tilda Jane," and "'Tilda Jane's Orphans." By MARSHALL SAUNDERS. One vol., 12mo, fully illustrated, cloth decorative, $1.50 The scene of the story is sunny California, where the heroine, 'Tilda Jane, an Eastern girl of high resolves and warm impulses, goes on a long visit to distant relatives. Many of the other beloved characters in the previous "'Tilda Jane" books are introduced in this story. =THE STORY OF THE GRAVELYS.= By MARSHALL SAUNDERS, author of "Beautiful Joe's Paradise," "'Tilda Jane," etc. Library 12mo, cloth decorative. Illustrated by E. B. Barry $1.50 Here we have the haps and mishaps, the trials and triumphs, of a delightful New England family. =BORN TO THE BLUE.= By FLORENCE KIMBALL RUSSEL. 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated $1.25 The atmosphere of army life on the plains breathes on every page of this delightful tale. The boy is the son of a captain of U. S. cavalry stationed at a frontier post in the days when our regulars earned the gratitude of a nation. =IN WEST POINT GRAY= By FLORENCE KIMBALL RUSSEL. 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated $1.50 "Singularly enough one of the best books of the year for boys is written by a woman and deals with life at West Point. The presentment of life in the famous military academy whence so many heroes have graduated is realistic and enjoyable."--_New York Sun._ =THE SANDMAN: HIS FARM STORIES= By WILLIAM J. HOPKINS. With fifty illustrations by Ada Clendenin Williamson. Large 12mo, decorative cover $1.50 "An amusing, original book, written for the benefit of very small children. It should be one of the most popular of the year's books for reading to small children."--_Buffalo Express._ =THE SANDMAN: MORE FARM STORIES= By WILLIAM J. HOPKINS. Large 12mo, decorative cover, fully illustrated $1.50 Mr. Hopkins's first essay at bedtime stories met with such approval that this second book of "Sandman" tales was issued for scores of eager children. Life on the farm, and out-of-doors, is portrayed in his inimitable manner. =THE SANDMAN: HIS SHIP STORIES= By WILLIAM J. HOPKINS, author of "The Sandman: His Farm Stories," etc. Large 12mo, decorative cover, fully illustrated $1.50 "Children call for these stories over and over again."--_Chicago Evening Post._ =THE SANDMAN: HIS SEA STORIES= By WILLIAM J. HOPKINS. Large 12mo, decorative cover, fully illustrated $1.50 Each year adds to the popularity of this unique series of stories to be read to the little ones at bed time and at other times. =THE DOCTOR'S LITTLE GIRL= By MARION AMES TAGGART. One vol., library 12mo, illustrated $1.50 A thoroughly enjoyable tale of a little girl and her comrade father, written in a delightful vein of sympathetic comprehension of the child's point of view. "The characters are strongly drawn with a life-like realism, the incidents are well and progressively sequenced, and the action is so well timed that the interest never slackens."--_Boston Ideas._ =SWEET NANCY= THE FURTHER ADVENTURES OF THE DOCTOR'S LITTLE GIRL. By MARION AMES TAGGART. One vol., library 12mo, illustrated $1.50 In the new book, the author tells how Nancy becomes in fact "the doctor's assistant," and continues to shed happiness around her. =NANCY, THE DOCTOR'S LITTLE PARTNER= By MARION AMES TAGGART. One vol., library 12mo, illustrated $1.50 In Nancy Porter, Miss Taggart has created one of the most lovable child characters in recent years. In the new story she is the same bright and cheerful little maid. =NANCY PORTER'S OPPORTUNITY= By MARION AMES TAGGART. One vol., library 12mo, illustrated $1.50 Already as the "doctor's partner" Nancy Porter has won the affection of her readers, and in the same lovable manner she continues in the new book to press the keynotes of optimism and good-will. =ALMA AT HADLEY HALL= By LOUISE BREITENBACH. One vol., 12mo, illustrated $1.50 "This delightful tale of boarding-school life is one that cannot fail to appeal to the lover of good things in girls' books. It will take rank for its naturalness and truth."--_Portland Press._ =GABRIEL AND THE HOUR BOOK= By EVALEEN STEIN. Small quarto, cloth decorative, illustrated and decorated in colors by Adelaide Everhart $1.00 Gabriel was a loving, patient, little French lad, who assisted the monks in the long ago days, when all the books were written and illuminated by hand, in the monasteries. "No works in juvenile fiction contain so many of the elements that stir the hearts of children and grown-ups as well as do the stories so admirably told by this author."--_Louisville Daily Courier._ =A LITTLE SHEPHERD OF PROVENCE= By EVALEEN STEIN. Cloth, 12mo, illustrated by Diantha H. Marlowe $1.25 "The story should be one of the influences in the life of every child to whom good stories can be made to appeal."--_Public Ledger._ =THE LITTLE COUNT OF NORMANDY= By EVALEEN STEIN. Cloth, 12mo, illustrated by John Goss $1.25 "This touching and pleasing story is told with a wealth of interest coupled with enlivening descriptions of the country where its scenes are laid and of the people thereof."--_Wilmington Every Evening_. =ALYS-ALL-ALONE= By UNA MACDONALD. Cloth, 12mo, illustrated $1.50 "This is a most delightful, well-written, heart-stirring, happy ending story, which will gladden the heart of many a reader."--_Scranton Times._ =ALYS IN HAPPYLAND.= A Sequel to "Alys-All Alone." By UNA MACDONALD. Cloth, 12mo, illustrated $1.50 "The book is written with that taste and charm that prepare younger readers for the appreciation of good literature when they are older."--_Chicago Tribune._ =THE RED FEATHERS.= By G. E. T. ROBERTS. Cloth decorative, illustrated $1.50 "The Red Feathers" tells of the remarkable adventures of an Indian boy who lived in the Stone Age, many years ago, when the world was young. =FLYING PLOVER.= By G. E. THEODORE ROBERTS. Cloth decorative. Illustrated by Charles Livingston Bull $1.00 Squat-By-The-Fire is a very old and wise Indian who lives alone with her grandson, "Flying Plover," to whom she tells the stories each evening. =COMRADES OF THE TRAILS.= By G. E. THEODORE ROBERTS. Cloth decorative. Illustrated by Charles Livingston Bull $1.50 The story of a fearless young English lad, Dick Ramsey, who, after the death of his father, crosses the seas and takes up the life of a hunter in the Canadian forests. =MARCHING WITH MORGAN.= HOW DONALD LOVELL BECAME A SOLDIER OF THE REVOLUTION. By JOHN V. LANE. Cloth decorative, illustrated $1.50 This is a splendid boy's story of the expedition of Montgomery and Arnold against Quebec. =RODNEY, THE RANGER=, OR, WITH DANIEL MORGAN ON TRAIL AND BATTLEFIELD. By JOHN V. LANE. Cloth decorative, illustrated $1.50 Young Rodney Allison, although but fifteen years of age, played a man's part in the troublous times preceding the American Revolution and in the War itself. =CHINESE PLAYMATES= By NORMAN H. PITMAN. Small cloth 12mo, illustrated $1.00 A worth-while, happy little story about two little Chinese boys, Lo-Lo and Ta-Ta, and the strange fortunes that befell them when they wandered from home. =THE YOUNG SECTION-HAND=; OR, THE ADVENTURES OF ALLAN WEST. By BURTON E. STEVENSON. Square 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated $1.50 Mr. Stevenson's hero is a manly lad of sixteen, who is given a chance as a section-hand on a big Western railroad, and whose experiences are as real as they are thrilling. =THE YOUNG TRAIN DISPATCHER.= By BURTON E. STEVENSON. Square 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated $1.50 "A better book for boys has never left an American press."--_Springfield Union._ =THE YOUNG TRAIN MASTER.= By BURTON E. STEVENSON. Square 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated $1.50 "Nothing better in the way of a book of adventure for boys in which the actualities of life are set forth in a practical way could be devised or written."--_Boston Herald._ =CAPTAIN JACK LORIMER.= By WINN STANDISH. Square 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated $1.50 Jack is a fine example of the all-around American high-school boy. =JACK LORIMER'S CHAMPIONS=; OR, SPORTS ON LAND AND LAKE. By WINN STANDISH. Square 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated $1.50 "It is exactly the sort of book to give a boy interested in athletics, for it shows him what it means to always 'play fair.'"--_Chicago Tribune._ =JACK LORIMER'S HOLIDAYS=; OR, MILLVALE HIGH IN CAMP. By WINN STANDISH. Illustrated $1.50 Full of just the kind of fun, sports and adventure to excite the healthy minded youngster to emulation. =JACK LORIMER'S SUBSTITUTE=; OR, THE ACTING CAPTAIN OF THE TEAM. By WINN STANDISH. Illustrated $1.50 On the sporting side, this book takes up football, wrestling, tobogganing, but it is more of a _school_ story perhaps than any of its predecessors. THE LITTLE COUSIN SERIES (Trade Mark) Each one vol., 12mo, decorative cover, cloth, with full-page illustrations in color. Price per volume $0.60 _By MARY HAZELTON WADE unless otherwise indicated_ =Our Little African Cousin= =Our Little Alaskan Cousin= By Mary F. Nixon-Roulet =Our Little Arabian Cousin= By Blanche McManus =Our Little Argentine Cousin= By Eva Cannon Brooks =Our Little Armenian Cousin= =Our Little Australian Cousin= By Mary F. Nixon-Roulet =Our Little Belgian Cousin= By Blanche McManus =Our Little Bohemian Cousin= By Clara V. Winlow =Our Little Brazilian Cousin= By Mary F. Nixon-Roulet =Our Little Brown Cousin= =Our Little Canadian Cousin= By Elizabeth R. Macdonald =Our Little Chinese Cousin= By Isaac Taylor Headland =Our Little Cuban Cousin= =Our Little Danish Cousin= By Luna May Innes =Our Little Dutch Cousin= By Blanche McManus =Our Little Egyptian Cousin= By Blanche McManus =Our Little English Cousin= By Blanche McManus =Our Little Eskimo Cousin= =Our Little French Cousin= By Blanche McManus =Our Little German Cousin= =Our Little Grecian Cousin= By Mary F. Nixon-Roulet =Our Little Hawaiian Cousin= =Our Little Hindu Cousin= By Blanche McManus =Our Little Hungarian Cousin= By Mary F. Nixon-Roulet =Our Little Indian Cousin= =Our Little Irish Cousin= =Our Little Italian Cousin= =Our Little Japanese Cousin= =Our Little Jewish Cousin= =Our Little Korean Cousin= By H. Lee M. Pike =Our Little Mexican Cousin= By Edward C. Butler =Our Little Norwegian Cousin= =Our Little Panama Cousin= By H. Lee M. Pike =Our Little Persian Cousin= By E. C. Shedd =Our Little Philippine Cousin= =Our Little Polish Cousin= By Florence E. Mendel =Our Little Porto Rican Cousin= =Our Little Portuguese Cousin= By Edith A. Sawyer =Our Little Russian Cousin= =Our Little Scotch Cousin= By Blanche McManus =Our Little Siamese Cousin= =Our Little Spanish Cousin= By Mary F. Nixon-Roulet =Our Little Swedish Cousin= By Claire M. Coburn =Our Little Swiss Cousin= =Our Little Turkish Cousin= COSY CORNER SERIES It is the intention of the publishers that this series shall contain only the very highest and purest literature,--stories that shall not only appeal to the children themselves, but be appreciated by all those who feel with them in their joys and sorrows. The numerous illustrations in each book are by well-known artists, and each volume has a separate attractive cover design. Each 1 vol., 16mo, cloth $0.50 _By ANNIE FELLOWS JOHNSTON_ =THE LITTLE COLONEL= (Trade Mark.) The scene of this story is laid in Kentucky. Its heroine is a small girl, who is known as the Little Colonel, on account of her fancied resemblance to an old-school Southern gentleman, whose fine estate and old family are famous in the region. =THE GIANT SCISSORS= This is the story of Joyce and of her adventures in France. Joyce is a great friend of the Little Colonel, and in later volumes shares with her the delightful experiences of the "House Party" and the "Holidays." =TWO LITTLE KNIGHTS OF KENTUCKY= WHO WERE THE LITTLE COLONEL'S NEIGHBORS. In this volume the Little Colonel returns to us like an old friend, but with added grace and charm. She is not, however, the central figure of the story, that place being taken by the "two little knights." =MILDRED'S INHERITANCE= A delightful little story of a lonely English girl who comes to America and is befriended by a sympathetic American family who are attracted by her beautiful speaking voice. By means of this one gift she is enabled to help a school-girl who has temporarily lost the use of her eyes, and thus finally her life becomes a busy, happy one. =CICELY AND OTHER STORIES FOR GIRLS= The readers of Mrs. Johnston's charming juveniles will be glad to learn of the issue of this volume for young people. =AUNT 'LIZA'S HERO AND OTHER STORIES= A collection of six bright little stories, which will appeal to all boys and most girls. =BIG BROTHER= A story of two boys. The devotion and care of Stephen, himself a small boy, for his baby brother, is the theme of the simple tale. =OLE MAMMY'S TORMENT= "Ole Mammy's Torment" has been fitly called "a classic of Southern life." It relates the haps and mishaps of a small negro lad, and tells how he was led by love and kindness to a knowledge of the right. =THE STORY OF DAGO= In this story Mrs. Johnston relates the story of Dago, a pet monkey, owned jointly by two brothers. Dago tells his own story, and the account of his haps and mishaps is both interesting and amusing. =THE QUILT THAT JACK BUILT= A pleasant little story of a boy's labor of love, and how it changed the course of his life many years after it was accomplished. =FLIP'S ISLANDS OF PROVIDENCE= A story of a boy's life battle, his early defeat, and his final triumph, well worth the reading. * * * * * Transcriber's Notes: Obvious punctuation errors repaired. Advertising pages, page 14, "f" changed to "of" (classic of Southern life) 
36937	----	1. Page scan source: http://www.archive.org/details/judithtrachtenb00lewigoog JUDITH TRACHTENBERG A Novel By KARL EMIL FRANZOS AUTHOR OF "FOR THE RIGHT" ETC. TRANSLATED BY (Mrs.) L. P. and C. T. LEWIS NEW YORK HARPER & BROTHERS, FRANKLIN SQUARE 1891 Copyright, 1891, by Harper & Brothers. * * * _All rights reserved_. JUDITH TRACHTENBERG. CHAPTER I. About sixty years ago, during the reign of the Emperor Francis the First, there lived in a small town in Eastern Galicia an excellent man, who had been greatly favored by fortune. His name was Nathaniel Trachtenberg; his occupation was that of a chandler. He had inherited from his father a modest business, which he had increased by his energy and perseverance, by adding to it the manufacture of wax candles, and by the admirable quality of his goods. Possibly, also, by the wise moderation he used in demanding payment, which had secured nearly all the noble families of the country as his patrons. His intellectual progress kept pace with his increase of riches. Richly endowed by nature, he acquired, by his intercourse with those of superior position and by the numerous journeys he made to the West for business purposes, a higher degree of culture than was usual with his co-religionists of that period. He spoke and wrote German fluently; he read the Vienna papers regularly, and even occasionally a poet, such as Schiller or Lessing. But, no matter how widely his opinions might vary from those of his less-cultivated co-religionists as to the aims and purposes of life, he bound himself closely to them in matters of dress and style of living, and not only conformed to every command of the Law, but carried out every injunction of the rabbis with punctilious exactitude. "You do not know the atmosphere we breathe," he was accustomed to say to his progressive Jewish friends in Breslau and Vienna. "It does not matter as to my opinion of the sinfulness of carrying a stick on the Sabbath, but it is important to prove to them by the example of a man they respect that one may read German books, talk with Christians in correct German, and still be a pious Jew. Therefore it would be a sin if my _talar_ were replaced by a German coat. Do you suppose, either, it would bring me closer to the gentry? No, indeed. They would only regard it as an impotent attempt to raise myself to their level. So we better-educated Jews must remain as we are for the present, at least, as regards externals." This was the result of serious conviction, he always added; and how serious, he proved by the method of education which he pursued with his two children, his wife having died while she was still quite young. There was a boy, Raphael, and a girl, Judith. The latter gave promise of great beauty. Both received a careful education, in accordance with the requirements of the age, from a tutor, one Herr Bergheimer, who had been brought from Mayence by Trachtenberg. But their religious training was cared for by the father himself. "I will not say," he once told the tutor, "whether or not I consider it a misfortune to have been born a Jew. I have my own ideas on the subject, which might shock your simple faith. Whether good or ill, it is our fate, and must be borne with equanimity. Therefore I wish my children educated with the most profound reverence for Judaism. The humiliations which will come to them because of their nation I can neither prevent nor modify, so I wish they should have the comfort of feeling in their struggles in life that they are suffering for something which is dear to them and is worth the pain." With this feeling he strove to stifle in their minds every germ of hatred towards Christians, and at the same time he early accustomed them to the idea that, sooner or later, they must run the gantlet because of their creed, and even because of the cast of their features. "They must learn to endure," he would say, with a sad smile. And so he allowed Raphael and Judith to associate with Christian children belonging to families who, for private reasons, were glad to pay some attention to the wealthy Jewish fabricant. Trachtenberg thought this intercourse of small consequence, never dreaming it might exercise an influence over the character of his children quite the opposite of that he would like. And it could not but make an impression on the youthful minds growing up on a borderland where the musty air of the Ghetto mingled with another air no whit purer, compounded, as it was, of the incense of a fanatical creed and the pestilential gases of decaying Polish aristocracy. Separated from the Jewish children of the town by mode of life, manner of speech, and learning, they were not less divided from their Christian play-fellows by instinct and prejudices which made a really hearty sympathy and intercourse impossible. Whoever looks into a child's heart knows well it can surrender every other necessity than that of loving and being loved. No matter how much the father might attempt to prevent a feeling of isolation for his darlings, the time came when, of necessity, he acknowledged to himself that he had not properly appreciated the bitterness which this feeling aroused, and when he was forced to stand by and look on helplessly as they sought for companionship with others of the same age. This happened when Raphael had reached his twenty-first and Judith her nineteenth year. They had just completed a course of dancing lessons, held in the house of Herr von Wroblewski, a magistrate, and one of Trachtenberg's most expensive acquaintances. Raphael, who was weary of bearing slights because of his curly hair and round eyes, resolved, bitterly, that he would never again enter the house of a Christian, but would find associates among those to whom he belonged by race and common woe. Judith's experience was just the contrary. She felt more and more at home among her Christian friends; and went to her Hebrew lessons with a frown. But their father's authority prevented any complete change in their way of life, so they complied with his requirements just as little as they could. The wise man recognized the fact that his intentions were combated by the strongest of human emotions--self-satisfaction on the one side, on the other injured self-love. Poor Raphael was doubly hateful to his partners in the dance because he was a Jew, whereas the premature beauty of his sister entranced her youthful admirers, because they could cherish hopes as regarded her on account of her race which would not have entered their minds towards a girl belonging to their own class. At times it troubled Trachtenberg's mind lest this "childishness" should have a permanent influence upon their lives. But accustomed, as he had been for so many years, to keen calculation rather than to doubtful presentiments, he felt his forebodings vanish when he remembered his carefully laid plans for the future, which he thought could not be interfered with by these inclinations, but, so he sometimes sought to persuade himself, were even promoted by them. He had intended his son for the law, not only because, like the rest of his race, he considered a diploma of a doctor of laws the highest of honors, but because he aspired to have him a model and a champion for his co-religionists. As Raphael was to pass his life in Galicia, it was well he should have this feeling for the oppressed awakened early, since it would nerve him for his destined work; while Judith, whom her father proposed to marry to some enlightened and educated German Jew, could best acquire that knowledge of etiquette and refinement which she would need in her future home in Christian society. Influenced by these considerations, Trachtenberg allowed matters to take their own course as long as he feared no break in their mutual affection. But their relations were becoming more and more strained, and it was difficult for the father to decide which was most to blame. The alienation which had arisen did not spring from lack of love, or from difference in mental constitution. Moreover, Raphael and Judith bore not the slightest physical resemblance to each other, he being an awkward, haggard youth with a pale, sharply cut face, above which was a forest of crinkly-black hair; while she was a sweet, delicate rosebud of a girl, her beautiful brow crowned with masses of rich auburn hair; and although her cheerfulness and love of gayety contrasted strongly with his morose and gloomy manners, yet in vital matters they showed they were children of the same mother. Both were gifted, sensitive, and fastidious; both ambitious and proud; both self-conscious to defiance, and each dearer to the other than life. It was this very equality of mental capacity that divided and embittered them. Each thought his own inclination the only right one, sensible, and just; each felt sorely wounded at the other's reproof; each worried about the other's future, and treasured up accidental or slighting observations relating to the other. She remembered the contemptuous sneer of the Polish ladies at the "gloomy follower of the Talmud;" he, every poisonous jest of the Ghetto about the "renegade." And so it came to pass that, though their love was really intact, yet outwardly they were almost in open warfare, and, urged on by pride and defiance, they went further than they themselves would have thought possible. Because Judith despised Jewish acquaintances, Raphael swore enmity towards all Christians; and because he became more and more observant of the ritual, she neglected it altogether. But their acquaintances were the chief cause of contention. She made fun of his friends in the Ghetto, their modes of speech, thought, and life; and indeed she had sufficient cause. Raphael never wearied of speaking disdainfully of the magistrate and his social circle, and he required no power of invention to find grounds for his criticisms. Herr Ludwig von Wroblewski was in position, though not in public estimation, the most important man in the town; for the people could not pardon certain traits which, good in themselves, were not in him because of his office. While many men in similar position, with antiquated ideas, tried to supervise the entire parish, urging the rate-payers to improve their roads and bridges, he was of the opinion that full-grown men ought to be able to manage their own affairs best; and while they hunted down criminals, he, so it appeared, thought the consciousness of crime sufficient punishment for the evil-doer. Squabbles about money and land were painful to him also, if plaintiff and defendant happened to be poor people, in which case he found it best to let the case slide. When, however, it was otherwise, he gave his undivided attention; and while other judges contented themselves with acting upon the written case, he allowed each party to present his arguments _cum solo_. There were few judges who were so careful, under such circumstances, to be just to each. For instance, if the plaintiff brought a thousand proofs and the defendant but five hundred, he gave himself no rest till he had produced another five hundred. This, of course, delayed justice very much. If there was no other way, Herr von Wroblewski left it to fate, and cut cards about it--the highest card winning. One need not be astonished at that, for he was very much at home with cards, since every busy man must have his recreation. Indeed, Herr von Wroblewski not only recruited himself every evening with this amusement, but mornings and afternoons as well, when he could find a partner. He played everything, but as a liberal and an enemy of bureaucracy, chiefly the forbidden games of hazard. Away from home his luck often changed, but at his own table--he lived in the _bel étage_ of Trachtenberg's house--he always won. This curious circumstance was frequently mentioned, and did not tend to increase the respect in which he was held. Perhaps here, too, the proverb, "If good luck in play, then bad luck in love," held good with Herr von Wroblewski, for, though he had been dangerous to many ladies of the town, he could lay claim to very little tenderness within his own four walls. His wife, Lady Anna, a stout fair lady on the verge of forty, belonged to an old Polish family, was an ardent adherent of the Metternich _régime_, and leaned on the church and the army. It was rather difficult for her to decide whether she would rather be supported by the fat Dominican prior, Pater Hieronymus, or the supple Rittmeister, Herr von Bariassy. Her girlish years had been passed in the house of her aunt, the wife of the highest official in Lemberg, and she had become so agreeable to the childless pair that her grateful uncle had given her a dowry and a husband, and was so good as to provide for her even after marriage. She seemed to have preserved pleasant reminiscences of him, which possibly accounted for the freak of nature which made her eldest daughter Wanda so singularly like her dear uncle. This influential man sustained Herr Ludwig in his office, despite the incessant complaints raised against him; and so it got to be that the worthies of the town considered themselves justified in being neither stricter nor severer than the government. The receptions at the magistrate's house were the most brilliant in the neighborhood, no one absenting himself voluntarily. Judith used to taunt her brother with this when he expressed his contempt for the man, and even Trachtenberg would say: "You are young, and think to better the world. But when you are older you will find there is but one way of doing it, which is to better yourself. It is impossible for me to do more in our times and circumstances. Certainly, Wroblewski is a corruptible judge, a card-sharper, and a scoundrel. But would he change if I ceased to hold intercourse with him? I have never used my influence with him for evil; and when he has proposed I should be his agent in a disreputable affair, I have always declined. He brings me custom, and therefore he lives in this house rent-free. He decides in my favor when I am obliged to sue, and for that receives twenty per cent. If I declined to give that, he would recommend other manufacturers, and I should lose my eighty per cent." "Very good! But Judith?" said Raphael. "Does your business require she should go to their receptions every Tuesday?" "Why should I not allow her this pleasure?" was the reply. "The host is contemptible, the wife not blameless, but the guests are different. The daughters of the physician and the chemist come regularly--carefully trained daughters of good parents. They run no danger; why should your sister?" "They not, but Judith!" How often had Raphael had these words on his tongue and withheld them! What ground could he give for his fears? He had no facts to offer, only observations which his father would have condemned as the result of prejudice. A year passed by with these unpleasant episodes. Raphael was to visit a university, and the father decided upon Heidelberg. Bergheimer was to accompany him and remain for some months. Trachtenberg also gave the old master another commission. He was to look out for a suitable husband for Judith. For, as she had developed into a greater beauty than the tenderest of fathers could have expected, and as he was not unmindful of his wealth, he thought no one too good for her. So, too, since he had learned to appreciate the Jews of West Germany during his journeyings there, an educated, cultivated bridegroom from that quarter was the height of his ambition. Judith surmised nothing, partly, perhaps, because she was so filled with sorrow over the departure of her dearly loved brother. True, she was doubly eager just then in her intercourse with Christians, declining no invitation to dance or picnic; but she would have relinquished a whole year of this pleasure if Raphael had, by a single word, given her a chance to confess her penitence and love. Yet it was impossible to make this avowal without some encouragement, especially as Raphael became more and more gloomy and inaccessible, really because he was burdened with the same misery. The day before his departure finally arrived--a sunny September day--and early that morning Judith made up her mind to pocket her pride and have the longed-for interview. A chance prevented it. This day, ill-omened for the house of Trachtenberg, was a festival day for the other inhabitants of the town. The new lord of the manor, Count Agenor Baranowski, was to take possession of his estates. Much depended on winning his good-will, as, owing to his immense property, he was the most influential man in the province. Therefore they had decorated the houses, improved the roads, and even swept the streets. The Jews had been most zealous in all this, and had used quantities of garlands and much colored paper, not because they were particularly in favor with him, but because he had the reputation of hating the Jews. Raphael used his severest satire in criticising this "slavish humility," but his father differed from him. His house was the most handsomely decorated of any, and from the gables there actually flew the light-blue and silver colors of the Baranowski. But he did not interfere with Raphael, who wished to go for a walk till the comedy should have been played out; though he himself went to the triumphal arch, which had been erected near his house, so that he might welcome the count as deputy for the Jews, while Judith went to the first _étage_. The magistrate's apartment did not make a very good impression by daylight. The threadbare velvet of the furniture, with dust in every nook and cranny, and the curious medley of grand and shabby furniture were very apparent. It was quite in harmony for Lady Anna, her full form squeezed into a red silk dress, and her head surmounted by a pyramid of artificial flowers, to be bustling about with a duster in her hand, giving orders to her servants and receiving her guests at the same time. For Herr von Wroblewski had made the count's acquaintance in Lemberg, and had taken care to have the honor of receiving him in his house the very first evening. Many guests had been invited from the neighborhood, and part of them had arrived in the morning. The gentlemen were at the triumphal arch, while the ladies were to view the procession from the windows. The handsome hostess was fuming inwardly, still she had a friendly word for all, even for Judith. "Why, child, how pretty you have made yourself today!" she exclaimed; and in truth the girl, in a dress of blue print, looked charming. The curls, clustering around her delicate forehead, shone like spun gold, and her neck was circled by a white silk ribbon with long ends. "And you are wearing the count's colors," she continued, playfully shaking her finger. "How clever you are!" "A mere coincidence," stammered Judith, blushing painfully; and she spoke the truth. Lady Anna laughed. "You need not fib about it. I only wish I had been clever enough to think of it for Wanda. It is a pity you are not coming this evening; but, as it is, there are over a hundred invited, and I shiver when I think of the supper. At any rate, I have kept a good place for you at the window," and she led her to the most distant corner, where she had stowed away some poor relations, who had to consider the invitation as an undeserved honor, and so could not grumble at the company of the Jewess. The spectators in the street below were squeezed in between the guards of honor, composed of peasants of the vicinity, and made futile attempts to reach the triumphal arch, where the worthies of the town had taken their position--on the right the magistrate, the prior, the burgomaster, and some others; on the left Nathaniel, the rabbi, and some Jews who carried the Thora rolls under a red baldachino. Judith could not see much of it, and Lady Anna's nieces used their elbows; but, fortunately, they did not wait long. The salvos of artillery boomed, the monastery bells began to peal, and then the committee of peasants, chosen to escort their master, appeared, followed by his carriage, from which he alighted quickly. The burgomaster (he was the apothecary of the town) began his address. He was a small, thin man, with a shrivelled-up face, who, when silent, made one think of a sick chicken; but he had a lion's voice in his throat, and was celebrated as the Demosthenes of the countryside. He did not discredit his reputation on this occasion, as he plunged with enthusiasm into the depths of the Middle Ages, raising the query as to whether the family of the Baranowskis was more ancient than that of the Jagellon, and thus embracing a comprehensive glance over Polish history. Count Agenor, a young, well-built man, with a sad, handsome face, which was very pale by contrast with his jet-black beard, listened attentively at first, and then began to look about him. His eyes swept the windows of the Trachtenberg house, and Judith colored violently, for she saw distinctly how his face kindled as they rested on her window. Was this for her? Her neighbors remarked it, too, and one hissed to the other, "The colors have had effect!" She heard it distinctly, and was about to withdraw, but the apothecary just at that moment ended his speech; the crowd shouted "Huzza!" The count said a few words of thanks, and was about to enter his carriage again, when Nathaniel stepped forward. She saw how the young nobleman turned impatiently away and looked up at her window, and again she blushed painfully. Her father said but a few words; the count thanked him by an inclination of his head, and, preceded by his escort, he drove on. As he passed the window, he looked up and saluted, placing his hand on his jewelled _konfederatka_. "It is evident he has no liking for us," Trachtenberg remarked at dinner, a few hours later; but when Raphael made another cutting observation, he said, good-humoredly, "Do you think he would like us better if, contrary to usage and good-breeding, we had taken no part in his welcome?" Raphael made no reply, but sat looking moodier than ever, until, dinner ended, he quitted the room, going, as he said, to pack his trunks. Judith then plucked up courage and offered her assistance, somewhat flippantly, indeed, making a jest of his awkwardness. She adopted this manner to keep up her courage and to prepare an opening for escape in case of a snub; but Raphael heard only the mockery, and answered, bitterly, that he would be able to do without help, and left the room angrily. Still she kept to her good resolutions, and was glad when another opportunity was thrown in her way. Late that afternoon, shortly after Von Wroblewski had returned from the reception at the Baranowski castle, Wanda came running down-stairs to beg Judith, in her mother's name, to go up that evening, as several young ladies had declined just at the last moment. This had frequently occurred, and, owing to their intimacy, Judith had taken it in good part. But on this occasion she declined, since it was Raphael's last evening at home. Wanda, however, would not allow this. "You must come! Bring Raphael with you." He had not gone on their stairs for more than a year, and that Lady Anna should invite "that gloomy follower of the Talmud" to her most brilliant party was surprising. It shot through her brain--"She is inviting him because she knows he will not go." So she answered she would accept the invitation with pleasure if she could induce Raphael to do so too. When Wanda grew excited, protesting she scarcely dared go up-stairs with such a reply, as "mamma and papa laid such stress on her coming; papa in particular," Judith was surprised, but answered all the more obstinately, until, after repeated entreaties from Wanda, she at last went to her brother. Her heart throbbed as she opened the door. He sat at his empty work-table, his head resting on his hand, gazing at the candles. With difficulty she made her request. "In what good taste!" he sneered. "Of course, I will not go, but I will not prevent your going. It would be a sacrifice to you, and no pleasure to me." His tone roused her spirit of defiance. "If it is a matter of such indifference to you, I have nothing more to say." "But I have," he thundered, seizing her arm. "It is the last time, and therefore I will speak more plainly than I have as yet. You are no longer a child, Judith, and can you not see the rôle you play among those people? You are a Jewess, and they think no more of you than I do of our house-dog. Were you as beautiful as the Shunamite, as wise as the Queen of Sheba, and as good as an angel of the Lord, still you are a Jewess, and consequently not a being like themselves. Do you not feel that? My God, girl, are you insensible to this shame?" "You are talking wildly," she said, contemptuously. "You are blinded by hurt pride. Of course, if one brings the air of the Ghetto into a drawing-room, one ought not to complain," and she attempted to free her arm. But he held her. "Go on!" he said. "Say what you like, my tender sister, but then listen to me. Do you understand why they invite you? Just inquire of my father's ledger." "The old story," she exclaimed, and tore her arm away. "Well, then," he cried, in great excitement, "listen to something else, which I have kept from you. You are not a child, but a full-grown, beautiful girl, Judith--beautiful and a Jewess. Have you really never noticed that these young cavaliers treat you differently from the Christian ladies, that they allow themselves more liberties?" She stood motionless, breathing hard. "You lie!" she ejaculated. "I would to God I did!" he answered, clasping his hands in despair. "Then I could travel to-morrow with an easier conscience. Be warned, my sister! That gentleman up-stairs does not only invite you because he owes father his rent, but also because the young gentlemen whose money he wins like to have fun with the beautiful Jewess. Guard your soul, my sister; guard your honor; you will not have been the first that--" She had listened to him as if paralyzed with indignation. Now she stepped up to him, her face so pale and distorted that he shrank back involuntarily. She wished to speak, but her voice failed her. "May God forgive you!" she at last ejaculated, hoarsely, and staggeringly left the room. Hurrying to her own room, she bolted the door and lay down upon the bed. There she stayed in the darkness for at least two hours, fighting with her emotions. Anger at her insulted pride and the unjust accusations raged through her pulses; her fingers twisted together as if she were throttling her insulter. But it was Raphael, and that it was he, her most beloved creature on earth, who had so stained her innocent pleasures and herself, caused the tears to well to her eyes. But were these tears as innocent as they seemed? Up to that hour Judith had been one of the purest of Nature's children; her blood suggested no evil desire, nor did her fancy paint alluring pictures. Her innocence had draped her eyes like a veil. But now the veil, indeed, was not rent, but it grew more and more transparent the more she pondered on these things. Her cheeks burned more from shame than from tears, and she was forced to surrender herself helplessly to these ugly thoughts. But this accusation, painful as it was, roused her. Her anger reasserted itself--her anger and defiance--and pushed everything else into the background. She would think no more about it; she did not wish to know if he were right; he was not right, of that she was sure. He was blinded by his antipathy to Christians. She was blameless, and was she to be buried alive to gratify him? Just then she heard Wanda knocking at her door and begging her to hasten. Answering "I will be there directly," she washed the tears from her cheeks, called her maid, and dressed. When she entered the drawing-room, a half-hour later, Lady Anna came to meet her, supported by the church. "At last!" she exclaimed, delightedly. "And this must be your lucky day. I have rarely seen you look so pretty." In fact, her excitement had imparted an additional charm to her lovely face. The stout cleric grinned like a faun, and stroked chin. "Ha, ha! how her cheeks glow! Does her little heart beat so wildly?" He seemed inclined to prove the truth of his assertion. Judith turned deathly pale, and stepped back. "What do you mean?" Lady Anna whispered to her worthy admirer, who had evidently just come from the buffet. She glanced around, and saw they were forming a quadrille. Count Baranowski was fulfilling the disagreeable duty of dancing with the voluminous wife of the thin burgomaster. "Who knows," said Lady Anna, smiling, "what honor would have been yours if you had come earlier; now you must content yourself with young Wolczinski. Wladko!" The tall, clumsy fellow stumbled up hastily. "You will dance this quadrille with Judith." He hesitated. "I am--I have--" he stammered. "What? already engaged?" "No, but--" "What then? too tired?" Lady Anna's eyes had not the pleasantest expression in the world just then. "Well, will you? _Allons!_" He shrugged his shoulders, and offered his arm to the girl. Judith followed him with bowed head, as if crushed by the humiliation. "Have I experienced these things before, and now for the first time notice them?" Wladko had, indeed, been rude to her often; both he and his sisters had cut her dead. But she had not taken it to heart, for she knew the reason. The head of the family, Herr Severin von Wolczinski, who had gotten rid of all his property with the exception of one small estate in close proximity to the town, had begged in vain for a loan from Nathaniel. The manufacturer's answer had always been the same. He would throw the account for goods received into the fire, but, on principle, he refused to lend money. The young gentleman did not speak; he even avoided looking at his partner. At last he conceived a bright idea. "'Pon my honor," he exclaimed, "now I recognize you. The candles burn badly. They are miserable stuff. Supplied, no doubt, by some cheating Jew for more than they are worth." Judith drew a long breath. "My father supplied them. They are both good and cheap, although he is often swindled of hard-earned money by some knavish nobleman." The bystanders became attentive, which annoyed "Wladko still more. "A nobleman never swindles," he asserted. "Oh, yes, at times they do. Ordering goods which one can never pay for is swindling." Some laughed. The prior, too, came staggering up, for he had just been visiting the buffet again, and could scarcely stand. "Wladko," he hiccoughed, "what are you quarrelling with the pretty Jewess about? You should kiss and make up." "Do you really think so?" The young fellow laughed nervously. The next moment he had thrown his arms around her form and had kissed her on the neck. The brave deed was rewarded by loud laughter and clapping of hands. Pale as death, and trembling from head to foot, Judith tore herself free. "What a cowardly, knavish, trick!" she exclaimed, indignantly. "You are right!" said a deep, sonorous voice, so loudly that it was distinctly heard above the noise. "It was a mean, cowardly trick!" The speaker was Agenor Baranowski. "Monsieur le Comte!" exclaimed Wladko. "I am at your service whenever you like. Will you do me the honor of taking my arm, mademoiselle?" He led her through the guests, who silently made way for them. "Where may I conduct you?" he inquired. "Is your mother here?" "I have no mother. But I live in the house." "I know you are the daughter of Herr Trachtenberg, who welcomed me so pleasantly to-day. Well, then, shall I take you to your housekeeper?" "No, only as far as the stairs, please," for she felt her strength failing her. He accompanied her to the stairs, and took leave of her with a profound bow. "But, Judith!" called Lady Anna, rushing out of the room. The girl did not hear her, and the count had returned to the salon. CHAPTER II. The next day people were talking everywhere of the kiss and its consequences. In the drawing-room of the magistrate, in the café of Aaron Siebenschläfer, where the Christian dignitaries assembled, and in the court of the synagogue, where the public opinion of the Ghetto originated. "That is the result," complained the Jews, "of allowing a Jewish child to frequent Christian balls. Why need she have been so irritable when the young gentleman made a joke about her father? But the innocent must expiate the sins committed by the guilty. Wladko and the count will have a duel, and if one is killed, or (may God forbid!) both of them, on whom will this blood rest? On us all; for a Jewish child was the cause!" "The impudent thing!" said the Christians. "She certainly is beautiful, and her beauty has bewitched the count. That is his only excuse. What had he to do with it? He ought to have kissed her, too. But, in the first place, she ought not to have been invited." Lady Anna had her excuse ready, and, when this was said to her, made answer: "She was invited at his express request. The little coquette attracted his attention at his _entrée_, and he immediately asked my husband her name, saying, when they parted, 'I shall be pleased to meet _all_ those pretty ladies again to-night.' Tell me what else I could do? Now I suppose the little upstart is proud of what she has done." There she made a mistake. The poor little beauty felt as if she could never show her face again to the world. Sorrow gnawed her heart, and tears poured over her pale cheeks. She had only left her own room once, early in the dawn, when the carriage drove up which was to carry her brother away. Then she fell on his neck, and covered his face, clothes, and hand with her tears and kisses, until he, too, wept with her. "Pardon me!" she stammered again and again. "You meant it for the best; you are always right; you were right last night, and I will remember it my life long." He had no knowledge of the painful scene of the preceding evening, nor had his father, who stood gazing affectionately on them. So they started on their journey with a light heart. Nathaniel was to accompany his son the first day, and would not be home until the next evening. Till then Judith kept in her room; even Lady Anna knocked in vain. She had come to have a sensible talk with the girl before Nathaniel's return. The old Jew was clever, but one could not tell how he would take the affair; and this was of great importance, as Herr von Wroblewski was thinking of applying for a considerable loan. She went away uneasily after hearing no sound behind the door, but she lost little in not having had a conversation. For, had Judith's own father told her she had been wrong in repaying insult with insult, she would not have believed him. She was convinced she had done what was right, and was also convinced she had hitherto been tolerated only by the people in whose society she had found such pleasure and delight. How humiliating the recollection of their friendliness, even more so than the remembrance of the insult! For while she thirsted passionately for revenge, it angered her to think of one even of that set with gratitude and respect. She recalled his glance in the morning; her face had led him on, or perhaps he wished to earn her regard. But again came the thought of his noble interposition in her behalf, of the deep respect he showed when leading her from the room, and his face rose before her--the pale, noble, commanding face with the sad eyes. "No," she sobbed, "he is no better than the others." Yet this decision brought no consolation to the poor heart but fresh grief. Another child of man was weeping inconsolably over the same event, but he was not beautiful as was the golden-haired Jewess. It was Herr Wladko von Wolczinski. And with him sobbed his father, mother, and four sisters, so that the whole house re-echoed with their lamentations. His cousin Jan was the only one who remained unmoved. "Howl away," he growled. "If you did not wish to fight a duel, you should not have allowed us to persuade you into sending a challenge. It's only twenty-five paces, and only once firing. Baby, do be a man! Shoot him down! You can hit a deer at twenty-five paces." "Jan," cried Wladko, "how can you be so heartless? Has a deer a pistol in its hand, aimed at me? It's a horrible thought!" Then, as the ladies kept up their quintet of sobs, old Herr Wolczinski determined to see if anything could be done to avert the calamity, and went to the magistrate. "I have no desire to reproach you," he began, gloomily and energetically, "but it is your duty to prevent bloodshed. Count Agenor is the last of his line; he ought not fall by the hand of a Wolczinski. Let him only write a brief apology, which we can insert in the _Lemberg Gazette_, and the duel will be stopped." Herr von Wroblewski had hard work to restrain his merriment, and indeed he did not entirely succeed. "I scarcely think that possible," he replied. "Count Agenor was a Uhlan officer before he succeeded to his estates, and left the service in high repute." "Indeed!" exclaimed the baron, affecting astonishment. "I did not know it. In that case we would only be giving him a choice between moral and physical death, which would be hard. Then we will only require a written apology, which we shall not publish." Herr von Wroblewski cleared his throat. "Well, then, we shall give no one occasion to say we are revengeful. An oral apology will suffice. We will invite a few gentlemen. Count Agenor can come to us, and--" The baron came to a stop. Herr von Wroblewski cleared his throat louder than ever. "Or--h'm--! We won't invite any one--or we could meet here! You, Wladko, the count, and myself, quite informally. He could just mutter something, as, 'I did not intend to give offence, etc.' They would shake hands, and--" Herr von Wroblewski was seized with a severe fit of coughing. "D---- it all!" swore the old gentleman, wiping the perspiration from his face. "We cannot make it easier. We couldn't go to him, so that he could say the few words. Or--h'm!--do you think we could?" "It would be very unusual," said the magistrate again, sober as the grave. "Unusual! That does not matter! _Mon Dieu!_ Everything must be done for the first time. My dear friend, I beg of you, I implore you to--" "I will do my best," promised Wroblewski, and he kept his word. He went to the count the very next day, and laughingly laid the proposition before him. Agenor laughed aloud. "It is impossible. I am an officer. No matter what I said to the boy, it would be regarded as an apology." "But you don't thirst for his blood. Just consider--a young fellow excited by champagne, and she a Jewess!" "He met her as your guest." "Yes, certainly! I do not intend to excuse Wladko. But be honest, my dear count. Would you have said anything if she had been ugly?" "Yes," said Agenor, seriously. "I do not love the Jews, as you know; quite the contrary; and not because of my experience with them as a young officer. But I find it quite natural that all creatures on earth should protect themselves with their own weapons. Theirs are trickery and money. I have frequently asked myself whose fault it is that they use such weapons. They are often men with splendid abilities, and in many ways more moral than we. I acknowledge it is very largely our own fault. We are antagonistic; we knock them down; they bite us in the heels. So, without pondering over whose fault it is, I place myself in the ranks of those to whom I belong, by blood and position." "But, my dear count!" interrupted the official. "As if it required any words! Do you fancy I like the Jews?" "Your position is not mine," responded Agenor, curtly. "As judge, you cannot be a party man; but I, as a private individual, may, and, as the head of an old family, must be one. For in the contest my class is being ruined. It cuts me to the heart to know this, for I think much of this class, its necessities and its obligations. We aristocrats--I mean we true, pure-blooded, wealthy old families--are the only firm pillars of the state, as, indeed, we Polish aristocrats are the only hope of our nation. There is no other besides us--the middle class scarcely exists, and the peasantry are against us. Look over the country; one man after another, one family after another, falls and sinks into oblivion--through foolishness, idleness, and bad management, I allow. But could we incur debts so readily if there were no Jews in the country? Who is the inheritor? The Jew! Who has possession of the estates of the Wolczinskis, which a hundred years ago were enormous? Armenians, who hold them for the Jews, since they are prohibited from owning real estate themselves." "Very true," responded Wroblewski. "And for this very reason you should not shoot the last of the Wolczinskis!" "I do not propose to," said the count, with a smile; "although it might prove the best thing for him, and others like him. For what will become of them? Only a few can straighten out their affairs by marriage with the _bourgeoisie_, and this is a misfortune--a humiliation. We have not yet gone as far as they have in the Western provinces, where Count Wagenspergh recently married an Eskeles. Is that to happen with us? The first rule in this contest should be, no social intercourse with Jews--no pulling-down of barriers." "Is that a reproach?" inquired the magistrate, in a hurt tone. "You yourself wished it;" and he told how he had interpreted the count's words. "Well, yes, you understood me so," said the count, in confusion. "True, you told me the girl often came to your house. But it was foolish of me, and my folly has been severely avenged. Do you think it pleasant for me to fight a duel on account of a Jewess? But it is always the way. We turn from the beaten path for one step, and it proves to be a mile in the end. It was the first time I had met a Jewess in society; but being there, she was to be considered a lady like the rest. When the insult was offered, she was in my vicinity, and, therefore, under my protection; and such would have been the case, no matter how plain she might have been. However, this supposition does not count, as Judith is beautiful--very beautiful, unfortunately." "Unfortunately?" "Yes." The count looked down sadly, even gloomily. "My dear Wroblewski, if I were not aware that you knew me to be the reverse of a saint, I would be ashamed, of the confession, that since my first sight of that face I--but words cannot express it. In short, that it is a great pity that she is a Jewess, and a--" "And?" "And a virtuous girl." The count drew a long breath, and colored to the roots of his hair, while his fingers closed upon the ivory paper-knife with which he had been playing, with such a firm grip that it snapped in two. The magistrate's eyes were wide open now; he winked slyly, and puckered his mouth as if to whistle. He then said softly: "One must be loyal. You have an old friend here on whom you can rely unconditionally--unconditionally, and in everything, my dear count." The young aristocrat turned suddenly; his face was still red, and his lips trembled. "What do you mean?" he inquired, brusquely. Wroblewski looked straight at him and smiled, but made no answer. The count cast down his eyes. "We had better not say any more about it, at least not to-day. As regards your protégé, young Wolczinski, I cannot oblige him." He arose, and the magistrate took up his hat. "Farewell, my dear friend," he said, offering his right hand. But the count kept both hands in the pockets of his short riding-coat. "Adieu, Herr von Wroblewski!" The magistrate smiled more deprecatingly than ever; but he stopped in the corridor, and soliloquized: "I did not think you were so young, my noble patron. But you shall pay dearly for that shake of the hand you gave me." Proceeding to the Wolczinski house, his communication again started the fountains flowing. Only Herr Jan retained his composure. "Heaven will not allow two young noblemen to murder each other for the sake of a Jewess. Rest assured, God will work some miracle." The pious confidence of the old man was not deceived. The miracle was wrought. Nathaniel returned the same evening. He was much frightened when Judith went to meet him in great excitement. He listened to her confession, and walked up and down the room with long, nervous strides. "Keep calm, my child," he said at last, stroking her ruffled hair tenderly. "It would have been more dignified, perhaps, to have passed over the first innuendo of the cad in silence. But it is past now, and pay no heed to the gossip; all will soon quiet down. I am only grieved for the result upon your own heart. How unhappy and how lonely you will be if you retain your present opinion of Christians! But you will not, for your present bad opinion is as erroneous as your former good opinion was. Now go away and lie down, my poor child, and sleep off your headache." He himself kept awake a long time. "Poor child!" he mused. "Even your loveliness and brightness could not disarm hatred. How hard you will yet have to feel that hour! If you were a Pole, you would be the more sought after; and if both were killed, a hundred admirers would spring about you. But you are a daughter of that nation in which any whispered blemish on her reputation is fatal. Lost and damned, in her own country at least." He did not paint it a whit too black, for he knew his own countrymen. It seemed strange enough to them that he should have allowed her to reach her twentieth year without marrying, and now how they would judge her! It became of vital importance for Bergheimer to secure a suitable _parti_ for Judith from abroad, for at home she would have no chance. Even should he pile up mountains of gold, it would be impossible, duel or no duel. But in case it took place, the news would spread abroad, and the coming bridegroom would probably hear of it at the first Galician town in which he rested. This supposition sank into the old man's soul with terrible force. "Am I blameless?" he asked himself. "Have I given my child the education best conducive to her own good? Was I right in rejecting Raphael's warning?" The following morning, instead of going to his _comptoir_, he went where he would meet his acquaintances--on the street, and to the _Weinstube_ of Aaron Siebenschläfer. He turned the conversation in the direction of the proposed duel, treating it quite as a joke. Every one was surprised--the Christians wondering how they could have made so much of it, while the Jews shook their heads dubiously. At noon Nathaniel paid a visit to his lodger. He curtly interrupted Wroblewski's flow of words. "I know you could not help it. But you must do me a favor now. The duel must not take place." "How can I help it? Both the count and Wladko are foaming with rage." Nathaniel was a polite man, but he could speak plainly on occasions. "You are mistaken," he said, quietly. "Wladko is dying of fear, and the count told you yesterday how painful to his feelings a duel would be on account of a Jewess. Your mistake arises from your desire to demand from me a large recompense for your services, and you wish to justify it by magnifying the difficulty of the negotiation. But that is not to be. You know I am willing you should earn money, but in this case I will not advance one penny. I will not have it said I preserved my daughter's good fame with money. If, however, you will do it for the sake of old friendship--" Herr von Wroblewski made a gesture as if he had been the recipient of a token of Trachtenberg's deepest respect. "There is no need of many words between us. Say on, my old friend." "The difficulty is in the way alone. The count is unable to tender an apology. Wladko cannot withdraw without one. This can be circumvented in the following manner: Wladko can come with his father to-morrow morning about eleven o'clock, and beg my pardon. The count can hear of it and declare that, much as he disapproved of Wladko's conduct that evening, so now he approves of his chivalry in making a voluntary expiation." "Splendid!" ejaculated the official. "But suppose Wladko--" "Kef uses? He will be only too glad. At most, Jan will make it an occasion for renewing his request for a loan. But I trust you will make it clear to him." "That this is not a time for a man of honor to ask for money? Certainly! Then to-morrow at eleven. The more formal the affair the better?" "No. Only what is necessary." "Shall I not invite the count, and his second, the Rittmeister? He can hear Wladko's explanation, say what he wishes, and all will be straight." Nathaniel considered a moment, then nodded. "Yes, if the count will do me the honor." "Then I may invite him in your name and Judith's?" "Only in mine. Jewish girls do not send invitations to cavaliers." "Of course," assented the magistrate. "You are always so full of tact. But she will be present, I suppose?" "I hardly think so." "But Nathaniel, that is absurd," said Wroblewski, energetically. "You demand satisfaction for your daughter, not because she is a Jewess, but because she is a lady of unsullied character. Accordingly, you must adapt yourself to the manner one would choose if she were a Christian." Nathaniel paused. "Very well, I don't mind," he said, abruptly. Herr von Wroblewski heaved a sigh of relief. "You shall now see that I am your friend. This evening you shall have news." Two hours later he was able to announce the success of his mission. The report of the reconciliation spread through the town. Christians were annoyed, and Jews delighted; but both asked, "How much did it cost Nathaniel?" When Judith entered the sitting-room the next morning shortly before eleven, she heard, in spite of the closed blinds, a muffled noise in the street. There stood the inquisitive crowd, shoulder to shoulder. Turning pale, she stepped back. "Why are you astonished?" Nathaniel asked, smiling. "The sight to-day will be more wonderful than that of five days ago. It has many times happened that a new lord has entered the town, but never before that a Schlachzig has come to beg pardon of a Jewess. I would give a good deal if--" He stopped, for when he saw her before him, so pale, serious, and melancholy, his heart seemed bursting with pity, and the gentle reproof died on his lips. "My poor child!" he murmured. Perhaps it was the black woollen dress, unrelieved, contrary to her usual custom, by flowers or ornaments of any kind, but she seemed quite a different creature. The gay, beautiful child had suddenly developed into a staid woman with sad, wise eyes. Her form seemed more slender, and her features sharper. "Did you sleep last night?" he asked, stroking her pale cheek tenderly. "Certainly," she replied, nervously. She glanced at the clock. It was still five minutes to eleven. "Wanda was here just now," she continued. "Wiliszenski will give a recitation of his poems up-stairs to-morrow, and she invited me to attend, but I declined." "You were wrong. Prudence alone should have advised you to act differently. Not as one who has committed an unpardonable sin; you cannot become a nun all at once. To please--" "Father," she said, beseechingly. "If you only knew--" "I do know. But you will please accept, Judith." She was silent; it was a command, against which there was no appeal. A carriage stopped, and some "hurrahs" were heard outside. Judith's cheeks flushed purple. "It is the count," said Nathaniel. He hastened to meet the young man, and bowed his gray head as if welcoming a prince. "May God bless your entrance!" he said, pathetically, yet cordially. "May he reward your generosity. I cannot express myself in words, but--" "But, Herr Trachtenberg," Agenor said, remonstratingly. His glance rested on Judith, who stood near, pale and trembling. "I hope you, are not ill?" he cried. "No--" "I was afraid--the result of that excitement." She was embarrassed, and he felt awkward, very much because this pale girl was such a contrast to the vision which had been present to his imagination. Her father took her hand. "Are you not going to thank our most gracious count?" he asked. "Please excuse the child," he added--"the recollection of this most painful episode. She can generally find an answer." "Herr von Wolczinski has learned that. But thanks are unnecessary in this case. Any one would have acted as I did. It is a duty I must have fulfilled towards any lady." Judith's face brightened. "Any lady?" she repeated, hastily. "Assuredly." Then he comprehended her meaning. "I knew you were--" "A Jewess--yes!" she broke in. "But would you have done as much for any Jewess? I mean, if I had been old and ugly--" "Judith!" exclaimed Nathaniel. "What are you saying?" He seemed beside himself. The count, too, was taken aback. "What coarse flirting!" he thought. But the painful quivering of her lips contradicted that. Her father's ejaculation showed her how her question might be misinterpreted. She blushed painfully. "No, no!" she cried, her eyes filling with tears. "_Mon Dieu!_ I only mean--" She could not finish. Herr von Wroblewski and the Rittmeister entered, followed closely by Herr Severin, his son, and cousin Jan. The comedy was enacted as prescribed in the programme. Wladko stammered the words written for him by Herr von Wroblewski. The count gave his explanation. Jan expressed the opinion that Wladko had no longer an occasion for hurt feelings, and the gentlemen shook hands. It lasted but three minutes. Judith stood motionless. "No wonder," said Herr Severin, as he left the room with his following to the Rittmeister. "She is quite stupefied with the honor." She pulled herself together when the count made preparations to leave. "Most gracious count," she began, with shaking voice, clasping her hands involuntarily. "Do not think, when I began before--no, you would be doing me injustice. But--I do not know if you understand me--but that you, the principal gentleman here, whose society every one regards as an honor, should--" Her voice was stifled in tears. He felt as if dreaming--seeing the poor, beautiful girl trembling before him, with upraised hands, and the emotions wakened in his heart made him understand this tangled stammering. "It would console you," he asked, "if I should answer your former question quite candidly? You would then see that this prejudice is not shared--" He was silent--"by us all," he was about to add; but, as an honest man, he could not say it, for he had that prejudice. "Yes, yes," she cried. "Well, then, I would have done the same for anybody of your creed, as Herr von Wroblewski can bear witness. He asked me the same question the day before yesterday, and received the same answer." The magistrate had been listening breathlessly. "It is so, 'pon my honor." "Thanks! thanks!" Judith murmured, and before the count could hinder she had seized his hand and kissed it. As Agenor was about to enter his carriage the next minute, the magistrate said, "Will you do me a great favor, my dear count? Wiliszenski, the poet, whom perhaps you know by reputation, is to read us his latest verses quite _en famille_. As yet there are only five of us, for my wife always invites Judith, though the girl does not seem to care for the poet, preferring to spend the evening alone with the albums, in the next room. May we hope to see you?" He looked inquiringly into the count's face. The contemptuous glance which he encountered did not disturb him. In fact, he smiled. The count dropped his eyes. There he stood, his hand on the carriage door, a picture of indecision. "I regret," he said, finally, "I am engaged for tomorrow evening." "What a pity!" exclaimed Wroblewski. The carriage rolled away; he watched it smilingly, and the same smile was on his lips when he went to his wife, and said, "Six guests to-morrow evening." CHAPTER III. Thaddeus von Wiliszenski was, with some exceptions, a Polish Walter von der Vogelweide. He, too, gained less by his learning than by his genius; he, too, wandered from castle to castle, exhorting the nobles to justice--rejoicing when he received a new coat or negotiated a loan, for I doubt if any one ever borrowed so much. Like Walter, he was a political poet, though not a one-sided one, like the German singer. He read stirring war-songs against Austria to the nobles, and then, by order of the magistracy, composed odes for the emperor's birthday. For the burghers he wrote lampoons against the nobles; for the nobles, skits against the _bourgeoisie_. He, too, belonged to the later nobility, for though a "von" was under his poems and a coat-of-arms on his writing-paper, it was difficult to trace his genealogy. Some, indeed, said he was the son of a shoemaker, and had failed in the gymnasium; others, that he had been a barber's apprentice. It was equally difficult to ascertain his birthplace. Several provinces strove about declining the honor. He was in the habit of saying he was the son of that neighborhood in which he happened to be collecting subscriptions, just at the time, for his poems. If the book had ever appeared, a large edition would have been required, for one could scarcely count the numbers from whom he had collected its price of three gulden. But, like the Minnesänger, he contented himself with leaving it oral. Uninvited, and suddenly as if dropped from the skies, he would appear at the farm-houses. Sometimes he was kicked out after three, sometimes after eight days' sojourn, for he never departed of his own volition. But as one cannot live by poetry alone, he also acted as mediator when bribery or some equally dirty business was on hand, which accounted for his friendship with Von Wroblewski. It was, then, in honor of this son of the muse that Lady Anna had made this little party. There sat Wiliszenski, his long, tangled, sandy curls in greater confusion than usual, while he declaimed poems in honor of the great ones of the land. It had been long since he had reckoned a count among his hearers, and he concluded that Agenor having come, notwithstanding he had at first declined the invitation, it was because of his interest in the poet. How gratifying, then, the close attention which this wealthy man accorded him! He was reading an historical ballad--"The Bloody Day;" the hero was a Poniatowski, but the poet read it Baranowski, since it scanned equally well. His breast was overflowing with a strong current of poetical inspiration. "May the devil fetch me, if that is not worth fifty gulden to me!" When he had finished, all were silent. He was unable to see the faces of his auditors, for Lady Anna had so placed the lamp-shade that the light fell only on the manuscript. But deep silence was the highest of all praise. "Wonderful!" ejaculated the lady of the house. The jingle of the verses had swept her ear without conveying a meaning. She had been watching the count as he sat there motionless and awkward as a boy. A sigh heaved her ample bosom. "What a magnificent fellow! And all this for that Jewish girl!" "Yes, very good indeed," said the count, rousing himself from his brown study. "Especially the descriptions of the landscape," remarked the magistrate. "What landscape?" inquired Judith, in surprise. She alone had followed the poem, hoping thereby to regain her self-possession and quiet her wildly beating heart. She had come in obedience to her father's wishes when she heard the count had refused to come, but when he walked in so unexpectedly she felt as though she must fly--fly from herself. Herr von Wroblewski pretended not to have heard the gentle interruption. "And these people!" he exclaimed, enthusiastically. "One can really see them! And the feeling!" he added, cautiously. "There must have been some such stupid rubbish," he thought. Then he gave his daughter a signal, and she slipped out of the room unperceived. "Our Thaddeus is a master mind," he exclaimed. "Some of his ballads rival Mickowicz, _parole d'honneur!_ And he is so versatile! After what he has just read, you would class him among sentimental poets. But now, Thaddeus, give us those songs--'Venus in her Night-gown!'" It was a collection of very ambiguous poems, which, at the last recitation, had driven Judith into another room. She could not understand what had so amused the rest of the company, but her instinct had warned her that they were unfit for her ears. "Perhaps later on," said the poet; "but now I should like to read the 'Ballad of King Casimir and the Beautiful Esther.'" "What are you thinking of?" cried Wroblewski, anxiously, for he knew it was a ribald poem against the Jews. "Let it be!" said Thaddeus. "You have not heard the new version." For, since several Jewish farmers in Eastern Galicia had proven their interest in Polish literature by showing him hospitality for a few days, he had transformed entirely the story of Casimir the Great and his Jewish mistress. "That will fit in splendidly to-day," he thought, "and I may perhaps receive one hundred gulden!" For he had heard of the scene in the ballroom, and the character of his host was a guarantee that Judith and the count had not been brought together on this occasion by accident. He began to read; the first verses quieted the apprehensions of the head of the house. The former version had shown what a pestilence the Jewish element had been in Poland, but this showed how the chosen people of the Old Testament had found a sanctuary in the poet's native land; and how Casimir, for love of the beautiful Esther, had granted charters to the Jews, and finally made a queen of his beloved. The poem closed with an ardent appeal to charity and fraternity. Again all was still. "Excellent!" murmured the host, glancing at the count. Entranced, he gazed at the excited face of the beautiful girl opposite him. Judith did not notice him. Breathing deeply, she sat with eyes half closed, buried in thought, carried away by the emotions aroused by the poem. She had never before heard of the beautiful Esther. It was a revelation that the boundaries which she had felt so bitterly the past few days had not been set by nature; that there had been a time when they had not existed; that there had been a queen of Poland who had been a Jewess, and that it had been neither forbidden by God nor hindered by man. And then again she experienced that not inscrutable emotion which had stirred within her since the event of the ballroom; though, to be sure, a count was not a king, but-- She aroused herself as if to shake off these thoughts, and met the fixed fiery gaze of the count. She started, and, blushing deeply, arose as if to take flight. "Admirable!" Wroblewski repeated, with sincerity. "But now I must manage to arrange a private chat," he added to himself. "Now, my dear poet, please let us have the Venus songs." He grinned like a faun. "They are splendid count, I assure you." The poet put out his hand for the dilapidated manuscript, for these poems were the ones most in demand; but the count interfered. "I think," he said, decidedly, "we had better ask Herr von Wiliszenski for something else better fitted for the ears of ladies." There was nothing more to be said; so a ghastly but insignificant ballad was read, after which supper was announced, which passed off very quietly. Judith and the count were silent, and the poet also; for, to his idea, conversation at such a supper was a sinful waste of time, and of opportunity which did not present itself every day. Wroblewski had therefore to carry on the entire conversation himself; for his wife was in a bad humor, as she did not approve of her husband's plans in the slightest, but quite the contrary. As she looked at the dreamy young girl, an idea, and a good one, so it seemed, struck her. "Judith," she said, laughingly, "you are not eating! Has it touched you so deeply that Wiliszenski made the beautiful Esther a queen?" The probe went deeper than she expected. The girl started, and changed color. "Did she not become one?" she asked, almost under her breath. Lady Anna laughed aloud. "Did you really believe it?" "Why not?" exclaimed her husband, with an angry glance. "I believe it. It was so, was it not, my dear Wiliszenski?" The poet's mouth was so full just then that it was impossible to respond immediately. An equivocal answer seemed wisest. He swallowed hastily. "Some chroniclers say so." "The most reliable," affirmed Wroblewski, energetically. "Do come to my aid," said Lady Anna to the count. "I have always read that she was only the king's mistress." The count hesitated, but only for a second. "So she was," he said. "Our poet knows the old chroniclers better than I do, no doubt; but his poem would scarcely hold its own against the facts brought to light in modern research. It has been proven that Casimir the Great opened his land to the Jews for precisely the same reason as he did to the Germans--that the middle class, which was lacking, might be created. It is certain that the beautiful Esther fascinated him for a longer period than did his other _amies_, but history has never allowed her much influence over his actions." "With due respect to your information," said the magistrate, "I must say I have often read the contrary, 'pon my honor, very often! You will, at least, allow that Casimir loved the Jewess better than he did any Christian?" "Certainly, they all assert that," Agenor answered. They rose from the table and retired to the drawing-room. Wanda and Judith sat down to look at some albums. Lady Anna entangled the count in a conversation, while the poet took possession of the host. But the latter listened abstractedly, though Wiliszenski was unfolding a business scheme. The magistrate had caused the arrest of a scoundrel of good family for cheating. Thaddeus portrayed eloquently the grief of his relatives, on account of his having disgraced the Franciscan monastery, where he had been serving his novitiate. They now proposed to send him to Russia, and wished to avoid public sentence of guilt; it would hurt them so keenly. "All right," responded the magistrate. "I am not a monster; but we will talk of it after a while. Now go into the smoking-room." The poet obeyed. Wanda vanished at her father's nod; and Lady Anna, who did not dare to cross his plans for a second time that day, also withdrew, though unwillingly. "Now, my dear count," said the magistrate, with a glance at Judith, "I must beg you to excuse me, too." "But, Herr von Wroblewski--" Agenor began. "What is it you wish?" "I must say I do not approve of the way in which--" He paused, although his host stood before him, with drooping eyes, like a penitent sinner. "Don't scold me," Wroblewski said. "Do not spoil my pleasure in seeing you here, although so unexpectedly." He bowed, and left the room. The count bit his lips, and looked hesitatingly, first after him and then at Judith. She stared at the book which lay before her. The lamp-light shone on her auburn hair and delicate rosy face. He drew a deep breath, and stepped up to her. She glanced up at his approach, and when she saw they were alone she seemed ready to run. "What is interesting you so?" he asked, as unconcernedly as he could, looking at the engraving open before her. "Heidelberg? A splendid town! My regiment was in Mayence for some time, and I often ran over to Heidelberg." "My brother is going there to stay," said Judith. The count inquired why Raphael had not attended an Austrian high-school, to which she replied that it was Bergheimer's advice, who had so strongly recommended the law schools of Heidelberg; that her father had the greatest confidence in Bergheimer, and had intrusted to him the education of both her brother and herself. The count then asked in what subjects she had been taught, and the methods of instruction, so that, if the magistrate had been eavesdropping, the conversation would not have interested him much. But after a time it took a more important turn. She told him Bergheimer was a zealous botanist, and had made a good herbarium of plants, special to Eastern Galicia. "Then I suppose the gardens of the castle interested him?" said Agenor. "Certainly. Though he was never there." "Why not?" "He was not allowed. Admission is forbidden to Jews, as you will see on the board at the entrance. But do not think this embittered him. He always said: 'It is not the fault of the count; such a board stands on the park-gates of every castle in Podolia. If they should be removed, it would create great gossip.' Bergheimer is such a noble, gentle creature. He never dreamed of an exception being made in his favor, although he is so fond of flowers. 'Perhaps the gardener would allow it,' he used to say, 'but I do not wish for any advantages above my brethren.' And he was right." "Then you, too, have never been in the garden?" "Yes," she answered, blushing deeply. "I have often been there with Wanda and the burgomaster's daughters, and occasionally alone. The custodians know me, but they said nothing, and I was weak enough to be glad of it. I fancied I was superior to the others. But I have atoned! How I felt when I recognized--" "By that scene in this house," he said, interrupting her. "I have only known since yesterday what an impression it must have made upon you, and a wrong one. Fräulein Judith! Believe me, this gulf--" She listened intently, but he came to a stand. No, he could not, he ought not, lie. "Well, the gulf?" "Is not so deep, after all. But why talk about it? Your brother, then, is in Heidelberg!" A sad smile played around her lips. "You are an honest man, Count Baranowski. Once before this evening you alone had the courage to speak the truth. Now I understand why I never heard of the beautiful Esther from either my father or Raphael or Bergheimer." "And why not?" Her face glowed. "She was an outcast." "A hard judgment! Just think how Casimir loved her." "I do not believe it. Perhaps I ought not to talk about it. It does not seem quite proper. But yet why should I be silent? If he had really loved her, he would have made her his wife; or if this was not possible, since he was a king and she a Jewess, then he should have kept away from her, and not brought her to shame--the worst of fates. For if her name is ever spoken among us Jews, it would be as disgraced." "I do not know about that," he answered. "Any one with human feelings ought not to condemn her so mercilessly, even had Casimir not been a king. Suppose she loved him with all her heart?" Judith shook her head. "You do not believe it? "I don't know;" she was confused, but conquered herself, and continued bravely: "At least I have never heard of such love among ourselves. My parents, for instance; no one could have found a happier pair, yet they were introduced to each other at their betrothal. And this is generally the case. I think we must be different in this regard from other races." "Do you really believe so?" he exclaimed. "For then nature herself has formed the gulf. But I think you are mistaking cause for effect. Isolation and the clinging to ancient usages have brought your people to it. When I see you standing before me, I think--" "Please do not talk of me," she implored, in such a piteous tone that he became silent instantly. "How quiet!" said a laughing voice during the unpleasant pause. It was Lady Anna. The following day, as Judith entered the dining-room at the dinner-hour, her father came to meet her. "A letter from our dear ones!" he exclaimed, "from Breslau. They have journeyed that far without pausing, but they propose to remain there a week before crossing Saxony and Bavaria to the Neckar. Only think, Bergheimer has found our old pupil from Mayence in Breslau. He is a banker, named Berthold Wertheimer, and Bergheimer cannot laud him enough. I have written to Raphael, and told him of the generous conduct of our count. How much he and the others of our co-religionists have misjudged the man!" "What conduct?" inquired Judith. "Have you not heard of it yet? The whole town is talking of it. The sign-board at the entrance of the castle gardens has been removed, and he has notified the heads of the congregation in a very pleasant letter. I suppose you will wish to add something to this letter to Raphael. He sends you his love, and says: 'Judith's promise at our parting to remember our last conversation makes me very happy.' What does he mean by that?" "Nothing," she murmured. "Only childishness!" "I thought so; but you are surely not well, my child? You are so pale!" CHAPTER IV. It was three weeks later; a mild, bright October day. The landscape is scantily blessed with that beauty which in more favored countries delights the heart of man. Limitless plains surround us on all sides, from which gently swelling billows of earth occasionally elevate themselves above the dead level, only to sink back into it again. Brooks and rivers roll their muddy, sluggish waters between miry banks, from their birthplace in the distant mountains to the lower and drearier steppe country, while here and there a streamlet is sucked up by the thick turf, or dammed into a pond, whose broad, turbid mirror reflects the reed of the small boggy islands and the pale, misty blue of the firmament. The small towns, where the Jews, the outcast chosen people (chosen, it would seem, for unspeakable miseries), live huddled together in crowded groups of wretched huts, are poor and dirty. More pitiful still are the villages, where the Ruthene, sullen and fierce, ploughs the land under the lash of the Pole. Here and there are tiny plantations of birch-trees; but one may wander over heath for miles and miles, where little grows but the juniper and nothing blooms but the heather. The winter is fearful, when the storms from the north drive the snow across the vast plains. Short and scanty is the spring, and parching the heat of summer; but the autumn, gentle and bright, revives the hearts of the poor and refreshes the barren land. The heath takes on a vivid crimson blush, the woods a darker tinge; the deep blue of the sky is intensified by the greater purity of the atmosphere; and even the stubble-field becomes a thing of beauty, with the transparent spider-webs floating over it like a bridal veil. The soothing calm of the autumnal day had its influence upon Count Agenor, as he rode slowly homeward over the steppe, the air vibrating with the music of the noonday bells. He started off early in the morning, after a sleepless night, during which he had been tossed and shaken as by spirits of evil. That had come to pass which was inevitable after he had yielded to the tempter and gone to the Wiliszenski recital. Since then, thanks to the ingenuity of the magistrate, he had often met the beautiful Jewess alone, and knew now he had no need to ask her whether she comprehended that sensation which Christians call love. Since yesterday, too, he felt he no longer required the medium so obnoxious to him; for Judith had been in the park alone, had fallen on his breast; his arm had clasped her youthful form, his lips had dared to touch hers. And she had promised to go again, and he knew she would keep her word. True, he did not expect to attain his desire to-day; weeks might elapse before he wakened the passion in her which raged in his veins. But the hour must come when she would be his. Yet this certainly did not make him happy. Quite the contrary. Never before had he felt so sad. For, as she had said, he was an honest man. The handsome Uhlan officer had enjoyed almost everything that the beauty of woman could offer him. But on one point his conscience was clear. He had enticed no wife from her husband's side; he had brought no girl to misery. This was to be partly attributed to his exquisite sense of the requirements of his noble birth, partly to the subjection he was still under to his late father's wishes. This clever and good man had early recognized that, in spite of many noble qualities, his son was lacking in that which was most important for the head of an impoverished branch of a noble house; that is, energy of character and the power to say "no." So, with the best of motives, he had striven to maintain and increase his influence over him. It was principally owing to this that Agenor had always so scrupulously held himself above reproach, until the death of his father made him the head of the family. Never had a lie passed his lips. But now he had lied and cheated, and if he wished to attain his desires he must continue to do so. The young count had won Judith because she thought him noble and knightly, and free from prejudices against her nation. She trusted entirely in his love and honor. One word about the gulf that divided them, one intimation of the impossibility of making her his wife, and she was lost to him forever. As yet she had said nothing to him about the future--but if she did? And even if she did not, and he kept silence, or was only ambiguous in his speech, would it rest any less lightly on his conscience? But, aside from all this, Agenor did not merely lust after the Jewess, but loved her with his whole heart. He often questioned himself as to how it happened, but never found an answer. Certainly her beauty had at first inflamed his senses; but that was not all. She was so pure, so noble in her pride, so touching in her submission, so pitiable in the way she felt her position. But this could not explain the mystery which had taken possession of his heart. "Perhaps," he sometimes thought, "it is only pity, or horror of the fate towards which I am leading her, if I continue so weak." This fate seemed gloomy enough to him. "She is not a girl who would accommodate herself to the position of a kept mistress, or would be shrewd enough to save her reputation by marriage with another man." Through the anxious nights he thought, with horror, "She cannot survive it! You will be her murderer!" With feverish pulses he paced up and down his bedroom till, quite worn out, he sank again into his chair. But the voice of his conscience kept repeating, through the stillness of the night, "Her murderer! if your weakness is not overcome." Could he give her up? It seemed impossible; more impossible than ever, now when every nerve of his body tingled with feverish, almost painful desire. Could he make her his wife? "Rather die!" he said to himself; and, as he sat there brooding over it, there seemed but one thing equal to the disgrace of placing Judith Trachtenberg's name in the line of his pedigree, and that was the committing a base action. The dawn found him absorbed in these confused, antagonistic ideas. He had his horse saddled, and galloped away across the heath, without rest, without aim; then dropped the reins, and, as he rode slowly back over the plain, from which the morning mists were rising, he became more composed in body and mind. He had viewed things too gloomily in the silence of this painful night, and he tried to strengthen himself in this opinion by a thousand subterfuges. But there was one idea that he could not coax himself to tolerate--that of a nobleman taking to his arms a girl of inferior birth, and she, after years of separation, meeting with a new love and a husband. Still, though Agenor could not make her his wife, he could make this proud, beautiful creature the companion of his life; and was this such a disgraceful position that she would reject it with scorn? She would not, if she loved him as the old chroniclers said Esther did the king. He would be perfectly frank, and tell her she could count on his love and fidelity, but not on his hand. He resolved upon this as he rode home across the glowing heather. He would neither commit a crime against her nor violate his conscience; and should she tear herself away from him, he must find strength to endure it. If any one doubts the possibility of renunciation, let him go to the moorlands in autumn to learn it. With a pacified conscience and filled with good resolves, he reached home. As he entered the courtyard he frowned angrily. The magistrate's britzska stood before the door. His interviews with this man were growing more and more painful; each time Wroblewski became more insolent and more familiar, and, in his present frame of mind, nothing could be more unpleasant than a meeting with his "faithful aid." He met his unwelcome guest in the breakfast-room. "You see," shouted the latter, "I make myself quite at home; I have even ordered Jan to put a plate for me." Agenor nodded, sat down, and invited him by a wave of the hand to help himself. "And to what am I indebted for this pleasure?" he asked, abruptly. "You don't appear to consider it much of a pleasure," the official said, playfully, filling his plate. "And wrongly, too! You really ought to be satisfied with me, or do you fancy you would have secured a meeting in the park without my assistance?" "Don't speak in such a tone," said the young man. "So you know of that already." "Oh, I know much more. My congratulations on the first kiss. Why, I was in the garden myself, 'pon my honor; and, 'pon my honor, quite accidentally, though it is not necessary to say that, for I am a chevalier and will keep quiet about it." The repetition of the word "honor" was not to be wondered at, as the whole story was a fabrication. He had not seen the couple himself, but his wife, impelled by curiosity and envy, had followed Judith, and had not only confided the result of her observations to him, but also to the wife of the burgomaster, a lady who filled a vacuum in the little town with rare zeal, as she took upon herself the functions of a local newspaper, in so far as her breath permitted. In this way it happened that every individual in the town above the age of ten years knew of it. "Is this all you have to tell me?" inquired the count. The magistrate grew pathetic. "I don't deserve that. I came with the very best intentions, and because I thought it necessary. I thought it possible you might wish to utilize the absence of old Trachtenberg, and so have appointed a rendezvous for to-day. I came to warn you. Yesterday I saw two Jewish girls wandering about who might have observed something. Don't forget the board has been taken down. It was noble of you and very like King Casimir, who opened all gates to the Jews at Esther's request. But take care! Her father has only gone to Tarnopol and will return to-day. Of course, I have no idea what progress you have made, but I should imagine an interference on the part of the father might spoil your little game." The count felt himself blushing with shame. He was about to use some violent language, but had he not forfeited his right to do this? "And now, my dear fellow," continued the magistrate, "I have a favor to ask for myself." He hesitated. The count drew out his purse. "How much?" "No, no, I do not mean that. It will only cost a kind word to a man who is dependent on you. I have got into a damnable fix, through pure good nature, 'pon my honor." Agenor glanced at the clock. It was one, and in a half-hour he had an appointment with Judith in the park. "Well, tell me, and in as few words as possible." "I suppose you remember the farmer on your estate at Syczkow. An Armenian, Bagdan Afanasiewicz? He was here when you came." "Certainly; a stout man, with a long black beard. He was spoken of as a very good and pious man, but avaricious." "Quite right. His avarice and piety have been my misfortune. About four months since--it was in June--a young priest, representing himself as on his way to a new cure, came to Syczkow, and asked for a night's lodging. The pious Bagdan received him hospitably, and when they were at supper mentioned the distress he was in because of the excessive drought, which nothing could relieve except a solemn procession. The vicar of Syczkow was ill, and the vicar of the adjacent village demanded twelve gulden for this service. The young priest offered to do it for five. The vicar loaned his cope, the procession took place, and rain fell the following day. As the stranger seemed to understand his business, Bagdan had his new barn blessed for another five gulden, and the peasants took the opportunity to have their children baptized at cheaper rates. After a week the young priest continued his journey, and if he had stayed away all parties would have been satisfied, and I should have kept out of a row." "Well?" asked Agenor, impatiently, looking at the clock. "You shall hear. He returned, and this aroused the suspicions of even Bagdan, for he remembered the priest had said he was to take charge of a parish. Besides, the vicar of Syczkow was well again, and had no inclination for having a competitor in his field. Inquiries were made, and they found he was a scamp, born in the district of Zolkier, of good family, to whom he had caused much trouble. He had acquired a certain amount of clerical hocus-pocus by having been a novice in a monastery, whence he was kicked out for sacrilege. Bagdan told me and several others upon whom he had tried the same game, and I had him arrested. But his brothers have sent a friend to me whose talents I esteem greatly, and who has much influence over me, the poet Wiliszenski; and he has prevailed upon me to give him his liberty because of his innocent family, they pledging themselves to send him to Russia. I was very loath to say yes, but it is so difficult to refuse anything to the amiable poet. The Armenian then said I had been bribed to release the fellow, who had not only cheated, but committed sacrilege into the bargain. I!--bribed! Then he sent an appeal to the government at Lemberg." "But that can do you no harm," said the count, "your wife's uncle--" "Has done his duty," broke in the magistrate, "and Bagdan received the reply he deserved. But his piety and avarice will not let him rest. The loss of his ten gulden and the blasphemy, as he calls it, grieve him, so that he is having an appeal drawn up by some pettifogger here to present to the archbishop of Lemberg. That I heard this morning. Now you know the state of things in Austria. An official can do much--but a cleric can do everything. If the archbishop receives this communication, there will be an investigation, and though my conscience is clear, yet--" "I understand--I am to request Bagdan to let the matter drop. But how can I interfere? The man is quite right." "A friend is asking your help," said the magistrate, energetically. "In such a case, one does not consider right and wrong. I have not in your case. The man's name is Ignatius Tondka. Please make a note of it and write to your farmer to-day." Agenor turned his back, then walked hastily up and down the room. At last he drew out his note-book and wrote the name. "My best thanks," exclaimed the magistrate. "Your letter will go off to-day, will it not? _Au revoir_." CHAPTER V. Agenor was still under the excitement of this interview when he went to the appointment with Judith. "The reptile!" he muttered, as he descended the steps into the park, clenching his fists until the nails penetrated the flesh. "I must shake off this toad, who is defiling both Judith and myself." But as he walked hurriedly through the rustling leaves towards the pine _allée_, the only one that could afford a shelter at this season of the year, his anger gradually evaporated, until he felt but one sensation, that of longing for Judith's sweet presence. "I will tell her everything," he thought, "and she must choose for herself;" and the thought found expression in words even, but he felt he only uttered them to keep to his resolution. After he had waited a half-hour, there was only one word which he continually and hoarsely repeated, as if in a delirium--"Come! Come!" At last he heard her swift step among the leaves, and caught sight of her dress glinting among the trees. She came hastily, with a glowing face. The lace mantilla she had wrapped about her head had become partly undone, and fluttered over her auburn hair. "At last!" he murmured, rushing to meet her. She stood still, and when she saw his passionate face a trembling seized her limbs, and she stretched out her hands imploringly. He scarcely observed it. "At last!" he repeated, catching the half-resisting girl in his arms, while his lips sought hers till he found them. But only for a moment, for then she released herself. "Please do not make it harder for me than it is, for now it is bitter enough; but--" "Why, what is the matter? You were not like this yesterday, you--" "Then it is all right?" she asked, wiping her wet eyes and struggling to smile. "You have kissed me and we belong to each other for life." This was said with such trust and earnestness that Agenor was touched to the quick. His arm dropped which was about to embrace her again. "You dear love," he said, falteringly, "certainly we belong to each other. Nothing can part us again, Judith--nothing. And I shall do all that lies in my power to keep you from ever repenting it." He could safely promise that, for it was his firm resolve. "I love you as I never loved before." A happy smile lit up her face, yet her eyes were filled with tears. "I believe you. Would I be here if I had one moment's doubt of your honor? Would I have come yesterday? No, I should be sitting in my own room, weeping my eyes out for my misfortune in loving a man who had no love for me--who would not make me his wife. And perhaps," she continued shrilly, "I could not endure life with such shame and misery at my heart." "Judith," he said, startled, "what thoughts are these?" "Silly ones, I know. But see how much has happened these past few days. I am quite changed. I do not think it ever occurred to any girl before. I have no control over my own heart; it commands me, and I must come to you and be caressed, and caress you in turn. It is the same with my thoughts. They roam about in wild confusion. I am only quiet when I think of you. For I know you--" "And yet," he said, looking at her tenderly, "you must have wept much since yesterday!" "Are you surprised?" She asked this with a sorrowful smile. "Remember, my father and brother love me, and I love them. How startled they will be when you ask for my hand, and how it will distress them for me to become a Christian! Perhaps I may lose their hearts forever. They may never wish to have any more to do with me. You do not know what it means with us to change our faith. In our parish there is a poor old widow, Miriam Gold, who earns her living as a nurse. Her husband was a village publican, and her only daughter fell in love with a peasant, became a Christian, and married him. The father died of grief at the disgrace and from the sneers of our co-religionists, and the mother leads a wretched life. Had my father not interfered in her behalf, she would have perished. She, too, has cast off her daughter, and scarcely ever mentions her. She herself told me to-day that she had not spoken of her for years." The count listened, his mind filled with contending emotions. "What, to-day?" he asked, in surprise. "Just now. The reason I was so late was that she begged me to allow her to tell her story. Perhaps," drawing a deep breath--"perhaps it was no coincidence. She knows my position, and wishes to warn me. If so, my father may hear of it, and that would be a bad thing. Honesty demands he should hear it from us first, not from others. If you preferred, I could tell him myself." "I must have time for consideration," replied the count. "I should like to spare you needless strife." "Be upright," whispered his conscience. "You are a scoundrel if you are silent now." But how could he do it, and how would she receive it? Only just now she had said: "Perhaps I could not endure to go on living." "Needless quarrels simply embitter the life," he resumed, mechanically. "See, Judith, how I love you." "I know it, and because I know it I will be still, and leave it to you as to how and when you will speak with my father. Of course, if he asks me, I must tell him the truth. You must surely realize it is hard for me; and since you love me, you must not expect to meet me in secret. If you only knew how I felt yesterday and to-day before I came. I knew it was not right, and I felt the shame burning my cheeks, and the bright daylight hurt me. Still, I came--I had to. I was drawn as if with chains; for I love you, I love you!" As she stood before him, her glowing, face drooping over her heaving bosom, he lost what little self-possession he had, and his conscience was deadened by the rushing of blood in his ears. He pressed her to him, covering head, face, and clothes with kisses, till after a few minutes she tore herself away. "I have tolerated it," she said, breathlessly, "because it is the last time before your formal proposal. Farewell!" "May I not accompany you?" he begged, endeavoring to pass his arm about her shoulders. She shook her head in silence, and hurried away. Once again she looked back. He stood as she had left him, gazing after her with ravening eyes. She waved her handkerchief, and hastened on. As she passed into the street which led through the town to her home, she hesitated. It seemed impossible to go along under everybody's eyes; it seemed as if every one must see the kisses that still burned on her cheeks. She slipped into a foot-path that led along in the rear of the houses, sat down on a bench, and gave full vent to the tears that rained down her face. This soothed her, and she went on her way, entering the house by the back door. Her father's carriage was standing in the court-yard, so he had probably returned. The old servant, who had carried her in her arms, met her in the hall. Poor old Sarah was very white, and trembled in every limb. "There you are at last!" she almost screamed, wringing her hands. "O God! merciful God! why did you let me live to see this come to pass?" Judith, too, grew white as the wall, against which she leaned. But the weakness passed away in a moment, and she asked: "Where is my father?" "In the reception-room. But you cannot see him yet. The burgomaster is there, and is telling him the whole story. I have just heard it from the magistrate's cook. Oh! child, what--" "You will let me know when he is alone," interrupted Judith; and she went to her room. She had to wait a long time; in her present state of mind it was an intolerably long time. For the burgomaster was a good old simpleton, so he thought it expedient to tell Nathaniel what all the town knew; and he was also a gifted orator. Therefore, he began with a discourse on friendship, followed by another on the corrupt morals of recent times, until finally the poor old father discovered the drift of the whole. It was ghastly to see him sitting in his arm-chair, pale as death, and motionless, except when he occasionally passed his hand over his silvery beard. "Thanks," he said, when the speaker had at last ended. His voice was hoarse, but otherwise he spoke slowly and deliberately as usual. "You have intended for the best. But now for the chief point. Did your wife herself see that kiss in the garden?" "No, Frau von Wroblewski." "And you only tell me that now?" cried Trachtenberg, almost gayly. He really succeeded in forcing a laugh. "A reliable witness! That quiets me. I was never in much doubt, for I know my child. I can willingly believe she went for a walk in the park; that she met the count, who accosted her politely, and received a polite answer. The rest is a lie. I, as her father, am sure of that." "Well, if you, Pani Trachtenberg--" "Yes; I, her father! Please repeat this to everyone who cares to hear it." He accompanied his astounded guest to the door, and then returned to his arm-chair. There he sank down and buried his face in his hands, where he lay motionless, not hearing, in his wild grief, the gentle, hesitating step which came into the room. It was only when Judith dared to touch his hand that he was aroused. "Father," she said, with faltering voice. "Do not be angry with me. I know it was another happiness you had planned for me, but I did not choose this myself. It came upon me unawares." "Silence!" he yelled, flinging her hand from off his. His wrath at her daring to speak to him almost robbed him of consciousness. "Happiness!" he repeated. "What rubbish are you talking?" "My happiness," she answered, gently but firmly. "For I love him, and he will make me his wife." The old man jumped up suddenly. His eyes became rigid and seemed standing out of their sockets; his lips quivered, and he held out his hands as if to defend himself. "A--ah!" he groaned. The next instant he had caught her by both hands, and dragged her to the window into the full light. His eyes sought hers and held them fast, his gaze sinking deeper and deeper into hers. He breathed with difficulty; there was a gurgling in his throat, but no words came in this anguish of soul. The question to which he demanded an answer lay in his glazed and terrified eyes. She bore the stare, the color mounting higher and higher in her pale face, until neck and brow were suffused with a vivid purple; but her eyelids never drooped. She understood the silent question conveyed by the horror in his eyes, and she answered it in the same silent manner. He drew a deep, deep breath, and let her hands fall. "Tell me," he commanded, abruptly. She hesitated. "Have I not the right?" he exclaimed. "Yes, perhaps, but I am not sure. Father, I do not know myself how it has come about. I did not wish it, but I was forced into it, and perhaps it was the same with him. But his intentions are honorable." "We will hear of that later. Go on." She told, at first in confused, indistinct words, how she had met his eyes at the entrance into the town, and what a tumult of emotions his conduct had awakened in her the evening of the ball. But as she passed on to the conversation after Wiliszenski's reading, she overcame her fears, and she told everything as she knew it--the whole truth. He stood with his forehead pressed against the window, and listened quietly, interrupting her but once. As she was telling him of other meetings at Wroblewski's house, he asked suddenly: "And you did not observe you were always alone?" "No, I supposed it was a--" "A coincidence!" he said, mockingly, shaking his clenched fist at the ceiling. "But go on." He sank down in his arm-chair again, while she sat by him, and finished her story, not even suppressing the conversation of that day. "Father," she concluded, piteously, "I have never forgotten, and never can forget, how much I grieve you and Raphael. Therefore I can never be fully happy. But you are clever and good, and must see that I cannot help it." She knelt at his feet and clasped his knees. "Father, don't be angry with me!" He sat still for a long time without moving. Then he felt gently for her hands, and loosed them from his knees, rose, and, going to the window, looked into the street over which the twilight of a late autumn day was sinking. Now and then he muttered to himself: "And I, fool that I am, often bewailed your early death! It was good for you!" Then he said aloud: "Your mother--" Then he stopped again. He stood in that attitude, and it grew darker and darker in the room. Finally he pulled himself together, lit the candles on the table, and went to his child, who was still on her knees, her head resting against the chair. "Stand up!" he ordered, going up close to her. She obeyed. She attempted to look him in the eye, but could not, she was so shocked to see how suddenly old his face had grown. But his voice no longer quavered. "It is a heavy misfortune," he said. "I thank God with all my heart that he has not utterly undone us; but what he has sent is fearful enough. I am not blaming you. You ought not to have had any secrets from me; but you are so young, and he is handsome and a count. If I accuse you, I ought also to accuse myself. I ought to have considered the character of the people I was sending you among, and how their influence would affect you. I ought to have been more clever, as clever as my poor boy, whose heart would break if he knew of this. But he shall never know it--never!" She made a motion as if to speak. "Never!" he repeated. "Listen, Judith! I know that madness blinds your eyes to-day, and deafens your ears. You will not understand what I am going to tell you. The wall here would comprehend it better. But you ought to feel that it is your father who thinks so, who loves you more than his own life, and who will not change his opinion. You are never to see or speak to the people up-stairs or to the count. You are to remain in your own room, and not to leave it without my orders. It would be best for me to have the horses harnessed and take you to the house from which I just came--my sister Recha's, in Tarnopol. She is a clever woman, your aunt Recha, and understands the management of sick people. But that will not be possible before the close of the week. Otherwise, this story would spread the more." "Father," she implored, "do not ruin me!" "Others wished to do that, and were in the best way to accomplish their purpose; but I, your father, will save you. Whether the count is a scoundrel, who is calculating on it in cold blood, and has hired that other scoundrel up-stairs to help him, or whether he is only a weak man, who, in the turmoil of passion, has tolerated the assistance of the wretch, I do not know; but it is all the same, as in either case your fate would have been a fearful one." "Do not insult him!" she cried. "He is good and true! Ask him, if you doubt it, or listen to him when he comes to ask for my hand." "I can safely promise that," he replied, bitterly; "for he will not come. And I shall certainly not ask him, because I already know the answer, and will not have it said of me: 'The old man lost his senses in despair, and actually implored the count to make the lost girl his wife.'" "But if he should come?" "Then I should say, 'No! no! no!' as long as there was breath in my body, in order to save you from unhappiness. For fire and water will not mix quietly, and a woman who is a curse to her husband is the most wretched creature on earth. If Count Agenor Baranowski was really insane enough to marry my daughter, he would be morally dead. There would be a three months' delirium, and then a life of misery, and you deserve a better fate. Not another word," he continued, imperiously, as she was about to speak. "You have had to hear my will to-day, though as yet you cannot understand me." She stepped forward and raised her hands imploringly. He silently shook his head. Her arms fell, and she staggered from the room, her entire body quivering with emotion. He looked after her sadly, and even after the door closed his eyes were fixed in that direction. So the old servant found him. She brought the letters that had accumulated during his absence, and asked if he wanted his supper. He declined it, and tried to read the letters. It was impossible. Only one interested him. It was from Bergheimer's old pupil, Berthold Wertheimer, in Breslau, who informed him, in well-measured sentences, that he was passing through Galicia on business, and would give himself the pleasure of calling upon him. "That is done for, too," sighed the old man, painfully. "I shall consider myself happy if the poor child is cured in a year or two." Brooding over these troubles, he failed to hear a knock at the door, and only looked up when the visitor stood before him. It was Herr von Wroblewski. With a sorrowful air, he reached out his hand. "Pani Nathaniel," he said, softly, "I have heard you are in trouble and sorrow. The faithful friend should not be missing." The old man's face worked, but he controlled himself. He did not accept the proffered hand, but his voice was quiet as he asked, "And what has the faithful friend to tell me?" "_Mon Dieu!_ how you look at me! as if I were to blame. You do me injustice, 'pon my honor! Not one compromising word passed between the young people in my house, and I was dumb with surprise when I heard of the affair." "Indeed!" said the Jew, still coldly and deliberately. "But you surely do not expect me to believe this? Why this comedy? What is it you wish from me?" "Pani Nathaniel, you hurt me! It was only our old friendship, 'pon my honor! Then, too, I am compromised, in a way. You may treat me as you like, but I will do my duty. As a man of honor and as your friend, I will go to-morrow, or to-day, if you wish, and will say to the count: 'You were introduced to this young girl in my house, and I have the right to remind you that you are about to commit an outrage against an honorable family. I beg of you to discontinue the attempt.' Yes, I will do it." "Very well, do what you cannot avoid doing." "But, are you not willing? It is the only way to influence the count. And you could not find a better go-between." "Certainly not more honest. But I require no go-between in this affair. I have forbidden my daughter ever to speak, even one syllable, to the count, you, or your ladies. As she is a good child and a Jewess, brought up to obey her father, she will do as I say, though it may be hard for her." Herr von Wroblewski smiled. "But is not that as the old proverb says, 'emptying out the spoons with the slops'? Perhaps the count will say, 'I am serious in this, and wish to marry the girl.' It is possible." "That would not make the least difference. I should say 'no,' and Judith knows it. Not because I have any feeling against Christians, but because it would be certain misery for both." He arose. "That is surely not your final word? You will not refuse the hand of an old friend?" "Yes," said the Jew, abruptly. "I do not think the less of you for coming," he continued, in a tone of the utmost contempt, "for every one must act according to his principles. Your principles, both private and public, allow you to be convinced by both sides. You have been convinced by the count; now you wish to be by me also. But I decline." Wroblewski changed color. His face was distorted by rage and hate. With difficulty he restrained himself. "But, Pani Nathaniel, some one must have libelled me to you. The burgomaster perhaps-- Oh! if you only knew how his wife-- It really grieves me to part with you in such a state of mind." "Yet you will be obliged to do it," said Trachtenberg, quietly, pointing to the door, "otherwise I shall have to call my coachman." When the magistrate was again in the dark passage, he was forced to hold to the door-posts, he was so overcome with rage. "You shall pay for that," he groaned, "yes, pay for it," and he reiterated it at least ten times. He then went into the street, where he walked up and down meditating. At last he had made up his mind. "That would be the very best plan, but it must be carried out to-day." He looked at the clock. "Nine; a very convenient hour!" and he then turned his steps in the direction of the castle. Half an hour later he stood before the count. The young man had just arisen from dinner. "You have come to ask about the letter?" he inquired. "It has been attended to." "Of that I had no doubts. I have come to show my gratitude in a practical way." He hastily told what had transpired, in the most glaring colors, of course. "It must have been a frightful scene. The girl swore she would not leave you, and her father that he regarded your proposal as an insult. So he has locked her in her room, and is going to drag her off to some Ghetto to-morrow early--who knows where. The girl will be lost to you forever if you do not act with promptitude." The count paced the floor in great excitement. "But what can I do?" he asked. "It would be bad if you required me to tell you!" "An abduction! But that would be an act of violence." "Has it never happened before? At any rate, you need not bother yourself. There will be no obstacles. I know the girl's room." "But if she refuses?" "Has she refused to come to the park, and is it likely she will refuse to go with you, now her father has been foolish and fanatical enough to tell her he would not even agree to a marriage with you?" "But she will demand an oath from me!" "Well, then, swear. You know the proverb about lovers' oaths. As it is, you seem to have developed considerable skill in this critical situation. If you have gone so far without oaths, you can manage the rest." "It is impossible; my conscience will not allow it." And yet, as he said this, he saw in his mind's eye a carriage stopping before a hunting-lodge belonging to him, five hours distant, and himself stepping out, with Judith in his arms. "Your conscience," said the magistrate. "Well, of course you can best judge of that yourself. Only consider the matter. You have a few hours still. If you dare venture, let your carriage wait in the street behind the house, about one o'clock, a few hundred feet away from the court-yard gate. I shall be enjoying the fresh air at an open window at that time. If I see you below, I will open the gate to you at the stroke of the clock. Good-night, or _au revoir!_" He started to go, but a motion of the count detained him. "Only one question. Trachtenberg told his daughter he would reject even a formal proposal from me--is that true?" "Do I ever lie?" asked Herr von Wroblewski, angrily and yet smiling at the same time. "Do you think I am so stupid as to tell a lie which could be disproven by your asking his daughter one question? You do not know me yet, my dear count!" "Does his fanaticism carry him so far?" "You are surely not surprised at that. Those people barely consider us human beings, and if your conscience cannot accommodate itself-- But that is your own business." He bowed and left. CHAPTER VI. Four weeks had passed away. It was a dull, dirty November day. The gray snow-clouds were lowering, and now and then the lazy flakes fell, turning to water in the air and to mud on the ground. Between the slippery ploughed land and the low strata of clouds, the mists lay thick and motionless. The mild west wind that blew at times in the upper regions of the atmosphere did not reach them, and there they lay, as if wedged in, the gray ocean of vapor absorbing every tone and color. Even the sharpest eye could see but a few steps in advance. The heath was quite deserted. A man who came from the west, driving towards the town in a light wagonette, met no one of whom he could ask the way. The wagonette was empty, and the fiery steeds, when he slackened the reins, galloped along at such a pace that the mud flew up in waves; yet the driver urged them along in the gray twilight. It was now nearly midday, but no lighter than when he started in the early morning. "Drive on, Fedko; it is a case of life and death," the butler had said when he was told to go, and indeed he knew it himself. So again he allowed the reins to slacken, when suddenly the carriage stood still. The horses reared, but in vain. The tough bog in which they had sunk to the knees held them fast. The man jumped out, but he, too, stuck fast; they must have driven on the ploughed land at the turn of the road. There he stood helpless--what was he to do--where was he to turn? "_Jesu, Marie!_" he cried, "perhaps in the meantime she will die!" Suddenly he heard a distant sound. He listened. It was the bell from the tower of the Dominican convent chiming the hour of noon. He seized the reins and lashed the horses; they plunged madly. Following the sound, he succeeded in getting back to the road, where he could see through the mist the red cross at the entrance of the town. Five minutes more and the magistrate would have the letter. But it was destined to be much longer than that. He had only reached the first detached houses when he met a crowd of people. "Make way!" he shouted; but he was obliged to drive at walking pace, and when he came into the built-up street his horses were brought to an entire standstill. The thoroughfare was filled with a compact body of people. It was as if the entire population were wedged together. Christians and Jews, men and women, now pushing forward, now backward, but without noise or tumult. They whispered to one another, and when Tedko made an effort to push his way through they only said, under their breath, "Don't you see it's a funeral?" With this he had to be content; so he drove up close under the monastery wall. He did not ask who was dead--that was no concern of his. And perhaps it was well that he did not ask, and well that he did not wear the livery of his master, Count Agenor Baranowski. They were the poorest of the people who waited to join the funeral procession--grooms, day laborers, and beggars, a rough lot, who generally eke out a cheerless existence, without any particular pleasure or pain, unless it be the care for their daily bread. There must have been a close tie between them and the deceased, for if one of them raised his voice or pushed forward at all noisily he was instantly hushed into silence. There was not one of the Jews who had not a deep rent in his garment. As this mode of grief is seldom observable except in the case of relations, the dead man seemed a connection of all. So, too, it was easy to read in the excited faces, and in the murmurs which now and then ran through the crowd, that their sorrow was strongly mingled with indignation. Weeping and wailing came from the house of mourning. "It is his sister and her children from Tarnopol," whispered the crowd. "His son has not come yet." Suddenly a weird sound arose, increased in volume, and ceased. It was the short prayer said by the burial guild before they enter the house to carry out the corpse. "Make way!" resounded through the ranks, and the people pressed together to leave the middle of the street free. Some climbed on the count's carriage. The coachman made no objections. He sprang from his seat, and busied himself about the horses. Poor, rude serf as he was, he was no more in fault than the horses he drove, the same with which, four weeks before, he had driven his master and Judith to the retired lodge in the Carpathians; but he could not feel comfortable on his raised seat, for he now knew who was about to be borne to his last home. But before this, another incident was to intensify the excitement. A piercing shriek was heard and a cry, "Raphael has come!" When this news reached the house of mourning a prayer, just commenced, was suddenly stopped. The good order was for a time disturbed, and inquiries arose as to whether the report was true and where he was, to which no answer could at first be obtained. Finally some one told those in front, who passed the tidings on, that Raphael, hearing he was too late, had swooned away, but that, recovering quickly, he had gone into the house by the rear door, that he might take leave of his father. "Stand back!" came the order. "The procession will start directly." The crowd obeyed, but their grief and anger became more apparent. The wailing of the women increased, and they cursed Judith and the count with loud voice and clenched fists. Fedko drew his cap farther over his face. "If they knew what has happened this morning!" he thought. Verily, he did not care to change places with his master. A minute later the prayers recommenced. The gutturals of the Hebrew ritual, solemn and impressive, penetrated the murky atmosphere. The procession was in order. In front, led by their teachers, came the boys of the congregation, the smallest first, all clad in long black garments. They walked two by two in silence, until, at a given signal, they burst into a prayer. It was short--so short that it was as though the hundred clear, childish voices had given vent to one simultaneous cry of grief. To this versicle, entreating for the peaceful repose of the dead, the crowd responded, "Amen! Amen!" The youths followed, and then the men, all in their best attire, the caftan of cloth or silk being torn open on the breast. Some prayed silently, but the greater proportion walked along with bowed heads and lowering faces. Between times was heard the shrill cry, "Save the soul!" from the watchers of the dead, as they held the alms-bags to the spectators. The burial guild came next, shrouded in white linen blouses, their heads covered with a white praying-cloth. On a bier, carried by six men, was the corpse, the feet foremost, wrapped in a white cloth, not in a coffin, so that the outlines of the form were distinctly visible. The women sobbed aloud, the men beat their breasts, imploring, "Peace, peace!" After the other part of the fraternity, that alone has the right to surround the dead, had passed by, and the mourners became visible, a still stronger emotion stirred the multitude. Raphael, still in his mud-bespattered travelling-clothes, walked alone. He must have rent his garments so violently as to tear the flesh, for fresh blood-stains were on the edges. His face was gray as ashes, and his hair was doubly black by contrast; his features seemed petrified. He walked erect, his eyes fixed on the bier and his dead father's head. He declined the support of his uncle, who was near him, and only the deeply drawn corners of his mouth and the half-closed lips betrayed the agony he was enduring. He was not so much a mourner as an avenger. "Poor fellow!" a woman would sob occasionally, but the men watched him with bated breath, and when one shouted, "Avenge him! we will help you!" they all joined in as if waiting for the call. The town doctor and overseers, who walked behind Raphael, looked around frightened, for the Christian dignitaries followed them, the burgomaster at their head. Herr von Bariassy was there also, with his subordinates. The magistrate alone was missing. The procession moved slowly into the sea of fog over the dripping heather to the "Good Place," as the Eastern Jew calls the graveyard. All who could joined the procession. Fedko had a free road now, yet it seemed to him the right thing to drive to the back door, as if his errand were one which could not bear even this dismal daylight. The staircase to the first floor was locked, and when he knocked one of the two Hussars who were walking, apparently idly, up and down, came and asked his business. After the soldier was satisfied, he knocked twice, and another Hussar opened the door, while a fourth stood at the head of the stairs. Finally the cook appeared. "Our master is ill; ill with terror," she whispered to Fedko. "He is so afraid of Jews! That is the reason these soldiers are here. But he will be certain to see you," and a few minutes after the coachman was requested to step in. The magistrate sat in an arm-chair, looking very ill. His face grew paler and more agitated as he glanced over the letter. It contained but two lines: "As misfortune has occurred and I am helpless, come quickly, and bring the doctor with you." He sprang to his feet. "What has happened?" he asked, tremblingly. "If it isn't in the letter, I--" Fedko began, hesitatingly. "Speak out! I am to go to Borky, and take the doctor with me; so it surely cannot remain secret from me. The Jewess appears to be ill." The coachman nodded, "Yes, very ill." "Has she injured herself?" The man was silent. "Speak! how did this calamity take place? The doctor must take his necessary instruments." "She fell into the lake." "When?" "This morning, early. The count was still asleep." "Who saved her?" "The butler and myself. It was a hard piece of work. She struggled so. We only got her to land when she became unconscious." The magistrate walked nervously up and down. "And this in addition! Surely the scandal was great enough. But what am I to do? You can fetch the doctor yourself. But not the town doctor. He is a Jew himself. The only good thing in the affair is that they do not know where she is. I will give you a line to the regimental doctor in Roskowska." He went to his desk, and began to write. After a few words he dropped his pen. "Fedko, it is a puzzle. The Jew died yesterday at noon, and this happened this morning. Who the devil told it to the girl so quickly?" "Nonsense, sir!" answered the coachman. "No stranger has been in the castle. She has not heard it yet." "But what other reason could she have, the silly fool? She is there enjoying a thousand pleasures with her lov--" He paused in the middle of the word. This Ruthene boor was staring at him in such a curious way. "This is very bad," he thought, "and he may repeat it. It cannot be allowed. This scandal on top of the other, and I am undone. They must leave, both of them." He got up from his desk. "I will drive with you." He went to the window, and peered into the street, which was quite deserted. "Where is the carriage--at the court-yard gate? Very good. Then we can reach Roskowska unobserved. These stupid Jews threatened me last night." He sent Fedko into the anteroom, and dressed rapidly. Lady Anna came in, and he told her the purport of his journey. The pair exchanged brief but hearty farewells. She summed up his activity in the affair in one word, while he thanked her with a delicate reference to the prior and the Rittmeister. He then went down-stairs, glancing timorously into the open door of the death-chamber as he passed. The windows were shrouded, and the numerous pictures turned to the wall. A small oil-lamp, the "soul-lamp," was burning in one corner of the darkened room, while the boards creaked as if drawing a breath of relief, because freed from their ghastly burden. The official shivered as he hastened through the court-yard and jumped into the carriage. One of the Hussars took his place by the side of the coachman, and away they drove through the deserted street and along the riverside to the suburb Roskowska, where were the Hussar barracks and the residence of the regimental physician. He was at home, ready to start, and willingly promised silence. But when the magistrate told him who needed his services, and requested him to take the necessary remedies with him, the rough old gentleman was deeply moved. "Trachtenberg's daughter!" he said; and his bristly white moustache quivered. "Yesterday I attended the death-bed of her father, to-day the daughter's; and two months since how happily and peaceably these people lived! Oh, my dear sir, a terrible crime has been committed!" "A good deal could be said on that subject," equivocated Von Wroblewski, helping the doctor to pack what was required. He dismissed the Hussar, but ordered the coachman to drive around the town, so they would not meet the returning procession. He then gave his version of the story to the doctor. "You see," he concluded, "how the mob wrong me. Nor is the count as guilty as he seems. The fanaticism of the old man is really to blame. 'I would rather see my child a corpse than that she should become Countess Baranowski.' Those were his words, 'pon my honor. Otherwise Agenor would not have proceeded to violence." "All the better," rejoined the doctor. "He can marry her now. The dead make no objections." "Hm--" The magistrate cleared his throat, but he had no answer ready. The idea kept running in his mind, "Anyhow, it would be an escape." He begrudged the Jews a triumph; but if Agenor did this, he would escape an unpleasant investigation. Yet it was not to be thought of. Though the young man might be as wax in other matters, in this he was iron. His lineage, his purse, his blood, were ever in his mind. How did he once express himself? "Only if I had to choose between a Jewess and a jail would I stop to consider which would be the greatest insult to my ancestors." But if he did not wish to marry, and if this was the only way to keep Judith alive and quiet the scandal, what then? The magistrate closed his eyes involuntarily. He was a hard, unscrupulous man, and his entire life had been one long lie, but even he shuddered at the thought that just now occurred to him. It would be too base, and dangerous besides. He offered the doctor a cigar, and began to talk about the bad weather; and, indeed, it was a rough journey over the miry road and through the gray, dripping solitude. The conversation soon dropped. Too dangerous? The idea recurred again. But it might not be. The interested parties would be silent, and, as it was, Judith and the count must leave the country. It would satisfy the girl. She would be provided for, and the supposititious scoundrel could probably be found, for, in spite of his assumed oaths, it was not likely that he had gone to Russia. If the count was willing, that would be the best way of escape. By this time he was able to comfortably elaborate the plan in all its details. A queer sensation took possession of him, but in his heart of hearts he was afraid of himself; and yet he experienced a certain delight in thinking what an inventive genius he was. This must have been pictured on his face, for the doctor asked, in astonishment, "What makes you so cheerful?" Wroblewski became sober instantly. "I thought--well, what did I think? I believe it will end well, after all. As regards the girl, I trust to your skill. It would be sad if the pretty creature perished so miserably." "Yes," was the answer, "it would be sad, and also very disagreeable for you." "For me? But, my dearest doctor, you surely do not think I am afraid of the complaint made by the girl's father to the government. Little can be done to the count, and nothing to me. _Mon Dieu!_ we are living in a country where the law is respected. The government will surely act according to law and order, and hand over the document to be examined by--" "Yourself?" "Not by myself, but by the magistracy here. That is a great difference. Just see," he continued, pathetically, "what a revengeful people these Jews are. Instead of making his peace with God, the old man used his last span of life in elaborating and carrying out a plan of revenge on those he supposed were his enemies." "Although they treated him like Christians!" said the doctor, and his white moustache worked again. "But I believe the case to be otherwise. Nathaniel Trachtenberg would have died sooner if he had not felt compelled to fulfil this last mandate of conscience. That is also the conviction of my colleague, the town doctor. We watched with surprise and emotion the power of mind over matter; the feeble body sustained by the iron will. I was the first physician with him the morning of his daughter's flight, as my colleague was absent. He got up, it seemed, after the old servant told him her knocking at Judith's door had been useless, and, going to her room, he broke the oaken planks with the weight of his body as if they had been straw. He read the note he found on her table, and fell to the floor. It was a stroke which affected the brain partially, and the whole of the left side. When, an hour after the seizure, I went to the bedside to open a vein, I said to myself, 'You are tormenting a dying man. He won't survive the evening,' he looked inquiringly at me, and babbled something with his paralyzed tongue. As I could not understand, he wrote, 'How long have I?' I was on the point of lying; but when I looked at him I could not, but answered that it rested in God's hands. He wrote again: 'Have mercy, and give me three weeks;' and the look he gave me I shall never forget. By that time the elders of the congregation had assembled, and he began to write his wishes, which were immediately obeyed. One messenger was sent to his relatives, another to his lawyer, and another to Dr. Romberg, a solicitor in Lemberg. I objected at first; but when I saw how his eye grew brighter and brighter and his writing more and more distinct, I felt, so to say, queer, and allowed it to go on. Then came the most serious difficulty. He longed for his son in Heidelberg, and they calculated it would take five weeks to reach him, if summoned by letter. But in less than ten minutes a young fellow was found who was willing to travel night and day. So, you see, my dear sir, though much can be said against the Jews, they have at least a great regard for the dying and the dead." "Too great, alas!" ejaculated Herr von Wroblewski. "I don't wish to throw a stone at the dead man, for he was blinded by hate. But how is it these people, usually so prudent, allow themselves to be incited against me? It will be their own destruction. I know for certain that this Jewish scribbler from Lemberg, the most clever quibbler in Galicia, has drawn up quite an accusation against me; and these people, who generally hardly dare to breathe in my presence, crowded up to sign it. Of course, it was lies, nothing but lies, 'pon my honor! You must acknowledge, doctor, a Christian would never have spent his last breath in hatching plans of revenge." The doctor shrugged his shoulders. "Possibly it was not merely a desire for revenge that urged him on. My colleague and myself witnessed these exciting daily scenes, of course, at the bedside of the deceased, most unwillingly, and protested against them. But he always replied--" The old gentleman paused. "Well?" said Wroblewski, "one whose conscience is as clear as mine can listen to anything." "His answer was: 'It is this duty which keeps me alive. It cries to heaven that such a man should be a judge. I will not go before God's throne until I have done my utmost to purify the earth from him.' Pardon me, Herr von Wroblewski!" In spite of himself, the magistrate had grown pale. "Please, don't mention it. It does not matter in the least. It is too unjust, too foolish! The count elopes with his daughter, and he wishes to punish me. If it grieved him so terribly, he might have employed his last energies in getting her back again. The Jews are such a clever race that it would have been easy for them to have discovered the count's hiding-place." "Castle Borky?" said the doctor. "Nathaniel and the elders knew that the evening after the elopement. It was superfluous trouble on your part to bind me to secrecy. There were a number of men who wished to bring Judith back by main force, that she might be judged by the congregation, but Nathaniel forbade it. 'No,' he said, 'some one will lose his life, perhaps, or you will be heavily punished by the courts. It is not worth while to incur danger on account of such an outcast. And why judge her? God will do that. For you and me she is a corpse.' Yet in the secret depths of his heart he must have had some feeling for the unhappy girl, for he fought long against the fearful ceremony customary in such cases, though it is very rarely carried out. It is said this is the first time in two hundred years that a Jewess of this congregation has eloped with a Christian. When he finally agreed, he made one stipulation, which certainly would not have been granted to any one else. But they could not refuse him, their head, her father." "I don't understand. What ceremony?" "The funeral!" "What!" exclaimed the magistrate, in surprise, "have they buried Judith?" He was on the point of laughing, but the expression on his companion's face sobered him. "It was so ghastly that I shall never forget it. My colleague and I had so arranged it that the last few days one of us was always with him. We relieved each other every six hours. But we knew very well we could not detain the escaping life much longer. He had weakened considerably after the lawyer's visit. There was no fresh stroke, but the tissues were being fast consumed. He lay there as if asleep, stammering his son's name now and then; and, indeed, had he not longed so greatly to see his son he would probably have died sooner. As I entered the room about eleven o'clock, day before yesterday, to relieve my colleague, he whispered to me: 'The end is fast approaching. Stay with him, but do not interfere, no matter what occurs.' Shortly after, the elders entered the room, and with them the rabbi, all clad in their praying-garments. They bowed to him, and asked if they had his consent. He nodded, the door opened and twelve men belonging to the burial guild came in, wearing white shrouds, carrying a curious burden. It was a large, handsome rose-tree in full bloom, the damp earth still clinging to its roots. Goodness knows where they got it. Perhaps from Count Baranowski's conservatory. They took the bush to the bed, and Nathaniel put out his hand and touched its crown. His lips moved. It may have been a blessing, or it may have been a farewell greeting. While this was being done, the others hid their faces with their praying-cloths, and some sobbed aloud. The bush was then taken into the middle of the room, the rabbi stepped forward--I have never seen a more malignant face--and spoke a few words loud and rough: I think it was a curse. He then seized the bush with both hands, broke it, and threw the pieces on the floor before him. One after another the men went up, snatched a blossom and scattered the leaves, until the bush stood bare as well as broken. I went to the foot of the bed. The old man kept his eyes closed, but he knew what was going on. A feeble groan burst from his lips, and tears coursed down his cheeks. He remained in the same position when the 'soul-lamp' was lighted for her who was from henceforth to be considered dead. Nor did he move when they made the cut in his shirt, which is emblematical of the rent made in the life of the mourner. At last the bier was brought in; the broken bush was placed on it, with the leaves which had been carefully gathered up; a white pall was spread over all, and then they departed. The elders followed, and I was again alone with Nathaniel for about two hours. I held his hand in mine, for I could not speak. At the end of that time the rabbi and elders returned, and the former, stepping up to the couch, said: 'It is finished, and because thou wast a just man all the days of thy life, may the Almighty prolong it! We have done according to thy will--thy daughter's grave is between that of thy wife (may she rest in peace!) and that which thou hast chosen for thyself. And when the Lord shall call her to judgment, and she dies in our own faith, that grave shall be open for her. We swear it to thee!' Nathaniel nodded. His breathing became more and more quiet, but he lasted ten hours, until yesterday noon, when he fell asleep--" The doctor drew a long breath. "Excuse me, but not just now," he exclaimed, abruptly, as he saw the magistrate about to speak; "when I think of that empty grave and of her to whom I am going--" He pulled the carriage window down and leaned out, as if to breathe more freely, until the rain beat upon his hot forehead. "Another sentimental fool!" thought the magistrate. "Curious, but most people are sentimental." But he dared not speak. So they drove slowly along. The twilight has given place to night, and as they were nearing the mountains, and the ground was ascending, the tired horses dragged the carriage through the mud at walking pace. At last they came to a standstill. "What is the matter?" the magistrate asked, leaning out of the window. "I don't know," was the answer. "Two horsemen with torches, followed by a carriage, are coming to meet us. I must stop so they can pass on this narrow road." They proved to be servants of the count. The butler was in the carriage. He opened the door. "At last, sir! Have you brought the doctor with you? Our master is nearly mad, and has sent me out to look for you." "Is she worse?" inquired the doctor. "I don't know," said the butler, anxiously; "it was bad enough from the beginning. She is in the most violent fever. Two maids can hardly hold the poor thing on her couch. If the gentlemen would step into my carriage, we should reach the castle in half an hour, the horses being fresher." Castle Borky was originally only a shooting-box of the Baranowskis, but the last occupant had been a misanthropic bachelor who had added considerably to the building, converting it into a residence. Situated on the lower slope of the mountains, it commanded a splendid view over the plain. This outlook, in fact, was its only attraction, for the garden, though large, was not ornamental. The pond, on whose shore that desperate struggle had taken place, had been artificially excavated in the plateau behind the house. Beaching the house, they were met by the count. "Dr. Reiser," he cried, taking his hand, "come quickly!" He led him up the stairs and through a suite of rooms until they stood in the sick-room. There was Judith, her haggard face deathly white, her forehead so covered with perspiration that her auburn hair clung to her temples in disordered locks. Her eyes were shut, and her limbs shook with fever. Two servants, common wenches, with coarse faces, cowered at the foot of the bed. "She is asleep," whispered the count. The doctor shook his head, went softly to her, and looked at the emaciated features of the girl he had known a few weeks before as a blooming beauty. His heart beat hard as he remembered the rose-bush. She opened her eyes; the mad light of fever shone in them. "Agenor," she whispered. Baranowski bent over her tenderly, answering, "Here I am! What is it?" "Agenor!" she shrieked, "have pity on me and let me die!" She attempted to rise, but he pushed her gently back on the pillows. "Mercy!" she repeated, resisting violently. "You must know I cannot live so any longer. I will not curse you. I will bless you, but let me die. There is the pond." The count was again obliged to hold her till the paroxysms were past. "It has been like this for fourteen hours," he whispered to the doctor. "Chills and fever alternating; and she never ceases repeating those same words. It is heart-breaking." "Yes, it is heart-breaking," was the reply, quietly given, but the words were as cold and sharp as the stab of a dagger. Again the doctor bent over the couch. With the exception of some bruises on her hands and a cut on the right cheek, caused probably by the sharp leaf of a water-flag, there were no injuries perceptible. He took the measure of her temperature and felt her pulse. At his touch she opened her eyes and stared at him. "Dr. Reiser!" she suddenly exclaimed. "You are good. Let me go to the pond. You are a friend of my father, and I must preserve my father from this disgrace." The doctor covered her up carefully and went into the dressing-room. Agenor followed. "What do you think of her?" he inquired, anxiously. "As a medical man, I have little to say," said the old gentleman, roughly. "The external injuries are not worth mentioning. There seem no indications of any inflammatory condition of the lungs or brain. The fever is violent, but not excessive, and is quite explained by the occurrence this morning. If her mind were at rest, or she had fallen into the water accidentally, she would be able to leave her bed in a day or two." "But as it is at present?" said the count, nervously. "It will have a bad ending. I could not swear to it, but it is my conviction. I will put her to sleep with an opiate, and will try to check the fever. I hope by to-morrow her mind will be clear. But what good will that do, since her wish for death has not been created by the fever? She will beg neither you nor me for death to-morrow, but she will find it for herself." Agenor wrung his hands, saying: "I will do anything to quiet her. She looks at everything in too black a light--perhaps I may prove it to her. I shall never desert her, never leave her to her fate, never! I shall watch her carefully, and have her watched." The doctor shook his head. "Nonsense!" he said, harshly; "if and how you can convince her is your own affair; but don't attempt supervision. I have my own experiences of that sort of thing. And if it succeeded, it would only be verifying the manner of her death. For if she did not die in the pond, she would in her bed. There is no such thing, my dear sir, as a broken heart; it is only to be found in novels. But there is such a thing as consumptive fever. I saw Judith six weeks ago, and now again, and I can assure you she is in a fair way for it. As affects my conscience, the difference in the manner of death would not be considerable, but I must leave to you which you prefer to adopt." He opened his medicine-chest, and began to prepare a drink. The count sighed profoundly. "Dear Dr. Reiser, you judge me severely. A man like you ought to know life. These affairs rarely end tragically. I assure you I look at my duties to Judith very seriously. But a marriage would be a moral suicide. That you must acknowledge." The doctor turned around sharply and looked into the count's face. It was very gloomy. "I admit it. But can one commit a physical murder to save one's self from moral suicide?" "What am I to do?" groaned the young man. Dr. Reiser shrugged his shoulders. "Choose that which seems easiest. Consider the case--you look ill--go and have a sleep. I will be guarantee for tonight. Good-night." He passed into the sick-room. Agenor gazed after him, sighing deeply, and then went into his bedroom, where he threw himself on a sofa, in the dark. There he remained for an hour, racking his brain--murder or suicide--was there, indeed, no third alternative? A knock on the door aroused him thoroughly. It was the butler. "Herr von Wroblewski wishes to know if you will speak to him to-day. If not, he will go to bed." In his trouble he had forgotten this man--a scoundrel who had always given him evil counsel, yet who was in the matter his only confidant, and for this reason he had turned to him this morning in his helplessness. "I will come," he hastily answered. He found his guest in the dining-room on the ground-floor. The latter had enjoyed the meal which had been served, and was now comfortably stretched out, with wine and cigars. "Excuse me," the count began. "Pray, pray don't mention it. You have heavy cares just now. I only sent for you because I am really somewhat tired. Just sit down and let me know how I can help you. You must surely see that I am your friend. 'Pon my honor, it was not easy to leave my office and family to come here. But have courage, and tell me." "Thanks. What happened here this morning--" "I already know," said Wroblewski, "though I do not quite comprehend it. I do not wish to blame you, but you do not seem to have acted quite prudently. When you suggested, the evening before the elopement, that Judith might take it tragically, and therefore your conscience would not allow it, what did I say? 'Your conscience? That is your affair. Consider it well.' Now, thought I, 'the count knows Judith better than I, and his position to her; either he will not consider his scruples justified and will come, or they will, after consideration, seem well founded; and then, out of pure friendship, I will catch cold at the open window.' You came, consequently your conscience was clear, and that sufficed for me." "Dare yon speak so to me?" cried the count. The magistrate evidently thought it more politic to misconstrue this insulting ejaculation. He said, innocently, "Of course! Who else than I, your only faithful friend? But it is not intended as a complaint; as I have once before said, you made a mistake. You ought to have disillusionized the girl carefully and delicately. Everything has its way, and much depends on that. You ought never to have permitted such a brutal affair as that fight in the water to have occurred. You have found maids to-day. Why didn't you yesterday?" "We will not speak of that," said the count. "Nor will we argue as to whether you aroused my conscience or not, or whether you always did as I wished. Your conduct does not lessen my guilt; at least, not in my sight. I have acted basely and cruelly and carelessly. The first few weeks we passed in a delirium. I thought of nothing in the world but her, and she only of me. Then came the wakening. She asked and urged, never dreaming I would refuse to marry her. She only wondered why the priest was so long in coming to baptize her and to marry us. You can believe I expiated a large portion of my sin in the three days I tried to kiss away her fears while I dissembled and lied. It was in vain. Yesterday she remained in her room a long time; and when she at last appeared, I read in her face that she no longer believed me. Then, while she listened quietly, I confessed all, and swore I would never forsake her, and I really thought she would get over it in a few days. So, at her request, I left her quite alone. That evening, when I saw her again, I was startled--such tearless, inexpressible sorrow was in every line of her face. She begged and implored: 'Make me your wife, for only three days, and then I will commit suicide, and you shall be free again.' It was frightful." He was silent. "Cheer up!" said Wroblewski, encouragingly. "Of course, you tried to pacify her." The count shook his head. "I said to her: 'I can die with you, but I cannot make you my wife. If you like, this shall be our last hour. But if you decline this, and commit suicide, I will follow you.' I meant it seriously." "I do not doubt it. And then you let her alone." "I watched by her bedside till break of day. She was so still, I thought she had gone to sleep, and I gave way to my fatigue. It was the shouting of the servants in the court-yard that woke me. Fedko had observed her, and, following, staved off this calamity." "Pray God forever!" ejaculated the magistrate, solemnly. "What does the doctor think?" The count repeated the doctor's opinion. "It is frightful!" he groaned, clasping his hands. "Hm! then she does not know her father is dead?" "Dead!" repeated Agenor, starting up. The magistrate told the particulars indifferently. "But we need not take that into account just now, for she must not hear of it. You must take her away to Paris or Italy, though I do not suppose it will avail much. Consumptive fever! suicide! why, it gives one cold shivers down the back. That is, if we credit the doctor. But need we? For, I can tell you, he is a sentimentalist--a philanthropist"--here his face wore a contemptuous sneer--"and perhaps a friend of the Jews." "I believe him; and if you had seen the poor thing you would not have doubted, either." "That's bad. But now we must be sensible. What you said yesterday, excuse me, was sheer nonsense. That is the way a counter-jumper would talk if he could not marry a seamstress. But a Baranowski has obligations. What good would it do you, or the girl, or the world in general, if you committed suicide together? There are two courses open to you. Either let things remain as they are--" "No, no!" cried the count. "You need not shout! I am not a barbarian myself. I only meant for you to go South with a physician who would watch her carefully. But, of course, if you believe in a catastrophe notwithstanding, we will not speak of it again." "No, not of that." "Well, there is nothing else for us to talk about, for you can find the way to the nearest priest without my help." The count stood still, with averted face. "You know of no other way?" "No. I am sorry it must be so, but here are my heartiest congratu--" He stopped, frightened at the gloom and pallor which overspread the count's face. "Of course," he murmured, "how could there be an alternative? Pardon me, I only asked because, when one is in a fix like this--I will do it. Please arrange with the nearest priest. It can take place to-morrow." Here Von Wroblewski looked at him sharply. A shudder passed through him. "After the wedding you will kill yourself?" The count was silent. "He will do it," thought the magistrate, "certainly, or very probably. That cannot be allowed. Since the Jews have become insubordinate, he is my only reliance, and, besides, it is my duty to save him." "Hm! my dear count, I am no friend of the Jews, but I do not consider the disgrace such that you cannot survive it." Agenor shook his head. "It is hard to reason with sentiment. My family pride, my name and race--that was the backbone of my life. It was taught me by my father, and I have clung to it with body and soul. I cannot live a cripple with a broken back. That is all!" "That is all," repeated Wroblewski, mechanically. He had delayed the suggestion of his plan, but it had to come at last. "Ahem! Listen, my dear friend; you can always have recourse to that. But if I--you mentioned just now that the doctor had produced an artificial sleep for to-night--if you could induce such a sleep for her soul, to last one, two, or three years, or as long as you liked? It would depend on yourself when she was to be wakened." "What do you mean?" "As I have said, it would depend on yourself. Of course you would not do it until you felt convinced she would take it more quietly than she has to-day. That will be sure to come with time. The first outburst over, she will remember her duties; there may be children to be cared for. Of course you would have to leave the country immediately." "What the devil do you mean?" "It has only just passed through my brain. I have only mentioned it out of friendship, but you can make your own decision. The poor devil will do it for you gladly, for he was saved by your aid, and will hold his tongue in his own interests." "Who?" "You remember the affair with your farmer, Afanasiewicz? Well, that Ignatius Tondka--" The count winced. He trembled in every limb. "Silence!" he shouted. "Pardon me. It was only a suggestion. But it is late." He looked at the clock. "Really, it is past midnight." "It would be criminal." "Yes, but murder and suicide are also not agreeable matters. Think of it until to-morrow. Good-night, my dear count," and without looking around he left the room, and was shown to his bedchamber. "To the devil with all this sentimentality!" he thought; and yet, though he was far from being sentimental, it was a good long time before he got to sleep. The sun was high in the heavens when he awoke. The clock indicated ten. He dressed quickly, and rang for the servant, who told him the count had inquired for him repeatedly. The doctor had left, and the invalid was still asleep. A few minutes after, and the magistrate stood before his host. Agenor looked ill and suddenly old. "I wish to expedite this affair as much as possible. When can the man be here?" "Have you considered it thoroughly?" "No hypocrisy! It fits your plans; you will be safe for life. You knew perfectly well that a drowning man would clutch at the blade of a sword. Your carriage is waiting. How much do you want, and when can the man be here?" Herr von Wroblewski could be laconic when occasion required. "Ten thousand gulden! To-morrow!" The count wrote a check, and handed it to the magistrate. He read it carefully, nodded, put it into his pocket, and left the room without bow or farewell word. CHAPTER VII. Raphael returned from his sad walk as he had started, pale, rigid, and upright. There was not only pity, but even admiration for him in the minds of all, for he gave no heed to his own sorrow and fatigue; he thought only of the wants of others. He called together all the poor to whom his father had been a benefactor, and told them only the giver was changed, not the gift. And to none of those humble and afflicted ones was he more friendly and pitiful than to the old woman who had entered his presence with a fainting heart, Miriam Gold, whose daughter had become a Christian. "Do not tremble, Miriam!" he said. "Such disgrace may be incurred innocently." This was his own consolation in the first hours of terrible suffering which he had to undergo after his filial duties were ended. He would crouch down in a corner of the death-chamber and keep vigil for the dead, staring into the dim light of the "soul-lamp," and think of the way in which his presentiments had been realized, and the warnings he had vainly given. "Were we ourselves free from blame?" Nothing hurt him more than this doubt. But he discharged the thought when he remembered the depth of the disgrace his sister had brought upon herself and him. The commonest wench of the Ghetto, he thought, grinding his teeth, would die rather than surrender her honor, and yet the daughter of the best man in the place could defile herself. She deserved his contempt, and he awaited the reading of the will with fear, lest the dying man should have exhorted him to clemency. His anxiety proved groundless. In the document, written to express Nathaniel's last wishes, Judith was mentioned only in the assignment to her of her portion. He left his blessing to Raphael, with the option of taking up the business or of continuing his studies, but particularly urging him not to allow the action which Rosenberg, the lawyer, had undertaken to fall through. Neither Judith nor the count was involved in it, only Wroblewski. "Such a man should not be a law-giver." Raphael's mind was soon made up. He assured his guardian he would remain in Galicia, continue the business, and pattern his life after his father's. When the first week of mourning was past, he undertook the management of the factory. What he lacked in years he made up in zeal and diligence. The government appointed the burgomaster as guardian to Judith. This gave little inconvenience to the good man after he had sent her a copy of the will, to the count's address, and he had put out the money advantageously. Time passed, but no answer came from her. This surprised no one. They knew she was somewhere on the Continent with the count--where, no one knew exactly, not even Raphael. He was the only man in the town who never mentioned her name. Week after week slipped by. Winter came and buried moor and town in snow, and people spoke less and less of the beautiful sinner who had broken her father's heart, and was now living with her lover under Southern skies, amid a thousand delights. Another topic of conversation cropped up. It was the downfall of the magistrate. It was first rumored that he was less firmly seated in his position than formerly, then that Rosenberg had secured an investigation; and then came a day in February when all, young and old, were on the street to catch a glimpse of the commission--a district judge and his secretary. Every one found it most natural. "It was bound to come!" they declared, and all rejoiced. But they were mistaken. The result was what could hardly be expected. The first weak step leading to this result was the suppression of any display of ill-feeling against Wroblewski by members of the congregation, at Raphael's request, and by command of the elders. It is true, proofs which the deceased as well as Raphael had collected effected a good deal. But although the Lemberg government did at last become attentive and read these accusations more carefully than previous ones, yet Lady Anna's uncle was a prominent member, and he assured his coadjutors that they were all lies, and any contradiction on the part of the other gentlemen would have been rude. And these high officials were exceedingly polite to each other in Austria before March, 1848! At times even Rosenberg was inclined to give it up, and to Raphael's despairing cry, "How can a government exist where such things are possible?" would answer: "It exists only in proportion to these circumstances." But suddenly the uncle became ill, and had to take a holiday. This would not have availed much had not the doctors said he would never be able to return to his official duties. Then it was decided that such a disgrace was no longer to be borne, and an investigation was ordered. The result was known beforehand--deposition and punishment. An official who deserved deposing merely was never tried in Austria. The machinery of the courts would otherwise have become clogged, and there would have been too many vacant offices. Herr von Wroblewski knew all that. For the first three months he was kept in continual suspense between fear and hope--fear of the dead, and of the pale, gloomy youth who glanced so contemptuously at him whenever they passed each other that he clenched his fists without daring to raise them--and hope in the politeness of the Lemberg officials. There came a time when he was again able to enjoy the monthly checks brought him by the count's bailiff. The larger proportion he kept, the balance he sent to Russia, to the address of "Herr Antonius Brodski, in Mohilev." Inside the cover was written: "Here, Herr Tondka, is the money the count has sent for you. I hope you are satisfied; but if you are not, it will do you no good. We are not afraid of you." All the notes were in the same strain, some more, some less rude, according to the amount enclosed. As to the other matter, he could rejoice. "The stupid Jews laughed before their time." But when news of the impending investigation reached him, he gave up hope. It was fully determined upon, and there was no use in fighting. He had known for twenty years the way in which these investigations ended. His office was lost, and he must make an effort to escape punishment. With the air of a man of injured honor, he stepped up to the judge and handed in his resignation. "The investigation will establish my innocence, but I will not remain after these insulting suspicions. I owe this to my dignity, the dignity of my position and of my colleagues, who have acted with the same zeal. I can affirm this with confidence, for I know their manner of conducting business," and he named a number of officials, each of whom had a worse reputation than the other. The judge listened. A tremendous scandal was threatened. He commenced the inquiry, but reported this at Lemberg. The government reflected, the scamp was out of harm's way, and it mattered little to the state whether he got a pension or some years' imprisonment; besides, the cost would be the same, for he would be certain to drag a number of companions down with him, and his patron was still alive. So the investigation was stopped after two months, and Herr von Wroblewski was pensioned off. The result was unsatisfactory to all parties, but chiefly to Raphael. Though displaced from office, the magistrate had escaped his well-earned punishment, "because he sinned mostly against Jews," thought Raphael, and the reflection made him more bitter than ever. On the other hand, after Wroblewski was over his first annoyance, he was well satisfied with his lot. The dignitaries of the town and the nobles in the neighborhood were cold towards him, it is true; but a little philosophy made that endurable, especially when there were always some amiable people to be met who would appreciate his and his wife's social talents. He was free from the tiresome duties of office, and could stand the reduction in pay, since a brief note to the count was always effectual in producing any sum, he chose to ask for. Agenor never wrote. In all this time Wroblewski had not received a line from him, and consequently knew as little as others where the lovers were staying. The bailiff, Herr Michael Stiegle, a silent, grumpy Swabian, forwarded the letters punctually, and brought the replies in a form which delighted the heart of the ex-magistrate more than the tenderest epistle could have done. True, Herr Stiegle made sour faces; and when Herr von Wroblewski, after he had been turned out by Raphael, desired a wing of the castle to be prepared for him, the bailiff threatened even to be rude. But a letter from the count caused him to carry out this wish too. In short, Wroblewski lived as pleasantly as formerly, and much more free from care. The letters from Russia did not disturb his equanimity, and the more threatening they became the more amusement they afforded. "What fools try to be scamps nowadays!" he said, contemptuously. "Such a stupid fellow, and yet he wishes to be a scamp!" What did Ignatius Tondka want? Of the three hundred gulden the count promised him monthly, he received one hundred, a sum upon which he could live very comfortably in Mohilev. It was impertinent for him to demand the entire amount and to recall Agenor's promise. "The count refuses to give more," Wroblewski had written repeatedly. "He knows you. You would not dare to betray him, or to return to Austria, for your own sake." The impudent fellow, however, was not content with this, but kept on writing. "I will ruin you both, though I perish myself." It was too comical! So the days sped by, pleasant days of leisure for the former official; and as neither the Rittmeister nor the prior belonged to those narrow-minded men who had given them the cut because of the court of inquiry and its results, Lady Anna was also content. The couple did not envy their successors, who had hired their apartment at Trachtenberg's, the magistrate Graze and his wife, vulgar people and poor creatures. The new judge actually lived, with wife and children, on his salary. A Puritan--he even paid his rent. Certainly, living in the castle was not only pleasanter, but cheaper. There was the splendid park before their windows, in which no Jew could be seen again. For the first act of Wroblewski, after his transmigration, had been the resurrection of the "notice board." Stiegle, the boor, had striven against it, and had even asked the count about it, but had been forced to give in. The flowers seemed to smell sweeter in spring, and the arbors afforded a cooler shade in summer to Herr von Wroblewski, since the board was in its old place. The summer passed, and the anniversary of the count's introduction to his inherited estates came, and was celebrated by a mass in the parish church. Herr Stiegle distributed alms by request of the count, but the donor's whereabouts none knew. A nobleman in the neighborhood reported that he had seen the young couple in Verona, in the garden which contains the grave of Juliet; that they looked very happy, and that the servant addressed her as Madame la Comtesse. But the man had the reputation of being a liar; so that even if he spoke the truth accidentally this time, it was valueless without further confirmation, for no one believed that Agenor could marry the Jewess. Towards the end of November another anniversary occurred, the particulars of which were firmly cemented in the memories of the people. The old synagogue could scarcely contain the worshippers who had assembled to attend the first celebration of Nathaniel's death. The services over, young and old went to the cemetery and listened with deep emotion to the prayer which Raphael delivered at the grave. "Amen! Amen!" was echoed from all sides. Afterwards the throng viewed the beautiful memorial stone erected there, and repeated the words carved upon it, better than any eulogy--"The remembrance of the righteous never faileth." Between this grave and that of Nathaniel's wife was an empty place. Weeds covered the narrow space, and thorn-bushes spread out their ugly branches. Very few besides the elders and members of the burial guild knew that this ground, too, had been dug up a year before, and something buried there. Others suspected it, but no one asked, and of the hundreds present not one mentioned Judith's name as long as they were in the "Good Place." "The name of the righteous never dies; but whoso dies in sin, that name shall never be mentioned." Only when they had passed that gate which separates the world of peace from that of battle did they curse the outcast. But one was silent. He paced by the side of the elders, his form erect, his face set. Since his return, no one had seen a smile on his lips or a tear in his eye. It was only when the procession passed the Baranowski castle that his mouth quivered; and by the glance which he gave towards the white building, which stood in the midst of the leafless park, one could see his implacable hatred. Perhaps it would have comforted him in his anguish had he known what was transpiring in one of those rooms where the manager was sitting. There Herr Michael Stiegle had sat at his writing-table since morning, and had reckoned, shaken his head, reckoned again, and then growled. He stared at the ceiling a long time, and at last plucked up courage and wrote a short, plain letter to the count, saying that when he became bailiff his intention had been to get rid of the debts with which the late lord had burdened the estate; that after the interest on the debts had been paid, twelve thousand gulden had been netted, but he had expended at least ten times that amount, while the new loans had been negotiated under very hard conditions. Would the count not lessen his expenses, and, if possible, look after his affairs a little more? Otherwise he, Stiegle, would be obliged to relinquish his position. He understood agriculture, but not the mode of dealing with usurers. The letter bore the address of "The Bank of M. L. Biedermann, Vienna, for Count Agenor Baranowski," for neither did he know of the count's whereabouts. This oppressed Herr Stiegle's mind, like some other mysterious circumstances. Possibly it was owing to that state of mind that the announcement of a servant that a Capuchin monk was outside, who refused to leave, made him more brusque than usual, so that he fairly shouted at the bent old man, with long white beard, who entered the room with hesitating step. The monk's inquiry also annoyed him, for it was for the address of Count Baranowski. "It is none of your business," he growled. The monk stepped near. "It is very important," he urged, with shaking voice; "by God and all the saints, it is very important!" "Write a letter, then, and I will forward it." The monk shook his head. "Perhaps the good director would aid him. It was concerning his cousin in Russia, a poor fellow, Ignatius Tondka by name, whom the count had allowanced three hundred gulden a month, in consideration of important services; but Herr von Wroblewski only paid him one third of the amount, and that very irregularly. Could the Herr Director not pay it now?" As he said this he glanced at the papers on the desk, and noted the address of the letter which was there. "No!" said Herr Stiegle, "I know nothing of the affair. You must go to Wroblewski. Adieu!" The monk stood doubtfully for a moment, and then quitted the room, with a pious salutation. In the corridor he drew out his breviary, and hastily wrote the address. He then went to Wroblewski. There he seemed to have suddenly shaken off the infirmities of old age. His figure was straight, and his voice firm. "You need not start, Wroblewski; I have only come to arrange matters by word of mouth, it seems so difficult to do it by correspondence." Herr von Wroblewski grew pale, but quickly regained his composure. "Why should I start?" he asked, with a smile. "You are only risking your own neck. I am not in your debt. All the count has sent I have forwarded. Nothing has been as yet received for November." "Every word is a he. My money, or I will write to the count." "Why don't you? I have not the address or I would give it you. Herr Stiegle forwards the letters. But consider which the count is most likely to believe, you or me. Will you send him my letters? And if you do, is there any sum specified in them?" The monk was still. Then he burst out into violent invectives, declaring he would confess all; that it would be more pleasant to have enough in prison than to starve in Mohilev, and the good company he would have would compensate for his loss of liberty. Wroblewski heard him with a smile. "Good!" he answered. "Of course, if you must, you must. But hearken to my last word. Here," drawing out his purse, "are two hundred gulden. I place them in this envelope. On the envelope I write--do you see, my dear Tondka--'Herr Anton Brodski, in Mohilev.' My servant will now take the letter to the post and you will accompany him. Here are twenty gulden besides for your journey home. I shall ring the bell for the servant, and he will either go with you to the post, or he will kick you out of the house!" When Wroblewski saw the monk walking peacefully by the side of the servant, a few seconds after, he laughed aloud. "He hurries towards Mohilev on the wings of desire!" Perhaps, however, he would have been less merry had he known the workings of the rogue's brain. CHAPTER VIII. The blush of dawn glowed on the white, glistening dome of Monte Baldo, while the cold north wind came whistling from the valley of the Sarco, clearing the lake of mists and the sky of clouds. Only here and there the dismal gray veils fluttered like signals of mourning on the mountain-tops, or hid themselves in retired clefts above the azure water. But the sun reached them even there, as it mounted above the mighty Altissimo di Nago, which lies clumsily between the smiling plains of the Etsch and the Garda. The light grew stronger, the mists disappeared, and the golden rays fell, full and beautiful, over the deep blue of the sky and the lake, over the pale green of the meadows and the violet-hued rocks with snowy caps, and over the narrow, crooked streets of Riva, which they call Regina del Garda, the old and ugly queen of a kingdom eternally young and beautiful. The count stood on the balcony of the ancient but well-preserved _palazzino_, whose graceful masonry rises close to the Porto San Michele, in the midst of the thick greenery of a well-kept garden, gazing over the crowded houses at the blue lake and the lovely landscape dotted with white châlets. It was the first sunny day after endless days of rain. How he had longed for the sun, thinking when it came that it would ease his heart and clear his brain! But no sun could dispel these shadows. He was a fool when, two months before, he had said to himself, on entering that house, "It is beautiful here; so still, so peaceful, every trouble must vanish away." For his tortured mind there was no earthly refuge. It had been a delusion, also, when, a few days before, the nurse had placed in his arms his new-born boy, and he had murmured, "Thanks, Merciful One, for the angel who is to save me and lead me upwards!" He was a lovely child, with the mother's auburn hair and the father's dark eyes, who, the nurse assured the Signor Conte, smiled when he saw him. But it seemed to Agenor that the dark eyes threatened him, and the tiny hand pushed him down into deeper damnation. Things had turned out differently from what he had imagined as he sat by the bedside of the poor girl before he agreed to that frightful comedy. Then he had only thought of his disgrace when his deceit should be discovered. How his life was to take form after he had given her soul this opiate, or what the awaking would be--of that he had not thought. There would be time enough to consider all that. Perhaps the step might lead into a garden surrounded with prison walls; but that would be an Eden compared with the dark torture-cell in which he had felt himself after his conversation with the physician, and before that clever scoundrel had given his advice. There was always the disgrace of a discovery! But it was not likely; and, even so, it was less of a disgrace to the name of Baranowski than a marriage with a Jewess. He was forced into it to save his beloved's life! Had he chosen death, she would have followed him, and would that have been an easier solution of the difficulty? He had felt like a free man when Wroblewski left the castle, nor had he repented during the last few days. On the contrary, when he saw that his stammering promise, "Your wish shall be accomplished; the priest is coming!" was enough to revive the invalid; as he heard the repressed sobbing with which her overwrought mind was gaining its usual tone, and gazed into her face, which was beginning to smile again, he said to himself--it was good--that he had forced himself into it, and the subterfuge appeared a braver deed than the taking of his life. Neither of them referred to the past. Only once she said, "We will pardon our mutual sins against each other. You, that I would leave you; I, that you delayed so long to do me justice. But now we have to anticipate love, fidelity, and happiness as long as God gives us life. Ah! life is beautiful!" He bent over her hand, and covered it with kisses. He had discovered the least evil among so many that threatened, and he would spend his whole strength in making it of less consequence when once the hideous ceremony was over. The nearer the hour came the more afraid of it he became. He was like a schoolboy in the face of inevitable danger. He shut his eyes, that he might not see it. "Why should I see the man?" he said, when Wroblewski arrived one afternoon with the rogue, and wished to introduce him, that they might "talk over to-morrow's programme." The delay was painful. He supposed the creature had brought his costume, and Jan could light up the chapel immediately. Jan knew who was coming, and that he was to be the witness. The magistrate smiled. "The usual impetuosity of a lover! But the reverend gentleman must first baptize the child, and before the baptism he ought to instruct the mother for at least one hour in the doctrines of our holy church." The count drew back in horror. He was neither bigot nor atheist. He had simply never thought of religion at all. He believed in God, and kept the Catholic feast-days because he had been taught to do so, and it was the proper-thing for a Baranowski. Heretofore he had only thought of the affair as a crime against the state, not against Judith; much less had he thought of it as blasphemous. It was only now he saw it in this light. Well, it must be borne; the sacrament of marriage must be dishonored, but how about that of baptism? It was equally holy; yea, holier. He knew his catechism. "What baptism?" he exclaimed, finally, struggling to appear impassive. "Let her remain a Jewess." Wroblewski laughed out loud. "So she will, my dear count. But if we don't carry out this hocus-pocus first, she will not credit what comes after. She is a clever little girl, and knows very well that she must be baptized or the marriage is not valid. No sentimentality! And, since all is in working order, we had best hurry up affairs." The count acquiesced, gave Jan his orders, and went up to Judith. This expected ceremony had been present to her mind from hour to hour, and had really cured her. Still she trembled, and burst into a fit of wild weeping. He took her hand, and tried to comfort her. But she sobbed on. "I know I can only become your wife as a Christian. And I will be grateful to you for making me one my whole life long. It will be a heaven on earth into which your kind hand leads me. But what goes before is a hell. Don't be angry. It is not because I hate your creed, or because it is strange to me. Even my father, who is an orthodox Jew, always said, 'We are all children of the same Father in heaven.' But this step cuts me off forever from him and from Raphael. Henceforth I have only you in the whole world. I do not weep out of pity for myself, but for them. They have lost daughter and sister; for, as a Christian, I am dead to them. What they will suffer from their own hearts and from our people! I must think of Miriam Gold, whose daughter became a Christian." He stood beside her as she stammered these words, and he felt he had never before seen such emotion. He was dumb, unable to say a word; for what could he say? That he would spare her this pain? Then his whole game would be lost. The scene had so shaken him that he could hardly stand upright as he led her to the chapel. The late candidate for holy orders made it very short, and both ceremonies were concluded in very few minutes. To the count it was as though he saw everything through a veil and heard everything muffled by distance. How many times since had he seen this picture: the dim, faintly lit chapel; the pale woman by his side; the gallows-face of the scoundrel in his cape; Wroblewski stuffing his handkerchief into his mouth to keep from laughing; and poor, faithful old Jan weeping bitterly because a Baranowski was marrying a Jewess! As he stood this day on the balcony, surrounded on all sides with sunshine and the vivid coloring of the Southern landscape, suddenly it vanished, and in its place was the chapel at Borky, and instead of the twittering of birds in the garden was a whining voice which said, "And hereby I declare you man and wife, in the name of--" "Ah!" he groaned. "It was frightful. It was the worst thing that could have happened." It was not because of his blasphemy that he said this after more than a year had passed away. He realized now that his sin against God, not to speak of that against the civil law, had not been his most grievous offence. He made this discovery the morning after the sad farce. Wroblewski, on taking leave, had said, "Hurry up, and get away as soon as you can. Go to Italy, or even farther. Think of the danger if that revengeful fellow, Raphael, should sue you for abduction, and one fine day you were summoned before the courts. Her most gracious Lady Countess would be brought up as witness." Agenor immediately informed Judith they would leave Borky the following day. She was ready, she answered, but their route must be through her native town. "Why?" "So I can beg my father's pardon." He started. The news of her father's death would certainly affect her keenly, and if she was once in the town the news of the marriage would be sure to leak out. So he entreated her to spare herself that excitement. "You know it will be useless; that he will never forgive the Christian." "I must try," she answered. "I owe it both to myself and to him. My father shall not think of your wife as a dishonored and light-minded creature. If he chases the Countess Baranowski from his doors, then at least my conscience will be clear." In vain he tried to dissuade her, without giving some plausible reason. Finally he conceived an idea which might avail. "The Countess Baranowski must not run a risk of being chased from any door," he declared. "You owe that to me." The effect of this speech was such that he repeated it, urging her to have regard for the honor of his name. She wept bitterly. "This is worth more to you than the peace of my soul." Yet she submitted, only begging permission to send a letter to her father. A few hours after she brought the letter, praying him, on his word of honor, to send it. "My word of honor!" he repeated, with pale lips. A few seconds after she had left the room he watched the letter shrivelling up in the fire, and he asked himself, "In what do I differ from those creatures I despise?" But, away, away! was his one desire, until he was in the carriage. Learning caution by the words of Wroblewski, he chose a way that took him out of the province quickly, going through Southern Hungary to Fiume, and thence by steamer to Ancona. What comforts money could secure they had. A courier travelled in advance, caring for everything. But, nevertheless, it was a dreary journey, over snowy roads and through barren, thinly populated mountainous districts, and no amount of money could make the miserable inns comfortable. The travelling was slow, not only because of the almost impassable roads, but also because of Judith's state of health. She was so weak and pale, and her thin face looked so tired and sad. "If we were only at Klausenberg!" she kept sighing. He had told her this was the place where they could first expect letters from home. When they were there, how could he comfort her for not having a letter from her father? Wroblewski wrote that Raphael had begun an action for abduction, and had bribed the judges to extraordinary energy. He hoped to pacify them, but it would demand great sacrifices. The count sent him the sum he demanded, but asked himself, nervously, "Will it do any good?" At the commencement of the journey he had assumed the name of Count Nogile; quite a proper name, as it was one of the minor titles of the Baranowskis. He gave orders to his attendants, however, never to betray his new name to Judith or his old one to strangers. Accidentally, Judith discovered it during their stay in Klausenberg, and inquired the reason. To her surprise, he had no answer ready, and he was not accustomed to lying. Her anxiety was very apparent, and at length he said: "You shall know all. We hoped in vain for a letter from your relatives; but they are angry, and are prosecuting me for having made you my wife while you are still under age. The punishment will not be heavy, but you cannot wonder if I wish to avoid it for the sake of all." Again she believed him; her tears proved it, and her despairing cry, "Then we must be homeless forever." He reassured her by saying that such would be the case only until her people's anger was pacified, which he hoped would be soon. "Perhaps God will be merciful!" she answered. "How dreadful would be my lot, and how could I endure life, if I knew you had sacrificed home, peace, and happiness for me!" This plaint cut him to the heart even more than her suspicions. She was speaking the truth, and it was all his own fault. Again, there was the necessity of lying, daily and hourly, and the incessant dread of discovery. Once during their journey they were overtaken by a snow-storm, and forced to seek shelter in a castle by the wayside, where they were kindly welcomed by the proprietress, an old Hungarian aristocrat. "What is your name?" she asked Judith, in the course of conversation after supper. Judith blushed deeply. "Nogile," she stammered. "I know that," said the old lady; "I meant your Christian name." Judith became confused, and she looked at Agenor for help. "But, Judith," he exclaimed, with a forced laugh; "surely you know your own name." When they were alone she burst into tears. "Alas!" she sobbed, "I am not sure of my name. You always call me Judith, but the priest baptized me Marie, and so I fancied I must give this name to strangers, and yet I was in doubt." This confession affected him more than her tears, and pity filled his heart--pity for her and pity for himself. At that time he had been able to master his emotions; and as he had thought the shadows must flee when the farce was over, so he had expected, when they quitted gloomy Borky, great things from Italy. He had spent some months there when a gay young officer. The country was, in his memory, a paradise of light and joy; surely there must be an end of sorrow when once they were there. This time hope did not entirely deceive him. They went to Florence first, and rented one of the splendid villas before the Porta del Prato; and the mild air of the South invigorated Judith to such an extent that her cheeks grew more rosy, her eyes brighter, and hours came when she laughed and jested as befitted one of her years. This reacted on Agenor, and he, too, was happier, or seemed to be; and when they went, to Fiesole one beautiful day she fell on his neck, and blushingly confided to him a great secret. He rejoiced, because he loved her, and because he desired, from the bottom of his heart, she should have that new, pure delight which would bind her to life with strongest chains. Now he could read Wroblewski's letters, which came more and more frequently--always containing dark, mysterious hints at dangers threatened by Raphael, or complaints that Tondka was growing unblushing in his demands--with lighter heart. He knew the man as an extortioner, who made a mole-hill into a mountain; but this painful story might be hushed up with money, and he was wealthy, though perhaps not so wealthy as he thought. His position became more difficult at the beginning of summer, when travellers began to come north from Rome and Naples, and when every now and again he saw a well-known face in the street or in the chestnut avenues, generally one of the Galician nobles or an old army comrade. Married gentlemen, who drove by in dignified state with wives and daughters by their side, stared at him curiously, but without sign of recognition. The only ones who greeted him were either bachelors or husbands whose wives were not with them. The number of acquaintances kept increasing, and his position became more and more uncomfortable, although he delayed his departure because Judith liked the place and required rest. One day a card was brought him--Baron Victor Oginski. It was one of the friends of his youth. He welcomed his old friend with delight, and Oginski returned the greeting cordially, though he said, gravely: "As you are travelling incognito, of course you wish to pass unnoticed; so even my desire to see you would not have made me so indiscreet as to have called upon you. But, as your friend, I felt it my duty. There is much gossip in the city about you and your companion." "Whose business is it, I should like to know," cried Agenor, "how and in whose company I live?" "Nobody's," was the answer, "as long as there is no supposition of a way of life which throws a shadow on you. One knows your ideas as to the requirements of rank, and the origin of the lady is known. Therefore, no one believes you are married to her; and they explain the circumstance of your servants designating her countess as a proof of your too punctilious delicacy. But when some lackey jeered at your servant Jan because of his credulity, he swore by all that was holy that he had himself witnessed baptism and marriage. Of course the story has been bruited about, and though as yet it is not credited fully, still many are doubtful, and I felt called upon, for the sake of our old friendship, to inquire for myself." "Thank you for your good-will," replied Agenor, "but I must refuse any explanation." "That is worse than an outright 'yes,'" said Oginski. "The affair remains accordingly a fit subject for gossip." "I cannot help it." Oginski took his hat. "Well, as your friend, I counsel you to go as soon as possible to some remote place, since you are unwilling to give an open answer." Two days later Agenor followed this advice. It was the end of April, and his route lay through Milan to the lakes. There were color, odor, and beauty wherever his eye rested, but Italy was no longer the paradise he had pictured it. Under the influence of that conversation, he had directed that all his letters should be sent to his banking-house in Vienna, so that no one in Galicia should know his address. Indeed, he felt his humiliation so keenly that he left Bellagio after a very brief stay--although he had met no acquaintance there--for a small village seldom visited by tourists. At Iseo, on the lake of the same name, they paused; "for how long?" he asked himself in despair. As week after week passed quietly and without interruption, he pulled himself together, enough at least to hide his state of mind from Judith, though he did not entirely succeed. It was, however, not a mere reflection from his mind which caused her to pass whole days in gloomy brooding after their departure from Florence. She did not weep, but this silent grief was deeper than the louder one, and her fever came again. The Austrian physician, who came from Brescia occasionally at Agenor's request, looked grave. "I am afraid I cannot order your wife to be happy. Speak seriously with her. Perhaps she is afraid of her hour of trial; that is often the case with young wives." Agenor hesitated some time before he asked her this question. She was silent, and it was only after repeated inquiries she said: "And if it were so, is it not natural for a woman, burdened by her father's curse, to tremble at the thought of the hour which is to make her a mother?" He attempted to comfort her, and spoke of God's mercy. "God?" she exclaimed, passionately. "Yes! if I could speak to him, could implore him, could pray to him! But I cannot, Agenor. Formerly, when a grief oppressed me, a care or sorrow, I took my prayer-book and prayed to the God of my fathers. Now I have no prayer-book--" "We have the same God, and forms are unimportant." She shook her head gloomily. "I have said that myself, but it is of no use. How can I explain to you what goes around and around in my poor head? One must have a language to pray in. I have forgotten the old one, and do not know the new. You have taken me into many churches to admire the exquisite paintings and the loftiness of the ceilings, but you never asked how they affected me. I shivered when I stepped into those cool halls out of the sunshine; I shivered through and through. It was so strange, so ghostly, how could I ever learn to pray in a church? Perhaps it would have been easier for me if I had been better instructed in your faith; but I cannot even make the sign of the cross, and if I could, how dare I do it? All I know about the Crucified One is that he was a renegade rabbi, for whose sake all my race, even to the present day, have to endure disgrace and persecution." Agenor bowed his head, and said nothing. Now he understood that that baptism was not merely a sin against the God of his catechism, but a crime against a young, anxious, thirsting human soul. What could he say? how was he to console her? There was only one thing to which he could exhort her--her duty towards the tiny creature budding under her heart. When he mentioned that, the rigidity left her face, and the tears flowed again. "Will the child be a pleasure to you?" she asked. "Will it never be a burden?" When his lips answered for his heart, the effect was what he wished. "I will be strong," she promised. And she kept her word. The days came again when she smiled and rejoiced in nature. He himself shook off his fear of the world so far as to take short excursions with her--to Brescia, to Lake Garda, and to Verona. In this city, in the Garden of the Franciscans, where they were expected to admire an old stone coffin, the Tomba di Giulietta, they passed the pleasantest hour since that memorable day in Fiesole. But it was to end sadly enough; for as they were wandering through the gardens containing the sarcophagus, Agenor suddenly started, and insisted on returning to the hotel, even on their departure from the city, urging as a plea that he was not well. But as Judith, a half-hour afterwards, looked on to the street, where her carriage was being made ready, she discovered the reason. A gentleman was speaking to Jan in Polish, who replied very curtly; the same gentleman she had seen, without paying much attention to him, in the garden. She grew pale, but made no remark; but when, a day or two after, Agenor, observing her moodiness, proposed another excursion, she declined, saying, sarcastically: "It might make you unwell again. Pardon me," she then sobbed, "I know you are not happy, either. You, who are so sought for at home, dare not go out abroad lest your fellow-countrymen should see you and tell that the Jewess is your wife. I will not say that it is a disgrace, such as you regard it, but it is sufficient for me to know you are unhappy for my sake. How miserable that makes me!" "Think of the child!" he begged. This was his last resource, and even that had now lost its effect. "It is because I do think of it," she cried in despair, "that I am doubly wretched. How can you love the child of the woman who is a burden to you, and which will bind you still closer? As yet, you have only cursed the hour of our marriage. Soon you will curse the hour of its birth." They were both wretched, and there seemed no end to this misery, ever new. "I was a villain! I was mad!" the young man said to himself, as he watched the sunshine playing on the autumnal landscape. "What shall I say when she asks where the child is to be baptized?" That was his closest and most pressing care, but it was not the only one that burdened him. As yet he paid little attention to the exactions of Wroblewski, but now he began to appreciate the dangers threatening his future and honor by this vampire. What would be the end? He would never desert Judith, nor yet waken her from her dream. But could he pass his life in this way, in idleness and disgrace, a fugitive startled at the sight of a gendarme, dreading lest he should be asked to show the passports of Count and Countess Nogile, compressing himself into the closest quarters possible when driving through the streets, for fear of recognition by an old acquaintance. It could not continue; was there any chance of escape? A shrill little voice woke him from his reverie. Down in the garden, in front of the house, the fat Italian nurse, Annunciata, paced up and down, trying to still the crying of the child by her songs. He heard Judith's voice calling her; very probably she was in the breakfast-room, waiting for him. He drew himself up, passed his hand over his face, as if to smooth out all traces of sadness, and then went to the ground-floor. At the breakfast-room door he was met by the nurse. He bent over and kissed the boy, who stared at him out of his dark, wide-open eyes soberly, even thoughtfully. When he lifted his eyes, he met Judith's fixed inquiringly upon him. He understood. "Poor thing," he thought, "she is watching to see with what expression I kiss the child." He bade her good-morning as naturally as possible. But he could tell by her eyes and the pallor of her complexion that she had cried during the night. And why? Ah! he had no need to ask. He took his seat opposite her, sipped his tea, and praised the loveliness of the morning. "It is like a spring day, and yet it is late in the autumn." "Yes," she responded, with a quiver in her voice. "It is the 30th of November." "Already?" he said, indifferently. "How time--" He did not finish the sentence. Her peculiar intonation struck him, and as he looked at her, "_Mon Dieu!_" he exclaimed, and, sitting beside her, he put his arms around her. "Pardon me! How could I forget it. Why, it is the anniversary of our wedding-day." She made no answer, but put her arms around his neck and wept quietly. "Let it be," she whispered, as he tried to soothe her, pressing her face more closely against his shoulder. "It is best so." She soon dried her tears, and loosed herself gently from his arms. "Sit down opposite me, and let us talk sensibly. We will not make our hearts heavier than they really are, Agenor. We will not ask how the year has passed, and if it were necessary it should have been as it has. But how about the future? Do you intend to remain here?" "Certainly; for the winter at least. That is, if it pleases you," he answered, quickly. "Otherwise we could go south, to Sicily, perhaps." She shook her head. "How about going north, home, Agenor?" "You know," he replied, with forced composure, "that that is impossible." "No, I do not know it, but I believe you. But are you quite certain about that? You say my father's suit against you, on account of my marriage under age, would bring you under the law. But the punishment cannot be severe, and there is no dishonor attached." "For a man of my position?" She lifted her hand expostulatingly. "For a man in your position it is best to manage your own estates, and, above all, it is seemly to be able to look every one in the face, and not to hide one's self in the most secret corners of a foreign land. If it is only fear of punishment, let me entreat of you to go home, for your own sake." "I have made inquiries," he said, hesitatingly. "If the punishment is really trifling--" "You are a poor liar," she interrupted. "If you had made inquiries, the answer would have been here long ago. It is not so much the dread of punishment as of taking home a Jewish wife." "No, no! how often must I assure you of that?" "What else is it? We are both being ruined by it, Agenor. Cannot you comprehend what I feel when I think we are not able to go home while my father lives, because of his anger. I know he must be very angry, because he has not answered my second letter." "Have you written him?" the count asked, growing very pale. "Yes, a few days before my delivery. I could not restrain my fears. There are words in that letter which, if he does not answer, he must be angry indeed. I implore you, let me try it by word of mouth." He did not hear her. His face became gray, as he thought of the results of this letter. "Everything is lost," he thought. "By this time they know of the fraud." "How could you do this?" he suddenly asked. "What!" she cried, and her eyes flashed. "Do you dare reproach me with that letter? Are you not human? have you never had parents? And yet you say you love me!" "I did not mean it so," he replied. "You are right. We must commence to think of going home. But not before spring. A winter journey from Lake Garda to Galicia, with that delicate child, would be madness. Remember our journey to Fiume!" "That is an especially difficult road. We can go _via_ Vienna." "The Alps are very unpleasant in winter. Think if anything should happen to the boy. We must not have that on our conscience." "When, then, do you propose to leave?" "As soon as it is spring." "In April. Very well, then. Your word of honor, Agenor." "They will have arrested me before then," was his thought. "My word of honor," were his words. "Once more, when is the baby to be baptized? It is six weeks old, and nurse complains she is laughed at on account of the little heathen." "As soon as possible," he promised. "I have no papers with me to prove my authentic name. I wrote for them, but they have not yet arrived. It is so far." "Yes, it is far," she sighed, gazing into space. "But you had better make the most of this beautiful day. Go for a row on the lake." "Won't you go with me?" She declined. He took her cold hand in his, and said, tremulously, "Judith, whatever happens--" but his throat seemed to contract so as to forbid speech, and he left the room. Mechanically he seized his hat and went to the lake. As he walked slowly along, one thought was ever present--how could he escape the dangers brought about by this letter? Perhaps by a speedy flight to Egypt or Sicily. But no, if the authorities had really been informed and were determined to prosecute, flight would be useless. The police would already be on his track, and only one thing remained--a bullet in his brain, or a jump into the clear water. Sitting in the boat and pondering upon these things, he was recalled to himself by the boatman's voice: "Do not lean over so far, Signor Conte. It throws the boat out of its balance." No, he must not do that, unless it should be absolutely necessary, if only for the sake of Judith. "Turn back!" he ordered; and as the little town rose to meet him out of the waves, he made an effort to collect his thoughts. There was but one course to pursue; to order Wroblewski to spare no trouble to stop further proceedings in the courts. "He has influence in this regard, and will do it to save his own skin," he said to himself. That Herr von Wroblewski had lost his position, and in what manner, the count knew not, the ex-magistrate having considered it wiser to keep the matter to himself; and Herr Stiegle never wrote a line more than was necessary. The count hastened home and began a letter. But after a few lines the pen dropped from his hand. "How abominable this is!" he thought. "How cowardly! Had any one told me I was capable of this"--and he clenched his fists so that the nails pierced the flesh. But he took the pen again--for it must be done. It was long, however, before he found words in which to make the dubious proposal. He sealed the letter, wrote another to Stiegle, ordering him to pay Wroblewski ten thousand gulden, and, putting both into a large envelope, addressed it to his Viennese banker. "That, too, is cowardly and knavish," he said to himself, in painful self-condemnation. "When is this lying and cheating to have an end?" The thought of his child's baptism weighed heavily upon him. The illegitimate child of Judith Trachtenberg, according to the existing imperial law, must be a Jew, and no priest could baptize it till the mother had given her written consent; nor could a priest enter the boy in a register as Count Nogile, or Baranowski, until the marriage certificate of the parents had been produced. What should he do--commit another crime, or tell the truth? Neither was possible. And how long would he be able to resist the importunities of the mother? That magnificent day was the saddest he had ever known; and as he watched the sun sinking gloriously behind the hills of Tarbole, land and sea aflame in a deep-red light, he looked forward to the morrow with apprehension. It was late before he retired, and his sleep was disturbed by hideous dreams. When the count woke up, the sun was high in the heavens. His servant, Jan, stood before him. The old man looked frightened. "Pardon me for waking you," he stammered, "but our gracious countess is in a dead faint, and I, old donkey that I am, am to blame." "What has happened?" exclaimed Agenor, dressing hastily. "It's because I cannot read," continued the old fellow, whimpering, "otherwise I should have noticed the address and post-office notice, and would not have given her the letter." "What letter?" cried the count, seizing him by the shoulder, in his excitement. "A few weeks ago she gave me a letter, just before our little prince was born. 'Jan,' said she, 'take this letter to the post and have it registered.' So I did. Well, I went this morning to fetch the letters, but there was only the paper. I was about to go, when the postmaster says, 'Ah, Jan,' says he, 'you get this back again, for as yet there is no post to the country where this person is.' I asked no questions, but took the letter, and when I went into the breakfast-room where the countess was sitting, and she saw the letter, she cried, 'My father!' and fell down in a swoon. For the letter was addressed to him, and on the other side was written, 'The person addressed is dead.' Hamia, who can read, told me that, and I, old fool that I am--" The count had heard enough, and was already on his way to the breakfast-room. The maid, Hamia, stood at the door. "Madame la Comtesse is fully conscious again, but wishes to be alone, and has forbidden me to admit any one, even you." But he pushed her aside and entered. Judith was stretched out on the floor. Her hair hung in confused masses over her pale, rigid face. He went to her; she slowly raised herself on her elbow and looked at him, so that he stood still involuntarily, and dropped his eyelids. He could not look into those glazed eyes. "Go!" she said, in a low voice, but so distinct that it went through him. Like a man condemned to death, he tottered from the room. She kept to her own room all day, refusing food and drink. The count was almost beside himself; but Hamia, who was devoted to her mistress, conceived a good idea. In the evening she took the child, and, going to her mistress, urged her to be sensible, trusting in this way to break up the hardness of Judith's grief. She did not entirely succeed, however, though Judith fondled the baby and was coaxed into taking a little food. Some hours after--it was nearly midnight--she sent for Agenor. He quickly answered the summons and went to her couch. Looking at her, his heart seemed to stand still with pity and penitence. "Judith, if you only knew what I, too, have to suffer!" She nodded. "It certainly cannot be pleasant," she said, callously. "But I won't reproach you. I sent for you because I must know something. You will tell me the truth, Agenor. You believe in God and will not lie to me in such an hour." "Judith," he implored, "do not excite yourself any more to-day. Think of the child." "So I do," she answered. "I should go mad if I did not. Tell me, Agenor, when did my father die?" He would have given an equivocal answer, but he could not under the influence of those eyes. "About a year ago." "Oh!" It was one word, in a tone indicating fearful mental anguish. She shut her eyes and lay still, breathing hard. "Judith!" he attempted to take her hand. "Be still!" she hissed. "I am his murderess. Tell me the truth, Agenor. Did he die the day after I fled?" "No," he assured her. "Some weeks after." "It is all the same. It was from sorrow about me. Why did you lie in saying he was prosecuting us?" "It was no lie. He began proceedings and Raphael has carried them on. So I have heard from home." "It is quite likely. Raphael is a good son, and will avenge his father's death. If he only knew how superfluous it was! 'Revenge is mine,' saith the Lord. If he only knew how God himself has begun the work--and he will carry it out; I feel it. My poor, innocent baby!" He fell at the foot of her couch, and lifted his hands towards her. "Just because of the child, Judith, it may turn out well." She shook her head gloomily. "No happiness can be built on curses and lies. Was he dead when I was married to you?" He made no answer. "Then, that was the reason I could not go home. But you allowed me to write, and gave me your word of honor you would send the letter. Your word of honor, Count Agenor Baranowski!" "Consider my position, Judith. You had hardly recovered. The doctor warned me to avoid any fresh excitement. You cannot, you must not, despise me for that." "But has this been your only lie? Get up. Look me in the face. Am I your wife--am I a Christian?" His blood rushed to his heart. "Remember--" "Yes, I know. But the ground is shaking under my feet. It seems as if I must doubt my very eyes and ears. Besides, what do I know of your usages? Perhaps it was only a blind to keep me alive. It is possible, for your friend and counsellor was a scoundrel. If it was a trick, confess it now. I promise you, I will not kill myself, for then my child would have no father, and he must not be left motherless. But I must know the truth. For if I am not a Christian, I shall be able to pray again, and mourn for my father after the manner of my nation. Agenor, you will be the vilest of men if you can lie to me now. Answer! I ask you again--am I a Christian, and am I your wife?" He felt his knees giving way, and he seized the bedpost to keep himself steady. There was a roaring in his ears, and his heart almost stopped beating. Though he hesitated but a second, it seemed an eternity. When at last he spoke, it was as though he heard some other voice saying, "You are a Christian, and you are my wife!" CHAPTER IX. Three weeks had slipped by, and Christmas was close at hand. Day after day the same glowing sunshine flooded lake and mountain. Every one said it was the loveliest December ever known on Lake Garda. And yet in the midst of this beauty of nature, the two in the palazzo by the Porta San Michele walked in the dull, uncertain twilight life. Judith had recovered quickly. She came to table as formerly, and neither sigh nor reproach passed her lips. The count, too, adapting himself to the new conditions, never spoke of the past. But both felt acutely that a wide, wide gulf had opened between them. They lived as in a cloud, seeing each other dimly, and neither stretched out a hand to the other in compassion or in love. Only twice during this week had they spoken of anything more than was necessary. The _Augsburger Allgemeine Zeitung_ at that time the only large newspaper permitted in Austria, contained one day a lengthy leader concerning the new civil marriage law of the grand duchy of Saxe-Weimar. It was the first of those laws in Europe allowing marriage between Christians and Jews, without a change of faith on the part of the Jews. Judith had just finished reading it as Agenor entered the room. She asked if he knew of it. He said, "Yes," adding, "it is very curious." "Truly, and any one educated with us at home would be inclined to think it impossible. But since this miracle has been accomplished in one country, I suppose the others will follow. Perhaps the time will come when it will not be counted a crime for one to have a heart and to follow the mandates of that heart. May I keep this paper? If I had a prayer-book, I would put this in it." He made no answer, but presently said, "The people in Weimar are rather given to innovation." She had hardly heard it, when an expression of deep pain overspread her countenance. "Do you believe there is a prayer-book," she asked, "that would do for all mankind, no matter what their confession?" "I don't know, but I will inquire." "It would be useless, I suppose. As yet there is no occasion for such a book, but the time may come." The second conversation, relating to something besides the dinner, the weather, or the health of the baby, took place just after a call from the podestà of Riva. Agenor paled when the chief official of the town was announced. But it was a harmless business he had called about. New-Year's Eve there was to be a festival in Trent for the benefit of the poor of Southern Tyrol. The podestà brought cards of invitation to the wealthy _forestieri_ in person, so as to secure a handsome gift. As the stout, olive-complexioned gentleman bowed himself out of the room, elated with the splendid donation he had received, Judith said, "Are you not going?" "No," was the somewhat surprised reply. "It does not interest me in the slightest degree. Besides, how could I leave you alone?" "What could happen to me here? I have often thought, though I did not like to say so, that it would be a good thing for you to live for a few weeks in the world. And perhaps it would be--" "Good for you, too? Has it got so far between us?" "It would be good for both of us," she said, gently. "Perhaps there would be less restraint between us after a brief separation. Do not say more now," she continued, hastily, as she saw him about to speak. "This cannot be arranged by words, but I beg you to consider my proposal." She arose and quitted the room. A week after this conversation Agenor received a letter from his Vienna bankers, Messrs. M. L. Biedermann & Co., saying that he had overdrawn his account considerably, and that though, of course, they had no hesitation in forwarding the sum he asked for, still they would be obliged if he would straighten out matters as soon as possible. They also forwarded him two letters, one of which they had held for a week, the other had just arrived by special post. The latter was from Stiegle, advising strict economy; the other from Wroblewski, in reply to that of Agenor, written on the 30th of November. He said that Raphael had opened the letter addressed to the deceased, and had placed it with other testimony, but he hoped to be able to evade danger if he received thirty thousand gulden. If they were not sent, he intended to escape disgrace by putting a bullet through his head, and he advised the count to do the same. There were a few lines extra from Stiegle, saying he had managed to secure the wished-for ten thousand gulden, but at forty per cent interest; and as he saw certain destruction looming up in the distance, he gave notice that his situation would be vacant by the end of March. Agenor crumpled up Wroblewski's letter in an ungovernable rage. He had credited him with a good deal of avarice and falsehood, but not with such dastardly conduct. Owing to his conversation with Judith, he had quite forgotten to countermand the check, and, besides, it would have been too late, and Wroblewski would perhaps regard it as an advance for future services. And now came this letter! He had delivered himself up into the hands of this scoundrel, though he was, perhaps; not entirely helpless, since this letter proved clearly Wroblewski's rascality. Still, this would do no good so long as the count, by his absence, showed how timorous he was. For that reason he ought to go home, see to his estates, and sell one of them. But Judith, could he leave her alone? Hours passed in these painful reflections, and dinner-time came. He braced himself as best he could, so as to show Judith a cheerful face. It was not a great success, however, for as he lit his cigar after dinner she said, "You had bad news from home to-day. What has happened?" "Nothing of importance," he answered. "Merely money complications. My cousin's old debts--" "Then you must go home and arrange them. It is your duty. I will stay here with the baby, and you can fetch us in April, or we can go alone." "You will be glad to be rid of me?" He said this with a forced smile, but his face was very grave, nevertheless. She knew what he meant, and said, quietly, "You need have no fear, Agenor. You know well the child would hold me to life, under any circumstances. And how could I cause you such sorrow? No matter how you have erred in other ways, you kept your word and made me your wife. I say it openly, Agenor, I believe it would be a blessing to you and to me if I died a natural death." "Judith!" "Forgive me. I ought not to have said it, but it came from my heart, as it were, and forced its way through my lips. And it is perfectly true. Here life is hard enough; what will it be at home? But voluntary death would be a dreadful misfortune for you. Your conscience would never know peace. It is a frightful feeling that the death of a beloved one is on your soul. You, Agenor, shall never experience that. When will you start?" "Let me consider it. How can I go when your mind is filled with such hideous fancies, and I know you are tormenting yourself in vain?" "Do not let us talk of it. Words cannot change the circumstances. You ought to go, if only for love of me. I feel I should be better if I could be alone awhile. What else is there to hinder you? Fear of Raphael's revenge and the court? I have thought of it frequently the past few days, and cannot think you have much to fear. The defendant is a count, of an ancient line, who has brought another soul into the Holy Catholic church, while the plaintiff is a common Jew, and the trial will take place in Galicia. Believe me, Agenor, if you had dishonored and deceived me and then kicked me into the street, and I, the betrayed and ruined, had accused you and asked for judgment against you, the judges would have looked upon it as a good joke. I say this without bitterness; it is the unvarnished truth. Again, I say, you must go." Again he besought time for consideration. "Suppose she finds all out in the meantime? But how can she when her address is known only to myself and the Vienna banker." These were his thoughts. He was convinced he would be unable to detain her in Italy later than April. If he went he might make preparations, and perhaps take counsel with a clever lawyer. He took his departure soon after Christmas. Even that drew their estranged hearts no closer, despite the gentle and kindly words their lips uttered. She watched him with dry eyes as the carriage rolled through the park gates. "_Au revoir!_" he cried. "_Au revoir!_" she answered, waving her handkerchief. It was more quiet than ever in the palazzo by the Porta San Michele. Only old Jan, who stayed behind to protect the women, went occasionally into the town. Judith never went beyond the park enclosures. She passed some of her time in caring for her child, some in reading books sent from Innsbruck by Agenor; but for the most part she sat motionless in a brown study. Faithful Hamia crept about anxiously, continually inventing excuses for going into the drawing-room where Judith sat. This clever girl had entered Judith's service at Czernowitz, during their journey, and knew very little of her mistress's early history. But she knew of her father's death, and her pity made her very sympathetic. "If the count only knew what I know," she sometimes said, angrily, "he would write oftener." But in this she was wrong. He was not careless, and wrote at every break in the journey. But the longest and most tender letters would not have lightened Judith's heart. He wrote that he had found much to do, and went out very little. Now, he said, briefly, that the fear of the courts was really superfluous, and now, that he had heard Raphael was quite well and was managing the factory with great energy. She thanked him heartily each time, and assured him that she and the child were well; but her letters were laconic, and she wrote not one syllable of that which occupied her mind. If she really believed that isolation would heal her sore heart, she deceived herself. Day and night the picture of her father's death-bed was before her eyes; even by the cradle of her baby she heard her father's curse. And perhaps it was well that the illness of Annunciata caused the care of the child to devolve entirely upon the mother. Another nurse could not be found, and they were obliged to give the poor baby artificial food. The care and anxiety which this caused numbed somewhat the other grievous sorrow. February came to an end. Spring flowers bloomed in the villa gardens, and the breezes were warmer than in June in the north country, where were her thoughts. The baby could now pass long hours in the open air, on the sunny terrace behind the house, where Annunciata, still his nurse, would hold him on her lap, Judith sitting beside him, leaning over now and then to kiss his tiny hands. The boy would smile when he saw his mother and stroke her face, and then only a ghost of a smile would light up her careworn features. As they were sitting thus one March day, Jan announced a friar who desired to speak with the count. Although Annunciata was unable to understand the message given in Polish, still Jan's voice was lowered to a whisper when he added, "He is from Galicia, and knows our real name. I have told him repeatedly, 'The count is away,' but he always replies, 'Tell him; he is sure to receive me,' and he won't go." "Bring him here, then," ordered Judith. The monk, an old bent man, with long white beard, appeared. "Praised be Jesus Christ!" he began, bowing low. When Judith made no response, he added, "In all eternity, Amen!" "Do you wish to speak to my husband?" she asked. "He left here just before New Year's, and it is uncertain when he will return. He is now on his estate in Podolia." "Most gracious countess," said the old man, in a quavering voice, "I must speak to him. Please tell him." "If you do not believe me," said Judith, curtly and proudly, "I have nothing more to say." The man fell back a step. "Forgive," he pleaded, "but it is so terrible for me, so terrible!" he repeated, in such a changed voice that Judith regarded him with astonishment. "I have made this long journey," he resumed, in his old weak voice, "only that I might speak to him." "Can you tell me?" "No, that is impossible;" but he retained his position, notwithstanding. "What else do you want?" she asked. The monk answered nothing, but Jan said, "The reverend gentleman would not despise a meal and a small gift, perhaps." "You can give him both," said Judith, turning again to the child. When she looked up again the monk had followed Jan into the hall. "Curious," mused Judith. "How did the man find his way here? Even Agenor's letters reach me through the bankers, and what did he want?" An hour later, during dinner, Jan announced, "The old fellow is still in the servants' hall. Things are not quite in order." "How?" "When Hamia took him his dinner, he started. I saw quite plainly how he shuddered and trembled. But she says she does not know him. Then, again, the old man is guzzling more than three young men would. I have warned him that this Veltliner is the devil himself. But he keeps pouring it down, groaning he does not know what to do." "Give him two francs and send him out of the house," ordered Judith. Shortly after she was in her sitting-room, writing to Agenor describing this visit, when Hamia came running in, pale as death, and trembling all over. "Most gracious countess," she stammered, in great excitement, "the monk is a swindler. He is Tondka, the scoundrel; I know him." "What do you mean?" "Ignatius Tondka, who was clerk to the lawyer with whom I was in service at Czernowitz. He courted me then and wanted to marry me, but luckily I found out that he was a swindler and that the police were after him. He used to dress himself like a priest and cheat the people." "But the monk is an old man!" "He has a false beard. For it came off in Jan's hands when he took hold of it. When Jan told him to go, he kept asking for more wine, yelling, 'I can demand what I wish in this house.' He raised his fist to strike Jan, but he was so drunk he fell down and Jan on top of him. When I heard the noise I rushed in, and saw Jan getting up with the beard in his hands, but the monk lay still. 'Who is that?' I cried, and then I recognized the scamp. 'So it's you! I will spoil your game of playing priest. I'll fetch the police on the spot.' No sooner had I said that than he grew almost sober with fright. He got up and said, 'You are mistaken. I do not know you.' 'What,' I cried, 'I do not know my old lover! You just wait, you villain.' Then he whispered, 'Be quiet, as you love your life!' 'Rubbish,' said I, 'I won't spare a cheat and scoundrel like you. Jan, pitch him out!' But Jan must have seen him before, too, for he stared at him and turned quite pale. 'Where have I seen that face?' he kept saying. 'You have never seen me,' said Tondka. 'Yes, I have,' said Jan, 'in Borky.' But you are pale also, gracious countess." Judith's face had indeed grown ashen. Every drop of blood seemed to have oozed from it. She sank back into her arm-chair and murmured, "Go on, go on." "There is nothing more to tell, and why are you so frightened? Ought I not to have told you? I thought I ought, as Jan is like that old woman in the Bible who turned to stone. He stands there saying, 'In Borky! in Borky,' and Tondka answers, 'No, no!' But, _mon Dieu_, you are fainting." So it seemed. Judith's eyes were closed and her head bent low on her heaving bosom. But she mastered her weakness and arose. "I must speak to him." "With Jan--shall I fetch him?" Judith shook her head and moved on. But her knees shook so that she would have fallen had not Hamia supported her. "For God's sake," cried the girl, "what is the matter? Where do you wish to go?" "Give me your arm," said Judith, and they went to the servants' hall. The door of the large, low room stood wide open. Jan was by the table, opposite him the stranger, whose knavish face, with his short cropped hair, peered curiously out of the monk's hood. The false beard was on the floor by the side of a broken bottle. The poor faithful servant had just emptied his money-bag on the table, and the tears rolled down his cheeks. "Here are all my savings," he sobbed. "Two hundred and four gulden. They will take you home, and the count will give you what you want. But go, for God's sake, go! The poor thing must not find it out." Judith entered. "Thank you, Jan. But I wish to speak with the man in private." The poor fellow staggered backward. "My most gracious countess," he moaned, "he lies! he lies!" "Go," she repeated, "or I shall not be able to stand it." Weeping bitterly, he crept out of doors, and motioned Hamia away, who was plaguing him with questions. "We must watch her day and night, for the lake is close at hand." The conversation lasted but a few minutes. Then Tondka came slinking out with the beard in his hand. "Really, Herr Jan, I am downright sorry for her. But I am to send you in. She has something for you to do." Jan entered the room. Judith was sitting on a bench by the table. "Take this," she said, giving him a key. "Open the safe in my room, and give the man the three hundred francs I have promised him. Then send Hamia here." The girl, who arrived a minute after, found her mistress senseless on the floor. It was a deep swoon. The doctor, who was called by Jan, remained until late in the night, seemingly very anxious. "Brain fever is threatening," he said, when leaving. "I am afraid the case will be a serious one." He was mistaken, for when he came the following day he found his patient out of bed. She had aged suddenly, and looked like a shadow, and it shocked him greatly to see silver threads among her auburn tresses. "My dear madam, I do not know what has happened, but I hope you will remember you are a mother." "I assure you I will not forget it," and she thanked him for his sympathy. He left her with a quiet mind. Hamia was relieved, too, when she heard her mistress talking as sensibly and reasonably as ever. Only Jan was suspicious. He feared it would not end well, and prayed all day long that God would preserve the balance of her mind. His anxiety was still greater when she sent for him in the evening, and said: "You were about to sacrifice your savings for me. Since you love me that much, will you lend them to me if I ask you?" "With the greatest pleasure; but there is still a good sum in the safe." "Still, I ask them from you. I will certainly repay you." He took the money to her, but said sorrowfully to Hamia: "Now I am sure she is not right in her mind." He was to discover the next morning that she was perfectly sane. CHAPTER X. It was the first day of spring, according to the calendar, but the moors of Podolia were as melancholy and dreary as if sunshine and blue skies were thousands of miles away. Count Baranowski shivered as he drove along the half-frozen roads, through wind and rain, from Borky to the county town, to keep an appointment with his lawyer. But it was not altogether the fault of the weather, for after nearly an hour spent in the well-warmed room of his legal adviser, he was forced to pace up and down and rub his hands, to dispel the chill and heaviness that seemed to paralyze his limbs. "Almost three months," he groaned, "and what has been accomplished?" "If that is intended as a reproach to me," said the lawyer, "I decline to accept it. What I could do, that I have done. I have straightened out your finances, and as economically as possible. Herr Stiegle is reengaged, and I cannot aid you in shaking off Wroblewski. Generosity is of no avail there. If you offered him twenty thousand gulden this year as hush-money, he would take it thankfully, and next year would demand twenty thousand more. If you refused to give them, things would drop back into their old conditions. You can never intimidate the man. His letters show his rascality. But your letters prove you have committed sacrilege, and that you have tried to induce him to bribe the judges. Dare you defy him? I advised you to do so once, but, since I know the man, I withdraw that advice. He is a thorough type of an easy-going scoundrel, extortioner, and spendthrift. All he receives from you is owing to the usurers. Your fear of him is his only resource. If that source of income is shut up, he will be worse off than a beggar, and his words, 'Then I will look to the jail to support me, where I will amuse myself with my fellow-convict, Baranowski,' are pretty true. Ought you to fear his confession? Yes. The deception practised on the girl would not count, but the breaking of the law, especially the act of sacrilege, would lead to the most serious results. I sum them up as they actually stand; morally, perhaps, they should be reversed." "I think so, indeed," said the count, gloomily. "When I think of the poor creature, it pains me to the heart." "Then, possibly, you have thought of what I was about to advise?" "Do you mean that I should confess all and have a real baptism and marriage? I have frequently thought of that, but I fear my repentance comes too late. Once, when she had doubts, I lied to her basely--it was the dirtiest trick of my life--and I am afraid that if she found this out she would die rather than live with me." "Count on the love she bears her child. At any rate, you ought to try it. I am confident you will succeed. I give you this advice as a lawyer. Then you can leave Wroblewski to his fate, and turn him out of the home you like best, yet must avoid because of his presence in it. Very likely he will bring a suit against you, but the judgment will be trifling, and you will no longer rank as a dishonored man. The bishop will not interfere, as you will have been the means of bringing a soul into the church, and your temporal judge, Herr Groze, Wroblewski's successor, is a man of the most delicate sense of justice. I am quite sure he would say, 'The count has sinned, but he has also suffered, and will now expiate his guilt.' However, I give this advice not only as lawyer, but also as friend. You are not happy now?" "God knows I am not." "No one could be with such a burden on his conscience. Free yourself from this burden. Regard for your position in society can no longer hinder you." "No," said Agenor, bitterly. "Truly not. My position could not be worse. I am ostracized." "You paint things too black. But bad stories are in circulation. I have many times been surprised that the story of a sham marriage, coming from the words of your valet in Florence, should have found so much credence. I suppose it is because, unhappily, the truth is, in this case, the most slanderous. If a worse construction could have been put upon it, the real truth would have remained unknown. Now every one has an opportunity to prove his orthodoxy by lifting his eyes in horror at the sacrilegious acts performed in the chapel at Borky, and his chivalry by damning your conduct towards the girl as unworthy a nobleman. It has actually gone so far, they are pitying the Jewess. I should not have believed this if I had not heard it with my own ears. This is known generally, but it is supposed to be a secret. Herr Groze must not hear of it, for that would be denunciation. How public opinion would go if you brought the Jewess here for a few months as your legitimate wife I am unable to guarantee; but it would be no worse for you, I think. The good and noble-minded, though in verity they are scarce, would think of you differently." "You are right," said Agenor, as he arose. "And what is to be, shall be soon. I will drive to town today, arrange with Stiegle for my absence, and start for Riva to-morrow. Will you procure the necessary papers, and send them after me?" "No commission could be more agreeable to me," rejoined the lawyer, shaking Agenor's hand cordially. "_Bon voyage_." When the count drove back over the moor, the weather changed for the worse. Rain and snow fell together, freezing as soon as they touched the ground; and the coachman drove along the slippery road at snail's pace. But the count was no longer cold. His cheeks were ruddy and his eyes bright, and it had been long since he had felt so well. He had marked out a straight, narrow path in which to tread; but he felt it would make him at peace with himself, and perhaps eventually lead to happiness. The rain fell heavier than ever, accompanied by a cutting north wind. Twilight was approaching, and honest Fedko was obliged to stop occasionally to make sure he had found the right road. "The weather is not fit for a dog. My lord," he said, apologetically, "I know the moor and its tricks, but I never knew it to be so bad as this, except once, that day when--" Suddenly he remembered that the allusion to the day when the Jewess threw herself into the water might not be pleasing to his master. In his confusion, he lashed the horses so that they broke into a furious gallop. In the dimness, Fedko overlooked a small cart with a linen covering, which was creeping along ahead. He drove so close to it that the wheels became interlocked. He dismounted, cursing, to free the wheels; and the other coachman, evidently a Jew, cursed too. "You are driving as if you had the emperor," he cried. "I have not the emperor," Fedko answered, with pride; "but his lordship, Count Baranowski, would like to get on a bit faster." "I," said the Jew, "am only driving a poor sick Jewish woman and her child, but they are human." "Well, well," said good-natured Fedko, gently, "this little delay will do them no hurt," and, lashing his fiery steeds, he soon lost sight of the other vehicle. Fedko had reached the castle long before the cab came in sight of the lights of Roskowska. The Jew turned. "Woman," he called, "here we are in Roskowska. You can get milk for the child in the inn." "Praise be to God!" answered a feeble voice. "Please stop. I am afraid the child has taken more cold, he is so restless." "But you have put all your wraps on the little one, and are cold yourself. You are sinning against your own health. However, I should be a fool to quarrel with a mother." A baby's voice sounded from the cart. "Only two minutes longer. Where shall I drive?" There was no answer. "Woman, don't you hear? Where shall I stop?" "In the street. I will get out in the street," answered a gentle, trembling voice. "Because you are so warmly clad?" growled the man. "But just as you like. Here is the inn." He aided her to alight, but when he saw how she tottered he attempted to take the child from her. She resisted, and so he took her into the tap-room. The large, dismal place was crowded with peasants and cattle-drivers. The air was foul and heavy with the smell of oil, bad tobacco, and steam generated by the stove-heat acting on the dripping garments. "This won't do for you," said the hostess, compassionately, as the coachman ushered in the new guest, opening the door into an adjoining room, at once her bed and dwelling room. She brought the milk immediately, protesting better could not be found in the wide world, and then watched the stranger filling the feeding-bottle and giving it to the child. "Don't you nurse the baby yourself?" she inquired. "Poor thing! I suppose you are too weak." The stranger had pulled the cloth which covered her head well down in front, so that her face could not be seen distinctly, but the hostess felt convinced it was pale and emaciated. "What a bonny boy! It is a boy, is it not? How merrily he uses his little legs! I suppose you have not travelled far, he is so wide awake. Have you come from Tluste?" "No," answered the stranger, "we have been travelling for weeks. But I have done the best I could for him, and compassionate people are to be found everywhere." "For weeks!" exclaimed the woman. "In winter! Then you have come from the neighborhood of Cracow, perhaps!" "Still farther away." "Still farther? Then from Aschkanas or Prague? There is a large congregation there. But, from your accent, I should have judged you belonged to this neighborhood. Will you spend the night with me?" The stranger declined. "I must go on into the town." "Because you fancy the inns there will be better," said the woman, somewhat hurt. However, she resumed, in a pitying tone, "How you are trembling! Have you a fever? Just wait; I'll bring you some soup, and if you are poor you need not trouble about the pay." And before an answer could be given she was away into the kitchen. But the stranger was not to be left alone long. First came the coachman. "Rest yourself, madam. I have plenty of time." Then a bearded man poked his head into the room. "God's welcome! I am the landlord. The soup will be here directly." Finally an old woman entered, at the sight of whom the stranger started, pulling her head-cloth still closer over her face. But the poor little woman with her shrivelled-up face, with its prominent hooked nose, did not bother her. She only said "Good-morning," and then sat down at the other end of the table and gazed into vacancy with her bleared eyes. The landlady came, bearing a steaming bowl. "Welcome, Aunt Miriam," she said to the old woman. "It is nice of you to come here instead of sitting over there alone in your little room." She placed the bowl before the stranger. "Help yourself. I have put some chicken in it; not much, but as much as I could." She then turned again to the old body. "It is not right, Aunt Miriam, for you to weep so much." "Ah!" sobbed Miriam Gold, "I cannot help it. It is as if my soul were bleeding. She was my child, my flesh, my blood!" "Well, I said little against it at first. But now she has been dead four months, and you are weeping yourself blind. Must we not all die? Did I not have to bury my Radel--and my Rachel--but I will not hurt you." "I know what you were going to say: that your Rachel was a good child and my Lea was not. But even if she did join the church and marry a Christian, have you it in written testimony, Aunt Malke, that God in heaven--praised be his name!--looks upon her as you do?" "Yes, Aunt Miriam," said the landlady, solemnly, "we have that testimony. There it is," and she pointed to a copy of a Hebrew Bible which lay in the window. "God does not wish a Leah to become a Barbara." "We won't discuss it," answered the old woman, wiping her eyes with her apron. "Leave me that one comfort--that God will prove a merciful judge to my poor child. When she was dying she remembered she had been called Leah, and sent and begged me to go to her. But I was cowardly, and let myself be persuaded to offer this last insult to my poor child. She is at rest now; but I am devoured by remorse, and therefore I weep, Aunt Malke, and shall continue to weep till--" "You know I advised neither for nor against going. I told you to ask the rabbi and other pious men. It was not a woman's business." "It was a woman's business. Who has a right to step between a mother and her child? They intimidated me. God did not wish it; and when I went to Raphael, he told me my allowance should not be withdrawn if I went, though he could not advise it. 'Your daughter is not dying,' he said. 'She has been long dead. I would not go in your place. You are happier than I, for your Lea did not become a harlot, like my sister. But,' he said--" A cry of pain, sharp and shrill, rang through the room, so that both women jumped. "What ails you?" they cried, running to the stranger. She had covered her face with her hands, her cloth had slipped from her head, so as to reveal her auburn hair streaked with gray. The hostess gazed at the flowing hair with disgust, as if a nestful of adders had crawled to meet her. "What's that?" she exclaimed. "Are you not an honest Jewess, who wears her own hair?" Miriam stood as if paralyzed. "Merciful God!" she murmured; "this hair! the unfortunate creature!" "Answer!" cried the hostess to the stranger. "This is a Jewish house. One wishes to know who one is receiving." Miriam went to her. "Be quiet. Don't you know her? It is Judith!" "Judith!" shrieked the landlady. "Away with her!" Judith dropped her hands. "I am going; I am going." The landlady gazed with wide-open eyes at the pale face which, so it seemed, she had seen but yesterday beautiful and comely, and at the bent form, shaken with fever. "God hath shown her his hand," she muttered. Miriam had rushed up to Judith. Tears coursed down her cheeks in streams as she embraced the slender form with passionate affection, and stroked the thin face with her withered hands. "My poor darling! God has sent you to me." The hostess looked at her in surprise. Fierce as was her anger towards this renegade, yet her eyelids smarted at the sight. She turned to the door. "Make it short, Aunt Miriam, for I must tell my husband, and he won't stand it." But her thought was, "How sympathetic Miriam is! I would be, too, if I did not fear God." Miriam's pity thawed even the unspeakable misery of Judith. "I know, Miriam--I know how you have always loved me." "I do love you. You were so beautiful and good. Ay, so good! When I heard you had been seen in the count's garden a sudden pain pierced my heart, almost as great as the day my husband said to me, 'Wife, it would have been better had you never given birth to a child. Our Lea is courting with Wassilj.' In my anxiety I ran and told you my child's story to warn you. It was hard, but I did it out of love. Alas, alas! it was in vain. How I have lamented for you! I dared not pray, for they say it is a sin to pray for a renegade. You are a Christian, are you not?" Judith shook her head. "Oh," said the old woman, joyfully, "then much can be made good yet. You refused baptism, and so were thrown off by the count?" "No, I am a Jewess, and yet I am a renegade. I am a miserable creature, doomed in this world and the world to come." "Not in the world to come, Judith," said Miriam, gravely. "One as old as I, who has experienced so much of evil in her dealings with human beings, must feel that God is more merciful than man. How you have suffered! I do not need to ask. It is written on your face." A loud noise was heard outside. "She must go!" said a man's voice. "She found no mercy with her own father." It was the landlord. Between his scoldings could be heard his wife's voice in gentle expostulation. "Come," urged Miriam, "my room is warm, and I live but a few doors from here. You can spend the night with me." Judith carefully wrapped up the child. "Thank you," she said, "but you shall not get into trouble on my account. You have to depend on the charity of your neighbors, and they would be angry with you." "Let them be," cried the old woman. And she stood erect, her withered features glowing with enthusiasm. "Though I die of hunger, I shall bless the day when your foot crosses my threshold. For God sent you to me. He has heard the daily and hourly prayer that I have made since my poor child died. Then I wrung my hands and cried, 'Oh, that I could atone for my cowardice and cruelty! Of what use are lamentations for those already dead? Of what avail is repentance, merciful God, who wills that men also should be merciful?' But he knew, and I can now repay to the living what I owe the dead. Come, come with me!" "I cannot; I must go to Raphael." "No, no; spare yourself that pain. You heard what was said." "I must." She attempted to rise, but her strength failed. "I must," she repeated, and this time she succeeded. But she swayed to and fro, she was so shaken by fear; and when Miriam took the child from her arms she did not resist. The door was thrown open, and the landlord entered. "Leave, or--" He stopped as he saw she was prepared to go. The sight of her misery seemed to render him speechless. "Twelve kreuzer," he murmured, as she asked her indebtedness. He took the coppers, however, with unwillingness. "Consider it," pleaded Miriam, as they walked towards the cart. "If you wish to look Raphael up, do it to-morrow, after you have rested. "It must be to-day," Judith answered. "My fever is growing worse and worse. The physician in Tluste said I would be seriously ill. To-morrow I may be unconscious, and may die. Drive to the large house opposite the monastery," she said to the man, who stood sulkily beside his horses. "I know," said the man, in a surly voice. "Since I have been paid, I must do it. But if I had known in Tarnopol who you were--" He did not finish the sentence, but lashed the horses till they galloped into the road. Once more in the mud, they fell into a walk. Judith sat still, pressing her baby close to her bosom, her teeth chattering with the chill. Miriam again entreated her to wait till tomorrow. "You are already half dead." "It must be. But my thoughts are growing confused, and I must tell it to one soul at least, while I am able to speak. The guilty must not escape punishment. Listen, Miriam, to the manner in which the count treated me." She told her story in short, confused sentences. Miriam could not quite understand it, only this was clear, that the poor creature had been frightfully cheated. "Poor child," she sobbed, putting her arms around the trembling girl. When the cart halted before the house she begged to be allowed to prepare Raphael for the meeting. But Judith would not hear of it. As she alighted, and stood once more before the house where she had passed the happy, sunny, well-guarded days of her life, the house she had longed for since she had been abroad, her strength nearly failed her. She tottered, and would have fallen in spite of Miriam's assistance had not a stronger arm come to her relief. It was the coachman of another carriage which was standing before the door. "Are you made of stone?" he shouted, angrily, after Judith's driver, who never left his seat, but drove away without caring for the two women. The Jew turned. "You can earn God's thanks with her," he cried, sneeringly. "I don't grudge it to you," and then was swallowed up in the fog. Judith pulled her strength together, and, with her child on her arm, followed by Miriam, she went into the passage, and, without knocking, entered her father's study. The room was dimly lighted, and Raphael sat, writing a letter. When he heard the door opening, he looked around. A half-suppressed cry escaped his lips as he stared, with horror and disgust, at the unfortunate girl, who stood like a ghost before him. "Away! away!" he shouted, pointing to the door with shaking hand. "Raphael!" she sobbed, falling on her knees. Miriam stepped forward, and, taking hold of him by his _talar_, cried, despairingly, "Have mercy! She has come home to die." He freed himself, and drew back towards the door into the adjacent room. It was hideous to behold him as he stood there, his pale lips half open, his waxy face distorted, his right hand seeking the door-handle and his left buried in his tangled black hair, a picture of such insane fury and horror that the old woman shuddered. Some seconds passed; neither he nor Judith moved. It was only when the child in her arms began to cry that his consciousness seemed to return. "Take her away!" he cried to Miriam. The voice was hoarse, the words almost indistinguishable. "The burgomaster has her share of the inheritance. There is nothing for her here." "Have pity!" pleaded Miriam. "You were carried at the same bosom. Remember her grave has been prepared for her between that of your father and of your mother." "Yes, more's the pity!" he shouted, madly. "A parricide does not deserve it." Judith groaned and fell prostrate. The child slipped from her arm and screamed. Miriam seized the baby and held it up. "Raphael," she cried, "have mercy upon the innocent child!" But he did not even hear her. He had left the room, and Miriam was alone with the unconscious girl. "Help!" cried the poor old woman. "Father in heaven, have mercy!" Her cry was answered. The door opened, and an old gentleman, with a rugged bronze face and white hair and moustache, entered. It was Dr. Reiser. "Be quiet!" he ordered, for Miriam, at sight of him, had begun to cry much louder with joy than she had just done with despair. He looked at Judith, and turned away deeply moved. He had no need to ask who she was or what had happened. He rushed to the door, called to his coachman, who was waiting (for the doctor had been making a call on the magistrate on the floor above), for his case of medicines. He then bent his energies to bringing his patient out of her swoon. His only assistants were Miriam and the coachman; for old Sarah, who once looked through the open door, ran away timidly when Miriam called her. At last Judith opened her eyes, but the doctor saw immediately that her mind was wandering. "My grave!" she shouted wildly, trying to free herself from the hands of her custodians. "I want my grave!" Not until this paroxysm was over could the doctor carry her to his carriage. "Take her to me," begged Miriam. "I have a good bed and a warm room." Dr. Reiser knew of no other refuge, for she would have been refused admittance both in Christian and Jewish hospitals; the nearness of Miriam's home to his own was an advantage. So he ordered the coachman to drive to Roskowska by the most direct route, which was past the castle. "Curse him!" cried the old woman, as they passed the brilliantly lighted windows of the castle. "There he is, rioting with his friends. What does he care for his victim and her child?" The doctor made no answer, but probably thought much the same. But they were mistaken. If any punishment could have been great enough to atone for his sin, surely he was suffering it now. He paced his study, tortured by all the furies of fear and remorse, and read a letter which had just arrived from Riva. Hamia told of the occurrences of the past few days, and the disappearance of her mistress. How they had engaged neighbors to search the lake, when a driver from Mori brought them her farewell greetings, and the assurance to Jan that his loan should be repaid. "It is not for this, but because we are so anxious about our gracious mistress and the dear little boy, that we beg Monsieur le Comte to give us permission to go home." Too late! the avalanche was already descending. Nothing could now be made good--nothing hid. She was coming home as his mortal enemy, to deliver him up to disgrace. Unable to control his emotions, he paced the room till his feet failed him, while his pale lips murmured ceaselessly, now aloud, now under his breath--"Too late! too late!" CHAPTER XI. That same evening Raphael's neighbors heard the news. The following morning it passed from mouth to mouth, exciting universal horror and surprise. God had avenged the sin against his holy name, and hurled the sinner in the dust. Judith Trachtenberg had come home a beggar, and sick unto death; and if she died, as those who had seen her thought she must, the account would be squared. There was no further occasion for pity or persecution. And because God himself had judged her, they praised Raphael for not having stayed his avenging arm, and blamed Miriam for showing compassion. "She will spoil her chance of future salvation." The milder ones said: "Besides the responsibility she has in regard to her own child, she is now assuming this." But the rougher Jews who, impelled by curiosity, had surrounded the little house in Roskowska since early morning, in the chance of catching a glimpse of the victim of God's wrath, judged differently. And when the old woman came out and entreated them either to go away or to make less noise, only a few complied with the modest request, the majority crying, "Shame upon you, to bring disgrace on the congregation!" But the little old woman, who crept about generally under the overwhelming consciousness of her misfortune and bowed in humility before the humblest, gave way now not one step. She stood there, drawn up to her full height, with that sort of glorified expression on her withered face as had been there the previous evening when it dawned upon her that God had thus shown her a way of atonement. "Shame upon you!" she cried. "What do you know of God, and of what is disgrace in his sight? Go back, I say!" and there was something in her face and voice which awed them into obedience. But only for a second. Then some one cried, "Have you found a Christian to marry you?" and these insulting words loosed the ban. However, help came to Miriam. One of the elders of the congregation, old Simeon Tragmann, came up, and, standing in front of the woman, said to the crowd, authoritatively, "Go! When God speaks, let man keep silence. Go! I command it in the name of your dead benefactor. If it was his wish that the sinner should be buried at his side, it was also his wish that she should be allowed to die in peace." Sullenly they left the house, but they gathered together in knots in the street, clenching their fists and speaking with bated breath. Curiosity chained them to the spot, though they could not have said for what they were waiting. It was only the feeling that such an unheard-of circumstance must have some result. For a time they waited in vain. Only the doctor, who had already been there at break of day, entered again. But while he was paying his second visit a carriage drove up in which the burgomaster was seated. When he saw the gathering of people, he felt greatly tempted to make a speech; but he remembered in time that he had come to see his ward, and so passed into the sick-room. There he gave Miriam a large sum of money for Judith's use, inquiring of Dr. Reiser as to her condition. The doctor had no definite answer to give; he could only say she was suffering from a severe attack of nervous fever, and he did not know how it might end. The burgomaster felt moved to give expression to his sympathy in some eloquent words, and, having once heard his own mellifluous tones, he passed into an oration in praise of Miriam and her generosity. But the old woman interrupted him curtly with a request that he should not excite the invalid, which request the doctor emphasized still more energetically by taking the Demosthenes by the arm and leading him to the door. Then there was a sight which rewarded the on-lookers for their waiting. An equipage came in full speed from the castle, and stopped in front of the house. Count Agenor alighted, and, hastening to the two men, seized the doctor's hand, asking, "How is she?" Dr. Reiser gave a cautious answer, nor was his manner the most affable in the world. "I must see her. She must be brought to the castle at once, both she and my boy. I cannot leave her here." The doctor cleared his throat dubiously: "We must first consider that. The sight of you would affect her seriously." Just then Miriam rushed into the passage, placing herself in front of the count. "Go away!" she screamed. "Go away!" she repeated, with determination. "Judith and her child shall remain here." "My good woman," said the count, soothingly, "I am very grateful to you for your kindness, but she will have better air and better attention at the castle." "I do not require your thanks," returned Miriam, almost in a whisper, and evidently controlling herself with great difficulty. "It is not every one who can be so merciful to Judith as you have been. But Judith shall stay here with me, and so shall her baby. No one can care for her better than I; and as for the air--there is no good air in your castle, Monsieur le Comte; it kills--" "I demand my rights!" replied Agenor. "I want my family." "Hush!" and Miriam went close to him, and whimpered in his ear: "You want your wife, were you going to say? Do not force me--" He drew back, and was silent. "Doctor!" he said, imploringly. But the old gentleman shook his head. "I fear I cannot help you. Come, gentlemen, the woman is needed inside." A few hours later the rumor of Judith's death spread through the town. Hundreds went to Roskowska to find out for a certainty. But the report was false. Perhaps it originated with the thought in the minds of the people that she could not recover. God had judged her; her grave was in readiness; it was in order for her to die. But as she did not, and the doctor reported her to be gradually recovering, the people, both Jews and Christians, became restless. How were they to judge her? In what light should they regard her? Yet, for all that, there was but one individual in the whole town who wished for her death with his entire heart. That was Herr Ludwig von Wroblewski. Her recovery threatened his safety. He had nothing to fear from the count; but if she lived, and informed against him, his pleasant, comfortable life was ended. He would have to exchange his palatial residence for a lowlier dwelling-place; and that the count would have to share this with him proved a poor consolation. The more favorable the bulletins, the more sleepless his nights; and when, three weeks after Judith's return, he heard she was able to be about, he begged Agenor for an audience. Although the count permitted him to occupy rooms in his house, and had not dared refuse his most insolent requests, yet he had had but one short conversation with him since his return, early in January. Agenor had avoided him assiduously, and Wroblewski had been obliged to deal with the lawyer. "He is a coward," thought the ex-magistrate, "and for that reason he dare not refuse to see me." But Agenor did refuse, and Wroblewski had to resort to his pen. He described in vivid colors the reports that had been afloat in aristocratic circles regarding the sham-marriage, and were now well known for miles around. No one doubted them, and it was a mystery why Groze had not taken the case up. How would it be if Judith made a declaration? Even then there would be no danger for him. It was his friendship for the count which induced his anxiety. Even this touching letter was left unanswered; and when Wroblewski inquired of the lawyer regarding it, the latter replied that the count had nothing to fear from the mother of his child, and that if she made an affidavit, the consequences would be disagreeable to Herr von Wroblewski principally, since the testimony of Ignatius Tondka would prove that it was he who bore the lion's share of the responsibility in this dirty matter. Tondka had already placed himself at the lawyer's disposal for that purpose. It was an evil hour for the ex-magistrate when he received this information, for as he had not had any letters from Mohilev lately, he had sent no money, but used the funds for himself. Now, suddenly, his guilty confederate appears again on the scene. "Bah!" he thought, "if the count is not afraid, I need not be. For he has his reputation to lose, and I nothing," Nevertheless, he was not quite at his ease. Perhaps he overestimated the count's position. Perhaps Baranowski, too, had little to lose in the estimation of people. Judith's return had accentuated the reports circulated about him; and whether his old friends disapproved of so much fuss on account of a Jewess, or whether they really disapproved of his actions, they all agreed in condemning him. The contempt with which they regarded him had caused him much discomfort during the first weeks of his return, but it was trifling now in comparison with this new affliction which burdened his soul--his repentance and his terror of the law. All the good and evil in his nature seemed to have united to sharpen his agony. His love for his victim, his longing to make expiation for his crime, his desire to regain his old self-respect, and again that false idea of honor that made him think his sin a lesser evil than marriage with a Jewess. "She must not die!" he cried, in mad fear, to the old doctor, whom he visited almost daily, and in the same breath, with vehement earnestness, "she must not accuse me!" It did not seem clear which evil he dreaded most. Dr. Reiser, who at first was very hard on him, grew at last to pity the tortured man, and at his request promised to make an attempt to act as mediator. But careful though he was, at the first intimation the pale cheeks of the convalescent flushed, and she raised her hand in protest. "Do not speak of him to me, please. I am not strong enough to bear it. When I regain my strength I will remember him." "So as to ruin him?" "So as to do my duty to myself, my child, and my brother. You do not know how he has misused me. He even tried to rob me of my inheritance." "No! surely not that." "I mean my grave, the best that remained to me. Ah! it was more than I dared to hope. You look at me curiously, doctor, but my brain is perfectly clear, and I see everything now as it really was, his cowardice and baseness! How great they were--how great!" "Let us drop the subject," said the doctor, taking her by the hand. "I see you hate him, and I have nothing more to say." "Yes, I hate him," she replied, sullenly, "but I would not wrong him. I can understand, and in a certain measure forgive, his deception. How could he know a Jewess is a human being and has honor and a heart? Besides, I know that scoundrel urged him on and arranged matters for him--even his conscience. In his way he loved me. I can even understand that mean trick, the sham marriage, to which he was led by Wroblewski. He, a Baranowski! It seemed his only way of escape. He robbed me of my honor; he gave me in exchange his protection and his fidelity. But he robbed me of something still more sacred without giving an equivalent. He stole my faith, and gave me in its place--some drops of water from the hand of a swindler! This crime could not seem to him as grave as the first, and he feared I might be suspicious. But can that excuse him? May a man rob another of his most precious possession in order to hide another crime? And it might have been so different. Had he known how blindly I trusted him, the most stupid excuse as to baptism would have sufficed, and this mockery might have been avoided. But of that he had no thought. Has a Jewess a soul? does she need a creed? And when I told him I did, and he saw that, shut out in overwhelming darkness, I was perishing for warmth and light, his only sensation was annoyance because he was reminded of his crime." "Suppose he had felt otherwise, what could he have done? Ought he to have had you baptized afterwards, or converted to his faith without this formality? Would this have been a lesser offence?" "As I view it, yes! If I were a Catholic I should think of it as a terrible misfortune, but his guilt would not be so great. Furthermore: when I heard of my father's death, and I looked upon myself as a murderess, when I writhed in anguish, I implored the man I loved to allow me to bewail my father's death in the way of our people, and to tell me the truth that I might not go mad, he lied! Have you an excuse for that?" "No excuse, but an expiation. I suppose Miriam has told you what the count is prepared to do. He had hardly heard of your arrival when he came here to take his wife and child home. How white you are! Has this been kept from you?" The blood had left her cheeks and her head sank back on the chair. "It is nothing," she murmured, as he anxiously felt her pulse. She breathed with difficulty. "Miriam told me, but I interpreted it otherwise." "And what will you do, now that you know the real interpretation? The very hour you become a Christian, the count is ready to marry you. That is the message I bring you." She lay back, her eyes shut, her mouth quivering, panting for breath. He rose. "You are unprepared. I will come for the answer to-morrow." She was silent. But as he looked at her he saw her face grow more fixed and set. Two large tears forced their way from under the closed eyelids and rolled down her cheeks, but her brows contracted, and she made reply by a shake of the head. "What is it? Do you decline?" "What else can I do? It is as if he would bring the dead to life. When I thought of the happiness it might have brought, had it been a voluntary action, tears came to my eyes. But when he does it from fear of the law--" "Have a talk with him and see how sincere is his repentance. Think, too, of your child, and you cannot say no. Is your boy to go through the world as heir of the Baranowskis or as a bastard? Pardon me, but that must be considered." She seemed to have forgotten that, for involuntarily her glance turned towards the cradle of her baby. Again tears filled her eyes. "I will not torture you more," said the doctor, taking up his hat; "but ask your conscience and then decide. I will come again to-morrow." And he left the room. "I believe you will have your 'yes' to-morrow," said the doctor to the count, as he reported the conversation, "and, both of you being young, all will yet end well." Agenor looked down moodily. "I hope you are not mistaken in thinking her love for her child outweighs her hatred for me." "I am sure of it. She is a Jewess, and what is there a Jewess would not do for her child? It is upon that I place my hope. For those things which would influence a meaner nature, such as prudence, personal advantage, rank, she will not for a moment take into consideration; and if she did, they would not move her." The doctor was much surprised when Miriam appeared the next morning, saying Judith begged he should not call, as, since she was allowed to go out, she was going to her father's grave. "That will excite her too much," he said. "Say I beg her to postpone it for some days." "She will not hear of it; nor do I think it will hurt her. It will injure her more if she wishes to go and is not allowed. If I had yielded to her entreaties I should have taken her there in a carriage long ago. She will not be kept back to-day. She did not sleep last night for excitement. I believe," said the old woman, as calmly as if she spoke of visiting some living friend--"I believe she has something to say to her father!" The doctor entered Judith's room next day with anxious forebodings, which were not diminished when he saw her face. It wore an expression of gloomy calm, which had become habitual during her convalescence. "That is not the face of one who wishes for reconciliation," he thought, and he had scarcely taken his seat before she began: "I cannot do it, doctor. I must say no." "And your boy--have you considered that also!" "That also. No doubt it would be better for him. It is a sad misfortune to have been born a Jew, and I am leaving him a heritage worse than that even, one which rarely falls to a Jewish child--the shame of birth. But whatever a mother may do to better the status of her child, one thing she must not do--become a criminal. And if I were baptized to-day, it would be a crime against God." He was astonished. "I did not expect that. Once you were willing, and it was not your fault that it was not done." "What did I know of God then? What does any young, happy, innocent thing know of him? And I was so happy. I believed in him, of course; and although I should have preferred to be a Christian, yet I was fairly contented with my creed, and when I wished for anything in addition to my abundance, I prayed for it. My faith was a cloak, and why should I not change it, especially as my lover wished it? It was hard for me only because it parted me from my relations. But they provided me with no new cloak; and when I felt guilty and miserable, then I found what faith was. It was no cloak, but one's very soul. I know what you are going to say," she continued, impatiently; "I have heard it often enough. We have all one Father in heaven! I believed that, too, and when I was in the deepest misery it was a consolation to hope it. But now when I consider my fate and that of those about me, I do not believe it. Why should we have suffered so much for our creed, if it were unnecessary? Is he indifferent as to whether we hold to our Jewish faith or not? Why were we born Jews? No, he must know his own wishes. Our blood, our tears, do not flow in vain, else he would not be the all-merciful, the all-just. Therefore I yield to his will in this, and will not burden my soul with fresh guilt. I have enough to answer for already." "To your God, the God of the Jews," said the old man, sorrowfully. "I understand you have returned to him. Nevertheless it is true--he is not the God of Jews or of Christians only. You know little of our creed. Learn it." "I know enough," she exclaimed, wildly. "It is a creed of love, of humanity. It ordains that doors should be opened to the pretty, wealthy Jewess, especially if the owner of the doors is in debt to her father; that young gentleman may talk more unrestrainedly with her than with ladies who are Christians. She, indeed, may feel no strangeness in that society, for she looks upon them as fellow-creatures. But her father and brother do not count as men with them: they are only Jews--of whom the men are born to make money which Christians may borrow, and the women to cater to your enjoyment by their beauty. If a Jewess loses her heart to a Christian and forsakes all to follow him, his religion teaches men never to forget her creed. And then you call your religion one of love!" She sobbed bitterly, and, loosening a lock of hair, through whose auburn brightness ran a band of silver, she held it up for him to see. "I am twenty-two years old, doctor; need I say more?" "Have not the Jews done their share in increasing those gray hairs? Even you have the commandment, 'Love your neighbor as yourself.' It is one of the most important of your creed, as it is of ours. Do your people act up to it? Remember your reception here." "I deserved the treatment I received. What did they know? what do they know to-day, except that I am a dishonored woman and my father's murderess? But if you were right, and we had the same laws and sinned against them, still peace and springtide might some day visit the earth; but now it is winter, and we are at war. In winter we stay at home, and in wartime we do not desert to the enemy's camp. If you are correct in saying your altar is a sanctuary of God, then I must not desecrate it. What would be my thoughts when I bent over the font? Of what would I think during the marriage ceremony? After all that has passed, it would be my worst sin. And I fear God. I remember how my father thought of it, and for his sake it is now impossible. When I stood by his grave yesterday, it was clear to me that he was a God-fearing man, and would not have counselled me to lie in sacred matters." "He was a kind man, too, and knew how much God could forgive. He himself forgave much." "Yes, misdeeds against himself, but not against God. He thought: 'My child has broken my heart. God will punish her, but I will forgive her. As she will suffer much, let her rest by my side; and when at the last day the trumpet sounds, let her go before the Judge with her hand in mine.' This is what he meant, and it would be hard to surrender this privilege. Yet for my child's sake I would make the sacrifice, only I cannot sin again, even for him." He looked at her white, inflexible face, and ventured no further remark. He arose silently, pressed her hand, and turned to go. A slight exclamation detained him; it sounded like a sigh. He looked around inquiringly. She stood, her head slightly inclined, her face scarlet. "One thing more. If he could resolve to--" "What?" he said, encouragingly. But she sighed deeply, and dropped her arms. "No," she said. "He will not do that. He cannot, and according to our laws it is out of the question. He would only deride me for thinking of it. Pardon me, I have no more to say." He asked again, but she answered decidedly, "It is nothing," and he went away. He now had the unpleasant duty of conveying her answer to Agenor. But the latter was more collected than he had feared. He turned pale and said, "I told you so," and during the doctor's recital betrayed his excitement only by the nervous drumming of his fingers on the table. "As God wills," he said, when the doctor had concluded. "I have at least the comfort of knowing I have done what I could. If she bring an accusation against me, you will not refuse to testify to my desire to grant all she could demand." "No, but unwillingly," said the old gentleman, brusquely. This question of the count's annoyed him, but only for a moment, for he knew it was quite in keeping with a weak character, which was impelled by fear as well as by penitence; and then, to feel he had done his whole duty, he told the count her last words. They had a startling effect. He leaped from his seat, with flaming cheeks, and, holding out his hands in protestation, he exclaimed: "That cannot be. Better the prison. How can she imagine such a thing?" "She does not. She did not even tell me what it was, and I should prefer not to know." "He is not so bad, after all," thought the doctor, as he went down-stairs. "He is in a bad position, and is pitiably weak. I'll wager he comes to me asking me to make another attempt before three days are over." In this he was mistaken, for Agenor came to him the same evening. "Do have a talk with Raphael. He is the only one to influence her, and it cannot be a matter of indifference to him whether his sister lives here as my wife or as she is at present." The doctor refused point-blank. "It would be useless. To him she is dead." And in this he was firm, despite prayers and entreaties. Yet the good old man did go to Raphael the next day. What the count could not effect, Miriam Gold did. Shortly after Agenor's visit, she went in cautiously with a thousand apologies for disturbing him at such an hour. "But I had to come. My heart cries out, 'Tell Dr. Reiser,' and so I am here." "Say what you wish, Miriam. But I cannot make any further effort for reconciliation between Judith and the count." "Who speaks of that? Praise to the Father Everlasting that it has failed! While you were with her, I prayed to God so to confuse your words that they might not persuade her to become a renegade. I know God better than most people about here. My heart says he was merciful to Leah, and he will also be merciful to Judith." Her voice sank to a whisper. "Doctor, her soul is in a bad way! It is like a poor little bird that is longing to fly away, but is held back by a few slender threads. She must care for her child, justify herself in the sight of the people, and fulfil God's will. As long as she has to undergo disgrace and persecution she will stay, because she takes that as a punishment from God. But if she married the count, she would be justified, her child would be safe, and persecution cease. Then the threads would be severed, and the poor little bird would fly away." "I fear that in any case. Has she ever hinted at it to you?" "No. But when one lives with her, and hears her sigh! Thank God, you have not succeeded. Yet I should like to have another thread to bind her to earth. Her heart bleeds over Raphael's anger. If they could only be reconciled! It is true the thread of persecution would then be loosened," and the old woman gesticulated as if the network of threads were really there. "Yet not completely. I know our people too well. Doctor, because you have a good heart, and she is so miserable, will you not speak to Raphael?" "It will be useless," he said, and yet he gave his promise. When he was with Raphael, and beheld the stern face of a morose man of mature years, instead of the bright look of a young man of twenty-three, his heart failed, and he had only hinted at his errand when he arose. "Dr. Reiser," said a cool, collected voice. "That name must never be mentioned in my house. A few days ago the elders of the congregation called to ask me to see that the boy was received into the covenant of Israel. To them I made answer that I had no right or duty in the matter. And yet a sacred question was therein involved." "No holier than that which brought me here. If you listened to the elders, you should listen to me also." He then talked of Judith plainly and to the point, as was his wont; and he thought to himself, no heart could be so hard as to listen unmoved. Raphael gave no sign of impatience, but when he turned his face to the doctor, the latter knew he had spoken in vain. It was the face of one who had forgotten to be merciful. "You have told me nothing new. It is a hard fate, which you say is undeserved. I say it is deserved. For my part, I will neither add to nor take away from its misery. 'Vengeance is mine,' saith the Lord. For me, she is dead. You say she made no sacrifice of her honor, that she was tricked out of it. Let her accuse her betrayer. It is enough for me to know the well-guarded child of the best of fathers is a lost woman--the first of her faith in this town for centuries. She will not become a Christian? There is no merit in that. It is her duty, and her repentance cannot recall my father to life or wash the stain from our name." "Herr Trachtenberg, this is exceptional severity." "Perhaps not as exceptional," and here there was a break in his voice for the first time, "as my former love for her." At the door the doctor found the count's carriage. The count was with the magistrate Groze, Fedko said. Had he been asked to call? the doctor queried; and then he had time to think again of Miriam's curious words. He did not believe in them, and yet they depressed him. The thread could not be tied; it had been cut for all time. On his return home that afternoon from a round of visits, Dr. Reiser was informed that Count Baranowski and old Miriam had called, and that the latter had begged to know when he returned. "Go and tell her!" was the order. Wearied out, he had scarcely seated himself, when the count entered. The latter looked wretched, and his eye was restless. "Forgive me, but I could not rest. Fedko told me you had been to Raphael, after all. What did he say?" The doctor told him. "Then, I have no occasion to repent the step I have taken to-day. I was afraid I had been in too much of a hurry." His tone contradicted his words, for it was very shaky. He sighed profoundly. "I have been to Groze's, and, following my lawyer's advice, have confessed all." "How did he receive you?" "Worse than I expected. He said nothing offensive, but he looked very angry, and refused my hand when I took leave. He also said he would expect me at his office to-morrow morning at eleven. Well, as God will! Anyhow, it was not--" Suddenly the old gentleman, who had been staring into the street, jumped up, took him by the arm, and led him into the adjoining room. He had seen Judith, her child in her arms, and Miriam, following his servant to the house. "You may listen," he whispered to Agenor, leaving the door ajar as he re-entered the other room. Judith's cheeks were bright and her eyes flashed. "You are my only friend and will not take it amiss if I ask for advice. This paper was served upon me at noon to-day." He opened the document. "The magistrate Groze summons you as witness to-morrow morning at eleven. You can imagine in what case you are called, I suppose; and if not, I can inform you. The count has surrendered himself to the law." "Ah!" she exclaimed, "to mitigate his punishment." "Even if that were the case, can you blame him? He has shown his penitence conclusively enough, but you remain irreconcilable. You will meet him tomorrow in the presence of the judge, for he has been summoned also." "I will not meet him." He looked at her. As she stood there, her clear-cut features faintly flushed, her slender form upright, a reflection of her former beauty seemed to surround her. But sorrow had cut its marks deep in her features, and the gray hair was in sad contrast with the delicate oval of her face. The doctor had much difficulty in keeping up his assumed tone. "Why will you not see him?" he asked. "I think it very possible that Groze will summon you at the same time. It will expedite proceedings and mitigate his penalty. You do not require to take your boy when you appear against his father to-morrow, an act which will probably hand him over to a jailer--" "Dr. Reiser, are you deserting me? I cannot become a Christian. What can I do?" "He will tell you that himself," said the doctor, opening the door. She gave a faint scream when she saw Agenor. "Judith," he sobbed, falling at her feet. "Forgive, forgive! You shall not become a Christian. We will go to Weimar and be married. I swear it." Her eyes closed, the doctor ran and seized the child, and allowed her to sink gently into a chair. "It is only a swoon," he said. CHAPTER XII. It was a clear, warm Sunday in September, four months later. It had been stormy the whole week, to the delight of many, as it furnished a sufficient excuse for not hanging out flags and otherwise decorating their houses. But Friday the clouds passed away, and Saturday the sun shone warm and dried up streets and walls, so that the Christians hurried to make up for lost time, and the Jews, who dared not raise their hands till evening, had to work late in the night. Herr Stiegle had ordered it, and had also stated that the count would forget none of those whose houses remained as usual. Never had garlands and festoons been prepared with such unwillingness or muttered curses, or such hopes for a downpour on Sunday morning. But the sun shone as in June. "She succeeds in everything, even in this," they groaned. So they put on their festive garments, and went into the street to witness the entry of Count Baranowski and his wife, Judith Trachtenberg, who had been married two months before by the burgomaster of Weimar. A stranger would have observed little difference between this reception and the one two years previously. Even the triumphal arch was not lacking, and the crowd in the street was greater, for numbers had come from far and wide to see the miracle. There would have been nothing very terrible to the minds of the sight-seers had the first version of the romance been correct--that the representative of one of the noblest names of Podolia had married a baptized Jewess. But that a Christian should marry a Jewess, without priest or altar, and that there was a country in the world where this could happen, without fear of an avenging thunderbolt! Yet the thunderbolt had not fallen, nor the earth quaked on that day; for, hard as it was to believe, much as it contradicted the traditions of the people, the marriage had taken place. It was not unlike a legend. Perhaps it was in one of those countries where there were yellow people and black, inky-black, people. The count and the Jewess might be married according to the laws of that strange land, but they would surely stay there; they would not dare to breathe the same air as those who believed in God. The fable became a miracle, hard to understand, but true, nevertheless, when the report went abroad that they were coming back. The emperor allowed it! Nothing could astonish any more, not even the order for a public reception. And why not? They had lost all sense of shame and reverence for God. They were trying how long-suffering was the patience of the Lord and of their fellow-countrymen. It was warmly debated as to whether piety would permit them to witness the spectacle. Still, when the sun rose that eventful morning, hundreds were to be seen flocking in, in carriages, on horseback, on foot--burghers, peasants, and Jews. Only the clergy and the nobility were absent. Besides these voluntary spectators, others were here, by order of Herr Stiegle--three hundred peasants and laborers from the count's estate, middle-aged, sober men, who were to form an escort. "You are to keep order," he had said. "Our master and his bride shall be worthily received." He had said only this, but he knew they understood, and would do their duty if necessary. No one could foretell whether or not it would be necessary, not even this cool, calculating man, who knew the townspeople so well. He comforted himself with the thought that, if painful scenes occurred, it would not be his fault. Weeks before, he had received by special messenger a note from the count, saying that Prince Metternich had notified the government that the marriage was valid. The boy had been baptized and legitimatized, and therefore he desired a public reception. The faithful Swabian had sent his protest, founded on public opinion; but it was fruitless, for another messenger renewed the order, as the countess wished it particularly. "The countess!" Even Herr Stiegle, whose only antipathies were the contracting of debts and the disagreeing of accounts, could not repress a mocking smile at the title. But he did his duty. His orders were obeyed, and as he looked at the decorations he could not but be content. The Dominican monastery and the rabbi's house alone remained unornamented. Stiegle had not dared to speak to the prior, and the rabbi told him he feared God more than the count. Herr Groze's house, too, wore its ordinary appearance; the windows were closed, and some of the blinds down. "I did not appear as his judge in the spring, because there was no plaintiff, and I was obliged to regard the count's confession as private. But I do not intend to show him respect I do not feel." This was quite within the scope of Stiegle's understanding; but that the countess's brother should make no demonstration was unpardonable. He knew how many letters had passed between them, and therefore believed that there must have been a reconciliation. There were other cares which pressed upon Herr Stiegle, as he arranged his peasant guard. These honest fellows could be trusted, and the mob was too cowardly for violent deeds; but what if there should be insulting words? Whichever way he looked he saw sullen or sneering faces. "Herr Twanicki," he said to the little deformed cobbler, who had great influence over his equals, "I count upon you." "Certainly, certainly; if we only knew what to shout. What is the Hebrew for 'hurrah'?" Herr Stiegle spoke to Simeon Tragmann, the chief elder, at the triumphal arch, who answered, "We are in our places by your command. But if our people let their indignation master them, what can we do?" "Indignation! Why, it is such a triumph for you as has never before occurred." Old Simeon shook his head. "That which is contrary to God's law cannot be pleasing to us. It is the will of God that Jewesses should marry Jews, and that their sons should be Jews." The only really pleasant face was that of the burgomaster. He had prepared a speech in which he proposed to explain the two creeds and to demonstrate the equalizing force of love. So even his pleasure was spoiled by Stiegle informing him that the count requested that the address should be as brief as possible. This accomplished, Herr Stiegle placed his guards in line of march, took his stand, and waited anxiously for the shouts of the crowd. Nor were they lacking. The wags took care of that. The cobbler and his friends invented new words for hurrah, and amused themselves by making proposals of marriage to the Jewish women in the crowd. The women screamed, their friends interfered; here and there fists were clenched and a few blows exchanged; but just as the row threatened to become serious, the band of peasants lifted their axes and restored order. Stupid as they might seem to be, they all knew what was expected from them. Before the Trachtenberg house the public peace was threatened. The Christians made loud complaint for having been forced to hang out banners, while Raphael had been required to make no sign, to which the Jews made answer by averring that he was right, for the disgrace had fallen most heavily on him. "No," retorted the Christians, "the disgrace is for us--the honor for you!" Again sticks were raised, when a would-be wit called for three cheers for Wroblewski, which, causing a laugh, restored good-humor. It was known to all that Wroblewski had found refuge with a farmer of ill-repute since he had been turned out of the castle, and that he was maintained by his wife's shame. There were two happy hearts in the town. They both blessed God, in whom they believed; and yet what a wide, impassable gulf was there in their belief! In Roskowska, Miriam Gold had been waiting for many hours. She had awakened her servant at early dawn, and had herself dressed in her Sabbath clothes. The servant was a girl from the Ghetto, who lived with the eccentric old woman because of the excellent wages she received; for since Judith had cared for Miriam the former beggar had been enabled to act the part of a benefactress to others. The servant obeyed, for she knew contradiction would be useless. "Miriam's mind as well as her body is waning," she thought. The old woman, whose vitality under persecution and want had seemed indestructible, had been restored, as it were, from the day when she met Judith and her boy, to her youthful energy. But since Judith had returned to the count her strength had steadily declined. Yet she uttered no word of complaint; on the contrary, a proud smile played about her withered lips as she said, "He knows what he is doing. My work on earth is ended." When the news of the marriage at Weimar was spread abroad, and the inmates of the Ghetto were loud in condemnation and curses, the old woman held her head still higher. "I knew it," she said to her servant. "But I did not dare hope He would let me see it. How my Lea will rejoice when she knows of it! for surely they will hear of it _there_?" The girl reported these words, and there were many zealots who visited the small house in the suburb, to reprove the old woman for her laxity. But when they stood by her couch they could not find it in their hearts to say anything to hurt the poor creature, who would only be with them a few days longer. But Miriam lived on. Even the doctor was surprised. She was always glad to see him, but she would not touch his prescriptions. "He will not let me die yet," she said. "I hope, in His mercy, He will grant me this short span of time." When the doctor asked what she meant, she replied, with a peculiar smile, "You will soon hear; and when it happens, I shall go to the synagogue for the last time." He did not press his inquiry, but told her Judith had requested him to look after her "benefactress." "Nonsense!" cried the old woman. "She saved my life; and what I said to you about the little bird that wished to fly away, that is nonsense, too. Judith will not do that now. She must see that God has chosen her to demonstrate his will to poor, blind humanity, and this knowledge is a thread that will not be easily severed." The doctor listened with emotion. How many great intellects would have raised themselves to such an ideal height of humanity as this simple Jewess had through her own misery? A few days passed, and then he discovered for what Miriam had been waiting. When the news came of the imperial decision and the public reception, Miriam sent for him for the first time since her illness. "Forgive me, doctor; but I should like to share my thankfulness for God's goodness and greatness with one person at least." The next Sabbath she dressed herself in her best, and, leaning on the arm of her servant, dragged herself to the synagogue. Many times she thought she would have fallen by the way, but she managed to reach the house of God. The people gazed at her in surprise. For years she had crept in shyly and humbly, and taken her seat in the most retired corner in the women's gallery. Now she cried, imperiously, "Make room! Make room for the mother of Lea!" when some one stood in her way; and although people thought it wrong, they did it, moved by the shining eyes and pale, haggard face. "She is mad," whispered some. "She is dying," said others; and they let her alone. Like a victor she moved in the midst of the worshippers; like a victor she returned to her home. "This has been my last walk," she said. "I shall wear this dress but once more." The day had come, and although it was early, she hurried the servant till everything was as she wished. She had her windows opened wide, so she could hear the volley which was to announce the count's arrival; then she opened her psalm-book, and sent the servant away. "Shall I not stay outside, Aunt Miriam? If you should want anything--" "Silly girl," said the old woman, with a smile. "What can I want to-day?" One other person waited the hour of their approach with impatience. He, too, thanked the Lord he had lived to see this day; but it was another God than Miriam's to whom his thoughts ascended. It was the God of vengeance--the God who punishes the sinner for his sins, and dashes the proud in the mire. As Raphael paced nervously up and down his room, his pale face was lifted proudly, and one thought predominated all others. The shame with which the haughty Christian, in the consciousness of his power, had stained the Jewish house was expiated, and was to-day to be completely wiped out. The count had made the Jewess his wife without her having abjured her faith. What he felt about it was his own concern; if he suffered, he deserved it. Praise and thanks to the Lord, who had ordained it should be so! And if Agenor was willing to give a satisfaction which even Raphael had not dared to demand, as Judith had written--that is, to stop at the house and ask formally for her brother's sanction to the union--it would be the most trying hour of the count's life. Yet it was just, and Judith had asked only because she knew what befitted her and hers. Yes, God had greatly prospered them; and the more piercing the voices of the mob, the more proudly and defiantly Raphael held his head. He stamped his foot passionately. "Though they kill me the next moment, with my last breath will I give thanks for having seen this expiation." His ideas became confused and struggling when he thought of Judith, of what she must feel when she bent her husband's neck so low--he, whose honor was now her honor--of how her life was to be fashioned after all that had transpired, and in an atmosphere saturated with hatred against her and her class. He scarcely realized this; and when he remembered how he had prophesied her present misery in former times, the feelings which had been his support for the two fearful years which were passed now helped him. She had prepared her own couch. God above kept strict accounts. But she was his sister, the being he had loved more than himself. There were moments when his anger and bitterness melted into warm, trembling tenderness. What had not this beautiful girl suffered, she who was worthy of any fortune! If she had erred, was it not from a noble impulse? And how she had paid for it! The hour when she sank at his feet a penitent came into his mind. O God! how emaciated she was! how burdened by a sorrow which no human voice could dispel! The cheering for Wroblewski aroused him from his musings; then from a great distance the first faint roar of a cannon, answered by volleys in the marketplace. The count had reached the boundary-line of the town, where the _banderium_ was waiting for him. Another half-hour and the procession would be before the door. But it was not so long. When the count, in an open landau with his wife, and a closed vehicle which contained Hamia, Jan, and the boy, who had been christened Ludwig, reached "The Three lindens," at the limits of the town, he scarcely gave the leader of the _banderium_ time to hand him the bread and salt before he ordered the closed carriage to drive to the castle by a circuitous way, and told Fedko to "hurry up." The landau was driven at a furious pace, and was enveloped in a cloud of dust as it reached the town. Every moment the count's cheeks grew more colorless, and the quivering of his lips more pronounced. He never looked up, and several times he covered his face with his hands. For weeks, for months, he had anticipated this hour; it seemed life could have nothing more painful in store, and must it be? Day by day he had asked himself this question; and now he was carried away with indignation at his wife's severity, and with shame at his weakness in yielding to her. What he had undergone the past four months he considered as undeserved; for though his sin had been great, his had been an unheard-of penance. He had married her in Weimar; what more could she ask? Yet she did. She allowed him to do as he wished with the boy--indeed, it was as if it were her own desire; but when he said they must keep from home until the excitement was over, she urged him to go to Vienna, that they might bring about the recognition of their marriage. He resisted, but she said: "My whole soul hangs on this one thing. Grant this request, and I will reward you well." "With what?" he thought. "With love and fidelity!" He had earned that before God and men by a greater sacrifice than any man of his position had ever made. Ought she not to be faithful to him, she for whose sake his best friends had been faithless, she for whom he had incurred so many slights? But his resistance grew weaker. His character was not adapted to resist a feeble will, much less this one of iron. Finally he yielded, because he thought she would see for herself, when in Vienna, the impracticability of her desire. "If you do not succeed, we will go to Italy for two years," he said, and to this she agreed. Convinced of the futility of her attempt, and annoyed at the gossip she was inciting, he watched her curiously. It was during the _régime_ of Metternich--a _régime_ which bowed only to the church, and therefore the more impossible. Whenever she spoke of it, he assured her that her object was unattainable. But she never tired of devising new ways and means, and when these proved useless, she set herself to work to gain the aid of the church itself. A young prelate of an impoverished noble family was the first won over. Soon her apartments in the "Wilder Mann" swarmed with soutanes and hoods, and one morning she exclaimed: "Congratulate me, Agenor; I am going to Metternich." They had been in Vienna six weeks, and only the banker who had charge of her funds knew how costly all this had been. Agenor looked at her in astonishment. As she stood before him in her dark, flowing robe, her grayish hair wrapped in a black mantilla, her clearly cut features pale and fixed, only her lips showing her excitement, she inspired him with an emotion curiously compounded of respect and fear. The love he had now and then faintly felt of late was wanting. Never had he realized it as now. "Are you certain he will receive you?" he asked, hesitatingly. She showed him a card admitting to an audience. "Have you considered it well?" he continued, dubiously. She gave him no answer, but shook his hand by way of farewell. When she returned two hours later, he saw by her face she had gained her point. He sprang from his seat and gazed at her; but no word of triumph issued from her lips. "We shall receive the papers this week," she said, abruptly; and when he besieged her with questions as to the methods by which she had accomplished her purpose, she said: "By telling the truth! One succeeds better that way with clever people, and he is clever. He saw at once I had no wish to overthrow either Austria or the church, or even the walls of the Ghetto. He did not make the concession to the Jews, but to the woman. I have concealed but one thing from him." "What is that?" She shook her head. "You shall know, and soon, but not to-day. I would have told him that, too, had it been necessary, but it was not," she continued, as if soliloquizing. "He is better than they allow; he is too clever to be entirely base." He listened without thinking much of what she was saying, until she said: "As soon as we have the papers we will go home, of course." To that he gave a vehement negative; and when she promised to reward him well, he asked her, indignantly, what she thought of him. "You do not know what I mean," she said, quietly, with a peculiar smile; "but I do--I will do it in the best way possible." However, that had not so much effect as her promise to remain in town but one week. "After that, you shall decide as to the future." But it was the word of a high official, a confidant of the premier, which made him quite subservient to her will. "The prince is greatly impressed by your wife, and thinks it a thousand pities such a splendid creature should have been rendered such a miserable woman. If he were the count, he would never forget who it was had done this." So Judith had her way--even the public procession, with all the humiliation it entailed upon Baranowski, and all the train of evils which would probably follow. The count straightened himself: "Drive faster, faster! and drive through the town as rapidly as possible!" Judith had been reclining in a corner of the carriage. A dress of heavy black silk draped her slender form, a splendid lace shawl enveloped her head, and upon her forehead was the diamond diadem, the heirloom of the Baranowskis. But her face was set, and only an occasional sigh indicated the near approach of the hour she had been working for with almost superhuman energy. She laid her hand on her husband's arm: "Agenor, an honest man keeps his word at any cost." "But it is for your good. You know what Stiegle--" "No more words. Let us drive slowly now." Unwillingly he gave the order. The _banderium_, who had been left behind, collected again, and surrounded the carriage. The custom-house was in sight. "Hurrah!" shouted the peasants on guard. "Hurrah!" responded the _banderium_. Volleys crashed, the band played, but the confused shouting of the crowd overpowered all. Little could be understood, but that little was unpleasant. Some of the guard raised their axes and clubs threateningly. The _banderium_ gathered closer about the carriage. The count sank back in his seat, deathly pale, but Judith sat erect, looking quietly from right to left. And thus they passed the custom-house. From thence the street widened, and the crowd became greater. But, strange to say, when the music ceased the noise of the onlookers also ended. Had the shouts been provoked by this ovation, or were the people awed by the imperious glance of this pale woman? There are some still living in the town who remember the _entrée_ of the Countess Judith Baranowski, and if you ask regarding it they answer: "It is impossible to describe her appearance, or our emotions when we met her eyes. It was as if she were dying, and yet she had the air of a queen. Those who met her glance were hushed into silence; and when the peasants removed their caps, we did the same." There was no particular ovation at the triumphal arch. Even the burgomaster felt it would be imprudent to risk breaking the spell which held the multitude in check; so his address was very brief, and the countess's thanks equally so. Agenor turned to Judith: "I entreat you not to stop at your brother's door. It means certain destruction." "It must be," she replied; and when he hesitated she herself gave Fedko the command. And, indeed, it looked as if the count were right. A burst of rage and indignation filled the air when their destination became apparent. "What an insult! what a disgrace!" yelled a thousand throats. "Down with her! down with her!" The guards were pushed aside, axes were lifted, and the fight began. The carriage stopped, its only protection being a few of the mounted men who kept close to it. The instinct of the cavalier was roused in the count. Drawing a pistol from the girdle of his fur cloak, he leaped out, when suddenly Judith, who as yet had sat still, staring rigidly at the mob, rose to her full height, so that the diamonds on her brow flashed like sunlight. "Away!" she cried to the mounted guards, so authoritatively that they instantly obeyed. "Away!" she said to Agenor, who stood in front of her. The mob were dumfounded. The fight ceased, and all became suddenly still. "What do you wish?" and her clear voice was like a silver trumpet. "Do you want to kill me? Here I am. No one shall protect me! No blood shall flow on my account. I have already enough on my soul. Come! I am ready." No one moved; no sound was heard until a voice said: "She has to fulfil the work of the Lord; and the count is doing his share. Do not interfere with the will of God." There was a murmur and a push, and the crowd gave way. The count sprang into the carriage, and Fedko drove towards the Trachtenberg house. In profound silence the count and Judith entered its door; and when they reappeared, a few minutes after, accompanied by Raphael, no voice was heard. The count shook his hand, and Judith embraced her brother. "To-day, at four, in the 'Good Place,'" she whispered. They re-entered the carriage, and again something unexpected transpired. Raphael seized her hand, and, with streaming eyes, covered it with kisses. The next instant some one shouted: "She has suffered much; let her be happy now." "Hurrah!" vociferated the crowd, with hundred-fold repetition. "Hurrah! Peace and joy go with her!" So they drove to the castle, but Judith no longer sat upright. Nearly fainting, she lay back, the tears streaming down her cheeks. The tenantry had assembled at the castle, and Dr. Reiser was there also. Judith inquired for old Miriam: "I will go to her as soon as I can leave the table." "Do so," said the doctor, "for she will not be visible to-morrow. She died two hours ago. Her servant came for me just as I was coming here, and I went to her for a moment. I never saw so happy a face." Dinner was served in the traditional wedding-dinner style of the Baranowskis, and on the same antique plate. But the feeling was not the same, and the guests left early. Judith drove with the doctor to the little house in Roskowska to take a last look at her old friend. They had not yet placed her in the coffin. She sat, in her Sabbath clothes, in her arm-chair. Speechlessly Judith gazed on the face, which wore an expression of pure, unalloyed happiness. "Do you know why Miriam smiled as she died?" asked Dr. Reiser. "She heard the guns which announced your approach;" and then he told Judith of their last conversation. "She died as a conqueror. She took it as an omen that her child had been forgiven, and that she would meet her soon in Paradise." Judith knelt and kissed the dead hand. "You are right," she said. "She was happy, dying as a victor." "And you are happy in living as a victor," he added. "Do not speak so," she protested. "Only the innocent have a right to live after such a fight. The guilty do not survive their victories. But excuse me, I must go; my brother will be waiting." "What an enigma she is!" thought the doctor, as he watched her drive away. After that he gave no more thought to her. Raphael was at the grave punctually; and here, at the most sacred spot on earth for them, the long-estranged brother and sister sank into each other's arms in a close embrace. "This is my place, is it not?" said Judith, pointing to the vacancy between her parents' graves. "No one can deprive me of this--because I am the wife of a Christian, and the pious might say-- But you will not allow them--will you, Raphael?" "If I survive you, you shall be buried there. But we can speak of this in thirty years from now." "But swear it--by the memory of our father. You know how excited I am to-day." "If it will soothe you, I swear it." "And you will put up the epitaph I leave behind?" "If I survive you, yes." They talked a little of his plans for the future, they embraced again and again, and she drove back to the castle. The count was in his study with Stiegle and some of his tenants. She went to her boudoir, where she wrote two short notes--one to Agenor, another to Raphael. By this time it was twilight, but she had her boy brought to her, although he was already in his cot for the night, and she kept him with her for about an hour. When at last the servant came without being called, it was quite dark. She could not see the face of her mistress, for it was bent over the child. But she could tell by her voice she was weeping, as she said, "It is better for you too--for you too!" She handed the baby to the nurse, with the remark that the evening was so mild she would take a turn in the garden. She did so, walking past the spot where Agenor had first kissed her, towards the lake. On her way she met Fedko, the coachman, who said, "Good-evening," receiving from her a pleasant reply. He watched her as she went towards the pond, upon which the moon was shedding its silver light. "When I think," said the good fellow, "of that morning in Borky when I saw her rushing to the pond! How different her feelings must be to-day!" He was mistaken. When nine o'clock came, and Judith was still out, the count went to look for her. Unsuccessful in his search, he was about to send the servants, when Hamia brought him the letter she had found on Judith's table. The letter was short, but loving. She commended the boy to his care, and begged he should not torture himself with the thought that he had caused her death. She died that she might not make him miserable or herself more so. She died because, after all she had undergone, she had neither strength nor courage to live. It was no one's fault, certainly not his. Her face was in no wise disfigured when they lifted her from the water. It was solemn and inflexible, as had been its expression for a long time before. Two days after, she was buried by her co-religionists in the spot belonging to her in the "Good Place." As they dug the grave, they found the remains of a large bush. Only a few knew that it was once a rose-bush, which had been used in a very solemn ceremony connected with the deceased. On her gravestone is this inscription: --------------------------------------------------- | Judith, Countess Baranowski, | | | | DAUGHTER OF NATHANIEL BEN-MANASSES, | | OF THE TRIBE OF ISRAEL. | | | | She died in darkness, but the day will dawn. | --------------------------------------------------- THE END. 
37889	----	Transcriber's notes: Punctuation and hyphenation have been normalised. Variable, archaic or unusual spelling has been retained. A list of the few corrections made can found at the end of the book. Italics indicated by _underscores_. [Illustration: GREECE, TURKEY, _PART OF_ RUSSIA & POLAND.] INCIDENTS OF TRAVEL IN GREECE, TURKEY, RUSSIA, AND POLAND. BY THE AUTHOR OF "INCIDENTS OF TRAVEL IN EGYPT, ARABIA PETRÆA, AND THE HOLY LAND." WITH A MAP AND ENGRAVINGS. IN TWO VOLUMES. VOL. I. SEVENTH EDITION. NEW YORK: HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS. 329 & 331 PEARL STREET, FRANKLIN SQUARE. 1853. Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1838, by HARPER & BROTHERS, in the Clerk's Office of the Southern District of New York. PREFACE TO THE FIFTH EDITION. THE fourth edition of this work was published during the author's absence from the city. His publishers, in a preface in his behalf, returned his acknowledgments to the public, and he can but respond to the acknowledgments there made. He has made some alterations in the page relating to the American phil-Hellenists; and for the rest, he concludes as in the preface to his first edition. The author has been induced by his publishers to put forth his "Incidents of Travel in Greece, Turkey, Russia, and Poland." In point of time they precede his tour in Egypt, Arabia Petræa, and the Holy Land. The countries which form the subject of the following pages perhaps do not, in themselves, possess the same interest with those in his first work; but the author has reason to believe that part of his route, particularly from the Black Sea to the Baltic, through the interior of Russia, and from St. Petersburgh through the interior of Poland to Warsaw and Cracow, is comparatively new to most of his countrymen. As in his first work, his object has been to present a picture of the every-day scenes which occur to the traveller in the countries referred to, rather than any detailed description of the countries themselves. _New York, November, 1838._ CONTENTS OF THE FIRST VOLUME CHAPTER I. Page A Hurricane.--An Adventure.--Missilonghi.--Siege of Missilonghi.--Byron.--Marco Bozzaris.--Visit to the Widow, Daughters, and Brother of Bozzaris.--Halleck's "Marco Bozzaris." 13 CHAPTER II. Choice of a Servant.--A Turnout.--An Evening Chat.--Scenery of the Road.--Lepanto.--A projected Visit.--Change of Purpose.--Padras.--Vostitza.--Variety and Magnificence of Scenery. 28 CHAPTER III. Quarrel with the Landlord.--Ægina.--Sicyon.--Corinth.--A distinguished Reception.--Desolation of Corinth.--The Acropolis.--View from the Acropolis.--Lechæum and Cenchreæ.--Kaka Scala.--Arrival at Athens. 46 CHAPTER IV. American Missionary School.--Visit to the School.--Mr. Hill and the Male Department.--Mrs. Hill and the Female Department.--Maid of Athens.--Letter from Mr. Hill.--Revival of Athena.--Citizens of the World. 61 CHAPTER V. Ruins of Athens.--Hill of Mars.--Temple of the Winds.--Lantern of Demosthenes.--Arch of Adrian.--Temple of Jupiter Olympus.--Temple of Theseus.--The Acropolis.--The Parthenon.--Pentelican Mountain.--Mount Hymettus.--The Piræus.--Greek Fleas.--Napoli. 73 CHAPTER VI. Argos.--Parting and Farewell.--Tomb of Agamemnon.--Mycenæ.--Gate of the Lions.--A Misfortune.--Meeting in the Mountains.--A Landlord's Troubles.--A Midnight Quarrel.--One good Turn deserves another.--Gratitude of a Greek Family.--Megara.--The Soldiers' Revel. 99 CHAPTER VII. A Dreary Funeral.--Marathon.--Mount Pentelicus.--A Mystery.--Woes of a Lover.--Reveries of Glory.--Scio's Rocky Isle.--A blood-stained Page of History.--A Greek Prelate.--Desolation.--The Exile's Return. 118 CHAPTER VIII. A Noble Grecian Lady.--Beauty of Scio.--An Original.--Foggi.--A Turkish Coffee-house.--Mussulman at Prayers.--Easter Sunday.--A Greek Priest.--A Tartar Guide.--Turkish Ladies.--Camel Scenes.--Sight of a Harem.--Disappointed Hopes.--A rare Concert.--Arrival at Smyrna. 149 CHAPTER IX. First Sight of Smyrna.--Unveiled Women.--Ruins of Ephesus.--Ruin, all Ruin.--Temple of Diana.--Encounter with a Wolf.--Love at first Sight.--Gatherings on the Road. 173 CHAPTER X. Position of Smyrna.--Consular Privileges.--The Case of the Lover.--End of the Love Affair.--The Missionary's Wife.--The Casino.--Only a Greek Row.--Rambles in Smyrna.--The Armenians.--Domestic Enjoyments. 188 CHAPTER XI. An American Original.--Moral Changes in Turkey.--Wonders of Steam Navigation.--The March of Mind.--Classic Localities.--Sestos and Abydos.--Seeds of Pestilence. 203 CHAPTER XII. Mr. Churchill.--Commodore Porter.--Castle of the Seven Towers.--The Sultan's Naval Architect.--Launch of the Great Ship.--Sultan Mahmoud.--Jubilate.--A National Grievance.--Visit to a Mosque.--The Burial-grounds. 218 CHAPTER XIII. Visit to the Slave-market.--Horrors of Slavery.--Departure from Stamboul.--The stormy Euxine.--Odessa.--The Lazaretto.--Russian Civility.--Returning Good for Evil. 236 CHAPTER XIV. The Guardiano.--One too many.--An Excess of Kindness.--The last Day of Quarantine.--Mr. Baguet.--Rise of Odessa.--City-making.--Count Woronzow.--A Gentleman Farmer.--An American Russian. 258 INCIDENTS OF TRAVEL IN GREECE, TURKEY, RUSSIA, AND POLAND. CHAPTER I. A Hurricane.--An Adventure.--Missilonghi.--Siege of Missilonghi.--Byron.--Marco Bozzaris.--Visit to the Widow, Daughters, and Brother of Bozzaris. ON the evening of the ---- February, 1835, by a bright starlight, after a short ramble among the Ionian Islands, I sailed from Zante in a beautiful cutter of about forty tons for Padras. My companions were Doctor W., an old and valued friend from New-York, who was going to Greece merely to visit the Episcopal missionary school at Athens, and a young Scotchman, who had travelled with me through Italy, and was going farther, like myself, he knew not exactly why. There was hardly a breath of air when we left the harbour, but a breath was enough to fill our little sail. The wind, though of the gentlest, was fair; and as we crawled from under the lee of the island, in a short time it became a fine sailing breeze. We sat on the deck till a late hour, and turned in with every prospect of being at Padras in the morning. Before daylight, however, the wind chopped about, and set in dead ahead, and when I went on deck in the morning it was blowing a hurricane. We had passed the point of Padras; the wind was driving down the Gulf of Corinth as if old Æolus had determined on thwarting our purpose; and our little cutter, dancing like a gull upon the angry waters, was driven into the harbour of Missilonghi. The town was full in sight, but at such a distance, and the waves were running so high, that we could not reach it with our small boat. A long flat extends several miles into the sea, making the harbour completely inaccessible except to small Greek caiques built expressly for such navigation. We remained on board all day; and the next morning, the gale still continuing, made signals to a fishing boat to come off and take us ashore. In a short time she came alongside; we bade farewell to our captain--an Italian and a noble fellow, cradled, and, as he said, born to die on the Adriatic--and in a few minutes struck the soil of fallen but immortal Greece. Our manner of striking it, however, was not such as to call forth any of the warm emotions struggling in the breast of the scholar, for we were literally stuck in the mud. We were yet four or five miles from the shore, and the water was so low that the fishing-boat, with the additional weight of four men and luggage, could not swim clear. Our boatmen were two long, sinewy Greeks, with the red tarbouch, embroidered jacket, sash, and large trousers, and with their long poles set us through the water with prodigious force; but, as soon as the boat struck, they jumped out, and, putting their brawny shoulders under her sides, heaved her through into better water, and then resumed their poles. In this way they propelled her two or three miles, working alternately with their poles and shoulders, until they got her into a channel, when they hoisted the sail, laid directly for the harbour, and drove upon the beach with canvass all flying. During the late Greek revolution, Missilonghi was the great debarking-place of European adventurers; and, probably, among all the desperadoes who ever landed there, none were more destitute and in better condition to "go ahead" than I; for I had all that I was worth on my back. At one of the Ionian Islands I had lost my carpet-bag, containing my notebook and every article of wearing apparel except the suit in which I stood. Every condition, however, has its advantages; mine put me above porters and custom-house officers; and while my companions were busy with these plagues of travellers, I paced with great satisfaction the shore of Greece, though I am obliged to confess that this satisfaction was for reasons utterly disconnected with any recollections of her ancient glories. Business before pleasure: one of our first inquiries was for a breakfast. Perhaps, if we had seen a monument, or solitary column, or ruin of any kind, it would have inspired us to better things; but there was nothing, absolutely nothing, that could recall an image of the past. Besides, we did not expect to land at Missilonghi, and were not bound to be inspired at a place into which we were thrown by accident; and, more than all, a drizzling rain was penetrating to our very bones; we were wet and cold, and what can men do in the way of sentiment when their teeth are chattering? The town stands upon a flat, marshy plain, which extends several miles along the shore. The whole was a mass of new-made ruins--of houses demolished and black with smoke--the tokens of savage and desolating war. In front, and running directly along the shore, was a long street of miserable one-story shantees, run up since the destruction of the old town, and so near the shore that sometimes it is washed by the sea, and at the time of our landing it was wet and muddy from the rain. It was a cheerless place, and reminded me of Communipaw in bad weather. It had no connexion with the ancient glory of Greece, no name or place on her historic page, and no hotel where we could get a breakfast; but one of the officers of the customs conducted us to a shantee filled with Bavarian soldiers drinking. There was a sort of second story, accessible only by a ladder; and one end of this was partitioned off with boards, but had neither bench, table, nor any other article of housekeeping. We had been on and almost _in_ the water since daylight, exposed to a keen wind and drizzling rain, and now, at eleven o'clock, could probably have eaten several chickens apiece; but nothing came amiss, and, as we could not get chickens, we took eggs, which, for lack of any vessel to boil them in, were roasted. We placed a huge loaf of bread on the middle of the floor, and seated ourselves around it, spreading out so as to keep the eggs from rolling away, and each hewing off bread for himself. Fortunately, the Greeks have learned from their quondam Turkish masters the art of making coffee, and a cup of this Eastern cordial kept our dry bread from choking us. When we came out again the aspect of matters was more cheerful; the long street was swarming with Greeks, many of them armed with pistols and yataghan, but miserably poor in appearance, and in such numbers that not half of them could find the shelter of a roof at night. We were accosted by one dressed in a hat and frockcoat, and who, in occasional visits to Corfu and Trieste, had picked up some Italian and French, and a suit of European clothes, and was rather looked up to by his untravelled countrymen. As a man of the world, who had received civilities abroad, he seemed to consider it incumbent upon him to reciprocate at home, and, with the tacit consent of all around, he undertook to do the honours of Missilonghi. If, as a Greek, he had any national pride about him, he was imposing upon himself a severe task; for all that he could do was to conduct us among ruins, and, as he went along, tell us the story of the bloody siege which had reduced the place to its present woful state. For more than a year, under unparalleled hardships, its brave garrison resisted the combined strength of the Turkish and Egyptian armies, and, when all hope was gone, resolved to cut their way through the enemy or die in the attempt. Many of the aged and sick, the wounded and the women, refused to join in the sortie, and preferred to shut themselves up in an old mill, with the desperate purpose of resisting until they should bring around them a large crowd of Turks, when they would blow all up together. An old invalid soldier seated himself in a mine under the Bastion Bozzaris (the ruins of which we saw), the mine being charged with thirty kegs of gunpowder; the last sacrament was administered by the bishop and priests to the whole population and, at a signal, the besieged made their desperate sortie. One body dashed through the Turkish ranks, and, with many women and children, gained the mountains; but the rest were driven back. Many of the women ran to the sea and plunged in with their children; husbands stabbed their wives with their own hands to save them from the Turks, and the old soldier under the bastion set fire to the train, and the remnant of the heroic garrison buried themselves under the ruins of Missilonghi. Among them were thirteen foreigners, of whom only one escaped. One of the most distinguished was Meyer, a young Swiss, who entered as a volunteer at the beginning of the revolution, became attached to a beautiful Missilonghiote girl, married her, and, when the final sortie was made, his wife being sick, he remained with her, and was blown up with the others. A letter written a few days before his death, and brought away by one who escaped in the sortie, records the condition of the garrison. "A wound which I have received in my shoulder, while I am in daily expectation of one which will be my passport to eternity, has prevented me till now from bidding you a last adieu. We are reduced to feed upon the most disgusting animals. We are suffering horribly with hunger and thirst. Sickness adds much to the calamities which overwhelm us. Seventeen hundred and forty of our brothers are dead; more than a hundred thousand bombs and balls thrown by the enemy have destroyed our bastions and our homes. We have been terribly distressed by the cold, for we have suffered great want of food. Notwithstanding so many privations, it is a great and noble spectacle to behold the ardour and devotedness of the garrison. A few days more, and these brave men will be angelic spirits, who will accuse before God the indifference of Christendom. In the name of all our brave men, among whom are Notho Bozzaris, *** I announce to you the resolution sworn to before Heaven, to defend, foot by foot, the land of Missilonghi, and to bury ourselves, without listening to any capitulation, under the ruins of this city. We are drawing near our final hour. History will render us justice. I am proud to think that the blood of a Swiss, of a child of William Tell, is about to mingle with that of the heroes of Greece." But Missilonghi is a subject of still greater interest than this, for the reader will remember it as the place where Byron died. Almost the first questions I asked were about the poet, and it added to the dreary interest which the place inspired, to listen to the manner in which the Greeks spoke of him. It might be thought that here, on the spot where he breathed his last, malignity would have held her accursed tongue; but it was not so. He had committed the fault, unpardonable in the eyes of political opponents, of attaching himself to one of the great parties that then divided Greece; and though he had given her all that man could give, in his own dying words, "his time, his means, his health, and, lastly, his life," the Greeks spoke of him with all the rancour and bitterness of party spirit. Even death had not won oblivion for his political offences; and I heard those who saw him die in her cause affirm that Byron was no friend to Greece. His body, the reader will remember, was transported to England and interred in the family sepulchre. The church where it lay in state is a heap of ruins, and there is no stone or monument recording his death, but, wishing to see some memorial connected with his residence here, we followed our guide to the house in which he died. It was a large square building of stone, one of the walls still standing, black with smoke, the rest a confused and shapeless mass of ruins. After his death it was converted into a hospital and magazine; and, when the Turks entered the city, they set fire to the powder; the sick and dying were blown into the air, and we saw the ruins lying as they fell after the explosion. It was a melancholy spectacle, but it seemed to have a sort of moral fitness with the life and fortunes of the poet. It was as if the same wild destiny, the same wreck of hopes and fortunes that attended him through life, were hovering over his grave. Living and dead, his actions and his character have been the subject of obloquy and reproach, perhaps justly; but it would have softened the heart of his bitterest enemy to see the place in which he died. It was in this house that, on his last birthday, he came from his bedroom and produced to his friends the last notes of his dying muse, breathing a spirit of sad foreboding and melancholy recollections; of devotion to the noble cause in which he had embarked, and a prophetic consciousness of his approaching end. "My days are in the yellow leaf, The flowers and fruits of love are gone; The worm, the canker, and the grief Are mine alone. * * * * * "If thou regret'st thy youth, _why live?_ The land of honourable death Is here: up to the field, and give Away thy breath! "Seek out--less often sought than found-- A soldier's grave, for thee the best; Then look around, and choose thy ground, And take thy rest." Moving on beyond the range of ruined houses, though still within the line of crumbling walls, we came to a spot perhaps as interesting as any that Greece in her best days could show. It was the tomb of Marco Bozzaris! No monumental marble emblazoned his deeds and fame; a few round stones piled over his head, which, but for our guide, we should have passed without noticing, were all that marked his grave. I would not disturb a proper reverence for the past; time covers with its dim and twilight glories both distant scenes and the men who acted in them, but, to my mind, Miltiades was not more of a hero at Marathon or Leonidas at Thermopylæ than Marco Bozzaris at Missilonghi. When they went out against the hosts of Persia, Athens and Sparta were great and free, and they had the prospect of _glory_ and the praise of men, to the Greeks always dearer than life. But when the Suliote chief drew his sword, his country lay bleeding at the feet of a giant, and all Europe condemned the Greek revolution as foolhardy and desperate. For two months, with but a few hundred men, protected only by a ditch and slight parapet of earth, he defended the town where his body now rests against the whole Egyptian army. In stormy weather, living upon bad and unwholesome bread, with no covering but his cloak, he passed his days and nights in constant vigil; in every assault his sword cut down the foremost assailant, and his voice, rising above the din of battle, struck terror into the hearts of the enemy. In the struggle which ended with his life, with two thousand men he proposed to attack the whole army of Mustapha Pacha, and called upon all who were willing to die for their country to stand forward. The whole band advanced to a man. Unwilling to sacrifice so many brave men in a death-struggle, he chose three hundred, the sacred number of the Spartan band, his tried and trusty Suliotes. At midnight he placed himself at their head, directing that not a shot should be fired till he sounded his bugle; and his last command was, "If you lose sight of me, seek me in the pacha's tent." In the moment of victory he ordered the pacha to be seized, and received a ball in the loins; his voice still rose above the din of battle, cheering his men until he was struck by another ball in the head, and borne dead from the field of his glory. Not far from the grave of Bozzaris was a pyramid of sculls, of men who had fallen in the last attack upon the city, piled up near the blackened and battered wall which they had died in defending. In my after wanderings I learned to look more carelessly upon these things; and, perhaps, noticing everywhere the light estimation put upon human life in the East, learned to think more lightly of it myself; but, then, it was melancholy to see bleaching in the sun, under the eyes of their countrymen, the unburied bones of men who, but a little while ago, stood with swords in their hands, and animated by the noble resolution to free their country or die in the attempt. Our guide told us that they had all been collected in that place with a view to sepulture; and that King Otho, as soon as he became of age and took the government in his own hands, intended to erect a monument over them. In the mean time, they are at the mercy of every passing traveller; and the only remark that our guide made was a comment upon the force and unerring precision of the blow of the Turkish sabre, almost every scull being laid open on the side nearly down to the ear. But the most interesting part of our day at Missilonghi was to come. Returning from a ramble round the walls, we noticed a large square house, which, our guide told us, was the residence of Constantine, the brother of Marco Bozzaris. We were all interested in this intelligence, and our interest was in no small degree increased when he added that the widow and two of the children of the Suliote chief were living with his brother. The house was surrounded by a high stone wall, a large gate stood most invitingly wide open, and we turned toward it in the hope of catching a glimpse of the inhabitants; but, before we reached the gate, our interest had increased to such a point that, after consulting with our guide, we requested him to say that, if it would not be considered an intrusion, three travellers, two of them Americans, would feel honoured in being permitted to pay their respects to the widow and children of Marco Bozzaris. We were invited in, and shown into a large room on the right, where three Greeks were sitting cross-legged on a divan, smoking the long Turkish chibouk. Soon after the brother entered, a man about fifty, of middling height, spare built, and wearing a Bavarian uniform, as holding a colonel's commission in the service of King Otho. In the dress of the dashing Suliote he would have better looked the brother of Marco Bozzaris, and I might then more easily have recognised the daring warrior who, on the field of battle, in a moment of extremity, was deemed, by universal acclamation, worthy of succeeding the fallen hero. Now the straight military frockcoat, buttoned tight across the breast, the stock, tight pantaloons, boots, and straps, seemed to repress the free energies of the mountain warrior; and I could not but think how awkward it must be for one who had spent all his life in a dress which hardly touched him, at fifty to put on a stock, and straps to his boots. Our guide introduced us, with an apology for our intrusion. The colonel received us with great kindness, thanked us for the honour done his brother's widow, and, requesting us to be seated, ordered coffee and pipes. And here, on the very first day of our arrival in Greece, and from a source which made us proud, we had the first evidence of what afterward met me at every step, the warm feeling existing in Greece toward America; for almost the first thing that the brother of Marco Bozzaris said was to express his gratitude as a Greek for the services rendered his country by our own; and, after referring to the provisions sent out for his famishing countrymen, his eyes sparkled and his cheek flushed as he told us that, when the Greek revolutionary flag first sailed into the port of Napoli di Romania, among hundreds of vessels of all nations, an American captain was the first to recognise and salute it. In a few moments the widow of Marco Bozzaris entered. I have often been disappointed in my preconceived notions of personal appearance, but it was not so with the lady who now stood before me; she looked the widow of a hero; as one worthy of her Grecian mothers, who gave their hair for bowstrings, their girdle for a sword-belt, and, while their heartstrings were cracking, sent their young lovers from their arms to fight and perish for their country. Perhaps it was she that led Marco Bozzaris into the path of immortality; that roused him from the wild guerilla warfare in which he had passed his early life, and fired him with the high and holy ambition of freeing his country. Of one thing I am certain, no man could look in her face without finding his wavering purposes fixed, without treading more firmly in the path of high and honourable enterprise. She was under forty, tall and stately in person and habited in deep black, fit emblem of her widowed condition, with a white handkerchief laid flat over her head, giving the Madonna cast to her dark eyes and marble complexion. We all rose as she entered the room; and though living secluded, and seldom seeing the face of a stranger, she received our compliments and returned them with far less embarrassment than we both felt and exhibited. But our embarrassment, at least I speak for myself, was induced by an unexpected circumstance. Much as I was interested in her appearance, I was not insensible to the fact that she was accompanied by two young and beautiful girls, who were introduced to us as her daughters. This somewhat bewildered me. While waiting for their appearance, and talking with Constantine Bozzaris, I had in some way conceived the idea that the daughters were mere children, and had fully made up my mind to take them both on my knee and kiss them; but the appearance of the stately mother recalled me to the grave of Bozzaris; and the daughters would probably have thought that I was taking liberties upon so short an acquaintance if I had followed up my benevolent purpose in regard to them; so that, with the long pipe in my hand, which, at that time, I did not know how to manage well, I cannot flatter myself that I exhibited any of the benefit of Continental travel. The elder was about sixteen, and even in the opinion of my friend Doctor W., a cool judge in these matters, a beautiful girl, possessing in its fullest extent all the elements of Grecian beauty: a dark, clear complexion, dark hair, set off by a little red cap embroidered with gold thread, and a long blue tassel hanging down behind, and large black eyes, expressing a melancholy quiet, but which might be excited to shoot forth glances of fire more terrible than her father's sword. Happily, too, for us, she talked French, having learned it from a French marquis who had served in Greece and been domesticated with them; but young and modest, and unused to the company of strangers, she felt the embarrassment common to young ladies when attempting to speak a foreign language. And we could not talk to her on common themes. Our lips were sealed, of course, upon the subject which had brought us to her house. We could not sound for her the praises of her gallant father. At parting, however, I told them that the name of Marco Bozzaris was as familiar in America as that of a hero of our own revolution, and that it had been hallowed by the inspiration of an American poet; and I added that, if it would not be unacceptable, on my return to my native country I would send the tribute referred to, as an evidence of the feeling existing in America toward the memory of Marco Bozzaris. My offer was gratefully accepted; and afterward, while in the act of mounting my horse to leave Missilonghi, our guide, who had remained behind, came to me with a message from the widow and daughters reminding me of my promise. I do not see that there is any objection to my mentioning that I wrote to a friend, requesting him to procure Halleck's "Marco Bozzaris," and send it to my banker at Paris. My friend, thinking to enhance its value, applied to Mr. Halleck for a copy in his own handwriting. Mr. Halleck, with his characteristic modesty, evaded the application; and on my return home I told him the story of my visit, and reiterated the same request. He evaded me as he had done my friend, but promised me a copy of the new edition of his poems, which he afterward gave me, and which, I hope, is now in the hands of the widow and daughters of the Grecian hero. I make no apology for introducing in a book the widow and daughters of Marco Bozzaris. True, I was received by them in private, without any expectation, either on their part or mine, that all the particulars of the interview would be noted and laid before the eyes of all who choose to read. I hope it will not be considered invading the sanctity of private life; but, at all events, I make no apology; the widow and children of Marco Bozzaris are the property of the world. CHAPTER II. Choice of a Servant.--A Turnout.--An Evening Chat.--Scenery of the Road.--Lepanto.--A projected Visit.--Change of Purpose.--Padras.--Vostitza.--Variety and Magnificence of Scenery. BARREN as our prospect was on landing, our first day in Greece had already been full of interest. Supposing that we should not find anything to engage us long, before setting out on our ramble we had directed our servant to procure horses, and when we returned we found all ready for our departure. One word with regard to this same servant. We had taken him at Corfu, much against my inclination. We had a choice between two, one a full-blooded Greek in fustinellas, who in five minutes established himself in my good graces, so that nothing but the democratic principle of submitting to the will of the majority could make me give him up. He held at that time a very good office in the police at Corfu, but the eagerness which he showed to get out of regular business and go roving warmed me to him irresistibly. He seemed to be distracted between two opposing feelings; one the strong bent of his natural vagabond disposition to be rambling, and the other a sort of tugging at his heartstrings by wife and children, to keep him in a place where he had a regular assured living, instead of trusting to the precarious business of guiding travellers. He had a boldness and confidence that won me; and when he drew on the sand with his yataghan a map of Greece, and told us the route he would take us, zigzag across the Gulf of Corinth to Delphi and the top of Parnassus, I wondered that my companions could resist him. Our alternative was an Italian from somewhere on the coast of the Adriatic, whom I looked upon with an unfavourable eye, because he came between me and my Greek; and on the morning of our departure I was earnestly hoping that he had overslept himself, or got into some scrape and been picked up by the guard; but, most provokingly, he came in time, and with more baggage than all of us had together. Indeed, he had so much of his own, that, in obedience to Nature's first law, he could not attend to ours, and in putting ashore some British soldiers at Cephalonia he contrived to let my carpet-bag go with their luggage. This did not increase my amiable feeling toward him, and, perhaps, assisted in making me look upon him throughout with a jaundiced eye; in fact, before we had done with him, I regarded him as a slouch, a knave, and a fool, and had the questionable satisfaction of finding that my companions, though they sustained him as long as they could, had formed very much the same opinion. It was to him, then, that, on our return from our visit to the widow and daughters of Marco Bozzaris, we were indebted for a turnout that seemed to astonish even the people of Missilonghi. The horses were miserable little animals, hidden under enormous saddles made of great clumps of wood over an old carpet or towcloth, and covering the whole back from the shoulders to the tail; the luggage was perched on the tops of these saddles, and with desperate exertions and the help of the citizens of Missilonghi we were perched on the top of the luggage. The little animals had a knowing look as they peered from under the superincumbent mass, and, supported on either side by the by-standers till we got a little steady in our seats, we put forth from Missilonghi. The only gentleman of our party was our servant, who followed on a European saddle which he had brought for his own use, smoking his pipe with great complacency, perfectly satisfied with our appearance and with himself. It was four o'clock when we crossed the broken walls of Missilonghi. For three hours our road lay over a plain extending to the sea. I have no doubt, if my Greek had been there, he would have given an interest to the road by referring to scenes and incidents connected with the siege of Missilonghi; but Demetrius--as he now chose to call himself--knew nothing of Greece, ancient or modern; he had no sympathy of feeling with the Greeks; had never travelled on this side of the Gulf of Corinth before; and so he lagged behind and smoked his pipe. It was nearly dark when we reached the miserable little village of Bokara. We had barely light enough to look around for the best khan in which to pass the night. Any of the wretched tenants would have been glad to receive us for the little remuneration we might leave with them in the morning. The khans were all alike, one room, mud floor and walls, and we selected one where the chickens had already gone to roost, and prepared to measure off the dirt floor according to our dimensions. Before we were arranged a Greek of a better class, followed by half a dozen villagers, came over, and, with many regrets for the wretched state of the country, invited us to his house. Though dressed in the Greek costume, it was evident that he had acquired his manners in a school beyond the bounds of his miserable little village, in which his house now rose like the Leaning Tower of Pisa, higher than everything else, but rather rickety. In a few minutes we heard the death notes of some chickens, and at about nine o'clock sat down to a not unwelcome meal. Several Greeks dropped in during the evening, and one, a particular friend of our host's, supped with us. Both talked French, and had that perfect ease of manner and savoir faire which I always remarked with admiration in all Greeks who had travelled. They talked much of their travels; of time spent in Italy and Germany, and particularly of a long residence at Bucharest. They talked, too, of Greece; of her long and bitter servitude, her revolution, and her independence; and from their enthusiasm I could not but think that they had fought and bled in her cause. I certainly was not lying in wait to entrap them, but I afterward gathered from their conversation that they had taken occasion to be on their travels at the time when the bravest of their countrymen were pouring out their blood like water to emancipate their native land. A few years before I might have felt indignation and contempt for men who had left their country in her hour of utmost need, and returned to enjoy the privileges purchased with other men's blood; but I had already learned to take the world as I found it, and listened quietly while our host told us that, confiding in the permanency of the government secured by the three great powers, England, France, and Russia, he had returned to Greece, and taken a lease of a large tract of land for fifty years, paying a thousand drachms, a drachm being one sixth of a dollar, and one tenth of the annual fruits, at the end of which time one half of the land under cultivation was to belong to his heirs in fee. As our host could not conveniently accommodate us all, M. and Demetrius returned to the khan at which we had first stopped and where, to judge from the early hour at which they came over to us the next morning, they had not spent the night as well as we did. At daylight we took our coffee, and again perched our luggage on the backs of the horses, and ourselves on top of the luggage. Our host wished us to remain with him, and promised the next day to accompany us to Padras; but this was not a sufficient inducement; and taking leave of him, probably for ever, we started for Lepanto. We rode about an hour on the plain; the mountains towered on our left, and the rich soil was broken into rough sandy gullies running down to the sea. Our guides had some apprehensions that we should not be able to cross the torrents that were running down from the mountain; and when we came to the first, and had to walk up along the bank, looking out for a place to ford, we fully participated in their apprehensions. Bridges were a species of architecture entirely unknown in that part of modern Greece; indeed, no bridges could have stood against the mountain torrents. There would have been some excitement in encountering these rapid streams if we had been well mounted; but, from the manner in which we were hitched on our horses, we did not feel any great confidence in our seats. Still nothing could be wilder or more picturesque than our process in crossing them, except that it might have added somewhat to the effect to see one of us floating down stream, clinging to the tail of his horse. But we got over or through them all. A range of mountains then formed on our right, cutting us off from the sea, and we entered a valley lying between the two parallel ranges. At first the road, which was exceedingly difficult for a man or a sure-footed horse, lay along a beautiful stream, and the whole of the valley extending to the Gulf of Lepanto is one of the loveliest regions of country I ever saw. The ground was rich and verdant, and, even at that early season of the year, blooming with wild flowers of every hue, but wholly uncultivated, the olive-trees having all been cut down by the Turks, and without a single habitation on the whole route. My Scotch companion, who had a good eye for the picturesque and beautiful in natural scenery, was in raptures with this valley. I have since travelled in Switzerland, not, however, in all the districts frequented by tourists; but in what I saw, beautiful as it is, I do not know a place where the wildness of mountain scenery is so delightfully contrasted with the softness of a rich valley. At the end of the valley, directly opposite Padras, and on the borders of the gulf, is a wild road called Scala Cativa, running along the sides of a rocky, mountainous precipice overlooking the sea. It is a wild and almost fearful road; in some places I thought it like the perpendicular sides of the Palisades; and when the wind blows in a particular direction it is impossible to make headway against it. Our host told us that we should find difficulty that day; and there was just rudeness enough to make us look well to our movements. Directly at our feet was the Gulf of Corinth; opposite a range of mountains; and in the distance the island of Zante. On the other side of the valley is an extraordinary mountain, very high, and wanting a large piece in the middle, as if cut out with a chisel, leaving two straight parallel sides, and called by the unpoetical name of the armchair. In the wildest pan of the Scala, where a very slight struggle would have precipitated us several hundred feet into the sea, an enormous shepherd's dog came bounding and barking toward us; and we were much relieved when his master, who was hanging with his flock of goats on an almost inaccessible height, called him away. At the foot of the mountain we entered a rich plain, where the shepherds were pasturing their flocks down to the shore of the sea, and in about two hours arrived at Lepanto. After diligent search by Demetrius (the name by which we had taken him, whose true name, however, we found to be Jerolamon), and by all the idlers whom the arrival of strangers attracted, we procured a room near the farthest wall; it was reached by ascending a flight of steps outside, and boasted a floor, walls, and an apology for a roof. We piled up our baggage in one corner, or, rather, my companions did theirs, and went prowling about in search of something to eat. Our servant had not fully apprized us of the extreme poverty of the country, the entire absence of all accommodations for travellers, and the absolute necessity of carrying with us everything requisite for comfort. He was a man of few words, and probably thought that, as between servant and master, example was better than precept, and that the abundant provision he had made for himself might serve as a lesson for us; but, in our case, the objection to this mode of teaching was, that it came too late to be profitable. At the foot of the hill fronting the sea was an open place, in one side of which was a little cafteria, where all the good-for-nothing loungers of Lepanto were assembled. We bought a loaf of bread and some eggs, and, with a cup of Turkish coffee, made our evening meal. We had an hour before dark, and strolled along the shore. Though in a ruinous condition, Lepanto is in itself interesting, as giving an exact idea of an ancient Greek city, being situated in a commanding position on the side of a mountain running down to the sea, with its citadel on the top, and enclosed by walls and turrets. The port is shut within the walls, which run into the sea, and are erected on the foundations of the ancient Naupactus. At a distance was the promontory of Actium, where Cleopatra, with her fifty ships, abandoned Antony, and left to Augustus the empire of the world; and directly before us, its surface dotted with a few straggling Greek caiques, was the scene of a battle which has rung throughout the world, the great battle of the Cross against the Crescent, where the allied forces of Spain, Venice, and the pope, amounting to nearly three hundred sail, under the command of Don John of Austria, humbled for ever the naval pride of the Turks. One hundred and thirty Turkish galleys were taken and fifty-five sunk; thirty thousand Turks were killed, ten thousand taken prisoners, fifteen thousand Christian slaves delivered; and Pope Pius VI., with holy fervour, exclaimed, "There was a man sent from God, and his name was John." Cervantes lost his left hand in this battle; and it is to wounds he received here that he makes a touching allusion when reproached by a rival: "What I cannot help feeling deeply is, that I am stigmatized with being old and maimed, as though it belonged to me to stay the course of time; or as though my wounds had been received in some tavern broil, instead of the most lofty occasion which past ages have yet seen, or which shall ever be seen by those to come. The scars which the soldier wears on his person, instead of badges of infamy, are stars to guide the daring in the path of glory. As for mine, though they may not shine in the eyes of the envious, they are at least esteemed by those who know where they were received; and, even was it not yet too late to choose, I would rather remain as I am, maimed and mutilated, than be now whole of my wounds, without having taken part in so glorious an achievement." I shall, perhaps, be reproached for mingling with the immortal names of Don John of Austria and Cervantes those of George Wilson, of Providence, Rhode Island, and James Williams, a black of Baltimore, cook on board Lord Cochrane's flagship in the great battle between the Greek and Turkish fleets. George Wilson was a gunner on board one of the Greek ships, and conducted himself with so much gallantry, that Lord Cochrane, at a dinner in commemoration of the event, publicly drank his health. In the same battle James Williams, who had lost a finger in the United States service under Decatur at Algiers, and had conducted himself with great coolness and intrepidity in several engagements, when no Greek could be found to take the helm, volunteered his services, and was struck down by a splinter, which broke his legs and arms. The historian will probably never mention these gallant fellows in his quarto volumes; but I hope the American traveller, as he stands at sunset by the shore of the Gulf of Lepanto, and recalls to mind the great achievements of Don John and Cervantes, will not forget _George Wilson_ and _James Williams_. At evening we returned to our room, built a fire in the middle, and, with as much dignity as we could muster, sitting on the floor, received a number of Greek visiters. When they left us we wrapped ourselves in our cloaks and lay down to sleep. Sleep, however, is not always won when wooed. Sometimes it takes the perverse humour of the wild Irish boy: "The more you call me, the more I won't come." Our room had no chimney; and though, as I lay all night looking up at the roof, there appeared to be apertures enough to let out the smoke, it seemed to have a loving feeling toward us in our lowly position, and clung to us so closely that we were obliged to let the fire go out, and lie shivering till morning. Every schoolboy knows how hard it is to write poetry, but few know the physical difficulties of climbing the poetical mountain itself. We had made arrangements to sleep the next night at Castri, by the side of the sacred oracle of Delphi, a mile up Parnassus. Our servant wanted to cross over and go up on the other side of the gulf, and entertained us with several stories of robberies committed on this road, to which we paid no attention. The Greeks who visited us in the evening related, with much detail, a story of a celebrated captain of brigands having lately returned to his haunt on Parnassus, and attacked nine Greek merchants, of whom he killed three; the recital of which interesting incident we ascribed to Demetrius, and disregarded. Early in the morning we mounted our horses and started for Parnassus. At the gate of the town we were informed that it was necessary, before leaving, to have a passport from the eparchos, and I returned to procure it. The eparchos was a man about forty-five, tall and stout, with a clear olive complexion and a sharp black eye, dressed in a rich Greek costume, and, fortunately, able to speak French. He was sitting cross-legged on a divan, smoking a pipe, and looking out upon the sea; and when I told him my business, he laid down his pipe, repeated the story of the robbery and murder that we had heard the night before, and added that we must abandon the idea of travelling that road. He said, farther, that the country was in a distracted state; that poverty was driving men to desperation; and that, though they had driven out the Turks, the Greeks were not masters of their own country. Hearing that I was an American, and as if in want of a bosom in which to unburden himself, and as one assured of sympathy, he told me the whole story of their long and bloody struggle for independence, and the causes that now made the friends of Greece tremble for her future destiny. I knew that the seat of the muses bore a rather suspicious character, and, in fact, that the rocks and caves about Parnassus were celebrated as the abodes of robbers, but I was unwilling to be driven from our purpose of ascending it. I went to the military commandant, a Bavarian officer, and told him what I had just heard from the eparchos. He said frankly that he did not know much of the state of the country, as he had but lately arrived in it; but, with the true Bavarian spirit, advised me, as a general rule, not to believe anything a Greek should tell me. I returned to the gate, and made my double report to my companions. Dr. W. returned with me to the eparchos, where the latter repeated, with great earnestness, all he had told me; and when I persisted in combating his objections, shrugged his shoulders in a manner that seemed to say, "your blood be on your own heads;" that he had done his duty, and washed his hands of the consequences. As we were going out he called me back, and, recurring to our previous conversation, said that he had spoken to me as an American more freely than he would have done to a stranger, and begged that, as I was going to Athens, I would not repeat his words where they could do him injury. I would not mention the circumstance now, but that the political clouds which then hung over the horizon of Greece have passed away; King Otho has taken his seat on the throne, and my friend has probably long since been driven or retired from public life. I was at that time a stranger to the internal politics of Greece, but I afterward found that the eparchos was one of a then powerful body of Greeks opposed to the Bavarian influence, and interested in representing the state of the country as more unsettled than it really was. I took leave of him, however, as one who had intended me a kindness, and, returning to the gate, found our companion sitting on his horse, waiting the result of our farther inquiries. Both he and my fellow envoy were comparatively indifferent upon the subject, while I was rather bent on drinking from the Castalian fount, and sleeping on the top of Parnassus. Besides, I was in a beautiful condition to be robbed. I had nothing but what I had on my back, and I felt sure that a Greek mountain robber would scorn my stiff coat and pantaloons and black hat. My companions, however were not so well situated, particularly M., who had drawn money at Corfu, and had no idea of trusting it to the tender mercies of a Greek bandit. In the teeth of the advice we had received, it would, perhaps, have been foolhardy to proceed; and, to my great subsequent regret, for the first and the last time in my ramblings, I was turned aside from my path by fear of perils on the road. Perhaps, after all, I had a lucky escape; for, if the Greek tradition be true, whoever sleeps on the mountain becomes an inspired poet or a madman, either of which, for a professional man, is a catastrophe to be avoided. Our change of plan suited Demetrius exactly; he had never travelled on this side of the Gulf of Corinth; and, besides that, he considered it a great triumph that his stories of robbers were confirmed by others, showing his superior knowledge of the state of the country; he was glad to get on a road which he had travelled before, and on which he had a chance of meeting some of his old travelling acquaintance. In half an hour he had us on board a caique. We put out from the harbour of Lepanto with a strong and favourable wind; our little boat danced lightly over the waters of the Gulf of Corinth; and in three hours, passing between the frowning castles of Romelia and Morea, under the shadow of the walls of which were buried the bodies of the Christians who fell in the great naval battle, we arrived at Padras. The first thing we recognised was the beautiful little cutter which we had left at Missilonghi, riding gracefully at anchor in the harbour, and the first man we spoke to on landing was our old friend the captain. We exchanged a cordial greeting, and he conducted us to Mr. Robertson, the British vice-consul, who, at the moment of our entering, was in the act of directing a letter to me at Athens. The subject was my interesting carpet-bag. There being no American consul at Padras, I had taken the liberty of writing to Mr. Robertson, requesting him, if my estate should find its way into his hands, to forward it to me at Athens, and the letter was to assure me of his attention to my wishes. It may be considered treason against classical taste, but it consoled me somewhat for the loss of Parnassus to find a stranger taking so warm an interest in my fugitive habiliments. There was something, too, in the appearance of Padras, that addressed itself to other feelings than those connected with the indulgence of a classical humour. Our bones were still aching with the last night's rest, or, rather, the want of it, at Lepanto; and when we found ourselves in a neat little locanda, and a complaisant Greek asked us what we would have for dinner, and showed us our beds for the night, we almost agreed that climbing Parnassus and such things were fit only for boys just out of college. Padras is beautifully situated at the mouth of the Gulf of Corinth, and the windows of our locanda commanded a fine view of the bold mountains on the opposite side of the gulf, and the parallel range forming the valley which leads to Missilonghi. It stands on the site of the ancient Patræ, enumerated by Herodotus among the twelve cities of Achaia. During the intervals of peace in the Peloponnesian war, Alcibiades, about four hundred and fifty years before Christ, persuaded its inhabitants to build long walls down to the sea. Philip of Macedon frequently landed there in his expeditions to Peloponnesus. Augustus Cæsar, after the battle of Actium, made it a Roman colony, and sent thither a large body of his veteran soldiers; and, in the time of Cicero, Roman merchants were settled there just as French and Italians are now. The modern town has grown up since the revolution, or rather since the accession of Otho, and bears no marks of the desolation at Missilonghi and Lepanto. It contains a long street of shops well supplied with European goods; the English steamers from Corfu to Malta touch here; and, besides the little Greek caiques trading in the Gulf of Corinth, vessels from all parts of the Adriatic are constantly in the harbour. Among others, there was an Austrian man-of-war from Trieste, on her way to Alexandria. By a singular fortune, the commandant had been in one of the Austrian vessels that carried to New-York the unfortunate Poles; the only Austrian man-of-war which had ever been to the United States. A day or two after their arrival at New-York I had taken a boat at the Battery and gone on board this vessel, and had met the officers at some parties given to them at which he had been present; and though we had no actual acquaintance with each other, these circumstances were enough to form an immediate link between us, particularly as he was enthusiastic in his praises of the hospitality of our citizens and the beauty of our women. Lest, however, any of the latter should be vainglorious at hearing that their praises were sounded so far from home, I consider it my duty to say that the commandant was almost blind, very slovenly, always smoking a pipe, and generally a little tipsy. Early in the morning we started for Athens. Our turnout was rather better than at Missilonghi, but not much. The day, however, was fine; the cold wind which, for several days, had been blowing down the Gulf of Corinth, had ceased, and the air was warm, and balmy, and invigorating. We had already found that Greece had something to attract the stranger besides the recollections of her ancient glories, and often forgot that the ground we were travelling was consecrated by historians and poets, in admiration of its own wild and picturesque beauty. Our road for about three hours lay across a plain, and then close along the gulf, sometimes winding by the foot of a wild precipitous mountain, and then again over a plain, with the mountains rising at some distance on our right. Sometimes we rose and crossed their rugged summits, and again descended to the seashore. On our left we had constantly the gulf, bordered on the opposite side by a range of mountains sometimes receding and then rising almost out of the water, while high above the rest rose the towering summits of Parnassus covered with snow. It was after dark when we arrived at Vostitza, beautifully situated on the banks of the Gulf of Corinth. This is the representative of the ancient Ægium, one of the most celebrated cities in Greece, mentioned by Homer as having supplied vessels for the Trojan war, and in the second century containing sixteen sacred edifices, a theatre, a portico, and an agora. For many ages it was the seat of the Achaian Congress. Probably the worthy delegates who met here to deliberate upon the affairs of Greece had better accommodations than we obtained, or they would be likely, I should imagine, to hold but short sessions. We stopped at a vile locanda, the only one in the place, where we found a crowd of men in a small room, gathered around a dirty table, eating, one of whom sprang up and claimed me as an old acquaintance. He had on a Greek capote and a large foraging cap slouched over his eyes, so that I had some difficulty in recognising him as an Italian who, at Padras, had tried to persuade me to go by water up to the head of the gulf. He had started that morning, about the same time we did, with a crowd of passengers, half of whom were already by the ears. Fortunately, they were obliged to return to their boats, and left all the house to us; which, however, contained little besides a strapping Greek, who called himself its proprietor. Before daylight we were again in the saddle. During the whole day's ride the scenery was magnificent. Sometimes we were hemmed in as if for ever enclosed in an amphitheatre of wild and gigantic rocks; then from some lofty summit we looked out upon lesser mountains, broken, and torn, and thrown into every wild and picturesque form, as if by an earthquake; and after riding among deep dells and craggy steeps, yawning ravines and cloud-capped precipices, we descended to a quiet valley and the seashore. At about four o'clock we came down, for the last time, to the shore, and before us, at some distance, espied a single khan, standing almost on the edge of the water. It was a beautiful resting-place for a traveller; the afternoon was mild, and we walked on the shore till the sun set. The khan was sixty or seventy feet long, and contained an upper room running the whole length of the building. This room was our bedchamber. We built a fire at one end, made tea, and roasted some eggs, the smoke ascending and curling around the rafters, and finally passing out of the openings in the roof; we stretched ourselves in our cloaks and, with the murmur of the waves in our ears, looked through the apertures in the roof upon the stars, and fell asleep. About the middle of the night the door opened with a rude noise, and a tall Greek, almost filling the doorway, stood on the threshold. After pausing a moment he walked in, followed by half a dozen gigantic companions, their tall figures, full dresses, and the shining of their pistols and yataghans wearing a very ugly look to a man just roused from slumber. But they were merely Greek pedlers or travelling merchants, and, without any more noise, kindled the fire anew, drew their capotes around them, stretched themselves upon the floor, and were soon asleep. CHAPTER III. Quarrel with the Landlord.--Ægina.--Sicyon.--Corinth.--A distinguished Reception.--Desolation of Corinth.--The Acropolis.--View from the Acropolis.--Lechæum and Cenchreæ.--Kaka Scala.--Arrival at Athens. IN the morning Demetrius had a roaring quarrel with the keeper of the locanda, in which he tried to keep back part of the money we gave him to pay for us. He did this, however, on principle, for we had given twice as much as our lodging was worth, and no man ought to have more. His character was at stake in preventing any one from cheating us too much; and, in order to do this, he stopped our funds in transitu. We started early, and for some time our road lay along the shore. It was not necessary, surrounded by such magnificent scenery, to draw upon historical recollections for the sake of giving interest to the road; still it did not diminish that interest to know that, many centuries ago, great cities stood here, whose sites are now desolate or occupied as the miserable gathering-places of a starving population. Directly opposite Parnassus, and at the foot of a hill crowned with the ruins of an acropolis, in perfect desolation now, stood the ancient Ægira; once numbering a population of ten thousand inhabitants, and in the second century containing three hiera, a temple, and another sacred edifice. Farther on, and toward the head of the Gulf of Corinth, the miserable village of Basilico stands on the site of the ancient Sicyon, boasting as high an antiquity as any city in Greece, and long celebrated as the first of her schools of painting. In five hours we came in sight of the Acropolis of Corinth, and, shortly after, of Corinth itself. The reader need not fear my plunging him deeply into antiquities. Greece has been explored, and examined, and written upon, till the subject is almost threadbare; and I do not flatter myself that I discovered in it anything new. Still no man from such a distant country as mine can find himself crossing the plain of Corinth, and ascending to the ancient city, without a strange and indescribable feeling. We have no old monuments, no classical associations; and our history hardly goes beyond the memory of that venerable personage, "the oldest inhabitant." Corinth is so old that its early records are blended with the history of the heathen gods. The Corinthians say that it was called after the son of Jupiter, and its early sovereigns were heroes of the Grecian mythology. It was the friend of Sparta and the rival of Athens; the first city to build war-galleys and send forth colonies, which became great empires. It was the assembling-place of their delegates, who elected Philip, and afterward Alexander the Great, to conduct the war against the Persians. In painting, sculpture, and architecture surpassing all the achievements of Greece, or which the genius of man has ever since accomplished. Conquered by the then barbarous Romans, her walls were razed to the ground, her men put to the sword, her women and children sold into captivity, and the historian who records her fall writes that he saw the finest pictures thrown wantonly on the ground, and Roman soldiers playing on them at draughts and dice. For many years deserted, Corinth was again peopled; rose rapidly from its ruins; and, when St. Paul abode there "a year and six months"--to the Christian the most interesting period in her history--she was again a populous city, and the Corinthians a luxurious people. Its situation in the early ages of the world could not fail to make it a great commercial emporium. In the inexperienced navigation of early times it was considered difficult and dangerous to go around the point of the Peloponnesus, and there was a proverb, "Before the mariner doubles Cape Malea, he should forget all he holds dearest in the world." Standing on the isthmus commanding the Adriatic and Ægean Seas; receiving in one hand the riches of Asia and in the other those of Europe; distributing them to every quarter of the then known world, wealth followed commerce, and then came luxury and extravagance to such an extent that it became a proverb, "It is not for every man to go to Corinth." As travellers having regard to supper and lodging, we should have been glad to see some vestige of its ancient luxury; but times are changed; the ruined city stands where stood Corinth of old, but it has fallen once more; the sailor no longer hugs the well-known coasts, but launches fearlessly into the trackless ocean, and Corinth can never again be what she has been. Our servant had talked so much of the hotel at Corinth, that perhaps the idea of bed and lodging was rather too prominent in our reveries as we approached the fallen city. He rode on before to announce our coming, and, working our way up the hill through narrow streets, stared at by all the men, followed by a large representation from the juvenile portion of the modern Corinthians, and barked at by the dogs, we turned into a large enclosure, something like a barnyard, on which opened a ruined balcony forming the entrance to the hotel. Demetrius was standing before it with our host, as unpromising a looking scoundrel as ever took a traveller in. He had been a notorious captain of brigands, and when his lawless band was broken up and half of its number hanged, he could not overcome his disposition to prey upon travellers, but got a couple of mattresses and bedsteads, and set up a hotel at Corinth. Demetrius had made a bargain for us at a price that made him hang his head when he told it, and we were so indignant at the extortion that we at first refused to dismount. Our host stood aloof, being used to such scenes, and perfectly sure that, after storming a little, we should be glad to take the only beds between Padras and Athens. In the end, however, we got the better both of him and Demetrius; for, as he had fixed separate prices for dinner, beds, and breakfast, we went to a little Greek coffee-house, and raised half Corinth to get us something to eat, and paid him only for our lodging. We had a fine afternoon before us, and our first movement was to the ruins of a temple, the only monument of antiquity in Corinth. The city has been so often sacked and plundered, that not a column of the Corinthian order exists in the place from which it derives its name. Seven columns of the old temple are still standing, fluted and of the Doric order, though wanting in height the usual proportion to the diameter; built probably before that order had attained its perfection, and long before the Corinthian order was invented; though when it was built, by whom, or to what god it was consecrated, antiquaries cannot agree in deciding. Contrasted with these solitary columns of an unknown antiquity are ruins of yesterday. Houses fallen, burned, and black with smoke, as if the wretched inmates had fled before the blaze of their dwellings; and high above the ruined city, now as in the days when the Persian and Roman invaded it, still towers the Acropolis, a sharp and naked rock, rising abruptly a thousand feet from the earth, inaccessible and impregnable under the science of ancient war; and in all times of invasion and public distress, from her earliest history down to the bloody days of the late revolution, the refuge of the inhabitants. [Illustration: Corinth.] It was late in the afternoon when we set out for the Acropolis. About a mile from the city we came to the foot of the hill, and ascended by a steep and difficult path, with many turnings and windings, to the first gate. Having been in the saddle since early in the morning, we stopped several times to rest, and each time lingered and looked out with admiration upon the wild and beautiful scenery around us; and we thought of the frequently recurring times when hostile armies had drawn up before the city at our feet, and the inhabitants, in terror and confusion, had hurried up this path and taken refuge within the gate before us. Inside the gate were the ruins of a city, and here, too, we saw the tokens of ruthless war; the fire-brand was hardly yet extinguished, and the houses were in ruins. Within a few years it has been the stronghold and refuge of infidels and Christians, taken and retaken, destroyed, rebuilt, and destroyed again, and the ruins of Turkish mosques and Christian churches are mingled together in undistinguishable confusion. This enclosure is abundantly supplied with water, issuing from the rock, and is capable of containing several thousand people. The fountain of Pyrene, which supplies the Acropolis, called the most salubrious in Greece, is celebrated as that at which Pegasus was drinking when taken by Bellerophon. Ascending among ruined and deserted habitations, we came to a second gate flanked by towers. A wall about two miles in circumference encloses the whole summit of the rock, including two principal points which still rise above the rest. One is crowned with a tower and the other with a mosque, now in ruins; probably erected where once stood a heathen temple. Some have mistaken it for a Christian church, but all agree that it is a place built and consecrated to divine use, and that, for unknown ages men have gone up to this cloud-capped point to worship their Creator. It was a sublime idea to erect on this lofty pinnacle an altar to the Almighty. Above us were only the unclouded heavens; the sun was setting with that brilliancy which attends his departing glory nowhere but in the East; and the sky was glowing with a lurid red, as of some great conflagration. The scene around and below was wondrously beautiful. Mountains and rivers, seas and islands, rocks, forests, and plains, thrown together in perfect wantonness, and yet in the most perfect harmony, and every feature in the expanded landscape consecrated by the richest associations. On one side the Saronic Gulf, with its little islands, and Ægina and Salamis, stretching off to "Sunium's marble height," with the ruins of its temple looking out mournfully upon the sea; on the other, the Gulf of Corinth or Lepanto, bounded by the dark and dreary mountains of Cytheron, where Acteon, gazing at the goddess, was changed into a stag, and hunted to death by his own hounds; and where Bacchus, with his train of satyrs and frantic bacchantes, celebrated his orgies. Beyond were Helicon, sacred to Apollo and the Muses, and Parnassus, covered with snow. Behind us towered a range of mountains stretching away to Argos and the ancient Sparta, and in front was the dim outline of the temple of the Acropolis at Athens. The shades of evening gathered thick around us while we remained on the top of the Acropolis, and it was dark long before we reached our locanda. The next morning we breakfasted at the coffee-house, and left Corinth wonderfully pleased at having outwitted Demetrius and our brigand host, who gazed after us with a surly scowl as we rode away, and probably longed for the good old days when, at the head of his hanged companions, he could have stopped us at the first mountain-pass and levied contributions at his own rate. I probably condemn myself when I say that we left this ancient city with such a trifle uppermost in our thoughts, but so it was; we bought a loaf of bread as we passed through the market-place, and descended to the plain of Corinth. We had still the same horses which we rode from Padras; they were miserable animals, and I did not mount mine the whole day. Indeed, this is the true way to travel in Greece; the country is mountainous, and the road or narrow horse-path so rough and precipitous that the traveller is often obliged to dismount and walk. The exercise of clambering up the mountains and the purity of the air brace every nerve in the body, and not a single feature of the scenery escapes the eye. But, as yet, there are other things beside scenery; on each side of the road and within site of each other are the ruins of the ancient cities of Lechæum and Cenchreæ, the ports of Corinth on the Corinthian and Saronic Gulfs; the former once connected with it by two long walls, and the road to the latter once lined with temples and sepulchres, the ruins of which may still be seen. The isthmus connecting the Peloponnesus with the continent is about six miles wide, and Corinth owed her commercial greatness to the profits of her merchants in transporting merchandise across it. Entire vessels were sometimes carried from one sea and launched into the other. The project of a canal across suggested itself both to the Greeks and Romans, and there yet exist traces of a ditch commenced for that purpose. On the death of Leonidas, and in apprehension of a Persian invasion, the Peloponnesians built a wall across the isthmus from Lechæum to Cenchreæ. This wall was at one time fortified with a hundred and fifty towers; it was often destroyed and as often rebuilt; and in one place, about three miles from Corinth, vestiges of it may still be seen. Here were celebrated those Isthmian games so familiar to every tyro in Grecian literature and history; toward Mount Oneus stands on an eminence an ancient mound, supposed to be the tomb of Melicertes, their founder, and near it is at this day a grove of the sacred pine, with garlands of the leaves of which the victors were crowned. In about three hours from Corinth we crossed the isthmus, and came to the village of Kalamaki on the shore of the Saronic Gulf, containing a few miserable buildings, fit only for the miserable people who occupied them. Directly on the shore was a large coffee-house enclosed by mud walls, and having branches of trees for a roof; and in front was a little flotilla of Greek caiques. Next to the Greek's love for his native mountains is his passion for the waters that roll at their feet; and many of the proprietors of the rakish little boats in the harbour talked to us of the superior advantage of the sea over a mountainous road, and tried to make us abandon our horses and go by water to Athens; but we clung to the land, and have reason to congratulate ourselves upon having done so, for our road was one of the most beautiful it was ever my fortune to travel over. For some distance I walked along the shore, on the edge of a plain running from the foot of Mount Geranion. The plain was intersected by mountain torrents, the channel-beds of which were at that time dry. We passed the little village of Caridi, supposed to be the Sidus of antiquity, while a ruined church and a few old blocks of marble mark the site of ancient Crommyon, celebrated as the haunt of a wild boar destroyed by Theseus. At the other end of the plain we came to the foot of Mount Geranion, stretching out boldly to the edge of the gulf, and followed the road along its southern side close to and sometimes overhanging the sea. From time immemorial this has been called the Kaka Scala, or bad way. It is narrow, steep, and rugged, and wild to sublimity. Sometimes we were completely hemmed in by impending mountains, and then rose upon a lofty eminence commanding an almost boundless view. On the summit of the range the road runs directly along the mountain's brink, overhanging the sea, and so narrow that two horsemen can scarcely pass abreast; where a stumble would plunge the traveller several hundred yards into the waters beneath. Indeed, the horse of one of my companions stumbled and fell, and put him in such peril that both dismounted and accompanied me on foot. In the olden time this wild and rugged road was famous as the haunt of the robber Sciron, who plundered the luckless travellers, and then threw them from this precipice. The fabulous account is, that Theseus, three thousand years before, on his first visit to Athens, encountered the famous robber, and tossed him from the same precipice whence he had thrown so many better men. According to Ovid, the earth and the sea refused to receive the bones of Sciron, which continued for some time suspended in the open air, until they were changed into large rocks, whose points still appear at the foot of the precipice; and to this day, say the sailors, knock the bottoms out of the Greek vessels. In later days this road was so infested by corsairs and pirates, that even the Turks feared to travel on it; at one place, that looks as though it might be intended as a jumping-off point into another world, Ino, with her son Melicertes in her arms (so say the Greek poets), threw herself into the sea to escape the fury of her husband; and we know that in later days St. Paul travelled on this road to preach the gospel to the Corinthians. But, independently of all associations, and in spite of its difficulties and dangers, if a man were by accident placed on the lofty height without knowing where he was, he would be struck with the view which it commands, as one of the most beautiful that mortal eyes ever beheld. It was my fortune to pass over it a second time on foot, and I often seated myself on some wild point, and waited the coming up of my muleteers, looking out upon the sea, calm and glistening as if plated with silver, and studded with islands in continuous clusters stretching away into the Ægean. During the greater part of the passage of the Kaka Scala my companions walked with me; and, as we always kept in advance, when we seated ourselves on some rude rock overhanging the sea to wait for our beasts and attendants, few things could be more picturesque than their approach. On the summit of the pass we fell into the ancient paved way that leads from Attica into the Peloponnesus, and walked over the same pavement which the Greeks travelled, perhaps, three thousand years ago. A ruined wall and gate mark the ancient boundary; and near this an early traveller observed a large block of white marble projecting over the precipice, and almost ready to fall into the sea, which bore an inscription, now illegible. Here it is supposed stood the Stèle erected by Theseus, bearing on one side the inscription, "Here is Peloponnesus, not Ionia;" and on the other the equally pithy notification, "Here is not Peloponnesus, but Ionia." It would be a pretty place of residence for a man in misfortune; for, besides the extraordinary beauty of the scenery, by a single step he might avoid the service of civil process, and set the sheriff of Attica or the Peloponnesus at defiance. Descending, we saw before us a beautiful plain, extending from the foot of the mountain to the sea, and afar off, on an eminence commanding the plain, was the little town of Megara. It is unfortunate for the reader that every ruined village on the road stands on the site of an ancient city. The ruined town before us was the birthplace of Euclid, and the representative of that Megara which is distinguished in history more than two thousand years ago; which sent forth its armies in the Persian and Peloponnesian wars; alternately the ally and enemy of Corinth and Athens; containing numerous temples, and the largest public houses in Greece; and though exposed, with her other cities, to the violence of a fierce democracy, as is recorded by the historian, "the Megareans retained their independence and lived in peace." As a high compliment, the people offered to Alexander the Great the freedom of their city. When we approached it its appearance was a speaking comment upon human pride. It had been demolished and burned by Greeks and Turks, and now presented little more than a mass of blackened ruins. A few apartments had been cleared out and patched up, and occasionally I saw a solitary figure stalking amid the desolation. I had not mounted my horse all day; had kicked out a pair of Greek shoes on my walk, and was almost barefoot when I entered the city. A little below the town was a large building enclosed by a high wall, with a Bavarian soldier lounging at the gate. We entered, and found a good coffee-room below, and a comfortable bed chamber above, where we found good quilts and mattresses, and slept like princes. Early in the morning we set out for Athens, our road for some time lying along the sea. About half way to the Piræus, a ruined village, with a starving population, stands on the site of the ancient Eleusis, famed throughout all Greece for the celebration of the mysterious rites of Ceres. The magnificent temple of the goddess has disappeared, and the colossal statue made by the immortal Phidias now adorns the vestibule of the University at Cambridge. We lingered a little while in the village, and soon after entered the Via Sacra, by which, centuries ago, the priests and people moved in solemn religious processions from Athens to the great temple of Ceres. At first we passed underneath the cliff along the shore, then rose by a steep ascent among the mountains, barren and stony, and wearing an aspect of desolation equal to that of the Roman Campagna; then we passed through a long defile, upon the side of which, deeply cut in the rock, are seen the marks of chariot-wheels; perhaps of those used in the sacred processions. We passed the ruined monastery of Daphne, in a beautifully picturesque situation, and in a few minutes saw the rich plain of Attica; and our muleteers and Demetrius, with a burst of enthusiasm, perhaps because the journey was ended, clapped their hands and cried out, "Atinæ! Atinæ!" The reader, perhaps, trembles at the name of Athens, but let him take courage. I promise to let him off easily. A single remark, however, before reaching it. The plain of Attica lies between two parallel ranges of mountains, and extends from the sea many miles back into the interior. On the border of the sea stands the Piræus, now, as in former times, the harbour of the city, and toward the east, on a little eminence, Athens itself, like the other cities in Greece, presenting a miserable appearance, the effects of protracted and relentless wars. But high above the ruins of the modern city towers the Acropolis, holding up to the skies the ruined temples of other days, and proclaiming what Athens was. We wound around the temple of Theseus, the most beautiful and perfect specimen of architecture that time has spared; and in striking contrast with this monument of the magnificence of past days, here, in the entrance to the city, our horses were struggling and sinking up to their saddle-girths in the mud. We did in Athens what we should have done in Boston or Philadelphia; rode up to the best hotel, and, not being able to obtain accommodations there, rode to another; where, being again refused admittance, we were obliged to distribute ourselves into three parcels. Dr. Willet went to Mr. Hill's (of whom more anon). M. found entrance at a new hotel in the suburbs, and I betook myself to the Hotel de France. The garçon was rather bothered when I threw him a pair of old boots which I had hanging at my saddle-bow, and told him to take care of my baggage; he asked me when the rest would come up; and hardly knew what to make of me when I told him that was all I travelled with. I was still standing in the court of the hotel, almost barefoot, and thinking of the prosperous condition of the owner of a dozen shirts, and other things conforming, when Mr. Hill came over and introduced himself; and telling me that his house was the house of every American, asked me to waive ceremony and bring my luggage over at once. This was again hitting my sore point; everybody seemed to take a special interest in my luggage, and I was obliged to tell my story more than once. I declined Mr. Hill's kind invitation, but called upon him early the next day, dined with him, and, during the whole of my stay in Athens, was in the habit, to a great extent, of making his house my home; and this, I believe, is the case with all the Americans who go there; besides which, some borrow his money, and others his clothes. CHAPTER IV. American Missionary School.--Visit to the School.--Mr. Hill and the Male Department.--Mrs. Hill and the Female Department.--Maid of Athens.--Letter from Mr. Hill.--Revival of Athens.--Citizens of the World. THE first thing we did in Athens was to visit the American missionary school. Among the extraordinary changes of an ever-changing world, it is not the least that the young America is at this moment paying back the debt which the world owes to the mother of science, and the citizen of a country which the wisest of the Greeks never dreamed of, is teaching the descendants of Plato and Aristotle the elements of their own tongue. I did not expect among the ruins of Athens to find anything that would particularly touch my national feelings, but it was a subject of deep and interesting reflection that, in the city which surpassed all the world in learning, where Socrates, and Plato, and Aristotle taught, and Cicero went to study, the only door of instruction was that opened by the hands of American citizens, and an American missionary was the only schoolmaster; and I am ashamed to say that I was not aware of the existence of such an institution until advised of it by my friend Dr. W. In eighteen hundred and thirty the Rev. Messrs. Hill and Robinson, with their families, sailed from this city (New-York) as the agents of the Episcopal missionary society, to found schools in Greece. They first established themselves in the Island of Tenos; but, finding that it was not the right field for their labours, employed themselves in acquiring a knowledge of the language, and of the character and habits of the modern Greeks. Their attention was directed to Athens, and in the spring of eighteen hundred and thirty-one they made a visit to that city, and were so confirmed in their impressions, that they purchased a lot of ground on which to erect edifices for a permanent establishment, and, in the mean time, rented a house for the immediate commencement of a school. They returned to Tenos for their families and effects, and again arrived at Athens about the end of June following. From the deep interest taken in their struggle for liberty, and the timely help furnished them in their hour of need, the Greeks were warmly prepossessed in favour of our countrymen; and the conduct of the missionaries themselves was so judicious, that they were received with the greatest respect and the warmest welcome by the public authorities and the whole population of Athens. Their furniture, printing-presses, and other effects were admitted free of duties; and it is but justice to them to say that, since that time, they have moved with such discretion among an excitable and suspicious people, that, while they have advanced in the great objects of their mission, they have grown in the esteem and good-will of the best and most influential inhabitants of Greece; and so great was Mr. Hill's confidence in their affections, that, though there was at that time a great political agitation, and it was apprehended that Athens might again become the scene of violence and bloodshed, he told me he had no fears, and felt perfectly sure that, in any outbreaking of popular fury, himself and family, and the property of the mission, would be respected.[1] In the middle of the summer of their arrival at Athens, Mrs. Hill opened a school for girls in the magazine or cellar of the house in which they resided; the first day she had twenty pupils, and in two months one hundred and sixty-seven. Of the first ninety-six, not more than six could read at all, and that very imperfectly; and not more than ten or twelve knew a letter. At the time of our visit the school numbered nearly five hundred; and when we entered the large room, and the scholars all rose in a body to greet us as Americans, I felt a deep sense of regret that, personally, I had no hand in such a work, and almost envied the feelings of my companion, one of its patrons and founders. Besides teaching them gratitude to those from whose country they derived the privileges they enjoyed, Mr. Hill had wisely endeavoured to impress upon their minds a respect for the constituted authorities, particularly important in that agitated and unsettled community; and on one end of the wall, directly fronting the seats of the scholars, was printed, in large Greek characters, the text of Scripture, "Fear God, honour the king." It was all important for the missionaries not to offend the strong prejudices of the Greeks by any attempt to withdraw the children from the religion of their fathers; and the school purports to be, and is intended for, the diffusion of elementary education only; but it is opened in the morning with prayer, concluding with the Lord's Prayer as read in our churches, which is repeated by the whole school aloud; and on Sundays, besides the prayers, the creed, and sometimes the Ten Commandments, are recited, and a chapter from the Gospels is read aloud by one of the scholars, the missionaries deeming this more expedient than to conduct the exercises themselves. The lesson for the day is always the portion appointed for the gospel of the day in their own church; and they close by singing a hymn. The room is thrown open to the public, and is frequently resorted to by the parents of the children and strangers; some coming, perhaps, says Mr. Hill, to "hear what these babblers will say," and "other some" from a suspicion that "we are setters forth of strange gods." The boys' school is divided into three departments, the lowest under charge of a Greek qualified on the Lancasterian system. They were of all ages, from three to eighteen; and, as Mr. Hill told me, most of them had been half-clad, dirty, ragged little urchins, who, before they were put to their A, B, C, or, rather, their Alpha, Beta, Gamma, Delta, had to be thoroughly washed, rubbed, scrubbed, doctored, and dressed, and, but for the school, would now, perhaps, be prowling vagabonds in the streets of Athens, or training for robbery in the mountains. They were a body of fine-looking boys, possessing, as Mr. Hill told me, in an extraordinary degree, all that liveliness of imagination, that curiosity and eagerness after knowledge, which distinguished the Greeks of old, retaining, under centuries of dreadful oppression, the recollection of the greatness of their fathers, and, what was particularly interesting, many of them bearing the great names so familiar in Grecian history; I shook hands with a little Miltiades, Leonidas, Aristides, &c., in features and apparent intelligence worthy descendants of the immortal men whose names they bear. And there was one who startled me, he was the son of the Maid of Athens! To me the Maid of Athens was almost an imaginary being, something fanciful, a creation of the brain, and not a corporeal substance, to have a little urchin of a boy. But so it was. The Maid of Athens is married. She had a right to marry, no doubt; and it is said that there is poetry in married life, and, doubtless, she is a much more interesting person now than the Maid of Athens at thirty-six could be; but the Maid of Athens is married to a Scotchman! the Maid of Athens is now Mrs. Black! wife of George Black. Comment is unnecessary. But the principal and most interesting part of this missionary school was the female department, under the direction of Mrs. Hill, the first, and, except at Syra, the only school for females in all Greece, and particularly interesting to me from the fact that it owed its existence to the active benevolence of my own country-women. At the close of the Greek revolution, female education was a thing entirely unknown in Greece, and the women of all classes were in a most deplorable state of ignorance. When the strong feeling that ran through our country in favour of this struggling people had subsided, and Greece was freed from the yoke of the Mussulman, an association of ladies in the little town of Troy, perhaps instigated somewhat by an inherent love of power and extended rule, and knowing the influence of their sex in a cultivated state of society, formed the project of establishing at Athens a school exclusively for the education of females; and, humble and unpretending as was its commencement, it is becoming a more powerful instrument in the civilization and moral and religious improvement of Greece, than all that European diplomacy has ever done for her. The girls were distributed in different classes, according to their age and advancement; they had clean faces and hands, a rare thing with Greek children, and were neatly dressed, many of them wearing frocks made by ladies at home (probably at some of our sewing societies); and some of them had attained such an age, and had such fine, dark, rolling eyes as to make even a northern temperament feel the powerful influence they would soon exercise over the rising, excitable generation of Greeks and almost make him bless the hands that were directing that influence aright. Mr. and Mrs. Hill accompanied us through the whole establishment, and, being Americans, we were everywhere looked upon and received by the girls as patrons and fathers of the school, both which characters I waived in favour of my friend; the one because he was really entitled to it, and the other because some of the girls were so well grown that I did not care to be regarded as standing in that venerable relationship. The didaskalissas, or teachers, were of this description, and they spoke English. Occasionally Mr. Hill called a little girl up to us, and told us her history, generally a melancholy one, as, being reduced to the extremity of want by the revolution; or an orphan, whose parents had been murdered by the Turks; and I had a conversation with a little Penelope, who, however, did not look as if she would play the faithful wife of Ulysses, and, if I am a judge of physiognomy, would never endure widowhood twenty years for any man. Before we went away the whole school rose at once, and gave us a glorious finale with a Greek hymn. In a short time these girls will grow up into women and return to their several families; others will succeed them, and again go out, and every year hundreds will distribute themselves in the cities and among the fastnesses of the mountains, to exercise over their fathers, and brothers, and lovers, the influence of the education acquired here; instructed in all the arts of woman in civilized domestic life, firmly grounded in the principles of morality, and of religion purified from the follies, absurdities, and abominations of the Greek faith. I have seen much of the missionary labours in the East, but I do not know an institution which promises so surely the happiest results. If the women are educated, the men cannot remain ignorant; if the women are enlightened in religion, the men cannot remain debased and degraded Christians. The ex-secretary Rigos was greatly affected at the appearance of this female school; and, after surveying it attentively for some moments, pointed to the Parthenon on the summit of the Acropolis, and said to Mrs. Hill, with deep emotion, "Lady, you are erecting in Athens a monument more enduring and more noble than yonder temple;" and the king was so deeply impressed with its value, that, a short time before my arrival, he proposed to Mr. Hill to take into his house girls from different districts and educate them as teachers, with the view of sending them back to their districts, there to organize new schools, and carry out the great work of female education. Mr. Hill acceded to the proposal, and the American missionary school now stands as the nucleus of a large and growing system of education in Greece; and, very opportunely for my purpose, within a few days I have received a letter from Mr. Hill, in which, in relation to the school, he says, "Our missionary establishment is much increased since you saw it; our labours are greatly increased, and I think I may say we have now reached the summit of what we had proposed to ourselves. We do not think it possible that it can be extended farther without much larger means and more personal aid. We do not wish or intend to ask for either. We have now nearly forty persons residing with us, of whom thirty-five are Greeks, all of whom are brought within the influence of the gospel; the greater part of them are young girls from different parts of Greece, and even from Egypt and Turkey (Greeks, however), whom we are preparing to become instructresses of youth hereafter in their various districts. We have five hundred, besides, under daily instruction in the different schools under our care, and we employ under us in the schools twelve native teachers, who have themselves been instructed by us. We have provided for three of our dear pupils (all of whom were living with us when you were here), who are honourably and usefully settled in life. One is married to a person every way suited to her, and both husband and wife are in our missionary service. One has charge of the government female school at the Piræus, and supports her father and mother and a large family by her salary; and the third has gone with our missionaries to Crete, to take charge of the female schools there. We have removed into our new house" (of which the foundation was just laid at the time of my visit), "and, large as it is, it is not half large enough. We are trying to raise ways and means to enlarge it considerably, that we may take more boarders under our own roof, which we look up to as the most important means of making sure of our labour; for every one who comes to reside with us is taken away from the corrupt example exhibited at home, and brought within a wholesome influence. Lady Byron has just sent us one hundred pounds toward enlarging our house with this view, and we have commenced the erection of three additional dormitories with the money." Athens is again the capital of a kingdom. Enthusiasts see in her present condition the promise of a restoration to her ancient greatness; but reason and observation assure us that the world is too much changed for her ever to be what she has been. In one respect, her condition resembles that of her best days; for, as her fame then attracted strangers from every quarter of the world to study in her schools, so now the capital of King Otho has become a great gathering-place of wandering spirits from many near and distant regions. For ages difficult and dangerous of access, the ancient capital of the arts lay shrouded in darkness, and almost cut off from the civilized world. At long intervals, a few solitary travellers only found their way to it; but, since the revolution, it has again become a place of frequent resort and intercourse. It is true that the ancient halls of learning are still solitary and deserted, but strangers from every nation now turn hither; the scholar to roam over her classic soil, the artist to study her ancient monuments, and the adventurer to carve his way to fortune. The first day I dined at the hotel I had an opportunity of seeing the variety of material congregated in the reviving city. We had a long table, capable of accommodating about twenty persons. The manner of living was à la carte, each guest dining when he pleased; but, by tacit consent, at about six o'clock all assembled at the table. We presented a curious medley. No two were from the same country. Our discourse was in English, French, Italian, German, Greek, Russian, Polish, and I know not what else, as if we were the very people stricken with confusion of tongues at the Tower of Babel. Dinner over, all fell into French, and the conversation became general. Every man present was, in the fullest sense of the term, a citizen of the world. It had been the fortune of each, whether good or bad, to break the little circle in which so many are born, revolve, and die; and the habitual mingling with people of various nations had broken down all narrow prejudices, and given to every one freedom of mind and force of character. All had seen much, had much to communicate, and felt that they had much yet to learn. By some accident, moreover, all seemed to have become particularly interested in the East. They travelled over the whole range of Eastern politics, and, to a certain extent, considered themselves identified with Eastern interests. Most of the company were or had been soldiers, and several wore uniforms and stars, or decorations of some description. They spoke of the different campaigns in Greece in which some of them had served; of the science of war; of Marlborough, Eugene, and more modern captains; and I remember that they startled my feelings of classical reverence by talking of Leonidas at Thermopylæ and Miltiades at Marathon in the same tone as of Napoleon at Leipsic and Wellington at Waterloo. One of them constructed on the table, with the knives and forks and spoons, a map of Marathon, and with a sheathed yataghan pointed out the position of the Greeks and Persians, and showed where Miltiades, as a general, was wrong. They were not blinded by the dust of antiquity. They had been knocked about till all enthusiasm and all reverence for the past were shaken out of them, and they had learned to give things their right names. A French engineer showed us the skeleton of a map of Greece, which was then preparing under the direction of the French Geographical Society, exhibiting an excess of mountains and deficiency of plain which surprised even those who had travelled over every part of the kingdom. One had just come from Constantinople, where he had seen the sultan going to mosque; another had escaped from an attack of the plague in Egypt; a third gave the dimensions of the Temple of the Sun at Baalbeck; and a fourth had been at Babylon, and seen the ruins of the Tower of Babel. In short, every man had seen something which the others had not seen, and all their knowledge was thrown into a common stock. I found myself at once among a new class of men; and I turned from him who sneered at Miltiades to him who had seen the sultan, or to him who had been at Bagdad, and listened with interest, somewhat qualified by consciousness of my own inferiority. I was lying in wait, however, and took advantage of an opportunity to throw in something about America; and, at the sound, all turned to me with an eagerness of curiosity that I had not anticipated. In Europe, and even in England, I had often found extreme ignorance of my own country; but here I was astonished to find, among men so familiar with all parts of the Old World, such total lack of information about the New. A gentleman opposite me, wearing the uniform of the King of Bavaria, asked me if I had ever been in America. I told him that I was born, and, as they say in Kentucky, raised there. He begged my pardon, but doubtfully _suggested_, "You are not black?" and I was obliged to explain to him that in our section of America the Indian had almost entirely disappeared, and that his place was occupied by the descendants of the Gaul and the Briton. I was forthwith received into the fraternity, for my home was farther away than any of them had ever been; my friend opposite considered me a bijou, asked me innumerable questions, and seemed to be constantly watching for the breaking out of the cannibal spirit, as if expecting to see me bite my neighbour. At first I had felt myself rather a small affair but, before separating, _l'Americain_, or _le sauvage_, or finally, _le cannibal_ found himself something of a lion. FOOTNOTE: [1] Since my return home I have seen in a newspaper an account of a popular commotion at Syra, in which the printing-presses and books at the missionaries were destroyed, and Mr. Robinson was threatened with personal violence. CHAPTER V. Ruins of Athens.--Hill of Mars.--Temple of the Winds.--Lantern of Demosthenes.--Arch of Adrian.--Temple of Jupiter Olympus.--Temple of Theseus.--The Acropolis.--The Parthenon.--Pentelican Mountain.--Mount Hymettus.--The Piræus.--Greek Fleas.--Napoli. THE next morning I began my survey of the ruins of Athens. It was my intention to avoid any description of these localities and monuments, because so many have preceded me, stored with all necessary knowledge, ripe in taste and sound in judgment, who have devoted to them all the time and research they so richly merit; but as, in our community, through the hurry and multiplicity of business occupations, few are able to bestow upon these things much time or attention, and, farthermore, as the books which treat of them are not accessible to all, I should be doing injustice to my readers if I were to omit them altogether. Besides, I should be doing violence to my own feelings, and cannot get fairly started in Athens, without recurring to scenes which I regarded at the time with extraordinary interest. I have since visited most of the principal cities in Europe, existing as well as ruined and I hardly know any to which I recur with more satisfaction than Athens. If the reader tire in the brief reference I shall make, he must not impute it to any want of interest in the subject; and as I am not in the habit of going into heroics, he will believe me when I say that, if he have any reverence for the men or things consecrated by the respect and admiration of ages, he will find it called out at Athens. In the hope that I may be the means of inducing some of my countrymen to visit that famous city, I will add another inducement by saying that he may have, as I had, Mr. Hill for a cicerone. This gentleman is familiar with every locality and monument around or in the city, and, which I afterward found to be an unusual thing with those living in places consecrated in the minds of strangers, he retains for them all that freshness of feeling which we possess who only know them from books and pictures. By an arrangement made the evening before, early in the morning of my second day in Athens Mr. Hill was at the door of my hotel to attend us. As we descended the steps a Greek stopped him, and, bowing with his hand on his heart, addressed him in a tone of earnestness which we could not understand; but we were struck with the sonorous tones of his voice and the musical cadence of his sentences; and when he had finished, Mr. Hill told us that he had spoken in a strain which, in the original, was poetry itself, beginning, "Americanos, I am a Stagyrite. I come from the land of Aristotle, the disciple of Plato," &c., &c.; telling him the whole story of his journey from the ancient Stagyra and his arrival in Athens; and that, having understood that Mr. Hill was distributing books among his countrymen, he begged for one to take home with him. Mr. Hill said that this was an instance of every-day occurrence, showing the spirit of inquiry and thirst for knowledge among the modern Greeks. This little scene with a countryman of Aristotle was a fit prelude to our morning ramble. The house occupied by the American missionary as a school stands on the site of the ancient Agora or market-place, where St. Paul "disputed daily with the Athenians." A few columns still remain; and near them is an inscription mentioning the price of oil. The schoolhouse is built partly from the ruins of the Agora; and to us it was an interesting circumstance, that a missionary from a newly-discovered world was teaching to the modern Greeks the same saving religion which, eighteen hundred years ago, St. Paul, on the same spot, preached to their ancestors. Winding around the foot of the Acropolis, within the ancient and outside the modern wall, we came to the Areopagus or Hill of Mars, where, in the early days of Athens, her judges sat in the open air; and, for many ages, decided with such wisdom and impartiality, that to this day the decisions of the court of Areopagites are regarded as models of judicial purity. We ascended this celebrated hill, and stood on the precise spot where St. Paul, pointing to the temples which rose from every section of the city and towered proudly on the Acropolis, made his celebrated address: "Ye men of Athens, I see that in all things ye are too superstitious." The ruins of the very temples to which he pointed were before our eyes. Descending, and rising toward the summit of another hill, we came to the Pnyx, where Demosthenes, in the most stirring words that ever fell from human lips, roused his countrymen against the Macedonian invader. Above, on the very summit of the hill, is the old Pnyx, commanding a view of the sea of Salamis, and of the hill where Xerxes sat to behold the great naval battle. During the reign of the thirty tyrants the Pnyx was removed beneath the brow of the hill, excluding the view of the sea, that the orator might not inflame the passions of the people by directing their eyes to Salamis, the scene of their naval glory. But, without this, the orator had material enough; for, when he stood on the platform facing the audience, he had before him the city which the Athenians loved and the temples in which they worshipped, and I could well imagine the irresistible force of an appeal to these objects of their enthusiastic devotion, their firesides and altars. The place is admirably adapted for public speaking. The side of the hill has been worked into a gently inclined plane, semicircular in form, and supported in some places by a wall of immense stones. This plain is bounded above by the brow of the hill, cut down perpendicularly. In the centre the rock projects into a platform about eight or ten feet square, which forms the Pnyx or pulpit for the orator. The ascent is by three steps cut out of the rock, and in front is a place for the scribe or clerk. We stood on this Pnyx, beyond doubt on the same spot where Demosthenes thundered his philippics in the ears of the Athenians. On the road leading to the Museum hill we entered a chamber excavated in the rock, which tradition hallows as the prison of Socrates; and though the authority for this is doubtful, it is not uninteresting to enter the damp and gloomy cavern wherein, according to the belief of the modern Athenians, the wisest of the Greeks drew his last breath. Farther to the south is the hill of Philopappus, so called after a Roman governor of that name. On the very summit, near the extreme angle of the old wall, and one of the most conspicuous objects around Athens, is a monument erected by the Roman governor in honour of the Emperor Trajan. The marble is covered with the names of travellers, most of whom, like Philopappus himself, would never have been heard of but for that monument. Descending toward the Acropolis, and entering the city among streets encumbered with ruined houses, we came to the Temple of the Winds, a marble octagonal tower, built by Andronicus. On each side is a sculptured figure, clothed in drapery adapted to the wind he represents; and on the top was formerly a Triton with a rod in his hand, pointing to the figure marking the wind. The Triton is gone, and great part of the temple buried under ruins. Part of the interior, however, has been excavated, and probably, before long, the whole will be restored. East of the foot of the Acropolis, and on the way to Adrian's Gate, we came to the Lantern of Demosthenes (I eschew its new name of the Choragic Monument of Lysichus), where, according to an absurd tradition, the orator shut himself up to study the rhetorical art. It is considered one of the most beautiful monuments of antiquity, and the capitals are most elegant specimens of the Corinthian order refined by Attic taste. It is now in a mutilated condition, and its many repairs make its dilapidation more perceptible. Whether Demosthenes ever lived here or not, it derives an interest from the fact that Lord Byron made it his residence during his visit to Athens. Farther on, and forming part of the modern wall, is the Arch of Adrian, bearing on one side an inscription in Greek, "This is the city of Theseus;" and on the other, "But this is the city of Adrian." On the arrival of Otho a placard was erected, on which was inscribed, "These were the cities of Theseus and Adrian, but now of Otho." Many of the most ancient buildings in Athens have totally disappeared. The Turks destroyed many of them to construct the wall around the city, and even the modern Greeks have not scrupled to build their miserable houses with the plunder of the temples in which their ancestors worshipped. Passing under the Arch of Adrian, outside the gate, on the plain toward the Ilissus, we came to the ruined Temple of Jupiter Olympus, perhaps once the most magnificent in the world. It was built of the purest white marble, having a front of nearly two hundred feet, and more than three hundred and fifty in length, and contained one hundred and twenty columns, sixteen of which are all that now remain; and these, fluted and having rich Corinthian capitals, tower more than sixty feet above the plain, perfect as when they were reared. I visited these ruins often, particularly in the afternoon; they are at all times mournfully beautiful, but I have seldom known anything more touching than, when the sun was setting, to walk over the marble floor, and look up at the lonely columns of this ruined temple. I cannot imagine anything more imposing than it must have been when, with its lofty roof supported by all its columns, it stood at the gate of the city, its doors wide open, inviting the Greeks to worship. That such an edifice should be erected for the worship of a heathen god! On the architrave connecting three of the columns a hermit built his lonely cell, and passed his life in that elevated solitude, accessible only to the crane and the eagle. The hermit is long since dead, but his little habitation still resists the whistling of the wind, and awakens the curiosity of the wondering traveller. The Temple of Theseus is the last of the principal monuments, but the first which the traveller sees on entering Athens. It was built after the battle of Marathon, and in commemoration of the victory which drove the Persians from the shores of Greece. It is a small but beautiful specimen of the pure Doric, built of Pentelican marble, centuries of exposure to the open air giving it a yellowish tint, which softens the brilliancy of the white. Three Englishmen have been buried within this temple. The first time I visited it a company of Greek recruits, with some negroes among them, was drawn up in front, going through the manual under the direction of a German corporal; and, at the same time, workmen were engaged in fitting it up for the coronation of King Otho! [Illustration: Temple of Jupiter Olympus and Acropolis at Athena.] These are the principal monuments around the city, and, except the temples at Pæstum, they are more worthy of admiration than all the ruins in Italy; but towering above them in position, and far exceeding them in interest, are the ruins of the Acropolis. I have since wandered among the ruined monuments of Egypt and the desolate city of Petra, but I look back with unabated reverence to the Athenian Acropolis. Every day I had gazed at it from the balcony of my hotel, and from every part of the city and suburbs. Early on my arrival I had obtained the necessary permit, paid a hurried visit, and resolved not to go again until I had examined all the other interesting objects. On the fourth day, with my friend M., I went again. We ascended by a broad road paved with stone. The summit is enclosed by a wall, of which some of the foundation stones, very large, and bearing an appearance of great antiquity, are pointed out as part of the wall built by Themistocles after the battle of Salamis, four hundred and eighty years before Christ. The rest is Venetian and Turkish, falling to decay, and marring the picturesque effect of the ruins from below. The guard examined our permit, and we passed under the gate. A magnificent propylon of the finest white marble, the blocks of the largest size ever laid by human hands, and having a wing of the same material on each side, stands at the entrance. Though broken and ruined, the world contains nothing like it even now. If my first impressions do not deceive me, the proudest portals of Egyptian temples suffer in comparison. Passing this magnificent propylon, and ascending several steps, we reached the Parthenon or ruined Temple of Minerva; an immense white marble skeleton, the noblest monument of architectural genius which the world ever saw. Standing on the steps of this temple, we had around us all that is interesting in association and all that is beautiful in art. We might well forget the capital of King Otho, and go back in imagination to the golden age of Athens. Pericles, with the illustrious throng of Grecian heroes, orators, and sages, had ascended there to worship, and Cicero and the noblest of the Romans had gone there to admire; and probably, if the fashion of modern tourists had existed in their days, we should see their names inscribed with their own hands on its walls. The great temple stands on the very summit of the Acropolis, elevated far above the Propylæa and the surrounding edifices. Its length is two hundred and eight feet, and breadth one hundred and two. At each end were two rows of eight Doric columns, thirty-four feet high and six feet in diameter, and on each side were thirteen more. The whole temple within and without was adorned with the most splendid works of art, by the first sculptors in Greece, and Phidias himself wrought the statue of the goddess, of ivory and gold, twenty-six cubits high, having on the top of her helmet a sphinx, with griffins on each of the sides; on the breast a head of Medusa wrought in ivory, and a figure of Victory about four cubits high, holding a spear in her hand and a shield lying at her feet. Until the latter part of the seventeenth century, this magnificent temple, with all its ornaments, existed entire. During the siege of Athens by the Venetians, the central part was used by the Turks as a magazine; and a bomb, aimed with fatal precision or by a not less fatal chance, reached the magazine, and, with a tremendous explosion, destroyed a great part of the buildings. Subsequently the Turks used it as a quarry, and antiquaries and travellers, foremost among whom is Lord Elgin, have contributed to destroy "what Goth, and Turk, and Time had spared." Around the Parthenon, and covering the whole summit of the Acropolis, are strewed columns and blocks of polished white marble, the ruins of ancient temples. The remains of the Temples of Erectheus and Minerva Polias are pre-eminent in beauty; the pillars of the latter are the most perfect specimens of the Ionic in existence, and its light and graceful proportions are in elegant contrast with the severe and simple majesty of the Parthenon. The capitals of the columns are wrought and ornamented with a delicacy surpassing anything of which I could have believed marble susceptible. Once I was tempted to knock off a corner and bring it home, as a specimen of the exquisite skill of the Grecian artist, which it would have illustrated better than a volume of description; but I could not do it; it seemed nothing less than sacrilege. Afar off, and almost lost in the distance, rises the Pentelican Mountain, from the body of which were hewed the rough rude blocks which, wrought and perfected by the sculptor's art, now stand the lofty and stately columns of the ruined temple. What labour was expended upon each single column! how many were employed in hewing it from its rocky bed, in bearing it to the foot of the mountain, transporting it across the plain of Attica, and raising it to the summit of the Acropolis! and then what time, and skill, and labour, in reducing it from a rough block to a polished shaft, in adjusting its proportions, in carving its rich capitals, and rearing it where it now stands, a model of majestic grace and beauty! Once, under the direction of Mr. Hill, I clambered up to the very apex of the pediment, and, lying down at full length, leaned over and saw under the frieze the acanthus leaf delicately and beautifully painted on the marble, and, being protected from exposure, still retaining its freshness of colouring. It was entirely out of sight from below, and had been discovered, almost at the peril of his life, by the enthusiasm of an English artist. The wind was whistling around me as I leaned over to examine it, and, until that moment, I never appreciated fully the immense labour employed and the exquisite finish displayed in every portion of the temple. The sentimental traveller must already mourn that Athens has been selected as the capital of Greece. Already have speculators and the whole tribe of "improvers" invaded the glorious city; and while I was lingering on the steps of the Parthenon, a German, who was quietly smoking among the ruins, a sort of superintendent whom I had met before, came up, and offering me a segar, and leaning against one of the lofty columns of the temple, opened upon me with "his plans of city improvements;" with new streets, and projected railroads, and the rise of lots. At first I almost thought it personal, and that he was making a fling at me in allusion to one of the greatest hobbies of my native city; but I soon found that he was as deeply bitten as if he had been in Chicago or Dunkirk; and the way in which he talked of moneyed facilities, the wants of the community, and a great French bank then contemplated at the Piræus, would have been no discredit to some of my friends at home. The removal of the court has created a new era in Athens; but, in my mind, it is deeply to be regretted that it has been snatched from the ruin to which it was tending. Even I, deeply imbued with the utilitarian spirit of my country, and myself a quondam speculator in "up-town lots," would fain save Athens from the ruthless hand of renovation; from the building mania of modern speculators. I would have her go on till there was not a habitation among her ruins; till she stood, like Pompeii, alone in the wilderness, a sacred desert, where the traveller might sit down and meditate alone and undisturbed among the relics of the past. But already Athens has become a heterogeneous anomaly; the Greeks in their wild costume are jostled in the streets by Englishmen, Frenchmen, Italians, Dutchmen, Spaniards, and Bavarians, Russians, Danes, and sometimes Americans. European shops invite purchasers by the side of Eastern bazars, coffee-houses, and billiard-rooms, and French and German restaurants are opened all over the city. Sir Pultney Malcolm has erected a house to hire near the site of Plato's Academy. Lady Franklin has bought land near the foot of Mount Hymettus for a country-seat. Several English gentlemen have done the same. Mr. Richmond, an American clergyman, has purchased a farm in the neighbourhood; and in a few years, if the "march of improvement" continues, the Temple of Theseus will be enclosed in the garden of the palace of King Otho; the Temple of the Winds will be concealed by a German opera-house, and the Lantern of Demosthenes by a row of "three-story houses." I was not a sentimental traveller, but I visited all the localities around Athens, and, therefore, briefly mention that several times I jumped over the poetic and perennial Ilissus, trotted my horse over the ground where Aristotle walked with his peripatetics, and got muddied up to my knees in the garden of Plato. One morning my Scotch friend and I set out early to ascend Mount Hymettus. The mountain is neither high nor picturesque, but a long flat ridge of bare rock, the sides cut up into ravines, fissures, and gullies. There is an easy path to the summit, but we had no guide, and about midday, after a wild scramble, were worn out, and descended without reaching the top, which is exceedingly fortunate for the reader, as otherwise he would be obliged to go through a description of the view therefrom. Returning, we met the king taking his daily walk, attended by two aids, one of whom was young Marco Bozzaris. Otho is tall and thin, and, when I saw him, was dressed in a German military frockcoat and cap, and altogether, for a king, seemed to be an amiable young man enough. All the world speaks well of him, and so do I. We touched our hats to him, and he returned the civility; and what could he do more without inviting us to dinner? In old times there was a divinity about a king; but now, if a king is a gentleman, it is as much as we can expect. He has spent his money like a gentleman, that is, he cannot tell what has become of it. Two of the three-millions loan are gone, and there is no colonization, no agricultural prosperity, no opening of roads, no security in the mountains; not a town in Greece but is in ruins, and no money to improve them. Athens, however, is to be embellished. With ten thousand pounds in the treasury, he is building a palace of white Pentelican marble, to cost three hundred thousand pounds. Otho was very popular, because, not being of age, all the errors of his administration were visited upon Count Armansbergh and the regency, who, from all accounts, richly deserved it; and it was hoped that, on receiving the crown, he would shake off the Bavarians who were preying upon the vitals of Greece, and gather around him his native-born subjects. In private life he bore a most exemplary character. He had no circle of young companions, and passed much of his time in study, being engaged, among other things, in acquiring the Greek and English languages. His position is interesting, though not enviable; and if, as the first king of emancipated Greece, he entertains recollections of her ancient greatness, and the ambition of restoring her to her position among the nations of the earth, he is doomed to disappointment. Otho is since crowned and married. The pride of the Greeks was considerably humbled by a report that their king's proposals to several daughters of German princes had been rejected; but the king had great reason to congratulate himself upon the spirit which induced the daughter of the Duke of Oldenburgh to accept his hand. From her childhood she had taken an enthusiastic interest in Greek history, and it had been her constant wish to visit Greece; and when she heard that Otho had been called to the throne, she naively expressed an ardent wish to share it with him. Several years afterward, by the merest accident, she met Otho at a German watering-place, travelling with his mother, the Queen of Bavaria, as the Count de Missilonghi; and in February last she accompanied him to Athens, to share the throne which had been the object of her youthful wish. M. dined at my hotel, and, returning to his own, he was picked up and carried to the guardhouse. He started for his hotel without a lantern, the requisition to carry one being imperative in all the Greek and Turkish cities; the guard could not understand a word he said until he showed them some money, which made his English perfectly intelligible; and they then carried him to a Bavarian corporal, who, after two hours' detention, escorted him to his hotel. After that we were rather careful about staying out late at night. "Thursday. I don't know the day of the month." I find this in my notes, the caption of a day of business, and at this distance of time will not undertake to correct the entry. Indeed, I am inclined to think that my notes in those days are rather uncertain and imperfect; certainly not taken with the precision of one who expected to publish them. Nevertheless, the residence of the court, the diplomatic corps, and strangers form an agreeable society at Athens. I had letters to some of the foreign ministers, but did not present them, as I was hardly presentable myself without my carpet-bag. On "Thursday," however, in company with Dr. W., I called upon Mr. Dawkins, the British minister. Mr. Dawkins went to Greece on a special mission, which he supposed would detain him six months from home, and had remained there ten years. He is a high tory, but retained under a whig administration, because his services could not well be dispensed with. He gave us much interesting information in regard to the present condition and future prospects of Greece; and, in answer to my suggestion that the United States were not represented at all in Greece, not even by a consul, he said, with emphasis, "You are better represented than any power in Europe. Mr. Hill has more influence here than any minister plenipotentiary among us." A few days after, when confined to my room by indisposition, Mr. Dawkins returned my visit, and again spoke in the same terms of high commendation of Mr. Hill. It was pleasing to me, and I have no doubt it will be so to Mr. Hill's numerous friends in this country, to know that a private American citizen, in a position that keeps him aloof from politics, was spoken of in such terms by the representative of one of the great powers of Europe. I had heard it intimated that there was a prospect of Mr. Dawkins being transferred to this country, and parted with him in the hope at some future day of seeing him the representative of his government here. I might have been presented to the king, but my carpet-bag--Dr. W. borrowed a hat, and was presented; the doctor had an old white hat, which he had worn all the way from New-York. The tide is rolling backward; Athens is borrowing her customs from the barbarous nations of the north; and it is part of the etiquette to enter a drawing-room with a hat (a black one) under the arm. The doctor, in his republican simplicity, thought that a hat, good enough to put on his own head, was good enough to go into the king's presence; but he was advised to the contrary, and took one of Mr. Hill's, not very much too large for him. He was presented by Dr. ----, a German, the king's physician, with whom he had discoursed much of the different medical systems in Germany and America. Dr. W. was much pleased with the king. Did ever a man talk with a king who was not pleased with him? But the doctor was particularly pleased with King Otho, as the latter entered largely into discourse on the doctor's favourite theme, Mr. Hill's school, and the cause of education in Greece. Indeed, it speaks volumes in favour of the young king, that education is one of the things in which he takes the deepest interest. The day the doctor was to be presented we dined at Mr. Hill's, having made arrangements for leaving Athens that night; the doctor and M. to return to Europe. In the afternoon, while the doctor remained to be presented, M. and I walked down to the Piræus, now, as in the days of her glory, the harbour of Athens. The ancient harbour is about five miles from Athens, and was formerly joined to it by _long walls_ built of stone of enormous size, sixty feet high, and broad enough on the top for two wagons to pass abreast. These have long since disappeared, and the road is now over a plain shaded a great part of the way by groves of olives. As usual at this time of day, we met many parties on horseback, sometimes with ladies; and I remember particularly the beautiful and accomplished daughters of Count Armansbergh, both of whom are since married and dead.[2] It is a beautiful ride, in the afternoon particularly, as then the dark outline of the mountains beyond, and the reflections of light and shade, give a peculiarly interesting effect to the ruins of the Acropolis. Toward the other end we paced between the ruins of the old walls, and entered upon a scene which reminded me of home. Eight months before there was only one house at the Piræus; but, as soon as the court removed to Athens, the old harbour revived; and already we saw long ranges of stores and warehouses, and all the hurry and bustle of one of our rising western towns. A railroad was in contemplation, and many other improvements, which have since failed; but an _omnibus!_ that most modern and commonplace of inventions, is now running regularly between the Piræus and Athens. A friend who visited Greece six months after me brought home with him an advertisement printed in Greek, English, French, and German, the English being in the words and figures following, to wit: "ADVERTISEMENT. "The public are hereby informed, that on the nineteenth instant an omnibus will commence running between Athena and the Piræus, and will continue to do so every day at the undermentioned hours until farther notice. _Hours of Departure._ From Athens. From Piræus. Half past seven o'clock A.M. Half past eight o'clock A.M. Ten o'clock A.M. Eleven o'clock A.M. Two o'clock P.M. Three o'clock P.M. Half past four P.M. Half past five P.M. "The price of a seat in the omnibus is one drachme. "Baggage, if not too bulky and heavy, can be taken on the roof. "Smoking cannot be allowed in the omnibus, nor can dogs be admitted. "Small parcels and packages may be sent by this conveyance at a moderate charge, and given to the care of the conducteur. "The omnibus starts from the corner of the Hermes and Æolus streets at Athens and from the bazar at the Piræus, and will wait five minutes at each place, during which period the conducteur will sound his horn. "Athens, 17th, 29th September, 1836." Old things are passing away, and all things are becoming new. For a little while yet we may cling to the illusions connected with the past, but the mystery is fast dissolving, the darkness is breaking away, and Greece, and Rome, and even Egypt herself, henceforward claim our attention with objects and events of the present hour. Already they have lost much of the deep and absorbing interest with which men turned to them a generation ago. All the hallowed associations of these ancient regions are fading away. We may regret it, we may mourn over it, but we cannot help it. The world is marching onward; I have met parties of my own townsmen while walking in the silent galleries of the Coliseum; I have seen Americans drinking Champagne in an excavated dwelling of the ancient Pompeii, and I have dined with Englishmen among the ruins of Thebes, but, blessed be my fortune, I never rode in an omnibus from the Piræus to Athens. We put our baggage on board the caique, and lounged among the little shops till dark, when we betook ourselves to a dirty little coffee-house filled with Greeks dozing and smoking pipes. We met there a boat's crew of a French man-of-war, waiting for some of the officers, who were dining with the French ambassador at Athens. One of them had been born to a better condition than that of a common sailor. One juvenile indiscretion after another had brought him down, and, without a single vice, he was fairly on the road to ruin. Once he brushed a tear from his eyes as he told us of prospects blighted by his own follies; but, rousing himself, hurried away, and his reckless laugh soon rose above the noise and clamour of his wild companions. About ten o'clock the doctor came in, drenched with rain and up to his knees in mud. We wanted to embark immediately, but the appearance of the weather was so unfavourable that the captain preferred waiting till after midnight. The Greeks went away from the coffee-house, the proprietor fell asleep in his seat, and we extended ourselves on the tables and chairs; and now the fleas, which had been distributed about among all the loungers, made a combined onset upon us. Life has its cares and troubles, but few know that of being given up to the tender mercies of Greek fleas. We bore the infliction till human nature could endure no longer; and, at about three in the morning, in the midst of violent wind and rain, broke out of the coffee-house and went in search of our boat. It was very dark, but we found her and got on board. She was a caique, having an open deck with a small covering over the stern. Under this we crept, and with our cloaks and a sailcloth spread over us, our heated blood cooled, and we fell asleep. When we woke we were on the way to Epidaurus. The weather was raw and cold. We passed within a stone's throw of Salamis and Ægina, and at about three o'clock, turning a point which completely hid it from view, entered a beautiful little bay, on which stands the town of Epidaurus. The old city, the birthplace of Esculapius, stands upon a hill projecting into the bay, and almost forming an island. In the middle of the village is a wooden building containing a large chamber, where the Greek delegates, a band of mountain warriors, with arms in their hands, "in the name of the Greek nation, proclaimed before gods and men its independence." At the locanda there was by chance one bed, which not being large enough for three, I slept on the floor. At seven o'clock, after a quarrel with our host and paying him about half his demand, we set out for Napoli di Romania. For about an hour we moved in the valley running off from the beautiful shore of Epidaurus; soon the valley deepened into a glen, and in an hour we turned off on a path that led into the mountains, and, riding through wild and rugged ravines, fell into the dry bed of a torrent; following which, we came to the Hieron Elios, or Sacred Grove of Esculapius. This was the great watering-place for the invalids of ancient Greece, the prototype of the Cheltenham and Saratoga of modern days. It is situated in a valley surrounded by high mountains, and was formerly enclosed by walls, within which, that the credit of the God might not be impeached, _no man was allowed to die, and no woman to be delivered_. Within this enclosure were temples, porticoes and fountains, now lying in ruins hardly distinguishable. The theatre is the most beautiful and best preserved. It is scooped out of the side of the mountain, rather more than semicircular in form, and containing fifty-four seats. These seats are of pink marble, about fifteen inches high and nearly three feet wide. In the middle of each seat is a groove, in which, probably, woodwork was constructed, to prevent the feet of those above from incommoding them who sat below, and also to support the backs of an invalid audience. The theatre faces the north, and is so arranged that, with the mountain towering behind it, the audience was shaded nearly all the day. It speaks volumes in favour of the intellectual character of the Greeks, that it was their favourite recreation to listen to the recitation of their poets and players. And their superiority in refinement over the Romans is in no way manifested more clearly than by the fact, that in the ruined cities of the former are found the remains of theatres, and in the latter of amphitheatres, showing the barbarous taste of the Romans for combats of gladiators and wild beasts. It was in beautiful keeping with this intellectual taste of the Greeks, that their places of assembling were in the open air, amid scenery calculated to elevate the mind; and, as I sat on the marble steps of the theatre, I could well imagine the high satisfaction with which the Greek, under the shade of the impending mountain, himself all enthusiasm and passion, rapt in the interest of some deep tragedy, would hang upon the strains of Euripides or Sophocles. What deep-drawn exclamations, what shouts of applause had rung through that solitude, what bursts of joy and grief had echoed from those silent benches! And then, too, what flirting and coqueting, the state of society at the springs in the Grove of Esculapius being probably much the same as at Saratoga in our own days. The whole grove is now a scene of desolation. The lentisculus is growing between the crevices of the broken marble; birds sing undisturbed among the bushes; the timid hare steals among the ruined fragments; and sometimes the snake is seen gliding over the marble steps. We had expected to increase the interest of our visit by taking our noonday refection on the steps of the theatre, but it was too cold for a picnic _al fresco_; and, mounting our horses, about two o'clock we came in sight of Argos, on the opposite side of the great plain; and in half an hour more, turning the mountain, saw Napoli di Romania beautifully situated on a gentle elevation on the shore of the gulf. The scenery in every direction around Napoli is exceedingly beautiful; and, when we approached it, bore no marks of the sanguinary scenes of the late revolution. The plain was better cultivated than any part of the adjacent country; and the city contained long ranges of houses and streets, with German names, such as Heidecker, Maurer-street, &c., and was seemingly better regulated than any other city in Greece. We drove up to the Hotel des Quatre Nations, the best we had found in Greece, dined at a restaurant with a crowd of Bavarian officers and adventurers, and passed the evening in the streets and coffee-houses. The appearance of Otho-street, which is the principal, is very respectable; it runs from what was the palace to the grand square or esplanade, on one side of which are the barracks of the Bavarian soldiers, with a park of artillery posted so as to sweep the square and principal streets; a speaking comment upon the liberty of the Greeks, and the confidence reposed in them by the government. Everything in Napoli recalls the memory of the brief and unfortunate career of Capo d'Istria. Its recovery from the horrors of barbarian war, and the thriving appearance of the country around, are ascribed to the impulse given by his administration. A Greek by birth, while his country lay groaning under the Ottoman yoke he entered the Russian service, distinguished himself in all the diplomatic correspondence during the French invasion, was invested with various high offices and honours, and subscribed the treaty of Paris in 1815 as imperial Russian plenipotentiary. He withdrew from her service because Russia disapproved the efforts of his countrymen to free themselves from the Turkish yoke; and, after passing five years in Germany and Switzerland, chiefly at Geneva, in 1827 he was called to the presidency of Greece. On his arrival at Napoli amid the miseries of war and anarchy, he was received by the whole people as the only man capable of saving their country. Civil war ceased on the very day of his arrival, and the traitor Grievas placed in his hands the key of the Palimethe. I shall not enter into any speculations upon the character of his administration. The rank he had attained in a foreign service is conclusive evidence of his talents, and his withdrawal from that service for the reason stated is as conclusive of his patriotism; but from the moment he took into his hands the reins of government, he was assailed by every so-called liberal press in Europe with the party cry of Russian influence. The Greeks were induced to believe that he intended to sell them to a stranger; and Capo d'Istria, strong in his own integrity, and confidently relying on the fidelity and gratitude of his countrymen, was assassinated in the streets on his way to mass. Young Mauromichalis, the son of the old Bey of Maina, struck the fatal blow, and fled for refuge to the house of the French ambassador. A gentleman attached to the French legation told me that he himself opened the door when the murderer rushed in with the bloody dagger in his hand, exclaiming, "I have killed the tyrant." He was not more than twenty-one, tall and noble in his appearance, and animated by the enthusiastic belief that he had delivered his country. My informant told me that he barred all the doors and windows, and went up stairs to inform the minister, who had not yet risen. The latter was embarrassed and in doubt what he should do. A large crowd gathered round the house; but, as yet, they were all Mauromichalis's friends. The young enthusiast spoke of what he had done with a high feeling of patriotism and pride; and while the clamour out of doors was becoming outrageous, he ate his breakfast and smoked his pipe with the utmost composure. He remained at the embassy more than two hours, and until the regular troops drew up before the house. The French ambassador, though he at first refused, was obliged to deliver him up; and my informant saw him shot under a tree outside the gate of Napoli, dying gallantly in the firm conviction that he had played the Brutus and freed his country from a Cæsar. The fate of Capo d'Istria again darkened the prospects of Greece, and the throne went begging for an occupant until it was accepted by the King of Bavaria for his second son Otho. The young monarch arrived at Napoli in February, eighteen hundred and thirty-three. The whole population came out to meet him, and the Grecian youth ran breast deep in the water to touch his barge as it approached the shore. In February, eighteen hundred and thirty-four, it was decided to establish Athens as the capital. The propriety of this removal has been seriously questioned, for Napoli possessed advantages in her location, harbour, fortress and a town already built; but the King of Bavaria, a scholar and an antiquary, was influenced more, perhaps, by classical feeling than by regard for the best interests of Greece. Napoli has received a severe blow from the removal of the seat of government; still it was by far the most European in its appearance of any city I had seen in Greece. It had several restaurants and coffee-houses, which were thronged all the evening with Bavarian officers and broken-down European adventurers, discussing the internal affairs of that unfortunate country, which men of every nation seemed to think they had a right to assist in governing. Napoli had always been the great gathering-place of the phil-Hellenists, and many appropriating to themselves that sacred name were hanging round it still. All over Europe thousands of men are trained up to be shot at for so much per day; the soldier's is as regular a business as that of the lawyer or merchant, and there is always a large class of turbulent spirits constantly on the look-out for opportunities, and ever ready with their swords to carve their way to fortune. I believe that there were men who embarked in the cause of Greece with as high and noble purposes as ever animated the warrior; but of many, there is no lack of charity in saying that, however good they might be as fighters, they were not much as men; and I am sorry to add that, from the accounts I heard in Greece, some of the American phil-Hellenists were rather shabby fellows. Mr. M., then resident in Napoli, was accosted one day in the streets by a young man, who asked him where he could find General Jarvis. "What do you want with him?" said Mr. M. "I hope to obtain a commission in his army." "Do you see that dirty fellow yonder?" said Mr. M., pointing to a ragged patriot passing at the moment; "well, twenty such fellows compose Jarvis's army, and Jarvis himself is no better off." "Well, then," said the young _American_, "I believe I'll join the Turks!" Allen, another American patriot, was hung at Constantinople. One bore the sacred name of Washington; a brave but unprincipled man. Mr. M. had heard him say, that if the devil himself should raise a regiment and would give him a good commission, he would willingly march under him. He was struck by a shot from the fortress of Napoli while directing a battery against it; was taken on board his Britannic majesty's ship Asia, and breathed his last uttering curses on his country. There were others, however, who redeemed the American character. The agents sent out by the Greek committee (among them our townsmen, Messrs. Post and Stuyvesant), under circumstances of extraordinary difficulty fulfilled the charitable purposes of their mission with such zeal and discretion as to relieve the wants of a famishing people, and secure the undying gratitude of the Greeks. Dr. Russ, another of the agents, established an American hospital at Poros, and, under the most severe privations, devoted himself gratuitously to attendance upon the sick and wounded. Dr. Howe, one of the earliest American phil-Hellenists, in the darkest hour of the revolution, and at a time when the Greeks were entirely destitute of all medical aid, with an honourable enthusiasm, and without any hope of pecuniary reward, entered the service as surgeon, was the fellow-labourer of Dr. Russ in establishing the American hospital, and, at the peril of his life, remained with them during almost the whole of their dreadful struggle. Colonel Miller, the principal agent, now resident in Vermont, besides faithfully performing the duties of his trust, entered the army, and conducted himself with such distinguished gallantry that he was called by the Greek braves the American Delhi, or Daredevil.[3] FOOTNOTES: [2] They married two brothers, the young princes Cantacuzenes. Some scruples being raised against this double alliance on the score of consanguinity, the difficulty was removed by each couple going to separate churches with separate priests to pronounce the mystic words at precisely the same moment; so that neither could be said to espouse his sister-in-law. [3] In the previous editions of his work, the author's remarks were so general as to reflect upon the character of individuals who stand in our community above reproach. The author regrets that the carelessness of his expressions should have wounded where he never intended, and hopes the gentlemen affected will do him the justice to believe that he would not wantonly injure any man's character or feelings. CHAPTER VI. Argos.--Tomb of Agamemnon.--Mycenæ.--Gate of the Lions.--A Misfortune.--A Midnight Quarrel.--Gratitude of a Greek Family.--Megara. IN the morning, finding a difficulty in procuring horses, some of the loungers about the hotel told us there was a carriage in Napoli, and we ordered it to be brought out, and soon after saw moving majestically down the principal street a bella carozza, imported by its enterprising proprietor from the Strada Toledo at Naples. It was painted a bright flaring yellow, and had a big breeched Albanian for coachman. While preparing to embark, a Greek came up with two horses, and we discharged the bella carozza. My companion hired the horses for Padras, and I threw my cloak on one of them and followed on foot. The plain of Argos is one of the most beautiful I ever saw. On every side except toward the sea it is bounded by mountains, and the contrast between these mountains, the plain, and the sea is strikingly beautiful. The sun was beating upon it with intense heat; the labourers were almost naked, or in several places lying asleep on the ground, while the tops of the mountains were covered with snow. I walked across the whole plain, being only six miles, to Argos. This ancient city is long since in ruins; her thirty temples, her costly sepulchres, her gymnasium, and her numerous and magnificent monuments and statues have disappeared, and the only traces of her former greatness are some remains of her Cyclopean walls, and a ruined theatre cut in the rock and of magnificent proportions. Modern Argos is nothing more than a straggling village. Mr. Riggs, an American missionary, was stationed there, but was at that time at Athens with an invalid wife. I was still on foot, and wandered up and down the principal street looking for a horse. Every Greek in Argos soon knew my business, and all kinds of four-legged animals were brought to me at exorbitant prices. When I was poring over the Iliad I little thought that I should ever visit Argos; still less that I should create a sensation in the ancient city of the Danai; but man little knows for what he is reserved. Argos has been so often visited that Homer is out of date. Every middy from a Mediterranean cruiser has danced on the steps of her desolate theatre, and, instead of busying myself with her ancient glories, I roused half the population in hiring a horse. In fact, in this ancient city I soon became the centre of a regular horsemarket. Every rascally jockey swore that his horse was the best, and, according to the descendants of the respectable sons of Atreus, blindness, lameness, spavin, and staggers were a recommendation. A Bavarian officer, whom I had met in the bazars, came to my assistance, and stood by me while I made my bargain. I had more regard to the guide than the horse; and picking out one who had been particularly noisy, hired him to conduct me to Corinth and Athens. He was a lad of about twenty, with a bright sparkling eye, who, laughing roguishly at his unsuccessful competitors, wanted to pitch me at once on the horse and be off. I joined my companions, and in a few minutes we left Argos. The plain of Argos has been immortalized by poetic genius as the great gathering-place of the kings and armies that assembled for the siege of Troy. To the scholar and poet few plains in the world are more interesting. It carries him back to the heroic ages, to the history of times bordering on the fabulous, when fact and fiction are so beautifully blended that we would not separate them if we could. I had but a little while longer to remain with my friends, for we were approaching the point where our roads separated, and about eleven o'clock we halted and exchanged our farewell greetings. We parted in the middle of the plain, they to return to Padras and Europe, and I for the tomb of Agamemnon, and back to Athens, and I hardly know where besides. Dr. W. I did not meet again until my return home. About a year afterward I arrived in Antwerp in the evening from Rotterdam. The city was filled with strangers, and I was denied admission at a third hotel, when a young man brushed by me in the doorway, and I recognised Maxwell. I hailed him, but in cap and cloak, and with a large red shawl around my neck, he did not know me. I unrolled and discovered myself, and it is needless to say that I did not leave the hotel that night. It was his very last day of two years' travel on the Continent; he had taken his passage in the steamer for London, and one day later I should have missed him altogether. I can give but a faint idea of the pleasure of this meeting. He gave me the first information of the whereabout of Dr. W.; we talked nearly all night, and about noon the next day I again bade him farewell on board the steamer. I have for some time neglected our servant. When we separated, the question was who should _not_ keep him. We were all heartily tired of him, and I would not have had him with me on any account. Still, at the moment of parting in that wild and distant region, never expecting to see him again, I felt some slight leaning toward him. Touching the matter of shirts, it will not be surprising to a man of the world that, at the moment of parting, I had one of M.'s on my back; and, in justice to him, I must say it was a very good one, and lasted a long time. A friend once wrote to me on a like occasion not to wear his out of its turn, but M. laid no such restriction upon me. But this trifling gain did not indemnify me for the loss of my friends. I had broken the only link that connected me with home, and was setting out alone for I knew not where. I felt at once the great loss I had sustained, for my young muleteer could speak only his own language, and, as Queen Elizabeth said to Sir Walter Raleigh of her Hebrew, we had "forgotten our" Greek. But on that classical soil I ought not to have been lonely. I should have conjured up the ghosts of the departed Atridæ, and held converse on their own ground with Homer's heroes. Nevertheless, I was not in the mood; and, entirely forgetting the glories of the past, I started my horse into a gallop. My companion followed on a full run, close at my heels, belabouring my horse with a stick, which when he broke, he pelted him with stones; indeed, this mode of scampering over the ground seemed to hit his humour, for he shouted, hurraed, and whipped, and sometimes laying hold of the tail of the beast, was dragged along several paces with little effort of his own. I soon tired of this, and made signs to him to stop; but it was his turn now, and I was obliged to lean back till I reached him with my cane before I could make him let go his hold, and then he commenced shouting and pelting again with stones. In this way we approached the village of Krabata, about a mile below the ruins of Mycenæ, and the most miserable place I had seen in Greece. With the fertile plain of Argos uncultivated before them, the inhabitants exhibited a melancholy picture of the most abject poverty. As I rode through, crowds beset me with outstretched arms imploring charity; and a miserable old woman, darting out of a wretched hovel, laid her gaunt and bony hand upon my leg, and attempted to stop me. I shrunk from her grasp, and, under the effect of a sudden impulse, threw myself off on the other side, and left my horse in her hands. Hurrying through the village, a group of boys ran before me, crying out "Agamemnon," "Agamemnon." I followed, and they conducted me to the tomb of "the king of kings," a gigantic structure, still in good preservation, of a conical form, covered with turf; the stone over the door is twenty-seven feet long and seventeen wide, larger than any hewn stone in the world except Pompey's Pillar. I entered, my young guides going before with torches, and walked within and around this ancient sepulchre. A worthy Dutchman, Herman Van Creutzer, has broached a theory that the Trojan war is a mere allegory, and that no such person as Agamemnon ever existed. Shame upon the cold-blooded heretic. I have my own sins to answer for in that way, for I have laid my destroying hand upon many cherished illusions; but I would not, if I could, destroy the mystery that overhangs the heroic ages. The royal sepulchre was forsaken and empty; the shepherd drives within it his flock for shelter; the traveller sits under its shade to his noonday meal; and, at the moment, a goat was dozing quietly in one corner. He started as I entered, and seemed to regard me as an intruder; and when I flared before him the light of my torch, he rose up to butt me. I turned away and left him in quiet possession. The boys were waiting outside, and crying "Mycenæ," "Mycenæ," led me away. All was solitude, and I saw no marks of a city until I reached the relics of her Cyclopean walls. I never felt a greater degree of reverence than when I approached the lonely ruins of Mycenæ. At Argos I spent most of my time in the horsemarket, and I had galloped over the great plain as carelessly as if it had been the road to Harlem; but all the associations connected with this most interesting ground here pressed upon me at once. Its extraordinary antiquity, its gigantic remains, and its utter and long-continued desolation, came home to my heart. I moved on to the Gate of the Lions, and stood before it a long time without entering. A broad street led to it between two immense parallel walls; and this street may, perhaps, have been a market-place. Over the gate are two lions rampant, like the supporters of a modern coat-of-arms, rudely carved, and supposed to be the oldest sculptured stone in Greece. Under this very gate Agamemnon led out his forces for the siege of Troy; three thousand years ago he saw them filing before him, glittering in brass, in all the pomp and panoply of war; and I held in my hand a book which told me that this city was so old that, more than seventeen hundred years ago, travellers came as I did to visit its ruins; and that Pausanias had found the Gate of the Lions in the same state in which I beheld it now. A great part is buried by the rubbish of the fallen city. I crawled under, and found myself within the walls, and then mounted to the height on which the city stood. It was covered with a thick soil and a rich carpet of grass. My boys left me, and I was alone. I walked all over it, following the line of the walls. I paused at the great blocks of stone, the remnants of Cyclopic masonry, the work of wandering giants. The heavens were unclouded, and the sun was beaming upon it with genial warmth. Nothing could exceed the quiet beauty of the scene. I became entangled in the long grass, and picked up wild flowers growing over long-buried dwellings. Under it are immense caverns, their uses now unknown; and the earth sounded hollow under my feet, as if I were treading on the sepulchre of a buried city. I looked across the plain to Argos; all was as beautiful as when Homer sang its praises; the plain, and the mountains, and the sea were the same, but the once magnificent city, her numerous statues and gigantic temples, were gone for ever; and but a few remains were left to tell the passing traveller the story of her fallen greatness. I could have remained there for hours; I could have gone again and again, for I had not found a more interesting spot in Greece; but my reveries were disturbed by the appearance of my muleteer and my juvenile escort. They pointed to the sun as an intimation that the day was passing; and crying "Cavallo," "Cavallo," hurried me away. To them the ruined city was a playground; they followed capering behind; and, in descending, three or four of them rolled down upon me; they hurried me through the Gate of the Lions, and I came out with my pantaloons, my only pantaloons, rent across the knee almost irreparably. In an instant I was another man; I railed at the ruins for their strain upon wearing apparel, and bemoaned my unhappy lot in not having with me a needle and thread. I looked up to the old gate with a sneer. This was the city that Homer had made such a noise about; a man could stand on the citadel and almost throw a stone beyond the boundary-line of Agamemnon's kingdom. In full sight, and just at the other side of the plain, was the kingdom of Argos. The little state of Rhode Island would make a bigger kingdom than both of them together. But I had no time for deep meditation, having a long journey to Corinth before me. Fortunately, my young Greek had no tire in him; he started me off on a gallop, whipping and pelting my horse with stones, and would have hurried me on, over rough and smooth, till either he, or I, or the horse broke down, if I had not jumped off and walked. As soon as I dismounted he mounted, and then he moved so leisurely that I had to hurry him on in turn. In this way we approached the range of mountains separating the plain of Argos from the Isthmus of Corinth. Entering the pass, we rode along a mountain torrent, of which the channel-bed was then dry, and ascended to the summit of the first range. Looking back, the scene was magnificent. On my right and left were the ruined heights of Argos and Mycenæ; before me, the towering Acropolis of Napoli di Romania; at my feet, the rich plain of Argos, extending to the shore of the sea; and beyond, the island-studded Ægean. I turned away with a feeling of regret that, in all probability, I should never see it more. I moved on, and in a narrow pass, not wide enough to turn my horse if I had been disposed to take to my heels, three men rose up from behind a rock, armed to the teeth with long guns, pistols, yataghans, and sheepskin cloaks--the dress of the klept or mountain robber--and altogether presenting a most diabolically cutthroat appearance. If they had asked me for my purse I should have considered it all regular, and given up the remnant of my stock of borrowed money without a murmur; but I was relieved from immediate apprehension by the cry of passe porta. King Otho has begun the benefits of civilized government in Greece by introducing passports, and mountain warriors were stationed in the different passes to examine strangers. They acted, however, as if they were more used to demanding purses than passports, for they sprang into the road and rattled the butts of their guns on the rock with a violence that was somewhat startling. Unluckily, my passport had been made out with those of my companions, and was in their possession, and when we parted neither thought of it; and this demand to me, who had nothing to lose, was worse than that of my purse. A few words of explanation might have relieved me from all difficulty, but my friends could not understand a word I said. I was vexed at the idea of being sent back, and thought I would try the effect of a little impudence; so, crying out "Americanos," I attempted to pass on; but they answered me "Nix," and turned my horse's head toward Argos. The scene, which a few moments before had seemed so beautiful, was now perfectly detestable. Finding that bravado had not the desired effect, I lowered my tone and tried a bribe; this was touching the right chord; half a dollar removed all suspicions from the minds of these trusty guardians of the pass; and, released from their attentions, I hurried on. The whole road across the mountain is one of the wildest in Greece. It is cut up by numerous ravines, sufficiently deep and dangerous, which at every step threaten destruction to the incautious traveller. During the late revolution the soil of Greece had been drenched with blood; and my whole journey had been through cities and over battle-fields memorable for scenes of slaughter unparalleled in the annals of modern war. In the narrowest pass of the mountains my guide made gestures indicating that it had been the scene of a desperate battle. When the Turks, having penetrated to the plain of Argos, were compelled to fall back again upon Corinth, a small band of Greeks, under Niketas and Demetrius Ypsilanti, waylaid them in this pass. Concealing themselves behind the rocks, and waiting till the pass was filled, all at once they opened a tremendous fire upon the solid column below, and the pass was instantly filled with slain. Six thousand were cut down in a few hours. The terrified survivers recoiled for a moment; but, as if impelled by an invisible power, rushed on to meet their fate. "The Mussulman rode into the passes with his sabre in his sheath and his hands before his eyes, the victim of destiny." The Greeks again poured upon them a shower of lead, and several thousand more were cut down before the Moslem army accomplished the passage of this terrible defile. It was nearly dark when we rose to the summit of the last range of mountains, and saw, under the rich lustre of the setting sun, the Acropolis of Corinth, with its walls and turrets, towering to the sky, the plain forming the Isthmus of Corinth; the dark, quiet waters of the Gulf of Lepanto; and the gloomy mountains of Cithæron, and Helicon, and Parnassus covered with snow. It was after dark when we passed the region of the Nemean Grove, celebrated as the haunt of the lion and the scene of the first of the twelve labours of Hercules. We were yet three hours from Corinth; and, if the old lion had still been prowling in the grove, we could not have made more haste to escape its gloomy solitude. Reaching the plain, we heard behind us the clattering of horses' hoofs, at first sounding in the stillness of evening as if a regiment of cavalry or a troop of banditti was at our heels, but it proved to be only a single traveller, belated like ourselves, and hurrying on to Corinth. I could see through the darkness the shining butts of his pistols and hilt of his yataghan, and took his dimensions with more anxiety, perhaps, than exactitude. He recognised my Frank dress; and accosted me in bad Italian, which he had picked up at Padras (being just the Italian in which I could meet him on equal ground), and told me that he had met a party of Franks on the road to Padras, whom, from his description, I recognised as my friends. It was nearly midnight when we rattled up to the gate of the old locanda. The yard was thronged with horses and baggage, and Greek and Bavarian soldiers. On the balcony stood my old brigand host, completely crestfallen, and literally turned out of doors in his own house; a detachment of Bavarian soldiers had arrived that afternoon from Padras, and taken entire possession, giving him and his wife the freedom of the outside. He did not recognise me, and, taking me for an Englishman, began, "Sono Inglesi Signor" (he had lived at Corfu under the British dominion); and, telling me the whole particulars of his unceremonious ouster, claimed, through me, the arm of the British government to resent the injury to a British subject; his wife was walking about in no very gentle mood, but, in truth, very much the contrary. I did not speak to her, and she did not trust herself to speak to me; but, addressing myself to the husband, introduced the subject of my own immediate wants, a supper and night's lodging. The landlord told me, however, that the Bavarians had eaten everything in the house, and he had not a room, bed, blanket, or coverlet to give me; that I might lie down in the hall or the piazza, but there was no other place. I was outrageous at the hard treatment he had received from the Bavarians. It was too bad to turn an honest innkeeper out of his house, and deny him the pleasure of accommodating a traveller who had toiled hard all day, with the perfect assurance of finding a bed at night. I saw, however, that there was no help for it; and noticing an opening at one end of the hall, went into a sort of storeroom filled with all kinds of rubbish, particularly old barrels. An unhinged door was leaning against the wall, and this I laid across two of the barrels, pulled off my coat and waistcoat, and on this extemporaneous couch went to sleep. I was roused from my first nap by a terrible fall against my door. I sprang up; the moon was shining through the broken casement, and, seizing a billet of wood, I waited another attack. In the mean time I heard the noise of a violent scuffling on the floor of the hall, and, high above all, the voices of husband and wife, his evidently coming from the floor in a deprecating tone, and hers in a high towering passion, and enforced with severe blows of a stick. As soon as I was fairly awake I saw through the thing at once. It was only a little matrimonial _tête-à-tête_. The unamiable humour in which I had left them against the Bavarians had ripened into a private quarrel between themselves, and she had got him down, and was pummelling him with a broomstick or something of that kind. It seemed natural and right enough, and was, moreover, no business of mine; and remembering that whoever interferes between man and wife is sure to have both against him, I kept quiet. Others, however, were not so considerate, and the occupants of the different rooms tumbled into the hall in every variety of fancy night-gear, among whom was one whose only clothing was a military coat and cap, with a sword in his hand. When the hubbub was at its highest I looked out, and found, as I expected, the husband and wife standing side by side, she still brandishing the stick, and both apparently outrageous at everything and everybody around them. I congratulated myself upon my superior knowledge of human nature, and went back to my bed on the door. In the morning I was greatly surprised to find that, instead of whipping her husband, she had been taking his part. Two German soldiers, already half intoxicated, had come into the hall, and insisted upon having more wine; the host refused, and when they moved toward my sleeping place, where the wine was kept, he interposed, and all came down together with the noise which had woke me. His wife came to his aid, and the blows which, in my simplicity, I had supposed to be falling upon him, were bestowed on the two Bavarians. She told me the story herself; and when she complained to the officers, they had capped the climax of her passion by telling her that her husband deserved more than he got. She was still in a perfect fury; and as she looked at them in the yard arranging for their departure, she added, in broken English, with deep and, as I thought, ominous passion, "'Twas better to be under the Turks." I learned all this while I was making my toilet on the piazza, that is, while she was pouring water on my hands for me to wash; and, just as I had finished, my eye fell upon my muleteer assisting the soldiers in loading their horses. At first I did not notice the subdued expression of his usually bright face, nor that he was loading my horse with some of their camp equipage; but all at once it struck me that they were pressing him into their service. I was already roused by what the woman had told me, and, resolving that they should not serve me as they did the Greeks, I sprang off the piazza, cleared my way through the crowd, and going up to my horse, already staggering under a burden poised on his back, but not yet fastened, put my hand under one side and tumbled it over with a crash on the other. The soldiers cried out furiously; and, while they were sputtering German at me, I sprang into the saddle. I was in admirable pugilistic condition, with nothing on but pantaloons, boots, and shirt, and just in a humour to get a whipping, if nothing worse; but I detested the manner in which the Bavarians lorded it in Greece; and riding up to a group of officers who were staring at me, told them that I had just tumbled their luggage off my horse, and they must bear in mind that they could not deal with strangers quite so arbitrarily as they did with the Greeks. The commandant was disposed to be indignant and very magnificent; but some of the others making suggestions to him, he said he understood I had only hired my horse as far as Corinth; but, if I had taken him for Athens, he would not interfere; and, apologizing on the ground of the necessities of government, ordered him to be released. I apologized back again, returned the horse to my guide, whose eyes sparkled with pleasure, and went in for my hat and coat. I dressed myself, and, telling him to be ready when I had finished my breakfast, went out expecting to start forthwith; but, to my surprise, my host told me that the lad refused to go any farther without an increase of pay; and, sure enough, there he stood, making no preparation for moving. The cavalcade of soldiers had gone, and taken with them every horse in Corinth, and the young rascal intended to take advantage of my necessity. I told him that I had hired him to Athens for such a price, and that I had saved him from impressment, and consequent loss of wages, by the soldiers, which he admitted. I added that he was a young rascal, which he neither admitted nor denied, but answered with a roguish laugh. The extra price was no object compared with the vexation of a day's detention; but a traveller is apt to think that all the world is conspiring to impose upon him, and, at times, to be very resolute in resisting. I was peculiarly so then, and, after a few words, set off to complain to the head of the police. Without any ado he trotted along with me, and we proceeded together, followed by a troup of idlers, I in something of a passion, he perfectly cool, good-natured, and considerate, merely keeping out of the way of my stick. Hurrying along near the columns of the old temple, I stumbled, and he sprang forward to assist me, his face expressing great interest, and a fear that I had hurt myself; and when I walked toward a house which I had mistaken for the bureau of the police department, he ran after me to direct me right. All this mollified me considerably; and, before we reached the door, the affair began to strike me as rather ludicrous. I stated my case, however, to the eparchos, a Greek in Frank dress, who spoke French with great facility, and treated me with the greatest consideration. He was so full of professions that I felt quite sure of a decision in my favour; but, assuming my story to be true, and without asking the lad for his excuse, he shrugged his shoulders, and said it would take time to examine the matter, and, if I was in a hurry, I had better submit. To be sure, he said, the fellow was a great rogue, and he gave his countrymen in general a character that would not tell well in print; but added, in their justification, that they were imposed upon and oppressed by everybody, and therefore considered that they had a right to take their advantage whenever an opportunity offered. The young man sat down on the floor, and looked at me with the most frank, honest, and open expression, as if perfectly unconscious that he was doing anything wrong. I could not but acknowledge that some excuse for him was to be drawn from the nature of the school in which he had been brought up, and, after a little parley, agreed to pay him the additional price, if, at the end of the journey, I was satisfied with his conduct. This was enough; his face brightened, he sprang up and took my hand, and we left the house the best friends in the world. He seemed to be hurt as well as surprised at my finding fault with him, for to him all seemed perfectly natural; and, to seal the reconciliation, he hurried on ahead, and had the horse ready when I reached the locanda. I took leave of my host with a better feeling than before, and set out a second time on the road to Athens. At Kalamaki, while walking along the shore, a Greek who spoke the lingua Franca came from on board one of the little caiques, and, when he learned that I was an American, described to me the scene that had taken place on that beach upon the arrival of provisions from America; when thousands of miserable beings who had fled from the blaze of their dwellings, and lived for months upon plants and roots; grayheaded men, mothers with infants at their breasts, emaciated with hunger and almost frantic with despair, came down from their mountain retreats to receive the welcome relief. He might well remember the scene, for he had been one of that starving people; and he took me to his house, and showed me his wife and four children, now nearly all grown, telling me that they had all been rescued from death by the generosity of my countrymen. I do not know why, but in those countries it did not seem unmanly for a bearded and whiskered man to weep; I felt anything but contempt for him when, with his heart overflowing and his eyes filled with tears, he told me, when I returned home, to say to my countrymen that I had seen and talked with a recipient of their bounty; and though the Greeks might never repay us, they could never forget what we had done for them. I remembered the excitement in our country in their behalf, in colleges and schools, from the graybearded senator to the prattling schoolboy, and reflected that, perhaps, my mite, cast carelessly upon the waters, had saved from the extremity of misery this grateful family. I wish that the cold-blooded prudence which would have checked our honest enthusiasm in favour of a people, under calamities and horrors worse than ever fell to the lot of man struggling to be free, could have listened to the gratitude of this Greek family. With deep interest I bade them farewell, and, telling my guide to follow with my horse, walked over to the foot of the mountain. Ascending, I saw in one of the openings of the road a packhorse and a soldier in the Bavarian uniform, and, hoping to find some one to talk with, I hailed him. He was on the top of the mountain, so far off that he did not hear me; and when, with the help of my Greek, I had succeeded in gaining his attention, he looked for some time without being able to see me. When he did, however, he waited; but, to my no small disappointment, he answered my first question with the odious "Nix." We tried each other in two or three dialects; but, finding it of no use, I sat down to rest, and he, for courtesy, joined me; my young Greek, in the spirit of good-fellowship, doing the same. He was a tall, noble-looking fellow, and, like myself, a stranger in Greece; and, though we could not say so, it was understood that we were glad to meet and travel together as comrades. The tongue causes more evils than the sword; and, as we were debarred the use of this mischievous member, and walked all day side by side, seldom three paces apart, before night we were sworn friends. About five o'clock in the afternoon we arrived at Megara. A group of Bavarian soldiers was lounging round the door of the khan, who welcomed their expected comrade and me as his companion. My friend left me, and soon returned with the compliments of the commandant, and an invitation to visit him in the evening. I had, however, accepted a prior invitation from the soldiers for a rendezvous in the locanda. I wandered till dark among the ruined houses of the town, thought of Euclid and Alexander the Great, and returning, went up to the same room in which I had slept with my friends, pored over an old map of Greece hanging on the wall, made a few notes, and throwing myself back on a sort of divan, while thinking what I should do fell asleep. About ten o'clock I was roused by the loud roar of a chorus, not like a sudden burst, but a thing that seemed to have swelled up to that point by degrees; and rubbing my eyes, and stumbling down stairs, I entered the banqueting hall; a long, rough wooden table extended the whole length of the room, supplied with only two articles, wine-flagons and tobacco-pouches; forty or fifty soldiers were sitting round it, smoking pipes and singing with all their souls, and, at the moment I entered, waving their pipes to the dying cadence of a hunting chorus. Then followed a long thump on the table, and they all rose; my long travelling friend, with a young soldier who spoke a little French, came up, and, escorting me to the head of the table, gave me a seat by the side of the chairman. One of them attempted to administer a cup of wine, and the other thrust at me the end of a pipe, and I should have been obliged to kick and abscond but for the relief afforded me by the entrance of another new-comer. This was no other than the corporal's wife; and if I had been received warmly, she was greeted with enthusiasm. Half the table sprang forward to escort her, two of them collared the president and hauled him off his seat, and the whole company, by acclamation, installed her in his place. She accepted it without any hesitation, while two of them, with clumsy courtesy, took off her bonnet, which I, sitting at her right hand, took charge of. All then resumed their places, and the revel went on more gayly than ever. The lady president was about thirty, plainly but neatly dressed, and, though not handsome, had a frank, amiable, and good-tempered expression, indicating that greatest of woman's attributes, a good heart. In fact, she looked what the young man at my side told me she was, the peacemaker of the regiment; and he added, that they always tried to have her at their convivial meetings, for when she was among them the brawling spirits were kept down, and every man would be ashamed to quarrel in her presence. There was no chivalry, no heroic devotion about them, but their manner toward her was as speaking a tribute as was ever paid to the influence of woman; and I question whether beauty in her bower, surrounded by belted knights and barons bold, ever exercised in her more exalted sphere a more happy influence. I talked with her, and with the utmost simplicity she told me that the soldiers all loved her; that they were all kind to her, and she looked upon them all as brothers. We broke up at about twelve o'clock with a song, requiring each person to take the hand of his neighbour; one of her hands fell to me, and I took it with a respect seldom surpassed in touching the hand of woman; for I felt that she was cheering the rough path of a soldier's life, and, among scenes calculated to harden the heart, reminding them of mothers, and sisters, and sweethearts at home. CHAPTER VII. A Dreary Funeral.--Marathon.--Mount Pentelicus.--A Mystery.--Woes of a Lover.--Reveries of Glory.--Scio's Rocky Isle.--A blood-stained Page of History.--A Greek Prelate.--Desolation.--The Exile's Return. EARLY in the morning I again started. In a little khan at Eleusis I saw three or four Bavarian soldiers drinking, and ridiculing the Greek proprietor, calling him patrioti and capitani. The Greek bore their gibes and sneers without a word; but there was a deadly expression in his look, which seemed to say, "I bide my time;" and I remember then thinking that the Bavarians were running up an account which would one day be settled with blood. In fact, the soldiers went too far; and, as I thought, to show off before me, one of them slapped the Greek on the back, and made him spill a measure of wine which he was carrying to a customer, when the latter turned upon him like lightning, threw him down, and would have strangled him if he had not been pulled off by the by-standers. Indeed, the Greeks had already learned both their intellectual and physical superiority over the Bavarians; and, a short time before, a party of soldiers sent to subdue a band of Maniote insurgents had been captured, and, after a farce of selling them at auction at a dollar a head, were kicked, and whipped, and sent off. About four o'clock I arrived once more at Athens, dined at my old hotel, and passed the evening at Mr. Hill's. The next day I lounged about the city. I had been more than a month without my carpet-bag, and the way in which I managed during that time is a thing between my travelling companions and myself. A prudent Scotchman used to boast of a careful nephew, who, in travelling, instead of leaving some of his clothes at every hotel on the road, always brought home _more_ than he took away with him. I was a model of this kind of carefulness while my opportunities lasted; but my companions had left me, and this morning I went to the bazars and bought a couple of shirts. Dressed up in one of them, I strolled outside the walls; and, while sitting in the shadow of a column of the Temple of Jupiter, I saw coming from the city, through Hadrian's Gate, four men, carrying a burden by the corners of a coverlet, followed by another having in his hands a bottle and spade. As they approached I saw they were bearing the dead body of a woman, whom, on joining them, I found to be the wife of the man who followed. He was an Englishman or an American (for he called himself either, as occasion required) whom I had seen at my hotel and at Mr. Hill's; had been a sailor, and probably deserted from his ship, and many years a resident of Athens, where he married a Greek woman. He was a thriftless fellow, and, as he told me, had lived principally by the labour of his wife, who washed for European travellers. He had been so long in Greece, and his connexions and associations were so thoroughly Greek, that he had lost that sacredness of feeling so powerful both in Englishmen and Americans of every class in regard to the decent burial of the dead, though he did say that he had expected to procure a coffin, but the police of the city had sent officers to take her away and bury her. There was something so forlorn in the appearance of this rude funeral, that my first impulse was to turn away; but I checked myself and followed. Several times the Greeks laid the corpse on the ground and stopped to rest, chattering indifferently on various subjects. We crossed the Ilissus, and at some distance came to a little Greek chapel excavated in the rock. The door was so low that we were obliged to stoop on entering, and when within we could hardly stand upright. The Greeks laid down the body in front of the altar; the husband went for the priest, the Greeks to select a place for a grave, and I remained alone with the dead. I sat in the doorway, looking inside upon the corpse, and out upon the Greeks digging the grave. In a short time the husband returned with a priest, one of the most miserable of that class of "blind teachers" who swarm in Greece. He immediately commenced the funeral service, which continued nearly an hour, by which time the Greeks returned and, taking up the body, carried it to the graveside and laid it within. I knew the hollow sound of the first clod of earth which falls upon the lid of a coffin, and shrunk from its leaden fall upon the uncovered body. I turned away, and, when at some distance, looked back and saw them packing the earth over the grave. I never saw so dreary a burial-scene. Returning, I passed by the ancient stadium of Herodes Atticus, once capable of containing twenty-five thousand spectators; the whole structure was covered with the purest white marble. All remains of its magnificence are now gone; but I could still trace on the excavated side of the hill its ancient form of a horseshoe, and walked through the subterraneous passage by which the vanquished in the games retreated from the presence of the spectators. Returning to the city, I learned that an affray had just taken place between some Greeks and Bavarians, and, hurrying to the place near the bazars, found a crowd gathered round a soldier who had been stabbed by a Greek. According to the Greeks, the affair had been caused by the habitual insults and provocation given by the Bavarians, the soldier having wantonly knocked a drinking-cup out of the Greek's hand while he was drinking. In the crowd I met a lounging Italian (the same who wanted me to come up from Padras by water), a good-natured and good-for-nothing fellow, and skilled in tongues; and going with him into a coffee-house thronged with Bavarians and Europeans of various nations in the service of government, heard another story, by which it appeared that the Greeks, as usual, were in the wrong, and that the poor Bavarian had been stabbed without the slightest provocation, purely from the Greeks' love of stabbing. Tired of this, I left the scene of contention, and a few streets off met an Athenian, a friend of two or three days' standing, and, stopping under a window illuminated by a pair of bright eyes from above, happened to express my admiration of the lady who owned them, when he tested the strength of my feelings on the subject by asking me if I would like to marry her. I was not prepared at the moment to give precisely that proof, and he followed up his blow by telling me that, if I wished it, he would engage to secure her for me before the next morning. The Greeks are almost universally poor. With them every traveller is rich, and they are so thoroughly civilized as to think that a rich man is, of course, a good match. Toward evening I paid my last visit to the Acropolis. Solitude, silence, and sunset are the nursery of sentiment. I sat down on a broken capital of the Parthenon; the owl was already flitting among the ruins. I looked up at the majestic temple and down at the ruined and newly-regenerated city, and said to myself, "Lots must rise in Athens!" I traced the line of the ancient walls, ran a railroad to the Piræus, and calculated the increase on "up-town lots" from building the king's palace near the Garden of Plato. Shall I or shall I not "make an operation" in Athens? The court has removed here, the country is beautiful, climate fine, government fixed, steamboats are running, all the world is coming, and lots must rise. I bought (in imagination) a tract of good tillable land, laid it out in streets, had my Plato, and Homer, and Washington Places, and Jackson Avenue, built a row of houses to improve the neighbourhood where nobody lived, got maps lithographed, and sold off at auction. I was in the right condition to "go in," for I had nothing to lose; but, unfortunately, the Greeks were very far behind the spirit of the age, knew nothing of the beauties of the credit system, and could not be brought to dispose of their consecrated soil "on the usual terms," _ten per cent. down, balance on bond and mortgage_, so, giving up the idea, at dark I bade farewell to the ruins of the Acropolis, and went to my hotel to dinner. Early the next morning I started for the field of Marathon. I engaged a servant at the hotel to accompany me, but he disappointed me, and I set out alone with my muleteer. Our road lay along the base of Mount Hymettus, on the borders of the plain of Attica, shaded by thick groves of olives. At noon I was on the summit of a lofty mountain, at the base of which, still and quiet as if it had never resounded with the shock of war, the great battle-ground of the Greeks and Persians extended to the sea. The descent was one of the finest things I met with in Greece; wild, rugged, and, in fact, the most magnificent kind of mountain scenery. At the foot of the mountain we came to a ruined convent, occupied by an old white-bearded monk. I stopped there and lunched, the old man laying before me his simple store of bread and olives, and looking on with pleasure at my voracious appetite. [Illustration: Mound of Marathon.] This over, I hurried to the battle-field. Toward the centre is a large mound of earth, erected over the Athenians who fell in the battle. I made directly for this mound, ascended it, and threw the reins loose over my horse's neck; and, sitting on the top, read the account of the battle in Herodotus. After all, is not our reverence misplaced, or, rather does not our respect for deeds hallowed by time render us comparatively unjust? The Greek revolution teems with instances of as desperate courage, as great love of country, as patriotic devotion, as animated the men of Marathon, and yet the actors in these scenes are not known beyond the boundaries of their native land. Thousands whose names were never heard of, and whose bones, perhaps, never received burial, were as worthy of an eternal monument as they upon whose grave I sat. Still that mound is a hallowed sepulchre; and the shepherd who looks at it from his mountain home, the husbandman who drives his plough to its base, and the sailor who hails it as a landmark from the deck of his caique, are all reminded of the glory of their ancestors. But away with the mouldering relics of the past. Give me the green grave of Marco Bozzaris. I put Herodotus in my pocket, gathered a few blades of grass as a memorial, descended the mound, betook myself to my saddle, and swept the plain on a gallop, from the mountain to the sea. It is about two miles in width, and bounded by rocky heights enclosing it at either extremity. Toward the shore the ground is marshy, and at the place where the Persians escaped to their ships are some unknown ruins; in several places the field is cultivated, and toward evening, on my way to the village of Marathon, I saw a Greek ploughing; and when I told him that I was an American, he greeted me as the friend of Greece. It is the last time I shall recur to this feeling; but it was music to my heart to hear a ploughman on immortal Marathon sound in my ears the praises of my country. I intended to pass the night at the village of Marathon; but every khan was so cluttered up with goats, chickens, and children, that I rode back to the monastery at the foot of the mountain. It was nearly dark when I reached it. The old monk was on a little eminence at the door of his chapel, clapping two boards together to call his flock to vespers. With his long white beard, his black cap and long black gown, his picturesque position and primitive occupation, he seemed a guardian spirit hovering on the borders of Marathon in memory of its ancient glory. He came down to the monastery to receive me, and, giving me a paternal welcome, and spreading a mat on the floor, returned to his chapel. I followed, and saw his little flock assemble. The ploughman came up from the plain and the shepherd came down from the mountain; the old monk led the way to the altar, and all kneeled down and prostrated themselves on the rocky floor. I looked at them with deep interest. I had seen much of Greek devotion in cities and villages, but it was a spectacle of extraordinary interest to see these wild and lawless men assembled on this lonely mountain to worship in all sincerity, according to the best light they had, the god of their fathers. I could not follow them in their long and repeated kneelings and prostrations; but my young Greek, as if to make amends for me, and, at the same time, to show how they did things in Athens, led the van. The service over, several of them descended with us to the monastery; the old monk spread his mat, and again brought out his frugal store of bread and olives. I contributed what I had brought from Athens, and we made our evening meal. If I had judged from appearances, I should have felt rather uneasy at sleeping among such companions; but the simple fact of having seen them at their devotions gave me confidence. Though I had read and heard that the Italian bandit went to the altar to pray forgiveness for the crimes he intended to commit, and, before washing the stains from his hands, hung up the bloody poniard upon a pillar of the church, and asked pardon for murder, I always felt a certain degree of confidence in him who practised the duties of his religion, whatever that religion might be. I leaned on my elbow, and, by the blaze of the fire, read Herodotus, while my muleteer, as I judged from the frequent repetition of the word Americanos, entertained them with long stories about me. By degrees the blaze of the fire died away, the Greeks stretched themselves out for sleep, the old monk handed me a bench about four inches high for a pillow, and, wrapping myself in my cloak, in a few moments I was wandering in the land of dreams. Before daylight my companions were in motion. I intended to return by the marble quarries on the Pentelican Mountain; and crying "Cavallo" in the ear of my still sleeping muleteer, in a few minutes I bade farewell for ever to the good old monk of Marathon. Almost from the door of the monastery we commenced ascending the mountain. It was just peep of day, the weather raw and cold, the top of the mountain covered with clouds, and in an hour I found myself in the midst of them. The road was so steep and dangerous that I could not ride; a false step of my horse might have thrown me over a precipice several hundred feet deep; and the air was so keen and penetrating, that, notwithstanding the violent exercise of walking, I was perfectly chilled. The mist was so dense, too, that, when my guide was a few paces in advance, I could not see him, and I was literally groping my way through the clouds. I had no idea where I was nor of the scene around me, but I felt that I was in a measure lifted above the earth. The cold blasts drove furiously along the sides of the mountain, whistled against the precipices, and bellowed in the hollows of the rocks, sometimes driving so furiously that my horse staggered and fell back. I was almost bewildered in struggling blindly against them; but, just before reaching the top of the mountain, the thick clouds were lifted as if by an invisible hand, and I saw once more the glorious sun pouring his morning beams upon a rich valley extending a great distance to the foot of the Pentelican Mountain. About half way down we came to a beautiful stream, on the banks of which we took out our bread and olives. Our appetites were stimulated by the mountain air, and we divided till our last morsel was gone. At the foot of the mountain, lying between it and Mount Pentelicus, was a large monastery, occupied by a fraternity of monks. We entered and walked through it, but found no one to receive us. In a field near by we saw one of the monks, from whom we obtained a direction to the quarries. Moving on to the foot of the mountain, which rises with a peaked summit into the clouds, we commenced ascending, and soon came upon the strata of beautiful white marble for which Mount Pentelicus has been celebrated thousands of years. Excavations appear to have been made along the whole route, and on the roadside were blocks, and marks caused by the friction of the heavy masses transported to Athens. The great quarries are toward the summit. The surface has been cut perpendicularly smooth, perhaps eighty or a hundred feet high, and one hundred and fifty or two hundred feet in width, and excavations have been made within to an unknown extent. Whole cities might have been built with the materials taken away, and yet by comparison with what is left, there is nothing gone. In front are entrances to a large chamber, in one corner of which, on the right, is a chapel with the painted figure of the Virgin to receive the Greeks' prayers. Within are vast humid caverns, over which the wide roof awfully extends, adorned with hollow tubes like icicles, while a small transparent petrifying stream trickles down the rock. On one side are small chambers communicating with subterraneous avenues, used, no doubt, as places of refuge during the revolution, or as the haunts of robbers. Bones of animals and stones blackened with smoke showed that but lately some part had been occupied as a habitation. The great excavations around, blocks of marble lying as they fell, perhaps, two thousand years ago, and the appearances of having been once a scene of immense industry and labour, stand in striking contrast with the desolation and solitude now existing. Probably the hammer and chisel will never be heard there more, great temples will no more be raised, and modern genius will never, like the Greeks of old, make the rude blocks of marble speak. [Illustration: Quarries of Pentelicus.] At dark I was dining at the Hotel de France, when Mr. Hill came over with the welcome intelligence that my carpet-bag had arrived. On it was pinned a large paper, with the words "Huzzah!" "Huzzah!" "Huzzah!" by my friend Maxwell, who had met it on horse back on the shores of the Gulf of Lepanto, travelling under the charge of a Greek in search of me. I opened it with apprehension, and, to my great satisfaction, found undisturbed the object of my greatest anxiety, the precious notebook from which I now write, saved from the peril of an anonymous publication or of being used up for gun-waddings. The next morning, before I was up, I heard a gentle rap at my door, which was followed by the entrance of a German, a missionary, whom I had met several times at Mr. Hill's, and who had dined with me once at my hotel. I apologized for being caught in bed, and told him that he must possess a troubled spirit to send him so early from his pillow. He answered that I was right; that he did indeed possess a troubled spirit; and closing the door carefully, came to my bedside, and said he had conceived a great regard for me, and intended confiding in me an important trust. I had several times held long conversations with him at Mr. Hill's, and very little to my edification, as his English was hardly intelligible; but I felt pleased at having, without particularly striving for it, gained the favourable opinion of one who bore the character of a very learned and a very good man. I requested him to step into the dining-room while I rose and dressed myself; but he put his hand upon my breast to keep me down, and drawing a chair, began, "You are going to Smyrna." He then paused, but, after some moments of hesitation, proceeded to say that the first name I would hear on my arrival there would be his own; that, unfortunately, it was in everybody's mouth. My friend was a short and very ugly middle-aged man, with a very large mouth, speaking English with the most disagreeable German sputter, lame from a fall, and, altogether, of a most uninteresting and unsentimental aspect; and he surprised me much by laying before me a veritable _affaire du coeur_. It was so foreign to my expectations, that I should as soon have expected to be made a confidant in a love affair by the Archbishop of York. After a few preliminaries he went into particulars; lavished upon the lady the usual quota of charms "in such case made and provided," but was uncertain, rambling, and discursive in regard to the position he held in her regard. At first I understood that it was merely the old story, a flirtation and a victim; then that they were very near being married, which I afterward understood to be only so near as this, that he was willing and she not; and, finally, it settled down into the every-day occurrence, the lady smiled, while the parents and a stout two-fisted brother frowned. I could but think, if such a homely expression may be introduced in describing these tender passages, that he had the boot on the wrong leg, and that the parents were much more likely than the daughter to favour such a suitor. However, on this point I held my peace. The precise business he wished to impose on me was, immediately on my arrival in Smyrna to form the acquaintance of the lady and her family, and use all my exertions in his favour. I told him I was an entire stranger in Smyrna, and could not possibly have any influence with the parties; but, being urged, promised him that, if I could interfere without intruding myself improperly, he should have the benefit of my mediation. At first he intended giving me a letter to the lady, but afterward determined to give me one to the Rev. Mr. Brewer, an American missionary, who, he said, was a particular friend of his, and intimate with the beloved and her family, and acquainted with the whole affair. Placing himself at my table, on which were pens, ink, and paper, he proceeded to write his letter, while I lay quietly till he turned over the first side, when, tired of waiting, I rose, dressed myself, packed up, and, before he had finished, stood by the table with my carpet-bag, waiting until he should have done to throw in my writing materials. He bade me good-by after I had mounted my horse to leave, and, when I turned back to look at him, I could not but feel for the crippled, limping victim of the tender passion, though, in honesty, and with the best wishes for his success, I did not think it would help his suit for the lady to see him. An account of my journey from Athens to Smyrna, given in a letter to friends at home, was published during my absence and without my knowledge, in successive numbers of the American Monthly Magazine, and perhaps the favourable notice taken of it had some influence in inducing me to write a book. I give the papers as they were then published. _Smyrna, April_, 1835. MY DEAR ****, I have just arrived at this place, and I live to tell it. I have been three weeks performing a voyage usually made in three days. It has been tedious beyond all things; but, as honest Dogberry would say, if it had been ten times as tedious, I could find it in my heart to bestow it all upon you. To begin at the beginning: on the morning of the second instant, I and my long-lost carpet-bag left the eternal city of Athens, without knowing exactly whither we were going, and sincerely regretted by Miltiades Panajotti, the garçon of the hotel. We wound round the foot of the Acropolis, and, giving a last look to its ruined temples, fell into the road to the Piræus, and in an hour found ourselves at that ancient harbour, almost as celebrated in the history of Greece as Athens itself. Here we took counsel as to farther movements, and concluded to take passage in a caique to sail that evening for Syra, being advised that that island was a great place of rendezvous for vessels, and that from it we could procure a passage to any place we chose. Having disposed of my better half (I may truly call it so, for what is man without pantaloons, vests, and shirts), I took a little sailboat to float around the ancient harbour and muse upon its departed glories. The day that I lingered there before bidding farewell, perhaps for ever, to the shores of Greece, is deeply impressed upon my mind. I had hardly begun to feel the magic influence of the land of poets, patriots, and heroes, until the very moment of my departure. I had travelled in the most interesting sections of the country, and found all enthusiasm dead within me when I had expected to be carried away by the remembrance of the past; but here, I know not how it was, without any effort, and in the mere act of whiling away my time, all that was great, and noble, and beautiful in her history rushed upon me at once; the sun and the breeze, the land and the sea, contributed to throw a witchery around me; and in a rich and delightful frame of mind, I found myself among the monuments of her better days, gliding by the remains of the immense wall erected to enclose the harbour during the Peloponnesian war, and was soon floating upon the classic waters of Salamis. If I had got there by accident it would not have occurred to me to dream of battles and all the fierce panoply of war upon that calm and silvery surface. But I knew where I was, and my blood was up. I was among the enduring witnesses of the Athenian glory. Behind me was the ancient city, the Acropolis, with its ruined temples, the telltale monuments of by-gone days, towering above the plain; here was the harbour from which the galleys carried to the extreme parts of the then known world the glories of the Athenian name; before me was unconquered Salamis; here the invading fleet of Xerxes; there the little navy, the last hope of the Athenians; here the island of Ægina, from which Aristides, forgetting his quarrel with Themistocles, embarked in a rude boat, during the hottest of the battle, for the ship of the latter; and there the throne of Xerxes, where the proud invader stationed himself as spectator of the battle that was to lay the rich plain of Attica at his feet. There could be no mistake about localities; the details have been handed down from generation to generation, and are as well known to the Greeks of the present day as they were to their fathers. So I went to work systematically, and fought the whole battle through. I gave the Persians ten to one, but I made the Greeks fight like tigers; I pointed them to their city; to their wives and children; I brought on long strings of little innocents, urging them as in the farce, "sing out, young uns;" I carried old Themistocles among the Persians like a modern Greek fireship among the Turks; I sunk ship after ship, and went on demolishing them at a most furious rate, until I saw old Xerxes scudding from his throne, and the remnant of the Persian fleet scampering away to the tune of "devil take the hindmost." By this time I had got into the spirit of the thing; and moving rapidly over that water, once red with blood of thousands from the fields of Asia, I steered for the shore and mounted the vacant throne of Xerxes. This throne is on a hill near the shore, not very high, and as pretty a place as a man could have selected to see his friends whipped and keep out of harm's way himself; for you will recollect that in those days there was no gunpowder nor cannon balls, and, consequently, no danger from long chance shots. I selected a particular stone, which I thought it probable Xerxes, as a reasonable man, and with an eye to perspective, might have chosen as his seat on the eventful day of the battle; and on that same stone sat down to meditate upon the vanity of all earthly greatness. But, most provokingly, whenever I think of Xerxes, the first thing that presents itself to my mind is the couplet in the Primer, "Xerxes the Great did die, And so must you and I." This is a very sensible stanza, no doubt, and worthy of always being borne in mind; but it was not exactly what I wanted. I tried to drive it away; but the more I tried, the more it stuck to me. It was all in vain. I railed at early education, and resolved that acquired knowledge hurts a man's natural faculties; for if I had not received the first rudiments of education, I should not have been bothered with the vile couplet, and should have been able to do something on my own account. As it was, I lost one of the best opportunities ever a man had for moralizing; and you, my dear ----, have lost at least three pages. I give you, however, all the materials; put yourself on the throne of Xerxes, and do what you can, and may your early studies be no stumbling-block in your way. As for me, vexed and disgusted with myself, I descended the hill as fast as the great king did of yore, and jumping into my boat, steered for the farthest point of the Piræus; from the throne of _Xerxes_ to the tomb of Themistocles. I was prepared to do something here. This was not merely a place where he had been; I was to tread upon the earth that covered his bones; here were his ashes; here was all that remained of the best and bravest of the Greeks, save his immortal name. As I approached I saw the large square stones that enclosed his grave, and mused upon his history; the deliverer of his country, banished, dying an exile, his bones begged by his repenting countrymen, and buried with peculiar propriety near the shore of the sea commanding a full view of the scene of his naval glory. For more than two thousand years the waves have almost washed over his grave, the sun has shone and the winds have howled over him; while, perhaps, his spirit has mingled with the sighing of the winds and the murmur of the waters, in moaning over the long captivity of his countrymen; perhaps, too, his spirit has been with them in their late struggle for liberty; has hovered over them in the battle and the breeze, and is now standing sentinel over his beloved and liberated country. I approached as to the grave of one who will never die. His great name, his great deeds, hallowed by the lapse of so many ages; the scene--I looked over the wall with a feeling amounting to reverence, when, directly before me, the first thing I saw, the only thing I could see, so glaring and conspicuous that nothing else could fix my eye, was a tall, stiff, wooden headboard, painted white, with black letters, to the memory of an Englishman with as unclassical a name as that of _John Johnson_. My eyes were blasted with the sight; I was ferocious; I railed at him as if he had buried himself there with his own hands. What had he to do there? I railed at his friends. Did they expect to give him a name by mingling him with the ashes of the immortal dead? Did they expect to steal immortality like fire from the flint? I dashed back to my boat, steered directly for the harbour, gave sentiment to the dogs, and in half an hour was eating a most voracious and spiteful dinner. In the evening I embarked on board my little caique. She was one of the most rakish of that rakish description of vessels. I drew my cloak around me and stretched myself on the deck as we glided quietly out of the harbour; saw the throne of Xerxes, the island of Salamis, and the shores of Greece gradually fade from view; looked at the dusky forms of the Greeks in their capotes lying asleep around me; at the helmsman sitting cross-legged at his post, apparently without life or motion; gave one thought to home, and fell asleep. In the morning I began to examine my companions. They were, in all, a captain and six sailors, probably all part owners, and two passengers from one of the islands, not one of whom could speak any other language than Greek. My knowledge of that language was confined to a few rolling hexameters, which had stuck by me in some unaccountable way as a sort of memento of college days. These, however, were of no particular use, and, consequently, I was pretty much tongue-tied during the whole voyage. I amused myself by making my observations quietly upon my companions, as they did more openly upon me, for I frequently heard the word "Americanos" pass among them. I had before had occasion to see something of Greek sailors, and to admire their skill and general good conduct, and I was fortified in my previous opinion by what I saw of my present companions. Their temperance in eating and drinking is very remarkable, and all my comparisons between them and European sailors were very much in their favour. Indeed, I could not help thinking, as they sat collectively, Turkish fashion, around their frugal meal of bread, caviari, and black olives, that I had never seen finer men. Their features were regular, in that style which we to this day recognise as Grecian; their figures good, and their faces wore an air of marked character and intelligence; and these advantages of person were set off by the island costume, the fez or red cloth cap, with a long black tassel at the top, a tight vest and jacket, embroidered and without collars, large Turkish trousers coming down a little below the knee, legs bare, sharp-pointed slippers, and a sash around the waist, tied under the left side, with long ends hanging down, and a knife sticking out about six inches. There was something bold and daring in their appearance; indeed, I may say, rakish and piratical; and I could easily imagine that, if the Mediterranean should again become infested with pirates, my friends would cut no contemptible figure among them. But I must not detain you as long on the voyage as I was myself. The sea was calm; we had hardly any wind; our men were at the oars nearly all the time, and, passing slowly by Ægina, Cape Sunium, with its magnificent ruins mournfully overlooking the sea, better known in modern times as Colonna's Height and the scene of Falconer's shipwreck, passing also the island of Zea, the ancient Chios, Thermia, and other islands of lesser note, in the afternoon of the third day we arrived at Syra. With regard to Syra I shall say but little; I am as loath to linger about it now as I was to stay there then. The fact is, I cannot think of the place with any degree of satisfaction. The evening of my arrival I heard, through a Greek merchant to whom I had a letter from a friend in Athens, of a brig to sail the next day for Smyrna; and I lay down on a miserable bed in a miserable locanda, in the confident expectation of resuming my journey in the morning. Before morning, however, I was roused by "blustering Boreas" rushing through the broken casement of my window; and for more than a week all the winds ever celebrated in the poetical history of Greece were let loose upon the island. We were completely cut off from all communication with the rest of the world. Not a vessel could leave the port, while vessel after vessel put in there for shelter. I do not mean to go into any details; indeed, for my own credit's sake I dare not; for if I were to draw a true picture of things as I found them; if I were to write home the truth, I should be considered as utterly destitute of taste and sentiment; I should be looked upon as a most unpoetical dog, who ought to have been at home poring over the revised statutes instead of breathing the pure air of poetry and song. And now, if I were writing what might by chance come under the eyes of a sentimental young lady or a young gentleman in his teens, the truth would be the last thing I would think of telling. No, though my teeth chatter, though a cold sweat comes over me when I think of it, I would go through the usual rhapsody, and huzzah for "the land of the East and the clime of the sun." Indeed, I have a scrap in my portfolio, written with my cloak and greatcoat on, and my feet over a brazier, beginning in that way. But to you, my dear ----, who know my touching sensibilities, and who, moreover, have a tender regard for my character and will not publish me, I would as soon tell the truth as not. And I therefore do not hesitate to say, but do not whisper it elsewhere, that in one of the beautiful islands of the Ægean; in the heart of the Cyclades, in the sight of Delos, and Paros, and Antiparos, any one of which is enough to throw one who has never seen them into raptures with their fancied beauties, here, in this paradise of a young man's dreams, in the middle of April, I would have hailed "chill November's surly blast" as a zephyr; I would have exchanged all the beauties of this balmy clime for the sunny side of Kamschatka; I would have given my room and the whole Island of Syra for a third-rate lodging in Communipaw. It was utterly impossible to walk out, and equally impossible to stay in my room; the house, to suit that delightful climate, being built without windows or window-shutters. If I could forget the island, I could remember with pleasure the society I met there. I passed my mornings in the library of Mr. R., one of our worthy American missionaries; and my evenings at the house of Mr. W., the British consul. This gentleman married a Greek lady of Smyrna, and had three beautiful daughters, more than half Greeks in their habits and feelings; one of them is married to an English baronet, another to a Greek merchant of Syra, and the third--. On the ninth day the wind fell, the sun once more shone brightly, and in the evening I embarked on board a rickety brig for Smyrna. At about six o'clock P.M. thirty or forty vessels were quietly crawling out of the harbour like rats after a storm. It was almost a calm when we started: in about two hours we had a favourable breeze; we turned in, going at the rate of eight miles an hour, and rose with a strong wind dead ahead. We beat about all that day; the wind increased to a gale, and toward evening we took shelter in the harbour of Scio. The history of this beautiful little island forms one of the bloodiest pages in the history of the world, and one glance told that dreadful history. Once the most beautiful island of the Archipelago, it is now a mass of ruins. Its fields, which once "budded and blossomed as the rose," have become waste places; its villages are deserted, its towns are in ruins, its inhabitants murdered, in captivity, and in exile. Before the Greek revolution the Greeks of Scio were engaged in extensive commerce, and ranked among the largest merchants in the Levant. Though living under hard taskmasters, subject to the exactions of a rapacious pacha, their industry and enterprise, and the extraordinary fertility of their island, enabled them to pay a heavy tribute to the Turks and to become rich themselves. For many years they had enjoyed the advantages of a college, with professors of high literary and scientific attainments, and their library was celebrated throughout all that country; it was, perhaps, the only spot in Greece where taste and learning still held a seat. But the island was far more famed for its extraordinary natural beauty and fertility. Its bold mountains and its soft valleys, the mildness of its climate and the richness of its productions, bound the Greeks to its soil by a tie even stronger than the chain of their Turkish masters. In the early part of the revolution the Sciotes took no part with their countrymen in their glorious struggle for liberty. Forty of their principal citizens were given up as hostages, and they were suffered to remain in peace. Wrapped in the rich beauties of their island, they forgot the freedom of their fathers and their own chains; and, under the precarious tenure of a tyrant's will, gave themselves up to the full enjoyment of all that wealth and taste could purchase. We must not be too hard upon human nature; the cause seemed desperate; they had a little paradise at stake; and if there is a spot on earth, the risk of losing which could excuse men in forgetting that they were slaves in a land where their fathers were free, it is the Island of Scio. But the sword hung suspended over them by a single hair. In an unexpected hour, without the least note of preparation, they were startled by the thunder of the Turkish cannon; fifty thousand Turks were let loose like bloodhounds upon the devoted island. The affrighted Greeks lay unarmed and helpless at their feet, but they lay at the feet of men who did not know mercy even by name; at the feet of men who hungered and thirsted after blood; of men, in comparison with whom wild beasts are as lambs. The wildest beast of the forest may become gorged with blood; not so with the Turks at Scio. Their appetite "grew with what it fed on," and still longed for blood when there was not a victim left to bleed. Women were ripped open, children dashed against the walls, the heads of whole families stuck on pikes out of the windows of their houses, while their murderers gave themselves up to riot and plunder within. The forty hostages were hung in a row from the walls of the castle; an indiscriminate and universal burning and massacre took place; in a few days the ground was cumbered with the dead, and one of the loveliest spots on earth was a pile of smoking ruins. Out of a population of one hundred and ten thousand, sixty thousand are supposed to have been murdered, twenty thousand to have escaped, and thirty thousand to have been sold into slavery. Boys and young girls were sold publicly in the streets of Smyrna and Constantinople at a dollar a head. And all this did not arise from any irritated state of feeling toward them. It originated in the cold-blooded, calculating policy of the sultan, conceived in the same spirit which drenched the streets of Constantinople with the blood of the Janisaries; it was intended to strike terror into the hearts of the Greeks, but the murderer failed in his aim. The groans of the hapless Sciotes reached the ears of their countrymen, and gave a headlong and irresistible impulse to the spirit then struggling to be free. And this bloody tragedy was performed in our own days, and in the face of the civilized world. Surely if ever Heaven visits in judgment a nation for a nation's crimes, the burning and massacre at Scio will be deeply visited upon the accursed Turks. It was late in the afternoon when I landed, and my landing was under peculiarly interesting circumstances. One of my fellow-passengers was a native of the island, who had escaped during the massacre, and now revisited it for the first time. He asked me to accompany him ashore, promising to find some friends at whose house we might sleep; but he soon found himself a stranger in his native island: where he had once known everybody, he now knew nobody. The town was a complete mass of ruins; the walls of many fine buildings were still standing, crumbling to pieces, and still black with the fire of the incendiary Turks. The town that had grown up upon the ruins consisted of a row of miserable shantees, occupied as shops for the sale of the mere necessaries of life, where the shopman slept on his window-shutter in front. All my companion's efforts to find an acquaintance who would give us a night's lodging were fruitless. We were determined not to go on board the vessel, if possible to avoid it; her last cargo had been oil, the odour of which still remained about her. The weather would not permit us to sleep on deck, and the cabin was intolerably disagreeable. To add to our unpleasant position, and, at the same time, to heighten the cheerlessness of the scene around us, the rain began to fall violently. Under the guidance of a Greek we searched among the ruins for an apartment where we might build a fire and shelter ourselves for the night, but we searched in vain; the work of destruction was too complete. Cold, and thoroughly drenched with rain, we were retracing our way to our boat, when our guide told my companion that a Greek archbishop had lately taken up his abode among the ruins. We immediately went there, and found him occupying apartments, partially repaired, in what had once been one of the finest houses in Scio. The entrance through a large stone gateway was imposing; the house was cracked from top to bottom by fire, nearly one half had fallen down, and the stones lay scattered as they fell; but enough remained to show that in its better days it had been almost a palace. We ascended a flight of stone steps to a terrace, from which we entered into a large hall perhaps thirty feet wide and fifty feet long. On one side of this hall the wall had fallen down the whole length, and we looked out upon the mass of ruins beneath. On the other side, in a small room in one corner, we found the archbishop. He was sick, and in bed with all his clothes on, according to the universal custom here, but received us kindly. The furniture consisted of an iron bedstead with a mattress, on which he lay with a quilt spread over him, a wooden sofa, three wooden chairs, about twenty books, and two large leather cases containing clothes, napkins, and, probably, all his worldly goods. The rain came through the ceiling in several places; the bed of the poor archbishop had evidently been moved from time to time to avoid it, and I was obliged to change my position twice. An air of cheerless poverty reigned through the apartment. I could not help comparing his lot with that of more favoured and, perhaps, not more worthy servants of the church. It was a style so different from that of the priests at Rome, the pope and his cardinals, with their gaudy equipages and multitudes of footmen rattling to the Vatican; or from the pomp and state of the haughty English prelates, or even from the comforts of our own missionaries in different parts of this country, that I could not help feeling deeply for the poor priest before me. But he seemed contented and cheerful, and even thankful that, for the moment, there were others worse off than himself, and that he had it in his power to befriend them. Sweetmeats, coffee, and pipes were served; and in about an hour we were conducted to supper in a large room, also opening from the hall. Our supper would not have tempted an epicure, but suited very well an appetite whetted by exercise and travel. It consisted of a huge lump of bread and a large glass of water for each of us, caviari, black olives, and two kinds of Turkish sweetmeats. We were waited upon by two priests: one of them, a handsome young man, not more than twenty, with long black hair hanging over his shoulders like a girl's, stood by with a napkin on his arm and a pewter vessel, with which he poured water on our hands, receiving it again in a basin. This was done both before and after eating; then came coffee and pipes. During the evening the young priest brought out an edition of Homer, and I surprised _him_, and astounded _myself_, by being able to translate a passage in the Iliad. I translated it in French, and my companion explained it in modern Greek to the young priest. Our beds were cushions laid on a raised platform or divan extending around the walls, with a quilt for each of us. In the morning, after sweetmeats, coffee, and pipes, we paid our respects to the good old archbishop, and took our leave. When we got out of doors, finding that the wind was the same, and that there was no possibility of sailing, my friend proposed a ride into the country. We procured a couple of mules, took a small basket of provisions for a collation, and started. Our road lay directly along the shore; on one side the sea, and on the other the ruins of houses and gardens, almost washed by the waves. At about three miles' distance we crossed a little stream, by the side of which we saw a sarcophagus, lately disinterred, containing the usual vases of a Grecian tomb, including the piece of money to pay Charon his ferriage over the river Styx, and six pounds of dust; being all that remained of a _man_--perhaps one who had filled a large space in the world; perhaps a hero--buried probably more than two thousand years ago. After a ride of about five miles we came to the ruins of a large village, the style of which would anywhere have fixed the attention, as having been once a favoured abode of wealth and taste. The houses were of brown stone, built together, strictly in the Venetian style, after the models left during the occupation of the island by the Venetians, large and elegant, with gardens of three or four acres, enclosed by high walls of the same kind of stone, and altogether in a style far superior to anything I had seen in Greece. These were the country-houses and gardens of the rich merchants of Scio. The manner of living among the proprietors here was somewhat peculiar, and the ties that bound them to this little village were peculiarly strong. This was the family home; the community was essentially mercantile, and most of their business transactions were carried on elsewhere. When there were three or four brothers in a family, one would be in Constantinople a couple of years, another at Trieste, and so on, while another remained at home; so that those who were away, while toiling amid the perplexities of business, were always looking to the occasional family reunion; and all trusted to spend the evening of their days among the beautiful gardens of Scio. What a scene for the heart to turn to now! The houses and gardens were still there, some standing almost entire, others black with smoke and crumbling to ruins. But where were they who once occupied them? Where were they who should now be coming out to rejoice in the return of a friend and to welcome a stranger? An awful solitude, a stillness that struck a cold upon the heart, reigned around us. We saw nobody; and our own voices, and the tramping of our horses upon the deserted pavements, sounded hollow and sepulchral in our ears. It was like walking among the ruins of Pompeii; it was another city of the dead; but there was a freshness about the desolation that seemed of to-day; it seemed as though the inhabitants should be sleeping and not dead. Indeed, the high walls of the gardens, and the outside of the houses too, were generally so fresh and in so perfect a state, that it seemed like riding through a handsome village at an early hour before the inhabitants had risen; and I sometimes could not help thinking that in an hour or two the streets would be thronged with a busy population. My friend continued to conduct me through the solitary streets; telling me, as we went along, that this was the house of such a family, this of such a family, with some of whose members I had become acquainted in Greece, until, stopping before a large stone gateway, he dismounted at the gate of his father's house. In that house he was born; there he had spent his youth; he had escaped from it during the dreadful massacre, and this was the first time of his revisiting it. What a tide of recollections must have rushed upon him! We entered through the large stone gateway into a courtyard beautifully paved in mosaic in the form of a star, with small black and white round stones. On our left was a large stone reservoir, perhaps twenty-five feet square, still so perfect as to hold water, with an arbour over it supported by marble columns; a venerable grapevine completely covered the arbour. The garden covered an extent of about four acres, filled with orange, lemon, almond, and fig trees; overrun with weeds, roses, and flowers, growing together in wild confusion. On the right was the house, and a melancholy spectacle it was; the wall had fallen down on one side, and the whole was black with smoke. We ascended a flight of stone steps, with marble balustrades, to the terrace, a platform about twenty feet square, overlooking the garden. From the terrace we entered the saloon, a large room with high ceilings and fresco paintings on the walls; the marks of the fire kindled on the stone floor still visible, all the woodwork burned to a cinder, and the whole black with smoke. It was a perfect picture of wanton destruction. The day, too, was in conformity with the scene; the sun was obscured, the wind blew through the ruined building, it rained, was cold and cheerless. What were the feelings of my friend I cannot imagine; the houses of three of his uncles were immediately adjoining; one of these uncles was one of the forty hostages, and was hanged; the other two were murdered; his father, a venerable-looking old man, who came down to the vessel when we started to see him off, had escaped to the mountains, from thence in a caique to Ipsara, and from thence into Italy. I repeat it, I cannot imagine what were his feelings; he spoke but little; they must have been too deep for utterance. I looked at everything with intense interest; I wanted to ask question after question, but could not, in mercy, probe his bleeding wounds. We left the house and walked out into the garden. It showed that there was no master's eye to watch over it; I plucked an orange which had lost its flavour; the tree was withering from want of care; our feet became entangled among weeds, and roses, and rare hothouse plants growing wildly together. I said that he did not talk much; but the little he did say amounted to volumes. Passing a large vase in which a beautiful plant was running wildly over the sides, he murmured indistinctly "the same vase" (le même vase), and once he stopped opposite a tree, and, turning to me, said, "This is the only tree I do not remember." These and other little incidental remarks showed how deeply all the particulars were engraved upon his mind, and told me, plainer than words, that the wreck and ruin he saw around him harrowed his very soul. Indeed, how could it be otherwise? This was his father's house, the home of his youth, the scene of his earliest, dearest, and fondest recollections. Busy memory, that source of all our greatest pains as well as greatest pleasures, must have pressed sorely upon him, must have painted the ruined and desolate scene around him in colours even brighter, far brighter, than they ever existed in; it must have called up the faces of well-known and well-loved friends; indeed, he must have asked himself, in bitterness and in anguish of spirit, "The friends of my youth where are they?" while the fatal answer fell upon his heart, "Gone murdered, in captivity and in exile." CHAPTER VIII. A Noble Grecian Lady.--Beauty of Scio.--An Original.--Foggi.--A Turkish Coffee-house.--Mussulman at Prayers.--Easter Sunday.--A Greek Priest.--A Tartar Guide.--Turkish Ladies.--Camel Scenes.--Sight of a Harem.--Disappointed Hopes.--A rare Concert.--Arrival at Smyrna. (_Continuation of the Letter._) WE returned to the house, and seeking out a room less ruined than the rest, partook of a slight collation, and set out on a visit to a relative of my Sciote friend. On our way my companion pointed out a convent on the side of a hill, where six thousand Greeks, who had been prevailed upon to come down from the mountains to ransom themselves, were treacherously murdered to a man; their unburied bones still whiten the ground within the walls of the convent. Arriving at the house of his relative, we entered through a large gateway into a handsome courtyard, with reservoir, garden, &c., ruinous, though in better condition than those we had seen before. This relative was a widow, of the noble house of Mavrocordato, one of the first families in Greece, and perhaps the most distinguished name in the Greek revolution. She had availed herself of the sultan's amnesty to return; had repaired two or three rooms, and sat down to end her days among the scenes of her childhood, among the ruins of her father's house. She was now not more than thirty; her countenance was remarkably pensive, and she had seen enough to drive a smile for ever from her face. The meeting between her and my friend was exceedingly affecting, particularly on her part. She wept bitterly, though, with the elasticity peculiar to the Greek character, the smile soon chased away the tear. She invited us to spend the night there, pointing to the divan, and promising us cushions and coverlets. We accepted her invitation, and again set forth to ramble among the ruins. I had heard that an American missionary had lately come into the island, and was living somewhere in the neighbourhood. I found out his abode, and went to see him. He was a young man from Virginia, by the name of ****; had married a lady from Connecticut, who was unfortunately sick in bed. He was living in one room in the corner of a ruined building, but was then engaged in repairing a house into which he expected to remove soon. As an American, the first whom they had seen in that distant island, they invited me into the sickroom. In a strange land, and among a people whose language they did not understand, they seemed to be all in all to each other; and I left them, probably for ever, in the earnest hope that the wife might soon be restored to health, that hand in hand they might sustain each other in the rough path before them. Toward evening we returned to the house of my friend's relative. We found there a nephew, a young man about twenty-two, and a cousin, a man about thirty-five, both accidentally on a visit to the island. As I looked at the little party before me, sitting around a brazier of charcoal, and talking earnestly in Greek, I could hardly persuade myself that what I had seen and heard that day was real. All that I had ever read in history of the ferocity of the Turkish character; all the wild stories of corsairs, of murdering, capturing, and carrying into captivity, that I had ever read in romances, crowded upon me, and I saw living witnesses that the bloodiest records of history and the wildest creations of romance were not overcharged. They could all testify in their own persons that these things were true. They had all been stripped of their property, and had their houses burned over their heads; had all narrowly escaped being murdered; and had all suffered in their nearest and dearest connexions. The nephew, then a boy nine years old, had been saved by a maidservant, his father had been murdered; a brother, a sister, and many of his cousins, were at that moment, and had been for years, in slavery among the Turks; my friend, with his sister, had found refuge in the house of the Austrian consul, and from thence had escaped into Italy; the cousin was the son of one of the forty hostages who were hung, and was the only member of his father's family that escaped death; while our pensive and amiable hostess, a bride of seventeen, had seen her young husband murdered before her eyes; had herself been sold into slavery, and, after two years' servitude, redeemed by her friends. In the morning I rose early and walked out upon the terrace. Nature had put on a different garb. The wind had fallen, and the sun was shining warmly upon a scene of softness and luxuriance surpassing all that I had ever heard or dreamed of the beauty of the islands of Greece. Away with all that I said about Syra; skip the page. The terrace overlooked the garden filled with orange, lemon, almond, and fig trees; with plants, roses, and flowers of every description, growing in luxuriant wildness. But the view was not confined to the garden. Looking back to the harbour of Scio, was a bold range of rugged mountains bounding the view on that side; on the right was the sea, then calm as a lake; on both the other sides were ranges of mountains, irregular and picturesque in their appearance, verdant and blooming to their very summits; and within these limits, for an extent of perhaps five miles, were continued gardens like that at my feet, filled with the choicest fruit-trees, with roses and the greatest variety of rare plants and flowers that ever unfolded their beauties before the eyes of man; above all, the orange-trees, the peculiar favourite of the island, then almost in full bloom, covered with blossoms, from my elevated position on the terrace made the whole valley appear an immense bed of flowers. All, too, felt the freshening influence of the rain; and a gentle breeze brought to me from this wilderness of sweets the most delicious perfume that ever greeted the senses. Do not think me extravagant when I say that, in your wildest dreams, you could never fancy so rich and beautiful a scene. Even among ruins, that almost made the heart break, I could hardly tear my eyes from it. It is one of the loveliest spots on earth. It is emphatically a Paradise lost, for the hand of the Turks is upon it; a hand that withers all that it touches. In vain does the sultan invite the survivers, and the children made orphans by his bloody massacre, to return; in vain do the fruits and the flowers, the sun and the soil, invite them to return; their wounds are still bleeding; they cannot forget that the wild beast's paw might again be upon them, and that their own blood might one day moisten the flowers which grow over the graves of their fathers. But I must leave this place. I could hardly tear myself away then, and I love to linger about it now. While I was enjoying the luxury of the terrace a messenger came from the captain to call us on board. With a feeling of the deepest interest I bade farewell, probably for ever, to my sorrowing hostess and to the beautiful gardens of Scio. We mounted our mules, and in an hour were at the port. My feelings were so wrought upon that I felt my blood boil at the first Turk I met in the streets. I felt that I should like to sacrifice him to the shades of the murdered Greeks. I wondered that the Greeks did not kill every one on the island. I wondered that they could endure the sight of the turban. We found that the captain had hurried us away unnecessarily. We could not get out of the harbour, and were obliged to lounge about the town all day. We again made a circuit among the ruins; examined particularly those of the library, where we found an old woman who had once been an attendant there, living in a little room in the cellar, completely buried under the stones of the fallen building; and returning, sat down with a chibouk before the door of an old Turkish coffee-house fronting the harbour. Here I met an original in the person of the Dutch consul. He was an old Italian, and had been in America during the revolutionary war as _dragoman_, as he called it, to the Count de Grasse, though, from his afterward incidentally speaking of the count as "my master," I am inclined to think that the word dragoman, which here means a person of great character and trust, may be interpreted as "valet de chambre." The old consul was in Scio during the whole of the massacre, and gave me many interesting particulars respecting it. He hates the Greeks, and spoke with great indignation about the manner in which their dead bodies lay strewed about the streets for months after the massacre. "D--n them," he said, "he could not go anywhere without stumbling over them." As I began to have some apprehensions about being obliged to stay here another night, I thought I could not employ my time better than in trying to work out of the consul an invitation to spend it with him. But the old fellow was too much for me. When I began to talk about the unpleasantness of being obliged to spend the night on board, and the impossibility of spending it on shore, _having no acquaintance_ there, he began to talk poverty in the most up and down terms. I was a little discouraged, but I looked at his military coat, his cocked hat and cane, and considering his talk merely a sort of apology for the inferior style of housekeeping I would find, was ingeniously working things to a point, when he sent me to the right about by enumerating the little instances of kindness he had received from strangers who happened to visit the island; among others, from one--he had his name in his pocketbook; he should never forget him; perhaps I had heard of him--who, at parting, shook him affectionately by the hand, and gave him a doubloon and a Spanish dollar. I hauled off from the representative of the majesty of Holland, and perhaps, before this, have been served up to some new visitor as the "mean, stingy American." In the evening we again got under weigh; before morning the wind was again blowing dead ahead; and about midday we put into the harbour of Foggi, a port in Asia Minor, and came to anchor under the walls of the castle, under the blood-red Mussulman flag. We immediately got into the boat to go ashore. This was my first port in Turkey. A huge ugly African, marked with the smallpox, with two pistols and a yataghan in his belt, stood on a little dock, waited till we were in the act of landing, and then rushed forward, ferocious as a tiger from his native sands, throwing up both his hands, and roaring out "Quarantino." This was a new thing in Turkey. Heretofore the Turks, with their fatalist notions, had never taken any precautions against the plague; but they had become frightened by the terrible ravages the disease was then making in Egypt, and imposed a quarantine upon vessels coming from thence. We were, however, suffered to land, and our first movement was to the coffee-house directly in front of the dock. The coffee-house was a low wooden building, covering considerable ground, with a large piazza, or, rather, projecting roof all around it. Inside and out there was a raised platform against the wall. This platform was one step from the floor, and on this step every one left his shoes before taking his seat on the matting. There were, perhaps, fifty Turks inside and out; sitting cross-legged, smoking the chibouk, and drinking coffee out of cups not larger than the shell of a Madeira-nut. We kicked our shoes off on the steps, seated ourselves on a mat outside, and took our chibouk and coffee with an air of savoir faire that would not have disgraced the worthiest Moslem of them all. Verily, said I, as I looked at the dozing, smoking, coffee-sipping congregation around me, there are some good points about the Turks, after all. They never think--that hurts digestion; and they love chibouks and coffee--that shows taste and feeling. I fell into their humour, and for a while exchanged nods with my neighbours all around. Suddenly the bitterness of thought came upon me; I found that my pipe was exhausted. I replenished it, and took a sip of coffee. Verily, said I, there are few better things in this world than chibouks and coffee; they even make men forget there is blood upon their hands. The thought started me; I shrank from contact with my neighbours, cut my way through the volumes of smoke, and got out into the open air. My companion joined me. We entered the walls and made a circuit of the town. It was a dirty little place, having one principal street lined with shops or bazars; every third shop, almost, being a cafteria, where a parcel of huge turbaned fellows were at their daily labours of smoking pipes and drinking coffee. The first thing I remarked as being strikingly different from a European city was the total absence of women. The streets were thronged with men, and not a woman was to be seen, except occasionally I caught a glimpse of a white veil or a pair of black eyes sparkling through the latticed bars of a window. Afterward, however, in walking outside the walls into the country, we met a large party of women. When we first saw them they had their faces uncovered; but, as soon as they saw us coming toward them, they stopped and arranged their long white shawls, winding them around their faces so as to leave barely space enough uncovered to allow them to see and breathe, but so that it was utterly impossible for us to distinguish a single one of their features. Going on in the direction from which they came, and attracted by the mourning cypress, we came to a large burying-ground. It is situated on the side of a hill almost washed by the waves, and shaded by a thick grove of the funereal tree. There is, indeed, something peculiarly touching in the appearance of this tree; it seems to be endowed with feelings, and to mourn over the dead it shades. The monuments were generally a single upright slab of marble, with a turban on the top. There were many, too, in form like one of our oblong tombstones; and, instead of a slab of marble over the top, the interior was filled with earth, and the surface overrun with roses, evergreens, and flowers. The burying-grounds in the East are always favourite places for walking in; and it is a favourite occupation of the Turkish women to watch and water the flowers growing over the graves of their friends. Toward evening we returned to the harbour. I withdrew from my companion, and, leaning against one of the gates of the city, fixed my eyes upon the door of a minaret, watching till the muezzin should appear, and, for the last time before the setting of the sun, call all good Mussulmans to prayer. The door opens toward Mecca, and a little before dark the muezzin came out, and, leaning over the railing with his face toward the tomb of the Prophet, in a voice, every tone of which fell distinctly upon my ear, made that solemn call which, from the time of Mohammed, has been addressed five times a day from the tops of the minarets to the sons of the faithful. "Allah! Allah! God is God, and Mohammed is his prophet. To prayer! to prayer!" Immediately an old Turk by my side fell upon his knees, with his face to the tomb of the Prophet; ten times, in quick succession, he bowed his forehead till it touched the earth; then clasped his hands and prayed. I never saw more rapt devotion than in this pious old Mussulman. I have often marked in Italy the severe observance of religious ceremonies; I have seen, for instance, at Rome, fifty penitents at a time mounting on their knees, and kissing, as they mounted, the steps of the Scala Santa, or holy staircase, by which, as the priests tell them, our Saviour ascended into the presence of Pontius Pilate. I have seen the Greek prostrate himself before a picture until he was physically exhausted; and I have seen the humble and pious Christian at his prayers, beneath the simple fanes and before the peaceful altars of my own land; but I never saw that perfect abandonment with which a Turk gives himself up to his God in prayer. He is perfectly abstracted from the things of this world; he does not regard time or place; in his closet or in the street, alone or in a crowd, he sees nothing, he hears nothing; the world is a blank; his God is everything. He is lost in the intensity of his devotion. It is a spectacle almost sublime, and for the moment you forget the polluted fountain of his religion, and the thousand crimes it sanctions, in your admiration of his sincerity and faith. Not being able to find any place where we could sleep ashore, except on one of the mats of the coffee-house, head and heels with a dozen Turks, we went on board, and toward morning again got under weigh. We beat up to the mouth of the Gulf of Smyrna, but, with the sirocco blowing directly in our teeth, it was impossible to go farther. We made two or three attempts to enter, but in tacking the last time our old brig, which had hardly ballast enough to keep her keel under water, received such a rough shaking that we got her away before the wind, and at three o'clock P.M. were again anchored in the harbour of Foggi. I now began to think that there was a spell upon my movements, and that Smyrna, which was becoming to me a sort of land of promise, would never greet my longing eyes. I was somewhat comforted, however, by remembering that I had never yet reached any port in the Mediterranean for which I had sailed, without touching at one or two intermediate ports; and that, so far, I had always worked right at last. I was still farther comforted by our having the good fortune to be able to procure lodging ashore, at the house of a Greek, the son of a priest. It was the Saturday before Easter Sunday, and the resurrection of our Saviour was to be celebrated at midnight, or, rather, the beginning of the next day, according to the rites and ceremonies of the Greek church. It was also the last of the forty days' fasting, and the next day commenced feasting. Supper was prepared for us, at which meat was put on the table for me only; my Greek friend being supposed not to eat meat during the days of fasting. He had been, however, two years out of Greece; and though he did not like to offend the prejudices of his countrymen, he did not like fasting. I felt for my fellow-traveller; and, cutting up some meat in small parcels, kept my eye upon the door while he whipped them into his mouth. After supper we lay down upon the divan, with large quilts over us, my friend having promised to rise at twelve o'clock and accompany me to the Greek church. At midnight we were roused by the chant of the Greeks in the streets, on their way to the church. We turned out, and fell into a procession of five hundred people, making the streets as light as day with their torches. At the door of the church we found our host, sitting at a table with a parcel of wax tapers on one side and a box to receive money on the other. We each bought a taper and went in. After remaining there at least two hours, listening to a monotonous and unintelligible routine of prayers and chants, the priests came out of the holy doors, bearing aloft an image of our Saviour on the cross, ornamented with gold leaf, tassels, and festoons of artificial flowers; passed through the church, and out of the opposite door. The Greeks lighted their tapers and formed into a procession behind them, and we did the same. Immediately outside the door, up the staircase, and on each side of the corridor, allowing merely room enough for the procession to pass, were arranged the women, dressed in white, with long white veils, thrown back from their faces however, laid smooth over the tops of their heads, and hanging down to their feet. Nearly every woman, old or young, had a child in her arms. In fact, there seemed to be as great a mustering of children as of men and women, and, for aught that I could see, as much to the edification of the former as the latter. A continued chant was kept up during the movements of the procession, and perhaps for half an hour after the arrival of the priests at the courtyard, when it rose to a tremendous burst. The torches were waved in the air; a wild, unmeaning, and discordant scream or yell rang through the hollow cloisters, and half a dozen pistols, two or three muskets, and twenty or thirty crackers were fired. This was intended as a feu-de-joie, and was supposed to mark the precise moment of our Saviour's resurrection. In a few moments the phrensy seemed to pass away; the noise fell from a wild clamour to a slow chant, and the procession returned to the church. The scene was striking, particularly the part outside the church; the dead of night; the waving of torches; the women with their long white dresses, and the children in their arms, &c.; but, from beginning to end, there was nothing solemn in it. Returned to the church, a priest came round with a picture of the Saviour risen; and, as far as I could make it out, holding in his hand the Greek flag, followed by another priest with a plate to receive contributions. He held out the picture to be kissed, then turned his hand to receive the same act of devotion, keeping his eye all the time upon the plate which followed to receive the offerings of the pious, as a sort of payment for the privilege of the kiss. His manner reminded me of the Dutch parson, who, immediately after pronouncing a couple man and wife, touching the bridegroom with his elbow, said, "And now where ish mine dollar?" I kissed the picture, dodged his knuckles, paid my money, and left the church. I had been there four hours, during which time, perhaps, more than a thousand persons had been completely absorbed in their religious ceremonies; and though beginning in the middle of the night, I have seen more yawning at the theatre or at an Italian opera than I saw there. They now began to disperse, though I remember I left a crowd of regular amateurs, at the head of whom were our sailors, still hanging round the desk of an exhorting priest, with an earnestness that showed a still craving appetite. I do not wonder that the Turks look with contempt upon Christians, for they have constantly under their eyes the disgusting mummeries of the Greek church, and see nothing of the pure and sublime principles our religion inculcates. Still, however, there was something striking and interesting in the manner in which the Greeks in this Turkish town had kept themselves, as it were, a peculiar people, and, in spite of the brands of "dog" and "infidel," held fast to the religion they received from their fathers. There was nothing interesting about them as Greeks; they had taken no part with their countrymen in their glorious struggle for liberty; they were engaged in petty business, and bartered the precious chance of freedom once before them for base profits and ignoble ease; and even now were content to live in chains, and kiss the rod that smote them. We returned to the house where we had slept; and, after coffee, in company with our host and his father, the priest, sat down to a meal, in which, for the first time in forty days, they ate meat. I had often remarked the religious observance of fast days among the common people in Greece. In travelling there I had more than once offered an egg to my guide on a fast day, but never could get one to accept anything that came so near to animal food, though, by a strange confusion of the principles of religious obligation, perhaps the same man would not have hesitated to commit murder if he had any inducement to do so. Mrs. Hill, at Athens, told me that, upon one occasion, a little girl in her school refused to eat a piece of cake because it was made with eggs. At daylight I was lying on the floor looking through a crevice of the window-shutter at the door of the minaret, waiting for the muezzin's morning cry to prayer. At six o'clock I went out, and finding the wind still in the same quarter, without any apparent prospect of change, determined, at all hazards, to leave the vessel and go on by land. My friend and fellow-passenger was also very anxious to get to Smyrna, but would not accompany me, from an indefinite apprehension of plague, robbers, &c. I had heard so many of these rumours, all of which had proved to be unfounded, that I put no faith in any of them. I found a Turk who engaged to take me through in fourteen hours; and at seven o'clock I was in my saddle, charged with a dozen letters from captains, supercargoes, and passengers, whom I left behind waiting for a change of wind. My Tartar was a big swarthy fellow, with an extent of beard and mustaches unusual even among his bearded countrymen. He was armed with a pair of enormous pistols and a yataghan, and was, altogether, a formidable fellow to look upon. But there was a something about him that I liked. There was a doggedness, a downright stubbornness that seemed honest. I knew nothing about him. I picked him up in the street, and took him in preference to others who offered, because he would not be beaten down in his price. When he saw me seated on my horse he stood by my side a little distance off, and looking at me without opening his lips, drew his belt tight around him, and adjusted his pistols and yataghan. His manner seemed to say that he took charge of me as a bale of goods, to be paid for on safe delivery, and that he would carry me through with fire and sword, if necessary. And now, said I, "Let fate do her worst;" I have a good horse under me, and in fourteen hours I shall be in Smyrna. "Blow winds and crack your cheeks;" I defy you. My Tartar led off at a brisk trot, never opening his lips nor turning his head except occasionally to see how I followed him across a stream. At about ten o'clock he turned off from the horse-path into a piece of fine pasture, and, slipping the bridle off his horse, turned him loose to feed. He then did the same with mine, and, spreading my cloak on the ground for me to sit upon, sat down by my side and opened his wallet. His manner seemed to intimate a disposition to throw provisions into a common stock, no doubt expecting the gain to be on his side; but as I could only contribute a couple of rolls of bread which I bought as we rode through the town, I am inclined to think that he considered me rather a sponge. While we were sitting there a travelling party came up, consisting of five Turks and three women. The women were on horseback, riding crosswise, though there were so many quilts, cushions, &c., piled on the backs of their horses that they sat rather on seats than on saddles. After a few words of parley with my Tartar, the men lifted the women from the horses, taking them in their arms, and, as it were, hauling them off, not very gracefully, but very kindly; and, spreading their quilts on the ground a short distance from us, turned their horses loose to feed, and sat down to make their morning meal. An unusual and happy thing for me the women had their faces uncovered nearly all the time, though they could not well have carried on the process of eating with them muffled up in the usual style. One of the women was old, the other two were exceedingly young; neither of them more than sixteen; each had a child in her arms, and, without any allowance for time and place, both were exceedingly beautiful. I do not say so under the influence of the particular circumstances of our meeting, nor with the view of making an incident of it, but I would have singled them out as such if I had met them in a ballroom at home. I was particularly struck with their delicacy of figure and complexion. Notwithstanding their laughing faces, their mirth, and the kind treatment of the men, I could not divest myself of the idea that they were caged birds longing to be free. I could not believe that a woman belonging to a Turk could be otherwise than unhappy. Unfortunately, I could not understand a word of their language; and as they looked from their turbaned lords to my stiff hat and frockcoat, they seemed to regard me as something the Tartar had just caught and was taking up to Constantinople as a present to the sultan. I endeavoured to show, however, that I was not the wild thing they took me to be; that I had an eye to admire their beauty, and a heart to feel for their servitude. I tried to procure from them some signal of distress; I did all that I could to get some sign to come to their rescue, and to make myself generally agreeable. I looked sentimentally. This they did not seem to understand at all. I smiled; this seemed to please them better; and there is no knowing to what a point I might have arrived, but my Tartar hurried me away; and I parted on the wild plains of Turkey with two young and beautiful women, leading almost a savage life, whose personal graces would have made them ornaments in polished and refined society. Verily, said I, the Turks are not so bad, after all; they have handsome wives, and a handsome wife comes next after chibouks and coffee. I was now reminded at every step of my being in an oriental country by the caravans I was constantly meeting. Caravans and camels are more or less associated with all the fairy scenes and glowing pictures of the East. They have always presented themselves to my mind with a sort of poetical imagery, and they certainly have a fine effect in a description or in a picture; but, after all, they are ugly-looking things to meet on the road. I would rather see the two young Turk-_esses_ again than all the caravans in the East. The caravan is conducted by a guide on a donkey, with a halter attached to the first camel, and so on from camel to camel through the whole caravan. The camel is an exceedingly ugly animal in his proportions, and there is a dead uniformity in his movement; with a dead, vacant expression in his face, that is really distressing. If a man were dying of thirst in the desert, it would be enough to drive him to distraction to look in the cool, unconcerned, and imperturbable face of his camel. But their value is inestimable in a country like this, where there are no carriage roads, and where deserts and drought present themselves in every direction. One of the camel scenes, the encampment, is very picturesque, the camels arranged around on their knees in a circle, with their heads to the centre, and the camel-drivers with their bales piled up within; and I was struck with another scene; we came to the borders of a stream, which it was necessary to cross in a boat. The boat was then on the other side, and the boatman and camel driver were trying to get on board some camels. When we came up they had got three on board, down on their knees in the bottom of the boat, and were then in the act of coercing the fourth. The poor brute was frightened terribly; resisted with all his might, and put forth most piteous cries; I do not know a more distressing noise than the cry of a brute suffering from fear; it seems to partake of the feeling that causes it, and carries with it something fearful; but the cries of the poor brute were vain; they got him on board, and in the same way urged on board three others. They then threw in the donkey, and seven camels and the donkey were so stowed in the bottom of the boat, that they did not take up much more room than calves on board of our country boats. In the afternoon I met another travelling party of an entirely different description. If before I had occasionally any doubts or misgivings as to the reality of my situation; if sometimes it seemed to be merely a dream, that it could not be that I was so far from home, wandering alone on the plains of Asia, with a guide whom I never saw till that morning, whose language I could not understand, and upon whose faith I could not rely; if the scenes of turbaned Turks, of veiled women, of caravans and camels, of graveyards with their mourning cypress and thousands of tombstones, where every trace of the cities which supplied them with their dead had entirely disappeared; if these and the other strange scenes around me would seem to be the mere creations of a roving imagination, the party which I met now was so marked in its character, so peculiar to an oriental country, and to an oriental country only, that it roused me from my waking dreams, fixed my wandering thoughts, and convinced me, beyond all peradventure, that I was indeed far from home, among a people "whose thoughts are not as our thoughts, and whose ways are not as our ways;" in short, in a land where ladies are not the omnipotent creatures that they are with us. This party was no other than the ladies of a harem. They were all dressed in white, with their white shawls wrapped around their faces, so that they effectually concealed every feature, and could bring to bear only the artillery of their eyes. I found this, however, to be very potent, as it left so much room for the imagination; and it was a very easy matter to make a Fatima of every one of them. They were all on horseback, not riding sidewise, but _otherwise_; though I observed, as before, that their saddles were so prepared that their delicate limbs were not subject to that extreme expansion required by the saddle of the rougher sex. They were escorted by a party of armed Turks, and followed by a man in Frank dress, who, as I after understood, was the physician of the harem. They were thirteen in number, just a baker's dozen, and belonged to a pacha who was making his annual tour of the different posts under his government, and had sent them on before to have the household matters all arranged upon his arrival. And no doubt, also, they were to be in readiness to receive him with their smiles; and if they continued in the same humour in which I saw them, he must have been a happy man who could call them all his own. I had not fairly recovered from the cries of the poor camel when I heard their merry voices: verily, thought I, stopping to catch the last musical notes, there are exceedingly good points about the Turks: chibouks, coffee, and as many wives as they please. It made me whistle to think of it. Oh, thought I, that some of our ladies could see these things; that some haughty beauty, at whose feet dozens of worthy and amiable young gentlemen are sighing themselves into premature wrinkles and ugliness, might see these things. I am no rash innovator. I would not sweep away the established customs of our state of society. I would not lay my meddling fingers upon the admitted prerogatives of our ladies; but I cannot help asking myself if, in the rapid changes of this turning world, changes which completely alter rocks and the hardest substances of nature, it may not by possibility happen that the tenour of a lady's humour will change. What a goodly spectacle to see those who are never content without a dozen admirers in their train, following by dozens in the train of one man! But I fear me much that this will never be, at least in our day. Our system of education is radically wrong. The human mind, says some philosopher, and the gentleman is right, is like the sand upon the shore of the sea. You may write upon it what character you please. _We_ begin by writing upon their innocent unformed minds, that, "Born for their use, we live but to oblige them." The consequence is, I will not say what; for I hope to return among them and kiss the rod in some fair hand; but this I do know, that here the "twig is so bent" that they become as gentle, as docile, and as tractable as any domestic animal. I say again, there are many exceeding good points about the Turks. At about six o'clock we came in sight of Smyrna, on the opposite side of the gulf, and still a long way off. At dusk we were directly opposite the city; and although we had yet to make a long circuit round the head of the gulf, I was revelling in the bright prospect before me. Dreams of pulling off my pantaloons; delightful visions of clean sheets and a Christian bed flitted before my eyes. Yes, said I to my pantaloons and shirt, ye worthy and faithful servants, this night ye shall have rest. While other garments have fallen from me by the way, ye have stuck to me. And thou, my gray pantaloons, little did the neat Parisian tailor who made thee think that the strength of his stitching would ever be tested by three weeks' uninterrupted wear; but to-morrow thou shalt go into the hands of a master, who shall sew on thy buttons and sew up thy rents; and thou, my--I was going on with words of the same affectionate import to my shirt, stockings, and drawers, which, however, did not deserve so well of me, for they had in a measure _dropped off_ on the way, when my Tartar came to a dead stop before the door of a cabin, dismounted, and made signs to me to do the same. But I began now to have some notions of my own; heretofore I had been perfectly passive; I had always done as I was told, but in sight of Smyrna I became restiff. I talked and shouted to him, pointed to the city, and turned my horse as though I was going on alone. My Tartar, however, paid no attention to me; he very coolly took off my carpet-bag and carried it into the cabin, lighted his pipe, and sat down by the door, looking at me with the most imperturbable gravity. I had hardly had time to admire his impudence, and to calculate the chances of my being able, alone at night, to cross the many streams which emptied into the gulf, when the wind, which had been rising for some time, became very violent, and the rain began to fall in torrents. With a sigh I bade farewell to the bright visions that had deluded me, gave another sigh to the uncertainty of all human calculations, the cup and the lip, &c., and took refuge in the cabin. What a substitute for the pretty little picture I had drawn! Three Turks were sitting round a brazier of charcoal frying doughballs. Three rugs were spread in three corners of the cabin, and over each of them were the eternal pistols and yataghan. There was nothing there to defend; their miserable lives were not worth taking; why were these weapons there? The Turks at first took no notice of me, and I had now to make amends for my backwardness in entering. I resolved to go to work boldly, and at once elbowed among them for a seat around the brazier. The one next me on my right seemed a little struck by my easy ways; he put his hand on his ribs to feel how far my elbow had penetrated, and then took his pipe from his mouth and offered it to me. The ice broken, I smoked the pipe to the last whiff, and handed it to him to be refilled; with all the horrors of dyspepsy before my eyes, I scrambled with them for the last doughball, and, when the attention of all of them was particularly directed toward me, took out my watch, held it over the lamp, and wound it up. I addressed myself particularly to the one who had first taken notice of me, and made myself extremely agreeable by always smoking his pipe. After coffee and half a dozen pipes, he gave me to understand that I was to sleep with him upon his mat, at which I slapped him on the back and cried out, "Bono," having heard him use that word apparently with a knowledge of its meaning. I was surprised in the course of the evening to see one of them begin to undress, knowing that such was not the custom of the country, but found that it was only a temporary disrobing for sporting purposes, to hunt fleas and bedbugs; by which I had an opportunity of comparing the Turkish with some I had brought with me from Greece; and though the Turk had great reason to be proud of his, I had no reason to be ashamed of mine. I now began to be drowsy, and should soon have fallen asleep; but the youngest of the party, a sickly and sentimental young man, melancholy and musical, and, no doubt, in love, brought out the common Turkish instrument, a sort of guitar, on which he worked with untiring vivacity, keeping time with his head and heels. My friend accompanied him with his voice, and this brought out my Tartar, who joined in with groans and grunts which might have waked the dead. But my cup was not yet full. During the musical festival my friend and intended bedfellow took down from a shelf above me a large plaster, which he warmed over the brazier. He then unrolled his turban, took off a plaster from the back of his head, and disclosed a wound, raw, gory, and ghastly, that made my heart sink within me: I knew that the plague was about Smyrna; I had heard that it was on this road; I involuntarily recurred to the Italian prayer, "Save me from the three miseries of the Levant: plague, fire, and the dragoman." I shut my eyes; I had slept but two hours the night before; had ridden twelve hours that day on horseback; I drew my cloak around me; my head sank upon my carpet-bag, and I fell asleep, leaving the four Turks playing cards on the bottom of a pewter plate. Once during the night I was awakened by my bedfellow's mustaches tickling my lips. I turned my back and slept on. In the morning my Tartar, with one jerk, stood me upright on the floor, and holding me in that position until I got awake, kicked open the door, and pointed to my horse standing before it ready saddled and bridled. In three hours I was crossing the caravan bridge, a bridge over the beautiful Melissus, on the banks of which Homer was born; and picking my way among caravans, which for ages have continued to cross this bridge laden with all the riches of the East, I entered the long-looked-for city of Smyrna, a city that has braved the reiterated efforts of conflagrations, plagues, and earthquakes; ten times destroyed, and ten times risen from her ruins; the queen of the cities of Anatolia; extolled by the ancients as Smyrna the lovely, the crown of Ionia, the pride of Asia. But old things have passed away, and the ancient city now figures only under the head of arrivals in a newspaper, in the words and figures following, that is to say, "Brig Betsy, Baker master, 57 days from Smyrna, with figs and raisins to order. Mastic dull, opium rising." In half an hour I was in the full enjoyment of a Turkish bath; lolled half an hour on a divan, with chibouk and coffee, and came out fresh as if I had spent the last three weeks training for the ring. Oh, these Turks are luxurious dogs. Chibouks, coffee, hot baths, and as many wives as they please. What a catalogue of human enjoyments! But I intend Smyrna as a place of rest, and, in charity, give you the benefit, of it. **** CHAPTER IX. First Sight of Smyrna.--Unveiled Women.--Ruins of Ephesus.--Ruin, all Ruin.--Temple of Diana.--Encounter with a Wolf.--Love at first Sight.--Gatherings on the Road. (_Another letter._) MY DEAR ****, AFTER my bath I returned to my hotel, breakfasted, and sallied out for a walk. It was now about twelve o'clock, Sunday--the first Sunday after Easter--and all the Frank population was in the streets. My hotel was in an out-of-the-way quarter, and when, turning a corner, I suddenly found myself in the main street, I was not prepared for the sight that met my eye. Paris on a fête day does not present so gay and animated a scene. It was gay, animated, striking, and beautiful, and entirely different from anything I had ever seen in any European city. Franks, Jews, Greeks, Turks, and Armenians, in their various and striking costumes, were mingled together in agreeable confusion; and making all due allowance for the circumstance that I had for some time been debarred the sight of an unveiled woman, I certainly never saw so much beauty, and I never saw a costume so admirably calculated to set off beauty. At the same time the costume is exceedingly trying to a lady's pretensions. Being no better than one of the uninitiated, I shall not venture upon such dangerous ground as a lady's toilet. I will merely refer to that part which particularly struck me, and that is the headdress; no odious broad-brimmed hat; no enormous veils enveloping nose, mouth, and eyes; but simply a large gauze turban, sitting lightly and gracefully on the head, rolled back over the forehead, leaving the whole face completely exposed, and exhibiting clear dark complexions, rosy lips closing over teeth of dazzling whiteness; and then such eyes, large, dark, and rolling. It is matter of history, and it is confirmed by poetry, that "The angelic youths of old, Burning for maids of mortal mould, Bewildered, left the glorious skies, And lost their heaven for woman's eyes." My dear friend, this is the country where such things happened; the throne of the Thunderer, high Olympus, is almost in sight, and these are the daughters of the women who worked such miracles. If the age of passion, like the age of chivalry, were not over and for ever gone, if this were not emphatically a bank-note world, I would say of the Smyrniotes, above all others, that they are that description of women who could "Raise a mortal to the skies, Or bring an angel down." And they walk, too, as if conscious of their high pretensions, as if conscious that the reign of beauty is not yet ended; and, under that enchanting turban, charge with the whole artillery of their charms. It is a perfect unmasked battery; nothing can stand before it. I wonder the sultan allows it. The Turks are as touchy as tinder; they take fire as quick as any of the old demigods, and a pair of black eyes is at any time enough to put mischief in them. But the Turks are a considerate people. They consider that the Franks, or rather the Greeks, to whom I particularly refer, have periodical fits of insanity that they go mad twice a year during carnival and after Lent; and if at such a time a follower of the Prophet, accidentally straggling in the Frank quarter, should find the current of his blood disturbed, he would sooner die, nay, he would sooner cut off his beard, than hurt a hair of any one of the light heads that he sees flitting before him. There is something remarkable, by-the-way, in the tenacity with which the Grecian women have sustained the rights and prerogatives of beauty in defiance of Turkish customs and prejudices; while the men have fallen into the habits of their quondam masters, have taken to pipes and coffee, and in many instances to turbans and big trousers, the women have ever gone with their faces uncovered, and to this day one and all eschew the veil of the Turkish women. Pleased and amused with myself and everything I saw, I moved along unnoticed and unknown, staring, observing, and admiring; among other things, I observed that one of the amiable customs of our own city was in full force here, viz., that of the young gentlemen, with light sticks in their hands, gathering around the door of the fashionable church to stare at the ladies as they came out. I was pleased to find such a mark of civilization in a land of barbarians, and immediately fell into a thing which seemed so much like home; but, in justice to the Smyrniote ladies, I must say I cannot flatter myself that I stared a single one out of countenance. But I need not attempt to interest you in Smyrna; it is too every-day a place; every Cape Cod sailor knows it better than I do. I have done all that I could; I have waived the musty reminiscences of its history; I have waived ruins which are said to exist here, and have endeavoured to give you a faint but true picture of its living and existing beauties, of the bright and beautiful scene that broke upon me the first morning of my arrival; and now, if I have not touched you with the beauty of its women, I should despair of doing so by any description of its beautiful climate, its charming environs, and its hospitable society. Leave, then, what is, after all, but the city of figs and raisins, and go with me where, by comparison, the foot of civilized man seldom treads; go with me into the desert and solitary places; go with me among the cities of the seven churches of Asia; and, first, to the ruins of Ephesus. I had been several days expecting a companion to make this tour with me, but, being disappointed, was obliged to set out alone. I was not exactly alone, for I had with me a Turk as guide and a Greek as cicerone and interpreter, both well mounted and armed to the teeth. We started at two o'clock in the morning, under the light of thousands of stars; and the day broke upon us in a country wild and desolate, as if it were removed thousands of miles from the habitations of men. There was little variety and little incident in our ride. During the whole day it lay through a country decidedly handsome, the soil rich and fertile, but showing with appalling force the fatal effects of misgovernment, wholly uncultivated, and almost wholly uninhabited. Indeed, the only habitations were the little Turkish coffee-houses and the black tents of the Turcomans. These are a wandering tribe, who come out from the desert, and approach comparatively near the abodes of civilization. They are a pastoral people; their riches are their flocks and herds; they lead a wandering life, free as the air they breathe; they have no local attachments; to-day they pitch their tents on the hillside, to-morrow on the plain; and wherever they sit themselves down, all that they have on earth, wife, children, and friends, are immediately around them. There is something primitive, almost patriarchal, in their appearance; indeed, it carries one back to a simple and perhaps a purer age, and you can almost realize that state of society when the patriarch sat in the door of his tent and called in and fed the passing traveller. The general character of the road is such as to prepare one for the scene that awaits him at Ephesus; enormous burying-grounds, with thousands of headstones shaded by the mourning cypress, in the midst of a desolate country, where not a vestige of a human habitation is to be seen. They stand on the roadside as melancholy telltales that large towns or cities once existed in their immediate neighbourhood, and that the generations who occupied them have passed away, furnishing fearful evidence of the decrease of the Turkish population, and perhaps that the gigantic empire of the Ottoman is tottering to its fall. For about three hours before reaching Ephesus, the road, crossing a rich and beautiful plain watered by the Cayster, lies between two mountains; that on the right leads to the sea, and on the left are the ruins of Ephesus. Near, and in the immediate vicinity, storks were calmly marching over the plain and building among the ruins; they moved as if seldom disturbed by human footsteps, and seemed to look upon us as intruders upon a spot for a long time abandoned to birds and beasts of prey. About a mile this side are the remains of the Turkish city of Aysalook, or Temple of the Moon, a city of comparatively modern date, reared into a brief magnificence out of the ruins of its fallen neighbour. A sharp hill, almost a mountain, rises abruptly from the plain, on the top of which is a ruined fortress, with many ruins of Turkish magnificence at the base; broken columns, baths overgrown with ivy, and the remains of a grand mosque, the roof sustained by four granite columns from the Temple of Diana; the minaret fallen, the mosque deserted; the Mussulman no more goes there to pray; bats and owls were building in its lofty roof, and snakes and lizards were crawling over its marble floor. It was late in the afternoon when I arrived at the little coffee-house at Aysalook; a caravan had already encamped under some fine old sycamores before the door, preparatory to passing the night. I was somewhat fatigued, and my Greek, who had me in charge, was disposed to stop and wait for the morrow; but the fallen city was on the opposite hill at but a short distance, and the shades of evening seemed well calculated to heighten the effect of a ramble among its ruins. In a right line it was not more than half a mile, but we soon found that we could not go directly to it; a piece of low swampy ground lay between, and we had not gone far before our horses sank up to their saddle-girths. We were obliged to retrace our steps, and work our way around by a circuitous route of more than two miles. This, too, added to the effect of our approach. It was a dreary reflection, that a city, whose ports and whose gates had been open to the commerce of the then known world; whose wealth had invited the traveller and sojourner within its walls should lie a ruin upon a hillside, with swamps and morasses extending around it, in sight but out of reach, near but unapproachable. A warning voice seemed to issue from the ruins, "_Procul, procul, este profani_," my day is past, my sun is set, I have gone to my grave; pass on, stranger, and disturb not the ashes of the dead. But my Turk did not understand Latin, and we continued to advance. We moved along in perfect silence, for besides that my Turk never spoke, and my Greek, who was generally loquacious enough, was out of humour at being obliged to go on, we had enough to do in picking our lonely way. But silence best suited the scene; the sound of the human voice seemed almost a mockery of fallen greatness. We entered by a large and ruined gateway into a place distinctly marked as having been a street, and, from the broken columns strewed on each side, probably having been lined with a colonnade. I let my reins fall upon my horse's neck; he moved about in the slow and desultory way that suited my humour; now sinking to his knees in heaps of rubbish, now stumbling over a Corinthian capital, and now sliding over a marble pavement. The whole hillside is covered with ruins to an extent far greater than I expected to find, and they are all of a kind that tends to give a high idea of the ancient magnificence of the city. To me, these ruins appeared to be a confused and shapeless mass; but they have been examined by antiquaries with great care, and the character of many of them identified with great certainty. I had, however, no time for details; and, indeed, the interest of these ruins in my eyes was not in the details. It mattered little to me that this was the stadium and that a fountain; that this was a gymnasium and that a market-place; it was enough to know that the broken columns, the mouldering walls, the grass-grown streets, and the wide-extended scene of desolation and ruin around me were all that remained of one of the greatest cities of Asia, one of the earliest Christian cities in the world. But what do I say? Who does not remember the tumults and confusion raised by Demetrius the silversmith, "lest the temple of the great goddess Diana should be despised, and her magnificence be destroyed;" and how the people, having caught "Caius and Aristarchus, Paul's companions in travel," rushed with one accord into the theatre, crying out, "great is Diana of the Ephesians." My dear friend, I sat among the ruins of that theatre; the stillness of death was around me; far as the eye could reach, not a living soul was to be seen save my two companions and a group of lazy Turks smoking at the coffee-house in Aysalook. A man of strong imagination might almost go wild with the intensity of his own reflections; and do not let it surprise you, that even one like me, brought up among the technicalities of declarations and replications, rebutters and surrebutters, and in nowise given to the illusions of the senses, should find himself roused, and irresistibly hurried back to the time when the shapeless and confused mass around him formed one of the most magnificent cities in the world; when a large and busy population was hurrying through its streets, intent upon the same pleasures and the same business that engage men now; that he should, in imagination, see before him St. Paul preaching to the Ephesians, shaking their faith in the gods of their fathers, gods made with their own hands; and the noise and confusion, and the people rushing tumultuously up the very steps where he sat; that he should almost hear their cry ringing in his ears, "Great is Diana of the Ephesians;" and then that he should turn from this scene of former glory and eternal ruin to his own far-distant land; a land that the wisest of the Ephesians never dreamed of; where the wild man was striving with the wild beast when the whole world rang with the greatness of the Ephesian name; and which bids fair to be growing greater and greater when the last vestige of Ephesus shall be gone and its very site unknown. But where is the temple of the great Diana, the temple two hundred and twenty years in building; the temple of one hundred and twenty-seven columns, each column the gift of a king? Can it be that the temple of the "Great goddess Diana," that the ornament of Asia, the pride of Ephesus, and one of the seven wonders of the world, has gone, disappeared, and left not a trace behind? As a traveller, I would fain be able to say that I have seen the ruins of this temple; but, unfortunately, I am obliged to limit myself by facts. Its site has of course engaged the attention of antiquaries. I am no skeptic in these matters, and am disposed to believe all that my cicerone tells me. You remember the countryman who complained to his minister that he never gave him any Latin in his sermons; and when the minister answered that he would not understand it, the countryman replied that he paid for the best, and ought to have it. I am like that honest countryman; but my cicerone understood himself better than the minister; he knew that I paid him for the best; he knew what was expected from him, and that his reputation was gone for ever if, in such a place as Ephesus, he could not point out the ruins of the great temple of Diana. He accordingly had _his_ temple, which he stuck to with as much pertinacity as if he had built it himself; but I am sorry to be obliged to say, in spite of his authority and my own wish to believe him, that the better opinion is, that now not a single stone is to be seen. Topographers have fixed the site on the plain, near the gate of the city which opened to the sea. The sea, which once almost washed the walls, has receded or been driven back for several miles. For many years a new soil has been accumulating, and all that stood on the plain, including so much of the remains of the temple as had not been plundered and carried away by different conquerors, is probably now buried many feet under its surface. It was dark when I returned to Aysalook. I had remarked, in passing, that several caravans had encamped there, and on my return found the camel-drivers assembled in the little coffee-house in which I was to pass the night. I soon saw that there were so many of us that we should make a tight fit in the sleeping part of the khan, and immediately measured off space enough to fit my body, allowing turning and kicking room. I looked with great complacency upon the light slippers of the Turks, which they always throw off, too, when they go to sleep, and made an ostentatious display of a pair of heavy iron-nailed boots, and, in lying down, gave one or two preliminary thumps to show them that I was restless in my movements, and, if they came too near me these iron-nailed boots would be uncomfortable neighbours. And here I ought to have spent half the night in musing upon the strange concatenation of circumstances which had broken up a quiet practising attorney, and sent him a straggler from a busy, money-getting land, to meditate among the ruins of ancient cities, and sleep pellmell with turbaned Turks. But I had no time for musing; I was amazingly tired; I looked at the group of Turks in one corner, and regretted that I could not talk with them; thought of the Tower of Babel and the wickedness of man, which brought about a confusion of tongues; of camel-drivers, and Arabian Nights' Entertainments; of home, and my own comfortable room in the third story; brought my boot down with a thump that made them all start, and in five minutes was asleep. In the morning I again went over to the ruins. Daylight, if possible, added to their effect; and a little thing occurred, not much in itself, but which, under the circumstances, fastened itself upon my mind in such a way that I shall never forget it. I had read that here, in the stillness of the night, the jackal's cry was heard; that, if a stone was rolled, a scorpion or lizard slipped from under it; and, while picking our way slowly along the lower part of the city, a wolf of the largest size came out above, as if indignant at being disturbed in his possessions. He moved a few paces toward us with such a resolute air that my companions both drew their pistols; then stopped, and gazed at us deliberately as we were receding from him, until, as if satisfied that we intended to leave his dominions, he turned and disappeared among the ruins. It would have made a fine picture; the Turk first, then the Greek, each with a pistol in his hand, then myself, all on horseback, the wolf above us, the valley, and the ruined city. I feel my inability to give you a true picture of these ruins. Indeed, if I could lay before you every particular, block for block, fragment for fragment, here a column and there a column, I could not convey a full idea of the desolation that marks the scene. To the Christian, the ruins of Ephesus carry with them a peculiar interest; for here, upon the wreck of heathen temples, was established one of the earliest Christian churches; but the Christian church has followed the heathen temple, and the worshippers of the true God have followed the worshippers of the great goddess Diana; and in the city where Paul preached, and where, in the words of the apostle, "much people were gathered unto the Lord," now not a solitary Christian dwells. Verily, in the prophetic language of inspiration, the "candlestick is removed from its place;" a curse seems to have fallen upon it, men shun it, not a human being is to be seen among its ruins; and Ephesus, in faded glory and fallen grandeur, is given up to birds and beasts of prey, a monument and a warning to nations. From Ephesus I went to Scala Nova, handsomely situated on the shore of the sea, and commanding a fine view of the beautiful Island of Samos, distant not more than four miles. I had a letter to a Greek merchant there, who received me kindly, and introduced me to the Turkish governor. The governor, as usual, was seated upon a divan, and asked us to take seats beside him. We were served with coffee and pipes by two handsome Greek slaves, boys about fourteen, with long hair hanging down their necks, and handsomely dressed; who, after serving us, descended from the platform, and waited with folded arms until we had finished. Soon after a third guest came, and a third lad, equally handsome and equally well dressed, served him in the same manner. This is the style of the Turkish grandees, a slave to every guest. I do not know to what extent it is carried, but am inclined to think that, in the present instance, if one or two more guests had happened to come in, my friend's retinue of slaves would have fallen short. The governor asked me from what country I came, and who was my king; and when I told him that we had no king, but a president, he said, very graciously, that our president and the grand seignior were very good friends; a compliment which I acknowledged with all becoming humility. Wanting to show off a little, I told him that we were going to fight the French, and he said we should certainly whip them if we could get the grand seignior to help us. I afterward called on my own account upon the English consul. The consuls in these little places are originals. They have nothing to do, but they have the government arms blazoned over their doors, and strut about in cocked hats and regimentals, and shake their heads, and look knowing, and talk about their government; they do not know what the government will think, &c., when half the time their government hardly knows of the existence of its worthy representatives. This was an old Maltese, who spoke French and Italian. He received me very kindly, and pressed me to stay all night. I told him that I was not an Englishman, and had no claim upon his hospitality; but he said that made no difference; that he was consul for all civilized nations, among which he did me the honour to include mine. At three o'clock I took leave of the consul. My Greek friend accompanied me outside the gate, where my horses were waiting for me; and, at parting, begged me to remember that I had a friend, who hardly knew what pleasure was except in serving me. I told him that the happiness of my life was not complete before I met him; we threw ourselves into each other's arms, and, after a two hours' acquaintance, could hardly tear away from each other's embraces. Such is the force of sympathy between congenial spirits. My friend was a man about fifty, square built, broad shouldered, and big mustached; and the beauty of it was, that neither could understand a word the other said; and all this touching interchange of sentiment had to pass through my mustached, big-whiskered, double-fisted, six-feet interpreter. At four o'clock we set out on our return; at seven we stopped in a beautiful valley surrounded by mountains, and on the sides of the mountains were a number of Turcomans tents. The khan was worse than any I had yet seen. It had no floor and no mat. The proprietor of the khan, if such a thing, consisting merely of four mud walls with a roof of branches, which seemed to have been laid there by the winds, could be said to have a proprietor, was uncommonly sociable; he set before me my supper, consisting of bread and yort--a preparation of milk--and appeared to be much amused at seeing me eat. He asked my guide many questions about me; examined my pistols, took off his turban, and put my hat upon his shaved head, which transformed him from a decidedly bold, slashing-looking fellow, into a decidedly sneaking-looking one. I had certainly got over all fastidiousness in regard to eating, drinking, and sleeping; but I could not stand the vermin at this khan. In the middle of the night I rose and went out of doors; it was a brilliant starlight night, and, as the bare earth was in any case to be my bed, I exchanged the mud floor of my khan for the greensward and the broad canopy of heaven. My Turk was sleeping on the ground, about a hundred yards from the house, with his horse grazing around him. I nestled close to him, and slept perhaps two hours. Toward morning I was awakened by the cold, and, with the selfishness of misery, I began punching my Turk under the ribs to wake him. This was no easy matter; but, after a while, I succeeded, got him to saddle the horses, and in a few minutes we were off, my Greek not at all pleased with having his slumbers so prematurely disturbed. At about two o'clock we passed some of the sultan's _volunteers_. These were about fifty men chained together by the wrists and ankles, who had been chased, run down, and caught in some of the villages, and were now on their way to Constantinople, under a guard, to be trained as soldiers. I could but smile as I saw them, not at them, for, in truth, there was nothing in their condition to excite a smile, but at the recollection of an article I had seen a few days before in a European paper, which referred to the new levies making by the sultan, and the spirit with which his subjects entered into the service. They were a speaking comment upon European insight into Turkish politics. But, without more ado, suffice it to say, that at about four o'clock I found myself at the door of my hotel, my outer garments so covered with creeping things that my landlord, a prudent Swiss, with many apologies, begged me to shake myself before going into the house; and my nether garments so stained with blood, that I looked as if a corps of the sultan's regulars had pricked me with their bayonets. My enthusiasm on the subject of the seven churches was in no small degree abated, and just at that moment I was willing to take upon trust the condition of the others, that all that was foretold of them in the Scriptures had come to pass. I again betook me to the bath, and, in thinking of the luxury of my repose, I feel for you, and come to a full stop. **** CHAPTER X. Position of Smyrna.--Consular Privileges.--The Case of the Lover.--End of the Love Affair.--The Missionary's Wife.--The Casino.--Only a Greek Row.--Rambles in Smyrna.--The Armenians.--Domestic Enjoyments. BUT I must go back a little, and make the amende honourable, for, in truth, Ghiaour Ismir, or Infidel Smyrna, with its wild admixture of European and Asiatic population, deserves better than the rather cavalier notice contained in my letter. Before reaching it I had remarked its exceeding beauty of position, chosen as it is with that happy taste which distinguished the Greeks in selecting the sites of their ancient cities, on the declivity of a mountain running down to the shore of the bay, with houses rising in terraces on its sides; its domes and minarets, interspersed with cypresses, rising above the tiers of houses, and the summit of the hill crowned with a large solitary castle. It was the first large Turkish city I had seen, and it differed, too, from all other Turkish cities in the strong foothold obtained there by Europeans. Indeed, remembering it as a place where often, and within a very few years, upon a sudden outbreaking of popular fury, the streets were deluged with Christian blood, I was particularly struck, not only with the air of confidence and security, but, in fact, with the bearing of superiority assumed by the "Christian dog!" among the followers of the Prophet. Directly on the bay is a row of large houses running along the whole front of the city, among which are seen emblazoned over the doors the arms of most of the foreign consuls, including the American. By the treaties of the Porte with Christian powers, the Turkish tribunals have no jurisdiction of matters touching the rights of foreign residents; and all disputes between these, and even criminal offences, fall under the cognizance of their respective consuls. This gives the consuls in all the maritime ports of Turkey great power and position; and all over the Levant they are great people; but at Smyrna they are far more important than ambassadors and ministers at the European capitals; and, with their janisaries and their appearance on all public occasions in uniform, are looked up to by the Levantines somewhat like the consuls sent abroad under the Roman empire, and by the Turks as almost sultans. The morning after my arrival I delivered letters of introduction to Mr. Offley, the American consul, a native of Philadelphia, thirty years resident in Smyrna, and married to an Armenian lady, Mr. Langdon, a merchant of Boston, and Mr. Styth, of Baltimore, of the firm of Issaverdens, Styth, and Company; one to Mr. Jetter, a German missionary, whose lady told me, while her husband was reading it, that she had met me in the street the day before, and on her return home told him that an American had just arrived. I was curious to know the mark by which she recognised me as an American, being rather dubious whether it was by reason of anything praiseworthy or the reverse; but she could not tell. I trust the reader has not forgotten the victim of the tender passion who, in the moment of my leaving Athens, had reposed in my sympathizing bosom the burden of his hopes and fears. At the very first house in which I was introduced to the female members of the family, I found making a morning call the lady who had made such inroads upon his affections. I had already heard her spoken of as being the largest fortune, and, par consequence, the greatest belle in Smyrna, and I hailed it as a favourable omen that I accidentally made her acquaintance so soon after my arrival. I made my observations, and could not help remarking that she was by no means pining away on account of the absence of my friend. I was almost indignant at her heartless happiness, and, taking advantage of an opportunity, introduced his name, hoping to see a shade come over her, and, perhaps, to strike her pensive for two or three minutes; but her comment was a deathblow to my friend's prospects and my mediation: "Poor M.!" and all present repeated "Poor M.!" with a portentous smile, and the next moment had forgotten his existence. I went away in the full conviction that it was all over with "Poor M.!" and murmuring to myself, Put not your trust in woman, I dined, and in the afternoon called with my letter of introduction upon his friend the Rev. Mr. Brewer, and Mr. Brewer's comment on reading it was about equal to the lady's "Poor M.!" He asked me in what condition I left our unfortunate friend. I told him his _leg_ was pretty bad, though he continued to hobble about; but Mr. Brewer interrupted me; he did not mean his leg, but, he hesitated and with reluctance, as if he wished to avoid speaking of it outright, added, _his mind_. I did not comprehend him, and, from his hesitation and delicacy, imagined that he was alluding to the lover's heart; but he cleared the matter up, and to my no small surprise, by telling me that, some time before he left Smyrna, "Poor M." had shown such strong marks of aberration of intellect, that his friends had deemed it advisable to put him under the charge of a brother missionary and send him home, and that they hoped great benefit from travel and change of scene. I was surprised, and by no means elevated in my own conceit, when I found that I had been made the confidant of a crazy man. Mr. Hill, not knowing of any particular intimacy between us, and probably not wishing to publish his misfortune unnecessarily, had not given me the slightest intimation of it, and I had not discovered it. I had considered his communication to me strange, and his general conduct not less so, but I had no idea that it was anything more than the ordinary derangement which every man is said to labour under when in love. I then told Mr. Brewer my story, and the commission with which I was intrusted, which he said was perfectly characteristic, his malady being a sort of monomania on the subject of the tender passion; and every particle of interest which I might nevertheless have taken in the affair, in connecting his derangement in some way with the lady in question, was destroyed by the volatile direction of his passion, sometimes to one object and sometimes with another; and in regard to the lady to whom I was accredited, he had never shown any penchant toward her in particular, and must have given me her name because it happened to be the first that suggested itself at the moment of his unburdening himself to me. Fortunately, I had not exposed myself by any demonstrations in behalf of my friend, so I quietly dropped him. On leaving Mr. Brewer I suggested a doubt whether I could be regarded as an acquaintance upon the introduction of a crazy man; but we had gone so far that it was decided, for that specific purpose, to admit his sanity. I should not mention these particulars if there was any possibility of their ever wounding the feelings of him to whom they refer; but he is now beyond the reach either of calumny or praise, for about a year after I heard, with great regret, that his malady had increased, accompanied with a general derangement of health; and, shortly after his return home, he died. My intercourse with the Franks was confined principally to my own countrymen, whose houses were open to me at all times; and I cannot help mentioning the name of Mr. Van Lennup, the Dutch consul, the great friend of the missionaries in the Levant, who had been two years resident in the United States, and was intimately acquainted with many of my friends at home. Society in Smyrna is purely mercantile; and having been so long out of the way of it, it was actually grateful to me once more to hear men talking with all their souls about cotton, stocks, exchanges, and other topics of _interest_, in the literal meaning of the word. Sometimes lounging in a merchant's counting-room, I took up an American paper, and heard Boston, and New-York, and Baltimore, and cotton, and opium, and freight, and quarter per cent. less bandied about, until I almost fancied myself at home; and when this became too severe I had a resource with the missionaries, gentlemanly and well-educated men, well acquainted with the countries and the places worth visiting, with just the books I wanted, and, I had almost said, the wives; I mean with wives always glad to see a countryman, and to talk about home. There is something exceedingly interesting in a missionary's wife. A soldier's is more so, for she follows him to danger and, perhaps, to death; but glory waits him if he falls, and while she weeps she is proud. Before I went abroad the only missionary I ever knew I despised, for I believed him to be a canting hypocrite; but I saw much of them abroad, and made many warm friends among them; and, I repeat it, there is something exceedingly interesting in a missionary's wife. She who had been cherished as a plant that the winds must not breathe on too rudely, recovers from the shock of a separation from her friends to find herself in a land of barbarians, where her loud cry of distress can never reach their ears. New ties twine round her heart, and the tender and helpless girl changes her very nature, and becomes the staff and support of the man. In his hours of despondency she raises his drooping spirits; she bathes his aching head; she smooths his pillow of sickness; and, after months of wearisome silence, I have entered her dwelling, and her heart instinctively told her that I was from the same land. I have been welcomed as a brother; answered her hurried, and anxious, and eager questions; and sometimes, when I have known any of her friends at home, I have been for a moment more than recompensed for all the toils and privations of a traveller in the East. I have left her dwelling burdened with remembrances to friends whom she will perhaps never see again. I bore a letter to a father, which was opened by a widowed mother. Where I could, I have discharged every promise to a missionary's wife; but I have some yet undischarged which I rank among the sacred obligations of my life. It is true, the path of the missionary is not strewed with roses; but often, in leaving his house at night, and following my guide with a lantern through the narrow streets of a Turkish city, I have run over the troubles incident to every condition of life, not forgetting those of a traveller, and have taken to whistling, and, as I stumbled into the gate of an old convent, have murmured involuntarily, "After all, these missionaries are happy fellows." Every stranger, upon his arrival in Smyrna, is introduced at the casino. I went there the first time to a concert. It is a large building, erected by a club of merchants, with a suite of rooms on the lower floor, billiards, cards, reading and sitting room, and a ball room above covering the whole. The concert was given in the ballroom, and, from what I had seen in the streets, I expected an extraordinary display of beauty; but I was much disappointed. The company consisted only of the aristocracy or higher mercantile classes, the families of the gentlemen composing the club, and excluded the Greek and Smyrniote women, among whom is found a great portion of the beauty of the place. A patent of nobility in Smyrna, as in our own city, is founded upon the time since the possessor gave up selling goods, or the number of consignments he receives in the course of a year. The casino, by-the-way, is a very aristocratic institution, and sometimes knotty questions occur in its management. Captains of merchant vessels are not admitted. A man came out as owner of a vessel and cargo, and also master: _quere_, could he be admitted? His consignee said yes; but the majority, not being interested in the sales of his cargo, went for a strict construction, and excluded him. The population of Smyrna, professing three distinct religions, observe three different Sabbaths; the Mohammedans Friday, the Jews Saturday, and the Christians Sunday, so that there are only four days in the week in which all the shops and bazars are open together, and there are so many fête days that these are much broken in upon. The most perfect toleration prevails, and the religious festivals of the Greeks often terminate in midnight orgies which debase and degrade the Christian in the eyes of the pious Mussulman. On Saturday morning I was roused from my bed by a loud cry and the tramp of a crowd through the street. I ran to my window, and saw a Greek tearing down the street at full speed, and another after him with a drawn yataghan in his hand; the latter gained ground at every step, and, just as he turned the corner, stabbed the first in the back. He returned with the bloody poniard in his hand, followed by the crowd, and rushed into a little Greek drinking-shop next door to my hotel. There was a loud noise and scuffling inside, and presently I saw him pitched out headlong into the street, and the door closed upon him. In a phrensy of passion he rushed back, and drove his yataghan with all his force into the door, stamped against it with his feet, and battered it with stones; unable to force it open, he sat down on the opposite side of the street, occasionally renewing his attack upon the door, talking violently with those inside, and sometimes the whole crowd laughing loud at the answers from within. Nobody attempted to interfere. Giusseppi, my host, said it was only a row among the Greeks. The Greek kept the street in an uproar for more than an hour, when he was secured and taken into custody. After dinner, under the escort of a merchant, a Jew from Trieste residing at the same hotel, I visited the Jews' quarter. The Jews of Smyrna are the descendants of that unhappy people who were driven out from Spain by the bloody persecutions of Ferdinand and Isabel; they still talk Spanish in their families; and though comparatively secure, now, as ever, they live the victims of tyranny and oppression, ever toiling and accumulating, and ever fearing to exhibit the fruits of their industry, lest they should excite the cupidity of a rapacious master. Their quarter is by far the most miserable in Smyrna, and within its narrow limits are congregated more than ten thousand of "the accursed people." It was with great difficulty that I avoided wounding the feelings of my companion by remarking its filthy and disgusting appearance; and wishing to remove my unfavourable impression by introducing me to some of the best families first, he was obliged to drag me through the whole range of its narrow and dirty streets. From the external appearance of the tottering houses, I did not expect anything better within; and, out of regard to his feelings, was really sorry that I had accepted his offer to visit his people; but with the first house I entered I was most agreeably disappointed. Ascending outside by a tottering staircase to the second story, within was not only neatness and comfort, but positive luxury. At one end of a spacious room was a raised platform opening upon a large latticed window, covered with rich rugs and divans along the wall. The master of the house was taking his afternoon siesta, and while we were waiting for him I expressed to my gratified companion my surprise and pleasure at the unexpected appearance of the interior. In a few minutes the master entered, and received us with the greatest hospitality and kindness. He was about thirty, with the high square cap of black felt, without any rim or border, long silk gown tied with a sash around the waist, a strongly-marked Jewish face, and amiable expression. In the house of the Israelite the welcome is the same as in that of the Turk; and seating himself, our host clapped his hands together, and a boy entered with coffee and pipes. After a little conversation he clapped his hands again; and hearing a clatter of wooden shoes, I turned my head and saw a little girl coming across the room, mounted on high wooden sabots almost like stilts, who stepped up the platform, and with quite a womanly air took her seat on the divan. I looked at her, and thought her a pert, forward little miss, and was about asking her how old she was, when my companion told me she was our host's wife. I checked myself, but in a moment felt more than ever tempted to ask the same question; and, upon inquiring, learned that she had attained the respectable age of thirteen, and had been then two years a wife. Our host told us that she had cost him a great deal of money, and the expense consisted in the outlay necessary for procuring a divorce from another wife. He did not like the other one at all; his father had married him to her, and he had great difficulty in prevailing on his father to go to the expense of getting him freed. This wife was also provided by his father, and he did not like her much at first; he had never seen her till the day of marriage, but now he began to like her very well, though she cost him a great deal for ornaments. All this time we were looking at her, and she, with a perfectly composed expression, was listening to the conversation as my companion interpreted it, and following with her eyes the different speakers. I was particularly struck with the cool, imperturbable expression of her face, and could not help thinking that, on the subject of likings and dislikings, young as she was, she might have some curious notions of her own; and since we had fallen into this little disquisition on family matters, and thinking that he had gone so far himself that I might waive delicacy, I asked him whether she liked him; he answered in that easy tone of confidence of which no idea can be given in words, "oh yes;" and when I intimated a doubt, he told me I might ask herself. But I forbore, and did not ask her, and so lost the opportunity of learning from both sides the practical operation of matches made by parents. Our host sustained them; the plan saved a great deal of trouble, and wear and tear of spirit; prudent parents always selected such as were likely to suit each other; and being thrown together very young, they insensibly assimilated in tastes and habits; he admitted that he had missed it the first time, but he had hit it the second, and allowed that the system would work much better if the cost of procuring a divorce was not so great. With the highest respect, and a pressing invitation to come again, seconded by his wife, I took my leave of the self-satisfied Israelite. From this we went into several other houses, in all of which the interior belied, in the same manner, their external appearance. I do not say that they were gorgeous or magnificent, but they were clean, comfortable, and striking by their oriental style of architecture and furniture; and being their Sabbath, the women were in their best attire, with their heads, necks, and wrists adorned with a profusion of gold and silver ornaments. Several of the houses had libraries, with old Hebrew books, in which an old rabbi was reading or sometimes instructing children. In the last house a son was going through his days of mourning on the death of his father. He was lying in the middle of the floor, with his black cap on, and covered with a long black cloak. Twenty or thirty friends were sitting on the floor around him, who had come in to condole with him. When we entered, neither he nor any of his friends took any notice of us, except to make room on the floor. We sat down with them. It was growing dark, and the light broke dimly through the latticed windows upon the dusky figures of the mourning Israelites; and there they sat, with stern visages and long beards, the feeble remnant of a fallen people, under scorn and contumely, and persecution and oppression, holding on to the traditions received from their fathers, practising in the privacy of their houses the same rites as when the priests bore aloft the ark of the covenant, and out of the very dust in which they lie still looking for the restoration of their temporal kingdom. In a room adjoining sat the widow of the deceased, with a group of women around her, all perfectly silent; and they too took no notice of us either when we entered or when we went away. The next day the shops were shut, and the streets again thronged as on the day of my arrival. I went to church at the English chapel attached to the residence of the British consul, and heard a sermon from a German missionary. I dined at one o'clock, and, in company with mine host of the Pension Suisse, and a merchant of Smyrna resident there, worked my way up the hill through the heart of the Turks' quarter to the old castle standing alone and in ruins on its summit. We rested a little while at the foot of the castle, and looked over the city and the tops of the minarets upon the beautiful bay, and descending in the rear of the castle, we came to the river Meles winding through a deep valley at the foot of the hill. This stream was celebrated in Grecian poetry three thousand years ago. It was the pride of the ancient Smyrneans, once washed the walls of the ancient city, and tradition says that on its banks the nymph Critheis gave birth to Homer. We followed it in its winding course down the valley, murmuring among evergreens. Over it in two places were the ruins of aqueducts which carried water to the old city, and in one or two places it turns an overshot mill. On each side, at intervals along its banks, were oriental summer-houses, with verandahs, and balconies, and latticed windows. Approaching the caravan bridge we met straggling parties, and by degrees fell into a crowd of people, Franks, Europeans of every nation, Greeks, Turks, and Armenians, in all their striking costumes, sitting on benches under the shade of noble old sycamores, or on the grass, or on the river's brink, and moving among them were Turks cleanly dressed, with trays of refreshments, ices, and sherbet. There was an unusual collection of Greek and Smyrniote women, and an extraordinary display of beauty; none of them wore hats, but the Greek women a light gauze turban, and the Smyrniotes a small piece of red cloth, worked with gold, secured on the top of the head by the folds of the hair, with a long tassel hanging down from it. Opposite, and in striking contrast, the great Turkish burying-ground, with its thick grove of gloomy cypress, approached the bank of the river. I crossed over and entered the burying-ground, and penetrated the grove of funereal trees; all around were the graves of the dead; thousands and tens of thousands who but yesterday were like the gay crowd I saw flitting through the trees, were sleeping under my feet. Over some of the graves the earth was still fresh, and they who lay in them were already forgotten; but no, they were not forgotten; woman's love still remembered them, for Turkish women, with long white shawls wrapped around their faces, were planting over them myrtle and flowers, believing that they were paying an acceptable tribute to the souls of the dead. I left the burying-ground and plunged once more among the crowd. It may be that memory paints these scenes brighter than they were; but, if that does not deceive me, I never saw at Paris or Vienna so gay and beautiful a scene, so rich in landscape and scenery, in variety of costume, and in beauty of female form and feature. We left the caravan bridge early to visit the Armenian quarter, this being the best day for seeing them collectively at home; and I had not passed through the first street of their beautiful quarter before I was forcibly struck with the appearance of a people different from any I had yet seen in the East. The Armenians are one of the oldest nations of the civilized world, and, amid all the revolutions of barbarian war and despotism, have maintained themselves as a cultivated people. From the time when their first chieftain fled from Babylon, his native place, to escape from the tyranny of Belus, king of Assyria, this warlike people, occupying a mountainous country near the sources of the Tigris and Euphrates, battled the Assyrians, Medes, the Persians, Macedonians, and Arabians, until their country was depopulated by the shah of Persia. Less than two millions are all that now remain of that once powerful people. Commerce has scattered them, like the Israelites, among all the principal nations of Europe and Asia, and everywhere they have preserved their stern integrity and uprightness of character. The Armenian merchant is now known in every quarter of the globe, and everywhere distinguished by superior cultivation, honesty, and manners. As early as the fourth century the Armenians embraced Christianity; they never had any sympathy with, and always disliked and avoided, the Greek Christians, and constantly resisted the endeavours of the popes to bring them within the Catholic pale. Their doctrine differs from that of the orthodox chiefly in their admitting only one nature in Christ, and believing the Holy Spirit to issue from the Father alone. Their first abode, Mount Ararat, is even at the present day the centre of their religious and political union. They are distinguished by a patriarchal simplicity in their domestic manners; and it was the beautiful exhibition of this trait in their character that struck me on entering their quarter at Smyrna. In style and appearance their quarter is superior to any in Smyrna; their streets are broad and clean; their houses large, in good order, and well painted; oriental in their style of architecture, with large balconies and latticed windows, and spacious halls running through the centre, floored with small black and white stones laid in the form of stars and other fanciful devices, and leading to large gardens in the rear, ornamented with trees, vines, shrubs, and flowers, then in full bloom and beauty. All along the streets the doors of the houses were thrown wide open, and the old Armenian "Knickerbockers" were sitting outside or in the doorway, in their flowing robes, grave and sedate, with long pipes and large amber mouth pieces, talking with their neighbours, while the younger members were distributed along the hall or strolling through the garden, and children climbing the trees and arbours. It was a fête day for the whole neighbourhood. All was social, and cheerful, and beautiful, without being gay or noisy, and all was open to the observation of every passer-by. My companion, an old resident of Smyrna, stopped with me at the house of a large banker, whose whole family, with several neighbours young and old, were assembled in the hall. In the street the Armenian ladies observe the Turkish custom of wearing the shawl tied around the face so that it is difficult to see their features, though I had often admired the dignity and grace of their walk, and their propriety of manners; but in the house there was a perfect absence of all concealment; and I have seldom seen more interesting persons than the whole group of Armenian ladies, and particularly the young Armenian girls. They were not so dark, and wanted the bold, daring beauty of the Greek, but altogether were far more attractive. The great charm of their appearance was an exceeding modesty, united with affability and elegance of manner; in fact, there was a calm and quiet loveliness about them that would have made any one of them dangerous to be shut up alone with, i.e., if a man could talk with her without an interpreter. This was one of the occasions when I numbered among the pains of life the confusion of tongues. But, notwithstanding this, the whole scene was beautiful; and, with all the simplicity of a Dutchman's fireside, the style of the house, the pebbled hall, the garden, the foliage, and the oriental costumes, threw a charm around it which now, while I write, comes over me again. CHAPTER XI. An American Original.--Moral Changes in Turkey.--Wonders of Steam Navigation.--The March of Mind.--Classic Localities.--Sestos and Abydos.--Seeds of Pestilence. ON my return from Ephesus I heard of the arrival in Smyrna of two American travellers, father and son, from Egypt; and the same day, at Mr. Langdon's, I met the father, Dr. N. of Mississippi. The doctor had made a long and interesting tour in Egypt and the Holy Land, interrupted, however, by a severe attack of ophthalmia on the Nile, from which he had not yet recovered, and a narrow escape from the plague at Cairo. He was about fifty-five, of a strong, active, and inquiring mind; and the circumstances which had brought him to that distant country were so peculiar, that I cannot help mentioning them. He had passed all his life on the banks of the Mississippi, and for many years had busied himself with speculations in regard to the creation of the world. Year after year he had watched the deposites and the formation of soil on the banks of the Mississippi, had visited every mound and mountain indicating any peculiar geological formation, and, unable to find any data to satisfy him, he started from his plantation directly for the banks of the Nile. He possessed all the warm, high-toned feelings of the Southerner, but a thorough contempt for the usages of society and everything like polish of manners. He came to New-York and embarked for Havre. He had never been even to New-York before; was utterly ignorant of any language but his own; despised all foreigners, and detested their "jabber." He worked his way to Marseilles with the intention of embarking for Alexandria, but was taken sick, and retraced his steps directly to his plantation on the Mississippi. Recovering, he again set out for the Nile the next year, accompanied by his son, a young man of about twenty-three, acquainted with foreign languages, and competent to profit by foreign travel. This time he was more successful, and, when I saw him, he had rambled over the Pyramids and explored the ruined temples of Egypt. The result of his observations had been to fortify his preconceived notions, that the age of this world far exceeds six thousand years. Indeed, he was firmly persuaded that some of the temples of the Nile were built more than six thousand years ago. He had sent on to Smyrna enormous boxes of earth and stones, to be shipped to America, and was particularly curious on the subject of trees, having examined and satisfied himself as to the age of the olive-trees in the Garden of Gethsemane and the cedars of Lebanon. I accompanied him to his hotel, where I was introduced to his son; and I must not forget another member of this party, who is, perhaps, already known to some of my readers by the name of Paolo Nuozzo, or, more familiarly, Paul. This worthy individual had been travelling on the Nile with two Hungarian counts, who discharged him, or whom he discharged (for they differed as to the fact), at Cairo. Dr. N. and his son were in want, and Paul entered their service as dragoman and superintendent of another man, who, they said, was worth a dozen of Paul. I have a very imperfect recollection of my first interview with this original. Indeed, I hardly remember him at all until my arrival at Constantinople, and have only an indistinct impression of a dark, surly-looking, mustached man following at the heels of Dr. N., and giving crusty answers in horrible English. Before my visit to Ephesus I had talked with a Prussian baron of going up by land to Constantinople; but on my return I found myself attacked with a recurrence of an old malady, and determined to wait for the steamboat. The day before I left Smyrna, accompanied by Mr. O. Langdon, I went out to Boujac to dine with Mr. Styth. The great beauty of Smyrna is its surrounding country. Within a few miles there are three villages, Bournabat, Boujac, and Sediguey, occupied by Franks, of which Boujac is the favourite. The Franks are always looking to the time of going out to their country houses, and consider their residences in their villages the most agreeable part of their year; and, from what I saw of it, nothing can be more agreeable. Not more than half of them had yet moved out, but after dinner we went round and visited all who were there. They are all well acquainted, and, living in a strange and barbarous country, are drawn closer together than they would be in their own. Every evening there is a reunion at some of their houses, and there is among them an absence of all unnecessary form and ceremony, without which there can be no perfect enjoyment of the true pleasures of social intercourse. These villages, too, are endeared to them as places of refuge during the repeated and prolonged visitations of the plague, the merchant going into the city every morning and returning at night, and during the whole continuance of the disease avoiding to touch any member of his family. The whole region of country around their villages is beautiful in landscape and scenery, producing the choicest flowers and fruits; the fig tree particularly growing with a luxuriance unknown in any other part of the world. But the whole of this beautiful region lies waste and uncultivated, although, if the government could be relied on, holding out, by reason of its fertility, its climate, and its facility of access, particularly now by means of steamboats, far greater inducements to European emigration than any portion of our own country. I will not impose upon the reader my speculations on this subject; my notes are burdened with them; but, in my opinion, the Old World is in process of regeneration, and at this moment offers greater opportunities for enterprise than the New. On Monday, accompanied by Dr. N. and his son and Paolo Nuozzo, I embarked on board the steamboat Maria Dorothea for Constantinople; and here follows another letter, and the last, dated from the capital of the Eastern empire. Constantinople, May ----, 1835. MY DEAR ****, Oh you who hope one day to roam in Eastern lands, to bend your curious eyes upon the people warmed by the rising sun, come quickly, for all things are changing. You who have pored over the story of the Turk; who have dreamed of him as a gloomy enthusiast, hating, spurning, and slaying all who do not believe and call upon the Prophet; "One of that saintly, murderous brood, To carnage and the Koran given, Who think through unbelievers' blood Lies their directest path to Heaven;" come quickly, for that description of Turk is passing away. The day has gone by when the haughty Mussulman spurned and persecuted the "Christian dog." A few years since it would have been at peril of a man's life to appear in many parts of Turkey in a European dress; but now the European is looked upon, not only as a creature fit to live, but as a man to be respected. The sultan himself, the great head of the nation and the religion, the vicegerent of God upon earth, has taken off the turban, and all the officers of government have followed his example. The army wears a bastard European uniform, and the great study of the sultan is to introduce European customs. Thanks to the infirmities of human nature, many of these customs have begun to insinuate themselves. The pious follower of the Prophet has dared to raise the winecup to his lips; and in many instances, at the peril of losing his paradise of houris, has given himself up to strong drink. Time was when the word of a Turk was sacred as a precept of the Koran; now he can no more be relied upon than a Jew or a Christian. He has fallen with great facility into lying, cheating, and drinking, and if the earnest efforts to change him are attended with success, perhaps we may soon add stealing and having but one wife. And all this change, this mighty fall, is ascribed by the Europeans here to the destruction of the janisaries, a band of men dangerous to government, brave, turbulent, and bloody, but of indomitable pride; who were above doing little things, and who gave a high tone to the character of the whole people. If I was not bent upon a gallop, and could stop for the jogtrot of an argument, I would say that the destruction of the janisaries is a mere incidental circumstance, and that the true cause is--_steam navigation_. Do not laugh, but listen. The Turks have ever been a proud people, possessing a sort of peacock pride, an extravagantly good opinion of themselves, and a superlative contempt for all the rest of the world. Heretofore they have had comparatively little intercourse with Europeans, consequently but little opportunity of making comparisons, and consequently, again, but little means of discovering their own inferiority. But lately things have changed; the universal peace in Europe and the introduction of steamboats into the Mediterranean have brought the Europeans and the Turks comparatively close together. It seems to me that the effect of steamboats here has as yet hardly begun to be felt. There are but few of them, indifferent boats, constantly getting out of order, and running so irregularly that no reliance can be placed upon them. But still their effects are felt, their convenience is acknowledged; and, so far as my knowledge extends, they have never been introduced anywhere yet without multiplying in numbers, and driving all other vessels off the water. Now the Mediterranean is admirably suited to the use of steamboats; indeed, the whole of these inland waters, the Mediterranean, the Adriatic, the Archipelago, the Dardanelles, the Sea of Marmora, the Bosphorus, and the Black Sea, from the Straits of Gibraltar to the Sea of Azoff, offer every facility that can be desired for steam navigation; and when we consider that the most interesting cities in the world are on the shores of these waters, I cannot but believe that in a very few years they will be, to a certain extent, covered with steamboats. At all events, I have no doubt that in two or three years you will be able to go from Paris to Constantinople in fifteen or twenty days; and, when that time comes, it will throw such numbers of Europeans into the East as will have a sensible effect upon the manners and customs of the people. These eastern countries will be invaded by all classes of people, travellers, merchants, and mechanics, gentlemen of elegant leisure, and blacksmiths, shoemakers, tinkers, and tailors, nay, even mantuamakers, milliners, and bandboxes, the last being an incident to civilized life as yet unknown in Turkey. Indeed, wonderful as the effects of steamboats have been under our own eyes, we are yet to see them far more wonderful in bringing into close alliance, commercial and social, people from distant countries, of different languages and habits; in removing national prejudices, and in breaking down the great characteristic distinctions of nations. Nous verrons, twenty years hence, what steamboats will have done in this part of the world! But, in standing up for steamboats, I must not fail in doing justice to the grand seignior. His highness has not always slept upon a bed of roses. He had to thank the petticoats of a female slave for saving his life when a boy, and he had hardly got upon his throne before he found that he should have a hard task to keep it. It lay between him and the janisaries. In spite of them and of the general prejudices of the people, he determined to organize an army according to European tactics. He staked his throne and his head upon the issue; and it was not until he had been pushed to the desperate expedient of unfurling the sacred standard of the Prophet, parading it through the streets of Constantinople, and calling upon all good Mussulmans to rally round it; in short, it was not until the dead bodies of thirty thousand janisaries were floating down the Bosphorus, that he found himself the master in his own dominions. Since that time, either because he is fond of new things, or because he really sees farther than those around him, he is constantly endeavouring to introduce European improvements. For this purpose he invites talent, particularly mechanical and military, from every country, and has now around him Europeans among his most prominent men, and directing nearly all his public works. The Turks are a sufficiently intelligent people, and cannot help feeling the superiority of strangers. Probably the immediate effect may be to make them prone rather to catch the faults and vices than the virtues of Europeans; but afterward better things will come; they will fall into our better ways; and perhaps, though that is almost more than we dare hope for, they will embrace a better religion. But, however this may be, or whatever may be the cause, all ye who would see the Turk of Mohammed; the Turk who swept the plains of Asia, who leaned upon his bloody sword before the walls of Vienna, and threatened the destruction of Christendom in Europe; the Turk of the turban, and the pipe, and the seraglio, come quickly, for he is becoming another man. A little longer, and the great characteristic distinctions will be broken down; the long pipe, the handsome pipe-bearer, and the amber mouthpiece are gone, and oh, death to all that is beautiful in Eastern romance, the walls of the seraglio are prostrated, the doors of the harem thrown open, the black eunuch and the veiled woman are no more seen, while the honest Turk trudges home from a quiet tea-party stripped of his retinue of fair ones, with his one and only wife tucked under his arm, his head drooping between his shoulders, taking a lecture from his better half for an involuntary sigh to the good old days that are gone. And oh you who turn up your aristocratic noses at such parvenues as Mohammed and the Turks; who would go back to those distant ages which time covers with its dim and twilight glories, "When the world was fresh and young, And the great deluge still had left it green;" you who come piping-hot from college, your brains teeming with recollections of the heroic ages; who would climb Mount Ida, to sit in council with the gods, come quickly, also, for all things are changing. A steamboat--shade of Hector, Ajax, and Agamemnon, forgive the sins of the day--an Austrian steamboat is now splashing the island-studded Ægean, and paddling the classic waters of the Hellespont. Oh ye princes and heroes who armed for the Trojan war, and covered these waters with your thousand ships, with what pious horror must you look down from your blessed abodes upon the impious modern monster of the deep, which strips the tall mast of its flowing canvass, renders unnecessary the propitiation of the gods, and flounders on its way in spite of wind and weather! A new and unaccountable respect for the classics almost made me scorn the newfangled conveyance, though much to the comfort of wayfaring men; but sundry recollections of Greek caiques, and also an apprehension that there might be those yet living who had heard me in early days speak anything but respectfully of Homer, suggested to me that one man could not stem the current of the times, and that it was better for a humble individual like myself to float with the tide. This idea, too, of currents and tides made me think better of Prince Metternich and his steamboat; and smothering, as well as I could, my sense of shame, I sneaked on board the Maria Dorothea for a race to Constantinople. Join me, now, in this race; and if your heart does not break at going by at the rate of eight or ten miles an hour, I will whip you over a piece of the most classic ground consecrated in history, mythology, or poetry, and in less time than ever the swiftfooted Achilles could have travelled it. At eleven o'clock on a bright sunny day the Maria Dorothea turned her back upon the city and beautiful bay of Smyrna; in about two hours passed the harbour of Vourla, then used as a quarantine station, the yellow plague flag floating in the city and among the shipping; and toward dark, turning the point of the gulf, came upon my old acquaintance Foggi, the little harbour into which I had been twice driven by adverse winds. My Greek friend happened to be on board, and, in the honesty of his heart, congratulated me upon being this time independent of the elements, without seeming to care a fig whether he profaned the memory of his ancestors in travelling by so unclassical a conveyance. If he takes it so coolly, thought I, what is it to me? they are his relations, not mine. In the evening we were moving close to the Island of Mytilene, the ancient Lesbos, the country of Sappho, Alcæus, and Terpander, famed for the excellence of its wine and the beauty of its women, and pre-eminently distinguished for dissipation and debauchery, the fatal plague flag now floating mournfully over its walls, marking it as the abode of pestilence and death. Early in the morning I found myself opposite the promontory of Lectum, now Cape Baba, separating the ancient Troas from Æolia; a little to the right, but hardly visible, were the ruins of Assos, where the apostles stopped to take in Paul; a little farther the ruins of Alexandria Troas, one of the many cities founded by Alexander during his conquests in Asia; to the left, at some distance in the sea, is the Island of Lemnos, in the songs of the poets overshadowed by the lofty Olympus, the island that received Vulcan after he was kicked out of heaven by Jupiter. A little farther, nearer the land, is the Island of Tenedos, the ancient Leucophrys, where Paris first landed after carrying off Helen, and behind which the Greeks withdrew their fleet when they pretended to have abandoned the siege of Troy. Still farther, on the mainland, is the promontory of Sigæum, where the Scamander empties into the sea, and near which were fought the principal of Homer's battles. A little farther--but hold, stop the engine! If there be a spot of classic ground on earth in which the historical, and the poetical, and the fabulous are so beautifully blended together that we would not separate them even to discover the truth, it is before us now. Extending for a great distance along the shore, and back as far as the eye can reach, under the purest sky that ever overshadowed the earth, lies a rich and beautiful plain, and it is the plain of Troy, the battle-ground of heroes. Oh field of glory and of blood, little does he know, that surly Turk who is now lazily following his plough over thy surface, that every blade of thy grass could tell of heroic deeds, the shock of armies, the meeting of war chariots, the crashing of armour, the swift flight, the hot pursuit, the shouts of victors, and the groans of the dying. Beyond it, towering to the heavens, is a lofty mountain, and it is Mount Ida, on whose top Paris adjudged the golden apple to the goddess of beauty, and paved the way for those calamities which brought on the ten years' siege, and laid in ruins the ancient city of Priam. Two small streams, taking their rise from the mountain of the gods, join each other in the middle of the plain; Scamander and Simois, whose waters once washed the walls of the ancient city of Dardanus; and that small, confused, and shapeless mass of ruins, that beautiful sky and the songs of Homer, are all that remain to tell us that "Troy was." Close to the sea, and rising like mountains above the plain, are two immense mounds of earth; they are the tombs of Ajax and Achilles. Shades of departed heroes, fain would we stop and pay the tribute which we justly owe, but we are hurried past by an engine of a hundred horse power. Onward, still onward! We have reached the ancient Hellespont, the Dardanelles of the Turks, famed as the narrow water that divides Europe from Asia, for the beauties that adorn its banks, and for its great Turkish fortifications. Three miles wide at the mouth, it becomes gradually narrower, until, in the narrowest part, the natives of Europe and Asia can talk together from the opposite sides. For sixty miles (its whole length) it presents a continued succession of new beauties, and in the hands of Europeans, particularly English, improved as country seats, would make one of the loveliest countries in the world. I had just time to reflect that it was melancholy, and seemed inexplicable that this and other of the fairest portions of the earth should be in the hands of the Turks, who neither improve it themselves nor allow others to do so. At three o'clock we arrived at the Dardanelles, a little Turkish town in the narrowest and most beautiful part of the straits; a strong fort with enormous cannon stands frowning on each side. These are the terrible fortifications of Mohammed II., the keys of Constantinople. The guns are enormous; of one in particular, the muzzle is two feet three inches in diameter; but, with Turkish ingenuity, they are so placed as to be discharged when a ship is directly opposite. If the ship is not disabled by the first fire, and does not choose to go back and take another, she is safe. At every moment a new picture presents itself; a new fort, a new villa, or the ruins of an ancient city. A naked point on the European side, so ugly compared with all around it as to attract particular attention, projects into the strait, and here are the ruins of Sestos; here Xerxes built his bridge of boats to carry over his millions to the conquest of Greece; and here, when he returned with the wreck of his army, defeated and disgraced, found his bridge destroyed by a tempest, and, in his rage, ordered the chains to be thrown into the sea and the waves to be lashed with rods. From this point, too, Leander swam the Hellespont for love of Hero, and Lord Byron and Mr. Ekenhead for fun. Nearly opposite, close to a Turkish fort, are the ruins of Abydos. Here Xerxes, and Leander, and Lord Byron, and Mr. Ekenhead landed. Our voyage is drawing to a close. At Gallipoli, a large Turkish town handsomely situated at the mouth of the Dardanelles, we took on board the Turkish governor, with his pipe-bearer and train of attendants, escorted by thirty or forty boats, containing three or four hundred people, his mightiness taking a deck passage. Toward evening we were entering the Sea of Marmora, the ancient Propontis, like one of our small lakes, and I again went to sleep lulled by the music of a high-pressure engine. At daylight we were approaching Constantinople; twelve miles this side, on the bank of the Sea of Marmora, is the village of St. Stephano, the residence of Commodore Porter. Here the domes and minarets of the ancient city, with their golden points and glittering crescents, began to appear in sight. High above the rest towered the mosque of Sultan Achmet and the beautiful dome of St. Sophia, the ancient Christian church, but now, for nearly four hundred years, closed against the Christians' feet. We approach the walls and pass a range of gloomy turrets; there are the Seven Towers, prisons, portals of the grave, whose mysteries few live to publish: the bowstring and the sea reveal no secrets. That palace, with its blinded windows and its superb garden, surrounded by a triple range of walls, is the far-famed seraglio; there beauty lingers in a splendid cage, and, lolling on her rich divan, sighs for the humblest lot and freedom. In front, that narrow water, a thousand caiques shooting through it like arrows, and its beautiful banks covered with high palaces and gardens in the oriental style, is the Thracian Bosphorus. We float around the walls of the seraglio, enter the Golden Horn, and before us, with its thousand mosques and its myriad of minarets, their golden points glittering in the sun, is the Roman city of Constantinople, the Thracian Byzantium, the Stamboul of the Turks; the city which, more than all others, excites the imagination and interests the feelings; once dividing with Rome the empire of the world; built by a Christian emperor and consecrated as a Christian city, a "burning and a shining light" in a season of universal darkness, all at once lost to the civilized world; falling into the hands of a strange and fanatic people, the gloomy followers of a successful soldier; a city which, for nearly four centuries, has sat with its gates closed in sullen distrust and haughty defiance of strangers; which once sent forth large and terrible armies, burning, slaying, and destroying, shaking the hearts of princes and people, now lying like a fallen giant, huge, unwieldy, and helpless, ready to fall into the hands of the first invader, and dragging out a precarious and ignoble existence but by the mercy or policy of the great Christian powers. The morning sun, now striking upon its domes and minarets, covers it, as it were, with burnished gold; a beautiful verdure surrounds it, and pure waters wash it on every side. Can this beautiful city, rich with the choicest gifts of Heaven, be pre-eminently the abode of pestilence and death? where a man carries about with him the seeds of disease to all whom he holds dear? if he extend the hand of welcome to a friend, if he embrace his child or rub against a stranger, the friend, and the child, and the stranger follow him to the grave? where, year after year, the angel of death stalks through the streets, and thousands and tens of thousands look him calmly in the face, and murmuring "Allah, Allah, God is merciful," with a fatal trust in the Prophet, lie down and die? We enter the city, and these questions are quickly answered. A lazy, lounging, and filthy population; beggars basking in the sun, and dogs licking their sores; streets never cleaned but by the winds and rains; immense burying-grounds all over the city; tombstones at the corners of the streets; graves gaping ready to throw out their half-buried dead, the whole approaching to one vast charnel-house, dispel all illusions and remove all doubts, and we are ready to ask ourselves if it be possible that, in such a place, health can ever dwell. We wonder that it should ever, for the briefest moment, be free from that dreadful scourge which comes with every summer's sun and strews its streets with dead. **** CHAPTER XII. Mr. Churchill.--Commodore Porter.--Castle of the Seven Towers.--The Sultan's Naval Architect.--Launch of the Great Ship.--Sultan Mahmoud.--Jubilate.--A National Grievance.--Visit to a Mosque.--The Burial-grounds. THERE is a good chance for an enterprising Connecticut man to set up a hotel in Constantinople. The reader will see that I have travelled with my eyes open, and I trust this shrewd observation on entering the city of the Cæsars will be considered characteristic and American. Paul was at home in Pera, and conducted us to the Hotel d'Italia, which was so full that we could not get admission, and so vile a place that we were not sorry for it. We then went to Madame Josephine's, a sort of private boarding-house, but excellent of its kind. We found there a collection of travellers, English, French, German, and Russian, and the dinner was particularly social; but Dr. N. was so disgusted with the clatter of foreign tongues, that he left the table with the first course, and swore he would not stay there another day. We tried to persuade him. I reminded him that there was an Englishman among them, but this only made him worse; he hated an Englishman, and wondered how I, as an American, could talk with one as I had with him. In short, he was resolved, and had Paul running about every street in Pera looking for rooms. Notwithstanding his impracticabilities as a traveller, I liked the doctor, and determined to follow him, and before breakfast the next morning we were installed in a suite of rooms in the third story of a house opposite the old palace of the British ambassador. For two or three days I was _hors du combat_, and put myself under the hands of Dr. Zohrab, an Armenian, educated at Edinburgh, whom I cordially recommend both for his kindness and medical skill. On going out, one of my first visits was to my banker, Mr. Churchill, a gentleman whose name has since rung throughout Europe, and who at one time seemed likely to be the cause of plunging the whole civilized world into a war. He was then living in Sedikuey, on the site of the ancient Chalcedon, in Asia; and I have seldom been more shocked than by reading in a newspaper, while in the lazaretto at Malta, that, having accidentally shot a Turkish boy with a fowling-piece, he had been seized by the Turks, and, in defiance of treaties, _bastinadoed_ till he was almost dead. I had seen the infliction of that horrible punishment; and, besides the physical pain, there was a sense of the indignity that roused every feeling. I could well imagine the ferocious spirit with which the Turks would stand around and see a Christian scourged. The civilized world owes a deep debt of gratitude to the English government for the uncompromising stand taken in this matter with the sultan, and the firmness with which it insisted on, and obtained, the most ample redress for Mr. Churchill, and atonement for the insult offered to all Christendom in his person. My companions and myself had received several invitations from Commodore Porter, and, accompanied by Mr. Dwight, one of our American missionaries, to whom I am under particular obligations for his kindness, early in the morning we took a caique with three athletic Turks, and, after a beautiful row, part of it from the seraglio point to the Seven Towers, a distance of five miles, being close under the walls of the city, in two hours reached the commodore's residence at St. Stephano, twelve miles from Constantinople, on the borders of the Sea of Marmora. The situation is beautiful, abounding in fruit-trees, among which are some fig trees of the largest size; and the commodore was then engaged in building a large addition to his house. It will be remembered that Commodore Porter was the first envoy ever sent by the United States' government to the Sublime Porte. He had formerly lived at Buyukdere, on the Bosphorus, with the other members of the diplomatic corps; but his salary as chargé being inadequate to sustain a becoming style, he had withdrawn to this place. I had never seen Commodore Porter before. I afterward passed a month with him in the lazaretto at Malta, and I trust he will not consider me presuming when I say that our acquaintance ripened into friendship. He is entirely different from the idea I had formed of him; small, dark, weather-beaten, much broken in health, and remarkably mild and quiet in his manners. His eye is his best feature, though even that does not indicate the desperate hardihood of character which he has exhibited on so many occasions. Perhaps I ought not to say so, but he seemed ill at ease in his position, and I could not but think that he ought still to be standing in the front rank of that service he so highly honoured. He spoke with great bitterness of the Foxardo affair, and gave me an account of an interesting interview between General Jackson and himself on his recall from South America. General Jackson wished him to resume his rank in the navy, but he answered that he would never accept service with men who had suspended him for doing what, they said in their sentence of condemnation, was done "to sustain the honour of the American flag." At the primitive hour of one we sat down to a regular family dinner. We were all Americans. The commodore's sister, who was living with him, presided, and we looked out on the Sea of Marmora and talked of home. I cannot describe the satisfaction of these meetings of Americans so far from their own country. I have often experienced it most powerfully in the houses of the missionaries in the East. Besides having, in many instances, the same acquaintances, we had all the same habits and ways of thinking; their articles of furniture were familiar to me, and there was scarcely a house in which I did not find an article unknown except among Americans, a Boston rocking-chair. We talked over the subject of our difficulties with France, then under discussion in the Chamber of Deputies, and I remember that Commodore Porter was strong in the opinion that the bill paying the debt would pass. Before rising from table, the commodore's janisary came down from Constantinople, with papers and letters just arrived by the courier from Paris. He told me that I should have the honour of breaking the seals, and I took out the paper so well known all over Europe, "Galignani's Messenger," and had the satisfaction of reading aloud, in confirmation of the commodore's opinion, that the bill for paying the American claims had passed the Chamber of Deputies by a large majority. [Illustration: Castle of the Seven Towers.] About four o'clock we embarked in our caique to return to Constantinople. In an hour Mr. D. and I landed at the foot of the Seven Towers, and few things in this ancient city interested me more than my walk around its walls. We followed them the whole extent on the land side, from the Sea of Marmora to the Golden Horn. They consist of a triple range, with five gates, the principal of which is the Cannon Gate, through which Mohammed II. made his triumphal entry into the Christian city. They have not been repaired since the city fell into the hands of the Turks, and are the same walls which procured for it the proud name of the "well-defended city;" to a great extent, they are the same walls which the first Constantine built and the last Constantine died in defending. Time has laid his ruining hand upon them, and they are everywhere weak and decaying, and would fall at once before the thunder of modern war. The moat and fossé have alike lost their warlike character, and bloom and blossom with the vine and fig tree. Beyond, hardly less interesting than the venerable walls, and extending as far as the eye can reach, is one continued burying-ground, with thousands and tens of thousands of turbaned headstones, shaded by thick groves of the mourning cypress. Opposite the Damascus Gate is an elevated enclosure, disconnected from all around, containing five headstones in a row, over the bodies of Ali Pacha, the rebel chief of Yanina, and his four sons. The fatal mark of death by the bowstring is conspicuous on the tombs, as a warning to rebels that they cannot escape the sure vengeance of the Porte. It was toward the sunset of a beautiful evening, and all Stamboul was out among the tombs. At dark we reached the Golden Horn, crossed over in a caique, and in a few minutes were in Pera. The next day I took a caique at Tophana, and went up to the shipyards at the head of the Golden Horn to visit Mr. Rhodes, to whom I had a letter from a friend in Smyrna. Mr. Rhodes is a native of Long Island, but from his boyhood a resident of this city, and I take great pleasure in saying that he is an honour to our state and country. The reader will remember that, some years ago, Mr. Eckford, one of our most prominent citizens, under a pressure of public and domestic calamities, left his native city. He sailed from New-York in a beautiful corvette, its destination unknown, and came to anchor under the walls of the seraglio in the harbour of Constantinople. The sultan saw her, admired her, and bought her; and I saw her "riding like a thing of life" on the waters of the Golden Horn, a model of beauty. The fame of his skill, and the beautiful specimen he carried out with him, recommended Mr. Eckford to the sultan as a fit instrument to build up the character of the Ottoman navy; and afterward, when his full value became known, the sultan remarked of him that America must be a great nation if she could spare from her service such a man. Had he lived, even in the decline of life he would have made for himself a reputation in that distant quarter of the globe equal to that he had left behind him, and doubtless would have reaped the attendant pecuniary reward. Mr. Rhodes went out as Mr. Eckford's foreman, and on his death the task of completing his employer's work devolved on him. It could not have fallen upon a better man. From a journeyman shipbuilder, all at once Mr. Rhodes found himself brought into close relations with the seraskier pacha, the reis effendi, the grand vizier, and the sultan himself; but his good sense never deserted him. He was then preparing for the launch of the great ship; the longest, as he said, and he knew the dimensions of every ship that floated, in the world. I accompanied him over the ship and through the yards, and it was with no small degree of interest that I viewed a townsman, an entire stranger in the country, by his skill alone standing at the head of the great naval establishment of the sultan. He was dressed in a blue roundabout jacket, without whiskers or mustache, and, except that he wore the tarbouch, was thorough American in his appearance and manners, while his dragoman was constantly by his side, communicating his orders to hundreds of mustached Turks, and in the same breath he was talking with me of shipbuilders in New-York, and people and things most familiar in our native city. Mr. Rhodes knows and cares but little for things that do not immediately concern him; his whole thoughts are of his business, and in that he possesses an ambition and industry worthy of all praise. As an instance of his discretion, particularly proper in the service of that suspicious and despotic government, I may mention that, while standing near the ship and remarking a piece of cloth stretched across her stern, I asked him her name, and he told me he did not know; that it was painted on her stern, and his dragoman knew, but he had never looked under, that he might not be able to answer when asked. I have seldom met a countryman abroad with whom I was more pleased, and at parting he put himself on a pinnacle in my estimation by telling me that, if I came to the yard the next day at one, I would see the sultan! There was no man living whom I had a greater curiosity to see. At twelve o'clock I was at the yard, but the sultan did not come. I went again, and his highness had come two hours before the time; had accompanied Mr. Rhodes over the ship, and left the yard less than five minutes before my arrival; his caique was still lying at the little dock, his attendants were carrying trays of refreshments to a shooting-ground in the rear, and two black eunuchs belonging to the seraglio, handsomely dressed in long black cloaks of fine pelisse cloth, with gold-headed canes and rings on their fingers, were still lingering about the ship, their effeminate faces and musical voices at once betraying their neutral character. The next was the day of the launch; and early in the morning, in the suite of Commodore Porter, I went on board an old steamer provided by the sultan expressly for the use of Mr. Rhodes's American friends. The waters of the Golden Horn were already covered; thousands of caiques, with their high sharp points, were cutting through it, or resting like gulls upon its surface; and there were ships with the still proud banner of the crescent, and strangers with the flags of every nation in Christendom, and sailboats, longboats, and rowboats, ambassadors' barges, and caiques of effendis, beys, and pachas, with red silk flags streaming in the wind, while countless thousands were assembled on the banks to behold the extraordinary spectacle of an American ship, the largest in the world, launched in the harbour of old Stamboul. The sultan was then living at his beautiful palace at Sweet Waters, and was obliged to pass by our boat; he had made a great affair of the launch; had invited all the diplomatic corps, and, through the reis effendi, particularly requested the presence of Commodore Porter; had stationed his harem on the opposite side of the river; and as I saw prepared for himself near the ship a tent of scarlet cloth trimmed with gold, I expected to see him appear in all the pomp and splendour of the greatest potentate on earth. I had already seen enough to convince me that the days of Eastern magnificence had gone by, or that the gorgeous scenes which my imagination had always connected with the East had never existed; but still I could not divest myself of the lingering idea of the power and splendour of the sultan. His commanding style to his own subjects: "I command you, ----, my slave, that you bring the head of ----, my slave, and lay it at my feet;" and then his lofty tone with foreign powers: "I, who am, by the infinite grace of the great, just, and all-powerful Creator, and the abundance of the miracles of the chief of his prophets, emperor of powerful emperors; refuge of sovereigns; distributor of crowns to the kings of the earth; keeper of the two very holy cities (Mecca and Medina); governor of the holy city of Jerusalem; master of Europe, Asia, and Africa, conquered with our victorious sword and our terrible lance; lord of two seas (Black and White); of Damascus, the odour of Paradise; of Bagdad, the seat of the califs; of the fortresses of Belgrade, Agra, and a multitude of countries, isles, straits, people, generations, and of so many victorious armies who repose under the shade of our Sublime Porte; I, in short, who am the shadow of God upon earth;" I was rolling these things through my mind when a murmur, "the sultan is coming," turned me to the side of the boat, and one view dispelled all my gorgeous fancies. There was no style, no state, a citizen king, a republican president, or a democratic governor, could not have made a more unpretending appearance than did this "shadow of God upon earth." He was seated in the bottom of a large caique, dressed in the military frockcoat and red tarbouch, with his long black beard, the only mark of a Turk about him, and he moved slowly along the vacant space cleared for his passage, boats with the flags of every nation, and thousands of caiques falling back, and the eyes of the immense multitude earnestly fixed upon him, but without any shouts or acclamations; and when he landed at the little dock, and his great officers bowed to the dust before him, he looked the plainest, mildest, kindest man among them. I had wished to see him as a wholesale murderer, who had more blood upon his hands than any man living; who had slaughtered the janisaries, drenched the plains of Greece, to say nothing of bastinadoes, impalements, cutting off heads, and tying up in sacks, which are taking place every moment; but I will not believe that Sultan Mahmoud finds any pleasure in shedding blood. Dire necessity, or, as he himself would say, fate, has ever been driving him on. I look upon him as one of the most interesting characters upon earth; as the creature of circumstances, made bloody and cruel by the necessities of his position. I look at his past life and at that which is yet in store for him, through all the stormy scenes he is to pass until he completes his unhappy destiny, the last of a powerful and once-dreaded race, bearded by those who once crouched at the footstool of his ancestors, goaded by rebellious vassals, conscious that he is going a downward road, and yet unable to resist the impulse that drives him on. Like the strong man encompassed with a net, he finds no avenue of escape, and cannot break through it. The seraskier pacha and other principal officers escorted him to his tent, and now all the interest which I had taken in the sultan was transferred to Mr. Rhodes. He had great anxiety about the launch, and many difficulties to contend with: first, in the Turks' jealousy of a stranger, which obliged him to keep constantly on the watch lest some of his ropes should be cut or fastenings knocked away; and he had another Turkish prejudice to struggle against: the day had been fixed twice before, but the astronomers found an unfortunate conjunction of the stars, and it was postponed, and even then the stars were unpropitious; but Mr. Rhodes had insisted that the work had gone so far that it could not be stopped. And, besides these, he had another great difficulty in his ignorance of their language. With more than a thousand men under him, all his orders had to pass through interpreters, and often, too, the most prompt action was necessary, and the least mistake might prove fatal. Fortunately, he was protected from treachery by the kindness of Mr. Churchill and Dr. Zohrab, one of whom stood on the bow and the other in the stern of the ship, and through whom every order was transmitted in Turkish. Probably none there felt the same interest that we did; for the flags of the barbarian and every nation in Christendom were waving around us, and at that distance from home the enterprise of a single citizen enlisted the warmest feelings of every American. We watched the ship with as keen an interest as if our own honour and success in life depended upon her movements. For a long time she remained perfectly quiet. At length she moved, slowly and almost imperceptibly; and then, as if conscious that the eyes of an immense multitude were on her, and that the honour of a distant nation was in some measure at stake, she marched proudly to the water, plunged in with a force that almost buried her, and, rising like a huge leviathan, parted the foaming waves with her bow, and rode triumphantly upon them. Even Mussulman indifference was disturbed; all petty jealousies were hushed; the whole immense mass was roused into admiration; loud and long-continued shouts of applause rose with one accord from Turks and Christians, and the sultan was so transported that he jumped up and clapped his hands like a schoolboy. Mr. Rhodes's triumph was complete; the sultan called him to his tent, and with his own hands fixed on the lappel of his coat a gold medal set in diamonds, representing the launching of a ship. Mr. Rhodes has attained among strangers the mark of every honourable man's ambition, the head of his profession. He has put upon the water what Commodore Porter calls the finest ship that ever floated, and has a right to be proud of his position and prospects under the "shade of the Sublime Porte." The sultan wishes to confer upon him the title of chief naval constructor, and to furnish him with a house and a caique with four oars. In compliment to his highness, who detests a hat, Mr. Rhodes wears the tarbouch; but he declines all offices and honours, and anything that may tend to fix him as a Turkish subject, and looks to return and enjoy in his own country and among his own people the fruits of his honourable labours. If the good wishes of a friend can avail him, he will soon return to our city rich with the profits of untiring industry, and an honourable testimony to his countrymen of the success of American skill and enterprise abroad. To go back a moment. All day the great ship lay in the middle of the Golden Horn, while perhaps more than a hundred thousand Turks shot round her in their little caiques, looking up from the surface of the water to her lofty deck: and in Pera, wherever I went, perhaps because I was an American, the only thing I heard of was the American ship. Proud of the admiration excited so far from home by this noble specimen of the skill of an American citizen, I unburden myself of a long-smothered subject of complaint against my country. I cry out with a loud voice for _reform_, not in the hackneyed sense of petty politicians, but by a liberal and enlarged expenditure of public money; by increasing the outfits and salaries of our foreign ambassadors and ministers. We claim to be rich, free from debt, and abundant in resources, and yet every American abroad is struck with a feeling of mortification at the inability of his representative to take that position in social life to which the character of his country entitles him. We may talk of republican simplicity as we will, but there are certain usages of society and certain appendages of rank which, though they may be unmeaning and worthless, are sanctioned, if not by the wisdom, at least by the practice of all civilized countries. We have committed a fatal error since the time when Franklin appeared at the court of France in a plain citizen's dress; everywhere our representative conforms to the etiquette of the court to which he is accredited, and it is too late to go back and begin anew; and now, unless our representative is rich and willing to expend his own fortune for the honour of the nation, he is obliged to withdraw from the circles and position in which he has a right and ought to move, or to move in them on an inferior footing, under an acknowledgment of inability to appear as an equal. And again: our whole consular system is radically wrong, disreputable, and injurious to our character and interests. While other nations consider the support of their consuls a part of the expenses of their government, we suffer ourselves to be represented by merchants, whose pecuniary interests are mixed up with all the local and political questions that affect the place and who are under a strong inducement to make their office subservient to their commercial relations. I make no imputations against any of them. I could not if I would, for I do not know an American merchant holding the office who is not a respectable man; but the representative of our country ought to be the representative of our country only; removed from any distracting or conflicting interests, standing like a watchman to protect the honour of his nation and the rights of her citizens. And more than this, all over the Mediterranean there are ports where commerce presents no inducements to the American merchant, and there the office falls into the hands of the natives; and at this day the American arms are blazoned on the doors, and the American flag is waving over the houses, of Greeks, Italians, Jews, and Arabs, and all the mongrel population of that inland sea; and in the ports under the dominion of Turkey particularly, the office is coveted as a means of protecting the holder against the liabilities to his own government, and of revenue by selling that protection to others. I will not mention them by name, for I bear them no ill will personally, and I have received kindness from most of the petty vagabonds who live under the folds of the American flag; but the consuls at Gendoa and Algiers are a disgrace to the American name. Congress has lately turned its attention to this subject, and will, before long, I hope, effect a complete change in the character of our consular department, and give it the respectability which it wants; the only remedy is by following the example of other nations, in fixing salaries to the office, and forbidding the holders to engage in trade. Besides the leading inducements to this change, there is a secondary consideration, which, in my eyes, is not without its value, in that it would furnish a valuable school of instruction for our young men. The offices would be sought by such. A thousand or fifteen hundred dollars a year would maintain them respectably, in most of the ports of the Mediterranean, and young men resident in those places, living upon salaries, and not obliged to engage in commerce, would employ their leisure hours in acquiring the language of the country, in communicating with the interior, and among them would return upon us an accumulation of knowledge far more than repaying us for all the expense of supporting them abroad. Doubtless the reader expects other things in Constantinople; but all things are changing. The day has gone by when the Christian could not cross the threshold of a mosque and live. Even the sacred mosque of St. Sophia, the ancient Christian church, so long closed against the Christians' feet, now, upon great occasions, again opens its doors to the descendants of its Christian builders. One of these great occasions happened while I was there. The sultan gave a firman to the French ambassador, under which all the European residents and travellers visited it. Unfortunately, I was unwell, and could not go out that day, and was obliged afterward to content myself with walking around its walls, with uplifted eyes and a heavy heart, admiring the glittering crescent and thinking of the prostrate cross. But no traveller can leave Constantinople without having seen the interior of a mosque; and accordingly, under the guidance of Mustapha, the janisary of the British consul, I visited the mosque of Sultan Suliman, next in point of beauty to that of St. Sophia, though far inferior in historical interest. At an early hour we crossed the Golden Horn to old Stamboul; threaded our way through its narrow and intricate streets to an eminence near the seraskier pacha's tower; entered by a fine gateway into a large courtyard, more than a thousand feet square, handsomely paved and ornamented with noble trees, and enclosed by a high wall; passed a marble fountain of clear and abundant water, where, one after another, the faithful stopped to make their ablutions; entered a large colonnade, consisting of granite and marble pillars of every form and style, the plunder of ancient temples, worked in without much regard to architectural fitness, yet, on the whole, producing a fine effect; pulled off our shoes at the door, and, with naked feet and noiseless step, crossed the sacred threshold of the mosque. Silently we moved among the kneeling figures of the faithful scattered about in different parts of the mosque and engaged in prayer; paused for a moment under the beautiful dome sustained by four columns from the Temple of Diana at Ephesus; leaned against a marble pillar which may have supported, two thousand years ago, the praying figure of a worshipper of the great goddess; gazed at the thousand small lamps suspended from the lofty ceiling, each by a separate cord, and with a devout feeling left the mosque. [Illustration: Mosque of Sultan Suliman.] In the rear, almost concealed from view by a thick grove of trees, shrubs, and flowers, is a circular building about forty feet in diameter, containing the tomb of Suliman, the founder of the mosque, his brother, his favourite wife Roxala, and two other wives. The monuments are in the form of sarcophagi, with pyramidal tops, covered with rich Cashmere shawls, having each at the head a large white turban, and enclosed by a railing covered with mother-of-pearl. The great beauty of the sepulchral chamber is its dome, which is highly ornamented, and sparkles with brilliants. In one corner is a plan of Mecca, the holy temple, and tomb of the Prophet. In the afternoon I went for the last time to the Armenian burying-ground. In the East the graveyards are the general promenades, the places of rendezvous, and the lounging-places; and in Constantinople the Armenian burying-ground is the most beautiful, and the favourite. Situated in the suburbs of Pera, overlooking the Bosphorus, shaded by noble palm-trees, almost regularly toward evening I found myself sitting upon the same tombstone, looking upon the silvery water at my feet, studded with palaces, flashing and glittering with caiques from the golden palace of the sultan to the seraglio point, and then turned to the animated groups thronging the burying-ground; the Armenian in his flowing robes, the dashing Greek, the stiff and out-of-place-looking Frank; Turks in their gay and bright costume, glittering arms, and solemn beards, enjoying the superlative of existence in dozing over their pipe; and women in long white veils, apart under some delightful shade, in little picnic parties, eating ices and confectionary. Here and there, toward the outskirts, was the araba, the only wheeled carriage known among the Turks, with a long low body, highly carved and gilded, drawn by oxen fancifully trimmed with ribands, and filled with soft cushions, on which the Turkish and Armenian ladies almost buried themselves. Instead of the cypress, the burying-ground is shaded by noble plane-trees; and the tombstones, instead of being upright, are all flat, having at the head a couple of little niches scooped out to hold water, with the beautiful idea to induce birds to come there and drink and sing among the trees. Their tombstones, too, have another mark, which, in a country where men are apt to forget who their fathers were, would exclude them even from that place where all mortal distinctions are laid low, viz., a mark indicating the profession or occupation of the deceased; as, a pair of shears to mark the grave of a tailor; a razor that of a barber; and on many of them was another mark indicating the manner of death, the bowstring, or some other mark, showing that the stone covered a victim of Turkish cruelty. But all these things are well known; nothing has escaped the prying eyes of curious travellers; and I merely state, for my own credit's sake, that I followed the steps of those who had gone before me, visited the Sweet Waters, Scutary, and Belgrade, the reservoirs, aqueducts, and ruins of the palace of Constantine, and saw the dancing dervishes; rowed up the Bosphorus to Buyukdere, lunched under the tree where Godfrey encamped with his gallant crusaders, and looked out upon the Black Sea from the top of the Giant's Mountain. CHAPTER XIII. Visit to the Slave-market.--Horrors of Slavery.--Departure from Stamboul.--The stormy Euxine.--Odessa.--The Lazaretto.--Russian Civility.--Returning Good for Evil. THE day before I left Constantinople I went, in company with Dr. N. and his son, and attended by Paul, to visit the slave-market; crossing over to Stamboul, we picked up a Jew in the bazars, who conducted us through a perfect labyrinth of narrow streets to a quarter of the city from which it would have been utterly impossible for me to extricate myself alone. I only know that it was situated on high ground, and that we passed through a gateway into a hollow square of about a hundred and fifty or two hundred feet on each side. It was with no small degree of emotion that I entered this celebrated place, where so many Christian hearts have trembled; and, before crossing the threshold, I ran over in my mind all the romantic stories and all the horrible realities that I could remember connected with its history: the tears of beauty, the pangs of brave men, and so down to the unsentimental exclamation of Johnson to his new friend Don Juan: "Yon black eunuch seems to eye us; I wish to God that somebody would buy us." The bazar forms a hollow square, with little chambers about fifteen feet each way around it, in which the slaves belonging to the different dealers are kept. A large shed or portico projects in front, under which, and in front of each chamber, is a raised platform, with a low railing around it, where the slave-merchant sits and gossips, and dozes over his coffee and pipes. I had heard so little of this place, and it was so little known among Europeans, taking into consideration, moreover, that in a season of universal peace the market must be without a supply of captives gained in war, that I expected to see but a remnant of the ancient traffic, supposing that I should find but few slaves, and those only black; but, to my surprise, I found there twenty or thirty white women. Bad, horrible as this traffic is under any circumstances, to my habits and feelings it loses a shade of its horrors when confined to blacks; but here whites and blacks were exposed together in the same bazar. The women were from Circassia and the regions of the Caucasus, that country so renowned for beauty; they were dressed in the Turkish costume, with the white shawl wrapped around the mouth and chin, and over the forehead, shading the eyes, so that it was difficult to judge with certainty as to their personal appearance. Europeans are not permitted to purchase, and their visits to this bazar are looked upon with suspicion. If we stopped long opposite a door, it was closed upon us; but I was not easily shaken off, and returned so often at odd times, that I succeeded in seeing pretty distinctly all that was to be seen. In general, the best slaves are not exposed in the bazars, but are kept at the houses of the dealers; but there was one among them not more than seventeen, with a regular Circassian face, a brilliantly fair complexion, a mild and cheerful expression; and in the slave-market, under the partial disguise of the Turkish shawl, it required no great effort of the imagination to make her decidedly beautiful. Paul stopped, and with a burst of enthusiasm, the first I had discovered in him, exclaimed "Quelle beauté!" She noticed my repeatedly stopping before her bazar; and, when I was myself really disposed to be sentimental, instead of drooping her head with the air of a distressed heroine, to my great surprise she laughed and nodded, and beckoned me to come to her. Paul was very much struck; and repeating his warm expression of admiration at her beauty, told me that she wanted me to buy her. Without waiting for a reply, he went off and inquired the price, which was two hundred and fifty dollars; and added that he could easily get some Turk to let me buy her in his name, and then I could put her on board a vessel, and carry her where I pleased. I told him it was hardly worth while at present; and he, thinking my objection was merely to the person, in all honesty and earnestness told me he had been there frequently, and never saw anything half so handsome; adding that, if I let slip this opportunity, I would scarcely have another as good, and wound up very significantly by declaring that, if he was a gentleman, he would not hesitate a moment. A gentleman, in the sense in which Paul understood the word, is apt to fall into irregular ways in the East. Removed from the restraints which operate upon men in civilized countries, if he once breaks through the trammels of education, he goes all lengths; and it is said to be a matter of general remark, that slaves are always worse treated by Europeans than by the Turks. The slave-dealers are principally Jews, who buy children when young, and, if they have beauty train up the girls in such accomplishments as may fascinate the Turks. Our guide told us that, since the Greek revolution, the slave-market had been comparatively deserted; but, during the whole of that dreadful struggle, every day presented new horrors; new captives were brought in, the men raving and struggling, and vainly swearing eternal vengeance against the Turks, and the women shrieking distractedly in the agony of a separation. After the massacre at Scio, in particular, hundreds of young girls, with tears streaming down their cheeks, and bursting hearts, were sold to the unhallowed embraces of the Turks for a few dollars a head. We saw nothing of the horrors and atrocities of this celebrated slave-market. Indeed, except prisoners of war and persons captured by Turkish corsairs, the condition of those who now fill the slave-market is not the horrible lot that a warm imagination might suppose. They are mostly persons in a semibarbarous state; blacks from Sennaar and Abyssinia, or whites from the regions of the Caucasus, bought from their parents for a string of beads or a shawl; and, in all probability, the really beautiful girl whom I saw had been sold by parents who could not feed or clothe her, who considered themselves rid of an encumbrance, and whom she left without regret; and she, having left poverty and misery behind her, looked to the slave-market as the sole means of advancing her fortune; and, in becoming the favoured inmate of a harem, expected to attain a degree of happiness she could never have enjoyed at home. I intended to go from Constantinople to Egypt, but the plague was raging there so violently that it would have been foolhardy to attempt it; and while making arrangements with a Tartar to return to Europe on horseback across the Balkan, striking the Danube at Semlin and Belgrade, a Russian government steamer was advertised for Odessa; and as this mode of travelling at that moment suited my health better, I altered my whole plan, and determined to leave the ruined countries of the Old World for a land just emerging from a state of barbarism, and growing into gigantic greatness. With great regret I took leave of Dr. N. and his son, who sailed the same day for Smyrna, and I have never seen them since. Paul was the last man to whom I said farewell. At the moment of starting my shirts were brought in dripping wet, and Paul bestowed a malediction upon the Greek while he wrung them out and tumbled them into my carpet-bag. I afterward found him at Malta, whence he accompanied me on my tour in Egypt, Arabia Petræa, and the Holy Land, by which he is, perhaps, already known to some of my readers. With my carpet-bag on the shoulders of a Turk, I walked for the last time to Tophana. A hundred caiquemen gathered around me, but I pushed them all back, and kept guard over my carpet-bag, looking out for one whom I had been in the habit of employing ever since my arrival in Constantinople. He soon spied me; and when he took my luggage and myself into his caique, manifested that he knew it was for the last time. Having an hour to spare, I directed him to row once more under the walls of the seraglio; and still loath to leave, I went on shore and walked around the point, until I was stopped by a Turkish bayonet. The Turk growled, and his mustache curled fiercely as he pointed it at me. I had been stopped by Frenchmen, Italians, and by a mountain Greek, but found nothing that brings a man to such a dead stand as the Turkish bayonet. I returned to my caique, and went on board the steamer. She was a Russian government vessel, more classically called a pyroscaphe, a miserable old thing; and yet as much form and circumstance were observed in sending her off as in fitting out an _exploring expedition_. Consuls' and ambassadors' boats were passing and repassing, and after an enormous fuss and preparation, we started under a salute of cannon, which was answered from one of the sultan's frigates. We had the usual scene of parting with friends, waving of handkerchiefs, and so on; and feeling a little lonely at the idea of leaving a city containing a million inhabitants without a single friend to bid me Godspeed, I took my place on the quarter-deck, and waved my handkerchief to my caiqueman, who, I have no doubt, independent of the loss of a few piasters per day, was very sorry to lose me; for we had been so long together, that, in spite of our ignorance of each other's language, we understood each other perfectly. I found on board two Englishmen whom I had met at Corfu, and a third, who had joined them at Smyrna, going to travel in the Crimea; our other cabin-passengers were Mr. Luoff, a Russian officer, an aiddecamp of the emperor, just returned from travels in Egypt and Syria, Mr. Perseani, secretary to the Russian legation in Greece; a Greek merchant, with a Russian protection, on his way to the Sea of Azoff; and a French merchant of Odessa. The tub of a steamboat dashed up the Bosphorus at the rate of three miles an hour; while the classic waters, as if indignant at having such a bellowing, blowing, blustering monster upon their surface, seemed to laugh at her unwieldy and ineffectual efforts. Slowly we mounted the beautiful strait, lined on the European side almost with one continued range of houses, exhibiting in every beautiful nook a palace of the sultan, and at Terapeia and Buyukdere the palaces of the foreign ambassadors; passed the Giant's Mountain, and about an hour before dark were entering a new sea, the dark and stormy Euxine. Advancing, the hills became more lofty and ragged, terminating on the Thracian side in high rocky precipices. The shores of this extremity of the Bosphorus were once covered with shrines, altars, and temples, monuments of the fears or gratitude of mariners who were about to leave, or who had escaped, the dangers of the inhospitable Euxine; and the remains of these antiquities were so great that a traveller almost in our own day describes the coasts as "covered by their ruins." The castles on the European and the Asiatic side of the strait are supposed to occupy the sites where stood, in ancient days, the great temples of Jupiter Serapis and Jupiter Urius. The Bosphorus opens abruptly, without any enlargement at its mouth, between two mountains. The parting view of the strait, or, rather, of the coast on each side, was indescribably grand, presenting a stupendous wall opposed to the great bed of waters, as if torn asunder by an earthquake, leaving a narrow rent for their escape. On each side, a miserable lantern on the top of a tower, hardly visible at the distance of a few miles, is the only light to guide the mariner at night; and as there is another opening called the false Bosphorus, the entrance is difficult and dangerous, and many vessels are lost here annually. As the narrow opening closed before me, I felt myself entering a new world; I was fairly embarked upon that wide expanse of water which once, according to ancient legends, mingled with the Caspian, and covered the great oriental plain of Tartary, and upon which Jason, with his adventurous Argonauts, having killed the dragon and carried off the golden fleece from Colchis, if those same legends be true (which some doubt), sailed across to the great ocean. I might and should have speculated upon the great changes in the face of nature and the great deluge recorded by Grecian historians and poets, which burst the narrow passage of the Thracian Bosphorus for the outlet of the mighty waters; but who could philosophize in a steamboat on the Euxine? Oh Fulton! much as thou hast done for mechanics and the useful arts, thy hand has fallen rudely upon all cherished associations. We boast of thee; I have myself been proud of thee as an American; but as I sat at evening on the stern of the steamer, and listened to the clatter of the engine, and watched the sparks rushing out of the high pipes, and remembered that this was on the dark and inhospitable Euxine, I wished that thy life had begun after mine was ended. I trust I did his memory no wrong; but if I had borne him malice, I could not have wished him worse than to have all his dreams of the past disturbed by the clatter of one of his own engines. I turned away from storied associations to a new country grown up in our own day. We escaped, and, I am obliged to say, without noticing them, the Cyaneæ, "the blue Symplegades," or "wandering islands," which, lying on the European and Asiatic side, floated about, or, according to Pliny, "were alive, and moved to and fro more swiftly than the blast," and in passing through which the good ship Argo had a narrow escape, and lost the extremity of her stern. History and poetry have invested this sea with extraordinary and ideal terrors; but my experience both of the Mediterranean and Black Sea was unfortunate for realizing historical and poetical accounts. I had known the beautiful Mediterranean a sea of storm and sunshine, in which the storm greatly predominated. I found the stormy Euxine calm as an untroubled lake; in fact, the Black Sea is in reality nothing more than a lake, not as large as many of our own, receiving the waters of the great rivers of the north: the Don, the Cuban, the Phase, the Dnieper, and the Danube, and pouring their collected streams through the narrow passage of the Bosphorus into the Mediterranean. Still, if the number of shipwrecks be any evidence of its character, it is indeed entitled to its ancient reputation of a dangerous sea, though probably these accidents proceed, in a great measure, from the ignorance and unskilfulness of mariners, and the want of proper charts and of suitable lighthouses at the opening of the Bosphorus. At all events, we outblustered the winds and waves with our steamboat; passed the Serpent Isles, the ancient Leuce, with a roaring that must have astonished the departed heroes whose souls, according to the ancient poets, were sent there to enjoy perpetual paradise, and scared the aquatic birds which every morning dipped their wings in the sea, and sprinkled the Temple of Achilles, and swept with their plumage its sacred pavement. [Illustration: Odessa.] On the third day we made the low coast of Moldavia or Bess Arabia, within a short distance of Odessa, the great seaport of Southern Russia. Here, too, there was nothing to realize preconceived notions; for, instead of finding a rugged region of eternal snows, we were suffering under an intensely hot sun when we cast anchor in the harbour of Odessa. The whole line of the coast is low and destitute of trees; but Odessa is situated on a high bank; and, with its beautiful theatre, the exchange, the palace of the governor, &c., did not look like a city which, thirty years ago, consisted only of a few fishermen's huts. The harbour of Odessa is very much exposed to the north and east winds, which often cause great damage to the shipping. Many hundred anchors cover the bottom, which cut the rope cables; and, the water being shallow, vessels are often injured by striking on them. An Austrian brig going out, having struck one, sank in ten minutes. There are two moles, the quarantine mole, in which we came to anchor, being the principal. Quarantine flags were flying about the harbour, the yellow indicating those undergoing purification, and the red the fatal presence of the plague. We were prepared to undergo a vexatious process. At Constantinople I had heard wretched accounts of the rude treatment of lazaretto subjects, and the rough, barbarous manners of the Russians to travellers, and we had a foretaste of the light in which we were to be regarded, in the conduct of the health-officer who came alongside. He offered to take charge of any letters for the town, purify them that night, and deliver them in the morning; and, according to his directions, we laid them down on the deck, where he took them up with a pair of long iron tongs, and putting them into an iron box, shut it up and rowed off. In the morning, having received notice that the proper officers were ready to attend us, we went ashore. We landed in separate boats at the end of a long pier, and, forgetting our supposed pestiferous influence, were walking up toward a crowd of men whom we saw there, when their retrograde movements, their gestures, and unintelligible shouts reminded us of our situation. One of our party, in a sort of ecstasy at being on shore, ran capering up the docks, putting to flight a group of idlers, and, single-handed, might have depopulated the city of Odessa, if an ugly soldier with a bayonet had not met him in full career and put a stop to his gambols. The soldier conducted us to a large building at the upper end of the pier; and carefully opening the door, and falling back so as to avoid even the wind that might blow from us in his direction, told us to go in. At the other end of a large room, divided by two parallel railings, sat officers and clerks to examine our passports and take a general account of us. We were at once struck with the military aspect of things, every person connected with the establishment wearing a military uniform; and now commenced a long process. The first operation was to examine our passports, take down our names, and make a memorandum of the purposes for which we severally entered the dominions of the emperor and autocrat of all the Russias. We were all called up, one after the other, captain, cook, and cabin-boy, cabin and deck passengers; and never, perhaps, did steamboat pour forth a more motley assemblage than we presented. We were Jews, Turks, and Christians; Russians, Poles, and Germans; English, French, and Italians; Austrians, Greeks, and Illyrians; Moldavians, Wallachians, Bulgarians, and Sclavonians; Armenians, Georgians, and Africans; and one American. I had before remarked the happy facility of the Russians in acquiring languages, and I saw a striking instance in the officer who conducted the examination, and who addressed every man in his own language with apparently as much facility as though it had been his native tongue. After the oral commenced a corporeal examination. We were ordered one by one into an adjoining room, where, on the other side of a railing, stood a doctor, who directed us to open our shirt bosoms, and slap our hands smartly under our arms and upon our groins, these being the places where the fatal plague-marks first exhibit themselves. This over, we were forthwith marched to the lazaretto, escorted by guards and soldiers, who behaved very civilly and kept at a respectful distance from us. Among our deck passengers were forty or fifty Jews, dirty and disgusting objects, just returned from a pilgrimage to Jerusalem. An old man, who seemed to be, in a manner, the head of the party, and exceeded them all in rags and filthiness, but was said to be rich, in going up to the lazaretto amused us and vexed the officers by sitting down on the way, paying no regard to them when they urged him on, being perfectly assured that they would not dare to touch him. Once he resolutely refused to move; they threatened and swore at him, but he kept his place until one got a long pole and punched him on ahead. In this way we entered the lazaretto; but if it had not been called by that name, and if we had not looked upon it as a place where we were compelled to stay for a certain time, nolens volens, we should have considered it a beautiful spot. It is situated on high ground, within an enclosure of some fifteen or twenty acres, overlooking the Black Sea, laid out in lawn and gravel walks, and ornamented with rows of acacia-trees. Fronting the sea was a long range of buildings divided into separate apartments, each with a little courtyard in front containing two or three acacias. The director, a fine, military-looking man, with a decoration on his lapel, met us on horseback within the enclosure, and with great suavity of manner said that he could not bid us welcome to a prison, but that we should have the privilege of walking at will over the grounds, and visiting each other, subject only to the attendance of a guardiano; and that all that could contribute to our comfort should be done for us. We then selected our rooms, and underwent another personal examination. This was the real touchstone; the first was a mere preliminary observation by a medical understrapper; but this was conducted by a more knowing doctor. We were obliged to strip naked; to give up the clothes we pulled off, and put on a flannel gown, drawers, and stockings, and a woollen cap provided by the government, until our own should be smoked and purified. In everything, however, the most scrupulous regard was paid to our wishes, and a disposition was manifested by all to make this rather vexatious proceeding as little annoying as possible. The bodily examination was as delicate as the nature of the case would admit; for the doctor merely opened the door, looked in, and went out without taking his hand from off the knob. It was none of my business, I know, and may be thought impertinent, but, as he closed the door, I could not help calling him back to ask him whether he held the same inquisition upon the fair sex; to which he replied with a melancholy upturning of the eyes that in the good old days of Russian barbarism this had been part of his duties, but that the march of improvement had invaded his rights, and given this portion of his professional duties to a _sage femme_. All our effects were then taken to another chamber, and arranged on lines, each person superintending the disposition of his own, so as to prevent all confusion, and left there to be fumigated with sulphuric acid for twenty-four hours. So particular were they in fumigating everything susceptible of infection, that I was obliged to leave there a black riband which I wore round my neck as a guard to my watch. Toward evening the principal director, one of the most gentlemanly men I ever met, came round, and with many apologies and regrets for his inability to receive us better, requested us to call upon him freely for anything we might want. Not knowing any of us personally, he did me the honour to say that he understood there was an American in the party, who had been particularly recommended to him by a Russian officer and fellow-passenger. Afterward came the commissary, or chief of the department, and repeated the same compliments, and left us with an exalted opinion of Russian politeness. I had heard horrible accounts of the rough treatment of travellers in Russia, and I made a note at the time, lest after vexations should make me forget it, that I had received more politeness and civility from these northern barbarians, as they are called by the people of the south of Europe, than I ever found amid their boasted civilization. Having still an hour before dark, I strolled out, followed by my guardiano, to take a more particular survey of our prison. In a gravel walk lined with acacias, immediately before the door of my little courtyard, I came suddenly upon a lady of about eighteen, whose dark hair and eyes I at once recognised as Grecian, leading by the hand a little child. I am sure my face brightened at the first glimpse of this vision which promised to shine upon us in our solitude; and perhaps my satisfaction was made too manifest by my involuntarily moving toward her. But my presumption received a severe and mortifying check; for though at first she merely crossed to the other side of the walk, she soon forgot all ceremony, and, fairly dragging the child after her, ran over the grass to another walk to avoid me; my mortification, however, was but temporary; for though, in the first impulse of delight and admiration, I had forgotten time, place, and circumstance, the repulse I had received made me turn to myself, and I was glad to find an excuse for the lady's flight in the flannel gown and long cap and slippers, which marked me as having just entered upon my season of purification. I was soon initiated into the routine of lazaretto ceremonies and restrictions. By touching a quarantine patient, both parties are subjected to the longest term of either; so that if a person, on the last day of his term, should come in contact with another just entered, he would lose all the benefit of his days of purification, and be obliged to wait the full term of the latter. I have seen, in various situations in life, a system of operations called keeping people at a distance, but I never saw it so effectually practised as in quarantine. For this night, at least, I had full range. I walked where I pleased, and was very sure that every one would keep out of my way. During the whole time, however, I could not help treasuring up the precipitate flight of the young lady; and I afterward told her, and, I hope, with the true spirit of one ready to return good for evil, that if she had been in my place, and the days of my purification had been almost ended, in spite of plague and pestilence she might have rushed into my arms without my offering the least impediment. In making the tour of the grounds, I had already an opportunity of observing the relation in which men stand to each other in Russia. When an officer spoke to a soldier, the latter stood motionless as a statue, with his head uncovered during the whole of the conference; and when a soldier on guard saw an officer, no matter at what distance, he presented arms, and remained in that position until the officer was out of sight. Returning, I passed a grating, through which I saw our deck passengers, forty or fifty in number, including the Jewish pilgrims, miserable, dirty-looking objects, turned in together for fourteen days, to eat, drink, and sleep as best they might, like brutes. With a high idea of the politeness of the Russians toward the rich and great, or those whom they believed to be so, and with a strong impression already received confirming the accounts of the degraded condition of the lower classes, I returned to my room, and, with a Frenchman and a Greek for my room-mates, my window opening upon the Black Sea, I spent my first night in quarantine. CHAPTER XIV. The Guardiano.--One too many.--An Excess of Kindness.--The last Day of Quarantine.--Mr. Baguet.--Rise of Odessa.--City-making.--Count Woronzow.--A Gentleman Farmer.--An American Russian. I SHALL pass over briefly the whole of our _pratique_. The next morning I succeeded in getting a room to myself. A guardiano was assigned to each room, who took his place in the antechamber, and was always in attendance. These guardianos are old soldiers, entitled by the rules of the establishment to so much a day; but, as they always expect a gratuity, their attention and services are regulated by that expectation. I was exceedingly fortunate in mine; he was always in the antechamber, cleaning his musket, mending his clothes, or stretched on a mattress looking at the wall; and, whenever I came through with my hat on, without a word he put on his belt and followed me; and very soon, instead of regarding him as an encumbrance, I became accustomed to him, and it was a satisfaction to have him with me. Sometimes, in walking for exercise, I moved so briskly that it tired him to keep up with me; and then I selected a walk where he could sit down and keep his eye upon me, while I walked backward and forward before him. Besides this, he kept my room in order, set my table, carried my notes, brushed my clothes, and took better care of me than any servant I ever had. Our party consisted of eight, and being subjected to the same quarantine, and supposed to have the same quantum of infection, we were allowed to visit each other; and every afternoon we met in the yard, walked an hour or two, took tea together, and returned to our own rooms, where our guardianos mounted guard in the antechamber; our gates were locked up, and a soldier walked outside as sentinel. I was particularly intimate with the Russian officer, whom I found one of the most gentlemanly, best educated, and most amiable men I ever met. He had served and been wounded in the campaign against Poland; had with him two soldiers, his own serfs, who had served under him in that campaign, and had accompanied him in his tour in Egypt and Syria. He gave me his address at St. Petersburgh and promised me the full benefit of his acquaintance there. I have before spoken of the three Englishmen. Two of them I had met at Corfu; the third joined them at Smyrna, and added another proof to the well-established maxim that three spoil company; for I soon found that they had got together by the ears; and the new-comer having connected himself with one of the others, they were anxious to get rid of the third. Many causes of offence existed between them; and though they continued to room together, they were merely waiting till the end of our pratique for an opportunity to separate. One morning the one who was about being thrown off came to my room, and told me that he did not care about going to the Crimea, and proposed accompanying me. This suited me very well; it was a long and expensive journey, and would cost a mere fraction more for two than for one; and when the breach was widened past all possibility of being healed, the cast-off and myself agreed to travel together. I saw much of the secretary of legation, and also of the Greek and Frenchman, my room-mates for the first night. Indeed, I think I may say that I was an object of special interest to all our party. I was unwell, and my companions overwhelmed me with prescriptions and advice; they brought in their medicine chests; one assuring me that he had been cured by this, another by that, and each wanted me to swallow his own favourite medicine, interlarding their advice with anecdotes of whole sets of passengers who had been detained, some forty, some fifty, and some sixty days, by the accidental sickness of one. I did all I could for them, always having regard to the circumstance that it was not of such vital importance to me, at least, to hold out fourteen days if I broke down on the fifteenth. In a few days the doctor, in one of his rounds, told me he understood I was unwell, and I confessed to him the reason of my withholding the fact, and took his prescriptions so well, that, at parting, he gave me a letter to a friend in Chioff, and to his brother, a distinguished professor in the university at St. Petersburgh. We had a restaurant in the lazaretto, with a new bill of fare every day; not first-rate, perhaps, but good enough. I had sent a letter of introduction to Mr. Baguet, the Spanish consul, also to a German, the brother of a missionary at Constantinople, and a note to Mr. Ralli, the American consul, and had frequent visits from them, and long talks at the parlatoria through the grating. The German was a knowing one, and came often; he had a smattering of English, and would talk in that language, as I thought, in compliment to me; but the last time he came he thanked me kindly, and told me he had improved more in his English than by a year's study. When I got out he never came near me. Sunday, June seventh, was our last day in quarantine. We had counted the days anxiously; and though our time had passed as agreeably as, under the circumstances, it could pass, we were in high spirits at the prospect of our liberation. To the last, the attention and civility of the officers of the yard continued unremitted. Every morning regularly the director knocked at each gate to inquire how we had passed the night, and whether he could do anything for us; then the doctor, to inquire into our corporeal condition; and every two or three days, toward evening, the director, with the same decoration on the lapel of his coat, and at the same hour, inquired whether we had any complaints to make of want of attendance or improper treatment. Our last day in the lazaretto is not to be forgotten. We kept as clear of the rest of the inmates as if they had been pickpockets, though once I was thrown into a cold sweat by an act of forgetfulness. A child fell down before me; I sprang forward to pick him up, and should infallibly have been fixed for ten days longer if my guardiano had not caught me. Lingering for the last time on the walk overlooking the Black Sea, I saw a vessel coming up under full sail, bearing, as I thought, the American flag. My heart almost bounded at seeing the stars and stripes on the Black Sea; but I was deceived; and almost dejected with the disappointment, called my guardiano, and returned for the last time to my room. The next morning we waited in our rooms till the doctor paid his final visit, and soon after we all gathered before the door of the directory, ready to sally forth. Every one who has made a European voyage knows the metamorphosis in the appearance of the passengers on the day of landing. It was much the same with us; we had no more slipshod, long-bearded companions, but all were clean shirted and shaved becomingly, except our old Jew and his party, who probably had not changed a garment or washed their faces since the first day in quarantine, nor perhaps for many years before. They were people from whom, under any circumstances, one would be apt to keep at a respectful distance; and to the last they carried everything before them. We had still another vexatious process in passing our luggage through the custom-house. We had handed in a list of all our effects the night before, in which I intentionally omitted to mention Byron's poems, these being prohibited in Russia. He had been my companion in Italy and Greece, and I was loath to part with him; so I put the book under my arm, threw my cloak over me, and walked out unmolested. Outside the gate there was a general shaking of hands; the director, whom we had seen every day at a distance, was the first to greet us, and Mr. Baguet, the brother of the Spanish consul, who was waiting to receive me, welcomed me to Russia. With sincere regret I bade good-by to my old soldier, mounted a drosky, and in ten minutes was deposited in a hotel, in size and appearance equal to the best in Paris. It was a pleasure once more to get into a wheel-carriage; I had not seen one since I left Italy, except the old hack I mentioned at Argos, and the arabas at Constantinople. It was a pleasure, too, to see hats, coats, and pantaloons. Early associations will cling to a man; and, in spite of a transient admiration for the dashing costume of the Greek and Turk, I warmed to the ungraceful covering of civilized man, even to the long surtout and bell-crowned hat of the Russian marchand; and, more than all, I was attracted by an appearance of life and energy particularly striking after coming from among the dead-and-alive Turks. While in quarantine I had received an invitation to dine with Mr. Baguet, and had barely time to make one tour of the city in a drosky before it was necessary to dress for dinner. Mr. Baguet was a bachelor of about forty, living in pleasant apartments, in an unpretending and gentlemanly style. As in all the ports of the Levant, except where there are ambassadors, the consuls are the nobility of the place. Several of them were present; and the European consuls in those places are a different class of men from ours, as they are paid by salaries from their respective governments, while ours, who receive no pay, are generally natives of the place, who serve for the honour or some other accidental advantage. We had, therefore, the best society in Odessa at Mr. Baguet's, the American consul not being present, which, by-the-way, I do not mean in a disrespectful sense, as Mr. Ralli seemed every way deserving of all the benefits that the station gives. In the evening the consul and myself took two or three turns on the boulevards, and at about eleven I returned to my hotel. After what I have said of this establishment, the reader will be surprised to learn that, when I went to my room, I found there a bedstead, but no bed or bedclothes. I supposed it was neglect, and ordered one to be prepared; but, to my surprise, was told that there were no beds in the hotel. It was kept exclusively for the rich seigneurs who always carry their own beds with them. Luckily, the bedstead was not corded, but contained a bottom of plain slabs of wood, about six or eight inches wide, and the same distance apart, laid crosswise, so that lengthwise there was no danger of falling through; and wrapping myself in my cloak, and putting my carpet-bag under my head, I went to sleep. Before breakfast the next morning I had learned the topography of Odessa. To an American Russia is an interesting country. True, it is not classic ground; but as for me, who had now travelled over the faded and wornout kingdoms of the Old World, I was quite ready for something new. Like our own, Russia is a new country, and in many respects resembles ours. It is true that we began life differently. Russia has worked her way to civilization from a state of absolute barbarism, while we sprang into being with the advantage of all the lights of the Old World. Still there are many subjects of comparison, and even of emulation, between us; and nowhere in all Russia is there a more proper subject to begin with than my first landing-place. Odessa is situated in a small bay between the mouths of the Dnieper and Dniester. Forty years ago it consisted of a few miserable fishermen's huts on the shores of the Black Sea. In 1796 the Empress Catharine resolved to built a city there; and the Turks being driven from the dominion of the Black Sea, it became a place of resort and speculation for the English, Austrians, Neapolitans, Dutch, Ragusans, and Greeks of the Ionian republic. In eighteen hundred and two, two hundred and eighty vessels arrived from Constantinople and the Mediterranean; and the Duke de Richelieu, being appointed governor-general by Alexander, laid out a city upon a gigantic scale, which, though at first its growth was not commensurate with his expectations, now contains sixty thousand inhabitants, and bids fair to realize the extravagant calculations of its founder. Mr. Baguet and the gentlemen whom I met at his table were of opinion that it is destined to be the greatest commercial city in Russia, as the long winters and the closing of the Baltic with ice must ever be a great disadvantage to St. Petersburgh; and the interior of the country can as well be supplied from Odessa as from the northern capital. There is no country where cities have sprung up so fast and increased so rapidly as in ours; and, altogether, perhaps nothing in the world can be compared with our Buffalo, Rochester, Cincinnati, &c. But Odessa has grown faster than any of these, and has nothing of the appearance of one of our new cities. We are both young, and both marching with gigantic strides to greatness, but we move by different roads; and the whole face of the country, from the new city on the borders of the Black Sea to the steppes of Siberia, shows a different order of government and a different constitution of society. With us, a few individuals cut down the trees of the forest, or settle themselves by the banks of a stream, where they happen to find some local advantages, and build houses suited to their necessities; others come and join them; and, by degrees, the little settlement becomes a large city. But here a gigantic government, endowed almost with creative powers, says, "Let there be a city," and immediately commences the erection of large buildings. The rich seigneurs follow the lead of government, and build hotels to let out in apartments. The theatre, casino, and exchange at Odessa are perhaps superior to any buildings in the United States. The city is situated on an elevation about a hundred feet above the sea; a promenade three quarters of a mile long, terminated at one end by the exchange, and at the other by the palace of the governor, is laid out in front along the margin of the sea, bounded on one side by an abrupt precipice, and adorned with trees, shrubs, flowers, statues, and busts, like the garden of the Tuileries, the Borghese Villa, or the Villa Recali at Naples. On the other side is a long range of hotels built of stone, running the whole length of the boulevards, some of them with façades after the best models in Italy. A broad street runs through the centre of the city, terminating with a semicircular enlargement at the boulevards, and in the centre of this stands a large equestrian statue erected to the Duke de Richelieu; and parallel and at right angles are wide streets lined with large buildings, according to the most approved plans of modern architecture. The custom which the people have of taking apartments in hotels causes the erection of large buildings, which add much to the general appearance of the city; while with us, the universal disposition of every man to have a house to himself, conduces to the building of small houses, and, consequently, detracts from general effect. The city, as yet, is not generally paved, and is, consequently, so dusty, that every man is obliged to wear a light cloak to save his dress. Paving-stone is brought from Trieste and Malta, and is very expensive. About two o'clock Mr. Ralli, our consul, called upon me. Mr. Ralli is a Greek of Scio. He left his native island when a boy; has visited every port in Europe as a merchant, and lived for the last eight years in Odessa. He has several brothers in England, Trieste, and some of the Greek islands, and all are connected in business. When Mr. Rhind, who negotiated our treaty with the Porte, left Odessa, he authorized Mr. Ralli to transact whatever consular business might be required, and on his recommendation Mr. Ralli afterward received a regular appointment as consul. Mr. Rhind, by-the-way, expected a great trade from opening the Black Sea to American bottoms; but he was wrong in his anticipations, and there have been but two American vessels there since the treaty. Mr. Ralli is rich and respected, being vice-president of the commercial board, and very proud of the honour of the American consulate, as it gives him a position among the dignitaries of the place, enables him to wear a uniform and sword on public occasions, and yields him other privileges which are gratifying, at least, if not intrinsically valuable. No traveller can pass through Odessa without having to acknowledge the politeness of Count Woronzow, the governor of the Crimea, one of the richest seigneurs in Russia, and one of the pillars of the throne. At the suggestion of Mr. Ralli, I accompanied him to the palace and was presented. The palace is a magnificent building, and the interior exhibits a combination of wealth and taste. The walls are hung with Italian paintings, and, for interior ornaments and finish, the palace is far superior to those in Italy; the knobs of the doors are of amber, and the doors of the dining-room from the old imperial palace at St. Petersburgh. The count is a military-looking man of about fifty, six feet high, with sallow complexion and gray hair. His father married an English lady of the Sidney family, and his sister married the Earl of Pembroke. He is a soldier in bearing and appearance, held a high rank during the French invasion of Russia, and distinguished himself particularly at Borodino; in rank and power he is the fourth military officer in the empire. He possesses immense wealth in all parts of Russia, particularly in the Crimea; and his wife's mother, after Demidoff and Scheremetieff, is the richest subject in the whole empire. He speaks English remarkably well, and, after a few commonplaces, with his characteristic politeness to strangers, invited me to dine at the palace the next day. I was obliged to decline, and he himself suggested the reason, that probably I was engaged with my countryman, Mr. Sontag (of whom more anon), whom the count referred to as his old friend, adding that he would not interfere with the pleasure of a meeting between two countrymen so far from home, and asked me for the day after, or any other day I pleased. I apologized on the ground of my intended departure, and took my leave. My proposed travelling companion had committed to me the whole arrangements for our journey, or, more properly, had given me the whole trouble of making them; and, accompanied by one of Mr. Ralli's clerks, I visited all the carriage repositories to purchase a vehicle, after which I accompanied Mr. Ralli to his country-house to dine. He occupied a pretty little place a few versts from Odessa, with a large fruit and ornamental garden. Mr. Ralli's lady is also a native of Greece, with much of the cleverness and _spirituelle_ character of the educated Greeks. One of her _bons mots_ current in Odessa is, that her husband is consul for the other world. A young Italian, with a very pretty wife, dined with us, and, after dinner and a stroll through the garden, we walked over to Mr. Perseani's, the father of our Russian secretary; another walk in the garden with a party of ladies, tea, and I got back to Odessa in time for a walk on the boulevards and the opera. Before my attention was turned to Odessa, I should as soon have thought of an opera-house at Chicago as there; but I already found, what impressed itself more forcibly upon me at every step, that Russia is a country of anomalies. The new city on the Black Sea contains many French and Italian residents, who are willing to give all that is not necessary for food and clothing for the opera; the Russians themselves are passionately fond of musical and theatrical entertainments, and government makes up all deficiencies. The interior of the theatre corresponds with the beauty of its exterior. All the decorations are in good taste, and the Corinthian columns, running from the foot to the top, particularly beautiful. The opera was the Barber of Seville; the company in _full_ undress, and so barbarous as to pay attention to the performance. I came out at about ten o'clock, and, after a turn or two on the boulevards, took an icecream at the café of the Hotel de Petersbourgh. This hotel is beautifully situated on one corner of the main street, fronting the boulevards, and opposite the statue of the Duke de Richelieu; and looking from the window of the café, furnished and fitted up in a style superior to most in Paris, upon the crowd still thronging the boulevards, I could hardly believe that I was really on the borders of the Black Sea. Having purchased a carriage and made all my arrangements for starting, I expected to pass this day with an unusual degree of satisfaction, and I was not disappointed. I have mentioned incidentally the name of a countryman resident in Odessa; and, being so far from home, I felt a yearning toward an American. In France or Italy I seldom had this feeling, for there Americans congregate in crowds; but in Greece and Turkey I always rejoiced to meet a compatriot; and when, on my arrival at Odessa, before going into the lazaretto, the captain told me that there was an American residing there, high in character and office, who had been twenty years in Russia, I requested him to present my compliments, and say that, if he had not forgotten his fatherland, a countryman languishing in the lazaretto would be happy to see him through the gratings of his prison-house. I afterward regretted having sent this message, as I heard from other sources that he was a prominent man, and during the whole term of my quarantine I never heard from him personally. I was most agreeably disappointed, however, when, on the first day of my release, I met him at dinner at the Spanish consul's. He had been to the Crimea with Count Woronzow; had only returned that morning, and had never heard of my being there until invited to meet me at dinner. I had wronged him by my distrust; for, though twenty years an exile, his heart beat as true as when he left our shores. Who can shake off the feeling that binds him to his native land? Not hardships nor disgrace at home; not favour nor success abroad; not even time, can drive from his mind the land of his birth or the friends of his youthful days. General Sontag was a native of Philadelphia; had been in our navy, and served as sailing-master on board the Wasp; became dissatisfied from some cause which he did not mention, left our navy, entered the Russian, and came round to the Black Sea as captain of a frigate; was transferred to the land service, and, in the campaign of 1814, entered Paris with the allied armies as colonel of a regiment. In this campaign he formed a friendship with Count Woronzow, which exists in full force at this day. He left the army with the rank of brigadier-general. By the influence of Count Woronzow, he was appointed inspector of the port of Odessa, in which office he stood next in rank to the Governor of the Crimea, and, in fact, on one occasion, during the absence of Count Woronzow, lived in the palace and acted as governor for eight months. He married a lady of rank, with an estate and several hundred slaves at Moscow; wears two or three ribands at his buttonhole, badges of different orders; has gone through the routine of offices and honours up to the grade of grand counsellor of the empire; and a letter addressed to him under the title of "his excellency" will come to the right hands. He was then living at his country place, about eight versts from Odessa, and asked me to go out and pass the next day with him. I was strongly tempted, but, in order that I might have the full benefit of it, postponed the pleasure until I had completed my arrangements for travelling. The next day General Sontag called upon me, but I did not see him; and this morning, accompanied by Mr. Baguet the younger, I rode out to his place. The land about Odessa is a dead level, the road was excessively dry, and we were begrimed with dust when we arrived. General Sontag was waiting for us, and, in the true spirit of an American farmer at home, proposed taking us over his grounds. His farm is his hobby; it contains about six hundred acres, and we walked all over it. His crop was wheat, and, although I am no great judge of these matters, I think I never saw finer. He showed me a field of very good wheat, which had not been sowed in three years, but produced by the fallen seed of the previous crops. We compared it with our Genesee wheat, and to me it was an interesting circumstance to find an American cultivating land on the Black Sea, and comparing it with the products of our Genesee flats, with which he was perfectly familiar. One thing particularly struck me, though, as an American, perhaps I ought not to have been so sensitive. A large number of men were at work in the field, and they were all slaves. Such is the force of education and habit, that I have seen hundreds of black slaves without a sensation; but it struck rudely upon me to see white men slaves to an American, and he one whose father had been a soldier of the revolution, and had fought to sustain the great principle that "all men are by nature free and equal." Mr. Sontag told me that he valued his farm at about six thousand dollars, on which he could live well, have a bottle of Crimea wine, and another every day for a friend, and lay up one thousand dollars a year; but I afterward heard that he was a complete enthusiast on the subject of his farm; a bad manager, and that he really knew nothing of its expense or profit. Returning to the house, we found Madame Sontag ready to receive us. She is an authoress of great literary reputation, and of such character that, while the emperor was prosecuting the Turkish war in person, and the empress remained at Odessa, the young archduchesses were placed under her charge. At dinner she talked with much interest of America, and expressed a hope, though not much expectation, of one day visiting it. But General Sontag himself, surrounded as he is by Russian connexions, is all American. Pointing to the riband on his buttonhole, he said he was entitled to one order which he should value above all others; that his father had been a soldier of the revolution, and member of the Cincinnati Society, and that in Russia the decoration of that order would be to him the proudest badge of honour that an American could wear. After dining we retired into a little room fitted up as a library, which he calls America, furnished with all the standard American books, Irving, Paulding, Cooper, &c., engravings of distinguished Americans, maps, charts, canal and railroad reports, &c.; and his daughter, a lovely little girl and only child, has been taught to speak her father's tongue and love her father's land. In honour of me she played on the piano "Hail Columbia" and "Yankee Doodle," and the day wore away too soon. We took tea on the piazza, and at parting I received from him a letter to his agent on his estate near Moscow, and from Madame Sontag one which carried me into the imperial household, being directed to Monsieur l'Intendant du Prince héritiere, Petersbourgh. A few weeks ago I received from him a letter, in which he says, "the visit of one of my countrymen is so great a treat, that I can assure you, you are never forgotten by any one of my little family; and when my daughter wishes to make me smile, she is sure to succeed if she sits down to her piano and plays 'Hail Columbia' or 'Yankee Doodle;' this brings to mind Mr. ----, Mr. ----, Mr. ----, and Mr. ----, who have passed through this city; to me alone it brings to mind my country, parents, friends, youth, and a world of things and ideas past, never to return. Should any of our countrymen be coming this way, do not forget to inform them that in Odessa lives one who will be glad to see them;" and I say now to any of my countrymen whom chance may throw upon the shores of the Black Sea, that if he would receive so far from home the welcome of a true-hearted American, General Sontag will be glad to render it. It was still early in the evening when I returned to the city. It was moonlight, and I walked immediately to the boulevards. I have not spoken as I ought to have done of this beautiful promenade, on which I walked every evening under the light of a splendid moon. The boulevards are bounded on one side by the precipitous shore of the sea; are three quarters of a mile in length, with rows of trees on each side, gravel walks and statues, and terminated at one end by the exchange, and at the other by the palace of Count Woronzow. At this season of the year it was the promenade of all the beauty and fashion of Odessa, from an hour or two before dark until midnight. This evening the moon was brighter, and the crowd was greater and gayer than usual. The great number of officers, with their dashing uniforms, the clashing of their swords, and rattling of their spurs, added to the effect; and woman never looks so interesting as when leaning on the arm of a soldier. Even in Italy or Greece I have seldom seen a finer moonlight scene than the columns of the exchange through the vista of trees lining the boulevards. I expected to leave the next day, and I lingered till a late hour. I strolled up and down the promenade, alone among thousands. I sat down upon a bench, and looked for the last time on the Black Sea, the stormy Euxine, quiet in the moonbeams, and glittering like a lake of burnished silver. By degrees the gay throng disappeared; one after another, party after party withdrew; a few straggling couples, seeming all the world to each other, still lingered, like me, unable to tear themselves away. It was the hour and the place for poetry and feeling. A young officer and a lady were the last to leave; they passed by me, but did not notice me; they had lost all outward perceptions; and as, in passing for the last time, she raised her head for a moment, and the moon shone full upon her face, I saw there an expression that spoke of heaven. I followed them as they went out, murmured involuntarily "Happy dog," whistled "Heighho, says Thimble," and went to my hotel to bed. END OF VOL. I. List of Corrections: p. iii, Preface: "Egypt, Arabia Petræ, and the Holy Land." was changed to "Egypt, Arabia Petræa, and the Holy Land." p. 14: "that we coud" was changed to "that we could." p. 87: "friends in this county" was changed to "friends in this country." p. 90: "but we connot" was changed to "but we cannot." p. 99: "Gate of the Lyons" was changed to "Gate of the Lions" as in the rest of the book. p. 130: "to favour such a suiter" was changed to "to favour such a suitor." p. 174: "it is confirmed by poetry, hat" was changed to "it is confirmed by poetry, that." p. 183: "the jackall's cry was heard" was changed to "the jackal's cry was heard." p. 184: "cartainly whip them" was changed to "certainly whip them." p. 233: "threade our way" was changed to "threaded our way." p. 234: "Cachmere shawls" was changed to "Cashmere shawls." p. 244: "the Phase, the Dneiper, and the Danube" was changed to "the Phase, the Dnieper, and the Danube." p. 258: "the mouths of the Dneiper and Dneister" was changed to "the mouths of the Dnieper and Dniester." p. 268: "quiet in the moonbeans" was changed to "quiet in the moonbeams." Errata: The summary in the table of contents is not always consistent with the summary at the beginning of each chapter. The original has been retained. 
28400	----	An Obscure Apostle A Dramatic Story TRANSLATED BY C.S. DE SOISSONS FROM THE ORIGINAL POLISH OF MME. ORZESZKO LONDON GREENING & CO., LTD. 20 CECIL COURT, CHARING CROSS ROAD 1899 Printed by Cowan & Co., Limited Perth. PREFACE ELIZA ORZESZKO In Lord Palmerston's days, the English public naturally heard a great deal about Poland, for there were a goodly number of Poles, noblemen and others, residing in London, exiles after the unsuccessful revolution, who, believing that England would help them to recover their lost liberty, made every possible effort to that end through Count Vladislas Zamoyski, the prime minister's personal friend. But even in those times, when the English press was writing much about the political situation in Poland, little was said about that which constitutes the greatest glory of a nation, namely, its literature and art, which alone can be secure of immortality. Only lately, in fact, has any public attention been paid by English people to Polish literature. However, among the authors who have attracted considerable attention of late, is the writer of "By Fire and Sword," whose "Quo Vadis," has met with a phenomenal reception. Henryk Sienkiewicz has by his popularity proved that in unfortunate, almost forgotten, Poland, there is an abundance of literary talent and an important output of works of which few English readers have any conception. For instance, who has ever heard, in Great Britain, of Adam Michiewicz the great Polish poet, who, critics declare, can be placed in the same category with Homer, Virgil, Dante, Tasso, Klopstock, Camoens, and Milton? Joseph Kraszewski as a novel writer occupies in Poland as high a position as Maurice Jokai does in Hungarian literature, while Mme. Eliza Orzeszko is considered to be the Polish Georges Sand, even by the Germans, who are in many respects the rivals of Slavs in politics and literature. Henryk Sienkiewicz, asked by an interviewer what he thought about the contemporary Polish literary talents, replied: "At the head of all stand Waclaw Sieroszewski and Stefan Zeromski; they are young, and very promising writers. But Eliza Orzeszko still holds the sceptre as a novelist." When the "Revue des Deux Mondes" asked the authors of different nationalities to furnish an essay on women of their respective countries, Mme. Orzeszko was chosen among the Polish writers to write about the Polish women. It may be stated that translations of her novels appeared in the same magazine more than twenty years ago. She is not only a talented but also a prolific writer. She has suffered much in her life, and her sufferings have brought out those sterling qualities of soul and heart, which make her books so intensely human, and characterise all her works, and place her high above contemporary Polish writers. The present volume may stand as a proof of her all-embracing talent. C.S. DE SOISSONS. AN OBSCURE APOSTLE INTRODUCTION On the summits of civilisation the various branches of the great tree of humanity are united and harmonised. Education is the best apostle of universal brotherhood. It polishes the roughness without and cuts the overgrowth within; it permits of the development, side by side and with mutual respect, of the natural characteristics of different individuals; it prunes even religious beliefs produced by the needs of the time, and reduces them to their simplest expression, the result being that people can live without antipathies. Quite a different state of affairs exists in the social valley unlighted by the sun of knowledge. There people are the same to-day as they were in the remote centuries. Time, while making tombs for the dead people, has not buried with them the forms which, being continually regenerated, create among amazed societies unintelligible anachronisms. Here exist distinctions which, with sharp edges, push back everything which belongs not to them; here are crawling moral and physical miseries which are unknown, even by name, to those who have reached the summits; here is a gathering of dark figures, standing out against the background of the world, resembling vague outlines of sphinxes keeping guard over the graveyards; here are widely-spread petrifications of faiths, sentiment and customs, testifying by their presence that geniuses of many centuries can simultaneously rule the world. Patricians and plebeians changed their formal parts. The first became defenders and propagators of equality; the second stubbornly hold to distinctions. And if in times of yore oppression was directed by those who stood high against those who, in dust and humility, swarmed in the depths, in our times, from the depths arise unhealthy exhalations, which poison life and make the roads of civilisation difficult to the chosen ones. Such unfortunate valleys, rendering many people unhappy, separating the rest of the world by a chain of high mountains, exist in Israelitic society, as well as in the society of other nations, and there they are even more numerous than elsewhere. Their too long existence is the result of many historical causes and characteristics of the race. To-day they constitute a phenomenon; attracting the thinker and the artist by their great influence and the originality of their colouring, composed of mysterious shadows and bright lights. But who is familiar with them and who studies them? Even those who, on account of the same blood and traditions, should be attracted toward these localities, plunged in darkness, send there neither painters nor apostles--sometimes they do not even believe in their existence. For instance, what a surprise it would be to Israelitic society, gathered in the largest city in the country, composed of cultivated men and of women, who by their beauty, refinement and wit are in no way inferior to the women of other nations: what a surprise it would be to this society, gowned in purple and fine linen, if somebody would all at once describe Szybow and what is transpiring there! Szybow? On what planet is it, and if on ours, what population has it? The people there, are they white, black or brown? Well then, readers, I am going to make you acquainted with that deep--very deep--social valley. Not long ago there was enacted there an interesting drama worthy of your kind glance--of your heart's strong throb and a moment of long, sad thought. But in order to bring out facts and figures they must be thrown against the background on which they have risen and developed, and in the deep perspectives of which there are elements which are the causes of their existence. Therefore you must permit me, before raising the curtain which hides the first scenes of the drama, to tell you in brief the history of the small town. CHAPTER I Far, far from the line of the railroads which run through the Bialorus (a part of Poland around the city of Mohileff which now belongs to Russia), far from even the navigable River Dzwina, in one of the most remote corners of the country, amidst quiet, large, level fields--still existing in some parts of Europe--between two sandy roads which disappear into the depths of a great forest, there is a group of gray houses of different sizes standing so closely together that anyone looking at them would say that they had been seized by some great fright and had crowded together in order to be able to exchange whispers and tears. This is Szybow, a town inhabited by Israelites, almost exclusively, with the exception of a small street at the end of the place in which, in a few houses, live a few very poor burghers and very quiet old retired officials. It is the only street that is quiet, and the only street in which flowers bloom in summer. In the other streets no flowers bloom, and they are dreadfully noisy. There the people talk and move about continually, industriously, passionately, within the houses and in the narrow dark alleys called streets, and in the round, comparatively large market-place in the centre of the town, around which there are numerous doors of stinking small shops. In this market-place after a week of transactions by the people of the vicinity, there remains an inconceivable quantity of dirt and sweepings, and here is also the high, dusky, strangely-shaped meeting house. This building is one of the specimens, rare to-day, of Hebrew architecture. A painter and an archeologist would look upon it with an equal amount of interest. At first glance it can be easily seen that it is a synagogue, although it does not look like other churches. Its four thick walls form a monotonous quadrangle, and its brown colour gives it a touch of dignity, sadness, and antiquity. These walls must be very old indeed, for they are covered with green strips of moss. The higher parts of the walls are cut with a row of long, narrow, deeply-set windows, recalling, by their shape, the loop-holes of a fortress. The whole building is covered by a roof whose three large heavy turrets, built one upon the other, look like three moss-covered gigantic mushrooms. Every gathering, whether of greater importance or of common occurrence, was held here, sheltered beneath the brown walls and mushroom-like roof of the temple. Here in the large round courtyard are the heders (Hebrew schools), where the kahals (church committees) gather. Here stands a low black house with two windows, a real mud hovel, inhabited for several centuries and for many generations by Rabbis of the family of Todros, famous in the community and even far beyond it. Here at least everything is clean, and while in other parts of the place, in the spring especially, the people nearly sink into the mud, the school courtyard is always clean. It would be difficult to find on it even a wisp of straw, for as soon as anything is noticed, it is at once picked up by a passer-by, anxious to keep clean the place around the temple. How important Szybow is to the Israelites living in Bialorus, and even in Lithuania, can be judged by an embarrassing incident which occurred to a merry but unwise nobleman while in conversation with a certain Jewish agent, more spiritual than humble. The agent was standing at the door of the office of the noble, bent a little forward, smiling, always ready to please and serve the noble, and say a witty word to put him in good humour. The noble was feeling pretty good, and joked with the Jew. "Chaimek," spoke he, "wert thou in Cracow?" "I was not, serene lord." "Then thou art stupid." Chaimek bowed. "Chaimek, wert thou in Rome?" "I was not, serene lord." "Then thou art very stupid." Chaimek bowed again, but in the meanwhile he had made two steps forward. On his lips wandered one of those smiles common to the people of his race--clever, cunning, in which it is impossible to say whether there is humility or triumph, flattery or irony. "Excuse me, your lordship," he said softly, "has your lordship been in Szybow?" Szybow was situated about twenty miles from the place at which this conversation was held. The nobleman answered, "I was not." "And what now?" answered Chaimek still more softly. The answer of the jolly nobleman to that embarrassing question is not recorded, but the use of Szybow as an argument against the insult shows that to the Jew Szybow was of the same relative importance as were Rome and Cracow to the nobleman, i.e., as the place which was the concentration of civil and religious authorities. If someone were to have asked the Jew why he attributed such importance to a small, poor town, he would probably mention two families who had lived in Szybow for centuries--Ezofowichs and Todros. Between these two families there existed the difference that the Ezofowichs represented the concentration in the highest degree of the element of secular importance, i.e., large family, numerous relatives, riches, and keenness in the transaction of large business interests, and in increasing their wealth. On the other hand, the Todros family represented the spiritual element--piety, religious culture, and severe, almost ascetic, purity of life. It is probable that if Chaimek were asked the reason for the importance given to the little town, he would forget to name the Ezofowichs because, although the Israelites were proud of the riches and influence of that family as one of their national glories, this lustre, purely worldly, paled in comparison with the rays of holiness which surrounded the name of Todros. The Todros were for generations considered by the whole Hebrew population of Bialorus and Lithuania as the most accomplished example and enduring pillar of orthodoxy. Was it really so? Here and there could be found scholarly Talmudists, who smiled when a question arose in regard to the Talmudistic orthodoxy of the Todros, and when they gathered together the name of Todros was sadly whispered about. But although the celebrated orthodoxy of the Todros was much discussed by these scholars, they were greatly in the minority--only a score among the masses of believers. The crowd believed, worshipped, and went to Szybow as to a holy place, to make obeisance and ask for advice, consolation, and medicines. Szybow had not always possessed such an attractive power of orthodoxy; on the contrary, its founders were schismatics, representing in Israel the spirit of opposition and division, Karaites. In the times of yore they had converted to their belief the powerful inhabitants of the rich land on the shores of Chersoneses, and they became their kings. Afterwards, in accordance with the traditions of that reign, they wandered into the world with their legislative book, the Bible, double exiles, from Palestine and Crimea, and a small part of them, brought to Lithuania by the Grand Duke Witold, went as far as Bialorus and settled there in a group of houses and mud-hovels called Szybow. In those times, on Friday and Saturday evenings, great tranquillity and darkness was spread through the town, because Karaites, contrary to the Talmudists, did not celebrate the holy day of Sabbath with an abundance of light and noisy joy and copious feasts, but they greeted it with darkness, silence, sadness, and meditation upon the downfall of the national temple, and the glory and might of the people of Israel. Then, from the blackest houses, from behind the small dark windows, there flowed into the quiet without the sound of singing; the parents were sadly telling their children of the prophets who, on the shores of the rivers in Babylon, broke their harps and cut their fingers so that none could force them to sing in captivity, of the blessed country of Havili, situated somewhere in the south of Arabia, where the ten tribes of Israel lived in liberty, happiness, and peace, not knowing quarrels or the use of the sword. They talked of the holy river, Sabbation, hiding the Israelitic wanderers from the eyes of their toes. In time, however, lights began to shine in the windows on Fridays, and then, little by little, they began to talk and pray aloud. Rabbinits arrived. The worshippers of Talmudistic authorities, representative of blind faith in oral traditions gathered and transmitted by Kohens, Tanaits, and Gaons, came and pushed aside the handful of heretics and wrecks. Under the influence of the newcomers the community of Karaites began to melt away. The last blow was struck at it by a man well-known in the history of Polish Hebrews--Michael Ezofowich, Senior. He was the first of his name to emerge from obscurity. His family, settled in Poland for a long time, was one of these which, during the reign of Jagiellons, under the influence of privileges and laws in Poland promulgated by a (for that time) high civilisation, was united by sympathetic ties to the aboriginal population, and Ezofowich was appointed Senior over all the Hebrew population of Lithuania and Bialorus, by King Zygmunt the First, by a document which read thus: "We, Zygmunt, by God's grace, etc., make known to all Jews living on the estate, our Fatherland, having taken into consideration the faithful services of the Jew, Michael Ezofowich, and wishing you in your affairs not to meet with any obstacles and delays, according to the laws of justice, we constitute, that Michael Ezofowich shall settle all your affairs for US, and be your superior, and you must come to US through him, and be obedient to him in everything. He will judge you and rule over you according to the custom of our law, and punish the guilty ones by OUR permission, everyone according to his merit." From the few historical notes about him, it can be seen that the Senior was a man of strong and energetic will. With a firm hand he seized the authority given him over his co-religionists, and he threw an anathema over those who would not obey him, especially on the Karaites, excluding them from the Hebrew community, and refusing them the friendship and help of their tribe. Under such a blow the existence of the inhabitants of Szybow, already poor, sad, and inactive, was made altogether unbearable. The descendants of Hazairan rulers, heretics, constituting, as always, a great minority of the population, exposed to aversion and hatred, oppressed and poor, left the place which had given them shelter for a certain time, carrying with them in their hearts their stubborn attachment to the Bible, and on their lips their poetical legends. They scattered in the broad and hostile world, leaving behind them in that little town where they had lived two hundred years only a few families, cherishing still more passionately their old graveyards, the hill now covered with the ruins of their temple, which the conquering Rabbinits had destroyed. The Rabbinits took possession of Szybow, and, if the truth be told, they changed, by their energy, industry, perfect harmony of action, the result of unusual mutual help, the quiet, gray, poor, sad little village into a town full of activity, noise, care, and riches. In those times, under the Senior's rule, the Jews in general were prosperous. Besides material prosperity, there began to live in them the hope of a possibility of rising from their mental ignorance and social humiliation. The Senior must surely have had a superior and keen mind, for he was able to thoroughly understand the spirit of the time and the needs of his people, notwithstanding the ancient barriers and prejudices. He rejected the Karaites from the bosom of Israel, not because of religious fanaticism but for broader social reasons. Although he was a Rabbinit, and obliged to give to the religious authorities absolute faith and worship, his mind was sometimes visited by fits of scepticism--perhaps the best road to wisdom. In one of his reports to the King, refuting some objections which had been made to his sentences, he wrote, sadly and ironically: "Our different books give us different laws. Very often we know not what to do when Gamaliel differs from Eliezer. In Babylon is one truth--in Jerusalem another (two editions of the Talmud). We obey the second Moses (Majmonides) and the new ones call him heretic. I encourage the savants to write such wise books that the clever and stupid can understand them." It was at the time when the Occidental Israelites, settled in France and Spain, raised the question as to whether the professors of the Talmud and Bible should be permitted to acquire a knowledge of the lay sciences. Many opinions were considered, but none was strong enough to prevail, because the partisans of absolute separation from mental work and human tendencies constituted a great majority among the Israelites. Every society has such moments of darkness. It happens especially when a nation is exhausted by a series of successful efforts, after having undergone tortures, and enfeebled by the streams of blood poured out. The Occidental Jews, after centuries of existence in abject fear, wandering through fire and blood, passed such a moment in the sixteenth century. The time was still far distant which gave birth to famous doctors of secular sciences beloved of the people, esteemed by Kings. The high ideas of Majmonides who, giving deserved credit to the legislation of Israel, admired also the Greek scholars, were also far from the--they were even forgotten. Majmonides, who wished to base the knowledge of the Bible and Talmud on a foundation of mathematical and astronomical truths, and make it durable; who openly expressed the desire to shorten the twenty-five hundred sheets of the Talmud into one chapter, clear as the day; who did not justify religious beliefs which were contrary to commonsense, and claimed that "the eyes are placed in the front, and not in the rear of man's head, in order that he may look before him," and prophesied that the whole world would one day be filled with knowledge, as the sea is filled with water--such a man was despised. Four centuries had passed since the dignified, sweet, highly sympathetic figure of the Israelitic thinker had disappeared from the face of the earth. He was one of the greatest thinkers of the middle ages. The giant with the eagle eye and fiery heart had been succeeded by dwarfs, whose weak breasts were saturated with bitterness, and whose eyes looked on the world sadly, suspiciously, narrow-mindedly. "Keep away from Greek knowledge," Joseph Ezobi cried to his son, "because it is like the wine-garden of Sodom, pouring into man's head drunkenness and sin." "The strangers are pushing into the Gates of Zion!" lamented Abba-Mari, when he learned that the Hebrew youths had begun to study with masters of other religions. And all the Rabbis and the Presidents of the Jewish communities in the West, ordered that no man under thirty years of age should study the lay sciences. "Because," said they, "he who has filled his mind with the Bible, and Talmud has the right to warm himself at the stranger's flame." The bolder ones, while submitting to the decision of their superiors, cried, "Rabbi, how can we study lay sciences after our thirtieth year, when our minds will have become dulled and our memory tired, and we shall possess enthusiasm no longer and strength of youth." The orders were obeyed. Their minds grew dull, tired memory fainted, and the strength and enthusiasm of youth left them. Majmonides, grave, silent, motionless, stood in the midst of the sea of darkness which covered the people who had been conducted by him toward the light. They cursed his memory, and a devastating hand rubbed off his tomb its grateful and glorious inscription, replacing it with stiff and cruel words, as fanatical as ignorant: "Here lies Moses Majmonides, excommunicated heretic." At the same time the same quarrels raged among the Hebrews settled in Poland, but being less tired by persecution, and because they were less tormented than their brothers in the West, and were freer and more sure of their privileges than their brothers in the West, their aversion to the 'stranger's flames' was less passionate. Nay, there was among them quite a numerous party which cried for secular sciences--for brotherhood with the rest of humanity in intellectual efforts and tendencies. One of these men who stood at the head of this party was the Lithuanian Senior, Ezofowich. Under his influence the Jewish Synod convocated in those times, issued a proclamation to all the Polish Jews. The principal paragraph of this was: "Jehovah has numerous Sefirots, Adam has had numerous emanations of perfection. Therefore an Israelite must not be satisfied with one religious science only. Although it is a holy science the others must not on this account be neglected. The best fruit is a paradise apple, but shall we not eat less good apples? There were Jews in the courts of kings; Mordoheus was a savant, Esther was clever, Nehemias was a Persian counsellor, and they liberated the people from captivity. Study; be useful to the King and the nobles will respect you. The Jews are as numerous as the sands of the sea and the stars in the sky; they do not shine like the stars, but everyone tramples on them as on the sand. The wind scatters the seeds of different trees, and none asks from where the most beautiful tree has its origin. Why, then, should there not rise among us a Cedar of Lebanon, instead of thorn-bushes?" The man under whose inspiration the proclamation was written, calling the Polish Jews to turn their faces to where the light of the future was dawning, met, eye to eye, the man with his face set toward the past and darkness. This man was a newcomer from Spain, and settled in Szybow. His name was Nehemias Todros, the descendant of the famous Todros Abulaffi Halevi who, famous for his Talmudistic learning and orthodoxy and knowledge, was afterwards carried away by the gloomy secrets of Kabalists, and helping it with his authority, was the cause of the most dreadful error among the Jews from which any nation can suffer. The tradition says that the same Nehemias Todros who had a princely title, Nassi, was the first to bring to Poland the book, Zohar, in which was explained the quintessence of the perilous doctrine, and from that day there comes from Poland the mixture of the Talmud with Kabalistic ideas which has influenced very badly the minds and the lives of the Polish Jews. History is silent regarding the quarrels and fights aroused by this innovation among the people who were in a fair way of emerging from the darkness which surrounded them, but the traditions, piously preserved in the families, tell, that in the fight, which lasted a long time and was very obstinate, between Michael Ezofowich, for a considerable period a Polish Jew, and Nehemias Todros, a Spanish newcomer, the first was vanquished. Consumed with grief caused by the sight of his people returning to the old false roads, crushed by intrigues set afoot against him by the gloomy adversary, he died in his prime. His name descended from generation to generation of Ezofowichs. They were all proud of his memory, although in time they understood less of its importance. From that time dated the great authority of the Todros and the gradual diminution of moral influence exerted by the Ezofowichs. The last ones being driven out by those fresh from the field of waste, social activity, they turned all their abilities in the direction of business, with the aim of increasing their material welfare. The navigable rivers were every year covered with vessels owned by them, and carrying to remote parts enormous quantities of merchandise. Their house, standing in the midst of the poor town, became more and more the centre of national riches and industry. To them, as to the modern Rothschilds, everyone went in need of gold to carry out their enterprises. The Ezofowichs were proud of their material might, and gave up entirely caring about the other--the might of spiritual influence and the fate of the people possessed by their grandfather, and of which they were robbed by Todros--by those Todros who, poor, almost beggars, living in the wretched little house which stood near the temple, disparaging everything which had the appearance of comfort and beauty, but who were, nevertheless, famous all over the country, and were enveloped in the pious dreams and hopes of their people. And only once during two centuries did one of the Ezofowichs attempt to lay hold of not only material--but also moral dignity. It happened toward the end of the last century. The great Four-Year Parliament was in session at Warsaw. The reports of its discussions reached even the small town in Bialorus. The people living there listened and waited. From lips to lips rushed the news of hope and fear--the Jews were under discussion at this Parliament! What do they say about us? What do they write about us? the long--bearded passers-by asked each other, as they walked through the narrow streets of Szybow, dressed in long halats and big fur caps This curiosity increased each day to such an extent that it finally-extraordinary event--stopped the business transactions and money circulation. Some of them even undertook the long, difficult journey to Warsaw, in order to be near the source of news, and from there they sent their brethren who remained in the little town of Bialorus, long letters, rumpled and spotted newspapers, and leaves torn from different pamphlets, and books. Of those who remained in the town, two men were most attentive and most impatient--Nohim Todros, Rabbi, and Hersh Ezofowich, rich merchant. There was a muffled, secret antipathy between them. Apparently they were on good terms, but at every opportunity there burst forth the antagonism which existed between the great-grandson of Michael the Senior, the disciple of Majmonides, and the descendant of Nehemias Todros, Kabalistic fanatic. Finally there came from Warsaw to Szybow a crumpled sheet of paper, which had turned yellow during the journey, and on it were the following words: "All differences in dress, language, and customs existing between the Jews and early inhabitants must be abolished. Leave alone everything concerning religion. Tolerate even the sects if they work no moral injury. Do not baptise a Jew before he is twenty years old. Give to the Jews the right to acquire land, and do not collect any taxes from those who will take agriculture for five years. Supply them with farm stock. Forbid marriages before the age of twenty for men and eighteen for women." This sheet was carried about and read hundreds of times in the houses, streets and squares. It was waved as a flag of triumph or mourning, until it went to pieces in those thousands of unhappy, trembling hands. But the population of Szybow did not express its opinion of that news. A smaller part of it turned their questioning eyes toward Hersh; others, more numerous, looked inquiringly into the face of Reb Nohim. Reb Nohim appeared on the threshold of his hut, and raising his thin hands above his gray head, as a sign of indignation and despair, he cried several times: "Assybe! assybe! dajde!" "Misfortune! misfortune! woe!" repeated after him, the crowd gathered in the courtyard of the temple. But, in the same moment, Hersh Ezofowich standing at the door of the meeting house, put his white hand into the pocket of his satin halat, raised his head, covered with a costly beaver cap, and not less loudly than the Rabbi, but in a different voice, he called: "Hoffnung! Hoffnung! Frieden!" "Hope! Hope! Happiness!" repeated after him, timidly, his not very numerous followers, with a sidelong glance at the Rabbi. But the old Rabbi's hearing was good, and he heard the cry. His white beard shook, and his dark eyes flashed lightning in Hersh's direction. "They will order us to shave our beards and wear short dresses!" he exclaimed, painfully and angrily. "They will make our minds longer and broaden our hearts!" answered Hersh's sonorous voice. "They will put us to the plough and order us to cultivate the country of exile!" shouted Rabbi Nohim. "They will open for us the treasures of the earth, and they will order her to be our fatherland!" screamed Hersh. "They will forbid us kosher," cried Rabbi. "They will make of Israel a cedar tree instead of a hawthorn!" answered Hersh. "Our son's faces will be covered with beards before they may marry!" "When they take their wives, their minds and strength will be already developed." "They will order us to warm ourselves at strange fireplaces, and drink from the wine-garden of Sodom." "They will bring near to us the Jobel-ha-Gabel--the festival of joy, during which the lamb may eat beside the tiger." "Hersh Ezofowich! Hersh Ezofowich! Through your mouth speaks the soul of your great-grandfather, who wished to lead all Jews to foreign fireplaces." "Reb Nohim! Reb Nohim! Through your eyes looks the soul of your great-grandfather, who plunged all Jews into great darkness." Deep silence reigned in the crowd as the two men, standing far from each other, spoke thus. Nohim's voice grew thinner and sharper; Hersh's resounded with stronger and deeper tones. The Rabbi's yellow cheeks became covered with brick-red spots--Ezofowich's face grew pale. The Rabbi shook his thin hands, rocking his figure backward and forward, scattering his silvery beard over both shoulders. The merchant stood erect and motionless, and in his green eyes shone an angry sneer. A couple of thousand eyes gazed in turn on the two adversaries--leaders of the people--and a couple of thousand mouths quivered, but were silent. Finally, the long, sharp piercing cry of Reb Nohim resounded in the courtyard of the temple. "Assybe! assybe! dajde!" moaned the old man, sobbing and crushing his hands. "Hoffnung! Hoffnung! Frieden!" joyfully exclaimed Hersh, raising his white hand. The crowd was still silent and motionless for a while. Then the heads began to move like waves and lips to murmur like waters, and at once a couple of thousands of hands were lifted with a gesture of pain and distress, and from a couple of thousand throats came the powerful shout. "Assybe! assybe! dajde!" Reb Nohim was victorious! Hersh looked around. His friends surrounded him closely. They were silent. They dropped their heads and cast timid looks on the ground. Hersh smiled disdainfully, and when the crowd rushed to the temple, led by Reb Nohim continually shaking his yellow hands above his gray head, and while still before the threshold of the temple began the prayer habitually recited when some peril was imminent--when finally the brown walls of the temple resounded with the powerful sobbing cry, "Lord help thy people! Save from annihilation the sons of Israel!" The young merchant stood motionless, plunged in deep thought. Then he passed slowly down the square, and finally disappeared into a large house of fine outward appearance. It was the biggest and showiest house in the town, almost new, for it was built by Hersh himself, and shone with yellow walls and brilliant windows. Hersh sat for a long time in a large, simply-furnished room. His look was gloomy. Then he raised his head and called: "Freida! Freida!" In answer to this call the door of the adjoining room opened, and in the golden light of the fireplace appeared a slender young woman. On her head was a large white turban, and a white kerchief fell from her neck, ornamented with several strings of pearls. Her big, dark eyes shone brightly and like flame from her gentle, oval face. She paused opposite her husband, and questioned him with her eyes only. Hersh motioned her to a chair, in which she sat immediately. "Freida," he began, "have you heard of what happened in the town to-day?" "Yes, I have heard," she answered softly. "My brother Joseph came to see me, and told me that you had quarrelled with Reb Nohim." "He wishes to eat me up as his great-grandfather ate up my great-grand father." Freida's dark eyes became filled with fear. "Hersh!" she exclaimed, "you must not quarrel with him. He is a great and saintly man. All will be with him!" "No," answered the husband, with a smile, "don't be afraid. Now other times are corning--he can't harm me. And as for me, I can't shut my mouth when my heart shouts within me that I must speak. I can no longer stand by to hear that man teaching that what is good is bad, and see the stupid people look into his eyes and shout, although they do not understand anything. No! And how can they understand? Has Todros ever taught them to distinguish good from evil, and separate that which was from that winch shall be?" After a few moments of silence, Hersh continued: "Freida." "What, Hersh?" "Have you forgotten what I told you about Michael the Senior?" The woman folded her hands devoutly. "Why should I forget it?" she asked. "You told me beautiful things of him." "He was a great--a very great man. Todros ate him up. If that family had not eaten him up he would have accomplished great things for the Jews. But no matter about that. I will ask him what he wished to do. He will teach me, and I will do it!" Freida grew pale. "But how will you ask him?" she whispered in fear, "he is dead a long time ago." A mysterious smile played about the merchant's thin lips. "I know how. Sometimes God permits those who have died to talk with and teach their grandchildren, Freida," he continued, after another pause, "do you know what the Senior did when he saw that Todros would eat him up, and that he would die before the good times would come?" "No, what did he do?" "He shut himself up in a room, and he sat there without eating or drinking or sleeping, and--he only wrote. And what did he write? That nobody yet knows, because he hid what he had written, and when he felt that his end was near, he said to his sons: 'I have written down everything that I have known and felt, and what I intended to do; but I have hidden my writings from you, because now such times are at hand that all is useless for the present. The Todros rule, and they will rule for a long time, and they will do this that neither you, nor your sons, nor your grandsons will care to see my writing, and even were they to see it, they would tear it into pieces, and scatter it to the winds for annihilation, ant they would say that Michael the Senior was kofrim (heretic), and they would excommunicate him as they did the second Moses. But there will come a time when my great-grandson will wish for what I had written--to ask for guidance in his thoughts and actions in order to free the Jews from Todros' captivity, and to lead them to that sun from which the other nations receive the warmth. Thus, my great-grandson who desires to have my writings, will find the writings, and you have only to tell the eldest son of that family on your deathbed that it exists, and that there are many wise things written down. It must be thus from generation to generation. I command you thus. Remember to be obedient to this one, whose soul deserved to be immortal! (It was the teaching of Moses Majmonides, in regard to the immortality of the soul, that every man, according to the culture of his mind and moral perfection, could attain immortality, and that annihilation was the punishment for misdeeds)." Hersh stopped speaking. Freida sat motionless looking into her husband's face with intense curiosity. "Shall you search for that writing?" she asked softly. "I shall search for it," said her husband, "and I shall find it, because I am that great-grandson of whom Michael Senior spoke when dying. I shall find that writing--you must help me to find it." The woman stood erect, beaming with joy. "Hersh, you are a good man!" she exclaimed. "You are kind to associate me, a woman, with such an important affair and great thoughts." "Why should I not do it? Are you a bad housekeeper or a bad mother? You do everything well, and your soul is as beautiful as your eyes." The white face of the young Hebrew woman became scarlet. She dropped her eyes, but her coral-like lips whispered some words of love and gratitude. Hersh rose. "Where shall we search for the writing?" said he thoughtfully. "Where?" repeated the woman. "Freida," said the husband, "Michael the Senior could not have hidden his writing in the earth, for he knew that there the worms would eat it, or that it would turn to dust. Is this writing in the earth?" "No," answered the woman, "it is not there." "He could not have hidden it in the wails of the house, for he knew that they would rot, and that they would be destroyed, and new ones built. These walls I have built myself, and I carefully searched the old ones, but there was no writing." "There was not," repeated Freida sorrowfully. "He could not have hidden it in the roof, because he knew it would not be safe there. When I was born there was perhaps the tenth roof built over our house, but it seems to me that the writing could not have been there. Where is it?" Both were thoughtful. All at once, after a while, the woman exclaimed: "Hersh, I know where the writing is!" Her husband raised his head. His wife was pointing to the large library filled with books, which stood in a corner of the room. "There?" said Hersh, hesitatingly. "There," repeated the woman, with conviction. "Have you not told me that these are Michael Senior's books, and that all the Ezofowichs have preserved them, but no one has read them because Todros would not permit the reading of books." Hersh passed his hand over his forehead, and the woman spoke further. "Michael the Senior was a wise man, and he saw the future. He knew that for a long time no one would read those books, and that only the one who would read them would be that great-grandson who would find his writings." "Freida, Freida," exclaimed Hersh, "you are a wise woman!" She modestly dropped her dark eyes. "Hersh, I am going to see why the baby is crying. I will give the servants their orders, and have them keep the fire, then I will come here and aid you in your work." "Come!" said her husband, and when she had gone to the room from which came the sounds of children's voices, he said to himself: "A wise woman is more precious than gold and pearls. Besides, her husband's heart is quiet." After a while she returned, locked the door, and asked softly: "Where is the key?" Hersh found the key of his great-grandfather's library, and they began to take down the large books. They placed them on the floor, and having seated themselves, they began to turn slowly one leaf after the other. Clouds of dust rose from the piles of paper, which had remained untouched for centuries. The dust settled on Freida's snow-white turban in a gray layer, and covered also Hersh's golden hair. But they worked on indefatigably and with such a solemn expression on their faces that one would think that they were uncovering the grave of their great-grandfather in order to take therefrom his grand thoughts. Evening was already approaching when Hersh exclaimed as people exclaim when they meet with victory and bliss. Freida said nothing, but she rose slowly and extended her hands above her head in a movement of gratitude. Then Hersh prayed fervently near the window, through which could be seen the first stars appearing in the sky. During the whole night there was a light in that window, and seated at the table, his head resting on both hands, was Hersh, reading from large yellowish sheets of paper. At the break of day, when the eastern part of the sky had hardly begun to burn with pinkish light, he went out, dressed himself in a travelling mantle and large beaver cap, got into a carriage, and drove away. He was so deeply plunged in thought that he did not even bid good-bye to his children and servants, who crowded the hall of the house. He only nodded to Freida, who stood on the piazza, with the white turban on her head turning pink in the light of the dawn. Her eyes, which followed her husband, were filled with sadness and pride. Where had Hersh gone? Beyond mountains, forests, and rivers, to a remote part of the country where, amidst swampy plains and black forests of Pinseyzna lived an eloquent partisan of the rights to civilisation of the Polish Jews, Butrymowicz. He was a karmaszym--(the higher, or rather richer, class of nobility in Poland were called by that name, which means a certain shade of red, because their national costumes were of that colour)--and a thinker. He saw clearly and far. He was familiar with the necessities of the century. When Hersh was introduced into the mansion of the nobleman and admitted to the presence of the great and wise member of parliament, he bowed profoundly, and began to speak thus: "I am Hersh Ezofowich, a merchant from Szybow, and the great-grandson of Michael Ezofowich, who was superior over all the Jews, and was called Senior by the command of the king himself. I come here from afar. And why do I come? Because I wished to see the great member of the Diet, and talk with the famous author. The light with which his figure shines is so great that it made me blind. As a weak plant twines around the branch of a great oak, so I desire to twine my thoughts about yours, that they shall over-arch the people like the rainbow, and there shall be no more quarrels and darkness in this world." When the great man answered encouragingly to this preface, Hersh continued: "Serene lord, you have said that there must be an agreement between two nations, who, living on the same soil, are in continual conflict." "Yes. I said so," answered the deputy. "Serene lord, you said that the Jew ought to be equal in everything with the Christians, and in that way they would be no longer noxious." "I said it." "Serene lord, yon have said that you consider the Jews as Polish citizens, and that it is necessary that they should send their children to the secular schools. They should have the right to purchase the land, and that among them certain things, which are neither good nor sensible, should be abolished." "I said it," again affirmed the deputy. Then the tall, stately figure of the Jew, with its proud head and intelligent look, bent swiftly, and before the deputy could resist Hersh had pressed his hand to his lips. "I am a newcomer in this country," said he softly. "Younger brother--" Then he drew himself up and pulled from the pocket of his halat a roll of yellowish papers. "That which I have brought here," he said, "is more precious to me than gold, pearls, and diamonds." "What is it?" asked the deputy. Hersh answered in a solemn voice: "It is the will of my ancestor, Michael Ezofowich, the Senior." They both sat reading through the whole night by the light of two small wax candles. Then they began to talk. They spoke softly, with heads bent together and burning faces. Then toward day-break they rose, and simultaneously each stretched out and shook the hands of the other cordially. What did they read the whole night, and of what were they talking? What sentiment of enthusiasm and hope united their hands as a sign of a pact? Nobody ever learned. It is sunk in the dark night of historical secrets, with many other desires and thoughts. Adversities plunged it there. It was hidden, but not lost. Sometimes we ask ourselves whence come the lightnings of those thoughts and desires which nobody has known before? And we do not know that their sources are the moments not written on the pages of the history by any writer. The next day a coach driven by six horses stopped before time house of the nobleman. The noble, with his Jewish guest, got in, and together they went to the capital of the country. A couple of months afterwards Hersh returned from Warsaw to Szybow. He was very active in the town and its environments, he spoke, explained, persuaded, trying to gain partisans for the changes which were in preparation for his people. Then he went away again, and again he returned--and went away. This lasted a couple of years. When Hersh returned from Ins last journey he was very much changed. His looks were sad, and his forehead was lined with sorrow. He entered the house, sat on the bench, and began to pant heavily. Freida stood before him, sorrowful and uneasy, but quiet and patient. She did not dare to ask. She waited for her husband's words and look. Finally he looked at her sadly, and said: "Everything is lost!" "Why lost?" whispered Freida. Hersh made a gesture, indicative of the downfall of something grand. "When a building falls," he said, "the beams fall on the heads of those who are within, and the dust fills their eyes." "It is true," affirmed the woman. "A great building is in the mire. The beams have fallen on all the great problems and our great works, and the dust covers them--for a long time." Then he rose, looked at Freida with eyes full of big tears, and said: "We must hide the Senior's testament, because it will be useless again. Come, let us hide it carefully. If some great-grandson of ours will wish to get it, he will find it the same as we did." From that day Hersh grew perceptibly older. His eyes dulled, and his hack grew bent. He sat for hours on the bench, sighing deeply, and repeating: "Assybe! assybe! assybe! dajde!" (Misfortune! Misfortune! Woe!) Around this sad man moved softly and solicitously a slender woman dressed in a flowing gown and white turban. Her dark eyes often filled with tears, and her steps were so careful and quiet that even the pearls which ornamented her neck never made the slightest noise, and did not interrupt her husband's thoughtfulness. Sometimes Freida looked sadly at her husband. His sadness made her sad also, but she did not clearly understand it. Why was he sorrowful? His riches did not diminish, the children grew healthy, and everything was as before that quarrel with Reb Nohim and the finding of those old papers. The loving and wise woman, whose whole world was contained between the four walls of her home, could not understand that her husband's spirit was carried into the sphere of broad ideas--that it was fond of the fiery world, and being driven out of it by the strength of events, could not be cured of its longing. She did not know that in this world there were griefs and longings which had no connection with either parents or with children, or with wife or with wealth, or with one's house, and that such griefs and longings of the human spirit are the most difficult to cure. Todros was rejoicing, and he called his flock to rejoice with him, who believed in his wisdom and sanctity. He triumphed, but he desired to triumph still further. To destroy the Ezofowichs would mean to destroy the stream which flowed into the future, striving with that other stream which strove to congeal into ice--into the petrification of the past. Who knows what may happen in the future? Who knows but that that cursed family may not give rise to a man strong enough to destroy the centuries of work achieved by the Todros. If events had taken another turn, Hersh, with the aid of his friend Edomits, would already have accomplished this! As in times of yore, his ancestor Michael was accused, so now Hersh was assailed with reproaches of all kinds. In the synagogue they shouted at him that he did not observe the Sabbath, that he was friendly with gojs (any man who does not follow Judaism is a goj), and that he sat at their tables and ate meat which is not kosher. That in contentious affairs he avoided Jewish courts, and went to the tribunals of the country; that he did not obey the superiors of kahal, and he even dared to criticise them that he did not respect Jewish authorities in general, and Reb Nohim in particular. Hersh defended himself proudly, refuting some of the objections and acknowledging some of the others, but justifying them by reasons, which, however, were not recognised as being right, either by his people or his superiors. This lasted quite a long time, but finally it stopped. The accusations were discontinued, and intrigues ceased, because the object of these attacks became himself silent, and morally disappeared. Grown prematurely old, and tired of lights, Hersh shut himself up in the circle of private life, and occupied himself with business transactions, These, however, did not go as smoothly as did those of others, because he did not possess--as did others--the sympathy of his brethren. What he felt, and about what he thought, in those last years of his life, no one knew, for he told no one anything. Only before his death he had a long conversation with his wife. The children were too small to be entrusted with the secret of his disappointed desires, wasted efforts, and smothered griefs. He left these as a legacy to his children through his wife. Did Freida understand and remember the words of her dying husband? Was she willing, and was she able, to remember them, and repeat them to his descendants? It is not known. Only this is certain--that only she knew the place where the Senior's will was hidden--the old writings which were the heritage not only of the Ezofowich family but of the whole Israelitic nation--a neglected and forgotten heritage, but in which--who knows!--were treasures a hundredfold richer than those which filled the chests of that wealthy family. Therefore the Senior's last thoughts and wishes slept in some hiding-place, waiting for a bold descendant who would be courageous enough to bring them into life. But in the meantime there remained in the town not one soul longing for the light--not one heart which throbbed for something more than his own wife, his own children, and before all, his own riches. There was plenty of noise arising from the care and haste whose only aim was to gain money; there was darkness because of mystic fears and dreams there was narrowness and suffocating because of merciless, grinding, dead orthodoxy. The common people of the same faith throughout the whole country considered the people of Szybow as powerful, both materially and morally, wise, orthodox, almost holy. Over the whole deep-sunk social valley hung a cloud. This cloud was composed of the darkest elements which exist in human kind, which are: respect for the letter from which the spirit has departed, dense ignorance, suspicious and hateful defence of self against everything which flows from broad, sunny, but 'foreign' worlds. CHAPTER II It happened three years ago. Damp fog was rising from the muddy streets of the town and made dark the transparency of a starry evening. A breath of March wind mingled with the odour of freshly ploughed fields, flew over low roofs, but could not drive out the suffocating exhalations coming in clouds from the doors and windows of the houses. Notwithstanding the mists and exhalations which filled it, the town had a gay and festive appearance. From behind gray curtains thousands of windows shone with bright illuminations, and from lighted houses came the sounds of noisy conversation or collective prayers. Whoever passed through the streets and looked into this or that window of this or that house, would see all around bright family scenes. In the centre of larger or smaller rooms were long tables, covered with white cloths, and all prepared for a feast. Around them bustled women in variegated dresses, carrying and leaving contributions with a smile on their faces, and admiring their own work in the decoration of the tables. Bearded husbands, holding their children in their arms, pressed their lips to the pink cheeks, or kissed the on the mouth with a loud smack. They tossed them up to the low ceilings, to the great mirth of the older members of the family. Others sat in groups on benches and talked of affairs of the past week. Others still, covered with the folds of their white talliths, stood motionless, facing the walls, rocking their figures back and forward. These were preparing themselves by fervent prayer to meet the holy Sabbath day. For it was Friday evening. In the whole town there was but one house in which reigned darkness, emptiness, and sadness. It was a little gray hut which seemed to have been clapped on to a small hill at the other end of the town--it was the only elevation on the waste plain. And even this hill was not natural. Tradition said that it was made by Karaites, who built it on their temple. Today there remained no traces of that temple. The bare, sandy hill, protected the little hut from the winds and snow storms, and the hut humbly and gratefully nestled in its shelter. Over its roof, on the side of the hill, grew a large pear tree. Through its branches the wind rushed sweetly--over it shone a few stars. A large, cultivated field separated this spot from the town. A deep quiet reigned here, interrupted only by muffled echoes of the remote noise of the town. Over the black beds thick clouds of steam and mist, coming from the streets of the town, crept toward the hut. The interior of the hut was dark as a precipice, and from behind its small windows resounded the trembling but vigorous voice of a man: "Beyond far seas, beyond high mountains,"--spoke this voice amidst the darkness--"the river Sabbation flows. But it flows not with water, nor with milk and honey, but with yellow gravel and big stones." The hoarse, trembling voice became silent, and in the dark room, seen from behind two small windows, there was deep silence for a while. This time it was interrupted by quite different sounds. "Zeide! speak further." These words were spoken in the voice of a girl--almost childish, but languid and dreamy. Zeide (grandfather) asked, "Are they not coming yet?" "I don't hear them," answered the girl. In the dark room the hoarse trembling narrative began again: "Beyond the holy river of Sabbation there live four Israelitic tribes; Gad, Assur, Dan and Naphtali. These tribes escaped there from great fears and oppressions, and Jehovah--may His holy name be blessed--has hidden them from their enemies, beyond the river of gravel and stones. And this gravel rises high as the waves of the sea and the stones are roaring and rushing like a big forest when it is shaken by a storm. And when the day of Sabbath comes--" Here the old voice stopped suddenly, and after a while he asked softly: "Are they not yet coming?" There was no answer for a long time. It seemed as though the other was listening before replying. "They are coming," she said finally. In the dark interior was heard a long, muffled moaning. "Zeide! speak further," said the girl's voice, sonorous and pure as before, only less childish--stronger this time. Zeide did not speak any more. From the direction of the town rushed, approaching the hut, a strange noise. This was caused by numerous human feet, by piercing exclamations and silvery laughter of the children. Soon in the distance appeared a big moving spot rolling on the surface of the fields. Soon the spot neared the hut, scattered into several groups and with irresistible shouting, screaming, laughing, rushed toward the bent walls and low windows of the hut. They were children--boys of various ages. The oldest amongst them was perhaps fourteen years and the youngest five. It was difficult to see their dresses in the darkness, but from beneath their caps and long curls of hair, their eyes shone with the passionate fire of mischief and perhaps some other excited sentiment. "Guten abend! karaime!" shouted at once the rabble, kicking at the locked door with their feet, and shaking the frames of the windows. "Why don't you show some light on the Sabbath? Why are you sitting in a black hole like the devil? Kofrim, uberwerfer!" (You unbeliever! heretic!) shouted the older ones. "Aliejdyk giejer! oreman! mishugener!" (rascal, beggar, mad-man!) howled the young ones at the top of their voices. The insults, laughter, and shaking of the door and windows increased every moment, when from within the hut resounded the girl's voice, quiet and sonorous as before, but so strong that it pierced the noise--"Zeide! speak further!" "Aj! aj! aj!" answered the old voice, "how can I speak when they shout so loudly." "Zeide! speak further!" This time the girl's voice sounded almost imperatively. It was no longer childish. In it could be heard grief, contempt and struggle for the preservation of peace. As sad singing is blended with the noise of stormy elements, so with the wild noise of the mob of children, insulting, mewing, howling, and laughing, the sobbing words were mingled. "And during the day of Sabbath, Jehovah--may His name be blessed--gives rest to the holy river of Sabbation. The gravel ceases to flow, the big waves of stones do not roar like the forest--only from the river, which lies quiet and does not move, a thick mist rises--so great that it reaches the high clouds, and hides again from the enemies, the four tribes of Israel: Gad, Assur, Dan and Naphtali." Alas! around the hut with bent walls and dark interior, the holy river of Sabbation did not flow; neither did high waves or gravel nor thick mists hide its inhabitants from the enemies. These foes were small, but they were numerous. By a last effort of mischievous frolic several of them pulled at the frames of the windows so strongly that several panes broke. A shout of joy sounded far over the field. Through the openings the interior of the hut became strewn with small clods of earth and stones. The old voice, from the most remote part of the room, trembling, and still more hoarse, cried: "Aj! Aj! Aj! Jehovah! Jehovah!" The girl's voice, always sonorous, repeated: "Zeide, keep quiet! Zeide, don't shout! Zeide, don't be afraid!" All at once, from behind the crowd of children, someone exclaimed threateningly and imperatively: "Shtyl Bube! What are you doing here, you rascals? Get out!" The children at once became silent. The man who caused the tranquillity by his loud voice was tall and well built. His long dress was lined with fur. His face looked pale in the dusk, and his eyes shone as only young eyes can shine. "What are you doing here?" he repeated, in an angry and decided voice. "Do you think that this house is inhabited by wolves, and that you can howl at them and break the windows?" The boys, gathered in one compact body, were silent. After a while, however, one of them, the tallest, and evidently the boldest, said: "Why do they not show some light on Sabbath?" "That's none of your business," said the man. "No! That's none of yours either," said the stubborn boy. "We come here every week and do the same--what then?" "I know that you do the same every week. Therefore I watched to catch you here . . . now go home! quick!" "And you, Meir, why don't you go yourself to your house? Your bobe and your zeide are eating the fish without you. Why do you drive us from here, and not observe the Sabbath yourself?" The eyes of the young man became more fiery. He stamped the earth with his foot and shouted so angrily that the younger children dispersed immediately, and only the oldest boy, as though he would have revenge for the scolding, seized a clod of earth and wished to throw it into the little house. But two strong hands seized him by the arms and the collar. "Come," said the young man, "I will take you back home." The boy shouted, and tried to escape. But the strong arm held him fast, and a quiet voice ordered him to be silent. He obeyed, dropping his head. Around the hut it was now deep dusk. From the dark interior came the sound of heavy, hoarse sighing as from some very old breast, and near the broken window sounded the girl's voice: "Thank you." "Rest in peace," answered the young man, and went off, leading the little prisoner. They passed silently through a few streets, and went toward a house situated at the square. The house was low and long, with a piazza, and a long corridor ran through the whole building. All this announced an inn. The windows in the part of the house assigned to guests were dark. In the others, situated opposite the piazza, and not higher than half-an-ell from the ground, which was covered with straw and hay and all kinds of rubbish, the lights of Sabbath shone forth from behind the dirty panes. The young man, still leading the boy--who, as it seems, was not only not afflicted by his situation, but was jumping joyfully--passed the rubbish-covered ground, entered the deep corridor, where in the darkness some horse was stamping with his feet, and, groping, found the door Having half-opened it, he pushed the youngster into the room. Then he put his head in the door and said: "Reb Jankiel, I have brought you Mendel. Scold him or punish him. He roams in the darkness around the town, and attacks innocent people." This speech, delivered in a loud voice, remained without an answer. Only the continual and fervent murmuring of a prayer came from the interior of the room. Through the door, which still remained half-opened, could be seen the whole long room, with very dirty walls, and enormous stove, which was black with the dust. In the centre of the room was a table covered with a cloth of doubtful cleanliness, but lighted with a copious blaze of light from seven candles burning in a great branched candlestick hanging from the ceiling. The Sabbath feast had not yet begun, and although from the remote part of the house could be heard the voices of women and children, announcing that the family was numerous, there was only one man, his face turned toward the wall, in the room where stood the table ready for the Sabbath supper. This man was of medium size, and very thin and supple. It is not exact to say that he was standing, because that does not express the position of his figure, but, just the same, it would be hard to find another expression. He was neither walking nor jumping, but, nevertheless, he was in continual and violent motion. He threw his head--which was covered with red hair--backward and forward with great rapidity. With these swift movements, the sounds which came from his mouth were in perfect harmony; for he was murmuring, then shouting passionately, then pouring forth long plaintive songs. The young man standing on the threshold looked for a long time at that figure, praying with all its soul, or, rather, with all its body. Evidently he was waiting for an interruption in the prayer. But it was known that the one who wished to see the end of Reb Jankiel's prayers would have to wait for some time. Apparently the young man was anxious to settle the mischief of the little Mendel quickly. "Reb Jankiel," he said aloud, after quite a long time, "your son wanders about during the night and assaults innocent people!" There was no answer. "Reb Jankiel, your son insults people with bad words!" Reb Jankiel continued to pray with the same fervour. "Reb Jankiel, your son breaks the windows of poor people!" Reb Jankiel turned a few leaves of a large book which he held in both hands, and sang triumphantly: "Sing to the Lord a new song, because he has created all marvels! Sing! Play, play with a loud singing! Sound the trumpets and horns before the King, Lord!" The last words were accompanied by the closing of the door. The young man left the long dark corridor, wading once more through the rubbish. When he passed the last lighted window he heard the sound of soft singing. He stopped, and anyone would have done the same, for the voice was pure, young and soft as a murmuring of a complaint, full of prayer, sadness and longing. It was a man's voice. "Eliezer!" whispered the passer-by, and stopped at the low window. These windows had far cleaner panes than the others. Through them could be seen a small room, in which was only a bed, a table, a few chairs, and a library full of books. On the table burned a tallow candle, and at the table sat a young man holding his head between the palms of his hands. He was about twenty years old, and his face was white, and of a delicate oval shape. From his fresh lips came the beautiful singing which would have attracted the attention of a great master of music. And no wonder. Eliezer, Jankiel's son, was the cantor of the community of Szybow--the singer of people and Jehovah. "Eliezer!" was repeated from behind the window in a soft, friendly whisper. The singer must have heard the whisper, for he sat near the window. He raised his eyes, and turned them toward the pane. They were blue, meek, and sad. But he did not interrupt his singing. On the contrary, he lifted his hands, white as alabastar, and in that ecstatic position, with an enthusiastic expression on his face, he sang still louder: "My people, cast from thee the dust of heavy roads. Rise, and take the robe of thy beauty. Hasten, ah hasten, with help to your people, the Only, Incomprehensible! God of our fathers." The young man at the window did not call any more to the singer praying for his people. He went off, stepping softly in careful respect, and walking through the dark, empty place toward the large house ablaze with lights; he looked at the few stars shining with their pale light through the fog, and he softly hummed, plunged in deep thankfulness: "Hasten! ah, hasten! with help to your people the Only, Incomprehensible! God of our fathers!" CHAPTER III The large house, blazing with light, which stood opposite the temple, separated from it by the whole width of the square, was the same house built by Hersh Ezofowich, in which he lived with his beautiful wife Freida. Its hundred year old walls had become black from the rains and dust, but the house stood straight, and by its height dominated all other dwelling-places in the town. For the past hour the celebration of the Sabbath day had begun in the large room filled with old furniture. There were numerous people of both sexes present, and others were coming. Saul Ezofowich, Hersh's son, the host of the house and chief of the family, rose and approached the big table, above which hung two heavy seven-branched candelabra of solid silver. The old man--whose bent, but strong figure, wrinkled face, and snow-white beard, proclaimed that he was over eighty--took from the hand of the eldest son--himself a gray-headed man--a long candle, and, raising it toward the other candles in the candelabra, exclaimed, in a voice strong, but aged: "Be blessed God, Lord of the world, Thou who hast lighted us with Thy commandments, and ordered us to light the lights on the day of Sabbath." As soon as he said these words, the numerous candles were lighted in the candelabra, and everyone present in the room exclaimed: "Let us go! Let us meet the bride! Let us meet her with greeting on the day of Sabbath! Burn! burn! light of the King! Capital, rise from the mire! Thou hast lived long enough in the valley of tears!" "My people, shake from thee the dust of heavy roads. Take on the robe of thy beauty. Hasten! ah, hasten! with help to Thy people! God of our fathers!" "Let us go! Let us go to meet the bride! Let us greet her with the greeting of the song of the Sabbath!" Loud singing, and the sound of fervent prayers following each other, filled the large room, and sounded far out on the large empty square. The young man, passing the square thoughtfully, heard it, and hastened his steps. When, after having passed the piazza and the long narrow corridor dividing the house in two parts, opened the door to the room filled with lights, the prayers had already changed to conversation, and the gathered company, with traces of solemnity in their faces, but yet mingled with joyful smiles, was standing around the table spread with abundant viands. The company was composed of different faces and figures. There were two of Saul's sons living with the father; Raphael and Abraham, already gray, dark-eyed, with severe and thoughtful faces. Then Saul's son-in-law, light-haired, pale, with soft eyes--Ber. There were also daughters, sons, and grandchildren of the host of the house; matured women, with stately figures and high caps on carefully-combed wigs; or young girls, with swarthy complexions and thick tresses, their young eyes, brightened by the feast, shone like live coals. Several young men belonging to the family, and numerous children of different ages, gathered at the other end of the table. Saul stood at the head of it, looking at the door leading to the other rooms of the house, as though he were waiting. After a while, two women appeared in the doorway. One of them gleamed with rainbow-like, almost dazzling light. She was very, very old, but still erect, and looked strong. Her head was surmounted by a turban of bright colours, fastened with an enormous buckle of diamonds. Around her neck she wore a necklace composed of several strands of big pearls which fell on her breast, also fastened with diamonds. She wore a silk dress of bright colours. She also had diamond earrings, which were so long that they reached her shoulders, and so heavy that it was necessary to support them with threads attached to the turban; they gleamed with the dazzling light of diamonds, emeralds, and rubies, and at every movement they rustled, striking the pearls and a heavy gold chain beneath them. This hundred-year-old woman, dressed in all the riches accumulated for centuries, was, it seemed, a relic of the family, much respected by all these people. When, led by her grand-daughter--a girl with a swarthy face and dark hair--she stopped on the threshold of the room, all eyes turned toward her, and all mouths smiled and whispered: "Bobe! Elte Bobe!" (Grandmother! Great-grandmother!) The majority of those present said the last words, because there were present more great-grandchildren than grandchildren. Only the host of the house, and the head of the whole family, said to the woman softly: "Mamma!" This word, suitable for little children, sounded strangely, softly, and solemnly from the withered, yellow lips of Saul, moving from the midst of his milk-white beard. While pronouncing that word, his wrinkled forehead, surmounted by equally white hair beneath a velvet skull-cap, became smooth. But where were Freida's beautiful face, dark, fiery eyes, and slender figure? How changed was the quiet, industrious, intelligent wife and confidant of Hersh Ezofowich! She had outlived all her charms, as she had outlived her husband, lord and friend. With time, her delicate, slender figure increased in size, and took on the shape of the trunk of a tree, from which sprang many strong, fruit-bearing branches. Her face was now covered with such a quantity of fine wrinkles that it was impossible to find one smooth place. Her eyes were sunken, and had grown small, looking from beneath the bar of eyelashes with a pale, faded glow. But on her face, crumpled though it was by the hand of time, there was a sweet and imperturbable peace. The small eyes looked about with smiling tranquillity of the spirit, lulled to sleep by agreeable whispering, and the sweet smile of slumber surrounded her yellow, hardly perceptible lips, which for a long time had grown silent, opening more and more seldom for the pronunciation of shorter and shorter sentences. Now, having placed her arm about the neck of the pretty, young and strong girl by whose side she stood at the family table, and having looked on the faces of all present there, she whispered: "Wo ist Meir?" It was the great-grandmother who spoke, and at her words the whole assembly recoiled, as from the blow of a sudden gust of wind. Men, women, and children looked at each other, and through the room resounded the whisper: "Wo ist Meir?" Owing to the largeness of the family his absence had not been noticed. Old Saul did not repeat his mother's question, but his forehead frowned still more, and his eye was fixed on the door with a severe, almost angry expression. At that moment the door opened and a tall, well-proportioned young man entered. His long dress was trimmed with costly fur. He closed the door after him and stood near it, as though shy or ashamed. He noticed that he was too late and that the common family prayers had been recited without him, that the eyes of his grandfather Saul, of two uncles and several women relatives were looking at him severely and inquisitively. Only the grandmother's golden eyes did not look at him angrily. On the contrary, they dilated and shone with joy. Her wrinkled eyelids ceased to tremble, and the thin lips moved and pronounced with the same soundless whisper as before: "Ejnyklchen! Kleineskind!" (Grandson! Child!) When Saul heard that voice, resounding with joy and tenderness, he shut his lips, already opened to pronounce severe words of reproach and questioning. Both his sons dropped their eyes angrily to the table. The newcomer was greeted only by a general silence which, however, was interrupted by the great-grandmother repeating once more: "Kleineskind!" Saul stretched his hands over the table, and in a half-voice suggested the subject of a prayer to be recited before the Sabbath feast. "The Lord may be blessed," began he. "Blessed be," resounded in the room in a muffled whisper. For a time they all stood around the table, blessing by the prayer the viands and drinks spread upon it. The young man did not join the general choir, but, having retreated to a remote corner of the room, he recited the Kiddish prayers omitted by him. While praying he did not move his figure. He crossed his hands on his chest, and fixed his eyes steadily on the window, behind which was complete darkness. His delicate oval face was pale--the sign of a nervous and passionate disposition. His abundant dark, flowing hair, which had shades of gold in it, was scattered on his white forehead. His deeply set, large gray eyes gazed thoughtfully and a little sadly. In the whole expression of the young man's face there were mingled characteristics of deep sadness and childish bashfulness. His forehead and eyes betrayed some painful thought, but the thin lips had lines of tenderness, and they quivered from time to time as though under the influence of some fear. His upper up and cheeks were covered with golden down, indicating that the young man might be nineteen or twenty years old. It was the age at which the Hebrew men ripened and were not only allowed, but obliged to look after their family and other affairs. When the young man had finished the prayers and approached the table to take his place, there was heard a voice from among those present, enouncing the words in such a way that they seemed sung: "Meir, where have you been for such a long time? What were you doing in the town after the Sabbath had begun, and no one is allowed to work any longer? Why did you not celebrate Kiddish with your family to-day? Why is your forehead pale and your eyes sad, when to-day is the joyful Sabbath? In heaven the whole celestial family rejoices, and on earth all pious people should keep their souls mirthful." All this was said by a strange-looking man. He was rather small and thin; he had a large head covered with thick, coarse hair. His face was swarthy and round, covered with abundant hair, which formed a long, coarse beard. His round eyes cast sharp glances from beneath their thick eyelids. The thinness of the man was increased by a strange dress--more strange than the man himself. It was a very simple costume, consisting of a bag made of rough gray linen, girded around the neck and waist with a hemp rope, and falling to the ground it covered his bare feet. Who was the man in the dress of an ascetic, with fanatical eyes, with lips full of mystic, deep, almost intoxicated joyfulness? It was Reb Moshe, melamed or teacher of religion and the Hebrew language. He was pious-perfect. No matter what the weather--wind, rain, cold, and heat--he always went barefooted, dressed in a bag made of rough linen. He lived as do the birds--nobody knew how--probably on some grain scattered here and there. He was the right hand and the right eye of the Rabbi of Szybow, Isaak Todros, and after the Rabbi he was the next object of reverence and admiration of the whole community. Hearing those words pouring tumultuously from the melamed's mouth and directed towards himself, Meir Ezofowich, great-grandson of Hersh and the grandson of old Saul, did not sit at the table, but with eyes cast on the ground, and a voice muffled by timidity, he answered: "Reb! I was not there where they are joyful and do good business. I was there where there is sorrow and where poor people sit in darkness and weep." "Nu!" exclaimed the melamed, "and where today could there be sadness. To-day is Sabbath. Everywhere it is bright and joyful. . . . Where, today, could it be dark?" A few older members of the family raised their heads and repeated the question: "Where to-day could there be darkness?" And then again they asked him: "Meir, where have you been?" Meir did not answer. His face expressed timidity and inward hesitation. At that moment one of the girls--the same who had introduced the old grand mother--the girl with the swarthy face and dark, frolicsome eyes, exclaimed mirthfully, clapping her hands: "I know where it is dark to-day!" All looks were directed toward her, and all lips asked: "Where?" Under the influence of the attracted attention, Lija blushed, and answered softly, with a certain amount of bashfulness: "In the hut of Abel Karaim, standing on the hill of the Karaites." "Meir, have you visited Karaites?" The question was asked by several voices, dominated by the sharp, whining voice of the melamed. On the bashful young man's face there appeared an expression of angry and sullen irritation. "I did not visit them," he answered, more loudly than before, "but I defended them from an attack." "From an attack? What attack? Who attacked them?" asked the melamed mockingly. This time Meir raised his eyelids and his shining eyes looked sharply into the eyes of his questioner. "Reb Moshe," he exclaimed, "you know who attacked them. They were your pupils--they do the same every Friday. And why should they not do it, knowing--" He stopped and again dropped his eyes. Fear and anger were fighting within him. "Nu, what do they know? Meir, why did you not finish? What do they know?" laughed Reb Moshe. "They know that you, Reb Moshe, will praise them for so doing." The melamed rose from his chair, his shining eyes opened widely. He stretched out his dark, thin hand, as though to-say something, but the strong and already sonorous voice of the young man did not permit to do it. "Reb Moshe," said Meir, bending his head slightly before the melamed--which he did, evidently not very willingly--"Reb Moshe, I respect you--you taught me. I do not ask you why you do not forbid your pupils to attack these poor people living in darkness--but I cannot look at such injustice My heart aches when I see them, because I believe that from such bad children will grow bad men, and if they now shake the poor hut of an old man, and throw stones through the windows, afterward they will set fire to the houses and kill the people! To-day they would have destroyed that poor hut and killed the people if I had not prevented them." As he said the last words, he took his place at the table. On his face there was no longer timidity and bashfulness. He was evidently deeply convinced of the righteousness of his cause. He looked boldly around, and only his lips quivered, as is always the case with young, sensitive people. At that moment old Saul and his two sons raised their arms and said: "Sabbath." Their voices were solemn, and the looks they turned on Meir were severe and almost angry. "Sabbath! Sabbath!" shouted the melamed, jumping in his chair and gesticulating with his hands; "You, Meir, during the holy evening of Sabbath, instead of reciting Kiddish and filling your spirit with great joy and giving it into the hands of the angel Matatron, who defends Jacob's tribes before God, that he may give them into the hands of Sar-ha-Olama, who is the angel over angels and the prince of the world, that Sar-ha-Olama may give them to the ten serafits who are so strong in force that they crushed the whole world, in order that through the ten serafits your spirit may reach the great throne, on which is seated En-Sof himself, and join with him in a kiss of love--you, Meir, instead of doing all that, went to defend people from some attack--to watch their house and their life. Meir! Meir! You have violated the Sabbath! You must go to the school and accuse yourself before the people of having committed a great sin and scandal." This speech made an immense impression on the whole assembly. Saul and his sons looked threatening. The women were surprised and frightened. The dark eyes of Lija--she who had first betrayed her cousin's secret--shone with tears. Only Saul's son-in-law, blue-eyed Ber, looked at the accused boy with sad sympathy, and several young men, Meir's playmates, gazed into his face with curiosity and friendly uneasiness. Meir answered in a trembling voice: "In our holy books, Reb Moshe, neither in the Torah nor in the Mishma is there any mention of Sefirots and En-Sof. But there it is stated plainly that Jehovah, although he has commanded us to keep the Sabbath, permitted twenty people to violate the Sabbath in order to save one man." Such a thing as any one daring to answer the melamed--the perfect pious and Rabbi Todros's right hand--was unheard of and astonishing; it was more, because in the answer there was a negation of his judgment. Therefore the melamed's convex eyes nearly sprang from their sockets. They opened widely and covered Meir's pale face with deep hatred. "Karaims!" he shouted, tossing himself in his chair, and tearing his beard and his hair--"You went to rescue the Karaims, heretics, infidels, accursed! Why should one rescue them? Why do they not light candles on Sabbath--why do they sit in darkness? Why do they not kill birds and animals as we do? Why do they not know Mishma, Gemara and Zahor?" He choked with excitement and became silent, and in that interruption Meir's pure and sonorous voice resounded: "Reb, they are very poor!" "En-Sof is revengeful and merciless!" "They are much persecuted!" "The Incomprehensible persecutes them!" shouted Reb. "The Eternal does not command us to persecute. Rabbi Huna said: 'Even if the persecution is righteous, the Eternal will take the part of the persecuted one!'" Reb Moshe's cheeks were red as flame. His eyes seemed to devour the face of the young man, whose looks had now grown bold, and his lips quivered with the words that came rushing to them, but were not pronounced. The whole gathering was astonished--frightened--depressed. Such a quarrel with the melamed seemed to some of them a sin, to others a danger for the bold young man, and even for the whole family. Therefore Saul looked up sharply from beneath his bushy gray eye-brows into his grandson's face, and hissed: "Sh-a-a-a!" Meir bent his head before his grandfather, in token of humility and obedience, and one of Saul's sons, in order to pacify Reb Moshe's anger, asked him: "What is the difference between the authority of the books of Talmud, and Zahora, the Kabalistic book?" Having heard this question, the melamed put his elbows on the table, and fixed his eyes motionlessly and with an expression of deep reflection on the opposite wall. Then he began to speak slowly, and in a solemn voice: "Simon ben Jochai, the great Rabbi who lived a very great while ago and knew everything that happened in the heavens and on the earth, said, 'The Talmud is a vile slave, and the Kabala is a great queen.' With what is the Talmud filled? It is filled up with small, secondary things. It teaches what is clean and what is not clean. What is permitted and what is not permitted. What is decent and what is not decent. And with what is filled Zohar--the book of light, the book of Kabala? It is filled with great science; it tells what is God and his Sefirots. The author of it knows all their names, and he teaches what they do and how they built the world. There is said that God's name is En-Sof and his second name is Notarikon and his third name is Gomatria and fourth name Zirufh. The Sefirots are great heavenly forces called: human source, fiancee, fair sex, great visage, small face, mirror, celestial story, lily and apple orchard. And Israel is call Matron, and Israel's. God is called Father, God, En-Sof. He did not create the world; the Sefirots, celestial forces, did it. The first Sefirot produced the strength of God; the second all angels and the Torah (Bible); the third all prophets. The fourth Sefirot produced God's love; the fifth God's justice, and the sixth, a power which ruins everything. The seventh Sefirot produced beauty, the eighth magnificence, the ninth, eternal cause, and the tenth, an eye which watches Israel continually, and follows him on all his roads and takes care of his feet--that they are not wounded--and his head, that misfortune does not fall upon him. All this is taught by Zohar, the book of Kabala, and it is the first book for every Israelite. I know that many Israelites say that the Torah is the more important, but they are stupid, and they do not know that the earth shall tremble from great pains before God and Israel, Father and Matron, shall be united in a kiss of love, until the slave will not retreat before the queen--the Talmud before the Kabala. And when shall that time come? It shall come when the Messiah shall appear. Then for all pious and scholarly people will there be a great feast of joy. Then God will order the boiling of the fish Leviathan which is so great that the whole world rests on it. And everyone will sit down and eat that fish--the scholarly and pious people from the head, and the simple and ignorant from the tail!" When the melamed finished his speech he breathed deeply, and having dropped his eyes on the table he suddenly fell from mystical heights to earthly realities. On the plate before him was an excellent fish--not Leviathan, but excellent nevertheless. The melamed, living ascetically was very fond of Sabbath feasts, because he believed that it was necessary, to celebrate the Sabbath properly, to keep joyful the body as well as the spirit. Therefore, with the remains of the ecstasy in his eyes, he began to put the delicious dish into his mouth. The whole assembly was silent for a while. His clever speech made a deep impression on almost everyone. Old Saul listened to it with great reverence. His sons cast their grateful eyes on the table and thought over Reb Moshe's scholarly instruction. The women piously placed their hands on their bosoms, inclined their heads in sign of admiration and with smiling lips they repeated: "Great student--perfect-pious. A true pupil of the great Rabbi Isaak!" The one looking attentively on the faces of those sitting around the table would have seen two looks which, swift as lightning and unperceived by all present, had been exchanged during the melamed's speech. They were the looks of Ber and Meir. The former looked sadly at the other, who answered him with a look full of restrained anger and irony. When the melamed spoke of the fish Leviathan, so large that the whole world stood on it, and which, in the day of the Messiah, the scholars would eat from the head and the ignorant from the tail, a smile appeared on Meir's thin lips. It was a smile similar to the stiletto. It pierced the one on whose lips it appeared, and it seemed as though it would like to pierce the one who caused it. Ber answered this smile by a sigh. But the four young men who sat opposite Meir noticed it, and on their faces Meir's smile was reflected. After a period of silence, interrupted only by the clatter of knives on the plates and the loud movements of the melamed's jaws, old Saul said: "Those are great things, scholarly and dreadful, and we thank Reb Moshe for having told them to us. Listen to the learned men, who by their great knowledge sustain Israel's strength and glory, because it is written that the wise men are the world's foundation. 'Who respects them, and questions them often about obscure things with which they are familiar, to that one all sins shall be pardoned.'" Reb Moshe raised his face from the plate, and stuttered with his mouth full of food: "Good deeds bring upon man an inexhaustible stream of blessing and forgiveness. They open for him the secrets of the heavens and earth and carry his soul among the Sefirots!" A silence full of respect was the only answer. But after a few seconds it was interrupted by the sonorous voice of the youth: "Reb Moshe! what do you call a good deed? What must one do in order to save one's life from sin and draw upon one's self a great stream of grace?" asked Meir aloud. The melamed raised his eyes at the question. Their looks met again. The melamed's gray eyes shone angrily and threateningly. The gray, transparent eyes of the youth contained silvery streams of hidden smiles. "You, Meir, you were my pupil, and you can ask me about such things. Have I not told you a great many times that the best deed is acquiring depth in the holy science? To whom does that everything will be forgiven, and he who does not do that will be cursed and thrust out from the bosom of Israel, although his hands and heart are clean and white as the snow." Having said this he turned to Saul and said, pointing at Meir with his brown finger: "He don't know anything. He has forgotten everything I have taught him!" The old man slightly bent his wrinkled forehead before the melamed and said in a conciliatory voice: "Reb, forgive him! When wisdom shall come to him, then he will recognise that his mouth has been very daring, and I am sure he will be pious and scholarly, as were all the members of our family." He drew himself up, and pride sparkled in the eyes which age had long dimmed. "Listen to me, children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. Our family--the family of Ezofowich--is not a common family. We--thanks to God, whose holy name be blessed--have great riches in chests and on vessels. But we have still greater riches in the records of our family. Our ancestor was a Senior, a superior over all the Jews living in this country, and very much beloved by the king himself. And my father Hersh, the famous Hersh, had the friendship of the greatest lords, and they drove him in their carriages, and for his surprising wisdom they took him to the king to the diet which was then held in Warsaw." The old man became silent and looked around with eyes brightened with pride and triumph. The whole gathering looked on him as on a rainbow. The melamed became gloomy, and slowly sipped the wine from a big glass. The old great-grandmother, who was already slumbering, awakened at once, and peered with her golden eyes from behind half-closed lids, exclaiming in her soundless voice: "Hersh! Hersh! my Hersh!" After a while. Saul began to talk again: "We have in our family a great treasure--such a treasure as has no equal in all Israel. This treasure is a long document, written by our ancestor Michael the Senior, and left by him, and in which there are written noble and wise things. If we could get that document of wisdom we should be happy. The only trouble is that we don't know where it is." From the time Saul began to talk of the document left by his ancestor, among the many eyes looking at him two pairs sparkled passionately, with, however, quite contradictory sentiments. They were the eyes of the melamed, who laughed softly and maliciously, and the eyes of Meir who drew himself up in his chair and looked into his grandfather's face with burning curiosity. "This writing," Saul said further, "was hidden for two hundred years and nobody has touched it. And when the two hundred years were ended, my father, Hersh, found it. Where he found it no one but our old great-grandmother knows." Here he pointed to his mother, and then finished: "And she alone knows where he hid that writing, but as yet she has told no one." "And why did she tell no one?" laughed maliciously and softly the melamed. Saul answered in a sad voice: "Reb Nohim Todros--may his memory be blessed--has forbidden her to speak of it." "And you, Reb Saul, why have you not searched for that writing yourself?" Saul answered still more sadly: "Reb Baruch Todros, the son of Reb Nohim and Reb Isaak--may he live a hundred years--the son of Reb Baruch, have forbidden me to search for it!" "And no one dare search for it!" exclaimed the melamed with all his might, raising his hand armed with a fork, "nobody dare search for that writing, because it is full of blasphemy and filth. Reb Saul! You must forbid your children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren to search for that writing, and in case they find it they must give it up to the fire to be destroyed! For the one who shall find that writing, and shall read it aloud to the people--upon that one shall the herem fall. He shall be cast out from the bosom of Israel. Thus spake Reb Nohim and Reb Baruch--may their memory be blessed! Thus spake Reb Isaak--may he live a hundred years. In that writing is excommunication and great misfortune to the one who shall find it." A deep silence followed those words, spoken with the greatest enthusiasm by the melamed, and amidst this silence was heard a long, trembling passionate sighing. All looked around, desiring to learn from whose breast proceeded that noise as of the tearing out of desire, but no one could discover whence it came. They only perceived that Meir, with rigid figure, pale face and burning eyes was gazing into the great-grandmother's face. She, feeling the piercing look of her beloved child, raised her wrinkled eyelids and said: "Meir?" "Bobe?" answered the young man, in a voice filled with caressing tenderness. "Kleineskind!" whispered the great-grandmother and, smiling sweetly, she began to slumber again. The Sabbath feast was near its end when an incident occurred which would have appeared very strange to any foreign eye, but was an ordinary sight to those gathered there. Reb Moshe, whose dark cheeks burned from the effects of several glasses of wine hospitably poured out for him by the hosts, suddenly jumped from his chair and rushed to the centre of the room. "Sabbath! Sabbath! Sabbath!"--he shouted, shaking his head and arms violently. "Fried! Fried! Fried!" he repeated--"the whole celestial family rejoices and dances in the Heavens! David danced and jumped before the Arch--why then should not the perfect pious gladden his heart by dancing and jumping?" Therefore he danced and jumped around the table. It would have been interesting for an observer to watch the different sentiments reflected in the faces of those present who looked at the ecstatic dance. Old Saul and his sons looked at the dancing figure with the greatest gravity and attention. Not the slightest quiver of a smile appeared on their lips. It seemed as though they looked on the melamed's crazy leaps as the believers look on the performance of a mystic but holy ceremony. Tallow-haired Ber sat stiff and dignified also, but he knit his brows almost painfully, and his eyes were cast on the ground. Meir leaned his head in the palms of both hands, and it seemed that he neither heard nor saw--or at least tried not to notice anything. But the women wondered at Reb Moshe's dance; they moved their bodies to the time beaten by the bare-footed man, smacking their lips and making signs of admiration with their eyes. At the lower end of the table, where the boys and girls sat, could be heard a soft noise, as of gigglings suppressed with effort. Finally Reb Moshe's strength was exhausted, his body shivering with enthusiasm, fell to the floor near the big green brick stove. After a while, however, he rose, laughed aloud, and wiped with the large sleeve of his shirt, the perspiration bathing his forehead and cheeks. Sarah, Saul's daughter, left the table and carried around a large silver basin filled with water, in which everyone washed his fingers. Whispering prayers of thanksgiving, those present dipped their hands in the water and wiped them on a towel suspended from Sarah's shoulder. The Sabbath feast was ended. A few moments afterward the table was cleared off. The whole company, dividing itself into small groups, filled the room with the noise of loud and animated conversation. Meir, who for a few moments had stood alone by the window gazing thoughtfully into the darkness of the evening, approached the group composed of the oldest people, gathered in the most luxurious part of the room which was ornamented by an antique sofa. Here Abraham and Raphael, Saul's sons, and Ber, his son-in-law, reported to the father in reference to the business transacted during the week, and asked his advice and help. Here old Saul was in his proper field, for, although the high and wise studies of mystic scholars aroused in him respect and fear, it seemed that secular business affairs were more suited to his mind--he was more familiar with them. In his eyes, which were now shining with keen and animated thought, there were no more signs of old age, and only his white hair and beard gave him the appearance of a patriarch and dignitary, distributing among the members of his family advice, praise and judgments. Meir stood indifferent before that group of people talking of losses and profits. It was clear that in such affairs he did not yet take a part, and that his fresh nature was not yet touched by the biting fever of profit. He looked with some surprise at the usually phlegmatic Ber, who at that moment seemed to be changed into another man. Relating to his father-in-law his business projects, and explaining to him the necessity of contracting a considerable loan with his wife's brother, he became animated, eloquent--almost vehement. His eyes burned, his lips moved with great rapidity, and his hands trembled. Meir went away and joined another group where the melamed was a central figure. As usual he was leaning his elbows on the table, and spoke solemnly to the attentive listeners. "Everything in the world--every man, every animal, every blade of grass, and every stone--has its roots in the country where the spirits live. Therefore the whole world is like a gigantic tree, whose roots are among the spirits. And it is like a gigantic chain, whose last links are suspended where live the spirits. And it is like a gigantic sea, which never dries up, because an inexhaustible stream of spirits is always pouring in and filling it up." Meir left the group listening to the melamed and approached the window. There two young men, leaning their foreheads in their hands and in deep thought, were speaking of where it is written that a man who walks during a clear night and does not see his shadow will die the same year. Meir looked around. In the next room the older women were speaking of their households, and how clever their children were. The young girls were seated in a corner, whispering, giggling, and humming. From Meir's face it could be seen that he was not attracted by any of these groups of people filling the house. He was among his own people--among those who were nearest to him in blood and affection--but it might be said that he was in the desert, so lonely did he stand in the room, and so sorrowfully did he look around him. He went out. Descending the stairs leading from the piazza he passed the dark square, and entered the little house of Reb Jankiel. After the large, clean, well-lighted, and comfortable rooms of his grandfather's home, the dwelling of Reb Jankiel, the possessor of the largest inn in Szybow, whisky merchant, and a member of kahal, seemed to Meir narrow, dark, dirty, and mean. The Sabbath feast was over. It never was long, for it was scanty and passed in gloomy silence, interrupted only by quarrelling and the biting remarks of the father of the family. It was known that Reb Jankiel was avaricious. He gathered much money, but he did not care for the comfort of the house, because he was seldom there, being busy with whisky distilleries, with dram-shops in the neighbouring villages, returning to the town only when religious affairs required his presence. His wife, Jenta, and two grown-up daughters conducted the business of the inn. The appearance of riches in his house only occurred when Reb Jankiel received eminent guests, as the saintly Rabbi, with whom he was a great favourite, the colleagues of the kahal, or wealthy merchants. Cleanliness and gaiety were well-known virtues. In the first room, which Meir entered through a door opening into the dark hall, only one little candle burned in a brass candlestick. The smell of the food, which was just cleared off the table, was here mingled with the mustiness of the dirty walls and the greasy exhalations from the smoky chimney. It was dark and dull here. From the other room, completely dark, sounded the loud snoring of the master of the house, who was already fast asleep. In the third small room, filled with beds and trunks, Meir perceived, by the light of a small lamp burning in the stove around which was suspended a quantity of cabbages, a woman who was rocking a cradle with her foot, and trying to lull to sleep a crying child. Meir greeted her, and she answered him in a friendly manner and continued to hum. Behind the closed door could be heard the muffled sound of human voices. Meir opened that door and entered the room of Eliezer. Eliezer the cantor and the possessor of that marvellous voice, was not alone. Around the table, lighted by a tallow candle, sat several young men, members of the Ezofowich family--the same who had eaten Supper with Meir. Meir breathed deeply, perhaps because the air was purer there than in the other apartments, or perhaps because he was among friendly figures, on which he liked to gaze, and which, seeing him, smiled in a friendly manner. Eliezer raised his turquoise-like eyes to the face of the newcomer as he sat at the table. "Meir!" he exclaimed in his musical voice. "Well?" answered his guest. "You were impatient to-day, and said to the melamed things of which there was no necessity to speak. They told me of your dispute with him." Meir looked sharply and a little ironically into the cantor's face. "Eliezer, are you in earnest when you tell me that?" he asked slowly. The cantor dropped his head. "It was honest on your part, but it may cause you much trouble." The young man laughed, but his laugh Was empty and forced. "Nu!" said he with determination, "Let it come. I can't stand it any longer. I can't be silent and look and listen, while we are being made fools of." "Child! child what can you do?" sounded from behind them in a lazy, drawling voice. They all turned. It was the phlegmatic Ber who had entered during the conversation. Having thus answered the angry exclamation of the young man, he stretched himself on Eliezer's bed. It seemed that those present were accustomed to see him among them, for they showed neither the slightest impatience nor confusion. On the contrary, the conversation was continued. One of the young men, a relative of Meir's, half in doubt and in smiles, half in fear and seriously, began to repeat to the cantor the melamed's speech about En-Sof and the Sefirots, about the day of the Messiah, and the gigantic fish, Leviathan. Another asked Eliezer what he thought of a moral which taught that it was sufficient to study Mishma and Zohar in order to obtain pardon for evil deeds. Eliezer listened silently. He did not answer for a long time; then he slowly raised his head and said: "Read the Torah! There it is written: 'God is one, Jehovah! He is not satisfied with your sacrifices, singing, and incense, but he requires from you a love of the truth, to defend the oppressed, to teach the ignorant, and heal the sick, because these are your first duties.'" The two young men opened their eyes. "Well!" they exclaimed, "then the melamed did not tell the truth!" Eliezer was silent for a long time again. It was evident that he preferred not to answer, but the young impatient hands pulled him by the sleeve, asking for a reply. "He did not tell the truth," he finally exclaimed timidly. At that moment Meir put his hand on his shoulder. "Eliezer," said he, "you gave me the same answer two years ago, when you came back from the great city where you studied singing. Then you opened my eyes, which alone began to search for the truth, and you taught me that we are not true Israelites; that our faith was not the same that was given to us on Mount Sinai; that Judaism has grown muddy like water when a handful of earth is thrown into it--and that mud has blackened our heads and our hearts. Eliezer, you have told me this, and I have seen the light. Since that time I have loved you as a brother who helped me out of obscurity, but Since that time, I feel in my heart a great oppression and a great loneliness." "Meir, Eliezer taught you, and Eliezer is silent--you, his pupil, commence to talk," said her, whose lazy words were tinged with irony. "I wish I knew how to talk," exclaimed the young man, with sparkling eyes, "and what to do!" And after a while he added, more softly: "But I know neither how to speak nor how to act--only in my heart I bear a great hatred toward those who deceive us, and a great love toward those who are deceived." "And a great audacity," drawled Ber, negligently stretched on the bed. "Until now I have not had the audacity, but--but if I knew what to do, I would have it." There was a silence for a few moments which was finally broken by Meir. "Eliezer, you are happier!" "Why?" "You have been out into the broad world--you have seen its wisdom--you have listened to clever people. Ah! if I could but go out into the world!" "Eliezer, tell us something of the great world," said one of the young men. And in the eyes watching the cantor there was curiosity and a strange longing. Of the youth of Szybow, Eliezer alone had been out into the world. This was because of his marvellous voice, to cultivate which he had been sent to a large city. Everything he had to say had been told to his friends long ago. It was not much, but such as it was they were willing to listen to it every day. How does a large city appear? How high are the houses there? What kind of people live in those houses, and how many among them are Israelites? Who are rich, and wear beautiful dresses, and are greatly respected among the people? And why are they respected? Is it because they are rich? No--in Szybow there are also rich merchants, and the Purices (nobles) care for them only when they need their money, and when they do not need money they despise them. The Israelites in the great city are respected because they have a great deal of knowledge, and they have studied not only Mishma and Gemara, but other different, beautiful, and necessary things. And why in Szybow is there not such a school where these things could be studied, and why do Rabbi Isaak and Reb Moshe say that these sciences are the wine-garden of Sodom and infidel flames, and that every true Israelite should avoid them? "Eliezer, how do those big carriages run without horses, and who invented them so cleverly?" "Eliezer, do all Israelites there live kosher?" "Eliezer, what is said there of the Rabbis Todros?" "They speak ill of them." A great surprise! The Israelites in the broad world speak ill of the Todros; and they believe neither in En-Sof nor in the Sefirots and the whole Kabalistic science! "And what do they say of the Talmud?" "They say that this beautiful book, full of wisdom, was written by clever and saintly people, but it should be shortened and many things left out because these are quite different times, and that which was formerly necessary is now harmful." Again great surprise! The Talmud should be shortened, because it is difficult to study Gemara, and it dulls the minds and memories of the children! True! They remember how difficult it was for them to study Gemara, and how the melamed had cruelly beaten them because they could not remember it, and how on that account they grew weak physically and mentally, and the little Lejbele, the son of a poor tailor, remained forever stupid and sick for the same reason! "And who shortened the Talmud, and made it easier to study?" "It was done by the great and saintly Moses Majmonides, whom the Rabbis excommunicated." The Rabbis excommunicated the great and saintly savant! Therefore the Rabbis could be unjust and bad. One must not always believe what they teach! "What more has Moses Majmonides written?" "He has written More Nebuchim a guide for lost ones--a wise and beautiful book, which, when one reads one is inclined to weep with tenderness and laugh with joy!" "Eliezer, have you read that book?" "Yes. I have it." "Where did you get it?" "A wise Israelite gave it to me. He is a lawyer in the large city." "Eliezer, read us something from that book." In that way was revealed to those naive minds, involuntarily longing for the sun and broad bosom of humanity,--even though the revelation was partial and chaotic--the phenomena and thoughts circulating in the waste spaces. The result of this was not the production of firm convictions, nor the spinning out of a guiding thread to another better life; but doubt entered their consciences and desire filled their breasts--the young eyes veiled with the sadness of the thought which began to feel its fetters. It was quite late when, after a long conversation, the young men rose and stood opposite each other with pale faces and burning looks. After a time of silence, Meir said: "Eliezer, when shall we stand up and cry with a powerful voice to the people, that they may open their eyes? Shall we always crawl in darkness, like the worms, covered with earth, and look on while the whole nation rots and chokes?" Eliezer dropped his eyes, which were full of tears, and raising his white hands, he said in his harmonious voice: "Every day before God I sing and cry for my people!" Meir made a movement of impatience, and at that moment Ber, rising heavily from the bed, laughed in a gloomy manner. "Sing and cry!" said he to Eliezer, "your dreadful father fills you with such fear that you will never be able to do anything else!" Then he put his hand on Meir's shoulder and said: "Only he is daring and will swim against the stream. But the water is stronger than a man. Where will it carry him?" Leaving Jankiel's house, Meir perceived again in one of the rooms, the same as before, a woman sitting at the cradle of a sleeping baby. Now she was bent over, and with both elbows resting on the edges of the cradle, was slumbering. The light of the small lamp, burning in the stove, fell upon her and threw a purple glimmer on the old caftan which covered her bosom and shoulders. On her head she still wore the holiday cap with crumpled flowers, its red colour contrasting strangely with the yellow, wrinkled face with its low forehead and withered cheeks. She was not yet old but worn out, over worked, spent with fatigue. One glance at her was sufficient to tell that her life lay in the midst of work and humiliation, and that she was not refreshed by even one drop of happiness. Looking at her, it was not difficult to guess that she would not live--like Freida, wife of the heretic Hersh--until her hundredth birthday, and that she would not fall into the eternal sleep little by little, amidst those dear to her heart--the noise made by numerous children and grandchildren. Jenta, the wife of the greedy Reb Jankiel, was slain in spirit and worn out in body. When the steps of the departing guests, which had for some time mingled with the snoring of several people fast asleep, became silent, Eliezer stood in the low door of his room and looked for a few seconds at his sleeping mother. "Mother!" he called softly, "why don't you go to bed? Little Hajka is sleeping for a long time, and she will not cry any more. Mother, go to bed and rest." The whisper of her son reached the slumbering Jenta. She raised her eyelids, turned her sad glance toward the tall youth whose white face shone in the darkness like alabastar, and--what a wonder--her small, half-closed eyes opened, and from the colourless eyeballs shone a light of joy. "Eliezer, come here!" she whispered. The young man approached and sat on the edge of the bed. "How can I sleep?" the faded woman whispered to him, "when I feel so miserable! Hajka is sick and at any moment she may cry, and if she would cry Jankiel would waken and be very angry!" "Sleep mother," whispered back the young man. "I will sit here and rock Hajka." The yellow, wrinkled face, with the big red rose over the forehead, bent and rested--not on the high dirty pillows--but on the lap of the sitting youth. Eliezer put his elbow on the edge of the cradle, leaned his forehead on the palm of his hand and sat in thought. From time to time he moved the cradle with his foot, and hummed. "Oj! My head, my poor head!" whispered in her sleep the yellow-faced woman, slumbering with her head in her son's lap. "Oh, Israel! how poor thou art!" thoughtfully whispered the red lips of the young man watching by the cradle. While this was passing in Reb Jankiel's house, a small, lively human figure rushed through the darkness, across the large school-yard toward the small house of Rabbi Todros, where it disappeared behind a small door. The creaking of the door was answered from the interior of the house by a low, but pure voice: "Is that you, Moshe?" "I, Nassi! your faithful servant! the miserable footstool of your feet! May the angel of peace visit your sleep! May every breath of your nostrils be agreeable to you, as the sweet oil mixed with myrrh! And while you sleep, may your soul bathe with great delight in the streams of the spirits!" The deep voice coming from the interior of the room situated beyond the small dark hall, asked: "Where were you so long, Moshe?" The man, who remained in the little hall, answered: "I ate the Sabbath supper in the house of the Ezofowich. In that house they celebrate the Sabbath with great magnificence, and I go there often to keep my soul in great joy!" "You act wisely, Moshe, in keeping your soul joyful during the Sabbath. But what news have you?" "Bad news, Nassi! Among the roses and lilies an ugly worm crawls!" "What worm?" "A worm which is eating into our holy faith, and which may make of the Israelitish people a people of goims and hazarniks." "And in whose heart crawls that worm?" "It is crawling in the heart of Meir Ezofowich--grandson of the rich Saul." "Moshe, have you seen this worm with your own eyes, and have you heard with your own ears? Speak, Moshe! On my head rests the burden of all souls which are in this community, and I must know all." There was silence for a moment in the little hall The man who was humbly sitting there at the closed door of the saintly Rabbi was evidently gathering his thoughts and reminiscences. After a while he began to speak in his hoarse voice, in a sing-song manner. "I have seen with my own eyes, and heard with my own ears. Meir Ezofowich has not celebrated to-day the Kiddish with the whole family, and he came home after Sabbath had already been with us for some time. And I asked him what he had been doing, and he told me that he had been defending the cabin of Abel Karaim and his grandchild, Golda, from assault." He became silent, and the deep voice within the closed room said: "He defended heretics, and violated the Sabbath!" "He does not keep his soul joyful during the holy day of Sabbath." "That teaching may be excommunicated! Israel must avoid it, and the Lord may not forgive it!" said the deep voice behind the door. "He said that in the holy books of Israel there is nothing said of En-Sof and Sefirots, and that the Eternal does not command us to persecute heretics." "Abominations pour from the mouth of that young man! Hersh Ezofowich's soul--his great-grandfather's soul--has passed into his body!" "Nassi!" exclaimed Moshe, in a louder voice. An indistinct murmur from behind the door encouraged him to continue the conversation. "He is going to search for the writing of Michael the Senior. I have seen that in his eyes. And he will find that writing, and when he finds it and reads it aloud to the people, the spirit of Israel will rise against your teaching." There was a deep silence after those words, and then the bass voice resounded again: "When he shall find that writing, then my heavy hand will rest on him and crush him into dust. Moshe, what did he do after supper?" "He went to the house of Reb Jankiel, and talked with the cantor, Eliezer. I passed that way, and saw them through the window." "Moshe, who else was there?" "There were Haim, Mendel, Aryel, and Ber, Saul's son-in-law." "About what were they talking?" "Nassi, my soul entered into my ear as I stood by their window. They complained much that they are kept in great darkness, and that the true faith of Israel is troubled like water when a handful of mud is thrown into it. And Eliezer said that he complains of it before the Lord, singing and crying; and Meir said that it is not enough to sing and cry, but that one must shout with a great voice to the people, and do something so that they will become something quite different from what they now are." "A family of vipers!" hissed the voice from behind the door of the cabin. "Nassi, who are a family of vipers?" asked Moshe humbly After a moment of silence, the answer came from the darkness: "Ezofowich's family." CHAPTER IV A few months passed. A warm May day was ending in a bright, sweet-scented evening. Not long before sunset two beings were walking through the narrow street surrounded by the poorest houses in town. One of these beings was a slender girl, the other was a snow-white she-goat. The she-goat went before, jumping at every moment in order to catch some herb growing here and there. She appeared to be adroit, full of pranks, and happy. The girl following was grave and thoughtful. It would be difficult to tell how old she was. She may have been anywhere from thirteen to seventeen. Although she was tall, she seemed childish, on account of the extreme thinness of her body. But her mien and the expression of her face denoted gravity and premature grief and sadness. At first glance she appeared to be homely. What charms she may have possessed were not enhanced by the poor dress made of faded calico, from beneath which appeared her feet, only half protected by heavy shoes. The flowing dress was buttoned at the neck, around which she wore a few strings of broken corals. Her face was thin and pale, contrasting sharply with the red colour of the beads. From beneath the thick eyebrows looked velvet-like eyes, and over the narrow forehead curled hair as black as ebony. The whole person of this child, or woman, was a mixture of pride and wildness. Her walk was stiff, grave, and thoughtful, and she looked boldly into space. But at the more lively sound of human voices she stopped and dropped her eyes--not because she was afraid, but because it seemed that she much disliked meeting people. Only the presence of the she-goat did not cause her disgust; on the contrary, she looked after the animal attentively, and when the agile creature went too far, she called her with sharp, muffled exclamations. Reciprocally, it seemed that the goat understood her very well, and, obedient to her call, she returned to the girl with a questioning baa! At the end of the poor, narrow street, there appeared a small green meadow, fresh, pearled with the dew of May, and gilded with the sun. This was situated outside the town, surrounded on one side by a birch grove, the other side opening on large fields, beyond which, in the far distance, was seen a blue strip of the forest. The girl slackened her steps, and having seized the animal by the horns, she stopped, and looked on the lively scene displayed on the meadow. At first the outlook appeared to be merely a tumultuous and chaotic mass of movement, composed of snow-white animals and variegated children on the green background. Only after a short while one could distinguish numbers of little girls driving from pasture several herds of goats. The girls were full of play, and they hastened home. The goats were stubborn, and wished to remain on the meadow, so there was some fighting, in which the goats were victorious over the children. They escaped from the hands of their leaders, and jumped nimbly and quickly toward the hazel bushes. The girls chased them, and, reaching them, they seized the animals by their long, rough hair, and then they were at a loss what to do next. Some of them called to their friends, busy and embarrassed also, for help; others crossed the way of their disobedient charges, and, when they were opposite them, they stretched out their arms; others shouted, and, falling on the ground, they rolled in the soft grass, bursting with laughter. These exclamations, calls, and laughter, mingling with the m-a-a-ing of the goats, were seized by the warm breeze blowing over the meadow, and carried through the gloomy streets of the town, over the large field, and in the remote depths of the grove. Through the golden air the small feet flitted and crossed each other, trampling the grass, and above them nodded the little heads covered with hair of all shades, from locks black as ebony to the curls of copper-red and flaxen-yellow. The tall, grave girl, who passed with her frolicsome but obedient goat, looked indifferently at the noisy, animated scene. It was evident that neither the gaiety nor curiosity attracted her. As she had been walking, now she was standing grave and quiet. It seemed as though she was waiting for something. Maybe the disappearance from the meadow of these flitting heads and the exclamations of the children. After a while the exclamations were united in one choir. It announced joy and universal triumph. At the end of long fights, chases, and efforts, the goats were finally subdued by the girls, and were now gathered in one group. Some of the children were holding the stubborn and rebellious animals by their short horns, dragging them with all their strength; while others, clasping their necks with both hands, accompanied them in their jumps; others, more courageous and strong, sat on the goats' backs, and, carried by their strange chargers, holding fast by the longest hair, they went at full trot toward the town. This cavalcade, tumultuous and noisy, squeezed into one of the larger streets, and disappeared in clouds of dust. Now the green meadow was silent and deserted. Only a light wind rustled among the branches of birches and hazel trees, and the setting sun veiled it in transparent pink clouds. The girl set her goat at liberty, walked quicker than formerly, and after a while reached the edge of the meadow. Then she stopped and looked in one direction with a sudden amazement of joy. This point was a thick birch trunk lying at the foot of the grove, and on this trunk sat a young man with an open book in his lap. The girl's amazement was short. With her eyes fastened on the young man's face, which was bent over the book, she crossed the whole length of the meadow, straight and light, and having stopped near the trunk on which he was sitting, she bent, seized his hand in both her swarthy hands, and raised it to her mouth. Absorbed in his reading the man swiftly raised his head and looked in astonishment at the girl, quickly withdrawing his hand from her embrace and growing red with a warm blush. "You don't know me," said the girl, in a voice which was muffled, but which trembled not one whit. "No," answered the young man. "But I know you. You are Meir Ezofowich, rich Saul's grandson. I see you often when you sit on the piazza of your beautiful house, or when, with that book, you pass the hill of the Karaims." All this she said in a grave, steady voice, her figure drawn erect. In her face there was not the slightest sign of embarrassment or timidity nor the slightest blush. Only her large eyes became darker and shone with a warm light, and her pale lips assumed a soft and gentle expression. "And who are you?" asked Meir softly. "I am Golda, the grand-daughter of Abel Karaim, despised and persecuted by all your people." And now her mouth trembled and her voice took on a gloomy tone. "All your people persecute Abel Karaim and his grand-daughter Golda, and you defend them. Long ago I wished to thank you." Meir dropped his eyelids. His pale face flushed. "Live in peace, you and your grandfather Abel," he said softly, "and may the hand of the Eternal be stretched over your poor house--the hand of Him who loves and defends those who suffer." "I thank you for your good words," whispered the girl. In the meanwhile she slipped down to the grass at the young man's feet, and raising her clasped hands she whispered further: "Meir, you are good, wise, and beautiful. Your name signifies 'light,' and I have light before my eyes every time I see you. Long ago I wished to find you and talk with you, and tell you that although you are a grandson of a rich merchant and I am a grand-daughter of a poor Karaim, who makes baskets, yet we are equal in the eyes of the Eternal, and it is permitted to me to raise my eyes to you and looking on your light, to be happy." And in fact she looked happy. Only now her thin, swarthy face burned with a flame-like blush, her lips were purple, and in her eyes raised to the young man's face and filled with passionate worship stood two silvery tears. Meir listened to her with downcast eyes, and when she was silent he looked up and gazed at her for a while and whispered softly: "Golda, how grateful and beautiful you are!" For the first time during her conversation with Meir, Golda dropped her eyes and mechanically began to pluck the high grass growing around her. Meir looked at her silently. The innocence of her heart was plainly manifested in her confusion, which caused him to blush, and a timid joy shone with double light from his gray eyes, which remained cast down. "Sit beside me," said he finally, in a soft voice. The girl rose from the ground and sat in the place indicated by him. She had recovered all her boldness and gravity. She was silent and looked at the youth who did not look at her. They were silent a long time. Silence was around them; only above their heads the tall birches rustled softly, and around the pond near by, which was grown up with osier, the whistling and carolling of the marsh-dwelling birds was heard. Meir, who kept looking at the grass spread at his feet, was the first to speak: "Why do you bring your goat so late to the pasture?" Golda answered: "Because I don't wish to meet the other girls here." "Do they also persecute you?" "They laugh at me when they see me, and call me ugly names, and drive me from them." Meir raised his eyes to the girl, and in his glance there was deep pity. "Golda, are you afraid of those girls?" Golda gravely shook her head in negation. "I have grown up together with fear," she answered. "It's my brother, and I am accustomed to it. But when I return home the old zeide asks: 'Have you met anybody? Have they annoyed you?' I can't lie, and if I tell the truth the old zeide is very sad and he weeps." "Did zeide alone bring you up?" She nodded her head affirmatively. "My parents died when I was as small as that bush. Zeide didn't have any children, so he took me to his home and took care of me, and when I was ill he carried me in his arms and kissed me. When I was older he taught me to spin and read the Bible, and told me beautiful stories which the Karaims brought from the far world. Zeide is good; zeide is a dear old man--but so old--so old, and so poor. His hair is snow-white from great age and his eyes are red as corals from weeping. When he is making baskets I often lie at his feet and keep my head in his lap, and he caresses my hair with his old, trembling hand, and repeats: 'Josseyme! Josseyme!' (orphan)." While thus speaking she sat a little bent over, with her elbow resting on her knee. She balanced herself softly, looking into space. Meir was now gazing in her face as on a rainbow, and when she pronounced the last word, he repeated after her in a soft voice, filled with pity: "Josseyme!" At that moment, quite a distance behind them in the grove, was heard the bleating of the goat. Meir looked back. "Your goat--will it not be lost in the forest?" he asked. "No," answered the girl quietly. "She never goes too far, and when I call her she returns to me. She is my sister." "Fear is your brother, and a she-goat your sister!" said the young man, smiling. The girl turned her head toward the grove, and gave voice to a few short exclamations. Immediately there came from the thicket the sound of quick, racing steps, and among the green birch branches appeared the snow-white hairy animal. It stood still and looked at the two people sitting beside each other. "Come here!" called Golda. The goat approached and stood near her. Golda caressed the animal's neck, and Meir did the same smiling. The goat gave a short bleat, jumped aside, and in the twinkling of an eye was biting at one of the birches. "How obedient she is," said Meir. "She is very fond of me," said Golda gravely. "I brought her up in the same way that zeide did me. She was a little kid when zeide brought her home and made me a present of her. I used to carry her in my arms and feed her with my hands, and when she was sick I sang to her, as zeide used to sing to me." In speaking thus she smiled, and the smile gave her a childish appearance. She looked not more than fourteen years old. "Would you like to have another little kid?" asked Meir. "Why not?" she answered. "I would like it very much. When zeide shall sell a great many baskets, and I shall spin much wool we will buy another little kid." "For whom do you spin the wool?" "There are some good women who help me in that way. Hannah, Witebski's wife, your aunt Sarah, Ber's wife, give me wool to spin and then they pay me with copper--sometimes with silver money." "Then you sometimes come to our house to take the wool for spinning from Sarah, Ber's wife?" "Yes." "And why have I never seen you?" "Because they wish me to come secretly. Ber and his wife Sarah are very good-hearted people, but they don't wish anyone to know that they help us. I come to see them when there is nobody in the house except Lijka, your cousin, and I try to slip in in such a way that the black man could not see me." "Whom do you mean by the 'black man'?" asked Meir in astonishment. "Rabbi Isaak Todros!" answered Golda softly--almost in a whisper. At the sound of that name pronounced by Golda, Meir's face, formerly beaming, full of pity, blushing with emotion, quivered nervously. He grew suddenly silent and looked into space with eyes filled with gloomy lights. He became so thoughtful that a deep line appeared on his white forehead. It seemed to him that he had forgotten that he was not alone. "Meir," sounded in a soft voice, close to his shoulder, "of what are you thinking, and why have your eyes become so sad? Your name means 'light.' The sun of joy--does it not shine always for you?" The young man, without changing the direction of his glance, shook his head. "No," he answered, "there is a deep sorrow in my heart." The girl bent toward him. "Meir," she exclaimed, "and from where does this sorrow come to your heart?" He was silent for a while, and then answered softly: "From the fact that there are black people among us, and such darkness--such darkness!" The girl dropped her head, and repeated like a sad echo: "Ah! Such darkness!" Meir continued to look into space, toward where a long strip of the forest separated the golden valley from the purple sky. "Golda!" he said softly. "What, Meir?" "Did you never wish to see and know what there is beyond that thick, high forest--what is going on in the broad world?" The girl was silent. From her attitude--her body bent toward the young man, her wide-open eyes full of fire--it could be seen that when she could look at him she did not wish to see anything else in the broad world. But Meir spoke further: "I would like to borrow wings from a bird, in order to go beyond that forest--to fly far away!" "Don't you like the beautiful house of the rich Saul? Don't you like the faces of your brothers, relatives, and friends, that you wish for the wings of a bird to fly away?" whispered the girl, with stifled grief or fright. "I like the home of Saul, my grandfather," whispered the thoughtful youth, "and I love my brothers and all my relatives; but I would like to fly beyond that forest in order to see everything and become very wise, and then return here and tell to those who are walking in darkness and wearing chains, what they should do in order to leave the darkness and throw off the chains." After a time of silence he spoke further. "I should like to know how the stars are fixed and how the planets grow, and how all the nations of the world live, and what kind of a sacred book they have. I would like to read their books, and learn from them God's thought and human lot, in order that my soul might become filled with science as the sea is filled with water." Suddenly he stopped, and his voice broke with a sigh of inexpressible longing and insatiable desire. Again he was silent for a while, and then added softly: "I would like to be as happy as was Rabbi Akiba." "And who was Rabbi Akiba?" asked Golda shyly. Meir's thoughtful eyes lit up and shone. "He was a great man, Golda. I read his story often, and I was reading it again when you came." "I know a great many beautiful stories," said Golda; "they grow in my soul, like red, fragrant roses! Meir, give me one more such rose that it may shine for me when I may not see you." Their looks met and a soft smile played about Meir's mouth. "Do you understand Hebrew?" She hastily nodded in the affirmative. "Yes, I understand. Zeide taught me." Meir turned a few pages of the book which his lap and read aloud: "Kolba Sabua was a rich man. His palaces were high as mountains and his dresses shone with gold. In his gardens grew fragrant cedars, palms with large leaves, and there bloomed sweet scented roses of Sharon." "But more beautiful than the high palaces, than the fragrant cedars and crimson roses, more beautiful than all the maidens in Israel was his daughter, young Rachel." "Kolba Sabua had as many herds as there were stars in the heavens, and these herds were watched by a poor youth who was tall, like a young cedar, and his face was pale and sad, as it is with a man who wishes to free his soul from the darkness, but cannot." "The name of that youth was Joseph Akiba, and he lived on a high mountain on which the herds of his master grazed." "And it happened once upon a time, that the beautiful Rachel came to her father, threw herself on the ground before him, kissed his feet, and wept bitterly; then she spoke: 'I want to marry Akiba and live in that little cabin which stands on the summit of the mountain, and in which he lives.'" "Kolba Sabua was a proud man, and his heart was hard. He became very angry with his daughter, the beautiful Rachel, and forbade her to think of that young man." "But the beautiful Rachel left the high palace, and taking with her only her dark eyes, which shone like big diamonds, and her dark tresses, which were raised over her head like a crown. And she went on the high mountain to the little cabin, and said, 'Akiba, behold your wife, who enters into your house!'" "Akiba was joyful, and he drank from Rachel's eyes her diamond-like tears, and then began to tell her many beautiful things. Wise words poured like honey from his lips, and she listened and was happy, and said, 'Akiba, you shall be a great star, which shall shine over Israel's roads.'" "Kolba Sabua was a proud man, and his heart was hard. He sent to his daughter on the high mountain neither food nor clothing, and said, 'Let her become acquainted with hunger, and let her see misery.'" "And the beautiful Rachel saw misery, and became acquainted with hunger. There were days when she had nothing to put into Akiba's mouth, and thought that her husband must go hungry." "Akiba spoke, 'No matter that I am hungry,' and then he told her wise things, but she descended the high mountains, went to the town, and cried, 'Who will give me a measure of millet-seed for the dark crown which I wear on my head?' And they gave her a measure of millet-seed, and took her dark crown from her forehead, which was more beautiful than diamonds." "She returned to the mountains, to the little cabin, and said, 'Akiba, I have some food for your mouth, but your soul is hungry, and for it I cannot get food! Go into the world and nourish your soul with great wisdom which flows from the mouths of wise people. I will remain here. I will sit at the threshold of the house; I will spin wool, and take care of the herds, ad look on the road by which you will return, like the sun which returns to the sky to chase away the darkness of the night.'" "And Akiba went." Here the voice of the young man became silent, and he cast his eyes on the leaves of the book, for near his shoulder was heard a voice full of astonishment. "Akiba went?" asked Golda, and her eyes were widely opened, and the breath seemed to stop in her breast. "Akiba went," repeated Meir, and began to read farther. "The beautiful Rachel sat at the threshold of the house, span the wool, took care of the herds, and looked at the road by which he must return, shining with great wisdom." "Seven years passed, and there came an evening when the moon at her full pours on the earth a sea of silvery light, and the trees and herbs stand still and do not move, as though the spirit of the Eternal breathed on them, and brought to the world peace and tranquillity." "That evening, from behind the mountains, a tall pale man appeared. His feet trembled like leaves when the wind shakes them, and his hands from time to time were raised to the heavens. And when he saw the small, poor cabin, a stream of tears flowed from his eyes--for it was Akiba, the husband of the beautiful Rachel." "Akiba stopped at the open window, and listened to the talk that was going on within. His wife, Rachel, was talking with her brother, whom her father sent to her. 'Return to Kolba Sabua's house,' spoke her brother, and she answered, 'I am waiting for Akiba, and taking care of his house.' The brother spoke, 'Akiba will never return--he has left you, and he is a disgrace to you.' She answered, 'Akiba has not left me. I, myself, sent him to the fountain of wisdom, that he might drink from it.' 'He drinks from the fountain of wisdom, and you bathe yourself in tears, and your flesh dries from misery!' 'Let my eyes flow out with my tears, let my flesh be eaten with misery, I shall watch the house of my husband. And if that man, for whom I fed love in my heart, shall come back to me and say, 'Rachel, I come back to you that you may not weep any more, but I have not drunk enough from the fountain of wisdom,' I would say to him, 'Go and drink more.''" "The pale traveller, who stood at the window, which was open, became still paler, and trembled still more when he heard what Rachel said. He left the small cabin, and returned whence he came." "Again seven years passed by. And there came a day when the sun pours streams of golden brightness, and the trees rustle, and the flowers blossom, and the birds sing, and the people laugh, as though the spirit of the Eternal breathed on them, and brought to them life and joy." "On the road which led up the mountain to the shepherd's little cabin a great crowd of people was roaring. Amidst them a tall man was walking. His face shone like the sun with great wisdom, and from his mouth fell words sweet as honey and fragrant as myrrh. People bowed low before him, seizing every word, and crying with great love to him, 'Oh, Rabbi!'" "But through the crowd of people a woman rushed, and falling on the ground, she seized the master's knees. She still held a spindle in her hand. She was covered with rags; her face was thin and her eyes deeply sunken, for during fourteen years they had flowed with tears." "'Go away, you beggar!' the people shouted to her, but the master raised her from the ground and pressed her to his breast; for the man was Joseph Akiba, and the woman was his wife Rachel." "'Behold the fountain which supplied my sad heart with the drink of hope, when my head was in the depths of great loneliness and work.'" "Thus spake the master to the people, and wished to place on Rachel's head a crown of gold and pearls." "'Thou, Rachel,' said he, 'hast taken from thy head thy beautiful hair, in order to nourish my hungry mouth. Now I will ornament thy forehead with a rich garland.'" "But she stopped his arm, and raising to him her eyes, which had again become as beautiful as of yore, she said to him, 'Rabbi, your glory is my crown.'" The young man finished the story, and turned his eyes on the girl sitting beside him. Golda's face was all aflame, and her eyes were full of tears. "Do you find my story beautiful?" asked Meir. "Yes; beautiful indeed!" she answered, and with her head leaning on the palm of her hand she balanced her slender figure to and fro for a while, as if under the influence of ecstasy and drowsiness. Suddenly she grew pale, and drew herself up. "Meir," she exclaimed, "if you were Akiba, and I the daughter of the rich Kolba Sabua, I would do for you the same as the beautiful Rachel did for him!" She seized her superb tresses, black as ebony, which hung carelessly down her back, and twisting it around her head, she said: "I have exactly the same black crown as Rachel!" Then she raised her deep, fiery eyes to Meir, and said boldly, gravely, without a smile, blush, or exaltation: "Meir, for you I would take my eyes out of my head! I would not have any use for them if I could not look at you." A strong flush covered the young man's face, but it was not mere bashfulness, but emotion. The girl was so naive--so wild, and at the same time so beautiful, with her luxuriant, dishevelled tresses piled above her forehead, and with passionate words on her grave and daring lips. "Golda," said Meir, "I will come to your house and pay a visit to your old grandfather." "Come," said she; "with you there will enter into our house a great light." The sun had almost set behind the high scarlet and purple clouds. A little pond shone from beyond the high osiers. In that direction Golda's looks went, and stopped at the water and surrounding bushes. "Why are you looking at the pond?" asked Meir, who could no longer keep his eyes from the girl's face. "I would like to get as many as I could of those branches growing over there," answered the girl. "What for?" "I would carry them home. Zeide makes baskets of them, then he sells them in the market and buys bread, and sometimes fish. For a long time zeide has had no willow to make baskets, and he grieves." "Why don't you take them if you need them?" I am not permitted. "Why not? Everyone from the town may cut the branches. This meadow and that grove belong to the whole community of Szybow." "It doesn't matter; I am not permitted. We don't believe in the Talmud; we don't light candles on the Sabbath--nothing is allowed us." Meir rose suddenly. "Come," said he to Golda, "I will be with you, and you may cut as many branches as you like. Don't be afraid of anything." Golda's face shown with joy. She took from Meir's hand a jack-knife and rushed toward the pond. Now, when she felt safe under the protection of a strong arm, when there was hope of giving pleasure to the old grandfathers she lost the gravity which gave her the appearance of a matured woman. She ran along, looking from time to time at Meir who followed her, calling her she-goat, who turned toward her from the opposite side of the meadow. They stopped on the shore. The most flexible willow grass grew in the water, a few steps from the bank. In the twinkling of an eye Golda threw off her low shoes, and rolling up her dress she entered the water. Meir remained on the shore and watched the girl, as raising her arms, she began to swiftly cut the pliable branches. In the mean time she laughed, and her parted lips disclosed rows of teeth as white and beautiful as pearls. The glare of the last dazzling rays bathed her swarthy face with a pinkish light, and gilded the black crown of hair twined above her brow. Meir did not lose sight of her, and smiled also. Suddenly Golda set up a cry. "What is the matter?" asked Meir. From the green thicket, in which the girl's figure was hidden, a joyful voice resounded. "Meir, what beautiful flowers are here!" "What flowers?" The tall figure thrust aside the green bushes, bent toward the shore, and stretching out her arm handed the young man a broad-leaved yellow pond lily. Meir bent over a little in order to reach the flower, but all at once Golda's arm trembled, her pink, face grew pale, and her eyes dilated with dread. "The black man!" she whispered, dropping the flower, and with a soft exclamation of fear she retreated and hid herself in the willow copse. Meir looked behind him. Some distance off he saw emerging from the grove, and passing swiftly across the meadow, a strange figure walked swiftly. It was a medium-sized man, very thin, with a dark face, gray hair and a dark, dullish beard falling to his waist. He was robed in a long dress made of rough woven cloth, and his yellow, bare neck was thrust from an open shirt of rough material. He stooped in the shoulders and his steps were noiseless, as he wore low, woven slippers. In either hand he carried a big bunch of variegated herbs. When that man, without looking at Meir, passed him at a distance, the youth mechanically bent low his head in sign of humility and reverence Soon, however, he raised it. His face was pale, and expressed suppressed grief. He looked gloomily at the black figure passing swiftly across the meadow, and through his teeth set in either grief or anger, he said: "Rabbi Isaak Todros!" CHAPTER V Rabbi Isaak Todros' appearance, and also his spiritual development, perhaps, were expressive characteristics of several centuries of long sojourn of his ancestors in Spain. Wandering people, although astonishingly perseverant and conservative of marks distinguishing them from other nations, still by the inevitable influence of nature, draw here and there something from the different skies under which the lot of the exile scattered them. Among the common characteristics of Israelites, however, there can be seen great differences. There are among them people but recently arrived from the South and West, and again there are others over whose head a pale sky has stretched and a cold wind has blown for centuries. There are among them phlegmatic natures, and also ardent mystical ones, and others redolent of reality. Some of them have hair black as the darkest raven wing--others have eyes the colour of the sky. There are among them white and also swarthy foreheads; strong, hardy natures, and others nervous, quivering with passion, imbued with dreaming, and consumed with fanciful ideals. The swarthiest among the swarthy faces, the darkest of dark hair, the most passionate among the fiery spirits belonged to Isaak Todros. What precise position did he occupy in the community, and on what was it based? He was not a priest; rabbis are not priests, and perhaps there is no other nation, as distant by its nature from theocratic government as are the Israelites. Neither was he the administrator of the community, because the members of the kahal took charge of its civil affairs; rabbis, while being members of the kahal, possessed only the role of warden of religion in respect to its rules and rites. He possessed a dignity higher than that, however. He was the descendant of an old princely house and among his ancestors he counted many scholars, pious and revered rabbis, and he was perfectly pious himself--consequently cadek and hahamen, ascetic, almost a miracle-worker, and a deeply, supernaturally learned man. Of course, saying that he was a learned man refers only to religious erudition, but in the eyes of the community of Szybow this was the only learning. This scholarship embraced the incomparable knowledge of sacred books; Torah or the Bible, as little as possible--more of the Talmud, and most of Kabala. Isaak Todros was the most able Kabalist of modern times, and it constituted the corner-stone upon which was built his greatness. Someone not familiar with the faith of the plebeian Israelites would suppose that the population of Szybow was a branch of a numerous gloomy sect of Hassid, which puts at the head of all religious and secular learning, the Kabala. No; the inhabitants of Szybow did not consider themselves heretics. On the contrary, they were proud of being orthodox Talmudists and Rabbinists. But they belonged to those, numerous in the lowest stratum of Talmudists, who joined Kabala to the Torah and Talmud, recognised it as a holy book, and became passionately fond of it, setting it in the shadow of the two first books. And then Hassidism touched the Hebrew population of Szybow and left deep traces. In fact the greater part of the population was Hassidish without knowing it. Tradition said that Isaak Todros' ancestor, that Reb Nohim who had waged a battle of ideas with Hersh Ezofowich, was for some time a pupil of Besht, the founder of that curious sect. He saw him often, and although he did not join the sect entirely, he grafted some of its ideas into the community of which he was the spiritual leader. The principal characteristics of the sect were: a boundless respect for Kabala, an almost idolatrous worship of Cadeks and a deep, pious and unshakeable aversion toward Edomites (foreign nations) and their lores. These principles multiplied and branched out under the teaching of Nohim's son, Baruch, and his grandson Isaak seized the dignity held by his ancestors during the period of their rule. Therefore the religion of the inhabitants was neither Mosaism, nor Talmudism, nor Hassidism, but it was a chaotic mixture of all three which prevailed for the space of a number of miles around Szybow, and the highest expression of which was found in the person of the Rabbi of Szybow. Rabbi Isaak had a swarthy forehead, furrowed deeply by lines of strained thought in trying to penetrate the mystery of Heaven and earth by a combination of letters, composed of the name of God and the Angels. Therefore in his coal-black eyes were gloomy lights which sometimes became ecstatic when they contemplated the incomparable delights of the supernatural world. His back was bent from the continual reading of books, arid his hand shook with excitement caused by the perpetual state of emotion in which his mind was kept; his body was thin from spiritual torments and physical mortifications. Celibacy, fasting and sleepless nights were written in the dark face of the man, as well as his mystical ecstasies, secret dread and merciless hatred of everyone who lived, believed and desired differently from himself. When he was young he had married--or rather they had married him--before the slightest sign of a beard had appeared on his cheeks, but he soon divorced his wife, because, by her continual bustling activity she troubled his pious thought and spiritual raptures. His three children were brought up in his brother's house, and he himself lived the life of an anchorite in the little cabin--a life of fancy strained to the utmost, of passionate prayers and unfathomable mystic contemplations. Such was his spiritual life. His physical life was sustained by gifts sent him by his zealous admirers. But those gifts were small and common. Rabbi Isaak did not accept great and costly presents--he even refused to accept remuneration for the advice, medicines and prophecies which he gave to the faithful who came to him. But every day before sunrise some bashful figures glided through the school-yard, and placed on the wooden bench standing near the window of the house some earthen dishes with food--slices of bread or holiday cake. At that time the Rabbi usually recited his morning prayers, for it was that moment at which white could be distinguished from blue, which is the time that every faithful Israelite should recite the morning Tefils and Shems. Then he opened his window and contemplated the pink glow of the dawn. In one direction was the far Orient, Jerusalem, the invisible ruins of Solomon's Temple, Palestine weeping for her sons and the withering palms of Zion. Sometimes the fire shining in the Rabbi's eyes was quenched by a tear, cooling his cheeks which burned with the heat of interior fires. Sometimes they were cooled also by the cold winds and misty fogs, but Isaak Todros looked every morning through the mists and fogs, toward the Orient. Then he bent and took from the bench the food prepared for him by pious hands. He did not eat it alone. He broke the bread and cake into crumbs and threw it in handfuls to the birds which came to his window in great flocks. Some of them seized the food and carried it to their nests, chirping joyfully. Others after having eaten enough flew in through the window and perched on the bent shoulders of their friend. Then the Rabbi's dark face grew a little less dark, and sometimes--though very seldom--a smile played about his close shut lips. He was very well known, not only to the birds living in the town, but also to those who filled the birch grove. Isaak Todros often went to the grove, and sometimes penetrated the neighbouring pine forest. What did he do there? He fed the birds, who, on seeing him, immediately flew to him, and accompanied him in his walk. Sometimes he prayed in a loud voice, raising his trembling hands, and awakening by the sounds of his passionate cries the choir of wood echoes. He also gathered different herbs and plants, which he brought in great bunches to his hut. These plants possessed curative properties, whose knowledge was a heritage in the Todros family. All the members of this family belonged to that class of primitive physicians with which the Middle Ages was filled, and who learned their art of healing not from academies, but from wild nature, studied more with fantastical inquiring, than with learned thought. One of Isaak Todros' ancestors was, however, a very learned physician in Spain at the time when there was a short interval in prosperity in the bad fortunes of the Hebrew nation, and they were permitted to draw with the other nations all possible good from every source. However, the interval was but a short one, and after it the world-famous and really scholarly Hebrew physicians disappeared from the world; but one, by the name of Todros Halevi, transmitted his knowledge to his sons, and so it passed from generation to generation. Isaak Todros searched for diligently, and gathered carefully, these precious plants of the ancient knowledge and traditions of his family. He carried them with him, and laid them on the dirty floor of his cabin in order to dry them. On this account the air of his cabin was saturated during the summer and fall with the pungent, choking scent of drying herbs and wild flowers. His cell was a vivid reminder of the bare cells of anchorites and hermits. Its only furniture consisted of a hard bed, a white table, standing near one of the windows, a couple of chairs, and a few planks fastened to the wall piled up with books. Among these books were twelve enormous volumes bound in parchment. They constituted the Talmud. There were also the "Ozarha-Kabod," a work written by one of Isaak's ancestors--that Todros Halevi who was the first Talmudist to believe in the Kabala; "Toldot-Adam," an epic poem, telling the history of the first man and his exile; "Sefer-Jezira," (Book of Creation), telling by pictures of the origin of the world; "Ka-arat Kezef," in which Ezobi warns the Israelites against the pernicious influence of secular science; "Schiur-Koma," a plastic description of God, instructing the reader regarding his physical appearance--the gigantic size of the head, feet, hands, and especially God's beard, which, according to the book, is ten thousand five hundred parasangs long. But the place of honour was occupied by a book showing much thumbing. It was the Book of Light--Zohar--the greatest, and, at the same time, the deepest dissertation on Hohma-Nistar (Kabala), which was published in the thirteenth century by Moses Leon, in the name of Symeon-ben-Jochai, who lived several centuries before. Such was the library of Isaak Todros, in the reading of which he spent his nights, drawing from it all his learning and wisdom, consuming in its perusal all the forces of his body. From that library emanated an odour which intoxicated his mind with mystical emotions and the bitter, sharp venom of aversion to everything which was a stranger to, or bore ill-will to the world, shut up in those books, filled with supernatural lights and shadows. In reading them, he exhausted many hours a week--even holy days and nights. But through the holy nights there sat at his feet his pupil and favourite, Reb Moshe, the melamed, who snuffed the yellow candle, for a pious man reading Holy Books during holy nights was not permitted to snuff the candle, and he must have beside him some attentive person to perform this office. During the holy nights the Rabbi read Schiur-Koma and Zohar, and the little man, sitting beside him, raised himself from time to time in his low chair, reviving the flame of the dying candle, and with his round eyes looking into the face of his master, waiting for the moment when his hand would arrange a word from the names of God, Notarikon and Gomatria, which would perform great miracles, and disclose to the people all the secrets of the heavens and of the earth. Returning home after sunset one day with a big bunch of herbs, Isaak Todros found his faithful worshipper seated in a corner of the dark hall, plunged in deep thought. "Moshe," said the Rabbi, passing swiftly and quietly through the hall. "What is your order, Nassi?" humbly asked Moshe. "Go at once to old Saul, and tell him that Rabbi Isaak Todros will visit his house to-morrow." The cramped, gray figure in the dark corner jumped as though moved by a spring, and rushed across the square to the house of Saul. Passing quickly the piazza and long hall, the melamed opened the door, and, thrusting his head into the room, he exclaimed triumphantly: "Reb Saul, a great honour and happiness is coming to you! Rabbi Isaak Todros, the perfect pious, and the first scholar in the world, will visit your house to-morrow!" From the depths of the large parlour the voice of the old merchant, dried by age, but still strong, answered: "I, Saul Ezofowich, my children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren will await Rabbi Isaak's visit with great joy and great desire in our hearts. May he live a hundred years!" "May he live a hundred years!" repeated the dark figure, and disappeared. The door was closed. Old Saul was sitting on the sofa, reading from Zohar, but he could not understand its deep explanations in spite of the utmost mental strain, for his mind was accustomed to secular business affairs. Suddenly his wrinkled forehead became gloomy and uneasiness shone in his eyes. He turned to his elder son, Raphael, who sat at a table near by, balancing his books, and asked: "Why is he coming here?" Raphael shrugged his shoulders, as a sign that he did not know. "Has he any reason for picking a quarrel?" asked the old man again. Raphael, raising his face from his books, said: "He has." Saul shivered. "Nu!" he exclaimed, "And what reason can he have? Has someone of the family sinned?" Raphael answered shortly: "Meir." The faces of both father and son grew sad and disquieted. Isaak Todros visited the members of the sect very seldom--only when there was a question of some important religious matter or transgression of rules. And even such rare calls were only paid to the most prominent and influential members of the community. Poor people surrounded the Rabbi's cabin, ready to rush in at a sign from him in inexpressible joy or fear. Rabbi Isaak Todros was an ascetic and he despised mammon, but he did not reject all possible signs of respect the people desired to show him, and they who were familiar with his thoughts and sentiments knew that he was very fond of these signs, and would even demand them imperiously in case anyone thought to dispense with or diminish them. For that reason all the poor population, and everyone who wished to win his special favour, called him "Prince," addressing him as "Nassi." Therefore his passage through the town on all occasions was an important and curious event for the population, and was performed with quiet, dignified ceremony. A couple of hours before noon Saul Ezofowich, standing before the window of his parlour, looked with a certain amount of trouble at the retinue passing slowly across the square. All the members of his family, robed in holiday dresses, with a solemn expression on their faces, looked also, holding themselves in readiness to welcome this high dignitary of the community at the threshold of their residence. Through the square, from the school, a throng of people dressed in black advanced toward the house of the Ezofowich. In the middle, bent as always, in shabby clothes, with his rough shirt unbuttoned showing the yellow neck, marched Isaak Todros, with his usual swift, noiseless quiet pace. On either side was an official of the Kahal--the small, lithe Reb Jankiel, with his white, freckled face and fiery red beard, and David Calman, one of the dignitaries of the town. Morejne, a rich cattle merchant, tall, stiff, and dignified, with hands in the pockets of his satin halat and a sweet smile of satisfaction on his fat lips, walked near. Behind these three people, and on both sides, were several others more or less humble and smiling. The whole crowd was preceded by Reb Moshe, in such a way that he faced the Rabbi and had his back in the direction in which they walked. Consequently he could not be said to walk, but draw back, in the meantime jumping and clapping his hands, bending low to the ground, stumbling, and jumping again, raising his face to the sky and shouting for joy. Finally, a certain distance behind, a throng of children followed them and looked with great curiosity at the retinue, and on seeing the melamed's jumping and dancing, they began to imitate him, jumping and gesticulating also and filling the air with wild noise. After a while the door of the Ezofowich house was violently opened and through it rushed the melamed--he was red, out of breath, bathed in perspiration and beaming with great joy. He rejoiced heartily, loudly, passionately. What for? Poor melamed! "Reb Saul!" he said with a hoarse voice, "meet the great happiness the great honour coming to you." From Saul's face it would be seen that a secret fear was fighting with the great joy within him. But his family evidently rejoiced exceedingly, for their faces beamed with pride and satisfaction except Ber, who was always silent and apathetic if the question was not one of business and money. Old Saul stood near the threshold of the parlour. On the piazza Rob Jankiel and Morejne Calman seized the Rabbi under either arm, lifted his thin body above the ground, and having carried him through the hall and over the threshold they placed him opposite Saul. Then they bowed profoundly, left the house, sat on the piazza waiting for the moment to reconduct the Rabbi. In the meanwhile Saul bent before the guest his grave and reverent head. Everyone present followed his example. "He who greets a sage greets the Eternal," said he. "He who greets a sage . . ." the choir of male and female voices began to repeat after Saul, but at that moment Isaak Todros raised his index finger, looked around with his fiery eyes, and said: "Sh-a-a-a!" In the room there was the silence of the tomb. The finger of the guest made a large circle, taking in the row of people standing near the wall. "Weg!" (get out) shouted he. Within the room the rustling of dresses and the sound of swift steps were heard; faces grew frightened and sorrowful, and crowding together the inmates squeezed through the door leading to the interior of the house, and disappeared. In the larger room only two men remained--the silver-haired, broad-shouldered patriarch, and the thin, fiery-looking sage. When the Rabbi imperatively drove out his host's family--the gray-headed sons, dignified matrons, and beautiful girls, Saul's gray eyebrows quivered and bristled for a moment. Evidently his pride rose within him. "Rabbi," said he, in a muffled voice, and with a bow that was not as low as the first one, "deign to take under my roof the place you think the most comfortable." He did not call his guest "prince"; he did not give him the name of Nassi. Rabbi Isaak looked t him gloomily, crossed the room, and sat on the sofa. At that moment he was not bent; on the contrary, he sat bolt upright, looking sharply into the face of the old man who sat opposite to him. "I have driven them out," said he, pointing to the door through which the patriarch's family had made their exit. "Why did you gather them? I wished to talk with you alone." Saul was silent. "I bring you news," again said the Rabbi quickly and gloomily. "Your grandson Meir has not a clean soul. He is a kofrim (infidel)." Saul still sat silent, only his frowning brows quivered nervously above his faded eyes. "He is a kofrim!" the Rabbi repeated loudly. "He speaks ugly words of our religion, and he does not respect the sages. He violates the Sabbath, and is friendly with the heretics." "Rabbi!" began Saul. "You must listen when I speak," interrupted the Rabbi. The old man tightened his lips so that they disappeared under his gray moustache. "I came to tell you," continued Todros, "that it's your fault that your grandson is bad. Why did you not permit the melamed to whip him when he was in the heder, and did not want to study German, and laughed at the melamed, and instigated the others to laugh at him? Why did you send him to Edomita, living there among the gardens to make him study the reading of the Gojs and also their writing and the other abominations of the Edomites? Why did you not punish him when he violated the Sabbath, and contradicted the melamed at your table? Why did you spoil his soul with your sinful love? Why don't you force him to study holy science? And why do you look on all his abominations as though you were a blind man?" This vehement speech tired the Rabbi, and panting, he rested. Then old Saul began to talk: "Rabbi, your soul must not be angry with me. I could not act otherwise. This child is the son of my son--the youngest among my children, and who disappeared very quickly from my eyes. When his parents died I took this child to my home, and I wished that he might never remember that he was an orphan. I was then already a widower, and I carried him in my own arms. His old great-grandmother took care of him also, and she would give her soul for the happiness of his soul. In her crown he is the first jewel, and now her old mouth opens only for him. These are, Rabbi, the reasons why I have been more indulgent with him than with my other children; these are the reasons why my soul was ill when the melamed scolded and whipped him in the heder, as the other children. I sinned then. I rushed into the heder like a madman, spoke ugly words to the melamed, and took the boy away with me. Rabbi, I sinned, because the melamed is a wise and saintly man; but this sin will disappear from your mind, Rabbi, if you will but think that I could not bear to look at the bruises on the body of the son of my son. When such bruises appeared on the bodies of the children of my son Raphael, and my son Abraham, and my son Ephraim, I was silent, for their fathers were living--thanks be to God!--and could look after their children. But when I saw the black-and-blue marks on the back and shoulders of the orphan, Rabbi, then I cried--then I shouted, and I sinned." "That is not your only sin," said the Rabbi, who listened to Saul's speech with the motionless severity of a judge, "and why did you send him to Edomit?" "Rabbi," answered Saul, "and how could he go through the world if he did not understand the tongue of the people of this country, and could not write his name to a contract or a note? Rabbi, my sons and grandsons conduct large business transactions, and he will do the same when he is married. His father's wealth belongs to him. He will be rich and will have to talk with great lords, and how could he so talk if I had not sent him to study with an Edomit?" "May Edom perish with his abominable learning, and may the Lord not forgive him!" grumbled the Rabbi, and after a while he added: "and why did you not make of him a scholar instead of a merchant?" "Rabbi," answered Saul, "the Ezofowich family is a family of merchants. We are merchants from father to son--that is our custom." Saying this, he raised his bent head. The mention of his family caused him to grow proud and bold. But nothing could be compared with the disdain with which, repeating after Saul, the Rabbi hissed: "The Ezofowich family! It was always a grain of pepper in Israel's palate!" Saul raised his head higher. "Rabbi!" he exclaimed, "in that family there were diamonds which caused the Edomites themselves, in looking on them, to respect the whole of Israel." The ancient hatred between the Ezofowichs and Todros began to bubble up. "In your family," spoke the Rabbi, "there is one ugly soul which passes from one Ezofowich to another, and cannot be cleansed. For it is written that all souls which flow from the Seraphim flow like drops of water from an inclined bottle, carrying Ibur-Gilgul--travel through bodies, from one to another, until they are cleansed from all sin, when they return to the Seraphim. If a man is pious and saintly his soul returns to the Seraphim, and when the soul returns there another soul goes into the world and enters a body. Misery and sadness, sorrow and sin will dwell upon the earth as long as all souls taken from the Seraphim have not fulfilled the Ibur-Gilgul and pass through the bodies. And how will they be able to pass all the bodies if on the earth there are many which are abominable, unclean, and do not respect the holy teachings? These unwholesome ones keep the souls in their bodies, and there above the other souls are waiting. And they must wait, because there are not as many bodies in the world as there are souls among the Seraphim. And the Messiah himself is waiting, because he will not come until the last soul enters the body and Ibur-Gilgul begins. These abominable ones, occupying one body after another, do not permit the waiting souls to enter in, and postponing to a remote period the Jobelha-Gabel, the day of the Messiah,--the great festival of joy! In your family there is such an abominable soul. It entered first into the body of Michael the Senior, then it entered Hersh's body, and now it sits in the body of your grandson Meir! I recognised the proud and rebellious soul in his eyes and face, therefore my heart turned from him!" While Todros explained to the old man sitting opposite him this doctrine of the migration of souls, and its consequences, in the old man a striking change took placer Before he had grown bolder, and even raised his head with a certain pride and dignity. Now he bent it low, and sorrow and fear appeared among the wrinkles of his face. "Rabbi!" said he humbly, "be blessed for having disclosed to my eyes your holy learning. Your words are true and your eyes can recognise the souls which dwell in bodies. Rabbi, I will tell you something. When my son Raphael brought little Meir, I took the child and began to kiss him, for it seemed to me that he looked like my son Benjamin, his father; but the old great-grandmother took him from me, put him opposite her on the floor and began to look at him very attentively, and then she exclaimed: 'He does not look like Benjamin, but like my Hersh!' The tears flowed from her old eyes and her lips repeated: 'Hersh, Hersh! my Hersh!' and she pressed the child to her boom and said: 'He is my dearest Kleineskind! He is the eyes of my head and the diamond in my crown, made for me by my grandsons and great-grandson, for he looks like my Hersh.' And she is fond of him. Now she knows only him and calls him to her because he looks like her husband, Hersh." "Michael's soul entered Hersh's body, and from his body it passed into your grandsons Meir's," repeated the Rabbi, and added: "It's a proud rebellious soul! There is no peace and humility in it." It seemed that Todros was softened by Saul's submissiveness, and the respect shown in his words. "Why don't you marry him? He has already long hair on his face," said the Rabbi. "Rabbi, I wished to marry him to the daughter of the pious Jankiel, but the child lay at my feet and begged me not to force him." "Why then did you not put your feet on his back, and make him obey you?" Saul dropped his eyes and was silent. He felt that he was guilty. Love for the orphan made him sin always. Todros spoke further: "Marry him as soon as you can, because it is written that when on a young man's face the hair is growing, and he has not a wife, then he will fall into uncleanliness. Your grandson's soul has already fallen into uncleanliness. Yesterday I saw him with a girl--" Saul raised his eyes. "I saw him," continued the Rabbi, "talking with Karaim's girl." "Karaim's girl?" repeated Saul, in a voice full of surprise and fright. "He was standing on the edge of the pond and took from her hand some flowers, and I read in their faces that the unclean fire was embracing them." "With Karaim's girl," repeated Saul once more. "With a heretic!" said the Rabbi. "With a beggar!" said Saul energetically, raising his head. "Rabbi," continued he, "now I will act differently with him! I don't wish to have shame eat up my eyes in my old age, because my grandson has an unclean friendship with a beggar. I shall marry him!" "You must punish him," said the Rabbi, "I came here to tell you to put your foot on his neck and bend his pride. Don't spare him, for your indulgence will be a sin which the Lord will not forgive you. And if you will not punish him, I will lay my hand on his head and there will be great shame for you, and for him such misfortune that he will grovel in the dirt, like a miserable worm!" Under the influence of these words, pronounced in a threatening voice, Saul trembled. Different emotions fought continually within the old man; a secret hatred for Todros and a great respect for his learning, pride and fear, fierce anger toward his grandson and tender love for him. The Rabbi's threat touched that last chord. "Rabbi," he said, "forgive him. He is still a mere child. When he is married and starts in business he will be different. When he was born his father wrote to me: 'Father, what name do you wish your grandson to be given?' and I answered, 'Give him the name of Meir, which means light, that it may be a light before me and all Israel!'" Here emotion choked his voice and he was silent. Two tears rolled slowly down his cheeks. The Rabbi rose from the sofa, lifted his index finger and said: "You must remember my commands. I order you to set your foot on his neck, and you must listen to my orders, because it is written that 'the sages are the world's foundation.'" Having said this, he advanced toward the door, at which Reb Jankiel and Morejne Calman seized him again, and carried him through the hall and across the threshold and set him on the ground. And again the black throng of people advanced through the square toward the school-yard; again the melamed, retreating before the Rabbi, jumped, clapped his hands, danced and shouted; and again the crowd of children, following the retinue at a distance, imitated their teacher, jumping, howling, Clapping their hands. And in Ezofowich's parlour old Saul sat with his face covered with his hands, while at the opposite door Freida appeared. The sun rays, falling through the window, kindled into rainbow colours the diamonds with which she was covered. She looked around the room with her half-closed eyes, and pronounced, in her customary soundless whisper: "Wo ist Meir?" CHAPTER VI Meir was absent during the Rabbi's visit. He left the house early in the morning and went in the direction of the poorest quarter of the town. The houses there were very small and very low and exceedingly dismal, none of them having more than two windows. In front of the houses were evil-smelling sloughs. From the black chimneys of the tenements arose thin streaks of smoke, indicating by their thinness the scarcity of fuel, and the food cooked by it. Fences, rotten and tumble-down, surrounded the small courtyards, which were covered with sweepings. Here and there could be seen in the rear of the houses, tiny tracts of land with meagre vegetables growing in them. At the low doors, miserable looking women with dark sickly faces, wearing blue caftans and carroty wigs, washed their gray, coarse linen in buckets. The old and bent women sat on the benches, knitting blue or black wool stockings, while young sunburned girls, in dirty dresses and dishevelled hair, milked the goats. It was the quarter of the town inhabited by the poorest population of Szybow, the nursery of poverty--even of misery, dirt, and disease. The houses of the Ezofowichs, Calmans, Witebskis and Kamionkers, standing at the square, were luxurious palaces when compared with those human dwellings, the mere exterior aspect of which made one think of earthly purgatory. And no wonder. There, on the square, lived merchants and learned men, the aristocracy of every Jewish community; here lived the population of working men and tradesmen--the plebeians earning their daily bread with their hands and not with brains. In spite of the fact that it was yet early morning, the daily work had generally begun. From behind the dirty windows could be seen the rising and falling arms of the tailors and cobblers. Through the thin walls resounded the tools of tinsmiths and the hammers of blacksmiths, and from the houses of the manufacturers of tallow candles rose unbearable, greasy exhalations. Some of the inhabitants, taking advantage of the sunrise, looked into the street, opened their windows and a passer-by could see the interior of, the small rooms with black walls, crowded with occupants which swarmed like ants. Through the windows came the mixed noise of singing and praying in male voices, the quarrelling of women and the screaming of children. All the smaller children rent the sultry air of the black, crowded rooms with their cries, while the older ones trooped out into the street in great crowds, chasing each other noisily or rolling on the ground. Growing boys, dressed not in sleeveless jackets like the children, but in long, grey halats, stood on the thresholds of the huts leaning against the walls, pale, thin, drowsy, with widely opened mouths, as though they wished to breathe into their sickly, cold breasts the warm rays of the sun and the fresh breeze of the morning. Meir approached one of these youths. "Nu, Lejbele," said he, "I have come to see you. Are you always sick and looking like an owl?" It was evident that Lejbele was ill and moping, for, with hands folded in the sleeves of his miserable halat, and pressed to his chest, he was shivering with cold, although the morning was warm; he did not answer Meir, but opened his mouth and great, dull, dark eyes more widely, and looked idiotically at the young man. Meir laid his band on the boy's head. "Were you in the heder yesterday?" he asked. The boy began to tremble still more, and answered in a hoarse voice: "Aha." This meant an affirmative. "Were you beaten again?" Tears filled the boy's dark eyes, which remained raised to the face of the tall young man. "They beat me," he said. His breast began to heave with sobs under the sleeves of the halat, which were still pressed by the boy's folded bands. "Have you breakfasted?" The boy shook his head in the negative. Meir took from the nearest huckster's stand a big hala (loaf of bread), for which he threw a copper coin to the old woman. He then gave the bread to the child. Lejbele seized it in both bands, and began to devour it rapaciously. At that moment a tall, thin, lithe man rushed out from the cabin. He wore a black beard, and bad an old, sorrowful face. He threw himself toward Meir. First be seized his band and raised it to his lips, and then began to reproach him. "Morejne!" he exclaimed, "why did you give him that hala? He is a stupid, nasty child. He don't want to study, and brings shame upon me. The melamed--may he live a hundred years--takes a great deal of trouble to teach him; but he has a head which does not understand anything. The melamed beats him, and I beat him, too, in order that the learning shall enter his head, but it does not help at all. He is an alejdyc gejer (lazy)--a donkey!" Meir looked at the boy, who was still devouring the bread. "Schmul," said he, "he is neither lazy nor a donkey, but he is sick." Schmul waved his hand contemptuously. "He is sick," shouted he. "He began to be sick when he was told to study. Before that he was healthy, gay, and intelligent. Ah, what an intelligent and pretty child he was! Could I expect such a misfortune? What is he now?" Meir continued to smooth the dishevelled hair of the pale child with his hand. The tall, thin Schmul bent again and kissed his hand. "Morejne," said he, "you are very good if you pity such a stupid child." "Schmul, why do you call me Morejne?" asked Meir. Schmul interrupted him hastily. "The fathers of your father were Morejnes; your zeide and your uncles are Morejnes, and you, Meir, you will soon be Morejne also." Meir shook his head with a peculiar smile. "I shall never be a Morejne!" said he. "They will not confer such an honour upon me, and I--don't wish for it!" Schmul thought for a while, and then said: "I heard that you have quarrelled with the great Rabbi and the members of the kahal." Meir, without answering, looked at the horrible proofs of deep destitution around him. "How poor you are," said he, not answering Schmul directly. These words touched the very sensitive string of Schmul's life. His hands trembled, and his eyes glared. "Aj, how poor we are," he moaned; "but the poorest of all living on this street is the hajet (tailor) Schmul. He must support an old, blind mother, and wife, and eight children. And how can I support them? I have no means except these two hands, which sew day and night if there is something to sew." Speaking thus, he stretched toward Meir his two hands--true beggar's hands, dark, dirty, pricked with the needle, covered with scars made by scissors, and now trembling from grief. "Morejne," he said more softly, bending toward the listener, "our life is hard--very hard. Everything is very expensive for us, and we have so much to pay. The Czar's officers take taxes, we must pay more for our kosher meat, and for the candles for Sabbath, we must pay to the funeral society, pay to the officers of the kahal, and for what do we not pay? Aj, vaj! From these poor houses flow rivers of money--and where does it come from? From the sweat of our brows, from our blood and the entrails of our children who grow thin from hunger! Not a long time ago you asked me, Morejne, why my room was dirty. And how can we help it when eleven of us must live in one room, and in the passages there are two goats, which nourish us with their milk. Morejne, you asked me why my wife is so thin and old, although she has not yet lived many years, and why my children are always sick! Morejne, kosher meat costs us so much that we never eat it. We eat bread with onion, and we drink goat's-milk. On Sabbath we have fish only when you, Morejne, come to see us and leave us a silver coin. All in this street are poor--very poor, but the poorest is hajet Schmul, with his blind mother, thin wife and eight children." He shook his head piteously and looked into Meir's face with his dark eyes which expressed stupefied astonishment at his own misery. Meir, with his hand still on the head of the sickly child, who was finishing his bread, listened to the speech of the miserable fellow. His mouth expressed pity, but the frowning brows and drooped eyelids gave to his face the expression of angry reverie. "Schmul," he said, "and why are you so often out of work?" Schmul became plainly confused, and raised his hand to his head, disarranging his skull cap which covered his long dishevelled hair. "I will tell you," continued Meir; "they don't give you work because from the stuff which they give you to make dresses you cut large pieces and keep them." Schmul seized his skull cap in both hands. "My poor head," he groaned. "Morejne, what have you told me? Your mouth said a very ugly thing against me." He jumped, bent nearly to the ground, and then jumped again. "Nu, it's true, Morejne, I will open my heart to you I used to cut off and keep pieces of the stuff, and why did I do it? Because my children were naked. I clothed them with it. And when my blind mother was sick I sold it and bought a piece of meat for her. Morejne, your eye must not look angrily on me! Were I as rich as Reb Jankiel and Morejne Calman--had I as much money as they make from the work of our hands and the sweat of our brows, I would not steal!" "And for what are Reb Jankiel and Morejne Calman taking your money?" began Meir thoughtfully, and he wished to continue, but Schmul stretched himself and interrupted suddenly: "Nu, they have a right to it. They are elders over us. What they do is sacred. When one listens to them it is as if one listened to God himself." Meir smiled sadly and put his band into his pocket. Schmul followed the movement with his eyes, which were animated with cupidity. Meir placed on the open window a few silver coins. Schmul seized his hand and began to kiss it. "Morejne, you are good. You always help poor people. You pity my stupid child." When the enthusiasm of his gratitude had cooled a little, he stretched himself and began to whisper in Meir's ear. "Morejne, you are good and generous and the grandson of a very rich man, and I am a poor and stupid hajet, but you are as honey in my mouth, and I must open my heart to you. You are wrong in quarrelling with our great Rabbi and with the members of the kahal. Our Rabbi is a great Rabbi and there is no other like him in the whole world. God revealed to him great things. He alone understands the Kabala Mashjat (the highest part of the Kabala, teaching how, by a combination of letters and words, miracles are performed and the mysteries penetrated). All the birds fly after him when he calls them. He knows how to cure all human diseases and all human hearts open to him. Every breath of his mouth is holy, and when he prays then his soul kisses God himself. And you, Morejne, you have turned away your heart from him." Thus gravely spoke poor Schmul, raising in solemn gesture his black, needle-pricked index finger. "And the members of the kahal," continued he, "they are very pious men and very rich. One should respect them and listen to them also, and even close one's eyes if they do something wrong. They could accuse one before God and the people. God will be angry if he hears their complaint, and will punish you, and the people will say that you are very bold, and will turn away their faces from you." It would be difficult to guess the impression made on Meir by Schmul's humble and at the same time grave, warning. He continually kept his hand on little Lejbele's head, and looked into the beautiful fine-featured face of the pale, sick, idiotic and trembling child, where he saw the personification of that portion of Israel, which, devoured by misery and disease, nevertheless believed blindly and worshipped humbly, timidly, and everlastingly. Then he gave Schmul a slow and friendly nod, and went away. Schmul followed him several steps. "Morejne," he moaned, "don't be angry with me for having opened my heart to you. Be wise. May the learned and rich not complain of you to God, for the man who is under the ground is better off than he on whom they shall turn their angry hands." Then he returned to his hut, and did not notice that Lejbele was not standing at the wall of the house. When Meir departed, the pale child followed him. With hands still muffled in the sleeves of his ragged gown, and with wide opened mouth, the child of Schmul the tailor followed the tall, beautiful man. At the end of the street only, as a being afraid to go further, the poor boy said, in a hoarse, guttural voice: "Morejne!" Meir looked back. A friendly smile brightened his face when he saw the boy. The dark, dull eyes of the child were raised to his face, and from the gray sleeve a small, thin hand was stretched toward him. "Hala," said Lejbele. Meir looked around for a huckster's stand. Along the street stood several miserable barrows, by which the women, their thin bodies scantily clad in rags, were selling loaves of bread, hard as stone, and some heads of onion, as well as a black, unappetising preparation made of honey and poppy-seed. From Meir's white hand to the dark, thin hand of the child again passed a big hala. Lejbele raised it to his mouth with both hands, and, turning, he walked slowly and gravely down the middle of the street toward his home. After a while Meir reached the square of the town. It seemed to him that he came back to the light of day from a dark cavern. The sunlight flooded everything around, dried the mud, and kindled golden sparks in the windows of the houses. In the yard of the pious. Reb Jankiel, some large, new structure was being erected. The red-haired owner inspected the workmen personally, evidently satisfied with the increase of his wealth. The noise of axes and the gnashing of the saws filled the air, and in front of the low inn stood a couple of carriages belonging to passing guests. Further along the street stood Morejne Calman in the piazza of his house, shining in his satin halat. With one hand he held to his smiling mouth a cigar, and with the other he caressed the golden hair of a two-year-old child, who sat on a bench holding a loaf of bread abundantly spread with honey, which he had smeared all over his plump face, casting the while admiring glances at his magnificent father. In the court-yard of the Ezofowich mansion there was plenty of noise, sunlight, and gaiety. In the centre two broad-shouldered workmen were sawing wood for the winter, and in the soft sawdust several cleanly-dressed children were playing. At the well a buxom and merry servant girl was drawing water, joking with the workmen, and through the open windows of the house could be seen Raphael's and Abraham's grave heads--they were talking over business affairs with great animation--and Sarah, standing by the fireplace, and pretty Lija, who stood before a mirror smoothing her luxuriant tresses. When Meir entered the gate, the workmen stopped sawing, and smiled and nodded to him. They came from the same poor, dirty street he had just left, and evidently knew him very well. "Scholem Alejhem!" (peace to you) they exclaimed. "Alejhem & Scholem!" answered Meir, merrily. "Will you not help us to-day?" asked one of the workmen jokingly. "Why not?" answered Meir, approaching them. Meir was fond of physical work. He practised it very often, and his grandfather's workmen were accustomed to it. One of them was about to give him his place at the log of wood, but at that moment. Lija appeared in the open window. She was just finishing braiding her hair, and said. "Meir! Meir! where have you been so long? Zeide wishes to see you." Hardly a quarter of an hour had passed since the Rabbi's visit. Saul still sat with his head between his hands, lost in half angry and half sad musing. A few steps from him sat Freida, bathed in golden sunlight and sparkling with diamonds. A very complicated process was going on in Saul's old breast. He disliked Isaak Todros. Without having deeply understood the real meaning of the action and position of either his ancestor Michael, or his father Hersh, he knew that they had great influence among their "own people," and enjoyed the general esteem of the mighty, although 'stranger' people. Therefore he was proud of these reminiscences of his family, and the knowledge of the wrong done to these two stars of his family by ancestors of Isaak Todros excited toward the latter a mute and not very well-defined dislike. Besides this, being rich, and proud of so being, he resented the misery and--as he said at the bottom of his soul--the sluttishness of the Todros. But all this was as nothing compared with the respect felt for the holy, wise, and deeply-learned man, who was the representative of all that was holiest, wisest, and most learned. Saul himself read with great zeal the holy books, but he could not become familiar with them, because for a long time his brain had been occupied with quite different matters. He read them, but understood very little of their obscure and secret sense, and the less he understood the more he respected them, and the deeper was his humility and dread. And now that dread and humility stood opposed to the true, tender love for his grandson, and he struggled between them. "What profit can he draw from it?" thought Saul, and he met his grandson with angry looks. Meir entered the parlour timidly. He already knew of the Rabbi's visit, and he guessed at the aim of it; he was afraid of his grandfather's anger and grief. "Nu," said the old man, "come nearer. I am going to tell you beautiful things, at which you will rejoice greatly." And when Meir had come to within a couple of steps from him, Saul looked at him sharply from beneath his bushy eyebrows, and said: "I am going to betroth you, and in two months you must be married." Meir grew pale, but was silent. "I am going to betroth you to Jankiel Kamionker's daughter." After these words there was quite a long silence, which Meir at last interrupted. "Zeide," said he, in a low but determined voice, "I am not going to marry Kamionker's daughter." "Why?" asked Saul, smothering his anger. "Because, zeide," growing bolder and bolder, "Kamionker is a bad and unjust man, and I don't wish to have anything to do with him!" Then Saul's anger burst out. He reproached his grandson for the audacity of this judgment, and praised Rob Jankiel's piety. "Zeide," interrupted Meir, "he wrongs the poor!" "Is that any of your business?" exclaimed the grandfather. This time the young man's eyes shone warmly. "Zeide," he said, "he pockets a great deal of the money produced by the sweat and work of these miserable people who live at the other end of the town, and through him they are thieves. While their children are naked, Reb Jankiel builds new houses! In the dram-shops and distilleries which he rents from the nobility be carries on evil acts. His dram-shop keepers make the peasants drunk, and cheat them, and his distilleries produce more vodka than is permitted by the Government. Zeide, you must not look at the way he prays, but the way he acts, for it is written: 'I do not need prayers, nor your sacrifices! The one who wrongs the poor man wrongs the Creator Himself!'" Saul was very angry, but his grandson's quotation mollified him, for he very much desired to see him a scholar, and expert in the knowledge of the holy books. "Well," muttered he angrily, but without vehemence, "it does not matter that Jankiel makes the peasants drunk, and that he produces more vodka than the law permits. You don't know yet that business is business! When you are married to Reb Jankiel's daughter, and go into partnership with him, you will do the same." "Zeide," answered Meir quickly, "I shall neither produce nor sell vodka. I have no inclination for it." "And what are you going to do--" He did not finish, for Meir bent forward and seized his knees with his hands, and pressing his lips to them, he began to talk. "Zeide, let me go hence! Let me go into the broad world! I will study! I wish to study, and here my eyes wander in darkness. Two years ago I made the same request, but you became angry, and ordered me to remain. I remained, zeide, because I respect you, and your commands are sacred to me. But now, zeide, let me go hence! If I go into the world with your permission and blessing, I shall become a learned man. I shall come back here and take my stand against the great Rabbi, and I shall know how to show him that he is a small man. Now--" Saul did not permit him to speak further. "Sha-a-a!" he exclaimed. He was seized with fear at the mere mention of a strife between his grandson and the great Rabbi. But Meir drew himself up, and with fire in his face and tears on his eyelashes, he spoke again: "Zeide, remember the history of Rabbi Eliezer. When he was young his father did not let him go into the world. He ploughed the field, and looked into the dark forest which hid him from the world, and curiosity and longing ate into his heart as now they are eating into mine. He could not stand that yearning, and he escaped. He went to Jerusalem, to a great, world-famed scholar, and said to him: 'Let me be your pupil, and you shall be my master!' And it was as he said. And when, several years after, his father Hyrkanos came to Jerusalem, he saw there on the square a beautiful youth, who talked with the people, and the people listened to him, and their souls melted like wax before the great sweetness of his words, and all heads bent low before the youth and shouted: 'Behold our master!' Hyrkanos wondered much at the wise words of the man who stood on the heights, and at the great love which all the people bore him. And he asked of the man who stood beside him: 'What is the name of the youth who stands on the heights, and where does his father live? for I wish to bow before him, whose entrails have brought into the world such a son.' And the man whom he questioned made answer: 'That youth's name is Eliezer, a star over Israel's head, and his father's name is Hyrkanos.' When Hyrkanos heard this he shouted with a great voice, rushed toward the youth, and opened his arms. And then there was ecstatic joy in the hearts of both father and son, and the whole nation bowed before Hyrkanos, because his entrails brought into the world such a son." Saul listened attentively to the story, half gloomy and half joyful. He cherished the traditions of his nation, and was delighted to listen to them, especially when they were spoken by the mouth of his much-loved grandson. He did not hesitate, however, in his answer. He half closed his eyes and began: "If in Jerusalem there was to-day teaching such a famous learned man of Israel, I would send you to him at once, but the avenging hand of the Lord is laid on Jerusalem--she is no longer ours. When the day of the great Messiah shall come, she will again be ours. It is pleasant and sweet for a son of Israel to die there, but there is no one there to teach him. And I shall not send you into a foreign world to learn strange sciences. They are useless to an Israelite. From Edomit you have already learned as much as it is necessary for you to transact business in the foreign world, and even for that the great Rabbi has reproached me. And his reproaches are a shame and a sorrow, for, although the Rabbi is a wise man, my soul suffers when he comes to my house to scold me like the melamed scolds the little children in the heder." Speaking thus, the old man became morose, and looked gloomily on the ground. Meir stood before him as though petrified, but in his eyes, looking into space, there was reflected a bottomless precipice of sad and rebellious sentiments. "Zeide," he said finally, half in prayer and half abruptly, "then permit me to be an artisan. I will live in the same street with the poor. I will work with them and guard their souls from sin, And when they ask me something I will always answer them 'Yes' or 'No' When they lack bread I will divide with them all the bread I have in my house!" Again his face burned and the tears shone on his eyelids. But Saul looked at him in the intensest amazement, and after a while he said: "When you are two or three years older you will see how stupid you are in telling me such things. There has been no artisan in the Ezofowich family and, please God, there never shall be. We are merchants, from father to son; we have enough money, and each generation brings more. You shall be a merchant also, because every Ezofowich must be one." The last words he spoke in an imperative voice, but after a while he continued a little more softly: "I want to show you my favour. If you do not wish to marry Reb Jankiel's daughter, I will permit you not to marry her. But I shall betroth you to the daughter of Eli Witebski, the great merchant. You are longing for learning--flu! I am going to give you a very well educated wife. Her parents keep her in a boarding school at Wilno; she speaks French and plays the piano. Nu! if you are so difficult to please, that girl ought to suit you. She is sixteen years old. Her father will give her a big dowry, and immediately after the wedding will make you his partner." From the expression of Meir's face it could be seen that his blood was boiling. "I don't know Witebski's daughter. I never saw her," said he gloomily. "Why do you need to know her?" exclaimed Saul; "I give her to you! In a month she will be back from Wilno and in two months you will be married! That is what I am telling you, and you, be silent and obey my commands. Up to the present I have given you too much liberty, but from now on it will be different. Isaak Todros told me to set my foot on your neck." A flush appeared on Meir's pale face and his eyes flashed. "Rabbi Isaak may put his feet on the necks of those who, like dogs, lick his feet!" he exclaimed. "I am an Israelite, as he is. I am no one's slave, I." The words died on his quivering lips, for old Saul stood before him, drawn up to his full height, powerful, inflamed with anger, and raised his hand to strike him. But at that moment between the old man's thin hand and the burning face of the younger man, appeared a small hand, dried, wrinkled, trembling with old age, separating them. It was the hand of Freida, who was present during the whole conversation between the grandfather and grandson, and had seemed to doze in the sun and not hear anything. But when the room resounded with Meir's passionate exclamation, and Saul had risen, angry and threatening, she rose also, and silently advanced a few steps, until with her poor old hand she shielded her great-grandson. Saul's hand dropped. Having exclaimed to Meir in an already softened voice, "Weg!" (Get out) he fell into a chair, panting deeply. The great-grandmother again sat down by the window in the sunlight. Meir left the room. He went out with bent head and a gloomy expression on his face. At that moment he felt all the impotency of youth against age, influence, and authority. He felt that the fetters of the patriarchial organisation of his family were growing heavy on him. And the mere thought of that small, thin, trembling woman's hand, which had shielded him from a rough act of force, caused a touching smile of tenderness to appear on his lips. It was also a smile of hope. "If I could only get that writing," he said to himself, passing his hand over his forehead. He was thinking of the writing of Michael the Senior, of which the old great-grandmother alone knew the whereabouts. He thought also that if he could only find it he would know what to say and how to act. In the meantime Saul sat for a long time, breathing heavily from weariness, and sighing from grief. He looked several times at his mother and smiled. The intervention of this silent, continually dozing, hundred-year-old-woman for her great-grandson, seemed strange to him, and perhaps in the bottom of his heart he was grateful to her for not permitting him to wrong his orphan grandson in a moment of anger. After a while he called: "Raphael." The call was answered by a dignified dark-eyed man, already growing gray--his oldest son. After Saul he was the oldest of the family. He himself had grown-up grandchildren and was doing a very large business. On hearing his father call him he left his office and came to him immediately. "Do you know if Eli Witebski is home?" asked Saul. "Yes, he returned home yesterday," answered his son. "Someone must go there at once and tell him that I wish to see him, and talk with him about an important matter." "I will go myself," said Raphael; "I know about what you are going to talk with Witebski. You have an excellent idea, and it must be executed immediately. Meir may go astray if he is not married soon." Saul's eyes searched his son's face inquiringly. "Raphael, do you think he will change when he is married?" Raphael nodded his head affirmatively. "Father," said he, "remember Ber. He was on the same road which Meir is travelling, but then he married Sarah, and you, father, took him into partnership and when the children began to come, one after another, all these stupid ideas left his head." "Go! Call Witebski to me," concluded Saul. Raphael left the room, and was soon walking in the direction of the house which stood at the corner of the two largest streets. On the piazza sat a plump woman in a silk gown, and a mantilla buckled with a gold brooch. On her ears were long earrings, and a carefully-combed wig was on her head. She was about forty, and looked fresh and healthy. Her mouth wore a smile of satisfaction and pride, and in her hands she held some fancy embroidery. When Raphael ascended the stairs she rose, and with the most exquisite bow ever made in Szybow, she extended her hand in welcome to the guest. Except Pani (Mrs.) Hannah Witebska, there was not another woman in Szybow who shook hands with a man. The English hand-shake, popular in the whole civilised world, evidently did not meet with the approval of the dignified Raphael, for he touched the plump Pani Hannah's hand a little reluctantly, and after a short greeting he asked for her husband. "He is home," answered the woman, smiling continually, with chronic satisfaction and equally chronic pride; "he came back yesterday, and is now taking a rest." "I came to talk with him," said Raphael "Come in! come in!" exclaimed the woman, opening with hasty amiability the door leading into the house. "My husband will be much pleased to receive such a guest." Raphael answered Pani Hannah's fashionable civilities by a swift nod of the head, and entered the house. Pani Hannah again sat down on the bench, and half closed her eyes disdainfully, whispering to herself: "Nu! what people there are in this Szybow! They don't want to talk with women. They are like wild bears." She sighed, moved her head several times, and added: "Am I accustomed to such people? In our city of Wilno the people are civil and educated, not savages as here. Pfe!" She sighed once more, continued her work mechanically, looking on the town and swarming people with the same smile of satisfaction and pride. Soon two men appeared in the door of the house. They were in conversation, and passed swiftly by the piazza and without looking at Pani Hannah they went in the direction of the Ezofowich house. Eli Witebski, walking with Raphael across the square, did not at all resemble his companion. Although a merchant, he represented quite a different type of the Hebrew trader. He was evidently fashionable and a dandy. His coat, although not entirely short, was a great deal shorter than the halat which Raphael wore, and it was cut quite differently. Across his silk waistcoat shone a thick gold chain, and he wore a big diamond ring on his finger. His face was serene, his eyes keen and penetrating. He had a small, yellowish beard to which he often raised his diamond-ornamented hand by a slow and deliberate movement. He walked beside Raphael rapidly and with evident pleasure. At any rate, there was not a merchant in all Szybow who would not make equal haste if he were called by Saul Ezofowich. For ten years Saul had retired from business, and, except to go to the synagogue, he never left his house. But everyone who wished to draw from the treasures of his great experience and equal keenness in business transactions came to see him. Saul never refused advice, and even help, as far as he was able to give it, without wronging his children And when he wished to speak to some dignitary of the community, he called them to him through his sons or grandsons and they hastened to him willingly. Therefore, on being called by the old patriarch, Eli Witebski hastened naturally. Smiling and radiant he entered the parlour, and greeted the host: "Scholem Alejhem!" (Peace to you). He did not greet anyone outside of Szybow in such an old-fashioned way. On the contrary, he could say very correctly, Gut morgen (Good morning), but his unshaken rule was to accommodate himself to those with whom he had to deal. Raphael wished to leave them, but Saul signed him to remain. They carefully closed all the doors, and spoke together for quite a while. But no matter how low they spoke, the frolicsome Lija, Raphael's daughter, put her little nose to the closed door, and her dark eye to the keyhole, and often heard repeated the names of Meir and Mera, Witebski's daughter first, and then her own name and that of a certain Leopold, Pani Hannah's cousin. She sprang from the door covered with blushes, half-confused, and half-seized with a secret joy, and then she constantly looked through the window to see as soon as possible when her cousin returned. The sun had begun to set when Witebski left the Ezofowich's house, beaming, smiling, and evidently very much pleased with the transaction, or, perhaps, two transactions closed at the same time. Almost at the same moment Meir returned home. Lija rushed to meet him, and, in the gate of the court-yard, placing her arm about his neck, she whispered in his ear: "Do you know, Meir, a great thing has happened to-day in our house. Our zeide and my father spoke a long time with Eli Witebski, and they came to an agreement about us. Witebski has promised his daughter to you, and my father has promised me to Paul Hannah's nephew, who is very well educated." She whispered all this, blushing, and too confused to dare to raise her eyes to her cousin's face. At once she felt that, by a sudden movement, he slipped from her embrace, and, when she raised her eyes, she saw Meir again leaving the gate of the house. "Meir!" exclaimed the girl, in surprise, "where are you going? Are you not going to have supper with us?" The departing young man did not answer the girl's voice calling him to the family table. A deep wrinkle angrily cut his forehead. Now he understood the nothingness of his exclamation in the presence of his grandfather: "I am no one's slave!" They disposed, without the slightest regard for his will, of his future, of his family, and he knew that the commands of the elders must be obeyed. No! He shuddered to think that it must be so. Why? He did not know the young girl Mera, who, somewhere in the world, was studying the same things which he himself desired so much. But, walking through the town and the empty fields separating it from the Karaim's Hill, walking slowly, with hands behind him, and bent head, he thought obstinately, almost mechanically, and incessantly, "I am no one's slave!" Pride and the desire for freedom boiled in his heart, aroused by some unknown source, probably those secret breaths of nature sown in the fields by noble and strong spirits thirsting for liberty, righteousness, and knowledge. At the foot of the Karaim's Hill, in the hut which clung closely to its sandy side, there burned a small, yellow light. Over it, through the forked branches of the willow tree, shone many small stars, and further on, over the great fields, lay the gray shadows of the dusk. In the interior of the hut, against the low wall, was seated an old man, working with the flexible willow branches. His figure was gray in the dusk of the hut, and the features of the bent face could not be seen. The tall, straight figure of a girl, with a thin face, sat in a wooden chair near the flame of the candle. In one dropped hand a spindle was softly twirling, and over her head was a board with a big bunch of wool fastened to it. From the wall, where the old man sat, came a hoarse, trembling voice: "In the midst of the desert, so large that one could not see its end, rose two mountains so high that their summits were hidden in the clouds. The names of these mountains were Horeb and Sinai." The voice became silent, and the girl, who listened gravely while she spun, said: "Zeide, speak further." But at that moment a manly voice was heard at the open window. "Golda!" The spinner was neither frightened nor surprised at this sudden pronunciation of her name by a strange voice. It might almost be said that at any moment she expected to hear that voice, so gravely, and with so little emotion did she rise and go to the window. Only her eyes shone warmly under: the dark lashes, and her voice was inexpressibly sweet when, standing at the lattice, she said softly: "Meir! I knew that you would keep your promise and come." "Golda," said the muffled voice from behind the window, "I came to see you because to-day there is a great darkness before my eyes, and I wished to look at you, that the world might become brighter to me." "And why is it so dark to-day before your eyes?" asked the girl. "A great sorrow has befallen me. Rabbi Todros has accused me of wrongdoing before my zeide, and my zeide wishes to marry me." He became silent and dropped his eyes. The girl did not move. Not the slightest movement of her face or figure betrayed emotion--only her swarthy and sun-burned face grew white. "To whom does your zeide wish to marry you?" she asked, and her voice had a gloomy sound. "To Mera, the daughter of the merchant Witebski." She shook her head. "I don't know her." Then she asked suddenly: "Meir, are you going to marry her?" The young man did not answer. Golda, however, did not ask him again. Her swarthy forehead was bathed in a blush and an expression of great bliss filled her eyes, for Meir's sweet, deep and at the same time fiery look, rested on her face. Both were silent, and amidst the tranquillity, interrupted only by the rustling of the branches overhanging the roof, there was heard again the hoarse and trembling voice of the old man sitting by the wall. "When Moses descended Mount Sinai, the thunders were silenced, the lightning was quenched, the wind lay down, and all Israel rose as one man and exclaimed with a great voice: 'Moses, repeat to us the words of the Eternal!'" Meir listened attentively to the old voice relating the history of Israel. Golda looked at her grandfather. "He always tells the different stories," she said. "I spin or lie at his feet and listen." "Meir," she added, with gravity in her look and her voice, "enter our house and greet my grandfather." In a few moments the door of the small hall creaked. Old Abel raised his head from the willow branches, which his trembling but active hand continually plaited, and seeing in the dark, the handsome figure of the young man, he said: "Who is there?" "Zeide," said Golda, "Meir Ezofowich, son of the rich Saul, has come to our house to greet you." At the sound of that name pronounced by Golda, he shrunk against the wall, suddenly raised himself and leaning with both hands on the straw sheaf on which he sat, he stretched forward his yellow neck, swathed in rags. This brought near the flame a head covered with long, abundant white hair, and a small shrivelled face which was almost hidden by an enormous beard. Golda spoke the truth when she stated that her grandfather's hair had become white as snow from old age, and coral-like red were his eyes from weeping. Now, from beneath these swollen eyelids, the quenched pupils looked with an amazement of fear at first, and then with a sudden lighting of indignation or hatred. "Ezofowich!" he exclaimed in a voice which was neither so hoarse nor so trembling as before, "why have you come here and passed the threshold of my house? You are a Rabbinit--foe--persecutor. Your great-grandfather cast an anathema at my ancestors and turned their temple into dust. Go from here. My old eyes shall not be poisoned by looking at you." While speaking the last words he stretched his trembling hand toward the door through which the young man had entered. But Meir stepped forward slowly, and bending his head before the angry old man said: "Peace to you!" Under the influence of those sweet words, pronounced with sonority and expressing a prayer for a blessing and concord, the old man became silent, fell back on his seat, and only after a long while did he begin to speak in a plaintive, pitiful voice: "Why did you come here? You are a Rabbinit, and the great-grandson of the powerful Senior. Your people will curse you if they see you pass my threshold, for I am the last Karaite who remained here to watch the ruins of our temple and the ashes of our ancestors. I am a beggar! I am cursed by your people! I am the last of the Karaites!" Meir listened to the old man's words in respectful silence. "Reb," said he after a while, "I bend my head low before you because it is necessary that justice be done in the world, and that the great-grandson of the one who cursed should bow before the great-grandson of the accursed." Abel Karait listened attentively to these words. Then he was silent for a while, as though he was pondering in his tired mind, over the meaning of them. Finally he understood them entirely, and whispered: "Peace be to you!" Golda stood with her arms crossed on her bosom, looking on Meir as pious people look on a holy image. Having heard the words of peace from her grandfather's lips, she pushed toward Meir one of two chairs, took as mall, shining pitcher and went into the hall. Meir sat near the old man who was again busy with his work and whispered something. After a while this whispering became louder until it changed into a hoarse and trembling narrative. It seemed that was his habit. He had plenty of stories in his head and heart, and with them he brightened his miserable life. Meir could not hear the first whispers, and only understood their meaning when the old man began to speak louder: "On the shores of Babylon they sat weeping, and the wind moaned in their lutes, brought by them from their country, and in sadness they hung them on the trees." "And their masters came to them, and said: 'Take to your hands your harps; play, and sing!' And they answered: 'How can we play and sing in the land of exile, when our tongues are dried with great bitterness and our hearts only know how to cry! Palestine! Palestine!' But unto them their masters said: 'Take from the trees your harps. Play and sing!'" "Then Israel's prophets looked at one another and said: 'Who of us is sure? Who will stand torture that we may not be made to play and sing in the land of exile!'" "And when their masters came to them the next day and said: 'Take from the trees your harps; play and sing!' the prophets of Israel raised their bloody hands and exclaimed: 'How can we take them, when our hands are cut in two, and we have no fingers!'" "The rivers of Babylon rustled aloud with great amazement and the wind cried in the harps hanging on the trees, because the prophets of Israel had cut their hands in two rather than be forced to sing in the land of exile." When Abel finished the last words of the old legend, Golda entered the room. In one hand she held a tray made of straw, on which there were two earthen cups. In the other hand she held a shining pitcher filled with milk. In the door, which remained open behind her, appeared the goat, whose whiteness stood out against the blackness of the hall. The girl was dressed in a faded skirt, and her long black tresses were thrown over the shoulders of the gray shirt which she wore. She poured the milk into the cups and handed it to the guest and her grandfather. She walked into the room quietly and lightly, with a smile on her lips. Then she sat down and began to spin. The room was in complete silence, and old Abel began to whisper some old story. But soon his mouth closed, his hands dropped on the sheaf of willow branches and his head rested motionlessly against the wall. The goat disappeared from the threshold and for a while could be heard her tramping in the little hall. Then everything became quiet. The young people remained alone in the presence of the slumbering old man and the stars which looked in through the low window, The girl was spinning, gazing into the face of the young man who sat opposite to her. He, with dropped, eyelids was thinking. "Golda," said he, after a long while, "the prophets of Israel, who cut their hands in two rather than be forced to play and be the slaves of their masters, were great men." "They did not wish to act against their hearts," answered the girl gravely. They were silent again. The spindle still turned in Golda's hand, but less and less swiftly and more quietly. Gusts of wind blew through the chinks in the wall and caused the yellow flame of the candle to flicker. "Golda," said Meir, "is it not frightful for you in this solitary cabin, when the long fall and winter drop black darkness over the earth, and great winds enter through the walls and moan about the house?" "No," answered the girl, "it is not frightful for me, because the Eternal watches the poor huts standing in the darkness, and when the winds enter here and moan, I listen to the stories zeide tells me, and I do not hear their moaning." Meir gazed pityingly into the face of the grave child. Golda looked at him with motionless eyes, which shone like black, fiery stars. "Golda," said Meir again, "do you remember the story of Rabbi Akiba?" "I shall never forget it to the end of my life," she answered. "Golda, could you wait fourteen years, like the beautiful Rachel?" "I could wait until the end of my life." She said this quietly and gravely, but the spindle slipped from her hand and dropped. "Meir," said she, so softly that the whispering of the wind almost deafened her words, "you must promise me one thing. When you have a sorrow in your heart, then come to our house. Let me know your every grief, let zeide console you with his beautiful stories." "Golda," said Meir, in a strong voice, "I would rather cut my hand in two, as did the prophets of Israel, than act against my heart." Having said this he rose and nodded to the girl. "Peace to you!" he said. "Peace to you," she answered softly, nodding to him slowly. He went out, and after a while the girl rose, blew out the yellow flame of the burned-out candle, and having wrapped herself in some gray cloth, she lay down on the straw beside the sleeping old man. She lay down, but for a long time she watched the shining stars. CHAPTER VII Eli Witebski possessed in his mind and character many diplomatic qualities. He was neither born nor brought up in Szybow, as were without exception all the inhabitants of the town; but three years ago had settled there on account of business matters as well as for various family reasons. Among the population who lived there for generations he was therefore almost a stranger, and in addition to that, having spent his whole life in a large city, he brought with him many new customs which astonished and shocked the ultra-conservative inhabitants of this lost corner of the world. Among these differences were the different cut and material of his clothing, the wearing of the diamond ring, the rejection of the skull cap on his head, the short clipping of his beard, and the absolute lack in his house of Talmudistic and Kabalistic books, and, principally, the possession of such a wife as Pani Hannah, of a daughter who was studying somewhere in a boarding school, and besides this daughter Mera, only two more children. These innovations, never seen nor heard of before, should have been the cause of drawing on the elegant merchant a general dislike of the population of Szybow. But they did not. It is true that at first so-and-so whispered to so-and-so that he was a misnagdim, progressive and indifferent in matters of religion. But these suspicious notions soon disappeared, stopped chiefly by Eli's extraordinary affability, amiability, and the power of adapting himself to any and all circumstances. Always good-natured smiling, and serene, he never argued with anybody, stood out of the way for everybody, affirmed nothing, avoided quarrels in order not to be obliged to take sides with the participants and thus offend the other, and when he could not avoid so doing, spoke so sweetly and convincingly that the antagonists, enraptured with his eloquence, became reconciled, bearing in their hearts gratitude and admiration for him, and speaking of him with enthusiasm. Ein kluger Mensch! As to rites and religious rules, Witebski proved to be perfectly orthodox. He observed the Sabbath, and kept kosher house with the minutest punctuality. Every time he met the great Rabbi he bowed very low, and he as no other before could make bright the eyes of the learned man, by telling him merry stories--taken no one knew whence, and he always told them in such a way that they possessed something of a mystic and patriotic character, and pleased even the most severely religious listeners. He did not spend much time at home, but continually travelled for business purposes, but every time he was seen in Szybow he was seen in the Bet-ha-Midrash, listening with due respect to the learned preaching of Rabbi Todros, or smiling when numbers of old and young scholars of the community passionately discussed Pilpul, or spoke of different commentaries, or commentaries on commentaries, with which twenty-five hundred printed sheets of Helaha, Hagada and Gemara were filled. He was also always to be seen in the synagogue, whenever there was occasion for a general attendance, and although he could not be counted among the most zealously praying ones, nor the most vehemently swaying ones, his attitude and the expression of his face were perfectly decent. But it must not be thought that Witebski was a hypocrite; not at all--he was sincerely fond of peace and good understanding, and did not wish them disturbed for himself nor for others. He was successful in life; he felt happy and satisfied, and consequently he loved everybody, and it was a matter of absolute indifference to him whether the man with whom he had to deal was a Talmudist, a Kabalist, Hassyd, orthodox, heretic, or even Edomit, provided he was not obnoxious to him. He learned of the Edomits for the first time in his life when he came to Szybow, for in the circle in which he lived Christians were called gojem and that only seldom, and under the influence of exceptional sentiments of anger or offence. But when he came to Szybow and learned of the Edomits, he thought, "Let them be Edomits!" and from that time he spoke of Christians by that name when in conversation with the inhabitants of Szybow. But in the use of that name he felt not the slightest hatred nor even dislike. Until now the Edomits had done him no wrong--then why should he dislike them? Outside of Szybow he was friendly with them--he was even very fond of them--but in Szybow he did as everyone else did. He had received his religious education when he was young, but he afterward forgot everything amidst entirely secular occupations and cares. He believed in Jehovah and worshipped him profoundly; he knew the history of Moses and also something about the Babylonian captivity and the later history of the Jewish people, but he did not know much of the deeper meaning of these things. In the main be did not care what Tanait or some Rabbi said or commanded. But he did not contradict anything either by word or deed--not even by thought. He did everything that was commanded, thinking to himself: "There is no harm in it. Maybe it's only a human invention, but again it may be God's command--why should I anger Him against me." Thus, acting diplomatically with the people and with God, he was not afraid of anything, and he was happy. He would have been completely happy if he had not brought with him to Szybow that greatest and, for the inhabitants of Szybow, most astonishing novelty, his wife Hannah. In the same degree that it was his object while living in the small town to act as did everyone else there, it was the greatest desire of Pani Hannah to act differently from everyone else. When they had lived in a large city there was celestial harmony between them based on mutual attachment and similarity of taste. Here, however, Pani Hannah became to her husband the cause of perpetual embarrassment and occasional fear. Pani Hannah was in love with civilisation, which for her assumed the form of beautiful dresses, her own hair on her head, elegantly furnished rooms, polite relations with her fellow-men, the French language and music. Music was her craze. When they dwelt in a large city she went to the public gardens to listen to it, where, walking with her friends, clad in a rustling silk gown and plumed bat, gazing at handsome men and chatting with amiable women, she felt perfectly happy, and still more proud of her social position. Certain products of civilisation especially caused her rapture. Once, perceiving in a public garden a fountain, she admired it for a couple of hours with inexpressible delight, and on returning to her city, which did not possess a fountain, she talked to her friends during the whole year of that beautiful phenomenon. She was also very fond of mirrors, and when she found herself opposite a large mirror she could not tear her eyes away from it, and especially from the reflected image of herself, which she found very handsome, with her big golden earrings, a hat with flowers on it, and a charming gown. As for religion, she knew still less about it than her husband. She believed in God, and at the bottom of her heart she was even very much afraid of Him, and she believed also in the devil, fearing him even more than God. She also believed that a person who did not see his shadow on a holiday night would die within a year, and even that a person who moved a candle on the Sabbath table would meet with a great misfortune. On the other hand, however, she did not believe many similar things--calling them superstitions. Being a good housekeeper, she acknowledged in the depths of her soul that it would be better if the Jews ate the same meat as the Christians, both because it would be a great deal cheaper, and because there would not be the need in the household of having so many kitchen dishes, which every orthodox household must have in order to keep the food properly kosher. As for the woven stuffs containing a mixture of wool and flax, Pani Hannah closed her eyes and ears to all interdictions, and used them without hesitation, because they were pretty and cheap. When she came to Szybow she was perfectly horrified. There was not one sign of civilisation--no public garden no music, no fountain, not even the shadow of beautiful women and handsome men chatting amiably, no echo of the French language. Good Heavens! Pani Hannah betook herself to bed, and buried herself in feather bolsters for two whole days and nights, lamenting and screaming that she could not stand it, that she would die and make orphans of her children. She did not die, however. She left the bed, because it was necessary to unpack things, to look after the household and dress the children prettily so that when they went into the streets they should astonish by their beauty and fine clothes that--as Pani Hannah expressed it, with a gesture of contempt--"rabble." The children were dressed, went out, and in truth they did astonish everyone. It was the first consolation which the unhappy exile from civilisation received in her place of banishment. Then came other similar consolations. Pani Hannah tried to amaze in everything she was able--dresses, furniture, manners, speech--and in doing so, she felt extremely happy. In the main, perhaps she was happier than in a large city. There she only looked on civilisation and its products and was proud of being one particle of it. Here she was civilisation itself--the whole sum of the civilisation existing in Szybow. This love for amazing the people which, after the care of the children and the household, was the first occupation of Pani Hannah's mind, and the source of her greatest happiness caused her husband considerable uneasiness and fear. In the beginning he had heard some murmurs that he was a misnagdim be learned that the popular indignation had been aroused against his wife for wearing woven stuff of mixed flax and wool, and for using a samovar on Sabbath, and for saying that; "Szybow was not on the earth, but under it." When he learned of all these things he quaked with fear, and began to war with his better-half about the stuff of flax and wool, about the use of the samovar on the Sabbath, and about the situation of Szybow. His better-half fought for a long time, but the diplomatic husband was finally victorious regarding the samovar and the stuff. But he could do nothing regarding the situation of Szybow, because Pani Hannah could not but respect the place where she herself lived, in spite of all efforts of her will. Even if she was silent, her disdainfully half-closed eyes, her proudly smiling mouth, always elaborate dress, and her manners full of such exquisite courtesy, made it impossible to find anyone in the whole world more civil than she was, all that was protesting. In the main, Pani Hannah was perfectly happy with her meek, though at times decided husband, with pretty, always beautifully dressed children, and with the sentiment always in her soul that she was superior to everything surrounding her. She had only one great sorrow, and that; was the thought that she would never be able to amaze the inhabitants of Szybow by wearing her own hair; in the first place, because it was too late to make it grow now, and then Eli would never permit such a public scandal. Therefore she was obliged to wear a very pretty wig on her sorrowful head, and she consoled herself with the thought that the occasion of her daughter Mera's return from Wilno would be her greatest triumph. Eli was very uneasy about this, for he feared that he would be accused of being quite different from all the fathers in Szybow. As for Pani Hannah, she was beside herself with joy at the thought that she would be considered a quite different mother from all the other mothers in Szybow. Finally it was accomplished. In a month after Eli's conversation with Saul there were assembled in Witebski's parlour five persons--two men and three women. And it was not a common parlour! it was ornamented with a sofa, having springs and upholstered in green rep--the only sofa of its kind in Szybow--several armchairs to match it, and a piano. It is true, it was not very new. In several places the varnish had been rubbed off, and the narrowness of the keys and the yellowness of the ivory betrayed its great antiquity. In fact, it was the only piano in the whole of Szybow. When a year ago it had been bought for the exclusive use of Mera, it caused a small revolution in the town and Pani Hannah's heart filled with joy and great pride. This parlour was also not lacking in lace curtains and several jardinieres in which grew several--to tell the truth--very ugly and badly kept cacti and geraniums. But it happened that a year ago one of the cacti had by some accident bloomed. Pani Hannah immediately placed it in the window looking on the street, and all the children in town came to her house to look at the red flower. So, then, on the green sofa with springs, sat Pani Hannah and her sister, the wife of a merchant in Wilno, in whose house Mera had boarded during her three years of study at the college. She escorted her niece home personally, bringing with her, in the meanwhile, her son Leopold. Her figure was imposingly like Pani Hannah's. She wore a velvet mantilla, much gold jewellery and her own hair. On either side of the table which stood opposite the sofa, sat the host and Pani Hannah's young nephew Leopold. Mera, a pretty girl, with yellow hair and pale complexion, was hovering about the piano, wishing to touch the keys as soon as possible, and fill the whole house with merry music, but not daring to because it was Sabbath. Mera knew that it was forbidden to play any musical instrument on Sabbath, but she would not have minded such prohibition had it not been for the glance of her father which followed her and warned her against committing a sin. Neither was it allowed to smoke on the Sabbath, but Leopold, a good-looking, slender youth of about twenty years, sat in the armchair in a very careless position smoking a cigarette, from which thin threads of smoke arose and floated through the open window; Eli rose and shut the window. On Leopold's lips a disdainful smile appeared, Mera shrugged her shoulders, and Pani Hannah blushed with shame. On a table, on a silver tray, were different dainties prepared from honey--gingerbread, made with honey and poppy-seeds, sweet wine, and various other things. Pani Hannah served her guests with these tit-bits, which completed the dinner, composed of fish cooked the day before, and a cake also baked the day before. But her sister, the wife of the merchant from Wilno, was busy with something quite different from eating sweetmeats. With great admiration she was looking at the beautiful and precious brooches, rings, bracelets, and earrings, shining in their satin boxes. All these jewels were presents of betrothal sent by Saul, in Meir's name, to Mera, immediately following her home-coming. For two days the mother and aunt of the betrothed girl had been looking at them, and they were not yet satisfied. But Leopold's mother was sorry that her son had brought to Lija, his promised wife, presents which were a great deal more modest than those received by Mera from Meir. "Nu! She is a lucky girl!" she said, tossing her head. "God-gives her true happiness. Such presents! Such nice people. But why does he not come here?" she asked her sister. "Iii!" exclaimed Pani Hannah, with a disdainful smile, "they are common people. It is not customary that the bridegroom should visit his fiancee!" "He is young," said Eli, "he is bashful." At that moment Mera sat down by the table, and leaning her head on her hand became sadly thoughtful. Leopold, on the contrary, laughed loudly. "To be sure, I will not send my presents of betrothal before I have seen the girl," he said. "Nu, you shall see her," said his mother. "We are all going to pay them a visit." "What kind of a girl is she?" asked Pani Hannah's sister. "Iii!" answered Pani Hannah, as before, "she is a common girl." "Her father, Raphael, gives her fifteen thousand roubles as dowry," said Eli. Leopold frowned. "That's not much," he said. "I cannot live on fifteen thousand." "You will start some business," remarked the merchant. But the mother of the good looking boy turned angrily to her brother-in-law. "Business!" she exclaimed, "he is not brought up for business! Did we give him a fine education for business? He was through five classes in the gymnasium (college) and he is now an official. It is true that he has as yet only a small salary, but who knows what may happen! He may be appointed to a governorship! Who can tell?" Leopold raised his eyebrows significantly, indicating that he was satisfied at having been born for such honours and that he did not object to the likelihood of receiving a governorship. Eli nodded and said nothing. "It does not matter," he thought, "that they talk nonsense. Let them talk!" At that moment pretty Mera raised her head and said to her cousin. "Cousin! comme c'est ennuyant ici!" "Oui, cousine! cette vilaine petite ville est une place tres ennuyante!" answered he, whistling. The two mothers, seated on the sofa, did not understand a word, but they looked at each other and blushed for joy, and Pani Hannah stretched her plump hand across the table and caressed her daughter's hair. "Fischele!" (little fish) said she, with an indescribable smile of beautitude and love on her lips. Even on Eli the French language made some impression. His face, which had been a little sorrowful, became serene again. He rose and said cheerfully: "Nu, let us be going. It's time." In a few minutes they descended from the piazza into the street. Eli's face had again become sorrowful. Nothing could be more unorthodox than the dress of his relative. It consisted of a short, fashionable coat, shining shoes and very widely-open waistcoat, which showed the entire snowy shirtfront. On his head he wore a small cap, with the official star, and before going out he had lighted a cigarette. It was a hard thing for Eli to contradict anyone--much more his guest and the pet of the two women whom he at any rate respected. But when he went out on the piazza and saw the crowds of people--whom the Sabbath day brought out in swarms--he could not refrain from warning the lad. "Leopold, listen!" said he, quietly and gently, "you had better throw that cigarette away. The people are stupid here, but you had better not irritate them. And perhaps," he added immediately, "God himself forbad smoking on the Sabbath. Who can tell?" Leopold laughed aloud. "I am not afraid of anything!" said he, and springing down the steps of the piazza be offered Mera his arm. Leopold and Mera then walked ahead arm in arm. They were followed by the magnificent mothers in balloon-like dresses, velvet mantillas, and enormous hats covered with flowers. Eli brought up the retinue, walking slowly and with a conspicuously sorrowful face and hands folded behind him. If attracting the attention of the numerous crowd could be called a triumph, the march of the Witebski family across the square of the town was certainly a triumphal one. In the twinkling of an eye a crowd of children of all ages and both sexes were following them, and, in the beginning with muffled exclamation, but finally with loud shouting, they began to run after them. Soon older people joined the children, and even more prominent families appeared on the piazzas of their houses surrounding the square. In the gate of the school-yard stood the melamed, in his usual primitive dress and as though he could not believe the evidence of his own widely-open eyes. He looked at the astonishing show passing the square. The greatest attention was drawn by the young couple walking ahead; Leopold, clad in his elegant coat, and with a cigarette in his mouth, and Mera, in her very balloon-like bright dress, leaning on her cousin's arm and drawing herself up in order to show off to advantage her society manners. Eli walked as though on live coals, but Pani Hannah strode forward as though crowned with laurels. Her sister looked around the dark crowd with half-closed eyes and head carried high. "Zi! Zi! a shejne puryc! a shejne panienkies!" shouted the children, running, jumping, pointing with their fingers, and raising clouds of dust with their feet. "Who are they? Are they Jews?" asked the older people, pointing at Leopold's short coat and Cigarette. "Misnagdim!" suddenly shouted some voice in the crowd, and a small stone, thrown by an unknown hand, passed close to Leopold's head. The young man grew pale and threw away the cigarette--the cause of the general scandal. Eli frowned. But Pani Hannah raised her head still higher and said quite loudly to her sister: "Nu, we must forgive them. They are so ignorant!" Leopold, however, did not forgive the stone thrown at him. This could be seen by his frightened eyes and tightened lips when he entered the Ezofowichs' parlour. There on the sofa--the place of honour--sat old Saul surrounded by his sons, sons-in-law, and several older grandchildren. At one of the windows, as usual, sat the always slumbering great-grandmother. At the other window stood Meir. When Witebski's family entered the parlour, Meir merely glanced at Mera, as though she was perfectly indifferent to him, but he looked sharply, inquisitively, at Leopold. He evidently desired to approach as soon as possible the man who came from the broad world, and penetrate him through and through. For a while only preliminary conversation and loud greetings were heard Saul did not leave his place on the sofa. His daughter Sarah, Ber's wife, received the guests, serving them with dainties, loudly admiring the beauty of the hats and dresses of the ladies. Mera sat graciously on the edge of a chair, amused by the bashful, embarrassed, and at the same time joyful Lija, and glancing askance at the young man standing at the window, guessing that he must be her intended husband. But she did not once meet his glance. Meir seemingly ignored her existence. He looked constantly at Leopold. Pani Hannah was telling with great animation, and still greater pride to the women surrounding her, of the fountain which she had once seen in a large city, and about the music which was played every Sunday in the public garden in Wilno. In the meantime she was examining the Ezofowichs' parlour. In fact, the large, clean room with its simple furniture, possessed an air of thrift and riches, which was a great deal more attractive than Pani Hannah's speckled salon. There was also a library filled with large volumes, which, according to the traditions of the Ezofowich family, were formerly the property of Michael the Senior. There was a cupboard filled with silver and china, and on the top of it stood a large samovar, shining like gold. When Pani Hannah saw this a blush of shame appeared on her face. A samovar in the parlour of the family of her future son-in-law! It was contrary to all rules of civilisation of which she knew anything. Soon, however, from this highly indecent object her glance passed on to the great-grandmother slumbering in her arm-chair. At that moment a ray of the setting sun fell on the motionless figure, lighting up the jewels with which she was covered. Like fiery stars over her forehead shone the rich gems ornamenting her turban, while her earrings threw out thousands of sparks, and the pearls on her bosom took on a faint pink glow. Pani Hannah elbowed her sister slightly. "Zi," whispered she, indicating the old women by a motion of her head, "what splendid diamonds!" The wife of the merchant of Wilno half closed her eyes in admiration. "Aj! Aj!" exclaimed she, "a true treasure. But why does such an old woman wear so many precious stones?" Saul heard the exclamation, and with dignified civility he said, bending toward his guests: "She deserves our respect, and to be covered by us with all the precious stones in the possession of our family. She was her husband's crown, and all of us as branches from a tree, take our life from her." He closed his eyes a little and continued: "Now she is very old, but she once was young and very beautiful, And where has her beauty disappeared to? It was erased by the years--by months and days passing over her like birds flying one after the other, pick one berry after another, until they have picked them all. It is true, she has now many wrinkles on her face. But whence come these wrinkles? I know; for looking at her I see some picture in each one. When I look at the wrinkles in her eyelids, and around her eyes, I remember that when I was small, and was ill she sat by my cradle and sang to lull me to sleep, and the tears poured from her eyes. And when I look at the wrinkles so numerous on her cheeks, I remember all the sorrows and griefs she has passed through, when she became a widow, refused to marry again, conducting business affairs personally and increasing the wealth of her children. And when I look at the wrinkle which appears in the middle of her forehead, it seems that I live again the moment that my father's soul left its body, and my mother fell to the floor like one dead. She did not cry nor moan, but only sobbed sweetly, 'Hersh! Hersh! My Hersh!' It was the greatest sorrow of her life, and left on her forehead that deep line." Thus spoke old Saul, with his index finger raised solemnly and a thoughtful smile on his yellow lips. The women listening to him shook their heads, half sadly, half affirmatively, and looking at each other they repeated softly: "Hohr! Hohr!" (Listen! Listen!) Pani Hannah was moved to tears. She dried them with a lace handkerchief which she held in her hand, and stretching this hand toward Saul she said: "Danke! Danke!" with a smile of gratitude on her lips. "Danke!" (Thanks!) the majority of those present repeated after her. Then Pani Hannah's sister, Witebski, and two or three other people not belonging to the family, said in a hushed voice: "Ein kluger mensch! Ein ehrlicher mensch!" (A clever man! An honest man!) The filial love and respect manifested by Saul, and his picturesque narrative, made a pleasant impression on all hearts and minds. Only young Leopold, who until now sat silent and gloomy, or spoke in French with Mera, rose from his chair and went toward the window where Meir stood. Around the sofa a lively conversation had been recommenced by Pani Hannah, who expressed a regret that it was Sabbath, and that there was no piano, for her daughter was thus prevented from playing such music as melted all hearts, and brought before the mind's eye the botanical garden of Wilno, where the band of music played, and different other things which belonged to her lost paradise of civilisation. The two young men remained completely isolated. No one could hear their conversation. It seemed that Leopold had no intention of starting a conversation with Meir. He went toward the window with quite a different motive, which was betrayed by his taking from his pocket a silver cigarette case. But Meir, when he saw the young man approach him, advanced a few steps. His face beamed with joy. "I am Meir, Saul's grandson," said he, extending his hand to the guest. "I wish very much to make your acquaintance, to tell you many things, and ask you many things." Leopold bowed to him elegantly but ceremoniously, and barely touched Meir's warm hand. Meir's eyes, which had been bright with joy, now saddened. "You don't care to know me," said he, "and I don't wonder at it. You are an educated man, and I--am a simple Jew, who knows the Bible and Talmud well, but nothing more. But listen to me, at any rate! I have thoughts of many things, but they are not yet in order. Perhaps you can tell me how to become wise?" Leopold listened to these words, vibrating first with youthful enthusiasm, with anxiety in which there was a shade of irony. "Willingly," said he, "if you wish to learn something from me I will be glad to tell you. Why not? I can tell you many things, sir!" "Leopold, don't call me 'sir.' It hurts me, for I love you very much." Leopold was surprised at this simplicity of sentiment. "I am glad of it!" said he; "but it's the first time we have met." "It doesn't matter!" exclaimed Meir; "for a long time I have wished to meet such an Israelite as you are, and say to him, as Rabbi Eliezer said to the sage in Jerusalem, 'Let me be your pupil, and be you my teacher.'" This time surprise was clearly expressed in the face of the young fashionable, and his irony increased. It was evident that he did not at all understand Meir's speech, and that he considered him as being half a savage. Meir, absorbed in his enthusiasm, did not notice the impression he had made. "Leopold," he began, "how many years did you study in that foreign school?" "What foreign school?" asked Leopold. "Nu, in that school where they do not teach Jewish studies." Leopold understood now. He half closed his eyes, pursed his mouth, and answered: "Well, I went to the gymnasium for five years." "Five years!" exclaimed Meir, "then you must be a very learned man, if you have gone to school for such a long time." "Well," answered the guest, with an indulgent smile, "there are people in the world who are more learned than I." Meir approached his companion still nearer, and his eyes shone more brightly. "What do they teach in the school?" he asked. "Different things." "What are those different things?" Leopold, with an ironical smile, began to enumerate all the subjects taught in public schools. Meir interrupted him, saying with animation: "And you know all these subjects?" "Yes, I do," answered the guest. "And what are you doing now?" This question was asked with great anxiety, and astounded the good-looking chap. "What do you mean?" he asked. "Nu, I wish to know, I wish to know the thoughts with which these studies have filled your head, and what you are doing in the world." "What I am doing? I am an official in the office of the governor himself, and I copy important papers." Meir thought for a while. "That is not what I wished to know about. You copy those papers for money. Every man must earn. But I wish to know what you think about when you are sometimes alone, and what those thoughts impel you to accomplish in the world." Leopold opened widely his eyes. "Well," he exclaimed impatiently, "what should I think about? When I leave my office I return home, smoke a cigarette, and think of the time when I shall marry and get a dowry, and my father will give me my share, and I shall purchase a house. On the ground floor I shall fix pretty stores, the second floor I shall let to some rich people, and I shall live on the third floor." This time it was Meir's turn to be amazed. "And you, Leopold, don't you think of anything else?" "Well, of what else should I think? Thank God I have no sorrows. I live and board with my parents and my salary is sufficient to buy my clothes." Meir looked at the floor, and a deep wrinkle appeared on his forehead, as was customary with him when he was hurt. "Leopold, listen," he said, after a few moments of deep thought, "are there not many poor and ignorant Jews in your great city?" Leopold laughed. "There are plenty of them everywhere." "And what are your thoughts when you see them?" asked Meir violently. "What should they be? I think they are very stupid and very dirty!" "And looking at them, do you think of nothing else?" asked Meir, almost in a whisper. Leopold opened his cigarette case, and selected a cigarette. Meir, plunged in thought, did not notice this. "Leopold," he began again, with awakened energy, "you had better not buy that house in the large city." "Why should I not buy it?" "I will tell you why. They have promised you, as wife, my first cousin. She is a good and intelligent girl. She has no education whatever, but she always wished to have it, and she was very glad when she was told that she would have an educated husband. You are going to marry her, and when you have married her, ask permission of the high officials to open in Szybow a school for the Jews, in which they will be made to study other things than the Bible and Talmud. I will help you to conduct such a school." Leopold laughed, but Meir, all aglow with the joy of his idea, did not notice it. He leaned towards the young man and whispered: "I will tell you, Leopold. There is great ignorance here in Szybow, and there are many poor people living in misery. But there are some people--all of them young--who regret that they do not know another world, and that they have not other knowledge. They wish to become familiar with it, but there is no one to help them out of the darkness. And then the great Rabbi who lives here, Isaak Todros, is very severe, and he is dreaded by everyone; and the members of the kahal also oppress the poor people. You must come here and bring with you other educated people, and help us out of our misery and our ignorance." All this was spoken enthusiastically, his head triumphally raised and his voice filled with warm prayer. But nothing could equal the astonishment, and in the meantime the irony, with which Leopold listened to him. As Meir finished he selected a match from a silver box, bending his head in order to hide the fact that he was laughing. "Nu," said Meir, "what do you think of what I have said? Is it a good idea?" Leopold lighted the match and answered: "I am thinking that if I were to speak of your plans to my family or my comrades they would be much amused." The light which shone in Meir's eyes was quenched at once. "Why would they laugh?" he whispered. At that moment Leopold lighted his cigarette and the fragrant smoke floated through the room to where the company were gathered around the yellow sofa. Raphael raised his head in astonishment and looked back at him. Saul also looked toward the window, and rising from the sofa he said politely but with determination: "I beg your pardon, but I cannot permit anything in my house which is contrary to the holy law." Having said this he sat down again looking at Leopold from beneath his bushy eyebrows. Leopold grew very red, threw the cigarette on the floor, and crushed it angrily with his foot. "Such is your civility!" said he to Meir. "And why do you smoke on the Sabbath?" "Don't you smoke?" asked the guest satirically looking Meir in the face. "No," answered Meir "And you wish to lead human souls out of darkness! And you believe that it is a holy law not to smoke on the Sabbath!" "No, I don't believe it," answered Meir, with as much determination as before. "You wish to cause the people to rebel against the great Rabbi and the kahal, and you yourself give way before the enemy." Meir's eyes shone again, but this time angrily. "If it was a question of saving a human soul from obscurity, or a human body from ignorance, I would not give way, because such things are important; but when it is a question of denying myself a pleasure, I give way because it is a trifle. And although I do not believe that such a law is holy and comes from God, I know that the old people believe in it, and I think that it would be rude to contradict them in a trifle like this." After this speech Leopold turned away from Meir and walked over to where Mera sat. For a while Meir followed him with a glance in which there was a mixture of disappointment and anger. Then he left the window and went out. This sudden disappearance of the young man made a great impression on the women. The men hardly noticed it, for they thought it very natural and praiseworthy that the bridegroom, through modesty, avoided the fiancee chosen for him by the older people. But Pani Hannah and her sister became gloomy, and Mera whispered to her mother: "Maman, let us go home!" In the meantime Meir was on the way to the house of his friend Eliezer, but he only looked in at the window, and went further, for the cantor's room was empty; but he evidently knew where to find his comrades, and he went directly toward the meadow situated beyond the town. As a few weeks ago this meadow--a true oasis of quiet and freshness--was all bathed in the pink light of the sunset. It is true that the grass was no longer so green, for it was a little burned by the beat of the summer sun, but the bushes were in full bloom, and the scent of the wild flowers filled the air. Near the grove, under the thickly growing birches, sat a group of young people. Some of them spoke together in low tones, while others mechanically plucked the wild plants growing around them, and others still with their faces turned to the blue sky, in which floated golden clouds, hummed softly. The pond, a short way off, was now surrounded with thick bunches of forget-me-nots and large flowers of the water-plants. On its bank was seated the motionless figure of a tall slender girl, and beside her, amid the bushes of sweet-briar, grazed the white goat, plucking the herbs and leaves. Meir approached the group of young people who were evidently awaiting his arrival with some impatience for those who lay in the grass rose at once on seeing him and sat looking intently into his face. He did not greet his comrades and did not even look at them, but threw himself down upon the trunk of a birch tree which had been overthrown by a storm. He was sad, but perhaps even more angry. The young people were silent, and looked at him in surprise. Eliezer, who lay in the grass with his elbow resting against the trunk on which Meir sat, was the first to speak. "Well, have you seen him?" "Have you seen him?" several voices chimed in, "and is he highly educated and very wise?" Meir raised his head and said emphatically: "He is educated, but very stupid." This exclamation caused great surprise among the young men. After quite a long silence, Aryel, the son of the magnificent Morejne Calman, said: "How can it be that a man is educated, and at the same time stupid?" "I don't know how it can be," answered Meir, his eyes dilating as though he saw before him a bottomless precipice. Then a conversation started, made up of quick questions and answers: "What did he tell you?" "What was very stupid?" "Why did not you ask him about wise things?" "I did ask him, but he didn't even know what I meant." "Did he not tell you what he thought of?" "He told me he thought of how he could best buy a beautiful house which would bring him an income of two thousand roubles." "He can think about the house, but about what else does he think?" "He told me he did not think about anything else." "And what is he accomplishing in the world?" "He is in an office, where he copies some papers and when he returns home he smokes a cigarette and thinks about the house." "And what does he think about Jews who have no education and live in misery?" "He thinks they are stupid and dirty." "And what did he say when you told him that we wished to free our souls from darkness, but could not." "He told me that if he were to tell his family and comrades of it, they would laugh." "Why should they laugh?" Then there was a long silence, and finally someone said angrily: "A bad man!" After a while Meir's cousin, Haim--Abraham's son--said: "Meir, that knowledge and education for which we wish so eagerly must be evil, if it makes people stupid and bad." Another young man said: "Meir, will you explain it to us?" Meir looked sadly at his comrades, and dropping his face in both bands, he said: "I don't know anything." The answer came with stifled sobs. But at that moment the cantor raised his white band and pulled from his friend's sorrowful face the hands which covered it. "Your hearts must not be sunk in sorrow," said Eliezer, "I will ask our master to answer that question for us." He took from the ground a large book and with a smile on his lips be pointed out to his comrades the first leaf of it. On this leaf was printed the name of Moses Majmonides. The young people drew near to him, and their faces wore an expression of solemn attention. The great Hebrew savant was about to speak to them through the mouth of their beloved cantor. He was an old master, forgotten by some, excommunicated by others, but dear and saintly to them. Since the spirit of that master in the form of several big volumes brought back by Eliezer on his return home from the outer world, had breathed upon their minds, they experienced the force of hitherto unknown streams of thought and rebellion--they were filled with sorrowful longings and desires. But they were grateful to him for this grief and longing, and rushed to him in all times of doubt. But alas! they could not find answers for all their questions-consolations for all their complaints! Centuries had vanished, the times had changed and there had passed through the world a long chain of geniuses bringing new truths. But of this they knew nothing, and when the large book was opened they prepared themselves with joy and solemnity to receive the breath of the old truths. Eliezer did not begin at once to read. He turned the leaves, looking for a paragraph appropriate to the circumstances. In the meanwhile, the girl who had until now remained seated on the bank of the pond, rose from among the forget-me-nots and white briar and advanced slowly toward the group of young people. Even from afar her great eyes could be seen looking into Meir's face. The white goat followed her. Both disappeared in the grove and then Golda emerged and stood behind Meir. She came so quietly that no one noticed her. She threw her arms about the trunk of a birch tree and leaning her head against the softly swaying branch, she caressed the bent head of Meir with her looks. She seemed not to see the other people. At that moment Eliezer exclaimed in his pure, crystalline voice: "Israel, listen!" With these words many psalms and sacred writings of the Hebrews commence. For the young people surrounding Meir this reading of the old master was a psalm of respect and deep spiritual prayer. Eliezer began to read in a chanting voice: "My disciples I You ask me what force attracts the celestial beings of the Heavens, which we call stars, and why some of them rise so high they are lost in mist, and others float more heavily toward the sky, and remain far behind their sisters?" "I will disclose to you the mystery which you seek to solve." "The force attracting the celestial bodies is the Perfection dwelling on the heights, and called God in the human tongue. The stars, seized with love and longing for this Perfection, rise continually in order to approach nearer and take something of wisdom and perfection from the Wise and Perfect." "My disciples, from those celestial beings, which long for the Perfection, come all changes of the moon. They cause different forms and images. . . ." Eliezer stopped reading, and raised his turquoise-like eyes from the book, and they shone with joy. But the others thought a long while, trying to find an answer to their doubts in that passage of the master. Meir answered thoughtfully: "There are men who, like the celestial beings of which the sage talks, raise their souls toward the Perfection. They know that there is perfection, and they try to take from it Wisdom and Goodness for themselves. But there are also people who, like those stars which float more heavily upward, do not long for the perfection, and do not rise through such longing. Such people keep their souls very low. . . ." Now they understood. Joy beamed from all faces. What a small crumb of knowledge it took to make joyful these poor, and at the same time rich, souls! Meir seized the book from his friend's hands, and read from another leaf: "The angels themselves are not all equal. They are classed one above the other, like the steps of a ladder, and the highest among them is the Spirit producing thought and knowledge. This Spirit animates Reason, and Hagada calls it Prince of the World--Sar-ha-Olam!" "The highest angel is the Spirit producing thought and knowledge, and Hagada calls it the Prince of the world," repeated the choir of young voices. Their doubts were scattered. Learning had reawakened respect in their minds, and longing in their hearts, and passed before them in the form of the Angel of Angels, flying over the world arrayed in princely purple, with a shining veil wrought by his thought. Reverie sat on their foreheads and in their eyes. The reverie of a quiet evening covered the meadow blooming around them. Before them purple clouds hung above the forest, hiding behind them the shield of the sun. Behind them the green grove, sunk in dusky shadows, was slumbering motionlessly. Over the meadow and fields floated Eliezer's silvery voice: "I saw the spirit of my people when I slumbered," Jehovah's pale cantor began to sing. And it was not known whence came that song. Who composed it? No one could tell. One verse was given by Eliezer to his friend after a state of ecstatic unconsciousness which visited him often; the second was composed by Aryel, Calman's son, while playing on his violin in the grove. Some of them had their birth in Meir's breast, and others were whispered by the childish lips of Haim, Abraham's son. Thus are composed all folk songs. Their origin is in longing hearts, oppressed thoughts, and instinctive flights toward a better life. Thus was born in Szybow the song which the cantor now began: "Once, while I slumbered, I fancied I saw My people's spirit before me; And I felt a strange spell stealing o'er me, As I gazed on the world in awe." Here the other voices joined that of the cantor, and a powerful chorus resounded through the fields and meadow: "Did he come toward me in royal array, In purple and gold like the dawn of day. Ah, no I on his brow there was no golden crown; His naked knees trembled, hi gray head bowed down." Here the choir of singing voices was mingled with a whisper coming from the birch grove: "Hush! Some people are listening!" In fact, on the road passing through the grove, several human figures appeared in the distance. They were walking very slowly. But the singer heard neither Golda's warning nor the sound of the approaching steps. The second verse of the song resounded over the meadow: "O, my people's spirit, say, where is thy throne? Are the roses of Zion all faded and gone? Are the cedars of Lebanon all broken down? O, my people's spirit, say, where is thy crown?" The last line of the song was still vibrating when, from the road passing through the grove, three men entered the meadow. They were dressed in long, black holiday clothes, and were girded with red handkerchiefs, because it was not permitted to carry them on Sabbath, but being used to gird the clothes were considered as part of the attire, and thus it was not a sin to wear them in that way. In the centre was the cantor's father, Jankiel Kamionker, and on either side were Abraham Ezofowich, Haim's father, and Morejne Calman, the father of Aryel. Notwithstanding the darkness, the fathers recognised their sons in the last rays of the daylight. The voices of the young men trembled, became quiet, and then were silent--only one voice sang further: "Wilt thou never emerge from the darkness, despair? Will thy sweet songs of thanks ne'er resound in the air?" It was Meir's voice. The dignified men, passing through the meadow, stopped and turned toward the group of young men, and at that moment the manly voice was joined by the pure, sonorous voice of Golda, who, seeing the angry faces of the men, began to sing with Meir as though she wished to join him in common courage, and perhaps in common peril. And paying no attention to either his comrades' silence or the threatening figures standing in the meadow the joined voices sang: "Let the wisdom of Heaven knock at thy door, And quiet the grief that has made thy heart sore; And bid the Angel of Knowledge come down, Restoring to thee thy lost glorious crown. We beseech thee to chase the dark shadows away, And the light of God's truth will turn night into day." The song had only three verses, so with the last verse the two voices became silent. The dignitaries of the community turned toward the town, and talking loudly and angrily they went in the direction of the Ezofowich house. Abraham, Saul's son, was quite different from his brother Raphael. Tall, dark-haired, and good-looking still, notwithstanding his more than fifty years, Raphael was dignified and careful, speaking very little. Abraham was small and bent. He was gray-headed, and had a passionate temper and sensitive disposition. He spoke very rapidly and with violent gestures. His eyes were very bright and generally looked gloomily on the ground. Both brothers were learned, and for their learning the high title of 'Morejne' had been bestowed upon them by the community. But Raphael studied especially the Talmud, and was considered one of its best scholars. Abraham, however, preferred the study of the precipice-like mysteries of the Zohar. He was a close friend of the two high dignitaries of the kahal, Morejne Calman and pious Jankiel Kamionker. They transacted business together outside the town, and while in town they read sacred books together, and together they walked every Sabbath beyond the boundaries of the place, as far as an Israelite is permitted to go from his house. Therefore no one saw them go over two thousand steps, and only very seldom, when they were attracted by the shadow of the grove, they bent, and on the spot where their feet reached the two thousandth step they buried in the ground a crumb of bread. That spot then represented their house, and they were allowed to go two thousand steps further. Usually they were silent while walking, for they counted their steps, but the simple spiritually and bodily poor people, seeing them walking slowly and with thoughtful faces, admired the wisdom and orthodoxy of these scholarly and rich men. On seeing them they rose respectfully and stood until they passed, for it is written: "When you see a sage pass by, rise, and do not sit until he is out of your sight." Moreover on their return they spoke, because it was not necessary to count their steps. But the poor people had never seen the three dignified men walk as fast as that evening, when on the meadow they had heard the song of the young men. Even the magnificent Calman himself had not smiled as usual, and as for Jankiel Kamionker, his movements were so violent that his long black dress floated behind him like two black wings. Abraham Ezofowich had ungirded his handkerchief and carried it in his hand. Calman noticed this sign of senseless excitement and warned his friend that he was sinning. Abraham was dreadfully frightened, and in great haste he again girded his loins. When this happened they were already on the piazza of the Ezofowich house. Then the three men entered the room in which old Saul was sitting on the yellow sofa, reading in a large book by the light of two candles, which burned in two antique silver candlesticks. Saul, seeing the entering guests was a little astonished, because it was already quite late and the time was not suitable for a visit. He greeted them, however, with a friendly nod, and pointed to the chairs standing near the sofa. The men did not sit in the places indicated to them, but stood opposite Saul. Although their faces were animated by anger, their mein was solemn. Evidently they had come to an understanding as to how the conversation was to be commenced, for Kamionker spoke first: "Reb Saul," said he, "we come here to complain against your grandson Meir." A painful shiver passed over Saul's face. "What has he done?" he asked in a low voice. Kamionker began to speak, at first solemnly, and then very violently: "Your grandson Meir spoils our sons! He causes their souls to rebel against the Holy Law; he reads to them excommunicated books, and sings worldly songs on the Sabbath! Besides this he is bound by an impure friendship to the Karaimian girl, and we saw in the meadow our sons lying at his feet as though at the feet of their master, and over his head the Karaimian girl stood and sang abominable songs with him." He stopped, out of breath from the angry speech, and Morejne Calman, looking at Saul with his honey like eyes, said slowly: "My son Aryel was there, and I shall punish him for it." Abraham, looking gloomily on the ground, then said: "And my son, your grandson Haim, was also there, and I shall punish him for it." Then all said: "You must punish Meir!" Saul bent his sorrowful face. "Lord of the world," he whispered with trembling lips, "have I deserved that the light of my eyes should be changed into darkness?" Then he raised his head and said with determination: "I will punish him." Abraham's eyes, fixed on his father's face, were shining. "Father," said he, "you must think the most of that Karaimian girl. That unclean friendship between them is a great shame to our whole family. You know, father, our custom--no Israelite shall know another woman save the one his parents have destined for his wife." It seemed that Saul's wrinkled forehead was covered with a pinkish flush. "I will soon marry him," he answered. Abraham continued: "As long as he sees the Karaimian girl he will not care to marry." "And what can I do to prevent him from seeing her?" The three men looked at each other. "Something must be done with her!" said one. After a long while of deep thought, the two guests bowed to Saul and left the house. Abraham remained in the room. "Father," said he, "how do you propose to punish him?" "I will command him to sit for a whole day in the Bet-ha-Midrash and read the Talmud." "It would not do any good," said Abraham, with an impatient gesture; "you had better order him to be flogged." Saul remained bent over. "I shall not do it," he answered. Then he added softly: "Michael's soul passed into the body of my father Hersh, and my father's soul is now dwelling in Meir's body." "And how can you know this?" asked Abraham, evidently shocked by his father's words. "Hersh's wife, the great-grandmother first recognised this soul, and then Rabbi Isaak recognised it." Saul sighed deeply, and repeated: "I will command him to sit in the Bet-ha-Midrash and read the Talmud. He shall neither eat nor sleep in my house for a whole week, and the Shamos (care-taker and messenger of the synagogue) shall announce his shame and punishment through the town!" CHAPTER VIII The Bet-ha-Midrash was a large, well-lighted building standing on the courtyard close to the synagogue. It served for various purposes: people congregated there for the less solemn prayers or lectures; the learned used it for their discussions upon knotty points of the Talmud, here also were kept the books of the different brotherhoods or societies, of which there are many in every Jewish community; and lastly, it served as a place of penance in exceptional cases, when any of the young men had transgressed the religious or moral laws. The punishment was not so much a physical discomfort as a moral one, and left an indelible stain upon the delinquent's character. Opposite the Ha-Midrash rose a smaller but equally well-kept building. It was the Bet-ha-Kahol or Kahol room, where the functionaries of the town council and the elders held sittings. A little further was a more modest building, the Hek-Dosh or poor house, where all those who were unable to work and were hungry had the right to apply for food and shelter. Opposite the house of prayer was the heder or school, where the learned and much-respected Reb Moshe ruled. The court with all its buildings, from the synagogue and hospital to the tiny dwelling of the Rabbi was like the capital of a small realm: everything was there which could promote the well-being of the public. All these buildings had been raised at one time, to embody a great idea, either to serve God or mankind. In what manner these lofty ideas had been perverted and served other purposes than those first conceived is another thing altogether--for this we must go to history. Eight days bad elapsed since the memorable evening when the young men bad conversed and sung together on the meadow. On the ninth day, after sunset, Meir left the Ha-Midrash and stood in its high portico. Obedient to the order of the head of the family, he had spent the week in utter solitude, reading the Talmud which he knew so well already, and for which, in spite of all the doubts which troubled his mind, he never lost the reverence implanted into him from his childhood. The penance had not brought him any physical discomforts; his meals were carried to him from home, where the charitable women had tried to make them even more palatable than usual. Nevertheless, he was much changed. He looked paler, thinner, yet withal more manly. Neither in his expression nor bearing was there any trace of his former almost childish timidity. Perhaps his intelligence had rebelled against the injustice of the punishment; it may be the solitude and the study of the many volumes in the Ha-Midrash had called forth new ideas and confirmed him in the old ones. The nervous contraction of his brow and his feverish burning eyes betrayed hard mental work, all the harder because without help or guide. The penance inflicted upon him bad missed its aim. Instead of quieting and soothing the restless spirit, it made him bolder and more rebellious. When Meir descended the steps into the court another feeling took hold of him--that of shame. At the sight of several people crossing the courtyard he dropped his eyes and blushed. They were elders of the Kahol, who seeing Meir, pointed at him and laughed. One of them, Jankiel Kamionker, did not laugh, and seemingly had not noticed the young man. He was walking apart from his companions, and his face looked troubled and preoccupied. Instead of entering into the Kahol building with the other men, he almost stealthily approached the almshouse; he only passed it, but it was sufficient to exchange a few whispered words with a man whose shaggy hair and swollen face appeared at the open window. Meir knew the man, and silently wondered what business the rich and pious Jankiel could have with a thief and vagrant like the carrier Johel. But he did not think much about it, and directed his steps, not towards home, but to a small passage near the school, which would bring him out into the fields; he was longing for space and air. He stood still for a few minutes. An odd murmuring noise, rising and falling, mixed with an occasional wailing reached his ear; it was dominated by a thick, hoarse voice alternately reading, talking, and scolding. A peculiar smile crossed Meir's face; it expressed anger and compassion. He was standing near the school where the melamed Reb Moshe infused knowledge into the juvenile minds. Something seemed to attract him there; he leaned his elbows on the window-sill and looked in. It was a narrow, low and evil-smelling room. Between the blackened ceiling, the wall and the floor full of dirt and litter, which filled the air with a damp and heavy vapour, there seethed and rocked a compact, gray mass which produced the murmuring noise. By and by, as if out of a dense fog, childish faces seemed to detach themselves. The faces were various, some dark and coarse, as if swollen with disease; others pale, delicate and finely cut. As various as the faces were their expressions; there were those who, with mouth wide open and idiotic eyes stared into vacancy; others twitched and fretted with ill concealed impatience but most of them, though suffering, looked patient and submissive. Their outward appearance showed an equal variety, from the decent coat of the rich man's child, in gentle graduations to the sleeveless jackets and tatters of the very poorest classes. Some fifty children were crowded into that room which barely accommodated half that number. They sat almost one upon the other, on hard dirty benches, closely packed together. This was not the only school in Szybow but none of the others was so eagerly sought after by parents as the one conducted by Reb Moshe, known by his piety and cabalistic knowledge, the favourite of the Rabbi. It must not be thought that Reb Moshe initiated his scholars into the first steps of learning; this would have been sheer waste of his capabilities--which aimed at something higher. The children he received were from ten to twelve years old, who had already been taught in other schools to read Hebrew and the Chumesh or Five Books of Moses, with all their explanations and commentaries; after that they came under the tuition of Reb Moshe and were introduced to the Talmud, with all its chapters, paragraphs, debatable points, and commentaries above commentaries. All this would have been more than sufficient to enlarge or confuse the minds of those pale, miserable children; but Reb Moshe in his zeal did not content himself with exercising the memory of his scholars; he wanted also to develop their imagination, and sometimes treated them to extracts from the metaphysical Kabala. The reading or expounding of parts of those books was looked upon by him as a kind of rest or recreation, which sometimes it proved to be when the melamed was too deeply absorbed to watch his audience. The melamed was thus occupied when Meir looked through the window. He was bending over a heavy book with an expression of ecstatic rapture, and rocking his body to and fro with the chair upon which he sat. The scholars with their books before them were also rocking themselves and repeating their lessons in a loud murmur, sometimes smiting the edge of the bench with their fists by way of emphasis, or burying their hands in their already tangled manes. Suddenly the melamed left off rocking himself, took the heavy book in both hands and struck it with all his might on the table. It was the signal for silence. The scholars left off rocking and raised their eyes in sudden alarm, thinking the time bad come to give out their lessons. But the melamed was not thinking of the lessons; his spirit had been carried away into other spheres altogether, but he was still dimly conscious of his duties as a teacher, and wanted his scholars to share in his spiritual rapture. He raised his finger and began to read a paragraph from the Scheier Koma. "The great prince of knowledge thus describes the greatness of Jehovah: The height of Jehovah is one hundred six and thirty times a thousand leagues. From the right band, of Jehovah to His left the distance is seventy-seven times ten thousand leagues. His skull is three times ten thousand leagues in length and breadth. The crown of His head is sixty times ten thousand leagues long. The soles of the feet of the King of Kings are thirty thousand leagues long. From the heel to the knee, nineteen times ten thousand leagues; from the knees to the hip, twelve times ten thousand and four leagues; from the loins to the neck, twenty-four times ten thousand leagues. Such is the greatness of the King of Kings, the Lord of the world." After this last exclamation, Heb Moshe, his hands raised in the air, remained motionless. Motionless likewise were the children. All, without exception, the timid and the mischievous, the idiotic and the sensible ones, stared open-mouthed at the melamed The description of Jehovah's greatness seemed to have paralysed their minds. After a short pause the melamed woke up to the every-day business, and called out: "Go on." The children again resumed their murmur and rocking. It would have been impossible from their confused voices to get an inkling of what they were learning but Meir, who had passed through the same course and possessed an excellent memory, understood that they were at the eighth chapter of Berachot (about the blessing). The children, with great efforts that brought the perspiration to their faces, read in a singing murmur: "Mischna, 1. The disputed questions between the schools of Shamai and Hillel. The school of Shamai says: 'First, bless the day and then the wine.' The school of Hillel says: 'First bless the wine and then the day' (the Sabbath)." "Mischna 2. The school of Shamai says: 'To wash the hands, then fill the cup.' Hillel says: 'Fill the cup, then wash the hands.'" "Mischna 3. The school of Shamai says: 'After washing, put the napkin on the table.' The school of Hillel says: 'Put it on a cushion.'" "Mischna 4. The school of Shamai says 'Sweep the room, then wash your hands.' The school of Hillel says: 'Wash your hands, then sweep the room.'" A double knock with the heavy book upon the rickety table reduced the scholars to silence once more. The melamed's round and gleaming eyes wandered around the room as if in search of a victim. He pointed to one of the hindmost benches, and called out: "Lejbele!" A pale and slender child rose at the summons and fixed a pair of large, frightened eyes upon the teacher. "Come here." There was a great rustle among the boys, for it was no easy matter to pass across that dense mass of children. Lejbele at last managed to squeeze himself through, and holding his book with both hands, stood within the small space between the teacher's table and the front bench. He did not look at the melamed, but kept his eyes fixed upon the book. "Why do you look down like a brigand? Look at me!" and the melamed struck him under the chin. The child looked at him, his eyes slowly filling with tears. "Well! what does the school of Shamai say, and what the school of Hillel?" began the melamed. There was a long silence. The children of the first bench nudged his elbow, and whispered: "Speak out!" "The school of Shamai," began Lejbele, in a trembling voice, says, "bless the wine. . . ." "The day--the day, and then the wine," whispered a few compassionate voices from the first bench. But, at the same time, the melamed's hand came into contact with the ear of one of the offenders, and his yell reduced the others to silence. Reb Moshe turned again to the child. "Mischna the first. What says the school of Shamai?" The answer came in a still more trembling, almost inaudible, voice: "The school of Shamai says: 'Bless the wine'. The melamed's fist came down upon the young Talmudist's shoulder, out of whose hands the heavy book slipped and fell upon the floor. "You bad, abominable boy," yelled the melamed, "you do not learn your lessons, and you throw your book upon the floor. Did you not read that the school of Shamai says, 'To bless first the day and then the wine?'" Here a loud and sarcastic voice from the window called out; "Reb Moshe, that poor child has never seen wine in his life, and suffers hunger and flogging every day; it is not easy for him to remember whether to bless first the day and then the wine." But Reb Moshe did not hear that speech, because both his hands were busy belabouring the head and shoulders of his pupil, who, without crying out, tried to avoid the blows by ducking on the floor. Suddenly a pair of strong hands pushed the melamed aside, and he, losing his footing, fell down, carrying with him the rickety table. "Reb Moshe!" called out the same sarcastic and angry voice. "Is this not an Israelitish child that you wreak your spite upon it? Is it not a poor man's child and our brother?" His face burning with indignation, he bent down, and raising the child in his arms, turned towards the door. "Reb Moshe, you drive all intelligence out of the children's heads, kill all the feeling in their hearts; I heard them laughing when you beat Lejbele." Saying this, he disappeared with the child in his arms. Only then did Reb Moshe awaken from the stupefaction into which the sudden assault had plunged him, and disengaging his burly frame from under the table, he shouted: "Assassin! murderer!" and turning towards his scholars, yelled: "Get hold of him! stone him!" But he addressed empty benches; the books lay scattered about and the seats turned upside down. The scholars, seeing their master prostrate under the table, and one of their companions rescued by main force, had all rushed, partly from fright and partly from a wish for liberty, through the door and dispersed about the town like a flight of birds released from a cage. The school was empty and the court deserted, except for a few grave looking men who stood in the portico of the Bet-ha-Kahol, and towards them rushed the frantic melamed, panting and tearing his hair. Meir in the meanwhile went swiftly on, with the child in his arms, whose tears fell thick and fast; but the eyes which looked through the tears at Meir were no longer the tears of an idiot. "Morejne!" whispered Lejbele. "Morejne!" he repeated, in a still lower voice, "how good you are!" At the corner of the little street where the tailor lived, Meir put the child down. "There," he said, pointing at Shmul's house, "go home now." The child stiffened, put his hands into his sleeves, and remained motionless. Meir smiled and looked into his face: "Are you afraid?" "I am afraid," said the motionless boy. Instead of returning as he had intended, the young man went towards Shmul's hut, followed at a distance by Lejbele. The day was almost over, and so was work in the little street. The pale and ragged inhabitants crowded before their thresholds. Scarcely had Meir penetrated into the street, where he became aware of a great change in the attitude of the people towards him. Formerly, the grandson of Saul had been greeted effusively on all sides; they had come to him with their complaints, sometimes asked for advice; others had greeted him from their windows with loud voices. Now scarcely anybody seemed to notice him. The men looked away; the women glanced at him with curiosity, whispered to each other, and pointed their fingers at him. One of the woodcutters with whom he had worked at his grandfather's looked at him sadly and withdrew into his hut. Meir shrugged his shoulders impatiently. "What is it all about?" he thought. "What wrong have I done to them?" Strange it seemed to him also that the tailor did not rush out to meet him with his usual effusive flatteries and complainings; nevertheless he entered the dwelling. Lejbele remained outside, crouching near the wall. The young man had to bend his head in order to enter the low doorway leading into the dark entrance where two goats were dimly visible, thence to the room where the air, in spite of the open window, felt heavy and oppressive. A thin woman with a wrinkled face passed him on the threshold. It was Shmul's wife, who carried a piece of brown bread to the child outside, Lejbele's supper when he came home from school. The whole family were eating a similar supper, with the exception of the elder and grown-up people, who seasoned their bread with pinches of chopped raw onion, of which a small quantity was lying on a battered plate. Besides Lejbele, there were two younger boys sitting on the floor, a two-year-old child crawled about on all fours, and a baby a few months old was suspended in a cradle near the ceiling, and rocked by one of the elder girls. Another girl was busy with the goats, and a third was feeding a blind old woman, Shmul's mother. She broke the bread in pieces, sprinkled onion upon it, and put it into the grandmother's hand, sometimes into her mouth. The blind mother was the only one in the family who possessed a bed; the others slept on the floor or upon the hard benches. She looked well cared for, the crossover on her shoulders was clean and whole, and on her head she had a quilted cap of black satin, profusely trimmed. The grand-daughter seemed quite absorbed in task of feeding the old woman. She patted wrinkled hand encouragingly when she perceived difficulty in masticating the hard food. As in the prosperous household of Saul, so in the dirty hut of the tailor, Shmul, the mother occupied the first place, and was the object of general care and reverence. Such a thing as a son, be he rich or poor, neglecting those who gave him life, is never seen in Israel. "Like the branches of a tree, we all sprang from her," said the head of the house of Ezofowich. The tailor, Shmul, could not express his feelings like Saul, but when his mother lost her sight, he tore his long, curly hair in despair, fasted with his whole family for three days, and with the money thus saved bought an old bedstead, which he put together with his own hands against the wall; and when Sarah Ezofowich, Ber's wife, gave him an order to sew a black satin dress for her, he cut a goodish piece from the material to make a quilted cap for his mother. When Shmul saw Meir coming into the room, he jumped up, bending his flexible body in two; but he did not kiss his hand as usual, or call out joyfully: "Ai! what a visitor, what a welcome visitor! Morejne!", he exclaimed, "I have heard of what you have done. The children from school came running past, and said you had knocked the melamed under the table and rescued my Lejbele from his powerful hands. You did it out of kindness, but it was a rash deed, Morejne, and a sinful one, and will bring me into great trouble. Reb Moshe will not take Lejbele back, nor receive any of my other boys, and they will remain stupid and ignorant. Ai! Ai! Morejne, you have brought trouble upon me and upon yourself with your kindly heart." "Do not trouble about me, Shmul; never mind about what I have brought upon myself, but take pity upon your child, and at least do not whip him at home; he suffers enough at school." "And what if he suffers?" exclaimed Shmul. "His fathers went to school, and I went there and suffered the same; it cannot be helped; it is necessary." "And have you never thought, Shmul, that things might be different?" questioned Meir gently. Shmul's eyes flashed. "Morejne!" he exclaimed, "do not utter sinful words under my roof. My hut is a poor one, but, thanks to the Lord, we keep the law and obey the elders. The tailor Shmul is very poor, and by the work of his hands supports his wife, eight children, and his blind mother. But he is poor before the Lord, and before the people, because faithfully he keeps the covenant and the Sabbath, eats nothing that is unclean, says all his prayers, crying aloud before the Lord. He does not keep friendship with the Goims (aliens) as the Lord protects and loves only the Israelites, and they only possess a soul. Thus lives the tailor Shmul, even as his fathers lived before him." When the flexible and fiery Shmul had finished, Meir asked very gently: "And were your fathers happy? and you, Shmul, are you happy?" This question brought before the tailor's eyes a vision of all his sufferings. "Ai! Ai! Let not my worst enemy be as happy as I am. The skin sticks to my bones, and my heart is full of pain." A deep sigh, from the corner of the room, seemed to re-echo the tailor's sorrowful outburst. Meir turned round, and seeing a big shadowy figure in the corner, asked, "Who is that?" Shmul nodded his head plaintively and waved his hands. "It is the carrier, Johel, come to see me. We have known each other a long time." At the same time a tall, heavy man came into the light, and approached the two. Johel was powerfully built, but he looked broken down and troubled. His jacket, without sleeves, was dirty and ragged, his bare feet cut and bruised, the fiery red hair matted, and the mouth swollen. There was something defiant in his looks, and yet he seemed as if he could not look anybody straight in the face. He went near the table to take a pinch of onion to season the bread he was holding in his hand. "Meir," he said, "you are an old acquaintance. I drove your uncle Raphael when he went to fetch you, a poor little orphan, and I drove you and him to Szybow." "I have seen you since," said Meir. "You were a decent carrier then, and had four horses." The inmate of the poorhouse smiled. "It is true," he said; "bad luck pursued me. I wanted to make a great geschaft (business), but it did not turn out as I thought it would, and then another misfortune befell me." "The second misfortune, Johel, was a crime. Why did you take the horses out of the gentleman's stables?" The questioned man laughed cynically. "Why did I take them out? I wanted to sell them, and make a lot of money." Shmul shook his head pityingly. "Ah! ah!" he sighed. "Johel is a poor man--a very poor man. He has been in prison three years, and now cannot find work, but is obliged to seek shelter in the poorhouse." Johel sighed deeply, but soon raised his head almost defiantly. "That cannot be helped," he said. "Perhaps I shall soon see my way to make a big profit." The words of the vagrant recalled to Meir's mind the short interview he had witnessed at the window of the poorhouse between Johel and Jankiel Kamionker. At the same time, he was struck by the expression of the tailor's face, which twitched all over as if under the influence of great excitement. His eyes sparkled and his hands trembled. "Who knows," he exclaimed, "what may happen in the future? Those that are poor one day may become rich the next. Who knows? The poor tailor Shmul may yet build a house on the Market Square, and set up in business for himself." Meir smiled sadly. The groundless hopes of these poor outcasts stirred his compassion. He looked absently around, and through the windows at the fields beyond. "You, Shmul," he said, "will certainly not build big houses; nor you, Johel, make heavy profits. Is it to be thought of? You are too many, and there is not enough for you all. I sometimes think that if you left these narrow, dirty streets, and looked about in the world, you might find a better way of living; even if you worked like peasants on the soil your life would be easier." He said this in an absent way, not so much addressing the two men before him as the noisy crowd without. But when Shmul heard these words, he twice jumped into the air, and twisted his cap upon his head. "Morejne!" he cried out, "what ugly words come from your lips. Morejne, do you wish to turn Israel upside down?" "Shmul," said Meir angrily, "it is true. When I look at your misery, and the misery of your families, I should like to turn things upside down." "Ai! ai!" cried the impressible and lively Shmul, holding his head with both hands. "I would not believe what the people said of you, and called them liars; but now I see myself that you are a bad Israelite, and the covenant and customs of your forefathers are no longer dear to you." Meir started, and drew himself up. "Who dares to say that I am a bad Israelite?" he exclaimed. Shmul's excited face took a quieter but more solemn expression, and he came close to Meir. Nobody would hear him, as the inmates of the room had gone into the street, and Johel retired into his corner to finish his meal. All the same, he spoke in an impressive whisper, as if about to disclose a terrible secret. "Morejne, it is no use asking who said it. People whisper, like the leaves on a tree. Who is to say which special leaf has whispered, or which mouth? Everybody speaks ill of you. They say you break the Sabbath, read accursed books, sing abominable songs, and incite young men to rebellion, that you do not pay due respect to the learned and wealthy members of the community, and,"--here he seemed to hesitate, and added in a still lower voice--"and that you live in friendship with the Karaitish girl." Meir listened like one turned to stone. He had grown very pale, and his eyes were flashing. "Who dames to say that?" he repeated in a choking voice. "Morejne!" replied Shmul, waving both hands, "you were sent for a week into the Bet-ha-Midrash to do penance. When the poor people in this street heard of it, there was a great commotion. Some wanted to go to your grandfather Saul and to the Rabbi to ask them not to put you to shame. The woodcutter Judel wanted to go, the carrier Baruch--well, the tailor Shmul, too. But soon afterwards people began to talk, and we heard why you had been punished; then we remained quiet, and said to each other: He is good and charitable, never proud with poor people, and has helped us often in our misery; but if he keeps not the covenant, his grandfather Saul is right to punish him." He stopped at last, out of breath with his rapid speech, and Meir fixed his penetrating eyes upon him, and asked: "Shmul, if the learned and wealthy people ordered me to be stoned, would you also think they were right?" Shmul retreated a few steps in horror. "Ugh!" he exclaimed, "why should you think of such terrible things?" and then added, in a thoughtful voice: "Well, Morejne, if you do not keep the holy covenant--" Meir interrupted, in a louder tone: "And do you know yourself, Shmul, what is the covenant? How much of it is God's law, and how much people's invention?" "Hush!" hissed Shmul, in a low voice. "People can hear, and I should not like anything unpleasant to happen to you under my roof." Meir looked through the window, and saw several people sitting on the bench before Shmul's house. They did not seem to listen, but talked among themselves; at the last words of Meir and Shmul they had raised their heads and looked through the window with a half-astonished, half-indignant expression. Meir shrugged his shoulders impatiently, and without saying good-bye turned towards the door. He had almost crossed the threshold when Shmul rushed after him, stooped down, and kissed his hand. "Morejne," he whispered, "I am sorry for you. Think better of it; reflect in time, and do not cause scandal in Israel. Your heart is made of gold, but your head is full of fire. Remember what you did to the melamed to-day! If you were not under such a terrible cloud, Morejne," he went on, raising a nervous twitching face up to Meir, "I should have opened my heart before you, for Shmul is in sore trouble to-day. I do not know what to do! He may remain poor all his life, or he may become rich; he may be happy or very wretched. A great fortune is coming to him, and he is afraid to take it because it looks like misfortune." Meir looked in silent amazement at the poor man, who evidently was trying to convey some secret to him; but at the same time from beyond the blackened stove came Johel's deep voice: "Shmul, will you be quiet! Come here, I want you!" The tailor, with his face troubled, rushed towards him, and Meir, deeply musing, went out into the street. It was evident from the clouded mien of the men and their scanty greetings that he was not so welcome to them as he used to be. Nobody rose when he passed, or approached him with a friendly word. Only the child got up as he went by, pushed his hands into the sleeves of his garment, and followed him. Walking one behind the other, they crossed a long, narrow street, and found themselves in the fields which divided Abel Karaim's hut from the town. It was now almost dark, but no flickering light was to be seen in Abel's window. They were not asleep yet, as Meir could see the dark outline of Golda near the window. They greeted each other with a silent motion of the head. "Golda," said Meir, in a low and rapid voice, "have you met with any unpleasantness lately? Has anybody molested you?" The girl pondered a little over his question. "Why do you ask me that, Meir?" "I was afraid some injury might have been done to you. People have spread some foolish slander about us." "I do not mind injury; I have grown up with it. Injury is my sister." Meir still looked troubled. "Why have you no light burning?" he asked. "I have nothing to spin, and zeide prays in darkness." "And why have you nothing to spin?" "I carried the yarn to Hannah Witebska and Sarah, Ber's wife, and they did not give me any more wool." "They have not insulted you?" asked Meir angrily Golda was again silent. "People's eyes often say worse things than tongues," she replied at last quietly. Evidently she did not want to complain, or it may be her mind was too full of other things to heed it much. "Meir," she said, "you have been in great trouble yourself lately?" Meir sat down upon the bench outside and leaned his head upon his hand with a weary sigh. "The greatest trouble and grief fell upon me to-day when I found that the people had turned away from me. Their former friendship has changed into ill feeling, and those that confided in me suspect me now of evil." Golda hung her head sadly, and Meir went on: "I do not know myself what to do. If I follow the promptings of my heart, my people will hate and persecute me. If I act against my conscience I shall hate myself and never know peace and happiness. Whilst I was sitting in the Bet-ha-Midrash I had almost made up my mind to let things be, and to try and live in peace with everybody; but when I had left the Ha-Midrash my temper again got the better of me, and rescuing a poor child I offended the melamed, and through him the elders and the people. That is what I have done to-day. Arid when I come to think of it, it seems to me a rash, useless act, as it will not prevent the melamed from destroying the poor children's health and intelligence. What can I do? I am alone, young, without a wife and family, or any position in the world. They can do with me what they like, and I can do nothing. They will persecute my friends until they desert me; they have already begun to injure and insult you, because you gave me your heart and joined your voice with mine on the meadow. I shall only bring unhappiness to you; perhaps it would be better to shut my eyes and ears to everything, and live like other people." His voice became lower and lower, and more difficult from the inward struggle with doubts and perplexities. Both remained silent for a few minutes, when suddenly a strange noise, seemingly from the other side of the hill, reached their ears. First it sounded faint and distant, like the passing of many wheels upon a soft and sandy soil. It grew louder by degrees, till the grating of wheels and stamping of many human feet could be heard quite distinctly. All this amidst the dark silence of the night gave it a mysterious, almost unreal appearance. Meir stood straight up and listened intently. "What is that?" he asked. "What can it be?" said Golda, in her quiet voice. It seemed as if a great many carts were passing on the other side of the hill. "I thought something rumbled and knocked inside the hill," said Golda. Indeed, it sounded now like human steps inside the hill, and as if some heavy weights were being thrown down. There was fear in Meir's face. He looked intently at Golda. "Shut the window, and bolt your door," he said quickly; "I will go and see what it is!" It was evident that he feared only on her account. "Why should I fasten either window or door? A strong hand could easily wrench them open." Meir went round the base of the hill, and soon found himself on the other side. What he saw there filled him with the greatest astonishment. In a half-circle, upon the sandy furrows, stood a great many carts laden with casks of all sizes. Around the carts a great many people were moving--peasants and Jews. The peasants were busy unload-the carts and rolling the casks into a cavern, which either nature or human hands had shaped in the hill. The Jews, who were flitting in and out among the carts and looking at the casks, or sounding them with their knuckles, finally crowded round a man who stood leaning his back against the side of the hill, and a low-voiced, but lively discussion followed. Among the Jews, Meir recognised several innkeepers of the neighbourhood, and in the man with whom they conversed, Jankiel Kamionker. The peasants whose task it was to unload the carts preserved a gloomy silence. A strong smell of alcohol permeated the air. The astonishment of Meir did not last long. He began to see the meaning of the whole scene, and seemingly had made up his mind what to do, as he moved a few steps in Jankiel Kamionker's direction. He had not gone far when a huge shadow detached itself from a projection of the hill and barred the way. "Where are you going, Meir?" whispered the man. "Why do you stop me from going, Johel?" replied Meir, as he tried to push him aside. But Johel grasped him by the coat tails. "Do you no longer care for you life?" he whispered. "I am sorry for you, because you are good and charitable; take warning and go at once." "But I want to know what Reb Jankiel and his innkeepers are going to do with the casks," persisted Meir. "It does not concern you," whispered Johel. "Let neither your eyes see nor your ears hear what Reb Jankiel is doing. He is engaged in a big business; you will only hinder him. Why should you stand in his way? What will you gain by it? Besides, what can you do against him?" Meir remained silent, and turned in another direction. "What can I do?" he whispered to himself; with quivering lips. Passing near Abel Karaim's hut, he saw Golda still standing at the window. He nodded to her. "Sleep in peace." But she called out to him: "Meir, here is a child sitting on the floor asleep." He came nearer and saw, close to the bench where he had been sitting, the crouching figure of a child. "Lejbele!" he said, wonderingly. He had not seen the lad, who had quietly followed him and sat down close to him. "Lejbele!" repeated Meir, and he put his hand upon the child's head. He opened a pair of half-unconscious eyes and smiled. "Why did you come here?" asked Meir, kindly. The child seemed to collect his thoughts, and then answered: "I followed you." "Father and mother will not know what has become of you." "Father sleeps, and mother sleeps," began Lejbele, rocking his head; "and the goats are sleeping," he added after a while, and at the remembrance of those, his best friends, he laughed aloud. But from Meir's lips the slight smile had vanished. He sighed and said, as if to himself: "How shall I act? What ought I to do?" Golda, with her hands crossed above her head, looked thoughtfully up to the starry sky. After a while she whispered timidly: "I will ask zeide; zeide is very learned; he knows the whole Bible by heart." "Ask him," said Meir. The girl turned her head towards the dark interior, and called out: "Zeide! What does Jehovah command a man to do, from whom the people have turned away because he will not act against his conscience?" Abel interrupted his prayers. He was accustomed to his grand-daughter's inquiries, and to answer them. He seemed to ponder a few minutes, and then in his quavering but distinct voice, replied: "Jehovah says: 'I made you a prophet, a guardian over Israel! Hear my words and repeat them to the people. If you do this, I shall call you a faithful servant; if you remain silent, on your head be the woes of Israel.'" The old voice became silent, but Meir listened still, with glowing eyes. Then he pointed into the dark room and said: "He has said the truth! Through his mouth has spoken the old covenant of Moses, the one true covenant." Tears gleamed in Golda's eyes; but Meir saw them not, so deeply was he absorbed in thoughts which fired his whole being. He gently bent his head before the girl and went away. She remained at the open window. Her bearing was quiet, but silent tears one after another rolled down her thin face. "They beheaded the prophet Hosea, and drove the prophet Jeremiah out of Jerusalem," she whispered. At a distance from the hut, Meir raised his face to heaven: "Rabbi Akiba died in great tortures for his convictions," he murmured. Golda's eyes followed him still though she could see him no longer; and folding her hands, she murmured: "Like as Ruth said to Naomi, I wilt say to the light of my soul: 'Whither thou goest I will go; where thou diest, I will die!'" In this way these two children, thoroughly imbued with the old history and legends of Israel, which represented to them all earthly knowledge, drew from them comfort and courage. CHAPTER IX The day had scarcely begun to dawn when, in Kamionker's house, everybody, with the exception of the little children, was awake and stirring. It was an important day for the landlord of the inn, as it was that of the principal fair, which brought crowds of people of all sorts to the town. Both Jankiel's daughters, two strong, plain, and slatternly girls, with the help of the boy Mendel, whose stupid, malicious face bore the traces of Reb Moshe's training, were busy preparing the two guest rooms for the arrival of distinguished customers. Next to the guest rooms was the large bar-room, where, during the fair, crowds of country people were wont to drink and to dance. The servant pretended to clean the benches around the wall, and made a scanty fire in the great black stove, as the morning was cool and the air damp and musty. In Jankiel's room, the first from the entrance, the window of which looked upon the still empty market-square, were two people, Jankiel and his wife Jenta, both at their morning prayers. Jankiel, dressed his everyday gabardine with black kerchief twisted round his neck, rocked his body violently and prayed in a loud voice: "Blessed be the Lord of the world that he hath not made me a heathen! Blessed be the Lord that he hath not made me a slave! Blessed be the Lord that he hath not made me a woman!" At the same time Jenta, dressed in a blue sleeveless jacket and short skirt, bent her body in short, jerky motions, and in a voice much lower than her husband's, began: "Blessed be the Lord of the world that he has made me according to his will!" Rocking to and fro, she sighed heavily: "Blessed be the Lord who gives strength to the tired and drives away from their eyes sleep and weariness!" Then Jankiel took up the white tallith with the black border, and, wrapping himself in its soft folds, exclaimed: "Blessed be the Lord who enlightened us with his law and bade us to cover ourselves with the tallith!" He put the philacteries, or holy scroll, upon his forehead and wrists, saying: "I betroth myself for ever, betroth myself unto truth, unto the everlasting grace." Both husband and wife were so absorbed in their prayers that they did not hear the quick step of a man. Meir Ezofowich crossed the room where Jankiel and his wife were praying, and the next, which was full of beds and trunks, where the two smaller children were still asleep, and opened the door of his friend's room. There was as yet only a dim light in the little apartment where Eliezer stood at the window and prayed. He recognised his friend's step, but did not interrupt his prayers, only raised his hands as if inviting him to join: "O Lord of Hosts, how long wilt thou be angry against the prayer of thy people?" Meir stood a few steps apart and responded, as the people respond to the singer: "Thou feedest them with the bread of stones, and givest them tears to drink in great measure." "Thou makest us a strife unto our neighbours, and our enemies laugh among themselves," intonated Eliezer. In this way the two friends sang one of the most beautiful complaints that ever rose from earth to heaven. Every word is a tear, every word a melody expressing the tragic history of a great people. There were as different expressions in the faces of the two young men as their characters were unlike each other. Eliezer's blue eyes were full of tears, his delicate features full of dreaminess and rapture; Meir stood erect, his burning eyes fixed on the sky, and his brow contracted as if in anger. They both prayed from the depths of their hearts until the end, and then their formally united souls parted. Eliezer intoned a prayer for the Wise Men of Israel: "O Lord of heaven! guard and watch over the Wise Men of Israel, their wives, children and disciples, always and everywhere! Say unto me Amen!" Meir did not say Amen. He was silent. The singer seemed to wait for a response, when Meir, slightly raising his voice, said, with quivering lips: "Guard, O Lord, and watch over our brethren in Israel that live in sin and darkness, always and everywhere; bring them from darkness into light, from bondage to freedom! Say unto me Amen!" "Amen!" exclaimed Eliezer, turning towards his friend; and their hands met in a hearty grasp. "Eliezer," said Meir, "you look changed since I saw you last." "And you, Meir, look different." Only a week had passed over their heads. Sometimes one week means as much as ten years. "I have suffered much during the week," whispered the singer. Meir did not complain. "Eliezer," he said, "give me 'More Nebuchim.' I came to you so early to ask for that book. I want it very much." Eliezer stood with his head hanging down dejectedly. "I no longer have the book," he said, in a low voice. "Where is it?" asked Meir. "The book which brought us light and comfort is no more. The fire has devoured it, and its ashes are scattered to the winds." "Eliezer!" burst out Meir, "have you got frightened and burned it?" "My hands could never have committed the deed; even had my mouth commanded it, they would not have obeyed. A week ago my father came to me in great fury and ordered me to give up the accursed book we had been reading on the meadow. He shouted at me, 'Have you that book?' I said, 'I have.' He then asked me, 'Where is it?' I remained silent. He looked as if he would have liked to beat me, but did not dare, on account of my position in the synagogue, and the love people bear me. He then ransacked the whole room, and at last found it under the pillow. He wanted to carry it to the Rabbi, but I knelt before him and begged him not to do so, as he would not allow me to sing any more, and would deprive me of people's love, and of my singing. Father seemed struck by my remark, for he is proud that a son of his, and one so young in years, holds such a position, and he thinks, also, that, when his son sings and prays before the Lord, the Lord will prosper him in his business, and forgive all his sins. So he did not take the book to the Rabbi, but thrust it into the fire, and, when it burned and crackled, he leaped and danced for joy." "And you, Eliezer, you looked on and did nothing?" "What could I do?" whispered the singer. "I should have put the book on my breast, protected it with my arms, and said to my father, 'If you wish to burn it, burn me with it.'" Meir said this with indignation, almost anger, against his friend. Eliezer stood before him with downcast eyes, sad, and humbled. "I could not," he whispered. "I was afraid they would deprive me of my office, and denounce me as an infidel. But look at me, Meir, and judge from it how I loved our Master; since he was taken away from me my face has shrunk, and my eyes are red with tears." "Oh, tears! tears! tears!" exclaimed Meir, throwing himself upon a chair, and pressing his throbbing temples with both hands; "always those tears and tears!" he repeated, with a half-sarcastic, half-sorrowful voice. "You may weep for ever, and do no good either to yourself or to others. Eliezer! I love you even as a brother; but I do not like your tears, and do not care to look at your reddened eyes. Eliezer, do not show me tears again; show me eyes full of fire. The people love you, and would follow you like a child its mother." Scolding and upbraiding his friend, Meir's eyes betrayed a moisture which, not wishing to betray, he buried his face in both hands. "Oh, Eliezer, what have you done to give up that book? Where shall we go now for advice and comfort? Where shall we find another teacher? The flames have consumed the soul of our souls, and the ashes have been thrown to the winds. If the spirit of the Master sees it he will say, 'My people have cursed me again,'" and tears dropped through his fingers upon the rough deal table. Suddenly he stopped his laments, and, changing his position, fell into a deep reverie. Eliezer opened the window. The sandy ground of the market-square seemed divided in long slanting paths of red and gold by the rays of the rising sun. Along one of these shining paths, towards Kamionker's house, came a powerful bare-footed man. His heavy step sounded near the window where the two young men were sitting. Meir raised his head; the man had already passed, but a short glimpse of the matted red hair and swollen face was enough for Meir to identify him as the carrier, Johel. A few minutes later two men dressed in black passed near the window. One of them was tall, stately, and smiling; the other, slightly stooping, had iron-gray hair and a wrinkled brow. They were Morejne Calman and Abraham Ezofowich. Evidently they had not crossed the square, but passed along the back streets almost stealthily, as if to avoid being seen. Both disappeared in the entrance of Kamionker's house, where Johel had preceded them. Eliezer looked up from the book which he had been reading. "Meir," he said, "why do you look so stern? I have never seen you look so stern before." Meir did not seem to have heard his friend's remark. His eyes were fixed upon the floor, and he murmured: "My uncle Abraham! My uncle Abraham! Woe to our house. Shame to the house of Ezofowich!" In the next room, divided from Eliezer's by a thin wall, loud voices and bustle were audible. Jankiel shouted at his wife to go away and take the children with her. Jenta's low shoes clattered upon the floor, and the suddenly-roused children began to squall. By degrees the noise sounded fainter and farther off. Then the floor resounded with the steps of men, chairs were drawn together, and a lively discussion in low but audible voices began. Meir suddenly rose. "Eliezer," he whispered, "let us go away." "Why should we go away?" said the young man, raising his head from the book. "Because the walls are thin," began Meir. He did not finish, for from the other side of the wall came the violent exclamation from his uncle Abraham: "I do not know anything about that; you did not tell me, Jankiel." The mirthless, bilious cackle of Jankiel interrupted. "I know a thing or two," he exclaimed; "I knew that you, Abraham, would not easily agree to it. I shall manage that without your help." "Hush!" hissed Calman. The voices dropped again to a whisper. "Eliezer, go away!" insisted Meir. The singer did not seem to understand. "Eliezer! do you want to honour your father, as it is commanded from Sinai?" Kamionker's son sighed. "I pray to Jehovah that I may honour him." Meir grasped him by the hand. "Then go at once--go! if you stop here any longer you will never be able to honour your father again!" He spoke so impressively that Eliezer grew pale and began to tremble. "How can I go now, if they are discussing secrets there?" The voice of Jankiel became again distinctly audible: "The tailor Shmul is desperately poor; the driver Johel is a thief. Both will be well paid." "And the peasants who carted the spirit?" asked Abram. Jankiel laughed. "They are safe; their souls and bodies and everything that belongs to them is pledged to my innkeepers." "Hush!" whispered again the phlegmatic, therefore cautious, Kalman. Eliezer trembled more and more. A ray of light had pierced his dreamy brain. "Meir! Meir!" he whispered, "how can I get away? I am afraid to cross the room; they might think I had overheard their secrets." With one hand Meir pushed the table from the window, and with the other helped his friend to push through. In a second Eliezer had disappeared from the room. Meir drew himself up and murmured: "I will show myself now, and let them know that somebody has overheard their conversation." Then he opened the low door and entered into the next room. There, near the wall, on three chairs closely drawn together, sat three men. A small table stood between them. Kalman, in his satin garment, looked calm and self-possessed. Jankiel and Abraham rested their elbows on the table. The first was red with excitement and his eyes glittered with malicious, greedy light; the latter looked pale and troubled, and kept his eyes fixed on the floor; but nothing was capable of disturbing the smiling equanimity of Kalman. When Meir entered the room, he heard distinctly his uncle's words: "And if the whole place burns down with the spirit vaults?" "Ah! ah!" sneered Jankiel, "what does it matter? One more Edomite will become a beggar!" Here the speaker stopped and began to quiver as if with rage or terror; he saw Meir coming into the room. His two companions also saw him. Kalman's mouth opened wide. Abraham looked threatening, but his eyes fell before the bold, yet sorrowful glance of his nephew, and his hands began to tremble. Meir slowly crossed the room and entered into the next, where Johel stood near the stove staring absently at his bare toes. Jankiel sent a malediction after the retreating figure; the two others were silent. "Why did you bring us in such an unsafe place?" asked Kalman at last, in his even voice. "Why did you not warn us that somebody might hear from the other side of the wall?" asked Abraham impetuously. Jankiel explained that it was his son's room, who did not know anything about business and never paid the slightest attention to what was going on around him. "How should I know that cursed lad was there? He must have entered like a thief, through the window. Well!" he said, after a while, "what does it matter if he heard? He is an Israelite, one of us, and dare not betray his own people." "He may dare," repeated Kalman; "but we will keep an eye on him, and if he as much as breathes a syllable of what he heard we will crush him." Abraham rose. "You may do what you like," he said impulsively. "I wash my hands of the whole business." Jankiel eyed him with a malicious expression. "Very well," he said, "in that case there will be all the more for us two. Those who risk will get the money." Abraham sat down again. His nervous face betrayed the inward struggle. Jankiel, who had a piece of chalk in his hand, began writing on a black tablet: "Eight thousand gallons of spirit at four roubles the gallon make thirty-two thousand roubles. These divided into three make ten thousand six hundred and sixty-six roubles sixty-six and one third kopecks. Six hundred roubles to each of the two, Johel and Shmul, and there remains for each of us ten thousand and sixty-six roubles, sixty-six and one third kopecks." Abraham rose again. He did not speak, but twisted his handkerchief convulsively with both hands, Then he raised his eyes and asked: "And when will it come off?" "It will come off very soon," said Jankiel. Abraham said nothing further, and without saying good-bye, swiftly left the room. The large market-square showed signs of life. Long strings of carts and people began to arrive from all directions. Inside the houses and shops everybody was busy preparing for the day's business. In Ezofowich's house the inmates had risen earlier than usual to-day. The part of the home occupied by Raphael and Ber with their families resounded with gay and lively conversation. Various objects of trade, with their corresponding money value, were mentioned. Sometimes the calculations were interrupted by remarks in feminine voices, which occasioned laughter or gay exclamations. Everything showed the peace and contentment of people who strove after the well-being of their families and lived in mutual confidence and harmony. The large sitting-room smelt of pine branches, which were scattered upon the even more than usually clean floor. On the old-fashioned, high-backed sofa, before a table spread with fine linen, sat old Saul and sipped his fragrant tea. The huge samovar had been taken down from the cupboard and gleamed with red coals and hissed and steamed in the next room, where a large kitchen fire illuminated the long table and white, scrubbed benches. The steaming of the samovar, the great kitchen fire and fresh curtains everywhere, together with the unusual stir of all the inmates, showed distinctly that many visitors were expected and preparations made accordingly. But it was yet early in the day, and Saul sat alone, evidently relishing the atmosphere of well-being and orderliness and the sounds of the busy life filling the house from top to basement. It was one of those moments, not by any means rare in Saul's life, when he realised the many blessings which the Lord had bestowed upon his house with which to gladden his old age. Suddenly the door opened and Meir entered. The happy expression vanished from Saul's wrinkled face. The sight of his grandson reminded him of the thorn which lurked amidst the flowers. The very look of the young man acted as a false or stormy discord in a gay and peaceful melody. Trouble was depicted on his pale face, and his eyes looked indignant and angry. He entered boldly and quickly, but meeting the eyes of his grandfather, he bent his head and his step became slower. Formerly he was wont to approach his father and benefactor with the confidence and tenderness of a favourite child. Now he felt that between him and the old man there arose a barrier, which became higher and stronger every day, and his heart yearned for the lost love and for a kind look from the old man, who now met his eyes with a stern and angry face. He approached him timidly, therefore, and said in a sad, entreating voice: "Zeide! I should like to speak with you about important business." The humble attitude of the once favourite child mollified the old man; he looked less stern, and said shortly but gently: "Speak out." "Zeide, permit me to shut the door and windows so that nobody hears what I have to say." "Shut them," replied Saul, and he waited with troubled face for the grandson to begin. After closing the door and windows Meir came close to his grandfather and began: "Zeide! I know that my words will bring you trouble and sorrow, but I have nobody to go to; you were to me father and mother, and when in trouble I come to you." His voice shook perceptibly. The grandfather softened. "Tell me everything. Though I have reason to be angry with you, because you are not what I should like to see you, I cannot forget that you are the son of my son who left me so early. If you have troubles I will take them from you; if anybody has wronged you I will stand up for you and punish him." These words soothed and comforted the young man. "Zeide!", he said, in a bolder tone, "thanks to you I have no troubles of my own, and nobody has wronged me; but I have come across a terrible secret, and do not know what to do with it, as I cannot keep it concealed. I thought I would tell you, so that you, Zeide, with the authority of your gray hair, might prevent a great crime and a great shame." Saul looked at his grandson half-anxiously, half-curiously. "It is better people should not know any secrets or trouble about any; but I know that if you do not speak to me, you will speak to someone else, and troubles might come from it. Say, then, what is this terrible secret?" Meir answered "This is the secret: Jankiel Kamionker, as you know, zeide, rents the distillery from the lord of Kamionka. He distilled during the season six thousand gallons of spirits, but did not sell any as prices were low. Now prices have risen and he wants to sell; but he does not want to pay the high government taxes." "Speak lower," interrupted Saul, whose face betrayed great uneasiness. Meir lowered his voice almost to a whisper. "In order not to pay the taxes Kamionker last night carted away all the spirits to the Karaite's hill, where his innkeepers from all parts came to bargain for it and buy it up. But he thought what would become of him if the government officials came down to visit the vaults and did not find the spirits--he would be held answerable and punished. Then he hired two people. Zeide! he tempted two miserable outcasts to--" "Hush!" exclaimed Saul, in a low voice. "Be quiet; do not say a word more. I can guess the rest." The old man's hands trembled, and his shaggy eyebrows bristled in a heavy frown. Meir was silent, and looked with expectant eyes at his grandfather. "Your mouth has spoken what is not true. It cannot be true." "Zeide!" whispered Meir, "it is as true as the sun in heaven. Have you not heard, zeide, of the incidents that happened last year and last year but one? These incidents are getting more and more numerous, and every true Israelite deplores it and reddens with shame." "How can you know all this? How can you understand these things? I do not believe you." "How do I know and understand it? Zeide, I have been brought up in your house, where many people come to see you: Jews and Christians, merchants and lords, rich and poor. They talked with you and I listened. Why should I not understand?" Saul was silent, and his troubled countenance betrayed many conflicting thoughts. A sudden anger toward the grandson stirred his blood. "You understand too much. You are too inquisitive. Your spirit is full of restlessness, and you carry trouble with you wherever you go. I felt so happy to-day until my eye fell upon you, and black care entered with you into the room." Meir hung his head. "Zeide," he said sadly, "why do you reproach me? It is not about my own affairs I came to you." "And what right have you to meddle with affairs that are not your own?" said Saul, with hesitation in his voice. "They are our own, zeide. Kamionker is an Israelite, and as such ought not to cast a slur on our race; besides, they are our own, still more because your son, zeide, Abraham belongs to it." Saul rose suddenly from the sofa and fell back again. Then he fixed his penetrating eyes upon Meir. "Are you speaking the truth?" he asked sternly. "I have seen and heard it all myself," whispered Meir. Saul remained thinking a long time. "Well," he said slowly, "you have the right to accuse your uncle. He is your father's brother, and from his deed shame and ignominy might come upon our house. The family of Ezofowich never did dishonourable things. I shall forbid Abraham to have anything to do with it." "Zeide, tell also Kamionker and Kalman not to do it." "You are foolish," said Saul. "Are Kamionker and Kalman my sons or my daughters' husbands? They would not listen to me." "If they do not listen, zeide," exclaimed Meir "denounce them before the owner of Kamionka or before the law." Saul looked at his grandson with flaming eyes. "Your advice is that of a foolish boy. Would you have your old grandfather turn informer, and bring calamity upon his own brethren?" He wanted to say something more, but the door opened to admit several visitors; they were Israelites from the country, respectable merchants or farmers from the neighbouring estates, arrived for the great fair. Saul half-rose to welcome his guests, who quickly stepping up to him, pressed his hand in hearty greeting, and explained that it was not so much business as the desire to see the wise and honoured Saul which had brought them to town. Saul answered with an equally polite speech, and asked them to be seated round the table, and without leaving his own seat on the sofa clapped his bony hands. At the signal a buxom servant girl came in with glasses of steaming tea, which filled the whole room with its subtle aroma. The guests thanked him smilingly, and then began a lively conversation about familiar subjects. Meir saw that he would have no further opportunity of seeing his grandfather alone, and quickly left the room and went into the kitchen. This also was full of visitors, but of a different class from those in the pitting-room. Upon the benches by the wall sat some fifteen men in old worn-out garments; and Sarah, Saul's daughter, and Raphael's wife, Saul's daughter-in-law, conversed with them and offered tea or mead and other refreshments. The men responded gaily, if somewhat timidly, and accepted the refreshments with humble thanks. Most of them were inn-keepers, dairy farmers, or small tradesmen from the country. Their dark, lean faces and rough hands betrayed poverty and hard work. The smallest expense for food during their stay in town would have made a difference to them. They went, therefore, straight to Ezofowich's house, the doors of which were always hospitably open on such days, as had been the custom of the family for hundreds of years. The two women in their silk gowns and bright caps flitted to and fro between the huge fireplace and the grateful guests. Outside the house there was another class of visitors. Those were the very poorest, who had not come to buy or to sell at the fair, but to obtain some wine and food out of the charity of their wealthier brethren. To these the servant carried bread and clotted milk and small copper coins. The murmur of their thanks and blessings penetrated to the kitchen, where the two busy women smiled yet more contentedly, and produced more small coins from their capacious pockets. In another part of the roomy kitchen stood the children of the house, pleased with their pretty dresses and coral necklaces, eating sweets. The elder boys listened to the conversation of the men, and a few of the younger children played on the floor. Close to this group sat the great-grandmother, Freida. Days like this conveyed to her clouded memory pictures of the past, when she herself, a happy wife and mother, looked after the comforts of her numerous guests. Her great-granddaughter had roused her earlier than usual to-day, and dressed her in the costliest garments, and now, before she would be led into the sitting-room to her chair near the window, they were completing her toilette. The black-eyed Lija fastened the diamond star into her turban; her younger sister arranged the pendants; another put the costly pearls around her neck and twisted the golden chain cunningly among the soft folds of her white apron. Having done this they smiled and drew back a little to admire the effect of their handiwork, or peeped roguishly into the great-grandmother's eyes and kissed her on the forehead. The men sitting round the wall nodded their heads sympathetically, looked reverentially at the old lady, and now and then exclamations of wonder and pleasure at seeing her surrounded by such tender care escaped from their lips. The other part of the house, which had been so lively early in the morning, was now silent and deserted. Meir crossed the narrow passage that divided the house, and opened the door of his Uncle Raphael's room, meeting his friend and cousin Haim upon the threshold. The youthful, almost childish face, surrounded by golden hair, looked beaming and excited. "Where is Uncle Raphael?" asked Meir. "Where should he be? He is at the fair, together with Ber, buying bullocks." "And you, Haim, where are you going?" But the lad did not even hear the question. Trilling a gay song, he had rushed off where the stir and lively spectacle of the fair attracted him. Meir went out into the porch and looked around. The fair had scarcely begun, but in the midst of some forty carts he saw Ber discussing the prices of the cattle with the peasants. A little further on he saw Raphael standing in the porch of a house, surrounded by merchants, evidently talking and arranging business, as all their fingers were in motion. To approach these two men, who, after his grandfather, had the greatest, authority in the family, and engage them in private talk was impossible. Meir saw that, and did not even try. The sight of the motley crowd, where everybody was engaged upon some business of his own, looked strange and unreal. His thoughts were so different from any of the thoughts that moved that bustling multitude. "Why should it trouble me?" he murmured. "What can I do?" And yet it seemed to him impossible to wait in passive inactivity until a red glare in the sky should announce that the nefarious design had been accomplished. "What wrong has the man ever done us?" he said to himself. He was thinking of the owner of Kamionka. His dull, listless eyes rested on the porch of Witebski's house, and he saw the merchant himself standing and leisurely smoking a cigar. He was looking at the lively scene with the eyes of a man who had nothing whatever to do with it. The fact is, he dealt in timber, which he bought in large quantities, from the estates; therefore the fair had no special attraction for him. Besides, he considered himself too refined and thought too highly of his own business to mix with a crowd occupied with selling and buying corn or cattle. Meir descended the steps and went towards Witebski, who, seeing him, smiled and stretched out a friendly hand. "A rare visitor! A rare visitor!" he exclaimed. "But I know you could not come sooner to see the parents of your betrothed. We have heard how your severe grandfather ordered you to sit in Bet-ha-Midrash to read the Talmud. Well, it does not matter much; does it? The zeide is a dear old man, and did not mean it unkindly, just as you did not mean to do any wrong. Young people will now and then kick over the traces. Come into the drawing-room; I will call my wife, and she will make you welcome as a dear son-in-law." The worldly-wise merchant spoke smilingly, and holding Meir by the hand, led him into the drawing-room. There, before the green sofa, he stood still, and looked into Meir's face and said: "It is very praiseworthy, Meir, that you are bashful and shy of your future wife. I was the same at your age, and all young men ought to feel like it; but my daughter has been brought up in the world, where customs are somewhat different. She is wondering that she does not even know the fiance who is to be her husband within a month. I will go and bring her here. Nobody need know you are together. I will shut the door and window, and you can have a quiet talk together and make each other's acquaintance." He was moving towards the door, but Meir grasped him by the sleeve. "Reb!" he said. "I am not thinking of betrothals or weddings; I came to you on a different errand altogether." Witebski looked sharply at the grave and pale face of the young man, and his brow became slightly clouded. "It is not about my own affairs I have come to you, Reb--" The merchant quickly interrupted: "If it be neither your affair nor mine, why enter it?" "There are affairs," said the young man, "which belong to everybody, and it is everybody's business to think and speak about them." He was thinking of public affairs, but though he did not express himself in these words, he felt all their importance. "I have come across an awful secret to-day." Witebski jumped up from the easy-chair where he was sitting. "I do not want to hear about any awful secrets! Why should you come to me about it, when I am not curious to know anything?" "I want you, Reb, to prevent a terrible deed." "And why should I prevent anything; why do you come to me about it?" "Because you are rich and respected, and know how to speak. You live in peace and friendship with everybody; even the great Rabbi smiles when he sees you. Your words could do much if you only would--" "But I will not," interrupted Witebski in a determined voice and with clouded brow. "I am rich and live in peace with everybody;" and lowering his voice, he added: "If I began to peer into people's secrets and thwarted them, I should be neither rich nor live in peace with anybody, and things would, not go so well with me as they are going now." "Reb!" said Meir, "I am glad that everything is prospering with you: but I should not care for prosperity if it were the result of wrong-doing." "Who speaks about wrong-doing?" said Eli, brightening up again. "I wrong no man. I deal honestly with everybody I do business with, and they are satisfied and feel friendly towards me. Thanks to the Lord, I can look everybody in the face, and upon the fortune I leave my children there are no human tears or human wrongs." Meir bent his head respectfully. "I know it, Reb. You are fair and honest, and carry on your business with the wise intelligence the Lord gave you, and bring honour upon Israel. But I think if a man be honest himself, he ought not to look indifferently upon other people's villainy; and if he do not prevent it when he can, it is as bad as if he had done it himself. I have heard that a great wrong is going to be done by an Israelite to an innocent man. I can do nothing to prevent it, and I am looking for somebody who might be able to save this innocent man from a great calamity." Here a loud and jovial laugh quite unexpectedly interrupted Meir's speech, and Witebski patted him playfully on the shoulder. "Well, well," he said, "I see what you are driving at. You are a hot-headed youth, and want to take some trouble out of your own head and put it into mine. Thank you for the gift, but I will have none of it. Let things be. Why should we spoil our lives when they can be made so pleasant? There, sit ye down, and I will go and bring your bride. You have never heard her play on the piano. Ah, but she can play well. It is not the Sabbath, and she will play and you can listen a little." He said this in his most lively manner, and moved towards the door; but again Meir arrested his steps. "Reb!" he said, "listen at least to what I have to say." There was a gleam of impatience in Witebski's eyes. "Ah, Meir! what an obstinate fellow you are, wanting to force your elders to do or hear things they do not want to! Well, I forgive you, and now let me go and bring the young woman." Meir barred the way "Reb," he said, "I will not let you go before you have heard me. I have no one else to go to; everybody is occupied with business or visitors. You alone, Reb, have time." He stopped, because the merchant laid his hand upon the young man's shoulder; he was no longer smiling, but looked grave and displeased. "Listen, Meir," he said. "I will tell you one thing. You have taken a wrong turning altogether. People shake their heads and speak badly of you; but I am indulgent with you. I make allowance because you are young, and because I am not of the same way of thinking as the people here, and know that many things in Israel are not as they ought to be. I think it; but do not speak about it or show it. Why should I expose myself to their ill-feeling? What can I do? If it be the Lord who ordered it so, why should I offend Him and make Him turn against me? If it be people's doing, other people will come in time to set it right. My business is to look after my family and their well-being. I am not a judge or a Rabbi either; therefore I keep quiet, try to please God and the people, and be in nobody's way. These re my principles, and I wish they were yours also Meir. I should let you go your own way, and not give advice to you either; but since you are to be my son-in-law, I must keep my eye upon you." "Rob!" interrupted Meir, whose eyelids quivered with suppressed irritation, "do not be angry with me or think me rude, but I cannot marry your daughter. I shall never be her husband." Witebski turned rigid with amazement. "Do we hear aright?" he said, after a while. "Did not your grandfather pledge you to her and send the betrothal gifts?" "My grandfather agreed with you about it," said Meir, in a trembling voice; "but he did it against my wish." "Well," said Witebski, with the greatest amazement, "and what have you to say against my daughter?" "I have no feelings against her, Rob; but my heart is not drawn to her. She also does not care for me. The other day, when passing your house, I heard her crying and lamenting that they wanted her to marry a common, ignorant Jew. It may be I am a common, ignorant Jew, but her education likewise is not to my taste. Why should you wish to bind us? We are not children, and know what our heart desires and what it does not desire." Witebski still looked at the young man in utter bewilderment, and raising both hands to his head, exclaimed indignantly: "Did my ears not deceive me? You do not want my daughter--my beautiful, educated Mera?" A hot flush had mounted to his forehead. The gentle diplomatist and man of the world had disappeared, only the outraged father remained. At the same time the door was violently thrown open, and upon the threshold, with a very red face and blazing eyes, stood Mistress Hannah. Evidently she had been at her toilette, which was only partly completed. Instead of her silk gown she wore a short red petticoat and gray jacket. The front of her wig was carefully dressed, but a loose braid fastened by a string dangled gracefully at her back. She stood upon the threshold and gasped out: "I have heard everything!" She could not say any more from excitement. Her breast heaved and her face was fiery red. At last she rushed with waving arms at Meir, and shouted: "What is that? You refuse my daughter! You, a common, stupid Jew from Szybow, do not wish to marry a beautiful, educated girl like my Mera! Fie upon you--an idiot, a profligate!" Witebski tried in vain to mitigate the fury of his better half. "Hush, Hannah, hush!" he said, holding her by the elbow. But all the breeding and distinguished manners upon which Mistress Hannah prided herself had vanished. She shook her clenched fist close in Meir's face: "You do not want Mera, my beautiful daughter! Ai! Ai! the great misfortune!" she sneered. "It will certainly kill us with grief. She will cry her eyes out after the ignorant Jew from Szybow! I shall take her to Wilno and marry her to a count, a general, or a prince. You think that because your grandfather is rich and you have money of your own you can do what you like. I will show your grandfather and all your family that I care for them as much as for an old slipper!" Eli carefully closed the door and windows. Mistress Hannah rushed toward a chest of drawers, opened it and took out, one after the other, the velvet-lined boxes, and throwing them at Meir's feet, exclaimed: "There, take your presents and carry them to the beggar girl you are consorting with; she will be just the wife for you." "Hush!" hissed out the husband, almost despairingly, as he stooped down to pick up the boxes but Mistress Hannah tore them out of his hands. "I will carry them myself to his grandfather, and break off the engagement." "Hannah," persuaded the husband, "you will only make matters worse. I will take them myself and speak with Saul." Hannah did not even hear what he said. "For shame!" she cried out; "the madman, the profligate, to prefer the Karaite's girl to my daughter! Well, the Lord be thanked we have got rid of him. Now I shall take my daughter to Wilno and marry her to a great nobleman." It was about noon when Meir left Witebski's house, pursued by the curses and scoldings of its mistress and the gentle remonstrances and conciliatory words of Eli. The fair was now in full swing. The large market square was full of vehicles of all kinds, animals and people, that it seemed as if nobody could pass or find room any longer. In one part of the square where the crowd was less dense, close by the wall of a large building, sat an old man surrounded by baskets of all shapes and sizes. It was Abel Karaim. Though the day was warm and sunny, his head was covered with a fur cap, from under which streamed his white hair, and his beard spread like a fan over his breast. The sun fell upon the small and thin face, scarcely visible from under his hair, and the fur which fell over the shaggy eyebrows gave but little protection to the dim eyes blinking in the sunlight. Close to him, slim and erect, stood Golda, with her corals encircling the slender neck, setting off the clear olive of her complexion, and her heavy tresses falling down her back. A few steps in front of these two stood long rows of carts full of grain, wood, and various country produce; between the carts bullocks and cows lowed, calves bleated, horses neighed and stamped, small brokers and horse-dealers flitted to and fro bargaining with the peasants. In this hubbub of voices, in midst of bargaining and quarrels, mixed with the shrill voices of women and squalling children, sounded the quavering voice of old Abel unweariedly at his task of reciting. The surging elements around did not distract him; on the contrary, they seemed to stimulate him, as his voice sounded louder and more distinct. "When Moses descended from Mount Sinai, a great light shone from his face, and the people fell down on their faces and called out as in one voice: Moses, repeat to us the words of the Eternal. And a great calm came upon the earth and the heavens. They grew silent, the lightning ceased, and the wind fell. And Moses called the seventy elders of Israel, and when they surrounded him, as the stars surround the moon, he repeated to them the words of the Eternal." At this moment two grave men, poorly dressed, came from the crowd and passed close by him. "He is reciting again," said one. "He is always doing so," said the other. They smiled, but did not go further. An old woman and some younger people joined them. The woman stood listening and asked: "What is it he is telling?" "The history and the covenant of the Israelites," replied Golda. The young people opened their mouths, the woman drew nearer, the men smiled, but all stood still and listened. "When the people heard the commandments of the Lord, they called out as in one voice: We will do all that the Lord commands. And Moses erected twelve stones against the Mountain of Sinai, and said unto the people: Keep therefore the words of this covenant; your captains of your tribes, your elders, and your officers, with all the men of Israel." "Your little ones, your wives, and the stranger that is in thy camp, from the hewer of thy wood unto the drawer of thy water." "He says beautiful things, and speaks well," said one. "And the hewer of thy wood and the drawer of thy water," repeated the two poorly dressed men as they raised their shining eyes to heaven. The woman, who had listened attentively, drew from her shabby gown a dirty handkerchief, and undoing one of the knots, deposited a big copper coin on Abel's knees. A few more had joined the little group which surrounded Abel, Jews, Christians, and young people. These few had torn themselves from the noisy, haggling crowd, and listened to other words than those of roubles and kopecks--the sounds of the far past. It seemed almost as if Abel felt the attention of the people, and as if all these eyes upon him warmed his heart and stirred his memory. His eyes shone brighter from under the half-closed eyelids; the fur cap pushed at the back of his head, and the long white hair falling upon breast and shoulder, gave him the air of a half-blind bard who, with national songs, rouses and gladdens the spirit of the people. In a louder and steadier voice he went on: "When the Israelites crossed the Jordan, Joshua erected two great stones, and wrote upon them the ten commandments. One half of the people rested under Mount Gerisim, the other half under Mount Ebal, and the voice spoke unto all men: He breaks the covenant of the Lord who worships false gods, he who does not honour his father and mother. He breaks the covenant who covets his neighbour's property and leads astray the blind. He breaks it who wrongs the stranger, the orphan, and the widow; he who putteth a lie into his brother's ear, and sayeth of the innocent, Let him die. And when the people of Israel heard it they called out, as if in one voice: All that thou commandest, we will do." "Amen," murmured around Abel the voices which a short time before had haggled desperately over their small bargains. A peasant woman pushed through the little group, picked up one of the baskets and asked the price. Golda told her, after which the woman began to bargain; but Golda did not answer again, not because she did not want to, as rather that she did not hear the shrill voice any longer. Her eyes were fixed upon one point in the crowd, a hot blush suffused her features, and a half-childish, half-passionate smile played upon her lips. She saw Meir making his way through the crowd and coming near where she stood; but he did not see her. His face looked troubled and restless, and presently he disappeared within the precincts of the synagogue. This was almost as crowded as the market square, but not so noisy. Meir went towards the dwelling of the Rabbi Todros; all the people were moving in the same direction. Close to the Rabbi's little hut the crowd was still denser; but there was no noise, no pushing, or eyes shining with the greediness of gain; a grave silence prevailed everywhere, interrupted only by timid whispers. Meir knew what brought the people here and where they came from. There were scarcely any inhabitants of Szybow amongst them, as these could always see the Rabbi and come to him for advice. They came mostly from the country around; some from far distant places. There was a slight sprinkling of merchants and well-to-do people, but the great bulk bore the stamp of poverty and hard work in their lean, patient faces, and upon their garments. "Why should I go there?" said Meir to himself; "he will not listen to me now; but where else can I go?" he added after a while, and he again mixed with the crowd, which bore him onwards until he found himself before the wide-open door of the Rabbi's dwelling. Beyond the door, in the entrance hall, people stood closely pressed together like a living and breathing wall; no other sound than their long-drawn breaths were audible. Meir tried to push his way through, which did not present much difficulty, for many of the poor people had been humble guests at Ezofowich's, and recognised Saul's grandson and made way for him. They did this in a quick, absent-minded way, their eyes being riveted on the room beyond; they stood on tip-toe, and whenever they caught a broken sentence, their faces glowed with happiness as if the honoured sage's words were balm for all the sorrows of their lives. The interior of the room, which Meir beheld from the open door, presented a singular appearance. In the depth of it, between the wall and a table, sat Rabbi Todros in his usual worn-out garments with his cap pushed to the back of his head. The upper part of his body bent forward; he sat perfectly motionless except for his eyes, which roamed along the people, who looked at him humbly and beseechingly. There was a small space between the sage and those who stood before him, which none dared to cross without his permission. The whole scene was lighted up by the rays of the sun streaming in through the window, on one side; on the other by the lurid and fitful flames in the fire-place. Near the latter crouched the melamed, feeding the fire with fresh fuel and putting various herbs into steaming vessels. Besides the function of apothecary he had also the office of crier. He called out the names of the people who, according to his opinion, were entitled to appear before the master. He now raised his thick forefinger towards the entrance, and called out: "Shimshel, the innkeeper." The summoned man whose name, Samson, time and custom had transformed into Shimshel, did not in the least resemble his namesake, the Samson of history. He was slender and red-haired, and bent almost to the ground before the Rabbi. "Who greets the Wise Man bows before the greatness of the Creator," he said in a timid, shaking voice. It was not only his voice which trembled, but all his limbs, and his blue eyes roamed wildly about the room. Isaak Todros sat like a statue. His eyes looked piercingly at the little red-haired man before him, who, in his terror, had lost his tongue altogether. "Well?" said the sage, after a lengthy pause. Shimshel raised his shoulders almost to his ears and began: "Nassi! let a ray of your wisdom enlighten my darkness. I have committed a great sin, and my soul trembles while I am confessing it before you. Nassi! I am a most unfortunate man; my wife Ryfka has lost my soul for ever, unless you, oh Rabbi, tell me how to make it clean again." Here the poor penitent choked again, but gathering courage, proceeded: "Nassi! I and my wife Ryfka and the children sat down, last Friday, to the Sabbath feast. On one table there was a dish of meat, on the other a bowl of milk which my wife had boiled for the younger children. My wife ladled out the milk for the children, when her hand shook and a drop of milk fell upon the meat." "Ai! Ai! stupid woman, what had she done! She had made the meat unclean." "Well, and what did you do with the meat?" The questioned man's head sank upon his breast, and he stammered: "Rabbi, I ate from it, and so did my wife and children." The Rabbi's eyes flashed with anger. "Why did you not throw the unclean food on the refuse heap? Why did you make your mouth and the mouths of your family unclean?" shouted the Rabbi. Shimshel choked again, and stopped. The sage, still motionless, asked: "Nassi! I am very poor, and keep a small inn that brings but little profit. I have six children, an old father who lives with me, and two orphaned grandchildren, whose parents died. Rabbi it is difficult to find food for so many mouths, and we have meat only once a week. Kosher meat is very dear, so I buy three pounds every week, and eleven people have to keep up their strength, on it. Rabbi! I knew we should have nothing during the week, except bread and onions and cucumber. I was loth to throw that meat away and so ate from it, and allowed my family to eat from it." Thus complained and confessed the poor Samson, and the master listened with clouded brows. Then he spoke, transfixing the sinner with angry eyes. He explained in a long and learned speech the origin of the law of clean and unclean food. How great and wise men had written many commentaries about it, and how great the sin of a man was who dared to eat a piece of meat upon which a drop of milk had fallen. "Your sin is abominable in the sight of the Lord," he thundered at the humble penitent. "For the sake of greediness you have broken the covenant which Jehovah made with his people, and transgressed one of the six hundred and thirteen commandments which every true Israelite is bound to keep. You deserve to be cursed even as Elisha cursed the mocking children, and Joshua the town of Jerico. But since it was only your body which sinned, whilst the spirit remained faithful, and you came to me and humbled and confessed yourself, I will forgive you, under the condition that you and your family abstain from meat and milk during four weeks, and the money saved thereby be distributed among the poor. And after four weeks, when your souls will be clean again from the abomination, you may dwell in peace and piety among your brethren Israelites." "Say everybody Amen." "Amen," called the people within the room and without, and those who pressed their eager faces against the window. The little red-haired Samson, relieved of the burden that had oppressed his conscience, though otherwise burdened with a four-weeks' fast, murmured his thanks and retreated towards the entrance. Reb Moshe again raised his finger and called out: "Reb Gerson, melamed." At his summons a round-backed, middle-sized man, with shaggy hair and clouded mien, appeared. He was a colleague of Reb Moshe, a teacher from a small town, where he enlightened the Israelitish youths. He stood in the middle of the room, holding a heavy book with both hands, After greeting the master, he began in these words: "Rabbi! my soul has been in trouble, Two days ago my children read that evening prayers ought to be said until the end of the first watch. The children asked me: 'What is the first watch?' I remained mute, for I did not know how to answer, and I come to you, Rabbi, for a ray of wisdom to enlighten my mind. Tell me, oh Rabbi, what are the watches according to which every Israelite has to regulate his prayers. Where are they, so that I may give an answer to the children?" The round-backed man stopped, and all eyes rested with excited curiosity upon the sage, who, without changing his position, answered: "What should it be but the angels' watch? And where do they watch? They watch before the throne of the Eternal, when the day declines and night approaches. The angels are divided into three choirs. The first choir stands before the throne and keeps watch till midnight. Then is the time to say evening prayers. The second comes at midnight and keeps watch until dawn; when you see the sky turn rosy-red and pale-blue, the third choir arrives, and then it is time to say morning prayers." The master stopped, and a low murmur of admiration and rapture was heard among the crowd. But the melamed did not retire yet; his eyes fixed upon his book he began anew: "Rabbi, give me another ray of wisdom to carry back to my scholars. Near our little town lies the estate of a great lord. Sometimes the children go there and hear all sorts of things. Once, coming thence, they told in town that the origin of thunder had been explained to them. They were told that thunder comes from heaven when two clouds meet and give out a force they called electricity. I never heard of it before: is it true that such a force exists and that it originates thunder?" During Reb Gerson's speech the Rabbi's face twitched with suppressed impatience, and he smiled scornfully. "It is not true!" he exclaimed. "There is no such force, and not from there comes thunder. When the Roman emperor destroyed the Temple, and dispersed the people of Israel, there was thunder. Where did it come from? It came from Jehovah's breast, who wept aloud over the destruction of his people. And now the Lord weeps over his people, and his moans are heard upon earth as thunder; his tears fall into the seas and make them heave and rise, and shake the earth to its foundations, and send forth fire and smoke. I have told you now whence come thunder and earthquakes. Go in peace and repeat to your children what I have told you." With a humble bow and thanks the melamed retired into the crowd. At the same time from beyond the door the loud wail of a child became audible. Reb Moshe called out: "Haim, dairy farmer from Kamionka, and his wife Malka." From the crowd came a man and a woman. Both looked pale and troubled The woman carried a sick child in her arms. They knelt before him, and holding up to him the child, wasted with disease, asked for his help and advice. Todros bent tenderly over the fragile little body and looked long and attentively at it. Reb Moshe, squatting on the floor, looked at the master for orders, mixing and stirring the decoctions. In this way, one by one, came the people to their teacher, sage, physician, prophet almost, plied him with questions and asked for advice. A troubled husband brought his comely, buxom wife, and asked for judgment by help of a certain water, called the water of jealousy. If the wife be guilty of infidelity, the efficacy of the water is believed to cause death; if innocent, it will enhance her beauty and give her health. Another man asked what he was to do if the time for prayers came during a journey and he could not turn his face to the east, because the storm and dust would blind his eyes. A great many came crying and bewailing their miserable lives, and asked the sage to look into the future and tell them how long it would be till the Messiah arrived. The greater part of the people did not want anything, asked neither questions nor came for advice; they simply wanted to see the revered master, breathe the same air with him, and fill their souls with the words that dropped from his lips, and see the light of his countenance. It was evident that Isaak Todros felt and appreciated his high position. He attended to all their wants with the greatest gravity, zeal, and patience. He explained, and put the people right in points of law, inflicted penances upon sinners, gave physic to the sick, advice to the ignorant--without changing his position--only fixing his either stern or thoughtful eyes upon those who came to him. Several times when the people wailed and complained, entreating him to foretell the coming of the Messiah, his dark eyes grew misty. He loved those who came to him with their troubles and felt for them. Big beads of perspiration stood upon his forehead, and his breath came hard and fast; still he went on with his ministrations, in the deep conviction that he was doing his duty, with a fervent faith and belief in all that he was achieving and teaching, and the disinterestedness of a man who wants nothing for himself, except the little black hut, a scanty meal, and the tattered garments he had worn for many years. In the meanwhile a man passed rapidly through the court of the synagogue, looking around him as if in search of something or somebody. It was Ber, Saul's son-in-law. He looked at the people crowding round the Rabbi's dwelling; at last his eyes lighted on Meir, and he grasped him by the sleeve of his coat. The young man awoke, as from a trance, and looked round absently at his uncle. "Come with me," whispered Ber. "I cannot go away," said Meir, in an equally low voice. "I have important business with the Rabbi, and shall wait till all the people have left so that I may speak with him." "Come away," repeated Ber, and he took the youth by the shoulder. Meir shook him off impatiently, but Ber repeated: "Come with me now; you can return later when the people have gone--that is, if you wish it, but I do not think you will." Both left the crowded hut. Ber walked swiftly and silently, leading his companion to a quiet part of the precincts where, under the shadow of the walls of Bet-ha-Midrash, nobody could overhear, their conversation. Meir leaned against the wall. Ber stood silently before him, looking intently at his young kinsman. Ber's outward appearance did not present any striking features; many would pass him without taking particular notice, yet the student of human nature would find in him a character worth knowing. He was forty years old, always carefully dressed, yet according to old customs. His delicately moulded features and blue eyes had a dreamy and apathetic expression, which only lighted up under the excitement of business speculations. A deep yearning after something, and carefully suppressed dreams and stifled aspirations gave to his mouth an expression of calm resignation. Sometimes, when the ghost of the past appeared before him, two deep furrows appeared across his forehead. It was evident that some fierce conflicts had raged under that quiet exterior, and left wounds and scars which now and then would remind him painfully of the past. He now stood opposite the young man whom he had dragged away from the crowd almost by force. "Meir," he said at last, "an hour ago your grandfather had a long talk with his son, Abraham. He left his visitors on purpose to speak with him, and bade me to be present at their conversation. Rest in peace, Meir; your uncle will have no hand in the vile deed which will be perpetrated." "Will be perpetrated?" interrupted Meir passionately. "Not if I can prevent it." Ber smiled bitterly "How can you prevent it? I guessed you wanted to speak about it to the Rabbi, and I went after you to warn you and save you from the consequences of such a step. You thought that if you put the case before him, he would rise in anger and forbid any one to do such an infamous deed If he did that they would obey him; but he will not." "Why should he not?" exclaimed Meir. "Because he does not understand anything about it. If you questioned him about clean or unclean food, whether it was allowed to snuff a candle on the Sabbath, or gird the loins with pocket-handkerchiefs, he would answer readily enough. He would tell you whether to bless first the wine or first the bread, or how the spirits transmigrate from one body to another, how many Sefirots emanate from Jehovah and how to transpose the sacred letters in order to discover fresh mysteries, or about the arrival of the Messiah. But if you began to speak to him about distilleries, taxes, estates, and things in connection with them, he would open his eyes widely and would listen to you like a man struck with deafness, because these things are to him like a sealed letter. For him, beyond his sacred books, the world is like a great wilderness." Meir bent his head. "I feel the truth of what you say; yet if I asked him whether it be right for the sake of gain to wrong an innocent man?" Ber answered: "He would ask you whether the innocent man were an Edomite or an Israelite." Meir looked intently at the sky, thinking deeply, and evidently puzzled. "Ber," he said at last, "do you hate the Edomites?" The questioned man shook his head. "Hatred is like poison to the human mind. Once, when I was young, I even thought of going to them and entreating them to help us. I am glad now that I did not do it and remained with my own people, but I have no ill-feeling towards them." "And I have none," said Meir. "Do you think Kamionker hates them?" "No," said her decidedly. "He makes use of them. They are his milch cows. He may despise them, because they do not look after their business but allow themselves to be cheated." "And Todros; does he hate them?" questioned Meir. "Yes," said Ber, very emphatically; "Todros hates them. And why does he hate them? Because he does not live in the Present; he still lives in the Past, when the Roman emperor besieged Jerusalem and drove the Israelites out of Palestine. He breathes, thinks, and feels as if he were living two thousand years ago. He does not know that from the time of his ancestor, Halevi Todros, other wise people have lived, and that times are changed, and that those who hated and persecuted us once have since then stretched out their hands in peace and goodwill. How can he know anything? He never left Szybow since he was born; never read anything but the books left by his forefathers; has never seen or spoken to any one out of Israel." Meir listened, and nodded his head in sign that he agreed with his companion. "I see that it is of no use at all going to him," he said, thoughtfully. "It is not," said Ber; "therefore I came in search of you. He will not prevent Kamionker from wronging the lord of Kamionka, who represents to him the people of Ai, with whom Joshua went to war, or the Roman nation who destroyed the Temple, or the Spaniards who, five hundred years ago, burned and despoiled the Jews. He would not even listen to you, and would denounce you as an infidel. If he has not brought his hand down upon you, it is owing to the love and respect the people bear towards your grandfather, Saul. If you accused Kamionker before him, Kamionker would set him, against you, as already does Reb Moshe. Meir! be careful! there are rocks ahead. Save yourself before it is too late." Meir did not reply to the warning. "Ber," he said, "I am sure that man, blind and revengeful as he is, possesses a great soul. Look how patiently he sits night and day over his books, how full of pity and compassion are his eyes when he listens to the poor people and comforts them, and does not want anything for himself. Ber! his faith is so sincere!" Ber smiled at his words, and turned his dreamy eyes to heaven. "You speak thus about the Rabbi, Meir; what do you say about the people who, in the midst of misery, hunger, and humiliation still thirst for wisdom and knowledge. Never mind whether it is the true wisdom or true knowledge, but look how they raise themselves above their narrow lives by their faith and reverence for their Wise Men. Do you think that this narrow, bigoted, greedy people have a great soul?" "Israel has a great soul, and I love it more than my life, my happiness, and my peace." He stopped for a minute, then grasped Ber by the shoulder. "I know what is wanting in Todros to make him a great man, and what is wanting in the Israelitish people to show their greatness to the world. They ought to come out of the Past, in which they persist to dwell, into the Present. They want Sar-Ha-Olam, the angel of knowledge, to touch them with his wings." Whilst the young man spoke thus, his face glowing with excitement, Ber looked at him thoughtfully. "When I look at you, Meir, and listen to you, I see myself as I was at your age. I felt the same anger, the same grief, and I wanted--" He stopped, and passed his hand over his brow, marked with two deep lines, and his eyes looked far away as if into the future. Anybody seeing their animated faces and lively gesticulation as they stood near the wall of the Bet-ha-Midrash, would have concluded that they were discussing bargains. What else did people like them live or care for? Yet they think and suffer, but nobody guesses it or wishes to penetrate the mystery of their thoughts. It is like the depth of an unfathomable sea--its depths unknown even to those who are perishing in it. "Come home with me," said Ber. "Your grandfather will soon be sitting down to dinner with his guests and be displeased at not seeing you at table. There is already a storm brewing for you, because Mistress Hannah has returned the betrothal gifts, broken off the engagement, and given Saul a piece of her mind in presence of all the visitors." Meir carelessly waved his bands. "I wished for it," he said. "I shall ask my grandfather's pardon. I can only think about one thing now: where to go next." Ber looked wonderingly at the speaker. "How obstinate you are," he remarked. They were near the entrance gate when Ber suddenly stopped. "Meir, whatever you do, don't go to the government authorities." Meir passed his hand over his forehead. "I thought of that," he said, "but I am afraid. If I reveal the whole truth, they will not only punish Kamionker, but also those poor wretches he tempted with his money. Poor people, ignorant people, I am sorry for them--" He suddenly paused, and looked fixedly in one direction. An elegant carriage, drawn by four horses, crossed the market-square. Meir pointed at the carriage, which stopped before Jankiel Kamionker's inn, and his eyes opened wider, for a sudden idea took hold of his mind. "Ber!" he exclaimed, "do you see him? That is the lord of Kamionka." The sun was declining towards the west when, in the porch of Saul's house, stood a group of men gaily conversing among themselves. They were Saul's visitors who, after having feasted at his hospitable board, were now saying good-bye, and pressing the old man's hand, thanking him for his kind reception; then, by twos and threes, they mounted the waiting carts, their faces still turned towards their venerable host, who stood in the porch. In the sitting-room the women, with the help of the servants, were busy clearing the table, and putting away the dinner service. The fair was also drawing to an end; the carts grew fewer by degrees, so did the people upon the square. All the noise and liveliness concentrated itself now in the several inns where the people were drinking and dancing. Jankiel Kamionker's inn was by far the most frequented and noisiest, No wonder. The crafty dealer rented several distilleries and some seventy inns about the country, and ruled over a small army of subtenants and inn-keepers, of the Samson kind, who bought meat once a week, and starved on other days. They depended entirely on Kamionker, who, if he did not treat them generously they, on their side, were not generous towards the peasants, whom they plied with drink. Through his subordinates, Kamionker held thousands of peasants' families under his thumb. Therefore they all came to his inn. He did not himself look after his humble customers, but left them to his wife and his two strong and ugly daughters, who carried bottles and glasses round the tables, together with salted herrings, and different kinds of bread. Nobody could have guessed, seeing the faded woman, shabbily dressed, moving in that stifling atmosphere of alcohol and human breath, that she was the wife of one of the wealthiest men in the country. Neither did the man in his musty garments who stood humbly at the door of the guest's room, look like a great capitalist and financier. He stood near the threshold, and his guest, the lord of Kamionka, reclined in an easy-chair smoking a cigar. The young gentleman was tall and handsome; his dark hair fell upon a white forehead, though the other part of his face was slightly browned by the sun. He had a good-natured and thoughtful face. The gay playfulness with which his eyes twinkled was evidently caused by the sight of the nimble Jew, whose body seemed to be made of india rubber, and the two corkscrew curls behind his ears of a fiery red, seemed to dance to and fro with his every motion. Then he became thoughtful again, because the red-haired Jew spoke about important business. The young nobleman did not know anything about the man himself with whom he dealt. He was to him a Jew, and the tenant of his distillery. Thus he might be also a prominent member of a powerfully organised body, a greatly respected and pious person, a mystic deeply versed in sacred knowledge, and finally a man who, in those dirty, freckled hands, held the entangled threads of many Jewish and Christian families; of all this the lord of Kamionka knew nothing. Therefore it never occurred to him to invite the Jew to draw nearer or sit down. Reb Jankiel likewise did not think of such a thing. He had been accustomed to stand humbly, as his fathers had done before him; nevertheless, his pale blue eyes were full of malice whenever the young gentleman turned his look elsewhere and could not see him. It may be Reb Jankiel did not realise his own feelings, yet he could not help seeing the contrast between his present humble attitude and the proud position he occupied in his own community. Such feelings, though ill-defined, if united to a bad heart, could produce no other results than hatred and even crime. "You bore me, Jankiel, with your everlasting bargains and agreements," said the nobleman carelessly, twisting his cigar between his fingers. "I stopped at your inn for a few minutes to rest my horses, and you get me into business discussions at once." Reb Jankiel bowed nimbly. "I beg the gracious lord's pardon," he said smilingly, "but the distillery will be starting work next month, and I should like to renew the agreement." "Of course you will be my tenant, as you have been these last three years; but there is plenty of time." "It is better to arrange everything beforehand. I shall have to buy a hundred head of cattle for fattening purposes, and I cannot afford the outlay unless I am sure of the tenancy. If the gracious lord permits, I shall come to-morrow to write the agreement." The young nobleman rose. "Very well, come to-morrow, but not in the morning, as I shall not be at home." "The gracious lord thinks of spending the night in the neighbourhood?" asked Jankiel, his face twitching nervously. "Yes, in the near neighbourhood," answered the nobleman, and was going to say something more when the door behind Jankiel's back opened gently, and a young Jew, with a pale face and burning eyes, entered boldly. At the sight of the newcomer Jankiel drew back instinctively, and an expression of terror came into his face. "What do you want here?" he asked in a choking voice. The nobleman glanced carelessly at the young Jew. "Do you want to speak to me, my friend?" he asked. "Yes, with the gracious lord," said the newcomer, and he advanced a few steps nearer. But Jankiel barred him the way. "Do not permit him to come nearer, gracious lord, and do not speak with him. He is a bad man, and interferes with everybody." The lord of Kamionka waved the frantic Jankiel aside. "Let him speak if he has any business with me. Why should I not speak with him?" Saying this, he looked with evident curiosity at the youthful face of the intruder. "The gracious lord does not know me," began the young man. "And why should the gracious lord know such a good-for-nothing fellow?" interrupted Jankiel. But the lord of Kamiorika bade him be silent. "I have seen you, gracious lord, at my grandfather's, Saul, whose son, Raphael, buys your corn." "So you are Saul's grandson?" "Yes, gracious lord, I am his grandson." "And the son of Raphael Ezofowich?" "No; I am the son of Benjamin, the youngest of Saul's sons, who died long ago." Meir did not speak Polish very fluently, yet he made himself understood. He had heard it spoken by those who came to deal with members of his family, and had learned it of the Edomite, who had also taught him to read and write. "Did Raphael send you to me?" "No; I came on my own account." He seemed to collect his thoughts, then boldly raised his head. "I came to warn you, gracious lord. Bad people are preparing a great misfortune for you--" Jankiel rushed forward, and, with outstretched arms, placed himself between the two. "Will you hold your tongue," he shouted. "Why do you come here to disturb the gracious lord with your foolish talk?" and, turning towards the nobleman, he said: "He is a madman and a villain." It was not the lord now who waved Jankiel but Meir himself. With heightened colour, breathing quickly, he pushed him away, said: "He will not allow me to speak, but I will say quickly what I have to say. Do not trust him, gracious lord; he is a bad man, and your enemy. He wants to do you a grievous harm--guard yourself and guard your house like the apple of your eye. I am not an informer; therefore I came to say it in his presence, and warn the gracious lord. He will revenge himself upon me, but that does not matter. I am doing my duty, as every true Israelite ought to do, for it is written: 'The stranger that dwelleth with you shall be unto you as one born among you,' and it is further said: 'If thou remainest silent, upon thy head be the woes of Israel.'" The young nobleman looked at the speaker with some interest, but his eyes twinkled. The quotation from Scripture, beautiful in itself, but easily marred by faulty pronunciation, appeared more ridiculous than interesting. "I perceive that old Saul has a grandson who is well grounded in the Scriptures, and has a prophetic gift; but tell me clearly, and distinctly, my young prophet, what misfortune is threatening me, and why this honest Jankiel, who has been dealing with me for years, has suddenly become my enemy?" Jankiel stood close to the easy-chair, and, bending closer to the lord, whispered smilingly: "He is mad. He always foretells all sorts of terrible things, and he hates me because I laugh at him." "Oh! then I shall not laugh at him and make him hate me," said the nobleman gaily; and turning towards Meir, he asked: "Tell me what is the misfortune that threatens me. If you tell me the truth, you will be doing a good deed, and I shall be grateful for it." "You ask me a difficult thing, gracious lord; I thought you would understand from a few words. It is hard for me to speak more clearly," and he passed his hand over his brow which was wet with perspiration. "Promise me, gracious lord, that if I speak out, my words will fall like a stone into water. Promise me to make use of my information, but not to go to law." The nobleman looked amused, yet curious. "I give you my word of honour that your secret will be safe with me." Meir's burning eyes turned towards Jankiel, his whole frame shook, he opened his mouth--but the words refused to come. Jankiel, seeing his emotion which momentarily deprived him of his tongue, suddenly grasped him by the waist and dragging him towards the door, shouted: "Why do you enter my house and disturb my honoured guest by your foolish talk? The gracious lord is my guest, has known me for years; there! off with you at once." Meir tried to get out of Jankiel's hands, and though he was the taller and stronger, Jankiel was nimbler, and despair redoubled his energy. Struggling and panting, both rolled towards the door, and the young gentleman looked at the struggle with an amused expression. Meir's pale face towering above Jankiel's red head suddenly flushed. "Do you laugh at me, gracious lord?" he said brokenly. "You do not know how difficult it is for me to speak, but guard your house from fire!" At these last words he disappeared through the door, which the panting Jankiel slammed after him. The lord of Kamionka still smiled. The struggle between the nimble, red-haired Jankiel and the tall young Jew looked very funny. During the battle the long coat tails had flapped about like wings, and Jankiel, in his desperate efforts to get rid of the intruder, had performed the most extraordinary acrobatic feats. It was a ridiculous scene altogether--the more ridiculous as the combatants belonged to a race at which it was an old, time-honoured custom to laugh. How could the young nobleman understand the deeper meaning of the play enacted before him? He saw before him a young Jew who spoke in broken Polish, the grandson of a merchant, and who would be, in his turn, a merchant. That he was a noble spirit in rebellion against everything mean and dishonest, a despairing spirit longing for freedom and wider knowledge, that coming to him as he did he had done an heroic action that would destroy his whole future--of all this the nobleman had not the slightest suspicion. After a short pause he looked at Jankiel, and asked: "Explain to me now; what did it all mean? What kind of a man is he really?" "What kind of man?" said Jankiel, who seemingly had regained his composure. "It was a stupid affair, and I beg the gracious lord's pardon that it should have happened to him under my roof. He is a madman and very spiteful. He went mad from mere spitefulness." "Hm!" said the young gentleman. "He did not look like a madman. He has a handsome face and an intelligent one." "He is not altogether mad--" began Jankiel, but the lord interrupted him. "He is the grandson of Saul Ezofowich?" he asked, thoughtfully. "He is Saul's grandson; but his grandfather does not like him." "Whether he likes him or not, I could scarcely ask his grandfather about him." "On the contrary, ask him, gracious lord, what he thinks of his grandson," exclaimed Jankiel triumphantly. "Ask his uncles; I will go and bring his uncle Abraham." "No need," said the nobleman shortly. He rose, and looked thoughtful, then fixed his eyes upon Jankiel's face. Jankiel boldly met his searching glance. "Listen, Jankiel," said the lord of Kamionka, "you are a man of years, a respectable merchant, and father of a large family. I ought to trust you more than a young man whom I have seen to-day for the first time, and who may be wrong in the head for anything I know; but there must be something at the bottom of what he tells me. I must get some information about him." "The gracious lord can get that information very easily," said Jankiel, shrugging his shoulders contemptuously. The owner of Kamionka thought a little, and then asked: "Is that celebrated Rabbi of yours in town?" "Where should he be?" said Jankiel. "He has never been out of the town during his life." "A steady man, your Rabbi," said the nobleman, reaching for his hat. "Now, Jankiel, show me the way, and, if I do not hear anything new, I shall at least have seen and spoken with that celebrated man." Jankiel opened the door for his distinguished guest, and followed him into the square, which was now almost deserted. Half-way across they met Eli Witebski, whom the lord of Kamionka greeted affably. By his manner and appearance the wealthy merchant came a little nearer to the civilised sphere in which the landowner moved himself. "Has the gracious lord come to town on business?" asked Eli. "No; I am only passing." "And where might the gracious lord be going now?" "To see your Rabbi, Witebski." Witebski looked astonished. "To see the Rabbi! And what business can the noble lord have with the Rabbi?" "It is a ridiculous story, Witebski. There, tell me, do you know Saul Ezofowich's grandson?" "Which of them?" asked Eli. "Saul has many grandsons." "What is his name?" asked the nobleman, half-turning his head toward Jankiel. "Meir, Meir, that worthless fellow!" Witebski nodded his head as a sign that he understood. "Well," he said, with an indulgent smile, "I would not quite call him a worthless fellow. He is young, and will mend; he is hot-headed though." "What! a little wrong here?" laughed the gentleman, pointing to his forehead. "Well," said Eli, "he is not mad, but rash and impulsive, and just now had done a very foolish thing, and put me into a most awkward position. Ai! Ai! what trouble and vexation I had through him, and shall have still--" "Oh, that's it!" said the lord. "He is a kind, of half-witted mischief-maker, who does not know what he wants, and gets in everybody's way?" "The noble lord has guessed it," said Eli, but he added at once. "He is very young, and will yet be a decent man." "Which means that he is not a decent man at present? I see." "This way, please," said Jankiel, showing the gates of the synagogue court. "And where does your Rabbi live?" Kamionker pointed to the little black hut close to the synagogue. "What, in that little cottage?" And he went towards it with Jankiel alone, as Witebski, guessing that some unpleasant business had brought them hither, directly took his leave, and, bowing politely, left them. The door of the hut was already closed, but a little group of worshippers still lingered at the open window. It was very silent within; but the Rabbi did not rest, he never rested, as the few hours spent in broken sleep could scarcely be called by that name. He was bending over his books, which he knew by heart, but still pondered over, and of which he strove with his whole mind and soul to penetrate the mystery. Reb Moshe rested, but not altogether. He sat in the corner of the fireplace, his knees drawn up to his chin, and his hands buried in his beard. He looked fixedly at the Master, not unlike a fanatic savage worshipping his fetish, or as a scientist watches the universe. The eyes of Reb Moshe expressed deep veneration, wonder, and utter devotion. Suddenly the door opened, and upon the threshold stood the lord of Kamionka who, turning to Jankiel, said: "Remain outside; I will speak alone with the Rabbi." Saying this, he stooped in order to enter the low doorway, and then looked around. Opposite him, near the wall, sat a man with a mass of coal-black hair, slightly tinged with gray, about him a worn-out garment, and with a yellow, wrinkled face, who, looked at the intruder with amazed and piercing eyes. In a far corner squatted another man, only dimly visible; upon him the young gentleman bestowed only a passing glance. It did not even enter his mind that the man in the tattered clothes and with the piercing eyes could be the celebrated Rabbi, whose fame, spreading over the Jewish communities, had sent a faint echo into the Christian world. He approached the man very politely. "Could I see the Rabbi of Szybow for a few minutes?" There was no answer. The man sitting near the wall craned his long yellow neck, and opened his eyes and mouth wider. The sudden amazement, or perhaps other feelings, gave him the appearance of stupidity, almost idiotism. No wonder that Isaak Todros looked like one turned to stone at the sight of the nobleman standing before him. He was the first Edomite who had ever crossed his threshold--the first he had ever seen closely, and the first time he had heard the sonorous language, which sounded strange and unintelligible to his ears. If the angel Matatron, the heavenly patron and defender of Israel, or even the foremost of the evil spirits had stood before him, he would have been less appalled: with supernatural beings he was in constant though not direct communication. He studied them--their nature and their functions. But this tall, stately man, in his abominable garment which reached barely to his knees, with the white, effeminate forehead and unintelligible language, who was he? Was he a Philistine? a cruel Roman, or perhaps a Spaniard--one of those that murdered the famous Abrabanel family, and drove his ancestor Todros out of Spain? The lord waited a few minutes, and not getting an answer, repeated the question: "Could I speak with the Rabbi of Szybow?" At the sound of the somewhat raised voice the squatting figure in the corner moved and rose slowly. Reb Moshe, with open mouth and stupid, glaring eyes, came into the light, and in his hoarse voice uttered the monosyllable "Hah!" At the sight of the man dressed in such primitive and now-a-days unseen simplicity, the lord's face twitched all over with suppressed merriment. "My good sir," he said, turning to the melamed, "is that man deaf and dumb? I asked him twice whether I could see the Rabbi of Szybow, and got no answer." Saying this, he pointed at Todros, who, craning his neck in the melamed's direction, asked: "Was sagd er? Was will er?" (What does he say? What does he want?) Reb Moshe, instead of answering, opened his mouth still wider. At the same time murmurs and whispers became audible from the open window, and the young gentleman, looking in that direction, saw a cluster of faces peeping into the room: the faces looked inquisitive, and a little frightened. He turned towards them and asked: "Does the Rabbi of Szybow live here?" "He does," said some voices. "Where is he, then?" A great many fingers pointed at the bench near the wall. "What! That man is your wise and celebrated Rabbi?" The faces framed in the open window radiated with a peculiar blissfulness, and nodded. The young man made an heroic effort to control his risible muscles, and with twinkling eyes he pointed at the melamed. "And who is this?" "He is the melamed," said several voices; "a very wise and pious man." The nobleman turned again to Todros. "Reverend sir," he said, "could I speak alone with you for a few minutes?" Todros remained silent as the grave, but his breath went faster and his eyes grew fiercer. "Mr. Melamed," said the nobleman to the barefooted man in the long coarse shirt, "perhaps this is a day when your Rabbi is not allowed to speak?" "Hah?" asked Reb Moshe drawlingly. The nobleman, half-amused, half-angry, turned towards the people. "Why do they not answer?" There was a momentary silence. The faces looked perplexedly at each other. One of them at last said: "They only understand the Jewish language." The owner of Kamionka looked at them in open-eyed amazement; he could scarcely believe that he heard aright. "What! You don't mean to say they do not understand the language of the country they live in?" "Well, they do not understand it." There was some indefined resentment in the voice that said that. At this moment Isaak Todros drew himself up, and raising both arms above his head, began to speak quickly: "And a day will arrive when the Messiah, who sleeps in Paradise, will wake up and descend to the earth. Then a great war will spread over the world. Israel will stand up against Edom and Ishmael, until Edom and Ishmael will fall at his feet like shattered cedars." His gestures were at once solemn and threatening, his eyes blazing, and catching his breath, he repeated again: "Edom and Ishmael will lie at the feet of Israel like broken cedars, and the thunderbolt of the Lord will fall upon them and crush them to powder." It was now the Edomite's turn to look astonished, for he did not understand a word. He looked not unlike a tall, stately cedar as he stood there, but not like one that could be easily crushed to powder. His face was rippling over with laughter, which he carefully tried to suppress. "What does he say?" he asked the people at the window. There was no answer. All eyes were riveted upon the sage, and on the melamed's face there was an expression of ecstatic rapture. "My good people, tell me what he said," repeated the nobleman. A deep voice, as if in sarcastic retribution, answered with another question. "Did the gracious lord not understand?" This ingenuous question put an end to the young man's self-control, and he burst out into a peal of laughter and turned towards the door. "Savages!" he murmured to himself, and he still laughed as he crossed the precincts, and the people who crowded round the Rabbi's window looked after him with astonished and deeply-offended eyes. The young man laughed, tickled by the ludicrous aspect of the whole scene; yet under his apparent merriment there was an under-current of resentment and anger, that the Wise Men of Israel should have shown themselves to him like savages, who did not even speak the language of the country whose air they breathed, and that had nourished them for many centuries. The people around the Rabbi's hut followed him with looks of displeasure almost amounting to hatred, because he had blasphemed what they loved and revered beyond anything. Poor sages of Israel with their worshippers! Poor Edomite laughing at the sage and his worshippers! But poorest of all, the country, the sons of which after journeying together for so many centuries do not understand each other's heart and language. At the gate of the precincts Jankiel Kamionker met the young nobleman. "Well, Jankiel," he said, "you have indeed a wise and learned Rabbi." Jankiel did not reply to this, but began at once to speak about the agreement and the Kamionka distillery. He spoke glibly and easily, and did not appear to remember what had occurred or refer to it. Neither did the lord of Kamionka, upon whom the whole scene had left an impression of astonishment and amusement. The young prophet, and Jankiel with his red curls trying to evict him; the Rabbi, who only spoke the Jewish language, and his companion in the wonderful costume: it was as good as a play. How his friends would enjoy his description; how the good-natured Sir Andrew would laugh, and his daughter, the beautiful Hedwiga, of whom he thought night and day as the believer in his paradise, would smile! Thinking of her he jumped into the carriage, and looking at the west, he exclaimed: "How long you have kept me!" He nodded to Jankiel and called to the coachman: "Drive on." The four grays and the light carriage carried him swiftly through the town till he disappeared in a cloud of golden dust. In the western sky the red clouds died gradually away, and the transparent dusk of an August evening enveloped the town and darkened the sitting-room in the Ezofowich house. Loud and angry cries had reverberated in that usually peaceful household. The shrillest and angriest among them was that of Reb Jankiel, who abused all the members of the family one after the other, who answered either angrily or quietly according to their different characters. After that, the accusing and threatening man, shaking with fury, or perhaps terror, had rushed out of the house towards the Rabbi's dwelling; and those who remained behind sat silent and motionless, as if riveted to their chairs by their angry and perplexed feelings. Saul sat on the sofa with his head sunk upon his breast, his hands lying motionless upon his knees, and sighed loudly and heavily. Around him sat on chairs Raphael, Abraham, and Ber. The wives of Raphael and Ber, the much-respected and beloved women, entered quietly and sat down behind their husbands. In a corner of the room, not noticed by any one, sat young Haim, Abraham's son and Meir's devoted friend. It was Saul who interrupted the silence. "Where is he gone to?"--meaning Jankiel. "He is gone to denounce him before the Rabbi," said Abraham. "He will bring Meir before the ecclesiastical tribunal," said Raphael. Saul rocked himself and moaned aloud: "Ai! ai! my poor head! Did I live to see a grandson of mine brought up to judgement like a thief or robber?" "It is as informer he will appear before the judges," said Abraham swiftly and passionately. "Something must be done with Meir, father." "Think of it and tell us what to do with him. Things cannot remain as they are. He will ruin us and our sons and bring shame upon the whole family. Father! people used to say that it was always an Ezofowich who tried to undermine the faith of Israel: that the house of Todros and the house of Ezofowich are like two rivers than run in opposite directions, but meet now and then, and struggle to see which is the stronger, and to push the other underground. This talk had subsided, people began to forget, till Meir stirred it up again. Something must be done. Think of it, father, and we will do as you command us." Two red spots appeared on Saul's face. "What is to be done with him?" he asked in a voice that sounded like a smothered sob. Raphael said: "He must be married as quickly as possible." Ber, who had until now remained silent, observed: "Why not send him into the world?" Saul thought a long time, and then replied: "Your advice is not good. I cannot punish him severely. What would my father Hersh say to it, in whose footsteps he wishes to go, and whom I am not at liberty to judge. I cannot marry him quickly, because the child is not like other children--he is proud and sensitive, and does not brook any fetters. Besides, he is so disgraced and openly rebuked already that no wealthy or respectable Israelite will give him his daughter in marriage." Again Saul's voice shook. He had lived to see his grandson, the most beloved of all his children, come down so low that no respectable family would receive him as son-in-law. "I cannot send him away either," he continued, "because I am afraid that in the world he will lose all that is left of his father's faith. I am in the position of the great and wise Rabbi of whom it is written that he had a reckless son who ate pork in secret. People advised him to send his son out into the world and expose him to misery and a wandering life. But he replied: 'Let my son remain at home. The sight of his father's troubled and sorrowful face may soften his heart and lead him to a better life; stern misery would change it into hard stone.'" Saul became silent--all around were silent; nothing was heard but now and then a sigh from the women. The room became darker and darker. After a while, in a subdued, almost timid, voice, Ber began: "Allow me to open my heart before you to-day. I speak but seldom, because as often as I want to speak the remembrance of my younger years seems to rise before me and smother my voice; therefore it is the voice least heard of all the voices in the family. I left off speaking or advising, and looked only after my business and my family. But I must speak now. Why trouble so much about Meir? Give him his liberty; let him go into the world, and do not punish him either by your anger or by dooming him to poverty. What wrong has he done? He keeps all the commandments faithfully; has studied the holy books; all the members of our family, and even the poor, ignorant people love him like their own soul. What do you want from him? What has he done? Why should you punish him?" Ber's speech, delivered in a lazy, half-timid voice, made a deep impression on all those present. His wife Sarah, evidently frightened, pulled him by the sleeve and whispered: "Hush, Ber! hush! they will be angry with you for your rash words." Saul raised his head several times arid bent it down again. One might have said that gratitude for Ber's defence of his grandson struggled with his rising anger. "Ber, your own sins have spoken through your mouth. You stand up for Meir because you were once what he is now," said the passionate Abraham. Raphael, with his usual gravity, said: "You say, Ber, that he has not sinned against the ten commandments. That is true; but you forget that the covenant does not stand alone upon the ten commandments which Moses brought from Sinai, but also upon the six hundred and thirteen which the great Tanaites, Amoraits and Gaons, with other Wise Men, have put down in the Talmud. We not only owe obedience to them, but also to the six hundred and thirteen of the Talmud; and Meir has transgressed many of them." "He has sinned greatly," called out Abraham, "but the greatest and blackest sin be committed to-day, when he denounced a brother Israelite before the stranger, and thus broke the solidarity and faith of his people. What will become of us if we accuse each other before the stranger? Whom shall we love and shield if not our brethren, who are bones of our bones and our blood. He felt more sorry for a stranger than for a brother Israelite, and for that he ought to--" The violent and impulsive man broke off his sentence in the middle and remained open-mouthed, like one turned to stone. He sat opposite the window, at which he stared fixedly with stupefied eyes. "What is that?" he called out in a trembling voice: "What is that?" said everybody; and all except Saul rose from their seats. The room, which had been quite dark, became suddenly lighted up, as if by the reflection of thousands of torches from without; not only the house of Ezofowich, but the whole sky above was illuminated by a red glare. The men and women stood spell-bound in the middle of the room, and looked silently at the fiery volumes, which rose higher and higher into the heavens above. "How quickly he has done the deed!" said Abraham. Nobody answered. The little town, so quiet a moment before, became suddenly very noisy and tumultuous. No nation in the world is so easily carried away by sensations of any kind. This time the sensation was a powerful one. It was aroused by the mighty element which carries destruction upon earth and lifts its blood-red banner up to the skies, The noise of thousands of running feet re-echoed in the streets like the rushing of many waters. The square was black with a dense crowd, which swiftly and noisily moved in one direction. Above the din of all the voices single words were heard now and then more distinctly. "Kamionka! It is the Kamionka estate!" exclaimed those that knew the country. "Hear! hear! it is Kamionka!" took up a chorus of voices. "Ai! Ai! such a fine place! such a magnificent place!" Those were the last words that reached the inmates of Ezofowich's house. The crowd streamed on, and the voices sounded faint and far off. Then Saul rose from the sofa, and, his face turned towards the window, he stood silent and motionless. Then he raised his trembling hands and said, in a faltering voice: "In my father Hersh's time and in my own, such things did not happen, and sins like this were not in Israel. Our hands used to spread gold and silver over the land, but not fire and tears." He paused a few moments, gazing thoughtfully at the window. "My father Hersh and his grandfather lived in friendship; they often conversed together about important affairs, and the lord of Kamionka--he wore then a gold brocaded sash and a sword at his side--said to my father Hersh: 'Ezofowich, you are a large-hearted and a far-seeing man; if our side win we will make a nobleman of you at the Diet.' His son was not quite like his father, but he always spoke courteously to me, and I bought his corn for thirty years. Whenever he wanted money I was always ready, because his estate brought much gain to me. The lady of Kamionka--she is still living--liked my mother Frieda very much; she used to say: 'Mistress Frieda has a great many diamonds and I have only one.' She called her son, who was as the apple of her eye, her diamond--the same son whose house is now in flames," and he pointed at the fiery columns with a silent gesture of grief and horror. Then Raphael spoke. "When I was last time at Kamionka, the old lady was sitting with her son upon the balcony, and when I began to speak about business, she said to him: 'Remember, Sigismond, never sell your corn to anybody but to an Ezofowich; they are amongst the Jews the most honest and friendly towards us.' And after that she began to ask whether old Frieda was still alive, and her son Saul, and if he had many grandchildren. Then she looked at her son and said to me: 'Raphael, I have no grandson!' And I bowed politely and said: 'May the gracious lady live a hundred years and see a great many grandsons of her own!' I did not put a lie into her ear; I sincerely wished her well. Why should I not wish her well?" Raphael left off speaking, and Saul, turning towards him, asked: "Raphael, has he ever wronged you?" Raphael thought a little and then replied: "No. He has never done me the slightest wrong. He is a little proud, it is true, and does not look sharp after his business; he is fond of amusements, and when an Israelite bows to him he gives a careless nod and does not try to make a friend of him . . . but his heart is good, and his word is his bond, and in business he is more likely to wrong himself than anybody else." Sarah, who stood near her husband, wrung her hands, and rocking her body gently, sighed mournfully: "Ai! all such a handsome gentleman to have such a misfortune happen to him." "Such a fine young man, and he was going to marry such a beautiful young lady," said the wife of Raphael. "And how will he be able to marry now, when he is ruined?" said Saul, and he added in a lower voice: "A great sin has been committed in Israel!" "A great shame has fallen to-day on Israel's head," said Raphael. From a corner of the room where the glare penetrated least, came or rather crept forth Abraham. Bent almost in two, and trembling in every limb, he kissed his father's hand. "Father," he said, "I thank you that you saved me from it." Saul raised his head. The colour came back to his face, and energy gleamed in his eyes. "Abraham," he said, in a commanding tone, "have your horses ready at once, and drive as quickly as you can to the estate where the young lord is staying. He cannot see the conflagration from there; drive quickly and tell him to come and save his property and his mother." "You, Raphael, go at once to the Jankiel's and Leisor's inns where the peasants are drinking. Tell them to drive home quickly to save their lord's property." Obedient as two children, Saul's two sons left the room at once and the women went into the porch. Then Ber came close to Saul. "Father! what do you think now of Meir? Was he not right to warn the lord of Kamionka?" Saul bent his head, but did not answer. "Father," said her, "save Meir! Go to the Rabbi, and to the judges, and elders; ask them not to bring him before their tribunal." For a long while Saul did not answer. "It is very difficult for me to go," he said at last. "The hardest task to humble my gray head before Todros," but he added after a pause, "I will go tomorrow--we must stand up for the child--though he be rash and does not pay due reverence to the faith and customs of his father." While the foregoing took place in the house of Ezofowich, the little meadow close to the town was covered with a waving, murmuring and compact mass of people. From this spot, the terrible conflagration could be seen most distinctly; therefore the whole population, eager and greedy for sensation, congregated there. The reflected light of the fire rose above the pine forest, which was enveloped in a ray light and so transparent that every branch and stem could be seen distinctly. The wide half-circle of the glare, dark red below, grew paler and paler above, till the golden yellow light lost itself in the pale blue sky. The stars twinkled with a feeble, uncertain light, and on the opposite side, beyond the birch wood, rose the red ball of the moon. Among the population, sentences and words, quick and sharp, whizzed about like pistol shots. Somebody was telling that when Jankiel Kamionker heard about the fire, he had gone off to the estate tearing his hair like a madman, wailing and lamenting over the loss of the spirits which he had there in such quantities. Hearing this, many people smiled knowingly; others shook their heads compassionately at the supposed heavy losses of Jankiel; but the greater part of the people remained silent. They guessed the truth; here and there somebody knew about it; but nobody dared to meddle in a business so full of danger, even with an unwary word. A full hour after the first gleam of the fire had been noticed a light carriage and four gray horses were seen in full gallop across the streets in the direction of the meadow. It was not the regular road to Kamionka, in fact, there was no road at all; but by driving across the meadow, the young owner shortened his way considerably. He did not sit in the carriage, but stood straight up, holding on by the box, seat, and kept his eyes fixed upon the red glare of the flames, where his mother was, which was consuming the house of his fathers. When the horses came to the meadow and he saw the crowd, he shouted to the coachman: "Be careful; do not hurt the people." "A good man," said one in the crowd; "at such a moment he still thinks of other people." Some groaned aloud. A few heads clustered together, whispering. The name of Jankiel was whispered low--very low. But there was a spot, not on the meadow, but in the little street close by, where people talked aloud. Near Shmul's hut, upon the bench before the window, stood Meir. Thence he looked at the meadow, black with people, and at the red glare of the fire; around him in the street stood a dozen or more young men, his friends. Their faces looked excited and indignant. Haim, the son of Abraham, who an hour before had been an unseen witness to Saul's conversation with his sons, told his friends about it. Carried away by his indignation, he repeated in a loud voice every word that had passed and his friends re-echoed them. The young and usually timid spirits grew bolder under the pressure of shame and exasperation. Only one voice was missing among the chorus of voices--the most prominent of all, because he was the leading spirit of the young people. Eliezer was not among those who crowded round Meir; he sat apart, leaning against the black wall of the hut, His elbows rested on his knees and his face was buried in his hands. He looked like one petrified in this position; full of grief and shame. From time to time he rocked his body slightly. The dreamy, timid man was overwhelmed with bitter arid desperate thoughts. Presently, from beyond the corner of the street, a black thin shadow glided swiftly along the walls; and close by the group of young men, the heavy panting, almost moaning, of an exhausted human being became audible. "Shmul!" said the young men. "Hush!" said Meir, in a low voice, jumping down from the bench. "Let nobody utter the name of the miserable man, so as not to bring him into danger. I have been standing here to watch for his return. Go away from here, and remember that your eyes have not seen Shmul coming from that direction, not seen--" "You are right," whispered Aryel; "he is our poor brother," "Poor brother, poor, poor!" they repeated all round. They dispersed at once. Near the hut remained only Meir and Eliezer, whom nothing could rouse from his stupor. Shmul ran into the hut, now deserted by every one except the blind mother and the smallest children. There he threw himself at full length upon the floor and beat his forehead in the dust; sobbing and moaning, he uttered in broken sentences: "I am not guilty, not guilty, not guilty. I did not fire it. I did not hold the vessel full of oil. He, Johel, did it all; I stood on watch in the fields--when I saw the fire--Ai! ai! I understood what I had been doing--" "Hush!" said a low, sorrowful voice close to the despairing, almost senseless, man. "Hold your tongue, Shmul, till I shut the door and window." Shmul raised his face, but again dropped it on the dusty floor. "Morejne," he moaned, "morejne, my daughters were growing up; it was necessary to marry them; I had no money to pay the taxes with for the whole year!" "Get up and calm yourself," said Meir. Shmul did not listen. With his lips sweeping the dusty boards, he kept on moaning. "Morejne! save me. I am lost, body and soul." "You have not lost your soul, Shmul. The Eternal will weigh your poverty against your sin; that is if you do not take the money with which bad people tempted you." This time Shmul lifted his face from the floor. The lean and ashy-pale face, covered with dust and twitching with nervous terror, presented a picture of the deepest human misery. He looked at Meir with despairing eyes, and pointing at the miserable room, he groaned: "Morejne! how shall we be able to live without that money?" Fully half-an-hour passed before Meir left the cottage, where the outcast Shmul accused himself, wailed and moaned in a voice that gradually became lower till it almost sank to a whisper. The ruddy glow from the street fell upon one corner of the dark entrance. There, coiled up between the goats, his head resting upon a projecting board, with the red light of the fire upon his face, slept Lejbele. Neither noise nor the glare of the fire, not even the lamentations of his unhappy father, had disturbed his innocent sleep among his friends, the goats. Next morning an unusual stir prevailed amongst the inhabitants of the town. The common topic of all their conversation was the conflagration at the Kamionka estate. The whole house was reduced to ashes; nearly all the outbuildings had been burned down; the barns and ricks with all the year's harvest had been devoured by the flames. The old lady, the mother of the lord of Kamionka, was very ill, and had been carried into a neighbour's house. To discuss these and other items of news, people stood in groups about the streets or before their houses; all the ordinary business of their every-day life seemed suspended for the time being. Now and then among the groups a single question was heard repeatedly: "What will become of him?" The question had nothing whatever to do with the ruined young nobleman, but referred to Jankiel. Some pitied the former sincerely, as also some blamed the latter; but the landowner was to them a perfect stranger, known to most of them only by sight. Jankiel Kamionker was connected with them by a thousand threads of common interest and friendship; besides that, he was surrounded by the halo of wealth and the reputation of ardent piety. No wonder that even those who blamed him trembled for his safety. "Will they suspect him?" asked somebody here and there. "Nobody would dream of suspecting him, but for Meir Ezofowich putting bad thoughts into their heads," was said here and there. "He has broken the solidarity and the covenant of Israel." "What else could you expect? He is a kofrim, a heretic!" "He dared to raise his hand against Reb Moshe!" "He lives in friendship with the Karaite's girl!" Those who spoke cast ominous, threatening glances in the direction of Ezofowich's dwelling. The house was unusually quiet and lifeless. The windows looked upon the square, which, as a rule, were open in summer-time so that anybody could see the daily life of people who had nothing to conceal, were shut to-day. No one had remembered to open them, or to straighten the sitting-room--as a rule kept in such perfect order. The women wandered aimlessly from one place to another; their caps were crushed and in disorder from their frequently putting their hands upon their heads; they stood before the kitchen fire and sighed distractedly. Sarah's eyes were red; her husband, Ber, had two deep wrinkles on his forehead, a sure sign to her that he suffered grievously. He did not open his lips to her, but sat with his head resting upon his hand, looking vacantly at his brothers-in-law. Raphael had his account books before him, but his thoughts were elsewhere as he raised his head frequently and looked at his brothers. Old Saul sat on the sofa reading the sacred books; but, judging by his countenance, derived but little comfort from them. Near the window in her deep easy-chair sat the great-grandmother, dozing. Hers was the only face that did not show any change, or lose any of its usual serenity. She opened her eyes now and then, then dozed off again. Soon after twelve o'clock the women busied themselves with arranging the table for dinner. The door opened softly. Meir entered the room, and standing close to the wall, his eyes looked around at all faces. It was a troubled look, almost timid and very sorrowful. Those present raised their eyes at him for a second only; but in that short instant a heavy load of mute reproaches fell upon the young man. It was the reproach of people used to a quiet, peaceful life, for past troubles and troubles still to come; there was some pity in it for the offender, and also a threat of casting him off. Only the great-grandmother opened her eyes when she saw him, and with a smile, murmured: "Kleineskind!" Meir's eyes rested tenderly and thoughtfully upon her face. At this moment there came a sudden dash and a heavy thump. From among the groups that looked angrily at Ezofowich's house, somebody had thrown a heavy stone, which, breaking the window, flew close over Freida's head and fell into the middle of the room. Saul's face became of a dull red; the women arranging the table screamed in terror; Raphael, Abraham, and Ber jumped up suddenly. All stared at the broken window, but presently their attention became concentrated upon their great-grandmother Freida, who stood straight up and looked attentively at the stone in the middle of the room, and then called out in her loud, tuneless whisper: "It is the same stone! They threw it through the window the same when Reb Nohim quarrelled with Hersh because he wanted to live in friendship with the strangers. It is the same stone--at whom did they throw it now?" All the wrinkles in her face quivered, and her eyes for the first time wide open, travelled about the room. "At whom did they throw it?" she repeated. "At me, dear bobe," replied, from the opposite wall, a voice full of unspoken grief. "Meir!" exclaimed the great-grandmother--not in her usual whisper, but in a loud, almost piercing voice. Meir crossed the room, stood before her and took the little wrinkled hand caressingly in his own. He looked at her eyes full of tenderness, and as if in mute entreaty. She seemed to feel his look, for her eyelids flickered tremulously and restlessly. Saul rose from the sofa. "Raphael," he said. "Give me my cloak and hat." "Where are you going, father?" asked both sons simultaneously. "I am going to humble my head before the Rabbi; to ask him to delay his judgment on my headstrong child until the anger in the hearts of the people has subsided." Presently the gray-headed patriarch of the greatest family in the town, dressed in his long cloak and tall shiny hat, was seen slowly and gravely crossing the market-place. The groups standing about made way for him, bowing respectfully. Somebody said loudly "Poor Reb Saul, to have such a grandson!" The old man did not reply, but pressed his lips closer together. More than an hour had elapsed ere Saul returned from his errand. He found all the elder members of the family in the same position as he had left them. Meir sat close to the easy-chair of the great-grandmother, who tightly clutched him by the coat sleeve. Sarah met her father and relieved him of his hat and cloak. "What news do you bring, father?" asked Raphael. Saul breathed heavily, and looked gloomily on the floor. "What could I bring from there," he said after a momentary silence, "but shame and humiliation? The hearts of Todros rejoices over the misfortune of the house of Ezofowich. Smiles, like reptiles, are writhing and crawling over his yellow face." "And what did he say?" asked several voices. "He said he had been far too forbearing towards my godless, insolent grandson--that Reb Moshe, Kamionker, and all the people were urging him to sit in judgment upon Meir; at my intercession he would put off the trial until to-morrow after sunset, and said if Meir humbled himself and asked his and his people's pardon, the sentence would be less severe." All eyes turned towards Meir. "What do you say to it?" asked a chorus of voices. Meir looked thoughtfully down. "Give me time--till to-morrow," he pleaded. "I may perhaps find a way out of it." "How can you find a way?" they exclaimed. "Allow me not to answer you till to-morrow," repeated Meir. They nodded and became silent. It was mute consent. In all their hearts fear and anger were struggling with family pride. They felt angry with Meir, yet trembled for his fate, and the very thought that a member of their family should humble himself publicly before the Rabbi and the people seemed unbearable. "Who knows," whispered Raphael, "he may find a way to avoid it?" "Perhaps his mother will appear to him in his sleep and tell him what to do," sighed Sarah. The belated dinner, passed off in gloomy silence, interrupted only by the sighs of women and a smothered sob from the children, who had been forbidden to laugh and chatter. The grieved and mournful faces looked now and then at Freida, who showed an unusual restlessness. She did not speak, neither did she doze during the meal; but moved uneasily in her chair, looked at Meir, then at the shattered window, and in the middle of the room on the spot where the stone had fallen. "What ails her?" asked the members of the family of each other, in a perturbed voice. "She is recalling something to her mind," others replied. "She is afraid of something. She wants to speak, but cannot find words." When the dinner was over, two great-granddaughters wanted to help Freida into the next room and lay her down to rest as usual, but she planted her feet firmly on the floor and pointed to the easy-chair by the window. Presently the inmates of the room began gradually to disperse. Raphael and Ber went driving away to a neighbouring estate, where they had some important business to transact. Abraham shut himself up in his room to look after his accounts, or perhaps to read. Saul gave orders to his daughter to keep the house quiet, and sighing wearily, lay down upon his bed. The women, after raking out the fire in the kitchen, shut the door of the sitting-room and betook themselves with their needlework to the courtyard, where they watched the children at play, and conversed together in a low voice. The great-grandmother remained alone in the sitting-room. Strange to say, though perfect silence reigned in the house, she did not fall asleep or even doze for a moment. She sat in the easy-chair with her eyes wide open, and looking at the broken window, her lips kept moving continually as if she were speaking to herself. Sometimes she rocked her head, heavy, with the voluminous turban, and the diamonds flashed out and glittered in the sudden motion, and the pendants jingled against the links of the golden chain. Her lips moved incessantly. Presently her hands also moved quickly. It seemed as if she spoke with somebody; with the spirits of the Past, who came forth from her clouded memory. Suddenly she rocked her head, and said aloud: "It was the same way when my Hersh found the writing of the Senior--bad people threw stones at him." She stopped; great tears gathered in her eyes and ran down her withered cheeks. Meir rose from the bench where he had been sitting, crossed the room quickly, sat down on the low stool where the old woman rested her foot, and putting his folded hands upon her knee asked: "Bobe! where is the writing of the Senior?" At the sound of the voice which, as well as the face, reminded her of the man she had loved so well, and the days of her youth and happiness, she smiled. Her eyes full of tears did not look at her great-grandson, but somewhere far beyond, and she began to whisper: "The day he quarrelled with Reb Nohim and angered the people, he came home and sat down sorrowful upon the bench and called his wife, Freida. Freida was then young and beautiful; she wore a white turban and stood before the kitchen fire, looking after the servants; but when she heard her husband's voice, she went at once and stood before him, waiting for his words. 'Freida!' he said, 'where the writing of the Senior?'" Then suddenly the whisper ceased. The young man sitting at her feet pressed his hands convulsively together and asked again: "Bobe! where is the writing of the Senior?" The old woman gently swayed her head, and her lips moved. "He asked: 'Where is the writing of the Senior? Did the Senior bury it in the ground? No! he could not have buried it, as dampness and worms would have destroyed it. Did he hide it in the walls? No! he knew that fire might destroy the walls. Where did he hide it?' Thus asked Hersh, and his wife Freida pondered over his words and then pointed at the bookcase where the Senior's old books were preserved, and said: 'Hersh my Hersh! the writing is there.' When Freida said that, Hersh rejoiced and said: 'You, Freida, have a wise head, and your soul is as beautiful as your eyes.'" And smiling at the dim pictures of her youthful days, she whispered: "Then he said: 'A virtuous woman is far above rubies and her husband doth trust her!'" The young man looked at her with entreating eyes, and again asked: "Bobe! what did Hersh do with the writing?" The old woman did not answer at once, but her lips moved silently as if she spoke with an invisible being, and then took up the thread of her tale again: "Hersh came back from a long journey, deeply grieved, and said to Freida: 'Everything is lost. We must bide the Senior's writing again; it is no use now.' Freida asked: 'Hersh! where will you hide the writing?' Hersh replied: 'I will hide it where it was before, and you alone, Freida, will know the secret.'" Meir's eyes sparkled with sudden joy. "Bobe! is the writing there?" And he pointed at the old bookcase. Freida gave no answer, but continued in a whisper: "He said: 'You alone will know the secret. And when the time is drawing near and your soul is about to leave your body, tell it to the son or grandson who resembles most your husband'--'and which of my sons or grandsons is most like my husband Hersh?' 'It is Meir, the son of Benjamin, who is like him as two grains of sand are like each other. He is my child, the dearest of all. Freida will tell him the secret.'" Meir took both the hands of his great-grandmother in his own, and covered them with kisses. "Bobe," he whispered, "Is the writing there?" pointing at the bookcase. But the old woman still followed the thread of her musings. "Hersh said to Freida: 'If the elders of the family raise their hands against him and the people throw stones at him, you, Freida, tell him the secret. Let him take the writing of the Senior to his heart, and leave everything, his house and wealth and family, and go forth into the world; for that writing is more precious than gold and pearls. It is the covenant of Israel with the Present, which flows like a great river over their heads and with the nations which tower around him like great mountains.'" "Bobe! the elders of the family have risen up against me; the people have thrown stones at me--I am that dearest grandson of whom your husband Hersh spoke--tell me, is the writing among those old volumes?" A broad, almost triumphant, smile lit up the wrinkled face. She shook her head with a feeling of secret joy, and whispered: "Freida has watched over her husband's treasure and guarded it like her own soul. When she became a widow, Reb Nohim Todros came to her house and wanted to have the bookcase and the volumes put into the fire; then Reb Baruch Todros came and wanted to burn the books; but whenever they came, Freida screened the bookcase with her own body, and said: 'This is my house, and everything in it is my own.' And when Freida stood before the bookcase, Freida's sons and grandsons stood before her and said: 'It is our mother; we will not let her be harmed.'" "Reb Nohim was very angry and went away--Reb Isaak did not come, because he knew from his fathers that as long as Freida lives nobody touched the old bookcase--Freida has watched over her husband's treasure; it remains there and sleeps in peace." With these last words the old woman pointed her thin hand at the bookcase, which stood not far from her, and a quiet laugh, a laugh of joy and almost childish triumph, shook her aged breast. With one bound Meir reached the bookcase, and with a powerful hand shook the old, rusty lock. The door flew open and a cloud of dust burst forth which covered Meir's head as it had once--long ago--covered Hersh's golden hair and Freida's white turban. He did not heed it, but plunged his hand amongst the books from which his ancestors, had drawn their wisdom and where that lay hidden which was to direct him on his way. At the sight of the open bookcase and the clouds of dust Freida stretched forth both arms and called out: "Hersh! Hersh! my own Hersh!" It was not the usual tuneless whisper, but a loud cry wrung from the heart, full of the joys and griefs of the past. She had forgotten the great-grandson, and thought the tall, golden-haired youth, covered with dust, was her husband come back to her from unknown worlds. Meir turned his excited face and burning eyes to her. "Bobe!" he said breathlessly, "where is it? On the top? Below? In this book--that--or that?" "In that," said the woman, pointing at the book upon which Meir's hand rested. Presently a roll of yellow papers rustled under the parchment cover of the volume. Holding them in both hands, Meir fell down before his great-grandmother and kissed her hands and feet. Freida smiled, and touched his head gently; but by and by her eyelids drooped, and her whole face took the expression of sweet dreaminess again. Tired with the strain upon her clouded memory, looking still into the bright dreamland of the past, the centenarian had fallen asleep--touched, as it were, by a gentle wave of the eternal sleep. The passionate outpouring of thanks did not rouse her again. Meir hid the precious papers in his breast and went swiftly upstairs towards the top of the house, where his young cousins dwelt. During the whole of the evening, and the greater part of the night, the large window near the pointed roof flickered with an uncertain light, and people were seen moving about constantly. At early dawn, some people came out of the house by a side door and went in different directions. Soon afterwards strange news began to circulate about the town. The news was undefined, vague, told and explained in different ways; but, such as it was, it excited the greatest curiosity among the people. The everyday work seemed to go on as usual, but in the midst of the dashing and rattling of implements of handiwork a continual hum of conversation was going on. Nobody could point out the source from which sprung all the rumours which filled the public mind; they seemed to be floating in the air, and pervading all the streets and alleys. "To-day, after sunset the elders of the Kahol and the judges, with Rabbi Isaak at their head, will sit in judgment upon Meir Ezofowich." "How will they judge him? What will they do to him?" "No; there will be no judgment. The bold grandson of Reb Saul will come to the Bet-ha-Midrash and confess his sins before the Rabbi and the people, and ask forgiveness!" "No, he will not humble himself or ask forgiveness." "Why should he not?" "Ah, ah, it is a great secret, but everybody knows about it, and everybody's eyes burn with curiosity. Young Meir has found a treasure!" "What treasure?" "A treasure that has been buried for five hundred years--a thousand years--ever since the Jews came into this country, in the house of Ezofowich. The treasure is the writing of one of their ancestors, left as a legacy to his descendants." "What does the writing say?" "No one knows for certain." All the inhabitants of the poorer streets had heard something about it from their fathers and grandfathers; but everybody bad heard it different. Some said it was the writing of a wise and saintly Israelite, who lived long ago, and who wanted to make his nation powerful and wise. Others maintained that this same ancestor of Ezofowich was an unbeliever, bribed by the stranger to destroy the name of Israel and the holy covenant from the face of the earth. "The writing was to teach people how to make gold out of sand, and it tells poor people how to get rich." "No! it teaches how to drive away the evil spirits, so that they cannot touch you, and how to transpose the letters of God's names into a word with which you can work miracles." "The writing teaches how to make friends out of your enemies, and to enter into a covenant of peace with all nations. Somebody heard that it showed the way how to bring Moses back to life again, and call on him to bring his people out of bondage into the land that flows with gold and wisdom." "Why did they not search for the treasure sooner?" "They were afraid. It is said that whoever touches that writing will be scorched with fire and burned into powder. Serpents will twist themselves around his heart! His forehead will become as black as soot! Happiness and peace will go from him for ever! Stones will fall upon him like hail! His forehead will be branded with a red mark! Long, long ago, there still lived people who remembered it, the great merchant, Hersh Ezofowich, Saul's father, had touched that writing." "And what became of him?" "The old people said that when he touched the papers serpents coiled round his heart and bit him, so that he died young." "And now young Meir has found that writing?" "Yes, he has found it, and is going to read it before the people in Bet-ha-Midrash after sunset." Going to and fro amongst the people who exchanged the above opinions, was Reb Moshe, the melamed. He appeared first in one street, then in another; was seen in one court, and near another's window; always listening intently; he smiled now and then and his eyes gleamed, but he said nothing. When directly appealed to by people, and urged to give an opinion, he shook his head gloomily and muttered unintelligible sentences. He could not say anything, as he had not spoken to the master yet, to whom, out of fanatical faith and mystic personal attachment he had given himself up body and soul. Without definite orders from the revered sage he dared not give an opinion or settle things even in his own mind. He might unwittingly act against his master's wish, or transgress any of the thousands of precepts; though he knew them all by heart, yet he might fail to catch their deeper meaning without the guiding spirit. The melamed was fully conscious of his own wisdom, yet what did it mean in comparison with the Rabbi's, whose mind pierced the very heavens? Jehovah looked upon him with pleased eyes, and wondered how he could have created such a perfect being as Rabbi Isaak Todros. About noon, when his mind and ears were full of what he had heard, he glided silently into the Rabbi's hut. He could not get the Rabbi's ear at once, because he was conversing with an old man, whose dusty, travel-stained garments showed that he had come a great distance; he now stood leaning on his stick before the Rabbi, looking at him with humble, and at the same time radiant, eyes. "I dearly wished," he said, in a voice trembling with age and emotion, "to go to Jerusalem to die in the land of our fathers; but I am poor and have no money for the journey. Give me, O Rabbi, a handful of the sand which they bring to you every year from there, so that my grandchildren may scatter it upon my breast when the soul is about to leave my body. With that handful of soil, I shall lie easier in my grave." The Rabbi took some white sand out of a carefully, wrapped-up bag and gave it to the old man. The man's whole face lighted up with joy; he carefully secured the precious relic under his ragged garments, and then kissed the Rabbi's hand with fervent gratitude. "Rabbi," he said, "I have nothing to pay you with." Todros craned his yellow neck towards him: "You have come from a far country, indeed, if you do not know that Isaak Todros does not take payment. If I do good to my brethren, I ask only for one reward: that the Almighty may increase by one drop the wisdom I possess already, but of which I can never have enough." The old man looked with admiring eyes at the sage, who, so full of wisdom, yet wished for more. "Rabbi," he sighed, "allow me to kiss your benevolent hand." "Kiss it," said the master gently, and when the old man bent his head covered with white hair, the Rabbi put his arm round him and kissed him on the forehead. "Rabbi!" exclaimed the old man, with a burst of happiness in his voice, "you are good--you are our father--our master and brother." "Blessing upon you," replied Todros, "for having preserved your faith until your old age, and the love for our fatherland which makes you prize a handful of its soil more than gold and silver." Both their eyes were full of tears. It was the first time they had ever met, and yet their hearts were full of brotherly love and mutual sympathy. Reb Moshe, who sat in his usual corner waiting for the end of the interview, also had tears in his eyes. When Isaak Todros was alone be still waited a little, and then said in a low voice: "Nassi!" "Hah?" asked the sage, who was already buried in mystic speculation. "There is great news about the town." "What news?" "Meir Ezofowich has found the writing of his ancestor, the Senior, and is going to read it to-day before the assembled people." The Rabbi was now fully awake, and craning his neck towards the melamed, exclaimed: "How did you come to hear of it?" "Ah! the whole town is full of it. Meir's friends since early morning have been among the people spreading the news." Todros did not say a word; but his eyes had a keen, almost savage expression. "Nassi! will you allow him to do this?" Todros was silent. At last he said in a determined voice: "I will." Reb Moshe gave a convulsive start. "Rabbi!" he exclaimed, "you are the wisest man that ever was, or will be on this earth; but has your wisdom considered all the consequences, and that this writing may detach the people from you and the covenant?" Todros looked at him sternly: "You do not know the spirit of the people if you can speak and think like that. Have not I and my fathers before me tried to mould and educate the people and make them faithful to their religion? Let him read the papers--let the abomination come forth from its hiding-place, where it has lain till now; it will be easier to fight against it and crush it down, once and for ever. Let him read it: the measure of his transgressions will then be full, and my avenging hand will come down upon him!" A long silence followed upon these words. The master was absorbed in thought, and the humble follower looked at him in silent adoration. "Moshe!" "What is your will, Nassi?" "That writing must be taken from him and delivered into my hands." "Nassi! how is it to be taken from him?" "That writing must be taken and delivered into my hands!" repeated the Rabbi decisively. "Nassi! who is to take it from him?" Todros fixed his glaring eyes upon his follower. "That writing must be taken from him and delivered into my hands," he repeated for the third time. Moshe bent his head. "Rabbi!" he whispered, "I understand. Rest in peace. When he reads the abomination before the people such a storm will break over his head that it will lay him in the dust." Again there was silence. The Rabbi interrupted it: "Moshe!" "Yes, Nassi!" "When is he going to read that blasphemous writing?" "He is going to read it in the Bet-ha-Midrash after sunset." "Moshe! go at once to the shamos (messenger) and tell him to convoke the elders and the judges in the Bet-ha-Kahol for a solemn judgment." Moshe rose obediently, and went towards the door. The Rabbi, raising both arms, exclaimed "Woe to the headstrong and disobedient! Woe to him who touches the leper and spreads contagion!" Saying this, his whole face became suffused with a wave of dark, relentless hatred. And yet, a quarter of an hour ago the same face was full of brotherly love; the same mouth spoke gentle and comforting words, and the eyes were full of tears. Thus gentleness and wrath, love and relentless hatred dwelt side by side in the same heart; virtues and dark crimes flow from the same source. Charity goes hand in hand with persecution and neighbour often stands for enemy. Man, who tended to human suffering and healed the sick, with the same hand lit the stakes and prepared the instruments of torture. What mysterious influences rule such dual lives?--asks the perplexed student of human nature. But for these mysterious undercurrents which lead human brains and hearts into awful error, Rabbi Isaak might have been a great man. Let us be just. He would have been a great man but for those that raised the weapons of fire and sword, and the still more deadly weapons of scorn and contempt, against his brethren, and thus confined them in the narrow, dark,--a spiritual and moral Ghetto! The sun had set, and the earth was wrapped in the dim light of a summer evening. The large court of the synagogue swarmed with a crowd. The interior of Bet-ha-Midrash was already full of people. There could be seen heads of old men and fair locks of children, long beards, black like crow's wings and blonde like hemp. They all moved and swayed, necks were craned, beards raised, and eyes glowed in anticipation of some new sensation. Everything appeared in shadow. The large room was lighted by a small lamp, suspended at the entrance door, and a single tallow candle in a brass candlestick, which stood on a white table; this, with a solitary chair close to the high and bare wall, constituted the platform from which the speaker was wont to address the people. In Israel, everybody, young or old, and of whatever social position, had the right to speak in public, according to the democratic principles prevailing in the ancient law. Every Israelite had the right to enter this building, whether for the purposes of praying, reading, or teaching. The people who crowded outside the building looked often in at the windows of the room where the elders and judges held their conferences. In the entrance hall the lamp was being lit, and burning candles were placed upon the long table. Presently people well-known to the inhabitants ascended, the steps of the portico. Singly or in twos arrived the judges of the community--all of them men well on in years, fathers of large families, wealthy merchants, or house owners. There ought to have been twelve in number, but the bystanders counted only up to eleven. The twelfth judge was Raphael Ezofowich. People whispered to each other that the uncle of the accused could not sit in judgment against him; others said that he would not. After the judges arrived, the elders, amongst whom was Morejne Calman, with his hands in his pockets and the stereotyped, honeyed smile on his lips, and Jankiel Kamionker, whose face looked very yellow, and whose eyes had the hunted look of a criminal. The last, but not least of them, was Isaak Todros, who glided in so swiftly and silently that scarcely anybody in the crowd noticed him. At the same time, from the depth of Bet-ha-Midrash, a clear, resonant voice reached the ears of the surging crowd without: "In the name of the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, hear, O Israel!" The murmur of the crowd within and without increased, and almost rose to a tumult. For a few moments the voice of the speaker was drowned in the general hubbub, and his few sentences sounded indistinct and broken. Suddenly somebody from the crowd shouted: "Silence and listen, for it is said: 'You shall listen to whosoever speaketh in the name of Jehovah!'" "That is true," murmured voices. "He began in the name of the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob." Then everything became quiet, except for the rustle of those near the door, who tried to get a better view of the speaker. They did not see anything unusual. Behind the white table, pale and grave, stood Meir Ezofowich. He was much paler than usual, and his eyes burned feverishly. His emotion was not the outcome of fear or doubt, but of a powerful conviction and radiant hope. In his hands he held a few sheets of old yellow paper, which he raised now and then, to show whence he took his words. "O Israel!" he read out, in a clear and thrilling voice, "you are a great people! You were the first among nations who recognised one God in heaven, and heard on earth, amid the roar of thunder and flashes of lightning, those ten great commandments, which, like ten rocks, helped you and other nations to climb towards the sun of perfection. Israel! blind from his birth, or blinded by malice, must be the man who fails to recognise the greatness of your mission. Dry from its birth, or dried by the searching breath that comes from the nether world, must be the eye that does not shed a tear at the sight of your sufferings. Ill-fated he who, looking at you, calls you contemptible. May the Lord pity him and forgive him, as he possesses not the balance in which are weighed a nation's virtues and crimes, possesses not the wisdom which shows how pain and degradation produce sin. Israel! of you were born Moses, whose love was like the flaming bush, David with the golden harp, the beautiful Esther, weeping over the misery of her people. The Maccabees with their mighty swords came from among you, and the prophets who died for their faith. Whilst living happily in the land of your fathers, you loathed to bind a brother into slavery; upon your fields you left the tenth sheaf to the poor and needy, and gave a hearing to anybody who spoke to the people. Humbling yourself only before Jehovah, you said: 'We are all alike in the eyes of our Father.' And when, in after years, ill-fated, vanquished, covered with the blood of your sons who defended the land of their fathers, you stood an outcast amongst nations, and suffered from contempt and persecution, you yet remained faithful unto your God and the memory of your fathers, and taught other nations who suffered like you how to defend themselves without weapons. The Lord hath made you intelligent, pure, and charitable, O my people; but it is nigh two thousand years since you possessed the one necessary thing on earth--a fatherland." Here the voice of the speaker gave way, and he paused for a minute. The crowd had caught his emotion, and a low tremor seemed to pass through the people. A few subdued voices murmured: "Let us listen! Let us listen! It is the writing of a true Israelite who tells of the glory of his people." They listened in silence, and Meir went on: "Woe to the people who have no fatherland! The soul of the people clings to the soil as a child clings to its mother's breast which gives it nourishment, health, and relief from sickness. The Lord ordained it thus; but the people acted against His will and tore your soul, O Israel, from the soil to which it was attached. As an outcast you went and knocked for charity at the very doors of those that had despoiled you; your head bent down under laws from which your mind recoiled; your tongue tried to imitate their speech, and the roof of your mouth dried up in exceeding bitterness; your face darkened from wrath and humiliation, and you lived in fear lest your faith and the name of Israel should be obliterated from the face of the earth. Then under torments and awful sorrows your greatness fell from you; your sins and transgressions began to grow and multiply, and Jehovah your Lord, looking down upon you said: 'Is this my chosen people with whom I made the covenant of Truth and Grace? Can he not keep it except with the words of his mouth, which do not agree with the deeds of his hands? Does he see the covenant only in his offerings; songs, prayers, and incense, and forget the high ladder I showed my servant Jacob in his dream to teach the people in all times how to reach me, who is Perfection and Understanding.'" Here the voice of the reader became drowned again in a low, ever-increasing murmur. "What is it he is reading?" they asked each other. "It is the writing of a bad Israelite who throws ugly words at his people." "Which are those sins that have been multiplying amongst us? And how are we to praise the Lord if our songs and, prayers have no value in His eyes?" Meir grew pale when he found his voice powerless against the increasing tumult. But he would not stop now, and went on reading. By and by curiosity prevailed over discontent and they became silent once more. They listened to the tale of Michael Senior's life; how, by order of the king, and out of love for his people, he had stood at the head of their affairs, and wanted to lead them into new ways, at the end of which he saw the dawning of a happy future; how he had been thwarted in all his undertakings, and the heart of the people turned away from him. "Great thoughts crowded into my brain which I could not utter, because my old friends and my pupils abandoned me! In my breast there was fire, at which they would not warm themselves, but said it had been kindled by evil spirits. Then my body wasted away, the light of my eyes became dim, and the sleep of death drew near. I cried out in anguish: 'Lord of the world! do not forsake thy messenger! Give him a voice powerful enough to reach the ears of those that are not born, since those that live will listen no longer.' And I opened the Holy Book and read:" "'Though he be dead, he yet speaketh.' Son of my sons, you who have found this writing, read it to the people to let them know what I desired from them. The first thing I asked from them was; Forgetfulness. Did I want them to forget their Lord Jehovah, or the name of Israel which produced the greatest men of the past? No, I could not ask them to forget it because the remembrance is dear to me and rejoices my heart." "I asked my people to forget the wrongs and sorrows of the past. Do not remember injuries! Do not say an eye for an eye! Mar Zutra every day, before he lay down to rest, said, 'I forgive all those that have saddened me.' Mar Zutra was a great man." "When you begin to forget Israel, you will approach the flame which you speak of as alien, and which belongs to all nations. The alien flame, from which you fly in your blind hatred, has been kindled by Sar-ha-Olam, the angel of knowledge, who is the Angel of Angels and the prince of the world. The knowledge of religion is sacred, but other knowledge has equally been created by him who dwells in perfect wisdom. Good is the apple of paradise, but are we therefore to refuse other products of the earth? A time will come when the world will be full of knowledge, as the sea is full of water." "Thus spoke and wrote the sage whom your teachers hold accursed. His name was Moses Majmonides, a true prophet, who did not look into the past but into the future, for he knew that a time would come when all those who did not gather around the flame of wisdom would fall into the dust, and their name become a by-word of contempt and derision. He was the second Moses; he was my teacher from whom came all my joy and all my sorrow." Here the reader dropped the hands that held the papers, and an expression of rapture shone in his face. "He was my teacher from whom came all my joy and all my sorrow." Strange coincidence! Both he and his ancestor who had died three hundred years ago had listened to the same teacher. In the hearts of both he had kindled the heroic, self-sacrificing love, the greatest upon earth--the love of the ideal. But the descendant who read these words which one by one dispersed all his doubts, felt no sorrow; nothing but a great joy and hope. A hoarse and thick voice shouted from the crowd: "Hear! hear! he praises alien flames! He calls the accursed heretic a second Moses!" All heads turned towards the door to see who had spoken. It was Reb Moshe, who had climbed upon the bench near the door and was thus raised above the crowd; he shook his head, laughed derisively, and fixed his malignant eyes upon Meir. But the people's curiosity was not yet satisfied; under their ragged garments many hearts were beating with a new, and by themselves undefined sensation. "He speaks to us through the mouth of his descendant. Listen to him whose soul dwells already amongst the Sefirots." An old man with stooping back, who leaned upon his stick, raised his white head and said to Meir, plaintively: "How could Israel warm himself at the sun of knowledge when he was driven away from it by his enemies? And we once had, Reb, famous physicians and wise men who were ministers at the courts of kings; but when they thrust us from the portals of knowledge we went forth and said: Henceforth Israel will hold aloof from the stranger, like an elder brother whom the younger brethren have offended." Meir looked at the old man with a gentle, half-triumphant smile. "Reb!" he replied, "the voice of my ancestor will give an answer to your question:" "A time will come when wrong and injustice will disappear from the earth. The gates of knowledge will be thrown open wide before you. Enter quickly with a joyful heart, because understanding is the greatest weapon given by the Lord who rules the world by the eternal laws of wisdom." "They do not wish to behold the works of the Creator; of such it is said: 'A fool hath no delight in understanding.'" "The second thing I asked from my people is: Remembrance. Rava asked Raba, the son of Moro, the origin of the proverb! 'Do not throw mud into the fountain from which thou drinkest.' Raba answered with the words of the Scriptures: 'Thou shalt not abhor an Egyptian, because thou wast a stranger in his land.' Eliezer the son of Azalrya, said: 'The Egyptians did not invite the Israelites into their country from self-interest, therefore the Lord rewarded them.' Since the country whose bread you eat did not treat you as cattle to plough his field, but as a tired brother to rest on his bosom, how have you rewarded it, O Israel?" "It is not said, Thou shalt despoil the stranger, but 'One Law shall be for him that is home-born and unto the stranger that sojourneth among you.'" "When I was holding the office bestowed upon me by the king, two base Israelites were found who had gone to the enemy's camp and betrayed the king's secrets and brought calamity and trouble upon the kings troops. What did I do with these base subjects? I ordered it to be published by the sound of trumpets, all over the country, that these two, traitors to their God and their country, were for ever expelled from the bosom of Israel. I did this because when contemplating their deed my heart boiled over with wrath. I saw, as if in a dream, the second Moses, who said: 'Thrust them out of Israel, for they have betrayed those that received them as guests into their land.'" "Not only for the good of your souls did I ask you for remembrance and gratitude, but also for your earthly welfare. When I sat in the great Synod assembled at the wish of the king and nobles, in the rich town of Lublin, I advised and urged the wise and honest men to send out a proclamation that would shake the hearts and brains of the people, even as the gardener shakes the trees to make the ripe fruit fall." "In this proclamation we said: 'Be useful to the country wherein you live and the inhabitants will respect you. This is the first step towards happiness, because contempt is bitter and respect sweet to the human heart.'" "But there are still other things which I have in my mind: He who is the servant of the soil, hath bread in abundance. How is the soil to nourish you if you treat it, not as a faithful servant, but as a stranger who only cares for the present day?" "Rabbi Papa said: 'Do not engage in trade, but cultivate the soil, though both are good things; but the first is blessed by men.' If you come into the land, plant all kinds of trees that produce fruit." "There will come a time when wrong-doing will disappear from the earth, and the nations will call out to the sons of Israel: 'Take the plough into your hands and cultivate the land, that you and your sons may eat your bread in peace.' But false prophets will raise their voice and tell you not to till the soil in the land of bondage." "Oh, my descendant who reads this, tell the people to beware of false prophets! Call out to them in a loud voice: The false prophets have brought you low, O Israel!" It was evident that the descendant fulfilled the command of his ancestor with conviction and unspeakable joy. Had he not himself felt the deep hatred towards the false sages? Why he considered them as such, he could not have told. His tongue was tied by want of knowledge, and his spirit, longing for light, had beaten against the walls of darkness in the midst of which he was imprisoned. Now he knew and understood; therefore from the depth of his heart he called out: "Do not believe, O Israel, in your false sages." The crowd grew noisy. "Of whom does he speak?" "Who are the false sages and prophets in Israel?" "He speaks of our rabbis and learned men; abominable blasphemy comes out of his mouth." "He throws only blame upon the children of Israel!" "He bids us plough the soil in the land of bondage." "Rabbi Nohim, the grandfather of Rabbi Isaak, said to our fathers: 'You shall not till the soil with your own hands in the land of bondage.'" "Rabbi Nohim was the wisest of wise men; his wisdom lighted up the whole earth." "Hersh Ezofowich quarrelled fiercely with Reb Nohim." "Hersh Ezofowich was a great sinner!" "Why, does he not tell us how to make poor people rich?" "He said we ought to become servants of the soil on which we live. When the Messiah comes and takes us to the promised land, we shall leave this one. Why should we become its servants?" "It was said the writing would teach us how to change sand into gold!" "And how to drive out evil spirits." "How to bring Moses to life again." "They have told us lies; there is nothing wise or pleasing to the Lord in the writing." Questions and mutterings followed rapidly one upon the other, accompanied by the scornful laughter of those that had been balked in their hopes and expectations. The melamed, towering above the crowd, threw out insulting remarks, or burst into harsh laughter full of venomous malice. Under the second wall opposite the melamed stood Ber on a bench. These two men, standing opposite each other, presented a striking contrast. The melamed shook his head and waved his arms, wildly shouting and laughing; Ber stood silent and motionless, his head thrown back, resting against the wall, and from his blue eyes that looked into the far, far distance, tears fell in thick drops. Close to Meir in a compact body stood a dozen or more of young men, who looked with rapt attention at the reader. They breathed quickly, smiled now and then, and raised their arms and sighed. They seemed not to see or hear the crowd; their spirits, longing for truth and blindly searching for it, had fastened upon the new thoughts. A thin, quavering voice was heard from the crowd: "They talked much about that, long, long ago; when I was young." A deep sigh accompanied the young man's words. Perhaps he was one of Hersh's friends. Young boys who pushed their heads between the people laughed and shouted, then disappeared again. The old yellow papers began to tremble in Meir's hands; upon his pale face appeared two red burning spots. He looked half angrily, half entreatingly at the public. "Be quiet!" he called out. "Let me read the words of the great man to you to the end. He has chosen me as his messenger, and I must obey his commands." His voice was loud and authoritative; his whole frame seemed to expand under the influence of a new power. "Be quiet," shouted the melamed. "Let him read the abomination which hitherto has lain in hiding. Let it come forth that we may stamp it out all the easier." "O Israel!" began the youthful voice once more. "O Israel, the third thing I ask from you is Discernment." "In ages past, the learned men among us were called Baale Tressim or armour-bearers. What was their armour? Their armour was the understanding of the covenant. Why were they armed? To protect Israel from annihilation. They said: Israel shall not disappear from the surface of the earth, for we will give him a strong hold from the covenant of 'Moses. Thus said the Tanaim. And the Sanhedrin where they sat, and the schools in which they taught became as the arsenal where they ground and prepared their weapons. Gamaliel, Eliezer, Joshua, Akiba, and Jehuda were amongst them like suns among the stars. Others followed in their footsteps, and through five hundred years they compiled, explained and wrote the great book which they' named the Talmud, and which through centuries was a bulwark to the Israelites, shielding them from the devouring elements From its pages the sons of Israel drew wisdom and comfort, and during the great dispersion they were never divided, because their thoughts and sighs went towards it and gathered round it, like children round their mother." "But is everything which is good in itself equally perfect?" "This book, which during five hundred years was written and composed by wise and loving men, cannot be a foolish or a bad book. He who speaks thus of it, tell him to clean his heart from evil, and then open it and read." "There are clouds in the sky, and in the purest heart the Lord discerns a flaw. Did Jehovah himself write the books of Our Law? Did the angels write them? No; people wrote them. Has there ever been a man during all the ages who did not know what it meant to go astray? Is there any human work which is adequate or all times and all ages?" "The throne of the Pharaohs has been shattered; Nineveh fell into ruins; Rome which ruled over half the world broke asunder; and Greek wisdom has made way for other wisdom. The desert spreads now where once were rich and powerful cities; and cities are rising where formerly was desert. Thus human works, the greatest of them, pass away and others take their place." "Israel! the nourishment which sustained your soul through many generations contains grain, but also chaff. In your treasure hoards there are diamonds and worthless sand." "The books of your Law are as the pomegranate which the foolish man ate with the rind, which left a bitter taste in his mouth. When Rabbi Meir saw him doing this, he plucked fruit from the tree, threw away the bitter rind and ate the luscious fruit. I wished to teach you as Rabbi Meir taught the man who ate the pomegranate. I wished for you the gift of discernment, for the books of your faith. Wished that you might use your intelligence as a sieve in order to separate the grain from the chaff, the diamonds from the sand; so that you may keep the pure grain and the diamonds." "You have thrust me off for this my request; your hearts became hardened against me because of the fear and hatred towards things new. And yet it is written: 'Do not look at the vessel, but look at its contents.' There are new pitchers full of old wine, and old ones that are empty." "Meir," whispered Ber, "look at the people!" and then he added in a still lower voice: "Depart from this place as quickly as you can." Meir looked around at the seething, muttering crowd; a smile half-angry, half-sad came on his lips. "I did not expect this; I expected something quite different," he said in a low voice, and he bent his head; but he raised it again almost instantly and called out: "I am the messenger of my ancestor. He has chosen me to read his thoughts to you. I must obey him." He drew a deep breath, then added in a still louder voice: "He penetrated the doubts which were to arise in those who were not born, and gave an answer to them. He penetrated into the inner life of the human soul, which thirsts after truth and knowledge, and offers you freedom and happiness through my mouth. I love him as if he had given me life. I bow down before the greatness of the man who has worked out his own immortality and dwells now in Jehovah's glory. I think as he thought; I wish for you as he wished. I am like him; I am the child of his spirit." His clear voice shook with emotion, and smiles and unshed tears were together on his mobile features. "My ancestor says to you that all nations are moving on towards knowledge and happiness; but our heads are so full of little things that there is not room for great thoughts; that the study they call Kabala, and which you consider, is a cursed science, for it kills the Israelite's intellect and leads him away from true science." His voice became drowned in the general uproar, laughter and groaning, so that only broken sentences reached the small, inattentive audience. Yet he did not cease speaking, but went on quicker and quicker, with heaving breast. It almost seemed as if recognising the futility of his efforts, he tried to stand at his post as messenger of the dead as long as he could. Perhaps he had not lost hope altogether. "Woe I woe!" called out voices in the crowd. "Heresy and sin have entered the house of Israel! Out of the mouths of children comes blasphemy against holy things." "Listen, listen!" cried Meir. "It is still far to the end of my ancestor's writing." "Let us stop his mouth and drive him from the spot where only true Israelites should speak." "Listen, it is written here that Israel should leave off expecting a Messiah in the flesh." "Woe! woe! he will take from the heart of this only hope and comfort." "Because he will not come upon earth in the shape of man, but in the shape of Time, bringing to all people knowledge, happiness and peace." "Meir, Meir, what are you doing? You will be lost! Look at the people! Go away while there is time," whispered those around him. Ber stood at his side. Eliezer, Aryel, Haim, and a few others surrounded him; but he neither saw nor heeded anything. Large beads of perspiration stood on the proudly-raised brow, and his eyes looked despairingly and angrily at the tumultuous crowd. Suddenly a dull thump was heard near the entrance door. The melamed had jumped down from the bench, and, with his naked feet, stamped several times upon the floor. Then, in a few bounds, he cleared the crowd, which made way for him, and with a violent jerk of his arm threw down the brass candlestick with the yellow candle. At the same time someone climbed on the bench and blew out the lamp near the door. Except for the pale streaks of moonlight, which came through the windows, the whole room was plunged into darkness, and amidst that darkness seethed and boiled the raging element--an exasperated populace. Nobody could have singled out any individual expression. Words, curses, groans, came down like hailstones, and mixed together in a chaos indescribable. At last, from the wide open door of the Bet-ha-Midrash poured the dark stream of people which, outside in the court, was met by another of those who had not found room within, and were less noisy, though equally excited. A large wave of moonlight lit up the open space and the Bet-ha-Kahol with its closed door and shuttered windows. On the portico steps, motionless and silent, his elbows resting on his knees, sat the shamos (messenger) awaiting orders from the interior of the building which, in the midst of the uproarious mob stood dark and mute like the grave. The crowd broke up into many groups. One of these, the largest, crossed the gates of the precincts; shouting and struggling, it poured into the moonlit square, where it looked like a monster bird flapping its huge wings It was mostly composed of poorly-dressed men with long beards and maliciously gleaming eyes. Children of different ages flittered to and fro among them, picking up stones and mud. They all thronged towards one point; a single man surrounded by a bodyguard of friends. Pushed and knocked about, they resisted with their arms and shoulders until, yielding to the pressures they finally gave way, and were swallowed up by the crowd. Then a shower of stones fell upon the back of the man whom, until now, they had screened; dozens of hands grasped his garments and tore them into strips; upon his bare head fell mud and handfuls of gravel picked out of the gutter. In his ears thundered the yells and groans of the infuriated mob; before his face flashed the clenched fists and inflamed faces of his assailants, and beyond, as if veiled in a blood-red mist, silent and closely shuttered, appeared the house of his fathers. Towards that house, as if to a haven of salvation, he directed his steps as quick as the grasping hands and the children crowding round his feet would let him. From his compressed lips came no sound either of complaint or entreaty; he did not seem to feel the hands that smote him or the stones, which pelted his body, and which might maim or kill him at any moment. With breast and shoulders he tried desperately to push aside the mob. It was not himself he defended, but the treasure he carried; now and then he touched his breast to make sure it was still there. Suddenly a burly figure, dressed in a coarse shirt, and with a thick stick in his bands, barred his way, and shouted: "Fools, what are you doing? Why do you not take the loathsome writing from him? The Rabbi Isaak has ordered it to be torn from him; he has bidden it in his breast!" In an instant the young man, who had been assailed from the back and sides only, found himself attacked in front also. Rough and dark bands reached at his breast; his convulsively clenched arms were wrenched asunder, and they began to tear his garments. Then he raised his pale face towards the moonlit sky with a despairing cry: "Jehovah!" He felt a lithe and supple body creep up from under his feet, and a pair of hot lips were pressed to the hand which hung down powerless. A wonderful contrast this single kiss of love in the midst of all that hatred and fury. With a last, almost superhuman effort, he pushed off his assailants, stooped down, and, before anybody had time to rush at him again, lifted a child up in his arms. It threw its arms around his neck, and looked with streaming eyes dilated with terror at the people. "It is my child! it is my Lejbele! do not hurt him!" called the frightened voice of the tailor Shmul from the crowd. "Reb!" called out several voices to the melamed, "he is shielding himself behind the child--the child loves him!" "Take away the child and tear from him the writing!" yelled the melamed. But nobody obeyed him. They still pulled at his clothes at his sides and behind, a few stones whizzed over his head; but he saw a clear space in front of him, and, with a few bounds, he reached the porch, which an invisible hand opened quickly, and as quickly bolted after he had entered. Meir put the child down in the dark passage, and he himself entered the sitting-room, where, by the light of the lamp, he saw the whole family assembled. Panting and breathless, he leaned against the wall, and his dull eyes looked slowly round the room. All were silent. Never since the house of Ezofowich had existed in the world had a member of that family looked like the pale, panting youth whose head was covered with dust and mud, and whose garments hung in tatters around him. The forehead, moist with the dew of mortal anguish, was marked across with a red scar, caused by a rough stone, or perhaps some blunt instrument in the darkness of the Bet-ha-Midrash. But for the expression of pride and undaunted courage in his face, he might have been taken for a begging outcast or a hunted criminal. Saul covered his face with both hands. Some of the women sobbed aloud. Raphael, Abraham, and other grave members of the family rose from their seats, stern and angry, and called out in one voice: "Ill-fated lad!" They were about to surround him, and to speak to him, when suddenly the shutters flew open with a crash, the windows shattered into bits, and heavy stones thundered against the furniture from beyond the broken windows, yells and shouts arose, over which dominated the hoarse voice of the melamed. They called for Meir to give up the writing, heaped abuse and insults on the family, and threatened them with heaven's and the people's wrath. The members of the family stood motionless, as if turned to stone with terror and shame. Saul took his hands from his face, drew himself up proudly, and went quickly towards the door. "Father, where are you going?" cried the men and women in terror. He pointed his shaking hand at the window, and said: "I will stand in the porch of my house, and tell the foolish rabble to be quiet, and take itself off." They barred his way. The women clung around his shoulders and knees. "They will kill you, father!" they moaned. Suddenly the raging tumult ceased. Instead yells, a low murmur passed from mouth to mouth. "The shamos! the shamos! the shamos!" It was indeed the same man who, silent and motionless, had sat on the steps of the Be-ha-Kahol waiting for orders, and who now approached the house of Ezofowich to proclaim the sentence of the tribunal before the family of the accused. The crowd, stirred by ardent curiosity to hear the sentence, pressed close to the windows, in which not a single pane of glass remained. Others, scattered over the square and in the neighbouring streets, drew nearer, and surrounded the house like a dark, living wall. The door of the house was opened and shut again, and the shamos entered the sitting-room. He looked anxiously, almost suspiciously around, and bowed very low before Saul. "Peace be with you," he said in a low voice, as if he himself felt the bitter irony of the greeting. "Reb Saul," he began, in a somewhat more assured voice, "do not be angry with your servant if he brings shame and misfortune into your house. I obey the commands of the Rabbi, the elders, and the judges who sat in judgment upon your grandson Meir, and whose sentence I am ordered to read out to him and you all." A deep silence followed upon his words. At last Saul, who stood leaning upon the shoulder of his son Raphael said in a low voice: "Read." The messenger unrolled the paper he was holding in his hand, and read: "Isaak Todros, the son of Baruch, Rabbi of Szybow, together with the judges and elders of the Kahal, who constitute the tribunal of the community of Szybow, heard the following accusations, confirmed by many witnesses, against Meir Ezofowich, son of Benjamin:" "Meir Ezofowich, son of Benjamin, is accused, and found guilty, of the crime of breaking the Sabbath. Instead of giving himself up to the study of holy books, he watched and defended the dwelling of the heretic Abel Karaim, and raised his hand in anger against Israelitish children." (2.) "That Meir Ezofowich was seen reading the accursed book, 'More Nebuchim,' by Moses Majmonides, the false sage, excommunicated by many saintly rabbis and learned men; read this same book aloud to his companions, thus teaching them heresy and other abominations." (3.) "That Meir Ezofowich held rebellious speeches against the covenant and the wise men of Israel, perverting thus their youthful minds." (4.) "That under pretext of charity and pity for the poor of the town, he gave them criminal and foolish advice, saying, they ought to see what the elders did with the money they received from them; and further, they should distinguish in the covenant between God's work and people's invention; finally, told them to work in the fields like peasants." (5.) "That having hair growing on his face, he refused to get married, and broke his engagement with the Israelitish girl Mera, daughter of Eli, and showed thereby his resolution to avoid the married state." (6.) "That he lived in impure friendship with Golda, the granddaughter of a heretic, who, not belonging to the faithful, had been allowed to live in his place through the great charity of the Rabbi and the elders. Meir, the son of Benjamin, has been seen in their dwelling, and meeting the girl Golda in lonely places, taking flowers from her, and joining his voice with hers in worldly songs on a Sabbath." (7.) "That he has not paid due respect to the learned men, and has raised a sacrilegious hand against the melamed Moshe, whom he knocked down, throwing the table upon him, causing, thereby, bodily harm to the melamed and great scandal to the community." (8.) "That in his great, unheard-of malice, he denounced a brother Israelite, Reb Jankiel Kamionker, before an alien, thereby breaking the solidarity of his people, and bringing Reb Jankiel into trouble and perhaps danger." (9.) "That in his boundless audacity he extracted the writing of his ancestor, Michael Senior, from its hiding-place, where it should have rotted away, and with criminal insolence read it to a large crowd of people, thereby endangering the old law and customs of the Israelites; and as the writing, we have been told, contains blasphemous and pernicious doctrines we consider the reading of the said document as the greatest of his crimes. Therefore, according to the power given us by our law over the sons of Israel, we decree:" "That to-morrow after sunset, a great and terrible curse will be pronounced against the audacious and disobedient Meir Ezofowich, son of Benjamin, through the mouth of Rabbi Isaak, son of Baruch, for the hearing of which all the Israelites of Szybow and the environs will be summoned by the messenger; and Meir Ezofowich will be thrust out and ignominiously expelled from the bosom of Israel. All of you who remain faithful unto the Lord and the covenant live in peace and happiness with all your brethren in Israel." The shamos had finished; and putting the paper under his coat, bowed low, and swiftly left the room. For several minutes a deadly silence prevailed within and without. Suddenly Meir, who had stood like one entranced, threw his arms wildly above his head and uttered a heart-broken cry: "Expelled from Israel! cursed and expelled by my own people!" His voice died away in a loud sob. With his head pressed against the wall he sobbed in great anguish. It was enough to hear one of these sobs, which shook his whole frame, to guess that he had been wounded in the most vital part of his soul. Then approached his uncles, their wives and daughters, with voices of entreaty, anger, threats, and prayers, beseeching him to give up the writing of the Senior, to let it be burned publicly, and perhaps the decree of the elders would be mitigated. The men crowded round him; the women kissed him. Still shaken by sobs, and his face closely pressed to the wall, deaf to all the voices of entreaty and anger, his only answer was a motion with his head and the short monosyllable: "No! No! No!" This single word, thrown out amidst his sobs, was more eloquent than the longest speech: it expressed such deep suffering, love, and undaunted courage. "Father," exclaimed Raphael, turning towards Saul, who sat alone and motionless, "Father! why do you not command him to humble himself? Bring him to reason; tell him to give up the writing to us, and we will carry it to the Rabbi and ask him to relent!" When Raphael said this, Meir uncovered his face and turned it towards his grandfather. Saul raised his head, stretched out his hands as if blindly groping for support, and then rose. The previously dull eyes became all at once singularly restless, till they met with the fixed look of his grandson. He opened his mouth, but no words came. "Speak, father! command him!" urged several voices. The old man seemed to totter on his feet. A cruel struggle was taking place within him. Several times he tried to speak, but could not. At last in a heavy whisper, he said: "He is not cursed yet--I am still allowed:" "In the name of the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob I bless you, son of my son!" And trembling in every limb, his eyes full of tears, he sank back in his chair. Those present exchanged glances of amazement and reverence. Meir bounded forward and threw himself at the feet of the old man. In a low, feverish voice he spoke of the love he bore him--about the Senior's legacy to his descendants, and that he would go into the world and come back sometime. Then he rose from his knees and quickly left the room. At this moment there was nobody near the windows of the house. The great crowd of people had retreated towards the middle of the square, and there they stood almost motionless, quietly whispering with each other. A singular thing happened. Scarcely had the messenger finished reading the sentence when the storm of wrath and anger suddenly subsided. What had happened to them? Their emotional nature which, like a stringed instrument, answered to the slightest touch, quivered under a new feeling. It was respect and sympathy for the misfortune of an ancient and charitable family. The crowd, which such a short time before had yelled and cursed and was ready to tear everything to pieces, became suddenly quiet and subdued, and began to disperse peacefully. Here and there still sounded malicious laughter or insulting epithets, but more voices were heard in gentle pity. "Yet he was good and charitable!" "He never was proud!" "He fed my foolish child and kissed it!" "He saved my old father when the cart had fallen upon him!" "He worked with us like a common man, and sawed wood!" "His face shone with beauty and intelligence!" "All eyes rejoiced looking at his young age!" "Herem!! Herem! Herem!" (Excommunicated) repeated many. Then they shook their heads in wonder, faces paled with horror, and breasts heaved with sighs. *** Three shadows glided swiftly over the moonlit deserted fields which separated the town from the Karaite's Hill. The first belonged to a tall, slender man; the second to a child who clung to the sleeve of his garment; these two shadows were so close together that often they formed but one; the third shadow showed the outline of a burly figure, which kept carefully in the distance, now and then stood still or doubled up, at times disappearing altogether behind palings, shrubs, or trees. It was evident the shadow wanted to hide itself, and was looking for something, listening and watching for something or somebody. At the open window of Abel's cottage a low voice called out: "Golda! Golda!" From the window bent a face, whitened in the moonlight, and surrounded by waves of black hair. A low passionate whisper sounded in the still evening air: "Meir! Meir! I heard a terrible noise and awful voices! My heart trembled in fear; but it is nothing now you are here." Two arms were stretched forth towards the approaching young man. The corals on her neck quivered under the throbbing emotion where sobs mingled with laughter. Suddenly she uttered a piercing cry. Meir stood before her, and she saw his torn garments and the red scar on his forehead. She moaned, and put her hand gently on his brow, and caressingly touched the dusty hair and ragged clothes with the almost motherly feeling that longs to comfort and soothe. Meir sat on the bench in the posture of a man deadly tired. He leaned his head against the window-frame, and seemed to draw in the mild evening breeze. The moon reflected herself in the mournful eyes that were raised in question towards the silvery clouds. After a while he straightened himself and said quickly, in a low voice: "Golda, people may search for me; if they find me they will take my treasure. I will give it to you to hide it, and then I will go into the fields and woods to cry out unto Jehovah for mercy." The girl, too, stood straight and grave. "Give it to me," she said quietly. The leaves of the paper rustled in Meir's hands, and, giving them to the girl, he said: "Hide it in your breast, and guard my treasure as the apple of your eye. It contains the precious words of my ancestor, which have removed all blindness from my eyes. They will be my passport which will open to me the doors and hearts of wise men. It is quiet here, and safe--nobody sees or suspects. When I am ready I shall come and ask you for it." Golda took the paper. "Rest tranquil about your treasure," she said. "I would rather lay down my life than give it up to anyone but you. It is safe here, it is quiet, nobody will suspect." Meir rose from the bench. "Sleep in peace," he said. "I must go; my soul is full of cries; I must walk, walk. I shall go and throw myself down among the trees, and send my prayers up to Jehovah with the evening breeze. I must unburden my mind of the heavy load." He was going away, but Golda held him by the sleeve. "Meir," she whispered, "tell me what has happened. Why did the people beat and hurt you? Why must you go out into the world?" "People have beaten and stoned me," replied Meir gloomily, "because I would not go against the truth, and would not agree to what the people agree. I must go, because to-morrow a terrible curse will be pronounced against me, and I shall be excommunicated and expelled from Israel." "Herem!" (the curse) shrieked the girl, and she threw her folded hands in horror above her head. She stood thus for a moment; then a gentle, thoughtful smile came on her face. "Meir!" she whispered, "zeide is cursed and I am cursed; but the mercy of the Lord is greater than the greatest terror and His justice vaster than the vastest sea. When zeide reads this, he leaves off grieving and says: 'The cursed ones are happier than those that curse . . . because a time will come when the justice of the Lord will enter into the human heart, and then they will bless the names of those that have been cursed.'" Meir looked at the girl, whose deep-set eyes glowed with inspiration. "Golda!" he said softly, "you are the second half of my soul. Come with me into the world as my wife; holding each other's hands, we will bear the curse together and live so that people shall bless our names." A great wave of fire passed over Golda's face and left it radiant with ineffable joy. "Oh, Meir!" she exclaimed. She wanted to say something more, but could not. She bent her lithe figure very low and hung upon his arm. He put his arm around her neck and pressed his lips to the wavy black hair. It was only for a moment. The girl straightened herself, and with the hot blush still dying her face, she said softly: "And zeide?" Meir looked at her like a man suddenly aroused from sleep. She went on in the same low voice: "His feet are so weak that he could not go with us, and besides he would never leave the graves of his fathers. How can I leave him? How could he live without me, whom he brought up with his hands, taught to spin, to read the Bible, and told all his beautiful stories? Who would feed him if I went away? Who during the cold winter nights would lie at his feet and warm his cold limbs? And when the soul is about to part from his body, who will rock the old head to its eternal sleep? Meir! Meir! you have a grandfather whose hair is white as snow, and who will rend his garments when you are gone. But your zeide has many sons, daughters, and grandchildren; he is rich and respected by everybody. My zeide has only this poor hut, his old Bible and granddaughter Golda." Meir sighed. "You are right, Golda; but what will become of you when your grandfather dies, and you remain alone in the world, exposed to poverty and human scorn?" Golda sat down because her limbs trembled. She passed both her hands over her hot face, and with upraised eyes replied: "I shall sit before the door of this hut, spin my wool and tend my goats, looking along the road whence you will come back!" It was an adaptation from the story of Akiba. Meir asked dreamily: "And what will you do if people come and laugh at you and say: 'Akiba is drinking at the spring of wisdom whilst your body is consumed with misery and your eyes are dull from weeping?'" A voice stifled with emotion replied to him: "I shall answer this: 'Let misery consume my body, and my eyes run over with tears; yet truly will I guard my husband's faith.' And if he stood before me and said: 'I have come back because I did not wish you to weep any longer,' I should say to him: 'Go and drink more.'" Meir rose. There was no despair on his face now, but hope and courage depicted in his whole bearing. "I will come back, Rachel," he exclaimed. "Jehovah will give me strength, and good people will help me if I show them my hard yearning after knowledge and the writing of the Senior, which is the covenant of peace between Israel and the nations. I shall drink long and eagerly at the spring of wisdom; then come back and teach my people, and for all the misery and contempt which you suffer, I shall put a golden crown upon your head." Golda shook her head. The expression in her face showed she had been carried away by a wonderful dream. She dreamt she was Rachel, greeting her husband Akiba. With passionate eyes and a far-away smile, she whispered: "And I shall embrace your knees, and with eyes that have regained their former beauty I shall look at all your glory and say: 'Lord and Master! your glory be my crown.'" They looked long at each other, and through their tearful eyes there shone a love as deep and earnest as their hearts were pure and heroic. A low, childish laughter reached their ears. They looked astonished in the direction whence it came. Upon the threshold of the hut sat Lejbele, holding in his arms a snow-white kid. The kid had been purchased at the fair with the money Golda had taken for the baskets. The child had seen it in the entrance, brought it out on the threshold, and nestled his face to the soft white hair and laughed aloud. "The child always follows you," said Golda. "He kissed me to-day, when everybody beat and stoned me; with him I shielded my treasure against their strong hands," replied Meir. Golda disappeared from the window and stood upon the threshold. She bent over the child, her flowing hair covered his head and shoulders, and she kissed him on the forehead. Lejbele was not frightened; he seemed to feel safe here. He had seen the girl before, whose luminous eyes looked at him with an expression of great sweetness. He raised his grateful, now almost intelligent, eyes to her, and whispered: "Let me play with this little goat?" "Will you have some milk?" said Golda. "Yes," he said; "please give me some." She brought a bowl full of milk and fed the child; then asked: "Why do you leave your father and mother, and follow Meir?" The child rocked his head and replied: "He is better than daddy, and better than mammy. He fed me and patted my head, and saved me from Reb Moshe." "Whose little boy are you?" asked Golda. Lejbele remained silent and kept on rocking his head. He evidently tried to collect his confused thoughts. Suddenly he raised his finger and pointed after the retreating figure of Meir, and said aloud: "I am his." And he laughed: but it was no longer the laugh of an idiot, only the expression of joy that he had found the way to clothe in words the thoughts of his loving little heart. Golda looked in the direction where Meir had disappeared, and sighed heavily. Presently she rose, wrapped herself in a gray shawl, went half-way up the hill, and sat down under a dwarfed pine-tree. Perhaps she wanted to look down and watch his return from the woods. Her elbows resting on her knees--her face buried in her hands, she sat motionless, like a statue of sorrow; the black hair which covered her like a mantle, glittered and shone in the bright moonlight. At the same time the low door of the Rabbi's hut was softly opened and Reb Moshe crept in, looking worn, ashamed and troubled. He squatted down near the fireplace and looked anxiously at Isaak Todros who sat in the open window, his eyes fixed on the sky. "Rabbi!" he whispered timidly. "Rabbi!" he said a little louder, "your servant will look guilty in your eyes--he has not brought the abominable writing. The storm was fearful, but his friends defended him; he resisted himself, and then a little child shielded him. The foolish people tore his clothes, beat, abused and stoned him; but did not take the writing from him." "Nassi! your servant is ashamed and troubled; have mercy upon him, and do not punish him with the lightning of your eyes." Todros, without taking his eyes from off the sky, said: "The writing must be taken from him and delivered into my hands." "Nassi! the writing is no longer in his hands." "And where is it?" said the Rabbi, in a louder voice, without turning round. "Rabbi! I should not have dared to appear before you, had I not known what became of it. I followed him--my whole soul entered into my eyes and ears. I saw how he gave the writing to the Karaitish girl to hide it; I heard how he called it his treasure, and his passport to go into the world with, and which would open for him the hearts of the people." Todros shuddered convulsively. "It is true," he whispered angrily. "That writing will be to him a shield and weapon, on which our sharpest arrows will have no effect. Moshe!" he said, in a more determined voice, "the writing must be taken from the Karaitish girl." The melamed crawled to his master's knees, and raising his face to him said, in a low voice: "Rabbi! the girl said she would sooner lay down her life than part with the writing." Todros was silent for a moment, and then repeated: "The writing must be taken from her." The melamed remained, silent and thoughtful for a long time. "Rabbi!" he said in a very low whisper, "and if anything happens to the girl?" Todros did, not answer at once. At last he said: "Blessed is the hand that removes garbage from the house of Israel!" The melamed seemed to drink in the words eagerly and ponder over their meaning. Then he smiled. "Rabbi!" he said, "I have understood your wish--depend upon your servant; he will find men whose hands are strong and whose hearts are steel. Rabbi!" he added, entreatingly, "let a gentle ray from your eyes fall upon your servant; let him see your wrath is softened towards him. My soul without your love and favour is like a well without water or a dark prison where no love enters." Todros replied: "No gentle ray will come from my eye, nor will my wrath be softened till the writing has been torn out of the accursed hands." Moshe groaned: "Rabbi, the writing shall be in your hands tomorrow." The moon fell bright upon the faces of both men, of whom one looked at the heavens, the other into his master's face. The master searched the heavens for the silvery streaks which are the ways the angels travel from star to star through eternity; the pupil looked into the master's eyes for the reflection of the supernatural light. In both their minds the name of the angel of death whom they had called up was present--yet both their hearts were full of love and boundless admiration. CHAPTER X A great and unusual emotion prevailed among the population of the little town. From all parts they thronged towards the large brown house of prayer, where, under the three-storied roof covered with moss, the row of high and narrow windows blazed with light. The sky was covered with stars twinkling feebly and paling before the full moon. The interior of the temple, large and roomy, would easily hold several thousand people. The high and smooth walls, forming a perfect square, were cut across by a long, heavy gallery, divided into niches, not unlike private boxes, and surrounded by a high, open-work grating. Wooden benches, standing closely together, filled the body of the synagogue from the entrance door up to the raised platform, which was surrounded by a highly ornamental grating. There was a table on the platform, used for unfolding the leaves of the Tora on days when extracts from it were read to the people. It served also as a pulpit when, on solemn days, speeches or religious discourses were delivered. Here also stood the choir of young men or grown-up children, who united their voices or answered to the intonating singer. The platform was about a dozen feet from the principal part of the building, which looked very impressive in its dignity and blaze of colour. It was the altar, or the place where the holy of holies was preserved. The top of the altar reached to the ceiling, and consisted of two great tables incrusted with lapis-lazuli and covered with white letters, like strings of arabesques, in a rich and fantastic design, in which the initiated eye could read the Ten Commandments. The tables of lapis-lazuli were supported by two gilt-bronze lions of huge size, resting on two heavy columns of the intensest blue, surrounded with white garlands of vine-leaves and grapes. All this rose from a heavy stone foundation, the large surface of which, from top to bottom was covered with inscriptions from the Bible. The two columns stood like guards on either side of a deep recess, veiled entirely with a red silk curtain richly embroidered with gold. Behind this curtain, only raised at certain times, lay the holy of holies, the Tora, a great roll of parchment covered with costly silk and tied with ribbons embroidered in gold and silver. Seven chandeliers of a hundred lights each, illuminated the gallery above, showing behind the transparent grating innumerable female figures in bright coloured dresses; below were the benches, where the men were sitting on their soft white talliths. Around the necks of the more prominent members gleamed large silver bands worked in delicate bas-relief. The costliest and largest of the seven chandeliers hung suspended by heavy silver cords before the red silk curtain and reflected in the heavy gold embroidery, and showed the delicate design of the vine leaves twining round the columns. Here stood Eliezer, the singer who intoned the old psalms, the limitless melodies of which resound with all the voices of human joy, suffering, and entreaty. Never had the beautiful voice produced richer or mellower tones; never had it vibrated with such deep emotion. It almost seemed as if that evening a superhuman power had taken possession of him. Now and then his voice died away in a low wail; then it rose again with such voluminous power of entreaty as if it carried him on its wings before the throne of Jehovah--to plead for something or somebody. The whole building was filled with the sound, in which the choir of young voices joined from time to time. There was a deep silence among the congregation. Here and there some one whispered: "It is like the angel Sandalphon, who offers to Jehovah the garlands made from human prayers." Others shook their heads sadly. "He is pleading for his friend, who is to be excommunicated to-night." Suddenly the singer's voice was interrupted by a heavy thump, repeated several times. It ceased, as if the golden string had been torn asunder by a brutal hand. The choir disappeared from the platform, and in their place stood one man, whose dark, piercing eyes looked more baneful than ever. In his hands he held a heavy book, with which he struck the table as a sign for silence. Throughout the building everything was quiet, except in the portico, where some twenty people surrounded a young man who, with a deathly pale face and compressed lips, stood leaning against the wall. Whisperers crowded around him. "It is still time. Have mercy upon yourself and your family! Run quick, quick, throw yourself at the feet of the Rabbi! Oh, Herem! Herem! Herem!" He did not seem to listen. His arms were crossed over his breast. The contracted forehead, marked with the red scar, gave him the expression of inward pain, but also of inflexible courage. "In the name of the God of our fathers," sounded the loud voice of Isaak Todros. A long sigh like a tremor seemed to shake the whole congregation, and then everything was silent. Isaak Todros spoke slowly and impressively: "By the force and power of the world, in the name of the holy covenant and the six hundred and thirteen commandments contained in the covenant; with the malediction of Joshua against the town of Jericho; with the malediction of Elisha against the children who mocked him; with the shamanta used by the great Sanhedrims and Synods; with all the herems and curses used from the time of Moses to this day; in the name of the God eternal; in the name of Matatron, the guardian of Israel; in the name of the angel Sandalphon, who from human prayers wreathes garlands for the throne of Jehovah; in the name of the archangel Michael, the powerful leader of the heavenly army; in the name of the angels of fire, wind, and lightning; in the name of all the angels conducting the stars on their courses, and all the archangels who are spreading their wings above the throne of the Eternal; in the name of Him who appeared in the burning bush, and by the power of which Moses divided the waters; in the name of the hand who wrote the tables of the holy law, we expel, disgrace, and curse the strong, disobedient, and blasphemous Meir Ezofowich, son of Benjamin." He paused a little, then, with a vehement motion, raised both his arms above his head, and, amidst the deepest silence, he went on faster and louder: "Be he accursed by heaven and earth; by the angels Matatron, Sandalphon, and Michael; by all the angels, archangels, and heavenly orbs. Be he accursed by all pure and holy spirits which serve the Lord; accursed by every power in heaven and upon earth. Let all creation become his enemy, that the whirlwind crush him and the sword smite him. Let his ways be dangerous and covered with darkness, and let the greatest despair be hi only companion thereon. Let sorrow and unhappiness waste his body; let his eyes look upon the heavy blows falling upon him. Let the Lord never forgive him; nay, let the wrath and vengeance of the Lord eat deep into his marrow. Let him be wrapped up in the curse as in a garment; let his death be sudden, and drive him into utter darkness." Here Todros paused again to draw breath into his exhausted lungs. His voice had become every minute more laboured, and his sentences more broken. His face was burning, and his arms waved wildly over his head. "From this moment," he shouted again, "from this moment the curse has fallen upon him; let him not dare to approach the house of prayer nearer than four yards. Under the threat of excommunication, let no Israelite approach nearer to him than four yards distance, nor open to him his house, nor give him bread, water, or fire, though he see him dying with thirst, hunger, and disease; nay, let everybody spit upon him, and throw stones under his feet, that he may stumble and fall. Let him not have any fortune, either what he has earned himself or what comes from his parents; let it be given up to the elders of the Kahal, to be used for the poor and needy." "This curse which has fallen upon him, let it be made public all over Israel wherever you go, and we will send the tidings of it to all our brethren to the farthest confines of the world." "This is our decree, and you all who remain faithful unto the Lord and his covenant, live in peace." He had finished; and, at the same time, by some prearranged contrivance, all the lights in the seven chandeliers grew dim, and in the four corners of the edifice trumpets began to sound in a low, mournful wail, in which joined a chorus of sobs and loud moans. A heart-rending cry came from the portico, which was all the more terrible as, it came from the breast of a young and powerful man. There was the noise of many feet, and the sound of somebody driven out. Meir disappeared from the house of prayer. Among the benches near the altar came the sound of rent garments, and grave men fell on their faces. "In the dust lies the mighty house of Ezofowich," said several voices, pointing at them. From the gallery came the loud sobs and wailing, of women, and in the background of the edifice people without silver ribbons round their talliths wrung their hard, work-stained hands. Todros wiped the perspiration from his brow with his ragged sleeve, and, leaning upon the balustrade with heaving breast and twitching lips, looked at the singer. He did not leave the platform, for, according to the prescribed rules, a blessing for all the people ought to follow the curse. It was the singer's duty to intonate it. Todros waited for it. Why did the singer delay so long? Why did he not take up his last words, "Live in peace," and intonate the blessing? Eliezer stood with his face turned to the altar. Whilst the Rabbi pronounced the curse his whole frame had shook under the folds of the tallith. By and by he grew quieter, stood motionless, and his eyes seemed to look far, far in the distance. At last he raised his arms. It was the sign for silence and prayer. The trumpets, which had kept on the low, mournful wailing, grew silent, the human sobs and cries ceased. The dim light blazed up again, and amidst the deepest silence, interrupted by some stifled sobs, rose the pure and silvery voice of Eliezer: "O Lord, who blessed our fathers, Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, Moses, Aaron, David, the prophets of Israel, and all righteous people, pour down thy blessing upon the man who this day has been injured by an unjust curse." "God in thy mercy shield and guard him from all unhappiness, prolong the years of his life, and bless all his undertakings. Release him from distress, and darkness, and fetters, together with all his brethren in Israel." "Do this, O Lord. Say all unto me, Amen." He stopped, and there was a short silence of stupefaction, and then out of several hundred throats came the cry, "Amen!" "Amen!" called out the members of the Ezofowich family who rose from the floor, shaking the dust from their rent garments. "Amen!" called out the group of poor people who had wrung their black, work-stained hands. "Amen!" came from the voices of the weeping women in the gallery. "Amen!" repeated at last a chorus of young voices. The Rabbi took his hands off the balustrade, and looked around the congregation with amazed eyes. "What is that? What does this mean?" Then Eliezer turned his face to him and the people. The hood of his tallith had slipped from his head on to his shoulders. His face, usually white, was flushed, and his blue eyes glowed with anger and courage. He raised his band, and said, in a loud voice: "Rabbi, it means that our ears and our hearts will not listen to any such curses any more!" These words were like the signal for battle. Scarcely had he finished speaking when some fifty young men ranged themselves on either side of him. Some were the excommunicated man's personal friends; others had only seen him from a distance; among them were even those who had blamed him and condemned his rashness. "Rabbi!" they called out, "we will hear such curses no more!" "Rabbi! your curse has made us love the accursed!" "Rabbi! with that herem you have laid a burden upon a man who was pleasant in the sight of God and man!" With a mighty effort Todros seemed to rouse himself from the numbness into which the unexpected rebellion had plunged him. "What is it you want?" he shouted. "What are you speaking of? Has the evil spirit bewitched you? Do you not know that our Law commands us to curse those who rebel against the holy covenant?" Not from among the young men, but from the benches where the elders were sitting, came a grave voice: "Rabbi! do you not know that when the old Sanhedrim were in fierce debate whether to adhere to the teaching of Hillel or Shamai, a mysterious voice, 'Bat Kohl,' taken for the voice of God himself, was heard, 'Listen to the Law of Hillel, for it is full of charity and gentleness.'" All heads were craned in the direction whence the speech had come. It was from Raphael, the uncle of the excommunicated. At this moment Ber made his way through the crowd and stood at the side of the young men. "Rabbi!" he exclaimed, "have you ever counted the intellects you and your forefathers crushed with your despotism; all the souls eager for knowledge that you thrust into darkness and suffering?" "Rabbi!" said a youthful almost childish voice, "will you and those that stand by you always keep from us all knowledge after which our minds are yearning?" "Why do you not, Rabbi, teach the people to use their intelligence as a sieve, to divide the grain from the chaff, and the pearls from the sand? Rabbi! you have made us to eat the pomegranate with the bitter rind; we begin to feel the acrid taste of it and it causes pain." "Unhappy, misguided youths! Reprobates!" shouted Todros passionately. "Did you not see with your own eyes that the people hated him, stoned him, and marked his forehead with a red scar?" Proud and scornful laughter answered his speech. "Do not agree with everything the people say," and one voice continued: "The curse you pronounced against him has softened many hearts and opened many eyes." "Malicious promptings stirred up hatred against him; but to-day all hearts are full of compassion, because with your curse you have killed his youth." "It is worse than death, Rabbi; for amongst the living he will be like one dead." "And is it not written in the statutes of the great Sanhedrim: 'The tribunal which once in seventy years pronounces a sentence of death will be called the tribunal of murderers?'" "In the Sanhedrim, did not childless and stony-hearted men sit?" "Who soweth wrath, reapeth sorrow!" Such and similar were the sentences which fell like hail around the Rabbi, accompanied by threatening looks and indignant gestures. Todros answered no more. He remained quite motionless and, with his mouth open and eyebrows raised, presented the picture of a man who does not understand what is going on around him. Suddenly, the melamed rushed from the crowd, jumped over the balustrade, and spreading out his arms as if to shield the beloved master, confronted the people and shouted in angry tones: "Woe! woe! to the insolent who does not reverence those who serve them before the Lord!" Eliezer replied: "No wall is to be raised between the Lord and his people. We appointed men from amongst us to study the Law in order to teach it to the ignorant. But we did not, tell them: 'We deliver our souls unto you in bondage'; because every Israelite is free to search for the Lord in his own heart and to explain His words according to his intelligence." Others exclaimed: "In Israel there are no higher or lower grades. We are all brethren in the eyes of the Creator; no one has the right to fetter our will and intellect." "The false prophets have lost us, because they separated us from other nations, that we are even as prisoners in the dark, left in loneliness." "But a time will come when Israel will shake off his fetters, and the blind and proud spirits shall fall down from their heights and the imprisoned souls will regain their liberty." Isaak Todros raised his hands slowly to his head, as a man who tries to rouse himself from sleep; then he leaned again on the balustrade, raised his eyes, and sighed deeply: "En-Sof!" he said in a dreamy whisper. It was the kabalistic name of God which whirled across his despairing mind. But as if in protest against the doctrines which had encumbered the pure Mosaic faith, a chorus of voices answered: "Jehovah!" The melamed's body shook as in a fit of ague. With violent speech and gesture he called upon the people to stand up for their beloved sage, and punish the audacious rebels. But the more he spoke, the more amazed he grew. Nobody moved. The rich and prominent of the community sat silent, their foreheads supported on their hands, their eyes riveted to the floor. They were in deep meditation. The bulk of the people remained motionless and mute. The melamed understood at last that all efforts to rouse them were useless. He became silent, but his eyes opened wider in great wonder; he could not understand why they did not listen. But through the misty brain of Isaak Todros passed a ray of light, and he got a glimpse of the terrible truth. Something whispered to him that in the young breasts all the dormant desires and aspirations of which the excommunicated man had been the interpreter, had stirred into life. The young man was, then, not the only one; but he was bolder, more enterprising and proud. He heard another whisper. The young heads whose fearless attitude bad made him powerless to-day, had been touched by the wings of the angel of Time, which, as he perceived in a dull, indistinct way, was full of rebellion and upheaving and would break down the barriers he had raised between them and the highest truth. And he heard again why the people had not stood up for him, because the angel of Time, who carries with him rebellion, and battle, also brings charity and forgiveness, and sweeps away curses and hatred with his powerful, yet soft, wings. All this Todros heard in a dim and vague way; but it was enough, to benumb his heart, full of petrified faith and pride. "Bat Kohl," he whispered. The voice of his own conscience he took for the mysterious voice said to be heard in great crises by the lawgivers and priests of Israel. "Bat Kohl," he repeated with trembling lips, and turned his gaze around the building. The interior of the synagogue was half-empty. The people dispersed slowly and silently, as if they were seized by a great sorrow and doubt. The poor and rich, until now great admirers of the Rabbi. There was the rustle of the belated women in the gallery, and then everything was quiet and deserted. As in times of yore, Joseph Akiba was coming back in the moonlit night, to his shepherd's hut, so Meir pale and trembling approached the house of his fathers. He went there, but without the intention of entering it again. He knew that he would have to go away, to pursue in loneliness and misery the great aim he saw in the far, far distance, and which was so difficult to reach. He wanted to see the house once more, but did not intend to cross its threshold. Among the many darkened windows, he saw one where a light glimmered. He stood still and looked at it. Through the window he saw the motionless figure of his great-grandmother in her easy chair. A wave of moonlight made the diamonds sparkle. Meir slowly ascended the steps of the porch and touched the door latch. It yielded to the pressure; contrary to the usual custom the door was unlocked. He entered the narrow passage and stood at the door of the sitting-room, which was wide open. The whole house was wrapped in darkness and silence. Was everybody asleep? Not likely; but not the slightest noise was to disturb the last farewell between the great-grandmother and her great-grandson and drive him from her knees. It was the last time he rested under the roof of his fathers. "Bobe," he said softly, "Elte Bobe!" Freida slept peacefully as a child: the rays of the moonlight played on the wrinkled face like childish dreams. "I shall never see you again, never any more." He pressed his lips to the dear old hand that had given him the treasure which was his salvation and ruin, life and death. Freida's head moved gently. "Kleineskind!" she whispered, without opening her eyes. Meir lost himself in thought. His forehead resting on his great-grandmother's knees, he said farewell to everything and everybody around. At last he rose and slowly left the room. In the dark passage he suddenly felt two strong arms closing around him, and a heavy object was put in his pocket. "It is I, Ber. Your grandfather looked around the family for a courageous man who would give you a handful of money on the way; and found me. Everybody in the house mourns for you; the women have taken to their beds, crying; your uncles are angry with the Rabbi and the elders; the grandfather is almost beside himself with grief--but nobody will see you any more. It is thus with us; reason drags one way; the old faith the other. They are afraid. But Meir, do not grieve! You are happy. I envy you! You have not been afraid to do what I did not dare to do, and you will win. To-day your friends stood up for you, and the people were silent and did not defend the Rabbi. It is the beginning; but the end is still far off. If you showed yourself to-morrow before the people, their wrath would flare up again. Go! go into the world. You have youth on your side and courage; life is before you." "Sometime you will come back and put an end to our sins and darkness. We have many diamonds, but they want sifting. Go forth now, to conquer. Be like Baale Tressim, armour-clad like our ancestors; and my blessing and the blessings of those who, like me, wished, but could not--longed, but did not obtain what they longed for--be with you." They exchanged farewells, and Ber disappeared as silently as he had come. The deep silence of the whole house seemed to bid the excommunicated youth to go hence. When he left the house it had begun to dawn. The market square and the adjacent streets were asleep. The whole town was wrapped in the gray mist of an almost autumnal morning. He swiftly crossed the mist-covered fields to get away, and say farewell to her who had promised to be a faithful Rachel to him, and to claim from her his treasure. The door and window of the little hut stood wide open. "Golda!" he called softly, "Golda!" There was no answer. He repeated his call, but the silence remained unbroken. He drew nearer, and looked at the spot where old Abel was wont to sit. It was empty. A strange, undefined dread took hold of him. He looked around, up the hills and along the fields, and called in a loud voice: "Golda!" There was a slight rustle not far off. It came from a wild rosebush, from among the branches of which rose the sleepy figure of little Lejbele. Meir went quickly up to him. The child disengaged himself from the branches, and put his hand under his coat. "Where is Golda?" asked Meir. Lejbele did not answer, but handed him the roll of papers. Meir bent towards the child. "Who gave you that?" "She," answered Lejbele, pointing to the hut. "When did she give it to you?" The child answered: "When the people were coming she rushed out of the hut, woke me, and put the roll under my coat, and said, 'Give it to Meir when he comes.'" Meir began to tremble. "And afterwards?" he asked, "afterwards?" "Afterwards, Morejne, she hid me in the bush, and went back to the hut." "How many people were there?" "Two, Morejne, three--ten--I don't know." "And what did they do? What did the people do?" "The people came, Morejne, and shouted and screamed at her to give up the writing; and she screamed that she would not, and the goat in the entrance ran about and bleated." Meir trembled in all his limbs. "And then what happened?" "Morejne, she took the spindle into her hands and stood before her zeide. I saw it from the bush. She was so white, and the spindle was white, and the people were black, and the goat kept on running amongst them and bleating." "And then--and then?" "Then, Morejne, I did not look any longer, but cowered down in fear, because there was such a noise in the hut--such moans. Then the people went away, and carried her, and carried her grandfather, and the goat ran up the hill bleating, and I do not know where it has gone." Meir straightened himself, and looked up to the sky with stony eyes. He knew everything now. "Where did they carry them?" he asked in a dull whisper. "There." The outstretched arm of the child pointed in the direction where, in the gray mist, the meadow was dimly visible--and the pond. Beyond the pond were marshes and bogs, where two lifeless bodies would easily sink. There, beyond the meadows, where in spring she had gathered yellow lilies among the rushes, and unconsciously betrayed her fresh and innocent love--there, hidden from all human eyes, she was lying at the feet of her grandfather, wrapped in the wealth of her black hair. A threefold cry of Jehovah rang out in the still morning air, and only Lejbele remained before the door, holding in his raised hand the scroll of paper. Meir had gone into the hut. What a terrible story was revealed to him! The straw lying about Abel's couch, and amongst it, like drops of blood, Golda's red corals. The broken spindle and the old Bible torn in shreds told their tale. It was a long and cruel tale to which the young man listened, his head pressed against the wall--a tale so long that hours passed over his head, and he still listened with beating heart and trembling limbs. When he stood again on the threshold, the sun was shining brightly. How terribly changed he looked. The forehead, marked with a red scar, was seamed and corrugated as if long years of suffering bad ploughed the once smooth surface. The half-shut eyes had a dull despairing lustre, and his arms hung down limp and powerless. He stood thus a few minutes, as if listening intently for the sound of the voice he should never hear more, when a weak hand tugged at his clothes, and a small voice said: "Morejne." Lejbele stood before him, his mournful eyes raised to his, and stretched out a roll of paper. It seemed as if the sight of the papers reminded Meir of something, roused him from sleep, and told him to do something that was sacred and important. He passed both hands over his forehead, and then took the Senior's legacy from the child's hands, and at the touch of it he raised his head, and his eyes seemed to regain their old power and courage. He looked at the town waking up from sleep, and murmured something in a low voice--something about Israel, its greatness in the past, and its great sins, and that he would never desert it, and not give back curses for curses; that he would carry the covenant of peace to other nations, drink at the source of wisdom, and come back sometime-sometime, he repeated, thinking of the far future; and with a last look embracing the poor little hut, as if in farewell to his short and pure dream of love, he slowly ascended the hill. The child, standing motionless near the door, looked after the retreating figure of the young man. His wide open eyes became suffused with tears. When Meir was about half-way up the hill, one convulsive sob burst from the child, and he began to run. At first he moved very fast, but finding they were about a dozen steps apart, he slackened his speed, and tucking his hands under his sleeves, walked slowly and gravely after him. Thus walking, one after the other, the excommunicated youth and the child of the poor man, they disappeared beyond the hill, where they beheld a broad, sandy road leading into the wide, unknown world. Has the humiliated, excommunicated, and despised youth reached the aim after which he strove so ardently? Has he found in the world people ready to open their hearts and doors, and help him on the road to learning? Has he, or will he come back, and bring with him forgiveness, and that light, by the power of which the soil on which now grows nought but thorns--will it produce cedars of Lebanon? I do not know. The story is too recent to have its end yet--for stories like this have no end. But as it is similar to many of the same kind of stories, reader! of whatever race, or country, or religion, if you meet this obscure apostle on your way, give him cordially and quickly your brotherly hand in friendship and help. THE END. 
37406	----	Transcriber's Notes: 1. Page scan source: http://www.archive.org/details/onfieldofgloryhi00sieniala 2. The diphthong oe is represented by [oe]. ON THE FIELD OF GLORY THE WORKS OF HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ TRANSLATED FROM THE ORIGINAL POLISH BY JEREMIAH CURTIN. * * * _The Zagloba Romances_ With Fire and Sword. 1 vol. The Deluge. 2 vols. Pan Michael. 1 vol. * * * Quo Vadis. 1 vol. The Knights of the Cross. 2 vols. Children of the Soil. 1 vol. Hania, and Other Stories. 1 vol. Sielanka, and Other Stories. 1 vol. In Vain. 1 vol. Life and Death and Other Legends and Stories. 1 vol. On The Field Of Glory. 1 vol. * * * Without Dogma. (Translated by Isa Young.) 1 vol. ON THE FIELD OF GLORY AN HISTORICAL NOVEL OF THE TIME OF KING JOHN SOBIESKI BY HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ _Author of "Quo Vadis," "With Fire and Sword," "The Deluge," "Knights of the Cross" etc_. TRANSLATED FROM THE POLISH ORIGINAL BY JEREMIAH CURTIN BOSTON LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY 1906 _Copyright, 1906_, By Jeremiah Curtin * * * _All rights reserved_ Published January, 1906 THE UNIVERSITY PRESS, CAMBRIDGE, U.S.A. TO SIR THOMAS G. SHAUGHNESSY, PRESIDENT OF THE CANADIAN PACIFIC RAILROAD. * * * My Dear Sir Thomas: Railroads are to nations what arteries and veins are to each individual. Every part of a nation enjoys common life with every other through railroads. Books bring remote ages to the present, and assemble the thoughts of mankind and of God in one divine company. I find great pleasure on railroads in the day and the night, at all seasons. You enjoy books with a keen and true judgment. Let me inscribe to you, therefore, this volume. Jeremiah Curtin. INTRODUCTORY The book before us gives pictures of Polish character and life on the eve of the second great siege of Vienna. Twice was that city beleaguered by Turkey. The first siege was commanded by Solyman, that Sultan who was surnamed Magnificent by western nations; to Turks he was known as the Lord of his Age and the Lawgiver. The first siege was repelled by the bravery of the garrison, by the heroism of Count Salm its commander, by the terrible weather of 1529, and also through turbulence of the Janissary forces. The second siege was crushed in 1683 by Sobieski's wise strategy, the splendid impetus of the Poles, and the firmness of the allies. Had the Polish king not appeared the Sultan would have triumphed, hence Sobieski and his men are hailed ever since as the saviours of Vienna. The enthusiasm of the time for Sobieski and his force was tremendous. "There was a man sent from God whose name was John," this was the Gospel read at the Thanksgiving Mass in Saint Stephen's, the cathedral, the noble old church of that rescued and jubilant city. Some Poles went to Rome after that to get relics; the Pope gave this answer: "Take earth steeped in blood from the field where your countrymen fell at Vienna." Many times have men here in America asked me: Are the Poles really held by such an intensity of passion? if they are, why does it seize them, whence does it come, what is the source and the cause of it? I reply to these questions as best I am able, and truthfully: It comes from the soul of the Slavs in some part, and in some part from history. The Poles have as a race their original gift to begin with; this gift, or race element, has met in its varied career certain peoples, ideas, and principles. The result of this meeting is this: that the Polish part of the Slav world holds touching itself an unconquerable ideal. It has absorbed, as it thinks, certain principles from which it could not now separate. The Poles could not if they would, and would not if they could, be dissevered from that which, as they state, they have worked out in history, that which no power on earth can now take from them, and to which they are bound with the faith of a martyr. Through ideas and principles, that is, truths gained in their experience as a people, and which in them are incarnate and living, the Poles feel predestined to triumph, time, of course, being given. What are these ideas and principles? men ask of me often. Combined all in one they mean the victory and supremacy of Poland. They have been worked out during centuries, I answer, of Polish experience with Germany, with Russia, with Rome and Byzantium, with Turks and with Tartars. But beyond all do they come as the fruit of collisions with Germany and Russia, and as the outcome of teachings from Rome and the stern opposition of Byzantium. Through this great host of enemies and allies, and their own special character, came that incisive dramatic career which at last met a failure so crushingly manifest. The inward result and the spiritual harvest to be reaped from this awful catastrophe are evident only through what is revealed in the conduct, the deeds, and the words of the people who had to wade through the dreadful defeat and digest the experience. Polish character in most of its main traits was developed completely even earlier than the days of Sobieski, and the men who appeared then in action differ little from those of the present, hence the pictures in this volume are perfectly true and of far-reaching interest in our time. JEREMIAH CURTIN. January, 1906. ON THE FIELD OF GLORY CHAPTER I The winter of 1682-83 was a season of such rigor that even very old people could not remember one like it. During the autumn rain fell continually, and in the middle of November the first frost appeared, which confined waters and put a glass bark upon trees of the forest. Icicles fastened on pines and broke many branches. In the first days of December the birds, after frequent biting frosts, flew into villages and towns, and even wild beasts came out of dense forests and drew near the houses of people. About Saint Damasius' day the heavens became clouded, and then snow appeared; ten days did it fall without ceasing. It covered the country to a height of two ells; it hid forest roads, it hid fences, and even cottage windows. Men opened pathways with shovels through snow-drifts to go to their granaries and stables; and when the snow stopped at last, a splitting frost came, from which forest trees gave out sounds that seemed gunshots. Peasants, who at that time had to go to the woodlands for fuel, went in parties to defend themselves, and were careful that night should not find them at a distance from the village. After sunset no man dared leave his own doorstep unless with a fork or a bill-hook, and dogs gave out, until daylight, short frightened yelps, as they do always when barking at wolves which are near them. During just such a night and in such a fierce frost a great equipage on runners pushed along a forest road carefully; it was drawn by four horses and surrounded by attendants. In front, on a strong beast, rode a man with a pole and a small iron pot on the end of it; in this pot pitch was burning, not to make the road visible, for there was moonlight, but to frighten away wolves from the party. On the box of the equipage sat a driver, and on a saddled horse a postilion, and at each side rode two men armed with muskets and slingshots. The party moved forward very slowly, since the road was little beaten and in places the snow-drifts, especially at turnings, rose like waves on the roadway. This slowness disturbed Pan Gideon Pangovski, who, relying on his numerous attendants and their weapons, had determined to travel, though in Radom men had warned him of the danger, and all the more seriously since in going to Belchantska he would have to pass the Kozenitse forests. Those immense forests began at that period a good way before Yedlina, and continued far beyond Kozenitse to the Vistula, and toward the other side of the Stenjytsa, and northward to Rytchivol. It had seemed to Pan Gideon that, if he left Radom before midday, he would reach home very easily at sunset. Meanwhile he had been forced in a number of places to open the road close to fences; some hours were lost at this labor, so that he came to Yedlina about twilight. Men there gave the warning that he would better remain for the night in the village; but since at the blacksmith's a pitch light had been found to burn before the carriage, Pan Gideon commanded to continue the journey. And now night had surprised him in the wilderness. It was difficult to go faster because of increasing snowdrifts; hence Pan Gideon was more and more disquieted and at last fell to swearing, but in Latin, lest he frighten the two ladies who were with him, Pains Vinnitski his relative and his ward Panna Anulka Sieninski. Panna Anulka was young and high-hearted, in no degree timid. On the contrary, she drew aside the leather curtain at the window, and, commanding the horseman at the side not to stop the view to her, looked at the drifts very joyfully, and at the pine trunks with long strips of snow on them over which played reddish gleams from the pitch pot, which with the moonlight made moving figures very pleasant to her eyesight. Then rounding her lips to the form of a bird bill she began to whistle, her breath became visible and was rosier than firelight, this too amused her. But Pani Vinnitski, who was old and quite timid, fell to complaining. Why leave Radom, or at least why not pass the night in Yedlina since they had been warned of the danger? All this through some person's stubbornness. To Belchantska there was a long piece of road yet, and all in a forest, hence wolves would meet them undoubtedly, unless Raphael, the Archangel and patron of travellers, would pity them in their wandering, but alas, of this they were quite undeserving. When he heard this opinion, Pan Gideon became thoroughly impatient. To speak of being lost in the wilderness was all that was needed to upset him. The road for that matter was straight, and as for wolves, well, they would or would not come. He had good attendants, and besides, a wolf is not anxious to meet with a warrior--not only because he fears him far more than a common man, but also because of the love which the quick-witted beast has for warriors. The wolf understands well that no dweller in towns and no peasant will give him food gratis; the warrior alone is the man who feeds wolves, and at times in abundance, hence it is not without reason that men have called war "the wolf's harvest." But still Pan Gideon speaking thus, and praising the wolves in some small degree, was not quite convinced of their affection; hence he was thinking whether or not to command an attendant to slip from his horse and sit next the young lady. In such case he himself would defend one door of the carriage, and that attendant the other, while the freed horse would either rush off ahead or escape in the rear, and thus draw the wolves after him. But the time to do this had not come, as it seemed to Pan Gideon. Meanwhile he placed near his ward on the front seat, a knife and two pistols; these he wished to have near him since he had only his right hand for service. They advanced some furlongs farther in quiet, and the road was growing wider. Pan Gideon, who knew the way perfectly, drew breath as if relieved somewhat. "The Malikov field is not far," said he. In every case he hoped for more safety in that open space than in the forest. But just then the attendant in front turned his horse suddenly, and, rushing to the carriage, spoke hurriedly to the driver and to others, who answered abruptly, as men do when there is no time for loitering. "What is it?" asked Pan Gideon. "Some noise in the field." "Is it wolves?" "Some outcry. God knows what!" Pan Gideon was on the point of commanding the horseman with the torch to spring forward and see what was happening, when he remembered that in cases like this it was better not to be without fire and to keep all his people together, and, further, that defence in the open is easier than in a forest, so he commanded to move on with the equipage. But after a while the horseman reappeared at the window. "Wild boars," said he. "Wild boars!" "A terrible grunting is heard on the right of the road." "Praise God for that!" "But perhaps wolves have attacked them." "Praise God for that also! We shall pass unmolested. Move on!" In fact the guess of the attendant proved accurate. When they had driven out to the field they saw, at a distance of two or three bow-shots on the right near the road, a dense crowd of wild boars, and a circle of wolves moving nimbly around them. A terrible grunting, not of fear but of rage, was given out with growing vigor. When the sleigh reached the middle of the plain, the men, watching from the horses, observed that the wolves had not dared yet to rush at the wild boars; they only pressed on them more and more eagerly. The boars had arranged themselves in a round compact body, the young in the middle, the old and the strong on the outside, thus, as it were, forming a moving and terrible fortress, which gleamed with white tusks and was impervious to attack or to terror. Between the garland of wolves and that wall of tusks and snouts a white, snowy ring was clearly visible, since the whole field was in moonlight. Some of the wolves sprang up to the boars, but they sprang back very quickly, as if frightened by the clash of the tusks and the more terrible outbursts of grunting. If the wolves had closed in battle with the boars the struggle would have then held them completely, and the sleigh might have passed without notice; but since this had not happened, there was fear lest they might stop that dreadful onset and try then another one. Indeed after a while a few dropped away from the pack and ran toward the party, after them followed others. But the sight of armed men confused them; some began to follow the sleigh, others stopped a few tens of steps from it, or ran around with mad speed, as if to urge themselves on to the equipage. The attendants wished to fire, but Pan Gideon forbade them, lest gunshots might bring the whole pack to his people. Meanwhile the horses, though accustomed to wolves, began to push to one side and turn their heads to their flanks with loud snorting, but soon something worse happened, and this raised the danger a hundredfold. The young horse which the torchbearer was riding reared suddenly once, and a second time, and then rushed madly sidewise. The rider, knowing that were he to fall he would be torn to bits the next moment, seized hold of his saddle-bow, but dropped his pot the same instant; the light sank in the snow deeply; the flame threw out sparks and was extinguished. The light of the moon was alone on that plain then. The driver, a Russ from Pomorani, began to pray; the Mazovian attendants fell to cursing. Emboldened by darkness, the wolves pressed on with more insolence, and from the direction of the wild boars some fresh ones ran up to them. A few came rather near, with snapping teeth, and the hair standing straight on their shoulders. Their eyes were all bloodshot, and a greenish light flashed from them. A moment had come which was really terrible. "Shall we shoot?" inquired one of the escort. "Frighten them with shouts," said Pan Gideon. Thereupon rose with keenness, "A-hu! a-hu!" The horses gained courage, and the wolves, impressed by the voices of men, withdrew some tens of paces. Then a still greater wonder was manifest. All at once forest echoes from behind repeated the shouts of the attendants, but with rising force, ever louder and louder, as it were outbursts of wild laughter; and some moments later a crowd of dark horsemen appeared at both sides of the carriage and shot past with all the speed of their beasts toward the wild boars and the wolves which encircled them. In the twinkle of an eye neither wolves nor boars held the snow plain; they had scattered as if a whirlwind had struck them. Gunshots were heard, also shouts, and again those strange outbursts of laughter. Pan Gideon's attendants rushed after the horsemen, so that there remained at the sleigh only the postilion and the driver. Inside the sleigh there was such mighty amazement that no one dared move a lip for some moments. "But the word became flesh!" called out Pani Vinnitski, at last. "That must be help from above us." "May it be blessed, whencesoever it came. Our plight was growing evil," said Pan Gideon. "God sent those young knights!" said Panna Anulka, who wished to add her word. It would have been difficult to divine how this maiden could have seen that those men were knights and young, in addition, for they shot past like a whirlwind; but no person asked for her reasons, since the older man and woman were occupied overmuch with what was happening before them. Meanwhile, on the plain the sounds of pursuit were heard yet for the space of some Our Fathers, and not very far from the sleigh was a wolf with its back broken, evidently by a sling-shot. The beast was on its haunches and howling so dreadfully that every one shivered. The man on the leading horse slipped down to kill the beast, for the horses were plunging with such violence that the sleigh-pole was cracking. After a time the horsemen seemed black again on the snow field. They came in a crowd, without order, in a mist, for though the night was cold and the air very clear, the horses had been driven unsparingly, and were smoking like chimneys. The horsemen approached with loud laughter and singing, and when they had drawn near, one of them shot up to the sleigh, and asked in glad, resonant accents,-- "Who is travelling?" "Pangovski from Belchantska. Whom am I to thank for this rescue?" "Stanislav Tsyprianovitch of Yedlinka!" "The Bukoyemskis!" "Thanks to your mightinesses. God sent you in season. Thanks!" "Thanks!" repeated a youthful voice. "Glory to God that it was in season!" continued Pan Stanislav, removing his fur cap. "From whom did ye hear of us?" "No one informed us, but as the wolves are now running in packs, we rode out to save people; since a person of such note has been found, our delight is the greater, and the greater our service to God," said Pan Stanislav, politely. But one of the Bukoyemskis now added,-- "Not counting the wolf skins." "A beautiful deed and a real knightly work," said Pan Gideon. "God grant us to give thanks for it as promptly as possible. I think, too, that desire for human flesh has left those wolves now, and that we shall reach home without danger." "That is by no means so certain. Wolves might be enticed again easily and make a new onrush." "There is no help against that; but we will not surrender!" "There is help, namely this: to attend you to the mansion. It may happen that we shall save some one else as we travel." "I dared not ask for that, but since such is your kindness, let it be as you say, for the ladies here will feel safer." "I have no fear as we are, but from all my soul I am grateful!" said Panna Anulka. Pan Gideon gave the order and they moved forward, but they had gone only a few tens of paces when the cracked sleigh-pole was broken and the equipage halted. New delays. The attendants had ropes and fell to mending the broken parts straightway, but it was unknown whether such a patched work would not come apart after some furlongs. Pan Stanislav hesitated somewhat, and then said, removing his fur cap a second time,-- "To Yedlinka through the fields it is nearer than to Belchantska. Honor our house then, your mightiness, and spend the night under our roof tree. No man can tell what might meet us in that forest, or whether even now we may not be too few to resist all the wolves that will rush to the roadway. We will bring home the sleigh in some fashion, and the shorter the road is the easier our problem. It is true that the honor surpasses the service, but the case being one of sore need a man may not cherish pride over carefully." Pan Gideon did not answer those words at the moment, for he felt reproach in them. He called to mind that when two years before Pan Serafin Tsyprianovitch had made him a visit, he received the man graciously, it is true, but with a known haughtiness, and did not pay back the visit. Pan Gideon had acted in that way since Pan Serafin's family was noble only two generations, he was a "homo novus," an Armenian by origin. His grandfather had bought and sold brocades in Kamenyets. Yakob, the son of that merchant, had served in the artillery under the famous Hodkievitch, and at Hotsim had rendered such service that, through the power of Pan Stanislav Lyubomirski, he had been ennobled, and then received Yedlinka for a lifetime. That life estate was made afterward the property of Pan Serafin, his heir, in return for a loan given the Commonwealth during Swedish encounters. The young man who had come to the road with such genuine assistance was the son of Pan Serafin. Pan Gideon felt this reproof all the more, since the words "cherish pride over carefully" had been uttered by Pan Stanislav with studied emphasis and rather haughtily. But just that knightly courage pleased the old noble, and since it would have been hard to refuse the assistance, and since the road to his own house was in truth long and dangerous, he said to Pan Stanislav,-- "Unless you had assisted us the wolves would perhaps be gnawing our bones at this moment; let me pay with good-will for your kindness. Forward then, forward!" The sleigh was now mended. The pole had been broken as if an axe had gone through it, so they tied one end of each rope to a runner, the other to a collar, and moved on in a large gladsome company, amid shouts from attendants and songs from the Bukoyemskis. It was no great distance to Yedlinka, which was rather a forest farm than a village. Soon there opened in front of the wayfarers a large field some tens of furlongs in area, or rather a broad clearing enclosed on four sides by a pine wood, and on this plain a certain number of houses, the roofs of which, covered with straw, were gleaming and sparkling in moonlight. Beyond peasant cottages, and near them, Pan Serafin's outbuildings were visible stretching in a circle around the edge of a courtyard, in which stood the mansion, which was much disproportioned. The pile had been reconstructed by its latest owners, and from being a small house, in which dwelt on a time the king's foresters, it had become large, even too large, for such a small forest clearing. From its windows a bright light was shining, which gave a rosy hue to the snow near the walls of the mansion, to the bushes in front of it, and to the wellsweep which stood on the right of the entrance. It was clear that Pan Serafin was expecting his son, and perhaps also guests from the road, who might come with him, for barely had the sleigh reached the gate when servants rushed out with torches, and after the servants came the master himself in a coat made of mink skin, and wearing a weasel-skin cap, which he removed promptly at sight of the equipage. "What welcome guest has the Lord sent to our wilderness?" inquired he, descending the steps at the entrance. Pan Stanislav kissed his father's hand, and told whom he had brought with him. "I have long wished," said Pan Gideon, as he stepped from the carriage, "to do that to which grievous need has constrained me this evening, hence I bless the more ardently this chance which agrees with my wish so exactly." "Various things happen to men, but this chance is for me now so happy, that with delight I beg you to enter my chambers." Pan Serafin bowed for the second time, and gave his arm then to Pani Vinnitski; the whole company entered behind him. The guests were seized straightway by that feeling of contentment which is felt always by travellers when they come out of darkness and cold into lighted, warm chambers. In the first, and the other apartments, fires were blazing in broad porcelain chimneys, and servants began to light here and there gleaming tapers. Pan Gideon looked around with a certain astonishment, for the usual houses of nobles were far from that wealth which struck the eye in Pan Serafin's mansion. By the light of the fires and the tapers and candles he could see in each apartment a furnishing such as might not be met with in many a castle: carved chests and bureaus and armchairs from Italy, clocks here and there, Venetian glass, precious bronze candlesticks, weapons from the Orient, which were inlaid with turquoise and hanging from wall mats. On the floors soft Crimean rugs, and on two long walls were pieces of tapestry which would have adorned the halls of any magnate. "These came to them from trade," thought Pan Gideon, with well-defined anger, "and now they can turn up their noses and boast of wealth won not by weapons." But Pan Serafin's heartiness and real hospitality disarmed the old noble, and when he heard, somewhat later, the clatter of dishes in the dining-hall near them, he was perfectly mollified. To warm the guests who had come out of cold they brought heated, spiced wine immediately. They began then to discuss the recent peril. Pan Gideon had great praise for Pan Stanislav, who, instead of sitting in a warm room at home, had saved people on the highroad without regarding the terrible frost, and the toil, and the danger. "Of a truth," said he, "thus, in old days, did those famous knights act, who, wandering through the world, saved men from cannibals, dragons, and various other vile monsters." "If any man of them saved such a marvellous princess as this one," added Stanislav, "he was as happy at that time as we are this minute." "No man ever saved a more wonderful maiden! True, as God is dear to me! He has told the whole truth!" cried the four Bukoyemskis with enthusiasm. Panna Anulka smiled in so lovely a fashion that two charming dimples appeared in her cheeks, and she dropped her eyelids. But the compliment seemed over bold to Pan Gideon, for his ward, though an orphan without property, was descended from magnates, hence he changed the conversation. "But have your graces," asked he, "been moving long on the road in this fashion?" "Since the great snows fell, and we shall keep on till the frost stops," said Stanislav. "And have ye killed many wolves?" "Enough to give overcoats to all of us." Here the Bukoyemskis laughed as loud as if four horses were neighing, and when they had quieted a little, Mateush, the eldest one added,-- "His Grace the King will be proud of his foresters." "True," said Pan Gideon. "And I have heard that ye are head foresters in the king's wilderness in these parts. But do not the Bukoyemskis originate in the Ukraine?" "We are of those Bukoyemskis." "Indeed--indeed--of good stock, the Yelo-Bukoyemskis are connected there with even great houses." "And with St. Peter!" added Lukash. "Eh!" said Pan Gideon. And he began to look around with suspicion and sternly at the brothers to see if they were not trying to jest with him. But their faces were clear, and they nodded with earnest conviction, confirming in this way the words of their brother. Pan Gideon was astonished immensely, and repeated: "Relatives of Saint Peter? But how is that?" "Through the Pregonovskis." "Indeed! And the Pregonovskis?" "Through the Usviats." "And the Usviats through some one else," said the old noble, with a smile, "and so on to the birth of Christ, the Lord. So! It is a great thing to have relatives in a senate down here, but what must it be to have kinsmen in the heavenly assembly--promotion is certain in that case. But how have ye wandered to our wilderness from the Ukraine, for men have told me that ye are some years in this neighborhood?" "About three. Rebellions have long since levelled everything in the Ukraine, and boundaries have vanished. We would not serve Pagans in partisan warfare, so we served first in the army and then became tenants till Pan Malchinski, our relative, made us chief foresters in this place." "Yes," said Pan Serafin, "I wondered that we found ourselves side by side in this wilderness, for we are not of this country, but the changing fortunes of men have transported us hither. The inheritance of your mightiness," here he turned to Pan Gideon, "is also, as I know, in Rus near the castle of Pomorani." Pan Gideon quivered at this, as if some one had struck an open wound in his body. "I had property there, and I have it there still," said he, "but those places to me are abhorrent, for misfortunes alone struck me there, just like thunderbolts." "The will of God," said Pan Serafin. "It is vain to revolt against that; still, life in those regions is difficult." "Your grace, as is known, has served long in the army." "Till I lost my arm. I avenged my country's wrongs, and my own there. And if the Lord Jesus will pardon one sin for each head that I took from a pagan, hell, as I trust, will never be seen by me." "Of course not, of course not! Service is a merit, and so is suffering. Best of all is it to cast gloomy thoughts from us." "Gladly would I be rid of them, still, they do not leave me. But enough! I am a cripple at present, and this lady's guardian. I have removed in old age to a silent region which the enemy never visits. I live, as you know, in Belchantska." "That is well, and I have acted in like manner," added Pan Serafin. "Young men, though it is quiet now on the borders, hurry off to Tartar trails in the hope of adventure, but it is ghastly and woful in places where each man is mourning for some one." Pan Gideon put his hand to his forehead where he held it rather long, till at length he said sadly,-- "Only a peasant or a magnate can live in the Ukraine. When an onrush of pagans strikes that country the peasant flees to a forest and can live for some months in it like a wild beast; the magnate can live, for he has troops and strong castles of his own to protect him. But even then--the Jolkievskis lived in those regions and perished, the Danilovitches lived there and perished. Of the Sobieskis, the brother of our gracious King Yan perished also. And how many others! One of the Vishnievetskis squirmed on a hook in Stambul till he died there. Prince Koretski was beaten to death with iron rods. The Kalinovskis are gone,--and before them the Herburts and the Yaglovetskis paid their blood tribute. How many of the Sieninskis have died at various periods, and once they possessed almost the whole country--what a graveyard! Were I to recount all the names I could not finish till morning. And were I to give the names, not of magnates alone but of nobles, a month would not suffice me." "True! true! So that a man wonders why the Lord God has thus multiplied those Turks and Tartars. So many of them have been killed that when an earthtiller works in the springtime his ploughshare bites at every step on the skull of a pagan. Dear God! Even our present king has crushed them to death in such numbers that their blood would form a large river, and still they are coming." These words had truth in them. The Commonwealth, rent by disorder and unruliness, could not have strong armies sufficient to end in one mighty struggle the Tartar-Turk avalanche. For that matter, all Europe could not command such an army. Still, the Commonwealth was inhabited by men of great daring, who would not yield their throats willingly to the knife of the eastern attacker. On the contrary, to that terrible region bristling with grave-mounds, and reeking with blood at the borders, Red Russia, Podolia, and the Ukraine, new waves of Polish settlers followed each after the other; these not only stirred up fertile lands, but their own craving for endless wars, battles, and adventures. "The Poles," wrote an old chronicler, "go to Russia for skirmishes with Tartars."[1] So from Mazovia went peasants; daring nobles went also, for each one of whom it was shameful "to die in his bed like a peasant." And there grew up in those red lands mighty magnates, who, not satisfied with action even there, went frequently much farther--to Wallachia, or the Crimea, seeking victory, power, death, salvation, and glory. It was even said that the Poles did not wish one great war that would end the whole question. Though this was not true, still, continual disturbance was dear to that daring generation--but the invader on his part paid with blood dearly for his venture. Neither the Dobrudja nor Belgorod lands, nor the Crimean reed barrens could support their wild Tartar denizens, hence hunger drove them to the border where rich booty was waiting, but death was waiting also, very often. The flames of fire lighted up invasions unknown yet to history. Single regiments cut into bits with their sabres and trampled into dust under horsehoofs detachments surpassing them tenfold in number. Only swiftness beyond reckoning could save the invaders; in general when a Tartar band was overtaken by troops of the Commonwealth it was lost beyond rescue. There were expeditions, especially the smaller ones, from which not one man went back to the Crimea. Terrible in their time both to Turks and to Tartars were Pretvits and Hmieletski; knights of less note, Volodyovski, Pelka, and the elder Rushits, wrote their names down with blood in men's memories. These for some years, or some tens of years, at that time, were resting in their graves and in glory; but even of the mighty ones none had drawn so much blood from the followers of Islam as the king reigning then, Yan Sobieski. At Podhaitsi, Kalush, Hotsim, and Lvoff there were lying till that time unburied such piles of pagan bones that broad fields beneath them were as white as if snow-covered. At last on all hordes there was terror. The borders drew breath then, and when the insatiable Turk began to seek lighter conquests the whole tortured Commonwealth breathed with more freedom. There remained only painful remembrances. Far away from Pan Serafin's dwelling, and next to the castle of Pomorani, stood a tall cross on a hill, and two lances upon it. Twenty and some years before that Pan Gideon had placed this cross on the site of his fire-consumed mansion, hence, as he thought of that cross and of all those lives dear to him which had been lost in that region, the heart whined in the old man from anguish. But since he was stern to himself and to others, and would not shed tears before strangers, and could not endure paltry pity from any man, he would not speak longer of his misfortunes, and fell to inquiring of his host how he lived in that forest inheritance. "Here," said Pan Serafin, "is stillness, oh, stillness! When the forest is not sounding, and the wolves are not howling, thou canst almost hear snow fall. There is calmness, there is fire in the chimney and a pitcher of heated wine in the evening--old age needs nothing further." "True. But your son?" "A young bird leaves the nest sometimes. And here certain trees whisper that a great war with the pagan is approaching." "To that war even gray falcons will hasten. Were it not for this, I should fly with the others." Here Pan Gideon shook his coat sleeve, in which there was only a bit of his arm near the shoulder. And Pan Serafin poured out heated wine to him. "To the success of Christian weapons!" "God grant it! Drink to the bottom." Stanislav entertained at the same time Pani Vinnitski, Panna Anulka, and the four Bukoyemskis with a pitcher of wine which steamed quite as actively as the other. The ladies touched the glasses however with their lips very sparingly, but the Bukoyemskis needed no urging, hence the world seemed to them more joyous each moment, and Panna Anulka more beautiful, so, unable to find words to express their delight, they began to look at one another with amazement and panting; then each nudged another with his elbow. Mateush at last found expression,-- "We are not to wonder that the wolves wished to try the bones and the body of this lady, for even a wild beast knows a real tid-bit!" Marek, Lukash, and Yan, the three remaining Bukoyemskis slapped their thighs then in ecstasy. "He has hit the nail on the head, he has! A tid-bit! Nothing short of it!" "A Saint Martin's cake!" On hearing this Panna Anulka laid one hand on the other, and, feigning terror, said to Stanislav,-- "Oh, help me, for I see that these gentlemen only saved me from the wolves to eat me themselves." "Gracious maiden," said Stanislav, joyfully, "Pan Mateush said that we were not to wonder at the wolves, but I say I do not wonder at the Bukoyemskis." "What shall I do then, except to ask who will save me?" "Trifle not with sacred subjects!" cried Pani Vinnitski. "Well, but these gentlemen are ready to eat me and also auntie. Are they not?" This question remained for some time without answer. Moreover, it was easy to note from the faces of the brothers that they had much less desire for the additional eating. But Lukash, who had quicker wit than his brothers, now added, "Let Mateush speak; he is the eldest." Mateush was somewhat bothered, and answered, "Who knows what will meet him to-morrow?" "A good remark," said Stanislav, "but to what do you apply it?" "How to what?" "Why, nothing. I only ask, why mention to-morrow?" "But knowest thou that love is worse than a wolf, for a man may kill a wolf, but to kill love is beyond him." "I know, but that again is another question." "But if there be wit enough, a question is nothing." "In that case may God give us wit." Panna Anulka hid her laughter behind her palm; after her laughed Stanislav, and then the Bukoyemskis. Further word-play was stopped by a servant announcing the supper. Pan Serafin gave his arm to Pani Vinnitski; after them went Pan Gideon; Stanislav conducted Panna Anulka. "A dispute with Pan Bukoyemski is difficult," said the young lady, made gladsome. "For his reasons are like wilful horses, each goes its own way; but he has told two truths which are hard of denial." "What is the first one?" "That no man knows what will meet him on the morrow, just as yesterday I did not know, for example, that to-day I should see you." "And the other?" "That a man can kill a wolf, but to kill love is beyond him. This also is a great truth." Stanislav sighed; the young lady lowered her shady eyelashes and was silent. Only after a while, when they were sitting at the table, did she say to him,-- "But you will come, gentlemen, soon to my guardian's, so that he may show you some gratitude for saving us and for your hospitality also?" The gloomy feelings of Pan Gideon brightened notably at supper, and when the host in splendid phrases proposed first the health of the ladies and that of the honored guest afterward, the old noble answered very cordially, thanking for the rescue from difficult straits, and giving assurance of never-ending gratitude. After that they conversed of public questions, of the king, of the Diet which was to meet the May following of the war with which the Turkish Sultan was threatening the German Empire, and for which that Knight of Malta, Pan Lyubomirski, was bringing in volunteers. The four brothers listened with no slight curiosity, because every Pole was received with open arms among Germans; since the Turks despised German cavalry, while Polish horsemen roused proper terror. Pan Gideon blamed Lyubomirski's pride somewhat, since he spoke of German counts thuswise: "Ten of them could find place in one glove of mine;" still, he praised the man's knightliness, boundless daring, and great skill in warfare. On hearing this, Lukash Bukoyemski declared for himself and his brothers that in spring they would hasten to Lyubomirski, but while the frost raged they would kill wolves, and avenge the young lady, as behooved them. "For, though we are not to wonder at the wolves," said Mateush, "when one thinks that such a pure dove might have been turned into wolf's meat the heart flies to the throat from pure anger, and at the same time it is hard to keep tears down. What a pity that wolf skins are so low-priced,--the Jews give barely one thaler for three of them!--but it is hard to keep our tears down, and even better to give way to them, for whoso could not compassionate innocence and virtue would be a savage, whom no man should name as a knight and a noble." In fact, he gave way to his tears then, as did his three brothers; though wolves in the worst case could threaten only the life, not the virtue of the lady, still the eloquence of Lukash so moved his three brothers that their hearts became soft as warmed wax while they listened. They wished to shoot in the air from their pistols in honor of the young lady; but the host opposed, saying that he had a sick forester in the mansion, a man of great merit, who needed silence. Pan Gideon, who supposed this to be some reduced relative of Pan Serafin, or in the worst case a village noble, inquired touching him, through politeness; but on learning that he was a serving-man and a peasant he shrugged his shoulders and looked with displeased and wondering eyes at Pan Serafin. "Oh yes!" said he. "I forgot what people say of your marvellous kindness." "God grant," answered Pan Serafin, "that they say nothing worse of me. I have to thank this man for much; and may every one meet such a person, for he knows herbs very thoroughly and can give aid in every illness." "I wonder, since he cures others so ably, that he has not cured himself thus far. Send him my relative, Pani Vinnitski,--she knows many simples, and presses them on people; but meanwhile permit us to think of retiring, for the road has fatigued me most cruelly, and the wine has touched me also a trifle, just as it has the Bukoyemskis." In fact, the heads of the Bukoyemskis were steaming, while the eyes of those brothers were mist-covered and tender; so when Pan Stanislav conducted them to another building, where they were to pass the night together, they followed him with most uncertain tread on frozen snow, which squeaked under them. They wondered why the moon, instead of shining in the heavens, was perched on the roof of a barn and was smiling. But Panna Anulka had dropped into their hearts so profoundly that they wished to speak more of her. Pan Stanislav, who felt no great wish for sleep, directed to bring a thick-bellied bottle; then they sat near the broad chimney, and, by the bright light of the torch, drank in silence at first, listening only to the crickets in the chamber. At last Mateush filled his breast well with air and blew with such force at the chimney that the flame bent before him. "O Jesus! My dear brothers," cried he, "weep, for a sad fate has met me." "What fate? Speak, do not hide thy condition!" "It is this. I am so in love that the knees are weakening under me!" "And I? Dost think that I am not in love?" shouted Marek. "And I?" screamed out Lukash. "And I," ended Yan. Mateush wanted to give them an answer of some kind, but could not at first, for a hiccough had seized him. He only stared with great wonderment, and looked as if he saw them for the first time in life at that moment. Then rage was depicted on his countenance. "How is this, O sons of a such a one?" cried he, "ye wish to block the road to your eldest brother, and deprive him of happiness?" "O indeed!" answered Marek, "what does this mean? Is Panna Anulka an entail of some kind, that only the eldest brother can get her? We are sons of one father and mother, so if thou call us sons of a such a one, thou art blaming thy father and mother. Each man is free to love as he chooses." "Free, but woe to you, for ye are all bound to me in obedience." "Must we all our lives serve a horseskull? Hei?" "O pagan, thou art barking like a dog!" "Thou art thyself doing that. Jacob was younger than Esau, and Joseph was younger than all his brothers, so thou art blaming the Scriptures, and barking against true religion." Pushed to the wall by these arguments, Mateush could not find an answer with promptness, and when Yan made some remark touching Cain, the first brother, he lost his head utterly. Anger rose in him higher and higher, till at last he began with his right hand to search for the sabre which he had not there with him. It is unknown to what it would have come had not Yan, who for some time had been pressing a finger to his forehead, as if wrestling with an idea, cried out in a great voice, and suddenly,-- "I am the youngest brother, I am Joseph, so Panna Anulka is for me. undisputedly." The others turned to him straightway. From their eyes were shooting fire sparks, in their faces was indignation. "What? For thee? For thee! thou goose egg! thou straw scarecrow, thou horse strangler, thou dry slipper--thou drunkard! For thee?" "Shut thy mouth, it is written in the Scriptures." "What Scriptures, thou dunce?" "All the same--but it is there. Ye are drunk, not I." But at this moment Pan Stanislav happened in among them. "Ah, is it not a shame for you," said he, "being nobles and brothers to raise such a quarrel? Is this the way to nourish love among brothers? But about what are ye fighting? Is Panna Anulka a mushroom that the first man who finds her in the forest can put her in his basket? It is the custom among pelicans, and they are not nobles, or even people, to yield everything through family affection, and when they fail to find fish they feed one another with blood from their own bodies. Think of your dead parents; they are shedding tears up there now over this quarrelling among sons whom they surely advised to act differently from this when they blessed them. For those parents heavenly food is now tasteless, and they dare not raise their eyes to the Evangelists whose names they gave you in holy baptism." Thus spoke Pan Stanislav and though at first he wished to laugh he was touched as he spoke by his own words, for he too had drunk somewhat because of the company at dinner. At last the Bukoyemskis were greatly moved by his speech, and all four of them ended in tears, while Mateush the eldest one cried to them,-- "Oh kill me, for God's sake, but call me not Cain!" Thereupon Yan, who had mentioned Cain, threw himself into the arms of Mateush. "Oh, brother," cried he, "give me to the hangman for doing so." "Forgive me, or I shall burst open from sorrow," cried Marek. "I have barked like a dog against the commandment," said Lukash. And they fell to embracing one another, but Mateush freed himself finally from his brothers, sat on a bench very suddenly, unbuttoned his coat, threw open his shirt, and, baring his breast, exclaimed in broken accents,-- "Here ye have me! here, like a pelican!" Thereupon they sobbed the more loudly. "A pelican! a genuine pelican! As God is dear to me,--a pelican!" "Take Panna Anulka." "She is thine! Take her, thou," said the brothers. "Let the youngest man have her." "Never! Impossible!" "Devil take her!" "Devil take her!" "We don't want her!" Hereupon Marek struck his thighs with his palms till the chamber resounded. "I know what's to be done," cried he. "What dost thou know? Speak, do not hide it!" "Let Stanislav have her!" When they heard this the other three sprang from their benches. Marek's idea struck them to the heart so completely that they surrounded Pan Stanislav. "Take her, Stashko!" "It will please us most of all." "If thou love us!" "Do this to please us!" "May God bless you!" cried Mateush; and he raised his eyes heavenward, as he stretched his hands over Stanislav. Stanislav blushed, and he stood there astonished, repeating,-- "Fear God's wounds!" But his heart quivered at the thought, for having passed two whole years with his father amid the dense forests, and seeing few people, he had not met for a legion of days such a marvellous maiden. He had seen some one like her in Brejani, for he had been sent by his father to gain elegance at the court there and a knowledge of government. But he was a lad then, and time had effaced those remote recollections. And now he saw in the midst of those forests unexpectedly just such a beautiful flower as the other one, and men said to him straightway: "Oh take it!" In view of this he was dreadfully shamefaced and answered,-- "Fear God! How could ye or I get her?" But they, as is usual with men who are tipsy, saw no obstacle to anything and insisted. "No man of us will be jealous," said Marek, "take her! We must go to the war whatever happens; we have had watching enough in this forest. Thirty thalers for the whole God-given year. It does not buy drink for us, and what is there left then for clothing? We sold our saddle beasts, and now we hunt wolves with thy horses and outfits--A hard lot for orphans. Better perish in war--But take her thou, if thou love us!" "Take her!" cried out Mateush, "but we will go to Rakuz, to Lyubomirski, to help the Germans in shelling out pagans." "Take her immediately." "Take her to-morrow! To the church with her straightway!" But Stanislav had recovered from astonishment and was as sober as if he had not touched a drop since the morning. "Oh, stop, what are ye saying? Just as if only your will or mine were all that is needed! But what will she say and what will Pan Gideon say? Pan Gideon is self-willed and haughty. Even though the young lady grew friendly in time, he might prefer to see her sow rue than be the wife of any poor devil like me, or like any one of you brothers." "Oh pshaw!" exclaimed Yan. "Is Pan Gideon the Castellan of Cracow, or grand hetman? If he is too high for us let him beware how he thrusts up his nose in our presence. Are the Bukoyemskis too small to be his gossips?" "Ah, never mind! He is old, the time of his death is not distant, let him have a care lest he be stopped by Saint Peter in heaven's gateway. Oh take our part! holy Peter, and say this to him: 'Thou didst not know during life, thou son of a such a one, how to respect my blood relatives; kiss now the dog's snout for thy conduct.' Let that be said after death to Pan Gideon. But meanwhile we will not let him belittle us in his lifetime." "How! because we have no fortune must we be despised and treated like peasants?" "Is that the pay for our blood, for our wounds, for our service to the country?" "O my brothers, ye orphans of God! many an injustice has met you, but one more grievous than this no man has ever yet put on us." "That is true, that is true!" exclaimed Lukash and Marek and Yan in sad accents. And tears of grief flowed down their faces afresh and abundantly, but when they had wept out their fill they fell to storming, for it seemed to them that such an offence to men of birth should not be forgotten. Lukash, the most impulsive of all the four brothers, was the first to make mention of this matter. "It is difficult to challenge him to sabres," said he, "for he has lost an arm and is old, but if he has contemned us, we must have satisfaction. What are we to do? Think of this!" "My feet have been frozen to-night," said Lukash, "and are burning tremendously. But for this, I could think out a remedy." "My feet are not burning, but my head is on fire," added Marek. "From that which is empty thou wilt never pour anything." "Gland is blamed always by Katchan!" said Mateush. "Ye give a quarrel instead of an answer!" cried Lukash. But Stanislav interrupted;-- "An answer?" said he, "but to whom?" "To Pan Gideon." "An answer to what?" "To what? How 'to what'?" They looked at one another, with no small astonishment, and then turned to Lukash,-- "What dost thou wish of us?" "But what do ye wish of me?" "Adjourn this assembly till daylight," said Stanislav. "The fire here is dying, midnight is past now a long time. The beds are all ready at the walls there, and rest is ours honestly, for we have worked in the frost very faithfully." The fire had gone out; it was dark in the chamber, so the advice of the host had power to convince the four brothers. Conversation continued some little time yet, but with decreasing intensity. Somewhat later a whispered "Our Father" was heard, at one moment louder, at another one lower, interrupted now and then with deep sighing. The coals in the chimney began to grow dark and be covered with ashes; at moments something squeaked near the fire, and the crickets chirped sadly in the corners, as if mourning for the light which had left them. Next the sound of boots cast from feet to the floor, after that a short interval of silence, and then immense snoring from the four sleeping brothers. But Stanislav could not sleep, all his thoughts whirled about Panna Anulka, like active bees about blossoms. How could a man sleep with such a buzzing in his cranium! He closed his lids, it is true, once and a second time, but finding that useless he pondered. "I will see if there is light in her chamber," thought he, finally. And he passed through the doorway. There was no light in her windows, but the gleam of the moon quivered on the uneven panes as on wrinkled water. The world was silent, and sleeping so soundly that even the snow seemed to slumber in the bath of greenish moonlight. "Dost thou know that I am dreaming of thee?" asked Stanislav in a whisper, as he looked at the silent window. The elder Tsyprianovitch, Pan Serafin, in accordance with his inborn hospitality, and his habit, spared neither persuasion nor pressing to detain his guests longer in Yedlinka. He even knelt before Pani Vinnitski, an act which did not come easily because of his gout, which, though moderate so far, was somewhat annoying. All that, however, availed not. Pan Gideon insisted on going before midday, and at last, since there was no answer to the statement that he was looking for guests at his mansion, Pan Serafin had to yield, and they started that clear frosty forenoon of wonderful weather. The snow on the fields, and on tree branches, seemed covered with myriads of fire sparks, which so glittered in the sunlight that the eye could barely suffer the gleams shooting back from the earth and the forest. The horses moved at a vigorous trot till their flanks panted; the sleigh runners whistled along the snow road; the carriage curtains were pushed back on both sides, and now at one window and now at the other appeared the rosy face of the young lady with gladsome eyes and a nose which the frost had reddened somewhat, a charming framed picture. She advanced like a queen, for the carriage was encircled by a "life guard" made up of the Bukoyemskis and Pan Stanislav. The four brothers were riding strong beasts from the Yedlinka stables (they had sold or pledged not only their horses but the best of their sabres). They rushed on now at the side, sometimes forcing their horses to rear, and sometimes urging them on with such impetus that balls torn from the frozen snow by their hoofs shot away whistling through the air like stone missiles. Perhaps Pan Gideon was not greatly charmed with these body-guards, for during the advance he begged the cavaliers not to give themselves trouble, since the road in the daytime was safe, and of robbers in the forest no report had arisen; but when they had insisted on conducting the ladies, nothing was left him but to pay for politeness with politeness, and invite them to Belchantska. Pan Gideon had a promise also from Pan Serafin to visit him, but only after some days, since it was difficult for an old man to tear himself free of his household abruptly. For the men, this journey passed quickly in wonders of horsemanship, and for Panna Anulka in appearing at the windows. The first halt to give rest to their horses was half-way on the road, at a forest inn which bore the ill omened name "Robbery." Next the inn stood a shed and the shop of a blacksmith. In front of his shop the blacksmith was shoeing some horses. At the side of the inn were seen sleighs owned by peasants; to these were attached lean, rough-coated sorry little beasts covered over completely with hoar frost; their tails were between their hind-legs, and bags of oats were tied under their noses. People crowded out of the inn to look at the carriage surrounded by cavaliers and remained at a distance. These were not land tillers but potters, who made their pots at Kozenitse in the summer and took them in sleighs to sell during winter in the villages; but they appeared more especially at festivals through the country. These people, thinking that some man of great dignity must be travelling in a carriage with such an escort, took their caps off in spite of the weather and looked with curiosity at the party. The warmly dressed travellers did not leave the equipage. The attendants remained mounted, but a page took wine in a decanter to the inn to be heated. Meanwhile Pan Gideon beckoned "the bark shoes" to come to him, and then he fell to inquiring whence they came, whither they were going, and was there no danger from wild beasts in any place. "Of course there is," answered an old town-dweller, "but we travel during daylight and in company. We are waiting here for friends from Prityk and other places. Perhaps too some earth tillers will come, and if fifteen or twenty sleighs appear, we will move on at night. Unless they come we will not start, though we take clubs with us." "But has no accident happened about here?" "The wolves ate a Jew during daylight. He was taking geese, as it seems, for on the road were found bones of a horse and a man,--besides, there were goose feathers. People knew by his cap that the man was a Jew. But early this morning some man came hither on foot, a young noble, who passed the whole night on a pine tree. He says that his horse dropped down dead, and there before his eyes the wolves ate the beast up. This man grew so stiff on the tree that he had barely strength to speak to us, and now he is sleeping." "What is his name? Did he tell whence he came?" "No. He just drank some hot beer and fell on a bench as if lifeless." Pan Gideon turned then to the horsemen,-- "Have ye heard that?" "We have." "We must rouse the man, and make inquiries. He has no horse, how could we leave him alone here? My page could sit on the second front carriage horse, and give up his own. They say that the man is a noble. Perhaps he is here from a distance." "He must be in a hurry," said Pan Stanislav, "since he was travelling at night, and besides without company. I will rouse him and make inquiry." But his plan proved superfluous, since at that moment the page returned from the inn with a tray on which mugs of hot wine were steaming. "I beg to tell your grace that Pan Tachevski is here," began he on reaching the carriage. "Pan Tachevski? What the devil is he doing in this place?" "Pan Tachevski!" repeated Panna Anulka. "He is making ready, and will come out this minute," said the page. "He almost knocked the tray from my hand when he heard of your coming--" "But who spoke of the tray to thee?" The page became silent immediately, as if power of speech had deserted him. Pan Gideon seized a goblet of wine, took one and a second draught, and said then to Pan Stanislav, as if with a certain repulsion,-- "He is an acquaintance of ours, and in some sense a neighbor from Charny-- Well--rather giddy and unreliable--of those Tachevskis who long ago were, as some people say, of some note in the province." Further explanations were stopped by Tachevski, who, coming out hurriedly, walked with firm stride toward the carriage, but on his face was a certain hesitation. He was a young noble of medium stature. He had splendid dark eyes, and was as lean as a splinter. His head was covered with a Hungarian cap, recalling, one might say, the time of King Bátory; he wore a gray coat lined with sheepskin, and long, yellow, Swedish boots reaching up to his body. No one wore such boots then in Poland. They had been taken during war in the days of Yan Kazimir, that was evident, and brought now through need from the storehouse by Tachevski. While approaching, he looked first at Pan Gideon, then at the young lady, and smiled, showing white, perfect teeth, but his smile was rather gloomy, his face showed embarrassment and even a trace of confusion. "I rejoice beyond measure," said he, as he stood at the carriage and removed his cap gracefully, "to see, in good health, Pani Vinnitski and Panna Sieninski, with your grace, my benefactor, for the road is now dangerous; this I have learned from experience." "Cover your head, or your ears will be frozen," said Pan Gideon, abruptly. "I thank you for the attention, but why are you wandering through the wilderness?" Tachevski looked quickly at the young lady, as if to inquire: "Thou knowst why, dost thou not?" but seeing her eyes downcast, and noting also that she was biting a ribbon of her hood for occupation, he answered in a voice of some harshness,-- "Well, the fancy struck me to gaze at the moon above pine trees." "A pretty fancy. But did the wolves kill thy horse?" "They only ate him, for I myself drove his life out." "We know. And thou wert roosting, like a crow, all the night in a pine tree." Here the Bukoyemskis burst into such mighty laughter that their horses were put on their haunches. Tachevski turned and measured them one after another, with glances which were ice cold and as sharp as a sword edge. "Not like a crow," said he then to Pan Gideon, "but like a horseless noble, at which condition it is granted you, my benefactor, to laugh, but it may be unhealthy for another to do so." "Oho! oho! oho!" repeated the Bukoyemskis, urging toward him their horses. Their faces grew dark in one moment, and their mustaches quivered. Again Tachevski measured them, and raised his head higher. But Pan Gideon spoke with a voice as severe and commanding as if he had power over all of them. "No quarrels here, I beg! This is Pan Tachevski," said he after a while, with more mildness, turning to the cavaliers, "and this is Pan Tsyprianovitch, and each of the other four nobles is a Pan Bukoyemski, to whom I may say we owe our lives, for wolves met us yesterday. These gentlemen came to our aid unexpectedly, and God knows in season." "In season," repeated Panna Anulka, with emphasis, pouting a little, and looking at Pan Stanislav bewitchingly. Tachevski's cheeks flushed, but on his face there appeared as it were humiliation, his eyes became mist-covered, and, with immense sadness in his accents, he said,-- "In season, for they were in company, and happy because on good horses, but wolf teeth at that time were cutting old Voloshyn, and my last friend had vanished. But--" even here he looked with greater good-will at the Bukoyemskis--"may your hands be sacred, for ye have done that which with my whole soul I wished to do, but God did not let me." Panna Anulka seemed changeable, like all women, perhaps too she was sorry for Tachevski, since her eyes became pleasant and twinkling, her lids opened and closed very quickly, and she asked with a different voice altogether,-- "Old Voloshyn? My God, I loved him so much and he knew me. My God!" Tachevski looked at her straightway with thankfulness. "He knew you, gracious lady, he knew you." "Grieve not, Pan Yatsek, grieve not so cruelly." "I grieved before this, but on horseback. I shall grieve now on foot. God reward you, however, for the kind words." "But mount now the mouse-colored horse," said Pan Gideon. "The page will ride the off leader, or sit behind the carriage. There is an extra burka at the saddle, put it on, for thou hast been freezing all night, and the cold is increasing." "No," said Tachevski, "I am warm. I left my shuba behind, since I felt no need of it." "Well, for the road!" They started. Yatsek Tachevski taking his place near the left carriage window, Stanislav Tsyprianovitch at the right, so the young lady sitting in front might without turning her head look freely at the one and the other. But the Bukoyemskis were not glad to see Yatsek. They were angry that he had taken a place at the side of the carriage, so, bringing their horses together till their heads almost touched, they talked with one another and counselled,-- "He looked at us insolently," said Mateush. "As God is in heaven he wants to insult us." "Just now he turned his horse's tail to us. What do ye say to that?" "Well, he could not turn the horse's head, for horses do not travel tail forward like crawfish. But that he is making up to that young lady is certain," put in Marek. "Thou hast taken in the situation correctly. See how he bends and leans forward. If his stirrup strap breaks he will fall." "He will not fall, the son of a such a one, for the saddle straps are strong, and he is a firm rider." "Bend thyself, bend till we break thee!" "Just look how he smiles at her!" "Well, brothers, are we to permit this? Never, as God lives! The girl is not for us, that may be, but does he remember what we did yesterday?" "Of course! He must divine that, for he is cunning, and now he is making up to her to spite us." "And in contempt for our poverty and orphanhood." "Oh! upon my word a great magnate--on another man's horse." "Well, for that matter we are not riding our own beasts." "One horse remains to us anyhow, so if three sit at home the fourth man may ride to the war if he wishes; but that fellow has not even a saddle, for the wolves have made bits of it." "Besides, he sticks his nose up. What has he against us? Just tell me." "Well, ask him." "Shall I do it right away?" "Eight away, but politely, so as not to offend old Pan Gideon. Only after he has answered can we challenge." "And then we shall have him!" "Which of us is to do this?" "I, of course, for I am the eldest," said Mateush. "I will rub the icicle from my mustache, and then at him!" "But remember well what he says to thee." "I will repeat every word, like the Lord's prayer." Thereupon the eldest Bukoyemski set to rubbing off with his glove the ice from his mustache, and then urging his horse to the horse of Pan Yatsek he called,-- "My dear Sir?" "What?" inquired Yatsek, turning his head from the carriage unwillingly. "What have you against us?" Yatsek looked at him with astonishment, and answered,-- "Nothing!" then, shrugging his shoulders, he turned again to the carriage. Mateush rode on some time in silence considering whether to return and report to his brothers or speak further. The second course seemed to him better, so he continued,-- "If thou think to do anything, I say that thou wilt do what thou hast said to me. Nothing!" On Yatsek's face was an expression of constraint and annoyance. He understood that they were seeking a quarrel, for which at that moment he had not the least wish whatever. But he found need of some answer, and that of such kind as to end the conversation, so he asked,-- "Well, thy brothers over there, are they also--" "Of course! but what is 'also'?" "Think it out thyself and do not interrupt now my more agreeable occupation." Mateush rode along the side of the carriage ten or fifteen steps farther. At last he turned his horse. "What did he tell thee? Speak out!" said the brothers. "There was no success." "Because thou didst not know how to handle him," said Lukash. "Thou shouldst have tickled his horse in the belly with thy stirrup, or, since thou knowst his name, have said: 'Yatsek, here is a platsek (a cake) for thee!'" "Or said this to him: 'The wolves ate thy horse, buy a he goat in Prityk.'" "That is not lost, but what did it mean when he said: 'Are thy brothers also?'" "Maybe he wanted to ask if we were fools also." "Of course! As God is dear to me!" cried Marek. "He could not think otherwise. But what now?" "His death, or ours. As God lives, what he says is open heresy. We must tell Stashko." "Tell nothing, for since we give up the young lady to Stashko, Stashko must challenge him, and here the great point is that we challenge first." "When? At Pan Gideon's a challenge is not proper. But here is Belchantska." In fact Belchantska was not distant. On the edge of the forest stood the cross of Pan Gideon's establishment, with a tin Saviour hanging between two spears; on the right, where the road turned round a pine wood, broad meadows were visible, with a line of alders on the edge of a river, and beyond the alders on the bank opposite and higher, were the leafless tops of tall trees, and smoke rising from cottages. Soon the retinue was moving past cottages, and when it had gone beyond fences and buildings Pan Gideon's dwelling was before the eyes of the horsemen,--a broad court surrounded by an old and decayed picket fence which in places was leaning. From times the most ancient no enemy had appeared in that region, so no one had thought defence needful for the dwelling. In the broad court there were two dovecotes. On one side were the quarters for servants, on the other the storehouse, provision rooms, and a big cheese house made of planks and small timbers. Before the mansion and around the court were pillars with iron rings for the halters of horses; on each pillar a cap of frozen snow was fixed firmly. The mansion was old and broad, with a low roof of straw. In the court hunting dogs were rushing around, and among them a tame stork with a broken wing was walking securely; the bird as it seemed had left its warm room a little earlier to get exercise and air in the cold courtyard. At the mansion the people were waiting for the company, since Pan Gideon had sent a man forward with notice. The same man came out now to meet them and, bowing down, said to Pan Gideon,-- "Pan Grothus, the starosta of Raygrod, has come." "In God's name!" cried Pan Gideon. "Has he been waiting long for me?" "Not an hour. He wished to go, but I told him that you were coming and in sight very nearly." "Thou didst speak well." Then he turned to the guests,-- "I beg you, gentlemen, Pan Grothus is a relative through my wife. He is returning, it is evident, to Warsaw from his brother's, for he is a deputy to the Diet. Please enter." After a time they were all in the dining-room in presence of the starosta of Raygrod, whose head almost grazed the ceiling, for in stature he surpassed the Bukoyemskis, and the rooms were exceedingly low in that mansion. Pan Grothus was a showy noble with an expression of wisdom, and the face and bald head of a statesman. A sword scar on his forehead just over the nose and between his two eyebrows seemed a firm wrinkle, giving his face a stern, and, as it were, angry aspect. But he smiled at Pan Gideon with pleasantness, and opened his arms to him, saying,-- "Well, I, a guest, am now welcoming the host to his own mansion." "A guest, a dear guest," cried Pan Gideon. "God give thee health for having come to me, lord brother. What dost thou hear over there now in Warsaw?" "Good news of private matters, of public also, for war is now coming." "War? How is that? Are we making it?" "Not yet, but in March a treaty will be signed with the Emperor, then war will be certain." Though even before the New Year there had been whispers of war with the Sultan, and there were those who considered it inevitable, the confirmation of these rumors from the lips of a person so notable, and intimately acquainted with politics as Pan Grothus, imposed on Pan Gideon and the guests in his mansion very greatly. Barely had the host, therefore, presented them to the starosta, when a conversation followed touching war, touching Tököli and the bloody struggles throughout Hungary, from which, as from an immense conflagration, there was light over all parts of Austria and Poland. That was to be a mighty struggle, before which the Roman Cæsar and all German lands were then trembling. Pan Grothus, skilled much in public matters, declared that the Porte would move half of Asia and all Africa, and appear with such strength as the world had not seen up to that day. But these previsions did not injure good-humor in any one. On the contrary they were listened to with rapture by young men, who were wearied by long peace at home, and to whom war presented fields of glory, service, and even profit. When Mateush Bukoyemski heard the words of the starosta he so struck his knee with his palm that the sound was heard throughout the mansion. "Half Asia, and what in addition?" asked he. "O pshaw! Is that something new for us?" "Nothing new, thou speakest truth!" said the host, whose face, usually gloomy, was lighted up now with sudden gladness. "If that question is settled, the call to arms will be issued immediately, and the levies will begin without loitering." "God grant this! God grant it at the earliest! Think now of that old Deviantkievich at Hotsim, blind of both eyes. His sons aimed his lance in the charge, and he struck on the Janissaries as well as any other man. But I have no sons." "Well, lord brother, if there be any one who can stay at home rightfully you are that person," said the starosta. "It is bad not to have a son in the war, worse not to have an eye, but worst of all not to have an arm." "I accustomed both hands to the sabre," said Pan Gideon, "and in my teeth I can hold the bridle. Moreover, I should like to fall fighting on the field against pagans, not because the happiness of my life has been broken--not from revenge--no--but for this reason, speaking sincerely: I am old, I have seen much, I have meditated deeply, I have seen among men so much hatred, so much selfishness, so much disorder in this Commonwealth, I have seen our self-will, our disobedience and breaking of Diets, so much lawlessness of all sorts, that I say this here now to you. Many times in desperation have I asked the Lord God: Why, O Lord, hast thou created our Commonwealth, and created this people? I ask without answer and it is only when the pagan sea swells, when that vile dragon opens its jaws to devour Christianity and mankind, when, as you say, the Roman Cæsar and all German lands are shivering in front of this avalanche, that I learn why God created us and imposed on us this duty. The Turks themselves know this. Other men may tremble, but we will not, as we have not trembled thus far; so let our blood flow to the very last drop, and let mine be mixed with the rest of it. Amen." The eyes of Pan Gideon were glittering and he was moved very deeply, but still he let no tears fall from his eyes; it may be because he had cried them out so much earlier, and it may be because he was harsh to himself and to others. But Pan Grothus put his arm around his neck and then he kissed him on both cheeks. "True, true," said he. "There is much evil among us, and only with blood may our ransom from evil be effected. That service, that watching which God has given us, was predestined to our people. And the time is approaching in which we shall prove this. That is our real position. There are tidings that the avalanche of pagans will turn on Vienna; when it does we will go there and before the whole world show that we are purely Christ's warriors, created in defence of the cross, and the faith of the Saviour. Other nations, who till now have lived without care behind our shoulders, will see in the clear day of heaven how our task is accomplished, and with God's will, while the earth stands, our service and our glory will not leave us." At these words enthusiasm seized the young men. The Bukoyemskis sprang up from their chairs, and called in loud voices,-- "God grant it! When will the levies be? God grant it!" "The souls are tearing out of us," said Stanislav. "We are ready this minute." Yatsek was the only man silent, and his face did not brighten. That news which filled all hearts with pleasure was for him a source of keen suffering and bitterness. His thoughts and his eyes ran to Panna Anulka who was passing along near the dining-room joyously, and with measureless complaint and reproach they spoke thus to her,-- "Had it not been for thee I should have gone to some magnate, and though I might not have found fortune, I should have a horse and good arms in every case, and should go now with a regiment to find death, or else glory. Thy beauty, thy glances, those pleasant words, which at times thou didst throw like small alms at me, have brought about this, that I am here on those last little fields of mine, well-nigh expiring from hunger. Because of thee I have not seen the great world. I have not gained any polish. In what have I offended that thou hast enslaved me, as it were, soul and body? And in truth I would rather perish than be without seeing thee for a twelvemonth. I have lost my last horse in hurrying to save thee, and now, in return for this, thou art laughing with another, and glancing at him most bewitchingly. But what shall I do? War is coming. Am I to be a serving man, or be disgraced among foot soldiers? What have I done that toward me thou art merciless?" In this fashion did Yatsek Tachevski complain, he a man who felt his misery all the more keenly that he was a noble of great knightly family, though terribly impoverished. And though it was not true that Panna Anulka had never had mercy on him, it was true that for her sake he had never gone out to the great world, but had remained with only two serfs on poor pasture land where the first wants of life were beyond him. He was seventeen years of age, and she thirteen, when he fell in love with her beyond memory, and for five years he had loved the girl each year increasingly, and each year with more gloominess, for hopelessly. Pan Gideon had received him with welcome at first, as the scion of a great knightly family to which in former days had belonged in those regions whole countrysides; but afterward, when he noted how matters were tending, he began to be harsh to him, and at times even cruel. He did not close the house against the man, it is true, but he kept him away from the young lady, since he had for her views and hopes of another kind altogether. Panna Anulka noting her power over Yatsek amused herself with him just as a young girl does with flowers in a meadow. At times she bends over one, at times she plucks one, at times she weaves one into her tresses, later she throws it away, and later thinks nothing of flowers, whatever, and still later on she searches out new ones. Yatsek had never mentioned his love to the young lady, but she knew of it perfectly, though she feigned not to know, and in general not to wish to know of anything which happened within him. She wondered at him, wondered how he pleased her. Once, when they were chasing some bees, she fell under his cloak and fondled up to his heart for a moment, but for two days she would not forgive him because of this. At times she treated him almost contemptuously, and when it seemed to him that all had been ended forever, she, with one sweet look, one hearty word filled him with endless delight, and with hope beyond limit. If at times, because of a wedding, or a name's day, or a hunt in the neighborhood, he did not come for some days she was lonely, but when he did come she took revenge on him for her loneliness, and tormented him long for it. He passed his worst moments when there were guests at the mansion, and there happened among them some young man who was clever and good-looking. Then Yatsek thought that in her heart there was not even the simplest compassion. Such were his thoughts now because of Pan Stanislav and all that Pan Grothus had told of the coming war added bitterness to his cup, which was then overflowing. Self-control in Pan Gideon's mansion was habitual with Yatsek, still, he could hardly sit to the end of the supper as he heard the words of the lady and Pan Stanislav. He saw, unhappy victim, that the other man pleased her, for he was in fact an adroit and agreeable young fellow, and far from being stupid. The talk at table turned always on the levies. Stanislav, learning from Pan Grothus that perhaps the levies would be made under him in those regions, turned to the lady on a sudden, and asked,-- "What regiment do you prefer?" "The hussars," said she, looking at his shoulders. "Because of the wings?" "Yes. Once I saw hussars and thought them a heavenly army. I dreamt of them afterward two nights in succession." "I know not whether I shall dream when a hussar, but I know that I shall dream of you earlier, and of wings also." "Why is that?" "I should dream of a real angel." Panna Anulka dropped her eyes till a shade fell on her rosy cheeks from her eyelids. "Be a hussar," said she, after an interval. Yatsek gritted his teeth, drew his palm over his moistened forehead, and during the supper he did not get word or look from the lady. Only when they had risen from the table did a sweet, beloved voice sound at his ear. "But will you go to this war with the others?" "To die! to die!" answered Yatsek. And in that answer there was such a genuine, true groan of anguish that the voice was heard again, as if in sympathy,-- "Why sadden us?" "No one will weep for me." "How know you that?" said the voice now a third time. Then she slipped away to the other guests as swiftly as a dream vision, and bloomed, like a rose, at the other end of the drawing-room. Meanwhile, the two elder men sat after the meal over goblets of mead, and when they had discussed public questions sufficiently they began to chat about private ones. Pan Grothus followed Panna Anulka with tender eyes for a time, and then said to Pan Gideon,-- "That is a brilliant spot over there. Just look at those young people who are flying like moths round a candle. But that is no wonder, for were we not in years we too should be flying." Pan Gideon waved his hand in displeasure. "Swarms they are,--rustics, homespuns, nothing better." "How so? Tachevski is not a homespun." "No, but he is poor. The Bukoyemskis are not homespuns; they even declare that they are kinsmen of Saint Peter, which may help them in heaven, but on earth they are nothing but foresters in the king's wilderness." Pan Grothus wondered at the relationship of the Bukoyemskis no less than had Pan Gideon when he heard of it the first time, so he fell to inquiring in detail, till at last he laughed heartily, and added,-- "Saint Peter was a great apostle, and I have no wish to detract from his honor; all the more, since feeling old, I shall soon need his influence. But between you and me, there is not much in this kinship to boast of--no, he was merely a fisherman. If you speak of Joseph, who came from King David,--well, you may talk to me." "I say only that there is no one here fit for the girl, either among those whom you see now under my roof, or in the whole neighborhood." "But he who is sitting near Pani Vinnitski seems a nice gentleman." "Tsyprianovitch? Yes, he is; but Armenian by origin and of a family noble only three generations." "Then why invite them? Cupid is traitorous, and before there is time to turn once the pudding may be cooked for you." Pan Gideon, who, in presenting the young men had stated how much he owed them, explained now in detail about the wolves and the assistance, because of which he was forced to invite the young rescuers to his mansion through gratitude simply. "True, true," said Pan Grothus, "but in his own way Amor may cook the pudding before you have noticed it. This girl's blood is not water." "Ai! she is a slippery weasel," said Pan Gideon. "She can and will bite, but she will twist out besides from between a man's fingers, and no common person could catch her. Great blood has this inborn quality that it yields not, but rules and regulates. I am not of those who are led by the nose very easily, still, I yield to her often. It is true, that I owe much to the Sieninskis, but even if I did not there would be only slight difference. When she stands before me and puts a tress from one shoulder to the other, inclines her head to me, and glances, she gets what she wishes most frequently. And more than once do I think, what a blessing of God, what an honor, that the last child, the last heiress of such a famed family, is under my roof tree. Of course you know of the Sieninskis--once all Podolia was theirs. In truth, the Sobieskis, the Daniloviches, the Jolkevskis grew great through them. It is the duty of His Grace the King to remember this, all the more since now almost nothing remains of those great possessions; and the girl, if she has any property, will have only that which remains after me to her." "But what will your relatives say in this matter?" "There are only distant Pangovskis, who will not prove kinship. But often my peace is destroyed by the thought that after me may come quarrels, with lawsuits and wrangling, as is common in this country. The relatives of my late wife are for me the great question. From my wife comes a part of my property, namely: the lands with this mansion." "I shall not appear with a lawsuit," said Pan Grothus, "but I would not guarantee as to others." "That is it! That is it! I have been thinking of late to visit Warsaw and beg the king to be a guardian to this orphan, but his head is full now of other questions." "If you had a son it would be a simple matter to give the girl to him." Pan Gideon gazed at the starosta with a look so full of pain that the other stopped speaking. Both men were silent for a long time, till Pan Gideon said with emotion,-- "To you I might say, my lord brother, with Virgil, _infandum jubes renovare dolorem_ (thou commandest me to call up unspeakable sorrow). That marriage would be simple--and I will tell you that had it not been for this simple method I should have died long ago perhaps. My son while in childhood was stolen by the Tartars. People have returned more than once from captivity among pagans when the memory of them had perished. Whole years have I looked for a miracle--whole years have I lived in the hope of it. To-day even, when I drink something I think to myself we, perhaps now! God is greater than human imagining. But those moments of hope are very shortlived, while the pain is enduring and daily. No! Why deceive myself? My blood will not be mingled with that of the Sieninskis, and, if relatives rend what I have into fragments, this last child of the family to which I owe everything, will be without bread to nourish her." Both drank in silence again. Pan Grothus was thinking how to milden the pain which he had roused in Pan Gideon unwittingly, and how to console the man in suffering. At last an idea occurred to him which he considered very happy. "Ai!" exclaimed he, "there is a way to do everything, and you, my lord brother, can secure bread for the girl without trouble." "How?" asked Pan Gideon, with a certain disquiet. "Does it not happen often that old men take as wives even girls not full grown yet? An example in history is Konietspolski the grand hetman, who married a green girl, though he was older than you are. It is true also, that, having taken too many youth-giving medicines, he died the first night after marriage, but neither Pan Makovski, pocillator of Radom, nor Pan Rudnitski lost their lives, though both had passed seventy. Besides, you are sturdy. Should the Lord again bless you, well, so much the better; if not, you would leave in sufficiency and quiet the young widow, who might choose then the husband that pleased her." Whether such an idea had ever come to Pan Gideon we may not determine; it suffices, that, after these words of Pan Grothus, he was greatly confused, and, with a hand trembling somewhat, poured mead to the starosta till it flowed over the goblet, and the generous liquor dropped down to the floor after passing the table. "Let us drink to the success of Christian arms!" said he. "That in its time," said Pan Grothus, following the course of his own thoughts still further; "and dwell in your own way on what I have said to you, for I have struck, as I think, the true point of the question." "But why? What reason is there? Drink some more--" Further words were interrupted by the movement of chairs at the larger table. Pani Vinnitski and Panna Anulka wished to retire to their chamber. The voice of the young lady, as resonant as a bell made of silver, repeated: "Good-night, good-night;" then she courtesied prettily to Pan Grothus, kissed the hand of Pan Gideon, touched his shoulder with her nose and her forehead cat fashion, and vanished. Pan Stanislav, the Bukoyemskis, and Yatsek went out soon after the ladies. The two older men only remained in the dining-room and conversed long in it, for Pan Gideon commanded to bring still better mead in another decanter. CHAPTER II Whether by chance or a trick of the young lady is unknown to us; it suffices, however, that the four Bukoyemskis received a large chamber in an outbuilding, and Pan Stanislav with Yatsek a smaller one near it. This confused the two men no little, and then, so as not to speak to each other, they began straightway the litany and continued it longer than was usual. But when they had finished there followed a silence which annoyed both of them, for though their feelings toward each other were unfriendly, they felt that they might not betray them, and that they should for a time, and especially at the house of Pan Gideon, show politeness. Yatsek ungirded his sabre, drew it out of the scabbard, looked at the edge by the light of the chimney, and fell to rubbing the blade with his handkerchief. "After frost," said he half to himself, half to Stanislav, "a sabre sweats in a warm chamber, and rust appears on it straightway." "And last night it must have frozen solidly," said Stanislav. He spoke without evil intention, and only because it occurred to him that Tachevski had been in a splitting frost all the night previous; but Yatsek placed the point of his blade on the floor, and looked quickly into the eyes of the other man. "Are you referring to this,--that I sat on a pine tree?" "Yes," replied Stanislav, with simplicity; "of course there was no stove there." "But what would you have done in my position?" Stanislav wished to answer "the same that you did," but the question was put to him sharply, so he answered,-- "Why break my head over that, since I was not in it?" Anger flashed for an instant on the face of Pan Yatsek, but to restrain himself he began to blow on the sabre and rub the blade with still greater industry. At last he returned it to the scabbard, and added,-- "God sends adventures and accidents." And his eyes, which one moment earlier had been gleaming, were covered again with the usual sadness, for just then he remembered his one friend, the horse, which those wolves had torn to pieces. Meanwhile the door opened and the four Bukoyemskis walked into the chamber. "The frost has weakened, and the snow sends up steam," said Mateush. "There will be fog," added Yan. And then they took note of Yatsek, whom they had not seen the first moment. "Oh art thou in such company?" asked Lukash, as he turned to Stanislav. All four brothers put their hands on their hips and cast challenging glances at Yatsek. Yatsek seized a chair and, pushing it to the middle of the chamber, turned to the Bukoyemskis with a sudden movement; then he sat astride of the chair, as on horseback, rested his elbows on the back of it, raised his head, and answered with equally challenging glances. Thus were they opposed then; he, with feet stretching widely apart in his Swedish boots, they, shoulder to shoulder, quarrelsome, threatening, enormous. Stanislav saw that it was coming to a quarrel, but he wished to laugh at the same time. Thinking that he could hinder a collision at any instant he let them gaze at one another. "Eh, what a bold fellow," thought he of Yatsek, "nothing confuses him." The silence continued, at once unendurable and ridiculous. Yatsek himself felt this, also, for he was the first man to break it. "Sit down, young sirs," said he, "not only do I invite, but I beg you." The Bukoyemskis looked at one another with astonishment, this new turn confused them. "How is this? What is it? Of what is he thinking?" "I beg you, I beg you," repeated Yatsek, and he pointed to benches. "We stay as we are, for it pleases us, dost understand?" "Too much ceremony." "What ceremony?" cried Lukash. "Dost thou claim to be a senator, or a bishop, thou--thou Pompeius!" Yatsek did not move from the chair, but his back began to quiver as if from sudden laughter. "But why call me Pompeius?" inquired he. "Because the name fits thee." "But it may be because thou art a fool," replied Yatsek. "Strike, whoso believes in God!" shouted Yan. Evidently Yatsek had had talk enough also, for something seemed to snatch him from the chair on a sudden, and he sprang like a cat toward the brothers. "Listen, ye road-blockers," said he with a voice cold as steel, "what do ye want of me?" "Blood!" cried Mateush. "Thou wilt not squirm away from us this time!" shouted Marek. "Come out at once," said he, grasping toward his side for a sabre. But Stanislav pushed in quickly between them. "I will not permit," cried he. "This is another man's dwelling." "True," added Yatsek, "this is another man's dwelling, and I will not injure Pan Gideon. I will not cut you up under his roof, but I will find you to-morrow." "We will find thee to-morrow!" roared Mateush. "Ye have sought conflicts and raised pretexts all day, why, I cannot tell, for I have not known you, nor have ye known me, but ye must answer for this, and because ye have insulted me I would meet not four men but ten like you." "Oho! oho! One will suffice thee. It is clear," cried out Yan, "that thou hast not heard of the Bukoyemskis." "I have spoken of four," said Yatsek, turning on a sudden to Stanislav, "but perhaps you will join with these cavaliers?" Stanislav bowed politely. "Since you make the inquiry--" "But we first, and according to seniority," said the Bukoyemskis. "We will not withdraw from that. We have settled it, and will cut down any man who interferes with us." Yatsek looked quickly at the brothers, and in one moment divined, as he thought, the arrangement, and he paled somewhat. "So that is it!" said he again to Stanislav; "thou hast hirelings, and art standing behind them. By my faith the method seems certain, and very safe, but whether it is noble and knightly is another point. In what a company do I find myself?" On hearing this opinion which disgraced him, Stanislav, though he had a mild spirit by nature, felt the blood rush to his visage. The veins swelled on his forehead, lightning flashed from his eyes, his teeth were gritting terribly, and he grasped the hilt of his sabre. "Come out! Come out this instant!" cried he in a voice choked with anger. Sabres flashed; it was bright in the chamber, for light fell on the steel blades from a torch in the chimney. But three of the Bukoyemskis sprang between the opponents and stood in a line there, the fourth caught Stanislav by the shoulders. "By the dear God, restrain thyself, Stashko! We are ahead of thee!" "We are ahead of thee!" cried the three others. "Unhand me!" screamed Stanislav, hoarsely. "We are ahead!" "Unhand me!" "Hold Stashko, ye, and I will settle with this man while ye are holding him," shouted Mateush; and seizing Yatsek he dragged him aside to begin at him straightway, but Yatsek with presence of mind pulled himself free of Mateush, and sheathed his sword, saying,-- "I choose the man who is to fight first and the time. So I tell you to-morrow, and in Vyrambki, not here." "Oh thou wilt not sneak away from us! Now! now!" But Yatsek crossed his arms on his breast. "Ha, if ye wish without fighting to kill me under the roof of our host, let me know it." At this rage seized the brothers; they stamped the floor with their boot-heels, pulled their mustaches, and panted like wild bears. But since they feared infamy no man of them had the daring to rush at Tachevski. "To-morrow, I tell you! Say to Pan Gideon that ye are going to visit me, and inquire for the road to Vyrambki. Beyond the brook stands a crucifix since the time of the pestilence. There I will wait for you at midday to-morrow, and there, with God's help I will finish you!" He uttered the last words as if with sorrow, then he opened the door and walked out of the chamber. In the yard the dogs ran around Yatsek, and knowing him well, fondled up to him. He turned without thinking toward the posts near the windows, as if looking for his horse there; then, remembering that that horse was no longer alive, he sighed, and, feeling the cool breath of air, repeated in spirit,-- "The wind is blowing always in the eyes of the poor man. I will walk home." Meanwhile, Stanislav was wringing his hands from fierce pain and anger, while saying to the Bukoyemskis, with terrible bitterness,-- "Who asked you to do this? My worst enemy could not have hurt me more than have you with your service." They pitied him immensely, and fell to embracing him, one after the other. "Stashko," said Mateush. "They sent us a decanter for the night; give thyself comfort for God's sake." CHAPTER III The world was still gray when Father Voynovski was clattering along through deep snow with a lantern to the doves, partridges, and rabbits which he kept in his granary in a special enclosure. A tame fox with bells on her neck followed his footsteps; at his side went a Spitz dog and a porcupine. Winter sleep did not deaden the latter in the warm room of the priest's house. The beasts and their master, when they had crossed the yard slowly, stopped under the out-jutting straw eaves of the granary, from which long icicles were hanging. The lantern swayed, the key was heard in the lock, the bolt whined, the door squeaked louder than the key, and the old man went in with his animals. After a while he took his seat on a block, placed his lantern on a second block, and put between his knees a linen bag holding grain and also cabbage leaves. He began then to yawn aloud and to empty the bag on the floor there in front of him. Before he had finished three rabbits advanced from dark corners jumping toward him; next were seen the eyes of doves, glittering and bead-like in the light of the lantern; then rust-colored partridges, moving their heads on lithe necks as they came on in close company. Being the most resolute, the pigeons fell straightway to hammering the floor with their bills, while the partridges moved with more caution, looking now at the falling grain, now at the priest, and now at the she fox; with her they had been acquainted a long time, since, taken as chicks the past summer and reared from being little, they saw the beast daily. The priest kept on throwing grain, muttering morning prayer as he did so: "_Pater noster, qui es in coelis, sanctificetur nomen_--" Here he stopped and turned to the fox, and she, while touching his side, trembled as if a fever were shaking her. "Ah, the skin on thee trembles as soon as thou seest them. It is the same every day. Learn to keep down thy inborn appetite, for thou hast good food at all seasons and sufferest no hunger. Where did I stop?" Here he closed his eyes as if waiting for an answer, and since he did not have it he began at the first words: "_Pater noster, qui es in coelis, sanctificetur nomen Tuum, adveniat regnum Tuum_." And again he halted. "Ah, thou art squirming," said he, putting his hand on the back of the she fox. "There is such a vile nature in thee, that not only must thou eat, but commit murder also. Catch her, Filus, by the tail, and bite her if she does any injury--_Adveniat regnum Tuum_--Oh such a daughter! Thou wouldst say, I know, that men are glad too, to eat partridges; but know this, that a man gives them peace during fast days, while in thee the soul of that vile Luther is sitting, for thou wouldst eat meat on good Friday--_Fiat voluntas Tua_--_Trus! trus! trus!_--_sicut in coelo_--here are both one with the other!--_et in terra_." And thus speaking he threw the cabbage and then the grain, scolding the doves somewhat that, though spring was not near yet, they walked around one another frequently, cooing and strutting. At last, when he had emptied the bag he rose, raised the lantern, and was preparing to go, when Yatsek appeared on the threshold. "Ah, Yatsus!" cried the priest, "art thou here--what art thou doing so early?" Yatsek kissed the priest's hand, and answered,-- "I have come to confession, my benefactor, and at early mass I should like to approach the Lord's table." "To confession? That is well, but what has so urged thee? Tell, but right off, for this is not without reason." "I will tell truly. I must fight a duel this day, and since in fighting with five men an accident is more likely than with one, I should like to clear my soul of offences." "With five men? God's wounds! But what didst thou do to them?" "It is just this: that I did nothing. They sought a quarrel, and they have challenged me." "Who are they?" "The Bukoyemskis, who are foresters, and Tsyprianovitch from Yedlinka." "I know them. Come to the house and tell how it happened." They went out of the granary, but when half-way to the house the priest stopped on a sudden, looked into Tachevski's eyes quickly, and said,-- "Hear me, Yatsek, there is a woman in this quarrel." The other smiled; with some melancholy. "There is, and there is not," said he, "for really, she is the question, but she is innocent." "Ah, ha! innocent! they are all innocent. But dost thou know what Ecclesiastes says of women?" "I do not remember, benefactor." "Neither do I remember all, but what I have forgotten I will read in the house to thee. '_Inveni amariorem morte mulierem, quae laqueus_ (says he) _venatorum est et sagena cor ejus_.' (I have found woman more bitter than death. Her heart is a trap and a snare). And farther on he adds something, but at the end he says: '_Qui placet Deo, effugiet illam, qui autem peccator est, capietur ab illa_.' (Whoso is pleasing to God will escape her, but whoso is a sinner will be caught by her.) I have warned thee not one time but ten not to loiter in that mansion and now the blow strikes thee." "Eh, it is easier for you to warn than for me not to visit," answered Yatsek, with a sigh. "Nothing good will meet thee in that house." "True," said the young man, quietly. And they went on in silence, but the priest with a face of anxiety, for with his whole soul he loved Yatsek. When his father had died of the pestilence, the young man was left in the world without any near relative, without property, having only a very few serfs in Vyrambki. The old priest cared for him tenderly. He could not give the youth property, for he with the soul of an angel distributed to the needy all that his poor parish gave him; still, he helped Yatsek in secret, and besides, he watched over him, taught him, not only what was in books, but the whole art of knighthood. For in his day that priest had been a famed warrior, a comrade and friend of the glorious Pan Michael. He had been with Charnyetski, he had gone through the whole Swedish conflict, and only when all had been finished did he put on the robe of a cleric, because of a ghastly misfortune. He loved Yatsek, in whom he valued, not simply the son of a famed knightly family, but a serious, lofty soul, just such as his own was. So he was grieved over the man's immense poverty, and that ill-fated love which had seized him. Because of this love, the young man, instead of seeking bread and fame in the great world of action, was wasting himself and leading a half peasant life in that dark little corner. Hence he felt a determined dislike for the house of Pan Gideon, taking it ill of Pan Gideon himself that he was so cruel to his people. As to Father Voynovski, those "worms of the earth"[2] were as dear as the apple of his eye to him, but besides them he loved also everything living, as well those pets which he scolded, as birds, fish, and even the frogs which croak and sing in the sun-warmed waters during summer. There walked, however, in that robe of a priest, not only an angel but, besides, an ex-warrior; hence when he learned that his Yatsek must fight with five enemies he thought only of this: how that young man would prosper, and would he come out of the struggle undefeated? "Thou wilt not yield?" asked he, halting at the threshold, "for I have taught thee what I knew myself, and what Pan Michael showed me." "I should not like to let them slash me to death," replied Yatsek, with modesty, "for a great war with the Turks is approaching." At this the eyes of the old man flashed up like stars. In one moment he seized Yatsek by the button loop of his coat and fell to inquiring,-- "Praised be the name of the Lord! How dost thou know this? Who told thee?" "Pan Grothus, the starosta," answered the young man. Long did the conversation of Yatsek continue with the priest, long was his confession till Mass time, and when at last after Mass they were both in the house and had sat down to heated beer at the table, the mind of the old man was haunted continually by thoughts of that war with the pagan. Therefore he fell to complaining of the corruption of manners and the decay of devotion in the Commonwealth. "My God!" said he, "the field of salvation and glory is open to men, but they prefer private quarrels and the slaughter of one another. Though ye have the chance to give your own blood in defence of the cross and the faith, ye are willing to spill the blood of a brother. For whom? for what reason? For personal squabbles, or women, or similar society nonsense. I know this vice to be inveterate in the Commonwealth, and _mea culpa_, for in time of vain sinful youth I myself was a slave to it. In winter camps, when the armies think mainly of idleness and drinking, there is no day without duels; but in fact the church forbids duels, and punishes for fighting them. Duelling is sinful at all times, and before a Turkish war the sin is the greater, for then every sabre is needed, and every sabre serves God and religion. Therefore our king, who is a defender of the faith, detests duels, and in the field in the face of the enemy, when martial law dictates, they are punished severely." "But the king in his youth fought more than one, and more than two duels," said Yatsek. "Moreover, what can I do, revered Father? I did not challenge. They called me out. Can I fail to meet them?" "Thou canst not, and therefore my soul is confounded. Ah, God will be on the side of the innocent." Yatsek began to take farewell, for midday was not more than two hours from him, and a road of some length was before him. "Wait," said the priest. "I will not let thee leave in this fashion. I will have my man make the sleigh ready, put straw in it, and go to the meeting-place. For if at Pan Gideon's they knew nothing of the duel, they will send no assistance, and how will it be if one of them, or if thou, be wounded severely? Hast thought of this?" "I have not, and they have not thought, that is certain." "Ah, seest thou! I will go too. I will not be on the field, I will stay at thy house in Vyrambki. I will take with me the sacrament, and a boy with a bell too, for who knows what may happen? It is not proper for a priest to witness such actions, but except that, I should be there with great willingness, were it only to freshen thy courage." Yatsek looked at him with eyes as mild as a maiden's. "God reward," said he, "but I shall not lose courage, for even if I had to lay down my life--" "Better be silent," broke in the priest. "Art thou not sorry not to be nearing the Turk--and not to be meeting a death of more glory?" "I am, my benefactor, but I shall try that those man-eaters do not gulp me down at one effort." Father Voynovski thought a moment and added,-- "But if I were to go to the field and explain the reward which would meet them in heaven, were they to die at the hands of the pagan, perhaps they would give up the duel." "God prevent!" exclaimed Yatsek. "They would think that I sent thee. God prevent! Better that I go to them straightway than listen to such speeches." "I am powerless," said the priest. "Let us go." He summoned his servant and ordered him to attach the horse with all haste to the sleigh; then he and Yatsek went out to assist the man. But when the priest saw the horse on which Yatsek had come, he pushed back in amazement. "In the name of the Father and the Son, where didst thou find such a poor little creature?" And indeed at the fence stood a sorry small nag, with shaggy head drooping low, and cheeks with long hair hanging down from them. The beast was not greatly larger than a she goat. "I borrowed it from a peasant. See, how I might go to the Turkish war!" And he laughed painfully. To this the priest answered,-- "No matter on what thou goest, if thou come home on a Turkish war-horse, and may God give thee this, Yatsus; but meanwhile put the saddle on my beast, for thou canst not go on this poor little wretch to those nobles." They arranged everything then, and moved forward,--the priest with the church boy and bell and a driver for the sleigh, and Yatsek on horseback. The day was monotonous and misty in some sort; for a thaw had settled down and snow covered the frozen ground deeply, but its surface had softened considerably, so that horsehoofs sank without noise and sleigh-runners moved along the road quietly. Not far beyond Yedlina they met loads of wood and peasants walking near them; these people knelt at the sound of the bell, thinking that the priest was going with the Lord God to a dying man. Then began fields lying next to the forest,--fields white and empty; these were covered with haze. Flocks of crows were flying over them. Nearer the forest the haze became denser and denser, descended, filled all the space, and stretched upward. When they had advanced somewhat farther, the two men heard cawing, but the crows were invisible. The bushes at the roadside were ghostlike. The world had lost its usual sharp outlines, and was changed into some kind of region deceitful, uncertain,--delusive and blurred in near places, but entirely unknown in the distance. Yatsek advanced along the silent snow, thinking over the battle awaiting him, but thinking more over Panna Anulka; and half to himself and half to her he soliloquized in spirit: "My love for thee has been always unchangeable, but I have no joy in my heart from it. Eh! in truth I had little joy earlier from other things. But now, if I could even embrace thy dear feet for one instant, or hear a good word from thee, or even know that thou art sorry if evil befalls me-- All between me and thee is like that haze there before me, and thou thyself art as if out beyond the haze. I see nothing, and know not what will be, nor what will meet me, nor what will happen." And Yatsek felt that deep sadness was besieging his spirit, just as dampness was besieging his garments. "But I prefer that all should be ended, and quickly," said he, sighing. Father Voynovski was attacked also by thoughts far from gladsome, and said in his own mind,-- "The poor boy has grieved to the utmost. He has not used his youth, he has gnawed himself through this ill-fated love of his, and now those Bukoyemskis will cut him to pieces. The other day at Kozenitse they hacked Pan Korybski after the festival. And even though they should not cut up Yatsek, nothing useful can come of this duel. My God! this lad is pure gold; and he is the last sprout from a great trunk of knightliness. He is the last drop of nourishing blood in his family. If he could only save himself this time! In God is my hope that he has not forgotten those two blows, one a feint under the arm with a side spring, the other with a whirl through the cheek. Yatsek!" But Yatsek did not hear, for he had ridden ahead, and the call from the old man was not repeated. On the contrary, he was troubled very seriously on remembering that a priest who was going with the Sacrament should not think of such subjects. He fell then to repenting and imploring the Lord God for pardon. Still, he was more and more grieved in his spirit. He was mastered by an evil foreboding and felt almost certain that that strange duel without seconds would end in the worst manner possible for Yatsek. Meanwhile they reached the crossroad which lay on the right toward Vyrambki, and on the left toward Pan Gideon's. The driver stopped as had been commanded. Yatsek approached the sleigh then and dismounted. "I will go on foot to the crucifix, for I should not know what to do with this horse while the sleigh is taking you to my house and coming back to me. They are there now, it may be." "It is not noon yet, though near it," said the priest, and his voice was changed somewhat. "But what a haze! Ye will have to grope in this duel." "We can see well enough!" The cawing of crows and of daws was heard then above them a second time. "Yatsek!" "I am listening." "Since thou hast come to this conflict, remember the Knights of Tachevo." "They will not be ashamed of me, father, they will not." And the priest remarked that Yatsek's face had grown pitiless, his eyes had their usual sadness, but the maiden mildness had gone from them. "That is well. Kneel down now," said he. "I will bless thee, and make thou the sign of the cross on thyself before opening the struggle." Then he made the sign of the cross on Yatsek's head as he knelt on the snow there. The young man tied the horse behind the sleigh at the side of the poor little nag of the peasant, kissed the priest's hand, and walked off toward that crucifix at the place of the duel. "Come back to me in health!" cried the priest after Yatsek. At the cross there was no one. Yatsek passed around the figure repeatedly, then sat on a stone at the foot of the crucifix and waited. Round about immense silence was brooding; only great tear-like drops, formed of dense haze, and falling from the arms of the crucifix, struck with low sound the soft snow bank. That quiet, filled with a certain sadness, and that hazy desert, filled with a new wave of sorrow the heart of the young man. He felt lonely to a point never known to him earlier. "Indeed I am as much alone in the world as that stick there," said he to himself, "and thus shall I be till death comes to me." And he waved his hand. "Well, let it end some time!" With growing bitterness he thought that his opponents were not in a hurry, because they were joyous. They were sitting at Pan Gideon's conversing with "her," and they could look at "her" as much as might please them. But he was mistaken, for they too were hastening. After a while the sound of loud talking came up to him, and in the white haze quivered the four immense forms of the Bukoyemskis, and a fifth one,--that of Pan Stanislav, somewhat smaller. They talked in loud voices, for they were quarrelling about this: who should fight first with Tachevski. For that matter the Bukoyemskis were always disputing among themselves about something, but this time their dispute struck Stanislav, who was trying to show them that he, as the most deeply offended, should in that fight be the first man. All grew silent, however, in view of the cross, and of Yatsek standing under it. They removed their caps, whether out of respect for the Passion of Christ, or in greeting to their enemy, may be left undecided. Yatsek inclined to them in silence, and drew his weapon, but the heart in his breast beat unquietly at the first moment, for they were in every case five against one, and besides, the Bukoyemskis had simply a terrible aspect,--big fellows, broad shouldered, with broomlike mustaches, on which the fog had settled down in blue dewdrops; their brows were forbidding, and in their faces was a kind of brooding and murderous enjoyment, as if this chance to spill blood caused them gladness. "Why do I place this sound head of mine under the Evangelists?" thought Yatsek. But at that moment of alarm, indignation at those roysterers seized him,--those men whom he hardly knew, whom he had never injured, but who, God knew for what reason, had fastened to him, and had come now to destroy him if possible. So in spirit he said to them: "Wait a while, O ye road-blockers! Ye have brought your lives hither!" His cheeks took on color, and his teeth gritted fiercely. They, meanwhile, stripped their coats off and rolled up the sleeves of their jupans. This they did without need all together, but they did it since each thought that he was to open the duel. At last they all stood in a row with drawn sabres, and Yatsek, stepping towards them, halted, and they looked at one another in silence. Pan Stanislav interrupted them,-- "I will serve you first." "No! I first, I first!" repeated all the Bukoyemskis in a chorus. And when Stanislav pushed forward they seized him by the elbows. Again a quarrel began, in which Stanislav reviled them as outlaws. They jeered at him as a dandy, among themselves the term "dogbrother" was frequent. Yatsek was shocked at this, and added,-- "I have never seen cavaliers of this kind." And he put his sabre into the scabbard. "Choose, or I will go!" said he, with a loud voice, and firmly. "Choose, thou!" cried Stanislav, hoping that on him would the choice fall. Mateush began shouting that he would not permit any small whipper-snapper to manage them, and he shouted so that his front teeth, which, being very long, like the teeth of a rabbit, were shining beneath his mustaches; but he grew silent when Yatsek, drawing his sabre, again indicated him with the edge of it, and added, "I choose thee." The remaining brothers and Stanislav drew back at once, seeing that they would never agree, in another way, but their faces grew gloomy, for, knowing the strength of Mateush they felt almost certain that no work would be left them when he had finished. "Begin!" called out Stanislav. Tachevski felt at the first blow the strength of his enemy, for in his own grasp the sabre blade quivered. He warded the blow off, however, and warded off, also, the second one. "He has less skill than strength," thought Tachevski, after the third blow. Then, crouching somewhat, for a better spring, he pressed on with impetus. The other three, inclining downward the points of their sabres, stood open-mouthed, following the course of the struggle. They saw now that Tachevski too "knew things," and that with him it would not be easy. Soon they thought that he knew things very accurately, and alarm seized the brothers, for, despite endless bickering they loved one another immensely. The cry, "Ha!" was rent from the breast, now of one, and now of another, as each keener blow struck. Meanwhile the blows became quicker and quicker; at last they were lightning-like. The spectators saw clearly that Tachevski was gaining more confidence. He was calm, but he sprang around like a wild-cat and his eyes shot out ominous flashes. "It is bad!" thought Stanislav. That moment a cry was heard. Mateush's sabre fell. He raised both hands to his head and dropped to the earth, his face in one instant being blood-covered. At sight of that the three younger brothers bellowed like bulls, and in the twinkle of an eye rushed with rage at Tachevski, not intending, of course, to attack him together, but because each wished to be first in avenging Mateush. And they perhaps would have swept Tachevski apart on their sabres if Stanislav, springing in to assist him, had not cried with all the power in his bosom,-- "Shame! Away! Murderers, not nobles! Shame! Away! or you must deal with me, murderers! Away!" And he slashed at the brothers till they came to their senses. But at this time Mateush had risen on his hands and turned toward them a face which was as if a mask made of blood had just covered it. Yan, seizing him by the armpits, seated him on the snow. Lukash hurried also to give him assistance. But Tachevski pushed up to Marek, who was gritting his teeth, and repeated in a quick voice, as if fearing lest the common attack might repeat itself,-- "If you please! If you please!" And the sabres were clanking a second time ominously. But with Marek, who was as much stronger than his enemy as he was less dexterous, Tachevski had short work. Marek used his great sabre like a flail, so that Yatsek at the third blow struck his right shoulder-blade, cut through the bone, and disarmed him. Now Lukash and Yan understood that a very ugly task was before them, and that the slender young man was a wasp in reality,--a wasp which it would have been wise not to irritate. But with increased passion, they stood now against him to a struggle which ended as badly for them as it had for their elders. Lukash, cut through his cheek to the gums, fell with impetus, and, besides, struck a stone which the deep snow had hidden; while from Yan, the most dexterous of the brothers, his sabre, together with one of his fingers, fell to the ground at the end of some minutes. Yatsek, without a scratch, gazed at his work, as it were, with astonishment, and those sparks which a moment before had been glittering in his eyeballs began now to quench gradually. With his left hand he straightened his cap, which during the struggle had slipped somewhat over his right ear, then he removed it, breathed deeply once and a second time, turned to the cross, and said, half to himself and half to Stanislav,-- "God knows that I am innocent." "Now it is my turn," said Stanislav. "But you are panting, perhaps you would rest; meanwhile I will put their cloaks on my comrades, lest this damp cold may chill them ere help comes." "Help is near," said Tachevski. "Over there in the mist is a sleigh sent by Father Voynovski, and he himself is at my house. Permit me. I will go for the sleigh in which those gentlemen will feel easier than here on this snow field." And he started while Stanislav went to cover the Bukoyemskis who were sitting arm to arm in the snow, except Yan, the least wounded. Yan on his knees was in front of Mateush, holding up his own right hand lest blood might flow from the finger stump too freely; in his left he held snow with which he was washing the face of his brother. "How are ye?" asked Stanislav. "Ah, he has bitten us, the son of a such a one!" said Lukash, and he spat blood abundantly; "but we will avenge ourselves." "I cannot move my arm at all, for he cut the bone," added Marek. "Eh, the dog! Eh!" "And Mateush is cut over the brows!" called out Yan; "the wound should be covered with bread and spider-web but I will staunch the blood with snow for the present." "If my eyes were not filled with blood," said Mateush, "I would--" But he could not finish since blood loss had weakened him, and he was interrupted by Lukash who had been borne away suddenly by anger. "But he is cunning, the dog blood! He stings like a gnat, though he looks like a maiden." "It is just that cunning," said Yan, "which I cannot pardon." Further conversation was interrupted by the snorting of horses. The sleigh appeared in the haze dimly, and next it was there at the side of the brothers. Out of the sleigh sprang Tachevski, who commanded the driver to step down and help them. The man looked at the Bukoyemskis, took in the whole case with a glance, and said not a word, but on his face was reflected, as it seemed, disappointment, and, turning toward the horses, he crossed himself. Then the three men fell to raising the wounded. The brothers protested against the assistance of Yatsek, but he stopped them. "If ye gentlemen had wounded me, would ye leave me unassisted? This is the service of a noble which one may not meet with neglect or refusal." They were silent, for he won them by these words--somewhat, and after a while they were lying upon straw in the broad sleigh more comfortably, and soon they were warmer. "Whither shall I go?" asked the driver. "Wait. Thou wilt take still another," answered Stanislav, and turning to Yatsek, he said to him,-- "Well, gracious sir, it is our time!" "Oh, it is better to drop this," said Yatsek, regarding him with a look almost friendly. "That God there knows why this has happened, and you took my part when these gentlemen together attacked me. Why should you and I fight a duel?" "We must and will fight," replied Stanislav, coldly. "You have insulted me, and, even if you had not, my name is in question at present--do you understand? Though I were to lose life, though this were to be my last hour--we must fight." "Let it be so! but against my will," said Tachevski. And they began. Stanislav, had more skill than the brothers, but he was weaker than any of them. It was clear that he had been taught by better masters, and that his practice had not been confined to inns and markets. He pressed forward quickly, he parried with readiness and knowledge. Yatsek, in whose heart there was no hatred, and who would have stopped at the lesson given the Bukoyemskis, began to praise him. "With you," said he, "the work is quite different. Your hand was trained by no common swordsman." "Too bad that you did not train it!" said Stanislav. And he was doubly rejoiced, first at the praise, and then because he had given answer, for only the most famed among swordsmen could let himself speak in time of a duel, and polite conversation was considered moreover as the acme of courtesy. All this increased Stanislav in his own eyes. Hence he pressed forward again with good feeling. But after some fresh blows he was forced to acknowledge in spirit that Tachevski surpassed him. Yatsek defended himself as it seemed with unwillingness but very easily, and in general he acted as though engaged not in fighting, but in fencing for exercise. Clearly, he wished to convince himself as to what Stanislav knew, and as to how much better he was than the brothers, and when he had done this with accuracy he felt at last sure of his own case. Stanislav noted this also, hence delight left him, and he struck with more passion. Tachevski then twisted himself as if he had had enough of amusement, gave the "feigned" blow, pressed on and sprang aside after a moment. "Thou hast got it!" said he. Stanislav felt, as it were, a cold sting in the arm, but he answered,-- "Go on. That is nothing!" And he cut again, that same moment the point of Yatsek's sabre laid his lower lip open and cut the skin under it. Yatsek sprang aside now a second time. "Thou art bleeding!" said he. "That is nothing!" "Glory to God if 'tis nothing! But I have had plenty, and here is my hand for you. You have acted like a genuine cavalier." Stanislav greatly roused, but pleased also at these words, stood for a moment, as if undecided whether to make peace or fight longer. At last he sheathed his sabre and gave his hand then to Yatsek. "Let it be so. In truth, as it seems, I am bleeding." He touched his chin with his left hand and looked at the blood with much wonder. It had colored his palm and his fingers abundantly. "Hold snow on the wound to keep it from swelling," said Yatsek, "and go to the sleigh now." So speaking he took Stanislav by the arm and conducted him to the Bukoyemskis, who looked at him silently, somewhat astonished, but also confounded. Yatsek roused real respect in them, not only as a master with the sabre, but as a man of "lofty manners," such manners precisely as they themselves needed. So after a while this inquiry was made of Stanislav by Mateush,-- "How is it with thee, O Stashko?" "Well. I might go on foot," was the answer, "but I choose the sleigh, the journey will be quicker." Yatsek sat toward them sidewise, and cried to the driver,-- "To Vyrambki." "Whither?" asked Stanislav. "To my house. You will not have much comfort, but it is difficult otherwise. At Pan Gideon's you would frighten the women, and Father Voynovski is at my house. He dresses wounds to perfection and he will care for you. You can send for your horses, and then do what may please you. I will ask the priest also to go to Pan Gideon and tell him with caution what has happened." Here Yatsek fell to thinking and soon after he added,-- "Oho! the trouble has not come yet, but now we shall see it. God knows that you, gentlemen, insisted on this duel." "True! we insisted," said Stanislav. "I will declare that and these gentlemen also will testify." "I will testify, though my shoulder pains terribly," said Marek, groaning. "Oi! but you have given us a holiday. May the bullets strike you!" It was not far to Vyrambki. Soon they entered the enclosure, and met the priest wading in snow, for he, alarmed about what might happen, could not stay in the house any longer, and had set out to meet them. Yatsek sprang from the sleigh when he saw him. Father Voynovski pushed forward quickly to meet him, and saw his friend sound and uninjured. "Well," cried he, "what has happened?" "I bring you these gentlemen," said Yatsek. The face of the old man grew bright for a moment, but became serious straightway, when he saw the Bukoyemskis and Stanislav blood-bedaubed. "All five!" cried he, clasping his hands. "There are five!" "An offence against heaven! Gentlemen, how is it with you?" asked he, turning to the wounded men. They touched their caps to him, except Marek, who, since the cutting of his shoulder-blade, could move neither his left nor his right hand. He merely groaned, saying,-- "He has peppered us well. We cannot deny it." "That is nothing," said the others. "We hope in God that it is nothing," answered Father Voynovski. "Come to the house now as quickly as possible! I will care for you this minute. Move on with the sleigh," said he. And then he himself followed promptly with Yatsek. But after a while he stopped on the roadway. Joy shone, in his face again. He embraced Yatsek's neck on a sudden. "Let me press thee, O Yatsek," cried he. "Thou hast brought in a sleigh load of enemies, like so many wheat sheaves." Yatsek kissed his hand then, and answered,-- "They would have it so, my benefactor." The priest put his hand on the head of the young man again, as if wishing to bless him, but all at once he restrained himself, because gladness in this case was not befitting his habit, so he looked more severe, and continued,-- "Think not that I praise thee. It was thy luck that they themselves wished this, but still, it is a scandal." They drove into the courtyard. Yatsek sprang to the sleigh so that he might, with the driver and the single house-servant, help out the wounded men. But they stepped out themselves, except Marek, whose arms they supported and soon they were all in Yatsek's dwelling. Straw had been spread there already, and even Yatsek's own bed had been covered with a white, slightly worn horse skin. At the head a felt roll served as pillow. On the table near the window was bread kneaded with spider-web, excellent for blood stopping. There were also choice balsams which the priest had for healing. The old man took off his soutane and went to dressing the wounds with the skill of a veteran who had seen thousands of wounded men, and who from long practice knew how to handle wounds better than many a surgeon. His work went on quickly, for, except Marek, the men had suffered slightly. Marek's shoulder-blade needed considerably longer work, but when at last it was dressed the priest wiped his bloody hands, and then rested. "Well," said he, "thanks to the Lord Jesus, it has passed without grievous accident. This also is certain, that you feel better, gentlemen, all of you." "One would like a drink!" said Mateush. "It would not hurt! Give command, Yatsek, to bring water." Mateush rose up on the straw. "How water?" asked he in a voice of emotion. Marek, who was lying face downward on Yatsek's bed groaning, called out quickly,-- "The revered father must wash his hands, of course." Hereupon Yatsek looked with real despair at the priest, who laughed and then added,-- "They are soldiers! Wine is permitted, but in small quantity." Yatsek drew him by the sleeve to the alcove. "Benefactor," whispered he, "what can I do? The pantry is empty, and so is the cellar. Time after time I must tighten my girdle. What can I give them?" "There is something here, there is something!" said the old man. "When leaving home I made arrangements, and brought a little with me. Should that not suffice I will get more at the brewery in Yedlina--for myself, of course, for myself. Command to give them one glass at the moment to calm them after the encounter." When he heard this Yatsek set to work quickly, and soon the Bukoyemskis were comforting one another. Their good feeling for Yatsek increased every moment. "We fought, for that happens to every man," said Mateush, "but right away I thought thee a dignified cavalier." "Not true; it was I who thought so first," put in Lukash. "Thou think? Hast thou ever been able to think?" "I think just now that thou art a blockhead, so I am able to think,--but my mouth pains me." Thus they were quarrelling already. But that moment a mounted man darkened the window. "Some one has come!" exclaimed Father Voynovski. Yatsek went to see who it was, and returned quickly, with troubled visage. "Pan Gideon has sent a man," said he, "with notice that he is waiting for us at dinner." "Let him eat it alone!" replied Yan Bukoyemski. "What shall we say to him?" inquired Yatsek, looking at Father Voynovski. "Tell him the truth," said the old man--"but better, I will tell it myself." He went out to the messenger. "Tell Pan Gideon," said he, "that neither Pan Tsyprianovitch nor the Bukoyemskis can come, for they have been wounded in a duel to which they challenged Pan Tachevski; but do not forget to tell him that they are not badly wounded. Now hurry!" The man rushed away with every foot which his horse had, and the priest fell to quieting Yatsek, who was greatly excited. He did not fear to meet five men in battle, but he feared greatly Pan Gideon, and still more what Panna Anulka would say and would think of him. "Well, it has happened," continued the priest, "but let them learn at the earliest that it was not through thy fault." "Will you testify, gentlemen?" inquired Yatsek, turning to the wounded men. "Though we are dry, we will testify," answered Mateush. Still, Yatsek's alarm increased more and more, and soon after, when a sleigh with Pan Gideon and Pan Grothus stopped at the porch, the heart died in him utterly. He sprang out, however, to greet and bow down to the knees of Pan Gideon; but the latter did not even glance at Yatsek, just as though he had not seen the man, and with a gloomy stern face he strode into the chamber. He inclined to the priest with respect but with coldness, for since the day that the old man had reproached him from the altar for excessive severity toward peasants, the stubborn old noble was unable to forgive him; so now, after that cold salute, he turned to the wounded men straightway, and gazed at them a moment. "Gracious gentlemen," said he, "after what has just happened, I should not pass the threshold of this building, be sure of that, did I not wish to show how cruelly I am wounded by that wrong which you have suffered. See how my hospitality has ended! See how in my house my rescuers have been recompensed. But I say this, that whoso has wronged you has wronged me, whoso has spilt your blood has done worse than spill mine, for the man who challenged you under my roof has insulted me--" Here Mateush interrupted him suddenly,-- "We challenged him, not he us!" "That is true, gracious benefactor," said Stanislav. "There is no blame to this cavalier in all that has happened, but to us, for which we beg your grace's pardon submissively." "It would have been well for the judge to examine the witnesses before he passed sentence," said Father Voynovski, with seriousness. Lukash, too, wished to say something, but since his cheek was cut to the gum and his gum to the teeth, the pain was acute when his chin moved, so he only put his palm on the plaster which was drying, and said with one side of his mouth,-- "May the devils take the sentence and my jaw with it also." Pan Gideon was confused in some measure by these voices, still, he had no thought of yielding. On the contrary, he looked around with stern glance, as if wishing in that way to express silent blame for defenders of Yatsek. "It is not for me to offer pardon to my rescuers. No blame touches you, gentlemen. On the contrary, I know and understand all this matter, for I see that you were insulted on purpose. Indeed, that same jealousy, which on a dying horse failed to ride living wolves down, increased later on the desire for vengeance. I was not alone in seeing how that 'cavalier,' whom you defend so magnanimously, gave occasion and did everything from the earliest moment of meeting to force you to that action. But the fault is mine more than any man's, since I was mild with him, and did not tell the man to find for himself at a fair or a dram shop more fitting society." When Yatsek heard this his face grew as pale as linen. As to the priest, the blood rose to his forehead. "He was challenged! What was he to do? Be ashamed of yourself!" exclaimed Father Voynovski. But Pan Gideon looked down at him and answered,-- "Those are worldly questions, in which the laity are as experienced, and more so, than the clergy, but I will answer your question, so that no one here should accuse me of injustice. 'What was he to do?' As a younger to an older man, as a guest to his host, as a man who ate my bread so many times when he had none of his own to eat, he should first of all have informed me of the question. And I with my dignity of a host would have settled it, and not have let matters come to this: that my rescuers, and such worthy gentlemen, are lying here in their own blood on straw in this hut as in a hog pen." "You would have thought me a coward!" cried Yatsek, trembling as in a fever. Pan Gideon did not answer a word, and feigned, as he had from the first, not to see him. Instead of answering he turned then to Stanislav, and continued,-- "I, with Pan Grothus the starosta, will go to your father in Yedlinka this instant, to express our condolence. I doubt not that he will accept my hospitality, hence I invite you with your comrades here present to return to my mansion. I also remind you that you are here by chance merely, and that at the moment you are really my guests, to whom I wish with all my heart to show gratitude. Your father, Pan Tsyprianovitch, cannot visit the man who has wounded you, and under my roof you will have greater comfort, and will not die of hunger, which might happen very easily in this place." Stanislav was troubled greatly and delayed for a while to give answer, both out of regard for Yatsek, and because that, being a very decent young man, he was concerned about propriety; meanwhile his lip and chin, which had swollen beneath the plaster, deformed him very sensibly. "We have felt neither hunger nor thirst here," said he, "as has been shown already; but in truth we are guests of your grace, and my father, not knowing how things have happened, might hesitate to come to us. But how am I to appear before those ladies, your grace's relatives, with a face which could rouse only abhorrence?" Then his face twisted, for his lip pained him from long speaking, and his features, in fact, were not beautiful at the moment. "Be not troubled. Those ladies feel disgust, but not toward your wounds, after the healing of which your former good-looks will return to you. Three sleighs will come here with servants immediately, and in my house good beds are waiting. Meanwhile, farewell, since it is time for me and Pan Grothus to set out for Yedlinka--With the forehead!" And he bowed once to the five nobles. To Father Voynovski he bowed specially, but he made no inclination whatever to Yatsek. When near the door the priest approached him. "You have too little justice and too little tenderness," said he. "I acknowledge sins only at confession," retorted Pan Gideon, and he passed through the doorway. After him went the starosta, Pan Grothus. Yatsek had been a whole hour as if tortured. His face changed, and at moments he knew not whether to fall at the feet of Pan Gideon with a prayer for forgiveness, or spring at his throat and avenge the humiliation through which he was passing. But he remembered that he was in his own house, that before him was standing the guardian of Panna Anulka; hence, as the two men walked out he moved after them, not giving an account to himself of his action, but because of custom which commanded to conduct guests, and in some kind of blind hope that perhaps even at parting the stubborn Pan Gideon would bow to him. But this hope failed him also; only Pan Grothus, a kindly man, as was evident, and of good wit pressed his hand at the entrance, and whispered, "Despair not, his first rage will pass, cavalier, and all will arrange itself." Yatsek did not think thus, and he would have been sure that his case was lost utterly had he known that Pan Gideon, though indignant, feigned anger far more than he felt it. Stanislav and the Bukoyemskis were his rescuers, but Yatsek had not killed them, and a duel of itself was too common to rouse such unmerciful hatred. But Pan Gideon, from the moment that the starosta had told him how aged men marry and sometimes have children, looked with other eyes upon Panna Anulka. That which perhaps had never occurred to him earlier, seemed all at once possible and also alluring. At thought of the charms of that maiden, marvellous as a rose, the soul warmed in him, and still more powerfully did pride play in the old noble. So then, the race of Pangovski might flourish afresh and bloom up again; and besides, born from such a patrician as Panna Anulka, not only related to all the great houses in the Commonwealth, but herself the last sprout of a race from whose wealth rose in greater part the Sobieskis, Jolkievskis, Daniloviches, and many others. There was a whirl in Pan Gideon's brain at the thought of this, and he felt that not only he but the Commonwealth was concerned in Pangovskis of that kind. So straightway fear rose in him lest it should happen that the lady might love some one else, and give her hand to another man. One more important than himself in that region, he had not discovered; there were younger men, however. But who? Pan Stanislav? Yes! He was young, of good looks, very rich, but noble in the third generation, descended from ennobled Armenians. That such a _homo novus_ should indeed strive for Panna Anulka could not find place in the head of Pan Gideon in any shape. It was laughable to think of the Bukoyemskis, though good nobles and claiming kindred with Saint Peter. There remained then Tachevski alone, a real "Lazarus," it is true, as poor as a church mouse, but from an ancient stock of great knights; from Tachevo who had the Kovala escutcheon, one of whom was a real giant, and had taken part in the dreadful defeat of the Germans at Tannenberg; he had been famous not only in the Commonwealth but at foreign courts also. Only a Tachevski could compare with the Sieninskis. Besides, he was young, daring, handsome, and melancholy; this last often moves the heart in a woman. He was also at home in Belchantska, and seemed a friend, nay, a brother to the lady. Hence, Pan Gideon fell now to recalling various cases, as, for instance, disputes and poutings among the young people, then their reconciliations and friendship, then various words and glances, sadness and rejoicing in common, and laughter. Things which a short time before he had thought scarcely worthy of notice seemed now suspicious. Yes! danger could threaten only from that side. The old noble thought, also, that Panna Anulka might, in part at least, be the cause of the duel, and he was terrified. Hence, to anticipate the danger, he tried to present to the young lady in the strongest light possible, all the dishonor of Yatsek's late action, and to rouse in her due anger; and then by feigning greater rage than he felt, or than the case called for, to burn all the bridges between his own mansion and Vyrambki, and, when he had humiliated Yatsek without mercy, to close the doors of the house to him forever. And he was reaching his object. Yatsek walked back from the porch, took a seat at the table, thrust his fingers through his hair, supported his elbows, and was as silent as if pain had taken speech from him. Father Voynovski approached and put his hand on his shoulder. "Yatsus, suffer what thou must," said he, "but a foot of thine should never enter that mansion hereafter." "It never will," replied Yatsek, in a dull voice. "But yield not to pain. Remember who thou art." The young man set his teeth. "I remember, but for that very reason pain burns me!" "No one here applauds Pan Gideon for his action," said Stanislav. "It is one thing to censure, and another to trample a man's honor." Hereupon the Bukoyemskis were moving, and Mateush, whom speech troubled least, added promptly,-- "Under his roof I will say nothing, but when I recover and meet him on the road, or at a neighbor's, I will tell him to kiss a dog's snout that same minute." "O, yei!" said Marek. "To insult such a cavalier! The hour will come when that will not be forgiven him." Meanwhile three sleighs with sofas and three servants, besides drivers, appeared to convey the wounded men to Belchantska. Because of regard for the expected arrival of Pan Serafin, Yatsek dared not detain them, and because also of this: that they were really the guests of Pan Gideon. As to the men, they would not have remained after hearing of Yatsek's great poverty lest they might burden him. They took farewell and gave thanks for his hospitality with a heartiness as great as if there had never been a quarrel between them. But when Stanislav was taking his seat in the last sleigh Yatsek sprang forward on a sudden,-- "I will go with you," said he. "I cannot endure to do otherwise! I cannot endure! Before Pan Gideon returns I must--for the last time--" Father Voynovski, since he knew Yatsek, knew that words would be useless; still, he drew him aside and began to expostulate,-- "Yatsek! O Yatsek! a woman again. God grant that a still greater wrong may not meet thee. O Yatsek, remember the words of Ecclesiastes: 'In a thousand I found one man, among all I found not one woman.' Take pity on thyself and remember this." But these words were as peas against a battlement. In a moment Yatsek was sitting in the sleigh at the side of Stanislav, and they started. Meanwhile the east wind had broken the mist and driven it to the wilderness; then the bright sun from a blue sky looked at them. CHAPTER IV Pan Gideon had not invented when he spoke of the "abhorrence" which at his house both women felt for the conqueror. Yatsek convinced himself of this from one glance at them. Pani Vinnitski met him with an offended face, and snatched her hand away when he wished to kiss it in greeting; and the young lady, without compassion for his suffering and embarrassment, did not answer his greeting. She was occupied with Stanislav, sparing neither tender looks nor anxious questions; she pushed her care so far that when he rose from the armchair in the dining-room to go to the chamber set apart for the wounded she supported him by the arm, and though he opposed and excused himself she conducted him to the threshold. "For thee there is nothing in this house. All is lost!" cried despair and also jealousy in Yatsek's heart at sight of this action. Toward him that maiden had shown changing humors, and with one kindly word had given usually ten that were cold, when not biting, hence his pain was the keener, that till then he had not supposed that she could be kind, sweet, and angel-like to a man whom she loved really. That Panna Anulka loved Stanislav the ill-fated Yatsek had no doubt whatever. He would have endured not only such a wound as that given Stanislav, but would have shed all his blood with delight, if she would speak even once in her life to him with such a voice, and look with such eyes at him as she had looked then at Stanislav. Hence, besides pain, an immeasurable sorrow now seized him. This sent a torrent of tears toward his eyeballs, and if those tears did not gush out and flow down his cheeks, they flooded his heart and pervaded his being. Thus did Yatsek feel his whole breast fill with tears, and, to give the last blow at this juncture, never had Panna Anulka seemed to him so beautiful beyond measure as at that moment, with her pale face and her crown of golden hair slightly dishevelled from emotion. "She is an angel, but not for thee," complained the sorrow within him; "wonderful, but another will take her!" And he would have fallen at her feet and confessed all his suffering and devotion, but at the same time he felt that just after that which had happened it would not be proper to do so, and that if he did not control himself and stifle the struggle in his spirit he would tell her something quite different from that which he wanted, and sink himself utterly in her estimation. Meanwhile Pani Vinnitski, as an elderly person and one skilled in medicine, entered the chamber with Stanislav, while the young lady turned back from the threshold. Yatsek, understanding that he must use the opportunity approached her. "I should like a word with you," said he, struggling to control himself, and with a trembling voice which, as it were, belonged to another. She looked at him with cold astonishment. "What do you wish?" Yatsek's face was lighted with a smile of such pain that it was almost like that of a martyr. "What I wish for myself will not come to me, though I were to give my own soul's salvation to get it," said he, shaking his head; "but for one thing I beg you: do not accuse me, cherish no offence against me, have some compassion, for I am not of wood nor of iron." "I have no word to say," replied she, "and there is no time for talking." "Ah! there is always some time to say a kind word to the man for whom this world is grievous." "Is it because you have wounded my rescuers?" "The blame is not mine, as God stands by the innocent! The messenger who came for those gentlemen to Vyrambki should have declared what Father Voynovski told him to tell here; namely, that I did not challenge them. Did you know that they were the challengers?" "I did. The attendant, being a simple man, did not repeat, it is true, every word which the priest sent; he merely cried out that 'the young lord of Vyrambki had slashed them to pieces;' then Pan Gideon, on returning from Vyrambki, ran in from the road and explained what had happened." Pan Gideon feared lest the news that Yatsek had been challenged might reach the young lady from other lips and weaken her anger, hence he wished above all to describe the affair in his own way, not delaying to add that Yatsek by venomous insults had forced them to challenge him. He reckoned on this: that Panna Anulka, taking things woman fashion, would be on the side of the men who had suffered most. Still, it seemed to Yatsek that the beloved eyes looked on him less severely, so he repeated the question,-- "Did you know this position?" "I knew," replied she, "but I remember that which you should not have forgotten if you had even a trifling regard for me,--that I owe my life to those gentlemen. And I have learnt from my guardian that you forced them to challenge you." "I, not have regard for you? Let God, who looks into men's hearts, judge that statement." All on a sudden her eyes blinked time after time; then she shook her head till a tress fell to the opposite shoulder, and she said,-- "Is that true?" "True, true!" continued he, in a panting and deeply sad voice. "I should have let men cut me down, it seems, so as not to annoy you. The blood which was dearest to you would not have been shed then. But there is no help now for the omission. There is no help now for anything! Your guardian told you that I forced those gentlemen to challenge me. I leave that too to God's judgment. But did your guardian tell you that he himself had insulted me beyond mercy and measure beneath my own roof tree? I have come now to you because I knew that I should not find him here. I have come to satisfy my unhappy eyes with the last look at you. I know that this is all one to you, but I thought that even in that case--" Here Yatsek halted, for tears stopped his utterance. Parma Anulka's mouth began also to quiver and to take on more and more the shape of a horseshoe, and only haughtiness joined to timidity, the timidity of a maiden, struggled in her with emotion. But perhaps she was restrained by this also: that she wished to get from Yatsek a still more complaining confession, and perhaps because she did not believe that he would go from her and never come back again. More than once there had been misunderstandings between them, more than once had Pan Gideon offended him greatly, and still, after brief exhibitions of anger, there had followed silent or spoken explanations and all had gone on again in the old way. "So it will be this time also," thought Panna Anulka. For her it was sweet to listen to Yatsek and to see that great love which, though it dared not express itself in determinate utterance, was still beaming from him with a submission which was matched only by its mightiness. Hence she yearned to hear him speak with her the longest time possible with that wondrous voice, and to lay at her feet for the longest time possible that young, loving, pained heart of his. But he, inexperienced in love matters and blind as are all who love really, could not take note of this, and did not know what was happening within her. He looked on her silence as hardened indifference, and bitterness was gradually drowning his spirit. The calmness with which he had spoken at first began now to desert him, his eyes took on another light, drops of cold sweat came out on his temples: something was tearing and breaking the soul in him. He was seized by despair of such kind that when a man lies in the grip of it he reckons with nothing, and is ready with his own hands to tear his own wounded heart open. He spoke yet as it were calmly, but his voice had a new sound, it was firmer, though hoarser. "Is this the case," asked he, "and is there not one word from thee?" Panna Anulka shrugged her shoulders in silence. "The priest told me the truth when he warned that here a still greater wrong was in store for me." "In what have I wronged thee?" asked she, bitterly, pained by the sudden change which she saw in him. But he waded on farther in blindness. "Had I not seen how thou didst treat this Pan Stanislav, I should think that thou hadst no heart in thy bosom. Thou hast a heart, but for him, not for me. He glanced at thee, and that was sufficient." Then Yatsek grasped the hair of his head with both hands on a sudden. "Would to God that I had cut him to pieces!" A flame flashed, as it were, through Panna Anulka; her cheeks crimsoned, anger blazed in her eyes as well at herself as at Yatsek; because a moment before she had been ready for weeping, her heart was seized now by indignation, deep and sudden. "You, sir, have lost your senses!" cried she, raising her head and shaking back the tress from her shoulder. She was on the point of rushing away, but that brought Yatsek to utter desperation; he seized her hands and detained her. "Not thou art to go. I am the person to go," said he, with set teeth. "And before going I say this to thee: though for years I have loved thee more than health, more than life, and more than my own soul, I will never come back to thee. I will gnaw my own hands off in torture, but, so help me, God, I will never come back to thee!" Then, forgetting his worn Hungarian cap on the floor there, he sprang to the doorway, and in an instant she saw him through the window, hurrying away along the garden by which the road to Vyrambki was shorter,--and he vanished. Panna Anulka stood for a time as if a thunderbolt had struck her. Her thoughts had scattered like a flock of birds in every direction; she knew not what had happened. But when thoughts returned to her all feeling of offence was extinguished, and in her ears were sounding only the words: "I loved thee more than health, more than life, more than my own soul, but I will never come back to thee!" She felt now that in truth he would never come back, just because he had loved her so tremendously. Why had she not given him even one kind word for which, before anger had swept the man off, he had begged as if for alms, or a morsel of bread to give strength on a journey? And now endless grief and fear seized her. He had rushed off in pain and in madness. He may fall on the road somewhere. He may in despair work on himself something evil, and one heartfelt word might have healed and cured everything. Let him hear her voice even. He must go, beyond the garden, through the meadow to the river. He will hear her there yet before he vanishes. And rushing from the house she ran to the garden. Deep snow lay on the middle path, but his tracks there were evident. She ran in them. She sank at times to her knees, and on the road lost her rosary, her handkerchief, and her workbag with thread in it, and, panting, she reached the garden gate finally. "Pan Yatsek! Pan Yatsek!" cried she. But the field beyond the garden was empty. Besides, that same wind which had blown the morning haze off, made a great sound among the branches of apple and pear trees; her weak voice was lost in that sound altogether. Then, not regarding the cold nor her light, indoor clothing, she sat on a bench near the gate and fell to crying. Tears as large as pearls dropped down her cheeks and she, having nothing else now with which to remove them, brushed those tears away with that tress on her shoulder. "He will not come back." Meanwhile the wind sounded louder and louder, shaking wet snow from the dark branches. When Yatsek rushed into his house like a whirlwind, without cap and with dishevelled hair, the priest divined clearly enough what had happened. "I foretold this," said he. "God give thee aid, O my Yatsek; but I ask nothing till thou hast come to thy mind and art quiet." "Ended! All is ended!" said Yatsek. And he walked up and down in the chamber, like a wild beast in confinement. The priest said no word, interrupted him in nothing, and only after long waiting did he rise, put his arms around Yatsek's shoulders, kiss his head, and lead him by the hand to an alcove. The old man knelt before a small crucifix which was hanging over the bed there, and when the sufferer had knelt at his side the priest prayed as follows: "O Lord, Thou knowest what pain is, for Thou didst endure it on the cross for the offences of mankind. "Hence I bring my bleeding heart to Thee, and at Thy feet which are pierced I implore Thee for mercy. "I cry not to Thee: 'take this pain from me,' but I cry 'give me strength to endure it.' "For I, O Lord, am a soldier submissive to Thy order, and I desire much to serve Thee, and the Commonwealth, my mother-- But how can I do this when my heart is faint and my right hand is weakened? "Because of this make me forget myself and make me think only of Thy glory, and the rescue of my mother, for those things are of far greater moment than the pain of a pitiful worm, such as I am. "And strengthen me, O Lord, in my saddle, so that through lofty deeds against pagans I may reach a glorious death, and also heaven. "By Thy crown of thorns, hear me! "By the wound in Thy side, hear me! "By Thy hands and feet pierced with nails, hear me!" Then they knelt for a long time, but at the middle of the prayer it was evident that the pain in Yatsek's breast had broken, for on a sudden he covered his face with both hands and fell to sobbing. When they had risen and gone to the adjoining chamber Father Voynovski sighed deeply. "My Yatsek," said he, "I saw much of life in my years of a warrior, during which sorrow greater than thine met me. I have no thought to speak touching this to thee. I will say only that in a time of most terrible anguish I composed this very prayer and to it owe deliverance. I have repeated it frequently in misfortune since that day, and always with solace; we have repeated it now for this reason. And how dost thou feel? Art thou not freed in some measure? Pray tell me!" "I feel pain, but it burns less severely." "Ah, seest thou! Now drink some wine. I will tell thee, or rather I will show thee, something which should give thee comfort. Look!" And bending his head down he showed beneath his white hair a dreadful scar, which passed across his whole crown from one side to the other. "From that," said he, "I came very near dying. The wound pained me awfully, but the scar gives no trouble. In like manner, Yatsek, thy wound will cease to pain when a scar takes the place of it. Tell me now what has happened to thee." Yatsek began, but met failure. It was not in his nature to invent, or increase, or exaggerate, so now he himself wondered over this: that all which had torn him with such torture seemed less cruel in the narrative. But Father Voynovski, clearly a man of experience, and knowing the world, heard him out to the end, and then added,-- "It is difficult, I understand that, to describe looks or even gestures which may be altogether contemptuous and insulting. Often even one look, or one wave of the hand, has led men to duels and to bloodshed. The main point is this: thou hast told the young lady that thou wilt not go back to her. Youth is giddy, and when guided by sadness it changes as the moon in the sky does. And love too is like that mendacious moon, which when it seems to decrease is just growing and swelling toward its fulness. How is it then, hast thou the true wish of doing what thy words tell me?" "So help me, God, I have told my whole wish, and if thou desire I will repeat the same in an oath on that cross there." "And what dost thou think to do?" "To go into the world." "I have been hoping for that. I have desired it this long time. I have known what detained thee, but go now. When thou hast broken thy fetters go into the world. Thou wilt wait for no good thing in this place, no good thing has met thee here, or will meet thee here ever. To thee the life here has been ruin. It was a happiness that I was near by and trained thee in Latin, and in working with thy sword even somewhat; without these two kinds of knowledge thou wouldst have dropped down to be a peasant. Thank me not, Yatsus, for that was pure devotion on my part. I shall be sad here without thee, but I am not in question. Thou wilt go into the world. That, as I understand, means that thou wilt join the army. That road is the straightest and the most honorable, also, especially since war with the pagan is approaching. The pen and the chancellery are more certain, men tell us, than promotion from the sabre, but they are less fitted for blood such as thine is." "I have not thought of another service," said Yatsek, "but I shall not join the infantry, and I cannot in any way reach the higher banners, for I am in terrible poverty--" "A noble who has Latin on his tongue and a sabre in his fist will make his way always," interrupted the priest; "but there is no need of talking, thou must have good horses. We must think over this carefully. Now I will tell thee something of which I have never yet spoken. I hold for thee ten ruddy ducats which thy late mother left with me--and her letter, in which she begs not to give thee this money, lest it be spent ere the time comes. Only in sudden need may I give it when either the ferry or the wagon is awaiting thee--when some dilemma presents itself--well, the dilemma is here at this moment! Thou hadst an honorable, a holy, and an unhappy mother, for when that woman was dying there was great need in her dwelling, and she took from her own mouth that which she left with me." "God give eternal rest to her," said Yatsek. "Let those ten ducats be used for masses to benefit her soul, and Vyrambki I will sell even for a trifle." Father Voynovski grew very tender at these words; a tear glistened in his eye, and again he put his arms around Yatsek. "There is honest blood in thee," said he, "but thou art not free to reject this gift from thy mother, even for the purpose which thou hast mentioned. Masses will not be lacking in her case, be sure of that, though in truth she has no great need of them; but to other souls suffering in purgatory they will be of service. As to Vyrambki it would be better to mortgage it; though a noble has but the smallest estate, how differently do people esteem him from one who is landless." "But I am in a hurry. I should like to go even to-day." "To-day thou wilt not go, though the sooner the better. I must write for thee letters to my comrades and friends. We must talk also with the brewers in Yedlina who have money and also good horses, so that no armored warrior may have a better outfit. In my house there are some old arms and some sabres, not so much ornamented as tested on Swedish and Turkish shoulders." Here the priest looked through the window and said,-- "But the sleigh is waiting, and a traveller should start when his sleigh comes." An expression of pain now shot over the face of the young man; he kissed the priest's hand and added,-- "I have one other prayer, my benefactor and father; let me go with you now and live in your house till I leave this region. Those roofs are visible from this dwelling. They are too near me." "Of course! I wished to propose this; thou hast taken the words from my lips. There is no work for thee here, and I shall be glad from my soul to have thee under my roof tree. Be of good cheer, O my Yatsus. The world does not end in Belchantska, but stands open widely before thee. God alone knows how far thou wilt ride when once thou art on horseback. War is awaiting thee! Glory is awaiting thee! and that which pains thee to-day will be healed at another time. I see now how the wings are growing out at thy shoulders. Fly then, O bird of the Lord, for to that wert thou predestined and created." And joy like a sunray lighted up the honest face of the old man. He struck his thigh with his palm, soldier fashion. "Now take thy cap and we will go." But small things stand often in the way of important ones, and the comic is mixed with the tragic. Yatsek glanced round the room; then he gazed with concern at the priest, and repeated,-- "My cap!" "Well! Thou wilt not go bareheaded--" "How could I?" "Where is it?" "But suppose it remained at Belchantska?" "There are thy love tricks, old woman! What wilt thou do?" "What shall I do? I might get a cap from my man, but I could not go in the cap of a peasant." "Thou canst not go in a peasant's cap, but send thy man to Belchantska." "I would not for anything." The priest was becoming impatient. "Plague take it! War, glory, the wide world--these are all waiting for the man, but his cap is gone!" "There is an old hat in the bottom of a trunk which my father took from a Swedish officer at Tremeshno--" "Take it, and let us go." Yatsek vanished and returned a little later wearing the yellow hat of a Swedish horseman, which was too large for him. Amused by the sight of it, the priest caught at his left side as if seeking his sabre. "It is well," said he, "that it is not a Turkish turban. But this is a real carnival!" Yatsek smiled in reply, and then added,-- "There are some stones in the buckle; they may be of value." Then they took seats in the sleigh and moved forward. Immediately beyond the enclosure Belchantska and the mansion were as visible through leafless alders as something on one's hand. The priest looked carefully at Yatsek, who merely drew the big Swedish hat over his eyes and did not look, though something besides his Hungarian cap had been left in the mansion. CHAPTER V "He will not come back! All is lost!" exclaimed Panna Anulka to herself at the first moment. And a marvellous thing! There were five men in that mansion, one of whom was young and presentable; and besides Pan Grothus, the starosta, Pan Serafin was expected. In a word, rarely had there been so many guests at Belchantska. Meanwhile it seemed to the young lady that a vacuum had surrounded her suddenly, and that some immense want had come with it; that the mansion was empty, the garden empty, and that she herself was as much alone as if in an unoccupied steppe land, and that she would continue to be thus forever. Hence her heart was as straitened with merciless sorrow as if she had lost one who was nearest of all to her. She felt sure that Yatsek would not return, all the more since her guardian had offended him mortally; still, she could not imagine how it would be without him, without his face, his laughter, his words, his glances. What would happen to-morrow, after to-morrow, next week, next month? For what would she rise from her bed every morning? Why would she arrange her tresses? For whom would she dress and curl her hair? For what was she now to live? And she had a feeling as if her heart had been a candle which some one had quenched by blowing it out on a sudden. There was nothing save darkness and a vacuum. But when she entered the room and saw that Hungarian cap on the floor, all those indefinite feelings gave way to an enormous and simple yearning for Yatsek. Her heart grew warm in her again, and she began to call him by name. Therewith a certain gleam of hope flew through her spirit. Raising the cap she pressed it to her bosom unwittingly; then she put it in her sleeve and began to think thuswise: "He will not come as hitherto daily, but before the return of Pan Grothus and my guardian from Yedlinka, he must come for his cap, so I shall see him and say that he was unjust and cruel, and that he should not have done what he has done." But she was not sincere with herself, for she wished to say more, to find some warm, heartfelt word which would join again the threads newly broken between them. If this could happen, if they could meet without anger in the church, or at odd times in the houses of neighbors, means would be found in the future to turn everything to profit. What methods there might be to do this, and what the profit could be, she did not stop to consider at the moment, for beyond all she was thinking how to see Yatsek at the earliest. Meanwhile Pani Vinnitski came out of the chamber in which the wounded men were then lying, and on seeing the excited face and reddened eyes of the young woman she began thus to quiet her. "Fear not, no harm will come to them. Only one of the Bukoyemskis is struck a little seriously, but no harm will happen even to that one. The others are injured slightly. Father Voynovski dressed their wounds with such skill that there is no need to change anything. The men too are cheerful and in perfect spirits." "Thanks be to God!" "But has Yatsek gone? What did he want here?" "He brought the wounded men hither--" "I know, but who would have expected this of him?" "They themselves challenged him." "They do not deny that, but he beat all five of them, one after another. One might have thought that a clucking hen could have beaten him." "Aunt does not know the man," answered Panna Anulka, with a certain pride in her expression. But in the voice of Pani Vinnitski there was as much admiration as blame; for, born in regions exposed to Tartar inroads at all times, she had learned from childhood to count daring and skill at the sabre as the highest virtues of manhood. So, when the earliest alarm touching the five guests had vanished, she began to look somewhat differently at that duel. "Still," continued she, "I must confess that they are worthy gentlemen, for not only do they cherish no hatred against him, but they praise him, especially Pan Stanislav. 'That man is a born soldier,' said he. And they were angry every man of them at Pan Gideon, who exceeded the measure, they say, at Vyrambki." "But aunt did not receive Yatsek better." "He got the reception which he merited. But didst thou receive him well?" "I?" "Yes, thou. I saw how thou didst frown at him." "My dear aunt--" Here the girl stopped suddenly, for she felt that unless she did so, she would burst into weeping. Because of this conversation Yatsek had grown in her eyes. He had fought alone against such trained men, had conquered them all, overcome them. He had told her, it is true, that he hunted wild boars with a spear, but peasants at the edge of the wilderness go against them with clubs, so that amazes no one. But to finish five knightly nobles a man must be better and more valiant and skilful than they. It seemed to Panna Anulka simply a marvel that a man who had such mild and sad eyes could be so terrible in battle. To her alone had he yielded; from her alone had he suffered everything; to her alone had he been mild and pliant. Why was this? Because he had loved her beyond his health, beyond happiness, beyond his own soul's salvation. He had confessed that to her an hour earlier. And yearning for him rushed like an immense wave to her heart again. Still, she felt that something between them had changed, and that if she should see him anew, and see him afterward often, she would not permit herself to play with him again as she had played up to that day, now casting him into the abyss, now cheering him, giving him hope, now thrusting him away, now attracting him; she felt that do what she might she would look on him with greater respect, and would be more submissive and cautious. At moments, however, a voice was heard in her saying that he had acted too peevishly, that he had uttered words more offensive and bitter than she had; but that voice became weaker and weaker, and the wish for reconciliation was growing. "If he would only return before those men came from Yedlinka!" Meanwhile an hour passed, then two and three hours. Still, there was no sign from Yatsek. Next it occurred to her that the hour was too late, that he would not come, he would send some one to get the cap. After that she determined to send it to Yatsek with a letter, in which she would explain what was weighing her heart down. And since his messenger might come any moment she, to prepare all things in season, shut herself up in her small maiden chamber and went at the letter. "May God pardon thee for the suffering and sadness in which thou hast left me, for if thou couldst see my heart thou wouldst not have done what thou hast done. Therefore, I send not only thy cap, but a kind word, so that thou shouldst be happy and forget--" Here she saw that she was not writing her own thoughts at all, or her wishes, so, drawing her pen through the words, she fell to writing a new letter with more emotion and feeling: "I send thy cap, for I know that I shall not see thee in this house hereafter, and that thou wilt not weep for any one here, least of all for such an orphan as I am; but neither shall I weep because of thy injustice, though it is sad beyond description--" But reality showed these words to be false, since sudden tears put blots on the paper. How send a proof of this kind, especially if he had thrown her out of his heart altogether? After a while it occurred to her that it might be better not to write of his injustice, and of his peevish procedure, since, if she did, he would be ready for still greater stubbornness. Thus thinking, she looked for a third sheet of paper, but there was no more in her chamber. Now she was helpless, for if she borrowed paper of Pani Vinnitski she could not avoid questions impossible of answer; then she felt that she was losing her head, and that in no case could she write to Yatsek that which she wanted to tell him; hence she grew disconsolate and sought, as women do usually, solace in suffering; she gave a free course to her tears again. Meanwhile night was in front of the entrance, and sleighbells were tinkling--Pan Gideon and his two guests were coming. The servants were lighting the candles in every chamber, for the gloom was increasing. The young lady brushed aside every tear and entered the drawing-room with, a certain timidity; she feared that all would see straightway that she had been weeping, and have, God knows what suspicions,--they might even torment her with questions. But in the drawing-room there were none save Pan Gideon and Pan Grothus. For Pan Serafin she asked straightway, wishing to turn attention from her own person. "He has gone to his son and the Bukoyemskis," said Pan Gideon, "but I pacified him on the road by showing that nothing evil had happened." Then he looked at her carefully, but his face, gloomy at most times, and his gray, severe eyes were bright with a sort of exceptional kindness. Approaching, he placed his hand on the bright head of the maiden. "There is no need for thee to be troubled," said he. "In a couple of days they will be well, every man of them. We need say no more. We owe them gratitude, it is true, and hence I was anxious about them, but really, they are strangers to us, and of rather lowly condition." "Lowly condition?" repeated she, as an echo, and merely to say something. "Why, yes, for the Bukoyemskis have nothing whatever, and Pan Stanislav is a _homo novus_. For that matter, what are they to me! They will go their way, and the same quiet will be in this house as has been here hitherto." Panna Anulka thought to herself that there would be great quiet indeed, for there would be only three in the mansion; but she gave no expression to that thought. "I will busy myself with the supper," said she. "Go, housewife, go!" said Pan Gideon. "Because of thee there is joy in the household, and profit--and have a silver service brought on," added he, "to show this Pan Serafin that good plate is found not alone among newly made noble Armenians." Panna Anulka hurried to the servants' apartments. She wished before supper to finish another affair most important for her, so she summoned a serving-lad, and said to him,-- "Listen, Voitushko; run to Vyrambki and tell Pan Tachevski that the young lady sends this cap, and bows very much to him. Here is a coin for thee, and repeat what thou art to tell him." "The young lady sends the cap and bows to him." "Not that she bows, but that she bows very much to him--dost understand?" "I understand." "Then stir! And take an overcoat, for the frost bites in the night-time. Let the dogs go with thee, too--that she bows very much, remember. And come back at once--unless Pan Tachevski gives an answer." Having finished that affair she withdrew to the kitchen to busy herself at the supper which was then almost ready since they had been expecting guests with Pan Gideon. Then, after she had dressed and arranged her hair, she entered the dining-hall. Pan Sarafin greeted her kindly, for her beauty and youth had pleased his heart greatly at Yedlinka. Since he had been put quite at rest touching Stanislav, when they were seated at the table he began to speak with her joyously, endeavoring, even with jests, to scatter that shade of seriousness which he saw on her forehead, and the cause of which he attributed specially to the duel. But for her the supper was not to end without incident, since immediately after the second course Voitushko stood at the door of the dining-hall and cried out, as he blew his chilled fingers,-- "I beg the young lady's attention. I left the cap, but Pan Tachevski is not in Vyrambki, for he drove away with Father Voynovski." Pan Gideon on hearing these words was astonished; he frowned, and fixed his iron eyes on the serving-lad. "What is this?" asked he. "What cap? Who sent thee to Vyrambki?" "The young lady," answered the lad with timidity. "I sent him," said Panna Anulka. And seeing that all eyes were turned on her she was dreadfully embarrassed, but the elusive wit of a woman soon came to her assistance. "Pan Yatsek attended the wounded men hither," said she; "but since auntie and I received him with harshness he was angry and flew away home without his cap, so I sent the cap after him." "Indeed, we did not receive him very charmingly," added Pani Vinnitski. Pan Gideon drew breath and his face took on a less dreadful expression. "Ye did well," remarked he. "I myself would have sent the cap, for of course he has not a second one." But the honest and clever Pan Serafin took the part of Yatsek. "My son," said he, "has no feeling against him. He and the other gentlemen forced Pan Tachevski to the duel; when it was over he took them to his house, dressed their wounds, and entertained them. The Bukoyemskis say the same, adding that he is an artist at the sabre, who, had he had the wish, might have cut them up in grand fashion. Ha! they wanted to teach him a lesson, and themselves found a teacher. If it is true that His Grace the King is moving against the Turks, such a man as Tachevski will be useful." Pan Gideon was not glad to hear these words, and added: "Father Voynovski taught him those sword tricks." "I have seen Father Voynovski only once, at a festival," said Pan Serafin, "but I heard much of him in my days of campaigning. At the festival other priests laughed at him; they said that his house was like the ark, that he cares for all beasts just as Noah did. I know, however, that his sabre was renowned, and that his virtue is famous. If Pan Tachevski has learned sword-practice from him, I should wish my son, when he recovers, not to seek friendship elsewhere." "They say that the Diet will strive at once to strengthen the army," said Pan Gideon, wishing to change the conversation. "True, all will work at that," said Pan Grothus. And the conversation continued on the war. But after supper Panna Anulka chose the right moment, and, approaching Pan Serafin, raised her blue eyes to him. "You are very kind," said she. "Why do you say that?" asked Pan Serafin. "You took the part of Pan Yatsek." "Whose part?" inquired the old man. "Pan Tachevski's. His name is Yatsek." "But you blamed him severely. Why did you blame him?" "My guardian blamed him still more severely. I confess to you, however, that we did not act justly, and I think that some reparation is due him." "He would surely be glad to receive it from your hands," said Pan Serafin. The young lady shook her golden head in sign of disagreement. "Oh no!" replied she, smiling sadly, "he is angry with us, and forever." Pan Serafin glanced at her with a genuine fatherly kindness. "Who in the world, charming flower, could be angry forever with you?" "Oh! Pan Yatsek could--but as to reparation this is the best reparation in his case: declare to Pan Yatsek that you feel no offence toward him, and that you believe in his innocence. After that my guardian will be forced to do him some justice, and justice from us is due to Pan Yatsek." "I see that you have not been so very bitter against him, since you are now taking his part with such interest." "I do so because I feel reproaches of conscience, and I wish no injustice to any man, besides, he is alone in the world, and is in great, very great, poverty." "I will tell you," answered Pan Serafin, "that in my own mind I have decided as follows: your guardian, as a hospitable neighbor, has declared that he will not let me go till my son has recovered; but both my son and the Bukoyemskis might go home even to-morrow. Still, before I leave here I will visit most surely Pan Yatsek and Father Voynovski, not through any kindness, but because I understand that I owe them this courtesy. I do not say that I am bad, still, I think that if any one in this case is really good you are the person. Do not contradict me!" She did contradict, for she felt that for her it was not a question merely of justice to Yatsek, but of other affairs, of which Pan Serafin, who knew not her maiden calculations, could know nothing. Her heart, however, rose toward him with gratitude, and when saying good-night she kissed his hand, for which Pan Gideon was angry. "He is only of the second generation; before that his people were merchants. Remember who thou art!" said the old noble. CHAPTER VI Two days later Yatsek went to Radom with the ten ducats to dress himself decently before the journey. Father Voynovski remained at home brooding over this problem: "Whence am I to get money enough for the equipment of a warrior, for a wagon, for horses, a saddle-horse, and an attendant, all of which Yatsek must have if he cares for respect, and does not wish men to consider him nobody?" Especially did it become Yatsek to appear in that form, since he bore a great, famous name, though somewhat forgotten in the Commonwealth. A certain day Father Voynovski sat down at his small table, wrinkled his brows till his white hair fell over his forehead, and began then to reckon how much would be needed. His "animalia," that is, the dog Filus, the tame fox, and a badger, were rolling balls near his feet; but he gave them no attention whatever, so tremendously was he occupied and troubled, for the "reckoning" refused to come out in any way, and failed every moment. It failed not merely in details, but in the main principles. The old man rubbed his forehead more and more violently and at last he spoke audibly. "He took ten ducats with him. Very well; of that, beyond doubt, he will bring nothing back. Let us count farther: from Kondrat, the brewer, five as a loan, from Slonka, three. From Dudu six Prussian thalers and a borrowed saddle-horse, to be paid for in barley if there is a harvest. Total, eight golden ducats, six thalers, and twenty ducats of mine--too little! Even if I should give him the Wallachian as an attendant, that would be, counting his own mount, two horses; and for a wagon two more are needed--and for Yatsek at least two more. It is impossible to go with fewer, for, if one horse should die he must have another. And a uniform for his man, and supplies for the wagon, kettles and cover and camp chest--tfu! He could only join the dragoons with such money." Then he turned to the animals which were raising a considerable uproar. "Be quiet, ye traitors, or your hides will be sold to Jew hucksters!" And again talk began: "Yatsek is right, he will have to sell Vyrambki. Still, if he does, he will have nothing to answer when any one asks him: 'Whence dost thou come?' 'Whence?' 'From Wind.' 'Which Wind?' 'Wind in the Field.' Immediately every one will slight such a person. It would be better to mortgage the place if a man could be found to give money. Pan Gideon would be the most suitable person, but Yatsek would not hear of Pan Gideon, and I myself would not talk with him on the subject--My God! People are mistaken when they say: 'poor as a church mouse!' A man is often much poorer. A church mouse has Saint Stephen;[3] he lives in comfort, and has his wax at all seasons. O Lord Jesus, who multiplied loaves and fishes, multiply these few ruddy ducats, and these few thalers, for to thee, O Lord, nothing will be diminished, and Thou wilt help the last of the Tachevskis." Then it occurred to him that the Prussian thalers, since they came from a Lutheran country, could rouse only abhorrence in heaven; as to the ducats he hesitated whether to put them under Christ's feet for the night would he find them there multiplied in the morning? He did not feel worthy of a miracle, and even he struck himself a number of times on the breast in repentance for his insolent idea. He could not dwell on this longer, however, for some one had come to the front of his dwelling. After a while the door opened and a tall, gray haired man entered. He had black eyes and a wise, kindly countenance. The man bowed on the threshold. "I am Tsyprianovitch of Yedlinka," said he. "Yes. I saw you in Prityk, at the festival, but only at a distance, for the throng there was great," said the priest, approaching his guest with vivaciousness. "I greet you on my lowly threshold with gladness." "I have come hither with gladness," answered Pan Serafin. "It is an important and pleasant duty to salute a knight so renowned, and a priest who is so saintly." Then he kissed the old man on the shoulder and the hand, though the priest warded off these acts, saying,-- "Ho, what saintliness! These beasts here may have before God greater merit than I have." But Pan Serafin spoke so sincerely and with such simplicity that he won the priest straightway. They began at once, therefore, to speak pleasant words which were heartfelt. "I know your son," said the priest; "he is a cavalier of worth and noble manners. In comparison, those Bukoyemskis seem simply serving-men. I will say to you that Yatsek Tachevski has conceived such a love for Pan Stanislav that he praises him always." "And my Stashko treats him in like manner. It happens frequently that men fight and later on love each other. None of us feel offence toward Pan Tachevski, nay, we should like to conclude with him real friendship. I have just been at his house in Vyrambki, expecting to find him. I wished to invite to Yedlinka you, my benefactor, and Pan Tachevski." "Yatsek is in Radom, but he will return and would be glad, doubtless, to serve you-- But have you seen, your grace, how they treated him at Pan Gideon's?" "They have seen that themselves," said Pan Serafin, "and are sorry, not Pan Gideon, however, but the women." "There are few men so stubborn as Pan Gideon, and he incurs a serious account before the Lord sometimes for this reason--as for the women--God be with them-- Let them go, what is the use in hiding this: that one of them caused the duel?" "I divined that before my son told me. But the cause is innocent." "They are all innocent-- Do you know what Ecclesiastes says of women?" Pan Serafin did not know, so the priest took down the Vulgate and read an extract from Ecclesiastes. "What do you think of that?" asked he. "There are women even of that kind." "Yatsek is going into the world for no other cause, and I am far from dissuading him. On the contrary, I advise him to go." "Do you? Is he going soon? The war will come only next summer." "Do you know that to a certainty?" "I do, for I inquired and I inquired because I cannot keep my own son from it." "No, because he is a noble. Yatsek is going immediately, for, to tell the truth, it is painful for him to remain here." "I understand, I understand everything. Haste is the best cure in such a case." "He will stay only as long as may be needed to mortgage Vyrambki, or sell it. It is only a small strip of land. I advise Yatsek not to sell but to mortgage. Though he may never come back, he can sign himself always as from it, and that is more decent for a man of his name and his origin." "Must he sell or mortgage in every case?" "He must. The man is poor, quite poor. You know how much it costs to go to a war, and he cannot serve in a common dragoon regiment." Pan Serafin thought a while, and said,-- "My benefactor, perhaps I would take a mortgage on Vyrambki." Father Voynovski blushed as does a maiden when a young man confesses on a sudden that for which she is yearning beyond all things; but the blush flew over his face as swiftly as summer lightning through the sky of evening; then he looked at Pan Serafin, and asked,-- "Why do you take it?" Pan Serafin answered with all the sincerity of an honest spirit: "I want it since I wish, without loss to myself, to render an honorable young man a service, for which I shall gain his gratitude. And, Father benefactor, I have still another idea. I will send my one son to that regiment in which Pan Yatsek is to serve, and I think that my Stashko will find in him a good friend and comrade. You know how important a comrade is and what a true friend at one's side means in camp where a quarrel comes easily, and in war where death comes still more easily. God has not, in my case been sparing of fortune, and He has given me only one son. Pan Yatsek is brave, sober, a master at the sabre, as has been shown--and he is virtuous, for you have reared him. Let him and my son be like Orestes and Pylades--that is my reckoning." Father Voynovski opened his arms to him widely. "God himself sent you! For Yatsek I answer as I do for myself. He is a golden fellow, and his heart is as grateful as wheat land. God sent you! My dear boy can now show himself as befits the Tachevski escutcheon, and most important of all, he can, after seeing the wide world, forget altogether that girl for whom he has thrown away so many years, and suffered such anguish." "Has he loved her then from of old?" "Well, to tell the truth, he has loved her since childhood. Even now he says nothing, he sets his teeth, but he squirms like an eel beneath a knife edge. Let him go at the earliest, for nothing could or can come from this love of his." A moment of silence followed, then the old man continued,-- "But we must speak of these matters more accurately. How much can you lend on Vyrambki? It is a poor piece of land." "Even one hundred ducats." "Fear God, your grace!" "But why? If Pan Yatsek ever pays me it will be all the same how much I lend him. If he does not pay I shall get my own also, for though the land about here is poor, that new soil must be good beyond the forest. To-day I will take my son and the Bukoyemskis to Yedlinka, and you will do us the favor to come as soon as Pan Yatsek returns to you from Radom. The money will be ready." "Your grace came from heaven with your golden heart and your money," said Father Voynovski. Then he commanded to bring mead which he poured out himself, and they drank with much pleasure as men do who have joy at their heart strings. With the third glass the priest became serious. "For the assistance, for the good word, for the honesty, let me pay," said he, "even with good advice." "I am listening." "Do not settle your son in Vyrambki. The young lady is beautiful beyond every description. She may also be honorable, I say naught against that; but she is a Sieninski, not she alone, but Pan Gideon is so proud of this that if any man, no matter who, were to ask for her, even Yakobus our king's son, he would not seem too high to Pan Gideon. Guard your son, do not let him break his young heart on that pride, or wound himself mortally like Yatsek. Out of pure and well-wishing friendship do I say this, desiring to pay for your kindness with kindness." Pan Serafin drew his palm across his forehead as he answered,-- "They dropped down on us at Yedlinka as from the clouds because of what happened on the journey. I went once to Pan Gideon's on a neighborly visit, but he did not return it. Noting his pride and its origin I have not sought his acquaintance or friendship. What has come came of itself. I will not settle my son in Vyrambki, nor let him be foolish at Pan Gideon's mansion. We are not such an ancient nobility as the Sieninskis, nor perhaps as Pan Gideon, but our nobility grew out of war, out of that which gives pain, as Charnyetski described it. We shall be able to preserve our own dignity--my son is not less keen on that point than I am. It is hard for a young man to guard against Cupid, but I will tell you, my benefactor, what Stashko told me when recently at Pan Gideon's. I inquired touching Panna Anulka. 'I would rather,' said he, 'not pluck an apple than spring too high after it, for if I should not reach the fruit, shame would come of my effort.'" "Ah! he has a good thought in his head!" exclaimed Father Voynovski. "He has been thus from his boyhood," added Pan Serafin with a certain proud feeling. "He told me also, that when he had learnt what the girl had been to Tachevski, and what he had passed through because of her, he would not cross the road of so worthy a cavalier. No, my benefactor, I do not take a mortgage on Vyrambki to have my son near Pan Gideon's. May God guard my Stanislav, and preserve him from evil." "Amen! I believe you as if an angel were speaking. And now let some third man take the girl, even one of the Bukoyemskis, who boast of such kinsfolk." Pan Serafin smiled, drank out his mead, took farewell, and departed. Father Voynovski went to the church to thank God for that unexpected assistance, and then he waited for Yatsek impatiently. When at last Yatsek came, the old man ran out to the yard and seized him by the shoulders. "Yatsek," exclaimed he, "thou canst give ten ducats for a crupper. Thou hast one hundred ducats, as it were, on the table, and Vyrambki remains to thee." Yatsek fixed on Father Voynovski eyes that were sunken from sleeplessness and suffering, and asked, with astonishment,-- "What has happened?" "A really good thing, since it came from the heart of an honest man." Father Voynovski noted with the greatest consolation that Yatsek in spite of his terrible suffering, and all his heart tortures, received, as it were, a new spirit on learning of the agreement with Pan Serafin. For some days he spoke and thought only of horses, wagons, outfit, and servants, so that it seemed as though there was no place for aught else in him. "Here is thy medicine, thy balsam; here are thy remedies," repeated the priest to himself; "for if a man entrapped by a woman and never so unhappy were going to the army he would have to be careful not to buy a horse that had heaves or was spavined; he would have to choose sabres, and fit on his armor, try his lance once and a second time, and, turning from the woman to more fitting objects, find relief for his heart in them." And he remembered how, when young, he himself had sought in war either death or forgetfulness. But since war had not begun yet, death was still distant from Yatsek in every case; meantime he was filled with his journey, and with questions bound up in it. There was plenty to do. Pan Serafin and his son came again to the priest with whom Yatsek was living. Then all went to the city together to draw up the mortgage. There, also, they found a part of Yatsek's outfit; the remainder, the experienced and clear-headed priest advised to search out in Warsaw or Cracow. This beginning of work took up some days, during which young Stanislav, whose slight wound was almost healed, gave earnest assistance to Yatsek, with whom he contracted a more and more intimate acquaintance and friendship. The old men were pleased at this, for both held it extremely important. The honest Pan Serafin even began to be sorry that Yatsek was going so promptly, and to persuade the priest not to hasten his departure. "I understand," said he, "I understand well, my benefactor, why you wish to send him away at the earliest; but in truth I must tell you that I think no ill of that Panna Anulka. It is true that immediately after the duel she did not receive Pan Yatsek very nicely, but remember that she and Pani Vinnitski were snatched from the jaws of the wolves by my son and the Bukoyemskis. What wonder, then, that, at sight of the blood and the wounds of those gentlemen, she was seized with an anger, which Pan Gideon roused in her purposely, as I know. Pan Gideon is a stubborn man, truly; but when I was there the poor girl came to me perfectly penitent. 'I see,' said she, 'that we did not act justly, and that some reparation is due to Pan Yatsek.' Her eyes became moist immediately, and pity seized me, because that face of hers is comely beyond measure. Besides, she has an honest soul and despises injustice." "By the dear God! let not Yatsek hear of this; for his heart would rush straightway to death again, and barely has he begun to breathe now in freedom. He ran away from Pan Gideon's bareheaded; he swore that he would never go back to that mansion, and God guard him from doing so. Women, your grace, are like will-o'-the-wisps which move at night over swamp lands at Yedlinka. If you chase one it flees, if you flee it pursues you. That is the way of it!" "That is a wise statement, which I must drive into Stashko," said Pan Serafin. "Let Yatsek go at the earliest. I have written letters already to various acquaintances, and to dignitaries whom I knew before they were dignitaries, and to warriors the most famous. In those letters your son, too, is recommended as a worthy cavalier; and when his turn comes to go he shall have letters also, though he may not need them, since Yatsek will prepare the way for him. Let the two serve together." "From my whole soul I thank you, my benefactor. Yes! let them serve together, and may their friendship last till their lives end. You have mentioned the regiment of Alexander, the king's son, which is under Zbierhovski. That is a splendid regiment,--perhaps the first among the hussars,--so I should like Stashko to join it; but he said to me: 'The light-horse for six days in the week, and the hussars, as it were, only on Sunday.'" "That is true generally," answered the priest. "Hussars are not sent on scouting expeditions, and it is rare also that they go skirmishing, as it is not fitting that such men should meet all kinds of faces; but when their turn comes, they so press on and trample that others do not spill so much blood in six days as they do on their Sunday. But then, war, not the warriors, command; hence sometimes it happens that hussars perform every-day labor." "You, my benefactor, know that beyond any man." Father Voynovski closed his eyes for a moment, as if wishing to recall the past more in detail; then he raised them, looked at the mead, swallowed one mouthful, then a second, and said,-- "So it was when toward the end of the Swedish war we went to punish that traitor, the Elector, for his treaties with Carolus. Pan Lyubomirski, the marshal, took fire and sword to the outskirts of Berlin. I was then in his own regiment, in which Viktor was lieutenant commander. The Brandenburger[4] met us as best he was able, now with infantry, now with general militia in which were German nobles; and I tell you that at last, on our side, the arms of the hussars and the Cossacks of the household seemed almost as if moving on hinges." "Was it such difficult work then?" "It was not difficult, for at the mere sight of us muskets and spears trembled in the hands of those poor fellows as tree branches tremble when the wind blows around them; but there was work daily from morning till twilight. Whether a man thrusts his spear into a breast or a back, it is labor. Ah! but that was a lovely campaign! for, as people said, it was active, and in my life I have never seen so many men's backs and so many horse rumps as in that time. Even Luther was weeping in hell, for we ravaged one half of Brandenburg thoroughly." "It is pleasant to remember that treason came to just punishment." "Of course it is pleasant. The Elector appeared then and begged peace of Lyubomirski. I did not see him, but later on soldiers told me that the marshal walked along the square with his hands on his hips while the Elector tripped after him like a whip-lash. The Elector bowed so that he almost touched the ground with his wig, and seized the knees of the marshal. Nay! they even said that he kissed him wherever it happened; but I give no great faith to that statement, though the marshal, who had a haughty heart, loved to bend down the enemy; but he was a polite man in every case, and would not permit things of that kind." "God grant that it may happen with the Turks this time as it did then with the Elector." "My experience, though not lofty, is long, and I will say to you sincerely that it will go, I think, as well or still better. The marshal was a warrior of experience and especially a lucky one, but still, we could not compare Lyubomirski with His Grace the King reigning actually." Then they mentioned all the victories of Sobieski and the battles in which they themselves had taken part. And so they drank to the health of the king, and rejoiced, knowing that with him as a leader the young men would see real war; not only that, but, since the war was to be against the ancient enemy of the cross, they would win immense glory. In truth no one knew accurately anything yet about the question. It was not known whether the Turkish power would turn first on the Commonwealth or the Empire. The question of a treaty with Austria was to be raised at the Diet. But in provincial diets and the meetings of nobles men spoke of war only. Statesmen who had been in Warsaw, and at the court, foretold it with conviction, and besides, the whole people had been seized by a feeling that it must come--a feeling almost stronger than certainty, and brought out as well by the former deeds of the king as by the general desire and the destiny of the nation. CHAPTER VII On the road to Radom Father Voynovski had invited Pan Serafin and Stanislav to his house for a rest, after which he and Yatsek were to visit them at Yedlinka. During this visit three of the Bukoyemskis appeared, unexpectedly. Marek, whose shoulder-blade had been cut, could not move yet, but Mateush, Lukash, and Yan came to bow down before the old man and thank him for his care of them when wounded. Yan had lost a little finger, and the older brothers had big scars, one man on his cheek, the other on his forehead, but their wounds had then healed and they were as healthy as mushrooms. Two days before they went on a hunt to the forest, smoked out a sleepy she-bear, speared her, and took her cub which they brought as a gift to Father Voynovski, whose fondness for wild beasts was known by all people. The priest whom they had pleased as "innocent boys" was amused with them and the little bear very greatly. He shed tears from laughter when the cub seized a glass filled with mead for a guest, and began to roar in heaven-piercing notes to rouse proper terror, and thus save the booty. On seeing that no one wished the mead, the bear stood on its hind-legs and drank out the cup in man fashion. This roused still greater pleasure in the audience. The priest was amused keenly, and added,-- "I will not make this cub my butler or beekeeper." "Ha!" cried Stanislav, laughing, "the beast was a short time at school with the Bukoyemskis, but learned more in one day from them than it would all its life in the forest." "Not true," put in Lukash, "for this beast has by nature such wit that it knows what is good without learning. Barely had we brought the cub from the forest when it gulped down as much vodka (whiskey) right off as if it had drunk the stuff every morning with its mother, and then gave a whack on the snout to a dog, as if saying 'This for thee--don't sniff at me'--after that it went off and slept soundly." "Thank you, gentlemen. I will have real pleasure from this bear," said the priest, "but I will not make the creature my butler or beekeeper, for though knowing drinks well, it would stay too near them." "Bears can do more than one thing. Father Glominski at Prityk has a bear which pumps the organ they say. But some people are scandalized, for at times he roars, especially when any one punches him." "Well, there is no cause for scandal in that," replied Father Voynovski; "birds build nests in churches and sing to the glory of God; no one is scandalized. Every beast serves God, and the Saviour was born in a stable." "They say, besides," added Mateush, "that the Lord Jesus turned a miller into a bear, so maybe there is a human soul in him." "In that case you killed the miller's wife, and must answer," said Pan Serafin. "His Grace the King is very jealous of his bears and does not keep foresters to kill them." When they heard this the three brothers grew anxious, but it was only after long thinking that Mateush, who wished to say something in self-defence, answered,-- "Pshaw! are we not nobles? The Bukoyemskis are as good as the Sobieskis." But a happy thought came to Lukash, and his face brightened. "We gave our knightly word," said he, "not to shoot bears, and we shoot no bears; we spear them." "His Grace the King is not thinking of bears at the present," said Yan; "and besides, no one will tell him. Let any forester here say a word. It is a pity, however, that we boasted in presence of Pan Gideon and Pan Grothus, for Pan Grothus has just gone to Warsaw, and as he sees the king often, he may mention this accidentally." "But when did ye see Pan Gideon?" asked the priest. "Yesterday. He was conducting Pan Grothus; You know, benefactor, the inn called Mordovnia? They stopped there to let their beasts rest. Pan Gideon asked about many things, and he talked also of Yatsek." "About me?" inquired Yatsek. "Yes. 'Is it true,' asked he, 'that Tachevski is going to the army?' 'True,' we answered. "'But when?' "'Soon, we think.' "Then Pan Gideon said again: 'That is well. Of course he will join the infantry?' "At that we all became angry, and Mateush said. 'Do not say that, your grace, for Yatsek is our friend now, and we must be on his side.' And as we began to pant, he restrained himself. 'I do not mention this out of any ill-will, but I know that Vyrambki is not an estate of the crown,'" said he. "An estate, or not, what is that to him?" cried the priest. "He need not trouble his head with it!" But it was clear that Pan Gideon thought otherwise, and did trouble his head about Yatsek; for an hour later the youth who brought in a decanter of mead brought a sealed letter also. "There is a messenger to your grace from Pan Gideon," said he. Father Voynovski took the letter, broke the seal, opened it, struck the paper with the back of his hand, and, approaching the window, began to read. Yatsek grew pale from emotion; he looked at the letter as at a rainbow, for he divined that there must be mention of him in it. Thoughts flew through his head as swallows fly. "Well," thought he, "the old man is penitent; here is his excuse. It must be so and even cannot be otherwise. Pan Gideon has no more cause now to be angry than those men who suffered in the duel, so his conscience has spoken. He has recognized the injustice of his conduct. He understands how grievously he injured an innocent person, and he desires to correct the injustice." Yatsek's heart began to beat like a hammer. "Oh! I will go to the war," said he in his soul--"not for me is happiness over there. Though I forgive her I cannot forget. But to see once more, before going, that beloved Anulka, who is so cruel, to have a good look once again at her, to hear her voice anew. O Gracious God, refuse not this blessing!" And his thoughts flew with still greater swiftness than swallows; but before they had stopped flying something took place which no man there had expected: on a sudden Father Voynovski crushed the letter in his hand and grasped toward his left side as if seeking a sabre. His face filled with blood, his neck swelled, and his eyes shot forth lightning. He was simply so terrible that Pan Serafin, his son, and the Bukoyemskis looked at him with amazement, as if he had been turned into some other person through magic. Deep silence reigned in the chamber. Meanwhile the priest bent toward the window, as if gazing at some object outside it, then he turned away looked first at the walls and then at his guests. It was clear that he had been struggling with himself and had come to his mind again, for his face had grown pale, and the flame was now dim in his eyeballs. "Gracious gentlemen," said he, "that man is not merely passionate, but evil altogether. To say in excitement more than justice permits befalls every man, but to continue committing injustice and trampling on those who are offended is not the deed of a noble, or a Catholic." Then, stooping, he raised the crumpled letter and turned to Tachevski. "Yatsek, if there is still in thy heart any splinter, take this knife and cut it out thoroughly. Read, poor boy, read aloud, it is not for thee to be ashamed, but for him who wrote this letter. Let these gentlemen learn what kind of man is Pan Gideon." Yatsek seized the letter with trembling hands, opened it and read: "My very gracious Priest, Pastor, Benefactor, Etc., Etc.,--Having learned that Tachevski of Vyrambki, who has frequented my house, is to join the army during these days, I, in memory of the bread with which I nourished his poverty, and for the services in which sometimes I was able to use him, send the man a horse, and a ducat to shoe the beast, with the advice not to waste the money on other and needless objects. "Offering at the same time to you my willing and earnest services, I inscribe myself, etc., etc." Yatsek grew so very pale after reading the letter that the men present had fears for him, especially the priest who was not sure that that pallor might not be the herald of some outburst of madness, for he knew how terrible was that young man in his anger, though usually so mild. He began therefore at once to restrain him. "Pan Gideon is old, and has lost one arm," said he quickly, "thou canst not challenge him!" But Yatsek did not burst out, for at the first moment immeasurable and painful amazement conquered all other feelings. "I cannot challenge him," repeated he, as an echo, "but why does he continue to trample me?" Thereupon Pan Serafin rose, took both Yatsek's hands, shook them firmly, kissed him on the forehead, and added,-- "Pan Gideon has injured, not thee, but himself, and if thou drop revenge every man will wonder all the more at thy noble soul which deserves the high blood in thee." "Those are wise words!" cried the priest, "and thou must deserve them." Pan Stanislav now embraced Yatsek. "In truth," said he, "I love thee more and more." This turn of affairs was not at all pleasing to the Bukoyemskis, who had not ceased to grit their teeth from the moment of hearing the letter. Following Stanislav they embraced Yatsek also. "No matter how things are," said Lukash at last, "I should do differently in Yatsek's place." "How?" asked the two brothers with curiosity. "That is just it. I don't know how, but I should think out something, and would not yield my position." "Since thou knowst not do not talk." "But ye, do ye know anything?" "Be quiet!" said the priest. "Be sure I shall not leave the letter unanswered. Still, to drop revenge is a Christian and a Catholic action." "Oh but! Even you, father, snatched for a sabre the first moment." "Because I carried a sabre too long. _Mea Culpa!_ Still, as I have said, this fact comes in also. Pan Gideon is old, he has only one arm; iron rules are not in place here. And I tell you, gentlemen, that for this very reason I am disgusted to the last degree with this raging old fellow who makes use of his impunity so unjustly." "Still, it will be too narrow for him in our neighborhood," said Yan Bukoyemski. "Our heads for this: that not a living foot will go under that roof of his." "Meanwhile an answer is needed," said Father Voynovski, "and immediately." For a time yet they considered as to who should write,--Yatsek, at whom the letter was aimed, or the priest to whom it was directed. Yatsek settled the question by saying,-- "For me that whole house and all people in it are as if dead, and it is well for them that in my soul this is settled." "It is well that the bridges are burnt!" said the priest; as he sought pen and paper. "It is well that the bridges are burnt," repeated Yan Bukoyemski, "but it would be better that the mansion rose in smoke! This was our way in the Ukraine: when some strange man came in and knew not how to live with us, we cut him to pieces and up in smoke went his property." No one turned attention to these words save Pan Serafin, who waved his hands with impatience, and answered,-- "You, gentlemen, came in here from the Ukraine, I, from Lvoff, and Pan Gideon from Pomorani; according to your wit Pan Tachevski might count us all as intruders; but know this, that the Commonwealth is a great mansion occupied by a family of nobles, and a noble is at home in every corner." Silence followed, except that from the alcove came the squeaking of a pen and words in an undertone which the priest was dictating to himself. Yatsek rested his forehead on his palms and sat motionless for some time; all at once he straightened himself, looked at those present, and said,-- "There is something in this beyond my understanding." "We do not understand, either," added Lukash, "but if thou wilt pour out more mead we will drink it." Yatsek poured into the glasses mechanically, following at the same time the course of his own thoughts. "Pan Gideon," said he, "might be offended because the duel began at his mansion, though such things happen everywhere; but now he knows that I did not challenge, he knows that he offended me under my own roof unjustly, he knows that with you I am now in agreement, and that I shall not appear at his house again,--still he pursues me, still he is trying to trample me." "True, there is some kind of special animosity in this," said Pan Serafin. "Ha! then there is as you think something in it?" "In what?" asked the priest, who had come out with a letter now written, and heard the last sentence. "In this special hatred against me." The priest looked at a shelf on which among other books was the Holy Bible, and said,-- "That which I will say to thee now I said long ago: there is a woman in it." Here he turned to those present. "Have I repeated to you, gentlemen, what Ecclesiastes says about woman?" But he could not finish, for Yatsek sprang up as if burnt by living fire. He thrust his fingers through his hair and almost screamed, for immense pain had seized him. "Still more do I fail to understand; for if any one in the world--if to any one in the world--if there be any one of such kind--then with my whole soul--" But he could not say a word more, for the pain in his heart had gripped his throat as if in a vice of iron, and rose to his eyes as two bitter, burning tears, which flowed down his cheeks. The priest understood him then perfectly. "My Yatsek," advised he, "better burn out the wound, even with awful pain than let it fester. For this reason I do not spare thee. I, in my time, was a soldier of this world, and understand many things. I know that regret and remembrance, no matter how far a man travels, drag like dogs after him, and howl in the night-time. They give him no chance to sleep because of this howling. What must he do then? Kill those dogs straightway. Thou at this moment feelest that thou wouldst have given all thy blood over there; for which reason it seems to thee so marvellous and terrible that from that side alone vengeance pursues thee. The thing seems to thee impossible; but it is possible--for if thou hast wounded the pride and self-love of a woman, if she thought that thou wouldst whine and thou hast not whined when she beat thee, and thou didst not fawn in her presence, but hast tugged at thy chain and hast broken it, know that she will never and never forgive thee, and her hatred, more raging than that of any man living, will always pursue thee. Against this there is only one refuge: crush the love, even on thy own heart, and hurl it, like a broken bow, far from thee--that is thy one refuge!" Again there was a moment of silence. Pan Serafin nodded, confirming the priest, and, as a man of experience, he admired all the wisdom of his statement. "It is true," added Yatsek, "that I have tugged at the chain, and have broken it. So it is not Pan Gideon who pursues me!" "I know what I should do," said Lukash, on a sudden. "Tell, do not hide!" cried the other two. "Do ye know what the hare said?" "What hare? Art thou drunk?" "Why that hare at the boundary ridge." And, evidently encouraged, he stood up, put his hand on his hip and began to sing: "A hare was just sitting for pleasure, Just sitting at the boundary ridge. But the hunters did not see him, Did not know That he was sitting lamenting And making his will At the boundary ridge." Here he turned to his brothers and asked them,-- "Do ye know the will made by that hare at the boundary ridge?" "We know, but it is pleasant to hear it repeated." "Then listen. "Kiss me all ye horsemen and hunters, Kiss me at the boundary ridge. "This is what I would write to all at Belchantska if I were in Yatsek's position; and if he does not write it, may the first Janissary disembowel me if I do not write it in my own name and yours to Pan Gideon." "Oh, as God is dear to me, that is a capital idea!" cried Yan, much delighted. "It is to the point and full of fancy!" "Let Yatsek write that!" "No," said the priest, made impatient by the talk of the brothers. "I am writing, not Yatsek, and it would not become me to take your words." Here he turned to Pan Serafin and Stanislav and Yatsek. "The task was difficult, for I had to twist the horns of his malice and not abandon politeness, and also to show him that we understood whence the sting came. Listen, therefore, and if any one of you gentlemen has made a nice judgment I beg you to criticise this letter." And he began,-- "Great mighty benefactor, and to me very dear Sir and Brother." Here he struck the letter with the back of his hand, and said,-- "You will observe, gentlemen, that I do not call him 'my very gracious,' but 'my very dear.'" "He will have enough!" said Pan Serafin, "read on, my benefactor." "Then listen: 'It is known to all citizens of our Commonwealth that only those people know how to observe due politeness in every position who have lived from youth upward among polite people, or who, coming of great blood, have brought politeness into the world with them. Neither the one nor the other has come to your grace as a portion, while on the contrary the Mighty Lord Pan Yatsek Tachevski inherited from renowned ancestors both blood and a lordly spirit. He forgives you your peasant expressions and sends back your peasant gifts. Rustics keep inns in cities and also eating-houses on country roads for the entertainment of people. If you will send to the great Lord Pan Yatsek Tachevski the bill for such entertainment as he received at your house he will pay it, and add such gratuity as seems proper to his generous nature.'" "Oh, as God is dear to me!" exclaimed Pan Serafin, "Pan Gideon will have a rush of blood!" "Ha! it was necessary to bring down his pride, and at the same time to burn the bridges. Yatsek himself wanted that-- Now listen to what I write from myself to him: 'I have inclined Pan Tachevski to see that though the bow is yours, the poisoned arrow with which you wished to strike that worthy young gentleman was not in your own quiver. Since reason in men, and strength in their bones, weaken with years, and senile old age yields easily to suggestions from others, it deserves more indulgence. With this I end, adding as a priest and a servant of God, this: that the greater the age, the nearer life's end, the less should a man be a servant of hatred and haughtiness. On the contrary, he should think all the more of the salvation of his soul, a thing which I wish your grace. Amen. Herewith remaining, etc. I subscribe myself, etc.'" "All is written out accurately," said Pan Serafin; "nothing to be added, nothing taken away." "Ha!" said the priest, "do you think that he gets what he deserves?" "Oi! certain words burnt me." "And me," added Lukash. "It is sure that when a man hears such speeches he wants to drink, just as on a hot day." "Yatsek, attend to those gentlemen. I will seal the letter and send it away." So saying he took the ring from his finger and went to the alcove. But while sealing the letter some other thought came to his head, as it happened, for when he returned, he said,-- "It is done. The affair is over. But do you not think it too cutting? The man is old, it may cost him his health. Wounds given by the pen are no less effective than those by the sword or the bullet." "True! true!" said Yatsek, and he gritted his teeth. But just this exclamation of pain decided the matter. Pan Serafin added,-- "My revered benefactor, your scruples are honorable, but Pan Gideon had no scruples whatever; his letter struck straight at the heart, while yours strikes only at malice and pride. I think, therefore, that it ought to be sent." And the letter was sent. After that still more hurried preparations were made for Yatsek's departure. CHAPTER VIII But Tachevski's friends did not foresee that the priest's letter would be in a certain sense useful to Pan Gideon, and serve his home policy. He did not indeed receive it without anger. Yatsek, who so far had been merely an obstacle, became thenceforth, though not the author of the letter, an object of hatred. That hatred in the stubborn old heart of Pan Gideon bloomed like a poison flower, but his ingenious mind determined to use the priest's letter. In view of this he restrained his fierce rage, his face assumed a look of contemptuous pity, and he went with the answer to Anulka. "Thou hast paid toll, and art assaulted for doing so," said he. "I did not wish this, for I am a man of experience, and I know people; but when thou didst clasp thy hands and say that injustice had been done, that I had exceeded in sternness, and thou hadst been too severe to him, that he ought not to leave us in anger, I yielded. I sent him assistance in money. I sent him a horse. I wrote him a nice letter also. I thought he would come and bow down, give us thanks, take farewell as became a man who had spent so much time in this mansion; but see what he has sent me in answer!" At these words he drew the priest's letter from his girdle and gave it to the young lady. She began to read, and soon her dark brows met in anger, but when she reached the place where the priest declared that Pan Gideon wished to humiliate Yatsek, thanks to the suggestions of another, her hands trembled, her face became scarlet, then grew as pale as linen, and remained pale. Though Pan Gideon saw all this he feigned not to see it. "May God forgive them for what they attribute to me," said he, after a moment of silence. "He alone knows whether my ancestors are much below the Tachevskis, of whose greatness more fables than truth are related. What I cannot forgive is this: that they pay thee, my poor dear, for thy kindness of an angel, with such ingratitude." "It was not Pan Yatsek who wrote this, but Father Voynovski," answered Anulka, seizing, as it were, the last plank of salvation. The old noble sighed. "Dost thou believe, girl," inquired he, "that I love thee?" "I believe," answered she, bending and kissing his hand. "Though thou believe," said he, stroking her bright head with great tenderness, "thou knowest not clearly that thou art my whole consolation. Rarely do I permit myself words such as these, and rarely do I tell that which my heart feels, since former suffering is concealed in it. But thou shouldst understand that I have only thee in the world. I would increase hourly, not thy disappointment, pain, and trouble, but thy joy and happiness. I do not ask what began to bud in thy heart, but I will say this to thee: whether that was, as I think, a pure, sisterly feeling, or something more, that young man was unworthy. He has heaped on us ingratitude in return for our sincere friendship. My Anulka, thou wouldst deceive thyself wert thou to think that the priest wrote this letter without Yatsek's knowledge. They wrote it together and knowest why they replied with such insolence? As I have heard, Tachevski got money from that Armenian in Yedlinka. That is what he needs, and now since he has it he cares for naught else, and for no one any longer. This is the truth, and in thy soul thou must acknowledge that to think otherwise would be willing self-deception." "I see," answered Anulka. Pan Gideon meditated awhile as if he were dwelling on something. "People say," added he finally, "that it is a vice of old people to praise past times and lay blame on the present. But no, this is not a vice. The world is growing worse, people are becoming worse. In my day no man would have acted as has Tachevski. Dost thou know the first cause of this? That night on the tree, which exposed this lord cavalier to the ridicule of people. To hurry, as it were, to help some one and then climb a tree out of terror, may happen, but in such a case it is better not to boast of it, for the thing is ridiculous, ridiculous! I do not hold up the Bukoyemskis or Pan Stanislav as heroes: they are drunkards, road-blockers, gamblers--I know them! Our lives were less in their minds than were wolf skins. But there is lurking in this Yatsek such envy that he could not forgive them that chance aid which they gave us. Out of that rose the duel. May God punish me if I had not reason to be angry. Ha, they made friends after the duel, for it is clear that our cavalier understood that he could get money from Pan Serafin, so he preferred to turn his malice against this mansion. Pride, animosity, ingratitude, and greed, those are the things which he has manifested, and nothing better. He has injured me. Never mind. God forgive him! But why should he attack thee, my dear flower? A neighbor for long years, a guest for long years--daily visits. A gypsy in such a position would become faithful; a swallow grows used to its roof; a stork returns to its nest; but he spat on our house as soon as he felt in his purse the coin of the Armenian. No! No! No man in my day would have acted in that style." Anulka listened with her palms on her temples, and with eyes looking out before her in fixedness, so Pan Gideon stopped and looked at her once, and a second time. "Why dost thou forget thyself?" asked he. "I have not forgotten myself, but I am so sad that words have deserted me." And not finding words she found tears. Pan Gideon let her cry till she had finished. "It is better," said he at last, "to let that sadness pass off with tears than let it stay in the heart and be petrified. Ah, it is hard! Let him go, let him clink other men's coin, let him touch the mud with his saddle-cloth, let him strut as a lord, and court Warsaw harlots. But we will remain here, my girl. That is no great delight, it is true, but still it is a delight, if thou remember that no one in this house will deceive thee, no one here will offend thee, no one will break thy heart; that here thou wilt be always as an eye in the head of each person, that thy happiness will be the first question always, and also the last question of my life. Come--" He stretched his arms toward her, and she fell on his breast with emotion and gratitude, as she would on the breast of a father who was comforting her in a moment of suffering. Pan Gideon fell to stroking her bright head with the one hand that remained to him, and long did they sit there in silence. Meanwhile it was growing dark, the frosty window-panes glittered in the moonlight, and dogs made themselves heard here and there with prolonged barking. The warmth of the maiden's body penetrated to the heart of Pan Gideon which began to beat with more vigor, and since he feared to make a declaration too early, he would not expose himself then to temptation. "Stand up, child," said he. "Thou wilt not weep now?" "I will not," answered she, kissing his hand. "Seest thou! Ah, this is it! Remember always the place where thou hast a sure refuge, and where it will be calm for thee, and pleasant. Every young man is glad to race over the world like a tempest, but for me thou art the only one. Fix this well in mind. More than once, perhaps, hast thou thought, 'My guardian seems a savage wolf; he is glad to find some one to shout at, and he has no understanding of my young ideas;' but knowest thou of what this guardian has thought and is thinking at present? Often of his past happiness, often of that pain, which like an arrow is fixed in his heart--that is true, but besides that only of thee and thy future, only of this: to secure every good thing for thee. Pan Grothus and I talked whole hours of this. He laughed because, as he said, one thought alone remained with me. My one point was to secure to thee after my death even a sufficient and quiet morsel." "May God not grant me to wait for that!" cried she, bending again to the hand of Pan Gideon. And in her voice there was such sincerity that the stern face of the old noble was radiant with genuine joy for the moment. "Dost thou love me a little?" "Oh, guardian!" "God reward thee, child. My age is not yet so advanced, and my body, save for the wounds in my heart and my person, would be sufficiently stalwart. But as men say, death is ever sitting 'at the gate, and knocks at the door whensoever it pleases. Were it to knock here thou wouldst be alone in the world with Pani Vinnitski. Pan Grothus is a good man and wealthy; he would respect my testament and wishes at all times, but as to other relatives of my late wife--who knows what they would do? And this estate and this mansion I got with my wife. Her relatives might wish to resist, and raise lawsuits. There is need to have foresight in all things. Pan Grothus gave advice touching this case--true, it is effective--but strange, and therefore I will not speak to thee yet of it. I should like to see His Grace the King--to leave thee and my will to his guardianship, but the king is occupied now with the coming war and the Diet. Pan Grothus says that if there is war the troops will move first under the hetmans, and the king will join them at Cracow--perhaps then--perhaps we shall go together. But whatever happens, know this, my child; all that I have will be thine, though I should have to follow at last the advice of Pan Grothus. Yes!--even for one hour before death! Yes, so help me, God. For I am not a wind in the field, not a harebrain, not a purse emptier, not a Tachevski." CHAPTER IX Panna Anulka returned to her room filled with gratitude toward her guardian, who up to that hour had never spoken to her with such kindness; and at the same time she was disenchanted, embittered, and disgusted with the world and with people. In the first moment she could not and knew not how to think calmly; she had only the feeling that a grievous wrong had been done her, a great injustice, and that an awfully keen disappointment had struck her. For her love, for her sorrow, for her yearning, for all that she had done to bind the broken threads together, her only reward was a hateful suspicion. And there was no remedy. She could not, of course, write to Yatsek a second time, to justify herself and explain the position. A blush of shame and humiliation covered her face at the mere thought of this. Besides, she was almost sure that Yatsek had gone. And next would come war; perhaps she would never behold him in life again; perhaps he would fall and die with the conviction that a perverse and wicked heart was in her bosom. All at once boundless sorrow seized her. Yatsek stood before her eyes as if living, with his embrowned face and those pensive eyes which more than once she had laughed at, as being the eyes of a maiden. The girl's thought flies like a swift swallow after the traveller, and calls to him: "Yatsek! I wish thee no evil! God sees my heart, Yatsek." Thus does she call to him, but he makes no answer; he rides on straight ahead. What does he think of her? He only frowns and spits from disgust as he travels. Again there are pearls on her eyelids. A certain weakness has come on her, a moment of resignation in which she says to herself: "Ah, this is difficult! May God forgive him, and go with him, and never mind me!" But her lips quiver like those of a child, her eyes look like those of a tortured bird, and somewhere off in a hidden corner of her soul, which is as pure as a tear, she blames God in the deepest secret for that which has met her. Then again she felt certain that Yatsek had never loved her, and she could not understand why he had not loved her, even a little. "My guardian spoke truly," said she. But later on came reflection. "No, that could not be." Immediately she recalled those words of Yatsek, which were fixed in her memory as in marble. "Not thou art to go, I am the person to go; but I say to thee: though for years I have loved thee more than health, more than life, more than my own soul, I will never come back to thee. I will gnaw my own hands off in torture, but, so help me, God, I will never come back to thee." And he was pale as a wall when he said this, and almost mad from pain and from anger. He had not come back, that was true! He had appeared no more, he had left her, he had renounced her, he had abandoned her, he had wronged her; with an unworthy suspicion he and the priest had composed the dreadful letter--all that was true, and her guardian was right in that. But that Yatsek had never loved her, that after he had found money he had departed with a light and joyful heart, that he thought of paying court to others, that he had ceased altogether to think of her,--this was incredible. Her guardian might think so in his carefulness, but the truth was quite different. He who has no love does not grow pale, does not set his teeth, does not gnaw his fists, does not rend his soul in anguish. Such being the case, the young lady thought the difference was only this, that instead of one two were now suffering, hence a certain consolation, and even a certain hope, entered her. The days and months which were to come seemed gloomier, it may be, but not so bitter. The words of the letter ceased to burn her like red-hot iron, for though she doubted not that Yatsek had assisted in the writing, it is one thing to act through sorrow and pain, and another through deliberate malice. So again great compassion for Yatsek took hold of her; so great was it, and especially so ardent, that it could not be simply compassion. Her thoughts began to weave, and turn into a certain golden thread, which was lost in the future, but which at the same time cast on her the glitter of a wedding. The war would soon end and also the separation. That cruel Yatsek would not return to Belchantska. Oh, no! a man so resolute as he when once he says a thing will adhere to it; but he will come back to those parts, and return to Vyrambki; he will live near by, and then that will happen which God wishes. He went away it may be with tears, it may be with pain, with wringing of hands--God comfort him! He will come home with a full heart, and with joy, and, especially after war, with great glory. Meanwhile she will be there quietly in Belchantska, where her guardian is so kind; she will explain to that guardian that Yatsek is not so bad as other young men--and farther on moved that golden thread which began to wind round her heart again. The goldfinch, in the Dantsic clock of the drawing-room, whistled out a late hour, but sleep flew from the young lady altogether. Lying now in her bed she fixed her clear eyes on the ceiling and considered what disposition to make of her troubles and sorrows. If Yatsek had gone it was only because he was running away from her, for according to what she had heard war was still far from them. Her guardian had not mentioned that young Stanislav and the Bukoyemskis were to go away also; it was proper to come to an understanding with them and learn something of Yatsek, and say some kind word which might reach him through them, even in distant camps, and in war time. She had not much hope that those gentlemen would come to Pan Gideon's, for it was known to her that they had gone over to Yatsek, and that for a certain time they had been looking with disfavor on Pan Gideon; but she relied on another thing. In some days there would be a festival of the Most Holy Lady; a great festival at the parish church of Prityk, where all the neighboring nobles assembled with their families. She would see Pan Stanislav and the Bukoyemskis, if not in front of the church then at dinner in the priest's house. On that day the priest received every one. She hoped too that in the throng she would be able to speak with them freely, and that she would not meet any hindrance from her guardian who, though not very kind toward those gentlemen recently, could not break with them in view of the service which they had shown him. To Prityk from Belchantska the road was rather long, and Pan Gideon, who did not like hurry, passed the night at Radom, or at Yedlina, if he chose the road through the latter place. This time because of the overflow they took the safer though longer road through Radom, and started one day before the festival--on wheels, not on runners, for winter had broken on a sudden, and thoroughly. After them moved two heavily laden wagons with servants, provisions, a bed and sofas for decent living at inns where they halted. The stars were still twinkling, and the sky had barely begun to grow pale in the east when they started. Pani Vinnitski led morning prayers in the dark. Pan Gideon and the young lady joined her with very drowsy voices, for the evening before they had gone to bed late because of preparations for the journey. Only beyond the village and the small forest, in which thousands of crows found their night rest, did the ruddy light shine on the equally ruddy face and drowsy eyes of the young lady. Her lips were fixed ready for yawning, but when the first sun-ray lighted the fields and the forest she shook herself out of the drowsiness and looked around with more sprightliness, for the clear morning filled her with a certain good hope, and a species of gladness. The calm, warm, coming day promised to be really wonderful. In the air appeared, as it were, the first note of early spring. After unparalleled snows and frosts came warm sunny days all at once, to the astonishment of people. Men had said that from the New Year it seemed as if some power had cut off the winter as it were with a knife-blade, and herdsmen foretold by the lowing of cattle, then restive in the stables, that the winter would not come back again. In fact, spring itself was then present. In furrows, in the forest, at the north side of woods and along streams, strips of snow still existed; but the sun was warming them from above, and from beneath were flowing out streams and currents, making in places broad overflows in which were reflected wet leafless trees, as in mirrors. The damp ridges of fields gleamed like belts of gold in the sun-rays. At times a strong wind rose, but so filled with gladsome warmth as if it came from out the sun's body directly, and flying over the fields wrinkled the waters, throwing down with its movement thousands of pearls from the slender dark twigs of the tree branches. Because of the thaws and road "stickiness," and also because of the weighty carriage which was drawn by six horses with no little effort, they moved very slowly. As the sun rose more and more the air grew so warm that Panna Sieninski untied the ribbons of her hood, which dropped to the back of her head, and unbuttoned her weasel-skin shuba. "Are you so warm?" inquired Pani Vinnitski. "Spring, Auntie! real spring!" was the answer. And she was so charming with her bright and somewhat dishevelled head pushed out from her hood, with laughing eyes and rosy face, that the stern eyes of Pan Gideon grew mild as he glanced at her. For a while he seemed as if looking at her then for the first time, and spoke as if half to himself,-- "As God lives thou art at thy best also!" She smiled at him in answer. "Oh, how slowly we are moving," said she after a while. "The road is awful! Is it not true that on a long road one should wait till it dries somewhat?" Pan Gideon's face became serious, and he looked out of the carriage without giving an answer. "Yedlina!" said he, soon after. "Then perhaps one may go to the church?" inquired Pani Vinnitski. "We will not, first because the church is sure to be closed, for the priest has gone to Prityk, and second, because he has offended me greatly, and I will hide my hand if he approaches." Then he added: "I ask you, and thee also, Anulka, not to converse with him in any way." A moment of silence succeeded. Suddenly the tramping of horses was heard behind the carriage, and the sounds made as the beasts pulled their feet out of the mud; these resembled the firing of muskets,--then piercing words were heard on both sides of the carriage. "With the forehead! with the forehead!" That was from the Bukoyemskis. "With the forehead!" answered Pan Gideon. "Is your grace for Prityk?" "I go every year. I suppose your lordships are going also to the festival?" "You may lay a wager on that," replied Marek. "One must be purified from sin before war comes." "But is it not early yet?" "Why should it be too early?" asked Lukash. "All that has been sinned up to the moment will fall from one's shoulders, since that is the use of absolution; and as to sins incurred later, the priest absolves from those in presence of the enemy, _in partikulo mortis_." "You wish to say _in articulo_" corrected Pan Gideon. "All the same, if only repentance is real." "How do you understand repentance?" inquired the amused Pan Gideon. "How do I understand repentance? Father Vior, the last time, commanded that we give ourselves thirty stripes in discipline, and we gave fifty; for we thought: Well, since this pleases the Heavenly Powers, let them have all they want of it." At this even the serious Pani Vinnitski laughed and Panna Anulka hid her face in her sleeve as if warming her nose there. Lukash noticed, as did his brothers, that their answer had roused laughter, hence they were somewhat offended and silent; so for a time were heard only the rattling of chains on the carriage, the snorting of horses, the sound of mud under hoofs, and the croaking of crows. Immense flocks of these birds were sailing away in the sunlight from small places and villages to the pine woods. "Ah! they feel this very minute that there will be food even to wade in," said the youngest Bukoyemski, turning his eyes toward the crows. "Yes, war is their harvest," said Mateush. "They do not feel it yet, for war is far off," said Pan Gideon. "Far or near, it is certain!" "And how do you know?" "We all know what the talk was at the district diets, and what instructions will be given to the general Diet." "True, but it is not known if they were the same everywhere." "Pan Prylubski, who has travelled through a great part of the Commonwealth, says they were the same everywhere." "Who is Pan Prylubski?" "He comes from Olkuts, and makes levies for the bishop of Cracow." "But has the bishop commanded to make levies before the assembling of the Diet?" "You see, your grace, how it is! This is the best proof that war is certain. The bishop wants a splendid light cavalry regiment--well, Pan Prylubski came to these parts because he has heard of us somewhat." "Ho! ho! Your glory has gone far through the world. Are you going?" "Of course!" "All of you?" "Why should we not all go? It is a good thing during war to have a friend at one's side, and still better a brother." "Well, and Pan Stanislav?" "He and Pan Yatsek will serve in one regiment." Pan Gideon glanced quickly at the young lady sitting in front; a sudden flame rushed over her cheeks, and he inquired further,-- "Are they so intimate already? Under whom will they serve?" "Under Pan Zbierhovski." "Of course in the dragoons?" "In God's name, what are you saying? That is the hussar regiment of Prince Alexander." "Is it possible! Is it possible! That is no common regiment--" "Pan Yatsek is no common man." Pan Gideon had it on his lips to say that such a stripling in the hussars would be a soldier, not an officer, but he held back the remark, fearing it might seem that his letter was not so polite, or his help so considerable as he had told Anulka, so he frowned and said,-- "I have heard of the mortgage of Vyrambki; how much was given on it?" "More than you would have given," answered Marek, dryly. Pan Gideon's eyes glittered for a moment with savage anger, but he restrained himself a second time, for it occurred to him that further conversation might serve his purpose. "All the better," said he, "the cavalier must be satisfied." The Bukoyemskis, though slow-witted by nature, began to exaggerate, one more than the other, just to show Pan Gideon how little Tachevski cared for him and all in his mansion. "Of course!" called out Lukash, "when he went away he was almost wild from delight. He sang so that the candles at the inn toppled over. It is true, that we had drunk some at parting." Pan Gideon looked again at Panna Sieninski, and saw that her rosy face full of youth and life had become as it were petrified. Her hood had fallen off entirely, her eyes were closed as in sleep; only from the movement of her nostrils and the slight quivering of her chin could it be known that she was not sleeping, but listening, and listening intently. It was painful to look at her, but the merciless noble thought,-- "If there is a splinter in thy heart yet will I pluck it out of thee!" And he said aloud,-- "Just as I expected--" "What did you expect?" "That you gentlemen would be drunk at the parting, and that Pan Tachevski would go away singing. Of course, he who is seeking fortune must hurry, and if it smiles on him, perhaps he may catch it--" "Of course!" exclaimed Lukash. "Father Voynovski," added Marek, "gave Tachevski a letter to Pan Zbierhovski, who is his friend, and in Zbierhova the land is such that you can sow onions in any place,--and he has an only daughter, just fifteen years of age. So don't you bother about Tachevski; he will make his way without you, and without these sands around Radom!" "I do not bother myself about him," said Pan Gideon, dryly. "But perhaps you gentlemen are in a hurry to ride on? My carriage moves in this mud like a tortoise." "Well, here is to you with the forehead!" "With the forehead! with the forehead! I am the servant of your lordships!" "We are yours in the same way!" Having said this the brothers moved forward more speedily, but when they had ridden an arrow-shot from the carriage they reined in again and talked with animation. "Did ye see?" asked Lukash, "I said 'Of course!' twice, and twice I thrust a sword into his heart as it were; he almost burst out." "I did better," said Marek, "for I struck both the girl and the old man." "How? Tell us, do not hide!" called the brothers. "Did ye not hear?" "We heard, but do thou repeat." "I struck with what I said of Panna Zbierhovski. Ye saw how the girl became pale? I looked at her; she had her hand on her knee and she opened and closed it, opened and closed it, just like a cat before scratching. A man could see that anger was diving down into her." But Mateush reined in his horse, and he added,-- "I was sorry for her--such a dear little flower--and do ye remember what old Pan Serafin said?" "What did he say?" inquired, with great curiosity, Lukash, Marek, and Yan, reining in their horses. Mateush looked at them a while through his protruding eyes, then said as if in sorrow,-- "But if I have forgotten?" Meanwhile not only Pan Gideon, but Pani Vinnitski, who generally knew very little of what was happening around her, turned attention to the changed face of the young lady. "But what is the matter, Anulka? Art thou cold?" "No," answered the girl, with a sort of sleepy voice which seemed not her own. "Nothing is the matter, only the air affects me strangely--so strangely." Though her voice broke from moment to moment she had no tears in her eyes; on the contrary, in her dry pupils there glittered sparks peculiar, uncommon, and her face had grown older. Seeing this Pan Gideon said to himself,-- "Would it not be better to strike while the iron is hot?" CHAPTER X Many nobles appeared at the festival from near and even distant places. There were assembled the Kohanovskis, the Podgaiyetskis, the Silnitskis, the Potvorovskis, the Sulgostovskis, Tsyprianovitch with his son, the Bukoyemskis and many others. But the greatest interest was roused by the arrival of Prince Michael Chartoryski, the voevoda of Sandomir, who stopped at Prityk on his way to the Diet at Warsaw and, in waiting for the festival, had passed some days in devotion. All were glad of his presence, for he added splendor to the occasion, and at the same time it was possible to learn from him no little touching public questions. He spoke of the injustices which the Porte had committed against the Commonwealth in fixing the boundary of Podolia, and the raids which in defiance of treaties had ruined Russian lands recently. He declared war to be certain. He said that a treaty with the Emperor would be concluded beyond question, and that even adherents of France would not show it open opposition, since the French court, though unfriendly in general to the Empire, knew the peril in which the Commonwealth found itself. Whether the Turks would hurl themselves first against Cracow, or Vienna was unknown to Prince Michael, but it was known to him that the enemy were preparing "arms and men" at Adrianople, and in addition to the forces with Tököli at Koshytsi, nay those in all Hungary, thousands were assembling from Rumelia, from Asia, from regions on the Euphrates and the Tigris, from Africa, from the Red Sea to the waves of the measureless ocean. The nobles heard this news eagerly; the older men, who knew how gigantic was the power of the pagan, with anxiety in their faces, the younger men with knit brows, and with fire in their glances. But hope and enthusiasm were predominant, for fresh in their minds was the memory of Hotsim, where the king reigning actually, a hetman at that time, leading Polish forces, besieged a Turkish power greater than his own, bore it apart upon sabres, and trampled it with horsehoofs. They were comforted by the thought that the Turks, who rushed with irresistible daring on all troops of other nations, felt their hearts weaken when they had to stand eye to eye in the open field against that terrible "Lehistan" cavalry. Still greater hope and still higher enthusiasm were roused by the preaching of Father Voynovski. Pan Gideon was somewhat afraid lest in that sermon there might be some reference to sins, and certain points of blame which would touch him and his treatment of Yatsek, but there was nothing of that sort. War and the mission of the Commonwealth had swept the priest away heart and soul. "Christ," said he, "has chosen thee among all the nations, He has placed thee on guard before all the others, He has commanded thee to stand beneath His cross and defend, to thy last drop of blood and the last breath in thee, that faith which is the foundation of living. The field of glory lies open before thee, hence, though blood were to flow around thee on both sides, though arrows and darts were to stick in thee, rise, lion of God, shake thy mane, and thunder so that from that thunder the marrow will melt in the bones of the pagan, and crescents and horse-tails will fall, like a pine wood in front of a tempest." Thus did Father Voynovski speak to the knightly hearers before him, because he was an old soldier who had fought all his life and knew how it was on the battlefield. When he spoke of war it seemed to those present that they were looking on the canvases in the king's castle at Warsaw, on which various battles and Polish victories were presented as if real. "See, now," said he, "the regiments are starting. Their spears are lowered to a line with the middle of the horse-ears; they have bent forward in the saddle, there is a cry of fear among the pagans, and delight up in heaven. The Most Holy Mother runs to the window with all her might, crying: 'Oh come, dear Son, and see how the Poles are attacking!' The Lord Jesus with his holy cross blesses them. 'By God's wounds!' he cries, 'there they are, my nobles, my warriors. Their pay here is ready for them!' And the archangel, holy Michael, strikes his palms on his thighs and shouts: 'Into them, the dog-brothers! Strike!' That is how they rejoice up in heaven. And those down here cut and cut. Men, standards, horses roll over and over. They rush across the bellies of Janissaries, over captured cannon, and trampled crescents; they advance to glory, to reward, to an accomplished mission, to salvation, to immortality." When at last he finished with the words, "And Christ calls you, too; it is your time now to the field of glory!" there rose a shout in the church, and a clattering of sabres. At Mass, when during the Gospel every blade sounded in its scabbard, and steel glittered in the sunlight, it seemed to tender women that war had already begun; and they fell to sobbing, committing their fathers and husbands and brothers to the Most Holy Lady. The Bukoyemskis, whispering among themselves, made a vow to move immediately after the festival, and not to take to their lips, until Easter, water, milk, or even beer, but content themselves with drinks which keep up heat in the blood, and therefore valor. General enthusiasm was so great that even the cold, stern Pan Gideon did not resist it. He thought for a while that, though his left arm was missing, he might hold the reins in his teeth, and with his right hand take vengeance once more for the wrongs which he had suffered from cursed pagans, and besides gild anew his former services to the Commonwealth. But he made no vow, and left the whole matter for further meditation. Meanwhile the service was concluded in splendor. From the cemetery were fired cannon given by the Kohanovskis for important occasions. In the tower the swinging bells thundered. The tame bear in the choir pumped the organ with such vigor that the tin pipes almost flew from their settings. The church was filled with smoke from censers, and trembled from the voices of people. Mass was celebrated by the prelate Tvorkovski, from Radom,--a learned man, full of sentences, quotations, examples, and proverbs; at the same time he was gladsome, and knew the world thoroughly. For these reasons, men went to him for counsel in every question; and so did Pan Gideon, who went the more readily, as the prelate was a friend of his. On the eve of the festival, Pan Gideon was with him at confession; but when, besides the confession, he began to acknowledge his intentions, the object of which was Panna Anulka, the prelate deferred that to a later and special meeting, saying that he had barely time to hear the sins of common people. "On the way back from the festival," said he to Pan Gideon, "you can send home the women and stay with me at Radom, where, _procul negotiis_ (far from business), I can listen to you in freedom." And thus did they manage. Hence, a day later they sat down before a decanter of worthy Hungarian and a plate of roast almonds, which the prelate took with wine very willingly. "I am silent," said he; "and attentive--speak on!" Pan Gideon took a draught from the glass and looked from his iron eyes with some discontent at the prelate, because the latter had not eased his conversation by a proper beginning. "Hm! somehow it is not easy; I see that it is more difficult than I imagined." "Then I will help you. Did you wish to speak of some holy thing?" "Of a holy thing?" "Yes; which has two heads and four feet." "What sort of holy thing is that?" asked Pan Gideon, astonished. "I mention a riddle. Guess it." "My dear prelate, whoso has important affairs in his head has no time for riddles." "Pshaw! Think a while!" "Some holy thing with two heads and four feet?" "Yes." "As God lives, I know not." "It is holy matrimony. Is that not so?" "True, as God is dear to me! Yes, yes, precisely on that subject do I wish to talk with you." "Then it is a question of Anulka Sieninski?" "Of her exactly. Do you see, my benefactor, she, of course, is not my relative, or if she is, the relationship is so distant that no one could prove it. But I have become attached to her, for I reared her, and I am bound in gratitude to her family, for what the Pangovskis had in Russia, just as the Jolkievskis, Danilovitches, and Sobieskis, they had from the Sieninskis, or through them. I should like to leave the orphan what I have, but in fact the fortune of the Pangovskis has vanished through Tartar attacks; there remains only the estate of my late wife. It is mine; she left it by will to me; but this place is full of her relatives. First of all is Pan Grothus, the starosta of Raigrod. I do not fear him, for he is rich beyond need, and a good man. For that matter it was he who gave me this idea, which before that had occurred, it is true, more than once to me; for the desire was at the bottom of my heart in a slumber, but he roused it. In addition to Pan Grothus are the Sulgostovskis, the Krepetskis, the Zabierzovskis. These look even to-day with ill-will at the young lady; but how would they look after my death? If I make a will and leave what I own to her they will go to the courts; there will be lawsuits dragging on from tribunal to tribunal. How could she, poor thing, help herself? I cannot leave her in such a condition. Attachment, compassion, and gratitude are strong links. I ask with a clear conscience if I am not bound to secure her even in such a way?" The prelate bit a nut in two and showed the second half to Pan Gideon. "Do you know why this nut pleases me? Because it is good! If it were decayed I would not eat it." "Then what?" "Then that Anulka pleases your taste, for she is an almond. Hai! and what an almond! If she were fifty years old it is certain that your conscience would not be so troubled concerning her future." Pan Gideon was confused at this, but the prelate continued,-- "I do not take this ill of you, for, as you see, there must be a good reason for everything, and God has so arranged that every man prefers a young turnip to an old one. With wine it is different, therefore we agree willingly as to wine with the arrangement of Providence." "Yes, it is true. Except wine, what is young is better always; Pan Kohanovski wrote only humorously, that an old man, like an old oak, is better than a young one. This is the one question for me: if I leave property to her as my wife no one will dare move a finger; but if I leave it to her as a ward, there will be many lawsuits and quarrels, and perhaps armed attacks also. Who could protect her from the latter? Of course not Pani Vinnitski!" "That is undoubted." "But since I am neither a giddy nor an empty man, I did not wish to decide this alone, hence I have come to you to confirm me in the conviction that I am acting wisely, and that you will support me with clear counsel." The prelate thought a while, and then added,-- "You see, that advice in a matter of this kind is difficult, and a man repeats more than once to himself with B[oe]tius, _Si tacuisses, philosophus mansisses_ (if thou remain silent, thou wilt be a philosopher); or with Job, 'Even a fool if he remain silent will be considered a wise man.' Your intention, in so far as it is roused by warm affection, is justified, and in so far also as it flows from care for the good of the girl, is even praiseworthy. But will not some injustice be done her, will there not be need to constrain her, or to lead her with threats to the altar? For I have heard that she and Yatsek Tachevski are in love. And truly, without beating about the bushes, I have more than once seen him a frequent guest at your mansion." "What have you seen?" inquired Pan Gideon, abruptly. "Nothing sinful, but signs through which intimacy and love are denoted. I saw more than once how they held each other's hands longer than was needed, how they followed each other with their eyes. I saw him once in a tree dropping cherries down into her apron, and how they so looked at each other that the cherries fell to the ground past one rim of the apron. I saw her when looking at flying storks lean on him, and then--women are always subtle--scold him for coming too near her. And what more did I see? Various things which prove secret wishes. You will say that this is nothing. Of course, nothing! But that she felt the will of God toward him as much, or more, than he toward her, only a blind man could help seeing, and I wonder that you did not see this. I wonder still more, if you did see it, that you did not stop it in view of your own intentions." Pan Gideon had seen and known this, but still the words of the prelate produced on him a terrible impression. It is one thing when some pain-causing secret is hidden in the heart, and quite another when a strange hand pushes into one's bosom and shakes up that secret. So now his face became purple, his eyes filled with blood, a great bunch of veins came out on his forehead, and he began to pant on a sudden, and to breathe so quickly that the prelate, in alarm, asked,-- "What is the matter?" Pan Gideon answered, with a motion of the hand, that it was nothing, but he remained silent. "Drink some wine," cried the priest. He stretched out his arm and with trembling hand took the glass, raised it to his lips, drank, blew through his lips, and whispered,-- "It darkened before my eyes just a trifle." "Because of what I told you?" "No. That for some time has occurred to me often, but now I am fatigued by the fast, by the journey, and by the spring, which is unexpected and early." "Then perhaps it would be better not to wait for May, but be bled immediately." "I will be bled, but I will rest a while now, and we will return later on to this business." A fairly long time passed before Pan Gideon recovered completely, but at last he recovered. The veins relaxed on his forehead, his heart began to beat evenly, and he continued,-- "I will not say that strength fails me. Were I to squeeze with my one hand I could crush, as I think, this silver goblet very easily; but though strength and health are both in God's hand they are not identical." "Man's life is fragile!" "But just because of that, if something is to be done there is need to act quickly. You speak, my benefactor, of Pan Yatsek and that affection which the young people might feel for each other. I will say sincerely that I was not blind. I too saw what was happening, but only in recent days did I note it; for remember that till recently she was a green berry, which even now has barely ripened. He came every day, it is true, but because, perhaps, he had not much to eat in his own house; besides, I received him, as it were, through compassion. Father Voynovski trained him in Latin and at the sabre, and I gave him nourishment. That's the whole story. Only a year ago he reached manhood. I looked on them as children who were thinking of various plays and amusements. I considered it an ordinary occurrence. But that such a pauper should dare to think; and, besides, of whom?--of Panna Anulka! That, I confess, never came to my mind, and only in the last hours did I take note of anything." "Nonsense! A pauper is a pauper, but Tachevski--" "Of Hungerdeath! No, my benefactor, he who licks a stranger's saucepan should be asked only into dogs' company. When I saw what kind of man he was I looked at him more carefully, and know you what I found? This, that not merely was he a pauper and a giddy head, but a venomous reptile, ever ready to sting the hand feeding him. Thank God he is gone; but he has stung, not me alone, but that innocent maiden." "How is that?" Pan Gideon began to relate how it was, painting with such blackness the deeds of Tachevski that a hangman might have been called in immediately to take him. "Never fear, my benefactor," said he at last. "During our journey to Prityk the Bukoyemskis poured out in full to Anulka; ah, to the full so completely that it flowed over, and now the situation is such that never will the girl feel such abhorrence for any creature of God as for that whipper-snapper, that roysterer, that abortion." "Be moderate, or your blood will boil again." "True. And I did not wish to speak of him, but of this, that I have not in view any injustice to the girl, or any constraint. Persuasion is another thing, but even that should be used by a stranger, yet by a man who is at the same time her friend and mine,--a man known for wit and dignity, who can use noble phrases, move the heart and convince the reason. Hence my desire is to beg you, my special benefactor, to see to this. You will not refuse me; you will do this, not merely from friendship, you will do it because it is honorable and proper." "It is a question of her good and of yours, hence I will not refuse; but I should like to have time to decide how this may be accomplished most easily." "Then I will go at once to the barber and have myself bled, so as to go home clearer witted,--but do you make your plan. For you that will not be difficult, and on the other side there will be, as I think, no obstacle." "There can be only one obstacle, lord brother." "What is it?" "Friendship should tell the truth, hence I speak freely. You are an honorable person, I know that, but rather stubborn. You have this reputation, and you have it because your dependants all fear you tremendously. Not only the peasants, concerning whom you have quarrelled with Father Voynovski, but your servants, attendants, and managers. Tachevski feared you, Pani Vinnitski fears you, the young lady fears you. Two matchmakers will appear according to custom. I will do what I can, but I will not guarantee that the other may not destroy all my labor." During one moment Pan Gideon's eyes flashed with anger, for he did not like to have the truth told in his presence; but amazement now conquered his anger, so he asked,-- "Of what are you speaking? What other matchmaker is there?" "Fear," said the prelate. CHAPTER XI They were unable to go that same day to Belchantska, for Pan Gideon weakened considerably after bleeding, and said that some rest was needed. Next morning, however, he felt brighter; he had grown young, as it were, and he approached his own mansion with good hope, though with a certain disquiet. Occupied with his own thoughts entirely, he spoke little along the way with the prelate, but when they were entering the village he felt his disquiet increasing. "This is a wonder to me," said he. "Ere this time I came home as a man who is master, and all others were concerned about this, with what face would I greet them; while now I am the anxious one, I ask myself how will they greet me." "Virgil has said," replied the prelate, "'_amor omnia vincit_' (love conquers everything), but he forgot to add, that it changes everything also. This Delilah will not shear your locks, for you are bald, but that I shall see you spinning at her feet, as Hercules spun at the feet of Omphale, is certain." "Ei! my nature is not of that kind. I have known always how to hold in my fists both servants and household." "So people say, but for this very reason it lies in the position that some one will take you in hand very thoroughly." "The hand is a dear one!" said Pan Gideon, with a joyousness which for him was unusual. They drove very slowly, for the mud in the village was terrible; since they had started from Radom not so soon after midday, night had fallen already. In the cottages at the two sides of the road light came from the windows and stretched in red lines to the cottages opposite. Here and there near the fence appeared some human form, that of a woman, or of a man who, seeing the travellers, bared his head and bowed as low as his girdle. It was clear from these bowings, which seemed excessive, that Pan Gideon held people in his fist, nay more, that he held them too firmly, and that Father Voynovski blamed him, not without reason, for tyranny. But the old noble felt in his bosom a softer heart than had ever been in it till that evening, so looking at those bent figures, and seeing the windows of those cottages leaning earthward, he said,-- "I will grant some favor to those subjects whose part she takes always." "Oh, see to it that thou do so," said the prelate. And they were silent. Pan Gideon was occupied for a time with his own thoughts, then he added,-- "I know that you need no advice in this matter; but you must explain to the lady what a benefaction is becoming ready for her, and that I think about her first of all; but in case of resistance, which I do not expect,--well, then even scold her in some degree." "You said that you did not wish to constrain her." "I said so, but it is one thing if I were to threaten, and another if some one else, who, besides, is a spiritual person, exposes her ingratitude." "Leave that task to me. I have undertaken it and will use my best efforts; but I will talk to the girl in the most tender way possible." "Very well, very well! But one word more. She feels great abhorrence for Tachevski, but should there be any mention of him it would be well to say something more against him." "If he has acted as you say, this will not be needed." "We are arriving. Well! In the name of the Father and the Son--" "And the Holy Ghost--Amen!" They arrived, but no one came out to meet them, for the wheels made no sound because of deep mud, and the dogs did not bark at the horses or at the men, whom they recognized. It was dark in the hall, for the servants were evidently sitting in the kitchen; and it happened that when Pan Gideon first called, "Is any one here?" no one came to him, and at the second call, in sharper tones, the young lady herself appeared. She came holding a light in her hand, but since she was in the gleam of it and they in the darkness she, not seeing them at once, remained near the threshold; and they did not speak for a moment since to begin with, it seemed a special sign to them, that she had come out before others, and second, because her beauty astonished them as much as if they had never beheld it till that moment. The fingers with which she grasped the candle seemed transparent and rosy; the gleam crept along her bosom, lighted her lips and her small face which looked somewhat drowsy and sad, perhaps because her eyes were in a deep shade while her forehead and the glorious bright hair, which was as a crown just above it, were still in full radiance. And she all in quiet and splendor stood there in the gloom like an angel created from ruddy brightness. "Oh, as God is dear to me, a vision!" said the prelate. Then Pan Gideon called,-- "Anulka!" Leaving the light on a nitch of the chimney, she ran to them and gave greeting, joyously. Pan Gideon pressed her to his heart with much feeling, commanded her to rejoice at the arrival of a guest so distinguished, a man famous as a giver of counsel, and when after greeting they entered the dining-hall he asked,-- "Is supper over?" "No. The servants were to bring it from the kitchen, and that is why no one was standing at the entrance." The prelate looked at the old noble, and asked,-- "Then perhaps without waiting?" "No, no," answered Pan Gideon, "Pani Vinnitski will be here directly." Thereupon Pani Vinnitski made herself felt in reality, and fifteen minutes later they sat down to heated wine and fried eggs. The prelate ate and drank well, but at the end of the supper his face became serious, and he said, turning to Panna Anulka,-- "My gracious young lady, God knows why people call me a counsellor and why they take advice of me, but since your guardian does so, I must speak with you on a certain task of importance which he has given my poor wit to accomplish." When Pan Gideon heard this, the veins swelled on his forehead; the young lady paled somewhat, and rose in disquiet, for, through some unknown reason, it seemed to her that the prelate would talk about Yatsek. "I beg you to another room," said he. And they left the dining-hall. Pan Gideon sighed deeply once and a second time; then he drummed on the table with his fingers, and feeling the need of talking down his internal emotion by words of some kind, he said to Pani Vinnitski,-- "Have you noticed how all the relatives of my late wife hate Anulka?" "Especially the Krepetskis," answered Pani Vinnitski. "Ha! they almost grit their teeth when they see her; but soon they will grit them still harder." "How is that?" "You will learn in good season; but meanwhile we must find a bed for the prelate." After a time Pan Gideon was alone. Two servants came to remove the supper dishes, but he sent them away with a quick burst of anger, and there was silence in the dining-hall, only the great Dantsic clock repeated loudly and with importance: tik-tak! tik-tak! Pan Gideon placed his hand on his bald head and began to walk in the chamber. He approached the door beyond which the prelate was talking with Anulka, but he heard merely sounds in which he distinguished the voice but not the words of the prelate. So in turn he walked and halted. He went to the window, for it seemed to him that there he would breathe with more freedom. He looked for a while at the sky, with eyes from which expression had vanished,--that sky over which the wind was hurrying the torn clouds of spring, with light on their upper edges through which the pale moon seemed to rise higher and higher. As often as he rested an evil foreboding took hold of him. He looked through the window close to which black limbs of trees were wrestling back and forth with the wind, as if in torment; in the same way his thoughts were struggling back and forth, disordered, evil, resembling reproaches of conscience, and painful forebodings that some bad thing would happen, and that near punishment was waiting--but when it grew bright out of doors, again better hope entered him. Every one has a right to think of his own happiness--as to Yatsek Tachevski it was of little importance what such people do! What was the question at present? The happiness and calm future of a young girl; but besides this there smiled on him a little life in his old age--and this belongs to him. This only is real, the rest is wind, wind! And he felt again a turning of the head, and black spots danced before his vision, but that lasted very briefly. Then he approached the door behind which his fate was in the balance. Meanwhile the light on the table acquired a long wick and the chamber grew gloomy. At times the voice of the prelate became sharper, so that words would have reached the ear of Pan Gideon had it not been for that loud and continuous "tik-tak." It was easy to understand that such a conversation could not end quickly, still, Pan Gideon's alarm grew and grew, turning, as it were, into certain wonderful questions woven into the past, with memories not only of former misfortunes and pain, but also of former unextinguished transgressions, of former grievous sins, and of recent injustices inflicted not only on Tachevski, but on others. "Why and wherefore shouldst thou be happy?" asked his conscience. And he would have given at that moment he knew not how much if even Pani Vinnitski might return to the chamber, so that he should not be alone with those thoughts of his. But Pani Vinnitski was occupied somewhere with work in another part of the mansion, while in that dining-hall there was nothing but the clock with its "tik-tak!" "For what deed should God reward thee?" asked his conscience. Pan Gideon felt now that if that girl, who was at once like a flower and an angel, should fail him, there would be a darkness in his life which would last till the night of death should descend on him. With that the door opened on a sudden and Panna Sieninski came in from the next chamber. She was pale; there were tears in her eyes; and behind her was the prelate. "Art thou weeping?" asked Pan Gideon, with a hoarse, stifled voice. "From gratitude, guardian," cried she, stretching her hands to him. And she fell at his knees there. CHAPTER XII That evening, or late at night, Pani Vinnitski appeared in the room of her relative, and, finding the young lady still dressed, she talked to her. "I cannot recover from amazement," said she; "sooner should I have looked for death than that such an idea should have come to the head of Pan Gideon." "Neither did I look for it." "How is it then? And is it so, really? I know not what to do, to be glad, or the opposite. We know that the prelate as a spiritual person has better judgment than the laity. He is right when he says that till death thou wilt have a roof over thy head, and that roof thy own, not another's. But Pan Gideon is old"--here she spoke lower--"art thou not a little afraid of him?" "It is all in the past; there is nothing to think of at present," answered Anulka. "How dost thou say that?" "I say that I owe him gratitude for a refuge, and a morsel of bread, and that these are poorly paid for by my person which no one else cares for; but since he cares, that too, is a favor on his part." "He began long ago to wish for this," said the old woman mysteriously. "After he had talked to-day with thee he called me. I thought that there was something wrong with the supper, and that he would reproach me, but he said nothing. I saw that for some reason he was cheerful, and all at once he broke the news to me. My legs trembled under me. 'What is the matter?' asked he. 'You are turned, like Lot's wife, to a pillar of salt,' said he. 'Is it because I have taken such a mushroom?' 'No,' I answered, 'but because it is so unexpected.' 'With me,' said he, then, 'that is an old idea. Like a fish at the bottom of a river it was unknown till some one helped it to swim to the surface. And dost thou know who that was?' I felt sure that it was the prelate. 'Not at all,' said he, 'but Pan Grothus.'" A moment of silence followed. "But I thought Pan Yatsek--" said Anulka through her set teeth. "Why Yatsek?" "To show that he did not care for me." "Thou knowest that Yatsek has not seen Pan Gideon." Then Anulka began to repeat feverishly,-- "Yes, I know! He had something else in his head! Let that go! I do not want to know anything. I do not, I do not! It is all finished, and finished forever." A dry, nervous weeping shook her bosom. After a moment she repeated again,-- "It is finished beyond recall!" Then they knelt down to an "Our Father," which they repeated each evening in company. Next day Anulka appeared with a calm face, but something had changed in her, something remained unexpressed, something had shut itself up in her. She was not sad, but all at once, she had grown, as it were, some years older, and she had in her now a certain calm dignity, so that Pan Gideon, who hitherto had taken into account himself only, began without noting it, to consider her also. In general he was unable to command himself, and it seemed to him specially strange that he felt in some sense his dependence on Anulka. He began to fear those thoughts which she did not express, but which she might conceal in her spirit. He tried to forestall such, and put in place of them others, of the kind which he wanted. Even the silence of Pani Vinnitski was oppressive and seemed to him suspicious; so he worked out fantastic pictures, talked, joked, but there flashed up in his steel eyes at times certain gleams of impatience. Meanwhile news of his engagement had gone through the neighborhood. Of this engagement he now made no secret; on the contrary, he sent letters announcing it to Pan Serafin, and to his nearest neighbors; he wrote letters to the Kohanovskis, to the Podlodovskis, to the Sulgostovskis, to Pan Grothus, to the Krepetskis, and even to distant relatives of his late wife, with invitations to the betrothal, after which the marriage would be celebrated immediately. Pan Gideon would have preferred to get a dispensation from the banns even, but unfortunately it was the Lenten season, and he had to wait till after Easter. He took both women, therefore, to Radom where the young lady was to find her wedding outfit, and he to buy horses more showy than those which he had at that time in his stables. Reports came to him that among the relatives who had hoped to inherit everything not only after his late wife, but after him, there was as much movement as there is in a beehive; but this pleased him, since he hated them all from his innermost spirit, and was planning at all times to harm them. Those tidings of meetings, whispered conferences, and counsels shortened his visit to Radom. And when at last his stay there was ended, and the horses together with new harness were purchased, he returned on Easter eve to his mansion. Guests began to arrive almost at the same time, for the betrothal was to take place on the third day after Easter. First came the Krepetskis who were both the nearest relatives and nearest neighbors. The father was almost eighty years old, with the visage of a vulture, and renowned as a miser. He had three daughters: Tekla, the youngest, was pretty and pleasant; Agneshka and Johanna were not youthful, they were testy old maids with pimples on their cheeks at all seasons. He had a son, Martsian, nicknamed Pniak (stump) in the neighborhood. He bore the name justly, for at the first glance he seemed a great stump; he had a mighty chest, and broad shoulders. His bow-legs were so short that he was almost dwarflike, and his arms reached his kneepans. Some thought him a hunchback; he was not, however, but his head without a neck was fixed so closely to his body that his high shoulders reached his ears, very nearly. Out of that head peered prominent, lustful eyes, and his face was like that of a he-goat. A small beard which he wore as if in defiance of general custom, increased the resemblance. He did not serve as a warrior, for he had been ridiculed from service, for which reason he had had in his time many duels. There was uncommon strength in his stumpy body, and people feared him in all places, since he was a quarreller and a road-blocker, who, in every affair, was glad to seek pretexts; he was as irritable as a vicious beast, and wounded savagely in Radom one Krepetski, his cousin, a handsome and worthy young man who almost died of the injuries then inflicted. He felt respect only for Yatsek, whose skill at the sabre was known to him, and before the Bukoyemskis, one of whom, Lukash, threw him over a fence like a bundle of straw once in Yedlina. He had the deserved reputation of being a great profligate. Pan Gideon had driven him out of the mansion a few years before that, because he had looked too much in goat fashion at Panna Anulka, a little girl at that period. But since then some years had passed, and, as they had met later in Radom, and in neighboring houses, Pan Gideon invited him now with the family. Immediately after the Krepetskis came the Sulgostovskis, twin brothers, who so resembled each other that when they put on coats of like fashion no man could distinguish them; next came three remote Sulgostovskis from beyond Prityk--and then a numerous family formed of nine people, the handsome Zabierzovskis. From Yedlinka came Pan Serafin, but alone, since his son had gone to his regiment already; Pan Podlodovski, the starosta, once the agent of the great lord in Zamost; the Kohanovskis; the priest from Prityk; the prelate Tvorkovski from Radom, who was to bless the ring, and many small nobles from near and distant places, some even without invitation, with this idea, that a guest though quite unknown would be sure to find welcome, and that when there is a chance to eat and drink a man should not miss it. Belchantska was crowded with carriages and wagons, the stables were filled with horses, the outbuildings with servants of all sorts; everywhere in the mansion were colored coats, sabres, shaven foreheads; and with these went Latin, the twittering of women, farthingales, laces, and various ornaments. Maids were flying around with hot water, and tipsy servants with excellent wine in decanters. From morning until night-hours the kitchen was steaming like a tar pit. The windows of the mansion gleamed and flashed every evening, so that the whole place around there was radiant. And amid all this tumult Pan Gideon moved through the chambers, walked about and gave welcome, magnificent, important, grown young as it were for the second time, dressed in crimson, and wearing a sabre which glittered with jewels, a sabre which Panna Anulka had inherited; it was her only dowry from wealthy forefathers. If giddiness seized him he leaned on an armchair, and again he moved forward, showed honor to guests who were personages, and struck one heel against the other when greeting older ladies; but above all he followed with eyes which were more and more enamoured "his Anulka," who bloomed in that many-colored throng. Amid glances which were frequently ill-wishing, frequently jealous, and filled sometimes with venom, she was as fair as a lily, somewhat sad, or only conscious, it may be, of the weight of that fact which she had to encounter. Thus things continued till the evening of the third day, that is, Tuesday, when the mortars of the mansion thundered in the yard, thus announcing to the guests and the country that the solemn moment had come, the moment of betrothal. The guests ranged themselves then as a half-circle in the drawing-room, men and women in splendid costumes bright as a rainbow in the light of the candles. In front of them stood Pan Gideon and Panna Anulka. Silence settled down, and the eyes of all people were fixed on the bride, who with downcast eyes, with attention and dignity on her face, without a smile, but not sad, seemed as if drowsy. The prelate Tvorkovski in his surplice, having near him young Tekla Krepetski, who held a silver plate with rings on it, advanced from the half-circle and addressed those who were soon to be married. He spoke learnedly, long, and with eloquence, showing what were the _sponsalia de futuro_, and what great importance from the earliest days of Christianity was attached to betrothals. He quoted Tertullian, and the Council of Trent, and the opinion of various learned canonists, then turning to Pan Gideon and Panna Sieninski he explained to them how wise their decision was, what great benefaction they promised each other, and how their future happiness depended on themselves only. Those present listened with admiration, but also with impatience, for as relatives from whom their inheritance was slipping they looked on that marriage with repugnance. Pan Gideon, who from standing long had grown dizzy, began to rest on one leg and then on the other, and to give signs with his eyes to the prelate to finish; these signs he was not quick to notice, but at last he blessed the rings and put them on the fingers of the affianced. Then the mortars thundered again in the yard, and from the gallery in the dining-hall was heard a loud orchestra made up of five Radom Jews who played nicely. The guests came now in turn to congratulate, for the greater part with sourness and insincerely. The two Krepetski old maids simply jeered as they courtesied to their "Aunt," and Pan Martsian, when kissing her hands, recommended himself to her graces with such a goat glance that Pan Gideon ought to have driven him from the mansion a second time. But others, more remote relatives, being better and less greedy, gave sincere, cordial wishes. Now the door of the dining-hall was thrown open; Pan Gideon gave his arm to his betrothed, and after him moved the other couples amid the glitter and the quivering of flames caused by a sudden cold gust which had blown through the entrance. From the kitchen came the servants, half tipsy, with decanters of wine and an unreckonable number of dishes. From the opening of doors there was such cold air in the dining-hall that guests, while sitting down to the table, were seized the first moment with a shiver, while the flickering of candles made the whole hall, in spite of its elegant furnishing, seem dark and gloomy. But it was proper to hope that wine would soon warm the blood in all present, and wine was not spared by Pan Gideon. He was rather stingy in every-day life, but on exceptional occasions he liked so to show himself that people spoke long of him afterward. This happened now. Behind every guest an attendant was standing with a mossy and big-bellied bottle, while under the table were hidden a number of servants with bottles also, so that in case a guest could not find more to drink on the table he put down a goblet twixt his knees and they filled it immediately. Immense glasses for drinkers, great goblets, glittered in front of each man, but before ladies were smaller glasses, either French or Italian. The guests did not occupy the whole table, however, for Pan Gideon had commanded to set more plates than there were guests in the mansion. The prelate cast his eyes on those empty places and fell to praising the hospitality of the house and the master; at that moment he rose in his chair somewhat, wishing to arrange the folds of his soutane, hence those present supposed that he was going to offer the earliest toast, and were silent. "We are listening!" said a number of voices. "Oh, there is no reason," said the prelate, with joyousness. "There is no toast yet, though the time will come soon for it. I see some of you gentlemen rubbing your heads rather early, and the Kohanovskis are whispering as well as counting on their fingers. It is difficult to expect rhymes from any if not from the Kohanovskis. I wish to say only that it is an old Polish and praiseworthy custom to leave thus a place for a guest who is unexpected." "Oh," answered Pan Gideon, "as the house is lighted up some one may come from the darkness." "And perhaps some one is coming," said Kohanovski. "It may be Pan Grothus?" "No-- Pan Grothus has gone to the Diet. If a man comes he will be unexpected." "But the earth is soft, we shall not hear him." "Well, a dog is barking under the window, so some one is coming." "No one will drive in from that side, for the windows look into the garden." "But the dog is not barking, he is howling." That was the case really. The dog had barked once, twice, a third time, then the barking turned to a low, gloomy howling. Pan Gideon quivered despite himself, for he remembered how years and years earlier in another place, at his house, which stood five miles from Pomorani, in Russia, dogs had howled in the same way before a sudden onrush of Tartars. The thought came to Panna Anulka, that she had no cause to expect any one, and that should any man come to her from the darkness to that lighted mansion he would be late in his coming. But it seemed somehow strange to other guests, all the more as the first dog was joined by a second, and a double howl was heard now near that window. So they listened in disagreeable silence, which was broken only after a while by Martsian Krepetski,-- "A guest at whom the dogs howl is nothing to us," said he. "Wine!" called Pan Gideon. But the glasses were full, hence there was no need to pour at that moment. Old Krepetski, father of Martsian, rose from his chair somewhat heavily, wishing to speak, as seemed evident. All turned their eyes to him. Old men began to surround their ears with their hands to hear better, but he only moved his lips after long waiting, his chin almost meeting his nose, for he was toothless. Meanwhile, notwithstanding the fact that the earth was soft from thawing, there came from the other side of the house, as it were, a dull clatter and it was heard rather long, long enough to go twice round the courtyard. Hence old Krepetski, who had raised his glass, held it a while, looked at the door, and then put the glass down again; other guests acted in like manner. "See who has come!" said Pan Gideon to his attendant. The youth rushed out, returned straightway, and answered,-- "There is no one." "That is strange," said the prelate. "The sound was heard clearly." "We all heard it," said one of the twin Sulgostovskis. "And the dogs have stopped howling," said others. Then the door of the entrance, badly fastened by the servant, as was evident, opened of itself, and a new draught of air entered with such violence that it quenched from ten to twenty candles. "What is that?" "Shut the door!" "The candles are dying!" said a number of voices. But with the wind had rushed into the hall, as it were, some unknown terror. Pani Vinnitski, who was superstitious and timid, began then to cross herself audibly. "In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost--" "Woman! be silent!" commanded Pan Gideon. Then turning to Panna Sieninski he kissed her hand. "A quenched candle cannot trouble my gladness," said he, "and God grant me to be as happy to the end of my days as I am at this moment. Is that not right, my Anulka?" "Yes, guardian," said she, bending toward his hand. "Amen!" ended the prelate, who rose to address them. "Gracious ladies and gentlemen, since that unexpected sound stopped, as is evident, Pan Krepetski's ideas let me be the earliest expounder of those feelings with which our hearts are warmed toward the future wife and her husband. Hence, ere we cry out _O Hymen, O Hymenaios_, before we, in Roman fashion, begin to call Thalassius, the beautiful youth who God grant may appear at the earliest, let us raise _ex imo_ this first toast to their prosperity and coming happiness: _Vivant, crescant, floreant_" (may they live, increase, flourish). "_Vivant! Vivant!_" thundered all guests. The Radom orchestra was heard that moment, and outside the windows the drivers fell to cracking their whips. Long did the shouts last, with the stamping of feet, the sounding of horns and the cracking of whips. The servants, too, raised a shout throughout the whole mansion, and in the dining-hall, amid endless cheers, rose great sounds of wine-gulping. "_Vivant, crescant, floreant!_" Silence came only when Pan Gideon stood up, raised his glass, and said in a loud voice,-- "My guests and relatives, very gracious and most dear to my heart! I express with inadequate words my gratitude to all; I will first bow to you profoundly for that brotherly and neighborly good-feeling which you have shown me by meeting here under my poor roof in such numbers--" The words "under my poor roof" were pronounced with a kind of marvellously mild, and, as it were, submissive accents, then he sat down and bent his head, so that the forehead rested really on the table. And the guests wondered that a man usually so distant and so haughty should speak with such affection. They thought that great happiness melts even hearts the most obdurate, and, waiting for what he had to say further, they looked at his iron-gray head resting yet on the edge of the table. "Silence! We are listening!" said voices. And in fact deep silence had followed. But Pan Gideon was motionless. "What is the matter? What has happened? For God's sake! Speak on!" cried they. But Pan Gideon answered only with a terrible rattling; then his shoulders and arms began on a sudden to quiver. Panna Sieninski sprang from her chair pale as a wall, and cried in terrified accents,-- "Guardian! guardian!" At the table were dismay and confusion; cries and questions rose everywhere. Guests surrounded Pan Gideon, the prelate seized his arms and brought him to the back of the chair, some began to throw water on him, others cried, "Take him to the bed and bleed him as quickly as possible." Some of the women were tearful; some ran, as if frantic, through the chambers with groans or with sharp lamentation. But Pan Gideon remained sitting, his head was thrown back, the veins in his forehead were distended like straps, his eyes were closed firmly, the hoarseness and rattling grew louder. The unexpected guest had come indeed out of darkness and entered the mansion, dreadful and merciless. CHAPTER XIII The servants, at command of the prelate, bore the sick man to the other end of the mansion, to the "chancellery," which served Pan Gideon also as a bedroom. They sent immediately for the village blacksmith, who knew how to bleed, and bled men as well as animals. It appeared after a moment that he was in front of the mansion with a whole crowd gathered there for entertainment, but he was quite drunk, unluckily. Pani Vinnitski remembered that Father Voynovski had the fame of being an excellent physician, so a carriage was sent with all speed for him, though it seemed clear that every effort would fail, and that no rescue was possible for the sick man. That was in truth the position. Except Panna Anulka, Pani Vinnitski, the two Krepetskis, and Pan Zabierzovski, who occupied himself somewhat with medicine, the prelate admitted none to the chancellery, lest a throng might hinder recovery. All other guests, as well women as men, had gathered into the adjoining large chamber where beds for men had been provided. All were like a flock of frightened sheep, filled with fear, alarm, and curiosity. Watching the door, they waited for tidings, and some of them made remarks in undertones touching that terrible happening, and touching those omens which had announced it. "Did you notice how the lights quivered, and the flames were in some manner blackish? From this it is clear that Death had overshadowed them," said one of the Sulgostovskis, in a whisper. "Death was among us, and we did not know her."[5] "The dogs howled at her." "And that clatter! Perhaps that was just Death on her journey." "It is clear that God did not favor the marriage, which would have been an injustice to the family." Further whispering was stopped by the coming of Pani Vinnitski and Martsian. Pani Vinnitski hurried through the chamber, she was in haste to bring a reliquary which warded off evil spirits; but Martsian they surrounded immediately. "How is he?" Martsian shrugged his shoulders, raised them till his head seemed to be in his bosom, and answered,-- "He is rattling yet." "Is there no hope?" "None." At that moment through the open door came distinctly the solemn words of the prelate,-- "_Ego te absolve a peccatis tuis--et ab omnibus censuris, in nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti_. Amen." (I absolve thee from thy sins, and from all blame, in the name of the Father and Son and Holy Ghost.) All knelt and began to pray. Pani Vinnitski passed between the kneeling people, holding with both hands the reliquary. Martsian followed and closed the door after him. But it was not closed long, for a quarter of an hour later Martsian appeared in it and said in his squeaking voice of a clarionet,-- "He is dead!" Then with the words, "Eternal rest," they moved one after another to the chancellery, to cast a last look at the dead man. Meanwhile at the other end of the house, in the dining-hall, revolting scenes were enacted. The servants of the household had hated Pan Gideon as much as they had feared him; hence it seemed to them that with his death would come an hour of relief, delight, and impunity. To servants from outside an occasion was offered for revelry; so all servants, as well those of the house as others summoned in to assist them, tipsy more or less since midday, rushed now at the wine and the viands. Servants raised to their lips whole flasks of Dantsic liquor, Malmoisie, and Hungarian wine; others, more greedy for food, seized pieces of meat and cake. The snow-white tablecloth was stained in one twinkle with gravies. In the disturbance chairs were overturned on the floor and candlesticks on the table. Ornamented cut glasses fell from drunken hands to the floor with a crash and were broken. Quarrels and fights burst out here and there in the dining-hall. Some stole table ornaments directly. In one word, an orgy began, sounds of which flew to the other end of the mansion. Martsian Krepetski, and after him the two Sulgostovskis, young Zabierzovski and one more of the guests, rushed toward those outcries, and at sight of what was happening drew their sabres. At the first moment disturbance increased. The Sulgostovskis went no further than to strike with the flat of the weapons, but Martsian was seized by an access of fury. His staring eyes protruded still farther, his teeth glittered from under his mustaches, and he began to cut with the sabre edge whatever man met him. Some were covered with blood, others hid under the table; the remainder crowded in disordered flight through the door, and Martsian cut at this throng while he shouted,-- "Dog brothers! Scoundrels! I am master in this place!" And he rushed after them to the entrance whence his shrieking voice was heard shouting,-- "Clubs! rods!" And the guests stood in the hall, as in ruins, gazing with mortified look, and shaking their heads at the spectacle. "I have never seen such a sad sight," said one Sulgostovski. "A wonderful death, and wonderful happenings! Look at this it is just as if Tartars had raided the mansion." "Or evil spirits," added Zabierzovski. "A terrible night!" They commanded the servants hidden under the table to crawl forth and bring some order to the dining-hall. They came out, perfectly sobered from terror, and went to work nimbly. Meanwhile Martsian had returned. He was calmer, but his lips were still trembling from anger. "They will come to their minds!" said he, addressing those present. "But I thank you, gentlemen, for helping me to punish those ruffians. It will not be easier here for them than it was in the days of the dead man! My head upon that point." The Sulgostovskis looked at him quickly, and one said,-- "You have not to thank us more than we you." "How is that?" "Why art thou qualifying to be the only judge here?" asked the other of the twins. Martsian, as if wishing to spring to their eyes, sprang upward on his short bow-legs straightway, and shouted,-- "I have the right, the right!" "What right?" "A better right than yours." "How is that? Hast read the will?" "What is a will to me?" Here he blew on the palm of his hand; "that's what it is,--wind! To whom has he willed it--to his wife? But where is his wife? That is the question--we are next of kin here. We--the Krepetskis, not you." "But we will see about that. God kill thee!" "God kill thee! Clear out!" "Thou goat! Thou nasty cur! Why dost thou tell us to go? Better have a care of thy goat forehead!" "Are ye threatening?" Here Martsian shook his sabre and pushed up to the brothers. They too grasped at their weapons. But at that moment the offended voice of the prelate was heard there behind them,-- "Gracious gentlemen, the dead man is not cold yet." The Sulgostovskis were terribly ashamed, and one of them said,-- "Reverend prelate, we are not to blame; we have our own bread and do not desire that of others, but this serpent is beginning to sting, and wishes to drive people out of this mansion." "What people? Whom?" "Whomever he comes upon. To-day us, whom he has ordered away, to-morrow, perhaps, the orphan bride living under this roof here." "That is untrue! untrue!" cried Martsian. And, winding himself into a ball, he laughed sneeringly, rubbed his hands, bowed down and said with a certain envenomed sincerity,-- "On the contrary, on the contrary! I invite all to the funeral and to the feast following after the interment. I beg most humbly; my father and I beg. And as to Panna Sieninski, she will find at all times a roof, and protection, and care at all times, at all times!" And he went on rubbing his hands very gleefully. CHAPTER XIV Martsian had determined indeed to tell Panna Anulka that she must always consider Belchantska as her own, but he deferred this information till after the funeral; he wished first to talk with his father, who, because of the legal actions on which he had been working all his lifetime, was skilled in law, and was able to avoid in advance many troubles. Both were convinced that their cause was a good one; so the next day, just at the moment when men were placing Pan Gideon in his coffin, they shut themselves up in a side chamber and began with good courage to take counsel. "Providence is above us," said the old man, "nothing but Providence, to which Pan Gideon will answer seriously for the injustice which he intended to do us." "Well, let him answer," replied Martsian. "It is our happiness that he only intended and did not succeed, for now we will take everything. The Sulgostovskis have quarrelled with me already, but I will tear the souls out of those wretches before I let them have even one field of Belchantska." "Ha, the scoundrels! the sons of a such a one! God twist them! I have no fear of such people, I fear only a will. Hast thou asked the prelate? If any one knows of a will it is he." "I had no chance yesterday, for he attacked me when quarrelling with the Sulgostovskis and said to us: 'The dead man is not cold yet,' then he went for a coffin and a priest, and to-day there has been no opportunity." "But if Pan Gideon has willed all to that girl?" "He had not the right, for this estate belonged to his late wife, our nearest relative." "But a will has been mentioned, and there will be costs and going to tribunals, and God knows what more in addition." "Father is accustomed to lawsuits. But I have fixed in my head something of such sort that there will be no need of lawsuits; meanwhile _beatus qui tenet_" (happy is the man in possession); "for this reason I shall not leave Belchantska. I have sent for our servants already. Let the Sulgostovskis or the Zabierzovskis drive me out later." "But the girl, if it is willed to her?" "Who will take her side? She is as much alone in this world as a finger; she has no relatives, no friends--an ordinary orphan. Who will wish to expose his neck for her, lay himself open to quarrels, duels, expenses? How does she concern any one? Tachevski was in love with her, but Tachevski is gone, he may never come back, and if he should he has nothing; he knows as much as my horse about lawsuits. To tell the truth, the position is such that if not Pan Gideon, but her own father, had left her Belchantska, we might come in here and manage in our own way, under pretext of guarding the orphan. I think that Pan Gideon intended to make a will only in the contract of marriage, so either no will at all will be found, or if it be found it will be some old one with a clause for Panna Anulka from her guardian." "We can break such a will," said the old man, "my head on that! Though a lawsuit will not be avoided." "How so? I hear father's words, but I think it will be avoided." "If, for speaking between us, Pan Gideon's wife was weak-minded, if she left all to her husband he had the right to leave it to whomever he selected." Old Krepetski uttered the last words almost in a whisper, while looking around on all sides, though he knew that there was no one in the room except him and Martsian. "How could she leave it to him when she died suddenly?" asked Martsian. "It was dated the year after their marriage. It is clear that Pan Gideon wheedled her out of it, because they inhabited perilous places, and no man could know when the Tartars might howl out his requiem. They drew up wills to each other in the town at Pomorani; these wills were brought by Pan Gideon to this place. I thought to start lawsuits against him at that time, but saw that I could not do so successfully. Now it is different." "We shall succeed now without lawsuits." "If so, all the better; but we must be ready for action." "Ei! there is no need to be ready." "How, then?" "I will get on without father." Old Pan Krepetski, on hearing this, flashed into anger. "Thou wilt get on? What? How? But spoil not my labor. He will get on! But didst thou not advise me to leave the Silnitskis in peace touching Dranjkov? According to thee, there was no way to master them. No way? Why not? They had witnesses to swear to the land--a great thing! I made men put earth into their boots from my courtyard. Well, and what after that? They went to Silnitski's land, and took no false oath when each one of them testified: 'I swear that the land on which I am standing belongs to Krepetski.' Thou wouldst have thought a whole year, but never invented a reason of that kind. Thou wilt get on? Look at him!" And he began to move his toothless jaws angrily, as if he were chewing some substance; and his chin touched his nose, which was hooked like the beak of some bird of prey. "Pant out thy anger, my father, and listen," said Martsian. "Wherever it is a question of carrying on lawsuits I yield to thee always; but as to what concerns women, my experience is greater, and I trust in myself with more confidence." "Is it possible?" "Therefore, if it comes to a struggle with Parma Anulka it will not be before any tribunal." "What art thou working out?" "To divine is not difficult. Is this not my opportunity? Or wilt thou find another such girl in this region?" Martsian threw his head up and looked in the eyes of his father. The father looked at him, too, with a glance of inquiry, chewed with his gums, and then asked,-- "How is it, pray tell me." "Why not tell? Since yesterday it is circling through my head." "Hm! Why not? Because she is as needy as Lazarus." "But I will come into Belchantska with songs, and unhindered. She is indigent, but the girl is of great blood. And remember the words of Pan Gideon, that if one were to look through the papers of the Sieninskis, it would be possible to drive from their land one-half of the inhabitants of a province. The Sobieskis grew great from them, hence there should be royal protection. The king himself ought to think of a provision. And the girl has pleased my eye this long time, for she is a dainty morsel--dainty! oh dainty!" And he sprang about on his short legs, licking his mustache as he did so; wherewith he looked so revolting that old Krepetski remarked to him,-- "She will not want thee." "And she wanted old Pan Gideon. Are the girls few who have wanted me? A great many young men have gone to the army; so we may buy girls by the bundle, like shoe-nails. Old Pan Gideon knew why he sent me from the mansion. He would not have done so, had he himself not been looking at Panna Anulka." "But supposing that she will not want thee--then what?" Evil gleams shone from the eyes of Martsian. "Then," replied he, with emphasis, "it is possible so to act with a girl who has no protection, that she herself will beg thee to go to the church with her." The old man was frightened at these words. "Ah!" said he. "But dost thou not know that act to be criminal?" "I know that no one would take the part of Panna Anulka." "But I say to thee, have a care! As it is there are voices against thee. If a man win or lose a lawsuit for property he will not become infamous, but thy thought is of crime--dost understand me?" "Oh, it will not go to that unless she herself wants it. But do not hinder, only act as I tell thee. After the funeral let father take Tekla home with him, and if there is any excuse also old Pani Vinnitski. I will stay with the girls, with Agneshka and Johanna. They are reptiles, raging at any woman who is younger and comelier than they are. They began yesterday to point their stings at the orphan, but what will they do when living under one roof with her? They will stab, and bite, and insult her, refuse her the bread of compassion. I see this, as if I were reading it in a book, and it is all as water to my mill." "What wilt thou grind with it?" "What will I grind? This: that I will quarrel with those serpents. I will invent something against them; I will give one a slap in the face when it pleases me, then the orphan will kiss me on the hands, on the knees. 'I am thy defender, thy brother, thy true friend,' I will say to her, 'thou art here the real mistress.' And dost thou think, father, that the heart in her will not soften, that she will not fall in love with him who will be a shield and defence to her, who will wipe away her tears, who will watch day and night over her? And if in her sorrow and abandonment and tears she comes to some extraordinary confidence, so much the better! so much the better! so much the better!" Here Martsian rubbed his hands and so exhibited his goat eyes to his father that the old man had to spit in abhorrence. "Tfu! Pagan!" exclaimed he. "There is always one thing in thy mind." "Indeed ants walk on me when I look at her. It wasn't for nothing that Pan Gideon drove me from the mansion." A moment of silence now followed. "Then thou wilt tell Johanna and Agneshka to act as thou wishest?" "There is no need to say anything to them or to teach them; their nature suffices. Tekla alone is a dove, they are kites, the two others." Martsian had not deceived himself, his sisters had begun, each in her own way to take charge of Anulka. Tekla took her every little while in her arms and wept with her, Agneshka and Johanna solaced her, but in another fashion,-- "What did not happen, did not happen," said Agneshka, "but be at rest, thou wilt not be our aunt, because the Lord was not willing, but no one here will harm thee, or grudge thee a morsel." "And no one will drive thee to work," said the other, "for we know that thou art not used to it; when thou hast recovered, if thou thyself wish, then that is different; in every case wait till thy sorrow is over, for indeed great misfortune has struck thee. Thou wert to be mistress here, thou wert to have thy husband, and now except us thou hast no one. But believe that though we are not relatives we will be to thee as if relatives. Be reconciled to the will of God. The Lord has tried thee, but for that cause he pardons thee other sins. For if thou, perhaps, hast trusted too much in thy beauty, or didst desire wealth and rich clothing (we are all sinful for that matter, therefore I only say this), that will be accounted to thee against other sins." "Amen," said Agneshka. "Give to the church for the soul of the dead man some ornament, or some little jewel, for thou hast no need of bridal robes now, and we will ask father to permit thee to do this." Then they looked with sharp eyes at the robes on the table, and at the chests in which lay the trousseau. Such a desire at last seized them to see what was hidden that Johanna burst out with these words,-- "Perhaps we might help thee in selecting?" And both rushed at the chests, boxes, and bundles, in which were still lying unpacked the robes brought from Radom, and out with them, to be opened and examined before the light, and under the light, and then the two girls began to try them on their own persons. Panna Anulka sat, as if stunned, in the arms of the dear Tekla, seeing nothing, knowing nothing of what they were doing to her and around her. CHAPTER XV As a betrothed she had felt as if something in her life had grown black, as if something had been quenched, had been cut off and ended; hence that betrothal had not roused in her heart any gladness. She had only consented to the marriage because such was the will of Pan Gideon, and because of her gratitude for care, and still more because, after Yatsek's departure, there remained in her heart only bitterness and sorrow, with this painful thought, that save her guardian she had no one, and that without him she would be a lost orphan, wandering among enemies and strangers. But all on a sudden a thunderbolt had struck that hearth at which she was to sit with some kind of peace, though a sad one, now the only man in this world who to her was important had vanished. It was not strange, then, that the thunderbolt had stunned her, that all thoughts were confused in her head, while in her heart sorrow for that only near soul had been fused into one with a feeling of amazement and terror. So the words of the elder sisters, who had begun straightway to pilfer her dresses, struck her ears just like sounds without meaning. Then Martsian came, bowed, rubbed his hands, jumped around her; but she understood him no more than she did all the others, who, according to custom, approached her with phrases of sympathy, which were more elaborate the less they were heartfelt. It was only when Pan Serafin put his hand on her head in the style of a father and said: "God will be over thee, my orphan," that something moved in her suddenly, and then tears rushed to her eyelids. Now for the first time the thought came to her that she was as a poor little leaf given over to the will of the whirlwind. Meanwhile began ceremonies, which, since Pan Gideon had been a man of position in his neighborhood, lasted ten days, in accordance with custom. At the betrothal, with few exceptions, invited guests only were present, but to the funeral came all near and distant neighbors, hence the mansion was swarming. Receptions, speeches, processions, and returns from the church followed one after the other. During the first days exclusive attention was given to the incomplete widow; but later, when people beheld the Krepetskis in possession and saw that they alone appeared in the mansion as masters, they ceased to regard the young lady, and toward the end of the funeral solemnities no one paid more heed to her than to any house visitor. Pan Serafin alone had a thought for her. He was moved by her tears and touched by her misfortune. The servants had begun to whisper that the Krepetski old maids had swept off her whole trousseau, and the old lord had hidden in his box her "little jewels," and that in the house they were already beginning to browbeat the "young lady." When these reports went to Pan Serafin they moved his kind heart, and he resolved to see Father Voynovski. But that kindly man was prejudiced much against Panna Anulka because of Yatsek, so at the very beginning he answered,-- "I am sorry for her, the poor lady, for she is in need, but in what can I help her? That, speaking between us, God punished her for Yatsek is certain." "But Yatsek is gone, as is Stanislav, and she is here simply an orphan." "Of course he is gone, but how did he go? You saw him going, but I went with him farther, and I tell you that the poor boy had his teeth set, and the heart in him was bleeding, so that he could not utter a syllable. Oh! he loved that girl as people loved only in the old time; they know not to-day how to love in that manner." "Still he was able to move his hands," said Pan Serafin, "for I heard that just beyond Radom he had a quarrel and cut up a passing noble, or even two of them." "Ah, because he has a girl's face every road-blocker thinks that he can get on with him cheaply. Some drunken fellows sought a quarrel. What was he to do? I blame in him that method; I blame it, but remember, your grace, that a man with a heart torn by love is like a lion seeking to devour some one." "True; but as to the girl. Ah, my benefactor, God knows if she is as much to blame as we imagine." "Woman is insidious." "Insidious or not, but when I heard that Pan Gideon wished to marry her it occurred to me straightway that he roused up everything, for it must have been all-important for him to get rid of Yatsek forever." "No," said the priest, shaking his head. "We remarked immediately from the letter that it was written at her instigation. I remember that perfectly, and I could repeat to your grace every word of it." "I, too, remember, but we could not know what Pan Gideon had told her, and how he described Yatsek's deeds to the lady. The Bukoyemskis, for example, confessed to me, that meeting her and Pan Gideon while travelling to Prityk they said purposely, that Yatsek went away after great stirrup cups, laughing, gladsome, and uncommonly curious about the daughter of Pan Zbierhovski to whom you had given him a letter." "Here they lied! And what for?" "Well, they lied to show the girl and Pan Gideon that Yatsek had no thought for them. But note this, your grace, if the Bukoyemskis spoke thus out of friendship for Yatsek, what must Pan Gideon have said out of hatred." "It is sure that he did not spare Yatsek. Still, even if she were less to blame than we imagine, tell me what of that? Yatsek has gone, and perhaps will never come back to us, for I know that he will spare his life less than Pan Gideon spared his reputation." "Yatsek would have gone in every case," answered Pan Serafin. "And if he does not return I will not tear the soutane on my body. A death in defence of the country and fighting Mohammedan vileness is a worthy end for a Christian knight, and a worthy end for a great family. But I will add one thing: I should have preferred to see him go without that painful dart which is sticking in him." "Neither had my only son special happiness in life; he too went, and perhaps will not return to me." They grew thoughtful, for their souls were filled with love for those young men. Tvorkovski, the prelate, came upon them while thoughtful, and learned that they had been talking of Panna Sieninski. "I will tell you, gentlemen," said he, "but let this be a secret. Pan Gideon left no will, the Krepetskis have a right to the property. I know that he had the wish to provide for his wife and leave all to her, but he was not able. Do not mention this before the Krepetskis." "But have you said nothing?" "Why should I? Those are hard people, and with me the question is that they should not be too hard toward the orphan, hence I withheld information, and then told them this: 'Not only does God sometimes try a man, but one man tries another.' When they heard this they were disquieted greatly, and fell to inquiring: 'How is it? Does your grace know anything?' 'What has to be shown will be shown,' remarked I, 'but remember one thing. Pan Gideon had the right to will what he owned to whatever person pleased him.'" Here the prelate laughed, and, putting his hands behind his violet girdle, continued,-- "I say, gentlemen, that the legs trembled under old Krepetski when he heard this; he began to contradict. 'Oh,' said he, 'that is impossible! he had not the right. Neither God nor men would agree to that.' "I looked at him severely, and said: 'If you think of God, you do well, for at your age it is proper to have His mercy in mind, and not turn to earthly tribunals, for it may happen very easily that you will not have time to await a decision.' He was frightened then terribly, and I added: 'And be kind to the orphan, lest God punish you sooner than you imagine.'" Hereupon Father Voynovski, whose compassionate heart was moved at the fate of the maiden, embraced the wise prelate. "Benefactor," cried he, "with such a head you ought to be chancellor. I understand! I understand! You said nothing, you did not miss the truth, and you have frightened the Krepetskis, who think that perhaps there is a will, nay, that it is even in your possession; they must count with this, and be moderate toward the orphan." The prelate, pleased with the praise, rapped his head with his knuckles. "Not quite like a nut with holes in it?" asked he. "Ho, there is so much reason there that it finds room with difficulty." "If God wish, it will burst, but meanwhile, I think that I have saved the orphan really. I must confess, however, that the Krepetskis spoke of her with greater humanity and with more kindness than I had expected. The women, it is true, have taken some trifles, but the old man declared that he would have them given back to the young lady." "Though the Krepetskis were the worst among men," said Pan Serafin, "they would not dare to rob an orphan over whom the eyes of such a wise and good priest are so watchful. But, my very reverend benefactor, I wish to mention another thing. I wish to beg you to show me this favor; come now to Yedlinka, let me have the honor of entertaining under my roof such a notable personage, with whom conversation is like the honey of wisdom and politeness. Father Voynovski has promised already to visit me, and we will talk, the three of us, concerning public and private matters." "I know what hospitality yours is," answered the prelate, with affability, "to refuse would be real suffering, and since Lent, the time of self-subjection is past, I will go for a pleasant day to you, willingly. Let us take farewell of the Krepetskis, but first of the orphan, so that they shall see the esteem in which we hold her." They went, and finding Anulka alone, spoke kind, heartfelt words, which gave her consolation and courage. Pan Serafin stroked her bright head, just as would a mother who desires to comfort a sorrowing child; the prelate did the same, and the honest Father Voynovski was so moved by her thin face and her beauty in its sadness, which reminded him of a flower of the field cut down too early by a scythe-stroke, that he too pressed her temples, and having a mind always thinking of Yatsek, he said half to himself, half to her,--"How can one wonder at Yatsek, since this picture was before him. But those Bukoyemskis lied, when they said that he went away gladly." When Anulka heard these words, she put her lips to his hand on a sudden, and for a long time she could not withdraw them. The sobbing, which came from her heart, shook her bosom; and they left her in an immense, irrepressible onrush of weeping. An hour later they were in Yedlinka, where good news was awaiting them. A man had arrived bringing a letter from Stanislav, in which he stated that he and Yatsek had joined the hussars of Prince Alexander; that they were well, and Yatsek, though pensive at all times, had gained a little cheerfulness, and was not so forgetful as during the first days. Besides words of filial love, there was in the letter one bit of news which astonished Pan Serafin: "If thou, my father, my most beloved and great mighty benefactor, see the Bukoyemskis on their return be not astonished, and save them with kindness, for they have been met by most marvellous accidents, and I cannot help them. If they were not to go to the war they would die, I think, from sorrow, which even now has almost killed them." In the course of the following months Pan Serafin visited Belchantska repeatedly, wishing to learn what was happening to Anulka. This was not caused by any personal motive, for Stanislav was not in love with the young lady, and she had broken altogether with Yatsek; he acted mainly from kindness, and a little from curiosity, for he wished to discover in what way, and how far the girl had aided in breaking the bonds of attachment between herself and Yatsek. He met opposition, however. The Krepetskis respected his wealth, hence they received him politely; but theirs was a wonderfully watchful hospitality, so continuous and active that Pan Serafin could not find himself alone with the girl for one instant. He understood that they did not wish him to ask her how she was treated, and that set him to thinking, though he did not find that she was either ill treated, or made to serve greatly. He saw her, it is true, once and a second time cleaning with a crust of bread white satin shoes of such size that they could not be for her own feet, and darning stockings in the evening, but the Krepetski girls did the same, hence there could not be in this any plan to humiliate the orphan by labor. The old maids were at times as biting and stinging as nettles, but Pan Serafin remarked soon that such was their nature, and that they could not restrain themselves always from gnawing even at Martsian, whom still they feared so much that when either one had thrust out her sting half its length a look from him made her draw it back quickly. Martsian himself was polite and agreeable to Anulka, though without forwardness, and after the departure of old Krepetski and Tekla he became still more agreeable. This departure was not pleasing to Pan Serafin, though it was simple enough that they could not leave an old man, who was somewhat disabled in walking, without the care of a woman, and since they had two houses they had divided the family. Pan Serafin would have preferred that Tekla remain with the orphan, but when on an occasion he hinted remotely that the ages of the two maidens made them company for each other, the elder sister met his words in the worst manner possible,-- "Anulka has shown the world," said Johanna, "that age does not trouble her. Our late uncle and Pani Vinnitski have proved this--so we are not too old for her." "We are as much older than she, as Tekla is younger, and I do not know as we are that much," added the second sister; "besides our heads must manage this household." But Martsian broke into the conversation,-- "Tekla's service," said he, "is dearest to father. He loves her beyond any one, at which we cannot wonder. We thought to send Panna Anulka with them, but she is accustomed to this house, so I think she will feel more at home in it. As to our care, I will do what I can to make it not too disagreeable." Then, with feet clattering, he approached the young lady, and tried to kiss her hand, which she drew away quickly, as if frightened. Pan Serafin thought that it was not proper to remove Pani Vinnitski, but he kept to himself that idea, not wishing to interfere in questions beyond his authority. He noted more than once that on Anulka's face fear as well as sadness was evident, but at this he was not greatly astonished, for her fate was in fact very grievous. An orphan, without a kindred soul near her, without her own roof above her head, she was forced to live on the favor of people who to her were repulsive, and who had an evil fame generally, she was forced to suffer pain over the vanished and brighter past, and to be in dread of the present. And though a person may be in suffering to the utmost, that person will have some solace if he, or she, may cherish hope of a better future. But she had no chance for hope, and she had none. To-morrow must be for her as to-day and the endless years to come, with the same drag of orphanhood, loneliness, and living on the bread of a stranger's favor. Pan Serafin spoke of this often with Father Voynovski, whom he saw almost daily, since it was pleasant for them to talk about their young heroes. Father Voynovski, however, shrugged his shoulders with sympathy and magnified the keenness of the prelate who, by hanging the threat of a will like a Damocles sword above the Krepetskis, had protected the orphan, at least from evil treatment. "Such a keen man!" said he. "Now you have him, and now he has slipped from you. Sometimes I think that perhaps he has not told the whole truth to us, and that there is a will in his hands, and that he will bring it out unexpectedly." "That has occurred to me also, but why should he hide it?" "I know not; perhaps to test human nature. I think only of this: Pan Gideon was a clear-sighted man, and it cannot find place in my head that he should not have made long ago some provision." But after a time the ideas of both men were turned in a different direction, for the Bukoyemskis arrived, or rather walked in from Radom. They appeared at Yedlinka one evening, with sabres, it is true, but with not very sound boots, and with torn coats on their bodies. They had such woe-be-gone faces that, if Pan Serafin had not for some time been expecting them, he would have been terribly frightened, and would have thought that news of his son's death had come with them. The four brothers embraced his knees, and kissed his hands straightway; he, looking at their misery, dropped his arms at his sides in amazement. "Stashko wrote," said he, "that it had gone ill with you, but this is terrible!" "We have sinned, benefactor!" answered Marek, beating his breast. The other brothers repeated his words. "We have sinned, we have sinned, we have sinned!" "Tell me how, and in what. How is Stashko? He has written me that he saved you. What happened?" "Stashko is well, benefactor; he and Pan Yatsek are as bright as two suns." "Glory to God! glory to God! Thanks for the good news. Have you no letter?" "He wrote, but did not give us the letter. It might be lost," said he. "Are you not hungry? Oh, what a condition! It is as if I had four men risen from the dead now before me." "We are not hungry, for entertainment is ready at the house of every noble--but we are unfortunate." "Sit down. Drink something warm, but while the servants are heating it tell me what happened. Where have you been?" "In Warsaw," said Mateush, "but that is a vile city." "Why so?" "It is swarming with gamblers and drunkards, and on Long Street and in the Old City at every step there is a tavern." "Well, what?" "One son of a such a one persuaded Lukash to play dice with him. Would to God that the pagans had impaled the wicked scoundrel on a stake ere that happened." "And he cheated?" "He won all that Lukash had, and then all that we had. Desperation took hold of us, and we wanted to win the coin back, but he won further our horse with a saddle and with pistols in the holsters. Then, I say to your grace, that Lukash wished to stab himself. What was to be done? How were we to help comforting a brother? We sold the second horse, so that Lukash might have a companion to walk with him." "I understand what happened," remarked Pan Serafin. "When we became sober there was still keener suffering; two horses were gone, and we had greater need of consolation." "So ye consoled yourselves till the fourth horse was gone?" "Till the fourth horse. We sinned, we sinned!" repeated the contrite brothers. "But was that the end?" continued Pan Serafin. "How the end, our father and special benefactor? We met a deceiver, one Poradski, who scoffed at us. 'So this is the way they shear fools!' says he. 'I will take you,' says he, 'as my serving men, for I am making the levy for a regiment.' Lukash cried out that the man was exposing us to ridicule, and when he would not stop Lukash slashed him on the snout with a sabre. Poradski's friends sprang to help him, and we to help Lukash, and we cut till the marshal's guard whirled in and went at us. And we yielded only when the others fell to shouting: 'Gracious gentlemen, they are attacking freedom, and injuring the Commonwealth in our persons.' That is how it happened, and God blessed us immediately, for we wounded eight attendants in a flash, and three of these mortally; the others were at our feet,--there were five of them." Pan Serafin seized his head, and Marek continued,-- "Yes! Now we know all; God helped us till people shouted that the fight was near the king's palace, and a crime,--that we should die for it. We were frightened and ran. They tried to seize us, but when we, in old fashion, cut one on the face and another on the neck, they fled in a hurry. Stanislav saved us with the horses of his attendants, but even then we had to work hard to bring our heads with us; we were hunted to Senkotsin; if the horses had been slow our case would have ended. Our names were not known; that was lucky, and there will be no accusation against us." Long silence followed. "Where are those horses which Stanislav gave you?" asked Pan Serafin. The brothers began their confession a third time,-- "We have sinned, benefactor, we have sinned!" Pan Serafin walked with long strides through the chamber. "Now I understand," said he, "why ye did not bring Stashko's letter. He wrote me that various sad things had happened you, and he predicted your return, thinking that ye would need money for horses and outfits, but how ye would end was unknown to him." "So it is, benefactor," said Yan. Men now brought in heated wine, to which the brothers betook themselves with great willingness, for they were road weary. Still they were frightened by the silence of Pan Serafin, who was striding up and down in the chamber, his face severe and gloomy. So again Marek spoke to him,-- "Your grace, my benefactor, has asked about Stanislav's horses. Two of them foundered before we reached Groyets, for we galloped all the way in a terrible windstorm; we sold them for a trifle to Jew wagoners, for the beasts were no good after foundering. And we had not a coin to keep the souls in us; since we left in such a hurry Pan Stanislav had no time to assist us. Then strengthened a little we rode farther, two men on each animal. But your grace will understand this. We met then some noble on the road, and immediately he seized his side, laughing. 'What kind of Jerusalem nobles are these?' asked he. And we from such terrible scornfulness were ready for anything. So we had endless encounters and fights till we came to Bialobregi, where for dear peace we sold the last two of our crowbaits; then, when people wondered at our travelling on foot we replied that we were making that journey through a vow of devotion. So forgive us now like a father, for there are not more ill-fated men in this world, as I think, than we brothers." "It is true! it is true!" exclaimed Mateush and Lukash; while Yan, the youngest, moved by remembrance of past suffering, and wine, raised his voice, and cried,-- "We are orphans of the Lord! What is left now in this world to us?" "Nothing but brotherly love," put in Marek. And they fell to embracing one another, shedding bitter tears as they did so; then all drew up to Pan Serafin, but Marek seized his knees before the others. "Oh, father," said he, "our first-born protector, be not angry. Lend us once more for the levy, and from plunder, God grant, we will give it back faithfully; if you lend not--it is well also, but be not angry, only forgive us! Forgive us through that great friendship which we cherish for Stashko; for I tell you, let any man harm even one of Stashko's fingers, we will bear that man apart on our sabres! Is this not true, dearest brothers?--on our sabres?" "Give him hither, the son of a such a one!" cried Mateush, Lukash, and Yan. Pan Serafin halted before them, put his hand on his forehead, and answered in these words,-- "I am angry, it is true! but less angry than grief-stricken; for when I think that in this Commonwealth there are many such men as ye, the heart in me is straitened, and I ask myself: Will this mother of ours have the power with such children to meet the attacks which are threatening her? Ye wish to implore me, and ye expect my forgiveness. By the living God! it is not a question here of me, and not of my horses, but of something a hundred times greater, a question of the public weal, and the future of this Commonwealth; and of this, that ye do not understand the position, that even such a thought has not come to you; and since there are thousands such as ye are, the greater is the sorrow and the keener the anxiety, the more dreadful the desperation both of me and each honest son of this country--" "For God's sake, benefactor! How have we sinned against the country?" "How? By lawlessness, license, by riot and drunkenness. Oh! With us, people treat such things over lightly, and do not see how the pestilence is spreading, how the walls of this lordly building are weakened, and our heads are endangered by the ceiling. War is approaching; it is not known yet whether the foe will turn his power against us directly--but, ye Christian soldiers, what is the best that ye are doing? The trumpet is calling you to battle, but in your heads there is nothing save wine and lawlessness. With a glad heart ye cut down the guardians of that law which gives order of some kind. Who established those laws? Nobles. Who trampled them? Nobles! How can this country move to the field of glory, if this advance post of Christianity is inhabited not by warriors but drunkards, not by citizens but roysterers and rioters?" Here Pan Serafin stopped and, pressing his hand to his forehead, walked again with great steps through the chamber. The brothers glanced at one another in amazement and confusion, for they had not thought to hear from him anything of that sort. But he sighed deeply and continued,-- "Ye were called out against pagans, and ye spill the blood of Christians; ye were summoned in defence of this country, and ye have gone out as its enemies, for it is evident that the greater the disorder in a fortress, the weaker is the fortress. Fortunately there are still honest children of this mother, but of men such as ye there are, as I have said, many legions; for here not freedom, but riot is nourishing, not obedience, but impunity, not stern discipline, but wantonness, not love of country, but self-seeking; for here diets are broken, here the treasury is plundered, disorder increases, and civil wars like unbridled horses trample the country; hence drunken heads are fixing its fortunes; here is oppression of peasants, and from high to low lawlessness so that my heart bleeds, and I fear defeat, with God's anger as the consequence." "In God's name must we hang ourselves?" cried Lukash. Pan Serafin measured the chamber a number of times with his steps yet, and spoke on, as if it were to himself, and not to the Bukoyemskis,-- "Through the length and the breadth of this Commonwealth there is one immense feast, and on the wall an unknown hand is now writing: 'Mane--Tekel--Fares.' Wine is flowing, but blood and tears also are flowing. I am not the only person who sees this, I am not the only man predicting evil, but it is vain to put a light before the sightless, or sing songs to those who have no hearing." Silence followed. The four brothers stared now at one another, and now at Pan Serafin with increasing confusion; at last Lukash said in a low voice to the other three,-- "May I split, if I understand anything!" "And may I split!" "And may I!" "If we could drink a couple of times--" "Quiet, do not mention it--" "Let us go home." "Let us go." "With the forehead to your grace, our benefactor!" said Marek, pushing out in front and bending down to the knees of Pan Serafin. "But whither?" "To Lesnichovka. God help us." "And I will help you," said Pan Serafin; "but such grief seized me that I had to pour it out. Go upstairs, gentlemen,--rest; later on ye will learn my decision." An hour later he commanded to drive to Father Voynovski's. The priest was scandalized no little by the deeds of the Bukoyemskis, but at moments he could not restrain himself from laughter, for having served many years in the army he recalled various happenings which had met him and his comrades. But he could not forgive the brothers for drinking away the horses. "A soldier will often run riot," said he, "but to drink away his horse! that is treason to the service. I will tell the Bukoyemskis that I should have been glad if martial law had taken the heads from their shoulders, and that certainly would have given an example to rioters, but I confess to you that I should have been sorry, for all four are splendid fellows. I know from of old what men are, and I can say in advance what each is good for. As to the Bukoyemskis, it will be unhealthy for those pagans who strike breast to breast with them in battle. What do you think to do with them?" "I will not leave them without rescue, but I think if I were to send them off alone the same kind of thing might meet them a second time." "True!" said the priest. "Hence it has occurred to me to go with them, and give them straight into the hands of the captain. Once with the flag and under discipline, they can grant themselves nothing." "True, this is a splendid idea! Take them to Cracow; there the regiments will assemble. As I live I will go with you! Thus we shall see our boys, and come back with more pleasantness." At this Pan Serafin laughed, and said,-- "Your grace will come back alone." "How is that?" "I am going myself to the war." "Do you wish to serve again in the army?" asked Father Voynovski, in astonishment. "Yes, and no; for it is one thing to go to the army and make a career out of service, and another to go on a single expedition. Of course, I am old, but older than I have gone to the ranks more than once in reply to Gradiva's trumpet. I have sent my only son, that is true, but it is not possible to yield up too much for the country. Thus did my fathers think, therefore, that Mother showed them the greatest honor at her disposal. Hence my last copper coin, and my last drop of blood are now ready to be sacrificed for her sake! Should it come to die--think, your grace, what nobler death, what greater happiness could meet me? A man must die once, and is there not greater pleasure in dying on the field of glory, at the side of one's son, than in bed; to die from a sabre or a bullet than from sickness; in addition fighting against pagans for the faith and the country?" Then Pan Serafin, moved by his own words, opened his arms and repeated,-- "God grant this! God grant this!" Then Father Voynovski took him in his arms, and pressing him, said,-- "God grant that in this Commonwealth there be as many men like you as possible; there are not many as honorable, more honorable there are none whatever. It is true that it becomes a noble better to die on the field than in bed, and in old times every man held that idea, but to-day worse times have come on us. The country and the faith are one immense altar, and a man is a morsel of myrrh, predestined for burning to the glory of that altar. Yes, times are worse at the present. Then war is nothing new to you?" Pan Serafin felt his breast, and continued,-- "I have here a few wounds from sabres and shots of the old time." "It would be pleasanter for me to defend the flag," said Father Voynovski, "than listen to old women's sins in this neighborhood. And more than one of them tells me such nonsense, just as if she had come to shake out fleas at confession. When a man commits sin he has at least something to speak about, and all the more if he is a soldier! When I took this robe of a priest I became a chaplain in the regiment of Pan Modlishevski. Ah, I remember that well. Between one absolution of sins and another there was sometimes a shooting in the teeth, or blades were drawn. Ah, there was great need of chaplains in that time. I should like now to go, but my parish is large, and there is a tempest of work in it; the vicar is wilful but worst of all is a wound from a gunshot, which I received long ago, and which does not let me stay more than an hour in the saddle." "I should be happy to have a comrade," said Pan Serafin, "but I understand that even without that wound your grace could not leave the parish." "Well, I shall see. In a couple of days I will ride and learn how long I can stay in the saddle. Something may have straightened out in me. But who will look to the management at Yedlinka?" "I have a forester, a simple man, but so honest that he might almost be canonized." "I know; that one who is followed by wild beasts. Some say that he is a wizard; you know better, however. But he is old and sickly." "I wish to take also that Vilchopolski who on a time served Pan Gideon. Perhaps you remember him? a young noble who lost one foot, but he is vigorous and daring. Krepetski removed him because he was too independent. He came to me two days ago offering his service, and to-day I will agree with him surely. Pan Gideon did not like him, since the man would not let any one blow on his pudding, but Pan Gideon praised his activity and faithfulness." "What is to be heard in Belchantska?" "I have not been there for some time. It is clear that Vilchopolski does not praise the Krepetskis, but I had no chance to inquire about everything in detail." "I will look in there to-morrow, though they are not over glad to behold me, and then I will return to rub the ears of the Bukoyemskis. I will command them to come to confession, and for penance the whips will be moving. Let them give one another fifty lashes; that will be good for them." "It will, that is certain. But now I must take farewell of your grace because of Vilchopolski." Then Pan Serafin shortened his belt-strap, so that his sabre might not be in the way when he was entering the wagon. A moment later he was on the road moving toward Yedlinka, thinking meanwhile of his expedition, and smiling at the thought that he would work stirrup to stirrup with his one son, against pagans. After he had passed Belchantska he saw two horses under packs, and a trunk-laden wagon which Vilchopolski was driving. He commanded the young man to sit over into his wagon, and then he inquired,-- "Are you leaving Belchantska already?" Vilchopolski pointed to the trunks, and wishing to prove that though he served he was not without learning, he said,-- "See, your grace, _omnia mea mecum porto_" (I am taking all my things with me). "Then was there such a hurry?" "There was not a hurry, but there was need; therefore I accept all your grace's conditions with pleasure, and in case you go away, as you have mentioned, I will guard your house and possessions with faithfulness." Pan Serafin was pleased with the answer and the daring, firm face of the young man; so, after a moment of meditation, he added,-- "Of faithfulness I have no doubt, for I know that you are a noble, but inexperience I fear, and incautiousness. In Yedlinka one must sit like a stone, and watch day and night, because it is almost in the wilderness, and in great forests there is no lack of bandits, who at times attack houses." "I do not wish an attack upon Yedlinka, but for myself I should like it, to convince your grace that courage and alertness would not be lacking on my part." "You look as though you had both," said Pan Serafin. He was silent a while, and then continued,-- "There is one other thing of importance of which to forewarn you. Pan Gideon is in God's hands at the present, and touching the dead nothing save that which is good may be mentioned; but it is known that he was hard to his people. Father Voynovski blamed him for this, and there was variance between them. The sweat of the peasant was not spared in Belchantska; trials were short and punishment grievous. We will be outspoken--there was oppression, and his agents were too cruel with people. This is not my case, be sure of that; there must be discipline, but paternal. I look on excessive severity as a great sin against God and the country. Fix it well in your mind that a man is not curds, and it is not allowable to press him too cruelly. I do not wring out people's tears--and I remember that before God all are equal." A moment of silence followed. Vilchopolski seized Pan Serafin's hand and put his lips to it. "I see that you understand me," said Pan Serafin. "I understand, your grace; and I answer, More than a hundred times I wanted to say to Pan Gideon: 'Find another manager;' more than a hundred times I wanted to go from his service, but--well, I could not do so." "Why was that? Is there a lack of work in the world?" Vilchopolski was confused and spoke as if fear had seized hold of him. "It did not happen--I could not go--day after day I loitered. Besides, there was severity, and there was not." "How was that?" "The people were driven to work, it is true, no one could prevent that; but as to flogging, I will say briefly that instead of whips straw ropes were used on them." "Who was so merciful--you?" "No. But I chose to obey the will of an angel, not that of a devil." "I understand, but tell me whose will?" "Panna Anulka's." "Ah! so it was she?" "Really an angel. She too was in dread of Pan Gideon, who in recent times only began to regard what she told him. But all loved her so much that each man exposed himself to Pan Gideon's anger rather than refuse what she asked of him." "May God bless her for that! So you all conspired against Pan Gideon?" "Yes, your grace." "And it was not discovered?" "It was discovered once, but I did not betray the young lady. Pan Gideon flogged me himself, for I declared to him that if any other man flogged, or if he flogged me except on a carpet, I, a noble, would let his house up in smoke, and shoot him besides that. And it would have been done as I promised, even had I to join forest bandits in consequence." "You please me for this," said Pan Serafin. "More than once I found it difficult to stay with Pan Gideon," continued Vilchopolski; "but in the house there was simply one of God's cherubim, and so, though a man might wish to go, he would stay there. After that, as the young lady grew up Pan Gideon gave her more consideration, and recently he gave thought to no one save Panna Anulka. He knew often that she commanded to give wheat to the poor from the granary, then, as I have said, she had straw used instead of whips; besides, she had labor remitted; he affected not to notice it. At last he was so much ashamed that she had no need to do anything in secret. She was a real protector of people, and for that reason may God, as you have said, bless and save her." "Why do you say 'save'?" inquired Pan Serafin. "Because it is worse for her now than it has been." "Have the fear of God! What is the danger?" "The two women are terrible. Young Krepetski himself restrains them apparently, but I know why he does this; but let him be careful, some one may shoot him down like a dog if he is not." It was deep night then, but very clear, for the full moon was shining, and by the light of it Pan Serafin saw that the eyes of the young man were glittering like wolf eyes. "What dost thou know of him?" asked Pan Serafin, with curiosity. "I know that he removed me not merely for my independence, but because I watched and listened carefully to what people in the house said. I went away because I had to go, but Belchantska is not far from Yedlinka, and in case of need--" Here he was silent, and on the road was heard only the sound of the pines as they were moved by the night wind. CHAPTER XVI AT Belchantska it was not only evil for the young woman, but worse and worse daily. A good deal of time had passed since that moment in which old Pan Gideon had noticed that Martsian gazed at the young girl with too much of a "goat's look," and had driven him from the mansion. Later on, Martsian saw her at church, and sometimes at the houses of neighbors, and always her beauty of springtime roused fresh desires in him. Now when he was living under one roof with her, when he saw her daily, he fell in love in his own way, that is, with the beastlike desire, and that feeling of which he was alone capable. A change had taken place in his wishes. His first intent had been to bring the girl to shame, and then marry her only in case that a will should be found in her favor. Now he was ready to go with her to the altar, if he could in any case have and possess her forever. Reason, which when urged by desire becomes its obedient assistant, told him, moreover, that a young lady bearing the name of Sieninski was, although dowerless, a match of great moment. But even if reason had told him the opposite, Martsian would not have listened, for as each day appeared he lost some part of his self-mastery. He burnt, he raged, and if up to that time he had restrained himself from violence it was only because desire, even the most urgent, craves and yearns for a willing surrender, and is charmed with the thought of mutuality in which it sees the highest pleasure, and deceives itself even when there is no cause whatever for doing so. Thus Krepetski deceived himself, and thus he pampered his wishes with pictures of that blissful moment in which the young lady would herself, radiant and willing, incline to his embraces. But he dreaded to lose should he risk all on the hazard of a trial, and when he put to himself in spirit this question, What would follow? fear seized him in presence of himself, and in presence of the terror which would threaten him; for the laws of the Commonwealth guarding the honor of woman were pitiless, and around him were sabres of nobles by the hundred, which would flash above his head most unfailingly. But he felt also that the hour might come in which he would care for nothing, since in his insolent, wild spirit there was hidden a craving for battle, and a hunger for peril; so not without a certain charm for him was the picture of a great throng of nobles besieging Belchantska--the flame of conflagration above him, and a red executioner standing, axe in hand, somewhere off in the mist of a distant city. And thus desire, dread, and also a longing for battle struggled like three whirlwinds within him. At the same time, wishing to give exit to that storm, and to cool that flood which was seething in his person as water in a caldron, he grew mad, wallowed in riot throughout village inns, rode down his horses, fell upon people, and drank to kill in every dramshop of Radom, Prityk, and Yedlina. He collected around him a company of road-blockers, who did not go to the war because of evil fame, or of poverty. He paid these men and tyrannized over them; he did this thinking that such a mob might be useful in the future, but he did not admit any man of them to confidence, and never mentioned in their presence the name of the young lady. Once when a certain Vysh, from some Vyshkov of unknown situation, mentioned her in rude, obscene fashion, Martsian slashed the fellow on his snout and drew blood from him. Martsian galloped home at breakneck speed, and usually about daylight. But that mad riding sobered him thoroughly. He dropped down in his clothes to the horse skin which covered his bed, and slept like a stone for some hours on it; when he rose he put on his best garments, went then to the women, and strove to please the young lady, whom his eyes did not leave for one moment, he meanwhile rousing desire, while his glances crawled over her person. And more than once, when he was alone with Anulka, his lips were pushed forward, his arms of monstrous length quivered as if powerless against his wish to seize hold of her; his voice became stifled, his words became insolent, vague, and double-meaning; through them circled both flattery and an ill-restrained threatening. But Anulka feared him simply as she would have feared a tamed wolf, or a bear, and with difficulty did she hide the repulsion with which the sight of him filled her. For in spite of the parrot-like colors in which he arrayed himself, in spite of the shining jewels at his neck, and the costly flageolet which he never let slip from his fingers, he looked worse each day, and more repulsive. Sleepless nights, rioting, drinking, and flaming desires had placed on him their impress. He grew thin, his shoulders drooped, through this his arms, long by nature, seemed longer, so that his hands reached below his knees and were beyond human proportions. His gigantic trunk was like a knotty section of a tree trunk, and his short bow-legs bent still more from mad riding. Moreover, the skin of his face took on a kind of green pallor, and because of his sunken cheeks, his protruding eyes and pouting lips were pushed forward phenomenally. He became simply dreadful to look at, especially when he laughed, for from his eyeballs when lighted with laughter looked out a kind of nervous, unrestrained threat and malice. But the feeling of her misfortune, deep sadness, and unhappiness produced in Anulka a dignity of which she had not a trace somewhat earlier. This dignity imposed on Krepetski. Once she had been a twittering maiden, active all day as a water-mill; now she had learned to be silent, and her eyes had a fixity of expression. So, though her heart trembled often from fear of Krepetski, she restrained him by her calm glance and her silence. He drew back then as if fearing to offend such a majesty. It is true that she seemed to him still more desirable, but also more difficult of access. She, however, feeling that from him immense danger was threatening, and later on being perfectly convinced of this, strove to avoid him, to be alone with him the shortest time possible, to turn away conversation from things which might facilitate confession, and finally she had the boldness sometimes to indicate that she was not by any means abandoned and left to the favor or ill-will of fortune, as it might seem to him. She avoided even memories of Yatsek, understanding that after what had passed between them he could not be then, and would not be ever a defence to her. She felt besides that every word touching him would rouse hatred and anger in Martsian. But having noted that the Krepetskis were careful of the prelate, and looked as if with secret dread on him, she let it be understood frequently that she was under his special protection, which rose from a secret agreement which, in view of every contingency, Pan Gideon had concluded. The prelate, who from time to time came to Belchantska, aided her notably, for he turned to the Krepetskis with pleasure, since he was studying mankind; he expressed himself with mystery, and quoted subtle phrases in Latin; he reminded Martsian of various things which that young man might interpret as suited him. But a great point was this: The servants and the whole village loved the "young lady." People considered the Krepetskis as intruders, and her as the genuine inheritor. All feared Martsian, except Vilchopolski. But even after the removal of that young noble, the unseen care of the people went, as it were, with Anulka, and Martsian understood that the fear which he roused had its limit, beyond which for him would begin real danger. He understood also that Vilchopolski, whose eyes had a daring expression, would not go far from Belchantska, and that if the young lady should be in need of defence he would not draw back before anything; hence he confessed to himself that she was not really so deserted by every one as at first he had thought, and as on a time he had told his old father. "Who will take her part? No one!" said he, when the old man commanded him to remember the terrible punishments which the laws threatened for an attempt on the honor of a woman. At last he understood that there were such defenders. That raised one more obstacle, but obstacles and perils were only an incitement to a nature like Martsian's. He deceived himself yet, thinking that he would move the young lady and make her love him; but there came moments in which he saw, as clearly as a thing on the palm, that he was quite powerless; and then he raged, as said the comrades of his revels, and had it not been for a certain dull, but strong and irresistible foreboding that if he attacked the girl he should lose her forever, he would long ere that have set free the wild beast within him. And in just those times did he drink without measure and memory. Meanwhile relations in the house had become unendurable, seasoned with bitterness and poison. The Krepetski old maids hated Anulka, not only because she was younger than they and more beautiful, but because people loved her, and because Martsian took her part for every reason, and even for no reason. They flamed up at last with implacable hatred toward their brother; but seeing that Anulka never complained, they tortured her all the more stubbornly. Once Agneshka burnt her with a red-hot shovel, as if by accident. Martsian, hearing of this through the servants, went to ask pardon of the young lady, and beg her to seek his protection at all times; but he pushed up to her with such insistence, and fell to kissing her hand with such greed and so disgustingly, that she fled from him, unable to repress her abhorrence. Thereupon he broke into a rage and beat his sister so viciously that for two days she feigned illness. The two "heiresses" as they were called at the mansion did not spare biting words on the young lady, or open inventions and humiliations, taking vengeance in this way for all they were forced to endure from their brother. But out of hatred for Martsian they warned her against him, censuring her at the same time for yielding to his wishes, for they saw that with nothing could they wound and offend her so painfully as with this implication. The house became a hell for her, and every hour in it a torment. Hatred toward those people, who themselves hated one another, was poisoning even her heart. She began to think of a cloister, but she kept the thought in her bosom, for she knew that they would not let her enter one, and that by unfettering Martsian's anger she would expose herself to great peril. Alarm and fear of danger dwelt in her continually, and produced the desire of death, a desire which she had never felt previously. Meanwhile each day added to her cup new drops of bitterness. Once, early in the morning, Agneshka surprised Martsian looking through the keyhole of the orphan's chamber. He withdrew gritting his teeth and threatening with his fist, but the "heiress" called her sister immediately, and the two, finding the girl still undressed, began to torment her, as usual. "Thou didst know that he was standing there," said the elder, "for the floor squeaks outside the door, and there is a noise when any one stands near it; but to thee, as is clear, his presence was agreeable." "Bah! he licked his lips before dainties, and she did not hide them," interrupted Agneshka. "Hast thou no fear of God, shameless creature?" "Such a one should be put before the church at a pillory." "And expelled from the mansion." "Sodom and Gomorrah!" "Tfu!" "And when will the need be to send to Radom for a woman?" "What sort of a name wilt thou give it?" "Tfu! thou dish-rag!" And they spat on her. The heart stormed up in the hapless maiden, for the measure was passed then. "Be off!" cried she, pointing to the door. But her face grew pale as linen, and darkness fell on her eyes; for a moment it seemed to her that she was flying into some gulf without bottom, then she lost consciousness, feeling, and memory. On recovering she found herself wet from water which had been poured on her, and her breast pinched in places. The faces of the old maids bending over her showed fear, but after a while they felt reassured when they saw that she was conscious. "Complain, complain!" said Johanna. "Thy paramour will defend thee." "And thou wilt thank him in thy own way." Setting her teeth Anulka answered no syllable. But Martsian divined all that must have happened upstairs, for some hours later from the chancellery, where he had shut himself in with his sisters, came howls from which the whole mansion was terrified. In the afternoon, when old Krepetski came, the two sisters fell with a scream to his knees imploring him to remove them from that den of profligacy and torture. But he to the same degree that he loved his youngest daughter hated the elder ones; so he not only took no pity on the ill-fated hags, but he called for sticks, and compelled them to stay there. The only being in that terrible house in whom Johanna and Agneshka, if they had wished to be friendly and kind, might have found compassion, sympathy, and even protection, was Panna Anulka. But they preferred to torment the poor girl, and gloat over her, for, with the exception of Tekla, that was a family in which each member did all in his or her power to poison the life and increase the misfortune of the others. But Panna Anulka feared the love of Martsian more than the hatred of his sisters. And he thrust himself more and more on her, pushed himself forward more and more shamelessly, was more and more insistent, and gazed at her more and more greedily. It had become clear that he was ceasing to command himself, that wild desire was tearing him as a whirlwind tears a tree, and that he might give way at any moment. In fact that moment came soon. Once, after warm weather had grown settled, Anulka went at daybreak to bathe in the shady river; before undressing she saw Martsian's face on the opposite bank sticking out from thick bushes. That instant she rushed away breathlessly. He pursued her, but trying to spring over the water he failed and fell into it; he was barely able to climb out, and went home drenched to the very last thread of his clothing. Before dinner he had beaten a number of servants till the blood came; during dinner he said not a word to any person. Only at the end of the meal did he turn to his sisters,-- "Leave me alone," said he, "with Panna Anulka; I have to talk with her on matters of importance." The sisters, on hearing this, looked at each other significantly, and the young lady grew pale from amazement; though he had long tried to seize every moment in which he might be alone with her, he had never let himself ask for such a moment openly. When the sisters had gone he rose, looked beyond one door and another, to convince himself that no one was listening, then he drew up to Anulka. "Give me your hand," said he, "and be reconciled." She drew back both hands unconsciously, and pushed away from him. Martsian's wish for calmness was evident, but he sprang forward twice on his bow-legs, for he could never abandon that habit, and said, with a voice full of effort,-- "You are unwilling! But to-day I came very near drowning for your sake. I beg your pardon for that fright, but it was not caused by any bad reason. Mad dogs began yesterday to run between Vyrambki and this mansion, and I took a gun to make sure of your safety." Anulka's knees trembled under her a little, but she said with good presence of mind and with calmness,-- "I want no protection which would bring only shame to me." "I should like to defend you, not merely now, but till death and at all times! Not offending God, but with His blessing. Dost understand me?" A moment of silence followed this question. Through the open window came the sound of cutting wood, made by an old lame man attached to the kitchen. "I do not understand." "Because thou hast no wish to understand," replied Martsian. "Thou seest this long time that I cannot live without thee. Thou art as needful to me as this air is for breathing. To me thou art wonderful, and dear above all things. I cannot exist--without thee I shall burn up and vanish! If I had not restrained myself I should have grabbed thee long ago as a hawk grabs a dove. It grows dry in my throat without thee, as it does without water--everything in me quivers toward thee. I cannot sleep, I cannot live--see here even now--" And he stopped, for his teeth were chattering as if in a fever. He had a spasm, he caught at the arms of the chair with his bony fingers, as if fearing to fall, and panted some time very loudly. Then he continued,-- "Thou lackest fortune--that is nothing! I have enough. I need not fortune, but thee. Dost thou wish to be mistress in this mansion? Thou wert to marry Pan Gideon; I am not worse, as I think, than Pan Gideon. But do not say no! do not, by the living God, do not say it, for I cannot tell what will happen. Thou art wonderful! thou, my--!" He knelt quickly, embraced her knees with his two hands, and pressed them toward his bosom. But, beyond even her own expectation, Anulka's fear vanished without a trace in that terrible moment. The knightly blood began to act in her; readiness for battle to the last breath was roused in the woman. Her hands pushed back with all force his sweat-covered forehead, which was nestling up toward her knees at that moment. "No! no! I would rather die a thousand deaths! No!" He rose up, pallid, his hair erect, his mustache quivering. Beneath the mustache were glittering his long decayed teeth, and for a time he was filled with cold rage as he stood there; but still he controlled himself, still presence of mind did not desert him entirely. But when Anulka pushed toward the door on a sudden, he stopped the way to her. "Is this true?" inquired he, with a hoarse voice. "Thou wilt not have me? Wilt thou repeat that once more to me, to my eyes? Wilt thou not have me?" "I will not! And do not threaten, for I feel no fear." "I do not threaten thee, but I want to take thee as wife, nay more, I beg thee bethink thyself! By the living God, bethink thyself!" "In what am I to bethink myself? I am free, I have my will, and I say before your eyes: Never!" He approached her, so nearly that his face pushed up to hers, and he continued,-- "Then perhaps instead of being mistress, thou dost choose to carry wood to the kitchen? Or dost thou not wish it? How will it be, O noble lady! To which of thy estates wilt thou go from this mansion? And if thou stay, whose bread wilt thou eat here; on whose kindness wilt thou live? In whose power wilt thou find thyself? Whose bed, whose chamber is that in which thou art sleeping? What will happen if I command to remove the door fastenings? And dost thou ask in what thou art to bethink thyself? In this: which thou art to choose!--marriage, or no marriage!" "Ruffian!" screamed Panna Anulka. But now happened something unheard of. Seized with sudden fury, Krepetski bellowed with a voice that was not human, and seizing the girl by the hair he began with a certain wild and beastly relish to beat her without mercy or memory. The longer he had mastered himself up to that time, the more did his madness seem wild then, and terrible; at that moment beyond doubt he would have killed the young lady had it not been that to her cries for assistance servants burst into the chamber. First that man cutting wood at the kitchen broke in with an axe through the window, after him came kitchen servants, the two sisters, the butler, and two of Pan Gideon's old servitors. The butler was a noble from a distant village in Mazovia, moreover, a man of rare strength, though rather aged; he caught Martsian's arms from behind, and drew them so mightily that the elbows almost met at his shoulders. "This is not permitted, your grace!" exclaimed he. "It is infamous!" "Let me go!" roared Krepetski. But the iron hands held him as in vices, and a serious, low voice was heard near his ear,-- "I will break your bones unless you restrain yourself!" Meanwhile the sisters led, or rather carried the young lady from the chamber. "Come to the chancellery to rest," said the butler. "I advise your grace earnestly." And he pushed the man before him as he would a child, while Martsian, with chattering teeth, moved on with his short legs, crying for a halter and the hangman; but he could not resist, for a moment later he had grown so weak all at once, from the outburst, that he was unable even to stand unassisted. So, when the butler in the chancellery threw him on the horse skin with which the bed was covered, Martsian did not even try to rise; he lay there panting with heaving sides, like a horse after over-exertion. "Something to drink!" shouted he. The butler opened the door, called a boy, and, whispering some words, gave him keys: the lad returned with a pint glass and a demijohn of brandy. The butler filled the glass to the brim, sniffed at it, and said approaching Martsian,-- "Drink, your grace." Krepetski seized it with both hands, but they trembled so that liquor dropped on his breast; then the butler raised him, put the glass to his lips, and inclined it. He drank and drank, holding the glass greedily when the butler tried to remove it from his mouth. At last he drank all, and fell backward. "It may be too much," said the butler, "but you had become very weak when I gave it." Though Martsian wished to say something, he merely hissed in the air, like a man who has burnt his mouth with too hot a liquid. "Eh," said the butler, "you owe me a good gift, for I have shown no petty service. God preserve us, if anything is done--in such an affair it is the axe and the executioner, not to mention this, that misfortune might happen here any minute. The people love that young lady beyond measure. And it will be difficult to hide what has been done from the prelate, though I will tell all to be silent. How do you feel?" Martsian looked at him with staring eyes and open mouth as he panted. Once and a second time he tried to say something, then hiccoughing seized him, his eyes grew expressionless, he closed his lids on a sudden, and then began a rattling in his throat as if the man were dying. "Sleep, or die, dirty dog!" growled the butler as he looked at him. And he went from the room to the outbuildings. Half an hour later he returned and knocked at the young lady's chamber. Finding the two sisters with her he said to them,-- "Ladies, perhaps you would look in a moment at the chancellery, for the young lord has grown very feeble. But if he sleeps it is better not to wake him." Then when alone with Panna Anulka he inclined to her knees, and said,-- "Young lady, there is need to flee from this mansion. All is ready." And she, though broken and barely able to stand on her feet, sprang up in one instant. "It is well, and I am ready! Save me!" "I will conduct you to a wagon which is waiting beyond the river. To-night I will bring your clothing. Pan Krepetski is as drunk as Bela, and will lie like a dead man till morning. Only take a cloak, and let us go. No one will stop us; have no fear on that point." "God reward! God reward!" repeated she, feverishly. They went out through the garden to that gate by which Yatsek used to enter from Vyrambki. On the way the butler said to her,-- "Long ago Vilchopolski arranged with the servants that if an attack upon you were attempted, they would set fire to the granary. Pan Krepetski would be forced to the fire, and you would have time to escape through the garden to a place beyond the river, where a man was to wait with a wagon. But it is better not to burn anything. To set fire is a crime, no matter what happens. Krepetski will be like a stone until morning, so no pursuit threatens you." "Where are we going?" "To Pan Serafin's; defence there is easy. Vilchopolski is there. So are the Bukoyemskis and other foresters. Krepetski will try to take you back, but will fail. And later on Pan Serafin will conduct you to Radom, or farther. That will be settled with the priests. Here is the wagon! Fear no pursuit. It is not far to Yedlinka, and God gives a wonderful evening. I will bring your clothing to-night. If they try to stop me I will not mind them. May the Most Holy Mother, the guardian and protectress of orphans conduct you!" And taking her by the hand like a child, he seated her in the wagon. "Move on!" cried he to the driver. It was growing dark in the world, and the twilight of evening was quenching, but from the remnant of its rays the stars in the clear sky were rosy. The calm evening was filled with the odors of the earth, of leaves, and of blossoming alders, while nightingales were filling with their song, as with a warm rain of spring, the garden, the trees, and the whole region. CHAPTER XVII That evening Pan Serafin was sitting on a bench in the front of his mansion, entertaining Father Voynovski, who had come after evening prayers to see him, and the four Bukoyemskis, who were stopping then permanently at Yedlinka. Before them on a table, with legs crossed like the letter X, stood a pitcher of mead and some glasses. They, while listening to the murmur of the forest, were drinking from time to time and conversing of the war, raising their eyes to the heavens in which the sickle of the moon was shining clearly. "Thanks to your grace, our benefactor, we shall be ready soon for the road," said Mateush Bukoyemski. "What has happened is passed. Even saints have their failings; then how must it be with frail men, who without the grace of God can do nothing? But when I look at that moon, which forms the Turkish standard, my fist is stung as if mosquitoes were biting. Well, God grant a man to gratify his hands at the earliest." The youngest Bukoyemski fell to thinking. "Why is it, my reverend benefactor," asked he at last, "that Turks cherish some kind of worship for the moon, and bear it on their standards?" "But have not dogs some devotion toward the moon also?" asked the priest. "Of course, but why should the Turks have it?" "Just because they are dog-brothers." "Well, as God is dear to me, that explains all," said the young man, looking at the moon then in wonderment. "But the moon is not to blame," said the host, "and it is delightful to gaze at it when in the calm of night it paints all the trees with its beams, as if some one had coated them with silver. I love greatly to sit by myself on such a night, gaze at the sky, and marvel at the Lord God's almightiness." "Yes, at such times the soul flies on wings, as it were, to its Creator," said Father Voynovski. "God in his mercy created the moon as well as the sun, and what an immense benefaction. As to the sun, well, everything is visible in the daytime, but if there were no moon people would break their necks in the night if they travelled, not to mention this, that in perfect darkness devilish wickedness would be greater by far than it is at the present." They were silent for a while and passed over the peaceful sky with their eyes; the priest took a pinch of snuff then, and added,-- "Fix this in your memories, gentlemen, that a kind Providence thinks not only of the needs, but the comfort of people." The rattle of wheels, which in the night stillness reached their ears very clearly, interrupted the conversation. Pan Serafin rose from his seat. "God is bringing some guest," said he, "for the whole household is here. I am curious to know who it may be." "Surely some one with news from our lads," added Father Voynovski. All rose, and thereupon a wagon drawn by two horses entered in through the gateway. "Some woman is on the seat," called out Lukash. "That is true." The wagon passed through half the courtyard and stopped at the entrance. Pan Serafin looked at the face of the woman, recognized it in the wonderful moonlight, and cried,-- "Panna Anulka!" And he almost lifted her in his arms from the wagon, then she bent at once to his knees, and burst into weeping. "An orphan!" cried she, "who begs for rescue and a refuge!" Then she nestled up to his knees, embraced them with still greater vigor, and sobbed more complainingly. Such great astonishment seized every man there, that for a time no one uttered a syllable; at last Pan Serafin raised the orphan and pressed her to his heart. "While there is breath in my nostrils," cried he, "I will be to thee a father. But tell me what has happened? Have they driven thee from Belchantska?" "Krepetski has beaten me, and threatened me with infamy," answered she, in a voice barely audible. Father Voynovski, who was there very near her, heard this answer. "Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews!" exclaimed he, seizing his white hair with both hands. The four Bukoyemskis gazed with open mouths, and eyes bursting from their sockets, but understood nothing. Their hearts were moved at once, it is true, by the weeping of the orphan, but they considered that Panna Anulka had wrought foul injustice on Yatsek. They remembered also the teaching of Father Voynovski, that woman is the cause of all evil. So they looked at one another inquiringly, as if hoping that some clear idea would come, if not to one, to another of them. At last words came to Marek. "Well, now, here is Krepetski for you. But in every case that Martsian will get from us a----, or won't he?" And he seized at his left side, and, following his example, the other three brothers began to feel for the hilts of their sabres. Meanwhile, Pan Serafin had led in the young lady and committed her to Pani Dzvonkovski, his housekeeper, a woman of sensitive heart and irrepressible eloquence, and explained to her that she was to concern herself with this the most notable guest that had come to them. He said that the housekeeper was to yield up her own bedroom to the lady, light the house, make a fire in the kitchen, find calming medicines and plasters for the blue spots, prepare heated wine and various dainties. He advised the young lady herself to lie down in bed until all was given her, and to rest, deferring detailed discourse till the morrow. But she desired to open her heart straightway to those gentlemen with whom she had sought rescue. She wanted to cast out immediately from her soul all that anguish which had been collecting so long in it, and that misfortune, shame, humiliation, and torture in which she had been living at Belchantska. So, shutting herself up with Father Voynovski and Pan Serafin, she spoke as if to a confessor and a father. She told them everything, both her sorrow for Yatsek, and that she had consented to marry her guardian only because she thought Yatsek had contemned her, and because she had heard from the Bukoyemskis that Yatsek was to marry Parma Zbierhovski. Finally, she explained what her life had been in Belchantska,--or rather, what her sufferings had been there; she explained the torturing malice of the two sisters, the ghastly advances of Martsian, and the happenings of that day which were the cause of her flight from the mansion. And they seized their own heads while they listened. The hand of Father Voynovski, an old soldier, went to his left side involuntarily, in the manner of the Bukoyemskis, though for many a day he had not carried a weapon; but the worthy Pan Serafin put his palms on the temples of the maiden, and said to her,-- "Let him try to take thee. I had an only son, but now God has given me a daughter." Father Voynovski, who had been struck most by what she had said touching Yatsek, remembering all that had happened, could not take in the position immediately. Hence he thought and thought, smoothed with his palm the whole length of his crown which was milk-white, and then he asked finally,-- "Didst thou know of that letter which Pan Gideon wrote to Yatsek?" "I begged him to write it." "Then I understand nothing. Why didst thou do so?" "Because I wanted Yatsek to return to us." "How return?" cried the priest, with real anger. "The letter was such that just because of it Yatsek went away to the ends of the earth broken-hearted, to forget, and cast out of him that love which thou, my young lady, didst trample." Her eyes blinked from amazement, and she put her hands together, as if praying. "My guardian told me that he had written the letter of a father. O Holy Mother! What was there in it?" "Insults, contempt, a trampling upon the man's poverty and his honor. Dost understand?" Then from the gill's breast was rent a shriek of such pain and sincerity that the honest heart of the priest quivered in him. He approached her, removed the hands with which she had covered her face, and asked,-- "Then didst thou not know of this?" "I did not--I did not!" "And thou didst wish Yatsek to return to thee? "I did!" "In God's name! Why was that?" Tears as large as pearls began again to drop from her closed lashes in abundance, and quickly; her face was red from maiden shame, she caught for air with her open lips, the heart was throbbing in her as in a captured bird, and at last after great effort, she whispered,-- "Because--I love him!" "My child, is that possible!" cried out Father Voynovski. But the voice broke in his breast, for tears were choking him also. He was seized at the same instant by delight and immense compassion for the girl, and astonishment that "a woman" in this case was not the cause of all evil, but an innocent lamb on which so much suffering had fallen God knew for what reason. He caught her in his arms, pressed her to his heart. "My child! my child!" repeated he, time after time. The Bukoyemskis, meanwhile, had betaken themselves, with the glasses and pitcher, to the dining-room; had emptied the pitcher conscientiously to the bottom, and were waiting for the priest and Pan Serafin, in the hope that with their coming supper would be put on the table. They returned at last with moistened eyes and with emotion on their faces. Pan Serafin breathed deeply once, and a second time, then he said,-- "Pani Dzvonkovski is putting the poor thing to bed. Indeed, a man is unwilling to believe his own ears. We too, are to blame; but Krepetski,--what he has done is simply infamous and disgraceful. We may not let him go without punishment." "On the contrary," answered Marek, "we will talk about this with that 'stump.' Oh-ho!" Then he turned to Father Voynovski,-- "I am very sorry for her, but still, I think that God punished her for Yatsek. Is that not true?" "Thou art a fool!" called out Father Voynovski. "But how is that? Why?" The old man, whose breast was full of pity, fell to talking quickly and passionately of the innocence and suffering of the girl, as if wishing in that way to make up for the injustice which he had permitted regarding her; but after a time all discussion was interrupted by the coming of Pani Dzvonkovski, who burst into the room like a bomb into a fortress. Her face was as flooded with tears as if it had been dipped in a full bucket, and right on the threshold she fell to crying, with arms stretched out before her,-- "People, whoso believes in God! Vengeance, justice! As God lives! her dear shoulders are all in blue lumps, those shoulders once white as wafers--hair torn out by the handful, golden hair! my dearest dove! my innocent lamb! my precious little flower!" On hearing this, Mateush Bukoyemski, already excited by the narrative of Father Voynovski, bellowed out at one moment, the next he was accompanied by Marek, Lukash, and Yan till the servants rushed into the dining-hall and the dogs began to bark at the entrance. But Vilchopolski, who a moment later returned from his night review of haystacks, met now another humor of the brothers. Their hair was on end, their eyes were staring with rage, their right hands were grasping at their sabre hilts. "Blood!" shouted Lukash. "Give him hither, the son of a such a one!" "Kill him!" "On sabres with him!" And they moved toward the door as one man; but Pan Serafin sprang to the entrance and stopped them. "Halt!" cried he. "Martsian deserves not the sabre, but the headsman!" CHAPTER XVIII And he had to speak long in pacifying the angry brothers. He explained to them that were they to cut down Krepetski at once it would be the act not of nobles but assassins. "There is need first of all," said he, "to visit our neighbors, to come to an understanding with Father Tvorkovski, to have the support of the clergy and the nobles, to obtain the testimony of the servants at Belchantska, then to take the case before a tribunal, and only when the sentence is passed to stand behind it with weapons. If," continued he, "ye were to bear Martsian apart on your sabres immediately, his father would not fail to report in all places that ye did so through agreement with Panna Anulka; by this her reputation might suffer, and the old man would summon you, and, instead of going to the war, ye would have to drag around through tribunals, for, not being under the authority of the hetman as yet, ye would not escape a civil summons. That is how this matter stands at the moment." "How so?" inquired Yan, with sorrow; "then we are to let the wrong done this dove go unpunished?" "But do ye think," said the priest, "that life will be pleasant for Krepetski when infamy is hanging over him, or the axe of the headsman, and in addition when general contempt is surrounding him? That is a worse torment than a quick death would be, and I should not wish, for all the silver in Olkuts, to be in his skin at this moment." "But if he will wriggle out?" inquired Marek. "His father is an old trickster, who has won more than one lawsuit." "If he wriggles out, Yatsek on returning will whisper a word in his ear." "Ye do not know Yatsek yet! He has the eyes of a maiden, but it is safer to take her young cubs from a she-bear than to pain him unjustly." Hereupon Vilchopolski till then only listening spoke in gloomy accents,-- "Pan Krepetski has written his own sentence, whether he awaits the return of Pan Tachevski or not-- But there is another point; he will try, with armed hand, to get back the young lady, and then--" "Then we shall see!" interrupted Pan Serafin. "But let him only try! That is something quite different!" And he shook his sabre, threateningly, while the Bukoyemskis began to grit their teeth straightway. "Let him try! let him try!" said they. "But, gentlemen," said Vilchopolski, "you are going to the war." "We will arrange then in another way," replied Father Voynovski. Further conversation was interrupted by the arrival of the butler. He had brought trunks filled with the wardrobe of Panna Sieninski which, as he said, he did only with difficulty. The Krepetski sisters tried to prevent him, and even wished to wake Martsian, and keep the trunks in the mansion, but they could not wake him; and the butler persuaded them that they should not act thus, both in view of their own good and that of their brother, otherwise an action would be brought against them for robbery, and they would be summoned for damages before a tribunal. As women who do not know law they were frightened and yielded. The butler thought that Martsian would try surely to get back the young lady, but he did not think that the man would use violence immediately. "He will be restrained from that," said the butler, "by his father, who understands well the significance of _raptus puellae_. He knows nothing yet of what has happened, but from here I will go to him directly and explain the whole matter, for two reasons. First, so that he may restrain Martsian, and second, because I do not wish to be in Belchantska to-morrow when Martsian wakes and learns that I have helped the young lady in fleeing. He would rush on me surely, and then to one of us something ugly might happen." Pan Serafin and Father Voynovski praised the man's prudence and, finding that he was a well-wishing person, and experienced, a man who had eaten bread from more than one oven, and to whom law itself was no novelty, begged him to aid in examining the question. There were two councils then, one of these being formed of the four Bukoyemskis. Pan Serafin, knowing how to restrain them most easily from murderous intentions, and detain them at home, sent a large demijohn of good mead to the brothers; this they were glad to besiege at the moment, and began to drink one to another. Their hearts were moved, and they remembered involuntarily the night when Panna Anulka crossed for the first time the threshold of that house there in Yedlinka. They recalled how they had fallen in love with her straightway, how through her they had quarrelled, and then in one voice adjudged her to Stanislav, and thus made an offering of their passion to friendship. At last Mateush drank his mead, put his head on his palm, sighed, and continued,-- "Yatsek was sitting that night on a tree like a squirrel. Who could have thought then that he was just the man to whom the Lord God had given her?" "And commanded us to continue in our orphanhood," added Marek. "Do ye remember," asked Lukash, "how the rooms were all bright from her presence? They would not have been brighter from a hundred burning candles. And she at one time stood up, at another sat down, and a third time she laughed. And when she looked at a man it was as warm in his bosom as if he had drunk heated wine that same instant. Let us take a glass now on our terrible sadness." They drank again; then Mateush struck a blow with his fist on the table, and shouted,-- "Ei! if she had not loved that Yatsek so!" "Then what?" asked Yan, angrily, "dost think that she would fall in love with thee right away? Look at him--my dandy!" "Well thou art no beauty!" retorted Mateush. And they looked at each other with ill-feeling. But Lukash, though given greatly to quarrels, began now to pacify his brothers. "Not for thee, not for thee, not for any of us," said he. "Another will get her and take her to the altar." "For us there is nothing but sorrow and weeping," blurted out Marek. "Then at least we will love one another. No one in this world loves us! No one!" "No one! no one!" repeated they all in succession, mingling their wine with their tears as they said so. "But she is sleeping up there!" added Yan on a sudden. "She is sleeping, the poor little thing," responded Lukash; "she is lying down like a flower cut by the scythe, like a lamb torn by a villainous wolf. My born brothers! is there no man here who will take even a pull at the wild beast?" "It cannot be but there is!" cried out Mateush, Marek, and Yan. And again they grew indignant, and the more they drank the oftener they gritted their teeth, first one, then another, or one of them struck his fist on the table. "I have an idea!" said the youngest on a sudden. "Tell it! Have God in thy heart!" "Here it is. We have promised Pan Serafin not to cut up that 'stump.' Have we not promised?" "We have, but tell what thou hast to say; ask no questions." "Though we have promised we must take revenge for our young lady. Old Krepetski will come here, as they said, to see if Pan Serafin will not give back the young lady. But we know that he will not give her, do we not?" "He will not! he will not!" "But think ye not this way: Martsian will hurry to meet his father on the road back, to see and inquire if he has succeeded." "As God is in heaven, he will do so." "On the road, half-way between Belchantska and Yedlinka, is a tar pit near the roadside. If we should wait at that tar pit for Martsian--?" "Well, but what for?" "Psh! quiet!" "Psh!" And they began to look around through the room, though they knew that save themselves there was not a living soul in it, and then they whispered. They whispered long, now louder, now lower. At last their faces grew radiant, they finished their wine at one draught, embraced one another, and in silence went out of the room one after the other, in goose fashion. They saddled their horses without the least noise, and each led his beast by the bit from the courtyard. When they had gone through the gate they mounted and rode stirrup by stirrup to the roadway where Yan, though the youngest, took command and said then to his brothers,-- "Now I with Marek will go to the tar pit, and do ye bring that cask before daybreak." CHAPTER XIX Old Krepetski, as had been foreseen by the butler, went to Yedlinka after midday on the morrow, but beyond all expectation he appeared there with so kindly a face, and so gladsome, that Pan Serafin, who had the habit of dozing after dinner, and felt somewhat drowsy, became wide awake with astonishment at sight of him. Almost at the threshold the old fox began to mention neighborly friendship and say what delight his old age would find in more frequent and mutual visits; he gave thanks for the kindly reception, and only after finishing these courtesies did he come to the real question. "Benefactor and neighbor," said he, "I have come with the salute which was due you, but also, as you must have divined, with a request which, in view of my age, you, I trust, will give ear to most kindly." "I will yield gladly to every proper wish which you may utter," said Pan Serafin. The old man began to rub his hands. "I knew that! I knew it beforehand," said he. "What a thing it is to deal with a man who has real wisdom; one comes to an agreement immediately. I said to my son 'Leave that to me! the moment,' said I, 'that thou hast to do with Pan Serafin all will go well, for there is not another man, not merely so wise, but so honorable in this region.'" "You praise me too greatly." "No, no, I say too little. But let us come to the question." "Let us." Old Krepetski was silent for a while, as if seeking expressions. He merely moved his jaws, so that his chin met his nose. At last he laughed joyously, put his hand on Pan Serafin's knee, and continued,-- "My benefactor, you see our goldfinch has flown from the cage." "I know. Because the cat frightened it." "Is there not pleasure in talking with such people?" cried the old man, rubbing his hands. "Oh, that is wit! The prelate Tvorkovski would burst with envy, as God is dear to me!" "I am listening." "Well, to the question, and straight from the bridge. We should like to take back that goldfinch." "Why should you not?" Pan Krepetski moved his chin toward his nose once, and a second time. He was alarmed; the affair went too easily; but he clapped his hands, and cried with feigned joyousness,-- "Well, now the affair is finished! Would to God that such men as you were born everywhere!" "It is finished so far as I am concerned," said Pan Serafin. "Only there is need to ask that little bird whether she wants to go back again; besides she cannot go back to-day, for your son has so throttled her that she is barely breathing." "Is she sick?" "Sick; she is lying in bed." "But is she not pretending?" Pan Serafin's face grew dark in a moment. "My gracious sir," said he, "let us talk seriously. Your son Martsian has acted unworthily with Panna Anulka, not in human fashion, and not as a noble; he has acted altogether with infamy. Before God and man you have offended grievously to give an orphan into hands such as his, and intrust her to a tyrant so shameless." "There is not a bit of truth in what she says," cried the old man. "Why not? You know not what she has said, and still you deny. It is not she who is speaking; blue lumps and marks of blows speak for her, marks which my housekeeper saw on her young body. As to Martsian, all the servants in Belchantska have seen his approaches and his cruelty, and are ready to testify when needed. In my house is Vilchopolski who is going to-day to Radom to tell the prelate Tvorkovski what has happened." "But you have promised to give me the girl." "No, I only said that I would not detain her. If she wants to go back, very well! If she wishes to stay with me, very well also! But attempt not to bring me to refuse my roof and a morsel of bread to an orphan who is grievously offended." Old Krepetski's jaws moved time after time. For a while he was silent, and then began,-- "You are right, and you are wrong. To refuse a shelter and bread to an orphan would be unworthy, but as a wise man consider that it is one thing not to refuse hospitality, and something different to stand with rebellion against the authority of a father. I love Tekla, my youngest daughter, sincerely, but it happens sometimes that I give her a push. Well, what then? If she, after being punished by me, should flee to you, would you not permit me to take her, or would you refer me to her pleasure? Think of this--what sort of order would there be in the world, if women had their will? A married woman, even when old, must hearken to her husband, and yield to him; but what must it be in the case of an immature girl, as against the commands of her father, or guardian?" "Panna Anulka is not your daughter, nor even your relative." "But we inherited the guardianship over her from Pan Gideon. If Pan Gideon had punished the girl, you, of course, would not have had a word against him; but it is the same thing touching me and my son, to whom I have committed the management of Belchantska. Some one must manage, some one must have authority to punish. Difficult to do without that. I do not deny that Martsian, as a man, young and impulsive, exceeded the measure, perhaps, especially since he was met with ingratitude. But that is my affair! I will examine, judge, and punish; but I will take the girl back, and I think, with your permission, that even the king himself would have no right to raise any hindrance." "You speak as in a tribunal," said Pan Serafin. "I do not deny that you have appearances on your side; but appearance is one thing, and the real truth another. I do not wish to hinder you in anything, but I tell you honestly what the opinion of people is, and with that opinion I advise you to reckon. For you it is not a question of Panna Anulka, nor of guardianship over her, but you suspect that there may be a will in the hands of the prelate, with a provision for the young lady, therefore you are afraid that Belchantska might slip from you together with Panna Anulka. Not long ago I heard one of the neighbors speak in this way: 'Were it not for that uncertainty the Krepetskis would be the first to drive the orphan from the house, for those people have not God in their hearts.' It is very disagreeable for me and repulsive to say such things in my house to you, but you ought to know them." Flames of anger gleamed in the eyes of the old man, but he controlled himself, and said with a voice which was quiet, though somewhat broken,-- "The malice of people! Low malice, nothing more, and stupidity besides that. How could it be? We would then drive from the house a young lady whom Martsian wants to marry? By the dear God, think over this! The two things do not hold together." "They talk in this way: 'If it shall appear that Belchantska is hers then Martsian will marry her, but if the place is not hers he will simply disgrace her.' I am not any man's conscience, so I merely repeat what people say, but with this addition of my own, that your son threatened shame to the girl. I know that surely, and you, who know Martsian and his vile desires, know it also." "I know one and another thing, but I know not what you wish to say." "What I wish to say? This, which I have said to you already. If Panna Anulka agrees to return to you I have no right to oppose her or you, but if she is not willing, I will not expel her from this house, for I have given my word not to do so." "The question is not that you should expel her, but that you should permit me to take her, just as you would permit me if one of my own daughters were with you. This only I beg, that you stand not in my way." "Then I will tell you clearly. I will permit no violence in my house! I am master, and you, who have just mentioned the king, should understand that on this point the king himself could not oppose me." On hearing this Pan Krepetski balled his fists, so that his palms were pierced by his finger-nails. "Violence? That is just what I fear. I, if ever I have had to act against people (and who has not had to deal with the malice of men?), have acted against them through the law, always, not through violence. But what the proverb says is not true, that the apple falls near its tree.--It falls far away sometimes. I, for your good and safety, desired to settle this question in peacefulness. You are undefended in the forest, while Martsian--it is grievous for a father to say this of a son--has not taken after me in any way. I am ashamed to confess it, but I am not able to answer for him. The whole district is in dread of his passionateness, and justly, for he is ready to disregard everything and he has about fifty sabres at his order. You, on the other hand, are unarmed. I repeat it, you live in the forest, and I advise you to reckon with this situation. I am alarmed myself at it." Hereupon Pan Serafin rose, walked up to Krepetski, and gazed into his eyes. "Do you wish to frighten me?" inquired he. "I am afraid myself," repeated the old man. But their further conversation was interrupted by sudden shouts in the courtyard from the direction of the granary and the kitchen, so they sprang to the open window, and at the first moment were petrified with amazement. There between two fences ran with tremendous speed toward the gate and the courtyard some kind of rare monster, unlike any creature on earth, and behind it on excited horses dashed the four Bukoyemskis, shouting and cutting the air with their whip-lashes. The monster rushed into the yard, and behind it came the brothers, like hell hunters, and continued their chasing. "Jesus, Mary!" cried out Pan Serafin. He ran to the porch, and after him ran old Krepetski. Only there could they see with more clearness. The monster seemed like a giant bird, but also like a horse and a rider, for it ran on four legs with a certain form sitting on it. But the rider and the beast were so covered with feathers that their heads seemed two bundles. It was impossible to see clearly, for the steed rushed like a wind round the courtyard. The Bukoyemskis followed closely, and did not spare blows, by which feathers were torn away and fell to the ground, or circled in the air as do snowflakes. Meanwhile the monster roared like a wounded bear, and so did the brothers. Pan Serafin's voice and that of his visitor were lost in the general tumult, though all the power in their lungs was used then in shouting. "Stop! By God's wounds, will ye stop!" But the four brothers urged on, as if seized by insanity--and they had rushed five times round the yard when from the kitchen, and the stables, and barns, and granaries, and outhouses a great crowd of servants ran in, who hearing the cry "Stop!" repeated as if in desperation by Pan Serafin, plunged forward and, seizing bits and bridles, strove to stop the horses. At last the horses of the four brothers were brought to a standstill, but with the feathery steed there was very great trouble. Without a bridle, beaten, terrified, the beast reared at sight of the servants, or sprang to one side with the suddenness of lightning. They stopped it only at the fence when preparing to spring over. One of the men grasped its forelock, another caught its nostrils, a number seized its mane; it could not jump with such a burden, and fell to its knees. The beast sprang up quickly, it is true, but did not try to rush away; it only trembled throughout its whole body. They removed the rider, who, as it seemed then, had not been thrown because his feet were bound firmly beneath the beast's belly. They pulled the feathers from his head, and under the feathers appeared a visage covered so thickly with tar that no man there recognized the features. The rider gave faint signs of life, and only when taken to the porch did old Krepetski and Pan Serafin see who it was and cry out "Martsian!" with amazement. "This is that vile scoundrel!" said Mateush. "We have punished him not a little, and have hunted him in here, so that Panna Sieninski may know that tender souls have not gone from this world yet." Pan Serafin seized his head with his hands, and shouted,-- "The devil take you and your tender souls! Ye are nothing but bandits!" Then, turning to Pani Dzvonkovski who had run up with the others and was crossing herself, he cried,-- "Pour vodka into his mouth. Let him regain consciousness, and be taken to bed." There was hurry and disorder. Some ran to make the bed ready, others for hot water, still others for vodka; a number began to pull the feathers off Martsian, in which they were aided by his father, who was gritting his teeth, and repeating,-- "Is he alive? Is he dead? He is alive! Vengeance! Oh Vengeance!" Then he sprang up on a sudden, jumped forward, and thrusting up to the very eyes of Pan Serafin, fingers, bent now like talons, he shouted,-- "You were in the conspiracy! You have killed my son--you Armenian assassin!" Pan Serafin grew very pale, and seized his sabre, but almost at the same instant he remembered that he was the host, and Krepetski a visitor, so he dropped the hilt, and raised two fingers immediately. "By that God who is above us," said he, "I swear that I knew nothing--and I am ready to swear on the cross in addition--Amen!" "We are witnesses that he knew nothing!" cried Marek Bukoyemski. "God has punished," said Pan Serafin; "for you threatened me, as a defenceless old man, with the passion of your son. Here is his passion for you!" "A criminal offence!" bellowed the old man. "The headsman against you, and your heads under the sword edge! Vengeance! Justice!" "See what ye have done!" said Pan Serafin, as he turned to the Bukoyemskis. "I said it was better to run away at once," answered Lukash. Pani Dzvonkovski now came with Dantsic liquor, and fell to pouring it from the bottle into the open mouth of the sufferer. Martsian coughed, and opened his eyes the next minute. His father knelt down to him. "Art alive? Art alive?" asked he in a wild joyful outburst. But the son could not answer yet, and was like a great owl, which, struck with a bullet, has fallen on its back and lies there, with outstretched wings, panting. Still consciousness was coming to him, and with it memory. His glance passed from the face of his father to that of Pan Serafin, and then to the Bukoyemskis. Thereupon it grew so terrible that if there had been the least place for fear in the hearts of the brothers, a shiver would have passed from foot to head through their bodies. But they only went nearer to Martsian, like four bulls which are ready to rush with, their horns at an enemy, and Mateush inquired,-- "Well? Was that too little?" CHAPTER XX A few hours later on old Krepetski took his son to Belchantska, though the young man was unable to stand, and did not know clearly what was happening. First of all the servants had washed him with great trouble, and had put on him fresh linen, but after this had been done such weakness came upon Martsian, that he fainted repeatedly, and thanks only to the angelica and pimpernel bitters which Pani Dzvonkovski now gave him was he brought back to consciousness. Pan Serafin advised to place him in bed and defer the departure till recovery was perfect, but Pan Krepetski, whose old heart was raging, did not wish to owe gratitude to a man against whom he was planning a lawsuit for harboring the young lady; hence he had them put hay in a wagon, and, placing a rug, instead of a bed, under Martsian he moved toward Belchantska, hurling threats at the Bukoyemskis and also Pan Serafin. While threatening vengeance he was forced to accept Pan Serafin's assistance, and borrow from him hay, clothing, and linen, but, blinded by anger, he took no note of the strange situation. Pan Serafin himself had no mind whatever for laughter; since the act of the four brothers disturbed and concerned him very greatly. At this juncture came Father Voynovski who had been summoned by letter. The Bukoyemskis, now greatly confused, were sitting in the office, not showing their noses, hence Pan Serafin had to tell all that had happened. The priest struck the skirt of his soutane from time to time as he listened, but he was not so grieved as Pan Serafin had expected. "If Martsian dies," said he at length, "then woe to the Bukoyemskis, but if, as I think, he squirms out of it, I suppose that they will take private vengeance and not raise a lawsuit." "Why so?" "Because it is unpleasant to be ridiculed by the country. At the same time his conduct toward Panna Anulka would be discovered. That would give him no enviable reputation. His life is not laudable, hence he should avoid the chance of letting witnesses tell in public what they know of him." "That may be true," said Pan Serafin, "but it is difficult to forgive the Bukoyemskis tricks of such a character." The priest waved his hand. "The Bukoyemskis are the Bukoyemskis." "How?" asked Pan Serafin, with astonishment. "I thought that your grace would be more offended." "My gracious sir," said the old man, "you have served in the army, but I have served longer, and have seen so many soldiers' tricks during my time that nothing common can surprise me. It is bad that such things happen. I blame the Bukoyemskis, but I have seen worse things, especially as in this case the question was of an orphan. I will go still farther and say sincerely, that I should grieve more if Martsian's deeds had gone unpunished. Think, we are old, but if we were young our hearts too would boil up over deeds such as his are. That is why I cannot blame the Bukoyemskis altogether." "True, true, but still Martsian may not live until morning." "That is in the hands of God; but you say he is not wounded?" "He is not, but he is all one blue spot, and faints continually." "Oh, he will get out of that; he fainted from fatigue. But I must go to the Bukoyemskis and inquire how it happened." The brothers received him with rapture, for they hoped that he would take their part with Pan Serafin. They began to quarrel at once as to who should tell the tale, and stopped only when the priest gave Mateush the primacy. Mateush resumed his voice and spoke as follows,-- "Father benefactor, God saw our innocence! For, when we learned from Pani Dzvonkovski how that poor little orphan had blue lumps all over her body, we came into this room in such grief that had it not been for the mead which Pan Serafin sent us in a pitcher, our hearts would have burst perhaps. And I say to your grace, we drank and shed tears--we drank and shed tears. And we had this in mind too, that she was no common girl, but a young lady descended from senators. It is known to you, for example, that the higher blood a horse has, the thinner his skin is; slash a common drudge with a whip, he will hardly feel it, but strike a noble steed, and immediately a welt will come out on him. Think, Father benefactor, what a thin, tender skin such a dear little girl must have on her shoulders, and all over her body, just like a wafer--say yourself--" "What do I know of her skin?" cried Father Voynovski, in anger. "Tell me better, how did ye plaster up Martsian." "We promised Pan Serafin on oath not to cut him in pieces, but we knew that old Krepetski would come here, and we guessed immediately that Martsian would gallop out to meet him. So, according to arrangement, two of us took down to the tar pit before daylight a great salt-barrel filled with feathers, which we got from the wife of a forester. We picked out at the place a cask of thick tar, and waited at the hut near that tar pit. We look--old Krepetski is riding along--that is no harm, let him ride! We wait, we wait till we are tired of waiting; then we think about going to Belchantska. That moment a boy from the tar pit tells us that Martsian is coming up the road. We ride out and halt there in front of him. 'With the forehead! With the forehead!' 'But whither?' 'Straight ahead,' says he, 'by the woods.' 'But to whose harm?' 'To harm or to profit,' says he, 'get ye out of this!' And then to the sabre. But we seized him by the neck. 'Oh! this cannot be!' cried he. In a flash we had him down from the horse, which Yan took by the bridle. He fell to screaming, to kicking, to biting, to gnawing, but we, like a lightning flash, took him to the barrels which stood one near the other, and said, 'Oh! thou son of such an one! thou wilt injure orphans, threaten young ladies with infamy, disregard lofty blood, beat an orphan on the shoulders, and think that no one will take the part of thy victim; learn now that there are tender hearts in the country.' And that moment we thrust him into the tar, head downward. We raise him out, and again in with him. 'Learn that there are feeling souls!' said we.--And in with him then among the feathers!--'Learn now that there is chivalrous daring!' And again with him into the tar barrel. 'Learn to know the Bukoyemskis!' And again with him into the feathers! We wanted to give him another dose, but the tar boiler shouted that he would smother; and indeed he was thickly coated, so that neither his nose nor his eyes were visible to any one; we put him then on the saddle and tied his feet firmly under the animal's belly lest he fly from his position. We painted the horse, and scattered feathers over him also, then lashing this rather wild beast with whips, after we had taken off his bridle, we drove him ahead of us." "And ye drove him up here?" "As a strange beast, for we wished to console the young lady even a little, and show her our brotherly affection." "Ye gave her a lovely consolation. When she saw him through the window, the fright nearly killed her." "When she recovers she will think of us gratefully. Orphans always like to feel guardianship over them." "Ye have done her more harm than service. Who knows if the Krepetskis will not take her away again?" "How is that? By the dear God! will we let them?" "But who will defend the girl when ye are in prison?" When they heard this the brothers were greatly concerned, and looked with anxious eyes at one another. But Lukash at last struck his forehead. "We will not be imprisoned," said he, "for first we will go to the army; but if it comes to that, if there is a question of Panna Anulka's safety, help will be found." "Found! Of course it will," cried out Marek. "What help?" inquired Father Voynovski. "We will challenge Martsian as soon as he recovers. He will not go alive out of our hands." "But if he dies now?" "Then God will help us." "But ye will pay with your lives!" "Before that we will shell out the Turks, and the Lord Jesus will reward us for that service. Only let your grace take our part with Pan Serafin; for if Stanislav had been here he would have been with us while giving this bath to that Martsian." "But would not Yatsek give it?" inquired Mateush. "Yatsek will give him a better bath!" cried the priest, as if unwittingly. Further converse was stopped by the coming of Pan Serafin, who appeared with a ready and weighty decision. "I have been thinking of what we should do," said he, very seriously. "And does your grace know what I have decided? It is this, that we should all go to Cracow with Panna Anulka. I know not if we shall see our boys in that city, for no one knows where the regiments will be quartered, or what will be the order of their marching. But we should place the girl under protection of the king or the queen; or, if that is not done, secure her in some cloister for a season. I have also determined, as you know, to take the field in my old age and serve with my son, or, if such be God's will, to die with him. During our absence the girl would not be safe, even in Radom, under the protection of the prelate Tvorkovski. These gentlemen"--here he pointed to the Bukoyemskis "need to be under the hetman immediately. It is unknown what might happen should they stay here. I have acquaintances at court,--Pan Matchynski, Pan Gninski, Pan Grothus,--and shall get their influence for the orphan, as I think. That done I will find Zbierhovski's regiment, and go straight to my son where I shall see Yatsek also. What think you of this, my benefactor?" "As God lives," cried Father Voynovski, "this is a splendid idea! And I will go with you--and I will go with you to Yatsek. And as to Panna Anulka, oh, all will be well! The Sobieskis owe a great debt to the Sieninskis. She will be out of danger in Cracow and nearer; for I am certain that Yatsek has not forgotten her. And when the war ends that will happen which God wishes. Give me a substitute here in my parish from Radom, and I will be with you!" "All together!" roared the Bukoyemskis with rapture "to Cracow!" "And the field of glory!" cried Father Voynovski. CHAPTER XXI Consultations now followed touching the expedition; for not only were there no voices against it, but Father Voynovski was searching for a vicar in Radom. This plan, however, was an old one, modified by adding to it the person of Panna Anulka, who would be taken to Cracow and secured from the Krepetskis through protection from the king or the cloister. Pan Serafin saw that the king, occupied as he was with the war, would have no time to talk about private questions; but there remained the queen, to whom access might be easy through notable dignitaries, related for the greater part to the Sieninskis and the Tachevskis. There was fear also that the Krepetskis might attack Yedlinka when Pan Serafin and the Bukoyemskis had gone, and seize on rich property in furniture and silver. But Vilchopolski guaranteed that with the servants and the foresters he would defend the place and not let the Krepetskis touch anything. Pan Serafin, however, took the silver to Radom and left it in the Bernardine cloister, where he had placed money before that in large sums, not wishing to keep it at home near the edge of great forests. Meanwhile, he kept an attentive ear toward Belchantska for much depended on that place. If Martsian died the Bukoyemskis would have to give a grave answer; if he recovered hope existed that there would not be even a lawsuit, since it was difficult to admit that the Krepetskis would expose themselves willingly to ridicule. Pan Serafin considered it as more likely that the old man would not leave him at peace touching Panna Anulka but he thought that if the orphan were in the care of the king the kernel of a lawsuit would be lost to the Krepetskis. He learned, through the butler, that the old man had gone to Radom and Lublin, and remained rather long in those places. For the first week Martsian suffered grievously, and there was fear that the tar which he had swallowed might choke him, or stop his intestines. But the second week he grew better. He did not, it is true, leave the bed, for he had not strength to stand unassisted, his bones pained him greatly, and he was mortally weary; but he began to curse the Bukoyemskis, and to take keen delight in projects of vengeance. In fact, after two weeks had passed, his "revellers from Radom" began to visit him, various gallows-birds with sabres held up by hempen cords, men with holes in their boots, and gaunt stomachs, thirsty and hungry at all hours. Meanwhile he counselled with these, and was plotting not only against the Bukoyemskis and Pan Serafin, but against the young lady, of whom he could not think without gnashing of teeth; and he developed such monstrous inventions against her, that his father forewarned him, that they were of criminal nature. The echo of those plots and threats went to Yedlinka, and produced various impressions on different people. Pan Serafin, a man of much courage, but prudent, was somewhat alarmed by them, especially when he remembered that this enmity of wicked and dangerous people would strike his son also. Father Voynovski, who had hotter blood in his veins, was keenly indignant, and prophesied that the Krepetskis would meet a vile ending. At the same time, though entirely won over to Anulka, he turned from time to time to Pan Serafin, and then to the Bukoyemskis. "Who caused the Trojan war? A woman! Who causes quarrels and battles at all times? A woman! And it is the same now! Innocent or guilty, a woman!" But the Bukoyemskis cared little for the danger which threatened every one from Martsian, and even promised themselves various amusements because of it. They were warned, however, seriously from many sides. The Sulgostovskis, the Silnitskis, the Kohanovskis, and others, all greatly indignant at Martsian, came, one after the other, with tidings to Yedlinka. They said that he was gathering a party, and even bandits of the forest. They offered assistance, but the brothers wished no assistance. Lukash, who spoke most frequently in the name of the other three replied thus to Rafal Silnitski, who implored them to be careful,-- "There is no harm in thinking before war of our arms, and also of methods in which, from disuse, we have grown somewhat rusty, straighten ourselves out, and have practice. Belchantska is no fortress, so let Martsian see to his own safety, for who knows what may strike him. But if he wishes to nourish us with ingratitude, let him try it!" Pan Silnitski looked with astonishment at Lukash, and asked,-- "Nourish with ingratitude? But, as I think, he owes you no gratitude." Lukash was sincerely indignant. "How not owe? Could we not have cut him to pieces? Who gave him life? Pani Krepetski once, but a second time our moderation; if he is going to count on it always, tell him that he is mistaken." "And tell him that he will see Panna Anulka as much as he will see his own ears," added Marek. "Why should he not see her, then?" finished Yan. "It is not difficult for a man to see his own ears if they are cut from him." The conversation then ended. The brothers repeated it to Panna Anulka to calm her, which was superfluous, for the lady was not timid by nature. Her fear, too, of the Krepetskis, and especially of Martsian, was measured by her conviction that no danger threatened her in Yedlinka. When, on the day after her arrival at Pan Serafin's, she saw through the window Martsian in feathers, looking like some filthy beast, urged on with whips by the Bukoyemskis, in the first moment of her dreadful surprise, which was mixed with amazement and even compassion, she conceived so much confidence in the power of the brothers, that she could not even imagine how any one could avoid fearing them. Martsian passed for a terrible person and a fighter, and see what they did with him. It is true that Yatsek in his time had cut up all those brothers, but Yatsek in her eyes had grown now beyond common estimate altogether, and in general he appeared to her before the last parting from a side so mysterious that she did not know with what measure to esteem him. The remarks which were made about him by the Bukoyemskis themselves, and Pan Serafin, with the words of the priest, who spoke of him oftenest, confirmed in her only wonder for that friend of her childhood, who had been so near to her once, but was now so remote and so different. These accounts fixed in her that longing, and that still sweeter feeling toward Yatsek, which, confessed to the priest in a moment of excitement, she concealed again in the depth of her heart, as a pearl is concealed in a mussel shell. With all this she had in her soul a conviction, unshaken by anything, that she must meet him, and that she would meet him even in the near future. She had torn herself from the house of the Krepetskis; she felt above her the powerful hands of well-wishing people; hence that certainty became the joy and the root of her existence. It restored to her health with contentment, and she bloomed afresh, as a flower blooms in springtime. That Yedlinka mansion which had been hitherto so serious was now bright from her presence. She had taken possession of Pani Dzvonkovski, of Pan Serafin, and the Bukoyemskis. The whole house was filled with her, and wherever she showed her little confident nose and her young, gladsome eyes, delight and smiles followed. But she feared Father Voynovski a little, since it seemed to her that he held in his hand her fate and also Yatsek's. Hence she looked upon him with a certain submissiveness. But with his compassionate heart, which in general was as wax for all God's creation, he loved her sincerely, and besides, when he learned to know her more closely, he esteemed her pure spirit increasingly, though at times he called her a jaybird and a squirrel, because, as he said, she was this moment here and the next in another place. After that first confession they spoke no further of Yatsek, just as if they had agreed not to do so; both felt it too delicate a matter. Pan Serafin made no mention of Yatsek to her in the presence of people, but when no one was with them he was not ceremonious on that point; and once, when she asked if he would meet his son quickly in Cracow, he answered with a question,-- "And would you not like to meet some one there also?" He thought that she would wind out of it jestingly, but to her bright face came a shade of sadness, and she answered then seriously,-- "I should be glad to beg pardon, as soon as is possible, of any one whom I have injured." He looked at her with some emotion, but after a while it was clear that another idea had come to him, for he stroked her bright face, and then added,-- "Ei! thou hast the wherewithal to reward so that the king himself could not reward better." When she heard this she lowered her eyes in his presence, and was wonderful as she stood there and blushed like the dawn of the morning. CHAPTER XXII Preparations for starting went forward briskly. Attendants were chosen with care, strong men and sober. Arms, horses, wagons, and brichkas were ready. Observing ways of the period, they had not forgotten dogs, which in time of marching went under the wagons and at places of rest were used to hunt hares and foxes. The multitude of supplies and the preparations astonished the lady, who had not supposed that campaigning demanded such details, and, thinking this trouble taken perhaps for her safety, she inquired of Pan Serafin touching the matter. He, as a prudent man, and one of experience, replied thus to her,-- "It is certain that we have thy person in mind, for, as I think, we shall not leave here without meeting some violence from Martsian. Thou hast heard that he has summoned his roysterers with whom he is bargaining and drinking. We should be disgraced were we to let any man snatch thee away from us. What will be, will be, but though we had to fall one on another, we must take thee to Cracow uninjured." Then she kissed his hand, saying that she was not worthy to cause them this peril; but he waved his hand simply. "We should not dare to appear before men," said he, "unless we did this, and matters moreover are such that each coincides with the other. It is not enough to set out for a war, one must prepare for it wisely. Thou art astonished that we have three or four horses each man of us, as well as attendants, but thou must know that in war horses are the main question; many of them die on the way, crossing rivers and marshes, or from various camp accidents. And then what? If thou buy in haste a new horse, with faults and bad habits, that beast will fail at the critical moment. Though my son and Tachevski took a good party and excellent horses, we have foreseen every accident, and take each a new saddle beast. Father Voynovski, unrivalled in knowledge of horses, bought cheaply from old Pan Podlodovski such a Turkish steed for Pan Yatsek that the hetman himself would not refuse to appear on him." "Which horse is for your son?" inquired the young lady. Pan Serafin looked at her, and shook his head smiling. "Well, Father Voynovski is right in his judgment of woman. 'That evil,' said he, 'will be sly, even if it be the most honest.' Thou askest which horse is for Stanislav. Well, I answer in this way. Yatsek's horse is that sorrel with a star on his forehead, and a white left hind fetlock." "You annoy me!" exclaimed the young lady. And spitting like a cat at him, she turned, and then vanished. But that same day the pith of small loaves of bread and some salt disappeared from the dishes, and Lukash the next day beheld something curious. At the well in the courtyard the sorrel horse had his nose in the white hands of the lady, and when he was led later on to the stable he looked back at her time after time expressing with short neighs his yearning. Lukash could not learn at the time the cause of this "confidence," for he was intent on loading a wagon, so it was some time after midday that he approached the young lady, and said, with eyes glowing from emotion,-- "Have you noticed one thing?" "What?" inquired Panna Anulka. "That even a beast knows a real dainty." She forgot that he had seen her in the morning, and noting that look in his eyes raised her beautiful brows with astonishment. "What have you in mind?" asked she. "What?" repeated Lukash, "Yatsek's horse!" "Oh, a horse!" Then she burst into laughter and ran from the porch to her chamber. He stood there astonished, and a little confused, understanding neither why she had run from him, nor what had roused her sudden laughter. Another week passed, and preparations were then almost finished, but somehow Pan Serafin was not urgent for the journey. He deferred it from day to day, improved various details, complained of heat, and at last drooped in spirits. Anulka was eager to be on the road. The Bukoyemskis were growing uneasy, and at length Father Voynovski agreed that farther delay was a loss of time without reason. But Pan Serafin met their impatience with these words,-- "I have news that the king has not gone yet to Cracow, and will not go quickly. Meantime the troops are to meet there, but only in part, and no one knows the day of this meeting. I ordered Stanislav to send me a man every month, with a letter giving details as to where regiments are quartered, whither they are to march, and under whose orders. Seven weeks have passed without tidings. A letter may come to me now any moment, hence my delay; and I am alarmed somewhat. Think not that we must find our young men at Cracow, in every case. On the contrary, it may happen that they will not be there at any time." "How is that?" inquired Anulka, disquieted. "This, that regiments do not need to march through Cracow. Wherever a regiment is it can move thence as directly as the stroke of a sickle, but where Pan Zbierhovski may be at the moment I know not. He may have been sent to the boundary of Silesia, or to the army of the grand hetman who is coming from Russia. Regiments are hurried from place to place very often, just to train them in marching. In the course of seven weeks various commands may have come of which Stanislav should have informed me, but he has not done so. Hence I am anxious, for it is well known that in camps there are frequent disputes and also duels. Perhaps something has happened. But even if all is in order, we ought to know where the regiment is, and what is its starting point." All became gloomy at these words, save Father Voynovski. "A regiment is not a needle," said he "nor is it a button, which if torn from a coat is found with much difficulty. Be not concerned over this. We shall learn of them in Cracow more quickly than we could here in Yedlinka." "But on the road we may miss the letter." "Leave a command to send it on after us. That is the right way. Meanwhile in Cracow we will find the safest place possible for the lady, and then our minds will be free when we start for the second time." "Reason! Reason!" "This is my advice then. If no letter comes ere to-morrow we will start in the cool of the evening for Radom--then farther, to Kieltse, Yendreyov, and Miehov." "Perhaps the day after during daylight we could reach Radom, so as not to pass in the night through those forests, and thus avoid an ambush if the Krepetskis should make one." "An ambush is nothing! Better go in the cool!" said Mateush. "If they attack they will do so as well in the day as at night, and now at night things are visible." Then he rubbed his hands gleefully. The three others followed his example. But Father Voynovski thought otherwise. He had great doubts touching a road attack. "Martsian might perhaps venture, but the old man is too prudent; he knows too well what such a deed signifies and how much, more than once, men have suffered for violence to women. Besides against the power of our party Martsian could not reckon on victory, while in every event he could reckon on vengeance from Yatsek and Stanislav." The delight of the Bukoyemskis was spoiled by the priest, but they were soothed by Vilchopolski, who struck the floor with his wooden leg, shook his head, and opposed, saying,-- "Though up to Radom and even to Kieltse and Miehov you meet no adventure, I advise you to neglect no precaution till you touch the gates of Cracow; along the road there are woods everywhere, and I, as a man knowing Martsian best of all, am convinced that that devil is now planning an ambush." CHAPTER XXIII At last came the day of departure. The party moved out of Yedlinka at daylight, with beautiful weather, and with horses and men in good number. Besides the iron and leather-covered carriage intended for the ladies and the priest, in case his old gun-wound should annoy him on horseback too greatly, there were three well-laden wagons drawn each by four horses. At each wagon were three men, including the driver. Behind Pan Serafin six mounted attendants, in turquoise-colored livery, led reserve horses. The priest had two men, each Bukoyemski had two also, besides a forester who guarded the trunk-laden wagons, altogether thirty-four persons well armed with muskets and sabres. It is true that in case of attack some could not aid in defending, since they would have to guard wagons and horses, but even in that case the Bukoyemskis felt sure that they could go through the world with those attendants, and that it would not be healthy for a party three or four times their number to attack them. Their hearts were swelling with a delight so enormous that hardly could they stay in their saddles. They had fought manfully in their time against Tartars and Cossacks, but those were common, small wars, and later on, when they settled in the wilderness, their youth had passed merely in inspecting inclosures, in a ceaseless watch over foresters, in killing bears when it was their duty to preserve them, and in drunken frolics at Kozenitse and Radom and Prityk. But now, for the first time, when each put his stirrup near the stirrup of his brother, when they were going to a war against the immense might of Turkey, they felt that this was their true destination, that their past life had been vain and wretched, and that now had begun in reality the deeds and achievements for which God the Father had created Polish nobles, God the Son redeemed them, and the Holy Ghost made them sacred. They could not think this out clearly, or express it in phrases, for in those things they had never been powerful, but they wished to fire off their guns then in ecstasy. Their advance seemed too slow to them. They wished to let out their horses and rush like a whirlwind, fly toward that great destination, to that great battle of the Poles with the pagans, to that triumph through Polish hands of the cross above the crescent, to a splendid death, and to glory for the ages. They felt loftier in some way, purer, more honorable, and in their nobility still more ennobled. They had scarcely a thought then for Martsian and his rioting company, or for barriers and engagements on the roadway. All that seemed to them now something trivial, vain, and unworthy of attention. And if whole legions had stood in their way, they would have shot over them like a tempest, they would have ridden across them just in passing, put them under the bellies of their horses, and rushed along farther. Their native leonine impulses were roused, and warlike, knightly blood had begun to play in them with such vigor that if command had been given those four men to charge the whole bodyguard of the Sultan, they would not have hesitated one instant. But similar feelings, and founded, moreover, on old recollections, filled the hearts of Pan Serafin and Father Voynovski. The priest had passed the flower of his life on the field with a lance in his hand, or a sabre. He remembered whole series of reverses and victories, he remembered the dreadful rebellion of Hmelnitski, Joltevody, Korsun, Pilavtse, Zbaraj the renowned, and the giant battle of Berestechko. He remembered the Swedish war, with its never-ending record of struggles and the attack of Rakotsi. He had been in Denmark, for a triumphing people, not satisfied with crushing and driving out Sweden, had sent in pursuit of it Charnyetski's invincible regiments to the borders of a distant ocean; he had helped to defeat Dolgoruki and Hovanski; he had known the noblest knights and greatest men of the period; he had been a pupil of Pan Michael the immortal; he had been enamoured of slaughter, storms, battles, and bloodshed, but all that had lasted only till personal misfortune had broken his spirit, and he took on himself holy orders. From that day he changed altogether, and when, turning to people in front of the altar, he said to them: "Peace be with you;" he believed himself uttering Christ's own commandment, and that every war, as opposed to that commandment, "is abhorrent" to Heaven, a sin against mercy, a stain on Christian nations. But a war against Turks was the one case which he excepted. "God," said he, "put the Polish people on horseback, and turned their breasts eastward; by that same act He showed them His will and their calling. He knew why He chose us for that position, and put others behind our shoulders; hence, if we wish to fulfil His command and our mission with worthiness, we must face that vile sea, and break its waves with our bosoms." Father Voynovski judged, therefore, that God had placed on the throne purposely a sovereign who, when hetman, had shed pagan blood in such quantity, that his hands might give the last blow to the enemy, and avert ruin from Christians at once and forever. It seemed to him that just then had appeared the great day of destination, the day to accomplish God's purpose; hence he considered that war as a sacred way of the cross, and was charmed at the thought, that age, toil, and wounds had not pressed him to the earth so completely, that he might not take part in it. He would be able yet to wave a flag, he, the old soldier of Christ, would spur on his horse, and spring with a cross in his hand to the thickest of the battle, with the certainty in his heart that behind him and that cross a thousand sabres would bite on the skulls of the pagans and a thousand lances would enter their bodies. Finally thoughts flew to his head which were personal, and more in accord with his earlier disposition. He could hold the cross in his left, but in the right hand a sabre. As a priest he could not do this against Christians, but against Turks it was proper! Oh, proper! Now he would show young men for the first time how pagan lights should be extinguished, how pagan champions must be mowed down and cut to pieces; he would show of what kind were the warriors of his day. Nay! on more fields than one men had marvelled at his prowess. It may happen now that even the king will be astounded! And this thought at that moment so filled him with rapture that he failed in his rosary: "Hail Mary--slay! kill!--full of grace--at them!--The Lord is with Thee--cut them down!" Till at last he recovered. "Tfu! to the evil one with this--glory is smoke. Has insanity seized me? _non nobis, non nobis sed nomini tuo_" (not to us, not to us, but to Thy name) and he passed the beads through his fingers more attentively. Pan Serafin was repeating also his litany of the morning, but from time to time he looked now at the priest, now at the young lady, now at the Bukoyemskis, who were riding at the side of the carriage, now at the trees and the dew-covered grassy openings between them. At last, when he had finished the final "Hail, Mary!" he turned to the old man, and said, sighing deeply,-- "Your grace seems to be in rather good spirits?" "And also your grace," said Father Voynovski. "Yes, that is true. Until a man starts, he is bustling and hurrying and in trouble; only when the wind blows around him in the field is it light at his heartstrings. I remember how when, ten years ago, we were marching to Hotsim, there was a wonderful willingness in every warrior, so that though the action took place in the harsh weather of November, more than one threw his coat off because of the warmth which came out of his heart then. Well, God, who gave such a victory that time, will give it undoubtedly now, for the leader is the same, and the vigor and valor of the men not inferior. I know nations splendidly, Swedes, French, even Germans, but against Turks there is no one superior to our men." "I have heard how his grace the king said the same," replied Father Voynovski. "'The Germans,' said he, 'stand under fire patiently, though they blink when attacking, but,' said he, 'if I can bring mine up nose to nose I am satisfied, for they will sweep everything before them as can no other cavalry in existence.' And this is true. The Lord Jesus has gifted us richly with this power, not only the nobles, but the peasants. For instance, our field infantry, when they spit on their palms and advance with their muskets, the best of the Janissaries cannot in any way equal them. I have seen both more than once in the struggle." "If God has preserved in health Yatsek and Stashko, I am glad that their earliest campaign will be made against Turkish warriors. But how does your grace think, against whom will the Turks turn their main forces?" "Against the emperor, as it seems, for they are warring against him, and helping rebellion in Hungary. But the Turks have two or three armies, hence it is unknown where we shall meet them decisively. For this cause, beyond doubt, no main camp has been organized, and regiments move from one place to another, as reports come. The regiments under Pan Yablonovski are now at Trembovla; others are concentrating on Cracow; others as happens to each of them. I know not where the voevoda of Volynia is quartered at present, nor where Zbierhovski's command is. At moments I think that my son has not written this long time because his regiment may be moving toward these parts." "If he is commanded to Cracow, he must march near us, surely. That, however, depends upon where he was earlier and whence he is starting at present. We may get news at Radom. Is not our first night halt at Radom?" "It is. I should wish too that the prelate Tvorkovski saw Panna Anulka and gave her final counsels. He will furnish us letters to help her in Cracow." The conversation stopped for a time; then Pan Serafin raised his eyes again to Father Voynovski. "But," asked he, "what will happen, think you, should she meet Yatsek in Cracow?" "I know not. In every case that will take place which God wishes. Yatsek might win a fortune by marriage, while she is as poor as a Turkish saint--but wealth alone is mere nonsense, the splendor of a family is the great point in this case." "Panna Anulka is of high lineage, and she is like gold--besides we know well that they are love-stricken, mortally." "Of course, mortally, mortally." The priest did not speak very willingly on this point, that was clear, for he turned the conversation to other subjects. "Well," said he, "but let us think of this, that a robber is watching for that golden maiden. Do you remember Vilchopolski's words?" Pan Serafin looked at the depth of the forest on all sides. "Yes. But the Krepetskis will not dare," said he. "They will not dare! Our party is fairly large, and your grace sees the calmness of everything around us. I wish the girl to be in that carriage for safety, but she begged to be on horseback--she has no fear of anything." "Well, she has good blood. But I note that she masters you thoroughly." "And you, too, somewhat," answered Pan Serafin. "But as to me I confess right away; when she begs for a thing she knows how to move her eyes in such fashion that you must yield where you stand. Women have various methods, but have you noticed that she has that sort of blinking before which a man drops his arms. Near Belchantska I will tell her to enter the carriage, but so far she wishes absolutely to be on horseback, because, as she says, it is healthier." "In such weather it is surely healthier." "Look how rosy the girl is, just like a euphorbia laurel." "What is her rosiness to me?" replied Father Voynovski. "But in truth the dear day is lovely." In fact the weather was really wonderful, and the morning fresh and dewy. Single drops on the needlelike pine leaves glittered with the rainbow-like colors of diamonds. The forest interior was brightened by hazel trees filled with the sun rays of morning. Farther in, orioles were twittering with joyousness. Roundabout was the odor of pine, the whole earth seemed rejoicing, and the blue air was cloudless. Thus pushing forward, they reached the same tar pit at which Martsian had been seized by the brothers. But the fear that some ambush might be there lurking proved groundless. Near the well were two tar-laden wagons, nothing more. To these, which belonged to peasants, were attached two wretched little horses, whose heads were sunk in bags of oats to their foreheads; the drivers, each near the side of his horse, were eating cheese and bread, but at sight of the showy party they put away these provisions; when asked if they had seen armed men, they answered that since morning a mounted man had been waiting, but that shortly before, on seeing this party from a distance, he had rushed away with all the speed of his beast in the opposite direction. The news alarmed Pan Serafin. It seemed to him that this horseman had been sent as a scout by Krepetski; and he redoubled his watchfulness. He commanded two attendants to ride at both sides and examine the forest; he sent two others ahead with this order: "If ye see an armed group fire your muskets, and return with all haste to the wagons." An hour passed, however, without a report from them. The party pushed forward slowly, watching in front and at both sides with carefulness, but it was quiet in the forest, except that the orioles twittered, while here and there was heard the hammering of those little smiths of the forest, the hard-working woodpeckers. At last they reached a wide plain, but before going out on it Pan Serafin and the priest directed Anulka to sit in the carriage, since they had to pass now not far from Belchantska, the trees of which, and even the mansion between them, were visible to the eye without glasses. The young lady looked on that house with emotion, for in it she had passed very many of the best, and the bitterest, days of her existence. She had wished to look first of all at Vyrambki, but the Belchantska lindens so covered it that the dwelling was not to be seen from the carriage. It occurred to Anulka that she might never again in her life see those places, so she sighed quietly and became sorrowful. The Bukoyemskis looked challengingly and quickly at the mansion, the village, and the neighborhood, but great quiet reigned in those places. Along broad fallow lands, which were flooded in sunlight, were grazing cows and sheep, guarded by dogs, and crowds of children. Here and there flocks of geese seemed white spots, and had it not been for summer heat, one might have thought from afar that they were bits of snow lying on the hill slopes; for the rest the region seemed empty. Pan Serafin, who lacked not the daring of a cavalier, wished to show the Krepetskis how little he cared for them, and directed to make the first halt at that place, and give rest to the horses. So the party stopped; on one side were fields of wheat waving under the wind and rustling gently; on the other was the silence of the plain broken only by the snorting of horses. "Health! health!" said the attendants in answer to the snorting. But that calm was not to the taste of the youngest Bukoyemski, who turned toward the mansion and cried to the absent Krepetskis, while he beckoned with his hand an invitation. "But come out here, ye sons of a such a one! O Stump, show thy dog snout; we will soon put a cross on it with our sabres!" Then he bent toward the carriage. "Your ladyship," said he, "that Martsian and his company are not in a hurry to attack us, neither he nor his bandits from the wilderness." "But do bandits attack?" asked the lady. "Oh-ho! they do, but not us. And there are many of them in the wilderness of Kozenitse, and in the forest toward Cracow. If his Grace the King would grant pardon, enough would be found of those bandits right here in this neighborhood to make two good regiments." "I should rather meet bandits than Pan Martsian's company, of which people tell in Belchantska such terrible stories. I have not heard of bandits attacking a mansion." "They do not, for a bandit has the same kind of sense that a wolf has. Consider, young lady, that a wolf never kills sheep or horned cattle in the neighborhood where his lair is." "He speaks truth," said the other brothers. Yan, glad of this praise, explained further. "The bandit attacks no village or mansion near his hiding place. For if neighboring people should pursue, they, knowing the forests and secret spots in them, would hunt him out the more easily. So bandits go to a distance, and plunder houses or fall upon travellers in great or small parties." "Have they no fear?" "They have no fear of God. Why should they fear men?" But Panna Anulka had turned her mind elsewhere, so, when Pan Serafin came to the carriage, she began to blink and implore him. "Why should I stay in the carriage when no attack threatens? May I not go on horseback?" "Why?" asked Pan Serafin. "The sun is high. It would burn your face. There is one who would not like that." Thereupon she withdrew on a sudden to the depth of the carriage, and Pan Serafin turned to the brothers,-- "Have I not told her the truth?" But not being quick-witted, they missed the point of the answer. "Who would not like?" inquired they. "Who?" Pan Serafin shrugged his shoulders. "The prince bishop of Cracow, the German emperor, and the king of France," answered he. He gave the sign then, and all started. They passed Belchantska, and advanced again among tilled fields, fallow land, meadows, and broad wind-swept spaces which were bordered on the horizon by a blue rim of forest. At Yedlina they stopped for a second rest, during which the brewers, the citizens, and the peasants took farewell of Father Voynovski--and before evening they stopped for their first night rest at Radom. Martsian had not given the least sign of life. They learned that he had passed the day previous in Radom, and had drunk with his company, but had gone home for the night; hence the priest and Pan Serafin breathed with more freedom, judging that no danger threatened them now on the journey. The prelate Tvorkovski furnished letters to Father Hatski, to Gninski, the vice-chancellor who, as they knew, was enrolling a whole regiment for the coming war at his own cost, and one also to Pan Matchynski. He was rejoiced to see Panna Anulka and Father Voynovski, for whom he felt a great friendship, and Pan Serafin, in whom he prized a skilled Latinist, who understood every quotation and maxim. He, too, had heard of Martsian's threats, but had lent no great weight to them, judging that if an attack had been planned it would have been made in the wilds of Kozenitse, more favorable for that kind of deed than the forests between Radom and Kieltse. "Martsian will not attack you," said he to Pan Serafin, "and his father will not bring an action, for he would meet me; he knows that I have other weapons against him besides the church censure." The prelate entertained them all day, and let them start only toward evening. Since danger seemed set aside most decidedly, Pan Serafin agreed to night travel, all the more since great heat was beginning. The first five miles, however, they passed during daylight. On the river Oronka, which here and there formed morasses, began again, in those days, extensive pine forests, which surrounded Oronsk, Sucha, Krogulha, and extended as far as Shydlovets, and beyond, toward Mrochkov and Bzin, down to Kieltse. They moved slowly, for in some places the old road lay among sandy hillocks and holes, while in others it sank very notably and became a muddy, stick-covered ridgeway. This ridge lay in a quagmire through which a man could pass neither with wagon nor horse, nor go on foot at any season, unless during very dry summers. These places enjoyed no good repute, but for this Pan Serafin and his party cared little; they were confident of their strength, and glad to move in cool air when heat did not trouble men, or flies annoy horses. A clear and pleasant night came down quickly, with a full moon which appeared above the pine woods, enormous and ruddy, decreasing and growing pale as it rose, till in time it was white, and sailed like a silver swan through the dark blue of the night sky. The wind ceased, and the motionless pine wood was buried in a stillness broken only by the voices of gnats flying in from broad pools, and by the playing of landrails in the grass of the neighboring meadows. Father Voynovski intoned: "Hail, O Wise Lady! and Mansions dear to God," to which the four bass voices of the Bukoyemskis and Pan Serafin answered immediately: "Adorned by the golden table and seven columns." Panna Anulka joined the chorus, after her the attendants, and soon that pious hymn was resounding through the forest. But when they had finished all the "Hours," and repeated all the "Hail, Marys!" silence set in again. The priest, the brothers, and Pan Serafin conversed for some time yet in lowered voices; then they began to doze, and at last fell asleep soundly. They did not hear either the "Vio! Vio!" of the drivers, or the snorting of horses, or the explosive sound made when hoofs were drawn out of mud on that long ridge way which lay in the sticky and reed-covered quagmire. The party came to the ridge somewhat before midnight. The shouts of attendants, who were advancing in front, first roused the sleepers. "Stop! stop!" All opened their eyes. The Bukoyemskis straightened in their saddles and sprang ahead promptly. "But what is the matter?" "The road is barred. There is a ditch across it, and beyond the ditch a breastwork." The sabres of the brothers came biting from their scabbards and gleamed in the moonlight. "To arms! an ambuscade!" Pan Serafin found himself at the obstruction in one moment, and understood that there was no chance of being mistaken: a broad ditch had been dug across the ridgeway. Beyond the ditch lay whole pine trees which, with their branches sticking up, formed a great breastwork. The men who stopped the road in that fashion had evidently intended to let the party in on the ridge, from which there was no escape on either side, and attack in the rear then. "To your guns! to muskets!" thundered Father Voynovski. "They are coming!" In fact about a hundred yards in the rear certain dark, square forms, strange, quite unlike men, appeared on the ridge, and ran toward the wagons very quickly. "Fire!" commanded the priest. A report was heard, and brilliant flashes rent the night gloom. Only one form rolled to the earth, but the other men ran the more swiftly toward the wagons, and after them denser groups made their appearance. Instructed by whole years of war, the priest divined straightway that those men were carrying bundles before them, straw, reeds, or willows, and that was why the first discharge had effected so little. "Fire! In order! four at a time!--and at their knees!" cried he. Two attendants held guns charged with slugs. These men took their places with others, and spat at the knees of the attackers. A cry of pain was heard promptly, and this time the whole front rank of bundles tumbled down to the mud on the ridgeway, but the next rank of men sprang over those who were prostrate, and came still nearer the wagons. "Fire!" was commanded a third time. Again came a salvo, with more effect this time, for the onrush was stopped, and disorder appeared among the attackers. The priest acquired courage, for he knew that the attackers had outwitted themselves in the choice of position. It is true that not a living soul would escape in case they should triumph, and the bandits had this in view specially; but, not having men to hem in the party on all sides, they were forced to attack only over the ridgeway, hence in a thin body, which again lightened defence beyond common, so that five or six valiant warriors might ward off attack until daylight. The attackers, too, began to use muskets, but caused no great damage, clearly because of poor weapons. Their first fire struck only a horse and one attendant. The Bukoyemskis begged to charge the enemy, guaranteeing to sweep right and left into the quagmire any men whom they might not crush in the mud of the roadway. But the priest, who kept their strength for the last, would not send them; he commanded the brothers, however, as excellent marksmen, to roast the attackers from a distance, and Pan Serafin commanded to watch the ditch sharply, and the breastwork. "If they attack us from that side," said he, "they may do something, but they will not get us cheaply." Then he hastened for a moment to the carriage where the ladies were praying without great fear, though audibly. "Oh, this is nothing!" said he. "Have no fear!" "I have no fear," answered Panna Anulka. "But I should like to be on horseback." Shots drowned further words. The attackers, confused for a moment, pressed along the ridge now, with wonderful and simply blind daring, since it was clear that they would not effect much on that side. "Hm!" thought the priest. "Were it not for the women, we might charge them." And he had begun to think of sending the four brothers with four other good warriors, when he looked at both flanks and trembled. On the two sides of that quagmire appeared crowds of men, who, springing from hillock to hillock, or along sheaves of reeds, which had been fixed in soft places on purpose, were running toward the wagons. The priest turned to them, in the shortest time possible, two ranks of attendants, but he understood in a flash the extent of his peril. His party was surrounded on three sides. The attendants were, it is true, chosen men, who had been more than once in sharp struggles, but they were insufficient in number, especially as some had to guard extra horses. Hence it was evident that after the first fire, inadequate because of so many attackers, there would be a hand-to-hand struggle before guns could be loaded a second time, and the side which proved weaker would be forced to go down in that trial. Only one plan remained, to retreat by the ridgeway, that is, leave the wagons, command the Bukoyemskis to sweep all before them, and push on behind the four brothers, keeping the women among the horses in the centre. So when they had fired at both sides again, the priest ordered the women to mount, and arranged all for the onrush. In the first rank were the four brothers, behind them six attendants, then Panna Anulka and Pani Dzvonkovski, at the side the priest and Pan Serafin, behind them eight attendants, four in a rank. After the charge and retreat from the ridgeway he intended to reach the first village, collect all the peasants, return then and rescue the wagons. Still he stopped for a moment, and only when the attackers were little more than twenty yards distant, and when on a sudden wild sounds were heard beyond the breastwork, did he shout the order,-- "Strike!" "Strike!" roared the Bukoyemskis, and they moved like a hurricane which destroys all things before it. When they had ridden to the enemy the horses rose on their haunches and plunged into the dense crowd of robbers, trampling some, pushing others to the quagmire, overthrowing whole lines of people. The brothers cut with sabres unsparingly, and without stopping. There was great shouting, and splashing of bodies as men fell into the water near the ridgeway, but the four dreadful horsemen pushed forward; their arms moving like those of a windmill to which a gale gives dreadful impetus. Some attackers sprang willingly into the water to save themselves; others put forks and bill-hooks against the onrushing brothers. Clubs and spears were raised also; but again the horses reared, and, breaking everything before them, swept on like a whirlwind in a young forest. Had not the road been so narrow, and those who were slashed had all escape barred to them, and those behind not pushed on those in front, the Bukoyemskis would have passed the whole ridgeway. But since more than one of the bandits preferred battle to drowning, resistance continued, and, besides, it became still more stubborn. The hearts of the robbers were raging. They began to fight then not merely for plunder, or seizing some person, but from venom. At moments when shouts ceased, the gritting of teeth became audible and curses rose loudly. The rush of the Bukoyemskis was arrested. It came to their minds at that moment that they would have to die, perhaps. And when, on a sudden, they heard still farther out there the tramping of horses, and loud shouts were raised in all parts of the thicket surrounding the quagmire, they felt sure that the moment of death was approaching. Hence they smashed terribly; they would not sell their lives cheaply in any case. But now something marvellous happened. Many voices were heard all at once shouting: "Strike!" Sabres gleamed in the moonlight. Certain horsemen fell to cutting and hewing in the rear of the robbers, who, because of this sudden attack, were seized in one instant with terror. Escape in the rear was now closed to them; nothing remained but escape at either side of the roadway. Only some, therefore, offered a desperate resistance. The more numerous sprang like ducks to the turfy quagmire on both sides. The quagmire broke under them; then grasping grass, clumps, and reeds, they clung to hillocks, or lay on their bellies not to sink the first moment. Only a small company, armed with scythes fixed to poles, defended themselves for some time yet with madness. Because of this many horsemen were wounded. But at last even this handful, seeing that for them there was no rescue whatever, threw down their weapons, fell on their knees, and begged mercy. They were taken alive to be witnesses. Meanwhile horsemen from both sides stood facing one another, and raised their voices. "Halt! halt! Who are ye?" "But who are ye?" "Tsyprianovitch of Yedlinka." "For God's sake! these are our people!" And two riders pushed from the ranks quickly. One inclined to Pan Serafin, seized his hand straightway, and covered it with kisses; the other rushed to the priest's shoulder. "Stanislav!" cried Pan Serafin. "Yatsek!" shouted the priest. The greetings and embraces continued till speech came to Pan Serafin,-- "For God's sake, whence come ye?" "Our regiment was marching to Cracow. Yatsek and I had permission to visit you at Yedlinka. Meanwhile we learned at Radom, while halting for food there, that thou, father, and the priest, and the Bukoyemskis had set out an hour earlier by the highroad toward Kieltse." "Did the prelate tell thee?" "No! We did not see him. Radom Jews told us; we did not go then to Yedlinka, but moved on at once lest we might miss you. At midnight we heard firing, so we all rushed to give aid, thinking that bandits had fallen upon travellers. It did not occur to us that ye were the persons. God be thanked, God be thanked, that we came up in season!" "Not bandits attacked us, but the Krepetskis. It is a question of Panna Anulka, who is with us." "As God lives!" exclaimed Stanislav. "Then I think that his soul will leave Yatsek." "I wrote to thee about her, but it is evident that my letter did not reach thee." "No, for we are marching these three weeks. I have not written of late because I had to come hither." Shouts from the Bukoyemskis, the attendants, and the warriors stopped further converse. At that moment also attendants ran up with lighted torches. A supply had been taken by Pan Serafin that he might have wherewith to give light during darkness. It was as clear on the road as in daylight, and in those bright gleams Yatsek saw the gray horse on which Panna Anulka was sitting. He grew dumb at sight of her. "Yes, she is with us," said Father Voynovski, seeing his astonishment. Then Yatsek urged his horse forward, and halted before her. He uncovered his head, and remained there lost as he looked at her. His face was as white as chalk, his breath had almost left him, and he was speechless. After a moment the cap fell to the earth from his fingers, his head dropped to the mane of the horse, and his eyes closed. "But he is wounded!" cried Lukash Bukoyemski. CHAPTER XXIV Yatsek was really wounded. One of those robbers, who defended themselves to the utmost, cut him, with a scythe in the left shoulder, and since he and the men marched without mail, the very end of the iron had cut into his arm rather deeply from the shoulder to the elbow. The wound was not over grievous, but it bled quite profusely; because of this the young man had then fainted. The experienced Father Voynovski commanded to put him in a wagon, and, when the wound had been dressed, he left him in care of the women. Yatsek opened his eyes somewhat later, and began again to look, as at a rainbow, into the face of Panna Anulka, which was there bending over him. Meanwhile the attendants filled the ditch and removed all obstructions. The wagons and the men passed to the dry road beyond, where they halted to bring the train into order, take some rest, and question the prisoners. From Tachevski the priest went to the Bukoyemskis to see if they had suffered. But they had not. The horses were torn and even stabbed with forks, but not seriously; the men themselves were in excellent humor, for all were admiring their valor, since they had crushed before war, more opponents than had many others during years of campaigning. "Now, gentlemen, ye may join Pan Zbierhovski," said the hussars here and there. "From of old it is known, and God grant that men will see soon, that our regiment is the first even among hussars. Pan Zbierhovski admits no common men, or any man easily, but he will accept you with gladness, and we shall be charmed from our hearts to find you in our company." The Bukoyemskis knew that this might not be, for they could not have the attendants, or the outfit demanded in such a high regiment, but they listened to those speeches with rapture, and when cups went the round, they let no man surpass them. When that part was ended, the captured bandits were seized by their heads, and led from the mud to Zbierhovski and the priest and Pan Serafin. No bandit had escaped, for with a detachment of twelve hundred there were men to surround the whole quagmire and both ends of the ridgeway. The appearance of the prisoners astonished Pan Serafin. He had thought to find Martsian among them, as he had told Stanislav, and Martsian's Radom outcasts also; meanwhile he saw before him a ragged rabble reeking with turf and bespattered with mud of the ridgeway, a company made up, like all bodies of that kind, of deserters from the infantry, of runaway servants and serfs, in a word, of all kinds of wicked, wild scoundrels working at robbery in remote places and forests. Many such parties were raging, especially in the wooded region of Sandomir, and since they were strengthened by men who were eager for anything, men who if captured were threatened with terrible punishment, their attacks were uncommonly daring, and they fought savage battles. The search through the quagmire continued for a time yet, then Pan Serafin turned to Zbierhovski. "Gracious colonel," said he. "These are highway robbers. We thought them quite different. This was an attack of common bandits. We thank you, and all your men with grateful hearts for effective assistance, without which, as is possible, we should not have seen the sun rise this morning." "These night marches are good," said Zbierhovski, and he smiled while he was speaking. "The heat does not trouble, and it is possible to serve others. Do you wish to examine these captives immediately?" "Since I have looked at them closely already, it is not needed. The court in the town will examine them, and the headsman will guide them." At this a tall, bony fellow, with a gloomy face, and light hair pushed out from the captives and said, as he bent to Pan Serafin's stirrup. "Great mighty lord, spare our lives, and we will tell truth. We are common bandits, but the attack was not common." The priest and Pan Serafin, on hearing this, looked at each other with roused curiosity. "Who art thou?" asked the priest. "I am a chief. There were two of us, for this party was formed of two bands, but the other man fell. Give me pardon, and I will tell everything." Father Voynovski stopped for a moment. "We cannot save you from justice," said he, "but for you it is better in every case to tell truth, than be forced to declare it under torture. Besides, if ye confess, God's judgment and man's will be more lenient." The bandit looked at his companions, uncertain whether to speak or be silent. Meanwhile the priest added,-- "And if ye tell the whole truth, we can intercede with the king, and commend you to his mercy. He accepts offenders in the infantry, and recommends mercy now to judges." "In that case," said the man, "I will tell everything. My name is Obuh; the leader of the other band was Kos, and a noble engaged us to fall on your graces." "But do ye know the name of that noble?" "I did not know him, for I am from distant places, but Kos knew him, and said his name was Vysh." The priest and Pan Serafin looked at each other with astonishment. "Vysh,[6] didst thou say?" "Yes." "But was there no one with him?" "There was another, a lean, thin, young man." "Not they," said Pan Serafin to the priest in a whisper. "But they may have been Martsian's company." Then he said aloud to the man,-- "What did they tell you to do?" "This: 'Do what ye like with the people,' said they; 'the wagons and plunder are yours; but in the company there is a young lady whom ye are to take and bring by roundabout ways between Radom and Zvolenie to Polichna. Beyond Polichna a party will attack you and take the lady. Ye will pretend to defend her, but not so as to harm our men. Ye will get a thaler apiece for this, besides what ye find in the wagons.'" "That is as if on one's palm," said the priest. "Then did only those two talk with Kos and thee?" "Later, a third person came in the night with them; he gave us a ducat apiece to bind the agreement. Though the place was as dark as in a cellar, one of our men who had been a serf of his recognized that third person as Pan Krepetski." "Ha! that is he!" cried Pan Serafin. "And is that man here, or has he fallen?" inquired Father Voynovski. "I am here!" called out a voice from some distance. "Come nearer. Didst thou recognize Pan Krepetski? But how, since it was so dark, that thou couldst hit a man on the snout without knowing it?" "Because I know him from childhood. I knew him by his bow-legs and his head, which sits, as it were, in a hole between his shoulders, and by his voice." "Did he speak to you?" "He spoke with us, and afterward I heard him speak to those who came with him." "What did he say to them?" "He said this: 'If I could have trusted money with you, I should not have come, even if the night were still darker.'" "And wilt thou testify to this before the mayor in the town, or the starosta?" "I will." "When he heard this, Pan Zbierhovski turned to his attendants and said,-- "Guard this man with special care, for me." CHAPTER XXV They began now to counsel. The advice of the Bukoyemskis was to disguise some peasant woman in the dress of a lady, put her on horseback, give her attendants and soldiers dressed up as bandits, and go to the place designated by Martsian, and, when he made the attack as agreed upon, surround him immediately, and either wreak vengeance there, or take him to Cracow and deliver him to justice. They offered to go themselves, with great willingness, to carry out the plan, and swore that they would throw Martsian in fetters at the feet of Panna Anulka. This proposal pleased all at the first moment, but when they examined it more carefully the execution seemed needless and difficult. Pan Zbierhovski might rescue from danger people whom he met on his march, but he had not the right to send soldiers on private expeditions, and he had no wish either to do so. On the other hand, since there was a bandit who knew and was ready to indicate to the courts the chief author of the ambush, it was possible to bring that same author to account any moment, and to have issued against him a sentence of infamy. For this reason both Pan Serafin and Father Voynovski grew convinced that there would be time for that after the war, since there was no fear that the Krepetskis, who owned large estates, would flee and abandon them. This did not please the Bukoyemskis, however, for they desired keenly to finish the question. They even declared that since that was the decision, they would go themselves with their attendants for Martsian. But Pan Serafin would not permit this, and they were stopped finally by Yatsek, who implored them by all that was sacred to leave Krepetski to him, and him only. "I," said he, "will not act through courts against Martsian, but after all that I have heard from you here, if I do not fall in the war, as God is in heaven, I will find the man, and it will be shown whether infamy would not be pleasanter and easier also than that which will meet him." And his "maiden" eyes glittered so fiercely that though the Bukoyemskis were unterrified warriors a shiver went through them. They knew in what a strange manner passion and mildness were intertwined in the spirit of Yatsek, together with an ominous remembrance of injustice. He said then repeatedly: "Woe to him!--Woe to him!" and again he grew pale from his blood loss. Day had come already, and the morning light had tinted the world in green and rose colors; that light sparkled in the dewdrops, on the grass and the reeds, and the tree leaves and the needles of dwarf pines here and there on the edge of the quagmire. Pan Zbierhovski had commanded to bury the bodies of the fallen bandits, which was done very quickly, for the turf opened under spades easily, and when no trace of battle was left on that roadway, the march was continued toward Shydlovets. Pan Serafin advised the young lady to sit again in the carriage, where she might have a good sleep before they reached the next halting place, but she declared so decisively that she would not desert Yatsek that even Father Voynovski did not try to remove her. So they went together, only two besides the driver, for sleep was so torturing Pani Dzvonkovski, that after a while they transferred her to the carriage. Yatsek was lying face upward on bundles of hay arranged lengthwise in one side of the wagon, while she sat on the other, bending every little while toward his wounded shoulder, and watching to see if blood might not come through the bandages. At times she put a leather bottle of old wine to the mouth of the wounded man. This wine acted well to all seeming, for after a while he was wearied of lying, and had the driver draw out the bundle on which his feet were then resting. "I prefer to ride sitting," said he, "since I feel all my strength now." "But the wound, will that not pain you more if you are sitting?" Yatsek turned his eyes to her rosy face, and said in a sad and low voice, "I will give the same answer as that knight long ago when King Lokietek saw him pierced with spears by the Knights of the Cross, on a battlefield. 'Is thy pain great?' asked the king. The knight showed his wounds then. 'These pain least of all,' said he in answer." Panna Sieninski dropped her eyes. "But what pains you more?" inquired she in a whisper. "A yearning heart, and separation, and the memory of wrongs inflicted." For a while silence continued, but the hearts began to throb in both with power which increased every moment, for they knew that the time had come then in which they could and should confess everything which each had against the other. "It is true," said she, "I did you an injustice, when, after the duel, I received you with angry face, and inhumanly. But that was the only time, and, though God alone knows how much I regretted that afterward, still I say it is my fault! and from my whole soul I implore you." Yatsek put his sound hand to his forehead. "Not that," answered he, "was the thorn, not that the great anguish!" "I know it was not that, but the letter from Pan Gideon. How could you suspect me of knowing the contents of the letter, or having suggested them?" And she began to tell, with a broken voice, how it happened: how she had implored Pan Gideon to make a step toward being reconciled: how he had promised to write a heartfelt and fatherly letter, but he wrote entirely the opposite. Of this she learned only later from Father Voynovski, and from this it was shown that Pan Gideon having other plans, simply wanted to separate them from each other forever. At the same time, since her words were a confession, and also a renewal of painful and bitter memories, her eyes were dimmed with tears, and from constraint and shame a deep blush came out on her cheeks from one instant to another. "Did Father Voynovski," asked she at last, "not write to you that I knew nothing, and that I could not even understand why I received for my sincere feelings a recompense of that kind?" "Father Voynovski," answered Yatsek, "only wrote me that you were going to marry Pan Gideon." "But did he not write that I consented to do so only through orphanhood and pain and desertion, and out of gratitude to my guardian? For I knew not then how he had treated you; I only knew that I was despised and forgotten." When he heard this Yatsek closed his eyes and began to speak with great sadness. "Forgotten? Is that God's truth? I was in Warsaw, I was at the king's court, I went through the country with my regiment, but whatever I did, and wherever I travelled, not for one moment didst thou go from my heart and my memory. Thou didst follow me as his shadow a man. And during nights without sleep, in suffering and in pain, which came simply from torture, many a time have I called to thee: 'Take pity, have mercy! grant to forget thee!' But thou didst not leave me at any time, either in the day, or the night, or in the field, or under a house roof, until at last I understood that only then could I tear thee from my heart when I had torn the heart itself from my bosom." Here he stopped, for his voice was choked from emotion; but after a time he continued,-- "So after that often and often I said in my prayers: 'O God, grant me death, for Thou seest that it is impossible for me to attain her, and impossible for me to be without her!' And that was before I had hoped for the favor of seeing thee in life again--thou, the only one in the world--thou, beloved!" As he said this he bent toward her and touched her arm with his temple. "Thou," whispered he, "art as that blood which gives life to me, as that sun in the heavens. The mercy of God is upon me, that I see thee once more-- O beloved! beloved!" And it seemed to her that Yatsek was singing some marvellous song at that moment. Her eyes were filled with a wave of tears then, and a wave of happiness flooded her heart. Again there was silence between them; but she wept long with such a sweet weeping as she had never known in her life till that morning. "Yatsek," said she at last, "why have we so tormented each other?" "God has rewarded us a hundred fold," said he in answer. And for the third time there was silence between them; only the wagon squeaked on, pushing forward slowly over the ruts of the roadway. Beyond the forest they came out onto great fields bathed in sunlight; on those fields wheat was rustling, dotted richly with red poppies and blue star thistles. There was great calm in that region. Above fields on which the grain had been reaped, here and there skylarks were soaring, lost in song, motionless; on the edges of the fields sickles glittered in the distance; from the remoter green pastures came the cries and songs of men herding cattle. And to both it seemed that the wheat was rustling because of them; that the poppies and star thistles were blooming because of them; that, the larks were singing because of them; that the calls of the herdsmen were uttered because of them; that all the sunny peace of those fields and all those voices were simply repeating their ecstasy and happiness. They were roused from this oblivion by Father Voynovski, who had pushed up unnoticed to the wagon. "How art thou, Yatsus?" asked he. Yatsek trembled and looked with shining eyes at him, as if just roused from slumber. "What is it, benefactor?" "How art thou?" "Eh! it will not be better in paradise!" The priest looked seriously first at him, then at the young lady. "Is that true?" asked he. And he galloped off to the company. But the delightful reality embraced them anew. They began to look on each other, and sink in the eyes of each other. "O, thou not-to-be-looked-at-sufficiently!" said Yatsek. But she lowered her eyes, smiled at the corners of her mouth till dimples appeared in her rosy cheeks, and asked in a whisper,-- "But is not Panna Zbierhovski more beautiful?" Yatsek looked at her with amazement. "What, Panna Zbierhovski?" She made no answer; she simply laughed in her fist, with a laugh as resonant as a silver bell. Meanwhile, when the priest had galloped to the company, the men, who loved Yatsek, fell to inquiring,-- "Well, how is it there? How is our wounded man?" "He is no longer in this world!" replied Father Voynovski. "As God lives! What has happened? How is he not in the world?" "He is not, for he says that he is in paradise--a woman!!!" The Bukoyemskis, as men who understand without metaphor all that is said to them, did not cease to look at the priest with astonishment and, removing their caps, were just ready to say, "eternal rest," when a general outbreak of laughter interrupted their pious thoughts and intention. But in that laughter of the company there was sincere good-will and sympathy for Yatsek. Some of the men had learned from Pan Stanislav how sensitive that cavalier was, and all divined how he must have suffered, hence the words of the priest delighted them greatly. Voices were heard at once, therefore: "God knows! we have seen how he fought with his feelings, how he answered questions at random, how he left buckles unfastened, how he forgot himself when eating or drinking, how he turned his eyes to the moon during night hours." "Those are infallible signs of unfortunate love," added some. "It is true," put in others, "that he is now as if in paradise, for if no wounds give more pain than those caused by Love, there is no sweeter thing than mutuality." These and similar remarks were made by Yatsek's comrades. Some of them, having learned of the hardships which the lady had passed through, and how shamefully Krepetski had treated her, fell to shaking their sabres, and crying; "Give him hither!" Some became sensitive over the maiden, some, having learned how Martsian had been handled by the Bukoyemskis, raised to the skies the native valor and wit of those brothers. But after a while universal attention was centred again on the lovers: "Well," cried out all, "let us shout to their health and good fortune _et felices rerum successus!_" and immediately a noisy throng moved toward the wagon on horseback. In one moment almost the whole regiment had surrounded Pan Yatsek and Panna Anulka. Loud voices thundered: "_Vivant! floreant!_" others cried before the time: "_Crescite et multiplicamini!_" Whether Panna Anulka was really frightened by those cries, or rather as an "insidious woman," she only feigned terror father Voynovski himself could not have decided. It is enough that, sheltering her bright head at the unwounded shoulder of Yatsek, she asked with shamefaced confusion,-- "What is this, Yatsek? what are they doing?" He surrounded her with his sound arm, and said,-- "People are giving thee, dearest flower, and I am taking thee." "After the war?" "Before the war." "In God's name, why so hurried?" But it was evident that Yatsek had not heard this query for instead of replying, he said to her,-- "Let us bow to the dear comrades for this good-will, and thank them." Hence they bowed toward both sides, which roused still greater enthusiasm. Seeing the blushing face of the maiden, which was as beautiful as the morning dawn, the warriors struck their thighs with their palms from admiration. "By the dear God!" cried they. "One might be dazzled!" "An angel would be enamoured; what can a sinful man do?" "It is no wonder that he was withering with sorrow." And again hundreds of voices thundered more powerfully,-- "_Vivant! crescant! floreant!_" Amid those shouts, and in clouds of golden dust they entered Shydlovets. At the first moment the inhabitants were frightened, and, leaving in front of their houses the workshops in which they were cutting out whetstones from sandrock, they ran to their chambers. But, learning soon that those were the shouts of a betrothal, and not of anger, they rushed in a crowd to the street and followed the soldiers. A throng of horses and men was formed straightway. The kettledrums of the horsemen were beaten, the trumpets and crooked horns sounded. Gladness became universal. Even the Jews, who through fear had stayed longer in the houses, shouted: "_Vivait!_"[7] though they knew not well what the question was. But Tachevski said to Panna Anulka,-- "Before the war, before the war, even though death were to come one hour later." CHAPTER XXVI "How is that?" inquired Father Voynovski, at the dinner which his comrades gave Yatsek. "We are going in five or six days; thou mightst die in the war; is it worth while to marry before a campaign, instead of waiting for the happy end of it, and then marrying at your leisure?" His comrades, when they heard these prudent words, burst into laughter; some of them held their sides, others cried in a chorus,--"Oh! it is worth while, benefactor! and just for this reason that he may die is it worth while all the more." The priest was a little angry, but when the three hundred best men, not excepting Pan Stanislav insisted, and Yatsek would not hear of delay, it had to be as he wanted. Renewed relations with the court, and the favor of the king and queen facilitated the affair very greatly. The queen declared that the coming Pani Tachevski would be under her protection till the war ended, and the king himself promised to be at the marriage, and to think of a fitting dowry when his mind was less occupied. He remembered that many lands of the Sieninskis had passed to the Sobieskis, and how his ancestors had grown strong from them, hence he felt under obligations to the orphan, who, besides, had attracted him by her beauty, and also roused his compassion by her harsh fate, and the evils which she had suffered. Pan Matchynski, a friend from of old, to Father Voynovski, and also a friend of the king, promised to remind him of the young lady, but after the war; for at that time when on the shoulders of Yan III the fate of all Europe was resting, and of all Christianity, it was not permitted to trouble him with private interests. Father Voynovski was comforted with this promise as much as if Yatsek had then received a good "crown estate," for all knew that word from Pan Matchynski was as sure of fulfilment as had been the words of Zavisha. To speak strictly, he was the author of all the good which had met Panna Sieninski in Cracow; he mentioned Father Voynovski to the king and queen; finally he won for the young lady the queen, who, though capricious in her likings, and fickle, began from the first moment to show her special favor and friendship, which seemed even almost too sudden. A dispensation from banns was received easily through protection of the court, and the favor of the bishop of Cracow. Even earlier, Pan Serafin had obtained for the young couple handsome lodgings from a Cracow merchant, whose ancestors and those of Pan Serafin had done business in their day, when the latter were living in Lvoff, and importing brocades from the Orient. That was a beautiful lodging, and, because of the multitude of civil and military dignitaries in the city, so good a one could not be obtained by many a voevoda. Stanislav had determined that Yatsek should pass those few days before the campaign as it were in a genuine heaven, and he ornamented those lodgings unusually with fresh flowers and tapestry; other comrades helped him with zeal, each lending, the best of what he had, rugs, tapestry, carpets, and such like costly articles, which in wealthy hussar regiments were taken in campaigns even. In one word, all showed the young couple the greatest good-will, and helped them as each one was able and with what he commanded, except the four Bukoyemskis. They, in the first days after coming to Cracow, went sometimes twice in a day to Stanislav and to Yatsek, and to merchants at the inns with whom officers from the regiment of Prince Alexander drank not infrequently, but afterward the four brothers vanished as if they had fallen into water. Father Voynovski thought that they were drinking in the suburbs, where servants had seen them one evening, and where mead and wine were cheaper than in the city, but immediately after that all report of them vanished. This angered the priest as well as the Tsyprianovitches, for the brothers were bound to Pan Serafin in gratitude; this they should not have forgotten. "They may be good soldiers," said the priest, "but they are giddy heads in whose sedateness we cannot put confidence. Of course they have found some wild company in which they pass time more pleasantly than with any of us." This judgment proved inaccurate, however, for on the eve of Yatsek's marriage, when his quarters were filled with acquaintances who had come with good wishes and presents, the four brothers appeared in their very best garments. Their faces were calm, serious, and full of mysteriousness. "What has happened to you?" asked Pan Serafin. "We have been tracking a wild beast!" replied Lukash. "Quiet!" said Mateush, giving him a punch in the side, "Do not tell till the time comes." Then he looked at the priest, at Pan Serafin and his son, and turning finally to Yatsek, began to clear his throat, like a man who intends to speak in some detail. "Well, begin right away!" urged his brothers. But he looked at them with staring eyes, and inquired,-- "How was it?" "How? Hast thou forgotten?" "It has broken in me." "Wait--I know," cried Yan. "It began: 'Our most worthy--' Go on!" "Our most worthy Pilate," began Mateush. "Why 'Pilate'?" interrupted the priest. "Perhaps it is Pylades?" "Benefactor thou hast hit the nail on the head," cried Yan. "As I live, it is Pylades." "Our worthy Pylades!" began Mateush, now reassured, "though not the iron Boristhenes, but the gold-bearing Tagus itself were to flow in our native region, we, being exiled through attacks of barbarians, should have nothing but our hearts glowing with friendship to offer thee, neither could we honor this day as it merits by any thank-offering--" "Thou speakest as if cracking nuts," cried out Lukash excitedly. But Mateush kept on repeating: "As it merits,--as it merits--" He stopped, looked at his brothers, calling with his eyes for rescue, but they had forgotten entirely that which was to come later. The Bukoyemskis began now to frown, and the audience to titter. Seeing this Pan Serafin resolved to assist them. "Who composed this speech for you?" asked he. "Pan Gromyka, of Pan Shumlanski's regiment," said Mateush. "There it is. A strange horse is more likely to balk and rear than your own beast; so now embrace Yatsek and tell him what ye have to say." "Surely that is the best way." And they embraced Yatsek one after another. Then Mateush continued,--"Yatsus! we know that thou art no Pilate, and thou knowest that after losing Kieff regions we are poor fellows, in short we are naked. Here is all that we can give, and accept with thankful heart even this." Then they handed him some object wound up in a piece of red satin, and at that moment the three younger brothers repeated, with feeling,-- "Accept it, Yatsus, accept! Accept!" "I accept, and God repay you," answered Yatsek. Thus speaking, he put the object on the table, and began to unroll the satin. All at once he started back, and cried,-- "As God lives, it is the ear of a man!" "But dost thou know whose ear? Martsian Krepetski's!" thundered the brothers. "Ah!" All present were so tremendously astonished that silence followed immediately. "Tfu!" cried Father Voynovski, at last. And measuring the brothers, one after the other, with a stern glance, he began at the eldest,-- "Are ye Turks to bring in the ears of beaten enemies? Ye are a shame to this Christian army and all nobles. If Krepetski deserved death a hundred times, if he were even a heretic, or out and out a pagan, it would still be an inexpressible shame to commit such an action. Oh, ye have delighted Yatsek, so that he spits from his mouth that which comes into it. But I tell you that for such a deed ye are to expect not gratitude but contempt, and shame also; for there is no regiment in all the cavalry, or even a regiment in the infantry, which would accept such barbarians as comrades." At this Mateush stepped out in front of his brothers, and, flaming with rage, said,-- "Here is gratitude for you, here is reward, here is the justice of people, and a judgment. If any layman were to utter this judgment I should cut one ear from him, and also the other to go with it, but since a clerical person speaks thus, let the Lord Jesus judge him, and take the side of the innocent! Your Grace asks: 'Are ye Turks?' but I ask: Do you think that we cut off the ear of a dead man? My born brothers, ye innocent orphans, to what have ye come, that they make Turks of you, enemies of the faith! To what?" Here his voice quivered, for his grief had exceeded his auger. The three brothers, roused by the unjust judgment, began to cry out with equal sorrow,-- "They make Turks of us!" "Enemies of the faith!" "Vile pagans!" "Then tell, in the name of misfortune, how it was," said the priest. "Lukash cut off Martsian's ear in a duel." "Whence did Krepetski come hither?" "He rode into Cracow. He was here five days. He rode in behind us." "Let one speak. Speak thou, but to the point." Here the priest turned to Yan, the youngest. "An acquaintance of ours from the regiment of the Bishop of Sandomir," began Yan, "told us by chance, three days ago, that he had seen in a wineshop on Kazamir street a certain wonder. 'A noble,' says he, 'as thick as a tree stump, with a great head so thrust into his body that his shoulders come up to his ears, on short crooked legs,' says he, 'and he drinks like a dragon. A viler monkey I have not seen in my life,' says he. And we, since the Lord Jesus has given us this gift from birth, take everything in at a twinkle, we look at one another that instant: Well, is not that Krepetski? Then we said to the man, 'Take us to that wineshop.' 'I will take you.' And he took us. It was dark, but we looked till we saw something black in one corner behind a table. Lukash walked up to it, and made sparks fly before the very eyes of him who was hiding there. 'Krepetski,' cries he, and grabs him by the shoulder. We to our sabres. Krepetski sprang away, but saw that there was no escape, for we were between him and the doorway. Did he not jump then? He jumped up time after time as a cock does. 'What,' says he, 'do ye think that I am afraid? Only come at me one by one, not in a crowd, unless ye are murderers, not nobles.'" "The scoundrel!" interrupted the priest. "What did he try to do with us? That is what Lukash asked him. 'Oh!' said Lukash, 'thou son of such a mother, thou didst hire a whole regiment of cut-throats against us. It would be well,' said he, 'to give thee to the headsman, but this is the shorter way!' Then he presses on, and they fall to cutting. After the third or fourth blow, his head leans to one side. I look--and there is an ear on the floor. Mateush raises it immediately, and cries,--'Leave the other to us, do not cut it. This,' said he 'will be for Yatsek, and the other for Panna Anulka.' But Martsian dropped his sabre, for his blood had begun to flow terribly, and he fainted. We poured water on his head, and wine into his mouth, thinking that he would revive and meet the next one of us; but that could not be. He recovered consciousness, it is true, and said: 'Since ye have sought justice yourselves, ye are not free to seek any other,' and he fainted again. We went away then, sorry not to have the other ear. Lukash said that he could have killed the man, but he spared him for us, and especially for Yatsek. And I do not know if any one could act more politely, for it is no sin to crush such vermin as Martsian, but it is clear that politeness does not pay now-a-days, since we have to suffer for showing it." "True! He speaks justly!" said the other brothers. "Well," said the priest, "if the matter stands thus it is different, but still the gift is unsavory." The brothers looked with amazement one at another. "Why say unsavory?" asked Marek. "You do not think we brought it for Yatsek to eat, do you?" "I thank you from my soul for your good wishes," said Tachevski. "I think that ye did not bring it to me to be stored away." "It has grown a little green--it might be smoke-dried." "Let a man bury it at once," said the priest with severity; "it is the ear of a Christian in every case." "In Kieff we have seen better treatment," growled out Mateush. "Krepetski came hither undoubtedly," remarked Yatsek, "to make a new attack on Anulka." "He will not take her away from the king's palace," said the prudent Pan Serafin, "but he did not come for that, if I think correctly. His attack failed, so I suppose he only wanted to learn whether we know that he arranged it, and if we have complained of him. Perhaps old Krepetski did not know of his son's undertaking; but perhaps he did know; if he did, then both must be greatly alarmed, and I am not at all surprised that Martsian came here to investigate." "Well," said Stanislav, laughing, "he has no luck with the Bukoyemskis, indeed he has not." "Let him go," said Tachevski. "To-day I am ready to forgive him." The Bukoyemskis and Stanislav, who knew the stubbornness of the young cavalier, looked at him with astonishment, and he, as if answering them, added,-- "For Anulka will be mine immediately, and to-morrow I shall be a Christian knight and defender of the faith, a man whose heart should be free of all hate and personalities." "God bless thee for that!" cried the priest. CHAPTER XXVII At last the long-wished-for day of his happiness came to Tachevski. In Cracow a report had gone out among the citizens, and was repeated with wonder, that in the army was a knight who would marry on one day and mount his horse the day following. When the report went out also that the king and queen would be at the marriage, crowds began from early morning to assemble in the church and outside it. At length the crowd was so great that the king's men had to bring order to the square so that the marriage guests might have a free passage. Tachevski's comrades assembled to a man; this they did out of good-will and friendship, and also because it was dear to each one of them to be seen in a company where the king himself would be present, and to belong, as it were, to his private society. Many dignitaries appeared also, even men who had never heard of Tachevski, for it was known that the queen favored the marriage, and at the court much depended on her inclination and favor. To some of the lords it was not less wonderful than to the citizens that the king should find time to be at the marriage of a simple officer, while on that king's shoulders the fate of the whole world was then resting, and day after day couriers from foreign lands were flying in on foaming horses; hence some considered this as coming from the kindness of the monarch and his wish to win the army, while others made suppositions that there existed some near bond of kinship, difficult to be acknowledged; others ridiculed these suppositions, stating justly that in such a case the queen, who had so little condescension for the failings of cavaliers that the king more than once had been forced to make explanations, would not have been so anxious for the union of the lovers. People remembered little of the Sieninskis, so to avoid every calumny and gossip the king declared that the Sobieskis owed much to that family. Then people of society were concerned with Panna Anulka, and, as is usual at courts, at one time they pitied, at another time they were moved by her sufferings, and next they lauded her virtue and comeliness. Reports of her beauty spread widely even among citizens, but when at last they saw her no one was disappointed. She came to the church with the queen, hence all glances went first to that lofty lady whose charms were still brilliant, like the bright sun before evening; but when they were turned to the bride, all men among dignitaries, the military, the nobles, and citizens whispered, and even loud voices were heard. "Wonderful, wonderful! That man owes much to his eyes, who has beheld once in life such a woman." And this was true. Not always in those times was a maiden dressed in white for her marriage, but the young ladies and the assistants arrayed Anulka in white, for such was her wish, and that was the color of her finest robe also. So in white, with a green wreath on her golden hair, and with a face confused a trifle, and pale, with downcast eyes, she, silent, and slender, looked like a snowy swan, or simply like a white lily. Even Yatsek himself, to whom she seemed in some sort a new person, was astonished at sight of her. "In God's name!" said he to himself, "how can I approach her? She is a genuine queen, or entirely an angel with whom it is sinful to speak unless kneeling." And he was almost awestruck. But when at last he and she knelt side by side before the altar, and heard the voice of Father Voynovski full of emotion, as he began with the words: "I knew you both as little children," and joined their hands with his stole, when he heard his own low voice: "I take thee as wife," and the hymn, _Veni Creator_ burst forth a moment later, it seemed to Yatsek that happiness would burst his bosom, and that all the easier since he was not wearing his armor. He had loved this woman from childhood, and he knew that he loved her, but now, for the first time, he understood how he loved her without measure or limit. And again he began to say to himself: I must die, for if a man during life were to have so much happiness, what more could there be for him in heaven? But he thought that before he died he must thank God; and all at once there flew before the eyes of his soul Turkish warriors in legions, beards, turbans, sashes, crooked sabres, horsetail standards. So from his heart was rent the shout to God: "I will thank to the full, to the full!" And he felt, that for those enemies of the cross and the faith, he would become a destroying lion. That vision lasted only one twinkle, then his breast was filled with a boundless wave of love and rapture. Meanwhile the ceremony was ended, the retinue moved to the dwelling prepared for the young couple by Stanislav, and ornamented by his comrades in the regiment. For one moment only could Yatsek press to his heart the young Pani Tachevski, for straightway both ran to meet the king and queen, who had come from the church to them. Two high armchairs had been fixed for the royal pair at the table, so, after the blessing, during which the young people knelt before majesty, Yatsek begged the gracious lord and lady to the wedding feast, but the king had to give a refusal. "Dear comrade," said he, "I should be glad to talk with thee, and still more with thee, my relative," here he turned to Pani Tachevski, "and discuss the coming dowry. I will remain a moment and drink a health to you, but I may not sit down, for I have so much on my head, that every hour now is precious." "We believe that!" cried a number of voices. Tachevski seized the feet of the king, who took a filled goblet from the table. "Gracious gentlemen!" said he, "the health of the young couple!" A shout was heard: "_Vivant! crescant, floreant!_" Then the king again spoke,-- "Enjoy your happiness quickly," said he to Tachevski, "for it deserves that, and it will not be long. Thou shouldst remain here a few days, but then thou must follow on quickly for we shall not wait for thee." "It is easier for her to hold out without thee, than Vienna without us," said Pan Marek Matchynski, smiling at Yatsek. "But Lyubomirski is shelling out the Turks there," said one of the hussars. "I have good news from our men," said the king. "This I have commanded Matchynski to bring, to be read to you, and gladden the hearts of our warriors. It is what the Duke of Lorraine, commander-in-chief for the emperor, writes me of the battle near Presburg." And he read somewhat slowly, for he read to the nobles in Polish, and the letter was in the French language. "'The emperor's cavalry advanced with effect and enthusiasm, but the action was ended by the Poles who left no work to the Germans. I cannot find words sufficient to praise the strength, valor, and bearing of the officers and soldiers led by Pan Lyubomirski.[8] "'The battle,' writes the Duke of Lorraine, 'was a great one, and our glory not small.'" "We will show that we are not worse," cried the warriors. "I believe and am confident, but we must hasten, for later letters portend evil. Vienna is barely able to breathe, and all Christianity has its eyes on us. Shall we be there in season?" "Few regiments have remained here, the main forces are at the Tarnovski Heights waiting, as I have heard, under the hetmans," said Father Voynovski, "but though our hands are needed at Vienna, they are not needed so much as a leader like your Royal Grace." Sobieski smiled at this and answered,-- "That, word for word, is what the Duke of Lorraine writes. So, gentlemen, keep the bridles in hand, for any hour I may order the sounding of trumpets." "When, gracious lord?" called a number of voices. The king grew impressive in a moment. "I will send off to-morrow those regiments which are still with me," then he glanced quickly at Tachevski, as if testing him. "Since her grace the queen will go to the Heights with us to see the review there, thou, unless thou ask of us an entirely new office, may remain here, if thou engage to overtake us exactly." Yatsek, putting his arm around his wife, pushed one step toward the king with her. "Gracious lord," said he, "if the German empire, or even the kingdom of France were offered me in exchange for this lady, God, who sees my whole heart, knows that I would not accept either, and that I would not give her for any treasure in existence. But God forbid that I should abandon my service, or lose an opportunity, or neglect a war for religion, or desert my own leader for the sake of private happiness. If I did I should despise myself, and she, for I know her, would also despise me. O gracious lord, if ill luck or misfortune were to bar the road and I could not join thee I should burn up from shame and from anguish." Here tears dimmed his eyes, blushes came to his cheeks, and, in a voice trembling from emotion, he added: "To-day I blasphemed before the altar, for I said: 'O God, I will thank to the full, to the full for this.'--But only with my life, with my blood, with my labor could I return thanks for the happiness which has met me. For this very reason I shall ask no new office, and when thou shalt move, gracious leader and king, I will not delay even one day behind thee. I will go at the same hour, though I were to fall on the morrow." And he knelt at the feet of Sobieski, who, bending forward, embraced his head and then answered,-- "Give me more of such men, and the Polish name will go through the world thundering." Father Voynovski had tears in his eyes, the Bukoyemskis were weeping like beavers. Emotion and enthusiasm seized every man present. "On the pagans, for the faith!" roared many voices. And then began rattling of sabres. But when it had grown somewhat quiet Pani Tachevski bent to the ear of her husband and, with pale lips, whispered into it,-- "O Yatsek, wonder not at my tears, for if thou go I may never see thee hereafter--but go!" CHAPTER XXVIII Still they remained two days together. The court, it is true, set out the day following, but the queen, with all her court ladies, and a multitude of lay and church dignitaries, followed the king to Tarnovski Heights where the camp was and where a great review had been ordered. The retinue being numerous moved slowly and hence to overtake it was easy. The subsequent advance of the forces, with the king at the head of them, from the boundary to Vienna astonished the world by its swiftness, especially since the king hastened on and arrived before the main army, but to Tarnovski Heights the queen dragged on six days, with her retinue. In two days the Tachevskis came up with the escort. Pani Tachevski took her seat then in a court carriage, and Yatsek hurried on to the camp for the night, to join there his regiment. For the royal pair the time of separation was approaching. On August 22 the king took solemn farewell of his beloved "Marysienka." In the early morning he mounted and marshalled before her the army; next he moved at the head of it to Glivitsi. People noted that although he always took farewell of the queen with great sorrow, since he loved her as the apple of his eye, and was pained by even a short absence, his face this time was radiant. So the church and lay dignitaries took courage. They knew how tremendous was a war with that enemy, who besides had never advanced with such forces. "The Turks have moved three parts of the world, it is true," said they to themselves, "but if our lord, their greatest crusher and destroyer, goes with such delight to this struggle, we have no cause for anxiety touching it." And hope filled their bosoms, the sight of the warriors increased it still more, and changed it to perfect confidence in victory. The army, with all the camp followers seemed very considerable. As far as the eye reached the sun shone on helmets, on armor, on sabres, on barrels of muskets and cannon. The glitter was so bright that eyes were dazzled by the excess of it. Rainbow-hued ensigns and banners played in the blue air, above the army. The rolling of drums throughout the foot regiments was mingled with responses from trumpets, crooked horns, and kettledrums, and also the hellish noise of a Janissary orchestra, and the neighing of horses. At first the train moved toward one side, to afford a free way to all movements of the army, and only then the review began really. The royal carriage halted on a plain not too high, a little to the right of the road by which the regiments were to pass while advancing. In the first carriage sat the queen wearing plumes, laces, and velvets glittering with jewels. She was beautiful and imposing, with the full majesty in her face of a woman who possesses all in life that the most daring designs can imagine, for she had a crown, and the unspeakable love of the most glorious of contemporary monarchs. She, in common with those dignitaries in the suite of the king, felt most certain that when her husband was on horseback for action, he would be followed, as he had been followed at all times, by destruction and triumph. And she felt that at the moment the eyes of all the world from Tsargrad to Rome, Madrid, and Paris, were turned on him that all Christianity was stretching out hands to him, and that only in those iron arms of his warriors did people see rescue. Hence her heart rose with the pride of a woman. "Our might is increasing, and glory will raise us above all other kings," said she in spirit; and therefore, though her husband was leading barely twenty and some thousands of men against countless hosts of Osmanli, her breast was filled with delight and no cloud of alarm or distrust darkened then her white forehead. "Look at the victor, look at your father, the king," said she to her children, who, as little birds fill a nest, filled the carriage--"when he returns, the world will kneel to him in thanksgiving." In other carriages were visible the charming features of youthful court ladies, the mitres of bishops, and the dignified, stern faces of senators, who remained at home to manage the government in place of His Majesty. The king himself was with the army, but all could see him very clearly on the height at some distance, among hetmans and generals, where he produced the impression of a giant on horseback. The army was to pass a little lower, before his feet, as it seemed to spectators. First there moved forward, with a deep, rolling sound and the biting of chain-links, Pan Kantski's artillery; after it went foot regiments with a musket on the shoulder of each man, under officers with sabres on straps, and carrying long canes with which they kept all ranks in order. Those regiments marched four abreast and seemed moving fortresses, their step preserved time and was thundering. Each regiment when passing the carriage of Her Majesty gave a loud shout to salute her, and lowered its ensign in homage. Among them were some with a costlier outfit than others, and showing a form beyond common in dignity, but the most showy regiment of all was made up of Kashubians in blue coats and yellow belts for ammunition. These Kashubians, large and strong fellows, were so carefully chosen that each seemed a brother to the next man; the heavy muskets moved in the mighty hands of those warriors as would walking-sticks. At the sound of the fife they halted before the king as one person, and presented arms with such accuracy that he smiled with delight, and the dignitaries said to one another: "Eh! To strike upon these men will not be healthy for even the Sultan's own body-guard. Those are real lions, not people!" But immediately after them moved squadrons of light-horse. One might have thought them real centaurs to such a degree had each man and horse become one single entity. These were undegenerate sons of those horsemen who in their day had trampled all Germany, cleaving apart with their sabres and with horse hoofs whole regiments, nay, entire armies of Luther's adherents. The heaviest foreign cavalry, if only equal in number could not oppose them, and the lightest could not escape from them by fleeing. The king himself had said of those men when at Hotsim: "If they are led to the enemy they will cut down all in front of them, as a mower cuts grass at his labor." And though at this moment they advanced past the carriages slowly, each person, even one quite unknowing in warfare, divined very quickly that at the right moment nothing save a hurricane could surpass them in swiftness, power to whirl, strike down, and overthrow. Crooked trumpets and drums went on thundering in front of them, while they marched forward, squadron after squadron, with drawn sabres which seemed flaming swords in the quivering sunlight. When they had passed the court carriages they advanced like a wave starting suddenly, going first at a trot which turned soon to a gallop, and, when they had outlined a great giant circle, they passed again, and this time they rushed like a tempest and near the queen's carriage; but while they were doing this they shouted, "Slay! Kill!" and in extended right hands held their sabres pointed forward as if in attacking, on horses whose nostrils were distended to the utmost, with waving manes, as if wild from the impetus of their onrush. And they passed thus a second time, and then at the third turn they, without breaking ranks, stood still on a sudden. They did this so accurately, so evenly, and with such agreement that foreigners, of whom at that court there were many, and especially those who saw then for the first time Polish cavalry in action, gazed at one another with amazement, as if each man were questioning his own eyesight. When they had vanished the field glittered with dragoons everywhere and bloomed like a blossom. Some of those regiments had appeared under Pan Yablonovski, some had been assembled by magnates, and one by the king, from his own private fortune; this was commanded by Pan de Maligny, Her Majesty's brother. In the dragoons served common folk for the greater part, but men trained to riding from childhood, experienced in fighting of various sorts, stubborn under fire, less terrible at close quarters than nobles, but disciplined and most enduring of military labor. But the greatest delight for the eyes and the spirit began only when the hussars started forward. They moved on in calmness as was proper for regiments of such value; their lances pointing upward seemed a forest, and at the points, moved by the light breeze, was a rainbow cloud of streamers. Their horses were heavier than those in other squadrons; their steel armor was inlaid with gold; on their shoulders were wings, in which the feathers, even when moving slowly, made that sound heard in forests among branches. The great dignity, and, as it were, the pride which issued forth from them, made so deep an impression that the queen and court ladies, the senators, and above all, foreign visitors, rose in their carriages to see them more accurately. There was something tremendous in that march, for it came to the mind of each man unwittingly, that when an avalanche of iron like that should rush forward it would crush, grind, and drive apart all things in front of it, and that there was no human strength which could stop it. And this was undoubted. Not so distant at that time was the day when three thousand such horsemen had rubbed into dust Swedish legions five times their own number; still less remote was that other day when one squadron of the same kind had passed, like a spirit of destruction, through the whole army of Karl Gustav; and quite recent was the day when at Hotsim those same hussars under that same king there present had trampled in the earth Turkish guards formed of Janissaries, as easily as standing wheat in the open. Many of the men who had shared in that shattering of the enemy at Hotsim were serving then under the banners of that day, and these warriors, proud, calm, and confident, were starting now toward the walls of a foreign capital to reap a new harvest. Terror and strength seemed the soul of that body. An afternoon breeze rose behind them on a sudden, whistled in their streamers, blew forward the waving manes of their horses, and made so mighty a sound in the wings at the shoulders of each mounted warrior, that the horses from Spain which drew the court carriages rose on their haunches. The squadrons approached to a line twenty yards from the carriages, turned to one side and marched past in squadrons. Then it was that Pani Tachevski saw her husband for the last time before the expedition. He rode in the second rank at the edge of the squadron, all in iron and winged armor, the ear pieces of his helmet hid his cheeks altogether. His large golden bay Turkish stallion bore him on easily despite the weighty armor, throwing his head upward, rattling his bit, and snorting loudly, as if in good omen for the rider. Yatsek turned his iron-covered head toward his wife, and moved his lips as if whispering, but though no distinct word reached her ears she divined that he was giving her the last "Fare thee well!" and such an impulse of yearning and love seized her heart that if she could have, at the cost of her life, changed at that moment to a swallow she would have perched on his shoulder, or on the flag of his lance point, and gone with him; she would not have stopped for one twinkle to calculate. "Fare thee well, Yatsek! God guard thee!" cried she, stretching her hands to him. And her eyes were tear-bedewed while he rode past in solemnity, gleaming in the sunlight, and, as it were, rendered sacred by the service imposed on him. * * * * * Behind this the regiment of Prince Alexander came up and marched past still others, equally terrible and equally brilliant Then other regiments described a great circle and halted on the plain almost in the places from which they had started in the time of reviewing, but now in marching order. * * * * * From the carriages on the height the eye could embrace all the regiments very nearly. Far away and near by were seen crimson uniforms, glittering armor, the flashing of swords, the upturned forest of lances, the broad cloud of streamers, and above them great banners like giant blossoms. From the regiments standing nearer, the breeze brought the odor of horse sweat, and the shouts of commanders, the shrill note of fifes, and the deep sound of kettledrums. But in those shouts, in those sounds, in that delight and that eagerness for battle, there was something triumphant. A perfect confidence in the victory of the cross above the crescent,--that confidence was flowing through every heart in those legions. * * * * * The king remained yet for a moment at the carriage of Her Majesty, but when a blessing had been given him with a cross and with relics by the bishop of Cracow, he rushed at a gallop to the army. The air was rent suddenly by the keen sound of trumpets, while masses of foot and of cavalry stirred, began slowly to lengthen, and finally those masses moved, all of them, westward. In advance were the banners of the light horse, behind them hussars; the dragoons closed the movement. * * * * * The prince bishop of Cracow raised with both hands the cross, holding relics as high above his head as was possible: "O God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, have mercy on Thy people!" * * * * * Just then more than twenty thousand breasts raised the anthem which Pan Kohovski had composed for that moment: "For Thee, O pure Lady, O Mother Immaculate, We go to defend Christ, Our Lord. "For thee, O dear country, For you, O white eagles, We will crush every enemy. ON THE FIELD OF GLORY." FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 1: Kromer.] [Footnote 2: His pets.] [Footnote 3: On Saint Stephen's day people used to cast various kinds of grain at the priest at the altar in memory of the stoning of that saint.] [Footnote 4: The Elector just mentioned, _i. e_., the Elector of Brandenburg.] [Footnote 4: The Elector just mentioned, _i. e_., the Elector of Brandenburg.] [Footnote 5: Among the Poles and Slavs generally death is represented as a woman.] [Footnote 6: This man is mentioned on page 224.] [Footnote 7: Jewish pronunciation of _vivant_.] [Footnote 8: Carolus Dux Lotharingiae Joanni III, Poloniae Regi, etc. Julius 31, 1683.] _THE ZAGLOBA ROMANCES_ _by Henryk Sienkiewicz. Translated from_ _the Polish by Jeremiah Curtin_. WITH FIRE AND SWORD An Historical Novel of Poland and Russia. Illustrated. Crown 8vo. $1.50. The first of the famous trilogy of historical romances of Poland, Russia, and Sweden. Their publication has been received as an event in literature. Charles Dudley Warner, in _Harper's Magazine_, affirms that the Polish author has in Zagloba _given a new creation to literature_. _A capital story_. The only modern romance with which it can be compared for fire, sprightliness, rapidity of action, swift changes, and absorbing interest is "The Three Musketeers" of Dumas.--_New York Tribune_. THE DELUGE An Historical Novel of Poland, Sweden, and Russia. A Sequel to "With Fire and Sword." With map. 2 vols. Crown 8vo. $3.00. Marvellous in its grand descriptions.--_Chicago Inter-Ocean_. Has the humor of a Cervantes and the grim vigor of Defoe.--_Boston Gazette_. PAN MICHAEL An Historical Novel of Poland, Russia, and the Ukraine. A Sequel to "With Fire and Sword" and "The Deluge." Crown 8vo. $1.50. The interest of the trilogy, both historical and romantic, is splendidly sustained.--_The Dial_, Chicago. * * * * * LITTLE, BROWN, & COMPANY, PUBLISHERS BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS QUO VADIS A Narrative of the Time of Nero. By Henryk Sienkiewicz. Translated from the Polish by Jeremiah Curtin. Illustrated. Crown 8vo. $1.50. One of the greatest books of our day.--_The Bookman_. The book is like a grand historical pageant.--_Literary World_. Of intense interest to the whole Christian civilization.--_Chicago Tribune_. Interest never wanes; and the story is carried through its many phases of conflict and terror to a climax that enthralls.--_Chicago Record_. As a study of the introduction of the gospel of love into the pagan world typified by Rome, it is marvellously fine.--_Chicago Interior_. The picture here given of life in Rome under the last of the Caesars is one of unparalleled power and vividness.--_Boston Home Journal_. One of the most remarkable books of the decade. It burns upon the brain the struggles and triumphs of the early church.--_Boston Daily Advertiser_. It will become recognized by virtue of its own merits as the one heroic monument built by the modern novelist above the ruins of decadent Rome, and in honor of the blessed martyrs of the early Church.--_Brooklyn Eagle_. Our debt to Sienkiewicz is not less than our debt to his translator and friend, Jeremiah Curtin. The diversity of the language, the rapid flow of thought, the picturesque imagery of the descriptions are all his.--_Boston Transcript_. * * * * * LITTLE, BROWN, & COMPANY, PUBLISHERS BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS THE KNIGHTS OF THE CROSS An Historical Romance of Poland and Germany. By Henryk Sienkiewicz. Translated from the Polish by Jeremiah Curtin. Illustrated. 2 vols. Crown 8vo. 2.00. The greatest work Sienkiewicz has given us.--_Buffalo Express_. It seems superior even to "Quo Vadis" in strength and realism.--_The Churchman_. The construction of the story is beyond praise. It is difficult to conceive of any one who will not pick the book up with eagerness.--_Chicago Evening Post_. There are some scenes in the book that for power and excitement remind one of the great encounter between Ursus and the bull in "Quo Vadis."--_Minneapolis Tribune_. Vivid, dramatic, and vigorous.... His imaginative power, his command of language, and the picturesque scenes he sets combine to fascinate the reader.--_Philadelphia Bulletin_. A book that holds your almost breathless attention as in a vise from the very beginning, for in it love and strife, the most thrilling of all worldly subjects, are described masterfully.--_The Boston Journal_. Another remarkable book. His descriptions are tremendously effective; one can almost hear the sound of the carnage; to the mind's eye the scene of battle is unfolded by a master artist.--_The Hartford Courant_. Thrillingly dramatic, full of strange local color and very faithful to its period, besides having that sense of the mysterious and weird that throbs in the Polish blood and infects alike their music and literature.--_The St. Paul Globe_. * * * * * LITTLE, BROWN, & COMPANY, PUBLISHERS BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS _OTHER NOVELS AND ROMANCES_ _by Henryk Sienkiewicz. Translated from_ _the Polish by Jeremiah Curtin_. CHILDREN OF THE SOIL Crown 8vo. $1.50. It must be reckoned among the finer fictions of our time, and shows its author to be almost as great a master in the field of the domestic novel as he had previously been shown to be in that of imaginative historical romances.--_The Dial_, Chicago. HANIA, AND OTHER STORIES With portrait. Crown 8vo. $1.50. At the highest level of the author's genius.--_The Outlook_. SIELANKA, A FOREST PICTURE And Other Stories. With frontispiece. Crown 8vo. $1.50. They exhibit the masterly genius of Sienkiewicz even better than his longer romances. They abound in fine character-drawings and beautiful descriptions.--_Chicago Inter-Ocean_. LIFE AND DEATH AND OTHER LEGENDS AND STORIES Illustrated. 16mo. Decorated cloth, $1.00. WITHOUT DOGMA A Novel of Modern Poland. (Translated from the Polish by Iza Young.) Crown 8vo. $1.50. A human document read in the light of a great imagination.--_Boston Beacon_. * * * * * LITTLE, BROWN, & COMPANY, PUBLISHERS BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS 
15729	----	HISTORY OF THE JEWS IN RUSSIA AND POLAND FROM THE EARLIEST TIMES UNTIL THE PRESENT DAY BY S.M. DUBNOW TRANSLATED FROM THE RUSSIAN BY I. FRIEDLAENDER VOLUME II FROM THE DEATH OF ALEXANDER I. UNTIL THE DEATH OF ALEXANDER III. (1825-1894) PHILADELPHIA THE JEWISH PUBLICATION SOCIETY OF AMERICA 5706--1946 Copyright 1918 by THE JEWISH PUBLICATION SOCIETY OF AMERICA TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE It was originally proposed to give the history of Russian Jewry after 1825--the year with which the first volume concludes--in a single volume. This, however, would have resulted in producing a volume of unwieldy dimensions, entirely out of proportion to the one preceding it. It has, therefore, become imperative to divide Dubnow's work into three, instead of into two, volumes. The second volume, which is herewith offered to the public, treats of the history of Russian Jewry from the death of Alexander I. (1825) until the death of Alexander III. (1894). The third and concluding volume will deal with the reign of Nicholas II., the last of the Romanovs, and will also contain the bibliographical apparatus, the maps, the index, and other supplementary material. This division will undoubtedly recommend itself to the reader. The next volume is partly in type, and will follow as soon as circumstances permit. Of the three reigns described in the present volume, that of Alexander III., though by far the briefest, is treated at considerably greater length than the others. The reason for it is not far to seek. The events which occurred during the fourteen years of his reign laid their indelible impress upon Russian Jewry, and they have had a determining influence upon the growth and development of American Israel. The account of Alexander III.'s reign is introduced in the Russian original by a general characterization of the anti-Jewish policies of Russian Tzardom. Owing to the rearrangement of the material, to which reference was made in the preface to the first volume, this introduction, which would have interrupted the flow of the narrative, had to be omitted. But a few passages from it, written in the characteristic style of Mr. Dubnow, may find a place here: Russian Tzardom began its consistent role as a persecutor of the Eternal People when it received, by way of bequest, the vast Jewish population of disintegrated Poland. At the end of the eighteenth century, when Western Europe had just begun the emancipation of the Jews, the latter were subjected in the East of Europe to every possible medieval experiment.... The reign of Alexander II., who slightly relieved the civil disfranchisement of the Jews by permitting certain categories among them to live outside the Pale and by a few other measures, forms a brief interlude in the Russian policy of oppression. His tragic death in 1881 marks the beginning of a new terrible reaction which has superimposed the system of wholesale street pogroms upon the policy of disfranchisement, and has again thrown millions of Jews into the dismal abyss of medievalism. Russia created a lurid antithesis to Jewish emancipation at a time when the latter was consummated not only in Western Europe, but also in the semi-civilized Balkan States.... True, the rise of Russian Judaeophobia--the Russian technical term for Jew-hatred--was paralleled by the appearance of German anti-Semitism in which it found a congenial companion. Yet, the anti-Semitism of the West was after all only a weak aftermath of the infantile disease of Europe--the medieval Jew-hatred--whereas culturally retrograde Russia was still suffering from the same infection in its acute, "childish" form. The social and cultural anti-Semitism of the West did not undermine the modern foundations of Jewish civil equality. But Russian Judaeophobia, more governmental than social, being fully in accord with the entire régime of absolutism, produced a system aiming not only at the disfranchisement, but also at the direct physical annihilation of the Jewish people. The policy of the extermination of Judaism was stamped upon the forehead of Russian reaction, receiving various colors at various periods, assuming the hue now of economic, now of national and religious, now of bureaucratic oppression. The year 1881 marks the starting-point of this systematic war against the Jews, which has continued until our own days, and is bound to reach a crisis upon the termination of the great world struggle. Concerning the transcription of Slavonic names, the reader is referred to the explanations given in the preface to the first volume. The foot-notes added by the translator have been placed in square brackets. The poetic quotations by the author have been reproduced in English verse, the translation following both in content and form the original languages of the quotations as closely as possible. As in the case of the first volume, a number of editorial changes have become necessary. The material has been re-arranged and the headings have been supplied in accordance with the general plan of the work. A number of pages have been added, dealing with the attitude of the American people and Government toward the anti-Jewish persecutions in Russia. These additions will be found on pp. 292-296, pp. 394-396, and pp. 408-410. I am indebted to Dr. Cyrus Adler for his kindness in reading the proof of this part of the work. The dates given in this volume are those of the Russian calendar, except for the cases in which the facts relate to happenings outside of Russia. As in the first volume, the translator has been greatly assisted by the Hon. Mayer Sulzberger, who has read the proofs with his usual care and discrimination, and by Professor Alexander Marx, who has offered a number of valuable suggestions. I.F. NEW YORK, February 25, 1918. CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE XIII. THE MILITARY DESPOTISM OF NICHOLAS I. 1. Military Service as a Means of De-Judaization 13 2. The Recruiting Ukase of 1827 and Juvenile Conscription 18 3. Military Martyrdom 22 4. The Policy of Expulsions 30 5. The Codification of Jewish Disabilities 34 6. The Russian Censorship and Conversionist Endeavors 41 XIV. COMPULSORY ENLIGHTENMENT AND INCREASED OPPRESSION. 1. Enlightenment as a Means of Assimilation 46 2. Uvarov and Lilienthal 50 3. The Abolition of Jewish Autonomy and Renewed Persecutions 59 4. Intercession of Western European Jewry 66 5. The Economic Plight of Russian Jewry and Agricultural Experiments 69 6. The Ritual Murder Trial of Velizh 72 7. The Mstislavl Affair 84 XV. THE JEWS IN THE KINGDOM OF POLAND. 1. Plans of Jewish Emancipation 88 2. Political Reaction and Literary Anti-Semitism 94 3. Assimilationist Tendencies Among the Jews of Poland 100 4. The Jews and the Polish Insurrection of 1831 105 XVI. THE INNER LIFE OF RUSSIAN JEWRY DURING THE PERIOD OF MILITARY DESPOTISM. 1. The Uncompromising Attitude of Rabbinism 111 2. The Stagnation of Hasidism 116 3. The Russian Mendelssohn (Isaac Baer Levinsohn) 125 4. The Rise of Neo-Hebraic Culture 132 5. The Jews and the Russian People 138 XVII. THE LAST YEARS OF NICHOLAS I. 1. The "Assortment" of the Jews 140 2. Compulsory Assimilation 143 3. New Conscription Horrors 145 4. The Ritual Murder Trial of Saratov 150 XVIII. THE ERA OF REFORMS UNDER ALEXANDER II. 1. The Abolition of Juvenile Conscription 154 2. "Homeopathic" Emancipation and the Policy of "Fusion" 157 3. The Extension of the Right of Residence 161 4. Further Alleviations and Attempts at Russification 172 5. The Jews and the Polish Insurrection of 1863 177 XIX. THE REACTION UNDER ALEXANDER II. 1. Change of Attitude Toward the Jewish Problem 184 2. The Informer Jacob Brafman 187 3. The Fight Against Jewish "Separatism" 190 4. The Drift Toward Oppression 198 XX. THE INNER LIFE OF RUSSIAN JEWRY DURING THE REIGN OF ALEXANDER II. 1. The Russification of the Jewish Intelligenzia 206 2. The Society for the Diffusion of Enlightenment 214 3. The Jewish Press 216 4. The Jews and the Revolutionary Movement 221 5. The Neo-Hebraic Renaissance 224 6. The Harbinger of Jewish Nationalism (Perez Smolenskin) 233 7. Jewish Literature in the Russian Language 238 XXI. THE ACCESSION OF ALEXANDER III. AND THE INAUGURATION OF POGROMS. 1. The Triumph of Autocracy 243 2. The Initiation of the Pogrom Policy 247 3. The Pogrom at Kiev 251 4. Further Outbreaks in South Russia 256 XXII. THE ANTI-JEWISH POLICIES OF IGNATYEV. 1. The Vacillating Attitude of the Authorities 259 2. The Pogrom Panic and the Beginning of the Exodus 265 3. The Gubernatorial Commissions 269 4. The Spread of Anti-Semitism 276 5. The Pogrom at Warsaw 280 XXIII. NEW MEASURES OF OPPRESSION AND PUBLIC PROTESTS. 1. The Despair of Russian Jewry 284 2. The Voice of England and America 287 3. The Problem of Emigration and the Pogrom at Balta 297 4. The Conference of Jewish Notables at St. Petersburg 304 XXIV. LEGISLATIVE POGROMS. 1. The "Temporary Rules" of May 3, 1882 309 2. Abandonment of the Pogrom Policy 312 3. Disabilities and Emigration 318 XXV. INNER UPHEAVALS. 1. Disillusionment of the Intelligenzia and the National Revival 324 2. Pinsker's "Autoemancipation" 330 3. Miscarried Religious Reforms 333 XXVI. INCREASED JEWISH DISABILITIES. 1. The Pahlen Commission and New Schemes of Oppression 336 2. Jewish Disabilities Outside the Pale 342 3. Restrictions in Education and in the Legal Profession 348 4. Discrimination in Military Service 354 XXVII. RUSSIAN REACTION AND JEWISH EMIGRATION. 1. Aftermath of the Pogrom Policy 358 2. The Conclusions of the Pahlen Commission 362 3. The Triumph of Reaction 369 4. American and Palestinian Emigration 373 XXVIII. JUDAEOPHOBIA TRIUMPHANT. 1. Intensified Reaction 378 2. Continued Harassing 382 3. The Guildhall Meeting in London 388 4. The Protest of America 394 XXIX. THE EXPULSION FROM MOSCOW. 1. Preparing the Blow 399 2. The Horrors of Expulsion 401 3. Effect of Protests 407 4. Pogrom Interludes 411 XXX. BARON HIRSCH'S EMIGRATION SCHEME AND UNRELIEVED SUFFERING. 1. Negotiations with the Russian Government 434 2. The Jewish Colonisation Association and Collapse of the Argentinian Scheme 419 3. Continued Humiliations and Death of Alexander III. 423 CHAPTER XIII THE MILITARY DESPOTISM OF NICHOLAS I. 1. MILITARY SERVICE AS A MEANS OF DE-JUDAIZATION The era of Nicholas I. was typically inaugurated by the bloody suppression of the Decembrists and their constitutional demands, [1] proving as it subsequently did one continuous triumph of military despotism over the liberal movements of the age. As for the emancipation of the Jews, it was entirely unthinkable in an empire which had become Europe's bulwark against the inroads of revolutionary or even moderately liberal tendencies. The new despotic regime, overflowing with aggressive energy, was bound to create, after its likeness, a novel method of dealing with the Jewish problem. Such a method was contrived by the iron will of the Russian autocrat. [Footnote 1: See Vol. I, p. 410, n. 1.] Nicholas I., who was originally intended for a military career, was placed on the Russian throne by a whim of fate.[1] Prior to his accession, Nicholas had shown no interest in the Jewish problem. The Jewish masses had flitted across his vision but once--in 1816--when, still a young man, he traveled through Russia for his education. The impression produced upon him by this strange people is recorded by the then grand duke in his diary in a manner fully coincident with the official views of the Government: [Footnote 1: After the death of Alexander I. the Russian crown fell to his eldest brother Constantine, military commander of Poland. Accordingly, Constantine was proclaimed emperor, and was recognized as such by Nicholas. Constantine, however, who had secretly abdicated some time previously, insisted on resigning, and Nicholas became Tzar.] The ruin of the peasants of these provinces [1] are the Zhyds. [2] As property-holders they are here second in importance to the landed nobility. By their commercial pursuits they drain the strength of the hapless White Russian people.... They are everything here: merchants, contractors, saloon-keepers, mill-owners, ferry-holders, artisans.... They are regular leeches, and suck these unfortunate governments [3] to the point of exhaustion. It is a matter of surprise that in 1812 they displayed exemplary loyalty to us and assisted us wherever they could at the risk of their lives. [Footnote 1: Nicholas is speaking of White Russia. Compare Vol. I, pp. 329 and 406.] [Footnote 2: See on this term Vol. I, p. 320, n. 2.] [Footnote 3: See on this term Vol. I, p. 308, n. 1.] The characterization of merchants, artisans, mill-owners, and ferry-holders as "leeches" could only spring from a conception which looked upon the Jews as transient foreigners, who, by pursuing any line of endeavor, could only do so at the expense of the natives and thus abused the hospitality offered to them. No wonder then that the future Tzar was puzzled by the display of patriotic sentiments on the part of the Jewish population at the fatal juncture in the history of Russia. This inimical view of the Jewish people was retained by Nicholas when he became the master of Russian-Jewish destinies. He regarded the Jews as an "injurious element," which had no place in a Slavonic Greek-Orthodox monarchy, and which therefore ought to be combated. The Jews must be rendered innocuous, must be "corrected" and curbed by such energetic military methods as are in keeping with a form of government based upon the principles of stern tutelage and discipline. As a result of these considerations, a singular scheme was gradually maturing in the mind of the Tzar: to detach the Jews from Judaism by impressing them into a military service of a wholly exceptional character. The plan of introducing personal military service, instead of the hitherto customary exemption tax, [1] had engaged the attention of the Russian Government towards the end of Alexander I's reign, and had caused a great deal of alarm among the Jewish communities. Nicholas I. was now resolved to carry this plan into effect. Not satisfied with imposing a civil obligation upon a people deprived of civil rights, the Tzar desired to use the Russian military service, a service marked by most extraordinary features, as an educational and disciplinary agency for his Jewish subjects: the barrack was to serve as a school, or rather as a factory, for producing a new generation of de-Judaized Jews, who were completely Russified, and, if possible, Christianized. [Footnote 1: See Vol. I, p. 318.] The extension of the term of military service, marked by the ferocious discipline of that age, to a period of twenty-five years, the enrolment of immature lads or practically boys, their prolonged separation from a Jewish environment, and finally the employment of such methods as were likely to produce an immediate effect upon the recruits in the desired direction--all this was deemed an infallible means of dissolving Russian Jewry within the dominant nation, nay, within the dominant Church. It was a direct and simplified scheme which seemed to lead in a straight line to the goal. But had the ruling spheres of St. Petersburg known the history of the Jewish people, they might have realized that the annihilation of Judaism had in past ages been attempted more than once by other, no less forcible, means and that the attempt had always proved a failure. In the very first year of the new reign, the plan of transforming the Jews by "military" methods was firmly settled in the emperor's mind. In 1826 Nichola instructed his ministers to draft a special statute of military service for the Jews, departing in some respects from the general law. In view of the fact that the new military reform was intended to include the Western region [1], which was under the military command of the Tzar's brother. Grand Duke Constantine [2], the draft was sent to him to Warsaw for further suggestions and approval, and was in turn transmitted by the grand duke to Senator Nicholas Novosiltzev, his co-regent [3], for investigation and report. As an experienced statesman, who had familiarized himself during his administrative activity with the Jewish conditions obtaining in the Western region, Novosiltzev realized the grave risks involved in the imperial scheme. In a memorandum submitted by him to the grand duke, he argued convincingly that the sudden imposition of military service upon the Jews was bound to cause an undesirable agitation among them, and that they should, on the contrary, be slowly "prepared for such a radical transformation." [Footnote 1: The official designation for the territories of Western Russia which were formerly a part of the Polish Empire.] [Footnote 2: Constantine was appointed by his brother Alexander I, Commander-in-chief of the Polish army after the restoration of Poland in 1815. He remained in this post until his death in 1831. See also above, p. 13, n. 2.] [Footnote 3: He was the imperial Russian Commissary in Warsaw, and was practically in control of the affairs in Poland. See below, p. 92 et seq.] Novosiltzev was evidently well informed about the state of mind of the Jewish masses. No sooner had the rumor of the proposed ukase reached the Pale of Settlement than the Jews were seized by a tremendous excitement. It must be borne in mind that the Jewish population of Western Russia had but recently been incorporated into the Russian Empire. Clinging with patriarchal devotion to their religion, estranged from the Russian people, and kept, moreover, in a state of civil rightlessness, the Jews of that region could not be reasonably expected to gloat over the prospect of a military service of twenty-five years' duration, which was bound to alienate their sons from their ancestral faith, detach them from their native tongue, their habits and customs of life, and throw them into a strange, and often hostile, environment. The ultimate aim of the project, which, imbedded in the mind of its originators, seemed safely hidden from the eye of publicity, was quickly sensed by the delicate national instinct, and the soul of the people was stirred to its depths. Public-minded Jews strained every nerve to avert the calamity. Jewish representatives journeyed to St. Petersburg and Warsaw to plead the cause of their brethren. Negotiations were entered into with dignitaries of high rank and with men of influence in the world of officialdom. Rumor had it that immense bribes had been offered to Novosiltzev and several high officials in St. Petersburg for the purpose of receiving their co-operation. But even the intercession of leading dignitaries was powerless to change the will of the Tzar. He chafed under the red-tape formalities which obstructed the realization of his favorite scheme. Without waiting for the transmission of Novosiltzev's memorandum, the Tzar directed the Minister of the Interior and the Chief of the General Staff to submit to him for signature an ukase imposing military service upon the Jews. The fatal enactment was signed on August 26, 1827. 2. The Recruiting Ukase of 1827 and Juvenile Conscription The ukase announces the desire of the Government "to equalize military duty for all estates," without, be it noted, equalizing them in their rights. It further expresses the conviction that "the training and accomplishments, acquired by the Jews during their military service, will, on their return home after the completion of the number of years fixed by law (fully a quarter of a century!), be communicated to their families and make for greater usefulness and higher efficiency in their economic life and in the management of their affairs." However, the "Statute of Conscription and Military Service," subjoined to the ukase, was a lurid illustration of a tendency utterly at variance with the desire "to equalize military duty." Had the Russian Government been genuinely desirous of rendering military duty uniform for all estates, there would have been no need of issuing separately for the Jews a huge enactment of ninety-five clauses, with supplementary "instructions," consisting of sixty-two clauses, for the guidance of the civil and military authorities. All that was necessary was to declare that the general military statute applied also to the Jews. Instead, the reverse stipulation is made: "The general laws and institutions are not valid in the case of the Jews" when at variance with the special statute (Clause 3). The discriminating character of Jewish conscription looms particularly large in the central portion of the statute. Jewish families were stricken with terror on reading the eighth clause of the statute prescribing that "the Jewish conscripts presented by the [Jewish] communes shall be between the ages of twelve and twenty-five." This provision was supplemented by Clause 74: "Jewish minors, i.e., below the age of eighteen, shall be placed in preparatory establishments for military training." True, the institution of minor recruits, called _cantonists_, [1] existed also for Christians. But in their case it was confined to the children of soldiers in active service, by virtue of the principle laid down by Arakcheyev [2] that children born of soldiers were the property of the Military Department, whereas the conscription of Jewish minors was to be absolute and to apply to all Jewish families without discrimination. To make things worse, the law demanded that the years of preparatory training should not be included in the term of active service, the latter to start only with the age of eighteen (Clause 90); in other words, the Jewish cantonists were compelled to serve an additional term of six years over and above the obligatory twenty-five years. Moreover, at the examination of Jewish conscripts, all that was demanded for their enlistment was "that they be free from any disease or defect incompatible with military service, but the other qualifications required by the general rules shall be left out of consideration" (Clause 10). [Footnote 1: From _Canton_, a word applied in Prussia in the eighteenth century to a recruiting district. In Russia, beginning with 1805, the term "cantonists" is applied to children born of soldiers and therefore liable to conscription.] [Footnote 2: See Vol. I, p. 395, n. 1.] The duty of enlisting the recruits was imposed upon the Jewish communes, or Kahals, which were to elect for that purpose between three and six executive officers, or "trustees," in every city. The community as such was held responsible for the supply of a given number of recruits from its own midst. It was authorized to draft into military service any Jew guilty "of irregularity in the payment of taxes, of vagrancy, and other misdemeanors." In case the required number of recruits was not forthcoming within a given term, the authorities were empowered to obtain them from the derelict community "by way of execution." [1] Any irregularity on the part of the recruiting "trustees" was to be punished by the imposition of fines or even by sending them into the army. [Footnote 1: The term "execution" (_ekzekutzia_) is used in Russian to designate a writ empowering an officer to carry a judgment into effect, in other words, to resort to forcible seizure.] The following categories of Jews were exempted from military duty: merchants holding membership in guilds, artisans affiliated with trade-unions, mechanics in factories, agricultural colonists, rabbis, and the Jews, few and far between at that time, who had graduated from a Russian educational institution. Those exempted from military service in kind were required to pay "recruiting money," one thousand rubles for each recruit. The general law providing that a regular recruit could offer as his substitute a "volunteer" was extended to the Jews, with the proviso that the volunteer must also be a Jew. The "Instructions" to the civil authorities, appended to the statute, specify the formalities to be followed both at the recruiting stations and in administering the oath of allegiance to the conscripts in the synagogues. The latter ceremony was to be marked by gloomy solemnity. The recruit was to be arrayed in his prayer-shawl (Tallith) and shroud (Kittel). With his philacteries wound around his arm, he should be placed before the Ark and, amidst burning candles and to the accompaniment of shofar blasts, made to recite a lengthy awe-inspiring oath. The "Instructions" to the military authorities accompanying the statute prescribe that every batch of Jewish conscripts "shall be entrusted to a special officer to be watched over, prior to their departure for their places of destination, and shall be kept apart from the other recruits." Both in the places of conscription and on the journey the Jewish recruits were to be quartered exclusively in the homes of Christian residents. The promulgated "military constitution" surpassed the very worst apprehension of the Jews. All were staggered by this sudden blow, which descended crushingly upon the mode of life, the time-honored traditions, and the religious ideals of the Jewish people. The Jewish family nests became astir, trembling for their fledglings. Barely a month after the publication of the military statute, the central Government in St. Petersburg was startled by the report that the Volhynian town of Old-Constantine had been the scene of "mutiny and disorders among the Jews" on the occasion of the promulgation of the ukase. Benckendorff, the Chief of the Gendarmerie, [1] conveyed this information to the Tzar, who thereupon gave orders that "in all similar cases the culprits be court-martialed". Evidently, the St. Petersburg authorities apprehended a whole series of Jewish mutinies, as a result of the dreadful ukase, and they were ready with extraordinary measures for the emergency. [Footnote 1: Since 1827 the Gendarmerie served as the executive organ of the political police, or of the so-called Third Section, dreaded throughout Russia on account of its relentless cruelty in suppressing the slightest manifestation of liberal thought. The Third Section was nominally abolished in 1880.] However, their apprehensions were unfounded. Apart from the incident referred to, there were no cases of open rebellion against the authorities. As a matter of fact, even in Old-Constantine, the "mutiny" was of a nature little calculated to be dealt with by a court-martial. According to the local tradition, the Jewish residents, Hasidim almost to a man, were so profoundly stirred by the imperial ukase that they assembled in the synagogues, fasting and praying, and finally resolved to adopt "energetic" measures. A petition reciting their grievances against the Tzar was framed in due form and placed in the hands of a member of the community who had just died, with the request that the deceased present it to the Almighty, the God of Israel. This childlike appeal to the heavenly King from the action of an earthly sovereign and the emotional scenes accompanying it were interpreted by the Russian authorities as "mutiny." Under the patriarchal conditions of Jewish life prevailing at that time a political protest was a matter of impossibility. The only medium through which the Jews could give vent to their burning national sorrow was a religious demonstration within the walls of the synagogue. 3. MILITARY MARTYRDOM The ways and means by which the provisions of the military statute were carried into effect during the reign of Nicholas I. we do not learn from official documents, which seem to have drawn a veil over this dismal strip of the past. Our information is derived from sources far more communicative and nearer to truth--the traditions current among the people. Owing to the fact that every Jewish community, at the mutual responsibility of all its members, was compelled by law to supply a definite number of recruits, and that no one was willing to become a soldier of his own volition, the Kahal administration and the recruiting "trustees," who had to answer to the authorities for any shortage in recruits, were practically forced to become a sort of police agents, whose function it was to "capture" the necessary quota of recruits. Prior to every military conscription, the victims marked for prey, the young men and boys of the burgher class, [1] very generally took to flight, hiding in distant cities, outside the zone of their Kahals, or in forests and ravines. A popular song in Yiddish refers to these conditions in the following words; [Footnote 1: Compare on the status of the burgher in Russian law Vol. I, p. 308, n. 2. Nearly all the higher estates were exempt.] _Der Ukas is arobgekumen auf judische Selner, Seinen mir sich zulofen in die puste Wälder..... In alle puste Wälder seinen mir zulofen, In puste Gruber seinen mir verlofen_..... Oi weih, oi weih!_....[1] [Footnote 1: When the ukase came down about Jewish soldiers, We all dispersed over the lonesome forests; Over the lonesome forests did we disperse, In lonesome pits did we hide ourselves.... Woe me, Woe!] The recruiting agents hired by the Kahal or its "trustees," who received the nickname "hunters" or "captors," [1] hunted down the fugitives, trailing them everywhere and capturing them for the purpose of making up the shortage. In default of a sufficient number of adults, little children, who were easier "catch," were seized, often enough in violation of the provision of the law. Even boys under the required age of twelve, sometimes no more than eight years old, were caught and offered as conscripts at the recruiting stations, their age being misstated. [2] The agents perpetrated incredible cruelties. Houses were raided during the night, and children were torn from the arms of their mothers, or lured away and kidnapped. [Footnote 1: More literally "catchers"; in Yiddish _Khappers_.] [Footnote 2: This was the more easy, as regular birth-registers were not yet in existence.] After being captured, the Jewish conscripts were sent into the recruiting jail where they were kept in confinement until their examination at the recruiting station. The enlisted minors were turned over to a special officer to be dispatched to their places of destination, mostly in the Eastern provinces including Siberia. For it must be noted that the cantonists were stationed almost to a man in the outlying Russian governments, where they could be brought up at a safe distance from all Jewish influences. The unfortunate victims who were drafted into the army and deported to these far-off regions were mourned by their relatives as dead. During the autumnal season, when the recruits were drafted and deported, the streets of the Jewish towns resounded with moans. The juvenile cantonists were packed into wagons like so many sheep and carried off in batches under a military convoy. When they took leave of their dear ones it was for a quarter of a century; in the case of children it was for a longer term, too often it was good-bye for life. How these unfortunate youngsters were driven to their places of destination we learn from the description of Alexander Hertzen, [1] who chanced to meet a batch of Jewish cantonists on his involuntary journey through Vyatka, in 1835. At one of the post stations in some God-forsaken village of the Vyatka government he met the escorting officer. The following dialogue ensued between the two: [Footnote 1: Hertzen, a famous Russian writer (d. 1870), was exiled to the government of Vyatka for propagating liberal doctrines.] "Whom do you carry and to what place?" "Well, sir, you see, they got together a bunch of these accursed Jewish youngsters between the age of eight and nine. I suppose they are meant for the fleet, but how should I know? At first the command was to drive them to Perm. Now there is a change. We are told to drive them to Kazan. I have had them on my hands for a hundred versts or thereabouts. The officer that turned them over to me told me they were an awful nuisance. A third of them remained on the road (at this the officer pointed with his finger to the ground). Half of them will not get to their destination," he added. "Epidemics, I suppose?", I inquired, stirred to the very core. "No, not exactly epidemics; but they just fall like flies. Well, you know, these Jewish boys are so puny and delicate. They can't stand mixing dirt for ten hours, with dry biscuits to live on. Again everywhere strange folks, no father, no mother, no caresses. Well then, you just hear a cough and the youngster is dead. Hello, corporal, get out the small fry!" The little ones were assembled and arrayed in a military line. It was one of the most terrible spectacles I have ever witnessed. Poor, poor children! The boys of twelve or thirteen managed somehow to stand up, but the little ones of eight and ten.... No brush, however black, could convey the terror of this scene on the canvas. Pale, worn out, with scared looks, this is the way they stood in their uncomfortable, rough soldier uniforms, with their starched, turned-up collars, fixing an inexpressibly helpless and pitiful gaze upon the garrisoned soldiers, who were handling them rudely. White lips, blue lines under the eyes betokened either fever or cold. And these poor children, without care, without a caress, exposed to the wind which blows unhindered from the Arctic Ocean, were marching to their death. I seized the officer's hand, and, with the words: "Take good care of them! ", threw myself into my carriage. I felt like sobbing, and I knew I could not master myself.... The great Russian writer saw the Jewish cantonists on the road, but he knew nothing of what happened to them later on, in the recesses of the barracks into which they were driven. This terrible secret was revealed to the world at a later period by the few survivors among these martyred Jewish children. Having arrived at their destination, the juvenile conscripts were put into the cantonist battalions. The "preparation for military service" began with their religious re-education at the hands of sergeants and corporals. No means was, neglected so long as it bade fair to bring the children to the baptismal font. The authorities refrained from giving formal instructions, leaving everything to the zeal of the officers who knew the wishes of their superiors. The children were first sent for spiritual admonition to the local Greek-Orthodox priests, whose efforts, however, proved fruitless in nearly every case. They were then taken in hand by the sergeants and corporals who adopted military methods of persuasion. These brutal soldiers invented all kinds of tortures. A favorite procedure was to make the cantonists get down on their knees in the evening after all had gone to bed and to keep the sleepy children in that position for hours. Those who agreed to be baptized were sent to bed, those who refused were kept up the whole night till they dropped from exhaustion. The children who continued to hold their own were flogged and, under the guise of gymnastic exercises, subjected to all kinds of tortures. Those that refused to eat pork or the customary cabbage soup prepared with lard were beaten and left to starve. Others were fed on salted fish and then forbidden to drink, until the little ones, tormented by thirst, agreed to embrace Christianity. The majority of these children, unable to endure the tortures inflicted on them, saved themselves by baptism. But many cantonists, particularly those of a maturer age (between fifteen and eighteen), bore their martyrdom with heroic patience. Beaten almost into senselessness, their bodies striped by lashes, tormented to the point of exhaustion by hunger, thirst, and sleeplessness, the lads declared again and again that they would not betray the faith of their fathers. Most of these obstinate youths were carried from the barracks into the military hospitals to be released by a kind death. Only a few remained alive. Alongside of this passive heroism there were cases of demonstrative martyrdom. One such incident has survived in the popular memory. The story goes that during a military parade [1] in the city of Kazan the battalion chief drew up all the Jewish cantonists on the banks of the river, where the Greek-Orthodox priests were standing in their vestments, and all was ready for the baptismal ceremony. At the command to jump into the water, the boys answered in military fashion "Aye, aye!" Whereupon they dived under and disappeared. When they were dragged out, they were dead. In most cases, however, these little martyrs suffered and died noiselessly, in the gloom of the guard-houses, barracks, and military hospitals. They strewed with their tiny bodies the roads that led into the outlying regions of the Empire, and those that managed to get there were fading away slowly in the barracks which had been turned into inquisitorial dungeons. This martyrdom of children, set in a military environment, represents a singular phenomenon even in the extensive annals of Jewish martyrology. [Footnote 1: A variant of the legend speaks of a review by the Tzar himself.] Such was the lot of the juvenile cantonists. As for the adult recruits, who were drafted into the army at the normal age of conscription (18-25), their conversion to Christianity was not pursued by the same direct methods, but their fate was not a whit less tragic from the moment of their capture till the end of their grievous twenty-five years' service. Youths, who had no knowledge of the Russian language, were torn away from the heder or yeshibah, often from wife and children. In consequence of the early marriages then in vogue, most youths at the age of eighteen were married. The impending separation for a quarter of a century, added to the danger of the soldier's apostasy or death in far-off regions, often disrupted the family ties. Many recruits, before entering upon their military career, gave their wives a divorce so as not to doom them to perpetual widowhood. At the end of 1834 rumors began to spread among the Jewish masses concerning a law which was about to be issued forbidding early marriages but exempting from conscription those married prior to the promulgation of the law. A panic ensued. Everywhere feverish haste was displayed in marrying off boys from ten to fifteen years old to girls of an equally tender age. Within a few months there appeared in every city hundreds and thousands of such couples, whose marital relations were often confined to playing with nuts or bones. The misunderstanding which had caused this senseless matrimonial panic or _beholoh,_[1] as it was afterwards popularly called, was cleared up by the publication, on April 13, 1835, of the new "Statute on the Jews." To be sure, the new law contained a clause forbidding marriages before the age of eighteen, but it offered no privileges for those already married, so that the only result of the _beholoh_ was to increase the number of families robbed by conscription of their heads and supporters. [Footnote 1: A Hebrew word, also used in Yiddish, meaning _fright, panic_.] The years of military service were spent by the grown-up Jewish soldiers amidst extraordinary hardships. They were beaten and ridiculed because of their inability to express themselves in Russian, their refusal to eat _trefa_, and their general lack of adaptation to the strange environment and to the military mode of life. And even when this process of adaptation was finally accomplished, the Jewish soldier was never promoted beyond the position of a non-commissioned under-officer, baptism being the inevitable stepping-stone to a higher rank. True, the Statute on Military Service promised those Jewish soldiers who had completed their term in the army with distinction admission to the civil service, but the promise remained on paper so long as the candidates were loyal to Judaism. On the contrary, the Jews who had completed their military service and had in most cases become invalids were not even allowed to spend the rest of their lives in the localities outside the Pale, in which they had been stationed as soldiers. Only at a later period, during the reign of Alexander II., was this right accorded to the "Nicholas soldiers" [1] and their descendants. [Footnote 1: In Russian, _Nikolayevskiye soldaty_, i.e., those that had served in the army during the reign of Nicholas I.] The full weight of conscription fell upon the poorest classes of the Jewish population, the so-called burgher estate, [1] consisting of petty artisans and those impoverished tradesmen who could not afford to enrol in the mercantile guilds, though there are cases on record where poor Jews begged from door to door to collect a sufficient sum of money for a guild certificate in order to save their children from military service. The more or less well-to-do were exempted from conscription either by virtue of their mercantile status or because of their connections with the Kahal leaders who had the power of selecting the victims. [Footnote 1: See above, p. 23, n. 1.] 4. THE POLICY OF EXPULSIONS In all lands of Western Europe the introduction of personal military service for the Jews was either accompanied or preceded by their emancipation. At all events, it was followed by some mitigation of their disabilities, serving, so to speak, as an earnest of the grant of equal rights. Even in clerical Austria, the imposition of military duty upon the Jews was preceded by the _Toleranz Patent_, this would-be Act of Emancipation. [1] [Footnote 1: Military service was imposed upon the Jews of Austria by the law of 1787. Several years previously, on January 2, 1782, Emperor Joseph II. had issued his famous Toleration Act, removing a number of Jewish disabilities and opening the way to their assimilation with the environment. Nevertheless, most of the former restrictions remained in force.] In Russia the very reverse took place. The introduction of military conscription of a most aggravating kind and the unspeakable cruelties attending its practical execution were followed, in the case of the Jews, by an unprecedented recrudescence of legislative discrimination and a monstrous increase of their disabilities. The Jews were lashed with a double knout, a military and a civil. In the same ill-fated year which saw the promulgation of the conscription statute, barely three months after it had received the imperial sanction, while the moans of the Jews, fasting and praying to God to deliver them from the calamity, were still echoing in the synagogues, two new ukases were issued, both signed on December 2, 1827--the one decreeing the transfer of the Jews from all villages and village inns in the government of Grodno into the towns and townlets, the other ordering the banishment of all Jewish residents from the city of Kiev. The expulsion from the Grodno villages was the continuation of the policy of the _rural_ liquidation of Jewry, inaugurated in 1823 in White Russia. [1] The Grodno province was merely meant to serve as a starting point. Grand Duke Constantine, [2] who had brought up the question, was ordered "_at first_ to carry out the expulsion in the government of Grodno alone," and to postpone for a later occasion the application of the same measure to the other "governments entrusted to his command." Simultaneously considerable foresight was displayed in instructing the grand duke to wait with the expulsion of the Jews "until the conclusion of the military conscription going on at present." Evidently there was some fear of disorders and complications. It was thought wiser to seize the children for the army first and then to expel the parents--to get hold of the young birds and then to destroy the nest. [Footnote 1: It may be remarked here that the principal enactments of that period, down to 1835, were, drafted in their preliminary stage by the "Jewish Committee" established in 1823. See Vol. I, p. 407 _et seq._] [Footnote 2: Commander-in-Chief of the former Polish provinces. See p. 16, n. 2.] The expulsion from Kiev was of a different order. It marked the beginning of a new system, the narrowing down of the _urban_ area allotted to the Jews within the Pale of Settlement. Since 1794 [1] the Jews had been allowed to settle in Kiev freely. They had formed there, with official sanction, an important community and had vastly developed commerce and industry. Suddenly, however, the Government discovered that "their presence is detrimental to the industry of this city and to the exchequer in general, and is, moreover, at variance with the rights and privileges conferred at different periods upon the city of Kiev." The discovery was followed by a grim rescript from St. Petersburg, forbidding not only the further settlement of Jews in Kiev but also prescribing that even those settled there long ago should leave the city within one year, those owning immovable property within two years. Henceforward only the temporary sojourn of Jews, for a period not exceeding six months, was to be permitted and to be limited, moreover, to merchants of the first two guilds who arrive "in connection with contracts and fairs" or to attend to public bids and deliveries. [Footnote 1: See Vol. I, p. 317.] In 1829 the whip of expulsion cracked over the backs of the Jews dwelling on the shores of the Baltic and the Black Sea. In Courland and Livonia measures were taken "looking to the reduction of the number of Jews" which had been considerably swelled by the influx of "newcomers"--of Jews not born in those provinces and therefore having no right to settle there. The Tzar endorsed the proposal of the "Jewish Committee" to transfer from Courland all Jews not born there into the cities in which their birth was registered. Those not yet registered in a municipality outside the province were granted a half-year's respite for that purpose. If within the prescribed term they failed to attend to their registration, they were to be sent to the army, or, in case of unfitness for military service, deported to Siberia. In the same year an imperial ukase declared that "the residence of civilian Jews in the cities of Sevastopol and Nicholayev was inconvenient and injurious," in view of the military and naval importance of these places, and therefore decreed the expulsion of their Jewish residents: those owning real property within two years, the others within one year. By a new ukase issued in 1830 the Jews were expelled from the villages and hamlets of the government of Kiev. Thus were human beings hurled about from village to town, from city to city, from province to province, with no more concern than might be displayed in the transportation of cattle. This process of "mobilization" had reached its climax when the Polish insurrection of 1830-1831 broke out, affecting the whole Western region. [1] Fearing lest the persecuted Jews might be driven into the arms of the Poles, the Government decided on a strategic retreat. In February, 1831, in consequence of the representations of the local military commander, who urged the Government "to take into consideration the present political circumstances, in which they (the Jews) may occasionally prove useful," the final expulsion of the Jews from Kiev was postponed for three years. At the end of the three years, the governor of Kiev made similar representations to St. Petersburg, emphasizing the desirability of allowing the Jews to remain in the city, even though it might become necessary to segregate them in a special quarter, "this (i.e., their remaining in the city) being found useful also in this respect that, on account of their temperate and simple habits of life, they are in a position to sell their goods considerably cheaper, whereas in the case of their expulsion many articles and manufactures will rise in price." Nicholas I. rejected this plea, and only agreed to postpone the expulsion until February, 1835, for the reason that the new "Statute Concerning the Jews," then in preparation, which was to define the general legal status of Russian Jewry, was expected to be ready by that time. Similar short reprieves were granted to the Jews about to be exiled from Nicholayev, from the villages of the government of Kiev, and from other places. [Footnote 1: See above, p. 16, n. 1.] 5. THE CODIFICATION OF JEWISH DISABILITIES No sooner had the conscription ukase been issued than the bureaucrats of St. Petersburg began to apply themselves in the hidden recesses of their chancelleries to a new civil code for the Jews, which was to supersede the antiquated Statute of 1804. The work passed through a number of departments. The projected enactment was framed by the "Jewish Committee," which had been established in 1823 for the purpose of bringing about "a reduction of the number of Jews in the monarchy," and consisted of cabinet ministers and the chiefs of departments. [1] Originally the department chiefs had elaborated a draft covering 1230 clauses, a gigantic code of disabilities; evidently founded on the principle that in the case of Jews everything is forbidden which, is not permitted by special legislation. The dimensions of the draft were such that even the Government was appalled and decided to turn it over to the ministerial members of the Committee. [Footnote 1: See Vol. I, p. 407 et seq.] Modified in shape and reduced in size, the code was submitted in 1834 to the Department of Laws forming part of the Council of State, and after careful discussion by the Department of Laws was brought up at the plenary sessions of the Council. The "ministerial" draft, though smaller in bulk, was marked by such severity that the Department of Laws found it necessary to tone it down. The ministers, with the exception of the Minister of Finance, had proposed to transfer all Jews, within a period of three years, from the villages to the towns and townlets. The Department of Laws considered this measure too risky, pointing to the White Russian expulsion of 1823, which had failed to produce the expected results, and, "while it has ruined the Jews, it does not in the least seem to have improved the condition of the villagers." [1] The plenum of the Council agreed with the Department of Laws that "the proposed expulsion of the Jews (from the villages), being extremely difficult of execution and being of problematic benefit, should be eliminated from the Statute and should be stopped even there where it had been decreed but not carried into effect." [Footnote 1: Compare Vol. I, p. 407.] The report was laid before the Tzar, who attached to it the following "resolution": [1] "Where this measure (of expulsion) has been started, it is inconvenient to repeal it; but it shall be postponed for the time being in the governments in which no steps towards it have as yet been made." For a number of years this "resolution" hung like the sword of Damocles over the heads of rural Jewry. [Footnote 1: See on the meaning of the term "resolution" Vol. I, p. 253, n. 1.] Less yielding was the Tzar's attitude on the question of the partial enlargement of the Pale of Settlement. The Department of Laws had suggested to grant the merchants of the first guild the right of residence in the Russian interior in the interest of the exchequer and big business. At the general meeting of the Council of State only a minority (thirteen) voted for the proposal. The majority (twenty-two) argued that they had no right to violate the time-honored tradition, "dating from the time of Peter the Great," which bars the Jews from the Russian interior; that to admit them "would produce a very unpleasant impression upon our people, which, on account of its religious notions and its general estimate of the moral peculiarities of the Jews, has become accustomed to keep aloof from them and to despise them;" that the countries of Western Europe, which had accorded fall citizenship to the Jews, "cannot serve as an example for Russia, partly because of the incomparably larger number of Jews living here, partly because our Government and people, with all their well-known tolerance, are yet far from that indifference with which certain other nations look upon religious matters." After marking his approval of the last words by the marginal exclamation "Thank God!", the Tzar disposed of the whole matter in the following brief resolution: "This question has been determined by Peter the Great. I dare not change it; I completely share the opinion of the twenty-two members." While on this occasion the Tzar endorsed the opinion of the Council as represented by its majority, in cases in which it proved favorable to the Jews he did not hesitate to set it aside. Thus the Department of Laws, as part of the Council of State, and, following in its wake, the Council itself had timidly suggested to Nicholas to comply in part with the plea of the Jews for a mitigation of the rigors of conscription, [1] but the imperial verdict read: "To be left as heretofore." Nicholas remained equally firm on the question of the expulsions from Kiev. The Department of Laws, guided by the previously-mentioned representations of the local governor, favored the postponement of the expulsion, and fourteen members of the plenary Council agreed with the suggestion of the Department, and resolved to recommend it to the "benevolent consideration of his Majesty," in other words to request the Tzar to revoke the baneful ukase. But fifteen, members rejected all such propositions on the ground that, as far as that question was concerned, the imperial will was unmistakable, the Tzar having decided the matter in a sense unfavorable to the Jews. In a similar manner, numerous other decisions of the Council of State were dictated not so much by inner conviction as by fear of the clearly manifested imperial will, which no one dared to cross. [Footnote 1: The Kahal of Vilna, in a memorandum submitted in 1835, pleaded for the abolition of the dreadful institution of cantonists, and begged that the age limit of Jewish recruits be raised from 12-15 to 20-35.] Under these circumstances, the entire draft of the statute passed through the Council of State. In its session of March 28, 1835, the Council voted to submit it to the emperor for his signature. On this occasion a solitary and belated voice was raised in defence of the Jews, without evoking an echo. A member of the Council, Admiral Greig, who was brave enough to swim against the current, submitted a "special opinion" on the proposed statute, in which he advocated a number of alleviations in the intolerable legal status of the Jews. Greig put the whole issue in a nut-shell: "Are the Jews to be suffered in the country, or not?" If they are, then we must abandon the system "of hampering them in their actions and in their religious customs" and grant them at least "equal liberty of commerce with the others," for in this case "we may anticipate more good from their gratitude than from their hatred." Should, however, the conclusion be reached that the Jews ought not to be tolerated in Russia, then the only thing to be done is "to banish them all without exception from the country into foreign lands." This might be "more useful than to allow this estate to remain in the country and to keep it in a position which is bound to arouse in them continual dissatisfaction and resentment." It need scarcely be added that the voice of the "queer" admiral found no hearing. Nor did the Jewish people manage to get a hearing. Stunned by the uninterrupted succession of blows and moved by the spirit of martyrdom, Russian Jewry kept its peace during those dismal years. Yet, when the news of an impending general regulation of the Jewish legal status began to leak out, a section of Russian Jewry became astir. For to anticipate a blow is more excruciating than to receive one, and it was quite natural that an attempt should be made to stay the hand which was lifted to strike. Towards the end of 1833 the Council of State received, as part of the material bearing on the Jewish question, two memoranda, one from the Kahal of Vilna, signed by six elders, and another from Litman Feigin of Chernigov, well known in administrative circles as merchant and public contractor. The Kahal of Vilna declared that the repressive policy, pursued during the last few years by the "Jewish Committee," had thrown a large part of the Jewish people "into utmost disorder," and had made the Jews "shiver and shudder at the thought that a general Jewish statute had been drafted by the same Committee and had now been submitted to the Council of State for revision." The petitioners go on to say that, weighed down by a succession of cruel discriminations affecting not only their rights but also their mode of discharging military service, the Jews would succumb to utter despair, did they not repose their hopes in the benevolence of the Tzar, who, on his recent trip through the Western provinces, had expressed to the deputies of the Jewish communes his imperial satisfaction with the loyalty to the throne displayed by the Jews during the Polish insurrection of 1831. The Kahal of Vilna, therefore, implored the Council of State "to turn its attention to this unfortunate and maligned people" and to stop all further persecutions. A more emphatic note of protest is sounded in the memorandum of Feigin. By a string of references to the latest Government measures he demonstrates the fact that "the Jewish people is hunted down, not because of its moral qualities but because of its faith." The Jews, faced by the new statute, have lost all hope for a better lot, inasmuch as the Government has embarked upon this measure without having solicited the explanations or justifications of this people, whereas, according to common legal procedure, even an individual may not be condemned without having been called upon to justify himself. The rebuke had no effect. The Government preferred to render its verdict _in absentia_, without listening to counsel for the defence and without any safeguards of fair play. In line with this attitude, it also denied the petition of the Vilna Kahal to be allowed "to send at least four deputies to the capital as spokesmen of the entire Jewish people for the purpose of submitting to the Government their explanations and propositions concerning the reorganization of the Jews, after having been presented with a draft of the statute." The final verdict was pronounced in the spring of 1835, and in April the new "Statute concerning the Jews" received the signature of the Tzar. This "Charter of Disabilities," which was destined to operate for many decades, represents a combination of the Russian "ground laws" concerning the Jews and the restrictive by-laws issued after 1804. The Pale of Settlement was now accurately defined: it consisted of Lithuania [1] and the South-western provinces, [2] without any territorial restrictions, White Russia [3] minus the Villages, Little Russia [4] minus the crown hamlets, New Russia [5] minus Nicholayev and Sevastopol, the government of Kiev minus the city of Kiev, the Baltic provinces for the old settlers only, while the rural settlements on the entire fifty-verst zone along the Western frontier were to be closed to newcomers. As for the interior provinces, only temporary "furloughs" (limited to six weeks and to be certified by gubernatorial passports) were to be granted for the execution of judicial and commercial affairs, with the proviso that the travellers should wear Russian instead of Jewish dress. The merchants affiliated with the first and second guilds were allowed, in addition, to visit the two capitals, [6] the sea-ports, as well as the fairs of Nizhni-Novgorod, Kharkov, and other big fairs for wholesale buying or selling. [7] [Footnote 1: The present governments of Kovno, Vilna, Grodno, and Minsk.] [Footnote 2: The governments of Volhynia and Podolia.] [Footnote 3: The governments of Vitebsk and Moghilev.] [Footnote 4: The governments of Chernigov and Poltava.] [Footnote 5: The governments of Kherson, Yekaterinoslav, Tavrida, and Bessarabia.] [Footnote 6: St. Petersburg and Moscow.] [Footnote 7: The time-limit was six months for the merchants of the first guild and three months for those of the second.] The Jews were further forbidden to employ Christian domestics for permanent employment. They could hire Christians for occasional services only, on condition that the latter live in separate quarters. Marriages at an earlier age than eighteen for the bridegroom and sixteen for the bride were forbidden under the pain of imprisonment--a prohibition which the defective registration of births and marriages then in vogue made it easy to evade. The language to be employed by the Jews in their public documents was to be Russian or any other local dialect, but "under no circumstances the Hebrew language." The function of the Kahal, according to the Statute, is to see to it that the "instructions of the authorities" are carried out precisely and that the state taxes and communal assessments are "correctly remitted." The Kahal elders are to be elected by the community every three years from among persons who can read and write Russian, subject to their being ratified by the gubernatorial administration. At the same time the Jews are entitled to participation in the municipal elections; those who can read and write Russian are eligible as members of the town councils and magistracies--the supplementary law of 1836 fixed the rate at one-third, [1] excepting the city of Vilna where the Jews were entirely excluded from municipal self-government. [Footnote 1: Compare Vol. I, p. 368.] Synagogues may not be built in the vicinity of churches. The Russian schools of all grades are to be open to Jewish children, who "are not compelled to change their religion" (Clause 106)--a welcome provision in view of the compulsory methods which had then become habitual. The coercive baptism of Jewish children was provided for in a separate enactment, the Statute on Conscription, which is declared "to remain in force." In this way the Statute of 1835 reduces itself to a codification of the whole mass of the preceding anti-Jewish legislation. Its only positive feature was that it put a stop to the expulsion from the villages which had ruined the Jewish population during the years 1804-1830. 6. THE RUSSIAN CENSORSHIP AND CONVERSIONIST ENDEAVORS With all its discriminations, the promulgation of this general statute was far from checking the feverish activity of the Government. With indefatigable zeal, its hands went on turning the legislative wheel and squeezing ever tighter the already unbearable vise of Jewish life. The slightest attempt to escape from its pressure was punished ruthlessly. In 1838 the police of St. Petersburg discovered a group of Jews in the capital "with expired passports," these Jews having extended their stay there a little beyond the term fixed for Jewish travellers, and the Tzar curtly decreed: "to be sent to serve in the penal companies of Kronstadt." [1] In 1840 heavy fines were imposed upon the landed proprietors in the Great Russian governments for "keeping over" Jews on their estates. [Footnote 1: A fortress in the vicinity of St Petersburg.] Considerable attention was bestowed by the Government on placing the spiritual life of the Jews under police supervision. In 1836 a censorship campaign was launched against Hebrew literature. Hebrew books, which were then almost exclusively of a religious nature, such as prayer-books, Bible and Talmud editions, rabbinic, cabalistic, and hasidic writings, were then issuing from the printing presses of Vilna, Slavuta, [1] and other places, and were subject to a rigorous censorship exercised by Christians or by Jewish converts. Practically every Jewish home-library consisted of religious works of this type. The suspicions of the Government were aroused by certain Jewish converts who had insinuated that the foreign editions of these works and those that had appeared in Russia itself prior to the establishment of a censorship were of an "injurious" character. As a result, all Jewish home-libraries were subjected to a search. Orders were given to deliver into the hands of the local police, in the course of that year, all foreign Hebrew prints as well as the uncensored editions, published at any previous time in Russia, and to entrust their revision to "dependable" rabbis. These rabbis were instructed to put their stamp on the books approved by them and return the books not approved by them to the police for transmission to the Ministry of the Interior. The regulation involved the entire ancient Hebrew literature printed during the sixteenth, seventeenth, and eighteenth centuries, prior to the establishment of the Russian censorship. In order to "facilitate the supervision" over new publications or reprints from older editions, all Jewish printing presses which existed at that time in various cities and towns were ordered closed, and only those of Vilna and Kiev, [2] to which special censors were attached, were allowed to remain. [Footnote 1: A town in Volhynia.] [Footnote 2: The printing-press of Kiev was subsequently transferred to Zhitomir.] As the Hebrew authors of antiquity or the Middle Ages did not fully anticipate the requirements of the Russian censors, many classic works were found to contain passages which were thought to be "at variance with imperial enactments." By the ukase of 1836 all books of this kind, circulating in tens of thousands of copies, had to be transported to St. Petersburg under a police escort to await their final verdict. The procedure, however, proved too cumbersome, and, in 1837, the emperor, complying with the petitions of the governors, was graciously pleased to command that all these books be "delivered to the flames on the spot." This _auto-da-fé_ was to be witnessed by a member of the gubernatorial administration and a special "dependable" official dispatched by the governor for the sole purpose of making a report to the central Government on every literary conflagration of this kind and forwarding to the Ministry of the Interior one copy of each "annihilated" book. But even this was not enough to satisfy the lust of the Russian censorship. It was now suspected that even the "dependable" rabbis might pass many a book as "harmless," though its contents were subversive of the public weal. As a result, a new ukase was issued in 1841, placing the rabbinical censors themselves under Government control. All uncensored books, including those already passed as "harmless," were ordered to be taken away from the private libraries and forwarded to the censorship committees in Vilna and Kiev. The latter were instructed to attach their seals to the approved books and "deliver to the flames" the books condemned by them. Endless wagonloads of these confiscated books could be seen moving towards Vilna and Kiev, and for many years afterwards the literature of the "People of the Book," covering a period of three milleniums, was still languishing in the gaol of censorship, waiting to be saved from or to be sentenced to a fiery death by a Russian official. It is almost unnecessary to add that the primitive method of solving the Jewish problem by means of conversion, was still the guiding principle of the Government. The Russian legislation of that period teems with regulations concerning apostasy. The surrender of the Synagogue to the Church seemed merely a question of time. In reality, however, the Government itself believed but half-heartedly in the sincerity of the converted Jews. In 1827 the Tzar put down in his own handwriting the following resolution: "It is to be strictly observed that the baptismal ceremony shall take place unconditionally on a Sunday, and with all possible publicity, so as to remove all suspicion of a pretended adoption of Christianity." Subsequently, this watchfulness had to be relaxed in the case of those "who avoid publicity in adopting Christianity," more especially in the case of the cantonists, "who have declared their willingness to embrace the orthodox faith"--under the effect, we may add, of the tortures in the barracks. Sincerity under these circumstances was out of the question, and, in 1831, the battalion chaplains were authorized to baptize these helpless creatures, even "without applying for permission to the ecclesiastical authorities." The barrack missionaries were frequently successful among these unfortunate military prisoners. In the imperial rescripts of that period the characteristic expression "privates from among the Jews _remaining in the above faith_" figures as a standing designation for that group of refractory and incorrigible soldiers who disturbed the officially pre-established harmony of epidemic conversions by remaining loyal to Judaism. But among the "civilian" Jews, who had not been detached from their Jewish environment, apostasy was extraordinarily rare, and law after law was promulgated in vain, offering privileges to converts or leniency to criminals who were ready to embrace the orthodox creed. [1] [Footnote 1: Under Clause 157 of the Russian Penal Code of 1845, the penalty of the law was softened, not only in degree but also in kind, for those criminals who had embraced the Greek-Orthodox faith during the investigation or trial.] CHAPTER XIV COMPULSORY ENLIGHTENMENT AND INCREASED OPPRESSION 1. ENLIGHTENMENT AS A MEANS OF ASSIMILATION There was a brief moment of respite when, in the phrase of the Russian poet, "the fighter's hand was tired of killing." The Russian Government suddenly felt the need of passing over from the medieval forms of patronage to more enlightened and perfected methods. Among the leading statesmen of Russia were men, such as the Minister of Public Instruction, Sergius Uvarov, who were well acquainted with Western European ways and fully aware of the fact that the reactionary governments of Austria and Prussia had invented several contrivances for handling the Jewish problem which might be usefully applied in their own country. Though anxious to avoid all contact with the "rotten West," and being in constant fear of European political movements, the Russian Government was nevertheless ready to seize upon the relics of "enlightened absolutism" which were still stalking about, particularly in Austria, in the early decades of the nineteenth century. As far as Prussia was concerned, the abundance of assimilated and converted Jews in that country and their attempts at religious reform, which to a missionary's imagination were identical with a change of front in favor of Christianity, had a fascination of its own for the Russian dignitaries. No wonder then that the Government yielded to the temptation to use some of the contrivances of Western European reaction, while holding in reserve the police knout of genuine Russian manufacture. In 1840 the Council of State was again busy discussing the Jewish question, this time from a theoretic point of view. The reports of the provincial administrators, in particular that of Bibikov, governor-general of Kiev, dwelled on the fact that even the "Statute" of 1835 had not succeeded in "correcting" the Jews. The root of the evil lay rather in their "religious fanaticism and separatism," which could only be removed by changing their inner life. The Ministers of Public Instruction and of the Interior, Uvarov and Stroganov, took occasion to expound the principles of their new system of correction before the Council of State. The discussions culminated in a remarkable memorandum submitted by the Council to Nicholas I. In this document the Government confesses its impotence in grappling with the "defects" of the Jewish masses, such as "the absence of useful labor, their harmful pursuit of petty trading, vagrancy, and obstinate aloofness from general civic life." Its failure the Government ascribes to the fact that the evil of Jewish exclusiveness has hitherto not been attacked at its root, the latter being imbedded in the religious and communal organization of the Jews. The fountain-head of all misfortunes is the Talmud, which "fosters in the Jews utmost contempt towards the nations of other faiths," and implants in them the desire "to rule over the rest of the world." As a result of the obnoxious teachings of the Talmud, "the Jews cannot but regard their presence in any other land except Palestine as a sojourn in captivity," and "they are held to obey their own authorities rather than a strange government." This explains "the omnipotence of the Kahals," which, contrary to the law of the state, employ secret means to uphold their autonomous authority both in communal and judicial matters, using for this purpose the uncontrolled sums of the special Jewish revenue, the meat tax. The education of the Jewish youth is entrusted to melammeds, "a class of domestic teachers immersed in profoundest ignorance and superstition," and, "under the influence of these fanatics, the children imbibe pernicious notions of intolerance towards other nations." Finally, the special dress worn by the Jews helps to keep them apart from the surrounding Christian population. The Russian Government "had adopted a series of protective measures against the Jews," without producing any marked effect. Even the Conscription Statute "had succeeded to a limited extent only in altering the habits of the Jews." Mere promotion of agriculture and of Russian schooling had been found inadequate. The expulsions from the villages had proved equally fruitless; "the Jews, to be sure, have been ruined, but the condition of the rustics has shown no improvement." It is evident, therefore--the Council declares--that restrictions which go only half way or are externally imposed by the police are not sufficient to direct this huge mass of people towards useful occupations. With the patience of martyrs the Jews of Western Europe had endured the most atrocious persecutions, and had yet succeeded in keeping their national type intact until the governments took the trouble to inquire more deeply into the causes separating the Jews from general civic life, so as to be able to attack the causes themselves. After blurting out the truth that the Government's ultimate aim was the obliteration of the Jewish individuality, and modestly yielding the palm in inflicting "the most atrocious persecutions" upon the Jews to Western Europe, where after all they were receding into the past, while in Russia they were still the order of the day, the Council of State proceeds to consider "the example set by foreign countries," and lingers with particular affection over the Prussian Regulation of 1797 issued by that country for its recently occupied Polish provinces--the Prussian Emancipation Edict of 1812 the memorandum very shrewdly passes over in silence--and on the system of compulsory schooling adopted by Austria. Taking its clue from the West, the Council delineates three ways of bringing about "a radical transformation of this people": 1: _Cultural reforms_, such as the establishment of special secular schools for the Jewish youth, the fight against the old-fashioned heders and melammeds, the transformation of the rabbinate, and the prohibition of Jewish dress. 2. _Abolition of Jewish autonomy_, consisting in the dissolution of the Kahals and the modification of the system of special Jewish taxation. 3. _Increase of Jewish disabilities_, by segregating from their midst all those who have no established domicile and are without a definite financial status, with a view of subjecting them to disciplinary correction through expulsions, legal restrictions, intensified conscription, and similar police measures. In this manner--the memorandum concludes--it may be hoped that by co-ordinating all the particulars of this proposition with the fundamental idea of reforming the Jewish people, and _by taking compulsory measures to aid_, the goal of the Government will be attained. As a result of this _exposé_ of the Council of State, an imperial rescript was issued on December 27, 1840, calling for the establishment of a "Committee for Defining Measures looking to the Radical Transformation of the Jews of Russia." Count Kiselev, Minister of the Crown Domains, was appointed chairman. The other members included the Ministers of Public Instruction and the Interior, the Assistant-Minister of Finance, the Director of the Second Section of the imperial chancellery, and the Chief of the Political Police, or the dreaded "Third Section." [1] The latter was entrusted with the special task "to keep a watchful eye on the intrigues and actions which may be resorted to by the Jews during the execution of this matter." [Footnote 1: See p. 21, n. 1.] Moreover, the _exposé_ of the Council of State, which was to serve as the program of the new Committee, was sent out to the governors-general of the Western region [1] "confidentially_, for personal information and consideration." The reformatory campaign against the Jews was thus started without any formal declaration of war, under the guise of secrecy and surrounded by police precautions. The procedure to be followed by the Committee was to consider the project in the order indicated in the memorandum: first "enlightenment," then abolition of autonomy, and finally disabilities. [Footnote 1: See above, p. 16, n. 1.] 2. UVAROV AND LILIENTHAL An elaborate _exposé_ on the question of enlightenment was composed and laid before the Committee by the Minister of Public Instruction, Sergius Uvarov. Having acquired the _bon ton_ of Western Europe, Uvarov prefaces his statement by the remark that the European governments have abandoned the method of "persecution and compulsion" in solving the Jewish question and that "this period has also arrived for us." "Nations," observes Uvarov, "are not exterminated, least of all the nation which stood at the foot of Calvary." From what follows, it seems evident that the Minister is still in hopes that the gentle measures of enlightenment may attract the Jews towards the religion which derives its origin from Calvary. The best among the Jews--he states--are conscious of the fact that one of the principal causes of their humiliation lies in the perverted interpretation of their religious traditions, that ... the Talmud demoralized and continues to demoralize their co-religionists. But nowhere is the influence of the Talmud so potent as among us (in Russia) and in the Kingdom of Poland. [1] This influence can be counteracted only by enlightenment, and the Government can do no better than to act in the spirit that animates the handful of the best among them.... The re-education of the learned section among the Jews involves at the same time the purification of their religious conceptions. [Footnote 1: See on the meaning of the latter term Vol. I, p. 390, n. 1.] What "purification" the author of the memorandum has in mind may be gathered from his casual remark that the Jews, who maintain their separatism, are rightly afraid of reforms: "for is not the religion of the Cross the purest symbol of universal citizenship?" This, however, Uvarov cautiously adds, should not be made public, for "it would have no other effect except that of arousing from the very beginning the opposition of the majority of the Jews against the (projected) schools." Officially the reform must confine itself to the opening in all the cities of the Jewish Pale of elementary and secondary schools in which Jewish children should be taught the Russian language, secular sciences, Hebrew, and "religion, according to the Holy Writ." The instruction should be given in Russian, though, owing to the shortage in teachers familiar with this language, the use of German is to be admitted temporarily. The teachers in the low-grade schools shall provisionally be recruited from among melammeds who "can be depended upon"; those in the higher-grade schools shall be chosen from among the modernized Jews of Russia and Germany. The Committee endorsed Uvarov's scheme in its principal features, and urgently recommended that, in order to prepare the Jewish masses for the impending reform, a special propagandist be sent into the Pale of Settlement for the purpose of acquainting this obstreperous nation with "the benevolent intentions of the Government." Such a propagandist was soon found in the person of a young German Jew, Dr. Max Lilienthal, a resident of Riga. Lilienthal; who was a native of Bavaria (he was born in Munich in 1815) and a German university graduate, was a typical representative of the German Jewish intellectuals of that period, a champion of assimilation and of moderate religious reform. Lilienthal had scarcely completed his university course, when he was offered by a group of educated Jews in Riga the post of preacher and director of the new local Jewish school, one of the three modern Jewish schools then in existence in Russia.[1] In a short time Lilienthal managed to raise the instruction in secular and Jewish subjects to such a high standard of modernity that he elicited a glowing tribute from Uvarov. The Minister was struck by the idea that the Riga school might serve as a model for the net of schools with which he was about to cover the whole Pale of Settlement, and Lilienthal seemed the logical man for carrying out the planned reforms. [Footnote 1: The other two schools were located in Odessa and in Kishinev.] In February, 1841, Lilienthal was summoned to St. Petersburg, where he had a prolonged conversation with Uvarov. According to the testimony of the official Russian sources, he tried to persuade the Minister to abolish all "private schools," the heders, and to forbid all private teachers, the melammeds, to teach even temporarily in the projected new schools, and to import, instead, the whole teaching staff from Germany. Lilienthal himself tells us in his Memoirs that he made bold to remind the Minister that all obstacles in the path of the desired re-education of the Russian Jews would disappear, were the Tzar to grant them complete emancipation. To this the Minister retorted that the initiative must come from the Jews themselves who first must try to "deserve the favor of the Sovereign." At any rate, Lilienthal accepted the proffered task. He was commissioned to tour the Pale of Settlement, to organize there the few isolated progressive Jews, "the lovers of enlightenment," or Maskilim, as they styled themselves, and to propagate the idea of a school-reform among the orthodox Jewish masses. While setting out on his journey, Lilienthal himself did not fully realize the difficulties of the task he had undertaken. He was to instill confidence in the "benevolent intentions of the Government" into the hearts of a people which by an uninterrupted series of persecutions and cruel restrictions had been reduced to the level of pariahs. He was to make them believe that the Government was a well-wisher of Jewish children, those same children, who at that very time were hunted like wild beasts by the "captors" in the streets of the Pale, who were turned by the thousands into soldiers, deported into outlying provinces, and belabored in such a manner that scarcely half of them remained alive and barely a tenth remained within the Jewish fold. Guided by an infallible instinct, the plain Jewish people formulated their own simplified theory to account for the step taken by the Government: up to the present their children had been baptized through the barracks, in the future they would be baptized through the additional medium of the school. Lilienthal arrived in Vilna in the beginning of 1842, and, calling a meeting of the Jewish Community, explained the plan conceived by the Government and by Uvarov, "the friend of the Jews." He was listened to with unveiled distrust. The elders--Lilienthal tells us in his Memoirs [1]--sat there absorbed in deep contemplation. Some of them, leaning on their silver-adorned staffs or smoothing their long beards, seemed as if agitated by earnest thoughts and justifiable suspicions; others were engaging in a lively but quiet discussion on the principles involved; such put to me the ominous question: "Doctor, are you fully acquainted with the leading principles of our government? You are a stranger; do you know what you are undertaking? The course pursued against all denominations but the Greek proves clearly that the Government intends to have but one Church in the whole Empire; that it has in view only its own future strength and greatness and not our own future prosperity. We are sorry to state that we put no confidence in the new measures proposed by the ministerial council, and that we look with gloomy foreboding into the future." [Footnote 1: I quote from _Max Lilienthal, American Rabbi, Life and Writings_, by David Philipson, New York, 1915, p, 264.] In his reply Lilienthal advanced an impressive array of arguments: What will you gain by your resistance to the new measures? It will only irritate the Government, and will determine it to pursue its system of repression, while at present you are offered an opportunity to prove that the Jews are not enemies of culture and deserve a better lot. When questioned as to whether the Jewish community had any guarantee that the Government plan was not a veiled attempt to undermine the Jewish religion, Lilienthal, by way of reply, solemnly pledged himself to throw up his mission the moment he would find that the Government associated with it secret intentions against Judaism. [1] The circle of "enlightened" Jews in Vilna pledged its support to Lilienthal, and he left full of faith in the success of his enterprise. [Footnote 1: Op. Cit. p. 266.] A cruel disappointment awaited him in Minsk. Here the arguments which the opponents advanced in a passionate debate at a public meeting were of a utilitarian rather than of an idealistic nature. So long as the Government does not accord equal rights to the Jew, general culture will only he his misfortune. The plain uneducated Jew does not balk at the low occupation of factor [1] or peddler, for, drawing comfort and joy from his religion, he is reconciled to his miserable lot. But the Jew who is educated and enlightened, and yet has no means of occupying an honorable position in the country, will be moved by a feeling of discontent to renounce his religion, and no honest father will think of giving an education to his children which may lead to such an issue. [2] [Footnote 1: The Polish name for agent. See Vol. I, p. 170, n. 1.] [Footnote 2: Quoted from Lilienthal's own account in _Die Allgemeine Zeitung des Judentums_, 1842, No. 41, p. 605b.] The opponents of official enlightenment in Minsk were not content with advancing arguments that appealed to reason. Both at the meeting and in the street, Lilienthal was the target of insulting remarks from the crowd. On his return to St. Petersburg, Lilienthal presented Uvarov with a report which convinced the Minister that the execution of the school-reform was a difficult but not a hopeless task. On June 22, 1842, an imperial rescript was issued, placing all Jewish schools, including the heders and yeshibahs, under the supervision of the Ministry of Public Instruction. Simultaneously it was announced that the Government had summoned a Commission of four Rabbis to meet in St. Petersburg for the purpose of "supporting the efforts of the Government" in the realization of the school-reform. This Committee was to serve Russian Jewry as a security that the school-reforms would not be directed against the Jewish religion. At the same time Lilienthal was ordered to proceed again to the Pale of Settlement. He was directed to tour principally through the South-western and New-Russian governments and exert his influence upon the Jewish masses in accordance with the instructions received from the ministry. Before setting out on his journey, Lilienthal published a Hebrew pamphlet under the title _Maggid Yeshu'ah_ ("Herald of Salvation") which called upon the Jewish communities to comply readily with the wishes of the Government. In his private letters, addressed to prominent Jews, Lilienthal expressed the assurance that the school ukase was merely the forerunner of a series of measures for the betterment of the civic status of the Jews. This time Lilienthal met with a greater measure of success than on his first journey. In several large centers, such as Berdychev, Odessa, Kishinev, he was accorded, a friendly welcome and assured of the co-operation of the communities in making the new school system a success. Filled with fresh hopes, Lilienthal returned in 1843 to St. Petersburg to participate in the work of the "Rabbinical Commission" which had been convoked by the Government and was now holding its sessions in the capital from May till August. The make-up of the Rabbinical Commission did not fully justify its appellation. Only two "ecclesiastics" were on it, the president of the Talmudic Academy of Volozhin, [1] Rabbi Itzhok (Isaac) Itzhaki, and the leader of the White Russian Hasidim, Rabbi Mendel Shneorsohn, [2] while the South-western region and New Russia had sent two laymen: the banker Halperin of Berdychev, and the director of the Jewish school in Odessa, Bezalel Stern. The two representatives of the "clergy" put up a warm defence for the traditional Jewish school, the heder, endeavoring to save it from the ministerial "supervision," which aimed at its annihilation. Finally a compromise was effected: the traditional heder was to be left intact for the time being, but the proposed Crown school was to be given full scope in competing with it. The Commission even went so far as to work out a program of Jewish studies for the new type of school. [Footnote 1: In the government of Vilna. See Vol I, p. 380, et seq.] [Footnote 2: The grandson of Rabbi Shneor Zalman, the founder of that faction. See Vol. I, p. 372.] The labors of the Rabbinical Commission were submitted to the Jewish Committee, under the chairmanship of Kiselev, and discussed by it in connection with the general plan of a Russian school-reform. It was necessary to find the resultant between two opposing forces: between the desire of the Government to substitute the Russian Crown school for the old-fashioned Jewish school and the determination of Russian Jewry to preserve its own school as a bulwark against the official institutions foisted upon it. The Government was bent on carrying out its policy, and found itself compelled to resort to diplomatic contrivances. On November 13, 1844, Nicholas signed two enactments, the one a public ukase relating to "the Education of the Jewish Youth." the other a confidential rescript addressed to the Minister of Public Instruction. The public enactment called for the establishment of Jewish schools of two grades, corresponding to the courses of instruction in the parochial and county schools, and ordered the opening of two rabbinical institutes for the training of rabbis and teachers. The teaching staff in the Jewish Crown schools was to consist both of Jews and Christians. The graduates of these schools were granted a reduction in the term of military service. The execution of the school reforms in the respective localities was placed in the hands of "School Boards," composed of Jews and Christians, which were to be appointed provisionally for that purpose. In the secret rescript the tone was altogether different. There it was stated that "the aim pursued, in the training of the Jews is that of bringing them nearer to the Christian population and eradicating the prejudices fostered in them by the study of the Talmud"; that with the opening of the new schools the old ones were to be gradually closed or reorganized, and that as soon as the Crown schools have been established in sufficient numbers, attendance at them would become obligatory; that the superintendents of the new schools should only be chosen from among Christians; that every possible effort should be made "to put obstacles in the way of granting teaching licenses" to the melammeds who lacked a secular education; that after the lapse of twenty years no one should hold the position of teacher or rabbi without having obtained his degree from one of the official rabbinical schools. It was not long, however, before the secret came out. The Russian Jews were terror-stricken at the thought of being robbed of their ancient school autonomy, and decided to adopt the well-tried tactics of passive resistance to all Government measures. The school-reform was making slow progress. The opening of the elementary schools and of the two rabbinical institutes in Vilna and Zhitomir did not begin until 1847, and for the first few years they dragged on a miserable existence. Lilienthal himself disappeared from the scene, without waiting for the consummation of the reform plan. In 1845 he suddenly abandoned his post at the Ministry of Public Instruction, and left Russia for ever. A more intimate acquaintance with the intentions of the leading Government circles had made Lilienthal realize that the apprehensions voiced in his presence by the old men of the Vilna community were well-founded, and he thought it his duty to fulfill the pledge given by him publicly. From the land of serfdom, where, to use Lilienthal's own words, the only way for the Jew to make peace with the Government was "by bowing down before the Greek cross," he went to the land of freedom, the United States of America. There he occupied important pulpits in New York and Cincinnati where he died in 1882. 3. THE ABOLITION OF JEWISH AUTONOMY AND RENEWED PERSECUTIONS No sooner had the school reform, which was tantamount to the abrogation of Jewish school autonomy, been publicly announced than the Government took steps to realize the second article of its program, the annihilation of the remnants of Jewish communal autonomy. An ukase published on December 19, 1844, ordered "the placing of the Jews in the cities and countries under the jurisdiction of the general (i.e., Russian) administration, with the abolition of the Kahals." By this ukase all the administrative functions of the Kahals were turned over to the police departments, and those of an economic and fiscal character to the municipalities and town councils; the old elective Kahal administration was to pass out of existence. Carried to its logical conclusions, this "reform" would necessarily have led, as it actually did lead in Western Europe, to the abolition of the Jewish community, outside the narrow limits of a synagogue parish, had the Jews of Russia been placed at the same time on a footing of equality in regard to _taxation_. But such European consistency was beyond the mental range of Russian autocracy. It was neither willing to abandon the special, and for the Jews doubly burdensome, method of conscription, nor to forego the extra levies imposed upon the Jews, over and above the general state taxes, for needs which, properly speaking, should have been met by the exchequer. Thus it came about that for the sake of maintaining Jewish disabilities in the matter of conscription and taxation, the Government itself was obliged to mitigate the blow at Jewish autonomy by allowing the institutions of Jewish "conscription trustees" and tax-collectors, elected by the Jewish communes "from among the most dependable men," to remain in force. The Government, moreover, found it necessary to establish a special department for Jewish affairs at each municipality and town council. In this way the law managed to destroy the self-government of the Kahal and yet preserve its rudimentary function as an autonomous fiscal agency which was to be continued under the auspices of the municipality. In point of fact, the Kahal, which, through its "trustees" and "captors," had acted the part of a Government tool in carrying out the dreadful military conscription, had long become thoroughly demoralized and had lost its former prestige as a great Jewish institution. Its transformation into a purely fiscal agency was merely the formal ratification of a sad fact. Having disposed of the Kahal as a vehicle of Jewish "separatism," the Government next attacked the special Jewish "system of taxation," not to abolish it, of course, but rather to place it under a more rigorous control for the purpose of preventing it from serving in the hands of the Jews as an instrument for the attainment of specific Jewish ends. It is significant that on the same day on which the Kahal ukase was made public was also issued the new "Regulation Concerning the Basket Tax." [1] The revenue from this tax which had for a long time been imposed upon Kosher meat was originally placed at the free disposal of the Kahals, though subject, since 1839, to the combined control of the administration and municipality. According to the new enactment, the proceeds from the meat tax which was to be let to the highest bidder were to be left entirely in the hands of the gubernatorial administration. The latter was instructed to see to it that the income from the tax should first be applied to cover the fiscal arrears of the Jews, then to provide for the maintenance of the Crown schools and the official promotion of agriculture among Jews, and only as a last item to be spent on the local charities. [Footnote 1: The tax is called in Russian _korobochny sbor_, or, for short, _korobka_, a word related to German _Korb_. It was partly in use already under the Polish régime.] In addition to the general basket tax, imposed upon all Jews who use Kosher meat, an "auxiliary basket tax" was instituted to be levied on immovable property as well as on business pursuits and bequests. Moreover, following the Austrian model, the Government instituted, or rather reinstituted, the "candle tax," a toll on Sabbath candles. The proceeds from this impost on a religions ceremony were to go specifically towards the organization of the Jewish Crown schools, and were placed entirely at the disposal of the Ministry of Public Instruction. Thus in exact proportion to the curtailment of communal autonomy, voluntary self-taxation was gradually supplanted by compulsory Government taxation, a circumstance which not only increased the financial burden of the Jewish masses, but also tended to aggravate it from a moral point of view. The "tax," as the meat tax was called for short, became in the course of time one of the scourges of Jewish communal life, that same life which the "measures" of the Government had merely succeeded in disorganizing. Anxious as the Government was to act diplomatically and, for fear of intensifying the distrust of Russian Jewry towards the new scheme, to stem the flood of restrictions during the execution of the school reform, it could not long restrain itself. The third plank in the platform of the Jewish Committee, the increase of Jewish disabilities, which had hitherto been kept in reserve, was now pressing forward, and issued forth from the recesses of the chancelleries somewhat earlier than tactical considerations might have dictated. On April 20, 1843, while the "enlightenment" propaganda was in full swing, there suddenly appeared, in the form of a resolution appended by the Tzar's own hand to the report of the Council of Ministers, the following curt ukase: All Jews living within the fifty verst zone along the Prussian and Austrian frontier are to be transferred into the interior of the (border) governments. Those possessing their own houses are to be granted a term of two years within which to sell them. _To be carried out without any excuses._ On the receipt of this grim command, the Senate was at first puzzled as to whether the imperial order was a mere repetition of the former law concerning the expulsion of the Jews from the villages and hamlets on the frontier,[1] or whether it was a new law involving the expulsion of all Jews on the border, without discrimination, including those in the cities and towns. Swayed by the harsh and emphatic tone of the imperial resolution, the Senate decided to interpret the new order in the sense of a complete and absolute expulsion. This interpretation received the Tzar's approbation, except that the time-limit for the expulsion of real estate owners was extended for two years more and the ruined exiles were promised temporary relief from taxation. [Footnote 1: See above, p. 40.] The new catastrophe which descended upon tens of thousands of families, particularly in the government of Kovno, caused a cry of horror, not only throughout the border-zone but also abroad. When the Jews doomed to expulsion were ordered by the police to state the places whither they intended to emigrate, nineteen communities refused to comply with this demand, and declared that they would not abandon their hearths and the graves of their forefathers and would only yield to force. Public opinion in Western Europe was running high with indignation. The French, German, and English papers condemned in no uncertain terms the policy of "New Spain." Many Jewish communities in Germany petitioned the Russian Government to revoke the terrible expulsion decree. There was even an attempt at diplomatic intervention. During his stay in England, Nicholas I. was approached on behalf of the Jews by personages of high rank. Yet the Government would scarcely have yielded to public protests, had it not become patent that it was impossible to carry out the decree without laying waste entire cities and thereby affecting injuriously the interests of the exchequer. The fatal ukase was not officially repealed, but the Government did not insist on its execution. In the meantime the "Jewish Committee" kept up a correspondence with the governors-general in regard to the ways and means of carrying into effect the third article of its program, the "assortment," or "classification" of the Jews. The plan called for the division of all Russian Jews into two categories, into useful and useless ones. The former category was to consist of merchants affiliated with guilds, artisans belonging to trade-unions, agriculturists, and those of the burgher class who owned immovable property with a definite income. All other burghers who could not claim such a financial status and had no definite income, in other words, the large mass of petty tradesmen and paupers, were to be labelled as "useless" or "detrimental," and subjected to increased disabilities. The inquiry of the Ministry of the Interior regarding the feasibility of such an "assortment" met with a strongly-worded rebuttal from the governor-general of New Russia, Vorontzov. While on a leave of absence in London, this Russian dignitary, who had evidently been affected by English ideas, prepared a memorandum and sent it, in October, 1843, to St. Petersburg with the request to have it submitted to the Tzar. I venture to think--quoth Vorontzov with reference to the projected segregation of the "useless" Jews--that the application of the term "useless" to several hundred thousand people who by the will of the Almighty have lived In this Empire from ancient times is in itself both cruel and unjust. The project labels as "useless" all those numerous Jews who are engaged either in the retail purchase of goods from their original manufacturers for delivery to wholesale merchants, or in the useful distribution among the consumers of the merchandise obtained from the wholesalers. Judging impartially, one cannot help wondering how these numerous tradesmen can be regarded as useless and consequently as detrimental, if one bears in mind that by their petty and frequently maligned pursuits they promote not only rural but also commercial life. The atrocious scheme of "assorting" the Jews is nailed down by Vorontzov as "a bloody operation over a whole class of people," which is threatened "not only with hardships, but also with annihilation through poverty." I venture to think--with these words Vorontzov concludes his memorandum--that this measure is both harmful, and cruel. On the one side, hundreds of thousands of hands which assist petty industry in the provinces will be turned aside, when there is no possibility, and for a long time there will be none, of replacing them. On the other side, the cries and moans of such an enormous number of unfortunates will serve as a reproach to our Government not only in our own country but also beyond the confines of Russia. Since the time of Speranski and the like-minded members of the "Jewish Committee" of 1803 and 1812[1] the leading spheres of St. Petersburg had had no chance to hear such courageous and truthful words. Vorontzov's objections implied a crushing criticism of the whole fallacious economic policy of the Government in branding the petty tradesmen and middlemen as an injurious element and building thereon a whole system of anti-Jewish persecutions and cruelties. But St. Petersburg was not amenable to reason. The only concession wrested from the "Jewish Committee" consisted in replacing the term "useless" as applied to small tradesmen by the designation "not engaged in productive labor." [Footnote 1: See Vol. I, p. 340.] The cruel project continued to engage the attention of the "Jewish Committee" for a long time. In April, 1815, the chairman of the Committee, Kiselev, addressed a circular to the governors-general in which he pointed out that after the promulgation of the laws concerning the establishment of Crown schools and the abolition of the Kahals--laws-which were aimed at "the weakening of the influence of the Talmud" and the destruction of all institutions "fostering the separate individuality of the Jews"--the turn had come for carrying into effect, by means of the proposed classification, the measures directed towards "the transfer of the Jews to useful labor." Of the regulations tending to affect the Jews "culturally" the circular emphasizes the prohibition of Jewish dress to take effect after the lapse of five years. All the regulations alluded to--Kiselev writes--have been issued and will be issued separately, _in order to conceal their interrelation and common aim from the fanaticism, of the Jews_. For this reason his Imperial Majesty has been graciously pleased to command me to communicate all the said plans to the Governors-General _confidentially_. It would seem, however, that the Russian authorities had grossly underestimated the political sense of the Jews. They were not aware of the fact that St. Petersburg's conspiracy against Judaism had long been exposed in the Pale of Settlement, if only for the reason that the conspirators were not clever enough to hide even for a time the chastising knout beneath the cloak of "cultural" reforms. 4. INTERCESSION OF WESTERN EUROPEAN JEWRY The mask of the Russian Government was soon torn down also before the yes of Western Europe. In the initial stage of Lilienthal's campaign, public-minded Jews of Western Europe were inclined to believe that a happy era was dawning upon their coreligionists in Russia. At the instance of Uvarov, Lilienthal had entered into correspondence with Philippson, Geiger, Crémieux, Montefiore, and other leaders of West-European Jewry, bespeaking their moral support on behalf of the school-reform and going so far as to invite them to participate in the proceedings of the Rabbinical Commission convened at St. Petersburg. The replies from these prominent Jews were full of complimentary references to Uvarov's endeavors. The _Allgemeine Zeitung des Judentums_,[1] in the beginning of the forties, voiced the general belief that the era of persecutions in Russia had come to an end. [Footnote 1: A weekly founded by Dr. Ludwig Philippson in 1837. It still appears in Berlin.] The frontier expulsions of 1843 acted like a cold douche on these enthusiasts. They realized that the pitiless banishment of thousands of families from home and hearth was not altogether compatible with "benevolent intentions." A sensational piece of news made its rounds through Germany: the well-known painter Oppenheim of Frankfurt-on-the-Main had given up working at the large picture ordered by the leaders of several Jewish communities for presentation to the Tzar. The painting had been intended as an allegory, picturing a sunrise in a dark realm, but the happy anticipations proved a will o' the wisp, and the plan had to be given up. Instead, Western Europe was resounding with moans from Russia, betokening new persecutions and even more atrocious schemes of restrictions. The sufferings of the Russian Jews suggested the thought that it was the duty of the influential Jews of the West to intercede on behalf of their persecuted brethren before the emperor of Russia. The choice fell on the famous Jewish philanthropist in London, Sir Moses Montefiore, who stood in close relations to the court of Queen Victoria. Having established his fame by championing the Jewish cause in Turkey during the ritual murder trial of Damascus in 1840, Montefiore resolved to make a similar attempt in the land of the Tzar. In the beginning of 1846 he set out for Russia, ostensibly in the capacity of a traveler desirous of familiarizing himself with the condition of his coreligionists. Montefiore, who was the bearer of a personal recommendation from Queen Victoria to the Russian emperor, was received in St. Petersburg with great honors. During an audience granted to Montefiore in March, 1846, the Tzar expressed his willingness to receive from him, through the medium of the "Jewish Committee," suggestions bearing on the condition of the Russian Jews, based on the information to be gathered by him on his travels. Montefiore's journey through the Pale of Settlement, including a visit to Vilna, Warsaw, and other cities, was marked by great solemnity. He was courteously received by the highest local officials, who acted according to instructions from St. Petersburg, and he met everywhere with an enthusiastic welcome from the Jewish masses, who expected great results from his intercession before the Tzar. Needless to say, these expectations were not realized. On his return to London, Montefiore addressed various petitions to Kiselev, the chairman of the Jewish Committee, to Minister Uvarov and to Paskevich, the then viceroy of Poland. Everywhere he pleaded for a mitigation of the harsh laws which were pressing upon his unfortunate brethren, for the restoration of the recently abolished communal autonomy, for the harmonization of the school-reform with the religious traditions of the Jewish masses. The Tzar was informed of the contents of these petitions, but it was all of no avail. In the same year another influential foreigner made an unsuccessful attempt to improve the condition of the Russian Jews by emigration. A rich Jewish merchant of Marseille, named Isaac Altaras, came to Russia with a proposal to transplant a certain number of Jews to Algiers, which had recently passed under French rule. Fortified by letters of recommendation from Premier Guizot and other high officials in France, Altaras entered into negotiations with the Ministers Nesselrode and Perovski in St. Petersburg and with Viceroy Paskevich in Warsaw, for the purpose of obtaining permission for a certain number of Jews to emigrate from Russia.[1] He gave the assurance that the French Government was ready to admit into Algiers, as full-fledged citizens, thousands of destitute Russian Jews, and that the means for transferring them would be provided by Rothschild's banking house in Paris. At first, while in St. Petersburg, Altaras was informed that permission to leave Russia would be granted only on condition that a fixed ransom be paid for every emigrant. In Warsaw, however, which city he visited later, in October, 1846, he was notified that the Tzar had decided to waive the ransom. For some unexplained reason Altaras left Russia suddenly, and the scheme of a Jewish mass emigration fell through. [Footnote 1: A law on the Russian statute books forbids the emigration of Russian citizens abroad. See later, p. 285, n. 1.] 5. THE ECONOMIC PLIGHT OF RUSSIAN JEWRY AND AGRICULTURAL EXPERIMENTS The attempt at thinning the Jewish population by emigration having failed, the congested Jewish masses continued to gasp for air in their Pale of Settlement. The slightest effort to penetrate beyond the Pale into the interior was treated as a criminal offence. In December, 1847, the Council of State engaged in a protracted and earnest discussion about the geographical point up to which the Jewish coachmen of Polotzk should be allowed, to drive the inmates of the local school of cadets on their annual trips to the Russian capital. The discussion arose out of the fact that the road leading from Polotzk to St. Petersburg is crossed by the line separating the Pale from the prohibited interior. A proposal had been made to permit the coachmen to drive their passengers as far as Pskov. But when the report was submitted to the Tzar, he appended the following resolution: "Agreeable; though not to Pskov, but to Ostrov"--the town nearest to the Pale. Of this trivial kind were Russia's methods in curtailing Jewish rights three months before the great upheaval which in adjoining Germany and Austria dealt the death-blow to absolutism and inaugurated the era of the "Second Emancipation." As for the economic life of the Jews, it had been completely undermined by the system of ruthless tutelage, which the Government had employed for a quarter of a century in the hope of "reconstructing" it. All these drumhead methods, such as the hurling of masses of living beings from villages into towns and from the border-zone into the interior, the prohibition of certain occupations and the artificial promotion of others, could not but result in economic ruin, instead of leading to economic reform. Nor was the governmental system of encouraging agriculture among Jews attended by greater success. In consequence of the expulsion of tens of thousands of Jews from the villages of White Busier in 1823, some two thousand refugees had drifted into the agricultural colonies of New Russia, but all they did was to replace the human wastage from increased mortality, which, owing to the change of climate and the unaccustomed conditions of rural life, had decimated the original settlers. During the reign of Nicholas, efforts were again made to promote agricultural colonization by offering the prospective immigrants subsidies and alleviations in taxation. Even more valuable was the privilege relieving the colonists from military service for a term of twenty-five to fifty years from the time of settlement. Yet only a few tried to escape conscription by taking refuge in the colonies. For the military regime gradually penetrated into these colonies as well. The Jewish colonist was subject to the grim tutelage of Russian "curators" and "superintendents," retired army men, who watched his every step and punished the slightest carelessness by conscription or expulsion. In 1836 the Government conceived the idea of enlarging the area of Jewish agricultural colonization. By an imperial rescript certain lands in Siberia, situated in the government of Tobolsk and in the territory of Omsk, were set aside for this purpose. Within a short time 1317 Jews declared their readiness to settle on the new lands; many had actually started on their way in batches. But in January, 1837, the Tzar quite unexpectedly changed his mind. After reading the report of the Council of Ministers on the first results of the immigration, he put down the resolution: "The transplantation of Jews to Siberia is to be stopped." A few months later orders were issued to intercept those Jews who were on their way to Siberia and transfer them to the Jewish colonies in the government of Kherson. The unfortunate emigrants were seized on the way and conveyed, like criminals, under a military escort into places in which they were not in the least interested. Legislative whims of this kind, coupled with an uncouth system of tutelage, were quite sufficient to crush in many Jews the desire of turning to the soil. Nevertheless, the colonization made slow progress, gradually spreading from the government of Kherson to the neighboring governments of Yekaterinoslav and Bessarabia. Stray Jewish agricultural settlements also appeared in Lithuania and White Russia. But a comparative handful of some ten thousand "Jewish peasants" could not affect the general economic make-up of millions of Jews. In spite of all shocks, the economic structure of Russian Jewry remained essentially the same. As before, the central place in this structure was occupied by the liquor traffic, though modified in a certain measure by the introduction of a more extensive system of public leases. Above the rank and file of tavern keepers, both rural and urban, there had arisen a class of wealthy tax-farmers, who kept a monopoly on the sale of liquor or the collection of excise in various governments of the Pale. They functioned as the financial agents of the exchequer, while the Jewish employees in their mills, store-houses, and offices acted as their sub-agents, forming a class of "officials" of their own. The place next in importance to the liquor traffic was occupied by retail and wholesale commerce. The crafts and the spiritual professions came last. Pauperism was the inevitable companion of this economic organization, and "people without definite occupations" were counted by the hundreds of thousands. 6. THE RITUAL MURDER TRIAL OF VELIZH The "ordinary" persecutions under which the Jews in Russia were groaning were accompanied by afflictions of an extraordinary kind. The severest among these were the ritual murder trials which became of frequent occurrence, tending to deepen the medieval gloom of that period. True, ritual murder cases had occurred during the reign of Alexander I., but it was only under Nicholas that they assumed a malign and dangerous form. In the year 1816, shortly before Passover, a dead body was found in the vicinity of Grodno and identified as that of the four year old daughter of a Grodno resident, Mary Adamovich. Rumors were spread among the superstitious Christian populace to the effect that the girl had been killed for ritual purposes, and the police, swayed by these rumors, set about to find the culprit among the Jews. Suspicion fell on a member of the Grodno Kahal, Shalom Lapin, whose house adjoined that of the Adamovich family. The only "evidence" against him were a hammer and a pike found in his house. A sergeant, named Savitzki, a converted Jew, appeared as a material witness before the Commission of Inquiry, and delivered himself of a statement full of ignorant trash, which was intended to show that "Christian blood is exactly what is needed according to the Jewish religion"--here the witness referred to the Bible story of the Exodus and to two mythical authorities, "the philosopher Rossié and the prophet Azariah." He further deposed that "every rabbi is obliged to satisfy the whole Kahal under his jurisdiction by smearing with same (with Christian blood) the lintels of every house on the first day of the feast of Passover." Prompted by greed and by the desire to distinguish himself, the sergeant declared himself ready to substantiate his testimony from Jewish literature, "if the chief Government will grant him the necessary assistance." The results of this "secret investigation" were laid before the governor of Grodno and reported by him to St. Petersburg. In reply, Alexander I. issued a rescript in February, 1817, ordering that the "secret investigation be cut short and the murderer be found out" intimating thereby that search be made for the criminal and not for the tenets of the Jewish religion. However, all efforts to discover the culprit failed, and the case was dismissed. This favorable issue was in no small measure due to the endeavors of the "Deputies of the Jewish People," [1] in particular to Sonnenberg, the deputy from Grodno. These deputies, who were present in St. Petersburg at that time, addressed themselves to Golitzin, the Minister of Ecclesiastical Affairs, protesting against the ritual murder libel. The trial at Grodno and the ritual murder accusations which simultaneously cropped up in the Kingdom of Poland made the Minister of Ecclesiastical Affairs realize that there was in the Western region a dangerous tendency of making the Jews the scapegoats for every mysterious murder case and of fabricating lawsuits of the medieval variety by bringing popular superstition into play. Golitzin, a Christian pietist, who was nevertheless profoundly averse to narrow ecclesiastic fanaticism, decided to strike at the root of this superstitious legend which was disgracing Poland in her period of decay and was about to fall as a dark stain upon Russia. He succeeded in impressing this conviction upon his like-minded sovereign Alexander I. In the same month in which the ukase concerning "the Society of Israelitish Christians" was published [2] Golitzin sent out the following circular to the governors, dated March 6, 1817: [Footnote 1: See Vol. I, p. 394.] [Footnote 2: Compare Vol. I, p. 396.] In view of the fact that in several of the provinces acquired from Poland, cases still occur in which the Jews are falsely accused of murdering Christian children for the alleged purpose of obtaining blood, his Imperial Majesty, taking into consideration that similar accusations have on previous numerous occasions been refuted by impartial investigations and royal charters, has been graciously pleased to convey to those at the head of the governments his Sovereign will: that henceforward the Jews shall not be charged with murdering Christian children, without any evidence and purely as a result of the superstitious belief that they are in need of Christian blood. One might have thought that this emphatic rescript would suffice to put a stop to the efforts of ignorant adventurers to resuscitate the bloody myth. And, for several years, indeed, the sinister agitation kept quiet. But towards the end of Alexander's reign it came to life again, and gave rise to the monstrous Velizh case. In the year 1823, on the first day of the Christian Passover, a boy of three years, Theodore Yemelyanov, the son of a Russian soldier, disappeared in the city of Velizh, in the government of Vitebsk. Ten days later the child's body was found in a swamp beyond the town, stabbed all over and covered with wounds. The medical examination and the preliminary investigation were influenced by the popular belief that the child had been tortured to death by the Jews. This belief was fostered by two Christian fortune-tellers, a prostitute beggar-woman, called Mary Terentyeva, and a half-witted old maid, by the name of Yeremyeyeva, who by way of divination made the parents of the child believe that its death was due to the Jews. At the judicial inquiry, Terentyeva implicated two of the most prominent Jews of Velizh, the merchant Shmerka [1] Berlin, and Yevzik [2] Zetlin, a member of the local town council. [Footnote 1: A popular form of the name Shemariah.] [Footnote 2: The Russian form of _Yozel_, a variant of the name Joseph.] Protracted investigations failed to substantiate the fabrications of Terentyeva, and in the autumn of 1884 the Supreme Court of the government of Vitebsk rendered the following verdict: To leave the accidental death of the soldier boy to the will of God; to declare all the Jews, against whom the charge of murder has been brought on mere surmises, free from all suspicion; to turn over the soldier woman Terentyeva, for her profligate conduct, to a priest for repentance. However, in view of the exceptional gravity of the crime, the Court recommended to the gubernatorial administration to continue its investigations. Despite the verdict of the court, the dark forces among the local population, prompted by hatred of the Jews, bent all their efforts on putting the investigation on the wrong track. The low, mercenary Terentyeva became their ready tool. When in September, 1825, Alexander I. was passing through Velizh, she submitted a petition to him, complaining about the failure of the authorities to discover the murderer of little Theodore, whom she unblushingly designated as her own child and declared to have been tortured to death by the Jews. The Tzar, entirely oblivious of his ukase of 1817,[1] instructed the White-Russian governor-general, Khovanski, to start a new rigorous inquiry. [Footnote 1: See above, p. 74.] The imperial order gave the governor-general, who was a Jew-hater and a believer in the hideous libel, unrestricted scope for his anti-Semitic instincts. He entrusted the conduct of the new investigation to a subaltern, by the name of Strakhov, a man of the same ilk, conferring upon him the widest possible powers. On his arrival in Velizh, Strakhov first of all arrested Terentyeva, and subjected her to a series of cross-examinations during which he endeavored to put her on what he considered the desirable track. Stimulated by the prosecutor, the prostitute managed to concoct a regular criminal romance. She deposed that she herself had participated in the crime, having lured little Theodore into the homes of Zetlin and Berlin. In Berlin's house, and later on in the synagogue, a crowd of Jews of both sexes had subjected the child to the most horrible tortures. The boy had been stabbed and butchered and rolled about in a barrel. The blood squeezed out of him had been distributed on the spot among those present, who thereupon proceeded to soak pieces of linen in it and to pour it out in bottles.[1] All these tortures had been perpetrated in her own presence, and with the active participation both of herself and the Christian servant-girls of the two families. [Footnote 1: According to her testimony, the Jews are in the habit of using Christian blood to smear the eyes of their new-born babies, since "the Jews are always born blind," also to mix it with the flour in preparing the unleavened bread for Passover.] It may be added that Terentyeva did not make these statements at one time, but at different intervals, inventing fresh details at each new examination and often getting muddled in her story. The implicated servant-girls at first denied their share in the crime, but, yielding to external pressure--like Terentyeva, they, too, were sent for frequent "admonition" to a local priest, called Tarashkevich, a ferocious anti-Semite--they were gradually led to endorse the depositions of the principal material witness. On the strength of these indictments Strakhov placed the implicated Jews under arrest, at first two highly esteemed ladies, Slava Berlin and Hannah Zetlin, later on their husbands and relatives, and finally a number of other Jewish residents of Velizh. In all forty-two people were seized, put in chains, and thrown into jail. The prisoners were examined "with a vengeance"; they were subjected to the old-fashioned judicial procedure which approached closely the methods of medieval torture. The prisoners denied their guilt with indignation, and, when confronted with Terentyeva, denounced her vehemently as a liar. The excruciating cross-examinations brought some of the prisoners to the verge of madness. But as far as Strakhov was concerned, the hysterical fits of the women, the angry speeches of the men, the remarks of some of the accused, such as: "I shall tell everything, but only to the Tzar," served in his eyes as evidence of the Jews' guilt. In his reports he assured his superior, Khovanski, that he had got on the track of a monstrous crime perpetrated by a whole Kahal, with the assistance of several Christian women who had been led astray by the Jews. In communicating his findings to St. Petersburg, the White Russian governor-general presented the case as a crime committed on religious grounds. In reply he received the fatal resolution of Emperor Nicholas, dated August 16, 1828, to the following effect: Whereas the above occurrence demonstrates that the Zhyds[1] make wicked use of the religious tolerance accorded to them, therefore, as a warning and as an example to others, let the Jewish schools (the synagogues) of Velizh be sealed up until farther orders, and let services be forbidden, whether in them or near them. [Footnote 1: Compare Vol. I, p, 320, n. 2.] The imperial resolution was couched in the fierce language of the new reign which had begun in the meantime. It rose in the bloody mist of the Velizh affair. The fatal consequences of this synchronism were not limited to the Jews of Velizh. Judging by the contents and the harsh wording of the resolution, Nicholas I. was convinced at that time of the truth of the ritual murder libel. The mysterious and unloved tribe rose before the vision of the new Tzar as a band of cannibals and evil-doers. This sinister notion can be traced in the conscription statute which was then in the course of preparation in St. Petersburg and was soon afterwards to stir Russian Jewry to its depths, dooming their little ones to martyrdom. While punishment was to be meted out to the entire Jewish population of Russia, the fate of the Velizh community was particularly tragic. It was subjected to the terrors of a unique state of siege. The whole community was placed under suspicion. All the synagogues were shut up as if they were dens of thieves, and the hapless Jews could not even assemble in prayer to pour out their hearts before God. All business was at a standstill; the shops were closed, and gloomy faces flitted shyly across the streets of the doomed city. The stern command from St. Petersburg ordering that the case be "positively probed to the bottom" and that the culprits be apprehended gladdened only the heart of Strakhov, the chairman of the Commission of Inquiry, who was now free to do as he pleased. He spread out the net of inquiry in ever wider circles. Terentyeva and the other female witnesses, who were fed well while in prison, and expected not only amnesty but also remuneration for their services, gave more and more vent to their imagination. They "recollected" and revealed before the Commission of Inquiry a score of religious crimes which they alleged had been perpetrated by the Jews prior to the Velizh affair, such as the murder of children in suburban inns, the desecration of church utensils and similar misdeeds. The Commission was not slow in communicating the new revelations to the Tzar who followed vigilantly the developments in the case. But the Commission had evidently overreached itself. The Tzar began to suspect that there was something wrong in this endlessly growing tangle of crimes. In October, 1827, he attached to the report of the Commission the following resolution: "It is absolutely necessary to find out who those unfortunate children were; this ought to be easy if the whole thing is not a miserable lie." His belief in the guilt of the Jews had evidently been shaken. In its endeavors to make up for the lack of substantial evidence, the commission, personified by Khovanski, put itself in communication with the governors of the Pale, directing them to obtain information concerning all local ritual murder cases in past years. The effect of these inquiries was to revive the Grodno affair of 1818 which had been "left to oblivion." A certain convert by the name of Gradlnski from the townlet of Bobovnya, in the government of Minsk, declared before the Commission of Inquiry that he was ready to point out the description of the ritual murder ceremony in a "secret" Hebrew work. When the book was produced and the incriminated passage translated, it was found that it referred to the Jewish rite of slaughtering animals. The apostate, thus caught red-handed, confessed that he had turned informer in the hope of making money, and was by imperial command sent into the army. The confidence of St. Petersburg in the activity of the Velizh Commission of Inquiry vanished more and more. Khovanski was notified that "his Majesty the Emperor, having observed that the Commission bases its deductions mostly on surmises, by attaching significance to the fits and gestures of the incriminated during the examinations, is full of apprehension lest the Commission, carried away by zeal and anti-Jewish prejudice, act with a certain amount of bias and protract the case to no purpose." Soon afterwards, in 1830, the case was taken out of the hands of the Commission which had become entangled in a mesh of lies--Strakhov had died in the meantime--, and was turned over to the Senate. Weighed down by the nightmare proportions of the material, which the Velizh Commission had managed to pile up, the members of the Fifth Department of the Senate which was charged with the case were inclined to announce a verdict of guilty and to sentence the convicted Jews to deportation to Siberia, with the application of the knout and whip (1831). In the higher court, the plenary session of the Senate, there was a disagreement, the majority voting guilty, while three senators, referring to the ukase of 1817, were in favor of setting the prisoners at liberty, but keeping them at the same time under police surveillance. In 1834 the case reached the highest court of the Empire, the Council of State, and here for the first time the real facts came to light. Truth found its champion in the person of the aged statesman, Mordvinov, who owned some estates near Velizh, and, being well-acquainted with the Jews of the town, was roused to indignation by the false charges concocted against them. In his capacity as president of the Department of Civil and Ecclesiastical Affairs of the Council of State, Mordvinov, after sifting the evidence carefully, succeeded in a number of sessions to demolish completely the Babel tower of lies erected by Strakhov and Khovanski and to adduce proofs that the governor-general, blinded by anti-Jewish prejudice, had misled the Government by his communications. The Department of Civil and Ecclesiastical Affairs was convinced by the arguments of Mordvinov and other champions of the truth, and handed down a decision that the accused Jews be set at liberty and rewarded for their innocent sufferings, and that the Christian women informers he deported to Siberia. The plenary meeting of the Council of State concurred in the decision of the Department, rejecting only the clause providing for the reward of the sufferers. The verdict of the Council of State was submitted to the Tzar and received his endorsement on January 18, 1835. It read as follows: The Council of State, having carefully considered all the circumstances of this complex and involved case, finds that the depositions of the material female witnesses, Terentyeva, Maximova, and Koslovska, containing as they do numerous contradictions and absurdities and lacking all positive evidence and indubitable conclusions, cannot be admitted as legal proof to convict the Jews of the grave crimes imputed to them, and, therefore, renders the following decision: 1. The Jews accused of having killed the soldier boy Yemelyanov and of other similar deeds, which are implied in the Velizh trial, no indictment whatsoever having been found against them, shall be freed from further judgment and inquiry. 2. The material witnesses, the peasant woman Terentyeva, the soldier woman Maximova, and the Shiakhta woman[1] Kozlovsta, having been convicted of uttering libels, which they have not in the least been able to corroborate, shall be exiled to Siberia for permanent residence. 3. The peasant maid Yeremyeyeva, having posed among the common people as a soothsayer, shall be turned over to a priest for admonition. [Footnote 1: i.e., a member of the Polish nobility; comp. Vol. I, p. 58, n. 1.] After attaching his signature to this verdict. Nicholas I. added in his own handwriting the following characteristic resolution, which was not to be made public: While sharing the view of the Council of State that in this case, owing to the vagueness of the legal deductions, no other decision than the one embodied in the opinion confirmed by me could have been reached, I deem it, however, necessary to add that I do not have, and, indeed, cannot have, the inner conviction that the murder has not been committed by the Jews. Numerous examples of similar murders.... go to show that among the Jews there probably exist fanatics or sectarians who consider Christian blood necessary for their rites. This appears the more possible, since unfortunately even among us Christians there sometimes exist such sects which are no less horrible and incomprehensible. In a word, I do not for a moment think that this custom is common to all Jews, but I do not deny the possibility that there may be among them fanatics just as horrible as among us Christians. Having taken this idea into his head, Nicholas I. refused to sign the second decision of the Council of State, which was closely allied with the verdict: that all governors be instructed to be guided in the future by the ukase of 1817, forbidding to stir up ritual murder cases "from prejudice only." While rejecting this prejudice in its full-fledged shape, the Tzar acknowledged it in part, in a somewhat attenuated form. Towards the end of January of 1835 an imperial ukase reached the city of Velizh, ordering the liberation of the exculpated Jews, the reopening of the synagogues, which had been sealed since 1826, and the handing back to the Jews of the holy scrolls which had been confiscated by the police. The dungeon was now ready to give up its inmates, whose strength had been sapped by the long confinement, while several of them had died during the imprisonment. The synagogues, which had not been allowed to resound with the moans of the martyrs, were now opened for the prayers of the liberated. The state of siege which for nine long years had been throttling the city was at last taken off; the terror which had haunted the ostracized community came to an end. A new leaf was added to the annals of Jewish martyrdom, one of the gloomiest, in spite of its "happy" finale. 7. THE MSTISLAVL AFFAIR The ritual murder trials did not exhaust the "extraordinary" afflictions of Nicholas' reign. There were cases of wholesale chastisements inflicted on more tangible grounds, when misdeeds of a few individuals were puffed up into communal crimes and visited cruelly upon entire communities. The conscription horrors of that period, when the Kahals were degraded to police agencies for "capturing" recruits, had bred the "informing" disease among the Jewish communities. They produced the type of professional informer, or _moser_[1], who blackmailed the Kahal authorities of his town by threatening to disclose their "abuses," the absconding of candidates for the army and various irregularities in carrying out the conscription, and in this way extorted "silence money" from them. These scoundrels made life intolerable, and there were occasions when the people took the law into their own hands and secretly dispatched the most objectionable among them. [Footnote 1: The Hebrew and Yiddish equivalent for "informer."] A case of this kind came to light in the government of Podolia in 1836. In the town Novaya Ushitza two _mosers_, named Oxman and Schwartz, who had terrorized the Jews of the whole province, were found dead. Rumor had it that the one was killed in the synagogue and the other on the road to the town. The Russian authorities regarded the crime as the collective work of the local Jewish community, or rather of several neighboring Jewish communities, "which had perpetrated this wicked deed by the verdict of their own tribunal." About eighty Kahal elders and other prominent Jews of Ushitza and adjacent towns, including two rabbis, were put on trial. The case was submitted to a court-martial which resolved "to subject the guilty to an exemplary punishment." Twenty Jews were sentenced to hard labor and to penal military service, with a preliminary "punishment by _Spiessruten_ through five hundred men." [1] A like number were sentenced to be deported to Siberia; the rest were either acquitted or had fled from justice. Many of those who ran the gauntlet died under the strokes, and are remembered by the Jewish people in Russia as martyrs. [Footnote 1: Both the word and the penalty were introduced by Peter the Great from Germany. The culprit was made to run between two lines of soldiers who whipped his bare shoulders with rods. The penalty was abolished in 1863.] The scourge of informers was also responsible for the Mstislavl affair. In 1844, a Jewish crowd in the market-place of Mstislavl, a town in the government of Moghilev, came into conflict with a detachment of soldiers who were searching for contraband goods in a Jewish warehouse. The results of the fray were a few bruised Jews and several broken rifles. The local police and military authorities seized this opportunity to ingratiate themselves with their superiors, and reported to the governor of Moghilev and the commander of the garrison that the Jews had organized a "mutiny." The local informer, Arye Briskin, a converted Jew, found this incident an equally convenient occasion to wreak vengeance on his former coreligionists for the contempt in which he was held by them, and allowed himself to be taken into tow by the official Jew-baiters. In January, 1844, alarming communications concerning a "Jewish mutiny" reached St. Petersburg. The matter was reported to the Tzar, and a swift and curt resolution followed: "To court-martial the principal culprits implicated in this incident, and, in the meantime, as a punishment for the turbulent demeanor of the Jews of that city, to take from them one recruit for every ten men." Once more the principles of that period were applied: one for all; first punishment, then trial. The ukase arrived in Mstislavl on the eve of Purim, and threw the Jews into consternation. During the Fast of Esther the synagogues resounded with wailing. The city was in a state of terror: the most prominent leaders of the community were thrown into jail, and had to submit to disfigurement by having half of their heads and beards shaved off. The penal recruits were hunted down, without any regard to age, since, according to the Tzar's resolution, a tenth of the population had to be impressed into military service. Pending the termination of the trial, no Jew was allowed to leave the city, while natives from Mstislavl in other places were captured and conveyed to their native town. A large Jewish community was threatened with complete annihilation. The Jews of Mstislavl, through their spokesmen, petitioned St. Petersburg to wait with the penal conscription until the conclusion of the trial, and endeavored to convince the central Government that the local administration had misrepresented the character of the incident. To save his brethren, the popular champion of the interests of his people, the merchant Isaac Zelikin, of Monastyrchina, [1] called affectionately Rabbi Itzele, journeyed to the capital. He managed to get the ear of the Chief of the "Third Section" [2] and to acquaint him with the horrors which were being perpetrated by the authorities in Mstislavl. [Footnote 1: A townlet in the neighborhood of Mstislavl.] [Footnote 2: See above, p. 21, n. 1.] As a result, two commissioners were dispatched from St. Petersburg in quick succession. On investigating the matter on the spot, they discovered the machinations of the over-zealous officials and apostasized informers who had represented a street quarrel as an organized uprising. The new commission of inquiry, of which one of the St. Petersburg commissioners, Count Trubetzkoy, was member, disclosed the fact that the Jewish community as such had had nothing whatsoever to do with what had occurred. The findings of the commission resulted in an "Imperial Act of Grace": the imprisoned Jews were set at liberty, the penal conscripts were returned from service, several local officials were put on trial, and the governor of Moghilev was severely censured. This took place in November, 1844, after the Mstislavl community had for nine long months tasted the horrors of a state of siege. The synagogues were filled with Jews praising God for the relief granted to them. The community decreed to commemorate annually the day before Purim, on which the ukase inflicting severe punishment on the Jews of Mstislavl was promulgated, as a day of fasting and to celebrate the third day of the month of Kislev, on which the cruel ukase was revoked, as a day of rejoicing. Had all the disasters of that era been perpetuated in the same manner, the Jewish calendar would consist entirely of these commemorations of national misfortunes, whether in the form of "ordinary" persecutions or "extraordinary" afflictions. CHAPTER XV THE JEWS IN THE KINGDOM OF POLAND 1. PLANS OF JEWISH EMANCIPATION Special mention must be made of the position occupied by the Jews in the vast province which had be n formed in 1815 out of the territory of the former duchy of Warsaw and annexed by Russia under the name of "Kingdom of Poland." [1] This province which from 1815 to 1830 enjoyed full autonomy, with a local government in Warsaw and a parliamentary constitution, handled the affairs of its large Jewish population, numbering between three hundred to four hundred thousand souls, independently and without regard to the legislation of the Russian Empire, Even after the insurrection of 1830, when subdued Poland was linked more closely with the Empire, the Jews continued to be subject to a separate provincial legislation. The Jews of the Kingdom remained under the tutelage of local guardians who were assiduously engaged in solving the Jewish problem during the first part of this period. [Footnote 1: Compare Vol. I, p. 390, n. 1.] The initial years of autonomous Poland were a time of storm and stress. After having experienced the vicissitudes of the period of partitions and the hopes and disappointments of the Napoleonic era, the Polish people clutched eagerly at the shreds of political freedom which were left to it by Alexander I. in the shape of the "Constitutional Regulation" of 1815.[1] The Poles brought to bear upon the upbuilding of the new kingdom all the ardor of their national soul and all their enthusiasm for political regeneration. The feverish organizing activity between 1815 and 1820 was attended by a violent outburst of national sentiment, and such moments of enthusiasm were always accompanied in Poland by an intolerant and unfriendly attitude towards the Jews. With a few shining exceptions, the Polish statesmen were far removed from the idea of Jewish emancipation. They favored either "correctional" or punitive methods, though modelled after the pattern of Western European rather than of primitive Russian anti-Semitism. [Footnote 1: The author refers to the Constitution granted by Alexander I., on November 15, 1815, to the Polish territories ceded to him by the Congress of Vienna. The Constitution vouchsafed to Poland an autonomous development under Russian auspices. It was withdrawn after the insurrection of 1830.] In 1815 the Provisional Government in Warsaw appointed a special committee, under the chairmanship of Count Adam Chartoryski, to consider the agrarian and the Jewish problem. The Committee drew up a general plan of Jewish reorganization which was marked by the spirit of enlightened patronage. In theory the Committee was ready to concede to the Jews human and civil rights, even to the point of considering the necessity of their final emancipation. But "in view of the ignorance, the prejudices and the moral corruption to be observed among the lower classes of the Jewish and the Polish people"--the patrician members of the Committee in charge of the agrarian and Jewish problem accorded an equal share of compliments to the Jews and the Polish peasants--immediate emancipation was, in their opinion, bound to prove harmful, since it would confer upon the Jews freedom of action to the detriment of the country. It was, therefore, necessary to demand, as a prerequisite for Jewish emancipation, the improvement of the Jewish masses which was to be effected by removal from the injurious liquor trade and inducement to engage in agriculture, by abolishing the Kahals, i.e., their communal autonomy, and by changing the Jewish school system to meet the civic requirements. In order to gain the confidence of the Jews for the proposed reforms, the Committee suggested that the Government should invite the "enlightened" representatives of the Jewish people to participate in the discussion of the projected measures of reform. Turning their eyes towards the West, where Jewish assimilation had already begun its course, the Polish Committee decided to approach the Jewish reformer David Frieländer, of Berlin, who was, so to speak, the official philosopher of Jewish emancipation, and to solicit his opinion concerning the ways and means of bringing about a reorganization of Jewish life in Poland. The bishop of Kuyavia,[1] Malchevski, addressed himself in the name of the Polish Government to Friedländer, calling upon him, as a pupil of Mendelssohn, the educator of Jewry, to state his views on the proposed Jewish reforms in Poland. Flattered by this invitation, Friedländer hastened to compose an elaborate "Opinion on the Improvement of the Jews in the Kingdom of Poland." [2] [Footnote 1: A former Polish province, compare Vol. I, p. 75, n. 2.] [Footnote 2: It was written in February, 1816, and published later in 1819.] According to Friedländer, the Polish Jews had in point of culture remained far behind their Western coreligionists, because their progress had been hampered by their talmudic training, the pernicious doctrine of Hasidism, and the self-government of their Kahals. All these influences ought, therefore, to be combated. The Jewish school should be brought into closer contact with the Polish school, the Hebrew language should be replaced by the language of the country, and altogether assimilation and religious reform should be encouraged. While promoting religious and cultural reforms, the Government, in the opinion of Friedländer, ought to confirm the Jews in the belief that they would "receive in time civil rights if they were to endeavor to perfect themselves in the spirit of the regulations issued for them." This flunkeyish notion of the necessity of _deserving_ civil rights coincided with the views of the official Polish Committee in Warsaw. Soon afterwards a memorandum, prepared by the Committee, was submitted through its Chairman, Count Chartoryski, to the Polish viceroy Zayonchek. [1] Formerly a comrade of Koszciuszko, Zayonchek later turned from a revolutionary into a reactionary, who was anxious to curry favor with the supreme commander of the province, Grand Duke Constantine Pavlovich. [2] No wonder, therefore, that the plan of the Committee, conservative though it was, seemed too liberal for his liking. In his report to Emperor Alexander I., dated March 8, 1816, he wrote as follows: [Footnote 1: He was appointed viceroy in 1815, after the formation of the Kingdom of Poland, and continued in this office until his death in 1826.] [Footnote 2: He was the military commander of the province. See above, p. 13, n. 2.] The growth of the Jewish population in your Kingdom of Poland is becoming a menace. In 1790 they formed here a thirteenth part of the whole population; to-day they form no less than an eighth. Sober and resourceful, they are satisfied with little; they earn their livelihood by cheating, and, owing to early marriages, multiply beyond measure. Shunning hard labor, they produce nothing themselves, and live only at the expense of the working classes which they help to ruin. Their peculiar institutions keep them apart within the state, marking them as a foreign nationality, and, as a result, they are unable in their present condition to furnish the state either with good citizens or with capable soldiers. Unless means are adopted to utilize for the common weal the useful qualities of the Jews, they will soon exhaust all the sources of the national wealth and will threaten to surpass and suppress the Christian population. In the same year, 1816, a scheme looking to the solution of the Jewish question was proposed by the Russian statesman Nicholas Novosiltzev, the imperial commissioner attached to the Provincial Government in Warsaw.[1] Novosiltzev, who was not sympathetic to the Poles, showed himself in his project to be a friend of the Jews. Instead of the principle laid down by the official Committee: "correction first, and civil rights last," he suggests another more liberal procedure: the immediate bestowal of civil and in part even political rights upon the Jews, to be accompanied by a reorganization, of Jewish life along the lines of European progress and a modernized scheme of autonomy. All communal and cultural affairs shall be put in charge of "directorates," one central directorate in Warsaw and local ones in every province of the Kingdom, after the pattern of the Jewish consistories of France. These directorates shall be composed of rabbis, elders of the community, and a commissioner representing the Government; in the central directorate this commissioner shall be replaced by a "procurator" to be appointed directly by the king. [Footnote 1: See above, p. 16.] This whole organization shall be placed under the jurisdiction of the Minister of Public Instruction, who shall also exercise the right of confirming the rabbis nominated by the directorates. The functions of the directorates shall include the registration of the Jewish population, the management of the communal finances, the dispensation of charity, and the opening of secular schools for Jewish children. A certificate of graduation from such a school shall be required from every young man who applies for a marriage license or for a permit to engage in a craft or to acquire property. "All Jews fulfilling the obligations imposed by the present statute shall be accorded full citizenship," while those who distinguish themselves in science an art may even be deemed worthy of political rights, not excluding membership in the Polish Diet. For the immediate future Novosiltzev advises to refrain from economic restrictions, such as the prohibition of the liquor traffic, though he concedes the advisability of checking its growth, and advocates the adoption of a system of economic reforms by stimulating crafts and agriculture among the Jews. In the beginning of 1817 Novosiltzev's project was laid before the Polish Council of State. It was opposed with great stubbornness by Chartoryski, the Polish viceroy Zayonchek, Stashitz, and other Polish dignitaries, whose hostility was directed not so much against the pro-Jewish plan as against its Russian author. The Council of State appointed a special committee which, after examining Novosiltzev's project, arrived at the following conclusions: 1. It is impossible to carry out a reorganization of Jewish life through the Jews themselves. 2. The establishment of a separate cultural organization for the Jews will only stimulate their national aloofness. 3. The complete civil and political emancipation of the Jews is at variance with the Polish Constitution which vouchsafes special privileges to the professors of the dominant religion. In the plenary session of the Polish Council of State the debate about Novosiltzev's project was exceedingly stormy. The Polish members of the Council scented in the project "political aims in opposition to the national element of the country." They emphasized the danger which the immediate emancipation of the Jews would entail for Poland. "Let the Jews first become real Poles," exclaimed the referee Kozhmyan, "then will it be possible to look upon them as citizens." When the same gentleman declared that it was impossible to accord citizenship to hordes of people who first had to be accustomed to cleanliness and cured from "leprosy and similar diseases," Zayonchek burst out laughing and shouted: "Hear, hear! These sluts won't get rid of their scab so easily." After such elevating "criticism," Novosiltzev's project was voted down. The Council inclined to the belief that "the psychological moment" for bringing about a radical reorganization of the inner life of the Jews had not yet arrived, and, therefore, resolved to limit itself to isolated measures, principally of a "correctional" and repressive character. 2. POLITICAL REACTION AND LITERARY ANTI-SEMITISM Such "measures" were not long in coming. The only restriction the Government of Warsaw failed to carry through was the enforcement of the law of 1812 forbidding the Jews to deal in liquor. This drastic measure was vetoed by Alexander I., owing to the representations of the Jewish deputies in St. Petersburg, and in 1816 the Polish viceroy was compelled to announce the suspension of this cruel law which had hung like the sword of Damocles over the heads of hundreds of thousands of Jews. On the other hand, the Polish Government managed in the course of a few years (1816-1823) to put into operation a number of other restrictive laws. Several cities which boasted of the ancient right _de non tolerandis Judaeis_[1] secured the confirmation of this shameful privilege, with the result that the Jews who had settled there during the existence of the duchy of Warsaw were either expelled or confined to separate districts. In Warsaw a number of streets were closed to Jewish residents, and all Jewish visitors to the capital were forced to pay a heavy tax for their right of sojourn, the so-called "ticket impost," amounting to fifteen kopecks (7½c) a day. Finally the Jews were forbidden to settle within twenty-one versts of the Austrian and Prussian frontiers. [2] [Footnote 1: See Vol. I, pp. 85 and 95.] [Footnote 2: The law in question was passed by the Polish Government on January 31, 1823, barring the Jews from nearly one hundred towns. It was repealed by Alexander II. in 1862. See below, p. 181.] At the same time, the Polish legislators were fair-minded enough to refrain from forcing the Jews, these disfranchised pariahs, into military service. In 1817 an announcement was made to the effect that, so long as the Jews were barred from the enjoyment of civil rights, they would be released from personal military service in Poland, in lieu whereof they were to pay a fixed conscription tax. About the same time, during the third decade of the nineteenth century, was also realized the old-time policy of curtailing the Jewish Kahal autonomy, though, as will be seen later, this "reform" did not proceed from the Government spheres, but was rather the product of contemporary social movements among the Poles and the Jews. The political literature of Poland manifested at that time a tendency similar to the one which had prevailed during the Quadrennial Diet.[1] Scores of pamphlets and magazine articles discussed with polemical ardor the Jewish problem, the burning question of the day. The old Jew-baiter Stashitz, a member of the Warsaw Government who served on the Commission of Public Instruction and Religious Denominations, resumed his attacks on Judaism. In 1816 he published an article under the title "Concerning the Causes of the Obnoxiousness of the Jews," in which he asserted that the Jews were responsible for Poland's decline. They multiplied with incredible rapidity, forming now no less than an eighth of the population. Should this process continue, the Kingdom of Poland would be turned into a "Jewish country" and become "the laughing-stock of the whole of Europe." The Jewish religion is antagonistic to Catholicism: we call them "Old Testament believers," [2] while they brand us as "pagans." It being impossible to expel the Jews from Poland, they ought to be isolated like carriers of disease. They should be concentrated in separate quarters in the cities to facilitate the supervision over them. Only well-deserving merchants and craftsmen, who have plied their trade honestly for five or ten years, should be allowed to reside outside the ghetto. The same category of Jews, in addition to those married to Christian women, should also be granted the right of acquiring landed property. The ghetto on the one end of the line, and baptism on the other--this medieval policy did not in the least abash the patriotic reformers of the type of Stashitz. [Footnote 1: Compare Vol. I, p. 279 et seq.] [Footnote 2: Referring to the term _Starozakonni_, the Polish designation for Jews.] Stashitz's point of view was supported by certain publicists and opposed by others, but all were agreed on the necessity of a system of correction for the Jews. The discussion became particularly heated in 1818, after the convocation and during the sessions of the first [1] Polish Diet in Warsaw. Three different tendencies asserted themselves: a moderate, an anti-Jewish, and a pro-Jewish tendency. The first was represented by General Vincent Krasinski, a member of the Diet. In his "Observations on the Jews of Poland," he proceeds from the following twofold premise: "The voice of the whole nation is raised against the Jews, and it demands their transformation." This titled publicist declares himself an opponent of the Jews as they are at present. He shares the popular dread of their multiplication, the fear of a "Jewish Poland," and is somewhat sceptical about their being corrigible. Nevertheless he proposes liberal methods of correction, such as the encouragement of big Jewish capital, the promotion of agriculture and handicrafts among the Jewish masses, and the bestowal of the rights of citizenship upon those worthy of it. [Footnote 1: i.e., the first to be convoked after the reconstitution of Poland in 1815.] Krasinski was attacked by an anonymous writer in an anti-Semitic pamphlet entitled "A Remedy against the Jews." Proceeding from the conviction that no reforms, however well conceived, could have any effect on the Jews, the writer puts the question in a simplified form: "Shall we sacrifice the welfare of three million Poles to that of 300,000 Jews, or _vice versa?_" His answer is just as simple: the Jews should be forced to leave Poland. Emperor Alexander I., "the benefactor of Poland," ought to be petitioned to rid the country of the Jews by transferring them to the uninhabited steppes in the South of Russia or even "on the borders of Great Tartary." The 300,000 Jews might be divided into 300 parties and settled there in the course of one year. The means for expelling and settling the Jews should be furnished by the Jews themselves. This barbarous project aroused the ire of a noble-minded Polish army officer, Valerian Lukasinski, a radical in politics, who subsequently landed in the dungeon of the Schlueselburg fortress. [1] In his "Reflections of an Army Officer Concerning the Need of Organizing the Jews," published in 1818, Lukasinski advances the thought that the oppression and disfranchisement of the Jews are alone responsible for their demoralized condition. They were useful citizens in the golden age of Casimir the Great and Sigismund the Old [2] when they were treated with kindness. The author lashes the hypocrisy of the Shlakhta who hold the Jews to account for ruining the peasants by selling them alcohol in those very taverns which are leased to them by the noble pans. Lukasinski contends that the Jews will become good citizens once they will be allowed to participate in the civil life of Poland, when that life will be founded on democratic principles. [Footnote 1: In the government of St. Petersburg.] [Footnote 2: i.e., Sigismund I. (1506-1548). See on his attitude towards the Jews Vol. I, p. 71 et seq.] The choir of Polish voices was but faintly disturbed by the opinions expressed by the Jews. An otherwise unknown rabbi, who calls himself Moses ben Abraham, echoes in his pamphlet "The Voice of the People of Israel" the sentiments of Jewish orthodoxy. He begs the Poles not to meddle in the inner affairs of Judaism: "You refuse to recognize us as brothers; then at least respect us as fathers! Look at your genealogical tree with the branches of the New Testament, a d you will find the roots in us." Polish culture cannot be foisted upon the Jews. Barbarous as may appear the plan of expelling the Jews from Poland, the persecuted tribe will rather submit to this alternative than renounce its faith and its ancestral customs. The views of the progressive Jews of Poland were voiced by a young pedagogue in Warsaw, subsequently the well-known champion of assimilation, Jacob Tugenhold. In a treatise entitled "Jerubbaal, or a Word Concerning the Jews," Tugenhold contends that the Jews have already begun to assimilate themselves to Polish culture. It was now within the power of the Government to strengthen this movement by admitting "distinguished Jews to civil service." While this literary feud concerning the problem of Judaism was raging, an unhealthy movement against the Jews started among the dregs of the Polish population. In several localities of the Kingdom there suddenly appeared "victims of ritual murder" in the shape of dead bodies of children, the discovery of which was followed by a series of legal trials against the Jews (1815-1816). Innocent people were thrown into prison, where they languished for years, and were subjected to cross-examinations, though without the inquisitorial apparatus of ancient Poland. It is impossible to say whither this orgy of superstition might have led, had it not been stopped by a word of command from St. Petersburg. In 1817, as a result of the energetic representations of "the Deputies of the Jewish People," [1] Sonnenberg and his fellow-workers, the Minister of Ecclesiastical Affairs, Golitzin, gave orders that the ukase which had just been issued by him, forbidding the arbitrary injection of a ritual element into criminal cases, be strictly enforced in the Kingdom of Poland. This action saved the lives of scores of prisoners, and put a stop to the obscure agitation which endeavored to revive the medieval spectre. [Footnote 1: Compare Vol. I, p. 394, and above, p. 74.] The Polish Diet of 1818 reflected the same state of mind which had previously found expression in political literature: an unmistakable preponderance of the anti-Jewish element. Some of the deputies appealed to Alexander I. in their speeches and openly called upon him to give orders to lay before the next session of the Diet "a project of Jewish reform, with a view to saving Poland from the excessive growth of the Hebrew tribe, which now forms a seventh of all the inhabitants, and in a few years will surpass in numbers the Christian population of the country." For the immediate future the deputies recommend the enforcement of the suspended law barring the Jews from the liquor traffic [1] and their subjection to military conscription. [Footnote 1: Compare Vol. I, p. 304, and above, p. 94.] One might have thought that the Diet had no need of extra measures to "curb" the Jews. It was quite enough that it tacitly sanctioned the prolongation of the ten years term of Jewish rightlessness which had been fixed by the Government of the Varsovian duchy in 1808. [1] This term ended in 1818, while the first Diet of the Kingdom of Poland was holding its sessions, but neither the Polish Diet nor the Polish Council of State gave any serious thought to the question whether the Government of the province had a right to prolong the disfranchisement of the Jews. This right was taken for granted by the Polish legislators who were planning even harsher restrictions for the unloved tribe of Hebrews. [Footnote 1: Compare Vol. I, p. 299.] 3. ASSIMILATIONIST TENDENCIES AMONG THE JEWS OF POLAND In the beginning of the third decade of the nineteenth century the noise caused by the Jewish question had begun to subside both in Polish political circles and in Polish literature. Instead, the agitation within the Jewish ranks became more vigorous. That group of Jews already assimilated or thirsting for assimilation, which on an earlier occasion, during the existence of the Varsovian duchy, had segregated itself from the rest of Jewry, assuming the label of "Old Testament believers," [1] occupied a very influential position within the Jewish community of the Polish capital. It was made up of wealthy bankers and merchants and boasted of a few men with a European education. The members of this group were hankering after German models and were anxious to renounce the national separatism of the Jews which was a standing rebuke in the mouths of their enemies. To these "Old Testament believers" the abolition of the Kahal and the limitation of communal self-government to the narrow range of synagogue interests appeared the surest remedy against anti-Semitism. Behind the abrogation of communal autonomy they saw the smiling vision of a Jewish school-reform, leading to the Polonization of Jewish education, while in the far-off distance they could discern the promised land of equal citizenship. [Footnote 1: See above, p. 96, n. 1.] The efforts of the Jewish reformers of Warsaw were now systematically directed towards this goal. In 1820 there appeared an anonymous pamphlet under the title "The Petition, or Self-defence, of the Members of the Old Testament Persuasion in the Kingdom of Poland." The main purpose of this publication is to show that the root of the evil lies in the Kahal organization, in the elders, rabbis, and burial societies, who expend enormous sums of taxation money without any control--i.e., without the control of the Polish municipality--who oppress the people by their _herems_ (excommunications), and altogether abuse their power. It is, therefore, necessary to abolish this power of the Kahals and transfer it to the Polish municipalities, or even, police authorities; only then will order be established in the Jewish communities, and the Jews will be transformed into "useful citizens." The Government spheres of Poland were greatly pleased by these utterances of the "Old Testament believers" of Warsaw. They had long contemplated the curtailment of the autonomy of the Kahals, and now "the very Jews" clamored for it. In consequence, there appeared in 1821 a series of edicts by the viceroy and various rescripts by the Commission of Public Instruction and Religious Denominations, resulting in the demolition of the ancient communal scheme, in which certain forms of self-government, but by no means its underlying fundamental principles, had become obsolete. These measures were sanctioned by an imperial ukase dated December 20, 1821, [1] decreeing the abolition of the Kahals and their substitution by "Congregational Boards," whose scope of activity was strictly limited to religious matters, while all civil and fiscal affairs were placed under the jurisdiction of the local Polish administration. The Congregational Boards were to consist of the rabbi, his assistant or substitute, and three trustees or supervisors. [Footnote 1: Corresponding to January 1, 1822, of the West-European calendar.] At first, the majority of Jewish communities in Poland were indignant at this curtailment of their autonomy, and adopted a hostile attitude towards the new communal organization. The "supervisors" elected on the Congregational Boards often refused to serve, and the authorities were compelled to appoint them. But in the course of time the communities became reconciled to the new scheme of congregations, or _Gminas,_[1] whose range of activity was gradually widened. In 1830 the suffrage of the Polish Jews within the Jewish communities was restricted by a new law to persons possessed of a certain amount of property. The result was particularly noticeable in Warsaw where the new state of things helped to strengthen the influence of the group of the "Old Testament believers" and enabled them to gain control of the affairs of the metropolitan community. The leaders of Warsaw Jewry managed soon to establish intimate relations with the Polish Government, and co-operated with it in bringing about the "cultural reforms" of the Jews of Poland. [Footnote 1: _Gmina_ is the Polish word for community, derived from the German _Gemeinde_.] In 1825 the Polish Government appointed a special body to deal with Jewish affairs. It was called "Committee of Old Testament Believers," though composed in the main of Polish officials. It was supplemented by an advisory council consisting of five public-spirited Jews and their alternates. Among the members of the Committee, which included several prominent Jewish merchants of Warsaw, such as Jacob Bergson, M. Kavski, Solomon Posner, T. Teplitz, was also the well-known mathematician Abraham Stern, one of the few cultured Jews of that period who remained a steadfast upholder of Jewish tradition. The "Committee of Old Testament Believers" embarked upon the huge task of civilizing the Jews of Poland and purging the Jewish religion of its superstitious excrescences. The first step taken by the Committee was the establishment of a Rabbinical Seminary in Warsaw for the training of modernized rabbis, teachers, and communal workers. The program of the school was arranged with a view to the Polonization of its pupils. The language of instruction was Polish, and the teachers of many secular subjects were Christians. No wonder then that when the Seminary was opened in 1826, Stern refused to accept the post of director which had been offered to him, and yielded his place to Anton Eisenbaum, a radical assimilator. The tendency of the school may be gauged from the fact that the department of Hebrew and Bible was entrusted to Abraham Buchner, who had gained notoriety by a German pamphlet entitled _Die Nicktigkeit des Talmuds_, "The Worthlessness of the Talmud." [1] [Footnote 1: He was also the author of a Jewish catechism in Hebrew, entitled _Yesode ha-Dat_, "The Fundamental Principles of the Jewish Religion."] Characteristically enough, Buchner had been recommended by the ferocious Jew-baitor Abbé Chiarini, a member of the "Committee of Old Testament Believers," which, one might almost suspect, was charged with the supervision of Jewish education for no other reason, than that to spite the Jews. Chiarini was professor of Oriental Languages at the University of Warsaw. As such he considered himself an expert in Hebrew literature, and cherished the plan of translating the Talmud into French to unveil the secrets of Judaism before the Christian world. In 1828 Chiarini suggested to the "Committee of Old Testament Believers" to arrange a course in Hebrew Archaeology at the Warsaw University for the purpose of acquainting Christian students with rabbinic literature and thus equipping prospective Polish officials with a knowledge of things Jewish. The plan having been approved by the Government, Chiarini began to deliver a course of lectures on Judaism. The fruit of these lectures was a French publication, issued in 1829 under the title _Theorie du Judaïsme_. It was an ignorant libel upon the Talmud and rabbinism, a worthy counterpart of Eisenmenger's "Judaism Exposed." [1] Chiarini did not even shrink from repeating the hideous lie about the use of Christian blood by the Jews. He was taken to task by Jacob Tugenhold in Warsaw and by Jost and Zunz in Germany. Yet the evil seed had sunk into the soil. Polish society, which had long harbored unfriendly sentiments against the Jews, became more and more permeated with anti-Semitic bias, and this bias found tangible expression during the insurrection of 1830-1831. [Footnote 1: The book of a famous anti-Semitic writer who lived in Germany in the seventeenth century. _Entdecktes Judentum_, the book referred to in the text, appeared in 1700.] 4. THE JEWS AND THE POLISH INSURRECTION OF 1831 When, under the effect of the July revolution in Paris, the "November insurrection" of 1830 broke out in Warsaw, it put on its mettle that section of Polish Jewry who hoped to improve the Jewish lot by their patriotic ardor. In the month of December one of the "Old Testament believers," Stanislav Hernish, [1] addressed himself to the Polish dictator, Khlopitzki, in the name of a group of Jewish youths, assuring him of their eagerness to form a special detachment of volunteers to help in the common task of liberating their fatherland. The dictator replied that, inasmuch as the Jews had no civil rights, they could not be permitted to serve in the army. The Minister of War Moravski delivered himself on this occasion of the following characteristic utterance: "We cannot allow that Jewish blood should mingle with the noble blood of the Poles. What will Europe say when she learns that in fighting for our liberty we have not been able to get along without Jewish help?" [Footnote 1: Polish patriot and publicist. He subsequently fled to France. See later, p. 109.] The insulting refusal did not cool the ardor of the Jewish patriots. Joseph Berkovich, the son of Berek Yoselovitch, who had laid down his life for the Polish cause, decided to repeat his father's experiment [1] and issued a proclamation to the Jews, calling upon them to join the ranks of the fighters for Polish independence. The "National Government" in Warsaw could not resist this patriotic pressure. It addressed itself to the "Congregational Board" of Warsaw, inquiring about the attitude of the Jewish community towards the projected formation of a separate regiment of Jewish volunteers. The Board replied that the community had already given proofs of its patriotism by contributing 40,000 Gulden towards the revolutionary funds, and by collecting further contributions towards the equipment of volunteers. The formation of a _special_ Jewish regiment the Board did not consider advisable, inasmuch as such action was not in keeping with the task of uniting all citizens in the defence of the fatherland. Instead, the Board favored the distribution of the Jewish volunteers over the whole army. [Footnote 1: Compare Vol. I, p. 293 et seq.] From now on the Jews were admitted to military service, but more into the militia than into the regular army. The commander of the National Guard in Warsaw, Anton Ostrovski, one of the few rebel leaders who were not swayed by the anti-Semitic prejudices of the Polish nobility, admitted into his militia many Jewish volunteers on condition that they shave off their beards. Owing to the religious scruples of many Jewish soldiers, the latter condition had to be abandoned, and a special "bearded" detachment of the metropolitan guard was formed, comprising 850 Jews. The Jewish militia acquitted itself nobly of its duty in the grave task of protecting the city of Warsaw against the onrush of the Russian troops. The sons of wealthy families fought shoulder to shoulder with children of the proletariat. The sight of these step-children of Poland fighting for their fatherland stirred the heart of Ostrovski, and he subsequently wrote: "This spectacle could not fail to make your heart ache. Our conscience bade us to attend to the betterment of this most down-trodden part of our population at the earliest possible moment." It is worthy of note that the wave of Polish-Jewish patriotism did not spread beyond Warsaw. In the provincial towns the inhabitants of the ghetto were, as a rule, unwilling to serve in the army on the ground that the Jewish religion forbade the shedding of human blood. This indifference aroused the ire of the Polish population, which threatened to wreak vengeance upon the Jews, suspecting them of pro-Russian sympathies. Ostrovski's remark with reference to this situation deserves to be quoted: "True," he said, "the Jews of the provinces may possibly be guilty of indifference towards the revolutionary cause, but can we expect any other attitude from those we oppress?" [1] It may be added that soon afterwards the question of military service as affecting the Jews was solved by the Diet. By the law of May 30, 1831, the Jews were released from conscription on the payment of a tax which was four times as large as the one paid by them in former years. [Footnote 1: In the Western provinces outside the Kingdom of Poland, in Lithuania, Volhynia, and Podolia, the Jewish population held itself aloof from the insurrectionary movement. Here and there the Jews even sympathized with the Russian Government, despite the fact that the latter threw the Polish rulers into the shade by the extent of its Jewish persecutions. In some places the Polish insurgents made the Jews pay with their lives for their pro-Russian sympathies.] When the "aristocratic revolution," having failed to obtain the support of the disinherited masses, had met with disaster, the revolutionary leaders, who saved themselves by fleeing abroad, indulged in remorseful reflections. The Polish historian Lelevel, who lived in Paris as a refugee, issued in 1832 a "Manifesto to the Israelitish Nation," calling upon the Jews to forget the insults inflicted upon them by present-day Poland for the sake of the sweet reminiscences of the Polish Republic in days gone by and of the hopes inspired by a free Poland in days to come. He compares the flourishing condition of the Jews in the ancient Polish commonwealth with their present status on the same territory, under the yoke of "the Viennese Pharaohs," [1] or in the land "dominated by the Northern Nebuchadnezzar," [2] where the terror of conscription reigns supreme, where "little children, wrenched from the embraces of their mothers, are hurled into the ranks of a debased soldiery," "doomed to become traitors to their religion and nation." [Footnote 1: Referring to Galicia.] [Footnote 2: Nicholas I.] The reign of nations--exclaims Lelevel--is drawing nigh. All peoples will be merged into one, acknowledging the one God Adonai. The rulers have fed the Jews on false promises; the nations will grant them liberty. Soon Poland will rise from the dust. Let then the Jews living on her soil go hand in hand with their brother-Poles. The Jews will then be sure to obtain their rights. Should they insist on returning to Palestine, the Poles will assist them in realizing this consummation. Similar utterances could be heard a little later in the mystic circle of Tovyanski and Mitzkevitch in Paris, [1] in which the historic destiny of the two martyr nations, the Poles and the Jews, and their universal Messianic calling were favorite topics of discussion. But alongside of these flights of "imprisoned thought" one could frequently catch in the very same circle the sounds of the old anti-Semitic slogans. The Parisian organ of the Polish refugees, _Nowa Polska_, "New Poland," occasionally indulged in anti-Semitic sallies, calling forth a passionate rebuttal from Hernish, [2] an exiled journalist, who reminded his fellow-journalists that it was mean to hunt down people who were the "slaves of slaves." Two other Polish-Jewish revolutionaries, Lubliner and Hollaenderski, shared all the miseries of the refugees and, while in exile, indulged in reflections concerning the destiny of their brethren at home. [3] [Footnote 1: Andreas Tovyanski (In Polish _Towianski_, 1799-1878), a Christian mystic, founded in Paris a separate community which fostered the belief in the restoration of the Polish and the Jewish people. The community counted among its members several Jews. The famous Polish poet Adam Mitzkevich (in Polish _Mickiewicz_, 1798-1855) joined Tovyanski in his endeavors, and on one occasion even appeared in a Paris synagogue on the Ninth of Ab to make an appeal to the Jews.] [Footnote 2: See above, p. 105.] [Footnote 3: Lubliner published _Des Juifs en Pologne_, Brussels, 1839; Hollaenderski wrote _Les Israélites en Pologne_, Paris, 1846.] In pacified Poland, which, deprived of her former autonomous constitution, was now ruled by the iron hand of the Russian viceroy, Paskevich, the Jews at first experienced no palpable changes. Their civil status was regulated, as heretofore, by the former Polish legislation, not by that of the Empire. It was only in 1843 that the Polish Jews were in one respect equalized with their Russian brethren. Instead of the old recruiting tax, they were now forced to discharge military service in person. However, the imperial ukase extending the operation of the Conscription Statute of 1827 to the Jews of the Kingdom contained several alleviations. Above all, its most cruel provision, the conscription of juveniles or cantonists, was set aside. The age of conscription was fixed at twenty to twenty-five, while boys between the age of twelve and eighteen were to be drafted only when the parents themselves wished to offer them as substitutes for their elder sons who were of military age. Nevertheless, to the Polish Jews, who had never known of conscription, military service lasting a quarter of a century, to be discharged in a strange Russian environment, seemed a terrible sacrifice. The "Congregational Board" of Warsaw, having learned of the ukase, sent a deputation to St. Petersburg with a petition to grant the Jews of the Kingdom equal rights with the Christians, referring to the law of 1817 which distinctly stated that the Jews were to be released from personal military service so long as they were denied equal civil rights. The petition of course proved of no avail; the very term "equal rights" was still missing in the Russian vocabulary. Only in point of disabilities were the Jews of Poland gradually placed on an equal footing with their Russian brethren. In 1845 the Russian law imposing a tax on the traditional Jewish attire [1] was extended in its operation to the Polish Jews, descending with the force of a real calamity upon the hasidic masses of Poland. Fortunately for the Jews of Poland, the other experiments, in which St. Petersburg was revelling during that period, left them unscathed. The crises connected with the problems of Jewish autonomy and the Jewish school, which threatened to disrupt Russian Jewry in the forties, had been passed by the Jews of Poland some twenty years earlier. Moreover, the Polish Jews had the advantage over their Russian brethren in that the abrogated Kahal had after all been replaced by another communal organization, however curtailed it was, and that the secular school was not forced upon them in the same brutal manner in which the Russian Crown schools had been imposed upon the Jews of the Empire. Taken as a whole, the lot of the Polish Jews, sad though it was, might yet be pronounced enviable when compared with the condition of their brethren in the Pale of Settlement, where the rightlessness of the Jews during that period bordered frequently on martyrdom. [Footnote 1: A law to that effect had been passed on February 1, 1843. It was preparatory to the entire prohibition of Jewish dress. See below, p. 143 et seq.] CHAPTER XVI THE INNER LIFE OF RUSSIAN JEWRY DURING THE PERIOD OF MILITARY DESPOTISM 1. THE UNCOMPROMISING ATTITUDE OF RABBINISM The Russian Government had left nothing undone to shatter the old Jewish mode of life. Despotic Tzardom, whose ignorance of Jewish life was only equalled by its hostility to it, lifted its hand to strike not merely at the obsolete forms but also at the sound historic foundations of Judaism. The system of conscription which annually wrenched thousands of youths and lads from the bosom of their families, the barracks which served as mission houses, the method of stimulating and even forcing the conversion of recruits, the establishment of Crown schools for the same covert purpose, the abolition of communal autonomy, civil disfranchisement, persecution and oppression, all were set in motion against the citadel of Judaism. And the ancient citadel, which had held out for thousands of years, stood firm again, while the defenders within her walls, in their endeavor to ward off the enemies' blows, had not only succeeded in covering up the breaches, but also in barring the entrance of fresh air from without. If it be true that, in pursuing its system of tutelage and oppression, the Russian Government was genuinely actuated by the desire to graft the modicum of European culture, to which the Russia of Nicholas I. could lay claim, upon the Jews, it certainly achieved the reverse of what it aimed at. The hand which dealt out blows could not disseminate enlightenment; the hammer which was lifted to shatter Jewish separatism had only the effect of hardening it. The persecuted Jews clutched eagerly at their old mode of life, the target of their enemies' attacks; they clung not only to its permanent foundations but also to its obsolete superstructure. The despotism of extermination from without was counterbalanced by a despotism of conservation from within, by that rigid discipline of conduct to which the masses submitted without a murmur, though its yoke must have weighed heavily upon the few, the stray harbingers of a new order of things. The Government had managed to disrupt the Jewish communal organization and rob the Kahal of all its authority by degrading it to a kind of posse for the capture of recruits and extortion of taxes. But while the Jewish masses hated the Kahal elders, they retained their faith in their spiritual leaders, the rabbis and Tzaddiks. [1] Heeding the command of these leaders, they closed their ranks, and offered stubborn resistance to the dangerous cultural influences threatening them from without. Life was dominated by rigidly conservative principles. The old scheme of family life, with all its patriarchal survivals, remained in force. In spite of the law, embodied in the Statute of 1835, which fixed the minimum age of the bridegroom at eighteen (and that of the bride at sixteen), the practice of early marriages continued as theretofore. Parents arranged marriages between children of thirteen and fifteen. Boys of school age often became husbands and fathers, and continued to attend heder or yeshibah after their marriage, weighed down by the triple tutelage of father, father-in-law, and teacher. The growing generation knew not the sweetness of being young. Their youth withered under the weight of family chains, the pressure of want or material dependence. The spirit of protest, the striving for rejuvenation, which asserted itself in some youthful souls, was crushed in the vise of a time-honored discipline, the product of long ages. The slightest deviation from a custom, a rite, or old habits of thought met with severe punishment. A short jacket or a trimmed beard was looked upon as a token of dangerous free-thinking. The reading of books written in foreign languages, or even written in Hebrew, when treating of secular subjects, brought upon the culprit untold hardships. The scholastic education resulted in producing men entirely unfit for the battle of life, so that in many families energetic women took charge of the business and became the wage earners, [2] while their husbands were losing themselves in the mazes of speculation, somewhere in the recesses of the rabbinic _Betha-Midrash_ or the hasidic _Klaus_. [Footnote 1: See on the latter term, Vol. I, p. 227.] [Footnote 2: This type of Jewish woman, current in Russia until recent times, was called _Eshet Hayil_, "a woman of valour," with allusion to Prov. 31.10.] In Lithuania the whole mental energy of the Jewish youth was absorbed by Talmudism. The synagogue served as a "house of study" outside the hours fixed for prayers. There the local rabbi or a private scholar gave lectures on the Talmud which were listened to by hosts of _yeshibah bahurs_. [1] The great yeshibahs of Volozhin, Mir, [2] and other towns sent forth thousands of rabbis and Talmudists. Mentality, erudition, dialectic subtlety were valued here above all else. Yet, as soon as the mind, whetted by talmudic dialectics, would point its edge against the existing order of things, or turn in the direction of living knowledge, of "extraneous sciences," [3] it was checked by threats of excommunication and persecution. Many were the victims of this petrified milieu, whose protests against the old order of things and whose strivings for a newer life were nipped in the bud. [Footnote 1: On the _bahur_ or Talmud student see Vol. I, p. 116 et seq.] [Footnote 2: On the yeshibah in Volozhin, in the government of Vilna, see Vol. I, p. 380 et seq. Mir is a townlet in the government of Minsk.] [Footnote 3: An old Hebrew expression for secular learning.] Instructive in this respect is the fate of one of the most remarkable Talmudists of his time, Rabbi Menashe Ilyer. Ilyer spent most of his life in the townlets of Smorgoni and Ilya (whence his surname), in the government of Vilna, and died of the cholera, in 1831. While keeping strictly within the bounds of rabbinical orthodoxy, whose adepts respected him for his enormous erudition and strict piety, Menashe assiduously endeavored to widen their range of thought and render them more amenable to moderate freedom of research and a more sober outlook on life. But his path was strewn with thorns. When on one occasion he expounded before his pupils the conclusion, which he had reached after a profound scientific investigation, that the text of the Mishnah had in many cases been wrongly interpreted by the Gemara,[1] he was taken to task by a conference of Lithuanian rabbis and barely escaped excommunication. [Footnote 1: The Mishnah is a code of laws edited about 200 C.E. by Rabbi Judah ha-Nasi. The Gemara consists largely of the comments of the talmudic authorities, who lived after that date, on the text of this code.] Having conceived a liking for mathematics, astronomy, and philosophy, Menashe decided to go to Berlin to devote himself to these studies, but on his way to the German capital, while temporarily sojourning in Koenigsberg, he was halted by his countrymen, who visited Prussia on business, and was cowed by all kinds of threats into returning home. By persistent private study, this native of a Russian out-of-the-way townlet managed to acquire a fair amount of general culture, which, with all its limitations, yielded a rich literary harvest. In 1807 he made his _début_ with the treatise _Pesher Dabar_ ("The Solution of the Problem"), [1] in which he gave vent to his grief over the fact that the spiritual leaders of the Jewish people kept aloof from concrete reality and living knowledge. While the book was passing through the press in Vilna, Lithuanian fanatics threatened the author with severe reprisals. Their threats failed to intimidate him. When the book appeared, many rabbis threw it into the flames, and made every possible effort to arrest its circulation, with the result that the voice of the "heretic" was stifled. [Footnote 1: Literally, "The Interpretation of a Thing," from Eccl. 8.1.] Ten years later, while residing temporarily in Volhynia, the hot-bed of hasidism, Menashe began to print his religio-philosophic treatise _Alfe Menassheh_ ("The Teachings of Manasseh"). [1] But the first proof-sheets sufficed to impress the printer with the "heretical" character of the book, and he threw them together with the whole manuscript into the fire. The hapless author managed with difficulty to restore the text of his "executed" work, and published it at Vilna in 1822. Here the rabbinical censorship pounced upon him. The book had not yet left the press, when the rabbi of Vilna, Saul Katzenellenbogen, learned that in one passage the writer deduced from a verse in Deuteronomy (17.9) the right of the "judges" or spiritual leaders of each generation to modify many religious laws and customs in accordance with the requirements of the time. The rabbi gave our author fair warning that, unless this heretical argument was withdrawn, he would have the book burned publicly in the synagogue yard. Menashe was forced to submit, and, contrary to his conviction, weakened his heterodox argument by a number of circumlocutions. [Footnote 1: With a clever allusion to the Hebrew text of Deut. 33.17.] These persecutions, however, did not smother the fire of protest in the breast of the excommunicated rural philosopher. In the last years of his life he published two pamphlets, [1] in which he severely lashed the shortcomings of Jewish life, the early marriages, the one-sided school training, the repugnance to living knowledge and physical labor. However, the champions of orthodoxy took good care to prevent these books from reaching the masses. Exhausted by his fruitless struggle, Menashe died, unappreciated and almost unnoticed by his contemporaries. [Footnote 1: One of these, entitled _Samme de-Hayye_ ("Elixir of Life"), was written in Yiddish, being designed by the author for the lower classes.] 2. THE STAGNATION OF HASIDISM A critical attitude toward the existing order of things could on occasions assert itself in the environment of Rabbinism, where the mind, though forced into the mould of scholasticism, was yet working at high speed. But such "heretical" thinking was utterly inconceivable in the dominant circles of Hasidism, where the intellect was rocked to sleep by mystical lullabies and fascinating stories of the miraculous exploits of the Tzsaddiks. The era of political and civil disfranchisement was a time of luxuriant growth for Hasidism, not in its creative, but rather in its stationary, not to say stagnant, phase. The old struggle between Hasidism and Rabbinism had long been fought out, and the Tzaddiks rested on their laurels as teachers and miracle-workers. The Tzaddik dynasties were now firmly entrenched. In White Russia the sceptre lay in the hands of the Shneorsohn dynasty, the successors of the "Old Rabbi," Shneor Zalman, the progenitor of the Northern Hasidim. [1] The son of the "Old Rabbi," Baer, nicknamed "the Middle Rabbi" (1813-1828), and the latter's son-in-law Mendel Lubavicher [2] (1828-1866) succeeded one another on the hasidic "throne" during this period, with a change in their place of residence. Under Rabbi Zalman the townlets of Lozno and Ladi served as "capitals"; under his successors, they were Ladi and Lubavichi. The three localities are all situated on the border-line of the governments of Vitebsk and Moghilev, in which the Hasidim of the _Habad_ persuasion [3] formed either a majority, as was the case in the former government, or a substantial minority, as was the case in the latter. [Footnote 1: See Vol. I, p. 372.] [Footnote 2: From the townlet Lubavichi. See later in the text.] [Footnote 3: Compare Vol. I, p. 234, n. 2.] Rabbi Baer, the son and successor of the "Old Rabbi," did not inherit the creative genius of his father. He published many books, made up mostly of his Sabbath discourses, but they lack originality. His method is that of the talmudic _pilpul_, [1] transplanted upon the soil of Cabala and Hasidism, or it consists in expatiating upon the ideas contained in the _Tanyo_. [2] The last years of Rabbi Baer were darkened by the White Russian catastrophes, the expulsion from the villages in 1823, and the ominous turn in the ritual murder trial of Velizh. On his death-bed he spoke to those around him about the burning topic of the day, the conscription ukase of 1827. [Footnote 1: i.e., Dialectics. Comp. Vol. I, p. 122.] [Footnote 2: The title of the philosophic treatise of Rabbi Shneor Zalman. See Vol. I, p. 372, n. 1.] His successor Rabbi Mendel Lubavicher proved an energetic organizer of the hasidic masses. He was highly esteemed not only as a learned Talmudist--he wrote rabbinical _novellae and response--and as a preacher of Hasidism, but also as a man of great practical wisdom, whose advice was sought by thousands of people in family matters no less than in communal and commercial affairs. This did not present him from being a decided opponent of the new enlightenment. In the course of Lilienthal's educational propaganda in 1843, Rabbi Mendel was summoned by the Government to participate in the deliberations of the Rabbinical Committee at St. Petersburg. There he found himself in a tragic situation. He was compelled to give his sanction to the Crown schools, although he firmly believed that they were subversive of Judaism, not only because they were originated by Russian officials, but also because they were intended to impart secular knowledge. The hasidic legend narrates that the Tzaddik pleaded before the Committee passionately, and often with tears in his eyes, not only to retain in the new schools the traditional methods of Bible and Talmud instruction, but also to make room in their curriculum for the teaching of the Cabala. Nevertheless, Rabbi Mendel was compelled to endorse against his will the "godless" plan of a school reform, and a little later to prefix his approbation to a Russian edition of Mendelssohn's German Bible translation. His attitude toward contemporary pedagogic methods may be gauged from the epistle addressed by him in 1848 to Leon Mandelstamm, Lilienthal's successor in the task of organizing the Jewish Crown schools. In this epistle Rabbi Mendel categorically rejects all innovations in the training of the young. In reply to a question concerning the edition of an abbreviated Bible text for children, he trenchantly quotes the famous medieval aphorism: The Pentateuch was written by Moses at the dictation of God. Hence every word in it is sacred. There is no difference whatsoever between the verse "And Timna was the concubine" (Gen. 36. 12) and "Hear, O Israel: the Lord our God, the Lord is one" (Deut 6. 4). [1] [Footnote 1: See Maimonides' exposition of the dogma of the divine origin of the Torah in his Mishnah Commentary, _Sanhedrin_, chapter X.] Withal, the leaders of the Northern Hasidim were, comparatively speaking, "men of the world," and were ready here and there to make concessions to the demands of the age. Quite different were the Tzaddiks of the South-west. They were horrified by the mere thought of such concessions. They were surrounded by immense throngs of Hasidim, unenlightened, ecstatic, worshipping saints during their lifetime. The most honored among these hasidic dynasties was that of Chernobyl. [1] It was founded in the Ukraina toward the end of the eighteenth century by an itinerant preacher, or Maggid, called Nahum. [2] His son Mordecai, known under the endearing name "Rabbi Motele" (died in 1837), attracted to Chernobyl enormous numbers of pilgrims who brought with them ransom money, or _pidyons_. [3] Mordecai's "Empire" fell asunder after his death. His eight sons divided among themselves the whole territory of the Kiev and Volhynia province. [Footnote 1: A townlet in the government of Kiev.] [Footnote 2: See Vol. I, p. 382.] [Footnote 3: The term is used in the Bible to denote a sum of money which "redeems" or "ransoms" a man from death, as in the case of a person guilty of manslaughter (Ex. 22. 30) or that of the first-born son (Ex. 13. 13; 34. 20). The Hasidim designate by this term the contributions made to the Tzaddik, in the belief that such contributions have the power of averting from the contributor impending death or misfortune.] Aside from the original center in Chernobyl, seats of Tzaddiks were established in the townlets of Korostyshev, Cherkassy, Makarov, Turisk, Talno, Skvir and Rakhmistrovka. This resulted in a disgraceful rivalry among the brothers, and still more so among their hasidic adherents. Every Hasid was convinced that reverence was due only to his own "Rebbe," [1] and he brushed aside the claims of the other Tzaddiks. Whenever the adherents of the various Tzaddiks met, they invariably engaged in passionate "party" quarrels, which on occasions, especially after the customary hasidic drinking bouts, ended in physical violence. [Footnote 1: Popular pronunciation of the word "rabbi," A hasidic Tzaddik is designated as "Rebbe," in distinction from the rabbi proper, or the _Rav_ (in Russia generally pronounced _Rov_), who discharges the rabbinical functions within the community.] The whole Chernobyl dynasty found a dangerous rival in the person of the Tzaddik Israel Ruzhiner (of Ruzhin), the great-grandson of Rabbi Baer, the apostle of Hasidism, known as the "Mezhiricher Maggid." [1] Rabbi Israel settled in Ruzhin, a townlet in the government of Kiev, about 1815, and rapidly gained fame as a saint and miracle-worker. His magnificent "court" at Ruzhin was always crowded with throngs of Hasidim. Their onrush was checked by special "gentlemen in waiting," the so-called _gabba'im,_ who were very fastidious in admitting the people into the presence of the Tzaddik--dependent upon the size of the proffered gifts. Israel drove out in a gorgeous carriage, surrounded by a guard of honor. The gubernatorial administration of Kiev, presided over by the ferocious Governor-General Bibikov, received intimations to the effect "that the Tzaddik of Ruzhin wielded almost the power of a Tzar" among his adherents, who did not stir with out his advice. The police began to watch the Tzaddik, and at length found an occasion for a "frame-up." [Footnote 1: On Rabbi Baer see Vol. I, p. 229 et seq.] When, in 1838, the Kahal of Ushitza, in the government of Podolia, was implicated in the murder of an informer, [1] Rabbi Israel of Ruzhin was arrested on the charge of abetting the murder. The hasidic "Tzar" languished in prison for twenty-two months. He was finally set free and placed under police surveillance. But he soon escaped to Austria, and settled in 1841 in the Bukovina, in the townlet of Sadagora, near Chernovitz, where he established his new "court." Many Hasidim in Russia now made their pilgrimage abroad to their beloved Tzaddik; in addition, new partisans were won among the hasidic masses of Galicia and the Bukovina. Rabbi Israel died in 1850, but the "Sadagora dynasty" branched out rapidly, and proved a serious handicap to modern progress during the stormy epoch of emancipation which followed in Austria soon afterwards. [Footnote 1: See above, p. 84 et seq.] Another hot-bed of the Tzaddik cult was Podolia, the cradle of Hasidism. In the old residence of Besht, [1] in Medzhibozh, the sceptre was held by Rabbi Joshua Heshel Apter, who succeeded Besht's grandson, Rabbi Borukh of Tulchyn. [2] For a number of years, between 1810 and 1830, the aged Joshua Heshel was revered as the nestor of Tzaddikism, the haughty Israel of Ruzhin being the only one who refused to acknowledge his supremacy. Heshel's successor was Rabbi Moyshe Savranski, who established a regular hasidic "court," after the pattern of Chernobyl and Ruzhin. [Footnote 1: See Vol. I, p. 222 et seq.] [Footnote 2: See Vol. I, p. 384.] The only Tzaddik to whom it was not given to be the founder of a dynasty was the somewhat eccentric Rabbi Nahman of Bratzlav, [1] a great-grandson of Besht. After his death, the Bratzlav Hasidim, who followed the lead of his disciple Rabbi Nathan, suffered cruel persecutions at the hands of the other hasidic factions. The "Bratzlavers" adopted the custom of visiting once a year, during the High Holidays, the grave of their founder in the city of Uman, in the government of Kiev, and subsequently erected a house of prayer near his tomb. During these pilgrimages they were often the target of the local Hasidim who reviled and often maltreated them. The "Bratzlavers" were the Cinderella among the Hasidim, lacking the powerful patronage of a living Tzaddik. Their heavenly patron, Rabbi Nahman, could not hold his own against his living rivals, the earthly Tzaddiks--all too earthly perhaps, in spite of their saintliness. [Footnote 1: A town in Podolia. See Vol. I, p. 382 et seq.] The Tzaddik cult was equally diffused in the Kingdom of Poland. The place of Rabbi Israel of Kozhenitz and Rabbi Jacob-Isaac of Lublin, who together marshalled the hasidic forces during the time of the Varsovian duchy, was taken by founders and representatives of new Tzaddik dynasties. The most popular among these were the dynasty of Kotzk, [1] established by Rabbi Mendel Kotzker (1827-1859), and that of Goora Kalvaria, [2] or Gher, [3] founded by Rabbi Isaac Meier Alter [4] (about 1830-1866). The former reigned supreme in the provinces, the latter in the capital of Poland, in Warsaw, which down to this day has remained loyal to the Gher dynasty. [Footnote 1: A town not far from Warsaw. Comp. Vol. I, p. 303, n. 1.] [Footnote 2: In Polish, _Góra Kalwarya_, a town on the left bank of the Vistula, not far from Warsaw.] [Footnote 3: This form of the name is used by the Jews.] [Footnote 4: Called popularly in Poland _Reb Itche Meier_, a name still frequently found among the Jews of Warsaw, who to a large extent are adherents of the "Gher dynasty."] The Polish "Rebbes" [1] resembled by the character of their activity the type of the Northern, or _Habad_, Tzaddiks rather than those of the Ukraina. They did not keep luxurious "courts," did not hanker so greedily after donations, and laid greater emphasis on talmudic scholarship. [Footnote 1: See p. 120, n. 1.] Hasidism produced not only leaders but also martyrs, victims of the Russian police regime. About the time when the Tzaddik of Ruzhin fell under suspicion, the Russian Government began to watch the Jewish printing-press in the Volhynian townlet of Slavuta. The owners of the press were two brothers, Samuel-Abba and Phinehas Shapiro, grandsons of Besht's companion, Rabbi Phinehas of Koretz. The two brothers were denounced to the authorities as persons issuing dangerous mystical books from their press, without the permission of the censor. This denunciation was linked up with a criminal case, the discovery in the house of prayer, which was attached to the printing-press, of the body of one of the compositors who, it was alleged, had intended to lay bare the activities of the "criminal" press before the Government. After a protracted imprisonment of the two Slavuta printers in Kiev, their case was submitted to Nicholas I. who sentenced them to _Spiessruten_ [1] and deportation to Siberia. During the procedure of running the gauntlet, while passing through the lines of whipping soldiers, one of the brothers had his cap knocked off his head. Unconcerned by the hail of lashes from which he was bleeding, he stopped to pick up his cap so as to avoid going bare-headed, [2] and then resumed his march between the two rows of executioners. The unfortunate brothers were released from their Siberian exile during the reign of Alexander II. [Footnote 1: See above, p. 85, n. 1.] [Footnote 2: According to an ancient Jewish notion, which is current throughout the Orient, baring the head is a sign of frivolity and disrespect towards God.] Hasidic life exhibited no doubt many examples of lofty idealism and moral purity. But hand in hand with it went an impenetrable spiritual gloom, boundless credulity, a passion for deifying men of a mediocre and even inferior type, and the unwholesome hypnotizing influence of the Tzaddiks. Spiritual self-intoxication was accompanied by physical. The hasidic rank and file, particularly in the South-west, began to develop an ugly passion for alcohol. Originally tolerated as a means of producing cheerfulness and religious ecstasy, drinking gradually became the standing feature of every hasidic gathering. It was in vogue at the court of the Tzaddik during the rush of pilgrims; it was indulged in after prayers in the hasidic "Shtiblach," [1] or houses of prayer, and was accompanied by dancing and by the ecstatic narration of the miraculous exploits of the "Rebbe." [2] Many Hasidim lost themselves completely in this idle revelry and neglected their business affairs and their starving families, looking forward in their blind fatalism to the blessings which were to be showered upon them through the intercession of the Tzaddik. [Footnote 1: The word, which is a diminutive of German _Stube_, "room," denotes, like the word _Klaus_, the room, or set of rooms, in which the Hasidim assemble for prayer, study, and recreation.] [Footnote 2: See above, p, 120, n. 1.] It would be manifestly unjust to view the hasidic indulgence in alcohol in the same light as the senseless drunkenness of the Russian peasant, transforming man into a beast. The Hasid drank, and in moderate doses at that, "for the soul," "to banish the grief which blunteth the heart," to arouse religious exultation and enliven his social intercourse with his fellow believers. Yet the consequences were equally sad. For the habit resulted in drowsiness of thought, idleness and economic ruin, insensibility to the outside world and to the social movements of the age, as well as in stolid opposition to cultural progress in general. It must be borne in mind that during the era of external oppression and military inquisition the reactionary force of Hasidism acted as the only antidote against the reactionary force from the outside. Hasidism and Tzaddikism were, so to speak, a sleeping draught which dulled the pain of the blows dealt out to the unfortunate Jewish populace by the Russian Government. But in the long run the popular organism was injuriously affected by this mystic opium. The poison rendered its consumers insensible to every progressive movement, and planted them firmly at the extreme pole of obscurantism, at a time when the Russian ghetto resounded with the first appeals calling its inmates toward the light, toward the regeneration and the uplift of inner Jewish life. 3. THE RUSSIAN MENDELSSOHN (ISAAC BAER LEVINSOHN) It was in the hot-bed of the most fanatical species of Hasidism that the first blossoms of Haskalah [1] timidly raised their heads. Isaac Baer Levinsohn, from Kremenetz in Podolia (1788-1860), had associated in his younger days with the champions of enlightenment in adjacent Galicia, such as Joseph Perl, [2] Nahman Krochmal, [3] and their followers. When he came back to his native land, it was with the firm resolve to devote his energies to the task of civilizing the secluded masses of Russian Jewry. In lonesome quietude, carefully guarding his designs from the outside world which was exclusively hasidic, he worked at his book _Te'udah, be-Israel_ ("Instruction in Israel"), which after many difficulties he managed to publish in Vilna in 1828. In this book our author endeavored, without trespassing the boundaries of orthodox religious tradition, to demonstrate the following elementary truths by citing examples from Jewish history and sayings of great Jewish authorities: [Footnote 1: A Hebrew term meaning "enlightenment." It is a translation of the German _Aufklaerung_, and was first applied to the endeavors made in the time of Moses Mendelssohn (died 1886) to introduce European culture among the Jews of the ghetto.] [Footnote 2: Died 1839. He became famous through his anti-hasidic parody _Megalle Temirin_, "Revealing Hidden Things," written in the form of letters in imitation of the hasidic style. Peri's book has been frequently compared with the medieval _Epistolae obscurorum vivorum_, which are ascribed to Ulrich von Hutten (d. 1523). See P. 127.] [Footnote 3: Died 1840. Famous as the author of _More Nebuke ha-Zeman_, "Guide of the Perplexed of (Our) Time," a profound treatise, dealing with Jewish theological and historical problems.] 1. The Jew is obliged to study the Bible as well as Hebrew grammar and to interpret the biblical text in accordance with the plain grammatical sense. 2. The Jewish religion does not condemn the knowledge of foreign languages and literatures, especially of the language of the country, such knowledge being required both in the personal interest of the individual Jew and in the common interest of the Jewish people. 3. The study of secular sciences is not attended by any danger for Judaism, men of the type of Maimonides having remained loyal Jews, in spite of their extensive general culture. 4. It is necessary from the economic point of view to strengthen productive labor, such as handicrafts and agriculture, at the expense of commerce and brokerage, also to discourage early marriages between persons who are unprovided for and have no definite occupation. These commonplaces sounded to that generation like epoch-making revelations. They were condemned as rank heresies by the all-powerful obscurantists and hailed as a gospel of the approaching renaissance by that handful of progressives who dreamt of a new Jewish life and, cowed by the fear of persecution, hid these thoughts deep down in their breasts. A similar fear compelled Levinsohn to exercise the utmost reserve and caution in criticizing the existing order of things. The same consideration forced him to shield himself behind a pseudonym in publishing his anti-hasidic satire _Dibre Tzaddikim_, "The Words of the Tzaddiks," [1] (Vienna, 1830), a rather feeble imitation of _Megalle Temirin_, the Hebrew counterpart of the "Epistles of Obscure Men," by Joseph Perl. [2] His principal work, entitled _Bet Yehudah_, "The House of Judah," a semi-philosophic, semi-publicistic review of the history of Judaism, remained for a long time in manuscript. Levinsohn was unable to publish it for the reason that even the printing-press of Vilna, the only one to issue publications of a non-religious character, was afraid of bringing out a book which had failed to receive the approbation of the local rabbis. Several years later, in 1839, the volume finally came out, clothed in the form of a reply to inquiries addressed to the author by a high Russian official. [Footnote 1: Literally, "The Words of the Righteous," with reference to Ex. 23. 8:] [Footnote 2: See the preceding page, n. 1.] From the point of view of Jewish learning, _Bet Yehudah_ can claim but scanty merits. It lacks that depth of philosophic-historic insight which distinguishes so brilliantly the "Guide of the Perplexed of Our Time" of the Galician thinker Krochmal. [1] The writer's principal task is to prove from history his rather trite doctrine that Judaism had at no time shunned secular culture and philosophy. [Footnote 1: See the preceding page, n. 2.] For the rest, the author fights shy of the difficult problems of religious philosophy, and is always on the lookout for compromises. Even with reference to the Cabala, with which Levinsohn has but little sympathy, he says timidly: "It is not for us to judge these lofty matters" (Chapter 135). Fear of the orthodox environment compels him to observe almost complete silence with reference to Hasidism, although, in his private correspondence and in his anonymous writings he denounces it severely. Levinsohn concludes his historic review of Judaism with a eulogy upon the Russian Government for its kindness toward the Jews (Ch. 151) and with the following plan of reform suggested to it for execution (Ch. 146): To open elementary schools for the teaching of Hebrew and the tenets of the Jewish religion as well as of Russian and arithmetic, and to establish institutions of higher rabbinical learning in the larger cities; to Institute the office of Chief Rabbi, with a supreme council under him, which should be in charge of Jewish spiritual and communal affairs in Russia; to allot to a third of the Russian-Jewish population parcels of land for agricultural purposes; to prohibit luxury in dress and furniture in which even the impecunious classes are prone to indulge. Levinsohn was not satisfied to propagate his ideas by purely literary means. He anticipated meagre results from a literary propaganda among the broad Jewish masses, in which the mere reading of such "licentious" books was considered a criminal offence. He had greater faith in his ability to carry out the regeneration of Jewish life with the powerful help of the Government. As a matter of fact, Levinsohn had long before this begun to knock at the doors of the Russian Government offices. Far back in 1823 he had presented to the heir-apparent Constantine Pavlovich [1] a memorandum concerning Jewish sects and a project looking to the establishment of a system of Jewish schools and seminaries. Moreover, before publishing his first work _Te'udah_, he had submitted the manuscript to Shishkov, the reactionary Minister of Public Instruction, applying for a Government subsidy towards the publication of a work which demonstrates the usefulness of enlightenment and agriculture, "instills love for the Tzar as well as for the people with which we share our life, and recounts the innumerable favors which they have bestowed upon us." [Footnote 1: Being the eldest brother of Alexander I., Constantine was the legitimate heir to the Russian throne. He resigned in favor of his younger brother Nicholas. See above, p. 13, n. 2.] These words were penned on December 2, 1827, three months after the promulgation of the baneful conscription ukase ordering the compulsory enlistment of under-aged cantonists! The request was complied with. A year later the humble Volhynian littérateur received by imperial command an "award" of 1000 rubles ($500) "for a work having for its object the moral transformation of the Jews." This "award" came when the volume had already appeared in print, in the terrible year 1828 which was marked by the first conscription of Jewish recruits, the ominous turn in the ritual murder trial of Velizh and the constant tightening of the knot of disabilities. But these events failed to cure the political _naiveté_ of Levinsohn. In 1831 he laid before Lieven, the new Minister of Public Instruction, a memorandum advocating the necessity of modifications in Jewish religious life. Again in 1833 he came forward with the dangerous proposal to close all Jewish printing-presses, except those situated in towns in which there was a censorship. The project was accompanied by a "list of ancient and modern Hebrew books, indicating those that may be considered useful and those that are harmful"--the hasidic works were declared to belong to the latter category. Levinsohn's project was partly instrumental in prompting the grievous law of 1836, which raised a cry of despair in the Pale of Settlement, ordering a revision of the entire Hebrew literature by Russian censors. [1] [Footnote 1: See above, p. 42 et seq.] Levinsohn's action would have been ignoble had it not been naive. The recluse of Kremenetz, passionately devoted to his people but wanting in political foresight, was calling Russian officialdom to aid in his fight against the bigotry of the Jewish masses, in the childish conviction that the Russian authorities had the welfare of the Jews truly at heart, and that compulsory measures would do away with the hostility of the Jewish populace toward enlightenment. He failed to perceive, as did also some of his like-minded contemporaries, that the culture which the Russian Government of his time was trying to foist upon the Jews was only apt to accentuate their distrust, that, so long as they were the target of persecution, the Jews could not possibly accept the gift of enlightenment from the hands of those who lured them to the baptismal font, pushed their children on the path of religious treason, and were ruthless in breaking and disfiguring their whole mode of life. In his literary works Levinsohn was fond of emphasizing his relations with high Government officials. This probably saved him from a great deal of unpleasantness on the part of the fanatic Hasidim, but it also had the effect of increasing his unpopularity among the orthodox. The only merit the latter were willing to concede to Levinsohn was that of an apologist who defended Judaism against the attacks of non-Jews. During the epidemic of ritual murder trials, the rabbis of Lithuania and Volhynia addressed a request to Levinsohn to write a book against this horrid libel. At their suggestion he published his work _Efes Damim_, "No Blood!" (Vilna, 1837), [1] in the form of a dialogue between a Jewish sage and a Greek-Orthodox patriarch in Jerusalem. [Footnote 1: With a clever allusion to the geographic name Ephes-dammim, I Sam. 17. 1.] Somewhat later Levinsohn wrote other apologetic treatises, defending the Talmud against the attacks contained in the book _Netibot 'Olam_ [1] published in 1839 by the London missionary M'Caul. Levinsohn's great apologetic work _Zerubbabel_, which appeared several years after his death, was equally dedicated to the defence of the Talmud. It has, moreover, considerable scientific merit, being one of the first research works in the domain of talmudic theology. A number of other publications by Levinsohn deal with Hebrew philology and lexicography. All these efforts support Levinsohn's claim to the title of Founder of a modern Jewish Science in Russia, though his scholarly achievements cannot be classed with those of his German and Galician fellow-writers, such as Rapoport, Zunz, Jost and Geiger. [Footnote 1: "Old Paths," with reference to Jer. 6. 16.] Levinsohn stood entirely aloof from the propaganda of bureaucratic enlightenment which was carried on by Lilienthal in the name of Uvarov. The Volhynian hermit was completely overshadowed by the energetic young German. Even when Lilienthal, after realizing that a union between Jewish culture and Russian officialdom was altogether unnatural, had disappeared from the stage, Levinsohn still persisted in cultivating his relations with the Government. But by that time the bureaucrats of St. Petersburg had no more use for the Jewish friends of enlightenment. Broken in health, chained to his bed for half a lifetime, without means of subsistence, lonely amidst a hostile orthodox environment, Levinsohn time and again addressed to St. Petersburg humiliating appeals for monetary assistance, occasionally receiving small pittances, which were booked under the heading "Relief in Distress," accepted subventions from various Jewish Mæcenases, and remained a pauper till the end of his life. The pioneer of modern culture among Russian Jews, the founder of Neo-Hebraic literature, spent his life in the midst of a realm of darkness, shunned like an outcast, appreciated by a mere handful of sympathizers. It was only after his death that he was crowned with laurels, when the intellectuals of Russian Jewry were beginning to press forward in close formation. 4. THE RISE OF NEO-HEBRAIC CULTURE The Volhynian soil proved unfavorable for the seeds of enlightenment. The Haskalah pioneers were looked upon as dangerous enemies in this hot-bed of Tzaddikism. They were held in disgrace and were often the victims of cruel persecutions, from which some saved themselves by conversion. A more favorable soil for cultural endeavors was found in the extreme south of the Pale of Settlement as well as in its northern section: Odessa, the youthful capital of New Russia, and Vilna, the old capital of Lithuania, both became centers of the Haskalah movement. As far as Odessa was concerned, the seeds of enlightenment had been carried hither from neighboring Galicia by the Jews of Brody, who formed a wealthy merchant colony in that city. As early as 1826 Odessa saw the opening of the first Jewish school for secular education, which was managed at first by Sittenfeld and later on by the well-known public worker Bezalel Stern. Among the teachers of the new school was Simha Pinsker, who subsequently became the historian of Karaism. This school, the only educational establishment of its kind during that period, served in Odessa as a center for the "Friends of Enlightenment." Being a new city, unfettered by traditions, and at the same time a large sea-port, with a checkered international population, Odessa outran other Jewish centers in the process of modernization, though it must be confessed that it never went beyond the externalities of civilization. As far as the period under discussion is concerned, the Jewish center of the South can claim no share in the production of new Jewish values. While yielding to Odessa in point of external civilization, Vilna surpassed the capital of the South by her store of mental energy. The circle of the Vilna Maskilim, which came into being during the fourth decade of the nineteenth century, gave rise to the two founders of the Neo-Hebraic literary style: the prose writer Mordecai Aaron Ginzburg (1796-1846) and the poet Abraham Baer Lebensohn (1794-1878). Ginzburg, born in the townlet Salant, in the Zhmud region, [1] lived for some time in Courland, and finally settled in Vilna. He managed to familiarize himself with German literature, and was so fascinated by it that he started his literary career by translating and adapting German works into Hebrew. His translation of Campe's "Discovery of America" and Politz' Universal History, as well as his own history of the Franco-Russian War of 1812, compiled from various sources, were, as far as Russia is concerned, the first specimens of secular literature in pure Hebrew, which boldly claimed their place side by side with rabbinic and hasidic writings. In that juvenile stage of the Hebrew renaissance, when the mere treatment of language and style was considered an achievement, even the appearance of such elementary books was hailed as epoch-making. [Footnote 1: Zhmud, or Samogitia, is part of the present government of Kovno. Compare Vol. I, p. 293, n. 1.] The profoundest influence on the formation of the Neo-Hebraic style must be ascribed to two other works by the same author, _Kiriai Sefer_, [1] an epistolary manual containing specimens of personal, commercial, and other forms of correspondence (Vilna, 1835, and many later editions), and _Debir_, [2] a miscellaneous collection of essays, consisting for the most part of translations and compilations (Vilna, 1844). Ginzburg's premature death in 1846 was mourned by the Vilna Maskilim as the loss of a leader in the struggle for the Neo-Hebraic renaissance, and they gave expression to these sentiments in verse and prose. Ginzburg's autobiography _(Abi-'ezer,_ 1863) and his letters _(Debir,_ Vol. II., 1861) portray the milieu in which our author grew up and developed. [Footnote 1: See next note.] [Footnote 2: Both titles are derived from the message in Josh. 15. 15, according to which _Debir_, a city in the territory of the tribe of Judah, was originally called _Kiriat Sefer_, "Book City."] Abraham Baer Lebensohn, [1] a native of Vilna, awakened the dormant Hebrew lyre by the sonorous rhymes of his "Songs in the Sacred Tongue" (_Shire Sefat Kodesh_, Vol. I., Leipsic, 1842). In this volume solemn odes celebrating events of all kinds alternate with lyrical poems of a philosophical content. The unaccustomed ear of the Jew of that period was struck by these powerful sounds of rhymed biblical speech which exhibited greater elegance and harmony than the Mosaïd of Wessely, the Jewish Klopstock. [2] His compositions, which are marked by thought rather than by feeling, suited to perfection the taste of the contemporary Jewish reader, who was ever on the lookout for "intellectuality," even where poetry was concerned. Philosophic and moralizing lyrics are a characteristic feature of Lebensohn's pen. The general human sorrow, common to all individuals, stirs him more deeply than national grief. His only composition of a nationalistic character, "The Wailing of the Daughter of Judah," seems strangely out of harmony with the accompanying odes which celebrate the coronation of Nicholas I. and similar patriotic occasions, although the "Wailing" is shrewdly prefaced by a note, evidently meant for the censor, to the effect that the poem refers to the Middle Ages. At any rate, the principal merit of the "Songs in the Sacred Tongue" is not to be sought in their poetry but rather in their style, for it was this style which became the basis of Neo-Hebraic poetic diction, perfected more and more by the poets of the succeeding generations. [Footnote 1: He assumed the pen-name "Adam," the initials of Abraham Dob (Hebrew equivalent for Baer) Mikhailishker (from the town of Mikhailishok, in the government of Vilna, where he resided for a number of years). See later, p. 226.] [Footnote 2: The author refers to Naphtali Hirz Wessely (d. 1805), an associate of Mendelssohn in his cultural endeavors. He wrote _Shire Tif'eret_, "Songs of Glory," an epic in five parts dealing with the Exodus. The poem was patterned after the epic _Der Messias_ of his famous German contemporary Gottlieb Friedrich Klopstock, who, in turn, was influenced by Milton.] Ginzburg and Lebensohn were the central pillars of the Vilna Maskilim circle, which also included men of the type of Samuel Joseph Fünn, the historian, Mattathiah Strashun, the Talmudist, the censor Tugendhold, the bibliographer Ben-jacob, N. Rosenthal, in a word, the "radicals" of that era--for the mere striving for the restoration of biblical Hebrew and for elementary secular education was looked upon as bold radicalism. The same circle made an attempt to create a scientific periodical after the pattern of similar publications in Galicia and Germany, In 1841 and 1843 two issues of the magazine _Pirhe Tzafon_, "Flowers of the North," appeared in Vilna, under Fünn's editorship. The volumes contained scientific and publicistic articles as well as poems, contributed by the feeble literary talents which were then active in the Hebrew literary and educational revival in Russia--all of them efforts of not very high merit. But even these poor hot-house flowers were fated to be nipped in the Northern chill. The ruthless Russian censorship scented in the unassuming magazine of the Vilna Maskilim a criminal attempt to publish a Hebrew periodical. Such an undertaking required an official license from the central Government in St. Petersburg, and the latter was not in the habit of granting licenses for such purposes. In Vilna, as in Odessa, the coterie of local Maskilim formed the mainstay of Lilienthal, the apostle of enlightenment, in, his struggle with the orthodox. In the year 1840, prior to Lilienthal's arrival, when the first intimation of Uvarov's plans reached the city of Vilna, the local Maskilim responded to the call of the Government in a circular letter, in which the following four cardinal reforms were emphasized: 1. The transformation of the Rabbinate through the establishment of rabbinical seminaries, the appointment of graduates from German universities as rabbis, and the formation of consistories after the pattern of Western Europe. 2. The reform of school education through the opening of secular schools after the model of Odessa and Riga and the training of new teachers from among the Maskilim. 3. The struggle with the fiends of obscurantism, who stifle every endeavor for popular enlightenment. 4. The improvement of Jewish economic life by intensifying agricultural colonization, the establishment of technical and arts and crafts schools, and similar measures. Several years later the authors of this circular had reason to share Lilienthal's disillusionment over the "benevolent intentions" of the Government. This, however, was not strong enough to uproot the original sin of the Haskalah: its constant readiness to lean for support upon "enlightened absolutism." The despotism of the orthodox and the intolerance of the unenlightened masses forced the handful of Maskilim to fall back upon those who in the eyes of the Jewish populace were the source of its sorrow and tears. There was a profound tragedy in this incongruity. The culture movement in Russia of the second quarter of the nineteenth century corresponds in its complexion to the early stage of the Mendelssohnian enlightenment in Germany, the period of the _Me'assefim_. [1] But there were also essential differences between the two. The beginning of German enlightenment was accompanied by a strong drift toward assimilation which led to the elimination of the national language from literature. In Russia the initial period of Haskalah was not marked by any sudden social and cultural upheavals. [Footnote 1: So named after the Hebrew periodical _ha-Me'assef_ "The Collector," which was founded in Berlin in 1784. Compare Vol. I, p. 386, n. 3.] On the contrary, it laid the foundations for a national literary renaissance which in the following period was destined to become an important social factor. 5. THE JEWS AND THE RUSSIAN PEOPLE As for the Russian people, an impenetrable wall continued as theretofore to keep it apart from the Jewish population. To the inhabitants of the two Russian capitals and of the interior of the Empire the Pale of Settlement seemed as distant as China, while among the Russians living within the Pale the sparks of former historic conflagrations, the prejudices of the ages and the unenlightened notions of days gone by were still glimmering beneath the ashes. The ignorance of some and the vicious prejudices of others could not very well manifest themselves in periodical literature, for the simple reason that in pre-reformatory Russia, throtled by the hand of the censorship, none was in existence. Only in Russian fiction one might see the shadow of the Jew moving across. In the imagination of the great Russian poet Pushkin this shadow wavered between the "despised Jew" of the street (in the "Black Shawl," 1820) and the figure of the venerable "old man reading the Bible under the shelter of the night" (in the "Beginning of a Novel," 1832). On the other hand, in Gogol's "Taras Bulba" (1835-1842) the Jew bears the well-defined features of an inhuman fiend. In the delineation of the hideous figure of "Zhyd Yankel," a mercenary, soulless, dastardly creature, Gogol, the descendant of the haidamacks, [1] gave vent to his inherited hatred of the Jew, the victim of Khmelnitzki [2] and the haidamacks. In these dismal historic tragedies, in the figures of the Jewish martyrs of old Ukraina, Gogol can only discern "miserable, terror-stricken creatures." Thus one of the principal founders of Russian fiction set up in its very center the repelling scarecrow of a Jew, an abomination of desolation, which poured the poison of hatred into the hearts of the Russian readers and determined to a certain extent the literary types of later writers. [Footnote 1: Name of the Ukrainian rebels who rose in the seventeenth century against the tyranny of their Polish masters. Compare Vol. I, p. 182, n. 3.] [Footnote 2: Compare Vol. I, p. 144 et seq.] In the back-yards of Russian literature, which were then most of all patronized by the reading public, the literary slanderer Thaddeus Bulgarin delineated in his novel "Ivan Vyzhigin" (1829) the type of a Lithuanian Jew by the name of Movsha (Moses), who appears as the embodiment of all mortal sins. The product of an untalented and tainted pen, Bulgarin's novel was soon forgotten. Yet it contributed its share toward instilling Jew-hatred into the minds of the Russian people. CHAPTER XVII THE LAST YEARS OF NICHOLAS I. 1. THE "ASSORTMENT" OF THE JEWS The beginning of the "Second Emancipation" of 1848 in Western Europe synchronized with the last phase of the era of oppression in Russia. That phase, representing the concluding seven years of pre-reformatory Russia, was a dark patch in the life of the country at large, doubly dark in the life of the Jews. The power of absolutism, banished by the March revolution from the European West, asserted itself with intensified fury in the land of the North, which had about that time earned the unenviable reputation of the "gendarme of Europe." Thrown back on its last stronghold, absolutism concentrated its energy upon the suppression of all kinds of revolutionary movements. In default of such a movement in Russia itself, this energy broke through the frontier line and found an outlet in the punitive expedition sent to support the Austrians in the pacification of mutinous Hungary. The triumphant passwords of political freedom which were given out on the other side of the Western frontier only intensified the reactionary rage on this side. Since it was impossible to punish action--for under the vigilant eye of the terrible "Third Section" [1] revolutionary endeavors were a matter of impossibility--word and thought were subject to punishment. Censorship ran riot in the subdued literature of Russia, tearing out by the roots anything that did not fit into the mould of the bureaucratic way of thinking. The quiet precincts of the Russian _intelligenzia_, who, in the retirement of their homes, ventured to dream of a better political and social order, were invaded by political detectives who snatched thence numerous victims for the scaffold, the galleys, and conscription. Such were the contrivances employed during the last years of pre-reformatory Russia to hold together the old order of things in the land of officialdom and serfdom, in that Russia which the poet Khomyakov, though patriot and Slavophile, branded thus: [Footnote 1: Compare above, p. 21, n. 1.] Blackened in court with falsehood's blackness, And stained by the yoke of slavery, Full of godless flattery, of vicious lying, And ev'ry possible knavery. But the full weight of "the yoke of slavery" and "falsehood's blackness," by which pre-reformatory Russia was marked, fell upon the shoulders of the most hapless section of Russian subjects, the Jews. The tragic gloom of the end of Nicholas' reign finds its only parallel in Jewish annals in the beginning of the same reign. The would-be "reforms" proposed in the interval, in the beginning of the forties, did not deceive the popular instinct. The Jews of the Pale saw not only the hand which was holding forth the charter of enlightenment but also the other hand which hid a stone in the form of new cruel restrictions. Soon the Government threw off the mask of enlightenment, and set out to realize its reserve program, that of "correcting" the Jews by police methods. It will be remembered that the principal item in this program was "the assortment of the Jews," i.e., the segregation from among them of all persons without a certain status as to property or without definite occupations, for the purpose of proceeding against them as criminal members of society. As far back as 1846 the Government forewarned the Jews of the imminent "bloody operation over a whole class," against which Governor-General Vorontzov had vainly protested. [1] All Jews were ordered to register at the earliest possible moment among the guilds and estates assigned to them, "with the understanding that in case this measure should fail, the Government would of itself carry out the assortment," to wit: "it will set apart the Jews who are not engaged in productive labor, and will subject them, as burdensome to society, to various restrictions." The threat fell flat, for it was rather too much to expect that fully a half of the Jewish population, doomed by civil disabilities and general economic conditions to a life of want and distress, could obtain at a stroke the necessary "property status" or "definite occupations." [Footnote 1: See above, p. 64 et seq.] Accordingly, on November 23, 1851, the Tzar gave his sanction to the "Temporary Rules Concerning the Assortment of the Jews." All Jews were divided into five categories: merchants, agriculturists, artisans, settled burghers, and unsettled burghers. The first three categories were to be made up of those who were enrolled among the corresponding guilds and estates. "Settled burghers" were to be those engaged in "burgher trade" [1] with business licenses, also the clergy and the learned class. The remaining huge mass of the proletariat was placed in the category of "unsettled burghers," who were liable to increased military conscription and to harsher legal restrictions as compared with the first four tolerated classes of Jews. This hapless proletariat, either out of work or only occasionally at work, was to bear a double measure of oppression and persecution, and was to be branded as despised pariahs. [Footnote 1: i.e., petty trade, as distinguished from the more comprehensive business carried on by the merchants who were enrolled in the mercantile guilds.] By April 1, 1852, the Jews belonging to the four tolerated categories were required to produce their certificates of enrolment before the local authorities. Those who had failed to do so were to be entered in the fifth category, the criminal class of "unsettled burghers." Within the brief space allotted to them the Jews found themselves unable to obtain the necessary documents, and, thanks to the representations of the governors-general of the Western governments, the term was extended till the autumn of 1852, but even then the "assortment" had not yet been accomplished. The Government was fully prepared to launch a series of Draconian laws against the "parasites," including police inspection and compulsory labor. But while engaged in these charitable projects, the law-givers were taken aback by the Crimean War, which, with its disastrous consequences for Russia, diverted their attention from their war against the Jews. Yet for a successive number of years the law concerning the "assortment," or _razryaden_, as it was popularly styled by the Jews, hung like the sword of Damocles over the heads of hundreds of thousands of Jews, and the anxiety of the suffering masses was poured out in sad popular ditties: _Ach, a tzore, a gzeire mit die razryaden!_ [1] [Footnote 1: "Alas! What misfortune and persecution there is in the assortment!"] 2. COMPULSORY ASSIMILATION As for the measures of compulsory assimilation long ago foreshadowed by the Government, such as the substitution of the Russian or German style of dress for the traditional Jewish attire, the long coats of the men, they were without any effect on Jewish life, and merely resulted in confusion and consternation. A curt imperial ukase issued on May 1, 1850, prohibited "all over (the Empire) the use of a distinct Jewish form of dress, beginning with January 1, 1851," though the governors-general were given the right of permitting aged Jews to wear out their old garments on the payment of a definite tax. The prohibition extended to the earlocks, or _peies_, of the men. A year later, in April, 1851, the Government made a further step in advance and proceeded to deal with the female attire. "His Imperial Majesty was graciously pleased to command that Jewish women be forbidden to shave their heads upon entering into marriage." [1] In October, 1852, this ukase was supplemented by the regulation that a married Jewess guilty of shaving her head was liable to a fine of five rubles ($2.50), and the rabbi abetting the crime was to be prosecuted. Since neither the Jews nor the Jewesses were willing to submit to imperial orders, the former from habit, the latter from religious scruples, the provincial authorities entered upon a regular warfare against these "rebels." Both the governors-general and the governors subordinate to them displayed extraordinary enthusiasm in this direction. The officials tracked with utmost zeal not only the women culprits but also their accomplices the rabbis who attended the wedding ceremony, even including the barbers who were called in to shave the heads of the Jewish ladies. Jewish women were examined at the police stations to find out whether they still wore their own hair beneath their kerchiefs or wigs. Frequently the struggle manifested itself in tragic-comic and even repulsive forms. In some places the police adopted the practice of cutting the _peies_ or shortening the long coats of the Jews by force. [Footnote 1: In accordance with orthodox Jewish practice, married women are not allowed to expose their own hair. Apart from the wearing of a wig, or _Sheitel_, it was also customary for women to cut or shave their hair before their wedding and cover their heads with a kerchief.] The opposition to the authorities was particularly vigorous in the Kingdom of Poland where the rank and file of Hasidim were ready to suffer martyrdom for any Jewish custom, however obsolete. The fight was drawn out for a long time and even reached into the following reign, but the victory remained with the obstreperous masses. Though at a later period, as the result of general cultural tendencies, the traditional Jewish costume made way in certain sections of Jewry for the European form of dress, it was not in obedience to police measures, but in spite of them. Compulsory assimilation was as little successful now as had been compulsory isolation in the Middle Ages. The medieval rulers had imposed upon the Jews a distinct form of garment and a "yellow badge" to keep them apart from the Christians. Nicholas I. employed forcible means to make the Jews by their style of dress appear similar to the Christians. The violence resorted to in both cases, though different in form, sprang from the same motive. 3. NEW CONSCRIPTION HORRORS There was yet one domain in which the squeezing and pressing power of Tzardom could fully employ its destructive energy. We refer to military conscription. This genuine creation of the imperial brain became more and more intolerable, serving in Jewish life as a penal and correctional agency, with its "capture" of old and young, its inquisitorial régime of cantonists, its deportation for a quarter of a century and longer into far-off regions. Even the Russian peasants were stricken with terror at the thought of Nicholas' conscription, which in the reminiscences of the portrayers of that period is pictured as life-long deportation, and they frequently shirked military duty by fleeing from the land-owners and hiding themselves in the woods. How much more terrible must then conscription have been for the Jew, whose family was robbed both of a young father and a tender son. No means was left unused to evade this atrocious obligation. The reports of the governors refer to the "immeasurable difficulties in carrying out the conscription among the Jews." Apart from innumerable cases of self-mutilation--to quote the words of one of these reports written in 1850--the disappearance, without exception, of all able-bodied Jews has become so general that in some communities, outside of those unfit for military service because of age or physical defects, not a single person can be found during conscription who might be drafted into the army. Some flee abroad, whilst others hide in adjacent governments. Those in hiding were hunted down like wild beasts. Their life, as a contemporary witness testifies, was worse than that of galley slaves, for the slightest indiscretion brought ruin upon them. Many resorted to self-mutilation to render themselves unfit for military service. They chopped off their fingers or toes, damaged their eyesight, and perpetrated every possible form of maiming to evade a military service which was in effect penal servitude. "The most tender-hearted mother," to quote a contemporary, "would place the finger of her beloved son under the kitchen knife of a home-bred quack surgeon." This evasion resulted in immense shortages which pressed heavily upon the Jewish communities, since the latter were held collectively responsible for supplying the full quota of recruits. The reports about the unsatisfactory conscription results among the Jews filled the Government in St. Petersburg with rage. The persistent reluctance of human beings to be parted almost for life from those near and dear to them, or to see their little ones carried off to an early grave or to the baptismal font, was regarded as a manifestation of criminal self-will. Accordingly, the former measures of "cutting short" and "curbing" this self-will were improved upon by new ones. In December, 1850, the Tzar gave orders that for every missing Jewish recruit in a given community three men of the minimum age of twenty from the same community and one more recruit for every two thousand rubles ($1000) of tax arrears should be impressed into service. A year later the following atrocious measures were issued for the purpose "of cutting short the concealment of Jews from military service": the fugitives were to be captured, flogged, and drafted into the army over and above the required quota of recruits. The communities in which they were hidden were to be fined. The relatives of a recruit who failed to present himself in proper time were to be taken in his stead, even if these relatives happened to be heads of families. The official representatives of the communities were equally liable to being sent into the army if found convicted of any inaccuracy in carrying out the conscription. A reign of terror followed in the Jewish communities upon the promulgation of these laws. The Kahal elders--it will be remembered that they continued to exist after the abrogation of the Kahals, acting as the fiscal agents of the Government [1]--now faced a terrible alternative: to become, in the words of a contemporary, "either murderers of martyrs," i.e., either to capture and send into the army any youth or boy, without discrimination, or themselves to don the gray uniform and be impressed into military services as "penal" recruits. In consequence, a fiendish hunt after human beings was set afoot in the Pale of Settlement. Adults were seized and, regardless of their being the only mainstay of their families, were taken captive, and children of eight were captured and presented to the recruiting authorities as being of the obligatory age of twelve. But despite all this hunting, many communities were not able to furnish their quota of soldiers, and the number of "penal" recruits from among the Kahal elders was very considerable. [Footnote 1: See above, p. 60.] Weeping and moaning resounded in the neighborhood of the recruiting stations in the Jewish towns where parents and relatives took leave from their dear ones who were doomed to a perpetual barrack life. And yet the fury of the Government was not satisfied. In 1853 new "temporary rules" were issued, "by way of experiment," whereby not only communities but also individuals among Jews were granted the right of offering as their substitutes any fellow-Jew from another city than his own who was caught without a passport. Any Jew who happened to absent himself from his place of residence without a passport could be seized and drafted into service as a substitute for a regular recruit due from the family of the captor. The "captive," regardless of age, was made a soldier, and the captor was given a receipt for one recruit. A new ferocious hunt began. The official "captors" employed by the Kahals were no longer the only ones to prowl after living prey. The chase was now taken up by every private individual who wished to find a substitute for a member of his family, or who simply wanted to turn a penny by selling his recruiting receipt. Hordes of Jewish bandits sprang up who infested the roads and the inns, and by trickery or force made the travellers part with their passports and then dragged them to the recruiting stations as "captives" to be sent into the army. Never before had the Jewish masses, yielding to pressure from above, sunk to such depths of degradation. The Jew became a beast of prey to his fellow-Jew. Jews were afraid of budging an inch from their native cities. Every passer-by was suspected of being a captor or a bandit. The recruiting inquisition of Nicholas inflicted upon the Jews the utmost limit of martyrdom. It set Jew against Jew, called forth "a war of all against all," threw the tortured and the torturers into one heap, and sullied the Jewish soul. All this took place while the Crimean War was going on. The Russian army, on the altar of which so many human sacrifices had been offered in the course of thirty years, marched to save "the honor of Russia," in truth, to save the old régime. Squadron upon squadron issued from the inner recesses of Russia, and marched towards the battlefields of the South, marched to the slaughter, into the mouths of the cannons of the English and French, who knew how to conquer without penal conscriptions and without inflicting tortures upon tender-aged cantonists. The "gendarme of Europe," who, armed to his teeth, had contemptuously threatened to "finish the enemy with his soldier caps," could not hold out against the army of the "rotten West." Hundreds of thousands of Russian soldiers fell beneath the walls of Sevastopol, upon the heights of Inkerman. Thousands of Jewish soldiers were laid among them in "brotherly graves." The Jews, enslaved by pre-reformatory Russia, died for a fatherland which treated them as pariahs, which had bestowed upon them a monstrous conscription, the unexampled institutions of cantonists, penal recruits, and "captives." However, it soon became clear that those who had fallen under the walls of Sevastopol had sealed by their death not the honor but the dishonor of the old régime of blood and iron. Beneath the rotting corpse of an obsolete statecraft, built upon serfdom and maintained by soldiery and police, the germ of a new and better Russia began to stir. 4. THE RITUAL MURDER TRIAL OF SARATOV One more detail was lacking to complete the dismal picture and to bring out the full symmetry between the end of Nicholas' reign and its ominous beginning: a medieval ritual murder trial after the pattern of the Velizh case. And a trial of this nature did not fail to come. In December, 1852, and in January, 1853, two Russian boys from among the lower classes disappeared in the city of Saratov, in central Russia. Their bodies were found two or three months later in the Volga, covered with wounds and bearing the traces of circumcision. The latter circumstance led the coroners to believe that the crime had been perpetrated by Jews. Saratov, a city situated outside the Pale of Settlement, harbored at that time a small Jewish settlement consisting of some forty soldiers of the local garrison and several civilian Jewish tradesmen and artisans who lived in the prohibited Volga town by the grace of the police. There were also a few converts. The vigilant eyes of the coroners were riveted on this settlement. An official by the name of Durnovo, who had been dispatched from St. Petersburg to take charge of the case, began at once to direct the inquiry into the channel of a ritual murder case. Needless to say there were soon found material witnesses from among the ignorant or criminal class who were under the hypnotic influence of the ritual murder myth. A private, called Bogdanov, who had been convicted of vagrancy, and an intoxicated gubernatorial official by the name of Krueger testified that they were present at the time when the Jews squeezed out the blood from the bodies of the murdered boys. They also mentioned by name the principal perpetrators of the murder, the "circumcision expert" in the local Jewish settlement, a soldier called Shlieferman, and a furrier named Yankel Yushkevicher, a devout Jew. The incriminated Jews were thrown into prison, but, despite excruciating cross-examinations, they and the other defendants indignantly denied not only their complicity in the murder but also the ritual murder accusation as a whole. The investigation became more and more involved, drawing into its net a constantly growing number of persons, until in July, 1854, a special "Judicial Commission" was appointed by order of Nicholas I. for the purpose of disclosing not only the particular crime committed at Saratov but also "of investigating the dogmas of the religious fanaticism of the Jews." The latter task, being of a theoretic nature, was entrusted, in 1855, to a special commission under the auspices of the Ministry of the Interior. Among the theologians and Hebraists who were members of that Commission was also the baptized professor Daniel Chwolson who had scientifically disproved the ritual legend. In 1856, after a protracted inquiry of two years, the judicial commission, having failed to discover evidence against the accused, decided to set them at liberty, but "to leave them under strong suspicion." In the meantime, Alexander II. had ascended the throne of the Tzars, and the dawn of Russian renascence began to disperse the nightmares of the past era. Yet so deeply ingrained were the old prejudices in many bureaucratic minds that when the conclusion reached by the judicial commission was submitted to the Senate the votes were divided. The case was transferred to the Council of State, and there the high dignitaries managed to effect a compromise between their medieval prejudices and their involuntary concessions to the spirit of the age. They refused to enter into a discussion of "the still unsolved question as to the use of Christian blood by the Jews," but they "unhesitatingly recognized the existence of the crime itself," which had been perpetrated at Saratov--this in spite of the fact that the only ground on which the crime was ascribed to alleged fanatical practices and laid at the door of the Jews were the traces of circumcision on the dead bodies. Ignoring this inner contradiction and setting aside the weighty objections of the liberal Minister of Justice Zamyatin, the Council of State brought in a verdict of guilty against the impeached Jews, the soldier Shlieferman and the two Yushkevichers, senior and junior, sentencing them to penal servitude. The sentence was confirmed by Alexander II. in May, 1860. The representatives of the St. Petersburg community, Baron Joseph Günzburg and others, petitioned the Tzar to postpone the verdict until the scholarly commission of experts should have rendered its decision with regard to the compatibility of ritual murder with the teachings of Judaism. But the president of the Council of State, Count Orlov, presented the matter to the Tzar in a different light, asserting that all that the Jews intended by their petition was "to keep off for an indefinite period the decision on a case in which their coreligionists are involved." He, therefore, insisted on the immediate execution of the sentence, and the Tzar yielded. After eight long years of incarceration, in the course of which two of the impeached Jews committed suicide, the principal "perpetrators" were found to be physical wrecks and no longer able to discharge their penal servitude. The innocent sufferer, old Yushkevicher, languished in prison for seven more years, and was finally liberated in 1867 by order of Alexander II., who had been petitioned by Adolph Crémieux, the president of the Alliance Israélite Universelle, to pardon the unhappy man. In this way the heritage of the dark past protruded into the increasing brightness of the new Russia, which in the beginning of the sixties was passing through the era of "Great Reforms." CHAPTER XVIII THE ERA OF REFORMS UNDER ALEXANDER II. 1. THE ABOLITION OF JUVENILE CONSCRIPTION When after the Crimean War, which had exposed the rottenness of the old order of things, a fresh current of air swept through the atmosphere of Russia, and the liberation of the peasantry and other great reforms were coming to fruition, the Jewish problem, too, was in line of being placed in the forefront of these reforms. For, after having done away with the institution of serfdom, the State was consistently bound to liberate its three million of Jewish serfs who had been ruthlessly oppressed and persecuted during the old régime. Unfortunately the Jewish question, which was nothing more nor less than the question of equal citizenship for the Jews, was not placed in the line of the great reforms, but was pushed to the rear and solved fragmentarily--on the instalment plan, as it were--and within narrowly circumscribed limits. Like all the other officially inspired reforms of that period, which proceeded up to a certain point and halted before the prohibited zone of constitutional and political liberties, so, too, the solution of the Jewish problem was not allowed to pass beyond the border-line. For the crossing of that line would have rendered the whole question null and void by the simple recognition of the equality of all citizens. The regenerated Russia of Alexander II., stubborn in its refusal of political freedom and civil equality, could only choose the path of half-measures. Nevertheless, the transition from the pre-reformatory order of things to the new state of affairs signified a radical departure both in the life of Russia in general and in Jewish life in particular. It did so not because the new conditions were perfect, but because the old ones were so inexpressibly ugly and unbearable, and the mere loosening of the chains of servitude was hailed as a pledge of complete liberation. Far more intense than in the political life of Russia was the crisis in its social life. While a chilling wind was still blowing from the wintry heights of Russian officialdom, while a grim censorship was still holding down the flight of the printed word, the released social energy was whirling and swirling in all classes of Russian society, sometimes breaking the fetters of police restraint. The outbursts of young Russia ran far ahead of the slow progress of the reforms inspired from above. It blazed the path for political freedom which the West of Europe had long traversed, and which was to prove in Russia tortuous and thorny. The phase of Jewish life which claimed the first thought of Alexander II.'s Government was the military conscription. Prior to the conclusion of the Crimean War, the Committee on Jewish Affairs [1] called the Tzar's attention to the necessity of modifying the method of Jewish conscription, with its fiendish contrivances of seizing juvenile cantonists and enlisting "penal" and "captive" recruits. Nevertheless the removal of this crying evil was postponed for a year, until the promulgation of the Coronation Manifesto [2] of August 26, 1856, when it was granted as an act of grace. [Footnote 1: See above, p. 49.] [Footnote 2: On the meaning of Manifesto see later, p. 246, n. 1.] Prompted by the desire--the Manifesto reads--of making it easier for the Jews to discharge their military duty and of averting the inconveniences attached thereto, we command as follows: 1. Recruits from among the Jews are to be drafted in the same way as from among the other estates, primarily from among those unsettled and not engaged in productive labor. [1] Only in default of able-bodied men among these, the shortage is to be made up from among the category of Jews who by reason of their engaging in productive labor are recognized as useful. 2. The drafting of recruits from among other estates and of those under age is to be repealed. 3. In regard to the making up of the shortage of recruits, the general laws are to be applied, and the exaction of recruits from Jewish communities as a penalty for arrears is to be repealed. 4. The temporary rules, enacted by way of experiment in 1853, granting Jewish communities and Jewish individuals the right of presenting as recruits in their own stead coreligionists seized without passports [2] are to be repealed. [Footnote 1: See on these designations pp. 64 and 142.] [Footnote 2: See above, p. 148 et seq.] The abolition of juvenile conscription followed automatically upon the annulment, by virtue of the same Coronation Manifesto, of the general Russian institution of "cantonists" and "soldier children," who were now ordered to be returned to their parents and relatives. Only in the case of the Jews a rider was attached to the effect that those Jewish children who had embraced Christianity during their term of military service should not be allowed to go back to their parents and relatives, if the latter remained in their old faith, and should be placed exclusively in Christian families. The Coronation Manifesto of 1856 marks the end of the recruiting inquisition, which had lasted for nearly thirty years, adding a unique page to the annals of Jewish martyrdom. In the matter of conscription, at least, the Jews were, in a certain measure, granted equal rights. The operation of the general statute concerning military service was extended to them, with a few limitations which were the heritage of the past. The old plan of the "assortment of the Jews" is reflected in the clause of the Manifesto, providing for increased conscription from among "those unsettled and not engaged in productive labor," i.e., of the mass of the proletariat, as distinct from the more or less well-to-do classes. Nor was the old historic crime made good: the Jewish cantonists who had been forcibly converted to the Greek-Orthodox faith were not allowed to return to their kindred. As heretofore, baptism remained a _conditio sine qua non_ for the advancement of a Jewish soldier, and only in 1861 was permission given to promote a Jewish private to the rank of a sergeant for general merit, without special distinction on the battlefield which had been formerly required. Beyond this rank no Jew could hope to advance. 2. "HOMEOPATHIC" EMANCIPATION AND THE POLICY OF "FUSION" Following upon the removal of the "black stain" of conscription came the question of lightening the "yoke of slavery," that heavy burden of rightlessness which pressed so grievously upon the outcasts of the Jewish Pale. Already in March, 1856, Count Kiselev, a semi-liberal official and formerly the president of the "Jewish Committee" which had been appointed in 1840 [1] and which was composed of the heads of the various ministries, submitted a memorandum to Alexander II. in which he took occasion to point out that "the attainment of the goal indicated in the imperial ukase of 1840, that of bringing about the fusion of the Jews with the general population, is hampered by various provisionally enacted restrictions which, when taken in conjunction with the general laws, contain contradictions and engender confusion." [Footnote 1: See above, p. 49 et seq.] The result was an imperial order, dated March 31, 1856, "to revise all existing regulations affecting the Jews so as to bring them into harmony with the general policy of fusing this people with the original inhabitants, as far as the moral status of the Jews may render it possible." The same ministers who had taken part in the labors of the Jewish Committee were instructed to draft a plan looking to the modification of the laws affecting the Jews and to submit their suggestions to the Tzar. In this way the inception of the new reign was marked by a characteristic slogan: the fusion of the Jews with the Russian people, to be promoted by alleviations in their legal status. The way leading to this "fusion" was, in the judgment of Russian officialdom, blocked by the historic unity of the Jewish nation, a unity which in governmental phraseology was styled "Jewish separatism" and interpreted as the effect of the inferior "moral status" of the Jews. At the same time it was implied that Jews with better "morals," i.e., those who have shown a leaning toward Russification, might be accorded special legal advantages over their retrograde coreligionists. From that moment the bureaucratic circles of St. Petersburg became obsessed with the idea of picking out special groups from among the Jewish population, distinguished by financial or educational qualifications, for the purpose of bestowing upon them certain rights and privileges. It was the old coin--Nicholas' idea of the "assortment" of the Jews--with a new legend stamped upon it. Formerly it had been intended to penalize the "useless" or "unsettled burghers" by intensifying their rightlessness; now this plan gave way to the policy of rewarding the "useful" elements by enlarging their rights or reducing their rightlessness. The objectionable principle upon which this whole system was founded, the division of a people into categories of favorites and outcasts, remained in full force. There was only a difference in degree: the threat of legal restrictions for the disobedient was replaced by holding out promises of legal alleviations for the obedient. A small group of influential Jewish merchants in St. Petersburg, which stood in close relations to the highest official spheres, the purveyor and banker Baron Joseph Yozel Günzburg [1] and others, seized eagerly upon this idea which bade fair to shower privileges upon the well-to-do classes. In June, 1856, this group addressed a petition to Alexander II., complaining about the disabilities which weighed so heavily upon all Jews, "from the artisan to the first guild merchant, from the private soldier to the Master of Arts, and forced them down to the level of a degraded, suspected, untolerated tribe." At the same time they assured the Tzar that, were the Government to give a certain amount of encouragement to the Jews, the latter would gladly meet it half-way and help in the realization of its policy to draw the Jews nearer to the original inhabitants and turn them in the direction of productive labor. [Footnote 1: Popularly known by his middle name as _Yozel_.] Were--the petitioners declare--the new generation which has been brought up in the spirit and under the control of the Government, were the higher mercantile class which for many years has diffused life, activity, and wealth in the land, were the conscientious artisans who earn their bread in the sweat of their brow, to receive from the Government, as a mark of distinction, larger rights than those who have done nothing to attest their well-meaningness, usefulness, and industry, then the whole Jewish people, seeing that these few favored ones are the object of the Government's righteousness and benevolence and models of what it desires the Jews to become, would joyfully hasten to attain the goal marked out by the Government. Our present petition, therefore, is to the effect that our gracious sovereign may bestow his kindness upon us, and, by distinguishing the grain from the chaff, may be pleased to accord a few moderate privileges to the most educated among us, to wit: 1. "Equal rights with the other (Russian) subjects or with the Karaite Jews [1] to the educated and well-deserving Jews who possess the title of Honorary Citizens, to the merchants affiliated for a number of years with the first or second guild and distinguished by their business integrity, to the soldiers who have served irreproachably in the army." 2. The right of residence outside the Pale of Settlement "to the best among the artisans" who possess laudatory certificates from the trade-unions. The privileges thus accorded to "the best among us" will help to realize the consummation of the Government "that the sharply marked traits which distinguish the Jews from the native Russians should be levelled, and that the Jews should in their way of thinking and acting become akin to the latter." Once placed outside their secluded "Pale," the Jews "will succeed in adopting from the genuine Russians the praise-worthy qualities, by which they are distinguished, and the striving for culture and useful endeavor will become universal." [Footnote 1: On the emancipation of the Karaites see Vol. I, p. 318.] The petition reflects the humiliating attitude of men who were standing on the boundary line between slavery and freedom, whose cast of mind had been formed under the régime of oppression and caprice. Pointing to the example of the West where the bestowal of equal rights had contributed to the success of Jewish assimilation, the St. Petersburg petitioners were not even courageous enough to demand equal rights as the price of assimilation, and professed, perhaps from diplomatic considerations, to content themselves with miserable crumbs of rights and privileges for "the best among us." They failed to realize the meanness of their suggestion to divide a nation into best and worst, into those worthy of a human existence and those unworthy of it. 3. THE EXTENSION OF THE RIGHT OF RESIDENCE After some wavering, the Government decided to adopt the method of "picking" the best. The intention of the authorities was to apply the gradual relaxation of Jewish rightlessness not to groups of restrictions, but to groups of persons. The Government entered upon the scheme of abolishing or alleviating certain restrictions not for the whole Jewish population but merely for a few "useful" sections within it. Three such sections were marked off from the rest: merchants of the first guild, university graduates, and incorporated artisans. The resuscitated "Committee for the Amelioration of the Jews" [1] displayed an intense activity during that period (1856-1863). For fully two years (1857-1859) the question of granting the right of permanent residence in the interior governments to merchants of the first guild occupied the attention of that Committee and of the Council of State. The Committee had originally proposed to restrict this privilege by imposing a series of exceedingly onerous conditions. Thus, the merchants intending to settle in the Russian interior were to be required to have belonged to the first guild within the Pale for ten years previously, and they were to be allowed to leave the Pale only after securing in each case a permit from the Ministers of the Interior and of Finance. But the Council of State found that, circumscribed in this manner, the privilege would benefit only a negligible fraction of the Jewish merchant class--there were altogether one hundred and eight Jewish first-guild merchants within the Pale--and, therefore, considered it necessary to reduce the requirements for settling in the interior. [Footnote 1: Compare above, p. 49.] A long succession of meetings of this august body was taken up with the perplexing problem how to attract big Jewish capital into the central governments and at the same time safeguard the latter against the excessive influx of Jews, who, for the sake of settling there, would register in the first guild and, under the disguise of relatives, would bring with them, as one of the members of the Council put it, "the whole tribe of Israel." After protracted discussions, a resolution was adopted which was in substance as follows: The Jewish merchants who have belonged to the first guild for not less than two years prior to the issuance of the present law shall be permitted to settle permanently in the interior governments, accompanied by their families and a limited number of servants and clerks. These merchants shall be entitled to live and trade on equal terms with the Russian merchants, with the proviso that, after the settlement, they shall continue their membership in the first guild as well as their payment of the appertaining membership dues for no less than ten years, failing which they shall be sent back into the Pale. Big Jewish merchants and bankers from abroad, "noted for their social position," shall be allowed to trade in Russia under a special permit to be secured in each case from the Ministers of the Interior and of Finance. The resolution of the Council of State was sanctioned by the Tzar on March 16, 1859, and thus became law. In this manner the way was opened for big Jewish capital to enter the two Russian capitals and the tabooed interior. The advent of the big capitalists was followed by the influx of their less fortunate brethren, who, driven by material want from the Pale, were forced to seek new domiciles, and in the shape of first guild dues paid for many years a heavy toll for their right of residence and commerce. The position of these merchants offers numerous points of contact with the status of the "tolerated" Jewish merchants in Vienna and Lower Austria prior to 1848. Toleration having been granted to the Jews with a proper financial status, the Government proceeded to extend the same treatment to persons with educational qualifications. The latter class was the subject of protracted debates in the Jewish Committee as well as in the Ministries and in the Council of State. As early as in 1857 the Minister of Public Instruction Norov had submitted a memorandum to the Jewish Committee in which he argued that "religious fanaticism and prejudice among the Jews" could only be exterminated by inducing the Jewish youth to enter the general educational establishments, "which end can only be obtained by enlarging their civil rights and by offering them material advantages." Accordingly, Norov suggested that the right of residence in the whole Russian Empire should be granted to the graduates of the higher and secondary educational institutions. [1] Those Jews who should have failed to attend school were to be restricted in their right of entering the mercantile guilds. The Jewish Committee refused to limit the rights of those who did not attend the general schools, and proposed, instead, as a bait for the Jews who shunned secular education, to confer special privileges in the discharge of military service upon those Jews who had attended the _gymnazia_ [2] or even the Russian district schools, [3] or the Jewish Crown schools, [4] more exactly, to grant them the right of buying themselves off from conscription by the payment of one hundred to two hundred rubles (1859). But the Military Department vetoed this proposal on the ground that education would thus bestow privileges upon Jews which were denied even to Christians. The suggestion, relating to military privileges was therefore abandoned, and the promotion of education among Jews reduced itself to an extension of the right of residence. [Footnote 1: The latter category comprises primarily the _gymnazia_ (see next note) in which the classic languages are taught, and the so-called _real gymnazia_ in which emphasis is laid on science. The higher educational institutions, or the institutions of higher learning, are the universities and the professional schools, on which see next page, n. 4.] [Footnote 2: The name applies on the European continent to secondary schools. A Russian _gymnazia_ (and similarly a German _gymnazium_) has an eight years' course. Its curriculum corresponds roughly to a combined high school and college course in America.] [Footnote 3: _i.e._, schools found in the capitals of districts (or counties), preparatory to the _gymnazia._] [Footnote 4: See above, p.58 and below, p.174.] In this connection the Jewish Committee warmly debated the question as to whether the right of residence outside the Pale should be accorded to graduates of the higher and secondary educational institutions, or only to those of the higher. The Ministers of the Interior and Public Instruction (Lanskoy and Kovalevski) advocated the former more liberal interpretation. But the majority of the Committee members, acting "in the interests of a graduated emancipation," rejected the idea of bestowing the universal right of residence upon the graduates of _gymnazia_, and _lyceums_ and even upon those of universities and other institutions of higher learning, [1] with the exception of those who had received a learned degree, Doctor, Magister, or Candidate. [2] The Committee was willing, on the other hand, to permit the possessors of a learned degree not only to settle in the interior but also to enter the civil service. The Jewish university graduate was thus expected to submit a scholarly paper or even a doctor dissertation for two purposes, for procuring the right of residence in some Siberian locality and for the right of serving the State. Particular "circumspection" was recommended by the Committee with reference to Jewish medical men: a Jewish physician, without the degree of M.D., was not to be permitted to pass beyond the Pale. [Footnote 1: Such as technological, veterinary, dental, and other professional schools, which are independent of the universities.] [Footnote 2: _Magister_ in Russia corresponds roughly to the same title in England and America. It is inferior to the doctor degree and precedes it. _Candidate_ is a title, now mostly abolished, given to the best university students who have completed their course and have presented a scholarly paper, without having passed the full examination.] In this shape the question was submitted to the Council of State in 1861. Here opinions were evenly divided. Twenty members advocated the necessity of "bestowing" the right of residence not only on graduates of universities but also of _gymnazia_, advancing the argument that even in the case of a Jewish _gymnazist_ [1] "it is in all likelihood to be presumed that the gross superstitions and prejudices which hinder the association of the Jews with the original population of the Empire will be, if not entirely eradicated, at least considerably weakened, and a further sojourn among Christians will contribute toward the ultimate extermination of these sinister prejudices which stand in the way of every moral improvement." [Footnote 1: _i.e._, the pupil of a _gymnazium_.] Such was the opinion of the "liberal" half of the Council of State. The conservative half argued differently. Only those Jews deserve the right of residence who have received "an education such as may serve as a pledge of their having renounced the errors of fanaticism. "The wise measures adopted" as a precaution against the influx of Jews into the interior governments" would lose their efficacy, "were permission to settle all over Russia to be granted suddenly to all Jews who have for a short term attended a _gymnazium_ in the Western and South-western region, for no other purpose, to be sure, than that of pursuing on a larger scale their illicit trades and other harmful occupations." Hence only Jews with a "reliable education," i.e., the graduates of higher educational institutions, who have obtained a learned degree, should be permitted to pass the boundary of the Pale. Alexander II. endorsed the opinion of the conservative members of the Council of State. The law, promulgated on November 37, 1861, reads as follows: Jews possessing certificates of the learned degree of Doctor of Medicine and Surgery, or Doctor of Medicine, and likewise of Doctor, Magister, or Candidate of other university faculties, are admitted to serve In all Government offices, without their being confined to the Pale established for the residence of Jews. They are also permitted to settle permanently in all the provinces of the Empire for the pursuit of commerce and Industry. In addition, the law specifies that, apart from the members of their families, these Jews shall be permitted to keep, as a maximum, "two domestic servants from among their coreligionists." The promulgation of this law brought about a curious state of affairs, the upshot of the genuinely Russian homoeopathic system of emancipation, A handful of Jews who had obtained learned degrees from universities were permitted not only to reside in the interior of t e Empire, but were also admitted here and there to Government service, in the capacity of civil and military physicians. Yet both of these rights were denied to all other persons with the same university education, "Physicians and Active Students," [1] who had not obtained learned degrees. On one occasion the Minister of Public Instruction put before the Council of State the following legal puzzle: A Jewish student, while attending the university of the Russian capital, enjoys the right of residence there. But when he has successfully finished his course and has obtained the customary certificate, without the learned degree, he forfeits this right and must return to the Pale. [Footnote 1: Both titles are given at the conclusion of the prescribed university course; the former to medical students, the latter to students of other faculties.] Yet the Government in its stubbornness refused to make concessions, and when it was forced to make them, it did so rather in its own interest than in that of the Jews. Owing to the scarcity of medical help in the army and in the interior, ukases issued in 1865 and 1867 declared Jewish physicians, even without the title of Doctor of Medicine, to be admissible to the medical corps and later on to civil service in all places of the Empire, except the capitals St. Petersburg and Moscow. Nevertheless, the extension of the plain right of domicile, without admission to civil service, remained for a long time dependent on a learned degree. It was only after two decades of hesitation that the law of January 19, 1879, conferred the right of universal residence on _all_ categories of persons with a higher education, regardless of the nature of the diploma, and also including pharmacists, dentists, _feldshers_, [1] and midwives. [Footnote 1: From the German _Feldscherer_, a sort of combination of leech, first-aid, and barber, who frequently gave medical advice.] The privileges bestowed upon the big merchants and "titled" intellectuals affected but a few small groups of the Jewish population. The authorities now turned their attention to the mass of the people, and, in accordance with its rules of political homoeopathy, commenced to pick from it a handful of persons for better treatment. The question of admitting Jewish artisans into the Russian interior occupied the Government for a long time. In 1856 Lanskoy, the Minister of the Interior, entered into an official correspondence concerning this matter with the governors-general and governors of the Western provinces. Most of the replies were favorable to the idea of conferring upon Jewish artisans the right of universal residence. Of the three governors-general whose opinion had been invited the governor-general of Vilna was the only one who thought that the present situation needed no change. His colleague of Kiev, Count Vasilchikov, was, on the contrary, of the opinion that it would be a rational measure to transfer the surplus of Jewish artisans who were cooped up within the Pale and had been pauperized by excessive competition to the interior governments where there was a scarcity of skilled labor. [1] [Footnote 1: The official statistics of that time (about the year 1860) brought out the fact that the number of Jews in the fifteen governments of the Pale of Settlement, exclusive of the Kingdom of Poland, but Inclusive of the Baltic region, amounted to 1,430,800, forming 8% of the total population of that territory. The number of artisans in the "Jewish" governments was far greater than in the Russian interior. Thus in the government of Kiev there were to be found 2.06 artisans to every thousand inhabitants, against 0.8 in the near-by government of Kursk, i.e., 2% times more. In reality, the number of Jews in the Western region, without the Kingdom of Poland, exceeded considerably 1 and one-half millions, there being no regular registration at that time.] A surprisingly liberal pronouncement came from, the governor-general of New Russia, Count Stroganov. In the world of Russian officialdom professing the dogma of "gradation" and "caution" in the question of Jewish rights he was the only one who had the courage to raise his voice on behalf of complete Jewish emancipation. He wrote: The existence in our times of restrictions in the rights of the Jews as compared with the Christian population in any shape or form is neither in accord with the spirit and tendency of the age nor with the policy of the Government looking towards the amalgamation of the Jews with the original population of the Empire. The count therefore concluded that it was necessary "to permit the Jews to live in all the places of the Empire and engage without any restrictions and on equal terms with all Russian subjects in such crafts and industries as they themselves may choose, in accordance with their habits and abilities." It is scarcely necessary to add that the bold voice of the Russian dignitary, who in a lucid interval spoke up in a manner reminiscent of the civilized West, was not listened to by the bureaucrats of St. Petersburg. Nevertheless, as far as the specific question of Jewish artisans was concerned, the favorable replies were bound to have a decisive effect. However, red-tape sluggishness managed to retard the decision for several years. In 1863 the question was referred back to the Jewish Committee, only a short time before the dissolution of that body, which for a quarter of a century had perpetrated every conceivable experiment over the "amelioration of the Jews." Thence the matter was transferred to the Committee of Ministers and finally to the Council of State. In the ministerial body, Valuyev, Minister of the Interior, favored the idea of granting the right of settling outside the Pale to Jewish artisans and mechanics, dependent on certain conditions, "by practising caution and endeavoring to avert the rapid influx into the midst of the population of the interior governments of an element hitherto foreign to it." In reply to Baron Korff, who had advocated the admission of the Jewish artisans beyond the Pale not only with their families but also with Jewish domestics, Valuyev argued that this privilege "will enable Jewish business men of all kinds to reside in the interior governments, under the guise of employes of their coreligionists." "The Jews," according to Valuyev, "will endeavor to transfer their activity to a field economically more favorable to them, and it goes without saying that they will not fail to seize the first best opportunity of exploiting the places of the Empire hitherto inaccessible to them." The Council of State passed the law in the formulation of the Ministry of the Interior, adding the necessary precautions against the entirely legitimate endeavor of Jewish business men "to transfer their activity to a field economically more favorable to them." After nine years of preparation, on June 28, 1865, Alexander II. finally gave his sanction to the law permitting Jewish artisans, mechanics and distillers, including apprentices, to reside all over the Empire. Both in the wording of the law and in its subsequent application the privilege was hedged about by numerous safeguards. Thus, the artisan who wished to settle outside the Pale had to produce not only a certificate from his trade-union testifying to his professional ability but also a testimony from the police that he was not under trial. At stated intervals he had to procure a passport from his native town in the Pale, since outside the Pale his status was that of a temporary resident. In his new place of residence he was permitted to deal only in the wares of his own workmanship. If he happened to be out of work, he was to be sent back to the Pale. While opening a valve in the suffocating Pale, the Government took good care to prevent the artificially pent-up Jewish energy from rushing through it. However, heaving cooped up for so long, the Jews began to press through the opening. In the wake of the artisans, who, on account of the indicated restrictions of the law or because of the lack of travelling expenses, emigrated in comparatively small numbers, followed the commercial proletariat, using the criminal disguise of artisans, in order to transfer their energies to a "field economically more favorable to them." The position of these people was tragic. The fictitious artisans became the tributaries of the local police, depending entirely on its favor or disfavor. The detection of such "criminals" outside the Pale was followed by their expulsion and the confiscation of their merchandise. As a matter of fact, the Russian Government did everything in its power to stem the influx of Jews into the interior. Only with the greatest reluctance did it widen the range of the "privileged" Jewish groups. The Tzar himself, held in the throes of the old Muscovite tradition, frequently put his veto upon the proposals to enlarge the area of Jewish residence. A striking illustration of this attitude may be found in the case of the retired Jewish soldiers, who, after discharging their galley-like army service of a quarter of a century, were expelled from the places where they had been stationed and sent back into the Pale. To the report submitted in 1858 by the Jewish Committee, pointing out the necessity of granting the right of universal residence to these soldiers, the Tzar attached the resolution: "I decidedly refuse to grant it." When petitions to the same effect became more insistent, all he did was to permit in 1860, "by way of exemption," a group of retired soldiers who had served in St. Petersburg in the body-guard to remain in the capital. Ultimately, however, he was obliged to yield, and in 1867 he revoked the law prohibiting retired Jewish soldiers to live outside the Pale. Thus after long wavering the right of domicile was finally bestowed upon the so-called "Nicholas soldiers" and their offspring--a rather niggardly reward for having served the fatherland under the terrible hardships of the old form of conscription. 4. FURTHER ALLEVIATIONS AND ATTEMPTS AT RUSSIFICATION Nevertheless, the liberal spirit of the age did its work slowly but surely, and partial legal alleviations were granted by the Government or wrested from it by the force of circumstances. The barriers which had been erected for the Jews within the Pale itself were done away with. Thus the right of residence was extended to the cities of Nicholayev and Sevastopol, which, though geographically situated within the Pale, had been legally placed outside of it. The obstructions in the way of temporary visits to the holy city of Kiev were mitigated. The disgraceful old-time privilege of several cities, such as Zhitomir and Vilna, entitling them to exclude the Jews from certain streets, [1] was revoked. Moreover, by the law of 1862, the Jews were permitted to acquire land in the rural districts on those manorial estates in which after the liberation of the peasants the binding relation of the peasants to the landed proprietors had been completely discontinued. Unfortunately, what the Jews thus gained through the liberation of the peasants, they lost to a large extent soon afterwards through the Polish insurrection of 1863, forfeiting the right of acquiring immovable property outside the cities in the greater part of the Pale. For in 1864, after quelling the Polish insurrection, the Government undertook to Russify the Western region, and both Poles and Jews were strictly barred from acquiring estates in the nine governments forming the jurisdiction of the governors-general of Vilna and Kiev. [Footnote 1: On the medieval privilege _de non tolerandis Judaeis_ see Vol. I, pp. 85 and 95.] The two other great reforms, that of rural self-government and the judiciary, were not stained by the ignominious label _kromye Yevreyev_, "excepting the Jews," so characteristic of Russian legislation. The "Statute concerning Zemstvo Organizations," [1] issued in 1864, makes no exceptions for Jews, and those among them with the necessary agrarian or commercial qualifications are granted the right of active and passive suffrage within the scheme of provincial self-government. In fact, in the Southern governments the Jews began soon afterwards to participate in the rural assemblies, and were occasionally appointed to rural offices. Nor did the liberally conceived Judicial Regulations of 1864 [2] contain any important discriminations against Jews. Within a short time Jewish lawyers attained to prominence as members of the Russian bar, although their admission to the bench was limited to a few isolated cases. [Footnote 1: A system of local self-government carried on by means of elective assemblies and its executive organs. There is an assembly for each district (or county) and another for each government.] [Footnote 2: Among other reforms they instituted the Russian bar as a separate organization.] Little by little, another dismal spectre of the past, the missionary activity of the Government, began to fade away. In the beginning of Alexander's reign, the conversion of Jews was still encouraged by the grant of monetary assistance to converts. The law of 1859 extended these stipends to persons embracing any other Christian persuasion outside of Greek Orthodoxy. But in 1864 the Government came to the conclusion that it was not worth its while to reward deserters and began a new policy by discontinuing its allowances to converts serving in the army. A little later it repealed the law providing for a mitigation of sentence for criminal offenders who embrace Christianity during the inquiry or trial. [1] [Footnote 1: See above, p. 45.] In encouraging "the fusion of the Jews with the original population," the Government of Alexander II. had in mind civil and cultural fusion rather than religious assimilation, which even the inquisitorial contrivances of Nicholas' conscription scheme had failed to accomplish. But as far as the cultural fusion or, for short, the Russification of the Jews was concerned, the Government even now occasionally indulged in practices which were borrowed from the antiquated system of enlightened absolutism. The official enlightenment, which had been introduced during the forties, was slow in taking root. The year 1848 was the first scholastic year in the two enlightenment nurseries, the rabbinical schools of Vilna and Zhitomir. Beginning with that year a number of elementary Crown schools for Jewish children were opened in various cities of the Pale. The cruel persecutions of the outgoing regime affected the development of the schools in a twofold manner. On the one hand, the Jewish population could not help turning away with disgust from the gift of enlightenment which its persecutors held out to it. On the other hand, the horrors of conscription induced many a Jewish youth, to seek refuge in the new rabbinical schools which saved their inmates from the soldier's uniform. Many a parent who regarded both the barracks and the Crown schools as training grounds for converts preferred to send his children to the latter, where, at least, they were spared the martyrdom of the barracks. The pupils of the rabbinical schools came from the poorest classes, those that carried on their shoulders the whole weight of conscription. True, the distrustful attitude towards the official schools was gradually weakening as the new Government of Alexander II. was passing from the former policy of oppression to that of reforms. By and by, the compulsory attendance at these schools became a voluntary one, prompted by the desire for general culture or for a special training as rabbi or teacher. Nevertheless the expectation of the Russian Government under Nicholas I. that the new schools would take the place of the time-honored educational Jewish institutions, the heder and yeshibah, remained unfulfilled. Only an insignificant percentage of Jewish children went to the Crown schools, and even these children did so only after having received their training at the heder or yeshibah. Realizing this, the Government decided to combat the traditional school as the rival of the new. Immediately upon his accession to the throne, Alexander confirmed the following resolution adopted by the Jewish Committee on May 3, 1855: "After the lapse of twenty years no one shall be appointed rabbi or teacher of Jewish subjects, except graduates of the rabbinical schools [1] or of the general educational establishments of a higher or secondary grade." [Footnote 1: i.e., the Government training schools for rabbis provided by the ukase of 1844. See the preceding page.] Having fixed a term of twenty years for abolishing the institution of melammeds and religious leaders, the product of thousands of years of development, the Government frequently brandished this Damocles sword over their heads. In 1856 a strict supervision was established over heders and melammeds. A year later the Jewish communities were instructed to elect henceforward as "official rabbis" [1] only graduates of the rabbinical Crown schools or of secular educational establishments, and, in default of such, to invite educated Jews from Germany. But all these regulations proved of no avail, and in 1859 a new ukase became necessary, which loosened the official grip over the heders, but made it at the same time obligatory upon the children of Jewish merchants to attend the general Russian schools or the Jewish Crown schools. [Footnote 1: Crown (In Russian _kazyonny_) rabbis in Russia are those that discharge the civil functions connected with their office, in distinction from the "spiritual" or ecclesiastic rabbis who are in charge of the purely religious affairs of the community. This division has survived in Russia until to-day.] The enforcement of school attendance would scarcely have produced the desired effect--the orthodox managed somehow to give the slip to "Russian learning"--were it not for the fact that under the influence of the inner cultural transformation of Russian Jewry the general Russian school became during that period more and more popular among the advanced classes of the Jewish population, and gymnazium and university took their place alongside of heder and yeshibah. Yet the hundreds of pupils in the new schools faded into insignificance when compared with the hundreds of thousands who were educated exclusively in the old schools. The fatal year 1875, the last of the twenty years of respite granted to the melammeds for their self-annihilation, arrived. But the huge melammed army was not willing to pass out of Jewish life, in which they exercised a definite function, with no substitute to take its place. The Government was forced to yield. After several brief postponements the melammeds were left in peace, and by an ukase issued in 1879 the idea of abolishing the heders was dropped. Towards the end of this period the Government abandoned altogether its attempts to reform the Jewish schools, and decided to liquidate its former activity in this direction. By an ukase issued in 1873 the two rabbinical schools and all Jewish Crown schools were closed. On the ruins of the vast educational network, originally projected for the transformation of Judaism, only about a hundred "elementary schools" and two modest "Teachers Institutes," [1] which were to supply teachers for these schools, were established by the Government. The authorities were now inclined to look upon the general Russian schools as the most effective agencies of "fusion," and put their greatest trust in the elemental process of Russification which had begun to sweep over the upper layers of Jewry. [Footnote 1: In Vilna and Zhitomir. The latter was closed in 1885. The former is still in existence.] 5. THE JEWS AND THE POLISH INSURRECTION OF 1863 While the official world of St. Petersburg was obsessed with the idea of the Russification of Jewry, in Warsaw the tendency of Polonization, as applied to the Jews of the Western region, cropped up in the wake of the revolutionary Polish movement in the beginning of the sixties. At the inception of Alexander's reign the Russian Government set out to equalize the legal status of the Jews in the Kingdom of Poland with that of the Empire, and to abolish the surviving special restrictions, such as the prohibition of residing in certain towns, or in certain parts of towns, disabilities in acquiring property, and others. But the highest Polish administration in Warsaw was obstructing in every possible way the liberal attempts of the Russian Government. Prior to the insurrection of 1863, the attitude of Polish society towards the Jews was one of habitual animosity, and this notwithstanding the fact that by that time Warsaw harbored already a group of Jewish intellectuals who were eager to assimilate with the Poles and were imbued with Polish patriotism. When, in 1859, the _Warsaw Gazette_ published an anti-Semitic article in which the Jews were branded as foreigners, the Polish-Jewish patriots, including the banker Kronenberg, a convert, were stung to the quick, and they came forward with violent protests. This led to passionate debates in the Polish press, generally unfriendly to the Jews. The radical Polish organs, published abroad by political exiles, took occasion to denounce bitterly the anti-Semitic trend of Polish society. The veteran historian Lelevel, who had not yet forgotten Poland's historic injustice of 1831, [1] issued a pamphlet in Brussels, calling upon the Poles to live in harmony with the race with which it had existed side by side for eight hundred years. [Footnote 1: See above, p. 105.] Lelevel's kindly words would scarcely have brought the anti-Semites to reason, had not the Poles at that moment embarked upon an enterprise for the success of which they sorely needed the sympathy and co-operation of their Jewish neighbors. The revolutionary movement which engulfed Russian Poland in 1860-1863 required the utmost exertion of effort on the part of the entire population, in which the half-million Jews played no small part. All of a sudden Polish society opened its arms to those whom it had but recently branded as foreigners, and out of the ranks of Warsaw Jewry came a hearty response, expressing itself not only in patriotic manifestations but also in sacrifices and achievements for the sake of the common fatherland. At the head of the Warsaw community during this stormy period stood a man who combined Polish patriotism with rabbinic orthodoxy. Formerly rabbi in Cracow, Berush [1] Meisels had as far back as 1848 been sent as deputy to the parliament at Kremsier, [2] and stood in the forefront of the Polish patriots of Galicia. In 1856 he accepted the post of rabbi in Warsaw. When the revolutionary movement had broken out, Meisels endeavored to instruct his flock in the spirit of Polish patriotism. Revered by the Jewish masses for his piety, and by the intellectuals for his political trend of mind, this spiritual leader of Polish Jewry played in the revolutionary Polish movement a role equal in importance to that of the leading ecclesiastics of Poland. The harmonious co-operation of the orthodox Chief Rabbi Meisels, the reform preacher Marcus Jastrow, [3] and the lay representatives of the community lent unity and organization to the part played by the Jews in preparing the rebellion. [Footnote 1: A variant of the name _Baer_.] [Footnote 2: A town in Moravia, where, after the rising of 1848, the Austrian parliament met provisionally till March, 1849.] [Footnote 3: After the suppression of the Polish insurrection, Jastrow went to the United States, and became a leading rabbi in Philadelphia. He died in 1903.] The Jews of Warsaw participated in all street manifestations and political processions which took place during the year 1860-1861. Among those pierced by Cossack bullets during the manifestation of February 27, 1861, were several Jews. The indignation which this shooting down of defenceless people aroused in Warsaw is generally regarded as the immediate cause of the mutiny. Rabbi Meisels was a member of the deputation which went to Viceroy Gorchakov to demand satisfaction for the blood that had been spilled. In the demonstrative funeral procession which followed the coffins of the victims the Jewish clergy, headed by Meisels, marched alongside of the Catholic priesthood. Many Jews attended the memorial services in the Catholic churches at which fiery patriotic speeches were delivered. Similar demonstrations of mourning were held in the synagogues. An appeal sent out broadcast by the circle of patriotic Jewish Poles reminded the Jews of the anti-Jewish hatred of the Russian bureaucracy, and called upon them "to clasp joyfully the brotherly hand held forth by them (the Poles), to place themselves under the banner of the nation whose ministers of religion have in all churches spoken of us in words of love and brotherhood." The whole year 1861 stood, at least as far as the Polish capital was concerned, under the sign of Polish-Jewish "brotherhood." At the synagogue service held in memory of the historian Lelevel Jastrow preached a patriotic sermon. On the day of the Jewish New Year prayers were offered up in the synagogues for the success of the Polish cause, accompanied by the singing of the national Polish hymn _Boze cos Polske_. [1] When, as a protest against the invasion of the churches by the Russian soldiery, the Catholic clergy closed all churches in Warsaw, the rabbis and communal elders followed suit, and ordered the closing of the synagogues. This action aroused the ire of Lieders, the new viceroy. Rabbi Meisels, the preachers Jastrow and Kramshtyk as well as the president of the "Congregational Board" were placed under arrest. The prisoners were kept in the citadel of Warsaw for three months, but were then released. [Footnote 1: Pronounce, _Bozhe, tzosh Polske_, "O Lord, Thou that hast for so many ages guarded Poland with the shining shield of Thy protection!"--the first words of the hymn.] In the meantime Marquis Vyelepolski, acting as mediator between the Russian Government and the Polish people, had prepared his plan of reforms as a means of warding off the mutiny. Among these reforms, which aimed at the partial restoration of Polish autonomy and the improvement of the status of the peasantry, was included a law providing for the "legal equality of the Jews." Wielding considerable influence, first as director of the Polish Commission of Ecclesiastical Affairs and Public Instruction, and later as the head of the whole civil administration of the Kingdom, Vyelepolski was able to secure St. Petersburg's assent to his project. On May 24, 1862, Alexander II. signed an ukase revoking the suspensory decree of 180 1808, [1] which had entailed numerous disabilities for the Jews incompatible with the new tendencies in the political and agrarian life of the Kingdom. This ukase conferred the following rights upon the Jews: [Footnote 1: See Vol. I, p. 299.] 1. To acquire immovable property on all manorial estates on which the peasants had passed from the state of serfs into that of tenants. 2. To settle freely in the formerly prohibited cities and city districts, [1] not excluding those situated within the twenty-one verst zone along the Prussian and Austrian frontier. [2] 3. To appear as witnesses in court on an equal footing with Christians in all legal proceedings and to take an oath in a new, less humiliating form. [Footnote 1: See above, pp. 172 and 178.] [Footnote 2: See above, p. 95.] Bestowing these privileges upon the Polish Jews in the hope of bringing about their amalgamation with the local Christian population, the Tzar forbids in the same ukase the further use of Hebrew and Yiddish in all civil affairs and legal documents, such as contracts, wills, obligations, also in commercial ledgers and even in business correspondence. In conclusion, the ukase directs the Administrative Council of the Kingdom of Poland to revise and eventually to repeal all the other laws which hamper the Jews in their pursuit of crafts and industries by imposing special taxes upon them. This ukase of Alexander II., though revoking only part of the insulting restrictions in the elementary civil rights of the Jews, was given the high-sounding title of an "Act of Emancipation." The secluded hasidic mass of Poland was glad to accept the legal alleviations offered to it, without thinking of any linguistic or other kind of assimilation. On the other hand, the assimilated Jewish _intelligentzia_, which had joined the ranks of the Polish insurgents, was dreaming of complete emancipation, and confidently hoped to attain it upon the successful termination of the revolutionary enterprise. In the meantime the revolution was assuming ever larger proportions. The year 1863 arrived. The demonstrations on the streets of Warsaw were succeeded by bloody skirmishes between the Polish insurgents and the Russian troops in the woods of Poland and Lithuania. The Jews took no active part in this phase of the rebellion. As far as Poland proper was concerned, their participation was limited to the secret revolutionary propaganda. In Lithuania again neither the Jewish masses nor the newly arisen class of intellectuals sympathized with the Polish cause. In that part of the country the systematic Jew-baiting of the Polish pans, or noble landowners, was still fresh in the minds, and the Jews, moreover, were pinning all their faith to the emancipation to be bestowed by St. Petersburg. The will o' the wisp of Russification had already begun to lure the Jewish professional class. In many Lithuanian localities the Jews who failed to show their sympathy with the Polish revolutionaries ran the risk of being dealt with severely. Here and there, as had been the case in 1831, the rebels were as good as their word, and hanged or shot the Jews suspected of pro-Russian sympathies. The reserved attitude of the Lithuanian Jews throughout the mutiny proved their salvation after the suppression of the rebellion, when the ferocious Muravyov, the governor-general of Vilna, took up his bloody work of retribution. As for the Kingdom of Poland, neither the revolution nor its suppression entailed any serious consequences for them. True, the fraternization of the Warsaw Jews with the Poles during the revolutionary years weakened for a little while the hereditary Jew-hatred of the Polish people, and helped to intensify the fever of Polonization which had seized the Jewish upper classes. But indirectly the effects of the Polish rebellion were detrimental to the Jews of the rest of the Empire. The insurrection was not only followed by a general wave of political reaction, but it also gave strong impetus to the policy of Russification which was now applied with particular vigor to the Western provinces, and was damaging to the Jews both from the civil and the cultural point of view. CHAPTER XIX THE REACTION UNDER ALEXANDER II. 1. CHANGE OF ATTITUDE TOWARD THE JEWISH PROBLEM The decided drift toward political reaction in the second part of Alexander's reign affected also the specific Jewish problem, which the homoeopathic reforms, designed to "ameliorate" a fraction of the Jewish people, had tried to solve in vain. The general reaction showed itself in the fact that, after having carried out the first great reforms, such as the liberation of the peasantry, the introduction of rural self-government and the reorganization of the administration of the law, the Government considered the task of Russian regeneration to be completed, and stubbornly refused, to use the expression current at the time, "to crown the edifice" by the one great political reform, the grant of a constitution and political liberty. This refusal widened the breach between the Government and the progressive element of the Russian people, whose hopes were riveted on the ultimate goal of political reorganization. The striving for liberty, driven under ground by police and censorship, assumed among the Russian youth the character of a revolutionary movement. And when the murderous hand of the "Third Section" [1] descended heavily upon the champions of liberty, the youthful revolutionaries retorted with political terrorism which darkened the last days of Alexander II. and led to his assassination. [Footnote 1: See above, p. 21, n. 1.] The complete emancipation of the Jews was out of place in this atmosphere of growing official reaction. The same bureaucracy which halted the march of the "great reforms" for the country at large was not inclined to allow even minor reforms when affecting the Jews only. Even the former desire for a "graded" and partial amelioration of the position of the Jews had vanished. Instead, the center of the stage was again occupied by the old red-tape activities, by discussions about the Jewish question--endless no less than fruitless--in the recesses of bureaucratic committees and sub-committees, by oracular animadversions of governors and governors-general upon the conduct of the Jews, and so on. Theory-mongering of the reactionary variety was again at a premium. Once more the authorities debated the question whether the Jews were to be regarded as useful or harmful to the State, instead of putting the diametrically opposite question of simple justice: whether the State which is called upon to serve the Jews as part of the civic organism of Russia is useful to them to an extent which may be lawfully claimed by them. Under Nicholas I. the Government chancelleries had been busy inventing new remedies against the "separatism" of the Jews and their "harmful pursuits." During the first liberal years of Alexander's reign commerce ceased to be branded as "a harmful pursuit." Yet as soon as the Jewish merchants, stimulated by the partial extension of their right of residence and occupation, displayed a wider economic activity and became successful competitors of the "original" Russian business men, they were met with shouts of protest demanding that this Jewish "exploitation" be effectively "curbed." In this connection it must be pointed out that the economic advancement of the Jews was not altogether due to the privileges accorded to them by the Russian legislation, but was rather the effect of general economic conditions. The great progress in industrial life during "the era of reforms," more particularly the expansion of railroad enterprises during the sixties and seventies, opened up a wide field for the energies of Jewish capitalists. Moreover, the abolition, in 1861, of the old system of farming out the sale of liquor transferred a part of the big Jewish capital from the liquor traffic into railroad building. The Jewish "excise farmers" [1] were converted into railroad men, as shareholders, supply merchants, or contractors. A new Jewish plutocracy came into being, and its growth excited jealousy and fear among the Russian mercantile class. The Government, filled with enthusiasm for the cultivation of large industries, was not as yet prepared to discriminate against the Jews whenever big capital was concerned. But it lent an attentive ear to the "original" Russian merchants whenever they complained about Jewish competition in petty trade, on which the lower Jewish classes depended for their livelihood. The Government, which had not yet emancipated itself from the habit of "assorting" its citizens and dividing them into a protected and a tolerated class, set out to elaborate measures for "curbing" the Jews belonging to the latter category. [Footnote 1: i.e., those that leased from the Government the collection of excise on liquor. They were designated as _aktzizniks_, from _aktziz_, the Russian word for "excise."] The question which confronted the Government next was this: to what extent have the hopes for a fusion of the Jews with the original population been justified by the events? Here, too, the reply was unsatisfactory. The naive expectation that a few gratuities offered to the Jews in the shape of privileges would fill them with the eager desire to "fuse" with the Russians did not come true. Strong as was the trend towards Russification in the new Jewish _intelligenzia_ of the sixties, the broad masses of Jewry knew nothing of such a tendency. The authorities became suspicious: what if these crafty Hebrews should fool us again and refuse to pay for the donated rights by fusing with the Christians? Russian officialdom received new food for reflection which was to last it for years, nay, for decades. 2. THE INFORMER JACOB BRAFMAN Several occurrences were instrumental in determining the Government to embark upon a new policy, that of investigating assiduously the inner life of the Jews. At the end of the sixties a man appeared in Vilna who offered his services to the authorities as a detective and spy among the Jews. Jacob Brafman, a native of the government of Minsk, had deserted his race and religion in the last years of Nicholas' conscription, hoping thereby to escape the nets of the vigilant Kahal "captors" who wished to draft him into the army. Embittered against the Kahal agents who had become mere police tools, Brafman desired to wreak vengeance upon the Kahal as a whole, nay, upon the very idea of a Jewish communal organization. When the "fusion," or assimilation, of the Jews became the watchword of the highest official circles, the astute convert found that he could make his way by exposing the influences which in his opinion checked the endeavors of the Government. A memorandum presented by him to Alexander II., when the latter was passing through Minsk in 1858, opened to him the doors of the Holy Synod. He was appointed instructor of Hebrew at a Greek-Orthodox seminary and entrusted with the task of finding ways to remove the difficulties placed by the Jews in the path of their coreligionists intending to go over to Christianity. His mission to facilitate apostasy among the Jews proved a failure, and his services as detective were not yet appreciated during the liberal years of Alexander's reign. However, with the reactionary turn in Russian politics, in the middle of the sixties, these services were once more in demand. Brafman hastened to the hot-bed of reactionary chauvinism, the city of Vilna, which was firmly held in the iron grip of Muravyov, [1] and there began "to expose the separatism of the inner life of the Jews" before the highest administration of the province. He contended that the Kahal, though officially abolished in 1844, [2] continued in reality to exist and to maintain a widely ramified judiciary (_Bet Din_), that it constituted a secret, uncanny sort of organization which wielded despotic power over the communities by employing such weapons as the _herem_ (excommunication) and _hazakah_ (the Jewish legal practice of securing property rights), [3] that it incited the Jewish masses against the State, the Government, and the Christian religion, and fostered in these masses fanaticism and dangerous national separatism. In the opinion of Brafman, the only way to eradicate this "secret Jewish government," was to destroy the last vestiges of Jewish communal autonomy by closing all religious and charitable societies and fraternities. The Jewish community itself ought to share the same fate, and the Jews forming part of it should be included among the Christian estates in the cities and villages. In a word, Judaism as a communal organization should pass out of existence altogether. [Footnote 1: Michael Muravyov (see above, p. 183) was appointed in 1863 military governor of the governments of Vilna, Kovno, Grodno, Vitebsk, Minsk, and Moghilev, which he endeavored to Russify with relentless cruelty. He died in 1866.] [Footnote 2: See p. 58 et seq.] [Footnote 3: More exactly, the acquisition of property by continued and undisturbed possession for a period of time. This right of acquisition was formerly granted by the Kahal on the payment of a certain tax; see Vol. I, p. 190.] The heads of the Russian administration in Lithuania listened eagerly to the sinister revelations of the new Pfefferkorn. [1] In 1866 Governor-General Kauffmann appointed a commission, which also included a few Jewish experts, to look into the material compiled by Brafman. This material consisted of the minutes of the Kahal of Minsk from the first half of the nineteenth century, recording the entirely legitimate enactments which the communal administration had passed by virtue of the autonomous rights granted to it by the Government. Brafman published his material in a series of articles in the official organ of the province, the _Vilenski Vyestnik_, "The Vilna Herald"; the articles were later republished in a separate volume, under the title _Kniga Kahala_, "The Book of the Kahal." [2] The data collected by Brafman were embellished with the customary anti-Semitic quotations from talmudic and rabbinic literature, and put in such a light that the Government was placed on the horns of a dilemma: either to destroy with one stroke the entire Jewish communal organization and all the cultural agencies attached to it, or to run the risk of seeing Russia captured by the "Universal Kahal." It may be added that the _Alliance Israélite Universelle_, which had shortly before been founded in Paris for the purpose of assisting Jews in various countries, figured in Brafman's indictment as a constituent society of the universal Jewish Kahal organization. [Footnote 1: A medieval convert (died ab. 1521) who wrote against Judaism, especially the Talmud.] [Footnote 2: The first edition appeared in 1869, the second in 1871.] The "Book of the Kahal" was printed at public expense and sent out to all Government offices to serve as a guide for Russian officials and enable them to fight the "Inner enemy." It was in vain that Brafman's ignorance of rabbinic lore and his entire distortion of the role played by the Kahal in days gone-by was exposed by Jewish writers in articles and monographs; it was in vain that the Jewish members of the commission appointed by the governor-general of Vilna protested against the barbarous proposals of the informer. The authorities of St. Petersburg seized upon Brafman's discoveries as incontrovertible evidence of the existence of Jewish separatism and as a justification for the method of "cautiousness" which they saw fit to apply to the solution of the Jewish problem. 3. THE FIGHT AGAINST JEWISH "SEPARATISM" Another incident which took place about the same time served in the eyes of the leading Government circles as an additional illustration of Jewish separatism. In 1870 Alexander II. was on a visit to the Kingdom of Poland, and there beheld the sight of dense masses of Hasidim with their long earlocks and flowing coats. The Tzar, repelled by this spectacle, enjoined upon the Polish governors strictly to enforce in their domains the old Russian law prohibiting the Jewish form of dress. [1] Thereupon the administration of the Kingdom threw itself with special zest upon the important task of eradicating "the ugly costumes and earlocks" of the Hasidim. [Footnote 1: See above p. 144.] Shortly afterwards the question of Jewish separatism was the subject of discussion before the Council of State. Under the unmistakable influence of the recent revelations of Brafman, the Council of State arrived at the conclusion that "the prohibition of external differences in dress is yet far from leading to the goal pursued by the Government, _viz_., to destroy the exclusiveness of the Jews and the almost hostile attitude of the Jewish communities towards Christians, these communities forming in our land a secluded religious and civil caste or, one might say, a state in a state." Hence the Council proposed to entrust a special commission with the task "of considering ways and means to weaken as far as possible the communal cohesion among the Jews" (December, 1870). As a result, a commission of the kind suggested by the Council was established in 1871, consisting of the representatives of the various ministries and presided over by the Assistant-Minister of the Interior, Lobanov-Rostovski. The Commission received the name "Commission for the Amelioration of the Condition of the Jews." [1] [Footnote 1: Compare above, pp. 161 and 169.] While the Government was again engaged in one of its numerous experiments over the problem of Jewish separatism, an event, unusual in those days, took place: the Odessa pogrom [1] of 1871. In this granary of the South, which owed its flourishing commerce to Jews and Greeks, an unfriendly feeling had sprung up between these two nationalities, which competed with one another in the corn trade and in the grocery business. This competition, though of great benefit to the consumers, was a thorn in the flesh of the Greek merchants. Time and again the Greeks would scare the Jews during the Christian Passover by their barbarous custom of discharging pistols in front of their church, which was situated in the heart of the Jewish district. But in 1871, with the approach of the Christian Passover, the Greeks proceeded to organize a regular pogrom. [Footnote 1: _Pogrom_, with the accent on the last syllable, signifies _ruin_, _devastation_, and was originally applied to the ravages of an invading army.] To arouse the mob the Greeks spread the rumor that the Jews had stolen a cross from the church fence and had thrown stones at the church building. The pogrom began on Palm Sunday (March 28). The Jews were maltreated, and their houses and shops were sacked and looted. Having started in the immediate vicinity of the church, the riot spread to the neighboring streets and finally engulfed the whole city. For three days hordes of Greeks and Russians gave free vent to their mob instincts, demolishing, burning, and robbing Jewish property, desecrating synagogues and beating Jews to senselessness in all parts of the city, undisturbed by the presence of police and troops who did nothing to stop the atrocities. The appeal of representative Odessa Jews to Governor-General Kotzebue was met by the retort that the Jews themselves were to blame, "having started first," and that the necessary measures for restoring order had been adopted. The latter assertion proved to be false, for on the following day the pogrom was renewed with even greater vigor. Only on the fourth day, when thousands of houses and shops had already been destroyed, and the rioters, intoxicated with their success, threatened to start a regular massacre, the authorities decided to step in and to "pacify" the riff-raff by a rather quaint method. Soldiers were posted on the market place with wagon-loads of rods, and the rioters, caught red-handed, were given a public whipping on the spot. The "fatherly" punishment inflicted by the local authorities upon their "naughty" children sufficed to put a stop to the pogrom. As for the central Government in St. Petersburg, the only thing it wanted to know was whether the pogrom had any connection with the secret revolutionary propaganda which, beginning with the Jews, might next set the mob against the nobility and Russian bourgeoisie. Since the official inquiry failed to reveal any political motives behind the Odessa riots, the St. Petersburg authorities were set at ease, and were only too glad to take the word of the satraps of the Pale who reported that the anti-Jewish movement had started as "a crude protest of the masses against the failure to solve the Jewish question"--_viz_., to solve it in a reactionary spirit--and as a manifestation, of the popular resentment against Jewish exploitation. The old charge of separatism against the Jews thus found a companion in a new accusation: their economic "exploitation" of the Christian population of the Pale. The Committee appointed at the recommendation of the Council of State was enjoined to conduct a strict inquiry into both these "charges." Concretely the work of the Committee reduced itself to a consideration of two questions, one relating to the Kahal, or "the amelioration of the spiritual life of the Jews," and the other referring to the feasibility of thinning out the Pale of Settlement with the end in view of weakening the economic competition of the Jews. The material bearing on these questions included, apart from Brafman's "standard work," a "Memorandum concerning the more important Administrative Problems in the South-west," which had been submitted in 1871 by the governor-general of Kiev, Dondukov-Korsakov, to the Tzar. The author of the memorandum voices his conviction that "the principal endeavors of the Government must be concentrated upon the Jewish question." The Jews are becoming a great economic power in the South-western provinces. They purchase or mortgage estates, and obtain control of the factories and mills as well as of the grain, timber, and liquor trade, thereby arousing the bitter resentment of the Christian population, particularly in the rural districts. [1] Moreover, the Jewish masses, refusing to follow the lead of the handful of Russified Jewish intellectuals, live entirely apart and remain in the throes of talmudic fanaticism and hasidie obscurantism. They "possess complete self-government in their Kahals, their own system of finance in the basket tax, their separate charitable institutions," their own traditional school in the heders, of which there are in the South-west no less than six thousand. In addition, the Jews possess an international organization, the "World Kahal," represented by the _Alliance Israélite "Universelle_ in Paris, whose president, Adolph Crémieux, had had the audacity to protest to the Russian Government against acts of violence perpetrated upon the Jews. For all these reasons the governor-general is of the opinion that "the revision of the whole legislation affecting the Jews has become an imperative necessity." [Footnote 1: According to the official figures, quoted in the memorandum, the number of Jews in the three South-western governments, i.e., Volhynia, Podolia, and the Kiev province, amounted to 721,080. Of these, 14 per cent lived in rural districts and 86 per cent in cities and towns. They owned 27 sugar refineries out of 105; 619 distilleries out of 712; 5700 mills out of 6353; and so forth. The production of the industrial establishments in the hands of the Jews reached the sum of seventy million rubles.] A similar tone was adopted in the other official documents which came into the hands of the "Committee for the Amelioration of the Condition of the Jews." The communications of the governors and the reports of the members of the Committee were all animated by the same spirit, the spirit that spoke through Brafman's "Book of the Kahal." This was but natural. The officials, to whom this book had been sent by the central Government "for guidance," drew from it their whole political wisdom in things Jewish, and in their replies endeavored to fall in with the instructions of the Council of State, conveyed to them by the Committee, _viz_., "to consider ways and means to weaken the communal cohesion among the Jews." In the Kingdom of Poland the governors complained similarly in their reports that the Jews of the province, though accorded equal rights by Vyelepolski, [1] had not complied with the conditions attached to that act, to wit, "to abandon the use of their own language and script, in exchange for the favors bestowed upon them." Outside of a handful of assimilated "Poles of the Mosaic Persuasion," who were imbued with Polish chauvinism, [2] the hasidic rank and file was permeated by extreme separatism, fostered by "the Kahal through its various agencies, the Congregational Boards, the rabbinate, the heders, and a host of special institutions." [Footnote 1: See above, p. 181.] [Footnote 2: And hence objectionable from the Russian point of view.] These and similar communications formed the groundwork of the reports, or more correctly, the bills of indictment in which the members of the Committee charged the Jews with the terrible crime of constituting "a religio-political caste," in other words, a nationality. Following the lead of Brafman, the members of the Committee laid particular emphasis in their reports on the obnoxiousness of the Talmud and the danger of Jewish separatism. Needless to say, the conclusions offered by them were of the kind anticipated in the instructions of the Council of State: the necessity of wiping out the last vestiges of Jewish self-government, such as the Jewish community, the school, the mutual relief societies, in a word, everything that tends to foster "the communal cohesion among the Jews." The barbarism of these proposals was covered by the fig-leaf of enlightenment. When the benighted Jewish masses will have fused with the highly cultured populance of Russia. In other words, when the Jews will have ceased to be Jews, then will the Jewish question find its solution. In the meantime, however, the Jews are to be curbed by the bridle of disabilities. The referee of the Committee on the question of the Pale of Settlement, Grigoryev, frankly stated: "What is important in this question is not whether the Jews will fare better when granted the right of residence all over the Empire, but rather the effect of this measure on the economic well-being of an enormous part of the Russian people." From this point of view the referee finds that it would be dangerous to let the Jews pass beyond the Pale, since "the plague, which has thus far been restricted to the Western provinces, will then spread over the whole Empire." For a long time the Committee was at a deadlock, held down by bureaucratic reaction. It was only toward the end of its existence that the voice from another world, the posthumous voice of dead and buried liberalism, resounded in its midst. In 1880 the Committee was presented with a memorandum by two of its members, Nekhludov and Karpov, in which the bold attempt was made to champion the heretic point of view of complete Jewish emancipation. The language of the memorandum was one which the Russian Government had not heard for a long time. In the name of "morality and justice" the authors of the memorandum call upon the Government to abandon its grossly utilitarian attitude towards the Jews who are to be denied civil rights so long as they do not prove useful to the "original" population. They expose the selfish motive underlying the bits of emancipation which had been doled out to the Jews during the preceding spell of liberalism: the desire, not to help the Jews, but to exploit their services. First-guild merchants, physicians, lawyers, artisans were admitted into the interior for the sole purpose of developing business in those places and filling the palpable shortage in artisans and professional men. "As soon as this or that category of Jews was found to be serviceable to the Russian people, it was relieved, and relieved only in part, from the pressure of exceptional laws, and received into the dominant population of the Empire." But the millions of plain Jews, abandoned by the upper classes, have continued to languish in the suffocating Pale. [1] The Jewish population is denied the elementary rights guaranteeing liberty of pursuit, freedom of movement and land ownership, such as only a criminal may be deprived of by a verdict of the courts. As it is, discontent is rife among these disinherited masses. "The rising generation of Jews has already begun to participate in the revolutionary movement to which they had hitherto been strangers." The system of oppression must be set aside. All the Jewish defects, their separatism and one-sided economic activity, are merely the fruits of this oppression. Where the law has no confidence in the population, there inevitably the population has no confidence in the law, and it naturally becomes an enemy of the existing order of things, "Human reason does not admit of any considerations which might justify the placing of many millions of the Jewish population, on a level with criminal offenders." The first step in the direction of complete emancipation ought to be the immediate grant of the right of domicile all over the Empire. [Footnote 1: The narrow utilitarianism of the governmental policy in the Jewish question may also be illustrated by the official attitude towards the promotion of agriculture among the Jews. Under Alexander I. and Nicholas I. Jewish agricultural colonization in the South of Russia was encouraged by the grant of special privileges, though the Jewish settlers were subjected to the stern tutelage of bureaucratic inspectors. But under Alexander II., when Southern Russia was no longer in need of artificial colonization, the Government discontinued its policy of promoting Jewish colonization, and an ukase issued in 1866 stopped the settlement of Jews in agricultural colonies altogether. A little later the Jewish colonies in the South-west were deprived of a large part of their lands, which were distributed among the peasants.] These bold words which turned the Jews from defendants into plaintiffs ran counter to the fundamental task of the Committee, which, according to the original instructions received by it, was expected to draft its plans in a spirit of reaction. At any rate, these words were uttered too late. A new era was approaching which in solving the Jewish question resorted to methods such as would have horrified even the conservative statesmen of the seventies: the era of pogroms and cruel disabilities. 4. THE DRIFT TOWARD OPPRESSION During the last decade of Alexander's reign, the machinery of Jewish legislation was working at a slow rate, pending the full "revision" of Jewish rights. Yet the steps of the approaching reaction could well be discerned. Thus in 1870, during the discussion of the draft of the new Municipal Statute by a special committee of the Ministry of the Interior, which included as "experts" the burgomasters of the most important Russian cities, the question arose whether the former limitation of the number of Jewish aldermen in the municipal councils to one-third of the whole number of aldermen [1] should be upheld or not. The cities involved were those of the Pale where the Jews formed the majority of the population, and the committee was searching for ways and means to weaken "the excessive influence" of this majority upon the city administration and to subordinate it to the Christian minority. [Footnote 1: See above, p. 41.] One solitary member, Novoselski, the burgomaster of Odessa, advocated the repeal of the old restriction, with the one proviso that the Jewish aldermen should be required to possess certain educational qualifications, inasmuch as educated Jews were "not quite as harmful" as uneducated ones. A minority of the members of the Committee favored the limitation of the number of Jewish aldermen to one-half, but the majority staunchly defended the old norm, which was one-third. The representatives of the majority, in particular Count Cherkaski, the burgomaster of Moscow, argued that the Jews constituted not only a religious but also a national entity, that they were still widely removed from assimilation or Russification, that education, far from transforming the Jews into Russians, made them only more successful in the struggle for existence, that it was inadvisable for this reason "to subject the whole Russian element (of the population) to the risk of falling under the domination of Judaism." The curious principle of municipal justice by virtue of which the majority of house owners and tax-payers were to be ruled by the representatives of the minority carried the day. The new Municipal Statute sanctioned the norm of one-third for "non-Christians," and reaffirmed the ineligibility of Jews to the post of burgomaster. The law of 1874, establishing general military service and abolishing the former method of conscription, proved the first legal enactment which imposed upon the Jews equal obligations with their fellow-citizens, prior to bestowing upon them equal rights. To be sure, the new regulation brought considerable relief to the Jews, inasmuch as the heavy burden of military duty which had formerly been borne entirely by the poor burgher class, [1] was now distributed over all estates, while the burden itself was lightened by the reduction of the term of service. Moreover, the former collective responsibility of the community for the supply of recruits, which had given rise to the institution of "captors" and many other evils, was replaced by the personal responsibility of every individual conscript. All this, however, was not sufficient to change suddenly the attitude of the Jewish populace towards military service. [Footnote 1: On the "burghers" see Vol. I, p. 308, n. 2. Concerning the military duty imposed on them see above, p. 23.] The formerly privileged merchantile class could not reconcile itself easily to the idea of sending their children to the army. The horrors of the old conscription were still fresh in their minds, and even in its new setting military service was still suggestive of the hideous horrors of the past. Those who but yesterday had been dragged like criminals to the recruiting stations could not well be expected to change their sentiments over night and appear there of their own free will. The result was that a considerable number of Jews of military age (21) failed to obey the summons of the first conscription. Immediately the cry went up that the Jews evaded their military duty, and that the Christians were forced to make up the shortage. The official pens in St. Petersburg and in the provincial chancelleries became busy scribbling. The Ministry of War demanded the adoption of Draconian measures to stop this "evasion," As a result, the whole Jewish youth of conscription age was registered in 1875. At the recruiting stations the age of the young Jews was determined by their external appearance, without regard to their birth certificates. Finally, in the course of 1876-1878, a number of special provisions were enacted, by way of exception from the general military statute, for the purpose "of insuring the regular discharge of their military duty by the Jews." According to the new legal provisions, the Jews who had been rejected as unfit for military service were to be replaced by other Jews and under no circumstances by Christians. For this purpose, the Jewish conscripts were to be segregated from the Christians after the drawing of lots, the first stage in the recruiting process. [1] Moreover, in the case of Jews a lower stature and a narrower chest were required than in that of non-Jews. In the case of a shortage of "unprivileged" recruits, permission was given to draft not only Jews enjoying, by their family status, the third and second class privileges, but also those of the first class, i.e., to deprive Jewish parents of their only sons. [2] [Footnote 1: Since the number of men of military age greatly exceeds the required number of recruits, the Russian law provides that lots be drawn by the conscripts to determine the order in which they are to present themselves for examination to the recruiting officers. When the quota is completed, the remaining conscripts, i.e., those who, having drawn a high number, have not yet been examined, are declared exempt from military service.] [Footnote 2: "According to Russian law, the following three categories of recruits are exempt from military service: 1) the only sons; 2) the only wage-earning sons, though there be other sons in the family; 3) those who have an elder brother or brothers in the army. The first category is exempt under all circumstances; the last two on condition that the required number of recruits be secured out of the "unprivileged" conscripts. Only in the case of the Jews is the first category drawn upon in the case of a shortage.] In this manner the Government sought to "insure" with ruthless vigor the discharge of this most onerous duty on the part of the Jews, without making any attempt to insure at the same time the rights of this population of three millions which was made to spill its blood for the fatherland. In the Russo-Turkish War of 1877, many Jewish soldiers fought for Russia, and a goodly number of them were killed or wounded on the battlefield. Yet in the Russian military headquarters--the post of commander-in-chief was occupied by the crown prince, the future Tzar Alexander III.--no attention was paid to the thousands of Jewish victims, but rather to the fact that the "Jewish" firm of army purveyors, Greger, Horvitz & Kohan [1] was found to have had a share in the commissariat scandals. When at the Congress of Berlin in 1878 a resolution was introduced calling upon the Governments of Roumania, Servia, and Bulgaria to accord equal rights to the Jews in their respective dominions, and was warmly supported by all plenipotentiaries, such as Waddington, Beaconsfield, Bismarck, and others, the only one to oppose the emancipation of the Jews on principle was the Russian chancellor Gorchakov, In his desire to save the prestige of Russia, which herself had failed to grant equal rights to the Jews, the chancellor could not refrain from an anti Semitic sally, remarking during the debate that "one ought not to confound the Jews of Berlin, Paris, London, and Vienna, who cannot be denied civil and political rights, with the Jews of Servia, Roumania, and several Russian provinces, where they are a regular scourge to the native population." [Footnote 1: Greger was a Greek, and Horvitz a converted Jew. See later, p. 244.] Altogether the growth of anti-Semitism in the Government circles and in certain layers of Russian society, towards the close of the seventies, became clearly pronounced. The laurels of Brafman, whose "exposure" of Judaism had netted him many personal benefits and profitable connections in the world of officialdom, were apt to stimulate all sorts of adventurers. In 1876 a new "exposer" of Judaism appeared on the scene, a man with a stained past, Hippolyte Lutostanski. He was originally a Roman Catholic priest in the government of Kovno. Having been unfrocked by the Catholic Consistory "on account of incredible acts of lawlessness and immoral conduct," including libel, embezzlement, rape committed upon a Jewess, and similar heroic exploits, he joined the Greek-Orthodox church, entered the famous Troitza Monastery near Moscow as a monk, and was admitted as a student to the Ecclesiastical Academy of the same city. As a subject for his dissertation for the degree of Candidate [1] the ignorant monk chose a sensational topic: "Concerning the Use of Christian Blood by the Jews." It was an unlettered and scurrilous pamphlet, in which the author, without indicating his sources, incorporated the contents of an official memorandum on the ritual murder legend from the time of Nicholas I., supplementing it by distorted quotations from talmudie and rabbinic literature, without the slightest knowledge of that literature or the Hebrew language. [Footnote 1: See above, p. 165, n. 1.] The monastic adventurer, finding himself in financial straits, brought his manuscript to Rabbi Minor of Moscow, declaring his willingness to forego the publication of his brochure, which no doubt would cause great harm to the Jews, for a consideration of 500 rubles ($250). His blackmail offer was rejected Lutostanski thereupon published his hideous book in 1876, and travelled with it to St. Petersburg where he managed to present it to the crown prince, subsequently Alexander III., and to secure from him a grateful acknowledgement. The book also found the approval of the Chief of Gendarmerie, [1] who acquired a large number of copies and distributed them among the secret police all over Russia. [Footnote 1: See above, p. 21, n. 1.] Encouraged by his success, Lutostanski issued a few years later, in 1879, another libellous work in two volumes, under the title "The Talmud and the Jews," which exhibits the same crudeness in style and content as his previous achievement--a typical specimen of a degraded back-yard literature. The editor of the Hebrew journal _ha-Melitz_, Alexander Zederbaum, demonstrated clearly that Lutostanski had forged his quotations, and summoned him to a public disputation, which offer was wisely declined. Nevertheless, the agitation of this shameless impostor had a considerable effect on the highest official spheres in which an ever stronger drift toward anti-Semitism was clearly noticeable. In 1878 this anti-Semitic trend gave rise to a new ritual murder trial. The discovery in the government of Kutais, in the Caucasus, of the body of a little Gruzinian girl, named Sarra Modebadze, who had disappeared on the eve of Passover, was deemed a sufficient reason by the judicial authorities to enter a charge of murder against ten local Jews, although the ritual character of the murder was not put forward openly in the indictment. The case was tried before the District Court of Kutais, and the counsel for the defence succeeded by their brilliant speeches not only to demolish completely the whole structure of incriminating evidence but also to deal a death-blow to the sinister ritual legend. The case ended in 1879 with the acquittal of all the accused. Withal, the "ritual" agitation left a nasty sediment in the Russian press. When in 1879 the famous Orientalist Daniel Chwolson, a convert to Christianity and professor at the Greek-Orthodox Ecclesiastical Seminary of St. Petersburg, who had written a learned apologetic treatise "Concerning the Medieval Accusations against the Jews," published a refutation of the ritual myth under the title "Do the Jews use Christian Blood?," he was attacked in the _Novoye Vremya_ by the liberal historian Kostomarov who attempted to disprove the conclusions of the defender of Judaism. The paper itself, hitherto liberal in its tendency, changed front about that time, and, steering its course by the prevailing moods in the leading Government circles, launched a systematic campaign against the Jews. The anti-Semitic bacilli were floating in the social atmosphere of Russia and preparing the way for the pogrom epidemic of the following decade. CHAPTER XX THE INNER LIFE OF RUSSIAN JEWRY DURING THE REIGN OF ALEXANDER II. 1. THE RUSSIFICATION OF THE JEWISH INTELLIGENZIA In the inner, cultural life of Russian Jewry a radical break took place during this period. True, the change did not affect the rank and file of Russian Jewry, being rather confined to its upper layers, to Jewish "society," or the so-called _intelligenzia._ But as far as the latter circles are concerned, the rapidity and intensity of their spiritual transformation may well be compared with the stormy eve of Jewish emancipation in Germany. This wild rush for spiritual regeneration was out of all proportion to the snail-like tardiness and piecemeal character of civil emancipation in Russia. However, the modern history of Western Europe has shown more than once that such pre-emancipation periods, including those that evidently prove abortive, offer the most favorable conditions for all kinds of mental and cultural revolutions. Liberty as a hope invariably arouses greater enthusiasm for self-rejuvenation, than liberty as a fact, when the romanticism of the unknown has vanished. Hurled into the abyss of despair by the last events of Nicholas' régime, the Russian Jews suddenly received what may be called an earnest of civil emancipation. The Jewish "Pale" knew but vaguely what was taking place in the recesses of the St. Petersburg chancelleries during the decade of reforms, but that a striking change in the attitude of the Government had taken place was seen and felt by all. Freedom had been granted to the victims of the military inquisition, the cantonists. The gates of the Russian interior had been opened to Jews possessing certain qualifications with regard to property, education, or labor. The educated Jews, in particular, were smiled upon benevolently "from above": they were regarded by the Government as a factor making for assimilation and as a connecting link with the lower Jewish classes. The vernal sun of Russian liberty, which flooded with its rays the social life of the whole country, just then emerging from serfdom, shone also for the hapless Jewish people, and filled their hearts with cheer and hope. The blasts of the reveille which had been sounded in the best circles of Russian society by such humanitarians as Pirogov, [1] and such champions of liberty as Hertzen, [2] Chernyshevski, [3] and Dobrolubov, [4] were carried through the air into the huge Jewish ghetto of Russia. True, the Jewish question received, during the decade of reforms, but scanty attention in the Russian press, but the little that was said about it was permeated by a friendly spirit. The former habit of making sport of the Zhyd was energetically repudiated. [Footnote 1: Nicholas Pirogov (1810-1881), famous as pedagogue and administrator. He was a staunch friend of the Jews, and was deeply interested in their cultural aspirations.] [Footnote 2: See above, p. 24, n. 1.] [Footnote 3: Famous publicist and author, died 1889.] [Footnote 4: A famous literary critic, died 1861.] This change of attitude may well be illustrated by the following incident. In 1858 the magazine _Illustratzia_ ("Illustration") of St. Petersburg published an anti-Semitic article on "the Zhyds of the Russian West." The article was answered by two cultured Jews, Chatzkin and Horvitz, in the influential periodicals _Russki Vyestnik_ ("The Russian Herald") and _Atyeney_ ("Athenaeum"). In reply to this refutation, the _Illustratzia_ showered a torrent of abuse upon the two authors who were contemptuously styled "Reb Chatzkin" and "Reb Horvitz," and whose pro-Jewish attitude was explained by motives of avarice. The action of the anti-Semitic journal aroused a storm of indignation in the literary circles of both capitals. The conduct of the _Illustratzia_ was condemned in a public protest which bore the signatures of 140 writers, including some of the most illustrious names in the Russian literary world. The protest declared that "in the persons of Horvitz and Chatzkin an insult has been offered to the entire (Russian) people, to all Russian literature," which has no right to let "naked slander" pass under the disguise of polemics. Though the protesting writers were wholly actuated by the desire to protect the moral purity of Russian literature and did not at all touch upon the Jewish question, the Jewish public workers were nevertheless enchanted by this declaration of literary Russia, and were deeply gratified by the implied assumption that the Jews of Russia formed part of the Russian people. Several sympathetic articles in influential periodicals, advocating the necessity of Jewish emancipation, seemed to complete the happiness of the progressive section of Russian Jewry. Even the Slavophile publicist Ivan Aksakov, who subsequently joined the ranks of Jew-baiters, recognized at that time, in 1862, the need of a certain measure of emancipation for the Jews. The only thing that worried him was the danger that the admission of the Jews to the Russian civil service "in all departments," might result "in filling with Jews" the Senate and Council of State, not excluding the possibility of a Jew occupying the post of Procurator-General of the Holy Synod. Unshakable in his friendship for the Jews was the physician and humanitarian N. Pirogov, [1] who, in his capacity of superintendent of the Odessa School District, was largely instrumental in encouraging the Jewish youth in their pursuit of general culture and in creating a Russian Jewish press. [Footnote 1: See above, p. 207, n. 1.] The most efficient factor of cultural regeneration was the secular school, both the general Russian and the Jewish Crown school. A flood of young men, lured by the rosy prospects of a free human existence in the midst of a free Russian people, rushed from the farthermost nooks and corners of the Pale into the _gymnazia_ and universities whose doors were kept wide open for the Jews. Many children of the ghetto rapidly enlisted under the banner of the Russian youth, and became intoxicated with the luxuriant growth of Russian literature which carried to them the intellectual gifts of the contemporary European writers. The masters of thought in that generation, Chernyshevski, Dobrolubov, Pisaryev, Buckle, Darwin, Spencer, became also the idols of the Jewish youth. The heads which had but recently been bending over the Talmud folios in the stuffy atmosphere of the heders and yeshibahs were now crammed with the ideas of positivism, evolution, and socialism. Sharp and sudden was the transition from rabbinic scholasticism and soporific hasidic mysticism to this new world of ideas, flooded with the light of science, to these new revelations announcing the glad tidings of the freedom of thought, of the demolition of all traditional fetters, of the annihilation of all religious and national barriers, of the brotherhood of all mankind. The Jewish youth began to shatter the old idols, disregarding the outcry of the masses that had bowed down before them. A tragic war ensued between "fathers and children," [1] a war of annihilation, for the belligerent parties were extreme obscurantism and fanaticism, on the one hand, and the negation of all historic forms of Judaism, both religious and national, on the other. [Footnote 1: The title of a famous novel by Turgenieff, written in 1862, depicting the break between the old and the new generation.] In the middle between these two extremes stood the men of the transitional period, the adepts of Haskalah, those "lovers of enlightenment" who had in younger years suffered for their convictions at the hands of fanatics and now came forward to make peace between religion and culture. Encouraged by the success of the new ideas, the Maskilim became more aggressive in their struggle with obscurantism. They ventured to expose the Tzaddiks who scattered the seeds of superstition, to ridicule the ignorance and credulity of the masses, and occasionally went so far as to complain of the burdensome ceremonial discipline, hinting at the need of moderate religious reforms. Their principal task, however, was the cultivation of the Neo-Hebraic literary style and the rejuvenation of the content of that literature. They were willing to pursue the road of the emancipated Jewry of Western Europe, but only to a certain limit, refusing to cut themselves adrift from the national language or the religious and national ideals. On the other hand, that section of the young generation which had passed through a Russian school refused to recognize any such barriers, and rushed with elemental force on the road of self-annihilation. _Russification_ became the war cry of these Jewish circles, as it had long been the watchword of the Government. The one side was anxious to Russify, the other was equally anxious to be Russified, and the natural result was an _entente cordiale_ between the new Jewish _intelligenzia_ and the Government. The ideal of Russification was marked by different stages, beginning with the harmless acquisition of the Russian language, and culminating in a complete identification with Russian culture and Russian national ideals, involving the renunciation of the religious and national traditions of Judaism. The advocates of moderate Russification did not foresee that the latter was bound, by the force of circumstances, to assume a radical form, while the champions of extreme Russification saw no harm for Jewry in following the example of complete assimilation set by Western Europe. To the former all that Russification implied was the removal of the obnoxious excrescences of Judaism but not the demolition of the national organism itself. Progressive Jewry was rightly incensed against the obsolete forms of Jewish life which obstructed all healthy development; against the fierce superstition of the hasidic environment, against the charlatanism of degenerating Tzaddikism, against the impenetrable religious fanaticism which was throttling the noblest strivings of the Jewish mind. But this struggle for freedom of thought should have been fought out within the confines of Judaism, by means of a thorough-going cultural self-improvement, and not on the soil of assimilation, nor in alliance with the powers that be, which were aiming not at the rejuvenation but at the obliteration of Judaism, in accordance with the official program of "fusion." At any rate, the league between the new Jewish _intelligenzia_ and the Government was an undeniable fact. The "Crown rabbis" [1] and school teachers from among the graduates of the rabbinical schools of Vilna and Zhitomir played the rôle of Government agents who were apt to resort to police force in their fight against orthodoxy. Feeling secure beneath the protecting wings of the Russian authorities, they often went out of their way to hurt the susceptibilities of the masses by their ostentatious disregard of the Jewish religious ceremonies. When the communities refused to appoint rabbis of this class, the latter obtained their posts either by direct appointment from the Government or by bringing the pressure of the provincial administration to bear upon the electors. [Footnote 1: See above, p. 176, n. 1.] Needless to say, the "enlightenment" propagated by these Government underlings did not win the confidence of the orthodox masses who remembered vividly how official enlightenment was disseminated by the Government of Nicholas I. during the era of juvenile conscription. The new Jewish _intelligenzia_ showed utter indifference to the sentiments of the Jewish masses, and did not hesitate to induce the Government to interfere in the affairs of inner Jewish life. Thus by a regulation issued in 1864 all hasidic books were subjected to a most rigorous censorship, and Jewish printing-presses were placed under a more vigilant supervision than theretofore. The Tzaddiks were barred from visiting their parishes for the purpose of "working miracles" and "collecting tribute," a measure which only served to surround the hasidic chieftains with a halo of martyrdom and resulted in the pilgrimage of vast numbers of Hasidim to the "holy places," the "capitals" of the Tzaddiks. All this only went to intensify the distrust of the masses toward the college-bred, officially hall-marked Jewish intellectuals and to lower their moral prestige, to the detriment of the cause of enlightenment of which they professed to be the missionaries. A peculiar variety of assimilationist tendencies sprang up among the upper class of Jews in the Kingdom of Poland, more especially in Warsaw. It was a most repellent variety of assimilation, exhibiting more flunkeyism than pursuit of culture. The "Poles of the Mosaic Persuasion," as these assimilationists styled themselves, had long been begging for admission into Polish society, though rudely repulsed by it. During the insurrection of 1861-1863, when they were graciously received as useful allies, they were indefatigable in parading their Polish patriotism. In the Polish Jewish weekly, _Jutrzenka_, [1] "The Dawn," the organ of these assimilationists, the trite West-European theory, which looks upon Judaism as a religious sect and not as a national community, was repeated _ad nauseam_. One of the most prominent contributors to that journal, Ludwig Gumplovich, the author of a monograph on the history of the Jews in Poland, who subsequently made a name for himself as a sociologist, and, after his conversion to Christianity, received a professorship at an Austrian university, opened his series of articles on Polish-Jewish history with the following observation: "The fact that the Jews had a history was their misfortune in Europe.... For their history inevitably presupposes an isolated life severed from that of the other nations. It is just this which constitutes the misfortune alluded to." [Footnote 1: Pronounce _Yutzhenka_.] After the insurrection, the Polonization of the Jewish population assumed menacing proportions. The upper layer of Polish Jewry consisted exclusively of "Poles of the Mosaic Persuasion" who rejected all elements of Jewish culture, while the broad masses, following blindly the mandates of their Tzaddiks, rejected fanatically even the most indispensable elements of European civilization. Riven between such monstrous extremes, Polish Jewry was unable to attain even to a semblance of normal development. 2. THE SOCIETY FOR THE DIFFUSION OF ENLIGHTENMENT Though intensely engaged in this cultural movement, Russian Jewry did not yet command sufficient resources for carrying on a well-ordered and well-systematized activity. The only modern Jewish organization of that period was the "Society for the Diffusion of Enlightenment amongst the Jews," which had been founded in 1867 by a small coterie of Jewish financiers and intellectuals of St. Petersburg. It would seem that the Jewish colony of the Russian metropolis, consisting of big merchants and university graduates, who, by virtue of the laws of 1859 and 1861, enjoyed the right of residence outside the Pale, did not yet contain a sufficient number of competent public workers. For during the first decade of the Society its Executive Committee included, apart from its Jewish founders--Baron Günzburg, Leon Rosenthal, Rabbi Neuman--, two apostates, Professor Daniel Chwolson and the court physician, I. Berthenson. The purpose of the Society was explained by one of the founders, Leon Rosenthal, in the following unsophisticated manner: We constantly hear men in high positions, with whom we come in contact, complain about the separatism and fanaticism of the Jews and about their aloofness from everything Russian, and we have received assurances on all hands that, with, the removal of these peculiarities, the condition of our brethren in Russia will be improved, and we shall all become full-fledged citizens of this country. Actuated by this motive, we have organized a league of educated men for the purpose of eradicating our above-mentioned shortcomings by disseminating among the Jews the knowledge of the Russian language and other useful subjects. What the Society evidently aimed at was to place itself at the head of the Russian-Jewish _intelligenzia_, which had undertaken to act as negotiators between the Government and the Jews in the cause of Russification. In reality, the mission of the Society was carried out within exceedingly narrow limits. "Education for the sake of Emancipation" became the watchword of the Society. It promoted higher education by granting monetary assistance to Jewish students, but it did nothing either for the upbuilding of a normal Jewish school or for the improvement of the heders and yeshibahs. The dissemination of the knowledge of "useful subjects" reduced itself to the grant of a few subsidies to Jewish writers for translating a few books on history and natural science into Hebrew. Even more circumscribed and utilitarian was the point of view adopted by the Odessa branch of the Society. This branch, founded in 1867, adopted as its slogan "the enlightenment of the Jews through the Russian language and _in the Russian spirit_." The Russification of the Jews was to be promoted by translating the Bible and the prayer-book into the Russian language, "which must become the national tongue of the Jews." However, the headlong rush for assimilation was soon halted by the sinister spectacle of the Odessa pogrom of 1871. The moving spirits of the local branch could not help, to use the language of its president, "losing heart and becoming rather doubtful as to whether the goal pursued by them is in reality a good one, seeing that all the endeavors of our brethren to draw nearer to the Russians are of no avail so long as the Russian masses remain in their present unenlightened condition and harbor hostile sentiments towards the Jews." The pogrom put a temporary stop to the activity of the Odessa branch. As for the central Committee in St. Petersburg, its experience was not less disappointing. For, despite all the endeavors of the Society to adapt itself to the official point of view, it was regarded with suspicion by the powers that be, having been included by the informer Brafman among the constituent organizations of the dreadful and mysterious "Jewish Kahal." The Russian assimilators, now branded as separatists, found themselves in a tragic conflict. Moreover, the work of the Society in promoting general culture among the Jews was gradually losing its _raison d'être_, since, without any effort on its part, the Jews began to flock to the _gymnazia_ and universities. The former practical stimulus to general culture--the acquisition of a diploma for the sake of equal rights--was intensified by the promulgation of the military statute of 1874 which conferred a number of privileges in the discharge of military duty on those possessing a higher education. These privileges induced many parents, particularly among the merchant class which was then drafted into the army for the first time, to send their children to the middle and higher educational institutions. As a result, the role of the Society in the dissemination of enlightenment reduced itself to a mere dispensation of charity, and the great crisis of the eighties found this organization standing irresolute at the cross-roads. 3. THE JEWISH PRESS In the absence of a comprehensive net-work of social agencies, the driving force in this cultural upheaval came from the periodical Jewish press. The creation of several press organs in Hebrew and Russian in the beginning of the sixties was a sign of the times. Though different in their linguistic medium, the two groups of publications were equally engaged in the task of the regeneration of Judaism, each adapting itself to its particular circle of readers. The Hebrew periodicals, and partly also those in Yiddish which addressed themselves to the masses, preached _Haskalah_ in the narrower sense. They advocated the necessity of a Russian elementary education and of secular culture in general; they emphasized the uselessness of the traditional Jewish school training, and exposed superstition and obscurantism. The Russian publications, again, which were intended for the Jewish and the Russian _intelligenzia_, pursued in the main a political goal, the fight for equal rights and the defence of Judaism against its numerous detractors. In both groups one can discern the gradual ripening of the social Jewish consciousness, the advance from elementary and often naive notions to more complex ideas. The two Hebrew weeklies founded in 1860, _ha-Karmel_, "The Carmel," in Vilna, and _ha-Melitz_, "The Interpreter," in Odessa, the former edited by Fünn and the latter by Zederbaum, [1] were at first adapted to the mental level of grown-up children, expatiating upon the benefits of secular education and the "favors" of the Government consequent upon it. _Ha-Karmel_ expired in 1870, while yet in its infancy, though it continued to appear at irregular intervals in the form of booklets dealing with scientific and literary subjects. _Ha-Melitz_ was more successful. It soon grew to be a live and courageous organ which hurled its shafts at Hasidism and Tzaddikism, and occasionally even ventured to raise its hand against rabbinical Judaism. The Yiddish weekly _Kol Mebasser_, [2] which was published during 1862-1871 as a supplement to _ha-Melitz_ and spoke directly to the masses in their own language, attacked the dark sides of the old order of things in publicistic essays and humoristic stories. [Footnote 1: Before that time, the only weekly in Hebrew was _ha-Maggid_, "The Herald," a paper of no particular literary distinction, published since 1856 in the Prussian border-town Lyck, though addressing itself primarily to the Jews of Russia.] [Footnote 2: "A voice Announcing Good Tidings."] Another step forward was the publication of the Hebrew monthly _ha-Shahar_, "The Dawn," which was founded by Perez Smolenskin in 1869. This periodical, which appeared in Vienna but was read principally in Russia, pursued a two-fold aim: to fight against the fanaticism of the benighted masses, on the one hand, and combat the indifference to Judaism of the intellectuals, on the other. _Ha-Shahar_ exerted a tremendous influence upon the mental development of the young generation which had been trained in the heders and yeshibahs. Here they found a response to the thoughts that agitated them; here they learned to think logically and critically and to distinguish between the essential elements in Judaism and its mere accretions. _Ha-Shahar_ was the staff of life for the generation of that period of transition, which stood on the border-line dividing the old Judaism from the new. The various stages in the Russification of the Jewish _intelligenzia_ are marked by the changing tendencies of the Jewish periodical press in the Russian language. In point of literary form, it approached the European models more closely than the contemporary Hebrew press. The contributors to the three Russian-Jewish weeklies, all of them issued in Odessa, [1] had the advantage of having before them patterns of Western Europe. Jewish publicists of the type of Riesser and Philippson [2] served as living examples. They had blazed the way for Jewish journalism, and had shown it how to fight for civil emancipation, to ward off anti-Semitic attacks, and strive at the same time for the advancement of inner Jewish life. [Footnote 1: _Razswyet_, "The Dawn," 1860, _Sion_, "Zion," 1861, _Dyen_, "The Day," 1869-1871.] [Footnote 2: Gabriel Riesser (died 1863), the famous champion of Jewish emancipation in Germany, established the periodical _Der Jude_ in 1832. Ludwig Philippson (died 1889) founded in 1837 _Die Allgemeine Zeitung des Judentums_, which still appears in Berlin.] However, as soon as the Russian Riessers applied themselves to their task, they met with insurmountable difficulties. When the _Razswyet_, which was edited by Osip (Joseph) Rabinovich, attempted to lay bare the inner wounds of Jewish life, it encountered the concerted opposition of all prominent Jews, who were of the opinion that an organ employing the language of the country should not, on tactical grounds, busy itself with self-revelations, but should rather limit itself to the fight for equal rights. The latter function again was hampered by the "other side," the Russian censorship. Despite the moderate tone adopted by the _Razswyet_ in its articles on Jewish emancipation, the Russian censorship found them incompatible with the interests of the State. One circular sent out by the Government went even so far as to prohibit "to to discuss the question of granting the Jews equal rights with those of the other (Russian) subjects." On one occasion the editor of the _Razswyet_, _, in appealing to the authorities of St. Petersburg against the prohibition of a certain article by the Odessa censor, had to resort to the sham argument that the incriminated article referred merely to the necessity of granting the Jews equality in the right of residence but not in other rights. But even this stratagem failed of its object. After a year of bitter struggle against the interference of the censor and against financial difficulties--the number of Russian readers among Jews was still very small at that time--the _Razswyet_ passed out of existence. Its successor _Sion_ ("Zion"), edited by Solovaychik and Leon Pinsker, who subsequently bec me the exponent of pre-Herzlian Zionism,[1] attempted a different policy: to prove the case of the Jews by arraigning the anti-Semites and acquainting the Russian public with the history of Judaism. _Sion_, too, like its predecessors, had to give up the fight in less than a year. [Footnote 1: See later, p. 330 et seq.] After an interval of seven years a new attempt was made in the same city. The _Dyen_ ("The Day") [1] was able to muster a larger number of contributors from among the increased ranks of the "titled" _intelligenzia_ than its predecessors. The new periodical was bolder in unfurling the banner of emancipation, but it also went much further than its predecessors in its championship of Russification and assimilation. The motto of the _Dyen_ was "complete fusion of the interests of the Jewish population with those of the other citizens." The editors looked upon the Jewish problem "not as a national but as a social and economic" issue, which in their opinion could be solved simply by bestowing upon this "section of the Russian people" the same rights which were enjoyed by the rest. The Odessa pogrom of 1871 might have taught the writers of the _Dyen_ to judge more soberly the prospects of "a fusion of interests," had not a meddlesome censorship forced this periodical to discontinue its publication after a short time. [Footnote 1: The name was meant to symbolize the approaching day of freedom. It was a weekly publication.] The next few years were a period of silence in the Russian-Jewish press. [1] The rank and file of the Russian Jewish intellectuals, who formed the backbone of the reading public of this press, became indifferent to it. Living up conscientiously to the principle of a "fusion of interests," they failed to recognize the special interests of their own people, whose only duty they thought was to be Russified, i.e., obliterated and put out of existence. The better elements among the _intelligenzia_, however, looked with consternation upon this growing indifference to everything Jewish among the college-bred Jewish youth. As a result, a new attempt was made toward the very end of this period to restore the Russian-Jewish press. Three weeklies, the _Russki Yevrey_ ("The Russian Jew"), the _Razswyet_ ("The Dawn"), and later on the _Voskhod_ ("The Sunrise"), were started in St. Petersburg, all endeavoring to gain the hearts of the Russian Jewish _intelligenzia_. In the midst of this work they were overwhelmed by the terrific cataclysm of 1881, which decided the further destinies of Jewish journalism in Russia. [Footnote 1: We disregard the colorless _Vyestnik Russkikh "Yevreyev"_ ("The Herald of Russian Jews"), published by Zederbaum in the beginning of the seventies in St. Petersburg, and the volumes of the _Yevreyskaya Bibliotyeka_ ("The Jewish Library"), issued at irregular intervals by Adolph Landau.] 4. THE JEWS AND THE REVOLUTIONARY MOVEMENT The Russian school and literature pushed the Jewish college youth head over heels into the intellectual currents of progressive Russian society. Naturally enough a portion of the Jewish youth was also drawn into the revolutionary movement of the seventies, a movement which, in spite of the theoretic "materialism" of its adepts, was of an essentially idealistic tendency. In joining the ranks of the revolutionaries, the young Jews were less actuated by resentment against the continued, though somewhat mitigated, rightlessness of their own people than by discontent with the general political reaction in Russia, that discontent which found expression in the movement of "Populism," [1] of "Going to the People," [2] and similar currents then in vogue. Jewish students, attending the rabbinical and teachers' institutes of the Government, or autodidacts from among former heder and yeshibah pupils, also began to "go to the people"--the Russian people, to be sure, not the Jewish. They carried on a revolutionary propaganda, both by direct and indirect means, among the Russian peasants and workingmen, known to them only from books. It was taken for granted at that time that the realization of the ideals of Russian democracy would carry with it the solution of the Jewish as well as of all other sectional problems of Russian life, so that these problems might for the moment be safely set aside. [Footnote 1: In Russian, _narodnichestvo_, from _narod_, "People," a democratic movement In favor of the down-trodden masses, particularly the Russian peasantry.] [Footnote 2: Under the influence of the democratic movement many Russians of higher birth and culture settled among the peasantry, to which they dedicated their lives. The name of Leo Tolstoi readily suggests itself in this connection.] As far as the Jewish youth was concerned, the whole movement was doubly academic, for the only points of contact of that youth with younger Russia was not living reality but the book, problems of the intellect, the search for new ways, the attempt to work out a _Weltanschauung_. The fundamental article of faith of the Jewish socialists was cosmopolitanism, and they failed to discern in Russian "Populism" the underlying elements of a Russian national movement. Jewry was not believed to be a nation, and as a religious entity it was looked upon as a relic of the past, which was doomed to disappearance. One attempt of coupling socialism with Judaism ought not to be passed over in silence. In the beginning of the seventies there existed in Vilna a Jewish revolutionary circle made up principally of the pupils of the rabbinical school and of the teachers' institute of the same city. In 1875, the police tracked the members of the circle. Some were arrested, others escaped. One of the refugees, A. Lieberman, managed to reach London where he associated with the circle of Lavrov and the editors of the revolutionary journal _Vperyod_ ("Forwards"). In the following year, Lieberman founded in London the "League of Jewish Socialists" for the purpose of carrying on a propaganda among the Jewish masses. It was a small society of students and workingmen which busied itself with arranging lectures and debates, and penning Hebrew appeals on the need of organizing the proletariat. The society was soon dissolved, and Lieberman emigrated to Vienna, where, under the name of Freeman, he started in 1877 a socialistic magazine in Hebrew under the name _ha-Emet_ ("The Truth"). The first two issues of _ha-Emet_ were admitted into Russia, but the third was confiscated by the censor. The magazine had to be discontinued. It yielded its place to a paper called _Asefat Hakamim_ ("The Assembly of Wise Men"), published in Koenigsberg in 1878 by M. Winchevski as a supplement to the paper _ha-Kol_ ("The Voice"), which was issued there by Rodkinson. Soon this whole species of socialistic literature was put out of existence. In 1879, Lieberman in Vienna and his comrades in Berlin and Koenigsberg were arrested and expelled from the borders of Austria and Prussia. They emigrated to England and America, and lost touch with Russia. In Russia itself the Jewish revolutionaries were heart and soul devoted to the cause. The children of the ghetto displayed considerable heroism and self-sacrifice in the revolutionary upheaval of the seventies. Jews figured in all important political trials and public manifestations; they languished in the gaols, and suffered as exiles in Siberia. But this idealistic fight for general freedom lacked a Jewish note, the endeavor to free their own nation which lived in greater thraldom than any other. And no one at that time ever dreamt that after all these sacrifices the Jews of Russia would be visited by still greater misfortunes, by pogroms and increased disabilities. 5. THE NEO-HEBRAIC RENAISSANCE With all deflections from the course of normal development, such as are unavoidable in times of violent mental disturbances, the main line of the whole cultural movement, the resultant of the various forces within it, was headed towards the healthy progress of Judaism. The most substantial product of this movement was the Neo-Hebraic literary renaissance which had already appeared in faint outlines on the sombre background of external oppression and internal obscurantism during the preceding period. The Haskalah, formerly anathematized, was now able to unfold all its creative powers. What in the time of Isaac Baer Levinsohn had been accomplished stealthily by a few isolated conspirators of enlightenment in some petty society in Vilna or in some out-of-the-way town like Kamenetz-Podolsk was now done in the full light of the day. Instead of a few stray writers, the harbingers of the new literature, there now appeared this literature itself, new both in form and content. The restoration of the Hebrew language to its biblical purity and the removal of the linguistic excrescences of the later rabbinic idiom became for some writers an end in itself, for others a weapon in the fight for enlightenment. _Melitzah_, a conventionalized style, which, moving strictly within the confines of the biblical diction, endeavored to adapt the form of an ancient language to the content of a modern life, became the fashion of the day. In point of content rejuvenated Hebrew literature was of necessity elementary. Mental restlessness and naiveness of thought were not conducive to the development of that "science of Judaism" which had attained to such luxurious growth in Germany. The Hebrew writers of Russia during that period had no means of propagating their ideas, except through the medium of poetry, fiction, or journalism. The results of historic research were squeezed into the mould of a poem or novel, or it furnished the material for a press article, in which the Jewish past was considered from the point of view of the present. Objective scientific investigation could find no place, and the little that was accomplished in that direction did not bear the character of a living account of the past, but was rather in the nature of crude archaeological material. At the same time, as the crest of the social progress was rising, the border-line between poetry and fiction, on the one hand, and topical journalism, on the other, was gradually obliterated. The poet or novelist was often turned into a fighter, who attacked the old order of things and defended the new. Even before the first blush of dawn, when every one in Russia was yet groaning under the strokes of an autocratic tyranny, which the presentiment of its speedy end had driven into madness, the bewitching strains of the new Hebrew lyre resounded through Lithuania. They came from Micah Joseph Lebensohn, the son of "Adam" Lebensohn, author of high-flown Hebrew odes [1]--a contemplative Jewish youth, suffering from tuberculosis and _Weltschmerz_. He began his poetic career in 1840 by a Hebrew adaptation of the second book of Virgil's _Aeneid_ [2] but soon turned to Jewish _motifs_. In the musical rhymes of the "Songs of the Daughter of Zion" (_Shire bat Zion_, Vilna, 1851), the author poured forth the anguish of his suffering soul, which was torn between faith and science, weighed down by the oppression from without and stirred to its depth by the tragedy of his homeless nation. [3] A cruel disease cut short the poet's life in 1852, at the age of twenty-four. A small collection of lyrical poems, published after his death under the title _Kinnor bat Zion_ ("The Harp of the Daughter of Zion"), exhibited even more brilliantly the wealth of creative energy which was hidden in the soul of this prematurely cut-off youth, who on the brink of the grave sang so touchingly of love, beauty, and the pure joys of life. [Footnote 1: See above, p. 134 et seq.] [Footnote 2: It was made from the German translation of Schiller] [Footnote 3: See the poems "Solomon and Koheleth," "Jael and Sisera," and "Judah ha-Levi."] A year after the death of our poet, in 1853, there appeared in the same capital of Lithuania the historic novel _Ahabat Zion_ ("Love of Zion"). Its author, Abraham Mapu of Kovno (1808-1867), was a poor melammed who had by his own endeavors and without the help of a teacher raised himself to the level of a modern Hebrew pedagogue. He lived in two worlds, in the valley of tears, such as the ghetto presented during the reign of Nicholas, and in the radiant recollections of the far-off biblical past. The inspired dreamer, while strolling on the banks of the Niemen, among the hills which skirt the city of Kovno, was picturing to himself the luminous dawn of the Jewish nation. He published these radiant descriptions of ancient Judaea in the dismal year of the "captured recruits." [1] The youths of the ghetto, who had been poring over talmudic folios, fell eagerly upon this little book which breathed the perfumes of Sharon and Carmel. They read it in secret--to read a novel openly was not a safe thing in those days--, and their hearts expanded with rapture over the enchanting idyls of the time of King Hezekiah, the portrayal of tumultuous Jerusalem and peaceful Beth-lehem. They sighed over the fate of the lovers Amnon and Tamar, and in their flight of imagination were carried far away from painful reality. The naive literary construction of the plot was of no consequence to the reader who tasted a novel for the first time in his life. The _naïveté_ of the plot was in keeping with the naive, artificially reproduced language of the prophet Isaiah and the biblical annals, which intensified the illusion of antiquity. [Footnote 1: See on this expression above, p. 148 et seq.] Several years after the publication of his "Love of Zion," when social currents had begun to stir Russian Jewry, Mapu began his five volume novel of contemporary life, under the title _'Ayit Tzabua'_, "The Speckled Bird," or "The Hypocrite" (1857-1869). In his naive diction, which is curiously out of harmony with the complex plot in sensational French style, the author pictures the life of an obscure Lithuanian townlet: the Kahal bosses who hide their misdeeds beneath the cloak of piety; the fanatical rabbis, the Tartuffes of the Pale of Settlement, who persecute the champions of enlightenment. As an offset against these shadows of the past, Mapu lovingly paints the barely visible shoots of the new life, the _Maskil_, who strives to reconcile religion and science, the misty figure of the Jewish youth who goes to the Russian school in the hope of serving his people, the profiles of the Russian Jewish intellectuals, and the captains of industry from among the rising Jewish plutocracy. Toward the end of his life Mapu returned to the historical novel, and in the "Transgression of Samaria" (_Ashmat Shomron_, 1865) he attempted to draw a picture of ancient Hebrew life during the declining years of the Northern Kingdom. But this novel, appearing as it did at the height of the cultural movement, failed to produce the powerful effect of his _Ahabat Zion_, although its charming biblical diction enraptured the lovers of _Melitzah_. [1] [Footnote 1: An imitation of the biblical Hebrew diction. Compare p. 225.] The noise of the new Jewish life, with its constantly growing problems, invaded the precincts of literature, and even the poets were impelled to take sides in the burning questions of the day. The most important poet of that era, Judah Leib Gordon (1830-1892), who began by composing biblical epics and moralistic fables, soon entered the field of "intellectual poetry," and became the champion of enlightenment and a trenchant critic of old-fashioned Jewish life. As far back as 1863, while active as a teacher at a Crown school [1] in Lithuania, he composed his "Marseillaise of Enlightenment" (_Hakitzah 'ammi_, "Awake, My People"). In it he sang of the sun shedding its rays over the "Land of Eden," where the neck of the enslaved was freed from the yoke and where the modern Jew was welcomed with a brotherly embrace. The poet calls upon his people to join the ranks of their fellow-countrymen, the hosts of cultured Russian citizens who speak the language of the land, and offers his Jewish contemporaries the brief formula: "Be a man on the street and a Jew in the house," [2] i.e., be a Russian in public and a Jew in private life. [Footnote 1: See on the Crown schools pp. 74 and 77.] [Footnote 2: _Heye adam be-tzeteka, wihudi be-oholeka._] Gordon himself defined his function in the work of Jewish regeneration to be that of exposing the inner ills of the people, of fighting rabbinical orthodoxy and the tyranny of ceremonialism. This carping tendency, which implies a condemnation of the whole historic structure of Judaism, manifested itself as early as 1868 in his "Songs of Judah" (_Shire Yehudah_), in strophes radiant with the beauty of their Hebrew diction: To live by soulless rites hast thou been taught, To swim against life, and the lifeless letter to keep; To be dead upon earth, and in heaven alive, To dream while awake, and to speak while asleep. During the seventies, Gordon joined the ranks of the official agents of enlightenment. He removed to St. Petersburg, and became secretary of the Society for the Diffusion of Enlightenment. The new Hebrew periodical _ha-Shahar_ [1] published several of his "contemporary epics" in which he vented his wrath against petrified Rabbinism. He portrays the misery of a Jewish woman who is condemned to enter married life at the bidding of the marriage-broker, without love and without happiness, or he describes the tragedy of another woman whose future is wrecked by a "Dot over the _i_." [2] He lashes furiously the orthodox spiders, the official leaders of the community, who catch the young pioneers of enlightenment in the meshes of Kabal authority, backed by police force. Climbing higher upon the ladder of history, the poet registers his protest against the predominance of the spiritual over the worldly element in the whole evolution of Judaism. He assails the prophet Jeremiah who in beleaguered Jerusalem preaches submission to the Babylonians and strict obedience to the Law: the prophet, dressed up in the garb of a contemporary orthodox rabbi, was to be exhibited as a terrifying incarnation of the soulless formula "Law above Life." [3] [Footnote 1: See p. 218.] [Footnote 2: The title of a famous poem by Gordon, _Kotzo shel Yod_, literally "the tittle of the Yod" the smallest letter in the Hebrew alphabet. The poem in question pictures the tragedy of a woman who remained unhappy the rest of her life because the Hebrew bill of divorce which she had obtained from her husband was declared void on account of a trifling error in spelling.] [Footnote 3: The author alludes to Gordon's poem "_Tzidkiyyahu be-bet hapekuddot_" ("Zedekiah in Prison"), in which the defeated and blinded Judean ruler (see Jer. 52. 11) bitterly complains of the evil effects of the prophetic doctrine.] The implication is obvious: the power of orthodoxy must be broken and Jewish life must be secularized. But while unmasking the old, Gordon could not fail to perceive the sore spots in the new, "enlightened" generation. He saw the flight of the educated youth from the Jewish camp, its ever-growing estrangement from the national tongue in which the poet uttered his songs, and a cry of anguish burst from his lips: "For Whom Do I Labor?" [1] It seemed to him that the rising generation, detached from the fountain-head of Jewish culture, would no more be able to read the "Songs of Zion," and that the poet's rhymes were limited in their appeal to the last handful of the worshippers of the Hebrew Muse: [Footnote 1: Title of a poem by Gordon, _Lemi ani 'amel!_] Who knows, but I am the last singer of Zion, And you are the last who my songs understand. These lines were penned on the threshold of the new era of the eighties. The exponent of Jewish self-criticism lived to see not only the horrors of the pogroms but also the misty dawn of the national movement, and he could comfort himself with the conviction that he was destined to be the singer for more than one generation. The question "For whom do I labor?" was approached and solved in a different way by another writer, whose genius expanded with the increasing years of his long life. During the first years of his activity, Shalom Jacob Abramovich (born in 1836) tried his strength in various fields. He wrote Hebrew essays on literary criticism (_Mishpat Shalom_ [1] 1859), adapted books on natural science written in modern languages (_Toldot ha-teba'_, "Natural History," 1862, ff.), composed a social _Tendenzroman_ under the title "Fathers and Children" (_Ha-abot we-ha-banim_, 1868 [2]); but all this left him dissatisfied. Pondering over the question "For whom do I labor?," he came to the conclusion that his labors belonged to the people at large, to the down-trodden masses, instead of being limited to the educated classes who understood the national tongue. A profound observer of Jewish conditions in the Pale, he realized that the concrete life of the masses should be portrayed in their living daily speech, in the Yiddish vernacular, which was treated with contempt by nearly all the Maskilim of that period. [Footnote 1: "The Judgment of Shalom," with reference to the author's first name and with a clever allusion to the Hebrew text of Zech. 8.16.] [Footnote 2: Written under the influence of Turgenyev's famous novel which bears the same title. See above, p. 210, n. 1.] Accordingly, Abramovich began to write in the dialect of the people, under the assumed pen-name of _Mendele Mokher Sforim_ (Mendele the Bookseller). Choosing his subjects from the life of the lower classes, he portrayed the pariahs of Jewish society and their oppressors (_Dos kleine Menshele_, "A Humble Man"), the life of Jewish beggars and vagrants (_Fishke der Krummer_, "Fishke the Cripple"), and the immense cobweb which had been spun around the destitute masses by the contractors of the meat tax and their accomplices, the alleged benefactors of the community (_Die Taxe, oder die Bande Stodt Bale Toyvos_, "The Meat Tax, or the Gang of Town Benefactors"). His trenchant satire on the "tax" hit the mark, and the author had reason to fear the ire of those who were hurt to the quick by his literary shafts. He had to leave the town of Berdychev in which he resided at the time, and removed to Zhitomir. Here he wrote in 1873 one of his ripest works, "The Mare, or Prevention of Cruelty to Animals" (_Die Klache_). In his allegorical narrative he depicts a homeless mare, the personification of the Jewish masses, which is pursued by the "bosses of the town" who do not allow her to graze on the common pasture-lands with the "town cattle," and who set street loafers and dogs at her heels. "The Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals" (the Government) cannot make up its mind whether the mare should be granted equal rights with the native horses, or should be left unprotected, and the matter is submitted to a special commission. In the meantime, certain horsemen from among the "communal benefactors" jump upon the back of the unfortunate mare, beat and torment her well-nigh to death, and drive her for their pleasure, until she collapses. Leaving the field of polemical allegory, Abramovich published the humorous description of the "Travels of Benjamin the Third" (_Masse'ot Benyamin ha-Shelishi_, 1878), [1] portraying a Jewish Don Quixote and Sancho Panza, who make an oversea journey to the mythical river Sambation--on the way from Berdychev to Kiev. A subtle observation of existing conditions combined with a profound analysis of the problems of Jewish life, artistic power matched with publicistic skill--such are the salient features of the first phase of Abramovich's literary activity. [Footnote 1: A famous Jewish traveller by the name of Benjamin lived in the twelfth century. Another modern Jewish traveller by the name of Joseph Israel, who died in 1864, adopted the name Benjamin II. Abramovich humorously designates his fictitious travelling hero as Benjamin III.] In the following period, beginning with the eighties, his literary creations exhibit greater artistic harmony in their content. As far as their linguistic garb is concerned, they combine the Yiddish vernacular with the Hebrew national tongue, which are employed side by side by our author as the vehicles of his thought, and reach at his hands an equally high state of perfection. 6. THE HARBINGER OF JEWISH NATIONALISM (PEREZ SMOLENSKIN) The artistic portrayer of life was, however, a rare exception in the literature of the Haskalah. Riven by social and cultural strife, the period of enlightenment called rather for theories than for art, and the novelist no less than the publicist was called upon to supply the want. This theoretic element was paramount in the novels of Perez Smolenskin. (1842-1885), the editor of the popular Hebrew magazine _ha-Shahar_. [1] The pupil of a White Russian yeshibah, he afterwards drifted into frivolous Odessa and still later to Vienna, suffering painfully from the shock of the contrast. Personally he had emerged unscathed from this conflict of ideas. But round about him he witnessed "the dead bodies of enlightenment, which are just as numerous as the victims of ignorance." He saw the Jewish youth fleeing from its people and forgetting its national language. He saw Reform Judaism of Western Europe which had retained nothing of Jewish culture except the modernized superficialities of the synagogue. Repelled by this spectacle, Smolenskin decided from the very beginning to fight on two fronts: against the fanatics of orthodoxy in the name of European progress, and against the champions of assimilation in the name of national Jewish culture, and more particularly of the Hebrew language. "You say," Smolenskin exclaims, addressing himself to the assimilators, "let us be like the other nations. Well and good. Let us, indeed, be like the other nations: cultured men and women, free from superstition, loyal citizens of the country. But let us also remember, as the other nations do, that we have no right to be ashamed of our origin, that it is our duty to hold dear our national language and our national dignity." [Footnote 1: See above, p. 218.] In his first great novel "A Rover on Life's Paths" (_Ha-to-'eh bedarke ha-hayyim_, 1869-1876), Smolenskin carries his hero through all the stages of cultural development, leading from an obscure White Russian hamlet to the centers of European civilization in London and Paris. But at the end of his "rovings" the hero ultimately attains to a synthesis of Jewish nationalism and European progress, and ends by sacrificing his life while defending his brethren during the Odessa pogrom of 1871. The other _Tendenz_-novels of Smolenskin reflect the same double-fronted struggle: against the stagnation of the orthodox, particularly the Hasidim, and against the disloyalty of the "enlightened." Smolenskin's theory of Judaism is formulated in two publicistic works: "The Eternal People" (_'Am 'olam_, [1] 1872) and "There is a Time to Plant" (_'Et la-ta'at_ [2], 1875-1877). As a counterbalance to the artificial religious reforms of the West, he sets up the far-reaching principle of Jewish evolution, of a gradual amalgamation of the national and humanitarian element within Judaism. The Messianic dogma, which the Jews of the West had completely abandoned because of its alleged incompatibility with Jewish citizenship in the Diaspora, is warmly defended by Smolenskin as one of the symbols of national unity. In the very center of his system stands the cult of Hebrew as a national language, "without which there is no Judaism." In order the more successfully to demolish the idea of assimilation, Smolenskin bombards its substructure, the theory of enlightenment as formulated by Moses Mendelssohn, with its definition of the Jews as a religious community, and not as a nation, though in his polemical ardor he often goes too far, and does occasional violence to historic truth. [Footnote 1: From Isa. 44. 7.] [Footnote 2: From Eccles. 3. 2.] In both works one may discern, though in vague outlines only, the theory of a "spiritual nation." [1] However, Smolenskin did not succeed in developing and consolidating his theory. The pogroms of 1881 and the beginning of the Jewish exodus from Russia upset his equilibrium once more. He laid aside the question of the national development of Jewry in the Diaspora, and became an enthusiastic preacher of the restoration of the Jewish people in Palestine. In the midst of this propaganda the life of the talented publicist was cut short by a premature death. [Footnote 1: The conception of a "spiritual nation" as applied to Judaism has been formulated and expounded by the author of the present volume in a number of works. See his "Jewish History" (Jewish Publication Society, 1903) p. 29 et seq., and the translator's essay "Dubnow's Theory of Jewish Nationalism" (reprinted from the Maccabaean, 1905). More about this theory will be found in Vol. III.] The same conviction was finally reached, after a prolonged inner struggle, by Moses Leib Lilienblum (1843-1910), who might well be called a "martyr of enlightenment." However, during the period under consideration he moved entirely within the boundaries of the Haskalah, of which he was a most radical exponent. Persecuted for his harmless liberalism by the fanatics of his native town of Vilkomir, [1] Lilienblum began to ponder over the question of Jewish religious reforms. In advocating the reform of Judaism, he was not actuated, as were so many in Western Europe, by the desire of adapting Judaism to the non-Jewish environment, but rather by the profound and painful conviction that dominant Rabbinism in its medieval phase did not represent the true essence of Judaism. Reform of Judaism, as interpreted by Lilienblum, does not mean a revolution, but an evolution of Judaism. Just as the Talmud had once reformed Judaism in accordance with the requirements of its time, so must Judaism be reformed by us in accordance with the demands of our own times. When the youthful writer embodied these views in a series of articles, published in the _ha-Melitz_ under the title _Orhot ha-Talmud_ ("The Ways of the Talmud," 1868-1869), his orthodox townsmen were so thoroughly aroused that his further stay in Vilkomir was not free from danger, and he was compelled to remove to Odessa. Here he published in 1870 his rhymed satire _Kehal refa'im_, [2] in which the dark shadows of a Jewish town, the Kahal elders, the rabbis, the Tzaddiks, and other worthies, move weirdly about in the gloom of the nether-world. [Footnote 1: In the government of Kovno.] [Footnote 2: "The Congregation of the Dead," with allusion to Prov. 21.16.] In Odessa Lilienblum joined the ranks of the Russified college youth, and became imbued with the radical ideas of Chernyshevski and Pisaryev, gaining the reputation of a "nihilist." His theory of Jewish reform, superannuated by his new materialistic world view, was thrown aside, and a gaping void opened in the soul of the writer. This frame of mind is reflected in Lilienblum's self-revelation, "The Sins of Youth" (_Hattot ne'urim_, 1876), this agonizing cry of one of the many victims of the mental cataclysm of the sixties. The book made a tremendous impression, for the mental tortures depicted in it were typical of the whole age of transition. However, the final note of the confession, the shriek of a wasted soul, which, having overthrown the old idols, has failed to find a new God, did not express the general trend of that period, which was far from despair. As for our author, his tempestuous soul was soon set at rest. The events which filled the minds of progressive Jewry with agitation, the horrors of the pogroms and the political oppression of the beginning of the eighties, brought peace to the aching heart of Lilienblum. He found the solution of the Jewish problems in the "Love of Zion," of which he became the philosophic exponent. At a later stage he became an ardent champion of political Zionism. 7. JEWISH LITERATURE IN THE RUSSIAN LANGUAGE The left wing of "enlightenment" was represented during this period by Jewish literature in the Russian language, which had several noteworthy exponents. It is interesting to observe that, whereas all the prominent writers in Hebrew were children of profoundly nationalistic Lithuania, those that wrote in Russian, with the sole exception of Levanda, were natives of South Russia, where the two extremes, stagnant Hasidism and radical Russification, fought for supremacy. The founder of this branch of Jewish literature was Osip (Joseph) Rabinovich (1817-1869), a Southerner, a native of Poltava and a resident of Odessa. [1] Alongside of journalistic articles he wrote protracted novels. His touching "Pictures of the Past," his stories "The Penal Recruit" and "The Inherited Candlestick" (1859-1860) called up before the generation living at the dawn of the new era of reforms the shadows of the passing night: the tortures of Nicholas' conscription and the degrading forms of Jewish rightlessness. [Footnote 1: See above, p, 219.] The fight against this rightlessness was the goal of his journalistic activity which, prior to the publication of the _Razswyet_, he had carried on in the columns of the liberal Russian press. The problems of inner Jewish life had but little attraction for him. Like Riesser, he looked upon civil emancipation as a panacea for all Jewish ailments. He was snatched away by death before he could be cured of this illusion. Rabinovich's work was continued by a talented youth, the journalist Ilya (Elias) Orshanski of Yekaterinoslav (1846-1875), who was the main contributor to the _Dyen_ of Odessa and to the _Yevreyskaya Bibliotyeka_. [1] To fight for Jewish rights, not to offer humble apologies, to demand emancipation, not to beg for it, this attitude lends a charm of its own to Orshanski's writings. His brilliant analysis of "Russian Legislation concerning the Jews" [2] offers a complete anatomy of Jewish disfranchisement in Russia, beginning with Catherine II. and ending with Alexander II. [Footnote 1: Compare above, p. 220 et seq.] [Footnote 2: The title of his work on the same subject which appeared in St. Petersburg in 1877.] Nevertheless, being a child of his age, he preached its formula. While a passionate Jew at heart, he championed the cause of Russification, though not in the extreme form of spiritual self-effacement. The Odessa pogrom of 1871 staggered his impressionable soul. He was tossing about restlessly, seeking an outlet for his resentment, but everywhere he knocked his head against the barriers of censorship and police. Had he been granted longer life, he might, like Smolenskin, have chosen the road of a nationalistic-progressive synthesis, but the white plague carried him off in his twenty-ninth year. The literary work of Lev (Leon) Levanda (1835-1888) was of a more complicated character. A graduate of one of the official rabbinical schools, he was first active as teacher in a Jewish Crown school in Minsk, and afterwards occupied the post of a "learned Jew" [1] under Muravyov, the governor-general of Vilna. He thus moved in the hot-bed of "official enlightenment" and in the headquarters of the policy of Russification as represented by Muravyov, a circumstance which left its impress upon all the products of his pen. In his first novel, "The Grocery Store" (1860), of little merit from the artistic point of view, he still appears as the naive bard of that shallow "enlightenment," the champion of which is sufficiently characterized by wearing a European costume, calling himself by a well-sounding German or Russian name (in the novel under discussion the hero goes by the name of Arnold), cultivating friendly relations with noble-minded Christians and making a love match unassisted by the marriage-broker. [Footnote 1: In Russian, _Uchony Yevrey_, an expert in Jewish matters, attached, according to the Russian law of 1844, to the superintendents of school districts and to the governors-general within the Pale.] During this stage of his career, Levanda was convinced that "no educated Jew could help being a cosmopolitan." But a little later his cosmopolitanism displayed a distinct propensity toward Russification. In his novel "A Hot Time" (1871-1872), Levanda renounces his former Polish sympathies, and, through the mouth of his hero Sarin, preaches the gospel of the approaching cultural fusion between the Jews and the Russians which is to mark a new epoch in the history of the Jewish people. Old-fashioned Jewish life is cleverly ridiculed in his "Sketches of the Past" ("The Earlocks of my Mellammed," "Schoolophobia," etc., 1870-1875). His peace of mind was not even disturbed by the manifestation, towards the end of the sixties, of the anti-Semitic reaction in those very official circles in which the "learned Jew" moved and in which Brafman was looked up to as an authority in matters appertaining to Judaism. [1] But the catastrophe of 1881 dealt a staggering blow to Levanda's soul, and forced him to overthrow his former idol of assimilation. With his mind not yet fully settled on the new theory of nationalism, he joined the Palestine movement towards the end of his life, and went down to his grave with a clouded soul. [Footnote 1: Levanda sat side by side with this renegade and informer in the Commission on the Jewish Question which had been appointed by the governor-general of Vilna. (See p. 189.)] One who stuck fast in his denial of Judaism was Grigory Bogrov (1825-1885). The descendant of a family of rabbis in Poltava, he passed "from darkness to light" by way of the curious educational institution of Nicholas' brand, the office of an excise farmer in which he was employed for a number of years. The enlightened _Aktziznik_ [1] became conscious of his literary talent late in life. His protracted "Memoirs of a Jew," largely made up of autobiographic material, were published in a Russian magazine as late as 1871-1873. [2] They contain an acrimonious description of Jewish life in the time of Nicholas I. No Jewish artist had ever yet dipped his brush in colors so dismal and had displayed so ferocious a hatred as did Bogrov in painting the old Jewish mode of life within the Pale, with its poverty and darkness, its hunters and victims, its demoralized Kahal rule of the days of conscription. Bogrov's account of his childhood and youth is not relieved by a single cheerful reminiscence, except that of a young _Russian_ girl. The whole patriarchal life of a Jewish townlet of that period is transformed into a sort of inferno teeming with criminals or idiots. [Footnote 1: See p. 186, n. 1.] [Footnote 2: Shortly afterwards the "Memoirs" were supplemented by another autobiographic novel, "The Captured Recruit."] To the mind of Bogrov, only two ways promised an escape from this hell: the way of cosmopolitanism and rationalism, opening up into humanity at large, or the way leading into the midst of the Russian nation. Bogrov himself stood irresolute on this fateful border-line. In 1878 he wrote to Levanda that as "an emancipated cosmopolitan he would long ago have crossed over to the opposite shore," where "other sympathies and ideals smiled upon him," were he not kept within the Jewish fold "by four million people innocently suffering from systematic persecutions." Bogrov's hatred of the persecutors of the Jewish people was poured forth in his historic novel "A Jewish Manuscript" (1876), the plot of which is based on events of the time of Khmelnitzki. [1] But even here, while describing, as he himself puts it, the history of the struggle between the spider and the fly, he finds in the life of the fly nothing worthy of sympathy except its sufferings. In 1879 Bogrov began a new novel, "The Scum of the Age," picturing the life of the modern Jewish youth who were engulfed in the Russian revolutionary propaganda. But the hand which knew how to portray the horrors of the old conscription was powerless to reproduce, except in very crude outlines, the world of political passions which was foreign to the author, and the novel remained unfinished. [Footnote 1: See on that period Vol. I, p. 144 et seq.] The reaction of the eighties produced no change in Bogrov's attitude. He breathed his last in a distant Russian village, and was buried in a Russian cemetery, having embraced Christianity shortly before his death, as a result of a sad concatenation of family circumstances. Before the young generation which entered upon active life in the eighties lay the broken tablets of Russian Jewish literature. New tablets were needed, partly to restore the commandments of the preceding period of enlightenment, partly to correct its mistakes. CHAPTER XXI THE ACCESSION OF ALEXANDER III. AND THE INAUGURATION OF POGROMS 1. THE TRIUMPH OF AUTOCRACY On March 1, 1881, Alexander II. met his death on one of the principal thoroughfares of St. Petersburg, smitten by dynamite bombs hurled at him by a group of terrorists. The Tzar, who had freed the Russian peasantry from personal slavery, paid with his life for refusing to free the Russian people from political slavery and police tyranny. The red terrorism of the revolutionaries was the counterpart of the white terrorism of the Russian authorities, who for many years had suppressed the faintest striving for liberty, and had sent to gaol and prison, or deported to Siberia, the champions of a constitutional form of government and the spokesmen of social reforms. Forced by the persecutions of the police to hide beneath the surface, the revolutionary societies of underground Russia found themselves compelled to resort to methods of terrorism. This terrorism found its expression during the last years of Alexander II. in various attempts on the life of that ruler, and culminated in the catastrophe of March 1. Among the members of these revolutionary societies were also some representatives from among the young Jewish _intelligenzia._ They were in large part college students, who had been carried away by the ideals of their Russian comrades. But few of them were counted among the active terrorists. The group which prepared the murder of the Tzar comprised but one Jewish member, a woman by the name of Hesia Helfman, who, moreover, played but a secondary role in the conspiracy, by keeping a secret residence for toe revolutionaries. Nevertheless, in the official circles, which were anxious to justify their oppression of the Jews, it became customary to refer to the "important role" played by the Jews in the Russian revolution. It was with preconceived notions of this kind that Alexander III. ascended the throne of Russia, a sovereign with unlimited power but with a very limited political horizon. Being a Russian of the old-fashioned type and a zealous champion of the Greek-Orthodox Church, he shared the anti-Jewish prejudices of his environment. Already as crown prince he ordered that a monetary reward be given to the notorious Lutostanski, who had presented him with his libellous pamphlet "Concerning the Use of Christian Blood by the Jews." [1] During the Russo-Turkish war of 1877, when as heir-apparent he was in command of one of the Balkan armies, he allowed himself to be persuaded that the abuses in the Russian commissariat were due to the "Jewish" purveyors who supplied the army. [2] This was all that was known about Judaism in the circles from which the ruler of five million Jews derived his information. [Footnote 1: See p. 203.] [Footnote 2: The business firm in question was that of Greger, Horvitz, and Kohan, of whom the first was a Greek, and the second a converted Jew. See above, p. 202, n. 1.] In March and April, 1881, the destinies of Russia were being decided at secret conferences, which were held between the Tzar and the highest dignitaries of state in the palace of the quiet little town of Gatchina, whither Alexander III. had withdrawn after the death of his father. Two parties and two programs were struggling for mastery at these conferences. The party of the liberal Minister Loris-Melikov, championing a program of moderate reforms, pleaded primarily for the establishment of an advisory commission to be composed of the deputies deputies of the rural and urban administrations for the purpose of considering all legal projects prior to their submission to the Council of State. This plan of a paltry popular representation, which had obtained the approval of Alexander II. during the last days of his life, assumed in the eyes of the reactionary party the proportions of a dangerous "constitution," and was execrated by it as an encroachment upon the sacred prerogatives of autocracy. The head of this party was the procurator-general of the Holy Synod, Constantine Petrovich Pobyedonostzev, a former professor at the University of Moscow, who had been Alexander III.'s tutor in the political sciences when the latter was crown prince. As the exponent of an ecclesiastical police state, Pobyedonostzev contended that enlightenment and political freedom were harmful to Russia, that the people must be held in a state of patriarchal submission to the authority of the Church and of the temporal powers, and that the Greek-Orthodox masses must be shielded against the influence of alien religions and races, which should accordingly occupy in the Russian monarchy a position subordinate to that of the dominant nation. The ideas of this fanatic reactionary, who was dubbed "The Grand Inquisitor" and whose name was popularly changed into _Byedonostzev_ [1] carried the day at the Gatchina conferences. The deliberations culminated in the decision to refrain from making any concessions to the revolutionary element by granting reforms, however however modest in character, and to maintain at all cost the regime of a police state as a counterbalance to the idea of a legal state prevalent in the "rotten West." [Footnote 1: _Byedonostzev_ means in Russian "Misfortune-bearer," a play on the name _Pobyedonostzev_ which signifies "Victory-bearer."] Accordingly, the imperial manifesto [1] promulgated on April 29, 1881, proclaimed to the people that "the Voice of God hath commanded us to take up vigorously the reins of government, inspiring us with the belief in the strength and truth of autocratic power, which we are called upon to establish and safeguard." The manifesto "calls upon all faithful subjects to eradicate the hideous sedition and to establish faith and morality." The methods whereby faith and morality were to be established were soon made known, in the "Police Constitution" which was bestowed upon Russia in August, 1881, under the name of "The Statute concerning Enforced Public Safety." [Footnote 1: A manifesto is a pronouncement issued by the Tzar on solemn occasions, such as accession to the throne, events in the imperial family, declaration of war, conclusion of peace, etc., accompanied, as a rule, by acts of grace, such as conferring privileges, granting pardons, and so on. Compare also above, p. 115.] This statute confers upon the Russian satraps of the capitals (St. Petersburg and Moscow) and of many provincial centers--the governors-general and the governors--the power of issuing special enactments and thereby setting aside the normal laws as well as of placing under arrest and deporting to Siberia, without the due process of law, all citizens suspected of "political unsafety." This travesty of a _habeas corpus_ Act, insuring the inviolability of police and gendarmerie, and practically involving the suspension of the current legislation in a large part of the monarchy, has ever since been annually renewed by special imperial enactments, and has remained in force until our own days. The genuine "Police Constitution" of 1881 has survived the civil sham Constitution of 1905, figuring as a symbol of legalized lawlessness. 2. THE INITIATION OF THE POGROM POLICY The catastrophe of March 1 had the natural effect of pushing not only the Government but also a large part of the Russian people, who had been scared by the spectre of anarchy, in the direction of reactionary politics. This retrograde tendency was bound to affect the Jewish question. The bacillus of Judaeophobia [1] became astir in the politically immature minds which had been unhinged by the acts of terrorism. The influential press organs, which maintained more or less close relations with the leading Government spheres, adopted more and more a hostile attitude towards the Jews. The metropolitan newspaper _Novoye Vremya_ ("The New Time") [2] which at that time embarked upon its infamous career as the semi-official organ of the Russian reaction, and a number of provincial newspapers subsidized by the Government suddenly began to speak of the Jews in a tone which suggested that they were in the possession of some terrible secret. [Footnote 1: The term used in Russia for anti-Semitism.] [Footnote 2: See above, p. 205.] Almost on the day following the attempt on the life of the Tzar, the papers of this ilk began to insinuate that the Jews had a hand in it, and shortly thereafter the South-Russian press published alarming rumors about proposed organized attacks upon the Jews of that region. These rumors were based on facts. A sinister agitation was rife among the lowest elements of the Russian population, while invisible hands from above seemed to push it on toward the commission of a gigantic crime. In the same month of March, mysterious emissaries from St. Petersburg made their appearance in the large cities of South Russia, such as Yelisavetgrad (Elizabethgrad), Kiev, and Odessa, and entered into secret negotiations with the highest police officials concerning a possible "outburst of popular indignation against the Jews" which they expected to take place as part of the economic conflict, intimating the undesirability of obstructing the will of the Russian populace by police force. Figures of Great-Russian tradesmen and laborers, or _Katzaps,_ as the Great Russians are designated in the Little-Russian South, began to make their appearance in the railroad cars and at the railroad stations, and spoke to the common people of the summary punishment soon to be inflicted upon the Jews or read to them anti-Semitic newspaper articles. They further assured them that an imperial ukase had been issued, calling upon the Christians to attack the Jews during the days of the approaching Greek-Orthodox Easter. Although many years have passed since these events, it has not yet been possible to determine the particular agency which carried on this pogrom agitation among the Russian masses. Nor has it been possible to find out to what extent the secret society of high officials, which had been formed in March, 1881, under the name of "The Sacred League," with the object of defending the person of the Tzar and engaging in a terroristic struggle with the "enemies of the public order," [1] was implicated in the movement. But the fact itself that, the pogroms were carefully prepared and engineered is beyond doubt: it may be inferred from the circumstance that they broke out almost simultaneously in many places of the Russian South, and that everywhere they followed the same routine, characterized by the well-organized "activity" of the mob and the deliberate inactivity of the authorities. [Footnote 1: The League existed until the autumn of 1882. Among its members were Pobyedonostzev and the anti-Jewish Minister Ignatyev.] The first outbreak of the storm took place in Yelisavetgrad (Elizabethgrad), a large city in New Russia, [1] with a Jewish population of fifteen thousand souls. On the eve of the Greek-Orthodox Easter, the local Christians, meeting on the streets and in the stores, spoke to one another of the fact that "the Zhyds are about to be beaten." The Jews became alarmed. The police, prepared to maintain public order during the first days of the Passover, called out a small detachment of soldiers. In consequence, the first days of the festival passed quietly, and on the fourth day, [2] on April 15, the troops were removed from the streets. [Footnote 1: On the term New Russia see p. 40, n. 3.] [Footnote 2: The Greek-Orthodox Passover lasts officially three days, but an additional day is celebrated by the populace.] At that moment the pogrom began. The organizers of the riots sent a drunken Russian into a saloon kept by a Jew, where he began to make himself obnoxious. When the saloon-keeper pushed the trouble maker out into the street, the crowd, which was waiting outside, began to shout: "The Zhyds are beating our people," and threw themselves upon the Jews who happened to pass by. This evidently was the prearranged signal for the pogrom. The Jewish stores in the market-place were attacked and demolished, and the goods looted or destroyed. At first, the police, assisted by the troops, managed somehow to disperse the rioters. But on the second day the pogrom was renewed with greater energy and better leadership, amidst the suspicious inactivity both of the military and police authorities. The following description of the events is taken from the records of the official investigation which were not meant for publication and are therefore free from the bureaucratic prevarications characteristic of Russian public documents: During the night from the 15th to the 16th of April, an attack was made upon Jewish houses, primarily upon liquor stores, on the outskirts of the town, on which occasion one Jew was killed. About seven o'clock in the morning, on April 16, the excesses were renewed, spreading with extraordinary violence all over the city. Clerks, saloon and hotel waiters, artisans, drivers, flunkeys, day laborers in the employ of the Government, and soldiers on furlough--all of these joined the movement. The city presented an extraordinary sight: streets covered with feathers and obstructed with broken furniture which had been thrown out of the residences; houses with broken doors and windows; a raging mob, running about yelling and whistling in all directions and continuing its work of destruction without let or hindrance, and, as a finishing touch to this picture, complete indifference displayed by the local non-Jewish inhabitants to the havoc wrought before their eyes. The troops which had been summoned to restore order were without definite instructions, and, at each attack of the mob on another house, would wait for orders of the military or police authorities, without knowing what to do. As a result of this attitude of the military, the turbulent mob, which was demolishing the houses and stores of the Jews before the eyes of the troops, without being checked by them, was bound to arrive at the conclusion that the excesses in which it indulged were not an illegal undertaking but rather a work which had the approval of the Government. Toward evening the disorders increased in intensity, owing to the arrival of a large number of peasants from the adjacent villages, who were anxious to secure part of the Jewish loot. There was no one to check these crowds; the troops and police were helpless. They had all lost heart, and were convinced that it was Impossible to suppress the disorders with the means at hand. At eight o'clock at night a rain came down accompanied by a cold wind which helped in a large measure to disperse the crowd. At eleven o'clock fresh troops arrived on the spot. On the morning of April 17 a new battalion of infantry came, and from that day on public order was no longer violated in Yelisavetgrad. The news of the "victory" so easily won over the Jews of Yelisavetgrad aroused the dormant pogrom energy in the unenlightened Russian masses. In the latter part of April riots took place in many villages of the Yelisavetgrad district and in several towns and townlets in the adjoining government of Kherson. In the villages, the work of destruction was limited to the inns kept by Jews--many peasants believing that they were acting in accordance with imperial orders. In the towns and townlets, all Jewish houses and stores were demolished and their goods looted. In the town of Ananyev, in the government of Kherson, the people were incited by a resident named Lashchenko, who assured his townsmen that the central Government had given orders to massacre the Jews because they had murdered the Tzar, and that these orders were purposely kept back by the local administration. The instigator was seized by the police, but was wrested from it by the crowd which thereupon threw itself upon the Jews. The riots resulted in some two hundred ruined houses and stores in the outskirts of the town, where the Jewish proletariat was cooped up. The central part of the town, where the more well-to-do Jews had their residences, was guarded by the police and by a military detachment, and therefore remained intact. 3. THE POGROM AT KIEV The movement gained constantly in momentum, and the instincts of the mob became more and more unbridled. The "Mother of Russian cities," ancient Kiev, where at the dawn of Russian history the Jews, together with the Khazars, had been the banner-bearers of civilization, became the scene of the lawless fury of savage hordes. Here the pogrom was carefully prepared by a secret organization which spread the rumor that the new Tzar had given orders to exterminate the Jews, who had murdered his father, and that the civil and military authorities would render assistance to the people, whilst those who would fail to comply with the will of the Tzar would meet with punishment. The local authorities, with Governor-General Drenteln at their head, who was a reactionary and a fierce Jew-hater, were aware not only of the imminence of the pogrom, but also of the day selected for it, Sunday, April 26. As early as April 23 a street fight took place which was accompanied by assaults on Jewish passers-by--a prelude to the pogrom. On the day before the fateful Sunday, the Jews were warned by the police not to leave their houses, nor to open their stores on the morrow. The Jews were nonplussed. They failed to understand why in the capital of the governor-general, with its numerous troops, which, at a hint from their commander, were able to nip in the bud disorders of any kind, peaceful citizens should be told to hide themselves from an impending attack, instead of taking measures to forestall the attack itself. Nevertheless, the advice of the police was heeded, and on the fateful day no Jews were to be found on the streets. This, however, did not prevent the numerous bands of rioters from assembling on the streets and embarking upon their criminal activities. The pogrom started in Podol, a part of the town densely populated by Jews. The following is the description of an eye-witness: At twelve o'clock at noon, the air saddenly resounded with, wild shouts, whistling, jeering, hooting, and laughing. An immense crowd of young boys, artisans, and laborers was on the march. The whole city was obstructed by the "bare-footed brigade." [1] The destruction of Jewish houses began. Window-panes, and doors began to fly about, and shortly thereafter the mob, having gained access to the houses and stores, began to throw upon the streets absolutely everything that fell into their hands. Clouds of feathers began to whirl in the air. The din of broken window-panes and frames, the crying, shouting, and despair on the one hand, and the terrible yelling and jeering on the other, completed the picture which reminded many of those who had participated in the last Russo-Turkish war of the manner in which the Bashi-buzuks [2] had attacked Bulgarian villages. Soon afterwards the mob threw itself upon the Jewish synagogue, which, despite its strong bars, locks and shutters, was wrecked in a moment. One should have seen the fury with which the riff-raff fell upon the [Torah] scrolls, of which there were many in the synagogue. The scrolls were torn to shreds, trampled in the dirt, and destroyed with incredible passion. The streets were soon crammed with the trophies of destruction. Everywhere fragments of dishes, furniture, household utensils, and other articles lay scattered about. Barely two hours after the beginning of the pogrom, the majority of the "bare-footed brigade" were transformed into well-dressed gentlemen, many of them having grown excessively stout in the meantime. The reason for this sudden change was simple enough. Those that had looted the stores of ready-made clothes put on three or four suits, and, not yet satisfied, took under their arms all they could lay their hands on. Others drove off in vehicles, carrying with them bags filled with loot.... The Christian population saved itself from the ruinous operations of the crowd by placing holy ikons in their windows and painting crosses on the gates of their houses. [Footnote 1: The Russian nickname for a crowd of tramps.] [Footnote 2: Name of the Turkish irregular troops noted for their ferocity.] While the pogrom was going on, troops were marching up and down on the streets of the Podol district, Cossaks were riding about on their horses, and patrols on foot and horse-back were moving to and fro. Here and there army officers would pass through, among them generals and high civil officials. The cavalry would hasten to a place whence the noise came. Having arrived there, it would surround the mob and order it to disperse, but the mob would only move to another place. Thus, the work of destruction proceeded undisturbed until three o'clock in the morning. Drums were beaten, words of command were shouted, the crowd was encircled by the troops and ordered to disperse, while the mob continued its attacks with ever-increasing fury and savagery. While some of the robber bands were "busy" in Podol, others were active in the principal thoroughfares of the city. In each case, the savage and drunken mob--"not a single sober person could be found among them," is the testimony of an eye-witness--did its hideous work in the presence of soldiers and policemen, who in a few instances drove off the rioters, but, more often, accompanied them from place to place, forming, as it were, an honorary escort. Occasionally, Governor-General Drenteln himself would appear on the streets, surrounded by a magnificent military suite, including the governor and chief of police. These representatives of State authority "admonished the people," and the latter, "preserving a funereal silence, drew back," only to resume their criminal task after the departure of the authorities. In some places there were neither troops nor police on the spot, and the rioters were able to give full vent to their beastly instincts. Demiovka, a suburb of Kiev, was invaded by a horde of rioters during the night. They first destroyed the saloons, filling themselves with alcohol, and then proceeded to lay fire to the Jewish houses. Under the cover of night indescribable horrors were perpetrated, numerous Jews were beaten to death or thrown into the flames, and many women were violated. A private investigation carried on subsequently brought out more than twenty cases of rape committed on Jewish girls and married women. Only two of the sufferers confessed their misfortune to the public prosecutor. The others admitted their disgrace in private or concealed it altogether, for fear of ruining their reputation. It was only on April 27--when the pogrom broke out afresh--that the authorities resolved to put a stop to it. Wherever a disorderly band made its appearance, it was immediately surrounded by soldiers and Cossaks and driven off with the butt ends of their rifles. Here and there it became necessary to shoot at these human beasts, and some of them were wounded or killed. The rapidity with which the pogrom was suppressed on the second day showed incontrovertibly that if the authorities had only been so minded the excesses might have been suppressed on the first day and the crime nipped in the bud. The indifference of the authorities was responsible for the demolition of about a thousand Jewish houses and business places, involving a monetary loss of several millions of rubles, not to speak of the scores of killed and wounded Jews and a goodly number of violated women. In the official reports these orgies of destruction were politely designated as "disorders," and _The Imperial Messenger_ limited its account of the horrors perpetrated at Kiev to the following truth-perverting dispatch: On April 26, disorders broke out in Kiev which were directed against the Jews. Several Jews received blows, and their stores and warehouses were plundered. On the morning of the following day the disorders were checked with the help of the troops, and five hundred men from among the rioters were arrested. The later laconic reports are nearer to the facts. They set the figure of arrested rioters at no less than fourteen hundred, and make mention of a number of persons who had been wounded during the suppression of the excesses, including one gymnazium and one university student. Yet even these later dispatches contain no reference to Jewish victims. 4. FURTHER OUTBREAKS IN SOUTH RUSSIA The barbarism displayed in the metropolis of the south-west communicated itself with the force of an infectious disease to the whole region. During the following days, from April to May, some fifty villages and a number of townlets in the government of Kiev and the adjacent governments of Volhynia and Podolia were swept by the pogrom epidemic. The Jewish population of the town of Smyela [1] and the surrounding villages, amounting to some ten thousand souls, experienced, on a smaller scale, all the horrors perpetrated at Kiev. It was not until the second day, May 4, that the troops proceeded to put an end to the violence and pillage which had been going on in the town and which resulted in a number of killed and wounded. In a near-by village a Jewish woman of thirty was attacked and tortured to death, while the seven year old son of another woman, who had saved herself by flight, was killed in beastly fashion for his refusal to make the sign of the cross. [Footnote 1: In the government of Kiev.] In many cases the pogroms had been instigated by the newly arrived Great-Russian "bare-footed brigade" who having accomplished their "work," vanished without a trace. A similar horde of tramps arrived at the railway station of Berdychev. But in this populous Jewish center they were met at the station by a large Jewish guard who, armed with clubs, did not allow the visiting "performers" to leave the railway cars, with the result that they had to turn back. This rare instance of self-defence was only made possible by the indulgence of the local police commissioner, or _Ispravnik_, who, for a large consideration, blinked at the endeavor of the Jews to defend themselves against the rioters. In other places, similar attempts at self-defence were frustrated by the police; occasionally they made things worse. Such was the case in the town of Konotop, in the government of Chernigov, where, as a result of the self-defence of the Jews, the mob passed from plunder to murder. In the villages the ignorant peasants scrupulously discharged their "pogrom duty," in the conviction that it had been imposed upon them by the Tzar. In one village in the government of Chernigov, the following characteristic episode took place. The peasants of the village had assembled for their work of destruction. When the rural chief, or Elder, [1] called upon the peasants to disperse, the latter demanded a written guarantee that they would not be held to account for their failure to comply with the imperial "orders" to beat the Jews. This guarantee was given to them. However, the sceptical rustics were not yet convinced, and, to make assurance doubly sure, destroyed six Jewish houses. In various villages the priests found it exceedingly difficult to convince the peasants that no "order" had been issued to attack the Jews. [Footnote 1: The president of the village assembly.] The series of spring pogroms was capped by a three days' riot in the capital of the South, in Odessa (May 3-5), which harbored a Jewish population of 100,000. In view of the immense riff-raff, which is generally found in a port of entry of this size, the excesses of the mob might have assumed terrifying dimensions, had not the authorities remembered that the task entrusted to them was not exactly that of forming an honorary escort for the rioters, as had actually been the case in Kiev. The police and military forces of Odessa attacked the rioting hordes which had spread all over the city, and, in most cases, succeeded in driving them off. The Jewish self-defence, organized and led by Jewish students of the University of Odessa, managed in a number of cases to beat off the bloodthirsty crowds from the gates of Jewish homes. However, when the police began to make arrests among the street mob, they drew no line between the defenders and the assailants, with the result that among the eight hundred arrested persons there were one hundred and fifty Jews, who were locked up on the charge of carrying fire-arms. In point of fact, the "arms" of the Jews consisted of clubs and iron rods, with the exception of a very few who were provided with pistols. Those arrested were loaded on three barges which were towed out to sea, and for several days were kept in that swimming jail. The Odessa pogrom, which had resulted in the destruction of several city districts populated by poor Jews, did not satisfy the appetites of the savage crowd, whose imagination had been fired by stories of the "successes" attained at Kiev. The mob threatened the Jews with a new riot and even with a massacre. The panic resulting from this threat induced many Jews to flee to more peaceful places, or to leave Russia altogether. The same lack of completeness marked the pogroms which took place simultaneously in several other cities within the jurisdiction of the governor-general of New Russia. In the beginning of May the destructive energy characterizing the first pogrom period began to ebb. A lull ensued in the "military operations" of the Russian barbarians which continued until the month of July of the same year. CHAPTER XXII THE ANTI-JEWISH POLICIES OF IGNATYEV 1. THE VACILLATING ATTITUDE OF THE AUTHORITIES In the beginning of May, 1881, the well-known diplomatist Nicholas Pavlovich Ignatyev was called by the Tzar to the post of Minister of the Interior. At one time ambassador in Constantinople and at all times a militant Pan-Slavist, Ignatyev introduced the system of diplomatic intrigues into the inner politics of Russia, earning thereby the unenviable nickname of "Father of Lies." A programmatic circular, issued by him on May 6, declared that the principal task of the Government consisted in the "extirpation of sedition," i.e., in carrying on a struggle not only against the revolutionary movement but also against the spirit of liberalism in general. In this connection, Ignatyev took occasion to characterize the anti-Jewish excesses in the following typical sentences: The movement against the Jews which has come to light during the last few days in the South is a sad example, showing how men, otherwise devoted to Throne and Fatherland, yet yielding to the instigations of ill-minded agitators who fan the evil passions of the popular masses, give way to self-will and mob rule and, without being aware of it, act in accordance with the designs of the anarchists. Such violation of the public order must not only be put down vigorously, but must also be carefully forestalled, for it is the first duty of the Government to safeguard the population against all violence and savage mob rule. These lines reflect the theory concerning the origin of the pogroms, which was originally held in the highest Government spheres of St. Petersburg. This theory assumed that the anti-Jewish campaign had been entirely engineered by revolutionary agitators and that the latter had made deliberate endeavors to focus the resentment of the popular masses upon the Jews, as a pre-eminently mercantile class, for the purpose of subsequently widening the anti-Jewish campaign into a movement directed against the Russian mercantile class, land-owners and capitalists in general. [1] Be this as it may, there can be no question that the Government was actually afraid lest the revolutionary propaganda attach itself to the agitation of those "devoted to Throne and Fatherland" for the purpose of giving the movement a more general scope, "in accordance with the d signs of the anarchists." As a matter of fact, even outside of Government circles, the apprehension was voiced that the anti-Jewish movement would of itself, without any external stimulus, assume the form of a mob movement, directed not only against the well-to-do classes but also against the Government officials. On May 4, 1881, Baron Horace Günzburg, a leading representative of the Jewish community of St. Petersburg, waited upon Grand Duke Vladimir, a brother of the Tzar, who expressed the opinion that the anti-Jewish "disorders, as has now been ascertained by the Government, are not to be exclusively traced to the resentment against the Jews, but are rather due to the endeavor to disturb the peace in general." [Footnote 1: John W. Poster, United States Minister to Russia, in reporting to the Secretary of State, on May 24, 1881, about the recent excesses, which "are more worthy of the dark ages than of the present century," makes a similar observation: "It is asserted also that the Nihilist societies have profited by the situation to incite and encourage the peasants and lower classes of the towns and cities in order to increase the embarrassments of the Government, but the charge is probably conjectural and not based on very tangible facts." See _House of Representatives, 51st Congress, 1st Session. Executive Document No. 470, p. 53_] A week after this visit, the deputies of Russian Jewry had occasion to hear the same opinion expressed by the Tzar himself. The Jewish deputation, consisting of Baron Günzburg, the banker Sack, the lawyers Passover and Bank, and the learned Hebraist Berlin, was awaiting this audience with, considerable trepidation, anticipating an authoritative imperial verdict regarding the catastrophe that had befallen the Jews. On May 11, the audience took place in the palace at Gatchina. Baron Günzburg voiced the sentiments of "boundless gratitude for the measures adopted to safeguard the Jewish population at this sad moment," and added: "One more imperial word, and the disturbances will disappear." In reply to the euphemistic utterances concerning "the measures adopted," the Tzar stated in the same tone that all Russian subjects were equal before him, and expressed the assurance "that in the criminal disorders in the South of Russia the Jews merely serve as a pretext, and that it is the work of anarchists." This pacifying portion of the Tzar's answer was published in the press. What the public was not allowed to learn was the other portion of the answer, in which the Tzar gave utterance to the view that the source of the hatred against the Jews lay in their economic "domination" and "exploitation" of the Russian population. In reply to the arguments of the talented lawyer Passover and the other deputies, the Tzar declared: "State all this in a special memorandum." Such a memorandum was subsequently prepared. But it was not submitted to the Tzar. For only a few months later the official attitude towards the Jewish question took a turn for the worse. The Government decided to abandon its former view on the Jewish pogroms and to adopt, instead, the theory of Jewish "exploitation," using it as a means of justifying not only the pogroms which had already been perpetrated upon the Jews but also the repressive measures which were being contemplated against them. Under these circumstances, Ignatyev did not see his way clear to allow the memorandum in defence of Jewry to receive the attention of the Tzar. It is not impossible that the pacifying portion of the imperial reply which had been given at the audience of May 11 was also prompted by the desire to appease the public opinion of Western Europe, for at that time European opinion still carried some weight with the bureaucratic circles of Russia. Several days before the audience at Gatchina, [1] the English Parliament discussed the question of Jewish persecutions in Russia. In the House of Commons the Jewish members, Baron Henry de Worms and Sir H.D. Wolff, calling attention to the case of an English Jew who had been expelled from St. Petersburg, interpellated the Under-Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs, Sir Charles Dilke, "whether Her Majesty's Government have made any representations to the Government at St. Petersburg, with regard to the atrocious outrages committed on the Jewish population in Southern Russia," Dilke replied that the English Government was not sure whether such a protest "would be likely to be efficacious." [2] [Footnote 1: On May 16 and 19=May 4 and 7, according to the Russian Calendar.] [Footnote 2: The Russian original has been amended in a few places in accordance with the report of the parliamentary proceedings published in the _Jewish Chronicle_ of May 20, 1881.] A similar reply was given by the Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs, Lord Granville, to a joint deputation of the Anglo-Jewish Association and the Board of Deputies, two leading Anglo-Jewish bodies, which waited upon him on May 13, [1] two days after the Gatchina audience. After expressing his warm sympathy with the objects of the deputation, the Secretary pointed out the inexpediency of any interference on the part of England at a moment when the Russian Government itself was adopting measures against the pogroms, referring to "the cordial reception lately given by the emperor to a deputation of Jews" [Footnote 1: May 25, according to the European Calendar. From the issue of the _Jewish Chronicle_ of May 27, 1881, p. 12b, it would appear that the deputation was received on Tuesday, May 24.] Subsequent events soon made it clear that the Government, represented by Ignatyev, was far from harboring any sympathy for the victims of the pogroms. The public did not fail to notice the fact that the Russian Government, which was in the habit of rendering financial help to the population in the case of elemental catastrophes, such as conflagrations or inundations, had refrained from granting the slightest monetary assistance to the Jewish sufferers from the pogroms. Apart from its material usefulness, such assistance would have had an enormous moral effect, inasmuch as it would have stood forth in the public eye as an official condemnation of the violent acts perpetrated against the Jews--particularly if the Tzar himself had made a large donation for that purpose, as he was wont to do in other cases of this kind. As it was, the authorities not only neglected to take such a step, but they even went so far as to forbid the Jews of St. Petersburg to start a public collection for the relief of the pogrom victims. Nay, the governor-general of Odessa refused to accept a large sum of money offered to him by well-to-do Jews for the benefit of the sufferers. Nor was this the worst. The local authorities did everything in their power to manifest their solidarity with the enemies of Judaism. The street pogroms were followed by administrative pogroms _sui generis_. Already in the month of May, the police of Kiev began to track all the Jews residing "illegally" in that city [1] and to expel these "criminals" by the thousands. Similar wholesale expulsions took place in Moscow, Oryol, and other places outside the Pale of Settlement. These persecutions constituted evidently an object-lesson in religious toleration, and the Russian masses which had but recently shown to what extent they respected the inviolability of Jewish life and property took the lesson to heart. [Footnote 1: It will be remembered that the right of residence in Kiev was restricted in the case of the Jews to a few categories: first-guild merchants, graduates from institutions of higher learning, and artisans.] One hope was still left to the Jews. The law courts, at least, being the organs of the public conscience of Russia, were bound to condemn severely the sinister pogrom heroes. But this hope, too, proved illusory. In the majority of cases the judges treated act of open pillage and of violence committed against life and limb as petty street brawls, as "disturbances of the public peace," and imposed upon their perpetrators ridiculously slight penalties, such as three months' imprisonment--penalties, moreover, which were simultaneously inflicted upon the Jews who, as in the case of Odessa, had resorted to self-defence. When the terrible Kiev pogrom was tried in the local Military Circuit Court, the public prosecutor Strelnikov, a well-known reactionary who subsequently met his fate at the hands of the revolutionaries, delivered himself on May 18 of a speech which was rather an indictment against the Jews than against the rioters. He argued that these disorders had been called forth entirely by the "exploitation of the Jews," who had seized the principal economic positions in the province, and he conducted his cross-examination of the Jewish witnesses in the same hostile spirit. When one of the witnesses retorted that the aggravation of the economic struggle was due to the artificial congestion of the Jews in the pent-up Pale of Settlement, the prosecutor shouted: "If the Eastern frontier is closed to the Jews, the Western frontier is open to them; why don't they take advantage of it?" This summons to leave the country, doubly revolting in the mouth of a guardian of the law, addressed to those who under the influence of the pogrom panic had already made up their minds to flee from the land of slavery, produced a staggering effect upon the Jewish public. The last ray of hope, the hope for legal justice, vanished. The courts of law had become a weapon in the hands of the anti-Jewish leaders. 2. THE POGROM PANIC AND THE BEGINNING OF THE EXODUS The feeling of safety, which had been restored by the published portion of the imperial reply at the audience of May 11, was rapidly evaporating. The Jews were again filled with alarm, while the instigators of the pogroms took courage and decided that the time had arrived to finish their interrupted street performance. The early days of July marked the inauguration of the second series of riots, the so-called summer pogroms. The new conflagration started in the city of Pereyaslav, in the government of Poltava, which had not yet discarded its anti-Jewish Cossack traditions. [1] Pereyaslav at that time harbored many fugitives from Kiev, who had escaped from the spring pogroms in that city. The increase in the Jewish population of Pereyaslav was evidently displeasing to the local Christian inhabitants. Four hundred and twenty Christian burghers of Pereyaslav, avowed believers in the Gospels which enjoin Christians to love those that suffer, passed a resolution calling for the expulsion of the Jews from their city, and, in anticipation of this legalized violence, they decided to teach the Jews a "lesson" on their own responsibility. On June 30 and July 1, Pereyaslav was the scene of a pogrom, marked by all the paraphernalia of the Russian ritual, though unaccompanied this time by human sacrifices. The epilogue to the pogrom was marked by an originality of its own. A committee consisting of representatives of the municipal administration, four Christians and three Jews, was appointed to inquire into the causes of the disorders. This committee was presented by the local Christian burghers with a set of demands, some of which were in substance as follows: [Footnote 1: Comp. Vol. I, p. 145.] That the Jewish aldermen of the Town Council, as well as the Jewish members of the other municipal bodies, shall voluntarily resign from these honorary posts, "as men deprived of civic honesty" [1]; that the Jewish women shall not dress themselves in silk, velvet, and gold; that the Jews shall refrain from keeping Christian domestics, who are "corrupted" in the Jewish homes religiously and morally; that all Jewish strangers, who have sought refuge in Pereyaslav, shall be immediately banished; that the Jews shall be forbidden to buy provisions in the surrounding villages for reselling them; also, to carry on business on Sundays and Russian festivals, to keep saloons, and so on. [Footnote 1: This insolent demand of the unenlightened Russian burghers met with the following dignified rebuttal from the Jewish office-holders: "What bitter mockery! The Jews are accused of a lack of honesty by the representatives of those very people who, with clubs and hatchets in their hands, fell in murderous hordes upon their peaceful neighbors and plundered their property." The replies to the other demands of the burghers were coached in similar terms.] Thus, in addition to being ruined, the Jews were presented with an ultimatum, implying the threat of further "military operations." As in previous cases, the example of the city of Pereysslav was followed by the townlets and villages in the surrounding region. The unruliness of the crowd, which had been trained to destroy and plunder with impunity, knew no bounds. In the neighboring town of Borispol a crowd of rioters, stimulated by alcohol, threatened to pass from pillage to murder. When checked by the police and Cossacks, they threw themselves with fury upon these untoward defenders of the Jewish population, and began to maltreat them, until a few rifle shots put them to flight. The same was the case in Nyezhin, [1] where a pogrom was enacted on July 20 and 22. After several vain attempts to stop the riots, the military was forced to shoot at the infuriated crowd, killing and wounding some of them. This was followed by the cry: "Christian blood is flowing--beat the Jews!"--and the pogrom was renewed with redoubled vigor. It was stopped only on the third day. [Footnote 1: In the government of Chernigov.] The energy of the July pogroms had evidently spent itself in these last ferocious attempts. The murderous hordes realized that the police and military were fully in earnest, and this was enough to sober them from their pogrom intoxication. Towards the end of July, the epidemic of vandalism came to a stop, though it was followed in many cities by a large number of conflagrations. The cowardly rioters, deprived of the opportunity of plundering the Jews with impunity, began to set fire to Jewish neighborhoods. This was particularly the case in the north-western provinces, in Lithuania and White Russia, where the authorities had from the very beginning set their faces firmly against all organized violence. The series of pogroms perpetrated during the spring and summer of that year had inflicted its sufferings on more than one hundred localities populated by Jews, primarily in the South of Russia. Yet the misery engendered by the panic, by the horrible apprehension of unbridled violence, was far more extensive, for the entire Jewish population of Russia proved its victim. Just as in the bygone Middle Ages whenever Jewish suffering had reached a sad climax, so now too the persecuted nation found itself face to face with the problem of emigration. And as if history had been anxious to link up the end of the nineteenth century with that of the fifteenth, the Jewish afflictions in Russia found an echo in that very country, which in 1492 had herself banished the Jews from her borders: the Spanish Government announced its readiness to receive and shelter the fugitives from Russia. Ancient Catholic Spain held forth a welcoming hand to the victims of modern Greek-Orthodox Spain. However, the Spanish offer was immediately recognized as having but little practical value. In the forefront of Jewish interest stood the question as to the land toward which the emigration movement should be directed: toward the United States of America, which held out the prospect of bread and liberty, or toward Palestine, which offered a shelter to the wounded national soul. While the Jewish writers were busy debating the question, life itself decided the direction of the emigration movement. Nearly all fugitives from the South of Russia had left for America by way of the Western European centers. The movement proceeded with elemental force, and entirely unorganized, with the result that in the autumn of that year some ten thousand destitute Jewish wanderers found themselves huddled together at the first halting-place, the city of Brody, which is situated on the Russo-Austrian frontier. They had been attracted hither by the rumor that the agents of the French _Alliance Israélite Universette_ would supply them with the necessary means for continuing their journey across the Atlantic. The central committee of the _Alliance_, caught unprepared for such a huge emigration, was at its wit's end. It sent out appeals, warning the Jews against wholesale emigration to America by way of Brody, but it was powerless to stem the tide. When the representatives of the French _Alliance_, the well-known Charles Netter and others, arrived in Brody, they beheld a terrible spectacle. The streets of the city were filled with thousands of Jews and Jewesses, who were exhausted from material want, with hungry children in their arms. "From early morning until late at night, the French delegates were surrounded by a crowd clamoring for help. Their way was obstructed by mothers who threw their little ones under their feet, begging to rescue them from starvation." The delegates did all they could, but the number of fugitives was constantly swelling, while the process of dispatching them to America went on at a snail's pace. The exodus of the Jews from Russia was due not only to the pogroms and the panic resulting from them, but also to the new blows which were falling upon them from all sides, dealt out by the liberal hand of Ignatyev. 3. THE GUBERNATORIAL COMMISSIONS After wavering for some time, the anti-Semitic Government of Ignatyev finally made up its mind as to the attitude it was henceforth to adopt towards the Jewish problem. Taken aback at the beginning of the pogrom movement, the leading spheres of Russia were first inclined to ascribe it to the effects of the revolutionary propaganda, but they afterwards came to the conclusion that, in the interest of the reactionary policies pursued by them and as a means of justifying the disgraceful anti-Jewish excesses before the eyes of Europe, it was more convenient to throw the blame upon the Jews themselves. With this end in view, a new theory was put forward by the Russian Government, the quasi-economic doctrine of "the exploitation of the original population by the Jews." This doctrine consisted of two parts, which, properly speaking, were mutually exclusive: _First_, the Jews, as a pre-eminently mercantile class, engage in "unproductive" labor, and thereby "exploit" the productive classes of the Christian population, the peasantry in particular. _Second_, the Jews, having "captured" commerce and industry--here the large participation of the Jews in industrial life, represented by handicrafts and manufactures, is tacitly admitted--compete with the Christian urban estates, in other words, interfere with them in their own "exploitation" of the population. The first part of this strange theory is based upon, primitive economic notions, such as are in vogue during periods of transition, when natural economic production gives way to capitalism, and when all complicated forms of mediation are regarded as unproductive and harmful. The thought expressed in the second part of the thesis is implied in the make-up of a police state, which looks upon the occupation of certain economic positions by a given national group as an illegitimate "capture" and regards it as its function to check this competition for the sole purpose of insuring the success of the dominant nationality. The Russian Government was disturbed neither by the primitive character of this theory nor by the resort to brutal police force implied in it--the idea of supporting the "exploitation" practised by the Russians at the expense of that carried on by the Jews; nor was it abashed by its inner logical contradictions. What the Government needed was some means whereby it could throw off the responsibility for the pogroms and prove to the world that they were a "popular judgment," the vengeance wreaked upon the Jews either by the peasants, the victims of exploitation, or by the Russian burghers, the unsuccessful candidates for the rôle of exploiters. This point of view was reflected in the report of Count Kutaysov, who had been sent by the Tzar to South Russia to inquire into the causes of the "disorders." [1] [Footnote 1: It may be added that Kutaysov recognized that the Russian masses were equally the victims of the commercial exploitation of the Russian "bosses," but was at a loss to find a reason for the pogroms perpetrated in the Jewish agricultural colonies, i.e., against those who, according to this theory, were themselves the victims of exploitation.] Ignatyev seized upon this flimsy theory, and embodied it in a more elaborate form in his report to the Tzar of August 22. In this report he endeavored to prove the futility of the policy hitherto pursued by the Russian Government which "for the last twenty years [during the reign of Alexander II.] had made efforts to bring about the fusion of the Jews with the remaining population and had nearly equalized the rights of the Jews with those of the original inhabitants." In the opinion of the Minister, the recent pogroms had shown that "the injurious influence" of the Jews could not be suppressed by such liberal measures. The principal source of this movement [the pogroms], which is so incompatible with the temper of the Russian people, lies--according to Ignatyev--in circumstances which are of an exclusively economic nature. For the last twenty years the Jews have gradually managed to capture not only commerce and industry but they have also succeeded in acquiring, by means of purchase and lease, a large amount of landed property. Owing to their clannishness and solidarity, they have, with few exceptions, directed their efforts not towards the increase of the productive forces [of the country] but towards the exploitation of the original inhabitants, primarily of the poorest classes of the population, with the result that they have called forth a protest from this population, manifesting itself in deplorable forms--In violence.... Having taken energetic means to suppress the previous disorders and mob rule and to shield the Jews against violence, the Government recognizes that it is justified in adopting, without delay, no less energetic measures to remove the present abnormal relations that exist between the original inhabitants and the Jews, and to shield the Russian population against this harmful Jewish activity, which, according to local information, was responsible for the disturbances. Alexander III. hastened to express his agreement with these views of his Minister, who assured him that the Government had taken "energetic measures" to suppress the pogroms--which was only true in two or three recent cases. At the same time he authorized Ignatyev to adopt "energetic measures" of genuine Russian manufacture against those who had but recently been ruined by these pogroms. The imperial ukase published on August 22, 1831, dwells on "the abnormal relations subsisting between the original population of several governments and the Jews." To meet this situation it provides that in those governments which harbor a considerable Jewish population special commissions should be appointed consisting of representatives of the local estates and communes, to be presided over by the governors. These commissions were charged with the task of finding out "which aspects of the economic activity of the Jews in general have exerted _an injurious influence_ upon the life of the original population, and what measures, both legislative and administrative, should be adopted" for the purpose of weakening that influence. In this way, the ukase, in calling for the appointment of the commissions, indicated at once the goal towards which their activity was to be directed: to determine the "injurious influence" of the Jews upon Russian economic life. The same thought was expressed even more directly by Ignatyev, who in his circular to the governors-general, dated August 25, reproduced his report to the Tzar, and firmly established the dogma of "the harmful consequences of the economic activity of the Jews for the Christian population, their racial separatism, and religious fanaticism." We are thus made the witnesses of a singular spectacle: the ruined and plundered Jewish population, which had a right to impeach the Government for having failed, to protect it from violence, was itself put on trial. The judges in this legal action were none other than the agents of the ruling powers--the governors, some of whom had been guilty of connivance at the pogroms--on the one hand, and, on the other hand, the representatives of the Christian estates, urban and rural, who were mostly the appointees of these governors. In addition, every commission was allotted two Jewish representatives, who were to act in the capacity of experts but without voting power; they were placed in the position of defendants, and were made to listen to continuous accusations against the Jews, which the; were constantly forced to deny. Altogether there were sixteen such commissions: one in each of the fifteen governments of the Pale of Settlement--exclusive of the Kingdom of Poland--and one in the government of Kharkov. The commissions were granted a term of two months within which to complete their labors and present the results to the Minister. The sessions of all these "gubernatorial commissions" [1] took place simultaneously during the months of September and October. [Footnote 1: In Russian, _Gubernskiya Kommissit_, literally, "Government Commissions," using "Government" in the sense of "Province."] The prisoner at the bar was the Jewish people which was tried on the charges contained in the official bill of indictment--the imperial ukase as supplemented and interpreted in the ministerial circular. A well-informed contemporary gives the following description of these sessions in an official memorandum: The first session of each commission began with the reading of the ministerial circular of August 25. The reading invariably produced a strong effect in two different directions: on the members from among the peasantry and on those from among the Jews. The former became convinced of the hostile attitude of the Government towards the Jewish population and of their leniency towards the instigators of the disorders, which, according to an assertion made in Ignatyev's circular, were due exclusively to the Jewish exploitation of the original inhabitants. Needless to say, the peasants did not fail to communicate this conviction, which was strengthened at the subsequent sessions by the failure to put any restraint upon the wholesale attacks on the Jews on the part of the anti-Semitic members, to their rural communes. As for the Jewish members (of the commissions), the effect of the ministerial circular upon them was staggering. In their own persons they beheld the three millions of Russian Jewry placed at the prisoner's bar: one section of the population put on trial before another. And who were the judges? Not the representatives of the people, duly elected by all the estates of the population, such as the rural assemblies, but the agents of the administration, bureaucratic office-holders, who were more or less subordinate to the Government. The court proceedings themselves were carried on in secret, without a sufficient number of counsel for the defendants who in reality were convicted beforehand. The attitude adopted by the presiding governors, the speeches delivered by the anti-Semitic members, who were In an overwhelming majority, and characterized by attacks, derisive remarks, and subtle affronts, subjected the Jewish members to moral torture and made them lose all hope that they could be of any assistance in attempting a dispassionate, impartial, and comprehensive consideration of the question. In the majority of the commissions, their voice was suppressed and silenced. In these circumstances the Jewish members were forced, as a last resort, to defend the interests of their coreligionists in writing, by submitting memoranda and separate opinions. However, the instances were rare in which these memoranda and protests were dignified by being read during the sessions. This being the case, it is not to be wondered at that the commissions brought in their "verdicts" in the spirit of the indictment framed by the authorities. The anti-Semitic officials exhibited their "learning" in ignorant criticisms of the "spirit of Judaism," of the Talmud and the national separatism of the Jews, and they proposed to extirpate all these influences by means of cultural repression, such as the destruction of the autonomy of the Jewish communities, the closing up of all special Jewish schools, and the placing of all phases of the inner life of the Jews under Government control. The representatives of the Russian burghers and peasants, many of whom had but recently co-operated or, at least, sympathized with the perpetrators of the pogroms, endeavored to prove the economic "injuriousness" of the Jews, and demanded that they should be restricted in their urban and rural pursuits, as well as in their right of residence outside the cities. Notwithstanding the prevailing spirit, five commissions voiced the opinion, which, from the point of view of the Russian Government, seemed rank heresy, that it was necessary to grant the Jews the right of domicile all over the empire so as to relieve the excessive congestion of the Jewish population in the Pale of Settlement. 4. THE SPREAD OF ANTI-SEMITISM While the gubernatorial commissions--gubernatorial in the literal sense of the word, because entirely dominated by the governors--were holding their sessions, the satraps-in-chief of the Pale of Settlement, the governors-general, were busy sending their expressions of opinion to St. Petersburg. The governor-general of Kiev, Drenteln, who himself was liable to prosecution for allowing a two days' pogrom in his own residential city, condemned the entire Jewish people in emphatic terms, and demanded the adoption of measures calculated "to shield the Christian population against so arrogant a tribe as the Jews, who refuse on religions grounds to have close contact with the Christians." It was necessary, in his opinion, to resort to legal repression in order to counteract "the intellectual superiority of the Jews," which enables them to emerge victorious in the straggle for existence. Similar condemnations of Judaism came from the governors-general of Odessa, Vilna, and Kharkov, although they disagreed as to the dimensions which this repression should assume. Totleben, the master of the Vilna province, who had refused to countenance the perpetration of pogroms in Lithuania, nevertheless agreed that the Jews should henceforth be forbidden to settle in the villages, though he was generous enough to add that he found it somewhat inconvenient "to rob the whole Jewish nation of the possibility of earning a livelihood by its labor." The impression prevailed that militant Judaeophobia was determined to deprive the Jews even of the right of securing a piece of bread. The Government was well aware beforehand that the labors of the gubernatorial commissions would yield results satisfactory to it. It, therefore, found it unnecessary to wait for their reports and resolutions, and proceeded to establish in St. Petersburg, on October 19, "a Central Committee for the Revision of the Jewish Question." The committee was attached to the Ministry of the Interior, and consisted of several officials, under the chairmanship of Assistant-Minister Gotovtzev. The officials were soon busy framing "temporary measures" in the spirit of their patron Ignatyev, and, as the resolutions of the gubernatorial commissions were coming in, they were endeavoring to strengthen the foundations for the projected enactment. In January, 1882, the machinery for the manufacture of Jewish disabilities was in full swing. This organized campaign of the enemies of Judaism, who were preparing administrative pogroms as a sequel to the street pogroms, met with no organized resistance on the part of Russian Jewry. The small conference of Jewish notables in St. Petersburg, which met in September in secret session, presented a sorry spectacle. The guests from the provinces, who had been invited by Baron Günzburg, engaged in discussions about the problem of emigration, the struggle with the anti-Semitic press, and similar questions. After being presented to Ignatyev, who assured them in diplomatic fashion of the "benevolent intentions of the Government," they returned to their homes, without having achieved anything. The only social factor in Jewish life was the press, particularly the three periodicals published in Russian, the _Razsvyet_ ("the Dawn"), the _Russki Yevrey_ ("the Russian Jew"), and the _Voskhod_ ("the Sunrise"), [1] but even they revealed the lack of a well-defined policy. [Footnote 1: See on these papers, p. 219 et seq.] The political movements in Russian Jewry were yet in an embryonic stage, and their rise and development were reserved for a later period. True, the Russian-Jewish press applied itself assiduously to the task of defending the rights of the Jews, but its voice remained unheard in those circles of Russia in which the poisonous waters of Judaeophobia gushed forth in a broad current from the columns of the semi-official _Novoye Vremya_, the pan-Slavic _Russ_, and many of their anti-Semitic contemporaries. While the summer pogroms were in full swing, the _Novoye Vremya_, reflecting the views of the official spheres, seriously formulated the Jewish question in the paraphrase of Hamlet: "to beat or not to beat." Its conclusion was that it was necessary to "beat" the Jews, but, in view of the fact that Russia was a monarchical state with conservative tendencies, this function ought not to be discharged by the people but by the Government, which by its method of legal repression could beat the Jews much more effectively than the crowds on the streets. The editor of the Moscow newspaper _Russ_, Ivan Aksakov, [1] attacked the Russian liberal press for expressing its sympathy with the Jewish pogrom victims, contending that the Russian people demolished the Jewish houses under the effect of a "righteous indignation," though he failed to explain why that indignation also took the form of plundering and stealing Jewish property, or violating Jewish women. Throwing into one heap the arguments of the medieval Church and those of modern German anti-Semitism, Aksakov maintained that Judaism was opposed to "Christian civilization," and that the Jewish people were striving for "world domination" which they hoped to attain through their financial power. [Footnote 1: Compare above, p. 208.] The bacillus of German anti-Semitism had penetrated even into the circles of the Russian radical _intelligenzia_. Among the "Populists," [1] who were wont to idealize the Russian peasantry, it became the fashion to look upon the Jew as an economic exploiter, with this distinction, however, that they bracketed him with the host of Russian exploiters from among the bourgeois class. This resulted in a most unfortunate misunderstanding. A faction of South Russian revolutionaries from among the party known as "The People's Freedom" [2] conceived the idea that the same peasants and laborers who had attacked the Jews as the representatives of the non-Russian bourgeoisie might easily be directed against the representatives of the ruling classes in general. During the spring and summer pogroms, several attempts were made by mysterious persons, through written appeals and oral propaganda, to turn the pogrom movement also against the Russian nobles and officials. [3] Towards the end of August, 1881, the Executive Committee of "The People's Freedom" issued an appeal in which it voiced the thought that the Tzar had enslaved the free Ukrainian people and had distributed the lands rightfully belonging to the peasants among the pans [4] and officials, who extended their protection to the Jews and shared the profits with them. Therefore, the people should march against the Jews, the landlords, and the Tzar. "Assist us, therefore," the appeal continues, "arise, laborers, avenge yourselves on the landlords, plunder the Jews, and slay the officials!" [Footnote 1: See above, p. 222.] [Footnote 2: In Russian, _Narodnaya Vola_. It was organized in 1879, and was responsible for the assassination of Alexander II.] [Footnote 3: These endeavors were evidently the reason why the Russian Government was originally inclined to ascribe the anti-Jewish movement to revolutionary tactics.] [Footnote 4: The Polish noble landowners. See Vol. I, p. 93, n. 2.] True, the appeal was the work of only a part of the Revolutionary Executive Committee, which at that time had its headquarters in Moscow. It failed to obtain the approval of the other members of the Committee and of the party as a whole, and, being a document that might compromise the revolutionary movement, was withdrawn and destroyed after a number of copies had been circulated. Nevertheless, the champions of "The People's Freedom" continued for some time to justify theoretically the utilization of the anti-Jewish movement for the aims of the general social revolution. Only at a later stage did this section of the revolutionary party realize that these tactics were not only mistaken but also criminal. For events soon made it clear that the anti-Jewish movement served as an unfailing device in the hands of the black reactionaries to divert the popular wrath from the source of all evil--the rule of despotism--and direct it towards the most unfortunate victims of that despotism. 5. THE POGROM AT WARSAW When the July pogroms were over, it seemed as if the pogrom epidemic had died out, and no one expected that it would soon break out afresh. The greater was the surprise when, in December, 1881, the news spread that a pogrom, lasting three days, had taken, place in the capital of the Kingdom of Poland, in Warsaw. Least of all was this pogrom expected in Warsaw itself, where the relations between the Poles and the Jews were not yet marked by the animosity they assumed subsequently. But the organizers of the pogrom who received their orders from above managed to adapt themselves to local conditions, and the unexpected came to pass. On the Catholic Christmas day, when the Church of the Holy Cross in the center of the town was crowded with worshippers, somebody suddenly shouted "Fire!" The people rushed to the doors, and in the terrible panic that ensued twenty-nine persons were crushed to death, and many others were maimed. The alarm proved a false one. There was no trace of a fire in the church, and nobody doubted but that the alarm had been given by pick-pockets--there were a goodly number of them in Warsaw--who had resorted to this well-known trick to rob the public during the panic. But right there, among the crowd which was assembled in front of the church, gazing in horror at the bodies of the victims, some unknown persons spread the rumor--which, it may be parenthetically remarked, proved subsequently unfounded--that two Jewish pickpockets had been caught in the church. At that moment whistles were suddenly heard--nobody knew whence they came--which served as the signal for a pogrom. The street mob began to assault the Jews who happened to pass by, and then started, according to the established procedure, to attack the Jewish stores, saloons, and residences in the streets adjoining the church. The hordes were under the command of thieves, well known to the police, and of some unknown strangers who from time to time gave signals by whistling, and directed the mob into this or that street. As in all other cases in which the danger did not threaten the authorities directly, there were but few policemen and soldiers on hand--which circumstance stimulated the rioters in their further activity. On the following day the rioters were "busy" on many other streets, both in the center of the town and in its outskirts, except for the streets which were densely populated by Jews, where they were afraid of meeting with serious resistance. [1] [Footnote 1: In some places the Jews defended themselves energetically, and in the ensuing fight there were wounded on both sides.] The police and the troops arrested many rioters, and carried them off to the police stations. But for some unknown reason they did not summon enough courage to disperse the crowd, so that the mob frequently engaged in its criminal work in the very presence of the guardians of public safety. In accordance with the well-known pogrom routine, the authorities remembered only on the third day that it was time to suppress the riots, the "lesson" being over. On December 15, the governor-general of Warsaw, Albedinski, issued an order dividing the town into four districts and placing every district under the command of a regimental chief. Troops were stationed in the streets and ordered to check all crowds, with the result that on the same day the disorders were stopped. This, however, came too late. For in the meantime some fifteen hundred Jewish residences, business places, and houses of prayer had been demolished and pillaged, and twenty-four Jews had been wounded, while the monetary loss amounted to several million rubles. Over three thousand rioters were arrested--among them a large number of under-aged youths. On the whole, the rioters were recruited from the dregs of the Polish population, but there were also found among them a number of unknown persons that spoke Russian. The _Novoye Vremya_, in commenting upon the pogrom, made special reference to the friendly attitude of the Polish hooligans to the Russians in general and to the officers and soldiers in particular--a rather suspicious attitude, considering the inveterate hatred of the Poles towards the Russians, especially towards the military and official class. Here and there the soldiers themselves got drunk in the demolished saloons, and took part in looting Jewish property. The Polish patriots from among the higher classes were shocked by this attempt to engineer a barbarous Russian pogrom in Warsaw. In an appeal which the representatives of the Polish intellectuals addressed to the people not later than on the second day of the pogrom they protested emphatically against the hideous scenes which had been disgracing the capital of Poland. The archbishop of Warsaw acted similarly, and the Catholic priests frequently marched through the streets with crosses in their hands, admonishing the crowds to disperse. It is interesting to note that, while the pogrom was going on, the governor-general of Warsaw refused to comply with the request of a number of Poles, who applied for permission to organize a civil guard, pledging themselves to restore order in the city in one day. It would seem as if the official pogrom ritual did not allow of the slightest modification. The disorders had to proceed in accordance with the established routine, so as not to violate the humane commandment: "Two days shalt thou plunder, and on the third day shalt thou rest." Evidently some one had an interest in having the capital of Poland repeat the experiment of Kiev and Odessa, and in seeing to it that the "cultured Poles" should not fall behind the Russian barbarians in order to convince Europe that the pogrom was not exclusively a Russian manufacture. As a matter of fact, the opposite result was attained. The revolting events at Warsaw, which completed the pogrom cycle of 1881, made a much stronger impression upon Europe and America than all the preceding pogroms, for the reason that Warsaw stood in close commercial relations with the West, and the havoc wrought there had an immediate effect upon the European market. CHAPTER XXIII NEW MEASURES OF OPPRESSION AND PUBLIC PROTESTS 1. THE DESPAIR OF RUSSIAN JEWRY The civil New Year of 1882 found the Jews of Russia in a depressed state of mind: they were under the fresh impression of the excesses at Warsaw and were harassed by rumors of new measures of oppression. The sufferings of the Jewish people, far from stilling the anti-Jewish fury of the Government, had merely helped to fan it. "You are maltreated, _ergo_ you are guilty"--such was the logic of the ruling spheres of Russia. The official historian of that period is honest enough to confess that "the enforced role of a defender of the Jews against the Russian population [by suppressing the riots] weighed heavily upon the the Government." Upon reading the report of the governor-general of Warsaw for the year 1882, in which reference was made to the suppression of the anti-Jewish excesses by military force, Alexander III. appended the following marginal note: "This is the sad thing in all these Jewish disorders." Those among Russian Jewry who could look further ahead were not slow in realizing the consequences which were bound to result from this hostile attitude of the ruling classes. Those of a less sensitive frame of mind found it necessary to inquire of the Government itself concerning the Jewish future, and received unequivocal replies. Thus, in January, 1882, Dr. Orshanski, a brother of the well-known publicist, [1] approached Count Ignatyev on the subject, and was authorized to publish the following statement: [Footnote 1: See above, p. 238 et seq.] The Western frontier is open for the Jews. The Jews have already taken ample advantage of this right, and their emigration has in no way been hampered. [1] As regards your question concerning the transplantation of Jews into the Russian interior, the Government will, of course, avoid everything that may further complicate the relations between the Jews and the original population. For this reason, though keeping the Pale of Jewish Settlement intact, I have already suggested to the Jewish Committee [attached to the Ministry] [2] to indicate those localities which, being thinly populated and in need of colonization, might admit of the settlement of the Jewish element ... without injury to the original population. [Footnote 1: According to an old Russian law which had come into disuse, departure from the country without a special Government permit is punishable as a criminal offence.] [Footnote 2: See p. 277.] This reply of the all-powerful Minister, which was published as a special supplement to the Jewish weekly _Razsvyet_, increased the panic among the Jews of Russia. The Jews were publicly told that the Government wished to get rid of them, and that the only "right" they were to be granted was the right to depart; that no enlargement of the Pale of Settlement could possibly be hoped for, and that only as an extreme necessity would the Government allow groups of Jews to colonize the uninhabitable steppes of central Asia or the swamps of Siberia. Well-informed people were in possession of much more serious information: they knew that the Jewish Committee attached to the Ministry of the Interior was preparing a monstrous plan of reducing the territory of the Pale of Settlement itself by expelling the Jews from the villages and driving them into the over-crowded cities. The soul of the Jewish people was filled with sorrow, and yet there was no way of protesting publicly in the land of political slavery. The Jews had to resort to the old medieval form of a national protest by pouring forth their feelings in the synagogue. Many Jewish communities seemed to have come to an understanding to appoint the 18th of January as a day of mourning to be observed by fasting and by holding religious services in the synagogues. This public mourning ceremony proved particularly impressive in St. Petersburg. On the appointed day the whole Jewish population of the Russian capital, with its numerous Jewish professionals, assembled in the principal synagogue and in the other houses of prayer, reciting the hymns of perpetual Jewish martyrdom, the _Selihot_. In the principal synagogue the rabbi delivered a discourse dealing with the Jewish persecutions. When the preacher--an eye-witness narrates--began to picture in a broken voice the present position of Jewry, one long moan, coming, as it were, from one breast, suddenly burst forth and filled the synagogue. Everybody wept, the old, the young, the long-robed paupers, the elegant dandies dressed in latest fashion, the men in Government service, the physicians, the students, not to speak of the women. For two or three minutes did these heart-rending moans resound--this cry of common sorrow which had issued from the Jewish heart. The rabbi was unable to continue. He stood upon the pulpit, covered his face with his hands, and wept like a child. Similar political demonstrations in the presence of the Almighty were held during those days in many other cities. In some places the Jews observed a three days' fast. Everywhere the college youth, otherwise estranged from Judaism, took part in the national mourning, full of the presentiment that it, too, was destined to endure decades of sorrows and tears. 2. THE VOICE OF ENGLAND AND AMERICA The political protest, which could not be uttered in Russia, was soon to be heard in England. During the very days on which the Russian Jews were weeping in their synagogues, their English coreligionists, in conjunction with prominent English political leaders, organized indignation meetings to protest against the horrors of Russian Judaeophobia. Already at an earlier date, shortly after the pogrom of Warsaw, the London _Times_ had published a series of articles under the heading "The Persecutions of the Jews in Russia," containing a heartrending description of the pogroms of 1881 and an account of the anti-Semitic policy of the Russian rulers. [1] The articles produced a sensation. Reprinted in the form of a special publication, which in a short time went through three editions, they spread far beyond the confines of England. Numerous voices were soon to be heard demanding diplomatic intercession in favor of the oppressed Jews and calling for the organization of material relief for the victims of the pogroms. [Footnote 1: The author of these articles was Joseph Jacobs who afterwards settled in New York, where he died in 1916.] Russian diplomacy was greatly disconcerted by the growth of this anti-Russian agitation in a country, whose Government, headed at that time by Gladstone, endeavored to maintain friendly relations with Russia. The organ of the Russian Ministry of Foreign Affairs, the _Journal de St. Petersbourg_, published two articles, attempting to refute the most revolting facts contained in the articles of the _Times_; it denied that there had been cases of rape, and asserted that "murders were exceedingly rare." [1] The official organ further stated that "the Government has already begun, to consider new legislative measures concerning the Jews," without mentioning, however, that these "measures" were of a repressive character. The mouthpiece of Russian diplomacy asked In an irritated tone whether the pro-Jewish agitators wished "to sow discord between the Russian and the English people" and spoil the friendly relations between these two Powers which Gladstone's Government had established, reversing the contrary policy of Beaconsfield. [Footnote 1: It is true that the account in the _Times_ contained a few exaggerations as far as the number of victims and the dimensions of the catastrophe in general are concerned, but the picture as a whole was entirely in keeping with the facts, and the cases of murder and rape, as, for instance, in Kiev, were, on the whole, stated correctly.] However, these diplomatic polemics were unable to restrain the English political leaders from proceeding with the arrangements for the projected demonstrations. After a whole series of protest meetings in various cities of England, a large mass meeting was called at the Mansion House in London, [1] under the chairmanship of the Lord Mayor. The élite of England was represented at the meeting, including Members of Parliament, dignitaries of the Church, the titled aristocracy, and men of learning, A number of prominent persons who were unable to be present sent letters expressing their warm sympathy with the aims of the gathering; among them were Tennyson, Sir John Lubbock, and others. [Footnote 1: On February 1, 1882.] The first speaker, the Earl of Shaftesbury, pointed out that the English people did not wish to meddle in the inner affairs of Russia, but desired to influence it by "moral weapons," in the name of the principle of the "solidarity of nations." The official denials of the atrocities he brushed aside with the remark that, if but a tenth part of the reports were true, "it is sufficient to draw down the indignation of the world." It was necessary, in the opinion of Shaftesbury, to appeal directly to the Tzar and ask him "to be a Cyrus to the Jews, and not an Antiochus Epiphanes." The Bishop of London, speaking in the absence of the Archbishop of Canterbury, the Primate of the Anglican Church, reminded his audience that only several years previously England had been horrified by the outrages perpetrated by the Turkish Bashi-buzuks[1] upon the Bulgars, who were then defended by Russia, and it had now a right to protest against Christian Russia as it had formerly done against Mohammedan Turkey. [Footnote 1: See above, p. 253, n. 2.] The most powerful speech was delivered by Cardinal Manning, the great Catholic divine. He pointed to the fact that the Russian Jews were not only the object of temporary pogroms but that they constantly groaned under the yoke of a degrading legislation which says to the Jew: "You may not pass beyond that boundary; you must not go within eighteen miles of that frontier; you must not dwell in that town; you must live only in that province." He caused laughter in the audience by quoting from Ignatyev's famous circular concerning the appointment of the gubernatorial commissions, in which, commenting upon the terrible atrocities recently perpetrated upon the _Jews_, the Minister lamented "the sad condition of the _Christian_ inhabitants of the southern provinces." Cardinal Manning concluded his eloquent address with the following words marked by a lofty, prophetic strain: There is a book which is common to the race of Israel and to us Christians. That book is the bond between us, and in that book I read that the people of Israel are the eldest people upon the earth. Russia and Austria and England are of yesterday, compared with the imperishable people, which, with an inextinguishable life and immutable traditions, and faith in God and in the laws of God, scattered, as it is, all over the world, passed through the fires unscathed, trampled into the dust, and yet never combining with the dust into which it is trampled, lives still, a witness and a warning to us. [1] [Footnote 1: In reproducing the quotations I have followed in the main the account of the Mansion House Meeting contained in the pamphlet published In New York under the title _Proceedings of Meetings held February 1, 1882, at New York and London, to Express Sympathy with the Oppressed Jews in Russia_. The account of the _Jewish Chronicle of_ February 8, 1882, offers a number of variations.] After several more speeches by Canon Farrar, Professor Bryce,[1] and others, the following resolutions were adopted: [Footnote 1: James Bryce, the famous writer and statesman, subsequently British ambassador at Washington.] 1. That, in the opinion of this meeting, the persecution and the outrages which the Jews in many parts of the Russian dominions have for several months past suffered are an offence to Christian civilization, and to be deeply deplored. 2. That this meeting, while disclaiming any right or desire to interfere in the internal affairs of another country, and desiring that the most amicable relations between England and Russia should be preserved, feels it a duty to express its opinion that the laws of Russia relating to Jews tend to degrade them in the eyes of the Christian population, and expose Russian Jewish subjects to the outbreaks of fanatical ignorance. 3. That the Lord Mayor be requested to forward a copy of these resolutions to the Right Honourable W.B. Gladstone and the Right Honourable Earl Granville, in the hope that Her Majesty's Government may be able, when an opportunity arises, to exercise a friendly influence with the Russian Government in accordance with the spirit of the preceding resolutions. Finally a resolution was adopted to open a relief fund for the sufferers of the pogroms and for improving the condition of Russian Jewry by emigration as well as by other means. The committee chosen by the meeting for this purpose included the Lord Mayor, the Archbishop of Canterbury, Cardinal Manning, the Bishop of London, Nathaniel de Rothschild, and others. A few days after the Mansion House Meeting the English Government responded to the resolutions adopted on that occasion. The following dispatch, dated London, February 9, appeared in the Russian papers: In the House of Commons, Gladstone, replying to an interpellation of Sir John Simon, stated that reports concerning the persecutions of the Jews in Russia had been received from the English consuls, and could not but inspire sentiments of the utmost pain and horror. But the matter being an internal affair of another country, it could not become the object of official correspondence or inquiry on the part of England. All that could be done was to make casual and unofficial representations. All other actions touching the question of the relations of the Russian Government to the Jews were more likely to harm than to help the Jewish population. [1] [Footnote 1: On this occasion Gladstone merely repeated the words of the Russian official communication which had been published on the eye of the Mansion House Meeting in the hope of scaring the organizers of the protest: "The Russian Government, which has always most scrupulously refrained from interfering in the inner affairs of other countries, is correspondingly unable to allow a similar violation of international practice by others. Any attempt on the part of another Government to intercede on behalf of the Jewish people can only have the result of calling forth the resentment of the lower classes and thereby affect unfavorably the condition of the Russian Jews." In addition to this threat, the _Imperial Messenger_ endeavored to prove that the measures adopted by the Government against the pogroms "were not weak," as may be seen from the large number of those arrested by the police after the disorders, which amounted to 3675 in the South and to 3151 in Warsaw.] Another telegram sent from London on February 14 contained the following communication: In the House of Commons, Gladstone, replying to Baron Worms, stated that no humane purposes would be achieved by parliamentary debates about the Jews of Russia, Such debates were rather likely to arouse the hostility of a certain portion of the Russian population against the Jews and that therefore no day would be appointed for the debate, as requested by Worms. [1] [Footnote 1: Compare the _Jewish Chronicle_ of February 17, 1882.] In this way matters were smoothed over, to the great satisfaction of Russian diplomacy. The public and Government of England confined themselves to expressing their feelings of "disgust" at the treatment of the Jews in Russia, but no immediate representations to St. Petersburg were attempted by Gladstone's Cabinet. For the same reason the English Prime Minister refused to forward to its destination a petition addressed to the Russian Government by the Jews of England, with Baron Rothschild at their head. Count Ignatyev had no cause for worry. The misunderstanding with the friendly Government had been removed, and the fiery protests at the English meetings interfered but little with his peace of mind. He pursued his course, unabashed by the "disgust" which it aroused in the whole civilized world. The voice of protest against the Russian barbarities which resounded throughout England was seconded in far-off America. Long before the accession of Alexander III. the Government of the United States had repeated occasion to make representations to the Russian Government with reference to its treatment of the Jews. These representations were prompted by the fact that American citizens of the Jewish faith were subjected during their stay in Russia to the same disabilities and discriminations which the Russian Government imposed upon its own Jews. [1] Yet, actuated by broader humanitarian considerations, the United States Government became interested in the general question of the position of Russian Jewry, and invited reports from its representatives at St. Petersburg on the subject. [2] On April 14, 1880, the Secretary of State, William M. Evarts, responding to a petition of the Union of American Hebrew Congregations, who had complained about "the extraordinary hardships" which the Jews of Russia were made to suffer at that time, directed the United States Minister at St. Petersburg, John W. Foster, to bear in mind "the liberal sentiments of this Government" and to express its views "in a manner which will subserve the interests of religious freedom." [3] Acting upon these instructions, Foster took occasion to discuss the Jewish question in his conversations with leading Russian officials about which he reported fully to his Government. [4] [Footnote 1: See the correspondence between the United States and Russia collected in _House of Representatives, 51st Congress, 1st Session. Executive Document_ No. 470, dated October 1, 1890.] [Footnote 2: A "memorandum on the legal position of the Hebrews in Russia" was transmitted by the American legation to the Secretary of State on September 29, 1872 (_loc. cit_. pp. 9-13). An abstract from a Russian memorandum on the Jewish right of residence was forwarded in the same manner on March 15, 1875 (_loc. cit_., pp. 25-28). The circular of Tolstoi against the pogroms (see later in the text, p. 314) is reproduced in full, _loc. cit_., p. 68 et seg.] [Footnote 3: _loc. cit._, p. 33.] [Footnote 4: An account of Foster's conversation on the problem of Russian Jewry with de Giers, the Russian Minister for Foreign Affairs, Loris-Melikov, the Minister of the Interior, and "the Minister of Worship" is found in his dispatch of December 30, 1880, _loc. cit._, p. 43 et seq.] On May 22 of the same year a resolution was passed by the House of Representatives requesting the President to lay before it all available information relating to the cases of expulsion of American citizens of the Jewish faith from Russia, and at the same time "to communicate to this House all correspondence in reference to the proscription of Jews by the Russian Government." [1] [Footnote 1: Compare _Congressional Record_, Vol. 13, part 7, _Appendix,_ p. 651. The same request for information was repeated by the House of Representatives on January SO, 1882 (_loc. cit._., Vol. 13, p. 738; see also p. 645). In reply to the latter resolution President Arthur submitted, under date of May 22, 1882, all the diplomatic papers on the subject which were printed as _Executive Document_ No. 192. These papers were reprinted on October 1, 1890, as part of _Executive Document_ No. 470, under President Harrison] The pogroms of 1881, and the indignation they aroused among the American people induced the United States Government to adopt a more energetic form of protest. In his dispatch to the United States Minister at St. Petersburg, dated April 15, 1882, the new Secretary of State, Frederic T. Frelinghuysen, takes account of the prevailing sentiment in the country in these words: "The prejudice of race and creed having in our day given way to the claims of our common humanity, the people of the United States have heard with great regret the stories of the sufferings of the Jews in Russia." He therefore notifies the Minister "that the feeling of friendship which the United States entertains for Russia prompts this Government to express the hope that the Imperial Government will find means to cause the persecution of these unfortunate beings to cease." [1] [Footnote 1: _Executive Document_ No. 470, p. 65.] A more emphatic note of protest was sounded in the House of Representatives by Samuel S. Cox, of New York, who, in his lengthy speech delivered on July 31, 1882, scathingly denounced the repressive methods practiced by the Russian Government against the Jews, and, more particularly, the outrages which had been perpetrated upon them during the preceding year. [1] He makes the former directly responsible for the latter. In his opinion the pogroms were not merely a spontaneous and sudden outburst of the Eussian populace against the Jews, but rather the slow result of the disabilities and discriminations which are imposed upon the Jews by the Russian Government and are bound to degrade them in the eyes of their fellow-citizens: [Footnote 3: _Congressional Record_, Vol. 13, part 7, _Appendix,_ p. 651 et seq. The speech is accompanied by an elaborate tabulated statement of the pogroms and a map of the area in which they had taken place.] Is it said that the Russian peasantry, and not the Government, are responsible, I answer: If the peasantry of Russia are too ignorant or debased to understand the nature of this cruel persecution, they have warrant for their conduct in the customs and laws of Russia to which I have referred. These discriminate against the Jews. They have reference to their isolation, their separation from Russian protection, their expulsion from certain parts of the Empire, and their religion. When a peasant observes such forceful movements and authoritative discriminations in a Government against a race, it arouses his ignorance, and inflames his fanatical zealotry. Adding this to the jealousy of the Jews as middlemen and business-men, and you may account for, but not justify, these horrors. The Hebraic-Russian question has been summed up in a few words: "Extermination of two and one-half millions of mankind because they are--Jews!" [1] [Footnote 1: loc. _cit_., p. 653.] After giving an elaborate account of the horrors which had taken place in Russia during 1881, he wound up his speech with the following eloquent appeal: This people is one of the survivors, with Egypt, China and India, of the infancy of mankind. It is at the mercy of the cruel despot of the North. With a lineage unrivalled for purity, a religious sentiment and ethics drawn out of the glory and greatness of Mount Sinai ... with an eternal influence from its law-givers, prophets, and psalmists never vouchsafed to any language, race or creed, It outlives the philosophies and myths of Greece and the grandeur and power of Rome. It is this race, broken-hearted and scattered, to which the Czar of all the Russias adds the enormities of his rule upon the victims of the ignorance and slander of the ages. The birthright of this race is thus despoiled; and, Sir, have we no word of protest? Struggling against adversities which no other people have encountered, do they not yet survive--the wine from the crushed grape? [1] [Footnote 1: _loc. cit_., p. 656.] The resolution introduced by him on that occasion was to the following effect: Whereas the Government of the United States should exercise its influence with the Government of Russia to stay the spirit of persecution as directed against the Jews, and protect the citizens of the United States resident in Russia, and seek redress for injuries already inflicted, as well as to secure by wise and enlightened administration the Hebrew subjects of Russia and the Hebrew citizens of the United States resident in Russia against the recurrence of wrongs; Therefore Resolved, That the President of the United States, if not incompatible with the public service, report to this House any further correspondence in relation to the Jews in Russia not already communicated to this House." [1] [Footnote 1: _Congressional Record_, Vol. 13, p. 6691.] The resolution, which was referred to the Committee on Foreign Affairs, was finally passed by the House on February 23, 1883. The sentiments of the broad masses of the American people had found utterance somewhat earlier at a big protest meeting which was held in February, 1882, in the city of New York, where the first refugees from Russia had begun to arrive. [1] A resolution was adopted protesting "against the spirit of medieval persecution thus revived in Russia" and calling upon the Government of the United States to make energetic representations to St. Petersburg. One of the speakers at the New York meeting, Judge Noah Davis, said, amidst the enthusiastic applause of the audience: [Footnote 1: The meeting was held on Wednesday, February 1, 1882, on the same day as the Mansion House Meeting in London. The chair was occupied by the Mayor, William R. Grace. See the _American Hebrew_ of February 3, 1882, p. 138 et seq.] Let them come! I would to Heaven it were in our power to take the whole three million Jews of Russia. The valley of the Mississippi alone could throw her strong arms around, and draw them all to her opulent bosom, and bless them with homes of comfort, prosperity, and happiness. Thousands of them are praying to come. The throne of Jehovah is besieged with prayers for the powers of escape, and if they cannot live in peace under Russian laws without being subject to these awful persecutions, let us aid them in coming to us. [1] [Footnote 1: See _Proceedings of Meetings held February 1, 1882, at New York and London, to Express Sympathy with the Oppressed Jews in Russia_. New York, p. 20 et seq.] These words of the speaker, uttered in a moment of oratorical exultation, voiced the secret wish cherished by many enthusiasts of the Russian ghetto. 3. THE PROBLEM OF EMIGRATION AND THE POGROM AT BALTA In Russia itself a large number of emigration societies came into being about the same time, which had for their object the transfer of Russian Jews to the United States, the land of the free. The organizers of these societies evidently relied on some miraculous assistance from the outside, such as the _Alliance Israélite_ of Paris and similar Jewish bodies in Europe and America. Under the immediate effect of Ignatyev's statement to Dr. Orshanski in which the Russian Minister referred to the "Western frontier" as the only escape for the Jews, the Russian-Jewish press was flooded with reports from hundreds of cities, particularly in the South of Russia, telling of the formation, of emigrant groups. "Our poor classes have only one hope left to them, that of leaving the country. 'Emigration, America,' are the slogans of our brethren"--this phrase occurs at that time with stereotyped frequency in all the reports from the provinces. Many Russian-Jewish intellectuals dreamed of establishing Jewish agricultural and farming colonies in the United States, where some batches of emigrants who had left during the year 1881 had already managed to settle on the land. A part of the Jewish youth was carried away by the idea of settling in Palestine, and conducted a vigorous propaganda on behalf of this national idea among the refugees from the modern Egypt. There was urgent need of uniting these emigration societies scattered all over the Pale of Settlement and of establishing central emigration committees to regulate the movement which had gripped the people with elemental force. Unfortunately, there was no unity of purpose among the Jewish leaders in Russia. The intellectuals who stood nearer to the people, such as the well-known oculist, Professor Mandelstamm, who enjoyed great popularity in Kiev, and others like him, as well as a section of the Jewish press, particularly the _Bazsvyet_, insisted continually on the necessity of organizing the emigration movement, which they regarded as the most important task confronting Russian Jewry at that time. The Jewish oligarchy in St. Petersburg, on the other hand, was afraid lest such an undertaking might expose it to the charge of "disloyalty" and of a lack of Russian patriotism. Others again, whose sentiments were voiced by the Russian-Jewish periodical _Voskhod_ and who were of a more radical turn of mind, looked upon the attempt to encourage a wholesale emigration of Jews as a concession to the Government of Ignatyev and as an indirect abandonment of the struggle for emancipation in Russia itself. In the spring of 1882, the question of organizing the emigration movement had become so pressing that it was decided to convene a conference of provincial Jewish leaders in St. Petersburg to consider the problem. Before the delegates had time to arrive in the capital, the sky of South Russia was once more lit up by a terrible flare. Balta, a large Jewish center in Podolia, where a Jewish emigration society had had sprung into being shortly before the catastrophe, became the scene of a frightful pogrom. It was shortly before the Russian Passover, the high season of pogroms, when the Russian public was startled by a strange announcement published towards the end of March in the _Imperial Messenger_ to the effect that from now on it would accurately report all cases of "Jewish disorders" in accordance with the official information received from the governors. The announcement clearly implied that the Government knew beforehand of the imminence of new pogroms. Even the conservative _Moscow News_ commented on the injudicious statement of the official organ in emphatic and sarcastic terms: The _Imperial Messenger_ is comforting the public by the announcement that it would in due time and at due length report all cases of excesses perpetrated upon the Jews. One might think that these are every-day occurrences forming part of the natural course of events which demand nothing else than timely communication to the public. Is there indeed no means to put a stop to this crying scandal? Events soon made it clear that there was no desire to put a stop to this "scandal," as the Moscow paper politely termed the exploits of the Russian robber bands. The local authorities of Balta were forewarned in time of the approaching pogroms. Beginning with the middle of March the people in Balta and the surrounding country were discussing them openly. When the Jews of that town made their apprehensions known to the local police commissioner, they received from him an evasive reply. In view of the fact that the Jewish population of Balta was three times as large as the Christian, it would not have been difficult for the Jews to organize some sort of self-defence. But they knew that such an organization was strictly forbidden by the Government, and, realizing the consequences, they had to confine themselves to a secret agreement entered into by a few families to stand up for one another in the hour of distress. On the second day of the Russian Easter, corresponding to the seventh day of the Jewish festival, on March 29, the pogrom began, surpassing by the savagery of the mob and the criminal conduct of the authorities all the bacchanalia of 1881. A contemporary observer, basing his statements on the results of a special investigation, gives the following account of the events at Balta: At the beginning of the pogrom, the Jews got together and forced a band of rioters to draw back and seek shelter in the building of the fire department. But when the police and soldiers appeared on the scene, the rioters decided to leave their place of refuge. Instead of driving off the disorderly band, the police and soldiers began to beat the Jews with their rifle butts and swords. This served as a signal to start the pogrom. At that moment, somebody sounded an alarm bell, and, in response, the mob began to flock together. Fearing the numerical superiority of the Jews in that part of the town, the crowd passed across the bridge to the so-called Turkish side, where there were fewer Jews. The crowd was accompanied by the military commander, the police commissioner, the burgomaster, and a part of the local battalion, which fact, however, did not prevent the mob, while passing the Cathedral street, from demolishing a Jewish store and breaking the windows in the house of another Jew, a member of the town-council. After the mob had crossed over to the Turkish side, the authorities drew up military cordons on all the three bridges leading from that side to the rest of the town, with the order not to allow any Jews to pass. Needless to say, the order was carried out. At the same time the Christians of the remaining sections of the town and of the village of Alexandrovka were allowed to pass unhindered. Thanks to these arrangements, the Turkish side was sacked in the course of three to four hours, so that by one o'clock in the morning the rioters found nothing left to do. During the night, the police and military authorities arrested twenty-four rioters and a much larger number of Jews. The latter were arrested because they ventured to stay near their homes. The following morning, the Christians were released and allowed to swell the ranks of the pillaging mob, while the Jews were kept in jail until the following day and freed only when the governor arrived. On the following day, March 30, at four o'clock in the morning, a large number of peasants, amounting to about five thousand and armed with clubs, began to arrive in town, having been summoned by the Ispravnik [1] from the adjacent villages. The arrival of the peasants was welcomed by the Jews, who thought that they had been called to come to their aid. But they soon found out their mistake, for the peasants declared that they had come to beat and plunder the Jews. Simultaneously with the arrival of the peasants, large numbers from among the local mob began to assemble around the Cathedral, and at eight o'clock in the morning signals were given to renew the pogrom. At first this was prevented. The officers of the local battalion, who patrolled the city, ordered the soldiers to surround the mob and hold it off for about an hour, during which time the Greek-Orthodox bishop [2] Radzionovski admonished the rioters and tried to make them understand that such doings were contrary to the laws of the Church and the State. But when the police commissioner, the military chief, and Ispravnik arrived before the Cathedral, the military cordon was withdrawn, and the crowd, now let loose, threw itself upon a near-by liquor store, and, after demolishing it and filling itself with alcohol, resumed its work of destruction, with the co-operation of the peasants who had been summoned by the Ispraynik and the assistance of the soldiers and policemen. It was on this occasion that those wild, savage scenes of murder, rapine, and plunder took place, the account of which as published in the newspapers is but the pale shadow of the real facts.... The pogrom of Balta was called forth not by the mere inactivity but by the direct activity of the local authorities. [Footnote 1: The head of the district (or county) police. The police in the larger towns of the county is subject to the police commissioner of the town, who is referred to earlier in the text.] [Footnote 2: In Russian, _Protoyerey_, a term borrowed from the Greek. It corresponds roughly to the title of bishop.] What these "savage scenes" were we do not learn from the newspapers, which were forbidden by the censor to report them, but we know them partly from unpublished sources and partly from the later court proceedings. Aside from the demolition of twelve hundred and fifty houses and business places and the destruction and pillage of property and merchandise--according to a statement of the local rabbi, "all well-to-do Jews were turned into beggars, and more than fifteen thousand people were sent out into the wide world "--a large number of people were killed and maimed, and many women were violated. Forty Jews were slain or dangerously wounded; one hundred and seventy received slight wounds; many Jews, and particularly Jewesses, became insane from fright. There were more than twenty cases of rape. The seventeen year old daughter of a poor polisher, Eda Maliss by name, was attacked by a horde of bestial lads before the eyes of her brother. When the mother of the unfortunate girl ran into the street and called to her aid a policeman who was standing near-by, the latter followed the woman into the house, and then, instead of helping her, dishonored her on the spot. The fiendish hordes invaded the home of Baruch Shlakhovski, and began their bloody work by slaying the master of the house, whereupon his wife and daughter fled and hid themselves in a near-by orchard. Here a Russian neighbor lured them into his house under the pretext of defending their honor against the rioters, but, once in his house, he disgraced the daughter in the presence of her mother. In many cases the soldiers of the local garrison assaulted and beat the Jews who showed themselves on the streets while the "military operations" of the mob were going on. In accordance with the customary pogrom ritual, the human fiends were left undisturbed for two days, and only on the third day were troops summoned from a near-by city to put a stop to the atrocities. On the same day the governor of Podolia arrived to make an investigation. It was soon learned that the local authorities, the police commissioner, the Ispravnik, the military commander, the burgomaster, and the president of the nobility [1] had either directly or indirectly abetted the pogrom. Many rioters, who had been arrested by the police, were soon released, because they threatened otherwise to point out to the higher authorities the ringleaders from among the local officials and the representatives of Russian society. The Jews, again, were constantly terrorized by these scoundrels and cowed by the fear of massacres and complete annihilation, in case they dared to expose their hangmen before the courts. [Footnote 1: The nobility of each government forms an organization of its own. It is headed by a president for the entire government who has under his jurisdiction a president for each district (or county). Such a county president is referred to in the text.] The pogrom of Balta found but a feeble echo in the immediate neighborhood--in a few localities of the governments of Podolia and Kherson. It seemed as if the energy of destruction and savagery had spent itself in the exploits at Balta. On the whole, the pogrom campaign conducted in the spring of 1882 covered but an insignificant territory when compared with the pogrom enterprise of 1881, though surpassing it considerably in point of quality. The horrors of Balta were a substantial earnest of the Kishinev atrocities of 1903 and the October pogroms of 1905. 4. THE CONFERENCE OF JEWISH NOTABLES AT ST. PETERSBURG The horrors of Balta cast their shadow upon the conference of Jewish delegates which met in St. Petersburg on April 8-11, 1882. The conference, which had been called by Baron Horace Günzburg, with the permission of Ignatyev, was made up of some twenty-five delegates from the provinces--among them Dr. Mandelstamm of Kiev, Rabbi Isaac Elhanan Specter of Kovno--and fifteen notables from the capital, including Baron Günzburg himself, the railroad magnate Polakov, and Professor Bakst. The question of Jewish emigration was the central issue of the conference, although, in connection with it, the general situation of Russian Jewry came up for discussion. There was a mixed element of tragedy and timidity in the deliberations of this miniature congress, at which neither the voice of the masses nor that of the _intelligentzia_ were given a full hearing. On the one hand, the conference listened to heartrending speeches, picturing the intolerable position of the Jews; and one of the delegates, Shmerling from Moghilev, who had just delivered such a speech, was so overcome that he fainted and died in a few hours. On the other hand, the most influential delegates, particularly those from the capital, were looking about timorously, fearing lest the Government suspect them of a lack of patriotism. Others again looked upon emigration as an illicit form of protest, as "sedition," and they clung to this conviction, even when the conference had been told in the name of the Minister of the Interior that it was expected to consider the question of "thinning out the Jewish population in the Pale of Settlement, in view of the fact that the Jews will not be admitted into the interior governments of Russia." At the second meeting of the conference, the rabbi of St. Petersburg, Dr. Drabkin, reported to the delegates about his last conversation with Ignatyev. In reply to the rabbi who had stated that the Jews were waiting for an imperial word ordering the suppression of the pogroms, and were anticipating the removal of their legal disabilities, the Minister had characterized these assertions as "commonplaces," and had added in an irritated tone: "The Jews themselves are responsible for the pogroms. By joining the Nihilists they thereby deprive the Government of the possibility of sheltering them against violence." The sophistry of the Minister was refuted on the spot by his own confession that the Balta pogrom was due to "a false rumor charging the Jews with having undermined the local Greek-Orthodox church," in other words, that the cause of the Balta pogrom was not to be traced to any tendencies within Jewry but rather to the agitation of evil-minded Jew-baiters. At the same session, the discussion of the emigration question was side-tracked by a new design of the slippery Minister. The financier Samuel Polakov, who was close to Ignatyev, declared in a spirit of base flunkeyism that the labors of the conference would prove fruitless unless they were carried on in accordance with "Government instructions." On this occasion he informed the conference that in a talk which he had with the Minister the latter had branded the endeavors to stimulate emigration as "an incitement to sedition," on the ground that "emigration does not exist for Russian citizens." Asked by the Minister for suggestions as to the best means of relieving the congestion of the Jews in the Pale, Polakov had replied: "By settling them all over Russia." To this the Minister had retorted that he could not allow the settlement of Jews except in Central Asia and in the newly conquered oasis of Akhal-Tekke, [1] In obedience to these ministerial utterances, the obsequious financier sharply opposed the plan of a Jewish emigration to foreign lands, and seriously recommended to the conference to consider the proposal made by Ignatyev. The Minister's suggestion was bitterly attacked by Dr. Mandelstamm, who saw in it a new attempt to make sport of the Jews, Even Professor Bakst, who objected to emigration on principle, declared that the proposed scheme of settling the Jews amounted in reality to "a deportation to far-off places" and was tantamount to an official "classification of the Jews as criminals." [Footnote 1: In the Trans-Caspian region. It had been occupied by Russian troops shortly before--in 1880.] From the project of deportation, which failed to meet with the sympathy of the conference, the delegates proceeded to discuss the burning question of pogroms. It was proposed to send a deputation to the Tzar, appealing to him to put a stop to the legislative restrictions, which were bound to inspire the Russian population with the belief that the Jews were outside the pale of the law. In the question of foreign emigration the majority of the conference voted against the establishment of emigration committees, on the ground that the latter might give the impression as if the Jews were desirous of leaving Russia. After a debate lasting four days the following resolutions were adopted: _First_, to reject completely the thought of organizing emigration, as being subversive of the dignity of the Russian body politic and of the historic rights of the Jews to their present fatherland. _Second_, to point to the necessity of abolishing the present discriminating legislation concerning the Jews, this abolition being the only means to regulate the relationship of the Jewish population to the original inhabitants. _Third_, to bring to the knowledge of the Government the passive attitude of the authorities which had clearly manifested itself during the time of the disorders. _Fourth_, to petition the Government to find means for compensating the Jewish population, which had suffered from the pogroms as a result of inadequate police protection. At the same time the conference took occasion to refute the old accusation, which had again been brought up in the gubernatorial commissions, that the Jews still retained their ancient autonomous Kahal organization, and that the latter was operating secretly and was fostering Jewish separatism to the detriment of the other elements of the population. The resolution of the conference on this score read as follows: We, the undersigned, the representatives of various centers of Jewish settlement in Russia, rabbis, members of religious organizations and synagogue boards, consider it our sacred duty, calling to witness God Omniscient, to declare publicly, in the presence of the whole of Russia, that there exists neither an open nor a secret Kahal administration among the Russian Jews; that Jewish life is entirely foreign to any organization of this kind and to any of the attributes ascribed to such an organization by evil minded persons. The signers of this solemn pronouncement were evidently unaware of the degrading renunciation of national rights which was implied in the declaration that not only had the Jews lost their former comprehensive communal organization--this was in accordance with the facts--but that, were such an inner autonomous organization to exist, they would regard it as a criminal offence, subversive of the public order and punishable by the forfeiture of civil rights. CHAPTER XXIV LEGISLATIVE POGROMS 1. THE "TEMPORARY RULES" OF MAY 3, 1882 During the interval between the pogrom of Warsaw and that of Balta the Government was preparing for the Jews a series of legislative pogroms. In the recesses of the Russian Government offices, which served as the laboratories of police barbarism, the authorities were busy forging a chain of legal and administrative restrictions in order to "regulate" Jewish life in the spirit of complete civil disfranchisement. The Central Committee on Jewish Affairs, attached to the Ministry of the Interior, which was called for short "the Jewish Committee" but might far more appropriately have been called "the Anti-Jewish Committee," was basing its labors upon the opinions submitted by the gubernatorial commissions and rearing on this foundation a monstrous structure of disabilities. The new project was based upon the following theory: The old Russian legislation was marked by its hostility to the Jews as a secluded group of alien faith and race. A departure from this attitude was attempted during the reign of Alexander II., when the rights of certain categories of Jews were enlarged, and "a period of toleration was inaugurated." But subsequent experience proved the inexpediency of this tolerant attitude towards the Jews, as has been demonstrated by the recent manifestation "of an anti-Jewish movement abroad" (German anti-Semitism) and "the popular protest" in Russia itself, where it assumed the form of pogroms. Since Russia has now chosen the path of a "national policy," it follows also in regard to the Jewish question that this country cannot but "turn to its ancient tradition, throw aside the innovations which have proved useless, and follow vigorously the principles, evolved by the whole past history of the monarchy, according to which the Jews must be regarded as aliens," and therefore can lay no claim to full toleration. This barbarous theory, which brought Russia back to the traditions of ancient Muscovy, was expounded elaborately in the protocol of the session of the "anti-Jewish Committee," as a sort of preamble to the legal project submitted by it. While engaged in these labors, the members of the committee received the news of the pogrom in Warsaw, and were greatly heartened by it. They did not fail to make an entry in the protocol to the effect that the "disorders" which had taken place in the Kingdom of Poland "where the Jews enjoy equal rights" (i.e., the right of residence) tend to support the theory of the "injuriousness" of the Jewish people. Official pens began to scribble more rapidly, and within a short time, by the spring of 1882, a project was ready, to be inflicted as a severe punishment upon the Jews for the atrocities perpetrated upon them. The "conquered foe," represented by the Jewish population, was to be dislodged from a large area within, the Pale of Settlement, overcrowded though the latter had become, by forbidding the Jews to settle anew outside of the cities and towns, i.e., in the country-side. Those already settled there were either to be evicted by the verdict of the rural communes[1], or to be deprived of a livelihood by the prohibition to buy or lease immovable property and to trade in liquor. [Footnote 1: "To allow the communes to evict the Jews by a verdict," according to the exact wording of the law.] This project was submitted by Ignatyev to the Committee of Ministers, accompanied by the suggestion that the new disabilities be enacted not in due legal procedure (by the Council of State) but in the form of "Temporary Rules" to be sanctioned in an extra-legal way by the Tzar, with the end in view "to do away with the aggravated relations between the Jews and the original population." However, even the members of the reactionary Committee of Ministers were embarrassed by Ignatyev's project. The Committee felt that it was impossible to carry out the expropriation of personal and property rights on so extensive a scale without the due process of law and that the permission to be granted to rural communes of expelling the Jews from the villages was tantamount to leaving the latter to the tender mercies of the benighted Russian masses, which would thus more than ever be strengthened, in their conviction that the Jews might be expelled and assaulted with impunity, so that the relations between the two elements of the population, instead of improving, would only become more aggravated. On the other hand, the Committee of Ministers went on record that it considered it necessary to adopt rigorous measures against the Jews in order that the peasants should not think "that the Tzar's will in ridding them of Jewish exploitation was not put into execution." As a result of these contentions, several concessions were made by Ignatyev, and the following compromise was reached: The clause ordering the expulsion of the hundreds of thousands of Jews already settled in the villages was eliminated, and the prohibition was restricted to the Jews who wished to settle outside of the towns and townlets _anew_. In turn, the Committee of Ministers yielded to Ignatyev's demand that the project should be enacted with every possible dispatch, without preliminary submission to the Council of State. Such was the genesis of the famous "Temporary Rules" which were sanctioned by the Tzar on May 3, 1882. Shorn of all bureaucratic rhetoric, the new laws may be reduced to the following laconic provisions: _First_, to forbid the Jews henceforth to settle anew outside of the towns and townlets. _Second_, to suspend the completion of instruments of purchase of real property and merchandise in the name of Jews outside of the towns and townlets. _Third_, to forbid the Jews to carry on business on Sundays and Christian holidays. The first two "Rules" contained in their harmless wording a cruel punitive law which dislodged the Jews from nine-tenths of the territory hitherto accessible to them, and tended to coop up millions of human beings within the suffocating confines of the towns and townlets of the Western region. And yet, notwithstanding its tremendous implications, the law was passed outside the ordinary course of legal procedure--under the disguise of "Temporary Rules," which, in spite of their title, have been enforced with merciless cruelty for more than a generation. 2. ABANDONMENT OF THE POGROM POLICY After imposing a severe and immediately effective penalty upon Russian Jewry for having been ruined by the pogroms, the Government suddenly remembered its duty, and dangled the threat of future penalties before the prospective instigators of Jewish disorders. On the same fateful third of May, the Tzar sanctioned the decision of the Committee of Ministers concerning the necessity of declaring solemnly that "the Government is firmly resolved to prosecute invariably any attempt at violence on the person and property of the Jews, who are under the protection of the general laws." In accordance with this declaration, a senatorial ukase dated May 10 was sent out to the governors, warning them that "the heads of the gubernatorial administrations would be held responsible for the adoption of timely measures looking to the prevention of the conditions leading to similar disorders and for the suppression of these disorders at the very outset, and that any negligence in this regard on the part of the administration and the police authorities would result in the dismissal from office of those found guilty." This warning was accompanied by the following confession: In view of the fact that sad occurrences in the past have made it evident that the local population, incited by evil-minded persons from covetous or other motives, has taken part in the disorders, it is the duty of the gubernatorial administration to make it clear to the local communes that they are obliged to adopt measures for the purpose ... of impressing upon the inhabitants the gross criminal offence implied in willfully perpetrating violent acts against anybody's person and property. It would almost seem as if the Government, by promulgating on one and the same day the "Temporary Rules" against the Jews and the circular against the pogroms, wished to intimate to the Russian people that, inasmuch as the Jews were now being exterminated through the agency of the law, there was no further need to exterminate them on the streets. The originators of the "Temporary Rules" did not seem to realize that the latter were nothing but a variation of those "violent acts against person and property," from which the street mob was warned to refrain, for the loss of the freedom of movement is violence against the person, and the denial of the right of purchasing real estate is violence against property. Even the Russian press, though held at that time in the grip of censorship, could not help commenting on the fact that the effect of the official circular against the pogroms had been greatly weakened, by the simultaneous promulgation of the "Temporary Rules." It would seem as if the terrible atrocities at Balta had made the highest Government spheres realize that the previous policy of connivance at the pogroms, which had been practised for a whole year, could not but disgrace Russia in the eyes of the world and undermine public order in Russia itself. As soon as this was realized, the luckless Minister, who had been the pilot of Russian politics throughout that terrible year, was bound to disappear from the scene. On May 30, Count Ignatyev was made to resign, and Count Demetrius Tolstoi was appointed Minister of the Interior. Tolstoi was a grim reactionary and a champion of autocracy and police power, but he was at the same time an enemy of all manifestations of mob rule which tended to undermine the authority of the State. A few days after his appointment the new Minister issued a circular in which he reiterated the recent declaration of his predecessor concerning the "resolve of the Government to prosecute every kind of violence against the Jews," announcing emphatically that "any manifestation of disorders would unavoidably result in the immediate prosecution of all official persons who are in duty bound to concern themselves with the prevention of disorders." This energetic pronouncement of the Government had a magic effect. All provincial administrators realized that the central Government of St. Petersburg had ceased to trifle with the promoters of the pogroms, and the pogrom epidemic was at an end. Beginning with June, 1882, the pogroms assumed more and more a sporadic character. Here and there sparks of the old conflagration would flare up again, but only to die out quickly. In the course of the next twenty years, until the Kishinev massacre of 1903, no more than about ten pogroms of any consequence may be enumerated, and these disorders were all isolated movements, with a purely local coloring, and without the earmarks of a common organization or the force of an epidemic, such as characterized the pogrom campaigns of 1881, or those of 1903-1905. This is an additional proof for the contention that systematic pogroms in Russia are impossible as long as the central Government and the local authorities are honestly and firmly set against them. The stringent measures adopted by Tolstoi were soon reflected in the legal trials arising out of the pogroms. Formerly, the local authorities refrained as a rule from putting the rioters on trial lest their testimony might implicate the local administration, and even when action was finally brought against them, the culprits mostly escaped with slight penalties, such as imprisonment for a few months. But after the declaration of the Government in June the courts adopted a more rigorous attitude towards the rioters. [1] In the summer of 1882, a number of cases arising out of the pogroms at Balta and in other cities were tried in the courts. The penalties imposed by the courts were frequently severe, though fully deserved, such as deportation and confinement at hard labor, drafting into penal military companies, etc. In one case, two soldiers, having been convicted of pillage and murder, were court-martialled and sentenced to death. When the sentence was submitted for ratification to Drenteln, governor-general of Kiev, the rabbi of Balta, acting on behalf of the local Jewish community, betook himself to Kiev to support the culprits in their petition for pardon. It was strange to listen to this appeal for mercy on behalf of criminals guilty of violence and murder, coming from the camp of their victims, from the demolished homes which still resounded with the moans of the wounded and with the weeping over lost lives and dishonored women. One finds it difficult to believe that this appeal for mercy was due entirely to an impulse of forgiveness. Associated with it was probably the apprehension that the death of the murderers would be avenged by their like-minded accomplices who were still at liberty. [Footnote 1: This, by the way, was not always the case. The court of Chernigov, which was compelled to bring in a verdict of guilty against the perpetrators of the pogrom in the townlet of Karpovitchin the same government, decided to recommend the culprits to the clemency of the superior authorities, in view of the dissatisfaction of the people with the "exploitation" of the Jews. There were many instances of these anti-Jewish political manifestations in the law-courts.] The Jews of Balta were soon to learn that their humility was ill-requited by the highly-placed promoters of the riots. In the beginning of August, Governor-General Drenteln came to Balta. He was exceedingly irritated, not only on account of the recent circular of Tolstoi which implied a personal threat against him as one who had connived at a number of pogroms within his dominions, but also because of the steps taken by the representatives of the Balta Jewish community at St. Petersburg in the direction of exposing the spiritual fathers of the local riots. Having arrived in the sorely stricken city, the head of the province, who _ex officio_ should have conveyed his expression of sympathy to the sufferers, summoned the rabbi and the leaders of the Jewish community, and, in the presence of his official staff, treated them to a speech full of venomous hatred. He told them that by their actions the Jews had "armed everybody against themselves," that they were universally hated, that "they lived nowhere as happily as in Russia," and that the deputation they had sent to St. Petersburg for the purpose of presenting their complaints and "slandering the city authorities and representatives as if they had incited the tumultuous mob against the Jews" had been of no avail. In conclusion, he branded the petition of the Balta community for a commutation of the death sentence passed upon the rioters as an act of hypocrisy, adding impressively that "these persons have been pardoned irrespective of the requests of the Jews." The speech of the bureaucratic Jew-baiter, whose proper place was in the dock, side by side with the convicted murderers, produced a terrible panic in the whole region of Kiev. The militant organ of the Jewish press, the _Voskhod_, properly remarked: After the speech of General-Adjutant Drenteln, our confidence in the impossibility of a repetition of the pogroms has been decidedly shaken. Of what avail can ministerial circulars be when the highest administrators on the spot paralyze their actions in public by the living word? The apprehensions voiced by the Jewish organ were fortunately unfounded. True, the Minister Tolstoi was not able to punish the criminal harangue of the savage governor-general who had powerful connections at the Russian court. But the firm resolution of the central Government to hold the heads of the administration to account for their connivance at pogroms had the desired effect. All that the snarling dogs could do was to bark. 3. DISABILITIES AND EMIGRATION The pogrom machinery was thus stopped by a word of command from St. Petersburg. As a counterbalance, the machinery for the manufacture of Jewish disabilities continued in full operation. The "Temporary Rules" of May third established a system of legal persecutions which were directed against the Jews on the ground of their "economic injuriousness," The fact that the Jewish population was in many regards outside the operation of the general laws of Russia opened up a wide field for the grossest forms of arbitrariness and lawlessness. At one stroke, all the exits from the overcrowded cities into the villages within the Pale of Settlement were tightly closed. All branches of industry connected with Jewish land ownership outside the cities were curtailed and in some places entirely cut off. In many villages the right bestowed on the rural communes of ostracising "vicious members" by a special verdict [1] was used as a weapon to expel those Jews who had long been settled there. [Footnote 1: The official term applied to the resolutions passed by the village communes. Compare p. 310.] It will be remembered that Ignatyev had proposed to encourage the peasants officially in the use of this weapon against the Jews, and that the Committee of Ministers had rejected his proposal. There were now administrators who did the same thing unofficially. Prompted by selfish motives, the local _Kulaks_ [1] or "bosses," from among the Russian tradesmen, acting in conjunction with the rural elders, would convene peasant assemblies which were treated to liberal doses of alcohol. The intoxicated, half-illiterate _moujiks_ would sign a "verdict" demanding the expulsion of the Jews from their village; the verdict would be promptly confirmed by the governors and would immediately become law. Such expulsions were particularly frequent in the governments under the jurisdiction of Drenteln, governor-general of Kiev, and no one doubted but that this ferocious Jew-baiter had passed the word to that effect throughout his dominions. [Footnote 1: Literally "Fists."] The economic misery within the Pale drove a number of Jews into the Russian interior, but here they were met by the whip of the law, made doubly painful by the scorpions of administrative caprice. Wholesale expulsions of Jews took place in St. Petersburg, Moscow, Kiev, Kharkov, and other forbidden centers. The effect of these expulsions upon the commercial life of the country was so disastrous that the big Russian merchants of Moscow and Kharkov appealed to the Government to relax the restrictions surrounding the visits of Jews to these cities. The civil authorities were now joined by the military powers in hounding the Jews. There were in the Russian army a large number of Jewish physicians, many of whom had distinguished themselves during the preceding Russo-Turkish war. The reactionary Government at the helm of Russian affairs could not tolerate the sight of a Jewish physician exercising the rights of an army officer which were otherwise utterly utterly unattainable for a Jewish soldier. Accordingly, the Minister of War, Vannovski, issued a rescript dated April 10, 1882, to the following effect: _First_, to limit the number of Jewish physicians and _feldshers[1]_ in the Military Department to five per cent of the general number of medical men. _Second_, to stop appointing Jews on the medical service in the military districts of Western Russia, and to transfer the surplus over and above five per cent into the Eastern districts. _Third_, to appoint Jewish physicians only in those contingents of the army in which the budget calls for at least two physicians, with the proviso that the second physician must be a Christian. [Footnote 1: See p. 167, n. 2.] The reason for these provisions was stated in a most offensive form: It is necessary to stop the constant growth of the number of physicians of the Mosaic persuasion in the Military Department, in view of their deficient conscientiousness in discharging their duties and their unfavorable influence upon the sanitary service in the army. This revolting affront had the effect that many Jewish physicians handed in their resignations immediately. The resignation of one of these physicians, the well-known novelist Yaroshevski, was couched in such emphatic terms, and parried the moral blow directed at the Jewish professional men with such dignity that the Minister of War deemed it necessary to put the author on trial. Among other things, Yaroshevski wrote: So long as the aspersions cast upon the Jewish physicians so pitilessly are not removed, every superfluous minute spent by them in serving this Department will merely add to their disgrace. In the name of their human dignity, they have no right to remain there where they are held in abhorrence. Under these circumstances it seemed quite natural that the tendency toward emigration, which had called forth a number of emigration societies as far back as the beginning of 1882 [1], took an ever stronger hold upon the Jewish population of Russia. The disastrous consequences of the resolution adopted by the conference of notables in St. Petersburg [2] were now manifest. By rejecting the formation of a central agency for regulating the emigration, the conference had abandoned the movement to the blind elemental forces, and a catastrophe was bound to follow. The pogrom at Balta called forth a new outburst of the emigration panic, and in the summer of 1882 some twenty thousand Jewish refugees were again huddled together in the Galician border-town of Brody. They were without means for continuing their journey to America, having come to Brody in the hope of receiving help from the Jewish societies of Western Europe. The relief committees established in the principal cities of Europe were busily engaged in "evacuating" Brody of this destitute mass of fugitives. In the course of the summer and autumn this task was successfully accomplished. A large number of emigrants were dispatched to the United States, and the rest were dispersed over the various centers of Western Europe. [Footnote 1: See above, p. 297 et seq.] [Footnote 2: See above, p. 307.] Aside from the highway of American emigration went, along a tiny parallel path, the Jewish emigration to Palestine. The Palestinian movement which had shortly before come into being [1] attracted many enthusiasts from among the Jewish youth. In the spring of 1882, a society of Jewish young men, consisting mostly of university students, was formed in Kharkov under the name _Bilu_, from the initial letters of their Hebrew motto, _Bet Ya'akob leku we-nelka_"O house of Jacob, come ye, and let us go." [2] The aim of the society was to establish a model agricultural settlement in Palestine and to carry on a wide-spread propaganda for the idea of colonizing the ancient homeland of the Jews. As a result of this propaganda, several hundred Jews in various parts of Russia joined the _Bilu_ society. Of these only a few dozen pioneers left for Palestine --between June and July of 1882. [Footnote 1: See later, p. 268.] [Footnote 2: From Isa. 2.5.] At first, the leaders of the organization attempted to enter into negotiations with the Turkish Government, with a view to obtaining from it a large tract of land for colonizing purposes, but the negotiations fell through. The handful of pioneers were obliged to work in the agricultural settlements near Jaffa, in _Mikweh Israel_, a foundation of the _Alliance Israélite_ in Paris, and in the colony _Rishon le-Zion_, which had been recently established by private initiative. The youthful idealists had to endure many hardships in an unaccustomed environment and in a branch of endeavor entirely alien to them. A considerable part of the pioneers were soon forced to give up the struggle and make way for the new settlers who were less intelligent perhaps but physically better fitted for their task. The foundations of Palestinian colonization had been laid, though within exceedingly narrow limits, and the very idea of the national restoration of the Jewish people in Palestine was then as it was later a much greater social factor in Jewish life than the practical colonization of a country which could only absorb an insignificant number of laborers. At those moments, when the Russian horrors made life unbearable, the eyes of many sufferers were turned Eastward, towards the tiny strip of land on the shores of the Mediterranean, where the dream of a new life upon the resuscitated ruins of gray antiquity held out the promise of fulfilment. A contemporary writer, in surveying recent events in the Russian valley of tears, makes the following observations: Jewish life during the latter part of 1882 has assumed a monotonously gloomy, oppressively dull aspect True, the streets are no longer full of whirling feathers from torn bedding; the window-panes no longer crash through the streets. The thunder and lightning which were recently filling the air and gladdening the hearts of the Greek-Orthodox people are no more. But have the Jews actually gained by the change from the illegal persecutions [in the form of pogroms] to the legal persecutions of the third of May? Maltreated, plundered, reduced to beggary, put to shame, slandered, and dispirited, the Jews have been cast out of the community of human beings. Their destitution, amounting to beggary, has been firmly established and definitely affixed to them. Gloomy darkness, without a ray of light, has descended upon that bewitched and narrow world in which this unhappy tribe has been languishing so long, gasping for breath in the suffocating atmosphere of poverty and contempt. Will this go on for a long time? Will the light of day break at last? CHAPTER XXV INNER UPHEAVALS 1. DISILLUSIONMENT OF THE INTELLIGENZIA AND THE NATIONAL REVIVAL The catastrophe at the beginning of the eighties took the Jews of Russia unawares, and found them unprepared for spiritual self-defence. The impressions of the recent brief "era of reforms" were still fresh in their minds. They still remembered the initial steps of Alexander II's Government in the direction of the complete civil emancipation of Russian Jewry, the appeals of the intellectual classes of Russia calling upon the Jews to draw nearer to them, the bright prospects of a rejuvenated Russia. The niggardly gifts of the Russian Government were received by Russian Jewry with an outburst of gratitude and devotion which bordered on flunkeyism. The intellectual young Jews and Jewesses who had passed through the Russian public schools made frantic endeavors, not only towards association but also towards complete cultural amalgamation with the Russian people. Assimilation and Russification became the watchwords of the day. The literary ideals of young Russia became the sacred tablets of the Jewish youth. But suddenly, lo and behold! that same Russian people, in which the progressive forces of Jewry were ready to merge their identity, appeared in the shape of a monster, which belched forth hordes upon hordes of rioters and murderers. The Government had changed front, and adopted a policy of reaction and fierce Jew-hatred, while the liberal classes of Russia showed but scant sympathy with the downtrodden and maltreated nation. The voice of the hostile press, the _Novoye Vremya_, the _Russ_, and others, resounded through the air with fall vigor, whereas the liberal press, owing partly--but only partly--to the tightening grip of the censor, defended the Jews in a perfunctory manner. Even the publicists of the radical type, who were principally grouped around the periodical _Otyechestvennyia Zapiski_ ("Records of the Fatherland"), looked upon the pogroms merely as the brutal manifestation of an economic struggle, and viewed the whole complicated Jewish problem, with all its century-long tragic implications, in the light of a subordinate social-economic question. The only one whose soul was deeply stirred by the sight of the new sufferings of an ancient people was the Russian satirist, Shchedrin-Saltykov, and he poured forth his, sentiments in the summer of 1882, after the completion of the first cycle of pogroms, in an article marked by a lyric strain, so different from his usual style. [1] But Shchedrin was the only Russian writer of prominence who responded to the Jewish sorrow. Turgenyev and Tolstoi held their peace, whereas the literary celebrities of Western Europe, Victor Hugo, Renau, and many others, came forward with passionate protests. The Russian _intelligenzia_ remained cold in the face of the burning tortures of Jewry. The educated classes of Russian Jewry were hurt to the quick by this chilly attitude, and their former enthusiasm gave way to disillusionment. [Footnote 1: The article appeared in the _Otyechestvennyia Zapiski_ in August, 1882. The following sentences in that article are worthy of re-production: "History has never recorded in its pages a question more replete, with sadness, more foreign to the sentiments of humanity, and more filled with tortures than the Jewish question. The history of mankind as a whole is one endless martyrology; yet at the same time it is also a record of endless progress. In the records of martyrology the Hebrew tribe occupies the first place; in the annals of progress it stands aside, as if the luminous perspectives of history could never reach it. There is no more heart-rending tale than the story of this endless torture of man by man." In the same article the Russian satirist draws a clever parallel between the merciless Russian _Kulak_, or "boss," who ruins the peasantry, and the pitiful Jewish "exploiter," the half-starved tradesman, who in turn is exploited by everyone.] This disillusionment found its early expression in the lamentations of repentant assimilators. One of these assimilators, writing in the first months of the pogroms, makes the following confession: The cultured Jewish classes have turned their back upon their history, have forgotten their traditions, and have conceived a contempt for everything which might make them realize that they are the members of the "eternal people." With no definite ideals, dragging their Judaism behind them as a fugitive galley-slave drags his heavy chain, how could these men justify their belonging to the tribe of "Christ-killers" and "exploiters"?... Truly pitiful has become the position of these assimilators, who but yesterday were the champions of national self-effacement. Life demands self-determination. To sit between two stools has now become an impossibility. The logic of events has placed them before the alternative: either to declare themselves openly as renegades, or to take their proper share in the sufferings of their people. Another representative of the Jewish _intelligenzia_ writes in the following strain to the editor of a Russian-Jewish periodical: When I remember what has been done to us, how we have been taught to love Russia and Russian speech, how we have been induced and compelled to introduce the Russian language and everything Russian, into our families so that our children know no other language but Russian, and how we are now repulsed and persecuted, then our hearts are filled with sickening despair from which there seems to be no escape. This terrible insult gnaws at my vitals. It may be that I am mistaken, but I do honestly believe that even if I succeeded in moving to a happier country where all men are equal, where there are no pogroms by day and "Jewish commissions" by night, I would yet remain sick at heart to the very end of my life--to such an extent do I feel worn out by this accursed year, this universal mental eclipse which has visited our dear fatherland. Russian-Jewish literature of that period is full of similar self-revelations of disillusioned intellectuals. However, this repentant mood did not always lead to positive results. Some of these intellectuals, having become part and parcel of Russian cultural life, were no longer able to find their way back to Judaism, and they were carried off by the current of assimilation, culminating in baptism. Others stood at the cross-roads, wavering between assimilation and Jewish nationalism. Still others were so stunned by the blow they had received that they reeled violently backward, and proclaimed as their slogan the return "home," in the sense of a complete renunciation of free criticism and of all strivings for inner reforms. However, in the healthy part of Russian Jewry this change of mind resulted in turning their ideals definitely in the direction of national rejuvenation upon modern foundations. The idea of a struggle for national rejuvenation in Eussia itself had not yet matured. It appeared as an active force only in the following decade. [1] During the era of pogroms the salvation of Judaism was primarily associated with the idea of emigration. The champions of American emigration were prone to idealize this movement, which had in reality sprung from practical necessity, and they saw in it, not without justification, the beginning of a new free center of Judaism in the Diaspora. The Hebrew poet Judah Leib Gordon [2] addresses "The Daughter of Jacob [the Jewish people], disgraced by the son of Hamor [the Russian Government]" [3] in the following words: [Footnote 1: That idea was subsequently championed by the writer of this volume. See more about it in Vol. III.] [Footnote 2: See p. 228 et seq.] [Footnote 3: An allusion to Gen. 34, with a play on the words _Bem-hamor,_ "the son of an ass."] Come, let as go where liberty's light Doth shine upon all with equal might, Where every man, without disgrace, Is free to adhere to his creed and his race, Where thou, too, shalt no longer fear Dishonor from brutes, my sister dear![1] [Footnote 1: From his Hebrew poem _Ahoti Ruhama_, "My Beloved Sister."] The exponents of American emigration were inspired by the prospect of an exodus from the land of slavery into the land of freedom. Many of them looked forward to the establishment of agricultural and farming settlements in that country and to the concentration of large Jewish masses in the thinly populated States of the Union where they hoped the Jews might be granted a considerable amount of self-government. Side by side with the striving for a transplantation of Jewish centers centers within the Diaspora, another idea, which negatives the Diaspora Diaspora altogether and places in its stead the resuscitation of the Jewish national center in Palestine, struggled to life amidst the birth pangs of the pogroms. The first theoretic exponent of this new movement, called "Love of Zion," [1] was M.L. Lilienblum, who in a former stage of radicalism had preached the need of religious reforms in Judaism. [2] As far back as in the autumn of the first pogrom year Lilienblum published a series of articles in which he interpreted the idea of Palestinian colonization, which had but recently sprung to life, in the light of a common national task for the whole of Jewry. Lilienblum endeavored to show that the root of all the historic misfortunes of the Jewish people lay in the fact that it was in all lands an alien element which refuses to assimilate in its entirety with the dominant nation--with the landlord, as it were. The landlord tolerates his tenant only so long as he finds him convenient; let the tenant make the slightest attempt at competing with the landlord, and he will be promptly evicted. During the Middle Ages the Jews were persecuted in the name of religious fanaticism. Now a beginning has been made to persecute them in the name of national fanaticism, coupled with economic factors, and this "second chapter of our history will no doubt contain many a bloody page." [Footnote 1: A translation of the Hebrew term _Hibbat Zion_. In Russian it was generally termed _Palestinophilstvo_, i.e., "Love of Palestine."] [Footnote 2: See p. 236 et seq.] Jewish suffering can only be removed by removing its cause. We must cease to be strangers in every land of the globe, and establish ourselves in a country where we ourselves may be the landlords. Such a country can only be our ancient fatherland, Palestine, which belongs to us by the right of history. "We must undertake the colonization of Palestine on so comprehensive a scale that in the course of one century the Jews may be able to leave inhospitable Europe almost entirely and settle in the land of our forefathers to which we are legally entitled." These thoughts, expounded with that simplified logic which will strike certain types of mind as incontrovertible, were fully attuned to the sentiments of the Jewish masses which were standing with "girded loins," ready for their exodus from, the new Egypt. The emigration societies formed in the beginning of 1882 counted in their ranks many advocates of Palestinian colonization. Bitter literary feuds were waged between the "Americans" and "Palestinians." A young poet, Simon Frug[1], composed the following enthusiastic exodus march, which he prefaced by the biblical verse "Speak unto the children of Israel, that they go forward" (Ex. 14.15): [Footnote 1: He became later a celebrated poet in Russian and Yiddish. He died in 1916.] Thine eyes are keen, thy feet are strong, thy staff is firm-- why then, my nation, Dost thou on the road stop and droop, thy gray head lost in contemplation? Look up and see: in numerous bands Thy sons return from all the lands. Forward then march, through a sea of sorrow, Through a chain of tortures, towards the dawn of the morrow! Forward--to the strains of the song of days gone by! For future ages like thunder to us cry: "Arise, my people, from thy grave, And live once more, a nation free and brave!" And in our ears songs of a _new_ life ring, And hymns of triumph the storms to as sing. This march voiced the sentiments of those who dreamed of the Promised Land--whether it be on the shores of the Jordan or on the banks of the Mississippi. 2. PINSKER'S "AUTOEMANCIPATION" The conception of emigration as a means of national rejuvenation, which had sprung to life amidst the "thunder and lightning" of the pogroms, found a thoughtful exponent in the person of Dr. Leon Pinsker, a prominent communal worker in Odessa, who had at one time looked to assimilation as promising a solution of the Jewish problem. In his pamphlet "Autoemancipation" (published in September, 1882), which is marked by profound thinking, Pinsker vividly describes the mental agony experienced by him at the sight of the physical slavery of the Jewry of Russia and the spiritual slavery of the emancipated Jewry of Western Europe. To him the Jewish people in the Diaspora is not a living nation, but rather the ghost of a nation, haunting the globe and scaring all living national organisms. The salvation of Judaism can only be brought about by transforming this ghost into a real being, by re-establishing the Jewish people upon a territory of its own which might be obtained through the common endeavor of Jewry and through international Jewish co-operation in some convenient part of the globe, be it Palestine or America. Such is the way of Jewish autoemancipation, in contradistinction from the civic emancipation, which had been bestowed by the dominant nationalities upon the Jews as an act of grace and which does not safeguard them against anti-Semitism and the humiliating position of second-rate citizens. The Jewish people can be restored, if, instead of many places of refuge scattered all over the globe, it will be concentrated in one politically guaranteed place of refuge. For this purpose a general Jewish congress ought to be called which should be entrusted with the financial and political issues involved in the plan. The present generation must take the first step towards this national restoration; posterity will do the rest. Pinsker's pamphlet, which was written in German and printed abroad [1] with the intention of appealing to the Jews of Western Europe, failed to produce any effect upon that assimilated section of the Jewish people. In Russia, however, it became the catechism of the "Love of Zion" movement and eventually of Zionism and Territorialism. The theory expounded in Pinsker's pamphlet made a strong appeal to the Russian Jews, not only on account of its close reasoning but also because it gave powerful utterance to that pessimistic frame of mind which seemed to have seized upon them all. Its weakest point lay in the fact that it rested on a wrong historic premise and on a narrow definition of the term "nation" in the sense of a territorial and political organism. Pinaker seems to have overlooked that the Jews of the Diaspora, taken as a whole, have not ceased to form a nation, though of a type of its own, and that in modern political history nations of this "cultural" complexion have appeared on the scene more and more frequently. [Footnote 1: The first edition appeared in Berlin, in 1882. It bears the sub-title: "An Appeal to his Brethren by a Russian Jew," It was published anonymously.] Lacking a definite practical foundation, Pinsker's doctrine could not but accomodate itself to the Palestinian colonization movement, although its insignificant dimensions were entirely out of proportion to the far-reaching plans conceived by the author of "Autoemancipation." Lilienblum and Pinsker were joined by the old nationalist Smolenskin and the former assimilator Levanda. _Ha-Shahar_ and _ha-Melitx_ in Hebrew and the _Razsvyet_ in Russian became the literary vehicles of the new movement. In opposition to these tendencies, the _Voskhod_ of St. Petersburg[1] reflected the ideas of the progressive Russian-Jewish _intelligenzia_, and defended their old position which was that of civil emancipation and inner Jewish reforms. In the middle between these two extremes stood the Russian weekly _Russki Yevrey_ ("The Russian Jew"), in St. Petersburg, and the Hebrew weekly _ha-Tzefirah_ ("The Dawn"), in Warsaw, voicing the moderate views of the Haskalah period, with a decided bent towards the nationalistic movement. [Footnote 1: See p. 221, It appeared simultaneously as a weekly and a monthly.] 3. MISCARRIED RELIGIOUS REFORMS The storm of pogroms not only broke many young twigs on the tree of "enlightenment," which had attained to full bloom in the preceding period, but it also bent others into monstrous shapes. This abnormal development is particularly characteristic of the idea of religious reforms in Judaism which sprang to life in the beginning of the eighties. A fortnight before the pogrom at Yelisavetgrad, which inaugurated another gloomy chapter in the annals of Russian Jewry, the papers reported that a new Jewish sect had appeared in that city under the name of "The Spiritual Biblical Brotherhood." Its members denied all religious dogmas and ceremonies, and acknowledged only the moral doctrines of the Bible; they condemned all mercantile pursuits, and endeavored to live by physical labor, primarily by agriculture. The founder of this "Brotherhood" was a local teacher and journalist, Jacob Gordin, who stood at that time under the influence of the South-Russian Stundists [1] as well as of the socialistic Russian Populists. [2] The "Spiritual Biblical Brotherhood" was made up altogether of a score of people. In a newspaper appeal which appeared shortly after the spring pogroms of 1881 the leader of the sect, hiding his identity under the pen-name of "A Brother-Biblist," called upon the Jews to divest themselves, of those character traits and economic pursuits which excited the hatred of the native population against them: the love of money, the hunt for barter, usury, and petty trading. This appeal, which, sounded in unison with the voice of the Russian Jew-baiters and appeared at a time when the wounds of the pogrom victims were not yet healed, aroused profound indignation among the Jews. Shortly afterwards the "Spiritual Biblical Brotherhood" fell asunder. Some of its members joined a like-minded sect in Odessa which had been founded there in the beginning of 1883 by a teacher, Jacob Priluker, under the name of "New Israel." [Footnote 1: A Russian sect with rationalistic tendencies which are traceable to Western Protestantism.] [Footnote 2: See above, p. 222.] The aim of "New Israel" was to facilitate, by means of radical religious reforms conceived in the spirit of rationalism, the contact between Jews and Christians and thereby pave the way for civil emancipation. The twofold religio-social program of the sect was as follows: The sect recognizes only the teachings of Moses; it rejects the Talmud, the dietary laws, the rite of circumcision, and the traditional form of worship; the day of rest is transferred from Saturday to Sunday; the Russian language is declared to be the "native" tongue of the Jews and made obligatory in every-day life; usury and similar distasteful pursuits are forbidden. As a reward for all these virtuous endeavors the sect expected from the Russian Government, which it petitioned to that effect, complete civil equality for its members, permission to intermarry with Christians, and the right to wear a special badge by which they were to be marked off from the "Talmudic Jews." As an expression of gratitude for the anticipated governmental benefits, the members of the sect pledged themselves to give their boys and girls who were to be born during the coming year the names of Alexander or Alexandra, in honor of the Russian Tzar. The first religious half of the program of "New Israel" might possibly have attracted a few adherents. But the second "business-like" part of it opened the eyes of the public to the true aspirations of these "reformers," who, in their eagerness for civil equality, were ready to barter away religion, conscience, and honor, and who did not balk at betraying such low flunkeyism at a time when the blood of the victims of the Balta pogrom had not yet dried. Thus it was that the withering influence of reactionary Judaeophobia compromised and crippled the second attempt at inner reforms in Judaism. Both movements soon passed out of existence, and their founders subsequently left Russia. Gordin went to America, and, renouncing his sins of youth, became a popular Yiddish playwright. Priluker settled in England, and entered the employ of the missionaries who were anxious to propagate Christianity among the Jews. A few years later, during 1884 and 1885, "New Israel" cropped up in a new shape, this time in Kishinev, where the puny "Congregation of New Testament Israelites" was founded by I. Rabinovich, having for its aim "the fusion of Judaism with Christianity." In the house of prayer, in which this "Congregation," consisting altogether of ten members, worshipped, sermons were also delivered by a Protestant clergyman. A few years later this new missionary device was also abandoned. The pestiferous atmosphere which surrounded Russian-Jewish life at that time could do no more than produce these poisonous growths of "religious reform." For the wholesome seeds of such a reform were bound to wither after the collapse of the ideals which had served as a lode star during the period of "enlightenment." CHAPTER XXVI INCREASED JEWISH DISABILITIES 1. THE PAHLEN COMMISSION AND NEW SCHEMES OF OPPRESSION The "Temporary Rules" of May 3, 1882, had been passed, so to speak, as an extraordinary "war measure," outside the usual channel of legislative action. Yet the Russian Government could not but realize that sooner or later it would be bound to adopt the customary legal procedure and place the Jewish question before the highest court of the land, the Council of State. To meet this eventuality, it was necessary to prepare materials of a somewhat better quality than had been manufactured by the "gubernatorial commissions" and the "Central Jewish Committee" which owed their existence to Ignatyev, forming part and parcel of the general anti-Jewish policy of the discharged Minister. Even prior to the promulgation of the "Temporary Rules," the Council of Ministers had called the Tzar's attention to the necessity of appointing a special "High Commission" to deal with the Jewish question and to draft legal measures for submission to the Council of State. This suggestion was carried out on February 4, 1883, on which day an imperial ukase was issued calling for the formation of a "High Commission for the Revision of the Current Laws concerning the Jews." The chairmanship of the Commission was first entrusted to Makov, a former Minister of the Interior, and after his untimely death, to Count Pahlen, a former Minister of Justice, who guided the work of the Commission during the five years of its existence--hence its popular designation as the "Pahlen Commission," The membership of the Commission was made up of six officials representing the various departments of the Ministry of the Interior, and of one official for each of the Ministries of Finance, Justice, Public Instruction, Crown Domains, and Foreign Affairs, and, lastly, of a few experts who were consulted casually. The new bureaucratic body received no definite instructions as to the period of time within which it was expected to complete its labors. It was evidently given to understand that the work entrusted to it could well afford to wait. The first session of the High Commission was held fully ten months after its official appointment by the Tzar, and its business proceeded at a snail's pace, surrounded by the mysterious air characteristic of Russian officialdom. For several years the High Commission had to work its way through the sad inheritance of the defunct "gubernatorial commissions," represented by mounds of paper with the most fantastic projects of solving the Jewish question, endeavoring to bring these materials into some kind of system. It also received a number of memoranda on the Jewish question from outsiders, among them from public-minded Jews, who in most cases used Baron Horace Günzburg as their go-between--memoranda which sought to put the various aspects of the question in their right perspective. After four years spent on the examination of the material, the Commission undertook to formulate its own conclusions, but, for reasons which will become patent later on, these conclusions were never crystallized in the form of legal provisions. While the High Commission was assiduously engaged in the "revision of the current laws concerning the Jews," in other words, was repeating the Sisyphus task abandoned by scores of similar bureaucratic creations in the past, the Government pursued with unabated vigor its old-time policy of making the life of the Jews unbearable by turning out endless varieties of new legal restrictions. These restrictions were generally passed "outside the law," i.e., without their being previously submitted to the Council of State; they were simply brought up as suggestions before the Council of Ministers, and, after adoption by the latter, received legal sanction through ratification by the Tzar. Without awaiting the results of the revision of Jewish legislation which it had itself undertaken, the Russian Government embarked enthusiastically upon the task of forging new chains for the hapless Jewish race. For a number of years the High Commission was nothing more than a cover to screen these cruel experiments of the powers at the helm of the state. At the very time in which the ministerial officials serving on the High Commission indulged in abstract speculations about the Jewish question and invented various methods for its solution, the Council of Ministers anticipated this solution in the spirit of rabid anti-Semitism, and was quick to give it effect in concrete life. The wind which was blowing from the heights of Russian bureaucracy was decidedly unfavorable to the Jews. The belated coronation of Alexander III., which took place in May, 1883, and, in accordance with Russian tradition, brought, in the form of an imperial manifesto, [1] various privileges and alleviations for different sections of the Russian population, left the Jews severely alone. The Tzar lent an attentive ear to those zealous governors and governors-general, who in their "most humble reports" propounded the new-fangled theory of the "injuriousness" of the Jews; the marginal remarks frequently attached by him to these reports assumed the force of binding resolutions. [2] In the beginning of 1883, the governor-general of Odessa, Gurko, took occasion in his report to the Tzar to comment on the excessive growth of the number of Jewish pupils in the _gymnazia_ [3] and on their "injurious effect" upon their Christian fellow-pupils. Gurko proposed to fix a limited percentage for the admission of Jews to these schools, and the Tzar made the annotation: "I share this conviction; the matter ought to receive attention." [Footnote 1: See above, p. 246, n. 1] [Footnote 2: See on the term "Resolution," Vol. I, p. 253, n. 1.] [Footnote 3: See above, p. 161, n. 1.] The matter did of course "receive attention." It was brought up before the Committee of Ministers. But the latter was reluctant to pass upon it at once, and thought it wiser to have it prepared and duly submitted for legislative action at some future time. However, when the governor-general of Odessa and the governor of Kharkov, in their reports for the following year, expatiated again on the necessity of fixing a school norm for the Jews, the Tzar made another annotation, in a more emphatic tone: "It is desirable to decide this question finally." This sufficed to impress the Committee of Ministers with the conviction "that the growing influx of the non-Christian element into the educational establishments exerts, from a moral and religious point of view, a most injurious influence upon the Christian children." The question was submitted for consideration to the High Commission under the chairmanship of Count Pahlen. The Minister of Public Instruction was ordered to frame post-haste an enactment embodying the spirit of the imperial resolution. Soon the new fruit of the Russian bureaucratic genius was ready to be plucked--"the school norm," which was destined to occupy a prominent place in the fabric of Russian-Jewish disabilities. The center of gravity of the system of oppression lay, as it always did, in the restrictions attaching to the right of domicile and free movement--restrictions which frequently made life for the Jews physically impossible by cutting off their access to the sources of a livelihood. The "Temporary Rules" of the third of May displayed in this domain a dazzling variety of legal tortures such as might have excited the envy of medieval inquisitors. The "May laws" of 1882 barred the Jews from settling outside the cities "anew," i.e. in the future, exempting those who had settled in the rural districts prior to 1882. These old-time Jewish rustics were a thorn in the flesh of the Russian anti-Semites, who hoped for a sudden disappearance of the Jewish population from the Russian country-side. Accordingly, a whole set of administrative measures was put in motion, with a view to making the life of the village Jews unbearable. In another connection [1] we had occasion to point out that the Russian authorities as well as the Christian competitors of the Jews made it their business to expel the latter from the rural localities as "vicious members," by having the peasant assemblies render special "verdicts" against them. This method was now supplemented by new contrivances to dislodge the Jews. A village Jew who happened to absent himself for a few days or weeks to go to town was frequently barred by the police from returning to his home, on the ground that he was "a new settler." There are cases of Jewish families on record which, according to custom, had left the village for the High Holidays to attend services in an adjacent town or townlet, and which, on their return home, met with considerable difficulties; because their return was interpreted by the police as a "new settlement." In the dominions of the anti-Jewish satrap Drenteln the administration construed the "Temporary Rules" to mean that Jews were not allowed to move from one village to another, or even from, one house to another within the precincts of their native village. [2] [Footnote 1: See p. 318 et seq.] [Footnote 2: Evidence of this is found in the circular of the governor of Chernigov, issued In 1883.] Moreover, the police was authorized to expel from the villages all those Jews who did not possess their own houses upon their own land, on the ground that these Jews, in renting new quarters, would have to make a new lease with their owners, and such a lease was forbidden by the May laws. [1] These malicious misinterpretations of the law affected some ten thousand Jews in the villages of Chernigov and Poltava. These Jews lived habitually in rented houses or in houses which were their property but were built upon ground belonging to peasants, and they were consequently liable to expulsion. The cry of these unfortunates, who were threatened with eviction in the dead of the winter, was heard not in near-by Kiev but in far-off St. Petersburg. By a senatorial ukase, published in January, 1884, a check was put on these administrative highway methods. The expulsion was stopped, though a considerable number of Jewish families had in the meantime been evicted and ruined. [Footnote 1: See p. 312.] At the same time other restrictions which were in like manner deduced from the "Temporary Rules" were allowed to remain in full force. One of these was the prohibition of removing from one village to another, even though they were contiguous, so that the rural Jews were practically placed in the position of serfs, being affixed to their places of residence. This cruel practice was sanctioned by the law of December 29, 1887. As a contemporary writer puts it, the law implied that when a village in which a Jew lived was burned down, or when a factory in which he worked was closed, he was compelled to remove into one of the towns or townlets, since he was not allowed to search for a shelter and a livelihood in any other rural locality. In accordance with the same law, a Jew had no right to offer shelter to his widowed mother or to his infirm parents who lived in another village. Furthermore, a Jew was barred from taking over a commercial or industrial establishment bequeathed to him by his father, if the latter had lived in another village. He was not even allowed to take charge of a house bequeathed to him by his parents, if they had resided in another village, though situated within the confines of the Pale. While this network of disabilities was ruining the Jews, it yielded a plentiful harvest for the police, from the highest to the lowest officials. "Graft," the Russian _habeas Corpus_ Act, shielded the persecuted Jew against the caprice and Violence of the authorities in the application of the restrictive laws, and Russian officialdom held on tightly to Jewish rightlessness as their own special benefice. Hatred of the Jews has at all times gone hand in hand with love of Jewish money. 2. JEWISH DISABILITIES OUTSIDE THE PALE Outside the Pale of Settlement the net of disabilities was stretched out even more widely and was sure to catch the Jew in its meshes. Throughout the length and breadth of the Russian Empire, outside of the fifteen governments of Western Russia and the ten governments of the Kingdom of Poland, there was scattered a handful of "privileged" Jews who were permitted to reside beyond the Pale: men with an academic education, first guild merchants who had for a number of years paid their guild dues within the Pale, and handicraftsmen, so long as they confined themselves to the pursuit of their craft. The influx of "illegal" Jews into this tabooed region was checked by measures of extraordinary severity. The example was set by the Russian capital, "the window towards Europe," which had been broken through by Peter the Great. The city of St. Petersburg, harboring some 20,000 privileged Jews who lived there legally, became the center of attraction for a large number of "illegal" Jews who flocked to the capital with the intention, deemed a criminal offence by the Government, of engaging in some modest business pursuit, without paying the high guild dues, or of devoting themselves to science or literature, without the diploma from a higher educational institution in their pockets. The number of these Jews who obtained their right of residence through a legal fiction, by enrolling themselves as artisans or as employees of the "privileged" Jews, was very considerable, and the police expended a vast amount of energy in waging a fierce struggle against them. The city-governor of St. Petersburg, Gresser, who was notorious for the cruelty of his police régime, made it his specialty to hunt down the Jews. A contemporary writer, in reviewing the events of the year 1883, gives the following description of the exploits of the metropolitan police: The campaign was started at the very beginning of the year and continued uninterruptedly until the end of it. Early in March the metropolitan police received orders to search most rigorously the Jewish residences and examine the passports. In the police stations special records were instituted for the Jews. St. Petersburg was to be purged of the odious Hebrew tribe. The contrivances employed were no longer novel, and were the same which had been successfully tried in other cities. The Jews were raided in regular fashion. Those that were found with doubtful claims to residence in the capital were, frequently accompanied by their families, immediately dispatched to the proper railroad stations, escorted by policemen.... The time for departure was measured by hours. The term of expulsion was generally limited to twenty-four hours, or forty-eight hours, as if it involved the execution of a court-martial sentence. And yet, the majority of the victims of expulsion were people who had lived in St. Petersburg for many years, and had succeeded in establishing homes and business places, which could not be liquidated within twenty-four hours or thereabout.... The hurried expulsions from the capital resulted in numerous conversions to Christianity.... Amusing stories circulated all over town concerning Jews who had decided to join the Christian Church, and had applied for permission to remain in the capital for one or two weeks--the time required by law for a preliminary training in the truths of the new faith--but whose petition was flatly refused because the police believed that a similar training might also be received within the boundaries of the Pale of Settlement. As a matter of fact, fictitious conversions of this kind were but seldom resorted to in the fight against governmental violence. As a rule, the evasion of the "law" was effected by less harmful, perhaps, but no less humiliating and even tragic fictions. Many a Jewish newcomer would bring with him on his arrival in St. Petersburg an artisan's certificate and enrol himself as an apprentice of some "full-fledged" Jewish artisan. But woe betide if the police happened to visit the workshop and fail to find the fictitious apprentice at work. He was liable to immediate expulsion, and the owner of the shop was no less exposed to grave risks. Some Jews, in their eagerness to obtain the right of residence, registered as man-servants in the employ of Jewish physicians or lawyers. [1] These would-be servants were frequently summoned to the police stations and cross-examined as to the character of their "service." The answers expected from them were something like: "I clean my master's boots, carry behind him his portfolio to court," etc. Several prominent Jewish writers lived for many years in St. Petersburg on this "flunkeyish" basis--among them the talented young poet Simon Frug, [2] the singer of Jewish sorrow who was fast establishing for himself a reputation both in Jewish and in Russian literature. [Footnote 1: Under the Russian law [see p. 166] Jews possessing a university diploma of the first degree were entitled to employ two "domestic servants" from among their coreligionists.] [Footnote 2: See p. 330.] It can easily be realized how precarious was the position of these men. Any day their passports might be found ornamented by a red police notation ordering their expulsion from the capital within twenty-four hours. All Russia was stirred at that time by the sensational story of a young Jewess, who had come to St. Petersburg or Moscow to enter the college courses for women, and in order to obtain the right of residence found herself compelled to register fictitiously as a prostitute and take out "a yellow ticket." When the police discovered that the young woman was engaged in studying, instead of plying her official "trade," she was banished from the capital. In 1886, England was shocked by the expulsion from Moscow of the well-known English Member of Parliament, the banker Sir Samuel Montagu (later Lord Swaythling). Despite his influential position, Montagu was ordered out of the Russian capital "within twenty-four hours," like an itinerant vagrant. None of these tragedies, however, was able to produce any effect upon the ringleaders and henchmen of the Russian inquisition. The energy of the authorities spent itself primarily in the fight against the natural, yet, according to the Russian code, "illegal" struggle of the Jews for their existence and against the sacred right of man to move about freely. The merciless Russian law, trampling upon this inviolable right, drove human beings from village to town and from one town to another. In the hotbed of militant Judaeophobia, in Kiev, raids upon "illegal" Jewish residents were the order of the day. During the year 1886 alone more than two thousand Jewish families were evicted from the town. [1] Not satisfied with the expulsion of the Jews from the towns prohibited to them by law, the authorities contrived to swell the number of these towns by adding new localities which were part of the Pale and as such open to the Jews. In 1887, the large South-Russian cities Rostov-on-the Don and Taganrog were transferred from the Pale of Settlement [2] to the tabooed territory of the Don Army. Those Jews who had lived in these cities before the promulgation of the law were allowed to remain, but the new settling of Jews was strictly forbidden. [Footnote 1: These intensified persecutions were popularly explained as an act of revenge on the part of the highest administration of the region, owing to a quarrel which had taken place between a rich Kiev Jew and a Russian dignitary.] [Footnote 2: They formed part of the government of Yekaterinoslav.] Not satisfied with constantly lessening the area in which, without any further restrictions, the Jewish population was gasping for breath, the Government was on the look-out for ways and means to narrow also the sphere of Jewish economic activity. The medieval system of Russian society with its division into estates and guilds became an instrument of Jewish oppression. The authorities openly followed the maxim that the Jew was to be robbed of his profession, to the end that it may be turned over to his Christian rival. Under Alexander II, the Government had endeavored to promote handicrafts among the Jews as a counterbalance against their commercial pursuits, and had therefore conferred upon Jewish artisans the right of residence all over the Empire. The change of policy under Alexander III is well illustrated by the ukase of 1884 closing the Jewish school of handicrafts in Zhitomir which had been in existence for twenty-three years. The reason for the enactment is stated with brazen impudence: Owing to the fact that the Jews living in the towns and townlets of the south-western region form the majority of handicrafts-men, and thereby hamper the development of handicrafts among the original population of that region, which is exploited by them, the existence of a specific Jewish school of handicrafts seems, in view of the lack of similar schools among the Christians, an additional weapon in the hands of the Jews for the exploitation of the original population of that region. Here the pursuit of handicrafts is actually stigmatized as a means of "exploitation." The true meaning of that terrible word, an invention of the Russian Government, is thereby put in a glaring light: the Jew is an "exploiter" so long as he follows any pursuit, however honorable and productive, in which a Christian might engage in his stead. The slightest attempt of the Jew to enlarge his economic activity met with the relentless punishment of the law. The Jewish artisan, though permitted to live outside the Pale, had only the right to sell the products of his own workmanship. When found to sell other merchandise which was not manufactured by him he was liable, under Article 1171 of the Penal Code, not only to be immediately expelled from his place of residence but also to have his goods confiscated. The Christian competitors of the Jews, shoulder to shoulder with the police, kept a careful watch over the Jewish artisans and saw to it that a Jewish tailor should not dare to sell a piece of material, a watchmaker--a new factory-made watch with a chain (being only allowed to repair old watches), a baker--a pound of flour or a cup of coffee. The discovery of such a "crime" was followed immediately by cutting short the career of the poor artisan, in accordance with the provisions of the law. 3. RESTRICTIONS IN EDUCATION AND IN THE LEGAL PROFESSION A salient feature of that gloomy era of counter-reforms was the endeavor of the Government to dislodge the Jews from the liberal professions, and, as a corollary, to bar them from the secondary and higher schools which were the training ground for these professions. What the Government had in view was to reduce the number of those "privileged" Jews, who, under the law passed in the time of Alexander II., had been rewarded for their completion of a course of studies in an institution of higher learning by the right of unrestricted residence throughout the Empire. The authorities now found it to their purpose to hamper the spread of education among the Jews rather than promote it. The highly-placed obscurantists contended that the Jewish students exerted an injurious influence upon their Christian comrades from the religious and moral point of view, while the political police [1] reported that the Jewish college men "are quick in joining the ranks of the revolutionary workers." The fear of educated Russian subjects who were not of the dominant faith was natural in a country in which Pobyedonostzev, the moving spirit of inner Russian politics, looked upon popular education in general as a destructive force, fraught with danger to throne and altar. There can be but little doubt that the previously-mentioned imperial "resolutions" [2] indicating the necessity of curtailing the number of Jews in the Russian educational establishments were inspired by the "Grand Inquisitor." [Footnote 1: The secret police charged with tracking the followers of liberal and revolutionary tendencies.] [Footnote 2: See p. 339_et seq_.] Notwithstanding the opposition of the majority of the Pahlen Commission, whose members had not yet entirely discarded the enlightened traditions of the reign of Alexander II., the question was decided in accordance with the wishes of the Tzar. Here, too, as in the case of the "Temporary Rules," the Government was resolved to enact the new disabilities by the sovereign will of the emperor, without submitting them to the highest legislative body of the land, the Council of State, for fear that undesirable debates might arise in that august body concerning the expediency of putting an embargo on education. On December 5, 1886, the Tzar, acting on the suggestion of the Committee of Ministers, directed the Minister of Public Instruction, Dyelanov, to adopt measures for the limitation of the admission of Jews to the secondary and higher educational establishments. For six long months the Minister, whose official duty was the promotion of education, was wavering between a number of schemes designed to restrict education among the Jews. Suggestions for such restrictions came from officials of the ministry and from superintendents of school districts. Some proposed to close the schools only to the children of the lower classes among the Jews; in which "the unsympathetic traits of the Jewish character" were particularly conspicuous. Others recommended a restrictive percentage for Jews in general, without any class discrimination. Still others pleaded for moderation lest excessive restriction in admission to Russian universities should force the Jewish youth to go to foreign universities and make them even "more dangerous," since they were bound to return to Russia with liberal notions concerning the political form of government. At last, in July, 1887, the Minister of Public Instruction, acting on the above-mentioned imperial "resolution," published his two famous circulars limiting the admission of Jews to the universities and to secondary schools. The following norm was established: in the Pale of Settlement the Jews were to be admitted to the schools to the extent of ten per cent of the Christian school population; outside the Pale the norm was fixed at five per cent, and in the two capitals, St. Petersburg and Moscow, at three per cent. Although decreed before the very beginning of the new scholastic year, the percentage norm was nevertheless immediately applied in the case of the _gymnazia,_ the "Real schools," [1] and the universities. In the higher professional institutions, such as the technological, veterinarian, and agronomical schools, the restrictions had been, practised even before the promulgation of the circular, or were introduced immediately after it. [Footnote 1: Or _Real Gymnazia_, see above, p. 163, n, 1.] This was the genesis of the educational "percentage norm," the source of sorrow and tears for two generation of Russian Jews--both fathers and sons now having run the gauntlet. In the months of July and August of every year, thousands of Jewish children were knocking at the doors of the _gymnazia_ and universities, but only tens and hundreds obtained admission. In the towns of the Pale where the Jews form from thirty to eighty per cent of the total population, the admission, of Jewish pupils to the _gymnazia_ and "Real schools" was limited to ten per cent, so that the majority of Jewish children were deprived of a secondary education. The position of the _gymnazium_ and "Real school" graduates who were unable to continue their studies in the institutions of higher learning was particularly tragic. Many of these unfortunates addressed personal appeals to the Minister of Public Instruction, Dyelanov, who, being good-natured, would, despite his reactionary proclivities, frequently sanction the admission of the petitioners over and above the school norm. But the majority of the young men, barred from the colleges, found themselves compelled to go abroad in search of education, and, being generally without means, suffered untold hardships. Nevertheless, the cruel restrictions could not suppress the need for education in a people with an ancient culture. Those that had failed to gain admission to the _gymnazia_ completed the prescribed course of studies at home, under the guidance of private tutors or by private study, and afterwards presented themselves for examination for the "maturity certificate" [1] as "externs," braving all the difficulties of this thorny path. Having successfully passed their secondary course, they found again their way barred as soon as they wished to enter the universities, and the "martyrs of learning" had no choice left except to take up their pilgrim staff and travel abroad. Year in, year out, two processions of emigrants wended their way from Russia to the West: the one was travelling across the Atlantic, in search of bread and liberty; the other was headed towards Germany, Austria, England, and France, in search of a higher education. The former were driven from their homes by a peculiar _interdictio ignis et aquae_; the other--by an _interdictio scientiae_. [Footnote 1: The name given in Russian (and German) to the diploma of a _gymnazium_.] Having closed the avenues of higher education to the bulk of Russian Jewry, the Government now went a step further and contrived to dispossess even those Jews who had already managed to obtain a higher education, in spite of all difficulties. It was not satisfied with barring college-bred Jews from the civil service and an academic career, thus limiting the Jewish physicians and lawyers to private practice; it was anxious to restrict even this narrow field of activity still open to Jews. In view of the fact that the Jewish jurists had no chance to apply their knowledge in the civil service, and were entirely excluded from the bench, they naturally turned to the bar, with the result that they soon occupied a conspicuous place there, both quantitatively and qualitatively. Their success was a source of annoyance to the Russian anti-Semites, both those who hated the Jews on principle and those who did so selfishly, being themselves members of the bar. These enemies of Judaism called the attention of the Government to the large number of Jewish lawyers at the St. Petersburg bar--a circumstance due partly to the natural gravitation towards the administrative and legal center of the country, and partly to the fact that the admission of Jews to the bar met with less obstruction from the judicial authorities in the capital than in the provinces, where professional jealousy frequently stood in the way of the Jews. The reactionary Minister of Justice, Manasseïn, managed to convince the Tzar that it was necessary to check the further admission of Jews to the bar. However, from diplomatic considerations, it was thought wiser to carry this restriction into effect not under an anti-Jewish flag, but rather as a general measure directed against all members of "non-Christian persuasions." The restriction was therefore extended to Mohammedans and the handful of privileged Karaites, [1] and the religious intolerance of the new measure was thus thrown into even bolder relief. [Footnote 1: See on the Karaites, Vol. I, p. 318.] On November, 1889, an imperial ukase decreed as follows: That, pending the enactment of a special law dealing with this subject, the admission of public and private attorneys of non-Christian denominations by the competent judicial institutions and bar associations [1] shall not take place, except with the permission of the Minister of Justice, on the recommendation of the presidents of the above-mentioned institutions and associations. [Footnote 1: "Public (literally, sworn) attorneys" are lawyers of academic standing admitted to the bar by the bar associations. "Private attorneys" are lawyers without educational qualifications who receive permission to practise from the "judicial institutions," i.e., the law courts. They are not members of the bar.] It goes without saying that the Russian Minister of Justice made ample use of the right conferred upon him of denying admission to Jews as public and private attorneys. While readily sanctioning the admission of Mohammedans and Karaites, the Minister almost invariably refused to confirm the election of young Jewish barristers, however warmly they may have been recommended by the judicial institutions and bar associations. [1] In this way, many a talented Jewish jurist, who might have filled a university chair with distinction or might have attained brilliant success in the legal profession, was forced out of his path and deprived of an opportunity to serve his country by his labors and pursue a career for which he had fitted himself at the university. Instead, these derailed professionals went to swell the hosts of those who had been wronged and disinherited by the injustice of the law. [Footnote 1: During the following five years, until 1895, not a single Jew received the sanction of the Minister.] 4. DISCRIMINATION IN MILITARY SERVICE It seemed as if the Government was intent on making a one-sided compact with Russian Jewry: "We shall deprive you of all the elementary rights due to you as men and citizens; we shall rob you of the right of domicile and freedom of movement, and of the chance of making a livelihood; we shall expose you to physical and spiritual starvation, and shall cast you out of the community of citizens--yet you dare not swerve an inch from the path of your civic obligations." A lurid illustration of this unique exchange of services was provided by the manner in which military duty was imposed upon the Jews. Russian legislation had long since contrived to establish revolting restrictions for the Jews also in this domain. Jews with physical defects which rendered Christians unfit for military service, such as a lower stature and narrower chest, were nevertheless taken into the army. In the case of a shortage of recruits among the Jewish population even only sons, the sole wage-earners of their families or of their widowed mothers, were drafted, whereas the same category of conscripts among Christians were unconditionally exempt. [1] Moreover, a Jew serving in the army always remained a private and could never attain to an officer's rank. [Footnote 1: Compare p. 201.] As if the Government intended to make sport of the Jewish soldiers, the latter were deprived of their right of residence in the localities outside the Pale where they had been stationed, and as soon as their term of service had expired, were sent back into the territory of the Russian-Jewish ghetto. Thus, even Nicholas I, was out-Nicholased. The discharged Jewish soldiers who had served under the old recruiting law enjoyed, both for themselves and their families, the right of residence throughout the Empire. [1] The new military statute of 1874 [2] withdrew from the retired Jewish soldiers this reward for faithfully performed duty, and in 1885 the Senate sustained the disfranchisement of these Jews who had spent years of their life in the service of their fatherland. A Jew from Berdychev, Vilna, or Odessa, who had served five or six years somewhere in St. Petersburg, Moscow, or Kazan, was forced to leave these tabooed cities and return home on the very day on which he had taken off his soldier's uniform. [Footnote 1: See above, p. 172.] [Footnote 2: See p. 199 et seq.] Yet, despite this curious encouragement of Jewish patriotism, the Government had the audacity to charge the Jews continually with the "evasion of their military duty." That a tendency towards such evasion was in vogue among the Jews admits of no doubt. It would have been contrary to human nature if people who were subject to assaults from above and kicks from below, whose right of residence was limited to one-twentieth of the territory of their fatherland, who were robbed of shelter, air, and bread, and deprived of the hope to place themselves, even by means of military service, on an equal footing with the lowest Russian moujik, should have felt a profound need of sacrificing themselves for their country, and should not have shirked this heaviest of civil obligations to a larger extent than the privileged Russian population, in which cases of evasion were by no means infrequent. In reality, however, the complaints about the shortage of Jewish recruits were vastly exaggerated. Subsequent statistical investigations brought out the fact that, owing to irregular apportionment, the Government demanded annually from the Jews a larger quota of recruits than was justified by their numerical relation to the general population in the Pale of Settlement. On an average, the Jews furnished twelve per cent of the total number of recruits in the Pale, whereas the Jewish population of the Pale formed but eleven per cent of the total population. The Government further refused to consider the fact that, owing to inaccurate registration, the conscription lists often carried the names of persons who had long since died, or who had left the country to emigrate abroad. In fact, the annual emigration of Jews from Russia, the result of uninterrupted persecutions, reduced the number of young men of conscription age. But the Russian authorities were of the opinion that the Jews who remained behind should serve in the Russian army instead of those of their brethren who had become citizens of the free American Republic. The "evasion of military duty" and the annual shortage of a few hundred recruits, as against the many thousands of those enlisted, was charged as a grave crime against that very people towards which the Government on its part failed to fulfil even its most elementary obligations. Reams of paper were covered with all kinds of official devices to "cut short" this evasion of military duty by the Jews. On one beautiful April morning of 1886, the Government came out with the following enactment: The family of a Jew guilty of evading military service is liable to a fine of three hundred rubles ($150). The collection of the fine shall be decreed by the respective recruiting station and carried out by the police. It shall not be substituted by imprisonment in the case of destitute persons liable to that fine. In addition, a military reward was promised for the seizure of a Jew who had failed to present himself to the recruiting authorities. By virtue of this barbarous principle of collective responsibility, new hardships were inflicted upon the Jews of Russia. Since the law provided that the fine for evading military service be imposed upon the _family_ of the culprit, the police interpreted that term "liberally," taking it to include parents, brothers, and near relatives. The following procedure gradually came into vogue. In the autumn of every year, the Russian conscription season, the names of the young Jews who have completed their twenty-first year are called out at the recruiting station from a prepared list. When a Jew whose name has been called has failed to present himself on the same day, the recruiting authorities issue an order on the spot imposing a fine on his family. The police then appear in the house of his parents to collect the sum of three hundred rubles. In default of cash, they attach the property of the paupers and have it subsequently sold at public auction. In the case of those who possess nothing that can be taken from them the police insist on their giving a signed promise not to leave the town. Their passports are taken from them, so that, not being able to absent themselves from town to earn a living, they are frequently left to starve. If the parents are dead or absent, the brothers and sisters of the culprit, and then his grandfathers and grandmothers are held answerable with their property. Thus, a large number of Jewish families were completely ruined, merely because one of their members had emigrated abroad, or, as was frequently the case, had surrendered his soul to God in his beloved fatherland itself, and the relatives had failed to see to it that the dead soul was stricken from the recruiting lists. Yet, despite all these efforts, there still remained a considerable number of uncollected fines--"arrears," as they were officially termed--to the profound regret of the Russian Jew-baiters, who had to look on while the victims were slipping unpunished from their hands. CHAPTER XXVII RUSSIAN REACTION AND JEWISH EMIGRATION 1. AFTERMATH OF THE POGROM POLICY In this wise, beginning with the May laws of 1882, the Government gradually succeeded in monopolizing all anti-Jewish activities by letting bureaucratic persecutions take the place of street pogroms. However, in 1883 and 1884, the "street" made again occasional attempts to compete with the Government. On May 10, 1883, on the eve of Alexander III.'s coronation, a pogrom took place in the large southern city of Rostov-on-the-Don. About a hundred Jewish residences and business places were demolished and plundered. All portable property of the Jews was looted by the mob, and the rest was destroyed. As was to be expected, "the efforts of the police and troops were unable to stop the disorders," and only after completing their day's work the rioters fled, pursued by lashes and shots from the Cossaks. The Russian censorship strictly barred all references to the pogroms in the newspapers, for fear of spoiling the solemnity of the coronation days. The press was only allowed to hint at "alarming rumors," the effect of which extended even to the stock exchange of Berlin. Not before a year had passed was permission given to make public mention of the Rostov events. There was reason to fear that the pogrom at Rostov was only a prelude to a new series of riots in the South. But more than two months had passed, and all seemed to be quiet. Suddenly, however, on July 20, on the Greek-Orthodox festival dedicated to the memory of the prophet Elijah, the Russian mob made an attack upon the descendants of the ancient prophet at Yekaterinoslav. The memory of the great biblical Nazirite who abhorred strong drink was appropriately celebrated by his Russian votaries in Yekaterinoslav who filled themselves with an immense quantity of alcohol and became sufficiently intoxicated to embark upon their daring exploits as robbers. The ringleaders of the pogrom movement were not local residents but itinerant laborers from the Great-Russian governments, who were employed in building a railroad in the neighborhood of the South-Russian city. These laborers, to quote the expression of a contemporary, attended to the "military part of the undertaking," whereas the "civil functions" were discharged by the local Russian inhabitants: While the laborers and the stronger half of the residents were demolishing the houses and stores and throwing all articles and merchandise upon the street, the women and children grabbed everything that came into their hands and carried them off, by hand or in wagons, to their homes. The looting and plundering continued on the second day, July 21, until a detachment of soldiers arrived. The mob, intoxicated with their success, attempted to beat off the soldiers, but naturally suffered defeat. The sight of a score of killed and wounded had a sobering effect upon the crowd. The pogrom was stopped, after five hundred Jewish families had been ruined and a Jewish sanctuary had been defiled. In one devastated synagogue the human fiends got hold of eleven Torah scrolls, tearing to pieces some of them and hideously desecrating other copies of the Holy Writ, inscribed with the commandments, "Thou shalt not murder," "Thou shalt not steal," "Thou shalt not commit adultery"--which evidently ran counter to the beliefs of the rioters. The example set by Yekaterinoslav, the capital of the government of the same name, proved to be contagious, for during August and September pogroms took place in several neighboring towns and townlets. Among these the pogrom at Novo-Moskovsk on September 4 was particularly violent, nearly all Jewish houses in that town having been destroyed by the mob. The year 1884 was marked by a novel feature in the annals of pogroms: an anti-Jewish riot outside the Pale of Jewish Settlement, in the ancient Russian city of Nizhni-Novgorod, which sheltered a small Jewish colony of some twenty families. While comparatively circumscribed as far as the material loss is concerned, the Nizhni-Novgorod pogrom stands out in ghastly relief by the number of its human victims. A report, based upon official data, which endeavors to tone down the colors, gives the following description of the terrible events: The "disorders" [a euphemism for excesses accompanied by murder] began on June 7 about nine o'clock in the evening, due to the instigation of several half-drunk laborers who happened to overhear a Christian mother telling her child, who was playing with a Jewish girl, to stop playing with her, as the Jews might slaughter her. The work of destruction began with the Jewish house of prayer which was crowded with worshippers. It was followed by the demolition of five more houses owned by Jews. In these houses the mob destroyed everything that fell into its hands. The doors and windows were broken and everything inside was thrown into the streets. On this occasion six adults and one boy was killed; five Jews were wounded, two of whom died soon afterwards. The governor of Nizhni-Novgorod reported that the disorders could not possibly have been foreseen. Yet there can be no doubt that the people were to a certain extent prepared for them. The investigations of the police and the judicial inquiry both converged to prove that the Nizhni-Novgorod excesses were prompted primarily, if not exclusively, by the desire for plunder. In all demolished houses not a single article of value that could be removed was destroyed, and not only money but anything at all that was fit for use was looted. That the disorders broke out on the seventh of June was, in the opinion of the governor, entirely accidental, but that they were directed against the Jews was due to the fact that the _people had been led to believe that even the the gravest crimes were practically unpunishable, so long as they were were committed against the Jews, and not against other nationalities_. An additional reason for the pogrom was the reputed wealth of a goodly number of the Jewish families of Nizhni-Novgorod. The judicial investigation brought out the fact that before attacking the offices of Daitzelman, a big Moscow merchant, the mob was directed by shouts: "Let us go to Daitzelman; there is a lot to be gotten there." The murder of Daitzelman, who was beloved by his Russian laborers, and that of other Jews, was not prompted by revenge, but by mere purposeless savagery. It is impossible to assume that the mob was moved to action by the rumor which had been spread by the ringleaders of the rioting hordes concerning the kidnapping of a Christian child by the Jews--the more so since at the very beginning of the excesses the police produced the supposedly kidnapped child whole and intact, and showed it to the crowd. The pogrom was due primarily to the savagery of brutal and unenlightened mobs, who found an opportunity to vent their beastly instincts, fortified by the conviction of complete immunity, which is referred to in the report of the governor. Even the central Government in St. Petersburg was alarmed by the St. Bartholemew night which had been enacted at Nizhni-Novgorod. At the recommendation of Governor Baranov, the murderers were tried by court-martial and suffered heavy punishment. Nevertheless, the same governor thought it his duty to appease the Russian popular conscience by ordering the expulsion of those Jews whom the police had found to live outside the Pale "without a legal basis." In this wise, the Russian administration once more managed to follow up a street pogrom by a legal one, not realizing the fact that the atrocities perpetrated upon the Jews by the mob were merely a crude copy of the atrocities perpetrated upon them by the Government, and that the outlawed condition of the Jews bred the lawlessness and violence of the mob, which was fully aware of the anti-Semitic sentiments of the official world. The bloody saturnalia of Nizhni-Novgorod had, however, the beneficent effect that the Government, fearing the spread of the conflagration outside the Pale and even outside Jewry, took energetic steps to prevent all further excesses. As a matter of fact, the Nizhni-Novgorod pogrom was the last in the annals of the eighties--with the exception of a few unimportant occurrences in various localities. For six years "the land was quiet," and the monopoly of "silent pogroms," in the shape of the systematic denial of Jewish rights, remained firmly in the hands of the Government. 2. THE CONCLUSIONS OF THE PAHLEN COMMISSION Whilst the Russian bureaucrats who had been ordered by the Tzar to take "active" measures towards solving the Jewish problem abandoned themselves entirely to a policy of repression, those of their fellow-bureaucrats who had been commissioned to consider and judge the same question from a purely theoretic point of view came to the conclusion that the repressive policy pursued by the Government was not only injurious but even dangerous. Contrary to expectations, the "High Commission" under the chairmanship of Count Pahlen, consisting of aged dignitaries and members of various ministries, approached the Jewish question, at least as far as the majority of the Commission was concerned, in a much more serious frame of mind than did the promoters of the "active" anti-Jewish policies, who had no time for contemplation and were driven by the pressure of their reactionary energy to go ahead at all cost. In the course of five years the Pahlen Commission succeeded in investigating the Jewish question in all its aspects. It studied and itself prepared a large mass of historic, juridic, as well as economic and statistical material. It probed the labors of Ignatyev's gubernatorial commissions, quickly ascertaining their biased tendency, and examined the entire history of the preceding legislation concerning the Jews. It finally came to the conclusion that the whole century-long system of restrictive legislation had failed of its purpose, and must give way to a system of emancipatory measures, to be carried out gradually and with extreme caution. The majority of the members of the Commission concurred in this opinion, including Count Pahlen, its chairman. In the following we present a few brief extracts from the conclusions formulated by this conservative and bureaucratic commission in its comprehensive "General Memoir" which was written in the beginning of 1888: Can the attitude of the State towards a population of five millions, forming one-twentieth of its subjects--though belonging to a race different from that of the majority--whom that State itself had incorporated, together with the territories populated by them, into the Russian body politic, differ from its attitude towards all its other subjects?.... Hence, from the political point of view, the Jew is entitled to equality of citizenship. Without granting him equal rights, we cannot, properly speaking, demand from him equal civic obligations.... Repression and disfranchisement, discrimination and persecution have never yet leaded to improve groups of human beings and make them more devoted to their rulers. It is, therefore, not surprising that the Jews, trained in the spirit of a century-long repressive legislation, have remained in the category of those subjects, who are less accurate in the discharge of their civic duty, who shirk their obligations towards the State, and do not fully join Russian life. _No less than six hundred and fifty restrictive laws directed against the Jews may be enumerated in the Russian Code_, and the discriminations and disabilities implied in these laws are such that they have naturally resulted in making until now the life of an enormous majority of the Jews in Russia exceedingly onerous.... The prejudice against the Jews is largely nurtured by the dislike which the common people secretly harbor towards them until to-day as non-Christians.... The names "Non-Christian" and "Christ-killer" may often be heard from the lips of the Russian common man as abusive terms directed against the Jew. The attitude of our Church and of the law of the State towards the Jewish religion is different. For, while they designate the Jewish religion as a "pseudo-doctrine," they nevertheless sanction religious toleration on as large a scale as possible [?!], and refrain from carrying on a compulsory and official missionary propaganda. In the course of the last twenty-five years a new accusation has been brought forward against the Jews in Russia and those outside of Russia. The Jews have been found to form a considerable percentage among the champions of anarchistic and revolutionary doctrines, consisting mostly of half-educated youngsters who have drifted away from one shore and have not succeeded in reaching the other. This extremely deplorable fact is used as evidence for the purpose of showing that Judaism itself contains within it a destructive force, and is, therefore, doubly dangerous to State and society. The Jewish progressives and socialists are wont to speak of their mission to reconstruct the world and of their innate love of mankind.... These statements need hardly be taken seriously, for present-day Jewry, by the very essence of its nature, professes strictly conservative principles, which to a large extent are egotistic and have for their aim the practical welfare of its adherents. The interpretation of the spirit of Judaism in a directly opposite sense is but an unsuccessful attempt on the part of Jewish anarchists who wish to proclaim themselves as the apostles of a new national mission invented by them. The fact of their forming a large percentage in the camp of those opposed to the Russian civic order may be explained by the artificial manner in which vast numbers of pupils from among the lowest classes of the Jewish population are attracted into the secondary and elementary educational establishments. These pupils are without means of a livelihood, and they lack, moreover, all religious beliefs; they are embittered not only by their personal unfortunate position but also by the pressure of the restrictive laws which weigh heavily upon their fellow-Jews in Russia. The defects which should be truly combated by Government and society are: a) Jewish exclusiveness and separatism; b) the endeavor of the Jews to bring the economic forces of the population, in the midst of which they live, under their influence (i.e., exploitation).... Having established the true dimensions and characteristics of the "Jewish evil," we are naturally expected to answer a question of an opposite nature: are the Jews to any extent useful to State and society? This question, though very frequently heard, is not quite intelligible, for every subject, who fulfils his obligations, is useful to State and society. It would be strange to put a similar question concerning other nationalities of Eastern origin in Russia, such as the Greeks, Armenians, and Tartars. And yet this question is raised with great frequency in the case of the Jews, for the purpose of proving the need of repressive measures and framing a stronger indictment against the Jewish population. There is no doubt that in certain lines of endeavor the Jews are extremely useful. This was already realized by Catherine, who admitted them to the South-Russian coast in order to introduce commercial activities and bring life into the country,.... The peculiar nature of their commerce and credit is useful to the State, because they connect the remotest regions by commercial ties and are satisfied with considerably smaller profits than are the Christian merchants.... We must not, first of all, engage in too comprehensive plans of reform and imagine that the Jewish question can be considered in all its aspects and solved at one stroke.... Gradation and cautiousness must above all become the guiding principles of the future activity of the legislator. The repressive policy, taken by itself, has been and will always be the first and main source of the clannishness of the Jews and their aloofness from Russian life.... The prohibitive laws have not improved the Jews. On the contrary, they have developed in them the spirit of opposition, and have prompted them to devise all the time most dexterous means of evading the law, thereby corrupting the lower executives of the State power. These laws affect the daily doings of every member of the Jewish population, and they extend to such spheres of life and activity in which State control is almost impossible. They touch the domain of private contract law (the prohibition of land leases), the domain of physical liberty and the need of human locomotion (the prohibition to transgress the Pale of Settlement, or to live in villages within fifty versts of the border), the domain of daily pursuits and earnings (the prohibition of several professions), and many others. No law will ever be able to check effectively the legal violations in these hourly acts and common relations of life. It is impossible to attach a policeman or a public prosecutor or a justice of the peace to every Jew. And yet it is perfectly natural that, being restricted in the most elementary rights of a subject--to take as one instance only the right of free movement--every Jew should daily attempt to violate and evade such burdensome regulations. This is perfectly natural and intelligible.... About ninety per cent of the whole Jewish population form a mass of people that are entirely unprovided for, and come near being a proletariat--a mass that lives from hand to mouth, amidst poverty, and most oppressive sanitary and general conditions. This very proletariat is occasionally the target of tumultuous popular uprisings. The Jewish mass lives in fear of pogroms and in fear of violence. It looks with envy upon the Jews of the adjacent governments of the Kingdom of Poland, who are almost entirely emancipated, though living under the jurisdiction of the same State. [1] The law itself places the Jews in the category of "alien races," on the same level with the Samoyeds and pagans. [2] In a word the abnormal condition of the present position of the Jews in Russia is evidenced by the instability and vagueness of their juridic rights. [Footnote 1: The law of 1862 conferred upon the Jews of "the Kingdom of Poland," i.e., of Russian Poland, the right of unrestricted residence throughout the Kingdom, including the villages (see p. 181). This privilege was practically annulled by the enactment of June 11, 1891, which severely restricts the property rights of the Polish Jews.] [Footnote 2: The Russian Code of Laws classifies the Jews as follows (Volume IX., Laws of Social Orders, Article 762): "Among the Aliens inhabiting the Russian Empire are the following: 1) The Siberian Aliens; 2) The Samoyeds of the Government of Archangel; 3) The nomadic Aliens of the Government of Stavropol; 4) The Kalmycks leading a nomadic life in the Governments of Astrakhan and Stavropol; 5) The Kirgiz of the Inner Ord; 6) The Aliens of the Territories of Akmolinsk, Semipalatinsk, Semiryechensk, Ural, and Turgay; 7) the alien populations of the Trans-Caspian Territory; 8) The Jews."] Looking at the problem, not at all as Jewish apologetes or sympathizers, but purely from the point of view of civic righteousness and the highest principles of impartiality and justice, we cannot but admit that the Jews have a right to complain about their situation.... However unpleasant it might sound to the enemies of Judaism, it is nevertheless an axiom which no one can deny that the whole five million Jewish population of Russia, unattractive though it may appear to certain groups and individuals, is yet an integral part of Russia and that the questions affecting this population are at the same time purely Russian questions. We are not dealing with foreigners, whose admission to Russian citizenship might be conditioned by their usefulness or uselessness to Russia. The Jews of Russia are not foreigners. For more than one hundred years they have formed a part of that same Russian Empire, which has incorporated scores of other tribes many of which count by the millions.... The very history of Russian legislation, notwithstanding the fact that this legislation has developed largely under the influence of a most severe outlook on Judaism, teaches us that there is only one way and one solution--to emancipate and unite the Jews with the rest of the population under the protection of the same laws. All this is attested not by theories and doctrines but by the living experience of centuries.... Hence the final goal of any legislation concerning the Jews can be no other than its abrogation, a course demanded equally by the needs of the times, the cause of enlightenment, and the progress of the popular masses. The fitness of the Jews for full civil equality, to be attained by degrees and in the course of many long years, will be the final goal of the reforms, and will lead at last to the disentangling of that age-long knot. In saying this, we do not mean to imply that by that time the Jews will have cast off or transformed all those obnoxious qualities which are at present responsible for the fight in which all are engaged against them. But, as in the case of Europe, this fight can only be terminated by according them full emancipation and equal citizenship. To place obstacles in the way of this solution would be nothing more than a fruitless attempt to check the course of development of human society and Russian civil life. Unsympathetic as the Jews may be to the Russian masses, it is impossible not to agree with this axiomatic truth. Turning now to the execution of its task, the High Commission has up to the present been able to carry out but a very small part of the program indicated. It was tied down by that gradation and cautiousness which it considers an indispensable condition for every improvement in the status of the Jews.... The principal task of the legislation, as far as it affects the Jews, must consist in uniting them as closely as possible with the general Christian population. It is not advisable to frame a new legislation in the form of a special "Statute" or "Regulation," since such a course would be fundamentally subversive of the efforts of the Government to remove Jewish exclusiveness. _The system of repressive and discriminating measures must give way to a graduated system of emancipatory and equalizing laws_. The greatest possible _cautiousness_ and _gradation_ are the principles to be observed in the solution of the Jewish question. 3. THE TRIUMPH OF REACTION With all their moderate and cautious phraseology, the conclusions of the Pahlen Commission, whose members, as hide-bound conservatives, were forced to reckon with the anti-Semitic trend of the governing circles, implied an annihilating criticism of the repressive policy of that very Government by which the Commission had been appointed. From the loins of Russian officialdom issued the enemy who opposed it in its manner of dealing with the Jewish question. It must be added, however, that the opinions voiced by the Commission in its memorandum were by no means shared by its entire membership. For while the majority of the Commission were in favor of gradual reforms, the minority advocated the continuation of the old repressive policy. Owing to these internal disagreements, the Commission was slow in submitting its conclusions to the Government. One more attempt was made to procrastinate the matter. At the end of 1888 the Commission invited a group of Jewish "experts," being desirous, as it were, to listen to the last words of the prisoner at the bar. The choice fell upon the same Jewish notables of St. Petersburg, who had displayed so little courage at the Jewish conference of 1882. [1] The cross-examination of these Jewish representatives turned on the question of the internal Jewish organization, the existence of a secret Kahal, the purposes of the "basket tax," [2] and so on. Needless to say the replies were given in an apologetic spirit. The Jewish "experts" renounced the idea of a self-governing communal Jewish organization, and pleaded merely for a limited communal autonomy under the strict supervision of the Government. True, a few of the questions referred besides to the legal position of the Jews, but this was done more as a matter of form. Everybody knew that the opinion of the majority of the Commission, favoring "cautious and gradual" reforms, did not have the same prospects of success as the views of the anti-Semitic minority which advocated the continuance of the old-time repressive policy. [Footnote 1: See p. 304 et seq. In addition to those mentioned, M. Margolis was invited as an expert.] [Footnote 2: See above, p. 61, n. 1.] Soon the worst apprehensions proved to be true. Count Tolstoi, the reactionary Minister of the Interior, blocked the further progress of the plans formulated by the Pahlen Commission which should have been submitted in due course to the Council of State. There were persistent rumors to the effect that Alexander III., being decidedly in favor of continuing the policy of oppression towards the Jews, had "attached himself to the opinion of the minority" of the Pahlen Commission. According to another version, the question was actually brought up before the Council of State, and there, too, the anti-Semites proved to be in the minority, but the Tzar threw the weight of his opinion on their side. The project of the Commission, being out of harmony with the current Government policies, was disposed of at some secret session of leading dignitaries. The labor of five years was buried in the official archives. As for the Jews themselves, they were at no time deceived about the effects that were likely to attend the work of the High Commission. They clearly understood that, if the Government had been genuinely desirous of "revising" the system of Jewish disabilities, it would have stopped, for a time at least, to manufacture new legislative whips and scorpions. The dark polar night of Russian reaction reigned supreme. There seemed to be no end to these orgies of the Russian night owls, the Pobyedonostzevs and Tolstois, who were anxious to resuscitate the savagery of ancient Muscovy, and who kept the people in the grip of ignorance, drunkenness, and political barbarism. Every one in Russia kept his peace and held his breath. The progressive elements of the Empire were held down tightly by the lid of reaction. The press groaned under the yoke of a ferocious censorship. The mystic doctrine of non-resistance preached by Leo Tolstoi was attuned to the mood prevailing among educated Russians, for, in the words of the Russian poet, "their hearts, subdued by storms, were filled with silence and lassitude." In Jewish life, too, silence reigned supreme. The sharp pangs of the first pogrom year were now dulled, and only suppressed moans echoed the uninterrupted "silent pogrom" of oppression. These were years of which the Jewish poet, Simon Frug, could sing: Round about all is silent and cheerless, Like a lonesome and desert-like plain. If but one were courageous and fearless And would cry out aloud in his pain! Neither storm-wind nor starshine by night, And the days neither cloudy nor bright: O my people, how sad is thy state, How gray and how cheerless thy fate! But in this silence the national idea was slowly maturing and gaining in depth and in strength. The time had not yet arrived for clearly marked tendencies or well-defined systems of thought. But the temper of the intellectual classes of Russian Jewry was a clear indication that they were at the cross-roads. The "titled" _inteligenzia_, reared in the Russian schools, who had drifted away from Judaism, was now joined by that other _intelligenzia_, the product of heder and yeshibah, who had acquired European culture through the medium of neo-Hebraic literature, and was in closer contact with the masses of the Jewish people. True, the Jewish periodical press in the Russian language, which had arisen towards the end of the seventies, had lost in quantity. The _Razvyet_ had ceased to appear in 1883, and the _Russki Yevrey_ in 1884. The only press organ to remain on the battlefield was the militant _Voskhod_, which was the center for the publicistic, scientific, and poetic endeavors of the advanced intellectuals of that period. But the loss of the Russian branch of Jewish literature was made up by the growth of the Hebrew press. The old Hebrew organs _ha-Melitz_ and _ha-Tzefirah_ took on a new lease of life, and grew from weeklies into dailies. Voluminous annuals with rightful claims to scientific and literary importance, such as the _ha-Asif_ ("The Harvest") and _Keneset Israel_ ("The Community of Israel") in Warsaw, and other similar publications, began to make their appearance in Russia. New literary forces began to rise from the ground, though only to attain their full bloom during the following years. Taken as a whole, the ninth decade of the nineteenth century may well be designated as a period of transition from the older Haskalah movement to the more modern national revival. 4. AMERICAN AND PALESTINIAN EMIGRATION As for the emigration movement, which had begun during the storm and stress of the first pogrom year, this passive but only effective protest against the new Egyptian oppression proceeded at a slow pace. The Jewish emigration from Russia to the United States served as a barometer of the persecutions endured by the Jews in the land of bondage. During the first three years of the eighties the new movement showed violent fluctuations. In 1881 there were 8193 emigrants; in 1882, 17,497; in 1883, 6907. During the following three years, from 1884 to 1886, the movement remained practically on the same level, counting 15,000 to 17,000 emigrants annually. But in the last three years of that decade, it gained considerably in volume, mounting in 1887 to 28,944, in 1888 to 31,256, and in 1889 to 31,889. The exodus from Russia was undoubtedly stimulated by the law imposing a fine for evading military service and by the introduction of the educational percentage norm--two restrictions which threw into bold relief the disproportionate relation between rights and duties in Russian Jewry. In the Empire of the Tzars the Jews were denied the right of residence and the privilege of a school education, but forced at the same time to serve in the army. In the United States they at once received full civil equality and free schooling without any compulsory military service. It goes without saying that the emigrants who had no difficulty in obtaining equality of citizenship were nevertheless compelled, during their first years of residence in the New World, to engage in a severe struggle for their material existence. Among the emigrants who came to America in those early years there were many young intellectuals who had given up their liberal careers in the land of bondage and were now dreaming of becoming plain agriculturists in the free republic. They managed to obtain a following among the emigrant masses, and founded, in the face of extraordinary difficulties, and with the help of charitable organizations, a number of colonies and farms in various parts of the United States, in Louisiana, North and South Dakota, New Jersey, and elsewhere. After a few years of vain struggling against material want and lack of adaptation to local conditions, a large number of these colonies were abandoned, and only a few of them have survived until to-day. In the course of time the idealistic pioneer spirit which had animated the Russian intellectuals gave way to a sober realism which was more in harmony with the conditions of American life. The bulk of the emigrant masses settled in the cities, primarily in New York. They worked in factories or at the trades, the most important of which was the needle trade; they engaged in business, in peddling, and in farming, and, lastly, in the liberal professions. Many an immigrant passed successively through all these economic stages before obtaining a secure economic position. The result of all these wanderings and vicissitudes was a well-established community in the United States of some 200,000 Jews, who formed the nucleus for the rapidly growing new Jewish center in America. One of the active participants and leaders in this movement, who had in his own life experienced all the hardships connected with it, concludes his account of the emigration to the United States at the end of the eighties with the following words: No one who has seen the poor, down-trodden, faint-hearted inhabitant of the infamous Pale, with the Damocles sword of brutal mob rule dangling constantly over his head, shaking like an autumn leaf at the sight of an inspector or even a plain policeman; who has seen this little Jew transformed, under the influence of the struggle for existence and an independent life, into a free American Jew who holds his head proudly, whom no one would dare to offend, and who has become a citizen in the full sense of the word--no one who has seen this wonderful transformation can doubt for a moment the enormous significance of the emigration movement for the 200,000 Jews that have found shelter in America. Idealistic influences rather than realistic factors were at work in the Palestinian colonization movement, which proceeded on a parallel line with the American emigration, as a small stream sometimes accompanies a large river. The ideas preached by the first "Lovers of Zion" were but slowly assuming concrete shape. The pioneer colonists in the ancient fatherland met with enormous obstacles in their path: the opposition of the Turkish Government which hindered in every possible way the purchase of land and acquisition of property; the neglected condition of the soil, the uncivilized state of the neighboring Arabs, the lack of financial means and of agricultural experience. Despite all these drawbacks, the efforts of a few men led to the establishment in the very first year of the movement, in 1882, of the colony Rishon le-Zion, near Jaffa. Subsequently a few more colonies were founded, such as Ekron and Ghederah in Judea, Yesod Hama'alah, Rosh-Pinah, Zikhron Jacob in Galilee--the last two founded by Roumanian Jews. Called into life by enthusiasts with inadequate material resources, these colonies would have scarcely been able to survive, had not their plight aroused the interest of Baron Edmond de Rothschild in Paris. Beginning with 1884, the baron, pursuing purely philanthropic aims, gave his support to the colonies, spending enormous sums on cultivating in them the higher forms of agriculture, particularly wine-growing. Gradually, the baron became the actual owner of a majority of the colonies which were administered by his appointees, and most of the colonists were reduced to the level of laborers or tenants who were entirely in the hands of the baron's administration. This state of affairs was unquestionably humiliating and almost too hard to bear for men who had dreamed of a free life in the Holy Land. Yet there can be no doubt that under the conditions prevailing at the time the continued existence of the colonies was only made possible through the liberal assistance which came from the outside. The progress of the Palestinian colonization, slow though it was, provided a concrete basis for the doctrines preached by the "Lovers of Zion" in Russia. The propaganda of these _Hobebe Zion_--the Hebrew equivalent for "Lovers of Zion"--who acknowledged as their leaders the first exponents of the territorial restoration of Jewry, Pinsker and Lilienblum, led to the organization of a number of societies in various cities. Towards the end of 1884 the delegates of these societies met at a conference in the Prussian border-town Kattowitz, such a conference being impossible in Russia, in view of the danger of police interference. On that occasion a fund was established under the name of _Mazkeret Moshe_, "A Memorial to Moses," in honor of the English philanthropist Sir Moses Montefiore, whose hundredth birthday was celebrated in that year. The fund, which formed the main channel for all donations in favor of the Palestinian colonies, was administered by the two _Hobebe Zion_ centers in Odessa and Warsaw. The movement which had been called into life by representatives of the _intelligenzia_ succeeded in winning over several champions of rabbinical orthodoxy, among them Samuel Mohilever, the well known rabbi of Bialystok; their affiliation with the new party was largely instrumental in weakening the opposition of the orthodox masses which were inclined to look upon this political movement as a rival of the traditional Messianic idea of Judaism. The lack of governmental sanction hampered the _Hobebe Zion_ societies in Russia in their activities, and the funds at their disposal were barely sufficient for the upkeep of one or two colonies in Palestine. Realizing this, the conference of the "Lovers of Zion" which met at Druskeniki [1] in 1887 decided to apply to the Russian Government for the legalization of the _Hobebe Zion_ organization, a consummation which was realized a few years later, in 1890. [Footnote 1: A watering-place in the government of Grodno.] Thus did, during the first decade of the war waged by the Tzars against their Jewish subjects, the tide of Russian-Jewish emigration slowly roll towards various shores, until a fresh storm in the beginning of the new decade whipped its waves to unprecedented heights. Whereas in the course of the eighties the Russian Government wished to give the impression as if it merely "tolerated" the departure of the Jews from Russia--although in reality it was the ultimate aim of its policies--in the beginning of the nineties it suddenly cast off its mask and gave its public sanction to a Jewish exodus from the Russian Empire. As if to strengthen the effect of this sanction, the Jews were to taste even more fully the whip of persecution and expulsion than they had done during the preceding decade. CHAPTER XXVIII JUDAEOPHOBIA TRIUMPHANT 1. INTENSIFIED REACTION The poisonous Judaeophobia bacilli seemed to thrive more than ever in the highest Government circles of St. Petersburg. However, not only the hatred against the Jews but also the fury of general political reaction became more rabid than ever after the "miraculous escape" of the imperial family in the railroad accident near Borki on October 17, 1888. [1] Amidst the ecclesiastic and mystic haze with which Pobyedonostzev and his associates managed to veil this episode the conviction became deeply ingrained in the mind of the Tzar that it was the finger of God which pointed to him the way in which Russia might be saved from "Western" reforms and brought back into the fold of traditional Russian orthodoxy. This conviction of Alexander III. led to the counter-reforms which marked the concluding years of his reign, having for their purpose the strengthening of the police and Church régime in Russia, such as the curtailment of rural and urban self-government, the increase of the power of the nobility and clergy, the institution of Zemstvo chiefs, [2] and the multiplication of Greek-Orthodox parochial schools at the expense of secular schools. The same influences also stimulated the luxurious growth of Judaeophobia which from now on assumed in the highest Government circles a most malignant character. A manifestation of this frame of mind may be found in the words of the Tzar which he penned on the margin of a report submitted to him in 1890 by a high official, describing the sufferings of the Jews and pleading for the necessity of stopping the policy of oppression: "_But we must not forget that it was the Jews who crucified our Lord and spilled his priceless blood_." Representatives of the court clergy publicly preached that a Christian ought not to cultivate friendly relations with a Jew, since it was the command of the gospel "to hate the murderers of the Savior." The Ministry of the Interior, under the direction of two fanatic reactionaries, Durnovo and Plehve, [3] set on foot all the inquisitorial contrivances of the Police Department, of which both these officials had formerly been the chiefs. [Footnote 1: Borki is a village in the government of Kherson. Of the fifteen cars of the imperial train only five remained intact. Fifty-eight persons were injured, twenty-one fatally. The members of the imperial family were saved, although their car had been completely wrecked. The following quotation from Harold Frederic, _The New Exodus_, p. 168 et seq., is of interest in this connection: "It was reported about that the Tzar regarded the escape alive of himself and family from the terrible railway accident at Borki as the direct and miraculous intervention of Providence. The facts were that the imperial train was being driven at the rate of ninety versts an hour over a road calculated to withstand at the utmost a speed of thirty-five versts; that the engineer humbly warned the Tzar of the danger, and was gruffly ordered to go still faster if possible, and that the miracle would have been the avoidance of calamity."] [Footnote 2: On the Zemstvos compare p. 173, n. 1. The reactionary law of June 12, 1890 (see later, p. 358 et seq.) puts in place of the executives formerly elected by the people the "Zemstvo chiefs," officials appointed from among the landed proprietors.] [Footnote 3: Durnovo became Minister of the Interior in 1889, after the demise of Tolstoi; Plehve was assistant-minister.] The press was either tamed or used as a tool of the governmental policies. The most widely read press organs of the capital, with the exception of the moderately liberal _Novosti_ ("The News") which managed to survive the shipwreck of the liberal press, became either openly or secretly the official mouthpieces of the Government. The venal _Novoye Vremya,_ which the Russian satirist Shchedrin had branded as "the sewer," embarked, towards the end of the eighties, on the noble enterprise of hunting down the Jews with a zeal which was clear evidence of a higher demand for Judaeophobia in the official world. There was no accusation, however hideous, which Suvorin's paper, steered simultaneously by the Holy Synod and by the Police Department, failed to hurl in the face of the Jews. As an organ generally reflecting the views of the Government, the _Novoye Vremya_ served at that time as a source of political information for all dignitaries and officials. The ministers, governors and the vast army of subordinate officials, who wished to ascertain the political course at a given moment, consulted this "well-informed" daily, which, as far as the Jewish question was concerned, pursued but one aim: to make the life of the Jews in Russia unbearable. Apart from the _Novoye Vremya_, which was read by the Tzar himself, the work of Jew-baiting was also carried on with considerable zeal by the Russian weekly _Grazhdanin_ ("The Citizen"), whose editor, Count Meshcherski, enjoyed not only the personal favor of Alexander III. but also a substantial Government subsidy. These metropolitan organs of publicity gave the tone to the whole official and semi-official press in the provinces, and the public opinion of Russia was systematically poisoned by the venom of Judaeophobia. When the Pahlen Commission was discharged, the Tzar having "attached himself to the opinion of the minority," [1] the Government had no difficulty in finding a few kind-hearted officials who were eager to carry the project framed by this reactionary minority into effect. The project itself, which had been elaborated in the Ministry of the Interior under the direction of Plehve, the sinister Chief of Police, was guarded with great secrecy, as if it concerned a plan of military operations against a belligerent Power. But the secret leaked out very soon. The Minister had sent out copies of the project to the governors-general, soliciting their opinions, and ere long copies of the project were circulating in London, Paris, and Vienna. In the spring of 1890, Russia and Western Europe were filled with alarming rumors concerning an enactment of some "forty clauses," which was designed to curtail the commercial activities of the Jews, to increase the rigor of the "Temporary Rules" within the Pale, and restrict the privileges conferred upon several categories of Jews outside of it, to establish medieval Jewish ghettos in St. Petersburg, Moscow, and Kiev, and similar measures. The foreign press made a terrible outcry against these contemplated new acts of barbarism. [Footnote 1: See p. 370.] The voice of protest was particularly strong in England. The London _Times_ assailed in violent terms the reactionary policies of Russia, and a special organ, called _Darkest Russia_, was published for this purpose by Russian political refugees in England. The Russian Government denied these rumors through its diplomatic channels, though at the very same time the well-informed _Novoye Vremya_ and _Grazhdanin_ were not barred from printing news items concerning the projected disabilities or from recommending ferocious measures against the Jews for the purpose "of removing them from all branches of labor." This comedy was well understood abroad. At the end of July and in the beginning of August interpellations were introduced in both Houses of the English Parliament, as to whether Her Majesty's Government found it possible to make diplomatic representations in defence of the persecuted Russian Jews for whom England would have to provide, were they to arrive there in large masses. Premier Salisbury, in the House of Lords, and Fergusson, the Under-Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs, in the House of Commons, replied that "these proceedings, which, if rightly reported to us, are deeply to be regretted, concern the internal affairs of the Russian Empire, and do not admit of any interference on the part of Her Majesty's Government." [1] When shortly afterwards preparations were set on foot for calling a protest meeting in London, the Russian Government hastened to announce through the British ambassador in St. Petersburg that no new measures against the Jews were in contemplation, and the meeting was called off. Rumor had it that the Lord Mayor of London, Henry Isaacs, who was a Jew, did not approve of this meeting, over which, according to the English custom, he would have to preside. The action of the Lord Mayor may have been "tactful," but is was certainly not free from an admixture of timidity. [Footnote 1: See _The Jewish Chronicle_ of August 8, 1890, p. 18b.] 2. CONTINUED HARASSING While anxiously endeavoring to appease public opinion abroad, the Russian Government at home did all it could to keep the Jews in an agitated state of mind. The legal drafts and the circulars which had been sent out secretly by the central Government in St. Petersburg elicited the liveliest sympathy on the part of the provincial administrators. Not satisfied with signifying to the Ministry their approval of the contemplated disabilities, many officials of high rank began to display openly their bitter hatred of the Jews. At one and the same time, during the months of June, July, and August of 1890, the heads of various local provincial administrations published circulars calling the attention of the police to the "audacious conduct" of the Jews who, on meeting Russian officials, failed to take off their hats by way of greeting. The governor of Moghilev instructed the police of his province to impress the local Jewish population with the necessity of "polite manners," in the sense of a more reverent attitude towards the representatives of Russian authority. In compliance with this order, the district chiefs of police compelled the rabbis to inculcate their flock in the synagogues with reverence for Russian officialdom. In Mstislavl, a town in the government of Moghilev, the president of the nobility [1] assembled the leading members of the Jewish community, and cautioned them that those Jews who would fail to comply with the governor's circular would be subjected to a public whipping by the police. The governor of Odessa, the well-known despot Zelenoy, issued a police ordinance for the purpose of "curbing the impudence displayed by the Jews in places of public gathering and particularly in the suburban trolley cars" where they do not give up their seats and altogether show disrespect towards "persons of advanced age or those wearing a uniform, testifying to their high position." Even more brutal was the conduct of the governor-general of Vilna, Kakhanov, who, despite his high rank, allowed himself, in replying to the speech of welcome of a Jewish deputation, to animadvert not only on Jewish "clannishness" but also on the "licentiousness" of the Jewish population, manifesting itself in congregating on the streets, and similar grave crimes. [Footnote 1: See above, p. 303.] The simultaneous occurrence of this sort of official actions in widely separated places point to a common source, probably to some secret instructions from St. Petersburg. It would seem, however, that the provincial henchmen of the central Government had overreached themselves in their eagerness to carry out the behest of "curbing the Jews." The pettiness of their demands, which, moreover, were illegal, such as the order to take off the hats before the officials, or to give up the seats in the trolley cars, merely served to ridicule the representatives of Russian officialdom, giving frequent rise to tragi-comic conflicts in public and to utterances of indignation in the press. The public pronouncements of these genteel _chinovniks_ who were anxious to train the Jewish masses in the fear of Russian bureaucracy and inculcate in them polite manners aroused the attention both of the Russian and the foreign press. It was universally felt that these farcical performances of uncouth administrators were only the manifestations of a bottomless hatred, of a morbid desire to insult and to humble the Jews, and that these administrators were capable at any moment to proceed from moralizing to more tangible forms of ill-treatment. This danger intensified the state of alarm. While making preparations for storming the citadel of Russian Jewry, the Government took good care to keep it meanwhile in its normal state of siege. The resourcefulness of the administration brought the _technique_ of repression to perfection. The officials were no longer content with inventing cunning devices for expelling old Jewish residents from the villages. [1] They now made endeavors to reduce even the area of the _urban_ Pale in which the Jews were huddled together, panting for breath. In 1890, the provincial authorities, acting evidently on a signal from above, began to change numerous little townlets into villages, which, as rural settlements, would be closed to the Jews. As a result, all the Jews who had settled in these localities after the issuance of the "Temporary Rules" of May 3, 1882, were now expelled, and even the older residents who were exempt from the operation of the May laws shared the same fate unless they were able (which in very many cases they were not) to produce documentary evidence that they had lived there prior to 1882. Simultaneously a new attempt was made to drive the Jews from the forbidden fifty verst zone along the Western border of the Empire, particularly in Bessarabia. These expulsions had the effect of filling the already over-crowded cities of the Pale with many more thousands of ruined people. [Footnote 1: There are cases on record when Jewish soldiers who returned home after the completion of their term of service were refused admission to their villages, on the ground that they were "new settlers."] At the same time the life of the outlawed Jews was made unbearable in the cities outside the Pale, particularly in the large centers, such as Kiev, Moscow, and St. Petersburg. The governor-general of Kiev prohibited the wives of Jewish artisans who were legally entitled to residence in that city to sell eatables in the market, on the technical ground that under the law artisans could only trade in the articles of their own manufacture, thus robbing the poor Jewish workman of the miserable pittance which his wife was anxious to contribute by her honest labor towards the maintenance of the family. A great _political_ blow for the Jews was the clause in the new reactionary "Statute Concerning the Zemstvo Organizations" issued on June 12, 1890, [1] under which the Jews, though paying the local taxes, were completely barred from participating in the election of deputies to the organization of local self-government. This clause was inserted in the legal draft by the three shining lights of the political inquisition active at that time, Pobyedonostzev, Durnovo, and Plehve. They justified this restriction on the following grounds: the object of the new law is to transform local self-government into a state administration and to strengthen in the former the influence of the central Government at the expense of the local Government; hence the Jews, "being altogether an element hostile to Government," are not fit to participate in the Zemstvo administration. The Council of State agreed with this bureaucratic motivation, and the humiliating clause passed into law. [Footnote 1: The new law invalidated to a large extent the liberties granted to the Zemstvos by Alexander II. in 1864 (compare p. 173) by placing them under state control.] While a large part of the Russian public and of the Russian press had succumbed to the prevailing tendencies under the high pressure of the anti-Semitic atmosphere, the progressive elements of the Russian _intelligenzia_ were gradually aroused to a feeling of protest. Vladimir Solovyov, "the Christian philosopher," a friend of the Jewish people, who had familiarized himself thoroughly with its history and literature, conceived the idea of issuing a public protest against the anti-Semitic movement in the "Russian Press," [1] to be signed by the most prominent Russian writers and other well-known men. During the months of May and June, 1890, he succeeded under great difficulties to collect for his protest sixty-six signatures in Moscow and over fifty signatures in St. Petersburg, including those of Leo Tolstoi, Vladimir Korolenko, and other literary celebrities. Despite its mild tone, the protest which had been framed by Solovyov [2] was barred from publication by the Russian censor. Professor Ilovaiski, of Moscow, a historian of doubtful reputation, but a hide-bound Jew-baiter, had informed the authorities of St. Petersburg of the attempt to collect signatures in Moscow for a "pro-Jewish petition." As a result, all newspapers received orders from the Russian Press Department to refuse their columns to any collective pronouncements touching the Jewish question. [Footnote 1: The latter expression was a euphemism designating the Russian Government and its reactionary henchmen in the press. The severity of the police made this evasion necessary.] [Footnote 2: The following extracts from this meek appeal deserve to be quoted: "The movement against the Jews which is propagated by the Russian press represents an unprecedented violation of the most fundamental demands of righteousness and humanity. We consider it our duty to recall these elementary demands to the mind of the Russian public.... In all nationalities there are bad and ill-minded persons but there is not, and cannot be, any bad and ill-minded nationality, for this would abrogate the moral responsibility of the individual.... It is unjust to make the Jews responsible for those phenomena in their lives which are the result of thousands of years of persecution in Europe and of the abnormal conditions in which this people has been placed.... The fact of belonging to a Semitic tribe and professing the Mosaic creed is nothing prejudicial and cannot of itself serve as a basis for an exceptional civil position of the Jews, as compared with the Russian subjects of other nationalities and denominations.... The recognition and application of these simple truths is important and is first of all necessary for ourselves. The increased endeavor to kindle national and religious hatred, which is so contradictory to the spirit of Christianity and suppresses the feelings of justice and humaneness, is bound to demoralize society at its very root and bring about a state of moral anarchy, particularly so in view of the decline of humanitarian ideas and the weakness of the principle of justice already noticeable in our life. For this reason, acting from the mere instinct of national self-preservation, we must emphatically condemn the anti-Semitic movement not only as immoral in itself but also as extremely dangerous for the future of Russia."] Solovyov addressed an impassioned appeal to Alexander III., but received through one of the Ministers the impressive advice to refrain from raising a cry on behalf of the Jews, under pain of administrative penalties. In these circumstances, the plan of a public protest had to be abandoned. Instead, the following device was resorted to as a makeshift. Solovyov's teacher of Jewish literature, F. Goetz, was publishing an apology of Judaism under the title "A Word from the Prisoner at the Bar." Solovyov wrote a preface to this little volume, and turned over to its author for publication the letters of Tolstoi and Korolenko in the defence of the Jews. No sooner had the book left the press than it was confiscated by the censor, and, in spite of all petitions, the entire edition of this innocent apology was thrown into the flames. In this way the Russian Government succeeded in shutting the mouths of the few defenders of Judaism, while according unrestricted liberty of speech to its ferocious assailants. 3. THE GUILDHALL MEETING IN LONDON The cry of indignation against Jewish oppression, which had been smothered in Russia, could not be stifled abroad. The Jews of England took the initiative in this matter. On November 5, 1890, the London _Times_ published a letter from N.S. Joseph, honorary secretary to the Russo-Jewish Committee in London, passionately appealing to the public men of England to intercede on behalf of his persecuted coreligionists. The writer of the letter called attention to the fact that, while the Russian Government was officially denying that it was contemplating new restrictions against the Jews, it was at the same time applying the former restrictions on so comprehensive a scale and with such extraordinary cruelty that the Jews in the Pale of Settlement were like a doomed prisoner in a cell with its opposite walls gradually approaching, contracting by slow degrees his breathing space, till they at last immure him in a living tomb. The writer concludes his appeal in these terms: It may seem a sorry jest but the Russian law, in very truth, now declares: The Jew may live here only and shall not live there; if he lives here he must remain here; but wherever he lives he shall not live--he shall not have the means of living. This is the operation of the law as it stands, without any new edict. This is the sentence of death that silently, insidiously, and in the veiled language of obscurely worded laws has been pronounced against hundreds of thousands of human beings.... Shall civilized Europe, shall the Christianity of England behold this slow torture and bloodless massacre, and be silent? The appeal of the Russo-Jewish Committee and the new gloomy tidings from Russia published by the _Times_ decided a number of prominent Englishmen to call the protest meeting which had been postponed half a year previously. Eighty-three foremost representatives of English society addressed a letter to the Lord Mayor of London calling upon him to convene such a meeting. The office of Lord Mayor at that time was occupied by Joseph Savory, a Christian, who did not share the susceptibilities which had troubled his Jewish predecessor. Immediately on assuming office, Savory gave his consent to the holding of the meeting. On December 10, 1890, the meeting was held in the magnificent Guildhall, belonging to the City of London, and was attended by more than 2000 people. The Lord Mayor who presided over the gathering endeavored in his introductory remarks to soften the bitterness of the protest for the benefit of official Russia. As I hear--he said--the Emperor of Russia is a good husband and a tender father, and I cannot but think that such a man must necessarily be kindly disposed to all his subjects. On his Majesty the Emperor of Russia the hopes of the Russian Jews are at the present moment fixed. He can by one stroke of his pen annul those laws which now press so grievously upon them and he can thus give a happy life to those Jewish subjects of his who now can hardly be said to live at all. In conclusion, the Lord Mayor expressed the wish that Alexander III. may become the "emancipator" of the Russian Jews, just as his father Alexander II. had been the emancipator of the Russian serfs. Cardinal Manning, the warm-hearted champion of Jewish emancipation, who was prevented by illness from being present, sent a long letter which was read to the meeting. The argument against interfering with the inner politics of a foreign country, the cardinal wrote, had found its first expression in Cain's question, "Am I my brother's keeper?" There is a united Jewish race scattered all over the world, and the pain inflicted upon it in Russia is felt by the Jewish race in England. It is wrong to keep silent when we see six million men reduced to the level of criminals, particularly when they belong to a race "with a sacred history of nearly four thousand years." The speakers who followed the Lord Mayor pictured in vivid colors the political and civil bondage of Russian Jewry. The first speaker, the Duke of Westminster, after recounting the sufferings of Russian Jewry, moved the adoption of the protest resolution, notwithstanding the fact that the "great protest of 1882" (at the Mansion House meeting)[1] had brought no results. "We read in the history of the Jewish race that 'God hardened the heart of Pharaoh so that he would not let the people of Israel go'; but deliverance came at last by the hand of Moses." [Footnote 1: See p. 288 et seq.] After brilliant speeches by the Bishop of Ripon, the Earl of Meath, and others, the following resolution was adopted: That in the opinion of this meeting the renewed sufferings of the Jews in Russia from the operation of severe and exceptional edicts and disabilities are deeply to be deplored, and that in this last decade of the nineteenth century religious liberty is a principle which should be recognized by every Christian community as among the natural human rights. At the same time a second resolution was adopted to the following effect: That a suitable memorial be addressed to his Imperial Majesty the Emperor of all the Russias, respectfully praying his Majesty to repeal all the exceptional and restrictive laws and disabilities which afflict his Jewish subjects; and begging his Majesty to confer upon them equal rights with those enjoyed by the rest of his Majesty's subjects; and that the said memorial be signed by the Right Hon. the Lord Mayor, in the name of the citizens of London, and be transmitted by his Lordship to his Majesty. A few extracts from the memorandum may be quoted by way of illustrating the character of this remarkable appeal to the Russian emperor: We, the citizens of London, respectfully approach your Majesty and humbly beg your gracious leave to plead the cause of the afflicted. Cries of distress have reached us from thousands of suffering Israelites in your vast empire; and we Englishmen, with pity in our souls for all who suffer, turn to your Majesty to implore for them your Sovereign aid and clemency. Five millions of your Majesty's subjects groan beneath the yoke of exceptional and restrictive laws. Remnants of a race, whence all religion sprung--ours and yours, and every creed on earth that owns one God--men who cling with all devotion to their ancient faith and forms of worship, these Hebrews are in your empire subject to such laws that under them they cannot live and thrive.... Pent up in narrow bounds within your Majesty's wide empire, and even within those bounds forced to reside chiefly in towns that reek and overflow with every form of poverty and wretchedness; forbidden all free movement; hedged in every enterprise by restrictive laws; forbidden tenure of land, or all concern in land, their means of livelihood have become so cramped as to render life for them well-nigh impossible. Nor are they cramped alone in space and action. The higher education is denied them, except in limits far below the due proportion of their needs and aspirations. They may not freely exercise professions, like other subjects of your Majesty, nor may they gain promotion in the Army, however great their merit and their valour.... Sire! we who have learnt to tolerate all creeds, deeming it a principle of true religion to permit religious liberty, we beseech your Majesty to repeal those laws that afflict these Israelites. Give them the blessing of equality! In every land where Jews have equal rights, the nation prospers. We pray you, then, annul those special laws and disabilities that crush and cow your Hebrew subjects.... Sire! your Royal Sister, our Empress Queen (whom God preserve!) bases her throne upon her people's love, making their happiness her own. So may your Majesty gain from your subjects' love all strength and happiness, making your mighty empire mightier still, rendering your Throne firm and impregnable, reaping new blessings for your House and Home. The memorial was signed by Savory, who was Lord Mayor at that time, and forwarded by him to St. Petersburg. It was accompanied by a letter, dated December 24, from the Lord Mayor to Lieutenant-General de Richter, aide-de-camp of the Tzar for the reception of petitions, with the request to transmit the document to the emperor. It is almost unnecessary to add that this touching appeal for justice by the citizens of London failed to receive a direct reply. There were rumors that the London petition threw the Tzar into a fury, and the future court annalist of Russia will probably tell of the scene that took place in the imperial palace when this document was read. An indirect reply came through the cringing official press. The mouthpiece of the Russian Government abroad, the newspaper _Le Nord_ in Brussels, which was especially engaged in the task of whitewashing the black politics of its employers, published an article under the heading "A Last Word concerning Semitism," in which the rancor of the highest Government circles in Russia found undisguised expression: The Semites--quoth the semi-official organ with an impudent disregard of truth--have never yet had such an easy life in Russia as they have at the present time, and yet they have never complained so bitterly. There is a reason for it. It is a peculiarity of Semitism: a Semite is never satisfied with anything; the more you give him the more he wishes to have. In the evident desire to fool its readers, _Le Nord_ declared that the protesters at the London meeting might have saved themselves the trouble of demanding "religious liberty" for the Jews--which in the London petition was understood, of course, to imply civil liberty for the professors of Judaism--since nobody in Russia restricted the Jews in their worship. Nor did the civil disabilities weigh heavily upon the Jews. On the contrary, they felt so happy in Russia that even the Jewish emigrants in America dreamt of returning to their homeland. 4. THE PROTEST OF AMERICA The same attitude of double-dealing was adopted by the smooth-tongued Russian diplomats toward the Government of the United States. Aroused over the inhuman treatment of the Jews in Russia, and alarmed by the effects of a sudden Russian-Jewish immigration to America, which was bound to follow as a result of this treatment, the House of Representatives adopted a resolution on August 20, 1890, requesting the President-- To communicate to the House of Representatives, if not incompatible with the public interests, any information in his possession concerning the enforcement of proscriptive edicts against the Jews in Russia, recently ordered, as reported in the public press; and whether any American citizens have, because of their religion, been ordered to be expelled from Russia, or forbidden the exercise of the ordinary privileges enjoyed by the inhabitants. In response to this resolution, President Harrison laid before Congress all the correspondence and papers bearing on the Jewish question in Russia. [1] [Footnote 1: The material was printed as _Executive Document_ No. 470, dated October 1, 1890. It reproduced all the documents originally embodied in _Executive Document_ No. 192 (see above, p. 294, n. 1), in addition to the new material.] A little later, on December 19 of the same year, the following resolution of protest was introduced in the House of Representatives and referred to the Committee on Foreign Affairs: _Resolved_, That the members of the House of Representatives of the United States have heard with profound sorrow, and with feelings akin to horror, the reports of the persecution of the Jews in Russia, reflecting the barbarism of past ages, disgracing humanity, and impeding the progress of civilization. _Resolved_, That our sorrow is intensified by the fact that such occurrences should happen in a country which has been, and now is, the firm friend of the United States, and in a nation that clothed itself with glory, not long since, by the emancipation of its serfs and by its defense of helpless Christians from the oppression of the Turks. _Resolved_, That a copy of this resolution be forwarded to the Secretary of State, with a request that he send it to the American Minister at St. Petersburg, and that said Minister be directed to present the same to his Imperial Majesty Alexander III., Czar of all the Russias. [1] [Footnote 1:_Congressional Record_, Vol. 22, p. 705.--The resolution was reported back on February 5, 1891, in the following amended form (loc. cit., p. 2219): _Resolved_, That the members of the House of Representatives of the United States have heard with profound sorrow the reports of the sufferings of the Jews in Russia; and this sorrow is intensified by the fact that these occurrences should happen in a country which is, and long has been the friend of the United States, which emancipated millions of its people from serfdom, and which defended helpless Christians in the East from persecution for their religion; and we earnestly hope that the humanity and enlightened spirit then so strikingly shown by His Imperial Majesty will now be manifested in checking and mitigating the severe measures directed against men of the Jewish religion.] In the meantime the Department of State was flooded with protests against the Russian atrocities. Almost every day--Secretary of State, James G. Blaine, writes to Charles Emory Smith, United States Minister at St. Petersburg, on February 27, 1891--communications are received on this subject; temperate, and couched in language respectful to the Government of the Czar; but at the same time indicative and strongly expressive of the depth and prevalence of the sentiment of disaprobation and regret. [1] [Footnote 1: _Foreign Relations of the United States_, 1891, p. 740.] The American Minister was therefore instructed to exert his influence with the Russian Government in the direction of mitigating the severity of the anti-Jewish measures. He was to point out to the Russian authorities that the maltreatment of the Jews in Russia was not purely an internal affair of the Russian Government, inasmuch as it affected the interests of the United States. Within ten years 200,000 Russian Jews had come over to America, and continued persecutions in Russia were bound to result in a large and sudden immigration which was not unattended with danger. While the United States did not presume to dictate to Russia, "nevertheless, the mutual duties of nations require that each should use his power with a due regard for the other and for the results which its exercise produces on the rest of the world." [1] [Footnote 1: _Loc. cit_., p. 737.] The remonstrances of the American people which were voiced by their representatives at St. Petersburg were received by the Russian Government in a manner which strikingly illustrates the well-known duplicity of its diplomatic methods. While endeavoring to justify its policy of oppression by all kinds of libellous charges against the Russian Jews, it gave at the same time repeated assurance to the American Minister that no new proscriptive laws were contemplated, and the latter reported accordingly to his Government. [1] On February 10, 1891, the American Minister, writing to Secretary Blaine, gives a detailed account of the conversation he had had with the Russian Minister for Foreign Affairs, de Giers. The latter went out of his way to discuss with him unreservedly the entire Jewish situation in Russia, and, while making all kinds of subtle insinuations against the character of the Russian Jew, he expressed himself in a manner which was calculated to convince the American representative of the conciliatory disposition of the Russian Government. [2] Less than three weeks later followed the cruel expulsion edict against the Jews of Moscow. [Footnote 1: Compare in particular his dispatch, dated September 25, 1890, published in _Executive Document_ No. 470, p. 141.] [Footnote 2: _Foreign Relations_, 1891, p. 734.] While the Russian Government, abashed by the voices of protest, made an effort to justify itself in the eyes of Europe and America and perverted the truth with its well-known diplomatic skill, the _Russkaya Zhizn_ ("Russian Life"), a St. Petersburg paper, which was far from being pro-Jewish, published a number of heart-rending facts illustrating the trials of the outlawed Jews at Moscow. It told of a young talented Jew who maintained himself and his family by working on a Moscow newspaper and, not having the right of residence in that city, was wont to save himself from the night raids of the police by hiding himself, on a signal of his landlord, in the wardrobe. Many Jews who lived honestly by the sweat of their brow were cruelly expelled by the police when their certificates of residence contained even the slightest technical inaccuracy. By way of illustrating the "religious liberty" of the Jews in the narrower sense of the word, the paper mentioned the fact that after the opening of the new synagogue in Moscow, which accommodated five hundred worshippers, the police ordered the closing of all the other houses of prayer, to the number of twenty, which had been attended by some ten thousand people. The governor of St. Petersburg, Gresser, made a regular sport of taunting the Jews. One ordinance of his prescribed that the signs on the stores and workshops belonging to Jews should indicate not only the family names of their owners but also their full first names as well as their fathers' names, exactly as they were spelled in their passports, "with the end in view of averting possible misunderstandings." The object of this ordinance was to enable the Christian public to boycott the Jewish stores and, in addition, to poke fun at the names of the owners, which, as a rule, were mutilated in the Russian registers and passports to the point of ridiculousness by semi-illiterate clerks. Gresser's ordinance was issued on November 17, 1890, a few days before the protest meeting in London. As the Russian Government was at that time assuring Europe that the Jews were particularly happy in Russia, the ordinance was not published in the newspapers but nevertheless applied secretly. The Jewish storekeepers, who realized the malicious intent of the new edict, tried to minimize the damage resulting from it by having their names painted in small letters so as not to catch the eyes of the Russian anti-Semites. Thereupon Gresser directed the police officials (in March 1891) to see to it that the Jewish names on the store signs should be indicated "clearly and in a conspicuous place, in accordance with the prescribed drawings" and "to report immediately" to him any attempt to violate the law. In this manner St. Petersburg reacted upon the cries of indignation which rang at that time through Europe and America. CHAPTER XXIX THE EXPULSION FROM MOSCOW 1. PREPARING THE BLOW The year 1891 had arrived. The air was full of evil forebodings. In the solitude of the Government chancelleries of St. Petersburg the anti-Jewish conspirators were assiduously at work preparing for a new blow to be dealt to the martyred nation. A secret committee attached to the Ministry of the Interior, under the chairmanship of Plehve, was engaged in framing a monstrous enactment of Jewish counter-reforms, which were practically designed to annul the privileges conferred upon certain categories of Jews by Alexander II. The principal object of the proposed enactment was to slam the doors to the Russian interior, which had been slightly opened by the laws of 1859 and 1865, by withdrawing the privilege of residing outside the Pale which these laws had conferred upon Jewish first guild merchants and artisans, subject to a number of onerous conditions. The first object of the reactionary conspirators was to get rid of those "privileged" Jews who lived in the two Russian capitals. In St. Petersburg this object was to be attained by the edicts of Gresser, referred to previously, which were followed by other similarly harassing regulations. In February, 1891, the governor of St. Petersburg ordered the police "to examine the kind of trade" pursued by the Jewish artisans of St. Petersburg, with the end in view of expelling from the city and confiscating the goods of all those who should be caught with articles not manufactured by themselves [1]. A large number of expulsion followed upon this order. The principal blow, however, was to fall in Moscow. [Footnote 1: See above, p. 170 et seq., and p. 347 et seq.] The ancient Muscovite capital was in the throes of great changes. The post of governor-general of Moscow, which had been occupied by Count Dolgoruki, was entrusted in February, 1891, to a brother of the Tzar, Grand Duke Sergius. The grand duke, who enjoyed an unenviable reputation in the gambling circles of both capitals, was not burdened by any consciously formulated political principles. But this deficiency was made up by his steadfast loyalty to the political and religious prejudices of his environment, among which the blind hatred of Judaism occupied a prominent place. The Russian public was inclined to attach extraordinary importance to the appointment of the Tzar's brother. It was generally felt that his selection was designed to serve as a preliminary step to the transfer of the imperial capital from St. Petersburg to Moscow, symbolizing the return "home"--to the old-Muscovite political ideals. It is almost superfluous to add that the contemplated change made it necessary to purge the ancient capital of its Jewish inhabitants. The Jewish community of Moscow, numbering some thirty thousand souls who lived there legally or semi-legally, had long been a thorn in the flesh of certain influential Russian merchants. The burgomaster of Moscow, Alexeyev, an ignorant merchant, with a very shady reputation, was greatly wrought up over the far-reaching financial influence of a local Jewish capitalist, Lazarus Polakov, the director of a rural bank, with whom he had clashed over some commercial transaction. Alexeyev was only too grateful for an occasion to impress upon the highest Government spheres that it was necessary "to clear Moscow of the Jews," who were crowding the city, owing to the indulgence of Dolgoruki, the former governor-general. The reactionaries of Moscow and St. Petersburg joined hands in the worthy cause of extirpating Judaism, and received the blessing of the head of the Holy Synod, Pobyedonostzev. This inquisitor-in-chief appointed Istomin, a ferocious anti-Semite, who had been his general utility man at the Holy Synod, the bureau-manager of the new governor-general, and thus succeeded in establishing his influence in Moscow through his acting representative who was practically the master of the second capital. The secret council of Jew-haters decided to accomplish the Jewish evacuation of Moscow prior to the solemn entrance of Grand Duke Sergius into the city, either for the purpose of clearing the way for the new satrap, or in order to avoid the unpleasantness of having his name connected with the first cruel act of expulsion. Pending the arrival of Sergius the administration of Moscow was entrusted to Costanda, the chief of the Moscow Military District, an adroit Greek, who was to begin the military operations against the Jewish population. The first blow was timed to take place on the festival of Israel's liberation from Egyptian bondage, as if the eternal people needed to be reminded of the new bondage and of the new Pharaohs. 2. THE HORRORS OF EXPULSION It was on March 29, 1891, the first day of the Jewish Passover, when in the synagogues of Moscow which were filled with worshippers an alarming whisper ran from mouth to mouth telling of the publication of an imperial ukase ordering the expulsion of the Jews from the city. Soon afterwards the horror-stricken Jews read in the papers the following imperial order, dated March 28: Jewish mechanics, distillers, brewers, and, in general, master workmen and artisans shall be forbidden to remove from the Jewish Pale of Settlement as well as to come over from other places of the Empire to the City and Government of Moscow. This prohibition of settling in Moscow _anew_ was only one half of the edict. The second, more terrible half, was published on the following day: A recommendation shall be made to the Minister of the Interior, after consultation with the Governor-General of Moscow, to see to it that measures be taken to the effect that the above-mentioned Jews should gradually depart from the City and Government of Moscow into the places established for the permanent residence of the Jews. At first sight it seemed difficult to realize that this harmless surface of the ukase, with its ambiguous formulation, [1] concealed a cruel decree ordering the uprooting of thousands of human beings. But those who were to execute this written law received definite unwritten instructions which were carried out according to all the rules of the strategic game. [Footnote 1: The Byzantine perfidy of this formulation lies in the phrase "above-mentioned Jews," which gives the impression of referring to those that had "removed" to Moscow from other parts of the Empire, i.e., settled there _anew_, whereas the real object of the law was to expel _all_ the Jews of the "above-mentioned" categories of master workmen and artisans, even though they may have lived in the city for many years. This amounted to a repeal, illegally enacted outside the Council of State, of the law of 1865, conferring the right of universal residence upon Jewish artisans. Moreover, the enactment was given retroactive force--a step which even the originators of the "Temporary Rules" of May 3 were not bold enough to make. In distinction from the May Laws, the present decree was not even submitted to the Council of Ministers, where a discussion of it might have been demanded; it was passed as an extraordinary measure, at the suggestion of the Ministry of the Interior represented by Durnovo and Plehve. This is indicated by the heading of the ukase: "The Minister of the Interior has applied most humbly to his Imperial Majesty begging permission to adopt the following measures." This succession of illegalities was to be veiled by the ambiguous formulation of the ukase and the addition of the hackneyed stipulation: "Pending the revision of the enactments concerning the Jews in the ordinary course of legislation."] The first victims were the Jews who resided in Moscow illegally or semi-legally, the latter living in the suburbs. They were subjected to a sudden nocturnal attack, a "raid," which was directed by the savage Cossack general Yurkovski, the police commissioner-in-chief. During the night following the promulgation of the ukase large detachments of policemen and firemen made their appearance in the section of the city called Zaryadye, where the bulk of the "illegal" Jewish residents were huddled together, more particularly in the immense so-called Glebov Yard, the former ghetto of Moscow. The police invaded the Jewish homes, aroused the scared inhabitants from their beds, and drove the semi-naked men, women, and children to the police stations, where they were kept in filthy cells for a day and sometimes longer. Some of the prisoners were released by the police which first wrested from them a written pledge to leave the city immediately. Others were evicted under a police convoy and sent out of the city like criminals, through the transportation prison. [1] Many families, having been forewarned of the impending raid, decided to spend the night outside their homes to avoid arrest and maltreatment at the hands of the police. They hid themselves in the outlying sections of the city and on the cemeteries; they walked or rode all over the city the whole night. Many an estimable Jew was forced to shelter his wife and children, stiffened from cold, in houses of ill repute which were open all night. But even these fugitives ultimately fell into the hands of the police inquisition. [Footnote 1: Transportation prisons are prisons in which convicts sentenced to deportation (primarily to Siberia) are kept pending their deportation. Such prisons were to be found in the large Russian centers, among them in Moscow.] Such were the methods by which Moscow was purged of its rightless Jewish inhabitants a whole month before Grand Duke Sergius made his entrance into the city. The grand duke was followed soon afterwards, in the month of May, by the Tzar himself, who stopped in the second Russian capital on his way to the Crimea. A retired Jewish soldier was courageous enough to address a petition to the Tzar, imploring him in touching terms to allow the former Jewish soldiers to remain in Moscow. The request of the Jewish soldier met with a quick response: he was sent to jail and subsequently evicted. The establishment of the new régime in Moscow was followed, in accordance with the provisions of the recent ukase, by the "gradual" expulsion of the huge number of master workmen and artisans who had enjoyed for many years the right of residence in that city and were now suddenly deprived of this right by a despotic caprice. The local authorities included among the victims of expulsion even the so-called "circular Jews," i.e., those who had been allowed to remain in Moscow by virtue of the ministerial circular of 1880, granting the right of domicile to the Jews living there before that date. This vast host of honest and hard-working men--artisans, tradesmen, clerks, teachers--were ordered to leave Moscow in three installments: those having lived there for not more than three years and those unmarried or childless were to depart within three to six months; those having lived there for not more than six years and having children or apprentices to the number of four were allowed to postpone their departure for six to nine months; finally the old Jewish settlers, who had big families and employed a large number of workingmen, were given a reprieve from nine to twelve months. It would almost seem as if the maximum and minimum dates within each term were granted specifically for the purpose of yielding an enormous income to the police, which, for a substantial consideration, could postpone the expulsion of the victims for three months and thereby enable them to wind up their affairs. At the expiration of the final terms the unfortunate Jews were not allowed to remain in the city even for one single day; those that stayed behind were ruthlessly evicted. An eye-witness, in summing up the information at his disposal, the details of which are even more heart-rending than the general facts, gives the following description of the Moscow events: People who have lived in Moscow for twenty, thirty, or even forty years were forced to sell their property within a short time and leave the city. Those who were too poor to comply with the orders of the police, or who did not succeed in selling their property for a mere song--there were cases of poor people disposing of their whole furniture for one or two rubles--were thrown into jail, or sent to the transportation prison, together with criminals and all kinds of riff-raff that were awaiting their turn to be dispatched under convoy. Men who had all their lives earned their bread by the sweat of their brow found themselves under the thumb of prison inspectors, who placed them at once on an equal footing with criminals sentenced to hard labor. In these surroundings they were sometimes kept for several weeks and then dispatched in batches to their "homes" which many of them never saw again. At the threshold of the prisons the people belonging to the "unprivileged" estates--the artisans were almost without exception members of the "burgher class"--had wooden handcuffs put on them....[1] It is difficult to state accurately how many people were made to endure these tortures, inflicted on them without the due process of law. Some died in prison, pending their transportation. Those who could manage to scrape together a few pennies left for the Pale of Settlement at their own expense. The sums speedily collected by their coreligionists, though not inconsiderable, could do nothing more than rescue a number of the unfortunates from jail, convoy, and handcuffs. But what can there be done when thousands of human nests, lived in for so many years, are suddenly destroyed, when the catastrophe comes with the force of an avalanche so that even the Jewish heart which is open to sorrow cannot grasp the whole misfortune?.... Despite the winter cold, people hid themselves on cemeteries to avoid jail and transportation. Women were confined in railroad cars. There were many cases of expulsions of sick people who were brought to the railroad station in conveyances and carried into the cars on stretchers.... In those rare instances in which the police physician pronounced the transportation to be dangerous, the authorities insisted on the chronic character of the illness, and the sufferers were brought to the station in writhing pain, as the police could not well be expected to wait until the invalids were cured of their chronic ailments. Eye-witnesses will never forget one bitterly cold night in January, 1892. Crowds of Jews dressed in beggarly fashion, among them women, children, and old men, with remnants of their household belongings lying around them, filled the station of the Brest railroad. Threatened by police convoy and transportation prison and having failed to obtain a reprieve, they had made up their mind to leave, despite a temperature of thirty degrees below zero. Fate, it would seem, wanted to play a practical joke on them. At the representations of the police commissioner-in-chief, the governor-general of Moscow had ordered to stop the expulsions until the great colds had passed, but ... the order was not published until the expulsion had been carried out. In this way some 20,000 Jews who had lived in Moscow fifteen, twenty-five, and even forty years were forcibly removed to the Jewish Pale of Settlement. [Footnote 1: Under the Russian law (compare Vol. I, p. 308, n. 2) burghers are subject to corporal punishment, whereas the higher estates, among them the merchants, enjoy immunity in this direction.] 3. EFFECT OF PROTESTS All these horrors, which remind one of the expulsion from Spain in 1492, were passed over in complete silence by the Russian public press. The cringing and reactionary papers would not, and the liberal papers could not, report the exploits of the Russian Government in their war against the Jews. The liberal press was ordered by the Russian censor to refrain altogether from touching on the Jewish question. The only Russian-Jewish press organ which, defying the threats of the censor, had dared to fight against official Russian Judaeophobia, the _Voskhod_, had been suppressed already in March, before the promulgation of the Moscow expulsion edict, "for the extremely detrimental course pursued by it." A similar fate overtook the _Novosti_ of St. Petersburg which had printed a couple of sympathetic articles on the Jews. In this way the Government managed to gag the independent press on the eve of its surprise attack upon Moscow Jewry, so that everything could be carried out noiselessly, under the veil of a state secret. Fortunately, the foreign press managed to unveil the mystery. The Government of the United States, faced by a huge immigration tide from Russia, sent in June, 1891, two commissioners, Weber and Kempster, to that country. They visited Moscow at the height of the expulsion fever, and, travelling through the principal centers of the Pale of Settlement, gathered carefully sifted documentary evidence of what was being perpetrated upon the Jews in the Empire of the Tzar. While decimating the Jews, the Russian Government was at the same time anxious that their cries of distress should not penetrate beyond the Russian border. Just about that time Russia was negotiating a foreign loan, in which the Rothschilds of Paris were expected to take a leading part, and found it rather inconvenient to stand forth in the eyes of Europe as the ghost of medieval Spain. It was this consideration which prompted the softened and ambiguous formulation of the Moscow expulsion decree and made the Government suppress systematically all mention of what happened afterwards. Notwithstanding these efforts, the cries of distress were soon heard all over Europe. The Russian censorship had no power over the public opinion outside of Russia. The first Moscow refugees, who had reached Berlin, Paris, and London, reported what was going on at Moscow. Already in April, 1891, the European financial press began to comment on the fact that "the Jewish population of Russia is altogether irreplaceable in Russian commercial life, forming a substantial element which contributes to the prosperity of the country," and that, therefore, "the expulsion of the Jews must of necessity greatly alarm the owners of Russian securities who are interested in the economic progress of Russia." Soon afterwards it became known that Alphonse de Rothschild, the head of the great financial firm in Paris, refused to take a hand in floating the Russian loan of half a billion. This first protest of the financial king against the anti-Semitic policy of the Russian Government produced a sensation, and it was intensified by the fact that it was uttered in France at a time when the diplomats of both countries were preparing to celebrate the Franco-Russian alliance which was consummated a few months afterwards. The expulsion from Moscow found a sympathetic echo on the other side of the Atlantic. President Harrison took occasion, in a message to Congress, to refer to the sufferings of the Jews and to the probable effects of the Russian expulsions upon America: This Government has found occasion to express in a friendly spirit, but with much earnestness, to the Government of the Czar its serious concern because of the harsh measures now being enforced against the Hebrews in Russia. By the revival of anti-Semitic laws, long in abeyance, great numbers of those unfortunate people have been constrained to abandon their homes and leave the Empire by reason of the impossibility of finding subsistence within the Pale to which it is sought to confine them. The immigration of these people to the United States--many other countries being closed to them--is largely increasing, and is likely to assume proportions which may make it difficult to find homes and employment for them here and to seriously affect the labor market. It is estimated that over 1,000,000 will be forced from Russia within a few years. The Hebrew is never a beggar; he has always kept the law--life by toil--often under severe and oppressive restrictions. It is also true that no race, sect, or class has more fully cared for its own than the Hebrew race. But the sudden transfer of such a multitude under conditions that tend to strip them of their small accumulations and to depress their energies and courage is neither good for them nor for us. The banishment, whether by direct decree or by not less certain indirect methods, of so large a number of men and women is not a local question. A decree to leave one country is in the nature of things an order to enter another--some other. This consideration, as well as the suggestion of humanity, furnishes ample ground for the remonstrances which we have presented to Russia; while our historic friendship for that Government cannot fail to give assurance that our representations are those of a sincere well-wisher.[1] [Footnote 1: Third Annual Message to Congress by President Harrison, December 9, 1891, _Messages and Papers of the Presidents_, Vol. IX, p. 188.] The sentiments of the American people were voiced less guardedly in a resolution which was passed by the House of Representatives on July 21, 1892: _Resolved_, That the American people, through their Senators and Representatives in Congress assembled, do hereby express sympathy for the Russian Hebrews in their present condition, and the hope that the Government of Russia, a power with which the United States has always been on terms of amity and good will, will mitigate as far as possible the severity of the laws and decrees issued respecting them, and the President is requested to use his good offices to notify the Government of Russia to mitigate the said laws and decrees. [1] [Footnote 1: _Congressional Record_, Vol. 23, p. 6533.] The highly-placed Jew-baiters of St. Petersburg were filled with rage, The _Novoye Vremya_ emptied its invectives upon the _Zhydovski_ financiers, referring to the refusal of Alphonse de Rothschild to participate in the Russian loan. Nevertheless, the Government found itself compelled to stem the tide of oppression for a short while. We have already had occasion to point out that the Government had originally planned to reduce the Jewish element also in the city of St. Petersburg, whose head, the brutal Gresser, had manifested his attitude toward the Jews in a series of police circulars. Following upon the first raid of the Moscow police on the Jews, Gresser ordered his gendarmes to search at the St. Petersburg railroad stations for all Jewish fugitives from that city who might have ventured to flee to St. Petersburg, and to deport them immediately. In April there were persistent rumors afloat that the Government had decided to remove by degrees all Jews from St. Petersburg and thus make both Russian capitals _judenrein_. The financial blow from Paris cooled somewhat the ardor of the Jew-baiters on the shores of the Neva. The wholesale expulsions from St. Petersburg were postponed, and the Russian anti-Semites were forced to satisfy their cannibal appetite with the consumption of Moscow Jewry, whose annihilation was carried out systematically under the cover of bureaucratic secrecy. 4. POGROM INTERLUDES Under the effect of the officially perpetrated "legal" pogroms little attention was paid to the street pogrom which occurred on September 29, 1891, in the city of Starodub, in the government of Chernigov, recalling the horrors of the eighties. Though caused by economic factors, the pogrom of Starodub assumed a religious coloring. The Russian merchants of that city had long been gnashing their teeth at their Jewish competitors. Led by a Russian fanatic, by the name of Gladkov, they forced a regulation through the local town-council barring all business on Sundays and Christian holidays. The regulation was directed against the Jews who refused to do business on the Sabbath and the Jewish holidays, and who would have been ruined had they also refrained from trading on Sundays and the numerous Greek-Orthodox holidays, thus remaining idle on twice as many days as the Christians. The Jews appealed to the governor of Chernigov to revoke or at least to mitigate the new regulation. The governor's decision fell in favor of the Jews who were allowed to keep their stores open on Christian holidays from noon-time until six o'clock in the evening. The reply of the local Jew-baiters took the form of a pogrom. On Sunday, the day before Yom Kippur, when the Jews opened their stores for a few hours, a hired crowd of ruffians from among the local street mob fell upon the Jewish stores and began to destroy and loot whatever goods it could lay its hands on. The stores having been rapidly closed, the rioters invaded the residences of the Jews, destroying the property contained there and filling the streets with fragments of broken furniture and leathers from torn bedding. The plunderers were assisted by the peasants who had arrived from the adjacent villages. In the evening, a drunken mob, which had assembled on the market-place, laid fire to a number of Jewish stores and houses, inflicting on their owners a loss of many millions. All this took place during the holy Yom Kippur eve. The Jews, who did not dare to worship in their synagogues or even to remain in their homes, hid themselves with their wives and children in the garrets and orchards or in the houses of strangers. Many Jews spent the night in a field outside the city, where, shivering from cold, they could watch the glare of the ghastly flames which destroyed all their belongings. The police, small in numbers, proved "powerless" against the huge hordes of plunderers and incendiaries. On the second day, the pogrom was over, the work of destruction having been duly accomplished. The subsequent judicial inquiry brought out the fact clearly that the pogrom had been engineered by Gladkov and his associates, a fact of which the local authorities could not have been ignorant. Gladkov fled from the city but returned subsequently, paying but a slight penalty for his monstrous crime. It should be added, however, that the Government was greatly displeased with the reappearance of the terrible spectre of 1881, as it only tended to throw into bolder relief the policy of legal pogroms by which Western Europe was alarmed. As a matter of fact, already in October, the semi-official _Grazhdanin_ had occasion to print the following news item: Yesterday [October 15] the financial market [abroad] was marked by depression; our securities have fallen, owing to new rumors concerning alleged contemplated measures against the Jews. Commenting upon this, the paper declared that these rumors were entirely unfounded, for the reason that "at the present time all our Government departments are weighed down with problems of first-rate national importance which brook no delay, [1] and they could scarcely find time to busy themselves with such matters as the Jewish question, which requires mature consideration and slow progress in action." [Footnote 1: The paper had in mind the crop failures of that year and the famine which prevailed in consequence in the larger part of Russia.] The subdued tone adopted by Count Meshcherski, the court journalist, was only partially in accord with the facts. He was right in stating that the terrible country-wide distress had compelled the deadly enemies of Judaism to pause in the execution of their entire program. But he forgot to add that the one clause of that program, the realization of which had already begun--the expulsion from Moscow--was being carried into effect with merciless cruelty. The huge emigration wave resulting from this expulsion threw upon the shores of Europe and America the victims of persecution who re-echoed the cries of distress from the land of the Tzars. Soon afterwards a new surprise, without parallel in history, was sprung upon a baffled world: the Russian Government was negotiating with the Jewish philanthropist Baron Hirsch concerning the gradual removal of the three millions of its Jewish subjects from Russia to Argentina. CHAPTER XXX BARON HIRSCH'S EMIGRATION SCHEME AND UNRELIEVED SUFFERING 1. NEGOTIATIONS WITH THE RUSSIAN GOVERNMENT Towards the end of the eighties the plan of promoting Jewish emigration from Russia, which had been abandoned with the retirement of Count Ignatyev, was again looked upon favorably by the leading Government circles. The sentiments of the Tzar were expressed in a marginal note which he attached to the report of the governor of Podolia for the year 1888. The passage of the report in which it was pointed out that "the removal of the Jewish proletariat from the monarchy would be very desirable" was supplemented in the Tzar's handwriting by the words "and even very useful." In reply to the proposal of the governor of Odessa to deprive Jewish emigrants of the right to return to Russia, the Tzar answered with a decided "yes." The official Russian chronicler goes even so far as to confess "that it was part of the plan to stimulate the emigration of the Jews (as well as that of the German colonists) by a more rigorous enforcement of the military duty "--a design which, from the political point of view, may well be pronounced criminal and which was evidently at the bottom of the severe military fines imposed upon the Jews. The same open-hearted chronicler adds: It may be easily understood how sympathetically the Government received the proposal of the Jewish Colonization Association in London, which had been founded by Baron de Hirsch in 1891, to remove, in the course of twenty-five years, 3,250,000 Jews from Russia. [1] [Footnote 1: This figure represents the official estimate of the number of Russian Jews. In other words, the Government hoped to get rid of all Jews.] The name of Maurice de Hirsch was not unknown to the Russian Government. For a few years previously it had had occasion to carry on negotiations with him, with results of which it had scant reason to boast. This great German-Jewish philanthropist, who was resolved to spend hundreds of millions on the economic and agricultural advancement of his co-religionists in Eastern Europe, had donated in 1888 fifty million francs for the purpose of establishing in Russia arts and crafts schools, as well as workshops and agricultural farms for the Jews. It was natural for him to assume that the Russian Government would only be too glad to accept this enormous contribution which was bound to stimulate productive labor in the country and raise the welfare of its destitute masses. But he had forgotten that the benefits expected from the fund would accrue to the Jewish proletariat, which, according to the catechism of Jew-hatred, was to be "removed from the monarchy." The stipulation made by the Russian Government to the representatives of Baron Hirsch was entirely unacceptable: it insisted that the money should not be handed over to Jewish public agencies but to the Russian Government which would expend it as it saw fit. Somebody conceived the shameful idea, which was accepted by the representatives of Baron Hirsch, of propitiating Pobyedonostzev by a gift of a million francs for the needs of his pet institution, the Greek-Orthodox parochial schools. The "gift" was accepted, but Hirsch's proposal was declined. Thus it came about that the Russian Jews were deprived of a network of model schools and educational establishments, while a million of Jewish money went to swell the number of the ecclesiastic Russian schools which imbued the Russian masses with crass ignorance and anti-Semitic prejudices. The Hirsch millions, originally intended for Russia, went partly towards the establishment of Jewish schools in Galicia, a work which met with every possible encouragement from the Austrian Government. The generous Jewish philanthropist now realized that the assistance he was anxious to render to his Russian coreligionists could not take the form of improving their condition in their own country but rather that of settling them outside of it--by organizing the emigration movement. Hirsch's attention was called to the fact that, beginning with 1889, several groups of Russian Jews had settled in Argentina and, after incredible hardships, had succeeded in establishing there several agricultural colonies. The baron sent an expedition to Argentina, under the direction of Professor Loewenthal, an authority on hygiene, for the purpose of investigating the country and finding out the places fit for colonization. The expedition returned in March, 1891, and Hirsch decided to begin with the purchase of land in Argentina, in accordance with the recommendations of the expedition. This happened at the very moment when the Moscow catastrophe had broken out, resulting in a panicky flight from "Russia to North and South America, and partly to Palestine. Baron Hirsch decided that it was his first duty to regulate the emigration movement from Russia, and he made another attempt to enter into negotiations with the Russian Government. With this end in view he sent his representative to St. Petersburg, the Englishman Arnold White, a Member of Parliament, belonging to the parliamentary anti-alien group, who was opposed to foreign immigration into England, on the ground of its harmful effect upon the interests of the native workingmen. Simultaneously White was commissioned to travel through the Pale of Settlement and find out whether it would be possible to obtain there an element fit for agricultural colonization in Argentina. White arrived in St. Petersburg in May and was received by Pobyedonostzev and several Ministers. The martyrdom of the Moscow Jews was then at its height. Shouts of indignation were ringing through the air of Europe and America, protesting against the barbarism of the Russian Government, and the latter was infuriated both by these protests protests and the recent refusal of Rothschild to participate in the Russian loan. The high dignitaries of St. Petersburg who had been disturbed in their work of Jew-baiting by the outcry of the civilized world gave full vent to their hatred in their conversations with Baron Hirsch's deputy. White reported afterwards that the functionaries of St. Petersburg had painted to him the Russian Jew as "a compound of thief and usurer." Pobyedonostzev delivered himself of the following malicious observation: "The Jew is a parasite. Remove him from the living organism in which and and on which he exists and put this parasite on a rock--and he will die." While thus justifying before the distinguished foreigner their system of destroying the five million Jewish "parasites," the Russian Ministers were nevertheless glad to lend a helping hand in removing them from Russia, on condition that in the course of twelve years a large part of the Jews should be transferred from the country--in the confidential talks with White three million emigrants were mentioned as the proposed figure. White was furnished with letters of recommendation from Pobyedonostzev and the Minister of the Interior to the highest officials in the provinces, whither the London delegate betook himself to get acquainted with the living export material. He visited Moscow, Kiev, Berdychev, Odessa, Kherson, and the Jewish agricultural colonies in South Russia. After looking closely at Jewish conditions, White became convinced that the perverted type of Jew which had been painted to him in St. Petersburg "was evolved from the inner consciousness of certain orthodox statesmen, and has no existence in fact." Wherever he went he saw men who were sober, industrious, enterprising business men, efficient artisans, whose physical weakness was merely the result of insufficient nourishment. His visit to the South-Russian colonies convinced him of the fitness of the Jews for colonization. In short--he writes in his report--if courage--moral courage,--hope, patience, temperance are fine qualities, then the Jews are a fine people. Such a people, under wise direction, is destined to make a success of any well-organized plan, of colonization, whether in Argentina, Siberia, or South Africa. On his return to London, White submitted a report to Baron Hirsch, stating the above facts, and also pointing out that the assistance which should he rend red to the emigration work by the Russian Government ought to take the form of granting permission to organize in Russia emigration committees, of relieving the emigrants of the passport tax, [1] and of allowing them free transportation up to the Russian border. [Footnote 1: The tax levied on passports for travelling abroad amounting to fifteen rubles ($7.50).] 2. THE JEWISH COLONIZATION ASSOCIATION AND COLLAPSE OF THE ARGENTINIAN SCHEME White's report was discussed by Baron Hirsch in conjunction with the leading Jews of Western Europe. As a result, the decision was reached to establish a society which should undertake on a large scale the colonization of Argentina and other American territories with Russian Jews. The society was founded in London in the autumn of 1891, under the name of the Jewish Colonization Association (JCA), in the form of a stock company, with a capital of fifty million francs which was almost entirely subscribed by Baron Hirsch. White was dispatched to St. Petersburg a second time to obtain permission for organizing the emigration committees in Russia and to secure the necessary privileges for the emigrants. The English delegate, who was familiar with the frame of mind of the leading Government circles in Russia, unfolded before them the far-reaching plans of Baron Hirsch. The Jewish Colonization Association was to transplant 25,000 Jews to Argentina in the course of 1892 and henceforward to increase progressively the ratio of emigrants, so that in the course of twenty-five years, 3,250,000 Jews would be taken out of Russia. This brilliant perspective of a Jewish exodus cheered the hearts of the neo-Egyptian dignitaries. Their imagination caught fire. When the question came up before the Committee of Ministers, the Minister of the Navy, Chikhachev, proposed to pay the Jewish Colonization Association a bonus of a few rubles for each emigrant and thus enable it to transfer no less than 130,000 people during the very first year, so that the contemplated number of 3,250,000 might be distributed evenly over twenty-five years. A suggestion was also made to transplant the Jews with their own money, i.e., to use the residue of the Jewish meat tax for that purpose, but the suggestion was not considered feasible. The official chronicler testifies that "the fascinating proposition of Baron Hirsch appeared to the Russian Government hardly capable of realization." Nevertheless, prompted by the hope that at least part of the contemplated millions of Jews would leave Russia, the Government sanctioned the establishment of a Central Committee of the Jewish Colonization Association in St. Petersburg, with branches in the provinces. It further promised to issue to the emigrants free of charge permits to leave the country and to relieve them from military duty on condition that they never return to Russia. In. May, 1893, the constitution of the Jewish Colonization Association was ratified by the Tzar. At that time the emigration tide of the previous year was gradually ebbing. The flight from Russia to North and South America had reached its climax in the summer and autumn of 1891. The expulsion from Moscow as well as alarming rumors of imminent persecutions, on the one hand, and exaggerated news about the plans of Baron Hirsch, on the other, had resulted in uprooting tens of thousands of people. Huge masses of refugees had flocked to Berlin, Hamburg, Antwerp, and London, imploring to be transferred to the United States or to the Argentinian colonies. Everywhere relief committees were being organized, but there was no way of forwarding the emigrants to their new destination, particularly to Argentina, where the large territories purchased by Hirsch were not yet ready for the reception of colonists. Baron Hirsch was compelled to send out an appeal to all Jewish communities, calling upon they to stem for the present this disorderly human avalanche. Ere long Baron Hirsch's dream of transplanting millions of people with millions of money proved an utter failure. When, after long preparations, the selected Jewish colonists were at last dispatched to Argentina, it was found that the original figure of 25,000 emigrants calculated for the first year had shrunk to about 2500. Altogether, during the first three years, from 1892 to 1894, the Argentinian emigration absorbed some six thousand people. Half of these remained in the capital of the republic, in Buenos Ayres, while the other half managed to settle in the colonies, after enduring all the hardships connected with an agricultural colonization in a new land and under new climatic conditions. A few years later it was commonly realized that the mountain had given birth to a mouse. Instead of the million Jews, as originally planned, the Jewish Colonization Association succeeded in transplanting during the first decade only 10,000 Jews, who were distributed over six Argentinian colonies. The main current of Jewish emigration flowed as heretofore in the direction of North America, towards the United States and Canada. In the course of the year 1891, with its numerous panics, the United States alone absorbed more than 100,000 emigrants, over 42,000 of whom succeeded in arriving the same year, while 76,000 were held back in various European centers and managed to come over the year after. The following two years show again the former annual ratio of emigration, wavering between 30,000 to 35,000. The same fateful year of 1891 gave rise to a colonization fever even in quiet Palestine. Already in the beginning of 1890 the Russian Government had legalized the Palestinian colonization movement in Russia by sanctioning the constitution of the "Society for Granting Assistance to Jewish Colonists and Artisans in Syria and Palestine," which had its headquarters in Odessa. [1] This sanction enabled the _Hobebe Zion_ societies which were scattered all over the country to group themselves around a legalized center and collect money openly for their purposes. The Palestinian propaganda gained a new lease of life. This propaganda, which was intensified in its effect by the emigration panic of the "terrible year," resulted in the formation of a number of societies in Russia with the object of purchasing land in Palestine. In the beginning of 1891 delegates of these societies suddenly appeared in Palestine _en masse_, and, with the co-operation of a Jaffa representative of the Odessa Palestine Society, began feverishly to buy up the land from the Arabs. This led to a real estate speculation which artificially raised the price of land. Moreover, the Turkish Government became alarmed, and forbade the wholesale colonization of Jews from Russia. The result was a financial crash. [Footnote 1: The first president of the Society was the exponent of the idea of "Antoemancipation," Dr. Leon Pinsker, who occupied this post until his death, at the end of 1891.] The attempt at a wholesale immigration into destitute Palestine with its primitive patriarchal conditions proved a failure. During the following years the colonization of the Holy Land with Russian Jews proceeded again at a slow pace. One colony after another rose gradually into being. A large part of the old and the new settlers were under the charge of Baron Rothschild's administration, with the exception of two or three colonies which were maintained by the Palestine Society in Odessa. It was evident that, in view of the slow advance of the Palestinian colonization, its political and economic importance for the Russian-Jewish millions was practically nil and that its only advantage over and against the American emigration day in its spiritual significance, in the fact that on the historic soil of Judaism there there rose into being a small Jewish center with a purer national culture than was possible in the Diaspora. This idea was championed by Ahad Ha'am[1], the exponent of the neo-Palestine movement, who had made his first appearance in Hebrew literature in 1889 and in a short time forged his way to the front. [Footnote 1: "One of the People," the Hebrew pen-name of Asher Ginzberg.] 3. CONTINUED HUMILIATIONS AND DEATH OF ALEXANDER III. In the meantime, in the land of the Tzars events went their own course. The Moscow tragedy was nearing its end, but its last stages were marked by scenes reminiscent of the times of the inquisition. After banishing from Moscow the larger part of the Jewish population, the governor-general, Grand Duke Sergius, made up his mind to humble the remaining Jewish population of the second Russian capital so thoroughly that its existence in the center of Greek Orthodoxy might escape public public notice. The eyes of the Russian officials at Moscow were offended by the sight of the new beautiful synagogue structure which had been finished in the fateful year of the expulsion. At first, orders were given to remove from the top of the building the large cupola capped by the Shield of David, which attracted the attention of all passers-by. Later on, the police, without any further ado, shut down the synagogue, in which services had already begun to be held, pending the receipt of a new special permit to re-open it. Rabbi Minor of Moscow and the warden of the synagogue addressed a petition to the governor-general, in which they begged permission to hold services in the building, the construction of which had been duly sanctioned by the Government, pointing to the fact that Judaism was one of the religions tolerated in Russia. In answer to their petition, they received the following stern reply from St. Petersburg, dated September 23, 1892: His Imperial Majesty, after listening to a report of the Minister of the Interior concerning the willful opening of the Moscow Synagogue by Rabbi Minor and Warden Schneider, was graciously pleased to command as follows: _First_. Rabbi Minor of Moscow shall be dismissed from his post and transferred for permanent residence to the Pale of Jewish Settlement. _Second_. Warden Schneider shall be removed from the precincts of Moscow for two years. _Third_. The Jewish Synagogue Society shall be notified that, unless, by January 1, 1893, the synagogue structure will have been sold or transformed into a charitable institution, it will be sold at public auction by the gubernatorial administration of Moscow. The rabbi and the warden went into exile, while the dead body of the murdered synagogue--its structure--was saved from desecration by placing in it one of the schools of the Moscow community. The fight against the places of Jewish worship was renewed by the police a few years later, during the reign of Nicholas II. The principal synagogue being closed, the Jews of Moscow were compelled to hold services in uncomfortable private premises. There were fourteen houses of prayer of this kind in various parts of the city, but, on the eve of the Jewish Passover of 1894, the governor-general gave orders to close nine of these houses, so that the religious needs of a community of ten thousand souls had to be satisfied in five houses of worship, situated in narrow, unsanitary quarters. The Government had achieved its purpose. The synagogue was humbled into the dust, and its sight no longer offended the eyes of the Greek-Orthodox zealots. The Jews of Moscow were forced to pour out their hearts before God in some back yards, in the stuffy atmosphere of private dwellings. As in the days of the Spanish inquisition, these private houses of worship would, on the solemn days of Rosh ha-Shanah and Yom Kippur, be stealthily visited by the "marranos" of Moscow, those Jews who had saved themselves from the wholesale expulsions by fictitious conversion to Christianity. The passionate prayers of repentance of these involuntary apostates rose up to heaven as they had done in centuries gone-by from the underground synagogues of Seville, Toledo, and Saragossa. By and by, the attempt to take the Jewish citadel by storm gave way to the former regular state of siege, which had for its object to starve out the Jews. The municipal counterreform of 1892 dealt a severe political blow to Russian Jewry. Under the old law, the number of Jewish aldermen in the municipal administration had been limited to one-third of the total number of aldermen, aside from the prohibition barring the Jews from the office of burgomaster [1]. Notwithstanding these restrictions, the Jews played a conspicuous part in municipal self-government, and could boast of a number of prominent municipal workers. This activity of the Jews went against the grain of the inquisitorial trio, Pobyedonostzev, Durnovo, and Plehve, and they decided to bar the Jews completely from participation in the municipal elections. [Footnote 1: See p. 198 et seq.] The reactionary, anti-democratic "Municipal Regulation" of 1892 proclaimed publicly this new Jewish disfranchisement. The new law deprived the Jews of their right of passive and active election to the municipal Dumas, merely granting the local administration the right to _appoint_ at its pleasure a number of Jewish aldermen, not to exceed one-tenth of the total membership of the Duma. Moreover, these Jewish aldermen "by the grace of the police" were prohibited from serving on the executive organs of the Duma, the administrative council, and the various standing committees. As a result, even there where the Jews formed sixty and seventy per cent of the total urban population, their only representatives in the municipal administration were men who were the willing tools of the municipal powers and who, moreover, were quantitatively restricted to five or ten per cent of the total number of aldermen. In this wise, the law providing for an inverse ratio of popular representation came into effect: four-fifths of the population were limited to one-tenth of the number of aldermen, while one-fifth of it were granted nine-tenths of aldermen in the city government. The law seemed to tell the Jews: "True, in a given city you may form the overwhelming majority of tax-payers, yet the city property shall not be managed by you but by the small Christian, minority which shall do with you as it pleases." It goes without saying that the Christian minority, which was not infrequently hostile to the Jews, managed the city affairs in a manner subversive of the interests of the majority. Even the imposts on special Jewish needs, such as the meat and candle tax, were often used by the the municipal Dumas towards the maintenance of institutions and schools to to which Jews were admitted in an insignificant number or not admitted at at all. This condition of affairs was in full accord with the medieval medieval Church canons: A Jew living in a Christian country has no right to to dispose of any property and must remain in slavish subjection to his his Christian fellow-citizens. A number of laws passed during that period are of such a nature as to admit of but one explanation, the desire to insult and humiliate the Jew and to brand him by the medieval Cain's mark of persecution. The law, issued in 1893, "Concerning Names" threatens with criminal prosecution those Jews who in their private life call themselves by names differing in form from those recorded in the official registers. The practice of many educated Jews to Russianize their names, such as Gregory, instead of Hirsch, Vladimir, instead of Wolf, etc., could now land the culprits in prison. It was even forbidden to correct the disfigurements to which the Jewish names were generally subjected in the registers, such as Yosel, instead of Joseph; Srul, instead of Israel; Itzek, instead of Isaac, and so on. In several cities the police brought action against such Jews "for having adopted Christian names" in newspaper advertisements, on visiting cards, or on door signs. The new Passport Regulation of 1894 orders to insert in _all_ Jewish passports a physical description of their owners, even in the case of their being literate and, therefore, being able to affix their signature to the passport, whereas such description was omitted from the passports of literate Christians. In some places the police deliberately tried to make the Jewish passports more conspicuous by marking on them the denomination of the owner in red ink. Even in those rare instances in which the law was intended to bring relief, the Government managed to emphasize its hostile intent. The law of 1893, legalizing the Jewish heder and putting an end to the persecutions, which this traditional Jewish school had suffered at the hands of the police, narrowed at the same time its function to that of an exclusively religious institution and indirectly forbade the teaching in it of general secular subjects. There are cases on record in which the keepers of these heders, the so-called melammeds, were put on trial for imparting to their pupils a knowledge of Russian and arithmetic. However, the most effective whip in the hands of the Government remained as theretofore the expulsion from the governments of the interior. In 1893, this whip cracked over the backs of thousands of Jewish families. Durnovo, the Minister of the Interior, issued a circular, repealing the old decree of 1880, which had sanctioned the residence outside the Pale of Settlement of all those Jews who had lived there previously.[1] That decree had been prompted by the motive to prevent the complete economic ruin of the Jews who were settled in places outside the Pale and had created there industrial enterprises. But such a motive, which even the anti-Semitic Ministry of Tolstoi had not been bold enough to disregard, did not appeal to the new Hamans. Many thousands of Jewish families, who had lived outside the Pale for decades, were threatened with exile. The difficulties attending the execution of this wholesale expulsion forced the Government to make concessions. In the Baltic provinces the banishment of the old settlers was repealed, while in the Great Russian governments it was postponed for a year or two. [Footnote 1: Compare p. 404.] There was a particularly spiteful motive behind the imperial ukase of 1893, excluding the Crimean resort place Yalta from the Pale of Settlement, [1] and ordering the expulsion from there of hundreds of families which were not enrolled in the local town community. No official reason was given for this new disability, but everybody knew it. In the neighborhood of Yalta was the imperial summer residence Livadia, where Alexander III. was fond of spending the autumn, and this circumstance made it imperative to reduce the number of the local Jewish residents to a negligible quantity. To avert the complete ruin of the victims, many were granted reprieves, but after the expiration of their terms they were ruthlessly deported. The last batches of exiles were driven from Yalta in the month of October and in the beginning of November, 1894, during the days of public mourning for the death of Alexander III. On October 20, the Tzar was destined to die in the neighborhood of the town which was purged of the Jewish populace for his benefit. While the earthly remains of the dead emperor were carried on the railroad tracks to St. Petersburg, trains filled with Jewish refugees from Yalta were rolling on the parallel tracks, speeding towards the Pale of Settlement. [Footnote 1: The Crimean peninsula, forming part of the government of Tavrida, is situated within the Pale.] Such was the symbolic _finale_ of the reign of Alexander III. which lasted fourteen years. Having begun with pogroms, it ended with expulsions. The martyred nation stood at the threshold of the new reign with a silent question on its lip: "What next?" 
37947	----	Transcriber's Notes: Punctuation and hyphenation have been normalised. Variable, archaic or unusual spelling has been retained. A list of the few corrections made can found at the end of the book. Italics indicated by _underscores_. [Illustration: GREECE, TURKEY, _PART OF_ RUSSIA & POLAND.] INCIDENTS OF TRAVEL IN GREECE, TURKEY, RUSSIA AND POLAND. BY THE AUTHOR OF "INCIDENTS OF TRAVEL IN EGYPT, ARABIA PETRÆA, AND THE HOLY LAND." WITH A MAP AND ENGRAVINGS. IN TWO VOLUMES. VOL. II. SEVENTH EDITION. NEW YORK: HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS, 329 & 331 PEARL STREET, FRANKLIN SQUARE. 1853. Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1838, by HARPER & BROTHERS, in the Clerk's Office of the Southern District of New York. CONTENTS OF THE SECOND VOLUME. CHAPTER I. Page Choice of a Conveyance.--Hiring a Servant.--Another American.--Beginning of Troubles.--A Bivouac.--Russian Jews.--The Steppes of Russia.--A _Traveller's_ Story.--Approach to Chioff.--How to get rid of a Servant.--History of Chioff. 7 CHAPTER II. A lucky Encounter.--Church of the Catacombs.--A Visit to the Saints.--A tender Parting.--Pilgrims.--Rough Treatment.--A Scene of Starvation.--Russian Serfs.--Devotion of the Serfs.--Approach to Moscow. 28 CHAPTER III. Moscow.--A severe Operation.--An Exile by Accident.--Meeting with an Emigré.--A civil Stranger.--A Spy.--The Kremlin.--Sepulchres of the Czars.--The great Bell.--The great Gun.--Precious Relics. 45 CHAPTER IV. The Drosky.--Salle des Nobles.--Russian Gaming.--Gastronomy.--Pedroski.--A Sunday in Moscow.--A Gipsy Belle.--Tea drinking.--The Emperor's Garden.--Retrospective. 67 CHAPTER V. Getting a Passport.--Parting with the Marquis.--The Language of Signs.--A loquacious Traveller.--From Moscow to St. Petersburgh.--The Wolga.--Novogorod.--Newski Perspective.--An unfortunate Mistake.--Northern Twilight. 85 CHAPTER VI. Police Requisites.--The Russian Capital.--Equestrian Statue of Peter the Great.--The Alexandrian Column.--Architectural Wonders.--The Summer Islands.--A perilous Achievement.--Origin of St. Petersburgh.--Tombs of dead Monarchs.--Origin of the Russian Navy. 97 CHAPTER VII. A Carroty Pole.--The Winter Palace.--Importance of a Hat.--An artificial Mine.--Remains of a huge Monster.--Peter the Great's Workshop.--The Greek Religion.--Tomb of a Hero.--A Saint Militant.--Another Love Affair.--The Hermitage.--The Winter and Summer Gardens. 118 CHAPTER VIII. An Imperial Fête.--Nicolas of Russia.--Varied Splendours.--A Soliloquy.--House of Peter the Great.--A Boatrace.--Czarskoselo.--The Amber Chamber.--Catharine II.--The Emperor Alexander. 140 CHAPTER IX. The Soldier's Reward.--Review of the Russian Army.--American Cannibals.--Palace of Potemkin.--Palace of the Grand-duke Michael.--Equipments for Travelling.--Rough Riding.--Poland.--Vitepsk.--Napoleon in Poland.--The Disastrous Retreat.--Passage of the Berezina. 154 CHAPTER X. Travel by Night.--A Rencounter.--A Traveller's Message.--Lithuania.--Poverty of the Country.--Agricultural Implements.--Minsk.--Polish Jews.--A Coin of Freedom.--Riding in a Basket.--Brezc.--The Bug.--A searching Operation.--Women Labourers.--Warsaw. 181 CHAPTER XI. Warsaw.--A Polish Doctor.--Battle of Grokow.--The Outbreak.--The fatal Issue.--Present Condition of Poland.--Polish Exiles.--Aspect of Warsaw.--Traits of the Poles. 199 CHAPTER XII. Religion of Poland.--Sunday in Warsaw.--Baptized Jews.--Palaces of the Polish Kings.--Sobieski.--Field of Vola.--Wreck of a Warrior.--The Poles in America.--A Polish Lady.--Troubles of a Passport.--Departure from Warsaw.--An official Rachel.--A mysterious Visiter. 215 CHAPTER XIII. Friendly Solicitude.--Raddom.--Symptoms of a Difficulty.--A Court of Inquisition.--Showing a proper Spirit.--Troubles thickening.--Approaching the Climax.--Woman's Influence.--The Finale.--Utility of the Classics.--Another Latinist.--A Lucky Accident.--Arrival at Cracow. 235 CHAPTER XIV. Cracow.--Casimir the Great.--Kosciusko.--Tombs of the Polish Kings.--A Polish Heroine.--Last Words of a King.--A Hero in Decay.--The Salt-mines of Cracow.--The Descent.--The Mines.--Underground Meditations.--The Farewell. 254 INCIDENTS OF TRAVEL IN GREECE, TURKEY, RUSSIA, AND POLAND. CHAPTER I. Choice of a Conveyance.--Hiring a Servant.--Another American.--Beginning of Troubles.--A Bivouac.--Russian Jews.--The Steppes of Russia.--A _Traveller's_ Story.--Approach to Chioff.--How to get rid of a Servant.--History of Chioff. I HAD before me a journey of nearly two thousand miles, through a country more than half barbarous, and entirely destitute of all accommodation for travellers. Southern Russia was the Scythia of Darius, "savage from the remotest time." "All the way," says an old traveller, "I never came in a house, but lodged in the wilderness by the river side, and carried provisions by the way, for there be small succour in those parts;" and we were advised that a century had made but little change in the interior of the empire. There were no public conveyances, and we had our choice of three modes of travelling; first, by a Jew's wagon, in which the traveller stretches out his bed, and is trundled along like a bale of goods, always with the same horses, and therefore, of necessity, making slow progress; secondly, the char de poste, a mere box of wood on four wheels, with straw in the bottom; very fast, but to be changed always with the posthorses; and, thirdly, posting with our own carriage. We did not hesitate long in choosing the last, and bought a carriage, fortunately a good one, a large calêche which an Italian nobleman had had made for his own use in travelling on the Continent, and which he now sold, not because he did not want it, but because he wanted money more. Next we procured a podoroshni, under which, "By order of his Majesty Nicolas the First, autocrat of all the Russias, from Odessa to Moscow and Petersburgh, all the postoffices were commanded to give ---- and ----, with their servant, four horses with their drivers, at the price fixed by law." Besides this, it was necessary to give security that we left no debts behind us; and if Mr. Ralli undertakes for all Americans the same obligation he did for me, it may happen that his office of consul will be no sinecure. Next, and this was no trifling matter, we got our passports arranged; the Russian ambassador at Constantinople, by-the-way, had given me a new passport in Russian, and my companion, that he might travel with the advantages of rank and title, got himself made "noble" by an extra stroke of his consul's pen. The last thing was to engage a servant. We had plenty of applications, but, as very few talked any language we understood, we had not much choice, one, a German, a capital fellow, was exactly the man we wanted, only he could not speak a word of Russian, which was the principal qualification we required in a servant. At length came a Frenchman, with an unusual proportion of whiskers and mustaches, and one of the worst of the desperate emigrés whom the French Revolution, or, rather, the Restoration, sent roaming in foreign lands. He had naturally a most unprepossessing physiognomy, and this was heightened by a sabre-cut which had knocked out several of his teeth, and left a huge gash in his cheek and lip, and, moreover, made him speak very unintelligibly. When I asked him if he was a Frenchman, he drew himself up with great dignity, and replied, "Monsieur je suis _Parisien_." His appearance was a gross libel upon the Parisians; but, as we could get no one else, we took him upon little recommendation the day before our departure, and, during the same day, threatened half a dozen times to discharge him. The police regulation, obliging him to pay his debts before leaving Odessa, he seemed to consider peculiarly hard; and, all the time he was with us, kept referring to his having been obliged to fritter away thirty or forty rubles before he could leave. We ought to have furnished ourselves with provisions for the whole road to Moscow, and even cooking utensils; but we neglected it, and carried with us only tea and sugar, a tin teapot, two tin cups, two tin plates, two knives and forks, and some Bologna sausages, trusting, like Napoleon when he invaded Russia, to make up the rest by foraging. Before beginning our journey we had a foretaste of the difficulty of travelling in Russia. We had ordered posthorses three times, and had sent for them morning and evening, and received for answer that there were none in. At the third disappointment, our own consul being out of town, my friend the Spanish consul went with me to the director of the post, and found that during the time in which they had told us they had no horses, they had sent out more than a hundred. Instead of taxing them with their rascality, he talked the matter over very politely, paid the price of the horses, gave them a bonus of ten rubles, and obtained a promise by all the saints in the Russian calendar for daylight the next morning. The next morning at eight o'clock the horses came; four shaggy, wild-looking little animals, which no comb or brush had ever touched, harnessed with a collar and rope lines. They were tied in with rope traces, all abreast, two on each side the pole, and a postillion with a low wool cap, sheepskin coat and trousers, the woolly side next the skin, who would make an English whip stare, mounted the box. Henri followed, and my companion and myself took our seats within. The day before we had a positive quarrel upon a point unnecessary here to mention, in which I thought and still think he acted wrong, and the dispute had run so high that I told him I regretted exceedingly having made arrangements for travelling with him, and proposed even then to part company; he objected, and as we had purchased a carriage jointly, and particularly as our passports were prepared, our podoroshni made out, and servant hired in our joint names, I was fain to go on; and in this inauspicious humour toward each other we set out for a journey of nearly two thousand miles, through a wild and desolate country, among a half-civilized people, whose language we could not understand, and with a servant whom we distrusted and disliked. In spite of all this, however, I felt a high degree of excitement in starting for the capital of Russia; and I will do my companion the justice to say that he had been always ready to receive my advances, and to do more than meet me half way, which I afterward learned was from an apprehension of the taunts of his companions, who, not satisfied with getting rid of him, had constantly told him that it was impossible for an Englishman and an American to travel together, and that we would quarrel and fight the first day. I believe that I am enough of an American in my feelings, but such an idea had never entered my head; I met many Englishmen, and with some formed a friendship which, I trust, will last through life; and among all I met, these two were the only _young_ men so far behind the spirit of the age as to harbour such a thought. I did meet one _old_ gentleman, who, though showing me personally the greatest kindness, could not forget the old grudge. But men cannot be driving their elbows into each other's ribs, comparing money accounts, and consulting upon the hundred little things that present themselves on such a journey, without getting upon at least sociable terms; and before night of the first day the feelings of my companion and myself had undergone a decided change. But to go back to Odessa. At the barrier we found a large travelling-carriage stopping the way, in which was my friend Mr. Ralli, with his lady, on his way to Nicolaif; part of his business there was to erect a monument to the memory of a deceased countryman. Mr. Munroe, son of a former postmaster in Washington, is another instance of the success of American adventurers in Russia. He went out to St. Petersburgh with letters from the Russian ambassador and others, and entered the army, the only road to distinction in Russia. He accompanied the Grand-duke Constantine to Poland, and was made one of his aiddecamps, and on the death of Constantine was transferred to the staff of the Emperor Nicolas. At the time of the invasion of Turkey by the Egyptians under Ibrahim Pacha, Mr. Munroe held the rank of colonel in the army sent to the aid of the sultan. While the Russians were encamped at the foot of the Giant's Mountain, he visited Constantinople, and became acquainted with the American missionaries, who all spoke of him in the highest terms. He was a tall, well-made man, carried himself with a military air, and looked admirably well in the Russian uniform. On the withdrawal of the Russians from the Black Sea, Mr. Munroe was left in some important charge at Nicolaif, where he died in the opening of a brilliant career. I heard of him all over Russia, particularly from officers of the army; and being often asked if I knew him, regretted to be obliged to answer no. But, though personally unacquainted, as an American I was gratified with the name he had left behind him. To return again to our journey: a few rubles satisfied the officer at the barrier that we were carrying nothing prohibited out of the "free port" of Odessa, and we started on a full run, to the great peril of our necks, and, to use the climax of a Dutch proclamation, "what's more, of breaking our carriage." In less than an hour we brought up before the door of a posthouse. Our wheels were smoking when we stopped. On our hind axle we carried a bucket of grease; half a dozen bipeds in sheepskin whipped off the wheels and greased them; four quadrupeds were tied into the carriage, another bête mounted the box, and we were off again at a full run. My companion undertook to keep a memorandum of expenses, and we put a certain sum in a purse and paid out of it till all was gone. This was a glorious beginning for a journey of two thousand miles. The country possessed little interest, being mostly level, and having but few villages. On the way we saw a natural phenomenon that is common enough in Egypt and the East, where the country is level, and known by the name of _mirage_. At a distance it seemed a mere pond or lake, and a drove of cattle passing over it looked as if they were walking in the water. We rolled on rapidly all day, passed through Balgarha, Kodurseve, and Pakra, timing every post and noting every village with a particularity which it would be tedious here to repeat, and at about eight in the evening dashed into the little town of Vosnezeuski, one hundred and thirty versts from Odessa. Here we came to a dead stand. We had begun to entertain some apprehensions from the conduct of Monsieur Henri, who complained of the hardness of his seat, and asked if we did not intend to stop at night, recommending Vosnezeuski as a place where we could sleep in the posthouse; we told him that we had no idea of stopping but to change horses, and should go on immediately. Vosnezeuski lies on the river Bog, and is the chief town of the Cossacks of the Bog. This river is navigable for large vessels one hundred and fifty versts; beyond this for three or four hundred versts it is full of cataracts. The Cossacks of the Bog are a warlike tribe, numbering from six to seven thousand, and living under the same military system with the Cossacks of the Don. But we fell into worse hands than the Cossacks. The postmaster was a Jew, and at first told us that he had no horses; then that he had no postillion, but would hire one if we would pay him a certain sum, about four times the amount fixed by law. We had been obliged before to pay a few extra rubles, but this was our first serious difficulty with the postmasters; and, in pursuance of the advice received at Odessa, we talked loud, demanded the book which is nailed to the table in every posthouse for travellers to enter complaints in, and threatened the vengeance of Count Woronzow and every one else, up to the emperor; but the Jew laughed in our faces; looked in our podoroshni, where we were described as simple travellers, without any of the formidable array of titles which procure respect in Russia; told us we were no grand seigneurs, and that we must either pay the price or wait, as our betters had done before us. We found too soon, as we had been advised at Odessa, that these fellows do not know such a character in society as a private gentleman; and if a man is not described in his podoroshni as a count, duke, or lord of some kind, or by some high-sounding military title, they think he is a merchant or manufacturer, or some other common fellow, and pay no regard to him. I relied somewhat upon my companion's having been made "noble," but now found that his consul had been rather chary of his honours, and, by the Russian word used, had not put him up high enough to be of any use. We had a long wrangle with the Jew, the result of which was, that we told him, probably in no very gentle phrase, that we would wait a month rather than submit to his extortion; and, drawing up the window of our carriage, prepared to pass the night at the door of the posthouse. One of our party was evidently well satisfied with this arrangement, and he was Monsieur Henri. We had hired him by the day to Moscow, and, if we wanted him, to St. Petersburgh, and very soon saw that he was perfectly content with the terms, and in no hurry to bring our journey to a close. From the moment of our arrival we suspected him of encouraging the postmaster in his efforts to detain us, and were so much fortified in this opinion by after circumstances, that, when he was about moving toward the house to pass the night within, we peremptorily ordered him to mount the box and sleep there; he refused, we insisted; and as this was the first day out and the first moment of actual collision, and it was all important to decide who should be master, we told him that, if he did not obey, we would discharge him on the spot, at the risk of being obliged to work our way back to Odessa alone. And as he felt that, in that case, his debts would have been paid to no purpose, with a string of suppressed sacrés he took his place on the box. Our carriage was very comfortable, well lined and stuffed, furnished with pockets and everything necessary for the road, and we expected to sleep in it; but, to tell the truth, we felt rather cheap as we woke during the night, and looked at the shut door of the posthouse, and thought of the Jew sleeping away in utter contempt of us, and our only satisfaction was in hearing an occasional groan from Henri. That worthy individual did not oversleep himself, nor did he suffer the Jew to do so either. Early in the morning, without a word on our part, the horses were brought out and harnessed to our vehicle, and the same man whom he professed to have hired expressly for us, and who, no doubt, was the regular postillion, mounted the box. The Jew maintained his impudence to the last, coming round to my window, and then asking a few rubles as a douceur. Good English would have been thrown away upon him, so I resented it by drawing up the window of the carriage and scowling at him through the glass. Many of the postmasters along this road were Jews; and I am compelled to say that they were always the greatest scoundrels we had to deal with; and this is placing them on very high ground, for their inferiors in rascality would be accounted masters in any other country. No men can bear a worse character than the Russian Jews, and I can truly say that I found them all they were represented to be. They are not allowed to come within the territory of old Russia. Peter the Great refused their application to be permitted to approach nearer, smoothing his refusal by telling them that his Russian subjects were greater Jews than they were themselves. The sagacious old monarch, however, was wrong; for all the money business along the road is in their hands. They keep little taverns, where they sell vodka, a species of brandy, and wring from the peasant all his earnings, lending the money again to the seigneurs at exorbitant interest. Many of them are rich, and though alike despised by rich and poor, by the seigneur and the serf, they are proud of exhibiting their wealth, particularly in the jewels and ornaments of their women. At Savonka, a little village on the confines of old Poland, where we were detained waiting for horses, I saw a young girl about sixteen, a Polonese, sitting on the steps of a miserable little tavern, sewing together some ribands, with a headdress of brown cloth, ornamented with gold chains and pearls worth six hundred rubles, diamond earrings worth a hundred, and a necklace of ducats and other Dutch gold pieces worth four hundred rubles; altogether, in our currency, worth perhaps two hundred and fifty dollars. Here, too, while sitting with Henri on the steps of the posthouse, I asked him in a friendly way how he could be such a rascal as to league with the postmaster to detain us at Vosnezeuski, whereupon he went at once into French heroics, exclaiming, "Monsieur, je suis vieux militaire--j'etais chasseur de Napoleon--mon honneur," &c.; that he had never travelled before except with grand seigneurs, and then _in_ the carriage, more as compagnon de voyage than as a servant, and intimated that it was a great condescension to travel with us at all. We passed through several villages, so much alike and so uninteresting in appearance that I did not note even their names. As night approached we had great apprehensions that Henri would contrive to make us stop again; but the recollection of his bed on the box served as a lesson, and we rolled on without interruption. At daylight we awoke, and found ourselves upon the wild steppes of Russia, forming part of the immense plain which, beginning in northern Germany, extends for hundreds of miles, having its surface occasionally diversified by ancient tumuli, and terminates at the long chain of the Urals, which, rising like a wall, separates them from the equally vast plains of Siberia. The whole of this immense plain was covered with a luxuriant pasture, but bare of trees like our prairie lands, mostly uncultivated, yet everywhere capable of producing the same wheat which now draws to the Black Sea the vessels of Turkey, Egypt, and Italy, making Russia the granary of the Levant; and which, within the last year, we have seen brought six thousand miles to our own doors. Our road over these steppes was in its natural state; that is to say, a mere track worn by caravans of wagons; there were no fences, and sometimes the route was marked at intervals by heaps of stones, intended as guides when the ground should be covered with snow. I had some anxiety about our carriage; the spokes of the wheels were all strengthened and secured by cords wound tightly around them, and interlaced so as to make a network; but the postillions were so perfectly reckless as to the fate of the carriage, that every crack went through me like a shot. The breaking of a wheel would have left us perfectly helpless in a desolate country, perhaps more than a hundred miles from any place where we could get it repaired. Indeed, on the whole road to Chioff there was not a single place where we could have any material injury repaired; and the remark of the old traveller is yet emphatically true, that "there be small succour in these parts." [Illustration: Tumuli on the Steppes.] At about nine o'clock we whirled furiously into a little village, and stopped at the door of the posthouse. Our wheels were smoking with the rapidity of their revolutions; Henri dashed a bucket of water over them to keep them from burning, and half a dozen men whipped them off and greased them. Indeed, greasing the wheels is necessary at every post, as otherwise the hubs become dry, so that there is actual danger of their taking fire; and there is a _traveller's_ story told (but I do not vouch for its truth) of a postillion, wagon, and passengers being all burned up on the road to Moscow by the ignition of the wheels. The village, like all the others, was built of wood, plastered and whitewashed, with roofs of thatched straw, and the houses were much cleaner than I expected to find them. We got plenty of fresh milk; the bread, which to the traveller in those countries is emphatically the staff of life, we found good everywhere in Russia, and at Moscow the whitest I ever saw. Henri was an enormous feeder, and, wherever we stopped, he disappeared for a moment, and came out with a loaf of bread in his hand and his mustache covered with the froth of quass, a Russian small beer. He said he was not always so voracious, but his seat was so hard, and he was so roughly shaken, that eating did him no good. Resuming our journey, we met no travellers. Occasionally we passed large droves of cattle, but all the way from Odessa the principal objects were long trains of wagons, fifty or sixty together, drawn by oxen, and transporting merchandise toward Moscow or grain to the Black Sea. Their approach was indicated at a great distance by immense clouds of dust, which gave us timely notice to let down our curtains and raise our glasses. The wagoners were short, ugly-looking fellows, with huge sandy mustaches and beards, black woolly caps, and sheepskin jackets, the wool side next the skin; perhaps, in many cases, transferred warm from the back of one animal to that of the other, where they remained till worn out or eaten up by vermin. They had among them blacksmiths and wheelwrights, and spare wheels, and hammer, and tools, and everything necessary for a journey of several hundred miles. Half of them were generally asleep on the top of their loads, and they encamped at night in caravan style, arranging the wagons in a square, building a large fire, and sleeping around it. About midday we saw clouds gathering afar off in the horizon, and soon after the rain began to fall, and we could see it advancing rapidly over the immense level till it broke over our heads, and in a few moments passed off, leaving the ground smoking with exhalations. Late in the afternoon we met the travelling equipage of a seigneur returning from Moscow to his estate in the country. It consisted of four carriages, with six or eight horses each. The first was a large, stately, and cumbrous vehicle, padded and cushioned, in which, as we passed rapidly by, we caught a glimpse of a corpulent Russian on the back seat, with his feet on the front, bolstered all around with pillows and cushions, almost burying every part of him but his face, and looking the very personification of luxurious indulgence; and yet probably, that man had been a soldier, and slept many a night on the bare ground, with no covering but his military cloak. Next came another carriage, fitted out in the same luxurious style, with the seigneur's lady and a little girl; then another with nurses and children; then beds, baggage, cooking utensils, and servants, the latter hanging on everywhere about the vehicle, much in the same way with the pots and kettles. Altogether, it was an equipment in caravan style, somewhat the same as for a journey in the desert, the traveller carrying with him provision and everything necessary for his comfort, as not expecting to procure anything on the road, nor to sleep under a roof during the whole journey. He stops when he pleases, and his servants prepare his meals, sometimes in the open air, but generally at the posthouse. We had constant difficulties with Henri and the postmasters, but, except when detained for an hour or two by these petty tyrants, we rolled on all night, and in the morning again woke upon the same boundless plain. The posthouse was usually in a village, but sometimes stood alone, the only object to be seen on the great plain. Before it was always a high square post, with black and white stripes, marking the number of versts from station to station; opposite to this Henri dismounted, and presented the podoroshni or imperial order for horses. But the postmasters were high above the laws; every one of them seemed a little autocrat in his own right, holding his appointment rather to prey upon than to serve travellers; and the emperor's government would be but badly administered if his ukases and other high-sounding orders did not carry with them more weight than his podoroshni. The postmasters obeyed it when they pleased, and when they did not, made a new bargain. They always had an excuse; as, for instance, that they had no horses, or were keeping them in reserve for a courier or grand seigneur; but they listened to reason when enforced by rubles, and, as soon as a new bargain was made, half a dozen animals in sheepskin went out on the plain and drove up fifteen or twenty horses, small, rugged, and tough, with long and shaggy manes and tails, which no comb or brush had ever touched, and, diving among them promiscuously, caught four, put on rope headstalls, and tied them to our rope traces. The postillion mounted the box, and shouting and whipping his horses, and sometimes shutting his eyes, started from the post on a full gallop, carried us like the wind, ventre à terre, over the immense plain, sometimes without a rut or any visible mark to guide him, and brought us up all standing in front of the next post. A long delay and a short post, and this was the same over and over again during the whole journey. The time actually consumed in making progress was incredibly short, and I do not know a more beautiful way of getting over the ground than posting in Russia with a man of high military rank, who can make the postmasters give him horses immediately on his arrival. As for us, after an infinite deal of vexation and at a ruinous expense, on the morning of the fourth day we were within one post of Chioff. Here we heard with great satisfaction that a diligence was advertised for Moscow, and we determined at once to get rid of carriage, posting, and Henri. We took our seats for the last time in the _calêche_ gave the postillion a double allowance of kopeks, and in half an hour saw at a great distance the venerable city of Chioff, the ancient capital of Russia. It stands at a great height, on the crest of an amphitheatre of hills, which rise abruptly in the middle of an immense plain, apparently thrown up by some wild freak of nature, at once curious, unique, and beautiful. The style of its architecture is admirably calculated to give effect to its peculiar position; and, after a dreary journey over the wild plains of the Ukraine, it breaks upon the traveller with all the glittering and gorgeous splendour of an Asiatic city. For many centuries it has been regarded as the Jerusalem of the North, the sacred and holy city of the Russians; and, long before reaching it, its numerous convents and churches, crowning the summit and hanging on the sides of the hill, with their quadrupled domes, and spires, and chains, and crosses, gilded with ducat gold and glittering in the sun, gave the whole city the appearance of golden splendour. The churches and monasteries have one large dome in the centre, with a spire surmounted by a cross, and several smaller domes around it, also with spires and crosses connected by pendant chains, and all gilded so purely that they never tarnish. We drove rapidly to the foot of the hill, and ascended by a long wooden paved road to the heart of the city. During the whole of our last post our interest had been divided between the venerable city and the rogue Henri. My companion, who, by-the-way, spoke but little French disliked him from the first. We had long considered him in league with all the Jews and postmasters on the road, and had determined under no circumstances to take him farther than Chioff; but as we had hired him to Moscow, the difficulty was how to get rid of him. He might take it into his head that, if we did not know when we had a good servant, he knew when he had good masters; but he was constantly grumbling about his seat, and calculated upon three or four days' rest at Chioff. So, as soon as we drove up to the door of the hotel, we told him to order breakfast and posthorses. He turned round as if he had not fully comprehended us. We repeated the order, and for the first time since he had been with us he showed something like agility in dismounting; fairly threw himself from the box, swore he would not ride another verst that day for a thousand rubles, and discharged us on the spot. We afterward paid him to his entire satisfaction, indemnifying him for the money he had squandered in paying his debts at Odessa, and found him more useful at Chioff than he had been at any time on the road. Indeed, we afterward learned what was rather ludicrous, viz., that he, our pilot and interpreter through the wilderness of Russia, knew but little more of Russian than we did ourselves. He could ask for posthorses and the ordinary necessaries of life, count money, &c., but could not support a connected conversation, nor speak nor understand a long sentence. This changed our suspicions of his honesty into admiration of his impudence; but, in the mean time, when he discharged us, we should have been rather destitute if it had not been for the servant of a Russian traveller, who spoke French, and, taking our direction from him, we mounted a drosky and rode to the office of the diligence, which was situated in the Podolsk or lower town, and at which we found ourselves particularly well received by the proprietor. He said that the attempt to run a diligence was discouraging; that he had advertised two weeks, and had not booked a single passenger; but, if he could get two, he was determined to try the experiment. We examined the vehicle, which was very large and convenient, and, satisfied that there was no danger of all the places being taken, we left him until we could make an effort to dispose of our carriage. Relieved from all anxiety as to our future movements, we again mounted our drosky. Ascending the hill, we passed the fountain where St. Vladimir baptized the first Russian converts; the spring is held sacred by the Christians now, and a column bearing a cross is erected over it, to commemorate the pious act and the ancient sovereignty of Chioff. The early history of this city is involved in some obscurity. Its name is supposed to be derived from Kiovi or Kii, a Sarmatian word signifying heights or mountains; and its inhabitants, a Sarmatian tribe, were denominated Kivi or mountaineers. It is known to have been a place of consequence in the fifth century, when the Suevi, driven from their settlements on the Danube, established themselves here and at Novogorod. In the beginning of the tenth century it was the capital and most celebrated and opulent city in Russia, or in that part of Europe. Boleslaus the Terrible notched upon its "golden gate" his "miraculous sword," called by the monks "the sword of God," and the Poles entered and plundered it of its riches. In the latter part of the same century the capital of Russia again fell before the conquering arms of the Poles. Kiev was at that time the foster-child of Constantinople and the Eastern empire. The voluptuous Greeks had stored it with all the luxuries of Asia; the noble architecture of Athens was festooned with the gaudy tapestry of Lydia, and the rough metal of Russian swords embossed with the polished gold of Ophir and Persia. Boleslaus II., shut up within the "golden gate" of this city of voluptuousness, quaffed the bowl of pleasure till its intoxicating draught degraded all the nobler energies of his nature. His army of warriors followed his example, and slept away month after month on the soft couches of Kiev; and in the language of the historian, as if they had eaten of the fabled fruit of the lotos-tree, at length forgot that their houses were without masters, their wives without husbands, and their children without parents. But these tender relations were not in like manner oblivious; and, after seven years of absence, the Poles were roused from their trance of pleasure by the tidings of a revolt among the women at home, who, tired of waiting their return, in revenge gave themselves up to the embraces of their slaves. Burning under the disgrace, the Poles hurried home to wreak their vengeance on wives and paramours; but they met at Warsaw a bloody resistance; the women, maddened by despair, urged on their lovers, many of them fighting in person, and seeking out on the battle-field their faithless husbands: an awful warning to married men! For a long time Kiev was the prey alternately of the Poles, the Lithuanians, and the Tartars, until in 1686 it was finally ceded by the Poles to Russia. The city is composed of three distinct quarters; the old, with its Polish fortifications, containing the palace of the emperor, and being the court end; the Petcherk fortress, built by Peter the Great, with ditches and high ramparts, and an arsenal capable of containing eighty or a hundred thousand stand of arms; and the Podolsk, or business part, situated at the foot of the hill on the banks of the Dnieper. It contains thirty thousand inhabitants besides a large military garrison, partly of Cossack troops, and one pretty good hotel; but no beds, and none of those soft couches which made the hardy Poles sleep away their senses; and though a welcome resting-place for a traveller through the wild plains of Russia, it does not now possess any such attraction as to put in peril the faith and duties of husbands. By its position secluded from intercourse with strangers, Kiev is still thoroughly a Russian city, retaining in full force its Asiatic style of architecture; and the old Russian, wedded to the manners and customs of his fathers, clings to it as a place which the hand of improvement has not yet reached; among other relics of the olden time, the long beard still flourishes with the same solemn dignity as in the days of Peter the Great. Lying a hundred miles away from the direct road between Moscow and the Black Sea, few European travellers visit it; and though several of them have done so since, perhaps I was the first American who ever passed through it. We passed the morning in riding round to the numerous convents and churches, among which is the church of St. Sophia, the oldest in Russia, and, if not an exact model of the great St. Sophia of Constantinople, at least of Byzantine design; and toward evening went to the emperor's garden. This garden is more than a mile in length, bounded on one side by the high precipitous bank of the hill, undulating in its surface, and laid out like an English park, with lawn, gravel-walks, and trees; it contains houses of refreshment, arbours or summer-houses, and a summer theatre. At the foot of the hill flows the Dnieper, the ancient Borysthenes, on which, in former days the descendants of Odin and Ruric descended to plunder Constantinople. Two or three sloops were lying, as it were, asleep in the lower town, telling of a still interior country, and beyond was a boundless plain covered with a thick forest of trees. The view from this bank was unique and extraordinary, entirely different from anything I ever saw in natural scenery, and resembling more than anything else a boundless marine prospect. At the entrance of the garden is an open square or table of land overlooking the plain, where, every evening at seven o'clock, the military band plays. The garden is the fashionable promenade, the higher classes resorting to it in carriages and on horseback, and the common people on foot; the display of equipages was not very striking, although there is something stylish in the Russian manner of driving four horses, the leaders with very long traces and a postillion; and soldiers and officers, with their splendid uniforms, caps, and plumes, added a brilliant effect. Before the music began, all returned from the promenade or drive in the garden, and gathered in the square. It was a beautiful afternoon in June, and the assemblage was unusually large and brilliant; the carriages drew up in a line, the ladies let down the glasses, and the cavaliers dismounted, and talked and flirted with them just as in civilized countries. All Chioff was there, and the peasant in his dirty sheepskin jacket, the shopkeeper with his long surtout and beard, the postillion on his horse, the coachman on his box, the dashing soldier, the haughty noble and supercilious lady, touched by the same chord, forgot their temporal distinctions, and listened to the swelling strains of the music till the last notes died away. The whole mass was then in motion, and in a few moments, except by a few stragglers, of whom I was one, the garden was deserted. At about ten o'clock I returned to my hotel. We had no beds, and slept in our cloaks on settees stuffed with straw and covered with leather. We had no coverlets; still, after four days and nights in a carriage, it was a luxury to have plenty of kicking room. CHAPTER II. A lucky Encounter.--Church of the Catacombs.--A Visit to the Saints.--A tender Parting.--Pilgrims.--Rough Treatment.--A Scene of Starvation.--Russian Serfs.--Devotion of the Serfs.--Approach to Moscow. EARLY in the morning, while I was standing in the yard of the hotel, chaffering with some Jews about the sale of our carriage, an officer in a faded, threadbare uniform, with two or three ribands at his buttonhole and stars sparkling on his breast, came up, and, taking me by the hand, told me, in capital English, that he had just heard of the arrival of two English gentlemen, and had hurried down to see them; that he was a great admirer of the English, and happy to have an opportunity, in the interior of his own country, to show its hospitalities to the natives of the Island Queen. At the risk of losing the benefit of his attentions, I was obliged to disclaim my supposed English character, and to publish, in the heart of a grinding despotism, that I was a citizen of a free republic. Nor did I suffer for my candour; for, by one of those strange vagaries which sometimes happen, we cannot tell how or why, this officer in the service of Russia had long looked to America and her republican government as the perfection of an ideal system. He was in Chioff only by accident. Wounded in the last campaign against the Turks, he had taken up his abode at Ismail, where, upon his pension and a pittance of his own, he was able to live respectably as a poor officer. With no friends or connexions, and no society at Ismail, his head seemed to have run principally upon two things, apparently having no connexion with each other, but intimately connected in his mind, viz., the British possessions in India and the United States of America; and the cord that bound them together was the wide diffusion of the English language by means of these powerful agents. He told me more than I ever knew of the constitution and government of the East India Company, and their plan of operations; and, in regard to our own country, his knowledge was astonishing; he knew the names and character, and talked familiarly of all our principal men, from the time of Washington to the present day; had read all our standard works, and was far more familiar with those of Franklin, Irving, &c., than I was; in short, he told me that he had read every American book, pamphlet, or paper he could lay his hands on; and so intimate was his knowledge of detail, that he mentioned Chestnut-street by name as one of the principal streets in Philadelphia. It may be supposed that I was not sorry to meet such a man in the heart of Russia. He devoted himself to us, and seldom left us, except at night, until we left the city. After breakfast, accompanied by our new friend with as unpronounceable a name as the best in Russia, we visited the catacombs of the Petcherskoi monastery. I have before remarked that Chioff is the holy city of the Russians, and the crowds of pilgrims we met at every turn in the streets constantly reminded us that this was the great season of the pilgrimage. I was but imperfectly acquainted with the Russian character, but in no one particular had I been so ignorant as in regard to their religious impressions. I had seen Italian, Greek, and Turkish devotees, but the Russian surpassed them all; and, though deriving their religion from strangers, they exceed the punctilious Greeks themselves in the observance of its minutest forms. Censurable, indeed, would he be considered who should pass, in city or in highway, the figure of the cross, the image of the Virgin, or any of the numerous family of saints, without taking off his hat and making on his breast the sacred sign of the cross; and in a city like Chioff, where every turn presents some new object claiming their worship, the eyes of our drosky boy were rapidly turning from one side to the other, and his hand was almost constantly in a quick mechanical motion. The Church of the Catacombs, or the Cathedral of the Assumption, attached to the monastery, stands a little out of the city, on the banks of the Dnieper. It was founded in ten hundred and seventy-three, and has seven golden domes with golden spires, and chains connecting them. The dome of the belfry, which rises above the hill to the height of about three hundred feet, and above the Dnieper to that of five hundred and eighty-six, is considered by the Russians a chef d'oeuvre of architecture. It is adorned with Doric and Ionic columns and Corinthian pilasters; the whole interior bears the venerable garb of antiquity, and is richly ornamented with gold, silver, and precious stones and paintings; indeed, it is altogether very far superior to any Greek church I had then seen. In the immense catacombs under the monastery lie the unburied bodies of the Russian saints, and year after year thousands and tens of thousands come from the wilds of Siberia and the confines of Tartary to kneel at their feet and pray. In one of the porches of the church we bought wax tapers, and, with a long procession of pilgrims, bareheaded and with lighted tapers in our hands, descended a long wooden staircase to the mouth of the catacomb. On each side along the staircase was ranged a line of kneeling devotees, of the same miserable description I had so often seen about the churches in Italy and Greece. Entering the excavated passages of the catacombs, the roof of which was black from the smoke of candles, we saw on each side, in niches in the walls, and in open coffins, enveloped in wrappers of cloth and silk, ornamented with gold and silver, the bodies of the Russian saints. These saints are persons who have led particularly pure and holy lives, and by reason thereof have ascended into heaven, where they are supposed to exercise an influence with the Father and Son; and their bodies are left unburied that their brethren may come to them for intercession, and, seeing their honours after death, study to imitate them in the purity of their lives. The bodies are laid in open coffins, with the stiffened hands so placed as to receive the kisses of pilgrims, and on their breasts are written their names, and sometimes a history of their virtuous actions. But we saw there other and worse things than these, monuments of wild and desperate fanaticism; for besides the bodies of saints who had died at God's appointed time, in one passage is a range of small windows, where men had with their own hands built themselves in with stones against the wall, leaving open only a small hole by which to receive their food; and died with the impious thought that they were doing their Maker good service. These little windows close their dwelling and their tomb; and the devoted Russian, while he kneels before them, believes that their unnatural death has purchased for them everlasting life, and place and power among the spirits of the blessed. We wandered a long time in this extraordinary burial-place, everywhere strewed with the kneeling figures of praying pilgrims. At every turn we saw hundreds from the farthest parts of the immense empire of Russia; perhaps at that time more than three thousand were wandering in these sepulchral chambers. The last scene I shall never forget. More than a hundred were assembled in a little chapel, around which were arranged the bodies of men who had died in peculiar sanctity. All were kneeling on the rocky floor, an old priest, with a long white beard streaming down his breast, was in the midst of them, and all there, even to the little children, were listening with rapt attention, as if he were preaching to them matters of eternal moment. There was no hypocrisy or want of faith in that vast sepulchre; surrounded by their sainted dead, they were searching their way to everlasting life, and in all honesty believed that they saw the way before them. We ascended once more to the regions of upper air, and stopped a few moments in the courtyard of the monastery, where the beggar pilgrims were eating the hard bread distributed to them by the monks from the bounty of government. No man seemed more relieved than the major. He was a liberal in religion as well as in politics, but he crossed himself everywhere most devoutly, to avoid, as he said, offending the prejudices of his countrymen, though once he rather scandalized a group of pilgrims by cross-questioning a monk about a new saint, who seemed to be receiving more than a usual share of veneration, and who, he said, had been canonized since he was there last. But there is a time for all things, and nothing is more absolutely fixed by Nature's laws than a time for dinner. Almost at the first moment of our acquaintance the major had told me of an engraving representing a scene in _New-York_, which was to be found at a second or third rate hotel, and I proposed to him, in compliment to the honest publican who had the good taste to have such a picture in his house, to go there and dine. We went, and in a large room, something like a barroom in our hotels, saw on one of the walls, in a black wooden frame, a gaudy and flaring engraving representing the pulling down of the statue of George the Second in the Bowling Green. The Bowling Green was associated with my earliest recollections. It had been my playground when a boy; hundreds of times I had climbed over its fence for my ball, and I was one of a band of boys who held on to it long after the corporation invaded our rights. Captain Cook mentions the effect produced upon his crew by finding at one of the savage islands he visited a silver spoon marked "London;" my feelings were, in a small way, of the same nature. The grouping of the picture was rude and grotesque, the ringleader being a long negro stripped to his trousers, and straining with all his might upon a rope, one end of which was fastened to the head of the statue, and the other tied around his own waist, his white teeth and the whites of his eyes being particularly conspicuous on a heavy ground of black. It was a poor specimen of art, but it was a home scene; we drew up our table opposite the picture, and here, in the very headquarters of despotism, I found a liberal spirit in an officer wearing the uniform of the autocrat, who pledged me in the toast, "Success to liberty throughout the world." I had another occupation, which savoured more of home, and served to keep my faculties from rusting; and that was the sale of our carriage. We had made a calculation, and found that it would be cheaper, to say nothing of other advantages, to give it away, and take the diligence to Moscow, than go on posting. We accordingly offered it for sale, and every time we returned to the house found a group of Jews examining it. The poor thing found no favour in their eyes; they told us that we had been riding in it at peril of our lives; that we might be thankful it had not broken down on the road; and, in short, that it was worth nothing except for old iron, and for that it was worth forty-five rubles, or about _nine dollars_. We could not stand this. It had cost us one hundred and forty less than a week before, was cheap at that, and as good now as when we bought it. On the eve of departure, therefore, we offered it to our landlord for three days' board; but the old Turk (he was a Jew turned Christian, and in his regenerated worse than his natural state) refused our offer, thinking that we would go away and leave it on his hands. But we resolved to burn it first; and while hesitating about offering it to our friend the major, he relieved us from all delicacy by telling us that he did not want it, and had no horses to put to it; to save us from imposition, he would willingly give us the full value, but he was not worth the money. He had, however, a piece of fifty rubles, or about ten dollars, in his pocket, and, if we would take that, he would keep the carriage as a souvenir. We gladly accepted his offer, and had the satisfaction of finding that we had grievously disappointed both the Jews and our landlord. In the morning the proprietor of the diligence, learning that we had sold our vehicle, raised the price of places fifty rubles apiece; the major heard of it, and insisted upon our taking back the carriage, when the proprietor took another tone, talked of the expense of sending his huge vehicle with only two passengers, and we listened and assented. We started to accompany him, and just at the door of the hotel saw two runaway horses coming furiously down the street with a drosky, and an officer entangled and dragging on the ground. We picked him up and carried him into the hotel. He was a noble-looking man, who but a few minutes before had attracted my attention by his proud and manly bearing, now a miserable mangled object, his clothes torn, his plume soiled with mud, and his face covered with dust and blood, and, when we left, it was uncertain whether he would live or die. The major accompanied us to the office of the diligence, and our parting was rather tender; he rubbed his mustache on both my cheeks, wrote his name in my memorandum-book, and I gave him my address; he said that our visit had been an interlude relieving the dull monotony of his life; that we were going to new scenes, and would soon forget him, but he would not forget us. Nor shall I forget him, although it is not probable that he and I will ever meet again. We took our seats in the diligence for Moscow, and set off with an uncommon degree of satisfaction at having got rid of posting and of Henri, and, with them, of all our troubles. We had nothing to do, no wrangling with postmasters, no cheating to undergo from Jews, and were in that happy state which made the honest Hibernian indifferent to an upset or a breakdown; that is to say, we were merely passengers. With great pomp and circumstance we drove through the principal streets, to advise the Knickerbockers of Chioff of the actual departure of the long-talked-of diligence, the conducteur sounding his trumpet, and the people stopping in the streets and running to the doors to see the extraordinary spectacle. We descended the long wooden road to the river, and crossed the Dnieper on a bridge about half a mile long. On the opposite bank I turned for the last time to the sacred city, and I never saw anything more unique and strikingly beautiful than the high, commanding position of "this city on a hill," crowned with its golden cupolas and domes, that reflected the sun with dazzling brightness. For a short distance the country was rather undulating, but soon settled into the regular steppe. We rolled on all day without anything to annoy us or even to interest us, except processions of pilgrims on their way to Chioff. They travelled on foot in bands of one or two hundred, men, women, and children, headed by a white-bearded monk, barefooted, and leaning on a staff. During the night I was roused by a loud chant, and, looking out, saw a group of more than a hundred pilgrims gathered round a fire, with an old monk in the midst of them, breaking the stillness of night with songs of devotion; and all the night long, as we rode swiftly by, I saw by the bright moonlight groups of forty, fifty, or a hundred lying by the roadside asleep under the trees. More than fifty thousand pilgrims that year visited the catacombs of Kiev, coming from every part of the immense empire of Russia, and many from Kamschatka and the most distant region of Siberia, performing the whole journey on foot, seldom sleeping under a roof, and living upon the precarious charity of the miserable peasants on the road. I have since seen the gathering of pilgrims at Jerusalem, and the whole body moving together from the gates of the city to bathe in the Jordan, and I have seen the great caravan of forty thousand true believers tracking their desolate way through the deserts of Arabia to the tomb of the Prophet at Mecca; but I remember, as if they were before me now, the groups of Russian pilgrims strewed along the road and sleeping under the pale moonlight, the bare earth their bed, the heavens their only covering. In the morning we stopped at a little town, where the posthouse had in front four Corinthian columns supporting a balcony. Inside, mats were placed against the broken windows, the walls were rough logs, the floor of mud, with pigs and children disputing its possession, and the master and mistress stood in special need of the purifying influence of a Russian bath. We brought the teaurn out on the balcony, and had a cow brought up and milked in our presence. After breakfast we lighted our pipes and strolled up the street. At the upper end, an old man in a civil uniform hailed us from the opposite side, and crossed over to meet us; supposing him to be some dignitary disposed to show us the civilities of the town, we waited to receive him with all becoming respect; but, as he approached, were rather startled by the loud tone of his voice and the angry expression of his face, and more so when, as soon as within reach, he gave my pipe-stick a severe rap with his cane, which knocked it out of my mouth, broke the bowl, and scattered the contents on the ground. I picked up the stick, and should, perhaps, have laid it over his head but for his gray hairs; and my companion, seeing him tread out the sparks of fire, recollected that there was a severe penalty in Russia against smoking in the streets. The houses are all of wood; whole villages and towns are often burned down at once, and probably the old man had begun by a civil intimation to that effect; but, indignant at my quietly smoking in his face, had used more summary measures. He was in a perfect fury; and calling at the top of his voice to a man up the street, the latter went off with such a suspicious looking-for-a-police-officer movement, that we hurried back to the diligence, which happened to be ready and waiting for us, and started from the town on a full run. That night, in a miserable posthouse in a miserable village, we found an old billiard-table. It seemed strangely out of place, and I had a great curiosity to know how it had found its way there; but it was twelve o'clock, and all were asleep but the postillion. I can give no account of the rest of the night's work. I had a large cushioned seat of the diligence to myself, certainly the softest bed I had yet had in Russia; and when I put my feet out of the window, it was so comfortable that I felt myself in some danger of falling into luxurious habits. At daylight we arrived in a large village, the inhabitants of which were not yet stirring, and the streets were strewed with peasants, grim, yellow-bearded fellows, in sheepskin dresses and caps, lying on their backs asleep, each of them with a log of wood under his head for a pillow. I descended from the diligence, and found that the whole village consisted of a single street, with log-houses on each side, having their gable ends in front; the doors were all open, and I looked in and saw men and women with all their clothes on, pigs, sheep, and children strewed about the floor. [Illustration: Russian Village.] In every house was the image of the Panagia, or all holy Virgin, or the picture of some tutelary saint, the face only visible, the rest covered with a tin frame, with a lamp or taper burning before it; and regularly as the serf rose he prostrated himself and made his orisons at this domestic shrine. About noon we passed the chateau and grounds of a seigneur; belonging to the chateau was a large church standing in a conspicuous situation, with a green dome, surmounted by the Greek cross; and round it were the miserable and filthy habitations of his slaves. Entering the village, we saw a spectacle of wretchedness and misery seldom surpassed even on the banks of the Nile. The whole population was gathered in the streets, in a state of absolute starvation. The miserable serfs had not raised enough to supply themselves with food, and men of all ages, half-grown boys, and little children were prowling the streets or sitting in the doorways, ravenous with hunger, and waiting for the agent to come down from the chateau and distribute among them bread. I had found in Russia many interesting subjects of comparison between that country and my own, but it was with deep humiliation I felt that the most odious feature in that despotic government found a parallel in ours. At this day, with the exception of Russia, some of the West India Islands, and the republic of the United States, every country in the civilized world can respond to the proud boast of the English common law, that the moment a slave sets foot on her soil he is free. I respect the feelings of others and their vested rights, and would be the last to suffer those feelings or those rights to be wantonly violated; but I do not hesitate to say that, abroad, slavery stands as a dark blot upon our national character. There it will not admit of any palliation; it stands in glaring contrast with the spirit of our free institutions; it belies our words and our hearts; and the American who would be most prompt to repel any calumny upon his country withers under this reproach, and writhes with mortification when the taunt is hurled at the otherwise stainless flag of the free republic. I was forcibly struck with a parallel between the white serfs of the north of Europe and African bondsmen at home. The Russian boor, generally wanting the comforts which are supplied to the negro on our best-ordered plantations, appeared to me to be not less degraded in intellect, character, and personal bearing. Indeed, the marks of physical and personal degradation were so strong, that I was insensibly compelled to abandon certain theories not uncommon among my countrymen at home, in regard to the intrinsic superiority of the white race over all others. Perhaps, too, this impression was aided by my having previously met with Africans of intelligence and capacity, standing upon a footing of perfect equality as soldiers and officers in the Greek army and the sultan's. The serfs of Russia differ from slaves with us in the important particular that they belong to the soil, and cannot be sold except with the estate; they may change masters, but cannot be torn from their connexions or their birthplace. One sixth of the whole peasantry of Russia, amounting to six or seven millions, belong to the crown, and inhabit the imperial demesne, and pay an annual tax. In particular districts, many have been enfranchised, and become burghers and merchants; and the liberal and enlightened policy of the present emperor is diffusing a more general system of melioration among these subjects of his vast empire. The rest of the serfs belong to the nobles, and are the absolute property and subject to the absolute control of their masters, as much as the cattle on their estates. Some of the seigneurs possess from seventy to more than a hundred thousand; and their wealth depends upon the skill and management with which the labour of these serfs is employed. Sometimes the seigneur sends the most intelligent to Petersburgh or Moscow to learn some handicraft, and then employs them on his own estates, hires them out, or allows them to exercise their trade on their own account on payment of an annual sum. And sometimes, too, he gives the serf a passport, under which he is protected all over Russia, settles in a city, and engages in trade, and very often accumulates enough to ransom himself and his family. Indeed, there are many instances of a serf's acquiring a large property, and even rising to eminence. But he is always subject to the control of his master; and I saw at Moscow an old mongik who had acquired a very large fortune, but was still a slave. His master's price for his freedom had advanced with his growing wealth, and the poor serf, unable to bring himself to part with his hard earnings, was then rolling in wealth with a collar round his neck; struggling with the inborn spirit of freedom, and hesitating whether to die a beggar or a slave. The Russian serf is obliged to work for his master but three days in the week; the other three he may work for himself on a portion of land assigned to him by law on his master's estate. He is never obliged to work on Sunday, and every saint's day or fête day of the church is a holyday. This might be supposed to give him an opportunity of elevating his character and condition; but, wanting the spirit of a free agent, and feeling himself the absolute property of another, he labours grudgingly for his master, and for himself barely enough to supply the rudest necessaries of life and pay his tax to the seigneur. A few rise above their condition, but millions labour like beasts of burden, content with bread to put in their mouths, and never even thinking of freedom. A Russian nobleman told me that he believed, if the serfs were all free, he could cultivate his estate to better advantage by hired labour; and I have no doubt a dozen Connecticut men would cultivate more ground than a hundred Russian serfs, allowing their usual non-working days and holydays. They have no interest in the soil, and the desolate and uncultivated wastes of Russia show the truth of the judicious reflection of Catharine II., "that agriculture can never flourish in that nation where the husbandman possesses no property." It is from this great body of peasantry that Russia recruits her immense standing army, or, in case of invasion, raises in a moment a vast body of soldiers. Every person in Russia entitled to hold land is known to the government, as well as the number of peasants on his estate; and, upon receiving notice of an imperial order to that effect, the numbers required by the levy are marched forthwith from every part of the empire to the places of rendezvous appointed. It might be asked, What have these men to fight for? They have no country, and are brought up on immense levels, wanting the rocks, rivers, and mountains that inspire local attachments. It is a singular fact, that, with the Russian serf, there is always an unbounded love for him who stands at the head of the system of oppression under which they groan, the emperor, whom they regard as their protector against the oppression of their immediate masters; but to whatever cause it may be ascribed, whether inability to estimate the value of any change in their condition, or a feeling of actual love for the soil on which they were born, during the invasion of Napoleon the serfs of Russia presented a noble spectacle; and the spirit of devotion which animated the corps of ten thousand in the north extended to the utmost bounds of the empire. They received orders to march from St. Petersburgh to meet the advance of the French army; the emperor reviewed them, and is said to have shed tears at their departure. Arrived at the place appointed, Witgenstein ordered them to fall back to a certain point, but they answered "No; the last promise we made the emperor our father was, that we would never fly before the enemy, and we keep our word." Eight thousand of their number died on the spot; and the spirit which animated them fired the serfs throughout the whole empire. The scholar may sneer, but I defy him to point to a nobler page in Grecian or Roman history. I shall make amends for this long discussion by hurrying on to Moscow. We rode hundreds of miles without meeting a hill; the country was bare of trees, and almost everywhere presenting the same appearance. We saw the first disk of the sun peeping out of the earth, watched it while soaring on its daily round, and, without a bush to obstruct the view, saw it sink below the horizon; and woke up at all times of night and saw the stars, "Rolling like living cars of light For gods to journey by." The principal and only large towns on our road were Orel and Toula, the former containing a population of four or five thousand, and presenting an imposing display of churches and monasteries gaudily painted and with gilded domes; the houses were principally of wood, painted yellow. Toula is the largest manufacturing town, and is called the Sheffield of Russia, being particularly celebrated for its cutlery. Everywhere the diligence created a great sensation; the knowing ones said it would never do; but at Orel one spirited individual said if we would wait three days for him he would go on with us. It can hardly seem credible, in our steamboat and railroad community, that a public conveyance could roll on for seven days and nights, through many villages and towns, toward the capital of an immense empire, and not take in a single way-passenger; but such was the fact; and on the morning of the seventh day, alone, as we started from Chioff, we were approaching the burned and rebuilt capital of the Czars, Moscow with gilded cupolas, the holy Moscow, the sanctified city, the Jerusalem of Russia, beloved of God, and dear to men. CHAPTER III. Moscow.--A severe Operation.--An Exile by Accident.--Meeting with an Emigré.--A civil Stranger.--A Spy.--The Kremlin.--Sepulchres of the Czars.--The great Bell.--The great Gun.--Precious Relics. AT daylight we arrived at the last post; and here, for the first time, we saw evidences of our approach to a great city. Four or five travelling-carriages were waiting for horses, some of which had been waiting all night; but our diligence being a "public accommodation," we were preferred, and had the first that came in. We took our places for the last time in the diligence, and passed two or three fine chateaux, our curiosity and interest increasing as we approached, until, at about five versts from Moscow, as we reached the summit of a gentle eminence, the whole city broke upon us at one view, situated in the midst of a great plain, and covering an extent of more than thirty versts. Moscow is emphatically the city of churches, containing more than six hundred, many of which have five or six domes, with steeples, and spires, and crosses, gilded and connected together with golden chains like those of Chioff. Its convents, too, are almost innumerable, rivalling the churches in size and magnificence, and even to us, coming directly from the capital of the Eastern empire, presenting a most striking and extraordinary appearance. As we passed the barrier, two of the most conspicuous objects on each side were the large Greek convents, enclosed by high walls, with noble trees growing above them; and as we rode through the wide and showy streets, the first thing that struck me as strange, and, in this inhospitable climate (always associated in my mind with rude and wintry scenes), as singularly beautiful, was the profusion of plants and flowers, with the remarkable degree of taste and attention given to their cultivation. In Greece and Turkey I had seen the rarest plants and flowers literally "wasting their sweetness on the desert air;" while here, in the heart of an inhospitable country, every house had a courtyard or garden, and in front a light open portico or veranda, ornamented with plants, and shrubs, and flowers, forced into a glowing though unnatural beauty. The whole appearance of the city is Asiatic; and as the exhibition of flowers in front of the better class of houses was almost universal, Moscow seemed basking in the mild climate of Southern Asia, rioting in its brief period of vernal existence, and forgetting that, in a few weeks, a frost would come and cover their beauty with the dreary drapery of winter. At the office of the diligence my companion and myself separated. He went to a hotel kept by an English woman, with English company, and I believe, too, with English comfort, and I rode to the Hotel Germanica, an old and favourite stopping-place with the Russian seigneurs when they come up from their estates in the country. Having secured my room, I mounted a drosky and hurried to a bath. Riding out to the suburbs, the drosky boy stopped at a large wooden building, pouring forth steam from every chink and crevice. At the entrance stood several half-naked men, one of whom led me to an apartment to undress, and then conducted me to another, in one end of which were a furnace and apparatus for generating steam. I was then familiar with the Turkish bath, but the worst I had known was like the breath of the gentle south wind compared with the heat of this apartment. The operator stood me in the middle of the floor, opened the upper door of the stove, and dashed into it a bucketful of water, which sent forth volumes of steam like a thick fog into every part of the room, and then laid me down on a platform about three feet high and rubbed my body with a mop dipped in soap and hot water; then he raised me up, and deluged me with hot water, pouring several tubfuls on my head; then laid me down again, and scrubbed me with soap and water from my head to my heels, long enough, if the thing were possible, to make a blackamoor white; then gave me another sousing with hot water, and another scrubbing with pure water, and then conducted me up a flight of steps to a high platform, stretched me out on a bench within a few feet of the ceiling, and commenced whipping me with twigs of birch, with the leaves on them, dipped in hot water. It was hot as an oven where he laid me down on the bench; the vapour, which almost suffocated me below, ascended to the ceiling, and, finding no avenue of escape, gathered round my devoted body, fairly scalding and blistering me; and when I removed my hands from my face, I felt as if I had carried away my whole profile. I tried to hold out to the end, but I was burning, scorching, and consuming. In agony I cried out to my tormentor to let me up, but he did not understand me, or was loath to let me go, and kept thrashing me with the bunch of twigs until, perfectly desperate, I sprang off the bench, tumbled him over, and descended to the floor. Snow, snow, a region of eternal snow seemed paradise; but my tormentor had not done with me; and, as I was hurrying to the door, he dashed over me a tub of cold water. I was so hot that it seemed to hiss as it touched me; he came at me with another, and at that moment I could imagine, what had always seemed a traveller's story, the high satisfaction and perfect safety with which the Russian in mid winter rushes from his hot bath and rolls himself in the snow. The grim features of my tormentor relaxed as he saw the change that came over me. I withdrew to my dressing-room, dozed an hour on the settee, and went out a new man. In half an hour I stood in the palace of the Czars, within the walls of the Kremlin. Toward evening I returned to my hotel. In all the large hotels in Russia it is the custom for every man to dine in his own apartment. Travelling alone, I always avoided this when I could, as, besides my dislike of the thing itself, it prevented my making acquaintances and acquiring such information as I needed in a strange city; and I was particularly averse to dine alone the first day of my arrival at Moscow; but it was the etiquette of the house to do so, and as I had a letter of introduction which I intended to deliver, from Count Woronzow to Prince Galitzin, the governor of Moscow, I was bound to make some sacrifice for the credit of my acquaintance. After the table was spread, however, finding it too severe a trial, I went down stairs and invited myself to dine with my landlord. He was a German of about fifty-five or sixty, tall, stout, with gray hair, a frank, manly expression, and great respectability of appearance and manners; and before the dinner was over I regarded him emphatically as what a Frenchman would call _un brave homme_. He had been in Russia during the whole of the French invasion, and, among the other incidents of a stirring life, had been sent in exile to Siberia; and the curious part of it was, that he was sent there by mistake. Rather an awkward mistake, though, as he said, not so bad as being knouted or hanged by mistake; and in his case it turned out a rather interesting adventure. He was taken by the French as a Russian spy, and retaken by the Russians as a French spy, when, as he said, he did not care a fig for either of them. He was hurried off to Siberia, but on the journey succeeded in convincing the officer who escorted the prisoners that there was error in the case, and on his arrival was merely detained in exile, without being put to hard labour, until, through the medium of friends, he had the matter brought before the proper tribunal, and the mistake corrected, when he came back post, in company with a Russian officer, smoking his pipe all the way, at the expense of the government. He gave me many interesting particulars in regard to that celebrated country, its mines, the sufferings of the noble exiles; and much also, that was new to me, touching its populousness and wealth, and the comfort and luxury of a residence there. He spoke of Tobolsk as a large, gay, and populous city, containing hotels, theatres, and all kinds of places of amusement. The exiles, being many of them of rank, have introduced there all the luxuries of the capital, and life at Tobolsk is much the same as life at Moscow. As the rage for travelling is excited by hearing from the lips of a traveller stories of the countries he has visited, before dinner was over I found myself infected with a strong disposition for a journey to Siberia. Small matters, however, produce great changes in the current of a man's feelings, and in a few moments I had entirely forgotten Siberia, and was carried directly home. While we were smoking our pipes, an old gentleman entered, of singularly aristocratic appearance, whom my host received with the greatest consideration and respect, addressing him as the Marquis de P----. He was a Frenchman, an old militaire, and a noble specimen of a race almost extinct; tall, thin, and gray-headed, wearing a double-breasted blue frockcoat, buttoned up to the throat, with a cane in his hand and a red riband in his buttonhole, the decoration of the Knights of Malta; and when my host introduced me as an American traveller arrived that day in Moscow, he welcomed me with more than the usual forms of courtesy, and told me that, far off as it was, and little as he knew of it, he almost regarded America as his own country; that, on the downfall of "the emperor," and in a season of universal scattering, some of his nearest relatives, particularly a sister married to a fellow-soldier and his dearest friend, had taken refuge on the other side of the Atlantic; that, eighteen years before, he had met an American secretary of legation who knew them, but since that time he had not heard from them, and did not know whether they were living or dead. I asked him the name, with very little expectation of being able to give him any information about them; and it was with no small degree of pleasure that I found I was particularly acquainted with the condition of his relatives. His brother-in-law and old comrade was dead, but I brought him a satisfaction to which he had long been a stranger, by telling him that his sister was still living, occupying a large property in a neighbouring state, surrounded by a family of children, in character and standing ranking among the first in our country. They were intimately connected with the family of one of my most intimate friends, letters to and from different members of which had very often passed through my hands; I knew the names of all his nieces, and personally one of his nephews, a lieutenant, and one of the most promising officers in our navy; and about a year before I had accompanied the friends to whom I refer on a visit to these relatives. At Philadelphia I left them under the charge of the lieutenant; and on my return from Washington, according to agreement, the lieutenant came down to an intersecting point on the railroad to take me home with him; but circumstances prevented my going, and much as I regretted my disappointment then, I regretted it far more now, as otherwise I might have gladdened the old man's heart by telling him that within a year I had seen his sister. His own history was brief. Born to the possession of rank and fortune, and having won honours and decorations by long service in the field, and risen to the rank of inspector-general in the army of Napoleon, he was taken in the campaign against Russia in eighteen hundred and thirteen, and sent a prisoner of war to Moscow, where he had remained ever since. Immediately on their arrival, his brother-in-law and sister had written to him from America, telling him that, with the wreck of their fortune, they had purchased a large landed estate, and begging him to come over and share their abundance; but, as he told me, he scorned to eat the bread of idleness and dependance; manfully turned to account the advantages of an accomplished education; and now, at the advanced age of seventy-eight, sustained himself by his pencil, an honoured guest at every table, and respected by the most distinguished inhabitants of Moscow. He had accidentally given up his rooms a few days before, and was residing temporarily at the same hotel with myself. He was much agitated by this unexpected intelligence from friends he never expected to hear of more, and left me with a promise to call upon me early in the morning. Too much interested myself to go back to Siberia with my host, I went to the French theatre. The play was some little every-day thing, and the house but thinly attended. I took my seat in the pit, which was on a dead level, instead of ascending from the stage, containing large cushioned seats, and sprinkled with officers talking with ladies in the boxes above. At the end of the first act, as whole benches were empty above me, I moved up to put myself nearer a pair of bright eyes that were beaming from the box upon a pair of epaulettes below. I was hardly seated before one of the understrappers came up and whispered, or rather muttered, something in my ear. As I did not understand a word he said, and his manner was exceedingly rude and ungracious, I turned my back upon him and looked at the lady with the bright eyes. The fellow continued muttering in my ear, and I began to be seriously annoyed and indignant, when a Frenchman sitting two or three benches behind me came up, and, in an imperious tone, ordered him away. He then cursed the Russians as a set of canaille, from the greatest seigneurs to the lowest serf; remarked that he saw I was a stranger, and, with the easy freedom of a man of the world, took a seat by my side. He was above six feet high, about thirty-three or thirty-four years of age, in robust health, with a large pair of whiskers, rather overdressed, and of manners good, though somewhat imperious and bordering on the swagger. He seemed perfectly at home in the theatre; knew all the actors and, before the evening was over, offered to introduce me to all the actresses. I was under obligations to him, if not for the last offer, at least for relieving me from the impertinent doorkeeper; and, when the curtain fell, accepted his invitation to go to a restaurant and take a petit souper. I accompanied him to the Restaurant au coin du pont des Mareschaux, which I afterward ascertained to be the first in Moscow. He was perfectly at home with the carte, knew exactly what to order, and, in fact, he was a man of great general information, perfectly familiar with all continental Europe, geographically and politically, and particularly at home in Moscow; and he offered his services in showing me all that was curious and interesting. We sat together more than two hours, and in our rambling and discursive conversation I could not help remarking that he seemed particularly fond of railing at the government, its tyranny and despotism, and appealing to me, as an American and a liberal, to sustain him. I did not think anything of it then, though in a soldier under Charles the Tenth, driven out, as he said, by the revolution of July, it was rather strange; but, at any rate, either from a spirit of contradiction or because I had really a good feeling toward everything in Russia, I disagreed with him throughout; he took upon himself the whole honours of the entertainment, scolded the servants, called in the landlord, and, as I observed, after a few words with him, went out without paying. I saw that the landlord knew him, and that there was something constrained and peculiar in his behaviour. I must confess, however, that I did not notice these things at the time so clearly as when I was induced to recur to them by after circumstances, for we went out of the house the best friends in the world; and, as it was then raining, we took a drosky and rode home together, with our arms around each other's neck, and my cloak thrown over us both. About two o'clock, in a heavy rain, I stopped at my hotel, bade him good-night, and lent him my cloak to go home with. The reader, perhaps, smiles at my simplicity, but he is wrong in his conjecture; my cloak came home the next morning, and was my companion and only covering many a night afterward. My friend followed it, sat with me a few minutes, and was taking his departure, having made an appointment to call for me at twelve o'clock, when there was a knock at the door, and my friend the marquis entered. I presented them to each other, and the latter was in the act of bending his body with the formality of a gentleman of the old school, when he caught a full view of my friend of the theatre, and, breaking off his unfinished bow, recovered his erect position, and staring from him to me, and from me to him, seemed to demand an explanation. I had no explanation to give, nor had my friend, who, cocking his hat on one side, and brushing by the marquis with more than his usual swagger, stamped down stairs. The marquis looked after him till he was at the foot of the stairs, and then turning to me, asked how, in the name of wonder, I had already contrived to pick up such an acquaintance. I told him the history of our meeting at the theatre, our supper at the restaurant, and our loving ride home, to which he listened with breathless attention; and after making me tax my memory for the particulars of the conversation at the restaurant, told me that my friend was a disgrace to his country; that he had, no doubt, been obliged to leave France for some rascality, and was now entertained by the Emperor of Russia as a _spy_, particularly upon his own countrymen; that he was well fed and clothed, and had the entrée of all the theatres and public houses without paying. With the earnestness of a man long used to a despotic government, and to seeing slight offences visited with terrible punishments, the marquis congratulated me upon not having fallen into what he called the snare laid for me. It is almost impossible for an American to believe that even in Russia he incurs any risk in speaking what he thinks; he is apt to regard the stories of summary punishment for freedom of speech as bugbears or bygone things. In my own case, even when men looked cautiously around the room and then spoke in whispers, I could not believe that there was any danger. Still I had become prudent enough not to talk with any unnecessary indiscretion of the constituted authorities, and, even in writing home to my friends, not to say anything that could prejudice me if the letter should fall into wrong hands; and now, although I did not consider that I had run any great risk, I was rather pleased that I had said nothing exceptionable; and though I had no apprehension, particularly since I had been put on my guard, I determined to drop my new acquaintance, and did not consider myself bound to observe any great courtesy in the mode of doing it. I had had a supper, which it was my original intention to return with a dinner; but I did not consider myself under any obligation to him for civilities shown in the exercise of his despicable calling. The first time I met him I made no apology for having been out when he called according to appointment, and did not ask him to come again. I continued to meet him in the streets and at every public place, but our greetings became colder and colder, and the day before I left Moscow we brushed against each other without speaking at all. So much for acquaintances who, after an intimacy of three or four hours, had ridden home under the same cloak, with their arms around each other's neck. But to return: as soon as the marquis left me I again went to the Kremlin, to me the great, I had almost said the only, object of interest in Moscow. I always detested a cicerone; his bowing, fawning, and prating annoyed me; and all through Italy, with my map and guide-book under my arm, I was in the habit of rambling about alone. I did the same at Moscow, and again walked to the Kremlin unaccompanied. Unlike many of the places I had visited, all the interest I had felt in looking forward to the Kremlin was increased when I stood within its walls. I had thought of it as the rude and barbarous palace of the Czars; but I found it one of the most extraordinary, beautiful, and magnificent objects I ever beheld. I rambled over it several times with admiration, without attempting to comprehend it all. Its commanding situation on the banks of the Moskwa river; its high and venerable walls; its numerous battlements, towers, and steeples; its magnificent and gorgeous palaces; its cathedrals, churches, monasteries, and belfries, with their gilded, coppered, and tin-plated domes; its mixture of barbarism and decay, magnificence and ruins; its strong contrast of architecture, including the Tartarian, Hindoo, Chinese, and Gothic; and, rising above all, the lofty tower of Ivan Veliki, with its golden ball reflecting the sun with dazzling brilliancy, all together exhibited a beauty, grandeur, and magnificence strange and indescribable. [Illustration: The Kremlin.] The Kremlin is "the heart" and "sacred place" of Moscow, once the old fortress of the Tartars, and now the centre of the modern city. It is nearly triangular in form, enclosed by a high brick wall painted white, and nearly two miles in extent, and is in itself a city. It has five gates, at four of which there are high watch-towers. The fifth is "our Saviour's," or the Holy Gate, through whose awe-commanding portals no male, not even the emperor and autocrat of all the Russias, can pass except with uncovered head and bended body. Bareheaded, I entered by this gate, and passed on to a noble esplanade, commanding one of the most interesting views of Moscow, and having in front the range of palaces of the Czars. I shall not attempt to describe these palaces. They are a combination of every variety of taste and every order of architecture, Grecian, Gothic, Italian, Tartar, and Hindoo, rude, fanciful, grotesque, gorgeous, magnificent, and beautiful. The churches, monasteries, arsenals, museum, and public buildings are erected with no attempt at regularity of design, and in the same wild confusion of architecture. There are no regular streets, but three open places or squares, and abundance of room for carriages and foot passengers, with which, in summer afternoons, it is always thronged. Having strolled for some time about the Kremlin, I entered the Cathedral of the Assumption, the most splendid church in Moscow. It was founded in 1325, and rebuilt in 1472. It is loaded with gorgeous and extravagant ornaments. The iconastos or screen which divides the sanctuary from the body of the church is in many parts covered with plates of solid silver and gold, richly and finely wrought. On the walls are painted the images of more than two thousand three hundred saints, some at full length and some of a colossal size, and the whole interior seems illuminated with gold, of which more than two hundred and ten thousand leaves have been employed in embellishing it. From the centre of the roof is suspended a crown of massive silver, with forty-eight chandeliers, all in a single piece, and weighing nearly three thousand pounds. Besides the portraits of saints and martyrs, there are portraits of the old historians, whose names, to prevent confusion, are attached to their resemblances, as Aristotle, Anarcharsis, Thucydides, Plutarch, &c. Some of the paintings on wood could not fail to delight an antiquary, inasmuch as every vestige of paint being obliterated, there is abundance of room for speculation as to their age and character. There is also an image of the Virgin, painted by St. Luke's own hand!!! The face dark, almost black, the head encircled with a glory of precious stones, and the hands and the body gilded. It is reverenced for its miraculous powers, guarded with great care, and enclosed within a large silver covering, which is never removed but on great religious festivals, or on payment of a ruble to the verger. Here, too, is a nail from the cross, a robe of our Saviour's, and part of one of the Virgin's!!! And here, too, are the tombs of the church patriarchs, one of whom, St. Phillippe, honoured by a silver monument, dared to say to John the Terrible, "We respect you as an image of the Divinity, but as a man you partake of the dust of the earth." The Cathedral of the Assumption is honoured as the place where the sovereigns of Russia are crowned, and there is but a step from their throne to their grave, for near it is the Cathedral of the archangel Michael, the ancient burial-place where, in raised sepulchres, lie the bodies of the Czars, from the time when Moscow became the seat of empire until the close of the seventeenth century. The bodies rest in raised tombs or sepulchres, each covered with a velvet pall, and having on it a silver plate, bearing the name of the occupant and the date of his decease. Close by is an odd-looking church, constantly thronged with devotees; a humble structure, said to be the oldest Christian church in Moscow. It was built in the desert, before Moscow was thought of, and its walls are strong enough to last till the gorgeous city shall become a desert again. After strolling through the churches I ascended the tower of Ivan Veliki, or John the Great, the first of the Czars. It is about two hundred and seventy feet high, and contains thirty-three bells, the smallest weighing seven thousand, and the largest more than one hundred and twenty-four thousand pounds English. On festivals they are all tolled together, the Muscovites being extremely fond of Ivan Veliki's music. This celebrated tower rises above every other object in the Kremlin, and its large gilded dome and cross are conspicuous from every part of the city. From its top I had the finest view of Moscow and the surrounding country, and, perhaps, the finest panoramic view in the world. Hundreds of churches were in sight, with their almost innumerable domes, and spires, and crosses glittering with gold, Tartaric battlements, terraces, balconies, and ramparts. Gothic steeples, Grecian columns, the star, the crescent, and the cross, palaces, mosques, and Tartar temples, pagodas, pavilions, and verandas, monasteries peeping out over high walls and among noble trees, the stream of the Moskwa winding prettily below, and in the distance the Sparrow Hills, on which the French army first made its appearance on the invasion of Moscow. It may seem strange, but I did not feel myself a stranger on the top of that tower. Thousands of miles away I had read its history. I knew that the magnificent city at my feet had been a sheet of fire, and that, when Napoleon fled by the light of its conflagration, a dreadful explosion shook to their foundation the sacred precincts of the Kremlin, and rent from its base to its top the lofty tower of Ivan. I descended, and the custode conducted me to another well-known object, the great bell, the largest, and the wonder of the world. It is only a short distance from the foot of the tower, in an excavation under ground, accessible by a trapdoor, like the covered mouth of a well. I descended by a broken ladder, and can hardly explain to myself the curiosity and interest with which I examined this monstrous piece of metal. I have no knowledge of or taste for mechanics, and no particular penchant for bells, even when spelled with an additional e; but I knew all about this one, and it added wonderfully to the interest with which I strolled through the Kremlin, that, from accidental circumstances, I was familiar with every object within its walls. I impeach, no doubt, my classical taste, but, before seeing either, I had dwelt with more interest upon the Kremlin, and knew more of it, than of the Acropolis at Athens; and I stood at the foot of the great bell almost with a feeling of reverence. Its perpendicular height is twenty-one feet four inches, and the extreme thickness of the metal twenty-three inches; the length of the clapper is fourteen feet, the greatest circumference sixty-seven feet four inches, its weight upward of four hundred thousand pounds English, and its cost has been estimated at more than three hundred and sixty-five thousand pounds sterling. There is some question whether this immense bell was ever hung, but it is supposed that it was suspended by a great number of beams and crossbeams; that it was rung by forty or fifty men, one half on either side, who pulled the clapper by means of ropes, and that the sound amazed and deafened the inhabitants. On one side is a crack large enough to admit the figure of a man. I went inside and called aloud, and received an echo like the reverberations of thunder. [Illustration: The Great Bell.] Besides the great bell, there is another noisy musical instrument, namely, the great gun, like the bell, the largest in the world, being a four thousand three hundred and twenty pounder. It is sixteen feet long, and the diameter of its calibre nearly three feet. I jumped in and turned round in its mouth, and sat upright, my head not reaching the top. All around were planted cannon taken from the French in their unhappy expedition against the capital of Russia; immense fieldpieces, whose throats once poured their iron hail against the walls within which they now repose as trophies. I was attracted by a crowd at the door of one of the principal buildings, which I found to be the treasury, containing what a Russian prizes as his birthright, the repository of sacred heirlooms; the doorkeeper demanded a permit, and I answered him with rubles and entered the treasury. On the first floor are the ancient imperial carriages; large, heavy, and extraordinary vehicles, covered with carving and gilding, and having large plate glass windows; among them was an enormous sleigh, carved and profusely gilded, and containing a long table with cushioned seats on each side; all together, these vehicles were most primitive and Asiatic in appearance, and each one had some long and interesting story connected with it. I ascended by a noble staircase to the _belle etage_, a gallery composed of five parts, in the first of which are the portraits of all the emperors and Czars and their wives, in the exact costume of the times in which they lived; in another is a model of a palace projected by the Empress Catharine to unite the whole Kremlin under one roof, having a circumference of two miles, and make of it one magnificent palace; if it had been completed according to the plan, this palace would probably have surpassed the Temple of Solomon or any of the seven wonders of the world. In another is a collection of precious relics, such as the crowns worn by the different emperors and Czars, loaded with precious stones; the dresses worn at their marriages; the canopies under which the emperors are married, surmounted by magnificent plumes; two canopies of red velvet, studded with gold, and a throne with two seats. The crown of Prince Vladimir is surmounted by a golden cross, and ornamented with pearls and precious stones, and, until the time of Peter the Great, was used to crown the Czars; the crown of the conquered kingdom of Cazan was placed there by the victorious hands of John Vassilivitch. Besides these were the crowns of the conquered countries of Astrachan and Siberia. That of John Alexius has eight hundred and eighty-one diamonds, and under the cross which surmounts it is an immense ruby. There were also the crown of Peter the Great, containing eight hundred and forty-seven diamonds; that of Catharine the First, his widow, containing two thousand five hundred and thirty-six fine diamonds, to which the Empress Anne added a ruby of enormous size, bought by the Russian ambassador at Pekin; and, lastly, the crown of unhappy Poland! It is of polished gold, surmounted by a cross, but no other ornament. And there were other emblems of royalty: a throne or Greek fauteuil of ivory, in arabesque, presented to John the Great by the ambassadors who accompanied from Rome to Moscow the Princess Sophia, whom he had demanded in marriage. She was the daughter of Thomas Paleologus Porphrygenitus brother of Constantine Paleologus, who died in fourteen hundred and fifty-three, after seeing his empire fall into the hands of the Turks. By this marriage John considered himself the heir of Constantine, and took the title of Czar, meaning Cæsar (this is one of the derivations of the name), and thus the emperor and autocrat of all the Russias has the fairest claim to the throne of the Cæsars, and, consequently, has always had an eye upon Constantinople; then there are the throne of Boris, adorned with two thousand seven hundred and sixty turquoises and other precious stones; that of Michel, containing eight thousand eight hundred and twenty-four precious stones; that of Alexius, containing eight hundred and seventy-six diamonds, one thousand two hundred and twenty-four other jewels, and many pearls, bought of a company of merchants trafficking to Ispahan; the throne of the Czars John and Peter, made of massive silver, separated in the middle, the back a cloth of gold, concealing a hole through which the Czarina used to dictate answers to the foreign ambassadors; and, lastly, the throne of Poland! In the armory are specimens of ancient armour, the workmanship of every age and nation; coats of mail, sabres adorned with jewels, swords, batons, crosses in armour, imperial robes, ermines in abundance, and, finally, the clothes in which Peter the Great worked at Saardam, including his old boots, from which it appears that he had considerable of a foot. These memorials were all interesting, and I wandered through the apartments till ordered out by the footman, when I returned to my hotel to meet my old friend the marquis, who was engaged to dine with me. At his suggestion we went to a new restaurant, patronized by a different set of people from those who frequented the Restaurant au coin du pont des Mareschaux, being chiefly Frenchmen, manufacturers, and small merchants of various kinds, who, while they detested the country, found it a profitable business to introduce Parisian luxuries and refinements among the barbarous Russians. A party of about twenty sat at a long table, and relieved the severity of exile by talking of their beautiful and beloved France; many of them were old militaires; and my octogenarian friend, as a soldier distinguished under the empire, and identified with the glory of the French arms, was treated with a consideration and respect honourable to them and flattering to himself. At another table was another circle of strangers, composed almost exclusively of Swiss, forming here, as elsewhere, one of the most valuable parts of the foreign population; keeping alive by intercourse with each other the recollections of home, and looking to the time when, with the profits of successful industry, they might return to their wild and beloved native mountains. "Dear is that hill to which his soul conforms, And dear that cliff which lifts him to the storms." Before we rose from table my friend of the theatre came in and took his seat at one end; he talked and laughed louder than any one else, and was received generally with an outward appearance of cordiality; but the old marquis could not endure his presence. He said he had become too old to learn, and it was too late in life to temporize with dishonour; that he did not blame his countrymen; fair words cost nothing, and it was not worth their while wilfully to make an enemy who would always be on their haunches; but as to himself, he had but a few years to live, and he would not sully the last moments of his life by tolerating a man whom he regarded as a disgrace to his country. We rose from the table, the old marquis leaning on my arm, and pouring in my ears his honest indignation at the disgraceful character of his countryman, and proceeded to the Kitaigorod, or Chinese Town, the division immediately encircling the Kremlin. It is enclosed by a wall with battlements, towers, and gates; is handsomely and compactly built, with wide, clean, and regular streets, and thronged with every variety of people, Greeks, Turks, Tartars, Cossacks, Chinese, Muscovites, French, Italians, Poles, and Germans, in the costumes of their respective nations. The quarter is entirely Russian, and I did not find in the shops a single person who could speak any language but Russian. In one of them, where I was conducted by the marquis, I found the old mongik to whom I before referred, who could not agree with his master for the price of his ransom. The principal shops resemble the bazars in the East, though they are far superior even to those in Constantinople, being built of stone, and generally in the form of arcades. They are well filled with every description of Asiatic goods; and some of them, particularly their tea, and tobacco, and pipe shops, are models of propriety and cleanliness. The façade of the great bazar or market is very imposing, resting the whole length on Corinthian columns. It fronts on a noble square, bounded on the opposite side by the white walls of the Kremlin, and contains six thousand "bargaining shops." The merchants live at a distance, and, on leaving their shops at sundown, each of them winds a piece of cord round the padlock of his door, and seals it with soft wax; a seal being with the Russians more sacred than a lock. In another section of the Kitaigorod is the finest part of the city, containing the hotels and residences of the nobles, many of which are truly magnificent. The hotel at which I put up would in Italy be called a palace. As we moved slowly along the street by the Pont des Mareschaux, we discoursed of the terrible inroads at this moment making by the French in the capital of the north, almost every shop having an inviting sign of nouveautés from Paris. Foiled in their attempt with the bayonet, they are now advancing with apparently more feeble but far more insidious and fatal weapons; and the rugged Russian, whom French arms could not conquer, bows to the supremacy of the French modistes and artistes, and quietly wears the livery of the great mistress of fashion. CHAPTER IV. The Drosky.--Salle des Nobles.--Russian Gaming.--Gastronomy.--Pedroski.--A Sunday in Moscow.--A Gipsy Belle.--Tea drinking.--The Emperor's Garden.--Retrospective. EARLY the next morning I mounted a drosky and rode to a celebrated garden or springs, furnished with every description of mineral water. I have several times spoken of the drosky. This may be called the Russian national vehicle, for it is found all over Russia, and nowhere else that I know of, except at Warsaw, where it was introduced by its Russian conquerors. It is on four wheels, with a long cushioned seat running lengthwise, on which the rider sits astride as on horseback, and so low that he can mount from the street. It is drawn by two horses; one in shafts, with a high arched bow over the neck called the douga, and the other, called "le furieux," in traces alongside, this last being trained to curb his neck and canter while the shaft-horse trots. The seat is long enough for two besides the driver, the riders sitting with their feet on different sides; or sometimes there is a cross-seat behind, on which the riders sit, with their faces to the horses, and the drosky boy, always dressed in a long surtout, with a bell-crowned hat turned up at the sides, sits on the end. But to return to the springs. The waters are prepared under the direction of medical men, who have the chymical analysis of all the principal mineral waters known, and manufacture them to order. As is universally the case in Russia, where there is any attempt at style, the establishment is upon a magnificent scale. The building contains a room perhaps one hundred and fifty feet long, with a clean and highly-polished floor, large looking-glasses, elegant sofas, and mahogany chairs and tables. The windows open upon a balcony extending along the whole front, which is furnished with tables and rustic chairs, and opens upon a large garden ornamented with gravel-walks, trees, and the most rare and valuable plants and flowers, at the time of my visit in full bloom. Every morning, from sunrise till noon, crowds of people, and particularly the nobility and higher classes, frequent this establishment, and that morning there was a larger collection than usual. Russian hospitality is conspicuous at a place like this. A stranger, instead of being avoided, is sought out; and after one or two promenades I was accosted by more than one gentleman, ready to show me every civility. In the long room and on the balconies, scattered about at the different tables, I saw the gourmand who had distended his stomach almost to bursting, and near him the gaunt and bilious dyspeptic, drinking their favourite waters; the dashing officer and the blooming girl, the lover and coquette, and, in short, all the style and fashion of Moscow, their eyes occasionally turning to the long mirrors, and then singly, in pairs and in groups, strolling gently through the gardens, enjoying the music that was poured forth from hidden arbours. Returning through a street not far from my hotel, I saw a line of carriages, and gentlemen and ladies passing under a light arcade, which formed the entrance to a large building. I joined the throng, and was put back by the doorkeeper because I was not in a dresscoat. I ran to my hotel and changed my frockcoat, but now I had no biglietto of entrance. A few rubles obviated this difficulty and admitted me to the _Salle des Nobles_, a magnificent apartment surrounded by a colonnade, capable of containing more than three thousand persons, and said to be the finest ballroom in Europe. It belongs to a club of the nobility, and none are admitted as members but nobles. All games of hazard are forbidden; but, nevertheless, all games of hazard are played. Indeed, among the "on dits" which a traveller picks up, gambling is said to be the great vice of Russia. Young men who have not two rubles to rub together will bet thousands; and, when all other resources fail, the dishonourable will cheat, but the delicate-minded will kill themselves. It is not uncommon for a young man to say at the cardtable over night, "I must shoot myself to-morrow;" and he is as good as his word. The Salle was open for a few days, as a sort of fair, for the exhibition of specimens of Russian manufacture; and, besides tables, workboxes, &c., there were some of the finest living specimens of genuine Russian men and women that I had yet seen, though not to be compared, as a Russian officer said, to whom I made the remark, with the exhibition of the same specimens in the waltz and mazourka, when the Salle was lighted up and decorated for a ball. I returned to my hotel, where I found my old friend the marquis waiting, according to appointment, to dine with me. He would have accompanied me everywhere, but I saw that he suffered from the exertion, and would not allow it. Meeting with me had struck a chord that had not been touched for years, and he was never tired of talking of his friends in America. Every morning he breakfasted in my room, and we dined together every day. We went to the restaurant where I had supped with my friend of the theatre. The saloon was crowded, and at a table next us sat a seigneur, who was dining upon a delicacy that will surprise the reader, viz., one of his own female slaves, a very pretty girl, whom he had hired to the keeper of the restaurant for her maintenance and a dinner a volonté per annum for himself. This was the second time he had dined on her account, and she was then waiting upon him; a pretty, modest, delicate-looking girl, and the old noble seemed never to know when he had enough of her. We left him gloating over still untasted dishes, and apparently mourning that human ability could hold out no longer. In going out my old friend, in homely but pithy phrase, said the only difference between a Russian seigneur and a Russian serf is, that the one wears his shirt inside his trousers and the other outside; but my friend spoke with the prejudices of a soldier of France aggravated by more than twenty years of exile. So far as my observation extended, the higher classes are rather extraordinary for talent and acquirements. Their government is unfortunate for the development and exercise of abilities. They have none of the learned profession; merchandise is disgraceful, and the army is the only field. With an ardent love of country and an ambition to distinguish himself, every nobleman becomes a soldier, and there is hardly an old or middle-aged individual of this class who was not in arms to repel the invasion of Napoleon, and hardly a young man who did not serve lately in a less noble cause, the campaign in Poland. The consequence of service in the army seems to have been generally a passion for display and expensive living, which sent them back to their estates, after their terms of service expired, over head and ears in debt. Unable to come often to the cities, and obliged to live at their chateaux, deprived of all society, surrounded only by slaves, and feeling the want of the excitement incident to a military life, many of them become great gourmands, or rather, as my French friend said, gluttons. They do not eat, said he, they swallow; and the manner in which, with the true spirit of a Frenchman who still remembered the cuisine of the Palais Royal, he commented upon their eating entremets, hors d'oeuvres, rotis, and desserts all pellmell, would have formed a proper episode to Major Hamilton's chapter upon Americans eating eggs out of wineglasses. The old marquis, although he retained all his French prejudices against the Russians, and always asserted, as the Russians themselves admit, that, but for the early setting in of winter, Napoleon would have conquered Russia, allowed them the virtue of unbounded hospitality, and enumerated several principal families at whose tables he could at any time take a seat without any express invitation, and with whom he was always sure of being a welcome guest; and he mentioned the case of a compatriot who for years had a place regularly reserved for him at the table of a seigneur, which he took whenever he pleased without any questions being asked, until, having stayed away longer than usual, the seigneur sent to inquire for him, and learned that he was dead. But to return. Toward evening I parted with the marquis, mounted a drosky, and rode to the country theatre at Pedroski. Pedroski is a place dear to the heart of every Russian, having been the favourite residence of Peter the Great, to whom Russia owes its existence among civilized nations. It is about three versts from the barrier, on the St. Petersburgh road. The St. Petersburgh Gate is a very imposing piece of architecture. Six spirited horses rest lightly upon the top, like the brazen horses at St. Mark's in Venice. A wide road, divided into avenues for carriages and pedestrians, gravelled and lined with trees, leads from the gate. The chateau is an old and singular, but interesting building of red brick, with a green dome and white cornices, and enclosed by a circular wall flanked with turrets. In the plain in front two regiments of Cossack cavalry were going through their exercises. The grounds around the chateau are very extensive, handsomely laid out for carriages and promenades, public and retired, to suit every taste. The principal promenade is about a mile in length, through a forest of majestic old trees. On each side is a handsome footpath of continual shade; and sometimes almost completely hidden by the luxuriant foliage are beautiful little summer-houses, abundantly supplied with all kinds of refreshments. The theatre is at a little distance from the extreme end of the great promenade, a plain and unpretending building; and this and the grand operahouse are the only theatres I have seen built like ours, merely with continued rows of seats, and not partitioned off into private boxes. The opera was some little Russian piece, and was followed by the grand ballet, the Revolt of the Seraglio. He who goes to Russia expecting to see a people just emerging from a state of barbarism, will often be astonished to find himself suddenly in a scene of Parisian elegance and refinement; and in no place will he feel this wonder more than in an operahouse at Moscow. The house was rather full, and contained more of the Russian nobility than I had yet seen at any one time. They were well dressed, adorned with stars and ribands, and, as a class of men, the "biggest in the round" I ever saw. Orders and titles of nobility, by-the-way, are given with a liberality which makes them of no value; and all over Russia princes are as plenty as pickpockets in London. The seigneurs of Russia have jumped over all intermediate grades of civilization, and plunged at once into the luxuries of metropolitan life. The ballet was, of course, inferior to that of Paris or London, but it is speaking in no mean praise of it to say that at this country theatre it might be made a subject of comparison. The dancers were the prettiest, the most interesting, and, what I was particularly struck with, the most modest looking I ever saw on the stage. It was melancholy to look at those beautiful girls, who, amid the glare and glitter of the stage, and in the graceful movements of the dance, were perfectly captivating and entrancing, and who, in the shades of domestic life, might fill the measure of man's happiness on earth, and know them to be slaves. The whole troop belongs to the emperor. They are selected when young with reference to their beauty and talents, and are brought up with great care and expense for the stage. With light fairy figures, seeming rather spirits than corporeal substances, and trained to inspire admiration and love, they can never give way to these feelings themselves, for their affections and marriages are regulated entirely by the manager's convenience. What though they are taken from the very poorest class of life, leaving their parents, their brothers and sisters, the tenants of miserable cabins, oppressed and vilified, and cold and hungry, while they are rolling in luxuries. A chain does not gall the less because it is gilded. Raised from the lot to which they were born, taught ideas they would never have known, they but feel more sensibly the weight of their bonds; and the veriest sylph, whose graceful movements have brought down the loudest thunders of applause, and whose little heart flutters with the admiration she has excited, would probably give all her shortlived triumph for the privilege of bestowing that little flutterer where it would be loved and cherished. There was one among them whom I long remembered. I followed her with my eyes till the curtain fell and left a blank around me. I saw her go out, and afterward she passed me in one of a long train of dark blue carriages belonging to the direction, in which they are carried about like merchandise from theatre to theatre, but, like many other bright visions that broke upon me for a moment, I never saw her again. At about eleven I left the steps of the theatre to return home. It was a most magnificent night, or, rather, it is almost profanation to call it by so black a name, for in that bright northern climate the day seemed to linger, unwilling to give place before the shades of night. I strolled on alone, wrapped in lonely but not melancholy meditations; the carriages rolled rapidly by me, and I was almost the last of the throng that entered the gate of Moscow. A Sunday at Moscow. To one who had for a long time been a stranger to the sound of the church-going bell, few things could be more interesting than a Sunday at Moscow. Any one who has rambled along the Maritime Alps, and has heard from some lofty eminence the convent bell ringing for matins, vespers, and midnight prayers, will long remember the sweet yet melancholy sounds. To me there is always something touching in the sound of the church-going bell; touching in its own notes, but far more so in its associations. And these feelings were exceedingly fresh when I awoke on Sunday in the holy city of Moscow. In Greece and Turkey there are no bells; in Russia they are almost innumerable, but this was the first time I had happened to pass the Sabbath in a city. I lay and listened, almost fearing to move lest I should hush the sounds; thoughts of home came over me; of the day of rest, of the gathering for church, and the greeting of friends at the church door. But he who has never heard the ringing of bells at Moscow does not know its music. Imagine a city containing more than six hundred churches and innumerable convents, all with bells, and these all sounding together, from the sharp, quick hammer-note, to the loudest, deepest peals that ever broke and lingered on the ear, struck at long intervals, and swelling on the air as if unwilling to die away. I rose and threw open my window, dressed myself, and after breakfast, joining the throng called to their respective churches by their well-known bells, I went to what is called the English chapel, where, for the first time in many months, I joined in a regular church service, and listened to an orthodox sermon. I was surprised to see so large a congregation, though I remarked among them many English governesses with children, the English language being at that moment the rage among the Russians, and multitudes of cast-off chambermaids adventuring thither to teach the rising Russian nobility the beauties of the English tongue. All over the Continent Sunday is the great day for observing national manners and customs. I dined at an early hour with my friend the marquis, and, under his escort, mounting a drosky, rode to a great promenade of the people called _L'Allée des Peuples_. It lies outside the barrier, and beyond the state prisons, where the exiles for Siberia are confined, on the land of Count Schremetow, the richest nobleman in Russia, having one hundred and thirty thousand slaves on his estate; the chateau is about eight versts from the city, and a noble road through his own land leads from the barrier to his door. This promenade is the great rendezvous of the people; that is, of the merchants and shopkeepers of Moscow. The promenade is simply a large piece of ground ornamented with noble trees, and provided with everything necessary for the enjoyment of all the national amusements, among which the Russian mountain is the favourite; and refreshments were distributed in great abundance. Soldiers were stationed at different points to preserve order, and the people seemed all cheerful and happy; but the life and soul of the place were the Bohemian or gipsy girls. Wherever they moved, a crowd gathered round them. They were the first I had seen of this extraordinary people. Coming no one knows whence, and living no one knows how, wanderers from their birth, and with a history enveloped in doubt, it was impossible to mistake the dark complexion and piercing coal-black eyes of the gipsy women. The men were nowhere to be seen, nor were there any old women with them; and these young girls, well dressed, though, in general, with nothing peculiar in their costume, moved about in parties of five or six, singing, playing, and dancing to admiring crowds. One of them, with a red silk cloak trimmed with gold, and a gold band round her hair, struck me as the very _beau ideal_ of a gipsy queen. Recognising me as a stranger, she stopped just in front of me, struck her castanets and danced, at the same time directing the movements of her companions, who formed a circle around me. There was a beauty in her face, combined with intelligence and spirit, that riveted my attention, and when she spoke her eyes seemed to read me through. I ought, perhaps, to be ashamed of it, but in all my wanderings I never regretted so much my ignorance of the language as when it denied me the pleasure of conversing with that gipsy girl. I would fain have known whether her soul did not soar above the scene and the employment in which I found her; whether she was not formed for better things than to display her beautiful person before crowds of boors; but I am sorry to add, that the character of my queen was not above reproach; and, as I had nothing but my character to stand upon in Moscow, I was obliged to withdraw from the observation which her attention fixed upon me. Leaving my swarthy princess with this melancholy reflection, and leaving the scene of humbler enjoyment, I mounted a drosky, and, depositing my old friend in the suburbs of the city, in half an hour was in another world, in the great promenade of Pedroski, the gathering-place of the nobility, where all the rank and fashion of Moscow were vying with each other in style and magnificence. The extensive grounds around the old chateau are handsomely disposed and ornamented with trees, but the great carriage promenade is equal to anything I ever saw. It is a straight road, more than a mile in length, through a thick forest of noble trees. For two hours before dark all the equipages in Moscow paraded up and down this promenade. These equipages were striking and showy without being handsome, and the Russian manner of driving four horses makes a very dashing appearance, the leaders being harnessed with long traces, perhaps twenty feet from the wheel horses, and guided by a lad riding the near leader, the coachman sitting as if nailed to the box, and merely holding the reins. All the rules of good taste, as understood in the capitals of Southern Europe, were set at defiance; and many a seigneur, who thought he was doing the thing in the very best style, had no idea how much his turnout would have shocked an English whip. But all this extravagance, in my eyes, added much to the effect of the scene; and the star-spangled Muscovite who dashed up and down the promenade on horseback, with two Calmuc Tartars at his heels, attracted more of my attention than the plain gentleman who paced along with his English jockey and quiet elegance of equipment. The stars and decorations of the seigneurs set them off to great advantage; and scores of officers, with their showy uniforms, added brilliancy to the scene, while the footmen made as good an appearance as their masters. On either side of the grand promenade is a walk for foot passengers, and behind this, almost hidden from view by the thick shade of trees, are little cottages, arbours, and tents, furnished with ices and all kinds of refreshments suited to the season. I should have mentioned long since that tea, the very pabulum of all domestic virtues, is the Russian's favourite beverage. They say that they have better tea than can be obtained in Europe, which they ascribe to the circumstance of its being brought by caravans over land, and saved the exposure of a sea voyage. Whether this be the cause or not, if I am any judge they are right as to the superiority of their article; and it was one of the most striking features in the animating scene at Pedroski to see family groups distributed about, all over the grounds, under the shade of noble trees, with their large brass urn hissing before them, and taking their tea under the passing gaze of thousands of people with as much unconcern as if by their own firesides. Leaving for a moment the thronged promenade, I turned into a thick forest and entered the old chateau of the great Peter. There all was solitude; the footman and I had the palace to ourselves. I followed him through the whole range of apartments, in which there was an appearance of staid respectability that quite won my heart, neither of them being any better furnished than one of our oldfashioned country houses. The pomp and show that I saw glittering through the openings in the trees were unknown in the days of the good old Peter; the chateau was silent and deserted; the hand that built it was stiff and cold, and the heart that loved it had ceased to beat; old Peter was in his grave, and his descendants loved better their splendid palaces on the banks of the Neva. When Moscow was burning, Napoleon fled to this chateau for refuge. I stopped for a moment in the chamber where, by the blaze of the burning city, he dictated his despatches for the capital of France; gave the attendant a ruble, and again mixed with the throng, with whom I rambled up and down the principal promenade, and at eleven o'clock was at my hotel. I ought not to forget the Russian ladies; but, after the gay scene at Pedroski, it is no disparagement to them if I say that, in my quiet walk home, the dark-eyed gipsy girl was uppermost in my thoughts. The reader may perhaps ask if such is indeed what the traveller finds in Russia; "Where are the eternal snows that cover the steppes and the immense wastes of that Northern empire? that chill the sources of enjoyment, and congeal the very fountains of life?" I answer, they have but just passed by, and they will soon come again; the present is the season of enjoyment; the Russians know it to be brief and fleeting, and, like butterflies, unfold themselves to the sun and flutter among the flowers. Like them, I made the most of it at Moscow. Mounted in a drosky, I hurried from church to church, from convent to convent, and from quarter to quarter. But although it is the duty of a traveller to see everything that is to be seen, and although there is a kind of excitement in hurrying from place to place, which he is apt to mistake for pleasure, it is not in this that his real enjoyment is found. His true pleasure is in turning quietly to those things which are interesting to the imagination as well as to the eyes, and so I found myself often turning from the churches and palaces, specimens of architecture and art, to the sainted walls of the Kremlin. Here were the first and last of my visits; and whenever I sauntered forth without any specific object, perhaps to the neglect of many other places I ought to have seen, my footsteps involuntarily turned thitherward. Outside and beneath the walls of the Kremlin, and running almost the whole extent of its circumference, are boulevards and a public garden, called the Emperor's, made within a few years, and the handsomest thing of the kind in Moscow; I am not sure but that I may add anywhere else. I have compared it in my mind to the Gardens of the Luxembourg and Tuileries, and in many respects hold it to be more beautiful. It is more agreeably irregular and undulating in its surface, and has a more rural aspect, and the groves and plants are better arranged, although it has not the statues, lakes, and fountains of the pride of Paris. I loved to stroll through this garden, having on one side of me the magnificent buildings of the great Russian princes, seigneurs, and merchants, among the finest and most conspicuous of which is the former residence of the unhappy Queen of Georgia; and on the other side, visible through the foliage of the trees, the white walls of the Kremlin, and, towering above them, the domes of the palaces and churches within, and the lofty tower of Ivan Veliki. Thence I loved to stroll to the Holy Gate of the Kremlin. It is a vaulted portal, and over the entrance is a picture, with a lamp constantly burning; and a sentinel is always posted at the gate. I loved to stand by it and see the haughty seigneurs and the degraded serf alike humble themselves on crossing the sacred threshold, and then, with my hat in my hand, follow the footsteps of the venerating Russian. Once I attempted to brave the interdict, and go in with my head covered; but the soldier at the gate stopped me, and forbade my violating the sacred prohibition. Within the walls I wandered about, without any definite object, sometimes entering the great church and beholding for a moment the prostrate Russian praying before the image of some saint, or descending to look once more at the great bell, or at other times mounting the tower and gazing at the beautiful panorama of the city. On the last day of my stay in Moscow a great crowd drew me to the door of the church, where some fête was in course of celebration, in honour of the birth, marriage, or some other incident in the life of the emperor or empress. The archbishop, a venerable-looking old man, was officiating, and when he came out a double line of men, women, and children was drawn up from the door of the church to his carriage, all pressing forward and struggling to kiss his hands. The crowd dispersed, and I strolled once more through the repository of heirlooms, and imperial reliques and trophies; but, passing by the crowns loaded with jewels, the canopies and thrones adorned with velvet and gold, I paused before the throne of unhappy Poland! I have seen great cities desolate and in ruins, magnificent temples buried in the sands of the African desert, and places once teeming with fertility now lying waste and silent; but no monument of fallen greatness ever affected me more than this. It was covered with blue velvet and studded with golden stars. It had been the seat of Casimir, and Sobieski, and Stanislaus Augustus. Brave men had gathered round it and sworn to defend it, and died in redeeming their pledge. Their oaths are registered in heaven, their bodies rest in bloody graves; Poland is blotted from the list of nations, and her throne, unspotted with dishonour, brilliant as the stars which glitter on its surface, is exhibited as a Russian trophy, before which the stoutest manhood need not blush to drop a tear. Toward evening I returned to my favourite place, the porch of the palace of the Czars. I seated myself on the step, took out my tablets, and commenced a letter to my friends at home. What should I write? Above me was the lofty tower of Ivan Veliki; below, a solitary soldier, in his gray overcoat, was retiring to a sentry-box to avoid a drizzling rain. His eyes were fixed upon me, and I closed my book. I am not given to musing, but I could not help it. Here was the theatre of one of the most extraordinary events in the history of the world. After sixty battles and a march of more than two thousand miles, the grand army of Napoleon entered Moscow, and found no smoke issuing from a single chimney, nor a Muscovite even to gaze upon them from the battlements or walls. Moscow was deserted, her magnificent palaces forsaken by their owners, her three hundred thousand inhabitants vanished as if they had never been. Silent and amazed, the grand army filed through its desolate streets. Approaching the Kremlin, a few miserable, ferocious, and intoxicated wretches, left behind as a savage token of the national hatred, poured a volley of musketry from the battlements. At midnight the flames broke out in the city; Napoleon, driven from his quarters in the suburbs, hurried to the Kremlin, ascended the steps, and entered the door at which I sat. For two days the French soldiers laboured to repress the fierce attempts to burn the city. Russian police-officers were seen stirring up the fire with tarred lances; hideous-looking men and women, covered with rags, were wandering like demons amid the flames, armed with torches, and striving to spread the conflagration. At midnight again the whole city was in a blaze; and while the roof of the Kremlin was on fire, and the panes of the window against which he leaned were burning to the touch, Napoleon watched the course of the flames and exclaimed, "What a tremendous spectacle! These are Scythians indeed." Amid volumes of smoke and fire, his eyes blinded by the intense heat, and his hands burned in shielding his face from its fury, and traversing streets arched with fire, he escaped from the burning city. Russia is not classic ground. It does not stand before us covered with the shadow of great men's deeds. A few centuries ago it was overrun by wandering tribes of barbarians; but what is there in those lands which stand forth on the pages of history, crowned with the glory of their ancient deeds, that, for extraordinary daring, for terrible sublimity, and undaunted patriotism, exceeds the burning of Moscow. Neither Marathon, nor Thermopylæ, nor the battle of the Horatii, nor the defence of Cocles, nor the devotion of the Decii, can equal it; and when time shall cover with its dim and quiet glories that bold and extraordinary deed, the burning of Moscow will be regarded as outstripping all that we read of Grecian or Roman patriotism, and the name of the Russian governor (Rostopchin), if it be not too tough a name to hand down to posterity, will never be forgotten. CHAPTER V. Getting a Passport.--Parting with the Marquis.--The Language of Signs.--A Loquacious Traveller.--From Moscow to St. Petersburgh.--The Wolga.--Novogorod.--Newski Perspective.--An unfortunate Mistake.--Northern Twilight. UNABLE to remain longer in Moscow, I prepared for my journey for St. Petersburgh. Several diligences run regularly between these two great cities; one of which, the Velocifère, is superior to any public conveyance on the Continent of Europe. I took my place in that, and two days beforehand sent my passport to be _viséd_. I sent for it the next day, and it was not ready. I went myself, and could not get it. I knew that nothing could be done at the Russian offices without paying for it, and was ready and willing to do so, and time after time I called the attention of the officer to my passport. He replied coolly, "_Dans un instant_," and, turning to something else, kept me waiting two hours; and when at length he took it up and arranged it, he led me down stairs out of sight to receive the expected _douceur_. He was a well-dressed man, with the large government button on his coat, and rather distingué in his appearance and manners. I took the passport, folded it up, and put it in my pocket with a coolness equal to his own, and with malicious pleasure put into his hand a single ruble, equal to twenty cents of our money; he expected at least twenty-five rubles, or about five dollars, and his look of rage and disappointment amply repaid me for all the vexation he had caused by his delay. I bade him farewell with a smile that almost drove him mad. Bribery is said to be almost universal among the inferior officers of government, and there is a story of a Frenchman in Russia which illustrates the system. He had an office, of which the salary was so small that he could not live upon it. At first he would not take bribes, but stern necessity drove him to it, and while he was about it he did the thing handsomely. Having overreached the mark, and been guilty of being detected, he was brought before the proper tribunal; and when asked, "Why did you take a bribe?" his answer was original and conclusive, "I take, thou takest, he takes, we take, you take, they take!" I told the marquis the story of my parting interview at the police-office, which he said was capital, but startled me by suggesting that, if there should happen to be any irregularity, I would have great trouble in getting it rectified; even this, however, did not disturb my immediate satisfaction, and, fortunately, all was right. The morning of my departure, before I was out of bed, the marquis was in my room. Meeting with me had revived in him feelings long since dead; and at the moment of parting he told me, what his pride had till that moment concealed, that his heart yearned once more to his kindred; and that, if he had the means, old as he was, he would go to America. And yet, though his frame trembled and his voice was broken, and his lamp was almost burned out, his spirit was as high as when he fought the battles of the empire; and he told me to say to them that he would not come to be a dependant upon their bounty; that he could repay all they should do for him by teaching their children. He gave me his last painting, which he regarded with the pride of an artist, as a souvenir for his sister; but having no means of carrying it safely, I was obliged to return it to him. He remained with me till the moment of my departure, clung to my hand after I had taken my place in the drosky, and when we had started I looked back and saw him still standing in the road. It seemed as if the last link that bound him to earth was broken. He gave me a letter, which I forwarded to his friends at home; his sister was still living, and had not forgotten her long-lost brother; she had not heard from him in twenty years, and had long believed him dead. Pecuniary assistance was immediately sent to him, and, unhappily, since my return home, intelligence has been received that it arrived only at the last moment when human aid could avail him; in time to smooth the pillow of death by the assurance that his friends had not forgotten him. And perhaps, in his dying moments, he remembered me. At all events, it is some satisfaction, amid the recollections of an unprofitable life, to think that, when his checkered career was drawing to its close, I had been the means of gladdening for a moment the old exile's heart. I must not forget my host, the quondam exile to Siberia. In his old days his spirit too was chafed at living under despotism, and, like the marquis, he also hoped, before he died, to visit America. I gave him my address, with the hope, but with very little expectation, of seeing him again. A travelling companion once remarked, that if every vagabond to whom I gave my address should find his way to America, I would have a precious set to present to my friends. Be it so; there is not a vagabond among them whom I would not be glad to see. My English companion and myself had seen but little of each other at Moscow. He intended to remain longer than I did, but changed his mind, and took a place in the same diligence for St. Petersburgh. This diligence was the best I ever rode in; and, for a journey of nearly five hundred miles, we could not have been more comfortably arranged. It started at the hour punctually, as from the Messagere in Paris. We rolled for the last time through the streets of Moscow, and in a few minutes passed out at the St. Petersburgh Gate. Our companions were a man about thirty-five, a cattle-driver, with his trousers torn, and his linen hanging out ostentatiously in different places, and an old man about sixty-five, just so far civilized as to have cut off the long beard and put on broadcloth clothes. It was the first time the old man had ever been on a journey from home; everything was new to him, and he seemed puzzled to know what to make of us; he could not comprehend how we could look, and walk, and eat like Russians, and not talk like them. My place was directly opposite his, and, as soon as we were seated, he began to talk to me. I looked at him and made no answer; he began again, and went on in an uninterrupted strain for several minutes, more and more surprised that I did not answer, or answered only in unintelligible sounds. After a while he seemed to come to the conclusion that I was deaf and dumb and turned to my companion as to my keeper for an explanation. Finding he could do nothing there, he appeared alarmed, and it was some time before he could get a clear idea of the matter. When he did, however, he pulled off an amazingly white glove, took my hand and shook it, pointed to his head, shook it, and touched my head, then put his hand to his heart, then to my heart; all which was to say, that though our heads did not understand each other, our hearts did. But though he saw we did not understand him, he did not on that account stop talking; indeed, he talked incessantly, and the only way of stopping him was to look directly in his face and talk back again; and I read him long lectures, particularly upon the snares and temptations of the world into which he was about to plunge, and wound up with stanzas of poetry and scraps of Greek and Latin, all which the old man listened to without ever interrupting me, bending his ear as if he expected every moment to catch something he understood; and when I had finished, after a moment's blank expression he whipped off his white glove, took my hand, and touched significantly his head and heart. Indeed, a dozen times a day he did this; and particularly whenever we got out, on resuming our seats, as a sort of renewal of the compact of good fellowship, the glove invariably came off, and the significant movement between the hand, head, and heart was repeated. The second day a young seigneur named Chickoff, who spoke French, joined the diligence, and through him we had full explanations with the old Russian. He always called me the American graff or noble, and said that, after being presented to the emperor, I should go down with him into the country. My worthy comrade appeared at first to be not a little bored by the old man's garrulous humour; but at length, seized by a sudden whim, began, as he said, to teach him English. But such English! He taught him, after a fashion peculiarly his own, the manner of addressing a lady and gentleman in English; and very soon, with the remarkable facility of the Russians in acquiring languages, the old man, utterly unconscious of their meaning, repeated the words with extraordinary distinctness; and regularly, when he took his place in the diligence, he accompanied the significant movements of his hand, head, and heart to me with the not very elegant address taught him by my companion. Though compelled to smile inwardly at the absurdity of the thing, I could not but feel the inherent impropriety of the conduct of my eccentric fellow-traveller; and ventured to suggest to him that, though he had an undoubted right to do as he pleased in matters that could not implicate me, yet, independent of the very questionable character of the joke itself (for the words savoured more of Wapping than of St. James's), as we were known to have travelled together, a portion of the credit of having taught the old Russian English might fall upon me--an honour of which I was not covetous, and, therefore, should tell the old man never to repeat the words he had been taught, which I did without assigning any reason for it, and before we arrived at St. Petersburgh he had forgotten them. The road from Moscow to St. Petersburgh is now one of the best in Europe. It is Macadamized nearly the whole way, and a great part is bordered with trees; the posthouses are generally large and handsome, under the direction of government, where soup, cutlets, &c., are always ready at a moment's notice, at prices regulated by a tariff hanging up in the room, which, however, being written in Russian, was of no particular use to us. The country is comparatively thickly settled, and villages are numerous. Even on this road, however, the villages are forlorn things, being generally the property and occupied by the serfs of the seigneurs, and consisting of a single long street, with houses on both sides built of logs, the better sort squared, with the gable end to the street, the roofs projecting two or three feet from the houses, and sometimes ornamented with rude carving and small holes for windows. We passed several chateaux, large, imposing buildings, with parks and gardens, and a large church, painted white, with a green dome surmounted by a cross. In many places on the road are chapels with figures of the Panagia, or all holy Virgin, or some of the saints; and our old Russian, constantly on the lookout for them, never passed one without taking off his hat and going through the whole formula of crosses; sometimes, in entering a town, they came upon us in such quick succession, first on one side, then on the other, that, if he had not been engaged in, to him, a sacred ceremony, his hurry and perplexity would have been ludicrous. During the night we saw fires ahead, and a little off the road were the bivouacs of teamsters or wayfarers, who could not pay for lodging in a miserable Russian hut. All the way we met the great caravan teams carrying tallow, hides, hemp, and other merchandise to the cities, and bringing back wrought fabrics, groceries, &c., into the interior. They were generally thirty or forty together, one man or woman attending to three or four carts, or, rather, neglecting them, as the driver was generally asleep on the top of his load. The horses, however, seemed to know what they were about; for as the diligence came rolling toward them, before the postillion could reach them with his whip, they intuitively hurried out of the way. The bridges over the streams and rivers are strong, substantial structures, built of heavy hewn granite, with iron balustrades, and ornamented in the centre with the double-headed eagle, the arms of Russia. At Tver we passed the Wolga on a bridge of boats. This noble river, the longest in Europe, navigable almost from its source for an extent of four thousand versts, dividing, for a great part of its course, Europe and Asia, runs majestically through the city, and rolls on, bathing the walls of the city of Astrachan, till it reaches the distant Caspian; its banks still inhabited by the same tribes of warlike Cossacks who hovered on the skirts of the French army during their invasion of Russia. By its junction with the Tverza, a communication is made between the Wolga and Neva, or, in other words, between the Caspian and Baltic. The impetus of internal improvements has extended even to the north of Europe, and the Emperor Nicolas is now actively engaged in directing surveys of the great rivers of Russia for the purpose of connecting them by canals and railroads, and opening steam communications throughout the whole interior of his empire. A great number of boats of all sizes, for carrying grain to the capital, were lying off the city. These boats are generally provided with one mast, which, in the largest, may equal a frigate's mainmast. "The weight of the matsail," an English officer remarks, "must be prodigious, having no fewer than one hundred breadths in it; yet the facility with which it is managed bears comparison with that of the Yankees with their boom mainsail in their fore-and-aft clippers." The rudder is a ponderous machine, being a broad piece of timber floating astern twelve or fifteen feet, and fastened to the tiller by a pole, which descends perpendicularly into the water; the tiller is from thirty to forty feet long, and the pilot who turns it stands upon a scaffold at that distance from the stern. Down the stream a group of Cossacks were bathing, and I could not resist the temptation to throw myself for a moment into this king of rivers. The diligence hurried me, and, as it came along, I gathered up my clothes and dressed myself inside. About eighty versts from St. Petersburgh we came to the ancient city of Novogorod. In the words of an old traveller, "Next unto Moscow, the city of Novogorod is reputed the chiefest in Russia; for although it be in majestie inferior to it, yet in greatness it goeth beyond it. It is the chiefest and greatest mart-town of all Muscovy; and albeit the emperor's seat is not there, but at Moscow, yet the commodiousness of the river, falling into that gulf which is called Sinus Finnicus, whereby it is well frequented by merchants, makes it more famous than Moscow itself." Few of the ruined cities of the Old World present so striking an appearance of fallen greatness as this comparatively unknown place. There is an ancient saying, "Who can resist the gods and Novogorod the Great?" Three centuries ago it covered an area of sixty-three versts in circumference, and contained a population of more than four hundred thousand inhabitants. Some parts of it are still in good condition, but the larger portion has fallen to decay. Its streets present marks of desolation, mouldering walls, and ruined churches, and its population has dwindled to little more than seven thousand inhabitants. The steeples in this ancient city bear the cross, unaccompanied by the crescent, the proud token showing that the Tartars, in all their invasions, never conquered it, while in the reconquered cities the steeples all exhibit the crescent surmounted by the cross. Late in the afternoon of the fourth day we were approaching St. Petersburgh. The ground is low and flat, and I was disappointed in the first view of the capital of Russia; but passing the barrier, and riding up the Newski Perspective, the most magnificent street in that magnificent city, I felt that the stories of its splendour were not exaggerated, and that this was, indeed, entitled to the proud appellation of the "Palmyra of the North." My English companion again stopped at a house kept by an Englishwoman and frequented by his countrymen, and I took an apartment at a hotel in a broad street with an unpronounceable Russian name, a little off the Newski Perspective. I was worn and fatigued with my journey, but I could not resist the inclination to take a gentle promenade along the Newski Perspective. While in the coffee-room refreshing myself with a cup of the best Russian tea, I heard some one outside the door giving directions to a tailor, and presently a man entered, whom, without looking at him, I told he was just the person I wanted to see, as I had a pair of pantaloons to be mended. He made no answer, and, without being able to see distinctly, I told him to wait till I could go up stairs and change them, and that he must mend them strongly and bring them back in the morning. In all probability, the next moment I should have been sprawling on the floor; but the landlady, a clever Frenchwoman, who saw my error stepped up, and crying out, "Ah, Monsieur Colonel, attendez, attendez," explained my mistake as clearly as I could have done myself, and I followed closely with an apology, adding that my remark could not be intended as disrespectful to him, inasmuch as even then, with the windows closed, I could scarcely distinguish his person. He understood the thing at once, accepted my apology with great frankness, and, instead of knocking me down, or challenging me to fight with sabre or some other diabolical thing, finding I was a stranger just arrived from Moscow, sat down at the table, and before we rose offered to accompany me in my walk. There could be no mistake as to the caste of my new friend. The landlady had called him colonel, and, in repelling the imputation of his being a tailor, had spoken of him as a rich seigneur, who for ten years had occupied the front apartments _au premier_ in her hotel. We walked out into the Newski Perspective, and strolled along that magnificent street down to the Admiralty, and along the noble quays of the Neva. I had reached the terminus of my journey; for many months I had been moving farther and farther away, and the next step I took would carry me toward home. It was the eve of the fourth of July; and as I strolled through the broad streets and looked up at the long ranges of magnificent buildings, I poured into the ear of my companion the recollections connected with this moment at home: in boyhood, crackers and fireworks in readiness for the great jubilee of the morrow; and, latterly, the excursion into the country to avoid the bustle and confusion of "the glorious fourth." At Moscow and during the journey I had admired the exceeding beauty of the twilight in these northern latitudes but this night in St. Petersburgh it was magnificent. I cannot describe the peculiar shades of this northern twilight. It is as if the glare and brilliancy of the sun were softened by the mellowing influence of the moon, and the city, with its superb ranges of palaces, its statues, its bridges, and its clear and rapid river, seemed, under the reflection of that northern light, of a brilliant and almost unearthly beauty. I felt like rambling all night. Even though worn with three days' travel, it was with me as with a young lady at her first ball; the night was too short. I could not bear to throw it away in sleep. My companion was tough, and by no means sentimental, and the scene was familiar to him; but he told me that, even in his eyes, it never lost its interest. Moonlight is something, but this glorious twilight is a thing to enjoy and to remember; and, as the colonel remarked when we sat down in his apartment to a comfortable supper, it always gave him such an appetite. After supper I walked through a long corridor to my apartment, threw myself upon my bed and tried to sleep, but the mellow twilight poured through my window and reproached me with the base attempt. I was not restless, but I could not sleep; lest, however, the reader should find himself of a different humour, I will consider myself asleep the first night in St. Petersburgh. CHAPTER VI. Police Requisites.--The Russian Capital.--Equestrian Statue of Peter the Great.--The Alexandrine Column.--Architectural Wonders.--The Summer Islands.--A perilous Achievement.--Origin of St. Petersburgh.--Tombs of dead Monarchs.--Origin of the Russian Navy. JULY FOURTH. I had intended to pass this day at Moscow, and to commemorate it in Napoleon style by issuing a bulletin from the Kremlin, but it was a long time since I had heard from home. At Constantinople I had written to Paris, directing my letters to be sent to Petersburgh, and, notwithstanding my late hours the night before, I was at the postoffice before the door was open. I had never been so long without hearing from home, and my lips quivered when I asked for letters, my hand shook when I received them, and I hardly drew breath until I had finished the last postscript. My next business was at the bureau of general police for a _carte de sejour_, without which no stranger can remain in St. Petersburgh. As usual, I was questioned as to my reasons for coming into Russia; age, time of sojourn, destination, &c.; and, satisfied that I had no intention of preaching democratic doctrines or subverting the government of the autocrat, I received permission to remain two weeks, which, according to direction, I gave to my landlord to be entered at the police-office of his district. As no stranger can stay in Petersburgh without permission, neither can he leave without it; and, to obtain this, he must advertise three times in the Government Gazette, stating his name, address, and intention of leaving the empire; and as the Gazette is only published twice a week, this formality occupies eight days. One of the objects of this is to apprize his creditors, and give them an opportunity of securing their debts; and few things show the barbarity and imperfect civilization of the Russians more clearly than this; making it utterly impossible for a gentleman to spend a winter in St. Petersburgh and go away without paying his landlord. This must prevent many a soaring spirit from wending its way hither, and keep the residents from being enlivened by the flight of those birds of passage which dazzle the eyes of the denizens of other cities. As there was no other way of getting out of the dominions of the Czar, I caused my name and intention to be advertised. It did not create much of a sensation; and though it was proclaimed in three different languages, no one except my landlord seemed to feel any interest in it. After all, to get in debt is the true way to make friends; a man's creditors always feel an interest in him; hope no misfortune may happen to him, and always wish him prosperity and success. These formalities over, I turned to other things. Different from every other principal city I had visited, St. Petersburgh had no storied associations to interest the traveller. There is no Colosseum, as at Rome; no Acropolis, as at Athens; no Rialto, as at Venice; and no Kremlin, as at Moscow; nothing identified with the men and scenes hallowed in our eyes, and nothing that can touch the heart. It depends entirely upon itself for the interest it creates in the mind of the traveller. St. Petersburgh is situated at the mouth of the Neva, at the eastern extremity of the Gulf of Finland. It is built partly on islands formed by the Neva, and partly on both sides of that river. But little more than a century ago, the ground now covered with stately palaces consisted of wild morasses and primeval forests, and a few huts tenanted by savage natives, who lived upon the fish of the sea. In seventeen hundred and three Peter the Great appeared as a captain of grenadiers under the orders of one of his own generals, on the wild and dreary banks of the Neva, drove the Swedes from their fortress at its mouth, cut down the forests on the rude islands of the river, and laid the foundations of a city which now surpasses in architectural magnificence every other in the world. I do not believe that Rome, when Adrian reared the mighty Colosseum, and the Palace of the Cæsars covered the Capitoline Hill, exhibited such a range of noble structures as now exists in the Admiralty Quarter. The Admiralty itself is the central point, on one side fronting the Neva, and on the other a large open square, and has a façade of marble, with ranges of columns, a quarter of a mile in length. A beautiful golden spire shoots up from the centre, towering above every other object, and seen from every part of the city glittering in the sun; and three principal streets, each two miles in length, radiate from this point. In front is a range of boulevards, ornamented with trees, and an open square, at one extremity of which stands the great church of St. Isaac, of marble, jasper, and porphyry, upon a foundation of granite; it has been once destroyed, and reared again with increased splendour, enormous columns of a single block of red granite already lifting their capitals in the air. On the right of the façade, and near the Isaac Bridge, itself a magnificent structure, a thousand and fifty feet long and sixty feet wide, with two drawbridges, stands the well-known equestrian statue of Peter the Great. The huge block of granite forming the pedestal is fifteen hundred tons in weight. The height of the figure of the emperor is eleven feet, that of the horse seventeen feet, and the weight of the metal in the group nearly thirty-seven thousand pounds. Both the idea and the execution of this superb monument are regarded as masterpieces of genius. To immortalize the enterprise and personal courage with which that extraordinary man conquered all difficulties and converted a few fishermen's huts into palaces, Peter is represented on a fiery steed, rushing up a steep and precipitous rock to the very brink of a precipice; the horse rears with his fore feet in the air, and seems to be impatient of restraint, while the imperial rider, in an attitude of triumph, extends the hand of protection over his capital rising out of the waters. To aid the inspiration of the artist, a Russian officer, the boldest rider of his time, daily rode the wildest Arabian of Count Orloff's stud to the summit of a steep mound, where he halted him suddenly, with his forelegs raised pawing the air over the brink of the precipice. The monument is surrounded by an iron railing, and the pedestal bears the simple inscription, Petro Primo, Catharina Secunda, MDCCLXXXII. On the other side of the square, and in front of the Winter Palace, raised within the last two years, and the most gigantic work of modern days, rivalling those magnificent monuments in the Old World whose ruins now startle the wondering traveller, and towering to the heavens, as if to proclaim that the days of architectural greatness are not gone by for ever, is the great Alexandrine Column, a single shaft of red granite, exclusive of pedestal and capital, eighty-four feet high. On the summit stands an angel holding a cross with the left hand, and pointing to heaven with the right. The pedestal contains the simple inscription, "To Alexander I. Grateful Russia." [Illustration: Column of Alexander I.] Surrounding this is a crescent of lofty buildings, denominated the Etat Major, its central portion having before it a majestic colonnade of the Corinthian order, placed on a high rustic basement, with a balustrade of solid bronze gilt between the columns. In the middle is a triumphal arch, which, with its frieze, reaches nearly to the upper part of the lofty building, having a span of seventy feet, the entablature sculptured with military trophies, allegorical figures, and groups in alto relievo. Next on a line with the Admiralty, and fronting the quay, stands the first of a long range of imperial palaces, extending in the form of a crescent for more than a mile along the Neva. The Winter Palace is a gigantic and princely structure, built of marble, with a façade of seven hundred and forty feet. Next are the two palaces of the Hermitage, connected with it and with each other by covered galleries on bold arches; the beautiful and tasteful fronts of these palaces are strangely in contrast with their simple and unpretending name. Next is the stately Grecian theatre of the Hermitage. Beyond this are the barracks of the guards, then the palace of the French ambassador, then the marble palace built by Catharine II. for her favourite, Prince Orloff, with a basement of granite and superstructure of bluish marble, ornamented with marble columns and pillars. In this palace died Stanislaus Poniatowsky, the last of the Polish sovereigns. This magnificent range, presenting an uninterrupted front of marble palaces upward of a mile in length, unequalled in any city in the world, is terminated by an open square, in which stands a colossal statue of Suwarrow; beyond this, still on the Neva, is the beautiful summer garden fronting the palace of Paul II.; and near it, and at the upper end of the square, is the palace of the Grand-duke Michael. Opposite is the citadel, with its low bastions of solid granite, washed all around by the Neva; beautiful in its structure, and beautifully decorated by the tall, slender, and richly gilded spire of its church. On the one side of the Admiralty is the senatorial palace, and beyond opens the English Quay, with a range of buildings that might well be called the residence of "merchant princes;" while the opposite bank is crowded with public buildings, among which the most conspicuous are the palace of the Academy of the Fine Arts; the Obelisk, rising in the centre of a wide square, recording the glory of some long-named Russian hero; the building of the Naval Cadet Corps, with its handsome front, and the barracks of the Guard of Finland; finally, the great pile of palace-like buildings belonging to the Military Cadet Corps, reaching nearly to the palace of the Academy of Sciences, and terminating with the magnificent Grecian front of the Exchange. I know that a verbal description can give but a faint idea of the character of this scene, nor would it help the understanding of it to say that it exhibits all that wealth and architectural skill can do, for few in our country know what even these powerful engines can effect; as for myself, hardly noting the details, it was my greatest delight to walk daily to the bridge across the Neva, at the summer gardens, the view from which more than realized all the crude and imperfect notions of architectural magnificence that had ever floated through my mind; a result that I had never found in any other city I had yet seen, not excepting Venice the Rich or Genoa the Proud, although the latter is designated in guide-books the city of palaces. Next to the palaces in solidity and beauty of structure are the bridges crossing the Neva, and the magnificent quays along its course, these last being embankments of solid granite, lining the stream on either side the whole length of its winding course through the city. I was always at a loss whether to ride or walk in St. Petersburgh; sometimes I mounted a drosky and rode up and down the Newski Perspective, merely for the sake of rolling over the wooden pavement. This street is perhaps more than twice as wide as Broadway; the gutter is in the middle, and on each side are wooden pavements wide enough for vehicles to pass each other freely. The experiment of wooden pavements was first made in this street, and found to answer so well that it has since been introduced into many others; and as the frost is more severe than with us, and it has stood the test of a Russian winter, if rightly constructed it will, no doubt, prove equally successful in our own city. The road is first covered with broken stone, or Macadamized; then logs are laid across it, the interstices being filled up with sand and stone, and upon this are placed hexagonal blocks of pine about eighteen inches long, fitted like joiner's work, fastened with long pegs, and covered with a preparation of melted lead. When I left Paris I had no expectation of travelling in Russia, and, consequently, had no letter of introduction to Mr. Wilkins, our minister; but, long before reaching St. Petersburgh, I had made it a rule, immediately on my arrival in a strange place, to call upon our representative, whatever he might be, from a minister plenipotentiary down to a little Greek consul. I did so here, and was probably as well received upon my own introduction as if I had been recommended by letter; for I got from Mr. Wilkins the invitation to dinner usually consequent upon a letter, and besides much interesting information from home, and, more than all, a budget of New-York newspapers. It was a long time since I had seen a New-York paper, and I hailed all the well-known names, informed myself of every house to let, every vessel to sail, all the cotton in market, and a new kind of shaving-soap for sale at Hart's Bazar; read with particular interest the sales of real estate by James Bleecker and Sons; wondered at the rapid increase of the city in creating a demand for building lots in one hundred and twenty-seventh street, and reflected that some of my old friends had probably grown so rich that they would not recognise me on my return. Having made arrangements for the afternoon to visit the Summer Islands, I dined with my friend the colonel, in company with Prince ---- (I have his name in my pocketbook, written by himself, and could give a facsimile of it, but I could not spell it). The prince was about forty-five, a high-toned gentleman, a nobleman in his feelings, and courtly in his manners, though, for a prince, rather out at elbows in fortune. The colonel and he had been fellow-soldiers, had served in the guards during the whole of the French invasion, and entered Paris with the allied armies as officers in the same regiment. Like most of the Russian seigneurs, they had run through their fortunes in their military career. The colonel, however, had been set up again by an inheritance from a deceased relative, but the prince remained ruined. He was now living upon a fragment saved from the wreck of his estate, a pension for his military services, and the bitter experience acquired by a course of youthful extravagance. Like many of the reduced Russian seigneurs, he was disaffected toward the government, and liberal in politics; he was a warm admirer of liberal institutions, had speculated upon and studied them both in France and America, and analyzed understandingly the spirit of liberty as developed by the American and French revolutions; when he talked of Washington, he folded his hands and looked up to heaven, as if utterly unable to express the fulness of his emotions. With us, the story of our revolution is a hackneyed theme, and even the sacred name of Washington has become almost commonplace; but the freshness of feeling with which the prince spoke of him invested him in my eyes with a new and holy character. After dinner, and while on our way to the Summer Islands, we stopped at his apartments, when he showed me the picture of Washington conspicuous on the wall; under it, by way of contrast, was that of Napoleon; and he summed up the characters of both in few words, by saying that the one was all for himself, the other all for his country. The Summer Islands on Sundays and fête days are the great promenade of the residents of the capital, and the approach to them is either by land or water. We preferred the latter, and at the Admiralty took a boat on the Neva. All along the quay are flights of steps cut in the granite, and descending to a granite platform, where boats are constantly in attendance for passengers. These boats are fantastically painted, and have the stern raised some three or four feet; sometimes they are covered with an awning. The oar is of disproportionate thickness toward the handle, the blade very broad, always feathered in rowing, and the boatman, in his calico or linen shirt and pantaloons, his long yellowish beard and mustaches, looks like anything but the gondolier of Venice. In passing down the Neva I noticed, about half way between low-water mark and the top of the quay, a ring which serves to fasten vessels, and is the mark, to which if the water rises, an inundation may be expected. The police are always on the watch, and the fearful moment is announced by the firing of cannon, by the display of white flags from the Admiralty steeple by day, and by lanterns and the tolling of the bells at night. In the last dreadful inundation of eighteen hundred and twenty-four, bridges were swept away, boats floated in some parts of the town above the tops of the houses, and many villages were entirely destroyed. At Cronstadt, a vessel of one hundred tons was left in the middle of one of the principal streets; eight thousand dead bodies were found and buried, and probably many thousands more were hurried on to the waters of the Gulf of Finland. It was a fête day in honour of some church festival, and a great portion of the population of St. Petersburgh was bending its way toward the Summer Islands. The emperor and empress were expected to honour the promenade with their presence, and all along the quay boats were shooting out loaded with gay parties, and, as they approached the islands, they formed into a fleet, almost covering the surface of the river. We were obliged to wait till perhaps a dozen boats had discharged their passengers before we could land. These islands are formed by the branches of the Neva, at about three versts from St. Petersburgh. They are beautifully laid out in grass and gravel-walks, ornamented with trees, lakes, shrubs, and flowers, connected together by light and elegant bridges, and adorned with beautiful little summer-houses. These summer-houses are perfectly captivating; light and airy in their construction, and completely buried among the trees. As we walked along we heard music or gentle voices, and now and then came upon a charming cottage, with a beautiful lawn or garden, just enough exposed to let the passer-by imagine what he pleased; and on the lawn was a light fanciful tent, or an arbour hung with foliage, under which the occupants, with perhaps a party of friends from the city, were taking tea, and groups of rosy children were romping around them, while thousands were passing by and looking on, with as perfect an appearance of domestic _abandon_ as if in the privacy of the fireside. I have sometimes reproached myself that my humour changed with every passing scene; but, inasmuch as it generally tended toward at least a momentary satisfaction, I did not seek to check it; and though, from habit and education, I would have shrunk from such a family exhibition, here it was perfectly delightful. It seemed like going back to a simpler and purer age. The gay and smiling faces seemed to indicate happy hearts; and when I saw a mother playing on the green with a little cherub daughter, I felt how I hung upon the community, a loose and disjointed member, and would fain have added myself to some cheerful family group. A little farther on, however, I saw a papa flogging a chubby urchin, who drowned with his bellowing the music from a neighbouring arbour, which somewhat broke the charm of this public exhibition of scenes of domestic life. Besides these little retiring-places or summer residences of citizens, restaurants and houses of refreshments were distributed in great abundance, and numerous groups were sitting under the shade of trees or arbours, taking ices or refreshments; and the grounds for promenade were so large and beautifully disposed, that, although thousands were walking through them, there was no crowd, except before the door of a principal refectory, where a rope-dancer was flourishing in the air among the tops of the trees. In addition to the many enchanting retreats and summer residences created by the taste, luxury, and wealth of private individuals, there are summer theatres and imperial villas. But the gem of the islands is the little imperial palace at Cammenoi. I have walked through royal palaces, and admired their state and magnificence without one wish to possess them, but I felt a strong yearning toward this imperial villa. It is not so grand and stately as to freeze and chill one, but a thing of extraordinary simplicity and elegance, in a beautifully picturesque situation, heightened by a charming disposition of lawn and trees, so elegant, and, if I may add such an unpoetical word in the description of this imperial residence, so comfortable, that I told the prince if I were a Rasselas escaped from the happy valley, I would look no farther for a resting-place. The prince replied that in the good old days of Russian barbarism, when a queen swayed the sceptre, Russia had been a great field for enterprising and adventurous young men, and in more than one instance a palace had been the reward of a favourite. We gave a sigh to the memory of those good old days, and at eleven o'clock returned to the city on the top of an omnibus. The whole road from the Summer Islands and the great street leading to the Admiralty were lighted with little glass lamps, arranged on the sidewalks about six feet apart, but they almost realized the conceit of illuminating the sun by hanging candles around it, seeming ashamed of their own sickly glare and struggling vainly with the glorious twilight. The next morning the valet who had taken me as his master, and who told others in the house that he could not attend to them, as he was in my service, informed me that a traveller arrived from Warsaw the night before had taken apartments in the same hotel, and could give me all necessary information in regard to that route; and, after breakfast, I sent him, with my compliments, to ask the traveller if he would admit me, and shortly after called myself. He was a young man, under thirty, above the middle size, strong and robust of frame, with good features, light complexion, but very much freckled, a head of extraordinary red hair, and a mustache of the same brilliant colour; and he was dressed in a coloured stuff morning-gown, and smoking a pipe with an air of no small dignity and importance. I explained the purpose of my visit, and he gave me as precise information as could possibly be had; and the most gratifying part of the interview was, that before we separated he told me that he intended returning to Warsaw in about ten days, and would be happy to have me bear him company. I gladly embraced his offer, and left him, better pleased with the result of my interview than I had expected from his rather unprepossessing appearance. He was a Frenchman by descent, born in Belgium, and educated and resident in Poland, and possessed in a striking degree the compounded amor patriæ incident to the relationship in which he stood to these three countries. But, as I shall be obliged to speak of him frequently hereafter, I will leave him for the present to his morning-gown and pipe. Well pleased with having my plans arranged, I went out without any specific object, and found myself on the banks of the Neva. Directly opposite the Winter Palace, and one of the most conspicuous objects on the whole line of the Neva, is the citadel or old fortress, and, in reality, the foundation of the city. I looked long and intently on the golden spire of its church, shooting toward the sky and glittering in the sun. This spire, which rises tapering till it seems almost to fade away into nothing, is surmounted by a large globe, on which stands an angel supporting a cross. This angel, being made of corruptible stuff, once manifested symptoms of decay, and fears were entertained that he would soon be numbered with the fallen. Government became perplexed how to repair it, for to raise a scaffolding to such a height would cost more than the angel was worth. Among the crowd which daily assembled to gaze at it from below was a roofer of houses, who, after a long and silent examination, went to the government and offered to repair it without any scaffolding or assistance of any kind. His offer was accepted; and on the day appointed for the attempt, provided with nothing but a coil of cords, he ascended inside to the highest window, and, looking for a moment at the crowd below and at the spire tapering away above him, stood up on the outer ledge of the window. The spire was covered with sheets of gilded copper, which, to beholders from below, presented only a smooth surface of burnished gold; but the sheets were roughly laid, and fastened by large nails, which projected from the sides of the spire. He cut two pieces of cord, and tied loops at each end of both, fastened the upper loops over two projecting nails, and stood with his feet in the lower; then, clinching the fingers of one hand over the rough edges of the sheets of copper, raised himself till he could hitch one of the loops on a higher nail with the other hand; he did the same for the other loop, and so he raised one leg after the other, and at length ascended, nail by nail, and stirrup by stirrup, till he clasped his arms around the spire directly under the ball. Here it seemed impossible to go any farther, for the ball was ten or twelve feet in circumference, with a smooth and glittering surface, and no projecting nails, and the angel was above the ball, as completely out of sight as if it were in the habitation of its prototypes. But the daring roofer was not disheartened. Raising himself in his stirrups, he encircled the spire with a cord, which he tied round his waist; and, so supported, leaned gradually back until the soles of his feet were braced against the spire, and his body fixed almost horizontally in the air. In this position he threw a cord over the top of the ball, and threw it so coolly and skilfully that at the first attempt it fell down on the other side, just as he wanted it; then he drew himself up to his original position, and, by means of his cord, climbed over the smooth sides of the globe, and in a few moments, amid thunders of applause from the crowd below, which at that great height sounded only like a faint murmur, he stood by the side of the angel. After attaching a cord to it he descended, and the next day carried up with him a ladder of ropes, and effected the necessary repairs. But to return. With my eyes fixed upon the spire, I crossed the bridge and entered the gate of the fortress. It is built on a small island, fortified by five bastions, which, on the land side, are mere ramparts connected with St. Petersburgh quarter by drawbridges, and on the river side it is surrounded by walls cased with granite, in the centre of which is a large gate or sallyport. As a fortress, it is now useless; but it is a striking object of embellishment to the river, and an interesting monument in the history of the city. Peter himself selected this spot for his citadel and the foundation of his city. At that time it contained two fishing-huts in ruins, the only original habitations on the island. It was necessary to cut down the trees, and elevate the surface of the island with dirt and stone brought from other places before he commenced building the fortress; and the labour of the work was immense, no less than forty thousand workmen being employed at one time. Soldiers, Swedish prisoners, Ingrians, Carelians, and Cossacks, Tartars and Calmucs, were brought from their distant solitudes to lay the foundation of the imperial city, labouring entirely destitute of all the comforts of life, sleeping on the damp ground and in the open air, often without being able, in that wilderness, to procure their daily meal; and, moreover, without pickaxes, spades, or other instruments of labour, and using only their bare hands for digging; but, in spite of all this, the work advanced with amazing rapidity, and in four months the fortress was completed. The principal objects of interest it now contains are the Imperial Mint and the Cathedral of St. Peter and St. Paul. Brought up in a community where "making money" is the great business of life, I ought, perhaps, to have entered the former, but I turned away from the ingots of gold and silver, and entered the old church, the burial-place of Peter the Great, and nearly all the Czars and Czarinas, emperors and empresses, since his time. Around the walls were arranged flags and banners, trophies taken in war, principally from the Turks, waving mournfully over the tombs of the dead. A sombre light broke through the lofty windows, and I moved directly to the tomb of Peter. It is near the great altar, of plain marble, in the shape of a square coffin, without any ornament but a gold plate, on one end of which are engraved his name and title; and at the moment of my entrance an old Russian was dusting it with a brush. It was with a mingled feeling of veneration and awe that I stood by the tomb of Peter. I had always felt a profound admiration for this extraordinary man, one of those prodigies of nature which appear on the earth only once in many centuries; a combination of greatness and cruelty, the sternness of whose temper spared neither age nor sex, nor the dearest ties of kindred; whose single mind changed the face of an immense empire and the character of millions, and yet who often remarked with bitter compunction, "I can reform my people, but I cannot reform myself." By his side lies the body of his wife, Catharine I., the beautiful Livonian, the daughter of a peasant girl, and the wife of a common soldier, who, by a wonderful train of events, was raised to wield the sceptre of a gigantic empire. Her fascination soothed the savage Peter in his moodiest hours. She was the mediatrix between the stern monarch and his subjects; mercy was ever on her lips, and one who knew her well writes what might be inscribed in letters of gold upon her tomb: "She was a pretty, well-looked woman, but not of that sublimity of wit, or, rather, that quickness of imagination which some people have supposed. The great reason why the Czar was so fond of her was her exceeding good temper; she never was seen peevish or out of humour; obliging and civil to all, and never forgetful of her former condition, and withal mighty grateful." Near their imperial parents lie the bodies of their two daughters, Anne of Holstein and the Empress Elizabeth. Peter, on his deathbed, in an interval of delirium, called to him his daughter Anne, as it was supposed, with the intention of settling upon her the crown, but suddenly relapsed into insensibility; and Anne, brought up in the expectation of two crowns, died in exile, leaving one son, the unfortunate Peter III. Elizabeth died on the throne, a motley character of goodness, indolence, and voluptuousness, and extremely admired for her great personal attractions. She was never married, but, as she frequently owned to her confidants, never happy but when in love. She was so tender of heart that she made a vow to inflict no capital punishment during her reign; shed tears upon the news of every victory gained by her troops, from the reflection that it could not have been gained without bloodshed, and would never give her consent for the execution of a felon, however deserving; and yet she condemned two noble ladies, one of them the most beautiful woman in Russia, to receive fifty strokes of the knout in the open square of St. Petersburgh. I strolled for a few moments among the other imperial sepulchres, and returned to the tombs of Peter's family. Separate monuments are erected over their bodies, all in the shape of large oblong tombstones, ornamented with gold, and enclosed by high iron railings. As I leaned against the railing of Peter's tomb, I missed one member of his imperial family. It was an awful chasm. Where was his firstborn child and only son? the presumptive heir of his throne and empire? Early the object of his unnatural prejudice, excluded from the throne, imprisoned, tortured, tried, condemned, sentenced to death by the stern decree of his offended father! The ill-starred Alexius lies in the vaults of the church, in the imperial sepulchre, but without any tomb or inscription to perpetuate the recollection of his unhappy existence. And there is something awful in the juxtaposition of the dead; he lies by the side of his unhappy consort, the amiable Princess Charlotte, who died the victim of his brutal neglect; so subdued by affliction that, in a most affecting farewell to Peter, unwilling to disturb the tranquillity of her last hour, she never mentioned his name, and welcomed death as a release from her sufferings. Leaving the church, I went to a detached building within the fortress, where is preserved, in a separate building, a four-oared boat, as a memorial of the origin of the Russian navy. Its history is interesting. About the year 1691 Peter saw this boat at a village near Moscow; and inquiring the cause of its being built differently from those he was in the habit of seeing, learned that it was contrived to go against the wind. Under the direction of Brandt, the Dutch shipwright who built it, he acquired the art of managing it. He afterward had a large pleasure-yacht constructed after the same model, and from this beginning went on till he surprised all Europe by a large fleet on the Baltic and the Black Sea. Twenty years afterward he had it brought up from Moscow, and gave a grand public entertainment, which he called the consecration of the "little grandsire." The fleet, consisting of twenty-seven men-of-war, was arranged at Cronstadt in the shape of a half moon. Peter embarked in the little grandsire, himself steering, and three admirals and Prince Mendzikoff rowing, and made a circuit in the gulf, passing by the fleet, the ships striking their flags and saluting it with their guns, while the little grandsire returned each salute by a discharge of three small pieces. It was then towed up to St. Petersburgh, where its arrival was celebrated by a masquerade upon the waters, and, Peter again steering, the boat proceeded to the fortress, and under a discharge of all the artillery it was deposited where it now lies. Returning, I took a bath in the Neva. In bathing, as in everything else, the Russians profit by the short breath of summer, and large public bathing-houses are stationed at intervals along the quay of the river, besides several smaller ones, tasteful and ornamental in appearance, being the private property of rich seigneurs. I went into one of the former, where a swimming-master was teaching a school of boys the art of swimming. The water of the Neva was the first thing I had found regularly Russian, that is, excessively cold; and though I bathed in it several times afterward, I always found it the same. At five o'clock I went to dine with Mr. Wilkins. He had broken up his establishment and taken apartments at the house of an English lady, where he lived much in the same style as at home. He had been at St. Petersburgh but a short time, and, I believe, was not particularly well pleased with it, and was then making arrangements to return. I had never met with Mr. Wilkins in our own country, and I consider myself under obligations to him; for, not bringing him any letter, I stood an entire stranger in St. Petersburgh, with nothing but my passport to show that I was an American citizen, and he might have even avoided the dinner, or have given me the dinner and troubled himself no more about me. But the politeness which he had shown me as a stranger increased to kindness; and I was in the habit of calling upon him at all times, and certainly without any expectation of ever putting him in print. We had at table a parti quarré, consisting of Mr. Wilkins, Mr. Gibson, who has been our consul, I believe, for twenty years, if, he being still a bachelor, it be not unfriendly to carry him back so far, and Mr. Clay, the secretary of legation, who had been twice left as chargé d'affaires at the imperial court, and was then lately married to an English lady in St. Petersburgh. After dinner, three or four American merchants came in; and at eleven o'clock, having made an appointment to go with Mr. Wilkins and see a boatrace on the Neva, Mr. Clay and I walked home along the quay, under that enchanting twilight which I have already so often thrust upon the reader, and which I only regret that I cannot make him realize and enjoy. CHAPTER VII. A New Friend.--The Winter Palace.--Importance of a Hat.--An artificial Mine.--Remains of a huge Monster.--Peter the Great's Workshop.--The Greek Religion.--Tomb of a Hero.--A Saint Militant.--Another Love Affair.--The Hermitage.--The Winter and Summer Gardens. EARLY in the morning, while at breakfast, I heard a loud knock at my door, which was opened without waiting for an answer, and in stalked a tall, stout, dashing-looking young man, with a blue frock, white pantaloons, and a vest of many colours, a heavy gold chain around his neck, an enormous Indian cane in his hand, and a broad-brimmed hat brought down on one side, over his right eye in particular. He had a terrible scowl on his face, which seemed to be put on to sustain the dignity of his amazing costume, and he bowed on his entrance with as much _hauteur_ as if he meant to turn me out of my own room. I stared at him in unfeigned astonishment, when, putting his cane under his arm, and pulling off his hat, his intensely red head broke upon me with a blaze of beauty, and I recognised my friend and intended fellow-traveller, the French Belgian Pole, whom I had seen in an old morning-gown and slippers. I saw through my man at once; and speedily knocking in the head his overwhelming formality, came upon him with the old college salutation, asking him to pull off his clothes and stay a week; and he complied almost literally, for in less than ten minutes he had off his coat and waistcoat, cravat and boots, and was kicking up his heels on my bed. I soon discovered that he was a capital fellow, a great beau in his little town on the frontiers of Poland, and one of a class by no means uncommon, that of the very ugly men who imagine themselves very handsome. While he was kicking his heels over the footboard, he asked me what we thought of red hair in America; and I told him that I could not undertake to speak the public voice, but that, for myself, I did not admire it as much as some people did, though, as to his, there was something striking about it, which was strictly true, for it was such an enormous mop that, as his head lay on the pillow, it looked like a bust set in a large red frame. All the time he held in his hand a pocket looking-glass and a small brush, with which he kept brushing his mustaches, giving them a peculiar twirl toward the ears. I told him that he was wrong about the mustache; and, taking the brush, brought them out of their twist, and gave them an inclination à la Turque, recommending my own as a model; but he soon got them back to their place, and, rising, shook his gory locks and began to dress himself, or, as he said, to put himself in parchment for a walk. My new friend was for no small game, and proposed visiting some of the palaces. On the way he confided to me a conquest he had already made since his arrival; a beautiful young lady, of course, the daughter of an Italian music-master, who resided directly opposite our hotel. He said he had applied for an apartment next to mine, which commanded a view of the window at which she sat, and asked me, as a friend, whether it would be interfering with me. Having received my assurance that I had no intentions in that quarter, he said he would order his effects to be removed the same day. By this time we had arrived at the Winter Palace, presenting, as I have before remarked, a marble front on the Neva of more than seven hundred feet, or as long as the side of Washington Square, and larger and more imposing than that of the Tuileries or any other royal palace in Europe. We approached the large door of entrance to this stately pile, and, notwithstanding my modest application, backed by my companion's dashing exterior, we were turned away by the imperial footman because we had not on dresscoats. We went home and soon returned equipped as the law of etiquette requires, and were admitted to the imperial residence. We ascended the principal story by the great marble staircase, remarkable for its magnificence and the grandeur of its architecture. There are nearly a hundred principal rooms on the first floor, occupying an area of four hundred thousand square feet, and forming almost a labyrinth of splendour. The great banqueting-hall is one hundred and eighty-nine feet by one hundred and ten, incrusted with the finest marble, with a row of columns at each end, and the side decorated with attached columns, rich gilding, and splendid mirrors. The great Hall of St. George is one of the richest and most superb rooms on the Continent, not excepting the pride of the Tuileries or Versailles. It is a parallelogram of one hundred and forty feet by sixty, decorated with forty fluted Corinthian columns of porphyritic marble, with capitals and bases of bronze richly gilded, and supporting a gallery with a gilded bronze balustrade of exquisite workmanship. At one end, on a platform, is the throne, approached by a flight of eight steps, covered with the richest Genoa velvet, embroidered with gold, with the double-headed eagle expanding his wings above it. The large windows on both sides are hung with the richest drapery, and the room is embellished by magnificent mirrors and colossal candelabra profusely gilded. We passed on to the _salle blanche_, which is nearly of the same dimensions, and beautifully chaste in design and finish. Its elevation is greater, and the sides are decorated with pilasters, columns, and bas-reliefs of a soft white tint, without the least admixture of gaudy colours. The space between the Hall of St. George and the _salle blanche_ is occupied as a gallery of national portraits, where the Russians who distinguished themselves during the French invasion are exhibited in half-length portraits as rewards for their military services. The three field-marshals, Kutuzow, Barclay de Tolly, and the Duke of Wellington, are represented at full length. The symbol which accompanies the hero of Waterloo is that of imperishable strength, the British oak, "the triumpher of many storms." I will not carry the reader through all the magnificent apartments, but I cannot help mentioning the Diamond Room, containing the crowns and jewels of the imperial family. Diamonds, rubies, and emeralds are arranged round the room in small cases, of such dazzling beauty that it is almost bewildering to look at them. I had already acquired almost a passion for gazing at precious stones. At Constantinople I had wandered through the bazars, under the guidance of a Jew, and seen all the diamonds collected and for sale in the capital of the East, but I was astonished at the brilliancy of this little chamber, and, in my strongly-awakened admiration, looked upon the miser who, before the degrading days of bonds and mortgages, converted his wealth into jewels and precious stones, as a man of elegant and refined taste. The crown of the emperor is adorned with a chaplet of oak-leaves made of diamonds of an extraordinary size, and the imperial sceptre contains one supposed to be the largest in the world, being the celebrated stone purchased by the Empress Catharine II. from a Greek slave for four hundred and fifty thousand rubles and a large pension for life. Eighty thousand persons were employed in the construction of this palace; upward of two thousand habitually reside in it, and even a larger number when the emperor is in St. Petersburgh. The imperial flag was then floating from the top of the palace, as an indication to his subjects of his majesty's presence in the capital; and about the time that his majesty sat down to his royal dinner we were working upon a cotelette de mouton, and drinking in vin ordinaire health and long life to Nicolas the First; and afterward, in talking of the splendour of the imperial palace and the courtesy of the imperial footmen, we added health and long life to the Lady Autocrat and all the little autocrats.[1] After dinner we took our coffee at the Café Chinois, on the Newski Perspective, equal, if not superior, in style and decoration to anything in Paris. Even the rules of etiquette in France are not orthodox all over the world. In Paris it is not necessary to take off the hat on entering a café or restaurant, and in the south of France a Frenchman will sit down to dinner next a lady with his head covered; but in Russia, even on entering an apartment where there are only gentlemen, it is necessary to uncover the head. I neglected this rule from ignorance and want of attention, and was treated with rudeness by the proprietor, and afterward learned the cause, with the suggestion that it was fortunate that I had not been insulted. This is a small matter, but a man's character in a strange place is often affected by a trifling circumstance; and Americans, at least I know it to be the case with myself, are, perhaps, too much in the habit of neglecting the minor rules of etiquette. That night my new friend had his effects removed to a room adjoining mine, and the next morning I found him sitting in his window with a book in his hand, watching the young lady opposite. He was so pleased with his occupation that I could not get him away, and went off without him. Mr. Wilkins having offered to accompany me to some of the public institutions, I called for him; and, finding him disengaged, we took a boat on the Neva, and went first to the Academy of Arts, standing conspicuously on the right bank opposite the English Quay, and, perhaps, the chastest and most classical structure in St. Petersburgh. In the court are two noble Egyptian Sphynxes. A magnificent staircase, with a double flight of granite steps, leads to a grand landing-place with broad galleries around it, supporting, by means of Ionic columns, the cupola, which crowns the whole. The Rotunda is a fine apartment of exquisite proportions, decorated with statues and busts; and at the upper end of the Conference-room stands a large table, at the head of which is a full-length portrait of Nicolas under a rich canopy. In one room are a collection of models from the antique, and another of the paintings of native artists, some of which are considered as indicating extraordinary talent. From hence we went to the _Hotel des Mines_, where the name of the American minister procured us admission without the usual permit. The _Hotel des Mines_ was instituted by the great Peter for the purpose of training a mining engineer corps, to explore scientifically the vast mineral resources of the empire, and also engineers for the army. Like all the other public edifices, the building is grand and imposing, and the arrangement of the different rooms and galleries is admirable. In one room is a large collection of medals, and in another of coins. Besides specimens of general mineralogy of extraordinary beauty, there are native iron from the Lake Olonetz, silver ore from Tobolsk and gold sand from the Oural Mountains; and in iron-bound cases, beautifully ornamented, there is a rich collection of native gold, found either in the mines belonging to government or in those of individuals, one piece of which was discovered at the depth of three and a half feet in the sand, weighing more than twenty-four pounds. The largest piece of platinum in existence, from the mines of Demidoff, weighing ten pounds, is here also; and, above all, a colossal specimen of amalachite weighing three thousand four hundred and fifty-six pounds, and, at the common average price of this combination of copper and carbonic acid, worth three thousand seven hundred and fifty pounds sterling. But the most curious part of this valuable repository is under ground, being a model of a mine in Siberia. Furnished with lighted tapers, we followed our guides through winding passages cut into the bowels of the earth, the sides of which represented, by the aggregation of real specimens, the various stratifications, with all the different ores, and minerals, and different species of earth, as they were found in the natural state; the coal formation, veins of copper, and in one place of gold, being particularly well represented, forming an admirable practical school for the study of geology, though under a chillness of atmosphere which would be likely very soon to put an end to studies of all kinds. From here we passed to the imperial Academy of Sciences, by far the most interesting part of our day's visiting. This, too, was founded by the Great Peter. I hardly know why, but I had already acquired a warm admiration for the stout old Czar. There was nothing high or chivalric about him, but every step in Russia, from the Black Sea to the Baltic, showed me what he had done to advance the condition of his people. I knew all this as matter of history, but here I felt it as fact. We strolled through the mineralogical and zoological repositories, and stopped before the skeleton of that stupendous inhabitant of a former world, denominated the mammoth, whose fame had been carried over the waste of waters even to our distant country, and beside which even the skeletons of elephants looked insignificant. What was he? where did he live, and is his race extinct? It gave rise to a long train of interesting speculation, to endow him with life, and see him striding with gigantic steps, the living tenant of a former world; and more interesting still to question, as others had done, whether he was not, after all, one of a race of animals not yet extinct, and perhaps wandering even now within a short distance of the Polar Sea. There is also in this part of the museum a collection of anatomical specimens and of human monsters; an unpleasing exhibition, though, no doubt, useful to medical science; among them was a child with two heads from America. More interesting to me was a large collection of insects, of medals, and particularly of the different objects in gold found in the tumuli of Siberia, consisting of bracelets, vases, crowns, bucklers, rings, sabres with golden hilts, Tartar idols, &c., many of them of great value and of very elegant workmanship, which have given rise to much interesting speculation in regard to the character of the people who formerly inhabited that country. The Asiatic museum contains a library of Chinese, Japanese, Mongolese, and Tibetan books and manuscripts; Mohammedan, Chinese, and Japanese coins; an interesting assemblage of Mongolese idols cut in bronze and gilded, and illustrating the religion of Buddha. There is also an Egyptian museum, containing about a thousand articles. The cabinet of curiosities contains figures of all the different people conquered under the government of Russia, habited in their national costumes; also of Chinese, Persians, Aleutans, Carelians, and the inhabitants of many of the Eastern, Pacific, or Northern Islands discovered or visited by Russian travellers and navigators, as well as of the different nations inhabiting Siberia. But by far the most interesting part of the museum is the cabinet of Peter himself, consisting of a suite of apartments, in which the old Czar was in the habit of passing his leisure hours engaged in some mechanical employment. In one room are several brass cylinders turned by his own hands, and covered with battle-scenes of his own engraving. Also an iron bar forged by him; bas-reliefs executed in copper, representing his desperate battles in Livonia; an ivory chandelier of curious and highly-wrought workmanship, and a group in ivory representing Abraham offering up his son Isaac, the ram and the angel Gabriel cut out entire. In another room is his workshop, containing a variety of vessels and models etched in copper, and a copperplate with an unfinished battle-scene. His tools and implements are strewed about the room precisely in the state in which he left them the last time he was there. In another chamber were the distended skin of his French body-servant, seven feet high; the Arabian horse which he rode at the bloody battle of Pultowa, and the two favourite dogs which always accompanied him; and in another the figure of the old Czar himself in wax, as large as life; the features, beyond doubt, bearing the exact resemblance to the original, being taken from a cast applied to his face when dead, and shaded in imitation of his real complexion. The eyebrows and hair are black, the eyes dark, the complexion swarthy, and aspect stern. This figure is surrounded by the portraits of his predecessors, in their barbarian costumes, himself seated in an armchair in the same splendid dress which he wore when with his own hands he placed the imperial crown on the head of his beloved Catharine. Here, also, are his uniform of the guards, gorget, scarf, and sword, and hat shot through at the battle of Pultowa; and the last thing which the guide put into my hands was a long stick measuring his exact height, and showing him literally a great man, being six Russian feet. I must not forget a pair of shoes made by his own hands; but the old Czar was no shoemaker. Nevertheless, these memorials were all deeply interesting; and though I had seen the fruits of his labours from the Black Sea to the Baltic, I never felt such a strong personal attraction to him as I did here. I was obliged to decline dining with Mr. Wilkins in consequence of an engagement with my friend the Pole; and, returning, I found him at the window with a book in his hand, precisely in the same position in which I had left him. After dinner a servant came in and delivered a message, and he proposed a walk on the Admiralty Boulevards. It was the fashionable hour for promenade, and, after a turn or two, he discovered his fair enslaver, accompanied by her father and several ladies and gentlemen, one of whom seemed particularly devoted to her. She was a pretty little girl, and seemed to me a mere child, certainly not more than fifteen. His admiration had commenced on the Boulevards the first afternoon of his arrival, and had increased violently during the whole day, while he was sitting at the window. He paraded me up and down the walk once or twice, and, when they had seated themselves on a bench, took a seat opposite. He was sure she was pleased with his admiration, but I could not see that her look indicated any very flattering acknowledgment. In fact, I could but remark that the eyes of the gentlemen were turned toward us quite as often as those of the lady, and suggested that, if he persisted, he would involve us in some difficulty with them; but he said there could not be any difficulty about it, for, if he offended them, he would give them satisfaction. As this view of the case did not hit my humour, I told him that, as I had come out with him, I would remain, but if he made any farther demonstrations, I should leave him, and, at all events, after that he must excuse me from joining his evening promenades. Soon after they left the Boulevards, and we returned to our hotel, where he entertained me with a history of his love adventures at home, and felicitations upon his good fortune in finding himself already engaged in one here. Sunday. Until the early part of the tenth century the religion of Russia was a gross idolatry. In nine hundred and thirty-five, Olga, the widow of Igor the son of Runic, sailed down the Dnieper from Kief, was baptized at Constantinople, and introduced Christianity into Russia, though her family and nation adhered for a long time to the idolatry of their fathers. The great schism between the Eastern and Western churches had already taken place, and the Christianity derived from Constantinople was of course of the Greek persuasion. The Greek Church believes in the doctrines of the Trinity, but differs from the Catholic in some refined and subtle distinction in regard to what is called the procession of the Holy Ghost. It enjoins the invocation of saints as mediators, and permits the use of pictures as a means of inspiring and strengthening devotion. The well-informed understand the use for which they are intended, but these form a very small portion of the community, and probably the great bulk of the people worship the pictures themselves. The clergy are, in general, very poor and very ignorant. The priests are not received at the tables of the upper classes, but they exercise an almost controlling influence over the lower, and they exhibited this influence in rousing the serfs against the French, which may be ascribed partly, perhaps, to feelings of patriotism, and partly to the certainty that Napoleon would strip their churches of their treasures, tear down their monasteries, and turn themselves out of doors. But of the population of fifty-five millions, fifteen are divided into Roman Catholics, Armenians, Protestants, Jews, and Mohammedans, and among the Caucasians, Georgians, Circassians, and Mongol tribes nearly two millions are pagans or idolaters, Brahmins, Lamists, and worshippers of the sun. For a people so devout as the Russians, the utmost toleration prevails throughout the whole empire, and particularly in St. Petersburgh. Churches of every denomination stand but a short distance apart on the Newski Perspective. The Russian cathedral is nearly opposite the great Catholic chapel; near them is the Armenian, then the Lutheran, two churches for Dissenters, and a mosque for the Mohammedans! and on Sunday thousands are seen bending their steps to their separate churches, to worship according to the faith handed down to them by their fathers. Early in the morning, taking with me a valet and joining the crowd that was already hurrying with devout and serious air along the Newski Perspective, I entered the Cathedral of our Lady of Cazan, a splendid monument of architecture, and more remarkable as the work of a native artist, with a semicircular colonnade in front, consisting of one hundred and thirty-two Corinthian columns thirty-five feet high, somewhat after the style of the great circular colonnade of St. Peter's at Rome, and surmounted by a dome crowned with a cross of exquisite workmanship, supported on a large gilded ball. Within, fifty noble columns, each of one piece of solid granite from Finland, forty-eight feet high and four feet in diameter, surmounted by a rich capital of bronze, and resting on a massive bronze base, support an arched roof richly ornamented with flowers in bas-relief. The jewels and decorations of the altar are rich and splendid, the doors leading to the sanctum sanctorum, with the railing in front, being of silver. As in the Catholic churches, there are no pews, chairs, or benches, and all over the floor were the praying figures of the Russians. Around the walls were arranged military trophies, flags, banners, and the keys of fortresses wrested from the enemies of Russia; but far more interesting than her columns, and colossal statues, and military trophies, is the tomb of the warrior Kutuzow; simple, and remarkable for the appropriate warlike trophy over it, formed of French flags and the eagles of Napoleon. Admiration for heroism owns no geographical or territorial limits, and I pity the man who could stand by the grave of Kutuzow without feeling it a sacred spot. The Emperor Alexander with his own hands took the most precious jewel from his crown and sent it to the warrior, with a letter announcing to him his elevation to the rank of Prince of Smolensko; but richer than jewels or principalities is the tribute which his countrymen pay at his tomb. The church of our Lady of Cazan contains another monument of barbarian patriotism. The celebrated leader of the Cossacks during the period of the French invasion, having intercepted a great part of the booty which the French were carrying from Moscow, sent it to the metropolitan or head of the church, with a characteristic letter, directing it to be "made into an image of the four Evangelists, and adorn the church of the Mother of God of Cazan." The concluding paragraph is, "Hasten to erect in the temple of God this monument of battle and victory; and while you erect it, say with thankfulness to Providence, the enemies of Russia are no more; the vengeance of God has overtaken them on the soil of Russia; and the road they have gone has been strewed with their bones, to the utter confusion of their frantic and proud ambition." (Signed) "PLATOFF." From the church of our Lady of Cazan I went to the Protestant church, where I again joined in an orthodox service. The interior of the church is elegant, though externally it can scarcely be distinguished from a private building. The seats are free, the men sitting on one side and the women on the other. Mr. Law, the clergyman, has been there many years, and is respected and loved by his congregation. After church I walked to the convent of Alexander Newski, the burial-place of Prince Alexander, who obtained in the thirteenth century a splendid victory over the allied forces of Sweden, Denmark, and Livonia; afterward became a monk, and for his pure and holy life was canonized, and now ranks among the principal saints in the Russian calendar. The warrior was first buried at Moscow, but Peter the Great had his remains transported with great ceremony to this place, a procession of a thousand priests walking barefoot all the way. The monastery stands at the extreme end of the Newski Perspective, and within its precincts are several churches and a large cemetery. It is the residence of the distinguished prelates of the Greek Church and a large fraternity of monks. The dress of the monks is a loose black cloak and round black cap, and no one can be admitted a member until the age of thirty. We entered a grand portal, walked up a long avenue, and, crossing a bridge over a stream, worked our way between lines of the carriages of nobles and ladies, and crowds of the people in their best bell-crowned hats; and, amid a throng of miserable beggars, penetrated to the door of the principal church, a large and beautiful specimen of modern Corinthian architecture. I remarked the great entrance, the lofty dome, the fresco paintings on the ceilings, and the arabesque decorations on the walls; the altar-piece of white Carrara marble, paintings by Rubens and Vandyck, the holy door in the iconastos, raised on a flight of steps of rich gilded bronze, and surmounted by the representation of a dazzling aureola of different colored metals, and in the centre the initials of that awful name which none in Israel save the initiated were permitted to pronounce. I walked around and paused before the tomb of the warrior saint. A sarcophagus or coffin of massive silver, standing on an elevated platform, ornamented in bas-relief, representing scenes of battles with the Swedes, contains his relics; a rich ermine lies upon the coffin, and above is a silver canopy. On each side is a warrior clothed in armour, with his helmet, breastplate, shield, and spear also of massive silver. The altar rises thirty feet in height, of solid silver, with groups of military figures and trophies of warriors, also of silver, as large as life; and over it hangs a golden lamp, with a magnificent candelabrum of silver, together with a vessel of curious workmanship holding the bones of several holy men, the whole of extraordinary magnificence and costliness of material, upward of four thousand pounds weight of silver having been used in the construction of the chapel and shrine. The dead sleep the same whether in silver coffins or in the bare earth, but the stately character of the church, dimly lighted, and the splendour and richness of the material, gave a peculiar solemnity to the tomb of the warrior saint. Leaving the churches, I strolled through the cloisters of the monastery and entered the great cemetery. There, as in the great cemetery of Père la Chaise at Paris, all that respect, and love, and affection can do to honour the memory of the dead, and all that vanity and folly can do to ridicule it, have been accomplished. There are seen epitaphs of affecting brevity and elaborate amplification; every design, every device, figure, emblem, and decoration; every species of material, from native granite to Carrara marble and pure gold. Among the simpler tombs of poets, warriors, and statesmen, a monument of the most gigantic proportions is erected to snatch from oblivion the name of a rich Russian merchant. The base is a solid cubic block of the most superb marble, on which is a solid pedestal of black marble ten feet square, bearing a sarcophagus fourteen feet high, and of most elegant proportions, surmounted by a gold cross twenty feet in height. At each of the four corners is a colossal candelabrum of cast iron, with entwining serpents of bronze gilded. The ground alone cost a thousand pounds, and the whole monument about twenty thousand dollars. Near the centre of this asylum of the dead, a tetrastyle Ionic temple of the purest white marble records the virtues of an interesting lady, the Countess of Potemkin, and alto relievos of the most exquisite execution on three sides of the temple tell the melancholy story of a mother snatched from three lovely children. The countess, prophetically conscious of her approaching fate, is looking up calmly and majestically to the figure of religion, and resting with confidence her left hand on the symbol of Christianity. In front are the inscription and arms of the family in solid gold. But what are the Russian dead to me? The granite and marble monument of the merchant is a conglomeration of hides, hemp, and tallow; a man may be excused if he linger a moment at the tomb of an interesting woman, a mother cut off in her prime; but melancholy is infectious, and induces drowsiness and closing of the book. In consideration for my valet, at the grand portal I took a drosky, rolled over the wooden pavement of the Newski Perspective, and, with hardly motion enough to disturb my revery, was set down at the door of my hotel. My Pole was waiting to dine with me, and roused me from my dreams of the dead to recount his dreams of the living. All day he had sat at his window, and a few straggling glances from the lady opposite had abundantly rewarded him, and given him great spirits for his evening's promenade on the Boulevards. I declined accompanying him, and he went alone, and returned in the evening almost in raptures. We strolled an hour by the twilight, and retired early. It will hardly be believed, but early the next morning he came to my room with a letter on fine pink paper addressed to his fair enslaver. The reader may remember that this was not the first time I had been made a confidant in an affaire du coeur. To be sure, the missionary at Smyrna turned out to be crazy; and on this point, at least, my Pole was a little touched; nevertheless, I listened to his epistle. It was the regular oldfashioned document, full of hanging, shooting, drowning, and other extravagances. He sealed it with an amatory device, and, calling up a servant in his confidence, told him to carry it over, and then took his place in my window to watch the result. In the mean time, finding it impossible to dislodge him, and that I could not count upon him to accompany me on my visits to the palaces as he had promised, I went to the Hermitage alone. The Great and Little Hermitages are connected with the Winter Palace and with each other by covered galleries, and the theatre is connected with the two Hermitages by means of another great arch thrown over a canal, so that the whole present a continued line of imperial palaces, unequalled in extent in any part of Europe, measuring one thousand five hundred and ninety-six feet, or one third of an English mile. If I were to select a building designed to realize the most extravagant notions of grandeur and luxury, it would be the gorgeous palace known under the modest name of the Hermitage. I shall not attempt any description of the interior of this splendid edifice, but confine myself to a brief enumeration of its contents. I ascended by a spacious staircase to the anteroom, where I gave, or, rather, where my cane was demanded by the footman, and proceeded through a suite of magnificent rooms, every one surpassing the last, and richer in objects of the fine arts, science, and literature; embellished throughout by a profusion of the most splendid ornaments and furniture, and remarkable for beauty of proportion and variety of design. In rooms and galleries appropriated to the separate schools and masters are upward of thirteen hundred paintings by Raphael, Titian, Guido, Andrea del Sarto, Luca Giordano, the Caracci, Perugino, Corregio, and Leonardi da Vinci; here is also the best collection in existence, of pictures by Wouvermans and Teniers, with some of the masterpieces of Rubens and Vandyck, of the French Claude, Poussin, and Vernet. The celebrated Houghton collection is here, with a gallery of paintings of the Spanish schools, many of them Murillos. In one room is a superb vase of Siberian jasper, of a lilac colour, five feet high, and of exquisite form and polish; in another are two magnificent candelabras, said to be valued at two hundred and twenty thousand rubles, or about fifty thousand dollars; I must mention also the great musical clock, representing an antique Grecian temple, and containing within a combination of instruments, having the power of two orchestras, which accompany each other; two golden tripods, seven feet high, supporting the gold salvers on which salt and bread were exhibited to the Emperor Alexander on his triumphal return from Paris, as emblems of wisdom and plenty, a large musical and magical secretary, which opens spontaneously in a hundred directions at the sound of music, purchased by the late emperor for eight hundred guineas; a room surrounded with books, some of which were originals, placed there by Catharine for the use of the domestics, as she said, to keep the devil out of their heads; a saloon containing the largest collection of engravings and books of engravings in Europe, amounting to upward of thirty thousand; a library of upward of one hundred and ten thousand volumes; an extensive cabinet of medals, and another of gems and pastes; a jewel-cabinet, containing the rich ornaments which have served for the toilettes of succeeding empresses, innumerable precious stones and pearls, many of extraordinary magnitude; a superb collection of antiques and cameos, amounting to upward of fifteen thousand, the cameos alone affording employment for days. In one room are curious works in ivory and fishbones, by the inhabitants of Archangel, who are skilled in that species of workmanship; and in another is the celebrated clock, known by the name of L'Horloge du Paon. It is enclosed in a large glass case ten feet high, being the trunk of a golden tree, with its branches and leaves all of gold. On the top of the trunk sits a peacock, which, when the chimes begin, expands its brilliant tail, while an owl rolls its eyes with its own peculiar stare, and, instead of a bell striking the hours, a golden cock flaps his wings and crows. The clock is now out of order, and the machinery is so complicated that no artist has hitherto been able to repair it. But perhaps the most extraordinary and interesting of the wonders of the Hermitage are the Winter and Summer Gardens. As I strolled through the suites of apartments, and looked out through the windows of a long gallery, it was hardly possible to believe that the flourishing trees, shrubs, and flowers stood upon an artificial soil, raised nearly fifty feet above the surface of the earth. The Winter Garden is a large quadrangular conservatory, planted with laurels and orange trees, in which linnets and Canary birds formerly flew about enjoying the freedom of nature; but the feathered tribe have disappeared. The Summer Garden connected with it is four hundred feet long; and here, suspended, as it were, in the air, near the top of the palace, I strolled along gravel-walks, and among parterres of shrubs and flowers growing in rich luxuriance, and under a thick foliage inhaled their delightful fragrance. It is idle to attempt a description of this scene. I returned to my Pole, whom I found at his window with a melancholy and sentimental visage, his beautiful epistle returned upon his hands--having, in sportsman's phrase, entirely missed fire--and then lying with a most reproving look on his table. My friend had come up to St. Petersburgh in consequence of a lawsuit, and as this occupied but a small portion of his time, he had involved himself in a lovesuit, and, so far as I could see, with about an equal chance of success in both. L'amour was the great business of his life, and he could not be content unless he had on hand what he called une affaire du coeur. FOOTNOTE: [1] The Winter Palace has since been destroyed by fire. The author has not seen any account of the particulars, but has heard that the contents of the Diamond Chamber were saved. CHAPTER VIII. An Imperial Fête.--Nicolas of Russia.--Varied Splendours.--A Soliloquy.--House of Peter the Great.--A Boatrace.--Czarskoselo.--The Amber Chamber.--Catharine II.--The Emperor Alexander. THE next day was that appointed for the great fête at Peterhoff. In spite of the confining nature of his two suits, my Pole had determined to accompany me thither, being prompted somewhat by the expectation of seeing his damsel; and, no way disheartened by the fate of his first letter, he had manufactured another, by comparison with which the first was an icicle. I admitted it to be a masterpiece, though when he gave it to a servant to carry over, as we were on the point of setting off, suggested that it might be worth while to wait and pick it up when she threw it out of the window. But he had great confidence, and thought much better of her spirit for sending back his first letter. The whole population of Petersburgh was already in motion and on the way to Peterhoff. It was expected that the fête would be more than usually splendid, on account of the presence of the Queen of Holland, then on a visit to her sister the empress; and at an early hour the splendid equipages of the nobility, carriages, droskys, telegas, and carts, were hurrying along the banks of the Neva, while steamboats, sailboats, rowboats, and craft of every description were gliding on the bosom of the river. As the least trouble, we chose a steamboat, and at twelve o'clock embarked at the English Quay. The boat was crowded with passengers, and among them was an old English gentleman, a merchant of thirty years' standing in St. Petersburgh. I soon became acquainted with him, how I do not know, and his lady told me that the first time I passed them she remarked to her husband that I was an American. The reader may remember that a lady made the same remark at Smyrna; without knowing exactly how to understand it, I mention it as a fact showing the nice discrimination acquired by persons in the habit of seeing travellers from different countries. Before landing, the old gentleman told me that his boys had gone down in a pleasure-boat, abundantly provided with materials, and asked me to go on board and lunch with them, which, upon the invitation being extended to my friend, I accepted. Peterhoff is about twenty-five versts from St. Petersburgh, and the whole bank of the Neva on that side is adorned with palaces and beautiful summer residences of the Russian seigneurs. It stands at the mouth of the Neva, on the borders of the Gulf of Finland. Opposite is the city of Cronstadt, the seaport of St. Petersburgh and the anchorage of the Russian fleet. It was then crowded with merchant ships of every nation, with flags of every colour streaming from their spars in honour of the day. On landing, we accompanied our new friends, and found "the boys," three fine young fellows just growing up to manhood, in a handsome little pleasure-boat, with a sail arranged as an awning, waiting for their parents. We were introduced and received with open arms, and sat down to a cold collation in good old English style, at which, for the first time since I left home, I fastened upon an oldfashioned sirloin of roastbeef. It was a delightful meeting for me. The old people talked to me about my travels; and the old lady particularly, with almost a motherly interest in a straggling young man, inquired about my parents, brothers, and sisters, &c.; and I made my way with the frankhearted "boys" by talking "boat." Altogether, it was a regular home family scene; and, after the lunch, we left the old people under the awning, promising to return at nine o'clock for tea, and with "the boys" set off to view the fête. From the time when we entered the grounds until we left at three o'clock the next morning, the whole was a fairy scene. The grounds extended some distance along the shore, and the palace stands on an embankment perhaps a hundred and fifty feet high, commanding a full view of the Neva, Cronstadt with its shipping, and the Gulf of Finland. We followed along the banks of a canal five hundred yards long, bordered by noble trees. On each side of the canal were large wooden frames about sixty feet high, filled with glass lamps for the illumination; and at the foot of each was another high framework with lamps, forming, among other things, the arms of Russia, the double-headed eagle, and under it a gigantic star thirty or forty feet in diameter. At the head of the canal was a large basin of water, and in the centre of the basin stood a colossal group in brass, of a man tearing open the jaws of a rampant lion; and out of the mouth of the lion rushed a jet d'eau perhaps a hundred and fifty feet high. On each side of this basin, at a distance of about three hundred feet, was a smaller basin, with a jet d'eau in each about half its height, and all around were jets d'eau of various kinds, throwing water vertically and horizontally; among them I remember a figure larger than life, leaning forward in the attitude of a man throwing the discus, with a powerful stream of water rushing from his clinched fist. These basins were at the foot of the embankment on which stands the palace. In the centre was a broad flight of steps leading to the palace, and on each side was a continuous range of marble slabs to the top of the hill, over which poured down a sheet of water, the slabs being placed so high and far apart as to allow lamps to be arranged behind the water. All over, along the public walks and in retired alcoves, were frames hung with lamps; and everywhere, under the trees and on the open lawn, were tents of every size and fashion, beautifully decorated; many of them, oriental in style and elegance, were fitted up as places of refreshment. Thousands of people, dressed in their best attire, were promenading the grounds, but no vehicles were to be seen, until, in turning a point, we espied at some distance up an avenue, and coming quietly toward us, a plain open carriage, with two horses and two English jockey outriders, in which were a gentleman and lady, whom, without the universal taking off of hats around us, I recognised at once as the emperor and empress. I am not apt to be carried away by any profound admiration for royalty, but, without consideration of their rank, I never saw a finer specimen of true gentility; in fact, he looked every inch a king, and she was my beau ideal of a queen in appearance and manners. They bowed as they passed, and, as I thought, being outside of the line of Russians and easily recognised as a stranger, their courtesy was directed particularly to me; but I found that my companion took it very much to himself, and no doubt every long-bearded Russian near us did the same. In justice to myself, however, I may almost say that I had a conversation with the emperor; for although his imperial highness did not speak to me, he spoke in a language which none but I (and the queen and his jockey outriders) understood; for, waving his hand to them, I heard him say in English, "To the right." After this _interview_ with his majesty we walked up to the palace. The splendid regiments of cavalier guards were drawn up around it, every private carrying himself like a prince; and I did not admire all his palaces, nor hardly his queen, so much as this splendid body of armed followers. Behind the palace is a large plain cut up into gravel-walks, having in one place a basin of water, with waterworks of various kinds, among which were some of peculiar beauty falling in the form of a semiglobe. A little before dark we retired to a refectory under a tent until the garden was completely lighted up, that we might have the full effect of the illumination at one coup d'oeil, and, when we went out, the dazzling brilliancy of the scene within the semicircular illumination around the waterworks was beyond description. This semicircular framework enclosed in a large sweep the three basins, and terminated at the embankment on which the palace stands, presenting all around an immense fiery scroll in the air, sixty or eighty feet high, and filled with all manner of devices; and for its background a broad sheet of water falling over a range of steps, with lighted lamps behind it, forming an illuminated cascade, while the basins were blazing with the light thrown upon them from myriads of lamps, and the colossal figures of a reddened and unearthly hue were spouting columns of water into the air. More than two hundred thousand people were supposed to be assembled in the garden, in every variety of gay, brilliant, and extraordinary costume. St. Petersburgh was half depopulated, and thousands of peasants were assembled from the neighbouring provinces. I was accidentally separated from all my companions; and, alone among thousands, sat down on the grass, and for an hour watched the throng passing through the illuminated circle, and ascending the broad steps leading toward the palace. Among all this immense crowd there was no rabble; not a dress that could offend the eye; but intermingled with the ordinary costumes of Europeans were the Russian shopkeeper, with his long surtout, his bell-crowned hat, and solemn beard; Cossacks, and Circassian soldiers, and Calmuc Tartars, and cavalier guards, hussars, with the sleeves of their rich jackets dangling loose over their shoulders, tossing plumes, and helmets glittering with steel, intermingled throughout with the gay dresses of ladies; while near me, and, like me, carelessly stretched on the grass, under the light of thousands of lamps, was a group of peasants from Finland fiddling and dancing; the women with light hair, bands around their heads, and long jackets enwrapping their square forms, and the men with long greatcoats, broad-brimmed hats, and a bunch of shells in front. Leaving this brilliant scene, I joined the throng on the steps, and by the side of a splendid hussar, stooping his manly figure to whisper in the ears of a lovely young girl, I ascended to the palace and presented my ticket of admission to the bal masqué, so called from their being no masks there. I had not been presented at court, and, consequently, had only admission to the outer apartments with the people. I had, however, the range of a succession of splendid rooms, richly decorated with vases and tazzas of precious stones, candelabra, couches, ottomans, superb mirrors, and inlaid floors; and the centre room, extending several hundred feet in length, had its lofty walls covered to the very ceilings with portraits of all the female beauties in Russia about eighty years ago. I was about being tired of gazing at these pictures of long-sleeping beauties, when the great doors at one end were thrown open, and the emperor and empress, attended by the whole court, passed through on their way to the banqueting-hall. Although I had been in company with the emperor before in the garden, and though I had taken off my hat to the empress, both passed without recognising me. The court at St. Petersburgh is admitted to be the most brilliant in Europe; the dresses of the members of the diplomatic corps and the uniforms of the general and staff-officers being really magnificent, while those of the ladies sparkled with jewels. Besides the emperor and empress, the only acquaintance I recognised in that constellation of brilliantly-dressed people were Mr. Wilkins and Mr. Clay, who, for republicans, made a very fair blaze. I saw them enter the banqueting-hall, painted in oriental style to represent a tent, and might have had the pleasure of seeing the emperor and empress and all that brilliant collection eat; but, turning away from a noise that destroyed much of the illusion, viz., the clatter of knives and forks, and a little piqued at the cavalier treatment I had received from the court circles, I went out on the balcony and soliloquized, "Fine feathers make fine birds; but look back a little, ye dashing cavaliers and supercilious ladies. In the latter part of the seventeenth century, a French traveller in Russia wrote that 'most men treat their wives as a necessary evil, regarding them with a proud and stern eye, and even beating them after.' Dr. Collins, physician to the Czar in 1670, as an evidence of the progress of civilization in Russia, says that the custom of tying up wives by the hair of the head and flogging them 'begins to be left off;' accounting for it, however, by the prudence of parents, who made a stipulative provision in the marriage contract that their daughters were not to be whipped, struck, kicked, &c. But, even in this improved state of society, one man 'put upon his wife a shirt dipped in ardent spirits, and burned her to death,' and was not punished, there being, according to the doctor, 'no punishment in Russia for killing a wife or a slave.' When no provision was made in the marriage contract, he says they were accustomed to discipline their wives very severely. At the marriage the bridegroom had a whip in one boot and a jewel in the other, and this poor girl tried her fortune by choosing. 'If she happens upon the jewel,' says another traveller, 'she is lucky; but if on the whip, she gets it.' The bridegroom rarely saw his companion's face till after the marriage, when, it is said, 'If she be ugly she pays for it soundly, maybe the first time he sees her.' Ugliness being punished with the whip, the women painted to great excess; and a traveller in sixteen hundred and thirty-six saw the grand duchess and her ladies on horseback astride, 'most wickedly bepainted.' The day after a lady had been at an entertainment, the hostess was accustomed to ask how she got home; and the polite answer was, 'Your ladyship's hospitality made me so tipsy that I don't know how I got home;' and for the climax of their barbarity it can scarcely be believed, but it is recorded as a fact, that the women did not begin to wear stays till the beginning of the present century!" Soothed by these rather ill-natured reflections, I turned to the illuminated scene and the thronging thousands below, descended once more to the garden, passed down the steps, worked my way through the crowd, and fell into a long avenue, like all the rest of the garden, brilliantly lighted, but entirely deserted. At the end of the avenue I came to an artificial lake, opposite which was a small square two-story cottage, being the old residence of Peter the Great, the founder of all the magnificence of Peterhoff. It was exactly in the style of our ordinary country houses, and the furniture was of a simplicity that contrasted strangely with the surrounding luxury and splendour. The door opened into a little hall, in which were two oldfashioned Dutch mahogany tables, with oval leaves, legs tapering and enlarging at the feet into something like a horseshoe; just such a table as every one may remember in his grandfather's house, and recalling to mind the simple style of our own country some thirty or forty years ago. In a room on one side was the old Czar's bed, a low, broad wooden bedstead, with a sort of canopy over it, the covering of the canopy and the coverlet being of striped calico; the whole house, inside and out, was hung with lamps, illumining with a glare that was almost distressing the simplicity of Peter's residence; and, as if to give greater contrast to this simplicity, while I was standing in the door of the hall, I saw roll by me in splendid equipages, the emperor and empress, with the whole of the brilliant court which I had left in the banqueting-hall, now making a tour of the gardens. The carriages were all of one pattern, long, hung low, without any tops, and somewhat like our omnibuses, except that, instead of the seats being on one side, there was a partition in the middle not higher than the back of a sofa, with large seats like sofas on each side, on which the company sat in a row, with their backs to each other; in front was a high and large box for the coachmen, and a footman behind. It was so light that I could distinguish the face of every gentleman and lady as they passed; and there was something so unique in the exhibition, that, with the splendour of the court dresses, it seemed the climax of the brilliant scenes at Peterhoff. I followed them with my eyes till they were out of sight, gave one more look to the modest pillow on which old Peter reposed his careworn head, and at about one o'clock in the morning left the garden. A frigate brilliantly illuminated was firing a salute, the flash of her guns lighting up the dark surface of the water as I embarked on board the steamboat. At two o'clock the morning twilight was like that of day; at three o'clock I was at my hotel, and, probably, at ten minutes past, asleep. About eight o'clock the next morning my Pole came into my room. He had returned from Peterhoff before me, and found waiting for him his second epistle, with a note from the mother of the young lady, which he read to me as I lay in bed. Though more than half asleep, I was rather roused by the strange effect this letter had upon him, for he was now encouraged to go on with his suit, since he found that the backwardness of the young lady was to be ascribed to the influence of the mother, and not to any indifference on her part. In the afternoon I went to a boatrace between English amateurs that had excited some interest among the English residents. The boats were badly matched; a six-oared boat thirty-two feet long, and weighing two hundred and thirty pounds, being pitted against three pairs of sculls, with a boat twenty-eight feet long and weighing only one hundred and eight pounds. One belonged to the English legation and the other to some English merchants. The race was from the English Quay to the bridge opposite the Suwarrow monument at the foot of the Summer Garden, and back, a little more than two miles each way. The rapidity of the current was between two and three miles an hour, though its full strength was avoided by both boats keeping in the eddies along shore. It was a beautiful place for a boatrace; the banks of the Neva were lined with spectators, and the six-oared boat beat easily, performing the distance in thirty-one minutes. The next morning, in company with a Frenchman lately arrived at our hotel, I set out for the imperial palace of Czarskoselo, about seventeen versts from St. Petersburgh. About seven versts from the city we passed the imperial seat of Zechenne, built by the Empress Catharine to commemorate the victory obtained by Orloff over the Turks on the coast of Anatolia. The edifice is in the form of a Turkish pavilion, with a central rotunda containing the full-length portraits of the sovereigns cotemporary with Catharine. Since her death this palace has been deserted. In eighteen hundred and twenty-five, Alexander and the empress passed it on their way to the south of Russia, and about eight months after their mortal remains found shelter in it for a night, on their way to the imperial sepulchre. There was no other object of interest on the road until we approached Czarskoselo. Opposite the "Caprice Gate" is a cluster of white houses, in two rows, of different sizes, diminishing as they recede from the road, and converging at the farthest extremity; altogether a bizarre arrangement, and showing the magnificence of Russian gallantry. The Empress Catharine at the theatre one night happened to express her pleasure at the perspective view of a small town, and the next time she visited Czarskoselo she saw the scene realized in a town erected by Count Orloff at immense expense before the gate of the palace. The façade of the palace is unequalled by any royal residence in the world, being twelve hundred feet in length. Originally, every statue, pedestal, and capital of the numerous columns; the vases, carvings, and other ornaments in front, were covered with gold leaf, the gold used for that purpose amounting to more than a million of ducats. In a few years the gilding wore off, and the contractors engaged in repairing it offered the empress nearly half a million of rubles (silver) for the fragments of gold; but the empress scornfully refused, saying, "Je ne suis pas dans l'usage de vendre mes vielles hardes." I shall not attempt to carry the reader through the magnificent apartments of this palace. But I must not forget the famed amber chamber, the whole walls and ceilings being of amber, some of the pieces of great size, neatly fitted together, and even the frames of the pictures an elaborate workmanship of the same precious material. But even this did not strike me so forcibly as when, conducted through a magnificent apartment, the walls covered with black paper shining like ebony, and ornamented with gold and immense looking-glasses, the footman opened a window at the other end, and we looked down into the chapel, an Asiatic structure, presenting an _ensemble_ of rich gilding of surpassing beauty, every part of it, the groups of columns, the iconastos, and the gallery for the imperial family, resplendent with gold. In one of the staterooms where the empress's mother resides, the floor consists of a parquet of fine wood inlaid with wreaths of mother-of-pearl, and the panels of the room were incrusted with lapis lazuli. But to me all these magnificent chambers were as nothing compared with those which were associated with the memory of the late occupant. "Uneasy rests the head that wears a crown;" and perhaps it is for this reason that I like to look upon the pillow of a king, far more on that of a queen. The bedchamber of Catharine II. is adorned with walls of porcelain and pillars of purple glass; the bedclothes are those under which she slept the last time she was at the palace, and in one place was a concealed door, by which, as the unmannerly footman, without any respect to her memory, told us, her imperial highness admitted her six-feet paramours. In the bedchamber of Alexander were his cap, gloves, boots, and other articles of dress, lying precisely as he left them previous to his departure for the southern part of his empire. His bed was of leather, stuffed with straw, and his boots were patched over and over worse than mine, which I had worn all the way from Paris. I tried on his cap and gloves, and moralized over his patched boots. I remembered Alexander as the head of a gigantic empire, the friend and ally, and then the deadly foe of Napoleon; the companion of kings and princes; the arbiter of thrones and empires, and playing with crowns and sceptres. I sat with the patched boots in my hand. Like old Peter, he had considerable of a foot, and I respected him for it. I saw him, as it were, in an undress, simple and unostentatious in his habits; and there was a domestic air in his whole suite of apartments that interested me more than when I considered him on his throne. His sitting-room showed quiet and gentlemanly as well as domestic habits, for along the wall was a border of earth, with shrubs and flowers growing out of it, a delicate vine trailed around and almost covering a little mahogany railing. The grounds around the palace are eighteen miles in circumference, abounding in picturesque and beautiful scenery, improved by taste and an unbounded expenditure of money, and at this time they were in the fulness of summer beauty. We may talk simplicity and republicanism, but, after all, it must be a pleasant thing to be an emperor. I always felt this, particularly when strolling through imperial parks or pleasure-grounds, and sometimes I almost came to the unsentimental conclusion that, to be rural, a man must be rich. We wandered through the grounds without any plan, taking any path that offered, and at every step some new beauty broke upon us: a theatre; Turkish kiosk or Chinese pagoda; splendid bridges, arches, and columns; and an Egyptian gate; a summer-house in the form of an Ionic colonnade, a masterpiece of taste and elegance, supporting an aerial garden crowded with flowers; and a Gothic building called the Admiralty, on the borders of an extensive lake, on which lay several boats--rigged as frigates, elegant barges and pleasure-boats, and beautiful white swans floating majestically upon its surface; on the islands and the shores of the lake were little summer-houses; at the other end was a magnificent stone landing, and in full view a marble bridge, with Corinthian columns of polished marble; an arsenal, with many curious and interesting objects, antique suits of armour, and two splendid sets of horse trappings, holsters, pistols, and bridles, all studded with diamonds, presented by the sultan on occasion of the peace of Adrianople. Nor must I forget the dairy, and a superb collection of goats and lamas from Siberia. Amid this congregation of beauties one thing offended me; a Gothic tower built as a ruin for the sake of the picturesque, which, wanting the associations connected with monuments ruined by time, struck me as a downright mockery. We had intended to visit the palace of Paulowsky, but time slipped away, and it was six o'clock before we started to return to St. Petersburgh. CHAPTER IX. The Soldier's Reward.--Review of the Russian Army.--American Cannibals.--Palace of Potemkin.--Palace of the Grand-duke Michael.--Equipments for Travelling.--Rough Riding.--Poland.--Vitepsk.--Napoleon in Poland.--The Disastrous Retreat.--Passage of the Berezina. EARLY the next morning I went out about twelve versts from the city to attend a grand military review by the emperor in person. The government of Russia is a military despotism, and her immense army, nominally amounting to a million, even on the peace establishment numbers actually six hundred thousand, of which sixty thousand follow the person of the emperor, and were at that time under arms at St. Petersburgh. When I rode on the parade-ground, the spectacle of this great army, combining the élite of barbaric chivalry with soldiers trained in the best schools of European discipline, drawn up in battle's stern array, and glittering with steel, was brilliant and almost sublime; in numbers and military bearing, in costliness of armour and equipment, far surpassing any martial parade that I had seen, not excepting a grand review of French troops at Paris, or even a _fourth of July parade at home_. I once had the honour to be a paymaster in the valiant one hundred and ninety-seventh regiment of New-York State Militia; and I can say what, perhaps, no other man who ever served in our _army_ can say, that I served out my whole term without being once promoted. Men came in below and went out above me; ensigns became colonels and lieutenants generals, but I remained the same; it was hard work to escape promotion, but I was resolute. Associated with me was a friend as quartermaster, with as little of the spirit of a soldier in him as myself, for which we were rather looked down upon by the warriors of our day; and when, at the end of our term, in company with several other officers, we resigned, the next regimental orders were filled with military panegyrics, such as, "the colonel has received, with the greatest regret, the resignation of Lieutenant A.;" "the country has reason to deplore the loss of the services of Captain B.;" and wound up with, "Quartermaster G. and Paymaster S. have tendered their resignations, _both of which are hereby accepted_." But when strains of martial music burst from a hundred bands, and companies, and regiments, and brigades wheeled and manoeuvred before me, and the emperor rode by, escorted by general and field officers, and the most magnificent staff in Europe, and the earth shook under the charge of cavalry, I felt a strong martial spirit roused within me, perhaps I was excited by the reflection that these soldiers had been in battles, and that the stars and medals glittering on their breasts were not mere holyday ornaments, but the tokens of desperate service on bloody battle-fields. In a body, the Russian soldiers present an exceedingly fine appearance. When the serf is enrolled, his hair and beard are cut off, except on the upper lip, his uniform is simple and graceful, a belt is worn tightly round the waist, and the breast of the coat is thickly padded, increasing the manliness of the figure, though sometimes at the expense of health. In evolutions they move like a great machine, as if all the arms and legs were governed by a single impulse. The army under review was composed of representatives from all the nations under the sway of Russia; Cossacks of the Don, and the Wolga, and the Black Sea, in jackets and wide pantaloons of blue cloth, riding on small horses, with high-peaked saddles, and carrying spears eight or ten feet in length. One regiment had the privilege of wearing a ragged flag and caps full of holes, as proofs of their gallant service, being the only regiment that fought at Pultowa. And there were Calmucs in their extraordinary war-dress; a helmet with a gilded crest, or a chain cap with a network of iron rings falling over the head and shoulders, and hanging as low as the eyebrows in front; a shirt of mail, composed of steel rings matted together and yielding to the body, the arms protected by plates, and the back of the hand by steel network fastened to the plates on each side; their offensive weapons were bows and arrows, silver-mounted pistols peeping out of their holsters, cartridge-boxes on each side of the breast, and a dagger, sword, and gun. The Kirguish, a noble-looking race, come from the steppes of Siberia. Their uniform is magnificent, consisting of a blue frockcoat and pantaloons covered with silver lace, a Grecian helmet, and a great variety of splendid arms, the yataghan alone costing a thousand rubles. They are all noble, and have no regular duty, except to attend the imperial family on extraordinary occasions. At home they are always at war among themselves. They are Mohammedans; and one of them said to an American friend who had a long conversation with him, that he had four wives at home; that some had more, but it was not considered becoming to exceed that number. A bearded Russian came up and said that these Kirguish eat dogs and cats against which the Kirguish protested. The same Russian afterward observed that the Americans were worse than the Kirguish, for that a patriarch of the church had written, and therefore it must be true, that the number of human beings eaten by Americans could not be counted; adding, with emphasis, "Sir, you were created in the likeness of your Maker, and you should endeavour to keep yourself so." He continued that the Russians were the first Christians, and he felt much disposed to send missionaries among the Americans to meliorate their condition. The Imperial Guards are the finest-looking set of men I ever saw. The standard is six feet, and none are admitted below that height. Their uniform is a white cloth coat, with buckskin breeches, boots reaching up to the hips, and swords that Wallace himself would not have been ashamed to wield. But perhaps the most striking in that brilliant army was the emperor himself; seeming its natural head, towering even above his gigantic guards, and looking, as Mr. Wilkins once said of him, like one who, among savages, would have been chosen for a chief. In the midst of this martial spectacle, the thought came over me of militia musters at home; and though smiling at the insignificance of our military array as I rode back in my drosky, I could but think of the happiness of our isolated position, which spares us the necessity of keeping a large portion of our countrymen constantly in arms to preserve the rest in the enjoyment of life and fortune. The next morning my Polish friend, hopeless of success either in his lawsuit or his lovesuit, fixed a day for our departure; and, with the suggestion that I am about leaving St. Petersburgh, I turn once more, and for the last time, to the imperial palaces. Not far from the Hermitage is the marble palace; a colossal pile, built by the Empress Catharine for her favourite, Count Orloff, presenting one of its fronts to the Neva. All the decorations are of marble and gilded bronze, and the capitals and bases of the columns and pilasters, and the window-frames and balustrades of the balconies, of cast bronze richly gilded. The effect is heightened by the unusually large dimensions of the squares of fine plate glass. A traveller in seventeen hundred and fifty-nine says "that the prodigies of enchantment which we read of in the tales of the genii are here called forth into reality; and the temples reared by the luxuriant fancy of our poets may be considered as a picture of the marble palace, which Jupiter, when the burden of cares drives him from heaven, might make his delightful abode." At present, however, there are but few remains of this Olympian magnificence, and I think Jupiter at the same expense would prefer the Winter Palace or the Hermitage. The Taurida Palace, erected by Catharine II. for her lover, Potemkin, in general effect realizes the exaggerated accounts of travellers. The entrance is into a spacious hall, which leads to a circular vestibule of extraordinary magnitude, decorated with busts and statues in marble, with a dome supported by white columns. From thence you pass between the columns into an immense hall or ballroom, two hundred and eighty feet long and eighty wide, with double colonnades of lofty Ionic pillars decorated with gold and silver festoons, thirty-five feet high and ten feet in circumference. From the colonnade, running the whole length of the ballroom, you enter the Winter Garden, which concealed flues and stoves keep always at the temperature of summer; and here, upon great occasions, under the light of magnificent lustres and the reflection of numerous mirrors, during the fierceness of the Russian winter, when the whole earth is covered with snow, and "water tossed in the air drops down in ice," the imperial visiter may stroll through gravel-walks bordered with the choicest plants and flowers, blooming hedges and groves of orange, and inhale the fragrance of an Arabian garden. Paul, in one of his "darkened hours," converted this palace into barracks and a riding-school; but it has since been restored, in some degree, to its ancient splendour. The palace of Paul, in which he was assassinated, has been uninhabited since his death. But the triumph of modern architecture in St. Petersburgh is the palace of the Grand-duke Michael. I shall not attempt any description of this palace; but, to give some notion of its splendours to my calculating countrymen, I shall merely remark that it cost upward of seventeen millions of rubles. But I am weary of palaces; of wandering through magnificent apartments, where scene after scene bursts upon my eyes, and, before I begin to feel at home in them, I find myself ordered out by the footman. Will the reader believe me? On the opposite side of the river is a little wooden house, more interesting in my eyes than all the palaces in St. Petersburgh. It is the humble residence of Peter the Great. I visited it for the last time after rambling through the gorgeous palace of the Grand-duke Michael. It is one story high, low roofed, with a little piazza around it, and contains a sitting-room, bedroom, and dining-parlours; and Peter himself, with his own axe, assisted in its construction. The rooms are only eight feet in height, the sitting-room is fifteen feet square, the dining-room fifteen feet by twelve, and the bedchamber ten feet square. In the first there is a chapel and shrine, where the Russian visiter performs his orisons and prays for the soul of Peter. Around the cottage is a neat garden, and a boat made by Peter himself is suspended to one of the walls. I walked around the cottage, inside and out; listened attentively, without understanding a word he said, to the garrulous Russian cicerone, and sat down on the step of the front piazza. Opposite was that long range of imperial palaces extending for more than a mile on the Neva, and surpassing all other royal residences in Europe or the world. When Peter sat in the door of this humble cottage, the ground where they stood was all morass and forest. Where I saw the lofty spires of magnificent churches, he looked out upon fishermen's huts. My eyes fell upon the golden spire of the church of the citadel glittering in the sunbeams, and reminding me that in its dismal charnelhouse slept the tenant of the humble cottage, the master-spirit which had almost created out of nothing all this splendour. I saw at the same time the beginning and the end of greatness. The humble dwelling is preserved with religious reverence, and even now is the most interesting monument which the imperial city can show. And here, at this starting-point in her career, I take my leave of the Palmyra of the North. I am compelled to omit many things which he who speaks of St. Petersburgh at all ought not to omit: her magnificent churches; her gigantic and splendid theatres; her literary, scientific, and eleemosynary institutions, and that which might form the subject of a chapter in her capital, her government and laws. I might have seen something of Russian society, as my friend Luoff had arrived in St. Petersburgh; but, with my limited time, the interchange of these civilities interfered with my seeing the curiosities of the capital. My intimacy with the colonel had fallen off, though we still were on good terms. The fact is, I believe I fell into rather queer company in St. Petersburgh, and very soon found the colonel to be the most thorough roué I ever met. He seemed to think that travelling meant dissipating; he had never travelled but once, and that was with the army to Paris; and, except when on duty, his whole time had been spent in riot and dissipation; and though sometimes he referred to hard fighting, he talked more of the pleasures of that terrible campaign than of its toils and dangers. In consideration of my being a stranger and a young man, he constituted himself my Mentor, and the advice which, in all soberness, he gave me as the fruits of his experience, was a beautiful guide for the road to ruin. I have no doubt that, if I had given myself up entirely to him, he would have fêted me all the time I was in St. Petersburgh; but this did not suit me, and I afterward fell in with the Pole, who had his own vagaries too, and who, being the proprietor of a cloth manufactory, did not suit the aristocratic notions of the colonel, and so our friendship cooled. My intimacy with his friend the prince, however, increased. I called upon him frequently, and he offered to accompany me everywhere; but as in sightseeing I love to be alone, I seldom asked him, except for a twilight walk. Old associations were all that now bound together him and the colonel; their feelings, their fortunes, and their habits of life were entirely different; and the colonel, instead of being displeased with my seeking the prince in preference to himself, was rather gratified. Altogether, the colonel told me, he was much mistaken in me, but he believed I was a good fellow after all; excused my regular habits somewhat on the ground of my health; and the day before that fixed for my departure, asked me to pass the evening with him, and to bring my friend the Pole. In the evening we went to the colonel's apartments. The prince was there, and, after an elegant little supper, happening to speak of a Frenchman and a Prussian living in the hotel, with whom I had become acquainted, he sent down for them to come up and join us. The table was cleared, pipes and tobacco were brought on, and Champagne was the only wine. We had a long and interesting conversation on the subject of the road to Warsaw, and particularly in regard to the bloody passage of the Berezina, at which both the colonel and the prince were present. The servant, a favourite serf (who the next day robbed the colonel of every valuable article in his apartment), being clumsy in opening a new bottle of Champagne, the colonel said he must return to army practice, and reaching down his sabre, with a scientific blow took off the neck without materially injuring the bottle or disturbing the contents. This military way of decanting Champagne aided its circulation, and head after head fell rapidly before the naked sabre. I had for some time avoided emptying my glass, which, in the general hurry of business, was not noticed; but, as soon as the colonel discovered it, he cried out, "Treason, treason against good fellowship. America is a traitor." I pleaded ill health, but he would not listen to me; upbraided me that the friend and old ally of Russia should fail him; turned up his glass on the table, and swore he would not touch it again unless I did him justice. All followed his example; all decided that America was disturbing the peace of nations; the glasses were turned up all around, and a dead stop was put to the merriment. I appealed, begged, and protested; and the colonel became positive, dogged, and outrageous. The prince came to my aid, and proposed that the difficulty between Russia and America should be submitted to the arbitration of France and Prussia. He had observed these powers rather backing out. The eyes of France were already in a fine phrensy rolling, and Prussia's tongue had long been wandering; and in apprehension of their own fate, these mighty powers leaned to mercy. It was necessary, however, to propitiate the colonel, and they decided that, to prevent the effusion of blood, I should start once more the flow of wine; that we should begin again with a bumper all around; and, after that, every man should do as he pleased. The colonel was obliged to be content; and swearing that he would drink for us all, started anew. The Prussian was from Berlin, and this led the colonel to speak of the stirring scenes that had taken place in that capital on the return of the Russian army from Paris; and, after a while, the Prussian, personally unknown to the colonel, told him that his name was still remembered in Berlin as a leader in Russian riot and dissipation, and particularly as having carried off, in a most daring manner, a lady of distinguished family; and--"go on," said the colonel--"killed her husband." "He refused my challenge," said the colonel, "but sought my life, and I shot him like a dog." The whole party now became uproarious; the colonel begged me, by all the friendly relations between Russia and America, to hold on till breakfast-time; but, being the coolest man present, and not knowing what farther developments might take place, I broke up the party. In the morning my passport was not ready. I went off to the police-office for it, and when I returned the horses had not come, and the valet brought me the usual answer, that there were none. My Pole was glad to linger another day for the sake of his flirtation with the little girl opposite, and so we lounged through the day, part of the time in the bazar of a Persian, where I came near ruining myself by an offer I made for a beautiful emerald; and after one more and the last twilight stroll on the banks of the Neva and up the Newski Perspective, we returned at an early hour, and for the last time in Russia, slept in a bed. At nine o'clock the next morning a kibitka drove up to the door of our hotel, demanding an American and a Pole for Warsaw. All the servants of the hotel were gathered around, arranging the luggage, and making a great parade of getting off the distinguished travellers. The travellers themselves seemed equipped for a long journey. One wore a blue roundabout jacket, military cap and cloak, with whiskers and a mustache tending to red; the other, a tall, stout, Herculean fellow, was habited in the most outré costume of a Russian traveller; a cotton dressing-gown of every variety of colours, red and yellow predominating; coarse gray trousers; boots coming above his knees; a cap _tout a fait farouche_, and there was no mistake about the colour of his hair and mustaches; he was moving slowly around the kibitka in his travelling dress, and looking up to the window opposite, to give his dulcinea the melancholy intelligence that he was going away, and perhaps to catch one farewell smile at parting. The carriage of these distinguished travellers was the kibitka, one of the national vehicles of Russia, being a long, round-bottomed box or cradle on four wheels, probably the old Scythian wagon, resting, in proud contempt of the effeminacy of springs, on the oaken axles; the hubs of the wheels were two feet long, the linchpins of wood, the body of the carriage fastened to the wheels by wooden pins, ropes, and sticks; and, except the tires of the wheels, there was not a nail or piece of iron about it. The hinder part was covered with matting, open in front somewhat like an oldfashioned bonnet, and supported by an arched stick, which served as a linchpin for the hind wheels; a bucket of grease hung under the hind axle, and the bottom of the kibitka was filled with straw; whole cost of outfit, thirteen dollars. Before it were three horses, one in shafts and one on each side, the centre one having a high bow over his neck, painted yellow and red, to which a rein was tied for holding up his head, and also a bell, to a Russian postillion more necessary than harness. The travellers took their places in the bottom of the kibitka, and the postillion, a rough, brutal-looking fellow, in gray coat and hat turned up at the sides, mounted in front, catching a seat where he could on the rim of the wagon, about three inches wide; and in this dashing equipage we started for a journey of a thousand miles to the capital of another kingdom. We rolled for the last time through the streets of St. Petersburgh, gazed at the domes, and spires, and magnificent palaces, and in a few moments passed the barrier. I left St. Petersburgh, as I did every other city, with a certain feeling of regret that, in all probability, I should never see it more; still the cracking of the postillion's whip and the galloping of the horses created in me that high excitement which I always felt in setting out for a new region. Our first stage was to Czarskoselo, our second to Cazena, where there was another palace. It was dark when we reached the third, a small village, of which I did not even note the name. I shall not linger on this road, for it was barren of interest and incident, and through a continued succession of swamps and forests. For two hundred miles it tried the tenure of adhesion between soul and body, being made of the trunks of trees laid transversely, bound down by long poles or beams fastened into the ground with wooden pegs covered with layers of boughs, and the whole strewed over with sand and earth; the trunks in general were decayed and sunken, and the sand worn or washed away, reminding me of the worst of our western corduroy roads. Our wagon being without springs, and our seats a full-length extension on straw on the bottom, without the bed, pillows, and cushions which the Russians usually have, I found this ride one of the severest trials of physical endurance I ever experienced. My companion groaned and brushed his mustaches, and talked of the little girl at St. Petersburgh. In my previous journey in Russia I had found the refreshment of tea, and on this, often when almost exhausted, I was revived by that precious beverage. I stood it three days and nights, but on the fourth completely broke down. I insensibly slipped down at full length in the bottom of the wagon; the night was cold and rainy; my companion covered me up to the eyes with straw, and I slept from the early part of the evening like a dead man. The horses were changed three times; the wagon was lifted up under me, and the wheels greased; and three times my companion quarrelled with the postmaster over my body without waking me. About six o'clock in the morning he roused me. I could not stir hand or foot; my mouth was full of dust and straw, and I felt a sense of suffocation. In a few moments I crawled out, staggered a few steps, and threw myself down on the floor of a wretched posthouse. My companion put my carpet-bag under my head, wrapped cloaks and greatcoats around me, and prepared me some tea; but I loathed everything. I was in that miserable condition which every traveller has some time experienced; my head ringing, every bone aching, and perfectly reckless as to what became of me. While my companion stood over me I fell asleep, and believe I should have been sleeping there yet if he had not waked me. He said we must go on at all risks until we found a place where we could remain with some degree of comfort. I begged and entreated to be left to myself, but he was inexorable. He lifted me up, hauled me out to the kibitka, which was filled with fresh straw, and seated me within, supporting me on his shoulder. It was a beautiful day. We moved moderately, and toward evening came to a posthouse kept by a Jew, or, rather, a Jewess, who was so kind and attentive that we determined to stay there all night. She brought in some clean straw and spread it on the floor, where I slept gloriously. My companion was tougher than I, but he could not stand the fleas and bugs, and about midnight went out and slept in the kibitka. In the morning we found that he had been too late; that the kibitka had been stripped of every article except himself and the straw. Fortunately, my carpet-bag had been brought in; but I received a severe blow in the loss of a cane, an old friend and travelling companion, which had been with me in every variety of scene, and which I had intended to carry home with me, and retain as a companion through life. It is almost inconceivable how much this little incident distressed me. It was a hundred times worse than the loss of my carpet-bag. I felt the want of it every moment; I had rattled it on the Boulevards of Paris, in the eternal city, the Colosseum, and the places thereabout; had carried it up the burning mountain, and poked it into the red-hot lava; had borne it in the Acropolis, on the field of Marathon, and among the ruins of Ephesus; had flourished it under the beard of the sultan, and the eyes and nose of the emperor and autocrat of all the Russias; in deserts and in cities it had been my companion and friend. Unsparing Nemesis, let loose your vengeance upon the thief who stole it! The rascals had even carried off the rope traces, and every loose article about the kibitka. Notwithstanding this, however, I ought not to omit remarking the general security of travelling in Russia and Poland. The immense plains; the distance of habitations; the number of forests; the custom of travelling by night as well as by day; the negligence of all measures to ensure the safety of the roads, all contribute to favour robbery and murders; and yet an instance of either is scarcely known in years. It was difficult on those immense levels, which seemed independent of either general or individual proprietors, to recognise even the bounds of empires. The Dwina, however, a natural boundary, rolls between Russia and Poland; and at Vitepsk we entered the territories of what was once another kingdom. The surface of Poland forms part of that immense and unvaried plain which constitutes the northern portion of all the central European countries. A great portion of this plain is overspread with a deep layer of sand, alternating however, with large clayey tracts and extensive marshes; a winter nearly as severe as that of Sweden, and violent winds blowing uninterruptedly over this wide open region, are consequences of its physical structure and position. The Roman arms never penetrated any part of this great level tract, the whole of which was called by them Sarmatia; and Sarmatia and Scythia were in their descriptions always named together as the abode of nomadic and savage tribes. From the earliest era it appears to have been peopled by the Sclavonic tribes; a race widely diffused, and distinguished by a peculiar language, by a strong national feeling, and by a particular train of superstitious ideas. Though shepherds, they did not partake of the migratory character of the Teutonic or Tartar nations; and were long held in the most cruel bondage by the Huns, the Goths, and other nations of Asia, for whom their country was a path to the conquest of the west of Europe. In the tenth century the Poles were a powerful and warlike nation. In the fourteenth Lithuania was incorporated with it, and Poland became one of the most powerful monarchies in Europe. For two centuries it was the bulwark of Christendom against the alarming invasions of the Turks; the reigns of Sigismund and Sobieski hold a high place in military history; and, until the beginning of the last century, its martial character gave it a commanding influence in Europe. It is unnecessary to trace the rapid and irrecoverable fall of Poland. On the second partition, Kosciusko, animated by his recent struggle for liberty in America, roused his countrymen to arms. But the feet of three giants were upon her breast; and Suwarrow, marching upon the capital, storming the fortress of Praga, and butchering in cold blood thirty thousand inhabitants, extinguished, apparently for ever, the rights and the glories of Poland. Living as we do apart from the rest of the world, with no national animosities transmitted by our fathers, it is impossible to realize the feeling of deadly hatred existing between neighbouring nations from the disputes of ancestors centuries ago. The history of Russia and Poland presents a continued series of bloodstained pages. Battle after battle has nourished their mutual hate, and for a long time it had been the settled feeling of both that Russia or Poland must fall. It is perhaps fortunate for the rest of Europe that this feeling has always existed; for, if they were united in heart, the whole south of Europe would lie at the mercy of their invading armies. Napoleon committed a fatal error in tampering with the brave and patriotic Poles; for he might have rallied around him a nation of soldiers who, in gratitude, would have stood by him until they were exterminated. But to return to Vitepsk. Here, for the first time, we fell into the memorable road traversed by Napoleon on his way to Moscow. The town stands on the banks of the Dwina, built on both sides of the river, and contains a population of about fifteen thousand, a great portion of whom are Jews. In itself, it has but little to engage the attention of the traveller; but I strolled through its streets with extraordinary interest, remembering it as the place where Napoleon decided on his fatal march to Moscow. It was at the same season and on the very same day of the year that the "grand army," having traversed the gloomy forests of Lithuania in pursuit of an invincible and intangible enemy, with the loss of more than a hundred thousand men, emerged from the last range of woods and halted at the presence of the hostile fires that covered the plain before the city. Napoleon slept in his tent on an eminence at the left of the main road, and before sunrise appeared at the advanced posts, and by its first rays saw the Russian army, eighty thousand strong, encamped on a high plain commanding all the avenues of the city. Ten thousand horsemen made a show of defending its passes; and at about ten o'clock, Murat le Beau Sabreur, intoxicated by the admiration his presence excited, at the head of a single regiment of chasseurs charged the whole Russian cavalry. He was repulsed, and driven back to the foot of the hillock on which Napoleon stood. The chasseurs of the French guards formed a circle around him, drove off the assailant lancers, and the emperor ordered the attack to cease; and, pointing to the city, his parting words to Murat were, "To-morrow at five o'clock the sun of Austerlitz." At daylight the camp of Barclay de Tolly was deserted; not a weapon, not a single valuable left behind; and a Russian soldier asleep under a bush was the sole result of the day expected to be so decisive. Vitepsk, except by a few miserable Jews and Jesuits, like the Russian camp, was also abandoned. The emperor mounted his horse and rode through the deserted camp and desolate streets of the city. Chagrined and mortified, he pitched his tents in an open courtyard; but, after a council of war with Murat, Eugene, and others of his principal officers, laid his sword upon the table, and resolved to finish in Vitepsk the campaign of that year. Well had it been for him had he never changed that determination. He traced his line of defence on the map, and explored Vitepsk and its environs as a place where he was likely to make a long residence; formed establishments of all kinds; erected large ovens capable of baking at once thirty thousand loaves of bread; pulled down a range of stone houses which injured the appearance of the square of the palace, and made arrangements for opening the theatre with Parisian actors. But in a few days he was observed to grow restless; the members of his household recollected his expression at the first view of the deserted Vitepsk, "Do you think I have come so far to conquer these miserable huts?" Segur says that he was observed to wander about his apartments as if pursued by some dangerous temptation. Nothing could rivet his attention. Every moment he began, stopped, and resumed his labour. At length, overwhelmed with the importance of the considerations that agitated him, "he threw himself on the floor of his apartment; his frame, exhausted by the heat and the struggles of his mind, could only bear a covering of the slightest texture. He rose from his sleepless pillow possessed once more with the genius of war; his voice deepens, his eyes flash fire, and his countenance darkens. His attendants retreat from his presence, struck with mingled awe and respect. His plan is fixed, his determination taken, his order of march traced out." The last council occupied eight hours. Berthier by a melancholy countenance, by lamentations, and even by tears; Lobau by the cold and haughty frankness of a warrior; Caulaincourt with obstinacy and impetuosity amounting to violence; Duroc by a chilling silence, and afterward by stern replies; and Daru straightforward and with firmness immoveable, opposed his going; but, as if driven on by that fate he almost defied, he broke up the council with the fatal determination. "Blood has not been shed, and Russia is too great to yield without fighting. Alexander can only negotiate after a great battle. I will proceed to the holy city in search of that battle, and I will gain it. Peace waits me at the gates of Moscow." From that hour commenced that train of terrible disasters which finally drove him from the throne of France, and sent him to die an exile on a small island in the Indian Ocean. I walked out on the Moscow road, by which the grand army, with pomp and martial music, with Murat, and Ney, and Duroc, and Daru, inspired by the great names of Smolensk and Moscow, plunged into a region of almost pathless forest, where most of them were destined to find a grave. I was at first surprised at the utter ignorance of the inhabitants of Vitepsk, in regard to the circumstances attending the occupation of the city by Napoleon. A Jew was my cicerone, who talked of the great scenes of which this little city had in his own day been the theatre almost as matter of tradition, and without half the interest with which, even now, the Greek points the stranger to the ruins of Argos or the field of Marathon; and this ignorance in regard to the only matters that give an interest to this dreary road I remarked during the whole journey. I was so unsuccessful in my questions, and the answers were so unsatisfactory, that my companion soon became tired of acting as my interpreter. Indeed, as he said, he himself knew more than any one I met, for he had travelled it before in company with an uncle, of the Polish legion; but even he was by no means familiar with the ground. We left Vitepsk with a set of miserable horses, rode all night, and at noon of the next day were approaching the banks of the Berezina, memorable for the dreadful passage which almost annihilated the wretched remnant of Napoleon's army. It was impossible, in passing over the same ground, not to recur to the events of which it had been the scene. The "invincible legions," which left Vitepsk two hundred thousand strong, were now fighting their dreadful retreat from Moscow through regulars and Cossacks, reduced to less than twelve thousand men marching in column, with a train of thirty thousand undisciplined followers, sick, wounded, and marauders of every description. The cavalry which crossed the Niemen thirty-seven thousand in number was reduced to one hundred and fifty men on horseback. Napoleon collected all the officers who remained mounted, and formed them into a body, in all about five hundred, which he called his sacred squadron; officers served as privates, and generals of divisions as captains. He ordered the carriages of the officers, many of the wagons, and even the eagles belonging to the different corps, to be burned in his presence; and drawing his sword, with the stern remark that he had sufficiently acted the emperor, and must once more play the general, marched on foot at the head of his old guard. He had hardly reorganized before the immense pine forests which border the Berezina echoed with the thunder of the Russian artillery; in a moment all remains of discipline were lost. In the last stage of weakness and confusion they were roused by loud cries before them, and, to their great surprise and joy, recognised the armies of Victor and Oudinot. The latter knew nothing of the terrible disasters of the army of Moscow, and they were thrown into consternation and then melted to tears when they saw behind Napoleon, instead of the invincible legions which had left them in splendid equipments, a train of gaunt and spectral figures, their faces black with dirt, and long bristly beards, covered with rags, female pelisses, pieces of carpet, with bare and bleeding feet, or bundled with rags, and colonels and generals marching pellmell with soldiers, unarmed and shameless, without any order or discipline, kept together and sleeping round the same fires only by the instinct of self-preservation. About noon we drove into the town of Borizoff. It stands on the banks of the Berezina, and is an old, irregular-looking place, with a heavy wooden church in the centre of an open square. As usual, at the door of the posthouse a group of Jews gathered around us. When Napoleon took possession of Borizoff the Jews were the only inhabitants who remained; and they, a scattered, wandering, and migratory people, without any attachment of soil or country, were ready to serve either the French or Russians, according to the inducements held out to them. A few noble instances are recorded where this persecuted and degraded people exhibited a devotion to the land that sheltered them honourable to their race and to the character of man; but in general they were false and faithless. Those who gathered around us in Borizoff looked as though they might be the very people who betrayed the Russians. One of them told us that a great battle had been fought there, but we could not find any who had been present at the fatal passage of the river. We dined at the posthouse, probably with less anxiety than was felt by Napoleon or any of the flying Frenchmen; but even we were not permitted to eat in peace; for, before we had finished, our vehicle was ready, with worse horses than usual, and a surlier postillion. We sent the postillion on ahead, and walked down to the bank of the river. On the night preceding the passage, Napoleon himself had command of Borizoff, with six thousand guards prepared for a desperate contest. He passed the whole night on his feet; and while waiting for the approach of daylight in one of the houses on the border of the river, so impracticable seemed the chance of crossing with the army that Murat proposed to him to put himself under the escort of some brave and determined Poles, and save himself while there was yet time; but the emperor indignantly rejected the proposition as a cowardly flight. The river is here very broad, and divided into branches. On the opposite side are the remains of an embankment that formed part of the Russian fortifications. When the Russians were driven out of Borizoff by Oudinot, they crossed the river, burned the bridge, and erected these embankments. Besides the sanguinary contest of the French and Russians, this river is also memorable for a great battle between my companion and our postillion. In the middle of the bridge the postillion stopped and waited till we came up; he grumbled loudly at being detained, to which my companion replied in his usual conciliatory and insinuating manner, by laying his cane over the fellow's shoulders; but on the bridge of Borizoff the blood of the Lithuanian was roused; and, perhaps, urged on by the memory of the deeds done there by his fathers, he sprang out of the wagon, and with a warcry that would not have disgraced a Cossack of the Don, rushed furiously upon my friend. Oh for a Homer to celebrate that fight on the bridge of Borizoff! The warriors met, not like Grecian heroes, with spear and shield, and clad in steel, but with their naked fists and faces bare to take the blows. My friend was a sublime spectacle. Like a rock, firm and immoveable, he stood and met the charge of the postillion; in short, in the twinkling of an eye he knocked the postillion down. Those who know say that it is more trying to walk over a field of battle after all is over than to be in the fight; and I believe it from my experience in our trying passage of the Berezina; for, when I picked up the discomfited postillion, whose face was covered with blood, I believe that I had the worst of it. All great victories are tested by their results, and nothing could be more decisive than that over the postillion. He arose a wiser and much more tractable man. At first he looked very stupid when he saw me leaning over him, and very startled when he rubbed his hand over his face and saw it stained with blood; but, raising himself, he caught sight of his victor, and without a word got into the wagon, walked the horses over the bridge, and at the other end got out and threw himself on the ground. It was a beautiful afternoon, and we lingered on the bridge. Crossing it, we walked up the bank on the opposite side toward the place where Napoleon erected his bridges for the passage of his army. All night the French worked at the bridges by the light of the enemy's fires on the opposite side. At daylight the fires were abandoned, and the Russians, supposing the attempt here to be a feint, were seen in full retreat. The emperor, impatient to get possession of the opposite bank, pointed it out to the bravest. A French aiddecamp and Lithuanian count threw themselves into the river, and, in spite of the ice, which cut their horses' breasts, reached the opposite bank in safety. About one o'clock the bank on which we stood was entirely cleared of Cossacks, and the bridge for the infantry was finished. The first division crossed it rapidly with its cannon, the men shouting "_Vive l'empereur!_" The passage occupied three days. The number of stragglers and the quantity of baggage were immense. On the night of the twenty-seventh the stragglers left the bridge, tore down the whole village, and made fires with the materials, around which they crouched their shivering figures, and from which it was impossible to tear themselves away. At daylight they were roused by the report of Witgenstein's cannon thundering over their heads, and again all rushed tumultuously to the bridges. The Russians, with Platow and his Cossacks, were now in full communication on both sides of the river. On the left bank, Napoleon's own presence of mind and the bravery of his soldiers gave him a decided superiority; but, in the language of Scott, the scene on the right bank had become the wildest and most horrible which war can exhibit. "Victor, with eight or ten thousand men, covered the retreat over the bridges, while behind his line thousands of stragglers, old men, women, and children, were wandering by the side of this river like the fabled spectres which throng the banks of the infernal Styx, seeking in vain for passage. The balls of the Russians began to fall among the disordered mass, and the whole body rushed like distracted beings toward the bridges, every feeling of prudence or humanity swallowed up by the animal instinct of self-preservation. The weak and helpless either shrunk from the fray and sat down to wait their fate at a distance, or, mixing in it, were thrust over the bridges, crushed under carriages, cut down with sabres, or trampled to death under the feet of their countrymen. All this while the action continued with fury; and, as if the heavens meant to match their wrath with that of man, a hurricane arose and added terrors to a scene which was already of a character so dreadful. About midday the larger bridge, constructed for artillery and heavy carriages, broke down, and multitudes were forced into the water. The scream of the despairing multitude became at this crisis for a moment so universal, that it rose shrilly above the wild whistling of the tempest and the sustained and redoubled hourras of the Cossacks. The dreadful scene continued till dark. As the obscurity came on, Victor abandoned the station he had defended so bravely, and led the remnant of his troops in their turn across. All night the miscellaneous multitude continued to throng across the bridge under the fire of the Russian artillery. At daybreak the French engineers finally set fire to the bridge, and all that remained on the other side, including many prisoners, and a great quantity of guns and baggage, became the property of the Russians. The amount of the French loss was never exactly known; but the Russian report concerning the bodies of the invaders, which were collected and burned as soon as the thaw permitted, states that upward of thirty-six thousand were found in the Berezina." The whole of this scene was familiar to me as matter of history; the passage of the Berezina had in some way fastened itself upon my mind as one of the most fearful scenes in the annals of war; and, besides this, at St. Petersburgh the colonel and prince had given me a detailed account of the horrors of that dreadful night, for they were both with Witgenstein's army, by the light of the snow, the course of the river, and the noise, directing a murderous fire of artillery against the dark mass moving over the bridge; and nearer still, my companion had visited the place in company with his uncle, of the Polish legion, and repeated to me the circumstances of individual horror which he had heard from his relative, surpassing human belief. The reader will excuse me if I have lingered too long on the banks of that river; and perhaps, too, he will excuse me when I tell him that, before leaving it, I walked down to its brink and bathed my face in its waters. Others have done so at the classic streams of Italy and Greece; but I rolled over the Arno and the Tiber in a vetturino without stopping, and the reader will remember that I jumped over the Ilissus. CHAPTER X. Travel by Night.--A Rencounter.--A Traveller's Message.--Lithuania.--Poverty of the Country.--Agricultural Implements.--Minsk.--Polish Jews.--A Coin of Freedom.--Riding in a Basket.--Brezc.--The Bug.--A searching Operation.--Women Labourers.--Warsaw. IT was after dark when we returned to our wagon, still standing at the end of the bridge opposite Borizoff. Our postillion, like a sensible man, had lain down to sleep at the head of his horses, so they could not move without treading on him and waking him; and, when we roused him, the pain of his beating was over, and with it all sense of the indignity; and, in fact, we made him very grateful for the flogging by promising him a few additional kopeks. We hauled up the straw and seated ourselves in the bottom of our kibitka. Night closed upon us amid the gloomy forests bordering the banks of the Berezina. We talked for a little while, and by degrees drawing our cloaks around us, each fell into a revery. The continued tinkling of the bell, which, on my first entering Russia, grated on my ear, had become agreeable to me, and in a dark night particularly was a pleasing sound. The song of the postillion, too, harmonized with the repose of spirit at that moment most grateful to us; that too died away, the bell almost ceased its tinkling, and, in spite of the alarum of war which we had all day been ringing in our own ears, we should probably soon have fallen into a sleep as sound, for a little while at least, as that of them who slept under the waters of the Berezina, but we were suddenly roused by a shock as alarming to quiet travellers as the hourra of the Cossack in the ears of the flying Frenchmen. Our horses sprang out of the road, but not in time to avoid a concussion with another wagon going toward Borizoff. Both postillions were thrown off their seats; and the stranger, picking himself up, came at us with a stream of Lithuanian Russian almost harsh enough to frighten the horses. I will not suggest what its effect was upon us, but only that, as to myself, it seemed at first equal to the voice of at least a dozen freebooters and marauders; and if the English of it had been "stand and deliver," I should probably have given up my carpet-bag without asking to reserve a change of linen. But I was restored by the return fire of our postillion, who drowned completely the attack of his adversary by his outrageous clamour; and when he stopped to take breath my companion followed up the defence, and this brought out a fourth voice from the bottom of the opposite wagon. A truce was called, and waiving the question on which side the fault lay, we all got out to ascertain the damage. Our antagonist passenger was a German merchant, used to roughing it twice every year between Berlin, Warsaw, Petersburgh, and Moscow, and took our smashing together at night in this desolate forest as coolly as a rub of the shoulders in the streets; and, when satisfied that his wagon was not injured, kindly asked us if we had any bones broken. We returned his kind inquiries; and, after farther interchanges of politeness, he said that he was happy to make our acquaintance, and invited us to come and see him at Berlin. We wanted him to go back and let us have a look at him by torchlight, but he declined; and, after feeling him stretched out in his bed in the bottom of his wagon, we started him on his way. We resumed our own places, and, without dozing again, arrived at the posthouse, where first of all we made ourselves agreeable to the postmaster by delivering our German friend's message to him, that he ought to be whipped and condemned to live where he was till he was a hundred years old for putting the neck of a traveller at the mercy of a sleepy postillion; but the postmaster was a Jew, and thought the vile place where he lived equal to any on earth. He was a miserable, squalid-looking object, with a pine torch in his hand lighting up the poverty and filthiness of his wretched habitation, and confessed that he should be too happy to enjoy the fortune which the German would have entailed upon him as a curse. He offered to make us a bed of some dirty straw which had often been slept on before; but we shrank from it; and, as soon as we could get horses, returned to our kibitka and resumed our journey. The whole province of Lithuania is much the same in appearance. We lost nothing by travelling through it at night; indeed, every step that we advanced was a decided gain, as it brought us so much nearer its farthermost border. The vast provinces of Lithuania, formerly a part of the kingdom of Poland, and, since the partition of that unhappy country, subject to the throne of Russia, until the fourteenth century were independent of either. The Lithuanians and Samogitians are supposed to be of a different race from the Poles, and spoke a language widely dissimilar to the Polish or Russian. Their religion was a strange idolatry; they worshipped the god of thunder, and paid homage to a god of the harvest; they maintained priests, who were constantly feeding a sacred fire in honour of the god of the seasons; they worshipped trees, fountains, and plants; had sacred serpents, and believed in guardian spirits of trees, cattle, &c. Their government, like that of all other barbarous nations, was despotic, and the nobles were less numerous and more tyrannical than in Poland. In the latter part of the fourteenth century, on the death of Louis, successor to Casimir the Great, Hedwiga was called to the throne of Poland, under a stipulation, however, that she should follow the will of the Poles in the choice of her husband. Many candidates offered themselves for the hand dowered with a kingdom; but the offers of Jagellon, duke of Lithuania, were most tempting; he promised to unite his extensive dominions to the territory of Poland, and pledged himself for the conversion to Christianity of his Lithuanian subjects. But queens are not free from the infirmities of human nature; and Hedwiga had fixed her affections upon her cousin, William of Austria, whom she had invited into Poland; and when Jagellon came to take possession of his wife and crown, she refused to see him. The nobles, however, sent William back to his papa, and locked her up as if she had been a boarding-school miss. And again, queens are not free from the infirmities of human nature: Hedwiga was inconstant; the handsome Lithuanian made her forget her first love, and Poland and Lithuania were united under one crown. Jagellon was baptized, but the inhabitants of Lithuania did not so readily embrace the Christian religion; in one of the provinces they clung for a long time to their own strange and wild superstitions; and even in modern times, it is said, the peasants long obstinately refused to use ploughs or other agricultural instruments furnished with iron, for fear of wounding the bosom of mother earth. All the way from Borizoff the road passes through a country but little cultivated, dreary, and covered with forests. When Napoleon entered the province of Lithuania his first bulletins proclaimed, "Here, then, is that Russia so formidable at a distance! It is a desert for which its scattered population is wholly insufficient. They will be vanquished by the very extent of territory which ought to defend them;" and, before I had travelled in it a day, I could appreciate the feeling of the soldier from La Belle France, who, hearing his Polish comrades boast of their country, exclaimed, "Et ces gueux la appellent cette pays une patrie!" The villages are a miserable collection of straggling huts, without plan or arrangement, and separated from each other by large spaces of ground. They are about ten or twelve feet square, made of the misshapen trunks of trees heaped on each other, with the ends projecting over; the roof of large shapeless boards, and the window a small hole in the wall, answering the double purpose of admitting light and letting out smoke. The tenants of these wretched hovels exhibit the same miserable appearance both in person and manners. They are hard-boned and sallow-complexioned; the men wear coarse white woollen frocks, and a round felt cap lined with wool, and shoes made of the bark of trees, and their uncombed hair hangs low over their heads, generally of a flaxen colour. Their agricultural implements are of the rudest kind. The plough and harrow are made from the branches of the fir tree, without either iron or ropes; their carts are put together without iron, consisting of four small wheels, each of a single piece of wood; the sides are made of the bark of a tree bent round, and the shafts are a couple of fir branches; their bridles and traces platted from the bark of trees, or composed merely of twisted branches. Their only instrument to construct their huts and make their carts is a hatchet. They were servile and cringing in their expressions of respect, bowing down to the ground and stopping their carts as soon as we came near them, and stood with their caps in their hands till we were out of sight. The whole country, except in some open places around villages, is one immense forest of firs, perhaps sixty feet in height, compact and thick, but very slender. As we approached Minsk the road was sandy, and we entered by a wooden bridge over a small stream and along an avenue of trees. Minsk is one of the better class of Lithuanian towns, being the chief town of the government of Minsk, but very dirty and irregular. The principal street terminates in a large open square of grass and mean wooden huts. From this another street goes off at right angles, containing large houses, and joining with a second square, where some of the principal buildings are of brick. From this square several streets branch off, and enter a crowd of wooden hovels irregularly huddled together, and covering a large space of ground. The churches are heavily constructed, and in a style peculiar to Lithuania, their gable ends fronting the street, and terminated at each corner by a square spire, with a low dome between them. The population is half Catholic and half Jewish, and the Jews are of the most filthy and abject class. A few words with regard to the Jews in Poland. From the moment of crossing the borders of Lithuania, I had remarked in every town and village swarms of people differing entirely from the other inhabitants in physical appearance and costume, and in whose sharply-drawn features, long beards, and flowing dresses, with the coal-black eyes and oriental costumes of the women, I at once recognised the dispersed and wandering children of Israel. On the second destruction of Jerusalem, when the Roman general drove a plough over the site of the Temple of Solomon, the political existence of the Jewish nation was annihilated, their land was portioned out among strangers, and the descendants of Abraham were forbidden to pollute with their presence the holy city of their fathers. In the Roman territories, their petition for the reduction of taxation received the stern answer of the Roman, "Ye demand exemption from tribute for your soil; I will lay it on the air you breathe;" and, in the words of the historian, "Dispersed and vagabond, exiled from their native soil and air, they wander over the face of the earth without a king, either human or divine, and even as strangers they are not permitted to salute with their footsteps their native land." History furnishes no precise records of the emigration or of the first settlement of the Israelites in the different countries of Europe; but for centuries they have been found dispersed, as it was foretold they would be, over the whole habitable world, a strange, unsocial, and isolated people, a living and continued miracle. At this day they are found in all the civilized countries of Europe and America, in the wildest regions of Asia and Africa, and even within the walls of China; but, after Palestine, Poland is regarded as their Land of Promise; and there they present a more extraordinary spectacle than in any country where their race is known. Centuries have rolled on, revolutions have convulsed the globe, new and strange opinions have disturbed the human race, but the Polish Jew remains unchanged: the same as the dark superstition of the middle ages made him; the same in his outward appearance and internal dispositions, in his physical and moral condition, as when he fled thither for refuge from the swords of the crusaders. As early as the fourteenth century, great privileges were secured to the Jews by Casimir the Great, who styled them his "faithful and able subjects," induced, according to the chronicles of the times, like Ahasuerus of old, by the love of a beautiful Esther. While in Germany, Italy, Spain, Portugal, and even in England and France, their whole history is that of one continued persecution, oppressed by the nobles, anathematized by the clergy, despised and abhorred by the populace, flying from city to city, arrested, and tortured, and burned alive, and sometimes destroying themselves by thousands to escape horrors worse than death; while all orders were arrayed in fierce and implacable hatred against them, in Poland the race of Israel found rest; and there they remain at this day, after centuries of residence, still a distinct people, strangers and sojourners in the land, mingling with their neighbours in the every-day business of life, but never mingling their blood; the direct descendants of the Israelites who, three thousand years ago, went out from the land of Egypt; speaking the same language, and practising the laws delivered to Moses on the mountain of Sinai; mourning over their fallen temple, and still looking for the Messiah who shall bring together their scattered nation and restore their temporal kingdom. But notwithstanding the interest of their history and position, the Polish Jews are far from being an interesting people; they swarm about the villages and towns, intent on gain, and monopolizing all the petty traffic of the country. Outward degradation has worked inward upon their minds; confined to base and sordid occupations, their thoughts and feelings are contracted to their stations, and the despised have become despicable. It was principally in his capacity of innkeeper that I became acquainted with the Polish Jew. The inn is generally a miserable hovel communicating with, or a room partitioned off in one corner of, a large shed serving as a stable and yard for vehicles; the entrance is under a low porch of timber; the floor is of dirt; the furniture consists of a long table, or two or three small ones, and in one corner a bunch of straw, or sometimes a few raised boards formed into a platform, with straw spread over it, for beds; at one end a narrow door leads into a sort of hole filled with dirty beds, old women, half-grown boys and girls, and children not overburdened with garments, and so filthy that, however fatigued, I never felt disposed to venture among them for rest. Here the Jew, assisted by a dirty-faced Rachel, with a keen and anxious look, passes his whole day in serving out to the meanest customers beer, and hay, and corn; wrangling with and extorting money from intoxicated peasants; and, it is said, sometimes, after the day's drudgery is over, retires at night to his miserable hole to pore over the ponderous volumes filled with rabbinical lore; or sometimes his mind takes a higher flight, meditating upon the nature of the human soul; its relation to the Divinity; the connexion between the spirit and the body; and indulging in the visionary hope of gaining, by means of cabalistic formula, command over the spirits of the air, the fire, the flood, and the earth. Though the days of bitter persecution and hatred have gone by, the Jews are still objects of contempt and loathing. Once I remember pointing out to my postillion a beautiful Jewish girl, and, with the fanatic spirit of the middle ages, himself one of the most degraded serfs in Poland, he scorned the idea of marrying the fair daughter of Israel. But this the Jew does not regard; all he asks is to be secured from the active enmity of mankind. "Like the haughty Roman banished from the world, the Israelite throws back the sentence of banishment, and still retreats to the lofty conviction that his race is not excluded as an unworthy, but kept apart as a sacred, people; humiliated, indeed, but still hallowed, and reserved for the sure though tardy fulfilment of the Divine promises." The Jews in Poland are still excluded from all offices and honours, and from all the privileges and distinctions of social life. Until the accession of Nicolas, they were exempted from military service on payment of a tax; but since his time they have been subject to the regular conscription. They regard this as an alarming act of oppression, for the boys are taken from their families at twelve or thirteen, and sent to the army or the common military school, where they imbibe notions utterly at variance with the principles taught them by their fathers; and, probably, if the system continues, another generation will work a great change in the character of the Jews of Poland. But to return to the Jews at Minsk. As usual, they gathered around us before we were out of our kibitka, laid hold of our baggage, and in Hebrew, Lithuanian, and Polish, were clamorous in offers of service. They were spare in figure, dressed in high fur caps and long black muslin gowns, shining and glossy from long use and tied around the waist with a sash; and here I remarked what has often been remarked by other travellers, when the features were at rest, a style of face and expression resembling the pictures of the Saviour in the galleries in Italy. While my companion was arranging for posthorses and dinner, I strolled through the town alone, that is, with a dozen Israelites at my heels and on my return I found an accession of the stiff-necked and unbelieving race, one of whom arrested my attention by thrusting before me a silver coin. It was not an antique, but it had in my eyes a greater value than if it had been dug from the ruins of a buried city, and bore the image of Julius Cæsar. On the breaking out of the late revolution, one of the first acts of sovereignty exercised by the provincial government was to issue a national coin stamped with the arms of the old kingdom of Poland, the white eagle and the armed cavalier, with an inscription around the rim, "God protect Poland." When the revolution was crushed, with the view of destroying in the minds of the Poles every memento of their brief but glorious moment of liberty, this coin was called in and suppressed, and another substituted in its place, with the Polish eagle, by way of insult, stamped in a small character near the tip end of the wing of the double-headed eagle of Russia. The coin offered me by the Jew was one of the emission of the revolution, and my companion told me it was a rare thing to find one. I bought it at the Jew's price, and put it in my pocket as a memorial of a brave and fallen people. I will not inflict upon the reader the particulars of our journey through this dreary and uninteresting country. We travelled constantly, except when we were detained for horses. We never stopped at night, for there seldom was any shelter on the road better than the Jews' inns, and even in our kibitka we were better than there. But, unluckily, on the seventh day, our kibitka broke down; the off hind wheel snapped in pieces, and let us down rather suddenly in one of the autocrat's forests. Our first impulse was to congratulate ourselves that this accident happened in daylight; and we had a narrow escape, for the sun had hardly begun to find its way into the dark forest. Fortunately, too, we were but two or three versts from a posthouse. I had met with such accidents at home, and rigged a small tree (there being no such things as rails, property there not being divided by rail fences) under the hind axle, supporting it on the front. We lighted our pipes and escorted our crippled vehicle to the posthouse, where we bought a wheel off another wagon, much better than the old one, only about two inches lower. This, however, was not so bad as might be supposed, at least for me, who sat on the upper side, and had the stout figure of my companion as a leaning-post. At Sloghan, about two hundred versts from Brezc the frontier town of Poland, we sold our kibitka for a breakfast, and took the _char de pôste_, or regular troika. This is the postboy's favourite vehicle; the body being made of twigs interlaced like a long basket, without a particle of iron, and so light that a man can lift up either end with one hand. Our speed was increased wonderfully by the change; the horses fairly played with the little car at their heels; the drivers vied with each other, and several posts in succession we made nearly twenty versts in an hour. It will probably be difficult to throw the charm of romance around the troika driver; but he comes from the flower of the peasantry; his life, passed on the wild highways, is not without its vicissitudes, and he is made the hero of the Russian's favourite popular ballads: "Away, away, along the road The gallant troika bounds; While 'neath the douga, sadly sweet, Their Valdai bell resounds."[2] We passed the house of a _very respectable_ seigneur who had married his own sister. We stopped at his village and talked of him with the postmaster, by whom he was considered a model of the domestic virtues. The same day we passed the chateau of a nobleman who wrote himself cousin to the Emperors of Russia and Austria, confiscated for the part he took in the late Polish revolution, a melancholy-looking object, deserted and falling to ruins, its owner wandering in exile with a price upon his head. It rained hard during the day, for the first time since we left Petersburgh; at night the rain ceased, but the sky was still overcast. For a long distance, and, in fact, a great part of the way from Petersburgh, the road was bordered with trees. At eleven o'clock we stopped at a wretched posthouse, boiled water, and refreshed ourselves with deep potations of hot tea. We mounted our troika, the postillion shouted, and set off on a run. Heavy clouds were hanging in the sky; it was so dark that we could not see the horses, and there was some little danger of a breakdown; but there was a high and wild excitement in hurrying swiftly through the darkness on a run, hearing the quick tinkling of the bell and the regular fall of the horses' hoofs, and seeing only the dark outline of the trees. We continued this way all night, and toward morning we were rattling on a full gallop through the streets of Brezc. We drove into a large stable-yard filled with kibitkas, troikas, and all kinds of Russian vehicles, at one end of which was a long low building kept by a Jew. We dismounted, and so ended nearly three thousand miles of posting in Russia. The Jew, roused by our noise, was already at the door with a lighted taper in his hand, and gave us a room with a leather-covered sofa and a leather cushion for a pillow, where we slept till eleven o'clock the next day. We breakfasted, and in the midst of a violent rain crossed the Bug, and entered the territory of Poland Proper. For many centuries the banks of the Bug have been the battle-ground of the Russians and Poles. In the time of Boleslaus the Terrible, the Russians were defeated there with great slaughter, and the river was so stained with blood that it has retained ever since the name of the _Horrid_. Before crossing we were obliged to exchange our Russian money for Polish, rubles for florins, losing, of course, heavily by the operation, besides being subjected to the bore of studying a new currency; and the moment we planted our feet on the conquered territory, though now nominally under the same government, we were obliged to submit to a most vexatious process. The custom-house stood at the end of the bridge, and, as matter of course, our postillion stopped there. Our luggage was taken off the wagon, carried inside, every article taken out and laid on the floor, and a Russian soldier stood over, comparing them with a list of prohibited articles as long as my arm. Fortunately for me, the Russian government had not prohibited travellers from wearing pantaloons and shirts in Poland, though it came near faring hard with a morning-gown. My companion, however, suffered terribly; his wearing apparel was all laid out on one side, while a large collection of curious and pretty nothings, which he had got together with great affection at the capital, as memorials for his friends at home, were laid out separately, boxes opened, papers unrolled, and, with provoking deliberation, examined according to the list of prohibited things. It was a new and despotic regulation unknown to him, and he looked on in agony, every condemned article being just the one above all others which he would have saved; and when they had finished, a large pile was retained for the examination of another officer, to be sent on to Warsaw in case of their being allowed to pass at all. I had frequently regretted having allowed the trouble and inconvenience to prevent my picking up curiosities; but when I saw the treasures of my friend taken from him, or, at least, detained for an uncertain time, I congratulated myself upon my good fortune. My friend was a man not easily disheartened; he had even got over the loss of his love at St. Petersburgh; but he would rather have been turned adrift in Poland without his pantaloons than be stripped of his precious bawbles. I had seen him roused several times on the road, quarrelling with postmasters and thumping postillions, but I had never before seen the full development of that extraordinary head of hair. He ground his teeth and cursed the whole Russian nation, from the Emperor Nicolas down to the soldier at the custom-house. He was ripe for revolution, and, if a new standard of rebellion had been set up in Poland, he would have hurried to range himself under its folds. I soothed him by striking the key-note of his heart. All the way from Petersburgh he had sat mechanically, with his pocket-glass and brush, dressing his mustaches; but his heart was not in the work, until, as we approached the borders of Poland, he began to recover from his Petersburgh affair, and to talk of the beauty of the Polish women. I turned him to this now. It is a fact that, while for ages a deadly hatred has existed between the Russians and the Poles, and while the Russians are at this day lording it over the Poles with the most arbitrary insolence and tyranny, beauty still asserts its lawful supremacy, and the Polish women bring to their feet the conquerors of their fathers, and husbands, and brothers. The first posthouse at which we stopped confirmed all that my companion had said; for the postmaster's daughter was brilliantly beautiful, particularly in the melting wildness of a dark eye, indicating an Asiatic or Tartar origin; and her gentle influence was exerted in soothing the savage humour of my friend, for she sympathized in his misfortunes, and the more sincerely when she heard of the combs, and rings, and slippers, and other pretty little ornaments for sisters and female friends at home; and my Pole could not resist the sympathy of a pretty woman. We had scarcely left the postmaster's daughter, on the threshold of Poland, almost throwing a romance about the Polish women, before I saw the most degrading spectacle I ever beheld in Europe, or even in the barbarous countries of the East. Forty or fifty women were at work in the fields, and a large, well-dressed man, with a pipe in his mouth and a long stick in his hand, was walking among them as overseer. In our country the most common labouring man would revolt at the idea of his wife or daughter working in the open fields. I had seen it, however, in gallant France and beautiful Italy; but I never saw, even in the barbarous countries of the East, so degrading a spectacle as this; and I could have borne it almost anywhere better than in chivalric Poland. We were now in the territory called Poland Proper, that is, in that part which, after the other provinces had been wrested away and attached to the dominions of the colossal powers around, until the revolution and conquest of 1830 had retained the cherished name of the kingdom of Poland. The whole road is Macadamized, smooth and level as a floor, from the banks of the Bug to Warsaw; the posthouses and postmasters are much better, and posting is better regulated, though more expensive. The road lay through that rich agricultural district which had for ages made Poland celebrated as the granary of Europe; and though the face of the country was perfectly flat, and the scenery tame and uninteresting, the soil was rich, and, at that time, in many places teeming with heavy crops. As yet, it had not recovered from the desolating effects of the war of the revolution. The whole road has been a battle-ground, over which the Poles had chased the Russians to the frontier, and been driven back to Warsaw; time after time it had been drenched with Russian and Polish blood, the houses and villages sacked and burned, and their blackened ruins still cumbered the ground, nursing in the conquered but unsubdued Pole his deep, undying hatred of the Russians. On this road Diebitsch, the crosser of the Balkan, at the head of eighty thousand men, advanced to Warsaw. His right and left wings manoeuvred to join him at Siedler, the principal town, through which we passed. We changed horses three times, and rolled on all night without stopping. In the morning my companion pointed out an old oak, where a distinguished colonel of the revolution, drawing up the fourth Polish regiment against the Imperial Guards, with a feeling of mortal hate commanded them to throw away their primings, and charge with the bayonet, "Coeur à coeur." In another place five hundred gentlemen, dressed in black, with pumps, silk stockings, and small swords, in a perfect wantonness of pleasure at fighting with the Russians, and, as they said, in the same spirit with which they would go to a ball, threw themselves upon a body of the guards, and, after the most desperate fighting, were cut to pieces to a man. Farther on, a little off from the road, on the borders of the field of Grokow, was a large mound covered with black crosses, thrown up over the graves of the Poles who had fallen there. About eleven o'clock we approached the banks of the Vistula. We passed the suburbs of Praga, the last battle-ground of Kosciusko, where the bloodstained Suwarrow butchered in cold blood thirty thousand Poles. Warsaw lay spread out on the opposite bank of the river, the heroic but fallen capital of Poland, the city of brave men and beautiful women; of Stanislaus, and Sobieski, and Poniatowsky, and Kosciusko, and, I will not withhold it, possessing in my eyes, a romantic interest from its associations with the hero of my schoolboy days, Thaddeus of Warsaw. On the right is the chateau of the old Kings of Poland, now occupied by a Russian viceroy, with the banner of Russia waving over its walls. We rode over the bridge and entered the city. Martial music was sounding, and Russian soldiers, Cossacks, and Circassians were filing through its streets. We held up to let them pass, and they moved like the keepers of a conquered city, with bent brows and stern faces, while the citizens looked at them in gloomy silence. We drove up to the Hotel de Leipsic (which, however, I do not recommend), where I took a bath and a doctor. FOOTNOTE: [2] The douga is the bow over the neck of the middle horse, to which the bell is attached; and Valdai the place on the Moscow road where the best bells are made. CHAPTER XI. Warsaw.--A Polish Doctor.--Battle of Grokow.--The Outbreak.--The fatal Issue.--Present Condition of Poland.--Polish Exiles.--Aspect of Warsaw.--Traits of the Poles. A LETTER dated at Warsaw to my friends at home begins thus: "I have reached this place to be put on my back by a Polish doctor. How long he will keep me here I do not know. He promises to set me going again in a week; and, as he has plenty of patients without keeping me down, I have great confidence in him. Besides, having weathered a Greek, an Armenian, and a Russian, I think I shall be too much for a Pole." There was not a servant in the house who understood any language I spoke, and my friend kindly proposed my taking a room with him; and, as he had many acquaintances in Warsaw, who thronged to see him, he had to tell them all the history of the American in the bed in one corner. All the next day I lay in the room alone on a low bedstead, looking up at the ceiling and counting the cracks in the wall. I was saved from a fit of the blues by falling into a passion, and throwing my boots at the servant because he could not understand me. Late in the evening my friend returned from the theatre with three or four companions, and we made a night of it, I taking medicine and they smoking pipes. They were all excellent fellows, and, as soon as they heard me moving, came over to me, and, when I fell back on my pillow, covered me up, and went back, and talked till I wanted them again. Toward daylight I fell asleep, and, when the doctor came in the morning, felt myself a new man. My doctor, by-the-way, was not a Pole, but a German, physician to the court, and the first in Warsaw; he occupied a little country-seat a few miles from Warsaw, belonging to Count Niemcewicz, the poet and patriot, who accompanied Kosciusko to this country, and married a lady of New-Jersey; returned with him to Poland, was with him on his last battle-field, and almost cut to pieces by his side. In the afternoon one of my companions of the night before came to see me. He had been in Warsaw during the revolution, and talked with enthusiasm of their brief but gallant struggle; and, as it was a beautiful afternoon, proposed strolling to a little eminence near at hand, commanding a view of the first battle-ground. I went with him and he pointed out on the other side of the Vistula the field of Grokow. Below it was the bridge over which General Romarino carried his little army during the night, having covered the bridge, the horses' hoofs, and the wheels of the carriages with straw. This general is now in France under sentence of death, with a price set upon his head. The battle of Grokow, the greatest in Europe since that of Waterloo, was fought on the twenty-fifth of February, 1831, and the place where I stood commanded a view of the whole ground. The Russian army was under the command of Diebitsch, and consisted of one hundred and forty-two thousand infantry, forty thousand cavalry, and three hundred and twelve pieces of cannon. This enormous force was arranged in two lines of combatants, and a third of reserve. Its left wing, between Wavre and the marshes of the Vistula, consisted of four divisions of infantry of forty-seven thousand men, three of cavalry of ten thousand five hundred, and one hundred and eight pieces of cannon; the right consisted of three and a half divisions of infantry of thirty-one thousand men, four divisions of cavalry of fifteen thousand seven hundred and fifty men, and fifty-two pieces of cannon. Upon the borders of the great forest opposite the Forest of Elders, conspicuous from where I stood, was placed the reserve, commanded by the Grand-duke Constantine. Against this immense army the Poles opposed less than fifty thousand men and a hundred pieces of cannon, under the command of General Skrzynecki. At break of day the whole force of the Russian right wing, with a terrible fire of fifty pieces of artillery and columns of infantry, charged the Polish left with the determination of carrying it by a single and overpowering effort. The Poles, with six thousand five hundred men and twelve pieces of artillery, not yielding a foot of ground, and knowing they could hope for no succour, resisted this attack for several hours, until the Russians slackened their fire. About ten o'clock the plain was suddenly covered with the Russian forces issuing from the cover of the forest, seeming one undivided mass of troops. Two hundred pieces of cannon, posted on a single line, commenced a fire which made the earth tremble, and was more terrible than the oldest officers, many of whom had fought at Marengo and Austerlitz, had ever beheld. The Russians now made an attack upon the right wing; but foiled in this as upon the left, Diebitsch directed the strength of his army against the Forest of Elders, hoping to divide the Poles into two parts. One hundred and twenty pieces of cannon were brought to bear on this one point, and fifty battalions, incessantly pushed to the attack, kept up a scene of massacre unheard of in the annals of war. A Polish officer who was in the battle told me that the small streams which intersected the forest were so choked with dead that the infantry marched directly over their bodies. The heroic Poles, with twelve battalions, for four hours defended the forest against the tremendous attack. Nine times they were driven out, and nine times, by a series of admirably-executed manoeuvres, they repulsed the Russians with immense loss. Batteries, now concentrated in one point, were in a moment hurried to another, and the artillery advanced to the charge like cavalry, sometimes within a hundred feet of the enemy's columns, and there opened a murderous fire of grape. At three o'clock the generals, many of whom were wounded, and most of whom had their horses shot under them, and fought on foot at the head of their divisions, resolved upon a retrograde movement, so as to draw the Russians on the open plain. Diebitsch, supposing it to be a flight, looked over to the city and exclaimed, "Well, then, it appears that, after this bloody day, I shall take tea in the Belvidere Palace." The Russian troops debouched from the forest. A cloud of Russian cavalry, with several regiments of heavy cuirassiers at their head, advanced to the attack. Colonel Pientka, who had kept up an unremitting fire from his battery for five hours, seated with perfect sang-froid upon a disabled piece of cannon, remained to give another effective fire, then left at full gallop a post which he had so long occupied under the terrible fire of the enemy's artillery. This rapid movement of his battery animated the Russian forces. The cavalry advanced on a trot upon the line of a battery of rockets. A terrible discharge was poured into their ranks, and the horses, galled to madness by the flakes of fire, became wholly ungovernable, and broke away, spreading disorder in every direction; the whole body swept helplessly along the fire of the Polish infantry, and in a few minutes was so completely annihilated that, of a regiment of cuirassiers who bore inscribed on their helmets the "Invincibles," not a man escaped. The wreck of the routed cavalry, pursued by the lancers, carried along in its flight the columns of infantry; a general retreat commenced, and the cry of "Poland for ever" reached the walls of Warsaw to cheer the hearts of its anxious inhabitants. So terrible was the fire of that day, that in the Polish army there was not a single general or staff officer who had not his horse killed or wounded under him; two thirds of the officers, and, perhaps, of the soldiers, had their clothes pierced with balls, and more than a tenth part of the army were wounded. Thirty thousand Russians and ten thousand Poles were left on the field of battle; rank upon rank lay prostrate on the earth, and the Forest of Elders was so strewed with bodies that it received from that day the name of the "Forest of the Dead." The Czar heard with dismay, and all Europe with astonishment, that the crosser of the Balkan had been foiled under the walls of Warsaw. All day, my companion said, the cannonading was terrible. Crowds of citizens, of both sexes and all ages, were assembled on the spot where we stood, earnestly watching the progress of the battle, sharing in all its vicissitudes, in the highest state of excitement as the clearing up of the columns of smoke showed when the Russians or the Poles had fled; and he described the entry of the remnant of the Polish army into Warsaw as sublime and terrible; their hair and faces were begrimed with powder and blood; their armour shattered and broken, and all, even dying men, were singing patriotic songs; and when the fourth regiment, among whom was a brother of my companion, and who had particularly distinguished themselves in the battle, crossed the bridge and filed slowly through the streets, their lances shivered against the cuirasses of the guards, their helmets broken, their faces black and spotted with blood, some erect, some tottering, and some barely able to sustain themselves in the saddle, above the stern chorus of patriotic songs rose the distracted cries of mothers, wives, daughters, and lovers, seeking among this broken band for forms dearer than life, many of whom were then sleeping on the battle-field. My companion told me that he was then a lad of seventeen, and had begged with tears to be allowed to accompany his brother; but his widowed mother extorted from him a promise that he would not attempt it. All day he had stood with his mother on the very spot where we did, his hand in hers, which she grasped convulsively, as every peal of cannon seemed the knell of her son; and when the lancers passed, she sprang from his side as she recognised in the drooping figure of an officer, with his spear broken in his hand, the figure of her gallant boy. He was then reeling in his saddle, his eye was glazed and vacant, and he died that night in their arms. The tyranny of the Grand-duke Constantine, the imperial viceroy, added to the hatred of the Russians, which is the birthright of every Pole, induced the unhappy revolution of eighteen hundred and thirty. Although, on the death of Alexander, Constantine waived in favour of his brother Nicolas his claim to the throne of Russia, his rule in Poland shows that it was not from any aversion to the exercise of power. When Constantine was appointed its commander-in-chief, the Polish army ranked with the bravest in Europe. The Polish legions under Dombrowski and Poniatowski had kept alive the recollections of the military glory of their fallen nation. Almost annihilated by the bloody battles in Italy, where they met their old enemies under Suwarrow, the butcher of Praga, the proud remnants reorganized and formed the fifth corps of the "grande armée," distinguished themselves at Smolensk, Borodino, Kalouga, and the passage of the Berezina, took the field with the wreck of the army in Saxony, fought at Dresden and Leipsic, and, when Napoleon told them, brave as they were, that they were free to go home if they pleased, they scorned to desert him in his waning fortunes, and accompanied him to Paris. Alexander promised an amnesty, and they marched with him to Warsaw. Within the first six months many officers of this army had been grossly insulted; an eyewitness told me that he had seen, on the great square of Warsaw, the high sheriff tear off the epaulettes from the shoulders of an officer, and, in the presence of the whole troops, strike him on the cheek with his hand. It would, perhaps, be unjust to enumerate, as I heard them, the many causes of oppression that roused to revolt the slumbering spirit of the Poles; in the midst of which the French revolution threw all Poland into commotion. The three days of July were hailed with rapture by every patriotic heart; the new revolutionary movements in Belgium cheered them on; and eighty young men, torn from the altars while praying for the souls of their murdered countrymen on the anniversary of the butchery at Praga, thrilled every heart and hurried the hour of retribution. The enthusiasm of youth struck the first blow. A band of ardent young men of the first families attended the meetings of secret patriotic associations; and six of them, belonging to the military school, suspecting they were betrayed, early in the evening went to their barracks, and proposed to their comrades a plan for liberating their country. The whole corps, not excepting one sick in bed, amounting in all to about a hundred and fifty, took up arms, and, under a lieutenant of nineteen, attacked the palace of Constantine, and almost secured his person. The grand-duke was then asleep on a couch in a room opening upon a corridor of the Belvidere Palace, and, roused by a faithful valet, had barely time to throw a robe over him and fly. The insurgents, with cries of vengeance, rushed into the interior of the palace, driving before them the chief of the city police and the aiddecamp of the grand-duke. The latter had the presence of mind to close the door of the grand-duke's apartment before he was pierced through with a dozen bayonets. The wife of the grand-duke, the beautiful and interesting princess for whom he had sacrificed a crown, hearing the struggle, was found on her knees offering up prayers to Heaven for the safety of her husband. Constantine escaped by a window; and the young soldiers, foiled in their attempt, marched into the city, and, passing the barracks of the Russian guards, daringly fired a volley to give notice of their coming. Entering the city, they broke open the prisons and liberated the state prisoners, burst into the theatres, crying out, "Women, home; men, to arms," forced the arsenal, and in two hours forty thousand men were under arms. Very soon the fourth Polish regiment joined them; and before midnight the remainder of the Polish troops in Warsaw, declaring that their children were too deeply implicated to be abandoned, espoused the popular cause. Some excesses were committed; and General Stanislaus Potocki, distinguished in the revolution of Kosciusko, for hesitating was killed, exclaiming with his last breath that it was dreadful to die by the hands of his countrymen. Chlopicki, the comrade of Kosciusko, was proclaimed dictator by an immense multitude in the Champ de Mars. For some time the inhabitants of Warsaw were in a delirium; the members of the patriotic association, and citizens of all classes, assembled every day, carrying arms, and with glasses in their hands, in the saloon of the theatre and at a celebrated coffee-house, discussing politics and singing patriotic songs. In the theatres the least allusion brought down thunders of applause, and at the end of the piece heralds appeared on the stage waving the banners of the dismembered provinces. In the pit they sang in chorus national hymns; the boxes answered them; and sometimes the spectators finished by scaling the stage and dancing the Mazurka and the Cracoviak. The fatal issue of this revolution is well known. The Polish nation exerted and exhausted its utmost strength, and the whole force of the colossal empire was brought against it, and, in spite of prodigies of valour, crushed it. The moment, the only moment when gallant, chivalric, and heroic Poland could have been saved and restored to its rank among nations, was suffered to pass by, and no one came to her aid. The minister of France threw out the bold boast that a hundred thousand men stood ready to march to her assistance; but France and all Europe looked on and saw her fall. Her expiring diet ordered a levy in mass, and made a last appeal, "In the name of God; in the name of liberty; of a nation placed between life and death; in the name of kings and heroes who have fought for religion and humanity; in the name of future generations; in the name of justice and the deliverance of Europe;" but her dying appeal was unheard. Her last battle was under the walls of Warsaw; and then she would not have fallen, but even in Poland there were traitors. The governor of Warsaw blasted the laurels won in the early battles of the revolution by the blackest treason. He ordered General Romarino to withdraw eight thousand soldiers and chase the Russians beyond the frontier at Brezc. While he was gone the Russians pressed Warsaw; he could have returned in time to save it, but was stopped with directions not to advance until farther orders. In the mean time Warsaw fell, with the curse of every Pole upon the head of its governor. The traitor now lives ingloriously in Russia, disgraced and despised, while the young lieutenant is in unhappy but not unhonoured exile in Siberia. So ended the last heroic struggle of Poland. It is dreadful to think so, but it is greatly to be feared that Poland is blotted for ever from the list of nations. Indeed, by a late imperial ukase, Poland is expunged from the map of Europe; her old and noble families are murdered, imprisoned, or in exile; her own language is excluded from the offices of government, and even from the public schools; her national character destroyed; her national dress proscribed; her national colours trampled under foot; her national banner, the white eagle of Poland, is in the dust. Warsaw is abandoned, and become a Russian city; her best citizens are wandering in exile in foreign lands, while Cossack and Circassian soldiers are filing through her streets, and the banner of Russia is waving over her walls. Perhaps it is not relevant, but I cannot help saying that there is no exaggeration in the stories which reach us at our own doors of the misfortunes and sufferings of Polish exiles. I have met them wandering in many different countries, and particularly I remember one at Cairo. He had fought during the whole Polish revolution, and made his escape when Warsaw fell. He was a man of about thirty-five years of age, dressed in a worn military frockcoat, and carrying himself with a manly and martial air. He had left a wife and two children at Warsaw. At Constantinople he had written to the emperor requesting permission to return, and even promising never again to take up arms against Russia, but had received for answer that the amnesty was over and the day of grace was past; and the unfortunate Pole was then wandering about the world like a cavalier of fortune or a knight of romance, with nothing to depend upon but his sword. He had offered his services to the sultan and to the Pacha of Egypt; he was then poor, and, with the bearing of a gentleman and the pride of a soldier, was literally begging his bread. I could sympathize in the misfortunes of an exiled Pole, and felt that his distress must indeed be great, that he who had perilled life and ties dearer than life in the cause of an oppressed country, should offer his untarnished sword to the greatest despot that ever lived. The general appearance of Warsaw is imposing. It stands on a hill of considerable elevation on the left bank of the Vistula; the Zamech or Chateau of the Kings of Poland spreads its wings midway between the river and the summit of the hill, and churches and towering spires checker at different heights the distant horizon. Most of the houses are built of stone, or brick stuccoed; they are numbered in one continued series throughout the city, beginning from the royal palace (occupied by Paskiewitch), which is numbered _one_, and rising above number five thousand. The churches are numerous and magnificent; the palaces, public buildings, and many of the mansions of noblemen, are on a large scale, very showy, and, in general, striking for their architectural designs. One great street runs irregularly through the whole city, of which Miodowa, or Honey-street, and the Novoy Swiat, or New World, are the principal and most modern portions. As in all aristocratic cities, the streets are badly paved, and have no trottoirs for the foot passengers. The Russian drosky is in common use; the public carriages are like those in Western Europe, though of a low form; the linings generally painted red; the horses large and handsome, with large collars of red or green, covered with small brass rings, which sound like tinkling bells; and the carts are like those in our own city, only longer and lower, and more like our brewer's dray. The hotels are numerous, generally kept in some of the old palaces, and at the entrance of each stands a large porter, with a cocked hat and silver-headed cane, to show travellers to their apartments and receive the names of visiters. There are two principal kukiernia, something like the French cafés, where many of the Varsovians breakfast and lounge in the mornings. [Illustration: Royal Palace at Warsaw.] The Poles, in their features, looks, customs, and manners, resemble Asiatics rather than Europeans; and they are, no doubt, descended from Tartar ancestors. Though belonging to the Sclavonic race, which occupies nearly the whole extent of the vast plains of Western Europe, they have advanced more than the others from the rude and barbarous state which characterizes this race; and this is particularly manifest at Warsaw. An eyewitness, describing the appearance of the Polish deputies at Paris sent to announce the election of Henry of Anjou as successor of Sigismund, says, "It is impossible to describe the general astonishment when we saw these ambassadors in long robes, fur caps, sabres, arrows, and quivers; but our admiration was excessive when we saw the sumptuousness of their equipages; the scabbards of their swords adorned with jewels; their bridles, saddles, and horse-cloths decked in the same way," &c. But none of this barbaric display is now seen in the streets of Warsaw. Indeed, immediately on entering it I was struck with the European aspect of things. It seemed almost, though not quite, like a city of Western Europe, which may, perhaps, be ascribed, in a great measure, to the entire absence of the semi-Asiatic costumes so prevalent in all the cities of Russia, and even at St. Petersburgh; and the only thing I remarked peculiar in the dress of the inhabitants was the remnant of a barbarous taste for show, exhibiting itself in large breastpins, shirt-buttons, and gold chains over the vest; the mustache is universally worn. During the war of the revolution immediately succeeding our own, Warsaw stood the heaviest brunt; and when Kosciusko fell fighting before it, its population was reduced to seventy five thousand. Since that time it has increased, and is supposed now to be one hundred and forty thousand, thirty thousand of whom are Jews. Calamity after calamity has befallen Warsaw; still its appearance is that of a gay city. Society consists altogether of two distinct and distant orders, the nobles and the peasantry, without any intermediate degrees. I except, of course, the Jews, who form a large item in her population, and whose long beards, thin and anxious faces, and piercing eyes met me at every corner of Warsaw. The peasants are in the lowest stage of mental degradation. The nobles, who are more numerous than in any other country in Europe, have always, in the eyes of the public, formed the people of Poland. They are brave, prompt, frank, hospitable, and gay, and have long been called the French of the North, being French in their habits, fond of amusements, and living in the open air, like the lounger in the Palais Royal, the Tuileries, the Boulevards, and Luxembourgh, and particularly French in their political feelings, the surges of a revolution in Paris being always felt at Warsaw. They regard the Germans with mingled contempt and aversion, calling them "dumb" in contrast with their own fluency and loquacity; and before their fall were called by their neighbours the "proud Poles." They consider it the deepest disgrace to practise any profession, even law or medicine, and, in case of utmost necessity, prefer the plough. A Sicilian, a fellow-passenger from Palermo to Naples, who one moment was groaning in the agony of seasickness and the next playing on his violin, said to me, "Canta il, signore?" "Do you sing?" I answered "No;" and he continued, "Suonate?" "Do you play?" I again answered "No;" and he asked me, with great simplicity, "Cosa fatte? Niente?" "What do you do? Nothing?" and I might have addressed the same question to every Pole in Warsaw. The whole business of the country is in the hands of the Jews, and all the useful and mechanical arts are practised by strangers. I did not find a Pole in a single shop in Warsaw; the proprietors of the hotels and coffee-houses are strangers, principally Germans; my tailor was a German; my shoemaker a Frenchman, and the man who put a new crystal in my watch an Italian from Milan. But though this entire absence of all useful employment is, on grounds of public policy, a blot on their national character, as a matter of feeling it rather added to the interest with which I regarded the "proud Poles;" and perhaps it was imaginary, but I felt all the time I was in Warsaw that, though the shops and coffee-houses were open, and crowds thronged the streets, a sombre air hung over the whole city; and if for a moment this impression left me, a company of Cossacks, with their wild music, moving to another station, or a single Russian officer riding by in a drosky, wrapped in his military cloak, reminded me that the foot of a conqueror was upon the necks of the inhabitants of Warsaw. This was my feeling after a long summer day's stroll through the streets; and in the evening I went to the theatre, which was a neat building, well filled, and brilliantly lighted; but the idea of a pervading and gloomy spirit so haunted me that in a few moments I left what seemed a heartless mockery of pleasure. I ought to add that I did not understand a word of the piece; the _triste_ air which touched me may have been induced by the misfortunes of the stage hero; and, in all probability, I should have astonished a melancholy-looking neighbour if, acting under my interpretation of his visage, I had expressed to him my sympathy in the sufferings of his country. CHAPTER XII. Religion of Poland.--Sunday in Warsaw.--Baptized Jews.--Palaces of the Polish Kings.--Sobieski.--Field of Vola.--Wreck of a Warrior.--The Poles in America.--A Polish Lady.--Troubles of a Passport.--Departure from Warsaw.--An official Rachel.--A mysterious Visiter. SUNDAY at WARSHAW. Poland is distinguished above the other nations of Europe as a land of religious toleration. So late as the latter part of the tenth century, the religion of Poland was a gross idolatry; and, mingled with the rites of their own country, they worshipped, under other names, Jupiter, Pluto, Mars, Venus, Diana, and others of the pagan deities. During the reign of Mieczylaus I. of the Piast dynasty, the monks introduced Christianity. The prince himself was proof against the monks, but received from woman's lips the principles of the Christian religion. Enamoured of Dombrowska, the daughter of the Duke of Bohemia, a country which had then lately embraced Christianity, who refused to accept his suit unless he was baptized, Mieczylaus sacrificed the superstitions and prejudices of his fathers on the altar of love. But the religion which he embraced for the sake of Dombrowska he afterward propagated for its own; became an ardent champion of the cross; broke down with his own hands the idols of his country; built Christian churches on the ruins of pagan temples; and, in the ardour of his new faith, issued an edict that, when any portion of the Gospel was read, the hearers should half draw their swords to testify their readiness to defend its truth. In the reign of the "famous" John Sobieski, the annals of Poland, till that time free from this disgrace, were stained by one of the most atrocious acts of barbarity recorded in the history of religious persecution. A Lithuanian nobleman, a religious and benevolent man, but sufficiently intelligent to ridicule some of the current superstitions, and very rich, on account of a note made in the margin of a book, written by a stupid German, was tried for atheism by a council of bigoted Catholic bishops, and found guilty, not only of "having denied the existence of a God, but the doctrine of the Trinity and the Divine maternity of the Virgin Mary." Zaluski, one of the villains concerned in the torment, writes, "The convict was led to the scaffold, where the executioner, with a red-hot iron, tore his tongue and his mouth, _with which he had been cruel toward God_; then they burned his hands, instruments of the abominable production, at a slow fire. The sacrilegious paper was thrown into the flame; himself last; that monster of the age, that deicide, was cast into the flames of expiation, if such a crime could be atoned." In seventeen hundred and twenty-six the Jesuits, making a public procession with the Host in the streets of Thorn, the young scholars of the order insisted that some Lutheran children should kneel; and on their refusal a scuffle ensued between the Jesuits and townspeople, most of whom were Lutherans, in which the enraged townspeople broke open the Jesuits' college, profaned all the objects of worship, and, among others an image of the Virgin. The Catholics of Poland, assembled in the diet, almost infuriated with fanatic zeal, condemned to death the magistrates of Thorn for not exercising their authority. Seven of the principal citizens were also condemned to death; many were imprisoned or banished; three persons, accused of throwing the Virgin's image into the fire, lost their right arms, and the whole city was deprived of the freedom of public worship. This was the last act of religious persecution in Poland; but even yet the spirit of the reformation has made but little progress, and the great bulk of the people are still groping in the darkness of Catholicism. On every public road and in all the streets of Warsaw stand crosses, sometimes thirty feet high, with a figure of the Saviour large as life, sometimes adorned with flowers and sometimes covered with rags. As in all Catholic cities, a Sunday in Warsaw is a fête day. I passed the morning in strolling through the churches, which are very numerous, and some of them, particularly the Cathedral Church of St. John and that of the Holy Cross, of colossal dimensions. The scene was the same as in the Catholic churches in Italy; at every door crowds were entering and passing out, nobles, peasants, shopmen, drosky boys, and beggars; the highborn lady descended from her carriage, dipped her fingers in the same consecrated water, and kneeled on the same pavement side by side with the beggar; alike equal in God's house, and outside the door again an immeasurable distance between them. At twelve o'clock, by appointment, I met my travelling companion and another of his friends in the Jardin de Saxe, the principal public garden in Warsaw. It stands in the very heart of the city, in the rear of the Palais de Saxe, built by the Elector of Saxony when called to the throne of Poland. It is enclosed all around by high brick walls, screened by shrubs, and vines, and trees rising above, so as to exclude the view of the houses facing it. It is handsomely laid out with lawns and gravel-walks, and adorned with trees; and as the grounds are exceedingly rural and picturesque, and the high walls and trees completely shut out the view of all surrounding objects, I could hardly realize that I was in the centre of a populous city. It was then the fashionable hour for promenade, and all the élite of Warsaw society was there. I had heard of this Sunday promenade, and, after making one or two turns on the principal walk, I remarked to my companions that I was disappointed in not seeing, as I had expected, a collection of the highborn and aristocratic Poles; but they told me that, changed as Warsaw was in every particular, in nothing was this change more manifest than in the character of this favourite resort. From boyhood, one of them had been in the habit of walking there regularly on the same day and at the same hour; and he told me that, before the revolution, it had always been thronged by a gay and brilliant collection of the nobility of Warsaw; and he enumerated several families whose names were identified with the history of Poland, who were in the habit of being there at a certain time, as regularly as the trees which then shaded our walk; but since the revolution these families were broken up and dispersed, and their principal members dead or in exile, or else lived retired, too proud in their fallen state to exhibit themselves in public places, where they were liable to be insulted by the presence of their Russian conquerors; and I could well appreciate the feeling which kept them away, for Russian officers, with their rattling swords and nodding plumes, and carrying themselves with a proud and lordly air, were the most conspicuous persons present. I had noticed one party, a dark, pale, and interesting-looking man, with an elegant lady and several children and servants, as possessing, altogether, a singularly melancholy and aristocratic appearance; but the interest I was disposed to take in them was speedily dispelled by hearing that he was a baptized Jew, a money broker, who had accumulated a fortune by taking advantage of the necessities of the distressed nobles. Indeed, next to the Russian officers, the baptized Jews were the most prominent persons on the promenade. These persons form a peculiar class in Warsaw, occupying a position between the Israelites and Christians, and amalgamating with neither. Many of them are rich, well educated, and accomplished, and possess great elegance of appearance and manner. They hate most cordially their unregenerated brethren, and it is unnecessary to say that this hate is abundantly reciprocated. It was with a feeling of painful interest that I strolled through this once favourite resort of the nobility of Warsaw; and my companions added to this melancholy feeling by talking in a low tone, almost in whispers, and telling me that now the promenade was always _triste_ and dull; and in going out they led me through a private walk, where an old noble, unable to tear himself from a place consecrated by the recollections of his whole life, still continued to take his daily walk apart from the crowd, wearing out the evening of his days in bitter reflections on the fallen condition of his kindred and country. We dined, as usual, at a restaurant, where at one table was a party of Swiss, here, as at Moscow, exercising that talent, skill, and industry which they exhibit all over the world, and consoling themselves for the privations of exile with the hope of one day being able to return to their native mountains, never to leave them again. After dinner we took an open carriage, and at the barrier entered one of the numerous avenues of the Ujazdow, leading to Belvidere, the country residence of the late Grand-duke Constantine. The avenue is divided by rows of old and stately trees, terminating in a large circular octagon, from which branch off eight other avenues, each at a short distance crossed by others, and forming a sort of labyrinth, said to be one of the finest drives and promenades in Europe, and on Sundays the rendezvous of nearly the entire population of Warsaw. It was a beautiful afternoon, and the throng of carriages, and horsemen, and thousands of pedestrians, and the sun, occasionally obscured and then breaking through the thick foliage, darkening and again lighting up the vista through the trees, gave a beauty to the landscape, and a variety and animation to the scene, that I had not yet found in Warsaw. Passing the Belvidere Palace, my companions described the manner in which the students had made their attack upon it, and pointed out the window by which Constantine escaped. Turning from one of the splendid avenues of the Ujazdow, we crossed a stone bridge, on which stands the equestrian statue of John Sobieski, his horse rearing over the body of a prostrate Turk; it was erected to him as the saviour of Christendom after he had driven the Turks from the walls of Vienna. Beyond this we entered the grounds and park of Lazienki, formerly the country residence of Stanislaus Augustus, situated in a most delightful spot on the banks of the Vistula. The royal villa stands in the midst of an extensive park of stately old trees, and the walks lead to a succession of delightful and romantic spots, adorned with appropriate and tasteful buildings. Among them, on an island reached by crossing a rustic bridge, are a winter and a summer theatre, the latter constructed so as to resemble, in a great measure, an ancient amphitheatre in ruins; in it performances used formerly to take place in the open air. I am not given to dreaming, and there was enough in the scenes passing under my eyes to employ my thoughts; but, as I wandered through the beautiful walks, and crossed romantic bridges, composed of the trunks and bended branches of trees, I could not help recurring to the hand that had planned these beauties, the good King Stanislaus. "Dread Pultowa's day, When fortune left the royal Swede," hurled Stanislaus from his throne; and as I stood under the portico of his palace, I could but remember that its royal builder had fled from it in disguise, become a prisoner to the Turks, and died an exile in a foreign land. From here we rode to the chateau of Villanow, another and one of the most interesting of the residences of the kings of Poland, constructed by John Sobieski and perhaps the only royal structure in Europe which, like some of the great edifices of Egypt and Rome, was erected by prisoners taken in war, being constructed entirely by the hands of Turkish captives. It was the favourite residence of Sobieski, where he passed most of his time when not in arms, and where he closed his days. Until lately, the chamber and bed on which he died might still be seen. The grounds extend for a great distance along the banks of the Vistula, and many of the noble trees which now shade the walks were planted by Sobieski's own hands. The reign of Sobieski is the most splendid era in the history of Poland. The great statue I had just passed presented him as the conqueror of the Turks, the deliverer of Christendom, the redoubtable warrior, riding over the body of a prostrate Mussulman; and every stone in the palace is a memorial of his warlike triumphs; but if its inner chambers could tell the scenes of which they had been the witness, loud and far as the trumpet of glory has sounded his name, no man would envy John Sobieski. The last time he unsheathed his sword, in bitterness of heart he said, "It will be easier to get the better of the enemies I am in quest of than my own sons." He returned broken with vexation and shattered with wounds, more than sixty years old, and two thirds of his life spent in the tented field; his queen drove his friends from his side, destroyed that domestic peace which he valued above all things, and filled the palace with her plots and intrigues. He had promised to Zaluski an office which the queen wished to give to another. "My friend," said the dying monarch, "you know the rights of marriage, and you know if I can resist the prayers of the queen; it depends, then, on you that I live tranquil or that I be constantly miserable. She has already promised to another this vacant office, and if I do not consent to it I am obliged to fly my house. I know not where I shall go to die in peace. You pity me; you will not expose me to public ridicule." Old and infirm, with gray hairs and withered laurels, a prey to lingering disease, the deathbed of the dying warrior was disturbed by a noise worse than the din of battle; and before the breath had left him, an intriguing wife and unnatural children were wrangling over his body for the possession of his crown. A disgraceful struggle was continued a short time after his death. One by one his children died, and there is not now any living of the name of Sobieski. The next day I visited the field of Vola, celebrated as the place of election of the Kings of Poland. It is about five miles from Warsaw, and was formerly surrounded by a ditch with three gates, one for great Poland, one for little Poland, and one for Lithuania. In the middle were two enclosures, one of an oblong shape, surrounded by a kind of rampart or ditch, in the centre of which was erected, at the time of election, a vast temporary building of wood, covered at the top and open at the sides, which was called the zopa, and occupied by the senate; and the other of a circular shape, called the kola, in which the nuncios assembled in the open air. The nobles, from a hundred and fifty thousand to two hundred thousand in number, encamped on the plain in separate bodies under the banners of their respective palatinates, with their principal officers in front on horseback. The primate, having declared the names of the candidates, kneeled down and chanted a hymn; and then, mounting on horseback, went round the plain and collected the votes, the nobles not voting individually, but each palatinate in a body. It was necessary that the election should be unanimous, and a single nobleman peremptorily stopped the election of Ladislaus VII. Being asked what objection he had to him, he answered, "None at all; but I will not suffer him to be king." After being by some means brought over, he gave the king as the reason for his opposition, "I had a mind to see whether our liberty was still in being or not. I am satisfied that it is, and your majesty shall not have a better subject than myself." If the palatinates agreed, the primate asked again, and yet a third time if all were satisfied; and, after a general approbation, three times proclaimed the king; and the grand marshal of the crown repeated the proclamation three times at the gates of the camp. It was the exercise of this high privilege of electing their own king which created and sustained the lofty bearing of the Polish nobles, inducing the proud boast which, in a moment of extremity, an intrepid band made to their king, "What hast thou to fear with twenty thousand lances? If the sky should fall, we would keep it up with their points." But, unhappily, although the exercise of this privilege was confined only to the nobles, the election of a king often exhibited a worse picture than all the evils of universal suffrage with us. The throne was open to the whole world; the nobles were split into contending factions; foreign gold found its way among them, and sometimes they deliberated under the bayonets of foreign troops. Warsaw and its environs were a scene of violence and confusion, and sometimes the field of Vola was stained with blood. Still no man can ride over that plain without recurring to the glorious hour when Sobieski, covered with laurels won in fighting the battles of his country, amid the roar of cannon and the loud acclamations of the senate, the nobles, and the army, was hailed the chosen king of a free people. I had enough of travelling post, and was looking out for some quiet conveyance to Cracow. A Jew applied to me, and I went with him to look at his carriage, which I found at a sort of "Bull's-head" stopping-place, an enormous vehicle without either bottom or top, being a species of framework like our hay-wagons, filled with straw to prevent goods and passengers from spilling out. He showed me a couple of rough-looking fellows, who would be my _compagnons de voyage_, and who said that we could all three lie very comfortably in the bottom of the vehicle. Their appearance did not add to the recommendation of the wagon; nevertheless, if I had understood the language and been strong enough for the rough work, I should perhaps have taken that conveyance, as, besides the probable incidents of the journey, it would give me more insight into the character of the people than a year's residence in the capital. Returning to my hotel, I found that a Polish officer had left his address, with a request for me to call upon him. I went, and found a man of about forty, middle sized, pale and emaciated, wounded and an invalid, wearing the Polish revolutionary uniform. It was the only instance in which I had seen this dress. After the revolution it had been absolutely proscribed; but the country being completely subdued, and the government in this particular case not caring to exercise any unnecessary harshness, he was permitted to wear it unmolested. It was, however, almost in mockery that he still wore the garb of a soldier; for if Poland had again burst her chains, and the unsheathed sword were put in his hands, he could not have struck a blow to help her. Unfortunately, he could not speak French, or, rather, I may say fortunately, for in consequence of this I saw his lady, a pensive, melancholy, and deeply-interesting woman, dressed in black, in mourning for two gallant brothers who died in battle under the walls of Warsaw. Their business with me was of a most commonplace nature. They had lately returned from a visit to some friends at Cracow, in a calêche hired at the frontier; and hearing from the peasant who drove them that a stranger was looking for a conveyance to that place, out of good-will to him desired to recommend him to me. The lady had hardly finished a sort of apologizing commencement before I had resolved to assent to almost anything she proposed; and when she stated the whole case, it was so exactly what I wanted, that I expressed myself under great obligations for the favour done me. I suggested, however, my doubts as to the propriety of undertaking the journey alone, without any interpreter; but, after a few words with the major, she replied that she would give full directions to the peasant as to the route. As the carriage could not go beyond the frontier, her husband would give me a letter to the commissaire at Michoof, who spoke French, and also to the postmaster; and, finally, she would herself make out for me a vocabulary of the words likely to be most necessary, so as to enable me to ask for bread, milk, eggs, &c.; and with this, and the Polish for "how much," I would get along without any difficulty. While she was writing, another officer came in, old and infirm, and also dressed in the Polish uniform. She rose from the table, met him almost at the door, kissed him affectionately, led him to a seat, and barely mentioning him to me as "_mon beau père_," resumed her work. While she was writing I watched attentively the whole three, and the expression of face with which the two officers regarded her was unspeakably interesting. They were probably unconscious of it, and perhaps it was only my fancy, but if the transient lighting of their sunken eyes meant anything, it meant that they who sat there in the garb and equipment of soldiers, who had stood in all the pride and vigour of manhood on bloody battle-fields, now looked to a feeble and lovely woman as their only staff and support in life. I would have told them how deeply I sympathized in the misfortunes of their suffering country, but their sadness seemed too deep and sacred. I knew that I could strike a responsive chord by telling them that I was an American, but I would not open their still bleeding wounds; at parting, however, I told them that I should remember in my own country and to their countrymen the kindness shown me here; and as soon as I mentioned that I was an American, the lady asked me the fate of her unhappy countrymen who had been landed as exiles on our shores, and I felt proud in telling them that they had found among our citizens that sympathy which brave men in misfortune deserve, and that our government had made a provision in land for the exiled compatriots of Kosciusko. She inquired particularly about the details of their occupation, and expressed the fear that their habits of life, most of them having been brought up as soldiers, unfitted them for usefulness among us. I did not then know how prophetic were her forebodings, and was saved the necessity of telling her, what I afterward read in a newspaper, that an unhappy portion of that band of exiles, discontented with their mode of life, in attempting to cross the Rocky Mountains were cut to pieces by a party of Indians. Under the pressure of their immediate misfortunes they had not heard the fate of the exiles, and a ray of satisfaction played for a moment over their melancholy features in hearing that they had met with friends in America; and they told me to say to the Poles wherever I found them, that they need never again turn their eyes toward home. She added that the time had been when she and her friends would have extended the hand of welcome to a stranger in Poland; that, when a child, she had heard her father and brothers talk of liberty and the pressure of a foreign yoke, but, living in affluence, surrounded by friends and connexions, she could not sympathize with them, and thought it a feeling existing only in men, which women could not know; but actual occurrences had opened her eyes; her family had been crushed to the earth, her friends imprisoned, killed, or driven into exile, and yet, she added, turning to her husband and father, she ought not to mourn, for those dearest to her on earth were spared. But I could read in her face, as she bent her eyes upon their pallid features, that she felt they were spared only for a season. Reluctantly I bade them farewell. A servant waited to go with me and show me the calêche, but I told him it was not worth while. I was in no humour for examining the spokes of carriage-wheels; and, if I had been obliged to ride on the tongue, I believe I should have taken it. I went to my hotel, and told my friend of my interview with the major and his lady. He knew them by reputation, and confirmed and strengthened all the interest I took in them, adding that both father and son had been among the first to take up arms during the revolution, and at its unhappy termination were so beloved by the people of Warsaw that, in their wounded and crippled state, the Russian government had not proceeded to extremities with them. I spent my last evening in Warsaw with my Pole and several of his friends at a herbata, that is, a sort of confectioner's shop, like a _café_ in the south of Europe, where, as in Russia, tea is the popular drink. The next morning, as usual, my passport was not ready. My valet had been for it several times, and could not get it. I had been myself to the police-office, and waited until dark, when I was directed to call the next morning. I went at a little after eight, but I will not obtrude upon the reader the details of my vexation, nor the amiable feelings that passed my mind in waiting till twelve o'clock in a large anteroom. In my after wanderings I sometimes sat down upon a stump or on the sands of the desert, and meditated upon my folly in undergoing all manner of hardships when I might be sitting quietly at home; but when I thought of passports in Russia and Poland, I shook myself with the freedom of a son of the desert, and with the thought that I could turn my dromedary's head which way I pleased, other difficulties seemed light. Ancient philosophers extolled uniformity as a great virtue in a young man's character; and, if so, I was entitled to the highest praise, for in the matter of arranging my passport I was always in a passion. I do not know a single exception to the contrary. And if there was one thing more vexatious than another, it was in the case at Warsaw, where, after having been bandied from office to office, I received my passport, still requiring the signature of the governor, and walked up to the palace, nursing my indignation, and expecting an accumulation, I was ushered in by guards and soldiers, and at once disarmed of all animosity by the politeness and civility of the principal officers of government. I was almost sorry to be obliged to withhold my intended malediction. I hurried back to my hotel. My friend, with three or four of his Warsaw acquaintances, was waiting to see the last of me; my calêche was at the door, and I was already late for a start. I took my seat and bade them farewell. I promised to write to him on my arrival in Paris, and to continue a correspondence on my return home. Most unfortunately, I lost his address. He lived in some town in Poland, near the frontiers of Prussia, and probably at this moment thinks of me unkindly for my apparent neglect. Possibly we may meet again, though probably never; but if we do, though it do not happen till our heads are gray, we will have a rich fund of satisfaction in the recollections of our long journey to Warsaw. I was again setting out alone. My guide or _conducteur_ was a Polish peasant. Without having seen him, I had calculated upon making ordinary human intelligence, to some extent, a medium of communication; but I found that I had been too soaring in my ideas of the divinity of human nature. When I returned to the hotel I found him lying on the sidewalk asleep; a servant kicked him up and pointed me out as his master for the journey. He ran up and kissed my hand, and, before I was aware of his intention, stooped down and repeated the same salutation on my boot. An American, perhaps, more than any other, scorns the idea of man's debasing himself to his fellow-man; and so powerful was this feeling in me, that before I went abroad I almost despised a white man whom I saw engaged in a menial office. I had outlived this feeling; but when I saw a tall, strong, athletic white man kneel down and kiss my foot, I could almost have spurned him from me. His whole dress was a long shirt coming down to his feet, supported by a broad leathern belt eight inches wide, which he used as a pocket, and a low, broad-brimmed hat, turned up all round, particularly at the sides, and not unlike the headgear of the Lebanon Shakers. Before putting myself out of the reach of aid, I held a conversation with him through an interpreter. The lady of the major had made out a chart for me, specifying each day's journey, which he promised to observe, and added that he would be my slave if I would give him plenty to drink. With such a companion, then, I may say most emphatically that I was again setting out alone; but my calêche was even better than the Polish officer represented it, abundantly provided with pockets for provisions, books, &c., and altogether so much more comfortable than anything I was used to, that I threw myself back in it with a feeling of great satisfaction. I rolled for the last time through the streets of Warsaw; looked out upon the busy throng; and though, in the perfectly indifferent air with which they turned to me, I felt how small a space I occupied in the world, I lighted my pipe and smoked in their faces, and, with a perfect feeling of independence toward all the world, at one o'clock I arrived at the barrier. Here I found, to my great vexation, that I was an object of special consideration to the Emperor of Russia. A soldier came out for my passport, with which he went inside the guardhouse, and in a few minutes returned with the paper in his hands to ask me some question. I could not answer him. He talked at me a little while, and again went within doors. After sitting for a few moments, vexed at the detention, but congratulating myself that if there was any irregularity it had been discovered before I had advanced far on my journey, I dismounted and went inside, where, after detaining me long enough to make me feel very uncomfortable, they endorsed the visé and let me go. I again lighted my pipe, and in the mildness and beauty of the day, the comfort of my calêche, and the docility and accommodating spirit of my peasant, forgot my past, and even the chance of future difficulties. There was nothing particularly attractive in the road; the country was generally fertile, though tame and uninteresting. Late in the afternoon we stopped at a little town, of which I cannot make out the name. Like all the other towns on this side of Warsaw, in the centre was a square, with a range of wooden houses built all around fronting on the square, and the inhabitants were principally Jews. My peasant took off his horses and fed them in the square, and I went into a little kukernia, much cleaner and better than the town promised, where I had a cup of coffee and a roll of bread, and then strolled around the town, which, at this moment, presented a singular spectacle. The women and children were driving into the square herds of cows from the pasture-grounds in the unenclosed plains around; and, when all were brought in, each proprietor picked out his own cow and drove her home, and in a few moments opposite almost every house stood the family cow, with a woman or child milking her. After this the cows strolled back into the square to sleep till morning. A little before dark we started, and, after a fine moonlight ride, at about ten o'clock drove into a sort of caravanserai, being simply a large shed or covered place for wagons and horses, with a room partitioned off in one corner for eating and sleeping. There were, perhaps, fifteen or twenty wagons under the shed, and their wagoners were all assembled in this room, some standing up and eating off a board stretched along the wall, some drinking, some smoking, and some already asleep on the floor. In one corner was a party of Jews, with the contents of a purse emptied before them, which they were dividing into separate parcels. The place was kept by a Jew, who, with his wife, or some woman belonging to the establishment, old and weatherbeaten, was running about serving and apparently quarrelling with all the wagoners. She seemed particularly disposed to quarrel with me, I believe because I could not talk to her, this being, in her eyes, an unpardonable sin. I could understand, however, that she wanted to prepare me a supper; but my appetite was not tempted by what I saw around me, and I lighted my pipe and smoked. I believe she afterward saw something in me which made her like me better; for while the wagoners were strewing themselves about the floor for sleep, she went out, and returning with a tolerably clean sheaf of straw under each arm, called me to her, and shaking them out in the middle of the floor, pointed me to my bed. My pipe was ended, and putting my carpet-bag under my head, I lay down upon the straw; and the old woman climbed up to a sort of platform in one corner, where, a moment after, I saw her sitting up with her arms above her head, with the utmost nonchalance changing her innermost garment. I was almost asleep, when I noticed a strapping big man, muffled up to the eyes, standing at my feet and looking in my face. I raised my head, and he walked round, keeping his eyes fixed upon me, and went away. Shortly after he returned, and again walking round, stopped and addressed me, "Spreechen sie Deutsch?" I answered by asking him if he could speak French; and not being able, he went away. He returned again, and again walked round as before, looking steadily in my face. I rose on my elbow, and followed him with my eyes till I had turned completely round with him, when he stopped as if satisfied with his observations, and in his broadest vernacular opened bluntly, "Hadn't we better speak English?" I need not say that I entirely agreed with him. I sprang up, and catching his hand, asked him what possessed him to begin upon me in Dutch; he replied by asking why I had answered in French, adding that his stout English figure ought to have made me know better; and after mutual good-natured recriminations, we kicked my straw bed about the floor, and agreed to make a night of it. He was the proprietor of a large iron manufactory, distant about three days' journey, and was then on his way to Warsaw. He went out to his carriage, and one of his servants produced a stock of provisions like the larder of a well-furnished hotel; and as I had gone to bed supperless, he seemed a good, stout, broad-shouldered guardian angel sent to comfort me. We sat on the back seat of the carriage, making a table of the front; and when we had finished, and the fragments were cleared away, we stretched our legs on the table, lighted our pipes, and talked till we fell asleep on each other's shoulder. Notwithstanding our intimacy so far, we should not have known each other by daylight, and at break of day we went outside to examine each other. It was, however, perhaps hardly worth while to retain a recollection of features; for, unless by some such accident as that which brought us together, we never shall meet again. We wrote our names in each other's pocketbook as a memorial of our meeting, and at the same moment started on our opposite roads. CHAPTER XIII. Friendly Solicitude.--Raddom.--Symptoms of a Difficulty.--A Court of Inquisition.--Showing a proper Spirit.--Troubles thickening.--Approaching the Climax.--Woman's Influence.--The Finale.--Utility of the Classics.--Another Latinist.--A Lucky Accident.--Arrival at Cracow. AT about eight o'clock we stopped to feed, and at the feeding-place met a German wagoner, who had lived in Hamburgh, and spoke English. He seemed much distressed at my not understanding the language of the country. He was a stout, burly fellow, eating and drinking all the time, and his great anxiety was lest I should starve on the road. He insisted upon my providing against such a fatality, and had a couple of fowls roasted for me, and wrapped in a piece of coarse brown paper; and, at parting, backed by a group of friends, to whom he had told my story, he drank schnaps (at my expense) to my safe arrival at Cracow. At eleven o'clock we reached Raddom. There was a large swinging gate at the barrier of the town, and the soldier opening it demanded my passport to be _viséd_ by the police; he got into the calêche with me, and we drove into the town, stopped in the public square, and went to the bureau together. He left me in an antechamber, and went within, promising, by his manner, to expedite the business, and intimating an expectation of schnaps on his return. In a few minutes he returned, and barely opening the door for me to enter, hurried off, apparently with some misgivings about his schnaps. I entered, and found three or four men, who took no notice of me. I waited a few moments, and seeing my passport on a table before one of them, went up, and, certainly without intending anything offensive, took up the passport with a view of calling his attention to it; he jerked it out of my hand, and looking at me with an imperious and impertinent air, at the same time saying something I have no doubt in character with the expression of his face, he slapped it down on the table. Two or three officers coming in, looked at it, and laid it down again, until at length one man, the head of that department, I suppose, took it up, wrote a note, and giving the note and the passport to a soldier, directed me to follow him. The soldier conducted me to the bureau of the government, the largest building, and occupying a central position in the town, and left me in an antechamber with the usual retinue of soldiers and officers. In about a quarter of an hour he came out without the passport, and pulled me by the sleeve to follow him. I shook my head, asked for the passport, and, in fact, moved toward the door he had left. He seemed a good-hearted fellow, and, anxious to save me from any imprudence, pulled me back, held up his fingers, and pointing to the clock, told me to return at one; and touching his hat respectfully, with probably the only French words he knew, "Adieu, seigneur," and a look of real interest, hurried away. I strolled about the town, dropped in at a kukiernia, went to the square, and saw my peasant friend feeding his horses, apparently in some trouble and perplexity. I went back at one, and was ordered to come again at four. I would have remonstrated, but, besides that I could not make myself understood, when I attempted to speak they turned rudely away from me. I was vexed by the loss of the day, as I had agreed to pay a high price for the sake of going through a day sooner, and this might spoil my plan; and I was particularly vexed by the rough manner in which I was treated. I returned at four, and was conducted into a large chamber, in which were perhaps twenty or thirty clerks and inferior officers in the uniform of the government. As soon as I entered there was a general commotion. They had sent for a young man who spoke a little French to act as interpreter. The passport was put into his hands, and the first question he asked me was how I, an American, happened to be travelling under a Russian passport. I answered that it was not from any wish of mine, but in obedience to their own laws, and added the fact that this passport had been made out by the Russian ambassador at Constantinople; that under it I had been admitted into Russia, and travelled from the Black Sea to St. Petersburgh, and from there down to Warsaw, as he might see from the paper itself, the _visés_ of the proper authorities, down to that of the Governor of Warsaw, being regularly endorsed. He then asked what my business was in Poland, and what had induced me to come there. I answered, the same that had carried me into Russia, merely the curiosity of a traveller; and he then inquired what in particular I wanted to see in Poland. If I had consulted merely my feelings, I should have told him that, besides being attracted by the interest of her heroic history, I wished to see with my own eyes the pressure of a colossal foot upon the necks of a conquered people; that this very system of inquisition and _espionage_ was one of the things I expected to see; but I, of course, forbore this, and answered only in general terms, and my answer was not satisfactory. He then began a more particular examination; asked my age, my height, the colour of my eyes, &c. At first I did not see the absurdity of this examination, and answered honestly according to the fact, as I believed it; but, all at once, it struck me that, as I did not remember the particulars of the description of my person in the passport, my own impromptu might very easily differ from it, and, catching an insulting expression on his face, I told him that he had the passport in his hands, and might himself compare my person with the description there given of me. He then read aloud the entire description; height, so many feet; eyes, such a colour, &c., &c.; scanned me from head to foot; peered into my eyes, stopping after each article to look at me and compare me with the description. By this time every man in the room had left his business and gathered round looking at me, and, after the reading of each article and the subsequent examination, there was a general shaking of heads and a contemptuous smile. At the time I remembered, what had before suggested itself to me rather as a good thing, that, before embarking for Europe, I had written on to the department of state for a passport, with a description of my person made out at the moment by a friend, not very flattering, and, perhaps, not very true, but good enough for the Continent, which I expected to be the extent of my tour; and I felt conscious that, on a severe examination, my nose might be longer, or my eyes grayer, or in some other point different from the description. This, added to their close and critical examination, at first embarrassed me considerably, but the supercilious and insulting manner in which the examination was conducted roused my indignation and restored my self-possession. I saw, from the informal way in which the thing was done, that this was a mere preliminary inquisition, and not the court to sit in judgment; and I had noticed from the beginning that most of these men were Poles, who had sold themselves to Russia for petty place and pay in her offices, traitors in their hearts and lives, apostates from every honourable feeling, and breathing a more infernal spirit against their enslaved country than the Russians themselves; and I told the interpreter, as coolly as the nature of the case would admit, to accept for himself, and to convey to his associates, the assurance that I should remember their little town as long as I lived; that I had then travelled from England through France, Italy, Greece, Turkey, and Russia, and had nowhere met such wanton rudeness and insult as from them; that I did not think it possible that in any European government twenty of its officers would laugh and sneer at the embarrassment of a stranger without a single one stepping forward to assist him; that I deeply regretted the occurrence of such a circumstance in Poland; that I felt convinced that there was not a truehearted Pole among them, or my character as an American would have saved me from insult. The interpreter seemed a little abashed, but I could see in the vindictive faces of the rest that they were greatly irritated. The examination was cut short, and I was directed to come again at half past five, when the commandant, who had been sent for, would be there. By this time there was some excitement in the streets, and, as I afterward learned, it was noised through the little town that an American was detained on suspicion of travelling under a false passport. My calêche had been standing in the public square all day. I had been noticed going to and from the offices with a soldier at my heels, and my poor Pole had been wandering up and down the streets, telling everybody his fears and interest in me, and particularly his anxiety about ten rubles I had promised him. As I passed along, people turned round and looked at me. I went to a kukiernia, where the dame had been very smiling and attentive, and could not get even a look from her. I went to another; several men were earnestly talking, who became silent the moment I entered. A small matter created an excitement in that little place. It was a rare thing for a traveller to pass through it; the Russian government threw every impediment in the way, and had made the road so vexatious that it was almost broken up. The French or the citizens of a free country like America were always suspected of being political emissaries to stir up the Poles to revolution, and it seemed as if, under that despotic government, to be suspected was to be guilty. The Poles were in the habit of seeing slight offences visited with terrible punishments, and probably half the little town looked on me as a doomed man. I went back to the square and took a seat on my calêche; my poor Pole sat on the box looking at me; he had followed me all over, and, like the rest, seemed to regard me as lost. I had probably treated him with more kindness than he was accustomed to receive, though, for every new kindness, he vexed me anew by stooping down and kissing my foot. At half past five o'clock I was again at the door of the palace. On the staircase I met the young man who had acted as interpreter; he would have avoided me, but I stopped him and asked him to return with me. I held on to him, asking him if the commandant spoke French; begged him, as he would hope himself to find kindness in a strange country, to go back and act as a medium of explanation; but he tore rudely away, and hurried down stairs. A soldier opened the door and led me into the same apartment as before. The clerks were all at their desks writing; all looked up as I entered, but not one offered me a seat, nor any the slightest act of civility. I waited a moment, and they seemed studiously to take no notice of me. I felt outrageous at their rudeness. I had no apprehensions of any serious consequences beyond, perhaps, that of a detention until I could write to Mr. Wilkins, our ambassador at St. Petersburgh, and resolved not to be trampled upon by the understrappers. I walked up to the door of the commandant's chamber, when one man, who had been particularly insulting during the reading of the passport, rudely intercepted me, and leaning his back against the door, flourished his hands before him to keep me from entering. Fortunately, I fell back in time to prevent even the tip end of his fingers touching me. My blood flashed through me like lightning, and even now I consider myself a miracle of forbearance that I did not strike him. In a few moments the door opened, and a soldier beckoned me to enter. Directly in front, at the other end of the room, behind a table, sat the commandant, a grim, gaunt-looking figure about fifty, his military coat buttoned tight up in his throat, his cap and sword on the table by his side, and in his hands my unlucky passport. As I walked toward him he looked from the passport to me, and from me to the passport; and when I stopped at the table he read over again the whole description, at every clause looking at me; shook his head with a grim smile of incredulity, and laid it down, as if perfectly satisfied. I felt that my face was flushed with indignation, and, perhaps, to a certain extent, so distorted with passion that it would have been difficult to recognise me as the person described. I suggested to him that the rude treatment I had met with in the other room had no doubt altered the whole character of my face, but he waved his hand for me to be silent; and, taking up a sheet of paper, wrote a letter or order, or something which I did not understand, and gave it to a soldier, who took it off to one corner and stamped it. The commandant then folded up the passport, enclosed it in the letter, and handed it again to the soldier, who carried it off and affixed to it an enormous wax seal, which looked very ominous and Siberian-like. I was determined not to suffer from the want of any effort on my part, and pulled out my old American passport, under which I had travelled in France and Italy, and also a new one which Commodore Porter had given me in Constantinople. He looked at them without any comment and without understanding them; and, when the soldier returned with the paper and the big seal, he rose, and, without moving a muscle, waved with his hand for me to follow the soldier. I would have resisted if I had dared. I was indignant enough to do some rash thing, but at every step was a soldier; I saw the folly of it, and, grinding my teeth with vexation and rage, I did as I was ordered. At the door of the palace we found a large crowd, who, knowing my appointment for this hour, were waiting to hear the result. A line of people was formed along the walk, who, seeing me under the charge of a soldier, turned round and looked at me with ominous silence. We passed under the walls of the prison, and the prisoners thrust their arms through the bars and hailed me, and seemed to claim me as a companion, and to promise me a welcome among them. For a moment I was infected with some apprehensions. In my utter ignorance as to what it all meant, I ran over in my mind the stories I had heard of the exercise of despotic authority, and for one moment thought of my German host at Moscow and a journey to Siberia by mistake. I did not know where the soldier was taking me, but felt relieved when we had got out of the reach of the voices of the prisoners, and more so when we stopped before a large house, which I remarked at once as a private dwelling, though a guard of honour before the door indicated it as the residence of an officer of high rank. We entered, and were ushered into the presence of the governor and commander-in-chief. He was, of course, a Russian, a man about sixty, in the uniform of a general officer, and attended by an aiddecamp about thirty. I waited till the soldier had delivered his message; and, before the governor had broken the seal, I carried the war into the enemy's country by complaining of the rude treatment I had received, interrupted in my journey under a passport which had carried me all over Russia, and laughed at and insulted by the officers of the government, at the same time congratulating myself that I had at last met those who could at least tell me why I was detained, and would give me an opportunity of explaining anything apparently wrong. I found the governor, as everywhere else in Russia where I could get access to the principal man, a gentleman in his bearing and feelings. He requested me to be seated, while he retired into another apartment to examine the passport. The aiddecamp remained, and I entertained him with my chapter of grievances; he put the whole burden of the incivility upon the Poles, who, as he said, filled all the inferior offices of government, but told me, too, that the country was in such an unsettled state that it was necessary to be very particular in examining all strangers; and particularly as at that time several French emissaries were suspected to be secretly wandering in Poland, trying to stir up revolution. The governor stayed so long that I began to fear there was some technical irregularity which might subject me to detention, and I was in no small degree relieved when he sent for me, and telling me that he regretted the necessity for giving such annoyance and vexation to travellers, handed me back the passport, with a direction to the proper officer to make the necessary _visé_ and let me go. I was so pleased with the result that I did not stop to ask any questions, and to this day I do not know particularly why I was detained. By this time it was nine o'clock, and when we returned the bureau was closed. The soldier stated the case to the loungers about the door, and now all, including some of the scoundrels who had been so rude to me in the morning, were anxious to serve me. One of them conducted me to an apartment near, where I was ushered into the presence of an elderly lady and her two daughters, both of whom spoke French. I apologized for my intrusion; told them my extreme anxiety to go on that night, and begged them to procure some one to take the governor's order to the commandant; in fact, I had become nervous, and did not consider myself safe till out of the place. They called in a younger brother, who started with alacrity on the errand, and I sat down to wait his return. There must be a witchery about Polish ladies. I was almost savage against all mankind; I had been kept up to the extremest point of indignation without any opportunity of exploding all day, and it would have been a great favour for some one to knock me down; but in a few minutes all my bitterness and malevolence melted away, and before tea was over I forgot that I had been bandied all day from pillar to post, and even forgave the boors who had mocked me, in consideration of their being the countrymen of the ladies who were showing me such kindness. Even with them I began with the chafed spirit that had been goading me on all day; but when I listened to the calm and sad manner in which they replied; that it was annoying, but it was light, very light, compared with the scenes through which they and all their friends had passed, I was ashamed of my petulance. A few words convinced me that they were the Poles of my imagination and heart. A widowed mother and orphan children, their staff and protector had died in battle, and a gallant brother was then wandering an exile in France. I believe it is my recollection of Polish ladies that gives me a leaning toward rebels. I never met a Polish lady who was not a rebel, and I could but think, as long as the startling notes of revolution continue to fall like music from their pretty lips, so long the Russian will sleep on an unquiet pillow in Poland. It was more than an hour before the brother returned, and I was sorry when he came; for, after my professions of haste, I had no excuse for remaining longer. I was the first American they had ever seen; and if they do not remember me for anything else, I am happy to have disabused them of one prejudice against my country, for they believed the Americans were all black. At parting, and at my request, the eldest daughter wrote her name in my memorandum-book, and I bade them farewell. It was eleven o'clock when I left the house, and at the first transition from their presence the night seemed of pitchy darkness. I groped my way into the square, and found my calêche gone. I stood for a moment on the spot where I had left it, ruminating what I should do. Perhaps my poor Pole had given me up as lost, and taken out letters of administration upon my carpet-bag. Directly before me, intersecting the range of houses on the opposite side of the square, was a street leading out of the town. I knew that he was a man to go straight ahead, turning neither to the right hand nor the left. I walked on to the opening, followed it a little way, and saw on the right a gate opening to a shed for stabling. I went in, and found him with his horses unharnessed, feeding them, whipping them, and talking at them in furious Polish. As soon as he saw me he left them and came at me in the same tone, throwing up both his hands, and almost flourishing them in my face; then went back to his horses, began pitching on the harness, and, snatching up the meal-bag, came back again toward me, all the time talking and gesticulating like a Bedlamite. I was almost in despair. What have I done now? Even my poor peasant turns against me; this morning he kissed my foot, now he is ready to brain me with a meal-bag. Roused by the uproar, the old woman, proprietor of the shed, came out, accompanied by her daughter, a pretty little girl about twelve years old, carrying a lantern. I looked at them without expecting any help. My peasant moved between them and me and the horses, flourishing his meal-bag, and seeming every moment to become more and more enraged with me. I looked on in dismay, when the little girl came up, and dropping a courtesy before me, in the prettiest French I ever heard, asked me, "Que voulez vous, monsieur?" I could have taken her up in my arms and kissed her. I have had a fair share of the perplexity which befalls every man from the sex, but I hold many old accounts cancelled by the relief twice afforded me this day. Before coming to a parley with my Pole, I took her by the hand, and, sitting down on the tongue of a wagon, learned from her that she had been taken into the house of a rich seigneur to be educated as a companion for his daughter, and was then at home on a visit to her mother; after which she explained the meaning of my postillion's outcry. Besides his apprehensions for me personally, he had been tormented with the no less powerful one of losing the promised ten rubles upon his arrival at a fixed time at Michoof, and all his earnestness was to hurry me off at once, in order to give him a chance of still arriving within the time. This was exactly the humour in which I wanted to find him, for I had expected great difficulty in making him go on that night; so I told him to hitch on his horses, and at parting did give the little girl a kiss, and the only other thing I could give her without impoverishing myself was a silk purse as a memento. I lighted my pipe, and, worn out with the perplexities of the day, in a short time forgot police and passports, rude Russians and dastardly Poles, and even the Polish ladies and the little girl. I woke the next morning under a shed, horses harnessed, postillion on the box whipping, and a Jew at their head holding them, and the two bipeds quarrelling furiously about the stabling. I threw the Jew a florin, and he let go his hold, though my peasant shook his whip, and roared back at him long after we were out of sight and hearing. At a few miles' distance we came to a stopping-place, where we found a large calêche with four handsome horses, and the postillion in the costume of a peasant of Cracow, a little square red cap with a red feather, a long white frock somewhat like a shooting-jacket, bordered with red, a belt covered with pieces of brass like scales lapping over each other, and a horn slung over his right shoulder. It belonged to a Polish seigneur, who, though disaffected toward government, had succeeded in retaining his property, and was the proprietor of many villages. He was accompanied by a young man about thirty, who spoke a very little French; less than any man whom I ever heard attempt to speak it at all. They had with them their own servants and cooking apparatus, and abundance of provisions. The seigneur superintended the cooking, and I did them the honour to breakfast with them. While we were breakfasting a troop of wagoners or vagabonds were under the shed dancing the mazurka. The better class of Poles are noble, high-spirited men, warm and social in their feelings, and to them, living on their estates in the interior of their almost untrodden country, a stranger is a curiosity and a treasure. The old seigneur was exceedingly kind and hospitable, and the young man and I soon became on excellent terms. I was anxious to have a friend in case of a new passport difficulty, and at starting gladly embraced his offer to ride with me. As soon as we took our seats in the calêche we lighted our pipes and shook hands as a bargain of good fellowship. Our perfect flow of confidence, however, was much broken by the up-hill work of making ourselves understood. I was no great scholar myself, but his French was execrable; he had studied it when a boy, but for more than ten years had not spoken a word. At one time, finding it impossible to express himself, he said, "Parlatis Latinum?" "Can you speak Latin?" I at first thought it was some dialect of the country, and could not believe that he meant the veritable stuff that had been whipped into me at school, and which, to me, was most emphatically a dead language; but necessity develops all that a man has, and for three hours we kept up an uninterrupted stream of talk in bad Latin and worse French. Like every Pole whom I met, except the employés in the public offices, from the bottom of his heart he detested a Russian. He had been a soldier during the revolution, and lay on his back crippled with wounds when it was crushed by the capture of Warsaw. I showed him the coin which had accidentally come into my hands, and when we came to the point where our roads separated, he said that he was ashamed to do so, but could not help begging from me that coin; to me it was merely a curiosity, to him it was a trophy of the brilliant but shortlived independence of his country. I was loath to part with it, and would rather have given him every button on my coat; but I appreciated his patriotic feeling, and could not refuse. I got out, and he threw his arms around me, kissed me on both cheeks, called me his friend and brother, and mounted the kibitka with the old seigneur. The latter invited me to go with him to his château, about a day's journey distant, and if I had expected to write a book I should certainly have done so. I went on again alone. At about twelve o'clock we arrived at the town of Kielse. I felt nervous as we approached the barrier. I threw myself back in the calêche, and drew my cap over my eyes in grand seigneur style, the soldier touched his hat as he opened the gate, and we drove into the public square unmolested. I breathed more freely, but almost hesitated to leave the calêche while the horses fed. I smiled, however, at thinking that any effort to avoid observation was the very way to attract it, and went to a kukernia, where I drank coffee, ate bread encrusted with sugar, and smoked a pipe until my Pole came in and kissed my foot as an intimation that the horses were ready. No questions were asked at the barrier; and we rode on quietly till nine o'clock, when we drove under the shed of a caravanserai. Fifteen or twenty wagoners were eating off a bench, and, as they finished, stretched themselves on the floor for sleep. It was a beautiful moonlight night, and I strolled out for a walk. The whole country was an immense plain. I could see for a great distance, and the old shed was the only roof in sight. It was the last night of a long journey through wild and unsettled countries. I went back to the time when, on a night like that, I had embarked on the Adriatic for Greece; thought of the many scenes I had passed through since, and bidding farewell to the plains of Poland, returned to my calêche, drew my cloak around me, and was soon asleep. At nine o'clock we stopped at a feeding-place, where a horde of dirty Jews were at a long table eating. I brushed off one corner, and sat down to some bread and milk. Opposite me was a beggar woman dividing with a child about ten years old a small piece of dry black bread. I gave them some bread and a jar of milk, and I thought, from the lighting up of the boy's face, that it was long since he had had such a meal. At twelve o'clock we reached Michoof, the end of my journey with the calêche. I considered my difficulties all ended, and showed at the posthouse my letter from the Polish captain to the commissario. To my great annoyance, he was not in the place. I had to procure a conveyance to Cracow; and having parted with my poor Pole overwhelmed with gratitude for my treatment on the road and my trifling gratuity at parting, I stood at the door of the posthouse with my carpet-bag in my hand, utterly at a loss what to do. A crowd of people gathered round, all willing to assist me, but I could not tell them what I wanted. One young man in particular seemed bent upon serving me; he accosted me in Russian, Polish, and German. I answered him in English, French, and Italian, and then both stopped. As a desperate resource, and almost trembling at my own temerity, I asked him the question I had learned from my yesterday's companion "Parlates Latinum?" and he answered me with a fluency and volubility that again threw me into another perplexity, caught my hand, congratulated me upon having found a language both understood, praised the good old classic tongues, offered his services to procure anything I wanted, &c., and all with such rapidity of utterance that I was obliged to cry out with something like the sailor's "vast heaving," and tell him that, if he went on at that rate, it was all Russian to me. He stopped, and went on more moderately, and with great help from him I gave him to understand that I wanted to hire a wagon to take me to Cracow. "Venite cum me," said my friend, and conducted me round the town until we found one. I then told him I wanted my passport _viséd_ for passing the frontier. "Venite cum me," again said my friend, and took me with him and procured the _visé_; then that I wanted a dinner; still he answered "Venite cum me," and took me to a trattoria, and dined with me. At dinner my classical friend did a rather unclassical thing. An enormous cucumber was swimming in a tureen of vinegar. He asked me whether I did not want it; and, taking it up in his fingers, ate it as a dessert, and drinking the vinegar out of the tureen, smacked his lips, wiped his mustaches with the tablecloth, and pronounced it "optimum." For three hours we talked constantly, and talked nothing but Latin. It was easy enough for him, for, as he told me, at school it had been the language of conversation. To me it was like breaking myself into the treadmill; but, once fairly started, my early preceptors would have been proud of my talk. At parting he kissed me on both cheeks, rubbed me affectionately with his mustaches and, after I had taken my seat, his last words were, "Semper me servate in vestra memoria." We had four and a half German, or about eighteen English, miles to Cracow. We had a pair of miserable, ragged little horses, but I promised my postillion two florins extra if he took me there in three hours, and he started off so furiously that in less than an hour the horses broke down, and we had to get out and walk. After breathing them a little they began to recover, and we arrived on a gentle trot at the frontier town, about half way to Cracow. My passport was all right, but here I had a new difficulty in that I had no passport for my postillion. I had not thought of this, and my classical friend had not suggested it. It was exceedingly provoking, as to return would prevent my reaching Cracow that night. After a parley with the commanding officer, a gentlemanly man, who spoke French very well, he finally said that my postillion might go on under charge of a soldier to the next posthouse, about a mile beyond, where I could get another conveyance and send him back. Just as I had thanked him for his courtesy, a young gentleman from Cracow, in a barouche with four horses, drove up, and, hearing my difficulty, politely offered to take me in with him. I gladly accepted his offer, and arrived at Cracow at about dark, where, upon his recommendation, I went to the Hotel de la Rose Blanche, and cannot well describe the satisfaction with which I once more found myself on the borders of civilized Europe, within reach of the ordinary public conveyances, and among people whose language I could understand. "Shall I not take mine ease in mine own inn?" Often, after a hard day's journey, I have asked myself this question, but seldom with the same self-complacency and the same determination to have mine ease as at Cracow. I inquired about the means of getting to Vienna, which, at that moment, I thought no more of than a journey to Boston. Though there was no particular need of it, I had a fire built in my room for the associations connected with a cheerful blaze. I put on my morning-gown and slippers, and hauling up before the fire an old chintz-covered sofa, sent for my landlord to come up and talk with me. My host was an Italian, and an excellent fellow. Attached to his hotel was a large restaurant, frequented by the first people at Cracow. During the evening an old countess came there to sup; he mentioned to her the arrival of an American, and I supped with her and her niece; neither of them, however, so interesting as to have any effect upon my slumber. CHAPTER XIV. Cracow.--Casimir the Great.--Kosciusko.--Tombs of the Polish Kings.--A Polish Heroine.--Last Words of a King.--A Hero in Decay.--The Salt-mines of Cracow.--The Descent.--The Mines.--Underground Meditations.--The Farewell. CRACOW is an old, curious, and interesting city, situated in a valley on the banks of the Vistula; and approaching it as I did, toward the sunset of a summer's day, the old churches and towers, the lofty castles and the large houses spread out on the immense plains, gave it an appearance of actual splendour. This faded away as I entered, but still the city inspired a feeling of respect, for it bore the impress of better days. It contains numerous churches, some of them very large, and remarkable for their style and architecture, and more than a hundred monasteries and convents. In the centre is a large square, on which stands the church of Notre Dame, an immense Gothic structure, and also the old palace of Sobieski, now cut down into shops, and many large private residences, uninhabited and falling to ruins. The principal streets terminate in this square. Almost every building bears striking marks of ruined grandeur. On the last partition of Poland in eighteen hundred and fifteen by the Holy Alliance, Cracow, with a territory of five hundred square miles and a population of a hundred and eight thousand, including about thirty thousand Jews, was erected into a republic; and at this day it exists nominally as a _free city_, under the protection of the three great powers; emphatically, such protection as vultures give to lambs; three masters instead of one, Russia, Prussia, and Austria, all claiming the right to interfere in its government. But even in its fallen state Cracow is dear to the Pole's heart, for it was the capital of his country when Poland ranked high among nations, and down to him who last sat upon her throne, was the place of coronation and of burial for her kings. It is the residence of many of the old Polish nobility, who, with reduced fortunes, prefer this little foothold in their country, where liberty nominally lingers, to exile in foreign lands. It now contains a population of about thirty thousand, including Jews. Occasionally the seigneur is still seen, in his short cassock of blue cloth, with a red sash and a white square-topped cap; a costume admirably adapted to the tall and noble figure of the proud Pole, and the costume of the peasant of Cracow is still a striking feature in her streets. After a stroll through the churches, I walked on the old ramparts of Cracow. The city was formerly surrounded with regular fortifications, but, as in almost all the cities of Europe, her ancient walls have been transformed into Boulevards; and now handsome avenues of trees encircle it, destroying altogether its Gothic military aspect, and on Sundays and fête days the whole population gathers in gay dresses, seeking pleasure where their fathers stood clad in armour and arrayed for battle. The Boulevards command an extensive view of all the surrounding country. "All the sites of my country," says a national poet, "are dear to me; but, above all, I love the environs of Cracow; there at every step I meet the recollections of our ancient glory and our once imposing grandeur." On the opposite bank of the river is a large tumulus of earth, marking the grave of Cracus, the founder of the city. A little higher up is another mound, reverenced as the sepulchre of his daughter Wenda, who was so enamoured of war that she promised to give her hand only to the lover who should conquer her in battle. Beyond this is the field of Zechino, where the brave Kosciusko, after his return from America, with a band of peasants, again struck the first blow of revolution, and, by a victory over the Russians, roused all Poland to arms. About a mile from Cracow are the ruins of the palace of Lobzow, built by Casimir the Great, for a long time the favourite royal residence, and identified with a crowd of national recollections; and, until lately, a large mound of earth in the garden was reverenced as the grave of Esther, the beautiful Jewess, the idol of Casimir the Great. Poetry has embellished the tradition, and the national muse has hallowed the palace of Lobzow and the grave of Esther. "Passer-by, if you are a stranger, tremble in thinking of human destruction; but if you are a Pole, shed bitter tears; heroes have inhabited this palace.... Who can equal them?... * * * * * "Casimir erected this palace: centuries have hailed him with the name of the great.... * * * * * "Near his Esther, in the delightful groves of Lobzow, he thought himself happy in ceasing to be a king to become a lover. * * * * * "But fate is unpitiable for kings as for us, and even beauty is subject to the common law. Esther died, and Casimir erected a tomb in the place she had loved. "Oh! if you are sensible to the grief caused by love, drop a tear at this tomb and adorn it with a crown. If Casimir was tied to humanity by some weaknesses, they are the appendage of heroes! In presence of this chateau, in finding again noble remains, sing the glory of Casimir the Great." I was not a sentimental traveller, nor sensible to the grief that is caused by love, and I could neither drop a tear at the tomb of Esther nor sing the glory of Casimir the Great; but my heart beat high as I turned to another monument in the environs of Cracow; an immense mound of earth, standing on an eminence visible from every quarter, towering almost into a mountain, and sacred to the memory of Kosciusko! I saw it from the palace of the kings and from the ramparts of the fallen city, and, with my eyes constantly fixed upon it, descended to the Vistula, followed its bank to a large convent, and then turned to the right, direct for the mound. I walked to the foot of the hill, and ascended to a broad table of land. From this table the mound rises in a conical form, from a base three hundred feet in diameter, to the height of one hundred and seventy-five feet. At the four corners formerly stood small houses, which were occupied by revolutionary soldiers who had served under Kosciusko. On the farther side, enclosed by a railing, was a small chapel, and within it a marble tomb covering Kosciusko's heart! A circular path winds round the mound; I ascended by this path to the top. It is built of earth sodded, and was then covered with a thick carpet of grass, and reminded me of the tumuli of the Grecian heroes on the plains of Troy; and perhaps, when thousands of years shall have rolled by, and all connected with our age be forgotten, and time and exposure to the elements shall have changed its form, another stranger will stand where I did, and wonder why and for what it was raised. It was erected in 1819 by the voluntary labour of the Polish people; and so great was the enthusiasm, that, as an eyewitness told me, wounded soldiers brought earth in their helmets, and women in their slippers; and I remembered, with a swelling heart, that on this consecrated spot a nation of brave men had turned to my country as the star of liberty, and that here a banner had been unfurled and hailed with acclamations by assembled thousands, bearing aloft the sacred inscription, "Kosciusko, the friend of Washington!" The morning was cold and dreary, the sky was overcast with clouds, and the sun, occasionally breaking through lighted up for a moment with dazzling brilliancy the domes and steeples of Cracow, and the palace and burial-place of her kings, emblematic of the fitful gleams of her liberty flashing and dazzling, and then dying away. I drew my cloak around me, and remained there till I was almost drenched with rain. The wind blew violently, and I descended and sheltered myself at the foot of the mound, by the grave of Kosciusko's heart! I returned to the city and entered the Cathedral Church. It stands by the side of the old palace, on the summit of the rock of Wauvel, in the centre of and commanding the city, enclosed with walls and towers, and allied in its history with the most memorable annals of Poland; the witness of the ancient glory of her kings, and their sepulchre. The rain was pattering against the windows of the old church as I strolled through the silent cloisters and among the tombs of the kings. A verger in a large cocked hat, and a group of peasants, moved, like myself, with noiseless steps, as if afraid to disturb the repose of the royal dead. Many of the kings of Poland fill but a corner of the page of history. Some of their names I had forgotten, or, perhaps, never knew until I saw them inscribed on their tombs; but every monument covered a head that had worn a crown, and some whose bones were mouldering under my feet will live till the last records of heroism perish. The oldest monument is that of Wladislaus le Bref, built of stone, without any inscription, but adorned with figures in bas-relief, which are very much injured. He died in thirteen hundred and thirty-three, and chose himself the place of his eternal rest. Charles the Twelfth of Sweden, on his invasion of Poland, visited the Cathedral Church, and stopped before this tomb. A distinguished canon who attended him, in allusion to the position of John Casimir, who was then at war with the King of Sweden, remarked, "And that king was also driven from his throne, but he returned and reigned until his death." The Swede answered with bitterness, "But your John Casimir will never return." The canon replied respectfully, "God is great and fortune is fickle;" and the canon was right, for John Casimir regained his throne. I approached with a feeling of veneration the tomb of Casimir the Great. It is of red marble; four columns support a canopy, and the figure of the king, with a crown on his head, rests on a coffin of stone. An iron railing encloses the monument. It is nearly five hundred years since the palatins and nobles of Poland, with all the insignia of barbaric magnificence, laid him in the place where his ashes now repose. The historian writes, "Poland is indebted to Casimir for the greatest part of her churches, palaces, fortresses, and towns," adding that "he found Poland of wood and left her of marble." He patronized letters, and founded the University of Cracow; promoted industry and encouraged trade; digested the unwritten laws and usages into a regular code; established courts of justice; repressed the tyranny of the nobles, and died with the honourable title of King of the Peasants; and I did not forget, while standing over his grave, that beneath me slept the spirit that loved the groves of Lobzow and the heart that beat for Esther the Jewess. The tomb of Sigismund I. is of red marble, with a figure as large as life reclining upon it. It is adorned with bas-reliefs and the arms of the republic, the white eagle and the armed cavalier of Lithuania. He died in fifteen hundred and forty-one, and his monument bears the following inscription in Latin: "Sigismund Jagellon, King of Poland, Grand-duke of Lithuania, Conqueror of the Tartars, of the Wallachians, of the Russians and Prussians, reposes under this stone, which he prepared for himself." Forty years ago Thaddeus Czacki, the Polish historian, opened the tombs of the kings, and found the head of Sigismund resting upon a plate of silver bearing a long Latin inscription; the body measured six feet and two inches in height, and was covered with three rich ermines; on the feet were golden spurs, a chain of gold around the neck, and a gold ring on one finger of the left hand. At his feet was a small pewter coffin enclosing the body of his son by Bone Sforza. By his side lies the body of his son Sigismund II., the last of the Jagellons, at whose death began the cabals and convulsions of an elective monarchy, by which Poland lost her influence among foreign powers. His memory is rendered interesting by his romantic love for Barbe Radzewill. She appeared at his father's court, the daughter of a private citizen, celebrated in Polish history and romance as uniting to all a woman's beauty a mingled force and tenderness, energy and goodness. The prince had outlived all the ardour of youth; disappointed and listless amid pleasures, his energy of mind destroyed by his excesses, inconstant in his love, and at the summit of human prosperity, living without a wish or a hope; but he saw Barbe, and his heart beat anew with the pulsations of life. In the language of his biographer he proved, in all its fulness, that sentiment which draws to earth by its sorrows and raises to heaven by its delights. He married her privately, and on his father's death proclaimed her queen. The whole body of nobles refused to acknowledge the marriage, and one of the nuncios, in the name of the representatives of the nation, supplicated him for himself, his country, his blood, and his children, to extinguish his passion; but the king swore on his sword that neither the diet, nor the nation, nor the whole universe should make him break his vows to Barbe; that he would a thousand times rather live with her out of the kingdom than keep a throne which she could not share; and was on the point of abdicating, when his opponents offered to do homage to the queen. When Czacki opened the coffin of this prince, he found the body perfectly preserved, and the head, as before, resting on a silver plate containing a long Latin inscription. At the foot of his coffin is that of his sister and successor, Anne; and in a separate chapel is the tomb of Stephen Battory, one of the greatest of the kings of Poland, raised to the throne by his marriage with Anne. I became more and more interested in this asylum of royal dead. I read there almost the entire history of the Polish republic, and again I felt that it was but a step from the throne to the grave, for near me was the great chair in which the kings of Poland were crowned. I paused before the tomb of John Casimir; and there was something strangely interesting in the juxtaposition of these royal dead. John Casimir lies by the side of the brother whom he endeavoured to supplant in his election to the throne. His reign was a continued succession of troubles and misfortunes. Once he was obliged to fly from Poland. He predicted what has since been so fearfully verified, that his country, enfeebled by the anarchy of its government and the licentiousness of the nobles, would be dismembered among the neighbouring powers; and, worn out with the cares of royalty, abdicated the throne, and died in a convent in France. I read at his tomb his pathetic farewell to his people. "People of Poland, "It is now two hundred and eighty years that you have been governed by my family. The reign of my ancestors is past, and mine is going to expire. Fatigued by the labours of war, the cares of the cabinet, and the weight of age; oppressed with the burdens and vicissitudes of a reign of more than twenty-one years, I, your king and father, return into your hands what the world esteems above all things, a crown, and choose for my throne six feet of earth, where I shall sleep with my fathers. When you show my tomb to your children, tell them that I was the foremost in battle and the last in retreat; that I renounced regal grandeur for the good of my country, and restored my sceptre to those who gave it me." By his side, and under a monument of black marble, lies the body of his successor, Michel Wisniowecki, an obscure and unambitious citizen, who was literally dragged to the throne, and wept when the crown was placed upon his head, and of whom Casimir remarked, when informed of his late subjects' choice, "What, have they put the crown on the head of that poor fellow?" And again I was almost startled by the strange and unnatural mingling of human ashes. By the side of that "poor fellow" lies the "famous" John Sobieski, the greatest of the long line of kings of a noble and valorous nation; "One of the few, the immortal names, That were not born to die." On the lower floor of the church, by the side of Poniatowski, the Polish Bayard, is the tomb of one nobler in my eyes than all the kings of Poland or of the world. It is of red marble, ornamented with the cap and plume of the peasant of Cracow, and bears the simple inscription "T. Kosciusko." All over the church I had read elaborate panegyrics upon the tenants of the royal sepulchres, and I was struck with this simple inscription, and remembered that the white marble column reared amid the magnificent scenery of the Hudson, which I had often gazed at from the deck of a steamboat, and at whose base I had often stood, bore also in majestic simplicity the name of "Kosciusko." It was late in the afternoon, and the group of peasants, two Poles from the interior, and a party of the citizens of Cracow, among whom were several ladies, joined me at the tomb. We could not speak each other's language; we were born and lived thousands of miles apart, and we were strangers in our thoughts and feelings, in all our hopes and prospects, but we had a bond of sympathy at the grave of Kosciusko. One of the ladies spoke French, and I told them that, in my far distant country, the name of their nation's idol was hallowed; that schoolboys had erected a monument to his memory. They knew that he had fought by the side of Washington, but they did not know that the recollection of his services was still so dearly cherished in America; and we all agreed that it was the proudest tribute that could be paid to his memory, to write merely his name on his monument. It meant that it was needless to add an epitaph, for no man would ask, Who was Kosciusko? It was nearly dark when I returned to my hotel. In the restaurant, at a small table directly opposite me, sat the celebrated Chlopicki, to whom, on the breaking out of the last revolution, Poland turned as to another Kosciusko, and who, until he faltered during the trying scenes of that revolution, would have been deemed worthy to lie by Kosciusko's side. Born of a noble family, a soldier from his birth, he served in the memorable campaigns of the great patriot, distinguished himself in the Polish legions in Italy under Dombrowski, and, as colonel of a regiment of the army of the Vistula, behaved gloriously in Prussia. In Spain he fought at Saragossa and Sagunta, and was called by Suchet _le brave des braves_; as general of brigade in the army of Russia, he was wounded at Valentina, near Smolensk, and was general of a division in eighteen hundred and fourteen, when Poland fell under the dominion of the autocrat. The Grand-duke Constantine censured him on parade, saying that his division was not in order; and Chlopicki, with the proud boast, "I did not gain my rank on the parade-ground, nor did I win my decorations there," asked his discharge the next day, and could never after be induced to return to the service. The day after the revolutionary blow was struck, all Poland turned to Chlopicki as the only man capable of standing at the head of the nation. The command of the army, with absolute powers, was conferred upon him by acclamation, and one of the patriot leaders concluded his address to him with these words: "Brother, take the sword of your ancestors and predecessors, Czarnecki, Dombrowski, and Kosciusko. Guide the nation that has placed its trust in you in the path of honour. Save this unhappy country." Chlopicki, with his silver head grown white in the service of Poland, was hailed by a hundred thousand people on the Champ de Mars with shouts of "our country and its brave defender, Chlopicki, for ever." He promised never to abuse their confidence, and swore that he would defend the liberty of Poland to the last moment. The whole nation was enthusiastic in his favour; but in less than three months, at a stormy session of the diet, he threw up his high office of dictator, and refused peremptorily to accept command of the army. This brave army, enthusiastically attached to him, was struck with profound grief at his estrangement; but, with all the faults imputed to him, it never was charged that he attempted to take advantage of his great popularity for any ambitious purposes of his own. At the battle of Grokow he fought nominally as a private soldier, though Skryznecki and Radziwill being both deficient in military experience, the whole army looked to him for guidance. Once, when the battle was setting strong against the Poles, in a moment of desperation he put himself at the head of some disposable battalions, and turning away from an aiddecamp who came to him for orders, said, "Go and ask Radziwill; for me, I seek only death." Grievously wounded, his wounds were dressed in presence of the enemy; but at two o'clock he was borne off the field, the hopes of the soldiers died, and the army remained without any actual head. Throughout the revolution his conduct was cold, indifferent, and inexplicable; private letters from the Emperor of Russia were talked of, and even _treason_ was whispered in connexion with his name. The Poles speak of him more in sorrow than in anger; they say that it was not enough that he exposed his person on the field of battle; that he should have given them the whole weight of his great military talents, and the influence of his powerful name; that, standing alone, without children or relations to be compromised by his acts, he should have consummated the glory of his life by giving its few remaining years for the liberty of his country. He appeared about sixty-five, with hair perfectly white, a high florid complexion, a firm and determined expression, and in still unbroken health, carrying himself with the proud bearing of a distinguished veteran soldier. I could not believe that he had bartered the precious satisfaction of a long and glorious career for a few years of ignoble existence; and, though a stranger, could but regret that, in the wane of life, circumstances, whether justly or not, had sullied an honoured name. It spoke loudly against him that I saw him sitting in a public restaurant at Cracow, unmolested by the Russian government. The next day I visited the celebrated salt-mines at Wielitska. They lie about, twelve miles from Cracow, in the province of Galicia, a part of the kingdom of Poland, which, on the unrighteous partition of that country, fell to the share of Austria. Although at so short a distance, it was necessary to go through all the passport formalities requisite on a departure for a foreign country. I took a fiacre and rode to the different bureaux of the city police, and, having procured the permission of the municipal authorities to leave the little territory of Cracow, rode next to the Austrian consul, who thereupon, and in consideration of one dollar to him in hand paid, was graciously pleased to permit me to enter the dominions of his master the Emperor of Austria. It was also necessary to have an order from the director of the mines to the superintendent; and furnished with this I again mounted my fiacre, rattled through the principal street, and in a few minutes crossed the Vistula. At the end of the bridge an Austrian soldier stopped me for my passport, a _douanier_ examined my carriage for articles subject to duty, and, these functionaries being satisfied, in about two hours from the time at which I began my preparations I was fairly on my way. Leaving the Vistula, I entered a pretty, undulating, and well-cultivated country, and saw at a distance a high dark line, marking the range of the Carpathian mountains. It was a long time since I had seen anything that looked like a mountain. From the Black Sea the whole of my journey had been over an immense plain, and I hailed the wild range of the Carpathian as I would the spire of a church, as an evidence of the approach to regions of civilization. In an hour and a half I arrived at the town of Wielitska, containing about three thousand inhabitants, and standing, as it were, on the roof of the immense subterraneous excavations. The houses are built of wood, and the first thing that struck me was the almost entire absence of men in the streets, the whole male population being employed in the mines, and then at work below. I rode to the office of the superintendent, and presented my letter, and was received with great civility of manner but his _Polish_ was perfectly unintelligible. A smutty-faced operative, just out of the mines, accosted me in Latin, and I exchanged a few shots with him, but hauled off on the appearance of a man whom the superintendent had sent for to act as my guide; an old soldier who had served in the campaigns of Napoleon, and, as he said, become an amateur and proficient in fighting and French. He was dressed in miner's costume, fanciful, and embroidered with gold, holding in his hand a steel axe; and, having arrayed me in a long white frock, conducted me to a wooden building covering the shaft which forms the principal entrance to the mine. This shaft is ten feet square, and descends perpendicularly more than two hundred feet into the bowels of the earth. We arranged ourselves in canvass seats, and several of the miners, who were waiting to descend, attached themselves to seats at the end of the ropes, with lamps in their hands, about eight or ten feet below us. When my feet left the brink of the shaft I felt, for a moment, as if suspended over the portal of a bottomless pit; and as my head descended below the surface, the rope, winding and tapering to a thread, seemed letting me down to the realms of Pluto. But in a few moments we touched bottom. From within a short distance of the surface, the shaft is cut through a solid rock of salt, and from the bottom passages almost innumerable are cut in every direction through the same bed. We were furnished with guides, who went before us bearing torches, and I followed through the whole labyrinth of passages, forming the largest excavations in Europe, peopled with upward of two thousand souls, and giving a complete idea of a subterraneous world. These mines are known to have been worked upward of six hundred years, being mentioned in the Polish annals as early as twelve hundred and thirty-seven, under Boleslaus the Chaste, and then not as a new discovery, but how much earlier they had existed cannot now be ascertained. The tradition is, that a sister of St. Casimir, having lost a gold ring, prayed to St. Anthony, the patron saint of Cracow, and was advised in a dream that, by digging in such a place, she would find a treasure far greater than that she had lost, and within the place indicated these mines were discovered. [Illustration: Salt-mines of Wielitska.] There are four different stories or ranges of apartments; the whole length of the excavations is more than six thousand feet, or three quarters of an hour's walk, and the greatest breadth more than two thousand feet; and there are so many turnings and windings that my guide told me, though I hardly think it possible, that the whole length of all the passages cut through this bed of salt amounts to more than three hundred miles. Many of the chambers are of immense size. Some are supported by timber, others by vast pillars of salt; several are without any support in the middle, and of vast dimensions, perhaps eighty feet high, and so long and broad as almost to appear a boundless subterraneous cavern. In one of the largest is a lake covering nearly the whole area. When the King of Saxony visited this place in eighteen hundred and ten, after taking possession of his moiety of the mines as Duke of Warsaw, this portion of them was brilliantly illuminated; and a band of music, floating on the lake, made the roof echo with patriotic airs. We crossed the lake in a flatboat by a rope, the dim light of torches, and the hollow sound of our voices, giving a lively idea of a passage across the Styx; and we had a scene which might have entitled us to a welcome from the prince of the infernals, for our torch-bearers quarrelled, and in a scuffle that came near carrying us all with them, one was tumbled into the lake. Our Charon caught him, and, without stopping to take him in, hurried across, and as soon as we landed beat them both unmercifully. From this we entered an immense cavern, in which several hundred men were working with pickaxes and hatchets, cutting out large blocks of salt, and trimming them to suit the size of barrels. With their black faces begrimed with dust and smoke, they looked by the light of the scattered torches like the journeymen of Beelzebub, the prince of darkness, preparing for some great blow-up, or like the spirits of the damned condemned to toil without end. My guide called up a party, who disengaged with their pickaxes a large block of salt from its native bed, and in a few minutes cut and trimmed it to fit the barrels in which they are packed. All doubts as to their being creatures of our upper world were removed by the eagerness with which they accepted the money I gave them; and it will be satisfactory to the advocates of that currency to know that paper money passes readily in these lower regions. There are more than a thousand chambers or halls, most of which have been abandoned and shut up. In one is a collection of fanciful things, such as rings, books, crosses, &c., cut in the rock-salt. Most of the principal chambers had some name printed over them, as the "Archduke," "Carolina," &c. Whenever it was necessary, my guides went ahead and stationed themselves in some conspicuous place, lighting up the dark caverns with the blaze of their torches, and, after allowing me a sufficient time, struck their flambeaux against the wall, and millions of sparks flashed and floated around and filled the chamber. In one place, at the end of a long, dark passage, a door was thrown open, and I was ushered suddenly into a spacious ballroom lighted with torches; and directly in front, at the head of the room, was a transparency with coloured lights, in the centre of which were the words "Excelso hospiti," "To the illustrious guest," which I took to myself, though I believe the greeting was intended for the same royal person for whom the lake chamber was illuminated. Lights were ingeniously arranged around the room, and at the foot, about twenty feet above my head, was a large orchestra. On the occasion referred to a splendid ball was given in this room; the roof echoed with the sound of music; and nobles and princely ladies flirted and coquetted the same as above ground; and it is said that the splendid dresses of a numerous company, and the blaze of light from the chandeliers reflected upon the surface of the rock-salt, produced an effect of inconceivable brilliancy. My chandeliers were worse than Allan M'Aulay's strapping Highlanders with their pine torches, being dirty, ragged, smutty-faced rascals, who threw the light in streaks across the hall. I am always willing to believe fanciful stories; and if my guide had thrown in a handsome young princess as part of the welcome to the "Excelso hospiti," I would have subscribed to anything he said; but, in the absence of a consideration, I refused to tax my imagination up to the point he wished. Perhaps the most interesting chamber of all is the chapel dedicated to that Saint Anthony who brought about the discovery of these mines. It is supposed to be more than four hundred years old. The columns, with their ornamented capitals, the arches, the images of the Saviour, the Virgin and saints, the altar and the pulpit, with all their decorations, and the figures of two priests represented at prayers before the shrine of the patron saint, are all carved out of the rock-salt, and to this day grand mass is regularly celebrated in the chapel once every year. Following my guide through all the different passages and chambers, and constantly meeting miners and seeing squads of men at work, I descended by regular stairs cut in the salt, but in some places worn away and replaced by wood or stone, to the lowest gallery, which is nearly a thousand feet below the surface of the earth. I was then a rather veteran traveller, but up to this time it had been my business to move quietly on the surface of the earth, or, when infected with the soaring spirit of other travellers, to climb to the top of some lofty tower or loftier cathedral; and I had fulfilled one of the duties of a visiter to the eternal city by perching myself within the great ball of St. Peter's; but here I was far deeper under the earth than I had ever been above it; and at the greatest depth from which the human voice ever rose, I sat down on a lump of salt and soliloquized, "Through what varieties of untried being, Through what new scenes and changes must we pass!" I have since stood upon the top of the Pyramids, and admired the daring genius and the industry of man, and at the same time smiled at his feebleness when, from the mighty pile, I saw in the dark ranges of mountains, the sandy desert, the rich valley of the Nile and the river of Egypt, the hand of the world's great Architect; but I never felt man's feebleness more than here; for all these immense excavations, the work of more than six hundred years, were but as the work of ants by the roadside. The whole of the immense mass above me, and around and below, to an unknown extent, was of salt; a wonderful phenomenon in the natural history of the globe. All the different strata have been carefully examined by scientific men. The uppermost bed at the surface is sand; the second clay occasionally mixed with sand and gravel, and containing petrifactions of marine bodies; the third is calcareous stone; and from these circumstances it has been conjectured that this spot was formerly covered by the sea, and that the salt is a gradual deposite formed by the evaporation of its waters. I was disappointed in some of the particulars which had fastened themselves upon my imagination. I had heard and read glowing accounts of the brilliancy and luminous splendour of the passages and chambers, compared by some to the lustre of precious stones; but the salt is of a dark gray colour, almost black, and although sometimes glittering when the light was thrown upon it, I do not believe it could ever be lighted up to shine with any extraordinary or dazzling brightness. Early travellers, too, had reported that these mines contained several villages inhabited by colonies of miners, who lived constantly below, and that many were born and died there, who never saw the light of day; but all this is entirely untrue. The miners descend every morning and return every night, and live in the village above. None of them ever sleep below. There are, however, two horses which were foaled in the mines, and have never been on the surface of the earth. I looked at these horses with great interest. They were growing old before their time; other horses had perhaps gone down and told them stories of a world above which they would never know. It was late in the afternoon when I was hoisted up the shaft. These mines do not need the embellishment of fiction. They are, indeed, a wonderful spectacle, and I am satisfied that no traveller ever visited them without recurring to it as a day of extraordinary interest. I wrote my name in the book of visiters, where I saw those of two American friends who had preceded me about a month, mounted my barouche, and about an hour after dark reached the bank of the Vistula. My passport was again examined by a soldier and my carriage searched by a custom-house officer; I crossed the bridge, dined with my worthy host of the Hotel de la Rose Blanche, and, while listening to a touching story of the Polish revolution, fell asleep in my chair. And here, on the banks of the Vistula, I take my leave of the reader. I have carried him over seas and rivers, mountains and plains, through royal palaces and peasants' huts, and in return for his kindness in accompanying me to the end, I promise that I will not again burden him with my Incidents of Travel. THE END. A NEW Classified and Descriptive Catalogue of HARPER & BROTHERS' Publications has just been issued, comprising a very extensive range of Literature, in its several Departments of History, Biography, Philosophy, Travel, Science and Art, the Classics, Fiction, &c.; also, many splendidly Embellished Productions. The selection of works includes not only a large proportion of the most esteemed Literary Productions of our times, but also, in the majority of instances, the best existing authorities on given subjects. This new Catalogue has been constructed with a view to the especial use of persons forming or enriching their Literary Collections, as well as to aid Principals of District Schools and Seminaries of Learning, who may not possess any reliable means of forming a true estimate of any production; to all such it commends itself by its explanatory and critical notices. The valuable collection described in this Catalogue, consisting of about _two thousand volumes_, combines the two-fold advantages of great economy in price with neatness--often elegance of typographical execution, in many instances the rates of publication being scarcely one fifth of those of similar issues in Europe. *** Copies of this Catalogue may be obtained, free of expense, by application to the Publishers personally, or by letter, post-paid. To prevent disappointment, it is requested that, whenever books ordered through any bookseller or local agent can not be obtained, applications with remittance be addressed direct to the Publishers, which will be promptly attended to. _New York, January, 1847._ List of Corrections: p. 13: "Voznezeuski" was changed to "Vosnezeuski." p. 21: "the last time in the _calèche_" was changed to "the last time in the _calêche_." p. 71: "merchandize" was changed to "merchandise" as elsewhere in the book. p. 77: "The men where nowhere" was changed to "The men were nowhere." p. 129: "sailed down the Dneiper from Kief" was changed to "sailed down the Dnieper from Kief." p. 137: "of a lilach colour" was changed to "of a lilac colour." p. 202: "Diebisch directed the strength" was changed to "Diebitsch directed the strength." Errata: The summary in the table of contents is not always consistent with the summary at the beginning of each chapter. The original has been retained. 
37372	----	[Illustration: RUSSIA'S RENOWNED CAVALRY ON THE MARCH] IN THE RUSSIAN RANKS A Soldier's Account of the Fighting in Poland BY JOHN MORSE _Englishman_ ILLUSTRATED WITH REPRODUCTIONS OF PHOTOGRAPHS NEW YORK GROSSET & DUNLAP PUBLISHERS PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA CONTENTS CHAPTER I THE OUTBREAK OF THE GREAT WAR II THE SCENE AT KALISZ ON THE 2ND AUGUST, 1914 III THE EVENTS PRECEDING ACTUAL HOSTILITIES IV THE FIRST FIGHT V THE FIGHTING UP TO THE 26TH AUGUST VI THE CAVALRY FIGHTING BEFORE KOENIGSBERG VII THE FIRST INVASION OF EAST PRUSSIA, AND THE RETREAT VIII THE KAISER NOT A SUCCESSFUL GENERAL IX CHIEFLY PERSONAL MATTER X THE FIGHTING ON THE VISTULA IN THE MONTH OF OCTOBER, 1914 XI THE RETREAT OF THE GERMANS FROM THE VISTULA XII AN INFANTRY RECONNAISSANCE XIII THE BUTCHER'S BILL TO THE END OF 1914 XIV "DO NOT FIRE ON YOUR COMRADES" XV SMALL AFFAIRS AND PERSONAL ADVENTURES XVI A NIGHT ATTACK ON A BRIDGE-HEAD XVII THE FIGHTING NEAR SKYERMEVICE ON THE 3RD, 4TH, AND 5TH FEBRUARY XVIII CHIEFLY GOSSIP XIX THE FIGHTING BEFORE PLOCK XX HARD MARCHING AND DESULTORY FIGHTING XXI RECONNAISSANCE AND TRENCH FIGHTING XXII FROM THE TRENCHES OF PRZASNYSZ TO THE CAMP OF MAKOW XXIII A RIDE TOWARDS OSTROLENKA XXIV A PRISONER IN GERMAN HANDS XXV ADVENTURES DURING THE EFFORT TO ESCAPE XXVI MY LAST DAYS IN RUSSIA AN ENGLISHMAN IN THE RUSSIAN RANKS CHAPTER I THE OUTBREAK OF THE GREAT WAR On the 1st July, 1914, if I could have seen one step ahead in my life's course, this book would not have been written. On the day named I crossed the German frontier west of Metz; and, for the first time, beheld the territory of the Hun. Always a student of military matters, at this hour I loved war, and all that pertained to war; now I loathe it with an ineradicable hate and disgust, and hope never again to see ground crimsoned with blood. But at this time I had heard no hint of war in the centre of Europe and of civilization, and no thoughts were farther from my mind than those of martial contention. My object in going to Germany was business; but also to spend a holiday in a country I had heard friends praise for its beauty and hospitality; and particularly I wished to visit places renowned in history, art and romance. Little I dreamed that I was to see a horrible blight, a foul leprosy, settle on much that had a hallowed past for every cultivated intellect. I arrived at Metz from Paris via Chalons and Verdun; and, as my time and means were both limited, I went on, after only two days' delay, to Mayence and Frankfort, and thence to Leipzig, where I had some business to transact. On the 16th July I was at Dresden; on the 20th at Breslau; and on the 22nd I arrived at Ostrovo, a small German town barely ten miles from the Russian frontier, and not more than twelve, English measurement, from Kalisz, which is the capital of a Polish province of the same name. At Ostrovo I went, by previous invitation, to the house of a German friend, from whom I received the most kindly treatment, and to whom I owe my liberty and possibly my life. It will be obvious that I cannot reveal the name of this person, nor the nature of my business with him. It was my intention to remain a month at Ostrovo, which was a convenient place from whence to make excursions to some of the most interesting Prussian towns. I loved the sight of armed men; and during my journey, as opportunities occurred, I watched the soldiers I saw in the various cities I passed through. I could not fail to notice the great difference in the military forces of the two countries--France and Germany. On the Continent one expects to see a more prominent display of soldiers than is usually the case in our own quiet island home; but there was no great parade of the military element in any of the French garrisons I passed through. In all the large towns a force of some kind was stationed; but in so important a place as Verdun there did not appear to be a stronger military garrison than one would see at such stations in England as Plymouth or Chatham. In the French fortress I saw a battalion marching to the music of bugles. The men did not exceed 600 in number. In another part of the town about 150 infantry were drilling; and many artillerymen were walking about; yet the numbers showed plainly that France was not mobilizing at this time. As soon as the frontier was passed I saw that quite a different state of things existed. As I left the railway-station at Metz three battalions marched by--two of a line regiment, and a battalion of riflemen, or jagers, distinguished by wearing shakos instead of the nearly universal _Pickelhaube_, or spiked helmet. These battalions were quite a thousand strong in each case. In other words, they had their full war complement of men. A regiment of hussars was 600 strong; and field-artillery, with fifty-six guns, besides machine-guns, extended about a mile and a half along one of the country roads. Everywhere in Germany the towns, large and small, were crowded with soldiers. Cavalry and artillery and long lines of waggons lined the country highways and byways. I remarked on this to a fellow-passenger who spoke English. His reply was that the troops were assembling for the autumn Manoeuvres. I was sufficiently surprised to exclaim:-- "What! Already?" "It is rather early, but they are probably going to have preliminary exercises in the forest-lands," was the reply. After this I perceived the passenger was regarding me with a peculiar air; and, recollecting certain cautions I had received concerning the danger of making inquiries about the movements of troops on the Continent, I did not recur to the subject. At Dresden a large number of troops, infantry and cavalry, were departing northward by rail and road. At Breslau at least 20,000 men of all arms were concentrated. These circumstances had no particular significance to my mind at the time, but a very great one a few days later. Even when I arrived at Ostrovo and found the country-side crowded with troops, impending war did not occur to my thoughts, though I did ponder on the extraordinary precautions Germany seemed to be taking to insure the inviolability of her powerful domain. Now I know, of course, that the mendacious Hun, with the low cunning of a murderous maniac, was preparing for a blood-feast, before a taint of it was floating in the surrounding air; and if it is thought that I am putting the case strongly, I shall have that to relate shortly which would make it remarkable if I were not to use forcible language. Blood and lust: lust and blood--this is the awful and disgusting story I have to tell--a story set in military surroundings which, for skill and magnitude, have never previously been approached; but military ability and the hugeness of the operations have only intensified the hellish misery of this the vastest struggle the world has seen. And that it may never again see such must be the universal prayer to God. In Germany it is the custom to billet soldiers on the people, and most of the houses at Ostrovo were full of men whose behaviour, even to their own countrymen, was sickening in its utter lack of decency. Complaints against soldiers have to be very strongly corroborated before their officers or the magistracy of the land take serious note of them. In my friend's house some officers of the --th regiment were lodged. With these I speedily became on friendly terms, and, through them, with officers of other German corps, particularly with those of a Pomeranian artillery regiment, one of whom was a quiet and affable little gentleman. With him I thought I might venture to discuss military matters, and on the 28th July the following conversation took place between us. I should premise that I cannot read or speak German and that I had not seen an English newspaper for more than a week previously. Certain information had been communicated to me by my friend, but I had not been given to understand that war was imminent between Germany and Russia, or any other nation. "All your units are very strong," I remarked. "Is it usual for you to embody your reserves for the manoeuvres?" "Our troops are not on manoeuvre. We are going to fight," was the officer's reply. "Fight!" I exclaimed, much astonished. "Whom are you going to fight?" "The Russians and the French." "The two most powerful nations in the world! Are you strong enough to do that?" I said, amazed, and hardly able to believe that I had heard aright. "The Austrians are going to join with us, and we shall be in Paris in a month." I laughed--rather scornfully, I think. "Are you joking? Is not what you say absurd?" I asked. "Not in the least. You will see that what I say is correct." "But is war declared? Has the matter been discussed in the Press?" "In this country we do not permit the Press to make the announcement of such things. War is not declared yet, but it will be on Sunday next." "Against Russia, you mean?" said I, astonished beyond degree of expression. "Yes, and against France too," replied the officer. "But why? I have not heard that France has given cause of offence to your country." "She has been a standing menace to us for years, and will continue to be so until she is completely crushed." This is how I heard that the Great War was about to begin. I hardly believed it, but my friend read me certain passages from German newspapers, and the following day I received a batch of journals from my own country, which, together, showed that the political situation of Europe was rapidly becoming serious. On the 30th I noticed a change of countenance on the part of most of the officers who had been friendly with me. The young artillery officer I have mentioned and a Colonel Swartz, who was, I believe, a Landwehr officer of the 99th regiment, continued their friendly behaviour towards me. Swartz was shortly afterwards killed near Turek, where his battalion was destroyed. Early in the evening of the 31st, a lady came to my friend's house and strongly advised me to quit the country without delay. She gave as a reason that she had received a letter from her brother, an officer in the foot-guards at Berlin, in which he declared that it was well known that the Kaiser intended to send an ultimatum to England, and that a rupture with this country was the almost inevitable consequence. My friend backed the lady's advice, and my own opinion was that it would be wise of me to return home at once. But later that night Swartz and the young officer came and declared that it was almost impossible for me to get out of Germany by any of the usual channels before war was declared, as nearly all the lines were required for the movements of troops and material. Swartz said that it would take at least four days for a civilian to reach France by railway. I suggested a motor-car, but he thought that all motors would immediately be confiscated--at any rate, those driven by foreigners. The above circumstances and the date, of the correctness of which I am quite sure, show that the German Sovereign had preconceived war, not only with France and Russia, but also with England, before the actual declaration of hostilities. Down to this time, and until several days later, I did not hear Belgium mentioned in connection with the war, and for several reasons, not the least of which was my ignorance of the German and Russian languages, many facts relating to the operations of the Allies on the Western line of hostilities did not become known to me until some time after they had taken place. It must not be forgotten that this book is in no sense a history of the Great War, but simply a narrative of my experiences with the Russian Army in certain areas of the Eastern line of operations. These experiences I purpose to give in diary form, and with little or no reference to the fighting in other parts of the war area, of which I knew almost nothing--or at any rate, nothing that was very reliable. All day on the 31st July it was persistently declared at Ostrovo that war had been declared against Russia and against France, and that it would be declared against England on the morrow, which was Saturday, the 1st August. The persons who were responsible for these assertions were the Army officers with whom I came in contact, and the people generally of all classes. Not a word was said about Belgium. On the afternoon of the 1st August the Kaiser is said to have ordered the mobilization of the German Army. The German Army was already mobilized so far as the Russian frontier was concerned, and had been so for eight or nine days. On the line between Neustadt-Baranow, a distance of about eighty English miles, there were concentrated five army corps, with three cavalry divisions, about 250,000 men. These were supported by two corps between Breslau and Glogau, two more at Posen, a large force at Oppeln, and other troops at Oels, Tarnowitz, and places which I need not name here. My calculation was that about 1,000,000 men were ready to act on the line Neustadt-Tchenstochow. There was another 2,000,000 on the line of frontier running northward through Thorn and East Prussia to the Baltic, and probably a fourth million in reserve to support any portion of the line indicated; and what was worth at least another 2,000,000 men to Germany was the fact that she _could move any portion of these troops ten times more quickly than Russia could move her forces_. It is officially stated that only 1,500,000 Germans were in line in August. I think that my estimate is correct. Meanwhile, conscious that I had not permitted myself to be over-cautious in acquiring a dangerous knowledge, I was particularly anxious to leave Germany as speedily as possible. Chance had brought me to what was to become one of the most important points of the operations between Prussia and Russia, and chance greatly favoured my escape from what I began to fear was an awkward trap. Had I known what a nation of fiends the Germans were going to prove themselves, my anxiety would have been greatly increased. Thank God there is no race on earth in which all are bad, all devoid of the attributes of humanity. Late on the night of the 1st August (after I was in bed, indeed) the young artillery officer I have several times mentioned came to my friend's house. I do not think it would be wise or kind on my part to mention his name, as he may still be alive. He was accompanied by Swartz and a servant, with two horses, and recommended that I should cross the Russian frontier immediately, as all Englishmen in Germany were in danger of being interned. War with England was assumed by everybody to be inevitable, insomuch that, being ignorant of the true state of affairs, I assumed that an ultimatum had been sent to Germany by the British Government. I was told that many leading German papers asserted that it had been so sent. I consented to leave at once, with the object of trying to reach Kalisz, and from there taking train to Riga, where, it was thought, I should find no difficulty in getting a steamboat passage to England. It is only twelve miles by railway from Ostrovo to Kalisz, but the line was already occupied by troops, "and," said the officers, "our forces will occupy the Russian town before daybreak to-morrow." CHAPTER II THE SCENE AT KALISZ ON THE 2ND AUGUST, 1914 Had I not been under military escort I could not possibly have got along any of the roads in the neighbourhood of Ostrovo--all were crowded by Prussian infantry. I did not see any other branches of the service, but I understood that the engineers were mining the railway-line, and about half an hour after we started my friends declared that it would be hopeless to try to reach Kalisz from the German side. They said they must leave me, as it was imperative that they should rejoin their regiments before the hour of parade. A road was pointed out to me as one that led straight to the frontier, and that frontier I was recommended to endeavour to cross. The horse was taken away, and, after shaking hands with the officers and receiving their wishes of good-luck, I proceeded across the fields on foot. Pickets of cavalry and infantry were moving about the country, but I avoided them, and after a two-hours' walk reached the low bank which I knew marked the frontier-line. It was then after three o'clock, and daylight was beginning to break. As far as I could see, nobody was about. Some cows were in the field, and they followed me a short distance--a worry at the time, as I feared they would attract attention to my movements. I jumped over the boundary, and walked in the direction of Kalisz, the dome and spire and taller buildings of which were now visible some miles to the northward. The country is very flat here--typical Polish ground, without trees or bushes or hedges, the fields being generally separated by ditches. It is a wild and lonely district, and very thinly peopled. And I do not think there were any Russian troops in the town. If there were, it must have been a very slender detachment, which fell back at once; for if any firing had occurred, I must have seen and heard it. Not a sound of this description reached my ears, but when I reached Kalisz at 5.30 a.m. it was full of German soldiers, infantry and Uhlans--the first definite information I had that war was actually declared between the two countries, and the first intimation I received of how this war was likely to be conducted, for many of the Germans were mad drunk, and many more acting like wild beasts. I passed through crowds of soldiers without being interfered with--a wonderful circumstance. None of the shops were opened at that early hour, but the Germans had smashed into some of them, and were helping themselves to eatables and other things. I saw one unter-officer cramming watches, rings, and other jewellery into his pockets. He was quickly joined by other wretches, who cleared the shop in a very few minutes. Hardly knowing what to do, but realizing the danger of lurking about without an apparent object in view, I continued to walk through the streets in search of the railway-station, or a place where I could rest. A provost and a party of military policemen were closing the public-houses by nailing up the doors, and I saw a man only partly dressed, the proprietor of one of these houses, I supposed, murdered. He made an excited protest, and a soldier drove his bayonet into the poor man's chest. He uttered a terrible scream, and was instantly transfixed by a dozen bayonets. A woman, attracted by the fearful cry, came rushing out of the house screaming and crying. She had nothing on except a chemise, and the soldiers treated her with brutal indecency. I was impelled to interfere for her protection. At that moment an officer came up, and restored some order amongst the men, striking and pricking several of them with his sword. He said something to me which I did not understand, and, receiving no reply, struck me with his fist, and then arrogantly waved his hand for me to be gone. I had no alternative. I suppressed my wrath and moved away, but the horrible sight of the bleeding man and the weeping woman haunted me until I became used to such sights--and worse. As I walked through the streets I heard the screams of women and children on all sides, mingled with the coarse laughter and shouts of men, which told plainly enough what was taking place, though I could not understand a word of what was said. I was struck by drunken or excited soldiers more than once, and kicked, but to retaliate or use the weapon with which I was armed would, I could perceive, result in my instant destruction; so I smothered my wrath for the time. Many women rushed into the streets dressed in their night-clothes only, some of them stained with blood, as evidence of the ill-usage they had suffered; and I passed the dead bodies of two men lying in the road, one of which was that of a youth. These, there can be no doubt, were the first acts of war on the part of Germany against Russia--the slaughter of unarmed and defenceless people. In one of the principal streets I found two hotels or large public-houses open. They were both full of German officers, some of whom were drunk. At an upper window one man was being held out by his legs, while a comrade playfully spanked him, and a wild orgy was going on in the room behind. Bottles and glasses were thrown into the street, and a party of German prostitutes vied in bestiality with the men. I saw the hellish scene. Had I read an account of it, I should at once have stamped the writer in my heart as a liar. I am not going to dwell on the filthy horrors of that day. I do little more than hint at what took place, and only remark that at this hour no act of war, no fair fight or military operation, had taken place on any of Germany's borders. She showed the bestiality of the cowardly hyena before a fang had been bared against her. This was the information I afterwards obtained from Russian sources. On the morning Kalisz was sacked, not a shot had been fired by the Russian soldiers. My needs compelled me to take risks. All the belongings I had with me were contained in a small bag which I carried in my hand. I had some German money in my pocket, and a number of English sovereigns. The remainder of my luggage I had been compelled to leave behind at Ostrovo. Entering the quietest of the two hotels, I found the proprietor and several of his servants or members of his family trembling in the basement. I was stopped at the door by a sentry, but he was a quiet sort of youth, accepted a few marks, and while he was putting them in his pouch permitted me to slip into the house. I have already intimated that I am no linguist. I could not muster a dozen words of German, and not one of Russian; so, holding the proprietor to insure his attention (the poor man was almost in a state of collapse), I made motions that I wished to eat and drink. No doubt they took me for a German. One of the maids literally rushed to the cellar, and returned with two large bottles of champagne of the size which our great-grandfathers, I believe, called "magnums," containing about two quarts apiece. But champagne was not what I wanted, so I looked round till I found a huge teapot. The face of the maid was expressionless, but she was not lacking in intelligence. The Russians are great tea-drinkers, and I soon had a good breakfast before me, with plenty of the refreshing beverage. A Russian breakfast differs much from an English early morning meal, but on this occasion I contrived to obtain bacon and eggs, which, in spite of all doctors and economists say to the contrary, is one of the best foods in existence for travelling or fighting on. Before I had well finished this meal one of the riotous officers came downstairs. He made a sudden stop when he saw me, and blinked and winked like an owl in sunlight, for he had had plenty of liquor. He asked some question, and as I could not very well sit like a speechless booby, I replied in my own language. "Good-morning," rather dryly, I am afraid. "An English pig!" he exclaimed. "An Englishman," I corrected. [At least 50 per cent. of German officers speak English quite fluently, and an even greater number French, learned in the native countries of these languages.] "Bah-a-a-a!" he exclaimed, prolonging the interjection grotesquely. "Do you know that we have wrecked London, blown your wonderful Tower and Tower Bridge and your St. Paul's to dust, killed your King, and our Zeppelins are now wrecking Manchester and Liverpool and your other fine manufacturing towns?" "Nonsense!" I said. "It is true, I assure you," he replied. The news sent a terrible thrill through my nerves, for I did not yet know what liars Germans could be, and I did not think a Prussian officer could stoop to be so mendacious a scoundrel as this fellow proved to be. "Then there is war between England and Germany?" I asked, wondering at its sudden outbreak. "When was it declared?" "It is not declared. We have taken time by the forelock, as you British say--as we mean to take it with all who dare to oppose us. You are a stinking Englishman, and I'll have you shot!" he concluded furiously. Going to the foot of the stairs, he began to call to his companions, reviling the English, and declaring that there was a spy below. As his drunken comrades did not hear him or immediately respond, he ascended the stairs, and I took the opportunity to put down some money for my breakfast, catch up my bag, and escape from the house. At the top of the street the road broadened out into a kind of square or open space, and as I reached this spot a large number of soldiers brought eight prisoners into the centre of it. Three of them were dressed in what I took to be the uniforms of Russian officers, three others were gendarmes or policemen. The other two wore the dress of civilians. All were very pale and serious-looking, but all were firm except one of the civilians, who I could see was trembling, while his knees were shaking so that he could scarcely stand. A German officer of rank--I believe a Major-General--stood in front of them and interrogated one of the Russian officers, who looked at him sternly and did not reply. The German also read something from a paper he held in his hand, while six men were ranged before each one of the prisoners. I saw what was about to take place, but before I was prepared for it the German stood aside and waved his hand. Instantly the firing-parties raised their rifles and shot down the eight prisoners. They were not all killed outright. One man rolled about in dreadful agony, two others tried to rise after falling, and a fourth attempted to run away. A sickening fusillade ensued; at least a hundred shots were fired before all the victims lay stark and quiet. Nor were they the only victims. The officer in charge of the firing-party took no precautions, uttered no warnings, and several of the spectators were struck by the bullets, while there was a wild stampede of civilians from the square. Let it be noted that these ferocious murders took place before a shot had been fired, so far as I know, between the armed forces of the two nations. I never heard who the slain men were, or why they were put to death; but from what I afterwards read in English newspapers I suppose that the Mayor of Kalisz was one of them. CHAPTER III THE EVENTS PRECEDING ACTUAL HOSTILITIES Why were there no Russian soldiers in the neighbourhood of Kalisz in the beginning of August, 1914? The answer is simple. Kalisz is an open town, with a single line running to Warsaw, 140 miles, via Lodz and Lowicz. The nearest branch lines are the Warsaw-Tchenstochow on the south, with nearest point to Kalisz about ninety English miles away; and the Warsaw-Plock line to Thorn, with nearest point to Kalisz, also about ninety miles. So far as transport was concerned, the Russians were not in it at all. For on the German side of the frontier there is a complete and very elaborate network of railways, so that the Teuton could mass 1,000,000 men on Kalisz long before the Muscovite could transport 100,000 there. This is what harassed the last-named Power--want of railways. Wherever they tried to concentrate, the Germans were before them, and in overwhelming numbers. It is her elaborate railway system that has enabled Germany to get the utmost from her armies--to get the work of two or three corps, and in some cases even more, out of one. Her railways have practically doubled her armed force--this at least. The Germans are masters of the art of war, and have been so for fifty years; the Russians are hard fighters, but they are not scientific soldiers. The Germans have consolidated and perfected everything that relates to armed science; the Russians have trusted too much to their weight of numbers. Yet the Bear, though a slow and dull animal, has devilish long and strong claws; and, like another animal engaged in this contest for the existence of the world, has the habit so provoking to his enemies, of never knowing when he is beaten. The reason, then, that there was no sufficient force, if any force at all, near Kalisz when the treacherous Teuton suddenly sprung hostilities upon her on the 1st August, 1914, was that the Muscovite, through apathy inherited from his Asiatic ancestors, combined with a paucity of money, had no railways, while his opponent had one of the most complete systems of locomotive transport for men and material that is to be found in the whole world. It was its isolated situation and great distance from a base that made Kalisz the weak point on the Russian frontier, and the German Eagle saw this and swooped on it as a bird of prey on a damless lamb. But the Russian base, if distant, was strong, and the force and material at Warsaw was powerful and great, and was in ponderous motion long before the Vulture had picked clean the bones of her first victim. Russia has no great fortress on the German frontier. This is another serious fault of defence. Railways and fortresses are the need of the Northern Power to enable her to control effectually the bird of ill omen which has so long hovered over Central Europe, unless that bird is to die for all time, which is what should be, and which is what will be, unless the folly of the nations is incurable. After witnessing the terrible scene described in the last chapter my feelings of insecurity and uncertainty were greatly increased. By means of a plan in my possession I found my way to the railway-station. It was in the hands of the German troops, thousands of whom crowded the building and its vicinity, and a glance was sufficient to show that I could not leave Kalisz by means of the railway. According to my plan, there were stations further up the line in an easterly direction, some of them at no great distance from Kalisz; but I felt sure these would be occupied by the Germans before I could reach them. Personal safety required that I should make an immediate effort to escape. More than once I had noticed Teutonic eyes regarding me with suspicious glances--at least, so I thought--and I quite realized that delay would be dangerous. Re-entering the town, which is a place of about 25,000 inhabitants, I reached the open country to the north through back streets, resolved to endeavour to reach Lodz by making a wide détour from the line, which was sure to be occupied by the hostile troops. What reception I should meet with from the hands of the Russian soldiers I could not tell, but I felt sure that it would not be worse than that I might expect from their foes. By this time it was past midday, and the streets of Kalisz were nearly deserted. I saw only one or two male fugitives hurrying along, apparently bent, like myself, on escape. As soon as I reached a retired spot I tore my maps and plans to shreds and threw them away. I had no doubt what it would mean to be caught with such things on me. Patrols of cavalry, Uhlans and hussars, were scouring the country in all directions. Peasants in the fields were running together, and the hussars beat many of them with their sabres, but I do not think they killed any at this time. The Uhlans wounded some by tearing them down with the hooks with which the staves of their lances are furnished, and I saw a party of them amusing themselves by rending the clothes off a poor old woman who was working in one of the fields. Perceiving that it would be impossible to avoid these cavalrymen, I looked about for a hiding-place. There was a range of low buildings about a quarter of a mile from the ditch in which I was crouching. The place seemed to be a farm, with a number of barns or sheds on one side of it, some of which were scattered about irregularly. I reached the nearest of these without attracting notice, and found there a weeping woman and two men, one of whom was bleeding badly from wounds on the head and face. They looked at me, and the unhurt man said something which I did not understand. A party of hussars was riding towards the shed. As a forlorn chance of escape, I lay down on the floor and pulled some straw over me as well as I could. Apparently the men and woman ran away, and by so doing diverted the attention of the hussars from the shed. I lay there till dusk, when the unhurt man and the woman came back carrying a bowl of milk and some coarse bread, which they gave to me. I was very glad of it, having tasted nothing since the morning. They spoke, but chiefly together, as they perceived that I could not understand them. Soon afterwards, expressing my thanks as well as I could, I left the shed and proceeded on my way towards Lodz. There was sufficient light to enable me to preserve a general direction and to avoid the numerous parties of German cavalry which were patrolling the country, but long before the night was over I had got beyond these. I do not think they extended more than ten or twelve miles beyond the points at which they had invaded Poland. During the night I met with no adventures more serious than floundering into several water-courses and falling into a couple of ditches in endeavouring to jump them, for the ditches are very wide and deep in this country. To avoid such accidents, I afterwards kept to the roads. These are not bounded by hedges or fences of any kind, and there was nearly an entire absence of bridges. Arriving at a brook, the traveller might or might not find stepping-stones. In the absence of these, one had to wade through the water, which in one case I experienced at this time came nearly up to the knees. I could not know, of course, if the people knew that a state of war existed, but I saw no watchmen or police about the few hamlets and the villages I passed through. Once I was attacked by a couple of very fierce dogs, and was compelled to kill one of them to get free; but until after four o'clock the next morning no men appeared. A few of those who saluted me seemed surprised that I did not make a reply, but I could only raise my hat, and by doing so I perhaps occasioned greater astonishment than I would have done by entirely ignoring them. There were hardly any trees in this country. The farms and isolated houses were usually marked by a poplar or two and a clump of willows, and there were some willows along the courses of the streams. The buildings, except the churches, were generally very low-pitched, and there was a singular paucity of chimneys, since stoves were the nearly universal means of warming the rooms; indeed, I saw stoves in this country which were almost rooms in themselves, with sleeping-places above the flues. Turf was the chief fuel used, and the dried droppings of horses and cattle. There was a shower of rain during the night, but the morning broke clear and bright, and it was daylight long before I was as far beyond the reach of the Huns as I could have wished to be. The country seemed to be very sparsely peopled. The peasantry were early risers, and most of them seemed to be in the fields before five o'clock. The crops were to a great extent cut, and some were in process of cartage in heavy waggons. It was a very hot day. About ten o'clock I stopped at the door of a farm and made signs that I wanted food and drink. I was afraid to offer German money, though this would probably have been better understood than the tender of an English sovereign. The man took the coin, looked at it, bit it, and rubbed it, and handed it to a group of women and girls--his mother, wife and daughters, I thought. The image of His Majesty King George was evidently taken to be that of the Czar; but the denomination of the coin puzzled the farmer and excited great curiosity amongst the women. However, my wants were understood, and I obtained butter, bread, tea and cheese of a kind I had never previously eaten, and also some excellent honeycomb, but no kind of meat. The farmer wanted me to take back the sovereign, but it was so evidently coveted by his wife that I pressed it upon her until she pocketed it. In return I brought away as much provision as I could carry. Before midday I thought I had walked about thirty miles, though not in a direct line. By this time I had arrived at a river which I knew must be the Warta. It was not very wide, but the banks where I struck it were deep, and crumbling away; and the stream was unfordable. Not knowing what else to do I turned southwards along its banks towards Sieradz, hoping to reach a village where I might be ferried across; but just as I was about to enter a small hamlet, I was confronted by two policemen. They jabbered at me and I jabbered at them; but if ever "No nonsense" were seen in a human countenance I saw it in that of policeman No. 1. I produced my passports. One of these gave me permission to cross the Russian frontier; but as it was obtained in Germany I would, under the circumstances, have gladly suppressed it. Unfortunately it was folded up with the English-German document, and I was not sharp enough to separate them before No. 1 sighted the document, and demanded it with an impatient gesture. This he could read, but the other puzzled him; not that this circumstance interfered with the promptitude of his action. I saw with half an eye that I had to go somewhere with this Russian policeman: and the "somewhere" proved to be the lock-up in a tiny hamlet the name of which I never learned. This wretched hole was three-parts under ground, about seven feet long, and scarcely four wide--a den evidently designed for torture: for one could not turn round in it without difficulty; and how to sleep in such a place puzzled me, though I was spared the ordeal of having to do so. For a few hours after I was incarcerated I was fetched out and handed over to the charge of five mounted cossacks, the leader seeming to be a corporal. I was handcuffed to the stirrups of this gentleman and one of his comrades, an arrangement which gave me the option of walking or being dragged along. All the party carried villainous-looking whips in addition to rifles, sabres and lances. But they did not force the pace, and when we had gone about five miles we overtook a light cart, which the corporal stopped, and placed me therein. We then travelled at the rate of eight or nine miles an hour, halting at a roadside inn for drink, which I paid for with another English sovereign. Again the coin excited much curiosity, but the corporal saw that I obtained a fair amount of change in Russian money and I was civilly treated on the whole. In less than two hours we arrived at the small town of Szadek, though I did not know the name of the place at the time. It is only twenty English miles (twenty-seven versts) from Lodz, and here for the first time since crossing the German frontier I saw Russian troops in force. I did not have the opportunity of seeing the strength of these troops; but Szadek was full of infantry, and we passed a great many tents before entering the town. It was nightfall when we arrived; but I was immediately taken to an hotel and questioned by an officer of General rank. Finding that I could not speak Russian, he tried German, and I said, in the best French I could muster, that I was an Englishman. I am not sufficient master of the polite language of Europe to carry on a conversation in it, so the officer sent for a Russian Major, Polchow, who spoke English fluently, and he acted as interpreter. My story was listened to with great interest, especially those parts of it which related to the movements and conduct of the German troops and the murder of citizens at Kalisz. I underwent a lengthened cross-examination, and, I suppose, the nature of my communications becoming known, the room was speedily crowded by officers, most of them evidently of high rank. It was after midnight before I was dismissed, having, I could see, made a favourable impression on all those who were present. It was then I learned, to my great relief, that the German accounts of the destruction of London, etc., were falsehoods. "As yet there is no war between Germany and England; but there will be in a few days," said the General. Speaking through Major Polchow, the General further said, "You have come to Russia for help and protection: you shall have them. What do you wish?" In reply I said that I desired to return to my own country as speedily as possible, but that if the Germans, being near at hand, came up before arrangements could be made for my departure, I should be glad to use a rifle against them. It was then explained to me that all the inn accommodation in Szadek being taken up I could be offered only a tent lodging, but that every endeavour would be made to render me comfortable. Then Major Polchow offered to look after me, and I accompanied him to a private house where he was billeted. I much regret that I have forgotten the name of this obliging officer before whom I was examined, which name, a very unpronounceable one, was only casually mentioned, and was forgotten in the excitement of the events which immediately followed. Polchow was an artillery officer, attached to a South Russian regiment, but afterwards to an East Russian regiment, which lost all its officers--with one or two exceptions at any rate. I was entertained by him most royally. On the following day I underwent another long examination before an Adjutant of the Grand Duke Nicholas and a large number of Staff officers, and was much complimented on my adventures and the value of the information I was able to give. These matters I must ask to be excused for passing over with bare mention. I expected to have had an interview with the Grand Duke himself; but he departed that evening without my having seen him. The offer was made to send me on to Riga or Libau, or any port I might choose; and to facilitate my departure to my own country; but I am an Englishman, thank God, and I was not inclined to turn my back on my country's foes until I had seen the whites of their eyes and let them see mine. For by this time we were beginning to learn something of German dirt, and German cruelty. CHAPTER IV THE FIRST FIGHT It became necessary to know what the Germans were doing, or appeared to be going to do. Fugitives from Kalisz and the country eastward of it reported that thousands of Germans were pouring over the border, and it was known to Headquarters that they were gradually pressing onwards to Lodz. On the 6th, 7th, and 8th August, the 4th Cossacks of the Don, and five other cavalry regiments, with some light guns, were engaged in reconnaissance, and the result was to ascertain that the Germans were entrenching themselves on a line from Kalisz to Sieradz, covering the railway; and also extending their earthworks right and left along the banks of the Warta, thus forming a strong point, on Russian soil, for an advance on Warsaw. I was riding in the ranks of the 4th, and can say, from personal observation, that the works mentioned were of a formidable description, and armed with heavy guns. On the 8th the Zeithen Hussars charged the 4th, which fell back; and the hussars were taken in hand by the 12th Russian Dragoons and very roughly handled. I counted forty dead bodies; but the Germans advanced some infantry and guns, and saved their wounded. Their total loss could not have been less than 140 men. The dragoons had two men killed and about a dozen wounded, mostly by the fire of infantry. The general idea that the Germans are good swordsmen is erroneous. They are very poor broadswordsmen; and the Russians are inferior to the French in the use of this weapon. I expected that the affair would develop into a general action, but it did not. The force of German cavalry was much inferior to that of the Russian, and they soon fell back, trying to lure our men under infantry and artillery fire. In this they did not succeed; but I believe that on our extreme right they did some execution with long-range shell fire. Why the Russians did not bring up infantry and artillery I am unable to conjecture. It is my opinion that there was something behind which did not appear to a spectator in my position. The Germans had certainly prepared something resembling a trap; and possibly the Russian commander saw, or suspected, more than was perceptible to the ordinary eye. At any rate he held his men back at a moment when I expected to see them advance and outflank the enemy. The fighting which followed was decidedly desultory and without important results. There was much artillery firing from guns which were, I think, four or five English miles from that part of the Russian position where I was. It did so very little execution that I considered it was a mere waste of ammunition. In this combat the Russians seemed to be superior in strength of all three arms, which was the reason, I suppose, that the enemy did not make a decided advance. He was probably waiting for reinforcements, which did not arrive until late in the day, if they came up at all. On the other hand, there was a force of German infantry lying in wait, and this body of troops may have been stronger than appeared. I can only be responsible for what I saw, though I feel at liberty to repeat what I heard where probability of its truth may be inferred. I have also looked through files of English newspapers; and I cannot attempt to veil the fact that I must often be, or appear to be, in contradiction to accounts that were published about the time the narrated incidents were recorded to have taken place. Naturally, first records were imperfect, or needed explanations; but some things appeared in English papers which it is difficult to understand. For instance, it is said to be "officially reported from Petrograd" that the frontier was not crossed by the Germans in the neighbourhood of Kalisz, and that no fighting took place until the 14th or 15th August. (I am not sure which date is meant; or whether the old or new system is intended.) Both these assertions are incorrect, and could not have emanated from an "official" source. The Russians are our allies, and personally I received great kindness from the hands of many of them; but the only value of a narrative of the kind I am writing is its correctness, and I intend to record the truth without fear and without favour. I cannot perceive that it would be any advantage to them to make a misstatement. The assertion is probably an error. At any rate I can state, and do positively state, that the frontier was crossed by the Germans at Kalisz; and that fighting took place at several points before the 14th August. Possibly the accounts were published before correction. At this time I learned that there was a line of strong posts from Dabie to Petrikau, a distance of, roughly, eighty versts. These, probably, outflanked the Germans; and reinforcements were daily arriving in vast numbers, prolonging the line in the direction of the Vistula some seventy versts north of Dabie. The country between Dabie and the named river was patrolled by an enormous horde of cavalry--at least 20,000--and infantry and artillery were coming up by march route, there being no railway except the Kutno-Warsaw narrow-gauge line, which was used chiefly for the transport of ammunition and stores. This line runs direct to Thorn, one of Germany's strong frontier fortresses; and the Russians tried to push along it as far as possible; but the Germans sent flying parties into Russia as far as Wroclawick, fifty versts from Thorn, and completely destroyed the line. In doing this they suffered some losses, for a Russian force crossed the Vistula near Nieszawa and attacked one of the working-parties. They claimed to have killed and wounded 300 of the enemy, and they brought in ninety prisoners, four of whom were officers. The only fighting I saw during these operations was between two cavalry pickets. There were thirty Cossacks on our side. I do not know how many Germans there were, but they were reinforced continually during the fight until they compelled us to fall back. They held the verge of a pine-wood, while the Cossacks sheltered themselves behind some scattered trees, fighting, of course, dismounted with their horses picketed a mile behind them and left in charge of a trumpeter. So far as I could see, the fight was a completely useless one. It resulted in the death of two men on our side, and six wounded. The firing lasted nearly three hours and would probably have gone on much longer had not our men run out of cartridges. In this little skirmish I shot off a hundred rounds myself, with what result must be left to the imagination; for, as the distance was 900 yards, I had not even the satisfaction of seeing the branches of the trees flying about. The German bullets cut off many twigs from our trees, and the trumpeter afterwards reported that several of their shots fell amongst the horses without doing any damage. It showed the great range of the German weapons, and also the very bad shooting of the men. We drew off, and some of the hussars came out of the wood, mounted their horses, and looked after us; but they did not attempt to follow us. Enterprise was not a prominent attribute of the German cavalry, nor, indeed, of the mounted force of our own side, though the Cossacks sometimes showed considerable boldness. Often I longed for the presence of a few regiments of British or French cavalry, for some splendid opportunities were let slip by the Russian troopers; not from want of bravery, but simply from the lack of that daring dash which is a distinguishing feature of all good horsemanship. Yet, notwithstanding the want of energy on the part of the Russian mounted men, they were continually on the move, and, as I soon discovered for myself, were gradually moving to the north, apparently covering the advance of an ever-increasing mass of infantry and artillery. Polchow's battery was attached to the brigade of Cossacks of which the 4th was one of the units. The reason that I connected myself with this particular corps was because one of its officers spoke a little English; but it was so little that we frequently had much difficulty in understanding each other. I soon learned the Russian words of command and the names of common things and objects, and I often acted as officer of a squadron (or "sotnia," as the men call it); but I felt that I would rather be with Polchow, and I soon became attached to his battery as a "cadet," though I was the oldest man in the unit. It was a "horse" battery; but the horse artillery in the Russian service is not a separately organized body as it is in the British Army. The guns are simply well-horsed, and the limbers, waggons, etc., rendered as light and mobile as possible. The batteries have not the dash and go of English horse-artillery; and I should be very sorry to see a Russian battery attempt to gallop over a ditch or other troublesome obstacle, as I can foresee what the result would be. The Russian horse-artillery is a sort of advanced-guard of the gunnery arm and has no special training for its duties. In several important particulars its equipment and organization differs from ours. At this time there were said to be several Englishmen, two Frenchmen, and Swedes, Norwegians and Dutch, in the Russian service. I never met any of them, but I know there was a German, born and bred in Brandenburg, an officer in the 178th line, who was permitted to remain in the Muscovite Army; and who fought with invincible bravery and determination against his countrymen. There was a mystery about him, the actual nature of which I never learned; but it was said that he had received some injury which had implanted in his breast a fierce hatred of the land of his birth. For two days after I had joined the artillery we were making forced marches to the north, and on the 16th we crossed the Vistula at Plock. The next day we were in front of the enemy between Biezun and Przasnysz, with our left flank resting on a marshy lake near the first-named place. Beyond the lake this flank was supported by a very large body of cavalry--twenty-four regiments I think, or not less than 14,000 men. This large force effectually kept off the much inferior German cavalry. It suffered a good deal from shell-fire, but our artillery prevented the Prussian infantry from inflicting any losses on it. The country had been raided by the Germans before our arrival, and they had committed many atrocities. The young women had been abused, and the older ones cruelly ill-treated. The hamlets and isolated farms had been burnt down; in some cases the ruins were still smouldering; and what had become of the inhabitants did not appear. Some at least had been slain: for we found the body of one woman lying, head downwards, in a filthy gutter which drained a farmyard; and on the other side of the building, two men hanging from the same tree. The woman had been killed by a blow on the head which had smashed the skull, and her body had been treated with shameful irreverence. The gunners of the battery buried these three poor creatures in the same grave while we were waiting for orders to go into action. Afterwards, while searching the ruined house, the men found the body of a bed-ridden cripple who had been murdered by bayonet-thrusts; and, under the bed, were three young children half dead with fright and starvation. There was also a baby of a few months old, lying in its cot, dead from want of food and attention, we supposed, as there were no marks of grosser violence on the little mite. These sights and others seen in the neighbourhood had a terrible effect on the usually phlegmatic Russian soldiers, and afterwards cost many Germans their lives: for I know that wounded men and prisoners were slain in retaliation, and civilians too, when portions of the frontier were crossed, as will be found recorded later on. We were puzzled what to do with the children, for it would have been inhuman to leave them in a plundered and wrecked home; the oldest appearing to be not more than six years old. It was remembered that we had seen a woman at a cottage two miles to the rear, and so, accompanied by an orderly, I rode back with them. We found several women taking refuge in the house, and, though we could not understand one another, it was evident that we were leaving the poor little creatures amongst friends, as I could see by the attitude of the orderly. When we got back to the farm we found that the battery had been advanced, and we had some difficulty in finding it. I had to leave that work to the orderly, an old non-commissioned officer named Chouraski, who afterwards acted as my servant. The battery, with the rest of the regiment, and several others, about 200 guns in all, was massed behind a sandbank--not a wise arrangement. Other batteries were bringing a cross-fire to bear from distances which I computed to be two and three miles from our position. The Germans were evidently suffering severely, and so were we. One of our batteries had all its guns dismounted or put out of action, and many other guns were destroyed, though in some cases the gunners got them on fresh wheels, or even limbers. All the men were cool and brave beyond praise, though the effects of the fire were very terrible. One shell burst as it hit the body of a gunner, who was literally blown to pieces. Another shot smashed away the head of a man standing close to me. He threw up his hands, and stood rigid so long that I thought he was not going to fall. The sight of the headless trunk standing there with blood streaming over the shoulders was so horrible that it was quite a relief to the nerves when he dropped. The gunners, who had stood still paralyzed by the sight, resumed their work; but they had not fired more than a round or two, when a shell smashed the gun-shield and wiped out the whole detachment. A piece of this shell entered the forehead of my horse and it fell like a pole-axed ox, dying with scarcely a quiver of the muscles. Although the shield was destroyed the gun was not put out of action, and I got a couple of men from another gun, and we continued to fire it. This went on hour after hour, until all the shells (shrapnel and common) were expended. Twice a fresh supply was brought up by the reserve ammunition column men, and altogether about 500 rounds per gun were shot off in this part of the field, or about 100,000 in all. As there were at least 600 guns in action it is probable that 500,000 shells were thrown against the enemy; an enormous number; and nobody will be surprised to learn that the slaughter was terrible. Many of our guns were cleared of men over and over again, reserve gunners being sent up from the rear as they were required, the men running up quite eager to be engaged, and, generally speaking, taking no notice of the casualties which were constantly occurring close to them. I strove hard to draw the attention of every officer within reach to the faulty position of the guns; but all were very excited, and my unfortunate ignorance of their language prevented me from making myself understood. I did not know what had become of Major Polchow, but late in the afternoon he came up with a staff officer, and I pointed out to him the unnecessary slaughter which was taking place owing to the exposed position of the guns. He said that the error had been observed long before, but that it was considered to be unwise to retire them. Now, however, so many of the artillerymen had fallen that dozens of the guns were silenced, so an attempt was made to draw back the most exposed of the batteries. The horses had been sheltered in a hollow a hundred yards in the rear, yet even in their comparatively protected position so many of them had been killed and mangled that it was only possible to move back three guns at a time. The Germans observed the movement, with the result that men, guns, waggons, and horses, were smashed to pieces in a horrible and very nerve-trying confusion. Many of the incidents were almost too horrible to be described. The leg of one man was blown off by a bursting shell. He saved himself from falling by clutching a gun-carriage; but this was on the move and dragged him down. The bleeding was stopped by a roughly improvised tourniquet; he was laid on the ground with his coat under his head and left to his fate. When the guns were drawn back to the new position very few casualties occurred; but at this time the Germans made a determined onset with huge masses of infantry in close columns of companies--an amazing formation, but one which I was prepared to see executed, knowing their general tactics as practised on peace manoeuvres. At this moment we had only twelve shells per gun left. These twelve cut great lanes deep into the advancing masses, but did not stop them, and orders were given to retire. Two of our guns were drawn away by the prolonge (that is, by means of ropes manned by men on foot), and two were abandoned. We should certainly have been overtaken and destroyed; but about a thousand yards to the rear we found three regiments of infantry halted in a slight hollow of the ground. These 12,000 men suddenly rushed forward and opened a tremendous fusillade on the advancing masses, bringing them down so fast that the appearance of falling men was continuous and had a very extraordinary effect. But they were not stopped, and our infantry was compelled to fall back with the guns, losing heavily from the fire which the Germans kept up as they advanced. Our infantry, like that of the Germans, kept much too close a formation, and the losses were therefore appalling. Thus, early in the war, all the Russian units were at full strength; infantry four battalions per regiment--fully 4,000 men. The three regiments behind us lost half their strength, equal to 6,000 men, in twenty minutes; and the remnant was saved only by reaching a pine-wood about a mile in length and some 300 yards in depth. This enabled them to check the Germans; and two batteries of artillery coming up, evidently sent from another division to support us, they were compelled to halt, lying down on the ground for such shelter as it afforded, to wait for their own artillery. This did not come up until it was nearly dusk. Before it opened fire we began to retreat and we were not pursued. We fell back on two small hamlets with a farm between them, and here we entrenched ourselves, putting the buildings into a state of defence. Distant firing was heard all night, and we received a fresh supply of ammunition, and heard that 150 of the guns were saved. As we had thirty with us it was estimated that about twenty had fallen into the hands of the enemy besides twenty or thirty machine-guns. Outposts reporting that the German division which had pursued us had retired northwards, I proposed, as soon as it was light enough for us to see our way, that a party should go out to look for the wounded men of our battery. These brave fellows had done their duty as only heroes do it--without a moment's hesitation, or the least flinching at the most trying moments; and with scarcely a groan from the horribly wounded, whose sufferings must have been excruciating. Although unable to understand a word I uttered, all who stood by, when informed by Polchow of what was proposed, volunteered to accompany me. I took about thirty men with stretchers, which were mostly made of hurdles obtained at the farm. It was about three English miles to the spot where the batteries had been first posted and the whole distance was thickly littered with dead bodies of Germans and Russians intermingled. All the wounded except those desperately hurt had been removed, but none of the enemy were about. They appeared to be kept off by strong patrols of our cavalry, which could be seen in the distance; and, doubtless, the German horsemen were in view, as desultory shots were fired from time to time. [Illustration: RUSSIAN ARTILLERY GOING INTO ACTION] Dying men made piteous appeals for drink. One poor fellow expired while we were in the act of attending to him. The horribly inhuman nature of the Germans was evinced by the circumstance that they had made prisoners of all the wounded who would probably recover, and count in their lists of capture; but had left the mortal cases (even their own) unattended, to linger out a dreadful and agonized end. Their lack of feeling was fiendish. They had not even endeavoured to alleviate the sufferings of the men thus abandoned: for we found one German groaning, and seemingly praying for succour, pinned down under a dead horse. He was not even dangerously hurt, and would, I think, recover under the treatment he would receive from the Russians. For though these northern men were often barbarous enough on the field of battle, they were never cruel to their prisoners, or to injured men, unless these were known to have been guilty of atrocities. The sights of that battlefield, and others which I afterwards witnessed, will be a nightmare to the end of life. I had often read of rivers "running red with blood," and thought this simply poetic exaggeration; but when we went to a brook to obtain water for some gasping men, I noticed that it was horribly tinged with dark red streaks, which seemed to be partly coagulated blood. Some light fragments which floated by were undoubtedly human brains; yet at their urgent entreaty we gave of this water to poor creatures to drink, for no other was available. This horror was not comparable to what we witnessed when we arrived at the spot where the artillery slaughter had taken place. The ground was covered with dark patches--blood blotches. Fragments of flesh, arms, legs, limbs of horses, and scattered intestines, lay everywhere about that horrible "first position." On the ground lay a human eye and within an inch or two of it, a cluster of teeth; all that remained of some poor head that had been dashed away. Where the body was that had owned these relics did not appear. The force of impact had probably driven them yards and yards; and it was a mere chance that they met my view. Close to one of our guns, too badly broken to be worth carrying away by the enemy, were two brawny hands, tightly clasping the handle of the sponge with which their owner had been cleaning the piece when they had been riven from his body. The man was close by, a mere mass of smashed flesh and bones, with thousands of beastly flies battening on his gore, as they were on that of all the corpses. The sight was unbearable. Sick and nearly fainting, I had to lean against a broken waggon to recover myself. Our wounded had been murdered. There could be no question of that. For we had not left any behind who were capable of fighting, yet a dozen had been finished off by bayonet wounds--and German bayonets make awful jagged wounds because their weapons have saw-backs. One bayoneted gunner was not quite dead. At long intervals--about a minute it seemed to me--he made desperate efforts to breathe; and every time he did so bubbles of blood welled from the wound in his breast, and a horrible gurgling sound came from both throat and breast. There were two doctors in our party, but they looked at each other, and shook their heads when they examined this miserable man. Nothing could be done for him except to place him in a more comfortable position. War is hellish. We found another of our men alive. His plight was so terrible that it was hardly worth while to increase his suffering by carrying him away. We did so: but he died before we had gone two versts. On that part of the field which the Germans had been compelled to cross without waiting to carry out their fell work, we found more survivors, and took back a dozen, of whom three were Germans. There happened to be no Red Cross men with our division just then; but we sent them to the rear in empty provision waggons. This is what I saw of the battle of Biezum, if this is its correct designation. According to Polchow the Russian centre was at Radnazovo, a town, or large village, eleven versts further east; and the whole front extended more than thirty versts, though the hottest fighting was near Biezum. It was afterwards reported that 10,000 Russians were killed in this engagement, and 40,000 wounded. The Germans must have lost heavily too. I saw thousands of their dead lying on the ground near Biezum alone. The fight was not a victory for the Russians, and scarcely could be claimed as such by the Germans. The two forces remained in contact, and fighting continued with more or less intensity until it developed into what modern battles seem destined to be, a prolonged series of uninterrupted operations. CHAPTER V THE FIGHTING UP TO THE 26TH AUGUST There appeared to be nearly 300 men in Polchow's battery when we went into action: only fifty-nine remained with the four guns we saved at the close of the day, and not one of these escaped a more or less serious hurt, though some were merely scratched by small fragments of shell or bruised by shrapnel bullets. At least twenty of the men would have been justified in going to hospital; several ultimately had to do so, and one died. Even British soldiers could not have shown greater heroism. Chouraski, the non-commissioned officer who had attached himself to me, had a bullet through the fleshy part of the left arm, yet he brought me some hot soup and black bread after dark; whence obtained, or how prepared, I have no idea. I was much touched by the man's kindness. All the soldiers with whom I came in contact were equally kind: and I have noticed that the men of other armies with whom I have come in contact in the course of my life, even the Germans, seemed to see something in my personality which attracted them, and to desire to be friendly. Perhaps they instinctively realized that I am an admirer of the military man; or perhaps it was the _bonhomie_ which is universal amongst soldiers. Certainly I got on well with them all, though some time elapsed before we could understand a simple sentence spoken on either side. For two days I was not fit for much: then I went to the front with a detachment of sixty gunners which had arrived from Petrograd via Warsaw. I found the battery and the rest of the regiment encamped to the westward of Przasnysz. Heavy fighting was going on somewhere in front; but the contending troops were not in sight. The whole country was full of smoke, and the smell of burning wood and straw was nearly suffocating. The Germans had set fire to everything that would burn, including the woods. During the night heavy showers of rain fell, and these extinguished most of the fires and saved a vast quantity of timber. I could see that the Germans had been driven back a considerable distance; and the Russians claimed to have won great victories in the neighbourhood of Stshutchen and Graevo, and to have already passed 500,000 men across the German border. That they were making progress was obvious; and on the 20th August I witnessed some desperate infantry fighting. The Germans came on, as they always did, in immense columns, literally jammed together, so that their men were held under fire an unnecessarily long time. The usual newspaper phrase, "Falling in heaps," was quite justifiable in this case. Thousands fell in ten minutes; and the remainder broke and fled in spite of the efforts of their officers to stop them. I was well in front and saw what took place. The German officers struck their men with their swords and in several cases cut them down; and I saw one of them fire his revolver into the crowd. I did not actually see men fall, but he must have shot several. The Russians, too, adopted a much closer formation than was wise, and suffered severely in consequence, but they never wavered. The Germans came on again and again, nine times in all, and proved themselves wonderful troops. Four out of the nine charges they drove home, and there was some desperate bayonet fighting in which the Teutons proved to be no match for the Muscovites. The last named used the "weapon of victory" with terrible effect, disproving all the modern theories about the impossibility of opposing bodies being able to close, or to come into repeated action on the same day. On the contrary, it may be taken as certainly proved that men's nerves are more steeled than ever they were, and that the same body of men can make repeated and successive attacks within very short periods of time. In the above attacks fresh bodies of troops were brought up each time, but the remnants of the battalions previously used were always driven on in front. I noticed this: on three occasions the 84th regiment (probably Landwehr) formed part of the attacking force. "Driven on" is the correct term. The German officers invariably drove their men in front of them. Arriving in contact with their foes, the soldiers fought with fury. It was the preliminary advance that seemed to discompose them: and, indeed, their losses were dreadful. They certainly left at least 30,000 dead and wounded on the ground on the 20th. The greater number were dead, because those who lay helpless received a great part of the fire intended for their retreating comrades, and thus were riddled through and through. The Russian artillery played on the masses both when they advanced and retreated; but the fight was chiefly an infantry one. The full effect of the guns could not be brought into play without danger of injury to our own men. In the end the Russians chased the enemy back and the artillery was advanced to support them. Considerable ground was gained; but four or five versts to the rear of their first position the Germans were found to be strongly entrenched. The day's fight was finished by a charge of a large body of Cossacks and Russian light cavalry. They swept away the force of German horsemen who ventured to oppose them, and also drove back several battalions of infantry. That part of the Russian Army which had been engaged bivouacked on the ground they had fought over. The cries of the wounded during the night were terrible to hear, and came from many different points and distances. Hundreds must have died from want of attention, and hundreds more, on both sides, were murdered. The Germans, who were hovering about in small parties, persistently fired on the Red Cross men, so little could be done for the dying; and the cruelties which were perpetrated, and which were revealed (so I was told) by the shouts, entreaties and imprecations of the sufferers, aroused a nasty spirit in the Russians, and particularly in the Cossacks, and led to fearful reprisals, so that in one part of the field I know that not a German was left alive. I am bound to add that after I had seen two Russians brought in with their eyes gouged out, and another with his nose and ears cropped, and his lacerated tongue lolling from his mouth, I had not a word of protest to utter against these reprisals. The Germans were finished fiends, and deserved all they got from a body of men notorious for their fierceness; and they _did get it_. I will say this, though: that throughout the campaign no instance of a Russian injuring a woman or a child came under my notice; nor did I hear of any such cases. But I was told that three Prussian girls, who were seen to be on friendly terms with some Russian soldiers, were nearly flogged to death by their own people; and the horrible treatment the Polish women received from the hands of the Germans has already been mentioned, and was ever recurring during the whole of the time I spent with the Russian Army. I would here make mention of the quality of the Russian and German soldiery. Conscription sweeps into the ranks of an army numbers of men who are totally unfit for a military life and a still further number who abhor it. In the present war, hatred and vindictive feeling generally has run very high on the northern side of the fighting area; and this circumstance seems to have greatly increased the war-like instinct of the masses, and consequently decreased the number of what I may term the natural non-combatants. In the Russian ranks, and I believe in the German also, this class is weeded out as far as possible, and relegated to the organizations which have least to do with the fighting line--that is, the administrative services, and troops organized to maintain the lines of communication. But these fellows--the natural non-combatants, or haters of the soldier's life, I mean--are, when found in the fighting ranks, the most detestable scoundrels imaginable; and I believe the greater part of the atrocities committed may be laid to their charge. They lose no opportunity of indulging in lust and murder; and as in civil life they are mostly wastrels, thieves and would-be murderers, they find in war an opportunity to indulge in those vices which, practised in time of peace, would bring them to the prison and the noose. In other words, the scum of the big cities is brought into the army, and often proves as great a curse to its own administrative, as it does to that of the enemy. Not all the Germans were fiends--not all the Russians saints. Early in the war many of the German regiments were composed of exceedingly fine-looking men. There was a decided deterioration later on, but this was more in appearance than quality: they still fought with determined, or desperate, courage; I am inclined to think, often the last-named. They were taught that the only way to escape the brutality of their officers was to face the courage of their foes. They chose the latter. Often hundreds--whole companies together--rushed over to the Russians, threw down their arms, and surrendered themselves prisoners of war. No such instance ever occurred in the Russian ranks. The Russian soldier is a very pious man, and, like the North Aryan stock from which he has sprung, is a great worshipper of ancestry and his superiors. His commanding officer, like his Czar, is a Father, or a Little Father--a sacred being--his priest as well as his temporal master. The consequence is that officer and soldier are one, a conjunction that is of great value from the military standpoint. This is never the case in the German Army. The Teutonic officer is a brute and a slave-driver, and his soldiers fear him if they do not hate him. I doubt if any German soldier ever gets through his training without being repeatedly struck by all his superiors from the unter-officer upwards. Feathers show how the wind sets. A Prussian regiment (the Pomeranian Grenadiers) was route-marching. One of the musicians blew a false note: the bandmaster immediately turned and struck the man a stinging blow on the face. I believe the German Army is the only one in the world where such an incident could occur. Like master, like man. One brute breeds another. Taken on the whole the old adage that "one volunteer is worth two pressed men" is true; but an army of ten or twelve millions could not be successfully met by one of a million or two. Numbers must count when they are excessive; though things militate against this rule sometimes. If an army has not its heart in a contest very inferior numbers may win. In the present case it soon became clear to me that both the great nations had their hearts in the war: the surprising thing is that Russia with her huge hordes has so far done so little--Germany hard pressed on all sides effected so much. These words will reveal that I do not take the general view that Russia is progressing as fast and as well as she might reasonably be expected to do.[1] Yet I am unable to point out very clearly where her principal defect lies. She brought up troops very rapidly; and by the 20th August she had an enormous army in the field on the East Prussian frontier. At this time, and later on, I learned that her lines extended throughout the German border and far along that of Austria to the Bug; and she was said to have at least 5,000,000 men massed in these lines. The Germans had not nearly so many--probably not more than 2,500,000 or 3,000,000; but they had the power, by means of their railways, to concentrate on a given point very rapidly, and so equal, or more than equal, the Russians, who, being without adequate railway communication, could not take advantage of their superior numbers. If the last-named saw a weakness in any part of the German defensive and attempted to take advantage of it, before they could bring up an adequate number of troops the Germans had discovered their intentions and rushed up a sufficient force to secure the threatened point: and this they did by bringing men from positions so numerous, and so distant, that they nowhere materially weakened their line; or, if they did so, they were enabled to conceal the fact. [1] This paragraph was written four or five months ago. Europe, Austria and Germany, is surrounded by a ring of armed men, extending, roughly, a distance of 1,500 miles, and defended by a force of about 14,000,000 men, or some five men to the linear yard. This is, in modern war, a sufficient number for effective attack or defence, on ordinary ground; but it is not too many, and in prolonged operation may prove to be too few on some descriptions of terre-plein. Yet, after ten months of the fiercest and most destructive fighting the world has ever seen, this ring of armed men has not been broken, though persistently attacked by three of the most powerful military nations on earth. My estimate of the number of German and Austrian troops actually in the fighting-line at the beginning of the war is much in excess of the numbers stated in English newspapers. I note this; but do not think that 14,000,000 is an exaggeration. I have information, and am not merely guessing. Nor are the losses of the enemy overstated by me. Down to the present date the losses of the Germans and Austrians amount to about 3,000,000 men; but it must be remembered that quite two-thirds of these would be wounded men who would recover, and go back to their respective fighting-lines; so that the actual number of men permanently put out of action is about 1,000,000, including those accounted for by the French, British, and Belgian armies. The losses of the Russians are nearly 2,000,000 men. Of these the greater part fell in the fighting I have described and am about to describe, fighting which may be called a prolonged battle for the possession of Warsaw on the one side and its defence on the other. The importance of this combat will be recognized when it is considered that the taking of Warsaw is the first necessary step towards the occupation of Petrograd. The vision of one man, especially in war, is limited; and I did not see everything that took place in the region in which I was. I heard a good deal, and was ever on the watch to learn and verify, but it could not be otherwise than impossible to be always sure--always correct; and without doubt there are many errors in my narration. What I saw, I saw, and this may be relied on: what I guessed, or was told, I have advanced with caution. Taken as a whole I think my account of the fighting in Poland and East Prussia is as reliable as that of any one man can be: and let it be remembered that I held no official position which could help me in gaining knowledge. On the evening of the 20th, and morning of the 21st, many rumors reached our corps of Russian successes in the neighbourhoods of Gumbinnen and Suvalki, places which were said to be but little more than 100 versts from our position. The first-named is an open town in East Prussia twenty-five versts over the border; and the news gave great joy to our troops, as it proved that Germany was actually invaded. My informants of the details were Major Polchow and two or three officers who spoke a little English and French and were able to make themselves understood to me. There was said to have been desperate fighting, with heavy losses, the capture of many German prisoners, and the complete annihilation of a whole division of the enemy. The occupation of Gumbinnen was of great importance because it is on the Prussian direct line to Vilna, one of the most important railway centres in this part of Russia and perhaps in the whole empire. Although the Russians could not maintain their hold of it, its temporary occupation, no doubt, had an important effect, and possibly helped more than seems to have been seen in saving Warsaw from the enemy's hands. For had they succeeded in seizing Vilna, the Russian force in Poland would have been deprived largely, if not entirely, of reinforcements and supplies in general. It was one of the peculiarities of the war in Poland and East Prussia that neither side seemed able to keep an important position for any length of time. Places were seized which had a telling effect for the moment, and which one would have thought would have greatly influenced the fate of the campaign; and yet they were soon retaken or rendered untenable and the advantages of their seizure lost. In fact the fighting swayed to and fro. Here to-day, there to-morrow, the battle was lost or won. It was all a question of railways. On the 21st the Russians crossed the frontier between Janow and Chorzellen, and advanced towards Ortelsberg, driving in a force of Uhlans and smashing a battery. The next day they were met by a force of Villenberg, which partially outflanked us. Desperate fighting ensued, the Germans suffering terrible losses: but they had an object to effect--to hold the Russians until reinforcements arrived. These were run down rapidly from Koenigsberg and the Russians outnumbered and forced back. The fight was lost because the Germans had a network of railways behind them, while the nearest Russian line was 45 versts away. These facts require no comment. A Russian railway at Chorzellen would have saved the day, and led to the investment and probable fall of Koenigsberg. It would have made the occupancy of Tilsit and Memel permanent, and would almost certainly have changed the results of the campaign in this region. As it was, we had to fall back; but we did so fighting stubbornly, and giving ground very slowly, reinforcements hourly arriving by march-route. Finally we made a stand at Chorzellen, and the Prussians tried their usual tactics of repeated attacks in masses. They left 10,000 dead before the town (it is scarcely more than a big village), and then entrenched themselves at a hamlet called Straffenberg, several miles in a south-westerly direction towards Unterberg: and then a terrific artillery duel commenced. I calculated that 30,000 shots an hour were fired from both armies. The air, the ground, everywhere and everything, seemed to be alive with bursting shells. The roar of guns and explosions was incessant and quite drowned the sound of the infantry firing. Afterwards many men were deaf; I myself could hear no sounds for two days. I do not know how many guns were in action, nor the calibre of them. On our side only field guns were used, and if the Germans had any of larger size they were, at this time, few in number. Hundreds of machine-guns were used on both sides, and yet the slaughter was not at all in proportion to the amount of ammunition expended. As in all battles, according to my experience, the principal part of the destruction was due to infantry fire. Of course the loss of life was very great. I can only say the ground was heaped with dead and dying. At each successive assault the Germans mounted the heaps of corpses to get at our men and, falling on their comrades, caused the slain to lie in heaps and ridges in an extraordinary and dreadful way. The wounded in the underlying layers must have been suffocated; and the blood ran down the slopes in streams. This fearful form of fighting went on from the 22nd to the 28th August without any intermission, except occasionally a few hours in the night-time, rarely even then. I, like others, sometimes slept the sleep of utter exhaustion; but during the wakening hours I do not remember that the firing ever entirely ceased. Generally the sound of it was a continuous roar. The heavens were lit up by the reflections of discharged guns and bursting shells, and the pandemonium was dominated by a shrieking sound, probably occasioned by the rush of projectiles through the air. The terrific noise affected my brain so that for weeks afterwards I was afflicted with a head-noise resembling a loud hissing, almost intolerable to bear as it interfered with necessary rest. The front of this terrific battle was very extensive--200 versts I was told; and the Russians claimed to have had 3,000,000 men in action. At the same time fighting was going on in Galicia, and there were some isolated contests, south and west of our position. The fortune of the contending parties varied greatly; in some places the Prussians were forced back, in others the Russians. Neither side had a decided victory in any part of the field, and the ground lost or won never exceeded a verst or two in extent and was often less than a hundred yards. So it is proved that close and hand-to-hand fighting are not things of the past, as many have thought them to be. On the contrary, close fighting is more often and more extensively resorted to than ever it has been previously, even in the open field; and I think, more fiercely contested. At any rate I saw several battalions on each side so nearly destroyed that they were practically wiped out. A battalion of the 9th West Siberian regiment on our side, and a territorial battalion of the 59th Prussians met with such a fate. Not fifty of the Russians nor more than a dozen of the Germans came out of the scrimmages. They were greatly outnumbered, and some of those lost were probably taken prisoners; but I can say, from actual sight of the incidents, that in each case the men fought with desperate bravery and evinced no desire to surrender. There was some cavalry fighting too; but, generally, the Russians were numerically superior to their foes; and the Germans, more often than otherwise, avoided proffered battle. In a few instances squadrons and regiments charged one another, the Germans always getting the worst of it, and in one case at least being much cut up. The Russian cavalry even attacked infantry, but though they got away without serious loss, it is pretty evident that only in exceptional instances can cavalry now successfully contend with modernly armed foot soldiers. CHAPTER VI THE CAVALRY FIGHTING BEFORE KOENIGSBERG The battery to which I had attached myself was destroyed on the 26th. It was overwhelmed by an opposing fire which nothing could withstand, and an attempt was made to withdraw it. It was found impossible to limber up the guns: all the horses were killed, and only five or six of the drivers left. All the guns, too, were damaged; and Polchow, the commanding officer, gave the order for the few men left to endeavour to save themselves. As the words were being spoken a shell burst full on him, and, riddled by shrapnel bullets, he dropped dead without a struggle. About 20 men only got away and no horses were saved. My own was shot the moment I mounted it, and pinned me to the ground by its weight. I was exposed to the full blast of the German guns for nearly two hours. Partly shielded by the carcass I escaped injury, though my clothes were torn to rags by shrapnel bullets. The escape was miraculous. By-and-by the Germans fell back, after suffering murderous losses; and I was rescued from my perilous position by some infantry soldiers of the 70th regiment. The loss of Polchow was a serious one to me, although I had known him so short a time, to say nothing of the shock of losing a friend from whose hands I had received many kindnesses. Other friends, too, were lost in these terrible fights, but the non-com. Chouraski escaped, though he was standing near one of our ammunition-carts when it was struck by a shell and blown up. After dark a party went out to bring in the bodies of Major Polchow and two other artillery officers who had lost their lives during the day. It was raining heavily at the time; but the Germans heard us, and opened a sniping fire, by which we lost one man killed and another wounded. We returned the fire, but had nothing to aim at except the occasional flash of a rifle; so we retired, carrying the bodies of our dead comrades with us, and buried them in the middle of a small pine-copse, with rough wooden crosses at the heads of the graves, on which we hung their caps and accoutrements after the custom prevailing during this campaign. The Russians always scrupulously revered German graves so marked: I am sorry to record that the Germans were not so humane, but hurt the feelings and aroused the ire of us all, men and officers alike, by their beastly indecencies on the graves of brave men, the very meanest of whom would have blushed to be so dirty-minded and cowardly. The battery was ordered to be reformed, men, guns and horses being drawn from some reserves which, I believe, came via Petrograd; but as I would not have cared to serve under the officer appointed to command it, I sought and obtained from a Staff Officer a permit, signed by the Grand Duke Nicholas, enabling me to go practically where I liked. For a time I was with the 11th Corps, then with the 5th, and afterwards with several detachments and corps. It was a fortunate thing that I followed this course, as it enabled me to see much more and learn more than I could have done had I remained attached to a small unit. On the 27th and 28th there was very severe fighting in the direction of Villenberg, at which I was not present. At least 20,000 prisoners were brought to the rear, together with a number of horses, guns and waggons. There can be no doubt but that the Germans received a severe defeat on these two days and were compelled to retire a great distance in a disorganized condition. During these two days enormous reinforcements came up on the Russian side, including four cavalry divisions. There was great enthusiasm in our ranks, because news came to hand that the Russians had the Austrian army in a trap, and we might expect to hear of great things before the week had run out. On the 29th I rode with the 5th division of the Cossacks of the Don, and by midday we had arrived in front of Allenstein, which is a junction of five or six railway lines and is situated about 70 English miles from Koenigsberg. The people flew before us terror-stricken, and a regiment of German hussars was destroyed. I am afraid there were some atrocities on the part of the Cossacks. Without defending them I must remark that the Prussians had set them a very bad example, and they were not slow to imitate it. Villages were burnt and some civilians slain, and there were some other lamentable occurrences. A German brigade of heavy cavalry fell back, and the railway-station together with a considerable part of the town of Allenstein were destroyed, partly by fire, partly by being blown up; while the lines were torn up in every direction; but this does not mean that the destruction was as great as it would be under similar circumstances in France or England, for the district is not a country of many culverts and bridges. The ground is marshy, with numerous pools and lakes of considerable size, which afforded good shelter to such German troops as were seen, and enabled them to retire without much loss; in fact there was scarcely any fighting on this day, and it became evident that they were waiting for reinforcements before venturing to attack the overwhelming mass of Russian cavalry, which was the largest body of horsemen I have ever heard of as acting in one huge corps. Probably they mustered 40,000 lances and sabres, and they covered the whole country on a front of quite 100 versts, extending from Allenstein to Goldapp near Suvalki. The whole of this region is a swamp with a crescentic line of lakes and ponds--a difficult country for cavalry to act in; but the Cossacks crept in everywhere, and fire and lance did some fell work. In some places there was fighting. On the 30th we came in contact with a division of Prussian infantry with 60 guns. Our men, consisting of dismounted Cossacks, dragoons and chasseurs, with 30 horse-artillery and machine guns, took cover amongst some reeds and scattered farm buildings and inflicted some loss on the enemy, who did not make a stand but soon withdrew behind a marshy lake, their guns taking a made road where they offered a good mark, so that a couple of them were knocked over, horses and all, though the enemy saved them under cover of darkness. At night the railway-station at Bischofsburg was destroyed and the line torn up for a distance of four versts east and west of it; and we learned that our patrols had demolished the stations at Sensburg, Rastenburg, Latzen and Nordenburg, and had pulled up many versts of the line. We ourselves blew up the station at Seeburg, or Seeburg Road as it might be called, for the town is situated several versts from the railway. Altogether we seemed to be having a walk-over in this region, and when news arrived on the 2nd September that the Russians, after a week's fighting, had crushed the Austrian Army and occupied Lemberg, the excitement and joy in our division were such as I never before thought the phlegmatic Muscovites to be capable of, and I began to entertain the belief that the campaign would be a short one, and that the boast of the Russians that we should be in Berlin in two or three weeks' time was no vain one. On this day our videttes were at Friedland, and we learned that the Prussians had come out of Koenigsburg in force, and that there had been severe fighting ending in the enemy retiring to the shelter of their forts. The Russian commanders, however, do not seem to have thought it advisable to pursue the foe to within range of their guns. On the 3rd we approached near enough to be able to see two of the outlying forts of the great stronghold. Many parties of Germans watched the dozen troopers composing our advanced guard; but there was no exchange of shots. We satisfied ourselves that certain dispositions of the enemy were intended as a lure to attract a considerable body of our troops within destructive range of their concealed parties. We smelt the trap and declined to be led into it, but one of our officers, Lieutenant Pitchchiff, with great temerity rode up to an eminence which gave him a great command of view and was less than 200 yards from a company of the enemy. He was not shot at, but a number of mounted men rode towards him, and to avoid being taken prisoner he had to come away at a hand gallop. I do not think the information he gleaned was of much importance. The officer I came most in contact with was Captain Rudovka of the 16th Dragoons, but acting as intelligence officer to the commander of the 5th division of Cossacks. His bad English and my worse French enabled us to understand one another, and his duties, carrying him as they did over a great deal of ground, made him a very desirable companion. I had permission also to keep the artilleryman Chouraski with me. He was an excellent servant. The Russian officer is usually a splendid fellow; jovial, polite, generous and frank in a high degree. He is not so well versed in the history and theory of his profession as the German officer, and not a patch on his British comrade, who, after all is said and done, is the finest officer in the world. As to pluck and courage, there is not an appreciable difference in any of the armies. I witnessed some magnificent instances of bravery in both Germans and Russians; and truth to tell, acts of devilish cruelty in both nations--acts which I do not believe it is possible either French or British officers could commit, however great the provocation. There are peculiarities in all peoples; and one of those of the Russians is the number of females serving in their ranks, many of them as officers. Indeed, I heard that one lady commanded a regiment of Cossacks! This seems to me on a par with a General nursing a baby! But I never was "a lady's man," so perhaps I had better reserve my opinions. All I say is that I am glad the lady referred to was not the Colonel of any regiment under the wings of which I fought; and I should imagine that any "mere male" brought before a court-martial of Amazons would stand more danger of being spanked than shot. I saw some of these female soldiers--quite a score in all. There was nothing particularly romantic in the appearance of any of them. Most of them had the appearance of big, lanky raw-boned boys; faces oval, features "puddeny," and complexions pale. One girl, said to be only eighteen years old, was quite six feet high, with limbs that would fit a grenadier. I noticed that all those I saw were dark-haired women. They are said to have been enlisted as men and to have remained in their regiments some time before their sex was discovered. When this event took place the woman was allowed to remain in the service. I was a little curious to know where these ladies lodged, as accommodation is always limited enough in the tented field. I found that, in the case I was so rude as to pry into, the girl slept amongst the soldiers, but was relegated to a tent occupied exclusively by married men. My admiration was great. The wisdom of the East still reigns in Muscovite brains. Where else would one find the wisdom of the serpent combined with the harmlessness of the dove but in a tent full of married men unless, indeed, it would be in a tent full of married ladies? The Northern nations are not prudish in the matter of housing the sexes together. Men and women sleep promiscuously in one compartment in their cottage, farms, etc. For some days the centre of fighting was in Austrian Poland and Galicia, of which we could see nothing. There was also a powerful advance across the German frontier in the direction of Breslau. More weight was given to these evolutions than they deserved. For a time the Russian attacks were irresistible, but the Germans invariably succeeded in stemming them. The reason lies in a nutshell. The enormous weight of millions forced the enemy back; but he always retired slowly, doggedly; and when he had collected a sufficient force made a determined counter-attack which never failed, because man for man the German is by far the better fighter. It may be unpleasant to many to hear this; but it is true; and no man is more sorry than I am that it is so. The German is, generally speaking, a ferocious brute, but he is possessed of the bestial courage of a tiger, and, like that fierce animal, has an insatiable taste for blood. To say that the German Army is an organized band of criminals, a trained body of thieves and murderers, may seem to be far-fetched and exaggerated to some persons; but if they had witnessed what I have witnessed they would not say so. Young Polish girls were forced to drink until they were helplessly drunk, and in this dreadful condition were outraged to death. The body of an aged female (no doubt a matron) was found hanging from a tree by the feet, disembowelled and trussed as a hog, with this notice pinned to her, "An old sow left to be salted." A whole company of Prussian infantry abused one poor woman who died in our camp. In one village about 150 men and male children, down to the age of nine or ten years, were burned alive. In another place, a small hamlet near Shiplishki, we heard the screams of burning people, and afterwards saw the charred remains of them. These are not isolated instances: they were of everyday occurrence, but I do not dwell on them for fear of exciting disgust. The murder and mutilation of the wounded was invariable when the enemy had time to effect it, and we became to some degree hardened to such commonplace occurrences. On the other hand, the Russians retaliated; and I say, what wonder that they did so? I believe in retaliation. It is a powerful weapon to fight with. It frightened the Germans and afterwards, to a very marked extent, put a check on their atrocities. I stood by and saw 10 officers and 100 soldiers hanged; and as I did so I remembered that the first murders I witnessed in this horrible war were those of Russian subjects by the Germans at Kalisz; and if by holding up a thumb I could have saved the life of any one of these 110 scoundrels, I would not have lifted it. These were all clearly guilty of murder, wounding, torturing, female abusing, and plundering. Still I must say, with regard to the Cossacks--they are terrible fellows. I have mentioned as a peculiarity of the Russian forces the number of women found in their ranks and welcomed there. The great peculiarities of the German Army, apart from its fiendish brutality, are the prevalence of suicide and insanity in it. Some months later than the time I am writing of, a captured German officer, a Lieutenant, I believe, of a Landwehr regiment, told me that down to the end of February, 1915, at least a thousand men had destroyed themselves; and he mentioned it as a curious fact that hardly any of these miserable creatures belonged to the artillery branch of the service. The reasons for destroying themselves were rarely left behind by the victims of this terrible infatuation. Some of our prisoners destroyed themselves; and I saw one man shoot himself on the battlefield. But in this latter instance horror at the sights around him was the probable cause of the deed. Insanity is even more frequent amongst German soldiers than suicide. At the battle of Darkehmen a man, quite naked, foaming and gesticulating wildly, rushed towards us. The astonishment this excited caused a lull of the firing at the spot, and he dashed along for 500 yards at a tremendous speed, leaping and springing like a stag. He made straight for our ranks, where he was knocked down by a soldier and secured. He bit very badly several of his captors before being carried to the rear. I do not know what became of him; but hundreds of our prisoners were raving when captured. CHAPTER VII THE FIRST INVASION OF EAST PRUSSIA, AND THE RETREAT By the 4th or 5th September it was pretty generally known, in that part of the Russian Army where I was, that something was going wrong with us. Great masses of infantry and artillery were formed eastward, behind, and on the right flank of the cavalry; and yet we made no further advance or progress in any direction. Some thought that our commanders were afraid of the garrison of the Koenigsberg forts, which was believed to number 150,000 men. I, and others engaged on outpost and scouting work, knew that German reinforcements were coming up rapidly, and that a large army was collecting on the Vistula between Marienburg and Thorn. These reinforcements, we knew, were coming from Belgium and the Western theatre of war, and also from the interior of Germany. On our side reinforcements were coming up in great numbers; but at this period the chief fighting was on the Austrian-Russian frontier; and daily, and often almost hourly, news came to hand of the great victories which were being gained. It was asserted that in one day as many as 130,000 Austrian and Prussian prisoners were taken. The truth of these reports I had no means of ascertaining: nor of the many other rumours of the crushing victories of the Allies in the West, where the Germans were said to be retreating on all parts, and in many places, in disorderly rout. Now, eight months later, are they retreating at any point? Evidently mistakes were made; and it was not realized that the enemy was preparing a ring of defences which it would take many months to force. It was also said that the Germans were beginning to run short of ammunition. We soon had painful evidence that the Germans were short of nothing. On the evening of the 5th September, they trapped one of our cavalry regiments and destroyed it, together with the greater part of a squadron of dragoons. Many of the men, including all the wounded, were taken prisoners. On the 6th the enemy began to advance in force. The fighting consisted mostly of artillery duels at long ranges. While we were watching the action of some guns posted about two English miles away, a shell smashed to atoms the head and shoulders of an officer in the midst of our group, and we were splashed all over with his blood and brains--not a pleasant experience. The man must have been killed instantly, yet his hands and feet continued to twitch for some minutes after he was struck. It is remarkable that only one man was hurt, as we were standing close together under some trees, where we felt sure we were quite safe. On the same day we began to retire, but slowly, and with much stubborn fighting. Nearly all the cavalry was drawn back from the front, and much of it must have been sent right away, as I never saw it again. The 5th Cossack division, however, remained; and for a long time was engaged in covering a portion of the 11th Army Corps. [Illustration: RUSSIAN COSSACKS ON THE GERMAN FRONTIER] On the 7th the artillery fight continued without apparently decisive results on either side, though our retreat continued, as it did on the 8th when the bulk of the Cossacks (about 1,500 men) were at Deutsch Eylau, with orders to fall back on Soldau, a town seventy or eighty versts east of Thorn. There followed a number of movements which I did not understand, and about which I could glean no information. My difficulties were so great that it was not until this day that I learned we were under the direct command of General Rennenkampf, whom I had only seen on one occasion, and then had scarcely more than a glimpse of him. The little I learned with certainty showed that the Russians were obtaining great and important victories over the Austrians, with whom were combined a considerable force of Germans, and that the Prussians were becoming exceedingly nervous about their progress. In consequence, they withdrew a great many units from our front; and the Russians, too, sent a great force to the south, including, I suspect, most of the cavalry that had suddenly departed. Both sides, also, but the Germans principally, began to form extensive systems of entrenchments; and two new devices came into use in modern warfare--viz., hand-grenades and armour breastplates. The grenades were peculiar things, not at all resembling the weapons which gave our Grenadiers their name; of a kind of elongated pear-shape, these were iron cases divided into segments, and attached to a stick which fitted the barrel of a rifle and enabled them to be shot, at an acute angle, into trenches. They were, also, thrown by hand, and were nasty viperish things, often doing a great deal of damage. The shields were a kind of iron breastplate, roughly made, and held in the hand by means of metal handles; so that the men had to drop them when they fired their rifles, or used their bayonets: but afterwards they were attached to the body by means of straps. Except at short range they were bullet-proof. The method of use was for the front rank in a mass of close columns to hold them up, protecting themselves and comrades until they closed with the foe, when they were thrown down that their bearers might use the bayonet. Hundreds of them were taken by the Russians; but the contrivance was too clumsy, and was soon abandoned by both sides. Before the men could drop them and unsling their rifles they were heaps of corpses. The grenades, however, held their own, and were much used in trench warfare. There was frequent and much rain at this time; which was a great inconvenience, and caused the ground to become in a very bad state for the passage of cavalry and artillery, not to mention the misery of bivouacking in drenching showers. The weather was often very hot; but there was a singular absence of disease amongst our troops, though one got to know that typhus and other fevers were appearing amongst the enemy's troops, though not spreading to any extent; and probably no campaign on a large scale was ever conducted with less loss to the troops from disease. Much of the scene of the operations I have been describing was very beautiful country, studded with homesteads and farms that, in normal times, must have been quiet and peaceful places, occupied by well-to-do yeomanry and peasantry, living happy and contented lives. Orchards were numerous, but the fruit had entirely disappeared, either prematurely removed by its owners to make what they could of it, or plundered by the passing troops. Frequently we rode by cornfields that had been burned; and potato-fields had been dug up and wasted, thousands of potatoes the size of marbles lying on the ground. Our raiders got hold of many fowls and pigs; and for a week or two pork was always to be had at two or three meals per day. Most of the people had fled from this country; those that remained seemed to fear their own countrymen as much as they did our Cossacks, and remained in hiding while we were passing. Generally speaking they were not ill-used when our men discovered them; but scant respect was shown to the rights of womanhood by the Germans themselves, who had become brutal. No doubt many of the German officers made great efforts to maintain order; but the license of war is notorious, and many opportunities for wrong-doing must necessarily arise in countries under its influence. Houses and whole villages were wrecked and burned. We were constantly passing through smouldering ruins, and at night the land resembled our "Black Country" for blazing fires, and reflections of fires. We saw bodies of civilians who appeared to have been executed by shooting; and in one wrecked and smoke-blackened street, a couple of our own Cossacks, and another Russian soldier, were seen hanging to lamp-posts--probably marauders who had wandered away from their ranks, and fallen amongst the Philistines--a fate such people often meet. Acting on orders, the cavalry spread out into a vast screen, covering the movements of the infantry, and gradually fell back before the enemy. The movement was described as being strategical, for the purpose of drawing the Germans into a favourable position for attack; but this assertion was probably made to keep up the spirits of our troops. The enemy fired at us a good deal; but as they could not bring their guns to bear on a group of men, very little execution was done. There were some charges between small parties, always much less than a squadron in strength: and in all these that I saw or heard of the Germans got the worst of the fight; and besides those cut down, in three or four days, our men captured more than 200 prisoners, half a dozen of whom were officers. I believe that the Germans claimed to have captured some of our soldiers, but I much doubt if they secured as many as a score. The Cossack has a strong disinclination to be taken prisoner; and I knew of several of them sacrificing their lives rather than fall into the hands of the Germans, who heartily detest these men, and usually murdered such as they succeeded in catching--and murdered them after preliminary tortures, according to reports which reached us. The country people certainly showed no mercy to stragglers falling into their hands. They usually pitch-forked them to death; and this lethal weapon was a favourite with the ladies on both sides of the border, many a fine Teuton meeting his end by thrusts from this implement. For in some of the fights the peasantry, including women of all ages, took part, and showed that farm instruments are as deadly as any kind of "arme blanche." ("Arme blanche" is the term used by military scientists to include bayonets, lances and swords of all descriptions. Perhaps the nearest English equivalent is "cold steel.") Riding through a burnt village near Neidenburg, half a sotnia of our fellows fell into a Prussian trap and had a third of their saddles emptied in a few seconds. The survivors were equal to the occasion; and charged so vigorously that they completely routed their opponents--about 100 of a reservist corps with the figures 239 on their shoulder-straps.[2] Two of these men were impaled on the same Cossack lance, an almost incredible circumstance. The Cossacks are in the habit of lowering their lances as they charge without removing them from the buckets. Holding them loosely by the lanyards they kick them into their enemies with such irresistible force, aided by the speed of the charging horse, that to parry the weapons is impossible. In the case mentioned, the men must have been standing one close behind the other, and the lance was driven right through bodies, packs and all. It was some time before one of the men died: in fact, not before the Cossack drew his sword and finished him off by a sabre cut. The soldier could not withdraw his lance, so firmly was it embedded in the bodies, a circumstance which much aroused his ire, for all Cossacks are much attached to their weapons. [2] 239 Reserve are said to have been in Flanders. There may be various explanations; but it is certain that this small party of men wore the number 239. Having crossed the border, we fell back in the direction of Przasnysz, hearing that Soldau was evacuated; but I did not myself enter that town. We found that a long line of trenches had been made stretching towards Lomza and said to be extended quite up to that place. The lines were full of infantry; and redoubts were constructed at intervals in which heavy siege artillery was placed; an encouraging sight, as it seemed certain that these defences must effectually check the Germans. We were not long left to ponder over the possible effects of an assault on our position. On the 14th the Germans opened fire with their field-guns, and at daybreak made a violent assault in their usual close formation. The result was horrible. Whole sections of them were blown away, the air being filled with showers of human fragments, dismembered by the big shells from the siege guns. At the same time they were subjected to a withering rifle fire and they soon broke and fled, suffering terribly as they rushed madly away. Perhaps the heavy guns were a surprise to them. They generally made repeated assaults, often as many as seven or eight in quick succession; but on this occasion they were fairly frightened: they even suspended their artillery shooting until late in the afternoon, and made no demonstration against the parties which went out from our lines to examine the battlefield. Of all the awful sights I had seen, or saw afterwards, none exceeded this. The enemy could not reach the guns, on account of the skilful way in which they were placed well in the rear, and protected by strong cross-fire; but they had succeeded by superhuman bravery in forcing the first line trenches. They held none of their gains longer than five minutes, at most; but in that time lost so heavily that the pits were filled with corpses flush with the ground outside of them. In some spots the dead and the dying were lying in heaps eight or nine deep. The shells which had been used appeared to weigh from 150 to 200 pounds (English weight) each; and hundreds of bodies were rent to pieces. Arms, heads, legs, entrails, pieces of flesh, were lying about in all directions; and the proportion of dead to injured was very high--more so, I think, than in any other action that had taken place, though in some instances nearly all the casualties were caused by artillery fire. We brought in about 7,000 wounded; and I calculated that at least 12,000 dead were left lying on the field. The Germans sent a flag of truce asking for permission to bury their dead. A reply was sent that we would do that job for them. But no attempt was made to bury the enemy's dead until the 16th. There was rain in the interval, followed by a hot morning: not more than half the bodies were disposed of until the 17th, and by that time the stench from the field was sickening. During this interval there was no firing worth mentioning. The Germans were slyly waiting for their heavy guns to come up. However, on the night of the 17th they made an attempt to surprise us, but went home with a flea in their ear, leaving another 1,000 men behind them. At this time so many men had been withdrawn to the Austrian front, that, imitating the example of the British and French in the West, our cavalry were dismounted and fighting in the trenches. So I had full opportunity of seeing what was going on and taking a part in the operations. Often I wished that I could move about even more freely than I contrived to do. For the sounds of heavy firing miles away showed that our little hamlet was not the only centre of a fierce fight. The name of this hamlet, situated about twenty versts to the east of Przasnysz, by-the-by I never heard. It had endured the horror of a visit from the Germans, and was a heap of blackened ruins. It had occupied a slight eminence, and a battery was now placed in front of it. Further back were some gravel-pits and a scarped bank, where the Cossacks picketed their horses, and a reserve of ammunition was kept, though it was not altogether safe from the enemy's shells. All through the 18th there was very heavy artillery firing, in which the Germans got much the worst of it, as their guns were light; but on the 19th they had some heavy pieces in position which did us some damage, blowing in many yards of trenches, and destroying hundreds of men. We had, however, no experience of the terrible "Jack Johnsons," nor had we, so far, heard of those monstrous pieces of artillery. General Jowmetstri, our immediate commander, did not care to sit still and endure this galling fire, which our guns were unable to subdue; and on the evening of the 20th he ordered a general advance with the bayonet. The Germans did not seem to be prepared for this, if they were not actually taken by surprise. Our charge was a very fierce one and the enemy was driven out of his trenches, and a large working-party which was busy cutting parallel lines of defence was annihilated. The enemy's troops at this point were evidently of inferior quality. Many of them threw down their arms, and some begged piteously for mercy. Their officers were furious, and cut and stabbed at their soldiers, as well as fired their revolvers at them. I saw one fellow throw his arms round his officer and literally howl for mercy, while the man of authority swore and struggled to free his sword arm. Both men were taken prisoners. The whole force was swept from its defences and compelled to retreat, closely followed by our men. A sharp rifle-fire was kept up all night. About ten o'clock in the morning the enemy joined a fresh force, and we were compelled to halt. We could hear that very heavy fighting was taking place to the right of our position, some of the sounds of artillery firing being distant, in the opinion of experienced soldiers, at least thirty versts; and the front of the battle must have extended a much greater distance than that. I was much perturbed about my horse, and those of the Cossacks with me, numbering about fifty men, all that was left of the sotnia (or squadron). I had not seen Rudovka for three days; and, in fact, never saw him again, nor did I meet with anybody of whom I could make inquiries concerning him. Chouraski was still with me; but communication between us was chiefly by means of signs, though I was beginning to pick up the names of a few things in Russian; and Chouraski knew what I meant when I asked for "bread" (biscuit), "cheese," "water," "wash," "dress," etc. Some of the articles indicated by these words were very different from what an Englishman would expect them to be. Bread was a species of "hard tack" compared with which dog-biscuits are fancy food: cheese was a wretched soft mess resembling wet putty, sour and peculiarly flavoured. Meat was plentiful and good, especially German pork, and fowls, many of which were large and fleshy. The fifty Cossacks had no officer left and only one corporal, and they looked to me for guidance. Assisted by Chouraski I contrived to lead them very well for five days, when they were taken charge of by a Staff Officer, and, I suppose, sent back to their regiment. Whether they regained their horses, or what became of mine, I never heard. I say "mine"; but really I do not know to whom the animal, or the one previously killed under me, belonged. Both had been found for me, no explanations being asked for or given. I was lost without a horse, but had no money to buy one. At this time all the cash in my possession was £20 in English sovereigns, and I had nobody to whom I could apply for more. I wrote several letters to friends at home; but none of these reached their destination; nor did I receive a line from anyone during the whole time I was with the Russian Army. Campaigning is rough work. I had come into the country with a small gladstone bag only; and now I wanted many things badly, including boots in particular. But just now I had fighting to attend to, and that under strange circumstances because, like George Washington, I seem to suffer from a natural inability to become a linguist. Most of the Russian officers are good French scholars; and I found the most facile way of communicating with them was to pencil down in French what I wished to say. "How was I to get a horse?" "Take one from the Deutschman," came the ready reply. I resolved I would if I could. Boots and shirts were another matter, and these were generously given me, together with an officer's uniform of the 80th regiment. The swaying backwards and forwards of the battle, so to speak, seemed to be occasioned by the necessity the Germans were under to rush their troops about to save the many threatened positions. They strove, often with success, to pin the Russian troops to one spot while they sent reinforcements to help their friends the Austrians. Their Allies set right, back came the relieving force, and a fresh attack was made on the Russians, too often with success, or partial success. I have already repeatedly said that it was their splendid system of railways that enabled the Germans to effect these rapid and confusing movements. That the railways were the means by which they obtained their victories was proved by a curious fact. When the Russians were beaten back so far that the Germans could not command their railed lines of communication, and were thus placed on an equality with the Russians, they began to lose ground, and Russians to gain it. This accounts for the "swaying backwards and forwards" of the contending forces to which I have several times alluded. In the present fight, however, I think they had a narrow escape of a serious disaster, and I was disappointed that the Russians did not evince more dash and push their enemies back on Berlin. They proved to be not strong enough to do this; nor do I think they will succeed in so doing, until the British and French make a decided turn in the Western campaign. It is in the West that the fate of the German Empire will be decided. Germany too is full of strong fortresses; and the Russians have been unable to threaten seriously any of these, and are, I feel sure, incapable of taking any of them. They lack the necessary artillery, for one thing; and I was never greatly impressed by the engineering skill of their sappers. The Germans are masters in this branch of the service; and that is a circumstance which is sure to tell both in field-works and in fortress warfare. That there was much anxiety amongst the commanders of both armies at the end of September was betrayed by the movements of the troops, and the disinclination which was shown by both Russians and Germans to take a bold initiative before the arrival of strong reinforcements. There was firing every day, it is true, and sometimes heavy firing; but no attempts at those vigorous attacks in masses of columns which were so expensive in life; and, I might add, so ineffectual that it is amazing the Germans persisted in making them. Attempts may have been made to conceal the arrival of reinforcements: they were not successful. We learned of every battery and battalion that arrived in the German line: and their prisoners, of whom we daily captured hundreds, could tell us all about the fresh arrivals in our camp. Something was learned through scouts and patrols; but there must have been numerous spies in both camps. None of them were discovered to my knowledge; but the Germans were continually hanging or shooting suspected persons. The slightest suspicion of a stranger in their lines was sufficient to insure his destruction. They shot first and inquired afterwards, if they inquired at all. Almost simultaneously it was announced in our camp that the Czar was coming to command us in person, and the Kaiser to place himself at the head of the enemy. The Germans were evidently most anxious to drive back our armies, in order to have the greater part of their force at liberty to deal with the French and British in the West: their prisoners admitted this, and were not at all reticent concerning details, often giving information which showed them to be little better than traitors to their country. The Saxons, particularly, were communicative, and many of them openly expressed their disgust at the war and the cruelties perpetrated by the Prussians, who, with the Bavarians and Würtembergers, were undoubtedly the cruellest men amongst our foes, as they are the most brutal amongst themselves. The roughs from Wurzburg, Frankfort-on-the-Rhine, Berlin, and Hanover, were notorious for wickedness, even in their own ranks; and prisoners from the other States would often refuse to associate with them. I moved about very freely amongst the German prisoners at the request of several of the Russian commanders, for the purpose of gleaning information. While at least 40 or 50 per cent. of the German officers could speak French and English fluently, hardly any of the Russians had a knowledge of the latter language, though they ware nearly always good French scholars. On the other hand, German officers rarely understand Russian. The German rank and file contained hundreds of men who spoke English almost like natives of Britain; and no big batch of prisoners came under my notice which did not contain men who had resided in our Islands. Their officers were more reticent than the men; hence the use I could be to the Russian authorities; and though spying is not to my taste, I acted willingly enough on these occasions for what, I hope, are very obvious reasons. I have been told by some pious people that the meaning of the present universal imbroglio is that the end of the world is imminent. I am convinced that it would soon be so if the wretched Tyrant of Prussia won the day: and to prevent such a catastrophe I would willingly stoop to meaner work than spying. Sometimes the prisoners mistook me for a German; and I did not always undeceive them. Many of them were miserably ignorant creatures; and I formed the opinion that State interference with the education of either the Classes or the Masses is not such a benefit to the people of a country as many meddlesome faddists would like us to believe. Probably there are very few Germans who cannot read and write; but these are qualifications which may be much perverted if they are not "founded upon a rock." A great many of the prisoners taken by the Russians were men who would better be described as deserters than prisoners. Lots of them hated the military service, and had taken the earliest opportunity to run away from it--into the arms of their enemies. "I have a wife and six children in Magdeburg. If I'm killed who will look after them?" said one man. Another fellow remarked: "I was married about three months before I was called to the colours. I don't want my wife to be grabbed up by somebody else." These, and other remarks, show that all the people in Germany are not patriots. A soldier of the 54th regiment declared himself to be a Socialist, and said he did not like killing his fellow-men. Another declared that the only men he wished to kill were his officer and his sergeant-major, who had been cruel to him; and he added: "I came away to save myself from being killed by them." A large number of Jews surrendered because they would not fight against their fellow Jews, who, they had heard, were enlisting in large numbers in the French and English armies. The loss of men of these descriptions would not weaken the German Army; but many thousands of the genuine prisoners were inveterate in their hatred of Britain and everything British; and, strange as it seems, these were the men from whom I gained the most useful information. They were boastful and threatening: "Our Kaiser will be in your dirty country on such and such a day; and then you'll catch it!" "Nonsense," I would reply; "he hasn't got men enough to fight on this front, and invade England as well." "Oh yes, he has. All our best troops have gone to crush the English. Any men are good enough to defeat these red-snouted pigs. The Guard Corps has gone to destroy your Guards;" and then the fellow would go on to say where the various German corps were stationed, which was valuable information. In this way I first learned that the English Guards were in France; and many important details of the fighting there--details which it was troublesome to verify, but I did verify them: and so various and important was the information I gathered that I was, for a time, much employed in this work by the Russian staff. Much that I learned was at variance with what I afterwards read in English newspapers. Evidently Germany was not so short of foodstuffs and munitions of war as newspaper-men and politicians often fondly imagined they were. I obtained clear proof that, in the early stages of the war, and as late as February or March, both food and copper were sent in large quantities by neutrals through neutrals, and also metals and munitions. The Americans, I firmly believe, were generally antagonistic to Germany and her policy; but there is in the United States a very large body of people of Teutonic birth or descent, many of whom are rich and influential tradesmen, and no effectual steps were taken to prevent these persons from supplying their compatriots on the European Continent with stores of goods of every description. They even did so on credit and under promise of rich reward when that golden apple, Albion, had dropped into the Kaiser's maw. Items of interest which I gained from German prisoners were very numerous, and of intense interest. I heard much about the brutal treatment of our prisoners, and the destruction of our towns by airships; information which, I know, required to be accepted with caution; but I verified it by cross-questioning and other means, to the extent of learning certainly that places on our island had been wrecked by aeroplanes, and many lives lost. The circumstantial details given were too clear to leave a doubt on one's mind. Most of those from whom I gathered information were men who had resided in England. Concerning the food-supply of our enemies, I learned what steps they were taking to husband their stores, and I am satisfied that with what they have got, and what is still leaking into their country, they can probably hold out for two years at least. If they are beaten sooner it must be by force of arms, not by starvation, though this will be their ultimate fate if the war is much prolonged; for Germany is not self-supporting, and as her troops are driven back, the area from which she can draw supplies will be rapidly curtailed. CHAPTER VIII THE KAISER NOT A SUCCESSFUL GENERAL The movements of the German troops were amazing. Some of the men we took prisoners had been rushed up from Belgium, back again, sent into Austria, and brought back to East Prussia; and all this in less than two months. I mean that the entire corps, or divisions, to which these men had belonged had been so shifted about. The Prussian Guards were smashed up at Ypres by our splendid "British Grenadiers" (we soon learned this), and then came and faced us, when they did not fare much better. Probably it was the recruits who replaced the first lot who came to make the acquaintance of the Russian bayonets. As to their Kaiser, he was reported to be in a dozen places at one and the same time. He was certainly at Soldau, or in its neighbourhood, during the last week of September; but I did not learn the exact date of his arrival in the East. Like most exalted potentates of his stamp--compounds of arrogance and blasphemy--he seemed to have some fears for his personal safety, and to be endeavouring to secure it by shrouding his movements in a certain amount of mystery. By the shouting and hymn-singing, we knew he was at Soldau on the 24th; but on the 27th we received definite information that he was at Suvalki, which is thirteen versts over the German border and in Russian territory. This was also the first intimation we had that our forces had evacuated the Spirding See, the Lake region; and it was not received as pleasant news, though anger rather than depression was the prevailing passion amongst us. Reports, confirmed by the admission of prisoners, stated that a quarter of a million men had been quietly collected at Koenigsberg and were now being rapidly drafted into Poland. Though the Kaiser was said to be in personal command of the new army, a General von Hindenburg was mentioned as being the real director of its movements. This was the first time we had heard of him. At this period one of the gravest of Russia's mistakes was, in my opinion, an undue attention to the Austrian section of the big battle--for the fight really raged along the entire eastern and northern frontiers of Germany and Austria. Troops were massed in front of the Jaroslav-Lemberg line, who could have been more usefully employed in forcing back the invaders in East Poland. But Russia has had her eyes on Galicia for years, and, like a dog with a bone, has instincts for nothing but her prey. She and her friends thought her huge masses would swamp everything that attempted to oppose them. This has proved to be a mistaken opinion, just as Germany's idea that rushed masses would carry everything before them has turned out to be an error. In modern war huge masses mean appalling death lists and vast numbers of prisoners. An army such as even Napoleon hardly ever saw is now imprisoned in Russia; and another, scarcely inferior to it in numbers, is interned in Germany. Men deployed may fall back and escape; a mass of columns under direct artillery fire must surrender or be annihilated. This is the reason that troops have been captured in bodies of thousands on both sides. It is also the chief reason that the slaughter has been so excessive. On the night of the 28th, at about 10.30, we were aroused and paraded. I was excessively tired at the time, hardly able to keep my eyes open, and was under the impression that fighting was about to take place in our immediate neighbourhood; but after standing in a drenching rain for about half an hour we were marched off--I could not tell where or in what direction. The night was dark, the rain falling in torrents, and the ground a quagmire; but the men marched quickly and in perfect silence. They were not permitted to smoke, an indulgence which was usual on marches. I marched with an East Russian regiment from Perm, which had already seen such hard service that it was reduced in strength from 4,000 to less than 2,000 men. There were other regiments in the division which had suffered even more severely. The men were cheerful, recent accounts of great victories on the Austrian frontier having much raised their spirits. We plodded on till eight o'clock the next morning, when we were halted, and each man, including officers, was handed a mug of coffee and two large biscuits, commissariat carts passing down the ranks for this purpose. It was still raining. During the night we had passed through two towns and two villages, but I had no idea where we then were. After waiting two hours till about 10 a.m., we resumed our march, and after proceeding four or five versts arrived at Ostrolenka railway-station. Troops were leaving this place by train, and we were placed in carriages about noon, and departed eastward. I shared a compartment with six officers and was able to hold a little communication with them. Their opinion was that we were going to Grodno, about 150 versts from Ostrolenka. After smoking a cigar or two they all went to sleep and within a few minutes I had followed their example, and was so dog-tired that I did not awake until I was aroused at Grodno, where we arrived at six o'clock in the evening. The sound of heavy artillery firing was heard as we stood on the platform; but no information could be gleaned about what was going on, and in a short time we were placed in another train and sent off in the direction of Suvalki, the capital town of a province of the same name. At ten o'clock we were detrained on the line near to a large sheet of water, probably at Otschauka. A big battle was going on some eight or ten versts away. We could hear a tremendous sound of firing, and could see the red reflection in the sky for many miles on either hand. Without delay we were marched towards this scene of conflict, and at once began to meet long lines of wounded men and prisoners. The Germans were reported to be getting the worst of the fight, but the Russians stood in need of reinforcements. We hurried on, the men marching at a very quick step, but often floundering through slush and mud. The ground was very soft and marshy, and full of ponds and streams with steep banks. Troops were in front of us, and others behind; and judging from a spluttering rifle-fire, I thought our flank was being protected by a cavalry skirmishing line. It was the first serious night-fight in which I had been engaged. As we advanced it became more and more evident that it was a battle of an extensive and desperate description; and enough could be seen to show that its front extended at least twenty versts, and probably much more. At length we were halted and deployed into line; and I thought other infantry regiments were coming up on both flanks; but the night was too dark to enable one to make sure of much. While we were thus engaged a cavalry regiment rode into us--it cannot be said that it charged--and I have always been of opinion that they made a mistake of some kind. Half of them were killed, the rest surrendered; and I tried to gain possession of one of their horses, as I had been recommended to do. I was disappointed. Some unmannerly rascal took it from me just as I was trying to get into the saddle, and time and circumstances made an argument both difficult and dangerous. We were within long range of artillery fire, and stray shells burst over our heads and fell amongst our ranks; and an order was passed that we were to lie down. The ground was sodden, and most of us were very damp if not wet through; but there we lay for two hours until about 1.30 a.m., when we were suddenly ordered to advance. We had not gone 1,000 yards when there was some wild shooting in front of us, and to my astonishment I found that we were close upon the enemy. It must have been a surprise to them, or they would never have permitted us to close without riddling us with rifle and cannon shot according to their usual tactics; and either desperation lent them energy, or they were getting used to the handling of their weapons, for I never saw a fiercer bayonet fight on the part of the Germans. They burnt flares, or a similar contrivance, which threw a lurid light over the fiercely struggling mass of human furies, and benefited us as much as it did themselves; and that was a good thing, for otherwise it would have been almost impossible to distinguish friend from foe, and accidents must have been of frequent occurrence. The enemy appeared to have made some shallow rifle trenches, but many of them fought on open, flat ground; and their losses were terrible. The fight lasted, furiously, desperately, for about a quarter of an hour; then the Germans gave way and ran for their lives, closely followed by their foes. As they ran they unbuckled their knapsacks and let them fall to the ground. Many fell on their knees and held their hands up, not always with success in obtaining mercy, though hundreds of prisoners were taken and secured by the reserves which were following us in support. Some threw themselves flat on the ground and thus often escaped immediate death. The officers on both sides lost control of their men. I could hear the Germans shouting and threatening and saw some of them throw themselves before the soldiers in a vain attempt to stop the headlong flight; while our men were so excited that the commands of their officers were quite ignored--a very unusual thing amongst Russian soldiers, whose reverence for their commanders resembles that of saints for their priests. I believe the Germans suffered something from their own artillery fire, their shells bursting amongst friends and foes alike. One fell close in front of me and the explosion made me shiver; but though it killed at least half a dozen men I escaped without so much as a scratch, though I afterwards found my clothes torn by projectiles of some kind. The pursuit went on for hours. When daylight broke it had not diminished in vigour, and, the country being an open marsh, the enemy, deprived of the trenches in which they love to fight, could find no point of support and were kept on the run. Many of them, far too heavily accoutred, fell from exhaustion, and soon they began to surrender in squads and companies. Cavalry on our left front made a demonstration, but the ground was so rotten that they could not charge; and we soon began to come up with guns embedded in the mud. Gunners and horses were bayoneted, and the guns afterwards fell into our hands. I was told that hundreds were taken; certainly whole batteries were left behind, the majority of the horses having been worked to death in an endeavour to drag them away. I saw them lying dead harnessed to guns and waggons. Some were still dying, groaning pitifully, and not a few were put out of their misery by men whom the fiercest passion could not deprive of some sense of compassion for innocent suffering. I came upon a German gunner engaged in this praiseworthy work, and gave him a friendly nod. He returned the nod with equal friendliness before hopping after his comrades with a couple of pounds of mud clinging to each boot. Ah! war is a sad, sad business. It must be bred of the devil: for one would rather lose his soul than fail to sabre or stab the foe in front of him; and yet when the fierce rage of the fight is over, one would give the whole world not to have done such a thing. The Prussians must have had reserves in the field, but we saw nothing of them. Either they were dealt with by other bodies of our troops, or, seeing that the day was lost, took the hint and did not wait. Our men kept up the pursuit until nearly noon the next morning, when the majority of them were so exhausted that they threw themselves on the ground and slept where they lay, with the rain pelting down upon them. This action was known to the Russians as the "Battle of Suvalki," and was the nearest approach to an old-fashioned fight that had taken place. It was a tremendous affair, fought on a front of nearly thirty English miles; and was a complete, unqualified German defeat. They lost about 30,000 killed and wounded, and nearly as many more taken prisoners. The Kaiser was in personal command throughout the action; and is responsible for the precious mess made of it. About 300 field-guns were captured, but some of them were so firmly embedded in the mud that they could not be dragged off, horses being scarce. According to my estimate at least 8,000 of these poor beasts perished in the fight. There is no exaggeration in these estimations. One column of prisoners alone which I passed on its way to the interior of Russia was five miles long, the men marching without a break, in double file, or six abreast, according to German formation. (The German file is usually three men deep, and not two, as it is in most other European armies.) Both sides were thoroughly exhausted by this tremendous struggle; and there was no fighting on the latter part of the 1st and the whole of the 2nd of October; at any rate by the troops which had been engaged in the main battle. On the 3rd we resumed our advance into Prussia, but late in the afternoon were ordered to halt, and the remainder of the day was spent in taking up an alignment facing due north towards Tilsit. The object of this movement was not clear to me; but there can be no doubt that our position was sometimes almost critical. The force which fought the Battle of Suvalki was outflanked both to the north and to the south, and had we suffered defeat the disaster would have been a terrible one. The Russians had not only a huge marsh in their rear, but also a large and deep river (the Niemen), and what that might have meant may be gathered from the fearful losses of the Germans when they were forced, as a part of the movement I have been describing, over it to the north of Suvalki. Not much about this disaster seems to have leaked out as yet, but it cost the Germans at least another 20,000 men, nearly all of whom perished by drowning; in fact, the passage of the Niemen is second only, as a military _débâcle_, to that of the Beresina in Napoleon's days. Eye-witnesses, whose veracity cannot be questioned, amongst them being General Rennenkampf, asserted that whole companies, and batteries of artillery, were swept away, the heavy rains having greatly increased the current of the river. Heavy siege guns, destined for the bombardment of Warsaw, were lost; and several of the bridges constructed by the German engineers collapsed under the excessive weight forced upon them; while two of these structures were demolished by the Russian shell fire, being crowded with men at the time. In fact, whatever the outcome of the campaign, the Germans will never forget the dressing they got at the passage of the Niemen below Tilsit. The effect of the battle of Suvalki was very great. The German objective had been Warsaw, and they tried to seize it, as they tried to seize Paris, by a rapid and impetuous advance. They had reached Suvalki and Rovno in the north, and their advanced parties were on their way to Wilna, the capture of which would have cut the communications of Warsaw; while southwards they had reached Radom, 140 miles over the border, and two-thirds of the way to Warsaw. Suvalki saved Warsaw; for it compelled the Germans to fall back north and south and evacuate West Poland. It is beyond all measure the most important victory the Russians have gained; for though the loss of Warsaw would not necessarily mean the loss of the war, it would be a nasty blow to the Muscovite prestige, and might entail the loss of Petrograd. As one of their most fervent well-wishers I heartily rejoice that they won Suvalki. It must have been a knock-down blow for Wilhelm der Grosse, as it showed conclusively that if he is a Napoleonic tyrant he is not a Napoleonic genius. Like the little man with the large head he is a big scoundrel; but, unlike the Corsican, he is not a great soldier. A wonderful army, though, is this German Army. After suffering a crushing defeat and losing, with those drowned in the Niemen, from 70,000 to 80,000 men, they drew off in fairly good order, and in a few days were again a formidable host. They did not sustain a "rout." No fair, impartial account of what really occurred can go so far as to say that. A crushing defeat it was, but not a rout. These operations cost the Germans, in addition to their loss of men, about 700 guns of various descriptions and 18,000 horses. About 850 waggons and carts fell into the Russian hands. CHAPTER IX CHIEFLY PERSONAL MATTER The Russian soldier is a splendid fellow: I do not go so far as to say that he is a first-class fighter. It is really difficult to describe him correctly. He has been represented repeatedly as a dogged being; so he is. His courage, too, is unimpeachable; but it is not a very intelligent courage. The Russian soldier must be led, and the better led he is the better he will fight. He has, as I have already hinted, an almost religious reverence for his acknowledged superiors; and he is a religious man. Perhaps it would be better to say, a superstitiously religious man. He nearly always carries a relic or a little ikon of some kind, and to this he frequently prays, kissing it at the same time. He has an intense reverence for the Holy Virgin, and a common form of greeting is, "Brother, Christ is risen," to which the comrade addressed replies, "He is risen, indeed." Faithful, true-hearted and generous, he never forsakes a friend; and, on the other hand, I am afraid he never forgives an enemy. He can be dreadfully cruel to those he hates; yet, in his ordinary mood, it would be difficult to find a man who has a stronger natural dislike to shedding blood. He makes a good husband, is passionately fond of children; but is not a merciful man in his dealing with dumb animals. He is pudding-headed, but not obstinate in the usual acceptance of the word; and his friend, or his officer, can lead him anywhere. In a fight he dies like a Roman, and never abandons his leader. It is difficult to imagine him a revolutionist or a King-killer, though history has recorded that he can be either; and some terrible things have occurred even in the reign of the present Czar. That part of the Russian Army with which I was mostly in contact was composed almost entirely of Siberians, people who retain very markedly the features of their Mongolian origin. They are Asiatics, as, indeed, are many Russians. At any rate, this seemed to be perfectly clear, judging from their features and other indications; though, I must confess, I am not learned on the subject of the origin of nations. Their habits, too, are largely Asiatic, and there was a considerable admixture of Tartar blood in some of the regiments; and in others many of the men would easily have passed as Chinese. Some of the regiments were composed of Kirghiz; and one, at least, of Mongolians pure and simple. I fell into some confusion concerning the numbering and naming of the regiments, because there seem to be several distinct armies in the Russian services. The Siberian is one of these armies: and some of the regiments were only known by their territorial designation, while others had both name and number. The army from "All the Russias" seems to be considered the élite troops; but in my opinion the Siberians are not in any way inferior to them, and the Tiflis Rifles is one of the finest bodies of light infantry I have ever seen. The physique of the men, generally, is magnificent, and their powers of endurance unsurpassed by that of any soldiers in the world. They can march and fight, too, on rations so scanty and coarse that I much doubt if any other European soldiers would tolerate such food. Many of the regiments for days had no better diet than tea and biscuit. Milk was not drunk in the tea, but sugar was used when it could be obtained. The troops were supposed to have a ration of sugar, and also salt. Some years ago the sugar ration was abolished, but the health of the men deteriorated so much that it was again served out to them with beneficial results; so it would seem that sugar is necessary to human health. "How did people do when there was no sugar?" "When was that?" "Before sugar honey was universally used; and honey is certainly a natural sugar." The faddist is a very tiresome person anywhere; above all things he should be kept away from armies and navies, where he may do much mischief. Now the non-alcoholic idiot is getting the sway. What a pass things are coming to! Waterloo was fought on beer, and Trafalgar on rum; but I remember at the "Battle of Dorking" a Staff-Officer "came between a poor cove and his grub," who nearly got himself shot for complaining--the "poor cove" I mean, not the Staff-Officer. The victory at Suvalki had far-reaching effects. Even at the few posts where the Germans were not forced back they were compelled to retire. Some of their cavalry made an effort to check the pursuit, but it was unavailing. What appeared to be parts of two regiments, hussars and dragoons, had the temerity to charge a battalion of our regiment. The greater part of them went down in a heap, men and horses together. On our side a regiment of Cossacks (said to be the 3rd of the Don) charged a battalion of Prussians and dispersed them, taking 100 prisoners, including a colonel. During the retreat of the Germans many small fights occurred which had no particular results on the campaign. By the 3rd October whole corps of Russians were on Prussian soil. [Illustration: RUSSIANS HURRYING AMMUNITION TO OPERATING LINES] It was unfortunate that heavy rains again began to fall, as they prevented so close a pursuit as would otherwise have harassed the enemy. The country west of Suvalki, naturally a marsh, was rendered a huge lake. The water was not deep enough to prevent the advance of cavalry and infantry; but guns could not be dragged through the mud, and without them it would have been unsafe to advance very far. Many of those captured from the Germans were lost owing to the state of the ground, but I do not think they were recovered by the enemy. They sank into the morass and so disappeared. I was very glad when a halt was called and we were ordered to find what shelter we could, the regiment being far in advance of the main body. The Germans had sadly devastated the country. We passed over many miles of country in which scarcely so much as the shell of a house was left standing: all were charred and blackened; and men, women and children were found murdered. The bodies of two young boys under twelve years of age lay on the roof of a low outhouse. They had been bayoneted and thrown there, nobody could surmise why. Some bodies were burnt to cinders, and others had been torn and partly eaten by swine and dogs. The dogs, by-the-by, were numerous, and very fierce brutes. In some spots, where the Germans had bivouacked, the heads and offal of pigs showed that they had shot some of these animals, and also killed ducks and fowls, for food, and cooked them at open-air fires made of the belongings of the peasantry. Chairs and tables were left outside, just in the positions in which they had evidently been used. A dish-cover was left on one table, and when it was raised it revealed two pairs of human hands severed at the wrists. The men to whom these hands had belonged, and a woman, were found shot in the farm-house. All were old people, as nearly all the murdered persons were, except some young women and children. Besides the two boys already mentioned, a younger child and a little girl of about fourteen years were seen lying on the ground. The cause of the death of the girl did not appear, and it was probably caused by fright. A woman clasping her baby had been shot. The bodies had, in many cases, been treated with disgusting irreverence. Even a hunchbacked man had been shot, and a poor old fellow with beard and hair as white as snow. One sturdy dame seemed to have attempted to fight for her life, for she held a hoe in her dead hands. Her body was riddled by bullets. To escape the rain I climbed up the half-burnt rafters of a cottage to a room in which a portion of the floor and a corner of the roof were still in position--I cannot say intact. Here, in imminent danger of a fall, I slept the instant I stretched myself on the boards. Below were a score of exhausted soldiers, too utterly weary to care a rap for danger from falling walls: and long and soundly we all slept. No food had been served out for two days, and when a commissariat waggon came up only about half the men obtained biscuits. I was thinking of cooking a pig's head left behind by the Germans when a soldier generously gave me half a biscuit. Others followed his example, and in this way I obtained a breakfast. The pigs which had escaped the Prussians had all run away, but later in the day one was found and killed, and about two pounds of its flesh found its way into my hands. We resumed our march at 11 a.m., the enemy being known to be not far off. During the afternoon we came up with one of their abandoned waggons. It was full of champagne and hock! I am glad there were no teetotallers about to witness the capture. What King Jamie meant by being "fu'" I do not presume to know; but I am quite sure some of us were "tight" before that waggon was done with, and I should like to see the teetotaller, of exalted or humble rank, who would resist the temptation of a good "swig" after forty-eight hours of such misery as we had just gone through. Apparently the Germans observed this capture; for they fired two shells at us from a range of about three miles. One shot fell 200 yards from us, the other came a little nearer, but neither interrupted the interesting work in hand. Notwithstanding the preconceived opinions of book strategists, long-range firing does not seem to be productive of very destructive results, even with heavy artillery. It was certainly not much resorted to in this campaign. Even rifle shooting seldom took place at a longer range than 1,000 yards; and much oftener at not more than half that distance; while firing at point-blank range was frequent. The bayonet did as much work as in any war that ever took place; in some fights half the casualties were caused by its use. Cavalry, too, faced infantry fire boldly and successfully. We were to have no more charges of masses of cavalry according to the theorists. But on at least half-a-dozen occasions bodies of over 4,000 horsemen made most telling charges. In one case at least 10,000 cavalry took part in a charge, riding over the Prussian infantry as they might have ridden over stubble. The Cossacks, like the Uhlans, have hooks attached to the butts of their lances; and with these they whipped officers from their horses, and men from the ground in the most extraordinary way, sometimes pulling them up into their own saddles and bringing them in prisoners. How they liked the humiliation of this treatment may be gathered from the remark of one officer made to me in English, "D----n it! I would rather have been killed"; but he joined in the general laugh at his accident. Perhaps I have no right to record mere impressions and ideas; and I intend to avoid doing so generally; but there are some opinions and beliefs which had a general bearing on what I did, and especially on what I recorded; and I think I may be excused if I sometimes refer to these. As a case in point, I was generally very ignorant of what was taking place in other areas of the war. German newspapers were pretty plentiful in all our camps; but very few French or British found their way into our hands. German accounts were not reliable in my opinion, but some of their statements could hardly be altogether untrue. The news of the loss by submarine torpedoes of the three battleships, _Aboukir_, _Hogue_ and _Cressy_, perturbed me greatly. The reports in German newspapers, combined with other rumours which reached us, made it clear enough that the British Navy had met with a great disaster, though I was compelled to rely on the translations of Russian comrades of these German reports. The Russian cavalry made some attempts to penetrate East Prussia, and get at the trains which were conveying troops from Koenigsberg southwards; but none of these attempts were successful so far as I have heard. A few isolated patrols got a long way into Prussia, but, I think, in no case did they succeed in wrecking a train. For a time I was out of action, though I tried to reach the scenes of fighting I heard was in progress. The East Prussian frontier is a very difficult country for military operations, especially those of an offensive description. The marsh lands are very extensive, and there are numerous lakes and ponds which greatly aid the defending force, while much hindering those engaged in the attack. Lakes and marshes enable an army on the defensive greatly to extend its front; which those engaged in the assault cannot do without at any rate incurring great risks. The Germans often threw up batteries between two lakes, or a lake and a marsh situated near each other. As these could be approached only on a narrow neck of land, they could be defended by a mere handful of men, while the attacking force was not only compelled to advance a strong party, but had, also, to keep others in hand to prevent being outflanked. Something of this kind of fighting I saw; but much of it occurred further south, near the Vistula river, in a district where I was not engaged at the time it took place. These marshes and lakes greatly assisted the Germans and probably saved them from the rout which they are supposed by some people to have sustained. I do not know of any instance where they were forced to evacuate such a defensive position as that I have described. In fact the marshes of East Prussia saved the country from a serious invasion, and certainly checked the Russian advance into the heart of the country. If heavy siege guns could have been brought up they might have effected something; but as it was, not even light field artillery could be moved over the ground in any quantity. The amount of rain which fell was quite abnormal, and was often almost incessant for days together. Then there would be some signs of a clear up; but long before more than the surface of the ground was dry it would begin to pour down again. I never saw so much mud in any other country, nor such deep, tenacious stuff. Even men sometimes stuck fast in it and had to be hauled out of quagmires with the aid of ropes. I have recorded that the Germans lost many guns owing to their sinking into it; some also were lost by the Russians, even when they were not under fire; and the destruction of horses through being smothered to death or by exhaustion was deplorable. In fact the mud sometimes troubled the Russians far more than the foe did. It prevented the commissariat and reserve ammunition waggons from coming up; but, on the whole, lying in it, and being subjected to a continuous downpour of rain, did not seem to adversely affect the health of the men. The field hospitals were always crowded by wounded, but the sick from disease were singularly few in number. Amongst other things about which there were rumours in our army was the destruction that airships and aeroplanes were causing. The Russians had aeroplanes; but they were not strong in this kind of military force, and we seldom saw one. The Germans, however, occasionally sent a few over our lines, and on the 5th October I saw one shot down. It swerved a good deal, and I expected to see it turn over and drop, but it came down slowly enough to prevent the airmen from sustaining much hurt. The "navigator" was one of the most irritable and arrogant rascals I ever met. He was very angry at his accident, and fumed and swore incessantly and had not the least fear of consequences before his eyes. He shook his fist in the faces of the Cossacks and officers who first came up to his wrecked machine, beat and kicked his unfortunate mechanic, and raved like a lunatic. Even his captors seemed to be in considerable awe of him. Some hours afterwards I saw this fellow eating a meal outside a tent. He was devouring the food like what he probably was--a human hog. Another astonishing trait in the German Army was the remarkable way in which it frequently recovered lost ground. The Battle of Suvalki, and the operations further south, had the effect of causing a general retirement of the enemy's line; and amongst other places they abandoned was Radom; but in a week or ten days they were back in this place, and had even pushed much nearer to Warsaw. Our scouts ascertained that they were in force along the Vistula from Ivangorod to Varko; and their Uhlan patrols were seen at the hamlet of Vistikar, near Gora, not twenty versts from Warsaw. Whether they ever got nearer to the ancient city I do not know, but for a time we all expected and feared that it would fall. Nobody believed that the old capital of Poland could long stand against an investment by our powerful and cunning foes. But, while recovering themselves in the south, the Germans did not, at this time, do so in the Suvalki district, or in those parts near the Spirding See where the recent severe fighting had taken place: Russian soldiers still remained on German soil. The weather grew worse, and seriously affected most of our important operations. Gloom began to settle on the troops; especially when accounts of adversity to our forces in Galicia reached us. These generally came from German sources; but some of our own officers brought news that progress was being stopped by floods, and the enormous reinforcement the enemy had succeeded in bringing up. Often we did not know what to believe; the reports were so contradictory that it was evident one side or another was telling deliberate lies. A comical side was once or twice given to the matter, owing to German, Austrian and Russian "unofficial sources" giving diametrically opposite accounts of the same circumstances. Willing as we were to believe our own side to be the most truthful, it was not always possible to ignore the circumstantiality of our opponents. It became evident that all three sides were a little given to exaggeration--not to give it a harsher designation. The dreadful weather was more than I could endure, and I was obliged to fall out. I was taken by rail to a convent hospital at Grodno, and there so well and carefully nursed by the sisters, with whom were associated many of the ladies of the town, that I quite recovered and was fit for service again in less than a week. I could not find my old regiment, however, and my adventures with the Russians might have terminated at this point had I not happened to run up against an officer with whom I had some acquaintance. Captain Shalkotoff belonged to the commissariat department; and as he was going south with a convoy he invited me to accompany him as far as Ostrolenka, his first destination; and I accepted his kind proposal. CHAPTER X THE FIGHTING ON THE VISTULA IN THE MONTH OF OCTOBER, 1914 Shalkotoff had about eighty waggons and carts under his command, all loaded with provisions which had come from Vilna, where there was a magazine. He was travelling by march-route, the railway-lines being fully occupied by troop trains, and in the conveyance of wounded men and prisoners. Every night we camped in the mud by the roadside, unless buildings or houses were available, which was not often the case. For the Germans had destroyed so many of these that what were left were crowded by homeless people herded together in dreadful misery, starving, and possessed of nothing but what they stood in. We passed through some districts, however, in which a German had not been seen; and in others they had not been so brutal as the generality of their countrymen. Nor are all Germans equally cruel. At a place called Mirno, near Jedvabno, we met a band of 200 prisoners being marched to the railway-station at Setshutchin for conveyance into the interior. Several of them were officers, and one, a captain, expressed his disgust at the brutality of his countrymen. He said it came to him as a terrible revelation that Germans could be so cruel and wicked, and he was as much astonished at it as any person in the world. Others, of all ranks, at different times, expressed much the same opinion. Perhaps nothing hurt Russian feeling more than the desecration of their churches. The Germans too often evinced a bigotry and irreverence for things that most people consider sacred similar to that which disgraced our own Cromwellians three centuries ago. They stabled their horses in the churches, littered the floors of the sacred edifices with filth, and broke the images. Such conduct is deplorable; nothing can be more revolting than to hurt a people through its religion, whatever we may think of its bigotry and idolatry. Besides, the indomitable bravery of the Greek and Romish priesthood in this deplorable war must ever command the admiration of all right-thinking men; and this alone should have protected them from insult. It is about 120 miles from Grodno to Ostrolenka, and it took us nine days to march this distance, so defective was the state of the roads. During this time we fared pretty sumptuously; for the drivers and officers helped themselves liberally to the provisions under their charge. In addition to the coarse biscuit, cheese, tea, sugar and coffee, which form the bulk of the Russian soldiers' daily food, there was salt pork, rancid butter, potatoes, and a number of hampers destined for officers whom they never reached. The broaching of such goods is indefensible, but it is pretty general in all armies, not even excepting the British: those who have been soldiers know what "old soldiers" are; and, no doubt, I ought to admit that I require a brushful of white-wash myself. For a dish of bacon, or a cup of wine, being placed in front of one, what is one to do but relieve the craving of nature? The only defence I can make is that we all do it, as circumstances occasion. At Ostrolenka we were ordered on to Pultusk; and here we found a division of infantry and another of Cossacks--about 14,000 men in all, the units being reduced by the ravages of war. Among the Cossacks was the celebrated 5th of the Don, with its woman colonel, who seemed to be not more than thirty years of age. She had adopted male costume, and rode astride like her troopers. She was a pleasant-faced woman, but not a beauty, in my opinion; and there was nothing fierce or commanding in her appearance. She was said to be of unflinching courage under any circumstances, and to be almost worshipped by her soldiers. So it may be surmised that her rule is gentle and just. At Pultusk I had my first, and almost only, trouble with the people whom I was trying to serve. A fussy officer wanted to know, rather too minutely, who I was, and how the non-commissioned officer, Chouraski, came to be travelling with me. I had certificates, and Chouraski a permit, signed by a Staff Officer, and countersigned by General Rennenkampf himself; but it was a long time before the interfering colonel could be persuaded. He sent for a captain of the 40th Siberian regiment named Lofe who could speak English, and ultimately was persuaded to permit me to join the captain's company, and to retain Chouraski as a servant. I was given no position in the regiment, but simply served as a volunteer. The same night, the 14th October, we made a forced march to the railway, a distance, I computed, of at least twenty-four English miles. We arrived at a spot where there was no station, and found troops entraining and going off in the direction of Warsaw. There seemed to be miles of trains by the roadside, and we got into one at a level-crossing and immediately steamed away south, as the others had done. A drizzling rain was falling, the day was close, and a grey mist enveloped everything so that one could see nothing twenty yards beyond the side of the line. In two hours we arrived at Praga, a suburb of Warsaw, and found the line held strongly by infantry and field artillery. We heard that heavy fighting was going on beyond Milosna, and our train crawling on for another twenty miles, we could hear the sounds of the battle ourselves. We were ordered to alight by the side of the line, all the stations having been put into a state of defence and turned into small fortresses. The Staff Officer who posted us happened to be a friend of Lofe's, and he told us that the Germans were making a strong effort to break through to the line for a distance of at least ninety versts; and he believed that fighting was going on at other points as far as Lublin. The troops actually posted on the line were reserves; the fighting was taking place at the passages of the Vistula sixteen versts away. During the night the fog was so thick that one could not see the man standing beside him. We bivouacked by the side of the line, which here was laid on perfectly level ground. The next morning the weather was no better; but when the rain began to fall faster the atmosphere cleared a little, and we were ordered to advance about six versts and dig trenches. We were engaged in this work all day, being assisted by 800 country people, half of whom were women, who displayed the utmost anxiety to help us in resisting a hated enemy, from whose hands many of them had received the deepest insult. We saw nothing of the enemy, but heard the distant sound of battle; and some carts bore a few badly wounded men past us. We were engaged in the work of digging trenches and making emplacements for guns until the 20th, being assisted during this time by the peasantry: and fighting went on continuously at the front. I was anxious to see something of it, but loth to leave the side of Lofe, owing to the difficulty I had in making myself understood by strangers; and after my dispute with the officer at Pultusk I was a little nervous, being afraid I might be seized and sent away. Lofe was a very amiable fellow and I got on well with him, as I did with all the Russians with whom I became well acquainted. Life in the trenches was not to our taste. We applied for permission to go down to the front to witness the fighting, but it was refused. So we had to remain where we were and elaborate our defences. How many hundreds of miles of wire we used in our entanglements I should not like to guess; but if the Germans had ever reached them, I think they would have left a good many dead in front of them. With the barbed wire "crow-nets," as we called them, we intermixed a great many staked pits, and other amiable devices for shortening the days of our enemies. The battle was clearly for the possession of Warsaw; and more than once rumours reached us that the foe had carried the city at the point of the bayonet; but I do not think they ever got within sight of any part of it, though many of their newspapers claim that they did, and even occupied its suburbs. The last-named claim was evidently false; but the place had a narrow escape of falling. The fight seems to have worn itself out; or the Germans fell back: for all was quiet on the 21st, though neither side had obtained a victory. This was too frequently the sequence to a prolonged fight or series of fights. The opposing force seemed to get tired out, and a lull ensued, during which one would scarcely hear a stray rifle shot. On the 21st, however, some of our troops at the front captured a German band! It consisted of about forty musicians, though they said there had been eighty of them when they first came to the front. Asked to give us some music they played willingly enough, and very well. The Russian regiments have bands, but I heard and saw very little of them during this war; they seemed to have been sent to the rear to attend to wounded men. Some of the Siberian regiments, and the foot Cossacks, have dancing men who march at the head of the battalions, and dance, sing, and clash cymbals, when moving from place to place. It is hardly necessary to record that the Germans made desperate attempts to cross the river during the fighting referred to just now. I did not actually witness any of the fighting at this stage, but I know that it all failed. I was told that they tried to pontoon the stream at a place called Viegrod, abreast of Garvolin station. The pontoons were smashed to pieces, and several hundreds of the enemy drowned. Small detachments got over at various places, some in boats, others by means of flying bridges; but they were all destroyed or captured. They did not succeed in forcing any of the permanent bridges, which were defended by _têtes-de-pont_. The Russians claimed that they completely wiped out some of these detachments. I saw bodies lying together within very narrow spaces of ground; and I have no doubt that the peasantry avenged themselves by killing the wounded: and I know that the Russian infantry bayoneted every man of one detachment of about 300. Still a good many prisoners were taken, and sent by train to Warsaw. The Germans used some aeroplanes for observation work; but on being fired at these machines went out of range and kept there. It would have been a great advantage to the Russians to have had some of these things; but that they had few, or none, in this part of the field, shows that aircraft cannot materially affect a foe who is without them. No doubt aeroplanes have done splendid work for the Allies, and inflicted serious losses on the enemy; but they do not often seem to be able to face an army in the field. It may give some idea of what is meant by "casualties" if I mention that about 40,000 recovered wounded rejoined the Russian Army while we were on the line of the Vistula. So a heavy list of losses does not necessarily mean that a vast number of men are permanently disabled from taking part in their country's services. Recoveries, too, are very rapid when the men are attended by good surgeons and good nurses. I obtained one glimpse of the enemy's position. Not a German was to be seen; but puffs of smoke showed where their guns were placed. Smokeless powder was used by both sides for their rifle cartridges; but not for artillery; or at any rate, it was not efficacious when fired from heavy guns. Both sides entrenched themselves, according to reports, for a distance of more than 300 versts. Afterwards I heard that trenches and earthworks were made along the whole of the German and Austrian frontiers, a result of both sides finding it impossible to make any material headway into each other's territory. The battle degenerated into an artillery engagement. The Russians brought up some heavy guns of about 6-inch calibre, and a few that were a little larger, and with these bombarded the German positions. The enemy, on their part, were similarly provided; and so the see-saw went on--banging at each other without noticeable results. Generally speaking, an artillery duel is the tamest of all kinds of fighting from a spectator's point of view. The only time when it becomes a little lively is when a shell happens to drop just behind one. It usually causes a sudden start forward, or an Eastern position of adoration, which is by far the safest to assume. The wonderful "Jack Johnsons," of which I have heard and read so much, were not used by the Germans in this region, though the nickname seems to have been given to any large shell. The "Jack Johnsons," however, were huge shells which appeared to have weighed from 1,600 to 2,000 pounds each, when charged. It was useless waste to fire them against anything but forts, and I much doubt if the Germans used them for any other purpose. The guns, being howitzers, could fire about 100 of these before needing retubing: so the shooting-power of the huge weapons was limited. Every shot must have cost about £200, and it is not likely that the Germans would waste them by shooting at trenches and small parties, where the effect would be comparatively of little moment. Very high explosives were used by the Germans, and some of their projectiles made very large holes in the ground. Watching the firing, I could not perceive that ours was doing much harm; while that of the enemy certainly was not. Occasionally a few yards of our trenches was blown in, and a man or two destroyed; but the impression left on my mind was that trench warfare would go on for ever, unless some more effective force than mere artillery fire were brought to bear on an army so protected: and shelling a position is a very expensive mode of warfare. I afterwards saw that to destroy a hundred yards of trench cost 4,000 or 5,000 shells; and even then the defending force nearly always contrived to make good a retreat to a second, or third, line of defence. To shell an enemy out of a good defensive position is, I believe, an impossibility; therefore permanent fortresses should be constructed on the lines of a system of trenches, the guns being placed in Moncrieff pits or other specially constructed emplacements. I am quite convinced that unless guns are hidden, their destruction is assured. Modern gunfire is as accurate as that of rifle-shooting: it will, therefore, easily hit any mark which the gunners can locate. Everybody knows that patience is a virtue, and that it generally obtains a reward. Our turn came. The 40th Siberians, better known to the men by an unpronounceable name, which, never having seen it in print, I cannot pretend to spell, were ordered to cross the Vistula on the morning of the 20th October. I expected that there would have been some fighting; but there was not. The rain was falling in a steady downpour; and we could not see the opposite bank of the river. Perhaps the wet damped the ardour of the Germans. Certainly I should think that the autumn and winter of 1914-15 was the wettest ever known. The right bank of the river was bad enough, but the left was the softest marsh we had so far experienced. No wonder the Germans could no longer make much resistance: their trenches were full of water. I slipped into one, and thought I was going to be drowned. Fortunately for me a couple of the men stopped to assist me; for there was six or seven feet of water in the wretched trench. Many of our men met with similar accidents, and I am not sure that some of them did not lose their lives. I saw the bodies of Germans floating in their ditches, but these may have been men killed previously to the flooding. It was entirely an infantry fight. We had crossed the river on rafts towed by boats, and could bring no guns; while those of the enemy which could be moved they were anxiously striving to save, and did not stop to fire. Many of their heavy guns they destroyed to render them useless to us, but a number of machine-guns were brought into action on each side. For many miles the left bank of the Vistula is a deep morass, with extensive woods, and a few scattered houses and hamlets. The inhabitants of these were all gone, fled or murdered; and the Germans had pierced the walls of their homes with loop-holes, and piled the furniture, carts and farm implements together to form barricades. They failed, however, to stop our advance. Position after position was carried, sometimes by a withering rifle-fire, sometimes at the point of the bayonet. Brave as he is, the German soldier is not ashamed to plead abjectly for his life when he is driven into a corner. I saw men clinging to the bayonets that were about to terminate their existences; and many actually screamed for mercy. It was not much use making such petitions; the women and old men who had been driven in, leaving a toll of murdered behind, had stories to tell which inflamed the fiercest passions of the soldiers. I contrived to save the lives of one or two of these wretched Germans; but my own safety required that I should not interfere too strenuously; and though, I hope, I should not fear to give my life in a just cause, or to save a just person, I was not prepared to throw it away on behalf of ravishers and child-stabbers. In this fight I crossed swords with a German officer of the 2/94th regiment (probably Landwehr), a portly gentleman who thought fit to finish the encounter by an unconditional surrender. He took advantage of my remissness in watching him, and tried to escape back to his own men. Some of our fellows noticed this, and--well, he had not time to suffer much. Dishonourable acts, and breaches of word, were very common amongst the Germans; but it often got severely punished. The enemy suffered most, I heard, at places called Sandomir and Kozyniece. The latter place is close to Ivangorod, which was, for some days, our headquarters, and the centre of our line. Further north, near Bloni, and Vishgo, and at Novogeorgevsk, they suffered more severely, and gave way sooner. By the evening of the 21st they were retiring at many places along the entire line; but at some spots they stood firm with remarkable tenacity, and suffered themselves to be almost surrounded. We passed the night in a hamlet of a dozen houses which had been defended by a company of jagers (riflemen). Only forty-eight of them survived our attack with the bayonet; and these we captured. They slept in the same rooms with their captors, played cards with them, and sang jovial-sounding songs, apparently quite unmoved by the fact that 120 dead bodies of their comrades lay in the gardens and courtyards outside. Both the Germans and Russians are great card-players and inveterate gamblers. In the morning, before it was daylight, we made our prisoners dig graves and bury the dead--129 of theirs, sixty-two of ours: we then sent them to the rear under an escort, while we advanced towards Chinlin, and began skirmishing with the enemy, who were only 600 or 700 yards in front of us. Both sides took shelter behind pine-trees; and very little execution was done, though the firing went on nearly all day. At last the Germans took post in a thick wood, and it became clear they had been playing with us all these hours while their sappers placed this copse in a state of defence. The discovery was rather humiliating; but these things occur in war, and it was not the only occasion on which our cunning opponents "came the old soldier" over their denser, slow-thinking foes. But in spite of their slyness they were beaten. Some Russian battalions got behind the wood, and its defenders were compelled to run for their lives. They ran very well, but most of them were captured; and we passed the second night in the nice, nest-like little hovels they had prepared for their own accommodation. The German dearly loves his comfort and good cheer. They never seemed to be short of food, and we took carts laden with wine that had been made in France and must have been sent hither at much trouble and expense only to find its way down Russian throats in spite of the Czar's teetotal proclamation. I think the German troops must be taught to make bivouacks and huts, they are such adepts at the work; and render their dens so comfortable by a hundred little devices that show they have previously studied the art of adapting everything to their own welfare and ease. Needless to say, the plunder of houses and cottages was utilized for furnishing these temporary abodes. There was now no doubt that the Germans were retreating; but they were doing so in that leisurely way which indicated that their retirement was anything but a rout; and I foresaw that it would not be long before they turned again with renewed ferocity. I do not think that the troops we had been opposed to were some of the best that Germany could put in the field. In some battalions there did not appear to be a man under forty years of age: in others they were all boys: and these last named were amongst the best fighters. I passed over ground strewn with the dead of one of these battalions, and not a lad of them seemed to be much over twenty years; some were not more than sixteen or seventeen. Many stories were brought to us of what had taken place in other districts. All agreed that the Germans had not succeeded in entering Warsaw; but it was reported that a fleet of aeroplanes had sailed over the city and dropped bombs. Only private houses had been wrecked; not much damage done, and the "hostile aircraft" had soon been driven away. As nothing was said about the bringing down of any of these aeroplanes, I felt pretty sure that they had all escaped the Russian fire. The Germans had not left much for them to destroy in their retreat; and I never learned from whence they had come, or whither they went when they had completed their fell work. We saw nothing of them in our district. On the 23rd we still continued to follow the enemy, keeping in touch with them, and exchanging shots. About the middle of the day we were joined by a large force of artillery and cavalry. Where these troops came from I cannot tell. They were a welcome reinforcement; but as we were moving through a wooded country they could not make much impression on the enemy, except when the latter attempted to make a stand. The trees were mostly pines, and the ground beneath them free of undergrowth; and the destruction of them, after a few hours' cannonade, was enormous. Whole forests looked as if they had been blighted, or blasted by lightning. The German jagers often took post in the trees, as affording a favourable place for marksmanship; but when our gunners discovered them we had an extraordinary sight as a small crowd of arms and legs came tumbling through the air in every imaginable position. Those of the men who were not killed by the shrapnel usually lost their lives by the shock of the fall. Sometimes big trees were snapped clean in two when the shell had made a direct hit before bursting. More generally the branches were ripped to shreds by the flying shower of bullets. I saw the dead body of one rifleman lodged amongst the boughs of a large pine. He must have been killed instantly, for he was still clasping his rifle in his hands. There were some painful scenes. We came across a fine, handsome young fellow raving over the body of another boy. It was ascertained that they were brothers, and, "What will mother do? This will kill her," was all he could say. I never saw a man more grief-stricken. A few hours afterwards we found a man shot through the body. Blood was bubbling from his mouth and nose, and he was dying fast; but he had struggled to his knees, and leaning against a tree-trunk was praying--not for himself, but for his wife and four little children. By chance I discovered that this man could speak English. He had been a clerk in Liverpool. He was distressingly anxious about his family, and begged we would not destroy a letter addressed to his wife which he had in his pocket. "For," he said, "I knew I should not come through this"--the war, I suppose, he meant. I assured him that nothing found upon him should be disturbed, and that the letter should be sent to the German commander on the first opportunity. We did what we could to relieve his suffering, and sent a man back for the Red Cross men who were following behind; but the poor fellow died before they arrived. War is a curse. The rain ceased only for a few hours at a time. It generally commenced to fall as evening came on, and continued to pour down steadily the greater part of the night. Sometimes it rained night and day without cessation, and the thickest overcoats became saturated with wet. I made a kind of cloak from the remains of a rick-cloth which I found in the outhouse of a burnt farm; and this was a great protection. The country we were passing through was deserted. The Polish peasantry are very poor, and what would become of the miserable people, who, like the Irish of a former day, depended on their pigs, fowls and potato-crops, it was painful to think. We supposed they had fled to the towns; but every now and then we came across the bodies of some of them, and it is certain that hundreds had been wantonly destroyed by their cruel enemies. For many miles we marched through a flooded country, and passed the Pilica River by means of a bridge which was partly under water, the reason, perhaps, that the Prussians missed it. We were guided to it by an old peasant who had been in hiding; but the banks of the river were quite hidden under water, and on this account many of our men, as well as Germans, floundered into it and were drowned. Horses and waggons were swept away, and some guns captured. Our own guns were forced to go higher up the stream and were, I believe, passed over a pontoon bridge. Hundreds of Cossacks swam their horses across, and gathered up some prisoners. They sent a far greater number to their long account, and seized an immense booty in food, stores, etc. For the Germans always stripped the country they passed through of everything that was worth carrying away. That which was too cumbersome to be moved they destroyed. I never actually heard who commanded the Germans, or our own force. At one time rumour asserted that the Kaiser himself was chief of our enemies, and was personally directing their movements. When this surmise exploded, we were repeatedly told that the Crown Prince was the Commander-in-Chief. All that was known with certainty was that we were immediately opposed, for a week at least, by a divisional commander named Swartzenberg. On our own side Major Beke was the battalion commander under whom I served. He was killed soon after we crossed the Vistula, and was succeeded by an officer who was wounded and sent to the rear on the same day he was appointed. His successor only held the command two days when he was blinded by a piece of wood driven into his face by the explosion of a shell. Krischelcamsk then became our leader. Colonel Tunreshka was the regimental commandant. He disappeared the night after we crossed the Pilica. The general opinion was that he was drowned in the river; but he may have been taken prisoner. One reason of the unusually rapid retreat of the Germans on this occasion was that they had expended nearly all their ammunition, and were unable to bring up more on account of the dreadful state of the country--knee-deep in mud, and covered with water. It is an ill wind that blows nobody any good; and the rain, which hampered the Russian on one hand, helped to save Warsaw on the other. We reached Skyermevice on the 24th. It is a town of some size, and the people had not abandoned it. They crowded the streets to see us pass through, and loudly cheered us. Flags sprang from somewhere, and decorated all the windows and shop doors; and the women brought us food and drink, which had been hid away. The inhabitants of the town had suffered a good deal, and had been compelled, as usual when the Germans occupied a place, to pay a heavy war-tax, or fine. A number of the principal men had been dragged away as hostages; I never learned their fate. Everywhere the Germans behaved like a band of brigands and murderers. One instance of their paltry-mindedness may be recorded. At a house where Captain Lofe and I spent the night, and from which some billeted Germans had run away on our approach, these miserable creatures had killed the little girl's canary, and she was inconsolable for the loss of her pet. It was not the only occasion on which birds, cats and pet dogs were wantonly and cruelly destroyed to vex their owners. On the 25th while we were marching towards Lowvitz we encountered a Prussian battalion which had been driven towards us by three sotnias of Cossacks. They could not escape, and we charged them with the bayonet. I must give them the credit due to them: on this occasion the Germans fought well and determinedly. But our men had become very expert in the use of the bayonet, and when the enemy had lost half their number the remainder broke and fled. The Cossacks were waiting for them, and I do not think that any of them escaped. No prisoners were taken: and this often happened during the campaign. Both sides were equally guilty of this cruelty--if cruelty it was. But really the Germans were so fiendishly brutal, that, as I have previously said, I think reprisals were justifiably resorted to. Be this so or not, and whatever may be thought of the act, it is certain that, on many occasions, bodies of both Germans and Russians were exterminated when they had the mischance to become isolated and surrounded. There was a great deal of bayonet work during this campaign. It is a favourite weapon of the Russians; and proportionately disliked by the Germans. The bayonet of the Russian soldier is never unfixed, except for cleaning purposes. He marches with it, eats, works and sleeps with it always ready for instant action. The German soldier is not so particular; and I saw more dirty weapons amongst our prisoners than I ever thought existed in any army in the world. Wounds from German bayonets are peculiarly fatal, as the backs of them are serrated to enable them to be used as cutting implements. For this reason the soldier often has great difficulty in withdrawing his weapon after stabbing a victim: and we found that in some cases, where the point of the bayonet was forced through the body and embedded in the backbone, it had been unfixed and left sticking in the wound. As we approached the Prussian frontier the German resistance became sterner, and they made more frequent attempts to rally. As I have said, their retreat never assumed the character of a rout--very far from it. Only straggling or isolated parties ever fell into disorder. Their retirement was steady and orderly as far as their military movements were concerned; but in the towns and villages they behaved like beasts. We had plenty of evidence that nearly all their junior officers, and thousands of their men, never lost an opportunity of getting drunk. The Kaiser was said to be a teetotaler: the Crown Prince was often as drunk as a lord--a German lord; and it is said that when in this condition he beat his wife so badly that she left the palace, and took refuge in the house of a nobleman. The story was told on excellent authority; otherwise I should not run the risk of being thought a gossip-monger by repeating it. I have, myself, seen the man in the company of courtesans; and, apparently, under the influence of drink. Though the Germans made attempts to beat back our pursuit, and to some extent checked it, they could not altogether stop it; and I think the gradual slackening of our endeavours to beat them quite out of Poland was the outcome of the men's exhaustion. The country was in a terrible state. The Germans had no time or opportunity to bury many of their dead, and the whole district, for hundreds of miles, was strewn with the bodies of men and horses, sometimes half covered by water, often floating in it. Though the weather was changing, and becoming colder, especially at night-time, portions of the days were hot, close, or muggy. Consequently the corpses soon began to decay, and the whole land stank revoltingly; and the men kept their pipes constantly alight to counteract the offensiveness. Owing to the state of the ground it was scarcely possible to bury many of these bodies, and they were left to rot away where they lay, or floated. Our own dead were conveyed to the cemeteries and burying-grounds; but the people would not tolerate the desecrating Germans in "God's acre." Amongst the enemy's dead were some Austrians, showing that the troops of their nation had been engaged in this region. On the afternoon of the 26th we came to a standstill near the River Warta. The headquarters of the 40th were at a small village the name of which I never clearly heard. Very few people were left in it; but others arrived when they heard that it was in our hands. All those who had most to fear from the enemy (that is, all those who possessed a rouble's worth of property) had been in hiding in the woods, where some of them had been living in underground burrows wherever they could find a spot dry enough to construct them in. Of the 40th not 800 effectives remained; and as the regiment had commenced the war with a strength of 4,000 men, it will be seen how terribly it had suffered. I heard the band of the regiment for the first time in our bivouac on the 26th. It consisted of twenty-seven musicians: three months previously there had been eighty of them. They had been under fire many times, collecting and assisting the wounded, the chief work of the bandsmen during fighting. The Russian bands of music, like the Prussian, are much stronger than ours, and are formed on German lines, as far as numbers and instruments are concerned. I cannot give much praise to their style of playing. [Illustration: RUSSIAN OFFICERS NOTING MOVES OF THE ENEMY] On the 27th and 28th the enemy appeared to be massing on our front, and the regiment was ordered to fall back towards Lodz. We were halted again on the 29th, and joined by the Preobujensky regiment, at nearly full strength, and the Troizki rifle battalion. With them came a battery of eight field guns, which had been got through the marshes in our rear. It would seem that our regiment, and a body of Cossacks, had been pushed too far to the front, and had to be drawn back. As far as I could understand the position, the Russian troops formed a crescent with the horns at, or near, Radom and Lowicz. Beyond these points the lines continued for hundreds of versts, right and left, but were, more or less, thrown back. It was very difficult to learn the exact position, because the enemy so frequently regained the ground he had lost only a few hours previously. The Russians showed great bravery and considerable dash; but they did not carry things before them quite so rapidly or decisively as they sometimes claimed to have done. In the fighting described in these October days, the Germans got very much the worst of it. I am not sure that it would be safe to say much more than this. Their losses were heavy, and their retreat beyond a doubt; but it is ridiculous to talk of routs, as some newspapers seem to have done. I did not see these accounts until after my return to England; and I have not read very many of them. I am afraid a good deal of error was fallen into by a too ready acceptance of first accounts. I would also note that owing to the immense extension of the fronts of the two armies, a victory in one place was often quite independent of operations going on at a distance on either flank, and often led to a dangerous advance, exposing the wings of the victorious force: and I am surprised that neither side seems to have, on any occasion, taken advantage of these too rapid advances and pursuits. CHAPTER XI THE RETREAT OF THE GERMANS FROM THE VISTULA As is usual after severe fighting, a lull supervened; and we remained quiet in camp for some days. "Camp," I say. It was almost the first time since I had been with the Russian Army that I had slept in a tent; but the time was coming when men could no longer spend night after night bivouacked in the open air. Already the weather was becoming chilly, and often very cold after sunset. There was less rain; but it still fell long and steadily at intervals, and sometimes for a whole day without a break. About 1,900 recruits joined our regiment; and many other units had their terrible losses made good; indeed, I heard that between 600,000 and 700,000 reservists and others joined the armies on the German and Austrian frontiers; and yet they were not brought up to their full establishments; a telling revelation of the fearful losses that had been sustained; although according to Prussian accounts, they had taken nearly a quarter of a million of prisoners from us. I am satisfied that they captured a good many: as we also had done. November came upon us in a typical way--damp and foggy, so that it was impossible to see the face of the country. As surprises are peculiarly liable to be attempted in such weather, we were much harassed by outpost work; at least five times the usual number of men being engaged on this duty. Fortunately we had a large body of Cossacks; and these rascals are never surprised; and no kind of experience comes amiss to them, so long as they have a chance of plunder and rapine. That is the truth, and it may as well be told. During the November fogs they caught a good many German patrols, who were attempting to play the game of hide-and-seek; and very few prisoners were made. Many of the Russian troops were becoming fierce-tempered; and none more so than the Cossacks. One of these men displayed a bag full of watches and rings which he had taken from slain Prussian officers. He was reported to have slain more than fifty of the enemy with his own sword and lance; and he was notorious for spearing wounded men as he rode over the battlefield, such crimes, and plundering, not being punished as they are in most armies--the German excepted, where murder and theft are rewarded with iron crosses, and commendation from commanding officers. But these Cossacks are very useful fellows; they fairly frightened our enemies; and in this way probably saved us from a good deal of trouble and loss: and they certainly always hampered the movements of the foe much more than regular cavalry could have done. Probably they sometimes saved us from disaster. For it leaked out that, in our recent advance to the Warta, we actually had a large force of Germans on our rear: and it is more than likely that the Cossacks had the principal share in driving them back from several impending attacks, of which we knew nothing at the time; and which would probably have ended in our making the acquaintanceship of a Prussian prison; or a still narrower place of confinement. The rain ceased for a time, and both sides continued to entrench themselves, the Germans in front of us being not more than a mile distant, with their advanced posts much closer. They had contrived to get up heavy guns; and there was a good deal of artillery shooting every day, which blew in trenches, destroyed wire-entanglements, and did lots of other damage, but did not kill many men. Sometimes an enormous shell blew a poor fellow to pieces, sometimes wiped out half-a-dozen at once; but I do not think we lost more than a score a day all along the line. The freaks played by shells were sometimes extraordinary. One went just over the head of an officer, killed a boy who was standing behind him, went over the head of another man, and then sprang high into the air before exploding. It is as impossible to give a probable explanation of such strange action, as it is to say why a fragment of shell bursting fifty yards away should kill three men, while one exploding right in the midst of a group of twenty gunners should leave them all unscathed. It is the law of chance--if chance has laws. I should also mention (though I did not learn the circumstances until some time afterwards) that the Germans had fortified several villages and towns on the left bank of the Vistula, with first, second and third lines of defence; and that the Russians, unable to take these in their general advance, had masked them, and left them on their rear. The garrisons could not have been strong enough to take advantage of this circumstance; but it does not seem to be so dangerous to leave fortresses behind in these latter days of the strange development of war, as it formerly was. Having little to do we amused ourselves, and one another, by repeating, and studying, the various rumours and bits of news we heard. Russian newspapers, of course, and a good many German ones, reached our trenches; and a few French publications; but I never saw an English paper of any kind. Those we obtained were generally illustrated; but the pictures, as far as they related to the Russian seat of war, were mere inventions; and I am afraid the same remark must be made with regard to the news; though some of the papers had a fairly good notion of the general progress of events. It was when they came to details that their novelists got to work. The unimpeachable items of news that were of most interest to us were that the Grand Duke Nicolas was directing the operations against Przemysl, and that the fall of that important place was imminent. It seems, however, that the celebrated fortress proved a tougher nut to crack than it was generally thought it would be. Personally, I am of opinion that the Russians went the wrong way to work in invading Austria; and Silesia, not Galicia, should have been their first objective. I need not enter into details, or reasons, here, because I am at variance with most critics on the conduct of the whole war. There are people who would think it presumptuous on my part to presume to think differently from the conductors of the Russian, French and English forces: but I do think differently from them: and whatever the ultimate issues of this gigantic war, the most titanic the world has seen, I do not hesitate to say that not one of the contending parties has produced a really great General--a Napoleon, or a Moltke. At the moment of writing this paragraph the war has lasted nine months; and during that time it has simply been a game of see-saw, a swaying backwards and forwards, without one decisive, or even very important, action on any side. The war might easily have been ended by this time: if it is allowed to degenerate into a war of trenches it will end when the Germans have spent all their money, and not sooner. On the 5th November we suddenly received orders to occupy again the line of the Warta. We advanced by forced marches, finding that the Germans had abandoned their trenches during the night; and they were reported by our Cossacks to be drawing off in the direction of Kutno, evidently with the intention of falling back on Thorn, distant about four marches. The next day we learned that there had been sharp fighting on the Prussian frontier near the often-mentioned town of Kalisz; and that the Russian troops had entered German territory. They were also said to have invaded Prussia in the north, at Virballen; not far from which place I had seen some heavy fighting, as narrated in a previous chapter. What I subsequently saw and heard led me to entertain some uncertainty as to the extent and actuality of these important claims. I do not know, but I think it is probable, that these actions were little more than Cossack raids. Villages and railway-stations were burnt, and the lines destroyed in places. The results were not permanent, and it seems likely that the Germans gave ground for the time, because they thought it necessary to withdraw at least three corps to put against their French and British opponents. There must be considerable monotony in describing such a war as this I am treating of. To a great extent land-fighting, like naval encounters, has lost its picturesqueness, and has become little more than a disgusting slaughter. A good deal of the action is similar to the fighting of rats in a ditch. Trench warfare is horrible, with its villainous grenades and bombs, which are quite different from these devices in former days, and are no better than tools in the hands of a butcher. It is useless to argue that a bomb is a bomb, and that it cannot matter whether a man is blown to pieces by one of the ancient, or one of the modern, type. It does matter a good deal--to the survivors, at any rate. The effect of modern shell-fire is hellish, its destructiveness is so great, its effects on its victims so awful, compared with anything of the kind that was formerly in vogue. Where one man died formerly from artillery fire, 500 go down now; and nearly all of them are mutilated most horribly. The advance of the Russians seems to have shown the Germans that they made a mistake in withdrawing troops from their Eastern frontiers. They came rushing back to Poland from somewhere, either France and Belgium, or the interior of Germany. On the 8th November they were still in great force to the north of the Warta; and our cavalry reported that they were receiving strong reinforcements via Bromberg and Thorn. Afterwards I found that this information was correct in most of its details; but it must be remembered that I laboured in great disadvantage and difficulties, especially in obtaining information from places far distant from the spot where I happened to be at any given time. I frequently applied for permission to go on scouting parties, or to join the Cossacks in their raids; but this was not often given to me, or very willingly conceded on the few occasions when I was successful in obtaining it. I cannot tell why. The very few newspaper correspondents I met with did not seem to have much more liberty of action than I had: and when they learned that I was not a correspondent they gave me but scant aid, if any at all. I did not come much in contact with the commanding officers of my division, and was unfortunate in the fact that many of those that I became most friendly with were speedily killed, or wounded and sent back. At this time an officer named Martel was in temporary command of the division, Major-General Alexis Sporowsky having been taken prisoner, and his immediate successor killed. General Martel was one of the best officers I served under, and he willingly gave me permission to join a cavalry reconnaissance in force which was made by four dragoon and hussar regiments, and six sotnias of Cossacks. We proceeded in the direction of Choczi, and met the enemy about sixteen versts west of that town, which is situated on the frontier line. They consisted of two regiments of cuirassiers (without their cuirasses) and two of Uhlans. None of these regiments were of the same numerical strength as ours. I put the German force at 1,800 men, and six light guns. The Russians had 3,000, but no guns: and soon after we came into action we discovered that the enemy was covering a battalion of jagers (riflemen): so really they were much the stronger party. The Cossacks spread themselves out like a fan, a movement which is as old as the force itself, and was used with great effect against the troops of Napoleon Buonaparte in 1812. They then rushed in on the jagers, and, though suffering severely, occupied the attention of those men, while we tackled the dragoons and the guns. The latter did not do so very much execution, but the cuirassiers, big, heavy men, broke through our dragoons, who are classed as light cavalry. The Germans, however, are not good swordsmen, as I have previously stated, and while they were in some disorder, occasioned by the shock of their first charge, our hussars got amongst them and sabred them right and left in fine style. I can say that the edge of the sword was mostly used, not the point: while the Germans did use the point most, a mistake in cavalry actions, as it often leads to the trooper breaking his weapon, or losing it through being unable to withdraw it after stabbing an enemy; besides, a "point" is easily parried, and is intended to be mostly used against men lying on the ground, or against infantry. The Uhlans remained in support of the guns, another mistake of theirs: for before they could come to the rescue of the cuirassiers our dragoons had rallied, and met them in a charge that badly routed them. They fled right off the field, leaving behind about 200 of their number in killed, wounded and prisoners. The Cossacks were equally successful. They nearly annihilated the jagers, and the six guns fell into our hands. The cuirassiers, too, were nearly all destroyed: for on account of their weight they could not escape from our light horsemen; the Cossacks, in particular, showing them no mercy. Man for man the German cavalry are inferior to the Russian troopers, chiefly because they are bad swordsmen, and are lacking of that enterprise and dash which are essential to the making of good troopers. The guns could not be taken with us, and we were afraid to send them to the rear lest they should be recaptured: so they were destroyed by smashing the breech-blocks and exploding charges of gun-cotton in the muzzles. The caissons, also, were blown up. The remnant of the enemy were pursued until our horses were too much exhausted to follow them further, which was not until we had crossed the German border. Those of the jagers who were not destroyed surrendered as prisoners; but most of them afterwards escaped. Altogether this was a brilliant affair. It cost the enemy more than 1,000 men; with a loss on our side of between 300 and 400. We lost 150 horses, but we captured 400 of those of the enemy, without counting the artillery draught teams. We rode some distance into Germany, giving the people a cruel lesson in war in retaliation of the wickedness of their own fiendish troops. I was sorry for them: but really I do not see how the sin of warfare is to be stamped out, unless we make it so dreadful that the people of a land will no longer tolerate it--the policy, I believe, of one of their own hard-hearted statesmen: and I imagine the people of East Prussia will not be anxious to see the Cossacks again. They came upon the miserable people fresh from sights they ought never to have seen, and fierce with an anger that ought not to have been provoked. Those that sow the wind reap the whirlwind. On the 9th and 10th we were in contact with a weak force of the enemy's infantry, supported by two or three batteries and some remnants of cavalry regiments. The batteries had been a good deal knocked about, and had not their full complement of guns, unless two batteries were split up into three, for the purpose of deceiving us. As they did not fire we guessed they had no ammunition left. Skirmishing went on, but was productive of no material results. Some prisoners who fell into our hands were without boots, and had been marching with bare feet: the uniforms of others were very ragged. But on the 11th we were opposed by fresh troops, well clothed, and evidently well fed; and it became clear that reinforcements were arriving with food and supplies. Such a force of artillery opened fire on us that we were compelled to fall back rather hastily, and we took advantage of the smoke of some burning houses to cover our retreat. As we passed near these houses some civilians shot at us with fowling-pieces from the windows of a large building, and blinded a Cossack. His comrades dismounted, stormed the house, and hanged the men to telegraph-posts. There was a painful scene when their women interfered to prevent the execution; and one man fought desperately for his life; while the screaming of children added to the horror of the surroundings. Only the men were punished: it was one of the dreadful, but necessary, acts of war. No troops in the world would tolerate to be fired on under such circumstances. The Cossack died a lingering death. We drew out of range of the infantry with slight loss; some of our men, who had their horses killed, running by the side of their comrades, and occasionally, in moments of great danger, riding behind them; but most of these men were ultimately taken prisoners. Two squadrons of the enemy's hussars had the temerity to charge our rear-guard. The Cossacks made sad work of them; especially as they thought they could not be burdened with prisoners during their retreat. Some three or four of these hussars and their horses were knocked over by a shell from one of their own guns--I presume accidentally. When we had got out of range of gun and rifle we retired more slowly, meeting hundreds of people fleeing towards the interior of the country, evidently in fear of a general invasion by the Russians. They were driving all sorts of conveyances, from motors to dog-carts: the latter kind of vehicle, illegal in England, being very common in Russia and Germany; and, I think, in all Continental countries. These people were carrying what goods they thought they could save; but some of them got overhauled by the Cossacks, and would have done better to have remained at home, where, generally, they were not much interfered with. Before we got back to the Warta we were joined by some more Cossacks, and other cavalry, who had been reconnoitring in the direction of Poweedtz and Piotrikow: and I may here say generally that I obtained pretty clear information that the Russians nowhere penetrated German territory more than from ten to twenty, or at most twenty-five, versts. Sorry I am that I cannot make a better report. I saw clearly enough that a revulsion, if not a reverse, was impending. Where the enemy's troops came from I cannot always certainly tell; but come they did. Probably a strong contingent was sent from Belgium and North-West France; and still more probably the bulk of the reinforcements were newly embodied troops. It must be remembered that nearly every man in Germany is a well-trained soldier; therefore it is easy to raise new armies from the civilian element. Unfortunately, at this interesting moment I was put out of action for a month. On the morning of the 16th November I was struck in the back by a piece of shell fired at our position on the Warta, and was sent into hospital at Warsaw. I was much vexed at the accident; but as I could not stand, a temporary absence from the front was inevitable. At the time I was incapacitated the Germans had at least partially reoccupied the country west of the Warta, though not, perhaps, in force. We were not there in any great numbers ourselves, and kept a position further to the north than formerly. Both sides were again entrenching themselves. My life in the hospital was a very monotonous one, as I could not maintain a conversation with anybody. About 300 badly wounded men lay in a building which seemed to have been a school, or public institution. There were only three or four doctors and about twenty attendants to look after this lot, and the nurses seemed to be nuns. They were most kind and attentive, but too few in number, as nearly all the cases were those of desperately injured men, an average of nine or ten dying every day. Their beds were immediately occupied by fresh arrivals, probably brought from temporary resting-places. The sights and sounds were of the most depressing description, especially when relatives or friends were present to receive the last sighs of expiring men. My servant Chouraski was not with me when I was struck down, and possibly did not know what had become of me, or whether I was killed or taken prisoner. I was not taken back to my billet, eight versts from the spot where I was hurt, but was sent on at once to Warsaw in an ambulance. I never saw Chouraski again, or heard what had become of him: indeed, I met very few old friends when I returned to the front. Semi-starvation, and a strenuous life in the open air, are good preparations for hard knocks. No bones being broken, nor other serious hurts incurred, my wounds healed rapidly; and in three weeks I could get up and lend a hand to less fortunate comrades. By this time I could speak a few words of Russian, sufficient to make my wants known; and the medical men spoke French. The nuns, however, did not seem to be so well educated as their class usually is in other countries. However, I could make it understood that I wished to be discharged at the earliest possible moment, and in spite of the persuasions of the doctors, I left on the 18th December, having obtained a permit from the commandant to return to the front. I was still rather weak, and was disappointed in my endeavours to obtain a horse; but had very little money left. In the first instance I went, with twenty other recovered wounded, belonging to a dozen different corps, to Lovicz, there to await orders. CHAPTER XII AN INFANTRY RECONNAISSANCE Once more I must refer to Germany's railways. A line runs parallel with the entire borderland at an average distance of about twenty versts--that is, one day's march for an army. This parallel line is connected with a highly elaborated railway system, extending to every part of the German Empire: and there are scores of short lines, running to towns on the actual frontier, where they terminate; with the very few exceptions where they run on into Russia. Of course, these short lines have a commercial importance; but their real value to Germany is that they permit a fighting battle-line to be rapidly reinforced at many points simultaneously. The Russians never successfully passed this parallel border railway: that is, they never held it in force, and for a considerable distance. It had, for Germany, a precisely similar value as a defensive line that the Vistula had for Warsaw and the interior of Russia. The railway-line stopped the Russian advance, as the Vistula did that of the Germans, yet in different ways. The actual railway could not stop the Russians; but the power of concentration it gave her opponents did. On the other hand, the River Vistula did stop the Germans. They could not force it, strongly held as it was by the Muscovite troops and their heavy artillery. The contributary streams, with their deep, steep banks, also hindered the attack, and greatly assisted the defence. When I reached Lovicz I found the state of affairs much what it had been two months previously, when the Russians were defending the course of the great river against the Germans entrenched on the ground between it and the Pilica. What extent of country was now reoccupied by the enemy I had no means of learning with much exactitude; but it was certain that they were again on the left bank of the Vistula, on the Pilica: and were renewing their determined efforts to reach Warsaw. Lovicz was threatened; but as this place is a railway junction, and of great importance to Russia, preparations were in progress to defend the place as long as possible. I was in something of a predicament. At Lovicz I could find nobody who knew me. The 40th Siberian regiment was said to be now in front of Przemysl; and the Cossacks with whom I had been most frequently in contact were departed, nobody knew whither. I could not see my way to trying to rejoin the 40th; but it was necessary that I should have some sort of official recognition, as it was contrary to regulation to have loiterers about camp, to say nothing of the danger one would run of being thought a spy and being dealt with accordingly. My friends, the Cossacks, would probably put a wrong interpretation upon my inability to give prompt and clear answers in their mother-tongue; and I should have a similar difficulty with any officer who should happen to interrogate me, besides running the risk of trouble with any civil officials I might chance to meet. So I began to look about me. I had papers, testimonials and a permit. How could I utilize these? Among the comrades with whom I had returned to the front was an officer of the Tomski regiment. I applied to him, and he introduced me to a Staff Captain named Muller. Muller, as we all know, is a very common German name; but many Russians are of German stock. Muller, in spite of his name, was a thorough Russian: and he stated my case to another Staff Officer, Colonel Simmelchok, who proposed that I should apply for recognition as a newspaper correspondent. The difficulty was that I could not name any paper to which I was a contributor, or potential contributor. Finally, the General commanding the troops at Lovicz was applied to. Having expressed the opinion that I had better go home, he refused to give me permission to join any Russian corps, and said that if I remained at headquarters I must do so at my own risk. In view of the excellent recommendations which I possessed from several Russian commanders he would not positively order my departure: and in view of my ignorance of the Russian language, he could not advise that I should be given a commission in any Russian unit. I might enlist as a private if I liked. I saw at once that if I enlisted in a Russian regiment, my liberty of action would be stopped immediately; and I should see no more of the war than what the tip of my own bayonet could show: and I had serious thoughts of departing, and trying some other commander. Colonel Simmelchok came to the rescue. I might remain at my own risk. Very well: Colonel Krastnovitz, commanding the 2nd battalion of the Vladimir regiment was a friend of his, and would make me a member of their mess. Nothing could have met my views better, except a remittance of ready cash: but I was generously told that I need not trouble my head about that: we were soldiers on campaign, and would mostly enjoy campaign fare only; and so it proved. For we had few luxuries, except an occasional fowl, or duck, obtained from the country-people, a batch of eggs or a joint of pork. We never ran short of tobacco; but wine was almost unknown in the mess. There was a very decided change in the weather. The mud had disappeared and the ground was frozen hard: the trees sparkled with frost particles, and the ground was coated, every morning, with rime. The air was "shrewd and biting," and we had some boisterous north winds which chilled me to the marrow. Meanwhile desperate fighting was going on, and the Russians seemed to be giving ground in several places. The ground was becoming so hard that trench-making became difficult, and a good deal of the fighting was in the open under old-fashioned conditions: the losses, therefore, were exceptionally heavy, especially in killed and wounded. More prisoners are taken in trench warfare than in any other form of military action owing to the fact that if the men do not escape before an assault takes place they have no chance of doing so when the enemy is actually amongst them. The broad hind-quarters of a Deutschman crawling over the crest of a trench affords a remarkably fine butt for a bayonet thrust: and Huns usually prefer surrender to cold steel. For several days we were left in doubt of what was taking place in our neighbourhood, though daily glowing accounts reached us of the progress of Russian arms in the Austrian area of the war. The general impression seemed to be that matters were not going on so well in the West Polish district as they should be. On the 20th we made a night march to a village, the name of which did not transpire. It was deserted, with the exception perhaps of a dozen miserable starving creatures, and had been partly burnt down. We arrived about four o'clock in the morning, at which time it had been snowing heavily for two hours. We remained hiding in the village all day, fires and even smoking being strictly forbidden. There were about 800 of us: and I do not know if there were other infantry detachments near us, but I heard from the Colonel that a force of Cossacks was reconnoitring some eight or nine versts in front of us; and we could hear the distant booming of heavy guns, a sure sign that the contending parties were in contact, as artillery do not fire at nothing. The greater part of the day snow was falling, and though it cleared up in the evening it was only for a few hours. We had brought three days' rations in our haversacks. The food consisted of biscuit, and fat boiled mutton, which is excellent diet for marching men. Our drink was water only, which we had to procure where we could find it; not an easy task, as the rivers were full of putrid bodies and carcasses of horses, and the Germans had polluted many of the wells. On the 21st we made another night march over an open plain on which were many small pine-woods. We kept under cover as much as possible, and finally halted in a pine-wood, where we hid ourselves all day, not seeing a soul of any kind. In the afternoon a Cossack arrived, and delivered a written message to the Colonel, the contents of which he did not divulge; but at night he called for a dozen volunteers who, he said, must be men of enterprise, not afraid to sacrifice themselves if necessary. These men were placed under the command of a young officer, Captain Folstoffle, and proceeded along the bed of a frozen brook, our feet being muffled with pieces of sheep's skin. Naturally I supposed that we were near the enemy; but Folstoffle spoke not a word of either French or English, and no communication of any kind was made to me or to the men: we were left to glean information from the "march of events." The booming of the guns continued, at intervals, all night, and to the north-west the sky was crimson with the reflection of a large fire--a burning town, I imagined. The only sign of life I saw was a large animal (a wild boar, I think), which rushed out of the cover of some rushes when disturbed by our approach. The whole country was covered with snow, which was loose, and about a foot deep. This was a drawback, as we must have shown up darkly to an enemy: at the same time it increased our chances of seeing the approach of persons or soldiers, not clothed in white, though this hue was often used by the Germans to conceal themselves when the country was snow-clad. We had left our bivouac at about nine o'clock, and marched on until 2 a.m., when Folstoffle decided to halt for a rest. The spot chosen for this purpose was a clump of bushes with a small two-storied farm-house about 300 yards distant. It was necessary to examine this house, and I volunteered for the service, making myself understood by signs and the few words of Russian I was now master of. I started alone, but one of the men followed close behind me, holding his rifle at the "Present," ready to fire instantly if need should require it, though it seemed improbable that any of the enemy were in the house. As we approached, however, I was astonished to see a man hanging out of one of the windows, and another leaning over him from behind. Both were partly covered with snow, and it hardly required more than a glance to show that they were dead. A few yards nearer, and I could see that their clothing was in tatters, and fluttering in the night breeze. The weather had cleared up, and was now bright; and the reflection from the snow enabled one to see objects with considerable distinctness, though some distance away; and I noticed several curious-looking heaps, or mounds, near the house, from which a horrible stink emanated, as it did from the building itself. The place had been subjected to a bombardment; all the windows were smashed out, and one door lay flat on the ground; the other hung by a single hinge only, and we had no difficulty in entering. The soldier had a pocket-lamp, and he struck a light by means of flint and tinder, a contrivance which is still in use in Russia. The body of a huge man lay at the foot of the stairs. He was nearly naked, and much decayed; and we could not tell if he had been friend or foe. The whole place was in much confusion. There had evidently been hand to hand fighting in all the rooms; and upstairs there were the remains of about a dozen men heaped together in the apartment where the two corpses first noticed were hanging out of the window. All were in an advanced state of decay, and must have been dead weeks, if not months. The horrible fetor of the place was unendurable, and we were glad to return into the fresh air, the soldier being greatly upset. I thought it advisable to return and report before making a further search of the house and its environs; and Folstoffle decided to wait until the morning before examining the neighbourhood. The spot where this discovery was made was between Klodava and Krasuyvice. No doubt there had been fighting all over this district, but none of those composing our party had taken a part in it. In the morning we found nearly a hundred bodies scattered about, and lying in two heaps in what appeared to have been the garden and orchard of the farm: but the place was completely wrecked. The sight was, on a small scale, as dreadful as any I witnessed during the war. Many of the dead were skeletons, or nearly so: animals, probably dogs and pigs, had been at work on others; and all were pretty well in the last stage of putridity. Many retained the positions in which they had died and stiffened. One man, with no eyes left in the sockets of his skull, was holding one arm straight up in the air; another had both arms and legs raised as he lay on his back--a position which would have been comical if it had not been so dreadful and tragical. In one heap were two men clasping each other in what had evidently been a death struggle. Another still grasped the bayonet with which he had killed a foe: and an officer had his sword raised and his mouth wide open as if giving an order at the instant of his death. The appearance of all was so extremely ghastly that it cannot be described. Though mostly covered with snow I saw many faces which were blue, green, black in hue, and had lost all resemblance to human features. Russians and Germans lay there in about equal proportions; and there we were compelled to leave them: for we had no tools, nor was the ground in a condition for rapid grave-digging. There may have been more bodies in some of the neighbouring ravines and woods; but we had no time to look for them. From what I afterwards saw, I have no doubt that the dead were often left unburied; a dreadful thing, for there is always a host of ravenous dogs in Russian villages; and as many of these were now ownerless, they had run wild. Besides these there were wild boars and wolves, always ready to take toll of the battlefield; to say nothing of the crow and the raven. Folstoffle's orders had been to return before midday on the 23rd; but it was after that hour before we turned to rejoin our main body. About four o'clock we met a section coming to look for us, as Colonel Krastnovitz had become anxious. The object of the reconnaissance was said to be accomplished; we had found that there were no enemies in that district; or, at any rate, in our immediate neighbourhood; and this information was corroborated by that of half a sotnia of Cossacks, who, it seems, had been acting in conjunction with us, though we had seen nothing of them since starting on our little expedition. But our leaders must have had a belief that the enemy was at hand: for we received orders to fall back on our deserted village, and put it into a state of defence, which we did by loopholing what remained of the walls, and digging trenches round the outskirts. In cases like this the trenches are held and defended while the enemy is using his artillery; but when the actual assault takes place, and he can no longer use his guns for fear of injuring his own troops, the defenders retire to the loop-holes as a second line of defence; and as they can fire into the trenches, these are seldom tenable by the enemy. CHAPTER XIII THE BUTCHER'S BILL TO THE END OF 1914 We were strictly kept within our lines: I had no opportunity, therefore, of ascertaining what other troops were in our neighbourhood. I took it for granted that we were supported, as it was quite clear that our battalion was acting as an advanced post. A battery of eight guns was sent to strengthen our position; but no other troops showed themselves; and the battery commander declared that he had come a distance of forty versts by march-route without seeing more than a few detachments of infantry and cavalry, the last named chiefly Cossacks. Writing of numbers recalls certain remarks which I heard about this time concerning the force, or supposed force, of ourselves and our enemies. The Germans on the East Prussian front were put by our commander at 1,600,000 men, with another 250,000 or 300,000 in Austria. I am inclined to think that these figures are an under estimation; though, on account of the speed with which the Germans moved their troops about by rail, it was very difficult to arrive at correct conclusions concerning their numbers. At one time, however, when they considered there was a serious fear of Germany being rapidly overrun by their ponderous foe, I am sure there was more than 2,000,000 German soldiers on the Eastern front with not less than 3,500 field-guns, and 1,000 guns of position, not including machine-guns of rifle-calibre. To oppose this vast force the Russians had about 3,000,000 men in Poland, and West and South Russia, with 3,000 field-guns, and about 400 guns of position and siege-guns. They claimed to have another 3,000,000 mobilizing, and already on the move; and I do not think this was an exaggeration. Russia could easily raise 12,000,000 _good troops_, if she had the material and money to furnish them. That money is the sinews of war is not a trite saying--it is an absolute fact. Without gold armies cannot exist, any more than they can subsist without food. The output of Russian soldiers is limited by the financial resources of the country. She had 3,000,000 men at the front. When a quarter of a million of these was wiped out, they were replaced by another quarter of a million; and so on. The reason that no more than the 3,000,000 was ever present at the front at one and the same time seemed to be that the number stated was all she could supply in the field: and these were serving, practically, without pay; and often on food that was scanty in quantity, and coarse in quality. After the close of the year 1914 the Russians, seeing that it was a stern necessity, made almost superhuman efforts to bring up more artillery; and they increased the number of their heavy siege-guns; and, in a lesser degree, those of the field and machine classes of ordnance. The Russians were always very strong in cavalry. I believe their mounted Cossacks alone exceeded 60,000 men; and there was, probably, 40,000 line cavalry in Poland--cuirassiers, dragoons, lancers, hussars, chasseurs, etc.--to oppose which the Germans had certainly no more than 20,000 inferior horsemen. The Russian cavalry are not comparable to those of England and France; but they are far superior to those of Germany: yet, I must admit, the latter Power had to contend against superior numbers in this arm. I believe that in every cavalry encounter which took place the Russians had a numerical, as well as a tactical, superiority. In reference to losses: the Russians put those of their enemies on this front at about 1,000,000 men at the close of the first five months of the war. This includes prisoners. It is said that 50,000 Austrians were captured in the first fortnight of December. I was an eye-witness to the awful slaughter which took place on many occasions; but, as I have pointed out, the majority of the wounded men soon return to the ranks. Still, I think the Germans had at least 400,000 men put out of action in this region, not including prisoners. The loss of the Russians I believe to have been quite as heavy as that of the Germans, perhaps even more so. Their chief strength lay in the fact that they could speedily replace every man they lost, which the Germans could not do. CHAPTER XIV "DO NOT FIRE ON YOUR COMRADES" Day after day we passed in our miserable bivouac, short of food, short of news, short of everything. When news did come it was rather disquieting: Germany was said to have a fleet of armed river boats on the Vistula some thirty to thirty-five English miles to our right rear. It would be rather awkward if these gunboats landed a force behind us, specially as it seemed as if we were not supported in this direction, except by a few sotnias of Cossacks. Our forces seemed to be very quiet and unprogressive everywhere, except on the Austrian and Turkish frontiers. We had the weather, perhaps, in part, to thank for this state of things. It was simply atrocious. Near the end of the year there was a partial thaw, followed by heavy rain, which quickly turned to a blinding sleet. Then there came a dull, heavy day, with black, lowering clouds, and bitter cold. The snow recommenced, and fell as one might expect it to fall, in Russia and Poland. With a few intervals it continued to float down in big feathery flakes for an entire week, and it drifted round us as high as the roofs of the houses, or the charred eaves where those roofs had once rested; and we could not leave the environs of the village until we had cut a way through. Buried beneath the snow we did not feel the icy wind so keenly as those did who were unavoidably exposed to it when on outpost duty; of which, however, we all had our share. There were, also, occasional reconnaissances on a small scale--a dozen men, or so, in a party. I was always glad to accompany these, as the monotony of life in a ruin, without sufficient food, and no recreation except card-playing, was unendurable. The object of these little expeditions was to ascertain if we were likely to be attacked; or if the enemy was moving in our neighbourhood. The whole country was deserted, except by pigs and dogs, and a few wild animals. The pigs had been turned loose, I supposed, to get their own living as best they could; and I am afraid that a good many of them were carnivorous, as the dogs certainly were. These brutes were vagabonds by choice, and it was a wonder to me that so many of them were tolerated in the towns and villages of all parts of Russia and Poland I visited. It was shocking to see the number of empty and destroyed houses, some isolated and standing alone, others in clusters forming small hamlets and villages. In the rooms of some, or in the courtyards, and sometimes in the open fields, we came across the bodies of peasants and soldiers who had not been buried. The remains of one man were hanging from a tree. He was little more than a skeleton, and the eyeless sockets of his skull had an inexpressibly horrid appearance. There were also the carcasses of domestic animals lying about, wantonly killed. It is really difficult to understand the state of mind of men who could be guilty of such cowardly and monstrous cruelty. Isolated acts of wickedness occur in all wars; but here we seemed to have a whole people, multitudinous in numbers, afflicted with the madness of blood-lust. Very little information was gleaned from these reconnaissances. The few miserables who still lurked about the ruins of their former homes said that no soldiers had been in their neighbourhood since the fighting which led to the destruction of the country. One old fellow, with mattock and spade, and accompanied by a faithful dog, was making it his business to bury the abandoned bodies of his dead countrymen. He said he had made graves for forty-five of them, and he was still very busy and complained that he had to lose much time while he was looking for food. We gave him all we had with us. He had been living chiefly on hares which he tracked down in the snow. We had discovered, ourselves, that this was an easy way of capturing them; and they often made an agreeable addition to our poor fare. We also caught an odd sheep or two, pretty lean for want of a shepherd's care; and pork was plentiful enough for those who cared to partake of it, who became fewer every day, as it became more and more evident that these omnivorous creatures were living on carrion and the bodies of the unburied slain. We gained some important bits of information, amongst them the fact that we were not supported by other troops; and that reinforcements were passing through Warsaw, day and night, in an unbroken stream. They were proceeding mostly towards the Austrian frontier, and to the scene of the fighting on the Vistula, or rather on its tributaries, the Pilica, Bzura, Bug, and the Narew; a region extensively entrenched. The fact that no troops appeared to be supporting our outpost greatly disturbed the mind of Colonel Krastnovitz, who even expressed the opinion that he was either forgotten, or cut off; and it really looked as if something of this sort had occurred, as the officer had received no orders, or supplies, for ten days; and the men were almost starving. We sent out foraging parties every day; but the country had been cleared of provisions to such a degree that it was almost a desert. In our extremity we applied to a Cossack officer, and thenceforth he sent us in a cart or two of food every day, consisting of bread (in biscuit form), bacon, wheat, flour and oats. Where he obtained these supplies he did not say; and nobody made it his business to inquire. Cossacks are free and easy fellows; and they never starve. There is no instance in their history of their ever having done so. If they cannot find enemies to rob, they borrow from friends; and failing this, ten to one they take toll of their own convoys. Do they get into trouble for such playful pranks? All I can say is that I have never seen a dead donkey, nor a court-martialled Cossack. The beggars may live on thistles, but they do live. I suggested to Colonel Krastnovitz that it was necessary we should get into communication with the commander, as it was impossible for him either to maintain his position or vacate it without orders. He quite agreed: and twenty men under Captain Folstoffle were detailed to search for the remaining battalions of the regiment. Our obliging Cossack commander placed half a dozen of his men at our disposal, and was good enough to give us a couple of old horses which he had picked up, and which were worth, I suppose, their weight in--cat's meat. Still, the snow was deep, the way was long, and the pilgrim not too young or strong, and I was glad to throw my leg over the craziest old crock I ever mounted. Our Cossack friends were of a party having a roving commission, and reporting direct to Warsaw, which was now encircled by trenches and earthworks, the permanent forts being old and not to be depended on; and I may add, on my own responsibility, woefully short of heavy artillery. As far as the Cossacks knew there were no Russian troops nearer to our position than the trenches at Skyermevice, where they were in pretty close contact with the enemy. We heard that there had been fighting quite recently; and daily we heard the reports of artillery in that direction, the distance being less than thirty versts. The Russians are marchers as well as fighters; but the roads were so blocked with snow that we could rarely discern them, and we took a direct route straight across the country. This was very well; but the men sank in to the knee at every step, and progress was very slow, while concealment was impossible. If only a small body of the enemy had appeared we should have had no alternative but unconditional surrender--not a pleasant lookout, especially for me, who could not hope to pass for a Russian. In spite of strenuous exertion we could not advance faster than two versts an hour (less than a mile and a half). When, therefore, we came to a gentleman's house, we decided to remain there and send on two of the Cossacks with a written message to the nearest commanding officer they could find. These men did not return until late the following day, bringing orders for the battalion to proceed to a village called Samitz, near Skyermevice. Captain Folstoffle decided to remain where he was and send on the message to the Colonel. We were in very good quarters at the house mentioned above. The family had fled to a place of greater safety, leaving an old couple to look after the mansion, and answer all German inquiries. Strange to say, and very fortunately for us, the Germans had not visited this house; and everything being intact we had plenty of food and wine, and good beds to sleep in. There was a poultry yard with abundance of fowls, ducks and geese; and a piggery full of fine porkers with no suspicion attached to their recent diet, and--well, the Cossacks looked after this department, not forgetting the respect due to their superiors when the roast was ready: and I am afraid that the poor old woman had some doubts which was most preferable--a visit from the Germans, or a self-invitation from her compatriots; and I am not sure she did not say as much. She certainly had a good deal to say; and I did not need to understand Russian to perceive the temper and tone in which her speech was delivered. But her protests were received with sublime indifference, and she was calmly presented with receipts and bills which she was informed the Russian Government would honour in due course. The next day, the 8th January, 1915, the battalion arrived at this pleasant halting-place, and cleared up the remnants of the poultry-yard and piggery. It took us all day on the 9th to reach Samitz, which the enemy was shelling vigorously. The village was a small place originally; and half of it had already been reduced to something very like dust. The only civilian I saw in the place was a woman, who was crying bitterly as she sat on the threshold of a shattered cottage, quite oblivious, in her terrible grief, of such trifling dangers as bursting shells. These are the sights that upset men, even soldiers born, and cause them to hate war. Even the dogs and the pigs had deserted this place. The headquarters, and the other battalions of the Vladimir regiment, were not at Samitz; and nobody could tell us where they were. We were politely told not to bother our heads about our comrades, but to get into the trenches at once. Fortunately we were with "goodly capon lined"; for they had not the good manners here to give us a ration before sending us on duty. But the service was pressing just then, as we soon discovered. Night was closing in when we became aware that a heavy mass of the enemy was making straight for the trench we occupied. They were shouting loudly something I did not understand; and orders were passed along the trench that we were to lie quiet, and not fire until the foe was quite close. I thought this a foolish order, but of course obeyed it, like the rest of the men. I afterwards read in an English newspaper of a dodge practised by the Germans of running up dressed in English uniform, and shouting something like this: "Ve vos not Shermans; we vos Royal Vest Surreys!" A similar trick was played on us at this time. It appears the Germans shouted: "We are a reinforcement of Russians; do not fire on your comrades!" We did not fire until they reached the wire entanglement which protected the front of the trench: and then----. Well, they went down as if blasted by a wind from Hades. Point-blank, quick-firing: and then, while the groan of fright and horror was still issuing from their lips, came the order, "Upon them with the bayonet--Charge." There was no fighting: it was simply slaughter amidst yells, curses, and abject screams for mercy. For the first time in this campaign I saw German soldiers fairly and unmistakably routed. There was no mistake about it this time. Old Jack Falstaff never carried his paunch as nimbly as these Germans carried theirs in their run for their lives. We took no prisoners: or, if any, only one or two odd ones; and we scarcely lost a man, except afterwards, by artillery fire. For the Germans, absolutely routed, sought vengeance by opening as heavy an artillery shelling as they could; but it was little better than a waste of ammunition, and killed more of their own wounded than it did of our men. When morning came, I calculated that 2,000 German bodies lay on half a verst of our front. The groans and cries of the wounded were awful to hear; but nobody could help them. Their own people made no overtures to do so; and when our Red Cross men attempted to go to their assistance they were fired on by the enemy in the most cowardly way. None of our wounded lay outside the trench. When darkness set in Captain Folstoffle, and an officer called Skidal, with Drs. Wolnoff and Falovki, myself and a dozen stretcher-bearers of the Red Cross Service, went out to try to be of some service to the suffering and dying. It was a dark night; but the snow rendered objects visible; and the miserable wail of the injured guided us to where they lay thickest. Nothing could be more awful: one man with the top of his skull blown off, and the brains exposed, was still alive, and most anxious to be saved. He begged piteously to be first attended to; but what could be done for such a case? We made him as comfortable as we could under such dreadful circumstances, and left him: though his cries to be taken away, or at least have somebody remain with him, haunted my mind for many days afterwards. It was puzzling to know where to commence work when so many required attention. We gave first aid to a great many, and sent some to the rear of our trenches; but it was obviously of no use to treat hopeless cases. We removed them to more sheltered positions, and made them more comfortable. One or two were groaning under heaps of their slain comrades: we released these, and dressed their wounds. Some were very grateful for the aid rendered. One man kissed the hand of the attendant helping him; and another was very profuse in his thanks. Others were cursing their Kaiser and their country, and even the Almighty, for entailing so much misery upon them. One man was insane, probably as a result of his fears rather than his sufferings. Many corpses were broken to pieces, probably as a result of the German's own shell-fire. When the arms of a dead man were taken hold of to release another soldier pinned down beneath him, they both came away at the first pull, owing to the body being completely shattered. Several dissevered limbs lay about; and also headless bodies: and we discovered one dead man, who had died in the act of holding his bowels in, the outside of the stomach having been shot away. While we were attending to these miserable men, a shell came from the enemy's line and killed Lieutenant Skidal and two of the men, and so severely wounded Dr. Wolnoff that he died a few days afterwards. Of course we abandoned our work, and returned to the shelter of our trenches. In a similar way the Germans often put a stop to the would-be good work our people attempted to perform. CHAPTER XV SMALL AFFAIRS AND PERSONAL ADVENTURES Throughout the night there was cannonading at intervals, some of the shells weighing about 100 pounds. We had no guns so heavy in our lines; and I attribute the fact that the Russians were never able to fully push home their attacks to this cause. Their artillery, of all classes, was decidedly inferior to that of their foes, and there was a sad lacking of large pieces of siege ordnance, without which a modern army can hardly hope to beat its foes out of well-constructed trenches. On the following day the Germans did not make a direct attack on our position; but they sent out a host of snipers and skirmishers, who fired on us, causing many casualties, from snow-pits, and heaps of the same material. At first sight it would seem that snow would not prove a very efficacious defence; nevertheless pits and trenches made of it afford splendid protection to infantry, and even to field-guns. We found it impossible to dislodge these skirmishers by artillery fire alone; and individually they offered no mark to our riflemen. On the 14th January we attempted an assault of the German position, but were stopped at their wire entanglement and shot down in such numbers that we were compelled to retreat, leaving 1,000 men behind, mostly dead and dying, but a few of them prisoners of war. In this attempted assault we discovered that the enemy were using their iron shields, fixed upright in the ground, as a protection behind which to shoot from. At long range our rifle-bullets could not penetrate them; but they were an indescribably clumsy contrivance to carry about in the way the Germans first used them. They discovered that themselves, and abandoned their use, except in trenches; nor were they of much use at close quarters; for bullets would pierce them, sometimes at as great a range as 500 yards. Several little adventures happened to us while we were in these trenches. For instance, one night I thought I saw several small pyramids of snow moving about; and watching carefully I presently saw a man clothed in white come right up to our trenches. He knew, or discovered, the spaces left in the wire entanglements to enable us to sally out. His movements were so regular and bold that I was afraid to shoot him, thinking he might be one of our men, but went at once to Colonel Krastnovitz's hut, and reported what I had seen. None of our men were, at this time, clothed in white, or furnished with white cloaks, and the Colonel at once went with me to the spot where I had seen the mysterious figure. It had disappeared; but in about ten minutes several men, scarcely distinguishable from the snow, were dimly discerned moving about, and evidently examining our network of barbed wire. One of them seemed to be looking for something among the dead (all the wounded were very quiet by this time), and was seen to turn a corpse over. Our men, dead beaten with excessive fatigue, were asleep in the trench, a couple of sentries excepted; but several men were aroused, and the Colonel whispered his orders to them. Several angry spurts of fire, accompanied by sharp reports, and our prying Germans clothed in white raiment were hurrying away across the plain, leaving two of their number behind stretched on the ground. We went out to examine these fallen heroes. One was past help: the other was only wounded, and that not very seriously. He said he was willing to surrender, and hoped we would not murder him: rather comical, I thought; but the Russian mind is slow in perceiving a joke; and so his captors devoted all their attention to examining his white cloak, or overall, and making notes of the same. The young prisoner (he appeared to be no more than twenty years) was not "murdered," had his wounds seen to, and was sent to the rear. We saw no more of "the dashing white sergeants" that night, but afterwards became well acquainted with them, and imitated their tactics, for whole divisions of Russians wore white gaberdines when there was snow on the ground. On the night of the 15th a regiment of infantry, with our battalion attached, and supported by a strong division of Cossacks, made an attack of the German trenches on our right. We captured one of their advanced positions, but were soon driven out by a shower of hand-grenades, not the first time I had seen these very destructive missiles used, though I never expected that they would be resorted to in modern warfare. That their use should have died out is remarkable; for they are a most effective weapon at close quarters. The poison-gas, of which, I am thankful to say, I saw nothing, is a diabolical development of the ancient "stink-pot," a contrivance to suffocate an enemy; but one that was not particularly cruel, or effective. In this second sortie, which cost us 400 men, we captured several of the iron shields, before mentioned; and the Russian commanders thought it worth while to have some made of the same pattern; but as I have already stated, their use was soon considered to be a mistake and a failure, and they were set up as a kind of bulwark in the trenches. They were of some use in making barricades in narrow spaces where there was not room enough for an earthen parapet. We were not so discouraged by these little reverses as we might have been had we not enjoyed a continual stream of good news. Great things were reported to be occurring on the Austrian front; and the cavalry in our own neighbourhood had several skirmishes with the enemy, in which the Germans, as usual, had the worst of it. The weather was again very bad; though, really, there had not been much improvement in it for several weeks. Snow fell in immense quantities, in the form in which the Americans call blizzards: that is, as I understand the term, accompanied by storms of icy-cold wind. The snow lying on the ground, however, was frozen hard, and therefore more easily passed over. We could march with tolerable ease and rapidity. We were often moved from one part of the trenches and back again, for no perceivable reason; and on one occasion we were marched forty versts in the direction of Plock, probably because a great battle was expected. There was heavy fighting in this direction; but it was all over before we arrived. By the pronoun I mean the body of infantry to which the Vladimir battalion was attached, and which consisted of a division under General Berenstoff. It was made up largely of battalions and detachments which had lost a part of their effective force, or got separated from their regiments. Except perhaps in Austria, with which I have nothing to do, as my experiences did not extend to that area of the war, there was little progress made, and but slight reverses suffered, during the early part of the year. The weather and the state of the ground may have had something to do with this; but I think both sides were suffering considerably from exhaustion. The men had been worked incessantly and unmercifully, yet no great numbers had fallen out on account of breakdown. Frostbites are not common amongst Russian troops, even in the severest weather; but I had some trouble from this complaint myself. The soldiers were provided with good warm clothing; but furs were not in general use; and a few regiments, which had seen a great deal of hard service, were almost in rags; yet their sufferings did not seem to be greater than those of their comrades. The Russian soldier never grumbles, by-the-by. Boots are the great desideratum of an army in the field. Nothing will break an army up sooner than a lack of foot-wear: and in respect of this necessary the Russians were generally well provided, though I occasionally met detachments, if not larger bodies, who had completely worn out their boots, and resorted to tying their feet up in pieces of hide, or sheep's skin. These cases were so rare that they scarcely deserve notice; but as the winter wore on the clothing of the troops certainly began to show signs of wear. Personally I had some difficulty in providing necessaries. Boots were given to me; but underclothing was both difficult to obtain and to keep clean. No article was scarcer than soap in the Russian camp--it never found its way to the trenches, which were in a shockingly insanitary condition. It could not be otherwise: for once in our position we could not leave it, even for a few moments, until regularly relieved at the appointed hour. In some instances the troops were in the trenches for a week without intermission. There are said to be no fleas in Russia. There are abundance of another kind of vermin, which revels in dirt; and mice were so numerous in the fields that things had to be closely watched to prevent them from being destroyed. The knapsacks of the Russians, like those of the Germans, are made of undressed sheep's skins; and these, and other leather articles, were often nibbled by the mice; while food was sure to be spoiled if left in a tent, or hut, for a few hours. Winter did not rid us of these pestiferous little rodents, which lived, and prospered, in the snow. I usually did my own washing and mending, taking advantage of the facilities to be found in some of the deserted houses, where tubs and pails and many other things had been left behind on the flight of the inhabitants, and hot water was easily procurable, though I never found any soap. Baths are much in use in Russia, but more as luxuries and sources of enjoyment than as means of cleanliness. The so-called "Turkish bath" seems to be of Russian origin. It was made extemporaneously by the soldiers in various ways. Sometimes they closed up a small room of a house, and filled it with steam by sprinkling water on stones previously heated to a white heat; but the favourite way was to make a small hut with branches, and render this impervious by covering it with turf. In such a hovel a soldier could pretty nearly suffocate himself in ten minutes, the stones being heated in a wood fire outside. When a man had parboiled himself to the hue of a lobster, he would rush out and roll about, naked as he was, in the snow; the operation being finished off by a good rub down. The steam once raised, an occasional hot stone would keep it up for any length of time; and man after man would use the same "bath." I tried this curious operation myself, and found it both refreshing and strengthening; and it is a fine remover of the pain and exhaustion occasioned by excess of physical exertion. The snow, by-the-by, at this time of year is what is called in Russia "dry snow." That is, it is frozen so intensely that it does not readily thaw, may be brushed from the clothing, does not cling to anything, and blows about with the breeze like dust. I preferred this state of things to the fogs, which in the autumn and early part of the winter were very troublesome, and prejudicial to the general health. During the latter part of January there was not much downfall of snow, but the cold was intense, and the winds such as, to use a common expression, "cut through one." The snow that was on the ground got a crust that would easily have borne a man on snow-shoes; but these useful inventions were not employed by the Russian troops. Sometimes, when there were blizzards, the trenches were nearly filled with drifted snow; and more than once, the men were buried above their waists. This was an inconvenience from the military point of view; but the men did not object to it as it kept them warm; and snow-huts were much used during the winter, both because they were difficult to be discerned by a distant enemy, and because they make remarkably warm sleeping-places. The only inconvenience is that the heat of the body causes the snow on the inside of the hut to melt and drip on the sleeper until he is, sometimes, pretty well wet through, the Russian, as a rule, being a sound sleeper. The Germans, also, adopted these snow-huts, and their reconnoitring-parties must have discovered ours; for one fine morning, just as the sun was rising clear and bright, they opened fire on a small village of these hovels which we had constructed behind our trenches. The result was not pleasant; and I saw several poor fellows blown clean into the air amidst clouds of frozen snow. On the evening of that day we trotted out for a retaliatory expedition; but nothing much came of it. We found the German position too strong to be meddled with; and after the exchange of a few rifle-shots we fell back, and retired to our own position. Fortunately for us, the Germans did not follow us; and we lost only two men killed, and a dozen wounded, which we carried away with us. We often displayed great temerity in attacking with small bodies of infantry, and were seldom counter-attacked on these occasions, because, we supposed, the enemy feared a trap. They had some grounds for these fears. On one occasion, two companies of the 189th regiment, believing that a trench of the enemy's was weakly manned, made an attack on it. They caught a Tartar, and were chased by about 2,000 Germans, who, fully believing that they were about to penetrate our lines, followed the fugitives right up to the edge of the trench. It chanced, however, that the officer commanding that section had his doubts about the wisdom of the rash attack, and had moved up a full regiment to meet a possible accident. So when the Germans arrived they were received with an unexpected fusillade, which killed the greater number of them, and terrified the others so much that they surrendered at once. Two men only ran back; and, strange to say, they both escaped, though hundreds of shots were sent after them. But in war I have noticed that temerity and cowardice are often self-punished, and bravery rewarded. Not always so, alas! I hate the Germans like sin; but I was not sorry to see these two plucky fellows escape. CHAPTER XVI A NIGHT ATTACK ON A BRIDGE-HEAD During the last few days in January we received strong reinforcements, mostly recruits and reservists to bring up the regiments to their normal strength, the losses of some of which had been very heavy: in fact, with a fairly good knowledge of military history, I cannot recall that in any previous war there have been so many instances of whole battalions, batteries, and other units, being completely "wiped out," to use the modern expressive phrase. In several cases it is said that entire regiments of four battalions each (over 4,000 men at full war strength) have disappeared. The 66th (probably Ersatz), and their 41st of the regular line, are said to have met this fate: and many complete battalions on both sides have been destroyed, or taken prisoners wholesale. The first Russian unit to which I was attached, a battery of horse artillery, was practically rendered non-existent; and other batteries were lost on the actual field of battle, every man being shot down, and the guns smashed, or taken by the enemy. Many Russian batteries met such a fate as that described, as they were often subjected to the fire of guns much heavier than their own; and, indeed, it is useless to withhold the fact that the German artillery is altogether superior to that of the Russians. To return to the subject of the Muscovite losses. How terrible these were may be guessed from the returns made by many regiments. I do not purpose to give the names, or regimental numbers, of units, for reasons which are more or less obvious. Taking twenty-three regiments, contiguous in station to the position occupied by my division in the middle of January, 1915, and having, at the commencement of the war, a total combatant strength of 92,000 men, there were eight regiments which could not parade 1,000 men each--that is, had lost three-fourths of their strength. In the case of five of these regiments the bulk of the missing men were known to be prisoners of war. One regiment could send only 638 men to the trenches--less than two-thirds of a battalion. The four regiments which had been most fortunate were each more than 1,000 men short of their proper complement; and to bring up the twenty-three regiments to their original war strength 50,000 men were required! They got 40,000 men; and at least 250,000 were sent to the Austrian area, and to the district of East Prussia near Suvalki. Many of these recruits came to the front without arms, and received those which had belonged to the killed and to men in hospital. There was so great a shortage of arms that some battalions were actually furnished with rifles and cartridges taken from the Germans. I suspect that Russia would have much vaster armies in the field if she could find rifles and cannon for them. It is a very unpleasant fact, but still a fact, that Russia is outgunned by her enemy to so great an extent that the Germans can place _five_ cannon against her _three_; and that on any part of the front where the titanic struggle is going on. In one thing only is Russia the stronger of the two Powers, and that is in her cavalry: and this force has not, to my knowledge, suffered a disaster, even on a small scale. Not one of her mounted regiments has been cut up, or even sustained abnormal losses; but they have certainly destroyed more than one of Germany's cavalry regiments; and that in fair open fight. The Russian cavalry has charged, successfully, all classes of troops--mounted men, infantry and artillery. So much for the paper tacticians who have asserted that the days of cavalry charges and hand-to-hand fighting are over. They are clearly mistaken, as has been shown East and West in this war, which I suppose all will admit is the War of Wars. Cavalry actions in the East have been almost purely cavalry actions. The mounted rifleman, who played so important a part in the Boer War, was singularly absent in all the actions I witnessed. It is true that the cavalry was armed like the ancient dragoons, with a long fire-arm (the "dragoon" soon gave place to the musket); but in all their charges they relied on the lance and the sabre; and it was with these weapons that the fights were decided. In some battles the German infantry was sabred in hundreds; and the lances of the Cossacks accounted for thousands. The Kaiser's men learned to dread both these instruments of death. The receiving, and shaking into their places, of recruits occupied a good deal of our time in January: and the Germans, on their side, evidently received, not only a great many recruits, but entire divisions of infantry, with immense numbers of guns, many of these being siege pieces. Both sides had practically new armies in the field before the end of the month; but while on the part of the Russians the men were fine strong fellows of full military age (none of them seemed to be under twenty years of age), hundreds of the Germans were immature lads of very boyish appearance. We often got near enough together to see the whites of one another's eyes--that is how I know what they were like. These boys, however, fought like little vipers; and were, moreover, amongst the cruellest scoundrels in a cruel army. Where boys fail in an army is that they cannot bear prolonged physical strain. It was reported that there was fighting on every part of our front, from Caucasia to the Baltic; but I could not hear that any great battle had been fought, or any important results obtained. The fighting with which I was immediately concerned was a number of small affairs designed to destroy the enemy's posts and advanced positions. They were pushing forward a good many small parties, probably with an ulterior object; and it was thought advisable to give them a check. The first action was an artillery duel, which commenced at a longer range than was usual. The Germans opened fire with a dozen or fourteen guns at a distance of seven versts. The projectiles they used weighed about 60 pounds, and annoyed us a good deal. They blew in about 30 yards of trench, killing a score of men: and did much other damage. Our field pieces failed to reduce their fire, and we sent to the rear for some 6-in guns, which were supposed to have been bought from a European Power: they were certainly not of Russian make. We had also a very old Krupp gun of about 7-inch calibre, which probably spoiled the beauty of its old masters. While these guns were being brought up and got into position, which took some time, six batteries of field-guns made a gallant dash forward, and got to within about 2,500 to 3,000 yards of the Germans, and galled them so much that they were fain to turn some of their heavy pieces upon them; by which a great many of the gunners were killed and three of the guns knocked over. Other batteries, however, were pushed forward; and when our heavy guns were brought into action the Germans began to suffer visibly. Through glasses we saw one of their big pieces knocked up so that the muzzle pointed to the sky. It remained in this position for some time, but ultimately fell over on its side. Three other guns were so badly damaged that they could not be fired; while the gunners flew right and left, and upwards, a mass of smashed bodies and dismembered limbs. In less than an hour we had put the whole battery completely out of action: but we on our side had suffered severely. Horses, guns and a great many men were destroyed. The next day we received warning by field telephone that aeroplanes were hovering over the Russian lines. One appeared in front of us at three o'clock in the afternoon, and was repeatedly shot at. It braved the fire in an impudent manner, and dropped some bombs which did no damage. Our gunners cut away a ditch-bank, so that the breech of the gun could be lowered until the muzzle was elevated fully 60 degrees, and sent a shot very near the aircraft. It was amusing to see how quickly it bolted when it found itself in danger. A great many rifle-shots were fired at it; but it was too far away, and if it were struck at all, it was not injured. Considering how much these machines were used in the West (according to the old newspapers which I have looked up) it is surprising that we saw so little of them in Poland. After this time I heard that the Russians had many aeroplanes, including some of the largest that have been made; and I saw one of these huge things. It seemed to me to be very unwieldy; but that might have been owing to the awkwardness of the navigators, who never seemed to be so skilful as those of France, England and Germany. I never heard of, far less saw, them doing much with this species of war engine. They never, I think, bombarded any German fortresses or towns, nor did the Germans do more in this quarter than occasionally drop bombs on troops, and transports. The only exception I can recollect was a visit of a number of machines to Warsaw. Of course the rivers and streams in Russia are bridged; but not to the extent the waterways of more highly developed countries usually are. Many of the rivers are shallow, and fords are common, and more relied on than bridges. Where bridges did exist, those of wood were frequently destroyed by both armies; but the more elaborate structures of brick and stone were sometimes defended by "bridge-heads." A "bridge-head" in the old days of military engineering consisted of a lunette, or a redan with flanks, constructed on the near side of the stream, unless some peculiar features of the ground necessitated the holding of the far side: and this form of construction was generally followed by the Russians, with the addition of trenches and wire entanglements and flanking works. There were frequent desperate fights for these field-works; and more than one of those engagements which may be denominated "battles" commenced in attempts to capture a bridge-head, or endeavours to establish one. I use the word "battles" advisedly, because battles in this war have generally been prolonged struggles for the possession of trenches, often lasting many days, and sometimes weeks. A battle, in the sense of two armies meeting in the open field, and deciding the action within the limits of a day or two, is a thing almost unknown, so far, in this war. Most of the bridge-heads were constructed by the Russians. A few, generally small ones, were made by the Germans; and some were captured by them, and the defences afterwards elaborated. In this last-named case, they proved a decided annoyance, if not danger, to the Russians: and, about this time, we had orders to destroy, or recapture, a number of them. Most of these were situated on the rivers Vistula, Warta, Pilica and Bzura. The numerous tributaries of these great streams had many fords: bridge-heads were, therefore, useless on brooks and rivulets, as they could be easily turned. The most important works of this class were on the two first-mentioned rivers; and detachments were generally sent out to make simultaneous attacks on a number of them, as this method greatly interfered with, if it did not entirely stop, the enemy sending supporting parties to any one point of the offensive line. On the 27th of the month a number of detachments went out at night to destroy as many of the enemy's posts as possible. These parties, in our district, each consisted of a battalion at reduced strength (600 or 700 men), and about fifty sappers with hand charges of explosives. We had been moved out the previous day, and destroyed a number of temporary bridges for infantry on a stream the name of which did not transpire. We were directed, when retiring, to break the ice behind us: for the streams were all frozen over, though the larger rivers were not, having only a fringe of ice on either bank. The real objective of our expedition was three bridge-heads on the Warta protecting three bridges constructed for the passage of infantry, cavalry and artillery. These bridges were known to be not much in use at the time; but they were likely to greatly benefit the enemy later on. Though some snow had fallen during the day the night was clear and bright, and there was more moonlight than we wanted; but the Germans were evidently off their guard. The plank-bridges on the brooks had not even been watched by a few videttes; and nothing seemed to show that they knew we had been engaged in tearing them down. There was an outpost near the first bridge-head on the Warta, beyond the village of Nishkinova, and half a section was sent to try and get between it and the bridge. The enemy must have taken this party for one of their own patrols, for they took no notice of it. The half-section found two sentinels on the bridge who were completely surprised. One fellow dropped his rifle and held up his hands: the other began to cry out, but was promptly stopped by a bayonet-thrust, and his body put in the shadow under the parapet. The first man begged his life, and was told that it would be granted him if he shut his mouth, otherwise---- He took the hint: and we listened to hear if an alarm had been given. Apparently it had not been, for we could hear men singing a rousing chorus: and the white sheet of snow between us and the outwork was unbroken by any perceptible object. To the right we could just perceive the second division of the bridge-head: the third section was further up the stream. There had been no previous reconnoitring by any member of our detachment, at any rate--and we had no knowledge of the numbers or disposition of the enemy. Judging by appearances there would be at least 400 men in each work; and there might be 4,000 in reserve, somewhere behind. I could see that we were taking a good deal on trust; and how we were to pass the wire entanglements without great loss puzzled me. We had no artillery to pave the way. It had been arranged that the firing of a rocket should be the signal for the simultaneous attack on the bridge-head, or three sections of the head: for they were connected by an entrenched line. The bridge on the left, the one we first reached, was an old stone structure; the other two were made of planks supported by boats in place of pontoons. A battalion, and a section of engineers, was detailed to attack each bridge; but the arrival of the three divisions was not well timed, and we had a long and anxious wait, being, I must admit, more fortunate than skilful. We observed that the German patrol we had evaded walked right up to the main body of our battalion, and were quietly made prisoners of. They evidently mistook our men for some of their own body. It was not until two o'clock a.m. that we saw the rocket shoot upward and heard the dull explosion of its head; and immediately we rushed towards the earthwork in front of us, the apex of which was only about 200 yards from the foot of the bridge. The surprise of the enemy must have been complete: for although we heard rapid firing to the right of us, where the other two sections were operating, we were suffered to rush right up to the wire entanglement before a shot was fired at us, and we passed the obstruction and entered the trench before a man of us dropped. There were not many men in the trench, and these were all bayoneted in less than a minute: but even in this short time the enemy in the earthwork behind the trench recovered themselves, and opened fire on us with both rifles and ordnance. Fortunately we were well spread out, and our losses were not great; the chief, and most regrettable of them being Colonel Krastnovitz, whose head was blown off. He was a very brave man, and excellent officer; and his death was a great personal loss to us all--to none more than to myself. I did not see him fall; but I soon became aware that he was down. The Major was not with us, having been previously wounded, and the command of the battalion devolved on a Captain, quite a young man, but energetic and brave, and well acquainted with his work. The bridge-head, considering its strength, and the numerous supporting works, fell into our hands with astonishing ease. Its capture did not cost us more than 100 men. We killed 200, captured eighty, and about 1,000 ran away. The pontoon on the extreme right was also captured, but with some difficulty and loss; while the defenders of the centre bridge drove back its assaulters with the loss of nearly half their strength: and it becoming certain that there was a strong supporting body in the German rear which was fast coming up, we received orders to destroy all we could, and retire. There was not much time for destruction. We perceived at least four battalions of the enemy close upon us; and their artillery began to fire into the gorge of the work. So we destroyed the breach-blocks of some of the guns we had captured, and ran for it, taking our prisoners with us, though most of them afterwards escaped. Our engineers had discovered that the bridge was mined; and they blew it up so quickly after we had passed, that I am not sure one or two of our men did not go up with it. I know that I had an unpleasantly narrow escape myself, besides being half suffocated with dust and smoke. I afterwards learned that one of the wooden pontoons was destroyed; but on the whole the expedition was not as successful as it should have been. It had been undertaken with too weak a force; and should have been accompanied by artillery. We got away with a total loss to the three columns of about 800 men, or more than a third of their number. It was a night of curious adventures, and singular mistakes on the part of the enemy. For we had not retreated more than four versts when a squad of thirty Prussian hussars rode up to us, mistaking us for a battalion of their own countrymen. When they discovered their mistake they tried to escape by spreading out, and galloping away full tilt. Twenty of them and a dozen horses went down before our fire: the rest got away. I understood that the Russian commander was not well pleased with the results of this expedition; but nobody was so much to blame as himself for not sending a stronger detachment, and for not adequately supporting what he did send. The whole force was a flying detachment, and as such ought to have been differently constituted. For instance we ought to have had a strong body of Cossacks with us; and that very useful corps ought to have linked us up with headquarters. As it was we had to make a forced march well into the next day, bivouac in the snow on short commons, and continue our march before we were half rested. We passed through several towns and villages, in which we saw groups of starving people. Many of them followed us, in dread of the Germans whom they believed were closely pursuing us; but I think those acute gentlemen were far behind, probably suspecting a trap; and I have firmly believed that it was only the daring presumption and impudence of our proceedings that saved us. Had the Germans known how weak we were, and at so great a distance from our base, it is probable that we should have tasted the delights of a German military prison. CHAPTER XVII THE FIGHTING NEAR SKYERMEVICE ON THE 3RD, 4TH, AND 5TH FEBRUARY We rejoined headquarters in the early morning of the 30th, all much exhausted for lack of food and rest; but there was no respite. News was to hand that the Germans were closing in on us on all sides, and that we must fall back on Lovicz without a moment's delay. At the same time I learned that Lodz was in the hands of the Germans, had been for some time, and was called Neu-Breslau by them. This, and other items of information, tended to confirm what for some time I had suspected, that our division had been nearly surrounded by the enemy: and that, for some reason which did not appear, we had been kept in a position of grave danger for several weeks. The old horse I had obtained from a Cossack, as related on a previous page, had disappeared--boiled down to soup by the men, I imagine; in which case I had my share of him, and can bear witness to his gamy flavour. In consequence of this little accident (or incident) of war, I was again numbered amongst the footmen, and had to trudge with the others to Lovicz. I started exhausted, and arrived nearly dead. All I can remember of that dreadful march was that the road was crowded with troops of all arms, and the snow which covered it was trampled and churned into a thick sludge of a nearly black hue; marching through which was a tormenting misery. When we arrived in the vicinity of the town we were halted near a group of barns, and told we might billet in them. I entered one with about a hundred of the men, dropped on some dirty wet straw, and fell asleep on the instant. How long I slumbered I do not clearly know. I was awakened by the rough shaking and prodding of a soldier, who had a basin of steaming hot coffee in his hand, and a great hunch of coarse bread, which he offered to me. I swallowed them quite eagerly, for I was nearly starved, and went outside, where the men were falling in. The battalion was now so reduced that there were only about 300 men on parade. What had become of the others I do not know; but I think that a good many prisoners were taken during our retreat. There was only one officer left with whom I could communicate, Lieutenant Sawmine; and only two other subalterns that were with the battalion when I joined it. A stranger, a Major in rank, had been put in command. He had been, I believe, a Staff Officer. We were still attached to a regiment which had lost one of its battalions _en masse_--as prisoners I heard. Before we marched off the companies were equalized; which brought us up to a little over 400 per battalion, or about 1,700 for the regiment, so the losses had been terrible. Then another ration of bread, and 120 cartridges, were served out to each man, and we were marched to a railway-station on the outskirts of the town and entrained. Sawmine said that nobody in the regiment had the least idea where we were going; but one of those vague notions which seem to instinctively invade the minds of soldiers led the men to believe that they were destined for some great enterprise. [Illustration: A FIELD OF BAYONETS ON THE POLISH FRONTIER] I was still so tired that I was no sooner in the train than I went to sleep again, as I believe most of the men did. When I awoke the train was merely crawling along, and the sound of heavy artillery firing came in through the open windows. For we were packed in so tightly that the men were compelled to keep the windows open for air, though the wind was icy cold. Almost immediately the train began to run back; and often it went on a few versts, stopped for half an hour, and then went on again. Sawmine who sat beside me said that the train had been going thus for many hours, sometimes advancing, then halting, retiring, and so on. He had been asleep himself, and did not know how far we had come, or where we were. Looking out of the windows we could see four long trains ahead of us, and one about half a verst behind us. There were also two pilot engines on the line, one of which had a large signal flag attached to it. The distant firing was heavy enough to shake the train; but we could see nothing of the fighting. It was drawing towards dusk on the evening of the 2nd February when we saw the men in the trains ahead of us getting out: and presently our turn came. There was more than 1,000 men in each train, the officers riding with their men. We soon discovered that we all belonged to the same division; and we were formed up in the open fields beside the line. Before this manoeuvre was completed it was nearly dark; though as the moon was about the full it gave considerable light through the clouds--at least when it was quite up; and we could see dimly over the country across which we were marched. We were kept on the march all night, with other columns ahead of us, a circumstance which led to many short halts, and a good deal of "tailing off." About four o'clock in the morning we were brought up into what seemed to be a line of battalion columns at deploying intervals. We could now see the bright red flashes of the guns; and occasionally a shell fell in front of us. An officer who was known to Sawmine passed along, and stopped to have a minute or two's chat with the Lieutenant; and thus I learned that we were near the town of Skyermevice, and on ground I knew something of. The Germans were said to be massing in vast columns; but so far the fight was confined to the artillery; and this, which we had supposed was on our front, was really on the left flank. We were ordered to lie down and wait. About six o'clock we were again ordered to advance; and after marching six versts occupied a line of shallow trenches. These trenches had recently been held by other troops--there could be no mistaking the nature of the dull stain-patches on the snow: and though our dead and wounded had been removed, there were hundreds of the enemy's slain lying in front, as far as the eye could see them, when daylight came. And when light did come the Germans were not long in discovering us; nor were we in perceiving that there was a strong line of entrenchments in front of us occupied by our forces. No doubt the men whose places we had taken had gone forward to strengthen this line. The enemy was shelling it vigorously, and devoting no small part of their attention to us; and some of the projectiles which fell amongst us were enormous in size, and terrific in sound when they exploded; but they did not cause very appalling casualties. Sometimes a huge cloud of dust and black smoke rose to a great height, and obscured the view; but when it cleared away, though there might be a large hole in the ground, or 20 yards of trench blown clean away, there were never more than two or three dead and wounded. Once or twice an unfortunate man disappeared entirely, blown to atoms. I should scarcely have realized what the fate of these men was had not one of them stood close to me; and I noticed, directly after the explosion, that I was covered with minute spots of blood, none of them bigger than a pin's head. This man's body acted as a shield to me and saved my life. The hot blast of the shell momentarily stopped my breathing, and gave me a tremendous shock; but I was not much hurt. Two men on the other side were instantly killed, one of them being shockingly mutilated. Strange how these things are ordained! If I had not been bending at the moment to insert a cartridge in my rifle, I should probably have made a fourth victim. These big shells were certainly more than a foot in diameter. One which fell outside the trench, and did not explode, appeared to be about 15 inches in diameter, and a yard long. A good many of these big shells were fired at us; but most of the projectiles were from field artillery, each weighing 16 or 18 pounds only. On the side of the Russians I did not see any gun bigger than a 6-inch; but our artillery was well served, did great execution, and put many of the German guns out of action. Motor-driven batteries were used on both sides; and from what I saw of the action of guns so mounted, I think they must soon largely supplant horse-drawn batteries, in open, flat countries at least. People who love horses will be glad of this: for artillery horses suffer frightfully in action; and it is not always possible to put them out of their misery quickly. When men are in trenches they see little of one another except their immediate neighbours; but one gets to know the signs which indicate anything unusual, even in these rat-burrows; and about ten o'clock we became aware that the men in the advanced trenches were on the alert. We could see nothing; but the terrific rifle-fire told its own story; and above the almost deafening rattle of the musketry we could hear the shouts of the Germans, and the counter-cheers of our own men as the enemy retired. The firing did not last longer than ten minutes. In the excitement of the moment many of the men in the second line crowded out of their trenches to endeavour to see what was going on; and the officers (much reduced in number, as I have already hinted) had great difficulty in getting them to return to cover. The Russian soldier is usually a most docile and obedient creature; but I never saw him in a state of so great excitement as on this day. Rumour travelled from rank to rank, that on the issue of the fight depended the fate of Warsaw: and Warsaw is to the Poles, of whom there were thousands in this part of the field, almost a sacred place. But Pole, or Russ, all were alike in their eagerness to save the capital of Poland from the humiliation of the hated German's tread. I do not know if the fact is quite realized in England; but the Russian (including the Pole, and, especially, the Cossack) is Asiatic in everything except his birth; and, like all Asiatics, is extremely devout and extremely bigoted: therefore he is a fanatic: and this present war, affecting, as it does, the liberty of his country, is to him a sacred war--a contest for the safety of his religion, and sanctified by the blessings of his priests. I emphasize this point: so far as the Russian is concerned the war now devastating Europe is a religious war. He will fight till he wins: and I am confident that the victory will greatly strengthen and consolidate the Muscovite Empire. Never before have the Pole and the Russ stood side by side as they are standing now: never before have they fought for a common cause and bled together for it; never before stood up to face a danger as brethren. This war will make Russian and Pole _one people_. I am quite convinced of it. Fifty years ago Polish women stood up with the men to fight the Russian oppressor: in this present desperate struggle they have fought side by side with the former oppressor. Not twenty yards from me, in the trenches before Skyermevice, two sturdy Amazons handled rifle and bayonet (weapons dropped by dead soldiers) with the strength and skill of old soldiers; and others in the rear attended Russian wounded with the same care and attention they lavished upon their fathers and brothers. About an hour after the first attack, a second was made on our position by the Germans: and this was even more fierce and determined than the previous affair. Forced on by pressure from the rear, the first ranks of the enemy were actually precipitated into the trenches, and promptly bayoneted by our men. So great was the number thus destroyed that the trench was actually filled up in several places, a thing that occurred more than once on previous occasions. This was one of the most determined efforts the Germans made to break the Russian line by sheer weight of numbers. The rear columns of the enemy determinedly forced the leading companies on. I saw several entire companies absolutely forced on to the Russian bayonets where they perished to the last man. As on other similar occasions, it was not a fight, but a massacre. The imprisoned Germans, sandwiched between their own men and ours, and unable to escape, threw down their arms in sections and begged for mercy. They put their hands above their heads; went down on their knees, in some cases flung themselves prostrate, and in others clung convulsively to the legs of their destroyers; but in every case met the same fate: they were stabbed through and through. Some few of them, including most of the officers, fought madly for their lives: it only delayed their fate a few moments. The first company down, that which had forced it forward was compelled to take its place, and meet a similar tragical end. At least three companies of one battalion were destroyed one after another in this way: and I think the fourth company was very nearly annihilated; but I had my own affairs to look after just at that moment, and did not see the finish of that particular fight. The Germans were successful for a few minutes; and hurried men so fast into the gap they had made that we of the second line had to rush forward in parties without waiting for orders; and we saved the day by a hair's-breadth only. I had kept close to Lieutenant Sawmine from the moment of our leaving Lovicz. As we closed with the enemy one of them forced the officer down, and was only prevented from bayoneting him by his clinging to the man's rifle. I sprang forward to save him, and was at once knocked down by a big German. I saw the point of the bayonet poised over me as he kept me down with his foot: my teeth closed tightly to meet the impending death: then suddenly I was free of that iron foot, and for the fifth time during this war covered with blood and brains which were not my own. One of the Russian soldiers who had followed us very closely had blown out the fellow's brains in the very nick of time. There really must be a little cherub who sits up aloft! Sawmine was badly bruised, but not dangerously hurt; and together we pressed forward with seven or eight of our most devoted soldiers. There are always some men in a company who have more heart in their work than the others; and these are generally found close to their officers at critical moments: indeed, these are the men who do most of the hand-to-hand fighting, and to whom the victory is really due. One of the heroic fellows who formed our little band slew at least twenty of the enemy, I know; and very possibly double that number. I am sorry that I cannot record the name of this brave man, an honour to his country; nor that of others not his inferiors in bravery and self-sacrifice. Alas! none of them answered the roll-call when the three days desperate fighting was over. The bravest and the best--this is the treasure that war costs a country. An English officer I am not going to name--I have the greatest respect for his name and his memory--wrote that two armed bodies of hostile men cannot remain on the same ground longer than sixty seconds at most. He made a mistake. Russians and Germans, on the occasion I am recording, fought like bulldogs for two solid hours without a break: and it was all bayonet work, scarcely a shot being fired. Then the Germans broke and fled, as I had seen them fly on previous defeats. There was no equivocation about it: they broke and ran, "bellowing like bull-calves." Every nation, I suppose, has its peculiarities. I do not depreciate the Germans. They can fight, and fight bravely--but not with the generous bravery that most soldiers exercise one to another. They are cruel in their desperation, vicious in the moment of victory; and they yell for mercy in the hour of their defeat; the only soldiers I have known to exercise this form of--I will not call it cowardice--Hudibrastic caution. In this battle the wonderful iron shields reappeared; and about 700 of them were taken by the Russians, and used to form a breastwork; which the next day was knocked to pieces by the German artillery. The enemy was followed half-way to their own lines, and many of them killed as they ran. Unfortunately no Cossacks were at hand, as there was here a fine opening for their peculiar form of ability, which I have no doubt they would have exerted to the utmost. The number of killed in proportion to wounded was very great: I should think quite one in every three, which is more than double the normal number, even when many casualties are caused by artillery fire; but bayonet work is the most deadly form of military execution. The prisoners taken are not worth mentioning: the total of German casualties was about 8,000 on a front that did not exceed two versts (2,333 yards English measurement). They lay thickest in and about the trenches. In the bottom of the advanced trenches there was a foot depth of blood which had drained from the corpses. The holes dug at measured intervals for the convenience of the troops (latrines) were full of it; and the men occupying the position were compelled to stand in it half-leg deep for several days until an opportunity came to clean the trenches, when the congealed horror was removed in the camp tumbrels, and buried by the ton in holes dug for the purpose. In one part of the trench I helped to remove a heap of sixty-nine corpses, lying eleven deep in the middle. No one of them had a breath of life left, though some were not mortally wounded. They had been smothered under the weight of their dead comrades, or trampled to death. Outside the trenches there lay heaps of dead bodies, six or seven deep, and innumerable scattered dead and wounded. All the fighting that day was over before 2 p.m., and our Red Cross men, and hundreds of volunteers, went out to succour the wounded. They were immediately fired on by the German artillery and about twenty of them killed or injured. A flag of truce was then sent out to inform the enemy our sole object was to alleviate the sufferings of the wounded; and that the German injured were receiving the same attention as our own men. The flag was received at a farm used as an outpost by the Germans; and the commander, a big, swarthy-faced man, declared he did not care a curse what our intentions were, he would fire on anybody he saw walking about the field of battle. I inquired the name of this officer and was told it, and that he was a chief Staff Officer to Field-Marshal von Hindenburg, who, it was declared, had personally directed the day's fighting. I believe a protest was lodged with this military churl, but, of course, nothing could be done under his threat. After nightfall volunteers again went out, and nearly a thousand wounded were brought in to the surgeons, quite two-thirds of them being Germans. The total Russian losses were, I should think, about 6,000 men. While accompanying the flag of truce I used my eyes. About thirty officers were receiving first-aid, or undergoing what seemed to be preliminary operations, in the farm-house and yard; and I heard very pitiful groans in some barns and outhouses, while down the road a string of twenty Red Cross waggons was coming up. I concluded therefore that the enemy had carried back a number of his wounded when he retreated. There were pools of blood everywhere on the road: for the snow had been trampled down so hard that it could not soak away; and it speedily coagulated into great clots. Many horrible mementoes of the fight lay about. Seeing what I thought was a good sound boot lying on the road, I picked it up. There was a foot in it. I could fill pages with such little stories. There were some collections lying about suggestive of the Germans turning out their dead comrades' pockets. Several letters, the photograph of a woman nursing a baby, and an elder child leaning against her knee; a lock of fair hair--a little girl's, I thought--and less pathetic objects: a pack of cards, a broken pipe, a bent spoon, and some disgusting pictures, suggested many men of many minds--some of them none too clean. The night of the 4th February was very quiet until about four o'clock a.m., when the steady rush of thousands of feet alarmed all who were awake. The Germans were attempting a surprise. A few straggling shots from the sentries along our front, accompanied by shouts of warning; a blaze of rifle fire; the heavy booming of artillery, and, in one minute from the alarm being given, the hell of battle was again in full fury. Our engineers threw search-lights over the trenches and in front of them, so that we could see what we were doing. The effect was very weird, and heightened the horror of the scene; but it helped the enemy as much as it did us. The Germans used hand-grenades, or trench bombs, as I understand they call them on the Eastern front of the war, but we were not provided with these troublesome and destructive little weapons. However, there was again much bayonet fighting, a species of combat which the Germans did not relish, and in which they always got the worst of it. The Russians had the advantage in the length of their bayonets--a trifle, but trifles are not trifles in close fighting. Moreover, our men have a genius for bayonet-fighting, and keep these weapons always ready for use: that is, they are never unfixed, as I have previously explained, except to be cleaned, and not always for that purpose. The Russian soldier shoots with his bayonet fixed, which is not conducive to first-class marksmanship; but then the German also is not a good rifle-shot. Still, I wish I could induce the Russians to adopt the practice of unfixing bayonets when shooting at long ranges. This night fight was short and sharp. It cost the Germans another 2,000 men, and a good licking; and our men about half that number of casualties, and the increased confidence engendered of another victory. The Germans had no sooner run back to their own lines than their artillery sought to inflict on us the punishment which their infantry could not do. They opened a tremendous cannonade; it being calculated that 500 guns were playing on our trenches for nearly six hours. Shells were exploding twenty or thirty at a time, and sometimes quite in showers. The effect was terrific. The air was full of smoke, and clouds of dirt and mud from the trenches blown to pieces; but the loss of life was not great. The section of trench which the enemy had made their objective did not, as I have said, exceed a breadth of two versts; and on this narrow front they concentrated all their efforts and all their fire, though some of the last-named came from flanking batteries situated a long way off. Each gun fired, on an average, a shot a minute: consequently a shell fell on every seven linear yards of our position sixty times an hour. Of course some fell short, others went over the trenches, and some burst high in the air; but still the fact remains that every minute a shell came in a section of our lines which was less than seven yards wide. During the six hours that the bombardment lasted the scene was like that of an inferno: and the noise so great that the men were glad to stop up their ears with any substance they could find. Many pulled grass from beneath the snow and used it for this purpose. The wire entanglement was pretty well blown to pieces, curled up and rolled into heaps which were knocked right over the trenches, and sometimes into them, where it entangled our own men, and gave them much trouble. The number of men killed by this apparently terrible bombardment was fifty, and twice that number wounded. An hour before dawn the Germans attempted an assault, rushing towards us in great strength, and in their usual close formation; but they were stopped by our artillery fire, and turned before they reached the edge of the first trench, and fled in a panic. I saw our guns cutting great lanes in the wavering masses; but they were soon out of sight, and the dimness of the light probably saved them from more considerable losses. We had reasons for thinking that the commanders of this host were unable to get their men to make a second assault, and were obliged to send to another part of their line for fresh troops. There was some commotion in their ranks; and afterwards we could hear their bands playing merry tunes, probably to keep up the spirits of the men. It was after noon when they made their second advance; and our troops finding they could not stop them with a withering fire, sprang from their trenches, and met them with the bayonet. The fight was a short one. At least ten thousand of the Germans were destroyed, and a thousand prisoners were taken. We followed them right up to their lines; and for a short time some portions of their positions were in our hands: but they brought such a devastating artillery fire to bear on us that our gains could not be maintained, and we had to retire; but we did so slowly and stubbornly and with parade-like precision, the men firing in alternate skirmishing lines, and completely stopping an attempted pursuit. The Germans made two more assaults in the course of the day, but could not drive either of them home; nor had they the pluck to stand up to another bayonet fight. Their losses were appalling, and greatly in excess of those of the two previous days: and certainly exceeded 20,000 men, besides nearly 3,000 unwounded prisoners. It was reported at the time that no fewer than thirteen of their General Officers were killed or badly injured. The total losses of the Russians on this day alone was 7,000 men: 8,000 of the enemy's wounded, and all our own, were brought in after nightfall, and many more were removed by the Germans; for this day they admitted, and respected, a flag of truce. But the dead on both sides, except in the case of officers, and a few others, were left to rot where they fell. Some regiments buried their own dead, but only under the snow; for the ground was frozen so hard, that it was most difficult to dig graves. A number of bodies were burnt in pine-wood fires; but an officer of high rank was so disgusted with the ghastly sight, that he gave orders that no more were to be disposed of in this way; yet it would have been better than leaving them to be mutilated and partly devoured by the beasts of the field and the fowls of the air. Amongst these dreadful creatures were large numbers of those savage and semi-wild dogs which infest all the Polish villages, and flocks of crows and ravens; also wolves and wild swine. All these animals must have scented the carrion from a great distance: and nobody could tell precisely where they came from. The firing frightened them away for a time; but an hour's quietude would always be followed by their reappearance. In the early grey dawn, and in the twilight of evening, I have seen the birds of prey pulling out the eyes of the slain men, or contending for the entrails which the dogs had torn from the rotting bodies. It is hardly credible that such horrid scenes should be witnessed on a modern battlefield; but my own eyes were witnesses to it; and I shot several wolves and many dogs that were engaged in such dreadful repasts. All these animals became so used to the noises of battle, even to the thunderous discharges of artillery, that they never retired very far, though how they contrived to hide themselves is a puzzle. I never saw more than a few odd ones in the woods and forests we passed through; but the dogs harboured in the ruined villages where once they had been owned by masters of some sort. I have painted these scenes very faintly, for fear of exciting too much horror and disgust; but how people professing to believe in a righteous and sin-punishing God can tolerate the wickedness of war is astounding to a thinking man. A God-fearing (!) ruler goes on his knees, prays to God for the blessings of peace, and the honest prosperity of his people; then goes forth and issues an edict which causes the marring of God's image in hundreds of thousands! Perhaps he doesn't really believe that man is made in the image of God. I hope he does not. Better be an infidel than a wholesale murderer of the similitude of the Lord. I dwell not on the misery of widows and orphans and aged parents. Walking over the field one evening I came upon a raven perched upon the face of what had once been a man. It had picked his eyes from their sockets, and torn away his lips, and portions of the flesh of his face, and turned leisurely as I approached, but did not fly away until I was quite close to it. Then it flapped off slowly, with a sullen croak. CHAPTER XVIII CHIEFLY GOSSIP The 5th February, 1915, closed with the heavy booming of siege artillery used as field-pieces. What the artillery of the future will be we may foresee from the experiences of the present war. It will be limited in the size of the guns only by the endurance of the pieces, and the power of man to move them. The howitzers used to throw the "Jack Johnsons" are said to be pieces of 23-1/2-inch calibre: if they are so it is not likely that they can throw more than fifty or sixty shells before it is necessary to reline them. Huge guns are very speedily worn out, and are not, therefore, of much value except for particular purposes--chiefly the smashing of forts in siege operations. But 6-inch, and even 8-inch, guns have been freely used in this campaign; and before such ordnance, driven by mechanical means, no field-guns can stand, no field-batteries exist. It is probable, therefore, that this is the last great war in which horsed batteries will take a part. It will be one of the "lessons of the war" that only heavy guns are of much use on the field of battle. I am digressing a little. At first we thought the night cannonade of the 5th was a prelude to another attack; but about ten o'clock at night it ceased; and save for the groans and cries of the wounded the night was almost quiet. Our Red Cross men were out all night; and the German men until a couple of hours before daybreak. We removed all our wounded that we could find: the enemy left their worst cases to die on the field. The Russians saved all they could; but strict orders were given to our men not to approach near the German lines. I should note, perhaps, that while in the West the Allies' and the German trenches are said to often be within a few yards of each other, this was seldom the case in the East. There was generally a considerable space between the two lines: here near Skyermevice it amounted to 3,000 yards; but the Germans had advanced trenches in which they massed their men when about to make an assault. Evidently trench warfare is not so highly developed or so much resorted to in the East as it appears to be in the West. The vast numbers of the Russians, and the circumstance that the scene of actual fighting is constantly shifting over a very long front, are the probable causes of this. Another cause was the extreme hardness of the earth, which made it impossible to dig fresh trenches during the winter-time. It has been said that there is no such word as "impossible" in the military vocabulary; but the forces of Nature are frequently not to be overcome, even by military pluck and perseverance. Not even a soldier can dig holes in solid steel; and the ground in Poland was hardly less solid and difficult to work: hence trenches were not made after the early days of December, nor the dead buried as a rule. Field-works were made in various ways. Abattis, covered with barbed wire, were very common; and batteries formed of sand-bags; but neither were very successful. High explosive shells dashed the trees of the abattis to atoms, and drove the fragments back on the defenders, causing many casualties; and something similar occurred in the case of the sand-bags, which were torn to pieces, and dashed right and left, blinding many men. So during the winter, the rule was to stick to the old trenches; or occupy those naturally formed by hollows of the ground, or the deep banks of water-courses, the streams of which were usually firmly frozen. As wet could not soak away through the frozen ground the condition at the bottoms of those trenches which had been occupied for any length of time was filthy in the extreme. Dirty water, blood and refuse, was being continually added to the loathsomeness already existing, and this, and the constant trampling of the men, prevented the freezing of the mass; and I consider it simply wonderful that there was no serious outbreak of sickness amongst us. But Russian doctors and Russian officers are becoming fully conscious of the value of sanitation amongst troops; and the soldiers were kept as clean and well looked after as circumstances would permit. Moreover, the huge numbers of men admitted of frequent changes of those serving in the trenches; and they were never in these miserable burrows for any great length of time. As the fighting seemed to be over for a time, I went to the rear with the intention of obtaining some rest. The tiring nature of the work in which we had been engaged may be inferred from the circumstance that in rear of the trenches I found an entire regiment bivouacked, lying on the snow fast asleep to a man, with their knapsacks for pillows. As they were huddled close together they probably enjoyed an amount of mutual warmth, though the day was a bitterly cold one. I sought more comfortable quarters, and found them in an old broken-down waggon and a handful of straw. Here I slept as only the utterly weary can sleep, and did not awake until twenty-one hours had passed away. When I did open my eyes I found myself wedged in between three soldiers who had not seen letting me enjoy such splendid accommodation all to myself. I got up, shook myself together, and went in search of the battalion and breakfast. Sawmine, not knowing what had become of me, had thought I must be killed. He was rather downhearted: for the loss of the best men and officers had been enormous; the survivors, however, were generally cheering themselves with the hope that the Czar would shortly pay us a visit, and distribute rewards to those who thought they had earned them. He was known to be journeying along the front; and it was confidently expected that he would appear amongst us within the space of a few days. The scenes behind the trenches were simply awful. Transport was much congested, and the majority of the wounded were still unremoved to hospital. The field-tents were crowded to excess, the surgeons hardly able to move about, and much impeded in their operations. Outside one tent a great heap of arms and legs which had been amputated lay on the ground; and I saw several men carried away who had died under the operator's knife. Many of the injured men lay on straw in the open air; others were stretched on the bare ground. These were considered to be the milder cases, the most badly injured being allotted the first attention and the best accommodation. But many of these mild cases were bad enough to shock anybody with a tender heart; and I particularly noted the great number of men who were suffering from injuries to the head and eyes. Several had both eyes shot out, and scores had lost one. These had received temporary dressing; but were mostly in great pain. Of course I did what I could for them; but that was not much, as I was without materials and instruments. Fortunately, in one of the tents there was a doctor whom I knew by sight. I made motions to indicate what I required, and he did not raise any objection to my taking a quantity of bandages and other things. With the aid of these I succeeded in making some of the waiting men more comfortable, being greatly assisted by two countrywomen who were also helping these unfortunate men. It evidently puzzled these people that a foreigner, who could not speak their language, should be amongst them; but they soon decided that I was an Englishman; I had acquired Russian enough to understand that; and they were all very grateful, those that did not require attention not the least so: for they all realized that what was done was done for their beloved Russia--a holy land in the opinion of every true Muscovite. Some days elapsed before all the wounded could be removed, and sent back to base hospitals. All, Russians and Germans, received precisely similar treatment, and were seen to as they came to hand, without any preference, national or otherwise. One of the surprising events of this time was that several Russian aeroplanes appeared over our lines, and troubled the minds (though, I am afraid, not the bodies) of the enemy a good deal. They were useful for two reasons, if for no other--they distracted the Germans, and caused them a great waste of ammunition. I am sure tens of thousands of rifle-cartridges were fired at them, and hundreds of rounds of big-gun shells. They all missed the pigeon, and did not even hit the crow! It is fair to add that I do not think that our dropped bombs did much hurt. It is true we heard a good deal about wrecked troop-trains, blown-up tumbrels, and half-annihilated battalions; but all these incidents occurred at such great distances from our trenches that I was unable to verify them. For some days little occurred near our position, except a daily bombardment at long range, mostly by the heavier guns on both sides. What the object was I cannot tell: it seemed to me to be a mere waste of big shells. If any advantage was derived from it, it was certainly on the side of Russia, whose artillerymen made much the best practice. The shooting was slow and the aim deliberate; but we lost only two men: while a heavy explosion in the German lines seemed to show that we had blown up one of their magazines. I watched their position long and carefully through a good glass, but saw nothing except puffs of smoke and an occasional flash of fire. I was out several nights with reconnoitring parties; but the enemy was well on the alert, and we gained no information; while a well-directed volley from some hidden jagers knocked half a dozen of our men off the roster. On the night of the 8th we captured a miserable old Polish hag, busily engaged in robbing the dead who lay unburied. She had an apron full of watches, rings and money, and was, I believe, shot in the morning. I cannot say she did not deserve her fate; but I thought at the time that not much good could come of terminating the existence of such a wretched old creature. She could say, in her defence, that the Germans had robbed her and destroyed her home, and perhaps murdered her relatives. The 10th was an exciting day for us. We received certain information that a large force of the enemy was nearly surrounded by our troops; and we were ordered to get ready to march immediately to an unknown destination: but everybody was satisfied that it was intended that we should take a part in the encircling operation; and it seemed like it: for we marched off at two o'clock in the afternoon, a very unusual hour in which to commence such a movement. The force thus detailed was about 40,000 infantry and 150 guns; and there was probably cavalry and more artillery on our right flank: but of this I know nothing with certainty. The enemy on our front was so quiet that in all probability he had detached a strong force in aid of the threatened troops, and possibly had vacated his position. In my opinion, however, there were indications that the Russian Commander was being out-generalled, or was rushing his troops into a precarious position. CHAPTER XIX THE FIGHTING BEFORE PLOCK On the second day of the march I ascertained that we were falling back on Warsaw; and Sawmine, who had been made a Captain, agreed with me that something must be wrong in the North. There were no Germans near us. Trenches and earthworks in the neighbourhood were strongly held; but I noticed that none of the guns of position appeared to exceed 6-inch calibre, which was not heavy enough to resist successfully the huge siege-guns which the Germans were sure to bring up if they invaded this district. No news reached us, and we were kept marching almost incessantly. We had no tents, and seldom slept under cover, though the cold seemed to freeze one's marrow. Sometimes the officers, and a few favoured men, slept in beds in houses on the route; and sometimes hay and straw was thrown down by the side of the road, and we rested on this in the best way we could. Most of the troops we passed had tents, and some were hutted in hovels made of pine-boughs, thatched with the leaves or twigs of those trees. We did not enter Warsaw. About four versts outside the town we were halted in two long ranks on either side of a road, and served out with new boots, which we were sadly in need of. My own feet, like those of many of the men, were nearly bare, and cut, frostbitten and bleeding. I had not possessed socks or stockings for many weeks; and these were not in general use in the Russian Army. At this halt I obtained a quantity of tallow, which is an excellent thing with which to anoint the feet, chilblains, cuts, or wounds, and bruises of any kind. Biscuits and raw fish were here also served out. The fish was not cooked in the least, but seemed to have been preserved in wet salt. So far from being a revolting food, it was quite tasty, and I became very fond of it. We had to eat this meal as we marched along; and that without any other drink than water; and we were kept on the tramp until far into the night. It was too dark to read a watch, and we were strictly forbidden to strike matches or to smoke; but I suppose it was two or three o'clock in the morning when we received permission to lie down in the streets of a village. The people gladly received us into their houses; but we were ordered not to undress, and to be ready to fall in at a moment's notice. I lay down on the outside of a bed which a woman pointed out to me, and immediately went to sleep; but I suppose she soon aroused me, and presented a bowl containing about three pints of strong tea without milk and sugar. I was almost too sleepy to drink it, badly as I wanted a refresher; and the large parcel of food she gave me I put into my haversack: then dropped asleep again. It was scarcely daylight when I was again aroused. A military band was playing noisily in the street, and the battalion was falling in outside the door. The band did not belong to our regiment; but as it marched not far behind, we had the benefit of its music, such as it was, consisting principally of brass instruments and drums, with plenty of tinkling cymbals. Soon after midday we crossed the Vistula by the bridge at Novogeorgevsk, and went along a road running, for a long distance, almost parallel with the right bank of that river. The people in the town, and in the villages we passed through, were in a state of extreme excitement, and Sawmine said they were asserting that severe fighting had occurred at Plock, and the Russians had got the worst of it, and were retreating. Plock is a large town on the right bank of the Vistula, seventy-three versts from Novogeorgevsk. There is no railway running between the two towns, nor between Plock and the Prussian frontier, distant another 100 versts. Nothing can show the poverty of Russia more than this want of railways: for the nearest station to Plock is Vroclavick on the left bank of the Vistula, and distant fully fifty versts (two days' long marches); yet Plock is in the centre of an important district on the main road from Warsaw to the Prussian fortress of Thorn, a place of such strength that the Russians have not dared to approach it. On the 15th we met many thousands of Russians in retreat. They were in good order, and under the perfect control of their officers; but still they were defeated troops, and showed by their sullen demeanour that they knew it. We were drawn up in quarter-column to let them pass, which they took three hours to do. Towards the close of the day we came up with 7000 Cossacks who were covering their retreat. Up to now we had heard no sounds of battle; but on the 16th, at dawn, the noise of heavy firing was audible a long way ahead. By order of a Staff Officer, we hurried along in the direction of this sound; but by nightfall it was not perceptibly nearer, though we met many small detachments of cavalry and infantry, who had evidently passed through a rough experience. Many were wounded and bandaged; many more had undressed hurts which were still bleeding. Several were being led, or carried, on the backs of comrades; and soon we began to pass long strings of waggons full of injured, which left long trails of blood on the road. Then we came to a village where artillery were halted, and were ordered to assist in putting the houses into a state of defence. The poor people of the place had already fled, probably long previously. I never heard the name of this village; none of our people knew it: and there was a sad lack of maps. Few, except officers of rank and those on the Staff, possessed them; and the few I saw in the possession of subaltern officers were very defective, and did not give the names of more than a third of the places we found on the ground. A good map which I obtained with much trouble at Skyermevice was taken from me; and, acting on the advice of a friend, I did not attempt to obtain another. The possession of such papers was liable to be misinterpreted; and the spy-fever was a complaint not altogether unknown in the Russian Army. During the night we learned that it was the Russian Tenth Army which had been very roughly handled by the foe. There was said to have been more than a week's incessant fighting; and the exhausted appearance of the retreating troops bore out the truth of the statement. They had with them a great many wounded; and their general aspect showed that their losses must have been terrible. Their depleted ranks proved that. Probably a third of the entire army had perished, or been captured. The defeat was the more galling, as it was asserted that the Germans who had inflicted it were boys, and a scratch lot of invalids who were supposed to have been finally discharged from service in the Prussian Army: and this rabble lot was commanded by the Kaiser himself. I could hardly believe this last assertion, as I did not believe William had got a victory in him. Some of the retreating troops, who had been in reserve, and were not much shaken, stopped to share in the defence of the position we had taken up. We got well under cover in spite of the hard frost; but there was not much barbed wire available for the outer defences. No Germans appeared near us until the 18th, when two regiments of infantry and two of cavalry came and had a look at us, though they took care not to afford much of a mark for our guns. It was the advanced guard of a much larger force, though I am unable to state the numbers. At least sixty guns opened on our village alone; and other artillery could be heard in every direction for many miles around. Nor do I know our own numbers. I heard that the entire Eighth Army was in line, with the left flank resting on the Vistula. The village we were defending was about thirteen versts from the river; and I can say that the ground between us and the right bank of the Vistula was very strongly held, its weak point being that effective trenches could not be made in the time at our disposal; but this was a circumstance that hurt the Germans as much as it did us, and perhaps more, as we shall see presently. How far the line of battle extended to the right I do not know. It stretched as far as a hamlet called Vilstick, and from thence to Biatzun, seventy versts from the river bank. There must, therefore, have been at least 300,000 men on this alignment; and more likely there were nearly double that number. Circumstances occurred which rendered it desirable that I should not be too precise in inquiring about numbers, distances and names of places. These were often only known to officers of rank and those high in command. Regimental officers were as ignorant as I was, and, like me, had to rely on guessing, surmising and the use of their own sharp eyes. More than once my "inquiring mind" would have placed me in an awkward fix had not my hatred of Germany and things German been beyond a doubt. As to the Germans, I learned from prisoners, corroborated by other evidence, that multitudes of them came over the frontiers through Inowraklow, Golloob, Lauten, and particularly from Thorn. Their strength was put at 500,000, and I am convinced that it was not under that number. All these were new troops. It contained a corps of what were called "Guards"; but the old guards were destroyed long before this time; and though their ranks had been recruited they were not in this part of the war area.[3] The new Guards were mostly students from universities and schools, with a sprinkling of veterans who had been from ten to thirty years out of the service, even as Landwehr. There were regiments of old men, regiments of boys under twenty years; and of these the lads were viperish little wretches, as thirsty for blood as any of the older Huns. [3] They were probably the "Guard Reserve Corps." They wore the distinctive uniform of "Guards" when in parade dress. The advanced guard of Germans having fallen back, we (in the village, I mean) were subjected to a cannonade, the object of which seemed to be to ascertain the range, or induce us to show our strength in artillery by making a reply. A couple of hundred shells were thrown at us, and knocked down a few houses, and set fire to two. Our Cossacks seem to have discovered that these guns were not well supported; for they charged them, and captured four, besides spearing, or sabring, a lot of the gunners. That gave us peace for the rest of the night. There was a scarcity of water in the village, and we were compelled to let the two houses burn out. It was with difficulty we prevented the fire from spreading, and with still greater difficulty rescued a bed-ridden cripple from one of the blazing houses. He had been left behind when the inhabitants fled, and declared that there were three or four children hiding in the house. If so they were burnt to death, poor little creatures: not the only instance of the kind that came under my notice during this horrid war. Just before dawn, their favourite hour for delivering an assault, the enemy rushed up to the village in great numbers; and, of course, in closely formed masses. It was a surprise to our troops: for the Germans were upon our outposts before they were discovered. The pickets fired on them; and those that escaped ran in behind the barricades we had formed. Hundreds of men were sleeping in the loop-holed houses; and these saved the day: for the enemy could not get at them, and they were shot down in great numbers by rifle and machine-gun fire, and from a building in the centre of the hamlet (a public hall of some kind) which commanded the cross-streets, and was admirably placed for defence. But the fight was a long and stubborn one, lasting nearly three hours; and thousands of the enemy came up to support their first line of assault. It was this really that undid them: for the Russian Commander, perceiving that the hamlet was becoming of great importance, and that its loss would probably mean a defeat of the Russians, sent very strong reinforcements, as well as opened a heavy artillery fire on the German supports. Finally, about 8,000 infantry charged through the place, killing most of the enemy who had got into the streets, and driving off the whole herd of them, with a loss of 10,000 in killed and wounded, and about 400 unhurt prisoners. As the enemy retired, the Cossacks, with a regiment of dragoons, again charged them; and destroyed some hundreds more. They went too far, however, got under a fire of case-shot, and lost a considerable number of men and horses. The close of the day was devoted to a tremendous fire of artillery on both sides, and not a house was left standing in our hamlet; and as we had no trenches to take shelter in, our losses were severe. We were ordered to fall back about a verst, though without breaking the line; and took post behind a wood, the trees of which we felled to form an abattis. In this we left a strong support, while at dawn we tried the German tactics, and advanced to make an assault on their position. We had, however, three versts to cover, and we found their outposts well advanced; so that we did not succeed in surprising them. The alarm was soon given; and they opened fire with shrapnel and case, sweeping the plain with a storm of metal, and causing us great loss, though we did not follow their foolish tactics of advancing in close columns. On the contrary, we spread out fan-wise, in imitation of the Cossacks, closing in gradually as we ran. Most of the enemy's outposts were overtaken, and bayoneted to a man, notwithstanding their appeals for mercy. But when we came to their lines, we found that they had piled up snow, and beaten it down hard, to make a breastwork; and hidden a network of barbed wire under loose snow in front of their position. We got on this before we discovered it, and the results were terrible. It was impossible to do anything, or to live under such a fire as was poured upon us. The brigade, formed of the two regiments to which we were attached, broke and fled, leaving two-thirds of their number behind. When we got back to our own position, and saw how many friends, and familiar faces, were missing, many of the men broke down and wept bitterly. Captain Sawmine was wounded in three places; but he kept on his feet, and refused to quit his company. A great gloom settled on our division: for it became known, somehow or other, that a great disaster had overtaken the Tenth Army (not _army corps_); and that one entire corps of it had been cut to pieces. It was said that a great gap had been made in our line, and that the Germans were rushing forward to cut off 100,000 men. The news did not alarm us so much as create anger. Nobody doubted the correctness of the rumour; especially when the Germans shouted it to our outposts; and dropped messages, containing the information, from aeroplanes. It was further confirmed the next day by the orders which we received to fall back as rapidly as was consistent with the safety of the division. Four batteries of artillery and 1,500 Cossacks came to cover our retreat; but the Germans pressed us so hard that we turned and fought a desperate rear-guard battle. The foe had to meet "angry fellows" with a vengeance; and they got such a lesson that towards evening they permitted us to march off in parade order without daring to follow us one yard. They had more than doubled us in numbers and guns; and it must seem incredible to people who did not actually witness the operations that such tremendous and frequent losses could be sustained by any army which continued to exist in the field. I can only give my assurance that I fully believe all I state; and think I understate, rather than exaggerate, the given numbers of killed, wounded and prisoners. That such terrible losses should not incapacitate the armies engaged shows the enormous resources they had in men and material: and, so far as concerns Germany, I am convinced, in money too. From the first I considered it a pity that Russia could not put more men in the field. She might have placed 12,000,000 young and vigorous men on the Russian-Austrian frontiers; but she was quite incapable of finding transport, food and material, or the proper proportion of artillery, for such a vast host: and this is where she failed. More money, and a better system of railways, and the end of Germany would have come within six months of the outbreak of the war. Nor is much to be said in favour of my own country. The wealth, and the best blood of England, are being frittered away in partial operations. We can effect no real progress with 250,000 or 300,000 men. At least 2,000,000 should be in the field--3,000,000 would be better. How are the men to be got without conscription? Restore the old militia, which ought never to have been abolished; and ballot for it. Press-gangs, if necessary. Better do this than perish as a nation, which is what we are in imminent danger of doing. The people who cannot see this will not see it until, perhaps, they are forced to see it--a trifle too late. England is not a military nation in the usual sense of the words. Nowadays a first-class Power _must be a military nation_, or go to the wall. What makes a military nation? Having millions of men, _fully armed and equipped_, ready for action at _one hour's notice_. England will not have this! Then some bad day she will go to the wall, and go there pretty quickly. This is how nations will cease to be nations in future. Ten billion shells, a hundred billion cartridges. "All dead stock," says the financier. "What dreadful wickedness to waste so much money on munitions!" says the economist. But when war comes on a large scale the shells and cartridges have to be found at double and treble cost. It is a sad way of spending huge sums of money; but it is the only real "National Insurance": the only way of securing real peace and liberty. And whatever happens, and whatever is the consequence, I, for one, will not live under the régime of such a scoundrel as the Hell-Hound of Berlin--a wretch who, while posing as a God-fearing man, has brought heart-torment on millions of better men than himself. And these are not the words of passion. I am not a fiery boy. I am an old man, a grey-haired veteran. Read it with shame you young and able-bodied who have failed your country in her hour of peril. Your best excuse is that you do not realize how real and how near the danger is. Isolated acts of heroism are not victories. Our little army is a splendid little army, but it is a little army. One serious disaster to it, and in a week this country might be in the hands of the enemy from Land's End to John o' Groats. In such a case our only hope would be the Navy. Sole hopes, like last shillings, are things to be deprecated. CHAPTER XX HARD MARCHING AND DESULTORY FIGHTING We had no rest for thirty hours. During this time we marched and fought incessantly, falling back about sixty versts to Novogeorgevsk, where we were joined by the 233rd Reserve Regiment from Warsaw, where they had arrived from Novgorod only a few hours previously. Other divisions also received strong reinforcements, which were of great value to us, not only by reason of their physical aid, but also because they greatly revived the spirits of our worn-out fighting-men, many of whom dropped from exhaustion the moment we were out of reach of the enemy and a halt was called. I did myself; and believe I should have died had not a soldier given me half a bottle of rum, and a loaf of rye bread. Where he obtained them I do not know; but many of the men got food at Novogeorgevsk which was not served out by the commissariat. It was seldom that any spirits were obtainable other than vodka, which is frightful stuff and has more than once fetched the skin off my gums and lips. Rum, therefore, was simply nectar. Touching this subject: the Russian soldier, and the Russian peasant, are often represented as great drunkards. It is simply a libel on an abstemious and frugal people. The whole of the time I was in Russia I did not see more than fifty drunken people; and they were German officers and soldiers, who, occasionally, when captured, were as drunk as lords. During the retreat of thirty hours most of the men fired about 500 cartridges. These were brought to the firing-line by light carts, which galloped along, and threw the packets on the ground for the men to pick up. The Germans sometimes pressed us pretty closely; but a bear robbed of her whelps is an awkward customer to deal with; and notwithstanding their superior numbers, they soon learned a great respect for us. Our losses were heavy; theirs were not light. A pretty good sprinkling of bodies was left on the road Novogeorgevsk; and when the artillery got a chance they added heaps to the sprinkling. Captain Sawmine was badly, but not dangerously, wounded. Red Cross men, doctors and officers tried to induce him to get into a cart, and go to the rear; but he would not. "I mean to die with my men," was all he would say; and, indeed, I thought it was coming to that. He fainted twice; and sometimes we were compelled to carry him a verst or two; but as soon as he gained a little strength he insisted on marching like the rest of us. We all carried rifles; and he shot off nearly as many rounds as the men, and shot them well, too. It was not until we reached Novogeorgevsk that his hurts were properly dressed. We went back to our old lodgings, where we enjoyed the refreshment of a good meal and a long sleep. Large bodies of troops were massed along the Vistula, and away towards Pultusk, on the River Narew, a great part of the garrison of Warsaw having come out to meet the danger. The Germans were effectually checked by these fresh troops, which gave the exhausted men a chance to recoup. Also thousands of men were hourly arriving by train from Vilna and other northern garrisons. Everybody knew that the enemy must be beaten back immediately, or they would be in Warsaw in a few hours, although the defences of the city were being daily strengthened. At first a good deal of the fighting was skirmishing along the banks of the rivers and streams, of which there are many small ones in this region which are fringed with willows, and in summer half-hidden in beds of thick rushes. Of course the rushes were now dead, or lying low, a mass of withered vegetation; but the willows and bushes afforded sufficient concealment to the marksmen to enable them to keep up a continual skirmish. I am not sure that this kind of fighting is of much use. It costs a number of lives on both sides, but really effects nothing, unless it is used as a screen to more important movements. Though some of the streams were fordable, and all the smaller ones frozen over, the enemy made no attempt to cross any of them. They appeared to fear a turning movement from the direction of Pultusk, and retired in a way that was inexplicable to us at the time. We soon learned, however, that they had been forced back from the line of the Narew with great loss; and were in full and disorderly retreat. The pressure must have been great: for the large forces in front of Novogeorgevsk suddenly began to retire; and our artillery cut them up cruelly. They had not a sufficient number of guns to make an effectual reply, which seems to show that they had sent the bulk of their batteries to the Narew. It is a common movement of the Germans when they are hard pressed at any point, and also when they are gaining an advantage, to bring up every gun they can move from other corps. This sometimes gives them the victory; but occasionally brings disaster upon them. The Germans are the gamblers of war. They seem ready to throw away men and guns on the bare chance of winning--and losing, care not, but hope for "better luck next time." Their officers certainly do not care twopence for the lives of their men. About this time, too, I noticed some deterioration in the quality of the German troops. In the first part of the campaign they never sustained a rout, as I have several times stated; but as the winter wore on their retreats were often disorderly, as I have mentioned above. Our division took no part in this fighting. Probably those in supreme command thought we had had enough of it recently; and they were about right. If ever a division deserved the name of "fighting division," it was ours: and yet, strange as it may seem, I do not know precisely what we were. At one time we were known as the Seventh Division of the Ninth Army; and after a time on detached duty, as the Thirteenth of the Eighth Army. Then again we were unattached. There is little doubt that the division was made up of odd battalions and regiments, the remnants of corps which had been practically wiped out. There was always a disinclination to give me much information on the subject; and I thought it unwise to be too persistent in my inquiries. It is certain that we were made up, afterwards, of reservists, and were used to temporarily strengthen other corps. Of the Vladimirs not a dozen of the original men remained; and two of these were officers; and the battalion, though still retaining its designation, was numbered the 3rd of the second regiment. From time to time we received recruits, generally the remnants of corps which had become "wiped out," a very frequent occurrence in this war, when whole regiments were often destroyed, perhaps a company, or a part of one, escaping. While we were at Novogeorgevsk a number of cavalrymen who had lost their horses were sent to us, bringing the battalion up to about 500 men. The whole division was under 3,000. Such are the losses of war. When the enemy showed signs of wavering, the fresh troops in our neighbourhood made a vigorous attack upon them, with the result that they gave way almost at once. Evidently their reverses further north had demoralized them. On the 26th, at night, we heard that the enemy had been crushed at Przasnysz. The enemy must have heard it too: for they drew back their right wing towards the north-west; and when our men pressed them hard, retreated with more precipitation than I had ever seen them do on any previous occasion. Our division was following in support, and we had little or no fighting. The ground over which we marched was chiefly fields and frozen marshes. The artillery used the roads where they could discern them; but this was no easy task, the country being one flat sheet of snow, with few trees, and only ruins of houses: in fact, the country had been rendered desolate, and the people had fled to the towns. We passed by thousands of dead and wounded, scattered in all directions; for there had been no defence of positions here, but a retiring fight in the open. The Red Cross men picked up the hurt: the dead were left where they lay; the usual custom in this campaign. Every now and then we met parties of Cossacks and infantry, escorting prisoners to the rear. The total losses of the enemy appeared to be at least three to one of ours. There was no halt at night; and cavalry of all kinds--dragoons, hussars, lancers, chasseurs, and the ubiquitous Cossacks--were constantly overtaking us, and pressing to the front in pursuit of the flying enemy: for flying they were. These German boys, who had fought so well in their first onset, when tired out and exhausted by continuous exertion, broke down completely: and there were some pitiful scenes: as, for instance, when some twenty or thirty of them were discovered hidden in the cellars of a wrecked house. One of them had the courage to fire his rifle up the stairs and kill a Cossack as he sat eating his ration. This was considered to be a murder by the Cossack's comrades, and notwithstanding that the Germans immediately surrendered, the whole party was hanged to the fruit-trees in the garden of the house--the only ones in the neighbourhood. I do not think any of these boys were more than twenty years old; half of them certainly were not more than sixteen or seventeen; and they made a terrible fuss over their fate, screaming and crying like small children; and one or two grovelling in the snow, and begging for mercy in the most piteous way. In vain. They were all strung up; and as no drop was given to break their necks, some were a long time dying. I saw one still struggling after he had been suspended twenty minutes; and others were apparently not quite dead until a bystander put an end to their suffering with revolver-shots. It is probable that these lads would not have been discovered had not one of them shot the Cossack. The hiding in cellars of small parties of the enemy was a frequent occurrence. They would probably have often escaped detection had it not been for their own folly. They did not seem to be able to resist the temptation to fire on any of our men who chanced to enter the houses where they lay concealed, probably thinking they were isolated squads, and unsupported by stronger bodies. Amongst other strange incidents was that of a motor-car which was taken past us on the 28th. It was a closed carriage, and contained three ladies, and a large quantity of articles of dress, jewellery, and plate. The women were said to be officers' wives; and the goods, plunder: and there were many stories prevailing amongst our troops of robberies of houses by Prussian women of considerable social rank. It was quite a common incident for us to recover cars and carts full of spoil which had been taken from the houses of the Polish nobility of the district. What became of the thieves I do not know; but in the case of women I believe they escaped unpunished. Other things we captured were carts, waggons, and conveyances laden with provisions and clothing materials, which had been stolen from Polish towns, villages and private houses. It was commonly reported that the Germans were in great straits for food; and whether this was so or not, they stripped those tracts of country which were overrun by them of everything eatable. They even dug up the potatoes and turnips (in the autumn, of course); and when they got the chance, reaped the cornfields, sending this produce to Germany, unless we were fortunate enough to intercept it. This action may have been dictated by want, but was more likely to have been the outcome of economical provision for the future, combined with their acknowledged policy of making war as frightful as possible to the civil population of their foe's country. It entailed terrible misery on the poor people, and was the cause of the towns and villages of whole regions being abandoned by the inhabitants, many of whom were said to have died of starvation. Others had to apply to relief committees. I have read descriptions of the state of Germany after the Thirty Years' War. I should think it could not have been worse than many parts of Poland now are. The enemy has turned whole districts into a desert, destitute of everything that is necessary to the existence of man. They have even wantonly cut down the fruit-trees, and filled the wells with filth. Barns and storehouses have been burnt, as well as dwellings, in many cases whole villages having been given to the flames. As a rule, however, the towns have been spared, though I passed through a few that had suffered severely, if they were not quite ruined. The enemy had frequently emulated the "crop-ears" of our Cromwellian period, and stabled their horses in the churches. Still more frequently they had desecrated and wrecked the sacred edifices--one of the most unwise things they could do: for to provoke a people through their religion is equal to losing a battle, and a big battle too, to say nothing of what the Most High may possibly think of it. This does not count with the Germans; but it may possibly count in favour of their enemies, when the day of reckoning comes! The peasantry, rendered homeless and desperate, and enraged at the violation of things they held to be in the highest degree sacred, were a thorn in the side of Russia's foes. Living in the wood, prowling about their burnt homes in the dead of night, they often came upon the enemy's videttes and pickets, and made them prisoners. I do not think they imitated the Cossacks, and often took the lives of the men they surprised; but they did so occasionally. They made splendid scouts, and helped the Russian Army immensely in this way, supplying information which it would have been difficult, or rather impossible, for organized parties of armed men to have obtained. The women, especially, were useful in this way: for with that cunning and subterfuge which nobody condemns in the female character, they often ingratiated themselves with the German officers and soldiers, and so obtained access to knowledge of their movements and circumstances which no amount of duplicity or skill would have enabled a man to acquire. And a day or two afterwards the hussies, perhaps, would be stabbing their "friends" with pitchforks, their favourite weapons, next to their tongues, which they often used with great effect; for it was quite a usual circumstance for women to join in any fighting that took place in their neighbourhood. The men, also, joined the soldiers on the battlefield, and used any weapon they could obtain, but chiefly the instruments with which, in normal times, they tilled the ground. To take up again the thread of this narrative. A great deal of fighting went on in our front, but the weakness of our division kept us out of it. We were still further reduced in numbers by being called on to furnish many detachments to guard prisoners to the rear. Under these circumstances I had to amuse myself with such rumours, and small items of news, as came in my way. From these I gathered that the onward movements of the enemy were completely checked; and it was even asserted that the Russian troops were again on German soil. This rumour was not satisfactorily confirmed; but I cannot doubt that the enemy was forced back to the frontier line in the neighbourhood of Mlawa and Chorzellen. The latter place is a small Russian town actually on the frontier, and more than thirty versts from a railway-station. Mlawa is also a Russian town five versts from the border, with a station on the Praga (suburb of Warsaw) German railway, which was held by the enemy. The two places are about thirty versts distant from each other: so it was evident the foe had fallen back on a pretty wide front. [Illustration: PERSONAL BLESSING BY A PRIEST IS CONSIDERED A GREATER HONOR BY A RUSSIAN SOLDIER THAN A WAR DECORATION] One of the most striking episodes of this period was my first sight of the Russian Commander-in-Chief, the Grand Duke Nicholas. I had, of course, heard frequent mention of him; but it was never very clear to me where he was--I mean at what particular spot. Though not such a galloper (to use a military term) as the Kaiser, he still seemed to be here, there and everywhere. One week he was asserted to be in direct personal command of our corps: the next he was reported to be in Galicia. But the Duke is anything but a limelight gentleman; the German is nothing unless he is one. The Duke is a great commander, and no mean soldier: the Kaiser is also a great commander, but no soldier at all. The first can say what he wants, and can do it: the second can say what he wants, but cannot do it; he has to rely on his subordinates. The Grand Duke Nicholas is a big man, yet not stout. He appears to stand considerably more than six feet high--I should think about six feet six inches. He is very straight and upright in carriage, but scarcely with the bearing of a soldier. He looks more like an athletic priest than a military man, especially as he has a grave countenance, and seldom, or never, smiles. He is an affable man, though; and seemingly quite devoid of pride. He wears a plain uniform, devoid of ornament, and carries a stick in place of a sword. Apparently he does not look about him; but nothing escapes his eye; and, like all great men, he is not above dealing with details even minute ones. He does very little writing, however, but likes to sit on a chair and explain his wishes to an audience of officers. Those whom they concern make notes of his orders, which he afterwards looks over, but, I am told, does not sign. If I were one of his subordinates I should think this method had its drawbacks. What if a misunderstanding occurred? Everything would favour the commander, and all would necessarily go against the commanded. But perhaps this would not matter in a country like Russia. One thing is certain: that if the Grand Duke is not one of the greatest commanders this war has produced, the Germans, at any rate, have not been able to catch him napping. His fault seems to be precisely similar to those which afflict the other Generals of the War: they do not get effectively driven back; but they cannot get forward. The trench business is one too many for them; and the art of outflanking has clearly not been sufficiently studied; while the art of effectual retaliation seems to be utterly unknown. CHAPTER XXI RECONNAISSANCE AND TRENCH FIGHTING I have not yet mentioned the Bactrian camels which are used in thousands for Russian transport. During the winter the snow was so deep that the usual indications of the roadways were completely buried; and even in the few cases where they could be discerned, it was most difficult to traverse them with either horse-waggons or motor-cars; indeed, the last mentioned are useless in snow when it lies beyond a certain depth (though much depends on the power of the car); and guns, also, are impeded by the same cause. Many persons think that the foot of a camel is peculiarly suited to traversing deserts, and is unfitted for progress over other kinds of ground. This may be true of the dromedary, or African one-humped camel; but it is not correct of the Bactrian, or two-humped camel, the species used by the Russians. This animal can keep its footing on the most slippery ground, and travel with facility over the deepest snow without sinking in to an appreciable depth. The Russians say that it will also go with speed over sand, rock and grass land, but founders in bogs and morasses. It carries a weight of 400 to 500 pounds, English; and proved to be very useful throughout the winter, until the thaw came, and three feet of mud succeeded six feet of snow; and then nothing on earth could drag itself through the miserable mire at a greater rate than a funeral pace. But all the camels in the country were not enough to bring up the necessaries of the army; and the men, though fed and kept supplied with ammunition, were compelled to lack many things that would have increased both their comfort and their efficiency. Boots especially, and other wearing articles, were often badly wanted; and many of the men suffered greatly from frostbites. My own feet were becoming very tender by the month of March, when the sun sometimes shone with sufficient strength to make the surface of the snow wet: and this added greatly to our troubles. It is essential to the welfare of troops that after marches they should have dry socks and a change of boots; otherwise they are almost sure to suffer from sore feet. It was the habit of the Russian infantry to take their socks off at night and dry them at the camp fires; but when in the presence of the enemy we were often forbidden to make fires; and at other times there was not sufficient fuel obtainable to supply the whole of our vast hosts: nor was there always a full supply of food, though it was the custom of the Russian soldiers to eat those horses and camels which were killed. There is but little difference between horseflesh and beef, and I have eaten it at scores of meals. I have also tasted camel's flesh; and have nothing to say in its favour. It is coarse, tough and flavourless. The Germans having retired to carefully entrenched positions, from which we found it impossible to force them, a lull ensued; although occasionally attempts were made to surprise and assault some of the enemy's positions. On the 5th March the Germans squirted liquid fire over one of these surprise parties which had got close up to their entrenchments, and was endeavouring to remove the wire-entanglements. It was the first time such a device had been reported; and there was some mystery concerning its nature. Some thought that boiling pitch had been used; others called it Greek fire. I do not think it was pitch, although I did not actually see it thrown. I examined the clothing of some of the men, who reported that the holes which were burnt smouldered, and were not easily put out. The fire came over them in a shower of sparks, and was not thrown by hand; but squirted out of a tube of some kind. The only actual injury that I could discover it did was in the case of one man who was badly burned about the face and probably blinded. It is astonishing what a number of devilish contrivances these dastardly Germans have invented and used in this war; and it is clear that they would resort to the foullest possible means, if this would give them the victory. The holes burnt in the coats of the men were mostly small; but, where they were close together, quite destroyed the garment, appearing to have rotted the material. In my opinion the substance of this fire was some kind of melted metal, mixed with waxy matter. It was tenacious, and could not be wiped off; and left a light grey residuum on the cloth. It did not burn its way through to the flesh in those cases which I examined. About this time I heard mentioned the poisonous gas which has since become notorious. The Germans, I believe, had not yet resorted to sending the horrid stuff in clouds against a position; but they fired shells which emitted it in considerable quantities, and caused some deaths, and many disablements, amongst the Russian troops. I saw some of the shells burst; and the gas, which gradually expanded to a small cloud with a diameter of about 30 feet, looked like a thick, dirty yellow smoke. The odour of it was horrible and peculiar and very pungent; and it seemed to be a very heavy vapour, for it never rose high above the ground--not more than 20 feet. It dispersed slowly. In my opinion the best way to avoid it would be to rush rapidly through it towards the point from which it had been discharged. Doubtless some of it lurks in the air; but not sufficient, I think, to have deleterious effects. The bulk of it rolls on in a low, dense cloud. That which was shot at us came from _percussion_ shells, which do not explode in the air. These projectiles were usually fired at us in salvoes; so as to form a cloud of gas on the ground. I went to see the bodies of two men who had been killed by one of these poison-shells. They looked as if they had been rolled in flour of sulphur, being completely covered, flesh and clothes, with a yellowish deposit. Some wounded men, and others who had first gone to their assistance, were similarly encrusted. Some of these were insensible; others were gasping for breath, and discharging froth from their mouths. The two men who were dead had been killed by pieces of shell and not by the gas, though this may have helped to destroy them. On the 8th March I was watching an aeroplane when the petrol tank appeared to burst. There was a puff of smoke, and then the machine dropped like a stone. It must have fallen a mile from the spot where I was standing: but of its further fate I know nothing. It was a German aircraft, and was, I suppose, hit by a lucky Russian bullet. It is astonishing what a riddling these aeroplanes will stand. I have seen them with from forty to sixty bullet holes in different parts of them, and yet they were not forced to come down by their injuries of this character. Between the 8th and the 14th March I saw more aircraft of various kinds than at any other time during the period I was with the Russian Army. On the 9th six of ours hovered over the German positions for a long time, and dropped many bombs. A tremendous fire was opened upon them by the enemy, but not one of them was seriously damaged. During the first fortnight in March we were moved very gradually towards Ostrolenka. On the 14th we were at Roshan on the Narew, which is here a small river with fords in the neighbourhood. It had been frozen over; but the troops had broken up the ice for defensive purposes, as they had on many other streams. It was also beginning to thaw. Enormous numbers of Germans, fresh troops, were assembling in front of Ostrolenka and Lomza; and, according to reports, on a line extending 400 versts north and west of these places. It was evidently the prelude to a renewed attempt on Warsaw. The persistence of the enemy to take the old capital of Poland is a parallel to his perseverance in the endeavour to break through to Calais in the Western area of the war. Will he do it? He has been within a very few versts of the place, and made repeated efforts to gain his object; but so far the Russians have been able to beat him back. The capture of Warsaw by the enemy would be a great calamity to the Russians, and have an immensely depreciatory moral effect on her troops, scarcely less so than the fall of Petrograd would have. Some critics have, I fear, attempted to show that the capture of Warsaw would not be so very heavy a blow to the Russians. These persons do not know much about it, I think. Warsaw is the chief railway centre in Poland, and a place of immense commercial importance. It is really the Russian headquarters, which, if it falls into German hands, will have to be removed to Bialystok, or even Vilna, and will compel a complete change of the Russian front. On the day we arrived at Roshan, Captain Sawmine, who had been compelled to go to hospital, rejoined us; and also a number of reserves, and others, came up, bringing the division to a strength of 6,000 infantry. About 500 Cossacks, and two batteries of field-guns were also attached to us, making the total strength a little under 7,000 men. I had some thought of going into hospital myself, as my feet were badly frostbitten; and I was generally much run down by the hardships I had undergone; but the prospect of a big fight was a pleasure I could not forego. So I patched up my hurts as well as I could, and got as much rest as possible. If I could have obtained a horse! I was in very low water in all ways. My English sovereigns had gone one at a time, and very few of them were now left: so few of them that it was becoming an anxiety to me to know how I should get on in future, and finally leave the country. The big fight did not come off very quickly, at least in our neighbourhood. We heard so many reports of the great things taking place in other districts that I began to think it was about time the German Army was smashed up. The resources of the Teutonic countries, which I had always thought to be poor, must be enormous; and it seems to be no vain boast of the Kaiser's that he could "lose 3,500 men per day, and still keep up the numbers of my army corps." As I heard that there was daily fighting taking place near Przasnysz, distant forty versts from Roshan, I obtained leave to make a reconnaissance in that direction, and got Sawmine to borrow a horse for me from one of his brother officers. The animal I thus obtained the loan of was not a very manageable creature. It had notions of its own, which I combated with difficulty; and I foresaw that if I ran against any of those particularly smart gentlemen, the Uhlans, I should probably taste the sweets of a German prison--or worse. However, my steed improved on acquaintanceship; and when he discovered that I intended to be master--if I could--he gave in, and behaved himself fairly well; but I could get no great pace out of him. He had been a bat horse, not a charger; and could not forget his low breeding. I made for Makow first, and arrived there in about three hours. There was no direct road that I could discover, and the country did not seem to have suffered so much as most districts round about. There were many people in many of the cottages and farms who came out to look at me, and I even succeeded in procuring a little milk and some eggs; but my inability to speak more than a few words puzzled the good peasants, and evidently aroused the suspicion of some of them. For by-and-by a patrol of Cossacks came galloping up to me, with very fierce expressions and words. I had taken the precaution to obtain a permit, with a description of me written upon it; and also an explanatory note from Captain Sawmine. I suppose this kind gentleman had written something eulogistic concerning me, for the Cossacks could not make enough of me, and I was given as much food and vodka as I could carry; the provisions including cold boiled bacon, mutton fat, chicken and the local cheese, besides rye, or barley bread, and a quantity of clothing, which, though clearly enough plunder, was not German. Probably the Cossacks, who are born without consciences and morals, had obtained these articles from abandoned houses. I was sadly in need of all they gave me, and in no mood to be too particular, and by the end of that day I was better clothed and better fed than I had been for many long weeks. I made these men understand where I wished to go; and Makow seemed to be their destination also. At any rate they accompanied me thither, and introduced me to the commander of their sotnia, who was as kind and affable as his men, and took me to the inn where he and another officer was quartered, and gave me excellent entertainment, apparently without cost to anybody but the host of the inn, who seemed to be willing enough to supply all our needs. There did not appear to be more than half a sotnia of Cossacks in the town, which is a similar place to Roshan--places which in England, we should call small market towns with a prominent agricultural interest. There had been hostile visits to Makow; houses, and, in one part, nearly an entire street, had been demolished by artillery fire. Some of the poor people were living in the partly exposed cellars; for an underground apartment, or cellar, is almost invariably found in Polish and Russian dwellings, no matter how small and poor they may be. Fighting was going on not far off; for the occasional booming of guns and an almost incessant rattle of rifle-fire could be plainly heard until darkness set in when these sounds gradually ceased. Przasnysz is only twenty-two versts from Makow; and I began to suspect that the larger place was in the hands of the Germans. It is pronounced "Prer-zhast-nitz," as nearly as I can frame it: and I may say that, in the course of this narrative, I have followed the spelling of names as they appear on maps, when I could find them there: otherwise I have written them as they seem to be pronounced; hence I dare say I have fallen into some eccentricities in this matter, which, I hope, will be excused. Tired out, and far from well, I slept till late the next day, my breakfast being brought to bed to me by a woman of the house, the usual custom of the country. In the afternoon I rode out and took what I supposed was the road to Przasnysz; but the ground was still so deeply covered with snow that there were no beaten tracks visible. However, the firing which was still going on was a good guide, and after riding about eight versts I came on a line of trenches occupied by Russian riflemen. Two bullets came unpleasantly near me, and one actually went under my arm, tearing the breast of my coat. I had not realized that I was in full sight of the enemy; but I was not long in remedying that. I rode straight into a scarped ditch and dismounted. The position was not a safe or pleasant one; but there was no help for it. I had to remain there until dusk; and from time to time bullets fell close to me. I think the enemy could see part of the head of my horse, which was a guide to their aiming, and it was only the slope of the bank which saved me. There was an ammunition hand-cart, half full of packages of cartridges, in the ditch, but nobody came near it before nightfall. The riflemen continued their firing as long as they could see, and the enemy replied without intermission; apparently with small results on either side. There was big gun shooting as well; but the cannon were so well hidden that I could not locate them. Sometimes shells came screaming a few feet only above the trench, and burst just behind. One piece flew back and buried itself in the bank not more than a foot above the horse's back, and close enough to my head to make me wince. More often the shells burst high in the air, the Germans showing some very bad gunnery. The Russian soldiers, like soldiers and boys all the world over where snow is to be found, had amused themselves by making snow figures in rear of the trench, mostly those of the Emperors, Saints and Generals. A shot struck one of these and threw the well-beaten, frozen snow to an immense height in the air. The shell did not burst, a circumstance of frequent occurrence, which seemed to show that the fuses were badly made, or fitted badly to the projectile. When the riflemen at last came out of the trench for a fresh supply of ammunition, they were amazed to find me and my horse standing by their cart. They at first mistook me for an officer and saluted very respectfully; but my awkward replies to their salutations caused them to raise their lantern and examine me more closely. Then I was seized, and an officer began to interrogate me, and I produced my papers; but the officer was not so easily satisfied as my Cossack friends; and I was taken to the trench, and thrust into what the British call a "funk-hole," or small excavated resting-place. My belongings were overhauled, and the supply of food received from the Cossacks at once appropriated by the soldiers, who seemed to be very hungry. They were good enough to give me some of the tallow, and a piece of fat bacon. Fortunately I am as fond of grease as any Russian, and I fortified myself for what might happen by making a plentiful meal: indeed, I ate all they gave me, and drank a full measure of vodka on top of it. Bad things are good things under adverse circumstances. The men had bales of straw in the trenches, and on them they stretched themselves to sleep--at least those close to me did so; but it was too dark to see much. I obtained some of the straw, and slept very soundly in my "funk-hole," though I had a suspicion that I might have very good cause to funk in the morning. The soldiers were not unkind, whatever they thought of me. One of them awoke me in the morning by pulling me out of my hole by the legs. I thought this was a preliminary to shooting or hanging, but nothing so drastic happened. I was given a pint of strong tea without sugar and milk, but it was hot, and that was a great deal on a bitterly cold morning. With the tea I received a piece of the dirtiest bread I have ever eaten; and shortly afterwards a gun boomed from the enemy's position, and a shell fell in the advanced trenches. As it caused no commotion I suppose it did no harm. It gave the signal that it was getting light enough for the enemy to see; and our men stood to their arms; and soon afterwards began to "snipe," as the modern phrase has it. Sometimes I took a peep along the little gutter-like cuts where the men rested their rifles when shooting over the edge of the trench. I did this with impunity so frequently that I grew bold, until a bullet came and knocked the snow and dirt over me. A few minutes later a rifleman was aiming along this very cut when a bullet struck his head and killed him instantly. It entered in the centre of his forehead, and came out behind, carrying away a large piece of the skull and letting his brains out. I was becoming used to such painful sights; and in two moments I had his rifle in hand and his pouch strapped round me, and was watching at the death-cut to avenge his fall. I had brought my own rifle with me; but this and my cartridges were taken from me the previous night. My revolver was concealed in a pocket, and I thought it wise to keep it there for the present. I could not see much to shoot at. Some of the enemy's trenches were a long way back; others, salient points, ran up to within fifty yards of our position. Occasionally I saw the spike of a helmet; but it generally disappeared before I could bring the sight of the rifle to bear upon it. The Germans usually wore their spiked helmets, jocosely called "_Pickelhaubes_," which much betrayed them when aiming from the trenches. Afterwards they became more cunning and wore their muffin-shaped caps when on duty of a dangerous character. If I could not see the enemy they appeared to see me; for several bullets came unpleasantly close, and another man at my side was struck and badly wounded in the head. Then my chance came. I saw the spike of a helmet and about an inch of the top of it. It remained so still that I concluded the man was taking careful aim, an example which I followed, and fired. I saw the dirt fly up where the bullet struck the parapet, and the spike disappeared. I do not know if the bullet found its billet--probably not; I fired about twenty rounds at similar marks, sometimes seeing just the top of a spike, sometimes nearly the whole helmet; and then, turning rather quickly, I saw the officer who had arrested me the previous night watching me. He nodded approval; and I felt that I had "saved my bacon" if nothing else; and so it proved. I was no longer treated as a prisoner, and had evidently won the respect and goodwill of those who had witnessed my endeavours to trouble the enemy. It seemed to me a rule that nobody should leave the trench until night came round; but several passages were cut to the rear which permitted the soldiers to come or go without exposing themselves to the enemy's fire. I did not attempt to go out myself until dusk, and then it came quite as a shock to find my horse gone. I searched all round, but there was not a sign of him anywhere; and I thought I heard some of the soldiers laughing. It was in vain to make inquiries: nobody could understand what I said, though they knew very well what I wanted. For there is a universal language which all understand. All the pretty girls, from pole to pole, know how to spell "kiss," and to let you know what they mean by it. Soldiers, of all people, must not cry over spilt milk, so I sat down and greased my frostbites; while a friendly corporal brought me another drink of vodka. For whatever the edicts of the Czar, this fiery liquor was always plentiful enough amongst the soldiers and the peasants, from whom, I suppose, the military obtained it. Whatever its vices it has some virtues, and is not bad stuff to give to a man who is frozen inside and out. The next morning I found my rifle and bandolier resting against the side of the trench at the aiming-cut I had used the previous day. I quite understood the hint; and after my pint of hot tea and hunk of dirty bread, I again joined in the sniping, potting at _Pickelhaubes_ and arms and legs, when I got a chance. The enemy returned our compliments; and the number of narrow escapes our men had was extraordinary; but very few of them were killed or injured, and I suppose our fire was equally ineffectual. Field artillery was also used on both sides; and this did more damage, chiefly to the trenches, which were blown in at many points, though, as usual, with but little loss of life. I think more lives are lost in trenches through carelessness than from any other cause. One gets so used to the eternal potting that in time he hardly notices it. Then some unlucky day he forgets himself, and shows enough of his precious person to bury a bullet in. The result is death, or injury, according to where the projectile strikes him; for most of the men in the advanced trenches, on both sides, are picked marksmen, who are ever on the alert to distinguish themselves. They make a good many bets, too, on the results of their shots. This is done more to relieve the monotony of the duty than from hardness of heart, I think. It is very trying to spend day after day in taking chance shots, the results of which are seldom perceptible to the shooter. I spent several days in this uncongenial work, with anything except benefit to my general condition. The bottom of the trench was wet, which did not improve the state of my frostbites; and the nights were bitterly cold, yet no fires were allowed. I much desired to return to Roshan; but the officer in charge of the trench either did not, or would not, understand my wishes, and I was never out of the trench for fifteen consecutive minutes, and never more than once in twenty-four hours. CHAPTER XXII FROM THE TRENCHES OF PRZASNYSZ TO THE CAMP OF MAKOW I was in a very unpleasant fix. I could not obtain leave to go back to my old comrades: if I went without permission I ran grave risk of being considered a spy or a traitor and being treated as one. Life had become so very joyless and unpleasant, that I felt I could quit it without much regret; but I was not quite prepared to be sent out of it with the contumely due to a spy, or dishonourable man, to say nothing of the misgivings I entertained concerning hanging or shooting by a provost's squad. I wrote a letter or two, and tried to get them forwarded to Captain Sawmine. The trench officer (a Major, I think) took the first of these notes, and examined it; poised it at every possible angle; turning it this way and that, and upside down; and unable to make anything of it, put it in his pocket. I hoped he intended to send it on to its destination: but several days elapsed, and I received no reply, so I wrote another, and with a respectful salute, handed it to the gentleman. He took it from my hand, shook his head, and tore it to fragments, which he cast to the wind. I was not at much trouble to conceal my annoyance and contempt of this conduct, whereupon he got very angry; and I perceived that I should have to be cautious how I behaved before him: so I went back to my _pickelhaube_-sniping, and thought the matter out. That night the enemy made an attack upon us, and there was some hand-to-hand fighting. It was soon over, and the Germans driven back to their own trench, with a loss of fifty or sixty men, and eight or ten prisoners. It was rather a trifling affair; but our people hankered after revenge, as I could very well see. The second night afterwards we made a counter-attack with about two battalions, not counting the supports. The Germans evidently expected it: for they had kept up an almost incessant rain of shells, great and small. Our guns had replied, and done some damage. Particularly, they had cut away the wire entanglements of the enemy's trenches, and prevented him from repairing it. The intervening space we had to rush across was about fifty yards; but my feet were now so bad that I could only hobble forward. The first line that got into the trench made very short work of the foe. When I dropped into it, the bottom was covered with dead and dying men. Others were rushing away through tunnelled traverses; but they suffered very severely, and in less than five minutes the work was in our hands. The Germans made three determined attempts to retake it, but they all failed, with loss to them; though the affair was on a comparatively small scale. At last, about five o'clock in the morning, they exploded two mines simultaneously. These mines must have been prepared beforehand in anticipation of the capture of the salient of the trench, on the faces of which they were concealed. They cost us about twenty men, several of whom were buried and had to be dug out. Unfortunately they were dead when recovered, as were nearly all who happened to be in the vicinity of the explosions. Another mine, fired lower down the trench, in the apparent belief that we had reached the point, killed some of their own men, who were crowding the spot in a wild endeavour to escape from the bayonets of our men. The moral effect caused by these explosions was very great, and was, I have no doubt, the reason the Russian leaders decided to abandon the trench. The men were drawn off in the darkness, unperceived by the enemy, who continued to bombard the position very furiously, and must have wasted at least 1,000 shells, many of which were of much larger size than those used in ordinary field-guns. They blew to pieces a great part of their own salient, and did our trenches a lot of damage. The Russian losses in this second combat amounted altogether to about 300 men. During the fight I had been an object of particular attention to a big German, who made more ragged my already too dilapidated coat. The saw-back bayonets of our foes were very destructive to everything they were thrust through--coats as well as bodies. The gentleman I refer to had a bundle in a handkerchief attached to his belt. This I brought away, and found it to contain a small but choice assortment of viands. There were several Frankfort sausages of the genuine kind, a very toothsome pasty, and some bread that was a degree or two better than the ordinary "ammunition" sort. A touch of pathos was given to a commonplace incident by a letter, and the photograph of a pretty woman, which the bundle contained. This was probably the man's sweetheart, who had sent him a few choice snacks. Poor girl! If only she had known who was destined to devour them I expect she would have sung "Gott straffe England" in a very high key. The Fortunes of war are sometimes curious. The starving (?) Germans seemed to be pretty well provided in this trench. Many of our men brought back dainties--sausages, cakes, pies and even eggs, which reached our own trenches uncracked; and plenty of tobacco. The "War Lord" is a slyer dog than many people think, and it looks as if he did not forget the commissariat when furnishing the other "War Departments." It may have happened, however, that the detachment manning this trench had just received a consignment of good things from their friends. The day after the trench fights there was great rejoicing in our lines, which I had no difficulty in ascertaining was caused by the fall of Przemysl. After months of effort this great fortress was taken by the Russians. I know nothing of the fighting on the Austrian frontier, or within her territories, but what I heard from time to time; and this I do not repeat. But I may say that the capture of the place had an immensely cheering effect on the Russian troops, and did the Germans more harm, from a moral point, than the loss of a battle would have done. I had hoped to have found an opportunity to escape during the operations mentioned above; but I found it impossible to go off except under circumstances that could only be called desertion. A day or two after the fighting a couple of Cossacks came, bearing a letter from Captain Sawmine, and making inquiries about me. Their arrival gave me joy of soul in no uncertain measure: for I was heartily tired of trench warfare. The letter, written in French, enclosed a request that any officer or person being shown it would do his utmost to forward my return to the battalion, which, it was stated, was now moving on Kulaki, described as a town east of Przasnysz. The letter instructed me, if found, to accompany the two Cossacks, who had orders not to leave me until I was in safety again with the battalion. It was afternoon when the Cossacks arrived, and it was decided that they should rest in rear of the trenches before departing the next morning. It seemed to me to be one of the longest nights I had ever spent, I was so anxious to get back to my old comrades. This anxiety was provoked by the terrible monotony, and no less abominable dirtiness, of life in the trenches. The Russian soldier, blessed, or otherwise, with that remarkable patience which is characteristic of all Asiatics, and persons descended from them, is yet a great sufferer if he is not regularly relieved from the trenches for rest: and it has been found necessary throughout the Russian Army to organize regular relays for service in these miserable living graves. This is what they really are. Soldiers posted in them are compelled to stand in their allotted places: they cannot move to the left hand or the right, nor change places with a comrade. If a man is wounded during the day it is seldom possible to remove him until darkness sets in, for the Germans fire on anybody--Red Cross workers, the wounded, and the dying. So the injured man is taken into a funk-hole, where the surgeon and the Red Cross man do what they can for him until it is safe to lift him out and convey him to hospital. Those killed outright lie where they fall, in the mire and the filth, trodden under foot, unless a lull in the firing gives time to bury them in the bottom of the trench; and even this is only done to get the body out of the way. As a rule the dead were buried at night, at the rear of the trench and close to it. Even then the Germans often heard the sound of pick and shovel at work, and in their usual dastardly way opened fire on the fatigue-parties engaged in this necessary and charitable work, leaving it to chance whether or not they killed a man or two, as they often did. I have mentioned the patience of the Russian nature. It is in curious contrast to the petulance and cowardice of the Germans, who yell and scream when in danger or suffering much pain. The Russian never does this. Even the dying Muscovite scarcely groans. I have seen men brought out of the trenches, or from the front, practically smashed, hurt beyond the wildest hope of recovery, yet calm and patient, and grateful for the least help, not one sound of complaint or pain passing their brave lips. Even those rascals the Cossacks invariably met suffering and death with the invincible courage of heroes. I never saw an exception. At daybreak the following morning we started for Kulaki, taking a route through country that was quite unknown to me. At this time thaws had set in, generally commencing about 11 a.m. and continuing until 2 p.m. They rendered the ground very bad for travelling, although the snow was far from being melted through, except in a few places, which had been partially cleared by drifts before the frost had come. Large pools of water collected, and stood on the hard snow, which was really ice, rendering the surface not only slushy, but exceedingly slippery. The Cossacks partly remedied this by tying pieces of raw hide over the horses' hoofs; but nothing could render the footing of the animals quite safe, and we had one or two nasty falls. These generally happened towards the close of day, when the temperature was falling and the freezing was sharper than ever, or at all events the surface of the snow seemed to be more glassy. We had not got more than a dozen versts on our way when we came up to half a battalion of the 30th Siberian regiment, which was skirmishing with a much stronger body of German infantry, which had tried to dig itself in--_i.e._, entrench itself under fire. This the Russians had prevented, and they suddenly made a determined bayonet charge and closed with their foes. The two Cossacks and I followed close behind; and in the mêlée which ensued one of the men speared a German running him completely through from side to side, at least a foot of steel coming out under the victim's left arm. The fighting, though it hardly lasted two minutes, was very fierce, the Germans seeming to realize that they had no alternative but to fight or surrender in a body, in spite of their excess of numbers. This is really what happened. The Russians killed about 150 of them, with a loss to themselves of not more than sixty. The remainder of the Germans, about 600 in number, surrendered unconditionally, and were marched away in an easterly direction, the dead and wounded being left lying on the snow. I presume they were attended to later by the Red Cross men and removed to the field-hospitals. Unfortunately I could not make myself distinctly understood by the Cossacks; and my two guides, after a consultation together, seemed to make up their minds to partly retrace their steps. They may have had good grounds for this resolution; and I myself strongly suspected that numerous small parties of the enemy were prowling about. The reason for this opinion was that I saw several patrols or squads join the enemy's battalion during the fight. We also passed a small wood, amongst the trees of which a dozen bivouac fires were still smouldering, and these, I saw at a glance, were not made by Russian soldiers. I likewise saw a single horseman watching us; he was soon joined by another; and the two followed us some distance, until one of the Cossacks fired his rifle at them, when they galloped away. But my escort was decidedly nervous. They were both young men--under twenty-five, I thought--and appeared to consider me something of a prisoner. I was surprised at this; but not sufficiently master of the language to protest or ask for an explanation. The men frequently changed their direction, and if they did not bewilder themselves, at any rate fairly perplexed me, so that I could not tell in which direction we ought to be travelling. We passed that night in a cottage which was but little better than a hut, the owner of which did not seem to be much pleased at being compelled to entertain us, almost the only occasion on which I noticed such a disposition in any person of the country, whatever his rank or position. There was hardly any food in the house, and that little was coarse and dirty-looking, so that even the Cossacks turned up their noses at it. One of them went out, and after an absence of more than an hour returned with two fowls, some potatoes and bread, and a stone jar of vodka. They then brought in a lot of wood from the yard of the cottage, and made the stove nearly red-hot, at which action the proprietor protested loudly and became very angry, while a woman I at first thought was his wife wept. The fowls having been prepared by the speedy method of burning off the feathers were put in a saucepan to boil. The woman and I skinned some of the potatoes, but others were cooked with the skin on. While waiting for supper the vodka was very liberally served out, the man and woman taking their share; and the behaviour of the lady with one of the Cossacks was such as to convince me I had been mistaken in thinking that she was the wife of the peasant. By the time the meal was cooked and eaten the woman and myself were the only sober persons there; and I am not sure that she had not taken too much of the fiery vodka. With the two Cossacks as partners she executed some extraordinary figures in what I suppose I must call a polka. It ended in the whole party falling to the floor, where they went to sleep. Being left to look after myself I blew out the lamp, which was smoking abominably, and got into a bed at the corner of the room--clothes, boots and all, that I might be ready for eventualities. Nobody disturbed me, however, until daylight, when the Cossacks aroused themselves, and the woman made us plenty of tea, which we drank, as usual, without sugar and milk. The Cossacks had stabled the horses in an outhouse, which was quite unfitted for the purpose. The poor animals had very little straw, and, as the place was draughty, they must have been very cold. I have forgotten to mention that before leaving the trenches the Cossacks obtained, by either borrowing or begging, a horse on which to mount me; and this animal, though nothing to boast of, was a much better horse than the one I had lost. As I saw the wisdom of propitiating the Cossacks, I helped them as much as I could; and they were friendly enough, though I perceived that they watched me pretty closely. While we were engaged in saddling the horses, the peasant came to the shed and said something to the soldiers which caused them to mount very hastily. They motioned to me to do the same; and as we dashed at a gallop out of the little yard I saw about twenty German hussars approaching the cottage. They perceived us, too, and gave a hot pursuit, firing their rifles at random. We returned the fire, and I saw one man fall from his horse. This casualty was sufficient to bring them to a halt, though they continued to shoot at us. We got into safety behind a clump of trees and bushes; and one of the Cossacks dismounted and crept forward to reconnoitre. I went with him, and searched the country with my glass, which the man borrowed by gesture. The hussars had not followed us; and in the direction of the cottage, which must have been three miles away, I saw a column of smoke rising slowly in the calm air and guessed what had happened. The cruel enemy was burning the home of the peasant in which we had passed the previous night. The Cossacks continued to ride in a north-easterly direction across a district that appeared to be a very poor one at the best of times. The widely scattered cottages and huts were of a mean description even for this land, and I saw only two or three houses that could have been occupied by persons in a fairly well-to-do condition. In the course of a ride of about twenty versts (say fifteen miles, English measurement) we passed through only three collections of cottages which could be called hamlets. Two of them consisted of less than thirty hovels, and were not half inhabited. The land may have been cultivated, but was more likely to be grazing-ground: it was covered with snow, so one could not tell its characteristics. We went through an extensive wood of pine-trees, and smaller growths of timber were frequent; as also scattered clumps, and single trees, yet the country was distinctly different from an English landscape. Burnt homesteads told the enemy's story as plainly as words could have done; and bones that the dogs were gnawing I am pretty sure were human. On a bush a German top-boot was stuck, sole upwards. Perhaps there had been an act of revenge; or the intention of some peasant might have been to insult, and show his contempt for, his country's enemies--rather a dangerous thing to do; especially as retaliation would probably be, German fashion, inflicted on the heads of the innocent. I think there must have previously been a fight near this spot: for I saw lots of rags lying about, or sticking in the bushes; the remnants of uniforms; and also some rotting straps that had once been harness. From time to time the Cossacks had conversations with the few peasants we met, the results of which were almost invariably to cause them to change the direction of our journey. I concluded that the enemy's scouts and patrols were still prowling about the neighbourhood. Finally, the Cossacks turned and rode southwards until late in the day, when we halted at a roadside inn, near which there was a small church, and a dozen miserable cottages. Here we passed the second night, the cheer being no better than that at the peasant's cottage; but during the day one of my escort had captured an unfortunate duck, which was found swimming in a hole broken in the ice of a pool. Its companions contrived to escape by flying; and they were probably all as lean and skinny as the one I can hardly say we ate at night: sucked the bones, would be the correct phrase. If a picture suspended over the door of the house was its sign, the name of the inn was "The Virgin and Child." There seemed to be no vodka in this hostelry, as the landlord put only a kind of black beer before the Cossacks. They drank it freely enough, but I could not swallow it, the flavour was so offensive: and I could not prevail on the man to serve some tea, which we did not get until the next morning. The beds were very rough, stuffed with straw, and not clean; but they seemed to be free of vermin. I never saw a flea in Poland, and the other form of bed-pest was also absent; but more offensive creatures are very prevalent in this country; and so are rats and mice, which often harbour in the beds, and do great harm to a traveller's clothes and belongings. They have even gnawed my rough leather boots while I slept. Again we resumed our journey at daybreak, still riding south; and I thought my escort must have lost their way. I drew forth my papers, and pointed to the letter I had received from Captain Sawmine, trying to make them understand I wished to rejoin him as speedily as possible; but they only shook their heads. They either did not comprehend, or would not forego their own method of going to work. In the morning we passed through a small town, the name of which did not transpire. In the afternoon we came up with a patrol of Cossacks, not belonging to the same regiment as my escort. My two men had a long conference with the officer commanding them, who made me understand that he wished to examine my papers. I produced them; but he was evidently not a brilliant scholar, and those written in French and German he clearly did not understand. He gave rather lengthy instructions to the two Cossacks, and appeared to order them to take a certain road, which he pointed out. He was very polite, as far as a man could be without the use of direct oral communication, offered me cigarettes (these things have become universal in use), and saluted when we parted. From a southward road we now turned to an eastward, and in about an hour reached a town which I recognized as Makow; but my guides, escort, or whatever they were, would not stop here. The place was full of Russian troops; and the escort had several conversations with officers, to whom I showed my papers. They always nodded, and we went on. That night I was lodged in the field-prison of a company of military police, and I began to fear that all was not quite as right as I could wish it to be. In the morning I was visited by several officers, one of whom was a Staff Officer who could speak French and several other languages, but not English. I do not speak French; but I can read and write simple sentences in that language, so I could communicate with him. He got all he could out of me, but gave no information himself. I asked to be allowed to rejoin the corps in which Sawmine was serving, but he said he did not know where it was. This may or may not have been the truth. He then asked whether, if I were permitted to move about the camp, I would give my parole not to go without its bounds without special permission. Prisons of any kind are not nice places, and rather than be caged up I gave the required promise, but protested as well as I could and begged to be allowed to do duty with some regiment at Makow, if I might not go on to Kulaki. I understood him to say that my request would be considered; then he went away, and I never saw him again. I noticed that I was carefully watched; and about the middle of the day a policeman beckoned to me, and I was taken to a tent where a plentiful, though coarse, meal was given me. Again at retreat I was fed, and lodged at night in a tent belonging to the police company. This sort of thing went on for a week, during which no officer spoke to me, or took any notice of me, the commander of the police excepted. I was daily fed in sufficient quantity, a new pair of boots and a coat given to me; but practically I was a watched prisoner. I was quite unable to guess why I was treated in this way, nor can I now give any explanation of my change of position, except that the troops I was now with were all strangers to me: I had never met any of them before, and it may have been thought that my papers were forgeries, especially as I could not speak, read or understand the Russian language. I do not know what troops these were, distinguishing marks being very obscure when regiments are in the field. I found out, however, that the force had only recently arrived at the front--consisted of what we term territorial regiments, was destined to form part of the Twelfth Army Corps, and comprised two infantry regiments, numerically numbered the 198th and 199th. With them were several batteries of artillery, and a cavalry regiment, the whole mustering 10,000 or 11,000 men. The cavalry were not Cossacks, and I do not know what became of the two men who brought me hither. On the eighth day after my arrival in the camp of Makow the force crossed the river (a tributary of the Narew), and marched along the Ostrolenka road a distance of fifteen versts, when they again encamped, and remained in this position until the 9th April, daily drilling and manoeuvring, very industriously. All this time I lived the monotonous, aimless life I have described above. Once or twice I accosted officers who appeared to be of some rank, and showed my papers, striving to make my wishes known. I also wrote three times to Captain Sawmine, putting the letters in the field-post; but no reply reached me. I am sure that officer would have replied had my letters reached him; but his replies may have been withheld from me. It is possible, too, that Sawmine was killed, I do not know, but I have not heard anything from or about him and my other old friends. I would have recalled my parole and endeavoured to have escaped; but I could not find anybody whom I could make understand, or who did not wilfully ignore my wishes. The police commissary (a Captain) was apparently not a bad sort of fellow, and treated me well. When he found he could trust me, he did not have me watched with offensive closeness; and he fed and lodged me as well as he could, and as well as he himself fared. He much resembled a burly English sergeant, and possessed a similar gruff honesty of tone and purpose; and we used to pass the time away by talking at each other by the hour at a time, though neither understood a dozen words of what was said. He always had cigars (he eschewed cigarettes) which he generously shared with me; and any little luxury which his men brought in was sure to find its way to my plate--I cannot say table, for this was an article of furniture I never saw; and the platters were of wood--not a nice substance for such a purpose; at least until dirt has become a second nature. What do I term luxuries? Here is a sample: Three of the policemen went out one day with their rifles. I saw they were going on a little shooting expedition, and I took the liberty of following them, although they went several versts beyond the bounds of the camp. No objection was raised to my doing this; and the men sometimes lent me a rifle that I might have a shot or two. My own rifle, together with everything I possessed, except the clothes in which I stood, had disappeared; and also the horse on which I had arrived. But that could hardly be claimed as my property. We shot everything we could see that could be hit by a bullet, fowls, ducks, geese; and, on this occasion, a fat porker. How fattened does not matter: your true "old soldier" does not trouble himself about such trifles as the fattening of pigs in the war area. One of the policemen put a bullet through its head, and chuggy bit the dust without being properly bled in the orthodox way. We cut off its legs, its shoulders and the thickest part of the loin; and left the rest for the ravens, the dogs or piggy's own relatives--whichever came up first. Dogs, peculiarly cantankerous curs, ravens, crows and pigs, were numerous in all parts of Poland that I visited. I suppose the dogs and swine were tame until the war rendered them homeless and masterless, when they became semi-wild. By swine I do not mean wild boars. These last named were found in the woods and forests, and may have been originally of the same stock as the domestic animal; but they are quite easily recognized as distinct now. There are also wolves in this region; and they sometimes visited the battlefields; but I do not think they are very numerous. While we were dismembering the pig I noticed an old long-bearded stolid-looking peasant, closely watching us. I believe he claimed to be the owner of the pig. At any rate he was back in camp before we were, and we found him talking like a lawyer to the provost and police commissary. Our three policemen also had a great deal to say--I would have given something to know on what subject. I do not know what was the outcome of the confab; but we had roast pork for supper that night; and very delicious pork it was--Hun fed, or otherwise. I may add that the soldiers were constantly on the alert to secure these stray pigs, which were very much appreciated as an agreeable addition to black bread and blacker soup. The weather had fairly broken now: the thaw had set in all over the country, and the ground was in a dreadful condition, and scarcely passable for troops, and especially waggons and artillery. In the summer I thought I had never seen such dust as the dust of Poland: in the winter I knew I had never known such horrible mud as the mud of these wide plains. To see infantry marching through it was a sight of sights. They seemed to lift their knees to their chins before bringing their feet clear of it to take a step forward. The German goose-step was not in it as a funny sight. CHAPTER XXIII A RIDE TOWARDS OSTROLENKA During the time I was in what I suppose I may call the Camp of Makow, the troops stationed there had no fighting; and I do not think much went on in the neighbourhood, though every day or two I heard the distant booming of artillery, and sometimes the rattle of rifle-firing. These were probably skirmishes of no great importance, such as occur in every great war: and in this region there was a constant tension all along the frontier line. The Germans, I think, were continually pressing, and seeking for a weak spot in the Russian defensive; and when they thought they had found such a place, they rushed troops thither by means of their "strategic railways." It was actions of this kind that brought on all the big fights that I witnessed. Just at this time, however, the Teutonic exertions were calming down a little. The energetic enemy had slightly over-exerted himself, and was taking a fretful sort of rest, something like that of old Jack Falstaff when his little expeditions had not been marked successes. There might be a great action any day--a good many days passed without one in the Przasnysz district. Meanwhile I began to despair. Time hung heavily on my hands; though I was working hard to learn the Russian language, with some little success. I had learned a good many words and a few short and easy sentences: so that I could now make myself understood, and could understand a portion at least of what was addressed to me. I even learned to say, "I want to go"; which made the men laugh. "Why am I detained?" which made them laugh louder. However, the commissary at last contrived to make me understand that there was nothing charged against me; but that it was necessary to make inquiries. When these were completed, then--well, he could not say exactly what would happen then: but he made it plain to me that I had need of patience, and an acquiescence in the things that be: which, like all wise advice, it is something difficult to follow. The interference with my freedom of movement was not the only trouble I had to endure. I have referred to the circumstance that I suffered much from frostbites during the winter. Standing all day in dirty trenches, where it was impossible to observe necessary cleanliness, did not improve the condition of my hurts; and by the middle of April I saw that I could not hope to do much more marching and fighting, on foot at any rate: and I saw no chance of obtaining a mount. I was nearly without money, away from home and friends: and when I add that I am sixty-four years of age, perhaps it will not be thought inexcusable that I began to feel I could not remain to see the end of a war that may yet last a considerable time. So I got my friend the police commissary to draw up a petition to the commanding officer asking to be allowed to join a Russian cavalry regiment, or go home to England. The commissary, Captain Blodshvoshki, was not in favour of my petitioning the Commander directly, as he appeared to have some misgivings concerning the irascibility and generally adverse disposition of that gentleman; which, considering what I had myself seen and heard, I thought were not altogether without grounds. So a Staff Officer, Colonel Vilkovski, who had shown me some kindness, was applied to. He said that he had never heard of a foreigner being permitted to join the Russian Army except by express permission of the Czar; and he was much surprised to learn of my experiences with the Muscovite forces. He promised to forward my wishes as far as it was in his power to do so. It was on the 13th April that this conversation took place. On the 15th a surgeon came to my quarters and desired to examine me. When he saw the state of my feet he shook his head; and I understood, through Captain Blodshvoshki, that he had pronounced me "no good." On the 18th a passport and a railway voucher were handed to me by a police orderly, and I was told to go home; that is the simplest way of putting it. Arrangements were made for me to leave the camp the same evening. I make no comment on the seemingly cool and off-hand manner in which I was dismissed; but I resolved if ever again I do any fighting it shall be in the ranks of the British Army. But the resolution is superfluous: it is pretty clear that I have ridden Nature to the last lap. Ostrolenka was the nearest station to the camp, and I was advised by Colonel Vilkovski to proceed to Riga via Vilna, and from thence to obtain a ship to England. The good gentleman shook hands with me, and took his departure. Captain Blodshvoshki wished to accompany me, but he was not permitted to do so. He also shook hands, with the hearty warmth of a true friend. A horse was lent me to carry me to Ostrolenka; and a police trooper accompanied me to take back the horse when I had done with it. Ostrolenka was distant about twenty-five versts (a verst is 1,166 yards), and there was a straight road to it, though it was in a truly dreadful state--cut to pieces by heavy traffic and more than knee-deep in tenacious mud. Moreover, we soon discovered that it was obliterated in some places by the fighting that had at one period of the war been very frequent over it. Whole versts of it had been torn up by shell fire and the passage of heavy guns, so that we had to make wide détours to avoid the large mudholes, which were the craters of shells, and some of which contained six or eight feet of water, drained from the melting snow. The sun set a couple of hours after we started, and it happened to be a very dark night, much clouded and overcast, with an occasional shower of rain; though this is scarcely worth mentioning, except that it added to the already excessively bad condition of the road, and was probably one of the causes that led to my becoming quite bewildered. I ought not to have been sent away until the morning, when there would have been ample time for me to reach Ostrolenka; and a man with whom I had been to some extent acquainted should have been sent with me. A man to whom one has got accustomed understands a nod or a wave of the hand; but the trooper I had with me was a miserable specimen of humanity. He was stupid, almost an imbecile, and I had never seen him before; in fact, it was clear he had been sent with me because he was not of much use in the camp, and I had to look after him, or he would very soon have been floundering in the bog which extended over miles of the country on either side of the road. There are not many villages or hamlets on this road; but there are a few houses occupied by gentry and people of substance; and perceiving a twinkling light in one of them, I determined to seek a night's lodging therein. It was not far off, but there was something like a river of mud in front of it. One horse fell, and we both had narrow escapes of coming to grief. After much difficulty we found the gate of the yard. It was locked. I felt my way round to the front-door, to reach which I had to climb a second gate. At my first knock the light was put out; and in vain I continued to hammer at the door. Nobody answered my knock, nor could I hear any movement in the house. I was compelled to return to my companion, who was far too stupid to understand the situation. Unfortunately I could not remember the Russian words for "knock" and "door," but I could say "come"; and by dint of pulling, pushing and shouting I got the man round to the door, almost throwing him over the second gate. Then I resumed my knocking, telling the man "to call." I am sure we spent more than half an hour in this uninteresting occupation: quite in vain, and I became convinced that the people of the house were determined not to admit us. We had no alternative except to return to the yard where we had left our horses. By great good fortune I happened to have a box of matches in my pocket, though these useful things were scarce at the front; and by striking a few of them I ascertained that the yard was of good size, and surrounded on two sides by rows of stables. There was also a hayrick, and in one corner a pile of wood: and two open sheds with carts in them. I determined to pass the night in the yard if I could get the horses into it. We had left them outside, tied to posts; and one of them kept up a continual neighing which was answered by another horse in one of the stables. No doubt these sounds were heard by the inmates of the house, who probably mistook us for a German cavalry patrol. Our first work was to open the gate; no easy task. I first tried to force back the lock, and broke two pitchforks in the attempt. Then the trooper found a kind of crowbar, and with this I wrenched the lock clean off. So we were enabled to bring the horses in, and removing one of the carts from the shed, bed them on hay. A fire was made in the yard, the wood being liberally used for this purpose; but the only food we had was a couple of ammunition biscuits. Before lying down, we made another attempt to arouse the people of the house. In vain: we appeared to have thoroughly frightened them. Away across the country I perceived the sullen red glare of a burning house, and I wondered if the reflection of our own fire would bring danger upon us: for I had become convinced that the enemy was not far off. However, I determined to keep in the fire as the night was a bitterly cold one, considering that the risk of freezing was more imminent than the danger of capture. Old campaigners know how to make a warm and comfortable bed out of a truss of hay or straw; and we slept snugly and soundly till daylight, when the trooper went, on his own initiative, round to the house again, and I soon heard his thunderous knocks and kicks, accompanied by stentorian shouts. He was beginning to comprehend what was wanted of him; and if I could only have clearly conveyed ideas to his dull intellect I have no doubt he would have made a very obedient and useful animal. As it was I did not even know the man's name; but I took to calling him "Bill"; and he grinned, and learned his new designation as readily as a faithful dog. Poor Bill! I saw, all through our short acquaintanceship, that he was doing his best, and I am glad that I never felt the least anger or irritation against him. Somehow he contrived to bring somebody to the door: daylight makes a lot of difference. People can see the innocence of the dove! and the helplessness of the crow! and we all (I do not mind confessing it) are much pluckier at midday than at midnight. I suppose Bill made explanations: for he returned with a gentleman and a lady--and a gaping maid behind them. The gentleman looked at his broken pitchforks and gate, his scattered hay, and burning wood, and his glance was not a pleasant one. He did not notice my best bow and propitiatory smile; but the lady did--with a stolid stare that made me very uncomfortable; and dumbfounded Bill, whose mouth opened to the widest extent, while he fidgeted from one leg to the other, and made one painfully aware that he did not know what to do with his hands. Then the gentleman spoke, and likewise the lady; and the maid became abusive--no one who saw her attitude and heard her voice could have doubted that. I would have given a small world to explain matters: and in fact I did so, in my mother tongue; which had these good effects--it convinced the people that I was very humble and contrite, and induced Bill to close his mouth sufficiently to enable him to speak--with that kind of eloquence (this was my impression) which consists in repeating over and over again, "I am sure I couldn't help it"; which is far more effective than carefully prepared excuses--sometimes at least: and on this occasion most certainly. The gentleman stalked away, and the lady followed, lingering to cast upon us about the most viperish flash of the eyes that I have ever seen disfigure a pretty face. The maid remained to fire a final withering volley; and then took herself off, further discomfiting us with a sharp, dropping fire as she retired. You see, we had probably much upset the nerves of these people, and frightened them, as well as taken an enemy-like series of liberties with their property. I have related these incidents in a light and amusing strain; but really I was a good deal upset at the time, and rather ashamed of myself, though perhaps such proceedings are justifiable when war lowers over a land. But Bill may not have been such a booby as he looked and acted on ordinary occasions: for he followed the girl, and soon afterwards came and beckoned me to accompany him; and I was quite surprised to be led up the front-door steps and into a very decently furnished breakfast-room, on the table of which there was an excellent meal ready spread. The lady and gentleman were there, and there was a complete change in their demeanour. Now they could not be affable enough; and motioning me to be seated, handed me coffee and bacon and eggs, with several other luxuries I had not tasted for a long time. The lady herself waited upon me, and did so with a kindness and grace that was in strong contrast to her previous truculent looks. What story had the astute Bill preached to her and her husband to occasion this change of behaviour? What these people thought of me I cannot guess; but they must have seen, from the way in which I ate, that I was famished. They gave no outward indication that they noticed anything unusual about me. The trooper, I suppose, was entertained in the lower part of the house. That he was faring very well I knew from the occasional outbursts of his merry laughter. Doubtless he was also making himself agreeable to the maid, oblivious of the tragedy that was soon to occur: but such is a soldier's lot. Often have I known men to be laughing, joking, or playing cards, two minutes before their heads were smashed from their shoulders, or a bullet sent whizzing through their hearts. It was ten o'clock before breakfast was finished, and I rose to go, expressing my thanks for the kind entertainment I had received as best I could; and I had the pleasure of seeing that I was understood. My host and his wife (I assume this was their relationship) accompanied me to the stable-yard, where I found the horses had been saddled by two of their own men; and the trooper was already astride his mount. We rode away with many expressions of thanks on my part and many flourishes of the hand from us all. I looked back for the last time when we were half a verst along the road. I could see the lady still standing outside the gate, and just detect the flutter of her white handkerchief. It was very satisfactory to feel we were freely forgiven. The country was now pretty open to view, and I have seldom seen a wilder landscape, or one which had a more depressing effect on the spirits. Dark pines were scattered about, and we passed an occasional wood; otherwise the country might be described as a lake of mud, with here and there a plot covered with half-melted snow, which increased the general dirty and unwholesome appearance of the whole district. We could see for about a dozen versts in most directions, and yet only four or five small farmhouses, and as many isolated cottages, were in sight. A solitary worker in the fields was the only man we saw for an hour. A great black patch in the distance proved to be, when we came up to it, a burnt village. The destruction was complete. Not a wall was left, nor a heap of bricks that one could not easily step over. What had become of the inhabitants of this collection of wrecked homes? Not a soul was there when we went by. Then for a long way we passed bones, skulls and parts of skeletons still intact; not lying in lines and heaps as I had seen them doing in places where great battles had been fought, but scattered along the side of the road, singly, or two or three together. I thought they might be the remains of the village people, slain as they were running away; but on dismounting to examine them more closely I satisfied myself that some of them, at least, had once been German soldiers, and others Russians. A few had rusty rifles lying beneath them, and leather cartridge pouches were still strapped round the bones. In many cases the flesh had not disappeared, but was shrunken. The bodies must have been rotting when the snow fell and covered them, which prevented further decay. Crows and ravens were flitting about the fields, as well as a few dogs and pigs: the invariable haunters of the neglected battlefields. These horrible relics of "the glories of war" extended for a linear distance of ten versts along the sides of the roads--how far across the fields I cannot say. They numbered many hundreds, if not thousands: and probably a great many had been buried or removed. [Illustration: RUSSIAN TRENCH NEAR BREST-LITOVSK. AS THE RUSSIANS LEFT IT] We rode on several hours, and I wondered that the town of Ostrolenka did not appear in sight. It was vexatious that I could not question my companion. My first suspicion that he had taken the wrong road was aroused by his stopping to call to a man in the fields. The replies he got were evidently not satisfactory; and he seemed to be at a loss to know what course to pursue. After a further consultation with the man, and much pointing and gesticulation, the trooper took a branch road. I was very loth to follow this, but could not make the man understand my meaning; and I really did not know which way to turn myself. I was compelled, in a way, to follow him. We had ridden along the fresh road about six versts when, on rounding a small wood, we saw a weak squadron of Uhlans in front of us, and not more than 300 yards away. They perceived us too, and shouted an order for us to halt. I turned on the instant, and put the wood between myself and the enemy, but there was nowhere to go except along the road, or across the open fields. Cavalry now carry rifles, not carbines, and the seventy men behind us would almost certainly shoot us down at short range. I thought I should prefer that fate to lingering in a German prison, subjected to the arrogance and brutality of Hun gaolers; and so I put spurs to my horse, and forced him to his utmost pace. In a few minutes I looked back, anxiously. The Uhlans were in full cry after us. The trooper was twenty yards behind me, urging on his horse. What to do I did not know. At one moment I thought to return to the house where we had passed the night; but a moment's reflection convinced me of the folly of doing this. It could not possibly save us, and would most certainly lead to the destruction of persons who had been friendly to us. We were better mounted than the majority of the Uhlans, and gradually gained ground away from them. Seeing this they tried shooting; but it is difficult to hit even a large mark when going at a gallop; and after wasting fifty or sixty cartridges they gave it up, and about a dozen of their best mounted men pushed to the front; and I soon saw that we had much to fear from them. We could not get away from them, and they began to gain on us. Then I perceived a low ridge of ground which was not so marshy as the fields, and dashed across it, the trooper following my lead. The Uhlans also came on with unabated speed, and I saw that it was a question of horse-endurance. Ahead, a black smoke, slowly curling upwards, was, I thought, the place we had seen burning the previous night. We seemed to be going directly towards it; and I feared that there might be more Germans directly in front of us, or that the road might be blocked and impassable. From time to time I looked back at our pursuers. At the end of an hour the foremost of them were not 200 yards behind, the rest had trailed out into a straggling line. Still they were near enough to support one another if we turned on the leaders: a thing I had half a mind to do. It was now late in the afternoon, and if we could keep away for another hour it would be dark, and there would be a chance of escape; but my horse was getting blown, and several of the Uhlans had fallen out, unable to keep up the pace. Then the wretches resumed their firing: and in a few minutes the trooper swerved in his saddle, groaning badly. He rode on a few yards farther, and then fell with a cry I could not resist; I reined in, and jumped to his assistance; but he died just as the Uhlans came up and surrounded me. I shall not attempt to describe the shock it gave me to realize that I was a prisoner. I looked towards my horse, but a sturdy unter-officer had secured it, and my captors began to laugh and jeer. I was not allowed to remount my horse; but, fastened to one fellow's stirrup, was compelled to walk, limping sadly, for my feet were now very bad. CHAPTER XXIV A PRISONER IN GERMAN HANDS A prisoner: and to the Germans! The very thought was a horror. And these people treated me badly from the first, as they appear to treat all their prisoners. Twice I fell on account of the state of my feet, and was dragged along the ground. The clothes were nearly torn from my back; and my revolver, which I had hitherto contrived to keep, was discovered and confiscated. Very fortunately I had hidden my money, and this was not found by the men, though they carefully turned out all my pockets. When they had done with me I was left with a comb, my rags, and the last few of my English sovereigns. At dusk we arrived at the still-smoking ruins of a hamlet. One or two houses near by were still intact, and occupied by a dismounted party of the Uhlans, some twenty men in number. I was taken to the top of the house, and locked in a room with eight other prisoners, six Russian soldiers belonging to the artillery and 98th regiment; and two peasants. There was some straw on the floor on which the soldiers were lying. They made room for me, and spoke to me; but when they found I could not speak more than a few sentences of their language, I seemed to become an object of suspicion to them. I was tired, and my feet gave me great pain, so that I was glad to lie down and remain quiet. Sleep I could not; partly because of my misery, partly because the two countrymen prayed continually and frantically all through the night. Strange; but I did not guess the reason till daybreak, when they were fetched out by a Uhlan guard; and the other prisoners crowded to the two windows. I got a place at one of them to see what was going on. I saw the two peasants brought into the courtyard of the house and blindfolded. They were then placed against a wall, where one of them fell to his knees. He was brutally kicked until he stood up again, when he leaned against the wall, rocking himself in agony of spirit. The other man stood stolid, like a statue, probably paralyzed by fear. Only three soldiers to each man formed the firing-party, and neither of the prisoners was killed outright. One of them screamed horribly, the other tried to rise to his feet. A non-commissioned officer stepped forward very deliberately, and blew their brains out one after the other. The whole terrible scene affected me so greatly that I could not forbear hissing, in which I was joined by the soldiers. There was no glass in the windows, so the Germans plainly heard us; and shortly afterwards a party of them came into the room, and beat us with sticks until I thought they meant to murder us. I used my fists pretty freely, until I was knocked senseless. When I came to, I found that breakfast had been served, consisting of a can of dirty water for each man, and about half a pound of black bread of the consistence of putty. We were not allowed to leave the room all day; and the place stank abominably. Another meal was served in the afternoon, it consisted, like the former one, of half a pound of wet bread, and a few ounces of fat mutton. The drink was water of so filthy an appearance that only dire necessity compelled me to swallow a few mouthfuls of it. We were granted no facilities for personal cleanliness. Early the next morning we were fetched out and paraded, and I saw that the Uhlans were ready for a march. An officer began to question me in Russian. I said, in French, that I could not speak Russian. "Are you French?" he asked in surprise. "No." "What are you then?" I blurted out that I was an Englishman; and expected that I had committed myself. It was an agreeable surprise when the officer said that he had spent twelve years in England, and had always been well treated there. He immediately became very friendly, gave me cigars, sent into the house for the remains of a sausage and some good bread, was sorry that they had no tea or coffee, but gave me half a bottle of champagne instead. Again I had met with one of those lucky chances that have, from time to time, lightened the burden of life. When I explained to Captain Eshricke (this is how he pronounced his name) the condition of my feet, he very kindly ordered that I should be permitted to ride my horse; but he first exacted a promise that I would not attempt to escape. I was compelled to give this promise, though I did so with some reluctance. I also persuaded him to permit my fellow-prisoners to ride in a country cart, as they were in a very tired condition, and it is difficult for infantry to keep up with cavalry even when going at a foot pace. I made no reference to the shooting of the two prisoners, but later the Captain himself adverted to it. "You saw those two fellows shot this morning? They deserved it. They set fire to those buildings to burn us out, and were caught red-handed." I do not know if this were true; but it could hardly justify the terrible beating to which we had been subjected, and some of the effects of which I felt for many weeks afterwards. But one cannot argue with kings and Germans; and I had cause to think that "All's well that ends well," although I received no apology. In war, and in this war in particular, a still tongue makes a safe head, and I did not think it wise to be too inquisitive, considering that I might find it difficult to establish my position if I were asked who and what I was, and what had brought me to Poland. I had seen that morning that even a Captain of Uhlans could make short work of people he chose to consider offenders. But I did venture to ask Eshricke if he had any objection to tell me where he was going to take me. "Not far," was his laconic reply. We travelled northward: I had little doubt then that we were making for the Prussian frontier, which, I calculated, could not be many miles away. So far as I could see, the Uhlans were a flying-party on observation duty, with no immediate supports in the neighbourhood; although I was sufficiently acquainted with German military tactics to be quite sure the Captain knew where to find reinforcements when he required them. The squadron was not nearly at war strength, consisting of less than seventy mounted men and eighteen who had lost their horses, and followed us in three military carts. That their losses had occurred in recent fighting was shown by the thirteen or fourteen wounded men amongst them, as well as by the absence of their horses. Many of the men were repulsive-looking ruffians; and what their dispositions were like was shown by more than one unpleasant incident during the march. Here is one example of German playfulness: We entered a small village (Prajashzhol, according to Eshricke), rather as a surprise, I think; for the inhabitants had not fled, or hidden themselves. It seemed to be market-day here, and there were carts and stalls in the little square. Some of these began to depart hastily on sight of the Uhlans; but the soldiers dismounted, and made purchases, for which they paid in German coin. There was nothing to comment on in this act; for, I believe, Russian and German money is interchangeable on the border lands, and is freely accepted, and tendered, by the peoples of the two countries. But there was there a young Polish girl selling cakes. The day was warm, and she had no cloak or cape on; and her hair hung down her back, plaited into two thick tresses. While two of the Uhlans were buying cakes, a third went behind, and suddenly seized her tresses, and giving them a sharp tug, pulled her down backwards so that she lay flat on the ground, half-dazed by the shock. This unmanly act caused much merriment amongst the soldiers, who laughed heartily, though the poor girl (she was about twenty) was hurt, and cried when she was helped up. This was considered a joke--what a Uhlan in temper is like may be surmised. The young girls and women seemed to know; for they disappeared very speedily, but not before several of them had been grossly insulted. Nor did the men fare any better. Disputes soon occurred, and I saw two of the peasants knocked down, and a third cut across the face with a whip. Another was chased into a house by a Uhlan with a drawn sword, and perhaps killed: I do not know. Nearly all the soldiers were soon drunk: their proper state, perhaps, as a tipsy German is generally less irritable and arrogant than a sober one, and certainly less mischievous. On the whole I think less harm was done at Prajashzhol than the Germans usually inflicted on places that had the misfortune to receive a visit from them. There were no cases of incendiarism, and the women were not subjected to the worst forms of insult. There was some violence, and plundering was rife; though many of the men paid for what they took. About this time I noticed that there was a great increase in the number of aeroplanes and airships hovering over the country. I usually saw one or two every day, mostly German craft; on this 21st April I saw no fewer than six, and one Zeppelin. They were making an attack on a Russian position about five miles away; but it was not successful--few such attacks are. One of the aeroplanes dropped no doubt within the Russian lines; and another soon after it had retired and flown over our heads. Both machines came down slowly. I saw the two men who worked the one that fell near us. The aviator was badly knocked about, and his face much cut; but I do not think that he was dangerously hurt. The mechanic was not so much injured: the aeroplane was wrecked. The Zeppelin seemed to be injured; but she got away and sailed out of sight. We distinctly heard the reports of the exploding bombs dropped by these craft, and explosions of the Russian guns fired at them. I rejoiced to learn my friends were so near, and hoped that I might be released by some lucky chance, but this did not occur. There was plenty of food at Prajashzhol--pork, fowls, ducks, bread, beef and mutton, and vodka; but vegetables were scarce, even potatoes; and wine there was none. I filled my haversack with sufficient food to last three or four days, and procured a new coat of rough material. While we were bivouacking in the market-place, a vidette galloped in with some news which caused Captain Eshricke to mount in hot haste, and we literally bolted from the village. The dismounted men and the six Russian prisoners were left behind with their carts, and were, no doubt, retaken by the pursuing Russians, the first of whom appeared as we passed the last houses of the village street. I tried to lag behind, but the Captain swore he would shoot me if I did not urge my horse forward; and one of the Uhlans pricked the animal with his lance, causing it to rear and dash forward wildly. I would have fallen off, but there were too many men behind me. I should have been trampled to death, and probably speared into the bargain. For they are nasty-tempered fellows are the Germans when things are running counter to them; and the first Cossacks that appeared were only half a dozen men, and they held back until they were reinforced: indeed, they did not make a very energetic pursuit. They probably knew that there was a strong force of the enemy at hand, and feared they would be trapped. I soon learned that the Uhlans in whose hands I was, and who belonged to the 12th regiment, formed part of the advanced guard of a whole army corps. At nightfall we came to a force of infantry, whose numbers I could not estimate, it was so considerable, and covered so wide a range of country. The Captain handed me over to the first outpost we reached, and I was sent to the rear under escort of an infantry file. My horse was taken from me, and my feet were so painful that I could scarcely hobble along. But no mercy was shown me. I was compelled to walk a distance of about four English miles. Then we came to a small cottage which was being used as a guard-house. Here I was blindfolded, and again marched on, I could not tell in what direction, for quite an hour, when we arrived at another house. I then found, from the sounds, that I was in the presence of several officers who were interrogating my captors. Then the bandage was taken from my eyes, and I was searched. The officers carefully examined my papers, and the one who seemed to be the chief spat out, rather than spoke, so great was his venom: "So you are an English spy, you dog!" I said I was not a spy; but had been honourably fighting with the Russians, and was captured in company with a Russian soldier who was killed at the time. "Don't you know that foreigners are not permitted to fight in the Russian Army?" asked the officer. I said that I did not know anything of the kind; but I had been fighting in the Russian ranks. "Spying in the Russian ranks," said this man, who spoke perfect English. "Have you any defence to make?" "I do not admit that a true charge has been made against me, or that I have need to make a defence. I am, practically, a Russian soldier," I replied. "Oh!" said the officer, very sarcastically. "Have you any evidence that you were regularly enlisted in the Russian ranks, which we know to be impossible?" "I do not say I was 'enlisted.' The papers you have taken from me prove that I held honourable relations with the Russian Army, and that I have fought with it for a period of nine months." The man looked through my papers again. Those written in Russian he evidently could not read; but he sent for a soldier, having the appearance of an orderly-room clerk, who translated them to the officers. "Bah! They are only passports to enable you to carry on your nefarious business. You are a spy," he said; and deliberately tore the whole of the papers to shreds, which he cast on the floor. My indignation was so hot that I exclaimed: "You scoundrel!" "What!" he shouted. "You d----d Englishman! You shall be shot to-morrow morning. Take him away." "You are a cowardly murderer!" I replied fiercely. I did not get an opportunity to say more; for my guards hauled me away with great roughness, and took me to a house which seemed to be used as a prison; for at least a hundred persons were crowded into it. Two-thirds of these were Russian soldiers; the remainder were civilians of various grades, including one woman, a lady of mature years; and one man was nursing a young child. Was there ever a more horrible way of conducting war? Women, children, harmless citizens and honourable soldiers, treated as felons! Is there to be a retribution for this cruelty and wickedness? It would be waste of time to pause and inquire what were the probable charges against these civilians. What are the charges against a bandit's victims? The revolutionists of '93 splashed blood on the walls of their cities: BLOOD should be splashed on the brows of the German monsters who have deluged Europe with it. I believed that my last day had come. I had seen too much of the German method with prisoners to entertain the least hope of escape. I need not trouble to record my feelings: they were not pleasant emotions. Those in the room were passing their time in various ways. Some were asleep on chairs, or lying on the floor in corners. So many were smoking that the place was full of blue, hazy smoke. The woman, with bowed head, seemed dazed with wretchedness, the child was whimpering. From the way in which many of the men stared at me, I thought that they knew that I was appointed to die. One party devoted as much attention to me as they did to the cards they were playing. The guard numbered a dozen men, who occupied an ante-room, were laughing, talking noisily, and singing beastly songs; a circumstance that convinced me that the house occupied an isolated position, not near any body of troops commanded by an officer above subaltern rank, who would soon have put a stop to the ribaldry. These things did not occur to me just at the moment; but they flashed on my mind later, when a certain incident occurred. I suppose it was about midnight; but there was no means of telling the time. Many of the guard-soldiers were dozing; the rest had quieted down, but were talking together, and not taking particular notice of the prisoners. Two of the men who were playing cards got up, and came and stood in front of me. One of them, first looking round to see that the soldiers were not observing him, pointed his thumb at them, and winked; then he made a gesture of striking a terrific blow. He looked at me inquiringly; and I thought I comprehended what he meant, and nodded acquiescence. He replied by a nod of satisfaction; and he and his companion retired to the far end of the room. What they seemed to propose to do was a desperate act. They appeared to intend to rush past the guards, knocking down any who attempted to oppose them, and so get away. I made up my mind that, since death must come, I would rather die making a desperate effort for my life than wait an hour or two longer to be led out in the grey dawn, tied up and shot like a dog. At that moment I was strung up to such a pitch of nerve that no action could be too desperate for me to attempt. There was a yard attached to the house, which the prisoners were permitted to use, as occasion required. It was approached by a short passage from the guardroom; and a sentry was posted in the yard to prevent prisoners escaping over the wall, which was nine or ten feet high. Presently the two men I have mentioned, both of them soldiers of the Russian artillery, went out, one of them raising his hand slightly as he passed through the door. I nodded to intimate that I would come. I was beginning to perceive more clearly what was intended. I followed at once. As I entered the yard one of the prisoners quietly shut the door behind me. The sentry began to speak, probably protesting, as I think only one or two prisoners at a time were permitted to enter the yard. Before he had well opened his mouth one of the prisoners sprang on him from behind and clasped his throat; the other threw himself on him in front and tore his rifle out of his hands. He was lifted off his feet and held across the knees of one of the prisoners. He could not utter any sound except a smothered gurgle, but he kicked desperately. I saw what was wanted of me, and clasped his legs with all my strength. So we held him till he died. Then the prisoners acted with the nimbleness of monkeys. One of them gave me a leg up the wall; I did not wait to see how they got up; it was a matter of life or death to act quickly. The three of us were over the wall and in the street in three seconds. I noticed that my companions had taken off their boots. I followed their example, and rushed up the street after them. It led out into the open country; and as there was some moonlight I rushed towards a patch of trees and bushes--a copse, I suppose. As I entered it I saw that one of the prisoners was already there. He immediately hid himself, and I did not see him or his companion again; nor do I know what became of them. It was a very small wood; of some length, but not more than twenty or thirty yards wide. It will be inferred, though I have forgotten to actually say so, that there were lights in the prison-house. I could see these lights dimly showing through two of the blinded windows: and farther back I could see a single bright light. Probably this was in the town; and the town, I suppose, was Janow, which is Prussian, and situated on the frontier between that country and Poland. But this is merely a guess, based on the direction my captors had taken, and the situation in which I afterwards found myself. It may have been some large village, of the existence and name of which I was ignorant. Although at the moment all was quiet, and there were no signs of movement behind, I could not hope that the discovery of our escape would be long delayed, and I saw the necessity of putting as great a distance as possible between myself and the enemy without a moment's delay. I turned to the left, because that seemed the darkest part of the country, and ran as fast as I could; but even with the prospect of escape to urge me on, I could not run very fast owing to the crippled and painful state of my feet. In about half an hour I was compelled to sit down for a rest; and I tried to put my boots on. Owing to the swollen condition of my feet, occasioned by running rapidly over some stony ground, I found that I could not do this; and I bound up the injured members in tufts of grass which I gathered in one of the fields I passed across; and in this plight continued to walk until daylight. The country I travelled over was fields and open ground. I crossed several roads and pathways, but was afraid to keep on them as I expected that pursuing parties would use them. The fields were exposed; and when light broke I dodged from bush to bush, or along the ditches. There are no hedges or fences in this country, the partitions of the ground being made by ditches. Trees or bushes, except in the woods, are very scarce; but there are a few along the courses of the brooks, which are numerous and often serve as boundaries to the fields. As they have deep banks, I often ran along their beds, especially as the water was grateful to my hot and painful feet; but I am not sure that I did wisely to resort to this method of obtaining ease; for afterwards I suffered so severely that I almost despaired of being able to continue my journey. In this district farms and peasants' houses were tolerably numerous, and though I strove to avoid it, a woman at one of the cottages saw me, and beckoned with her hand. I thought it would be wise to stop, especially as her gestures were friendly. She took me by the sleeve and led me into the cottage, where two men were seated on benches at a rough table, eating their breakfast. A large jug of milk and some bread and meat were given to me, food I was much in need of, and while I was eating it the woman bathed my feet in warm water, and bound them in rags. They seemed so little taken by surprise at my appearance, that I fancied I was expected; and I am pretty sure that one, or both, of my fellow-prisoners had been there before me, and kindly put these people on the alert to assist me. When I had finished eating, the woman pointed to a ladder leading to a loft, and motioned that I should ascend it, evidently intending that I should rest; but I preferred to put a greater distance between myself and the Germans; though I think it is unlikely that they would pursue a fugitive far into an enemy's country. So I thanked these kind people as well as I could, and went on my way. The men walked about two English miles with me, and pointed out a road I should take, leading to Przasnysz. I understood that well enough; and also that they blessed me in the name of the Trinity when we parted. When I had gone some distance I looked back. The men were standing by some mounds which I guessed covered the remains of slain Russians, and were bareheaded and silently praying--a common custom in this country, where people more often address themselves to the Almighty in the open air than they do in houses. The road was over an undulating plain, with a few willow-trees along the courses of the streams, but practically no cover for a person wishing to hide himself. I hurried on as fast as I could walk. By the time the sun was well up I was so tired that I was glad to creep into a fairly dry ditch, where I slept soundly until nearly evening time. Before resuming my journey I ate a small loaf which the woman had put in my pocket when I left the cottage in the morning. Then I took a road running eastwards to Ostrolenka, with the object of reaching the railway, and also in the hope that I should find Russian soldiers to whom I was known. There is no railway at Przasnysz: and though I believed that the last-named place was still in the hands of the Russians, I was not sure of it, and feared that, in any case, I should run great danger of meeting parties of the enemy in that direction. It so happened, however, that I saw patrols or scouts of the enemy on the road I had decided to take. They consisted of small bands of Uhlans and dragoons, the strongest of them not more than twenty troopers in number. They were probably flying parties, at a great distance from a base; but that circumstance made them none the less dangerous to me; and I spent the greater part of the day lurking in cover. It is a fortunate event some of these men did not discover me; for I was compelled to be content with very incomplete concealment. I escaped notice, but I had several very narrow escapes; and if the soldiers had been as alert as they ought to have been I should have been discovered. One man nearly rode over me as I lay crouching in a patch of sedge by the side of a tiny brook; and a squad of eight dragoons passed within four or five yards of me, giving me a very unpleasant shock, as I had no weapon for defence, except a stick I had broken from a tree. The Germans had stripped me of everything I carried, my money excepted; and that, fortunately, I had successfully hidden by stitching it, sovereign by sovereign, under a black braid stripe down the seam of my trousers. CHAPTER XXV ADVENTURES DURING THE EFFORT TO ESCAPE I soon decided that it was necessary to ensure my final escape by hiding during the day, and travelling only at night. The country was full of small mounted parties of the enemy, who were prying into every hole and corner of the land. During a week that I was travelling towards Ostrolenka (which could not be farther than thirty English miles), I saw enough to show what my fate would be if I had the misfortune to fall into the hands of the fiends who were ravishing the country. I saw several peasants dragged from their hovels and shot, and the women treated with unnameable barbarity. I heard children screaming in fright at the murder of their parents, and saw homesteads set on fire and burnt to the ground. Outrages of all kinds were committed by small squads of men who were commanded by unter-officers (that is, corporals), if commanded at all; and in saying this I do not intend, in any degree, to exonerate the commissioned officers. As I lay hidden on the roof of a barn I saw a young beast, who did not seem to be more than twenty years of age, ill-use a woman, while one of the devils he commanded kicked away her children, as they undoubtedly were. He afterwards threw the woman to his men, half of whom abused her in turn; while their commander shot a white-haired old man who interfered, and who was probably her father. Other men on the farm had been previously shot. I am half-ashamed to narrate the incident, and have to admit that I did not interfere--I could not. Starving, crippled and ill, and unarmed, any interposition on my part would only have added another drop to the horrible pool of blood that lay in front of the doorstep. Afterwards the house was set on fire; and being old and built mostly of timber, it burned out in about half an hour. While it was in full blaze the hussars, a dozen in number, rode away. One of them was badly hurt, having been shot, I think, by one of the men the Germans afterwards murdered. I came down from my perch amongst the bundles of sticks on the barn-roof as soon as the murderers left the yard. The woman had thrown herself on the body of one of the men, and was moaning piteously: the children hiding their faces in her dress, and sobbing bitterly. There were three of the little mites, the eldest about twelve years, the youngest four or five. I afterwards found a boy of eight, who had hidden himself, and was paralyzed with fright. At this time I was faint with hunger; and finding it impossible to arouse the woman, who was nearly dead, or comfort the children, I entered the smouldering house in search of food, if any had escaped the flames. I knew it was the Polish custom to build the pantry of stone, and projecting beyond the house; and I hoped that some fragments of bread at least were still to be found. But the Germans had cleared the place: not a crumb was to be seen; and as I was exploring one of the rooms, I broke through the floor into a heap of ashes at white-heat. I extricated myself pretty quickly, but nevertheless my already frostbitten feet and legs were burned; it is surprising that I continued to stand and walk for days after this occurrence. Meeting with no success indoors, I searched about the outhouses, and tried to knock down a fowl. The Germans had killed all those that were tame enough to be caught; but in the barn, on the roof of which I had lain hid, I found a quantity of wheat, stored in bulk, and of this I ate as much as I could; and filled my pockets for future occasions; and when the fowls went to roost at evening I wrung the necks of several of them and cooked them on the still glowing embers of the house. I also found a saucepan or two, and boiled a quantity of the wheat, which enabled me to give the children a meal. By this time the little ones had gained full confidence in me, the youngest one particularly so, who toddled about, chatting to me, no doubt wondering why I did not reply in a language she could understand. The boy was terribly unnerved, and the woman I could do nothing with, until towards night, when I made her get up from the body on which she had lain all day, and pulled her into the barn, where we slept all that night, lying on old sacks--at least the children and I slept. The poor woman was moaning when I dropped off, and still moaning when I awoke in the morning. Before retiring I dragged the bodies of the three men into an outhouse, and covered them over with sacking, of which there was plenty stored in the barn. I then closed the door to prevent the dogs getting at them, and looked round the place, which had been, I should think, the home of a well-to-do small farmer. In the morning I thought the best thing I could do would be to take the children to a house I could see about two miles across the country, and which seemed, so far, to be intact. I contrived to make the woman understand what I intended to do, and we all started together, she carrying the boy, and I the little girl. It took us quite an hour to reach the place, on account of the infirmities from which we suffered; and one of the elder girls was lame from the kicking she had received the previous day. I saw that she had a bruise the size of a tea-saucer on her little body. When the day of Peace comes, will the Great British Nation treat as a man the author of all this cruelty and wickedness? I shall blush to be an Englishman if it does; or if British soldiers are brought out to salute the Villain when he is forced to surrender. At last we reached the house, which I found occupied by six females, three of them young girls, and two lads. The woman I had brought with me suppressed her moans and sobs to explain matters to these people; and some hot tea and bread and butter were given to me; but the women, who were evidently in a terrified condition, pushed me out of the house, and made it plain that they wished me to go. They were afraid of the consequences of the Germans coming and finding me on their premises. So I kissed the little girls and went. As I passed on to the road I saw the hussars (I believe it was the same party) riding over the country about a verst away; and I lost no time in getting into some hollow ground, which was a marsh, with a brook running through it. I had with me about a peck of boiled wheat, which I carried in a roughly made bag; and a bill-hook, which I thought might come in handy if I had any more personal encounters with William Hohenzollern's murderers. I would at least spare myself the fate of being shot like a dog by these wretches. I was compelled to walk some distance over an open country this day, until I reached some stone quarries, in which I hid, and where I remained several days on account of the pain I suffered, which rendered walking impossible. During this time I lived on the boiled corn I had brought, and the remains of a fowl, cooked at the burnt farm. On the second day I passed in this quarry I saw six Cossacks, and began, joyfully, to make my way towards them, endeavouring to attract their attention. I had not got a hundred yards, when I saw nearly twenty German cavalrymen ride out from behind some buildings and charge the Cossacks. For some reason, which I could not perceive, the Cossacks seemed unable to escape. They made a gallant fight, but were soon exterminated. The Germans made no attempt to take prisoners: they butchered the six Russians, losing two dead and two wounded of their own number. I distinctly saw them plunder the dead; and then, after helping their injured men on horseback, ride away. At nightfall I crept out and visited the dead bodies in the hope that life might be left in some of them. It was useless. They were all fine men; but had been fearfully disfigured. One man's face was slashed to pieces; another had his skull split down to the eyes. Both the Germans had been slain by lance thrusts. There was also a dead horse lying by one of the men. I hoped that some of the firearms had been left behind. In vain I searched: not even a pinch of tobacco remained in the pockets of any of the men. Even the ear-rings had been torn from the Cossacks. Many of these, and other Russian soldiers, wear golden ear-rings. I went on to the buildings from which the Germans had ridden out. The house was deserted; and although it was not burnt, the brutal invaders had completely wrecked the interior, smashing furniture, glass and pictures. The place had been occupied by persons of a superior class to the peasant-farmers; and I noticed some female fancy-work lying on the floor of one corner of a room. The whole of this district, though not deserted by the people, was in a cowed state; the peasantry, and especially the well-to-do classes, were afraid to show themselves during daylight. Many had fled to the towns and villages, and a good many had been wantonly murdered. The Poles are a brave, generous people, and my heart often bled for them. Their sorrows, eclipsed by those of the equally brave Belgians, and dimmed by being more remote in point of distance, are not, I think, fully realized in England; especially as they are defended by one of the largest armies in the world. But that army, large and powerful as it is, has not been able to defend them from the tigerish brutality of their foes. They have suffered terribly--the word is not strong enough. The wanton miseries inflicted upon them have been hellish. I have long known the Germans as an arrogant and extremely sensual people, and their learned scientists as the most determined modern opponents of Christianity; but it is one of the surprises of my life to see them sink so low in the scale of humanity--to use a hackneyed but expressive phrase. I could not have believed that the German nation would bathe itself in blood. At this house I scraped together a few fragments of food, and got a couple of blankets, which I much needed: for the nights, though generally clear and bright, were frosty and bitterly cold. I returned to the stone-quarry, for I was afraid to sleep in the house. The moon was now about full; and when the sky was not cloudy, it was so light at night-time that I could see for miles across the country; and I noticed that there were more people moving about than I saw in the daytime. I could not guess at their business, as there were no shops near that I could discover. Some, in one or two hamlets I had approached, were looted and wrecked; and the proprietors were gone. Probably the people about at night were on the prowl for anything they could pick up: for although I obtained a little food at some farms, as I have mentioned, such population as remained in the country was starving. I remained in the quarry until the 30th of April in the hope that the condition of my feet would improve. I was forced at last, by starvation, to make another move forward. I waited until night, and then hobbled along the road with the aid of a rough crutch I had contrived out of a forked stick. I was so exhausted and pain-racked that I had to sit down and rest every few hundred yards, and probably I did not travel more than five miles during the whole night. During this time I passed through a small village, in the street of which I met the night-watchman: for this antiquated institution still survives in Russian rural districts. He stopped and questioned me; but he was a silly, good-humoured old soul, much too old for his work, and though I did not understand a tenth of what he said, and could not reply to a twentieth of it, I had no difficulty in getting away from him. I was more fearful of the soldiers. Besides a few cavalry scouts, I saw a company of infantry marching along the road. I kept out of their way, as I could not tell whether they were Germans or Russians; and it was too risky a business to approach near enough to make sure. The fact that they had several prisoners with them made me think they were more likely to be foes than friends. That some small military movements were taking place in the neighbourhood was proved by the occasional sound of rifle-firing which I heard in the distance. The snow had now entirely melted; but there was ice every morning, which thawed as the sun gained power. In the middle of the day the weather was often quite hot; but the ground dried very slowly, and there were often dense fogs which troubled me greatly, as they came up from the ground at night, just the time I wanted to be moving: and on one occasion I lost my way, and went miles astray. I had not much difficulty, though, in getting set right when such accidents happened. I would repeat the name of the place I wanted to the first peasant I met, and he would point in the direction I was to take. Some of the country-people would readily communicate with me; others would avoid me as if frightened. All through the 1st May I lay in a hole which I excavated in the bank of a brook, and hid with bushes when I was in it. I saw nobody at all on this day, and the only sounds I heard were the ringing of some bells and a few distant shots. Most of the fields I passed over were sown with corn; but sometimes I came to grassland; and there were extensive stretches of marshy ground, which was often already covered with sedge high enough to completely hide a man. As, however, it was growing in several inches of water, under which there was an unlimited quantity of mud, taking cover in it was attended with much discomfort. I was forced into it, perhaps a dozen times a day, by the appearance of cavalry scouts and suspicious-looking individuals. If I found a brook running in the direction I wished to take I generally followed its course for the sake of the cover its bushes afforded. Once I passed five or six hours hiding in a hollow willow-stump. There was a lot of wild-fowl sheltering in the sedge, chiefly wild ducks, and water-hens. I succeeded in catching a few of the water-hens; but the ducks eluded the stones I was continually throwing at them; and though I saw a hundred rabbits and hares, I succeeded in knocking over only one hare. I required these animals for food; but having obtained them I was for a time puzzled how to dress them, as I was afraid to make a fire in the open. At last I cooked them at the stove of a deserted house. Bread I had literally to beg; and I entered six or seven farms and cottages before I obtained a small supply. I used to show a few kopecs and point to my mouth, an antic, or pantomime, that was at once understood. The people would shake their heads to intimate they had no food to spare; and one woman held up a poor little pinched baby to show how hardly pressed they were. In some cases I believe the people thought I was a German, as I could not speak more than a few disjointed sentences of their language. Finally, however, I obtained about a pound of unleavened bread, for which the money was refused. In this way I ultimately arrived near Ostrolenka, in such a state of exhaustion and suffering that I could scarcely drag myself over the ground. I was found, and made a prisoner of, by some Russian cavalry, and taken into the city, which is, also, a third-class or, at most, second-class fortress. Here I was handed over to the civil police and promptly put in prison. That night, however, a medical man examined my feet, which were afterwards dressed by a male nurse. The next morning I was taken before a magistrate, and while trying to explain to him the cause of my plight a Cossack officer came forward, and at once put matters right. I had only a dim recollection of having seen this man before; but he did me the honour of having a better remembrance. Unfortunately, I could not understand all that he said to the magistrate; but the effect was magical. Everybody in the court had an immediate interest in me, and I was at once taken to a hospital where wounded soldiers were being attended to, and treated in every respect as an officer. By this time I was quite ill. Two or three days afterwards a doctor who could speak English was brought to my bedside, and to him I gave a detailed account of the recent experiences I had passed through, and begged him to apply to the proper persons to have me sent home, as I was unfit for further service. He promised that he would do this; and I was vexed at the delay that ensued, as every day I seemed to grow worse. I do not say that I was not well nursed and looked after; but I must admit that I have no great confidence in Russian doctors--nor, indeed, in any foreign medical men. Ostrolenka was full of troops, but I did not learn to what corps they belonged. The forts which defend it would require a considerable number of men to man them properly; and I do not think the place could hold out many _hours_ before such artillery as the Germans use in their siege operations. The old "carronades" of Nelson's days were sometimes called "smashers"; much more appropriate is such a name to the monster howitzers which the Germans use to smash up their opponent's defensive works; and yet I am not one of those who are appalled by the destruction effected by huge guns. Modern forts are not strong enough, and are not constructed on the principle which is best calculated to withstand the battering of Krupp's huge ordnance; but they may be made of sufficient strength to defy any guns. In a competition between forts and guns, forts if properly constructed and defended must win. By "defended" I mean so placed that they cannot be subjected to direct fire. This can always be done. For if they cannot be placed on elevated ground, they can be sunk in it; and my experience is that a gun sunk in a pit is the most difficult of all marks for an artillerist to hit. In fact, I do not think it can be done, except by a chance shot, and chance shots do not win, or lose, fortresses. CHAPTER XXVI MY LAST DAYS IN RUSSIA The suggestion was made that I should remain at Ostrolenka until I was cured; and as it was obvious that this would mean a long time I declined the intended kindness, and begged to be sent home at once. Accordingly I was furnished with passes, and a free permit to travel, and sent to Bialystok on the 10th May. Although this place is only eighty versts from Ostrolenka, it took the train a whole day to reach it. We were continually being run into sidings to permit troop-and store-trains to pass. Troops were being hurried to the front in thousands; and Bialystok was crowded with what appeared to be a whole army corps. The authorities were too busy to attend to me, and I lay in the station all night. The next morning a police official took me to some barracks, where I was well fed and my injuries attended to. On the 12th I was taken in an ambulance to the Grodno-Vilno terminus (there are five railway termini in Bialystok) and put into a train full of wounded soldiers bound for Petrograd. The distance to Vilna from Bialystok is about 170 versts: it took us thirty-nine hours to perform it. I left the train at Vilna; but there was nobody there to help me in any way. Officials looked at my paper and pointed this way and that, but gave me no real help. I had to go into the town to purchase food and a few necessaries. The city was even more crowded by troops than Bialystok. It is another great railway centre; and to all appearance soldiers were arriving from all parts of the vast empire. Many of the regiments were Siberians. While in the streets I was interfered with a good deal by the police; but my papers were always found to be satisfactory. English gold created much amazement among the tradesmen; but I succeeded in passing several sovereigns. On the 15th I bought my own ticket to Riga; but I did not succeed in finding a train to that place until the morning of the 16th. From Vilna to Riga is about 200 English miles. I entered the train early in the morning. There were only four passenger-cars: the remainder, a dozen, or fourteen, in number, were goods vans and trucks. In the carriage I selected, the only passengers were three men and a woman. I was so tired that I went to sleep soon after I had sat down, and when I awoke the train was just starting. It was then nearly evening, so we had been standing outside the station nearly all day. I dozed at frequent intervals: and so did the train: that is, it stopped, on an average, about every half-hour; but very seldom at a station. When morning broke I eagerly looked out of the carriage-window. The prospect was a wide plain, with only odd trees on it, and houses scattered about between two villages. I had no idea of our locality, but had hoped we were nearing Riga. Of this, however, there were no signs, and I muttered my disappointment. My fellow-passengers looked at me curiously, but did not speak. So far I had not heard the sounds of their voices, and I have noticed that foreigners on a journey, as a rule, are not more talkative than English people. Two hours later we arrived at Dunaburg, which is a large town and a considerable railway centre. It was crowded by soldiers; and field artillery were entraining in large numbers. Two passengers got out of the carriage here, and six others entered; but when we started again I do not think there were more than twenty people in the whole train. The population of the country was evidently not fleeing coastwise. We were backed into a siding and kept there six hours. During the night we were more often stationary than moving, and at daybreak on the morning of the 18th were still only crawling along the line. At several small stations the train was stopped to be overhauled by police officials. They closely questioned all the passengers. When it was discovered that I could not speak much Russian, I was at once, and very roughly and rudely, hauled on to the platform; and my papers read and reread several times; and vised by a police officer. Then I was permitted to re-enter the train, and proceed on my journey. As we ran slowly onward I saw several large encampments of troops in the fields by the side of the line; and hundreds of men were being drilled and exercised. Many of them had so awkward a bearing as to suggest that they had had no previous training: and I saw sufficient, during my stay in Russia, to show that the State is too poor to embody and instruct the whole of her male population. I do not believe, indeed, that more than half the conscripts are trained. This would not be an unmixed evil if the men were selected, as they are supposed to be, and the most fit draughted to military service; but I think there is a great deal of substitution, rich men finding substitutes. This cannot be otherwise than bad for the service. We arrived at Riga at midnight on the 18th, and I was again subjected to the usual police examination and cross-questioning. Here, however, I found several officials who could speak English quite fluently, and so I had no difficulty in making my wishes known, but was given the disquieting assurance that there was no prospect whatever of my being able to leave the Baltic. It was rapidly becoming a matter of life or death for me to get home. I was so ill and exhausted that I could only stand with difficulty; and my funds were running so short that I could bear the expenses of living at an hotel for only a few days. Having received permission, therefore, I went down to the wharves with a policeman to look for a boat, the regular packets having ceased running. I do not think that my further movements can have much interest; but I may just state that all I could do at Riga was to persuade a fisherman to run me over to Gothland for the sum of twenty roubles. The little voyage of about 200 miles was commenced on Thursday the 20th May, and was performed in much trepidation for fear of the German cruisers, several of which were reported to be in this part of the Baltic--I do not know on what grounds. We saw nothing of them; and arrived at Slitehaum soon after daybreak on the 23rd, the winds having been against us during a great part of the voyage. At Slitehaum I took the train to Wisby, after some trouble with the local officials, the inevitable thing, it seems to me, in all Continental travel. My papers, contrary to my wishes, had been retained by the Russian police at Riga; and they had given me a passport which did not seem to be quite satisfactory to the Custom-house officer at Gothland. He was much exercised in mind by the lack of the usual impedimenta of a traveller, and accepted my explanations with palpable suspicion. After a delay of four hours, he permitted me to proceed; and on reaching Wisby I took the Swedish packet-boat to Stockholm. At Riga I had persuaded the police to enter me on the passport as an American: not quite a straight-forward thing to do, perhaps, but a _ruse de guerre_ which, I think, the circumstances in which I was placed fully justified. I am not a prophet, nor am I going to set myself up as one. I do not know how long the war is going to last--_it depends on circumstances_. If the Germans get the run of corn-growing Russia, and the Allies generally do not materially increase their _go_ and their _forces_, it will last for years. Properly set about, it might end with this year. It is not being properly set about. I do not presume to say what military action should be taken; but the supply of Germany with food and material is of the first importance to her, and should be put a peremptory stop to. There are those who will argue that, because Germany sinks neutral ships, it follows that the neutrals who suffer must necessarily be Germany's enemies. This is a mistake. The idea entertained is that "accidents will happen," and the sufferers believe that in the end, Germany, or Britain, will recompense them. I exempt the United States from this attitude; but their case is peculiar. In the first place, they are very anxious to keep out of European complications: they have also a large German population, including those of Teutonic extraction; and some of those highly placed in America have Germanic tendencies and sympathies. I will not enter further into the political aspect of this Great War: and concerning the military outlook I have but to note that the British losses alone amount to a far greater number than the entire English Army consisted of on the day war broke out, to convince every thinking man that we are in a very serious position: and that the fate of this vast empire cannot be left to weak drafts erratically raised, which, however heroic their bravery, are not powerful enough to meet the situation with a full assurance of that victory without which no sane Englishman ought to be satisfied. To put 500,000 men into the field, and keep their numbers up to 500,000, cannot possibly have the same effect as putting 1,000,000 face to face with the enemy in the first place: and 1,000,000 cannot have a _fourth_ of the striking-power 2,000,000 would have. There is a progressive ratio in the numbers of a military force: a fact that is too often overlooked: and bringing them up in driblets can only result in their being beaten in detail. One strong blow has more real efficacy than a dozen weak ones; and in military affairs the full force should be used at the very commencement of hostilities. At the moment of writing Germany is gaining ground, not losing it: and her own territory is absolutely free of invaders. While this state of things exists, no man, expert or otherwise, can predict the ultimate end of the war. A single _accident_ might have very wide-reaching and very terrible effects. From Stockholm I went to Gothenburg; and there decided that my best way of reaching England was to take a passage on a Swedish ice-ship which I found to be on the point of sailing for Gravesend. However, when we got off the Dogger Bank we ran amongst a fleet of Hull trawlers; and I forsook the Swede for a British fishing-boat, which landed me at Hull, "stone-broke," in more ways than one. I was almost too ill to stand; and when I arrived home I found my house empty. Not one letter of the many I wrote while in Poland reached my family; and one I posted in Sweden did not reach England until three days after my own arrival in my native land. My wife supposed that I was a prisoner in Germany, or dead; and few of my friends expected to see me again. One of the first I went to in search of my wife did not know me, so ragged and woebegone was my appearance. A little rest has done wonders towards restoring my usual health and strength; but I am given to understand that it will be a long time before I am able to use my feet; and some sharp twinges of rheumatism from which I suffer indicate that old boys are not quite so fit for campaigning as young ones. I hope many of the youngsters will take the hint. There has been some suppression of the names of places and localities in this book, and a few other precautions have been taken in its construction. It must be remembered that the war is far from over yet, and that there is an obligation on all writers to be careful not to deal too freely with facts and incidents of some kinds. It may be scarcely necessary to mention this; but in case a certain amount of reticence may be noticed in a few places, it is as well to give a reason for it. I am not a practised writer; and I have, in some matters, followed the advice of those who are better qualified to judge what should, and what should not, be put into a book. But I have told my own tale, and told it in my own way; and I hope it will be found to merit some attention as the unvarnished story of an eye-witness. THE END 
11686	----	Distributed Proofreaders WITHOUT DOGMA. A NOVEL OF MODERN POLAND. BY HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ AUTHOR OF "WITH FIRE AND SWORD," "THE DELUGE," "QUO VADIS," ETC. TRANSLATED FROM THE POLISH BY IZA YOUNG. 1893 "A man who leaves memoirs, whether well or badly written, provided they be sincere, renders a service to future psychologists and writers, giving them not only a faithful picture of the times, but likewise human documents that can be relied upon." PUBLISHER'S PREFACE In "WITHOUT DOGMA" we have a remarkable work, by a writer known only in this country through his historical novels; and a few words concerning this novel and its author may not be without interest. Readers of Henryk Sienkiewicz in America, who have known him only through Mr. Curtin's fine, strong translations, will be surprised to meet with a production so unlike "Fire and Sword," and "The Deluge," that on first reading one can scarcely believe it to be from the pen of the great novelist. "Fire and Sword," "The Deluge," and "Pan Michael" (now in press) form, so to speak, a Polish trilogy. They are, first and last, Polish in sentiment, nationality, and patriotism. What Wagner did for Germany in music, what Dumas did for France, and Scott for all English-speaking people, the great Pole has achieved for his own country in literature. Even to those most unfamiliar with her history, it grows life-like and real as it speaks to us from the pages of these historical romances. Only a very great genius can unearth the dusty chronicles of past centuries, and make its men and women live and breathe, and speak to us. These historical characters are not mere shadows, puppets, or nullities, but very real men and women, our own flesh and blood. His warriors fight, love, hate; they embrace each other; they laugh; they weep in each other's arms; give each other sage counsels, with a truly Homeric simplicity. They are deep-versed in stratagems of love and war, these Poles of the seventeenth century! They have their Nestor, their Agamemnon, their great Achilles sulking in his tent. Oddly enough, at times they grow very familiar to us, and in spite of their Polish titles and faces, and a certain tenderness of nature that is almost feminine, they seem to have good, stout, Saxon stuff in them. Especially where the illustrious knights recount their heroic deeds there is a Falstaffian strut in their performance, and there runs riot a Falstaffian imagination truly sublime. Yet, be it observed, however much in all this is suggestive of the literature of other races and ages, these characters never cease for a moment to be Poles. Here is a vast, moving panorama spread before us; across it pass mighty armies; hetman and banneret go by; the scene is full of stir, life, action. It is constantly changing, so that at times we are almost bewildered, attempting to follow the quick succession of events. We are transported in a moment from the din and uproar of a beleaguered town to the awful solitude of the vast steppes,--yet it is always the Polish Commonwealth that the novelist paints for us, and beneath every other music rises the wild Slavic music, rude, rhythmical, and sad. There is, too, a background against which these pictures paint themselves, and it reminds us not a little of Verestchagin,--the same deep feeling for nature, and a certain sadness that seems inseparable from the Russian and Lithuanian temperaments, tears following closely upon mirth. At times, after incident upon incident of war, the reader is tempted to exclaim, "Something too much of this!" Yet nowhere, perhaps, except from the great canvases of Verestchagin, has there ever come a more awful, powerful plea for peace than from the pages of "Fire and Sword." In "Without Dogma" is presented quite another theme, treated in a fashion strikingly different. In the historical novels the stage is crowded with personages. In "Without Dogma," the chief interest centres in a single character. This is not a battle between contending armies, but the greater conflict that goes on in silence,--the battle of a man for his own soul. He can scarcely be considered an heroic character; he is to some extent the creature of circumstances, the fine product of a highly complex culture and civilization. He regards himself as a nineteenth-century Hamlet, and for him not merely the times, but his race and all mankind, are out of joint. He is not especially Polish save by birth; he is as little at home in Paris or at Rome as in Warsaw. Set him down in any quarter of the globe and he would be equally out of place. He folds the mantle of his pessimism about him. Life has interested him purely as a spectacle, in which he plays no part save a purely passive one. His relation to life is that of the Greek chorus, passing across the stage, crying "Woe, woe!" Life has interested, entertained, and sometimes wearied him. He muses, philosophizes, utters the most profound observations upon life, art, and the mystery of things. He puts mankind and himself upon the dissecting-table. Here is a nature so sensitive that it photographs every impression, an artistic temperament, a highly endowed organism; yet it produces nothing. The secret of this unproductiveness lies perhaps in a certain tendency to analyze and philosophize away every strong emotion that should lead to action. Here is a man in possession of two distinct selves,--the one emotional, active; the other eternally occupied in self-contemplation, judgment, and criticism. The one paralyzes the other. He defines himself as "a genius without a portfolio," just as there are certain ministers-of-state without portfolios. In such a character many of us will find just enough of ourselves to make its weaknesses distasteful to us. We resent, just because we recognize the truth of the picture. Leon Ploszowski belongs unmistakably to our own times. His doubts and his dilettanteism are our own. His fine aesthetic sense, his pessimism, his self-probings, his weariness, his overstrung nerves, his whole philosophy of negation,--these are qualities belonging to this century, the outcome of our own age and culture. If this were all the book offers us one might well wonder why it was written. But its real interest centres in the moment when the cultivated pessimist "without dogma" discovers that the strongest and most genuine emotion of his life is its love for another man's wife. It is an old theme; certainly two thirds of our modern French novels deal with it; we know exactly how the conventional, respectable British novel would handle it. But here is a treatment, bold, original, and unconventional. The character of the woman stands out in splendid contrast to the man's. Its simplicity, strength, truth, and faith are the antidote for his doubt and weakness. Her very weakness becomes her strength. Her dogmatism saves him. The background of the book, its lesser incidents, are thoroughly artistic, its ending masterly in its brevity and pathos; here again is the distinguishing mark of genius, the power of condensation. The man who has philosophized and speculated now writes the tragedy of his life in four words: "Aniela died this morning." This is the culmination towards which his whole life has been moving; the rest is foregone conclusion, and matters but little. One sees throughout the book the strong influence that other minds, Shakespeare notably, have produced upon this mind; here its attitude is never merely pessimistic. It does not criticise them, it has absorbed them. One last word concerning this novel. It does not seek to formulate, or to preach directly. Its chief value and the keynote to its motive lie in the words that Sienkiewicz at the beginning puts into the mouth of his hero:-- "A man who leaves memoirs, whether well or badly written, provided they be sincere, renders a service to future psychologists and writers, giving them not only a faithful picture, but likewise _human documents_ that may be relied upon." A _human document_--the modern novel is this, when it is anything at all. If Mr. Crawford's canons of literary art are true, and we believe they are, they give us a standard by which to judge; he tells us that the heart in each man and woman means the whole body of innate and inherited instincts, impulses, and beliefs, which, when quiescent, we call Self, when roused to emotional activity, we call Heart. It is to this self, or heart, he observes, that whatever is permanent in the novel must appeal; and whatever does so must live and find a hearing with humanity "so long as humanity is human." If this be a test, we cannot doubt as to what will be the reception of "Without Dogma." A few words concerning the novelist himself. The facts obtainable are of the most meagre kind. He was born in 1845, in Lithuania. The country itself, its natural and strongly religious and political influences, its melancholy, seem to have left their strong, lasting impression upon him. He has a passionate fondness for the Lithuanian, and paints him and his surroundings most lovingly. His student days were spent at Warsaw. He devoted himself afterward to literature, writing at first under a pseudonym. He does not seem to have won immediate recognition. He spent some years in California; a series of articles published in this connection in a Polish paper brought him into notice. In 1880, various novelettes and sketches of his production were published in three volumes. In 1884 were given to the Polish public the three historical novels which immediately gave their author the foremost place in Polish literature. It is a matter of pride that the first translation of these great works into English is the work of an American, and offered to the American public. He is a prolific writer, and it would be impossible to attempt to give even the names of all his minor sketches and romances. Some of them have been translated into German, but much has been lost in the translation. Sienkiewicz is still a contributor to journalistic literature. He has travelled much, and is a citizen of the world. He is equally at home in the Orient or the West, by the banks of the Dnieper, or beside the Nile. Probably there is scarcely a corner of Poland that he has not explored. He depicts no type of life that has not actually come under his own observation. The various social strata of his own country, the condition of its peasantry, the marked contrast between the simplicity of that life and the culture of the ecclesiastic and aristocratic bodies, the religious, poetic, artistic temperament of the people,--all these he paints in a life-like fashion, but always as an artist. So much of the writer. Of the man Sienkiewicz there is little to be obtained. Like all great creative geniuses, he is so completely identified with his work that even while his personality lives in his creations it eludes them. He offers us no confidences concerning himself, no opinions or prejudices. He does not divert the reader with personalities. He sets before us certain groups of men and women, whom certainly he knows and loves, and has lived among. He sets them in motion; they become living, breathing creations; they assume relations in time and space; they speak and act for themselves. If there be a prompter he remains always behind the scenes. Admire or criticise or love the actors as you will, you cannot for a moment doubt that they are alive. This is the supreme miracle of genius,--the fine union of dramatic instinct, the aesthetic sense, and an intense, vital realism; not the realism of the cesspool or the morgue, but the realism of the earth and sky, and of healthy human nature. We are inclined to believe that Henryk Sienkiewicz has answered an often discussed question that has much exercised the keenly critical intellect of this age. One school of thought cries out, "Let us have life as it is. Paint anything, but draw it as it is. Let the final test of all literary works be, 'Is it real and true?'" To the romantic school quite another class of ideas appeals; to it much of the so-called realistic literature seems very bad, or merely "weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable." The profoundest utterances of realism do not impress it much in themselves. It insists that art has something to say to literature, that in this field as elsewhere holds good the law of natural selection of types and survival of the fittest. While each school has its down-sittings and up-risings, its supporters and its critics, neither school has yet exhausted the possibilities of literature. The novel's aim is to depict Life, and life is neither all romance nor all realism, but a curious mixture of both. Man is neither a beast nor a celestial being, but a compound. Though he can crawl, and may have clinging to him certain brute instincts that may be the relics of his anthropoidal days, he has also, thank God, divine desires and discontents, and certain rudimentary wings. And neither school alone is competent to paint him as he is. The author of "La Bête Humaine" fails as completely as the visionary À Kempis. Neither realism nor romance alone will ever with its small plummet sound to its depths the human heart or its mystery; yet from the union of the two much perhaps might come. We believe that just here lies the value of the novels of Henryk Sienkiewicz. He has worked out the problem of the modern novel so as to satisfy the most ardent realist, but he has worked it out upon great and broadly human lines. For him facts are facts indeed; but facts have souls as well as bodies. His genius is analytic, but also imaginative and constructive; it is not forever going upon botanizing excursions. He paints things and thoughts human. The greatest genius assimilates unconsciously the best with which it comes in contact, and by a subtle chemistry of its own makes new combinations. Shakespeare, Dante, Goethe, and the realists, as well as all the forces of nature, have helped to make Henryk Sienkiewicz; yet he is not any one of them. He is never merely imitative. Originality and imaginative fire, a style vivid and strong, large humor, a profound pathos, a strong feeling for nature, and a deep reverence for the forms and the spirit of religion, the breath of the true cosmopolitan united with the intense patriotism of the Pole, a great creative genius,--these are the most striking qualities of the work of this modern novelist, who has married Romance to Realism. * * * * * WITHOUT DOGMA. ROME, 9 January. Some months ago I met my old friend and school-fellow, Jozef Sniatynski, who for the last few years has occupied a prominent place among our literary men. In a discussion about literature Sniatynski spoke about diaries. He said that a man who leaves memoirs, whether well or badly written, provided they be sincere, renders a service to future psychologists and writers, giving them not only a faithful picture of the times, but likewise human documents that can be relied upon. He seemed to think that most likely the novel of the future would take the form of diary; finally he asserted that anybody who keeps a diary works for the common good, and does a meritorious thing. I am thirty-five, and do not remember ever having done anything for my country, for the reason, maybe, that after leaving the University, my life, with slight intervals, was spent abroad. This fact, so lightly touched upon, has given me, in spite of all my scepticism, many a bitter pang; therefore I resolved to follow my friend's advice. If this indeed means work, with some kind of merit in it, I will try to be of some use in this way. I intend to be perfectly sincere. I enter upon the task, not only because of the above-mentioned reasons, but also because the idea pleases me. Sniatynski says that if a man gets accustomed to put down his thoughts and impressions it becomes gradually one of the most delightful occupations of his life. If it should prove the contrary, then the Lord have mercy on my diary; it would snap asunder like a string too tightly drawn. I am ready to do much for my community; but to bore myself for its sake, oh, no! I could not do it. Nevertheless, I am resolved not to be discouraged by first difficulties, and shall give it a fair trial. "Do not adopt any style; do not write from a literary point of view," says Sniatynski. Easier said than done. I fully understand that the greater the writer, the less he writes in a purely literary style; but I am a _dilettante_, and have no command over any style. I know from experience that to one who thinks much and feels deeply, it often seems that he has only to put down his thoughts and feelings in order to produce something altogether out of the common; yet as soon as he sets to work he falls into a certain mannerism of style and common phraseology; his thoughts do not come spontaneously, and one might almost say that it is not the mind that directs the pen, but the pen leads the mind into common, empty artificiality. I am afraid of this for myself, for if I am wanting in eloquence, literary simplicity, or picturesqueness, I am not wanting in good taste, and my own style might become distasteful to myself, and thereby render my task impossible. But this I shall see later on. I begin my diary with a short introductory autobiography. My name is Leon Ploszowski, and I am, as I said before, thirty-five years of age. I come from a wealthy family which has been able to preserve its fortune. As to myself I shall not increase it, and at the same time I am not likely to squander it. My position is such that there is no necessity for me to enter into competition with struggling humanity. As to expensive and ruinous pleasures, I am a sceptic who knows how much they are worth, or rather, knows that they are not worth anything. My mother died a week after I was born. My father, who loved her more than his life, became affected with melancholia. Even after he recovered from this, at Vienna, he did not wish to return to his estates, as the memories associated with them rent his very soul; he left Ploszow under the care of his sister, my aunt, and betook himself in the year 1848 to Rome, which, during thirty-odd years, he never left once, so as to be near my mother's tomb. I forgot to mention that he brought her remains to Rome, and buried her on the Campo Santo. We have our own house on the Babuino, called Casa Osoria, from our coat of arms. It looks more like a museum than anything else, as my father possesses no mean collections, especially from the early Christian times. In these collections his whole life is now absorbed. As a young man, he was very brilliant in appearance as well as in mind; his wealth and name added to this, all roads were open to him, and consequently great things were expected from him. I know this from his fellow-students at Berlin. He was deeply absorbed in the study of philosophy, and it was generally believed his name would rank with such as Cieszkowski, Libelt, and others. Society, and his being a favorite in female circles, diverted him somewhat from scientific studies. In society he was known by the nickname of "Leon l'Invincible." In spite of his social success he did not neglect his philosophical researches, and everybody expected that some day he would electrify the world with a great work, and make his name illustrious. They were disappointed in their expectations. Of the once so beautiful appearance there still remains up to this day one of the finest and noblest heads. Artists are of the same opinion, and not long ago one of them remarked that it would be difficult to find a more perfect type of a patrician head. As to his scientific career, my father is and remains a cultured and gifted nobleman-dilettante. I almost believe dilettantism to be the fate of all Ploszowskis, to which I will refer later on, when I come to write about myself. As to my father, there is in his desk a yellow manuscript about Triplicity in Nature. I perused it, and it did not interest me. I only remember a comparison between the transcendental belief of Christianity in the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, and the natural triplicity of oxygen, hydrogen, and ozone, with many other analogous triplicities from absolute truth, goodness, and beauty, to the syllogism of the minor premise, the major premise, and the conclusion,--a quaint mixture of Hegel and Hoene-Wronski, and utterly useless. I am quite convinced that my father did not intend to have it published, if only for the reason that speculative philosophy had failed in him even before it was set aside by the world. The reason for this failure was the death of my mother. My father, who in spite of his nickname, "Leon l'Invincible," and reputation of conqueror of hearts, was a man of deep feelings and simply worshipped my mother, put many terrible questions to his philosophy, and not obtaining either answer or comfort, recognized its utter emptiness in the presence of a great sorrow. This must have been an awful tragedy of his life, since it almost shattered its foundations,--the brain and heart. His mind became affected, as I said before, and when he recovered he went back to his religious convictions. I was told that at one time he prayed night and day, knelt down in the street when he passed a church, and was carried away by his religious fervor to such an extent that he was looked upon by some as a madman, by others as a saint. It was evident he found more consolation in this than in his philosophical triplicities, for he gradually calmed down and began to lead a more rational life. His heart, with all his power for affection, turned towards me, and his aesthetic bent found employment in the study of early Christianity. The lofty, restless mind wanted nourishment. After his first year in Rome he took up archaeology, and by dint of hard study acquired a thorough knowledge of the antique. Father Calvi, my first tutor and at the same time a great judge of Roman antiquities, gave him the final impulse towards investigation of the Eternal City. Some fifteen years ago my father became acquainted and subsequently on terms of friendship with the great Rossi, in whose company he spent whole days in the catacombs. Thanks to his extraordinary gifts he soon acquired such consummate knowledge of Rome as to astonish Rossi himself. Several times he began writing treatises on the subject, but never finished what he had begun. Maybe the completion of his collections took up too much of his time, but most likely the reason he will not leave anything behind him except his collections is that he did not confine himself to one epoch or any specialty in his researches. Gradually mediaeval Rome began to fascinate him as much as the first era of Christianity. There was a time when his mind was full of Orsinis and Colonnas; after that he approached the Renaissance, and was fairly captivated by it. From inscriptions, tombs, and the first traces of Christian architecture he passed to nearer times; from the Byzantine paintings to Fiesole and Giotto, from these to artists of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, and so on; he fell in love with statues and pictures; his collections certainly increased, but the great work in Polish about the three Romes remained forever in the land of unfulfilled intentions. As to these collections my father has a singular idea. He wants to bequeath them to Rome under the condition they should be placed in a separate gallery named after him, "Museum Osoria Ploszowski." Of course his wishes will be respected. I only wonder why my father believes that in doing this he will be more useful to his community than by sending them to his own country. Not long ago he said to me: "You perceive that scarcely anybody there would see them, and very few derive any benefit, whereas here the whole world can study them, and every individual that benefits thereby carries the benefit to other communities." It does not befit me to analyze how much family pride and the thought of having his name engraved in marble in the Eternal City has to do with the whole scheme. I almost think that such must be the case. As to myself, I am perfectly indifferent where the collections are to remain. But my aunt, to whom by the bye I am shortly going to pay a visit at Warsaw, is very indignant at the idea of leaving the collections out of the country, and as, with her, thought and speech go always together, she expresses her indignation in every letter. Some years ago she was at Rome, and they wrangled every day over the matter, and would have quarrelled outright had not the affection she has towards me subdued her temper. My aunt is older than my father by several years. When my father, after his great sorrow, left the country, he gave up the Ploszow estate to her, and took instead the ready capital. My aunt has managed the property for thirty years, and manages it perfectly. She is of a rather uncommon character, therefore I will devote to her a few lines. At the age of twenty she was betrothed to a young man who died in exile just when my aunt was about to follow him abroad. From that time forth she refused all offers of marriage and remained an old maid. After my mother's death she went with my father to Vienna and Rome, where she lived with him, surrounding him with the tenderest affections, which she subsequently transferred to me. She is, in the full meaning of the word, _une grande dame_, somewhat of an autocrat, haughty and outspoken, with that self-possession wealth and a high position give, but withal the very essence of goodness and kindliness. Under the cover of abrupt manners she has an excellent and lenient disposition, loving not only her own family, as for instance my father and myself and her own household, but mankind in general. She is so virtuous that really I do not know whether there be any merit in it, as she could not be otherwise if she tried. Her charities are proverbial. She orders poor people about like a constable, and tends them like a Saint Vincent de Paul. She is very religious. No doubts whatever assail her mind. What she does, she does from unshaken principles, and therefore never hesitates in the choice of ways and means. Therefore she is always at peace with herself and very happy. At Warsaw they call my aunt, on account of her abrupt manners, _le bourreau bienfaisant_. Some people, especially among women, dislike her, but generally speaking she lives in peace with all classes. Ploszow is not far from Warsaw, where my aunt owns a house in which she spends the winter. Every winter she tries to inveigle me there in the hope to see me married. Even now I received a mysteriously worded missive adjuring me to come at once. I shall have to go, as I have not seen her for some time. She writes that she is getting old and wishes to see me before she dies. I confess I do not always feel inclined to go. I know that my aunt's dearest wish is to see me married, therefore every visit brings her a cruel disappointment. The very idea of such a decisive step frightens me. To begin a new life when I am so tired of the old one! Finally, there is another vexatious element in my relations with my aunt. As formerly my father's friends looked upon him as a genius, so she persists in regarding me as one exceptionally gifted, from whom great things are to be expected. To allow her to remain of this opinion seems an abuse of her good faith; to tell her that nothing is to be expected from me would be a more likely conclusion, but at the same time inflict upon the dear old lady a cruel blow. To my misfortune many of those near me share my aunt's opinion, and this brings me to the point of drawing a sketch of my own character, which is by no means an easy task, as my nature is rather a complicated one. I brought with me into the world very sensitive nerves, nerves perfected by the culture of generations. During the first years of my childhood I remained under the care of my aunt; after her departure, according to the custom of our country, a nursery governess was engaged for me. As we lived in Rome, among foreign surroundings, and my father wished me to be well grounded in my own language, he engaged a Polish governess. She is still with us as housekeeper at Babuino. My father also bestowed some pains upon me, especially after my fifth year. I used to go to his room to talk with him, and this developed my mind prodigiously, too much so perhaps for my age. Later on, when his studies and archaeologic researches took up his whole time, he engaged a tutor, Father Calvi. This was an old man, with a mind and faith exceedingly serene. He loved art beyond everything. I believe religion even reacted upon him through its beauty. In the galleries before the old masters, or listening to the music in the Sistine Chapel, he lost himself altogether. There was nothing pagan in these feelings, as they were not based upon sybaritism or sensual enjoyment. Father Calvi loved art with the pure, serene feeling as maybe a Da Fiesole, a Cimabue, or Giotto loved it. And he loved in all humility, as he himself had no gifts that way. I could not say which of the fine arts he loved best, but I believe he leaned mostly towards harmony, which responded to the harmony of his own mind. Whenever I think of Father Calvi, I am reminded at the same time of the old man that stands beside Raphael's Saint Cecilia listening intently to the music of the spheres. Between my father and the priest sprang up a friendship which lasted unto the latter's death. It was he who confirmed my father in his archaeologic researches, especially about Rome. There was another bond between these two,--their love for me. Both considered me as an exceptionally gifted child, and of a God knows what promising future. It strikes me at times that I formed for them a kind of harmony,--a rounding of and completion to the world in which they lived; and they loved me with the same absorbing passion with which they loved Rome and its antiquities. Such an atmosphere, such surroundings, could not fail to impress my mind. I was brought up in an original way. With my tutor,--sometimes with my father,--I visited galleries, museums, villas, ruins, catacombs, and the environs of Rome. Father Calvi was equally sensitive to the beauties of nature and to those of art, and taught me at an early age to understand poetic melancholy. The Roman Campagna, the harmony of the arch-line on the sky of the arches in the ruined aqueducts, the fine tracery of the pines,--I understood all this before I could read or had mastered the first rudiments of arithmetic. I was able to set English tourists right to whom the names of Carracci and Caravaggio caused confusion. I learned Latin early and without effort, from being familiar with the Italian language. I gave my opinion about Italian and foreign masters,--which, however unsophisticated, made both my father and my tutor look at each other in astonishment. I did not like Ribera,--there was too great a contrast of color in his pictures, and he frightened me a little; but I liked Carlo Dolce. In short, my tutor, my father, and his friends considered me a very prodigy; I heard myself praised, and it flattered my vanity. But, all the same, it was not the healthiest of educations; and my nervous system, developed too early, always remained very sensitive. It seems strange that these influences were neither so deep nor so lasting as might have been expected. That I did not become an artist is owing, may be, to a lack of gifts that way,--although my drawing and music masters opined differently; but how was it that neither my father nor the priest was able to imbue me with that love of art for art's sake? Have I a feeling for art? Yes. Is art a necessity of my life? Yes, again. But they loved it; I only feel it as a _dilettante_; it is a necessity in so far as it complements every kind of pleasant and delightful sensation. It is one of my delights, but not an all-absorbing passion; I should not like to live without it, but could not devote my whole life to it. As the schools at Rome left much to be desired, my father sent me to a college in Metz, where I carried off honors and prizes with very little effort. A year before the last term, I ran away to join Don Carlos, and with Tristan's detachment wandered for some time about the Pyrenees; until my father, with the help of the consul in Burgos, found me, and I was sent back to Metz to be duly punished. The penalty was not a heavy one, as my father and the teachers were secretly proud of my escapade. A brilliant success at the examinations quickly earned me a full absolution. Among my schoolfellows, whose sympathies were naturally with Don Carlos, I henceforth passed as a hero; and as I was at the same time one of the foremost pupils, my position as the first at school was beyond dispute. I was growing up with the conviction that later on, in a larger sphere, it would be the same. This opinion was shared by my teachers and schoolfellows; and yet the fact is that many of my schoolfellows who at one time would not have dreamed of competing with me, occupy to-day in France high places in literary, scientific, and political spheres; whereas I, had I to choose a profession, should feel considerably perplexed. My social position is excellent. I possess independent means from my mother's side, shall inherit my father's fortune in time to come, and administer the Ploszow estate more or less wisely, as the case may be; but the very limitation of the work excludes all hope of distinguishing myself in life, or playing any prominent part in it. I shall never be a great administrator or agriculturist; for though I do not mean to shirk my duties, I could not devote my whole life to them,--for the simple reason that my aspirations aim much higher. Sometimes I ask myself whether we Ploszowskis do not delude ourselves as to our abilities. But if such were the case, the delusion would be only personal; other people, strangers, could not be deceived in the same way. Besides, I know that my father is an extraordinarily gifted man. As to myself, I will not enter more fully on the subject, as it might appear mere boastfulness; nevertheless I have the conviction that I could be something infinitely greater than I am. For instance, at Warsaw (my father and my aunt wished me to enter the university there) Sniatynski and I were fellow-students. We both were drawn towards literature, and tried our hand at it. I do not say I was looked upon as the more gifted of the two, but the truth is that my work then was considered better and more promising than Sniatynski's. Sniatynski has for some years past occupied a prominent position in literature, and I am still the greatly promising Pan Ploszowski, of whom here and there people are wont to say: "If he would only take up something!" Ah! there is the rub,--"if he would!" But they do not seem to take it into account that one has to know how to will. I thought sometimes that if I had no means of subsistence I should have to work. Certainly I should have to do something in order to earn my bread; but even then I am firmly convinced I should not derive the twentieth part of advantage from my capacities. Besides, such men as Darwin or Buckle were rich; Sir John Lubbock is a banker; most of the known men in France are in easy circumstances. This proves that wealth is not a hindrance, but rather a help towards attaining a proper standing in the chosen field of labor. I confess that, as far as I am concerned, it has done me some service, as it preserved my character from many a crookedness poverty might have exposed it to. I do not mean by this that I have a weak character,--although struggle for existence might have made it stronger; but still I maintain that the less stony the road, the less chance of a fall. It is not owing to constitutional laziness, either, that I am a nullity. I possess alike a great facility for acquiring knowledge, and a desire for it; I read much, and have a good memory. Perhaps I could not summon energy enough for a long, slow work, but the greater facility ought to serve instead; and besides, there is no urgent necessity for me to write encyclopedias, like Littré. He who cannot shine with the steady light of a sun might at least dazzle as a meteor. But oh! that nothingness of the past,--the most probable nothingness of the future! I am growing peevish--and tired; and will leave off writing for to-day. ROME, 10 January. Last night, at Count Malatesta's reception, I heard by chance these two words: "l'improductivité Slave." I experienced the same relief as does a nervous patient when the physician tells him that his symptoms are common enough, and that many others suffer from the same disease. I have many fellow-sufferers, not only among other Slavs, a race which I know but imperfectly, but in my own country. I thought about that "improductivité Slave" all night. He had his wits about him who summed the thing up in two words. There is something in us,--an incapacity to give forth all that is in us. One might say, God has given us bow and arrow, but refused us the power to string the bow and send the arrow straight to its aim. I should like to discuss it with my father, but am afraid to touch a sore point. Instead of this, I will discuss it with my diary. Perhaps it will be just the thing to give it any value. Besides, what can be more natural than to write about what interests me? Everybody carries within him his tragedy. Mine is this same "improductivité slave" of the Ploszowskis. Not long ago, when romanticism flourished in hearts and poetry, everybody carried his tragedy draped around him as a picturesque cloak; now it is carried still, but as a jaegervest next to the skin. But with a diary it is different; with a diary one may be sincere. ROME, 11 January. The few days which remain to me before my departure I will use in retrospects of the past, until I come to note down day after day the events of my present life. As I said before, I do not intend to write an autobiography; who and what I am, my future life will show sufficiently. I should not like to enter into minute details of the past,--it is a kind of adding number to number, and a summing up. I always hated the four rules of arithmetic, and especially the first. But I want to have a general idea of the total, so as to have a clearer view of myself. Therefore I go on with the mere outline. After having finished my studies at the university I went to an agricultural school in France. The work there was easy enough, but it had no special attraction for me. I did it as one who knows that this special branch of knowledge will be useful to him, but at the same time feels that he lowers himself to it and that it does not respond either to his ambition or his faculties. I derived a twofold gain from my sojourn there. Agriculture became to me familiar enough to protect me from being cheated by any agents or bailiffs, and it strengthened my frame so that it could withstand the life I later on led in Paris. The years following I spent either in Koine or in Paris, not to mention short stays at Warsaw, where my aunt summoned me now and then in order to introduce me to some special favorite of hers with a view to matrimony. Paris and its life attracted me greatly. With the truly excellent opinion I had then of myself, with more confidence in my intelligence and the self-possession an independent position gives, I still played a very unsophisticated part on this scene of the world. I began by falling desperately in love with Mademoiselle Richemberg of the Comédie Française, and absolutely insisted upon marrying her. I will not dwell now upon the many tragicomic imbroglios, as I am partly ashamed of those times, and partly inclined to laugh at them. Still later on it happened that I took counterfeits for pure gold. The French women, and for the matter of that, my own countrywomen, of whatever class and in spite of all their virtues when young, remind me of my fencing lessons. As the fencer has his hour of practice with the foils so as to keep his hand in, so women practise with sentimental foils. As a mere youth, fairly good looking, I was sometimes invited to a passage of arms, and as I took the matter seriously, received many a scratch. They were not mortal wounds and healed quickly. Besides, everybody has to pay for his apprenticeship in this world, especially in a world like that. My time of probation was, comparatively speaking, a short one. Then came a period one might call "la revanche." I paid back in the same coin, and if now and then I was still taken in, it was with my eyes open to the fact. Myself of a good social standing, I came to know all shades of society, from the old legitimist circles, where I was not a little bored, to the new aristocracy created by the Bonapartes and the Orléanists, representing the society, perhaps not of Paris, but let us say, of _Nice_. Dumas the Younger, Sardou, and others, take thence their counts, marquises, and princes, who, without historical traditions, have titles and money in plenty, and whose principal aim is to enjoy life. I frequented their salons mostly for the sake of their female element. They are very subtle, the women there, with highly strung nerves always in search for new pleasures, fresh sensations, and truly void of any idealism. They are often as corrupt as the novels they are reading, because their morality finds no support either in religion or tradition. But it is a brilliant world all the same. The hours of practice with the foils are so long there that they look more like days and nights, and the weapons are dangerous sometimes, as they are not blunted. There too I received a few painful lessons until I got my hand in. It would be a sign of mere vanity and still more of bad taste to write about my successes, and I will only say this, that I tried to keep alive the tradition of my father's youth. The lowest circles of this world slightly merge into the higher sphere of the great _demi-monde._ This _demi-monde_ is far more dangerous than appears on the surface because it is not in the least commonplace. Its cynicism has a certain air of refinement and art. If I did not leave many feathers there it must be because my beak had acquired a certain curve and my claws had grown. Generally speaking of the life in Paris, a man who has passed through that mill feels rather exhausted, and what then of such as I, who leave only to go back again? It is only later on in life we begin to understand that triumphs like these are somewhat like the victories of Pyrrhus. My naturally strong constitution withstood this life, but my nerves are somewhat shattered. Paris, though, possesses one superiority over other centres of civilization. I do not know of any other city in the world where the elements of art, science, and all kinds of human ideas seem to float in the air to be assimilated by the human brain. Almost unconsciously it imbibes not only the newest ideas in the sphere of intellect, but also loses some of its onesidedness, broadens out, becomes more civilized. I say again, civilized, because in Italy, Germany, and Poland, I met with brains and powerful brains too, but who would not recognize any light but their own, so onesided and barbarian that for one who did not want to sacrifice his own opinions, intercourse from an intellectual point of view was simply impossible. In France and still more in Paris, similar manifestations have no existence. As a running stream smoothes and polishes the pebbles, rubbing them against each other, so the swift current of life rubs off the angles from the human mind. It is obvious that under such influences my mind became that of a civilized being, that can make due allowance for other people's opinions; I do not utter peacock cries when I hear of anything opposed to my views or something utterly new. It may be that such leniency and tolerance of all opinions leads finally to indifferentism and weakens the active principle in the human mind, but I could not be different now. A certain mental current got hold of me and carried me along. If the social circles, salons, boudoirs, and clubs took up a considerable part of my time, they did not occupy it altogether. I made many acquaintances in the literary and artistic world, and lived their life, or rather I live it still. Prompted by innate curiosity I read very much, and as I have the faculty of assimilating what I read, I may say that I derived considerable benefit from it and am able to keep step with every intellectual movement of the time. My consciousness of self is highly developed. At times I feel inclined to send that second self to the devil, that self which does not permit yielding to any sensation, but is always there, searching, criticising every action, feeling, delight, or passion. "Know thyself" may be a wise maxim, but to carry about one's self an ever watchful critic deadens the feeling, dividing as it were your soul in two parts. To exist in a state of mind like this is about as easy as for the bird to fly with one wing. Besides, selfconsciousness too much developed weakens the power of action. But for this, Hamlet would have made a hole in his uncle in the first act, and with the greatest composure taken possession of the throne. As far as I am concerned, it sometimes protects me or saves me from heedless slips, yet more often tires me, preventing absolute concentration upon one point of action. I carry within me two beings,--the one that protests and criticises, the other leading only half a life, losing gradually all power of decision. I am afraid I shall never free myself from that yoke; on the contrary, the more my mind expands, the more minute will be the knowledge of self, and even on my deathbed I shall not leave off criticising the dying Ploszowski unless disease has fogged my brain. I must have inherited from my father a synthetic mind, because I always try to generalize matters, and for that reason science attracts me more than philosophy. In my father's time philosophy embraced no more nor less than the whole universe and all being; consequently it had a ready answer for all questions. In our times it has become rational in so far as to confess that it has ceased to exist in the old meaning of the word and remains only as a philosophy of special scientific branches. Truly, when I come to think of it it seems that the human mind too has its tragedies, and it began by confessing its own powerlessness. As I write a personal diary I will treat these matters from a personal point of view. I am not a professed philosopher, because I am nothing by profession; but as a thinking being I am interested in the new philosophic movement; I have been and am under its influence, and have a full right to speak about what entered the composition, and contributed to the creation, of my moral and intellectual being. To begin with, I note down that my religious belief I carried still intact with me from Metz did not withstand the study of natural philosophy. It does not follow that I am an atheist. Oh, no! This was good enough in former times, when he who did not believe in spirit, said to himself, "Matter," and that settled for him the question. Nowadays only provincial philosophers cling to that worn-out creed. Philosophy of our times does not pronounce upon the matter; to all such questions it says, "I do not know!" and that "I do not know" sinks into and permeates the mind. Nowadays psychology occupies itself with close analysis and researches of spiritual manifestations; but when questioned upon the immortality of the soul it says the same,--"I do not know;" and truly it does not know, and it cannot know. And now it will be easier to describe the state of my mind. It all lies in these words: I do not know. In this--in the acknowledged impotence of the human mind--lies the tragedy. Not to mention the fact that humanity always has asked, and always will ask, for an answer, they are truly questions of more importance than anything else in the world. If there be something on the other side, and that something an eternal life, then misfortunes and losses on this side are as nothing. In this case we might exclaim with Hamlet: "Nay, then, let the devil wear black, for I'll have a suit of sables." "I am content to die," says Renan; "but I should like to know whether death will be of any use to me." And philosophy replies, "I do not know." And man beats against that blank wall, and like the bedridden sufferer fancies, if he could lie on this or on that side, he would feel easier. What is to be done? Are we to abuse philosophy that, instead of building up new systems which, like a house of cards, fall at a touch, it has confessed its impotence, and begun to search for and classify manifestations within reach of the human intellect? Methinks that I and everybody else has a right to say: "Philosophy, I am struck by your common sense, admire your close analysis; but with all that, you have made me supremely wretched. By your own confession you have no answer for a question, to me of the greatest importance, and yet you had power enough to destroy that faith which not only cleared up all doubts, but soothed and comforted the soul. And do not say that, since you do not lay down the law, you permit me to adhere to my old beliefs. It is not true! Your method, your soul, your very essence is doubt and criticism. This, your scientific method, this scepticism, this criticism you have implanted in the soul till they have become a second nature. As with lunar caustic, you have deadened the spiritual nerves by the help of which one believes simply and without question, so that even if I would believe I have lost the power. You permit me to go to church if I like; but you have poisoned me with scepticism to such a degree that I have grown sceptical even with regard to you,--sceptical in regard to my own scepticism; and I do not know, I do not know. I torture myself, and am maddened by the darkness." ROME, 12 January. Yesterday I allowed myself to be carried away by my writing. But all the same it seems to me that I laid a finger upon the rottenness of my soul and that of humanity. There are times when I am indifferent to these questions; then again they seem to tear at me without mercy; all the more as those are matters kept within the privacy of the soul. It would be better to put them aside; but they are too important for that. We want to know what we are to expect, and arrange our life accordingly. I have tried to say to myself: "Stop, you will never leave that enchanted circle; why enter it at all?" I have every qualification to render myself a well-satisfied, cheerful animal; but I cannot always be satisfied with that. It is said the Slav temperament has a tendency towards mysticism. I have noticed that our greatest writers and poets end by becoming mystics. It is not surprising that lesser minds should be now and then troubled. As to myself I feel obliged to take notice of those inward struggles in order to get a faithful image of myself. Perhaps I feel also the want of justifying myself before my own conscience. For instance, with the great "I do not know" before me, I still observe the regulations of the Church; yet do not consider myself a hypocrite. This would be the case if, instead of the "I do not know," I could say "I know there is nothing." But our scepticism is not an open negation; it is rather a sorrowful, anxious suspicion that perhaps there is nothing,--a dense fog around our minds that stifles the breath and hides from us the light. I therefore stretch out my hands towards that sun that maybe shines beyond the mist. I fancy that not I alone am in that position, and that of all those who go to church and mass on Sundays the prayers might be condensed in these words: "O God! lift the mist!" I cannot write coldly or dispassionately about all this. I keep religious observances for the simple reason that I long to believe, and since the sweet teaching of my childhood tells me that faith is a gift of grace, I am waiting for that grace. I am waiting that it may be given unto me; that my soul may believe unquestioningly, even as it believed in childhood. Those are my motives; no self-interest prompts me; it would be much easier to be a cheerful, contented animal. Since I am justifying my outward semblance of piety, I have some other less noble and more practical reasons. From the days of my childhood I have been accustomed to keep certain rules, and they have grown into a habit. Henry the Fourth said Paris was well worth a mass; so say I that the peace of those nearest is worth a mass; people of my class, as a rule, observe religious prescriptions, and I should protest against the outward symbols only in such a case if I could find something more conclusive to say than "I do not know." I go to church because I am a sceptic in regard to my own scepticism. It is not a comfortable feeling, and my soul drags one wing along the earth. But it would be much worse with me if I always pondered over these questions so earnestly as I have done while writing these last pages. Fortunately for me this is not the case. I have mentioned already that at times I am indifferent to them. Life carries me along, and although in the main I know what to think of its hollow pleasures, I give myself up to it altogether, and then the moral "to be, or not to be" has no meaning for me. A strange thing, about the power of which not much has been said, is the influence of social suggestion on the mind. In Paris, for instance, I feel happier not only because the continual mill deafens me,--I am swallowed up by the surging masses, and my mind is diverted by tricks of the fencing ring,--but also because the people there, without being conscious of it, live as if it were worth their while to put all their energies into this life, and as if beyond there was nothing but a chemical process. My pulse begins to beat in unison with theirs; I feel myself in harmony with my surroundings; amuse myself or bore myself, conquer or am conquered, but enjoy a comparative rest. ROME, BABUINO, 13 January. I have only four days left before my departure, and will now sum up what I said about myself. I am an individual rather worn out, very sensitive, and of a highly nervous temperament. I have a strongly developed consciousness of self, seconded by comparative culture, and taken altogether, may consider myself an intellectually developed being. My scepticism debars me from all firm convictions. I look, observe, criticise, sometimes fancy I get hold of some essential truth, but am ready always to doubt even that. I have already said all that was necessary in reference to religion. As to my social creed I am a conservative so far as a man in my position is bound to be, and so far as conservatism suits me. No need to mention that I am far from considering conservatism as a dogma, which no one is allowed to touch or to criticise. I am too much civilized to take a party view of either aristocracy or democracy. I leave that as a pastime to those who live in the country, or in remote places where ideas, like fashions, are some ten years late. From the time when privileges were done away with, the question has been closed; but in remoter parts, where the world remains more or less stagnant, it has become not so much a question of principle as rather a question of vanity and nerves. In regard to myself, I like well-bred people,--people with brains and nerves, and look for them where they are most readily found. I like them as I like works of art, fine scenery, and beautiful women. From an aesthetic point of view, I possess refined nerves,--too refined, perhaps, owing to my early training and a naturally impressionable temperament. This aesthetic sensitiveness gives me as many delights as torments, and renders me one great service: it preserves me from cynicism or otherwise extreme corruption, and serves me instead of moral principle. I recoil from many things, not because they are wicked, but because they are ugly. From my aesthetic nerves I derive also a certain delicacy of feeling. Taken all in all, it seems to me that I am a man a little marred by life, decent enough though to say the truth, rather floating in mid-air because not supported by any dogma, either social or religious. I am also without an aim to which I could devote my life. One word more about my abilities before concluding the synthesis. My father, my aunt, my colleagues, and sometimes strangers, consider them simply prodigious. I allow that my intellect has a certain glitter. But will the _improductivité Slave_ scatter all the hopes invested in me? Considering all I have, or rather have not done up to this day, either for others or myself, I feel inclined to think that such will be the case. This confession costs me more than appears on the surface. My irony when I think of myself tastes bitter on the palate. There was something barren in the clay from which God formed the Ploszowskis, since on that soil everything springs up and grows so luxuriously, yet produces no fruit. Truly, if with this barrenness, this powerlessness to act, I possessed the abilities of a genius, it would be a strange kind of genius,--a genius without portfolio, as there are ministers of state without portfolio. This definition, "a genius without portfolio" seems to fit me to perfection. I shall take out a patent of invention for the word. But the definition does not apply to me alone. Its name is legion. Side by side with the _improductivité Slave_ goes the genius without portfolio; it is a pure product of the Slav soil. Once more I say its name is legion. I do not know another part of the world where so much ability is wasted, in which even those who bring forth something give so little, so incredibly little, in comparison with what God gave them. ROME, BABUINO, 14 January. Another letter from my aunt urging me to come. I am coming, I am coming, dear aunt, though God knows I am doing it out of love for you; otherwise I should greatly prefer to remain where I am. My father seems not well; from time to time he feels a strange numbness on the whole of his left side. At my urgent entreaties he has seen a physician, but I am quite sure the physic he received is safely stowed away in a cupboard, according to an old custom he has. Once he opened the mysterious receptacle and showed me a whole collection of bottles, pill-boxes, and powders, saying: "For mercy's sake! this would kill a strong man, let alone a sick one." Up to now, this quaint way of looking upon medicine has not done him any harm, but I am troubled about the future. Another reason for my unwillingness to go is my aunt's plan of campaign. Of course she is anxious to see me married. I do not know whether she has anything definite in view. God grant I may be wrong; but she does not deny the intention. "About an eligible _parti_ like you," she writes, "there will be at once a war of the roses, you may be sure of that." I am tired and do not wish for any war, and least of all to end it like Henry VII. by a marriage. On the other hand,--I dare not tell my aunt, but may confess it to myself,--I do not like Polish women. I am thirty-five, and like other men that live much in society, I had my sentimental passages, among others, with Polish women, and from these encounters I carried away the impression that they are the most impossible and most wearying women in the world. I do not know whether, generally speaking, they are more virtuous than their French or Italian sisters; I only know that they are more pathetic. The very remembrance of it gives me a creepy sensation. I can understand an elegy over a broken pitcher when you behold the shards for the first time; but to go on with the same pathos over a much mended pitcher, looks more like a comic opera. A pleasant role that of the listener, whom courtesy bids to take it seriously. Strange, fantastic women with fiery imagination and cold temperaments! In their sentiments there is neither cheerfulness nor even simplicity. They are in love with the outward forms of love, caring less for its intrinsic value. With French or Italian women after the first skirmishes, you may be sure of your "ergo." With a Pole it is different. Somebody said that if a man is mistaken and says two and two makes five, you may be able to set him right; a woman says two and two is a lamp, and you come against a blank wall. In a Polish woman's logic two and two may be not four, but a lamp, love, hatred, a cat, tears, duty, scorn; in brief, you cannot foresee anything, calculate upon anything, or guard against anything. It may be, after all, because of these very pitfalls that their virtue is better guarded than that of other women, if only for the reason that the beleaguering forces get mortally tired. But what struck me, and what I resented most, is that those pitfalls, barricades, and the whole array of defence are not so much erected for the repulse of the enemy as to give them the sensation of warfare. I spoke of this in a roundabout way with a clever woman only half a Pole, for her father was an Italian. She listened to me for a while, then said at last:-- "It seems to me you are very much like the fox looking at the dovecote. He does not like, and it makes him wroth, to see the doves dwelling so high, and unlike the hens, always on the wing. All you have said tells in favor of Polish women." "How do you make that out?" "The more a Polish woman seems intolerable as somebody else's wife, the more desirable she is to have for one's own." She had driven me into a corner, and I could not find an answer. Perhaps she is right, and I look upon it from a fox's point of view. There is also not the slightest doubt that if I were to marry, especially a Pole, I not only should search for her among the high flying doves, but I should choose a perfectly white one. But I am like the chickens when asked in what sauce they would like to be served; I do not want to be dished up at all. Now, to return to my grievance against you, dear ladies, you are before everything in love with love, and not with the lover. Every one of you is a queen in her own rights, and in this you differ from other women; every one seems to confer a boon and a favor in permitting herself to be loved; none agrees to be only an addition or completion of a man's life, who, besides matrimony, has some other aims in life. You want us to live for you, instead of living for us. Last, but not least, you love your children more than your husband. His final fate is that of a satellite turning forever round in the same orbit. I have seen this and noticed it very often in a general way; but now and then there happens to be found a pure diamond too among the chaff. No, my queens and princesses, permit me to worship you from a safe distance. Fancy putting aside all other aims, all ideals, in order to burn incense every day at the shrine of a woman, and that woman one's own wife. No, dear ladies, that is not sufficient to fill a man's life. Nevertheless, that second self sometimes mutters, "And what else is there for you to do? If, anybody it is you who are fittest for the sacrifice, for what are your aims or your intentions? No! the deuce and all! To change the whole tenor of one's life, renounce old habits, comforts, pleasures, it must be a great love, indeed, that could induce me to such a venture. Marriage means a most amazing act of faith in a woman, I could never summon courage enough to commit. No, most decidedly, I do not wish to be served up in any sauce whatever." WARSAW, 21 January. I arrived here to-day. I broke my journey at Vienna which made it less tiring, but my nerves do not let me sleep, so I take up my journal which has grown as a friend to me. What joy there was in the house at my arrival, and what a dear, kind soul that aunt of mine is! I do believe she is awake now for very joy. She could scarcely eat any dinner. When in the country at Ploszow, she is continually wrangling with her land-agent, Pan Chwastowski, a burly old nobleman who does not give in to her one whit. Sometimes their disputes reach to such a pitch that a catastrophe seems imminent; then suddenly my aunt relaxes, falls to with an appetite and eats her dinner with a certain determination. To-day she had only the servants to scold, and that was not sufficient to give her an appetite. She was in capital spirits though, and the loving glances she bestowed on me beggar description. In intimate circles I am called my aunt's fetich, which makes her very angry. Of course my fears and presentiments have not deceived me. There are not only plans, but also a definite object. After dinner my aunt is in the habit of walking up and down the room, and often thinks aloud. Therefore, in spite of the mystery she deems fit to surround herself with, I heard the following monologue:-- "He is young, handsome, rich, intelligent; she would be a fool if she did not fall in love with him at once." To-morrow I am to go to a picnic the gentlemen are giving for the ladies. They say it is going to be a grand entertainment. WARSAW, 25 January. I am often bored at balls. As a _homo sapiens_ and an _éligible parti_, I abhor them; as an artist, that is, artist without portfolio, I now and then like them. What a splendid sight, for instance, that broad staircase well lit up, where, amid a profusion of flowers the women ascend to the ball-room. They all appear tall, and when not seen from below (because the training robes destroy the illusion) they remind one of the angels on Jacob's ladder. I like the motion, the light, the flowers, and the gauzy material which enwraps the young girls as in a soft mist; and then those shoulders, necks, and arms which released from the warm cloaks seem at once to grow firm and crisp as marble. My sense of smell, too, is gratified, for I delight in good perfumes. The picnic was a great success. To give Staszewski his due, he knows how to arrange these things. I arrived together with my aunt, but lost sight of her in the entrance hall, for Staszewski himself came down to lead her upstairs. The dear old lady had on her ermine cloak she uses on great occasions, and which her friends call her robe of state. When I entered the ballroom I remained near the door and looked around. What a strange sensation when, after a long interval, one comes back to once familiar scenes. I feel I am a part of them, and yet I look at them and criticise them as if I were a stranger. Especially the women attracted my attention,--I must admit, fastidious as I am, that our society is very choice. I saw pretty faces and plain faces, but all stamped with the same well-bred refinement. The necks and shoulders, in spite of the softly rounded contours, simply reminded me of Sevres china. There is a restful elegance, something daintily finished, in all of them. Truly, they do not imitate Europe,--they are Europe. I remained there about a quarter of an hour indolently musing which of all these dainty damsels my aunt had chosen for me, when Sniatynski and his wife came up. I had seen him only a few months ago at Rome, and had known her, too, for some time. I like her very much; she has a sweet face and belongs to those exceptional Poles that do not absorb their husband's whole life, but surrender their own. Presently a young girl slipped in between us, and while greeting Pani Sniatynska, put out a small hand encased in a white kid glove and said:-- "Don't you know me, Leon?" I felt slightly perplexed at this question, for indeed I did not know who it was that greeted me thus familiarly; but not wishing to seem rude, I smiled and pressed the little hand, saying, "Of course I do." I must have looked a little foolish because, presently Pani Sniatynska burst out laughing and said, "But he does not recognize you; it is Aniela P." Aniela, my cousin! No wonder I did not recognize her. The last time I saw her, some ten or eleven years ago at Ploszow, she wore a short frock and pink stockings. I remember the midges had stung her about the legs, and she stamped on the ground like a little pony. How could I dream that these white shoulders, this breast covered with violets, this pretty face with the dark eyes, in short, this girl in the full bloom of maidenhood, was the same as the little wagtail on thin feet I had known formerly. How pretty she had grown; a fine butterfly had come from that chrysalis. I renewed my greeting very heartily. Afterwards when the Sniatynskis had left us she told me that my aunt and her mother had sent her to fetch me. I offered my arm and we went across the room. All at once it burst in upon me. It was she, Aniela, my aunt had in her mind. That then was the secret, the surprise meant for me. My aunt always used to be fond of her, and troubled herself not a little over Pani P.'s financial difficulties. I only wondered why these ladies were not stopping with my aunt; but I did not ponder over it long; I preferred to look at Aniela, who naturally interested me more than the average girl. As we had to make our way to the other end of the room and the crush was great, I had ample time for conversation and scrutiny. Fashion this year has it that gloves should be worn halfway up the elbow, so I noticed that the arm which rested on mine had a slightly dusky shade, covered as it was with a light down. And yet she could not be called a brunette. Her hair is a light brown with a gleam of bronze. Her eyes are light too, but appear dark, shaded as they are by long eyelashes; the eyebrows, on the contrary, are dark and very pretty. The characteristic of this little head with the low brow is that exuberance of hair, eyebrows, eyelashes, and that down, which on the face is very slight. This at some future time may spoil her beauty, but at present she is so young that it points only to an exuberance of organism, and shows that she is not a doll, but a woman full of warm, active life. I do not deny that, fastidious as are my nerves and not easily thrilled, I fell under a spell. She is my type exactly. My aunt, who, if she ever heard about Darwin would call him a wicked writer, has unconsciously adopted his theory of natural selection. Yes, she is my type. They have baited the hook this time with a dainty morsel. An electric current seemed to pass from her arm into mine. Besides I noticed that she too seemed pleased with me, and that naturally raises one's spirits. My scrutiny from an artistic point of view proved highly satisfactory. There are faces that seem to be a translation from music or poetry into human shape. Such a face is Aniela's. There is nothing commonplace about it. As children are inoculated for small-pox so the upper classes inoculate modesty in their girls; there is something so very innocent in this face, but through that very innocence peeps out a warm temperament. What a combination!--as if some one said, "An innocent Satan!" Unsophisticated as Aniela is, she is yet a little bit of a coquette, and quite conscious of her attractions. Knowing for instance that she has beautiful eyelashes, she very often drops her eyes. She has also a graceful way of lifting her head and looking at the person she is speaking to. In the beginning she was slightly artificial, from shyness I fancy, but soon afterwards we chatted together as if we had never been separated since those times at Ploszow. My aunt is highly amusing with her absentmindedness, but I should not care to have her for a fellow-conspirator. Scarcely had we approached the two elderly ladies and I exchanged greetings with Aniela's mother, when my aunt, noticing my animation, turned to her companion and said aloud, "How pretty she looks in those violets! It was, after all, a happy thought that he should see her the first time at a ball." Aniela's mother grew very confused, and so did Aniela, and the truth began to dawn upon me why it was the ladies were not staying with my aunt. This had been Pani P.'s idea; she and my aunt had been plotting together. I suppose Aniela had not been taken into confidence, but thanks to female perspicacity could not help guessing how matters stood. To put an end to the embarrassing situation I turned to her and said, "I warn you that I am not very proficient at dancing, but as they will carry you off any moment, will you grant me a waltz?" Aniela for all answer handed me her tablets and said resolutely, "Put down as many as you like." I confess that I do not like the rôle of a puppet pulled by a string, therefore I resolved to take an active part in the old ladies' politics. I took the tablets and wrote, "Did you understand that they want us to marry?" Aniela read it and changed color. She remained silent for a moment, as if not trusting her voice, or hesitating what to say; at last she lifted her eyelashes and looking straight into my eyes she replied, "Yes." It was now her turn to question me, not in words but with her eyes. I already knew I had made a favorable impression on her, and if she had an inkling of the truth her mind must needs dwell a good deal on me. I interpreted the look of her eyes thus: "I am aware my mother and my aunt want us to become acquainted, to know each other well. And you?" Instead of an answer I put my arm around her waist, and lightly drawing her towards me, led her into the mazes of a waltz. I remembered my fencing practice. A mute answer could not but stir up fancies in a girl's mind, especially after what I had written on the tablets. I thought to myself: "What harm is there if her fancy turns into my direction? As far as I am concerned I shall not go a step further than I intend, and if her fancy travels further I cannot help it." Aniela dances exquisitely, and she danced this waltz as a woman should, with a certain vehemence and self-abandon at the same time. I noticed that the violets on her breast rose and fell far quicker than the quiet step of the dance warranted. I understood that she felt agitated. Love is a law of nature, kept under control by a careful bringing-up. But once the girl is told that she may love this one or that, the chance is she will obey very readily. Aniela evidently expected that after I had been bold enough to write those few words I would allude to it further, but I kept aloof on purpose to leave her in suspense. I wished also to look at her from a distance. Decidedly she is my type. Women of that kind have a special attraction for me. Oh, if only she were thirty, and not a girl they expect me to marry! WARSAW, 30 January. They have come to stay with us. Yesterday I spent all the day with Aniela. She has more pages to her soul than most girls at her age. On many of these pages the future will write, but there is room for many beautiful things. She feels and understands everything, and is an excellent listener, and follows the conversation with her large, intelligent eyes. A woman that can listen possesses one more attraction, because she flatters man's vanity. I do not know whether Aniela is conscious of this, or whether it be her womanly instinct. Maybe she has heard so much about me from my aunt that she deems every word I say an oracle. She is decidedly not without coquetry. To-day I asked her what she wished for most in life. She answered, "To see Rome;" then her eyelashes fell, and she looked indescribably pretty. She sees that I like her, and it makes her happy. Her coquetry is charming, because it comes straight from a delighted heart, and tries to please the chosen object. I have not the slightest doubt that her heart is fluttering towards me, as a moth flutters into the candle. Poor child! she feels the elders have given their mute consent, and she obeys only too willingly. I can watch the process from hour to hour. Perhaps I ought to inquire of myself, "If you do not want to marry her, why are you trying to make her love you?" But I do not choose to answer that question. I feel at peace here, and restful! After all, what is it I am doing? I try not to appear more foolish or disagreeable or less courteous than I am by nature, that is all. Aniela appeared to-day at breakfast in a loose sailor-dress, which only just betrayed the outline of her shape, and she looked bewitching. Her eyes were still full of dreaminess and sleep. It is something wonderful what an impression she is making on me. 31 January. My aunt is giving an entertainment in honor of Aniela. I am paying visits and leaving cards right and left. I called upon the Sniatynskis, and sat with them for a long time, because I feel there at home. Sniatynski and his wife are always wrangling with each other, but their life is different from that of most other married people. As a rule, it happens when there is one cloak, each tries to get possession of it; these two dispute because he wishes her to have it, and she wants it all for him. I like them immensely,--it is so refreshing to see there is still happiness out of novels. With all that, he is so clever; as sensitive as a Stradivarius violin, and quite conscious of his happiness. He wanted it, and has got it. I envy him. I always used to like his conversation. They offered me some black coffee; it is only at literary people's houses one can get such coffee. He asked me what I thought of Warsaw after so long an absence. There was also some talk about the ball, especially from the lady's part. She seems to guess something about my aunt's plans, and wants to have one of her rosy fingers in the pie,--especially as she comes from the same part of the country as Aniela. We touched personal matter very slightly, but had a lively discussion about society in general. I told him what I thought about its refinement; and as Sniatynski, though he criticises it himself mercilessly, is always greedy to hear its praises sung, it put him into capital spirits. "I like to hear you say so," he remarked, "as you have so many chances to make comparisons, and are rather inclined to look at the world from a pessimist's point of view." "I do not know whether what I just said does not lean that way." "How do you prove that?" asked Sniatynski, quickly. "You see, refined culture might be compared to cases with glass and china, upon which is written, 'Fragile.' For you, a spiritual son of Athens, for me and a few others, it is pleasant to be in touch with it; but if you want to build anything on such foundation, you will find the beams coming down on your head. Don't you think those refined _dilettanti_ of life are bound to get the worst in a struggle with a people of strong nerves, a tough skin, and iron muscles?" Sniatynski, who is very lively, jumped up and walked about the room, then rushed at me impetuously. "You have seen only one side of the picture, and not the best one, either; do not think there is nothing more to be seen. You come from abroad, and pronounce judgment upon us as if you had lived here all your life." "I do not know what else there may be, but I know that nowhere in the world is there such a vast difference between the classes. On one side, the most refined culture,--over-refined, if anything; on the other, absolute barbarism and ignorance." A long discussion followed, and it was dusk before I left them. He said if I came oftener to see them, he would show me the connecting link between the two classes, introduce me to men who were neither over-refined, ignorant, nor sickening with dilettantism, but strong men, who knew what they wanted, and were going straight for it. When I was going away, Sniatynski called out after me: "From such as you nothing good will come, but your children may be men; but you and such like must lose every penny you possess, otherwise even your grandchildren will do nothing useful." I still think that on the whole I was right. I have taken special notice of this conversation, as this discrepancy has occupied my thoughts ever since my arrival. The fact is that between the classes there is a vast gulf that precludes all mutual understanding, and makes simultaneous efforts simply impossible. At least, I look upon it in that light. Sèvres china and common clay,--nothing between; one _très fragile_, the other, Ovidius's "rudis indigestaque moles." Of course Sèvres china sooner or later breaks, and from the clay the future may mould anything it likes. 2 February. Yesterday my aunt's entertainment took place. Aniela was the cynosure of every eye. Her white shoulders peeping out from a cloud of muslin, gauze, or whatever it is called, she looked like a Venus rising from the foam. I fancy it is already gossiped about that I am going to marry her. I noticed that her eyes often strayed in my direction, and she listened to her partners with an absent, distracted expression. Guileless child! she cannot hide the truth, and shows so plainly what is going on in her heart that I could not help seeing it, unless I were blind. And she is so humble and quietly happy when I am with her! I like her immensely, and begin to waver. Sniatynski is so happy in his home life! It is not the first time I have asked myself whether Sniatynski be more foolish or wiser than I. Of the many problems of life, I have not solved one. I am nothing; scepticism is sapping my whole system; I am not happy, and am very tired. He, with less knowledge than I, does useful work, has a good and handsome wife, the rogue! and his very philosophical principles, adapted to life, help to make him happy. No, it must be acknowledged, it is I who am the more foolish of the two. The keynote of Sniatynski's philosophy is found in his dogmas of life. Before he was married he said to me: "There are two things I never approach with scepticism, and do not criticise: to me as a literary man, the community is a dogma; as a private individual, the beloved woman." I thought to myself then: "My mind is bolder,--it analyzes even that." But I see now that this boldness has not led me to anything. And how lovely she is,--that little dogma of mine with the long eyelashes! Decidedly, I am going the way I did not mean to go. The singular attraction which draws me towards her cannot be explained by the law of natural selection. Ho! there is something more, and I know what it is. She loves me with all the freshness of her honest heart, as I was never loved before. How different from the fencing practice of former years, when thrusts were dealt or guarded against! The woman who is much liked, and who in her turn loves, is sure to win in the end if she perseveres. "The stray bird," says the poet Slowacki, "comes back to his haven of rest and peace all the more eagerly after the lonesomeness of his stormy flight. Nothing takes so firm a hold upon a man's heart as the consciousness that he is loved." A few pages before, I wrote God knows what about Polish women; but if any one fancies that for the sake of a few written sentences I feel myself bound to pursue a certain course, he is vastly mistaken. How that girl satisfies my artistic taste is simply wonderful. After the ball, came the pleasantest moment when, everybody gone, we sat down and had some tea. Wanting to see how the world looked outside, I drew back the heavy curtains. It was eight o'clock in the morning and a flood of daylight poured into the room. It was so perfectly blue, seen by the glare of the lamps, that it reminded me of the Capri grotto. And there stood Aniela, with that blue haze around her white shoulders. She looked so lovely that all my resolutions tottered and fell to pieces; I felt positively grateful to her for this glimpse of beauty, as if it were her doing. I pressed her hand more tenderly than I had ever done before when saying good-night to her. "Good-morning, you mean, not good-night,--good-morning." Either I am blind and deaf or her eyes and voice expressed: "I love you, I love you." I do the same--almost. My aunt looking at us gave a low grunt of contentment. I saw tears shining in her eyes. To-morrow we leave here for Ploszow. PLOSZOW, 5 February. This is my second day in the country. We had a splendid drive. The weather was clear and frosty. The snow creaked under the runners of the sledge and glittered and sparkled in the fields. Towards sunset the vast plain assumed pink and purple shades. The rooks, cawing and flapping their wings, flew in and out the lime trees. Winter, the strong, homely winter, is a beautiful thing. There is a certain vigor in it, and dignity, and what is more, so much sincerity. Like a true friend, who, regardless as to consequences, hurls cutting truths, it smites you between the eyes without asking leave. By way of compensation it bestows upon you some of its own vigor. We were all of us glad to leave the town--the elder ladies, that their pet scheme might be brought to a climax by closer companionship; I, because I was near Aniela; she, maybe for the same reason, felt happy too. She bent down several times to kiss my aunt's hands, apropos of nothing, out of sheer content. She looked very pretty in a long, fluffy boa and a coquettish fur cap, from under which the dark eyes and the almost childish face peeped forth. How young she looks. I feel at home in Ploszow, it is so quiet and restful; and I like the huge, old-fashioned chimneys. The woods are to my aunt as the apple of her eye, but she does not grudge herself fuel; and big logs, which are crackling and burning there from morning until night, make it look bright and cheerful. We sat around the fire the whole afternoon. I brought out some of my reminiscences, and told them about Rome and its treasures. The three women listened with such devoutness that it made me feel ridiculous in my own eyes. From time to time, while I was talking, my aunt cast a searching glance at Aniela to see whether she expressed enough admiration. But there is too much of that already. Yesterday she said to me:-- "Another man might spend there his whole life and not see half the beautiful things you do." My aunt added with dogmatic firmness,-- "I have always said so." It is as well that there is not another sceptic here, for his presence would embarrass me not a little. A certain dissonant chord in our little circle is Aniela's mother. The poor soul has had so many sorrows and anxieties that her cheerfulness, if ever she had any, is a thing of the past. She is simply afraid of the future, and instinctively suspects pitfalls even in good fortune. She was very unhappy in her married life, and afterwards has had continual worries about her estate, which is very much involved. In addition to all this she suffers from nervous headaches. Aniela belongs to that category of women who never trouble themselves about money matters. I like her for that, for it proves that she thinks of higher things. For the matter of that, everything in her pleases and delights me now. Tenderness grows on the soil of attraction by the senses, as quick as flowers after a warm rain. To-day, in the morning, I saw the maid carrying up her gown and boots; this moved me very much, especially the little, little boots, as if the wearing of them was the crown of all virtues in Aniela. PLOSZOW, 8 or 9 February. My aunt has taken up her visual warfare with Pan Chwastowski. This is such an original habit of hers that I must describe one of their disputes. The dear lady can evidently not exist without it, or at least not enjoy her dinner; Chwastowski, again, who, by the bye, is an excellent manager, is a compound of brimstone and saltpetre, and does not allow anybody to thwart him; therefore the quarrels sometimes reach the acute state. When entering the dining-room they eye each other with suspicious glances. The first shot is fired by my aunt while eating her soup. "It is a very long time, Pan Chwastowski, since I heard anything about the winter crops, and Pan Chwastowski, instead of giving me the information, speaks about anything but what I want to know." "They were very promising in autumn, my lady; now they are covered by a yard or two of snow,--how am I to know the state they are in? I am not the Lord Almighty." "I beg of you, Pan Chwastowski, not to take the Lord's name in vain." "I do not look under His snow, therefore do not offend Him." "Do you mean to insinuate that I do?" "Most certainly." "Pan Chwastowski, you are unbearable." "Oho! bearable enough because he bears a great deal." In this or that way the screw goes round. There is scarcely a meal but they have some differences. Then my aunt at last subsides, and seems to wreak the remnants of her anger on the dinner. She enjoys a hearty appetite. As the dinner goes on she gradually brightens up and recovers her usual spirits. After dinner, I offer my arm to Aniela's mother, my aunt accepts Pan Chwastowski's, and presently they sip their black coffee in peace and perfect amity. My aunt inquires after his sons, and he kisses her hands. I saw those sons of his when they were at the university, and I hear they are promising young men, but great radicals. Aniela used to get frightened at first at these prandial disputes, until I gave her the clue to the real state of things. So now when the first signal of battle is given, she looks at me slyly from under those long lashes, and there is a little smile lurking in the corners of her mouth. She is so pretty then I feel tempted to take her in my arms. I have never met a woman with such delicate veins on her temples. 12 February. Truly a metamorphosis of Ovidius on the earth and within me! The frost has gone, the fine weather vanished, and there is Egyptian darkness. I cannot describe it better than by saying the weather is foul. What an abominable climate! In Rome, at the worst, the sun shines at intervals half a dozen times a day; here lamps ought to be lit these two days. The black, heavy mist seems to permeate one's thoughts, and paint them a uniform gray. My aunt and Pan Chwastowski were more intent than usual upon warfare. He maintained that my aunt, by not allowing the woods to be touched, causes the timber to spoil; my aunt replied that others did their best to cut down all the timber, and not a bit of forest would soon be left in the country. "I am getting old; let the trees grow old too." This reminds me of the nobleman of vast possessions who only allowed as much land to be cultivated as to where the bark of his dog could be heard. Aniela's mother, without intending it, gave me to-day a bad quarter of an hour. Alone with me in the conservatory, she began telling me, with maternal boastfulness, that an acquaintance of mine, a certain Pan Kromitzki, had made overtures for Aniela's hand. I had a sensation as if somebody tried to remove a splinter from my flesh with a fork. As the blue waves of light had stirred up within me a tender feeling for Aniela,--although it was no merit of hers,--so now the wooing of such a man as Kromitzki threw cold water upon the nascent affections. I know that ape Kromitzki, and do not like him. He comes from Austrian Silesia, where it seems they had owned estates. In Rome he used to say that his family had borne the title of count already in the fifteenth century, and at the hotels put himself down as "Graf von Kromitzki." But for his small, black eyes, not unlike coffee-berries, and his black hair, his head looks as if cut out from a cheese-rind,--for such is his complexion. He reminds me of a death's-head, and I simply have a physical loathing for him. Ugh! how the thought of him in connection with Aniela has spoiled her image. I am quite aware that she is in no way responsible for Kromitzki's intentions; but it has damaged her in my eyes. I do not know why her mother should think it necessary to tell me these details; if it be a warning, it has missed its aim. She must have some grand qualities, this Pani P., since she has managed to steer her life through so many difficulties, and at the same time educated her daughter so well; but she is clumsy and tedious with her headaches and her macaronism. "I confess," she said, "that the alliance suited me. At times I almost break down under the weight of troubles. I am a woman with little knowledge of business, and what I acquired I have paid for with my health; but I had to think of my child. Kromitzki is very clever. He has large concerns at Odessa, and is at present engaged in some large speculations in naphtha at Baku, or some such place, 'que sais-je.' It seems there is some difficulty about his not being a Russian subject. If he married Aniela he might clear the estate; and as an extensive landowner he would have no difficulty in getting naturalized." "What does Aniela say to this?" I asked impatiently. "She does not care for him, but is a good and obedient child. I am anxious to see her married before I die." I did not care to prolong the conversation, which irritated me more than I can tell; and though I understand well enough, if that match has not been arranged, it was Aniela's doing, yet I feel aggrieved that she should allow a man like that even to look at her. For me this would be a mere question of nerves. I forget, however, that others are not constituted like me, and that Kromitzki, in spite of his cadaverous face, passes among women as a good-looking man. I wonder what his affairs are. I forgot to ask whether he is at Warsaw; most likely he is, as he goes there every winter. As to his business, it may be very magnificent, but I doubt whether it be on a solid basis. I am not a speculator, and could not for the life of me transact a stock-exchange affair; but I am shrewd enough to know it. Besides I am a close observer, and quick to draw conclusions. Therefore I do not believe in noblemen with a genius for speculation. I am afraid Kromitzki's is neither an inherited nor innate quality, but a neurosis driving him into a certain direction. I have seen examples of that kind. Now and then blind fortune favors the nobleman-speculator, and he accumulates wealth; but I have not seen one who did not come to grief before he died. Capacities such as these are either inherited or acquired by early training. Chwastowski's boys will be able to do something in that way because their father lost by accident all his fortune, and they have to make a fresh start. But he who with ready capital, without commercial tradition or professional knowledge, embarks upon commerce, is bound to come to grief. Speculation cannot be based upon illusions, and there is too much of that in the speculations of our noblemen. Upon the whole, I wish Pan von Kromitzki every luck! 14 February. Pax! pax! pax! The painful impression has vanished. What keen perceptions Aniela has! I endeavored to be cheerful, though I felt out of spirits, and I do not think there was any perceptible change in my behavior; yet she perceived a change at once. To-day, when we looked at the albums and were alone,--which happens pretty often, on purpose I suppose,--she grew embarrassed and changed color. I saw at once she wanted to say something, and did not dare. For a single moment the mad thought flashed across my brain that she was about to confess her love for me. But as quick as the thought, I remembered it was a Polish girl I had before me. A mere chit of a girl--I beg her pardon, a young princess,--would rather die than be the first to confess her love. When asked she gives her assent rather as a favor. Besides, Aniela very quickly corrected my mistake; suddenly closing the album she said in a hesitating voice: "What is the matter with you, Leon? There is something the matter, is there not?" I began assuring her at once that there was nothing the matter with me, and to laugh away her perturbation; but she only shook her head and said: "I have seen that something was amiss these last two days. I know that men like you may be easily offended, and I have asked myself whether anything I might have done or said--" Her voice shook a little, but she looked straight at me. "I have not hurt you, have I?" There was a moment I felt tempted to say, "If there is anything wanting to my happiness it is you, Aniela, only you;" but a sudden terror clutched me by the hair. Not terror of her, but of the consequences that might follow. I took her hand, kissed it, and said in the most cheerful voice I could assume, "You are a good and dear girl; do not mind me,--there is nothing whatever the matter; besides, you are our guest, and it is I who ought to see that you are comfortable." And I kissed again her hand, both hands in fact. All this could be still put down to cousinly affection,--human nature is so mean that the consciousness that there was still a door through which I could escape lent me courage. I call this feeling mean for the very reason that I am not responsible to anybody except to myself, and myself I cannot deceive. Yet I feel that even to myself I shall not give a strict account, because in so far as my relations to Aniela are concerned I am carried away by my sensations. I still feel on my lips the touch of her hand,--and my desires are simply without limit. Sooner or later I shall myself close that door through which I could still escape. But could I still escape? Yes, if some extraneous circumstances came to my aid. In the meanwhile she loves me, and everything draws me towards her. To-day I asked myself, "If it is to be, why put it off?" I found a ready answer: "Because I do not want to lose any of my present sensations; the sudden thrills, the charm of the words unspoken, the questioning glances, the expectations. I wish to spin out the romance to the very end. I found fault with women that they preferred the semblance of love to love itself, and now I am quite as anxious not to lose any of its outward manifestations. But as one gets more advanced in years one attaches greater importance to these things; and besides, I am an Epicurean in my sensations." After the above conversation with Aniela, we both recovered our spirits. During evening I helped her in the cutting out of lampshades, which gave me the opportunity to touch her hands and dress. I hindered her with the work and she became as gay as a child, and in a child's quick, plaintive voice called out, "Aunty, Leon is very naughty." 14 February. Ill luck would have it that I accepted an invitation to attend a meeting at Councillor S.'s, who always tries to bring together representatives of all shades and opinions, and over a cup of tea and a sandwich to bring about a mutual understanding. As a man almost continually living abroad, I came to this meeting to find out what was going on in the minds of my countrymen and listen to their reasonings. The crush was very great, which made me feel uncomfortable, and at the same time happened what usually happens at large gatherings. Those of the same shade of opinion congregated in separate rooms to pay each other compliments and so forth. I was made acquainted with various councillors and representatives of the press. In other countries, there is a considerable difference between writers and journalists. The first is considered an artist and a thinker, the latter, a mere paragraph-monger--I cannot find a better word. Here there is no such distinction, and men of both occupations are known under the same collective name as literary men. The greater part of them follow both avocations, literature and journalism. Personally, they are more refined than the journalists I met abroad. I do not like the daily press, and consider it as one of the plagues sent down to torment humanity. The swiftness with which the world becomes acquainted with current events is equal to the superficiality of the information, and does not compensate for the incredible perversion of public opinion, as any one who is not prejudiced must perceive. Thanks to the daily press, the sense which knows how to sift the true from the false has become blunted, the notions of right and wrong have well-nigh disappeared, evil stalks about in the garb of righteousness, and oppression speaks the language of justice; in brief, the human soul has become immoral and blind. There was, among others, also Stawowski, who is considered a leader among the advanced progressists. He spoke cleverly, but appeared to me a man suffering from a two-fold disease: liver, and self. He carries his ego like a glass of water filled to the brim, and seems to say, "Take care, or it will spill." This fear, by some subtle process, seems to communicate itself to his audience to such an extent that nobody dares to be of a different opinion. He has this influence over others because he believes in what he says. They are wrong, those who consider him a sceptic. On the contrary, he is of the temperament which makes fanatics. Had he been born a hundred years ago and been a judge, he would have sentenced people to have their tongues cut out for uttering blasphemy. Born as he is in the more enlightened times, he hates what he would have loved then; but essentially it is the same man. I noticed that our conservatives crowded round Stawowski, not so much out of curiosity to hear what he said as rather with a certain watchful coquetry. Here, and maybe in other countries, this party has little courage. They looked at the speaker with insinuating smiles, as if they would say: "Although conservatives, nevertheless--" Ah! that "nevertheless" was like an act of contrition, a kind of submission. This was so evident that I who am a sceptic as to all party spirit, began to contradict Stawowski, not as a representative of any party, but simply as a man who is of a different opinion. My audacity excited some astonishment. The matter in question was the position of the working-men. Stawowski spoke of their hopeless condition, their weakness and incapacity for defending themselves; the audience which listened to his words grew every minute larger, when I interrupted:-- "Do you believe in Darwin's theory, the survival of the fittest?" Stawowski, who is a naturalist by profession, took up the challenge at once. "Of course I do," he said. "Then allow me to point out to you that you are inconsequent. If I, as a Christian, care for the weak and defenceless, I do so by the doctrine of Christ; but you, from a standpoint of a struggle-for-life existence, ought to see it in a different light: they are weak, they are foolish, consequently bound to succumb; it is a capital law of nature,--let the weaker go to perdition. Why is it you do not take it this way? please explain the contradiction." Whether Stawowski was taken aback by the unexpected opposition, or whether he really had never put the two things together, the fact was that he was at a loss for a ready answer, grew confused, and did not even venture upon the expression "altruism," which, after all, says very little. The hero of the evening worsted, the conservatives came over to me in a body, and I might have become the hero now; but it was getting late, I was bored, and wanted to get back to Ploszow. Gradually the others too began to disperse. I was already in my fur coat and searching for my eyeglasses, that had slipped between the coat and furs, when Stawowski, who evidently had found his answer, came up to me and said:-- "You asked why--" I, still searching for the eyeglasses and rather put out, said impatiently:-- "Plainly speaking, the question does not interest me very much. It is getting late and everybody is leaving; besides I can guess what you are going to say, therefore permit me to wish you good-night." I fancy I have made an enemy of the man, especially by my last remark. It was one o'clock when I arrived at Ploszow, and there a pleasant surprise awaited me; Aniela was sitting up to make some tea for me. I found her in the dining-room, still fully dressed, with the exception of her hair, which was done up for the night. From the intense delight I felt in seeing her thus unexpectedly, I perceived how deeply she had entered into my heart. What a dear girl she is, and how pretty she looks with the tresses coiled low down her neck. And to think that I have only to say the word and in a month or two I might have the right to undo those tresses and let them fall on her shoulders. I cannot think of it quietly. It seems past all belief that happiness should be so easy to get. I began to scold her a little for sitting up so late, and she replied:-- "But I was not in the least sleepy, and begged mamma and aunty to let me sit up for you. Mamma would not allow it, said it was not proper; but I explained to her that we were cousins, and that makes all the difference. And do you know who took my part?--auntie." "Dear aunt! You will take some tea with me, will you not?" I watched her handling the cups with those deft, graceful fingers, and felt a desire to kiss them. She looked at me now and then, but upon meeting my eyes her eyelashes drooped. Presently she inquired how I had spent the evening, and what impressions I had carried away. We spoke in a low voice, though the sleeping-rooms were far enough away to make it unnecessary. There was such confidence and heartiness in our intercourse as among relatives who are fond of each other. I told her what I had seen and noticed, as one tells a friend. I spoke about the general impression the society of the country makes upon a man that has chiefly lived abroad. She listened quietly with wide-open eyes, happy to be thus taken into confidence. Then she said:-- "Why do you not write about all that, Leon? That I do not think of such things is not to be wondered at; but nobody else here has thoughts like these." "Why do I not write?" I replied. "There are many reasons for it. I will explain to you some time; one of them is that I have nobody near me who, like you, says: 'Leon, why do you not do something?'" After this we both became silent. I had never seen Aniela's lashes veil her eyes so closely, and I could almost hear the beating of her heart. And indeed she had a right to expect me to say: "Will you remain with me always and put the same question?" But I found such a keen delight in skirting the precipice before making the final plunge, and feeling that heart palpitating almost in my hand that I could not do it. "Good-night," I said, after a short time. And that angelic creature gave not the slightest sign that she had met with a disappointment. She rose, and with the least touch of sadness in her voice, but no impatience, replied: "Good-night." We shook hands and parted for the night. My hand was already on the latch, when I turned round and saw her still standing near the table. "Aniela! Tell me," I said, "do you not think me a fantastic kind of man, full of whims and fancies?" "Oh, no, not fantastic; sometimes I think you a little strange, but then I say to myself that men like you are bound to be different from others." "One question more; when was it you thought me strange the first time?" Aniela blushed to the tips of her ears. How pretty she looked with the pink flame spreading over her face and neck. "No, I could not tell you." "Then let me guess, and if I am right say yes. It is a single word." "What word?" she asked, with increased confusion. "Tablets. Yes, or no?" "Yes," said Aniela, with drooping eyes. "Then I will tell you why I wrote those words. First, because I wanted a link connecting us together, a little secret shared by both of us, and also--" I pointed at the flowers the gardener had brought from the hot-house. "You know flowers want light to bring out all their beauty, and I wanted plenty of light for our atmosphere." "I cannot always follow you," she said, after a momentary silence, "but I trust you, yes, and believe in you." We remained once more silent; I pressed her hand again, saying good-night. We stopped near the door, and our eyes met. The waters begin to rise and to rise. They will overstep their boundary any moment. 23 February. The human being, like the sea, has his ebb and flood tides. To-day my will, my energy, the very action of life are at a very low tide. It came upon me without warning, a mere matter of nerves. But for that very reason my thoughts are full of bitterness. What right have I, a man physically worn out and mentally exhausted, to marry at all? Involuntarily the words of Hamlet come in my mind: "Get thee to a nunnery; why wouldst thou be a breeder of sinners?" I shall not bury myself within cloister walls. The future sinners will be like me, all nerves, oversensitive, not fit for any practical life,--in fact, artists without portfolios. But the deuce take it, it is not they, but Aniela I am thinking of. Have I a right to marry her,--to link that fresh budding life, full of simple faith in God and the world, to my doubts, my spiritual impotence, my hopeless scepticism, my criticism and nerves? What will be the result of it for her? I cannot regain another spiritual youth, and even at her side cannot find my old self; my brains cannot change, or my nerves grow more vigorous,--and what then? Is she to wither at my side? It would be simply monstrous. I to play the part of a polypus that sucks the life-blood of its victims in order to renew its own life! A heavy cloud weighs on my brain. But if such be the case why did I allow it to go so far? What have I been doing ever since I met Aniela? Playing on her very heartstrings to bring forth sweet music. And yet, what for me was "Quasi una fantasia" may prove to her "Quasi un dolore." Yes, I have played on that sensitive instrument from morning until night; and what is more, I feel that in spite of my self-upbraidings, I shall do the same to-morrow and the days following, for I cannot help it; she attracts me more than any woman I ever met, I desire her above all things--I love her! Why delude myself any longer?--I love her! What is to be done? Must I go away back to Rome? That means a disappointment and sorrow for her; for who knows how deeply rooted her feelings may be? To marry her is the same as to sacrifice her for myself, and make her life unhappy in another way. A truly enchanted circle! Only people of the Ploszowski species ever get into such dilemmas. And there is devilish little comfort in the thought that there are more such as I, or that their name is legion. Whether the species be gradually dying out, as badly fitted for the struggle of life, remains to be seen; for in addition to an incapacity for life, there is ill luck as well. I might have met such an Aniela ten years ago, when my sails were not, as now, worn to shreds and patches. If that honest soul, my aunt, knew how, with the best of intentions, she brought me to this pass, she would be truly grieved. There was tragedy enough in my life,--the consciousness of utter failure, the dark mist in which my thoughts were straying; now there is a new,--to be, or not to be; but no, it is far worse than that! 26 February. Yesterday I went again to Warsaw by appointment, to meet a certain Pan Julius Keo, on whose estates I lodged part of the capital I inherited from my mother. Pan Julius Keo wants to pay off the mortgage, and asked me to meet him at a fixed time; and I waited for him the whole day. The devil take their ways of managing any business in this country! He will make five other appointments, and not keep one. He is very rich, wants to get rid of the mortgage, and is able to pay it off any time; and yet--such is our way of transacting business. From my own observations I long since came to the conclusion that in money matters we are the most flighty and unbusinesslike people in the world. I, who like to go to the root of matters, often pondered over this phenomenon. According to my ideas, this is the result of the purely agricultural occupation of the people. Commerce was in the hands of the Jews, and these could not teach us accuracy; the cultivator of the soil is unreliable because the soil is unreliable, he is unpunctual because nature has no punctuality. Working in the soil, they gradually take some of its characteristics, which enters into their moral being, and in the course of time becomes an inherited defect. The knowledge of cause and effect does not restore me to an equable temper. I had to tear myself away from Aniela for a whole day, and what is more, shall have to go through the some process a few days hence; but it cannot be helped. In my aunt's house I found visiting-cards from Kromitzki,--one for me and two for the elder ladies. I was afraid he might take it into his head to pay us a visit at Ploszow; to avoid that, I went out to leave my card on him. Unfortunately for me, he was at home, and I had to stay half an hour. He began his conversation by telling me that he had promised to call at Ploszow; to which I replied that we had gone there merely for a few days, and would be back in town almost immediately. He asked after Aniela's mother, and very guardedly after Aniela herself. He evidently wanted to impress me with the fact that he inquired as a mere acquaintance. I am so impressionable that even this gave me a twinge; how I loathe that man! I fancy the Tartars under Batu Khan must have played many pranks in what is to-day Austrian Silesia, when looting the country after the battle of Liegnitz. That those black eyes, like roasted coffee-berries, did not come from Silesian ancestors, I have not the slightest doubt. He was exceedingly polite to me, because I am rich. It is true, he wants nothing from me,--I do not give him anything, and my being rich is of no advantage to him; but as a financier he worships money. We spoke about the difficulties in which Aniela's mother was and is still involved. According to Kromitzki, a great deal of her fortune might still be saved if she would part with the estate. Kromitzki looks upon the reluctance to part with ancestral lands as a mere fad. He said he might be able to understand it if she had the means to prevent it, but as the case stood it was mere sentimentality. He is very talkative, and discussed at some length our national idiocy. Money was lying on the pavement, to be had for the picking up. His father, like other noblemen, had left scarcely any fortune; when all debts were cleared off there remained a paltry hundred thousand florins, and the world knew how he, Kromitzki, stood at present. "If that business in Turkestan comes off, I shall be able to wind up my affairs. The Jews and Greeks have made millions in the contract business; why should not we be able to do as well? I do not put myself as an example; but I say, why should we not? There is room for everybody,--why not go in for it?" According to my opinion, Kromitzki has a certain aptness for business, but is foolish in a general sense. That we are shiftless, everybody knows that; and that here and there somebody makes a fortune by contracts, I can well believe; but the greater part of the people must work at home, and not look for millions from contracts in Turkestan. May God save Aniela from an alliance with that man. He may have some good qualities, but he belongs to a different moral type. If there be a worse fate in store for her, ought I to hesitate any longer? 28 February. The elder ladies seem uneasy that the affair is not going on as speedily as they had fancied; my aunt, who is of an impatient temper, must chafe inwardly not a little. But the expression of happiness on Aniela's face soothes them, and allays their fears. I can read in her eyes endless trust and thorough belief in me. She fills my thoughts so that I cannot think of anything but her. I desire her more and more, and do not want to play upon her feelings any longer,--I want her. 4 March. This day has been to me of so much importance that I am obliged to muster all my calmness and self-possession to put down everything in its proper order. Nevertheless, I cannot contain myself. The die is cast, or as good as cast. I could not have gone on quietly, had I not put that down. And now I can begin. Sniatynski and his wife arrived here towards noon, for an early dinner. He had to go back, as a new play of his is coming out at the theatre. However happy we may be in our rural seclusion, we are always delighted to see them. Aniela is great friends with Pani Sniatynska, and I suppose there will be an exchange of confidences. Pani Sniatynska guessed at the state of things, and tried to put her hand to the wheel, to make the cart go a little faster. She had only just arrived, when she said to my aunt:-- "How lovely and peaceful everything is here! No wonder the young people there do not pine after the dissipations of town." We both, Aniela and I, understood perfectly well that Pani Sniatynska, calling us the young people, was not referring only to our age. Besides, she repeated the same thing several times during dinner: "the young people," "the young couple," as if making a pointed difference between us two and the elder ladies. But there was such real sympathy for us in the friendly eyes; such a pricking up of her little ears to hear what we were saying to each other; and the little woman looked so charming withal that I forgive her readily her good-natured meddling. I have arrived at such a state of infatuation that this coupling of our names rather gladdens than irritates me. Aniela too seemed to hear it with pleasure. In her efforts to please the Sniatynskis and the attentions she bestowed on them during dinner, she truly looked like a young bride, who receives dear visitors for the first time in her new home. At the sight of this my aunt's heart seemed to swell, and she said many kind and polite things to both Sniatynskis. I noticed a wonderful thing, which I should not believe had I not seen it with my own eyes. Pani Sniatynska blushes up to her ears when anybody praises her husband! To blush with pleasure when her husband is praised after eight years of married life! Surely, I committed an egregious mistake writing as I did about Polish women. The dinner passed off very pleasantly. A married couple, like these two, are born matchmakers. The very sight of them sets people thinking: "If married life is like that, let us go and commit matrimony." I at least saw it for the first time in a quite different light,--not as the prose of life, a commonplace, more or less skilfully disguised indifference, but as a thing to be desired. Aniela evidently read our future in the same light; I saw it in her eyes shining with happiness. After dinner I remained in the dining-room with Sniatynski, who liked a quiet talk over a glass of cognac after his coffee. The elder ladies went to the drawing-room, and Aniela took Pani Sniatynska upstairs to show her some photographs of Volhynia. I questioned Sniatynski about his new play, the fate of which seemed to make him a little anxious. Our conversation drifted on to those times when we both tried our sprouting wings. He told me how afterwards, step by step, he had worked his way upward; how he had been full of doubts, and still doubted his power, in spite of having acquired a certain reputation. "Tell me," I asked, "what do you do with your fame?" "How do you mean what I do with my fame?" "For instance, do you wear it as a crown on your head, or as a golden fleece round your neck? do you put it over your writing-desk, or hang it up in your drawing-room? I only ask as a man who has no idea what to do with it if he once obtains it?" "Let us suppose I have won it; the man must be deuced ill-bred mentally either to wear the so-called fame as an ornament or to put it up for show. I confess that at first it gratifies one's vanity; but only a spiritual parvenu would find it sufficient to fill the whole life, or take the place of real happiness. It is quite another thing to be conscious you are doing good work; that the public appreciates it, and that your work calls forth an echo in other minds,--a public man has the right to feel pleased with that. But as to feeling gratified when somebody, looking more or less foolish, comes up and says: 'We are indebted to you for so much pleasure;' or, when a dinner does not agree with me, our daily press remarks: 'We communicate to our readers the sad news that our famous XX suffers from a stomachache,'--pshaw! what do you take me for, that such a thing could give me satisfaction?" "Listen," I said, "I am not inordinately vain; but I confess that, when people speak of my extraordinary talents, and regret that I make not a better use of them, it flatters me; and though I feel more than ever my uselessness, it gives me pleasure; humankind is fond of approbation." "That is because you pity yourself, and in that you are quite right. But you are turning away from the question. I do not say that it would give one pleasure to be called an ass." "But the public esteem that goes hand in hand with fame?" Sniatynski, who is very lively and always walks about the room, sitting down on any table or chair, now sat on the window-sill, and replied:-- "Public esteem? You are wrong there, old fellow; there is no such thing. Ours is a strange society, dominated by a pure republican jealousy. I write plays, work for the stage; very good. I have gained a certain reputation; better still. Now, these plays excite the jealousy,--of another playwright, you think? Not at all; it is the engineer, the bank clerk, the teacher, the physician, the railway official,--in short, people who never wrote a play in their lives,--that envy you. All these in their intercourse will show that they do not think much of you, will speak slightingly of you behind your back, and belittle you on purpose, so as to add an inch or two to their own height. 'Sniatynski? who is he? Yes, I remember; he dresses at the same tailor as I.' Such is fame, my dear fellow." "But if must be worth something, since people risk their lives for it?" Sniatynski grew thoughtful, and replied with a certain gravity:-- "In private life it is worth something; you can make a footstool of it for the woman you love." "You will gain a new fame by this definition." Sniatynski rushed at me with lively impetuosity. "Yes, yes; put all your laurels into a cushion, go to the dear one, and say to her: 'This for which people risk their lives; this which they consider supreme happiness, appreciate more than wealth,--I have got it, striven for it; and now put your dear feet on it at once.' If you do this, you will be loved all your life. You wanted to know what fame is good for, and there you are." Further discussions were cut short by the entrance of Pani Sniatynska and Aniela. They were dressed for going out to the hot-houses. What an imp of mischief lurks in that little woman. She came up to her husband to ask his permission to go out, which he granted, insisting only that she should wrap herself up warm; she turned to me and said with a roguish smile,-- "You will let Aniela go, will you not?" That Aniela should blush furiously was only natural, but that I, an old stager, a razor sharpened against the strops of so many experiences, should have betrayed so much confusion, I cannot forgive myself. But, putting on a semblance of self-possession, I went up to Aniela, and raising her hand to my lips, said:-- "It is Aniela who gives orders at Ploszow, and I am her humble subject." I should have liked to take Sniatynski with me and join the excursion, but refrained. I felt a want to speak about Aniela, my future marriage, and I knew that sooner or later Sniatynski himself would broach the question. I gave him an opening after the ladies had left us by saying:-- "And do you still believe as firmly as ever in your life-dogmas?" "More than ever, or rather, the same as ever. There is no expression more worn to tatters than the word 'love;' one scarcely likes to use it; but between ourselves, I tell you; love in the general meaning, love in the individual sense does not permit of criticism. It is one of the canons of life. My philosophy consists in not philosophizing about it at all,--and the deuce take me if for the matter of that, I consider myself more foolish than other people. With love, life is worth something; without, it is not worth a bag of chaff." "Let us see what you have to say about individual love,--or better still, put in its place woman." "Very well, let it be woman." "My good friend, do you not perceive on what brittle foundation you are building human happiness?" "On about as brittle a foundation as life,--no more nor less!" I did not want to drift into a discussion of life and death, and pulled Sniatynski up. "For mercy's sake, do not generalize about individual happiness. You chanced to find the right woman, another might not." He would not even listen to that. According to his view, ninety out of a hundred were successful. Women were better, purer, and nobler than men. "We are rascals all, in comparison with them!" he shouted, waving his arms and snaking his leonine mane. "Nothing but rascals! It is I who say it,--I, who study mankind closely, if only for the reason that I am a playwright." He was sitting astride on his chair, attacking me, as it were, with the chairback, and went on with his usual impetuosity:-- "There are, as Dumas says, apes from the land of Nod, who know neither curb nor bridle; but what are eyes given for but to see that you do not take to wife an ape from Nod? Generally speaking a woman does not betray her husband nor deceive him, unless he himself corrupts her heart, tramples on her feelings, or repulses and estranges her by his meanness, his selfishness, narrowness, and his miserable, worthless nature. You must love her! Let her feel that she is not only your female, but the crown of your head, as precious as your child and friend; wear her close to your heart, let her feel the warmth of it, and you may rest in peace; year after year she will cling closer to you, until you two are like Siamese twins. If you do not give her all that, you pervert her, estrange her by your worthlessness,--and she will leave you. She will leave you as soon as she sees nobler hands stretched out for her; she is forced to do it, as this warmth, this appreciation, are as necessary to her life as the air she breathes." He charged me with the chairback as with a battering ram. I retreated before him until we had come close to the window; there he jumped up. "How blind you are! In presence of such social drought, such utter absence of general happiness as stamps our time, not to grasp this felicity that is within reach! Shiver on the forum, and not light a fire at home! Idiotism can go no farther! I tell you plainly, go and get married." He pointed through the window at Aniela, who with his wife was coming back from the hot-houses, and added: "There is your happiness. There it patters in fur boots on the frozen snow. Take her by weight of gold, by weight in carats rather! You simply have no home, not only in a physical sense, but in a moral, intellectual meaning; you have no basis, no point of rest, and she will give you all that. But do not philosophize her away as you have philosophized away your abilities and your thirty-five years of life!" He could not have told me anything better, nobler, or what chimed in more with my own desires. I pressed his hands and replied:-- "No, I will not philosophize her away, because I love her." Upon this the ladies entered, and Pani Sniatynska observed:-- "We heard some disputes when we were leaving, but I see peace is restored. May I ask what you have been discussing?" "Woman, madame," I said. "And what was the result?" "As you see, a treaty of peace sealed by a grasp of the hand, and something further may come of it in the course of time." The sledge was already waiting at the door. The short day was drawing to its close, and they had to go back; but as the weather was calm, and the snow on the drive as smooth as a parquetted floor, we resolved, Aniela and I, to accompany them as far as the high-road. And so we did. After having said good-by to our charming visitors, we went slowly homeward. It was already dusk; in the dim light I could still see Aniela's face. She seemed moved, perhaps had opened her heart to Pani Sniatynska, and even now hoped for the long deferred word. It was almost burning on my tongue; but, oh, wonder! I who never yet had lost all my self-possession, I who was used to play upon heartstrings, who at a fencing match of that kind, if not cleverly, at least with perfect composure guarded myself against the most masterly strokes, I was as deeply moved as a lad in his teens. What a difference from former sentiments. I was afraid I could not find words to express myself,--and remained silent. Thus in silence we approached the veranda. The snow was slippery; I offered her my arm, and when she leaned on it I felt how all my desires were centred in her. The feeling grew so intense that it thrilled my nerves like electric sparks. We entered the hall. There was nobody there; not even the lamps were lit, the only light came in fitful gleams from the open stoves. In this half-light and in silence I began to relieve Aniela of her furs, when suddenly the warmth emanating from her body seemed to enter into my veins; I put my arm around her, and drawing her close to me I pressed my lips on her brow. It was done almost unconsciously, and Aniela must have been greatly startled, for she made not the slightest resistance. Presently a footstep became audible; it was the servant with the lamps. She went upstairs, and I, deeply moved, entered the dining-room. To every man who is ever so little enterprising, similar events occur in the course of life. I am no exception, but, as a rule, I always kept the mastery over myself. Now it was different. Thoughts and sensations whirled across my brain like leaves before a gale. Fortunately the dining-room was empty; my aunt and Aniela's mother were in the drawing-room, where I joined them after a while. My thoughts were so far away that I scarcely heard what they were saying to me. I felt restless. I seemed to see Aniela sitting in her room, pressing her hands to her temples, trying to realize what it all meant. Soon Aniela herself came down. I felt relieved, as I had feared she might not come down again for the evening. She had two burning spots on either side of her face, and eyes bright as if from recent slumber. She had tried to cool her face with powder; I saw the traces on her left temple. The sight of her moved me; I felt that I loved her deeply. Presently she stooped over some needlework. I saw that her breath came and went irregularly, and once or twice I intercepted a quick glance full of unsettled questions and trouble. In order to set her mind at rest I thrust myself into the conversation of the elder ladies, who were speaking about Sniatynski, and said:-- "Sniatynski considers me a kind of Hamlet, and says I philosophize too much; but I am going to show him that he is mistaken, and that not later than to-morrow." I laid some stress on the "to-morrow," and Aniela caught the meaning, for she gave me a long look; but my aunt, all unconscious, asked:-- "Are you going to see him to-morrow?" "We ought to go and see his play, and if Aniela agrees we will all go to-morrow." The dear girl looked at me shyly but trustingly, and said, with indescribable sweetness:-- "I will go with great pleasure." There was a moment when I could scarcely contain myself, and felt I ought to speak there and then; but I had said "to-morrow," and refrained. I feel like a man who shuts his eyes and ears before taking the final plunge. But I really think it is a costly pearl I shall find at the bottom of the deep. CASA OSORIA, 6 March. Yesterday I arrived at Rome. My father is not quite so bad as I had feared. His left arm and the left side of his body are almost paralyzed, but the doctor tells me his heart is not threatened, and that he may live for years. 7 March. I left Aniela in doubt, expectation, and suspense. But I could not do otherwise. The day following the Sniatynskis' visit, the very day I was going to ask Aniela to be my wife, I received a letter from my father telling me about his illness. "Make haste, dear boy," he wrote, "for I should like to see you before I die, and I feel my bark very close to the shore." After the receipt of such a letter I took the first train, and never stopped until I reached Rome. When leaving Ploszow I had very little hope to find my father alive. In vain my aunt tried to comfort me, saying if things were so bad he would surely have sent a telegram instead of a letter. I know my father's little oddities, among which is a rooted dislike to telegrams. But my aunt's composure was only put on, at the bottom she felt as frightened as myself. In the hurry, the sudden shock, and under the horror of my father's likely death, I could not speak of love and marriage. It seemed against nature, almost a brutal thing, to whisper words of love, not knowing whether at the same time my father might not be breathing his last. They all understood that, and especially Aniela. "I will write to you from Rome," I said before starting; to which she replied: "May God comfort you first." She trusts me altogether. Rightly or wrongly, I have the reputation of fickleness in regard to women, and Aniela must have heard remarks about it; maybe it is for that very reason the dear girl shows such unbounded confidence in me. I understand, and can almost hear the pure soul saying: "They wrong you,--you are not fickle; and those who accuse you of fickleness do not know what love means, and did not love you as truly and deeply as I love you." Perhaps I am a little fickle by nature, and this disposition, developed under the influence of the barren, empty, worthless sentiments I met with in the world,--this might have dried up my heart and corrupted it altogether; in which case Aniela would have to pay for the sins of others. But I believe the case is not hopeless, and the blessed physician has not come too late. Who knows whether it be ever too late, and that the pure, honest love of a woman does not possess the power to raise the dead? Perhaps, too, the masculine heart has a greater power of recuperation. There is a legend about the rose of Jericho, which, though dry to the core, revives and brings forth leaves when touched by a drop of dew. I have noticed that the male nature has more elasticity than the female. A man steeped in such utter corruption that half of its venom would cover the woman with moral leprosy is able to throw off the contagion, and recover easily not only his moral freshness, but even a certain virginity of heart. It is the same with the affections. I have known women whose hearts were so used up that they lost every capacity of loving, even of respecting anything or anybody. I have never known men like that. Decidedly, love cleanses our hearts. Definitions like these sound strange from a sceptic's pen; but in the first place I have no more belief in my doubts than I have in any other kind of assertions, axioms, and observations which serve general humanity as a basis of life. I am ready to admit at any moment that my doubts are as far removed from the essence of things as are these axioms. Secondly, I am writing now under the influence of my love for Aniela, who, maybe, does not know herself how wisely she is acting, and how by that very trust in me she has secured a powerful hold on my affections. Lastly, whenever I speak of love, or any other principle of life, I speak and write of it as it appears to me in the present. What my opinion about it will be to-morrow, I do not know. Ah, if I but knew that whatever view I take or principle I confess would withstand the blasting scepticism of to-morrow or the days following, I would make it my canon of life, and float along with sails unfurled, like Sniatynski, in the light, instead of groping my way in darkness and solitude. But I do not intend to go back now to my inner tragedy. As to love in general, from the standpoint of a sceptic in regard to the world and its manifestations, I might say with Solomon, "Vanitas vanitatum;" but I should be utterly blind did I not perceive that of all active principles this is the most powerful,--so powerful indeed that whenever I think of it or my eyes roam over the everlasting ocean of all-life, I am simply struck with amazement at its almightiness. Though these are known things, as much known as the rising of the sun and the tides of the ocean, nevertheless they are always wonderful. After Empedocles, who divined that Eros evolved the worlds from Chaos, metaphysics have not advanced one step. Only death is a power equally absolute; yet in the eternal struggle between the two, love is the stronger; love conquers death by night and day, conquers it every spring, follows death step by step, throwing fresh grain into the gulf it creates. People occupied with every-day affairs forget or do not wish to remember that they are love's servants. It is strange when we come to think of it that the warrior, the chancellor of state, the cultivator of the soil, the merchant, the banker, in all their efforts, which apparently have nothing to do with love, are merely furthering its ends; that is, they serve the law of nature which bids the man to stretch out his arms for the woman. A mad paradox it would seem to a Bismarck if he were told that the final and only aim of all his endeavors is to further the love of Hermann and Dorothea. It seems even to me a paradox; and yet Bismarck's aim is the consolidation of the German empire, and this can be achieved only through Hermann and Dorothea. What else, then, has a Bismarck to do but to create by the help of politics and bayonets such conditions that Hermann and Dorothea may love each other in peace, unite in happiness, and bring up new generations? When at the university I read an Arabian ghazel in which the poet compares the power of love to that of infernal torments. I forget the name of the poet, but the idea remained in my memory. Truly, love is the one power that lasts for all times, holds the world together, and creates new worlds. 10 March. To-day I tore up three or four letters to Aniela. After dinner, I went into my father's room to talk with him about my aunt's plans. I found him looking through a lens at some epilichnions with the earth still adhering to them, he had received from the Peloponnesus. How splendid he looked in that light coming through stained windows in the large room full of Etruscan vases, statues more or less mutilated, and all kinds of Greek and Roman treasures. Among these surroundings his face reminded me of a divine Plato or of some other Greek sage. When I entered he interrupted his work, listened attentively to what I had to say, and then asked, "Do you hesitate?" "No, I do not hesitate, but I am reflecting. I want to know why I want it." "Then I will tell you this; I was once like you, inclined to analyze not only my own feelings but all manifestations of life. When I came to know your mother I lost that faculty at once. I knew one thing only, that I wanted her, and did not care to know anything else. Therefore if you have a like powerful desire, marry. I express myself wrongly, for if you wish it very much you will do it without anybody's help or advice, and be as happy as I was until your mother died." We remained silent for some time. If I were to apply my father's words closely to my own case, I should feel small comfort. I love Aniela, there is no doubt; but I have not arrived yet at a state that precludes all reflection. But I do not consider this as a bad sign; it simply means that I belong to a generation that has gone a step farther on the way to knowledge. There are always two persons within me,--the actor, and the spectator. Often the spectator is dissatisfied with the actor, but at present they both agree. My father was the first to interrupt the silence. "Tell me what she is like." Since a description is an unsatisfactory way of painting a portrait, I showed my father a large and really excellent photograph of Aniela, at which he looked with the keenest interest. I was no less interested in the study of his face, in which I saw not only the roused artist, but also the refined connoisseur of female beauty, the old Leon _l'Invincible_. Resting the photograph on the poor hand half paralyzed, he put on his eyeglass with the right, and then holding the likeness at a longer or shorter distance he began to say: "But for certain details, the face is like one of those Ary-Schaeffer liked to paint. How lovely she would look with tears in her eyes. Some people dislike angelic faces in women, but I think that to teach an angel how to become a woman is the very height of victory. She is very beautiful, very uncommon looking. 'Enfin, tout ce qu'il y a de plus beau au monde--c'est la femme.'" Here he fumbled with his eyeglass, and then added: "Judging by the face, or rather by the photograph (sometimes one makes mistakes, but I have had some practice), hers is a thoroughly loyal nature. Women of this type are in love with the whiteness of their plumage. God bless you, my boy! I like her very much, this Aniela of yours. I used to be afraid you might end by marrying a foreigner--let it be Aniela." I came up close to him and he put his arm round my neck. "I should like to see my future daughter before I die." I assured him that he would certainly see her shortly. Then I unfolded my plans of bringing Aniela and her mother over to Rome. After a betrothal by letter I might expect as much, and the ladies would not refuse, if only out of consideration for my father. In this case the marriage ceremony would take place at Rome, and that very soon. My father was delighted with the plan; old and sick people like to see around them life and motion. I knew that Aniela would be pleased with this turn of affairs, and let my thoughts dwell upon it with more and more pleasure. Within a few weeks everything would be settled. Such quick decision would be against my nature, but the very idea that I could exert myself if I wished raised my spirits. I already saw myself escorting Aniela about Rome. Only those who live there understand what a delight it is to show to anybody the endless treasures of that city,--a much greater delight when the somebody is the beloved woman. Our conversation was interrupted by a visit from Mr. and Mrs. Davis, who come every day to see my father. He is an English Jew, and she an Italian nobleman's daughter who married him for the sake of his wealth. Mr. Davis himself is a valetudinarian, who took out of his life twice as much as his poor organization could bear. He is ill, threatened with softening of the brain, indifferent to everything that goes on around him,--one of those specimens of mankind one meets at hydropathic establishments. Mrs. Davis looks like a Juno; her eyebrows meet on her forehead, and she has the figure of a Greek statue. I do not like her; she reminds me of the leaning tower at Pisa,--leans but does not fall. A year ago I paid her some attentions; she flirted with me outrageously, that was all. My father has a singular weakness for her; I thought at times he was in love with her. At any rate, he admires her from a thinker and artist's point of view; for beautiful she is,--there can be no two opinions as to that,--and of more than average intelligence. Their conversations, which my father calls "causeries Romaines," are endless, and they never seem to get tired of them; maybe these discussions about life's problems with a beautiful woman appear Italian to him, poetical, and worthy of the times of the Renaissance. I very seldom take part in these conversations because I do not believe in Mrs. Davis' sincerity. It seems to me that her intellect is merely a matter of brain, and not of soul, and that in reality she does not care for anything except her beauty and the comforts of life. I have often met women who seem full of lofty aspiration; upon closer acquaintance it seems that religion, philosophy, art, and literature, are only so many items of their toilet. They dress themselves in either as it suits their style of beauty. I suppose it is the same with Mrs. Davis; she drapes herself in problems of life, sometimes in Greek and Roman antiquities, in the Divina Commedia, or the Renaissance, the churches, museums, and so forth. I can understand a powerful intellectual organism making itself the centre of the universe; but in a woman, and one who is bent upon futile things, it is mere laughable egoism and vanity. I ask myself what makes Mrs. Davis so fond of my father; and I fancy I know the reason. My father, with his fine head of a patrician philosopher, and his manners reminding one of the eighteenth century, is for her a kind of _objet d'art_, and still more, a grand intelligent mirror, in which she can admire her own beauty and cleverness; besides, she feels grateful that he never criticises her, and likes her very much. Upon this basis has sprung up a friendship, or rather a kind of affection for my father which gradually has become a necessity of her life. Moreover, Mrs. Davis has the reputation of a coquette, and coming here to see my father every day, she says to the world: "It is not true; this old man is seventy, and nobody can suspect me of flirting with him, and yet I show him more attentions than to any one else." Finally, though she herself comes from an old family, Mr. Davis, in spite of his wealth, is a mere nobody, and their friendship with my father strengthens their position in society. There was a time when I asked myself whether these daily visits were not partly for my sake--and who knows? At any rate, it is not my qualities which attract her, nor any real feeling on her part. But she feels that I do not believe in her, and this irritates her. I should not wonder if she hated me, and yet would like to see me at her feet. I might have been, for she is a splendid specimen of the human species; I would have been, if only for the sake of the meeting eyebrows and the Juno shoulders,--but at a price she does not feel inclined to pay. Soon after the arrival of Mr. and Mrs. Davis my father began a philosophical discussion, which, going from one question to another, concluded with an analysis of human feelings. Mrs. Davis made several very shrewd remarks. From the studio we went to the terrace overlooking our gardens. It is only the tenth of March, and here spring is at its best. This year everything is much advanced,--fierce heat in the daytime, the magnolias covered with snow-white blossoms, and the nights as warm as in July. What a different world from that of Ploszow. I breathe here with all my lungs. Mrs. Davis on the terrace with the moon shining upon her was beautiful as a Greek dream. I saw she was under the influence of that indescribable Roman night. Her voice was softer, even, and more mellow than usual. Perhaps even now she only thinks of herself, is impressed because it is herself who feels it, dresses herself in moonbeams, restfulness, and magnolia scent as in a new shawl or bonnet. But all the same the dress suits her splendidly. Were it not that my heart is full of Aniela, I should fall under the spell of the picture. Besides this, she said things which not many could have conceived. All the same, whenever I am present at these _causeries Romaines_ I have always a feeling that my father, I, such as Mrs. Davis, and generally speaking, all the people of the so-called upper classes do not live a true, real life. Below us something is always going on, something always happens; there is the struggle for life, for bread,--a life full of diligent work, animal necessities, appetites, passions, every-day efforts,--a palpable life, which roars, leaps, and tumbles like ocean waves; and we are sitting eternally on terraces, discussing art, literature, love, woman, strangers to that other life far removed from it, obliterating, out of the seven, the six work-days. Without being conscious of it, our inclinations, nerves, and soul are fit only for holidays. Immersed into blissful dilettantism as in a warm bath, we are half awake, half dreaming. Consuming leisurely our wealth, and our inherited supply of nerves and muscles, we gradually lose our foothold upon the soil. We are as the down, carried away by the wind. Scarcely do we touch ground, when the real life pushes us back, and we draw aside; for we have no power of resistance. When I think of it I see nothing but contradictions in us. We consider ourselves the outcome and highest rung of civilization, and yet have lost faith in ourselves; only the most foolish believe in our _raison d'être._ We look out instinctively for places of enjoyment, gayety, and happiness, and yet we do not believe in happiness. Though our pessimism be wan and ephemeral as the clouds from our Havanas, it obscures our view of wider horizons. Amidst these clouds and mists we create for ourselves a separate world, a world torn off from the immensity of all life, shut up within itself, a little empty and somnolent. If this merely concerned the aristocracy, whether by descent or wealth, the portent would be less weighty. But to this isolated world belong more or less all those who boast of a higher culture,--men of science, literature, and art. This world does not dwell within the very marrow of life, but parting from it creates a separate circle; in consequence withers within itself and does not help in softening down the animalism of those millions which writhe and surge below. I do not speak as a reformer, because I lack the strength. Besides, what matters it to me? Who can avoid the inevitable? But at times I have the dim presentiment of a terrible danger which threatens the cultured world. The great wave which will wash us from off the surface of the earth will carry off more than that one which washed away hairpowder and shirtfrills. It is true that to those who perished then it seemed that with them the whole civilization was perishing. In the mean while it is pleasant to sit on moonlit terraces and talk in subdued tones about art, love, and woman, and look at the divine profile of such a woman as Mrs. Davis. 10 March. Mountains, towers, rocks, the further they recede from our view, appear as a mere outline through a veil of blue haze. There is a kind of psychical blue haze that enfolds those who are removed from us. Death itself is a removal, but the chasm is so wide that the beloved ones who have crossed it disappear within the haze and become as beloved shadows. The Greek genius understood this when he peopled the Elysian fields with shadows. But I will not enlarge upon these mournful comparisons, especially when I want to write about Aniela. I am quite certain my feelings towards her have not changed, but I seem to see her a long distance off, shrouded in a blue haze and less real than at Ploszow. I do not feel her through my senses. When I compare my present feelings with those I had at Ploszow, she is more of a beloved spirit than a desired woman. From a certain point of view it is better, as a desired woman might be even such a woman as Mrs. Davis; but on the other hand this is not one of the reasons that have prevented me from writing to Aniela. Doubtless that profile of Mrs. Davis which I still see before me is a mere passing impression. When I compare these two women my feeling for the other becomes very tender; and yet I leave her in cruel suspense and uncertainty. To-day my father wrote to my aunt, setting her mind at rest as to his health, and I added a postscript from myself, sending kind regards to Aniela and her mother. I could not say much in a few lines, but I might have promised them a longer letter. Such a promise would have comforted Aniela and the elder ladies. I did not do it because I could not. To-day my spirits are at a very low ebb. My wish for another life, and my trust in the future have retreated into the farthest distance; I can see them no more, see only the barren, sandy wilderness. I cannot get rid of the idea that I can only marry Aniela if I can conscientiously believe that our union would lead to mutual happiness. I cannot represent it otherwise to Aniela without uttering a lie; for I have none of that belief, and instead of it an utter hopelessness almost a dislike of life. She is ill at ease with longing and uncertainty, but I am worse, all the more so because I love her. 11 March. Mrs. Davis, to whom, during our _causerie_ on the moonlit terrace, I unfolded my view as to the all-powerfulness of love, more or less as I have written it down, called me Anacreon, and advised me to crown my head with vine leaves, and then said more soberly, "If such be your opinions, why play the part of pessimist? Belief in such a deity ought to make any man happy." Why? I did not tell her, but I know why. Love conquers death, but saves from it only the species. What matters it to me that the species be preserved, when I, the individual, am sentenced to a merciless, unavoidable death? Is it not rather a refined cruelty that the very affections, which can be felt only by the individual, should serve the future of the species only? To feel the throbbing of an eternal power, and yet to die,--that is the height of misery. In reality there exists only the individual; the species is an abstract idea, and in comparison to the individual, an utter Nirvana. I understand the love for a son, a grandson, a great grandson,--for the individual, in fact, that is sentenced to perish,--but to profess love for one's species one needs be insincere, or a fanatical sectarian. I can understand now how centuries after Empedocles there came Schopenhauer and Hartmann. My brain feels as sore as the back of the laborer who carries burdens beyond his strength. But the laborer stooping to his work earns his daily bread and is at peace. I still seem to hear Sniatynski's words: "Do not philosophize her away, as you have philosophized away your abilities and your thirty-five years of life." I know it leads to nothing, I know it is wrong, but I do not know how not to think. 13 March. My father died this morning. He was ill only a few hours. PELI, VILLA LAURA, 22 March. Death is such a gulf, and though we know that all have to go thither, yet when it swallows up one of our dear ones, we who remain on the brink are torn with fear, sorrow, and despair. On that brink all reasoning leaves us, and we only cry out for help which cannot come from anywhere. The only solace and comfort lies in faith, but he who is deprived of that light gets well-nigh maddened by the impenetrable darkness. Ten times a day it seems to me impossible, too horrible, that death should be the end of everything,--and then again, a dozen times I feel that such is the case. 23 March. When I arrived from Ploszow I found my father so much better that it never even entered my mind that the end could be so near. What strange twists there are in the human mind. God knows how sincerely I rejoiced when I found my father so much better than I had thought, and yet because throughout that anxious journey I had fancied him sick unto death, and already saw myself kneeling at his coffin, I was sorry for my wasted anxieties. Now the memory of this fills me with keen remorse. How thoroughly unhappy is the individual whose heart and soul have lost their simplicity. Thus not less bitter, not less of a reproach is the remembrance that at my father's deathbed there were two persons in me: one of them the son full of anguish, who gnawed his hands to keep back his sobs; the other the philosopher, who studied the psychology of death. I am unutterably unhappy because my nature is an unhappy one. My father died with full consciousness. Saturday evening he felt a little worse. I sent for the doctor, that he might be at hand in case we should want him. The doctor prescribed some physic, and my father, according to his habit, disputed the point, demonstrating that the physic would bring on a stroke. The doctor calmed my fears, and said though there was always fear of another stroke, he saw no immediate danger, and that my father most likely would live for many years to come. He repeated the same to the patient, who, hearing of the many years to come, incredulously shook his head and said: "We will see." As he has always been in the habit of contradicting his doctors, and proving to them that they know nothing, I did not take his words seriously. Towards ten at night, when taking his tea, he suddenly rose and called out:-- "Leon, come here, quick!" A quarter of an hour later he was in his bed, and within an hour he was dying. 24 March. I am convinced that people preserve their idiosyncracies and originality to the last minute of their life. Thus my father, in the solemn dignity of thoughts at the approaching end, still showed a gratified vanity that he, and not the doctor, had been right, and that his unbelief in medicine was well founded. I listened to what he said, and besides, read his thoughts in his face. He was deeply impressed with the importance of the moment; there was also curiosity as to the future life,--not a shadow of doubt as to its existence, but rather a certain uneasiness about how he would be received, joined to an almost unconscious, unsophisticated belief that he would not be treated as a mere nobody in particular. I shall never die like this, because I have no basis to uphold me in the hour of death. My father parted with his life in absolute faith and the deep contrition of a true Christian. At the moment when he received the last sacraments he was so venerable, so purely saintly, that his image will remain with me always. How futile, how miserable, appears to me my scepticism in presence of that immense power of faith that, stronger even than love, triumphs over death at the very moment when it extinguishes life. After having received the last sacraments, a great tenderness took possession of him. He grasped my hand strongly, almost convulsively, and did not let it go again, as if through me he wanted to hold fast to life. And yet it was neither fear nor despair that moved him, he was not in the least afraid. Presently I saw the eyes riveted upon my face grow dim and fixed, his forehead became moist, as if covered by a gentle dew; he opened his mouth several times as if to catch his breath,--sighed deeply once more,--and died. I was not present at the embalming of the body,--I had not the strength; but after that I did not leave the dear remains for a minute, out of fear they might treat him as a thing of no consequence. How truly awful are those last rites of death,--the whole funereal paraphernalia, the candles, the misericordia, with the covered faces of the singers. It still clings to my ears, the "Anima ejus," and "Requiem aeternam." There breathes from it all the gloomy, awful spirit of Death. We carried the remains to Santa Maria Maggiore, and there I looked for the last time at the dear, grand face. The Campo Santo looks already like a green isle. Spring is very early this year. The trees are in bloom and the white marble monuments bathed in sunshine. What an awful contrast, the young, nascent life, the budding trees, the birds in full song,--and a funeral. Crowds of people filled the cemetery, for my father was known for his benevolence in Rome as much as my aunt is at Warsaw. All these people so full of life, as if reflecting the joys of spring, jarred upon my feelings. Crowds, especially in Italy, consider everything as a spectacle got up for their special benefit, and even now their faces betrayed more curiosity to see a grand funeral than any sympathy. Human selfishness knows no limit, and I am convinced that even people morally and intellectually educated, when following a funeral, feel a kind of unconscious satisfaction that this has happened to somebody else, and it is not they who are to be interred. My aunt arrived, as I had summoned her by telegram. She, from the standpoint of faith, looks upon death as a change essentially for the better; therefore received the blow with far more calmness than I. This did not prevent her from, shedding bitter tears at her brother's coffin. Afterwards she spoke to me long and tenderly,--a conversation full of exceeding goodness, I took much amiss at the time, for which I am sorry now. She did not mention Aniela's name,--spoke only of my future loneliness, and insisted upon my coming to Ploszow; where, surrounded by tender hearts, especially the one old heart which loved me beyond everything on earth, I would feel less sad. I saw in all this only her desire to continue her matchmaking; and in presence of my recent bereavement this seemed to me improper, and irritated me very much. I felt not inclined to think of the life before me, nor of love-speeches or weddings, with the shadow of death across my path. I refused peremptorily, even curtly; told my aunt I was going away,--most likely to Corfu, then would come back to Rome in order to arrange my father's affairs, and after that would come to Ploszow. She did not insist upon having her own way. Feeling deeply for me, she was even more gentle than usual, and left Rome three days after the funeral. I did not go to Corfu; instead of that, Mr. and Mrs. Davis carried me off to their villa at Peli, where I have been now for several days. Whether Mrs. Davis is sincere or not I do not know, and will not even enter upon that now; I know only that no sister could have shown more sympathy and solicitude. With a nature poisoned by scepticism, I am always prone to suspect and misjudge those around me; but if it should be proved that I misjudged this woman, I should feel truly guilty,--because her goodness to me is quite extraordinary. 26 March. My windows look out upon the vast blueness of the Mediterranean, encompassed by bands of a darker blue on the far horizon. Close to the villa, the crisped waves glitter like fiery scales; in the distance, the sea is glassy and still, as if lulled to sleep in its blue veil. White lateen sails flash in the sun, and once a day a steamer from Marseilles for Genoa passes hence, dragging in her wake woolly coils of smoke that hang over the sea like a dark cloud, until it gradually dissolves and disappears. The restfulness of the place is indescribable. Thoughts dissolve like yonder black cloud between the blue sky and azure sea, and life is a blissful vegetation. I felt very tired yesterday, but to-day I inhale with eager lungs the fresh sea-breezes, that leave a salty taste on my lips. Say what they like, the Riviera is one of the gems of God's creation. I fancy to myself how the wind whistles at Ploszow; the sudden changes from mild spring weather to wintry blasts; the darkness, sleet, and hail, with intermittent gleams of sunshine. Here the sky is transparent and serene; the soft breeze which even now caresses my face comes through the open window together with the scent of heliotropes, roses, and mignonette. It is the enchanted land, where the orange blossoms, and also an enchanted palace; because everything that millions can buy, combined with the exquisite taste of Mrs. Davis, is to be found in this villa. I am surrounded by masterworks of art,--statues, pictures, matchless specimens of ceramics, chased works by Benvenuto. Eyes feast on nature, feast on art, and do not know where to dwell longest,--unless it be on the splendid pagan, the mistress of all these splendors, and whose only religion is beauty. But is it quite just to call her a pagan? because, I say again, whether sincere or not, she shares my sorrows and tries to soothe them. We talk for hours about my father, and I have often seen tears in her eyes. Since she found out that music acts soothingly upon my mind, she plays for hours, and often until late at night. Sometimes I sit in my room in the dark, look absently at the sea riddled by a silver network, and listen to the sounds of her music mingling with the splashing of the waves. I listen until I feel half distracted, half sleepy,--until in sleep I forget the real life, with all its sorrows. 29 March. I do not even feel inclined to write every day. We are reading together the Divina Commedia,--or rather, its last part. There was a time when I felt more attracted by the awful plasticity of the Inferno. Now I like to plunge into the luminous mist, peopled with still more luminous spirits, of the Dantesque heaven. At times it seems as if amid all that radiance I see the dear, familiar features, and my sorrow becomes almost sweet to me. I never before understood the exceeding beauty of heaven. Never has human mind taken such a lofty flight, encompassed such greatness, or borrowed such a slice from infinity as in this sublime, immortal poem. The day before yesterday and the two days following, we read it together in the boat. We usually go out a long distance, and when the sea is quite still I furl the sail; and we read, rocked by the waves,--or rather, she reads and I listen. Surrounded by the glories of the sunset, far from the shore, with the most beautiful woman reading to me Dante, I was under a delusion, that I had been transferred to another world. 30 March. At times the sorrow that seemed to be lulled to sleep wakes up with renewed force. I feel then as if I wanted to fly hence. VILLA LAURA, 31 March. To-day I thought a great deal about Aniela. I have a strange feeling, as if lands and seas divided us. It seems to me as if Ploszow were a Hyperborean island somewhere at the confines of the world. We have delusions of that kind when personal impression takes the place of tangible reality. It is not Aniela who is far from me, it is I who go farther and farther away from the Leon whose heart and thoughts were once so full of her. This does not mean that my feelings for her have vanished. By close analysis I find they have only changed in their active character. Some weeks ago, I loved her and wanted something; I love her still, but want nothing. My father's death has scattered the concentration of the feelings. It would be the same, for instance, had I begun some literary work, and some unfortunate accident interrupted the even flow of my thoughts. But that is not all. Not long ago, all the faculties of my mind were strung to their highest pitch; now, under the influence of a heavy sorrow, a soft atmosphere, and the gently rocking sea, they have relaxed. I live, as I said before, the life of a plant; I rest as one rests after a long fatigue, and as if immersed in a warm bath. Never did I feel less inclined to any kind of exertion; the very thought of it gives me pain. If I had to choose a watchword, it would be, "Do not wake me." What will happen when I wake up, I do not know. I am sad now, but not unhappy; therefore I do not want to wake up, and do not consider it my duty. It is even difficult to me to recall the image of the Ploszowski who fancied himself bound to Aniela. Bound,--why? by what reason? What has happened between us? A slight, almost imperceptible kiss on the forehead,--a caress which, among near relations, can be put down to brotherly affection. These are ridiculous scruples. I have broken ties far different from these without the slightest twinge of conscience. Were she not a relation, it would be a different matter. It is true, she understood it in a different way, and so did I at the time,--but let it pass. One prick of conscience more or less, what does it matter? We do worse things continually, to which the disappointment I caused Aniela is mere childishness. Conscience that can occupy itself with such peccadilloes must have nothing else to do. There is about the same proportion of such kinds of crime to real ones as our conversations on the terrace to real life. Upon the whole, I do foresee what will happen; but I want to be left in peace at present and not think of anything. "Do not wake me." To-day it was determined that we ought to leave Peli as soon as the hot weather sets in,--perhaps in the middle of April,--and go to Switzerland. Even that terrifies me. I fancy Mrs. Davis will have to place her husband under restraint; he shows symptoms of insanity. He says not a word for whole days, but sits staring either at the floor or at his finger-nails; he is afraid they will come off. These are with him the consequences of a wild life and narcotics. I leave off writing as it is our time for sailing. 2 April. Yesterday there was a thunderstorm. A strong southern wind drove the clouds along as a herd of wild horses. It pulled and tore, chased and scattered them, then got them under and threw them with a mighty effort upon the sea, which darkened instantly as man in wrath, and began in its turn to send its foam aloft,--a veritable battle of two furies, which, battering each other, produce thunder and lightning flashes. But all this lasted only a short time. We did not go out to sea, as the waves were too rough. Instead of it we looked at the storm from the glazed balcony, and sometimes looked at each other. It is no use deluding myself any longer; there is something going on between us,--a subtle change in our relations to each other. Neither of us has said a word or overstepped the boundary line of friendship; neither has confessed to anything, and yet speaking to each other we feel that our words serve only to disguise our thoughts. It is the same when we are in the boat, reading together, or when I listen to her music. All our acts seem mere shadows,--an outward form that hides the real essence of things, with its face still veiled, but following us wherever we go. Neither of us has given it a name; but we both feel its presence. Manifestations like these take place probably every time man and woman begin to influence each other. I could not tell exactly when it began; but I confess it did not come upon me quite unexpectedly. I accepted their hospitality because Mrs. Davis was my father's friend; and it was she who, after his death, showed me more sympathy than any one else in Rome. I have so much consciousness of self, am so able to divide myself, that soon after my arrival here, in spite of my heavy sorrow I had the presentiment that our mutual relation would undergo a change. I hated myself that so soon after my father's death I should harbor thoughts like these; but they were there. I find now that my presentiments were right. If I said that the changed relation has still its face veiled, I meant to say that I do not know exactly when the veil will be torn asunder, and I am under the spell of expectation. I should be unsophisticated indeed, if I supposed she were less conscious of all this than I. She is probably more so. Most likely she is guiding all these changes; and everything that is happening happens according to her wishes and cool reflection. Diana the Huntress is spreading her net for the game! But what does it matter to me? what is there for me to lose? As nearly every man, I am that kind of game which allows itself to be hunted for the purpose of turning at a given moment against the hunter. In such circumstances we all have energy enough. In a hand-to-hand fight, like this, the victory rests always with us. I know perfectly well that Mrs. Davis does not love me, any more than I love her. We simply react upon each other through our pagan nature, our sensuous and artistic instincts. With her it is also a question of vanity,--the worse for her, as it may lead her whither love leads. I shall not go too far. In my feeling for her there is neither affection nor tenderness,--nothing but rapture at the sight of nature's masterwork, and the attraction natural in a man when that masterwork is a woman. My father said that the height of victory would be to change an angel into a woman; I maintain that it is no less a triumph to feel around one's neck the arms, palpitating with life, of a Florentine Venus. As far as beauty goes she is the highest expression of whatever the most exalted imagination is able to conceive. She is a Phryne. It would turn most men's heads to see her in a tight-fitting riding-habit that shows the outline of her figure as beautiful as that of a statue. In the boat, reading Dante, she looked like a Sybil, and one could understand a Nero's sacrilegious passion. Hers is an almost baleful beauty. Only the joining eyebrows make her appear a woman of our times, and this makes her all the more irritating. She has a certain habit of pushing back her hair by putting both hands at the back of her head; then her shoulders are raised; the whole shape acquires a certain curve, and the breast stands firmly out,--and one feels a desire to carry her off in one's arms from everybody's eyes. In each of us there is a hidden Satyr. As to myself, as I said already, I am highly impressionable; therefore, when I think of it, that there is something going on between me and this live statue of a Juno, that some mysterious power pushes us towards each other,--my head is in a whirl, and I ask myself what would I wish for more perfect than this. 3 April. As much as ever woman can show kindness and sympathy to a friend in trouble, she has shown to me. And yet, strange to say, all this kindness has upon me the effect of moonlight,--radiance without warmth; she possesses perfection of form, but there is no soul; with her all is premeditation, but not nature. There speaks again the sceptic; but I shall never be so intoxicated as to lose my capacity of observation. If this divinity were kind, she would be kind to everybody. Thus, for instance, the way she treats her husband is enough to destroy any illusion as to her heart. The unfortunate Davis is such a bloodless creature that he feels chilly in the hottest sunshine, and oh! so chilly at her side. I never noticed in her the slightest sign of compassion for his misery. He simply does not exist, for her. This millionnaire, in the midst of all his wealth, is so poor that it would rouse any one's pity. He is apparently indifferent to everything; and yet the human being, with ever so little consciousness, feels kindness. The best proof of it is that Davis feels grateful to me because I speak to him now and then about his health. Perhaps it is the instinctive attraction of the weaker towards the stronger organism. When I look at that face as white as chalk, no bigger than my fist, those feet like walking-sticks, and that shrunken figure, wrapped up in a plaid during the hottest of weathers, I am truly sorry for him. But I will not make myself out better than I am. I may pity the man; but compassion will not stand in my way. It has often struck me that, when woman is in question, man becomes pitiless; it is still a remnant of the animal instinct that fights to the uttermost for the female. In such a fight between human beings, whatever shape it takes, the weaker goes to the wall. Even honor is no curb; it is only religion that condemns it absolutely. 12 April. I have not written for nearly ten days. The veil was rent a week ago. I always suspected the sea would help us to an understanding. Women like Laura never forget the fitting background. If they do charitable deeds because it enhances their beauty, the more they want beauty when they fall. Joined to this is their passion for anything out of the common, which does not spring from the poetical faculties of their mind, but from a desire to adorn themselves. I have not so lost my head as not to be able to judge Laura, though really I do not know whether she has not the right to be what she is, and to think the sun and stars are made on purpose for her adornment. Absolute beauty, in the nature of things, must be essentially egotistic, and subject everything to its rule. Laura is the very incarnation of beauty, and nobody has the right to ask anything else from her than to be always and everywhere beautiful; at least, I do not ask for more. Thanks to my skill in seamanship, we can be alone on our excursions. A week ago, on a sultry day, Laura expressed a wish to go out in the boat. Like a Hecate, she exults in heat. A gentle breeze drove us a long distance from the shore, and then the wind fell. The lateen sail hung motionless from the mast. The rays of the sun, reflected from the glassy surface of the water, increased the heat, although it was late in the afternoon. Laura threw herself on the Indian matting, and resting her head against the cushions, remained motionless, all in a red glow, from the sun filtering through the awning. A strange laziness had taken possession of me, and at the same time the sight of this woman with her Greek form that showed through the clinging drapery sent a thrill of admiration through my veins. Her eyes were veiled, the lips slightly parted; her whole presence expressed powerlessness, and seemed to say, "I am weak." We came back late to the villa, and the return will remain for a long time in my memory. After a sunset in which sky and earth seemed to be wedded in a splendor without limit and without division, there came a night of such beauty as I had never seen on the Riviera. From the vast deep rose the immense red orb of the moon, which filled the air with a mellow light, and at the same time made a broad, luminous path on the sea, on which we glided towards the shore. There was a gentle swell on the water, like a heaving sigh. From the little harbor the voices of the Ligurian fishermen, singing a chorus, came up to us. A light breeze from the shore wafted towards us the scent of orange-blossoms. Although not prone to let myself be carried away by my sensations, I was under the spell of this unutterable sweetness that floated over land and sea, and clung like dew to soul and body. From time to time my eyes rested upon the Helen-like woman whose white draperies glistened in the moonlight, and I fancied myself living in ancient Greece, and that we were floating somewhere, maybe towards the sacred olive groves where the Eleusinian mysteries were enacted. Our rapture did not seem any more a rapture of the senses, but a cult, a mystic alliance with that night, that spring, and all nature. 15 April. The time fixed for our departure has arrived, but we do not depart. My Hecate does not fear the sun, Mr. Davis likes it, and as far as I am concerned, whether here or in Switzerland is a matter of indifference. A strange thought has taken hold of me; I almost shrink from it, but nevertheless will confess: It seems to me that a Christian soul, though the spring of faith be dried up therein, cannot live altogether on the mere beauty of form. This means more sorrow in store for me; if the thought proves true the whole basis of my life falls to the ground. We are beings of a different culture. Our souls are full of Gothic arches, pinnacles, twisted traceries we cannot shake off, and of which Greek minds knew nothing. Our minds shoot upward; theirs, full of repose and simplicity, rested nearer the earth. Those of us in whom the spirit of Hellas beats more powerfully consider the beautiful a necessity of life, and search after it eagerly, but instinctively demand that Aspasia should have the eyes of Dante's Beatrice. A similar longing is planted within me. When I think of it, that a beautiful human animal like Laura belongs to me and will belong as long as I wish it, a twofold joy gets hold of me,--the joy of the man and the delight of the artist; and yet there is a want and something missing. On the altar of my Greek temple there is a marble goddess; but my Gothic shrine is empty. I admit that in her I have found something bordering upon the perfect, and I defend myself from a suspicion that this perfection throws a big shadow. I thought once that Goethe's words, "You shall be like unto gods and beasts," embraced all life and were the highest expression of his wisdom; now, when I follow the commandment, I feel that he omitted the angel. 17 April. Mr. Davis came into the room when I was sitting at Laura's feet, my head leaning against her knees. His bloodless face and dim eyes showed no feeling beyond indifferent sullenness. In his soft slippers embroidered with Indian suns, he shuffled across the room, and into the library. Laura looked magnificent, her eyes flashing with unrestrained wrath. I rose and awaited what would happen. A thought crossed my mind that Mr. Davis might come back, a revolver in his hand. In such a case I should have pitched him through the window, revolver, plaid, and Indian slippers. But he did not come back; I waited a long time in vain. I do not know what he was doing there; whether he was thinking over his misery, weeping, or perfectly indifferent. We all three met again at lunch, and he was sitting there as if nothing unusual had happened. Perhaps it was my fancy that made me think that Laura looked menacingly at him, and also that his apathetic expression was even more mournful than usual. I confess that such a tame ending of the business is the most painful to me. I am not one to provoke a quarrel, but ready to answer for my deeds; finally, I would rather the man were not so defenceless, such a small, miserable creature. I have a nasty feeling, as if I had knocked down a cripple, and never yet felt so disgusted with myself. We went out in the boat as usual. I did not want Laura to think I was afraid of Davis; but there we had our first quarrel. I confessed to her my scruples and she laughed at them. I said to her plainly,-- "The laughter does not become you; and remember, you may do most things, but not what is not becoming." There was a deep frown on the meeting eyebrows, and she replied bitterly,-- "After what has passed between us, you may insult me even with more impunity than you could Davis." After such a reproach there remained nothing else but to ask her forgiveness; and presently, harmony being restored, Laura began to talk about herself. I had another instance of her cleverness. Generally the women I have known intimately showed a desire to tell me their life. I do not blame them for it; it shows that they feel the need to justify themselves in their own eyes and ours. We men do not. Yet I never met a woman either so clever as not to overstep the artistic proportions in her confession, or so sincere as not to tell lies in order to justify herself. I call to witness all men who when the occasion occurs may verify how wonderfully similar all these cases of going astray are, and consequently how tedious. Laura, too, began to talk about herself with a certain eager satisfaction, but only in this respect did she follow the beaten track of other fallen angels. In what she told me there was a certain posing for originality, but she was certainly not posing as a victim. Knowing she had to deal with a sceptic, she did not want to call forth a smile of incredulity. Her sincerity was skirting upon the bold, almost the cynical, one might say, were it not that to her it is a system of life in which aestheticism has taken the place of ethics. She prefers simply a life in the shape of an Apollo to that of humpbacked Pulcinello; that is her philosophy. She had married Davis not so much for his wealth as for the purpose of making her life as beautiful as lay in human power,--beautiful not in the common meaning of the word, but in the highest artistic sense. Besides she did not consider she had any duties toward her husband, as she had never even pretended to love him; she had for him as much pity as repugnance, and as he was indifferent to everything, he was of no more account than if he were dead. She added that she did not take account of anything that was contrary to her ideas of a purely beautiful and artistic life. Regard for society she had very little, and who thought otherwise of her would be utterly wrong. She had felt friendship for my father, not because of his social position, but because she had looked upon him as a masterwork of nature. As to myself, she had loved me for a long time. She understood perfectly that I would have prized her more had the victory been less easy, but she did not care to bargain when her happiness was at stake. This kind of principles, announced by that perfect mouth in a soft voice full of metallic vibrations, gave me a strange sensation. While speaking to me she drew her draperies close to her as if to make room for me at her side. At times her eyes followed the motions of the sea-gulls circling above our heads, then again they rested keenly upon my face as if she wanted to read the impression her words had made upon me. I listened to her words with a certain satisfaction, as they proved to me that I had judged her pretty correctly. Yet there was something in them quite new to me. I had always rendered her justice as to her cleverness, but I thought her acts were the instinctive outcome of her nature. I had never supposed her capable of inventing a whole system in order to support and justify the impulses of her nature. This showed her in a somewhat nobler light, as it proved that where I had suspected her of more or less mean calculation, she only acted according to her own principles,--maybe bad, even terrible, but always principles. For instance, I had suspected her of wanting to marry me after Davis's death,--she proved me utterly in the wrong. She herself began to talk about it. She confessed that if I were to ask her for her hand she might not be able to refuse me, as she loved me more than I believed (here as I am a living man I saw a warm blush mounting to her neck and brow), but she knew this would never happen; sooner or later I would leave her with a light heart,--but what of that? If she dipped her hand into the water and felt the refreshing coolness, should she refuse herself this delight because the sun would suck the cool moisture? Saying this she bent over the gunwale, which showed her figure in all its immaculate perfection, and after plunging her hands into the water, she stretched them out to me moist and pink and gleaming in the sunshine. I took hold of the hands, and she, as if echoing my sensations, said in a caressing voice, "Come." 20 April. I did not see Laura the whole of yesterday, as she was not well. She had caught a chill sitting out late on the balcony, and it had affected her teeth. What a nuisance! Fortunately the day before yesterday a doctor arrived who is to remain in attendance upon Mr. Davis; otherwise I should not have a soul to speak to. He is a young Italian, small of stature, very dark, with an enormous head and very sharp eyes. He seems very intelligent. It is evident that from the very first he has grasped the situation, and found it very natural, for without hesitation he addressed me as the master of the house. I could not help laughing when he came this morning and asked me whether he could see the countess so that he might prescribe for her. They have some very quaint notions in this country. Usually, when a married woman is suspected to belong to somebody else, the world is in arms to hunt and run her down, often with thoughtless cruelty. Here, on the contrary, they worship at the altar of love, and one and all take sides with and plot for the lover. I told the doctor I would see whether the countess would see him. I penetrated into Laura's sanctum. She received me unwillingly, because her face is a little swollen, and she did not wish me to see her in that state. And in truth her face reminded me of my old drawing lessons. I noticed even then that with a modern face one may commit inaccuracies, change this or that, and provided the expression, the idea of the face remain intact, the likeness will not suffer. It is quite a different thing drawing from the antique; the slightest inaccuracy, the least deviation, destroys the harmony of the face and makes it different altogether. I had an example in Laura. The swelling was very slight,--I scarcely noticed it as she obstinately turned the sound part of her face to me; but as her eyes were a little reddened, the eyelids heavier than usual, it was not the same face, perfect in its harmony and beauty. Of course I did not let her see this, but she received my greeting half-disturbed, as if troubled with a bad conscience. Evidently according to her principles toothache is a mortal sin. Queer principles these, anyway! I too have the soul of an ancient Greek, but beyond the Pagan there is something else in me. Laura will be sometime very unhappy with her philosophy. I can understand that one may make a religion of beauty in a general sense, but to make a religion of one's own beauty is to prepare great unhappiness for ourselves. What kind of religion is that which a simple toothache undermines, and a pimple on the nose shatters into ruin? 25 April. We shall have to leave for Switzerland, for the heat is almost unbearable. Besides the heat, there is the Sirocco, that comes now and then like a hot breath from Africa. The sea-breezes somewhat mitigate the fierceness of this visitor from the desert, but it is none the less very disagreeable. The Sirocco acts injuriously on Mr. Davis. The doctor watches him closely lest he should take opium, and consequently become either very irritable or else quite stupefied. I notice that in his greatest fits of anger he is afraid of Laura and myself. Who knows whether a homicidal mania is not already germinating in the half-insane brain? or maybe he is afraid we are going to kill him. Generally speaking, my relation with him is one of the darkest sides of the part I am enacting. I say one of the darkest, because I am fully aware that there is more than one. I should not be my own self if I did not perceive that my soul not only is stagnating, but is getting swiftly corrupted in the arms of that woman. I cannot even express what loathing, what bitterness and pangs of conscience, it caused me at first that I should have plunged myself into the depth of sensuous raptures so soon after the death of my father. It was not only my conscience, but also the delicacy of feelings which I undoubtedly possess, that revolted against it. I felt this so deeply that I could not write about it. I have grown more callous since. I still reproach myself from time to time, and seriously reflect, but the feeling has lost its poignancy. As to Aniela, I try to forget her, because the memory is troublesome, or rather I cannot arrive at a clear understanding as to the whole Ploszow episode. At times I feel inclined to think that I was not worthy of her; at others, that I made an ass of myself over a girl like dozens of others. This irritates my vanity, and makes me feel angry with Aniela. One moment I feel an unsavory consciousness of guilt in regard to her, in another the offence appears to me futile and childish. Taken altogether, I do not approve of the part I played at Ploszow, nor do I approve of the part I am playing here. The division between right and wrong is becoming more and more indistinct within me, and what is more I do not care to make it clearer. This is the result of a certain apathy of mind, which again acts as a sleeping draught; for when the inward struggle tires me out I say to myself: "Suppose you are worse than you were--what of that? Why should you trouble about anything?" Then I see another change in myself. Gradually I have got used to what at first chafed my honor,--the insulting of the crippled man. I notice that I permit myself hundreds of things I would not do if Davis, instead of being physically and mentally afflicted, were an able-bodied man capable of defending his own honor. We do not even take the trouble of going out to sea. I never even imagined that my sensitiveness could become so blunted. It is very easy to say to myself: "What does the wretched Eastern matter to you?" But verily I cannot get rid of the thought that my black-haired Juno is no Juno at all,--that her name is Circe, and her touch changes men (as one might say in correct mythological language) into nurslings of Eumaeus. And when I ask myself as to the cause, the answer shatters many of my former opinions. It is this: our love is a love of the senses, but not of the soul. The thought again comes back that we, the outcome of modern culture, cannot be satisfied with it. Laura and I were like unto gods and beasts with humanity left out. In a proper sense our feelings cannot be called love; we are desirable to each other, but not dear. If we both were different from what we are, we might be a hundred times more unhappy, but I should not have the consciousness that I am drawing near the shelter of Eumaeus. I understand that love merely spiritual remains a shadow, but love without spiritualism becomes utter degradation. It is another matter that some people touched by Circe's wand may find contentment in their degradation. It seems a sad thing and very strange that I, a man of the Hellenic type, should write thus. Scepticism even here steps in, and in regard to Hellenism I begin to have my doubts whether life be possible with those worn-out forms; and as I am always sincere, I write what I think. 30 April. Yesterday I received a letter from my aunt. It was sent after me from Rome and dated two weeks back. I cannot understand why they kept it so long at Casa Osoria. My aunt was sure I had gone to Corfu, but thought I might have returned by this, and writes thus:-- "We have been expecting to hear from you for some time, and are looking out with great longing for a letter. I, an old woman, am too deeply rooted in the soil to be easily shaken, but it tells upon Aniela. She evidently expected to hear from you, and when no letter came either from Vienna or Rome, I saw she felt uneasy. Then came your father's death. I said then, in her presence, that you could not think now of anything but your loss; by and by you would shake off your trouble and return to your old life. I saw at once that my words comforted her. But afterwards, when week passed after week and you did not send us a single line, she grew very troubled, mostly about your health, but I fancy because she thought you had forgotten her. I, too, began to feel uneasy, and wrote 'poste restante' to Corfu, as we had agreed. Not getting any reply, I am sending another letter to your house at Rome, because the thought that you may be ill makes us all very unhappy. Write, if only a few lines; and, Leon, dear, pull yourself together, shake off that apathy, and be yourself again. I will be quite open with you. In addition to Aniela's troubles, somebody has told her mother that you are known everywhere for your love affairs. Fancy my indignation! Celina was so put out that she repeated it to her daughter, and now the one has continual headaches, and the other, poor child, looks so pale and listless that it makes my heart bleed. And she is such a dear girl, and as good as gold. She tries to look cheerful so as not to grieve her mother; but I am not so easily deceived, and feel deeply for her. My dearest boy, I did not say much to you at Rome, because I respected your affliction; but a sorrow like that is sent by God, and we have to submit to His will and not allow it to spoil our life. Could you not write a few words to give us some comfort,--if not to me, at least to the poor child? I never disguised it from you that my greatest wish was to see you two happily married if it were in a year or two, as Aniela is a woman in a thousand. But if you think otherwise it would be better to let me know it in some way. You know I never exaggerate things, but I am really afraid for Aniela's health. And then there is her future to be thought of. Kromitzki calls very frequently upon the ladies, evidently with some intentions. I wanted to dismiss him without ceremony, especially as I have my suspicions that it was he who spread those tales about you; but Celina solemnly entreated me not to do this. She is quite distracted, and does not believe in your affection for Aniela. What could I do? Suppose her motherly instinct is right, after all? Write at once, my dear Leon, and accept the love and blessing of the old woman who has only you now in the world. Aniela wanted to write to you a letter of condolence after your father's death, but Celina did not let her, and we had a quarrel over this. Celina is the best of women, but very provoking at times. Kind greetings and love from us all. Young Chwastowski is establishing a brewery on the estate. He had some money of his own, and the rest I lent him." At first I thought the letter had not made any impression upon me; but presently, when walking up and down the room, I found that I had been mistaken. The impression increased every minute, and became very strong indeed. After an hour I said to myself with amazement: "The deuce is in it! I cannot think of anything else but that." Strange how quick my thoughts travel, chasing each other like clouds driven by the wind. What a creature of nerves I am! First, a great tenderness for Aniela woke up within me. All that I had felt for her not long ago, and that had lain dormant in odd nooks of my soul, stirred into life. To go at once, soothe her, make her happy, was the first impulse of my heart,--not clearly defined, perhaps, but very strong all the same. When I imagined to myself the tearful eyes, her hands resting within mine, the old feeling for her woke up with renewed strength. Then the idea crossed my mind to compare her to Laura,--with a fatal result for Laura. I felt sick of the life I was leading; felt the want of a purer atmosphere than I was breathing here,--of restfulness, gentleness, and above all, rectitude of feeling. At the same time a great joy filled my heart, that nothing was lost yet, everything could be made right; it depended only upon my will. Suddenly I bethought myself of Kromitzki, and of Aniela's mother, who, not trusting me, is evidently on his side. A dull anger rose within me, which, gradually increasing, smothered all other feelings. The more my reason acknowledged that Pani Celina was right in mistrusting me, the more I felt offended that she should harbor that mistrust. I worked myself up into a terrible rage against everybody, including myself. What I thought and felt can be expressed in a few words: "Very well, let it be as they wish!" The letter came yesterday; to-day, analyzing myself more quietly, I find to my own astonishment that the offence not only rankles in my mind, but also has taken firmer root. I say to myself all that a soberly thinking man can say in mitigation thereof, and yet I cannot forgive either Aniela or her mother the Kromitzki business. Aniela could have put a stop to it with one word, and if she has not done it, she is sacrificing me to her mother's headaches. Besides, Kromitzki lowers Aniela in my eyes, stains her, and brings her down to the level of marriageable girls. I cannot even speak of it quietly. Maybe my reasoning and feeling are those of an exasperated man; maybe that love of self is too predominant in me. I know that I am able to look at and judge myself as a stranger would; but this dualism does not help me in the least. I am more and more embittered. To write about it irritates my nerves,--therefore, enough! 1 May. During the night I thought, "Perhaps to-morrow I shall be more composed." Nothing of the kind. I am simply in a rage with Aniela, Aniela's mother, my aunt, and myself. The wind ought to be tempered for the shorn lamb, and they forget that my wool is deucedly thin. After all, I am comfortable where I am. Laura is like a marble statue. Near her nothing troubles me very much, because there is nothing except beauty. I am tired of over-strained, tender souls. Let Kromitski comfort her. 2 May. I carried the letter to the post-office myself. It was not a long one: "I wish Pan Kromitzki every happiness with Panna Aniela, and Panna Aniela with Pan Kroinitzki. You wished for a decision, dear aunt, and I comply with your wish." 3 May. I was thinking whether my aunt's allusion to Kromitzki was but a piece of female diplomacy in order to bring me to book. If so, she is to be congratulated upon her skill and knowledge of human nature. 10 May. A week has passed. I have not written because I feel half suffocated, torn by doubts, sorrow, and anxiety. Aniela has never been, and is not indifferent to me. The words of Hamlet recur to me:-- "I loved Ophelia; forty thousand brothers Could not, with all their quantity of love, Make up my sum." I should only have to change the outcry:-- "I loved Aniela; forty thousand Lauras could not make up my sum." And needs must be that with my own hands I wrought the evil. There is a glimmer of comfort in the thought that to be united to a man like me might be a worse fate for her,--but it is not so. If she were mine I would be true to her. Then again it rankles in my mind that perhaps a Kromitzki is sufficient to her happiness. When I think of this everything seethes within me, and I feel ready to send off another such letter. It is done with! that is the only comfort for people like me, for then they can fold their hands and idle away their time as before. Perhaps it is a sign of exceptional weakness, but I find some comfort in it. Now I can think in peace. I put to myself the question, "How is it that a man who not only boasts of a thorough knowledge of self, but also possesses it, has for some time almost blindly followed his instinctive impulses?" Of what use is self-knowledge if at the first commotion of the nerves it hides in a remote nook of the brain and remains there, a passive witness to impulsive acts? To investigate things _post factum?_ I do not know of what use this can be to me, but as I have nothing else to do, let us investigate. Why did I act as I did? It must be because though I am an intelligent man, very intelligent even (the deuce take me if I intend to boast or flatter myself), I lack judgment. And chiefly it is the calm, masculine judgment that is wanting. I do not control my nerves, I am hypersensitive, and a crumpled roseleaf would irritate me. There is something feminine in my composition. Perhaps I am not an exception, and there are more of that type in my country, which is of small comfort. This kind of mind may have much understanding, but is a bad guide through life; it darts restlessly here and there, hesitates, sifts, and filters every intention, and at last loses itself among cross-roads. Consequently the capacity for acting gets impaired, and finally it degenerates into a weakness of character, an innate and not uncommon fault with us. Then I put to myself another question. Let us say my aunt had not made any allusion to Kromitzki, would the result have turned out differently? And truly I dare not say yes. It would not have come so swiftly,--that is certain; but who knows whether in the end it would have turned out more satisfactory. Weak characters want infinite accommodations; only powerful ones are spurred on by opposition. Laura, who in certain things is as subtle as musk, most likely understood this and therefore showed herself so--gracious. Finally, what is the upshot of it? Am I a milksop? Not in the least. A man who looks straight at truth would not shrink from confessing it,--but no. I feel that I could go on an arctic expedition without a moment's hesitation, be a missionary in darkest Africa. I am possessed of a certain pluck, inherited courage, which would carry me through many bold adventures and risky enterprises. My temperament is lively; perhaps less nimble than Sniatynski, I am yet no laggard. But when it comes to solving any of life's problems my scepticism renders me powerless, my intellect loses itself in observations, reasonings, the will has nothing to rest upon, and my acts depend mainly upon external circumstances. 12 May. I never liked Laura, though I was and am still under the spell of her physical charms. This at first sight looks like a paradox, but nevertheless is a common enough occurrence. One may love and not like the person in question. As often as I happened to meet a love full of thorns and apt to take easily offence, it was only because there was no real liking at the bottom. Now Sniatynski and his wife are not only in love, but they like each other immensely, and therefore are happy. Ah me! I feel I could have liked Aniela, and we might have been as happy! Better not think about it. As to Laura, she will meet many who may fall in love with her raven hair and statuesque beauty, but she will never inspire real liking. This singular woman attracts irresistibly, and at the same time repulses. I have said that beyond beauty there is nothing else; for even her uncommon intelligence is only the humble slave kneeling at the feet of her own beauty. Not more than a week ago I saw Laura giving money to a child whose father had been drowned recently, and I thought to myself: "She would put the child's eyes out in the same way, gracefully and sweetly, if she thought it would add to her beauty." One feels these things, and one may lose one's head over a woman like that, but it is impossible to like her. And she who understands so many things does not understand this. Yet how beautiful she is! A few days ago, when she came down the steps leading into the garden, swaying lightly on those magnificent hips, "I thought I should drop," as the poet Slowacki says. Decidedly I am under the sway of two powers,--the one attracting, the other repelling. I want to go to Switzerland, and I want to go back to Rome. I do not know how it will end. Ribot rightly says that a desire to do a thing is only a consciousness, not an act of volition; still less is it an act of volition to have a twofold desire. I received a letter from my lawyer, who wants to see me about the affairs of the succession; these are mere formalities, and they could arrange things without me, did I feel disinclined to move. But it will serve as a pretext. For some time I have liked Laura even less than formerly. It is for no fault of hers, as she is always the same, but as it happens, I have transferred to her some of the dislike I have for myself. At the time of my inward struggles I turned to her not only for peace, but also for a kind of wilful degradation; now for that very reason I feel displeased with her. She did not even know of the storm raging in my breast; besides, what could it matter to her, as it was nothing which could serve her as an ornament? She only noticed that I was feverish and more impulsive than usual; she asked a little after the cause, but without insisting too much. Perhaps after all the attraction here will win and I shall not depart; in any case, I am going to tell her that I am obliged to go. I am curious to know how she will take it, still more curious as I can imagine it very well. I suspect that with all her love for me, which is very like my love for her, she does not really like me,--that is, if she ever takes the trouble to like or to dislike anybody. Our minds have certain points of resemblance, but thousands of contradictions. I am terribly tired. I cannot help thinking of the sensation my letter has made at Ploszow. I think incessantly of this even when with Laura; I see before me continually Aniela and my aunt. How happy Laura is in her everlasting repose! I have such difficulty to bear with my own self. I shall be glad of a change. Peli, though a seaside resort, is very empty. The heat is quite exceptional. The sea is calm; no waves wash against the shore; it seems exhausted and breathless from the heat. At times the wind rises, but it is a suffocating blast, that raises clouds of white dust which covers the palms, fig-trees, and myrtles, and penetrates through the blinds into the house. My eyes ache as the walls reflect a glaring sun, and in the daytime it is impossible to look at anything. To Switzerland or to Rome, but away from here. It seems anywhere it would be better than here. We all prepare for the journey. I have not seen Mr. Davis for four or five days. I fancy his insanity will break out any day. The doctor tells me the poor man challenges him to fight. He considers this a bad sign. ROME, CASA OSORIA, 18 May. It was evidently solitude I wanted. I feel as I felt after my arrival at Peli, sad, but at the same time peaceful. I feel even more peaceful here than in my first days at Peli, because there is none of that uneasiness Laura's presence used to give me. I walk about the still, gloomy house, and find thousands of details that remind me of my father, and the memory grows fresh again in my heart. He too had vanished into the distant haze, and now I meet him again as in his former, real life. There on the table in his studio are the lenses through which he looked at his specimens, the bronze implement he used in scraping the dry soil from the pottery; colors, brushes, manuscripts, and notes about the collections are lying about. At times I have a feeling as if he had gone out and would return presently to his work, and when the illusion disappears a great sorrow seizes me, and I love not only his memory, but love him who sleeps the eternal sleep on the Campo Santo. And I feel sad; but the feeling is so infinitely purer than those which had such absolute sway over my mind those last weeks that I feel more at ease,--a better man, or, at least, not so corrupt as I had seemed to myself. I notice also that no reasoning, nor the most desperate argumentation can deprive us of a certain feeling of satisfaction, when we come in contact with nobler elements. Whence comes that irresistible, irrepressible tendency towards the good? Spinning out this thread I go very far. Since our reason is considered a reflection of the logical principle of all life, may not our conception of good be a similar reflection from an absolute good. Were it so, one might throw at once all doubts to the wind, and shout, not only, "Eureka!" but also, "Alleluia!" Nevertheless, I am afraid lest the foundation fall to pieces, like many others, and I dare not build on it. Besides the reasoning is but vague; I shall go back to it undoubtedly, because this means the extraction of a thorn, not from the feet, but from the soul. Now I am too tired, too sad and restful at the same time. It seems to me that of all creatures upon earth it is only the human being that can act sometimes against his volition. I wanted to leave Peli for some time, and yet day after day passed, and I remained. The day previous to my departure I was almost certain I should stop, when unexpectedly Laura herself helped me to a decision. I told her about the lawyer's letter and my going away, only to see how she would receive the news. We were alone. I expected some exclamation from her part, some emotion, and lastly a "veto." Nothing of the kind took place. Hearing the news, she turned to me, passing her hand gently over my hair; she brought her face close to mine, and said:-- "You will come back, will you not?" By Jove! it is still an enigma to me what she meant. Did she suppose I was really obliged to go? or, trusting to the power of her beauty, had she no doubt whatever that I would come back? or, finally, did she grasp at the chance to get rid of me?--because after such a question there remained nothing for me but to go. The caressing touch and accompanying question are a little against the last supposition, which after all seems to me the likeliest. At odd moments I am almost certain she wanted to say by it:-- "It is not you who dismiss me; it is I who dismiss you." I confess that, if it was a dismission, Laura's cleverness is simply amazing; all the more so, as the manner was so sweet and caressing, and left me in uncertainty whether she was mocking me or not. But why delude myself? By that simple question she had won the game. Perhaps at other times my vanity would have suffered; but now it leaves me indifferent. That same evening, instead of coolness, there was perfect harmony between us. We separated very late. I see her still, walking with me, her eyes lowered, as far as my room. She was simply so beautiful that I felt sorry I was going. The next morning she said good-by to me at the station. The bunch of tea-roses I lost only in Genoa. Strange woman! As I went further on my journey, I felt side by side a physical longing and a great relief. I went on to Rome without stopping, and now feel as a bird released from his cage. 22 May. There is scarcely anybody I know in Rome. The heat has driven them to their villas, or up into the mountains. In the daytime there are few people in the streets except tourists, mostly Englishmen in pith-helmets, puggarees, red Baedekers, with their everlasting "Very interesting!" on their lips. At noon our Babuino is so deserted that the footstep of a solitary passer-by re-echoes on the pavement. But in the evening the street swarms with people. At that time I feel usually very depressed, nervous, and restless. I go out, and walk about until I am tired; and that gives me relief. I walk mostly on the Pincio, three or four times along that magnificent terrace. At this time lovers stroll about. Some couples walk arm in arm, their heads close together, their eyes uplifted, as if overflowing with happiness; others sit in the deep shadows of the trees. The flickering light of the lamp reveals now and then half-concealed under his plumes the profile of a Bersagliere, sometimes the light dress of a girl, or the face of a laborer or student. Whispers reach my ear; love-vows and low snatches of song. All this gives me the impression of a carnival of spring. I find a singular charm in thus losing myself among the crowd, and breathe their gayety and health. There is so much happiness and simplicity! This simplicity seems to penetrate into my whole being, and acts more soothingly upon my nerves than a sleeping draught. The evenings are clear and warm, but full of cool breezes. The moon rises beyond Trinitá dei Monti, and sails above that human beehive like a great silver bark, illuminating the tops of trees, roofs, and towers. At the foot of the terrace glimmers and surges the city, and somewhere in the distance, on a silvery background, appears the dark outline of St. Peter's, with a shining cupola like a second moon. Never did Rome seem more beautiful to me, and I discover new charms every day. I return home late, and go to bed almost happy in the thought that to-morrow I shall wake up again in Rome. And I do sleep. I do not know whether it is the exercise I take, but I sleep so heavily that it leaves a kind of dizziness when I wake up in the morning. Part of the morning I spend with the lawyer. Sometimes I work at compiling a catalogue of the collections for my own use. My father did not leave any instructions as to his collections; consequently they are my property. I would hand them over to the city, in fulfilment of his wishes, if I were quite sure he did wish it. As he did not will them away, he, moved by my aunt's remonstrances, may have left it to me to bring them sometime or other over to Poland. That my father thought of this in later times is proved by the numerous bequests and codicils in his will. Among others there is one that touched me more deeply than I can tell: "The head of the Madonna by Sassoferrato I leave to my future daughter-in-law." 25 May. The sculptor Lukomski began a month ago a full-length statue of my father, from a bust done by himself some years ago. I call upon him often in the middle of the day to watch the progress of the work. The studio is a barn-like building, with a huge skylight on the north side; consequently no sun comes in, and the light is cold. When I sit there I seem to be out of Rome altogether. To heighten the illusion, there is Lukomski, with his Northern features, light beard, and the dreamy blue eyes of a mystic. His two assistants are Poles, and the two dogs in the yard are called Kruk and Kurta,--in short, the place has the appearance of a northern isle in a southern sea. I like to go there for the quaintness of the thing, and I like to watch Lukomski at his work. There is in him at the same time so much power and simplicity. He is especially interesting when he stands back a short distance so as to get a better view of his work, and then suddenly goes back as to an attack. He is a very talented sculptor. The shape of my father seems to grow under his hand, and assume a wonderful likeness. It will be not only a portrait, but a work of art. If anybody, it is he who is altogether absorbed in the beauty of form. It seems to me that he works out his thoughts by the help of Greek noses, heads, arms, and torsos, more than by help of ideas. He has lived fifteen years at Rome, and still goes to galleries and museums, as if he had arrived yesterday. This proves that worship of form may fill a man's life, and become his religion, provided he is its high priest. Lukomski has as much veneration for beauty in human shape as devotees for holy shrines. I asked him which he considered the most beautiful woman in Rome. He answered, without hesitation, "Mrs. Davis;" and there and then, with his plastic thumbs, with the expressive motion common to artists, he began to draw her outline in the air. Lukomski, as a rule, is self-contained and melancholy; but at this moment he was so animated that his eyes lost their mystic expression. "Like this, for instance," he said, drawing a new line, "or like that. She is the most beautiful woman not only in Rome, but in the whole world." He says that when she lifts her head, the neck is as the continuation of the face,--the same breadth, which is very rare; sometime on the Transtevere one might see women with similar necks; but never in that perfection. Really, who seeks to find a flaw in Laura's beauty, must seek in vain. Lukomski goes so far as to maintain that statues ought to be raised to women like her in their lifetime. Of course, I did not contradict him. 29 May. The Italian law procedure begins to bore me. How slow they are, in spite of their vivacity! and how they talk! I am literally talked to shreds. I sent for some of the newest French novels, and read for whole days. The writers make upon me the impression of clever draughts-men. How quickly and skilfully each character is outlined! and what character and power in those sketches! The technical part can go no farther. As to the characters thus drawn, I can only say what I said before,--their love is only skin deep. This may be the case now and then; but that in the whole of France nobody should be capable of deeper feelings, let them tell this to somebody else. I know France too well, and say that she is better than her literature. That running after glaring, realistic truth makes the novel untrue to life. It is the individual we love; and the individual is composed not only of face, voice, shape, and expression, but also of intelligence, character, a way of thinking,--in brief, of various intellectual and moral elements. My relation to Laura is the best proof that a feeling founded upon outward admiration does not deserve the name of love. Besides, Laura is an exceptional case. 31 May. Yesterday I lunched with Lukomski; in the evening I loitered as usual on the Pincio. My imagination sometimes plays me strange tricks. I fancied that Aniela was leaning on my arm. We walked together, and talked like people who are very fond of each other. I felt so happy,--so different from what I had felt near Laura! When the illusion vanished I felt very lonely; I did not want to go home. That night I could not sleep at all. How utterly unprofitable my life is! These continual searchings of my mind are leading me into the desert. And it might have been so different! I am surprised that the memory of Aniela should be still so fresh and green. Why is it that I never dream of walking arm-in-arm with Laura? And since I come to mention her name, I add inwardly, "Perdition upon the memory!" I often think I have been holding happiness by both wings, and let it escape. 2 June. I never was so amazed in my life as to-day, in regard to Lukomski. We went together to the museum on the Capitol. When near the Venus, he surprised me by saying he preferred the Neapolitan Psyche by Praxiteles, as being more spiritual. A strange confession from a sculptor like him; but a greater surprise was in store for me near "The Dying Gladiator." Lukomski looked at him for nearly half an hour, then said, through clenched teeth, as he does when deeply moved,--"I have heard it said a hundred times that he has a Slavonic face, but really the likeness is wonderful. My brother has a farm,--Koslowka, near Sierpiec. There was one of the laborers, Michna, who was drowned driving horses through the water. I tell you it is exactly the same face. I come here very often for an hour, because I feel a longing to look at it." I could not believe my ears, and was surprised the roof of the Capitol did not come down on our heads. Sierpiec, Koslowka, Michna, here in the world of the antique, of classic forms! and from whose lips?--from those of Lukomski! I saw at once, peeping out from beneath the sculptor, the man. And that is the artist, I thought,--that the Roman, the Greek! You come here to look at the Gladiator, not so much for the sake of the form, as because he reminds you of Michna from Koslowka. I begin to understand now the taciturnity and melancholy. Lukomski evidently guessed my thoughts; for, the mystic eyes looking straight before him, he began in a broken voice to reply to my unuttered words: "Rome is well enough,--to live in, but not to die in! I am getting on fairly well,--no right to complain. I remain here because I must; but the longing for the old place tears me like all the devils. When the dogs bark at night in the garden, I fancy the sound comes from the village; and I feel as if I could scratch the walls. I should go mad if I did not go there once a year. I am going now, shortly, because I cannot breathe here any longer." He put his hand to his throat, and screwed up his mouth as if to whistle, to hide the trembling of the lips. It was almost an explosion,--the more astounding, as it was so unexpected. A sudden emotion seized me at the thought of the vast difference between me and such men as he and Sniatynski. Even now I think of it with a certain apprehension. There are vast horizons out of my reach. What an intensity of feeling there is in those men! They may be happy or wretched with it; but how immeasurably richer they are than I! There is no danger of life becoming to them a desert and a barren wilderness. In each of them there is life enough for ten. I too feel conscious of ties to my country; but the consciousness is not so pressing, does not burn with the same steady light, and is not part of myself. My existence does not depend upon any Koslowka, Michna, or Ploszow. Where men such as Sniatynski or Lukomski find live springs from which they draw their motive vigor, I find dry sand. And yet, if they had not this basis, there remains still, for one his sculpture, for the other his literature. It seems incredible that a man possessing so many conditions of happiness should be not only so little happy, but clearly does not see the reason why he should exist at all. It is doubtless my bringing up which has something to do with it,--those Metzes, Romes, Paris; I have always been as a tree taken from its soil and not firmly planted in another. Partly it is my own fault; because I am putting points of interrogation all along the road of life, and philosophize where others love only. The consequence is that philosophy, instead of giving me anything, has eaten my heart away. 8 June. I note down the occurrences of a whole week. I received, among other letters, one from Sniatynski. The honest fellow is so concerned about the turn my affair with Aniela has taken that he does not even abuse me. He tells me, though, that his wife is angry past forgiveness, and does not allow my name to be mentioned in her presence,--considers me a perfect monster, who finds his only delight in gloating over fresh victims. For once I am a good Christian, and not only do not bear malice to the little woman, but feel very friendly towards her. What a warm, generous heart hers is! Sniatynski evidently thinks the question finally settled; for he refrains from advice, and only expresses sorrow. "God grant," he writes, "you may find another like her." Strange, when I come to think of it! It seems to me that I do not want another like Aniela, or a better one either,--I want her. I say it seems to me; for it is a feeling without any definite shape. I carry within me something like an entangled skein; I weary myself, and yet am not able to reduce it to any kind of order. In spite of all my self-knowledge, I cannot quite make out what it is that makes me feel sad. Is it because I find I love her, or is it because I feel I could love her very much? Sniatynski unconsciously replies to this question in these words: "I have heard or read that gold nuggets have sometimes a large admixture of quartz, which must be crushed in order to get at the gold. I suppose your heart is thus covered with an incrustation, that only partly melted while you were staying at Ploszow. You did not remain long enough, and simply had no time to let your love grow sufficiently strong. You have, maybe, energy enough to act, but not enough to decide; but you would have found the energy if the feeling had been powerful enough. You went away, and according to your custom, began to ponder, to think it over; and it came to pass, as I was afraid it would, that you philosophized away your own happiness and that of another." What strikes me most in Sniatynski's words is that they are almost a repetition of what my father said to me. But Sniatynski penetrates deeper; for he adds almost immediately: "It is the old story,--he who inquires too deeply into his own mind ends by disagreeing with himself; and who disagrees with himself is incapable of any decision. Truly times must be out of joint, when only asses have any power of action left, and those who have a little more intelligence use it to doubt everything, and to persuade themselves that it is not worth while to attempt anything." I have read similar observations in one of the French authors; and by Jove! he is right. I almost wish Sniatynski had given me a downright scolding, instead of larding his letter with sentences like this "In spite of all your good qualities it will come to this, that you will always be a cause of suffering and anxiety to those who love you." He brings it home with a vengeance. I have caused suffering to Aniela, her mother, and my-aunt, and to myself also. I feel inclined to laugh a little as I read further: "According to the laws of nature, there is always something growing within us; beware, lest it be a poisonous weed that will destroy your whole existence!" No,--I am not afraid of that. There is some mould sown by Laura's fair hands, but it grows only on the outward crust of which Sniatynski speaks, and has not struck any roots. There is no need of uprooting anything; it is as easily wiped off as dust. Sniatynski is more reasonable when he is himself again, and steps forth with his pet dogma that lies always close to his heart: "If you consider yourself a superior type, or even if you be such, let me tell you that the sum total of such superiority, is socially, a minus quantity." I am far from considering myself a superior type, unless it be in comparison to such as Kromitzki; but Sniatynski is right. Men like me escape being minus quantities in society only when they are men of science or great artists,--not artists without portfolios. Often they take the part of great reformers. As to myself I could only be a reformer as regards my own person. I went about with that thought all the day. It is surpassing strange that, knowing my own short-comings so well, I do not make any attempt to mend matters. For instance, after debating for half a day whether to go out or not, ought I not to take myself by the collar and thrust myself into the street? I am a sceptic?--very well! Could I not act for once as if I were not a sceptic? A little more or less conviction, what does it matter? What ought I to do now? Pack up my things and go straight to Ploszow. I could do it easily enough. What the result of such a step would be, I do not know, but at any rate it would be doing something. Then Sniatynski writes: "That ape is now every day at Ploszow, keeping watch over the ladies, who, without that additional trouble, are worn to shadows." Perhaps it is too late. Sniatynski does not say when he was last at Ploszow, perhaps a week ago or maybe two; since then things may have gone much farther. Yes, but I do not know anything for certain, and when all is said how can it be worse than it is already? I feel that anybody with a little more energy in his composition would go at once, and I should feel more respect for myself if I brought myself to do it, especially as Sniatynski, who is usually so enterprising, does not urge me. The very thought brightens me up, and in this brightness I see a beloved face which at this moment is dearer to me than anything else in the world, and--per Baccho! I shall most probably do it. 9 June. "La nuit porte conseil." I will not go at once to Ploszow, it would be a journey in the dark; but I have written a long letter to my aunt, quite different from that I wrote at Peli. Within a week, or at the most ten days, I shall get an answer, and according to it I shall either go or stay,--in fact, I do not know myself yet what I shall do. I might count upon a favorable answer if I had written for instance like this: "Dearest aunt, send Kromitzki about his business; I beg Aniela to forgive me. I love her, and my dearest wish is to make her my wife." Unless she were married already,--and things could not have been managed there so speedily,--such a letter could have but one result. But I did not write anything of that kind. My missive was intended to reconnoitre the position, sent in fact as a scout to find out how affairs were progressing, and partly, to learn what Aniela was thinking. To say the truth, if I did not express myself more definitely, it is because experience has taught me to mistrust myself. Ah! if Aniela, in spite of the wrong inflicted upon her by me, refused Kromitzki, how gratified I should feel towards her; and how immeasurably higher she would rise in my esteem if once removed from the ranks of marriageable girls whose only aim is to get a husband. What a pity I ever heard about Kromitzki. Once rid of the entanglement with Laura, I should have flown on wings to Aniela's side. This dear aunt has managed things with a clumsy hand in writing to me about Kromitzki and the encouragement he had from Aniela's mother. In these times of overwrought nerves, it is not only women that are like sensitive plants. A rough touch, and, the soul shrinks, folds itself up, maybe forever. I know it is foolish, even wrong, but I cannot help it. To change myself I should have to order at an anatomist's a new set of nerves, and keep those I have for special occasions. No one, not even Pani Sniatynski, can judge me more severely than I judge myself. But is Kromitzki better than I? Is his low, money-making neurosis better than mine? Without any boastfulness I may say that I have more delicacy of feeling, nobler impulses, a better heart, more tenderness, and--his own mother would be obliged to own it--more intelligence. It is true I could not make millions to save my life; but then Kromitzki has not achieved it yet; instead of that, I could guarantee that my wife would spend her life in a broader and warmer atmosphere; there would be more sincerity in it and nobler aims. It is not the first time I have compared myself to Kromitzki, and it makes me angry considering what a vast difference there is between us. We are like inhabitants of different planets, and as to our souls, if one has to climb up to reach mine, such as Aniela would have to stoop very low to reach his. But would this be such a difficult task for her? It is a horrible question; but in regard to women I have seen so monstrous things, especially in my country where the women generally speaking are superior to the men, that I am obliged to consider it. I have seen girls, angels in all but wings, full of noble impulses, sensitive to everything beautiful and uncommon, not only marry louts of narrow and mean characters, but adopt after marriage their husbands' maxims of life, vanities, narrowness, and commonplace opinions. What is more, some of them did this eagerly, as if former ideals were only fit to be thrown aside with the bridal wreath. They seemed to labor under the conviction that only thus they could prove themselves true wives. It is true that sometimes a reaction follows, but in a general sense Shakspeare's Titania is a common enough type, to be met with every day. I am a sceptic from the crown of my head to the soles of my feet, but my scepticism springs from pain, for it hurts me to think that such may be Aniela's fate. Perhaps she too will shrug her shoulders at the memory of her girlish aspirations, and consider contracts in Turkestan better adapted to practical life. A dull wrath seizes me at the thought, all the more as it will be partly my fault, that is, if it should come to that. On the other side these reflections and vacillations are not merely the result of a want of decision, as Sniatynski seems to think. I have such a high conception about marriage, such lofty demands, that they take away my courage. It is true that often husband and wife fit each other like two warped boards, and yet jog through life contentedly enough; but this would not be enough for me. For the very reason that I believe in happiness so little, I should like to attain it; but can I attain it? It is not so much the unhappy marriages I have met with that make me so wavering, but the few happy ones I have seen; at the remembrance of these I ask myself, "Is it possible I could be so happy?" And yet happiness is not met with in fiction only,--but how to know where to look for it! 11 June. In the last few days I have become quite intimate with Lukomski. He is not so self-contained and melancholy as he used to be. Yesterday, towards evening, he came to see me; we went out for a walk as far as the Thermes of Caracalla; then I asked him to come back with me, and he stopped until midnight. I had a long talk with him, which I note down, as it made upon me a certain impression. Lukomski seemed a little ashamed of the exhibition of feeling he had made near "The Dying Gladiator;" but I led him on and gradually came to know the man as he really was. As we were growing very friendly I ventured to remark,-- "Excuse the question, but I cannot understand why a man so fond of domestic life has not taken to himself a companion. Neither your studio, your assistants, nor your dogs can give you the feeling of a home you are missing, as a wife would." Lukomski smiled, and pointing to the ring on his finger, said,-- "I am going to be married shortly. We are only waiting because the young lady is in mourning for her father; I am to join her in two months." "At Sierpiec?" "No, she comes from Wilkomierz." "What took you to Wilkomierz?" "I have never been there. I met her by accident on the Corso in Rome." "That was a fortunate accident, was it not?" "The most fortunate in my life." "Was it during the Carnival?" "No. It happened in this way: I was on my way to the studio when, in the Via Condotto, I saw two fair-haired women inquiring in very bad Italian the way to the Capitol. They were saying: 'Capitolio, Capitole, Capitol,' and nobody seemed to know what they wanted, because here, as you know, they call it 'Campidolio.' I could not have been mistaken,--they were Poles, evidently mother and daughter. They were overjoyed when I addressed them in Polish; I was very glad too, and so I not only showed them the way but went there with them." "You have no idea how this interests me; and so you went together?" "Yes, we went together. On the way I looked at the younger lady; a figure like a young poplar, graceful, pretty, a small head, ears a perfect model, the face full of expression, and eyelashes pure gold, such as, you find only at home; there is nothing of that kind here, unless now and then at Venice. She pleased me very much too because of that thoughtfulness for her mother, who was in grief, having lost her husband; I thought she must have a good heart. For about a week I went with them everywhere, and then asked for the young lady's hand." "After a week's acquaintance; is it possible?" "Yes, because the ladies were going back to Florence." "At any rate you are not one of those who take a long time to make up their minds." "At home it would have taken much longer; but here, sir, the very thought they were my countrywomen made me long to kiss their hands." "Yes, but marriage is such an important step." "That is true; but three or four weeks more would not help me to a clearer view of it. I had certain scruples, I confess; I feel a little reluctant to speak of it. In our family there is hereditary deafness. My grandfather at an advanced age became quite deaf. My father was deaf at forty. One can live with that, but it is a great drawback, because deaf people as a rule are irritable. I debated within myself whether it was right for a young girl to marry a man threatened with such a defect, and who in course of time might become a burden to her." I began to observe now that Lukomski had in the expression of his eyes, and the way he listened to what was said to him, a certain peculiarity noticed in deaf people. His hearing was still excellent, but he evidently feared that he might be losing the faculty. I told him he had no right to let that stand in his way. "I thought so a little myself. It is not worth while to spoil one's life for a thing that may never happen. There is the cholera that sweeps now and then over Italy; it would be foolish for Italians not to marry for fear they might leave orphans and widows. Besides I have done what I considered my duty. I told Panna Vanda that I loved her and would give my life to call her my own, but there was this impediment. And do you know what her answer was? 'When you are no longer able to hear me saying I love you, I will write it.' All this did not come off without some crying, but an hour afterwards we made merry over it. I pretended to have suddenly grown deaf, to make her write, 'I love you.'" This conversation fixed itself in my mind. Sniatynski is wrong when he maintains that among us only asses have still a kind of will. This sculptor had a real motive to reflect, and yet a week seemed sufficient for such a weighty decision. Maybe he does not possess the same knowledge of self as I, but he is a very intelligent fellow. What a plucky woman the future Pani Lukomska is; I like her ready answer. Aniela would do the same. If, for instance, I were to lose my eyesight, Laura would care only in so far as she could show me off, a picturesque Demadoc, singing at her feast; but Aniela would take care of me even if she were not my wife. I must acknowledge that, having such convictions, a week of indecision seems a long time; and here I have been wavering for five months, and the letter I wrote to my aunt was not very decisive either. But I comfort myself with the thought that my aunt is a clever woman, and loving me as she does, will guess what I meant to say, and will help me in her own way; and then there is Aniela who will assist her. Nevertheless, I regret now that I did not write more openly, and I feel half inclined to send another letter, but will not yield to the impulse. Perhaps it will be as well to wait for the reply. Happy those people, like Lukomski, whose first impulse is towards action. 15 June. Whatever name I might give to the feeling I cherish for Aniela, it is different from anything I ever felt before. Either night or day she is never out of my thought; it has grown into a kind of personal affair for which I feel responsible to myself. This never used to be the case. My other love affairs lasted a longer or shorter time, their memories were pleasant sometimes, a little sad at others, or distasteful as the case might be, but never absorbed my whole being. In the idle, aimless life we are leading, woman, perforce, occupies a large space,--she is always before us; we bestow our attentions upon her until we become so used to it that she counts only as a venial sin in our lives. To disappoint a woman causes us but little trouble of conscience, though a little more perhaps than she feels in disappointing us. With all the sensitiveness of my nature, I have a rather blunted conscience. Sometimes it happened I said to myself, "Now is the time for a pathetic lecture!" but I only shrugged my shoulders and preferred to think of something more pleasant. This time it is altogether different. For instance, I think of something that has no connection with it whatever; presently I am overcome by a feeling that something is missing, a great trouble seizes me, a fear as if I had forgotten something of great importance, not done a thing I ought to have done; and I find out that the thought of Aniela has percolated through every nook and cranny of the mind, and taken possession of it. It knocks there night and day like the death-tick in the desk of Mickiewicz's poem. When I try to lessen or to ridicule the impression, my scepticism and irony fail me, or rather help me only for a moment; then I go back to the enchanted circle. Strictly speaking, it is neither a great sorrow nor a sting of conscience; it is rather a troublesome fastening upon one subject, and a restless, feverish curiosity as to what will happen next,--as if upon that next my very life depended. If I analyzed myself less closely, I should say it was an all-absorbing love that had taken possession of me; but I notice that there is something besides Aniela that causes me anxiety. There is no doubt as to her having made a deep impression upon me; but Sniatynski is right,--if I had loved her as much as Sniatynski loved his wife, I should have desired to make her my own. But I--and this is quite a fact--do not desire her so much as I am afraid to lose her. It is not everybody perhaps who could perceive the singular and great difference. I feel quite convinced that but for Kromitzki and the fear of losing Aniela, I should not feel either anxieties or trouble. My entangled skein is gradually getting straighter, and I can see now more clearly that it is not so much love for Aniela as fear of losing her, and with her some future happiness, that moves me, and still more the utter loneliness I see before me should Aniela go out from my life. I have noticed that the stoutest pessimists, when fate or men try to take something out of their lives, fight tooth and nail, and cry out as loud as the greatest optimists. I am exactly in the like position. I do not cry out, but a terrible fear clutches at my heart, that a few days hence I shall not know what to do with myself in this world. 16 June. I had indirect news of Laura through my lawyer, who is also their legal adviser. Mr. Davis is already in a lunatic asylum, and Laura at Interlaken, at the foot of the Jungfrau. Perhaps she has some ideas about climbing the mountain heights, drapes herself in Alps, eternal snow, and rising sun, sails gracefully on the lake, and bends over precipices. I expressed my regret at Mr. Davis's condition, and the lady's, who at so early an age was left without protection. Thereupon the old lawyer set my mind at rest, telling me that Count Maleschi, a Neapolitan, and Laura's cousin, had gone to Switzerland. I know him. He is beautiful as an Antinous, but an inveterate gambler, and somewhat of a coward. It appears I was a little out of my reckoning when I compared Laura to the tower of Pisa. It has happened to me literally for the first time that the memory of a woman whom I did not love, though I made her believe I did, rouses within me much ill-feeling. I am so ungrateful and ungenerous to her that it makes me feel ashamed. Plainly, what reason have I for any ill-feeling, and what has she done to me that I cannot forgive? It is because, as I said before, from the very beginning of our relations, though not through any fault of hers, I did many things I have never done before in my life. I did not respect my sorrow, had no consideration for the weakness and helplessness of Davis, got corrupted, slothful, and finally sent off that fatal letter. It is all my fault! But the blind man when he stumbles over a stone, curses the stone, not the blindness that made him stumble. 17 June. To-day I paid Lukomski, gave a power of attorney to the lawyer, had my things packed, and am ready for the journey. Rome begins to pall upon me. 18 June. I have been counting that my aunt's reply ought to have reached me by this. Putting aside all the worst suppositions, I try to guess what she is going to tell me. I regret, for I do not know how many times, that my letter was not more conclusive. Yet I wrote that I would come to Ploszow if I felt sure my presence would be acceptable to my aunt's guests, sending them my kindest regards at the same time. I also mentioned that during the last days of my stay at Peli I felt so irritable that I scarcely knew what I was doing. The letter, while I was writing it, seemed to me very clever; now it appears to me as the height of folly. It was simply that my vanity did not permit me to revoke clearly and decidedly what I had written previously. I counted upon my aunt grasping at the opportunity I gave her for settling matters, and then I meant to make my appearance as the generous prince. Human nature is very pitiful. Nothing now remains but to hold fast to the hope that my aunt would guess how it stood with me. With my anxiety increasing every moment, I feel not only that I could have loved Aniela, but that I do love her beyond expression, and also that I might become an incomparably better man. Strictly speaking, why do I act as if beyond nerves and egoism there were nothing else in me? and if there be anything else, why does not my auto-analysis point it out to me? I have the courage to draw extreme conclusions, and do not hide the truth from myself, but I decidedly negative the notion. Why? Because I have the unshaken conviction that I am better than my actions. The cause of the latter is partly a certain incapacity of life, partly the inheritance of my race and the disease of the times in which I live, and finally that over-analysis which does not permit me to follow the first, simple impulses of nature, but criticises until it reduces the soul to utter impotence. When a child I used to amuse myself by piling up coin upon coin until the column, bending under its own weight, tumbled down into one chaotic heap. I am doing now exactly the same with my thoughts and intentions, until they collapse and roll over each other in a disorderly confusion. For this very reason it has always been easier for me to play a passive part than an active one. It appears to me that many cultured people are attacked by the same disease. Criticism of ourselves and everything else is corroding our active power; we have no stable basis, no point of issue, no faith in life. Therein lies the reason why I do not care so much to win Aniela as I am afraid of losing her. In speaking of a disease common to our time, I will not confine myself exclusively to my own case. That somebody takes to his bed when an epidemic disease is raging is a very common occurrence; nowadays criticism of everything is the epidemic spreading all over the world. The result is that various roofs that sheltered men collapse over their heads. Religion, the very name of which means "ties," is getting unloosened. Faith, even in those who still believe, is getting restive. Through the roof of what we call Fatherland social currents begin to filter. There remains only one ideal in presence of which the most hardened sceptic raises his hat,--the People. But on the base of this statue mischievous spirits are beginning already to scribble more or less ribald jokes, and, what is still more strange, the mist of unbelief is rising from the heads of those who, in the nature of things, ought to bow down reverently. Finally there will come a gifted sceptic, a second Heine, to spit and trample on the idol, as in his time did Aristophanes; he will not, however, trample on it in the name of old ideals, but in the name of freedom of thought, in the name of freedom of doubt; and what will happen then I do not know. Most likely on the huge, clean-wiped slate the devil will write sonnets. Can anything be done to prevent all this? Finally, what does it matter to me? To attempt anything is not my business; I have been trained too carefully as a child of my time. But if all that is thought, that is achieved and happening, has for its ultimate aim to increase the sum of general happiness, I permit myself a personal remark as to that happiness; by which I do not mean material comfort, but that inward spiritual peace in which I as well as anybody else may be wanting. Thus my grandfather was happier than my father, my father happier than I, and as to my son, if ever I have one, he will simply be an object of commiseration. FLORENCE, 20 June. The house of cards has tumbled down. I received a letter from my aunt. Aniela is engaged to Kromitzki, and the marriage will take place in a few weeks. She herself has fixed such a short date. After receiving the news I took a railway ticket, with the intention of going straight to Ploszow, conscious all the time that it was a foolish thing to do, which could lead to nothing. But the impulse was upon me, and carried me along; when, collecting the last remnants of common-sense and reflection, I stuck fast here. FLORENCE, 22 June. Simultaneously with my aunt's letter, I received a "faire part" addressed in a female hand. It is not Aniela's handwriting, or her mother's; neither of them would have done it. Most likely it is Pani Sniatynska's malicious device. Upon the whole, what does it matter? I got a blow with a club on the head, and feel dizzy; it has shaken me more than it has hurt. I do not know how it will be later on; they say one does not feel a bullet wound at once. But I have not sent a bullet through my head, I am not mad; I look at the Lung Arno; I could sit down to a game of patience if I knew how to play; in fact, I am quite well. It is the old story,--among sincere friends the dogs tore the hare to pieces. My aunt considered it her Christian duty to show Aniela the letter I had written from Peli. FLORENCE, 23 June. In the morning, when I wake up,--or rather, when opening my eyes,--I am obliged to repeat to myself that Aniela is marrying Kromitzki,--Aniela, so good, so loving, who insisted on sitting up to take care of me when I returned from Warsaw to Ploszow; who looked into my eyes, hung upon every word that came from my lips, and with every glance told me she was mine. That same Aniela will not only be Kromitzki's wife, but within a week from the wedding will not be able to conceive how she could ever hesitate in her choice between such a man as Ploszowski and a Jupiter like Kromitzki. Strange things happen in this world,--so terrible and irrevocable that it takes away the desire to live out the mean remnant of one's existence. Most likely Pani Celina together with Pani Sniatynska make a great ado about Kromitzki, and praise him at my expense. I hope they will leave Aniela in peace. It is my aunt's doing; she ought not to have allowed it, if only for Aniela's sake, as she cannot possibly be happy with him. She herself says Aniela has accepted him out of despair. Here is that long, cursed letter:-- "I thank you for the last news,--all the more as that first letter from Peli was not only conclusive, but also very cruel. I could scarcely believe that you had not only no affection for the girl, but also neither friendship nor compassion. My dear Leon, I never asked nor advised you to become engaged to Aniela at once,--I only wanted you to write a few kindly words, not to her directly, but in a letter to me. And believe me, it would have been sufficient; for she loved you as only girls like her can love. Put yourself in my position,--what could I do after having received your letter? How could I conscientiously allow her to remain in her illusion, and at the same time in that anxiety that evidently undermined her health? Chwastowski always sends a special messenger for papers and letters, and brings them himself when he comes to breakfast. Aniela saw there was a letter from you, because the poor child was always on the lookout for Chwastowski, and took the letters from him under pretext that she wanted to put them under my napkin; and the real reason was that she might see whether there was a letter from you. I noticed how her hands trembled when she poured out the tea. Touched by a sudden foreboding, I hesitated whether to put off the reading of your letter until I had gone into my room; but I was anxious about your health, and could not wait. God knows what it cost me not to show what I felt, especially as Aniela's eyes were fixed upon my face. But I got a firm grip of myself, and even managed to say: 'Leon is still sorrowing, but, thank God! his health is all right, and he sends you kind messages.' Aniela inquired, as it were in her usual voice, 'Is he going to remain long in Italy?' I saw how much the question meant to her, and had not the heart to undeceive her then,--especially as Chwastowski and the servants were there; so I said merely: 'No, not very long; I believe he will soon come to see us.' If you had seen the flame that shot up in her face, the sudden joy that kindled her eyes, and the effort she made not to burst into tears. Poor child! I feel inclined to cry every time I think of it. What I went through in the solitude of my own room, you cannot imagine; but you wrote distinctly, 'I wish her happiness with Kromitzki;' it was duty, my conscience told me, to open her eyes. There was no need to send for her,--she came herself. I said to her, 'Aniela, dear, you are a good girl, and a girl that submits to God's will. We must be open with each other. I have seen the affection that was springing up between you and Leon. It was my dearest wish you might come to love each other; but evidently the Lord willed it otherwise. If you have still any illusions, you must try to get rid of them.' I took her into my arms; for she had grown deadly white, and I was afraid she might faint. But she did not lose consciousness, but hid her head on my knees and said over and over again: 'What message did he send me?' I did not want to tell her, but then it struck me it might be better for her if she knew the whole truth; and I told her you wished her happiness with Kromitzki. She rose, and after a moment said, in a quite changed voice: 'Thank him for me, aunty!' and then left the room. I am afraid you will not thank me for repeating to her your very words, without disguising them under any kind expressions; but since you do not want Aniela, the more plainly she is told about it the better. Convinced that you treated her badly, she may forget you all the sooner. Besides, if it give you pain, remember how much pain and anxiety you have caused us,--especially Aniela. Yet she has more control over herself than I even expected. Her eyes were quite dry the whole day, and she gave no sign of inward trouble; she is anxious to spare her mother, about whose health she is much concerned; she only clung more to her and to me,--which moved me so deeply that it made my chin tremble. Pan Sniatynski, who came to see us the same day, did not notice anything unusual in Aniela. Knowing he is in your confidence, I told him all about it; and he was dreadfully shocked, and got into such a rage with you that it made me quite angry with him. I need not repeat what he said,--you know his ways. You, who do not love Aniela, cannot understand how happy you might have been with her; but you have done wrong, Leon, in making her believe you loved her. Not only she,--we all thought the same; and that is where the sting lies. Only God knows how much she suffered; and it was this that made her accept Kromitzki,--it was done out of despair. She must have had a long talk with her mother, and then it was decided. When Kromitzki arrived the day after, she treated him differently; and a week later they were engaged. Pan Sniatynski heard about it only a few days ago, and he was tearing his hair; and as to my own feelings, I will not even try to put them into words. "I was more angry with you than I have ever been in my life with anybody, and only your second letter has pacified me a little, though it convinced me at the same time of the futility of my dreams. I confess that after the first letter, and before Kromitzki had finally proposed, I still thought: 'Perhaps God will be good to us and change his heart; maybe he has written thus in a fit of auger!' but when afterwards you sent kind messages to Aniela without denying or contradicting what you had written in the first letter, I saw it was of no use deceiving myself any longer. Aniela's wedding is to take place on the 25th of July, and I will tell you why they have fixed upon such a short date. Celina is really very ill, thinks she will soon die, and is afraid her death might delay the marriage, and thus leave Aniela without a protector. Kromitzki is in a hurry because he has his business to attend to in the East; lastly, Aniela wishes to drain the cup with as little delay as possible. Ah! Leon, my boy, why should all this have happened, and why is that poor child made unhappy? "I would never have allowed her to marry Kromitzki, but how could I say a word against it, feeling as I do that I am guilty in regard to Aniela. I was over-anxious to see you settled in life, and never considered what might be the consequences for her. It is my fault, and consequently I suffer not a little; I pray every day for the poor child. "After the ceremony they will immediately leave for Volhynia. Celina remains with me for the present; she was thinking of Odessa, but I will not let her go on any account. You know, my dear boy, how happy I am when you are with me, but do not come now to Ploszow for Aniela's sake; if you wish to see me I will come to you, but we must spare Aniela now as much as we can." Why deceive myself any longer? When I read that letter I felt as if I could ram my head against the wall,--not in rage or jealousy but in utter anguish. 23 June. I cannot possibly fold my hands and let things take their own way. This marriage must not take place; it would be too monstrous. To-day, Thursday, I have sent a telegram to Sniatynski, entreating him by all the powers to be at Cracow by Sunday. I shall leave here to-morrow. I asked him not to mention the telegram to anybody. I will see him, talk to him, and beg him to see Aniela in my name. I count much upon his influence. Aniela respects and likes him very much. I did not apply to my aunt, because we men understand one another better. Sniatynski, as a psychologist, can make allowance for the phase of life I have been passing through lately. I can tell him, too, about Laura; if I were to mention such a thing to my aunt she would cross herself as if in presence of the Evil One. I first wanted to write to Aniela; but a letter from me would attract attention and cause a general confusion. I know Aniela's straight-forwardness; she would show the letter to her mother, who does not like me and might twist the words so as to suit her own schemes, and Kromitzki would help her. Sniatynski must see Aniela alone. His wife will help him. I hope he will undertake the mission, though I am fully aware what a delicate task it is. I have not slept for several nights. When I shut my eyes I see Aniela before me,--her face, her eyes, her smile,--I even hear her voice. I cannot go on like this. CRACOW, 26 June. Sniatynski has arrived. He has promised to do it,--good fellow, God bless him for it! It is four o'clock at night, but I cannot sleep, so I sit down to write, for I can do nothing else. We talked together, discussed and quarrelled till three o'clock. Now he is sleeping in the adjoining room. I could not at first persuade him to undertake the mission. "My dear fellow," he said, "what right have I, a stranger, to meddle in your family affairs, and such a delicate affair too? Pana Aniela could reduce me to silence at once by saying, 'What business is it of yours?'" I assured him that Aniela would do nothing of that kind. I acknowledged he was right in the main, but this was an exceptional case, and general rules could not apply to it. My argument that it was for Aniela's sake seemed to convince him most; but I think he is doing it a little for my sake too; he seemed sorry, and said I looked very ill. Besides, he cannot bear Kromitzki. Sniatynski maintains that money speculations is the same as taking money out of somebody else's pocket and put it in one's own. He takes many things amiss in Kromitzki, and says of him: "If he had a higher or honester aim in view I could forgive him; but he tries to gain money for the mere sake of having it." Aniela's marriage is almost as repugnant to him as to me, and his opinion is that she is preparing a wretched life for herself. At my entreaties he promised to take the first train in the morning. The day after both he and his wife will go to Ploszow, and if they do not find a chance of seeing Aniela alone, carry her off to Warsaw for a few hours. He is going to tell Aniela how much I suffer, and that my life is in her hands. He is able to do it. He will speak to her with a certain authority, gently and persuasively; he will convince her that a woman, however wounded her heart may be, has no right to marry the man she does not love; that doing so she acts dishonestly, and is not true to herself; that, likewise, she has no right to throw over the man she loves, because in an access of jealousy he wrote a letter he repents of now from the veriest depths of his heart. Towards the end Sniatynski said to me:-- "I will do what you wish under one condition: you must pledge me your word that in case my mission fails, you will not go to Ploszow and make a scene which the ladies might pay for with their health; you may write to Aniela if you wish, but you will not go, unless she gives you permission." What does he take me for? I promised unreservedly, but his words increased my anxiety. But I count upon Aniela's heart and Sniatynski's eloquence. Ah! how he can speak! He did not encourage my hopes, but I can see he is hopeful himself. As a last resource he promised to get Aniela to delay the marriage for six months. In that case the victory is ours, for Kromitzki will draw back. I shall remember this day for a long time. Sniatynski, when in presence of a real sorrow, can be as gentle as a woman, and he was anxious to spare my feelings. Yet it costs me something to lay bare even before such a friend my madness,--weak points,--and put into his hands my whole fate, instead of fighting it out by myself. But what does it all matter when Aniela is in question? 27 June. Sniatynski left early. I went with him to the station. On the way I kept repeating various instructions as if he were an idiot. He said teasingly that if he were successful in his mission, I would begin again philosophizing. I felt a desire to shake him. He went away with such a cheerful face I could swear he feels sure not to fail. After his departure I went straight to St. Mary's Church, and I, the sceptic, the philosopher, I who do not know, do not know, do not know, had a mass offered in the names of Leon and Aniela. I not only remained during mass in church, but put down here, black on white: Perdition upon all my scepticism, philosophy, and my "I do not know!" 28 June. It is one o'clock in the afternoon. Sniatynski and his wife are starting for Ploszow. Aniela ought to agree at least to a postponement of her marriage. Various thoughts cross my mind. That Kromitzki is greedy for money there is not the slightest doubt; then why did he not fix his attentions on a richer girl? Aniela's estate is large, but encumbered with debts,--perhaps it was the landed property he wanted, so as to secure himself a position and a citizenship. Yet Kromitzki, with his reputation as a rich man, could have got all this, and money with his wife besides. Evidently Aniela attracted him personally and for some time. It is not to be wondered at that Aniela should captivate any one. And to think that she was waiting, as one waits for one's happiness or salvation, for one word from me! My aunt says it, that she was lying in wait for Chwastowski, to take the letters from him. A terrible fear seizes me that all this may not be forgiven, and that I am doomed and all those that are like me. 10 o'clock in the evening. I had a terrible neuralgia in the head; it has passed now, but what with the pain, the sleeplessness, and anxiety, I feel as if I were hypnotized. My mind, open and excited on one point, concentrated upon one thought, sees more clearly than it has ever done before how the affair will end. It seems to me that I am at Ploszow; I listen to what Aniela says to Sniatynski, and I cannot understand how I could buoy myself up with false hopes. She has no pity on me. These are not mere suppositions, they are a dead certainty. Truly, something strange is going on with me. A terrible gravity has suddenly fallen upon me, as if up to this moment I had only been a child,--and such a terrible sadness. Am I going to be ill? I made Sniatynski promise to send me a telegram. No message has as yet arrived, though, properly speaking, it will not tell me anything new. 29 June. The telegram has come. It contains these words: "It is of no use,--pull yourself together and travel." Yes, I will do it. Oh, Aniela! Paris, 2 April. It is some ten months since I put down anything in my journal; it had become such a familiar friend that I missed it. But I said to myself: what is the use of it? If I put down on paper thoughts worthy of a Pascal; deeper than the ocean depth; loftier than the Alps,--it would not change the simple fact that she is married. With that fact staring at me, my hands dropped powerless. Sometimes life concentrates itself in one object, not necessarily an important one; but if that fails us we seem at a loss what to do with ourselves. It is strange,--almost laughable,--but for a long time I remained in a state of mind in which the most commonplace functions of life seemed irksome and useless, and it took me some time to remember that I used to go to clubs and theatres, shaved, dressed, and dined before I knew her. The first months I travelled a great deal, straying as far as Iceland. The sight of Swedish lakes, Norwegian fiords, and Icelandic geysers conveyed to me no direct impressions; I only tried to imagine what Aniela would have felt or said to such a view,--in short, I saw with her eyes, thought her thoughts, and felt with her heart. And when presently I remembered that she was Aniela no longer, but Pani Kromitzka, I went straight to the nearest railway station or ship to go somewhere else, as what I looked upon had ceased to interest me. It did not matter to me in the least that I played a part in one of the so commonly ridiculed dramas where thousands of fools have played the same parts before. And death is a drama; and those who are entering its gates think the world is coming to an end; and so it is,--for them. I do not know, and will not enter into it now, whether my feeling the first few months was one of fathomless despair. Everything is relative. I know only that my whole being was absorbed by one woman, and I understood for the first time the void created by the death of a dearly loved being. But gradually the habit--not the zest--of life recovered its vital power. This is a common enough fact. I have known people, inwardly intensely sad, without a grain of cheerfulness in their souls, yet keep up an appearance of cheerfulness because they had once been cheerful, and the habit clung to them. And time dulls the pain, and I found an antidote to the poison. I read once, in a book of travels by Farini, that the Caffres, when stung by a scorpion, cure themselves by letting the scorpion sting them in the same place. Such a scorpion,--such an antidote,--was for me, and is generally for most people, the word, "It is done; there is no help for it." It is done, therefore I suffer; it is done, and I feel relieved. There is an anodyne in the consciousness that it cannot be helped. It reminds me of the Indian carried away by the Niagara: he struggled at first with all his strength against the current; but seeing the hopelessness of his efforts, threw away his oar, laid himself down in the bottom of the canoe, and began to sing. I am ready to sing now. The Niagara Falls have that advantage--they crush the life out of a man; there are others that throw him on a lonely barren shore without water. This has happened to me. The evil genius bent upon wrecking my life had not taken in account one thing: a man crushed and utterly wretched cares less for himself than a happy one. In presence of that indifference fate becomes more or less powerless. I was and am still in that frame of mind that, if angry Fortuna came to me in person, and said: "Go to perdition," I should reply calmly: "Be it so,"--not out of sorrow for the loss of Aniela, but from mere indifference to everything within or without me. This is a special kind of armor which not only protects the man himself, but also makes him dangerous to others. It is clear that he who does not spare himself will not spare others. Even God's commandment does not say: "Love thy neighbor more than thyself." It does not follow that I mean to cut somebody's throat one of these days. What I said has merely a theoretical bearing upon life in general; nobody will be any the worse for it; for if indifference diminishes altruism, it also lessens egoism. If I were to sleep with my neighbor under the, same cloak, I should not surrender it altogether; neither should I take it all to myself. Dangerous, and even very dangerous, such a man as I am may become when at length he is aroused from his lethargy, drawn forth from the seclusion of his egotism, and forced into definite action. He then acquires the precision of motion, and also the merciless power, of an engine, I have gained that mechanical power. For some time I have noticed that I impress others by my way of thinking and my will more strongly than formerly, though I have not sought it in the least. The everlasting source of weakness is love of self, vanity, and coquetry in regard to others. Almost unconsciously everybody tries to please, to gain sympathy; and towards that end often sacrifices his own opinions and convictions. At present this coquetry, if not altogether gone, is greatly diminished; and the indifference as to whether I please or not gives me a kind of superiority over others. I have noticed that during my travels, and especially now at Paris. There are many here who at one time had an ascendency over me; now I have the ascendency, for the very reason that I care less for it. In a general way I look upon myself as a man who could be energetic if he wished to exert himself; but the will acts in proportion to the passions, and mine are in the passive state. As the habit of giving an account to myself for my thoughts and actions still remains with me, I explain in this way that in certain conditions of life we may as strongly desire not to live, as in others we should wish the contrary. Most likely my indifference springs from this dislike of life. It is this which renders it different from the apathy of such men as Davis. It is quite certain that I have grown more independent than formerly, and might say with Hamlet that there is something dangerous in me. Fortunately nobody crosses my path. Everybody is as supremely indifferent and cool towards me as I am in regard to them. Only my aunt in far-away Ploszow loves me as of old; but I suppose even her love has lost its active character, and there will be no more match-making in my behalf. 3 April. Alas! that indifference I compared to pure water without taste or color is only apparently colorless. Looking more closely I perceive tiny bubbles which dim its purity. They are my idiosyncrasies. Everything else has left me and they remained. I do not love anybody, have no active hatred towards any one, but am full of aversions in regard to various people. One of these is Kromitzki. I do not hate him because he has taken Aniela from me; I dislike him for his long, flat feet, his thick knees, lank figure, and that voice like a coffee-mill. He was always repulsive to me, and I mention the fact now because that aversion has such a strange vitality in me. I cannot help thinking of people who jar upon my nerves. If only Kromitzki and Pani Celina came under that category, I might think those antipathies were hatred in the disguise of aversion. But it is not so. There are others who have roused at some time or other an aversion in me that clings quite as perversely to my memory. As I cannot ascribe it to the state of my health,--I never felt better in my life,--I explain it in this way: The world has robbed me of my love, time has dried up hatred, and as the living individual must feel something, I live upon what remains to me. I must also say that he who feels and lives thus does not get a surfeit of happiness. My former sympathies have cooled down very considerably. To Sniatynski I have taken a dislike which no reasoning on my part can overcome. Sniatynski has many grand qualities and is pleasantly conscious of them, which gives him, as painters express it, a certain mannerism. I suppose it is exceedingly rare that a man who sees that his individual characteristics impress people favorably does not fall in love with his own type, and end by exaggerating it. Sniatynski consequently has grown artificial, and for the sake of the pose sacrifices his innate delicacy; as in case of the abrupt telegram he sent to Cracow, after his mission with Aniela had failed,--his advice to travel, which I should have done without it,--and I received another letter from him at Christiania soon after Aniela's wedding, written in a friendly spirit, but very abrupt and artificial. I might give its substance as follows: "Panna Aniela is now Pani Kromitzka,--the thing is done; I am sorry for you; do not think the bottom is falling out of the universe; there are other things in the world of more importance, the deuce take it. Norway must be splendid just now. Come back soon and set to work. Good-by," and so forth. I do not repeat it word for word, but such was the gist of the letter. It impressed me unpleasantly, first because I had not asked Sniatynski to lend me his yard-measure to measure my sorrow with; secondly, I had thought him a sensible man, and supposed he understood that his "more important things" are merely empty words unless they imply feelings and inclinations that existed before. I wanted to write to him there and then and ask him to release me from his spiritual tutelage, but thinking better of it did not answer at all,--I fancy that is the easiest way of breaking off a correspondence. Entering more minutely into the matter, I find that neither his telegram nor his letter have caused my dislike. Properly speaking, I cannot forgive him that for which I ought to feel grateful,--his mediation between me and Aniela. I myself implored him to undertake it, but exactly because I implored him, entrusted him with my fate, confessed to him my weaknesses, and made him in a way my protector, and because the humiliation and sorrow which overwhelmed me passed through his hands,--this, perhaps, explains my dislike towards him. I felt angry with myself, and angry with Sniatynski as having a part in it. It is unjust, I know, but I cannot help it, and my friendship for him has burned out like a candle. Besides, I have never been quick in forming ties of friendship. With Sniatynski my relations were closer than with anybody else, perhaps because we lived each of us in a different part of Europe. I had no other friends. I belong in general to the class of persons called singles. I remember there was a time when I considered this a sign of strength. In the animal world, for instance, the weak ones mostly cling together, and those whom nature has endowed with powerful claws and teeth go single, because they suffice unto themselves. This principle can be applied to human beings only in exceptional cases. Incapacity for friendship proves mostly dryness of heart, not strength of character. As to myself, the cause of it was a certain shyness and sensitiveness. My heart is like that plant which closes its leaves at the slightest touch. That I never formed ties of friendship with a woman is a different thing altogether. I had a desire for friendship in regard to those from whom I expected more. I feigned it sometimes, as the fox makes believe to be dead in order to secure the rooks. It does not follow that I disbelieve in friendship between man and woman. I am not a fool who measures the world according to his own standard, or a churl who is for ever suspecting evil; besides, various observations have proved to me that such a friendship is quite possible. As there exists the relation of brother and sister, the same feeling may exist between two persons who feel as brother and sister towards each other. Moreover, the capacity for that kind of friendship belongs to the choicer spirits who have a natural inclination for Platonic feasts, such as poets, artists, philosophers, and generally, people who cannot be measured by the common standard. If this be a proof that I was not made of the stuff artists, poets, and great men are made of,--the worse for me. Most likely it is so, since I am nothing but Leon Ploszowski. There was a time when I felt that if Aniela had become my wife, she would not only have been my love, but also my dearest friend. But I prefer not to think of it. Ghosts of this kind visit me far too often, and I shall never have any peace until I banish them altogether. 4 April. I meet Mrs. Davis here pretty often, and call upon her at her house. And nothing else! There is some dislike, a little contempt under a thick layer of ashes, and for the rest, the usual social intercourse. She is still too beautiful to be classified among my idiosyncrasies. I cannot love her, and do not take the trouble to hate her. She understood that at once, and adapted herself to circumstances. All the same she cannot always conceal her irritation at my self-possession and cool independence; but for that very reason shows me greater consideration. It is very strange, that easiness with which women from closest relations pass on to mere acquaintanceship. Laura and I treat each other as if there had never been anything between us,--not only before people, but even when we are alone together. It does not seem to cost her the slightest effort; she is polite, cool, and self-possessed, affable in her way, and her manners influence me to such a degree that I should never dream of calling her by her Christian name. The Neapolitan cousin, Maleschi, used to roll his eyes so ferociously at me that I almost considered it my duty to ask him not to injure his optics; he has now calmed down, seeing how very distant our relations to each other are, and is very friendly towards me. He has already fought a duel about Laura, and in spite of the reputation of coward he had in Italy, showed a deal of pluck. Poor Davis has passed to Nirvana some months ago, and I suppose after a decent interval of widowhood, Laura will marry Maleschi. They will make a splendid couple. The Italian has the torso and head of an Antinous; in addition to that, a complexion like pale gold, raven black hair, and eyes as blue as the Mediterranean. It may be that Laura loves him, but for some reason known only to herself, she bullies him a great deal. Several times in my presence she treated him so uncivilly that I was surprised, as I had thought her aesthetic nature incapable of such an exhibition of temper. Aspasia and Xantippe in one. I have often noticed that women, merely beautiful, without striking qualities of the soul, who are looked upon as stars, are something more than stars; they are a whole constellation, two in fact,--a Great Bear to their surroundings, a Cross to their husbands. Laura was a Cross to poor Davis, and is now a Bear in regard to Maleschi. She would treat me a little in that way, too, if it were not that she is not familiar with the ways of Parisian society, and considers it safer to have me for an ally than an enemy. It is very strange, but she does not create here the same sensation as in Italy, or on the Mediterranean. She is simply too classical, too beautiful for Parisians, whose taste is to a certain degree morbid, as appears in their literature and art; and characteristic ugliness more strongly excites their blunted nerves than simple beauty. It is a noted fact that the most celebrated stars of the _demi-monde_ are rather ugly than beautiful. In regard to Laura, there is another reason for her non-success with the Parisians. Her intelligence, though very uncommon, is upon too straight lines, wanting in that kind of dash so appreciated here. There are thinkers, and deep thinkers, too, in Paris, but in society those mostly win a reputation whose minds are nimble enough to cling to any subject, as a monkey to a branch by his tail or feet, turning head over heel. The more these jumps are sudden and unexpected, the surer the success. Laura understands this, and at the same time is conscious that to do this would be as easy for her as to dance on a rope. She considers me an adept in these kinds of gymnastics, and consequently wants me. To increase the attraction of her salon, she has made it into a temple of music. She herself sings like a siren, and thereby attracts many people. I meet there often a pianiste, Clara Hilst, a young, good-looking German girl, very tall of figure, whom one of the painters here describes thus: "C'est beau, mais c'est deux fois grandeur naturelle." In spite of her German origin, she has met with a considerable success. As to myself, I evidently belong to the old school, for I do not understand the music of the present, which consists in a great deal of noise and confusion. Listening the last time to Miss Hilst's playing at Laura's, I thought to myself that if the piano were a man who had seduced her sister, she could not belabor him more mercilessly. She also plays on the harmonium. Her compositions are thought of a great deal here, and considered very deep; most likely because those who could not understand them, hearing them for the tenth time, hope the eleventh time will make them more intelligible. I must confess that these remarks sound malicious, perhaps bold in one who does not profess to be a judge. Yet it seems to me that music for the understanding of which one has to be a professor of the Conservatorium, and for which people intellectually developed, let alone simple folk, do not possess the key, is not what it ought to be. I am afraid that musicians following the same track will end by creating a separate caste, like the Egyptian priests, in order to keep knowledge and art exclusively to themselves. I say this because I notice that since Wagner's time, music, compared, for instance, to painting, has taken a quite different direction. The newer school of painting is narrowing spontaneously the limit of its proportions, tries to divest itself from philosophical and literary ideas; does not attempt speeches, sermons, historical events that require a commentary, or allegory that does not explain itself at a glance; in fact confines itself with the full consciousness of doing so to the reproduction of shape and color. Music since Wagner's time goes in the opposite direction,--tries to be, not only a harmony of sound, but at the same time the philosophy of harmony. I sometimes think a great musical genius of the future will say, as Hegel did in his time:-- "There was only one who understood me, and he understood me wrongly." Miss Hilst belongs to the category of musical philosophers, which is all the more strange, as her mind is full of simplicity. This caryatid has the limpid, innocent eyes of a child, and is unsophisticated and sincere like one. She is surrounded by a great throng of admirers, who are attracted by her beauty, and more still by the nimbus that makes a woman touched by the hand of the Muses always a centre of attraction; nevertheless, not a breath has touched her fair fame. Even the women speak well of her, for she disarms them by her invariable good humor and sincerity. She is as gay as any street urchin, and I have seen her laughing as schoolgirls laugh, the tears running down her face, which would be considered bad form in anybody but an artist, who is a privileged person. Hers, from a moral point of view, is a beautiful character, though beyond her art, she is not endowed with great intellectual gifts. Laura, who, in the main, does not like her, hinted to me several times that the caryatid is in love with me. I do not believe it; she might love me, perhaps, if I tried to make her. One thing is certain, she likes me very much, and felt sympathy for me the first time we met. I return the sentiment, and do not try to disturb her peace of mind. When I meet a woman for the first time I look upon her, from old habit I suppose, as a possible conquest; it is the first instinct. A second thought is quite different. Generally speaking, women interest me in the way precious stones interest a jeweller who has retired from business. Seeing a valuable gem, I say to myself it is worth having, and then I remember that I have sold out, and go on my way. In spite of all that, I once, half in jest, urged her to go to Warsaw, and promised to escort her as honorary _impresario_. I do not say that such a journey would be without charm. I really intend going. My aunt has given me her town house, and wants me to come over in order to take the property. Besides, I always go to Warsaw for the races. Who would believe that my aunt, a grave, serious-minded lady, devoted to the management of the estate, to prayer and benevolent schemes, had such a worldly weakness as horse-racing. It is her one passion. Maybe the knightly instincts which women inherit as well as men, find an outlet in this noble sport. Our horses have been running for Heaven knows how many years,--and are always beaten. My aunt never fails to attend the races, and is an enthusiast about horses. While her own horses are running, she stands on the back seat of her carriage, leaning on a stick, her bonnet usually awry, and watches for the result,--then gets very angry, and for at least a month makes Chwastowski's life a burden to him. At present I hear she has reared a wonderful horse, and she bids me to come and witness the triumph of the black and orange colors. I shall go. There are other reasons too which make me inclined to go. As I have said, I am comparatively speaking calm, do not wish for anything, or expect anything, am resigned in fact to that kind of spiritual paralysis until the time comes when bodily paralysis carries me off, as it carried off my father. Nevertheless, I cannot forget altogether, therefore it is only a partial paralysis. The one being I ever loved presents herself before my mind in two shapes. The one is called Pani Kromitzka, the other Aniela. As far as Pani Kromitzka is concerned, I am indifferent and a stranger; but Aniela still haunts me and brings with her, as gifts, the consciousness of wrong, my foolishness, spiritual crookedness, pain, bitterness, disappointment, and loss. Verily a munificent spirit! I might be even now perfectly contented if somebody could take from my brain that particular part wherein memory dwells. I try to drive away the thoughts of what might have been if things had turned out differently, but cannot always manage it. My munificent, generous angel will come now and then, and from her cornucopia shower her gifts upon me. At times the idea comes into my mind that Pani Kromitzka will lay the ghost of Aniela,--and that is one reason I wish to go; to look upon her happiness, her married life, and all those changes which must have made her different from the old Aniela. Perhaps I may meet her at Ploszow, as she will want to see her mother, after so many months of separation. I suppose that I do not delude myself, and that "ceci tuera cela." I count mostly upon my nerves, which are so easily worked upon. I remember that when I had made Aniela's acquaintance and her charm began to act upon me with such irresistible force, the very mention of Kromitzki in connection with her made her less desirable. This will be more so now, when she belongs to him body and soul. I am almost certain the remedy will prove efficacious, and that "ceci tuera cela." And if not, if it should turn out differently, what have I to lose? I do not wish to gain anything, but should not be sorry perhaps to know that the guilt was not on my side only, and that henceforth the burden would have to be divided between us two; this might give me a kind of satisfaction. I say, it _might_, because I am not sure that it would. Thoughts of revenge are very far from me. It is only on theatrical boards that disappointed lovers are thirsting for revenge; in real life they go away with distaste, that is all. Moreover, to make Pani Kromitzka believe that she had done wrong in rejecting my repentance I should have to believe firmly in it myself,--and strange to say, there are moments I am not sure of anything. 5 April. I know for certain I shall meet Pani Kromitzka. Her husband has sold the estate, betaken himself to Baku on business speculation, and has sent his wife to join her mother at Ploszow; so my aunt tells me in her letter. I received the news if not indifferently, at least with perfect composure, but I notice that the impression gradually gained upon me. At present I cannot think of anything else, as the fact is of so great importance to the two women. After so short a space as ten months he sold the estate which over four hundred years had been in Aniela's family, and to the preservation of which Pani Celina had devoted her own life. Then comes a Pan Kromitzki and sells it with a light heart because he wants the money for his speculations. Suppose he does make millions--will that compensate the women for the loss of what they prized above money? What will they think of him now? My aunt writes that she is sitting by Pani Celina's bedside, who after receiving the news of the sale grew worse at once. I am quite certain that Aniela, when putting her signature to the deed which empowered her husband to dispose of the land, did not know what she was signing. She is even now defending her husband. My aunt quotes from Aniela's letter: "A great misfortune has happened, but it was not Charles's fault." Defend him, defend him, O loyal wife; but you cannot prevent my thinking that he has wounded you deeply, and that at the bottom of your heart you despise him. Neither kisses nor soft words will efface from your memory the one word "sold." And Pani Celina thought that after the marriage he would devote his money towards clearing off the debts and disincumbering the property! Dear ladies, I, a man who does not boast of civic virtues, would not have done it, if for no other reason than innate delicacy of feeling, affection for you, and fear to wound you. But for speculations, ready money is wanted. I hope it is not merely prejudice, but these millions I heard so much about appear to me like a great point of interrogation. Maybe he will get them; perhaps the capital realized from the sale will help him towards it; but if he had possessed the wealth he used to boast of, would he have dealt his wife and mother-in-law such a blow, and sold their ancestral seat? My aunt writes that he left immediately after the sale for Baku, and intends to go as far as Turkestan. Aniela being too young to live by herself must needs come to Ploszow, as her mother cannot leave it at present, because she is too ill to travel; and besides my aunt will not let her go, and she is afraid of crossing her in any way. I know Aniela too well to suspect her of any calculations. She is the very essence of disinterestedness. But the mother, who would grasp all the world for her only child, doubtless counts upon the chance of a legacy for Aniela. And she is not mistaken either. My aunt, who never quite believed in Kromitzki's millions, gave me to understand several times that she meant to do something for Aniela; she said it with a certain hesitation, almost humbly, as she considers everything ought to go to a Ploszowski, and that to leave anything to another would be a wrong to the family. How little she knows me! If Aniela were in want of a pair of shoes and I had to sell Ploszow and give all I possess, she should have them. I might be prompted by a less noble motive,--for instance, to appear different from a Kromitzki,--but from whatever motive, I should give it certainly. But there is no question of that now. I am thinking continually that she is living at Ploszow, and will remain there as long as Kromitzki's journeys last, which may be God only knows for how long. I shall see Pani Kromitzka every day. At the thought of this I feel a certain uneasiness, with a strong admixture of curiosity as to our future relations towards each other; and I clearly see what might happen if my disposition and feelings in regard to her were different. I never lie to myself; I repeat again that I am going there in order to cure myself, that I do not love Pani Kromitzka, and never will love her; that on the contrary, I am in hope that the sight of her will drive Aniela out of my heart far more successfully than all the fiords and geysers; but I would not be myself, the man who has lived much and thought much, if I did not see the danger which under other circumstances such a position might bring forth. If I wanted to revenge myself, if the very name Pani Kromitzka did not excite my loathing, what could stand in my way or hinder me,--in quiet Ploszow, where would be we two only, and the elder ladies, as unsuspicious and unsophisticated in their stainless virtue as any babies? In regard to this I know my aunt and Pani Celina. In the higher spheres of society one meets sometimes women thoroughly corrupted; but there are many, especially among the older generation, who pass through life like angels, with no thought of evil ever coming near them. Neither my aunt nor Pani Celina would ever dream of any danger threatening Aniela now she is married. Aniela herself belongs to that kind. She would not have rejected my prayers had she not given her word to Kromitzki. But Polish women of this kind would rather break a heart than break their word. At the very thought of it a dull wrath seizes me. I crush down within me the desire every one has to prove the truth of his opinion. I do not want to argue at all with Pani Kromitzka, but if somebody else would do it,--point out to women like her that the laws of nature, laws of affection, cannot be broken with impunity, that they are stronger than any ethic laws, I should be glad of it. It is true I have sinned in regard to Aniela, but I wished to make amendment from the very depth of my heart, and she rejected me,--rejected me perhaps so as to be able to say to herself: "I am not a Leon Ploszowski; I have given a promise, and do not take it back." This is not virtue, it is want of heart; it is not heroism, but foolishness; not rectitude of conscience, but vanity. I cannot forget, I cannot; but Pani Kromitzka will help me. When I come to see her in her new matronly dignity, satisfied with her heroism, self-possessed, in love, or apparently so, with her husband, watching me furtively to see whether I have been punished, and punished sufficiently, full of happiness and her own virtues, the ghost of my old love will be laid, and I can go back to where the reindeer lives without Aniela's memory following me like the sea-gulls in the track of ships. It is possible that Pani Kromitzka will put on the airs of an injured victim, and her whole manner to me may say: "It is your fault!" Very well. We have seen some of that in the world. As artificial flowers have one defect, the want of scent, artificial crowns of thorn have one advantage, they do not prick, and may be worn as a bonnet, very becoming to a pretty face. Whenever I met one of those victims who married out of despair I felt a desire to say: "It is not true! you were a victim maybe in good faith as long as the chosen one did not approach you in his slippers. From that moment you ceased to be pathetic, and are only ridiculous, and the more so if you pose as a victim." 6 April. How beautiful and wise is the Greek word "ananke." It was fated that through a woman I should lose my peace of mind, though I had ceased to care for her. The news that her ancestral seat is sold, and she herself coming to live at Ploszow, moved me so deeply that I could not sleep. Various questions knocked at my brain, asking for admittance. I tried to solve the question whether I had any right to lead Pani Kromitzka from the path of virtue. I neither wish, nor will I endeavor to do so, because she has ceased to attract me; but would it be right? I fill my life with these questions of "to be, or not to be," because I have nothing else to do. Thoughts like mine are not reckoned among the delights of life. It is like the dog trying to catch his tail; he does not catch anything. I do not prove anything, only tire myself; but have the satisfaction that another day has passed, or another night gone by. I observe at the same time, that with all my scepticism, I am still beset with scruples worthy of the vicar of Ploszow. The modern man is composed of so many threads that in trying to set himself right, he gets more and more entangled. It was in vain I repeated to myself, if only in theory, that I had the right. A voice, as from the parish church, seemed to say at intervals: "No! no! you have not the right!" But scruples like these ought to be kept down, as for me this is a question of keeping my mind evenly balanced. At this quiet evening time, I feel just in the humor for it. This afternoon, at a well-known painter's studio, I heard Mrs. Davis maintain, in discussion with two literary men, that a woman ought to be unapproachable all her life, if only "pour la netteté du plumage," and Maleschi repeated, "Oui, oui,--du plumaze." Oh, ye gods and fishes! I fancied all the crabs in the Mediterranean rolling on their backs in silent laughter, and raising their claws to heaven, imploring Jove for a thunderbolt! By the bye, Mrs. Davis borrowed that sentence from me, and I borrowed it from Feuillet. I kept my gravity, and did not permit myself the slightest smile, but it put me into a merry, cynical humor, the reflection of which still remains with me, and is for the moment the best weapon against scruples of conscience. Now for the start. Would it be right for me to fall in love with Pani Kromitzka, and in case of success lead her from the path of duty? First, let us look at it from a point of honor, as people consider it who call themselves, and whom the world regards as, gentlemen. There is not a single paragraph there against it. It is one of the queerest codices ever invented under the sun. If, for instance, I steal somebody's money, the disgrace falls upon me, and not upon the man who is robbed, according to the world's rule of honor; but if I rob him of his wife, it is not I, but the robbed man who is disgraced. What does it mean? Is it a mere aberration of the moral sense, or is it that between stealing a man's purse and stealing his wife, there is such a vast difference that the two cases cannot be even compared? I have often thought over this, and have come to the conclusion that there is a great difference. A human being can never be as absolutely a property as a thing, and the taking away somebody's wife is an act of a double will. Why should I respect the rights of a husband if his own wife does not? What is he to me? I meet a woman who wants to be mine, and I take her. Her husband does not exist for me; her vows are no affair of mine. What should hold me back? Respect for the matrimonial institution? But if I loved Pani Kromitzka, I would cry out from the very depth of my soul: "I protest against this marriage; protest against her duties towards Kromitzki. I am the worm this marriage has crushed; and they tell me, writhing in anguish, to respect it,--me, who would sting it with my last breath." Why; for what reason? What do I care for a social institution that has wrung from me the last drop of blood, deprived me of my very existence? Man lives on fish. Go tell the fish to respect the order that it be skinned alive before being put on the fire. I protest and sting,--that is my answer. Spencer's ideal of a finally developed man, in whom the individual impulses will be in perfect harmony with social laws, is nothing but an assumption. I know perfectly that such as Sniatynski would demolish my theory with one question: "You are then for free-love?" No, nothing of the sort. I am for myself. I do not wish to hear anything about your theories. If you fall in love with another woman, or your wife with somebody else, we shall see what becomes of your rules, paragraphs, and respect for social institutions. At the worst, I might be called inconsequent. I was inconsequent, too, when I, a sceptic, had a mass offered up for Leon and Aniela, and prayed like a child, and swallowed my tears like any fool. In future I will always be inconsequent when it suits me and makes me happier. There is only one logic in the world,--the logic of passions. Reason holds the reins for a time, but when the horses tear along in mad career, she sits on the box and merely watches lest the vehicle should go to pieces. The human heart cannot be rendered love-proof, and love is an element strong as tidal waves. The very gates of hell cannot overcome a woman who loves her husband, for the marriage vows are only the sealing of love's compact; but if it be mere duty, the first tide will throw her on the sands like a dead fish. I cannot bind myself not to let my hair grow, or to remain always young; and as often as I did so, the laws of nature would take their course in spite of human bonds. It is strange, but all that I am writing is pure theory. I have no schemes I need justify before myself, and yet all these reflections have stirred my soul to such an extent that I had to leave off writing. My calmness is evidently artificial. I walked up and down the room for an hour, and at last found out what disturbed me. It is very late. From the windows of my room I see the cupola of the Invalides gleaming in the moonlight, as once I saw St. Peter's cupola, when, full of hope, I walked on the Pincio, thinking of Aniela. Unconsciously I had given myself up to those memories. Whatever there be or awaits us in the future, one thing is certain: I could have been happy, and she might be ten, nay, a hundred times happier than she is. Even now, if I had any hidden schemes, or if she were to me the greatest temptation, I would respect her unhappiness. I would not hurt her for anything. The very thought of it would take away my courage and decision, I had such an amount of tenderness for her. But all that is in the past. The sceptic dwelling within me creeps up again with another question: Would she be really so unhappy? I have verified, not once, but several times, the fact that women are unhappy only while they struggle. The battle once over, regardless of the result, there follows a period of calm and happiness. I knew at one time a woman in Paris who resisted most persistently for three years. When at last her heart got the upper hand and she gave in, she only reproached herself for not having done so sooner. But what is the use of putting all these questions or trying to solve problems? I know that every principle is open to argument, and every proof to scepticism. The good old times when people doubted everything except their intelligence to recognize the true from the false, have gone. At present there is nothing but labyrinths upon labyrinths. I had better not think of anything but the journey before me. And Kromitzki sold his wife's ancestral home and thus inflicted on her a cruel blow! I had to write it down black on white once more, otherwise I could not believe it. 10 April. I went towards evening to say good-by to Mrs. Davis, and dropped in for a regular concert. Laura seems really very fond of music. Miss Hilst was playing on the harmonium. I always like to see her, but especially when she sits down to the harmonium, and playing the prelude, keeps her eyes on the keys. There is so much earnestness and intentness in her face, combined with calmness. She reminds me of Saint Cecilia, the most sympathetic of all saints, with whom I should have fallen in love had she lived in our times. A pity Clara is so tall; but one forgets it when she is playing. From time to time she lifts her eyes, as if recalling to memory a note heard somewhere in the spheres, or seeking inspiration, and she herself looks like one inspired. She rightly bears the name of Clara, for it would be difficult to find a more transparent soul. I said I liked to see her; as to her music, it is still the same; I do not understand it, or rather I follow her meaning with the greatest difficulty. Nevertheless, in spite of my satirical remarks, I think she has a remarkable talent. When she had finished I approached her, and still half jestingly said the time had come and I was ready to escort her to Warsaw according to our agreement. I was surprised to see her take my proposition so seriously. She said that she had wanted to go there for some time, and was quite ready; it was all a question of informing an old relative who always went with her, and of taking a dumb piano, as she practised even on her journeys. The prospect began to alarm me somewhat. If she goes, I shall have to help her in getting up a concert; and I would rather go straight on to Ploszow. As a last resource I could hand her over to Sniatynski, who would be more useful to her than I. Besides, Miss Hilst is the daughter of a rich mill-owner at Frankfurt, and it is not a question of material success with her. The eagerness with which she agreed to the journey made me thoughtful. I had half a mind to tell her that I did not object to the dumb piano so much as to the elderly relative. Men are so prone to lie in wait for women that few approach a young and pretty one without an after-thought. As to myself, though wholly absorbed by something else, the idea of the old relative travelling with us was unpleasant, the more so as my person evidently plays some part in this so quickly arranged journey. Paris presents a far wider scope for her musical talent, and she does not care for gain; why should she be so anxious to go to Warsaw? Laura, as I have said, has hinted more than once that Miss Hilst has more than a liking for me. A strange woman, Laura! Clara's innocence excites her envy, but only as it might be excited by a beautiful jewel, or by rare lace,--with her it is merely a question of adornment. Maybe for that reason she would like to push that big child into my arms. She does not care for me any longer; I am an ornament she has worn already. That woman, though unconsciously, has wrought me such irreparable harm that I ought to hate her, but cannot,--first, because I am conscious that, had she never crossed my path, I should have probably found some other means to wreck my happiness; secondly, as Satan is a fallen angel, so hatred is degenerated love, and I never loved Laura. There is a little contempt for her, a little dislike, and she returns the feeling undoubtedly a hundredfold. As to Clara's feelings, Laura may be right. To-day I saw it clearer than ever. If that be the case, I am grateful to her. For the first time in my life I long for the pure friendship of a woman. A soul so restless as mine will find solace and comfort in such a friendship. We conversed together to-day, Clara and I, like old friends. Her intelligence is not large, but clear and discerning between bad and good, ugly and what she considers beautiful; consequently her judgment is not shifty, but calm and serene. She has that kind of spiritual healthiness often met with in Germans. Coming across them now and then I observe that the type I belong to is very rare among them. The Germans and the English are generally positive and know what they want. They too are sounding the fathomless depth of doubt, but they do it methodically as scientists, not as sensitive geniuses without portfolio like me; in consequence of which their recent transcendental philosophy, their present scientific pessimism, and their poetic _Weltschmerz_ have only a theoretical meaning. Their everyday practice consists in adapting themselves to the rules of life. According to Hartmann, the more humanity gains in intensity and consciousness. The more unhappy it grows. The same Hartmann, with the calmness of a German _Cultur-träger_, becomes practical when he raises his voice in favor of suppressing the Polish element as detrimental to German supremacy. But, putting aside this incident, which belongs to the category of human villanies, Germans do not take theories seriously, and therefore are always calm and capable of action. This same calmness Clara possesses. Things which rend and trouble human souls must have come near her some time or other, but if so they left no trace and were not absorbed by her; thus she never lost faith in truth and in her art. If she has any deeper feeling for me than mere friendship, the feeling is unconscious and does not ask for anything in return. If it were otherwise, it would be the beginning of her tragedy, as I could not return her love and might make her unhappy. I am not so conceited as to think that no woman could resist me, but I am of the opinion that no woman can resist the man she truly loves. It is a trite saying that "a fortress besieged is a fortress surrendered," but there is some truth in it when adapted to woman, especially when behind the entrenchment of her virtues she harbors such a traitor as her own heart. But Clara may rest tranquil. We shall travel peacefully together: she, her old relative, myself, and the dumb piano. 16 April. I arrived at Warsaw three days ago, but have not been able to go to Ploszow as, shortly after my arrival, I got a cold in my teeth and my face is swollen. I do not wish to show myself to the ladies in that state. I have seen Sniatynski, and my aunt, who has welcomed me as the prodigal son. Aniela arrived at Ploszow a week ago. Her mother is very ill, so ill that the doctors who advised her to try Wiesbaden now declare she could not bear the journey. She will therefore remain at Ploszow until she recovers--or dies, and Aniela with her, until Kromitzki winds up his business or thinks it proper to give her a home. From what my aunt says this may take him some months. I tried to get from my aunt as much news about Aniela as I could, which is easy enough, as she speaks about her with perfect freedom. She simply cannot understand how a married woman could excite any feeling except in the way of relationship; or rather, she has never even considered the question. She spoke openly about the sale of Aniela's home, which she considers a great shame. She got so excited over it as to break her watch-chain and let the watch roll on the floor. "I will tell him so to his face," she said. "I would rather have lent him the money had I known anything about it. Only what would have been the use? His speculations are a gulf. I do not know whether any good will come out of it, but in the meanwhile everything is swallowed up in it. Let him only come, and I will tell him that he makes Aniela unhappy, kills her mother, and will end in ruining them and himself." I asked my aunt whether she had said anything about this to Aniela. "To Aniela?" she replied. "I am glad you have come; it relieves my mind and makes it easier to bear. I cannot speak about it with Aniela. I tried it once when I could not contain myself any longer. I made some remark and she grew very angry, then burst out crying and said, 'He was obliged, he was obliged, and could not help it.' She does not allow anybody to say a word against him, and would like to cover all his short-comings before the world; but she cannot deceive an old woman like me, and I know that at the bottom of her heart she must condemn him as I do." "Do you mean she does not love him?" My aunt looked at me in unfeigned surprise. "Not love him? Of course she loves him. Whom should she love if not him? That's just where the sting lies; she grieves because she loves him. But one may love and yet have one's eyes open to what is wrong." I had my own opinion on that point, but preferred not to express it, and allowed my aunt to proceed. "What I resent most in him are his lies. He assured Celina and Aniela that in a year or two he would be able to buy the estate back. Just tell me, is this possible? and those women believe he is in earnest!" "According to my opinion it is quite impossible. Besides, he will go on speculating." "He knows it even better than we do, and yet he goes on lying to the women." "Perhaps he does it to relieve their anxiety." My aunt grew angrier still. "Relieve their anxiety! fiddlesticks! they would not have had any anxiety if he had not sold it. Do not defend him, it is of no use. Everybody blames him. Chwastowski was wild about it. He had looked into the affairs, and says that without any ready money he could have cleared the estate himself in a few years. I would have given the money and so would you, would you not? and now it is too late." Presently I inquired about Aniela's health, with a strange, troubled foreboding I might hear something which, though perfectly natural and in the order of things, would give a shock to my nerves. My aunt caught the drift of my thoughts and replied with as much acerbity as before:-- "There is nothing whatever the matter with her. All he could do he did; that was to sell his wife's estate. No, there is nothing expected." I turned the conversation to something else. I told my aunt I had arrived together with the celebrated pianist Miss Hilst, who, having considerable means of her own, wished to give a few concerts gratis. My aunt is a queer mixture of eccentricities. She began by abusing Miss Hilst for not coming in winter, when the time for concerts was more propitious; presently began considering that it was not too late yet, and wanted to go and call upon her at once. I could scarcely persuade her to put off her visit until I had told Miss Hilst about it. My aunt is a patroness of several charitable institutions, and it is with her a point of honor to get for them as much as she can at the expense of other institutions, consequently was afraid somebody else might forestall her with the artist. When leaving me she asked, "When are you coming to stay at Ploszow?" I replied that I was not going to stay there at all. I had thought of that during the journey and came to the conclusion that it would be better to have my headquarters at Warsaw. Ploszow is only six miles from here, and I can go there in the morning and stay as long as I like. It is indifferent to me where I live, and my living here will prevent people talking. Besides, I do not want Pani Kromitzka to think I am anxious to dwell under the same roof with her. I spoke of this to Sniatynski, and saw that he fully agreed with me; he seemed anxious to discuss Aniela with me. Sniatynski is a very intelligent man, but he does not seem to understand that changed circumstances mean changed relations, even between the best of friends. He came to me as if I were the same Leon Ploszowski who, shaking in every limb, asked for his help at Cracow; he approached me with the same abrupt sincerity, desiring to plunge his hand up to his elbow under my ribs. I pulled him up sharply, and he seemed surprised and somewhat angry. Presently he fell in with my humor, and we talked together as if the last meeting at Cracow had never taken place. I noticed, nevertheless, that he watched me furtively, and not being able to make me out tried indirect inquiry, with all the clumsiness of an author who is a deep psychologist and reader of the human mind at his desk, and as unsophisticated as any student in practical life. As Hamlet of yore, I might have handed him a pipe and said, "Do you think I am easier to be played on than a pipe? Call me what instrument you will, though you can fret me, yet you cannot play upon me." I had been reading Hamlet the night before, as I have read it many a time, and involuntarily these words came into my mind. It seems to me surpassing strange that a man of my time, in whatever position or complicated trouble of soul, should find so much analogy to himself as I find in this drama, based upon Holinshed's sanguinary and gross legend. Hamlet is the human soul as it was, as it is, and as it will be. In conceiving this drama, Shakspeare overstepped the limit fixed even for genius. I can understand Homer and Dante, studied by the light of their epoch. I can comprehend that they could do what they did; but how an Englishman of the seventeenth century could foreknow psychosis, a science of recent growth, will be to me, in spite of my study of Hamlet, an everlasting mystery. Having mentally handed over to Sniatynski Hamlet's pipe, I recommended to his care Miss Hilst, and then began to discuss his pet theories. Upon his wanting to know what brought me back, I said it was the longing for the country, and consciousness of unfulfilled duties towards it. I said it in a careless, off-hand way, and Sniatynski looked puzzled, not knowing whether I spoke seriously or mockingly. And again the same phenomenon of which I spoke in Paris repeated itself here. The moral ascendency he had gained over me gradually disappeared. He did not know himself what to think, but he saw the old key would not serve any longer. When he said good-by I again recommended to him Miss Hilst. He looked at me keenly. "Do you attach much importance to her success?" "Yes, very much. She is a person I hold in great esteem, and have much friendship for." In this way I centred all his attention on Miss Hilst. Most likely he thought I had fallen in love with her. He went away angry, and could not disguise his feelings. He shut the door sharply; and when I accompanied him as far as the staircase, and turned back to the anteroom, I heard him descending the staircase, taking four steps at once, and whistling,--which he always does when angry. Besides, it was quite true, what I said about Miss Hilst. I wrote to-day to Clara, explaining why I had not been to see her, and received a reply at once. She is delighted with Warsaw, and especially its inhabitants. All the musical world has called upon her, and they are vying with each other in politeness and offers of help. Whether they would be quite as enthusiastic had she come to settle here, is another question; but Clara has the gift to win friends wherever she goes. She has already seen something of the town, and was much charmed with the Sazienki Park and Palace. I am glad she likes it,--the more so as the country, soon after crossing the frontier, seemed to her rather depressing. Truly, only those born on the soil can find any charm in the vast solitary plains, where the eye finds very little to rest upon. Clara, looking through the carriage window, said more than once: "Ah! I can understand Chopin now!" She is utterly mistaken,--she does not understand Chopin and his feelings, any more than she is in touch with his native land. I, though a cosmopolitan by education, by atavism understand our nature, and am surprised myself at the spell a Polish spring casts upon me, and it seems as if I could never feel tired of it. Properly speaking, what does the view consist of? Sometimes, on purpose, I put myself into a stranger's place,--a painter's, having no preconceived ideas about it, and look at it with his eyes. The landscape then makes upon me the impression as if a child had drawn it, or a savage, who had no notion about drawing. Flat fallow-land, wet meadows, huts with their rectangular outline, the straight poplars around country-seats on the distant horizon, a broad, flat plain, finished off with a belt of woods,--that "ten miles of nothing," as the Germans call it; all this reminds me of a first attempt at drawing landscape. There is scarcely enough for a background. From the moment I cease looking upon it with a stranger's eyes, I begin to feel the simplicity of the view, incorporate myself with that immense breadth, where every outlined object melts into the far distance, as a soul in Nirvana; it has not only the artistic charm of primitiveness, but it acts soothingly upon me. I admire the Apennines; but my spirit is not in touch with them, and sooner or later they become wearisome. The human being finds a resting-place only where he is in harmony with his surroundings; and is reminded that his soul and the soul of nature are of the same organization. Homesickness springs from the isolation of the soul from its surroundings. It appears to me that the principle of psychical relationship could be applied in a still wider sense. It may seem strange that I, brought up in foreign lands, permeated by their culture, should harbor such views; but I go farther still, and say a foreign woman, even the most beautiful, appears to me more as a species of the female kind than a soul. I remember what I wrote at one time concerning Polish women, but one statement does not contradict the other; I may perceive their faults, and yet feel myself nearer to them than to strangers. Besides, my old opinions--at least, the greater part of them--are now in tatters, like a worn-out garment. But enough of this! I notice with a certain shame and surprise that all I have been writing has been done in order to distract my thoughts. Yes, that is true. I speak about landscapes, homesickness, and so forth, while all my thoughts are at Ploszow. I did not want to acknowledge it, even to myself. I feel restless, and something seems to weigh me down. It is very probable that my going there and the getting over the first meeting will be easier and far simpler than I imagine. Expectancy of anything is always oppressive. When a young lad, I had a duel; and on the eve of the day I felt troubled. Then, too, I tried to think of something else, and could not manage it. My thoughts are not at all tender, not even friendly, towards Pani Kromitzka; but they swarm around me like angry bees, and I cannot drive them away. 17 April. I have been to Ploszow, and found things very different indeed from what I had pictured to myself. I left Warsaw at seven in the morning in a cab, counting I should be in Ploszow by eight. The oppressive feeling still remained with me. I had said to myself that I would not make any plans about that first meeting, or my future bearing towards her. Let chance be my guide. But I could not help speculating how it would be,--how she would greet me, what she would try to make me understand, and what our future relation to each other would be. Not having formed any plans of my own, I fancied, I do not know why that she would want to act according to a well-defined system. Trying to fathom this, I felt almost inimical towards her. Then again, at the thought that the meeting might cause her pain, I felt something akin to pity, and seemed to see her before me as she used to be. I saw distinctly the low brow with the wealth of auburn hair, the long eyelashes, and the small, delicate face. I tried to guess how she would be dressed. Memories came back of words she had said, expressions of the face, graceful motions, dresses. With strange pertinacity, the one memory remained with me,--her coming into the room after she had tried to disguise her emotion by applying powder to her face. At last these memories became so vivid as to equal a second-sight. "There she is again," I said to myself; and in order to pull myself together, I began talking to the driver, and asked him whether he were married; whereupon he replied that without the old woman at home, there would be no go, then said something I did not hear, as I had caught sight of the Ploszow poplars in the distance. I had not paid any heed to the time we had been on the road. At the sight of Ploszow I felt more troubled still, and my eagerness increased. I tried to pay attention to outward things, changes that had taken place during my absence, and look at the new buildings on the road. I repeated to myself mechanically that the weather was very fine, and the spring exceptionally early this year. And indeed, the weather was magnificent; the morning air was crisp and transparent; near the cottages the apple-trees, in full bloom, were scattering their petals like snowflakes on the grass; it was like a long line of pictures by the modern school of painters. Wherever the eye turned, there was that luminous _plein-air_ in the midst of which moved the figures of people working in the fields or near their cottages. I saw it all, observed every detail; but, strange to say, I was not able to take it in, or give myself up to it altogether. The impressions had lost their absorbing power, and remained only on the surface of the brain, the brain itself being full of other thoughts. In this state of divided attention I approached Ploszow. Presently the cool air of the lime avenue fanned my face, and I saw at the other end, far off, the windows of the house. The scattered, futile thoughts hammered and knocked louder than ever at my brain. I stopped the driver from going straight to the house, and dismissed him, I do not know why, at the gate. Followed by his thanks, I went on foot straight towards the veranda. I cannot explain to myself why I felt so troubled, unless it was that within these well-known walls something unknown was awaiting me, which was in close connection with the tragic past. Crossing the courtyard, I felt such a weight upon my chest that it obstructed my breath. "What the deuce is the matter with me?" said I, inwardly. As I had dismissed the cab, nobody had heard me coming. The hall was empty; I went in to the dining-room to wait until the ladies came down. I knew they would come soon, as the table was laid for breakfast, and the samovar, whispering and growling, was sending coils of steam aloft. Again not the slightest detail escaped my notice. I observed that the room was cool and comparatively dark, as the windows faced the north. For a moment my attention was fixed on the three luminous streaks the light from the windows made upon the polished floor. I looked at the carved sideboard I remembered since a child, and then recalled the conversation I had in this same room with Sniatynski, and we looked through the window at his wife and Aniela, in fur boots, coming from the hot-houses. At last a feeling of great solitude and sadness overcame me, and I went close to the window to get more light and make further observations in the garden. But all this did not restore my balance of mind. The only real thought my mind was full of was that I should meet her in a few minutes. There are people who out of fear are capable of the most heroic deeds. With me it is different. Fear, uncertainty of what may come next, rouses me to anger. This happened now. The difference between the old Aniela and the present Pani Kromitzka impressed itself upon me more forcibly than ever. "If you borrowed the very moonbeams for your head-dress, if you were a hundred times more beautiful than my fancy can paint, you would be as nothing to me,--less than nothing, because an object of aversion." My anger rose still, for I fancied that she would come to me in order to point out my guilt, my wrong-doing; that she would be still desirable, but unapproachable. "We shall see," I replied inwardly, under the vivid impression that with this woman there was awaiting me a duel; a struggle in which I should lose and gain at the same time,--lose the haunting memories and regain peace. At that moment I felt the power to overcome any obstacles, repulse any attack. Then the door opened quietly, and Aniela came in. At the sight of her I felt my brain in a whirl, and my finger-tips grew icy cold. The being before me bore the name of Pani Kromitzka, but had the sweet, hundred times beloved features and inexpressible charm of the Aniela I had known. In the chaotic bewilderment of my brain there was only one sound I heard distinctly: "Aniela! Aniela! Aniela!" And she did not see me, or took me for somebody else as I stood against the light. But when I drew nearer, she raised her eyes and stood still as if turned into stone. I cannot even describe the expression of sudden terror, confusion, emotion, and humility which shone in her face. She had grown white to the lips, and I was afraid she might faint. When I took her hand it felt as cold as ice. I had expected anything but that. I thought she would let me know in some way or other that she was Pani Kromitzka, but there was nothing of the sort. She stood before me moved, frightened, my former little Aniela. It was I who had made her unhappy,--I who was guilty, a hundred times guilty; and at this moment she looked at me as if she herself asked to be forgiven. The old love, contrition for the past, and pity overwhelmed me to such a degree that I almost lost my head, and thought I must take her into my arms, and soothe her with endearing words, as one soothes a beloved being. I was so agitated by the unexpected meeting, not with Pani Kromitzka, but Aniela, that I could only press her hand in silence. And yet I felt obliged to say something; therefore, pulling myself together, I said, as if in somebody else's voice,-- "Did aunt not tell you I was coming?" "Yes; she told me," said Aniela, with an evident effort. And then we fell back into silence. I felt that I ought to ask after her mother, and about herself, but could not force myself to do so. I wished from my soul somebody would come and deliver us from this position. Presently my aunt came in with the young Doctor Chwastowski, the agent's son, who for a month past has had the care of Pani Celina. Aniela slipped away to pour out the tea, and I began to talk with my aunt. I had recovered my presence of mind entirely when we sat down to breakfast. I began now to inquire after Pani Celina's health. My aunt, telling me about her, appealed every moment to the doctor, who turned to me with that peculiar shade of superciliousness with which a newly patented scientist treats outsiders, and at the same time with the watchfulness of a democrat who is afraid of slights where none are intended. He appeared to me very conceited; and after all, I treated him with far greater politeness than he exhibited towards me. This amused me a little, and helped to keep my thoughts, which the sight of Aniela confused, under control. From time to time I looked at her across the table, and repeated to myself: "The same features, the same little face, the same low brow shaded by a wealth of hair; it is the same Aniela, almost a little girl, my love, my happiness; and now lost to me forever." There was inexpressible sweetness in the sensation, mingled with exquisite pain. Aniela, too, had recovered from her emotion, but looked still frightened. I tried to draw her into conversation, speaking about her mother. I was partly successful; she seemed a little more at ease, and said,-- "Mamma will be very glad to see you." I permitted myself a doubt as far as her mother was concerned, but listened to her voice with half-closed eyes; it was sweeter to me than any music. We were conversing more freely every moment. My aunt was in excellent spirits,--first, because of seeing me once more at Ploszow, and also because she had seen Clara and got from her the promise of a concert. When leaving the artist she had met two other ladies, patronesses of charitable institutions, ascending the staircase bent on the same errand. They were too late, and that had put her in a high good-humor. She asked me a great many questions about Clara, who had made an excellent impression upon her. Towards the end of breakfast, to satisfy my aunt's curiosity, I had to say something about my travels. She was amazed to hear I had been as far as Iceland, and asked what it looked like; she then remarked,-- "One must be desperate to go to such places as that." "Yes; I did not feel very cheerful when I went." Aniela looked at me for a moment, and there was that hunted, half-frightened expression in her eyes again. If she had put her hand upon my naked heart she could not have given it a sharper pull. The more I had prepared myself for an exhibition of triumphant coldness and satisfaction at my disappointment, the more I felt crushed now by that angelic compassion. All my calculations and foresight had been put to naught. I supposed she could not help showing herself off as a married woman. And now I had to remind myself that she was married; but in the recollection there was no loathing, nothing but inexpressible sorrow. It is in my nature that in every moral suffering I try to reopen my wounds. I wanted to do that even now by speaking about her husband; but I could not do it. It seemed to me cruel, almost a profanation. Instead of that I said that I should like to see her mother, if she were able to receive me. Aniela went to see, and presently came back and said,-- "Mamma will be pleased to see you." We crossed to the other side of the house, my aunt going with us. I wanted to say a kind word to Aniela so as to put her more at ease; but my aunt was in the way; presently I thought it would be even better if I said it within my aunt's hearing. Near the door, leading into Pani Celina's rooms, I stopped and, turning to Aniela, said,-- "Give me your hand, my dear little sister." Aniela put her hand into mine; I saw her eyes lighting up with gratitude for the words "little sister," and the pressure of her hand seemed to say:-- "Oh! let us be friends! let us forgive each other!" "I hope you two will agree together," muttered my aunt. "We shall, we shall; he is so good!" replied Aniela. And truly, my heart was very full of good-will at that moment. Entering Pani Celina's room, I greeted her very cordially, but she replied with a certain constraint, and I am sure she would have received me with still greater coldness had she not feared to offend my aunt. But I was not hurt by this; her resentment is quite justifiable. Maybe, in her mind, she connects me with the loss of her estate, and thinks all this would not have happened if I had acted differently. I found her much changed. For some time she has been confined to her invalid chair, on which they wheel her on fine days into the garden. Her face, always delicate, looked as if moulded in wax. There are still traces that show how beautiful she must have been, and at the same time so unhappy. I asked after her health, and expressed the hope that, with the return of the fine weather, she would soon recover her strength. She listened with a sad smile, and shook her head; two tears rolled silently down her face. Then, fixing her sad eyes upon me, she said,-- "You know Gluchow has been sold?" This evidently is the thought ever present,--her continual sorrow and gnawing trouble. When Aniela heard the question she grew very red. It was a painful blush, because a blush of shame and sorrow. "Yes, I have heard," I said quickly. "Perhaps it can be recovered; if so, nothing is lost; and if not, you must submit to God's will." Aniela cast a grateful glance at me, and Pani Celina said,-- "I have lost all hope." It was not true; she still clung to the delusion that the estate might be recovered. Her eyes looked hungrily at me, waiting for the words which might confirm her secret hopes. I resolved to gratify her wish, and said,-- "It seems to have been a case of necessity, and I do not see how any one can be blamed for it. Yet there are no obstacles which cannot be overcome where there is a will and adequate means. Sometimes it has happened that a sale has been invalidated in law from some omission of formality." By the bye, this was not strictly true; but I saw it was balm to Pani Celina's sore heart. I had also stood up for Kromitzki, without mentioning his name, which neither of the others had done in my presence. To say the truth it was not generosity which prompted me, but rather a desire to conciliate Aniela, and show myself before her in the light of goodness and nobility. And Aniela was grateful; for, when we had left the room, she came out to me, and, stretching out her hand, said,-- "Thank you for being so good to mamma." For all answer I raised her hand to my lips. My aunt too seemed touched by my goodness. I left her and, lighting a cigar, went into the park for a quiet stroll to collect my thoughts and impressions; but I met there the young doctor who was taking his morning constitutional. As I wished to conciliate every one at Ploszow, I went up to him, and asked him, with the special regard due to science and authority, what he thought about Pani Celina's chances of regaining her health. I saw that this flattered him a little, and gradually he began to lose some of his democratic stiffness, and enlarged upon the theme of Pani Celina's illness with the ready eagerness of a young scientist who has had no time yet to doubt his powers. In speaking, he used every now and then Latin expressions, as if addressing a colleague. His strong, healthy frame, a certain power of speech and eye impressed me favorably. I saw in him a type of that new generation Sniatynski at one time had spoken of to me. Walking along the avenues, we had one of the so-called intellectual conversations, which consist a great deal in quoting names of books and authors. Chwastowski is thoroughly acquainted with certain subjects; but I have read more, and this seemed to astonish him not a little. At moments he looked almost vexed, as if he considered it an encroachment upon his own territory that I, an aristocrat, should know so much about certain books and authors. But then again I won his approbation by the liberality of my opinions. My liberality consists merely in a kind of tolerance for other people's views, and looking upon them without party feeling; and that from a man of my position and wealth was sufficient to win over the young radical. At the end of our conversation we felt towards each other as men do who have understood each other, and agreed on many points. Most likely I shall be the exception of the rule as regards Doctor Chwastowski. As in my country every nobleman has his particular Jew in whom he believes,--though he dislikes the race in general,--so every democrat has his aristocrat for whom he feels a special weakness. When going away I asked Doctor Chwastowski about his brothers. He said that one of them had a brewery at Ploszow, which I knew already from my aunt's letter; a second had a bookshop at Warsaw; and a third, who had been at a mercantile school, had gone as assistant with Pan Kromitzki to the East. "It is the brewer who has the best of it just now," he said; "but we all work, and in time shall win good positions. It was lucky our father lost his fortune; otherwise every one of us would sit on his bit of land 'glebae adscripti,' and in the end lose it as my father did." In spite of the preoccupation of my mind I listened with a certain interest. "There are, then," I said to myself, "people that are neither over-civilized nor steeped in ignorance. There are those that can do something and thus form the intermediate, healthy link between decay and barbarism." It is possible that this social strata mostly exists in bigger towns, where it is continually recruited by the influx of the sons of bankrupt noblemen, who adapt themselves to burgher traditions of work, and bring to it strong nerves and muscles. I then recalled what Sniatynski once said when I left him: "From such as you nothing good can come; your fathers must first lose all they have, else even your grandsons will not work." And here are Chwastowski's sons who take to it, and push on in the world by help of their own strong shoulders. I, too, perhaps, had I no fortune, should have to do something, and should acquire that energy of decision in which I have been wanting all my life. The doctor left me presently as he had another patient at Ploszow, a young cleric from the Warsaw seminary, the son of one of the Ploszow peasants. He is in the last stage of consumption. My aunt has given him a room in one of the out-buildings, where she and Aniela look after him. When I heard of this I went to pay him a visit, and instead of the dying man I expected to see, I found a young, rather thin-looking lad, but bright and full of life. The doctor says it is the last flicker of the lamp. The young cleric was nursed by his mother, who, upon seeing me, overwhelmed me with a shower of gratitude copious enough to drown myself in. Aniela did not visit the sick man that day, but remained with her mother. I saw her only at dinner, at which also the mother was present in her invalid's chair. It is only natural that Aniela should devote her time to her mother, and yet I fancy she does it partly to avoid being alone with me. In time our mutual relations will establish themselves upon an easier footing, but I quite understand that at first it will be a little awkward. Aniela has so much intelligence of heart, so much goodness and sensibility, that she cannot look upon our present position with indifference, and has not worldly experience enough to preserve an appearance of ease. This practice comes with later years, when the live spring of feelings begins to dry up and the mind acquires a certain conventionality. I had let Aniela see there was no resentment in my heart towards her, and I shall not allude even to the past, and for that reason did not try to see her alone. In the evening during tea we discussed general topics. My aunt questioned me about Clara, who interests her very much. I told her all I knew about her, and from that we drifted into conversation about artists generally. My aunt looks upon them as people sent into the world by kind Providence to give performances for the benefit of charitable institutions. I maintained that artists, provided their hearts were pure and not filled with vanity and love of self, might be the happiest creatures in the world, as they are always in contact with something infinite and absolutely perfect. From life comes all evil, from art only happiness. This was, indeed, my point of view, supported by observation. Aniela agreed with me, and if I took note of the conversation it is because I was struck by a remark of Aniela's, simple in itself, but to me full of meaning. When we spoke about the contentment arising from art she said: "Music is a great consoler." I saw in this involuntary confession that she is unhappy, and is conscious of it. Besides, in regard to that, I never had any doubts. Even the face is not the face of a happy woman. If anything, it is more beautiful than before,--apparently calm, even serene; but there is none of that light which springs from inward happiness, and there is a certain preoccupation that was not there formerly. In the course of the day I noticed that her temples have a slight yellow tint like that of ivory. I looked at her with an ever renewed delight, comparing her to the Aniela of the past. I could not get enough of this exchange of memories with reality. There is something so irresistibly attractive in Aniela that had I never seen her before, if she were among thousands of beautiful women and I were told to choose, I should go straight to her and say: "This one and no other." She answers so exactly to the feminine prototype every man carries in his imagination. I fancy she must have noticed that I watched and admired her. I left at dusk. I was so shaken by the sensations of the day, so utterly different from all my preconceived ideas, that I had lost the power of dissecting my thoughts. I expected to find Pani Kromitska, and found Aniela; I put it down once more. God only knows what will be the consequence of this for us both. When I think of it I have the sensation of a great happiness, and also a slight disappointment. And yet I was right, theoretically, in expecting those psychical changes which necessarily take place in a woman after she is married, and I might easily be led to think she would show in some way that she was glad she had not chosen me. There is not another woman who would have denied herself that satisfaction of vanity. And as I know myself, my sensitiveness and my nerves, I could take my oath on it, that if such had been the case I should have been now full of bitterness, anger, and sarcasm,--but cured. In the mean while, things have fallen out differently,--altogether differently. She is a being of such unfathomable goodness and simplicity that the measure I have for goodness is not large enough for her. What will happen next, what will happen to me or to her, I cannot say. My life might have run on quietly towards that ocean where all life is absorbed,--now it may run like a cataract down to a precipice. Let it be so. At the worst I can only be a little more unhappy, that is all. Until now I have not been lying on a bed of roses, with that consciousness of my useless life continually before me. I do not remember; somebody, was it my father? said that there must always be something growing within us, that such is the law of nature. It is true. Even in the desert the forces of life hidden in the depth bring forth palms in the oasis. 21 April. I live nominally at Warsaw, but have spent four consecutive days at Ploszow. Pani Celina is better, but the cleric Latyzs died the day before yesterday. Doctor Chwastowski says it was a splendid case of pulmonary consumption, and with difficulty conceals his satisfaction that he foretold the exact course of the disease up to the last hour. We had been to see the young man twelve hours before he died. He was quite merry with us, and full of hope because the fever had left him, which was only a sign of weakness. Yesterday, when sitting with Aniela on the veranda, the cleric's mother came up to tell us about his death, in her own quaint way, in which sorrow blended with quiet submission to the inevitable. In my pity for her, there was a great deal of curiosity, for up to now I had not much occasion to see anything of the inner life of the peasants. What quaint expressions they use! I tried to remember her words in order to note them down. She embraced my knees, then Aniela's, after which she put the outside of her hands over her eyes, and began to wail: "O little Jesus, dear--O Maria, holiest of Virgins! He is dead, my poor lamb, dead! He was eager to see the Lord face to face; more eager than to stop with his little father and mother! Nothing could hold him back, not even the ladies' cares! Wine he had in plenty, and good food, and that could not save him; O little Jesus, dear! O holiest of Virgins! O Jesus mine!" In her voice there was certainly a mother's sorrow! but what struck me most was the modulation of the voice, as if set to some local music. I never heard before the peasants lament their dead, but I am quite sure they all do it in more or less the same way, as if according to certain rules. Tears were trembling on Aniela's eyelashes, and with that peculiar goodness only women are capable of, she began to inquire into the details of his death, guessing that it would soothe the poor woman to speak about it. And in fact she began at once most eagerly:-- "When the priest had left him I said thus: 'Whether you die or not is in God's hands! You are nicely prepared now, so lay ye down and go to sleep.' Says he: 'Very well, little mother,' and fell in a doze, and I too; as, not reproaching the Lord with it, I had not had a proper sleep for three nights. At the first crow my old man comes in and wakes me; thus we were both sitting there, and he still asleep. I says to the old man: 'Is he gone?' and he says, 'Happen and he is gone.' I pulled him by the hand; he opened his eyes and said: 'I feel better now.' Then he remained quite still for about five _paters_ and _aves_, and smiled toward the ceiling. This made me angry, and I says: 'Oh, you good-for-nothing, how can you laugh at my misery? But he only smiled at death, not at my misery, for he began breathing very hard, and that was all he did until the sun rose." She began moaning again, and then invited us to come and see the body, as he was dressed already, and looked as beautiful as a picture. Aniela wanted to go at once, but I held her back; besides, the woman had already forgotten all about it, and began now lamenting her poverty. Her husband, it seems, had been a well-to-do peasant proprietor, but they had spent every bit of money upon their son's education. Acre after acre had been bought by the neighbors, and at present they had nothing but the hut,--no land whatever. One thousand two hundred roubles he had cost them. They had hoped to find a shelter for their old age with him at a parsonage, and now God had taken him. The old woman declared, with all the stoicism of the peasant, that they had already made their plans, and would go a begging. She seemed not afraid of it, and spoke of it with a kind of half-concealed satisfaction. She was only afraid the community might raise difficulties about the certificate, which, for some reason unknown to me, seemed to be necessary for the new profession. Hundreds of realistic details mingled with the calling upon the Lord Jesus, the Holy Virgin, and laments over the dead son. Aniela went into the house, and returned presently with some money for the woman. I arrested her hand; another idea, I thought good at the time, had crossed my mind. "So you spent a thousand two hundred roubles on your son?" I said to the woman. "That's so, please the gracious Pan. We thought when he got his church we would go and live with him. The Almighty willed it otherwise; no church for us now, but the church door" (place where beggars sit). "I will give you the thousand two hundred roubles; you can buy some land if you like, and start fresh again." I should have given it at once, but had not enough money by me; I intended to take it from my aunt, and told the woman to come back for it in an hour. She stared at me with wide-open eyes, without saying a word, and then with a cry fell down at my feet. But I got rid of her and her gratitude very soon, as she was in a hurry to be off to tell her husband the good news. I remained alone with Aniela, who seemed moved deeply, and who repeated:-- "How good you are! how good you are!" "There is not much goodness in it," I said in a careless manner. "I did not do it for these people I have seen for the first time in my life. I did it because you care for them,--to please you." It was true; they did not interest me more than any other people would in the same position, but I would have given ten times as much to please Aniela. I said it on purpose, as words like these said to a woman carry a deep meaning. It is almost the same as if I told her, "I would do anything for you, because you are everything to me." And, moreover, no woman can defend herself against a tacit confession such as this, or has any right to be offended. I had disguised the meaning, treating it as the most natural thing in the world; but Aniela perceived the drift, and lowering her eyes in evident confusion, said: "I must go back now to mamma," and left me alone. I am quite aware that in acting thus I introduce a disturbing element into Aniela's soul. I perceive, too, with surprise, that if, on the one hand, my conscience cries out against this wilful destroying of the peace of the one being for whom I would give my life, on the other hand, it causes me a savage delight, as if thereby I satisfied man's innate instinct of destruction. I have also the conviction that no consciousness of evil, or sting of conscience, will stop me. I am too headstrong to let anything stand in my way, especially in presence of that powerful, inexpressible spell she has cast upon me. I am now as that Indian who threw away his oar, and gave himself up to fate. I do not reflect now that it was my fault, that all might have been so different, and that I had only to stretch out my hand to secure the happiness I am now yearning for in vain. But it could not be otherwise. I have come to the conclusion that generations which had lost all vital power, have made me what I am; that nothing remains but to cast away the oars and let myself drift with the current. This morning we three--my aunt, Aniela, and I--went to the funeral of the young cleric. It was a strange sight, this village procession headed by the priest, the coffin on a cart, followed by a crowd of peasants, men and women who were singing a tune sad and weird as if set to some Chaldean music. At the furthest end, the men and women were talking to each other in a drawling, half-sleepy way. Going along, among the rowan trees, the procession came now and then into the glare of the sun, and then the kerchiefs flashed into flames of blue, and red, and yellow, which but for the coffin and the incense of juniper berries, made the procession rather look like a wedding than a funeral. Death does not seem to make much impression upon the rustic mind; perhaps they regard it in the light of an everlasting holiday. As we stood by the open grave, I noticed their faces following the ceremony with concentrated attention and curiosity; but I saw no trace of thoughtfulness or reflection at the inexorable end, after which begins the great, terrible Unknown. I looked at Aniela as she stooped for a handful of soil to throw upon the lowered coffin. She was paler than usual, and with the sun shining upon her I could read the transparent features as an open book. I was certain she was thinking of her own death. To me it seemed simply monstrous, a horrible improbability, that this face so full of expression, so full of life and charming individuality, should at some time be stony white and remain in eternal darkness. And as if a sudden frost had nipped all my thoughts, I grew suddenly conscious that the first ceremony I assisted at with Aniela was a funeral. As a person in long sickness, having lost faith in medicine, turns to quack doctors and wise women, so the sick soul, doubting everything, still clings to certain superstitions. Probably no one is so near the gulf of mysticism as the absolute sceptic. Those who have lost faith in religious and sociological ideals, those whose belief in the power of science and the human intellect is shaken, that whole mass of highly cultured people, uncertain of their way, deprived of all dogmas, hopelessly struggling in the dark, drift more and more towards mysticism. It seems to spring up everywhere,--the usual reaction of a society whose life is based upon positivism, the overthrow of ideals, empty pleasures, and soulless striving after gain. The human spirit begins to burst its shell, which is too narrow, too much like a stock exchange. One epoch draws to an end, and then appears a simultaneous evolution in all directions. It has struck me often with amazement that, for instance, the more recent great writers seem not to know how very close upon mysticism they are. Some of them are conscious of it, and confess so openly. In every book I opened lately, I found, not the human soul, will, and personal passions, but merely fatal forces with all the characteristics of terrible beings, independent of personal manifestations, living alone within themselves, like Goethe's "Mother." As regards myself, I too come near the brink. I see it and am not afraid. The abyss attracts; personally it attracts me so much that if I could I would go to the very bottom, and will some time when I am able. 28 April. I intoxicate myself with the life at Ploszow, the daily sight of Aniela, and forget that she belongs to somebody else. Kromitzki, who is somewhere at Baku, or further still, appears to me as something unreal, a being deprived of real existence, something bad that might come down upon us, as for instance, death, but of which one does not think continually. But yesterday something happened to bring him before my mind. It was a small and apparently most natural incident. Aniela received at breakfast two letters. My aunt asked whether they were from her husband, and she replied, "Yes." Hearing that, I felt the sensation a condemned man may feel when they rouse him from a sweet dream in order to tell him to have his hair cut for the guillotine. I saw my whole misfortune more distinctly than ever before, and the sensation remained with me the whole day, especially as my aunt, quite unconsciously, of course, was bent upon torturing me further. Aniela wanted to put off the reading of the letters, but my aunt insisted upon her opening them, and presently inquired how Kromitzki was. "Thank you, aunty, he is very well." "And how are his affairs going on?" "Thank God! he writes that everything prospers beyond expectation." "When does he think of coming back?" "He says as soon as he can possibly manage." And I, with my sensitiveness, had to listen to these questions and answers. If my aunt and Aniela had started unexpectedly a quite improbable cynical conversation it could not have shocked me more. The first time since my arrival at Ploszow I felt something like resentment towards Aniela. "Have a little mercy at least, and do not speak of that man in my presence; do not return thanks for being asked after him, and say 'Thank God!' because he is prosperous," I thought. In the mean time she had opened the second letter, and looking at the date, said: "It has been written at an earlier date;" then began to read. I looked at the bowed head, the parting of the hair, the drooping lashes--and it seemed to me that the reading lasted very long. I thought what a world of mutual interests and aims bound these two together, and that for some indispensable reason they must feel that they belonged to each other. I felt that I had no part in it, and that by force of circumstances I should always be outside her life even if I won her love. Up to now I had felt the depth of my misery as one sees the depth of a precipice veiled by clouds. Now the mist lifted, I looked down and comprehended its whole extent. My nature is so constituted that under great pressure it resists. Up to the present my love had not dared to ask for anything, but at this moment hatred began to clamor loudly for the abolition of merciless laws, those ties and bondages. Aniela did not read many minutes, but during that time I ran through a whole gamut of tortures, because other thoughts relating to my self-analysis and criticism were haunting me. I said to myself that the agitation, the very bitterness I felt, were nothing but the ridiculous characteristics of female ill-humor. How is it possible to live with nerves such as mine? If such a simple thing as a letter from the husband to his wife makes you lose your balance, what will happen when he himself comes to claim her? I said to myself: "I will kill him!" and at the same time I felt the ridiculousness and folly of the answer. Aniela having finished her letters noticed at once that something was amiss, and looked at me with troubled eyes. Hers is one of those sweet dispositions that cannot bear to see unfriendly faces, or live in an atmosphere of cold displeasure. This springs from a great tenderness of heart. I remember how uneasy she used to be when first she witnessed the disputes between my aunt and Chwastowzki. Now she was evidently ill at ease. She began to speak about the concert and Clara, but her eyes seemed to say: "What have I done, what is the matter with you?" I merely replied by a cold glance, not being able to forgive her either the letters or her conversation with my aunt. After breakfast I rose at once and said I was obliged to go back to Warsaw. My aunt wanted me to stop to dinner; after which, according to our agreement, we were to start together for the concert. But I pleaded some business; the truth was I wanted to be alone. I gave orders for the carriage to be ready, and then my aunt remarked:-- "I should like to show some gratitude to Miss Hilst, and thought of inviting her to Ploszow for the day." Evidently my aunt considers an invitation to Ploszow such a great reward that she doubted whether it would not be out of all proportion. After a moment's pause she began again:-- "If I were quite sure that she is of a proper standing." "Miss Hilst is a personal friend of the queen of Roumania," I replied, a little impatiently; "and if there be any honor, it will be altogether on our side." "Well, well," muttered my aunt. "You will come with us to the concert?" I said, turning to Aniela. "I am afraid not. I shall have to remain with mamma; and besides, I have some letters to write." "Oh! if it is a question of wifely tenderness I will not insist." This ironical remark gave me a momentary relief. "Let her be aware that I am jealous," I thought; "she herself, her mother, and my aunt belong to those women of the angelic kind, who do not believe there can be any evil in the world. Let her understand that I love her, become familiar with the thought, troubled by it, and fight it. To bring into her soul a strange, decomposing element, a ferment like this, is half the battle. We shall see what will happen afterwards." It was a momentary but great relief, and very much like a wicked delight. But presently, when alone in the carriage, I felt angry with myself and disgusted,--disgusted because I became conscious of the littleness of all I had thought and felt, based as it was upon overstrung and fanciful nerves worthy an hysterical woman, not a man. It was a heavy journey, far heavier than the one when after my return from abroad I went the first time to Ploszow. I was reflecting upon that terrible incapacity for life which casts its shadow upon my existence and the existence of those like me, and came to the conclusion that its main source is the feminine element which predominates in our character. I do not mean by this that we are physically effeminate or wanting in manly courage. No! it is something quite different. Courage and daring we are not deficient in; but as regards psychical elements, every one of us is a she, not a he. There is in, us a lack of the synthetic faculty which distinguishes things that are important from those that are not. The least matter discourages, hurts, and repulses us; in consequence of which we sacrifice very great things for small ones. My past is a proof thereof. I sacrificed inexpressible happiness, my future and the future of the beloved woman, because I had read in my aunt's letter that Kromitzki wished to marry her. My nerves took the bit between their teeth, and carried me where I did not wish to go. This was nothing but a disease of the will. But it is a feminine disease, not a masculine one. Is it to be wondered at that I act as an hysterical woman? It is a misfortune I brought with me into the world, to which whole generations have contributed their share, as also the conditions of life in which we exist. The shaking myself thus free from all responsibility did not give me any relief. When I arrived at Warsaw I intended to call upon Clara, but was prevented by a severe headache; which got better towards evening before my aunt came up. She found me already dressed, and we drove together to the concert, which was a great success. Clara's fame had attracted the whole musical and intelligent world, and the charitable purpose the aristocratic circles. I saw many people there I knew, among them Sniatynski and his wife. The concert room was crowded. But I was out of humor, and everything irritated me. I do not know why, but I felt afraid Clara's performance would be a failure. When she appeared on the platform a programme clung to the folds of her dress; I thought it would make her appear ridiculous. She herself in full evening dress seemed to me more like a stranger than a friend. I involuntarily asked myself whether it was the same Clara I was so intimate with. When the hearty applause had ceased she sat down to the piano, and I acknowledged to myself that she had a noble and artistic presence, full of simplicity and quite free of any affectation. On all faces there was the concentrated attention of people who have no understanding of art, but like to pass for connoisseurs and judges. She played Mendelssohn's concerto, which I know by heart,--but whether it was the thought that much was expected from her, or that the unusually enthusiastic reception had moved her, she played worse than I had ever heard her. I was sorry for it and looked at her with astonishment; our eyes met for a moment. The expression of my face put the final touch to her confusion, and I heard a few dim notes without force or expression. I was quite sure now she would fail. Never had the piano, with its lack of continuity, its sound smothered by the acoustic properties of the room, seemed to me a more miserable instrument. At times it seemed as if I heard the sharp, staccato sounds of a harp. Presently Clara recovered her self-possession, but upon the whole I thought she had played but indifferently. I was very much surprised indeed when after she had finished there rose such a storm of applause as I had not heard even in Paris, where Clara was received with exceptional enthusiasm. During the short pause, amateurs and professionals began discussing the music, and in their animated faces I read perfect satisfaction. The cheering lasted until Clara reappeared on the platform. She stepped forth with downcast eyes, and I who could read her face saw what she wanted to express: "You are very kind, and I thank you for it; but it was not good and I feel inclined to cry." I too had applauded with the rest, for which I received a passing glance full of reproach. Clara loves her art too much to be gratified by undeserved applause. I felt sorry for her, and should have liked to say a few encouraging words, but the continued cheering did not permit her to leave the platform. She sat down again and played Beethoven's Sonata in cis-moll, which was not on the programme. There is, I believe, no composition in the whole world that shows with the same distinctness the soul torn by tragic conflict; especially in the third part of the Sonata, the _Presto-agitato_. The music evidently responded to the tune of Clara's soul, and certainly harmonized with my own disposition, for never had I heard Beethoven interpreted and understood like this before. I am not a musician, but I suppose even musicians do not know how much there is in that Sonata. I cannot find another word than "oppressiveness" to describe the sensation wrought upon the audience. One had a feeling as if mystical rites were being performed; there rose before me a vast desert, not of this world, weird and unutterably sad, without shape, half lit up by a ghostly moon, in the midst of which hopeless despair waited and sobbed and tore its hair. It was terrible and impressive because so unearthly; and yet irresistibly attractive,--never had my spirit come in such close proximity to the infinite. It was almost an hallucination. I imagined that in the shapeless desert, in the dusk of a world of shadows, I was searching for somebody dearer to me than the whole world, one without whom I could not and would not live, and I searched with the conviction that I should have to search forever and never find what I was looking for. My heart was so oppressed that at times I could scarcely breathe. I paid no attention to the mechanical part of the execution, which no doubt was as perfect as the expression. All in the room seemed under the same spell, not excepting Clara herself. When she left off playing she remained for a moment with uplifted head and eyes, lips slightly parted, and face very pale. And it was not a mere concert effect, it was real inspiration and forgetfulness of self. There was a great hush in that crowd, as if they expected something, or were benumbed by sorrow, or tried to catch the last echo of sobbing despair, carried away by a wind from the other world. Presently there happened what probably never happened in a concert room before. A great tumult arose, and such an outcry as if a catastrophe were threatening the whole audience. Several musicians and reporters approached the platform. I saw their heads bowed over Clara's hands, she had tears on her eyelashes, her face looked still inspired, but calm and serene. I went with the others to press her hands. From the first moment of our acquaintance Clara had always addressed me in French; now for the first time, returning the pressure of my hand, she said in German: "Haben Sie mich verstanden?" "Ja," I replied, "und ich war sehr unglücklich!" And it was true. The continuation of the concert was one great triumph. After the performance Sniatynski and his wife carried Clara off to their house. I had no wish to go there. When I reached home, I felt so tired that without undressing I threw myself upon the sofa, and remained there an hour without moving, yet not asleep. After a long time I became conscious that I had been thinking about the young cleric's funeral, Aniela, and death. I rung for lights, and then began to write. 29 April. Kromitzki's letters have stirred me to such a degree that I cannot get over the impression. My unreasonable resentment towards Aniela is passing, and the more I feel how undeserved was my harshness, the more contrite I become, and the more tenderly I think of her. Yet more clearly than ever I see how these two are bound by the power of a simple fact. Since yesterday I have been in the clutches of these thoughts, and that is the reason I did not go to Ploszow. There I am obliged to keep watch upon myself and to put on an appearance of calmness, and at present I could not do it. Everything within me--thoughts, feelings, nerves--has risen up in revolt against what has been done. I do not know whether there can be a more desperate state of mind than when we do not agree with something, protest with every fibre of heart and brain, and at the same time feel powerless in presence of an accomplished fact. I understand that this is only a foretaste of what is awaiting me in the future. There is nothing to be done,--nothing. She is married, is Pani Kromitzka; she belongs to him, will always belong to him; and I who cannot consent, for to do so would mean losing my own self, am obliged to consent. I might as well protest against the earth turning round as against that other law which bids a woman stand by her husband. Does this mean that I ought to respect that law? How can I submit when my whole being cries out against it? At moments I feel inclined to go away, but I understand perfectly that beyond this woman the world has for me as much meaning as death,--that is, nothingness; moreover, I know beforehand that I shall not go, because I could not muster strength enough to do so. Sometimes I have thought that human misery goes far beyond human imagination,--imagination has its limits, and misery, like the vast seas, appears to be without end. It seems to me that I am floating on those seas. But no,--there is still something for me to do. I read once, in Amiel's memoirs, that the deed is only the crystallized matter of thought. But thoughts may remain in the abstract,--not so feelings. Theoretically I was conscious of it before; it is only now I have come to prove it actually on myself. From the time of my arrival at Ploszow until now, I have never clearly and distinctly said to myself that I wanted to win Aniela's love, but it was merely a question of words. In reality I know that I wanted her, and want her still. Every look of mine, every word, and all my actions are tending that way. Affection which does not include desire and action is a mere shadow. Let it be understood,--I want her. I want to be for Aniela the most beloved being, as she is to me. I want to win her love, all her thoughts, her soul; and I do not intend to put any limit to my desires. I shall do everything my heart dictates, and use all means my intelligence sees most efficient to win her. I shall take from Kromitzki as much of Aniela as I can; I shall take her from him altogether if she be willing. In this way I shall have an aim in life; shall know why I wake up in the morning, take nourishment during the day, and recuperate myself in sleep. I shall not be happy; for I could be happy only if she were exclusively my own, and I could crush the man who had her before me. But I shall have something at least to live for. It will be my salvation. And this is not a resolution taken upon the spur of the moment; it is only a translation into words of all the forces that work within me,--the will and the desires which belong to the feeling and make an indivisible part of it. I throw all my scruples to the winds. Even the fear that Aniela might be unhappy loving me must give way before the great truth, great as the universe, that the presence of Love fills the life; gives sustenance to it, and is a hundred thousand times worth more than emptiness and nothingness of existence. Thousands of years ago it was known to the world that virtue and righteousness alone give power to life; that emptiness and nothingness dwell in the realm of evil. The moment when that dear head rests on my breast, when the beloved lips meet mine, truth and goodness will be with us. In the midst of doubts which crowd my brain, that one truth shines clearly,--of this I can say I believe in it. At last I have found something certain in life. I know perfectly what a gulf there is between my belief and the small conventional moralities created for every-day use. I know that to Aniela it will be a strange, fearsome world; but I will take her by the hand and lead her there, because I can tell her with sincere conviction that there are truth and goodness. I find great solace in these thoughts. The greater part of the day passed miserably enough, because of the consciousness of my impotency to overcome the obstacles that stand in our, mine and Aniela's, way. The thought crossed my mind: "Suppose, after all, she loves her husband?" Fortunately for me, a visit from Doctor Chwastowski interrupted my train of thoughts. He had come from Ploszow to consult with one of the physicians who at some time had attended Pani Celina. Before going back he had come to see me. He said Pani Celina was still neither better nor worse, but Pani Kromitzka was confined to her room with a severe headache. Then he began to speak about Aniela, and I listened with pleasure, as it seemed in some way to make up for the loss of seeing her. He spoke intelligently enough, for a young man of so little experience. He said he had made it a rule to look mistrustingly upon mankind in general, not because he thought it the right point of view, but because it was the safest. As to Pani Kromitzka, he was quite sure hers was a nature of exceptional goodness and nobility. He spoke of her with a scarcely disguised enthusiasm, and I had some suspicion he felt more than admiration for her. But this did not trouble me in the least; there is too great a distance between her and this young medical student. On the contrary, I felt pleased that he appreciated her, and asked him to stop as long as he could; his presence did me good, as it kept me from thinking. In the course of our conversation I asked about his plans for the future. He replied that first he must save some money in order to go abroad and see something of foreign hospitals; afterwards he intended to settle at Warsaw. "What do you understand by settling at Warsaw?" "Work at some of the hospitals, and a possible practice." "And then you will get married, I suppose?" "I suppose so; but there is plenty of time for that." "Unless you meet somebody that subjugates your will; as a doctor you know that love is a physiological necessity." Young Chwastowski wants to show himself off as a sober-minded man above human weaknesses; so he only shrugged his broad shoulders, smoothed his short-cropped head, and said: "I acknowledge the necessity; but do not intend to allow it to occupy too large a space in my life." He looked very knowing, but I replied gravely: "Considering somewhat deeper the question of feeling, who knows whether it be worth while to live for anything else?" Chwastowski pondered over this a little while. "No," he said, "I do not agree with you. There are many other objects in life,--for instance, science, or even social duties. I do not say anything against matrimony; a man ought to marry for himself as well as to have children. But matrimony is one thing, and continual love-making another." "What is the difference between them?" "The difference is obvious, sir. We are like ants constructing an ant-hill. We have our work to do, and not much time to spare for love and women. That is all very well for those who cannot work, or who do not want to do anything." Saying this he looked like a man who speaks in the name of all that is strongest in the country, and expresses himself well. I looked with a certain satisfaction at this healthy specimen of mankind, and acknowledged that, except for a certain touch of youthful arrogance, he spoke very sensibly. It is quite true that woman and love do not occupy a large space in the life of those who work, and those who have before them great undertakings and serious aims. The peasant marries because such is the custom, and he wants a housekeeper. There is very little sentiment in him, although poets and novelists want us to believe the contrary. The man of science, the statesman, the leader, the politician devote only a small part of their life to woman. Artists are exceptional. Their profession brings them in touch with love, for art exists through love and woman. Generally, it is only in rich communities that woman reigns supreme and fills the life of those who have no serious work in hand. She encompasses all their thoughts, becomes the leading motive of their actions, and the exclusive aim of their exertions. And it cannot be otherwise. There is myself for instance. The community to which I belong is not as rich as others, but personally I am rich. These riches prevented me from doing anything, and I have no fixed aim in life. It might be different had I been born an Englishman or a German, and not been handicapped by that _improductivité Slave_. No one of the compound active principles of civilization attracts me or fills up the void, for the simple reason that civilization is faint and permeated with scepticism. If it feels its end is drawing near and doubts itself, why should I believe in it and devote to it my life? Generally speaking, I live as if in mid air, with no firm hold upon the earth. If my disposition were cold and dry, if I were dull of mind or merely sensuous, I could have limited my life to mere vegetation or animal enjoyment. But it happened otherwise. I brought with me into the world a bright intellect, a luxuriant organism, and vital powers of no mean degree. These forces had to find an outlet, and they could find it only in the love for a woman. There remained nothing else for me. My whole misfortune is that, as a child of a diseased civilization, I grew up crooked; therefore love, too, came to me crooked. Simplicity of mind would have given me happiness, but what is the use to speak of it? The hunchback, too, would be glad to get rid of his hump, but he cannot, because hump-backed he came from his mother's womb. My hump was caused by the abnormal state of civilization that brought me into the world. But straight or crooked, I must love, and I will. 4 May. My reason is now altogether subservient to feeling, and is, in truth, like the driver who passively clings to his box, and can do nothing but watch whether the vehicle will go to pieces. I went back to Ploszow a few days ago, and all I say and all I do are only the tactics of love. He is a clever doctor--is Chwastowski--to prescribe for Aniela exercise in the park. I found her there this morning. There are moments when the feeling in my heart--though I am always conscious of it--manifests itself with such extraordinary power that it almost frightens me by its magnitude. Such a moment I had to-day, when at a sudden turn of the road I met Aniela. Never had she appeared to me more beautiful, more desirable, and more as if she were my own. This is exactly the only woman in the world who by virtue of certain natural forces, scarcely known by name, was to attract me, as the magnet attracts iron, to reign over me, to attach me to her, and become the aim and completion of my life. Her voice, her shape, her glances intoxicate me. To-day, when I thus unexpectedly met her, I thought it was not only her personal charm she carried with her, but the charm of that early morning, that spring and serene weather, the joy of all the birds and plants,--in fact, she seemed to be more an incarnation of beauty and nature than a woman. And it struck me then that, if nature had created her thus that she should react upon me more than upon any other man, nature had meant her to be mine, and that my right had been trodden under foot by this marriage. Who knows whether all the crookedness of the world does not spring from the non-fulfilment of certain laws, and whether that be not the cause of the imperfectness of life? They are wrong who say that love is blind. On the contrary, nothing--not the smallest detail--escapes its eyes; it sees everything in the beloved being, notices everything; but melts it all in one flame in the great and simple "I love." When I came close to Aniela, I noticed that her eyes were brilliant as if from recent slumber; that on her face and the light print dress fell the golden rays of the morning sun filtering through the young leaves; her hair was tied in a loose knot, and the flowing morning dress showed the outline of her shoulders and supple waist, and in its very carelessness had a certain freshness, which enhanced a thousandfold her charm. It did not escape my notice how much smaller than usual she looked among the tall elm trees of the avenue,--almost a child; in brief, nothing escaped me, but all my observations changed into the rapture of one who loves deliriously. She returned my morning greeting with some confusion. For the last few days she seems afraid of me, for I hypnotize her with every glance and word. Her peace of thought is already disturbed, and the ferment has entered her soul. She cannot help seeing I love her, but does not own it, not even to herself. Sometimes I have a sensation as if I were holding a bird in my hand, and heard its heart palpitating under my fingers. We walked together in embarrassed silence, which I did not care to interrupt. I know this uneasiness is oppressive to her; but it renders her my accomplice, and brings me nearer to the end. In the silence which surrounded us not a sound was audible but the crunching of the gravel under our feet, and the whistling of the golden orioles, which are plentiful in the park. I started at last a conversation. I directed it to suit my plans, for however much my mind is closed against influences that have no bearing upon my feeling, within their sphere I have a well-nigh redoubled presence of mind,--an acuteness of perception, as have those plunged into a hypnotic trance, and in a given direction see more clearly than people in their normal state. We passed speedily on to personal topics. I spoke about myself in the confidential tone in which one speaks to those nearest, who alone have the right to know everything. There sprung up between us a whole world of mutual understanding and thoughts, common to us both. Since such a bond ought to exist by virtue of marriage,--between her and her husband,--I was leading her towards spiritual faithlessness by such gradual steps that she scarcely could be aware of it. Nevertheless, the subtle nature perceived the drift. But I had taken her by the hand, and led her; yet while leading, I felt a moral resistance. I was fully aware the resistance would grow stronger if I pushed much farther, and she perceived the danger. But I saw too that I was gaining ground, and that step by step I could lead her where I wanted. In the meantime I spoke on purpose about the past. "Do you remember," I said, "how in the days gone by--those happier days--you asked me why I did not remain in the country, and turn my abilities to some use. It was when I came home late, and you were sitting up for me. I cannot tell you even what power you had over me. I could not then begin to work, I had to go away; then came my father's death. But I never forgot those words. I have come back now to live and to work at home, and if I ever achieve anything it will be owing to you,--your influence will be the source of my achievement." There ensued a momentary silence between us, broken only by the whistling of the orioles. Aniela was evidently searching for a reply, and at last said,-- "I cannot believe that a man like you should not be able to find a more weighty inducement. You know very well it is your duty, and what is past is past, and now everything is changed." "I am not so sure of that," I replied. "Perhaps, when once I start, I shall find in the work itself some pleasure and encouragement. But a man like me, who, in spite of what you are saying about duty, has never been, fully conscious of it, must have some personal reason for changing the whole tenor of his life; and the more he is unhappy, the more he wants that personal inducement. Why should I tell you what is not true? I am not happy. The consciousness of duty is a beautiful thing, no doubt; but unfortunately I do not have it. You, who are so much better, nobler than I, could have taught it me; but it was fated otherwise. But even now, if only for the sake of those times when you wanted me to do something, I can do it still if you will help me." Aniela hastened her steps, as if she wanted to return home, and said almost in a whisper,-- "Do not say that, Leon; please do not. You know I cannot do it." "Why can you not? Do not understand me wrongly. You are and always will be a very dear sister to me. It is only this I wanted you to know." Aniela almost feverishly gave me her hand, which I raised reverently to my lips. "Yes, I will be that,--always that," she replied quickly. And I saw what a heavy weight I had lifted from her mind; how that one word "sister" had calmed and moved her. This made me recover all my self-possession; for, when I had touched her hand with my lips, it almost grew dark before my eyes, and I wanted to take her in my arms, and tell her the whole truth. In the mean time Aniela's face had grown brighter and more cheerful. As we came nearer the house, her trouble seemed to slip off from her, and seeing how much I had gained by taking this way with her, I continued in the same strain of friendly conversation. "You see, little sister, there is such a void around me. My father is no more; my aunt is a saintly woman; but she does not understand new times and new people. Her ideas are different from mine. I shall never marry,--think only what a lonely man I am. I have nobody near me,--nobody to share my thoughts, my plans, or my sorrows; nothing but loneliness around me. Is it not natural that I look for sympathy where I might expect to find it? I am like the crippled beggar, who stands waiting at the gate until they give him a small coin. At this moment the beggar is very poor indeed, and he stands under your window, and begs for a little friendliness, sympathy, and pity. A very small coin will satisfy him,--you will not refuse him that, Aniela, will you?" "I will not, Leon; I will not, since you are so unhappy--" Her voice broke, and she began to tremble. Again I had to make a great effort to restrain myself; and as I looked at her, something like unshed tears took me by the throat. "Aniela! little Aniela!" I exclaimed, not knowing what to say. But she waved her hands, as if to ward me off, and said, her eyes full of tears,-- "Let me go--I shall be better presently. I can not go back like this; let me go." And she went swiftly away. "Aniela, forgive me!" I called after her. My first impulse was to follow her, but I thought it would be better to leave her to herself, and I only followed her with my eyes. She went quickly back into the avenue we had crossed together, and then turned into a side path. Sometimes the foliage hid her from my eyes, then again the light dress lit up by the sun appeared between the trees. From the distance I saw how she shut and opened her sunshade, as if trying by physical exertion to overcome her emotion. During all that time I inwardly called her the most endearing names that love could invent. I could not go away without looking once more into her eyes; but I had a long time to wait. She came at last, but passed quickly by, as if afraid of another shock; she only smiled at me in passing, with angelic sweetness, and said, "I am all right again." On her face, pink with exercise, there was no trace of tears. I remained alone, and a mad, indescribable joy got hold of me, hope filled my heart, and there was one thought dominating everything: "She loves me, she fights against it, does not yield, deludes herself--but loves." At times, the most self-possessed of men, in the super-abundance of some emotion, comes near the brink of madness. I was so near it then that I felt a wild desire to hide myself in the deepest recess of the woods, tear the grass, and shout at the top of my voice, "She loves me!" At present, when I am able to think more calmly of this joy, I find it was composed of various active forces. There was the joy of the artist who sees that a masterpiece he has begun is progressing satisfactorily; maybe also the satisfaction of the spider when the fly comes near the web; but there was also kindness, pity, great tenderness, and all that over which angels rejoice, as the poet has it. I felt sorry the defenceless little thing should fall into my hands; and that pity increased the love, and the desire to conquer Aniela. I felt also a sting of conscience that I had deceived her, and yet I had the consciousness that I had spoken the truth when I asked for her sympathy and friendship. I want it as I want my health. But I did not confess to all my desires, because the time for it has not yet come. I did not tell her the whole truth, so as not to frighten the timid soul. I shall come to it by and by, and the road which leads towards it in the straightest line is the best. 10 May. The weather is still serene, and everything is serene between us. Aniela is calm and happy. She thoroughly believes in what I said, and, as I did not ask for anything but sisterly affection, and her conscience approves, she allows her heart to follow its dictates. I alone know that it is a loyal way of deceiving herself and her husband; for under cover of sisterly affection there is another feeling, the growth of which I am watching daily. Of course I do not intend to undeceive her until the feeling grows too strong for her. By and by she will be enveloped in a flame which neither will, nor consciousness of duty, nor the modesty of the woman white as a swan, will be able to keep under control. Constantly the thought dwells with me that since I love her most, mine is the higher right. What can there be more logical or more true? The unwritten code of ethics of all people, of whatever faith, says that the mutual belonging of man and woman to each other is based upon love. But to-day I am so restful and happy that I prefer to feel rather than to reason. There is now between us a great cordiality, ease, and intimacy. How we were made for each other, cling to each other, and how the dear little thing delights in the warmth, delusive warmth of brotherly affection. Never since my return have I seen her so cheerful. Formerly when I looked at her she reminded me of Shakspeare's "Poor Tom." A nature like hers wants love, as her body wants air to breathe. Kromitzki, occupied with speculations, does not love her enough, perhaps does not know what love means. She might rightly say with Shakspeare, "Poor Tom's acold." When I think of this my heart is stirred, and I make a silent vow that she shall never feel cold as long as I live. If our love were wrong there could not be within us such peace. That Aniela does not call it by its proper name means nothing; it is there all the same. The whole day passed for us like an idyl. Formerly I disliked Sundays; now I find that a Sunday, from morning until night, may be like a poem, especially in the country. Soon after breakfast, we went to church in time for the early mass. My aunt followed in our rear; even Pani Celina, profiting by the fine weather, was wheeled thither in her Bath chair. There were not many people in church, as most of them go later for high mass. Sitting on the bench by Aniela's side, I had the blissful illusion that I was sitting with my affianced wife. From time to time I looked at the sweet, dear profile, at the hands which were resting on the desk before her, and the concentration in her face and bearing gradually infected me. My senses went to sleep, my thoughts became purer, and I loved her at that moment with an ideal love, because I felt more than ever how different she was from any other woman, how infinitely better and purer. For a long time I had not felt anything like what I felt in this quiet village church. Added to Aniela's presence there was the impressive dignity of the church itself, the soft, flickering light of the candles in the dim recess of the altar, shafts of colored light coming through the windows, the chirping sparrows, and the still mass. All this, with the dreaminess of an early morning, had something unutterably soothing. My thoughts began to flow as evenly as the incense at the altar. Nobler feelings stirred within me, and a desire to sacrifice my own self. An inward voice began to remonstrate:-- "Do not disturb that transparent water; respect its purity." When the mass came to an end, and we left the church, I saw, to my greatest amazement, both the Latyszes crouching near the church gate, with wooden plates in their hands, asking for alms. My aunt, who knew about my gift, grew very angry upon seeing them there, and began to abuse them roundly. But the old woman, still holding out her wooden plate, and not at all abashed, said quietly:-- "His lordship's generosity is one thing, and God's will is another. We must not go against the Lord's will. When the little Lord Jesus told us to sit here, we must, now and forever and ever, Amen." There was nothing to say against this kind of reasoning; especially that "forever and ever, Amen," imposed upon me, to such an extent that I gave them some money for the oddity of the thing. These people at the bottom of their hearts believe in fate, which they dress up in Christian forms, and submit to it blindly. These Latyszes, to whom I gave a thousand two hundred roubles, are now better off than they ever were in their lives, and yet they went to sit at the church gates because such was their fate,--which the old woman translated into the "will of God." When we were wending our way homewards, the bells were ringing for high mass. On the road appeared groups of men and women. From the more distant hamlets one could see them going Indian file along the narrow paths amid the corn, which, though still green, had shot up to a considerable height, owing to the early spring. As far as the eye could reach, in the pure translucid atmosphere, the bright colored kerchiefs of the girls appeared above the wheat-fields like so many poppy flowers. By the bye, there is nowhere in Europe such a breadth of atmosphere as in Poland. What struck me most of all was the distinctly Sunday character of the day, not in the people alone, but also in nature. It is true the weather was splendid, but it seemed as if the wind were hushed because it was Sunday; even the corn did not rock, not a leaf shook on the poplars, the stillness was perfect; yet there was the cheerfulness of the Sunday in the festive garments, and in the dancing sunbeams. I explained to Aniela how, from an artistic point of view, those bright spots harmonized with the landscape and melted in the distance into a blue haze. Then we began to talk about the peasants. I confessed that I did not see anything but a crowd of more or less picturesque models; but Aniela looks at them from a quite different point of view. She began telling me many characteristic traits, some sad, and some amusing, and while talking grew very animated, and at the same time as lovely as a summer's dream. The conversation again drifted towards the old couple we had left sitting under the church gate, and especially the old woman, whose reasoning had amused us so much. I began comparing her position to my own. As my aunt remained with Pani Celina, whom the servant wheeled along at a certain distance behind, I could with freedom allude to our last conversation in the park. "Not long ago," I said, "I asked you for alms, and you bestowed them on me. I see now that this does not bind me to anything, and I may again hold out my wooden platter at the church gate." "Eh! to ask other charitable souls for the same," replied Aniela. "Aunty is going to invite one charitable soul to Ploszow, I understand." "If it is Miss Hilst you mean, she is too big to find room in a single heart; it wants three at least to hold her," but Aniela did not leave off teasing, and shaking her little finger at me, said:-- "It is a suspicious case, very suspicious." "At present there is no ground for suspicion," I replied. "My heart is a repository of brotherly feelings, and there reigns supreme the spiteful little being who is tormenting me at present." Aniela ceased laughing and jesting, slackened her pace, and presently we joined the elder ladies. The remainder of the day passed without a cloud, and so pleasantly that at times I fancied myself again a schoolboy. My eyes still spoke to her of love; but my desires slept. My aunt went to Warsaw after lunch, and I remained in Pani Celina's room, reading to her Montalembert's letters, with whom my father at one time had a regular correspondence. These letters would have seemed very tedious to me but for Aniela's presence. Raising my eyes now and then, I met her glance, which filled me with inexpressible joy. Unless I have lost all power of judgment, she looks at me as would look a pure, innocent woman, unconsciously loving with all her soul. What a good day it has been! My aunt came back towards evening, and announced visitors. To-morrow both the Sniatynskis are coming, and Clara Hilst. It is very late, but I do not want to sleep, for I am loathe to part with the memories of the day. Sleep cannot be more beautiful. The park is literally alive with the song of the nightingales, and there is still in me a great deal of the old romanticist. The night is clear and limpid, and the sky full of stars. Thinking of Aniela, I say a hundred times good-night to her. I see that side by side with the _improductivité Slave_, there is in me a great deal of purely Polish sentimentality. I had not known myself in that capacity before. But what does it matter? I love her very much. 13 May. Clara and the Sniatynskis have not arrived. Instead of this, there came a letter, informing us they would come to-morrow, the weather permitting. To-day we had a thunder-storm, the like of which they have not experienced here for a long time. About ten o'clock in the morning a hot wind rose, which smothered everything in clouds of dust. The wind fell at times, and then rose again with such fury that it seemed to lay the trees flat. Our beautiful park was filled with the sound of crashing branches, and clouds of dust mingled with torn-off leaves and twigs. The great lime-tree close to the pavilion, where young Latysz died, was split in two. It was fear-fully close, there was no air, and the wind seemed to come straight from a heated furnace, and carried with it a breath of carbon. I, used to the Italian _scirocco_, did not mind it so much, but Pani Celina suffered greatly, and indirectly, Aniela. My aunt was in a bad temper about the damage done to the park, and as usual, vented it on Chwastowski. The peppery old gentleman, who probably was caned often enough over his Homer, had evidently not forgotten the Odyssey, nor his ready speech either, for he replied to my aunt that if he were Æolus he would not serve her as agent, and bear with her unjust tantrums. My aunt gave way this time, merely because of the redoubled threats from the skies. It had grown very still all at once, but from the south, banks of cloud, black as a funereal pall, overcast with a sickly red sheen, came rolling up. In a moment it grew as dark as night, and Pani Celina rung for lights. Shortly afterwards the darkness yielded to an ominous reddish light. Chwastowski rushed off in a hurry to give orders for the cattle to be driven home, but the cow-herds had started without waiting for orders, for presently we heard distinctly the mournful lowing of the cattle. Then my aunt fetched the bell of Our Lady of Loreto, and went around the house ringing energetically. I did not even try to explain to her that ringing a bell in that motionless atmosphere might rather attract than avert a thunderbolt, and in spite of the consciousness that in case of danger I could not be of the slightest help, I was ashamed to let her risk the danger alone. The old lady was simply magnificent when, with her head thrown back, she seemed to defy the black and copper-colored banks of clouds, and shook at them her Loreto bell. I did not regret having gone with her, if only to see a symbolic picture. At a moment when everything trembles before the approaching horror, crouches in terror almost stupefied, faith alone has no fear; it defies, and rings a bell. This is, from whatever side we look at it, an element of incalculable power in the human soul. We returned when the first thunder began to growl all around the horizon. A few minutes later the roar became incessant. I had a sensation as if the thunder rolled on the lower stratum of the clouds, and the whole mass would burst at any moment and come with a deafening crash upon the earth. A thunderbolt fell into the pond at the other end of the park, followed by another so close by that the house shook on its foundations. My ladies began to say the Litany; I felt uncertain what to do; if I joined them it would be hypocrisy on my part, and if I did not it would look as if I were showing myself off as an ill-bred wiseacre, who cannot make allowance for country customs and female terrors. But I was wrong; they were not afraid; their faces were calm, even serene. It was evident that the familiar Litany was to them a sufficient armor against all dangers, and that there was no fear in their hearts. The thought crossed my mind what a stranger in spirit I was in presence of these Polish women, of whom each knows ten times less than I, and according to human measure, is worth ten times as much as I. They are like books of comparatively few pages, each page containing clear and simple rules, whereas I, with all those volumes of which I am composed, do not possess a single undoubted truth. It was but a passing thought, as presently the storm that broke upon us with terrific force engaged all my attention. The wind rose again, crashing among the trees. It fell at moments, and then the rain came down in streams; no drops were visible, but long spouts that seemed to join sky and earth. The avenues in the park were like foaming brooks. Sometimes a strong gust of wind whipped the water into a fine spray that hung between earth and sky and obscured the whole view. The deafening roar of thunder went on incessantly. The air was saturated with electricity. My pulses were beating loudly; in the rooms an irritating smell of sulphur made itself felt. The raging elements without seemed to influence me in a strange way, and I began to lose control over myself. "Do you want to see the storm?" I asked Aniela. "Very well. Where from?" "Come into the next room, there is a larger window." We went and stood at the window. It was very dark then, and every moment white and red forks of lightning tore across the clouds, opening the skies and at the same time illuminating our faces and the dark world without. Aniela was calm, but seemed every moment more desirable. "Are you afraid?" I whispered. "No." "Give me your hand." She looked at me wonderingly. Another moment and I should have folded her in my arms and pressed my lips against hers, and then let Ploszow be razed to the ground, by the tempest. But she was terrified, not by the storm, but by the expression of my face and that whisper; she drew back from the window and returned to the room where the elder ladies were sitting. I remained alone,--with a feeling of anger and humiliation. That I should have taken advantage of Aniela's confidence is quite certain, and yet I felt offended by her want of trust, and resolved to pay her out in some way. I stood for an hour at the window looking absently at the lightning flashes. Then it grew lighter and lighter outside; at last the clouds parted, and the sun shone forth fresh and bright and as if wondering at the devastation the tempest had wrought. It was very considerable; the avenues were still flooded with yellow, foaming water, above which floated broken branches. Here and there big trees were lying about, snapped across or torn out by the roots; the bark was partly stripped from the trunks of pine trees, leaving what looked like gaping wounds. Everywhere the eye could reach there was ruin and devastation, as if after a battle. When the water had drained off a little I went out toward the ponds to ascertain the extent of the damage. Suddenly the whole park became alive with people, who, with an almost savage energy, began to tear off the broken branches and chop at the fallen trunks. It appears they were peasant-lodgers who had no right in the woods. In the main, I did not care whether they gathered the sticks, but as they had come through the broken fence without permission, and in such a savage manner, I, being out of humor, began to drive them away, my anger rising at their stubborn resistance. At last I threatened them with the village authorities, when suddenly, close by, the sweetest voice in the world said in French:-- "Is there any harm in their clearing the park, Leon?" I turned round and saw Aniela, her head covered with a kerchief tied under her chin. With both hands she was holding up her dress, showing up to the ankles her little feet encased in high boots; bending slightly forward she looked at me entreatingly. At her sight my anger vanished at once. I forgot the unpleasant sensations that had troubled me a little while before, and looked at her as if I could never fill myself enough with the sight. "Is it your wish?" I asked. Then, turning to the people, I said:-- "Take the wood, and thank the lady for the permission." This time they obeyed with alacrity. Some of them, evidently strangers to Ploszow, addressed her as "gracious Panienka" (Miss), which caused me unspeakable delight. If Ploszow were mine they might cut down every tree at her wish. In half an hour every broken branch and fallen tree was cleared away, and the park looked really all the better for it. Walking with Aniela along the paths I found a great many swallows and other birds, either killed by the storm or half dead and drenched with rain. I picked them up, and handing them one by one to Aniela, I touched her hands, looked into her eyes, and again felt happy. The idyl of the day before repeated itself, for us both, and brought with it ease and cheerfulness. My heart was full of joy, for I saw what Aniela could not see,--that in our brotherly relation there was twice as much tenderness as would be or ought to be between the most loving brother and sister. I was quite sure now that, unconsciously, she loved me as much as I loved her. In this way one half of my hopes and schemes are realized already; there remains only to bring it home to her and make her own to the feeling. When I think of that I remember, with a heart beating fast with happiness, what I wrote down some time ago: that "no woman in the world can resist the man she truly loves." 15 May. Our visitors did not come yesterday but to-day, which was very sensible, as all traces of the storm have disappeared and the weather is very fine. This fifteenth of May will be one of the best remembered days in my life. It is now past midnight; I am wide awake, as if I never wanted to sleep again, and intend to write until morning. I am collecting my thoughts so as not to begin at the end, and put it all down in proper order. Force of habit is a great help in this. My aunt sent the carriage for the Sniatynskis and Clara very early, in consequence of which they arrived before noon. The ladies were bright, cheerful, and chirping like sparrows, glad of the fine weather and their excursion. What toilets, and what quaint hats! Clara looked very well in a light, striped dress that made her seem less tall than usual. I observed that Aniela, after the first greeting, looked at her searchingly and seemed struck by her beauty, of which I had scarcely said anything to her. I had not refrained out of calculation, but had been so occupied with Aniela that I had not thought of it. For instance, though I had met Pani Sniatynska several times I had never noticed she wore her hair short, which suits her style of beauty. The light, curly hair falling over her brow gives her the expression of a resolute, rosy-faced boy. We are excellent friends again. There was a time she would have liked to kill me, so angry was she about Aniela. Evidently her husband had told her what I suffered, and women have a special weakness for those who suffer for love's sake; she has forgiven me and reinstalled me in her favor. The presence of such a bright, vivacious, easy-going woman was a great help in bringing Clara and Aniela into closer relation. I saw that my aunt met Clara with great heartiness; but Aniela, in spite of her sweet disposition, seemed shy, and kept aloof from her. At lunch, amid a cheerful conversation, she thawed a little. Clara seemed struck by Aniela's beauty, and as she always says what she thinks, she expressed her admiration with so much grace and enthusiasm that Aniela had to yield. Pani Celina, who now perhaps for the first time found herself in company with an artist, looked gratified, and turning to her said that "though Aniela's mother, she must say that as a child she was very pretty,--promising far greater beauty." Both Sniatynskis joined in the conversation. He began to discuss with Clara various female types, then spoke of Aniela's type and its aesthetic perfection in a highly amusing objective manner, as if she were a portrait hanging on the wall, rather than a living presence. She, listening to this, blushed and lowered her eyes, truly like a little girl, which made her look more charming than ever. I was silent, but inwardly compared these three female faces, treating them also objectively, that is, putting aside the fact that one of them was the loved one, and as such occupied an exceptional position; even then everything spoke in her favor. Pani Sniatynska's, especially in her short curly hair, is a charming head, yet nothing but what may be found in any English Keepsake. Clara's beauty rests mainly upon her calm expression, the blue eyes, and that transparent complexion so often met with in German women; but for her art, which surrounds her as with a nimbus, she could only be called a handsome woman. Aniela is not only an artistic production of an exceedingly noble style as regards her features, but there is something individual in her that cannot be measured by any standard. Maybe her individuality rests upon the fact that, being neither dark nor fair, she gives the physical impression of a brunette and the spiritual one of a blonde. The cause of this is perhaps the great abundance of hair on a comparatively small head; enough that she is unique in her kind. She excels even Mrs. Davis in this regard, whose beauty was without a flaw, but it was the beauty of a statue. Mrs. Davis only excited the admiration of my senses, while Aniela rouses in me the idealist, who goes in rapture over the poetry of her expression. But I will not even compare these two so utterly different beings. I yielded to these reflections during lunch, because the topic in question had brought me on that track; besides, the analysis of Aniela's beauty always gives me a keen delight. My aunt interrupted the discussion, deeming it proper, as lady of the house, to say something about Clara's last concert. She spoke much and very well; I never supposed she had such knowledge of music; she paid her some graceful compliments with the air of a _grande dame_, in that flowing, winning style only people of the older generation are capable of. In short, I observed that my downright, outspoken aunt was still able to recall the times of powder and patches. Clara seemed quite charmed, and did not remain behind-hand in graceful acknowledgment. "I shall always be able to play well at Warsaw," she said, "because I am in touch with my audience, but I play best in small circles of friends where I feel in sympathy with everybody,--and if you will permit, I will give you a proof of it after lunch." My aunt, who was very anxious that Pani Celina should hear her, yet had misgivings whether it would be right to ask her to play, was much pleased by the proposal. I began to speak of Clara's performances at Paris and her triumphs at Erard's concerts; Sniatynski gave an account of what was said at Warsaw; and so the time passed until we rose from lunch. Clara herself got hold of Paul Celina's invalid chair and would not allow anybody to help, declaring laughingly that she was by far the strongest among us, and was not afraid to tire her hands. Presently she sat down to the piano, and as evidently Mozart suited her disposition, she gave us Don Juan. The first notes sounded, she was a different Clara; not the merry, lively child any longer, but an incarnate Saint Cecilia. There shone in her the close relationship of outward form with the spirit of harmony, which surrounded her with a dignity above common womanhood. I made another observation, namely: that a man in love can find food for his feelings even in what tells against the loved woman. When I thought how far my Aniela was from being a Sybil, saw her sitting in a corner of the drawing-room so small and still, as if crushed down by some weight, I loved her all the more, and it made her if possible dearer to me than ever. It also occurred to me that a woman is not in reality what she appears to people in general, but such as the man who loves sees her; therefore her absolute excellence is in proportion to the power of love she inspires. I had no time to follow out this idea, but it pleased me because I saw dimly before me the conclusion that in the name of this excellence the woman ought to give her heart to him who loves her most. Clara played superbly. I watched the sensation on the others' faces, when presently I noticed that Aniela was looking at me for the same reason. Was it mere curiosity, or an involuntary uneasiness of heart which could not say what it feared and yet was afraid? I said to myself: "If the last supposition were true it would be a proof that she loves me." The thought filled me with joy, and I resolved to find an answer to it in the course of the day. Thenceforth I bestowed all my attention upon Clara, and was more attentive to her than I had ever been before. In the woods whither we had driven, I walked with her, glancing furtively now and then at Aniela, who remained with the Suiatynskis. Clara was in rapture with the woods, which are indeed at their best now, the fresh green of the leafy trees forming a perfect canopy over the more sombre looking pines. The sun filtering across the branches converted the earth, carpeted with ferns and tender mosses, into a delicate golden embroidery. There were the cheerful voices of spring around us, the cuckoo's call and the woodpecker's knock-knock at the trees. When we joined the others I asked Clara to translate into music the voices of spring. She said there was already a _Frühlingslied_ singing within her, and she would try to give it expression. Truly she looked as if the song was there,--besides she is like a great harp that speaks only in sounds. Her face was bright with burning blushes; Aniela instead looked fagged, though she evidently tried to keep up with the Sniatynskis, who were as lively as a couple of school-children on their holiday. They began finally to race with each other, and Clara joined in the sport, which she ought not to have done, considering her size, as the quick motion was anything but graceful,--nay, almost ridiculous. When they were thus running after each other I remained alone with Aniela. According to my plan of operations I was anxious to bring her mind to full consciousness through the uneasiness with which she seemed to be oppressed. "There is something troubling you, Aniela; what is it?" I asked. "No, nothing whatever." "It seemed to me as if you were dissatisfied with something; is it that you do not like Clara?" "No; I like her very much, and do not wonder she is so much admired." Further conversation was made impossible by the return of the truants. It was also time to go back. On the way, Sniatynski asked Clara whether she felt really satisfied with her stay at Warsaw. "The best proof I can give you of this is that I do not think of going away yet," she replied gayly. "We must try to keep you with us always," I interpolated. Clara, in spite of the simplicity with which she accepts all that is said to her, looked questioningly at me, then grew a little confused, and replied,--"They are all very kind to me here." I was conscious that my words were in a way dishonorable, as they might mislead Clara; but all I cared for was the impression they would make upon Aniela. Unfortunately, I could not see her face, as she was buttoning her gloves, with her head bent so low that her hat concealed it from me. This sudden movement seemed to me a good sign. The elder ladies were awaiting us with the dinner, which lasted until nine o'clock; and then Clara improvised her _Frühlingslied_. I am almost certain that since Ploszow existed there had never been heard such music within its walls, but I paid very little attention to it. I sat near her in the dusk, as she did not want the lamps lit. Sniatynski waved his arm as if it were a baton; which evidently annoyed his wife, as she pulled his sleeve several times. Aniela sat quite motionless; maybe she, too, was absorbed in her own thoughts, and did not listen to the _Frühlingslied_. I was almost certain she was thinking about me and Clara, and especially about the meaning of the words I had said to Clara. It was easy enough to guess that even if she did not love me, or had the slightest consciousness that my love was any other but brotherly affection, she would feel sore and disappointed if that were about to be taken away from her. A woman who is not happy in her married life clings round any other feeling, if it be only friendship, as the ivy clings to the tree. I had no doubt whatever that if at this moment I knelt down at her feet and told her it was she, and she alone, that I loved, she would feel a sudden joy, as one feels upon recovering something very precious. And if so, I debated within me, why not hasten the solution, if only a way could be found,--frightening her as little as possible, or making her forget all terror in her joy. I began at once to devise ways and means, as I understood it must be done in such a way as to make it forever impossible for her to cast me off. My mind worked very hard at it, as the problem was not an easy one. Gradually a great emotion stole over me: and strange to say, it was more on Aniela's account than on my own that I felt moved,--for I realized suddenly what a great wrench it would be, and I was afraid for her. In the mean time it had grown lighter in the drawing-room; the moon had risen above the trees, and cast luminous shafts across the floor. The melodies of the _Frühlingslied_ still filled the air, and the nightingales responded to it through the open French window. It was a glorious evening, warm and balmy, and full of harmony and love. I thought involuntarily that, if life does not give us happiness, it presents us with a ready frame for it. In the luminous dusk my eyes searched for Aniela; but she looked at Clara, who at this moment seemed more a vision than a substantial being. The moonlight, advancing more and more into the room, rested now upon her; and in the light dress she looked like the silvery spirit of music. But the vision did not last long. Clara finished her song; whereupon Pani Sniatynska rose, and saying it was late, gave the signal for departure. As the evening was so warm, I proposed we should see our visitors off as far as the high-road, about half a mile from our house. I did this on purpose, so as to walk home with Aniela. I knew she could not well refuse such a mere act of politeness, and I was also sure my aunt would not go with us. I gave orders for the carriage to drive on and wait on the road, and we went on foot through the lime avenue. I offered my arm to Clara, but we walked all abreast, accompanied by the croaking of the frogs in the Ploszow mere. Clara stopped a moment to listen to that chorus, which ceased now and then, to start afresh with redoubled vigor, and said,-- "This is the finale of my Song of Spring." "What an exquisite evening!" remarked Sniatynski, and then began to quote the beautiful lines from the "Merchant of Venice":-- "How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank! Here will we sit and let the sounds of music Creep in our ears: soft stillness and the night Become the touches of sweet harmony." He did not remember the rest, but I did, and took up the strain:-- "Sit, Jessica. Look how the floor of heaven Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold: There's not the smallest orb which thou behold'st But in his motion like an angel sings, Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubins; Such harmony is in immortal souls; But whilst this muddy vesture of decay Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it." Then I repeated to Clara, who does not understand Polish, the lines in French, improvising the translation. She listened to it, then raised her eyes heavenward, and said simply,-- "I was always certain there is music in the spheres." It appeared that Pani Sniatynska was equally certain of it, and reminded her husband that she had discussed it with him not long before, but he was not quite sure he remembered; whereupon a slight matrimonial dispute took place, at which Clara and I laughed. Aniela had not joined the conversation at all; did she feel hurt that I had offered my arm to Clara, and paid her some attention? The very supposition made me feel happy. Yet I tried not to lose my head, and said to myself, "Do not run away with the idea that she knows what jealousy means; she is only a little sad and feels lonely, that is all." I would have given at this moment a whole host of artists such as Clara for a few words with Aniela,--to tell her that I belong to her, and only to her. Then Sniatynski began a discussion about astronomy, of which I heard now and then a few words, though this science attracts me more than I can tell,--for in its very nature there is no limit, either in itself or for the human mind; it is infinite. We reached at last the end, where our guests mounted into the carriage. Presently the wheels rattled on the road, the last good-bys reached our ears, and I was alone with Aniela. We turned homewards, and for some time walked side by side in silence. The croaking of the frogs has ceased, and from the distance came the sound of the watchman's whistle and the loud baying of the dogs. I did not speak to Aniela, because the silence seemed fraught with deep meaning,--both our minds being full of the same subject. When about half-way I said to Aniela,-- "What a pleasant day it has been, has it not?" "Yes. I never heard such beautiful music before." "And yet you seemed not in your usual spirits, and though you will not tell me the cause, I notice every passing cloud on your face." "You were obliged to look after your guests. You are very kind to trouble about me, but there is nothing the matter with me." "To-day as any other day I was occupied with you only, and as a proof of it let me tell you of what you were thinking to-day." And without waiting for permission, I went on at once: "You thought I resembled somewhat the Latysz couple; you thought I had deceived you in speaking of the void around me; lastly, you thought that I had no need to ask for your friendship while I was seeking friendship elsewhere. Was it not so? Tell me the truth." Aniela replied with evident effort: "If you insist upon knowing--yes, perhaps it is so. But I ought to be only glad of it." "What ought you be glad of?" "Of your mutual friendship with Clara." "As to our friendship,--I wish her well, that is all. But Clara, like all other women, is indifferent to me. Do you know why?" I began to tremble a little, because I perceived that the moment had come. I waited a moment to see whether Aniela would take up my question, and then, in a voice I tried to render steady, I said,-- "Surely you must see and understand that my whole being belongs to you; that I loved you and love you still madly." Aniela stood still as if turned to stone. By the icy coldness of my face I felt that I was growing pale; and if the world seemed to totter under that poor child's feet, it was my life, too, which was at stake. Knowing with whom I had to deal, I did not give her time to repulse me. I began to speak very quickly:-- "Do not answer me, for I do not want anything from you. I desire nothing,--nothing whatever, understand that well. I wanted to tell you that you have taken my life, and it is henceforth yours, to do with it what you like. But you have seen yourself that such is the case, and it matters nothing whether I speak of it or not. I repeat that I desire nothing, nor do I expect anything. You cannot repulse me, because I repulse myself. I only tell you as I might tell a friend, a sister. I come and complain to you, because I have nowhere else to go, that I love a woman that belongs to somebody else,--love her to distraction,--oh, Aniela!--and without limit!" We were near the gate, but still in the deep shadow of the trees. For a moment I had the delusion that she was leaning towards me like a broken flower, that I might snatch her into my arms; but I was mistaken. Aniela, recovering from the sudden shock, began suddenly to say, with a kind of nervous energy I had not suspected in her,-- "I will not listen to this, Leon. I will not; I will not; I will not!" And she ran into the moonlit courtyard. Yes; she ran away from my words,--my confession. Presently she disappeared within the portico, and I remained alone with a feeling of unrest, fear, and great pity for her, and triumph at the same time that the words which should be the beginning of a new life for us both had been spoken. For, to say the truth, I could not expect anything else from her at first; but the seed from which something must spring up was sown. When I came into the house there was no Aniela visible. I found only my aunt, walking up and down the room muttering her rosary and soliloquizing between the prayers. I said good-night, and went at once to my room thinking that it would calm me if I put down the day's impressions; but it only tired me more. I intend to go away to-morrow, or rather to-day, for I see the daylight coming through the window. I want to confirm Aniela in the conviction that I expect nothing from her,--want her to calm down and get familiar with what I told her. But to confess the whole truth, I go away also because I am afraid to meet her so soon, and would fain put it off. There are moments when it seems to me a monstrous deed to have introduced an element of corruption in this pure atmosphere. But does not the principal evil lie in her marrying a man she cannot love? What is more immoral, my love which is a manifestation of nature's great law, or the belonging of Aniela to that man, which is a shameful breaking of the same law? And I, who understand this so clearly, am yet so weak that a horror seizes me when I kick against that corrupt morality. But all these scruples melt like snow at the words, "I love." If even now my heart feels sore at the thought that at this very moment she may be awake, weeping perhaps, or torn by doubts, it is only another proof how I love her. It hurts me, and at the same time I do not see how otherwise we can arrive at happiness. 19 May. The first night after my arrival I slept profoundly. At Ploszow I grudged every moment that kept me from Aniela, and during the night I was writing; consequently I felt deadly tired. And now I feel still heavy, but am able to think. I am somewhat ashamed that I ran away and left Aniela alone to bear the burden of my confession; but when the beloved woman is in question, a little cowardice is not dishonorable. Besides, I should not have fled had it not been necessary for the future weal of my love. Now, every day when she rises and says her prayers, walks in the park or attends her sick mother, she must, if ever so unwillingly, say to herself, "He loves me," and the thought will gradually become familiar, less terrifying to her. Human nature gets accustomed to everything, and a woman soon becomes reconciled to the thought that she is loved, especially when she returns that love. This question, "Does she love me?" I put to myself the first time when I knew I loved her still; and again I turn it over in my mind, try to weigh all the circumstances as if somebody else's fate were at stake, and I arrive at the conviction that it cannot be otherwise. When she married she loved me, not Kromitzki; she only yielded to him her hand driven by despair. If she had married a superior man who dazzled her by his fame, his thoughts, or exceptional character, she might have forgotten me. But how could a Kromitzki, with his money-grubbing neurosis, get hold of her affection? Besides, he left her soon after they were married; he sold Gluchow, which was as the very apple of the eye to these two women. Judging Kromitzki quite impartially, there was nothing in him which could win a being full of ideal impulses and feelings. Then I came back,--I, whom she had loved. I touched the chords of her heart with memories of the past, by every word and glance. I drew her towards me, not only with that skill an experience of life gives, but also with that magnetic force true love bestows on man. Adding to this the fact that she knew how much I suffered when I sent Sniatynski to her, she must have pitied me, and that pity cannot have vanished altogether. I play for my life, but the cards are in my favor. I cannot lose the game. I am as much in my right as anybody who is defending his life. I do not say this upon the impulse of the moment, but after calm reasoning. I have no convictions, no beliefs, no principles, no stable ground under my feet, for the ground has been undermined by criticism and reflection. I have only those forces of life born with us, and they are all concentrated on one woman. Therefore I clutch my love as a drowning man clutches a plank; if this gives way there will be nothing left to live for. If common-sense asks, "Why did you not marry Aniela?" I say what I have said before: I did not marry her simply for the reason that I am not straight, but crooked,--partly because born so, partly because so reared by those two nurses, Reflection and Criticism. Why this woman and no other should be my plank of salvation, I do not know. Most likely because it was she and not another. It did not depend upon me. If she were free to-day, I would stretch my hands out for her without hesitation; if she had never been married, who knows?--I am ashamed of the thought, and yet it may be that she would not be so desirable. Most likely, judging by the past, I should have gone on watching her, watching my own feelings, until somebody else carried her off; but I prefer not to think of it, because it makes me inclined to swear. 20 May. I considered to-day what would happen if I gained Aniela's love, or rather brought her to confess it. I see happiness before me but no way of reaching it. I know that if in presence of these women I uttered the word "divorce," they would think the roof was crashing down over our heads. There cannot be even a question as to that, because my aunt's and Pani Celina's ideas upon that point are such that neither of them would survive the shock. I have no illusions as to Aniela; her ideas are the same. And yet the moment she owns her love, I will say the word, and she must accustom herself to it; but we shall have to wait until my aunt's and Pani Celina's death. There is nothing else for it. Kromitzki will either agree willingly or he will not. In the latter case I shall carry Aniela off, if I have to go as far as the Indies, and the divorce, or rather invalidation of the marriage, I shall conduct myself, in spite of his wishes. Fortunately, there is no want of means. As regards myself, I am ready for everything, and the inward conviction that I am right justifies me in my own eyes. This time it is not a mere love intrigue, but a feeling that absorbs my whole being. Its sincerity and strength make all my stratagems lawful. I know that I deceive her in saying that all I wish to gain is a sister's love. I deceive her when I say I do not desire anything; all this would be wrong and a lie if my love were in itself a lie. In presence of a great truth, they are mere diplomatic stratagems of love. It all belongs to the course of love. It is a known fact that even affianced lovers have recourse to stratagems, in order to make each other confess their love. As to myself, I am sincere even when I say what is not true. 21 May. I told Aniela that I intended to work, and I will do so, if only for the reason that I said so to her. I will have the collections brought over from Rome, and found a museum. This will be Aniela's merit, and the first useful deed that springs from our love. I suppose the Italian government will raise difficulties, as there is a law that prohibits the exportation of antiquities and precious works of art. But my lawyer will arrange that for me. And that reminds me of the Madonna by Sassoferrato, which my father bequeathed to his future daughter-in-law. I will have it sent over at once, because I want it. 22 May. Human nature is ever malicious. I have a grim satisfaction in thinking how ridiculous a man like Kromitzki must seem, who is turning summersaults in the East in his effort to make money, while somebody whispers love vows into his wife's ears; and sooner or later Aniela must see it in this light. The whole Kromitzki can be summed up in the one fact: he sold Gluchow and left the women without a home. He thought perhaps they would live in Odessa or Kieff; in the mean while Pani Celina's illness brought Aniela to Ploszow. Yet he knew how precarious the lady's health was; he ought to have foreseen that she might fall ill, and that Aniela would remain alone with the burden of sorrow and trouble. If his business requires his presence in the East, why did he marry at all? To-morrow I go back to Ploszow. I feel very lonely here, and besides I feel the longing to look once more into Aniela's eyes, and at times feel guilty, as if I had been shirking a duty by running away. It was necessary at the time, but I must go back now. Who knows? greater happiness than I suppose may be waiting for me,--perhaps she too is longing for me. I called upon the Sniatynskis, and Clara, whom I did not find at home. I paid also a visit to the celebrated beauty, Pani Korytzka. The latter carries her historical name like a jockey cap, and her wit as a riding-whip; she hits people with it between the eyes. I came off unscathed; she even tried a little coquetry on me. I made a dozen or so calls and left cards. I wish people to think that I am settled at Warsaw. As the bringing over of my father's collections is only a matter of will and ready money, I am seeking what else there is for me to do. Men of my position are usually occupied with the administration of their fortune; and very badly they administer it on the whole, far worse than I. Very few take any part in public life. I mentioned before that here they still amuse themselves with aristocracy and democracy; there are even some whose whole aim in life consists in backing up social hierarchy, and stemming the tide of democratic currents. It is a sport as good as any other, but since I am no sportsman, I take no interest in that amusement. Even if it were no mere play, if there were some sense at the bottom of it, I am too much of a sceptic in regard to both parties to belong to either. Democracy, by which I mean patented democrats, not people of humble extraction, acts upon my nerves. As to aristocracy, methinks that if their _raison d'être_ is based upon services rendered to the country by their ancestors, those services have often been such that the sooner their descendants don the hair shirt and cover their heads with ashes the better. Besides, these two parties, with the exception of a few foolish individuals, do not really believe in themselves. Some feign sincerity in order to serve their own ends, and as I never feign anything, it is clear that to take part in such struggles is not the work for me. Then there are those of the Sniatynski order who stand above both parties, but are always ready to drown both in their synthesis. They are, as a rule, strong men; but even if I could agree with them I should have to do something,--mere consciousness of duty is not work. Sniatynski writes plays. Truly, when I look things straight in the face, I find that I am outside the parenthesis, and do not see my way to get inside. It is strange that a man who has considerable means, culture, certain capacities, and a wish for something to do, should find nothing he can put his hands to. Again I feel inclined to swear, as it is all owing to that intellectual splitting of hairs. They ought to make a diagnosis upon me, as to the disease of Time's old age, which in me has reached the acute stage. He who is a sceptic in regard to faith, in regard to science, conservatism, progress, and so on, has indeed difficulty in finding anything to do. In addition to all that, my aspirations are far greater than the possibility of satisfying them. Life rests upon work; and therefore, here people work at something or other. But it is the work of a dray-horse, carting grain to the granary. I could not do it even if I wished. I am a high-stepper, fit only for a carriage, and of no use on sandy, rutty roads, where common horses do the work better and more steadily. At the building of a house I could not carry the bricks, but might do something in the ornamental line, but where it is a question of four simple walls and a sound roof, artisans such as I are not wanted. If at least I had a mighty impulse towards work, I still might be able to force myself to do something. But in the main, it is only a question of appearances. I wish to work in order to please the woman I love. Aniela in regard to that has exalted notions, and it would certainly please her. Moreover, for that very reason my vanity and also my calculations urge me to bid for a prominent position, which would raise my value in her eyes. I will see what can be done, and in the meanwhile my purse will do the work for me. I shall have the collection sent over, support various institutions, and give money where it is wanted. What a strange power there is in woman! She comes in contact with a genius without portfolio, an exceptionally useless implement like me, and then, without any preaching on her part, he feels himself in duty bound to do all sorts of things he never dreamed of doing before. The deuce take me if I ever thought of bringing my collections to Paris or Vienna for the sake of a Parisian or Viennese. I am going back to Ploszow; I long to be near my good spirit. 23 May. When I went away from Ploszow for some time, it was to bring Aniela to some kind of decision. At Warsaw and on the way back to Ploszow, I tried to guess what she had resolved upon. I knew she could not write to her husband: "Come and take me away, for Ploszowski is making love to me;" she would not have done so even if she hated me. There is too much delicacy of feeling in her to do that. Putting aside that an encounter between me and Kromitzki might be the consequence of such a step, Aniela would have to leave her sick mother, who cannot go away from Ploszow. Aniela's position is indeed a difficult one, and I counted upon that before I made my confession. The thought crossed my mind that she might take it into her head to avoid me altogether, and shut herself up in her mother's rooms. But I dismissed the thought. In the country and under the same roof it would be quite impracticable, or at any rate so conspicuous as to rouse the elder ladies' attention and consequently act injuriously upon her mother's health. In truth I take the utmost advantage of her position, but who that is in love does not do the same? I foresaw that Aniela, even if she returns my love, will not allow me in the future to repeat my avowal,--she will resist more than any other married woman; for what with her principles and her modesty, the slightest sign of yielding would appear to her an incredible crime. But how can she prevent me from telling her my love? There is only one way,--by getting from me a voluntary promise; I guessed she would speak to me about it, and I was right. When I arrived at Ploszow she seemed pale, and a little worn, but looked at me with a resolute face. It was evident the dear child had laid by a whole store of arguments to convince me with, and believed that after displaying them there would be nothing for me but to remain silent forever. Angelic delusion; to think there is only one truth in the world. No! do not enter into any arguments with me, my Aniela, for if I believe in any truth, it is the truth and right of love; besides, I am too wily, and each argument will be turned inside out like a glove and made into a weapon against yourself. Neither argument nor reasoning, not even my pity will save you; for the whiter, the more perfect and angelic you prove yourself, the more I shall love you, and the more I love, the more desirable you will be to me. I have nothing but crocodile tears for you, which will only sharpen my rapacity. Such is the mazy circle of love. At the sight of Aniela I felt myself drawn into that circle. In the afternoon, that same day, when Pani Celina had fallen asleep on the veranda, Aniela motioned me to follow her into the park. From the earnest expression of her face, I guessed that the time had come for those arguments, and I followed her eagerly. As we went farther from the veranda, I noticed that Aniela's animation began to flag; she had grown paler and seemed frightened at her own temerity; but she could not draw back now, and began in an unsteady voice:-- "If you only knew how unhappy I have been these last days--" "Do you think I have been much happier?" I replied. "I know you have not, and because of that I have a request to make. You understand everything, and are so good and generous you will not refuse what I ask you." "Tell me, what do you want me to do?" "Leon, you must leave here, go abroad again, and do not come back until mamma and I are able to leave Ploszow." I was sure she would ask me that. I remained silent for a while as if searching for an answer. "You can do with me what you like," I said; "but tell me, why do you send me into exile?" "I do not send you into exile; but you know why--" "I know," I replied, with unfeigned sadness and resignation; "it is because I am ready to give the last drop of my blood for you, because I would shield you with my body from any danger, because I love you more than my life,--these are heavy sins indeed!" "No," she interrupted, with feverish energy, "but because I am the wife of a man I love and respect,--and I will not listen to such words." Impatience and anger seized me; I knew she did not speak the truth. All married women shield themselves with love and respect for the husband when they arrive at a turning-point of their life, though there may not be a shadow of that feeling in their hearts; nevertheless, Aniela's words sent a shock through my nerves, and I could scarcely repress the exclamation: "You say what is not true! you are perjuring yourself, for you neither love nor respect the man;" but the thought that her energy would not hold out long made me refrain, and I replied, almost humbly:-- "Do not be angry with me, Aniela; I will go." I saw that my humility disarmed her, and that she felt sorry for me. Suddenly she pulled a leaf from a low-hanging branch, and began to tear it nervously to pieces. She made superhuman efforts not to burst into tears, but I saw her breast heaving with agitation. I, too, was moved to the very depth of my soul, and continued with difficulty:-- "Do not wonder that I hesitate to comply with your wish, for it is very heavy upon me. I have told you that I do not wish for anything but to breathe the same air with you, to look at you, and God knows it is not too much I ask for; yet such as it is, it is my all. And you take it away from me. Think only; everybody else is allowed to come here, to speak to you, look at you--but me. Why am I shut out? Because you are dearer to me than to anybody else! What a refined cruelty of fate! Only put yourself in my place. It is difficult for you, who have never known what loneliness means; you love your husband, or think you do, which comes to the same; put yourself for a moment into my position, and you will understand that such a sentence is worse than death. You ought to feel at least a little pity. Driving me from here, you take everything from me. I told you I had come home to do some useful work, in which I might find peace, forgetfulness, and redeem my former sins; only recently I resolved to bring over my father's collections; and you want me to renounce all that, bid me go away and begin again a wandering, aimless, life. But have your wish; I will go if you tell me the same three days hence, for I fancy you did not quite understand what all this meant for me. Now you know, I only ask for three days' respite, nothing more." Aniela covered her eyes with her hands and moaned: "Oh, my God! my God!" There was something inexpressibly touching in the low cry, like the wail of a child at its own powerlessness. There was a moment I felt tempted to promise everything she asked. But in that wail I saw the promise of a future victory, and I would not lose its fruits. "Listen to me," I said, "I will go at once, this very moment, and put seas between us, if you tell me that it is necessary for your own peace of mind. I speak to you now as a friend, a brother! I know from my aunt that you loved me; if that love be still alive I will go at your bidding." Sincere pain on my part dictated these words; but it was a terrible trap for Aniela, which might wring a confession from her. If that had happened--I do not know--maybe I should have kept my word, but as the heavens are above us, I would have taken her into my arms. But she only shuddered as if I had touched an open wound; then her face flamed up in anger and indignation. "No!" she exclaimed with desperate passion, "it is not true! not true! You may do as you like, go away or stay, but it is not true!" The very passion with which these words were uttered showed me that it might be true. I felt inclined to tell her so with frank brutality, but I saw my aunt coming towards us. Aniela was not able to conceal her emotion, and my aunt looking at her asked at once:-- "What is troubling you, child? what have you two been talking about?" "Aniela was telling me how grieved her mother was about the sale of Gluchow--and I do not wonder she took it so much to heart." Whether Aniela's strength was exhausted, or the untruth I made her take a silent part in filled the cup of bitterness to overflowing, she burst into incontrollable sobs that shook her like a reed; my aunt folded her into her arms and hushed her as if she were a little child. "Aniela, my darling, there is no help for it; let us submit to God's will. The hail has ruined five of my farms, and I did not even say a word about it to Chwastowski." The mention of the five farms appeared to me so inappropriate, selfish, and futile in presence of Aniela's tears that it made me quite angry with my aunt. "Never mind the farms," I said brusquely, "she is grieved about her mother;" and I went away in sorrow, for I felt I was torturing the woman I loved beyond anything. I had conquered along the whole line, yet I felt profoundly sad, as if the future were full of unknown terrors. 25 May. To-day is the third day since our conversation, and as Aniela has not referred to it again, I remain. She does not say much to me, nor does she avoid me altogether, fearing to attract notice. I try to be good, friendly, and attentive, but do not thrust myself in her way. I want her to think I keep my feeling under control, but she cannot help seeing it is there, and increasing every moment. At any rate we have a little world to ourselves, where only we two dwell; we have our mutual secret from the others. When we speak about indifferent topics we both know that at the bottom of our hearts there is something we both think about but do not put into words. This forms a tie; time and patience will do the rest. From my love I weave a thousand threads around her, which will bind us more and more. This would be all in vain if she loved her husband; it would make her hate me. But the past speaks in my favor, and the present does not not belong to Kromitzki. I still think it over with the greatest impartiality, and I come to the same conclusion, that she cannot love him. Aniela's resistance is the inward struggle of an exceptionally pure soul, that does not allow a breath of faithlessness to come near it. But she is without help in that struggle. I know the resistance will be long, and difficult to overcome; I must always be on the watch, give a clear account to myself of every trifle, and weave around her strong and invisible threads. Even if I should commit any mistakes they will be only, the result of my love, and as such will be rather a help than a hindrance. 26 May. I told Sniatynski about my intention to have my Roman collections conveyed to Warsaw,--calculating that it would reach the press, which could not fail to laud me up to the sky as a public benefactor. Aniela involuntarily must compare me to Kromitzki, which will count in my favor. I sent also a telegram to Rome, asking for the Sassoferrato. During breakfast I told Aniela, in presence of the others, that my father had left the picture to her in his will; which confused her, and she guessed at once that he had looked upon her as his future daughter. It is true there was no name mentioned in the will, and for that very reason I want Aniela to have it. The mention of this bequest reawoke in us both a host of memories. I had done this on purpose to turn Aniela's thoughts to the past, when she loved me and could love me in peace. I know the remembrance must be mingled with some bitter thoughts, even some resentment; it cannot be otherwise; but it would be worse without the message I sent her through Sniatynski. This message is the only extenuating circumstance in the whole guilty affair. Aniela knows that I wanted to undo the wrong, that I loved her then, suffered, and repented,--am repenting still, and that if we are unhappy she too helped to bring that unhappiness on both. She is bound to absolve me in her heart, regret the past and dream what the future might have been but for my misdeeds and her severity. Even then I was reading in her face that she felt frightened at her own thoughts and visions, and tried to drive them away by a conversation upon indifferent subjects. My aunt is so full of the approaching races and the expected victory of Naughty Boy, who is put down for the government stakes, that she cannot think of anything else. Aniela thereupon began to talk about the races, and made some random remarks and asked a few questions, until my aunt got scandalized and said:-- "My dear child, I see you have not the slightest notion about races." I said to her with my eyes: "I know you want to stifle your feelings;" and she understood me as if I had said it in so many words. And indeed, I am quite certain that she is as much absorbed in our mutual relation as I am. The thought of love independent of matrimony is already planted in her soul; it is there, and does not leave her for a moment. She must live with it, and get reconciled to it. In such a case a woman, even if she had loved her husband, would turn from him. A drop of water will hollow out a stone. If Aniela loves me ever so little, if she only loves the past, she will be mine. I cannot think of it calmly, because the foretaste of happiness is almost choking me. There are here and there quicksands on the seashore, and the unwary traveller who wanders there is lost. At times it seems to me that my love is like one of those quicksands, and that I am dragging Aniela into it; I myself am sinking, sinking--Let it be so--but together! 28 May. My aunt is spending six to eight hours out of the twenty-four at Burzany, one of her farms, a mile from Ploszow, where she passes her time in contemplation of Naughty Boy, and in looking after Webb, the English trainer. I was there above an hour yesterday. Naughty Boy is a fine animal,--let us hope he will not be naughty when the great day arrives. But what does it matter to me? Various business is taking me to town, but I am loath to leave Ploszow. Pani Celina has been worse the last few days, but young Chwast, as my aunt calls him, says it is merely a passing symptom; he considers it necessary that somebody should always be with the sick lady, to distract her from the thoughts which dwell upon the loss of the dear ancestral home, and consequently weaken her nerves. I try to show her almost a son's attention, because in this way I earn Aniela's gratitude, and she gets used to consider me as belonging to them. I have now not the slightest ill-feeling towards the old lady,--she is too unhappy herself; and besides, I begin to love everything and everybody that belongs to Aniela,--with one exception. Yesterday I spent several hours with the invalid, together with Aniela and Chwast. We were reading and talking. Pani Celina does not sleep at night, and as the doctor does not approve of sleeping-draughts, she dozes off in the daytime after any lengthy conversation, and strange to say, only a sudden silence wakes her up. For this reason we keep up the conversation or the reading. It was the same to-day. But for the doctor's presence I could speak to Aniela with the greatest freedom. Just at this time the daily papers are fully occupied with the divorce of the beautiful Pani Korytzka. Everybody talks about it, and my aunt, who is related to the husband, is greatly shocked. I resolved to make the most of my opportunity, and plant ideas in Aniela's mind that had not been there before. "You are quite wrong, dear aunt, to blame Pani Korytzka. To me it seems that she acts as a true and honest woman should. Where love begins, human will ends,--even you must acknowledge that. If Pani Korytzka loves somebody else, nothing remains for her but to leave her husband. I know what you are going to say, and also what Aniela thinks,--that duty still remains; is it not so?" "I think you too must be of the same opinion," replied Aniela. "Most certainly. The question is which way lies Pani Korytzka's duty." I do not know why, but the young doctor stipulated that he did not recognize any free will, but afterwards listened attentively, evidently pleased with the boldness of my views. But seeing astonishment on Aniela's face, I went on quickly:-- "What can there be more barbarous or unnatural than to ask a woman to sacrifice the man she loves to the man she does not love? Religious beliefs may be in contradiction with one another, but they all agree upon the same ethics, that marriage is based upon love. What then is matrimony? It is either something inviolable and essentially holy when resting upon such a basis, or if otherwise, only a contract in contradiction to religion and morality, and as such ought to be dissolved. Otherwise speaking, a woman's duties spring from her feelings, and not from a number of more or less solemn ceremonies, which in themselves are only so many forms. I say this because I am a man who puts truth above mere forms. I know the word 'faithlessness' sounds very terrible. But do not delude yourselves with the notion that a woman is faithless at the moment she leaves her husband. She is faithless the very moment she feels that her love for him is gone. What follows after is only a question of her capacity to bring things to a logical conclusion, of her courage and her heart that knows, or does not know, the meaning of love. Pani Korytzka loved the man for whom she divorces her husband before she was married; the marriage was contracted in a moment of misunderstanding, she mistaking an exhibition of jealousy for indifference. This was her only mistake; which she wants to correct now that she understands that it was not right to sacrifice the man she loved to the man she looked upon with indifference; nobody but those who will not see can call her bad or a hypocrite." There was as much fiction as truth in what I was saying. I knew my aunt would never agree to the theory that the will ends when love steps in; but I said it to impress Aniela with the idea that there was no doubt about it. That first lover was also an invention of my own, to make the story more to the point. But I was perfectly sincere when speaking about the rights and duties springing from feeling. It is quite another thing that I might not stand up for this theory if it did not suit me just then; but man is always subjective, especially the man who has doubted all objective truths. I stood up for myself, and should have been foolish to speak against my own interest. I counted that this kind of reasoning would hasten the evolution of her soul, encourage her, and finally justify her in her own eyes. Considering her great sensitiveness, I thought some of it would take root. She understood me perfectly, and I could see that every word thrilled her nerves; her color came and went; she put her hands to her burning face to cool it. At last, when I had ceased speaking, she replied:-- "Everything may be proved in some way or other; but when we do wrong our conscience tells us, 'It is wrong, wrong!' and nothing can convince it to the contrary." Young Chwastowski must have thought Aniela wanting in philosophical development, and as to myself I had a sensation like that, for instance, when a weapon comes into contact with a stone wall. Aniela's reply, in its simplicity and dogmatism, brought to naught all my arguments. For if the principle that the will ends where love steps in might be open to doubt, there is no doubt whatever that where dogma begins reasoning ceases. Women generally, and Polish women especially, agree with logic as long as it does not bring them into danger. At the approach of danger they shelter themselves behind the fortifications of simple faith and catechismal truth, which strong feeling might force to surrender, but reasoning, never. It is their weakness, and at the same time their strength. In consequence of this their power of reasoning is weaker than man's, but their saintliness in certain conditions becomes unassailable. The devil can lead a woman astray only when he inspires her with love; by way of reasoning he can do nothing, even if for once he has the right on his side. In presence of these reflections I feel disheartened. I am thinking that any structure, however cleverly and artfully raised by me, will be pulled down by the simple words: "It is wrong; conscience does not permit it." In presence of that I am powerless. I must be very careful so as not to estrange or frighten her by the boldness of ideas I try to acclimatize in her mind. And yet I cannot give up all endeavors of this kind. Though they do not occupy the first place in the plan of subduing her, they may hasten the solution. They would be of no use whatever if it were true that she did not love me. If I had made a mistake,--but even then there would be some kind of solution. 29 May. To-day I found Aniela standing on a chair before the old Dantzic clock which had gone wrong. At the moment she raised herself on tip-toe to reach the hands, the chair gave way. I had only time to cry out, "Take care! you are falling!" I caught her in my arms, and put her on the floor. For the twinkling of an eye I held the dear girl in my arms, her hair touched my face, her breath fanned my cheek. I felt so dizzy that I had to steady myself by grasping the back of a chair,--and she saw it. She knows I love her madly. I cannot write any more. 30 May. My whole day was poisoned, for Aniela has received another letter from Kromitzki. I heard her telling my aunt that he does not know himself when he will be able to return,--may be shortly, or it may be two months hence. I cannot even imagine how I shall be able to bear his presence near Aniela. At times it seems that I simply could not bear it. I count upon some lucky chance that will prevent his coming back. Chwastowski says Pani Celina ought to go to Gastein as soon as she can bear the journey. Gastein is such a distance from Baku that it may be too far for Kromitzki to go. I shall go there as sure as there is a heaven above us. It is a happy thought of Chwastowski's; the baths will do us all much good. I too feel fagged and in want of bracing mountain air, and still more in want of being near Aniela. To-morrow I shall go to Warsaw, and send a telegram to the manager of the bathing establishment to secure rooms for the ladies. If no rooms are to be had, I am ready to buy a villa. When Pani Celina spoke of the trouble and difficulties it would give Aniela were she to go there, I only said: "Leave it all to me;" and then, in a lower voice, to Aniela: "I will take care of her as if she were my own mother." I saw that Pani Celina, who believes less and less in Kromitzki's millions, was afraid I might arrange things on too expensive a scale; but I have already settled it in my mind to show her a fictitious agreement, and take the greater part of the expenses upon myself. Of course, I never mentioned that I intended going there myself. I will arrange it so that the proposal shall come from my aunt. I am quite sure that, as soon as I unfold my plans of going somewhere in the hills to recruit my health, the good soul will fall into the trap, and say: "Why not go with them? it will be more comfortable for all of you." I know it will frighten Aniela, and in the most secret recess of her heart please her a little. Maybe it will remind her of the poet's line, "You are everywhere: above me, around me, and within me." Then truly, my love will surround her as with an enchanted circle, enter her heart in the guise of thoughtfulness towards the mother,--in the guise of little services she cannot refuse without exciting her mother's suspicions; all this will gradually sink into her heart, in the guise of gratitude and pity for my sufferings, will thrust itself upon her with all the force of old memories. She hears my praises sung by everybody: by my aunt, who loves me blindly as she always did; by young Chwastowski, who, to show the impartiality people of his opinions are capable of, maintains I am an exception in the "rotten sphere." I have even won over Pani Celina by my attentions; she likes me now, and involuntarily, I dare say, regrets that I am not Aniela's husband. All around Aniela there is one great suggestion of love. And you, dearest, are you going to resist all these powers? When will you come and tell me: "I cannot hold out any longer; take me,--I love you"? Warsaw, 31 May. Pani L., the patroness of a charitable institution, asked Clara to give another concert for the benefit of the destitute. Clara refused on the plea that she is busy upon a great musical work that engages all her attention. The letter,--a very pattern of polite refusal,--was accompanied by exactly the same sum of money the first concert had brought in. It is easy to imagine what a sensation this act of generosity made in Warsaw. The papers were full of it, raising the musician and her generosity to the sky. Naturally, her private means, which are considerable, gained in dimensions. I do not know how society came to couple our names; perhaps, our acquaintance, dating from a long time, our intimacy, and the exaggerated news of her wealth gave rise to the rumor. I was at first a little angry on hearing this; but upon maturer reflection, resolved not to give any direct denial, because this puts my attentions towards Aniela beyond all suspicion. When I went to Clara's morning reception, Pani Korytzka came up to me, and, with that witty, aggressive air of hers, asked me in presence of some dozen people from the musical world and Warsaw society, in an audible voice,-- "Tell me, cousin, who was that mythological person that could not resist the Siren?" "Nobody resisted, _ma cousine_, except Ulysses; and he only because he was tied to the mast." "And why have you not taken these precautions?" I saw some covert smiles lurking in the faces of those who witnessed the attack, and I retorted,-- "Sometimes even that is of no use. You know that love sunders the strongest ties." In spite of all her self-possession, Pani Korytzka grew confused, and I gained one of those tiny victories which are comprised in the proverb, "The scythe hit upon a stone," or in plain English, "The biter bit." Whether people repeat to each other that I am going to marry Clara or not, does not trouble me in the least; in fact, for the above stated reason I do not mind it at all; but I did not expect that this visit would turn out so unpleasant, and Clara herself be the cause of it. When all the people had left, and only Sniatynski and I remained, she sat down to the piano, and played her new concerto,--played it so magnificently that we could not find words to express our admiration; repeating at our request the finale, she said, suddenly,-- "This is my farewell, because everything comes to a finale." "Surely you are not thinking of leaving us?" asked Sniatynski. "Yes, in ten days at the furthest I must be at Frankfurt," replied Clara. Thereupon Sniatynski turned to me,-- "And what do you say to that,--you who at Ploszow gave us to understand, made us hope, Miss Hilst would remain with us always?" "Yes; and I say the same now: her memory will always remain with us." "Yes; I understood it so," replied Clara, with naïve resignation. Inwardly I was furious,--with myself, Sniatynski, and Clara. I am neither so vain, foolish, nor mean that every conquest of that kind should rejoice me; therefore felt annoyed at the thought that Clara might love me, and nourish some baseless hopes. I knew she had some kind of undefined feeling, which, given time and occasion, might develop into something more lasting; but I had no idea this vague feeling dared to wish or expect something. It suddenly struck me that the announcement of her departure was prompted by a desire to find out how I would receive the news. I received it very coolly. A love like mine for Aniela ought to teach compassion; yet Clara's sadness and the mention of her departure, not only did not move me, but seemed to me an audacious flight of fancy and an insult to me. Why? Not from any aristocratic notions; that is certain. I could not account at once for the strange phenomenon; but now explain it thus,--the feeling of belonging to Aniela is so strong and exclusive that it seems to me that any other woman wanting but one pulsation of my heart endeavors to steal something that is Aniela's property. This explanation is sufficient for me. No doubt, by and by I shall bid Clara good-by, and feel as friendly as ever towards her; but the sudden announcement of her departure gave me a distaste for her. It is only Aniela who may with impunity trample on my nerves. Never did I look at Clara so critically and resentfully; for the first time I became fully aware of the amplitude of her figure, the bright complexion, the dark hair, and blue, somewhat protruding eyes, the lips like ripe cherries,--in brief, her whole beauty reminded me of the cheap chromo-lithographs of harem beauties in second-class hotels. I left her in the worst of humors, and went straight to a book-shop to select some books for Aniela. For a week I had been thinking what to choose for her reading. I did not wish to neglect anything, though I did not attach undue weight to this, as it acts very slowly. Besides, I have noticed that to our women, though their imagination is more developed than their temperament, a book is always something unreal. If it falls even into the hands of an exceptionally susceptible person, it creates in her at the most an abstract world, that has no connection with real life whatever. To almost none of them it occurs that ideas taken from books can be applied to any practical purpose. I am convinced that if a great writer tried to prove, for instance, that purity of thought and mind were not only superfluous in a woman, but even blameworthy from a moral point of view,--Aniela would opine that the principle might apply to the whole world with the exception of herself. The utmost I can hope for is that the reading of appropriate books will render her familiar with a certain kind of broad views and thoughts. That is all I wish for. Loving her from my whole soul, I want her to respond to that love, and do not neglect any means towards that end. I, who never deceive myself, confess openly that I want Aniela to sacrifice for me her husband, but I do not want to corrupt her or to soil her purity. Let nobody tell me that this is a sophism, and that the one includes the other. The tormenting devil that is always within me raising difficulties says: "You create new theories; the way of faithlessness _is_ the way of corruption." How these conflicting thoughts tear me to pieces! I reply to the familiar spirit: "I might doubt opposite theories quite as much; I contrive what I can in defence of my love,--it is my natural law." And there is a greater law still, the law of love. Some feelings are mean and commonplace, others lofty and full of nobility. A woman that follows the call of lofty feeling does not lose the nobility of her soul. Such a great, exceptional love I try to awake in Aniela, and therefore I may say conscientiously that I do not want to corrupt her. Besides, these inward arguments do not lead to anything. Even if I had not the slightest doubt that I am doing wrong, if I were unable to give any conclusive answer to the tormenting spirit, I would not cease loving; and always following where a greater power leads me, I should go according to my feeling, and not according to abstract reasoning. But the true misfortune of those analytic and hyper-analytic modern people is that, though not believing in the result of their analysis, they have the invincible habit of inquiring into everything that goes on within themselves. It is the same with me. For some time I have been questioning myself how it is possible that a man absorbed by a great feeling should be able to be so watchful, so calculating about ways and means, and to account for everything as if somebody else did it for him. I could reply to it in this way: The man of the period reserves above everything part of himself to observe the other part. Besides, the whole activity of a mind full of forethought, of reflections apparently cool, stands eventually in proportion to the temperature of the feeling. The hotter this grows, the more cool reason is forced into service. I repeat, it is a mistake to represent love with bandaged eyes. Love does not suppress reason, as it does not suppress the breathing, or the beating of the heart,--it only subjugates it. Reason thereupon becomes the first adviser, the implement of war,--in other words, it plays the part of an Agrippa to a Caesar Augustus. It is holding all the forces in readiness, leads them into war, gains victories, and places the monarch on the triumphal car; it erects finally,--not a Pantheon, like the historical Agrippa,--but a Monotheon, where it serves its only divinity. In the microcosm called man, the part reason plays is a still greater one than that of chief commander,--for it reflects into infinite parts the consciousness of everything and of self,--as a collection of properly arranged mirrors reflect a given object infinitely. 1 June. Yesterday I received news from Gastein. The rooms for Pani Celina and Aniela are ready. I sent them the particulars, together with a parcel of books by Balzac and George Sand. To-day is Sunday, and the first day of the races. My aunt has arrived from Ploszow and taken up her abode with me. That she went to the races is a matter of course, she is altogether absorbed in them. But our horses, Naughty Boy and Aurora, which arrived here two days ago with the trainer Webb and Jack Goose, the jockey, are on the list for Thursday; therefore my aunt's attendance at the Sunday races was merely a platonic affair. The goings on here are past all description. The stables have been converted into a kind of fortress. My aunt fancies the jockeys of other racing studkeepers shake in their shoes at the very mention of Naughty Boy, and are ready to use every means to prevent his running; consequently in every orange boy or organ grinder that comes into the yard, she sees an enemy in disguise, bent upon some evil practice. The Swiss porter and the servants have strict orders to keep an eye upon everybody that comes in. In the stables, the precautions taken are still stricter. The trainer Webb, being an Englishman, remains impassive, but the unfortunate Jack Goose, a native of Burzany, and whose name is a literal translation from the Polish Kuba Gonsior, fairly loses his head; my aunt scolds him and the grooms, natives also of Burzany, whenever she fancies things are going wrong. She was so much at the stables that I did not see much of her, and only when departing she told me that Aniela was to come for the races. I suppose Pani Celina consented to this in order to please my aunt; besides, she can very well remain alone for one day, with the doctor and the maids to look after her. Aniela, who is walled up at Ploszow day after day, really wants a little change. For me this is joyful news indeed. The very thought that she will be under my roof has a singular charm for me. Here I began to love her and maybe her heart kept beating a little faster after that entertainment my aunt gave here in her honor. Everything here will remind her of the past. 2 June. It is fortunate I did not have the rooms altered to suit a museum. I have an idea to give a dinner-party after the races. In this way I shall be able to keep her here a few hours longer,--and besides, she will understand that it is all for her. 3 June. I ordered a cartload of plants and flowers to put along the staircase and in the rooms. Aniela's room remains exactly as it was when she occupied it. I suppose the ladies will arrive in the morning and Aniela will want to change her dress. I had a large mirror put there, and every requisite for a lady's toilet. Aniela will meet everywhere proofs of thoughtfulness, memory, and faithful love. Only now, while writing, it strikes me how much easier I feel when occupied with something, when outward activity takes me out of the enchanted circle of reflection and pondering over myself. Even driving nails into the wall for the pictures of the future museum would be better than twisting one idea around another. Why cannot I be a simple-minded man? If I had been that in times gone by I should be now the happiest man in the world. 4 June. I went to-day to invite the Sniatynskis and several other people to dinner. Sniatynski has spread the news of my founding a museum for the public, and I am at present the hero of the day. All the papers write about it, improving the occasion as usual by pitching into those that waste their substance abroad instead of doing good to the country. I know their style so well, and it amuses me. There are the usual phrases about a citizen's duties and "noblesse oblige," but it suits my purpose. I gathered the whole packet to show my aunt and Aniela. 5 June. The races have been fixed a day sooner because of to-morrow's holiday. Aniela and my aunt arrived this morning with a maid and sundry boxes containing their racing toilets. The first glance at Aniela filled me with terror. She does not look well at all; her face is wan and has lost its former warm color; it seems smaller too, and there is something misty about her that reminds me of Puvis de Chawannes' figures. My aunt and her mother do not notice it, because they see her every day; but to me, after the absence of a few days, the change is very remarkable. I am seized with contrition and sincere pity. It is evident that the inward struggle is telling upon her. If she would only end it, and follow the dictates of a heart that is mine,--a hundred times mine and pleads for me,--all her troubles would cease and happiness begin. I am getting deeper and deeper into the quicksands. It seemed to me that I knew her so well; every detail and every feature stands out before my eyes when I do not see her, and yet when I meet her, after a few days' absence, I discover a new charm, and find something new I like in her. How she satisfies my every taste, and I am deeply conscious that she is my type,--my only affinity. This consciousness gives me a belief, half mystic, half approaching the natural hypothesis, that she was meant for me. When hearing the sound of wheels, I ran down to meet her, and again had the sensation one might call falling under the spell; again the reality seemed to me more perfect than the picture I carry in my heart. She was dressed in a dust-cloak of Chinese silk; a long gray veil was twisted round her hat and tied under her chin, and from amid that frame the dear face, always more like a girl's than a married woman's, smiled at me. Her greeting was more cheerful and more frank than usual; it was evident the morning drive and the prospect of a little pleasure had brightened her spirits; this filled me with delight. I thought, "She is glad to see me again, and Ploszow appears to her dull and empty without me." I offered one arm to my aunt and the other to Aniela, as the staircase is wide enough for three persons, and led them upstairs. At the sight of all the plants and flowers she uttered a little cry of wonder. "It is my surprise," I said. I pressed her arm slightly, so slightly that it might have passed for an accidental movement, and then turning to my aunt, said:-- "I am giving a dinner in honor of the Ploszowski success." My aunt was deeply gratified with my belief in that event. Ah! if she knew how little I care for Naughty Boy, and all the races the Ploszow horses might win on all the race-courses of Europe. Aniela evidently guessed something of this, but she was in such spirits that she only cast a passing glance at me, and bit her lips to hide a smile. I well-nigh lost my head. In the covert smile I saw a shade of coquetry I had never noticed there before. It is impossible, I thought, that she should have no vanity whatever, and not feel flattered in the least, on perceiving that all I am doing is done through her and for her sake. My aunt divested herself of her travelling-wraps, and without delay went to inspect Naughty Boy and Aurora, and I showed Aniela the list of the invited guests. "I tried to bring together people you like; but if there is anybody else you would like to have, I will go myself, or send an invitation." "Show it to aunty;" replied Aniela, "let her decide." "No; aunty will sit at the head of the table, and we shall go to her with our congratulations or condolences, as the case may be; but the part of lady of the house I have assigned to you." Aniela blushed a little, and, trying to change the conversation, said:-- "Leon, I do hope Naughty Boy will win; aunty has set her heart upon it, and will be so vexed if it should turn out otherwise." "I have won already, because I have as guest under my roof a certain small person who is sitting opposite me." "You are making fun; but I am really anxious about it." "My aunt," I replied, more seriously, "will have some compensation if she loses. My collections will be in Warsaw in a few weeks, and this has been the dearest wish of her life. She always tried to make my father give them to the town. All the papers are full of it, and praise me to an extent you have no idea of." The dear face lit up with pleasure. "Show me; read it to me," she said eagerly. I had a desire to kiss her hands for that glimpse of brightness. It was a new proof. If I were indifferent to her, would she rejoice so much when I am praised? "Not now," I replied. "I will read it when my aunt comes back, or rather she must read it, and I will hide my blushes behind you; you, at least, shall not see how foolish I look." "Why should you look foolish?" "Because the thing is not worth all the fuss, and if there be any merit in it, it is yours, not mine. They ought to praise you. I would give a good deal if I could tell those journalists: 'If you think well of it, go _en masse_ and kneel at certain little feet and pour out your gratitude there!'" "Leon! Leon!" interrupted Aniela. "Now do not say a word, lest I should feel tempted to divulge the great secret." Aniela did not know what to say. The words were those of a man in love; but the tone was so playful and jesting that she could not possibly receive them in a tragic spirit. I was glad I had discovered a way by which I could convey a deeper meaning without absolutely frightening her. But I did not take too much advantage of it, and presently, in a more serious tone, began telling her about the projected changes in the house. "The whole story is to be given up to the collections, with the exception of the room in which you lived last winter. This remains as it was. I have only permitted myself to adorn it a little for your reception." Saying this I led her to the door. Standing on the threshold she exclaimed with astonishment:-- "Oh, what lovely flowers!" I said in a low voice:-- "And you the most lovely among them!" Then added, earnestly:-- "You believe me, Aniela, if I tell you that it is in this room I wish to die some day!" Oh, how much sincerity there was in these words. Aniela's face grew misty; all the radiance had gone. I saw that my words had touched a chord, as all words do that come from the depth of the soul. For a moment her whole body swayed as if some inward power pushed her towards me. But she resisted still. She stood before me, her eyes veiled by the long lashes, and said, with mournful dignity:-- "Let me be at ease with you, Leon; do not sadden me." "Very well, Aniela; I will not say anything more; here is my hand upon it." I gave her my hand, and she pressed it warmly, as if by that pressure she wanted to say all she forbade her lips to utter. It indemnified me for all I had suffered, and almost made me stagger on my feet. For the first time I felt distinctly that I was taking for my own this being,--body and soul. It was a sensation of such immeasurable happiness as to cause me almost pain. New, unknown worlds began to open for me. From this moment I grew quite convinced that her resistance was only a question of time. My aunt returned from the stables in excellent humor; no attempt had been made upon Naughty Boy's precious health. The trainer, Webb, to all inquiries, had the same answer,--"All right." Jack Goose was animated by the boldest spirit. We went to the window to see the future conquerors come from the stables; for it was time they went to the Mokotoff Field, there to pace around until their turn arrived. A few minutes later we saw the grooms leading them into the yard, encased from top to bottom as in a pillow-slip. Only the soft eyes were visible through the slit; and from below, the shapely feet that seemed wrought in steel. They were followed by Webb and our little home-bred Englishman, Jack Goose, in a new overcoat, which concealed his silks and jockey-boots. I called out to him through the open window:-- "Mind, and don't get beaten, Kuba!" He raised his cap, and pointing with it at Naughty Boy, replied in the purest, not London, but Bursany, dialect:-- "Bedom prosz jasnie hrabiego widzieli, ale ino jegozad." (They will see him, my lord, but only his hind-quarters.) We sat down to a hurried lunch; nevertheless my aunt had time to read what the papers had to say about the future museum. It is strange how sensitive women are to public applause for their nearest mankind. My aunt fairly beamed at me through her spectacles, and was incomparable when she now and then, interrupting the reading, glanced keenly at Aniela, and then said in her most dogmatic tone:-- "They do not exaggerate the least bit. He was always like that." Praise heaven there was not another sceptic mind present, otherwise I should have looked foolish indeed. It was time for the ladies to dress. Before leaving the room my aunt turned to me and said with the most innocent expression of face:-- "We must be quick, for I promised to call for Panna Zawilowski; she was going with her father, but as he is suffering from an attack of gout I shall have to chaperon her." With this she went to her room. We looked at each other, Aniela and I; the corners of her mouth twitched with merriment. "Aniela, it is a new matrimonial scheme, what shall I do?" She put a finger to her lips in warning that I spoke too loud, and disappeared within her room; presently the lovely head peeped out through the half-open door. "I just remembered you have not asked Miss Hilst," she said. "No, I have not asked her." "Why?" "Because I love her on the sly," I retorted, laughing. "Seriously, why did you not invite her?" "If you wish I will invite her now." "It is as you wish," she replied, and disappeared again. But I preferred not to invite Miss Hilst. An hour later we were driving in the Belvederski Avenue. Aniela wore a cream-colored dress trimmed with lace. I have such a knack of saying with my eyes what my lips must not utter, that Aniela read in them my rapture. I recognized it in her face, that looked half-pleased, half-vexed. We stopped on the way before the Zawilowski villa, and before I had time to ring, the door opened, and Panna Zawilowska herself came out. She stood before me a vision in silver gray, rather a cold vision, as she barely nodded to me before going to my aunt. She is rather plain than pretty,--a blond with steely blue eyes and studied manners. She is considered a very pattern of distinction, and with good reason; that is, if distinction means the same as stiffness. Her treatment of me is as cold as her eyes, too cold even to be quite natural. If this is a method adopted on purpose to chafe my vanity, it is very foolish, for it only bores me, and does not provoke me in the least. I am rather glad of it, as it permits me to pay her only such attentions as simple politeness exacts. To-day I paid her a little more attention; she served me in fact as a screen to avert any suspicion from Aniela. Presently we drove on again, but very slowly, as in front and in rear as far as the eye could reach, all sorts of vehicles were moving in the same direction. Before us and behind, there was a perfect stream of sunshades; the various colors of which shone in the sun and created a warmly tinted shadow from beneath which peeped forth, women's heads with delicate and refined features. There was the average number of pretty faces, but they expressed a want of temperament. I did not even see it in the financial world, which, besides many other things, puts on temperament rather than possesses it in reality. Among the carriages not a few displayed considerable taste, and the bright toilets changing and gleaming in the sun on a background of green trees, the crowds of fine people and fine horses gave the whole show a highly civilized appearance, not lacking either in picturesqueness. I was glad to see Aniela pleased with the motion and turmoil. Replying to my casual remarks she looked at me with gratitude as if it were I that had arranged it all for her pleasure. Sitting opposite, I could look at her without constraint, but I turned oftener towards Panna Zawilowska, from whom blew a cold air, as from a decanter of iced water, which began to amuse me; her words and manner seemed to imply that she agreed to my society, because politeness did not permit her to do otherwise. I treated her with a certain good-humored courtesy that seemed to irritate her not a little. We arrived at last on the Mokotoffskie Pola. There was a reserved place near the grand stand for my aunt's carriage, and presently various acquaintances with tickets stuck on their hats came up and congratulated her upon the promising appearance of Naughty Boy. One of the greatest horsebreeders said to her that the horse was a splendid animal, though not sufficiently trained; but as the turf was soft from yesterday's rain, a strong animal like Naughty Boy stood a fair chance of coming in a winner. It seemed to me that he spoke a little ironically, which made me feel uneasy. Naughty Boy's defeat would spoil the day for my aunt, and indirectly for me, too, as her bad humor would damp our pleasure. In the mean while I looked around me at the field, and searched for known faces. The race course was thronged with people. The grand stand looked like a dark, compact mass, relieved by bright female toilets. The course was surrounded by rows after rows of spectators; even the town walls were alive with them. On either side of the grand stand stood a long line of carriages; each separately looked like a flower-basket. Not very far from where I stood I became suddenly aware of a pink face and aggressive little nose that could not belong to anybody but Pani Sniatynska. I went up to her and she told me her husband had just left her to look for Miss Hilst; and then, almost in one breath, asked me how my aunt was, whether Aniela was at the races, how the ladies would manage their journey to Gastein since Pani Celina could not walk, whether I thought Naughty Boy would win the race, and what we would do if he lost, and how many people had I invited to dinner. While standing near her carriage I noticed what a sweet expression her face has, and the pretty foot that peeped forth from the carriage; but as to answering all the questions, I should have to borrow Gargantua's mouth, as Shakspeare says. Replying to one or two of the questions and saying I hoped to see her after the races, I followed Sniatynski's track in search of Clara. I found her carriage not far from my aunt's. Clara looked like a hill covered with heliotrope blossoms. I found her surrounded by a host of admirers and artists, conversing gayly with them. Her face clouded when she saw me, and my reception was of the coolest. A friendly word from me would have changed all that, but I remained cold; after a quarter of an hour's polite and ceremonious conversation, I went farther, exchanging here and there a few words with people I knew, and then turned toward our own carriage. The first two races had taken place, and Naughty Boy's turn came at last. I looked at my aunt; the expression of her face was very solemn; she evidently tried her best to keep cool. On the contrary, Aniela's face showed evident uneasiness. We had to wait some time before the horses came out, because the weighing lasted unusually long. Suddenly Sniatynski came running up, gesticulating with both hands, and showing some bits of paper. "I have put a pot of money on Naughty Boy," he exclaimed; "if he betrays me, I shall have to throw myself upon your well-known charity." "I trust--" began my aunt, with all her dignity. But she did not finish her sentence, as at this moment from amid the dark mass of people there rose the varicolored caps and silks of the jockeys. The horses were slowly trotting along. Some of them, finding themselves in the open, quickened their pace; others followed more leisurely. At the start they passed us in a group and not very fast, so as to save their horses' strength, the race being a double one. But at the second turn they were drawn out in a line. It looked as if the wind had scattered the petals of some flowers along the road. The first was a jockey in white, closely followed by another in pale blue and red, then two together, one in red, the other in red and yellow; our Kuba in orange and black was last but one, followed by a jockey in white and blue. This order did not last long. When the horses had reached the other side of the course, there arose some commotion in the carriages. The more excited ladies climbed up on the seats so as not to lose the least part of the race; their example was followed by my aunt, who evidently could not sit still any longer. Aniela offered her place to Panna Zawilowska, who, after some ceremonious protests, accepted it; and I helped Aniela to the back seat, and, as she had nothing to hold on by, offered her my hand. I confess that I did not think of the race so much as of the dear little hand that rested so trustingly in mine. My aunt's back obscured the view a little; but raising myself on tiptoe, I swept the whole field with my eyes, and saw the jockeys drawing near the curve of the other side. Seen from this distance, they looked like bright-colored beetles flying through the air; the motion appeared slow, and the throwing out of the horses' fore and hind legs almost mechanical. But in spite of the apparent slowness, they cleared the ground very swiftly. The order of the riders was changed again. The white was still leading, followed by the red; but our Kuba was third now. The others remained behind, and the distance between them grew wider every moment. Naughty Boy was evidently not the worst among them. For a moment I lost sight of him, and presently saw him again as they passed us. The red was close upon the white, and Kuba gaining ground. I now observed for the first time that the white would have no chance, as the horse's flanks shone with moisture, as if water had been poured over him. It was clear the race would lie between the red and orange and black. At the worst, Naughty Boy would be second, and the defeat not so complete. What inspired me with confidence was the horse's pace; he threw out his legs so evenly, as if he performed a daily task. The spectators' excitement became greater every moment. "Has Naughty Boy lost?" asked Aniela, in a low, excited voice, seeing the order in which the horses came past the stand. "No, dear; they have still another round," I replied, pressing her hand slightly. She did not withdraw her hand; it is true that her whole attention was absorbed in the race. When the horses came to the other side, Kuba was second, the white was so exhausted that he had to fall back, and the three following riders came up to him. It was now a race between the two, and there were only five or six lengths between them. Suddenly a loud murmur from the stand told us that something unusual had happened; Kuba was coming up to his adversary. The murmurs on the stand grew into a tumult. Aniela was so carried away by excitement that she squeezed my hand nervously, and asked every moment, "What are they doing now?" The riders were on the left side of the field. The red, by the help of his whip, had gained a little; but presently Naughty Boy almost touched him with his nose. In this furious pace they came both on a line with the stand, where we lost sight of them again. The struggle would be over now in a few seconds. On the stand there was a momentary silence, which suddenly changed into loud, prolonged cheering. Many people were running along the lines which hide the road, and at this moment we saw the red nostrils; the horse's head, stretched out like a cord, orange and black, was carried along as if by a hurricane. The bell rang on the grand stand,--the victory was ours. The red had lost by a dozen lengths. I must say for my aunt that she never lost her self-possession. Nobody but me noticed the few drops of perspiration which stood on her forehead; she fanned with her pocket-handkerchief. Aniela was excited, amused, and happy. We both congratulated our aunt; even Panna Zawilowska said a few French sentences, stiff and proper, as if taken from a copy-book. Presently a crowd of acquaintances thronged around our carriage, and my aunt's triumph was complete. I was also intoxicated, but by something quite different; namely, the pressure of Aniela's hand. In vain I said to myself that it was nothing but the excitement of the moment; because it occurred to me that a woman's resistance often passes a crisis in such moments of exaltation, when carried beside herself by some amusement, beautiful view, or other circumstance different from the even tenor of every-day life. Then a certain relaxation of the nerves takes place, in presence of which a loss of the usual balance is easily explained. Taking into account this special state of Aniela's mind, I arrived at the conclusion that she did not fight against her feeling any longer; and I resolved to put an end to it. I suppose at Ploszow there will be no difficulty about a chance. We go back to-morrow. To-day's entertainment, the dinner, the conversation, and the excitement are so many drops of narcotic. She does not even suppose what happiness there is in store for us; but she must surrender her soul to me, wholly and unconditionally. Though my aunt had notified Pani Celina that we might remain at Warsaw until the next day, we really intended going back after dinner,--when something occurred that prevented our starting. Dinner and tea afterwards lasted until ten o'clock. When the last of our guests had departed somebody came to tell my aunt that Naughty Boy had been taken ill. There was a great confusion. The vet was sent for in a hurry, but it was midnight before he arrived. My aunt would not think of going so late as that. Aniela wanted to go very much, but knew I would have to go with her; and she is still afraid of me. My aunt told her she would only rouse the whole house, disturbing thereby her mother, and wound up by saying:-- "Leon does not mind my looking at his house as my own; consequently you are my guest. It would be the same if I gave up Ploszow to him; I should live there, and you with me,--at least, so long as Celina has not recovered her health." And finally Aniela had to remain. It is now three o'clock in the morning. It is already growing light; but lanterns are still flitting across the yard near the stables, where they are busy with Naughty Boy. My aunt, when wishing us good-night, announced that she intended to remain a day longer at Warsaw; whereupon I said that I had left some papers at Ploszow, and would go and fetch them, and see Aniela home at the same time. We shall be alone, and I will hesitate no longer. The blood rushes to my heart at the thought that I shall travel, though only a short distance, with the dear love close to my heart, and listen to her confession that she loves me as much as I love her. The sky is clouded, and it has begun to rain. A few hours only divide me from the moment when a new life is to begin for me. Of course I do not sleep; I could not sleep now for anything in the world. There is no heaviness on my eyelids,--I write, and recall memories. I still seem to feel the pressure of her hand on mine. I made that soul, educated, developed it, and prepared it for love. I am like the head of an army, who has foreseen all chances, arranged and calculated everything, and does not sleep on the eve of the day that will decide his fate. But Aniela sleeps peacefully on the other side of the house; and even her dreams plead for me, for my love. When I think of this, all my nerves are vibrating. In that ocean of trouble, evil, foolishness, uncertainties, and doubts we call life, there is one thing worth living for, as certain and as strong as--nay, stronger than--death; and that is love. Beyond it there is nothingness. 6 June. I went with Aniela, and am even now asking myself, "Have I gone mad?" I did not hold her close to my heart, did not hear an avowal of love. I was spurned without a moment's hesitation; all her modesty risen in arms, she reduced me to a mere nothing. What is it? Am I a fool without brains, or has she no heart? What am I fighting against? What are the obstacles in my way? Why does she spurn me? My head is in such a chaotic state that I can neither think, write, nor reason. I only repeat to myself, over and over again, "What is it that bars my way?" 7 June. I have made an enormous mistake somewhere; there is something in Aniela I have not observed or taken into account. For two days I have tried to understand what has happened to me, but my head was in such a whirl that I could not think. Now I am collecting my thoughts, pulling myself together to look the situation in the face. It would be clear enough if Aniela were guarded by a strong love for her husband. I could understand then the offended modesty and indignation with which a being, so meek and sweet-tempered usually, spurned me from her feet. But I cannot even suppose such a thing. I have still enough brains left to know that it is a mistake to see things too black, as it is a mistake to see them too rose-colored. Where should her love for Kromitzki have come from? She married him without love. In the short time they lived together, he deceived her and sold the land so dear to both of those women, and injured her mother's health. They have no child; besides, a child does not teach a woman to love her husband; it only teaches her to take him into account; it makes her safer,--that is to say, it strengthens the union of hands, not of hearts. Aniela besides does not belong to that kind of women to whom love comes suddenly, as a revelation after marriage; women like that pine more after their husbands, or more readily take a lover. I speak of all this in such a matter of fact way that it hurts me; but why should I spare myself? Finally, I am convinced she has no feeling even approaching to love for Kromitzki,--what is more, does not even respect him; she does not permit herself to despise him, that is all. I consider that as proved, otherwise I should be blind. Then if her heart at the moment of my return was a _tabula rasa_ I must have contrived to write something on it, I who managed this in other conditions, and was more bent on it than I ever was on anything in my life, who worked upon her feelings of friendship, touched the chords of pity and memories of the past, not neglecting anything, considering every trifle, and moreover am possessed of the power a strong, earnest feeling gives. I take myself by the shoulders: "Man, whatever you may be, you are not a provincial lion, that considers himself irresistible to any woman chance throws in his way; have you not deluded yourself into the belief that she loves you?" What speaks in favor of its being a delusion? At the first glance, her resistance. But I never supposed for a moment that she would not resist. I fancy to myself any other married woman, desperately in love with another man; can one suppose she would not resist and struggle against it and the loved one, until her strength gave way? Resistance is not the outcome of love, but since those two forces can exist side by side like two birds in a nest, one does not exclude the other. I write this diary not only because it has become my second nature, my passion, not only because it gives an outlet for my pent-up feelings, but still more because it gives me a clear view and keeps account of all that is passing. I read over again the pages where I have written down my and Aniela's history from the time of my arrival at Ploszow. I have taken note of well-nigh every glance, every smile and tear, caught every tremor of her heart; and no! I do not deceive myself, the analysis is not wrong! Hers were the tears, the words, the glances and smiles of a woman--maybe unhappy--but not indifferent. I must have influenced her, made an impression upon her. I am not blind; it tears my heart day after day to see how her face is getting smaller, the hands more transparent--and it makes my hair stand on end to think she is paying out her life in this struggle. But all these are invincible proofs. Her heart, her thoughts belong to me. For that very reason she is unhappy--perhaps even more unhappy than I. I read over what I wrote a moment ago,--that I did not even suppose she would not resist. I thought so soon after my return to Ploszow, but lately and when she was at Warsaw I fancied that I saw signs of yielding. I was wrong. She did not give way in the least, showed no sign of pity; my words to which she would not even listen seemed blasphemy to her. I saw in her eyes sparks of anger and resentment; she tore away her hands I covered with kisses, and the words: "You insult me!" were continually on her lips. Her energy daunted me the more as I had least expected such an explosion of wrath. Ah me! She threatened to leave the carriage and go on foot in the pelting rain to Ploszow. The word "divorce" acted upon her as a red-hot iron. I obtained nothing, nothing, nothing with all my eloquence and audacity; neither my entreaties nor my love moved her; she took everything as an insult to her womanhood, spurned my love and trampled on it. To-day when I see her so meek and sweet-tempered it seems like a horrid dream, and I can scarcely believe that it is the same woman. I cannot hide it from myself; I have met with a defeat so complete and decisive that if I had the strength, or anything else to live for I ought to go away at once. Supposing she does love me, what good can it be to me if that feeling is to remain for ever imprisoned within her own heart, and never show itself--either in word or deed? I might as well be loved by Greek Helen, Cleopatra, Beatrice, or Mary Stuart. Such must be the feeling which does not desire anything, exact anything, and is sufficient unto itself. Maybe her heart belongs to me, but it is a faint heart, incapable of any action. Possibly she poses before herself as a lofty soul, sacrificing her love upon the altar of duty--and pleases herself in that pose. It is a satisfaction worth doing something for. Be it so! Sacrifice me; but if you think you sacrifice much in immolating your feeling, and feed your duty upon it, you are mistaken. I cannot, I cannot either think or write calmly. 8 June. A coquette is like a usurer, giving very little and exacting upon it a high percentage. To-day, as I am growing more composed and can think again, I must render Aniela justice; she never encouraged me or exacted anything. What I mistook for a touch of coquetry at Warsaw was mere joyfulness of a youthful spirit that had shaken itself momentarily free from all trouble. All that has happened was brought on by me. I made mistake after mistake, and it is all my fault. To know something, and to make it a matter of calculation are two different things. We account to ourselves for unknown factors which act upon the soul of a given individual, but in dealing with the same we generally take ourselves as a point of issue. This happened to me. I knew, or at least was conscious of the fact, that Aniela and I are as different from each other as if we were the inhabitants of two separate planets, but I did not always remember it. Involuntarily I counted upon her acting in a certain position as I should have acted. In spite of the consciousness that we two are the most dissimilar beings under the sun, as opposite as the poles, I note it down with a certain surprise, and seem not able to get used to the thought. And yet it is true. I am a thousand times more like Laura Davis than Aniela. And now I begin to understand why I failed. The rock I split against is the want of that which has vanished within me, thereby freeing my thoughts, but bringing instead of it the mortal disease that has become my tragedy; it is the catechismal simplicity of the soul. Now I can account for it clearly, perhaps not quite satisfactorily, for I am of so complex a disposition as to have lost the very instinct of simplicity. "I hear thy voice, but I see thee not." My spiritual sight suffers from Daltonian disease and cannot distinguish colors. I cannot even understand how any one can accept a principle, however hallowed by ages, without looking at it from both sides, pulling it to pieces, into shreds and atoms, until it crumbles into dust and cannot be put together any more. Aniela cannot understand that a principle once considered good, hallowed by religion, as well as by public opinion, could be considered otherwise than as a sacred duty. It does not matter to me whether she is conscious of it, or it is instinctive impulse reasoned out by her intelligence, or merely acquired; it is enough that it has entered her very nature. I had a glimpse of it the other day when I spoke about Pani Korytzka's divorce suit: "You can prove everything, and yet when one does wrong conscience tells us: 'It is wrong, it is wrong!'" I did not then attach the importance to these words that belonged to them. In Aniela there is no wavering, no doubt whatever. Her soul winnows the chaff from the grain with such precision that there can be no question about its purity. She does not try to find her own norma, but takes it ready-made from religion, general moral principles, and clings to them so strongly that they become her very own, for they permeate her system. The simpler the differential quality of good and evil, the more absolute and merciless it grows. In this ethical code there are no extenuating circumstances. As according to it the wife belongs to her husband, she who gives herself to another does wrong. There are no discussions, no considerations, or reflections,--there is the right hand for the righteous, the left for the sinners, God's mercy above all,--but nothing between, no intermediate place. It is the code of the honest villager, so simple that people like me do not understand it. It seems to us that human life and human souls are too complex to find room in it. Unfortunately we have not found anything to replace it, and consequently we flutter here and there like stray birds, in loneliness and alarm. The greater part of our women still hold fast to that code. Even those who occasionally stray from it do not permit themselves a momentary doubt as to its truth and sacredness. Where it begins, reasoning leaves off. The poets erroneously represent woman as an enigma, a living Sphinx. Man is a hundred times more of an enigma and a Sphinx. A healthy woman that is not hysterical may be either good or bad, strong or weak, but she has more spiritual simplicity than man. Forever and all times the Ten Commandments are enough for her, whether she live according to their tenets, or through human frailty set them aside. The female soul is so dogmatic that I have known a woman whose very atheism took the form of religion. It is strange that this code of the honest villager does not exclude in women either keen intelligence, a subtle mind, or loftiness of ideas. Their soul seems to have something of the humming-bird which flits in and out the thickest shrubs, without getting entangled in their branches, or touching a single leaf. This may be said especially in regard to Aniela. The greatest subtility of feeling and thought goes hand in hand with the utmost simplicity of moral ideas. Her Ten Commandments are the same as the village girls', with the exception that those of the latter are wrought on coarse linen, and hers on a web as fine as lace. Why do I discuss this question? Simply because it is a question of my happiness, almost my life; for I feel that with all my complex and intricate philosophy of love, I cannot get over the Ten Commandments. And how can I conquer them, since I do not even believe in that philosophy, while Aniela's faith in her principles is calm and unshaken? Only the lips that have been drinking at the fountain of doubt opine that a forbidden kiss is not a sin. A religious woman may be carried away, as a tree is swept away by a hurricane, by forbidden love, but she will never acknowledge it. Shall I ever be able to carry off Aniela? It is possible that my present state of despondency and discouragement is only a passing one, and to-morrow I shall feel more hopeful,--to-day all seems impossible. I wrote once in this same diary that in certain families they inoculate their children with modesty as they inoculate for small-pox. The rule which says the wife shall belong to the husband, and in which Aniela believes so firmly, is strengthened by that modesty, so knitted into her being, so worked into the system, that I could sooner fancy Aniela cold and lifeless than baring her bosom in my presence. And I can still delude myself with the idea that I may expect anything from her! It is simple idiocy! What am I to do then? Go away? No; I shall not go away. I will not, and cannot. I will remain, and since my love is idiotic, I will do as idiots do. Enough of systems, calculations, forethought! Let things take their own way. My former ways did not lead to anything. 9 June. She is not a bit happier than I am. What I saw to-day confirmed my suspicion that she is fighting a heavy battle, with nothing to help her except the truth of her own faith and convictions. After the departure of Pan Zawilowski and his daughter, who had paid us a visit, my aunt, evidently with a certain purpose, began to enlarge upon the good qualities of Panna Zawilowska. I burst out into a sudden rage; I was tired, my nerves over-wrought by sleeplessness and irritated beyond measure. I exclaimed: "Have your way then! If it be a question of marriage only, and not of happiness, I will propose to-morrow to Panna Zawilowska. She or somebody else; what does it matter?" Anybody might have seen it was merely irritation, not conviction, that dictated words I should never have acted upon. But Aniela had grown very white. She rose and without apparent reason began to unfasten the cords of the blind with trembling hands. Fortunately my aunt was so taken aback by the suddenness of my outburst that she did not notice her. She said something, I did not hear what, as all my attention was concentrated upon Aniela. It is true that by reasoning I had come to the conclusion that something must be going on in her heart, but to reason out a thing and to see it, are two different things. As long as I live I shall never forget that white face and those trembling hands. I had now a tangible proof, which, however I might explain it by the suddenness of my announcement, is still proof enough. Sudden news either of the death or marriage of anybody that is indifferent to us does not pale our cheeks. I thought a few days ago: "Of what use is it to me that she loves me, if that love is to remain forever hidden in her breast?" and yet when I came to read, as I did now, the confirmation of it, my hope rose at once and all doubts vanished. Again a vision of possible victory flashed before my eyes,--alas! to be dissolved almost at once into nothing. My aunt, saying something, went out of the room, maybe to wipe away a furtive tear at my hardness, and I went up to Aniela. "Aniela dear! I would not marry that girl for anything in the world, but you ought to enter a little in my position. I have troubles enough to bear, and even here they will not leave me in peace. You know best that I could never dream of such a step." "On the contrary, I should be glad if that happened," she said, with evident effort. "It is not true! I have seen you changing color,--I have seen it." "Permit me to go away." "Aniela mine! you love me! do not lie to me and to yourself; you love me!" She grew white to her lips. "No," she replied quickly; "but I am afraid I might learn to hate you." And with that she left the room. I know that to a woman who fights with herself, a bitter and forbidden love often seems akin to hatred; and yet Aniela's words staggered me and extinguished the newborn hope, as one blows out a candle. There are many quite natural things in this world which we are strong enough to bear but for our nerves. I am struck by a truth not recognized by me formerly, not recognized generally,--that love for another man's wife, if only a pastime is the greatest vileness, and if real, the greatest misfortune that can happen to any man; the more worthy the woman the greater the misfortune. I have a burning curiosity within me, very bitter at the same time, as to what Aniela would do if I said to her: "Either put your arms round my neck and own that you love me, or I will blow out my brains here before your eyes!" I know it would be the meanest thing in the world, and I should never force her hand in that way; no! whatever I may be, I am not bad enough for that! But I cannot help thinking, "What would she do?" I am almost certain she would not survive the shock and the scorn of herself, but she would not yield. When I think of this I curse her and worship her at the same time; I hate her and love her more than ever. The worst is I do not see how I shall ever get out of this enchanted circle. Added to the passion of the senses this woman wakes in me, I have for her a dog-like affection. I envelop her with my eyes and thoughts, can never satiate myself with the sight of her, and at the same time she is the most desirable of women, and the very crown of my head. No other woman ever attached me to her so absolutely and in that twofold manner. At times this influence of hers over me seems well-nigh incredible; then again I explain it, and as usual take the worst view of it. I have lived too quickly, passed already the zenith, and am going down hill, where it is dark and cold. I feel that in her I could recover my lost youth, vitality, and the desire for life. If she be lost to me, then truly nothing remains but to vegetate, and gloominess unutterable as the foretaste of decay. Therefore I love Aniela with the instinct of self-preservation,--not with my senses only, not with my soul, but also from the fear of annihilation. Aniela does not know all this; but I suppose she pities me, just as I torture her, who would give my life to make her happy. And therefore I say again that the love for another man's wife is the greatest misfortune, since it leads the man to make her unhappy whose happiness he would ensure at the cost of his own. The result of this is that we are both unhappy. But you, Aniela, have at least your dogma to support you, whereas I am verily like a boat drifting without helm and oar. I am not well in health either. I sleep very badly, or rather scarcely at all. I should like to fall ill and lie unconscious for a month without memories, without trouble--and rest. It would be a kind of holiday. Chwastowski examined me yesterday, and said I had the nerves of a decaying race, but had inherited a fair supply of muscular strength. I believe he is right; but for that I should have succumbed ere this to my nerves. Maybe to my very strength I may ascribe this present concentration of feeling; it had to find an outlet somewhere, and as it did not find it either in science or other useful work, it all got absorbed into love for a woman. But owing to my nervous system it is turbid, stormy, and crooked,--above all, crooked. What sensations I pass through every day! Towards evening the dear old aunt came to me and began to apologize for praising Panna Zawilowska to me. I kissed both her hands, and in my turn asked her to forgive my momentary show of temper. She then said,-- "I promise never to mention her again. It is true, my dear Leon, I wish from all my heart to see you married, for you are the last of our race; but the Lord knows what is best. But believe me, dearest boy, it is not family pride, but your happiness I am thinking of." I soothed her agitation as well as I could, and then said:-- "You must not mind me, dearest aunt; I am like a woman,--a nervous woman!" "You a woman?" she said, indignantly. "Everybody is liable to make mistakes. I only wish everybody had as much intelligence and character as you; the world would then be quite a different place!" Ah, me! how can I dispel these illusions? Sometimes I grow quite desperate as I say to myself: "What business have I in this house, among these women who have taken a monopoly for saintliness? For me it is too late to convert myself to their faith; but how many troubles, disappointments, misfortunes may I not bring upon them?" 10 June. To-day I received two letters,--one from my lawyer in Rome, the other from Sniatynski. The lawyer informs me that the difficulties the Italian government usually raises at the exportation of art treasures can be got over, my father's collections being private property and as such not under government control, and that they could be transported simply as furniture. I shall have to see to the arrangement of the house, which I do unwillingly, as my heart is not any more in the scheme. What does it matter to me now, and what is the use of it? If I do not give it up altogether, it is only because I spread the news about it myself, and cannot possibly draw back. I have fallen back into that state of mind which possessed me during my wanderings after Aniela's marriage. Again I understand nothing, cannot act or look upon anything that has no direct bearing upon Aniela. The thoughts in which I do not see her image at the bottom are meaningless to me. It is a proof how far a man may sink his own self. I read this morning a lecture by Bunge called "Vitality and Mechanism," and I perused it with exceptional interest. He demonstrates scientifically that which has been in my mind more as a dim, shapeless idea than a definite conviction. Here science confesses scepticism in regard to itself, and, moreover, not only confirms its own impotence but clearly points to the existence of another world which is something more than matter and motion, which cannot be explained either physically or chemically. It does not concern me in the least whether that world be above matter or subject to it. It is a mere play of words! I am not a scientist; I am not bound to be careful in my deductions; therefore I throw myself headforemost into that open door, and let science prate and say a hundred times over that all is dark there. I feel it will be lighter than here. I read with almost feverish eagerness and great relief. Only fools do not acknowledge how materialism wearies and oppresses us, what secret fear lurks in the mind lest their science should prove true, what a dreary waiting for new scientific evolutions, and joy of the prisoners when they see a small door ajar through which they may escape into the open air. The worst of it is that the spirit is already so oppressed that it dares not breathe freely or believe in its own happiness. But I dared, and had a sensation as if I had escaped from a stifling cellar. Perhaps this is only a momentary relief, for I understand well that Neo-Vitalism does not form an epoch in science; maybe to-morrow I shall go back to prison,--I do not know. In the meantime the breath of air did me good. I said to myself over and over again: "If it be possible that by way of scepticism one can arrive at the undoubted certainty of another world, mocking at mechanical explanation, being absolutely beyond all physico-chemical elucidation, then everything is possible,--every creed, every dogma, every mysticism! It is permissible then to think that, as there is infinite Space, there is also infinite Reason, infinite Good, enfolding the whole universe as in a vast cloak, under which we may find rest and shelter and protection. And if so, all is well! I shall know at least why I live and why I suffer. What an immense relief!" I repeat once more that I am not obliged to be timid and wary in my deductions, and, as I said before, no one is so near mysticism as the sceptic. I realized it once more in myself when I began spreading my wings, like the bird which has been caged and delights in its new freedom. I saw before me endless space covered with new life. I did not know whether it was on another planet or farther still, beyond the planetary sphere,--enough that the space was different from ours, the light brighter and softer, the air cool and full of sweetness; the difference consisted mainly in the closer union of the individual spirit with the spirit of the universe; it was so close that it was difficult to understand where the individual ceased and the universe began. I felt at the same time it was upon that very dimness of the boundary that the happiness of this other life rested, as the being did not live in opposition or exclusion but in harmony with his surroundings, and thus lived with the whole power of universal life. I do not say it was a vision; it was only a crossing of the narrow boundary beyond which reasoning leaves off and conscious feeling begins,--a feeling which as yet is only a conclusion of former premises, but carried so far as to be difficult to grasp, as a golden thread spun out to its utmost length. Moreover, I did not know how to incorporate myself with that new life and new space,--how to melt in it my own self. I had kept to a certain extent my own individuality, and there was something wanting near me,--something I searched for. Suddenly I became aware it was Aniela I was searching for. Of course, only her and always her. What could another life matter to me without her? I found her at last, and we roamed about together like the shadow of Paolo with the shadow of Francesca di Rimini. I write this down because I see in it an almost terrifying proof how far my whole being has been absorbed by this love. What connection is there between Bunge's Neo-Vitalism and Aniela? Nevertheless, even when thinking of things far removed, it all brings me back to her. Science, art, nature, life,--all are carried back to the same denominator. It is the axis around which turns my world. This is of great importance to me, for, in presence of all this, is it possible that I should ever listen to the advice of reason and that inward monitor that bids me to go away? I know it all will end in ruin. But how can I go away; how summon strength and will and energy when all these have been taken from me? Tell a man deprived of his legs to go and walk about. On what? And from myself I add: "Why? whereto? My life is here." Sometimes I feel tempted to let Aniela read this diary, but do not intend to do so. Her pity for me might be increased, but not her love. If Aniela be ever mine, she will want to look up to me for support, peace, and immovable faith for both; that is how it ought to be where happiness is at stake. Here she would find nothing but doubts. Supposing even she could understand all that has been and is going on in my mind, there are many things she could not sympathize with. We are too different from each other. For instance, when I plunge into mysticism, when I say to myself that everything is possible, even a future life, I do not shape it according to generally admitted ideas, and if those general ideas may be called a normal point of view, mine must needs be an abnormal one. Why? If everything is possible, then why not a hell, a purgatory, a heaven, or my subplanetary spaces,--and Dante's vision, which is far greater and more magnificent than mine? Then why? For a twofold reason. First, because my scepticism, which poisons itself by its own doubts, as the scorpion poisons itself with its own venom, is nevertheless strong enough to exclude the most simple and generally accepted ideas; secondly, I cannot fancy myself in the Dantean divisions with Aniela,--I do not desire such a life. It is only part of myself that writes and thinks, the greater part is always with Aniela. At this moment I see a streak of light from her window resting on the barberry bushes. My poor love has sleepless nights too. I saw her dozing over her needle-work to-day. Seated in a deep armchair she looked to me so small, and she drew such a long breath as if from weariness. I had a feeling for her as if she were my child. 11 June. They have sent me at last the Madonna by Sassoferrato. I handed it to Aniela in presence of the elder ladies, as a thing left to her in my father's will, and so she could not refuse it. Afterwards I hung it up myself in her little sitting-room, and it looks very pretty there. I am not fond of Madonnas by Sassoferrato, but this one is so simple and so serene in its clear shades. I like to think that as often as she looks at it she will remember that it was I who gave her that relic, gave it her because I love her. In this way the love she considers sinful must in her thought be united to holy things. It is a childish comfort, but he who has no other must be satisfied even with that. I had another crumb of comfort to-day. When the picture had been hung in its place, Aniela came to thank me. As the armchair in which Pani Celina sits was at the other end of the room, I held for a moment the hand Aniela was about to withdraw, and asked in a low voice:-- "Is it true, Aniela, that you hate me?" She only shook her little head, as if in sadness. "Oh, no!" she replied quickly. This one word expressed so much. It was a way of saying that if the feeling of the loved woman were always to remain hidden in her breast, it would be the same as not to be loved at all. No! it is not the same. Let me have it, if only that. I would not give it up for anything in the world. If this were taken from me, I should have nothing to live for any more. 12 June. I am at Warsaw in consequence of the letter from Sniatynski, received the day before yesterday, in which he asked me to take part in a farewell dinner in honor of Clara Hilst. I did not go to the dinner, which took place yesterday, but said good-by to Clara at the station. I have just returned thence. The good soul was going away, most likely disappointed, and with some resentment against me in her heart, but upon seeing me, forgave me everything, and we parted the best of friends. I felt too that I should miss her, and that the loneliness around me would be greater still. On my mystic fields there will be no farewells. This one was truly sad,--in addition to it the sky was overcast, and there was a drizzling rain that looked as if it would last for days. In spite of that a great many people had come to see the last of the celebrated artist. Her sleeping-car was filled with bouquets and wreaths like a hearse; she will have to discard them unless she lets herself be suffocated. Clara, at the moment of departure, without taking into account what people might think or say, devoted herself to me as much as the bustle of the place would permit. I went into her carriage, and we conversed together like two old friends, not paying any attention to the old and always silent relative, or to the other people, who at last retired discreetly into the corridor. I held both Clara's hands, and she looked at me with those honest blue eyes of hers, and said in a moved voice:-- "It is only to you I say it openly, that I never was so sorry to go away from anywhere as from here. There is no time to say much, with all these people around us, but believe me, I am sorry to go. At Frankfurt I meet many people, great artists, scientists; only there is a difference,--you are like one of the more delicate instruments. As regards yourself, I will not say anything." "You will let me write to you?" "I will write too. I wanted to ask you that. I have my music, but it is not always sufficient now. I think you too will want to hear from me now and then; though you may have many friends, you have none more sincere and devoted than I. I am very foolish; anything upsets me, and it is time to go." "We are both wanderers on the earth, you as an artist, I as a Bohemian; therefore it will not be farewell, but au revoir." "Yes, au revoir, and that speedily. You too are an artist. You may not play or paint, but you are an artist all the same. I saw it the first moment I met you,--and also that you may seem happy, but are very sad at heart. Remember there is a German girl who will be always as a sister to you." I raised her hand to my lip, and she, thinking I was going, said quickly:-- "There is still time, they have only rung the second bell!" But I really wished to leave. Oh, those wretched nerves of mine! Clara's companion wore a stiff mackintosh which rustled at her every motion; and that rustle, or rather swish of the india-rubber, set my very teeth on edge. Besides, we had only a few minutes left. I stepped aside to make place for Pani Sniatynska, who came rushing up. "Hilst, Frankfurt," Clara called out after me; "at home they will forward my letters wherever I go!" Presently I found myself on the platform under the window of her carriage, among all those who had come to see her off. Their farewells and good-bys mingled with the labored breathing of the locomotive and the shouts of the railway men. The window of the carriage was lowered, and I saw the friendly, honest face once more. "Where are you going to spend the summer?" she asked. "I don't know, I will write to you," I replied. The panting of the locomotive grew quick, then came the last shrill whistle, and the train began to move. We gave Clara a loud cheer, she waved her hands to us, and then disappeared in the distance and the dusk. "You will feel very lonely," said suddenly close to me Pani Sniatynska's voice. "Yes, very," I said, and lifting my hat to her, I went home. And truly I had the feeling as if somebody had left, who in case of need would have given me a helping hand. I felt very despondent. Possibly the gloomy evening, the mist and drizzling rain, in the midst of which the street lamps looked like miniature rainbow arches, had something to do with it. The last spark of hope seemed to have died out. There was darkness not only within me, but it seemed to encompass the whole world, and weigh upon it as the atmosphere weighs upon us and permeates all nature. I carried home with me a heaviness of feeling and great restlessness and a fear as if something unknown was threatening me. There woke up within me a sudden longing for the sun and brighter skies, for countries where there is no mist, no rain, and no darkness. It seemed to me that if I went where there was sun and brightness, it would shield me from some unknown danger. Oh, to go away! The entire capacity of my thoughts was filled with that eager desire. Then suddenly another fear clutched at my heart: if I went away, Aniela would be exposed to that same impalpable danger from which I wanted to fly. I knew it was only a delusion of my brain, and that really my departure would be the best thing for her. Yet I could not get rid of the sensation that to desert her would be cowardice and meanness. All my reasoning cannot get over this. Besides, the going away is only an empty word; I may say it to myself a hundred times, but if I were to try to change it into fact I should find it altogether beyond my power. I have put so much of my life in that one feeling that it would be easier to cut me into pieces than to part me from it. I possess so much control over my thoughts, such a consciousness of self that it seems to me impossible that I could ever lose my reason. I cannot even imagine it; but at moments I feel as if my nerves could not bear the strain any longer. I am sorry Clara is gone. I have seen but little of her lately; but I liked to know that she was not far off; now Aniela will absorb me altogether, because I give to her that power which rules our likings, and makes us conscious of friendship. When I returned home, I found there young Chwastowski, who had come to town in order to consult with his brother, the bookseller. They have some scheme in hand about selling elementary books. They are always scheming something, always busy, and that fills their life. I have come to such a pass that I rejoiced to see him as a child that is afraid of ghosts is glad to see somebody coming into the room. His spiritual healthiness seems to brace me. He said that Pani Celina was so much better that within a week she would be able to bear the journey to Gastein. Oh yes! yes! Anything for a change! I shall push that plan with all my powers. I will persuade my aunt to go too. She will do it for my sake, and in that case nobody will be astonished at my going. There is at least something I desire, and desire very much. I shall have so many chances of taking care of Aniela, and shall be nearer to her than at Ploszow. I feel somewhat relieved; but it has been a terrible day, and nothing oppresses me so much as dark, rainy weather. I still hear the drops falling from the waterspouts; but there is a rift in the clouds, and a few stars are visible. 12 June. Kromitzki arrived to-day. Gastein, 23 June. We arrived at Gastein a week ago,--the whole family: Aniela, my aunt, Pani Celina, Kromitzki, and myself. I interrupted my diary for some time, not because I had lost the zest for it, nor because I did not feel the necessity for writing, but simply because I was in a state of mind which words cannot express. As long as a man tries to resist his fate, and wages war against the forces that crush him, he has neither brains nor time for anything else. I was like the prisoner in Sansson's memoirs, who when they tore his flesh and poured molten lead into the wounds shouted in nervous ecstasy, "Encore! encore!" until he fainted. I have fainted too, which means that I am exhausted and resigned. A great hand seems to weigh upon me, as immense as the mountains that loom up before me. What can I do against it? Nothing but submit and remain passive while it crushes me. I did not know that one could find, if not comfort, at least some kind of peace in this consciousness of impotence and the looking straight at one's misery. If only I could keep from struggling against it, and not disturb this state of quiescence. I could write then about things that happen to me as if they had happened to somebody else. But I know from experience that one day does not resemble another, and I am afraid of what the morrow will bring forth. 24 June. Towards the end of my sojourn at Warsaw I put down these words: "Love for another man's wife, if only a pastime, is a great villany, and if real, is one of the greatest misfortunes that can happen to a man." Writing this before Kromitzki's arrival, I had not taken into account all the items which make up the sum of this misfortune. I also thought it nobler than it really is. Now I begin to see that besides great suffering, it includes a quantity of small humiliations, the consciousness of villany, ridicule, the necessity of falsehood, the doing of mean things, and the need of precautions unworthy of a man. What a bouquet! Truly the scent of it is enough to overpower any man. God knows with what delight I would take such a Kromitzki by the throat, press him to the wall, and tell him straight in his face, "I love your wife!" Instead of that I must be careful lest the thought should enter his mind that she pleases me. What a noble part to play in her presence! What must she think of me? That too is one of the flowers in the bouquet. As long as I live I shall not forget the day of Kromitzki's arrival. He had gone straight to my house. Coming home late at night, I found somebody's luggage in the anteroom. I do not know why it did not occur to me that it might be Kromitzki's. Suddenly he himself looked out from the adjacent room, and dropping his eyeglass rushed up with open arms to salute his new relative. I saw as in a dream that dry skull, so like a death's-head, the glittering eyes, and the crop of black hair. Kromitzki's arrival was the most natural thing in the world, and yet I felt as if I had looked into the face of death. It seemed to me like a nightmare, and the words, "How do you do, Leon?" the most fantastic and most improbable words I could have heard anywhere. Presently such a rage, such a loathing combined with fear, seized me that it took all my self-control to prevent me from throwing him down and dashing out his brains. I have sometimes felt such paroxysms of rage and loathing, but never combined with fear; it was not so much fear of a living man as horror of the dead. For some time I could not find a word to say. Fortunately he might suppose I had not recognized him at first, or was astonished that a man I scarcely knew should treat me so familiarly. It still irritates me when I think of it. I tried to recover myself; he in the mean while readjusted his eyeglass, and shaking my hand once more, said:-- "Well, and how are you? How are Aniela and her mother? Old lady always ill, I suppose. And our aunt, how is she?" I was seized with amazement and anger that this man should mention those nearest and dearest to me as if they belonged to him. A man of the world bears most things and hides his emotions, because he is trained from his earliest years to keep himself under control; nevertheless I felt that I could not bear it any longer, and in order to pull myself together and occupy my thoughts with something else, I called for the servant and told him to get tea ready. Kromitzki appeared uneasy that I did not reply at once to his questions; the eyeglass dropped again, and he said, hurriedly:-- "There is nothing wrong, is there? Why don't you speak?" "They are all well," I replied. It suddenly struck me that my emotion might give the hateful man an advantage over me, and the thought restored all my self-possession at once. I led him into the dining-room, asked him to sit down, and then said:-- "How is it going with you? Have you come to make a long stay?" "I do not know," he replied. "I was longing for Aniela; and I fancy she too must have been anxious to have me back again. We have only been a few months together, and for a newly married couple that is not much, is it?" and he burst out into one of his wooden laughs. "Besides," he added, "I have some business here to look after. Always business, you see." Then he began a long-winded harangue about his affairs; of which I did not hear much, except the often repeated words "combined forces," observing meanwhile the motion of the eyeglass. It is a strange thing how in presence of some great calamity small things will thrust themselves into evidence. I do not know whether this be so with everybody, but in the present instance the reiterated words "combined forces" and the shifting of the eyeglass irritated me beyond endurance. In the earlier moments of the interview I was almost unconscious, and yet I could count how often that eyeglass dropped and was put up again. It always used to be thus with me, and it was so now. After tea I conducted Kromitzki to the room he was to occupy for the night. He did not cease talking, but went on in the same strain while with the help of the servant he unpacked his portmanteau. Sometimes he interrupted his flow of words in order to show me some specimens brought from the East. He undid his travelling straps, unfolded two small Eastern rugs, and said:-- "I bought these at Batoum. Pretty things, are they not? They will do to put before our bed." He got tired at last, and after the servant had gone he sat down in the armchair, and still continued to talk about his affairs, while I thought of something else. When we are not able to defend ourselves from a great misfortune, there is one safety-valve,--we may be able to grapple with some of its details. I was now mainly busy with the thought whether Kromitzki would go with us to Gastein or not. Therefore after some time I remarked:-- "I did not know you formerly; but I begin to think that you are the kind of man to make your fortune. You are not in the least flighty, and would never sacrifice important affairs for mere sentimentality." He pressed my hand warmly. "You have no idea," he said, "how much I wish you to trust me." At the moment I did not attach any special meaning to his words. I was too much occupied with my own thoughts, and especially with the reflection that in regard to Kromitzki I had already been guilty of a lie and a meanness,--a lie, because I did not believe in his business capacities at all; a meanness, because I flattered the man I should have liked to kill with a glance. But I was only anxious to induce him not to go to Gastein; therefore I went deeper and deeper into the quagmire. "I see this journey does not suit you in the least," I said. Thereupon, egoist that he is, feeling things only in so far as they concern himself, he began to grumble at his mother-in-law. "Of course it does not suit me," he said; "and between ourselves I do not see the necessity of it. There is a limit to everything, even to a daughter's affection for her mother. Once married, a woman ought to understand that her first duty is toward her husband. Besides, a mother-in-law who is always there, either in the same room or in the next, is a nuisance, and prevents a young married couple from drawing near to each other, and living exclusively for themselves. I do not say but that love for one's parents is a good thing, if not carried too far and made an impediment in one's life." Once embarked upon that theme he gave expression to very commonplace and mean sentiments, which irritated me all the more that from his point of view there was certainly some truth in what he said. "There is no help for it," he concluded; "I made a bargain, and must stick to it." "Then you mean to go with them to Gastein?" "Yes; I have some personal interest in the journey. I want to enter into closer relation with my wife's family and gain your confidence. We will speak of that later on. I am free for a month or six weeks. I left Lucian Chwastowski in charge of the business, and he is, as the English say, a 'solid' man. Besides, when one has a wife like Aniela one wants to stop with her a little while,--you understand, eh?" Saying this he laughed, showing his yellow, decayed teeth, and clapped me on the knee. A cold shiver penetrated to my very brain. I felt myself growing pale. I rose and turned away from the light to hide my face, then made a powerful effort to collect myself and asked "When do you intend going to Ploszow?" "To-morrow, to-morrow." "Good-night." "Good-night," he replied, his eyeglass dropping once more. He put out both hands, adding: "I am tremendously glad to have the opportunity to get more acquainted with you. I always liked you, and I am sure we shall understand each other." We understand each other! How intensely stupid the man is! But the more stupid he is, the more horrible to me is the thought that Aniela belongs to him, is simply a thing of his! I did not even try to undress that night. I never had seen so clearly that there may be situations where words come to an end, the power of reasoning ceases, even the power of feeling one's calamity,--to which there seems to be no limit. A truly magnificent life which is given unto us! It is enough to say that those former occasions when Aniela trampled upon my feelings, and when I thought I had reached the height of misery, appear now to me as times of great happiness. If then, if even now, the Evil One promised me in exchange for my soul that everything should remain as it was, Aniela forever to reject my love, but Kromitzki not to come near her,--I would sign the agreement without hesitation. Because in the man rejected by a woman there grows involuntarily a conviction that she is like a Gothic tower far out of his reach, to which he scarcely dares to lift his eyes. Thus I always thought of Aniela. And then comes a Pan Kromitzki, with two rugs from Batoum, and drags her from the height, that inexorable priestess, down to a level with those rugs. What a terrible thing it is, that imagination can bring it all so clear before us! And how repulsively mean he is, and how ridiculous withal! Where are all my theories, my reasonings, that love is far above matrimonial bonds,--that I have a right to love Aniela? I still have my theories, while Kromitzki has Aniela. As the wind is tempered to the shorn lamb I thought the human being capable of carrying only a certain weight, and that if more were put upon his back he must needs break down. In my misery without bounds, and in my equally great foolishness and degradation, I felt that from the time of Kromitzki's arrival I was beginning to despise Aniela. Why? I could not justify it upon any common grounds. "One wife, one husband." This law I know by heart, like any other fool; but in relation to my own feelings it is a degradation for Aniela. What does it matter that it does not stand to reason? I know that I despise her, and it is more than I can bear. I felt that existence under these conditions would become simply impossible, and that necessarily there must be some change and the past be buried. What change? If my scorn could throttle my love, as a wolf throttles a lamb, it would be well. But I had a foreboding that something else would take place. If I did not love Aniela I could not despise her now; therefore my scorn is only another link in the chain, I understand perfectly that beyond Pani Kromitzka, beyond Pan Kromitzki and their relation to each other, nothing interests me,--nothing whatever; neither light nor darkness, war nor peace, nor any other thing. She, Aniela, or rather both she and her husband, and my part in their life, are my reason for existence. If for this same reason I cannot bear my existence any longer, what will happen then? Suddenly it came upon me, as a surprise, that I had not thought of the most simple solution of the problem,--death. What a tremendous power there is in human hands,--the power of cutting the thread. Now I am ready. Evil genius of my life, do thy worst; pile weight upon weight,--but only up to a certain time, as long as I consent. If I find it too much I throw off the burden! "E poi eterna silenza," Nirvana, the "fourth dimension" of Zöllner--what do I know? The thought that it all depended upon me gave me an immense relief. I remained thus an hour, stretched out on the couch, thinking how and when I would do it; and that very abstraction of my thoughts from Kromitzki seemed to calm me. Such a thing as the taking of one's life wants some preparation, and this also forced my thoughts into another groove. I remembered at once that my travelling revolver was of too small a calibre. I got up to look at it and resolved to buy a new one. I began to calculate ways and means to make it appear an accident. All this of course as a mere theory. Nothing was settled into a fixed purpose. I might call it rather a contemplating the possibility of suicide than a purpose. On the contrary, I was now certain it would not come to that soon. Now that I knew the door by which I could escape I thought I might wait a little to see how far my evils would extend, and what new tortures fate had in store for me. I was consumed by a burning and painful curiosity as to what would happen next, how those two would meet, and how Aniela would face me? I became very tired, and dressed as I was I fell into a troubled sleep, full of Kromitzkis, eyeglasses, revolvers, and all sorts of confused combinations of things and people. I woke up late. The servant told me that Pan Kromitzki had gone to Ploszow. My first impulse was to follow and see them together. But when seated in the carriage I suddenly felt I could not bear it, that it would be too great a trial, and might hasten my escape through the open door into the unknown; and I gave orders to drive somewhere else. The greatest pessimist instinctively avoids pain, and fights against it with all his might. He clutches at every hope and expects relief through every change. There awoke within me such a desire to make them go to Gastein as if my very life depended upon it. To make them leave Ploszow! The thought did not give me rest, and took such possession of me that I gave my whole mind to its realization. This did not present great difficulties. The ladies were almost ready to start. Kromitzki had come unexpectedly, evidently intending to give his wife a surprise. A few days later he would not have found us at Ploszow. I went to the railway office and secured places in a sleeping-car for Vienna; then sent a messenger with a letter to my aunt telling her I had bought tickets for the following day, as all the carriages were engaged for the following week, and we should have to go to-morrow. 26 June. I still linger over the last moments spent at Warsaw. These memories impressed themselves so strongly on my mind that I cannot pass them over in silence. The day following Kromitzki's arrival I had a strange sensation. It seemed to me that I did not love Aniela any longer, and yet could not live without her. It was the first time I felt this--I might call it psychical dualism. Formerly my love went through its regular course. I said to myself, "I love her, therefore I desire her,"--with the same logic as Descartes employs in the statement, "I think, therefore I exist." Now the formula is changed into, "I do not love her, but desire her still;" and both elements exist in me as if they were engraved on two separate stones. For some time I did not realize that the "I do not love her" was merely a delusion. I love her as before, but in such a sorrowing manner, with so much bitterness and venom, that the love has nothing in common with happiness. Sometimes I fancy that even if Aniela were to confess to me her love, if she were divorced or a widow, I should not be happy any more. I would buy such an hour at the price of my life, but truly I do not know whether I should be able to convert it into real happiness. Who knows whether the nerves that feel happiness be not paralyzed in me? Such a thing might happen. Really, what is life worth under such conditions? The day before our departure, I went to a gunsmith's shop. It was a quaint old man who sold me the revolver. If he were not a gunsmith he might become a professor of psychology. I told him I wanted a revolver, no matter whose make, Colt's or Smith's, provided it were good and of a large calibre. The old man picked out the weapon, which I accepted at once. "You will want cartridges, sir?" "Yes, I was going to ask you for them." "And a case, sir?" he said, looking at me keenly. "Of course, a case." "That's all right, sir; then I will give you cartridges of the same number as the revolver." It was now my turn to look attentively at him. He understood the inquiring look, and said:-- "I have been in the trade over forty years, sir, and learned something about my customers. It often happens that people buy revolvers to blow out their brains. Would you believe it never happens that such a one buys a case? It is always this way: 'Please give me a revolver.' 'With the case?' 'No, never mind the case.' It is a strange thing that a man about to throw away his life should grudge a rouble for the case. But such is human nature. Everybody says to himself, 'What the devil do I want with a case?' And that's how I always find out whether a man means mischief or not." "That is very curious indeed," I replied; and it seemed to me a very characteristic sign. The gunsmith, with a slight twinkle in his eye, went on: "Therefore as soon as I perceive his drift I make a point of giving him cartridges a size too large. It is not a small thing, the taking away one's life; it requires a deal of courage and determination. I fancy many a man breaks into a cold perspiration as he finally says: 'Now for the revolver! Ah, the cartridges do not fit; the gunsmith made a mistake;' and he has to put it off until the following day. And do you think, sir, it is an easy thing to do it twice over? Many a man who has faced death once cannot do it again. There were some who came the next day to buy a case. I laughed in my sleeve and said: 'There's your case, and may it last you a long time.'" I note down this conversation because everything relating to suicide has become of interest to me, and the old gunsmith's words appeared to contain a bit of philosophy worth preserving. 27 June. Now and then I remind myself that Aniela loved me, that I could have married her, that my life might have been made bright and happy, that it merely depended upon me, and that I wasted all that through my incapacity for action. Then I put to myself the question: "Is there any sign of insanity in me, and is it indeed true that I could have had Aniela forever?" It must be true, for how could I otherwise recall all the incidents from the time I met her first up to the present moment? And to think that she might have been mine, and as faithful and loyal to me as she is to that other one!--a hundred times more faithful, because she would love me from her whole soul. Innate incapacity?--yes, that is it. But even if it justifies me in my own eyes, what matters it to me, since it does not give me any comfort? The only thought that gives me comfort is that the descendants of decayed as well as of the most buoyant races have to go the same way,--to dust and ashes. This makes the difference between the weak and the strong a great deal less. The whole misfortune of beings like me is their isolation. What erroneous ideas have our novelists, and for the matter of that even our physiologists, about the decaying races. They fancy that inward incapacity must invariably correspond with physical deterioration, small build, weak muscles, anæmic brain, and weak intelligence. This may be the case now and then, but to regard it as a general principle is a mistake and a pedantic repetition of the same thing over and over again. The descendants of worn-out races have no lack of vital powers, but they lack harmony among these powers. I myself am physically a powerful man, and never was a fool. I knew people of my sphere built like Greek statues, clever, gifted, and yet they did not know how to fit themselves into life, and ended badly, exactly through that want of even balance in their otherwise luxuriant vital powers. They exist among us as in a badly organized society where nobody knows where the rights of the one begin and those of another cease. We live in anarchy, and it is a known fact that in anarchy society cannot exist. Each of the powers drags its own way, often pulling all the others with it; and this produces a tragic exclusiveness. I am now suffering from this exclusiveness, by reason of which nothing interests me beyond Aniela, nothing matters to me, and there is nothing else to which I can attach my life. But people do not understand that such a want of even balance, such anarchy of the vital powers, is a far greater disease than physical or moral anæmia. This is the solution of the problem. Formerly the conditions of life and a differently constituted community summoned us, and in a way forced us, into action. Now, in these antihygienic times, when we have nothing to do with public life, and are poisoned by philosophy and doubts, our disease has grown more acute. We have come to this at last, that we are not capable of sustained action, that our vitality shows itself only in sudden leaps and bounds, and consequently the most gifted among us always end in some kind of madness. Of all that constitutes life there is only woman left for us; and we either fritter and squander ourselves away in licentiousness or cling to one love as to a branch that overhangs a precipice. As it is mostly an unlawful love we cling to, it carries within itself the elements of a tragedy. I know that my love for Aniela must end badly; and therefore I do not even try to defend myself from it. Besides, whether I resist or submit, it means ruin either way. 28 June. The baths and especially the cool, bracing air are improving Pani Celina's health, and she is growing stronger day by day. I surround her with every care and think of her comforts as if she were my own mother. She is grateful for it, and seems to be growing very fond of me. Aniela notices it, and cannot help feeling a certain regret at this vision of happiness that might have been ours if things had turned out differently. I am quite certain now that she does not love Kromitzki. She is and will be faithful to him; but when I see them together I notice in her face a certain constraint and humiliation. I see it every time when he, whether really in love or only showing himself off as a doting husband, fondles her hands, smoothes her hair or kisses her brow. She would rather hide herself in the very earth than be forced to submit to these endearments in my and other people's presence. Nevertheless she submits, with a forced smile. I smile too, but as a diversion I mentally plunge my hands into my vitals and tear them to pieces. At times the thought crosses my mind that this priestess of Diana is more at ease and less reticent when alone with her husband. But I do not often indulge in thoughts like these, for I feel that one drop more and I shall lose my self-control altogether. My relation to Aniela is terrible for me as well as for her. My love shows itself in the guise of hatred, scorn, and irony. It frightens Aniela and hurts her. She looks at me now and then, and her pleading eyes say, "Is it my fault?" And I repeat to myself, "It is not her fault;" but I cannot, God help me, I cannot be different to her. The more I see her oppressed and hurt, the fiercer becomes my resentment towards her, towards Kromitzki, myself, and the whole world. And yet I pity her from my whole heart, for she is as unhappy as I am. But as water, instead of subduing a conflagration, makes it rage all the fiercer, so my feelings are rendered fiercer by despair. I treat the dearest being with scorn, anger, and irony, and thereby hurt myself far more than I hurt her; for she is capable of forgiveness, but I shall never be able to forgive myself. 29 June. That man notices there is some ill-feeling between me and his wife, and he explains it in a manner worthy of him. It seems to him that I hate her because she preferred him to me. He fancies that my resentment is nothing but offended vanity. Truly only a husband can look upon it in this light. Consequently he tries to make it up to her by his caresses, and treats me with the kind indulgence of a generous victor. How vanity blinds some people! What a strange creature he is! He goes every day to the Straubinger hotel, watches the couples promenading on the Wandelbahn, and with a certain delight puts the worst construction upon their mutual relations. He laughs at the husbands who, according to his views, are deceived by their wives; every new discovery puts him into better humor, and his eyeglass is continually dropping out and put back again. And yet the same man who considers conjugal faithlessness such an excellent opportunity for making silly jokes, would consider it the most awful tragedy if it happened to himself. Since it is only a question of other people it is a farce; touching his own happiness it would cry out to heaven for vengeance. Why, you fool!--go to the looking glass, see yourself as you are, your Mongolian eyes, that hair like a black Astrachan cap, that eyeglass, those long shanks; enter into yourself and see the meanness of your intellect, the vulgarity of your character,--and tell me whether a woman like Aniela ought to remain true to you for an hour! How did you manage to get her, you spiritual and physical upstart? Is it not an unnatural monstrosity that you are her husband? Dante's Beatrice, marrying a common Florentine cad, would have been better matched. I had to interrupt my writing because I felt I was losing my balance; and yet I fancied myself resigned! May Kromitzki rest easy; I do not feel that I am any better than he. Even if I supposed I was made of finer stuff than he, it would be small comfort, since my deeds are worse than his. He has no need of hiding anything, and I am obliged to play the hypocrite, take him always into account, conceal my real feelings, deceive and circumvent him. Can there be anything meaner than pursuing such a course of action, instead of taking him by the throat? I abuse him in my diary. Such underhand satisfaction even a slave may permit himself towards his master. Kromitzki never could have felt so small as I did in my own eyes when I committed a multitude of littlenesses, devised cunning plans to make him take separate lodgings and not stop in the same house with Aniela. And after all, I gained nothing. With the simple sentence, "I wish to be near my wife" he demolished all my plans. It is simply unbearable, especially as Aniela understands every movement of mine, every word and scheme. I fancy she must often blush for me. All this taken together makes up my daily food. I do not think I shall be able to bear it much longer, as I cannot be equal to the situation,--which simply means: I am not villain enough for the conditions in which I live. 30 June. I overheard from the veranda the end of a conversation carried on in an audible voice between Kromitzki and Aniela. "I will speak to him myself," said Kromitzki; "but you must tell your aunt the position I am in." "I will never do it," replied Aniela. "Not if such is my wish?" he said sharply. Not desirous of playing the part of eavesdropper, I went into the room. I saw on Aniela's face an expression of pain, which she tried to hide upon seeing me. Kromitzki was white with anger, but greeted me with a smile. For a moment an unreasonable fear got hold of me that she had confessed something to her husband. I am not afraid of Kromitzki; my only fear is that he may take away Aniela and thus part me from my sorrows, my humiliations, and torments. I live by them; without them I should be famished. Anything rather than part from Aniela. In vain I racked my brain to guess what could have taken place between them. At moments I thought it probable that she had told him something; but then his manner towards me would have changed, and it was if anything even more polite than usual. Generally speaking, but for my aversion to the man, I have no fault to find with him in so far as I am concerned. He is very polite and friendly, gives way to me in everything as if he were dealing with a nervous woman. He tries all means to gain my confidence. It does not discourage him in the least that I meet his advances at times brusquely or sarcastically, and without much consideration for his feelings show up his ignorance and want of refined nerves. I do not miss any opportunity to expose before Aniela how commonplace he is in heart and intellect. But he is wonderfully patient. Maybe he is so only with me. To-day I saw him for the first time angry with Aniela, and his complexion was of the greenish hue of people who are angry in cold blood and nurse their wrath long afterwards. Aniela is probably afraid of him, but she is afraid of everybody,--even of me. It is sometimes difficult to understand how this woman with the temper of a dove can at a given moment summon so much energy. There was a time when I thought her too passive to be able to resist me long. What a disappointment! Her resistance is all the stronger, the more unexpected it is. I do not know what was the question between her and Kromitzki, but if she says that she is not going to do what he asks her, she will shake with fear but will not yield. If she were mine, I would love her as the dog loves its mistress; I would carry her on my hands, and not allow the dust to touch her feet; I would love her until death. 1 July. My jealousy would be a miserable thing if it were not at the same time the pain of the true believer who sees his divinity dragged in the dust. I would abstain even from touching her hand if I could place her on some inapproachable height where nobody could come near her. 2 July. I deluded myself as to my state of quiescence. It was only a temporary torpidity of the nerves, which I mistook for calmness. Besides, I knew it could not last. 3 July. Yes, something has passed between them. They hide some mutual offence, but I see it. For some days I have noticed that he does not take her hands, as he used to and kiss them in turn; he does not stroke her hair or kiss her forehead. I had a moment of real joy, but Aniela herself poisoned it. I see that she tries to conciliate and humor him as if wishing to restore their former relations. At the sight of this a great rage possessed me, and showed itself in my behavior to Aniela. Never had I been so pitiless to her and myself. 4 July. To-day, returning from the Wandelbahn, I met Aniela on the bridge opposite the Cascades. She stopped suddenly and said something, but the roar of the water drowned her voice. This irritated me, for at present everything irritates me. Whereupon, leading her across the bridge towards our villa, I said impatiently: "I could not hear what you were saying." "I wanted to ask you," she said, with emotion, "why you are so different to me now? Why have you no pity upon me?" All my blood rushed to my heart at these words. "Can you not see," I said quickly, "that I love you more than words can tell? and you treat it as if it were a mere nothing. Listen! I do not want anything from you. Only tell me that you love me, surrender your heart to me, and I will bear anything, suffer anything, and will give my whole life to you and serve you to the last breath. Aniela, you love me! Tell me, is it not true? You will save me by that one word; say it!" Aniela had grown as pale as the foam on the cascade. It seemed as if she had turned to ice. For a moment she could not utter a word; then making a great effort, she replied:-- "You must not speak to me in that way." "Then you will never say it?" "Never!" "Then you have not the least--" I broke off. It suddenly whirled across my brain that if Kromitzki asked her, she would not refuse him; and at this thought rage and despair deprived me of all consciousness. I heard the rushing of waters in my ear, and everything grew dark before my eyes. I only remember that I hurled a few horrible, cynical words at her, such as no man should use against a defenceless woman, and which I dare not put down in this diary. I remember as in a dream that she looked at me with dilated eyes, took me by the sleeve, then shook my shoulder, and said, anxiously:-- "Leon, what is the matter with you,--what ails you?" What ailed me was that I was losing my senses. I tore my hand away and rushed off in the opposite direction. After a moment I retraced my steps; but she was gone. Then I understood only one thing: the time had come to put an end to life. The thought seemed to me like a rift in the dark clouds that weighed upon me. It was a strange state of consciousness, in one direction. For the moment all thoughts about myself, about Aniela, were wiped from my memory; but I contemplated the thought of death with the greatest self-possession. I knew, for instance, perfectly well that if I threw myself from the rocks it would be considered an accident, and if I shot myself in my own room my aunt would not survive the shock. It was still stranger that, in spite of this consciousness, I did not feel called upon to make any choice, as if the connection between my reasoning and my will and its consequent action had been severed. With a perfectly clear understanding that it would be better to throw myself from the rocks, I yet went back to the villa for my revolver. Why? I cannot explain it. I only remember that I ran faster and faster, at last went up the stairs into my room, and began to search for the key of my portmanteau, where the revolver was. Presently I heard steps approaching my door. This roused me, and the thought flashed through my mind that it was Aniela, that she had guessed my intention, and came to prevent it. The door was flung open, and there was my aunt, who called out in a breathless voice:-- "Leon, go quick for the doctor! Aniela has been taken ill." Hearing that, I forgot all else, and without hat I rushed forth, and in a quarter of an hour brought a doctor from the Straubinger hotel. The doctor went to see Aniela, and I remained with my aunt on the veranda. I asked her what had happened to Aniela. "Half an hour ago," said my aunt, "Aniela came back with such a feverishly burning face that both Celina and I asked whether anything had happened to her. She replied, 'Nothing, nothing,' almost impatiently; and when Celina insisted upon knowing what was the matter with her, Aniela, for the first time since I have known her, lost her temper and cried out, 'Why are you all bent upon tormenting me?' Then she became quite hysterical, and laughed and cried. We were terribly frightened, and then I came and asked you to fetch the doctor. Thank God, she is calmer now. How she wept, poor child, and asked us to forgive her for having spoken unkindly to us." I remained silent; my heart was too full for words. My aunt paced up and down the veranda, and presently, her arms akimbo, stopped before me and said,-- "Do you know, my boy, what I am thinking? It is this: We somehow do not like Kromitzki,--even Celina is not fond of him; and Aniela sees it, and it hurts her feelings. It is a strange thing; he does his best to make himself pleasant, and yet he always seems like an outsider. It is not right, and it grieves Aniela." "Do you think, aunty, that she loves him so very much?" "I did not say very much. He is her husband, and so she loves him, and feels hurt that we treat him badly." "But who treats him badly? I think she is not happy with him,--that is all." "God forbid that you should be right. I do not say but she might have done better; but after all there is nothing to be said against him. He evidently loves her very much. Celina cannot quite forgive him the sale of Gluchow; but as to Aniela, she defends him, and does not allow anybody to say a word against him." "Perhaps against her own conviction?" "It proves all the more that she loves him. As to his affairs, the worst is that nobody knows how he stands; and this is a great source of trouble to Celina. But after all, wealth is not everything; besides, as I told you before, I will not forget to provide for Aniela, and you agree with me, do you not? We both owe her a kind of duty, not to mention that she is a dear, affectionate creature, and deserves everything we can do for her." "With all my heart, dear aunt; she will be always as a sister to me, and shall not be in want of anything as long as I live." "I count upon my dear boy, and can die in peace." Thereupon she embraced me. The doctor, coming towards us, interrupted our conversation. In a few words he set our minds at rest,-- "A little nervous agitation; it often appears after the first baths. Leave off bathing for a few days, plenty of air and exercise,--that is all that is wanted. The constitution is sound; strengthen the system, and all will be well." I paid him so liberally that he bowed, and did not put on his hat till he was beyond the railings of the villa. I would have given anything if I could have gone immediately to Aniela, kissed her feet, and begged her forgiveness for all the wrong I had done her. I vowed to myself that I would be different, more patient, with Kromitzki,--not revolt any more, nor grumble. Contrition, contrition deep and sincere, permeated my whole being. How unspeakably I love her! Close upon noon I met Kromitzki coming back from a long walk on the Kaiserweg. I put my good resolutions at once to the test, and was more friendly with him. He thought it was sympathy because of his wife's illness, and as such accepted it in a grateful spirit. He and Pani Celina spent the remainder of the day with Aniela. She had expressed a wish to dress and go out; but they did not let her. I did not permit myself even to chafe at that. I do not remember that I ever subdued myself to the same extent. "It is all for you, dearest," I said inwardly. I was very stupid all the day, and felt an irresistible desire to cry like a child. Even now tears fill my eyes. If I have sinned greatly, I bear a heavy punishment. 5 July. After yesterday's commotion a calm has set in. The clouds have discharged their electricity, and the storm is over. I feel exhausted morally and physically. Aniela is better. This morning we met alone on the veranda. I put her on a rocking-chair, wrapped a shawl around her shoulders, as the morning was rather chilly, and said:-- "Aniela dear, I beg your pardon from my whole heart for what I said yesterday. Forgive and forget if you can, though I shall never forgive myself." She put out her hand at once, and I clung to it with my lips. I could have groaned aloud; there is such a gulf between my love and my misery. Aniela seemed to feel it too, for she did not withdraw her hand at once. She too tried to control her emotion, and the feeling which urged her towards me. Her neck and breast heaved as if she were strangling the sobs that rose to her throat. She feels that I love her beyond everything; that a love like mine is not to be met with every day; and that it might have been a treasure of happiness to last our whole life. Presently she grew more composed and her face became serene. There was nothing but resignation there, and angelic goodness. "There is peace between us, is there not?" she asked. "Yes," I replied. "And forever?" "How can I tell, dearest? You know best how things stand with me." Her eyes again grew misty, and again she recovered herself. "All will be well," she said, "you are so good." "I, good?" I exclaimed with real indignation; "do you not know that if you had not fallen ill yesterday I should--" I did not finish. I suddenly remembered that it would be mean and cowardly to use such a weapon against her. I felt all the more ashamed of my rashness as I saw the troubled eyes looking anxiously into mine. "What did you want to say?" "I was going to say words unworthy of myself; besides, they have no meaning now." "Leon! I must know what you meant, else I shall have no peace." Suddenly a breath of wind blew a lock of her hair into her eyes. I rose, and with the light, tender touch of a mother, put it back into its place. "Dear Aniela, do not force me to tell what I ought to forget. If it be a question of your peace of mind I pledge you my word that you need not have any fear for the future." "You promise this?" she asked, still looking intently at me. "Yes, most solemnly and emphatically; will that satisfy you, and drive out any foolish notions from the little head?" The postman coming in with a parcel of letters interrupted our conversation. There was the usual budget from the East for Kromitzki; only one letter for Aniela, from Sniatynski (I recognized his handwriting on the envelope), and one for me from Clara. The latter does not say much about herself, but inquires most minutely what I am doing. I told Aniela who it was that had written, and she, to show me that all ill-feeling and constraint had gone, began to tease me. I paid her back in the same coin, and pointing to Sniatynski's letter said there was another poor man who had succumbed to little Aniela's wiles. We laughed and bandied jests for a little time. The human soul, like the bee, extracts sweetness even from bitter herbs. The most unhappy wretch still tries to squeeze out a little happiness from his woes, and the merest shadow and pretext will serve his turn. Sometimes I think that this intense longing for happiness is one proof more that happiness is awaiting us in another world. I am convinced also that pessimism was invented as a comfort to satisfy a want, sum up all human misery, and put it into a philosophic formula. It satisfies our thirst for truth and knowledge, and happiness itself is nothing but satisfied craving. Perhaps love in itself is such a source of happiness that even a clouded love like ours is interwoven with golden rays. Such a ray fell on our path to-day. I had not expected it, as I had not expected that a man whose desires are without limits could be satisfied with so little. We had scarcely read our letters when Pani Celina, who is now able to walk without help, came towards us with a footstool for Aniela. "Oh mamma!" cried out Aniela, in a shocked voice; "You ought not to do that." "And did you not yourself nurse me night and day when I was ill?" I took the footstool from Pani Celina's hands, and kneeling down before Aniela, I waited until she had put her little feet upon it; and kneeling thus before her for a second filled me with happiness for the whole day. It is a fact. A very poor man lives upon crumbs, and smiles gratefully--through tears. 6 July. I have a crippled heart, but it is capable of love. It is only now I fully understand what Sniatynski meant. If I were not a man out of joint, without an even-balanced mind, poisoned by scepticism, criticism of myself, and criticism of criticism, if my love were in harmony with law and principles, I should have found in Aniela the dogma of my life, and other dogmas, other beliefs, would have come to me in course of time. Yet I do not know; perhaps I could not love otherwise than crookedly; and in this lies my incapacity for life. In short, that which ought to have been my health and salvation has become my disease and damnation. Strange to say, there was no lack of warnings. It almost seems as if people had foreseen what would befall me. I remember constantly the words Sniatynski wrote to me when I was with the Davises at Peli: "Something must always be growing within us; beware lest something should grow in you which would cause your unhappiness, and the unhappiness of those near and dear to you." I laughed then at the words, yet how true they were. My father, too, spoke several times as if he had pierced the veil that hides the future. To-day the remembrance is too late. I know it is useless to rake up the ashes of the past, but I cannot help it. I am sorry for myself, but more sorry still for Aniela. She would have been a hundred times happier with me than with Kromitzki. Supposing even I should have subjected her at first to analysis, and discovered various faults, I should have loved her all the same. She would have been mine, and as such she would have become part of me and entered into the sphere of my egoism. Her faults would have been my weaknesses, and we are always ready to make allowance for ourselves, and though we criticise self we do not cease to care for its well-being. Thus she would have been dear to me; and as she is infinitely better than I, in time she would have become my pride, the noblest part of my soul; I should have found out that criticism, as far as she was concerned, was out of place; gradually she would have won me over to her pure faith and wrought my salvation. All that has been wasted, spoiled, and transmuted into a tragedy for her,--into evil and a tragedy for me. 7 July. I have been reading what I wrote yesterday, and am struck by what I said at the end, namely: that the love which might have been my salvation has become a source of evil. I cannot quite agree with the thought. How can love for a pure woman like Aniela bring forth evil? One word explains it,--it is a crooked love. I must own the truth. If two years ago somebody had told me that I, a civilized man, a man with aesthetic nerves, and living in peace with the penal code, should meditate for nights and days how to put out of the world, even by murder, a man who would be in my way, I should have taken that somebody for an escaped lunatic. Yet it is true; I have come to that. Kromitzki shuts out from me the world; he takes from me the earth, water, and air. I cannot live because he lives; and for that reason I incessantly think of his death. What a simple and complete solution of all the difficulties and entanglements his death would be. I thought more than once that since the hypnotizer can send his medium to sleep, a more concentrated power would be able to put him to sleep forever. I have sent for all the newest books about hypnotism. In the mean while with every glance I say to Kromitzki, "Die!" and if such a suggestion were sufficient, he would have been dead some time ago. But the whole result of it is that he is as well as ever, is Aniela's husband, and I remain with the consciousness that my intention is equally criminal and foolish, ridiculous, and unworthy of an active man; and it makes me lose my self-respect more and more. Yet it does not prevent my trying to hypnotize Kromitzki. It is the old story again of the intelligent man who, given up by the doctors, goes for advice to quacks and wise women. I want to kill my enemy by hypnotism; and as it only shows my own worthlessness, it is I who suffer by it. I must also confess that as often as I am alone, I begin to think of all possible means in human power to put the hateful man out of the way. For some time I nursed the thought of killing him in a duel; but this would not lead to anything. Aniela would never marry the man who had killed her husband; then, like a common criminal, I began to think of other ways. And what is the strangest thing of all, I discovered ways which human justice would not be able to detect. Foolishness! vain thoughts! pure theory! Kromitzki need have no fear for his life; thoughts like these will never be acted upon. I should not kill him if I could do it without more responsibility than is incurred in crushing a spider; should not kill him if we two were alone together on a desert island. If one could divide the human brain as one cuts in two an apple, and lay bare its thoughts, it would be found that mine is honeycombed with murderous thoughts. What is more, I am well aware that if I refrain from killing Kromitzki it is not by reason of any moral principle contained in the law "Thou shalt do no murder." This law I have already violated morally. I refrain from killing him because some remnants of chivalric tradition bar my way; because my refined nerves would not permit me to commit a brutal deed; in short, I am too far removed from primitive man to be physically competent to the task, though morally I slay him every day. And now I ask myself whether, in presence of a higher judgment, I should be held responsible, as if I had committed the deed. It may be that if one could lay open the human brain, as I said before, in the most virtuous individual thoughts would be found to make our hair stand on end. I remember that, when a little boy, there came upon me a period of such religious fervor that I prayed from morning until night; and at the same time, in the midst of my pious transports, there came into my mind blasphemous thoughts, as if an evil wind had blown them thither, or a demon whispered them into my ear. In the same way I had irreverent thoughts about persons whom I loved with all my heart and for whom I would have given my life without a moment's hesitation. I remember that this, which I might call a tragedy of childhood, cost me a great deal of anguish. But I will not dwell upon that now. Going back to blasphemous or criminal thoughts, I do not think we are responsible for them, as they come from the knowledge of evil, not from an evil growing within the organism itself; and for the very reason that it is outward to ourselves we fancy an evil spirit suggesting the thoughts. Man listens to it, and being averse to evil, spurns it; and there may be some merit in this. But with me it is different. The thought of getting rid of Kromitzki does not come from the outside, but springs from me and exists within me. I have come down to that morally, and if I do not commit the deed it is a mere matter of nerves. The part of my inward Mephistopheles is confined to mocking and whispering into my ear that the deed would only prove my energy, and not be much of a crime. These are the crossways on which I never dreamed of finding myself. I look into the depths of my own self with amazement. I do not know whether my exceptional troubles will partly atone for my errors, but one thing I know, namely: that he whose life cannot find room in the simple code Aniela and others like her cling to, if his soul is brimming over and breaks its bounds it must mix with dust and be polluted in the mud. 9 July. To-day in the reading-room Kromitzki pointed out to me an Englishman accompanied by a very beautiful woman, and told me their story. The beauty is a Roumanian by birth and married a Wallachian bankrupt Boyar, from whom the Englishman simply bought her at Ostend. I have heard of similar transactions at least a dozen times. Kromitzki even mentioned the sum the Englishman had given for her. The story made a strange impression upon me. I thought to myself, "This is one way, however disgraceful for the seller and buyer; it is a simple method of obtaining a desired result. The woman concerned in it need not know anything about the transaction, and the agreement could be concealed under decent appearances." Involuntarily I began to apply the idea to our own situation. Suppose it answered. The whole thing presented itself to me under two aspects: in regard to Aniela as a horrible profanation; in regard to Kromitzki, not only as feasible, but at the same time gratifying my scorn and hatred for him. If he agreed to it, he would prove himself a villain, and show what kind of man he is, and what a monstrous thing has been done in giving Aniela to him. I should then be quite justified in all my endeavors to take her from him. But would he agree? I said to myself: "You hate him, and consequently believe him capable of any evil." But thinking of him objectively, I remembered that the man had sold his wife's property, had deceived her and Pani Celina, and also that the ruling passion of his life was greed for gain. It was not I alone who considered him as one wholly possessed by the gold fever. Sniatynski thought the same, and so do my aunt and Pani Celina. This kind of moral disease always leads into pitfalls. I understand that much will depend upon the state of his affairs. How they stand nobody seems to know, unless it be his agent Chwastowski. It suddenly struck me that I might get some information from this same Chwastowski, but that would take some time. Perhaps I will run over to Vienna and see his brother the doctor, who is working in the Vienna hospitals; the brothers are sure to correspond with each other. My aunt thinks that he is not doing as well as he wants us to believe, and I imagine that he has sunk all his money in some speculation from which he expects a great profit. Will he succeed?--that is the question. He himself does not know; hence his restlessness, and the multitude of letters he sends to young Chwastowski. In the mean while I will sound him cautiously, lest I should rouse his suspicions, as to what he thinks of the Boyar who sold his wife to the Englishman. I do not suppose for a moment that he will be quite sincere, but I will help him and guess the rest. The whole sum and substance of this is, that it has put a little more life into me. There is nothing more horrible than to suffer passively; and anything that rouses me from my apathy is acceptable. I repeat to myself, "At least to-morrow and the day after, you will have something to do to further your plans;" and that promises a transition from utter passiveness to a feverish activity. I must be doing something; it is a question of not losing control over my senses. I pledged my word to Aniela not to attempt my life, and I cannot go on living as I do. If the road I am taking be ignominious, the ignominy will be for Kromitzki more than for me. I must and will separate them, not only for my own sake but also for Aniela's sake. I am really feverish. Everybody seems to derive some benefit from the bathing except me. 10 July. There are some hot days even in Gastein. What heat! Aniela is dressed in white soft flannel, such as English girls wear for lawn-tennis. We have our breakfast in the open air. She comes from her bath as bright and fresh as the snow at sunrise. The supple figure shows to great advantage in the graceful dress. The morning light falls upon her and shows distinctly every hair on the eyebrows, lashes, and the delicate down on either side of her face. The hair is glistening with moisture and looks fairer in this light, and the eyelids are almost transparent. How young she is, and how intoxicating her appearance! In her, then, is my life, in her everything I want. I will not go away, I cannot. Looking at her I seem to lose my senses from intoxication, and at the same time from pain; for close by her side sits he who is her husband. It cannot continue thus; let her belong to no one provided she be not his. She understands to a certain extent what I suffer, but not altogether. She does not love her husband, but considers it her duty to live with him. I gnash my teeth at the very thought, for in admitting his rights she degrades herself; and that is not allowed, even to her. Far better she were dead. Then she will be mine; because the lawful husband will remain behind, but not I. By this token I am more lawfully hers than he is. There is something very strange going on within me at times. For instance, when I am very tired or when my mind is concentrated upon one point I seem to look into the future, into far-away space which remains invisible to me in a normal state. Then there comes to me such a conviction that Aniela belongs to me--that in some way she is or will be mine--that when I wake up I have to remind myself that there exists such a man as Kromitzki. Maybe in moments like those I cross the boundary which separates the living from the dead, and have a vision of things more perfect, such as the ideals we dream about, as they might shape themselves in outward form. Why is it these two worlds are not more in touch with each other? As often as I try to solve this problem I lose myself; I cannot understand this want of harmony, but feel dimly that therein lie our imperfection and our misery. The thought comforts me, for in the ideal world Aniela could not belong to a man like Kromitzki. 11 July. Another disappointment, another plan shattered, but I have still hope that all is not lost. I spoke to-day with Kromitzki about the Boyar who sold his wife, and invented a whole story in order to discover his real feelings. We met the Englishman with his purchased wife near the Cascades. I began by praising her beauty, and then remarked:-- "The doctor here told me something about the transaction, and I think you are a little hard upon the Boyar." "Hard upon him? not a bit; he amuses me intensely," he replied. "There are extenuating circumstances in the case. He is not only a Boyar, but the owner of extensive tannery works. Suddenly, because of the infection, the importation of skins from Roumania was forbidden. The man recognized that unless he could tide over the time until the law was repealed he would be ruined, and with him hundreds of families to whom he gave employment. My dear fellow, he looked at it from a business point of view; perhaps business morality is a little different from general morality, and as he had once entered into that--" "He had a right to sell his wife? To fulfil one part of his duties he had no right to trample upon another and perhaps more binding duty." Kromitzki could not have disappointed me more thoroughly than by thus showing some decent feeling. But I did not give up my hope at once. I know that even the meanest person has still at his disposition high-sounding words wherewith to mask his real character. Therefore I went on:-- "You do not take into account one thing, namely, that the man would have dragged his wife with him into poverty. Confess it is a singular idea of duty that it should lead us to deprive those dependent on us of their daily bread." "Do you know, I had no idea you were so deucedly sober-minded." "You fool!" I thought to myself; "don't you understand that these are not my views, but views I want you to adopt?" Aloud I said:-- "I only try to put myself into the place of this business man. Besides, you do not consider that the woman probably did not love her husband, and that the other man was aware of it." "In such a case they were worthy of each other." "That is another question altogether. Looking a little deeper into the affair, and supposing that being in love with the Englishman, she nevertheless remained faithful to her husband, she may be worthier than you think. As to the Boyar, he may be a villain for anything I know, but what can he do, I ask you, in case somebody comes to him and says: 'You are a bankrupt twice over; you have debts you cannot pay, and a wife that does not love you. Divorce that woman, and I will take care of her future, and will also take upon me all your liabilities.' It is a way of speaking, to say the man 'sold' his wife; but can a transaction like this be called a sale? Consider that the merchant who agreed to this proposition by one stroke saved his wife from poverty,--and possibly this is the right way to look upon duty,--and saved all those who depended upon him!" Kromitzki thought a little, then dropped his eyeglass and said:-- "My dear fellow, as to business I flatter myself that I know a great deal more about it than you; but as to arguments, I confess that you would soon drive me into a corner. If you had not inherited millions from your father, you would be able to amass a fortune as a barrister. You have put the whole thing in such a light that I do not know what to think of that Roumanian chap. All I know about it is that some kind of transaction about his wife had occurred, and that, put it in whatever light you will, is always a disreputable thing. Besides, as I am somewhat of a merchant myself, I will tell you another thing: a bankrupt can always find a way out of his difficulties: he either makes another fortune and then pays his debts, or he blows out his brains and pays with his life; and at the same time, if he is married, he sets his wife free and gives her another chance." I fumed and raged inwardly, and would have given anything if I could have shouted out to him: "You are a bankrupt already in one thing, for your wife does not love you. You see the Cascades; jump in, set her free, and give her the chance of some happiness." But I remained silent, chewing the bitter cud of my reflections. Kromitzki, however commonplace he might be, though capable of selling Gluchow and taking advantage of his wife's trust in him, was not the villain I took him for. It was a disappointment and destroyed the plan to which for the moment I had clung as to a plank of safety. Again I felt powerless, and saw looming up before me the vast solitude. Nevertheless, I held fast to that purpose because I understood that unless I could do something, I should go mad. "It will at least prepare the ground for anything that may turn up, and accustom Kromitzki to the thought of parting with Aniela," I said to myself. As I said before, nobody knows in what state Kromitzki's affairs are, but I suppose that a man who speculates is liable to losses as well as to gains. I said to him:-- "I do not know whether your principles are, strictly speaking, business principles, but at any rate they are the sentiments of an honorable man, and I respect you for them. You said, if I understood you, that a man has no right to drag his wife with him into poverty." "No, I did not say that; I only said that to sell one's wife is a villany; the wife ought to share her husband's fate. I think but little of a fair-weather wife, who wants to break her marriage vows because her husband cannot give her the comforts of life." "Suppose she did not agree, he might set her free against her will. Besides, if she knew that by submitting to a divorce, she could save her husband, duty well understood would bid her to yield." "It is unpleasant even to talk about such things." "Why? are you sorry for the Boyar?" "Not I; I shall always hold him for a blackguard." "Because you do not look at things from an objective point of view. But that is not astonishing. A man like you, with whom everything is prospering, cannot enter into the psychology of a bankrupt unless he be a philosopher; and philosophy has nothing to do with making millions." I did not wish to prolong the conversation, so utterly disgusted was I with my own perversity. I had sown the seed,--a very small and pitiable seed to produce anything; and yet I clung to it tenaciously. One thing revived my hope. At the moment when I tried to make him believe that a ruined man ought to set his wife free, there was a certain constraint and trouble in his expression. I also noticed that when I spoke about his millions a slight sigh escaped him. To infer from this that he is on the brink of ruin, would be jumping at conclusions; but I may fairly conjecture that his affairs are in a precarious state. I resolved to get at the truth as quickly as possible. In the mean while my own self seemed to be divided in two parts. The one said: "If you waver ever so little, I will push you downward if it should cost me my whole fortune. I will work your ruin, and when I come to deal with a broken man, it remains to be seen whether for certain transactions you do not find a gentler word than, 'villany.'" Yet I was conscious at the same time that these were not my thoughts nor my ways of dealing; that they had been suggested to me by somebody else, and that but for my desperate position they would never have found room in me, as they are averse to my nature and repulsive to me. Money never played any part in my life, either as means or as aim. I consider myself incapable of using such a weapon, and I felt what a degradation it would be for me and Aniela to introduce that element into our relations to each other. The thought of it was so repulsive to me that I said to myself: "Will you not spare yourself? Must you even drink from such a bowl? See how you are degenerating step by step. Formerly thoughts like these would never have crossed your mind; and what is more, schemes like these are utterly useless, and will only lower you in your own eyes." In fact, formerly, when my aunt spoke of Kromitzki's affairs in a doubting spirit, it had always caused me some uneasiness. The prospect that at some time or other he might want me to assist him or take a share in his transactions had made me consider what I should do in such a case; and I always vowed that I would decline and have nothing to do with any of his affairs; so repugnant to me was the thought of mingling money matters with my relations to Aniela. I remember that I saw in this another proof of the nobility and refinement of my feelings. To-day I grasp that weapon as if I were a banker and had lived by money transactions all my life. I perceive with absolute certainty that my thoughts and deeds are worse than myself, and I ask myself how that can be. Most probably because I cannot find the way out of the labyrinth. I love a noble woman; my love is very great; and yet, putting the two together, the net result is crookedness, and enchanted circles where my character loses itself and even my nerves grow less sensitive. When, in former times, I erred and strayed from the right path there still remained something, some aesthetic feeling, by the help of which I still distinguished good from evil. At present I have none of that feeling, or if it still exists it is powerless. If I had only at the same time lost the consciousness of what is ugly and offensive! But no; I have it still, only it does not serve me as a curb, and is of no effect except to aggravate my troubles. Beside my love for Aniela there is no room for anything; but consciousness does not require space. I absorb love, hatred, and sorrow as a cancer breeds in a diseased organism. He who has never been in a position similar to mine cannot understand it. I knew that from love's entanglements spring various sufferings, but I did not appreciate those sufferings. I did not believe they were so real and so difficult to bear. Only now I understand the difference between "knowing" and "believing," and the meaning of the French thinker's words: "We know we must die, but we do not believe it." 12 July. To-day my pulses are beating wildly, and there is a singing in my ears; for something has occurred the memory of which thrills every nerve as in a fever. The day was very beautiful, the evening more lovely still, and there was a full moon. We resolved to make an excursion to Hofgastein,--all but Pani Celina, who preferred to remain at home. My aunt, Kromitzki, and I went down together to the villa gate, whence Kromitzki sped towards Straubinger's to order a carriage, my aunt and I waiting for Aniela, who lingered behind. As she did not come I went back and saw her descending the winding staircase leading from the second floor into the garden. As the moon was on the other side, this part of the house was wrapped in darkness, and Aniela came down very slowly. There was a moment when my head was on a level with Aniela's feet. The temptation was too great; I put my hands gently around them and pressed my lips to them. I knew I should have to pay a heavy penalty for this minute of happiness, but I could not forego it. God knows with what reverence I touched her feet, and for how much pain this moment compensated me. But for Aniela's resistance I should have put her foot upon my head in token that I was her servant and her slave. She drew back and went upstairs again but I ran down calling out loudly, so that my aunt could hear me:-- "Aniela is coming, coming." Nothing remained for her now but to come down again, which she could do safely, as I had remained near the gate. At the same moment Kromitzki arrived with the carriage. Aniela coming up to us said:-- "I came to ask you, aunty, to let me stop at home. I would rather not leave mamma alone. You can go, and I will wait for you with the tea." "But Celina is quite well," replied my aunt, with a shade of annoyance in her voice, "it was she who proposed the excursion, mainly for your sake." "Yes, but--" began Aniela. Kromitzki came up, and hearing what was the matter, said sharply: "Please do not raise any difficulties." And Aniela, without saying a word, took her seat in the carriage. In spite of my emotion I was struck by Kromitzki's tone of voice and Aniela's silent obedience,--all the more as I had already noticed that his manners towards her during the day had been those of a man who is displeased. There was evidently the same reason, of which I knew nothing, at the bottom of this, and of the estrangement some time ago. But there was no room now for these reflections; the fresh memory of the kiss I had imprinted on her feet still overpowered my senses. I felt a great delight and joy, not unmixed with fear. I could account for the delight because I felt it every time I only touched her hand. But why the joy? Because I saw that the immaculate Aniela could not escape from me altogether, and must needs confess to herself: "I am on the downward path too, and cannot look people in the face; he was at my feet a moment ago, the man who loves me, and I am obliged to be his accomplice and cannot go to my husband and tell him to take me hence." I knew she could not do this without creating a commotion; and if she could, she would not do it, for fear of an encounter between me and Kromitzki,--"And who knows for whom she is most afraid?" something within me whispered. Aniela's position is indeed a difficult one, and I, knowing this, take advantage of it without more scruples than are admitted by a general in time of war who attacks the enemy at his weakest point. I asked myself whether I would do the same if Kromitzki would make me personally responsible; and as I could conscientiously say "Yes," I thought there was no need for any further consideration. Kromitzki inspires me with fear only in so far as he has power to remove Aniela and put her out of my reach altogether. The very thought makes me desperate. But at this moment, in the carriage, I only feared Aniela. What will happen to-morrow? How will she take it? As a liberty, or as a mere impulse of respect and worship? I felt as a dog may feel that has done wrong and is afraid of being whipped. Sitting opposite Aniela, I tried at moments when the moon shone on her face to read there what was to be my sentence. I looked at her so humbly and was so meek that I pitied myself, and thought she too ought to pity me a little. But she did not look at me at all, and listened or seemed to listen attentively to what Kromitzki was telling my aunt he would do if Gastein belonged to him. My aunt only nodded, and he repeated every moment: "Now, really, don't you think I am right?" It is evident that he wants to impress my aunt with his enterprising spirit, and to convince her that he is capable of making a shilling out of every penny. The road to Hofgastein, hewn out of the rocks, skirting the precipices, winds and twists around the mountain slopes. The light of the moon shone alternately on our faces and those of the ladies opposite, according to the varying directions of the road. In Aniela's face I saw nothing but a sweet sadness, and I took courage from the fact that it was neither stern nor forbidding. I did not obtain a single glance, but I comforted myself by the thought that when concealed in the shadow, she would perhaps look at me and say to herself: "Nobody loves me as he does, and nobody can be at the same time more unhappy than he,"--which is true. We were both silent. Only Kromitzki kept on talking; his voice mingled with the rush of the waters below the rocks and the creaking of the brake, which the driver often applied. This creaking irritated my nerves very much, but the warm, transparent night lulled them into restfulness again. It was, as I said before, full moon; the bright orb had risen above the mountains, and sailing through space illumined the tops of Bocksteinkogl, the Tischlkar glaciers, and the precipitous slopes of the Graukogl. The snow on the heights shone with a pale-green, metallic lustre, and as the mountain sides below were shrouded in darkness, the snowy sheen seemed to float in mid air, as if not belonging to the earth. There was such a charm, such peace and restfulness in these sleeping mountains, that involuntarily the words of the poet came into mind:-- "At such a moment, alas! two hearts are grieving. What there is to forgive, they are forgiving; What was to be forgot, they dismiss to oblivion." And yet what is there to forgive? That I kissed her feet? If she were a sacred statue she could not be offended by such an act of reverence. I thought if it came to an explanation between us I would tell her that. I often think that Aniela does me a great wrong, not to say that she calls things by wrong names. She considers my love a mere earthly feeling, an infatuation of the senses. I do not deny that it is composed of various threads, but there are among them some as purely ideal as if spun of poetry. Very often my senses are lulled to sleep, and I love her as one loves only in early youth. Then the second self within me mocks, and says derisively: "I had no idea you could love like a schoolboy or a romanticist!" Yet such is the fact. I may be ridiculous, but I love her thus, and it is not an artificial feeling. It is this which makes my love so complete, and at the same time so sad; for Aniela misconstrues it and cannot enter into its spirit. Even now I inwardly spoke to her thus: "Do you think there are no ideal chords in my soul? At this moment I love you in such a way that you may accept my love without fear. It would be a pity to spurn so much feeling; it would cost you nothing, and it would be my salvation. I could then say to myself: 'This is my whole world; within its boundaries I am allowed to live. It would be something at least. I would try to change my nature, try to believe in what you believe, and hold fast to it all my life.'" It seemed to me that she ought to agree to such a proposition, after which there would be everlasting peace between us. I promised myself to put it before her, and once we know that our souls belong to each other we may even part. There awoke within me a certain hope that she will agree to this, for she must understand that without it both our lives will remain miserable. It was nine o'clock when we arrived at Hofgastein. It was very quiet and still in the village. Only the Gasthaus was lighted, and before Meger's some excellent voices were singing mountain airs. I thought of asking the serenaders to sing before our window, but I found they were not villagers; they were Viennese mountaineers, to whom one could not offer money. I bought two bunches of edelweiss and other Alpine flowers, and giving one to Aniela I accidentally, as it were, unloosened the other and the flowers fell under her feet. "Let them lie there," I said, seeing she was stooping to pick them up. I went in search of some more flowers for my aunt. When I came back I heard Kromitzki say:-- "Even here at Hofgastein, by erecting another branch establishment, one could easily make a hundred per cent." "You are still hammering at the same subject," I said quietly. I said this on purpose; it was the same as to say to Aniela: "See, while my whole being is occupied with you he thinks of nothing but how to make money. Compare our feelings; compare us with each other." I am almost certain she understood my meaning. On the return journey I made several attempts to draw Aniela into general conversation, but did not succeed. When we arrived at the gate of the villa Kromitzki went upstairs with the ladies, and I remained behind to pay for the carriage. When I went up I did not find Aniela at tea. My aunt said she had gone to bed and seemed very tired. A great uneasiness got hold of me, and I reproached myself for tormenting her. There is nothing more crushing for the man who loves truly than the consciousness that he is bringing unhappiness on her he loves. We took our tea in silence, for my aunt was drowsy, Kromitzki seemed depressed, and I tormented myself more and more with anxious thoughts. "She must have taken it very much to heart," I thought, "and as usual has put upon it the worst construction." I expected she would avoid me the next day and consider our treaty of peace broken by that rash act of mine. This filled me with fear, and I resolved to go, or rather to escape, the next day to Vienna; firstly, because I dreaded meeting Aniela, secondly, because I wanted to see Doctor Chwastowski; and finally, I thought,--and God knows how bitter is the thought,--to relieve her of my presence for a few days and give her rest. 15 July. A whole budget of events. I do not know where to begin, as the last sensations are the uppermost. Never yet had I such convincing proofs that she cares for me. It will cost me no small effort to put everything down in proper order. I am now almost sure Aniela will agree to the conditions I am going to propose to her. My head is still in a whirl; but I will try to start from the beginning. I have been in Vienna and brought some news I am going to discuss with my aunt. I have seen Chwastowski. What a fine fellow he is!--works at the hospitals, is busy upon a series of hygienic articles his brother is to publish in three-penny booklets for the people, belongs to several medical and non-medical associations, and still finds time for various gay entertainments on the Kaerthner Strasse. I do not know when he finds time to sleep. And the fellow looks like a giant from a fair. What an exuberance of life!--he seems literally brimming over with life. I told him without any preliminaries what had brought me to Vienna. "I do not know," I said, "whether you are aware that my aunt and I possess considerable capital. We are not obliged to speculate, but if we could invest our money in some enterprise where it would bring profit, the profit would be so much gain for the country. I suppose if at the same time we could render a service to Pan Kromitzki it would be a two-fold gain. Between ourselves, he is personally indifferent to us, but he is by his marriage connected with our family. We should be glad to help him provided we can do so without running any risk." "And you would like to know how he stands in his affairs, sir?" "Yes, I should. He seems very sanguine in his hopes, and no doubt believes himself to be right. The question is whether he does not delude himself. Therefore if your brother has written you anything without binding you to secrecy I should like to know what he says. You might also ask him to give me an exact statement as to their business transactions. My aunt relies upon you, considering that the relations which connect us with your family are of a much older standing than those connecting her with Kromitzki." "All right; I will let my brother know about it. He mentioned something in one of his letters, but as it does not interest me very much I did not take notice of it at the time." Saying this, he began to search in his desk among his papers, where he found it easily and then read aloud: "'I am heartily tired of the place. No women here worth talking about, and not a pretty one in the whole lot.'" He laughed. "No, that's not what I wanted. He would like to be in Vienna." Turning over a page he handed it to me, but I found only these few lines:-- "As to Kromitzki, his speculation in oil has turned out a failure. With the Rothschilds a struggle is impossible, and he went against them. We had to get out of it as well as we could, but lost a deal of money. We have got a monopoly in the contract business; there are immense profits to be made, but there is also a considerable risk. It all depends upon the honesty of the people we deal with. We treat them fairly and trust to luck. But money is wanted, because the government pays us at stated terms, and we have to pay money down, and besides that, often receive bad material. I have to look at present after everything myself." "We will furnish the money," I said, when I had finished reading. On the way back to Gastein I thought it over and my better instincts prevailed. "Let the future take care of itself," I thought; and in the mean while would it not be more simple and more honest to help Kromitzki instead of ruining him? Aniela would appreciate such an act, and my disinterestedness would win her approval; and as to the future, let Providence decide about that. But would it be an act of disinterestedness on my part? Reflecting upon it, I found that my own selfish views had a great deal to do with it. Thus I foresaw that Kromitzki, getting hold of the money, would leave Gastein immediately and release me from the torments his presence near Aniela gives me. Aniela would remain alone, surrounded by my devotion, with gratitude in her heart for me, resentment or even indignation towards Kromitzki because he had availed himself of my offer. I seemed to see new horizons opening before me. But above all, and at whatever cost, I wanted to get free of Kromitzki's presence. I thought so much of my future relation to Aniela that I arrived at Lend-Gastein before I was aware of it. At Lend I found a great commotion. A railway accident had happened on the branch line of Zell am See, and the place was full of wounded people; but scarcely had I taken my seat in the carriage when the impression the killed and wounded had made upon me gave way to the thoughts that occupied me so exclusively. I saw clearly that some change must take place in our relation, that the present state could not be prolonged indefinitely without doing mischief to both of us and bringing us both to such a pass that it would be better for me to roll down the precipice there and then and make an end of it at once. Aniela, though she does not yield in the least, must needs be distracted in her mind by the continual presence of that forbidden love. It is true she does not give me any encouragement, but now and then I kiss her hands, her feet; she is compelled to listen to words of love, obliged to have secrets from her husband and her mother, and always control herself and me lest I might overstep the boundary. Life under such conditions becomes unbearable to us both. It must undergo some change. At last I had found, I thought, a solution of the problem. Let Aniela frankly admit that she loves me, and say to me: "I am yours heart and soul, and will be yours forever; but let that satisfy you. If you agree to that our souls henceforth will be as one and belong to each other forever." And I bound myself to her. I fancied I was taking her hand and saying: "I take you thus and promise not to seek for anything more, promise that our relations will remain purely spiritual, but as binding as those of husband and wife." Is such an agreement feasible, and will it put an end to our sorrow? For me it is a renunciation of all my hopes and desires, but it creates for me a new world in which Aniela will be mine. Besides that, it will make our love a legitimate right; and I would give my very health if Aniela would agree to it. I see in this another proof of the earnestness of my love, and how I wish her to be mine; I am ready to pay any price, accept any restrictions, provided she acknowledges her love. I began to think intently whether she would agree. And it seemed to me she would. I heard myself speaking to her in a persuasive, irrefutable manner:-- "Since you really love me, what difference can it make to you if you tell me so with your own lips? What can there be nobler, holier than the love I ask you for? I have surrendered to you my whole life, because I could not do otherwise. Ask your own conscience, and it will tell you that you ought to do this much for me. It is the same relation as Beatrice's to Dante. Angels love each other in that way. You will be near me, as near as one soul can be to another, and yet as distant as if you dwelt on the highest of heights. That it is a love above all earthly loves is all the more a reason for your not rejecting it; carried on the wings of such a love your soul will remain pure; it will save me and bring peace and happiness to both of us." I felt within me a boundless wealth of this almost mystic love, and a belief that this earthly chrysalis would come forth in another world a butterfly, which, detached from all earthly conditions would soar from planet to planet, till it became united to the spirit of All-Life. For the first time the thought crossed my mind that Aniela and I may pass away as bodies, but our love will survive and even be our immortality. "Who knows," I thought, "whether this be not the only existing form of immortality?"--because I felt distinctly that there is something everlasting in my feeling, quite distinct from the ever changing phenomena of life. A man must love very deeply to be capable of such feelings and visions; he must be very unhappy, and perhaps close on the brink of insanity. I am not yet on that brink, but I am close upon mysticism, and never so happy as when I thus lose myself and scatter my own self, so that I have some difficulty in finding it again. I fully understand why this is the case. My dualism, my inward criticism shattered all the foundations of my life, together with the happiness these foundations would have given me. In those lands where, instead of syllogisms, visions and dim consciousness reign paramount, criticism finds no room; and this solution gives me rest and relief. Thus I rested when I drew near Gastein. I saw myself and Aniela wedded spiritually and at peace. I had the proud consciousness that I had found a way out of the enchanted circle and into happiness. I was certain Aniela would give me her hand, and thus together we would begin a new life. Suddenly I started as if waking from a dream, and saw that my hand was covered with blood. It appeared that the same vehicle I was travelling in had been used to transport some of the injured victims of the railway disaster. There was a deal of blood at one side of the seat, which the driver had not noticed or had forgotten to wipe off. My mysticism does not go so far as to create belief in the intervention of mysterious powers through omens, signs, or predictions. Yet, though not superstitious myself, I am able to enter the train of thought of a superstitious man, and consequently observe the singular coincidence of this fact. It seemed to me strange that in the carriage where I dreamed about the beginning of a new life some other life had perhaps breathed its last; also that with bloodstained hands I had been thinking of peace and happiness. Coincidences like these more or less influence nervous persons, not by filling them with presentiments, but rather by throwing a dark shadow upon all their thoughts. Undoubtedly mine would have travelled in that direction had I not been close upon Wildbad. Slowly crawling up the hill I saw another carriage coming down at an unusual speed. "There will be another collision," I thought, as on the steep road it is very difficult for two carriages to pass each other. But at the same moment the driver of the vehicle put on the brake with all his strength, and the horses went at a slow pace. Suddenly, to my great astonishment, I recognized in the inmates of the carriage my aunt and Aniela. They, too, had caught sight of me; and Aniela cried out:-- "It is he! Leon! Leon!" In an instant I was at their side. My aunt fell upon my neck, and repeated, "God has been good to us!" and breathed as rapidly as if she had been running all the way from Wildbad. Aniela had clutched my hand and held it fast; then all at once a terrible fear shone in her face, and she cried out:-- "You are wounded?" I understood at once what was the matter, and said,-- "Not in the least. I was not at the accident at all. I got the blood on my hand from the carriage, which had been used for the wounded." "Is it true, quite true?" "Quite true." "What train was it that was wrecked?" asked my aunt. "The train coming from Zell am See." "Oh, good God! A telegram came to say it was the Vienna train. It almost killed me. Oh, God, what happiness! Praise be to God!" My aunt began wiping the perspiration from her face. Aniela was as white as a sheet. She released my hand, and turned her head aside to hide her tears and twitching mouth. "We were alone in the house," continued my aunt. "Kromitzki had gone with some Belgians to Nassfeld. The landlord came and told us about the accident on the line, and you can well imagine what state I was in, knowing you were coming by that same line. I sent the landlord at once for a carriage, and this dear child would not let me go alone. What a terrible time it has been for us! Thank God, we escaped with a mere fright. Did you see the wounded?" I kissed my aunt's and Aniela's hands, and told them what I had seen at Lend-Gastein. It appeared that the telegram sent to the Kurhaus was thus expressed: "Railway accident at Lend-Gastein; many killed and wounded." From which everybody concluded that the calamity had happened on the Vienna-Salzburg line. I gave them a few fragmentary details of what I had seen. I did not think much of what I was saying, as my head was full of the one joyful thought: "Aniela could not wait for news at home, and preferred to come with my aunt and meet me!" Did she do this for my aunt's sake? Most assuredly not. I saw the trouble in her face, the sudden terror when she noticed the blood on my hand, and the lighting up of her whole countenance when she heard I had not been near the place at the time of the accident. I saw she was still so deeply moved as to be inclined to weep from sheer happiness. She would have burst into tears if at that moment I had taken her hands and told her how I loved her, and would not have snatched them away. And as all this was as clear as the day, it seemed to me that my torments were about to end, and that from that moment the dawn of another life had begun. From time to time I looked at her with eyes in which I concentrated all my power of love, and she smiled at me. I noticed that she was without gloves or mantle. She had evidently forgotten them in her haste and perturbation. As it had grown rather chilly, I wanted to wrap her in my overcoat. She resisted a little, but my aunt made her accept it. When we arrived at the villa Pani Celina met me with as much overflowing tenderness and delight as if Aniela in case of my death had not been the next of kin, and heiress to the Ploszow estate. Such noble, disinterested women are not often met with in this world. I would not guarantee that Kromitzki when he comes to hear about it may not utter a discreet sigh, and think that the world would go on quite as well if there were no Ploszowskis. Kromitzki returned very tired and cross. The Belgians he had met, and with whom he had gone to Nassfeld, were capitalists from Antwerp. He spoke of them as idiots who were satisfied to get three per cent. for their capital. He said when parting for the night that he wished to talk with me in the morning about some important matter. Formerly I should have disliked the idea of this, for I suppose he will make some financial proposition. Now I almost wished to get it over at once; but I wanted to be alone with my thoughts, with my happiness, and with Aniela in my heart and soul. I pressed her hand at good-night as a lover might, and she returned a warm pressure. "Are you really and truly mine?" I said inwardly. 16 July. I had scarcely finished dressing in the morning when my aunt came into my room, and after wishing me good-morning said, without any preface,-- "While you were away Kromitzki made me a proposal to enter into partnership with him." "And what answer did you give him?" "I refused point-blank. I said to him: 'My dear cousin, thank God, I have as much as I want; and after my death Leon will be one of the wealthiest men in the country. Why should we rush into adventures and tempt Providence? If you make millions in your enterprises, it will be a good thing for you; if you lose your money, why should we lose ours with you? I do not know anything about these things, and am not in the habit of undertaking what I know nothing about.' Was I right?" "Very much so." "That is just what I wanted to talk over with you, and I am glad you look at it from the same point of view. You see, he was a little offended that I called his enterprises adventures; he explained everything to me, nevertheless, and told me what prospects he had for the future. Then I asked him, straight out, why he wanted a partner, since everything was going on so well. He replied that the more money was put into the concern the greater would be the profit; that out there everything was done on a great scale, and he would rather the family shared the profits than strangers. I thanked him for his family sympathies, but repeated my refusal. I saw that he was greatly disappointed. He began to grumble that nobody in the country had any brains for business; all they were capable of was to spend what they had got. He said in plain words that it was a social crime not to use one's capital to a better purpose. Thereupon I became very angry. 'My good friend,' I said, 'I have managed my estate I dare say in woman fashion, but I have not lost any money; rather I have increased my property; and as to social crimes, if anybody has the right to speak of that, it is certainly not you, who sold Gluchow. If you wanted to hear the truth, you hear it now. If you had not sold Gluchow, I should have trusted you more. As to your enterprises, it is not only I that know nothing about them, but others too are equally in the dark; one thing is quite clear to me, and that is that if your prospects were as brilliant as you make them out, you would not be in search of partners or feel hurt at my refusal. You want a partner because you cannot do without; you have not dealt openly with me, and that I dislike more than anything else.'" "What did he say to that?" "He said that he could not understand why he should be held responsible for the sale of Gluchow. It was not he who had let the estate slip through his fingers; it had been slipping gradually through the hands of those that had administered it badly, and it was their thoughtlessness and lavishness that had made the sale indispensable. Aniela when she married him had nothing but debts. He had saved out of the wreck more than anybody else could have done, and now instead of gratitude he met with reproaches and--wait a bit, what word did he use?--yes, and 'pathetic declamations.'" "It is not true," I said; "Gluchow could have been saved." "I said the same to him, and also that upon Gluchow I would have lent him the money. 'You might have sent me word through Aniela,' I said to him, 'about the sale, or told her to talk it over with me, and God knows, I would have made any sacrifice to save the property. But such is your method,--not to let anybody know what you are doing. We all believed in your millions, and that is the reason I never dreamed of offering you any pecuniary help.' He laughed ironically. 'Aniela,' he said, 'is too great a lady and far too lofty to stoop to interest herself in the details of her husband's business. I asked her twice to speak to you about the partnership, and both times she refused most decidedly. It is very easy to speak about saving Gluchow when the opportunity is gone. Judging by the reception I have met with to-day, I am entitled to believe that it would have been the same about Gluchow.'" I had begun to listen with the greatest interest, for now I saw clearly what had led to the estrangement between Kromitzki and Aniela. My aunt continued:-- "When I heard that I said: 'Now you see how little sincerity there is in what you told me. At first you said that you proposed the partnership in order that the family might derive the benefit of it, in preference to strangers, and now it turns out that you want it for your own sake.' He is not wanting in cleverness, and therefore replied at once that in this kind of affairs the gain was on both sides, and that naturally it was a matter of concern to him to have as much capital at his disposition as he could get; for in this kind of business the larger the basis it rested upon, the more certain the profit. 'Besides that,' he said, 'taking Aniela without any money I thought I might count upon the support of the family, at least in a case like this, when the help would turn out a clear gain to the family.' He was very cross, especially when I told him he had not taken Aniela without anything, as it had always been my intention to give her the life interest of a certain sum." "You told him that?" "Yes. I told him all that was uppermost in my mind. 'I love Aniela,' I said, 'as if she were my own child; and for that very reason, to make her safe, I will not leave her the principal, but a life interest. The principal might be swallowed up in your speculations, which may turn out God knows how; and an annual income will give Aniela the means of a decent establishment. The principal,' I said, 'will go to your children, if you have any, after Aniela's death; and that is all I intend to do,--which of course does not exclude any smaller services I may be able to render you.'" "And that ended the conversation?" "Almost. I saw he was very much upset. I fancy he was especially angry because I promised a life interest to Aniela instead of a round sum down, as it shows how little I trust him. When going away he said that for the future he would look for partners among strangers, as he could not meet with less good-will, and might find a better understanding of business matters. I meekly accepted this reproach. Yesterday he went for an excursion with the Belgians and came back discontented, I suppose he tried it on with them and met with a disappointment. Do you know what I think, Leon? His business is shaky, since he is so anxious to get partners. And I may tell you that the thought troubles me; for if such be the case common-sense tells us not to have anything to do with his affairs; and yet the simplest family duty bids us to help him, if only for Aniela's sake. That is one reason why I was so anxious to talk it over with you." "His affairs are not in such a desperate state as you think, aunty." And I told her what I had heard from Chwastowski, and guessed long ago from Kromitzki's manner, namely, that he was in want and looking about for capital. I added that it was mainly to inquire about the state of his affairs that I had gone to Vienna. My aunt was delighted with my tactics and perspicacity; and walking up and down the room according to her habit she muttered to herself, "He is a genius in everything." She finally decided to leave everything in my hands, and to act as I thought best. Upon this, she went below, and I, after perusing yesterday's papers for half an hour, followed her. I found the whole company gathered round the breakfast table, and one glance was sufficient to tell me that something unusual had taken place. Aniela looked frightened, Pani Celina troubled, and my aunt was flushed with anger. Only Kromitzki was quietly reading the paper, but he looked cross, and his face was as yellow as if he had been ill. "Do you know," said my aunt, pointing at Aniela, "what news she has brought me as a morning's greeting?" "No, what is it?" I said, sitting down at the table. "Nothing more nor less than that in two weeks, Celina's health permitting, they are both going to Odessa or somewhere farther still." If a thunderbolt had fallen in the middle of the table, I could not have been more startled. My heart sank within me. I looked at Aniela, who had grown very red, as if caught in the act of committing a wrong deed, and at last asked, "Where are they going? why?" "They give me a deal of trouble at Ploszow, you know," said my aunt, imitating Aniela's voice. "They do not want to be a burden to me, the charitable souls. They evidently think I yearn after solitude; and in case you went away too, it would be ever so much better, more cheerful for me, to be by myself in that big house. They have discussed this all the night, instead of sleeping like other respectable people." My aunt waxed angrier still, and turning upon Kromitzki asked: "Did you preside at that debate?" "Not at all," he replied; "I was never even consulted. But if my wife has resolved to go, I suppose it is in order to be nearer me, for which I ought to feel grateful." "There is nothing settled yet," remarked Aniela. I, forgetting all precautions, looked steadily at her, but she did not lift her eyes; which convinced me all the more that I was the cause of this sudden resolve. I cannot find words to express what I felt at that moment, and what deadly bitterness suffused my heart. Aniela knows perfectly that I live for her only, exist through her; that all my thoughts belong to her, my actions have only her in view; that she is to me an issue of life and death; and in spite of all that she calmly decides to go away. Whether I should perish or beat my head against the wall, she never so much as considered. She will be more at ease when she ceases to see me writhing like a beetle stuck on a pin; she will be no longer afraid of my kissing her feet furtively, or startling that virtuous conscience. How can she hesitate when such excellent peace can be got, at so small a price as cutting somebody's throat! Thoughts like these spun across my brain by thousands. I felt a bitter taste in my mouth. "You are virtuous," I said inwardly to Aniela, "because you have no heart. If a dog attached himself to you as I am attached, something would be due to him. You have never shown me any indulgence, or any spark of pity; you have never confessed to me any tender feeling, and you have taken from me what you could. If you were able, you would deprive me of your presence altogether,--although you had the certainty that if I could not see you my eyes would perish forever. But I begin to understand you now, begin to see that your inflexibility is so great because your heart is so small. You are cold and unfeeling, and your virtue is nothing but an enormous egoism, that wants above everything to be left undisturbed, and for that peace is capable of sacrificing all else." During the whole time of breakfast I did not say a word. When alone in my own room I held my head with both hands and with a weary, over-wrought brain, began to think again of what had happened. My thoughts were still very bitter. Women of narrow hearts often remain unyielding through a certain philistinism of virtue. The first thing with them is to keep their accounts in order, like any tradesman. They fear love, as the grocer fears street-risings, war, riots, exalted ideas, and audacious flights of fancy. Peace at any price, because peace is good for business. Everything that rises above the rational and commonplace standard of life is bad, and deserves the contempt of reasonable beings. Virtue has its heights and precipices, but also its level plains. I now struggled with the exceedingly painful question whether Aniela did not belong to that kind of commonplace virtuous women, who want to keep their accounts in order, and reject love because it reaches above the ordinary standard of their hearts and minds. I searched in the past for proofs. "Who knows," I said to myself, "whether her simple ethical code is not resting upon such a foundation?" I had believed her to be one of those exceptional natures, different from all other women, inaccessible as the snowy heights of the Alps that without any slope soar straight heavenward. And now this lofty nature considers it the most proper thing that a husband in slippers should trample on those snows. What does it all mean? Whenever thoughts like these crowd my brain I feel as if I were on the brink of madness; such a rage seizes me that if I could I would throw down, trample, and spit upon the forces of life, reduce the whole world to chaos and obliterate its existence. On my journey back from Vienna I was searching for some unearthly abode where I might love Aniela even as Dante loved Beatrice. I built it of the sufferings from which as from fire my love had risen purified, of my renunciations and sacrifices, and thought that in a superhuman, simply angelic way she would be mine, and feel that she belonged to me. And now it came into my thoughts that it was not worth while to speak about it, as she would not understand me; not worth while leading her on to those heights, as she would not be able to breathe there. She might agree, in her soul, that I should go on loving her, go on suffering, since that flatters her vanity; but no compact, no union the most spiritual, no mutual belonging even in the Dantesque meaning,--to none of these will she agree, because she understands only one belonging and one right, which is expressed in a man's dressing-gown, and her soul cannot rise above the narrow, mean, matrimonial, book-keeping spirit. I felt an overwhelming regret that I had not been in the wrecked train. The regret was as much the result of physical exhaustion as of Aniela's cruelty. I was tired, as one who has watched night after night at the sick bed of a very dear friend, and to whom death appears as a desired rest. And then I thought that if they had brought my mangled remains to Gastein something would perhaps have stirred in her. Thinking of this I suddenly remembered yesterday's Aniela, who went with my aunt in search of me. I recalled to my mind the sudden terror and the joy close upon it, those eyes full of tears, the disordered hair; and love immeasurable, love a hundred times more real than all my thoughts and reasonings took possession of me. It was like a great convulsive motion of the heart, which almost at once got buried in a wave of doubts. All I had noticed that day might be explained upon quite different grounds. Who knows whether it was I or my aunt who played the principal part in this emotion? Besides impressionable women have always a store of sympathy at command, even for the merest stranger. What more natural than that she should exhibit some feeling when he who was threatened by some danger was a relative? She would naturally be horrified at the thought of my death, and rejoice at seeing me alive. If, instead of her, Pani Sniatynska had been staying with my aunt, she too would have been terror-stricken, and I should have seen her without her gloves, and her hair in disorder. No, in regard to that I cannot delude myself any longer. Aniela knew very well that her departure would be to me a more dangerous catastrophe than a wound on my head or the loss of an arm or leg; and yet she did not hesitate a moment. I was perfectly aware that it was all her doing. She wanted to be near her husband, and what would become of me was not taken into account. Again I felt myself growing pale with anger, hatred, and indignation, and only one step removed from madness. "Stop a little," I said to myself, pressing both hands against my temples; "perhaps she is seeking safety in flight because she loves you, and feels she cannot resist any longer." Ah me! and these thoughts sprung up, but they did not find any congenial soil and perished like the seed sown on a rock; they only roused a bitter, despairing irony. "Yes," something said within me, "hers is a love resembling the compassion which makes people remove the pillow from under the dying man's head, to shorten his agony. I shall not suffer much longer, and Kromitzki will be able to see her often and bring her such comfort as a wife expects from her husband." Aniela at that moment was hateful to me. For the first time in my life I wished she really loved Kromitzki; she would have been less repugnant to me. Anger and resentment almost deprived me of my senses, and I saw clearly that if I did not do something, revenge myself upon her in some way, something terrible would happen to me. I jumped up, and under the influence of that thought, as if touched by a red-hot iron, I took my hat and went forth in search of Kromitzki. I did not find him either in the house or in the garden. I went to the Wandelbahn, then to the reading-rooms; he was in neither of the two places. I stopped for a moment on the bridge near the Cascades, thinking what to do next. The wind coming from that direction blew a cloud of spray into my face. This caused me a pleasant sensation and relieved the tension of my nerves. I bared my head and exposed it to the spray until my hair was quite wet. I felt a purely animal delight in the coolness. I had regained all my self-possession. There remained now only the distinct and decided wish to thwart Aniela. I said to her, "You shall not be allowed to go away, and henceforth I will treat you as a man who has paid for you with his money." I saw the way clear before me, and was not afraid of making any mistakes in dealing with Kromitzki. I found him outside Straubinger's hotel reading the paper. When he saw me he dropped his eyeglass and said:-- "I was just thinking of going to look for you." "Let us go on the Kaiserweg." And we went. Not waiting for him to begin, I plunged at once into the subject. "My aunt told me about your conversation with her yesterday," I said. "I am very sorry it took place at all," replied Kromitzki. "As far as I can judge, you were both not as calm as one ought to be in treating affairs of that kind. My dear fellow, I will be open with you, and tell you at once that you do not know my aunt. She is the dearest woman in the world, but she has one weakness. Possessed of a great deal of common-sense and shrewdness, she likes to assert them; therefore any new scheme or proposition is met by her with a certain almost exaggerated suspicion. For that reason she invariably refuses at first to have anything to do with it. Chwastowski, her manager, might tell you something about that. In dealing with her it is always best to suggest a thing and leave her time to digest it; and besides, you rubbed her the wrong way, and that makes her always more determined; a pity you could not have avoided that." "But how could I have irritated her? If anybody it is I who should be able to discuss matters of this kind." "You made a mistake in saying that you had married Aniela without a dowry; she is still very angry about that." "I said it when she threw the sale of Gluchow in my teeth. Besides I only spoke the truth; Gluchow was so encumbered that next to nothing really belonged to Aniela." "Plainly speaking, what induced you to sell that unfortunate estate?" "Because by doing so I was able to do a good turn to somebody upon whom my future career depends to a great extent; besides, he paid more than I could have got from anybody else." "Well, let that pass. My aunt felt all the more hurt as she has some intentions in regard to Aniela." "Yes, I know. She is going to leave her a yearly income." "Between ourselves, I tell you that she thinks of no such thing. I know she spoke to you about a life interest, because she was angry and wanted to let you feel that she mistrusted your business capacities. I as her heir ought to know something about her intentions, especially as she does nothing without consulting me." Kromitzki looked at me keenly. "Anything she is doing for Aniela," he said, "would be against your interest as the heir." "Yes, that is so; but I do not spend even my income, consequently I can speak about it quite calmly. If you cannot explain it any other way, consider it as a whim of mine. There are such people in the world. I may tell you that I do not intend to put any limit to my aunt's generosity, and also that she intends to give Aniela, not the life interest she spoke about, but the capital. Of course my influence might turn the scale either way, but I do not intend to exert it against you." Kromitzki squeezed my hand with effusion, and his shoulders moved exactly like those of a wooden manikin. How repulsive the man is to me! I suppose he considered me more of a fool than an oddity; but he believed me, and that was all I wanted. He is quite right as to that, for I was decided that Aniela should have the capital instead of only a life interest. I saw that he was consumed with curiosity to know how much and when; but he understood that it would not do to show his hand so openly, and therefore remained silent as if from emotion. I continued:-- "You must remember one thing, my aunt wants careful handling. I know for certain that she means to provide for Aniela; but it all depends on her will, and even her humor. In the mean while, what is it you both are doing? Yesterday you made her angry, and to-day Aniela vexed her still more. As the future heir I ought to rejoice at your blunders, and not warn you, and yet you see I am doing the opposite. My aunt was deeply hurt by Aniela's plan, and in her anger turned upon you, hoping, I fancy, that you would take her side; but you, on the contrary, supported them!" "My dear fellow," said Kromitzki, squeezing my hand again, "I will tell you openly that I agreed to their plan because I was vexed with your aunt, and that is the top and bottom of it. There is no sense in it at all. I cannot stand exaltation, and both these women are full of it. They always seem to think they ought not to take advantage of your aunt's hospitality, that they cannot always remain at Ploszow, and so on, _ad infinitum_. I am heartily sick of it. In the mean while it is this way: I cannot take them with me to Turkestan, and when I am there it is all the same to me whether they are at Odessa or at Warsaw. When I wind up my affairs, with a more than considerable fortune, I hope I shall give them, of course, an adequate home. That will take place in a year at the latest. The sale of the business itself will bring in a considerable sum. If they were not at Ploszow, I should have to look out for some other place; but since your aunt offers her house and is pleased to have them, it would be folly not to accept the offer. My mother-in-law has only just recovered from her illness. Who knows what might happen in the future? and if things went wrong, Aniela, young and inexperienced as she is, would be alone with all these troubles. I simply cannot remain with them; even now I am in a fever to be off, and only delayed my departure in the hope that I might persuade you or your aunt into a partnership. Now I have told you all that is in my mind; and it is your turn to tell me whether I may count upon your good-will." I breathed again. Aniela's scheme was reduced to nothing. I was delighted because I had got what I wanted. Although my love for Aniela was akin to deep hatred, it was all I had to live for, and it wanted food; and this it would get only from Aniela's presence. From Kromitzki's words I concluded that by one stroke I could gain the most wished for end,--Kromitzki's departure for an almost unlimited time. I remained impassive, and thought it more advisable to show myself a little reluctant. "I cannot," I said, "give you any promise beforehand. Tell me first exactly how you stand." He began to talk, and talked with great volubility, showing that once embarked upon this theme, he felt himself in his proper element. Now and then he paused to buttonhole me or press me against the rocks. When he had said something he thought very convincing, he swiftly screwed his eyeglass into his eye and scrutinized my face to see what impression he had made upon me. This, added to his voice, which was like the sound of creaking hinges, and the reiteration of his "what, what," was very trying to my nerves, but I must render him justice; he did not try to deceive me. He told me substantially the same things that I had heard from Chwastowski. The affair stood thus: Great capital had already been invested in material, the purveying of which was solely in Kromitzki's hands. The danger of the business consisted in the fact that the capital already sunk came back to him only after passing through various official forms, therefore very slowly; and also in the fact that Kromitzki had to deal with purveyors whose interest it was to supply him with the very worst materials, for which he was held responsible. This last point put him more or less at the mercy of the agency, which besides had the most complete right to accept only good material. Who knows what complications might arise from that? After having listened to his statement, which lasted an hour, I replied:-- "My good fellow, considering all you have told me, neither my aunt nor I can have anything to do with the partnership." His countenance fell, and he turned very yellow. "Tell me why," he said. "If you, in spite of cautiousness and care, are in danger of lawsuits, we will not be mixed up in your affairs." "Looking at things in that way, nobody would embark in any business at all." "There is no necessity for us to do so. But supposing we entered into any partnership, how much would you want us to put into the business?" "It is of no use to speak of that now; but if you could have come into it, let us say with seventy-five thousand roubles--" "No, we will not put anything into the business; we do not think it advisable to do so. But as you are connected with our family, we will help you in another way. In brief, I will lend you the sum you mentioned upon a note of hand." Kromitzki stopped, looked at me, and blinked as one who is not fully awake. But this lasted only a moment. He evidently thought it would not be wise to show too great a delight,--a mercantile caution not at all necessary, and ridiculous under present circumstances. He only pressed my hand and said: "Thank you,--at what rate of interest?" "We will talk of that later on. I must go back now and talk with my aunt." I said good-by at once. On the way I reflected whether Kromitzki would not think my acting thus a little curious and open to suspicion. But it was a vain fear. Husbands are proverbially blind, not because they love and trust their wives, but because they love themselves. Besides, Kromitzki, looking at us from his business point of view, considers me and my aunt as two fantastic beings, who, with little knowledge of practical matters, stick to antiquated notions about family ties and duties. He is, indeed, in many respects of such an altogether different type from us, that we cannot help looking upon him as an intruder. When I came back to the villa I saw Aniela at the gate buying wild strawberries from a peasant woman. Passing close by, I said roughly, "You will not go away, because I do not wish it," and then went up into my room. During dinner the conversation again turned upon the departure of the ladies. This time Kromitzki spoke up and treated the whole thing as a childish whim, to be laughed at by sensible people. He was not very considerate either to his wife or his mother-in-law, but then his nature is not a refined one. I did not say anything,--as if the question of their going or staying mattered very little to me. But I noticed that Aniela was conscious that her husband acted as a mere puppet in my hands, and she felt ashamed for him and deeply humiliated; but such was the resentment I had towards her that the sight of it did me good. For in truth I was deeply wounded, and I cannot forgive Aniela. If, on the way from Vienna, I had not thought so much of that new compact, if I had not made a wholesale sacrifice of all my desires, passions, and senses, in fact of my whole nature, I should not have felt the disappointment so acutely. But it fell out so cruelly that, when, out of love for her, I was ready to change my whole being, when I climbed to a height I had never reached before, only to be near her, she, without any consideration or pity for me, wished to push me into the very depth of despair and without considering for a moment what would become of me! These thoughts poison even the pleasure afforded by Kroimitzki's departure. The future will bring some kind of solution, but I am too tired to speculate upon it. The simplest solution would be inflammation of the brain. It will come to that. I torment myself all the day, do not sleep at night, smoke endless cigars to stupefy myself, and sit up till daylight. 30 July. I have not written in my diary for two weeks. I went; with Kromitzki to Vienna to conclude his business; after which he remained three days and then left for the East. I had such violent headaches that I could not write. Pani Celina's cure is completed, but we still remain at Gastein because of the great heat. Kromitzki's departure was a great relief to me, to Pani Celina,--whom he irritates to such a degree that if he were not her son-in-law she could not stand him at all,--and perhaps also to Aniela. The latter cannot forgive him that he involved me in his affairs. He, not supposing there could be anything between me and his wife except social relations, made no secret of the loan. She opposed it energetically, but could not tell him the reason,--perhaps from a secret fear that after an explanation he might compel her to remain where she is, and thus destroy the last shred of respect she has for him. I am almost sure that since the sale of Gluchow, both she and her mother distrust him, and in the secrecy of their hearts consider him worse than he really is. In my opinion he is a spiritual upstart, with a dry and wooden disposition, and incapable of any fine feeling or subtle thought. There is no generosity in him; his mind is neither deep, noble, nor sensitive; but in the general acceptance of the word he is a decent member of society. A certain natural pedantry aids him in this, which harmonizes with his money-making neurosis,--a degenerated imaginativeness seeking expression in financial adventure. Taking him all in all, he is so intensely repulsive to me--with his eyeglass, oblique eyes, long legs, and sallow, hairless face--that I doubt if I am capable of judging him objectively. Nevertheless I am quite sure that unless he loses his own money I shall not lose mine. But I put it down, in all sincerity, that I would rather he lost the money, his senses, his life, and went altogether to perdition. I am ill. I have seen very little of Aniela lately,--partly by reason of my headaches, that kept me confined to my room, and partly because I wished to let her feel how deeply she had injured and grieved me. Not to see her cost me great self-denial, for my eyes want her as they want the light. I have already mentioned that with all her inflexibility, she has a certain weakness: she cannot bear that anybody should be angry with her; it frightens her, and she tries her best to conciliate those that are angry. She is then meek, sweet tempered, and looks into one's eyes with the pleading expression of a child who is afraid to be punished. This always moved me deeply and was my delight, as it kept up the delusion that I had only to open my arms and she would fall upon my neck, if only to soften my resentment. I cannot get rid altogether of this delusion, although convinced of its futility; and even now I cherish some hope in a corner of my heart that when we come to make it up, something will happen between us,--she will make a kind of submission and will draw closer to me. On the other hand I see in this mutual irritation a tacit acknowledgment on the part of Aniela that I have the right to love her; for if she admits the resentment springing from love, she must admit the love itself. It is a shadowy right, dim and vague as a dream, without shape or substance; yet I cling to it, for it saves me from utter apathy and hopelessness. 2 August. I have received another letter from Clara Hilst. She must have divined something; there is much pity and sympathy in her words, as if she knew how wretched I am. I do not know and do not want to know, whether she loves me as a sister or otherwise, I only feel that she loves me. I answered her letter in the same hearty spirit, grateful for her friendliness. She is going to Berlin now, and promises her appearance in Warsaw for the winter. She wants me to come to Berlin, if only for a few days. I will not go to Berlin, will not part from my troubles, but shall be glad to see her again at Warsaw. With Aniela I speak only of indifferent subjects, so as not to draw the attention of the elder ladies to the state of things between us. When alone we are both silent. I noticed several times that she was about to say something, but seemed afraid; as regards myself I could only say, "I love you;" and even that seems inadequate to express my feelings. There is now resentment in my love. The thought is troubling my mind that she has a narrow heart, and that in this lies the secret of her unyieldingness. To-day, when I come to think it over more calmly, I go back to the conviction that she has some feeling for me, composed of gratitude, pity, and memories of the past; but it has no active power, cannot rise above prejudice,--even to the avowal of its existence. It does not respect itself, hides, is ashamed of itself, and in comparison with mine is as the mustard-seed to those Alps which surround us. From Aniela one may expect that she will restrict it rather than let it grow. It is of no use to hope or watch for anything from her; that conviction makes me very wretched. 4 August. Some time ago I had a faint hope that under the influence of indignation against her husband, Aniela might come to me and say: "Since you have paid for me, I am yours." Another of my delusions. Any other woman, with exalted notions fed upon French novels, might have acted thus; or one who wanted only a pretext to throw herself into a lover's arms. No; Aniela will never do that, and if such a thought came into my mind at all it is because I too have been fed upon those pseudo-dramas of the feminine soul, which at bottom illustrate only the desire to cast virtue adrift. There is but one thing which would push Aniela into my arms, and that is her heart; but no artificial scenes, no phrases or false pathos. There is not the slightest possibility of her yielding to these. If it be a great misfortune to love another man's wife, be she ever so commonplace, it is an infinitely greater misfortune to love a virtuous woman. There is something in my relations to Aniela of which I never heard or read; there is no getting out of it, no end. A solution, whether it be a calamity or the fulfilment of desire, is something, but this is only an enchanted circle. If she remain immovable and I do not cease loving her, it will be an everlasting torment, and nothing else. And I have the despairing conviction that neither of us will give way. If she has a narrow heart it will not trouble her very much. As to myself I desire nothing more ardently than to get free from bondage; but I cannot get free. I say to myself, over and over again, that it must be done; and I put forth all my strength, as the drowning man does to save himself. At times I fancy that I have achieved some kind of victory, when lo! I see her passing under my window, my eyes rest upon her, and I experience a shock in my heart; the whole depth of my feeling is revealed, as the flash of lightning tears asunder the clouds and shows the depth of the sky. Ah me! what torture to have to deal with virtue, cold and merciless as the letter of the law! Even if Aniela had no heart I should still love her, as a mother would love a child though it were deformed. Pity then grows all the stronger,--and so does pain. 5 August. What an inadequate, mean standard is human intellect when it comes to measure anything great, awesome, or very lofty. Reason, which serves well enough in the everyday conditions of life, becomes a drivelling fool, like Polonius, in exceptional cases. It seems to me that the usual ethical code cannot be considered a standard by which to measure great passions. To see in an immense feeling like mine only the infringement of this or that law, not to see anything else, not to see that it is an element and part of those higher forces that mock at empty rules, a godlike, immeasurable, creative power on which rests the All-Life, is a kind of blindness and littleness. Alas, Aniela thus looks upon my love! I suppose she often thinks I must respect her for her conduct; while I--God knows, I do not say it because it concerns my own fate, but judging her quite impartially--despise her, or at least try not to despise her for it, and say to her inwardly: "I should respect you and worship you a thousandfold if you could look upon the matter differently, not as regards our relations, but as regards love in general." 6 August. There is something in Gastein very health-giving. To-day I noticed that Aniela has gained quite a brown color from the mountain air, and looks very well; which is all the more noteworthy, as she has had many troubles and anxieties. One of her troubles was the difference arising between her and her husband, the humiliation of his accepting a loan from me, and my love, which distracts her mind and troubles her peace. Notwithstanding all this, the delicate face is glowing with health. There is more color in it than before we came here. I recall the time when she seemed almost to fade away in my eyes. I remember how horrified I was at the thought that her life might be in danger. To-day that fear at least has ceased to haunt me. If I knew that in the future there would be even less pity for me, that my feelings for her would count for nothing, but that she would be happy and full of health, I should say: "Let her be pitiless, let her slight my feelings, provided she be well." In the composition of true feeling, there is the desire for personal happiness, but there is also tender thoughtfulness and affection. Yesterday Aniela had donned one of her old dresses. I noticed it at once, and the whole past stood before me. God only knows what a turmoil there was within me. 7 August. My aunt has forgiven Aniela long ago. She loves her so much that if I died she would still have somebody to cling to, provided Aniela remained. To-day the dear old aunt was lamenting that Aniela had no amusements, was sitting too much in the house and had seen nothing of the beautiful scenery around except the road to Hofgastein. "If I were only stronger on my feet I would go with you everywhere; your husband ought to have shown you something of the country, and he was continually tramping about by himself." Aniela assured her that she was quite satisfied, and did not want more exercise. "I have nothing to do," said I, in the most careless manner, "and walk a great deal. I can accompany Aniela wherever she wants to go, and show her all that is worth seeing,--at least in the nearest neighborhood." Then I added, in a still more indifferent voice: "It is considered quite the proper thing. In a place like this mere acquaintances walk out together, not to say anything about near relations." Aniela did not say anything, but both the elder ladies were unanimous in their opinion that I was right. To-morrow we are to go to the Schreckbrücke. 8 August. We have entered into our compact, and henceforth a new life is to begin for us both. It is not quite the same as I had shaped it, but my future life must adapt itself to it. From now, everything will be clear and definite between us. There will be nothing new, nothing to be expected or looked out for, but at any rate I shall not be any longer like a man who has no roof to shelter him. 9 August. Yesterday towards evening we went to the Schreckbrücke. The elder ladies accompanied us as far as the Cascades; there they sat down on the first bench they found, and we two went on alone. We both seemed to feel that some serious conversation would take place. At first I wanted to point out to her various places and tell her the names, but had scarcely mentioned Schareck when it struck me as so incongruous with the thoughts nearest our hearts that I grew silent. We could talk only about our two selves, or else remain silent. And we walked on in silence for a long time; this silence besides was necessary for me, and gave me time to conquer that restlessness which seizes us when we approach a great crisis. I got myself so far under control that I resolved to speak of my love, with calmness and naturally, as if it were a known and established fact. Experience had taught me that women can be attuned to any disposition. Nothing influences the feminine mind so much as the tone of conversation; and if the man in making a proposal does it with the air of one who expects the earth to swallow him as soon as he has uttered the words, that is, in terror and the consciousness that he is doing something quite unheard of, that terror and that consciousness communicate themselves very quickly to the woman. Acting in the opposite way, the proposal loses much of its impressiveness, but it goes smoother and creates less opposition. Besides, I had already told her of my love; all I wanted now was to prevent Aniela from going off at a tangent at the first tender word; in that case conversation would become impossible. It was necessary to introduce the subject in order to establish our future relations on a proper basis. Considering all this, I said in a very quiet voice:-- "You cannot have the slightest idea how deeply you hurt me by that project of your departure. I know very well that the reasons you gave were only ostensible, and that I was the cause of that sudden resolution. In making your plans you forgot only one thing, and that is what would become of me. That did not enter into your calculation at all. Believe me, it was not your departure which would have hurt me, so much as the thought that I count for nothing in your life. You might say that you meant it for the best and wanted me to forget you. Do not try that, for the remedy would be worse than you suppose." Aniela's face in an instant was covered with burning blushes. It was evident that my words had touched her to the quick. I do not know what she would have said, on the spur of the moment, had not an accident diverted her attention. Close to the road, there suddenly appeared one of those cretins so common about Gastein. He was not a pleasant sight, with that big head, immense goître, and bestial expression of face. He had risen so suddenly from amid the tall grasses that Aniela screamed with terror. While she recovered herself and searched for some money--I had forgotten my purse--several minutes elapsed. During that time the impression my words had made upon her had grown less vivid, and as we resumed our walk she said, in a sad voice, full of inexpressible sweetness:-- "You have often been unjust to me, but never more so than now. You think that it costs me nothing, that I have no heart; and yet I am not a whit happier than you." Her voice seemed to fail, and my pulses began to beat wildly. It seemed to me that one more effort and I should force from her a confession. "Aniela!" I exclaimed, "for God's sake tell me what you mean!" "I mean that since I am unhappy, you must allow me to remain honest. Dear Leon, I beg you to have pity upon me. You do not know how unhappy I am! I would sacrifice everything except my honesty. Do not ask me to give up that last plank of salvation,--because it is not right, one is not allowed to sacrifice that! Oh, Leon, Leon!" She folded her hands and looked at me with eyes veiled by tears, and her body trembling like an aspen leaf. I do not know, if I had taken her into my arms she might have died afterwards from shame and sorrow, but probably she would not have found the strength to resist. But at that moment I forgot about my own self and saw only her. I threw at her feet my senses, my passions, and my egoism. What did it all matter where she was concerned? The beloved woman that defends herself with tears, tears that do not flow for the sake of keeping up appearances but from the depth of her sorrow, is invincible. I took both her hands, kissed them with reverent love, and said:-- "It will be as you wish; I swear it upon the love I bear you." We both could not speak for some time. To confess the truth, I felt at this moment a better and nobler man than I had ever been before. I was like one who has passed the crisis in a severe illness, is still very weak and exhausted, but glad of the dawning life before him. Presently I began to talk to her, quietly and gently, not only as a lover but as the nearest friend, whose main object is the happiness of the being that belongs to him. "You do not want to stray from the right path," I said; "and I will not lead you astray. You have changed me, and all the sorrows and sufferings I endure have made a different man of me. Through you I have come to understand the difference between love and passion. I cannot promise that I shall cease to love you, for I cannot; I should lie to you and to myself if I should promise that. I do not say it in temporary exaltation, but as a man who has looked into his inmost self and knows what is delusion and what truth. I will love you as if you were dead,--I will love your soul. Do you agree to that, Aniela dear? It is a sad love, but angelic. You can accept and return it. I make my vow of faithfulness this moment, and it is as binding as if it had been uttered before the altar. I shall never marry another woman; I shall live for you only, and my soul will be yours. You too will love me as if I had died. I do not ask for anything else; and you will not refuse, because there is no sin. You have read Dante? Remember, he too was married, and he loved Beatrice with the same love I ask from you; he openly acknowledged the feeling, and the Church holds his poem as almost a sacred thing. If you have that feeling for me in your heart, give me your hand, and after that nothing will be able to come between us or to mar our peace." Aniela, after a momentary silence, gave me her hand. "I always had that friendship for you." she said, "and I promise you from my heart and soul." I winced at the word "friendship," which is too small for me, and does not express our feelings. But I did not say anything. "The word 'love' still frightens her," I said to myself; "she will get accustomed to it by and by;" and since the thing is essentially the same, it was not worth while to disturb the peace at which we had arrived through stormy seas of misunderstandings, troubles, and sorrows. We are both so tired that the rest is welcome and is worth making some little sacrifices for. Besides, it was a mere shadow, that disappeared in the joyful light of the thought that the dear being belongs to me and is spiritually my faithful wife. I would have given anything if to a question "Are you really mine?" she had answered in the affirmative. I would have asked the question a hundred times a day and never tired of the answer; but at this moment I did not want to frighten her. I, who can make allowance for so many things, understand that there are certain words which, however expressive of the existing state of things they may be, come with difficulty from a woman's lips,--especially from those of such a woman as Aniela. Yet every word she said was a confession that she loves me; and did she not consent that our souls should belong to each other? What more could I wish for? When we had gone as far as the Schreckbrücke, we turned back. On the way we tried to look at our new position, as people look around a new house and try to make themselves at home in it. This did not come easy to either of us at first. Even this pleased me, for it seemed to me that thus bride and bridegroom would feel a few hours after they were joined in wedlock, while yet they had not had time to grow accustomed to each other. Nevertheless I spoke a great deal about us both. I explained to her the holiness and purity of such a union as ours. I tried to inspire her with trust and confidence. She listened to me with a bright, serene countenance, and now and then turned her beautiful eyes towards me. The serenity of the weather corresponded with the serenity of our souls. The sun had gone down behind the mountains; and they shone now in their evening dress of purple. I offered my arm to Aniela, which she accepted, and so we went together in the soothing stillness of the evening. Suddenly I noticed that her step had grown uncertain, as if she were afraid of something, and her face became very white. It lasted only a minute, but her disturbance was so evident that I got frightened for her, and began to ask what had frightened her. At first she did not want to tell me, but when I insisted she confessed reluctantly that the unfortunate cretin had come into her mind, and that for an instant she had felt afraid he might suddenly jump up from the roadside. "I do not know," she said, "why he should have made such a horrible impression on me, and feel ashamed to have such silly nerves, but I would not meet him again for anything in the world." I soothed and comforted her, saying that nothing could happen to her while I was by. She still kept looking uneasily at the roadside, but presently our conversation dispersed the unpleasant impression. It was dusk when we arrived at the Cascades, but the evening was exceptionally warm. On the square before Straubinger's a great many people were listening to some strolling harpists. I do not know why this solitary mountain pass should have reminded me so strongly of Italy. It recalled to my memory the evenings on the Pincio, when I thought how happy I could be had I Aniela at my side. I now felt her arm resting upon mine, and still more felt her soul close to my own. And thus, full of sweet peacefulness, we returned home. 10 August. I thought to-day much about what Aniela had said to me on the way to the Schreckbrücke. I was particularly struck by the exclamation which burst from her lips: "You do not know how unhappy I am!" There was such deep sorrow, such a wail in these words, and an involuntary confession that she does not love her husband, cannot love him; and also that her heart, in spite of all her efforts, belongs to me. If so she has been as unhappy as I. I say "has been," because at present she is not. Now she can say to herself: "I can remain true and keep my faith; and for the rest, I trust to God." 11 August. It came into my mind that I had no right to expect Aniela to sacrifice everything for me. It is not true that one sacrifices everything to love. If, for instance, I had an encounter with Kromitzki and she adjured me in the name of our love to ask his pardon on my bended knees, I would not do it. It is a fantastic, senseless supposition, yet at the very thought the blood mounts to my head. No, Aniela dear, you are right; there are things we may not sacrifice even to love. 12 August. We went in the morning on the Windischgrätzhöhe. It is about three quarters of an hour on foot, but I got a horse for Aniela, which I led by the bridle. Walking at her side, I rested my hand on the horse's neck and at the same time touched her dress. Mounting on the horse's back, she held on to me for a moment and the old Adam woke up very strong in me. To kill him, I should have to annihilate my body and become a spirit. I bound myself to keep my senses and impulses under control, and I am doing so; but I did not bind myself not to have them. I might as well have bound myself not to breathe. If the touch of Aniela's hand made no more impression upon me than if it were a piece of wood it would prove that I did not love her any longer, and then all pledges would be unnecessary. Saying to Aniela that my whole nature had changed in contact with her, I did not intend to deceive her, but had not exactly defined the change. The truth is I only keep myself in check. I renounced complete happiness in order to secure a part of it. I preferred to have Aniela in this way to not having her at all, and I think that every one who knows the meaning of true love will understand me easily. If the passions are dogs, as the poets say, I have chained them up, will starve them into submission, but I cannot prevent their straining at the chain or emitting an occasional howl. I know to what I have pledged myself, and shall keep to it; there is nothing else to do. In the face of Aniela's firmness of purpose there is no room for any agreeing or disagreeing. The fear that she may take back what she has given is enough curb for me. I rather exaggerate my caution and wariness, so as not to frighten away the bird which I call "spiritual love," and she calls "friendship." That word, which in the first moment was merely a prick, enough to make me wince, is gradually growing into a sore. At the time it seemed to me not expressive enough, and now it appears to me too cautious, too full of conditions. How strange that characteristic of feminine nature, not to call things by their name. Yet I explained distinctly to Aniela what I was asking for, and she understood me fully; and nevertheless she called the feeling "friendship," as if she wanted to veil herself with it before me, before herself and God. Looking at it from another point, it is true that a feeling devoid of all earthly substance may be called by any name. There is sadness and bitterness in the thought. This caution, common to very pure-minded women, is undoubtedly the outcome of their modesty, but it does not permit them to be generous. I might go straight to Aniela and say to her: "I have sacrificed to you one half of my existence, and you grudgingly dole me out your words; is it right?" And I tell her so inwardly with reproachful eyes. It is difficult to imagine love without generosity, without a desire to make some sacrifices. To-day on Windischgrätzhöhe we conversed together like two beings closely connected by the ties of love and friendship, but there was nothing in our speech that brother and sister might not have said to each other. If we had made such an excursion before we had entered into our compact, I should undoubtedly have taken some advantage of it, kissed her hands or feet or even tried, if only for a moment, to take her in my arms; to-day I walked quietly at her side, like one who is afraid of the slightest frown. Partly I restrained myself on purpose, thinking that in this way I should win her confidence and favor. By this silence I meant to say: "You will not be disappointed in me; I will take rather less than I have a right to,--so as not to break our compact." But one feels hurt all the same, when the sacrifice is accepted promptly and cheerfully as soon as it is offered. Involuntarily one says inwardly to the beloved woman: "Do not let yourself be outdone in generosity." And I said so,--but in vain. What is the result? A certain disappointment for myself. I used to think if such a compact existed between us, I should have perfect liberty within its boundaries; should be able to say, "I love you" as often as I liked, and hear the same from her lips; and that this would compensate me for all my torments, for the whole time of my suffering,--in short that I should be king in that restricted kingdom; but now it appears that my horizon gets narrower than ever, and doubts arise within me that might be compressed in the query: "What have you gained?" I try to chase the thoughts away. I have gained something. I have gained the sight of a bright and happy face; I have gained the smile; I have gained the delight of seeing her limpid eyes look fearlessly into mine. If I feel cramped and not quite at home in the new house, the reason is that I have not got used to it. Besides, formerly I was without a roof to shelter me; and if I cannot always see clearly what I have gained, I know perfectly well that I have lost nothing. I shall never forget that. 14 August. My aunt begins to talk about going home. She is pining after her beloved Ploszow. I asked Aniela if she would like to go. She said she would; therefore I too am anxious to return. Formerly I attached some vague, undefined hope to a change of place. Now I expect nothing; but at Ploszow there are so many pleasant memories that I shall be glad to see the place again. 16 August. The days flow now very evenly. I think much and I rest. My thoughts are often sad, at times not without bitterness, but my soul was so weary that I find this restfulness very soothing. It makes me feel conscious how much better off I am than I used to be. I am mostly with Aniela; we read together, and then discuss what we have read. Everything I say to her is only a definition, a development of love; everything tends in that direction; but strange to say I notice that now I never speak of it directly, as if that feminine objection to calling things by their proper names had also infected me. I do not know why this is so, but it is a fact. And it grieves me,--sometimes grieves me very much; and it pleases me, because I see that Aniela is pleased, and what is more, loves me for it. In order to cement the union of our souls, I have begun to speak much about myself so as not to have any secrets from her. I am reticent only about such things as might offend her delicacy of feeling or the purity of her thoughts. I tried to initiate her into the workings of a spirit undermined by scepticism and the want of a basis in life. I told her openly that I had nothing to live for except her; told her also what was going on within me after her marriage, what shocks had passed through my heart and brain since my return to Ploszow; I spoke of this all the more eagerly, as it was like a series of confessions, as it all meant: "I loved you then, as I love you now, beyond expression." She was deceived as to the meaning of these confidences and listened to them as if there had been no question about her, with emotion, sympathy, and possibly unconscious delight. I saw tears gathering in her eyes, her breast heaved as if her whole spiritual being went out to me with open arms saying: "Come to me; you have suffered enough and deserve some happiness." And I reply with my eyes: "I do not ask, do not remind you of anything; I am altogether at your mercy." I made those confidences also for another reason, namely, to introduce the habit of mutual confidence between us, and make her tell me what was going on in her mind at the same time. But I could not manage it. I tried to ask, but the words seemed to come from her with such difficulty, there was such evident constraint and uneasiness, that I left off asking. To be quite open with me, she would have to reveal all she felt for me and what was her relation to her husband. I wanted her to come to that; but her modesty and her loyalty for the absent husband would not permit her to speak. I understood all perfectly, but I could not help feeling very sore, and my pessimism says: "It is you who pay the score; you give everything, without getting anything in return; you are deceived in thinking her soul belongs to you; even that soul remains a blank to you; then what do you possess?" I admit the truthfulness of the utterance, but still I count upon the future. 17 August. I am often reminded of the poet Mickiewicz's words, "Alas! it was only a half-salvation!" But even if I did not see in that half-salvation all that is wanting, I could not arrive at perfect peace. This would be achieved only by not desiring anything more, in other words by ceasing to love. There come upon me, more and more, moments of despondency when I say to myself that this is only another enchanted circle. I found some relief from torments I could bear no longer, that is true; but relief is not the same as the removal of the pain. When the famished Arab sucks pebbles instead of drinking water, he does not satisfy his thirst; he only deceives it. Query: Do I deceive my self? There are again two persons within me: the spectator and the actor; and the one criticises and mocks the other. The sceptic Ploszowski, the Ploszowski who has no settled and unshakable belief in the existence of a soul, in love with a soul, appears simply ridiculous to that critical number two. What is, after all, my relation with Aniela? Sometimes I see in it merely the product of a diseased imagination. I am now indeed like the bird that drags one wing on the earth. I have doomed to paralysis one half of my being, live only half a life, and love with half a love. It is a vain enterprise. To separate desire from love is as impossible as to separate thought from existence. Even religious feelings, the most ideal of all feelings, manifest themselves by words, by songs, by kneeling, and kissing of sacred objects; and I would deprive the love for a woman of all embodiment, sever all connection with the earth, and make it live upon earth in a transmundane shape! Love is a natural tendency and desire. What did I take away from it? The tendency and the desire. I might as well have gone to Aniela, and said to her, "Since I love you above everything, I pledge myself to love you no longer." There is some terrible mistake in this. I had truly lost my way in the desert; no wonder that I saw a Fata Morgana. 18 August. Yesterday I felt oppressed and troubled by various thoughts. I could not sleep. I left off plunging into the depths of pessimism, and instead of that began to think of Aniela and call her image before my eyes. This always soothes me. My imagination strained to the utmost point brings her before me so lifelike that I fancy I could speak to her. I recalled to memory the time I had met her first as a grown-up girl. I saw the white, gauzy draperies studded with bunches of violets, the bare shoulders, and the face a little too small but fresh like a spring morning, and so original in the bold outline of the eyebrows, the long lashes, and that soft down on either side of the face. It seems to me as if I still heard her voice saying, "Do you not recognize me, Leon?" I wrote at the time that her face appeared to me like music translated into human features. There was in her at the same time the charm of the maiden and the attraction of the woman. No other woman ever fascinated me so strongly, and there must needs cross my way a Circe-like Laura to lure me away from the one woman I could love, almost my bride. Nobody feels more than I that the words, "The spell thou hast cast upon me lasts forever," are not a mere poetic fancy, but bitter reality. Besides love and desire, I have for her an immense liking, the tenderness of affection, and am drawn to her with the irresistible force of the magnet to iron. And it cannot be otherwise, for she is still the same Aniela, and is not changed in the least. It is the same face of a little girl, with the charm of a woman, the same look, the same eyelashes, brows, shoulders, and supple waist. She has now one more charm,--that of the lost Paradise. What a tremendous gulf between our relations in the past and those in the present. When I think of the Aniela who was waiting, as for her salvation, to hear from me the words, "Will you be mine?" I can scarcely believe it to have been true. Reflecting upon that, I feel like the ruined magnate who at one time scattered his wealth about, dazzling the world by his splendor, and in later years lived upon charity. That night, when I thought about Aniela and evoked her image before my eyes, it suddenly occurred to me that we had no portrait of her, and a strong desire seized me to have her likeness. I grasped at the idea with enthusiasm, and it made me feel so happy that it finally drove all sleep from my eyes. "I shall have you," I said; "I shall be able to look at you at any time, kiss your hands, your eyes, your lips; and you will not be able to prevent it." I began at once to think how it might be done. I could not go and say to Aniela, "Have your portrait painted, and I will defray the expenses;" but with my aunt I could always do what I liked, and a hint will be enough to make her wish for Aniela's portrait. At Ploszow she has a whole collection of family portraits, which are her pride, and my desperation, as some of them are truly hideous; but my aunt will not have them removed out of sight. Considering her deep attachment to Aniela, I was sure she would be delighted with the idea of adding her picture to the collection. As far as she is concerned I consider the thing done; but now came the question whom to intrust with the execution of the portrait. I thought it would be impossible to induce the ladies to take Paris on their way; there I should have the choice between the accuracy and objectivism of Bonnat, the bold breadth of Carolus Duran, and the inimitable sweetness of Chaplin. Shutting my eyes, I imagined how each of them would acquit himself of the task, and I was pleased with the fancy. But I saw it was impracticable; I foresaw that my aunt would insist upon a Polish painter. I should have no objection to that, for I remembered seeing at the Warsaw and Cracow exhibition portraits as excellent as from the brush of any foreign painter. I was only afraid of the delay. As regards fancies, and also in many other things, there is something eminently feminine in my composition. When I plan a thing I want to get it done at once. As we were in Germany, not very far from Munich and Vienna, I began to choose among the German painters. I fixed upon two names: Lembach and Angeli. I had seen some fine portraits by Lembach, but only men's; besides, I did not like his self-assurance and sketchiness, which, as I am fond of French painting, I can endure only from a Frenchman. Angeli's faces did not altogether satisfy me, but I had to admit his delicacy of touch; and that is just the thing wanted for Aniela's face. Besides, in order to get Lembach we should have to go out of our way, and Angeli is on the way,--a circumstance one is ashamed to confess, not wanting to be regarded as a Philistine. But in this case I wanted to save time. "The dead ride quick," as the poet says; but lovers ride quicker still. Besides I should have chosen Angeli in any case, and finally decided that he should paint Aniela's portrait. As a rule, I do not approve of portraits in ball dress, but I resolved to have Aniela in a white dress with violets. I want to have the delusion in looking at her that she is the Aniela of the never-to-be-forgotten times. I do not want anything to remind me that she is Pani Kromitzka. And besides, the dress is dear to me as a memory. I thought the night would never end, so impatient was I to speak about it to my aunt. I changed my plan though, for if my aunt had the portrait painted, she would insist upon a Polish painter. I decided instead to offer Aniela's likeness to my aunt on her name's-day, which is towards the end of October. Put in this way, Aniela cannot refuse. Of course I shall have a copy for myself. I scarcely slept at all, but look upon it as a satisfactory night, as all the hours were occupied with these plans. I dozed a little towards five, but was up and dressed at the stroke of eight. I went to Straubinger's and sent a telegram to the Vienna Künstlerhaus inquiring whether Angeli was at home, then returned to the villa and found the ladies at the breakfast-table. I opened fire at once. "Aniela," I said, "I have come to confess my guilt in regard to you. Last night instead of sleeping I have disposed of your person, and it now remains to be seen whether you will consent." She looked at me with half-frightened eyes. Perhaps she fancied I was going mad, or that in a fit of despair I had made up my mind to blurt out the truth before the elder ladies; but seeing my calmness she asked:-- "How have you disposed of me?" "I wanted it to be a surprise for you, dear aunt, but I do not see how it could be done in secret, and so I must tell you what present I intend to give you for your name's-day;" and I told them what I had in my mind. My aunt, who has an excellent portrait of me, painted some years ago, was greatly delighted, and thanked me warmly. I saw that Aniela was not less pleased, and that was enough for me. There and then a lively discussion sprung up as to when and by whom the portrait was to be painted, and the question of dress, so dear to the feminine heart, had to be gone into with all details. I had a ready answer for all questions and saw my chance of getting something else besides the picture. "It will not take much time," I said. "I have sent a telegram to Angeli, and I do not think it will delay our journey much. Aniela will give Angeli five or six sittings, and as you would have to stop at Vienna in any case to see Notnagel, there is no loss of time. The dress can be painted from a model, and the face will be finished in five sittings. But we must send at once Aniela's photograph and a lock of her hair. The hair I must have at once. Then Angeli will be able to make the rough sketch, and later on put in the finishing touches." I counted upon the fact that none of the ladies knew much about portrait-painting. I wanted the hair for myself, not for Angeli, to whom it would have been of use only if he painted Aniela's portrait from a photograph, to which he would not have consented. But I spoke as if the whole portrait depended on that lock of hair. Two hours after breakfast I received an answer to my telegram. Angeli is in Vienna, where he is just finishing the portrait of the Princess M. I wrote to him at once and sent him Aniela's photograph; then went out to Aniela, who was walking in the garden. "And your hair?" I said; "I want to send the letter by the two-o'clock post." She went at once into her room, and shortly afterwards returned with a lock of hair. My hand shook a little as I took it from her, but my eyes looked straight into hers and said in that glance:-- "Do you not guess that I want it for myself, that it will be for me the most precious treasure?" Aniela did not say anything, but blushed like a girl who listens for the first time to words of love. She had guessed it. I thought that for one touch of those lips it would be worth while giving one's life. My love for her becomes so strong at times that it is akin to pain. I have now a small part of her physical being. I got it by cunning. I the man of the world, the sceptic, I who enter into myself and analyze every thought, have come to practise little tricks and devices, like Goethe's Siebel. But I say to myself, "At the worst I am only sentimental and ridiculous." Who knows whether the second self that reduces everything to consciousness with cold criticism is not more foolish and more ridiculous? Analysis is like the pulling to pieces of a flower. It spoils the beauty of life, therefore, its happiness--the only sensible thing in life. 22 August. After the completion of Pani Celina's cure we waited for weeks till the heat in the plains should have grown less intense, and at last the weather broke and again delayed our journey. There has been an almost Egyptian darkness for three days. The clouds which have been gathering on the summits, breeding snow and rain, have descended from the heights and enveloped Gastein as in a wet blanket. There is such a mist that in the middle of the day I have to pick my way carefully from Straubinger's to our villa. Everything is wrapped in a thick veil,--the houses, the trees, the mountains, and cascades. The shapes of things dissolve and disappear in the moist clouds that weigh upon everything, and also upon the human mind. We light the lamps at two o'clock in the afternoon. The ladies have finished packing, and we should have gone in spite of the mist, but the road is torn up by the mountain torrents beyond Hofgastein. Pani Celina again suffers from headaches, and my aunt, after receiving a letter from Chwastowski about the harvest, walks with heavy steps about the room, talking to herself and scolding Chwastowski. Aniela looked pale and out of sorts in the morning. She had a bad night and dreamed about the cretin she had seen near the Schreckbrücke. She woke up, and could not go to sleep again; she spent the rest of the night in nervous terror. It is very strange what an impression the wretched cripple has made upon her. I tried by cheerful conversation to make her forget about the incident, in which I succeeded. Since our compact on the Schreckbrücke she is without comparison brighter, more cheerful, and happier. As regards myself, seeing Aniela thus contented, I cannot find it in my heart to complain, though it often occurs to me that our relation is mainly based upon there being no relation at all. When I entered into the compact I knew what I was doing and what shape our feeling would take; but now that shape seems to be getting more intangible and undefined, and wrapped up in a mist like that which enfolds Gastein. I have a presentiment that Aniela will not grant me what is due to me, and I dare not remind her about anything. I dare not, because a struggle is too exhausting, especially a struggle for the woman we love. I have been engaged in this struggle half a year and not gained anything; and I feel so weary that I prefer the truce, such as it is, to a renewal of my former warfare. There is also another reason. If this state of things does not exactly answer to my expectations, it pleases and conciliates Aniela. She fancies I love her in a nobler way, therefore she appreciates, I dare not say loves, me more and more. In spite of the absence of all outward signs, I see it and it gives me courage; I say to myself, "If her feeling increases, only persevere, and a time may come when it will be stronger than her power of resistance." People generally, and women especially, fancy that the so-called Platonic love is a peculiar species of love, very rare and very noble. It is simply a confusion of ideas. There may be such a thing as Platonic relations, but Platonic love is as much nonsense as dark light. Even love for the dead consists of a longing after their bodily presence as well as their souls. Among the living this feeling is called resignation. I did not want to say an untruth when I told Aniela I would love her as if she were dead; but resignation does not exclude all hope. In spite of all my disappointments, in spite of the consciousness that my hopes are vain, I still nourish in a corner of my heart the hope that the present state of affairs is only a halting-place on the way to love. I may repeat to myself over and over again, "Delusion! delusion!" but I cannot get rid of it until I get rid of my desire. They are inseparable. I agreed to the compact because I could not help myself, because I preferred this to nothing at all; but I consider it, almost unconsciously, as a diplomatic move which aims at complete, not half happiness. What makes me nevertheless thoughtful, surprises, and grieves me, and what I simply cannot understand, is that on this line even I am defeated. My victories lie in the dim, far-off future; but in the present, in spite of all my cunning, experience of life, strong feelings, and diplomacy, I am defeated by a being infinitely more simple than I, less skilled in life's tactics, less cautious and calculating in the course she takes. It is a defeat; there is no other word for it. What is our present relation? Nothing more than the relation of brother and sister, which she wished for and which I did not wish. Formerly I fought with the storm and often came to grief, but I steered my own bark. Now Aniela steers for us both; we go more smoothly and more evenly, but I feel I am going where I did not wish to go. I now understand why she put out her hand at once, when I mentioned Dante's love for Beatrice. She wanted to lead me. Has she calculated everything beforehand more carefully and profoundly than I? No; I do not know anybody less capable of any calculation, therefore I cannot admit the idea; yet I cannot get rid of the consciousness, bordering upon the mystical, that some one has calculated it for her. It is all very strange, and the strangest thing of all is that I forged the fetters which bind me; I myself contrived to bring about a relation so foreign to my nature, my views, and my most ardent desires. If somebody had foretold to me, before I knew Aniela, that I should hit upon such devices, it would have made me laugh at the prophet and at myself. I, and Platonic relations! Even now I feel sometimes inclined to laugh and jeer at myself. But I cannot; it is sheer misery that has brought me to that pass. 23 August. We leave here to-morrow. The sky is clearing up and there is a westerly breeze that promises fine weather. The mist has gathered into long, whitish billows, that hang on the mountain sides, and like huge leviathans are slowly rolling down. I went with Aniela on the Kaiserweg. This morning the question arose in my mind what would happen if the existing state of things ceased to satisfy Aniela. I have no right to overstep the boundary, and I am afraid to do so; suppose she too thought the same? Her innate modesty and shyness in themselves would prove an almost insurmountable barrier; and if, added to that, she thought the mutual agreement as binding for her as for me, we should never come to an understanding; we should suffer in vain. Reflecting upon this, I understood the futility of such fears. She, to whom even that Platonic relation appears too broad, who consciously or unconsciously restricts, and does not even grant me what is due to me within these limits, should be the first to acknowledge any greater rights. And yet the human soul, even if in hell, will never lose hope altogether. In spite of the self-evident impossibility, I resolved to make myself safe by giving Aniela to understand that if I considered the agreement as binding, it was not the same with her. I wanted to say many other things, especially that she was doing me a great wrong, and that my soul yearned to hear a word of love from her lips, not once but many times, and that only thus I should be able to remain on those lofty heights whereon she condemned me to dwell. But that morning she was so gay, so cheerful and kind to me, that I had not the heart to disturb her peace. Yesterday I could not understand how a being so full of simplicity had got me under her power and conquered me even on those fields I thought my exclusive domain. To-day it seems clearer to me; and I have a ready and very sad hypothesis,--she loves me less than I love her. I knew a man who had the trick of repeating in all his sentences, "Never mind me." It would not be strange if I began to do the same. For when I feel, as I do sometimes, a desire to get rid of some words that almost burn my tongue, the sudden thought that I might mar her cheerfulness, drive away the smile, and change her good disposition, renders me mute. Ah me! how often this does happen! The thought that I love Aniela more than she loves me has crossed my mind a hundred times; one day I think of it in one way, the next in another. I am straying among my thoughts and look at the matter in a different light every day. At one time it seems to me that she does not care for me very much, in fact is incapable of any strong feeling; and again, I not only think but am conscious that she has one of the deepest and most loving hearts I ever met in the world. I have always plenty of proofs either way. Thus I say to myself: "If her love increases, three, four, ten times as much, will there not come a time when it will grow stronger than her resistance?" Yes. Then it is only a question of how great her feeling is? No. For if the feeling were small she would not have suffered so much, and I have seen her suffer almost as much as I did myself. Against all reasoning I have one answer: "I have seen." To-day a sentence escaped her which I shall remember, for it is an answer to my doubts. She would not have said this had I spoken about us and our love. But I spoke in a general way, as I now always do. I argued that it lay in the nature of feeling to be connected with action; that love produces acts of will. When I had finished she said quietly:-- "Not always. One may suffer." Of course one may suffer. With these few words she had crushed my arguments and filled my heart with reverence for her. In moments like these I am happy and unhappy, as again it seems to me that she loves me as I love her, but will remain pure before God, and men, and herself. And I shall not be able to shake that temple. When all is said and done this analysis of her heart and feelings does not lead to any certainty. I am always walking in the dark. To my philosophical and social "I do not know" there is now added a personal consideration, far more serious; for this "I do not know" threatens my very life. I forged myself the chain which binds me to Aniela, and there is no hope whatever that it ever will be broken. I love her despairingly, and it is a question whether my love be not a disease. If I were younger, less shattered in mind and nerves,--in short, of a more normal disposition,--I might, seeing the hopelessness, try to break that chain. As it is, I do not make even an effort. I love as a man with diseased nerves, a man who is close upon mania; love as old men do, clinging to love with all their might, as it is for them a question of life. Thus one may cling to a branch overhanging a precipice. This one thing has blossomed in my life, consequently its growth is so out of all proportion. A phenomenon like this is easy to understand and will repeat itself the oftener, the more people there are like me; that is, hyper-analytical sceptics inclined to hysteria, with a great nothingness in their souls, and a strong neurosis in their veins. This modern product of our epoch, drawing to its end, may not love at all, or may look upon love as mere licentiousness; but if it happen that all the forces of one's life centre in one feeling, and come under the sway of his neurosis, the predilection will become as ineradicable as any other chronic disease. Physiologists have not fully understood this, still less novelists, who occupy themselves with the analysis of the modern human soul. Vienna, 25 August. We arrived to-day at Vienna. On the way I listened to a conversation between my aunt and Pani Celina, of which I took note, as it seemed to make an extraordinary impression upon Aniela. We four were alone in the railway carriage; we were discussing the portrait, and especially the question whether the white dress would not have to be abandoned, as the making of it would take up too much time. Suddenly Pani Celina, whose mind is full of reminiscences and dates, which she quotes in and out of season, turned to Aniela and said:-- "It is just two months to-day since your husband arrived at Ploszow, is it not?" "I believe so," replied Aniela. At the same instant she grew very red and tried to hide her confusion by taking down one of her bags from the rack. The blush had not gone from her face when she turned round again, and there was in her face an expression of acute pain. The ladies did not notice it, for they were deep in a discussion as to the exact date of Kromitzki's arrival; but I had noticed it and it grated upon my nerves, for it reminded me that that very day she had to submit to his caresses. I was furious, and at the same time ashamed for that blush of hers. In my love there are many great thorns, but there are also a multitude of small, hideous ones. Before that unlucky remark of Pani Celina's I felt almost happy because I had the illusion that I was travelling with Aniela as my affianced wife. Now in one moment the good disposition fled. I felt resentment towards Aniela, and I showed it in my manners. She noticed it at once, and when we arrived at Vienna and were left alone for a moment, she asked:-- "Are you angry with me about something?" "No, but I love you," I said curtly. Her face grew sad. She thought, perhaps, that I had grown tired of the peaceful current of our life, and the old Leon had come back again. I felt angry with her, but angrier still with myself, that all my philosophy and consciousness did not serve to give me the mastery over the slightest sensations. I went at once to Angeli, but when I arrived at his studio it was six o'clock and the studio was closed. Aniela will be rested, and to-morrow I will go with her. I have changed my idea. I do not want her in a ball-dress, showing her arms and shoulders; I will have her as she is every day, and as I love her most. In the evening Doctor Chwastowski came to see us. He looks very well, and as strong as a giant. 26 August. I had a very nasty dream. I begin with it the description of the day. I am not one to attach any meaning to dreams, and I am convinced that a healthy brain could not produce such stuff. Sleeplessness has troubled me now for some time, but yesterday I had scarcely closed my eyes when I fell into a heavy sleep. I do not know at what time I had that dream; it must have been towards morning, for when I awoke it was broad daylight, and I could not have dreamed long. I saw a great quantity of cockchafers and black beetles crawl from under the mattress and along the sides of the bed. They were as big as matchboxes. Presently I saw them crawling up the wall. Strange how realistic dreams can be; I distinctly heard the rustling of their feet on the paper. Raising my eyes I noticed big clusters of beetles hanging from the ceiling; but they were of a different kind, much larger, with black and white spots. On some of them I could distinguish the white belly, with two rows of feet on either side which looked like ribs. In my dream they seemed quite in their place, and yet horrible. They filled me with loathing, but I was neither astonished nor afraid. Only after I had awoke the loathing became unbearable and changed into a kind of fear,--fear of death. It was the first time I had that sensation, and that fear of death took such a form. "Who knows," I thought, "what hideous shapes are awaiting me in the darkness, on the other side of life?" Later on I remembered that I had seen some similar beetles in an entomological collection, but at the time they seemed to me something unnatural, belonging to an intangible after-life. I jumped up and raised the blind, and the sight of daylight calmed me at once. The streets were already alive with the traffic of the early morning,--vegetable carts drawn by dogs, servants going to market, and laborers to their work. The sight of the normal human life is the best remedy against phantasms like these. I feel now an immense necessity for light and life. The final conclusion of all this is that I am not well. My tragedy undermines me like a cancer. I see white threads in my hair; this might have come in the course of nature; but my face, especially in the morning, has a waxen hue, and my hands are getting transparent. I am not getting thin, it is rather the opposite, but I am conscious of anæmia as I am conscious of my psychical state, and I feel that my vital powers are passing through a crisis, and that some calamity is threatening me. I shall never go mad. I cannot even imagine how I could ever lose control over myself. Besides, a celebrated physician, and what is more an intelligent man, told me that at a certain point of developed consciousness this was quite impossible. I think he has written a book about it. But without going mad I may be on the eve of some portentous nervous disease; and as I know a little what that means, I say sincerely that any other would be preferable. I have not much faith in doctors, especially in those that trust to physic, but I may take some advice if only to please my aunt. I know one remedy, which would be infallible; if Kromitzki died and I could marry Aniela I should speedily get well. A disease springing from nerves must be cured through nerves. But she will not be my physician, even if my life is in danger. I went with Aniela and my aunt to Angeli's studio. The first sitting took place to-day. How right I was in saying that she is one of the most beautiful women I ever met in life, because there is nothing commonplace in her beauty. Angeli looked at her with manifest pleasure, as if he had before him a noble piece of art. He was in excellent spirits, drew the outline with enthusiasm, and did not conceal at all the reason of his satisfaction. "In my profession," he said, "a model like this is very rare indeed. With such a sitter it is delightful to work. What a face! what expression!" The expression was by no means so charming as usual, because Aniela is a shy little creature; she felt confused, bewildered, and it evidently cost her an effort to keep a natural pose. Angeli understood that. "It will be easier the next time," he said; "like everything else, one must get accustomed to it." And he repeated several times: "This will be something like a portrait." He looked also with a pleased countenance at my aunt, who has noble features and a singularly commanding presence. The way she met Angeli was in itself a treat. It was the off-hand manner of the _grande dame_, always in good taste, but evidently not making much of him. Angeli, who is used to flattery and homage, and at the same time a clever man, judged her aright, and I saw he was amused by her demeanor. We had decided upon a black silk dress, very elegantly made. It shows off Aniela's figure to perfection, its suppleness and rounded curves. I can neither think nor write about it calmly. Angeli, addressing Aniela, repeatedly called her "Mademoiselle." Feminine nature, even an angelic one, has still its little weaknesses. I noticed that my dear love was pleased, and still more so when I told Angeli of his mistake, and he said:-- "But I shall always fall into the same mistake; looking at madame it is impossible not to make the mistake." And indeed with those vivid blushes mantling in her face she was surpassingly lovely. On our way out, when a little distance from my aunt, I whispered to Aniela:-- "Aniela, do you know yourself how beautiful you are?" She did not say anything, but lowered her eyelashes, as she always does in such a case. Nevertheless, I noticed that during the rest of the day there was a shade of unconscious coquetry in her manner towards me. Angeli's words and mine had attuned her to that disposition. She knows I admire her, that never woman was admired more, and it pleases her. I not only admired her, but I said inwardly, rather shouted to myself: "To the deuce with all compacts. I love you without limits and restrictions." In the evening we went to the opera to hear Wagner's "Fliegende Hollander." I scarcely heard anything at all, or rather, heard and saw only through her. I asked of Wagner: "What impression do you make upon her? Does your music enter her soul and make her inclined to love me? Do you transport her into higher spheres, where love is the highest law?" That is the only thing that interests me. Women perhaps cannot love so exclusively. They always reserve part of their soul for themselves, for the world and its sensations. 27 August. My aunt expressed a wish to depart. She is anxious to be back at Ploszow, and says that her presence here is not necessary, and that in fact we should get on better without her; that we should not be obliged to consider her and could devote all our time to the portrait. We all protested a little, and maintained that a lady of her years ought not to travel alone. Though reluctantly, I considered it my duty to offer my companionship. I confess that I awaited her reply with a certain trepidation; but the dear old lady said, with great liveliness:-- "Don't think of it even. Suppose Celina should fall ill again, who would look after them, or accompany Aniela to the studio? She must not go alone." She shook her finger playfully at Aniela, and with a frown on her brow, and smiling mouth she added: "I don't quite trust that painter, he looks at her more than his work requires; and she sees it too and is pleased with it,--I know her little ways." "But aunty, he is not a young man," said Aniela, laughingly kissing her hands. My aunt muttered: "Little coaxing rogue, he is not a young man, you say? but he pays you compliments all the same. Leon, you must keep your eye on them." I relinquished the journey to Ploszow with delight, yielding to my aunt's convincing reasons. Pani Celina insisted upon her taking the maid, at least, who had gone with them to Gastein. My aunt refused at first, but consented when Aniela pointed out that they would do very well without a maid in the hotel. She gave orders at once to have her things packed. She is very quick in her decisions and wants to go to-morrow by an early train. I teased her during dinner, saying that she liked her horses better than all of us together. "Foolish boy," she said, "don't talk nonsense;" then forgot herself, and began soliloquizing about the horses. The sitting was a very long one to-day. Aniela posed much better. The face is already laid in. 28 August. My aunt left us this morning. Pani Celina, who went with us to the studio, could scarcely restrain an exclamation of horror when she saw Aniela's face on the picture. She has no idea about painting and the different phases a picture has to go through, and fancied the face would remain thus. I had to set her mind at rest. Then Angeli, who guessed what was the matter, laughed and said that what she saw before her was only the chrysalis, from which the butterfly would come forth in time. "I believe it will be one of the best portraits I ever painted," he said; "for a long time I have not worked so _con amore_." I hope his words will prove true. After the sitting I went to get tickets for the opera. When I returned I found Aniela alone, and suddenly temptation seized me with the force of a hurricane. I thought if she would come into my arms, now was the moment; and at the very thought I felt myself growing pale, my pulses beat wildly, I trembled and caught my breath. The room was in semi-darkness, veiled by heavy curtains. I made superhuman efforts to conquer the irresistible power that pushed me towards her. It seemed as if a hot wave emanating from her enfolded me, and that she too must feel the same storm in her breast. "I must take her in my arms, kiss her eyes and lips," a voice within me seemed to say, "though I were to perish for it afterwards." She noticed at once my unusual state; there was a momentary terror in her eyes, but she collected herself at once and said quickly:-- "You must be my guardian now in mamma's absence. There was a time when I used to be afraid of you; but now I trust you and feel quite at ease with you." I kissed her hands and said in a choking voice: "Oh, Aniela, if you knew what is passing within me!" She replied, with sadness and compassion: "I know; you are so good, and all the nobler." For a moment I still fought with myself; but she disarmed me,--I did not dare. During the remainder of the day she tried to compensate me for my restraint. Never had I seen in her eyes so much affection and such tenderness. Is this not perhaps the best way, after all? Perhaps in this guise the feeling will grow stronger and conquer her at last. I do not know, I begin to lose my head. But following this road I sacrifice every day my love for love's sake. 29 August. Something very strange and terrifying has happened. During the sitting, while posing quietly, Aniela suddenly shuddered, her face grew very red and then turned as white as snow. Both Angeli and I were terribly frightened. He interrupted his work at once and asked Aniela to rest; I brought her a glass of water. After a few moments she grew better and wanted to resume the pose; but I saw that it cost her some effort and that she still seemed dazed. Perhaps she was tired. The weather is very hot to-day and the streets are like a baker's oven. We went back much sooner than the day before, and I noticed that she had not recovered her usual spirits. During dinner she grew suddenly very red. Pani Celina asked whether she felt indisposed. She assured us that nothing was the matter with her. To my offer to go and bring a doctor, she replied with unusual vivacity, and with a touch of irritation, that there was no need for it, that she was not ill. During the remainder of the day she was pale, the black eyebrows contracted every now and then, and there was an expression of sternness in her face. She was more indifferent to me than yesterday, and I fancied she avoided my eyes. I cannot make out what it means. I am very restless, and shall not be able to sleep; or if I go to sleep I shall have dreams such as I had before. 30 August. There is something mysterious going on around me. Towards noon I knocked at the room of the ladies, to let Aniela know it was time to go to the studio; but they were not there. The hotel servant told me they had ordered a carriage two hours before and driven into town. A little surprised at that, I resolved to wait for their return. Half an hour later they came in, but Aniela gave me her hand silently and passed at once into her room. A quick glance at her face told me it was troubled. I thought she had only gone to change her dress, when Pani Celina said:-- "My dear Leon, please go to Angeli and apologize for Aniela; her nerves are so shaken that she cannot possibly sit for him." "What is the matter with her?" I asked, anxiously. Pani Celina seemed at a loss what to say, and at last replied: "I do not know; I took her to the doctor, but we did not find him at home. I left my card and asked him to call on us at the hotel; that is all I can tell you." I could not get anything more out of her. I took a cab and drove at once to Angeli's studio. When I told him that Aniela could not come it seemed to me as if he looked suspicious. Perhaps the troubled expression of my face had something to do with it. It crossed my mind, "Suppose he suspects us to have changed our minds, and that we do not want the portrait any longer?" He does not know us; he might even think that some money difficulties are the cause of my anxiety. To guard against such suspicions, I made up my mind to pay him in advance. When he heard of this, he protested vehemently and said he never accepted payment until the picture was finished; but I replied that I was only the depositary of the sum, and as I might be called away at any moment, I would rather get rid of the trouble. After some more discussion, which bored me, it was settled according to my wish. We agreed that the sitting should take place at the same hour the day following, and in case Pani Kromitzka was still unable to attend I would let him know before ten. When back at the hotel, I went at once to the ladies. Aniela was in her room. Pani Celina said the doctor had just gone away, but did not say anything conclusive; only advised her to keep quiet and avoid emotion. I do not know why, but I fancied I saw again in her face the same hesitation. Possibly it comes only from her anxiety about Aniela, which I can well understand, as I feel the same. When in my own room I reproached myself bitterly for having been, at least partly, the cause of this; as all this struggle between her love and her duty could not but act perniciously upon her health. Thinking of all this, I had a sensation which might be summed up in a few words: "Better I should perish than that she should suffer." I thought with terror that she would not come down to dinner, as if something serious, God knows what, had depended upon it. Fortunately she did come down; but she still avoided my eyes, and there was the same mysterious something in the air. First she grew confused at seeing me, and then made an effort to be her usual self, but failed. She made upon me the impression of a person that tries to conceal a trouble. She must have been paler too than usual, for though she cannot be called dark she almost looked like a brunette. I racked my brain to guess what could have happened. Was it anything connected with Kromitzki; and if so, what could it be? Perhaps my money is in danger. The deuce take the money! All I possess may perish, rather than that Aniela should have a moment of anxiety. I must get at the bottom of the mystery to-morrow. I am quite sure it has to do with Kromitzki; but what can he have done? He has not sold another Gluchow, for the simple reason that there is not another to sell. Berlin, 5 September. I am at Berlin, because escaping from Vienna I had to go somewhere. I could not go to Ploszow, because she will be there. I was so convinced that no human power could tear me from her that the very idea of separation seemed to me a wild impossibility. But no! It is always the unexpected that happens, for I have gone away, and everything is at an end. I am at Berlin. I feel as if I had an engine in my head, the wheels of which keep whirring incessantly. This hurts me; but I am not mad. I know everything and remember everything. My physician was right; it is only weak heads that come to grief. Besides, it could not happen to me, because insanity sometimes means happiness. 6 September. Yet at times I fancy that my brain is bursting bounds. What is there more natural than that a married woman should have children? But to me that natural order seems so monstrous that it well-nigh maddens me. Yet a thing cannot be at the same time in the order of nature and a monstrosity. No brain can withstand that. What does it mean? I understand that those whom fate means to crush are crushed by some great, overwhelming calamity. With me it is different. I am rent asunder by an ordinary, natural event,--and the more natural, the more terrible it is. One contradicts the other. She is not responsible,--I understand that because I am not mad. She is still virtuous, and yet I could have sooner forgiven her any other crime. And I cannot, God knows I cannot forgive you, because I loved you so much. And believe me, there is not another woman in the whole world I scorn so much as I scorn you. For, after all, it comes to this: you had two lovers, one for Platonic love and the other for matrimonial love. There is in me a wild desire to laugh, and at the same time to dash my head against the wall. I had not foreseen that a way could be found to tear me from you; and yet there is one, and it has proved effective. 8 September When I come to think that all is at an end between us, and that I have left her forever, I can scarcely believe it. There is no Aniela for me any more. Then what is there? Nothing. Then why do I live? I do not know. It is not out of curiosity to know whether a son or a daughter will be born to Pan Kromitzki. I always think of it as the most natural thing in the world, and my head seems nigh to bursting. It is very strange! I ought to have been prepared for that, and yet the thought never entered my head. I should have sooner expected a stroke of lightning to fell me down. Yet Kromitzki was with her at Ploszow; they were together in Vienna, and afterward in Gastein. And I put it all down to her nerves, to her deep feelings! What egregious foolishness! Since I could bear to see the two together, I ought to be able to put up with the consequences. Alas, it is not my reason that revolts, it is my nerves that quiver under these consequences. There are people in whom these two forces dwell in harmony; within me they worry each other like dogs. That is another of my misfortunes. How is it I never thought of it? It ought to have struck me that if there were any terrible coincidence, any blow more painful than another, it would be reserved for me. Sometimes it seems to me as if I were hunted by a Providence that, not satisfied by the logic of facts that contain in themselves a Nemesis, took a special delight in fastening personally upon me. There are many others who love their neighbors' wives, and they do not suffer, because they love less honestly, more thoughtlessly. Is there any justice in that? No, it is not that. There is no self-conscious thought in the ordering of these things; they happen by chance and by virtue of necessity. 10 September. The thought still pursues me that as a rule human tragedy is the outcome of exceptional events and calamities, and mine comes from a natural event. Really I do not know which is worst. The natural order of things seems to me past bearing. 11 September. I have heard that a man struck by lightning stiffens, but does not fall down at once. I too keep up, sustained by that thunderbolt that struck me, but I feel myself falling. As soon as it grows dark in the evening something strange takes place within me. I feel so oppressed that it costs me an effort even to sigh; it seems as if the air could not get to my lungs, and that I breathe with only a part of them. During the night, and also in the day, a sudden nameless terror seizes me,--terror of nothing in particular. I feel as if something horrible was going to happen, something worse than death. Yesterday I put the question to myself: "What would become of me if, in this foreign town, I suddenly forgot my name and where I lived, and wandered on and on in darkness without knowing where I was going?" These are sick fancies. Besides, in such a case that would happen to my body which has already happened to my soul; for in a moral sense I do not know where I dwell,--I walk in darkness, aimlessly, in a kind of madness. I am afraid of everything, except of death. Strictly speaking, I have a strange sensation as if it were not that I am afraid, but as if fear dwelt in me, as a separate being,--and I tremble; I cannot bear darkness now. In the evening I go out and walk in the streets, lighted by electric lamps, until I am thoroughly tired. If I met anybody I knew, I should escape, if to the other end of the world; but crowds have become a necessity to me. When the streets are getting empty I feel terrified. The thought of night fills me with nameless fear. And how long they seem, these nights! I have continually a metallic taste in my mouth. I felt it for the first time that night when I came home and found Kromitzki waiting for me; the second time I felt it when Pani Celina told me the "great news." What a day! I had gone to ask how Aniela was, when the doctor had seen her for the second time. There was not the slightest suspicion in my mind; I did not understand anything even when Pani Celina said: "The doctor says that those are purely nervous symptoms, and have nothing to do with her state." Seeing that I did not understand, she said, with a certain uneasiness:-- "I must tell you the great news." And she told me the "great news." When I heard it I felt the metallic taste in my mouth, and a cold sensation in my brain, exactly as I had felt that evening I met Kromitzki unexpectedly. I went into my room. I remember among other things that I felt an immense desire to laugh. That ideal being, for whom even Platonic love seemed to be impermissible, and who instead of "love" used the word "friendship!" I felt a desire to laugh, and at the same time to dash my head against the wall. I preserved nevertheless a mechanical self-possession. It came from the consciousness that everything was over and done with; that I must go--that there was nothing for it but to go. That consciousness transformed me into an automaton, doing by routine everything that was necessary for my departure. I was even conscious of keeping up appearances. Why? I do not know, as this did not matter now to me any longer. Most likely it was an instinctive action of the brain, which for months had been trained in concealing the truth and keeping up appearances. I told Pani Celina that I had seen a doctor, and that he said there was something amiss with my heart, and ordered me to go to Berlin without delay,--and she believed it. Not so Aniela. I saw her eyes dilated with terror, and in her face the expression of a degraded martyr; and there were two persons within me: one who said, "Is it her fault?" and another who despised her. Oh, why did I love her so much? 12 September. It is almost two weeks since I left. They must be at Ploszow by this time. I wrote to-day a letter to my aunt, because I was afraid she might be uneasy about me and come here to look after me. I am sometimes astonished to find there is still somebody that cares what becomes of me. 13 September. There are men who lead astray other men's wives, deceive them, and afterwards throw them aside and quietly resume their every-day life. I have never done any such thing, and if Aniela had been my victim I should have wiped the dust from off her path; no human power could have torn me from her. There are greater crimes than mine, but upon me has fallen such a burden that it gives me the impression of an exceptional punishment; and I cannot help thinking that my love must have been a terrible crime. This is a kind of instinctive fear, against which scepticism is no safeguard. And yet by all moral laws it must be admitted that it would be a greater offence to lead a woman to ruin without love, and do from calculation what I did from a deep love. Surely the responsibility cannot be greater for an immense, overpowering feeling than for a mean little weakness. No! therefore my love is, above all, an awful calamity. A man free from prejudices can imagine how he would feel if he were swayed by prejudice; so, too, a man who doubts may imagine how he could pray if he had the faith. I not only have the feeling, but it breaks forth into a complaint, almost like a sincere prayer, and I say: "If I am guilty, O God! I have been punished severely, and a little mercy might be shown to me." But I cannot even imagine in what shape that mercy could come to me now! It is impossible! 14 September. They must have gone back to Ploszow by this time. I still think of Aniela very often, for we cannot wipe out the past; especially when we have nothing to look for in the future; and I have nothing, nothing at all. If I had faith I might become a priest; if I were a man who denies the existence of God I might become a convert. But within me the organs with which we believe are withered, as sometimes a limb withers. I do not know anything except that in my sorrows I do not find comfort in religion. When Aniela married Kromitzki, I thought everything between us was over. I was mistaken. It is only now I have the full conviction that everything is over; for now we are divided not only by our will and my departure, but by something that is beyond us, by forces of nature independent of us. We are like two parallel lines that can never meet, though we wish for it ever so much. On Aniela's line there will be suffering, but there will be also new worlds, a new life; on mine there is nothing but solitude. She doubtless understands that as well as I. I wonder whether sometimes she says to herself: "It is I who, without intending it, have ruined that man." It does not matter much to me, and yet I should like to know that she is sorry for me. Maybe she will feel a little sorry until her child is born. After that all her feelings will flow into one channel, and, for her, I shall not exist any longer. That also is a law of nature,--an excellent law. 16 September. I saw to-day on an advertisement in big letters the name of Clara Hilst. I now remembered that she had told me in her last letter that she was going to Berlin. She is here, and she is going to give several concerts. At the time, the news neither pleased nor displeased me. Now, in proportion as my nervous restlessness increases, the sensation grows more distinct, and takes a twofold shape: the thought that she is near acts soothingly on me, but the thought is sufficient, and I would rather not see her; and when I say to myself that I ought to call on her it gives me an unpleasant sensation. Clara has that inquisitive solicitude that wants to know everything and asks questions. She has a strong leaning towards romantic situations, and the firm belief that friendship is a remedy for all evils. For me to make confidences is simply impossible. I often, lack the strength even to think of what has happened. 17 September. Why do I wake up in the morning? Why do I exist? And what do I care for acquaintances or people in general? I did not go to see Clara, because she can have nothing to say to me that could possibly interest me, and it wearies me beforehand. The whole world is as entirely indifferent to me as I am to the world. 18 September. I did well to write to my aunt. If I had not done so she would have come here. She writes thus:-- "Your letter came to hand the same day that Celina and Aniela arrived. How are you now, my dearest boy? You say that you are all right, but is that really and truly so? What did the doctors in Berlin say, and how long do you think of remaining there? Send me a telegram whether you are still there, and I will come to you at once. Celina says you went away so suddenly that she and Aniela were terribly frightened. If you had not mentioned that the doctor most likely will advise a sea voyage, I should have started off at once after receiving your letter. It is only some fifteen hours by rail, and I feel stronger than ever. The congestions I used to have have not returned. I am very anxious about you, and do not like the idea of the sea at all. You are used to that sort of thing, but I shudder at the thought of ships and storms. Celina is quite well, and Aniela fairly so. I hear that you have been told the news. Before leaving Vienna they consulted a specialist, and he said there was no doubt whatever about Aniela's state. Celina is overjoyed, and I too am glad. Perhaps this will induce Kromitzki to give up his speculations and settle at home. Aniela will now be altogether happy, having an aim in life. She looked rather tired and as if oppressed when she came back, but that may be only the consequence of the journey. "Sniatynski's child has been very bad with croup, but is better now." Reading my aunt's letter gave me the impression that there is no room for me among them, especially near Aniela. Even my memory will soon become unpleasant to her. 19 September. I cannot imagine myself as living a year or two hence. What shall I do? Such utter aimlessness ought to debar one from life. Properly speaking, there is no room for me anywhere. I did not go to see Clara, but met her in the Friedrichsstrasse. Seeing me she grew pale from joy and emotion, and greeted me with such effusion that it pleased and pained me at the same time. I was conscious that my cordiality towards her was a mere outward form, and that I did not derive any pleasure from the meeting. When she had recovered from the surprise at meeting me thus unexpectedly, she scrutinized my face anxiously. Truly I must have presented a strange sight; and my hair has become much grayer too. She began to inquire after my health, and in spite of my friendship for her, I felt that to see her often would be more than I could stand. I resolved to put myself on guard against this; I told her that I did not feel very well, and was shortly going away to a warmer climate. She tried to persuade me to come and see her; than asked after my aunt, Pani Celina, and Aniela. I put her off with general remarks. I thought to myself that she perhaps is the only being who would have understood me, and yet I felt that I could not open my heart to her. Nevertheless I am still susceptible to human kindness. At moments, when those honest blue eyes of Clara's looked into mine with such kindliness and such keen scrutiny, as if they wanted to look into my very soul, her goodness humiliated me so that I felt a desire to weep. Clara, in spite of my effort to seem as usual, noticed that I was changed, and with quick feminine intuition she guessed that I speak, live, almost think mechanically, and that my soul is half dead within me. She left off all searchings and inquiries, but became very tender. I saw that she was afraid of wearying me. She also tried to make me understand that in the tenderness she was showing there was no concealed intention of winning my regard, but only the desire to comfort me. And it did comfort me, but I could not help feeling very tired. My mind is not capable of any concentration, any effort to maintain a conversation, even with a friend. And besides, since the one aim of my life has vanished from my eyes, everything appears to me so empty that I have continually the question in my mind: "What is the use of it? what can it matter now?" 21 September. Never in my life have I passed a more terrible night. I had a sensation of terror, as if I descended by endless steps into deeper and deeper darkness, full of horrible, indefined, moving shapes. I made up my mind to leave Berlin; I cannot breathe under that heavy, leaden sky. I will go back to Rome, to my house on the Babuino, and settle there for good. I think my accounts with Aniela and the world in general may be considered as closed, and henceforth I will quietly vegetate at Rome until my time comes. Anything for tranquillity! Yesterday's visit to Clara convinced me that even if I wished it, I cannot live with others, since I have nothing wherewith to repay their kindness. I am excluded from general life and stand outside, and though I am conscious of the indescribable solitude, I have no wish to go back. The idea of Rome and my hermitage on the Babuino smiles upon me; it is a pale, sorrowful smile, but I prefer it to anything else. There I spread my wings to fly out into the world, and thither I go back with broken wings,--to wait for the end. I am writing mostly in the morning, for at night I always descend to those dark regions wherein fear dwells. To-day I shall go to the concert and say good-by to Clara. To-morrow I depart. On the way I may stop at Vienna, perhaps see Angeli, but am not certain. I am never certain how I shall feel, or what I shall do the next day. I received to-day a note from Clara, in which she asks me to come and see her after the concert. I shall go to the concert because there are so many healthy-minded people there that I feel safer in their midst; and they do not tire me, as they are personally unknown to me; I see only the crowd. But I shall not go to Clara. She is too kind. It is said of persons dying from starvation that for some time before their death they cannot bear the sight of food. In the same way my spiritual organism cannot stand sympathy and kindness. It cannot bear memories either. It is a very small thing, but I know now why that visit to Clara was such a trial to my nerves. She uses the same scent I brought from Vienna for Aniela. I have noticed the same thing before, that nothing recalls to the mind a certain person so distinctly as when one inhales the perfume she is in the habit of using. 22 September. I have broken down at last. I caught a chill yesterday coming from the concert-room, where the air was very close. I did not put on my overcoat, and when I arrived at the hotel I was chilled to the bone. Every breath I draw gives me a sensation as if my lungs in expanding came in contact with two rows of needles hidden under the shoulder-blade. I feel alternately very hot and very cold. I am continually thirsty. At times I feel so weak that I could not go downstairs. There is no question now about going away; I could not get into the carriage without help. While writing I hear my own breath coming three times as quick and loud as usual. I am quite certain that but for my nerves the sudden chill would not have done me any harm, but in my present state of nervous prostration I have lost all power of resistance. It is undoubtedly inflammation of the lungs. I shall keep up as long as I can. In the morning as soon as I felt ill, I wrote to my aunt, telling her I was all right, and would leave Berlin in a few days. In a few days, if I am still conscious, I shall write the same. I asked her to send all letters and telegrams to my banker here. I shall take care that nobody at Ploszow knows about my illness. How very fortunate I said good-by to Clara yesterday. 23 September. I am worse than yesterday. I am feverish and at times conscious that my thoughts wander, but I have not lain down. When I shut my eyes the border line between the real and the outcome of my sick brain seems to vanish altogether. But I have still control over my senses. I am only afraid the fever will overpower me and I shall lose consciousness altogether. The thought comes now and then into my mind that I, a man more richly endowed by fate than so many others, who could have a home, a family, be surrounded by loving hearts, sits here lonely and in sickness, in a strange place, with nobody near him to give him a glass of water. Aniela would be near me too--I cannot go on. 14 October. I resume my writing after an interval of three weeks. Clara has left me. Seeing me on a fair way to recovery she went to Hanover and promised to come back in ten days. She nursed me during the whole time of my illness. It was she who brought a doctor to me. I should probably have died but for her. I do not remember whether it was the third or fourth day of my illness she came here. I was conscious, but at the same time as indifferent as if it were not to me that she had come, or as if her being there were an every-day occurrence. She came with the doctor, whose thick, curly, white hair attracted my attention and fascinated me. After examining me he asked me several questions, first in German, then in French; and though I understood what he said, I did not feel the slightest inclination to answer, could not make an effort,--as if my will-power had been struck down by the disease, as well as the body. They worried me that day with cupping, and then I remained quiet without any sensations. Sometimes I thought that I was going to die, but this did not trouble me any more than what was going on around me. Perhaps in severe illness, even when conscious, we lose the sense of proportion between great and small matters, and for some reason or other our attention is mainly fixed upon small things. Thus, for instance, besides the doctor's curly hair, I was greatly interested in seeing them push back the upper and lower bolt of the door of the room adjoining mine, which Clara intended to occupy. I remember that I could not take my eyes off that door, as if something depended on whether it would open or not. Presently the surgeon came in who was to look after me under Clara's supervision. He began to say something to me, but Clara motioned him to be silent. I am still very tired, and must leave off. 16 October. My nerves have quieted down during that long illness. I have none of those terrors that haunted me before. I only wish Clara would come back as quickly as possible. It is not so much a longing for her presence, as the selfishness of the convalescent, who feels that nothing can replace her tender care and nursing. I know she will not dwell close to me any longer; but her presence soothes me. Weakness and helplessness cling to the protecting power as a child clings to its mother. I am convinced that no other woman would have done for me what Clara did; other women would have thought more of the proprieties than of saving a man's life. Thinking of this, bitterness rises in my throat, and there is one name on my lips--But those are things better left alone, as long as I have not strength enough to think about them. Clara used to sleep fully dressed on the sofa in the room next to mine, with the door open. Whenever I moved she was at once at my bedside: I saw her by night, leaning over my bed, her hair disarranged, and eyes winking with sleeplessness and fatigue. She herself measured out my physic, and raised my head from the pillow. When, in moments of consciousness, I wanted to thank her, she put a finger to her lips as a sign that the doctor had enjoined quietness. I do not know how many nights she spent at my bedside. She looked very tired in the daytime, and, when sitting near me in an armchair, sometimes dozed off in the middle of a sentence. Waking up she smiled at me, and dozed again. At nights she walked to and fro in her own room, in order to keep awake; but so softly that I could not have known it but for the shadow moving on the wall, which I saw through the open door. Once, when she was near me, not knowing how to express my gratitude, I raised her hand to my lips; she stooped down quickly, and, before I could prevent it, kissed my hand. But I must confess that I was not always so grateful. Sick people as a rule are fanciful and irritable; I felt irritated at her being so tall. I felt a kind of resentment that she was not like Aniela; for so long a time I had been in the habit of acknowledging grace and beauty only in so far as they approached the grace and beauty of that other one. Sometimes, looking at Clara, I irritated myself inwardly by the most singular thought that she is beautiful, not because nature meant her to be beautiful,--not by right of her race,--but by a fortunate accident of birth. Sometimes other beautiful feminine heads made upon me the same impression. These are subtle shades which only very delicate and sensitive nerves can perceive. There were moments, especially at night, when, looking at Clara's face grown thin and tired with watching me, I had a delusion that I saw the other one. This happened when she was sitting in the half-light, a certain distance from my bed. This delusion was fostered by fever and a sick brain, for which impossibilities do not exist. Sometimes my mind wandered and I called Clara by that other's name, spoke to her as if she were Aniela. I remember it as if in a dream. 17 October. The banker B. sent me some letters written by my aunt. She asks me about my plans for the future. She writes even about the crops, but nothing about the inmates of Ploszow. I do not even know whether they be alive or dead. What an irritating way of writing letters. What do I care about the crops, and about the whole estate? I replied at once, and could not disguise my displeasure. 18 October. To-day I received a telegram from Kromitzki addressed to Warsaw. My aunt, instead of sending its contents in another telegram, put it into an envelope, and sent it by post. Kromitzki entreats me to save my own money and his whole future by sending him another twenty-five thousand roubles. Beading this I merely shrugged my shoulders. What do I care now for Kromitzki or my money? Let it go with the rest! If he only knew the reason I helped him the first time, he would not ask me now. Let him bear his losses as quietly as I bear mine. Moreover, there is awaiting him the "great news;" that ought to comfort him. Rejoice as much as you can; have as many children as you like; but if you think I am going to provide for their future, you ask a little too much. If at least she had not sacrificed me with such inconsiderate egoism to her so-called "principles." But enough of this; my brain cannot stand it,--let me at least be ill in peace. 20 October. They cannot let me alone,--found me even here. Again for two days I had no peace; again I press both hands against my head to stop that whirring sound in my brain. I think again of Ploszow and of her, and of the solitude that is awaiting me. It is a fearful thing when suddenly something goes out of our life for which we lived exclusively. I do not know whether illness has weakened my brain, but I simply cannot understand various phenomena that I perceive within myself. It seems as if jealousy had outlived my love. It is a twofold jealousy,--a jealousy not only of facts, but of feelings. I am torn by the thought that the child which is to be born will take Aniela's heart from me, and what is more, and concerns me most, it will bring her closer to Kromitzki. I would not have her now if she were free; but I cannot bear the thought of her loving her husband. I would give all that remains of life if nobody would love her, and she not love anybody any more. Under such conditions life might be endurable still. 21 October. If what is now in my mind does not save me, I shall again fall ill, or perhaps go mad. I am making up my accounts. Is there anything owing to me from life? Nothing. What is awaiting me in the future? Nothing. If so, there is no reason why I should not make a present of myself to somebody whom that present would make happy. For my life, my intellect, my abilities,--for the whole of my own self I would not give a stiver. Moreover, I do not love Clara; but if she loves me, and sees her happiness in me, it would be cruel to refuse her what I hold so very cheap. I should consider it my duty to tell her what she is taking; worse for her if it does not discourage her,--but that will be her concern. This plan attracts me chiefly for one reason,--namely, it widens the gulf that separates me from the other one. I will prove to her that, as she has taken her own way, I am able to take mine. Then there will be an end of it. But I am thinking of her still! I notice it, and it puts me into a rage. Perhaps it is hatred now; but it is not indifference. Pani Kromitzka probably fancied that I tore myself away forced by circumstances; she will see now that it was also my wish. And the thicker the wall I raise up between us, the sooner I shall be able to banish her from my mind. As to Clara, I repeat that I do not love her; but she loves me. Moreover, I owe her a debt of gratitude. During my illness there were moments when I considered Clara's devotedness a piece of German sentimentality, and yet the other one would not have found courage enough for such sentimentality. It would be more in accordance with her exalted virtue to let a man die than to see him without his necktie; this is a freedom reserved for the lawful husband. Clara did not care anything about such things; she gave up for me her music, exposed herself to trouble, sleepless nights, and possibly to the world's comments, and stood by me. I contracted towards her a debt, and am going to pay it. I pay it badly and in bad faith; for I offer to her what I do not value myself,--the mere remnants of what was once a man. But if she values it, let it be hers. To my aunt it will be a disappointment; it will hurt her family pride and patriotic feelings. Yet, if my aunt could but know what has been lately going on in my heart, she would prefer this matrimonial scheme to that other love; I have not the slightest doubt as to that. What does it matter that Clara's ancestors were most probably weavers? I have no prejudices; I have only nerves. Any casual view I take tends rather towards liberalism. Sometimes I fancy that people professing to be liberals are more narrow in their views than conservatives; but, on the other hand, liberalism itself is resting on a larger basis than conservatism, and more in accord with Christ's teachings; but I am wholly indifferent to both parties. It is scarcely worth speaking or reasoning about them. Real unhappiness shows us the emptiness of mere partisan hair-splittings. Involuntarily I fall to thinking, "How will Aniela receive the news of my resolve?" I have been so accustomed to feel through her that the painful habit still clings to me. 22 October. This morning I sent the letter to Clara. To-morrow I shall have a reply, or perhaps Clara herself will come tonight. In the afternoon they sent me a second despatch from Kromitzki. It expresses as much despair as a few words can contain. Things seem to have turned out very badly, indeed; even I did not think ruin would come so quickly. Some unexpected circumstances must have intervened that even Kromitzki could not have foreseen. The loss I incur does not make a great difference to me; I shall always be what I was,--but Kromitzki? Why should I deceive myself? There lurks somewhere in a corner of my heart a certain satisfaction at his ruin,--if only for the reason that these two will be now entirely dependent on us; that is, upon my aunt, who is the administrator of the Ploszow estate, and myself. In the mean while I do not intend to reply at all. If I changed my intention it would be to send him my congratulation at the expected family increase. Later on it will be different. I will secure their future; they shall have enough to live upon and more. 23 October. Clara has not arrived, and up to this moment there is no answer. This is the more strange as she used to write every day, inquiring after my health. Her silence would not surprise me if I thought she wanted even ten minutes to make up her mind. I shall wait patiently; but it would be better if she did not put it off. I feel that if I had not sent off that letter, I should send now another like it; but if I could take it back I should probably do so. 24 October. This is what Clara writes:-- Dear Monsieur Leon,--Upon receiving your letter I felt so foolishly happy that I wanted to start for Berlin at once. But it is because I love you sincerely that I listened to the voice which said to me that the greatest love ought not to be the greatest egoism, and that I had no right to sacrifice you for myself. You do not love me, Monsieur Leon. I would give my life were it otherwise; but you do not love me. Your letter has been written in a moment of impulse and despair. From the first instant of meeting you in Berlin I noticed that you were neither well in body nor easy in your mind, and it troubled me; the best proof of this is that although you had wished me good-by, I sent every day to the hotel inquiring whether you had gone, until I was told you were ill. Afterwards, nursing you in your illness, I became convinced that my second fear had been also right, and that you had some hidden sorrow, one of those painful disappointments, after which it is difficult to be reconciled to life. Now I have a conviction--and God knows how heavily it weighs upon my heart--that you want to bind your life to mine in order to drown certain memories, to forget and put a barrier between you and the past. In the face of that is it possible that I could agree to what you ask? In refusing your hand, the worst that can happen to me is that I shall feel very unhappy, but I shall not have to reproach myself with having become a burden and a dead weight upon you. I have loved you from the first time we met, therefore it is nothing new to me; and I have got used to the sorrow which is the inevitable consequence of separation and the hopeless certainty that my love will never be returned. But even if my life be sad, I can weep either with tears in the usual woman-fashion, or through my music as an artist. I shall always have that comfort at least, that when you think of me it will be as a dear friend or sister. With this I can live. But if I were your wife and came to see that you regretted your impulsiveness, were not happy, perhaps learned to hate me, I should certainly die. Besides, I say to myself: "What have you done to deserve such happiness?" It is almost impossible to imagine perfect happiness. Can you understand that one may love somebody with all one's heart in a humble spirit? I can understand it, for I love thus. What I am going to say seems to me overbold, yet I do not feel it in my heart to give up hope altogether. Do not be angry with me; God is merciful, and the human soul is so athirst for happiness that it would fain leave a door open for it to enter. If you ask me again in half a year, a year, or any time in life the same question, I shall consider myself rewarded for all I have suffered, and for the tears I am shedding even at this moment. Clara. There is within me something that is keenly conscious and can appreciate every word of this noble letter. Not a syllable is lost to me, and I say to myself: "All the more reason for asking her again; she is so honest, simple, and loving." But there is also that other self, very tired, who had all the strength taken out of him, who can give sympathy but no love; because he has staked his all upon one feeling, and sees clearly that for him there is no return. 28 October. I am quite certain that Clara will not come back to Berlin; and what is more, that when she went away it was with the intention of not coming back again. She wanted to avoid my gratitude. I think of her gratefully and sadly, and am sorry she did not meet a different man from me. There is such an irony of fate in this! But what is the use of deceiving myself? I am still yoked to my memories. I see before me Aniela, as she appeared to me at Warsaw, as I saw her at Ploszow and Gastein; and I cannot tear myself away from the past. Besides, it has absorbed so much of my strength and life that I am not surprised at it. The difficulty is, not to remember. Every instant I catch myself in the act of thinking about Aniela, and I have to remind myself that she is changed now, that her feelings will be going, have gone already, into another direction, and that I am nothing to her now. Formerly I preferred not to think of my wrecked condition, because my brain could not stand the thought; now I do it sometimes on purpose, if only to defend myself against the voice that calls out: "Is it her fault? and how do you know what is passing in her heart? She would not be a woman if she did not love her own child when it comes into the world, but who told you that she is not as unhappy as you are?" At times it seems to me that she is even more unhappy, and then I wish for another inflammation of the lungs. Life with such a chaos of thoughts is impossible. 30 October. With my returning health I am gradually drifting back into the magic circle. The doctor says that in a few days I shall be able to travel. I will go hence, for it is too near Warsaw and Ploszow. It may be one of my nervous whims, but I feel I shall be better and more at rest in Rome on the Babuino. I do not promise myself to forget the past; on the contrary, I shall think of it from morning until night, but the thoughts will be like unto meditations behind cloister walls. Besides, what can I know of how it will be? All I know is that I cannot remain here any longer. I shall call upon Angeli by the way; I must have her portrait at Rome. 2 November. I leave Berlin, I renounce Rome, and go back to Ploszow. I wrote some time ago that Aniela is not only the beloved woman, but the very crown of my head. Yes, it is a fact; let it be called by any name,--neurosis, or an old man's madness; I have got it in my blood and in my soul. I am going to Ploszow. I will serve her, take care of her, do for her what I can; and for all reward let me be able to look at her. I wonder at myself that I fancied I should be able to live without seeing her. One letter from my aunt brought out all that was buried within me. My aunt says:-- "I did not write much about us, because I had nothing cheerful to tell you; and as I am not clever at disguising things, I feared I should make you uneasy, knowing that you were not well. I am in terrible anxiety about Kromitzki, and should like to have your advice. Chwastowski showed me his son's letter, in which he says that Kromitzki's affairs are in a deplorable state, and that he is threatened with legal prosecution. Everybody has deceived him. He suddenly received orders to deliver a great quantity of goods, and as the appointed term was very short, he had no time to look into things and see whether everything was as it should be. It turned out that all the goods were bad,--imitations, and second and third rate quality. They were rejected; and in addition Kromitzki is threatened with a trial for defrauding the agency. God grant that we may be able to prevent this, especially as he is innocent. Ruin does not matter, provided there be no disgrace. I am altogether at a loss what to do and how to save him. I do not like to risk the money I intended Aniela to have, and yet we must not let it come to a trial. Tell me what to do, Leon; for you are wise and will know what is expedient in these matters. I have not told Celina anything about it, nor Aniela,--and I am very anxious about Aniela. I cannot understand what is the matter with her. Celina is the worthiest of women, but she always had exaggerated ideas about modesty, and has brought up Aniela in the same way. I do not doubt that Aniela will be the best of mothers, but now I am quite angry with her. A married woman ought to be prepared for consequences, and Aniela seems to be in despair, as if it were a disgrace. Nearly every day I see traces of tears in her eyes. It torments me to see her looking so thin and pale, with those dark rings under her eyes and ready to burst into tears at the slightest provocation; and there is always an expression of pain and humiliation in her face. I have never in my life seen a young woman so distressed at her situation. I tried persuasion and I tried scolding,--all in vain. Perhaps I love her too much, and in my old age am losing my former energy; but then she is such an affectionate creature! If you only knew how she asks after you day by day, whether a letter has arrived and if you were well, when you will be going, and how long you mean to stop at Berlin. She knows I like to speak about you, and she makes me talk for hours. God give her strength to bear all the troubles that are awaiting her. I am really so concerned about her health that I positively dare not give her any hint about her husband's position. But sooner or later it must come to her ears. I have not said anything to Celina either, because she is troubled about Aniela, and cannot understand why she should take her position so tragically." Why? I alone in the world understand and could have answered that question,--and that is the reason I go back to Ploszow. It is not her position she takes tragically, but my desertion. My despair she is aware of, the sundering of those ties that have grown dear to her from the time when after so much suffering, so many efforts, she contrived to change them into ideal relations. Only now I enter into her thoughts, into her very soul. From the moment I came back to Ploszow there arose a struggle between duty and feeling in that noble heart. She wished to remain true to him to whom she had promised her faith, because her spiritual nature abhors impurity and falsehood; and at the same time she could not help being drawn to the man she had loved with all the fresh feelings of her young heart,--all the more as the man was near her, loved her, and was supremely unhappy. Whole months had passed in that struggle. At last there came a moment of peace, when the feeling had become a union of souls so pure and unearthly that neither her modesty nor her loyalty could take exception to it. This is the reason of her unhappiness; I am reading now her soul as an open book,--therefore I go back. I also now see clearly that I would not have left her if I had had a complete certainty that her feelings would outlast all changes in her life. The mere animal jealousy that fills my mind with rage because another has rights over her which are denied to me would not have been sufficient to drive me away from the one woman who is all the world to me. But I thought that the child, even before it was born, would take possession of her heart, draw her closer to her husband, and blot me out of her heart and life forever. I do not delude myself even now, for I know that I shall not be to her what I have been, nor what I might have been but for the combined forces of circumstances. I might have been the dearest and only one for her, attaching her to life and happiness; now it will be quite different. But as long as there is a glimmering spark of feeling for me I will not leave her, because I cannot; I have nowhere to go. Therefore I return; I shall nurse that spark, fan it into life again, and get some warmth from it for myself. I am reading again my aunt's words: "If you only knew how she asks after you day by day, whether a letter has arrived, and if you were well, when you will be going, and how long you mean to stop at Berlin," and I cannot fill myself enough with these words. It is as if I had been starving, and somebody had given me a piece of bread. I am eating it, and feel as if I could cry from sheer gratitude. Perhaps God's mercy toward me is beginning to appear at last. For I feel that I am changed; the former self has died in me. I shall not revolt against her will any more; I will bear everything, will soothe and comfort her; I will even save her husband. 4 November. After thinking it over, I remain two days more at Berlin. It is a great sacrifice for me, because I can scarcely contain myself in my impatience; but it is necessary to send a letter to prepare her for my coming. A telegram might alarm her, as also my sudden arrival. I have sent off a cheerful letter, winding up with a friendly message for Aniela as if nothing ever had happened between us. I want her to understand that I am reconciled to my fate, and that I come back the same I was before I left her. My aunt must have counted upon my coming on receipt of her letter. Warsaw, 6 November. I arrived this morning. My aunt awaited me at Warsaw. At Ploszow things are a little better. Aniela is much calmer. There is no news from Kromitzki. The poor old aunt met me with a horrified exclamation,--"Leon, whatever has happened to you?" She did not know I had been so ill, and protracted illness alters one's appearance; and my hair has grown quite gray on the temples. I even thought of darkening it artificially. I do not want to look old now. My aunt, too, had changed very much, and although it is not so long since we parted, I found a great difference in her appearance. Her face has lost its familiar determined expression, though her features have grown more immovable. I noticed that her head is trembling a little, especially when she is listening with deep attention. When with some inward trouble I inquired after her health, she said, with her usual frankness, "After my return from Gastein I felt very well; but now everything seems to go wrong, and I feel that my time is coming. We Ploszowskis all end with paralysis; and I feel a numbness in my arm every morning. But it is not worth talking about; it will be as God ordains." She would not say anything more. Instead of that we took counsel together how to help Kromitzki, and we resolved not to let it come to a criminal prosecution if we could help it. We could not save him from ruin, as this would have involved our own ruin, which, if only in consideration for Aniela, we must avoid. I made a proposition to settle Kromitzki here, by giving him one of the larger farms. God knows how my mind recoiled from, the very thought of his being always with Aniela, but to make my sacrifice complete I had made up my mind to swallow the bitter draught. My aunt offers one of her farms, and I am furnishing the necessary capital to establish him, which, taken together, will be Aniela's dowry. Kromitzki will have to pass his word not to embark in further speculation. But before that can be done we must get him free, and for that purpose we are going to send out an able lawyer with instructions and ample means. When we had finished our consultation I began to inquire after Aniela. My aunt told me, among other things, that she was very much changed, and her former beauty almost gone. Hearing this, I felt the more pity for her. Nothing will be able to turn my heart from her. She is the very crown of my head. I wanted to start off at once for Ploszow, but my aunt said she felt tired, and wanted to pass the night at Warsaw. As I had told her about my having had inflammation of the lungs, I suspect she remained on purpose so as not to let me travel in bad weather. It has been raining since morning. Besides we should not have been able to go, as Kromitzki's affairs must be dealt with at once. 7 November. We arrived in Ploszow at seven in the evening. It is now midnight, and the whole house is asleep. Thank God, the meeting did not excite her much. She came out to me with hesitating step, and there was fear and shame in her eyes; but I had vowed to myself to meet her as if we had parted yesterday, and take care to avoid anything in the nature of reconciliation, anything to remind her that we had parted under unusual circumstances. When I saw her coming, I put out my hand, saying cheerfully,-- "How do you do, dear Aniela? I have been longing to see you all, and it made me put off my sea voyage for another time." She understood at once that such a greeting meant reconciliation, peace, and the sacrifice of myself for her sake. For a moment there passed across her face a wave of such emotion that I felt afraid she would lose command over herself. She wanted to say something and could not; she only pressed my hand. I thought she might burst into tears, but I did not give her time, and continued quickly in the same tone:-- "What about the portrait? The head was finished when you left Vienna, was it not? Angeli will not send it soon, because he said to me it would be his masterpiece. He will want to exhibit it in Vienna, Munich, and Paris. It is lucky I asked him to make a copy, otherwise we might wait a year before we got it. I wanted a copy for myself." She was obliged to fall in with my humor in spite of all the emotions that worked in her breast, especially as my aunt and Pani Celina took part in the conversation. In this way the first awkward moments were tided over. Everything I said was intended to divert our attention from the real state of feelings. I kept on in the same strain all the evening, although at times I felt the perspiration breaking out on my forehead from the effort. I was still weak after my recent illness, and all this told upon me terribly. During supper Aniela looked at my pale face and the gray hairs. I saw she guessed what I must have suffered. I spoke about my Berlin experiences almost gayly. I avoided looking at her changed appearance, so as not to let her see that I had noticed it, and that the sight moved me deeply. Towards the end of the evening I felt faint several times, but I fought against it, and she did not see anything in my face except calmness, serenity, and boundless affection. She is very keen-sighted; she knows, perceives, understands things very quickly; but I fairly surpassed myself,--I was so natural and so much at my ease. Even if there be still any lingering doubt in her mind as to my submission, she has none as to my affection and her being to me the same worshipped Aniela. I noticed that she seemed better and evidently began to revive in the warmer atmosphere. I had indeed reason to be proud of myself, for I brought at once an appearance of cheerfulness into a house where dulness had reigned paramount. My aunt and Pani Celina appreciated it keenly. The latter said frankly when I wished her good-night:-- "Thank Heaven, you have come. Everything looks different at once with you in the house." Aniela, pressing my hand, said shyly, "You will not go away soon, will you?" "No, Aniela," I replied; "I will not go away again." And I went, or rather fled, to my room, because I felt that I could bear the strain no longer. There had been such an accumulation of misery and tears in my heart during that evening that I felt half choked. There are small sacrifices that cost more than great ones. 8 November. Why do I repeat to myself so often that she is as the crown of my head? Because one must love a woman more than life, consider her as the crown of life, if he does not leave her under circumstances like these. I am perfectly aware that mere physical repugnance would have driven me from any other woman; and since I remain here the thought occurs to me again that my love must be an aberration of the nerves, which could not exist were I a normally healthy specimen of mankind. The modern man, who explains to himself everything by the word "neurosis," and is conscious of all that is going on within himself, has not even the comfort which a conviction of his own faithfulness might give him. For if he says to himself, "Your faithfulness and perseverance are signs of disease, not virtues," it adds one bitterness the more. If consciousness of all these things makes life so much more difficult, why do we take so much care to cultivate it. To-day, by daylight, I noticed how much Aniela is changed, and my heart was torn at the sight. Her mouth is swollen, and the once so pure brow has lost its purity and clearness. My aunt was right,--her beauty is almost gone. But the eyes are the same as those of the former Aniela, and that is enough for me. That changed face only increases my pity and tenderness, and she is dearer to me than ever. If she were ten times more changed I should love her still. If this be disease, I am sickening with it, and do not wish to get well again; I would rather die of this disease than of any other. 9 November. A time will come when under changed circumstances she will recover her beauty. I thought of it to-day and at once asked myself what would be our relations towards each other in the future, and whether it would make any change. I am certain it will not. I know already how it feels to live without her, and shall not do anything which might make her cast me off. She will always remain the same; I have now not the slightest doubt that I am necessary to her life, but I know also that she will never call the feeling she has for me by any other name than great sisterly affection. What matters the name? it will be always the ideal love of one soul towards another; and that is lawful, because permitted to brother and sister. Were it otherwise, she would be in arms against it at once. In regard to this I have no illusion whatever. I have already said that since she changed our mutual relations into ideal feelings, they have become dear to her. Let it remain thus, provided they be dear to her. 10 November. It is an altogether wrong idea that the modern product of civilization is less susceptible to love. I sometimes think it is the other way. He who is deprived of one lung breathes all the harder with the remaining one; we have lost much of what makes up the sum of life, and are endowed instead with a nervous system more highly strung and more sensitive than that of our ancestors. It is quite another matter that a lack of red globules in our blood creates abnormal and unhealthy feelings, and the tragedy of human life rather increases therefore than grows less. It is increased for the very reason that, whereas the former man in his disappointments found consolation in religion and social duties, the modern man does not find it there. Formerly character proved a strong curb for passions; in the present there is not much strength in character, and it grows less and less because of the prevailing scepticism, which is a decomposing element. It is like a bacillus breeding in the human soul; it destroys the resistant power against the physiological craving of the nerves, of nerves diseased. The modern man is conscious of everything, and cannot find a remedy against anything. 11 November. There has been no news from Kromitzki for some time; even Aniela has not heard from him. I sent him a telegram to inform him that a lawyer was coming out to him to set his affairs straight; then I wrote to him,--trusting to chance that he may get the letter; for we do not know where he is at present. No doubt the telegram and letter will find him in time, but where or when we do not know. The elder Chwastowski has written to his son; perhaps he first will hear something as to how matters stand. I spend whole hours with Aniela, with nothing to disturb us. Pani Celina, who knows now about Kromitzki's position, asked me to prepare Aniela for any news she might be likely to receive. I have already told Aniela what I think in regard to her husband's speculation, but only from a personal point of view. I told her even that she ought not to take it to heart if he lost all his money, which after all might be the best thing that could happen to him, as then he might be able to settle to a quiet, practical life. I set her mind at rest as to the money I had lent him, and said that was all right; I also told her something of my aunt's plans for their future. She listened with comparative calmness and without showing signs of emotion. What most gives her strength and comfort is the consciousness that so many loving hearts are near her. I love her now beyond all words; she sees it,--she reads it in my eyes, and in my whole manner towards her. When I succeed in cheering her up, or call forth her smiles, I am beside myself with delight. There is at present in my love something of the attachment of the faithful servant who loves his mistress. I often feel as if I ought to humble myself before her, as if my proper place were at her feet. She never can grow ugly, changed, or old to me. I accept everything, agree to everything, and worship her as she is. 12 November. Kromitzki is dead! The catastrophe has come upon us like a thunderbolt. God keep Aniela from any harm in her present state. To-day came a telegram to the effect that, accused of fraud and threatened with imprisonment, he has taken his life. I should have expected anything but that! Kromitzki is dead! Aniela is free! But how will she bear it? I have been looking again and again at the telegram, to make sure I am not dreaming. I cannot yet believe my own eyes; but the signature, "Chwastowski," vouches for its truth. I knew it could not end well, but I never supposed the end would be so speedy and so tragic. No! the thought never crossed my mind. I feel as if I had received a blow on the head. If my brain does not give way now, it can bear anything. I once helped Kromitzki, and latterly I have done what I could for him, consequently I have nothing to reproach myself with. There was a time when from my whole soul I wished him dead,--that is true; but it is all the more to my credit that I helped him in spite of that. And death has overtaken him, not in consequence of anything I did, but in spite of it. And Aniela is free! Strange, though I know it, I cannot believe it altogether. I am as if only half conscious. Kromitzki to me was a mere stranger, moreover the greatest obstacle in my way. The obstacle is removed, therefore I ought to feel a boundless joy; and yet I cannot, dare not feel it,--possibly because a fear of the consequences for Aniela is connected with it. My first thought when I received the telegram was: "What will happen to Aniela? How will she bear the news?" God guard her! She did not love the man, but in her present state a shock may kill her. I am thinking of taking her away from here. What a fortunate thing that I received the telegram in my own room, and not in the dining-room. I do not know whether I should have been able to control my features. For some time I could not recover myself from the sudden shock. I then went to my aunt, but did not show her the telegram. I said only:-- "I have had bad news about Kromitzki." "What has happened?" "You must not be shocked, aunty." "They brought him up for trial,--is that it?" "No, it is worse; he is brought up for trial, but before a higher tribunal than ours." My aunt winked with both eyes vigorously. "What do you mean, Leon?" I showed her the telegram. She read it, and without saying a word went to her prie-Dieu and buried her face in her hands. After a short time she rose from her knees and said:-- "Aniela may pay for it with her life. What is to be done?" "She must not know anything until after the child is born." "But how can we prevent it? It will be in everybody's mouth; the papers will discuss it. How can we keep it from her?" "Dearest aunt," I said, "there is only one way. We must have the doctor here and ask him to prescribe for her a change of air. Then I will take her and Pani Celina to Rome. There I can keep all news from her. Here it would be difficult, especially when the servants come to hear about it?" "But will she be able to bear the journey?" "I do not know; it all depends upon what the doctor says; I will send for him at once." My aunt agreed to my proposal. It was really the best thing to do under the circumstances. We resolved to take Pani Celina into our confidence, in order that she might further our plan of departure. I saw all the servants, and gave strict orders that all letters, papers, and telegrams should be brought direct to my room, and nobody approach the young lady with any news or gossip whatever. My aunt was terribly shocked. According to her views, suicide is one of the greatest crimes anybody can commit; therefore with the pity for the unfortunate man, there was a great deal of horror and indignation. "He ought not to have done this," she said over and over again,--"especially now when he expected to become a father." But I suppose he might not have received news of that. During the last few weeks he must have been in a state of feverish anxiety, travelling from one place to another as the entangled position of his affairs drove him. I dare not condemn him, and will confess openly that it has raised the man in my esteem. There are some men who, justly accused of fraud and wrong-dealing, and sentenced to imprisonment, take it easy, and pass their time in prison gayly drinking champagne. He did not do that,--he preferred death to disgrace. Maybe he remembered who he was. I should have less sympathy with him if he had made away with himself merely because he had failed; but I suppose even that would have been a sufficient motive for him to do so. I remember what he said about it at Gastein. If my love be a neurosis, then most undoubtedly his feverish desire for gold is the same. When this one aim went out from his life, this one basis slipped away from under his feet, he saw before him, perhaps, a gulf and a desert such as I saw when alone at Berlin. And what could hold him back? The thought of Aniela? He knew we would take care of her; and besides,--who knows?--perhaps in a dim way he felt that he was not necessary to her happiness. I did not think he had it in him; I had not expected from him so much energy and courage, and I confess that I judged him wrongly. I had put down my pen, but take it up again because I cannot sleep; and besides, while writing my thoughts flow more evenly, and I do not feel my brain reeling. Aniela is free! Aniela is free! I repeat it to myself and cannot encompass the whole meaning. I feel as if I could go mad with joy, and at the same time I am seized with an undefined dread. Is it really true that a new life is dawning for me? What is it? Is it one of Nature's tricks, or is it God's mercy at last for all I suffered, and for the great love I bear in my heart? Perhaps there exists a mystic law which gives the woman to the man who loves her most in order that a great, eternal commandment of the Creator should be fulfilled. I do not know. I have a feeling as if I and all those near me were carried away by an immense wave, beyond human will or human control. I interrupted my writing again, because the carriage I sent for the doctor has come back without him. He has an operation on hand and could not come, but promised to be here in the morning. He must remain with us at Ploszow until our departure, and go with us to Rome. There I shall find others to take his place. It is late in the night. Aniela is asleep, and has no foreboding of what is hanging over her, what a complete change in her life has taken place. May it bring peace and happiness to her! She deserves it all. Perhaps it is for her sake God's mercy is showing. My nerves are so overstrung that I start when I hear a dog barking in the distance, or the watchman's rattle; it seems to me as if somebody were bringing news and trying to get to Aniela. I make an effort to calm myself, and explain away the strange fear that haunts me, by the state of Aniela's health; I try to be convinced that but for this I should not feel so uneasy. I repeat to myself that my fear will pass, as everything passes, and afterwards there will be the beginning of a new life. I have to familiarize myself with the thought that Kromitzki is no more. Out of this catastrophe springs my happiness, such happiness as I dared not hope for; but there is within us a moral instinct which forbids us to rejoice at the death of even an enemy. And moreover in death itself there is an awful solemnity,--those who speak in presence of it speak in hushed voices; that is the reason I dare not rejoice. 13 November. All my plans are shattered. The doctor came this morning, and after examining Aniela, announced that there could be no question of any long journey for her, as it would be positively dangerous. There seem to be some irregularities in her state. What a torture to hear his professional jargon, when every word he utters seems to threaten the life of the beloved woman. I told the doctor the position we are in, and he said that between two dangers he preferred the lesser one. What troubled and angered me most was his advice to tell Aniela, after due preparation, about her husband's death. Alas! I cannot deny that from his point of view he is right. "If you are quite sure," he said, "that you can keep it from Pani Kromitzka for some months to come, it would certainly be better to do so; but if not, it would be advisable to prepare her mind and then tell her; for if she receives the news suddenly there may be another catastrophe." What is to be done? I must establish a quarantine around Ploszow, not let a paper or letter come in unknown to me, instruct the servants what to say, and to keep even their features under command. What an impression news like this makes upon every one; I had an illustration in Pani Celina, to whom we had to tell the truth. She fainted twice, and then went off into hysterics; which almost drove me frantic, because I thought she would be heard all over the house. And yet she was not fond of her son-in-law; but she too, I suppose, was mostly afraid for Aniela. I am strenuously opposed to the doctor's advice, and do not think I shall ever agree to it. I cannot tell them one thing,--that Aniela did not love her husband, and that for that very reason the shock will be more terrible to her. It is not merely a question of sorrow after the death of a beloved being, but of the reproaches she will apply to herself, thinking that if she had loved him more he might have clung more to his life. Empty, trivial, and unjust reproaches, for she did everything that force of will could command,--she spurned my love and remained pure and faithful to him. But one must know that soul full of scruples as I know it, to gauge the depth of misery into which the news would plunge her, and how she would suspect herself,--asking whether his death did not correspond to some deeply hidden desire on her part for freedom and happiness; whether it did not gratify those wishes she had scarcely dared to form. My hair seems to rise at the very thought, because it is his death that opens a new life for her; consequently it will be a twofold shock,--two blows to fall upon the dear head. This, neither the doctor, my aunt, nor Pani Celina can understand. No! she ought not to be told until after the event. What a misfortune that she cannot go away! Here it is difficult, almost impossible, to guard her. She will read in our faces what has happened. The least word, the least glance will rouse her suspicion, and she will fancy all sorts of things. To-day she was surprised by the sudden arrival of the doctor. Pani Celina told me she had inquired why he was sent for and whether she was in any danger. Fortunately, my aunt, always ready for any emergency, said that it was the usual thing in such a case to call in the doctor from time to time. Aniela has no experience, and believed her at once. How shall I be able to persuade the servants not to look so mysterious? They already guess that something is the matter, from my warnings and cautionings, and they will know all about it in time. I cannot dismiss them all. The frequent telegrams are enough to excite their curiosity. To-day I had another telegram from Chwastowski at Baku, with the inquiry what he is to do with the body. I replied that he should bury it there for the present. I asked the elder Chwastowski to take it to Warsaw, and sent a money order by telegraph. I do not know even whether such an order can be sent from Warsaw to Baku. To-day I looked through the papers. In two of them there was a paragraph about Kromitzki's death. If that is young Chwastowski's doing, he must be mad. The servants know everything. Their faces are such that I am surprised Aniela does not suspect something. During dinner she was cheerful and unusually lively. The doctor's presence is a great relief to me. Kromitzki is nothing to him. He engages Aniela's attention, makes jokes, and teaches her to play chess. Pani Celina, on the contrary, reduces me to despair. The merrier Aniela grew, the longer and more funereal became her mother's countenance. I spoke to her about it rather sharply. 14 November. We are all at Warsaw. They told Aniela that hot-water pipes were to be laid in all the rooms at Ploszow, and so, to avoid the general upset and discomfort, we all intended to go to Warsaw. The drive tired her very much; but I am glad we are here, for I can rely upon my servants. The house is a little in disorder. A great many pictures are already unpacked. Aniela, in spite of being tired, wanted to see them, and I acted as cicerone. I told her that it was my greatest wish to be at some time her cicerone at Rome, and she replied, with a shade of sadness:-- "I, too, often dream of seeing Rome, but sometimes I think that I shall never go there." Her words caused me a twinge of anguish, for I am afraid of everything, even presentiments, and am ready to see in every word a forecast of evil. "I promise you shall go to Rome and stop there as long as you like," I replied cheerfully. It is strange how easily human nature adapts itself to a new position and exercises its rights. Involuntarily I look upon Aniela as my own, and guard her as my property. The doctor was right. We did well to come to Warsaw,--firstly, because in case of any sudden emergency there is help at hand; secondly, we are not obliged to receive visitors. At Ploszow we could not have avoided that, as it is impossible to turn away a visitor from one's own gates; and probably a great many would have come with condolences. Finally, at Ploszow there existed already a mysterious, heavy atmosphere, in which my efforts to give the conversation a light and cheerful turn appeared unnatural. I suppose this cannot be avoided even here, but Aniela's mind will be occupied with hundreds of little sensations, and be less observant of any slight changes in her surroundings than she would be at Ploszow. She will not go out often, and never alone. The doctor orders exercise, but I have found means for that. Beyond the stables there is a good-sized garden with a wooden gallery near the wall. I will have it glazed, and in bad weather Aniela can walk there. It is a terrible strain, this continual anxiety hanging over our heads. 15 November. How did it happen? How the slightest suspicion could have entered her head I cannot understand. And yet it is there. To-day, during breakfast, she suddenly raised her eyes, looked inquiringly at all of us in turn and said:-- "I cannot quite make it out, but I am under the impression that you are concealing something from me." I felt myself growing pale,--Pani Celina behaved most fatally; only the dear old aunt did not lose her presence of mind and at once began to scold Aniela:-- "Of course we are hiding something, and did not like to tell you that we consider that little head of yours a foolish one. Leon said yesterday that you would never learn to play chess, as you had no idea about combination." I breathed more easily, and getting hold of the clue began to make fun of her. Aniela seemed satisfied for the moment, but I am quite certain that we have not dispersed her suspicion, and that even my cheerfulness may have seemed artificial to her. My aunt and Pani Celina were thoroughly frightened, and I was in despair; for I saw how fruitless would be our endeavors so keep the thing from her altogether. I fancy that Aniela suspects we are keeping from her some bad news about her husband's financial affairs; but what will she think if week after week passes and she does not get any letters from him? What can we tell her; how explain the silence? Towards noon the doctor came. We told him what had happened, and he repeated what he had said before, that it would be better to let her know the truth. "Naturally Pani Kromitzka will be getting anxious at not receiving any letters, and thence will draw the worst conclusions." I still tried to avoid extreme measures and said that this anxiety would prepare her mind for the news. "Yes," replied the doctor, "but anxiety prepares the organism badly for an ordeal which even under more favorable circumstances would not be an easy thing to bear." Perhaps he is right, but my heart quakes with terror. Everything has its limits, and so has human courage There is something within me that protests desperately against this, and I am afraid of the voice which says, "No." The ladies have almost made up their minds to tell her to-morrow. I will have nothing to do with it. I had no idea one could be afraid to such an extent. But it is a question concerning her. 16 November. All was well until evening, when suddenly hemorrhage set in. And I had said no! It is three o'clock at night. She has fallen asleep. The doctor is with her. I must be calm--I must. It is necessary for her that somebody in the house should preserve his presence of mind--I must. 17 November The doctor says that the first phase of illness is progressing according to rules. What does that mean? Does it mean that she will die? The fever is not very great. This seems to be always so the first two days. She is quite conscious, feels out of sorts and very weak, but suffers little. The doctor prepared us to expect that the fever would increase gradually up to forty degrees; there will be great pains, sickness, and swelling of the feet--that is what he promises! Let there be at once also the end of the world! O God! if that is to be my punishment, I swear I will go away, never to see her again in life,--only save her! 18 November. I have not seen her. I sit at her door almost bereft of my senses; but I do not go in, because I am afraid that the sight of me will make her worse and increase the fever. At times a horrible idea crosses my mind that I am going mad and might kill Aniela in a fit of insanity. That is the reason I force myself to write, for it seems to me that it is the best way of keeping my senses under control. 19 November. I heard her voice and her moans through the door. In that illness the suffering is terrible. According to the doctor it is the usual sign, but to me it seems blind cruelty! My aunt says she clings round her neck and her mother's and asks them for help. And nothing can be done, nothing! Continual sickness, the pains are increasing, the feet are quite swollen. The doctor says nothing, but that it may turn out all right, or may end badly. I know that without him! The fever is at forty degrees. She is always conscious. 20 November. I know it now. Nobody told me, but I know for certain that she is going to die. I have all my senses under control, I am even calm. Aniela will die! Last night, sitting at her door, I saw it as clearly as I now see the sunlight. A man in a certain condition of mind sees things which other people with less concentrated minds cannot see. Towards morning something passed within me which made me see how it would end; it was as if a veil had been torn from my eyes and brain. Nothing now can save Aniela. I know it better than all the doctors. And that is the reason why I do not resist any longer. What good can it do either to her or to me? The sentence has been pronounced. I should be blind if I did not perceive that some power as strong as the universe is parting us. What this power is, what it is called, I do not know. I know only that if I knelt down, beat my head on the floor, prayed, and cried out for mercy, I might move a mountain sooner than move that power. As nothing now could part me from Aniela but death, she must die. This may be very logical, but I do not consent to part from her. 21 November. Aniela wished to see me. My aunt took everybody out of the room, thinking she wanted to recommend her mother to my care, and this was really the case. I saw my beloved, the soul of my life. She is always conscious her eyes are very bright and her mental faculties excited. The pain has almost ceased. All traces of her former state have disappeared, and her face is like an angel's. She smiled at me, and I smiled back. Since yesterday I know what is awaiting me, and it seems to me as if I were dead already; therefore I am calm. Taking my hand in hers, she began to speak about her mother, then looked at me as if she wished to see as much as she could of me before her eyes closed forever, and said:-- "Do not be afraid, Leon,--I feel much better; but in case anything should happen to me I wanted to leave you something to remember me by. Perhaps I ought not to say it so soon after my husband's death; but as I might die, I wanted to tell you now that I loved you very, very much." I replied to her: "I know it, dearest;" and I held her hand and we looked into each other's eyes. For the first time in her life she smiled at me as my betrothed wife. And I wedded her by vows stronger and more lasting than earthly vows. We were happy at this moment though overshadowed by a sadness as strong as death left her only when we were told the priest had come. She had prepared me for his coming, and asked me not to grieve at it; she had sent for him, not because she thought she was dying, but that it might do her good and set her mind at rest. When the priest had left I went back to her. After so many sleepless nights she was tired and fell asleep she is sleeping now. When she wakes up I will not leave her again until she falls asleep again. 22 November. She is very much better. Pani Celina is beside herself with joy. I am the only one who knows what it is. There was no need for the doctor to tell me that it means paralysis of the bowels. 23 November. Aniela died this morning. ROME, 5 December. I might have been your happiness, and became your misfortune. I am the cause of your death, for if I had been a different man, if I had not been wanting in all principles, all foundations of life, there would not have come upon you the shocks that killed you. I understood that in the last moments of your life, and I promised myself I would follow you. I vowed it at your dying bed, and my only duty is now near you. To your mother I leave my fortune; my aunt I leave to Christ, in whose love she will find consolation in her declining years, and I follow you--because I must. Do you think I am not afraid of death? I am afraid because I do not know what there is, and see only darkness without end; which makes me recoil. I do not know whether there be nothingness, or existence without space and time; perhaps some midplanetary wind carries the spiritual monad from star to star to implant it in an ever-renewing existence. I do not know whether there be immense restlessness, or a peace so perfect as only Omnipotence and Love can bestow on us. But since you have died through my "I do not know," how could I remain here--and live? The more I fear, the more I do not know,--the more I cannot let you go alone; I cannot, Aniela mine,--and I follow. Together we shall sink into nothingness, or together begin a new life; and here below where we have suffered let us be buried in oblivion. 
55702	----	DAY BY DAY WITH THE RUSSIAN ARMY 1914-15 [Illustration: THE AUTHOR.] DAY BY DAY WITH THE RUSSIAN ARMY 1914-15 BY BERNARD PARES _Official British Observer with the Russian Armies in the Field_ _WITH MAPS_ LONDON CONSTABLE & COMPANY LTD. 1915 TO NICHOLAS AND MARY HOMYAKOV Tidings from the Tsar of Germans, Tidings to the Russian Tsar. "I will come and break your Russia, And in Russia I will live." Moody was the Russian Tsar, As he paced the Moscow street. "Be not moody, Russian Tsar, Russia we will never yield. "Gather, gather, Russian hosts; William shall our captive be. "Cross the far Carpathian mountains; March through all the German towns." _Marching Song of the Third Army._ PREFACE For the last ten years or more I have paid long visits to Russia, being interested in anything that might conduce to closer relations between the two countries. During this time the whole course of Russia's public life has brought her far nearer to England--in particular, the creation of new legislative institutions, the wonderful economic development of the country, and the first real acquaintance which England has made with Russian culture. I always travelled to Russia through Germany, whose people had an inborn unintelligence and contempt for all things Russian, and whose Government has done what it could to hold England and Russia at arm's length from each other. I often used to wonder which of us Germany would fight first. When Germany declared war on Russia, I volunteered for service, and was arranging to start for Russia when we, too, were involved in the war. I arrived there some two weeks afterwards, and after a stay in Petrograd and Moscow was asked to take up the duty of official correspondent with the Russian army. It was some time before I was able to go to the army, and at first only in company of some twelve others with officers of the General Staff who were not yet permitted to take us to the actual front. We, however, visited Galicia and Warsaw, and saw a good deal of the army. After these journeys I was allowed to join the Red Cross organisation with the Third Army as an attaché of an old friend, Mr. Michael Stakhovich, who was at the head of this organisation; and there General Radko Dmitriev, whom I had known earlier, kindly gave me a written permit to visit any part of the firing line; my Red Cross work was in transport and the forward hospitals. My instructions did not include telegraphing, and my diary notes, though dispatched by special messengers, necessarily took a month or more to reach England; but I had the great satisfaction of sharing in the life of the army, where I was entertained with the kindest hospitality and invited to see and take part in anything that was doing. The Third Army was at the main curve in the Russian front, the point where the German and Austrian forces joined hands. It was engaged in the conquest of Galicia, and on its fortunes, more perhaps than on those of any other army on either front, might depend the issue of the whole campaign. We were the advance guard of the liberation of the Slavs, and to us was falling the rôle of separating Austria from Germany, or, what is the same thing in more precise terms, separating Hungary from Prussia. I had the good fortune to have many old friends in this area. My work in hospitals and the permission to interrogate prisoners at the front gave me the best view that one could have of the process of political and military disintegration which was and is at work in the Austrian empire. I took part in the advanced transport work of the Red Cross, visited in detail the left and right flanks of the army, and went to the centre just at the moment when the enemy fell with overwhelming force of artillery on this part. I retreated with the army to the San and to the province of Lublin. My visits to the actual front had in each case a given object--usually to form a judgment on some question on which depended the immediate course of the campaign. I am now authorised to publish my more public communications, including my diary notes with the Third Army. I am also obliged to the _Liverpool Daily Post and Mercury_ for leave to reprint my note of September 1914 on Moscow. I think it will be seen that if we lost Galicia we lost it well, and that the moral superiority remained and remains on our side throughout. We were driven out by sheer weight of metal, but our troops turned at every point to show that the old relations of man to man were unchanged. The diary of an Austrian officer who was several times opposite to me will, I think, make this clear. When Russia has half the enemy's material equipment we know, and he does, that we shall be travelling in the opposite direction. It was a delight to be with these splendid men. I never saw anything base all the while that I was with the army. There was no drunkenness; every one was at his best, and it was the simplest and noblest atmosphere in which I have ever lived. BERNARD PARES. DAY BY DAY WITH THE RUSSIAN ARMY _July-August 1914._ While the war cloud was breaking, I was close to my birthplace at Dorking with my father, whom I was not to see again. Though eighty-one years old he was in his full vigour of heart, mind and body, and we were motoring every day among the beautiful Surrey hills. He had had a great life of work for others, born just after the first Reform Bill which his own father had helped to carry through the House of Commons, and stamped with the robust faith and vigour of the great generation of the Old Liberals. Like every other interest of his children, he had always followed with the fullest participation my own work in Russia, and I had everything packed for my yearly visit there. In London I had had short visits from Mr. Protopopov, a liberal Russian publicist, and later from the eminent leader of Polish public life, Mr. Dmowski, than whom I know no better political head in Europe. Both had expected war for years past, but neither had any idea how close it was. Mr. Protopopov was absorbed in a study of English town planning and Mr. Dmowski was correcting the proofs of his last article for my _Russian Review_, which he ended with the words, "The time is not yet." He came down and motored with us through what he called "the paradise of trees"--and Poland itself has some of the finest trees in Europe; and my father was keenly interested in his hopes for the future of Poland. He was going to the English seaside when events called him back to an adventurous journey across Europe, in the course of which he was twice arrested in Germany, the second time in company of his old political opponent, the reactionary Russian Minister of Education, the late Mr. Kasso. To them a German Polish sentry said that as a Pole he wished for the victory of Russia, for "though the Russian made himself unpleasant, the _Schwab_ (Swabian or German) was far more dangerous." When I read Austria's demands on Serbia, I felt that it must mean a European war, and that we should have to take part in it. I remember the ordinary traveller in a London hotel explaining to me how infinitely more important the Ulster question was than the Serbian. It was clear that the really mischievous factor was the simultaneous official and public support of Germany, who claimed to draw an imaginary line around the Austro-Serbian conflict and threatened war to any one who interfered in the war. I had long realised the humbug of pretending that Austria was anything distinct from or independent of Germany; and the claim of the two to settle in their own favour one of the most thorny questions in Europe could never be tolerated by Russia. The Bosnian withdrawal of 1909 would, I knew, never be repeated, least of all by the Russian Emperor. The line had been crossed; it was "mailed fist" once too often. Serbia's reply showed the extreme calm and circumspection both of Serbia and of Russia. Then came in quick succession the great days, when every one's political horizon was daily forced wider, when all the home squabbles of the different countries--the Caillaux case, the Russian labour troubles, and the Irish conflict, on which Germany had counted so much--were hurrying back as fast as possible into their proper background. There was a significant catch when the Austro-Russian conversations were renewed, and Germany, who had now come out in her true leadership, went forward to the forcing of war. The absurd inconsequences of German diplomacy reached their extraordinary culmination in the actual declaration to Russia. To make sure of war, the German ambassador in St. Petersburg received for delivery a formal declaration with alternative wordings suitable to any answer which Russia might give to the German ultimatum; and this genial diplomatist delivered the draft with _both_ alternative wordings to the Russian Foreign Minister, Mr. Sazonov. It is the last communication printed in the Russian Orange Book. The question was, how soon we should all see it. The news of the German declaration was in the English Sunday papers. Many English clergymen see virtue in not reading Sunday papers. I went to church. The clergyman began his sermon: "They tell me that the Sunday papers assert that Germany has declared war on Russia." Not a very promising beginning, but England was there the next minute. "If this is true," he went on, "and if we come into it, as we shall have to, we stand at the end of the long period when we have been spoiling ourselves with riches and comfort and forgetting what it is to make sacrifices"; and there followed an impromptu but very clear forecast of what was to be asked of us. No one will forget the great days of probation, when each great country in turn was called on to stand and give whatever it had of the best. Russia was what one had felt sure that she would be. The Emperor's pledge not to make peace while a German soldier was in Russia, was an exact repetition of the words of Alexander I, but given this time at the very beginning of the war. The wonderful scene before the Winter Palace showed sovereign and people at one; and the wrecking of the German Embassy was an answer of the Russian workmen to an active propaganda of discontent that had issued from its walls. Next came France's turn, her remarkable coolness and discretion, and the outburst of patriotic devotion which the President of the Chamber voiced in the words, "Lift up your hearts" (_Haut les coeurs_). Then the turn of the Belgians, king and people, and their splendid and simple devotion. And now it was for us to speak. I believed that we were sure to come into the war, but it was three days of waiting and the invasion of Belgium that gave us a united England. The Germans did our job for us. It was a quick conversion for those who hesitated; one day, neutrality to be saved; the next, neutrality past saving; the next, war, and war to the end. When we were waiting before the post office for Sir Edward Grey's speech, every one was asking, "Have they done the right thing?" This was the atmosphere of the London streets on the night that we declared war. We all lived on a few very simple thoughts. It was clear that there must be endless losses and many cruel inventions, but just as clear not only that we had to win but that, if we were not failing to ourselves, we were sure to. I was in London before our declaration to ask what I could do, and was now making my last preparations for starting. The squalor of the great city had taken the aspect of a dingy ironclad at work. At the Bank of England, where payment could still be claimed in gold, I was asked the object of my journey. No one seemed to know about routes except Cook & Son. In the country the mobilisation passed us silent and unnoticed, except for the aeroplanes which we saw streaming southwards. I saw my father in his garden for the last time, went to London, and there, in a confusion of little things and big, with a taxi piled in haste with parcels of the most various nature and ownership, hurried to King's Cross, bundled into a full third-class carriage and started for Russia. _August 21._ At King's Cross I was already almost in Russia. The sixty or so Russians who had come to the Dental Congress in London, after one sitting had been caught by the war. Their English hosts looked after them splendidly, and they themselves pooled the supplies of money which they happened to have on them. There were also several members of the Russian ballet, and other Russians on their way from Italy, Switzerland and France, going via Norway and Sweden to St. Petersburg. Our route of itself was a striking illustration of the great military advantage possessed by Germany and Austria. With its interior lines of communication, the great German punching machine could measure its forces to any blow which it wished to deal on either side, while for any contact with each other the Allies had to crawl right round the circumference. For this military advantage, however, the aggressors had sacrificed in the most evident way all political considerations. In a quarrel which Austria had picked with Serbia, Germany forced war on Russia for daring to mobilise. Germany made an ultimatum to France at the same time, so as to make war with both countries simultaneously and give herself time to crush France before Russia could help her. For greater speed against France, she invaded neutral Belgium, thus making England an enemy and Italy a neutral. The absurdity became apparent when, with all this done, we were still waiting for the completion of the Russian mobilisation which was the nominal cause of the European War. Hence the union of so many peoples; but for all that the military advantage remained. It was as if Europe had the stomach ache, with shooting pains in all directions. [Illustration: Centre versus CIRCUMFERENCE. (_to illustrate the journeys of members of our party._)] I asked a friend in the train what might be the state of mind of the Emperor William. He replied by quoting the answer of an Irishman: "He's probably thinking, Is there any one that I've left out?" At Newcastle, the Norwegian steamer had booked at least forty more passengers than it could berth. I only got on to the boat by a special claim and had to sleep in a passage with my things scattered round me. All the corridors were taken up in this way. The Russians are admirable fellow-passengers: they had organised themselves informally under a natural leader into a great family. One corridor was set apart for a night nursery. The women received special consideration, and any one who had a berth was ready to give it up to them. One Russian, thinking I was ill, offered me his. I was ensconced with my back to the wall at the head of a staircase, and they would stop to chat as they went up or down. They had been greatly impressed by the spirit in England: the Englishman they regarded as a civil fellow who had better not be provoked, for if he was he would get to business at once and not look back till it was finished. They spoke very simply of themselves and of their little failings, and said that for this reason it was the greatest comfort to have England with them. What had impressed them most was the calm and vigour with which we had faced our financial crisis. They had seen some of our territorial troops, whom they classed very high for physique and spirit. They had much to tell one of France and Italy, and also of insults offered to them or their friends when leaving Germany. There were outbursts of sheer hooliganism marked with a sort of brutal contempt for Russians, and one lady, they said, had the earrings torn out of her ears. Their humanity was shocked by all this. They had nothing but condemnation for anything of the kind, from whatever side it came, and they were quite ready to criticise their own people or ours wherever there was any ground for doing so. The captain said to me, "We sail under the protection of England." We were stopped once by an English warship, but only for a few minutes. At Bergen I found new fellow-passengers, and after an evening which was a succession of fiords, lakes, rocky heights and white villages, we passed by a wonderfully engineered railway over the snow level and down to Kristiania. The Norwegians were friendly and sympathetic, the Swedes courteous but reserved. There had recently been unveiled a frontier monument showing two brothers shaking hands; and one felt that the one country would not move without the other. Between Kristiania and Stockholm I wrote an article on the Poles, and directly afterwards, puzzling out a Swedish newspaper, I read the manifesto of the Grand Duke Nicholas. We had with us Poles who were travelling right round to Warsaw. From Stockholm the more apprehensive members of our party went northward for the long land journey by Torneô. The rest of us risked the voyage across the Gulf of Bothnia. In the beautiful Skerries, we were at one point sent back by a Swedish gunboat and piloted past a mine field. I was on a Finnish boat, which was fair prize; so I had an interest in any ship that showed itself on this hostile sea. When we reached Raumo, a little improvised port in Finland, there was an outburst of relief for those who had come so far and were home again at last. All classes joined and enjoyed the home-coming together. The train picked up detachments of Russian troops on their way to the war. I had no seat, and went and slept or drowsed for an hour or two in a carriage full of soldiers. As I lay on a wooden bench I listened to a young peasant recruit with a bright clear face who was talking to his mother. It seemed to be a kind of fairy tale that he was telling her, and the clearly spoken words mingled with the movement of the train: "And he went again to the lake, and there he found the girl, and there was the golden ring, the ring of parting." _Petrograd._ I shall not dwell on the six weeks or so that I spent in St. Petersburg. My time was taken up with a number of details and with arrangements for getting to the front. I had volunteered for the Red Cross when I was asked to serve as official correspondent. On my arrival I saw Mr. Sazonov, who spoke very simply about the overdoing of the mailed fist; he was as quiet and natural as he always is. He was very pleased with the mobilisation, which he told me had been so enthusiastic as to gain many hours on the schedule. This was the account that I heard everywhere. Mr. N. N. Lvov, of Saratov on the Volga, one of the most respected public men in Russia, was at his estate at the time. When the news of war came, the peasants, who were harvesting, went straight off to the recruiting depot and thence to the church, where all who were starting took the communion; there was no shouting, no drinking, though the abstinence edict had not then been issued; and every man who was called up, except one who was away on a visit, was in his place at the railway station that same evening. In other parts the peasants went round and collected money for the soldiers' families, and even in small villages quite large sums were given. The abstinence edict answered to a desire that had been expressed very generally among the peasants for some years. It was thoroughly enforced both in the country and in the towns. In the country the savings banks at once began steadily to fill, and the peasants, who would speak very naïvely of their former drunkenness, hoped that the edict would be permanent. In the towns some few restaurants were for a time still allowed to supply beer, but this ceased later. In all this time I only saw one drunken man. The whole country was at once at its very best. After a mean and confused period every one saw his road to sacrifice. The difference between the Russians and us was that while this feeling, often so acute with us, could often find no road, in Russia, with her conscription and her huge Red Cross organisation, the path was easy. All the life of the country streamed straight into the war; age limits did not act as with us; and the rear, including the capital, was depleted of nearly every one. This made one feel that no good work could be done here without access to the army. Nearly all my friends were gone off, and I was anxious to join them. The interval was filled with different lesser interests. The question of communications between the Allies was engaging a great deal of attention. I was a member of a committee at the Russo-British Chamber of Commerce, which was working out arrangements for trade routes. My English friends and I also tried to plan an exchange of articles, asking leading Russians and Englishmen to write respectively in English and Russian papers. But, though this was felt to be important, we broke down on the Russian side, because those who wished to write for us were swept away to war work at the front. In the rear the most important work was the relief of the families left behind. This engaged a number of devoted workers and was soon brought into very good order both at St. Petersburg and at Moscow, but it was in the main a task for women. At the outset of the war the aged Premier, Mr. Goremykin, whose political record was that of a benevolent Conservative, at once saw the need of engaging the full co-operation of the nation as a whole. After consultation with public leaders the Duma was summoned. A few representative speeches were expected, but with a remarkable spontaneity not only every section of political opinion, but every race in the vast Russian empire took its part in a striking series of declarations of loyalty and devotion. Each man spoke plainly the feelings of himself and those for whom he spoke. Perhaps no speeches left a greater impression than those of the Lithuanians and of the Jews; these last found a noble spokesman in Mr. Friedmann. The speeches in the Duma, which were circulated all over the country, were a revelation to the public and to the Duma itself; and the war thus had from the first a national character; it was a great act in the national life of Russia. In particular it was found that the Red Cross work could not possibly be organised on any basis of suspicion of public initiative. In the Japanese War Zemstva were still suspect to the Government, because they represented the elective principle. The Zemstva created a large Red Cross organisation under the admirable Prince George Lvov, but it worked under great difficulties. Now Mr. Goremykin confided the main work of the Red Cross to Prince Lvov and the Zemstva; and almost every one prominent in Zemstvo or Duma life engaged in this work, which gave splendid results. The later attempt of the reactionary Minister of the Interior, Mr. Maklakov, to close this organisation ended in his resignation. Red Cross Zemstvo work meant the nationalisation of Russian public life, which had so long been under the strong control of reactionary German influences. The liberation from these influences was sealed by the re-naming of the capital. The German name, St. Petersburg, was exchanged for the Russian Petrograd. This was no fad. It was the fitting end to a long struggle of the Russian people as a whole, under a national sovereign, to develop itself independently of any mailed fist, to manage its own affairs as Russian instincts should direct. In Moscow in 1812 the Emperor met his people after the beginning of the war. Gentry offered their lives; merchants, with clenched fists and streaming eyes, offered one-third of all their substance. In 1914 the Emperor again went to pray with his people in Moscow, and the growth of a still greater Russia has only augmented those proportions, deepened the reach of that historic example of patriotic self-sacrifice. "Russia," said one of the best Russians to me, Mr. N. N. Lvov, "was lost in a confusion of petty quarrels and intrigues; and suddenly we see that the real Russia is there." The pleasant streets of this great country city, so far more homelike than those of the capital, we found even more country-like than ever; a notable absence everywhere of young men; the feeling that all those who were left were at work somewhere together. In the town hall, which I have always found so thronged and busy, none of the chief public men were to be seen; the work of all seemed to have passed to the new department opened close by for the town organisation in connection with the Red Cross. There, after a long wait while numberless applicants for service passed us, we received an admirably short and clear explanation of the work for the wounded. In the same building was organised the care for the poor, strongly developed in recent years at twenty-nine local branches, and now working wholesale and with splendid effect for the homes of those who have gone to the war. At the Zemstvo League there was the atmosphere of all the years of missionary work for the people that has been carried on in camping conditions for so many years by the Zemstvo in all sorts of country corners of Russia. Every one was moving quietly and quickly about his share of the common business. At the big green baize table every seat was occupied--here a woman of the poorer class volunteering as a Red Cross sister, there a medical student asking for service. Small conferences of fellow-workers going on in all the side rooms; and in the evening a common discussion of how the Zemstvo work could be carried further to the economic support of the population; an appeal is being drawn up to go to every one in Russia. Here I found the excellent "twin" secretaries of the President of the Duma, Mr. Shchepkin and Mr. Alexeyev, who have done so much for friendship with England, and the head of the whole Zemstvo League, Prince Lvov, who in a few simple words gave all the objects of the work for the wounded, who were expected to number 750,000. Next we were taken to the chief depots. Princess Gagarin has given her beautiful house for one, and now lives in a corner of it, helping at the work. There are two main departments for paid work and for unpaid. Patterns of all the clothes, pillows, and hospital linen required for the wounded are sent here, and the material cut out is given out to 3,200 women, some of whom stand in a long file in the court outside. Every day the store, which works till midnight, is cleared for a new supply, and the materials prepared are packed in cases of birch bark for the army. In the Government horse-breeding department there is another great depot under the direction of Princess O. Trubetskoy. The workers, rich and poor, all have their simple meals together in one of the working rooms. There is a large store of chemicals, and elsewhere a department for the supply of furniture and implements for the field hospitals. It would be hard to make those who cannot see it feel how intimately the Russian people now feels itself bound up with the English in a great common effort. The Rector of Moscow University, with whom I was only able to converse by telephone, said to me: "Tell them in England that we have one heart and one soul with them." Every day great numbers of wounded are brought by train to Moscow. By the admirable arrangements of Countess O. Bobrinsky, a vast number of students, young women, and helpers of all kinds are waiting for them at the Alexandrovsky station to assist in moving them and to supply them with refreshments. An enormous silent crowd surrounds the white station. The owners of motors are waiting ready with their carriages; all details are in order. Three trains come in between six and ten o'clock. The sight is a terrible one; faces bound up, limbs missing; some few have died on the journey. The wounded are moved quickly and quietly to the private carriages. As they pass through the crowd all hats are off, and the soldiers sometimes reply with a salute. It is all silent; it is the pulse of a great family beating as that of one man. _October 8._ The Emperor's visit to the Vilna was a great success. He rode through the town unguarded. The streets were crowded, the reception most cordial. The upper classes in Vilna are mostly Poles, a kind of Polish "enclave." There are several splendid Catholic churches. On the road to the station are gates with some revered Catholic images, before which all passers by remove their hats. There is a large Jewish trading population often living in extreme poverty: for instance, sometimes in three tiers of cellars one below another. The peasants are mostly Lithuanians. Thus there are not many Russians except officials. At the beginning of war the nearness of the enemy was felt with much anxiety. Now there is an atmosphere of work and assurance. The Grand Hotel and several public buildings are converted into hospitals, where the Polish language is largely used. The Emperor visited all the chief hospitals, and spoke with many wounded, distributing medals in such numbers that the supply ran short. He received a Jewish deputation and spoke with thanks of the sympathetic attitude of the Jews in this hour so solemn for Russia. The general feeling may be described as like a new page of history. Among Poles, educated or uneducated, enthusiasm is general. This is all the more striking because in no circumstances could Vilna be considered as politically Polish. Vilna shows all the aspects of war conditions, but the country around is being actively cultivated. _October 10._ We reached the Russian headquarters as the bugle sounded for evening prayer. The atmosphere here is one of complete simplicity and homeliness. Our small party includes several distinguished journalists from most of the chief Russian papers, also eminent French, American and Japanese representatives of the Press. We found the Grand Ducal train on a side line. It was spacious and comfortable but simply appointed. We were received by the Chief of the General Staff, one of the youngest lieutenant-generals in the Russian army. He is a strongly built man with a powerful head, whose carriage and speech communicate confidence. He spoke very simply of the military conditions, of the common task, and of his assurance of the full co-operation of the public and Press. The Grand Duke then entered, his light step, bright eye and imposing stature well shown up by his easy cavalry uniform. Shaking hands with each of us, both before and after his address, he said: "Gentlemen, I am glad to welcome you to my quarters. I have always thought, and continue to think, that the Press, in competent and worthy hands, can do an enormous amount of good. I am sure you gentlemen are just the men who by your communications through the papers, telling all that is most keenly interesting, and by your correct exposition of the facts, can do good both to the public and to us. I unfortunately and necessarily cannot show you all I should be perhaps glad to show, as in every war, and particularly in this stupendous one, the observing of military secrecy relative to the plan and all that can reveal it is the pledge of success. I have marked out a road on which you will be able to acquaint yourselves with just what is of most lively interest to all, and what all are anxious to know. Allow me to wish you success and to express to you my confidence that by your work you will do all the good which is expected of you as representatives of the public, and will calm relations and friends and all who are suffering and anxious. I welcome you, gentlemen, and wish you full success." We were invited to join in the lunch and dinner of the General Staff in their restaurant car. There were no formalities--it was simply a number of fellow workers having their meals together, without distinction, just as in the big houses in Moscow where the making of clothes for the army is proceeding. A notice forbids handshaking in the restaurant, under fine of threepence for the wounded. I noticed a street picture of the Cossack Kruchkov in his single-handed combat with eleven German Dragoons, also a map of the front of the Allies in the West, but hardly any other decorations. Among the party there was, in accordance with the temperance edict, no alcohol. _October 12._ To-day I visited several wounded from the Austrian front, mostly serious cases. The first, an Upper Austrian with a broken leg, spoke cheerily of his wound and his surroundings. He described the Russian artillery fire as particularly formidable. His own corps had run short of ammunition, not of food. Another prisoner, a young German from Bohemia, singularly pleasing and simple, described the fighting at Krasnik, where he was hit in the leg. The battle, he said, was terrible. The Austrian artillery here was uncovered and was crushed. The Russian rifle line took cover so well that he could not descry them from two hundred yards in front of his own skirmishing line, but its firing took great effect. I saw also an Austrian doctor taken prisoner, and now continuing his work salaried by the Russians. All three prisoners evidently felt nothing antagonistic in their surroundings. They struck me as men who had fulfilled a civic duty without either grudge or any distinctive national feeling. I spoke with several Russians who had been badly hit in their first days of fighting, especially at Krasnik. Here a young Jew fell in the firing line on a slope, and saw thence more than half of his company knocked over as they pressed forward. He was picked up next morning. A Russian described how his company charged a small body of Austrians, who retired precipitately to a wood but reappeared supported by three quickfirers which mowed down most of his company. All accounts agreed that the Austrians could never put up resistance to Russian bayonet charges. This was particularly noticeable in the later fighting. As one sturdy fellow put it, "No, they don't charge us, we charge them, and they clear out." I was most of all impressed by a frail lad of twenty who looked a mere boy. He was not wounded, and was sent back simply because he was worn out by the campaigning. He said, "They are firing on my brother and not on me. That is not right, I ought to be where they all are." One feels it is a great wave rolling forward with one spirit driving it on. Many of these wounded had only been picked up after lying for some time on the field. I saw one heroic lady, a sister of mercy, who had herself carried a wounded officer from the firing line. Both the hospitals that I visited were strongly staffed. In the second, designed only for serious cases, and admirably equipped with drugs, Roentgen apparatus and operating rooms, the sister of the Emperor, the Grand Duchess Olga Alexandrovna (who went through the full two years' preparation) is working as a sister of mercy under all the ordinary discipline and conditions of travel and work. Starting at the outbreak of the war, she was in time for the tremendous pressure of the great Austrian battles, when the hospital had to provide for three hundred patients instead of the expected two hundred. All the arrangements in these hospitals, based on fifty years' experience of Russian country hospital work, were carried out under the most difficult conditions and bore the impression of missionary devotion. Here, for instance, all the medicine chests were adapted for frequent transport; the table is also the travelling chest, and so on. The country aspect was also noticeable in an army bread factory which I visited. The rye bread is dried to a portable biscuit; the soldier can carry a large supply of this biscuit and has something to eat in the firing line when other provisions run short. _Lvov (Lemberg), October 15._ To-day, on their arrival, the Russian Governor-General of Galicia received the correspondents, and addressed us as follows-- "I am glad, gentlemen, to meet you; I am well aware of the enormous advantage that can be derived from the use of the Press, and am only sorry that you are to be for so short a time in Galicia, for I should like you to have had the opportunity of studying on the spot the difficult questions of administration: you might have communicated to me your impressions and suggestions--for in your capacity of writers you are trained critics. We have to deal in Galicia with various nationalities, and very divergent political views. "I shall be glad if I can be of any assistance in your study of the country. I have already communicated to various deputations, and to the public, the principles of my attitude toward the problems of administration, and have no alterations to make in my declared views. "Eastern Galicia should become part of Russia. Western Galicia, when its conquest has been completed, should form part of the kingdom of Poland, within the empire. My policy as to the religious question is very definite. I have no desire to compel any one to join the Orthodox Church. If a two-thirds majority in any given village desires to conform to the Orthodox Church, then they should be given the parish church. This does not mean that the remaining third should not be free to remain in its former communion. I am avoiding even any suggestion of compulsion. The peasants pass over very easily to Orthodoxy; for them the question is in no way acute, indeed the so-called Uniats consider they are Orthodox already. But it is different for the clergy, for whom the question is a real one. I respect all the priests who have remained in their parishes, and they have not been disturbed. Those who have abandoned their benefices I am not restoring: nor shall I permit the return of any who are associated with any political agitation against Russia. "A difficult question has arisen relating to Austrian officials in the town of Lvov: from persons of means they have now become paupers requiring assistance. Another question is that of credit: numbers of banks are without their cash, which has all been taken away to Vienna. These banks are sending a deputation to Petrograd to solicit the support of the Bank of Russia. "There is also the question of the police. I am waiting for trained policemen to be sent from Russia: it is impossible, of course, to use untrained men for administrative work, and meanwhile I contrive to employ the local Austrian police. Some magistrates have fled--we have to put the affairs of justice in order: I am awaiting a representative of the Ministry of Justice, who will examine the question. "In certain regions around Lvov, Nikolayev, Gorodok and other places where there has been severe fighting, the population has been left in a state of great distress. In Bukovina, however, there is little distress, except in the towns; and as the crops there are good, we are importing food into Galicia from thence. The relief of distress is being dealt with by committees, including prominent local residents, under the Directors of Districts, and controlled by a central committee, whose chairman is Count Vladimir Bobrinsky. In cases of extreme distress it is being arranged that money may be advanced to the necessitous. "I have established in Galicia three provinces: Lvov (Lemberg), Tarnopol, and Bukovina. Perhaps we may establish another province, following the line of demarcation of the Russian population, which on maps of Austrian Poland is admitted to include parts of the region about Sanok (in central Galicia)." _October 24._ I have spent some days in the Austrian territory conquered by the Russians. The Russian broad gauge has been carried some distance into Galicia, and the further railway communication with the Austrian gauge and carriages is in working order. The large waiting-rooms were covered with wounded on stretchers with doctors and sisters of mercy in constant attendance. They utter no sound, except in very few cases when under attention. One poor fellow, a bronzed and strapping lad struck through the lungs, I saw dying; he looked so hale and strong; his wide eyes kept moving as he gasped and wrestled silently with death; he seemed so grateful to those who sat with him; he died early in the morning. I talked with three Hungarian privates, keen-eyed and vigorous. They said their men were very good with the bayonet and seldom surrendered, a statement which was confirmed by a Russian cavalry officer who had just returned from fighting in the passes, though it seems the Hungarians do not consider the war as national beyond the Carpathians, and they fight well because they are warlike and not because they like this war. The prisoners with whom I talked were very energetic in praising their treatment by the Russians, which is indeed beyond praise. Everywhere they met people with tea, sugar, and cigarettes. One said repeatedly, "I can say nothing," and another said, "I cannot but wish that we may do as well by them in Hungary." These were the only Austrian prisoners in whom I have seen a trace of that national enthusiasm for the war which is so evident in all the Russian soldiers. I talked with two Italians, simple, friendly fellows who described their treatment as _pulito_, or very decent. The Slovenes and Bohemians seemed rather in a maze about the whole thing. A Ruthenian soldier of Galicia was quite frank about it. "Of course we had to go," he said, but he expressed pleasure at the Russians winning Galicia, and even regarded it as compensation for his wound. I saw off a train of Russian wounded. They were most brotherly and thoughtful for each other. An Austrian patient told me he was happy and had made great friends with the Russian next to him. The electric trams are used for ambulances, and the chief buildings are turned into hospitals. The biggest is in the Polytechnicum, and is served practically by Poles. The big Russian hospital of the Dowager Empress is very well equipped. The Red Cross organisation is in the hands of eminent public men; such as Homyakov, Stakhovich and Lerche, who visited England with the party of Russian Legislators in 1909. Count Vladimir Bobrinsky, another member of that party, is chairman of the relief committee appointed by his cousin the Russian Governor-General of Galicia. The town is old and pleasing, set in undulating country. It is in excellent order. A little sporadic street firing was quickly suppressed. All inhabitants throughout the conquered territory must be at home from ten in the evening till four unless they have special permission. How well this rule is kept one could judge when returning from the station. No one was out except Russian sentries and Austrian policemen, who have been continued on their work. Otherwise one sees no signs of a conquered town. The day the Russians entered, the Polish paper issued its morning edition under Austrian control and its evening edition under Russian. The electric lighting and tramways continued working and the shops remained open. The fighting, which was most severe, was all outside. But even on the sites of engagements the amount of damage done by artillery is limited to few places and few houses, and cultivation is now going on, without any signs of war, close up to the present front. A general order forbids the leaving about of any refuse. There is no friction between the Little Russian peasants and the troops or the new administrators; but the Jews adopt a waiting attitude. The general position is a great credit to the Russians, and gives ample proof of their close kinship with the great majority of the conquered population. _October 26._ I have visited some of the battlefields of Galicia. It is much too early to attempt any thorough account of these battles; nor did the conditions of my visits make any complete examination possible. The chief harm which Germany and Austria could inflict in a war against Russia was to conquer Russian Poland, whose frontier made defence extremely difficult. Regarding this protuberance as a head, Germany and Austria could make a simultaneous amputating operation at its neck, attacking the one from East Prussia and the other from Galicia. But the German policy, which had other and more primary objects, precipitated war with France and threw the bulk of the German forces westward. Thus the German army in East Prussia kept the defensive, and Austria was left to make her advance from Galicia without support. The Austrian forces on this front were at first more numerous than the Russians. The Russians had been prepared to defend the line of the Bug, which would have meant the temporary abandonment of nearly all Poland. But the alliance with France and England made it both possible and desirable to advance, and at the battle of Gnila Lipa the army on the Austrian right was driven back beyond Lvov (Lemberg), the town falling into Russian hands. The next great fighting was for the possession of the line of the river San. [Illustration: THE SOUTH WEST FRONT (SEPTEMBER) a _Main Austrian impact_ b _Secondary Austrian forces_ c _Russian centre (retiring)_ d _Russian right wing (advancing)_ e _Russian armies in Galicia (advancing)_] It must be remembered that while the fighting lines ran roughly from north to south, the frontier line here ran from east to west. Thus the left of each force occupied the territory of the other. The first decisive success had been that of the Russian left in Galicia; but the Austrian left and centre were still allowed to advance further into Russian Poland. A double movement was then undertaken against them. While General Brusilov pushed home in southern Galicia the success already obtained on this side, and thus secured the Russian left flank from a counter-offensive, General Ruzsky, the conqueror of Lvov, came in on the Austrian centre at Rava Ruska, while other Russian armies, detached from the reserves standing between the Russian northern and southern fronts, and making good use of the advantageous railway connexion, arrived to the north of the Austrian left. Seldom has a tactical battle been planned on so large a scale. The Austrians, threatened at this point with outflanking on both sides, after several days' hard defensive fighting, withdrew with a haste that had the character of a rout, and which only saved them from complete annihilation. Their centre, like their already beaten right, retired southwards toward Hungary, while their left, just escaping the peril of being surrounded, fell back rapidly in the direction of Cracow, where it was strengthened by further support from Germany. Two German corps had already joined it, but too late to avert the reverse already described. The success of Brusilov at Gorodok (Grodek) secured to the Russians the line of the river San as far as Peremyshl (Przemysl). This series of operations, after the Russian evacuation of East Prussia necessitated by the strong German movements on the northern fronts, left Russia with the following line of defence: the Niemen, the Bobr, the Narev, the middle Vistula, the San (to Peremyshl) and the Carpathians. This line includes the larger part of Russian Poland, the city of Warsaw, and western Galicia, with its capital, Lvov. This line is infinitely more satisfactory than that of the Bug. Its security on the south depends in part on the action of Rumania, but a counter-offensive from Hungary has already been repulsed on this side. On the north, attempts of the Germans on Grodno and on Warsaw have been triumphantly repulsed; and the Russians have since fought with success along almost the whole line; a serious German and Austrian effort is to be anticipated on the middle Vistula and the San. I have so far visited only Galich (Halicz), the junction of the Stryi (Stryj) and Dniestr, and the battlefield of Rava Ruska. Galich was at the south of the first Austrian line of defence. The Dniestr here presents from the north-eastern side a concave front, defended by extensive wire entanglements and trenches, and, behind the river, by low but jutting hills. The town, which lies on a ledge between these hills and the river, bears the distinctive Russian character and possesses an ancient Russian church, now Uniat, and a remnant of an early Russian tower. There is no doubt of the Russian-ness of Galich; the only inhabitants whom one sees besides the picturesque Little Russians are the numerous Jews. There was nothing to indicate nearness of the enemy, and complete order prevailed, the Russian authorities being evidently chiefly concerned with the newness of their work and the task of organisation. Friendly relations were maintained between the troops here and the inhabitants; and the only violences of which there was local evidence were those committed by Austrian soldiers before the evacuation of the town. In spite of the strength of the position, no serious resistance was offered here. The Russians appeared unexpectedly at a point on the north of the river, taking in reverse the Austrian field works at this point. They shelled the neighbouring township with extraordinary accuracy, destroying only the houses in the middle and leaving standing the two churches and a third spired building, the town hall. The Austrians then retired rapidly over the bridge, which they blew up, and evacuated Galich. At the junction of the Dniestr and Stryi we also found deep trenches, some six feet deep and three feet wide. The tower at the bridge head, commanding a wide, flat outlook, had suffered but little. The railway bridge had been blown up. Here, too, there were no signs of serious resistance. At a railway junction in the neighbourhood there were again striking signs of the accuracy of the Russian artillery fire, only a distant portion of the station building having suffered. Close by lay a very handsome French chateau belonging to the Austrian General Desveaux, who was connected with the Polish family of Lubomirski. The interior of this chateau had been systematically wrecked by the Little Russian peasants of the locality, the top torn off the piano, family portraits defaced, sofa and chairs destroyed, and the bare floor covered with a thick litter of valuable sketches and pictures, among which I noticed a map of the Austrian army manoeuvres of 1893. I heard here and in other places of the violences committed against the peasants by the Austrian troops on their passage, the inhabitants being often left entirely destitute. The Ruthenian troops in the Austrian army were in a very difficult position: in several cases they fired in the air; and the attacking Russians would sometimes do the same, on which numbers of the Little Russians would come over to them. The Cossacks who preceded the Russian army offered no violence here, I was told, except where villagers told them untruly that the Austrian troops had left the village; with such cases they dealt summarily. They were also sometimes drastic, though not necessarily violent, with the local Jews, who in Galicia have held the peasants in the severest bondage, leaving only starvation wages to the tenants of their farms and exacting daily humiliations of obeisance. My examination of these questions could only be very short; but the general picture obtained was, I think, in the main correct, because it was confirmed by much that I have heard from the soldiers of both sides; and it is clear that the Russians considered themselves to be at home among the Ruthenians of Galicia, whose dialect many of them are able to talk with ease. One thing was clear: namely, that there was no friction in the parts which I visited, except with the Jews, and that life was going on as if the war were a thousand miles away instead of almost at one's doors. Our visit to Rava Ruska presented much greater military interest; we drove round the south, east, and north front of the Russian attack on this little town, and very valuable explanations were given by an able officer of the General Staff. On the southern front, near the station of Kamionka Woloska, where there were lines of trenches, the deep holes made by bursting Russian shells and sometimes filled with water, lay thick together. The eastern front was more interesting. Here there were many lines of rifle pits, Austrian, Russian, or Austrian converted into Russian. The Austrian rifle pits were much shallower and less finished than the Russian, which were generally squarer, deeper and with higher cover. An officer's rifle pit just behind those of his men showed their care and work for him, as was also indicated in letters written after the battle. Casques of cuirassiers, many Hungarian knapsacks, broken rifles, fragments of shrapnel, potatoes pulled up, and such oddments as an Austrian picture postcard, were to be found in or near the rifle pits. These wide plains, practically without cover, were reminiscent of Wagram. A high landmark was a crucifix on which one of the arms of the figure was shot away; underneath it was a "brother's grave" containing the bodies of 120 Austrians and 21 Russians. Another cross of fresh-cut wood marked the Russian soldiers tribute to an officer: "God's servant, Gregory." Close to one line of trenches stood a village absolutely untouched, and in the fields between stood a picturesque group of villagers at their field work, one in an Austrian uniform and two boys in Austrian shakos. The hottest fight had been on the north-eastern front. Here, after a wood and a fall of the ground, there came a gradual bare slope of a mile and a half crowned by two Austrian batteries which lay just behind the crest. This ground had been disputed inch by inch and was seamed with some five or six lines of rifle pits. At one point three Russian shells fired from about due east had fallen plump on three neighbouring rifle pits, and fragments of uniform all round gave evidence of the wholesale devastation which they had worked. All the ground was cut up with deep shell pits, and this place, which was a kind of angle of the defending line, must have become literally untenable. The pits for the Austrian guns still contained a broken wheel and other relics, and close by was a cross made of shrapnel. The impressions which most defined themselves from this battlefield were the almost entire absence of cover, the exposed position of the rifle pits, the deadliness of the Russian artillery, the toughness of the resistance offered, and lastly the thunder of cannon from some thirty miles away, which was sounding in our ears all the time of our visit to the field of Rava Ruska. We did not pursue our journey further along the northern positions. In the market place we saw an angry scramble of a large number of Jews over some sacks of flour; and in a wood outside we passed a strong, masterful old Jew with dignified bearing striding silently with his two sons over his land, a sight which is hardly to be seen in Russia. The Jewish land-leasers here sometimes take ten-elevenths of the profits, as contrasted with the two-thirds which the leaseholder takes in Russia. Distant hills to the north marked the old frontier of Russia. From narratives of soldiers a few characteristics of all this fighting may be added. The attack was throughout delivered by the Russians, even where their numbers are inferior. The men are full of the finest spirit, and they have the greatest confidence in their artillery, though the proportion of field guns to a unit is less numerous on the Russian side than on the German or Austrian. When given the word to advance, the Russians feel that they are going to drive the Austrians from the field and go forward with an invincible rush. They say that less resort is made to the bayonet by the Austrians and by the Germans. In the rifle fire of their enemies they find, to use the expression of one of them, "nothing striking," the one thing that commands their respect is the heavy artillery, but the Russian field artillery has had a marked advantage. Small bodies of Austrians have made repeated use of copses to draw advancing Russian companies on to their quick-firing guns, which have sometimes done deadly work. Cavalry has played but an insignificant part in the fighting. But the most impressive thing of all is the extraordinary endurance of the men in the trenches. It is a common experience for a man to be five to eight days in the trenches in pouring rain, almost, or sometimes altogether without food, then perhaps to rush on the enemy, to fall and see half his comrades fall, but the rest still going forward, to lie perhaps through a night, and then to the hospital to lose a limb: and yet, spite of the reaction, such men are not only patient and affectionate to all who do anything for them, but really cheerful and contented, often literally jovial and always in no doubt of the ultimate issue. There are no two accounts of the spirit in the Russian army. One feels it as a regiment goes past on foot or packed into a train, with one private tuning up an indefinite number of verses and the rest falling into parts that give all the solemnity of a hymn. It draws everything to it; so that no one seems to feel he is living unless he is getting to the front; the talk of all those who are already at work, whether officers or men, is balanced and confident, and all little comforts are shared simply as among brothers. I saw a little boy of twelve with a busby looking as large as himself, an orphan who performed bicycle tricks in a circus, and had now persuaded a passing regiment to let him come with them, and seemed to have found his family at last. All the life of Russia is streaming into the war, and never was the Russian people more visible than it is now in the Russian army. _October 30._ I have spent some days in Warsaw and have examined the scenes of the recent fighting as far out as beyond Skiernewice. The Russian river line of defence ran along the Niemen, Bobr, Narew, middle Vistula and San. The Germans had not previously seriously tested the strength of the centre of this line, and Russian reports issued had so far only spoken of a northern and a southern front. Warsaw lay beyond the defensive river line. A rapid seizure of the city before winter set in would have greatly strengthened the Prussian northern front and have endangered the Russian occupation of Galicia. It would also have created a moral effect on the Poles and might have served as a support to any proposals to negotiate. The Germans advanced principally from the south-west, a region largely left in their hands. German army corps reached a line south-east of Blonie, and at Pruszkow they were little more than six miles from Warsaw. The cannonade shook the windows in the city. German aeroplanes dropped bombs near the railway bridge, Etat Major and elsewhere, killing over a hundred persons but not achieving any military object. The population were much exasperated, and many went out to the scene of the fighting. The brunt of the defence fell on two Russian corps, especially on one containing Siberian troops which had to oppose three German corps. Splendid work was done at Pruszkow and also by a Siberian regiment at Rakitna. Here the Germans, covered by woods and gardens, delayed the Russian advance and placed machine guns on the roof of a high church. The inhabitants say that the Siberians long refrained from returning the fire from the church. The regiment lost its colonel and many officers and 275 men, but held good till reinforced. Several Russian corps arrived, and the Russians then drove the Germans back in successive rearguard engagements which lasted for eighteen days. Another regiment specially distinguished itself at Kazimierz and received a telegram from the Commander-in-Chief, congratulating it on a brilliant bayonet attack. Two days ago it drove back the enemy with the bayonet through a wood, inflicting heavy loss. The Germans retired rapidly in the night south-westward. The country up to several miles west and south of Lowicz and Skiernewice has now been recovered. The Germans in these operations seized provisions and some valuables and committed some minor indignities, but the country has in no way an aspect of devastation. The population is strongly for Russia and offers every service to the Russian soldiers. In Warsaw great enthusiasm prevails, with a very striking difference from the attitude before the war and the Grand Duke's appeal. The Germans during their withdrawal made clean work of bridges, railways, and stores. There was every sign of a deliberate and well-executed retreat. Fewer prisoners were taken than in the case of the Austrians, the wounded being mostly carried away. The Russian artillery worked with great precision and effect, and the Russian infantry, after artillery preparation, attacked throughout. There is no sign of any likelihood of a further German aggressive on this side before winter, but there is always the possibility of an early conflict southward, where the Russians need to secure and complete their conquest of Galicia, and the enemy have to guard their base of joint action between Germany and Austria. _October 30._ My visits to the scenes of fighting in the Warsaw area have been of interest. The main scene of the most critical fighting, Pruszkow, we did not visit. The Germans tried to force their way up here from the south, close to the Vistula, and got to within some nine miles from Warsaw. If they had captured the town (about 900,000 inhabitants, of whom 300,000 are Jews), and occupied the Vistula bridges, they would have established an enormous political and military advantage, which could not have been reversed without the greatest difficulty. Though Warsaw was beyond their line of defence, the Russians made every effort to hold it. We visited a point in the centre of the line of defence, where the Russians held good under heavy losses; their rifle pits were close up to a copse and gardens, and they had tried to secure a footing even closer in. From thence their line ran in a convex curve to Rakitna. Here their artillery had battered in the sides of the lofty and impressive church, leaving standing the woodwork of the roof and two irregular pinnacles. The Germans fired from this church; they had confined several of the inhabitants in the vaults. The buildings near the church were reduced to ruins. Close up against the village lay graves of the attacking Siberian regiment, marked by lofty well-cut orthodox crosses, the men lying together under a vast regular mound and Colonel Gozhansky and six of his officers under separate crosses at the base, while at the head stood one great cross for all the dead of the regiment. The inscriptions were throughout in almost identical language, ending: "Sleep in peace, hero and sufferer." In a small garden close by, the Germans had buried their dead so rapidly that some of them were still uncovered. On two neighbouring crosses they had paid their tribute to "six brave German warriors" and to "six brave Russian warriors." Through a great hole in the ruined church one caught sight of a crucifix, untouched but surrounded with marks of shot in the wall. In the neighbouring township of Blonie, the town hall had been set on fire. Blonie, which was the northern point of the line of battle, lies about eighteen miles due west of Warsaw; from thence runs an excellent broad _chaussée_, embanked and lined with poplars, going straight westward towards the frontier. At Sochaczew the high bridge over the river was broken off clean at both ends and the central supports entirely destroyed, but there were few other marks of war. At Lowicz the bridge had been destroyed and, as at Sochaczew and Skiernewice, had been very rapidly repaired by the pursuing Russians. Lowicz lies in flat country, through which the rivers make deep furrows. It is a clean and picturesque little place, with a symmetrical central square flanked by large buildings and with the fine parish church at the western end. The Poles of this part wear very distinctive national costumes; the women have skirts in broad and narrow vertical stripes, with orange, or sometimes red, as the foundation of colour, the narrow stripes being usually black, purple and yellow; round their shoulders they wear what look like similar skirts, fastened with ribbons at the neck, and they have variegated aprons, in which the foundation colour of the dress is absent; the general impression in the fields or on the sky line is of a mass of orange. The old men wear grizzled grey overcoats and broad-brimmed hats, and the younger men elaborate and tight-fitting costumes that suggest a groom of the eighteenth century, or loose zouave blouses and trousers of blue or other colours. Houses in the villages are spacious and plastered white, with sometimes a certain amount of decoration, usually in blue. At Lowicz there were some marks of war. My host for the night, an old soldier from Orenburg who had served under Skobelev, spoke with indignation of the recent German occupation; they had taken all the supplies that they could find. But there were no signs of any permanent occupation, and the German requisitions could not have been very thorough, as one saw many geese, pigs and, above all, very fine horses in this part, and the inhabitants had quite settled down again to their ordinary occupations. From such accounts as I have read of the conditions in Germany, I should think that one would see there fewer young and middle-aged men and less field work going on than in this no-man's land that has lain between the two hostile lines of defence and has been traversed by each army in turn. From Lowicz to Skiernewice there runs south-westward a _chaussée_ and also a more direct road that passes through an area of sand and mud. Napoleon used to say that in his campaign of Poland (1807) he had discovered a fifth element--mud. There is no other obstacle, the broad undulating plains suggesting parts of the north of France; combining lights and shades, they offer scope for the artist, and the long lines of well-to-do villages have a pleasing effect that is enhanced by the graceful local costumes. The peasants are well built and good featured, often with a military air and carriage; their manners are excellent, and their intercourse with the Russian soldiers is both courteous and cordial. They were at any time ready to come and help in the frequent breakdowns of our motors, and I noticed, to my surprise, after experiences of other years in Warsaw, that they felt no difficulty in understanding Russian and in making themselves intelligible to us. At some points on our road there were marks of rearguard fighting, and as we were told, two or three wounded, but we saw hardly any prisoners, except a body of Landwehr men, and no trophies. At the village of Mokra (which means "damp") the houses still bore the ordinary German chalk marks assigning the billets to given numbers of men. At Skiernewice the coal stores at the station had been fired and were still burning: but the town was comfortably held by the Russians, and we found no difficulty in the matter of supplies and quarters. Skiernewice will be remembered as one of the last stopping places in the Russian empire on the road from Moscow to Berlin, and also as a former meeting place of the three emperors. It has great preserves for pheasants, which are only touched during the visits of the Sovereign. There is the usual central square of Polish houses, and here, as in Sochaczew, the Jews were in evidence, though they have been removed from some military centres where they have given assistance to the enemy. From Skiernewice we travelled a considerable distance south-westwards, passing over a fine military position carefully prepared by the Germans, and commanding a view of some ten miles to the north-east, but abandoned without any sign of resistance. At every point we met the picturesque-looking peasants returning to their now recovered homes. At a low-lying village we saw vedettes riding to and fro, trains of supplies, vans of the Red Cross being loaded with wounded, and in front of the poor thatched cottages a line of deeply hollowed trenches, from which rose a colonel, a simple homely man in workday uniform, to offer us part of the repast. There was the strong family feeling typical of any gathering of Russians. We passed along the line chatting with the men; a young colonel galloped up to invite us to visit his guns; but we turned to a nearer battery, of which the old commander did us the honours. These men were from a military province in the heart of Russia, and their faces passed into a broad friendly grin as they stood to their guns for us, sat to be photographed at their tea-drinking, and told the story of their last fighting. They had been firing for all the last two days. At about half a mile lay a copse on a hill, at first held by the Germans, and behind it a long wooded ridge near which were German rifle pits. The German artillery put up a cross fire from both sides. Their shells had done very little damage. The Russian infantry charged up the nearer slope and drove the Germans with the bayonet through the copse. Here there were more than three hundred German dead; among them boys of thirteen and fourteen, whose soldiers' pay-books gave their ages. One officer remained standing just as the blow had caught him. In the night the Germans had rapidly withdrawn and were now several miles away. On a bare slope to the right of the battery stood an infantry regiment, which in eighteen days' fighting had been reduced to about half its strength. As we approached, we saw it drawn up under arms and in a hollow square. A priest was preaching. He was arrayed in rich blue vestments, which showed up in the dull earthen colour of the slope and of the soldiers. His strong handsome features and long hair recalled pictures of Christ. His deep voice carried without effort to the ranks in the rear. As I approached, he was saying, "Never forget that wherever you are and whatever is happening to you the eye of God is on you and watching over you." After the sermon followed prayers, a band of soldiers at his side, led by a tall Red Cross soldier, joining in the beautiful other-world chants of the Eastern Church; they were trained singers and sang just as in church, without any accompaniment and with perfect balance and rhythm, the tall soldier conducting them very quietly with his hand. At one point, the prayers for the Emperor, all crossed themselves. All fell on their knees again at the prayers for the Russian troops, for the armies of the Allies and that God should give them every success. Once more all knelt at the prayers for their slain comrades, while the beautiful "Eternal memory" was chanted by the little choir. The rest of the service was standing; the men remained firm and motionless, in fixed and silent attention. There were impressive moments when the priest placed a little Gospel, bound in blue velvet, on an improvised lectern of six bayonets crossed in front of him, and when turning to all sides shadowed the men with a little gold cross which he waved slowly with both hands. After the service the Colonel stepped forward and with a quick movement called for the salute to the flag, and every musket was raised with a dull rattle that sounded out over the vast open space under the grey sky. Next he read out in a loud clear voice a message from the Commander-in-Chief congratulating the regiment on the brilliant bayonet attack at Kazimierz, and called out: "For Tsar and country, Hurrah!" This cheer rose like low thunder and died away in distant peals. Some twenty to thirty men had received the cross of St. George for personal bravery, and these, at a word from the Colonel, stepped out and filed by with quick springing step, circling round the priest and the piled bayonets, then stopped in front of him to kiss the Cross which he pressed in turn to the lips of each. Then the whole regiment fell into movement and swung round the open square, the cross movements, carried out slowly and in perfect order, giving the appearance of a labyrinth. One could not tell which way the men would turn, but they swung round with precision and came forward with the strength of a great river. An officer had asked me to carry a postcard message for him, and while he wrote "I am alive and well" and a short greeting, we were caught in the current, which parted to each side of us at the words of the kneeling writer, "Brothers, don't come over me." As each section passed the saluting point, the officer ordered the salute, the Colonel replied with a word of congratulation, and the men gave a short sharp cry expressing their readiness for work. There was a remarkable regularity and springiness in the march of the men, and their motion was that of an elemental force moving well within its strength, like the flow of the Neva. After the march past the Colonel handed to us a whole bundle of postcards for home. We passed from the bare grey slope with all this strong life on it and drove forward to the next village, lately held by the Germans and now abandoned. Here we saw a very different spectacle, showing the effectiveness of the Russian artillery. The houses were for the most part long and spacious, built of huge stones with a superstructure of wood and roof of thatch. Some of them still remained intact; but most had only the stone basis standing. Everywhere were groups of the bright orange-coloured peasants, just returned, and in one house stood an old woman making her first examination of her devastated home. We stood in the slush on the dirty lane listening to the last report of a mounted staff officer, and as the Germans were evidently retreating rapidly we turned back to Skiernewice. We had followed the Russian advance some seventy miles from Warsaw. It is well to recognize the value of these operations. The Germans would obtain obvious advantages from a rapid seizure of Warsaw. So far western Poland, lying between the two military lines of defence, had been a kind of no-man's land, and as the main operations were to north or to south, the Germans had made here a number of raids and had secured partial and transitory successes. They now, as at Grodno, tasted the actual Russian line of defence. The Russian forces in the centre were much stronger than anticipated, and making a great effort, not only repulsed the attack but made any real success on the German side impossible. The political aspect of the attempt and the character of its failure are illustrated by the following incident. The King of Saxony, whose ancestors were kings of Poland, had sent a court official with presents and decorations for those who should take part in the capture of Warsaw, and this official was himself captured by Cossacks after the repulse. The Germans, on the failure of their attempt, withdrew quickly but in good order, leaving few prisoners and spoils of war. The country was not devastated. There had been, after the repulse, some disgraceful incidents, _e.g._ they had made a Polish landowner and his servants stand in the Russian line of fire: and clocks and ornaments were taken away. But I have no evidence of any atrocities such as those in Belgium, and these could hardly have escaped observation. The German troops seem to have been partly reservists, with whom excesses are less likely. The signs indicate that the retreat is definitive, and such is the inference from the reported incendiarism at Lodz, which is full of German factories. _November 4._ Trustworthy eyewitnesses speak with great enthusiasm of the conduct of the Russian troops on the Upper Vistula, where more serious fighting is to be expected. The influence of the Commander-in-Chief has produced the selection of capable commanders everywhere, and the subordinate officers are full of spirit and energy. Here again the German heavy artillery commands respect, but the Russian field guns and howitzers are served with remarkable precision and alertness and meet with great success. The complete confidence of the Russian infantry in the effectiveness of the Russian artillery is a striking and general feature. The men are always keen for bayonet work, which the enemy consistently avoids. The Russian cavalry has, by different accounts, shown great dash and has been handled with dash and skill. In a raid beyond the river on the enemy's communications, a Russian cavalry division came on Germans in the dusk, and the troopers with the baggage column in the centre left the baggage and, charging, completely routed the enemy. The division several times got into the German forces, taking many prisoners. Large numbers of stragglers have been taken by the Russians. A Hungarian division put up a good resistance for three days and then collapsed. German officers pay ridiculously small sums for their keep; for example, two marks for two days' keep of three officers, and they appropriate valuables and take all stores. The population in southern Poland is in a state of profound distress, and the Russians are organising extensive relief work. The Germans compel captured officers to work with the men, spit at them and drive them about bare to the waist. A competent eyewitness in East Prussia says that the German communications are very good, and that underground telephones are frequently discovered. Large forces are in close contact here, and the Russian counter-stroke has much impressed the enemy. Our men bear fatigue and privations with great endurance. The Polish population shows the greatest alacrity in assisting the Russian troops both in the country and in the towns. All Poles now readily speak Russian. Yesterday the Warsaw Press entertained the Russian and foreign correspondents. There was a distinguished gathering, and both Russians and Poles spoke with striking frankness and feeling. One eminent Polish leader, Mr. Dmowski, said that all the blood shed between the two nations was drowned in the heavy sacrifices of the present common struggle. Polish politicians are keenly enthusiastic for France and Great Britain, and are studying the development of closer economic and other relations with Great Britain. The Russian advance is now much more complete in southern Poland and is better lined up with the forces in Galicia. This advance tends to secure the Russian position on the northern frontier, where any German initiative becomes daily more hazardous. The ordinary fresh yearly Russian contingents mean an increase of half a million men. The arrangements for the wounded provide, if necessary, for over a million. _November 8._ I have just made a journey over the country lying between Warsaw and Cracow, where the Russian advance is now proceeding. My previous communication spoke of the original line of Russian defence along the Bug, and the later and more advanced line along the Vistula and the Narew. Present events are rapidly converting the new advance west of Warsaw from a counterstroke into a general transference of the sphere of operations and a most valuable rectification of the whole Russian line. In East Prussia the Germans are being slowly driven back by a double turning movement. Further westward the northern frontier of Poland is well secured. The Russians have now occupied and hold firmly Plock, Lodz, Piotrkow, Kielce and Sandomir, as also Jaroslaw and all the other passages of the river San. A glance at the map will show the importance of this line, which is only a stage in the general advance. On the repulse of the German attack on Warsaw, the enemy was pressed back south-westward in three weeks of continuous fighting. Near Ivangorod, a famous Caucasian regiment forced the passage of the Vistula under the fire of German heavy artillery. The advance guard crossed the broad stream--here unbridged--in skiffs and ferry-boats, and held good under a devastating cross fire till the construction of a pontoon bridge allowed the passage of reinforcements. The supports coming along the river bank from Ivangorod had to advance through flooded swamps almost breast high. Their footing was made good at Kosienice, where desperate fighting took place. Later they made a series of brilliant attacks in forests, after which the Germans were thrown back on Radom. The general advance drove the enemy back beyond Radom and Ilza. At the small town of Szydlowiec the German commandant threatened, as the Russians approached, to blow up the remarkable town hall, in Florentine style, conspicuous for thirty miles around, and the beautiful Gothic church, six hundred years old. The inhabitants offered to ransom them by a contribution of 5000 crowns. The offer was accepted; but twenty minutes later the town hall was blown up, and the church followed at the end of another quarter of an hour. This story was narrated to me with great indignation by the inhabitants. Some miles in front of Kielce the Austrians--now abandoned by the Germans, who had retired--made a stand near Lesczyna on a high sandy position with a large fir copse in its centre and extending over a wide front. The attack on it was delivered by a Russian corps including a division mainly composed of Poles, and fell chiefly on an Austrian Polish regiment from Cracow. The assailants kept up a fire all day, and finally rushed the enemy's rifle pits with hurrahs. The Austrians left Kielce at night and in the early morning--some were captured by the Russians, who came in close upon their heels. They were pursued for some miles, and brought to action again later on the same day. Next day the Russian artillery was also heard to the south-east of Kielce. The Germans had retreated in the direction of Czenstochowa. All this three weeks of fighting was in the characteristic Russian style: bayonet attacks were repeated for two hours; small units eagerly attacked larger ones of the enemy. In general the Russians outflanked the enemy, but in one case they broke through his centre. Often the Russian artillery caused him to decamp in the night. Officers describe the enthusiasm of the rank and file as growing if possible greater. It is clearly visible in the rear of the army, and shown by the energy with which transport is being pushed up. The enemy has thoroughly destroyed the bridges, but they are quickly repaired, and meanwhile the ardour of the troops and of the transport trains minimises all delay. It may be noted that the German rifle fire is superior to the Austrian. Some Austrian regiments have been found to be officered by Germans. The Austrian Slavonic regiments resist well for two or three days, but then break up and surrender in large bodies--they have sometimes asked for guides to take them to the Russian lines. The inhabitants speak well of the Austrians, but with indignation of the Germans. Prisoners confirm the bad relations between the two allied armies, and Austrians and Germans when captured have to be kept apart. I saw at Kielce ample evidence of the enthusiasm of the Poles for the Russian cause; they show the greatest courtesy and kindness, especially in the villages. I am told on good evidence that at Kalisz, when a German soldier defaced a portrait of the Tsar, a Polish official struck him in the face, and for this was bound to a telegraph post for two days, and then taken down and shot. All evidence of prisoners shows that the Russians are treating enemies as well as their own comrades--often I have seen them giving the captives the best of everything. The following interesting proclamation was posted to-day by the commander of a Russian army corps at Radom, where the Germans had remained for over a month. "Poles! Our wounded officers and soldiers, and also our prisoners who have fallen into the hands of the enemy and have passed through the town or province of Radom, speak with deep gratitude of your cordial treatment of them. You have tended the wounded, fed the starving, and clothed and sheltered from the enemy those escaping from captivity. You have given them money and guided them to our lines. Accept from me and all ranks of the army entrusted to me our warm and hearty thanks for all your kindness, for your Slavonic sympathy and goodness." The theatre of the present operations is of crucial importance. Here Austria and Germany join hands. Serious reverses would compel them either to retreat on diverging lines, or to expose one or other of their capitals. Either event would have political consequences of the highest military significance. _November 9._ I left Warsaw on November 2 by motor and arrived without incident at Radom (sixty miles to south-south-west). The town was held by the Germans for a month and four days. They made themselves objectionable to the inhabitants, taking all supplies on which they could lay hands; but I came on no evidence of any particular outrages. The inhabitants showed the heartiest friendship to the Russians, as is recognised in the proclamation of the Commanding General which I have already quoted. Nothing could exceed the care and thoughtfulness of my own Polish hosts; the Russian soldiers, for instance the one who accompanied our party, were on friendliest terms of intercourse with the Poles, and the objection which the Poles previously had to speaking Russian had vanished as if by magic. It should be noted that the inhabitants of all this area are particularly strong in Polish patriotism. Beyond Radom the excellent high road to Cracow, running on an embankment and lined with poplars, was broken at every bridge and cut up for some distance by a road plough. Side tracks had been made at every necessary point. We travelled in the midst of troops all hurrying forward to participate in the taking of Kielce. They moved slowly along the road in straggling groups like an enormous family on its way to a huge picnic, but the unity of each regiment is never lost and the most remarkable impression which one receives is that of destination--of movement to "the appointed place." Every artificial barrier was little more than an occasion for thought and effort: the Russian peasant, everywhere accustomed to obstacles of this kind, has all sorts of ready and resourceful ways of surmounting them; and they call forth all his brotherly instincts of joint work and mutual help. Any number of men run up from their loose ranks to push a motor or cart or transport wagon over a marshy stream, and the travellers call back from their vehicle, "Thank you, brothers." It is like a current that slows up and takes thought against some barrier, but whose general movement seems not even to be checked. Some of the side passages looked very bad indeed, but every one somehow got through, no matter what the size of their carriage. Often at such points there were companies that rested along the grassy banks of the road; in other places one saw, to the side, great parks of small grey wagons. Those carrying straw for the bivouacs were in front; but sometimes one came upon a resting battery. The brotherhood between officers and men is another notable feature of the march of a Russian army. [Illustration: a.b. _Austro German march on Warsaw_ c _Russian resistance_ d _Russian offensive on Kosienice_ e _Germans driven west_ f _Austrians driven south-west_] At Szydlowiec, seventeen miles south of Radom, I saw the first signs of devastation, but these were not the work of the advancing Russian artillery but had been perpetrated deliberately by the retreating Germans. The tower of the town hall was crumbled to ruins. The church is not large, but has a high pointed roof, of which the open woodwork still remains, with the cupola as if caught astride of it in its fall. Inside, the beautiful painted inner roof is mutilated, but the monuments of the ancient Szydlowiecki family, and notably the graceful figure of a sleeping woman, have for the most part escaped. The floor was covered with rubbish and the damage is estimated at a very high figure. While I was in the church, the dignified old priest entered with six young men, who knelt with faces full of reverence before they set to work to clear the nave of rubbish. The Pole who told me the story of the ruin of the church told it quietly but with flashing eyes. He said the inhabitants asked rather that the whole town should be destroyed and the church be left standing. The only excuse was a few shots from the advancing Russian infantry and artillery, and there was no regular fighting there, the Germans making no resistance and retreating too quickly to blow up the castle. After Szydlowiec, the Cracow road on its way to Kielce (twenty-seven miles) passes through country of quite a different character. A long rise, and we were now close up among the troops. At one point the long train of wagons branched away to a village on our left, and out of it by another road there came in another stream of fighting men. We passed some two hundred Austrian prisoners in their blue shakos and uniforms; they were all Poles, with hardly any guard but giving no trouble; one of them courteously stepped out of the ranks to pick up my field glass, which I had dropped. These men, who talked freely to us, did not look at all miserable, only confused. The Russians behaved to them as to their own people. At last we came to the hills above Kielce. It was now clear what had happened. Troops of all kinds were streaming into the town and all resistance was over. On the main street we were stopped for a few moments by a general and his staff. At the chief hotel large parties of officers were sitting down to lunch. All the streets were full of movement, but with no sign of any conflict or friction--horses, dismounting messengers, soldiers eating, talking or resting, the townspeople standing watching, satisfying the requirements or questions of the newcomers or joining in their talk. We had no difficulty in securing good rooms, and our lunch was as good as it would have been in Warsaw. Many of the troops had passed or were passing on along the broad road in the direction of Cracow. Mounting the high hill south-west of the town we could see the scattered stream of men, horses and carts going forward past pleasant houses, hills and villages, and the thunder of artillery came to us from beyond a ridge in the distance. Our plans, however, prevented us from going further. At the hotel the regiment which had done most of the fighting was sitting at dinner and singing the regimental song and the national hymn. The song began with a Mahometan word, "God has given us victory." Next day, November 4, with villagers guiding and recounting to us, we went over the scene of the last Austrian resistance about six miles east of Kielce. A long curving line of rifle pits ran over a broad high front; sometimes the line ran along the inside of an extensive copse of small fir trees; some of the pits contained extemporised pallets of fir boughs, in others were bullets, weapons or even letters. The Russian advance was indicated by two hostile lines running almost side by side, where within a few yards I picked up undischarged bullets of the two armies. In a little wooded cemetery on the bare ridge lay a number of bodies, Austrian and Russian, brought in by the villagers for burial. It was not a sight to dwell on; but one thing that I shall not forget was the body of a young Austrian of not more than twenty, full of grace and beauty, the head thrown back, the breast bared, and the hand lifted as if waving on the attack. Outside, other bodies were still being brought in, the Russians greatly predominating in numbers. Some Austrian wounded still walked about the village. One, with whom I spoke, had the lower part of his jaw bound up and complained that he could drink nothing. He was greatly depressed but had no rancour and evidently felt at home with the villagers, who were of the same blood and behaved to him rather as people would to an interesting traveller in their midst. He was a Pole from no further off than Cracow, where he was a master--"professor" as he put it--in a secondary school, a very intelligent and educated man who seemed quite out of place in a uniform and on a battlefield. He told me how they replied all day as best they could to a cross fire, till in the evening the Russians came on them shouting "Hurrah!" A day earlier, and we should have seen this fight. The Germans had left them in the lurch--"as they always do," he added. It was in the main a battle of Poles against Poles. He himself was a "Pan-Slavist," he told me, but could not say so because of his post. If the Russians got Cracow and maintained the appointment of Polish civil officials there, including a Polish Governor, as at present, he felt certain that all western Galicia would be on their side. I left him a little tobacco and took the address of one of his colleagues in Cracow. Heavy firing from the south was all the time audible. We returned to Kielce, passing regiments of all kinds. On our way back to Radom my motor broke down, and after sitting for three hours amidst marshy ground, with wounded; transports and villagers passing and occasionally hearing stray rifle shots, I had to return again to Kielce for the night. The discomfort of this _contretemps_ disappeared before the unconquerable wit and good humour of my French colleague, M. Naudeau, who improvised little songs on our mishap. The next day, the 5th, there was nothing left but to return to Radom, occupying three seats which a Russian general, a man of charming simplicity, kindly put at our disposal in his motor. The strength of the Russian advance was everywhere before our eyes. The great stream was still flowing on. There were troops of all kinds--we inquired the name of each regiment, which they always gave in a kind of jovial chorus; there were food transports, field kitchens, pontoons and, not least important, the post. At one point we saw a large body of Austrian prisoners sitting by a wood and drinking water with their very small escort. These men helped some of our motors over difficult places. Streams, their bridges broken down, were still being crossed by the great onflowing current of men and wagons, only with more ardour than before. Teams of white horses, which, because of their conspicuousness, are only allowed to serve in the transport, were dashing through the mud and water with a fervour as great as if on the field of battle. At one place a bread wagon dropped all its cargo and turned over on its side, but horse and driver, evidently not noticing, carried it on into the stream with no diminution of pace--one wheel high in the air and the other broken beneath the wagon. Our General spoke frequently with the men; and we all helped one another through difficult places, on each occasion with a hearty "Once more thank you, brothers," from the General. Nothing will remain with me longer than these endless irregular lines of big, sleepy, almost stupid-looking faces moving at a walk which might last for ever, and all in one direction and all with set eyes, a people that lies down to sleep at the roadside, that breakfasts off stale biscuit soaked in water, that carries nothing but what it can put to a hundred uses, that will crouch for days without food in flooded trenches, that can die like flies for an idea, and is sure, sooner or later, to attain it, a people that never complain, a brotherhood of men. In Radom I found our Russian orderly from Kostroma fraternising with the Polish servants, joining in their work and singing them songs of the Volga. I told him he was another Susanin who had led the foreigners into the marsh. We were soon on our way back to Warsaw. _November 25._ I have dealt with the Russian advance from Warsaw and Ivangorod, by which the Russian front was carried forward some one hundred and seventy miles in all from the original defensive line on the Bug and the communications of the Austrian and German armies were threatened in the neighbourhood of Cracow. This movement was necessarily completed by an advance of the Russian forces on the San. [Illustration: THE ADVANCE FROM THE SAN Tarnow. a _First advance of the Russians_ b b _Russian line on the San_ c c _Russian advance after the German retreat to the North_ d _Connection with Russian line to the North_] After their first successes in Galicia the Russians had advanced as far as the Wisloka, but the German attempt on Warsaw from the west and south and a strong Austrian and Hungarian counterstroke on Galicia made advisable a temporary strategic withdrawal of the Russian line to the San, while all available forces helped in repulsing Germans further north. For nearly a month the Russian defensive line held good against superior Austrian forces on the San and in the south. Report says that bounteous rewards were offered to the Austrian troops for the reconquest of Lvov; and the Russian occupation of eastern Galicia was seriously endangered. The San varies in breadth from fifty to a hundred and fifty yards and is lined with marshes. Across this narrow obstacle Russians in trenches maintained an unbreakable resistance, repulsing all Austrian attempts at crossing. I have seen many of the wounded of this long defensive struggle. Their temper is the same conquering spirit that has carried the general advance. I stayed at their hospital some days. A group of slightly wounded, mostly young men with bright, radiant faces and strong, lusty voices, sat up in bed recounting to me, one after the other, individual feats of daring done by their comrades. Throughout there was the feeling of individual superiority to the enemy tested by the heaviest conditions and sometimes by the wiping out of nearly all one's company or squadron. Most were wounded in the left arm or left leg in the trenches. Five or ten of the company would fall every day. The most exposed were the telephonists. Others fell in daring reconnaissances in boats across the river. All testified to the far heavier losses inflicted on the enemy. One simple young fellow crippled in a leg described how one did not in one's first day's fighting like to look out of the trenches. Then he showed how one began to peer about, and later one took no notice of bullets whistling round one, because of the sense that the army would surely go forward. One bright day he said to me, "It must be fine in the trenches to-day." This is the spirit of them all. At last, when the Russians to the north had advanced and Sandomir had been taken, the word came to go forward. The river was crossed at night and the enemy driven from the trenches and neighbouring villages and further back. The advance was triumphant at all points. The Austrians were driven southward and westward. Some were pressed against the Carpathians, with two difficult passes which would hardly admit the passage of artillery and field trains; others were pressed back on Cracow where the line of the whole Russian advance is now complete. The Russian impact on Cracow promises, first, a settlement of the destiny of western Galicia, where the population is Polish and very ready to respond to the appeal of Grand Duke. Next, a gap is made between the Austrians and Germans who are already retiring in mutual dissatisfaction in different directions, and whose political interests must more and more differentiate. Further advance through this gap will be on Slavonic territory, as southern Silesia up to the River Neisse is mainly Polish or Bohemian, and the Czechs in general are largely Russophil and quite hostile to Germany. The Germans are doing all that is possible to make diversions on other sides. Stopped and driven back on the side of Mlawa, they have made a serious effort on both sides of the Vistula, near Plock, but have been decisively repulsed, the inhabitants giving effective aid in bridging the river. They are now attempting to force a strong wedge into the Russian front between the Vistula and the Wartha; but so far the Russian line, which is everywhere continuous and is reinforced wherever necessary with strong reserves, has successfully outflanked every local German advance. Meanwhile a double Russian advance on East Prussia from east and south is overcoming the numerous obstacles and making rapid progress, avoiding and enveloping the thickset fortified line of the Mazurian lakes. Here, too, the subject population is chiefly Polish. Retreating German troops in Poland, previously transferred from the western front, expressed to the inhabitants great despondency, even saying, "This is our last judgment" (Das ist unser Weltgericht). Many prisoners have displayed a similar mood. _November 28._ A RUSSIAN FIELD HOSPITAL A large, low, white building with a grassy court and outhouses; four large tents stand in the court; on the centre of the main building a white canvas band that bears in rough black letters the inscription: First Etape Lazaret of the Imperial Duma. After a wonderful star-lit journey in a _formanka_ or double-horsed cart with a courteous and humble old grey-haired peasant, I come on this building about half-past two in the morning. The last part of the journey was adventurous; the driver at one point wished to strike work, which resulted in a wait of nearly an hour; the way had to be asked of a group of soldiers with blackened faces seated round a camp fire, and of three sentries of the _étape_ marching through the night with fixed bayonets, who challenged, "Who goes there?" and received with some hesitation the answer, "Our side" (_svoi_). One of them lowered his bayonet to be ready for any further emergencies. In the end I was guided to the lazaret, where I had a cordial welcome from the two sanitars on duty and was accommodated with a bed in one of the large tents, which was empty and ready for moving. The Duma Lazaret was equipped chiefly by the energy and liberality of Prince Volkonsky, Vice-President of the Duma and one of its most respected and popular members. All parties are associated in the work; and Prince Volkonsky, who is a Conservative, has had the valuable help of the eminent Radical, Dr. Shingarev, who earlier earned a wide reputation as the organiser of the sanitary system in the province of Voronezh. Meetings of a committee are held in the Duma, and lately two other lazarets have been equipped and dispatched, one to the Prussian front and one to the Caucasian. The first Duma lazaret was one of the earliest to arrive behind the front during the tremendous fighting in southern Poland and in Galicia. At Brody on the road to Lvov it gave preliminary treatment to thousands of wounded in the course of a few days. Later it was moved to Lvov, Sokal and Belzec, where I now found it. It had picked up on its road stray dogs which it had named after their places of adoption--Brodka, Rava, and Belzec. The lazaret was equipped for two hundred patients, but at the time of my visit had only forty, as it was about to be moved further to the front. Operations were performed daily, to be ready for the move. I saw one poor fellow, very frail and no longer young, just after his leg was amputated; he was calling in a piteous way to his mother. In one ward the patients were in a late stage of convalescence from typhus, and in another lay one of the sanitars of the lazaret. In a far corner lay a poor fellow with a wound in the head; his case was hopeless, and he was communicated by the priest in an interval of consciousness. The central wards were full of strong, lusty men, most of them young, some with bad wounds but nearly all getting the better of them. They were in many ways like dormitories of big schoolboys, all of them good comrades--during my stay of some days I only heard one altercation and that was mild and very short. They lived a chance corporate life of their own; and when I went round with cigarettes, there was always some one to see that tired or sleeping comrades got their share. There was very little groaning and no complaint; the men felt their wounds in the long night time, and sometimes one would mention that his wound was smarting. One Armenian, a weak-looking lad of the gentlest disposition, lay striving to bear his pain. "Oh!" he said as he fought it; and then, with closed teeth, "No matter; it doesn't matter; our Emperor ought to be rich; it had to be done--to beat the Germans; it doesn't matter." Usually, however, the wound would only be mentioned in a side sentence in a narrative--"and then I got this," or it would be the occasion for a story of strong life and effort and the triumph of "ours." There was a peculiar delicate courtesy about the halest and strongest, who would shift their wounded limbs with an inviting gesture of the hand, making room for me to sit on their beds; and then there would rise a general stream of narrative where all joined in without ever seeming to interrupt each other, each telling of some daring feat of a comrade against all odds. One will not forget the figures leaning up in bed and the young, radiant faces; many of these men were cripples who will never fight again, but everything about them was full of health and fresh air and victory. A young trooper told me of the actions of his regiment against the Hungarians. They have, it appears, a particularly mobile horse artillery, served with great accuracy by horsemen who fire with the left hand. They enticed the regiment up with displays of white flags and suddenly rent them with a murderous fire. For all that, as in practically all these narratives, in the end the Russians triumphed. Others described the long defensive work on the San, with its narrow stream and muddy banks, and the final irresistible advance. There were two young men, one from Chernigov and one from Tauris, who beckoned to me each day, and with whom I spent several happy hours. When I asked for their addresses they wrote them down in form, beginning in the one case with "Wounded in arm" and in the other with "Wounded in leg." "Wounded in leg" was a sunny youth who, when we were photographed together, made quite a careful toilette. He was the boy who called out "What a splendid day! It's fine to-day in the trenches!" These two discussed with me all sorts of subjects, including the English sailors and the Grimsby fishermen, who appealed to them as "going for boldness." Another more elderly pair, one like a jolly farmer and the other like a brown-bearded stationmaster, worked out with me on the map the progress of the Russian army. Simplicity was the note of all, and it would have been hard to convince them that it was they more than any others who were now under the eyes of Europe. There was another still more elderly couple that had an out-of-the-way interest. They were two old men, one of sixty-six and one of seventy-two, who had been shot by the Hungarians for sheltering Russian soldiers. One of them, a picturesque-looking person with round head and furry grey hair, told me of how he was locked up in his attic and then called down to be shot, while his womanfolk were reviled and struck. His leg was broken, but was mending. Both these poor old men were full of plaints and, after the Galician manner, insisted on kissing one's hand each time that one talked with them. One of the most sympathetic figures in the lazaret was the priest, a man of the age and with many of the features of a Russian picture of the Christ. He was a monk from the famous Pochayev monastery in Volyn, sent hither by the Archbishop Eulogius. His was an entirely un-selfconscious nature, gentle, good and whole; and the care that he gave to the dying was like the best of man and of woman combined. I had some talk with him of the Uniats, that oppressed people under the heavy hand of Jewish taskmasters, which had held through centuries to its roots of parish organisation thrown out by the early Brotherhood of Lvov. We glanced in at one of their services in the quaintest little wooden church, where the singing was congregational and like a sad plaint. Our priest every day read a short Orthodox service in the central ward, and on Saturday and Sunday served the full Mass in one of the largest tents. Some six of the soldiers were trained singers; the priest himself did not chant, and the words of the service came with all the more reality, especially the frequent allusions to the "Christ-loving army." At one point the priest went through the wards to repeat a part of the service; for, as he said, "our soldiers are deeply religious, and the patients will feel that they are left out." At the end all in the tent kissed the cross, and the priest then went to hold it to each of the patients in turn. He told us that at the mobilisation and before battle communions were frequent and that fasting was in such cases excused. It was while I was here that the order to move forward arrived. The remaining wounded were arranged for in neighbouring hospitals; warm blue vests were served out to all for the journey. "We have much to be thankful for," said one soldierly fellow who looked like a sergeant and took a lead among the rest. "Our Emperor has indeed fed and clothed us." Everything was packed, the large farm buildings were left deserted, and the hospital moved forward in the track of Radko Dmitriev. _Kiev, December 15._ THE COUNTRY AND THE WAR I have just made a journey across Russia. The average opinion seems to be the same everywhere. The feeling expressed is quiet and sober; no boasting of any kind is heard anywhere; news of the war is treated on its merits, and anything that seems unsatisfactory is faced and is given its reasonable value. As to the ultimate issue, complete confidence is felt, and, in this feeling, satisfaction with what has been done and the determination to go through with the matter seem to have an equal share. Every one is clear that there can be no stopping half-way with the task unfinished; and the task, as it presents itself to the average man or woman, is that the crisis thrust upon us must not occur again. I say "thrust upon us" because, with average people even perhaps more than in official circles, and with the peasant more than all, there is the strongest feeling that peace has been wilfully disturbed by Germany, and that Russia was left no option but to hit back as hard as she could. A peasant cabman, fraternising with me on our alliance and promoting me in the course of our conversation to the second person singular, summed up the common instinct very well by saying: "How disagreeable He is" ("He" is always the enemy); "he makes himself nasty to every one," which is surely the chief reason why "He" is having a bad time of it now. "He might have smashed you or the French," my cabman goes on; "us he can only hit about a bit (_pobit_)," and his attitude is that of a big, kindly animal that is provoked into defending itself and others. "Pobit" is the ordinary expression of the soldiers for the work they have to do. A peasant servant puts it stronger and is sorry that I am not going to "spike" (_kolot_) any Germans, especially as she has made up her mind that they are going to kill me. "You had better tell me what to do with your things," she says, "for you're not going on a pleasure trip"; and she reminds me of this as I start by asking, "But when you're killed, though?" I quote this because this good woman has a brother in the Siberian rifles, of whom so many are lying under the great wooden crosses outside the wrecked village of Rakitna, and no doubt she judges of my chances by his; but she talks of him with the same equanimity. Beneath all this, there is the full and silent sense of all the sacrifices that are asked and a silent pride in making them. I have never heard this take words with the peasants, though it is behind everything they say; but it comes out often with those who have any responsibility for others and most of all with any who are in close touch with the common soldier. Those speak the strongest and simplest of him, who are only telling a friend their daily experience of him; and the selflessness of his courage and endurance keeps coming back on them as something that astounds and even confounds them. All the life of the country that lies behind the line is centred in it. The nearer one comes up to the line, the more does one feel in the moral atmosphere a sense of satisfaction, of ease of mind. In the line itself all sense of self disappears, and the big band of brothers lives for its daily work and divides up everything in common. It is wonderful how far little resources can go when they are put together; one produces some chocolate, another a little store of comfits, a third hands round a flask, another supplies the cigarettes and another the matches, and a little feast is thus improvised by the half-light of a candle; all these stores are renewed at chance and are expended without reserve. But it is farthest of all from the front that the sense of the war is most painfully felt, and that because it has to seek ways of finding its satisfaction. For this it seeks continually. Every now and then, in the capitals and all the big towns, a week is set aside for some special object: for the collection of warm underwear for the men in the trenches, for Christmas presents for the troops, for the families left behind, for the widows and orphans, for the supply of means for the crippled. At these times, which are constantly recurring, every tram or train is boarded and every restaurant is traversed by the collectors, who for each donation pin on a little special badge to secure the donor from any further importunity; but the badge is quite disregarded both by donors and collectors, and one sees many who have paid their due several times over. Thus the public is taxing itself over and over again for every need that it can think of. The posters have a nervous force, such as the Petrograd one that begins and ends in large letters with the words "It's cold in the trenches." Several of them bear the signatures of members of the Imperial Family, one of the most simple and telling coming from a sister of the Emperor who is engaged in ordinary hospital work among the wounded. Another striking appeal, for the widows and orphans, is simply a twofold picture. Along the top in pale blue with a sullen sky of winter dawn above, a number of scattered soldiers, big and clumsy and heavily clothed, are running forward over a rough, flat field, with the lumbering run of a Russian porter at a railway station, their bayonets lowered and all with set faces; from a copse in the distance come puffs of smoke; and in front of the men, close behind his chief, who has already fallen, an officer has his hand thrown up in the air as a bullet carries him over. Underneath sits a group of dark-haired figures; a young wife with set and brooding face, and two young boys at once with fear and spirit in their eyes. I have asked that some of these posters should be sent to England, in case any could spare from their nearer needs something for the countless bereaved of Russia. Every non-military unit of society is looking for a way of its own of helping. Mary Dolina, who might perhaps be called the Mrs. Kemble of Russian opera, has, with her many helpers, now given over thirty concerts of national and patriotic music for widows and orphans. The artists of Russia, banded together with special imperial approval, are giving movable representations in restaurants or in public squares, where, as in all other cases, the full collection goes to the army. The Press of Moscow is meeting to organise a day on which the Press will make a united effort for the same object. And then there are the collections for claims that make a special appeal, such as the devastated homes of Poland, Belgium and Serbia. The superscriptions adopted in these various endeavours are quite simple and usually take the form of offering a present--for instance, Petrograd to Poland, Moscow to Poland and Belgium, Artists to Soldiers, and so on. All this wealth of various charity is co-ordinated, and regularity of service is secured by committees of the most representative kind under the chairmanship of one or other member of the Imperial Family. The Emperor himself is constantly paying visits to the army with abundant supplies of medals for all the heavily wounded. Among the links between front and rear are the frequent short visits to the capitals of those chief organisers of the Red Cross who must be everywhere. Prince George Lvov, one of the most admirable of Russian public workers, who organised relief during the famines and led the Civil Red Cross in the Japanese War, passes from Lemberg to East Prussia, or from Warsaw to the Caucasus, seeing as much as can come under one pair of eyes, and returning to Petrograd and Moscow to find ways of meeting each new need. Nicholas Lvov, a former Vice-President of the Duma, whose brother has fallen and whose eldest boy has been killed by shrapnel before Cracow, passes constantly between Petrograd and Galicia. Alexander Guchkov, the organiser of Red Cross work on the Warsaw front, who is constantly in the front line and was reported prisoner at Lodz, pays flying visits to Moscow. And all these glimpses of the realities of the war draw closer the ties between the army of defenders at the front and the country that is waiting to meet every sacrifice and to fill every gap. Russia will close the ranks till the work is done; and she can go on doing this after it has become impossible for our enemies. _December 18._ In Kiev, though there is every sign of its being in the minds of all, materially the war is hardly felt. It is in fact wonderful how little effect of this kind it seems to have made on the body of Russia. On the other hand, the atmosphere of nervous tension begins to disappear the moment one begins to get really near to the front. In the Red Cross offices at Kiev I found the same straining toward the front as elsewhere, only much calmer because these were people who had a big war work to do. Hospitals meet the eye in the streets at every turn. Once in the train for Galicia it was again the war atmosphere and simplicity itself. The talk was all of people engaged directly or indirectly in it. A graceful old lady with a very attentive son was on her way to get a sight of her husband, one of the generals. A young officer, whose wound has kept him out of it for three weeks, is on his way to the front before Cracow. A fresh-looking young man, at first unrecognisable to his friends with his close-cropped bullet head, tells how he went on a reconnaissance, how he came on the Austrians, how their first line held up their muskets and when the Russians had passed on fired on their rear, how nevertheless practically all came back safe and sound. It was told with a kind of schoolboy ingenuousness and without suggestion or comment of any kind on the conduct of those concerned. Then followed an account of a war marriage, at first put off and then carried out as quietly as possible. All the friends of every one seemed to be at the war. At the old frontier some of the buildings near the station were wrecked by artillery fire, and the railway was lined with a succession of solid hospital barracks, with the local commandant's flag flying over one of them. There was plenty to eat at the station; and though we moved on very quickly, every one from our crowded train managed to find a place in the Austrian carriages, chiefly because every one was ready to help his neighbour. The corridors jammed with passengers and kits, we moved on through the typical "strips" of Russian peasant culture, a pleasant wooded country, passing a draft detachment on the halt which waved greetings to us. My companion, Mr. Stakhovich, a phenomenally strong man and imbued by a fine spirit, was talking of the indifference of the Russian peasant to danger; he regarded it as an indifference to all sensations; anyhow they go forward, whatever the conditions, as a sheer matter of course. With the ordinary educated man the mind must be kept occupied with work if unpleasant possibilities of all kinds are to be kept out of it; but General Radko Dmitriev, to whom we are going, will jump up from a meal, however hungry, when there is a chance of getting under fire. We draw up in the great station at Lvov. To the right of us stretch endless lines crowded with wagons, especially with sanitary trains. In the lofty passages and waiting-rooms are sleeping troops with piled muskets, some wounded on stretchers tended by the sisters of mercy who are constantly on duty here, and a crowd of men, all soldiers, coming and going. One passed many Austrian prisoners, of whom another enormous batch was just announced to arrive; and elsewhere a Russian private explained to me the excellent quality of the Hungarian knapsack, which he and his comrades had turned into busbies. One man was asleep inside the rail opposite the ticket office. He did not seem to mind how often he was woken up. In the town everything is quiet, and life goes so naturally that no one could take it for a conquered city. In the country this might have been expected because far the greater part of the population is Little Russian; but in Lvov the Russians are only about 17 per cent. and the predominant element is the Polish (60 per cent.), the rest being Jews (20 per cent.) or Germans (3 per cent.). The university, the Press and the bulk of the professional class are Polish. This result is in character with the place, which has a peculiarly pleasing atmosphere of its own. But it is also a great tribute to two quite different influences: to those Poles who, though in no way tied to Russia, have preferred to all other considerations the corporate interests of their fellow-countrymen, and to the wise and sympathetic administration of the Russian Governor-General, Count George Bobrinsky. _December 22._ Lvov is taking on more of the character of a Russian town. Many of the Jews have left. The Russian signs over new restaurants, stores, etc., meet the eye everywhere. Of the Little Russian party which supported the Austrians, many have now returned and are making their peace with the new authorities. The Russian soldier is quite at home in Lvov, as one sees when the singing "drafts" swing past the Governor-General's palace; the Austrian prisoners in uniform, who are allowed liberty on parole, seem equally at their ease. Numbers of Russian priests are pouring into Galicia, but not fast enough for the Uniat villages which have embraced Orthodoxy; as soon as they arrive, peasants come with their carts and take them off to their parishes, without waiting for any formal distribution. The Uniat creed and ritual are practically identical with the Orthodox, so that the difference between the two was purely political. At the new People's Palace of Nicholas II, I saw a number of children, principally from families that had suffered severely at the hands of Austrian troops, receive Christmas presents on the day of St. Nicholas, who is the Russian Santa Claus. Archbishop Eulogius, in a very effective little address, told them that the biggest Christmas present which they were receiving was the liberty to speak their own language and worship in their own way in union with their Russian brothers. Starting for the army, I spent a night of strange happening in the great railway station, as our train was delayed till the morning. At one time I went, in the frosty night, to look for it at the goods station, where there were endless rails and wagons, and found it after a long search. In the big restaurant four little boys made great friends with me, one of fourteen in uniform and spurs who had been serving as mounted scout with a regiment at the front, and one of thirteen who had attached himself in the same capacity to a battery. Both were small creatures, and the first was a remarkable little person, with all the smartness and determination of a soldier, relieved by an amusing childlike grace and courtesy. He said to me in a confidential voice, "I see you are very fond of little children," and he ordered with pride lemonade and chocolates for us both. He said the men at the front could last a week to ten days, if necessary, without any food but _sukhari_ (army biscuit), so long as they had cigarettes. His imagination had been caught by the aeroplanes over Peremyshl, and also by the Carpathians, which he described with an up and down movement of the hand. He had a great disgust for anything mean and a warlike pride in the exploits of the soldiers of his regiment. His model was a boy, now a young man, who had been through the Japanese War. "If a general comes past," and he made a salute to show the extreme respect felt for his hero. Many a time in that long night, while the weary heads of doctors and sisters of mercy were bent in sheer tiredness against the tables, he would come and sit by me and ask me to read the war news to him, or to tell him about the English submarines. He left me with the smartest of salutes in the early hours of the morning. Our train is an enormous one with endless warm carriages (_teplushki_) for the wounded. The staff of sanitars and sisters, working for the Zemstvo Red Cross, live in a spotlessly clean carriage, and there are special carriages for drugs, stores, kitchen, etc. They are simple and interesting people, and, as I am now in the Red Cross and have many interests in common with them, they kindly made me up a bed in their carriage, where we discussed Russia in all its bearings. We carry a group of passengers who have all made friends after the Russian way. A colonel and his wife are going to fetch the body of a fallen comrade. Another colonel, a delightfully simple man with close-cropped hair, thin brown face and bright, clever eyes seems to know all the Slavonic languages and has much to say of the Austrians. He has seen twenty of them surrender to a priest and his clerk who came on them in a wood, made the sign of the cross and told them to come with them. In another place twenty-two Austrians were captured by two Russians. The Austrian officers put quick-firing guns behind their own rifle pits for the "encouragement" of their men, on whom he has seen them fire. They make their gunners fire every two hours in the night as a kind of exercise. He has seen them form their men in close column under fire and march them about up and down along the line of the Russian trenches. The Austrian artillery seldom takes cover; the Russian directs its fire on the enemy rather than on his batteries. In one place, heavy Russian artillery at a range of seven miles demolished an Austrian field train and two battalions who were lunching in the square of a small town. He is full of life and confidence, and all that he says breathes of fresh air and of work. _December 24._ Our train made its way through to the furthest point up. We had to stop several times to let through the ambulance trains already charged with wounded, which take precedence. We had to go very slowly over several repaired bridges; and this was no simple matter, as we had twenty-seven long and heavy coaches. Some of these repairs were complicated pieces of work, as the bridges were high above the level of the rivers. At point after point, and especially on the Austrian sides of the rivers, we passed lines of carefully prepared trenches, and in one place there was a masterpiece of artillery cover, with every arrangement for a long stay. The damage done by the artillery fire was sporadic--here a smashed station building, there a town where several houses had suffered. But there was nothing indiscriminate; and the Polish population, which showed no sign of any hostility to the Russians, seemed to find the war conditions livable. As in other parts, I was specially struck by the easy relations existing between the inhabitants, the Austrian soldiers and their Russian captors. There were exceptions. I had some talk with a few Austrian Germans from Vienna. They were simple folk and seemed to have no grudge against the Russians; and the circumstance in their position which they felt most--they were only taken the day before yesterday--was that this was Christmas Eve, the "stille Nacht, heilige Nacht" of the beautiful German hymn, and that they were far from home among strange people. They kept apart as far as possible not only from their captors but from their fellow prisoners from Bohemia and Moravia. These last seemed at least quite comfortable, smoking their long pipes and leisurely sweeping the platforms. They were quite a large company. They understood my Russian better than my German. When I asked them how they stood with the German troops, instead of the sturdy "Gut" of their Viennese fellows, they answered with a slang word and a gesture. When asked about the Russians, they replied in a quite matter-of-course way: "We are brothers and speak the same tongue; we are one people." For any difficulties, the Poles often prove good interpreters. It is very different for the Austrian captive officers, who often cannot understand their own men. These Czechs confidently assured me that any Russian troops that entered Bohemia would be welcomed as friends; and they claimed that not only the neighbouring Moravians and Slovaks but also the Croats further south were to be taken as feeling as they did. The Bohemians and Moravians seem to be surrendering in the largest numbers of all; and though the Viennese claimed that large numbers of Russians had also been taken, I cannot regard as anything but exceptional the enormous batches of blue uniforms that I passed on the road here. I asked these men about their greatcoats and was not at all surprised when they said they felt cold in them. It is nothing like such a practical winter outfit, whether for head, body or legs, as that of the Russian soldier. We came very well over the last part of our journey. I was sorry to part with the friendly sanitars, who all seemed old acquaintances by the end of the journey and invited me to take up my quarters permanently with them. Theirs was more than ordinary kindness, as they had shared everything they had with me, including their little sleeping apartment. The bearer company under their orders is all composed of Mennonites, a German religious sect from South Russia which objects to war on principle and, being excused military service even in this tremendous struggle, seems to be serving wholesale as ambulance volunteers. As there were none but soldiers about, these men helped me out with my luggage; and through the window of the First Aid point in Tarnow station, I saw another acquaintance waving me a welcome. This is the last point that the railway can serve; and my friends will go back with a full burden, which will keep the medical staff busy day and night all the way. One of my new companions, who has been out to a village to get milk for the wounded, has seen the shrapnel bursting; and the guns are sounding loud and clear near the town as I write this. It is here that the most seriously wounded must be treated at once, as a railway journey would simply mean death for them. This is brought home to one, if one only looks at the faces of the workers. Yet with this huge line of operations, and the assaults which may be made at any point of it, at any moment the nearest field hospitals may need to send off any wounded who can be moved without delay. Though the work is being done with danger all round, less thought is being given to it than anywhere that I have been yet. Christmas Eve: peace on earth and good will toward men. And all through "the still night, the holy night," the sound that means killing goes on almost continuously. How can any one say prayers for a world which is at war, or for himself that is a part of it? May God, who knows everything, help each of us to bear our part and not disgrace Him, and make us instruments to the end that He wishes. _December 26._ Christmas day I spent in the hospitals. In one ward, at a local Austrian hospital, and full of wounded, I found that almost every one of the line of patients was of a different nationality. Going round the room, one found first a Pole of western Galicia, then a Russian from the Urals, next a Ruthenian (Little Russian) from eastern Galicia, next a Magyar from Hungary, and against the wall a young German from Westphalia. After him came an Austrian-German from Salzburg, a Serbian from southern Hungary, another Ruthenian, an Austrian-German from Moravia, an Austrian-German from Bohemia, and a Moravian from Moravia. I spent a couple of hours here, talking sometimes with each of the patients, sometimes with all. The Pole knew only Polish and the bearded Russian, who had a bad body wound, was too tired to talk much. Of the Ruthenians one was a frail, white-faced boy from close to the Russian frontier who seemed, like most of his people, subdued, and confused with the strangeness of his position in fighting against his own people; the other was a lumpish boy without much intelligence. The thin, bearded Hungarian, who knew no German but a little Russian, was mostly groaning or dozing. The Salzburg Austrian was dazed and drowsy, but at intervals talked quietly of his pleasant homeland. The German stood out from the rest. He was a bright, vigorous boy of twenty, had gone as a volunteer and was tremendously proud of the spirit of the German army. He had fought against the French during four days of pouring rain, mostly in standing water. The Bavarians, who seemed to have quarrelled with the other troops in that part, were making war atrociously, he said, knifing the inhabitants, insulting the women and destroying all that came in their way. He was later moved to the Carpathians, where one German division fought between two Austrian ones. They advanced in snow without field kitchens, and were not allowed to touch the pigs and poultry that they passed. However, they had enough to eat; and they were hoping to surprise their enemy, when the Russians fell upon them and left only the remnants of a regiment, many of the officers also falling. He himself was wounded in both legs, and was brought here in a cart. Every German soldier has a prayer-book and a song-book. They constantly sing on the march, and find it a great remedy against fatigue. Songs of Arndt and Körner are very popular, and there is a new version of an old song, which is perhaps the greatest favourite; it begins-- "O Deutschland hoch an Ehren, Du heil'ges Land der Treu," and it goes on to speak of the new exploits in east and west. There are any number of volunteers in Germany; the women are all joining the Red Cross; and the population is busy with every kind of work for the army; but when I asked whether the people were keen for the war, he answered with astonishment, "The people? The people thought that the war was not to be avoided; but that was at the start; now it is different." He asked if there were many other Englishmen in Russia, and when I answered that there were some, he said, to my surprise, "The English are everywhere, they are a fine people--_nobel_." He also asked me on the quiet whether, when he was well, he would be sent to Siberia. He had been told that the Russians were terrible, but had written home to say that he had found them nothing of the sort. Much of our talk turned on the Austrian army. The German said that it didn't stand firm "unless it was properly led, by Germans." In Bohemia and Moravia the regiments were mixed, Slavs and Austrian-Germans, and, according to the Moravian soldiers, were constantly quarrelling; all the officers were Austrian-Germans, and even some of the Hungarian regiments seemed to be commanded by Germans. The young Serbian spoke of frequent quarrels and even brawls between Serbian and Hungarian fellow-soldiers. The great wish of all was that the war should end. When I said that the end was not in sight, the German exclaimed, "More misery, more misery;" a second said, "Oh, Jammer, Jammer" (lamentation), and a third had tears in his eyes. In another ward I heard more of the Bohemians. There Prussia is the antipathy. There appear to be Czech officers only in the reserve. After the outbreak of war, the Austrians made wholesale arrests among the educated Czechs, quite apart from party politics, and were particularly severe on the gymnastic volunteer organisations (_sokols_), which are popular among all the Slav nationalities of Austria. The Bohemians had not had time to find their legs under the new possibilities created by the Russian successes, but the Russian troops would be sure of a cordial welcome there. The whole of my informant's regiment had surrendered _en masse_; and even in the mobilisation of 1909, a Prague regiment had refused to march against Russia and several of the men had been shot. I was told that the Austrian army was much weaker in reserves than the Russian. I ended the day at the railway station, where the Russian wounded just brought in were being attended to, while the cannon sounded from time to time not far off. Several lay on stretchers in the corridors and others on pallets in the ambulance room, all still in their greatcoats and with their kits lying beneath them. I had no conversations here; there was too much pain, one could only sit by the sufferers or perhaps help them to change their position. First aid had been given elsewhere, but this was the stage when the wounds seem to be felt most. There was wonderfully little complaining. Most were silent, except when a helping hand was needed. One man shot through the chest told me that "By the grace of God, it was nothing to matter." It was always a satisfaction to the men that they had been wounded while attacking. A general walked quickly round, distributing cigarettes, which he put in the men's mouths and himself lighted. In the night the cannonade sounded close to the town, but seemed farther off again next morning. To-day I also went round a hospital with the dressers. The work was quickly executed, but much of it was very complicated. One does not describe such scenes, not so much because of the ugly character of many of the wounds, nor because of the end impending over many of the patients. To this last the Russian soldier's attitude is simple--_gilt es dir, oder gilt es mir_. He will speak of it as "going to America," the undiscovered country. But all these things come to be forgotten in the atmosphere of work. Here all the resources of life are going forward in their own slow way, for they can have no quicker, handicapped and outpaced in their struggle to keep up with the work of death. You work early and late, do what you can, and try to be ready for the fresh work of to-morrow. _December 27._ General Radko Dmitriev is a short and sturdily built man with quick brown eyes and a profile reminiscent of Napoleon. He talks quickly and shortly, sometimes drums on the table with his fingers, and now and then makes a rapid dash for the matches. The daily visit of the Chief of the Staff is short, because, as the General says on his return, simple business is done quickly. Every piece of his incisive conversation holds together as part of a single and clear view of the whole military position, of which the watchword is "Forward." It is only the heavy rains that have saved the retreating Austrians from further losses. The roads are so broken up and so deep with mud that any quick movement is impossible. This gives the occasion for a useful rest. The cold weather--and it is freezing now--will be welcomed on this side; and the Russian winter kits, which have already been served out, are immeasurably better than the thin blue greatcoats of the draggled and demoralised Austrians. Numbers of Austrian units are so reduced that they are only shadows of what they were, and some seem to have disappeared altogether. The ordinary drafts came in some time ago and are now exhausted--such is the testimony of Austrian officers. The new Russian recruits, on the contrary, will join the colours shortly. From the beginning of the war, Bosnians, who are really Serbians, surrendered in large numbers. Then the Poles began to come in, and now the Bohemians. The Hungarians are sure to go on to the end; but the Roumanian and Italian soldiers of Austria have also come over very easily. In front of Cracow a Russian officer under fire came on a whole number of Bohemians, who were singing the "Sokol" songs and shouted a greeting as they came into the Russian lines. These wholesale surrenders have, I think, an extremely interesting political significance. When governments turned the whole people into an army, it was clear that the army was also being turned into the people; but it was not clear how the people could express itself when under army discipline. These surrenders, in their general character and in their differences of detail, are a picture of the feelings and aspirations of the various nationalities which are bundled together under the name of Austria. _January 1, 1915._ At this Staff, as at the General Staff, life was very simple. We all met twice a day for a plain meal without any alcohol; there was plenty of conversation, but it was that of men engaged in responsible work; any news from outside was welcome, especially from the western allies, and there was full appreciation and sympathy for their hard task. There was plenty of news from other quarters of the Russian front, and one could have a much juster and fuller perspective of how things were going than anywhere behind the army; the two things which stood out even more here than elsewhere were, on the one hand, the immensity of the sacrifices which have been asked and are being cheerfully made by Russia, and, on the other, the sense of quiet confidence as to the ultimate result. These things were of course talked of here with greater detail. There is a photograph of a battlefield, not with a few straight lines and some scattered dead, but with zigzag lines all close together and simply heaps of Austrian dead (the Russian dead had already been removed). From the attack of one German division on this side, one thousand corpses were counted. The Germans and also the Austrians advance in close column, which may give moral support to the men, but results in terrible losses, as compared with the more individualistic advance of groups of eight to ten on the Russian side. In bayonet fights practically no quarter can be given, and sometimes the men can only use their rifles as clubs. The Austrian army is already no more than a relic of its former self, though it still makes some vigorous moves and covers every retreat with a tremendous cannonade, often resulting in the capture of the guns and men thus left behind. It must not be forgotten that Russia has had to deal with practically all the forces of two of the three allies (Austria and Turkey), as well as with an ever increasing proportion of the forces of the third (Germany). But she is going steadily through with her work, and already it is possible to see more clearly both what has been achieved and how the remainder of the task can be attempted. After some days in a cottage with some friends, living largely by candle-light and discussing the great social changes which are to be expected in Europe after the war, we were joined by V. S., who had walked in through the thick mud a distance of some twenty miles. V. S. is a young and clever Conservative, who has sat in several Dumas, always a strong and witty enemy of revolution, but never content to sink his conservatism or patriotism in any commonplace formula. He went to the front at the beginning of the war and was wounded in the trenches simultaneously by shrapnel and by bullet. He is now partially recovered and is working energetically for the Red Cross, superintending the removal of the wounded from the front. V. S. left the neighbouring town in a motor with some Christmas presents for the General. He had only come halfway when his benzine gave out, and, as none was to be got anywhere near, he left the motor with the chauffeur and made the rest of the journey on foot. He had to plough his way through rivers of mud, and when the early night fell he took shelter in a Polish cottage. When he reached us next day he was dead beat and slept for hours. As soon as his main business was done, we set out together yesterday morning in a long boat-like cart with three horses and a soldier driver; our plan was to find the motor and return to the town, sending back the General's presents in our cart. For some hours we made a sort of slow progress, rolling about in a way that exceeded the North Sea at its nastiest; however, we had time to talk over many subjects that interested us both. We pulled up at the Polish cottage, where V. S. had a most affectionate welcome from the children, and we lunched on bread and milk. We were not out of sight of the cottage when our axle broke; and after finding that there was no smith, and no other cart to be had, we loaded our benzine and chattels on the horses and left the cart at the cottage with a note explaining what was to be done with it. For several more hours we tramped on in the mud with our pack horses; it was quite impossible to follow the track of the road closely; it was thick with mud too deep to walk through and often the fields were a sort of swamp. At one point we turned in to a Jewish cottage and ate more bread and milk, while our old host asked ceaselessly when the war would end. At last we found the motor and the chauffeur, and, after a cottage dinner, started on the short remainder of our journey; but we were by no means at the end of our troubles, and this, I was told, was to be expected, because a hare had run across our track. We were going along, dodging the huge and deep ruts in the _chaussée_, when, close up to one of the hugest and deepest, a cart coming the other way compelled us to make a sudden turn, and we were landed on a kind of plateau between two deep holes with our wheels almost off the ground in them. We had tried almost all the ordinary expedients in vain, when a long train of soldiers began to pass us with artillery. Appeals of "Brothers, come and help us," brought about a dozen of them to our aid, and they performed prodigies of strength, pushing forwards or backwards, and at one point even raising the whole motor from the ground. Sometimes they counted "one, two, three," sometimes they sang a bargee's chanty, and each of them put the best of his wits to our service; but at last, just after one of them had said "Let's do something a bit more together," the officer in command felt it his duty to call them back to their work, and our brown-coated brothers left us in the semi-darkness while the guns boomed a few versts away. The chauffeur meanwhile had set himself like a hero to raise the motor out of the ruts. V. S. and I found a cottage with a pile of bricks outside, which we took with the explanation "Needed." After several journeys to and fro we collected a little brickyard; and V. S., though his back was paining him, came dragging a huge log and a tree stump to use for leverage. He still found a free hand to shake mine with the words: "A Happy New Year; it finds us hard at work but full of spirits in spite of everything." The new year began well: the lever acted, the chauffeur made a sort of macadam of his own, and we sailed over the obstacle and on to our destination, which we reached at 1.30 a.m. These are the conditions of weather and roads under which Russia has to press back the enemy; but she never lets him alone, for she knows that on persistent pressure depends the issue on the allied front. _January 3._ Yesterday I walked out to the lines, which are about four miles out of Tarnow. The railway runs quite straight to the little river which is the Russian front at this point; so I followed the railway embankment, meeting small bodies of troops on the way and a few sentries guarding the bridge over the Biela. It was a beautiful crisp December day, with a blue sky, distant views and a good foothold. To the left lay a long low plateau abutting on the river and crowned with a wooded village and a little church. In front was flat ground, rather marshy, with scattered villages close up to the broken railway bridge. The smoke from burning houses rose at different points to either side of the foreground, and high rugged hills bounded the view. Making my way to some rising ground, I for a time sat in an arbour beside a dismantled and deserted house, with the panorama of plain and villages stretched in front of me, listening to the swirl of the enemy's shrapnel and to the booming replies of a Russian battery. I made my way round to this battery; the men were engaged in improving their underground shelters, which were lined with straw, well heated, and furnished with shelves for a few belongings, including even books, and, anyhow, provided a refuge against frost and bullets. Water was near, and the soldiers' washing was hanging out to dry outside. We couched in the straw and talked of the western front till the word was given to fire. The officer gave the directions and the guns were discharged smartly. A German shell, which broke near us, was greeted with a cry of "Bravo!"; and when the officer announced that the practice was "excellent" the men all cheered. I had more talk in the telephone pit and in the officers' shelter; there was absolute composure, and the men were anxious to move forward again, having been here for over two weeks; I was asked to share any little delicacies that these hermits possessed. [Illustration: THE FRONT OF THE THIRD ARMY] Exchanging good wishes "for health and success" I made my way on through the villages toward the broken bridge. One of a group of soldiers, when I asked the way to the lines, simply pointed, saying "Here, close by." A long line of high earthworks ran close to the stream, on the other side of which were the Germans, their sentry being about 1000 yards away. I entered a hut and drank tea with the battalion commander, an old gentleman in a jersey, who, with charming apologetic gesture, offered me some white bread and chocolate. The telephone gave word of my coming to the staff of the regiment, to which I was piloted over the marsh by a soldier. The Germans shoot at almost any mark, or, even, at hazard, in the darkness; but very few are wounded in this way--this day none, and the day before only one. Scouts go out from time to time and sometimes find a searchlight turned on them. It is a waiting position. The colonel, a good-looking young man of great simplicity and vigour, entertained me at supper, and we talked late into the night. Everywhere one feels the winning spirit. After the last great halt, on the San, the men went forward with a tremendous rush, and the enemy's rifle pits were filled with dead. Again the talk turned chiefly on the French and English front, and on the necessity of carrying the war to a real settlement. No one can understand why the Germans challenge such enormous losses by their attacks in close columns. Late at night I made my way back to the town; every now and then a few isolated shots rattled in the darkness. _January 5._ I set out late in the evening for a forward ambulance post attached to a famous fighting division. Our party consisted of two soldiers, a niece of Count Bobrinsky, who took such a notable part in the Duma visit to England, and myself. The young Countess, who was enveloped in tarpaulins, is one of the hardest workers in the ambulance. Our cart was stacked with necessaries for the soldiers; on the wall of the courtyard German soldiers had scribbled in large letters expressions of their self-satisfaction, such as "Austria and Germany fear God, and nothing else in the world," and sundry contemptuous allusions to "der Nikolai, der Georg und der Französe." From the time when we left the lights of the town we had to go mostly on foot, negotiating difficult bits of road and ploughing our way through fluid mud. We passed over high ground and close to the front; all round us was the glare of camp fires and in the distance the flash of projectors. In the darkness we were constantly meeting trains of carts. At last, on the slope of a hill, we turned into a Polish hut. It had two fairly large apartments, with a big stove and an earthen floor. In the inner room lived the six sisters of mercy: in the outer we were an interesting and strange collection; along one side lay a big bed, on which, crosswise, sat or slept the Polish peasant, his wife, two daughters and little son; in a corner, on a heap of boxes which he had to arrange each night, slept the young priest, the monk, whom I had met before, and one of the most spiritual men whom I have known; the two sanitars and myself made our beds each night beneath the windows (one of which was smashed), removing them each day to make room for the dinner-table. By the stove, or anywhere else, our soldier servants slept on straw. Not two hundred yards off, but only to be reached by crossing two deep gullies of mud, lay the lazaret of the division, quartered in a white-walled village school. These quarters, I was told, were luxury compared to most of the ordinary stopping places; but we were in a very different atmosphere from the admirably equipped hospitals further back. The wounded arrive all day in large carts or on foot; they come straight from the First Aid stations, which are close up to the actual fighting line; there are no beds, only pallets of straw, on which the men lie down while waiting their turn. They have not yet lost the sense of the battlefield or reached the stage where they are fully conscious of their wounds. They take their places one after another in the cottage chair--in which one of them died yesterday as soon as he had sat down--and the young divisional doctor, with the help of the sisters, removes their first rough-and-ready bandages, and gives them such quick treatment as may enable them to be sent further. It is, of course, the seriously wounded of whom one sees most here, for many of these get no further, dying here, or on the road. From one of them the doctor removed an enormous splinter of shrapnel completely embedded in the body; the largest bombs of all, which the soldiers call "portmanteaux," make terrible wounds. Here all day and all night the doctors and sisters work at the wounded as they come in. The senior sister, a lady of the most remarkable capacity, takes about one night's sleep in five, but is always as fresh and bright as can be. Her husband, a member of the Duma, travels over Russia for the better organisation of the Duma field hospitals. The transport is in charge of one of the sanitars, the son of a Moscow business man, who has a particularly clear head for work. The whole party, three of whom talk excellent English, are drawn close together by their work; and there is the atmosphere of complete unselfishness which one feels so strongly in anything connected with the Russian soldier. As to our soldier servants, it is clear that their constant preoccupation is to make themselves useful to anyone. _January 6._ We lie at the head of a little valley, some few miles from the Divisional Staff. As the troops move forward new questions are constantly arising; and our transport sanitar, Nikolay Nikolayevich, discusses the possibilities of getting better access for the wounded to the hospitals. We are pressing back the enemy into the Carpathians, and there are halts in front of difficult hill positions. The advance through swamps of mud makes tremendous demands on the men, who have to lie for days in rifle pits full of water; at times a well-chosen and well-entrenched position holds the Russians at bay at a distance of a few hundred yards or less, in one case fifty, and yet they will not go back. "Und auf den Carpathen sind die wege beschneit," often recur to me, these lines of one of the laziest of German student songs, which is a kind of renunciation of all effort. Nikolay Nikolayevich and I rode over through the snow to the Staff of the Division. He is a charming and simple man, very like one of our own best-known Generals both in face and manner. He lives in a small hut, which is kept very clean. We lunch and discuss transport, and I am asked to carry certain suggestions to the town. On our way back, accompanied by two Cossacks, we pass through Tuchow, a little township half in ruins, and I notice that, as on our way out, some one is still strumming on a piano in a house of which only the walls are standing. The cannon has carried away a large tree and left deep pits near the road. Driving in the evening to the town, I find groups of wounded, for whom there is no place on the carts, wandering forward in the darkness. The men choose among themselves which I shall take with me: "Let him with the nose go," for one of them has had his face smashed up; the rest move on contentedly, and my passengers give me a word of thanks, which would make any one feel ashamed of himself. This is their Christmas Eve. It is very wonderful, this self-denying patience of the Russian soldier, and it is too big a thing that one should get tired of speaking of it. A doctor at work here tells me how constantly it is impressed upon him. A man whose chin he has had to remove simply says: "Thank Heaven, now you've tied me up, and I am all right." Another, after his leg has been taken off, as soon as he is able to speak, says: "Ah, but it was a fine fight at Krasny; they gave it us, but we gave it to them too." Another, when he is brought in for operation, is only taken up with the thought that he meets in the operating room an Austrian officer to whom he has attached himself as guide and friend. Anything else that is human comes before any thought of self. I am quite certain that one of the greatest things that this war is doing is its revelation to Europe of the simple goodness of the Russian peasant in the person of the Russian soldier. He is more than the unconscious hero of the moment. The qualities of the real Russian people are going to take their proper place among the best factors in the future of European civilisation. _January 8._ In our _halupa_ (hut) we had those intimate and speculative conversations which seem so natural to Christmas Eve. Monk and Intelligents were on common ground. Only once Father Tikhon put down his foot when one of the party expressed indifference as to the other life. "No," he said, "joking apart, that's not good, least of all in time of war"; and the rebuke was accepted as gently as it was given. Our Russian Christmas began with the burial of a wounded soldier who had died in the night. In a little waste patch in the snow, near the lazaret, the priest stood in his gorgeous vestments and bowed deep over the new grave, while two soldier choristers sang the beautiful prayers for the dead. In the evening there was a Christmas Eve service in a room of the lazaret, which Father Tikhon and the soldiers had spent no end of trouble in turning into a chapel. The room was crowded with soldiers, and there was an improvised choir. The simple directions of the priest and the strangeness of the surroundings only added to the deep atmosphere of reverence. I completed the night service in our hospital in the town. Here the first-floor landing had been turned into a chapel. A matronly sister from Moscow, one of the simplest souls in this work-a-day gathering, served as clerk. The leader of the choir was a young Social Democrat doctor, who had suffered for his convictions at the time of the second Duma; and among the choir were all who had had a training in church singing, which reaches such a high standard in Russia. The singers included sisters, sanitars, soldiers and several of the convalescent wounded, who were wrapped in their long grey dressing-gowns; and one wounded man had been laid on his stretcher among the choir in order that he might take part in the singing. Afterwards we all had cakes and tea; and a conversation as to what England could do, and what would follow in Europe, lasted well into Christmas Day. We have here with us Bishop Tryphon, of Moscow, who, like the Bishop of London, asked leave to accompany the army, and is now the Superior, or Rural Dean, of one of our Divisions. The Russian army has a staff of army chaplains with an Arch-Presbyter or Chaplain General, as in England; but many priests have enrolled specially for the war. Some have been killed, others wounded, others taken prisoner; some have been specially honoured for serving the Liturgy to regiments under fire. I am told that Father Tikhon's first sermon under fire was wonderfully simple and impressive. One regimental priest told me how a shell burst in his quarters, blowing a medical attendant to bits and leaving himself with a bad contusion. Bishop Tryphon took a prominent part in the entertainment of our Bishops in Moscow, and sends them by me a message of greeting and good wishes. He arranged a solemn Christmas Day service, with trained singers who were serving in the army. He later visited the hospitals, giving short and plain addresses, and his blessing to each branch of the Red Cross work in turn. There was a great Christmas tree in the station, where presents were distributed to four hundred wounded. Gifts were also distributed under fire by the hospital workers to the soldiers in the trenches some miles from the town. In the evening I took part in a Christmas gathering in one of the big hospitals. Everyone's health was drunk in turn by Christian name, the whole being woven into a long song. Afterwards we sang songs of the Volga, and some stayed on talking till five in the morning, resuming their work a few hours later. _January 10._ Returning to our _halupa_ in the little village, I rode over in the night to the General to convey the results of my journey. It was almost pitch dark and the road was in most places a simple swamp of mud, sometimes with gaping holes in the causeway or with beams or trunks of trees lying about; and though I had a soldier and a lantern, the ten miles took over four hours. Next morning we left the _halupa_: the dismantling process made the hut look more desolate, and while our things were being packed, the peasant family sat on their bed, looking on like moony spectators at some rustic entertainment. They showed more than satisfaction with their payment, which they expressed after the local fashion by kissing every one's hands; but they had now to expect the arrival of a fresh batch of strangers. Our forward move of a few miles was carried out with great expedition; but our carts made quite a long train, and the movement of even a small ambulance section is in itself, under such conditions, almost an exploit. Just in front of me went our Austrian field kitchen with three separate cauldrons, which is found very useful. In a few hours we were installed in our new quarters, a great improvement on the _halupa_, within a stone's throw of the divisional lazaret and the now reopened railway station. From beyond a near wooded hill came the sound of almost continuous firing. We were now close behind the line of the front ambulance points. At the station, which we put in order for their reception, there was a constant dribbling stream of soldiers who had come almost straight from the front. Most of them had walked in with their kits, and many seemed almost unconscious of their wounds. Their conversation was of comrades who stood at other points in the line, of the relative distance of the enemy and of the conditions of work in the rifle pits. Through the thick mud the Russians are driving the Austrians upward over the deeply indented country of the Carpathian region. The enemy entrenches himself strongly, making much use of complicated wire entanglements which can only be carried with a rush. Thus, the heavily clad Russians, whose efforts have pushed the enemy all this way, have sometimes to dig themselves in as best they can at a few paces from the enemy--1000, 500, 100 or even 50. The rifle pits are full of water, straw makes hardly any difference, and as soon as a head is shown it is shot at; many of the wounded have fallen at the moment of rising from the trenches. The Austrians continue a rumbling fire nearly all night. On the other hand, some of our men have seen the shells from the heavy Russian artillery falling plump in the middle of the enemy and have seen how they scatter under the fire of the Russian machine guns. The Russians use less ammunition with much more effect. I have met several Russians who have had at different points fifteen or seventeen days on end of this soaking trench work. One officer, who had had two long doses of it, had contracted rheumatism in one place and bronchitis in another and was resting in a hospital with the hope of getting back as soon as possible. A wounded soldier asked Father Tikhon to write a request that he should be sent back to his regiment as soon as possible. One man at the station, twice wounded in hand and in chest, asked that this time he should be sent to recover in his native town. The station was very soon in order. One of the sisters went round distributing clean underwear. "Change while you can, children," she said; "we shall give you some tea and soup, and pack you into the train, and send you straight off to Russia"; and in a few hours the first train had arrived and the station was cleared for further work. In the dusk, the military ambulance men set out again to collect more of the wounded under fire. What is happening is, shortly, this. The Russians, who had first to deal mainly with the Austrians, leaving the Germans to us, have now got within sight of the end of this part of their task. A first-class military power has been so pounded and smashed and has been repulsed in so many vigorous counterstrokes that it is coming to have only a secondary importance. Meanwhile the bulk of the Russian forces is now devoted to meeting the incessant and desperate initiative of the Germans. Russia's new defensive front on this side runs in a straight line to the point where it covers the Russian conquest in Galicia. It is now being extended further south to the natural barrier of the Carpathians. The interval made necessary by the operations in the north is not being wasted by the victorious troops in the south. When we get to the end of the Austrian efforts and have a mountain barrier to safeguard us on that side, these forces will be able to act with much more effect against the Germans. Russia, by accounting for Austria and concentrating her attack on Germany, will have done more than her full share of the work in the common cause. "Honour is not to be divided," said Ney when he stormed the heights of Elchingen; and it is in this spirit of generous rivalry that the Allies move forward. _January 15._ By a little arrangement room was made in our small quarters for a New Year's feast, to which the divisional doctors were all invited. Father Tikhon had turned the local hall of the Sokols into a Russian church, and the evening service was crowded with soldiers. There was great delight in unpacking the gifts and delicacies received from Petrograd, and soon the guests began to arrive. It was all the simple talk of men accustomed to great privations: some of it turned on a comparison of unpleasant bivouacs; for instance, one told of a night spent in driving wind and rain on an open slope by the light of a burning village; he hoped the wind would blow over some of the warmth from the flames, till at last shelter and sleep were found in a ditch. Another officer was drowsing in a hovel when the door was opened, there entered a strong smell of coarse tobacco and a heavy weight fell on him; he woke in the morning to find a soldier asleep across his knees. An artillery officer, a fine-looking man, told of the tremendous work of the mobilisation and of the strain which war life puts upon the hardest nerves. Regimental doctors have, of course, had to work under fire for weeks on end. Every one discounts the heavy German mortars which in the field do very little damage in comparison with their expense. As to the Austrian bullets, one doctor says that it takes a man's weight of bullets to wound a man. When the trenches are near they come pouring in a sort of continuous rain. One man who insisted on standing up had thirty-six bullets through him directly. When the distance is a hundred to two hundred yards, especially where there is no natural cover, continuous sniping goes on. The line not being straight, but varied by all sorts of indentations, due to the lie of the ground and to the Russians' desire to get as close as possible to the enemy, the former at many points crouch in the temporary and flooded holes which they have scratched out for themselves, perhaps all the while under a cross fire. Men are killed going out with long scissors to cut the Austrian wire entanglements. Many a man has fallen in a crawling excursion to dig up a potato. The sniping becomes a kind of game, and it was described as such by two Russian soldiers, of whom one had knocked over nine Austrians and the other sixteen. The Austrians fire a lot of random shots in the night which are in most cases a sheer waste of powder; but it was hard on a man who was relieved after a week's rifle pits to be hit by a bullet in the night on his way back, as far as a mile from the front. The last hours of the Russian Old Year I spent in a goods carriage. My companions kept reckoning whether we should reach the town by midnight. Twelve o'clock was well past when the train drew up heavily a verst from the station and we were told that it would go no further. We scrambled out into the snow, when suddenly from the lighted station there rose in full orchestra, strong and triumphant, the most beautiful and the most religious of national anthems. It was played three times, and the notes may even have been carried to the neighbouring Germans beyond the river. This was our Russian New Year: and in the station a colonel was dismissing his men with the words, "For this year I wish you health and victory." Next day the stretch of railroad that we had traversed and the carriage in which we had supped was cannonaded by the biggest German shells. The bombardment went on all day and night, the huge "portmanteaux" making tremendous holes and falling for the most part far wide of their only mark, the railway, and carrying ruin and mutilation to many of the inhabitants, who are thus encouraged by the beaten enemy to remain Austrian subjects. There is hardly any object in this bombardment, which is put down to the Germans and has roused great indignation among the many wounded Austrian officers and men who are lying here in hospital. Not a soldier has been touched; but wounded civilians, men, women and children, have been brought in to the different hospitals. _January 16._ The bombardment, which was continued yesterday, has created a certain excitement here, but nothing approaching to panic. The big "portmanteaux" are very ugly things and make an unpleasant noise, but only two shots can be said to have produced any results worth mention. The prevailing mood is one of vigour and interest. I have had some informing conversations with wounded officers of the enemy. They indicate a definite mental attitude very different from ours. I see no trace of religious enthusiasm and little of nationality in the wider sense. The Germans have the greatest confidence and pride in their army. They tell me that two million volunteers were inscribed at the beginning of the war--an enormous fact, if correct. The attitude of the German women is such that no man who can serve dares to remain at home. My informants fully realise that for Germany the war is a matter of life and death. They have served on the western front and described the French fortresses as extremely strong ("brillant"). The Bavarians are terrible in warfare and spread alarm among the population. The losses of the first move through Belgium were enormous. The Belgians are described as excellent soldiers, and large German losses are put down to them. In the march on Paris the reserves and the commissariat could not keep up. The retreat is accepted as an unpleasant necessity. There was a certain pedantry among my informants in insisting on the need of turning the allied right wing, whatever should happen at other points. They claimed that the Germans were now in Calais. Large losses against the Russians were admitted, but it was claimed, without any real evidence, that the Russians had lost more. Again, there was a kind of machine-like insistence on the need of attack in columns with reserves close up--as this was "our tactics." The Germans had so far been saved by the default of any real Russian winter, which would have ruined the German transport and artillery and robbed their operations of all effect. What struck me most was the absence of any real intelligence as to the political issues in debate. My informants were, for reasons of humanity, in favour of a _status quo_ peace. Some Austrians gave an interesting account of the origin of the war. The Austro-Serbian quarrel was not political but personal. The Serbian dynasty, failing to obtain any satisfactory recognition from Austria, was credited with a personal hostility against the late Archduke, who was described as in general a friend of the Slavs. Proof in support of this view of his end had been widely circulated in Austria in December. The personal quarrel between the reigning houses of Austria and Serbia had been turned by the insistence of the Emperor William into an occasion for a European war, specially directed against Russia, into which Austria had been hurried against her will. Her present position now was described as very precarious. To a Hungarian officer I put the question whether the war had produced any real poetry in Hungary. He answered that there had been some rough-and-ready effusions among the working classes, whom he described as militant in their habits in time of peace and always ready for any war, especially with Russia. But the educated classes were not well disposed either to war or to this war. It is rarely that one meets among these wounded of the enemy any other disposition than a strong desire for peace. I should add that several of them have asked me to communicate to their relations that they were being treated with the greatest kindness in Russia; "I am lovingly tended," wrote one of them. An Austrian colonel, a fine soldier and gentleman, told me he should never forget the "Anständigkeit" (decency) of all the Russians with whom he had had to do since his capture. Even Germans who at first are challenging and hostile, are softened by the true humanity with which they are surrounded in the Russian hospitals. _January 22._ The town has been bombarded for several days on end, beginning with the Russian New Year, January 14. The Germans had given a foretaste on our own Christmas Eve. They dropped from an aeroplane a paper bearing the words: "We ask you not to shoot on December 25; we will send you presents": the text of the telegram I had from the Commandant of the town, to whom it was taken. For all that, and though the Russian artillery was instructed only to reply, five heavy bombs were fired into the town and some of the inhabitants were wounded. There were other Christmas "presents" which I have seen, sent by the Austrians with a parleyer and a white flag. With other objects of no importance were six matchboxes full of matches and containing also short manifestoes printed in Russian and addressed to the troops. They were signed "Your unfortunate Tsar, Nicholas"; and they informed the Russian soldiers that the Emperor knew the war would ruin Russia and had sought to avoid it, but had been forced into it by the Grand Duke Nicholas and the "perfidious" Russian generals, against whom the soldiers were invited to turn their arms. I have not often seen a document so conspicuously lacking in humour. Punctually at midnight of January 13, one Russian regiment received two large shells bearing on their case the words "Congratulations on the New Year." The next day the town, though it had no troops in it, was shelled severely, and this bombardment was kept up for several days. The chief mark, and a very legitimate one, was the railway; here there fell in all six large bombs, making holes some twenty feet in diameter and ten in depth. But the great majority of the bombs fell in other parts of the town; and two of them rattled close over the roof of two different hospitals while I was in them, and the splinters of a third flew into the lodging of the workers of another lazaret. In one of these hospitals, a local one now served by the Russian Red Cross, a large proportion of the patients are wounded of the enemy, including officers, most of them too badly hit to be removed without danger to their lives; and these were greatly agitated by the shells passing so near to them. Hurried councils were held by the different Red Cross authorities. One hospital, where the shells continued to fall quite near, left the town. The most serious cases were moved to the local hospital, where the Russian Red Cross courageously decided to remain. Here are also to be found many local inhabitants, wounded by bullets and shrapnel in the town or in neighbouring villages under fire; and one room is mostly filled with little Polish boys, all of them wearing a little silver religious medal round their necks. Here, too, are the inmates of a Polish hut who were injured by the explosion of a hand grenade; in a space of about twelve feet square, some sixteen persons were thus wounded; the father is dead and the mother and one of the children are out of their minds. These are all cases that have come under my notice; and of course there are many others. Yet it is wonderful how the inhabitants remain in their huts under fire in the hope that the worst is over or in despair of finding any other shelter. From one such hut, after the last and finally crushing shot, there issued an old man of nearly seventy with a pipe in his mouth and entirely unharmed. I remember that on my first visit to Lvov, I heard a barrel organ repeating about fifty times the beautiful Polish national hymn: "From the Smoke of Fires"; in the Lublin province, on a line of some seventy miles, I found almost every other village half demolished. It is everywhere Poland that suffers; and it will be hard if some new life for this unhappy people does not rise out of their present ordeal. There must be endless espionage in this town. An Austrian was found by one of our priests at the top of a tower working a telephone, and to the priest's question he replied that he was "sending word as to fires," which was no doubt strictly true. If so, it is a pity that the shots were not better directed. There is no question that the guns at work were not Austrian but German. General Radko Dmitriev came without delay to the town, and distributed the George medal for bravery among the workers of the Red Cross. _January 23._ I have been visiting some of the Regimental First Aid stations. In principle each regiment of four battalions should have five doctors and a captain of bearers. The bearers are selected from each company and can be supplemented by soldiers who volunteer for this service. They must be sound and strong; in peace time they march with their companies, carrying the rifle, and meet for a course of instruction twice a week. They are expected to gather under their captain before an action and to go out to the field to pick up the wounded only at night time, or after the action is over. In the present war it is seldom possible to maintain the full complement of regimental doctors. As battles have continued for weeks on end, it has been quite impossible to limit the bearers' work to less dangerous times; and it has been found most convenient to send them to the trenches with their respective companies, as they could then get to work as soon as they were wanted, and could also know the least dangerous track from their companies to the first-aid points. Ordinarily four bearers are assigned to one wounded: but as the track under fire is often long and exposed, it is sometimes necessary to send out eight men together, to carry by turns. They are supposed to have a leader, but in practice any one gives a lead, and if good it will be followed. The mortality in this service is considerably higher than in the ranks, as this is largely a war of cover, and these are the men who are most deprived of it. Every Russian soldier is supplied with a packet containing lint, two compresses and a fastening pin. The object of the first bandaging is simply to stop the flow of blood and keep out dirt; and the wounded man is bandaged on the spot by himself, some comrade, or a _feldsher_ (a trained medical assistant), one of whom is in the trenches with each company. During the seventeen days of fighting on the San, the wounded had to be carried by relays over a long exposed slope and in many cases over the river. It was found possible to divide the distance into different sections; but the workers in each section were under fire, and so was the regimental point, which might sometimes be in a hut, but was more often a patch of open ground, with a tent stretched over it, or with no covering at all. There were instances where wounded and bearers alike were crushed by a shell on their road; for the Austrians poured endless artillery volleys on to given points. For all that, when the Russian trenches were examined after the battle, it was found that the bearers' work had been carried out completely, and that all the wounded had been removed. The tremendous mortality of this war has put a specially hard strain on this service. Yet it is one of those which it would be most difficult to supplement with volunteers. Untrained men would be almost certain to be killed off soon; and indeed the appearance of bearers on the field is at once an indication to the enemy of the positions of the troops. It has been found quite impossible, with the present range of artillery, to keep the regimental points in security. The work has therefore to be dispatched with the greatest expedition. The regiments, for mobility, dispense with any superfluous material and appliances and send their patients as soon as possible to the divisional lazaret, where the first really serious treatment is received. Lazarets further back have often, as I have previously mentioned, been under fire. Austrian prisoners tell me that they have often seen their artillery fire on field hospitals; and from Russian observation points it has several times been noticed that the Austrian fire has been opened on what could only be a hospital field train. One of the subjects discussed with me by wounded officers of both sides is the possibility of securing further respect for the Geneva Convention and even a further definition of its regulations; but at present the overpowering stress under which we all live seems to be carrying us to the total disregard of any limitations at all. _January 27._ After a talk with the Divisional General, I set out for a visit to the regiments at the front. My orderly told me with pride that this was the best fighting Division in the army; certainly it has that reputation in other quarters and has three times in this campaign done decisive work against superior odds. It has rushed the Austrians from point to point, and would do so still unless they had taken refuge in the hill country before the Carpathians, where every hill has to be won in turn. Its General, an old man full of fire and energy, has received three wounds, which, as he says, make for him a calendar of the war. The way lay between pleasant fir-clad hills, and late in the evening I reached the X regiment, with quite a good-sized house for its headquarters. The Colonel, who was very simple and businesslike, lived with his staff in the dining-room by a kind of half-light and with picnic fare, of which, as always in Russia, much more than his share was pressed upon the guest. The talk was that of comrades at serious work. These men will all go to the end, but they don't find it necessary to say so. When one said something about finishing at Berlin, a young officer put in with a smile: "Do you know, if we do, I expect none of us will be alive by then?" I spent the night in the regimental doctor's hut, and next day went off to the artillery observation point. It was a clear day and we could see not only our own lines and the enemies', but also some of the Austrians walking about near their trenches. A shell from us sent them scattering back into their burrows, and our guns were then turned on one point after another, the shells, as we could see, always exploding on or very close to the object aimed at; this day, there was only a half-hearted reply. The following day, I saw the guns themselves at work; the place of the battery was not likely to be located. It is very seldom during the war that a Russian battery has been silenced by the enemy. The Austrians, on the other hand, often place their guns on the crests of hills and have suffered severely from the accuracy of the Russian artillery, which is one of the striking features of the whole campaign. There is, further, this difference, that the Russians never fire without a target, whereas the Austrians in the most systematic way sweep whole areas in turn, as a rule doing extraordinarily little damage for the powder expended. One colonel suggested that the Emperor Francis Joseph must have more money than he knows what to do with. In the evening I set out with a party of soldiers for the infantry trenches. With a clear moon lighting the snow-clad slopes we made our way along the more exposed lines; there was no sign of life, though the Austrian trenches could be seen quite near. Passing under shelter we found the Russian mud huts, which take only three or four hours to make and give good cover from weather, bullets and shrapnel, but not from bombs. We sat for some time in an angle of the entrenchments; here several bombs had fallen close to a very exposed hut, in which however, the inhabitants still remained. We passed the night in another hut, which we could only enter in the dark for fear of drawing the enemy's fire. The scouts came in for instructions, headed by a young volunteer who was doing his first work of this kind. Voices went on long into the night; reports came in from various points. The scouts returned about 3 a.m. They had come on a body of Austrians double their force in a wood; they let themselves be nearly surrounded, then threw a hand-grenade with effect and scrambled back to our lines; as the whole Austrian line opened fire the reconnaissance had achieved its object, which was to ascertain whether the enemy had made any changes in his positions. In the early morning appeared an Austrian officer who had made his way across to us. He was smiling so broadly that I saw his smile before I saw the man. He was a Ruthenian and was married to a Serbian, so that all his sympathies were long since on our side; his wife was already under Russian rule in conquered Galicia, and his own great wish was to fight in the Serbian army. The Russian officers made him completely at home at once, putting their breakfast and their servants at his disposal; when a few hours later another Ruthenian fugitive arrived, our last-found ally helped to make him feel comfortable, stroking his face and relieving his apprehensions, amid the broad smiles of the Russian soldiers. The day we spent under the fire of 180 bombs, which fell often along the line of the entrenchments, but only wounded some five or six men. It was very unpleasant for the infantry to have to sit under this alarming noise, and certainly the men would infinitely have preferred to attack. From the Austrian side no other sign was made, and there was no such mark as the Russian artillery or infantry think it worth while to fire at. In the evening I was coming back on horseback in the twilight when a shell fell on the road close in front of me. This was the last as far as I was concerned, and I slept in comfort at the first-aid point of the regiment. _January 29._ On my way to the H regiment I had to pass over a commanding plateau, and from hence, looking backward, I could see endless and intermingling lines of wooded hills with the main masses of the Carpathians in the far distance. I commented to my orderly on the beauty of the view, and as usual when I made any pointless remark, he replied courteously, "I understand," which meant "I don't." Shrapnel was falling by a fir-wood on the crest, and we took a lower road to the regimental staff. The Colonel was a soldier of an English type, with a grace which I have seldom seen in a man. Altogether, minds seem more at ease at the front than anywhere else in Russia; there is the fullest consciousness of heavy losses and of straining conditions, but all this seems only to make every-day life more simple. There was a strange incident after lunch: one of the regimental doctors had just gone out of the door when he was bitten by a mad dog that was running wild in the woods, and the place had to be burnt out with a hot iron. One comes on many "extras" of this kind, which have nothing to do with the war but seem to fit themselves into it. When twilight was come, I made another of these foot-pace rides over frozen fields and gullies to the lines of the regiment. Halfway, by some trees and a stream, we met a very young soldier who reported the presence of "Free Austrians" in a neighbouring hut. These turned out to be only the local peasants; and my orderly, who was an old soldier, was very outspoken with his rebuke. We soon reached a hut, containing two commanders of battalions, with a young officer who seemed to me a type of that fearlessness that I have seen everywhere in the Russian army. They wanted to give away all their chocolates and other luxuries, and sent guides to take me to the trenches. We had to climb one of the steepest hills I have ever gone up. Fortunately it was covered with light scrub: otherwise I should never have got to the top, for the frozen and clouted soil was so slippery that one slid back at every step. Yet up this hill the Russian troops had gone at night under the fire of the defending Austrians not many days before, and I was told that the ground was then in even worse condition. The storming of these hills one after the other calls for the most reckless courage; but this kind of task is the favourite work of the Russian soldier. Halfway up, we took an "easy" in the mud hut of a superior officer. We sat together in the straw with our toes to the stove, and, as is often the case, the talk was not about the war at all, but about the human things that most interest the Russian mind: about the characters in Russian literature and the future of Russia. Naturally there is also a good deal now to be said about England; and nowhere more than in the trenches does one notice how every one wishes to give us the best word, just as the guest receives the best of the fare. England's share in the war was put to me, with a real thought and kindness, much better than I could have put it myself. In these rough surroundings where ordinary comforts must all be dispensed with, there is nothing that makes them seem so unnecessary or that so stamps the character of officers and men alike, as a certain delicacy of mind which seems to me the ideal of good breeding. Reaching the top we went over some ground which by day was almost impassable and was covered with huge holes made by shells, and I slept in an officer's mud hut just behind the trenches, where the five of us lay literally packed in like sardines. Some shells fell during the night; but the Austrians did not ordinarily open a regular fire till ten in the morning. The last few days they had covered the brow of this hill with shells. A hut standing on the summit and some farm buildings in a hollow behind had been smashed to bits. To-day there was a fog, so that even the Austrians did not make their usual aimless cannonade. But they sent us in the course of the day what might be called a mixed packet: the mortars, field and mountain artillery machine guns and rifles all coming into play at one time or other. In particular there were chance rifle shots on all sides. The Russian trenches, despite the concentrated fire of the last few days, had suffered very little; and here as elsewhere it appeared that, though only explosive shells are effective against entrenchments, even they are comparatively harmless. This day I was able to pass along the front of the regiment and even further forward. My general impression was that the Russian superiority is so great that all neutral ground may almost be reckoned as Russian. The Russians are always ready to venture into this unknown land; the Austrians, on the contrary, expect attacks from all sides, answer every isolated shot with a wild volley, and are ready to fire at anything, even a fog. Two or three Austrian soldiers came across; they were loutish youths, not like soldiers, and had only quite recently joined the colours; there have been instances of prisoners who did not know to what regiment they belonged and had not yet received their rifles. I was present while the Colonel examined some prisoners, and the tale they told of the conditions in the Austrian trenches was pitiable: water in the trenches, thin coats and ridiculously ineffective boots, constant diarrhoea from eating fresh meat; the roughest treatment from the officers (nearly all Germans), who themselves avoided all danger and privations; a Hungarian battalion at one time put to discipline them and shots fired at them from behind; regiments reduced to a quarter of their strength, boy recruits without any training, discordant elements in a given regiment, a general and growing resentment against Germany and the German Kaiser, a keen longing for peace, and an almost epidemic desire to surrender. This is the consequence of six months' punching, which has, however, cost heavy losses to the Russians. _February 4._ Every one here--particularly the young men who are in the Red Cross--is naturally drawn as by a magnet to work being as near as possible to the actual front. Different people show this in different ways; some are restless, some are evidently there in thought, others keep it to themselves as an intimate purpose which they only mention when their desire is to be satisfied. Often this satisfaction is long in coming, even when it has long been worked for and seems quite near. F., a quiet, self-contained young man, asked leave to go off with the bearers in the hope of learning how to help later in carrying the wounded, and I saw him ride off in his grey mantle with set face; but that time he got no further than the regimental headquarters. K., one quiet evening, told me how all was arranged for regular volunteer work in the trenches, but everything is still uncertain and he will anyhow have to wait for some weeks. The fact is that this creditable straining after the most dangerous work of all, for it is more dangerous than that of the soldiers in the firing line, does not easily fit in with the requirements of the army. There are certain dangers which it is madness to court, not only in one's own interest but in that of others, and especially of the troops themselves. For instance, a body of volunteer helpers would simply by their appearance indicate the positions of the troops and draw the fire of the enemy, and would probably have to return without any wounded. Such experiments have been made with doubtful success. It is only by following the wishes of the commanders, and learning from them how and when help can be given, that any good can be done; and this means that it is necessary to stand near to some given military unit and earn the confidence of its chief. A few days ago I had a chance meeting with a few men in rough winter coats, who came in together and sat down to a hasty meal. They were of different ages, but all bore the stamp of the simple seriousness of the front. It was the same with their talk. We discussed the meaning of this war for the Russian soldier--that is, for the Russian peasant--and I expressed my conviction that this war is one of the greatest stages in history, in the manifestation of the true qualities of the Russian people to Europe. The quietest of the party, a middle-aged doctor, intervened to say that this idea pleased him; the Russian seemed uncultured because he took less thought for comforts and contrivances, but all his care was for the biggest things of all; the scope of his vision might indeed help to broaden the heart of Europe; and it was good to feel that all this quiet and selfless heroism would not go for nothing. I learned that these men belonged to the most famous and the most forward of the Red Cross organisations. No. 14 is headed by a military man; it has three doctors, several students and 130 soldier-bearers. It was the first to attach itself to a given Division, and, by waiting for its chances and always keeping close up, it has so far made the most interesting experiments in volunteer help. I expressed my respect; but my acquaintances hastened to tell me that the reports of their work were highly exaggerated, and they gave me a plain prose picture of what they did and of things that might be done. Yesterday I paid a visit to No. 14. They were in clean quarters in a little scattered village in the snow some five miles from the front. They had good quarters for first aid and some twenty very practical carriages for the transport of the wounded. The soldier-bearers were drawn up in line and received a message of thanks for their work from the General. Six of them, and two of the students, had the George medal for bravery, bestowed for their work on the San. Travelling on to the regimental staff, we entered the atmosphere of which I have written above. The regimental surgeon described with enthusiasm the work of No. 14, especially when the regiment was in movement; at such times he could not have possibly coped with his work alone. He himself was forbidden by the regulations to work further forwards. Somewhat farther on stood a village, with a lofty church that had been struck by several shells. To appear beyond the village was at once to draw fire, as it lay along the Dunajec, beyond which were the enemy. There was no natural cover; but our side of the stream, which is not a broad one, was lined with a kind of embankment. However, we also held the bridge and a bridge-head on the other side. As this bridge-head was faced and flanked by the enemy's trenches it was constantly under the closest fire; and every night, especially when it was dark, the bridge was under a continuous shower of bullets and shrapnel, while by day the appearance of a single person at once called forth a volley. We were not allowed to cross this bridge, nor was any one allowed to come across to us, for at the time of our visit it was under rifle fire and shrapnel. But in the earthworks beyond there has been put up in the trenches a first-aid point with approaches from the sides and all necessary appliances; here the wounded can be attended to and kept under some kind of shelter till a slackening of the fire, perhaps once in twenty-four hours, allows of their transport across the bridge; and here at this point, prohibited to the regimental surgeon, lives, sleeps and works Dr. Vladimir Petrovich Roshkov, who spoke to me of the quiet heroism of the Russian soldier and of his faith in the qualities of the Russian people. _February 21._ After my visit to No. 14 I was laid up with a bad chill, but after two weeks I was able to resume my journeyings. I arrived at the N regiment in a cab, or rather did not arrive, because we stuck in a sea of mud. The Polish cabman, plaintive but polite, described it as an "awful drive," and seemed inclined to stay there all night, till some soldiers came and dragged us out. The Colonel and his two adjutants lived in the usual hut. These Polish cottages are very clean and well furnished, with handsome stoves, decorated roofs, sometimes a divan, and in all cases rows of religious pictures encircled with wreaths of artificial flowers. We had the usual telephone-interrupted night and a long talk about the Colonel's earlier experiences in Austria. He now had in front of him an Austrian regiment whose guest he had been when on his travels. Next day I rode to some of the positions. One could get close up to them without danger. We walked forward, through brushwood and swamp, with sentries at various points, up to the rapid Dunajec. To the right some of our positions were across the stream; to the left it was itself the dividing line. Here there was a broken bridge, and on either side of the break were the opposing sentries, who occasionally took snapshots at each other at short range. The German lines and their wire entanglements were plainly visible, but at midday the view was as bare and desolate as the ship of the "Flying Dutchman" before the awakening. One of the most curious things in war is the tacit convention that develops itself illogically out of a set of circumstances entirely novel. In open day to show oneself here is ordinarily to be killed, yet at certain hours, fixed rather by instinct than by reason, there is an unspoken truce of which both sides take advantage. Photographs could be taken, and we returned in peace to the main positions. In the evening I set out for some more distant trenches where the enemy was Austrian. I stopped to take tea at a point where some of the inhabitants were being examined. I have seen a good deal of this, and have always found that the Russians, if anything, erred on the side of leniency. There are undoubted communications between the lines, but, apart from the most obvious espionage, the most that is done is to remove suspects from the ground nearest to the trenches. We went forward on foot in the twilight, with a good moon and a clear sky, and with a full view of the enemy's ground, though we ourselves were indistinguishable from our surroundings. We soon came on the trenches, which were elaborate, deep, and for the most part dry. My host here was one of those ideal persons who seem made for such conditions of life. I will call him George, because he is one of the most worthy knights of that Order of bravery. I asked him how he won this distinction, and after starting the briefest account of a village taken and communications secured he broke it off saying: "For execution of orders." He was a big man with kind eyes, a manner prompt and natural, and the simplest address to his soldiers. It was now comparatively safe to traverse a bit of more open ground and visit some other positions. Here again the works were excellent, and George required some still further improvements. The men were in good heart and vigour; and across the plain we could hear how the younger soldiers of a neighbouring regiment were singing in lusty chorus one of their favourite war-songs. A voice came across from the Austrian lines which were here only a few hundred yards off: "The Russians are singing--Peace." Answering shouts of song came from the Austrian trenches, but they were feeble and soon ended sharply as if by order. We made our way back in the dark to our central entrenchments. After a half-hour's talk on the straw in our earth hut the moon had waned, though the stars were still shining bright all over the sky. With a guide I passed through some trees down the slope to the river and beyond the line of our trenches. It was reported that there were signals and signs of movement beyond the river, and all the men were ordered to be clothed and ready. My guide was one of those native gentlemen who are so common among the Russian peasants and are to be met everywhere in the army, entirely selfless, indifferent to all danger except for others, and full of quiet, childlike intelligence of the great issues engaged. His hand, a strong and gentle one, was there to help my every movement with the instinct of the most devoted of family servants. The whispered talk came with a strange freshness, and the whole atmosphere of our excursion was that of another world more real than our own. We entered a dwelling where the watch sat round a smoky camp fire. There was a brisk salute, and the answer to my greeting from England was "Very pleasant." What they all liked to hear about was how we were preparing new armies. "Then we'll take him on both sides," whispered my companion as we left the watch, "and we'll surround him--the barbarian." We crept slowly forward till we came up with the second of the two advanced sentries, a young man crouched on his knee with rifle loaded and ready. Here we stayed a little time, with now and then the lowest whisper, and in front of us the rushing river, beyond which were the sentries of the enemy; sky and air were clear. We crept on to the forward sentry on the bank, and were crouching beside him when a rocket went up in front of us beyond the river followed by a blaze of light and then a second and a third. "Lie down, your nobility," whispered my companion, and we lay as still as we could together while four rifle shots cracked at us. We could hear each other's breathing in the few seconds while the blaze hung above us. We had all crawled back to the second sentry when the rocket went up again followed by more shots, but this time we had some little shelter. We returned and bade "Good-night" to the Watch and lay for a while in a shelter close by, with a whispered talk of our joint task. On the way up the hill there were more rockets and more shots at us, but we were soon back at the earth hut with its welcome shelter and its friendly host, and the straw screen that served as a door shut on a good night and a sound sleep. _February 23._ All day long we sat in our earth hut or passed crouching along the trenches visiting the different points of observation. What a difference a few inches make! At each more exposed point no care seemed enough. The whole day bullets passed above us, sometimes singing--or as George said "wailing"--about fifteen yards off, but most of them embedded themselves in our hill, sometimes kicking away with a ricochet or exploding. Often there were sharp salvos from several rifles at once aimed mostly at the loopholes where our sharpshooters lay ready; men were shot through the forehead in this way. In the afternoon I saw a fire light up in some German trenches by the river, and it quickly spread along their lines. A figure like an insect stood out shovelling at the flames and some of our men shot at it; the German passed down the slope but came again, this time going back at a run. The flames spread further until they were at last extinguished from below. We ourselves got nothing except bullets, and none of our men were wounded. There was no excitement and practically no reply. It was considered that the enemy was wasting his powder, in a nervous fear of attack. But all the day we saw, from our vantage-point, shell after shell raining on neighbouring positions. At one time attention was given to the high ground behind us, and a large hut in which I had halted the night before went up in flames, and in a few minutes seemed to have disappeared altogether. However, only a cow was killed, and except for two huts I found the position unchanged when I passed back here in the evening. No wonder that our own artillery did not deign to reply till the evening, when it lighted up a big flame in a small town beyond the river. Southward across the flat ground which we had traversed in the dark the cannonade was more furious and had more meaning. Here there was a projecting bluff where our front came close up to the river before receding sharply from it and taking an altogether different direction. This was doubly an angle. It was a salient landmark in the curve of the whole Russian line from a western front against Germany to a southern front against Austria, and was therefore one of the points from which the conquering Russian march through Galicia threatens the junction of the two allies. The lie of the ground made it still more a challenge to the enemy, as the advanced trenches on this side were opposed to a fire from both sides and even partly from the rear. On this devoted hill the enemy's artillery, strongly reinforced, poured an unending torrent of shells. We could see them burst almost without interruption--the heavy explosive shell for driving the men from their shelter followed by the two shrapnels for catching them in the open. In all some eight hundred shells must have been lodged on the hill on this day, and in the evening a large hut on the top lit up like an illuminated fairy castle. No fewer shots were fired the next day, and when I was later able to get to this ground, it was all harrowed up with enormous holes even in the gullies that ran crosswise through the hill itself. The men crouched in the trenches where death threatened any exposed movement and the falling shells often carried the works away wholesale, wounding and killing large numbers. A wounded officer, much loved by his men, was asked by them what they could do to pay the enemy back, and he answered, "Sit and Wait." This time the cannonade was not, as so often with the Austrians, simply a nerve-stricken discharge of ammunition. When the hill, and especially the line of our trenches, had been covered with shell, and the defenders had been long enough reduced to a condition of paralysis and impotence, a whole division of the gallant Tirolese advanced on the projecting angle of the line. These are the best troops that Austria has left, and they were opposed to parts of two Russian regiments. They ensconced themselves at night in rifle pits on a lower ridge of the hill, and forcing their way up found lodgment in a small wood and even occupied some disused trenches only fifty yards from the Russians. They planted a flag; and the fire of their artillery, which was this day wonderfully accurate, continued to pound the Russians over the heads of the Tirolese infantry. An attempt was made to break through the Russian line at the point of the angle, which was also the junction of the two defending regiments. And now came the reply. Standing up under the cannonade the Russian infantry, with the support of its machine guns, poured in such volleys that everything in front of it went down. The rush to break through was beaten out and backward, the trenches occupied by the Tirolese became a line of corpses; no attempt was made to resist the bayonet; Russian troops on the flank passed down towards the river and took the enemy in flank; the whole attack, or what was left of it, rolled down the hill, leaving 1300 corpses in the wood and in the open; a number of prisoners, wounded and Red Cross men were left behind; and next day retreating columns, without even their baggage, were seen marching off into the hills beyond the river. Prisoners told me they had not eaten for four days, and that enteric and typhus were rampant in their trenches, which were often full of water. They gave no good account of their officers, and they said that both they and Tirol were sick of the war. I found many dead in the Russian trenches, all killed by the enemy's artillery. The fire was then intermittent, and we were still obliged to act on the defensive; but the men were perfectly unperturbed. As a Russian private put it when I asked him to compare the Austrian soldier with the Russian: "He is a man, too, but we have rather more vigour, rather more boldness, more inclination for it, and we are anyhow winning. It might be added that we are steadier." A modest and quiet estimate enough at the moment of a signal victory against odds and natural conditions. _February 26._ In the bandaging-room every description of suffering is seen, and many ways of meeting it. What strikes one most is the difference between the Russians and the rest. In general the Russians have an altogether stronger physique and therefore a much firmer and sounder morale. Some of the younger men lie there under treatment as if they were not ill at all and were simply having football injuries patched up. Such was Alexey of Yaroslav, who kept a fine ruddy colour and chatted away jollily about the market gardeners at Lake Nero as he arched his broad back and had his numerous wounds attended to. He was wounded in a scouting expedition, but crawled back of himself to the Russian lines; and when he was carried out of the hospital he behaved like an ordinary traveller going on a journey. He had no intention of going to Russia and spoke of his return to the ranks as "a matter of course." Many of these wounded write begging their officers to keep their places open for them. Some lie glancing at their serious wounds as they are treated, with a healthy and indifferent eye. The head wounds are the most trying to the morale; they always make men look weak and unequal to things. But even here the Russian temper shows itself. Ivan, a married peasant, had two nasty holes in his head, but he talked all the while he was being treated with a loveable simplicity, and even his exclamations of pain were only little appeals to the sisters, full of a natural courtesy. Once when the knife was a long time in his head, he protested mildly, "Enough, gentlemen!" There was great alarm when he suddenly rolled off the dressing-table on to the stone floor; but this proved to be the turning-point in his recovery, and he was soon afterwards joining with the others in his ward singing peasant songs. The Armenians are sometimes a frailer people; but there was one man with a great heart, who had both his legs smashed while bringing in an officer from under fire; one leg had been amputated, and delay in first aid had induced a mass of gangrene; the man was doomed; but he held out for day after day, and nothing but a dull, strong groan escaped him until at last he succumbed under his sufferings; to the end he was always asking after the officer whom he had saved. The Germans show a much greater consciousness of their wounds, but take a quiet pride in conquering them. Will and purpose are triumphant, and these men return sooner than others to a normal outlook on the little businesses of life. A Tirolese, badly wounded in the head, at first took a little too much trouble to keep up his self-respect before strangers, but later talked away freely, though he was very troubled that he would go back to his sweetheart with the brand of a prisoner of war. The Austrian Germans were frailer and more gentle. Two of them in particular, both officers, won golden opinions from all who met them. They were men of a happy disposition, of real culture and of great delicacy of mind. There was not the slightest difficulty in talking with them about the war, because they bore no grudge against any one, not even against the Emperor William, whose unwisdom they regarded as the main cause of their country's misfortunes. These two showed the greatest patience under treatment, talking meanwhile of their army, literature and music, and regarding their wounded limbs as children who were being gradually persuaded to be good. Much the saddest sight in the bandaging-room were the little Polish boys who had been wounded in villages during the operations, mostly by shrapnel. There were eleven of them in the hospital, and they almost filled one ward. They were all pretty little fellows, remarkably well made and with something martial in their bearing; all of them wore round their necks little silver religious medals. It was very painful to see them minus an arm or a leg, or still worse with some body wound which could only look natural on a full-grown soldier. Most of these children were from ten to thirteen years of age. They were bright and smiling in the bandaging-room, and seemed to have no more regret for themselves than they would have had for their own broken toys. But Poland will be covered with such after the war. There may be a renewed, there may be a united Poland, but anyhow there will be a Poland of cripples. That is why I continue to hear everywhere, like a burden that ever repeats itself, the beautiful Polish national air "In the Smoke of Fires." Its solemn tones meet one everywhere, now hummed by passers-by, now ground out endlessly by a barrel organ. I came one day on to the street humming it myself, when an old Pole at once, with the grace of his nation, took off his hat and solemnly bowed to me. It is the motto of the Polish population on whichever side of the Russian frontier; and may the purification of which it speaks lead to happier things: for no nationality has been tempered in a harder school than that of Poland. Nothing could exceed the kindness of the Russian staff in dealing with all these various patients. There is, of course, no distinction of nationality or condition; the sisters play with the children, find all sorts of little questions or other interests to distract the attention of those under treatment, and bring them back to lighter mood, as soon as the actual pain is passed. A Russian hospital, even with all the afflictions of war, gives out an atmosphere of home of which there is frequent mention in the letters which the prisoners send off to their distant relations. _March 1._ My friend "Wiggins" is a very remarkable person. Heaven knows what he doesn't manage, and it would be difficult to say what he doesn't know. Take England, though Wiggins has many other languages and knowledges. Wiggins's English, learnt in childhood, is of the most daring and comprehensive kind and runs to the writing of doggerel verse. The history of the English Church he knows far better than most English clergymen, and the development of the English Constitution he both knows and understands better than some English professors. He will write, for instance, "Please send me more books on the period of transition from Constitutionalism to Parliamentarism." Parliamentary procedure he has studied night after night in the Distinguished Strangers' Gallery; and his toast when he was dined in the House of Commons in 1909 was "to the glorious traditions of the Parliament of Great Britain." He is very well up in all the detail of our Army and Navy, is thought a good judge of English shorthorns, and hopes to send his son to Winchester. Wiggins has done no end of work for the close friendship of his country with England. His quick resourceful mind and his ties with men in all departments of Russian politics and public life here have for years been mobilised to this object, which is the mainspring of all his great and untiring efforts. He has never lost heart when events went against him or when some favourite plan was blocked, and was always ready for another go. He is a good man and a brave man. War has brought Wiggins and me together in novel surroundings. He has a liking for all that is venturesome and an innocent predilection for anything that partakes of conspiracy. Wiggins sits and collects all the military telegrams from the different fronts, including the western; Wiggins reads, answers and transmits private telegrams from Russia to other countries. Wiggins goes through the letters found in the enemy's trenches, and his staff is competent to deal with all the Babel of languages of Austria. Wiggins interrogates the prisoners and fixes the movements of the enemy's troops; there is a delightful caricature of him, standing like a wild boar at bay, among a crowd of gaping Austrians. Wiggins looks after the aeroplanes; and sometimes goes himself on the most perilous of scouting expeditions. On one of these I found with him a man of the most quaint simplicity, an artist, who used to sit down between the lines and sketch the enemy's positions. He described with an impersonal unconcern how the bullets passed him. "But what do you do when you have finished?" I asked. "Oh, I go on to another position." "But surely it is very dangerous work?" "Yes, I suppose there are about ninety-nine chances in a hundred of my getting killed; but I haven't any children. I should rather like to do my work from an aeroplane; I think that would be safer." "Wiggins" asked my help in reading some of the letters from the trenches. One way or another, I have seen a good many of these. The great thing that strikes me is that they are so good--that the war after all brings out the best of every one. The Italian letters (of soldiers in the Austrian army) are particularly graceful and pretty; but then most Italians are gentlefolk. One writes: "I hear that T. is a prisoner and with the Russians and that they are much better off than in the line of fire." Another, hoping for the end of the war by Christmas, writes: "For the Babe Jesus we hope for peace." "Angelina" writing to "Carissimo Gustavo" ends thus: "If we are meant to be married, few letters are enough; and if we are not, no letters are any use." I came out on the muddy little square and to my surprise caught the notes of a melody that was for many years prohibited in Poland. It was "Poland is not ruined yet," the battle-song of the Polish legions that fought under Dombrowski against Russia for Napoleon and for Polish independence. The words were different but not in spirit; they were the famous "Slavs come on." I was surprised, because I was in purely military surroundings at the staff of our army. But the men who were singing were all Slavs of non-Russian origin, they were a military unit in Russian uniform and marched round the square in front of Radko Dmitriev, who, with all others present, stood to the salute. To these troops he then distributed crosses and medals of the George for signal bravery, and they sang him another Slavonic air, a Bulgarian hymn in honour of himself. Behind him stood a number of Czech (Bohemian) prisoners; and the troops next played the Bohemian salute and the Czech National Hymn; some of the prisoners were in tears. Turning to them, the General said that as Slavs they could have no doubt as to the welcome that awaited them in Russia, where all that was possible would be done for their comfort, and that when the war was over they would return home, and he hoped that they would find their country free. The last words were, at his desire, repeated to them by the interpreter. No wonder that the Slavs of Austria are coming over in great masses and begging for employment on the Slavonic side; while the fictitious unity of Austria, a mechanism for turning to German uses a country which is three-quarters Slavonic, is crumbling before the eyes. German ambitions are being reduced to count only on the services of instruments that are really German. _March 9._ I crossed the river and followed the line of the entrenchments. The men were resting in the evening before their earth-burrows. I passed along to the corner of our positions; in the half-light one could stand on the earthworks and see without being shot at. The enemy, who were Hungarians, were only six hundred yards off. Between the two lines ran a broad causeway built in time of peace, part of a great dam of which sections are occupied by us and other sections by the enemy. Here, where for a short distance it becomes neutral, all sorts of queer things are possible. Our scouts can pass under partial cover along either side of it, and constantly do so. The enemy makes no counter-moves; his advance sentries stand only just outside his wire entanglements, and creep in and report the moment they see any movement outside; he does not even open fire. The Russian soldier, who here, as elsewhere, has a complete moral and physical superiority, goes out on little night raids, sometimes in small companies, sometimes alone, to hear the conversation of the enemy, which if Slavonic can be readily understood by him, or, still better, to catch a "tongue," that is, to bring home a captive sentinel for information. This is why the enemy's sentries retreat. If fire were opened, it would only tell the Russians just what they want to know, namely, in what strength the positions are occupied. I should like to have stayed here, but there were other things to see; so, with a soldier guide, I passed over some flat, marshy ground to a forward angle of our lines. We found our way by passing the field telephone through our hands, which is also a good means of seeing that it is in order. In the dusk, with the sense of danger and mystery around us and stray bullets sometimes coming from the enemy, my companion spoke in short and simple sentences, of which one would like to have preserved every word. "He" (the German) must be having a bad time; why doesn't he see it? We are drawing in on him from all sides; the Austrians will be no use to him; they are nervous and fire at everything, and seldom hit anything; our people only fire to hit. In a stone cellar with nothing above it, for the whole village was destroyed soon after it was taken, there are gathered the officers of the battalion. The commander, Lukich, is a genial, communicative man who has knit them all together into a little family; indeed, two of the captains are cousins, and the commander has living with him in his mud hut his nephew, a boy of fifteen, who has been allowed to spend his holidays at the war. Not many of those who set out for the war are left now, and that alone makes a closer brotherhood among the rest. They all smile at Lukich's inventiveness and resource, and are all very fond of him. Lukich gives elaborate instructions for the night's scouting. Pavel Pavlovich, whose turn it is to go, is a splendidly built man with a great head and big brown eyes: "an ideal fighting man," I am told. He is down with a very bad chill, and reports himself quite unfit. Lukich says that he always has to send out sick scouts. "Don't laugh," says Pavel Pavlovich; "I can hardly keep on my legs." However, without further words he gets ready for his night's job. Half-an-hour later he appears in a long white dressing-gown which hangs carelessly over his huge figure, and with him are thirty picked men--for there are always plenty of volunteers for this work--drawn from different companies. All are clad in white, and when first I stumbled on them in the darkness, though I knew they were there, I took them for a row of posts. Lukich made them a little speech, telling them that some one from their English allies had come to see them and that he hoped they would do well. Their job was to crawl some one thousand yards, to overhear the conversation in the enemy's trenches and judge of the numbers there, to catch a sentry if possible, to cut through some of the wire entanglements, and, above all, to throw some hand-grenades into the Austrian lines. Each man had a definite task; the bomb-throwers were trained men, and several carried huge scissors for cutting wire. As the Austrians sometimes pass an electric current through the wires, these scissors often have wooden handles. The men passed at once into the darkness, and we waited on the line of our trenches. Nothing happened for some time. Various figures appeared from the neutral ground: sentries and patrols, who gave the impression that all this ground was Russian. At last, at the request of a soldier, we took cover (the soldiers are always trying to put their officers in greater safety than themselves), and directly afterwards there was a big thud, and flash went the first bomb. The next moment the Austrians were shooting wildly in all directions; but very soon after the firing had died down the second bomb went up, followed by another excited discharge from the enemy. This showed that our scouts had stayed close outside the Austrian lines; and among those around us, too, there was a sort of buoyant audacity. "They'll come away now?" I asked. "Oh no; they've several more bombs with them;" and soon after the calm of night had returned up went No. 3. We waited till six bombs had been lodged in this way, and each time there was the same nervous discharge of musketry, bullets flying everywhere, but no one being hit. After a time Pavel Pavlovich came back, as if from a football match. He had left a reserve in the rear, sent watchers in various directions, and taken the rest forward. Not a man was hurt, and every detail of his instructions had been carried out. Pavel Pavlovich was a different man, full of life and spirits; and, to complete his satisfaction, there appeared in our cellar at this very moment his nearest friend, a brother officer wounded earlier in the war through the head and only to-night returned to the regiment. "We must leave those two alone," said Lukich; "they are like man and wife, and no one will get a word out of either of them." _March 11._ The staff of the V regiment was in the usual hut, clean, comfortable and decorated with religious pictures, as most of these Polish cottages seem to be. It was the usual family party, the little colonel being a sort of paterfamilias, the major a kind of uncle, and the younger men like cousins of different degrees. It was very interesting when the reports came in from other parts of the huge front and the day's changes were filled in on the maps--as usual, on the whole satisfactory. The colonel of artillery was a bronzed man whose face was a mixed suggestion of a raven and of a kind Mephistopheles. He was a strong Conservative, and had friendly discussions with the chronicler of the regiment, a highly cultivated Liberal with a beautiful voice and the features of a youthful Mr. Pickwick. The war brings all sorts of political views together, and the exchange is always free, equal and without rancour. When I got to know these good people, I told them I thought they spent a lot of time in copying out verses. "Position warfare"--standing in the trenches--is not an eventful life; and while I was with the regiment three sets of verses were put on the machine and circulated to the battalions. One of these, with a number of jokes about "Wilhelm," was written by a soldier in the ranks; and another was the composition of a non-commissioned officer, also of this regiment. This second was headed by the word which is in every one's thoughts here, "Forward," and contained one verse which had almost the smoothness and simplicity of Pushkin, and is, therefore, not for translation. The third set came from Pickwick Junior, and I give a rough rendering of it which, I am afraid, only spoils it-- Now in this year of heavy trial Happy is he who for his land Has passed at price of self-denial, Into the heroes' shining band-- Who of his hopes and love the whole On his dear country has bestowed, With all the ardour of his soul, His highest aims, his mind, his blood. 'Twill pass, the battle and its blare; 'Twill sink, the endless crash of guns; And, in their place, the burning prayer Of mothers orphaned of their sons. The meadows will be green again, The corn will ripen on the plain. The spite of war will pass away, And happy peace once more will reign. These are the simple thoughts that are in most people's minds here--the more so the nearer one is to the front. There one finds least of all doubt of the blessings of peace, and least of all doubt of the need to go to the end, and of the certainty of the final result. But Russia has done and is doing a giant's task, and one will meet cripples at every turn for many a year to come. My friends possessed an interesting little book in a black paper binding which they kindly lent to me. It was the song-book of the German army, which, with a soldier's Prayer-book, is carried in every German knapsack. It is called "War Song-book for the German Army, 1914," and was issued by the Commission for the Imperial Book of Folk-songs. Roughly, about the ten best things in German patriotic and military song are to be found here, with a few of the best-known folk-songs and a number of inferior ditties which vainly attempt to be light. Prussia has more than her share, for there are very few good Prussian songs, though such as there are are military. "Fredericus Rex" and "Als die Preussen marschirten vor Prag"--surely an unfortunate reminiscence in the present war--are both historic and have the merit of plainness. The year 1813, a year of liberation and not of aggression, gives three magnificent songs: "The God that bade the iron grow," by Arndt, and "Lützow's wild hunt" and the "Sword Song" of Körner, the latter written a few hours before the author of "Lyre and Sword" met his death in a cavalry charge at the battle of Dresden. But, of course, I expected also to find--and am sure that I should have found in God-fearing 1870--the same writer's "Prayer in Battle," one of the most real and masculine of hymns, and his soul-stirring "Landsturm." As to the omission of the "Landsturm," an Austrian prisoner explained it to me by saying, "This is no war of liberation." Of the less specially national songs there is Schiller's magnificent picture of the soldier of fortune, "Wohlauf Kameraden aufs Pferd, aufs Pferd," some of the verses of which have certainly been too faithfully followed in Poland. One finds also the top thing in German war lyric, "I had a trusty Comrade" of Uhland--a word-perfect poem which I shall always associate with the Saxon grave outside Saint-Privat where I heard it sung by veterans of 1870. There is also the simple trooper's song "Morgenrot"; I should have put in "Die barge Nacht," but one verse is certainly too plain-spoken for present German hopes. Martin Luther's "Safe stronghold"--"Now thank we all our God," sung by Frederic's soldiers on the battlefield of Lützen--and the Evening Prayer--these are the other best things in the collection; but it is spoilt by the unnecessary and improbable allusions to the successful wooing of French and Russian damsels, and beer is too much mixed up with Bible. I left my friends singing. The Raven, with a plaintive and sentimental look, was with bent head putting in his bass to the admirable tenor of Pickwick Junior. My own contribution was about the "leaders" who "marched with fusees and the men with hand-grenades" (British Grenadiers). One scout, who usually works alone, had taken an unexploded Austrian shell back into their very lines, made a small bonfire round it, and was waiting outside for it to explode; but the result, when I left, was not yet known. _March 13._ I have just visited "The Birds," a very tight place for the Russian soldier to sit in. I was in this part once before, for it was here that Dr. Roshkov set up his tent, or, to be more exact, his earthwork bandaging room in the foremost trenches. The divisional general was kindness itself; for I stumbled on him in the darkness by opening a wrong door, and his revenge was to ask me in and offer me a bed. The next day I visited the divisional lazaret, where an English lady, Miss Kearne, is working with admirable skill and devotion for the Russians. Nearly all the wounded came from "The Birds," and nearly all had been wounded while sitting in the trenches or looking through the embrasures--that is, without taking any risks, which in "The Birds" all are strictly forbidden to court. One soon felt one was coming to a warm place. The driver of my army cart explained that the open space over which we were passing was often covered with stray bullets, and there, sure enough, were the Austrian trenches just across the river. The village on our side had a high church, now smashed by the Austrian fire into an imposing ruin. Around it the shells continue to fall freely, and women and children going for water along the village streets are sometimes hit by stray bullets. Roshkov and his comrades have been sent to another part of the front; but a Red Cross "flying column" from the Union of Russian towns is working here under fire, and I met one of its students on horseback taking wounded to the rear. I delivered a greeting from England to the scouts who were drawn up in the village, and then set off with their leader for the advance posts across the river--as I may say, "The Birds Proper." The chief scout was almost a boy, who had joined the army as a volunteer only at the beginning of the war. He was a Musulman, with a most determined face and a manner of complete ease and indifference. He explained that we were passing over ground often swept by the fire, and added casually, "You've a bad coat; it is fur-lined; the fur might stick in your wound and give you lockjaw, so that you would probably die." Whether he was right or not I have no idea. The soldiers who accompanied us insisted on walking above the covered way, until we told them that we should join them unless they came down to us. At last we passed some trenches and came out into the open above the river. It is the peculiarity of "The Birds" that we hold a strip of land across the river a mile and a half long, but nowhere more than 300 yards deep. When the Russians rectified their line after the advance to Cracow, they decided to retain certain vantage-points of this kind; however cramped the position and however difficult the conditions of defence, the advantage will be felt when, as on the San earlier, the time comes for another move forward. These advanced lines are connected with our side by bridges which are constantly under fire, as the favourite offensive of the Austrians is a hail of artillery; yet they have never succeeded even in endangering the communications, and their frequent musketry fire is disregarded. We were able this time to cross the bridge at a walk, and passed along the lines, guesting with different officers, and ultimately taking up our quarters in a spacious earth hut ten yards from the front, which was protected by a high line of excellent earthworks. One advanced post which we visited was only sixty yards from the enemy, and in general the distance from trenches to trenches was 400 to 200 yards. Artillery fire is seldom brought effectively to bear here, but a shower of bullets is kept up, mostly explosive, as one can tell from their splutter; and the enemy have made machines for lodging bombs of various kinds at this short range within our trenches. There is little work for scouts here; the distance is too short, and the opposing sentries are often not more than twenty-five yards from each other. My young host reassuringly mentioned that shrapnel would penetrate our roof, and in the night there was the constant thud of bullets striking against our shelters, while often our door was lit up by the reflection of the frequent rockets sent up by the enemy. Inside, however, our accommodation was first-rate, and we soon slept soundly. Next morning we went along the front line. The men were everywhere in their places, this line being fully occupied day and night. I had been told I must not stand anywhere behind an embrasure, so we took our view in peeps, mostly from the side. At one point we looked over the top of the works, with the result that there was an immediate volley. One man had been wounded by a bomb in the night, and another was shot through an embrasure, as the shadow made by a head at once draws fire. Some soldiers were busy making little mirrors, so as to see from the side; another had made a bomb-throwing machine out of an Austrian shell, which he fired off in front of us, the officer first calling out to two exposed soldiers, "Here, Beard and Black Collar, get out of the way!" One man's hand was shot through an embrasure. The most difficult part of the lines was on one of the flanks, where they passed close to the river and were separated from the Austrians at one point by a distance of only twenty-five yards. Earlier it was worse. The two lines were eight yards apart, the bayonets actually crossed over the earthworks, and the Austrians held their rifles over their heads in order to fire down into the Russian trenches. At that time a flank fire also swept these trenches, which were now protected by many transverses. Yet I found the men perfectly cool and natural, just going about the work as they would have done any other. The bridge on our return was only under a partial fire; but the enemy was again heavily shelling the village. _March 15._ From "The Birds" I passed on to a rather similar position occupied by another regiment. In this case only a small section beyond the river was held, and the Austrian trenches were at a distance of 800 to 1000 yards. This meant a good deal of difference. The enemy was not pestering the advance posts with bombs at short range and incessant musketry fire. The approach was again over a plain bare except for some patches of trees, and there was again a lofty church, this time of particularly handsome outlines, ruined by the Austrian artillery fire. From afar its two towers looked like severed and half-twisted stalks. The Austrians evidently feel sure that all churches are observation points for the Russian artillery. In this they are quite wrong. The Russians in general avoid all such use of churches; I know of many cases in this war in which churches have figured as points of vantage, but always for the Austrians. In more than one case, after the Austrian retreat, telephones for spy's communications have been found attached to the altars, and once a priest was caught at this work. We left our horses at a ruined building and crossed the bridge. The advanced works were deep and well constructed but, as at "The Birds," the trenches were often full of water, and one had to walk along them frog-wise with a foot pressed against each side. This did not affect the actual shelters of the officers and men, which were dry and fairly comfortable, with lots of straw. One could look through the embrasures or even in some parts over the top of the works, without being likely to confuse the Austrian lines with the Russians as one did at "The Birds." At one place, however, there was an unusual sight. A covered way actually ran without interruption direct from the one line to the other and was often used by the scouts of either side. At the Russian side it came right up to the wire entanglements and the rampart, and here there were always stationed sharpshooters with loaded rifles commanding it for about fifty yards. The enemy's lines were, of course, very plainly visible. In January a considerable action took place within this narrow compass. The Austrians came out in force and tried to storm the trenches. They swarmed up to the wire entanglements--over which the Russians in general took less trouble than the enemy, as they ordinarily have the confidence of the aggressive--but they were beaten off with terrible loss. Blue uniforms covered all the space between the two lines. Those who fell nearest to the trenches were buried by the Russians without delay; but the Austrians made no attempt to bury their dead lying between, and their fire makes it quite impossible for the Russians to come out for this purpose. Thus, two months after the engagement, I saw these bodies still rotting there; it will soon be spring; and with the two lines so close the danger of infection is pressing for both sides. It would only need a truce of three hours to remove it, and the Russians would gladly make this arrangement and do the work. It seems to me one of those matters which even in this war could be dealt with by some international association, and I have communicated the details, through Prince Dolgorukov, to the Peace Society of Moscow. As usual in the regiments, and more especially in the trenches, I delivered with the wish of the colonels a greeting to the men from England; and it is one of my chief interests, in making these visits, to see how warmly it is returned, usually with some variant of the Russian military response, "We are glad to do our best"--such as, for instance, "We'll have a try together and finish him." Here the men were particularly cordial. There was the usual interchange of news with the officers as to the eastern and western fronts. I think I may repeat that there is nowhere a more generous appreciation of England's work in the war than in the front lines of the Russian army. The attack on the Dardanelles, which promises to be the most decisive blow that has yet been dealt, arouses the greatest enthusiasm; and the military preparations of England, their wholeheartedness and thoroughness, are a tremendous source of confidence to the Russians. How many times it has been said to me: "With England with us, we know we shall make a clean job of it." Here an officer quoted his father, who had always told him, "Where England is, there things go right," The support is not only moral. The spirit in the two countries is so identical that I frequently find in my letters from England the same phrases, word for word, as I am hearing in conversation here. But it is much more than that; and when it becomes known how close, detailed and far-reaching is the co-operation between the three chief Allies, I am sure that it will be found that no alliance was ever more close or more effective. Our reappearance on the bridge drew a few bullets. In general all this firing has very little result, and our people do not take the trouble to reply to it. As to artillery, I am sure they fire more than twenty shells to every one of ours. They do it in a routine way at fixed times for an hour, two hours or three at a time. Our artillery lets it pass till it becomes a nuisance and then, with infinitely superior precision, plumps a few shells straight into their lines. This sight I have witnessed more than once from our infantry trenches, which might be miles from our guns but were only a few hundred yards from the marks that they aimed at. It was interesting to see the immediate rebound of spirits among our infantry, who had been sitting almost without reply under the aimless crash and roar of the enemy's fire. By instinct they at once looked freely over the ramparts as privileged spectators, and called out to each other "Got him again," as the smoke of our shells rose from the enemy's line. At such times, indeed, the Austrian fire stops almost immediately; and in one place, after the first Russian shell, a commanding voice came to us from the other side: "Corporal, cease firing." _March 26._ The bombardment of Tarnow has continued. It is now nearly three months that it has gone on intermittently. Yesterday I was walking along a street when the heavy bustling goods-train sound of a big shell came rattling close overhead. There was a crash somewhere near, and a few soldiers who were close to us laughed and picked up a jagged segment. The street seemed full of people at once, and all moving toward where the shell had fallen. An old soldier with a cut face came moodily toward me, so I took his arm and walked with the crowd, as it was taking the direction of the chief local hospital, in which I often worked. I was afraid that the hospital itself was hit. Far as it was from the railway or anything of military importance, it had more than once had the attention of the German heavy artillery. In January, while I was in this hospital, a shell passed over us so near as to take the breath of the heavily-wounded Austrians who were lying there, and lodged about two hundred yards off, reducing a house to ruins. Some weeks later another shell lodged on an open space about 150 yards off. The Russian sisters of mercy, under Miss Homyakov, never lost their heads for a minute and set about reassuring the wounded; but these last, who were themselves entirely helpless and could not distract their attention by helping any one else, were very agitated. No one was more indignant than the wounded Austrian officers, especially a colonel from Hungary, who regarded the German shot as without any kind of justification. The Russian Red Cross staff were urged from some sides to move the hospital to a safer place, but the sisters absolutely refused, because to transport many of the wounded would have meant death to them. The Commander of the Army conferred the George medal on them for their courage. As I now neared the hospital, I saw a huge rent in the building in front of it, which was mostly unoccupied. A whole wall of this huge building was torn out, and the iron staircase within was twisted into fantastic shapes. At the door of the hospital, nearly all the windows of which were broken, stood a crowd of townspeople, mostly women and children bringing in wounded. The operating-room was full; on one side an old man, on another a wounded girl with blanched face, and in an ante-room a woman with a wounded baby. Here the local Polish medical staff works hand in hand with the Russians; and with remarkable expedition the wounded all received first aid within half an hour. Twenty minutes, however, had hardly passed when a second shell banged into something else close to us. I found a little Polish boy, previously amputated here, crouching in the corridor and shivering with fear: I had to carry him back to his ward. Not more than 250 yards off there was a large crowd looking at the new big shell pit (the shell came from a 12-inch gun). In a garden lay the corpse of a girl of twenty, terribly mangled, so that no head was to be distinguished; and her father, running up, cried as if his heart would break and fell beside her. The people, who are of course Austrian subjects, were furious. Two days later the Commandant put up posters announcing that, on the statement of a captured Austrian officer, these guns are served by a native of Tarnow. Throughout the bombardment there have been hardly any Russian troops in the town, and it is the local population that suffers. The closeness of so many shell pits near the hospital suggests that this is one of the regular "numbers" or aims of the German artillery. _March 30._ The fall of Przemysl, which will now no doubt be called by its Russian name of Peremyshl, is in every way surprising. Even a few days before, quite well-informed people had no idea that the end was coming so soon. The town was a first-class fortress, whose development had been an object of special solicitude to the late Archduke Francis Ferdinand. Of course it was recognised that Peremyshl was the gate of Hungary and the key to Galicia; but, more than that, it was strengthened into a great point of debouchement for an aggressive movement by Austro-Hungary against Russia; for the Russian policy of Austria, like her original plan of campaign, was based on the assumption of the offensive. It was generally understood that Peremyshl was garrisoned by about 50,000 men, that the garrison was exclusively Hungarian, and that the commander, Kusmanek, was one of the few really able Austrian commanders in this war. The stores were said to be enough for a siege of three years. The circle of the forts was so extended as to make operations easy against any but the largest blockading force; and the aerodrome, which was well covered, gave communication with the outside world. An air post has run almost regularly, the letters (of which I have some) being stamped "Flieger-Post." As long as Peremyshl held out, the local Jews constantly circulated rumours of an Austrian return, and the Russian tenure of Galicia remained precarious. The practical difficulties offered to the Russians by Peremyshl were very great; for the one double railway line westward runs through the town, so that all military and Red Cross communications have been indefinitely lengthened. My friend "Wiggins" did his part toward the taking of Peremyshl. The air-postmen, on their long journey to the fortress, are often shot at and sometimes brought down. An Austrian airman found himself compelled to descend on our ground; "Wiggins" sent a cart to be ready for him as he alighted, and that night all his papers were worked through. Among them was the now well-known army order of Kusmanek, announcing that the only way of safety lay through the enemy's lines, and that the men must conquer or die. But side by side with it was a letter from an Austrian staff officer to his wife. He explained that he took this opportunity of eluding the military censor, that a sortie was determined on, but that it was not likely to succeed, and that as to danger his wife need not feel anxious, as the staff did not go into the firing line. Word was sent off at once to the blockading army to expect the sortie. For weeks past the fortress had kept up a terrific fire which was greater than any experienced elsewhere from Austrian artillery. Thousands of shells yielded only tens of wounded, and it would seem that the Austrians could have had no other object than to get rid of their ammunition. The fire was now intensified to stupendous proportions and the sortie took place; but, so far from the whole garrison coming out, it was only a portion of it, and was driven back with the annihilation of almost a whole division. Now followed extraordinary scenes. Austrian soldiers were seen fighting each other, while the Russians looked on. Amid the chaos a small group of staff officers appeared, casually enough, with a white flag, and announced surrender. Austrians were seen cutting pieces out of slaughtered horses that lay in heaps, and showing an entire indifference to their capture. Explosions of war material continued after the surrender. The greatest surprise of all was the strength of the garrison, which numbered not 50,000 but 130,000, which makes of Peremyshl a second Metz. Different explanations are offered; for instance, troops which had lost their field trains and therefore their mobility are reported to have taken refuge in Peremyshl after Rava Russka, but surely the subsequent withdrawal of the blockade gave them ample time for retreat. A more convincing account is that Peremyshl was full of depôts, left there to be supports of a great advancing field army. In any case no kind of defence can be pleaded for the surrender of this imposing force. The numbers of the garrison of course reduced to one-third the time during which the food supplies would last; but even so the fortress should have held out for a year. The epidemic diseases within the lines supply only a partial explanation. The troops, instead of being all Hungarians, were of various Austrian nationalities; and there is good reason to think that the conditions of defence led to feuds, brawls, and in the end open disobedience of orders. This was all the more likely because, while food was squandered on the officers, the rank and file and the local population were reduced to extremes, and because the officers, to judge by the first sortie, took but little part in the actual fighting. The wholesale slaughter of horses of itself robbed the army of its mobility. The fall of Peremyshl is the most striking example so far of the general demoralisation of the Austrian army and monarchy. Peremyshl, so long a formidable hindrance to the Russians, is now a splendid base for an advance into Hungary. _April 1._ I am afraid to-day, which, by the way, was Bismarck's birthday, is a bad date to put to any anticipations as to the war. But things seem to be taking a more definite direction than for some months past, and one may say that the possibility of decisive events is now in sight. If one glances along both fronts, western and eastern, one sees, I think, only a single point at which a really decisive blow, military and political, is possible; it is, of course, the junction on the eastern front of Austro-Hungary and Germany. This has been clear to every one for some time past. But one may go further. The greatest strength of our enemies, both political and military, lies in two parts, Prussia and Hungary; and the gap between Prussia and Hungary is a very much wider one than the Austro-German frontier. In this gap lie Slavonic peoples, the Czechs (Bohemians), Moravians and Slovaks, whose representatives in arms have shown by extensive surrenders that their sympathies are rather with us than with the enemy. A number of mountain chains, the Carpathians, Giant Mountains, Erzgebirge and Böhmerwald, give this group rough geographical boundaries. Germany, under the lead of Prussia, is a powerful and compact unit which has so far given itself heart and soul to this war. Divisions in the future here are by no means impossible. There have been brawls even in this war between Prussian and Bavarian troops (in the Argonne); and it is not difficult to picture a return of the old jealousies which less than fifty years ago put South Germany and Saxony into the opposite camp to Prussia. Here, too, the Böhmerwald, Thüringerwald and Erzgebirge have a traditional political and military significance; but such divisions are not at present in sight, and can only follow on decisive events on the western front. Prussia is at present not at all likely to be troubled by them. It is very different with Hungary. What an extraordinary position this valiant people holds, drowned, as has been said, in an ocean of Slavs, and what vigour it has shown in maintaining it. The Magyar from Asia has planted himself on the rolling plains of the Theiss and Danube and, though he does not inhabit the surrounding mountains, he has managed to grip them into a strong kingdom with good geographical boundaries. He has made himself the equal, almost the predominant partner with Vienna and the Austrian Germans in the Austro-Hungarian state, and his strength rests in the deprivation of the surrounding Slavs of any equal voice in the destinies of this monarchy. He has gone wholesale for the intimate connexion between Austro-Hungary and Germany which makes the first an instrument of the policy of the second, with many incidental gains to himself at the expense of the Slavs. Now for the Magyar has come a time of reckoning. Russia, the big brother of the Slavs and his own hereditary enemy, stands at his door. The protecting glacis of Galicia has been torn away and Peremyshl, the road out and the road in, has fallen. Even on the south there is a victorious enemy, the Serbian, who has just claims on some of his territory. To east, the sky is equally cloudy for him. Transylvania, a mountain barrier whose loss would leave him defenceless on this side, has a large Rumanian population, which his oppressive policy has driven to its natural affinities; and Rumania seeks the realisation here of her traditional ambitions. The Russians are fighting their way from hill to hill through the Carpathians. The Austro-Hungarian army has suffered severely in each of the many counterstrokes which it had to attempt in the interest of the German plan of common defence. The cavalry is practically gone and the infantry is very exhausted. Sacrifice made to Germany at the beginning of the war, when so many of the Austro-Hungarian guns and motors were sent to the western front, have left their marks on the Hungarian artillery. The Carpathians are like a fan, and might perhaps have been held from the inside, but they have at many points been lost step by step; and once they are crossed, the converging passes will bring the Russians together into a compact mass on the further side. There is one strong man in Hungary, Count Tisza, and he still reserves his hand. He is fighting meanwhile the desperate battle of the Austro-German connexion, to abandon which is to put Hungary at the mercy of Russia and to sign the abdication of the Magyars' mastery over his Slav subjects; but this seems to be the result which awaits him almost inevitably. Germany is for every reason bound to do all that she can to save Hungary. But the Russian advance, whatever direction it takes, must make an ever-widening gap between the two allies. _April 4._ I had known the airmen for some time. Sometimes I met them discussing sporting enterprises with their chief in the conspirative quarters of "Wiggins." Sometimes I dropped in at their spacious lodging in the town, where everything, meals, talk or plans, seemed to go with a peculiar briskness and lightness; in particular there was this touch about any of the several services which they rendered me. It was Russian in spirit, but in manner very reminiscent of England. Several of the airmen might be English, and one of them they call "the Englishman." On every fine day we see the aeroplanes above the town, and at different points on both sides there are batteries for firing on them. There are no longer duels of airmen on the eastern front; there were two or three, but now they are apparently forbidden on both sides. It was felt to be waste to lose a competent airman in order to kill one of the enemy. This means that there is no such attempt on either side to drive the enemy from the air, as was anticipated by Mr. Wells. Thus on both sides the airman has come to stay, and the whole significance of his work is not in fighting but scouting. It is, of course, far the most valuable scout-work that can be done; altogether wider and more far-reaching than any other kind; and there can hardly be any doubt that in the future no Chief of Staff but will have to fly and to fly often. On nearly every one of Napoleon's battlefields one will find some commanding point from which he fought and won; there is no such point at Borodino or Leipzig, but that helps to explain why these battles were not won. Now, with the scope of operations and of pitched battles enormously enlarged, there has come also the ideal way of seeing. On the other hand, the earth does not give up without a fight. Batteries capable of any direction and almost any elevation can guard those parts where the enemy's eye is most to be avoided. Experience on this side shows that the airman can be kept out of such parts. The contest is an interesting one to watch. The airman has first to fetch inland, that is away from his own lines in order to get as much height as possible. The guns can hit far higher than the airman will fly, that is if they wish to see anything. The Austrian flyers are therefore well within range, and the Russians, who take more sporting risks, often go not much more than half the height of the Austrians. In this connexion one must remember the infinitely greater precision of the Russian artillery. On a fine day the buzz of the aeroplanes and the boom of the batteries are among the most customary sounds here. One sees the little puff of shrapnel at different points in the blue sky; the aeroplane always makes off as soon as possible, and it is seldom hit. It is hard to hit the motor, though I have seen an airship which we struck on one of its cylinders; shots on the wings or tail are seldom dangerous. The man who knows least of what is happening is the airman himself, for the noise of his motor drowns any other. _April 6._ Yesterday I went out to the aerodrome. I was given some breakfast in a cottage, and saw the different types of machines while waiting for the Chief of the Section. I was also shown the little missiles which the Austrians and Russians respectively let fall: the Austrian is like a pointed thermometer and the Russian is like a rounded letter-weight with little wings. After a while there came over the high level ground a tall man with a swinging stride and a little grizzled man whose walk and manner spoke of quickness and decision. This last was the Chief of the Section, and he has a great reputation among Russian airmen. Two of the smaller machines went out scouting. One seemed at first a little unsteady, but the other made a splendid take-off and rose like a bird; soon one of them returned, having gone far beyond the enemy's line in an hour and a half. My turn came next, and I was seated in a larger machine with a most capable chauffeur, who sat in front of me. He cried: "Contact obtained"; the men fell back for a moment, and then we rushed smoothly along the ground, soon rising into the air. We made a circle above the town, returned over the aerodrome, saluted our friends and then struck away inland away from the front to get the necessary elevation. We passed over a map of ponds and villages and copses, all clearly marked in the bright sunshine, with the long ridge of the snowy Carpathians to the right of us. Then we turned and swept higher over the same ground as before straight for the lines. In front, at right angles to us, lay the dividing river like a long, twisted ribbon, and as soon as we neared it we swept to the right and along it. All the different points at which I had stayed came out clear in the sunlight. Here was the piece across the river where I had seen the scouting; there were "The Birds" with the high ruined church behind them; further came the smaller outpost; and in the distance lay the marshes in the neighbourhood of the Upper Vistula. We again faced about and this time passed right over the river which divided the hostile lines, following it further southward by the broken bridge and to the main road, near the point where I had sat at night among the sentries and to the hills which had been the scene of the action with the Tirolese. But for me the main interest of this, my first air ride, was that suddenly the unknown land beyond the fatal line was as clearly outlined as all that was so well known to me. Till now I had seen here a field and a line of ramparts, there a river with trees, and there again a hill. It is true that sometimes I had had good field-glass views of a given landscape with signs of life, but now to the naked eye both sides were for the first time parts of one common world, the dividing line ran thin and almost undividing, and all was alive. There occurs to one the notable description by Tolstoy of Nicholas Rostov looking across the field. The wonderful and real things that that field meant were gone. The tremendous and human struggle of all Europe was become a simple problem of science; one had mounted to the skies and reached what Napoleon, with his heartlessness and his seeing mind, had called "the celestial side of the art of war." What would he have given for this view, where his trained eye could have marked down not only the numbers indicated by slight symptoms, but the full bearing of each, suggested by the flash of genius so typical of him. Surely it was a measure of magnificent consolation for the enormous widening of the area of combat. The dull flats beyond the river rose to higher ground eastward, and there on a high wooded plateau ran the railway dead straight, and at one point a stationary train marked the centre of many of our troubles, the point from which the 42-centimetre guns had been bombarding Tarnow. As our aeroplanes flew along the river, there flicked out from a copse a shot from a masked Austrian air-battery, posted there to keep off the too curious eye. I was told afterwards that there were other shots, but we did not see or hear them. We returned as we came, making a great circuit away from the lines and wheeling always nearer to the earth. We made a straight drive over the aerodrome while the company of airmen stood at the salute, and after circling once more over the town came to the ground. We had had an hour's run, and our highest elevation was 1200 metres. It appeared that there had been awkward currents of wind and that we had wobbled a good deal, but it had not seemed so to me, and what I remembered was a smooth, regular motion and a broad back and a cool head in front of me. _April 7._ My flying friends have a small but very interesting collection of letters which, with the leave of the authorities, no doubt on both sides, have been exchanged between them and the airmen of the enemy. It is headed simply, "Correspondence with the --th Austrian Section of Aviators." It opens with a letter from the Russian Chief of Section: "Airmen of yours have been taken prisoner in civil costume. They said that our officers have also, which we doubt. Please let us know what is the character of the serious wound of Lt. X, taken prisoner by you on January --th." This note was dropped on the Austrian aerodrome with two letters from Austrian prisoners. As the answer was delayed, the Russians dropped a second note, this time in German, on the same place. It reported that the captive Austrians were unwounded and proceeds: "Your note picked up at ---- on the ----th of March leaves the impression that our first message has not reached you; we therefore would respectfully ask you to answer our note. We also send a friendly-foemanly request that you will give us news of our airman, Lt. ----. He was taken prisoner on the --th of January and was wounded. We should like to know how it happened and whether the wound is slight or serious.--The Russian Flyers." To this the following answer was received from the Austrian Chief of Section: "My hearty thanks for your letter, which I have just got. I am sorry that I have not had time to drop on you a photograph of the machine of Lt. ----. On March the --th and the --th we have dropped you news of your airmen taken prisoners _[the names follow_]. I therefore repeat that all four were unwounded and have probably been transported to the prettiest part of our country, Salzburg. Lts. ---- and ---- got a shot on their sparking apparatus. I have myself had a talk with Lt. ----. I saw _no signs_ of any wound. In future every note of yours will be answered, and the answer will be dropped on your aerodrome.--With best greeting, Your ever devoted enemy, August, Baron von Mandelslob." To this the Russians replied, under name and address of the Austrian Chief of Staff: "Our hearty thanks for yesterday's note which dropped straight on our aerodrome. We are sorry not to be able to tell you to what part of our country your airmen have been sent, but we think that the address will soon be sent you by earth-post by the prisoners themselves. The _Albatross_ was shot to pieces, about thirty bullets in the wings and body. One bullet hit the propeller, but made only a smooth hole without any fissure. The two airmen, Lts. ---- and ---- are unhurt. With this note we shall drop on you two letters from the prisoners. Please address your next note as follows (----). God greet you.--The Russian Flyers." The Austrians continued: "A few days ago our airmen, Captain ----, Oberleutnant ----, Oberleutnant ----, Professor D---- and two lieutenants with two airship chauffeurs, left Przemysl in a balloon and are lost. We beg you friendly-foemanly to drop on our aerodrome news of these officers" [_three signatures_]. Baron von Mandelslob also writes: "Many thanks for your last lines about the loss of our _Albatross_. I am sorry to say that we have not for some time had the honour of seeing Russian airmen among us on the ground. Will you be so kind as to forward to Omsk the accompanying note to our captive airman, Lt. ----? We will try to get the address of your airmen prisoners, and then you will be able to write to them. Best greeting." The Russians reply: "A happy Easter. Many thanks for yesterday's letter. Your note will be sent at once to Lt. ----. On March --th we received a communication about three balloons from Pzremysl. It was signed by Captain Kahlen. As we do not know this gentleman, we address to you, with the friendly request to forward to him. All the three balloons landed in Russia. We have only private news of them, and understand that all the airmen were alive and well. We ask you to forward the four accompanying letters to the proper addresses. We have been waiting for an answer to our letter of the --th, and that is why these letters are late. What was wrong with your motor yesterday? We thought we should soon have the honour of seeing the enemy's airship land on our aerodrome. Best greeting and Easter wishes to all the gentlemen of the ---- Section of Aviators.--The Russian Flyers." This letter was dropped on the Austrian aerodrome, and also on the same day an Easter egg and a large box of Russian cigarettes. On Easter Sunday an enormous Easter egg, with the inscription in Russian "Christ is risen," was dropped from an aeroplane and, having a parachute attached to it, fell slowly on the Austrian lines. _April 8._ It was Easter Eve. A wide awning had been set up, and in front of it an altar with flaming lights all round it. The tall priest served the Liturgy with wonderful spirit; sometimes it was a hurried and fervent whisper; sometimes his voice rose to a battle-cry, as when he powerfully swayed the Cross almost as if it were a weapon. On the grass, grouped in chance masses, stood the soldiers of the N regiment, most of them holding lighted candles, with their officers gathered in front. The young colonel stood near the priest; through Lent he had shown the example of rigorous fasting. On the other side was a strong choir of soldiers, led with the slightest movements of the hand. The service begins with a time of waiting; then there are movements of expectancy, and the priest retires, as if to see whether the coffin of the Saviour is still in its place. He comes back and whispers, "Christ is risen," and these words, which are themselves in Russian like a whisper ("Christos Voskres") are taken up by the choir, first very softly and later rising to a song of triumph. The service ends with the Eucharist. The words "Lift up your hearts" were a moment of wonderful spirit and elevation. The priest took the Sacrament on bended knees with the greatest reverence and feeling, and administered it to two of the soldiers. Now every one, beginning with the colonel, approached in turn to kiss the Cross. Then each turned to his neighbour and gave the threefold brother's kiss, with the words "Christ is risen," to which comes the answer, "He is risen indeed." All the officers gave the kiss to the priest and the colonel. From the neighbouring lines shone out two projectors, whose lights crossed to form the first letter of the name of Christ--X. We drove off to the officers' mess, which was in a large cottage. At the crowded tables there reigned the spirit of brotherhood. After the Emperor's toast the colonel and the regiment drank to King George and England, and all stood waving their glasses and roaring hurrah, while I went round and touched glasses with each. My toast was that the alliance should last on after the war. We had other toasts, the sisters of mercy, the colonel's wife, and above all the regiment. It was well on in the early morning when the young officers on horseback escorted their guests back to the town. On Easter Sunday some of the Red Cross people went out to the front. At this point both sides had agreed not to shoot, and the men came out of their trenches and fraternised across the Dunajec, the Russians producing a harmonium. Newspapers were exchanged; and an Austrian officer sat down and wrote some impromptu verses, which he fastened to a stone and threw across. The verses began very peaceably, but had an unexpected end which, my friends felt, would be specially interesting to me. I give them in German with a translation-- Auf Grund der hohen Feier tage Geändert unsere Feindeslage. Wir leben heut' in tiefem Frieden: Zur kürzen Zeit ist's uns beschieden, Dann werden wir die Waffen mässen; Jedoch soll niemals man vergessen Den Stifter deiser Weltenbrand. "Gott Strafe England." The holy days of Easter-tide Have set our enmity aside. We live in perfect peace to-day: 'Tis but a little time we may, Then to our weapons we must get; But ever we'll remember yet Who lit this fire of world-wide wrack; O God, pay England back. _April 9._ I have been visiting my friends at the Staff of the army at Jaslo. Even this place has not been immune, bombs have been thrown from aeroplanes, doing no damage to the army but wounding and killing some children. I visited the General in command, who is in splendid spirits. He is the simplest of men, and stops in the streets to talk to the children or to any new arrival. He is happy now, because things are going forward. The Staff lies in rather better quarters here, but with the same simplicity as when I first visited it at Pilsno. One of the regiments I knew came through in fine style with its colonel at its head; it had done forty-eight miles in two days, and was ready for any amount more. The different battalions were singing different soldiers' songs, each taking pride in getting a good swing and putting in the best foot forward. I was struck with one man who marched at the side leading the songs with a mouth like a brass instrument and a voice to match. Two German airmen have just come down here. They had made a wide circuit, and were brought down by the failure of their motor. As always here, they are being well treated. Even in the case of spies caught red-handed, it is most difficult to get the Russian soldier to shoot, especially if the condemned shows any sign of fear. Austrian soldiers are to be seen here everywhere. The Germans and Magyars are under close surveillance; but the Austrian Slavs are ordinarily allowed to wander about freely. Many of them have shown in the most thorough way their attachment to the Russian cause; but I am told on the best authority for this area, that there is not a known instance of their abusing their liberty to play the part of spies. At many points on the Austrian front the Slavonic cause is like a kind of contagion. Under German direction disaffected troops are moved from one point to another to escape this infection, and finally, at the first opportunity, come over _en masse_. Every day the prisoners are gathered together in groups according to their various nationalities for examination. These interrogations, which are of a very systematic kind, obtain very interesting results. Most of the prisoners testify to a shortness of food, not only in the front but in the rear. Letters from home to them speak of the dearness of all food; some necessities cannot even be obtained for money, and different parts of the empire are applying to each other for them in vain. Nowhere is there any spirit left. The only comfort which the officers can suggest is to await some success from the Germans. Some, moreover, describe the officers as being never on view, except to abuse their men, treating them worse than cattle: "So that one does not know whether one is a man or not." Only one Austrian officer so far has been taken in this part with a bayonet wound. It is known that there have been further protests in Bohemia after the taking of Peremyshl, and that the severest repression has been used, also that two Polish regiments have been literally decimated, that is, that every tenth man in them has been shot. One man's brother writes to him that he is called for the first time to the army at the age of forty-eight, and in his part the last call covers those between forty-two and fifty-two. Other new battalions are formed, ninety per cent. of reservists and ten per cent. of wounded who have returned to the colours; in most of them there is now a hopeless mix up of all nationalities. Some describe their training as having only lasted four weeks. In all cases the preoccupation of the commanding officers is regarding retreat. _April 11._ The centre of interest is now in the Carpathians. If Russia could have advanced with success against the strong German positions in East Prussia, she would have secured her right flank, but only as far as the sea, which would still have remained in German hands. On her left, her victories in Galicia have brought her to a very different barrier, which, if passed by her, will certainly remain impassable for the beaten enemy. It is a good thing that the Austrians, continually spurred forward by the Germans, have exhausted themselves in one desperate counter-attack after another on Galicia. It is a good thing that the Germans, realising what the ultimate defeat of Austria must mean to them, have diverted so many of their forces to this side. It is best of all that they have risked a desperate advance in the Bukovina and even as far as the Russian frontier, in the hope of dragging Rumania in on their side. The fall of Peremyshl has opened the gates of Hungary and has made possible a movement which threatens vital results on this front. Hungary and Prussia are the two keys to our triumph in this war. The one element in Austria that holds firm to the Prussian alliance is the Magyar; the one statesman in Austria is the Hungarian, Count Tisza, whose estate almost on the crest of the Carpathians is now in Russian hands. A Russian advance on this side can crush Hungary or cut her from Prussia. It can bring even the Magyar to wish for peace; it can finally put aside all action of Austria; and along the real barrier thus secured to the south, it can facilitate the concentration of the forces of the allies against the main enemy. It is, indeed, good that this effect comes at the time when we are hammering at the gates of Constantinople and opening up an effective advance from our western front. But the task in the Carpathians is a stupendous one, and it comes when the Russian army has been tried to the full by the tremendous work which it has already gone through. We had in England no adequate army when the war began; we had not reckoned on the shameless violation of Belgian territory or on the obligations of a joint struggle with allies for the independence of Europe. Every one in Russia understands the miracle that we have done in creating so rapidly a really competent continental army on the basis of volunteer service, and every one sees that we were right to defer our blow till the great new instrument was whole and perfected. But it is Russia who has given us time for preparing our action on land; and the sacrifices which this has cost her are heavy indeed. The tremendous impact at Rava Ruska was followed by another prolonged and exterminating effort on the San, and this takes no account of the work which was done in holding the furious attacks of the main enemy in Russian Poland. These efforts put a terrible drain on the Russian resources. While we stood firm on the west, whole Russian regiments were almost annihilated in the victorious storming of one Austrian position after another. In my earlier visits to regiments I have often asked how many men of the first call still remain; sometimes only six of a company were still left, sometimes it was hardly more out of a whole regiment. It was an army already replaced at almost every point which had to attempt the conquest of the Carpathians. The Carpathians are not the Alps. It might be easier if they were, for there would be fewer positions capable of being defended. They are a belt of high and higher hills some sixty miles or more in breadth, where whole armies can hold line after line. They are full of trees, water and mud. Only one double line of railway runs through them. As they have the shape of a fan spread northwards, the defence can concentrate backward along the various converging passes and can, in a relatively small space, almost block the narrow entrance to the Hungarian plain. But once that final barrier is passed, Hungary is lost. Any counter advance can be blocked without great expenditure of forces, and the conqueror will be free to advance southwards or westwards. _April 12._ At the Staff of the Army I fell in with a number of casual acquaintances who all saluted me as "Mister." There was a keen young flying-man who was now going back to his cavalry regiment, and a colonel sent to take temporary command of an infantry regiment. The talk was in fragments and all of incidents of camp life or engagements. We knew that another advance had been made and that big things were going forward. All night we travelled by train, with changes and queer moments in the dark when our luggage ought to have been lost but wasn't. In the early morning the Colonel and I were on an engine climbing the Carpathians along a fine double track. We sat like Dean and Archdeacon in little side stalls with our things stacked where there was least coal and bilge, while the engine-driver, a most intelligent man from the Caucasus, explained the difficulties of his work. The rise is a very steep one, and we had a front view of it, passing up long slopes or through strata of yellow rock. In these mountains one had at once the feeling of being altogether away from Russia; and the new Russian army notices blending with the earlier Polish and Hungarian inscriptions suggested the atmosphere of a big adventure. All along the beautiful slopes there was the look of a huge Russian picnic, soldiers sitting at rest in great boyish crowds very much as in peace time the peasants do on the sloping banks of the Volga. The bright dresses of the Ruthenian women and the almost theatrical picturesqueness of their men-folk touched the whole with novelty. Alighting at a station near the top, I found the usual war crowd and park of waiting army carts, and a brisk-faced intendant who rapped out business-like answers to a running fire of questions from all sides. My own business was to get to General Dobrotin, and it was made easy by the appearance of a plain-faced officer who said, "He's the man who pours cold water over himself in the morning; give him to me; we know him all over the division." I was soon in a _formanka_--a sort of boat-like cart which works particularly well in the mountains--and making my way up the gorge, at first with a broad shallow river to my left and later branching into the hills. Here in a little gully lay a scattered village; and the notes of a mountain flute were wafted down the slope. General Dobrotin and his famous division have had far more than their share of the great fighting in this war; and they have been given one critical task after another, because their action has so often been decisive. In no less than three great movements they made the first cut in, and held the ground won as a kind of pivot until the whole operation was successfully completed. It was so at Rava Russka, on the San, and at Muchowka. They had now been transferred to the other flank of our Army. It was the second time that this division, now enlarged into an army corps, had had mountain fighting, to which the Russian soldier is much less accustomed than to the plains. This time the task was a stupendous one. The railway pass crosses one of the lowest parts of the Carpathians, but close to it rises the long, steep ridge of the Eastern Beskides, which is the actual crest of the range at this point. It is covered with forest, and forms a line of rounded heights which are often separated from each other by almost precipitous gullies. Along this line ran a chain of carefully prepared positions, which the Austrian officers regarded as inaccessible. Dobrotin's force, brought up with the greatest secrecy, had in some cases hardly detrained before it was launched to the attack. It soon mastered the outlying ground and then marched from all sides to the attack of the main ridge. The Russian infantry, on which has fallen the brunt of attack in this war, does not ordinarily go forward in close columns like the German. Groups of men, led by the instinctive enterprise of the more daring, gain one point of vantage after another, each of which forms a pivot for an advance of the whole line. In night attacks the movement can, of course, be more general and more rapid. In any case the last hundred yards or so are covered at a rush; but there is an inevitable pause before the wire entanglements, which in front of the Austrian trenches are generally most elaborate and have to be cut through with enormous scissors under a storm of fire, especially of quick-firing guns. The Russians went up the slope with unconquerable daring, the new recruits showing the same courage as those already seasoned by the war. The whole operation went with a simplicity which made short work of all obstacles. Under a furious fire the men swarmed into the Austrian trenches, at once overcoming all opposition. There is no easy retreat from heights of this kind; everywhere hands were thrown up and the positions were won. The Russians sit firm on the crest of the Carpathians. The staff from which this crucial attack was directed lived like a little family of brothers in a farmhouse in the valley. The General, white-haired, with one eye left, and with two other wounds, but with a youthful vigour of voice and movement, lived among his officers with a comradely simplicity, now patting one on the back, now sharing with another a bench on which to draw up a report, now gazing with amused interest at the regimental chronicler at work with his typewriter. His was an authority absolute. _April 14._ The F and J Regiments were to storm a height of about 2,500 feet on the further side of the Beskides and thus close the flank of the newly-won positions against any turning movement of the enemy. I set out in the General's _britchka_ in a swirling storm of sleet. Ground could only be made very slowly; for the whole country was sunk in deep mud. On a slope in the road we came upon an ambulance transport stuck fast, with a couple of soldiers using all their expletives, which would have translated quite simply into English. Soon afterwards we had to leave the road and plough through spongy meadows intersected with ditches. At one ditch there were two sharp cracks, and here both our springs were broken. It was a desolate halting-place, with no one in sight. My soldier-driver announced: "We shall go nowhere with this to-day." However, he set to work and showed prodigies of strength and resource, using broken boughs as levers, detaching certain parts of the carriage for strange uses in other places, and more than once lifting the cart almost off its wheels by its own strength. I made a fruitless journey for help; and a squadron passing on its way to the front could do nothing for us. My driver did, indeed, succeed in tying up the broken springs; but the most that he could hope for was to get back safely; so I went forward on foot over a bog and a moor, to the nearest village. Here I found a train of transports, whose captain kindly sent help to the _britchka_, and I myself went on to the staff of the J Regiment. This was in a Ruthenian cottage several miles behind the firing line; only orderlies were left here besides the Ruthenian family, which almost always remains in some corner of its hut during occupation by the Russians. These people had vigorous, handsome faces, and were dressed, men and women, in bright colours; they sat almost silent in an attitude of long waiting. While I was with them, orders came for the staff to move on: a squad of men marched in, and, saluting, took away the regimental flag, tramping off southwards. As the last man left, the Ruthenians began to talk, at first in whispers. Their language was Russian, their religion Uniat, and they had much more in common with the invader than with the neighbouring Magyar. The delays had spoiled my chance of seeing the action, which was nearly over. Horses sent from the front took me on to the new headquarters of the F Regiment. It was a big cottage with two bare, spacious rooms. On the wall of one were pencil pictures of Hindenburg, surrounded with a laurel wreath, and Austrian ladies of various degrees of comeliness. The officer in charge made me comfortable; and from the outside room were audible the telephone reports from the battlefield. The first words that I heard were "rank and file many: number not yet ascertained." The staff had left this cottage at six in the morning. At eight the Russians opened a heavy artillery fire which came home on a weak part of the enemy's line. At eleven the infantry left its trenches and advanced, point by point, making shallow holes with head-cover at each line when it halted. At five in the evening, being now within storming distance, the whole Russian line went forward. The Austrian front was pierced at two points; to left and to right their quick-firing guns continued to play with deadly effect, but with a third great sweep forward in the centre, the whole position were surrounded and carried, nothing being possible for the enemy except surrender. The regiment encamped on the conquered hill. All this came in over the telephone, with first some and then more detail, as to the losses. "G. is killed"; "H. is shot in the ear"; "L. is wounded"; "G. is missing"; "G. is at the station, seriously wounded." The group of soldiers at the telephone were all taken up with the general course of the action. I asked the officer if G. was a great friend: "I am sorry for him," he said. "He's a comrade." Every word of the reports was checked by the receiver and then repeated to the divisional officers. It was clear that the Austrian positions were very strong, and that the chief damage was done by their machine-guns. I was in bed in my corner, when there was a hubbub of rather exacting voices; it was a group of fifteen captured Austrian officers. One, who retained the habit of command, quieted the rest and then entered our room. He was a young captain, strong and healthy, and showed no sign of confusion or annoyance. He seated himself to the good meal which his captors had prepared for him, ate with appetite and, turning to the Russians, said vigorously, "I see no point in this war; it should be stopped: it is all England's fault." I interposed from my corner and asked for his reasons; he had none; he said, "That's the only way that I can explain it; England is the only real enemy of Germany; she has egged on the others indirectly; and she has kept her own fleet in harbour." We had a friendly discussion as to the facts of the matter, especially about the Austrian policy of aggression at the expense of the Slavs and Russia; and he ended by saying that he knew nothing of politics and did not think that officers ought to. He told me the Austrian trenches were flooded, and though the food was fair, the condition of the men was enough to make his heart bleed. When the hill was taken, he was at the telephone; he saw that the Russians were through on the left, that they were through on the right, and that they were storming the centre. "There was no point in running on them," he said simply, "so I surrendered. But I'm keeping you awake, am I not?" A young sentry came in, saluted the regimental flag, and mounted guard over it, his face settling at once into a fixed stare. When I woke the next morning, the man, his pose and his stare were still the same. Along the drenched road and fields came numberless batches of blue Austrian uniforms, prisoners, usually escorted only by one brown Russian. I had a lot of talk with some of these. "_Miserabel_" was their word for their condition before capture. All were sick of the war, "even the Hungarians now, though at first they liked it." "The main thing," said one, "is that people should not go on killing each other: nothing else counts. As to territory, it's all one to me to what State my home belongs; I only want to earn my living." "When you hear that in Russia," I said, "you will have the kind of peace that you ask for, but I don't think you ever will." The colonel came back with his staff, drenched through, even to the case of his field-glass, but jubilant. After the rest came a middle-aged officer with his head bound up, and that gentle look which accompanies head wounds. He said in a conversational voice "Hurrah" and sat down. Some one asked him of his wound; and he simply answered, "Oh, that's nothing." _April 16._ I have been to see one of the first regiments which I visited, in its new surroundings. When I was first with the H's, they were maintaining ground under difficulties. They were opposite a notable and commanding height, which could sweep the Russian line with a cross-fire or lodge bombs among the H's at short range. I remember in particular a visit to an exposed part of the trenches in company with two officers, one a fair-haired florid young man who sniped at stray Austrians, the other also young, but dark and sallow, evidently not strong, to whom this part of the front had been entrusted. When I said I should like to visit it, he said, "You'll be killed"; and when I rather pointlessly said, "That is interesting," he replied, "No, it is not interesting." He struck me and others as bearing a hard burden, and bearing it well. I remember the fair young man sniping at the enemy, and also dealing with a soldier who asked to be sent to the rear. "What's his wound? That's not much." "Yes, but he has a wife and three children." "Then I should say he is one of those who ought to stay: he has seen a bit of life." I found the H's beyond the Beskides. My orderly and I rode over a broad shoulder, then crossed a gully, and climbed the main ridge at one of its lower points. The Beskides are the frontier between Galicia and Hungary, and they are in almost every sense a dividing line. From here the rivers flow respectively north and south--to the Vistula and Baltic or to the Danube and Black Sea. There is a marked difference between the views northward and southward. Though on a very much larger scale and with greater detail, it recalls the difference between the northern and southern views from Newlands Corner in Surrey. To the north, it is true, there are descending lines of hills, but they are uniform and severe, and covered mostly with firs. To the south opens up a whole series of Hascombes and Hind Heads and, best of all, Horseblock Hollows. It is an English forest, of oaks and elms and especially beeches; and the firs and pines, as in Surrey, are in relief and not in sole possession. Many of the hills are covered with brown fern like the hills in east Herefordshire. The earth is rich in soil, in water which seems to bubble to the surface as soon as one makes any hole in it, and also in snakes, of which a great number have been found wintering by the Russian soldiers wherever they have entrenched themselves. The streams are broad and clear with beds of stones and pebbles. One looks in vain for any sign of the plain below. In every direction it is a sea whose waves are hills. This is all the more so because the broad belt of the Carpathians makes an enfolding curve forward and southward, both to left and to right. One sees in the distance other hills as high as the Beskides and to the east the towering mass of the High Tatra. Near the ridge of the Beskides was a great park of horses, and along the top were trenches and soldiers. All the way down among the beeches one seemed to be riding straight on to the enemy, whose positions, unless absolutely enveloped in cloud, seem to be at less than half their real distance. Soon the horses had to be left in the wood; and crossing a narrow hollow we came out on a low, bare bluff which was the line of the H regiment. A green hill loomed up close above us, and every man and every line of the trenches could be distinguished. This was the enemy. It seemed only a stone's throw, but when the rifles and machine-guns first set to work here, they found that they did not carry the distance and stopped firing. A desultory cannonade was going on, but it ceased as the evening began to close in; mingled rain and snow were sweeping in gusts about us, and even the near distance was soon so shrouded as to seem for us non-existent. We were as if on a promontory in a dark sea. By this time I was in the earth shelter of an old acquaintance, the commander of the battalion with whom I had passed a night some months before. How changed he was. Always the soldier, he had before looked the smart man of the world. Now he was grimed and tired and had something of the mild and enduring look of a hermit. The water came through our mud hut everywhere. As we sat eating biscuits and chocolate, another acquaintance came in and with almost such a smile as one might have in speaking of a wedding said, "You remember the fair young man; he is dead." I asked after the sallow young officer. "He is dead, too; both were killed when we tried to take the green hill opposite, they are lying out there now." The fair youth just before his death had telephoned "All in order," and he was first wounded in the open and then shot dead while looking through his field-glass. The H's were among the first to move on the Beskides, which they took at the rush. Here, on the further side, they had three tries at the green hill in front of us, two at night and one in the early morning; each time they had won the top, and each time the German troops, which had been brought up in large numbers to the defence of the Carpathians, proved too many for them, and they had to retire, leaving their dead behind. Each attack was made up the stiff ascent in mud knee-deep. Such is the price to be paid for each hill in the Carpathians. All night the water poured in on my host and myself. We lay so as to avoid, as far as possible, its trickling on the face. At intervals in this unquiet night one saw the soldier servant rise from where he slept bowed on a box and move over our squelching floor of fir boughs to try some new plan to stop the dripping. My host said, "I'm used to it now." However, next morning he had a great inspection of earth shelters, with the result that we moved into the telephone hole. I asked a private if it was better there, and with a glad smile he said, "It's good there and it's good here; as long as we stand here we have got to suffer; soon there'll be peace." The colonel, whose staff was some way behind, was of the same way of thinking. He used to like to say, "He that endureth to the end shall be saved." He had himself lived for a week in our night quarters, till he was driven out by a shell which fell a yard off and sent a beam flying past his head. Firing went on most of the time, and while I was there shots lodged on or near the trenches and at different points on our path up the Beskides. When I halted to look back from the crest, a man came up at once and said, "You're under fire." I remember the quiet reply of one of the soldiers when he was asked if there were any wounded that day. He said "Not yet." I found the regimental staff, with the kindest of colonels, in an armoured blockhouse that had guarded the railway tunnel between Hungary and Galicia. I asked him after the two dead officers. The sallow young man was not dead after all. He had led the storming of the Beskides and was the first man into the trenches. "He saved the whole thing for us," said the Colonel, "and I am presenting him for the Cross of St. George."[1] _April 17._ I started off from the General's on a journey of six miles, and I had an object lesson in the difficulties of movement in this region. My orderly, naturally, did not know the names of villages in this part, and thus we found ourselves at a neighbouring station eight miles from my destination. A train was due; but at any station on this line a long halt may be necessary for the collection of all that must be forwarded, whether troops or material. I spent the interval at a local Feeding Point, where I had some acquaintances. Only a soldier-caretaker was there, attending to a young scout-leader who had got a shrapnel wound. At last the train moved off. I had made a couch of my wraps in a large goods wagon; but I was the only passenger who travelled in comfort. The others were private soldiers, and in the dark they talked freely, and were entirely themselves. One of them was telling sad things of the losses in his regiment, of how the telephone might have saved them, but had broken down. "You won't manage in war without loss," said one of the elder men. "No losses, no victory." Few as they were, his words summed up the difference between sitting in trenches and making ground by attack. They talked on; and as one often notices in these night talks of the Russian privates, there was a kind of sacred simplicity, which left one thinking. I recalled the Austrian private who did not care what country his home belonged to as long as he earned his own living. Seven hours had passed since I left my starting-point, and I was still a mile and a half from my destination. I decided to walk, and set out along the railway. The night was dark, and the only light was from the enemy's projectors. There were bridges over deep gullies that called for caution; and every hundred yards or so I was hailed by a sentry; one of them asked naïvely whether I was a Magyar. Anyhow, I reached the station an hour and a half before the train; and in the half-smashed station building I found first an ambulance room, and above it a little band of devoted workers with whom I had lived at another part of the front. This forward detachment of the Red Cross was always keen and united. It worked under fire during a time of retreat, and all its members had the George medal for courage. When I was with them it was a slack time; and the result was that one member of the band after another felt the effects of the previous stress and had to go off to Russia. Now they had struck another period of arduous work, and the absent ones were returning with a few new additions. Work pulls people together, especially out here, and they were making more effort than ever. When I reached their very modest quarters (two rooms: one for the sisters and one for the men), I could not make out where the ambulance rooms ended, because each member's bed in the detachment was occupied by a wounded man or invalid awaiting the evacuation train. Here was an old colonel (they had nursed several here); there was a private, who had won first the George Cross and then a commission. Judging by my own experience, I fully expected the train to be hours late, and thought the detachment would get no sleep till the morning. However, the train drew up, the officers thanked and kissed the gentlemen of the detachment, and the room was clear. I had a warm welcome from my friends, and a bed was found for me. The next day I had an interesting talk with some cordial officers at the staff of a brigade which had taken 7000 prisoners, or almost the number of its own men, from the enemy since December. In all the regiments in the Austrian army the various nationalities were now hopelessly mixed up. They told me of a Serbian, an officer in an Austrian regiment, who had been court-martialled and transferred for not joining, at a banquet, in toasting the extermination of Serbia. All the Austrians, they said, are now for peace, and the military oath, to which, in this non-national state, the greatest significance is attached, is the only deterrent from wholesale surrender. As always elsewhere at the front, I found the greatest enthusiasm for the work of England in the allied cause. I ended this journey in an ambulance train standing at Mezolaborcz, which is already Hungary. The chief of the train, though I did not know him, gave me a clear night's rest, with luxuries of every kind, including English tobacco, of which he insisted on making me up a packet for my journey. But the best of the evening was, as so often, a clever and fascinating conversation on the war and the future of Russia and England. There is matter in this subject for all sorts of interesting suggestion, but one seldom meets any difference of opinion on one point, namely, that after the war the relations of the two countries will assume a far wider importance, political, economic and, above all, social, and that they will be among the chief factors that make for the peace of Europe. _April 19._ The staff of the Xth Division was housed in a white-walled cottage at the end of the little town. After the usual glasses of tea and talk of England, we set out with a small cavalcade for the front. The long street was very definitely Hungarian. It was not only the notices and the shops, with surname written first, among which I saw the historic name of Rakoczy, probably a Jew; but that the line of the houses, the river and the landscape were all new to one coming from Russia. We rode fast along the double track of railway, and very quickly reached our first halting-place. Diverging to the high road, which was also fairly hard and dry, we soon left our horses and proceeded on foot. The road was so good and straight, the weather was so fine, and the beautiful hills so peaceful, that, though talking all the time about the war, we somehow forgot that we were in it, when suddenly, from a high hill that seemed quite close to us, there crashed a shell about thirty yards from us. The little lurid flame that preceded the explosion burned long enough to let us throw ourselves against the bank, which was bright with pretty blue flowers. We found we had exactly reached the front of our positions and made our way under shelter up a slope. The men were at work on their breastworks, which were very different from those of the Galician plain. On this higher ground, almost at any point the spade soon came on springs of water which filled the hole in a few minutes. In such places the breastworks are ordinarily what is called horizontal; they are constructed of brushwood and spruce fir, and give hardly any shelter. The earth-huts are replaced by little arbours of fir boughs, which are very much more difficult to warm, though from the captured Austrian trenches, unfortunately facing in the other direction, there have been taken quite a number of excellent little stoves. As the new Russian lines were only recently occupied, they were still in a very primitive state; in the wood that stretched in front, trees were still being cut to the stump to serve as posts for the wire-entanglements, and the lines themselves were not as yet at all continuous. Shells continued to fall at short intervals for some time, and a private, killed while at work, was brought up for burial. The colonel pointed the moral of getting the shelters finished as soon as possible. When the firing died away, we walked along the outside of the lines; the task of sentries and scouts was a difficult one, for the trees stood close together. After a halt, I was taken further by a business-like officer with worn uniform and steely blue eyes, and, with his approval, I passed a word or two of greeting from the English army to the groups of soldiers at work. Several of the men asked me to send a like greeting back. As we went forward, this little procedure became more detailed. The idea was taken up with enthusiasm by the commanders of companies, especially after I had been conducted, staff in hand, over a deep gully which separated us from the next regiment. Here each company was called outside its trenches and drawn up facing the enemy. I gave the salute, "Health, brothers"; and the usual answer came in a thundering peal. I told them how grateful we were for everything that they had sacrificed and everything that they had done for our common cause, and said that we wanted to be in time to do our full share on land, that our new big army was ready, and that we were going to advance as they had done. There is no difficulty in making simple things clear to Russian soldiers. They answered with their "Glad to do our best," and the "Hurrah!" which was so vigorous as to bring the Austrian machine guns into play; I am glad to say, without results. Several of the men came and talked to me in groups later; they felt the effects of their hard work and the heavy losses that go with attack, but their spirit was a conquering one, and all the more impressively so, because of the hardships in which I saw them. Later, when I saw the Commander of the Army, who had run a risk of being captured close to this very ground, he asked me to continue to give these greetings, "to hearten for the common cause," and arranged for me to get early news of any successes on the western front. I slept with the usual brotherly group of officers in a little forester's hut, a hundred yards from the comparatively open front; on the outside of the door was chalked the word "Willkommen," which read like an amusing invitation to the enemy. We all slept on the floor, but I was accommodated with a litter, which made an excellent bed. The porch served as first-aid point, and when the firing was resumed in the morning, a wounded man was brought in here. Before I went further, the Brigadier-General sent me by telephone a warm greeting, to be communicated to England. _April 20._ The reader will remember "The Birds," a very tight place held by the L regiment beyond a river on another front. The L's had done no end of work and had suffered heavily long before I visited them at "The Birds." There, too, they lost many men--about 1500 out of 4000--in an action which followed on their occupation of those positions and in the weeks of cannonade which they endured there. I was aware that the L's were now in the Carpathians and close to me. The two regiments whose lines I had traversed had lost many in this hill warfare. Where a hill is taken, the enemy's losses, though probably more than double the Russian, are rather in surrenders than in killed and wounded. A hill attack, which is beaten off by superior numbers, means heavy sacrifices. I clambered over another of the steep intersecting gulleys. A group of S's stood waving their farewells. There was a bit of bare slope facing the Austrian plateau, and then I came on the first shelter of the L's, quite a comfortable mud hut. The young officer, who had come to meet me, was an acquaintance, and he sat down and told me about the men I knew. In a single night attack on the height in front of us, two-thirds of the officers that I had known had gone down, and about half the regiment. Name after name came up with the brief record, "He's killed." We lay on the straw--in nearly all other huts here there were only boughs of fir--and he told me the whole story. The hill was almost inaccessible, the works were long prepared and elaborate, the Germans had hurried up large forces here; yet the attack all but succeeded. "All but," and no results but losses. At Rava Russka and on the San the L's had given of their best, and decisive successes had followed. The hill opposite had cost more and still faced us. It is one of the saddest of thoughts, that the bravest of all, the men who go furthest, must lie where they fell. Yet the L's, who in the course of a few days have again been brought up to full strength by the enormous reinforcements which Russia continues to pour into the army, will have written their name on the Hungarian war in as lasting colours as on the Galician. We are over the crest; we are fighting in the main downwards; we touch a vital spot; and we are going forward. There is nothing which makes one feel all this better than to pass along the lines of a regiment so battered, still in position at the time when I visited it; nay, more, occupying for the moment far more than the natural extent for its full strength, and occupying it as a conqueror with swiftly thrown-up works that only provide for an elementary shelter. And the battle is not offered; the enemy sits on his heights and makes no counter-stroke to push his temporary advantage home. I write of a time which has already passed; for the whole position is very different now. But I say the L's were conquerors. There were nothing like enough of them for a continuous line; so they had picked out all those sections which commanded any possible advance of the enemy, and held them as masters. For the intervals, the gullies, they detached large scouting parties which met any forward move halfway. The work which this meant for all will remain with me as giving a picture of a Russian regiment after a check. All the officers and men were alert and looking to the next move in the game. A soldier who guided me, confident and intelligent, stopped only for a moment in his conversation, to say: "But, as a matter of fact, sir, there are very few left of us." Regiments that can take punishments like this, communicate their spirit and tradition to those of the new recruits who are so fortunate as to join them. From one occupied point to another, our little party of officers and men walked freely over the open, in face of the neighbouring Austrian plateau, till each of our cleverly chosen positions had fallen into its place in our survey. I had a long walk back; in fact, I did not get out of the range of the Austrian plateau till the next day. My two soldier guides and I sat down and smoked by a stream for a while, and they told me that of their fellow villagers who set out at the beginning of the war, the one had lost sixteen out of eighteen, and the other fifty out of sixty. One of them, with three comrades, had fought his way back, when the rest of his company was lost. The position is changed now, but I feel that the more we know of this fighting, the more we shall understand of the Russian spirit and of the Russian sacrifices, and the clearer will be the picture of the Russian advance. _May 1._ Waiting at a railway station, I met a young officer who was taking home the body of his brother. The young man met his death leading a night attack. He took his company further up than any, and even got through the wire entanglements and into the enemy's trenches. The deadly fire of the machine guns made it necessary to draw off the men, and this company got the order late. Some fought their way through, but their leader was mortally wounded. The brother was serving in the neighbouring artillery and was able to be with the dying man to the last. He said that his brother might easily have surrendered with others, but it would always be a satisfaction that he did not "hold up his hands and go into Austria." At staff headquarters of the army I passed many funerals. Here the enemy's airmen make a visit almost every day. Two days ago, and again to-day, they appeared in force and dropped their bombs almost without a break. The air battery and picked riflemen kept up an incessant fire on them. Yesterday I watched an aeroplane under fire of Russian shrapnel. The shells burst all round it and evidently forced it to give up its intention of reaching the town: it sped away northwards. These raids have had hardly any success. Even the bombs which lodged where they were meant to, on the railway or on the aerodrome, did no real damage. The net result is a small number of wounded, including civilians and a sister of mercy. An officer whom I met in the trenches, and of whom I wrote under the name of "George," has very appropriately been appointed one of the judges of recommendations for the George Cross. The soldier's George is given for any signal act of bravery, and the men thus honoured are always found to be the rallying points in further attacks. The officers' George is in four classes. Only some four individuals have ever received the first class, beginning with Kutuzov. The second class, which is for very definite achievements of generalship can only be given to Generals (Ivanov has it for the conquest of Galicia), and the third only to Generals and Colonels. The fourth, which is for any act of courage or initiative, can be won by any officer. The different achievements which can win the George are clearly set out. The two first classes are conferred only by the nomination of the Sovereign; for the other two there is in each army what is called a "Duma," or panel of selectors. My friend, who is one of the bravest and simplest men that I have met, told me very interesting things about his work. His own standard of bravery is not striking acts of daring, but the maintenance of normal composure in the performance of dangerous tasks. It is, I think, a standard which will appeal to Englishmen. One of the most typical instances of Russian courage that I know is among the records of the battle of Borodino. An aide-de-camp galloped up to a commanding officer and, pointing towards a hill, said: "The Commander-in-Chief asks you to attack there." As he spoke, a cannon ball carried away his extended arm; he simply pointed to the hill with the other, and said, "There: be quick." At many points of our line there has been a complete lull. One battery which I visited, standing on some thickly wooded hills, was building a wooden villa for the officers, and had already put up a camp theatre for the performances of short plays written by the men. There was little but the ordinary diversion of shooting at aeroplanes. Prisoners continue to testify to the discontent in the enemy's armies. For instance, an Alsatian says that any Alsatian would come over at the first opportunity. A German says that the conditions in his regiment are such that he would have shot himself but for regard for his family. Czechs report further mutinies in their regiments which have been punished with military executions. The Ruthenian regiments, which cannot now be reinforced from Galicia, are rapidly melting away. Even the Hungarian soldiers are described as desirous of peace. _May 3._ The advance of the Russians over the Carpathians was sure to draw a counter-stroke, and it has come just where many have expected it, but with tremendous force. This is because it is not so much the work of the tired Austrians, but rather the biggest effort that Germany has yet put forth in her attempts to bolster her ally. We have all been preparing for May, and Germany and even Austria have evidently made great preparations. The food supply in the Austrian army has been much improved; the proportion of Germans on the Austrian front has been enormously increased; heavy artillery has been concentrated; and the Emperor and Hindenburg have been reported to be here. [Illustration: THE BATTLE OF TARNOW-GORLICE from May 1. 1915.] I set out with a nice bright-eyed chauffeur who did a splendid day's work with me. We had the main road for some distance, and none of the varieties later seemed to trouble him. We went along a valley, and in a house standing high by a church we found the staff of the Division. I had friends; and I was soon dispatched with a tall determined Cossack to the point where the road climbed the hill. Here we left our machine, and in a hundred yards or so we had the whole scene before us. There was a hut on the top of the hill; sitting in front of it one could see for at least ten miles in either direction. The Division was holding a front of eight miles with the Z's on the left, the O's in the middle, the R's on the right and the I's in reserve. The O's, who were just beyond a hollow, occupied a low line of wooded heights a thousand yards in front of me. The Z's held a lower wooded ridge, the R's connected with the O's over a valley and were posted along a less defined line, of which the most marked feature was a village with a little church tower. Against these three regiments were nine, mostly German, and backed by the most formidable artillery. Beyond each of the flanks of the Division one could see at intervals black clouds of smoke; one thick stream of smoke that stretched into the skies came from some distant petroleum works. The whole line of the R's was being pounded with crash after crash, sometimes four black columns rising almost simultaneously at intervals along it; under each would break out little angry teeth of sparkling flame; the only thing that seemed not to be hit was the church tower, which, as each cloud died down, came out simple again in the bright sunshine. The Z's were in patches of smoke that sometimes disappeared for a time. What was happening to the O's was not so clear; so after watching the shells and shrapnel bursting along the line and on the slope for some hours, we descended by some winding gullies, drawing a shrapnel as we passed over a low shoulder, and soon reached the staff of the O's. Under the nearer wall of a hut, a group of officers was working the telephones, while a number of soldiers lay on logs around. The Colonel came forward to me with a preoccupied smile: "A convoy for the flag," he explained, and turning to his men; "you have the flag there?" Then he took me into the open and pointed at the ridge some six hundred yards away: all his left was at grips with the enemy who had come through at several points, and on the right his men were fighting at the close range of two hundred yards in the wood beyond the crest. We crouched behind the houses amid a constant roar of shells bursting all round us, and firing some of the neighbouring huts. The telephones worked incessantly. Now each of the battalion commanders reported in turn--one, that his machine guns had been put out of action, another that there were gaps in his line, a third that he was holding good, but hard put to it. The Colonel explained that his last reserves were engaged. A message came that his right flank was open and was being turned. He seized the telephone and called to the reserve regiment: "Two companies forward at the double," reporting his action directly to the staff of the Division. There was a peculiar humanness about all these messages; in form they were just ordinary courteous conversation. The question which brought the most disquieting answers was "Connexions." The Z Colonel reported that his line was penetrated at more than one point, but was holding out. The R telephone gave no answer at all. Life there was unlivable, the trenches were destroyed, and on my way I had heard from soldiers a report that when taking ammunition to the R's they had seen the Austrians in our lines. Shells and shrapnel were crashing all round us, especially on our rear; a great cloud rose where I had sat at the top, and a hut that I had passed on the way down broke out in full flame. Nearer down there fell four black explosives at regular distances of fifty yards, "the four packets" as one officer called it. Our cover would all have gone with a single shot, and the men crouched to avoid the falling splinters from each shell. In this depressing atmosphere there went on the conversation between the Colonel and the divisional staff: "I can get no contact, with the R's. Cavalry is reported on both of my flanks. The R's have had to retreat." The answer was an order to retire at nightfall. Three hours at least had to run. The order was communicated in French over each battalion telephone. The Colonel apologised for his elementary French; anyhow it was the French of a brave man. As disquietudes increased, the permission came to retire at once; but the Colonel answered that this could not be done: he was in hot defensive action, and the enemy would follow on his heels; at present he was holding his own. Twice on the telephone the fatal word "surrounded" had been used. My hosts urged me to go. "We have each a different duty," they said. It was with little heart that I faced for the slope, turning a few yards off to salute these brave men once more. They were some wounded struggling up the gullies, one with a maimed foot, whom we helped along but who had to sit down at times and smoke. As we began to approach shelter, we suddenly saw on the hills to the west of us men coming down the slope towards us. "Perhaps ours, perhaps the enemy," said my Cossack, who never turned a hair throughout the day. We got our lame man up the big hill, but as soon as we had passed the crest he said that his strength failed him, and sat down with several others round a well. The next thing was to look for the motor. We were now in comparative safety; for we were out of the line of fire, and the valley to the north of us was full of our own people. Officers galloped forward, looking at the line of our retreating field trains. In the valley there was a long train of wounded. I at last found our motor in the midst of it. We packed in the men with the worst wounds that we noticed; they lay without a groan, and one old soldier said: "Thanks to Thee, O Lord; and eternal gratitude to you." A young soldier with an eager face pressed forward with a letter, begging us to take his wounded officer, whom he had brought five miles from the distant lines of the R's. "Harchin"--that was his name, was like a loving son, with his captain, walking by our side or standing on our step for mile after mile and all the while helping to hold the litter in position. He told us that no living man could have driven the R's from their position: but that the whole area was covered with shells till trenches and men were levelled out of existence. The companies left comparatively intact had all joined on to the O's. Of the O's themselves we could only hear vague rumours; it was said that most of them had made their way back. There was no panic, no hurry in the great throng, as it retired. Each was ready to help his neighbour. Crossing a long hill we had to transfer some of our wounded to an empty cart which we commandeered, the men moving without a word. In the night Harchin kept holding up his officer and giving any comfort that he could. "It's quite close now, your nobility, it's a good road now," he would say. We reached a hut where the kind Polish hostess showed us beds for our wounded; Harchin was constant and tender in his care, and I left the two together to await the arrival of the doctor. A private with a crushed face refused to lie on his bed for fear of spoiling it, and sat holding his bleeding head in his hands. Through the darkness and past an incessant train of army carts, which without any shouting did all they could to give us passage, I made my way to the corps of the staff and to the next Division; where I slept long into the morning. It was only later that we knew the full scope of our losses. The Division had against it double its number of infantry and an overwhelming mass of heavy and light artillery. It had held its trenches till it was almost annihilated. _May 4._ When I woke up in the morning, the deserted school where the staff had stretched their beds was alive with work and anxiety. The lines lay only a mile and a half outside the town of Biecz, and the Germans and Austrians were making a tremendous attack on them, pounding them with the heaviest artillery and advancing on them in close column again and again. The leader of this Division is a fighting General, robust, active and of great composure. The Staff was very close up to the front, and our own immediate movements depended on to-day's results. As we were being shelled, we went for lunch to a neighbouring Polish monastery, a pleasing white-walled building on a hill. It was deserted but for one or two monks; and its cloisters and wall-paintings and stations of the Cross were like an oasis far from the war. I lay down in one of the empty rooms and had some more hours of sleep. On my return to the school building I found that the situation was critical. From the balcony the General viewed the lines and gave some short directions. In the summer weather one watched groups of soldiers descending from the neighbouring hill and making for the bridge at the foot of our house. They were ours and were being relieved; and they formed up into order and were addressed by an officer before crossing the bridge. The enemy had been beaten off in every infantry attack, but many parts of the lines were now non-existent, having been reduced to a series of shell-pits by the German artillery. With a young Cossack I started out for the D regiment. The picturesque little town--all the Polish towns are full of pleasing architecture--was crowded with troops, and the atmosphere was one of uncertainty. Men were sheltering from the hot fire all along the banks of the sunken road. On the top of the hill were a few huts through which we threaded our way, dodging an exposed area where shells burst continually. Further on we found to the right of us a deep valley thick with lofty trees. On the edge of this wood were a number of soldiers who had lost touch with their regiments. We stopped them to find our way. The D regiment, we learned, was no longer at the front; and indeed on this side we should not find any lines at all. We were told that the Austrians were already in the wood, which later proved to be true. The fire was heavy here, splinters falling upon us through the trees; and the stragglers hurried away. Turning to the left I found myself at the head of a wide hollow in the hills. Over it soldiers were moving forward. Making my way to one of the huts, I found the Brigadier-General and got leave to accompany this advance. It was the first regiment of the famous Caucasian Corps just arrived after an all-night march, and going up to the attack. A battalion commander stood just below the hut, putting his men in position. He was a quiet little man, already elderly and with an old voice, that sounded vigorously, however, across the slope. "You shall come with me," he said. The men who had been sitting in groups, made their way by companies up the different clefts in the hollow and soon lined into the ridge beyond. The commander moved about among them at an easy walk, directing some, hurrying on others. The men went forward on their knees, separating off into what the Russians call a "chain," where any one with initiative, by finding cover a little further forward, gives a lead to all the rest. The officers walked upright throughout. When the crest was lined, the commander went forward in different directions. On his return he gave a few orders to his officers; one of them was a little excited, and called out: "I have an instinct that it will go right; God grant that it is a true one," and turning to his men he shouted, "God is with us." Except for this, nothing broke the atmosphere of the evening stillness. "Well, children," said the commander, "what shall I say to you? With God! Forward!" One company went off to the wood on the right, and after a few minutes another with the commander and myself moved forward over the bare hill, leaving two others to follow in reserve. Throughout the men advanced in little groups, creeping in line with each other; the officers walked about freely, often in advance of the men, or encouraging any that showed too much caution. We soon saw that the ground was clear in front of us, and we descended the hill a good deal more rapidly. The commander and I branched off into the edge of the wood; all the time he was calling out to keep touch with the company on our right; he turned and smiled to me as the shrapnel tore away some of the boughs. At the bottom the machine guns were hurried up, and we ascended the further slope. We were now on a bare height, which was like a tongue projecting forward, and a hot musketry fire was opened on us. A man near me called out that he was wounded and rolled himself down to the hollow, where a bearer set about bandaging him; a shell burst beyond us and another called out. I could only see what happened to the men nearest to me. The commander continued to stroll about among the men, in the same way as he would have done out of action; several of the men begged him to lie down. We went round the outside of the height, and he brought his men everywhere to the edge of it and told them to entrench themselves, which they set about doing at once. We could see where the bullets came from, on the low ground in front. To our left was a ridge with trees, along which we could see men on horseback coming from the direction of the enemy. To our right, beyond the wood, was a high ridge covered with men who appeared to be advancing upon us but did not open fire. Later it seemed that they were stationary, and we could not make out whether they were ours or theirs, so a scouting party was sent to find out. Suddenly a column of blue figures was seen coming up close on our front. In what seemed a minute, two of our machine guns had been moved to this side. Round some brushwood thirty yards away came the first rank of the column; one caught sight of a line of pale faces; I remember a slim fair-haired youth who peered anxiously forward. Our commander shouted orders; our machine-gun men, standing up and with indignation on their faces, ground out a shower of bullets, and the Austrian column disappeared into the wooded valley. Night was closing in, the enemy's cannonade was slackening, and the time was approaching when the physical superiority of man to man would put the balance firmly on the Russian side. The men were entrenching themselves; and the commander wished to send a message to the brigade about the undefined troops on his right. I was going with this message and had not got more than two hundred yards from the front when I heard shouts of hurrahs, which marked the beating off of another Austrian attack. A few more shells burst on our way back, but my companion muttered to the enemy: "It's getting dark, brother"; for, once technique does not dominate, the Russian feels that he is master. On the road we found a large batch of Austrians (Poles) taken in the wood. I was invited to examine them; they had had no food that day; there was much disaffection in Austria; they were strongly against the Germans and were glad that for them the war was over. Our report was delivered; the troops on our right were Russians. Later there came other and sadder news. The little commander was brought back into the town wounded in the head in the last Austrian attack. In the evening I rode with the Divisional Staff several miles to our new quarters. All along the road he stopped any straggling soldiers and asked closely what had happened to their regiments. This was all extremely well done; he was really severe only to one batch who told him an obvious lie. Altogether the retreat, for it was that, was unattended by any panic. Going at a sharp trot, we reached our new quarters at three in the morning. _May 6._ I woke in a farmhouse, in a village that was filled with the divisional field train. The Divisional General had gone off early to the front to rectify the new positions. The news that came in was uncertain and anxious. The first hut which the General and his staff had entered had been made untenable by the enemy's artillery. The second hut that he visited was also set on fire. No further news of him came till late in the evening that he had barely escaped capture. Word came that the staff would be moved further back. The field trains were set in motion, and we travelled without any kind of confusion across a beautiful range of wooded hills. We stopped more than once to see the fight that was going on below us. It was a blazing line of fire and smoke, the twin yellow and white bursts of the Austrian shrapnel being almost lost in the white or black smoke of the German artillery. We travelled very slowly and for a good part of the day; officers and men were full of vexation at having to retire before troops which they felt themselves capable of beating with any equal conditions: among themselves there prevailed a simple good humour. I rode at different times with the adjutant, the chief of the field train, and the divisional doctor, all of whom were perfectly cool and collected. We made different wayside halts, and in the afternoon drew up in a large village also full of field trains. Here we took rest and refreshments, while different rumours came in from all quarters: and in the evening I drove in for news to the staff of the army at Jaslo, which was now close to the enemy. From nearly all the regiments of the corps which I had accompanied, great losses were reported; on the other hand, practically every infantry attack had been driven off with great loss to the enemy. The trenches had been left only when the enemy's artillery had made them untenable. In some parts the systematic ploughing up of whole given areas had gone so far behind our lines that even approach to the trenches had been made impossible. The game was not lost even on this ground, and immediate measures had been taken for counter-attacks the following day. Meanwhile Jaslo was under an intermittent but violent bombardment of aeroplanes; and all the hospitals were being moved to the rear. I learned that the enemy were making a similar artillery attack on Tarnow, where I had spent several of my periods of Red Cross work at the hospitals. The Russian workers in the local Civil Spital had stayed on to the last and were now under a hot fire, and it was desired that they should be moved without delay. The Red Cross authorities had been told that this detachment could be guaranteed "against capture for the present, but not against artillery fire." I was commissioned to go and move it. I found the General of the Transport at the railway station full of work, but cool and business-like. His was one of the most difficult tasks, but there was no better head in the Third Army. At three in the morning he came to tell me that a motor was at my disposal at once. At my first stop I was asked to take with me an official of the Red Cross who had been deprived by contusion of his voice and hearing. He was in full possession of his senses and wrote down his wishes. He had been under fire with three hundred wounded in the village where I had slept the night before. There were other reports more disquieting. In one advanced bandaging point the German soldiers had burst in, full of drink and rage, and had bayoneted the staff and, as we were told, the doctor. In the early morning I reached an ambulance point managed almost entirely by the members of one family, the father (who was a retired divisional doctor), the mother, and their son. To them I handed over my unhappy companion. Here I had anxious news of the hospital for which I was making. Tarnow was four miles from the front; on the German advance nine shells had been fired on the hospital in one day, and one of them had struck the operating-room and wounded the lady doctor. I drove on to the staff of the neighbouring corps to see about transport, and thence to my destination. There was an ominous absence of troops, other than retreating field trains. The inhabitants were all in the streets, alive as it seemed to me with excitement and expectation. As I drove up, I saw the five plucky sisters waiting on their balcony. They had already sent away all their Russian wounded and were ready to start. The wounded civilians, who were Austrian subjects, and some wounded Austrian soldiers had been housed in the cellars and would be left to the care of their own people. This work had all been done in two hours directly after the last bombardment. The sisters had been given a second George medal for bravery. They spent the evening on a hill watching the artillery attack on our troops. It was a ring of fire that simply demolished the trenches. Attack after attack of the enemy's infantry was beaten off. One detachment, sent to the support of a neighbouring regiment, found some of the defenders asleep under the cannonade: they had beaten off eight attacks. The N Regiment was decimated, but full of spirit. All this I learned later. Without any kind of haste or commotion, the sisters said good-bye to the Austrian wounded and to the kind Polish sisters who had worked so long with them, and we all started in my motor. We were soon out of the range of fire, and continued our journey until we had reached the new headquarters of the Red Cross, where we were joined a day later by the staff of the army. _May 9._ The details of the Austro-German advance on the Third Army are now clearer. The Russian advance over the Carpathians was not met directly, but by a counter-advance on its flank. Here five army corps were concentrated, some of the fresh troops being drawn from reserve divisions on the French front, especially in the neighbourhood of Verdun. The journey across Germany is reckoned at three to five days, according to whether or not one includes the mountain marches at the end of the railway journey. Prisoners of the Prussian Guard tell me that they were given special training in hill climbing before they started. Meanwhile, the long months of comparative inaction had been employed in bringing up the heaviest German and Austrian artillery, both of which were last summer concentrated on the western front, and getting the range not merely of the Russian lines, but of squares which covered a good part of their rear. This was a long and toilsome operation, as these guns cannot be moved except by railway or, with great efforts and under good weather conditions, on roads which have a certain consistency. The potentialities of these guns are in any case limited; they cannot easily follow up an advance or get away in case of a rout. They can force the evacuation of a given area, but it may be possible to manoeuvre in such a way that the general position is but little changed. [Illustration: THE GREAT ATTEMPT OF THE CAUCASIANS] It will be remembered that the Austrians during the idle months have been covering the Russian lines in front of them with a ceaseless cannonade. This counted for little at the time. The Austrian artilleryman has only lately developed any accuracy; for a long time they continued in the most stupid errors of detail; they hardly ever placed a Russian battery, and evidently the process of range-finding has been long and very expensive. The Austrians rarely attempted infantry attack, knowing that they always met their masters; thus their ceaseless cannonade was not a preparation for an infantry offensive; and the Russians might even, if necessary, leave their trenches only partially occupied during the day, keeping less in those parts which were under the hottest fire and holding the whole line in force only by night. It was a very different story when the initiative on this side was undertaken by the Germans, who use artillery as a preparation for desperate attacks in close column. The difference in accuracy between the German and Austrian artillery fire was very soon discovered to the Russian regiments in front of them; and it was known that the Prussian Guard Reserve was here. The trenches were, therefore, occupied in full and held until they became untenable. The enemy's advance was at first directed against what was thought to be the weakest part of the Third Army, namely its right flank, which had sent a number of reinforcements to the Carpathian wing; but the alertness of the Russian general on this side produced an alteration in the plan, and the attack was diverted to the next army corps eastwards. This corps contained regiments which had had heavy losses in the previous hill-fighting. A gap was forced between the two army corps; and the right flank of the threatened corps (the R Regiment) was crushed by the pounding fire which I have described under May 3. The regiment retreated in good spirit, but with the heaviest losses, the O Regiment, holding its ground to the end, retired with its colonel and some 300 men: the Z Regiment was severely cut up. In all this fighting practically every infantry attack of the enemy was beaten back. The next day the impact fell mainly on the troops which I described on May 4. They held their ground to the evening and then executed an orderly retreat, coming into line with the broken forces to the right of them. But on both days a tremendous cannonade was directed on the division still further eastward, with the result that some regiments suffered terribly. The next day a fresh corps, the Caucasians, one of the most famous in the Russian army, had arrived and went forward boldly to the attack on the flank of the enemy's advance. The prisoners cannot speak too highly of the courage of this corps; and it did succeed in stemming the tide, with such effect that the broken army corps to its right had in two days reformed and come again into position. But it did not get as far as the enemy's heavy artillery, and retired fighting rearguard actions--not much further than the point from which it had started. I have explained that the whole advance of the enemy was a counter-stroke to the Russian advance over the Carpathians further eastwards. The right wing of that advance was now outflanked and had to retire. Half of this corps succeeded in rectifying its positions without serious loss; but the other division had the greatest difficulty in fighting its way through, and lost heavily. Meanwhile the enemy's attack was extended also westwards, including the area against which it had been originally directed. Here the cannonade was furious and the trenches were in many parts wiped out, all approach to them of reinforcements from the rear being made almost impossible. But here, too, practically all hostile infantry attacks were repulsed with heavy loss. Ultimately a retreat was ordered by the Russians on this side. Results are indefinite unless they bring one side or the other to a definite line of defence. The situation resulting from all this fighting was as follows: The present area of conflict is a square lying between two rivers west and east (Dunajec and San), with the Vistula on the north and the Carpathians on the south. The square may now be divided by a diagonal running from north-west to south-east. On the one side are the Russians and on the other are the enemy; but the diagonal is not any natural line of defence, and the operations must be continued till one side or the other occupies the whole of the square. The enemy has made a special concentration by depleting other parts of his line. The respective forces are now at close grips in a great battle which is likely to last for several days. The enemy's heavy artillery is not likely to have the same effect as before; and a successful Russian advance may even endanger its retreat. There are two obvious deductions from this fighting. The Germans are risking more and more of their forces in the support of Austria, or, to speak more accurately, in the defence of Hungary, and in order to do this they must surely have weakened their western front. They must secure definite results on the Russian side if their attack here is to be of value to them, as they may again have to throw their forces westwards ere long. _May 10._ What a picture these days will leave on the minds of those who have lived through them. It is only the simple things that count; but they keep coming back on one in new forms again and again, and that is why one must repeat oneself so often. The staff is in no way downhearted; it is sometimes preoccupied, sometimes cheerful, but always full of vigour. The cause of our losses has been localised; and there is no sign of panic or hurry in the search for the necessary remedies. At the bottom of all is this wonderful confidence of the men and officers who come back wounded from the front. The Commander of the Army is full of spirit and energy, and we all consider that we are only halfway through this battle. The other hospital institutions have mostly been sent to the rear; but this period of movement is a time of small advance ambulance points which dispatch their wounded to the rear at once and themselves are ready to move at short notice, whether forward or backward; and the Russian sisters who returned with me from the front organised at once such an ambulance at the station, going on duty the same night, and working sometimes fifteen hours or more at a stretch. Enemy aeroplanes threw bombs at them every day, and we picked up several badly wounded at the station, but none of the workers in the bandaging-room took any notice of the explosions. The station is a wonderful place--as wonderful as the great station in Lvov, which I described several months ago. It is crowded with wounded, lying close together in the family manner of the Russian peasant. Most are wounded in the hands or the head; this means that they were under a devastating fire in the trenches which hit anything that was at all exposed. But there are also many signs of advance or of infantry attacks beaten off, in wounds of all kinds all over the body. Every night hundreds of wounded are given clean bandages and fed with anything that can be bought in a place where all is movement. The officers lie here like the rest, separated only by the silent respect shown to them by the men. The number of wounded officers is not surprising, for, as I have explained, they stand and walk while their men are ordered to crawl; but the sacrifice in officers is particularly impressive. For me the officers are also sources of information as to the fate of each of the regiments I have visited. Four jolly N's, three of them wounded, told me of how their trenches were levelled and how they retired because there were only shell pits to sleep in; seven officers led the last counter-attack of this regiment. Of some regiments the news was that they were practically all gone; in one case the answer was "The regiment does not exist." Some one asked of one of the O's where his regiment was to be found: he answered "In the other world." I learned that three hundred men of this regiment with the colonel had fought their way back; later, I learned that only seventy-one were left. The General of this Division told me that he had reformed and reinforced his men and that they were again at the front, where he was off to join them. The T's had invited me to join them when in action, and it was a pure chance that I was directed to another point. I passed in the street the field trains of this regiment; the officer riding at the head stopped me and grasped my hand: "What I wanted to say," he said, "is that the T's are gone, only the flag is saved." The next day a private with the number of this regiment came up to me in the street: would I come and see the Colonel who had just been brought in wounded? I found him at the quarters of the Commander of the Army. His head was bound up, but he was seated and writing. General Radko Dmitriev came in and shook his hand time after time. "Thank you for your splendid stand; human strength can do no more." The Colonel related that his entrenchments were demolished with the men in them; one company was cut off, and forty hands were held up in surrender; he himself saw how the Germans bayoneted half the number out of hand; his own men, when only five hundred were left of them, went on taking prisoners exceeding themselves in number, and rejoiced in this sign of their moral superiority. Of forty officers and four thousand men, in the end two hundred and fifty were left. The enemy was in overwhelming numbers; but prisoners continued to come in in great batches. I spoke with some of the Prussian Guard; they were vigorous and contentious, and spoke with small respect of the Austrians. The war is becoming more and more bitter. I return to my inevitable conclusion. There has been a big success of technique; and it has wiped out a number of good lives. Even this battle is not over, and our own people are advancing at points which offer hope of better results. The Russian army is firmer than ever, and more and more men are being poured in. It can win, but only if it can be given anything like fair conditions; in a word, that the Germans should be met on their own ground, that of heavy and more numerous artillery, by every possible united effort of the Allies. _May 13._ I learned that the FF Corps, which contained regiments that I had twice stayed with, was going to make a determined attempt to turn the tide. On the heels of this came the news that it had already begun a daring advance and had taken some heights on the rear of the enemy's line. I had no means of transport, and was wondering how to get to this corps when I met in the street a group of soldiers who were asking who wanted to buy a bicycle for five roubles (ten shillings). I learned afterwards that a large German cyclist corps had been cut off by our cavalry. The bicycle was there, so I had a turn on it and bought it. The handles of the bar were gone, and there was no bell or lamp; the seat and brake wanted screwing up; otherwise it was a good machine. I had lost my maps in the retreat, so I went to one of the adjutants, who sketched for me a map of the district, and I started off. [Illustration: THE RETREAT FROM THE CARPATHIANS a Fighting retreat of Russian S.S. Corps b Enemy's forces trying to outflank and turn S.S. c Attempt of Russian F.F. Corps on the enemy's flank] My first destination was Dynow, where I was to find the staff of the SS Corps. The Polish inhabitants whom I asked pointed forward along a good straight road, and with the wind behind me I made good way. I passed plenty of troops going both ways, and the cavalry indulged in friendly banter with me as to who would arrive first. Meanwhile, at Dynow things were not at all as we imagined. The FF Corps further on found that it was advancing into an empty space, while its neighbour, the SS Corps, was being beset by superior German forces; there was nothing left for it but to give up its attempt. The SS Corps arrived at Dynow only to find it already occupied by the enemy. In instant danger of being cut off, this corps swerved from the road and went straight forward at a point where it had to cross two bends of the river. The water was more than breast high; the two passages were made under a hot fire, and a number of men were killed or drowned; but the corps made good its retreat, and indeed served as rearguard from hence to the San line. It was followed closely and vigorously, the Germans showing the greatest ardour, which in one case brought on them the most serious losses at the hands of the Russian artillery. The SS Corps also suffered severely and was greatly reduced in strength. I should have ridden straight on to the enemy, but my bicycle collapsed, and I was misdirected as to the road, so that in the evening I found myself at quite a different point, not far from the town of Rzeszow, which I had left in the morning. Making for a railway station, I found a train waiting and learned the new turn of events, also that Rzeszow itself was likely to fall into the enemy's hands. It was important that this news should reach those with whom I had been working; but it was twelve hours before any train could move in this direction, and then it was only an engine that was sent forward, with one carriage full of high explosives and a colonel in charge. The colonel and I sat on either side of the engine, and the driver kept looking out and slowing down to ask news of the stragglers who were coming from Rzeszow. Of course we got the usual exaggerated reports; some said that every one had left or was leaving Rzeszow and that the enemy were just about to enter. Puffs of shrapnel were to be seen ahead of us, but we made our way safely into the town. Here little was known of what was happening; but several plain signs indicated retreat, and an officer whom I knew kindly gave us the lead that we required. In the streets there was an unpleasant silence, and the people seemed to be waiting for something from the west. The last trains out started with little delay. We looked back on the smoke of explosions and travelled leisurely and without panic through a peaceful country, where at each halt the road was lined by good-natured soldiers resting, eating or chaffing each other on the embankments, as if there were no war and they were all happy on the banks of some great Russian river. At one point there was a small collision, but all was put right without the slightest hurry or excitement. _May 18._ We had retreated to the San, and the Corps of the Third Army held a not extensive front, partly in front of and partly behind the river. The apparently endless file of trains had all made their way along the single line across the river. Wherever they stopped, the station was infested by the enemy's aeroplanes; at one time ten of these were flying along the line. In one day three were brought down, all the airmen being killed. The long road picnic on these trains, military or ambulance, shows the Russian soldier at his best. All content themselves with the simplest and roughest conditions, and lie anywhere about the spacious vans or dangle their legs out of the broad doors and talk cheerily with any who pass. Most of these goods vans are festooned with boughs. Of course there is an endless stock of narratives from the life at the front, always with a complete absence of self, except for a summary mention of the date and occasion of the narrator's own wound. The main features are always the same--regiments reduced by sheer artillery fire to half or a quarter, furious infantry attacks of the enemy vigorously repelled. Now that we again had a definite line in front of us, I decided to go up again. I started on foot in fine evening weather and took a straight line for a point to the south-west. I was halfway to my destination when in the failing light I saw a motor, which carried one of the adjutants of the commander of the army. He beckoned me up, and explained the day's fighting, at which he had been present. It was a furious artillery duel; and it was chiefly concentrated at a different point from that for which I was making. He advised me to return and to visit this point the next day. On the following morning I started out, again on foot, with a supply of big biscuits. Nearing the area of firing, I turned across the fields and came upon a battery of Russian heavy artillery, which was so well masked that, though I was looking for it, I did not make it out until I was only a hundred yards off. I had a talk with the commander and went on to a neighbouring village which was under a heavy fire. Here were the staffs of a regiment and of the Division which I was seeking. On the telephone there was brisk conversation. I was invited in to lunch, where all business talk was avoided, and I was given a Cossack to take me to the infantry positions. Heavy shells were rattling like goods vans over our heads, sometimes three being in the air at once and all taking the same direction. The crashes came from some distance behind us. The enemy was clearing a space in our reserves and among our staffs. The Cossack was a quaint person, with flashing eyes, who walked about leading his horse everywhere. When he was told to take me in the direction of the firing, he murmured something about its being "the very best." His idea was that we should go on foot, he leading his horse, from which he was most unwilling to part, because he would feel lost without it. This was all very well: but the appearance of any horse near the positions is strictly barred, as it at once calls forth a more or less accurate fire on the infantry. This it was hopeless to explain to him; so in the end I left both him and his horse behind. I went on to one of the regimental staffs, and obtained two guides to the respective regiments which I was visiting. I had hardly left this hut when a bomb fell on it, killing or wounding several of the staff. We had sheltered ground almost up to the river. The famous San is here about a hundred yards broad, with a steep further bank and, on our own side, a long hollow running parallel with the river and thick with willows and alder; the country in general, except for some depressions, is quite flat. I passed along the front of the C regiment. There was hardly a shot fired, though the enemy could be seen moving on a hill opposite and was free to approach to the further side of the river. Our own people had made some progress with their entrenchments, which were not yet under artillery fire. To the greeting from the English ally, which I gave as I passed along, there was an interested reception, and the men put questions as to the western front. One man, when I told him we were advancing, crossed himself and said "God grant it." The men had a very difficult part of the stream to guard and could easily be put under a flanking fire. With two of the officers I stayed some time; they were cool and keen, but deeply mortified at the loss of ground for which they had sacrificed so much. We watched the shells bursting just behind us; and after a time I made my way back over ground which was often traversed by shells and shrapnel, usually fired together. The cannonade became more and more intense in the evening and lasted all night and into the next day. Some hours after I left the enemy crossed at the point which I had visited and made good a footing on our side of the river. In the morning he was driven back out of our lines; but returning in force, he finally established himself on our side and forced these regiments to retreat for some miles. A day later I heard that the German Emperor in person was opposite to us, just across the river. _May 24._ On the day when I walked along the San, the enemy did not show themselves in any force till the evening. Then and throughout the night the tremendous cannonade that they had kept up all day became more intense, and with the aid of the powerful German projectors the area to the rear of the Russian lines was swept, especially at three given points. Here in the evening the enemy crossed the narrow stream in boats. The railway bridge was mined, but was left standing as long as possible. An Austrian shell cut the train of the mine, without exploding it, at a point forty yards on the Russian side of the river. Masses of the enemy were already at the bridge when a Russian officer and private went forward and made a new connexion, which they fired at once. The bridge was blown into the air, and the two daring Russians were sent flying by the shock, but remained alive. At different points the enemy effected a lodgment on the eastern bank and, where the Russian line was thinnest and held by regiments already reduced to half or quarter strength in the previous fighting, the trenches were partly occupied by the Germans or Austrians. Next morning the Russians made vigorous counter attacks and recovered the ground lost; but returning in overwhelming force, the enemy not only regained his hold on the eastern bank but extended it on either flank and pushed further eastwards. There followed five days of very severe fighting. The issue at stake was whether the enemy's successes could still be limited to western Galicia--or, in other words, whether half or the whole of the territory conquered by the Russians was now to be flooded by his armies. His object was, of course, to find room eastward of the San for his powerful forces and artillery. There were in all five German or Austrian armies in the area chosen for the enemy's impact. Of these, two were engaged with the Eighth Russian Army and three were opposed to our Third Army; these last numbered nine army corps, including the Reserve Corps of the Prussian Guard and two others which were drawn from the French front. German heavy artillery, though apparently of a different calibre from that employed at the beginning of the Galician battle, took a prominent part in this fighting; and the Austrians showed better marksmanship than at any period in the war. The enemy's advance, however, had slackened before it reached the San; and the Russians had had time not only to make good a very spirited retreat but to give their men two days' rest on the eastern side of the river. These two days were invaluable. Large reinforcements were hurried up. In the shortest time entrenchments were thrown up of a kind superior to those held by the Russians during their long occupation of western Galicia, and very much better supported. The earlier ruinous effects of the enemy's heavy artillery were now minimised or even avoided; and the Russian artillery were in much greater force than before. Above all, the men proved, if proof were needed, by the vigour of their resistance and by beating off one German attack after another that the earlier retreat had been due simply to the enemy's technical superiority in artillery, and that even a half-annihilated Russian regiment felt itself to be master as soon as the issue lay with the bayonet. The enemy daily sent aeroplanes to the Russian rear, in one day ten at a time, but in at least five cases these were brought down and in most instances by the fire of musketry and machine guns. In one comparatively weak spot the Russian infantry was rescued by a few timely discharges from our artillery, which sent the close column of Germans running like hares. Attempt after attempt of the enemy to break through in close column failed. At certain points the Germans were able to push home their blow, at others the Russians closed in on their flanks, driving them back to the river and threatening even their success in the centre with serious consequences. At one moment the enemy thought that he was through; but the gap was filled at once from the large Russian reserves. At another he even launched his cavalry through what seemed an empty space, and it looked as if he might find room to develop the favourite German cavalry advance, which has spread such terror among peaceful inhabitants in other parts; but without delay the tide was stemmed by Cossacks and Russian infantry. The struggle is still going on; but one thing is certain--that the Russian resistance east of the San has stopped the forward flow of the German advance. It is a new chapter in the war, and different in essentials from that which preceded it. News of successful resistance or of advance comes from the Russian armies on either flank of our own. _May 27._ The situation seemed to be changing rapidly and at the same time clearing. There were reports of German attempts to break through at various points, but all of them seemed to be stopped and our line was apparently becoming more stable. As I have explained before, there is a splendid ambulance organisation of the most complete kind managed by a joint committee of all the Zemstva (or county councils) of Russia and directed by Prince George Lvov. Apart from a wide system of hospitals right away to the rear and all over Russia, it includes ambulance and depôt trains which run almost up to the very front, and flying columns, giving first aid to the wounded. These last have attached to them large field transport trains, adapted to the local roads and working in close touch with the generals at the front and the military surgeons. It is always a pleasure to meet with any section of this organisation. It possesses the free initiative characteristic of self-government, for the Zemstva members and employés have everywhere volunteered for this service; and there is in it the healthy sense of open air and a practical experience at making the best of any conditions. There was a flying column which I met at the beginning of our retreat, and which took charge of my baggage. The same column was now quite near me, and they kindly gave me a lift to the front. I set out in one of their sensible "two-wheelers" adapted for carrying the wounded, and travelled a good part of the night to where they had their park: there I had a splendid sleep in the two-wheeler. The next day we went on in a long train of carts through pine-woods and sand, sometimes almost losing our bearings, until we found the flying column at work in a wood: among the sisters was an English lady, Miss Hopper, and in a neighbouring flying column of the Zemstva is another English sister, Miss Flamborough; the others call them "our allies." [Illustration: THE FIGHTING EAST OF THE SAN (May, June, 1915)] I was told that one of the military doctors wondered whether I was a spy. As he was going to the staff of the LL Corps, I asked him to take me with him. Here I had a kind welcome, though I happened to be without all my papers. Everything seemed to be going better. The General in command, a man of decision and much humour, was evidently in good spirits; business was barred at meals; but the position was explained to me, and it was clear that the enemy was being held. I was sent on to one of the Divisions, which had been in action for about five days. Here, in spite of the rapid changes in the _personnel_ of the officers, there was the same feeling of confidence and hope. In the evening I rode out with the General of Division on his visit to one of the regiments. Everywhere we passed fresh troops coming up. We found the regimental staff in a wood; though there were huts quite near, the Colonel preferred a series of elaborate burrows which had been made in the sand among the trees. Near these burrows we sat round a table in the twilight, while orderly masses of grey figures kept passing us in their march forward. This Colonel, a big genial man with a composure that inspired confidence, soon dropped into a conversation about old comrades. The General had commanded the O regiment, and it was painful to hear his inquiries about one after another of his officers: almost all were gone. The next day I again visited this regiment and went forward to the front. The rear was being shelled by the enemy with a good deal of shrapnel, and this seemed to be going on every day. As I got further forward I passed line after line of entrenchments and shelters, and eventually came on the front line, which was admirably complete and much more detailed than most of the positions which I had yet seen. The battalion, which was in a wood, was commanded by a fine young fellow, still a lieutenant, who exposed himself freely but took the greatest thought for his men. The enemy was only a few hundred yards off and suddenly opened a hurricane of musketry fire; practically none but explosive bullets were used; this was quite clear as they kept crashing into the trees all around us. The men, who were in fine strength and spirits, did not suffer; and such measures have been taken that the losses inflicted earlier by the German heavy artillery are very unlikely to be repeated. At no time have I seen so marked a difference in the course of a few days. When I visited the San there was still the atmosphere of the preceding operations, heroism against odds. Now there was a quiet confidence for which one could everywhere see the reason--in the troops that had come up, and the lessons that had been learned. _May 29._ Matters here continue to take a better complexion. Yesterday in the staff of the LL Corps I was given the sketch-map of the day, which showed an advance at more than one point. The regiment which I had last visited had now crossed the little brook in front of its trenches and also the larger stream which runs at some distance almost parallel with it. Of this I had painful evidence just outside headquarters. A man with face bound up had just been brought in and came forward to me making signs. On the paper which I gave him he wrote: "I am the Commander of the second battalion of the Y regiment. Where are you off to now?" It was the fine young lieutenant whom I had seen a few days back, so proud of his new command and so brisk and vigorous in all his dispositions. He wrote that he had been wounded during the attack by an explosive bullet, such as I had heard crackling against the trees when I was with his regiment. His mouth was shattered, but he was quite cool and gave no sign of pain. My companion sent him off at once by motor to the ambulance. At another point there had been a more definite advance, which, coming as it did just where the enemy had made a great effort to break through, seemed to promise results all along the line. This was the point that I decided to visit; so I was directed to a cavalry division from the Caucasus which was stationed there. I experimented in a new means of conveyance, namely a hand-truck which worked between our last station and the front. It was a sporting ride, and we went faster than a good many trains. Just before I started I was asked to carry word to a badly wounded officer that a motor was being sent for him. Alighting at a signal-box, I made my way to the place, and the poor fellow was delighted; but alas! no motor could make its way over this road, and the young man died before there were other means of moving him. Headquarters staff of the Division was a farm building crowded with fine horses and soldiers. The men wore the long black busbies and the picturesque flowing uniform of the Caucasus, with decorated sabres and bandoliers. The General was a patriarchal man with bald head and long beard, easy of manner and short and conclusive in speech. He kindly put me up in his own room, and through the night he seemed to be doing business at a great rate with the minimum of exertion. Next morning the whole position was shortly and plainly explained to me; in the night we had taken another village, and levelled up the line of our advance rightwards. I was sent to see the corresponding movement on the left. The General took me with him to one of his Brigadiers, and on the way in a few vigorous words put renewed heart into two brisk-looking batteries that lay on our road. The soldier who took me forward had the day before got a skin wound on the face from shrapnel, while carrying a message to the staff; it had not prevented him from returning to the front. The General jocularly told him that to-day he would probably get one on the other cheek. As we came out of the wood, we saw a man dodge past us, and the next minute came the explanation in the shape of a shell. The railway ran straight forward up the bare slope; and the enemy was shelling all along this line. A few hundred yards on, behind the lightest of shelters, was a hole in the ground with a telephone, which served during action for the staff of the regiment. I asked for the Colonel, and they pointed to a splendidly built man lying stretched out on the ground. I thought for a moment that he was dead, but he was only lying fast asleep under the shrapnel, after the ceaseless and arduous work of the attack. He stood up and shook himself like some noble animal, standing in the open, much against the wish of his officers. We sat and talked for some hours. The ground where we were had all been won in the night. Our present positions, temporary and little developed, were about five hundred yards further up. Our men were only six hundred yards from the Germans and had orders to advance by short stages. Some of them had already crept forward two hundred yards and were throwing up head cover on the ridge of the slope. Other parts of the ridge were still in the hands of the Germans; their trenches were plainly visible, and they were firing down on us, aiming at anything which stood upright. A soldier was sent by the railway ditch up to the front, so I went with him. The best plan after all was to walk forward, stepping out but without hurry. A little beyond the level of our lines I found some breast-high shelters on the edge of the railway ditch. Here we posted the bearers, who would wait to attend to the wounded. One got a near view of all our front. A group of some twenty men had gone forward together and were entrenching themselves; others at intervals crept forward on their own initiative on different sides; it was rather like men at a Salvation meeting, coming in, one by one, for conversions. As one was halfway up to his comrades, a shrapnel burst with a flare just above him; he lay still for a few minutes and then crawled slowly back, evidently wounded. The twenty had hardly established themselves when three shrapnels and a shell burst at intervals all along their little line. However, the slow process went on, and the line was being gradually levelled up to those who were furthest forward. This slow advance, inevitable in daytime, is very trying. The moment of greatest danger was when the men came in full view of the enemy, who from his trenches could direct his artillery fire with precision on to the Russian advance. As our men came closer in, this danger would disappear, for the German artillery in the rear would be afraid of hitting its own infantry; but this stage was still far off. I came back to the staff, and when close to it I was noticed and followed with a little shower of explosive bullets which burst near me. Beyond the railway, much the same movement was in process, except that here machine guns were at work. I made my way back to the wood; shells travelled overhead far to our rear; as each passed, the wounded men whom I was supporting jerked instinctively away from me and wished to lie down or seek any shelter. I had a long walk back, passing on the way groups of those wounded who were able to go on foot, and followed for some distance by two soldiers who were on the lookout for spies. _May 31._ I have had an interesting talk with a German officer, commander of a battery which was cut off by the Russians in a recent advance on our side. He comes from the Rhine and has lived long in Hamburg, and he inspired in his captors the greatest respect by his breeding and good feeling. We talked first of Hamburg: he described it as a dead town; trade there is, but it goes by other roads and most of the profits remain in neutral countries. The short rations in Germany he insisted were simply a measure of precaution, and latterly prices had been lowered; he had a poor opinion of potato bread. Next we talked of the Rhine Universities, which are practically emptied of students by the war. There are in the army many volunteers from the age of sixteen to that of forty-eight, but this is no indication of the depletion of material for the Army. We now got on to the main questions; he was very ready to discuss them and spoke perfectly frankly. I asked on what side Germany could hope for any deciding success. He admitted at once that no such point, of the kind that Napoleon used to look for, was to be found on any side, and he maintained that from the outset, both militarily and politically, Germany was fighting a purely defensive war, of course by frequent counter-offensives. In that case, I suggested, Germany could only have peace by our offering it, that is, by our getting tired of the war; and surely it was unfortunate that she had all of us against her at once. In reply he reminded me of the German word _Streber_, which means a restless pushing person who is always disturbing and annoying others. Economically, he said, the struggle for life in Germany had become almost impossible, of which he himself had seen many instances. Some outlet was essential, and this England and the other Powers had united to prevent. I said that for us English the issue was whether Germany should have things which we at present possess, and that we were not likely to give them up without fighting. He quite accepted this. Germany, he said, was like the troublesome boy of the school, who was dissatisfied and had a grievance, and was always making things unpleasant for all the rest, so that there was no wonder if he was not liked. I suggested that this went too far, if his own old allies, such as Italy, turned against him. He expressed a natural resentment against Italy, and said that anyhow here right was on the side of Germany, who would continue to defend herself to the end. I answered that we might disagree as to the question of right, but that I could not understand how any successful issue could be hoped for under such conditions. He was of my opinion, and twice spoke of the war as a "catastrophe." I asked, then, why Germany should persist in a policy which had obviously, especially in the case of Italy, proved to be a misguided one; we all felt admiration for the magnificent fighting power of the German army, which might have dealt successfully with us separately; but it had been set an impossible task. He replied that England had a long experience as a state and that policy with her was well thought out; Germany had only some forty years of a united existence behind her, and the policy which had led to "the catastrophe" could not, as a policy, be defended. I asked whether it was likely to be changed, and to this I neither expected nor got any answer. But it was interesting that, in spite of the great successes in western Galicia, he described the present mood of the army as nothing like the first great outburst of enthusiasm at the beginning of the war. I was later given an opportunity of examining a German private (a Hanoverian). This man had been asleep when the Russians stormed his trenches. I was interested both in the readiness of his answers, which he gave with a smiling face, and in the answers themselves. The German heavy artillery was all beyond the San, and troops were being sent away to the Italian front. Food was poor in Galicia; all the soldiers were for peace, and there was the same refrain in all the letters received from home. He had been on the western front near Reims and had made the railway journey to Neu-Sandec (Nowy Sacz) in five days. He spoke with especial respect of the first English troops, of the Russian field artillery and of the accuracy of the French heavy artillery. _June 7._ I had a talk with a staff officer of the E E Corps on the fortunes of his corps and on the German methods of advance. The corps had not been hit so hard as some others by the Austro-German impact; it helped to cover the retreat to the San, and stood to its ground beyond the river until one of its neighbours retired. When the enemy had thus got a footing beyond the river, the E E Corps made a counter-attack vigorous and successful. But the enemy pushed the next corps still further back, so that the E E's had also to rectify their line. However, they continued to make counter-attacks, at one point gaining about a mile of ground, and they were still holding good. They had at least the satisfaction of holding the forces of the enemy which were opposed to them, so that these troops could not move further along the Russian line to complete their offensive movement. This record is typical of very much of the Galician fighting, which is full of such ups and downs of attacks and of counter-attacks, and only reached decisive results by the employment, at given points, of an overwhelmingly superior heavy artillery. The German method is to mass superior artillery against a point selected and to cover the area in question with a wholesale and continuous cannonade. The big German shells, which the Russian soldiers call the "black death," burst almost simultaneously at about fifty yards from each other, making the intervening spaces practically untenable. The cannonaded area extends well to the rear of the Russian lines, and sometimes it is the rear that is first subjected to a systematic bombardment, the lines themselves being reserved for treatment later. On one of my visits the divisional and regimental staffs were being so shelled that the former had to move at once and one of the latter was half destroyed; but meanwhile there was hardly a shot along the actual front. In this way confusion is created, and reinforcements and supply are made difficult. It is the wholesale character of these cannonades that make their success, for there is nowhere to which the defenders can escape. The whole process is, of course, extremely expensive. When a considerable part of the Russian front has thus been annihilated, and when the defenders are, therefore, either out of action or in retreat, the enemy's infantry is poured into the empty space and in such masses that it spreads also to left and right, pushing back the neighbouring Russian troops. Thus the whole line is forced to retire, and the same process is repeated on the new positions. When success in one district has thus been secured, the German impact is withdrawn and again brought forward at some further part of the Russian front. In other words, the German hammer, zigzagging backwards and forwards, travels along our front, striking further and further on at one point or another, until the whole front has been forced back. The temper of this corps, as of practically all the others, is in no sense the temper of a beaten army. The losses have been severe; but with anything like the artillery equipment of the enemy, both officers and men are confident that they would be going forward. _June 10._ I rode over dull country on my way to the SS Corps, one of whose divisions I had visited a week or so before. While I sat lunching in a wood, regiments of cavalry swept past me, filling the air with dust; sometimes one could not see a horseman until he was upon one. Not far from the Staff there was a sick soldier lying by the road, with some peasants looking after him; we sent him forward on a passing army cart. The SS Corps was having an easy time after the recent fighting in a large village over three miles long which had several good clean quarters; the Polish peasants are excellent hosts. Neither side was making any move, but our Staff went up every day to the positions to direct the work of entrenching, which was being carried forward with the greatest energy. The General in command, who is very hearty and sociable, was just starting in his motor when I arrived, and he invited me to come with him. It was a far drive, and at one point we were stuck in the sand; we passed quite a number of different lines of defence, carefully planned and executed. As large drafts of recruits had come in recently, we halted at the edge of a wood and the General gathered the men round him and made them a very vigorous little speech. He described how Germany and Germans had for several years exploited Russia, especially through the last tariff treaty, which was made when Russia was engaged in the Japanese War, and set up entirely unfair conditions of exchange. He said that the German exploited and bullied everybody; and that was a thing which the peasant could understand, often from personal experience. Then he got talking of the great family of the Slavs, of little Serbia's danger and of the Tsar's championship, of Germany's challenge and of Russia's defiance. Next he spoke of the Allies and of their help. And then he spoke of the regiment, which bears a name associated with the great Suvorov; they were always, he said, sent to the hardest work, often, as now, to repair a reverse; and he spoke plainly and without fear of the recent retreat. Concluding, he told them a story of Gurko: some of his men had said that the enemy would have to pass over their bodies, and Gurko answered, "Much better if you pass over his." He ended by telling them all to "fight with their heads." In the wood he addressed another group. Both his little speeches were manly and effective, and they were very much appreciated; one of the men (I wear no epaulettes) called me to closer attention. On the further edge of the wood there were good trenches, and from them ran a long and very winding covered way to the front line of all. The enemy here was only some sixty yards off, and we could get a good view of his lines; but this day he only sent a few intermittent shrapnel over our heads. The next day we motored again to this side, which was on our extreme right flank. We left the motors and rode fast through thick brushwood. Most of us got separated from the leaders, but we picked up their tracks, and our Cossacks gave us a great gallop to catch up with them. We had tea in a beautiful wood with an outpost of the Red Cross, which was living in tents; the regimental band played to us, and gave us "God save the King." We were just beginning to talk about the stifling gases. "Confound their politics; Frustrate their knavish tricks" seemed to have a new significance. After tea we rode and walked to an artillery observation post, from which the enemy's lines were clearly visible. This day wore a holiday atmosphere, with music and snapping of photographs and the forest picnic. But the General's alertness was soon to be proved. Three days later the Germans made their new advance exactly at this point, but of that I will write later. _June 13._ Next to the L Corps on the right is one of the most famous corps in the Russian army--3 K. In this war it has been put to hard and dangerous work all over the front. At Kosienice, which saw some of the hardest fighting in the war, two regiments crossed the Vistula--the Vistula, mind; and those who have seen it will know what that means--under fire and in face of two German corps and three Austrian; another brigade of 3 K came along the river from a Russian fortress on the western bank, marching knee-deep through marsh and water with the general at its head. The two regiments that crossed moved forward to a vast forest near the river, and there they had an hour and a half's bayonet fighting--one may imagine what that means. An enormous number of officers went down; the B's lost forty, and the S's in the course of those five days had seven successive officers killed while commanding the regiment. In the midst of the bayonet fighting, when most of the Russian officers fell, some of the Germans shouted out in Russian, "Don't fight your own men!" and in the confusion which followed the Russians left the forest and lay, half in marsh and with only the most elementary cover, under a devastating artillery fire; however, they held their ground on this bank of the river, and, as soon as they were reinforced, they again moved forward and scattered the Germans, drove them off westward, and then pushed the Austrians, in more than a week of fighting, beyond Kielce, where they feasted their triumph with the old corps song, "God has given victory." After this followed arduous fighting in the Czenstochowa region. Later the corps went to the eastern Carpathians to stem an Austro-German advance, and it was thence brought rapidly across to the assistance of our army when the tremendous artillery impact of the enemy fell on Galicia between Gorlice and Tarnow. I first saw General Irmanov the day he had entered Kielce. He is one of the most remarkable and sympathetic figures of the whole war. I saw what seemed an old man of middle height, of sturdy figure, with a curious outward kink in his walk as of one who had lived much on horseback; he has a singularly peaceful and gentle face, with a high colour and grey hair and beard; a child-like simplicity and directness blended with a fatherly benevolence; but the suggestion of different ages ends, when one sees much of the General, in one's forgetting age altogether. The voice is a mild, high one which sometimes comes out like a little bark. I had a long talk then with General Irmanov, and for every one of my questions got a clear and full answer. Irmanov was not a General Staff officer; in peace and off duty he lives a quiet domestic life in his mountain home. His staff is like a family; there is a peculiar smartness and spirit in the salute when the General appears and all line up to greet him. He mounts without delay and is off in a moment; he is one of the fastest riders in the army, and in a few minutes his suite, trained riders as they are, are all streaming behind him. In the battle of Gorlice the corps was set a desperate task. It was to turn the German flank and get to the devastating heavy artillery and take it. It is always shorter to go forward than to go back; and this was the one way in which bold hands could beat metal. When I first heard the order, some one said, "Irmanov can do it"; and he very nearly succeeded. The Prussian Guard Reserve was against him, and their prisoners, who held their heads high in other matters, were all agreed as to the heroism of 3 K. There followed tremendous rearguard fighting, battles or marches every day. The corps was 40,000 when it marched on the guns; it was 8000 when it stood covering the Russian rear beyond the river San. It was 6000 when it made its counter-advance on Sieniawa, and then it took 7000 prisoners and a battery of heavy artillery. Not much of the beaten army in this! I reached the pleasing white farmhouse in which the staff of the corps lived, and felt at home from the first. They made me feel myself to be one of the party; there was no ceremony, but the General, who found time for everything, saw to it himself that I had a little room of my own, which he visited to see that all was in order. Next day he asked me whether I would like to go with a colonel of Cossacks. This seemed simple enough. We went to the colonel's quarters, took a quick lunch and then mounted. The whole regiment, I noticed, was behind us; we started at a dashing pace, breaking a way through thick forest, the branches often lashing our faces. The Germans had come through at one point, and we were on our way to stop them; if we found them on the march, the regiment would charge; if they were taking cover, we should take cover opposite them and possibly advance on foot to a counter-attack, in which the Cossack's sword would replace the infantry bayonet. At a signal all heads were uncovered and, while we still rode forward, there rose a solemn hymn which is always sung before action. Later the colonel said, "We have been serious long enough; let's have some songs"; and with the music of the Don and Caucasus rising and falling we rode forward. I had begun to wonder what exactly was my part in the day's business--for I was riding, with only a Red Cross brassard, next to the colonel--when we were all told to dismount, hide in a wood and await further orders. We were here for about two hours; I woke from a good sleep to see the divisional general come out of his hut with our colonel. The General made vigorous gestures which I thought must be an order for attack; but it turned out just the opposite. The gestures meant that the German advance had already been stopped, and the colonel came back, saying, "Got to go home." From my point of view it was just as well, for I am sure I could have done nothing to help except fall off. We rode slowly back in the evening; and every now and then the men sang long melodies that fitted the hour and the bare plains. _June 16._ The day after our ride there was nothing doing, and it was difficult to make any plan. I spent most of the day lying about the big garden, as many of the soldiers did. There were pleasant gullies, and beyond lay the long, rambling, white-walled village with a pretty church. The village girls were all on the way thither dressed in bright colours. It seemed that there were services twice a day; and the people, who were Poles, met whenever they heard the cannon, to pray for the success of the Russian arms. I sat for some time in the church. The younger girls all knelt before the chancel and sang a long and beautiful prayer, into which, in the second half of each stave, there joined the voices of the men behind. Then the priest, who looked both kind and clever, had a talk with the younger children. Poland is one of the few countries where all the church music is congregational, and it is often sung very beautifully. For the Pole the church is the fortress and shelter of his country; and in this terrible war, which has fallen so hardly on Poland, this comfort is more needed and more real than ever. It is many times that the inhabitants of this region, especially old peasant women, have told me how they feared the coming of the Germans. The Staff was a very pleasant company. The chief, also a general, had the face and manner of a conscientious English country gentleman; he was widely read in military history, and his judgments were always weighed. The senior adjutant had been contusioned and invalided, but somehow had managed to return almost at once; he was humorous and talkative; in his room he had a placard, "There is no air in this room, don't spoil your health and GO AWAY." Over the General's door he had written, "Don't disturb work or rest." Two officers examined our prisoners, assisted by a Czech interpreter. There was one very militant Austrian German, who would have it that Austria would win; he was so rude about the Austrian Slavs that I asked him at the end whether Austria wanted the Slavs. He said they wished to be quit of Galicia, and in fact of all their Slav provinces; I suggested that Austria proper and Tirol might find their natural place inside the German empire; he answered with alacrity, "Of course, far better under Wilhelm II." It is a view which offers possibilities of a settlement; but I did not see how it would suit Austria. In the evening the Cossacks, encamped in different groups in the wood, struck up their strange songs and the Russian national hymn, which they have their own way of singing, suggestive of cadences in the music of the north of England. I came back from a walk in the cornfields to hear that the General invited me to come with him the next day. At eight in the morning all was movement. We made a vigorous start, and went off at a great pace towards our left flank, the point which I had already visited when with the SS Corps. The General missed nothing. He had a salute in his little high voice for every one: "Good day, sapper," "Good day, cavalier" (to any soldier with the George Cross); and men standing far away across the fields drew themselves to sharp attention to anticipate him with their lusty greeting. "Thank you for your trouble," he said, whenever we passed a group of men at work. At one point he galloped right away from all the lot of us, and when we caught him up he said, "I thought somehow he looked like my son." He turned round several times to ask, "Is the Englishman there?" and insisted on superintending the adjustment of my stirrups. After passing several lines of entrenchments, we came to the front line. Here he ordered us all to stay on the edge of a wood and went forward into the open alone, diving into the trenches, talking with one man or another, patting them on the back and distributing rewards for bravery. He was soon back again from his scramble and said he must have an observation point. They took us to a tree with a ladder against it; the tree was outside our lines. He was up it in an instant. "They can come at us from three sides under cover here," he said, pointing to the surrounding woods. "Go up and have a look"; then, "Who's on our flank?" for we were at the limit of our positions. The answer did not satisfy him, nor did the reply which he received from a neighbouring regiment; he made the necessary dispositions and was off on horseback. As we passed behind our lines we met a Red Cross outpost, where we made a short halt. A little further on there passed us at full gallop four regiments of Cossacks on their way to relieve our neighbours on the left, where, as we now knew, the Germans were breaking through. As we passed, the General called a salute to each regiment by name and to officers or soldiers in person; and we saluted each flag as the Cossacks swept past in full swing. We pulled up sharp at the Staff of the brigade. The General had the men out and talked to them; to the candidates presented for the George he said, "I will give it to any one who accounts for ten Germans;" then he spoke of England, and asked me to give a greeting, so I told them how grateful we were for all that they had done for the Allies, and how we meant to do our full share of the work. Rewards were distributed, and we were off for home; but we had hardly got there, with every one except the General fairly tired, when he ordered his motor to take him off to his opposite flank, the right. He invited me to come with him, and I asked leave to spend the night in the trenches of the Q regiment, which held that flank. He gave his leave, as there was no disquieting news from that side, and my traps were put in the motor. We had a long push through the oceans of sand, but at last were travelling along the rear of the right flank. At one point some sinister hand, well in the rear of our front, had laid a whole line of fire through a great wood. Suddenly there opened before us such a sight as I had seen at the beginning of the great fighting in Galicia when I was with the J Corps. There was one long line of fire, shell on shell bursting at close intervals and almost continuously in the twilight, with a deafening noise, though we were some way in the rear. It was the smashing tactics again--and again at the expense of the J Corps--which had suffered so much in the previous fighting. General Irmanov thought for a moment that we had gone beyond our own positions; but it proved otherwise. We found the Staff of the Division in a garden outside a hut. It was a General whom I had met elsewhere, with a new Chief of the Staff, very conscientious and painstaking. With a lamp on the table we sat in the garden and heard the news. At four o'clock the Q's were intact. The neighbouring regiment of the J Corps, which was only at half strength, had had to retire from its positions; and the Q's, with their flank uncovered, were pounded till they had but few men left. These retreated in good order, guarding as best they could against further outflanking; but there was no question of getting to them that night. In a single day our corps, which the enemy respected enough to leave till last, had been turned on both flanks; and at each of the threatened points so far distant from each other, General Irmanov, who could not have anticipated the danger, had managed to be on the spot as soon as it presented itself. _June 19._ The morning after our return from the right flank every one was very busy, and the best thing that one could do was not to get in the way. I had a chat with the Chief of the Staff, who, when he could snatch an interval at an anxious time, usually spent it with one of the more fantastic novels of Mr. H. G. Wells. We talked of the military reputations of the war. He told me we were engaged along our whole front; I had thought of getting to the regiment which I had accompanied near Biecz, and which belonged to this corps; but he said that it was difficult to send me. Shortly afterwards, in the most business-like way, everything in the house was packed; we, too, were to retreat. General Irmanov believed in meeting attack by counter-attack, and almost every day his corps had contrived some surprise for the enemy, usually by night; on the day of my arrival it took over a thousand prisoners. Altogether the corps had taken in prisoners much more than its own original strength. But this time there were reasons which made retreat imperative. "If I had what I need," said the General, "I should advance to-morrow." The retreat was conducted in the most perfect order. The General visited on his way the new line of entrenchments, which had been prepared with great care. I accompanied the senior adjutant to the new quarters, which were only four and a half miles off, but, alas! beyond the old frontier and in Russian Poland. What of our friends, the poor inhabitants, whom we left behind? In our new halting-place I could not fail to notice the delicacy of the corps authorities in their arrangements for their quarters. Everything was done to lessen the inconvenience for the townspeople; and the General's own quarters were asked, rather than claimed, of the local priest. The General had given a special order as to my own accommodation; I was again to have a room of my own. By now I was coming to a conclusion which I had long been considering. I had visited these last corps to complete my information on some points which seemed to me to be of the first importance, not only to the army, but to Russia and to the allies. The data, of which I now had much more than enough, were overwhelming in what they indicated. Clearly the troops had lost not an atom of their fighting spirit; equally clearly they were fighting under the most unfair conditions and would continue to do so until their technical equipment, in arms and munitions, was much more on a level with that of the enemy. I wished to report in person what I had seen; and in this conclusion I was encouraged by the General. He thought I should not wait for the end of these operations, which might last a long while, but that I should be off as soon as possible. "Come back and live with us when we've got what we want," he said; "and we'll show you how we use it." He gave me his motor to go and pick up my luggage. It was a curious journey. Apparently I had twelve miles to go, but one could not tell how fast the enemy was advancing elsewhere. We ourselves were retreating twelve miles next day. Besides, the roads were mostly a hopeless waste of sand, in which motors stuck fast and had to be dragged out by horses. I was therefore advised to make a circuit of something like eighty miles. For most of this distance I had a glorious paved road, constructed, I believe, by a Polish count, and certainly as good as asphalte. Late at night I was only five miles from my luggage: but it took me till the morning--something like seven hours--to get over those five miles, and it was a wonder that we got through at all, for the aquatic feats of the chauffeur were astonishing. However, by the evening of the next day I was with the Staff of the army and making all preparations for going further. Among the Staff I found not the slightest trace of agitation. The situation was fully recognised, and there was a clear-cut plan for dealing with it. I saw all my friends, got all further information that I needed, and started for Moscow and Petrograd. The last words of the Chief of the Staff of the army were these: "Be sure to say, after everything else, that we won't consider a separate peace and that we are perfectly confident of the final result." DIARY OF AN AUSTRIAN OFFICER DURING THE AUSTRO-GERMAN RECONQUEST OF GALICIA [This officer served in the 12th Rifle Battalion of the 10th Austrian Division. He was at the front opposite the Russians in the neighbourhood of Gorlice. He took part in the Austro-German advance from that place, which was the point selected for the first and most crushing artillery attack by the enemy. With an interval due to indisposition, he advanced as far as Sieniawa. This Diary, in many particulars, supplies interesting confirmation of the intelligence on the Russian side. I was myself for some part of this period opposite to the troops in which the Austrian officer was fighting. The chief value of the Diary is the way in which it illustrates the striking contrast between the very great successes of the enemy's artillery fire and the inferiority of the spirit of the enemy's troops to that of the retreating Russians. I am fully persuaded that no such Diary could have been written in any of the Russian regiments with which I was during this period.--B. P.] _March 18._--At 7.45 p.m. we left Liebertz.[2] It was a merry send-off. They gave us lots of flowers, cigarettes and a bottle of liquor; the band plays and the train slowly moves off. I am very tired and soon go to sleep. _March 21._--At 8.45 a.m. we arrived at Gribow. We had a rest at Rona. The detachment was reviewed by the Commander of the corps. The chief thing is to keep up the men's spirits. In the night of March 23 there was to have been an attack on our flag. We bivouacked at Lossie. There I found our field train with Siegel Novak and Kolaris. _March 22._--At 10 o'clock in the morning we marched out to Riechwald; the roads were sunk in mud. Kolaris tells us of a four days' fight at Sekow; of his company there were very few left. The division is attacking the heights with the Imperial Rifles, the 26th and the 21st. The Commander of our company was told that in the trenches there were about fifty Russians who were only waiting for us to surrender. When we attacked we found as a matter of fact that we had no less than two Russian regiments against us with four machine guns.[3] The company of Kahlen marches out to a bare hill, but is met by a murderous fire and is almost destroyed. The Little Russians are almost all left on the field, either dead or seriously wounded. They are very lacking in initiative and resource. When one goes up-hill the heavy knapsack is a great hindrance. According to what the officers think and what the soldiers say, this attack was an evident impossibility. Of the officers there fell Nietsche and Haube. Heavily wounded were Andreis, Lajad and Ensign Steiner. Riechwald is a dirty Ruthenian village. Near the church we buried Ensign Buhlwas. Our company is in the trenches eastward of Riechwald in the direction of the Dukla Pass. The company has been in the trenches there for seven days in all. At times the Russian artillery bombards our trenches. Our cannon reply. After dinner, work. Close to us on the right there burst two shrapnels, and two hundred yards from my house a Russian shell went past. In front of us, twenty yards away, there is a hut with our Staff. Not long ago a shell fell there; luckily there was no one here. In the evening at 9 o'clock the company returned from the trenches. _March 24._--At 5 o'clock in the morning there was an alarm. We go off to the trenches to relieve the 21st Regiment. Our trenches are not very sound. We are always improving them. The Russians look at us from their trenches, but do not fire.[4] They, too, are working at their trenches. Our sixteen-year-old volunteer went out on the Mahlsdorf side _and saw there_ seven Austrian soldiers. Perhaps they were Russians disguised. The Brigadier-General has forbidden us to send any scouting parties to Mahlsdorf. The 21st Regiment sent out a Czech and a German scouting party, but neither of them came back. We could not hear any firing.[5] In front of our trenches there is a wire entanglement, at which we put a sentry, to listen, especially at night, when any danger appears.[6] By night our outposts fire on the Russians, but the firing soon dies away.[7] _March 25._--We have come out of the trenches. In the evening we all sat together and had a good time with music and beer. The news came that Przemysl had fallen. Probably now the Russians will march on Dukla and on Krakow. Lots of complaints against our generals. No one has anything to say in favour of our offensive.[8] _March 26._--We are now in the reserve of the division. The second company is going off to Dziara, where a Russian attack is expected. We are leaving the village. _March 27._--The second company has come back. The Russians did not attack. Jeschko took a scouting detachment and went off towards Mahlsdorf. There he caught two soldiers of the 21st Regiment. I went out riding beyond Riechwald. After dinner, work. All round there are lots of crosses. On the bridge they were carrying a dead soldier; in front of him was a heap of straw. Infectious disease is beginning.[9] _March 28._--The 26th Regiment has been joined by the 59th. A Divisional Order has been issued that too many men are surrendering.[10] At 6 o'clock in the morning two soldiers brought in by Jeschko were shot.[11] One was twenty-one, the other twenty-five. They were buried near the road with a third, who was shot by a sentry for not knowing the password. The first and second companies are digging trenches. All day rain and snow. Work with the company till 3 o'clock. In the evening a lot of snow fell. At 8 o'clock in the evening the company of Kahlen starts off from Ropica Russka, to scout--to find out what regiments are in front of us. In front of the Mahlsdorf crest we discovered that we had the 34th and 248th Russian Regiments. The Russians use Czechs as scouts. The Commander of the 10th Division has given a prize of 500 crowns to catch a man.[12] Nestarowicz is ill; so is our doctor. The Russians every day get bolder and more impudent. They know when dinner is sent to the trenches and break out laughing, and before the signal is given they shout out to the 36th Regiment: "Thirty-sixth, to your coffee!" They also freely employ N.C.O's who know German. Not long ago a Russian N.C.O. came up boldly to our wire entanglements of the 18th Regiment and began abusing our men in German, telling them "they had better not go catching crows but hide in the trenches at once." And indeed our brave recruits diligently executed his orders.[13] _March 29._--We are working at the trenches on the Magora. The scouting detachment of the 59th Regiment sent to Mahlsdorf has lost 14 killed. A stray bullet killed a N.C.O. of Sappers. In the evening we had dinner together in honour of the arrival of Major Eisen. _March 30._--Heavy snow is falling. In the morning, work. Cannonade was to-day weak. After dinner, confession; nearly all the soldiers went. _April 1._--In the morning, work. The Russian artillery is strongly bombarding Sekov. Strict orders to be on the alert. After dinner our artillery bombards Ropica. In Sekov the Russians have occupied the bridge, which was guarded by the Imperial Rifles. Meisler is promoted to the Second Rifle Regiment. Wittner is going off to hospital.[14] _April 2._--In the morning we dig trenches towards Dziara. Two of our aeroplanes circle over the Russian trenches. Above Gorlice, there is a heavy artillery duel.[15] A splendid day. About 5 o'clock three Russian shrapnels burst over one of our aeroplanes, but it fortunately got away. In the evening Jeschko is again off to Mahlsdorf with his scouts. I very much want a drink, but there is no water, nor beer nor wine.[16] _April 3._--We are digging trenches. After dinner we were free. A magnificent day. Winternitz has brought champagne, cakes, wine ... and oranges. In the evening we all met at the doctor's. There was a sudden alarm. _April 4._--At 3.45 a.m. we marched out of Riechwald. At Dukla there was a strong artillery duel. We go through Laszenian and Lovica to Prislak. Very warm. Impassable marshes. We met Major Braunlich of the Second Rifle Regiment. I had dinner with him. We had only just finished our soup when the order came to go over our positions with Silberbauer. In the wood I parted with the Major. We came on a post where there were a colonel, major, captain and a lieutenant. They entertained us hospitably, but all were anxious for peace.[17] In the evening we came to the trenches. We are working hard. There is water everywhere. As soon as you think of lying down there comes the order to go on. All are discontented. We marched up to the knees in mud. On the road we received letters. Mary hopes I will have a pleasant Easter. I was so tired I could not move a yard. We forded a pretty deep brook. One soldier, while crossing, sprained his leg. At 3 o'clock in the morning we reached Kwieton. I drove out the bearers and slept on a stretcher. _April 5._--I cannot stand on my legs, and throw away my socks. I and the Staff Captain have got a rather nice room. They say that the Russians at Gorlice wanted a three days' truce,[18] but it was not granted. In the evening there was heavy musketry fire. One hundred yards from us a house is on fire. The machine gunners of the 59th Regiment have lost a lot of saddles and harness. At 10 o'clock there comes the news that the Russians are repulsed. _April 6._--Splendid day. We were again ordered to join the 8th I.T. Division as reserve. They have brought a machine which destroys.... To it were tied an old man and a ten-year-old boy. The boy had eyes like a hawk; he knows men of all ranks and puts all the work on the old man. There were salvos of artillery. In the evening a hundred yards off us the house with our machine guns is set on fire. The ammunition blows up; the soldiers, barefoot and without uniform, rush out into the marsh. One soldier and a lot of harness were burned.[19] _April 7._--At 4 a.m. there is an alarm. We put our bags on a cart. We had a rest at Rona. We spent the night with a Jew. Two pretty Jewesses offered their services. Ludwig sings, after which he throws out of the house the Honved Staff Corporal, who was here drinking champagne. Before this we met in the village a pretty Pole. There were Honveds, who are worse than Cossacks.[20] In November the Jew entertained here a Russian General and his staff. The Polish lady entertained us with cakes, and even knows German. _April 8._--After a wretched night in the Jew's house we occupied some trenches above Cieszkowice. We are relieving the Honveds. I met by chance Lieutenant Spalen. I was very glad to see him. The trenches are very good and dry. The Russians are nine hundred yards off. We have in front of my squad three machine guns. In the evening they open fire on us in honour of our arrival. _April 9._--At 2 a.m. a Russian scouting party and two squads came out of the wood. At 4 our machine guns fired on them. We were exchanging shots the whole day. _April 10._--The Russians get their breakfast earlier than we do. In the evening they attacked to our left, where they set a house on fire. It is very dull; I have a cold and want to sleep. The Russians keep throwing earth straight into my beer; they shoot so well at my mud hut. At night I send out scouts. _April 11._--Life goes slowly. We got newspapers a week old and I read them diligently all through. The Russians fire now and then. _April 12._--The day has gone rather quietly. The 4th Company has taken prisoner a Russian deserter, a Jew.[21] _April 13._--There are lots of wounded in the 2nd and 4th Companies. At 11 p.m. the Russians attacked the 80th Honved Regiment to the left of us, but were beaten off. _April 14._--At 5 a.m. the Russians attacked the 56th Regiment on our left flank. They took prisoner a lieutenant, commanding the company, and about thirty privates. Our artillery, however, drove them out of our trenches.[22] _April 15._--The whole day we were exchanging shots. It was a simply hellish night. The Russians at midnight made six attacks. The Russian heavy mortars threw about 150 shells at a copse not far from my squad. Our artillery replied. The attack is chiefly directed against the 80th Regiment and part of our company, where two huts were smashed. Two men wounded. _April 16._--A recruit named Szebek was killed close to the trench. He was carrying wood. In the evening we put up a wire entanglement and took prisoner a Russian of a scouting party, who came too near to our wire entanglement. _April 17._--At 3 a.m. a Russian scouting party tried to get through our wire entanglements, but was observed and beaten off. In the evening another strong artillery duel. We are improving our trenches. _April 18._--We are almost all ill. The Russians worry us all day. No one dares to show himself in the communication passage, otherwise bullets whistle over our head.[23] We are making wire entanglements. _April 19._--The morning was quiet. At mid-day there began a strong cannonade by our artillery. The Russians replied with only a few shots. A Russian aeroplane. Towards evening the Russian machine guns again fire on my house. We were to be relieved. The order was issued, but has been cancelled. We are waiting for the 9th marching battalion, which ought to arrive about now. _April 20._--A normal day. The 9th marching battalion arrived and brought us 54 men. _April 21._--We were relieved by the 90th Magyar Foot Regiment. Awful disorder. In the evening we slept in Cieszkowice. The Russians, as we march off, show they know what is happening. _April 22._--Nearly the whole day quiet. I sleep on a sofa. _April 23._--They say that we shall be put in reserve. What a long time they have left us here! _April 24._--They say that German regiments are coming.[24] At Gribow a Russian airman dropped a bomb on the station. At night there was a lot of shooting in the trenches. _April 25._--Lots of aeroplanes. The Russian cannon and machine guns are firing at our airships. I am entertaining Spalen. He says that on one of the lines a Honved battalion has communication with a Russian. The Russians send champagne and caviare. I myself saw the Russian soldiers and ours walking about together between the trenches, the distance being not more than 300 yards. Three German batteries have arrived. They say that we are going to pass to the offensive. _April 26._--In the morning and afternoon, work with the recruits. The German General was surprised that we had not taken the offensive earlier. I have changed my quarters and am sleeping in a bed. In the evening there was a strong cannonade. The windows shook. Sleep was out of the question. _April 27._--In the morning it rained. Orders to march at mid-day; cancelled. The German Guard is marching. They are going in the direction of Bartieczew. There are already some wounded at the bridge, for the Russian artillery hits the columns, which scatter over the slopes. Our artillery replies. In the evening we go into reserve. _April 28._--In the morning we get up late. Two German aeroplanes are reconnoitring the ground. Two of our companies are to attack, the third and fourth in reserve. I sleep very badly in a mud hut. _April 29._--Katz is ill. A great attack is in preparation. Six corps of the German Guard have come from France, to our part of the front. The post is stopped; writing is forbidden; my poor Mary! _April 30._--We are drawn up in attacking order opposite Rzepeinik. Four hundred of our cannon thunder against the heights at Gollanka.[25] At 9 o'clock in the evening we cut through our wire entanglements. The 1st and 2nd company go forward to the attack, and we behind them in reserve. We lose connexion. The trenches are empty; there is no one there.[26] At last, after three-quarters of an hour, we find other trenches. We have advanced 1-1/2 kilometres. We entrench ourselves. Katz wants us to entrench in the open in front of the wood, but I advise on the edge of the wood as the enemy's artillery cannonades us on our flank.[27] We have scarcely begun entrenching ourselves when heavy Russian mortars open fire on us. That night was awful. I sit with Janikowski (my orderly); no one speaks. We press our backs against the clay dug-out. The side of the trench is an admirable defence from the firing. The shrapnels burst all round us, lighting up the surroundings with a hellish fire. Janikowski shuts his eyes and does not want to look. I try to begin talking. The clay keeps on crumbling into the trench from the impact of the air. I think of every one at home. I think of Mary. I think of the action of shells and wonder how it was possible to invent such a terrible thing. It is dawning. Thank God. The shells no longer shine up in the darkness and do not seem so terrible. Now our two batteries have begun to talk. Beneath me I hear soldiers talking. They want to get breakfast. The Muscovite has, perhaps, stopped already. I remain silent. They get me beams to cover my trench in case the Russians should think of bombarding us again. I go off to sleep. _May 1._--About 6 I woke up. Janikowski has made some coffee. Where he got it is for me a mystery. I stretch myself and feel altogether knocked up, as my legs were higher than my head. Our artillery thunders in salvos all round. We wait. At 11 o'clock the guard regiment with the 21st is to go to the attack. It is already mid-day. It is only now that musketry fire has suddenly begun. Our men are talking. The Russian cannon fire straight on to us. We have to go forward in the direction of Rzepeinik. It is in the valley in front of us. My squad has three or four men crawling forward. The Russian shrapnel bursts a few yards off us. I and Katz go to the left. The bullets whistle past us. Our people are pressing the Russians on the right flank. After two hours we all go forward. In front of us the village of Rzepeinik is in flames. The 21st Regiment has had enormous losses. We receive orders to take the southern slope of the hill from Kazalow. The Russians fire on our flank from the left of Gollanka. The hillock is taken. We have only two or three wounded. I sleep in a hut in front of which are our trenches. _May 2._--At 8 a.m. orders to march. With the 2nd Rifle Regiments we go up through the wood on Dobrotyn, Hill 517. We come under fire of the Russian artillery. We have to go forward as quick as we can. We march in column. One shell burst on the first column and knocked out 8 men--2 killed, 4 seriously wounded, 2 slightly wounded. A volunteer is killed. We go forward at a run. The shrapnel bursts behind us. We several times march forward round Hill 517. In the end we entrench for the night. _May 3._--Morning. We move forward as the reserve of the I T Division. Three short advances and then an order came to take Hill 417 (Obzar) with the Rifles. It is 3 o'clock already. We turn from the road into the wood. We are to attack at night. At 6 o'clock we are ready. We go round the wood. It begins to get dark. The 3rd company has to cover a battalion on its left. We lose connexion with the front line. Katz runs back and I come out on to the road. Katz is unnerved. He has lost connexion. He wants to lead his company from behind. I run forward to Katz and in person order the company to disperse into attack order and advance up the hill. In front of us are our sentries. I meet the squad of Ensign Minster. I take it with me. By this time we are come up to the reserve company of Canicani. I determine to attack along the road. Canicani goes first. We make our way for a whole hour parallel with the crest of the hill. It is dark. Left of us the houses are on fire, where the Russians were in the morning. We have certainly gone forward a long way, and the Russian left flank is able to turn us. We turn back. Midnight. We want to stay on the road in the wood. We have found a company of the 18th Regiment to the left, and to the right is the 80th. We entrench. _May 4._--Three a.m. Obzar is in our hands. We may expect a Russian artillery attack. We entrench ourselves on the Obzar Hill. In a hut by the road they have got us breakfast. I entrench myself with the chief of scouts, Altman, who was a volunteer from Liebertz. At 11 o'clock we get wine and something to eat. Katz and Hoffmann go off to hospital. Lieutenant Kahl takes over the company. At 5 a.m. we are relieved by the 98th, and go in the direction of Wyzjowa, Hill 419. Between Obzar and Wyzjowa we entrench for the night. _May 5._--The Prussian Guard is attacking to the right of us. All round huts are burning. The Russian batteries fire past us. Our batteries are going off to their positions. Behind, one catches sight of a group of cavalry. We bivouac in a courtyard. The second company of Canicani sends out sentries towards Wyzjowa. What is Mary doing? May is the month of love, and my dear one is asleep at home. Shall I return? I believe, I believe; it is by belief that I live. We have taken prisoner a Russian N.C.O., a gunner. _May 6._--Alarm at 4 a.m. We march in the advanced guard and are to go to the river Wislok. With fifteen men I go scouting, direction of Wyzjowa, Dembow and Blazkow, or rather south of Blazkow, Hill 291. We are to reconnoitre the course of the river Wislok to see if the enemy is there. I go with Polnerycz; he goes off a little to the north. We get to Czerinne. In the morning there were Cossacks here everywhere. Every one is afraid of the Germans.[28] On the road, we buy some eggs. We got to the top of the hill, and in front of us lay the Wislok. We could not advance further. German scouts. The Russian artillery is cannonading us from the opposite heights. I and my men look for cover in a deep ditch. Only two go forward on their knees up the hill, and keep a look out; two I send to a hut to cook some potatoes. Columns are moving along the road to Blazkow. I think it is our battalion coming up. I send two men to the village and meanwhile read the newspaper. At my order the thinned ranks go forward. God of Mercy have mercy on us. I wonder who of us will survive. Two o'clock. We eat some potatoes. The battalion is in the village. I go forward to it. We got there safely. In the village two of our batteries are taking up position. We get some dinner. Unexpectedly there arrive two civilians. I thought I knew one of them. Just then he came up to me and said in pure German, "Sir, I have the honour to report myself from captivity." It was Tandler of my squad, who with Palme, of the Rifles, was taken prisoner by the Russians in December and escaped. They were disguised as Poles. Tandler spoke Bohemian well, and the Russians took him for a Pole. The other pretended to be dumb. The schoolmaster of the village of Blazkow helped them. The first company went forward towards the river. At night we were to attack the heights beyond the river. The Russians have burned the bridges. We must ford the river. I left my knapsack in the kitchen and took with me only my field glasses, ... spade and revolver. At 12 o'clock we get up, have a meal and drink black coffee. We come to the river, the 4th company in front, at 2 a.m. The road was very dusty. Behind us a Russian shell set the hut on fire. Our 4th company arrived at the burned bridge. Just then we came under a rain of bullets. All lay down. Next to me was Sub-Lieutenant Bader. I call Kahlen and want to give orders but it is no use. We run along the marsh to the bank of the river; I see its shining surface. Just one plunge forward and, with the name of God, we are in the water. Some fall behind in the water. I see that the copse on the opposite bank is full of our men and hear the rear ranks coming through the river. About 600 yards from us a hut was set on fire, and lit up the house to the right. We are going towards the flaming hut. The sub-lieutenant doesn't want to go forward, saying that he has no orders. I lost him. Our right flank is already engaged. We hear a Russian machine gun. I send an orderly to the left and want to know who is there, as so far there is not a sound on that side. We run forward about 300 yards and begin going up the hill. At 100 or 115 yards in front of us we see the trenches. I don't know whether they are Russians' or ours. The firing does not slacken. If the Russians have gone, then they may come back. "Forward," I shout, "first battalion, forward, hurrah," but no one wants to move. All our men turn to the left, and no one listens to me. Only when I repeat the order and explain that there are very few Russians, they go forward. Three or four Russians are still firing; the rest throw away their guns and throw up their hands, about seventy. I leave four men with them and go forward. To the left of us the Russian machine guns are firing on our flank. We are joined by a company of the 2nd Rifles. I direct them quickly to the left, where I see flashes of musketry fire. Myself I go at a quick pace to the hill. I see that the Russians are returning and can easily turn our 4th company. Quickly forward. It is sad to think of so many lives. The will of God be done. Just then I heard from behind shouts of hurrah and bullets whistling. This was the reserve of the 98th Regiment, which was going to attack the Russians whom we had already taken prisoners, and took us for retreating Russians. They fire at us with machine gun. I shout out, use my whistle and at last succeed in stopping the fire. I look round to the left and see that Captain Tezera coming up. I am very tired, tortured with thirst and can hardly stand on my legs. With a gesture I explain to him the position of affairs to the left. He is wounded in the hand. Our men quickly entrench on the hill. Czwanczara takes me to a hut and makes some coffee. They now suggest that I should go to the first-aid point. I am in the village of Bukowa. I wait for Janikowski with clean linen, so as to change. The Russian shrapnels are bursting in Bukowa, above which are our trenches. After paying the hostess I go to look for the doctor. Everywhere there is a mass of wounded, ours and the Russians. Some dead Russians lie on the road. In the hut I happen to meet our major. I tell him that I am going off. He seems very annoyed, and says that he has no one to replace me. The doctor of the 2nd Rifles looked me over. He was anxious about my lungs, otherwise it was simply fatigue and a bad cold. At the first-aid point there were a mass of wounded; lots of them ours. I met Janikowski. I heard from him that among the wounded were Boguslaw, Minster, Klein, Tepser, Werner, Silberbauer, seriously; and killed Radlenbacher, Gezl, Scoutmaster Malina, and Altman. The field hospital was in the school. There were many wounded in head and chest and stomach. I slept with the slightly wounded, and had a fairly good night. _May 8._--We went by cart to Tuchow. The road was broken up. We stopped in Jedlowa. I had a talk with the commander of the corps, Kraliczek. After dinner we arrived in Tuchow. The bridge had been burned by the Russians. Lots of houses had been smashed by our artillery.[29] There were thousands of wounded lying there. Colonel Szeol of the 21st told me of the fighting in Serbia where he was earlier with the 79th.[30] He is a Czech. Boguslaw is angry because they won't allow us to bury Silberbauer, in case of his death, in the garden of the estate, where many Russians were wounded. In the town nothing was to be bought. _May 9._--They have brought in lots of wounded. In the evening it turned out that there were 600 new wounded. I wrote to Mary. _May 10._--Slept well, and had a walk in the town. Appetite returned. _May 11._--We were invited to supper by the staff doctor. To-day there arrived sisters of mercy and with them a captain, under whose orders they were. The wife of the doctor, who is in prison in Russia, is living with the captain, as husband and wife; rather early. _May 12._--They promised us a cart from the corps field train, but it went off under our noses. Luck brought us a Jew from Sanc with a trap. We got off through Ryplica, Jedlowa and ... to Wielopole. _May 13._--Got up at 6. The cart was already at the door. Our men are already beyond Rzeszow. At 8 p.m., very tired, we reached Rzeszow. Everywhere we could get bread, rolls, etc. They say the Russians have sent off from here lots of prisoners (to Russia). _May 14._--Got up at 6. Travelled very fast, but in spite of a four-hour drive did not catch any one up. We dined in despair, waiting for our servants. Only towards evening to our joy we found them at last. We travelled on; the springs of our cart broke. In the evening we catch up the field train. Lieutenant Koblentz has been killed by a shot in the mouth. Lieutenant Szipdelarz has been wounded in the leg. _May 15._--Went forward to my battalion through Zolinia, Bidaczew and Lezaisko. At 12 o'clock, found my company at the manor near Zwiedzinicz. Presented myself to the major and went off to cover the artillery. The Russians sent us about 800 shells and burned 3 houses behind us, killing 6 men, wounding 3 and killing 2 horses. The 30th Regiment standing in reserve had 3.... Two telephonists were wounded. The San is only a kilometre off. _May 16._--Slept in mud hut. Firing all night. In the morning the Russian artillery was trying to find ours. All afternoon a vigorous artillery duel. _May 17._--At 2 a.m. we got breakfast. Near us were twelve batteries and behind two batteries of heavy mortars. The Russians kept firing incessantly. The 1st company has six dead. Towards evening the 30th Regiment arrived to relieve us; however, it will only do so at 11. The Russians keep on entertaining us with salvos of artillery. We are going along a lime alley; behind us near a cottage is the staff of our regiment. Shrapnels are bursting. The major is hiding in a mud hut. My company runs past the village. Janikowski calls out that he is wounded. The wound is in his right elbow. I give him an arm and we go forward. The battalion comes up in half an hour. We go about 1000 yards parallel to the railway embankment and stop to have a rest. Rain. At 4 o'clock we are about 10 kilometres south-east of the village of Chalupka. We bivouac. Janikowski has forgotten to hand over my chest with toilet case, which is very tiresome for me. At 4 we reach the San; my new orderly is called Schütz. * * * * * Shortly after this, at Sieniawa on the east bank of the San, the writer was taken prisoner and this diary was found on him. He was one of 7000 prisoners who were taken with a battery of heavy artillery when Sieniawa was stormed by no more than 6000 Russians.[31] At the same time was captured the interesting postcard which I append. Translation of a postcard, May 25, 1915, from Kralowskie Winogrady (Bohemia). Written in Czech. "MY DEAR FRIEND, "We have got your postcard and we wish you a happy return. We are often thinking of you. Here there is no news, only hunger and shortage of bread. Many of the bakeries are closed. Flour is not to be bought; meat is very dear. Soon there will be a general crisis." [Illustration] INDEX Alexander I, 4 Alexey of Jaroslav, 133 Alexeyev, Mr., 14 Armenians, the, 134 Arndt, 83, 146 Austria, 2, 3, 6, 26, 109, 140, 162, 175, 176, 202, 221 Army of-- airmen of, 164, 168-71, 199, 200, 227, 228, 233 artillery fire of, 154, 158-9, 218, 232, 261 cholera in, 266 clothing of, 87 disaffection of, 84, 85, 174, 201, 212, 265, 268 methods of advance, 88 nationalities of, 84, 87, 174, 192, 201, 266 prisoners and wounded, attitude and spirit of, 19, 55-8, 79-80, 108-9, 121-2, 133, 135, 174, 184, 185, 253-4 question of excesses of, 45-7, 51 treatment of Czechs, 85, 175, 201 use of churches, 151-2 violence of, 29, 30 "_Austrian officer_," diary of, 263-82 Bartieczew, 272 Bavarian troops, atrocities of, 83, 108 Belgium, 4, 7, 45, 108, 176 Bergen, 8, 9 Beskides, the, 186-7 ----, the eastern, 180-1 Beskides, fighting in, 188-90 Biecz, fighting at, 208, 257 "Birds, The," visit to, 147-51, 196 Bismarck, 160 Blaskow, 277 Blonie, 38 Bobr, River, the, 28, 35 Bobrinsky, Count George, 21-3, 25, 75, 95 ----, ---- Vladimir, 23, 25 ----, Countess O., 15, 95 Bohemians, the, 24, 80, 84, 85, 87, 139, 161 Böhmerwald Mountains, the, 161 Borodino, battle of, 164, 201 Bosnia, 2 Bosnians, 87 Braunlich, Major, 268 Bruselov, General, 27, 28 Bug, River, line of, 26, 28, 48, 59 Bukovina, the, 23, 176 Bukowa, 279 Caillaux Case, the, 3 Carpathians, the, 161-3 ----, Austrian advance on, 263-82 ----, difficulties of movement in, 190-1 ----, fighting in, 181-6, 188-9, 198-9, 209-12, 224-6 ----, German rally in, 203-5 ----, ---- tactics in, 216-21 ----, Russian advance lines in, 151-4 ----, Russia's task in, 175-8, 180 ----, with German advance over, 272-82 Carpathians, the, with Russian advance over, 97-104, 115-22, 126-54, 178-90, 193-9, 203-5 ----, with Russian retreat from, 205-16 Caucasian Corps, the, 209 Chalupka, 282 Christmas, celebration of Russian, 99-101 Constantinople, 176 Cossacks, 30-1, 233, 251 Cracow, road to, 53-7, 59 ----, Russian advance to, 61, 265 Czenstochowa region, fighting in, 249 Czerinne, 276 Czieszkowice, 270, 272 Dardanelles, 153 Dmitriev, General Radko, 67, 74, 86, 112, 139, 223 ----, staff of, 88 Dmowski, Mr., 1, 2, 47 Dniestr, River, the, 29 Dobrotin, General, 179-81 Dobrotyn Hill, 275 Dolgorukov, Prince, 153 Dolina, Mary, 71 Dombrowski, 139 Dowager Empress, hospital of, 25 Dresden, battle of, 146 Dukla, 264, 265, 268 Duma, the, 12 ---- lazaret, 62, 63 Dunajec River, the, 126 Dynuw, 225, 226 Dziara, 267 Easter, celebration of, 171-3 Elchingen, heights of, 104 England, 4, 7, 8, 26, 47, 120, 137, 153, 154, 172, 176, 184, 192, 193, 242, 243 Erzegebirge Mountains, the, 161 Eulogius, Archbishop, 66, 76 Flamborough, Miss, 235 France, 4, 7, 8, 26, 47 Francis Ferdinand, Archduke, 109, 157 Francis Joseph, Emperor, 116 Friedmann, Mr., 12 Gagarin, Princess, 15 Galich, 29, 30 Galicia, 21-3, 26, 47, 59, 61, 157-8, 175, 250 ----, battlefields of, 26 ----, road to, 73-5 Geneva Convention, 115 George Cross, the, 200 Germany, 2, 3, 6, 7, 13, 26, 68, 108, 122, 162, 163, 175-6, 184, 202, 242-3, 247 Army of-- artillery fire of, 218 cavalry advance of, 233 heavy artillery of, 33, 46, 202-3, 208, 216-17, 219, 224, 232, 245, 273 methods of infantry advance of, 88, 94-5, 108, 244-6 prisoner of, chat with, 242-3 question of excesses of, 45-7, 51, 215 rifle fire of, 33, 50 wounded, attitude of, 107, 134 Attitude of, to war, 107, 108 Giant Mountains, the, 161 Gnila Lipa, battle of, 26 Gollanka, artillery duel on heights of, 273-5 Goremykin, Mr., 12 Gorlice, battle of, 250, 251, 267, 269 Gorodok, 28 Gozhansky, Colonel, 38 Grey, Sir Edward, 4 Gribow, 262, 272 Guchkov, Alexander, 72 Gurko, 247 Hamburg, 242 Harchin, 206, 207 Hindenburg, General von, 183, 202 Homyakov, Mr., 25 Homyakov, Miss, 155 Honveds, the, 269 Hopper, Miss, 235 Hungary, army of, attitude towards war, 24, 87, 109, 140, 201 ----, ----, horse artillery of, 65 ----, defence of, 221 ----, Magyars of, 161-3, 176 ----, Slavs of, 161-3 ----, survey of, 161-3, 176, 178 Irish conflict, the, 2, 3 Irmanov, General, 250-1, 254-8 ----, ----, staff of, 253-4 Italy, 7, 8, 243 "Ivan," 134 Ivangorod, fighting near, 48 Ivanov, General, 200 Japanese War, the, 247 Jaslo, 213; bombardment of, 214 Jews, the, 12, 17 ---- of Galicia, 25, 31, 33 ---- of Poland, 41 Kasso, Mr., 2 Kazalow, 274 Kazimierz, fighting at, 36, 43 Kearne, Miss, 148 Kemble, Mrs., 71 Kielce, 55, 250 ----, fighting at, 49-50, 53, 56-7, 249 ----, scenes at, 56 Kiev, 73 Körner, 83, 146 Kosienice, desperate fighting at, 48, 49, 249 Krasnik, battle of, 19 Kristiania, 9 Kruchkov, 18 Kusmanek, commander of Peremyshl, 157, 158 Kutuzov, 200 Kwieton, road to, 268 Leipzig, battle of, 164 Lemberg (_see_ Lvov) Lerche, 25 Liebertz, 262 Lithuanians, the, 12 Lodz, 45 London, Bishop of, 100 Lowicz, 38, 39 ----, Poles of, 38, 39 Lützen, field of, 147 Lukich, Commander, 141-3 Luther, Martin, 147 Lvov (Lemberg), 22-3, 25-6, 28, 60, 74-8, 222 ----, Prince George, 12, 14, 72, 234 ----, N. N., 10, 13 ----, Nicholas, 72 Magyar, the, 161-3, 176 Mahlsdorf, 264-6 Maklakov, Mr., 13 Metz, 159 Mezolaborcz, 192, 193 Mlawa, 61 Mokra, 40 Moravians, the, 161 Moscow (1812 and 1914), 13-16 ----, Press of, 71 Muchowka, battle of, 179 Napoleon, 40, 86, 139, 164, 167, 242 Narev River, the, 28, 35, 48 Naudeau, M., 57 Newlands Corner, 186 New Year, keeping Feast of, 105, 106 Ney, Marshal, 104 Nicholas II, Tsar of Russia, 2, 4, 13, 16, 72, 247 Nicholas, Grand Duke, 9, 17, 18, 36, 61 Niemen River, the, 28, 35 Nikolayevich, Nikolay, 97, 98 Norwegians, the, 9 Obzar Hill, 275-6 Olga Alexandrovna, Grand Duchess, 20 Pavlovich, Pavel, 141-3 Peace Society of Moscow, 153 Peremyshl, fall of, 157-60, 176, 265 ----, fortifications of, 157, 158 ----, garrison, etc., of, 157, 159 Petrograd, 13 Plock, 61 Pochayev Monastery, 66 Podymov, Colonel, 190 note Poland, 2, 40, 47-8, 112, 135-6, 253 ----, cottages of, 126 ----, Russian, 26, 28, 177 ----, scenes in, 41-4 ----, wounded children in, 135-6 Poles, the, 16, 17, 47, 50-3 ---- of Lowicz, 38-41 ---- of Galicia, 61, 79, 87 Prislak, 268 Protopopov, Mr., 1 Prussia, East, 26, 28, 47, 48, 62, 175 Prussia, strength of, 161, 176 Pruszkov, fighting at, 35, 37 Pushkin, 144 Radom, 49, 51-3, 57, 59 Rakitna, fighting at, 36-8 Rakoczy, 193 Rava Ruska, 27, 29, 31-4, 177, 179, 197 Red Cross Organisation of Russia, 11, 16, 25 ---- ----, keenness and enthusiasm of, 122-5, 148, 156, 191-2, 15-16, 222 (_see also under_ Russia and Zemstvo League) Religious questions in Galicia, 21, 22, 76 Riechwald, 263, 265, 268 Rona, 263, 269 Ropica Russka, 266 Roshkov, Dr. Vladimir Petrovich, 125, 147, 148 Rumania, 162, 176 Russia, 2-4, 7, 109, 162-3, 177, 185, 247 Army of-- airmen of, 163-8, 271-2 ambulance points of, 95-104, 215, 221-2 artillery fire of, 30, 36, 46, 116, 154, 165, 244, 269-71, 275, 277 cavalry of, 46 chaplains of, 66-7, 100 field hospitals of, 20, 62-7, 96 first-aid stations of, 112-15 growing enthusiasm of, for England, 120, 137, 153-4, 192-3, 195-6 losses of, 177, 196-7, 199, 207, 213-14, 222-4, 249 method of infantry advance of, 88-9 Siberian regiments of, 35-6 spirit of, 19-20, 24, 33-4, 41-4, 54, 58, 60-1, 64-6, 98-9, 125, 133, 228, 259, 261 treatment of prisoners by, 24, 174 winter kit of, 87 wounded of, stoicism of, 64-6, 133-4, 222-3 Peasants and people of-- attitude to war, 10, 11, 53, 68-78, 88, 199, 259 characteristics of, 7, 8, 120, 125, 128 Russo-British Chamber of Commerce, work of, 11 Ruthenian troops, the, 30, 179 Ruzsky, General, 27 Rzepeinik, advance on, 274-5 Rzeszow, 226, 227 San River, Austrian advance to, 282 ----, defence of, 228-34, 236-41, 247-8, 250-7 ----, fight for, 26, 114, 177, 179, 197 ----, German tactics at, 232 ----, line of, 28-9, 35, 59, 62, 65 ----, passages of, 48 ----, Russian retreat to, 227, 244 ----, Russian Retreat from, 257-8 Sandomir, 61 Saxony, King of, 45 Sazonov, Mr., 3, 10 Schiller, 146 Sczydlowiecki family, monuments of, 54 Sekow, bombardment of, 267 ----, fight at, 263 Seniawa, Russian advance on, 251, 282 Serbia, 2, 3, 7, 109, 247 Shchepkin, Mr., 14 Shingarev, Dr., 63 Silesia, southern, population of, 61 Skiernewice, 38, 40, 41, 44 Skobelev, 39 Slovaks, the, 161 Slovenes, the, 24 Sochaczew, 38, 41 Stakhovich, Mr., 25, 74 Surrey Hills, 1, 2, 186, 187 Suvorov, 247 Swedes, the, 9 Szydlowiec, 49, 54 Tarnow, bombardment of, 106-7, 110-11, 155-7, 214-15 ----, fighting at, 81-2 ----, hospital scenes at, 82-6, 155-6 ----, journey to, 79-81 ----, Russian lines outside, 92-5 Taslo, visit to, 173-5 Thüringerwald Mountains, the, 161 Tikhon, Father, 99-101, 103, 105 Tirolese, the, 131, 132 Tisza, Count, 163, 176 Tolstoy, Count, 167 Transylvania, 162 Trubetskoy, Princess O., 15 Tryphon, Bishop, 100, 101 Tuchow, 280 Turkey, 89 Uhland, 146 Verdun, 216 Vilna, 16, 17 Vistula River, crossing of, 249 ----, Middle, 28-9, 35, 48 ----, Upper, 46 Volkonsky, Prince, 63 "_V. S._," 89-92 Wagram, 32 Warsaw, 28, 35-7, 45, 48, 51, 59 "War Song-book for the German Army, 1914," the, 145-7 Wells, H. G., 164, 257 "_Wiggins_," 136-9, 158, 163 William II, Kaiser, 7, 109, 202, 231, 254 Wisloka, 59 Wislok River, the, 276-8 Wyzjowa, 276, 277 Zemstva, 12-13 Zemstvo League, 14, 234 ---- ----, Red Cross Staff of, 77-8, 80-1, 234-5 Zwiedzinicz, artillery duel at, 281 PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY RICHARD CLAY & SONS, LIMITED, BRUNSWICK ST., STAMFORD ST., S.E., AND BUNGAY, SUFFOLK. PAUL VINOGRADOFF, F.B.A. Corpus Professor of Jurisprudence in the University of Oxford, sometime Professor of History in the University of Moscow. =The Russian Problem= Demy 8vo. Paper =1s.= net; cloth =2s.= net. =Russia and Self-Government= Crown 8vo. =2s. 6d.= net. CONSTABLE'S RUSSIAN LITERATURE Under the Editorship of Stephen Graham In this Library it is intended to issue a selection from the many important Russian books that have not yet appeared in English translations. 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Medium 8vo. =6s.= net. Mr. Chamberlain's Speeches Edited by CHARLES BOYD, C.M.G. With an Introduction by The Right Hon. Austen Chamberlain. In two volumes, uniform with "The Nation and the Empire." The Nation and the Empire By the Rt. Hon. the VISCOUNT MILNER, G.C.B. Demy 8vo. =10s. 6d.= net. CONSTABLE & CO. LTD. 10 Orange Street, Leicester Square, London, W.C. FOOTNOTES: [1] Colonel Podymov was himself killed later, while defending the San line against an overwhelming force of artillery. Peace to him, and honour to his memory. [2] In Bohemia. [3] One Austrian regiment usually had twenty-four to thirty-two machine guns. [4] Haphazard firing in the Russian trenches is not encouraged. [5] The Russians were always masters of the neutral zone at night, and took many enemy scouting parties, often with ludicrously inferior numbers. The Russians planned and executed new enterprises every night. They never fired unless it was necessary. [6] This was usual among the enemy at all points which I visited. The sentry had orders to retreat at the first alarm, and in some parts none of the enemy came any nearer to our trenches. [7] This firing was ordinarily wild and general. It seldom took any effect, and our men did not reply to it, not wishing to give the desired information as to the whereabouts and strength of our forces. [8] The first allusion to the projected Austro-German advance through Galicia. [9] Previous to this Austrian prisoners interrogated by me bore witness to widespread enteric and to shortage of food. Cholera came to us from the Austrians during their advance, but was quickly isolated. [10] The numbers were enormous. In our interrogations we usually had to distinguish between "Did you surrender?" and "Did you come across of yourselves?" The mass surrenders of Austrians took the following order in respect of nationalities: Serbians and Bosnians, Ruthenians, Rumanians and Italians, Poles, Czechs, and later in lesser numbers, Magyars, and Germans of Austria proper, last of all Tirolese; and Croats, not at all. [11] Evidently Austrian deserters. [12] On our side there were always plenty of volunteers to catch "a tongue," or person who could talk. No prizes were offered. [13] This is typical of the mutual relations which I witnessed. [14] These frequent references to officers going off to hospital without mention of any wound or illness would be difficult to parallel on the Russian side. One Russian officer's principle was "You may be killed, but you mayn't be ill." [15] Gorlice is the point from which later the Austro-German advance began. [16] The Russian soldiers cannot get any stimulants and Russian officers very seldom. The Staff of our Army was teetotal throughout. [17] The universal desire of all our Austrian prisoners, also of most of the Germans. [18] For Easter. [19] There are throughout several references to the accuracy of the Russian fire, which was nothing like so sporadic as the enemy's. [20] A verdict given to me several times by Austrian prisoners. One of our men escaped from the Honveds with his tongue cut out for not giving information. I have seen old peasants who had been shot by the Honveds. [21] This almost isolated reference to Russian prisoners is suggestive. [22] The Austrian infantry seldom did so. [23] I have seen nothing like this attitude on the Russian side, even where our trenches were sixty or even twenty-five yards from those of the enemy. [24] For weeks before, the Austrian officers tried to keep up the spirits of the men by this promise. [25] About 240 heavy and 160 field artillery. [26] This is the ordinary advance into an empty space when all trenches and all life has been destroyed by the enemy's artillery. [27] This circumspection should be noted; this is the day of one of the greatest Russian losses. [28] This was my general experience when retreating with the troops in front of the writer. [29] This was the state of Tuchow before all this fighting; there had now been another terrible artillery canonnade. [30] Austrian prisoners say that the hardest fighting is in Serbia. [31] _Cf. supra_, p. 251. TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES: Text in italics is surrounded by underscores: _italics_. Emboldened text is surrounded with equals signs: =bold=. Obvious typographical errors have been corrected. Inconsistencies in spelling, hyphenation, and punctuation have been preserved. 
37426	----	Transcriber's Notes: 1. Page scan source: http://www.archive.org/details/whirlpoolsnovelo00sien WHIRLPOOLS WORKS OF HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ * * * Whirlpools "Quo Vadis" With Fire and Sword The Deluge Pan Michael Children of the Soil Hania, and Other Stories Sielanka, a Forest Picture and Other Stories The Knights of the Cross Without Dogma On the Field of Glory WHIRLPOOLS A Novel of Modern Poland BY HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ Author of "With Fire and Sword," "The Deluge," "Quo Vadis," "Children of the Soil," "Without Dogma," Etc. _TRANSLATED FROM THE POLISH BY_ MAX A. DREZMAL BOSTON LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY 1910 _Copyright, 1910_ By Little, Brown, and Company * * * _All rights reserved_ Published June, 1910 THE UNIVERSITY PRESS, CAMBRIDGE, U. S. A. WHIRLPOOLS. PART FIRST. I Gronski arrived at the Jastrzeb manor-house about midnight. In the house all were asleep excepting an old servant and the young heir, Ladislaus Krzycki, who awaited his guest with supper and greeted him with great cordiality, for notwithstanding the disparity in their ages they were bound by ties of an old intimacy. It continued from those days when Gronski, as a university student, surrounded with a tutelary friendship the youthful Krzycki, who was attending the gymnasium. Later they met frequently and the closer friendly relations between Gronski and the Krzycki family did not undergo any interruption. Therefore when, after the first greetings, they repaired to the dining-room the young heir of Jastrzeb again began to embrace Gronski. After a while, having seated him at the table, he shook from his eyes the remnants of drowsiness which had oppressed him, became thoroughly animated, and said with sincere happiness: "How immensely fortunate I am that at last we have you at Jastrzeb; and Mother, how she has been expecting you! I, whenever I am in Warsaw, always begin with you, but a year has passed since your last visit here." Gronski inquired about Pani Krzycki's health and that of the younger members of the household, after which he said: "It is, indeed, strange that I have not been out in the country, not only with you but elsewhere. In summer time they dispatch me every year to Carlsbad, and after Carlsbad one strays somewhere in the west. Besides, in Warsaw matters are now seething as in a caldron, and it is difficult to tear one's self from all this." The conversation, which started with a lengthy discussion of public affairs, was afterwards turned by Ladislaus towards private matters: "Did you," he said, "besides the notification of the death of Uncle Zarnowski, receive a letter from Mother? I ask for this reason: I mailed first the notification, and later in the day Mother decided to write the letter." "I received both and for that reason I am here. I tell you candidly I would not come merely to attend your uncle's funeral. It is true that a year ago, when he was in Warsaw for medical treatment, we dined together for several months at the same club, but that was all; though people were astonished that such a misanthrope, who avoided everybody, did not somehow run away from me. How were your relations? Were they cool to the end?" "Rather, there were none. He would not receive anybody and did not wish to see any one, not even his parish-priest. Extreme unction was administered by the Canon of Olchowa. When he became seriously ill, we visited him in Rzeslewo, but he received us with blunt discourtesy. Mother did not mind it and repeated her visits, though at times he was disagreeable towards her. As for myself, I confess that I did not call there again until he was in a very critical state." "Did he leave a large estate?" "Rzeslewo is a huge patch of that kind of soil in which you can anywhere plant at least onions. There is not one copper coin of indebtedness. At one time Uncle had a house in Warsaw, to which he removed the entire equipment from Rzeslewo, which was not, by any means, despicable. We thought that he would reside permanently in the city, but he later sold everything; from which I infer he must have left funds. Some, as is customary with people who are fond of exaggeration, say hundreds of thousands. The Lord only knows. But this much is certain: he inherited a great deal from his brothers. I do not know whether you have ever heard that there were three of them. One perished, while yet a student, in a duel at Dorpat; the other died, also young, from typhoid fever, and Uncle Adam got everything they left." "It is said that he lived very poorly." "He stayed a great deal in Warsaw and abroad for his health. How he lived there I do not know, but, after his return to Rzeslewo, very wretchedly. I think, however, that this was more due to whimsicality than to greed, for he was not greedy. You would not believe how that manor appeared; how everything was denuded and abandoned. In every room the roof was leaky, and if some unexpected guests or unknown relatives arrive for the funeral, I will have to invite them to Jastrzeb, for there I would not know where to house them." "Do you know of any other relatives?" "Yes, there are Pani Otocka and her sister; also Dolhanski, who undoubtedly will come, and ourselves. I have not heard of others, though in all probability they will be found, as in Poland everybody is related. Mother insists that we are the nearest, but, to tell the truth, we are not very close; as the deceased was a distant cousin of Mother's." "And Pani Otocka and Panna Marynia?" "Better ask Mother about that; yesterday for an hour she was expounding to me as to who was born to whom; what he was to whom; whom did who's sister marry, and what was who's relation to the deceased. I could not grasp it all. Those ladies will be here to-morrow at one o'clock, and with them an English lady, their friend." "I know; they told me about that in Warsaw, not knowing that they would chance upon the funeral. But that English lady speaks Polish almost as well as we do." "What? How is that?" "Her father owned a factory in which he employed many Polish workmen. The young lady, while a child, had a Polish nurse, and later some emigrant taught her Polish." "And that she should care for it!" "Among the English people you will find many odd characters, and this Mr. Anney was an odd character in this respect, that he could, like Lord Dudley, select for his heraldic device: '_Causas non fata sequor_,' because, like him, he also loved Poland, Polish history, and the Poles. The workmen were sometimes turbulent and caused him much annoyance, but this did not dishearten him. He established schools for them, procured priests, took charge of the orphans, etc." "That was a righteous man. But Miss Anney, is she pretty?--young?" "About Pani Otocka's age--a year younger or older--and they are very fond of each other. How long is it since you have seen Pani Otocka and Marynia?" "It is six years. Pani Otocka was not yet married and Panna Marynia Zbyltowska was a girl, perhaps ten years old, in short dresses. I well remember her because even then she played the violin and was regarded as a child-wonder. My mother drew nearer to them last summer in Krynica and has become extraordinarily captivated with them. She insisted that this winter I should renew their acquaintance, but they left Warsaw for the winter. Even then she commanded me to invite them in my own name to Jastrzeb, and a few days before the death of Uncle, she wrote to them to come for a lengthy visit. Day before yesterday we received a dispatch that they will come. You are on intimate terms with them?" "Yes, on intimate and very sincere terms," answered Gronski. "Because I wanted to speak with you a little about them, but the hour is late and you are after a journey. Perhaps it would be better to defer it until to-morrow." "I slept on the train and it is not far from the station to your place. Besides, I have the bad habit of not retiring to sleep before two o'clock." Ladislaus' countenance bore slight traces of perplexity. He poured out for himself a glass of wine, drank it, and then said: "The matter is somewhat delicate. I am certain that Mother has concocted some scheme. Perhaps she may have written to you about this and, if not, she will speak about it, because she is much concerned about your opinion, and in a certain contingency will ask your assistance. Several times she incidentally spoke about your influence with Pani Otocka. I believe that you have influence with everybody, not excluding my mother. For that reason I would like to ask a favor of you." Gronski glanced at the young nobleman and afterwards at the servant, as if he wanted to say: "Why is this witness here?" Ladislaus understood and said: "He is very deaf, so we can speak quite freely. He wheezes because he has the asthma." Afterwards he continued: "Mother for the past two years has been bent upon my getting married, so she bustles about, writes voluminous letters, and sends me every winter to Warsaw, and I am certain that last summer she was in Krynica not so much for her own health, which, God be praised, she preserves so well, but to look over the young ladies and make a selection. And there these cousins of mine have so bewitched her that she returned, as I surmise, with a prepared project." "I must give you warning," interrupted Gronski, "that so far as Panna Marynia is concerned you are building an edifice upon ice, as in the first place she is but sixteen; and again she will, at the end of autumn, return to the conservatory in Brussels; and thirdly her whole soul is wrapped up in her violin and in all probability will always remain there." "May it stay there. You say 'you are building,' but I not only am not building, but would prefer that Mother would not build, as it will be unpleasant for her. After all, my dear mother is the most upright soul in the world, and beyond doubt all she desires is that I should have a good and estimable woman for a wife; but I would prefer that my future spouse should not resemble too much a Grecian statue." "Well then?" "Well then, Panna Marynia is not involved but only an ideal and, at the same time, a warm young widow: to which arrangement I cannot by any means assent." "I will answer with a Lithuanian anecdote, according to which an old woman, to a peasant's assertion that he did not fear the master, replied, 'Because thou hast never seen him.' Likewise, you have never seen Pani Otocka, or have forgotten how she looks." But Ladislaus repeated: "Not for the world, even if she looked like a sacred painting." "Then perhaps you love another?" "Why, you yourself tormented me last winter about Panna Rose Stabrowska, and I admit that she has made an impression upon my heart. But I did not permit myself to fall in love with her, because I know her parents would not give her to me. I am not and will not be rich enough for them. For that reason I escaped from Warsaw before the close of the carnival. I did not wish to envenom with vain feeling my life or hers, if she should love me." "But in case of a will in your favor? Would you not rush into the smoke like a Uhlan of old? Is it not true?" "Most assuredly; but as I cannot depend upon that, and as that will not happen, there is no necessity of talking further about it." "You spoke, however, of asking a favor of me. In what can I serve you?" "I wanted to beg you not to fortify my mother in her designs as to Pani Otocka." "How queer you are! Why, when your mother perceives your disinclination towards her, she will banish the thought." "Yes, but there will remain a little regret for herself and for me. A person is always disappointed when his plans miscarry, and Mother is so eternally worried, though often without reason, because, after all, no ruin is threatening us. But she has so much confidence in your judgment that if you will explain to her that it is better to abandon those thoughts, she will abandon them. However, you will have to contrive it so that it will appear to her that she herself came to that conclusion. I know you can do it, and I rely upon your friendship." "My dear Laudie," said Gronski, "in these affairs I have less experience, and therefore less judgment, than the first female neighbor on the border of your estate. In your mother's letter there appears, word for word, the same expression: 'I rely upon your friendship.' In view of this, there remains only one thing to do, and that is not to meddle in the affair at all,--especially as I will candidly state to you that I entertain for Pani Otocka no less friendship than I do for you. Considering the matter from another light, it is peculiar that we should speak of Pani Otocka without considering her. It is allowable for your mother to believe that every woman, if you would but stretch out your hand towards her, would grab it with alacrity; but not for you. For you renounce things in such a way as if everything depended upon you, and I assure you that it is not so, and that if Pani Otocka should ever decide to marry, she will be exceedingly particular in her choice." "You are perfectly right," answered Krzycki, "but I am not, of course, so foolish or so vain as to imagine that the whole thing depends upon me. If I have expressed myself in an unsuitable manner, it is because I thought only of Mother and myself and not at all of Pani Otocka. All that I care about is that Mother should not urge me to seek her hand, as I conjecture I might, after all, get the mitten." Gronski scanned the shapely figure of the youth and answered with a certain benevolent petulance: "That is well, although I do not know whether you are talking sincerely; for men like you, the deuce knows why, have great luck with women and they know it perfectly well. What have you against Pani Otocka? Why, you hardly know her. Let me tell you that both of those ladies are of such high quality as you rarely find." "I believe it, I believe it; but, in the first place, Pani Otocka is fully three years younger than myself, which means that she is twenty-four, and yet she is a widow." "Then you have a prejudice against widows?" "I confess that I have. Let matrimony give me everything that it can possibly give, but a marriage with a widow will not give me all that. A widow!--To think that every word which the maiden blushingly and with palpitating heart whispers, the widow has already told to some one else: and that which in a maid is, as it were, a sacrifice to love, in a widow is but a repetition. No, I thank you, for a flower which somebody else has previously plucked. Good fortune is not inherited with a heritage, nor procured at second hand. Let not only matrimony, but also love, give me all they can give, and, if not, then I prefer remaining an old bachelor." "My dear," answered Gronski, "between the heart and a bag of money there is, however, a vast difference. Money, after you once part with it, you have no more, but the heart is a living organism which regenerates and creates new forces." "That may be,--in every case, however, the memory of the past remains. Finally, I am not enunciating any general theories, but merely my personal views. Plainly, I could not love a widow and I do want to love my wife, even though slightly. Otherwise what enjoyment would I have in life? A rural estate? Good! I am an agriculturist and I agree to plough and sow until death. But whoever imagines that this will give peace and happiness, simply has no conception of the load of care, bitterness, affliction, deception, self reproach, and strife with the bad will of mankind and nature which one must endure. There are, it is true, brighter moments, but far oftener one must defend himself against downright loathsomeness. Now I want at least this: that I shall return willingly home from the field or barn; that in the home there shall await me fresh, rosy, and tempting cheeks which I crave to kiss, and eyes into which I would long to gaze. I want to have some one on whom I can bestow all that is best in me. I speak of this, not as one who is infatuated with the romantic, but as a sober man who can keep accounts of expenditures and receipts, not only in husbandry but also in life." Gronski thought that in reality every matured masculine life should bear two faces; one with wrinkled brow, expressive of intense mental strain, turned towards the problems of humanity, and the other calm and peaceable at the fireside in the home. "Yes," he said, "I would be delighted with such a home as a refuge from care and in it 'fresh, rosy and tempting cheeks' as an attraction." Ladislaus, in his laughter, displayed his sound, shining teeth and answered joyously: "Ah, how it does delight me! the soul almost squeaks." And they both began to laugh. "But," said Gronski, "one must be lucky enough to find that and courageous enough to win." To Krzycki there suddenly came the recollection of a certain ball in Warsaw; of Panna Rose Stabrowska, her pensive eyes, and her white, half-childlike shoulders protruding from the net-lace like watery foam. He therefore sighed quietly. "Sometimes," he said, "courage also is necessary to bridle one's self." In the chamber for an interval could be heard only the measured tick-tack of the cumbrous clock and the wheezing of the asthmatic servant, who dozed, leaning against the sideboard. The hour was late, Gronski rose and, having roused himself from a momentary revery, said, as if speaking to himself: "And those ladies will be here to-morrow." Afterwards he added with a touch of sadness: "Ah, at your age it is not permissible to bridle one's self." II The ladies did actually arrive at Jastrzeb the next day about noon, followed immediately afterwards by Dolhanski, who did not, however, see them on the road, because at the station he became occupied entirely with the receipt of the baggage and therefore arrived in a separate conveyance. The guests did not find Krzycki at home. As the burden of the funeral, and all cares connected with it, fell upon him, he left an hour earlier for Rzeslewo. The obsequies were to take place at three o'clock. Ladislaus' mother arrived at the Rzeslewo church with Pani Otocka, Panna Marynia, and their friend Miss Anney. In the second carriage Gronski and Dolhanski came, while the third and last one brought the younger members of the Krzycki family,--eleven-year-old Anusia and Stas, who was a year younger, together with their French instructress and the tutor, Laskowicz. Pani Krzycki reminded her son of his feminine relatives and introduced him to Miss Anney, but he barely had time to bow and cast a glance at her when he was summoned away on some matter relating to the final funeral arrangements. Alighting from the carriage, the ladies could scarcely press their way into the church, although an effort was made to clear a path for them, for in the church and adjacent enclosure an unusual throng held sway. The greater landed gentry were represented in extremely scant numbers, as the deceased Zarnowski did not associate with any one, and besides Jastrzeb, Gorek, and Wiatrak, did not visit any of the manors in the neighborhood. In their place, the Rzeslewo peasantry appeared as one man, with their wives and children. The reason for this was that from some unknown source and for some inexplicable reason, a rumor circulated among them that the deceased had bequeathed to them his entire fortune. Quite a number stood outside the church fence, and their loud voices and anxious faces indicated the impression which the rumor of the bequest had made upon them. After chanted vigils and a sufficiently long mass, white surpliced priests, preceded by a cross, appeared at the church doorway. After them the coffin was borne. The hearse stood ready to receive the remains, but peasants, in implicit faith of the bequest, lifted it upon their shoulders to carry to the cemetery, which was a verst distant and in which was located the tomb of the Zarnowskis. Gronski gave his arm to Pani Krzycki, Dolhanski to Pani Otocka, while the duty of escorting the light-haired Miss Anney fell to Krzycki. After an interval, the funeral cortege slowly proceeded in the direction of the cemetery. From under the shade of church lindens it soon advanced upon the field-road, flooded with sunshine, and extended itself in a long line. At the head went the priests; after them the coffin, swung high up on the shoulders of the peasants; the relatives and guests followed, and after them came swarms of gay peasant national dresses and feminine handkerchiefs gaudily spotted with yellow and red colors, which glaringly contrasted with the green, sprouting spring corn. Church flags, with skulls and pictures of saints, floated heavily in the golden air and at times heaved with a flap when assailed by the wind. In this manner, glistening in the sun, the crowd approached the poplars which shaded the cemetery. From time to time the chant of priests resounded, breaking out suddenly and with great sadness. Nearer the cemetery the peasants commenced the litany and gusts of wind seized these Polish and Latin songs and carried them with the odor of candles, which were continually blown out, and the scent of the drippings of the torches to the forests. Krzycki, who escorted Miss Anney, observed that her hand, which rested upon his arm, trembled considerably. It occurred to him that she probably had tired it, holding her parasol on the road from Jastrzeb to Rzeslewo, and he paid no more attention to it. In the conviction that such a solemnity as a funeral exempted him from starting the usual social conversation, he walked in silence. He was fatigued and hungry. Disordered thoughts rushed into his head. He thought of his uncle, Zarnowski, of his inability to mourn for him, of the funeral, of his newly-arrived cousins, and of yesterday's conversation with Gronski. At times he would gaze, abstractedly, at the near by fields and half-consciously would note that the winter-corn on the fertile Rzeslewo soil, as well as the spring grain, gave promise of a bountiful harvest. After a certain time he recollected that it would be proper for him to devote a little more attention to his companion. Somehow, after a few stealthy glances, his curiosity, which thus far had been deadened by fatigue, hunger, and ill-humor, was awakened. The proximity of a woman, young and, as he observed, stately, began to affect him. It seemed strange to him in the first place that he was conducting over the Rzeslewo highway an Englishwoman, who came, the Lord knew from where; that a short while before he was unacquainted with her and at present felt the warmth of her arm and hand. He observed also that her hand, tightly incased in a glove, though shapely, was not at all small; and he thought that the reasons for this were the English sports--tennis, rowing, archery, and the like. "Our Polish women," he thought, "look differently." Under the influence of these reflections upon English sports, it seemed to him that from this quaintly attired form some peculiar power, healthiness, and energy emanated. His companion began to interest him more and more. Leading her on his arm, he could see only her profile, upon which he bestowed increased attention. As a consequence of more exact observation, his curiosity intensified. In the first moments he conceded only that she was a comely and buxom person, but later he soliloquized in this fashion: "How vastly more stately and, sincerely speaking, more beautiful she is than Pani Otocka or that child, whose dresses reach to her ankles and whose soul, as Gronski says, is in the violin!" But this, however, was not the strict truth, for Pani Otocka, a slender brunette with the expression of a blonde, was of a type more exquisite and racial, and the "child" had a countenance simply angelic. But at that particular moment, if a secret ballot had been taken upon this question, Krzycki, owing perhaps to his opposition to his mother's designs, would have cast his vote for Miss Anney. After a certain time, it seemed to him that Miss Anney also was casting stealthy glances at him. He determined to catch her in the act and looked at her more openly. And then he saw something which astonished him in the highest degree. On the cheeks of the young Englishwoman tear after tear coursed. Her lips were compressed as if she desired to stifle her impressions and her hand, supported on his arm, did not cease to tremble. "Either this is affected sensibility," Krzycki thought, "or else her English nerves are jangled. Why the deuce should she weep over a man whom she never saw in her life? Unless it reminded her of her father's burial or that of some near relative?" Miss Anney did not look at all like a person with jangled nerves. Somehow, after a time, her emotion passed. She began to gaze with particular interest and attention upon the throng of people, the neighborhood, the fields, and the distant fringe of the forest as if she desired to retain them all permanently in her memory. "She should have taken a kodak with her," thought Ladislaus. They were already not far from the cemetery gates. But in the meanwhile a wind stronger than the former gusts broke loose. It swept suddenly across the field of sprouting grain, raised a cloud of dust on the highway, snuffed out the mendicant candles which were not extinguished before, and entwined Krzycki's neck with Miss Anney's long boa. She relinquished his arm and, freeing him from his ties, said in Polish with an almost imperceptible foreign accent: "I beg your pardon. The wind--" "That is nothing," answered Ladislaus. "Perhaps you would prefer to take a carriage, for the squalls are breaking out more frequently." "No, thank you," she replied; "I believe we are near the cemetery. I will walk alone, because I must hold my boa and dress." During this conversation they stood opposite each other for a moment and, although that moment was brief, Ladislaus made a new discovery. Not only did he confirm his previous opinion that Miss Anney was, in reality, very beautiful and had an extraordinarily transparent complexion, set off with light hair, but above all else that her blue eyes did not radiate with two separate beams, but rather with a single, gentle, blue, slightly misty, soulful light. He was unable to explain to himself in what lay the distinct and peculiar charm of that look, but he felt it perfectly. In the meantime, they reached the cemetery. A short prayer detained all at the gates, after which the funeral cortege moved between the poplars, swung by the winds, and crosses overgrown by luxuriant grass on the mounds, under which slept the Rzeslewo peasantry. The Zarnowski tomb stood in the centre. In its front walls could be seen an opening, knocked out for the reception of a new member of the family. At the side there were two masons, with whitened aprons, having at their feet prepared cement and a pile of new bricks. The coffin was placed upon the sand near the opening and the priests began a long chant over it. Their voices rose and then fell, like waves, in a rolling and dreamy rhythm, which was accompanied by the roar of the poplars, the flapping of the flags in the air, and the hum of prayers uttered, as if mechanically, by the peasants. Then the parish-priest of Rzeslewo began a discourse. As he did not live on good terms with the deceased, he commended his soul to the divine mercy rather than praised him. About could be seen the faces of the Zarnowski relatives, grave and appropriately grouped for the occasion, but no grief, not a tear. They were rather indifferent, with an expression of expectancy, and even tedium. The coffin appeared to be only awaiting the close of the rites, as if it was anxious to enter that vault and darkness, for which it was appropriately designed. In the meantime, after the sermon, songs began to ring. At moments they subsided, and then could be heard only the revelry of wind among the poplars. At last a high voice, as if startled, intoned "requiem aeternam" and fell suddenly like a pillar of dust twirled by the storm; and after a momentary silence "eternal repose," full of solace, resounded and the ceremony was over. On the coffin they threw a few handfulls of sand, and then pushed it into the opening which the masons began to wall up, laying brick upon brick and coating them with mortar. The barrier, which was to forever separate Zarnowski from the world and light, grew with each moment. Groups of peasants slowly left the cemetery. Two female neighbors from Gorek, a Pani Wlocek, an old and pathetic dame, and her daughter, who was not young, approached Pani Krzycki and felt it incumbent upon them to offer a "few words of consolation," which nobody expected and which were absolutely unnecessary. Gronski began to converse with Ladislaus: "Observe," he quietly said, looking at the work of the masons, "yet a few more bricks and then, as Dante says, 'Aeterna silenza.' No sorrow, not a tear; no one will ever come here expressly for him. Something similar awaits me, and you remember that thus they bury old bachelors. Your mother is quite right in wanting to have you married." "To tell the truth," answered Krzycki, "the deceased was not only an old bachelor, but also was unsocial. But finally, is it not all the same?" "After death, certainly. But during life, when you think of it, it is not at all the same. This 'lust for posthumous grief' may be illogical and foolish, but nevertheless it exists." "Whence does it come?" "From an equally unwise desire to outlive self. Look, the work is finished and Zarnowski is sealed up. Let us go." At the gates the rattle of the approaching carriages was heard. The party moved towards the exit. The ladies now were in the lead; after them the priests and guests walked, with the exception of Dolhanski, who was talking to the Englishwoman. Suddenly Ladislaus turned to Gronski and asked: "What is Miss Anney's Christian name?" "While we are in the cemetery you might have thought of something else. Her Christian name is Agnes." "A beautiful name." "In England it is quite common." "Is she rich?" "And that question you could defer to another time, but if you are in a hurry, ask Dolhanski. He knows those things best." "I ask you because I see him with her and hear him chattering in English." "Oh, that is a play within a play! He is after Pani Otocka." "Ah!" "Equally as old as it is fruitless. For it is yet difficult to ascertain with any exactness how much Miss Anney possesses, while the amount which the late Director Otocki left his wife is perfectly known." "I have a hope that my beautiful cousin will give him the mitten." "Which would increase a beautiful collection. But tell me, what do you think of your cousins?" "Certainly--Pani Otocka--certainly--both have what the Galicians call 'something ennobling.' But Panna Marynia is still quite a child." Gronski directed his eyes at the slim and slender figure walking before them and said: "That is a child who could as well fly in the air as walk on earth." "An aëroplane or what?" "I warn you that she is the object of my highest adoration." "So I have heard. It is already known to all men." "Only they do not know that that adoration is not of a red color, but heavenly blue." "I do not understand that very well." "When you are better acquainted with her you will understand me." Krzycki, who was more interested in Miss Anney, wanted to turn the conversation to her, but they passed the gates, before which the horses waited. The young man proceeded to assist the ladies to their seats, in which operation he saw directed towards himself for a moment the soulful eyes of the Englishwoman. Preparatory to her departure, his mother asked him whether he had finished his duties connected with the funeral and whether he would return immediately to Jastrzeb. "No," he answered; "I have made an arrangement with the parish-priest that he should permit me to invite the priests to the rectory, and I must entertain them there. But as soon as I greet them and eat something, I will excuse myself to the guests and return as soon as possible." Here he bowed to the ladies, after which he removed his hands from the carriage, cast a glance at the chestnut thill-horse to see if he did not overreach, and shouted: "Go ahead!" The carriage trundled over the road on which the funeral cortege had passed. Of the participants who were dressed in surtouts, besides Ladislaus, only Dolhanski remained. He felt that, as a relative of the deceased, it was also his duty to entertain the priests who officiated at the obsequies; and besides, he had other reasons which induced him to remain in Ladislaus' company. They had barely settled in the britzska, when he began to look around among the peasants, who still stood here and there in groups, and then asked: "Where is the notary Dzwonkowski?" Ladislaus smiled and replied: "He rode ahead with the priests, but to-night you will see him at Jastrzeb, for he invited himself there." "So; then I regret that I did not return with the ladies. I wanted to wring from him some information regarding the will, and I thought that later that might not be possible." "Patience. The notary told me that the will is to be opened the day after to-morrow in his office and that we will have to drive over there for that purpose." "But I wished to know to-day whether it will be worth while for me to wait until to-morrow or the day after. If this precious uncle of ours has let us drift, as the saying is, upon a swift current of water, then Pani Wlocka was right in offering us words of consolation. I, at least, will need them for a long time." "How can you talk that way?" "I am saying aloud what you all secretly think. I am very anxious about that will. I care more for Dzwonkowski at the present moment than for the entire terrestial globe together with the five parts of the world; and more particularly since I have seen that he brought a bundle of papers with him." "As to that you may rest at ease. He is the greatest musico-maniac that I have ever met. He worships Panna Marynia, with whom he became acquainted at Krynica. From Gronski I have learnt that in the moonlight sonata, in the Benois arrangement for the violin, he arranged the notes for the flute and sent them to her in Warsaw. Today he wants to see how they will go. Therefore he invited himself to Jastrzeb, and he brought with him, besides the sonata, a bundle of other notes. I assure you that he will not want to talk or speak of anything else." "In that case, may the devils carry off Dzwonkowski's flute, Panna Marynia's violin, your Jastrzeb piano, and music in general." On this Ladislaus looked at him spitefully and said: "Be careful about our Jastrzeb piano, because if you hear a trio to-night, you will find Pani Otocka at the piano." "I have a hope that it will be, at least, as much out of tune as I am at present and, in that case, I will not envy either her or the auditors. But I see that Gronski has filled you with idle gossip. Good! Unlike him, I do not have an old bachelor's hankering after boarding-house misses and I like young teals only on a platter. Let him feast his eyes with his Marynia; let him pray to her, but let him leave me alone. They all have gone crazy on music there, and are ready to infect you in Jastrzeb. Only Miss Anney does not play on anything, and has a little sense." "Ah, Miss Anney does not play on anything?" "Yes. But that does not prevent her from playing, in a certain case, upon me or on you, but much more easily upon you than me." "Why more easily upon me?" "Because I am that particular kind of instrument that wants to know in advance how much the concert will bring." Ladislaus, accustomed of old to Dolhanski's cynicism, shrugged his shoulders, but did not have time to reply as they had in the meantime arrived at the rectory. III Dolhanski, in fact, could not extract from the notary, anything but testy replies. Immediately after his reception at the rectory the old notary became very garrulous, but spoke with Ladislaus only about Marynia, for whom he had an unbounded admiration. At present he feared that Pani Krzycki might not consent to an evening musicale on the day of the funeral of a relative, and that fear did not cease to disturb him. Under this impression he began to demonstrate that music may as well be associated with death as with life; that impressive music always attends funerals, and that as mankind has not devised anything better than music, not even for the worship of God, therefore it may be taken for granted that music facilitates the flight of the soul to heaven, and even salvation. Ladislaus bit his mustache and, without qualification, concurred in this reasoning, knowing that the amiable old gentleman was wont to berate his opponents unmercifully. With this kind of talk, in which, to Dolhanski's great irritation, there was no mention of the will, they passed their time on the way to Jastrzeb. There they were served with tea. As the wind had subsided entirely before the setting sun and the evening was delightful, the ladies, with Gronski, were in the garden. When Ladislaus and his companions followed them, they found Pani Krzycki and Pani Otocka on the bank of the pond, while Miss Anney and Marynia were in a boat on the pond. A ruddy lustre permeated the whole air; the scent of elders, which grew near the water's edge, blended with the odor of the turf, duck-weed, and fish. The water was dark green on the border from alders and willows which hemmed it in, but in the centre, on the overflow, it was golden, with reflections of purple and peacock feathers. The boat floated towards the point, whose narrow girdle from the garden side served as a landing-place. Marynia sat in the middle of the boat, but Miss Anney, standing at the stern, manipulated it with a single oar, propelling and at the same time steering with uncommon skill. On the background of water and sky she loomed up from head to foot with strong and graceful form, her rounded bosom moving in unison with the movements of the oar. At moments she ceased to paddle and when the boat, gliding each moment more slowly, at last stood still upon the smooth water, there could be seen in the mirrored pellucidness another boat, another Marynia, and another Miss Anney. In this picture there was great pastoral calm. The lustre in the heavens grew ruddier as if the entire western world had been embraced in a conflagration. High above the pond, under the flaming cupola of heaven, strings of wild ducks appeared as if tied together by black crosses. The trees stood motionless and the silence was broken only by the sounds of the windmill, coming from the direction of the dam. After a while Miss Anney touched shore. Gronski, who was anxious that his "adoration" should not wet her feet, hastened to assist her out of the boat, while the Englishwoman leaped unassisted upon the sand and, approaching the company, said: "How charming it is here in Jastrzeb!" "Because the weather is fine," said Ladislaus, drawing nearer. "Yesterday it was cloudy, but to-night it is beautiful." And having scanned the heavens, he, like a true husbandman, added: "If it will continue thus, we will start mowing the hay." And Miss Anney gazed at him, as if she discovered something unusual in the sounds of those words, and began to repeat them in the same fashion that one repeats words which he desires to firmly implant in the memory. "The hay--the hay." The party turned towards the house, which was being bleached, or rather rouged, amidst the lime-trees, conversing a little about the funeral and the late Zarnowski, but more about the village, the spring evening, and music. Pani Krzycki assured the newly-arrived ladies that in Jastrzeb before their arrival music was not wanting, as there were so many nightingales in the park that at times they would not let any one sleep. At this Gronski, who was a man of great erudition, began to discourse upon country life; that, in truth, it was, from time immemorial, considered the only real and normal life. He mentioned incidentally the Homeric Kings, "who rejoiced in their hearts, counting sheaves with the sceptre," and various Roman poets. In conclusion he announced, as his opinion, that socialism will shatter to pieces upon agriculture and the soil, because it considers them only as a value, while they are also an affection, or, in other words, not only is a price placed upon them, but they are also loved. Men know what cares are coupled with country life, but in truth it is the only life they prize, as if in it "even bird's milk was not lacking."[1] To Pani Krzycki, who, next to her children, loved, above everything else in the world, Jastrzeb, the words of Gronski appealed very convincingly, but Dolhanski, recalling a village he once owned and squandered, replied, drawling his words as usual: "Bird's milk may not be lacking, but money is lacking. Besides, it is amusing to hear these eulogies upon country life pronounced by a rich man who could buy for himself a tract of land and settle in the country, but whom it is necessary to pull out of the city with hooks." Then addressing Gronski: "Apropos of your Homeric Kings, and with them your Virgils and Horaces, why, in their days there certainly were not such hotels on the Riviera and such clubs in Nice as at present." But this observation was passed in silence, or rather it was interrupted by a musical passage intoned to Marynia in an old wooden voice by the notary who wanted in this manner to illustrate the junction of two phrases in Bruch's concerto. Afterwards various other phrases incessantly resounded until the party returned to the house. Gronski knew the mania of the old man and envied him for having found something in life which filled it out so completely for him. He was a highly educated dilettante, but had settled upon nothing permanently in life and did not consecrate all his spiritual powers to anything exclusively. This was partly due to his environment, and partly to his own fault. The profoundest essence of his soul was a sad scepticism. One of his friends, Kloczewski, called him "an ecclesiastic in a dress-suit." Somehow, the final result of Gronski's meditation upon the future and human life, individual as well as collective, was the conviction that the future and the human life may, with time, become different, but never better. So he thought that it might be worth while not to spare efforts to make them sometime better, but it would not be worth while that they should be different only. This thought protected him, however, from the bordering pessimism, as he understood that the measure of happiness and misfortune rested not on the external, but in the man himself, and that as long as otherwise did not mean _better_, then by the same reasoning it did not also mean _worse_. At bottom he was persuaded that the one and the other were only a mistake and a delusion, and that everything, not excluding life, was one great vanity. In this manner, he revered, across the sea of ages, the true Ecclesia. But, being at the same time a man of sentiment, he fell in a continual clash with himself, his sentiment always craving for something, while his sad scepticism iterated that it was not worth while to desire anything. His feelings were preyed upon by the thought that his views were in conflict with life, while life was an imperative necessity. Therefore, whoever with doubts corroded its roots injured humanity, and Gronski did not desire to injure anybody, much less his own people. For this reason the ecclesiastic, contending that all was vanity, wrangled within him, with the patriot who said, for instance, that national suffering was not in vain. But this state of affairs bred within him such incessant discord that he envied men of action who journey through life without any whys or wherefores, as well as people who absolutely succumb to one great feeling. For the old notary and Marynia, such a great feeling was music; so that as often as Gronski saw them together, so often did he have before his eyes a living example that things do exist with which one can fill out his life from dawn until the last moments,--if only one does not subject them to a too close analysis. IV At the supper the aged notary was occupied solely with music and Marynia. To the others, with the exception of the lady of the house, upon whom permission for the concert depended, he replied irascibly; especially to Dolhanski, who several times tried to elicit from him some information about the will. His angry and apoplectic face cleared up only after Pani Krzycki announced that she would have no objections to devoting the remainder of the evening to decorous music, and that she herself would be glad to listen to Marynia, whom she had not heard since the last charitable concert in Krynica. Towards the close of the supper the old gentleman again began to get impatient, remarking that it was a pity to waste time in eating, and discussing even music, if light and frivolous, with profane individuals who had no conception of the real art. He became more interested after listening to the reasonings of Gronski, who began to talk about the origin of music and refute the Darwinian theory that songs and the sounds of the primitive string instruments arose in some misty era of the human race from the amorous declarations and calls of men and women in the forests. Gronski shared the opinion of those who against these views cited the fact that among the most savage tribes no traces of love-songs exist, but in their place are found war-songs and martial music. The theory of calling through the forests appeared to the ladies more poetical. Gronski placated them with the statement that this did not lessen the civilizing importance of music, that it, with the dance, was one of the first factors which promoted among the scattered tribes of men a certain organization. "The Papuans," he said, "who gather together for the performance of a war or ceremonial dance in accordance with the rhythm of even their wildest music, by that act alone submit to something, introduce some kind of order, and form the first social ties." "That means," observed Dolhanski, "that every nation owes its origin to some primitive 'high-diddle-diddle, the cat and the fiddle.'" "Of course it is so," angrily answered the old notary. Afterwards turning to Gronski, he said: "Please proceed. We can at least learn something." "Yes, please proceed," repeated Marynia. So Gronski began further to speak of the history of music; how through the entire course of ages it served war, ceremonies of state, as well as religious and secular, and how considerably later it outspread its own wings, on which it soars as at present, like an eagle, over the entire human race. "A strange art," he concluded; "the most primitive; yet to-day resting more than any other upon science; the most precisely confined within certain technical requirements, as if bound by dams and dykes; yet the most illimitable, the most mystical; overflowing the borders of existence and life. Perhaps this gives it such incomprehensible power over the human soul; speaking the least expressive of tongues and at the same time the most idealistic. It is the most powerful spur to action. Yes, to the Polish regiments in the battle of Gravelotte the Prussian bands played 'Poland is not yet lost,' and everywhere you may behold the same. Play to the Frenchmen the 'Marseillaise,' the Germans 'Wacht am Rhein,' how their hands begin to quiver! Even the eyes of phlegmatic Englishmen and Americans sparkle when they hear 'Rule Britania' or 'Yankee Doodle.' Strange art!--the most cosmopolitan and at the same time the most national,--universal and individual." "One thing you did not say and that is that of all arts it is the purest," added Pani Otocka. "Attempts have been made to illegitimatize it," answered Gronski, "but licentiousness never can be rhythmical nor harmonical, and for that reason from these attempts there was born an antichrist of music." But Ladislaus, who was a trifle bored and would have preferred to talk with the light-haired Miss Anney, spoke out with the evident desire to close the discussion. "Yes, it is plain that not only every nation but every man has his own music. I, for instance, am always willing to hear a concert or an opera, but I admit, that when sometimes the boys and girls at work in the field sing until the pitchforks and harrows ring, that is the only music for me." "Slavonian, Lechite, Piast--come to my arms," drawled Dolhanski. Ladislaus blushed a little from fear that the young Englishwoman and his refined female relatives might judge him too rustical, but they glanced at him with a certain sympathy. Only the beard of the old classical notary drooped with his nose in a manner boding no good, and from his lips he mumbled a half-distinct grumble: "To some folks it is sufficient, when anything jingles in their ears." But recollecting that it would not be agreeable to Pani Krzycki if caustic remarks were directed against her son, he cast an uneasy look at her and became silent. The supper was finished. The company went to the salon in which prevailed coolness and the slight scent of jasmine blown in from the garden by the light evening breezes before the windows were closed. In the glass doors appeared the big full moon, which but recently arose slowly in the heaven, still ruddy after a bath in the evening twilight. Pani Otocka sat at the piano; beside her the notary began to blow, as if with anger, into the flute; while behind them stood Marynia with a violin at her shoulder. Gronski with rapture gazed at her luxuriant dark hair; her peaceful, arched eyebrows under a forehead plainly immaculate; her small countenance; her slender, growing, childlike form, and thought that this sight alone would suffice for music, or at least that such a violinist might pass for its incarnation and symbol. Ladislaus, although he had previously enlisted in the ranks of the English faction, could not remove his eyes from her. After completing his university education, he had accompanied his mother on a journey to Italy. He visited various galleries and, though he lacked solid artistic culture, nevertheless the thought crossed his mind that this maiden with the bright and peaceful countenance, bending over the violin, might have served the old masters as a model for Saint Cecilia or for one of those angelic violin-players which he had seen in the paintings of Fra Angelico. The other listeners, like Pani Krzycki, her children, the instructress, and Miss Anney, gazed at her as if at a miracle-working image. Only one, Laskowicz, young Stas' tutor, did not share in the general rapture. He was a medical student who, owing to the closing of the university, was earning money by teaching for the further pursuit of his studies, and he found himself, together with his inexorable hatred for the "pampered" of this world, like Pilate in Credo, in this country home. His convictions by this time were not a secret to anybody in Jastrzeb; he was tolerated, however, with that improvident indulgence of which the Polish nobility is only capable, upon the principle that "the greatest radical must eat," and also in the hope that Stas was yet too young to be infected with the "evil spirit" by his tutor. To Laskowicz, when he looked at the gentle young lady, it seemed that she was a flower which grew higher than the hands of a proletaire could reach; therefore she was bred to the injury of the proletariat. This was sufficient for him to look on both sides with reluctance and a readiness to hate. But, in the meanwhile, the moment for beginning the concert had arrived. For some time Marynia had been drawing the bow over the chords, turning the ringlets of the violin, and passing her fingers over the notes, indicating something to her sister and the notary; afterwards silence ensued, interrupted only by the indistinct talk of the servants, assembled beyond the windows, who for the first time in their lives were to hear the young lady play on the violin. V The first chords of the moonlight sonata are sounded and a vision begins. Lo! a pale ray creeps stealthily through a crevice and touches the forehead of a sleeper, as if it wanted to arouse thought; afterwards the lips, as if it wished to waken words, and later the bosom, as if it desired to stir the heart. But the weary body slumbered in a heavy sleep. In its place the soul emerges from its embrace, like a butterfly from a cocoon, and flies into space. The night is bright and silent. Below, alders are dimly wrapped in muslin mists. On the sylvan meadows nymphs dance their rites, accompanied by the playing of a faun on a flute. About, stand with flaming azure eyes, stags, crowned with antlers. On the heath, glow-worms glimmer; on the moss, phosphorate toadstools, under whose canopies tiny elfs watch the gambols. From the decaying vegetation and fens rise Jack-o'-lanterns which flit about lightly and mysteriously, as if seeking something in vain. The moon ascends each moment higher and higher, and bounteous dew falls. Over the vast fields rivers wind in silvery ribbons and tracks of the roadways can be seen leading to towns and castles. Through the narrow Gothic windows the moon's lustre invades silent castle-halls, where lurk the ghosts of dead knights and maidens. At the feet of the castles, cities slumber. In the calm light the roofs of houses whiten and crosses on the towers glitter. From the blossoming orchards, with the vapors rises the fragrance of flowers and grass. But lighter than the fragrance and the moonlight the winged soul soars higher and farther. The lowly habitations of men vanish; likewise vanish the forests, vales, sparkling shields of ponds, and the white threads of streams. Gradually lofty regions are attained. And lo, the mountains! Amidst the crags sleeps the translucent buckler of the lake. In the chasms lies concealed cool dusk. The needles of the glaciers shine verdantly. On the declivities and rocky nests rest the weary clouds and mists; and on the peaks, on the eternal snow the moonlight reposes. Even the wind has fallen asleep. How still, ethereal, and immense! Here the moon is the only sentinel of silence and the human soul the only living entity. Free as a mountain eagle, detached from the flesh, enamoured with the expanse, desolation, and silence, happy, and sad with a supernal sorrow, dissolved in the stillness, she hovers and courses above the precipices; and again flies farther on, entirely abandoned to pleasure, flight, and speed. And the mountains have already disappeared beneath her and lo! some voices rise and reach from below as if summoning her to them. It is the sea. It, alone, never sleeps; restless and vast, it dashes wave after wave against the shore, as if it were an immense pulsation of life. Its monstrous lungs heave and fall eternally and at times groan in complaint of endless toil. The ruffled expanse of the sea throbs with the opalescent lunar lustre and the silvery laces of stars, and on those illuminated tracks, in the distance appears, wakeful as the sea itself, a ship with sails and a sanguinary light in the rounded windows. But thou, oh soul, mountest higher and higher. Already the earth is left somewhere at the bottom of the abyss. Thou, light as down, dost pass feathery clouds, which have strayed upon the heights and dost pierce space flooded with splendor--empty and cool. There thou liest upon thine own wings and floatest about in luminous nothingness; higher and higher; and now doth scintillate and change color over thee, in gold and purple, the jewels of heaven, and thou dost frolic and swing in the unattainable ether, serene, freed from the dross of matter as if, beyond the limits of time and space, thou wert already partly admitted into heaven. The firmament of heaven grows each moment darker, but the moon, great as the world, shines more and more brightly. Already we behold her glistening plains, mangled, wild, studded by mountain peaks, perforated with the blackness of craters, bleak, frosty, and lifeless. Thus in the abyss of space appears this silvery, corpse-like wanderer, who speeds around the earth as if condemned by a divine command to a perpetual race. Above and about her, an immensity which the swooning brain is incapable of comprehending. A new galaxy of stars twinkle sanguinarily and powerfully, like distant fire-places. The music of spheres is heard. Here Eternity fans with her breath and a supernal chill prevails. Return, over-indulged swan, return, oh soul, before some occult rapids and whirlpools seize thee and tear thee forever from the earth. Thou returnest from the pinnacle of all-existence, bathed in the waves of infinity, purer and more perfect. Lo, thou furlest thy wings! Look, in the depths beneath are those downy, light clouds, which now thou greetest as thine own and kin. Below, the earth. The protuberances of the mountains flash to the moon; at their feet sobs the sea. And now lower, the vague outlines of forests, enveloped in mist. Again whiten the cities, silent towers and roofs of villages sunk in sleep. The night grows pale. On the moors, ostlers build fires and play on fifes. The roosters crow. The day breaks. It is dawn. The strains subsided and silence ensued. Marynia stood near the piano with a countenance, composed as usual, but seemingly, awakened from a dream. The aged notary sat for a while with bowed head, moving his toothless jaws; afterwards he rose, and when the young maid placed the violin beside the key-board, he ardently kissed her hands; after which he threw a challenging look at those present as if he sought the person who would dare to protest against that mark of homage or deem it a superfluous act. Nobody, however, protested because under the enchantment of that music that happened with the listeners which always happens with mankind, when fanned by the breath of genius. As sometimes in a dream it seems to a person that having shoved himself off the earth with his feet, he afterwards reels a long time in the air, so, too, their bodies became lighter, less material, as if deprived of those heavy and gross elements which bound them to the earth. Their nerves became more susceptible and subtle and their souls more volatile, approaching more closely those boundaries on which eternity begins. It was an unconscious feeling; after the passage of which the daily life was to encompass and drag them down. But during this momentary exaltation there awakened within them, unknown to themselves, a power of apprehending, appreciating, and feeling beauty, and in general such things as in their customary moods they had not felt and did not know that they could have felt. Even the young and unfledged physician, Laskowicz, notwithstanding all his prejudices, could not resist this influence. The moment when Marynia stood up to play, he began to scrutinize her from his dark corner in the salon and examine her form as an anatomist. He was conscious that there was something brutal in this, but such a viewpoint gave him satisfaction, as being proper for an investigator and a man of his convictions. He started to persuade himself that this young lady of the so called higher spheres was for him merely an object which one should examine in the same manner as a corpse on the dissecting-table is examined. So, when tuning her violin, she bent her head, he took a mental inventory of the Latin names of all her cranial bones, repelling the thought which, against his will, rushed to his head that this was, however, an extraordinarily noble skull. Afterwards, during the first moments after the beginning of the concert, he became occupied with the nomenclature of the muscles of her hands, arms, breast, limbs, outlined under her dress and whole figure. But as he was not only a medical student and a socialist, but also a young man, this anatomical review ended in the conclusion that this was a girl, not yet sufficiently developed, but exceedingly pretty and attractive, resembling a spring flower. From that moment he began, to a certain extent, to forgive her connection with spheres living "from the wrongs of the proletariat," and could not get rid of the thought that if, as a result of some unheard-of social upheaval, such "a saintly doll" became dependent upon his favor or disfavor, then such a state of affairs would bring to him an indescribably coy delight. But when Beethoven placed his hands upon his head, there awakened within him better and higher instincts. He saw during the performance the lips and eyebrows of the young lady contract, and began to concede that "she, however, felt something." In consequence of this, his ill-will towards her began to melt away, although slowly and with difficulty. He half confirmed, half conjectured that not only the hands but also the soul played. He did not have sufficient culture for music to appeal to him as it did, for instance, to Gronski, nevertheless there awakened within him a certain dismal consciousness that this was something, like the air, which all breasts can breathe, regardless of whether they love or hate. Amazement seized him at the thought that there were things lying beyond the swarm of human passions. At the conclusion he so identified music with the figure of the playing girl that when the old notary, at the end of the concert, kissed her hands, he almost felt inclined to do the same. In the meanwhile, Ladislaus said to Miss Anney: "As long as Jastrzeb has been Jastrzeb, never yet has such music been heard. I am not a connoisseur, but must admit that this has captivated me. Besides, though I am often in the city, it has always so happened that I never have had an opportunity of seeing a woman play on the violin. And this is so beautiful that I now have an impression that only women should play the violin." "One gets such an impression when he hears Marynia play." "Assuredly. I even begin to understand Pan Gronski. You, of course, know that she is his adoration?" "The greatest in the world. And mine and everybody's who knows her,--and soon she will be yours." "I do not deny that she will be, only I doubt whether she will be the greatest." A temporary pause in the conversation followed, after which Ladislaus, not desiring that Miss Anney should take his words as an untimely compliment, added: "In any event, I owe her gratitude for music which is slightly different from that which we hear every evening in spring and summer." "What kind of music is that?" "From dusk to moon-rise the orchestra of frogs, and afterwards the concert of nightingales, which, after all, I do not hear, as, after daily toil, I am sound asleep. The frog band has already commenced. This also has its charm. If you care to hear it, let us go out upon the veranda. The night is almost as warm as in summer." Miss Anney rose and together they went on the veranda, which the servants, who listened under the windows to Marynia's performance, had already left, and only in the distance the blooming jasmines, shaded by the dusk, whitened. From the pond came the croakings of the confederation of frogs, drowsy and, at the same time, resembling choral prayers. Miss Anney for a while listened to these sounds and afterwards said: "Yes, this also has its charm, particularly on a night like this." "Are not nights the same in England?" "No, not as quiet. There is hardly a corner there to which the whistling of locomotives or the factory noises do not reach. I like your villages for their quiet and their distance from the cities." "So, then, this is not the first time that you have seen a Polish village?" "No. I have passed the last month with Zosia Otocka." "I wish that our Jastrzeb would find favor in your eyes. It is too bad that you chanced here upon a funeral. That is always sad. I saw that you were even affected." "It reminded me of something," answered Miss Anney. Whereupon, evidently desiring to change the subject of the conversation, she again began to peer into the depths of the garden. "How everything blooms and smells agreeably here!" "Those are jasmines and elders. Did you observe on the forest road, riding to Jastrzeb, that the edges of the woods are planted with elders? That is my work." "I only observed it at the bridge, where an old building stands. What kind of building is that?" "That is an ancient mill. At one time there was a great deal of water in the stream beside it, but later my uncle, Zarnowski, drained it off to the fish-ponds in Rzeslewo and the mill stood still. Now it is a ramshackle building in which for over ten years we have stored hay instead of keeping it in hayricks. Folks say that the place is haunted, but I myself circulated, in its time, that myth." "Why?" "First, so that they should not steal the hay, and again because it was of much concern to me that no one should pry in there." "What an invention!" "I told them that near the bridge during night-time the horses get frightened and that something in the mill laughs; which is true, because owls laugh there." "Perhaps it would have been better to have told them that something in there weeps." "Why?" "For greater effect." "I do not know. Laughter in the night in the solitude creates a greater impression. People fear it more." "And nobody peeps in there?" "Not a soul. Now, if they only would not steal the hay, it would be all the same to me, but at that time I was anxious to screen myself from the eyes of men--" Here Ladislaus bit his tongue, observing in the moonlight that Miss Anney's eyebrows frowned slightly. He understood that in repeating twice that it was important to him that no one should pry into the mill, he committed a breach of etiquette and, what was worse, had presented himself to the young English lady as some provincial boaster, who gives the impression that often he has been forced to seek various hiding-places. So desiring to erase the bad impression, he added quickly: "When a student, I wrote verses and for that reason sought solitude. But now all that has passed away." "That usually passes away," answered Miss Anney. And she turned to the doors of the salon, but without unnecessary haste, as if she desired to show Ladislaus that she accepted as good coin his explanations and that her return was not a manifestation of displeasure. He remained a while, angry at himself and yet more angry at Miss Anney for the simple reason that the indiscretion was committed solely by him and he could not blame her for anything. "In any case," he said to himself, "that is some deucedly penetrating Puritan." And he began to repeat, with some indignation, her last words: "That usually passes away." "Did she," he thought, "intend to give me to understand that from such grist as is in me nobody could bake any poetry. Perhaps it is true, and I know that better than anyone else, but it is unnecessary for anybody to corroborate the fact." Under the influence of these thoughts he returned to the salon in not quite good humor, but there the duties of host summoned him to his feminine cousins and that evening he did not converse any more with Miss Anney. VI The notary left the same night because his official duties required his presence in the city the following morning. On the day after, Gronski, whom Pani Otocka requested to act as her representative, with Ladislaus and Dolhanski departed for the notarial bureau. All three were troubled and curious about the will, of which the notary did not drop a single hint. Dolhanski feigned a jocose mien and displayed more sangfroid than he really possessed. He was most anxious that something should "drop off" for him. He was a man who had squandered a large fortune, but, not having changed his habits, kept on living as if he had not lost anything. Therefore he sustained himself upon the surface of life by the aid of extraordinary, almost acrobatic, efforts, of which after all he made no secret. In general, he was a sponger and possessed a million faults, but also certain social qualities for which he was esteemed. Belonging to an aristocratic club, he played cards with unusual good luck, but irreproachably. He never borrowed money from people in his own sphere; never gossiped, and was a tolerably loyal friend. Lack of education he supplied with cleverness and a certain intellectual grasp. He jested about himself, but it was unsafe to jest at him, because he possessed, besides wit, a certain candor which bordered upon cynicism. So he was not only countenanced but willingly received. Gronski, for whom Dolhanski had such high regard that he permitted him alone to jest about him, said that if Dolhanski only had as great a gift of making money as he had of spending it, he would have been a millionaire. But while waiting for such a change, heavy moments fell upon Dolhanski, particularly in spring when the play at the club slackened or when the outing season began. Then he felt fatigued after the winter struggles and sighed for something to turn up which would not require any labor. The will of Zarnowski might be such a gratuity, although Dolhanski did not expect much, as during the lifetime of the deceased he did nothing to deserve it. He even frankly repeated that his precious uncle bored him. He reckoned, however, that something might be sliced off for him; enough for the temporary pacification of his creditors or, better still, for a trip to a fashionable, aristocratic French seaside resort. Before leaving Warsaw he announced in the club that he would return sitting upon a pillow stuffed with pawn-tickets. At present he attempted, with a certain affected humor, to convince Gronski and Ladislaus that by rights neither Pani Otocka with her sister, nor the Krzyckis, but himself ought to be the chief beneficiary. "One of the female cousins," he said, "is a warm widow, who has a fat fortune from her husband, and the other is a budding muse, who ought to be satisfied with ambrosia. What a pity, that I am not the sole relative of the deceased!" Here he addressed Ladislaus: "The Krzyckis, I think, need not be considered, because you have had, as I heard, a dispute about the Rzeslewo boundary. I hope that you will not get anything." "What is the use of your hoping?" said Gronski. "Limit, above all things, your wants." "You remind me of my lamented father," answered Dolhanski. "He certainly must have repeated that to you often." "Too often, and besides, he set himself up as an example, but I demonstrated to him, as plainly as two times two are four, that I could and ought to live on a higher scale than he." "What did you tell him?" "I spoke to him thus: Firstly, Papa has a son, while I am childless, and again, I am a better noble than he." "In what respect?" "Very plainly, since I can count one generation more in my line of nobility." "Bravo!" exclaimed Krzycki. "What did your father say to that?" "He called me a dunce, but I saw he was pleased with it. Ah, if my conceits would only please Pani Otocka as they once did Papa. But I am convinced that my constancy and my appetite will avail me naught. My dear cousin is after all more practical than she seems. You would imagine that both sisters live only on the fragrance of flowers; and yet when they learned of a possible inheritance, they hastily arrived at Jastrzeb." "I can assure you that you are mistaken. Mother invited them last year while in Krynica and now, at least a week before the death of Uncle Zarnowski, she reminded them of their promise. They wrote back that they could not come because they had a guest. Then mother invited the guest also." "If that is so, it is different. Now, not only do I understand your mother, but as you are a shapely youth and, in addition, younger than myself, I begin to fear for Cousin Otocka's fortune, which more justly belongs to me." "You need have no fear," answered Krzycki drily. "Does that mean that you prefer pounds to roubles? Considering the rate of exchange, I would prefer them also, but I fear that too many of them might have sunk in the Channel on the way from England." "If you are so much concerned about that," said Gronski, "you might ask Miss Anney about the precise amount. She is so sincere that she will reply to a certainty." "Yes, but it is necessary that I should believe her." "If you knew a little of human nature, you ought to believe her." "In any case, I would fear a misunderstanding; for if she answered me in Polish, she could make a mistake, and if in English, I might not understand her perfectly." "She speaks better Polish than you do English." "I admit that this astonishes me. Whence?" "Haven't I told you," answered Gronski, with some impatience, "that she was taught from childhood, because her father was an Englishman who had great sympathy for the Poles?" "De gustibus non est disputandem," answered Dolhanski. And afterwards he again began to speak of the deceased and of the old notary, mimicking the movements of his toothless jaws and the fury of his look; and finally he announced that if something was not "sliced off" for him he would either shoot himself upon Pani Otocka's threshold or else would drive over to Gorek and offer himself for the hand of Panna Wlocek. But Gronski was buried in thought about something else during the time of this idle talk, while Ladislaus heard him distractedly as his attention was attracted by the considerable number of peasant carts which they were continually passing by. Supposing that he had forgotten some market-day in the city, he turned to his coachman. "Andrew," he asked, "why are there so many carts on the road to the city?" "Ah, those, please your honor, are Rzeslewo peasants." "Rzeslewo? What have they to do there?" "Ah! please your honor, on account of the will of the deceased Pan Zarnowski; it is to give them Rzeslewo." Krzycki turned to Gronski. "I heard," he said, "that somebody circulated among them such a story, but did not think that they would believe it." And afterwards again to the coachman: "Who told them that?" The old driver hesitated somewhat in his reply: "The people gossip that it was the Tutor." Ladislaus began to laugh. "Oh, stupid peasants!" he said. "Why, he never in his life saw Pan Zarnowski. How would he know about the will?" But after a moment of meditation he said, partly to his companions and partly to himself: "Everything must have some object, so if Laskowicz did that, let some one explain to me why he did it." "Do you suspect him of it?" asked Gronski. "I do not know, for heretofore I had assumed that one could be a socialist and keep his wits in order." "Ah, so he is a bird of that nest? Tell me how long has he been with you and what manner of a man is he?" "He has been with us half a year. We needed an instructor for Stas and some one recommended him to us. We were informed that he would have to leave Warsaw for a certain time to elude the police and, in fact, for that reason received him more eagerly, thinking that some patriotic matter was involved. Later, when it appeared that he was of an entirely different calibre, mother would not permit his dismissal in hope that she might convert him. At the beginning she had lengthy heart-to-heart talks with him and requested me to be friendly with him. We treated him as a member of the family, but the result has been such that he hates us, not only as people belonging to a sphere which he envies, but also, as it seems, individually." "It is evident," said Dolhanski, "he holds it evil of you that you are not such as he imagined you would be; neither so wicked nor so stupid. And you may rest assured that he will never forgive that in you." "That may be so. In any case, he will shortly despise us from a distance, for after a month we part. I understand that one can and ought to tolerate all convictions, but there is something in him, besides his principles and hatreds, which is so conflicting with all our customs, and something so strange that we have had enough of him." "My Laudie," answered Dolhanski, "do not necessarily apply this to yourself, for I speak generally, but since you have mentioned toleration, I will tell you that in my opinion toleration in Poland was and is nothing else than downright stupidity, and monumental stupidity at that." "In certain respects Dolhanski is right," answered Gronski. "It may be that in the course of our history we tolerated various ideas and elements not only through magnanimous forbearance, but also because in our indolence we did not care to contend with them." To this Ladislaus, who did not like to engage in general argumentation, said: "That is all right, but all that does not explain why Laskowicz should spread among the peasants the news that Uncle Zarnowski devised Rzeslewo to them." "There is, as yet, no certainty that he did," answered Gronski. "We will very soon learn the truth at the notary's." VII The hour was five in the afternoon. The ladies sat on the veranda, at tea, when the young men returned from the city. Miss Anney rose when they appeared and, not wishing to be present, as a stranger, at the family conversation, left on some pretext for her room. Pani Krzycki greeted them with slightly affected calm, because in reality the thought of the will did not leave her for a moment. She was not greedier than the generality of common mortals, but she was immensely concerned that, after her demise, at the distribution of the estate, Ladislaus should have enough to pay off the younger members of the family and to sustain himself at Jastrzeb. And some respectable bequest would in a remarkable manner facilitate the making of such payments. Besides, at the bottom of the noble soul of Pani Krzycki there lay hidden the faith that Providence owed, to a certain extent, greater obligations to the Krzycki family than to any ordinary family. For that reason, even if the whole of Rzeslewo fell to the lot of that family, she would with readiness and willingness submit to such a decree of Providence. Finally, descending from the blood of a people who in certain cases can sacrifice fortune, but love extraordinarily to acquire it without any effort, she fondled all day the thought that such an easy acquisition was about to occur. But in the countenances of Ladislaus and Gronski she could at once discern that they brought specific intelligence. Dolhanski, who was the first to alight from the carriage, was the first to begin the report. "I anticipate the question, what is the news?" he said, drawling his expressions with cold irony, "and I answer everything is for the best, for the Rzeslewo Mats and Jacks will have something with which they can travel to Carlsbad." Pani Krzycki grew somewhat pale and, turning to Gronski, asked: "What, in truth, gentlemen, have you brought with you?" "The will in its provisions is peculiar," answered Gronski, "but was executed in a noble spirit. Rzeslewo is devised for a peasants' agricultural school and the interest of the funds is to be devoted to sending the pupils of the school, who have finished their courses, for a year's or two years' practice in country husbandry in Bohemia." "Or, as I stated, to Carlsbad, Marienbad, Teplitz, and other places of the same character," explained Dolhanski. A moment of silence followed. Marynia, who was pouring the tea, began, with teapot in hand, to gaze with inquiring look at those present, desiring evidently to unriddle whether they praised or condemned it and whether it gave them pleasure or annoyance. Pani Otocka looked at Gronski with eyes which evinced delight; while Pani Krzycki leaned with both hands upon the cane which she used owing to rheumatism in her limbs, and after a certain time asked in a slightly hoarse voice: "So, it is for a public purpose?" "Yes," answered Gronski, "the organization of the school and afterwards the division of the funds for the stay in Bohemia is to be assumed by a special Directory of the Trust Society of this province, and the designated curator of the school is Laudie." "Too bad it is not I," interposed Dolhanski. "I would arrange it very quickly." "There are specific bequests," continued Gronski, "and these are very strange. He bequeaths various small sums to the household servants and ten thousand roubles to some Skibianka, daughter of a blacksmith at the Rzeslewo manor, who in his time emigrated to America." "Skibianka!" repeated Pani Krzycki with astonishment. Dolhanski bit off the ends of his mustache, smiled, and started to grumble that the nobility was always distinguished for its love of the common people, but Gronski looked at him severely; after which he drew from his pocket a memorandum and said: "That provision of the will is worded as follows: Whereas the parents of Hanka Skiba or Skibianka emigrated during my sojourn abroad for medical treatment, and I have not had the opportunity of ascertaining where they can be found, therefore I obligate my relative, Ladislaus Krzycki, to cause to be published in all the Polish newspapers printed in the United States and in Parana, advertisements. If the said legatee does not within two years appear to receive the bequest, the entire sum with interest becomes the property of the said Ladislaus Krzycki." "And I already have announced that I do not intend to accept that specific bequest," cried the young man excitedly. All eyes were turned toward him; he added: "I would not think of it; I would not think of it." "Why not?" asked his mother after a while. "Because I cannot. Let us suppose that the legatee appears, say for instance, within three years instead of two, what would happen? Would I pocket the bequest and drive her away? No! I could not do that. Finally, there are other considerations of which I do not wish to speak." In fact, only by these "other considerations," could such a considerable bequest to a simple village girl be explained; therefore Pani Krzycki became silent. After a while she said: "My Laudie, nobody will coerce, nor even try to persuade you to accept." But Dolhanski asked: "Tell me, is this some mythical disinterestedness or is it ill humor caused by your not receiving a greater bequest?" "Do not judge by yourself," answered Krzycki; "but I will tell you something which you certainly will not believe; since this estate is to be devoted to such an object as a peasants' agricultural school, I am highly delighted and have much greater esteem for the deceased. I give you my word that I speak with entire sincerity." "Bravo!" exclaimed Pani Otocka, "it is pleasant to hear that." Pani Krzycki looked with pride first upon her son, then upon Pani Otocka; and, though a feeling of disappointment lingered in her heart, said: "Well, let there be a peasants' school, if only our Jastrzeb peasants will be permitted to send their sons to it." "That does not admit of any doubt," explained Gronski. "There will be as many pupils as accommodations can be provided for. They may come from all parts, though preference is to be given to Rzeslewo peasants." "What do they say about the bequest?" "There were more than a dozen of them at the opening of the will, as they expected a direct gift of all the manor lands to them. Somebody had persuaded them that the deceased left everything to them to be equally divided. So they left very much displeased. We heard them say that this was not the genuine will and that they do not need any schools." "Most fully do I share their opinion," said Dolhanski, "and in this instance, contrary to my nature, I will speak seriously. For at present there is raging an epidemic of founding schools and no one asks for whom, for what, how are they to be taught in them, and what is the end to be attained. I belong to that species of birds who do not toil, but look at everything, if not from the top, then from the side, and, perhaps for that very reason, see things which others do not observe. So, at times, I have an impression that we are like those children, for instance, at Ostend, who build on the sea-shore forts with the sand. Every day on the beach they erect them and every day the waves wash them away until not a trace of them remains." "In a way you are right," said Gronski; "but there, however, is this difference: the children build joyfully and we do not." Afterwards he meditated and added: "However, the law of nature is such that children grow while the adults rear dykes, not of sand, but of stone upon which the weaves dash to pieces." "Let them be dashed to pieces as quickly as possible," exclaimed Ladislaus. But Dolhanski would not concede defeat. "Permit me then," he said, "since we have not yet grown up and have not yet started to build of stone, to remain a pessimist." Gronski gazed for a while into the depths of the garden like a man who was pondering over something and then said: "Pessimism--pessimism! We hear that incessantly nowadays. But in the meanwhile if there exists anything more stupid than optimism, which often passes for folly, it is particularly pessimism, which desires to pose as reason." Dolhanski smiled a trifle biliously and, turning to the ladies, said, pointing to Gronski: "Do not take this ill of him, ladies. It often happens for him in moments of abstraction to utter impertinences. He is a good--even intelligent--man, but has the unbearable habit of turning over everything, examining it from all sides, pondering over it, and soliloquizing." But Marynia suddenly flushed with indignation in defence of her friend and, shaking the teapot which at that moment she held in her hand, began to speak with great ardor: "That is just right, that is just sensible; that is what everybody ought to do--" Dolhanski pretended to be awe-stricken and, bowing his head, cried: "I am vanquished; I retreat and surrender arms." Gronski, laughing, kissed her hand, while she, abashed at her own vehemence and covered with blushes, began to ask: "Is it not the truth? Am I not right?" But Dolhanski already recovered his presence of mind. "That does not prove anything," he said. "Why?" "Because Gronski once promulgated this aphorism: It is never proper to follow the views of a woman, especially if by accident she is right." "I?" exclaimed Gronski. "Untangle yourself from me. I never said anything like that. Do not believe him, ladies." "I believe only you, sir," answered Marynia. But further conversation was interrupted by Pani Krzycki, who observed that it was time for the May mass. In the Jastrzeb manor-house, there was a room especially assigned for that purpose and known as the chapel. At the main wall, opposite the windows, stood an altar with a painting of the Divine Mother of Czestochowo. The walls, altar, painting, and even the candles were decorated with green garlands. On the side tables stood bouquets of elders and jasmines whose fragrance filled the entire room. Sometimes, when the rector of Rzeslewo arrived, he conducted the services; in his absence the lady of the house. All the inmates of the house, with the exception of Laskowicz, during the entire month of May met every evening in the chapel. At present the gentlemen followed the ladies. On the way Ladislaus asked Gronski: "Is Miss Anney a Catholic?" "To tell you the truth, I do not know," answered Gronski, "but it seems--but look, she is entering also. So she must be a Catholic. Perhaps her name is Irish." In the chapel the candles were already lit, though the sun had not entirely set and stood in the windows, low, golden, and ruddy, casting a lustre on the white cloth which covered the altar and on the heads of the women. At the very altar the lady of the house knelt, behind her the lady visitors; after them the female servants and the old asthmatic lackey, while the gentlemen stood at the wall between the windows. The customary songs, prayers, and litanies began. Their sweetness struck Gronski. There was in them something of spring and at the same time of the evening. The impression of the spring was created by the flowers, and of the evening by ruddy lustre entering through the windows, and the soft voices of the women who, repeating the choral words of the litanies, reminded one of the last chirp of birds, subsiding before the setting of the sun. "Healer of the sick. Refuge of sinners, Comforter of the afflicted," repeated Pani Krzycki; and those soft, subdued voices responded, "Pray for us,"--and thus did that country home pray on that May evening. Gronski, who was a sceptic, but not an atheist, like a man of high culture, at first felt the æsthetic side of this childlike "good-night" borne by these women to a benign deity. Afterwards, as if desiring to corroborate the truth of Dolhanski's assertion that he was wont to turn over every subject on every side and to ponder over every phenomenon, he began to meditate upon religious manifestations. It occurred to him that this homage rendered to a deity was an element purely ideal, possessed solely by humanity. He recalled that as often as he happened to be in church and saw people praying, so often was he struck by the unfathomable chasm which separates the world of man from the animal world. As a matter of fact, religious conceptions can only be formed by higher and more perfect organisms; therefore he drew the conclusion that if there existed beings ten times more intelligent than mankind, they would, in their own way, be ten times more religious. "Yes, but in their own way," Gronski repeated, "which perhaps might be very different." His spiritual drama (and he often thought that there were many people like him) was this: that the Absolute appeared to him as an abyss, as some synthetic law of all the laws of existence. Thus he presumed that according to a degree of mental development it was impossible to imagine that law in the form of the kindly old man or in the eye on the radiant triangle, unless one takes matters symbolically and assumes that the old man and the eye express the all-basis of existence, as the horizontally drawn eight denotes infinity. But in such case what will this all-basis be for him? Always night, always an abyss, always something inscrutable; barely to be felt by some dull sensation and not by any clear perception, from whose power can be understood the phenomenon of existence and an answer be made to the various whys and wherefores. "Mankind," mused Gronski, "possesses at the same time too much and too little intelligence. For, after all, to simply believe one must unreservedly shut the blinds of his intellectual windows and not permit himself to peer through them; and when he does open them he discovers only a starless night." For this reason he envied those middle-aged persons, whose intelligence reared mentally edifices upon unshaken dogmas, just as lighthouses are built upon rocks in the sea. Dante could master the whole field of knowledge of his time and yet, notwithstanding this, could traverse hell, purgatory, and paradise. The modern man of learning could not travel thus, for if he wished to pass in thought beyond the world of material phenomenon, he would see that which we behold in Wuertz's well-known painting, a decapitated head; that is, some element so undefined that it is equivalent to nothing. But the tragedy, according to Gronski, lay not only in the inscrutability of the Absolute, in the impossibility of understanding His laws, but also in the impossibility of agreeing on them and acknowledging them from the view point of human life. There exist, of course, evil and woe. The Old Testament explains them easily by the state of almost continual rage of its Jah. "Domine ne in furore tuo arguas me, neque in ira tua corripias me," and afterwards "saggittae tuae infixae sunt mihi et confirmasti super me manuo tuum." And once having accepted this blind fury and this "strengthening of the right hand," it is easy to explain to one's self in a simple manner misfortune. But already in the Old Testament, Ecclesiastes doubts whether everything in the world is in order. The New Testament sees evil in matter in contraposition to the soul; and that is clear. However, viewing the matter, in the abstract, as everything is a close chain of cause and effect, therefore everything is logical, and being logical it cannot per se be either evil or good, but may appear propitious or unfavorable in its relation to man. Besides, that which we call evil or misfortune may, according to the absolute laws of existence, and in its profundity, be wise and essential principles of development, which are beyond human comprehension, and therefore something which in itself is an advantageous phenomenon. Yes, but in such case, whence does man derive the power to oppose his individual thoughts and his concrete conceptions to this universal logic? If everything is a delusion, why is the human mind a force, existing, as it were, outside of the general laws of existence? There is this something, unprecedented and at the same time tragical, that man must be subjected to these laws and can protest against them. On earth spiritual peace was enjoyed only by the gods, and is now only by animals. Man is eternally struggling and crying veto, and such a veto is every human tear. And here Gronski's thoughts assumed a more personal aspect. He began to look at the praying Marynia and at first experienced relief. There came to his mind the purely æsthetic observation that Carpaccio might have placed such a maiden beside his guitar-player and Boticelli should have foreseen her. But immediately afterwards he thought that even such a flower must wither, and nothing withers or dies without pain. Suddenly he was seized with a fear of the future, which in her traveling-pouch carries concealed evil and woe. He recalled, indeed, the aphorism which he had uttered, a short time before, about pessimism; but that gave him no comfort, because he understood that the pessimism which flowed from the exertions of the intellect is different from the worldling's pessimism which Dolhanski, by shrugging his shoulders at everything, permitted himself to indulge in when free from card-playing. He moreover propounded to himself the question whether that debilitating pessimism could in any manner be well founded, and here unexpectedly there stood before his eyes another friend, entirely different from Dolhanski, though also a sceptic and hedonist,--Doctor Parebski. He was a college-mate of Gronski and in later years had treated him for a nervous ailment; therefore he knew him perfectly. Once, after listening to his various reflections and complaints about the impossibility of finding a solution of the paramount questions of life, Doctor Parebski said to him: "That is a pastime for which time and means are necessary. If you had to work for your bread as I have, you would not upset your own mind and the minds of others. All that reminds me of a dog chasing his own tail. And I tell you, look at that which environs you and not at your own navel; and if you want to be well, then--carpe diem!" Gronski at that time deemed these words somewhat brutal and more in the nature of medical than philosophical advice, but now when he recalled them he said to himself: "In truth the road on which, as if from bad habit, I am continually entering leads to nowhere; and who knows whether these women praying this moment with such faith are not, without question, more sensible than I am, not to say more at ease and happier?" In the meantime Pani Kryzcki began to speak: "Under Thy protection we flee. Holy Mother of God," and the women's voices immediately responded: "Our entreaties deign not to spurn and from all evil deign to preserve us forever." Gronski was swept by an intense longing for such a sweet, tutelary divinity who does not deign to scorn entreaties and who delivers us from evil. How well it would be with him if he could enjoy such peace of mind, and how simple the thought! Unfortunately he already had strayed too far away. He could, like women, yearn, but, unlike them, he could not believe. Gronski mentally reviewed the whole array of his acquaintances and noted that those who fervently believed, in the depths of their souls, were very few in number. Some there were who did not believe at all; others who wanted to believe and could not; some acknowledged from social considerations the necessity of faith, and finally there were those who were simply occupied with something else. To this latter category belonged men who, for instance, observed the custom of attending mass as they did the habit of eating breakfast every morning, or of donning a dress-coat each evening or wearing gloves. Through habit it entered into the texture of their lives. Here Gronski unwillingly glanced at Ladislaus, for it seemed to him that the young man was a bird from that grove. Such, in fact, was the case. Krzycki, however, was neither a dull nor thoughtless person. At the university he, like others, philosophized a little, but afterwards the current of his life carried him in another direction. There existed, indeed, beside Jastrzeb and the daily affairs connected therewith, other matters which deeply interested him. He was sincerely concerned about his native land, her future, the events which might affect her destiny, and finally--women and love. But upon faith he reflected as much as he did upon death, upon which he did not reflect at all, as if he was of the opinion that it was improper to think of them, since they in the proper time will not forget anybody. At present, moreover, owing to the guests, he was more than a hundred miles from thinking of such questions. At one time, while yet a student, when during vacation time he drove over with his mother to Rzeslewo to attend high mass, he cherished in the depths of his soul the poetical hope that some Sunday the rattle of a carriage would resound without the church doors and a young and charming princess, journeying from somewhere beyond the Baltic to Kiev, would enter the church; that he would invite her to Jastrzeb and later fall in love with her and marry her. And now here unexpectedly those youthful dreams were in some measure realized, for to Jastrzeb there came not one but three princesses of whom he could dream as much as he pleased, for behold, they were now kneeling before the family altar, absorbed in prayer. He began to gaze--now at Pani Otocka and then at the form of Marynia, which resembled a Tanagra figurine, and repeated to himself: "Mother desires to give one of them to me as a wife." And he had nothing against the idea, but thought of Pani Otocka, "That is a book which somebody has already read, while the other is a fledgeling who can play a violin." Ladislaus was of the age which does not take into calculation any woman under twenty years. After a while, as if unwillingly, he directed his eyes towards Miss Anney,--unwillingly because she formed the most luminous object in the room, for the setting sun, falling upon her light hair, saturated it with such lustre that the whole head appeared aflame. Miss Anney from time to time raised her hand and shaded her head with it as if she desired to extinguish the lustre, but as the rays each moment became less warm, she finally discontinued the action. At times she was hidden from view by the figure of some dark-haired girl, whom Ladislaus did not know, but who, he surmised, must be a servant of one of these ladies. Towards the close of the services the girl bowed so low that she no longer obscured the view of the light hair or the young and powerful shoulders. "That," he said to himself, "would be the greatest temptation, but mother would be opposed, as she is a foreigner." But suddenly, as if to rebuke his conscience, there came to his memory the pensive eyes and slender shoulders of Panna Stabrowska. Ah! if only Rzeslewo and the funds had fallen to his lot! But uncle bequeathed Rzeslewo for educational purposes and the funds for trips to Carlsbad by the Mats, as Dolhanski had said, and a few thousand for Hanka Skibianka. At this recollection his brow clouded and he drew his hand across his forehead. "I unnecessarily became excited before mother and the ladies," he said to himself, "but I must explain this matter to Gronski." Accordingly, at the close of the mass, he turned to him: "I want to speak with you about various matters, but only in four eyes. Is that satisfactory?" "All right," answered Gronski, "when?" "Not to-day, for I must first go to Rzeslewo to question the men, look over the estate, and then attend to the guests. It will be best to-morrow evening or the day after. We will take our rifles with us and go to the woods. Now there is a flight of woodcocks. Dolhanski does not hunt, so we will leave him with the ladies." "All right," repeated Gronski. VIII The very next day, towards evening, they strolled with their rifles and a dog in the direction of the mill, and on the way Ladislaus began to narrate all that he had learned the previous day. "I was in Rzeslewo," he said, "but there you hear nothing good. The peasants insist that the will was forged and that the gentry twisted it about so that they could control, for their own benefit, the money and the lands. I am almost certain that Laskowicz is pouring oil upon that fire. But why? I cannot understand; nevertheless, that is the case. The landless, in particular, are wrought up and say that if the fortune is divided among them, they, themselves, will contribute for a school. In reality, they have no conception of the kind of school Zarnowski wanted, nor of the cost of establishing it." "In view of this, what do you intend to do?" asked Gronski. "I do not know. I will see. In the meantime I will try to convince them. I also begged the rector to explain the matter to them and spoke with a few of the older husbandmen. I seemed to have persuaded them; but unfortunately with them it is thus: that everyone, taken singly, is intelligent and even sensible, but when you talk to them together, it is like trying to smash a stone wall with your head." "That is nothing strange," answered Gronski; "take ten thousand doctors of philosophy together and they become a mob which is ruled by gesticulations." "That may be," said Ladislaus, "but I did not wish to speak of the will only. I also saw the old Rzeslewo overseer and learned a great many, intensely curious things. Figure to yourself that our guesses were wrong and that Hanka Skibianka is not the daughter of Uncle Zarnowski." "And that seemed so certain! But what kind of proof have you of this?" "Very simple. Skiba was a native of Galicia and emigrated to Rzeslewo with his wife and daughter when the latter was five years old. As Zarnowski, while well, stayed in the village like a wall, and at that time for at least ten years had not travelled anywhere, it is evident that he could not have been the father of that girl." "That decides the matter. I cannot understand why he bequeathed to her ten thousand roubles." "There is an interesting history connected with that," replied Ladislaus. "You must know that the deceased, though now it appears that he loved the peasants, always kept them under very strict control. He managed them according to the old system; that is, he abused them from morning till night. They say that when he cursed in the corridor you could hear him over half the village. A certain day he went into the blacksmith's shop and, finding something out of order, began to berate the blacksmith unmercifully. The smith bowed and listened in humility. It happened that little Hanka at that time was in front of the smithy and, seeing what was taking place, seized a little stick and started to belabor Zarnowski with it all over the legs. 'You will scold Tata, will you?' It is said that the deceased at first was dumbfounded, but afterwards burst into such laughter that his anger against the blacksmith passed away." "That Hanka pleases me." "So did she please Uncle. The very same day he sent a rouble to the smith's wife and ordered her to bring the child to the manor-house. From that time he became attached to her. He commanded the old housekeeper to teach her to read, and attended to it himself. The child likewise became devoted to him, and this continued for a number of years. In the end people began to say that the master wanted to keep the smith's daughter entirely at his residence and have her educated as a lady, but this, it seems, was untrue. He wanted to bring her up as a stout village lass and give her a dowry. The Skibas, whose only child she was, declared that they would not surrender her for anything in the world. Of course, I know only what the overseer told me, for our relations with the deceased were broken on account of the mill from which he drained the water for his ponds." "And later the Skibas emigrated." "Yes, but before that time Zarnowski began to fail in health and moved to Warsaw, and subsequently resided abroad; so that their relations relaxed. When the Skibas emigrated, the girl was seventeen. Uncle, on his return to Rzeslewo to die, longed for her and waited for some news of her. But as he had previously removed even his furniture from Rzeslewo to the city, she evidently assumed that he never would return and did not know where to write." "The bequest proves best that he did not forget her," said Gronski, "and from the whole will it appears that he was a man of better heart than people thought." "Surely," answered Ladislaus. For an interval they walked in silence; then Krzycki resumed the conversation. "As for myself, I prefer that she is not the daughter of the deceased." "Why? Has that any bearing on the bequest?" "No. Under no circumstances will I accept that bequest. Never!" "That is all very well, but tell me, why did you renounce it with such vehemence that everybody was astonished?" "There is one circumstance which neither Mother nor anybody else even suspects, but which I will sincerely confess to you. In the proper time I seduced that girl." Gronski stood still, gazed at Ladislaus, and ejaculated: "What's that?" As he was not prone to treat such matters with levity and, besides, the previous narrative of Krzycki had awakened within him a sympathy for Hanka, he frowned and asked: "For the fear of God! You seduced a child? And you say it was done in the proper time?" But Ladislaus replied quite calmly: "Let us not stop, for the dog has gone too far ahead of us," and here he pointed at the white spaniel running before them. "I did not seduce a child, for at that time she was sixteen. It happened more than seven years ago, while I was still a student and came to Jastrzeb on a vacation." "Were there any consequences?" "As far as I know there were none. You will understand that having returned the following vacation and not finding either her or the Skibas, I did not ask about them, for on the thief's head the cap burns.[2] But to-day I casually asked the overseer whether the Skibas had not probably emigrated because some mishap had befallen their daughter. He answered, 'No.'" "Then it is better for her and for you." "Certainly it is much better; for otherwise the matter would have been brought to light and would reach Mother's ears." "And in such case you would suffer much unpleasantness." There was irony in Gronski's voice, but Ladislaus, absorbed in his own thoughts, did not notice it and said: "In such case, I would have unpleasantness because Mother in such matters is exceedingly severe. So, to-day, after mature deliberation, I am like a wolf, who will commit no injury in the neighborhood where he keeps his nest, but at that time I was more headstrong and less careful." "May the deuce take you!" exclaimed Gronski. "For what?" "Nothing; speak on." "I have not much more to say. Recurring to the will, you now understand why I could not accept it." "Perhaps I do, but tell me 'thy exquisite reason,' as Shakespeare says." "Well, as to the seduction of a girl, that does happen in villages, but to seduce a girl and appropriate to one's own use that which had been provided for her,--why, that would be too much. And perhaps she may be suffering, in want, somewhere in America." "Everything is possible," answered Gronski. "So that if the advertisements, which I will make, do not reach her notice, in such case, I would be using her money, while she would die of starvation. No. Everything has its limits. I am not extraordinarily scrupulous, but there are some things which I plainly cannot do." "Tell me, but sincerely, do you entertain towards her any sentiment?" "I will tell you candidly that I completely forgot her. Now I have recalled her and, in truth, I cannot have any ill-will towards her. On the contrary, that kind of recollection cannot, of course, be disagreeable, unless it is linked with remorse. But we were mere children--and a pure accident brought us together." "Then permit me to ask one more question. If the deceased bequeathed to her the whole of Rzeslewo, and the funds, and if she did not within two years appear to claim them, would you renounce such a bequest?" "I cannot answer a question to which I have not given any consideration. I would not want to represent myself to you any better or any worse than I am. But this much is certain: I would publish the advertisements, and would publish them for the two years. But after all, of what importance to you can my answer be?" And here he abruptly paused, for from the direction of the adjacent birch grove some strange sound reached them, resembling a snort, and at the same time, above the tops of the birch and the lime-trees, there appeared upon the background of the twilight a gray bird, flying in a straight line to the underwood on the opposite side of the meadow. "Woodcock!" cried Krzycki, and he bounded forward. Gronski, following him, thought: "He certainly never read Nietzsche, and yet in his veins, together with the blood, there courses some noble super-humanity. If anybody betrayed his sister, he would have shot him in the head like a dog, but as a village girl is concerned, he does not feel the slightest uneasiness." Later they stopped at the edge of the birch grove. For a time intense silence prevailed; after which a strange voice resounded again above their heads and another woodcock appeared. Gronski fired and missed; Krzycki bettered--and they saw how, with descending flight, the fowl fell in the underwood farther off. The white dog for a while lingered in the dusk of the thicket and returned carrying the dead bird in his mouth. "She was already wounded when I fired," said Ladislaus. "It is your bird." "You are a gracious host," answered Gronski. And again silence ensued, which even the rustle of leaves did not disturb, as there was not a breath of air. But after a time two woodcocks snorted above their heads, one following the other, at which Gronski could not shoot, but Ladislaus winged both cleanly. Finally a more reckless one took pity on Gronski for she flew accommodatingly over him, as if she desired to save him any inconvenience. He himself felt ashamed at the thrill of pleasure he experienced when, after firing, he saw the bird hit the ground; and agreeable to his incorrigible habit of meditation upon every phenomenon, he came to the conclusion that his strange sensation could be attributed to the aboriginal times, when man and his family were dependent for subsistence upon skill in hunting. Thanks to this reasoning, he did not shoot at another bird that flew nearer the edge of the underwood and with which the flight evidently ended, as they waited for others in vain. In the meanwhile it grew dark, and after an interval the white spaniel emerged from the nightfall, and after him came Ladislaus. "We had a bootless chase," he said, "but that is nothing. In any case, there are four morsels for the ladies. Tomorrow we will try for more." "This was but a slight interruption in your confessions," answered Gronski, slinging his rifle over his shoulder. "My confessions?" said Ladislaus. "Aha!--yes." "You said that a mere accident brought you together." "That actually was the case. But we must now go ahead and you will kindly follow in my footsteps, as it is damp here in some places. This way we will reach the bridge and at the bridge we will have the road." Not until they were on the road did he commence his narrative: "It all began and ended in the mill, which even at that time served as a storage place for hay; and it did not continue more than a fortnight. It occurred thus: I once went out with a rifle to hunt for roebucks, for here roebucks come out in the evening at the clearing on the stream. It was very cloudy that day, but as it appeared to be clear in the west, I thought that the clouds would pass away. I took a position of a few hundred--and even more--steps from the mill, for nearer there was lying on the meadow, linen, which might scare the bucks; and about a half hour later I actually killed a buck. But in the meanwhile it began to rain, and in a short while there was such a downpour as I had never seen in Jastrzeb. I seized my buck by the hind legs and began to scamper off with all my might for the mill. On the way I noticed that some one had carried away the linen. I rushed into the mill and buried myself up to the ears in the hay, when I heard somebody breathing close by me. I asked: 'Who is that?' A thin voice answered me, 'I.' 'What kind of an I?' 'Hanka.' 'What are you doing here?' 'I came for the linen.' Then it began to thunder so much that I thought the mill would fall to pieces;--and not until it had subsided somewhat did I learn by the aid of continuous questions that my female companion was from Rzeslewo; that her family name was Skibianka, and that she finished her sixteenth year on St. Anne's Day. Then, and I give you my word, without any sinister will or intent, but only as a jest and because it is customary to talk that way with village maids, I said to her: 'Will you give me a kiss?' She did not answer, but as at that moment a thunder clap pealed, she nestled closer to me--perhaps from fright. And I kissed her on the very lips and, as I live, I had the same impression as if I had kissed a fragrant flower. So I repeated it twice, three times, and so on, and she returned the tenth or twentieth. When the storm passed away and it became necessary for us to part, I had her arms about my neck and at the same time my cheeks were wet with her tears,--for she cried, but I do not know whether from the loss of innocence or because I was leaving." Here, in spite of himself, the song of Ophelia, when insane, flitted through Krzycki's memory. Ladislaus continued: "On our departure she said that she knew I was the young lord of Jastrzeb; that she saw me every Sunday in Rzeslewo and gazed upon me as upon some miracle-working painting." "Ah, you certainly are handsome to the point of nauseousness," interrupted Gronski, with a certain irritation. "Bah!--I have already three or four gray hairs." "Surely, from birth. How often did you meet thereafter?" "Before I left her, I asked her whether she could not slip away the following evening. She answered that she could, because in the evening she always gathered the linen, which was being bleached upon the meadow, for fear that some one might steal it, and that besides, in summer time she did not sleep in the cabin with her parents, but on the hay in the barn. After that we met every day. I had to conceal myself from the night watch, so I slunk out of the window into the garden, though this was an unnecessary precaution, for the watch slept so soundly that one time I carried off the trumpet and staff belonging to one of them. It was amusing also that, seeing Hanka only in the night time, I did not know how she really looked; though in the moonlight she appeared to me to be pretty." "And in church?" "Our collator's pew is near the altar, while the girls knelt in the rear. There are so many of the same red and yellow shawls, studded with so many flowers, that it is difficult to distinguish one from the other. At times it seemed to me that I saw her in the distance, but I could not see her perfectly. The vacation soon ended, and when I returned the following season the Skibas were gone." "Did you bid her farewell?" "I admit that I did not. I preferred to avoid that." "And did you ever long for her?" "Yes. In Warsaw I longed for her intensely, and during the first month I was deeply in love with her. After my return to Jastrzeb, when I again saw the mill the feeling revived, but at the same time I was content that everything should drop, as it were, into the water and that Mother should not know anything about it." Conversing in this manner, they turned from the side road to the shady walk leading to the manor-house, whose low lights, from a distance of about a verst, at times glistened through the boughs of the linden, and then again hid themselves, screened by the thick foliage. The night was starry and fair. It was, however, quite dark, for the moon had not yet risen and the copper glow upon the eastern sky announced its near approach. There was not the slightest breath of air. The great nocturnal stillness was broken by the barks of dogs, barely audible, from the distant slumbering village. Involuntarily, Gronski and Ladislaus began to speak in lower tones. However, everything was not asleep, for a few hundred paces from the walk, on the meadow near the river, firelights were intermittingly flashing. "Those are peasants pasturing the horses and catching crawfish by the lights of the resinous wood," said Krzycki. "I even hear one of them riding away." And in fact at that moment they heard on the meadows the clatter of the horse's hoofs, deadened by the grass, and immediately afterwards the loud voice of a herdsman resounded, who, amidst the nocturnal quiet, shouted in a drawling tone: "Wojtek--Bring with you some more fagots, for these are not sufficient." The night rider, having reached the road, soon passed by the chatting friends like a shadow. He, however, recognized the young heir, as in riding by them he pulled off his cap and saluted: "Praised be the Lord!" "Now and forever." And for some time they walked in silence. Ladislaus began to whistle quietly and to shout at the dog, but Gronski, who was cogitating upon what had occurred in the mill, said: "Do you know that if you were an Englishman, for instance, your idyl would have ended, in all probability, differently, and you would throughout your life have had a chaste remembrance, in which there would be great poetry." "We eat less fish, therefore have a temperament differing from the Englishmen. As to poetry, perhaps there also was a little of it in our affair." "It is not so much different temperament as different usages, and in that is the relief. They have a soul, healthier and at the same time, more independent, and do not borrow their morality from French books." After which he meditated for a while and then continued: "You say that in your relations there was a little poetry. Certainly, but looking at it only from Hanka's side, not yours. In her, really, there is something poetical, for, deducing from your own words, she loved you truly." "That is certain," said Ladislaus. "Who knows whether I ever in my life will be loved as much?" "I think that you will not. For that reason, I am astonished that this stone should drop into the depth of your forgetfulness and that you should have so completely effaced it." These words touched Krzycki somewhat, so he replied: "Candidly speaking, I related all this to you for the purpose of explaining why I do not accept the bequest, and, in the naïveté of my soul, I thought that you would praise me. But you are only seeking sore spots. Indeed, I would, after all, have preferred that this had not happened, but, since it happened, it is best not to think of it. For if I had as many millions as there are girls seduced every year in the villages, I could purchase not only Rzeslewo, but one half of the county. I can assure you that they themselves do not look upon it as a tragedy, neither do such things end in misfortune. It would plainly be laughable if I took this to heart more than Hanka who in all probability did not take it to heart and does not." "How do you know?" "That is usually the case. But if it were the reverse, what can I do? Surely I will not journey across the ocean to seek her. In a book that might perhaps appear very romantic, but in reality I have an estate which I cannot abandon and a family which it is not permissible for me to sacrifice. Such a Hanka, with whom, speaking parenthetically, you have soured me by recalling, may be the most honest girl, but to marry her--of course I could not marry her; therefore what, after all, can I do?" "I do not know; but you must agree that there is a certain moral unsavoriness in the situation in which a man, after committing a wrong, afterwards asks himself or others, 'What can I do?'" "Oh, that was only a façon de parler," replied Krzycki, "for, on the whole, I know perfectly. I will publish the advertisements and with that everything will end. The penance, which the priest at the proper time imposed upon me, I have performed, and I do not intend to make any further atonement." To this Gronski said: "Sero molunt deorum molæ. Do you understand what that means in Polish?" "Having assumed the management of Jastrzeb, I sowed all my latinity over its soil, but it has not taken root." "That means: The mills of the gods grind late." Krzycki began to laugh and, pointing his hand in the direction of the old mill, said: "That one will not grind anything any more; I guarantee that." Further conversation was interrupted by their meeting near the gates two indistinct forms, with which they almost collided, for though the moon had already ascended, in the old linden walk it was completely dark. Ladislaus thought that they were the lady visitors enjoying an evening stroll, but for certainty asked, "Who is there?" "We," answered an unknown feminine voice. "And who in particular?" "Servants of Pani Otocka and Miss Anney." The young man recalled the young girl whose dark head obstructed his view of the lustrous hair of the English woman during the May mass. "Aha!" he said. "Do not you young girls fear to walk in the darkness? A were-wolf might carry off one of you." "We are not scared," answered the same voice. "And perhaps I am a were-wolf?" "A were-wolf does not look like that." Both girls began to laugh and withdrew a few steps; at the same time a bright ray darted through the leaves and illumined the white forehead, black eyebrows, and the whites of the eyes of one of them, which glittered greenishly. Krzycki, who was flattered by the words that a werewolf did not look like that, gazed at those eyes and said: "Good-night!" "Good-night!" The ladies, with Dolhanski, were already in the dining-room, as the service of the supper awaited only the hunters who, after their return, withdrew to change their apparel. Marynia sat at one end of the table with the children and conversed a little with them and a little with Laskowicz, who was relating something to her with great animation, gazing all the time at her with intense fixedness and also with wariness that no one should observe him. Gronski, however, did observe him and, as the young student had interested and disquieted him from the time he learned of his agitation among the Rzeslewo peasants, he desired to participate in the conversation. But Marynia at that moment having heard the conclusion, joined the other ladies, who, having previously heard from the balcony the shooting in the direction of the old mill, inquired about the results of the hunt. It appearing that neither Miss Anney nor the two sisters had ever seen woodcocks except upon a platter, the old servant upon Krzycki's order brought the four lifeless victims. They viewed them with curiosity, expressed tardy commiseration for their tragic fate, and asked about their manner of life. Ladislaus, whom the animal world had interested from early years, began to relate at the supper the strange habits of those birds and their mysterious flights. While thus occupied he paid particular attention to Pani Otocka, for he was, for the first time, struck by her uncommonly fine stature. On the whole, he preferred other, less subtile kinds of beauty, and prized, above all else, buxom women. He observed, however, that on that night Pani Otocka looked extraordinarily handsome. Her unusually delicate complexion appeared yet more delicate in her black lace-stitched dress, and in her eyes, in the outlines of her lips, in the expression of her countenance, and in her whole form there was something so maidenly that whoever was not aware of her widowhood would have taken her for a maid of a good country family. Ladislaus, from the first arrival of these ladies, had indeed enlisted on the side of Miss Anney, but at the present moment he had to concede in his soul that the Englishwoman was not a specimen of so refined a race and, what was worse, she seemed to him that day less beautiful than this "subtile cousin." But at the same time he made a strange discovery, namely: that this observation not only did not lessen his sympathy for the light-haired lady, but in some manner moved him strongly and inclined him to a greater friendship for her; as if by that comparison with Pani Otocka he had done an undeserved wrong to the Englishwoman, for which he ought to apologize to her. "I must be on my guard," he thought, "otherwise I will fall." He began to search for the celestial flow in her eyes and, finding it, drank its dim azure, drop by drop. In the meantime Pani Krzycki, desirous of learning the earliest plans of the sisters, began to ask Pani Otocka whether they were going to travel abroad, and where. "The doctor," she said, "sends me to mineral baths on account of my rheumatism, but I would be delighted to spend one more summer with you somewhere." "And to us your sojourn at Krynica left the most agreeable memories," replied Pani Otocka; "particularly, as we are in perfect health, we willingly would remain in the village and more willingly would invite Aunt to us, with her entire household, were it not that the times are so troublous and it is unknown what may happen on the morrow. But if it will quiet down. Aunt, after her recovery, must certainly pay us a visit." Saying this, she ardently kissed the hand of Pani Krzycki who said: "How good you are and how lovable! I would with all my heart go to you, only, with my health, I must not obey the heart but various hidden ailments. Besides, the times are really troublous and I understand it is rather dangerous for ladies to remain alone in the villages. Have you any reliable people in Zalesin?" "I do not fear my own people as they were very much attached to my husband, and now that attachment has passed to me. My husband taught them, above all things, patriotism, and at the same time introduced improvements which did not exist elsewhere. We have an orphanage, hospital, baths, stores, and fruit nurseries for the distribution of small trees. He even caused artesian wells to be sunk to provide enough healthful water for the village." Dolhanski, hearing this, leaned towards Krzycki and whispered: "A capitalist's fantasy. He regarded his wife and Zalesin as two playthings which he fondled, and played the rôle of a philanthropist because he could afford it." But Pani Krzycki again began to ask: "Who now is in charge of Zalesin?" And the young widow, having cast off a momentary sad recollection, answered with a smile: "In the neighborhood they say Dworski rules Zalesin.--He is the old accountant of my husband and is very devoted to us.--I rule Dworski, and Marynia rules me." "And that is the truth," interjected Miss Anney, "with this addition, and me also." To this Marynia shook her head and said: "Oh, Aunt, if you only knew how they sometimes twit me!" "Somehow I do not see that, but I think that the time will come when somebody will rule you also." "It has already come," broke out Marynia. "So? That is curious. Who is that despot?" And the little violinist, pointing with a quick movement of her little finger at Gronski, said: "That gentleman." "Now I understand," said Dolhanski, "why, after our return from the notary, he had a teapot full of hot water over his head." Gronski shrugged his shoulders, like a man who had been charged with unheard-of things, and exclaimed: "I? A despot? Why, I am a victim, the most hypnotized of all." "Then Pan Laskowicz is the hypnotizer, not I," answered the young miss, "for he himself at supper was telling me about hypnotism and explaining what it is." Gronski looked toward the other end of the table, in the direction of the student, and saw his eyes, strained, refractory, and glistening, fastened upon Marynia. "Aha!" he thought, "he actually is trying his powers upon her." He frowned and, addressing her, said: "Nobody in truth knows what hypnotism is. We see its manifestations and nothing more. But how did Laskowicz explain it to you?" "He told me what I already had heard before; that the person put to sleep must perform everything which the operator commands, and even when awakened must submit to the operator's will." "That is untrue," said Gronski. "And I think likewise. He claimed also that he could put me to sleep very easily, but I feel that he cannot." "Excellent! Do such things interest you?" "Hypnotism a little. But if it is to be anything mysterious, then I prefer to hear about spirits; especially do I like to hear the stories which one of our neighbors relates about fairies. He says they are called sprites, and indulge in all kinds of tricks in old houses, and they can be seen at night time through the windows in rooms where the fire is burning in the hearth. There they join hands and dance before the fire." "Those are gay fairies." "And not malicious, though mischievous. Our aged neighbor piously believes in them and quarrels about them with the rector. He says his house is full of them and that they are continually playing pranks: sometimes pulling the coils of the clock to make it ring; sometimes hiding his slippers and other things; making noise during the night; hitching crickets to nut-shells and driving with them over the rooms; in the kitchen they skim the milk and throw peas into the fire to make them pop. If you do not vex them, they are benevolent, driving away spiders and mice, and watching that the mushrooms do not soil the floor. This neighbor of ours at one time was a man of great education, but in his old age has become queer, and he tells us this in all seriousness. We, naturally, laugh at it, but I confess that I very much wish that such a world did exist;--strange and mysterious! There would be in it something so good and nice, and less sadness." Here she began to look off with dreamy eyes and afterwards continued: "I remember also that whenever we discussed Boecklin's pictures, those fauns, nymphs, and dryads which he painted, I always regretted that all that did not exist in reality. And sometimes it seemed to me that they might exist, only we do not see them. For, in truth, who knows what happens in the woods at noontime or night time, when no one is there; or in the mists during the moonlight or upon the ponds? Belief in such a world is not wholly childish, since we believe in angels." "I also believe in fairies, nymphs, dryads, and angels," answered Gronski. "Really?" she asked, "for you always speak to me as to a child." And he answered her only mentally: "I speak as with a child, but I idolize." But further conversation was interrupted by the servant, who informed Ladislaus that the steward of Rzeslewo had arrived and desired to see the "bright young lord" on a very important matter. Krzycki apologized to the company and with the expression, customary with country husbandmen, "What is up now?" left the room. As the supper was almost finished, they all began to move, after the example of the lady of the house, who, however, for a while endeavored in vain to rise, for the rheumatism during the past two days afflicted her more and more. Similar attacks occurred often and in such cases her son usually conducted her from room to room. But in this instance Miss Anney, who sat nearest to her, came to her assistance and, taking her in her arms, lifted her easily, skillfully, and without any exertion. "I thank you, I thank you," said Pani Krzycki, "for otherwise I would have to wait for Laudie. Ah, my God, how good it is to be strong!" "Oh, in me you have a veritable Samson," answered Miss Anney in her pleasant, subdued voice. But at that moment Ladislaus, who evidently recalled that he had to escort his mother, rushed into the room and, seeing what was taking place, exclaimed: "Permit me, Miss Anney. That is my duty. You will fatigue yourself." "Not the least." "Ah, Laudie," said Pani Krzycki, "to tell the truth, I do not know which one of you two is the stronger." "Is it truly so?" he asked, looking with rapt eyes upon the slender form of the girl. And she began to wink with her eyes in token that such was the fact, but at the same time blushed as if ashamed of her unwomanly strength. Ladislaus, however, assisted her to seat his mother at the table in the small salon, at which she was accustomed to amuse herself in the evenings by laying out cards to forecast fortunes. On this occasion he unintentionally brushed his shoulder against Miss Anney's shoulder and, when he felt those steel-like young muscles, a violent thrill suddenly penetrated through him and at the same time he was possessed by a perception of some elementary, unheard-of, blissful power. If he were Gronski and ever in his life had read Lucretius' hymn to Venus, he would have been able to know and name that power. But as he was only a twenty-seven-year-old, healthy nobleman, he only thought that the moments in which he would be free to hug such a girl to his bosom would be worth the sacrifice of Jastrzeb, Rzeslewo, and even life. But in the meanwhile he had to return to the steward of Rzeslewo, who waited for him in the office upon an urgent matter. Their talk lasted so long that when Ladislaus reappeared in the small salon, the young ladies had already withdrawn to their rooms. Only his mother, who was purposely waiting, desirous of knowing what was the matter, remained, with Gronski and with Dolhanski, who was playing baccarat with himself. "What is the news?" asked Pani Krzycki. "Absolutely nothing good. Only let Mamma not get alarmed, for we are of course here in Jastrzeb and not in Rzeslewo; and eventually we can brush this aside with our hands. But nevertheless, strange things are occurring there and Kapuscinski, in any event, did right to come here." "For the Lord's sake, who is Kapuscinski?" exclaimed Dolhanski, dropping the monocle from his eye. "The steward of Rzeslewo. He says that some unknown persons, probably from Warsaw, appeared there and are acting like gray geese in the skies. They issue commands, summon the peasants, incite them, promising them the lands and even order them to take possession of the stock. They predict it will be the same in all Poland as it is in Rzeslewo--" "And what of the peasants? what of the peasants?" interrupted Pani Krzycki. "Some believe them, while others do not. The more sensible, who attempt to resist, are threatened with death. The manor farm-hands will not obey Kapuscinski and say that they will only pasture and feed the cattle, but will not touch any other work. About fifteen of the tenants are preparing to go to the woods with hatchets and they declare that, if the foresters interfere with their right to cut wood, they will give them a good drubbing. Kapuscinski has lost his head completely and came to me, as one of the executors of the will, for advice." "And what did you tell him?" "As he declared to me that he was not certain of his life in Rzeslewo, I advised him by all means to pass the night with us in Jastrzeb. I wanted first to consult Mother and you, for in fact, advice under the circumstances is difficult to give and the situation is grave. Of course such a situation cannot continue very long, and sooner or later the peasants themselves will suffer the most by it. This we must positively prevent. I will candidly state that for the past two days, I have been considering whether it would not be better if I renounced the curatorship of the new school and Rzeslewo matters in general. I hesitated only because it is a public service, but in truth, I have so much work to attend to here in Jastrzeb, that I do not know on what I shall lay my hands first. But now, since it is necessary to rescue the peasants, and since a certain amount of danger is connected with it, I cannot retreat." "I will fear about you, but I understand you," said Pani Krzycki. "I think that by all means, I should drive over to-morrow morning to Rzeslewo, but if I do not secure a hearing there, then what is to be done?" "You will not get any," said Dolhanski, not pausing in his distribution of the cards. "If you go, I will go with you," announced Pani Krzycki. "Ah, that would be the only thing needful! Let Mamma only think that in such a case I would be terribly hampered and certainly would not gain anything." After which he kissed her hand and said: "No, no! Mamma does not understand that matters would be worse and, if Mamma insists, then I would rather not go at all." Gronski propped his head upon his hand and thought that it was easier to analyze at a desk the various phases of life than to offer sound advice in the presence of urgent events. Dolhanski at last stopped playing baccarat with himself and said: "The position we are placed in passes all comprehension. But were we in any other country, the police would be summoned and the matter would end in a day." To this Ladislaus replied with some anger: "As for that, permit me! I will not summon the police; not only not against those peasants, but not even against those forbidden figures who now haunt Rzeslewo. No, never!" "Very well; long live an epoch of true freedom!" "Who knows," said Gronski, "but that the summoning of the police would just suit these gentlemen?" "In what way?" "Because they themselves, at the proper season, would disappear, but later would incite the people again and would cry all over Poland, 'Behold! who appeals to the police against peasants.'" "That is a pertinent observation," said Ladislaus; "now I understand various things which I did not comprehend before." "From the opening of the will," said Dolhanski, "Rzeslewo and its inhabitants did not concern me in the least. However, one thought occurred to me while dealing the cards. Laudie will drive over to Rzeslewo to-morrow on a fruitless errand. He may receive only a sound beating, without benefiting anybody--" "It has never yet come to that, and that is something I do not fear. Our family has lived in Jastrzeb from time immemorial, and the peasants of this neighborhood would not raise their hands against a Krzycki--" "Above all, do not interrupt me," said Dolhanski. "If you do not get a sound thrashing--and I assume that you may not--then you will not secure a hearing, as you yourself foresaw a little while ago. If we two, that is, Gronski and myself, went over there, we would not effect anything because they have seen us at the funeral, and the estimable Slavonians of Rzeslewo look upon us as men who have a personal interest in the matter. It will be necessary that some one unknown go there, who will not argue, but who will act as if he had the right and power and will command the peasants to behave peaceably. Since you are so much concerned about them, that will be the only way. So, then, since by virtue of the unfathomable decrees of Providence there exist in this beloved land of ours National Democrats, whom, parenthetically speaking, I cannot endure any more than the seven-spot of clubs, but who, in all probability, have fists as sweaty and as heavy as the socialists,--could you not settle this matter with their assistance?" "Of course, naturally, naturally!" exclaimed Gronski; "the peasants, after all, have great confidence in the National party." "I also belong to that party with my whole heart," said Krzycki, "but, sitting, like a stone, in Jastrzeb, I do not know to whom to apply." "In any case, not to me," said Dolhanski. But Gronski, though he did not belong to any faction, thoroughly knew the city and easily suggested the addresses and the manner in which the party could be notified. He afterwards said: "And now I will give you one word of advice, the same which you, Laudie, gave Kapuscinski, namely, that we go to sleep, for you, especially, madam,"--here he addressed the lady of the house--"were entitled to that long ago. Is it agreed?" "Agreed," answered Ladislaus; "but wait a few minutes. After conducting Mother, I will accompany you upstairs." Within a quarter of an hour he returned, but instead of bidding his guests the promised "good-night" he drew closer to them and resumed the interrupted conversation. "I did not wish to relate everything before Mother," he said, "in order not to alarm her. But in fact the matter is much worse. So, speaking first of what concerns us, imagine for yourself that those strangers immediately after their arrival asked first of all about Laskowicz, and that Laskowicz was in Rzeslewo this afternoon and returned here an hour before we came back from the hunt. Now it is positively certain that we have in our midst an agitator." "Then throw him out," interrupted Dolhanski. "If I were in your place, I would have done that long ago, if only for the reason that he has eyes set closely to each other, like a baboon. In a man that indicates fanaticism and stupidity." "Unquestionably I will be done with him to-morrow, and I would end with him even to-day, notwithstanding the late hour, were it not that I desire first to calm down and not create any foolish disturbance. I do not like this, and I would not advise those apostles to peer into Jastrzeb. As I live, I would not advise it." "Have they any intention of paying you a visit?" "Certainly. If not to me personally, then to my farmhands. They announced in Rzeslewo that they would cause an agrarian strike in the entire vicinity." "Then my advice, to drive out one wedge with another, is the most feasible." "Assuredly. I will adopt that course without delay." "I know," said Gronski, "that they want to inaugurate agrarian strikes throughout the whole country. They will not succeed as the peasant element will repel their efforts. They, like most people from the cities, do not take into account the relation of man to the soil. Nevertheless, there will be considerable losses and the confusion will increase, and this is what they chiefly care for. Ah! Shakespeare's 'sun of foolery' not only shines in our land, but is in the zenith." "If we are talking of that kind of a sun, we can, like a former king of Spain, say that it never sets in our possessions." But Gronski spoke farther: "Socialism--good! That, of course, is a thing more ancient than Menenius Agrippa. That river has flown for ages. At times, when covered by other ideas, it coursed underground, and later emerged into the broad daylight. At times it subsides, then swells and overflows. At present we have a flood, very menacing, which may submerge not only factories, cities, and countries, but even civilization. Above all, it threatens France, where comfort and money have displaced all other ideas. Socialism is the inevitable result of that. Capital wedded to demagogism cannot breed any other child; and if that child has the head of a monster and mole, so much the worse for the father. It demonstrates that superfluous wealth may be a national danger. But this is not strange. Privilege is an injustice against which men have fought for centuries. Formerly the princes, clergy, and nobility were vested with it. To-day nobody has any; money possesses all. In truth, Labor has stepped forth to combat with it." "This begins to smell to me like an apology for socialism," observed Dolhanski. "No. It is not an apology. For, above all things, viewing this matter from above, what is this new current but one more delusion in the human chase after happiness? For myself, I only contend that socialism has come, or rather, it has gathered strength, because it was bound to grow. I care only about its looks and whether it could not have a different face. And here my criticism begins. I do not deem socialism a sin in the socialists, but only that the idea in their school assumes the lineaments of an malignant idiot. I accuse our socialists of incredible stupidity; like that of the ants who wrangled with and bit the working ants, while the ant-eater was lying on the ant-hill and swallowing them by thousands." "True," cried Ladislaus. "And, of course," concluded Gronski, "on our ant-hills there lie a whole herd of ant-eaters." Here Dolhanski again dropped the monocle from his eye. "That you may not retire to sleep under a disagreeable impression," he said, "I will tell you an anecdote which will illustrate what Gronski has said. During the last exposition in Paris, one of the black kings of French Congo, having heard of it, announced his wish to see it. The Colonial government, which was anxious to send as many exotic figures as possible to Paris, not only consented, but sent to this monarch a few shirts with the information that in France such articles of attire were indispensable. Naturally the shirts excited general admiration and surprise. The King summoned ministers, priests, and leaders of parties for a consultation as to how such a machine was to be put on. After long debates, which undoubtedly could not be held without bitter clashes between the native rationalists and the native nationalists and progressionists, all doubts were finally set at rest. The king pulled the sleeves of the shirt over his legs, so that the cuffs were at his ankles. The bottom edge of the shirt, which in this instance became the top, was fastened under his arm-pits by a string in such a manner that the bosom was on his back and the opening was at his neck--somewhat lower. Delighted with this solution of the difficulty, the ruler acknowledged that the attire, if not entirely, was, at least in certain respects, very practical and, above all, extraordinarily striking." "Good," said Gronski, laughing, "but what connection has that with what I had previously said?" "Greater than may appear to you," replied Dolhanski; "for the fact is that the various Slavonians are prepared to bear liberty and the socialists socialism in the same manner as that negro king wore his European shirt." Saying this, he replaced the monocle in his eye and announced that as in virtuous Jastrzeb and in such company there could not be any talk of a "night card party," he would take his leave and go to sleep. The others decided to follow his example. Ladislaus took the lamp and began to light the way for the guests. On the stairs he turned to them with a countenance which depicted ill humor and said: "May the deuce take it, but all these disturbances must occur at a time when we have in Jastrzeb such lovely ladies." "Beware," answered Dolkanski, "and know that nothing can be concealed from my eyes. When you assisted Miss Anney to conduct your mother, you looked like an electrical machine. If anybody drew a wire through you, you could illuminate not only the mansion but the adjoining out-buildings." Ladislaus raised the lamp higher so that the light would not fall upon his countenance, for he felt at that moment that he blushed like a student. IX Ladislaus Krzycki possessed such a happy nature that, having once lain down to sleep, he could a few minutes later fall into a deep slumber which would continue until the morning. That night, however, he could not fall asleep because the impressions of the day, together with the parting words of Dolhanski, had led him into a state of exasperation and anger. He was angry at Rzeslewo; at the disturbances which were taking place there; at Dolhanski because he had observed the impression which the young girl had made upon him--and particularly because he himself had afforded him an opportunity to comment upon it--and finally at the innocent Miss Anney. After a time, rolling from side to side, he opened an imaginary conversation with her, in which he assumed the rôle of a man, who, indeed, does not deny that he is deeply under the spell, nevertheless, can view matters soberly and sanely. Therefore he admitted to Miss Anney that she was handsome and amiable; that she had an immensely sympathetic voice, a strange, fascinating look, and a body like marble--ah, what a body! Nevertheless, he made the explicit reservation that she must not think that he loved her to distraction, or was even smitten with her. He would concede anything to her that she desired, but to admit that he was in love with her was as far removed from his thoughts as love is from matrimony, of which, of course, there could not be any talk. Above all, she was a foreigner, and Mother in that respect had her prejudices, justly so; and he himself would prefer to have at his side during the remainder of his life a Polish soul and not a foreign one. True, there was something homelike in her, but after all, she was not a Pole. "Identical blood has its own meaning; it cannot be helped," he further told Miss Anney. "So, since you are an Englishwoman, marry some Englishman or Scotchman, provided, however, you do not require me to form the acquaintance of such an ape and become intimate with him, for that is something I can dispense with perfectly." And at that moment he was seized with such a sudden, unexpected antipathy to that eventual Englishman "with projecting jaw" and Scotchman "with bare knees," that he felt that upon a trivial misunderstanding he could flog them. But through this attack of rage he roused himself completely from that half-drowsy, half-wakeful condition in which whimsical fancies mingle, and having recovered his senses, he experienced a great relief in the thought that the betrothed person beyond the sea was only a figment of his imagination, and at the same time a wave of gratitude towards Miss Anney surged in his heart. "Here I am, quarrelling with her and making reservations," he thought, "while she is snugly nestling her bright head upon a pillow and peacefully slumbering." Here again his blood began to frisk, but soon the perverse musings vanished. This became easier for him, as he was encompassed by a yearning for honest affection and for that future being, yet unnamed, who was to share his life. Again he resumed his imaginary conversation with Miss Anney, but this time in a meek spirit. He assured her, with a certain melancholy, that he was not solicitous about her, as he well knew that even if there were no obstacles she certainly would not have him, but that he was anxious that his future life-companion should resemble her a little; that she should have the same look and the same magnetic strength to which, if he did not succumb it would be a miracle. As to Miss Anney personally, plainly speaking, he owed only gratitude. Of course, nowhere was it so well with him as at his beloved Jastrzeb, but nevertheless he could not deny that in that exclusive den it became lively and bright after her arrival; and that after her departure it would become darker, more dreary and monotonous than ever before. So for those bright moments he would willingly kiss her hand and, if that seemed insufficient to her, then her feet. In the meantime he begged her pardon for the mad thoughts which passed through his brain when he brushed against her shoulder in the salon, for though he was always of the opinion that responsiveness upon her part was worth the sacrifice of life, yet at the same time he had to contend that Dolhanski was a blockhead and cynic who meddled with matters which did not concern him and who was unworthy of notice. Here renewed rage against Dolhanski possessed him, and he continued for some time to toss from side to side until finally the late hour, youth, hungry for sleep, and weariness sprinkled his eyes with poppy.[3] There was, however, in the Jastrzeb manor-house another who did not sleep and who talked with a person not present, and that was Laskowicz. After all that had taken place and what had been revealed in the past few days, he was prepared for his farewell parting with the Krzycki family, as he well knew that his further presence in Jastrzeb would be intolerable. And nevertheless he desired at present to stay in it, even though for a few days, in order that he might gaze longer upon Panna Marynia and, as he called it, "further narcotize himself." Somehow, from the first moment he had heard her play, she actually absorbed his thoughts in a way that no woman up to that time had done. Foremost among the prepared formulæ which he, with dogmatic faith, had adopted to judge mankind with, was the precept that a woman belonging to the so-called pampered class was a thoughtless creature. In the meantime he had to dissent at once from that formula as a soul had spoken to him through the violin. Later he was astonished to find in that young lady two entities, one of which manifested itself in music as a finished artist, concentrated, filled with exaltation within herself, dissolved in the waves of tones and playing as if she drew the bow over her own nerves; the other appeared in every-day life in her customary relations with people. The latter seemed at the first glance of the eye, if not an insignificant, a common girl, full of simplicity and even gaiety, who screamed like a cat when Dolhanski, for instance, said things disagreeable to her; who jested with Gronski, telling him absurdities about spirits or, to the great alarm of Gronski and her older sister, fled into the garden for a boat ride on the pond. Laskowicz did not fully comprehend the world and was not a subtle person; nevertheless, he observed in the "common girl" something which made her, as it were, a little divinity, haloed with a quiet worship. Evidently she herself did not appear to be conscious of this and, viewing such a state of affairs as something which was self-understood, she lived the life of a flower or a bird. Confident that she will not suffer any harm from any one, gentle, bright, living beyond the misery and wretchedness of life, beyond its cares, beyond its chilling winds which dim the eyes with tears, beyond the dust which defiles, she resembled a pure spring which people look upon as blessed and whose translucency they fear to muddy. It seemed that the environment did not exact of her anything more than that she should exist, just as nothing more is demanded of a masterpiece. To Laskowicz, as often as he gazed at her, there came recollection of his childhood days. He and his older brother, who, a few years before falling into consumption had committed suicide on the Riviera, were the sons of a woman who conducted near one of the churches in Warsaw a shop for the sale of consecrated wax candles, medals, rosaries, and pictures. Owing to this, both brothers were, in a way, bred upon the church portals and were in constant relations with the priests. Once it happened that the aged canon, the rector of the church, bought at an auction an alabaster statuette of some saint, and for an unknown reason took it for granted that it was not only the work, but the masterpiece of Canova. The statuette, which, in reality, was pretty and finely executed, after consecration, was placed in a separate niche near one of the altars under the name of Saint Apollonia and from that time the gentle old rector surrounded it with great worship as a holy relic and with more particular care as the greatest church rarity. He led his guests and more pious parishioners before it and commanded them to admire the work and got angry if any one ventured to make any critical observation. In fact, the admiration of the canon was shared by the organist, the sexton, the church servants, and both boys. The thought that Panna Marynia amidst her environment was such a Saint Apollonia unwittingly suggested itself to Laskowicz. For that reason, after the first impression he called her "a saintly doll." But he also recalled that when in the course of time he lost his faith--and he lost it in the gymnasium where, speaking parenthetically, he completed his studies with the aid of the venerable canon--he often was beset with a desire to demolish that alabaster statuette. At present he was consumed with a greater desire, for it bordered upon a passion, to destroy this living one. And yet he did not in the least bear her any hatred. On the contrary, he could not resist the charm of this maiden, so loved by all, any more than one can resist the charm of dawn or spring. It even happened that what vexed and exasperated him also at the same time attracted him towards her with an uncontrollable force. Consequently he was drawn to her by her appurtenance to this world, the existence of which he deemed a social injustice, crime, and wrong; she attracted him in spite of his internal anguish, and even by the thought that beside such a flower the proletariat was but manure. A lure for him was her refined culture and her art, though he regarded such things as superfluous and unnecessary for people of deflorated life; the fascination was her utter dissimilarity to the women whom he met up to the time of his arrival at the village, and her whole form was an intoxication. Never before was he under the same roof with a being like her; therefore he forgot himself and lost his head at the sight of her, and though he had not yet familiarized himself with the power which began to play in his bosom and had not christened it with the name of love, the truth was that during the past few days he was aflame like a volcano and loved her to distraction. He vaguely felt, however, that in this passion there was something of the lust of a negro for a white woman, and what was more, that in that particular love there was apostasy to principles. So then in the same germ he poisoned her with the virus of hatred and the wolfish propensity of annihilation. And now he was summoning this "saintly doll" to come to him. Accepting, indiscriminately, and also with all that exaggeration peculiar to fanaticism and youth, everything which the books published as the results of the latest researches or phenomena in the domain of science, he believed that hypnotism was a secret and gigantic power which, when applied, would become invincible. Holding himself on the strength of experiments tried among his classmates as a hypnotizer, and considering the delicate and impressionable young girl an excellent medium, he was most firmly convinced that he could put her to sleep and command her from a distance. Conscience, indeed, whispered to him that what he contemplated doing was an abuse of science, but he silenced that voice, persuading himself that it would at the same time be a triumph of a proletaire over this world, for which it is not permissible to have any pity, and that a man belonging to the camp which had declared a war of life and death on the entire social structure and "had appraised at their true worth" all current ideas has the right to and must be heedless. Above all, however, he yearned to subjugate this elegant and immaculate maiden, to dominate not merely her body and soul, but also her will; to transform her into something like himself; to draw her to himself, to awaken within her the slumbering feminine instincts, to open before her the closed doors of passion; to inflame her, to embrace her, to toy with her, and afterwards keep her forever close to his bosom. And at that thought he was beset by a strange joy like that which madmen feel while profaning objects held in reverence and fear, and, simultaneously, lust and love within him intensified. He felt that after all that and for all of that, he would love this booty of his, this sacrifice, to distraction. But as he was a madman only about the heart of a maid, and not a depraved man, he was at times possessed by a tenderness so great that if his summons were productive of any results he might not pass the bounds of transgression. But these were transient moments; after which, straining the whole strength of his will and the sight of his closely set eyes in the direction of Marynia's sleeping chamber he said and commanded: "Rise!--do not light the candles--do not awaken your sister--open the door quietly and walk in darkness on the path of my thoughts until you come to me, to my arms, to my bosom!" And he imagined that at any moment he would behold her, resembling that alabaster statuette, entering with the mechanical step of a somnambulist in a single gown, silvery, dreamy, with head tilted backward, with closed eyes and opened lips drinking the lustre of the moon which shone in the windows. Afterwards he listened in the silence and, concentrating yet more powerfully his will, he repeated again with emphasis as if each word was chiselled out of stone: "Rise! do not light the candles--do not waken your sister--open the door--go on the path of my thoughts--and come!" Horrible indeed would have been the fate of the young lady were it not for one fortunate circumstance, and that was that she never dreamt of rising, opening the door, going on the path of his thoughts, etc. On the contrary, she slept as peacefully as if an angel had bent over her and with the movements of her wings had driven away from her disquieting and feverish dreams. The little household fairies of Jastrzeb, such as those about which she spoke to Gronski, also did not disturb her repose. Perhaps some of them chased the moths from the windows in order that they might not make any noise by striking the window-panes; perhaps others, climbing the curtains and window sashes, gazed at her from a distance with their keen little eyes and whispered to each other: "Sleep, little maiden, who played for us on the violin--sleep--hush--let us not waken her." And though a desire to turn the pins of the violin and touch the chords with their tiny fingers may have taken hold of them, they did not, however, do so, through honesty and hospitality. Through the openings of the shutters the moonlight streamed in, brightening the interior and slowly advancing on the opposite wall. The silence was great; only somewhere beyond the house the night-watch on the premises whistled; while within the house the old standing clock, which measured the lives of several generations, continued to speak with resignation the "Tick!--Tack!--Tick!" of the seconds sinking into the past. And Laskowicz in the course of time issued further commands from his room which reached no one's knowledge. A strange thing! Inwardly something was telling him with sober, almost absolute certainty that the maid would not come and he nevertheless believed that she ought to have come. Not until a long time elapsed, did the consciousness dawn upon him that if she did not come, then he, together with his hypnotism, played the rôle of an addle-pated fool. Finally fatigue, disaffection, and anger at himself gripped him. Sleep irrevocably left him. Hour flew after hour. In the east the sky was deepening and it was becoming green. Soon the rosy lower border was striped with the transparent riband of dawn. The young student, not undressing himself at all, opened the window to breathe the bracing morning air. In the garden the first chirp of the birds began, and from the direction of the not distant pond, with the odor of the acacias, came the cries of herons and the subdued, as if yet sleepy, quacks of the wild ducks. After a while the sweep of the well creaked in the village. It then occurred to Laskowicz that this was the last daybreak he was to behold in Jastrzeb; that on the morrow he would wake in the city and would not see either Panna Marynia or little Anusia whom only, of all the inmates of that Jastrzeb mansion, he liked; and he felt a little sorrow. But as he understood that, after the arrival of his party associates at Rzeslewo and yesterday's visit of the steward Kapuscinski to Krzycki, it was unavoidable, he preferred to tender his resignation rather than suffer a dismissal. With this intention, he decided to write a letter to Ladislaus and inform him that he had enough of pedagogical work. He foresaw that eventually they would have to see each other, if only at the payment of the salary, and as a dispute about principles might arise which might go very far, he had a revolver ready for certain contingencies. He deemed that, before that happened, a dry, peremptory letter would be a step more consonant with his pride; therefore, when it was quite bright, he sat down immediately to write. Krzycki awoke, though not in the dusk, nevertheless with the rise of the sun, for in the country he thus habituated himself to wake, regardless of whether he retired to bed early or late. He felt in his bones that he had had too little rest and, stretching out his arms, he said to himself that he would be repaid only in case Miss Anney at some time would learn that he lost that sleep for her sake and would pity him, though slightly. Meanwhile he recalled to his mind all that he was to do that day and formulated the following plan; he would rouse himself, drive out the lassitude in his bones; afterwards, before breakfast, would drive over to Rzeslewo and "look a little in the eyes of those worthies;" and if possible talk with the peasants; later he would return; after breakfast he would finish with Laskowicz and send him away with the team which was to bring the physician; the balance of his time, he would devote to the guests, to writing letters, and to the farm. He positively determined to go to Rzeslewo, because, though he agreed in his heart with Dolhanski that for the nonce he would be unable to accomplish anything, nevertheless, he did not wish the ladies to think that he stayed away through fear. Having arranged everything in this manner, he carelessly put on his clothes and, slipping his feet into his slippers, repaired to the bath-room, without any foreboding that he would meet with an unusual accident and that he was soon to see, not in truth such an alabaster statuette as the one Laskowicz was raving about all night, but, at any rate, something resembling Diana in a fountain. In the second in which he opened the door he saw streams of water splashing and beheld under a shower-sprinkler a nude, female figure, strewed with pearls of azure, with head somewhat inclined, and hands raised to her hair, whose black waves concealed her face. This lasted only a twinkle of the eye. A suppressed scream and the slam of the closed door resounded simultaneously. Krzycki rushed like the gale for his room; excited and at the same time shocked, he clutched with shaking hand a decanter, filled a glass of water, gulped it, and began to repeat confusedly: "What has happened? Who is she? For God's sake, what has happened?" In the first moments he conjectured that she might have been Pani Otocka, or Marynia, and in such a case the misadventure would be appalling. Those ladies would undoubtedly leave Jastrzeb at once and it would perhaps be incumbent upon him to propose marriage to the one whom he had seen in such paradisiacal shape. "But was it my fault?" he thought. "Why didn't she lock the door? There was a bolt." He drank another glass of water to cool his agitated blood and to think more calmly of what he was to do and who that nymph was. Somehow after an interval he reached the conclusion that she could not have been either of the sisters. Firstly, why should they rise so early? and again, both were slim, while this form was stouter and on the whole was built so, that--Oh! Oh! Finally, he became satisfied that it surely must have been no other than the brunette who obstructed his view of Miss Anney during the mass and whom he met on the dark walk when returning with Gronski from the hunt. If such was the case, nothing terrible had happened, but rather the contrary. It occurred to his mind that those blue window-panes were an excellent device, for in such a light the spectacle was delightful. At the thought of this, he felt the necessity of drinking a third glass of water. This, however, he did not do, but instead, after an interval, went again to the bath-room, which now was vacant, and after a cool bath dressed himself and hastened to the stable. There he ordered a horse to be saddled and sped away on a gallop for adjacent Rzeslewo. The day was mild; the hour very early. But all nature was already awake and bedewed, bathed in the sun, she appeared to simply cry out with joy, just as village maids from an excess of life and health sing unto forgetfulness, "Oj dana! Oj dana!" Birds carolled until the leaves on the trees trembled. In the distant oak grove resounded the coo-cooing of the cuckoo; yellow thrushes whistled amidst the boughs of lofty trees; from the depths of the forest, sounding like the noise of a sawmill, came the outcries of an old raven, watching a crowded nest, while from time to time the shrieks of a jay, resembling a laugh, burst forth. Ladislaus rode out of the woods onto the open roadway. Here on one side was a stretch of waving grain; on the other a meadow--from which odors of turf and spring were wafted,--all overgrown with marigold and rose-campion, quivering in the solar warmth and under the gentle breath of the wind, as if in delight. This delight, this widespread joy and luxuriance of life overflowed in the breast of Ladislaus. He felt within himself such a vigor of youth and strength that he was prepared to challenge to a hand-to-hand combat full hundreds of socialists and at the same time press the whole world to his heart, especially women under the age of thirty. The white vision of that Diana, enveloped in a shell of blue pearls, again began to glide before his eyes, but he now thought that if, instead of dark tresses on the bowed head of that goddess, he had seen golden, he would have probably toppled over. Amidst such sights and impressions he arrived at Rzeslewo, where, however, in conformity with Dolhanski's prediction, he was unable to accomplish anything. The "worthies" whom he wanted to look in the eyes had left during the night time for the city; the husbandmen were in the field, each upon his own patch of ground; the blinds of the rectory were shut, as the rector for the last few days was feeling unwell. In the manor out-building where the laborers dwelt there was not a sign of a living soul. Later the old keeper of the stockyard informed him that the hired help, after watering the stock, drove it out into the pasture and went without asking the permission of any one to a church festival at Brzesno, whither many of the husbandmen and tenants had also gone. So, then, here was a strike of farm-hands and open contumacy, but Krzycki was helpless. He only ordered the aged keeper of the stockyard to tell the hired help that there would come to Rzeslewo to establish order certain gentlemen before whom the vagabonds, who were there the previous day, would abscond as soon as they heard of them; after which he turned back and in half an hour was in Jastrzeb. A servant told him that all were still asleep, excepting Laskowicz, who had charged him with the delivery of a letter. Krzycki took it and went with it to the office. Having read its contents, he rang for the servant. "Was he dressed when he gave you the letter?" "Yes, sir, and was packing his things." "Ask him if he can come to my office, and if he can, request him to step in." After a while, the young student entered the room. Krzycki motioned to him to take a seat in the chair, which was near his desk. "Good day, sir! I learn from your letter that you wish to leave Jastrzeb and that, at once. I presume that you have cogent reasons for this step. I therefore regard any discussion of them as superfluous, and will not detain you. Here you have what is due to you and the horses will be ready at any time you desire." But Laskowicz, who in money matters was extremely scrupulous, after counting the money, said: "You are paying me my whole salary, but as I am leaving before the expiration of the term, I am not entitled to pay for the last month." And somewhat discourteously he flung the unearned balance upon the desk. Krzycki's cheeks quivered slightly about the mustache, but as he had pledged himself before Gronski that he would not create any disturbance and had made the same promise to himself, he quietly replied: "As you please." "As for the departure," said Laskowicz, "I would prefer to leave at once." "As you please," repeated Krzycki. "In an hour I will send after the physician for my mother and if it is convenient for you, you may go with that team." "Very well." "Then the whole thing is settled. I will give orders at once." Saying this, he rose and closed the desk, as if he wished to intimate that the interview was over. Laskowicz glared at him with eyes blazing with hatred. He did not seek any broil, but anticipating one, he stood before Krzycki, bent like a bow. Meanwhile nothing approaching an altercation occurred and the revolver, which he had ready for a certain contingency, was of no service to him. There was no reference even to the letter, though that was indited in harsh and rude terms. Nevertheless there was something offensive in the cold tones in which Krzycki spoke, something insulting in the eagerness with which he accepted his offer of departure. To Laskowicz, who viewed everything from his own standpoint, it seemed that the icy conversation accentuated something else, namely, the attitude of a wealthy man who owned Jastrzeb, a desk filled with money, horses, and equipages, towards a poor, homeless fellow. But it did not occur to him at that moment that he on his part had done nothing to improve their relations, but on the contrary had done a great deal to make them worse, and that from the time of his arrival he had shut himself, like a turtle in a shell, in a doctrine inimical to these people. Everything conduced to stir the bile within him to such a degree that he actually regretted that the matter did not end in a personal encounter. But as in the words of Krzycki there was nothing which gave him a pretext for one, he abruptly left the room without any leave-taking and with redoubled rancor. Ladislaus rang to have the horses ready within an hour, and as it happened to be Friday, he ordered the gardener to catch some fish; after which he began to consider whether the affair with Laskowicz had terminated in a desirable way. He was pleased and displeased with himself. He felt a certain satisfaction and even pride in the fact that he could be laconic and firm, cold but polite, and that he did not stoop to any ruffianly dispute. But at the same time, notwithstanding his pride, a certain disrelish remained, for which he could not account as he was not sufficiently developed psychologically. He kept repeating to himself that such scenes are always disagreeable, and so was the whole business. In reality there was another reason for it. His whole behavior, which appeared to him so temperate, sensible, and well-nigh diplomatic, did not emanate from his temperament, but in direct opposition to his not too deep, but open and impulsive nature. If he had acted in keeping with it, he either would have come to blows with the young student or else would have said something like this: "You have strewn our path with thorns and have upset the minds of our people, but since you are leaving, give me your hand and may you fare well." The one or the other act would have been more consistent with his character, and he would not have experienced that jarring which he could not understand, but felt none the less. But further reflections were interrupted by the servant with the announcement that breakfast was ready and that the guests were at the table. In fact, all had already assembled in the dining-room, through which pervaded the odor of coffee and the hum of the samovar. At the sight of the white dresses of the ladies and their fresh, well-rested countenances, Ladislaus' soul gladdened to such an extent that he immediately forgot all squabbles and vexations. By way of greeting, he kissed Pani Otocka's hand; then, as if absent-mindedly, that of Miss Anney, but so forcibly that she reddened like a cherry; after which he squeezed Marynia's hand, saluted the gentlemen and began to cry merrily: "Coffee! coffee! From the rise of the sun I drank only two glasses of water and I am as hungry as a wolf." "Was that a cure? Did you have a fever?" asked Dolhanski. "Perhaps I did have a fever, but nevertheless I had a horseback ride to Rzeslewo and transacted a thousand matters." "How is it in 'rustic-angelic' Rzeslewo," interrupted Dolhanski. "There is nothing further that is disturbing. Those trouble makers whom I wished to look at, in the eyes, are gone. But now above all things, I want coffee and will not answer any more questions." Marynia, as the substitute of Pani Krzycki, who remained in bed owing to rheumatism, poured out the coffee for him, and he also kissed the hand of his young cousin; whereat she was pleased as she fancied that it added to her dignity. "That is due me as a vice-hostess," she said, shaking her head. "And especially taking age into consideration," added Dolhanski. She did not show him her tongue only because she was too well-bred. But Dolhanski, who suffered from catarrh of the stomach, gazed enviously at Ladislaus, eating with such relish, and said: "What an appetite! A genuine cannibal." "Go also over the road a mile before breakfast and you will have the same appetite. But cannibal or no cannibal, when I entered this room, I was ready to devour even this bouquet of flowers which is before me." "The time will come when the country nobility will not have anything else to eat," replied Dolhanski. But Marynia quickly seized the bouquet and, laughing, shoved it to the other side of the table. "After coffee there is no fear," cried Ladislaus. "But what beautiful field flowers! Did you ladies pick them?" "We are sleepy-heads," answered Pani Otocka; "they were gathered by Aninka's servant." Aninka was the pet name which both sisters gave Miss Anney. Ladislaus turned a sharp glance towards the ladies, but as their faces were perfectly calm, he thought: "She gathered the flowers and did not mention the mishap." And Miss Anney, turning the bouquet about and examining it, said: "An apple-blossom is in the middle,--the good-for-nothing girl plucked it from some little tree, for which she must be reprimanded; these are spearwort, those primroses, and those pennyroyal, which are now coming out." "It is, however, astonishing that you speak Polish so well," observed Dolhanski; "why, you even know the names of plants." "I heard them from the lips of the village maids in Zalesin at Zosia's," answered Miss Anney. "Besides, I evidently possess linguistic abilities for I learned from them to speak in a rustic style." "Truly," cried Ladislaus, "could you say something in peasant fashion. Say something, Miss Anney! Do!" he entreated, folding his hands as if in prayer. She began to laugh and feigning shyness, bowed her head and putting the back part of her hand to her forehead, as bashful peasants girls usually do, said, drawling each word somewhat: "I would do that only I do not dare--" Laughter and bravos resounded; only Pani Zosia glanced at her with a peculiar look and she, by becoming confused, enhanced her beauty to such an extent that Ladislaus was completely captivated. "Ah! now one could lose his head," he cried with unfeigned ardor. "I pledge my word, one could lose his head." And Gronski, who in common with the others fell into good humor, said in a low voice: "And even consummatum est." But further conversation was interrupted by the rattle of the carriage wheels which could be heard in the courtyard and ceased at the balcony. "What is that?" asked Gronski. "I am sending for the doctor for Mother," answered Ladislaus, rising. "Whoever has any errands in the city may speak." Dolhanski and Gronski also rose and went out with him into the vestibule. "I was about to ask you for a horse," said Gronski. "I know that you have but one saddle for ladies in Jastrzeb, so I ordered another one and must receive it in person at the post-office. I did not want to speak about it before the ladies as it is to be a surprise." "Good!" answered Krzycki, "but I will give you another carriage, for Laskowicz is leaving by this one and you surely would prefer not to ride with him." "He?" cried Dolhanski. "You do not know him then. He is ready to ride with old Aunt Beelzebub, if he could pull her by the tongue and do all the talking and descanting." "There is a little truth in that," said Gronski. "I am a veritable chatterbox. Indeed, I will willingly go with Laskowicz and will try to get him into a talkative mood for, after all, he does interest me. Did you conclude with him this morning?" "Yes. I must see Mother for a while and tell her about it. I finished with him and in addition finished peaceably. I, at least, was perfectly calm." "So much the better. Go to your mother and I will go to my room for a linen duster; for the dust on the road must be quite thick. I will be back soon." In fact he returned in a few minutes, dressed in a linen coat. About the same time a servant brought down Laskowicz's trunk, and soon the latter appeared, wrapped up in himself and gloomy as night, for the thought that he would not behold his "alabaster statuette" filled him with pain and sorrow; the more so, as after those hypnotic exertions, when daylight restored him to his senses, he began to feel guilty of an offence against her. Instead of swallowing with unnecessary haste his breakfast in his room upstairs, he might have come downstairs and gazed upon Pani Marynia for half an hour longer; but he had not wished to do that because, in the first place, he had not cared to meet Krzycki and, again, he felt that in such company he would enact the rôle of Pilate in Credo. At that moment he regretted that he had not come down and feasted his eyes with her form for the last time. But a pleasant surprise awaited him when the young ladies, in the company of Dolhanski and Ladislaus, came out on the balcony; and afterwards little Anusia, with whom he was always on friendly terms, having learned that he was leaving, ran with eyes overflowing with tears, pouting lips, and a bunch of flowers in her chubby fist to bid him good-bye. The young student took the flowers from her, kissed her hand, and with heavy heart sat in the carriage beside Gronski, who in the meantime was chatting with Pani Otocka. Anusia descended the stairs of the balcony and stood close to the carriage doors; upon perceiving which Marynia hastened after her and, evidently fearing that the little girl might be jolted when the carriage started to move, took her hand and began to comfort her. "Of course he will not forget you," she said, bending over the little girl, "he surely will write to you and when he becomes very lonesome, will return." After which, raising her eyes directly at Laskowicz: "Is it not true, sir? You will not forget her?" Laskowicz gazed into the depths of the pellucid pupils of her eyes, as if he wished to penetrate them to the bottom, and being really moved, replied with emphasis: "I will not forget." "Ah, you see," and Marynia pacified Anusia. But at that moment Krzycki approached. "Mother directed me to bid you God-speed." And he immediately shouted to the driver: "Drive on." The carriage moved, described a circle in the courtyard, and disappeared on the avenue beyond the gate. Miss Anney and the two sisters now went to Pani Krzycki, desiring to keep her company at breakfast, which she on the days of her painful suffering ate in bed. Ladislaus, recalling that he ordered some fish to be caught, walked directly across the garden towards the pond to see whether the catch was successful. But before he reached the bank, at a turning of the shady yoked elm lane, he unexpectedly met his morning's vision of "Diana in the fountain." At the sight of him the maid stood still; at first her countenance flushed as if a live flame passed through it; after which she grew so pale that the dark down above her lips became more marked, and she stood motionless, with downcast eyes and heaving breast, bewildered and abashed. But he spoke out with perfect freedom: "Good-day! good-day! Ah, what is your name?" "Pauline," she murmured, not raising her eyes. "A beautiful name." After which, he smiled somewhat roguishly and added: "But Panna Pauly--the next time--there is a bolt." "I will drown myself," cried the maid in a hysterical voice. And he began to speak in persuasive tones: "Why? For what? Why, no one is to blame,--that was a pure accident. I will not tell anybody about it and that I had seen such beauty; that was only my luck." And he proceeded to the fishing place. She followed his shapely form with her tear-dimmed eyes and stood on the spot for quite a while in reverie, for it seemed to her that by reason of the secret known to them alone something had transpired between them which would unite them forever. And afterwards when she recollected how that charming young heir of Jastrzeb had seen her, she shuddered from head to foot. X Gronski was a man of gentle and kindly disposition. Notwithstanding his penchant for philosophical pessimism, he was not a pessimist in his relations to men and life. Speaking in other words, in theory he often thought like Ecclesiastes; in practice he preferred to tread in the footsteps of Horace, or rather as Horace would have trodden had he been a Christian. Continual communing with the ancient world gave him a certain serenity, not divested indeed of melancholy, but peaceful and harmonious. Owing to his high education and extensive reading, which enabled him to come in contact with all ideas which found lodgment in the human mind and familiarize himself with all forms of human life, he was exceedingly tolerant, and the most extreme views did not lead him into that condition which would cause him to screech like a frightened peacock. This deep forbearance and this conviction that all that is taking place has to occur, did not deprive him of energy of thoughts or words; it deprived him, however, in some measure of the ability to act. He was more of a spectator than an actor on the world's stage, but a well-disposed spectator, acutely susceptible and extraordinarily curious. He sometimes compared himself to a man sitting on the bank of a river and watching its course, who knows indeed that it must roll on and disappear in the sea, but who is nevertheless interested in the movements of its waves, its currents, its whirlpools, mists rising from its depths, and the play of light upon its waters. Besides his genuine love of ancient languages and authors, Gronski was interested in politics, science, literature, art, the contemporary social tendencies, and finally in the private affairs of mankind; and this last to such an extent that he was reluctantly charged with undue love of knowledge of his fellow-men. From this general, lively curiosity flowed his loquacity and desire to expatiate upon anything which passed before his eyes. He was well aware of this, and jocosely justified himself before his friends by citing Cicero, who according to him was one of the greatest discoursers and meddlers whose memory is preserved by history. Aside from these weaknesses, Gronski possessed a highly developed capacity for sympathizing with human suffering and human thoughts, and was on the whole a man of fine sentiment. Poland he loved sincerely as he wished her to be; that is, noble, enlightened, cultured, as European as possible, but not losing her Lechite traits, and holding in her hand the flag with the white eagle. That eagle seemed to him to be one of the noblest symbols on earth. Within the compass of his personal feelings, as a man and æsthete, he loved Marynia, but it was a love of a heavenly-blue hue, not scarlet. At the beginning he admired within her, as he said, "the music and the dove;" afterwards, not having any near relatives, he became attached to her like an older brother to a little sister, or as a father to a child. She, on her part, grateful for this attachment and at the same time esteeming his mind and character, reciprocated with her whole heart. In the main, human sympathy and friendship encompassed Gronski, for even strangers, even people separated from him by a chasm of belief and convictions, even those whom he annoyed with his habit of pressing his forefinger to his forehead and thinking aloud, esteemed him for his ability to sympathize, his humanity and forbearance, which were like the open doors of a hospitable house. Laskowicz also felt this. If he was to ride with Dolhanski, for instance, he would have preferred to go afoot and carry his luggage on his back. But Dolhanski in Jastrzeb pretended not to see him at all, while Gronski always greeted him amiably, and several times opened a conversation with him which never was lengthy for the reason that Laskowicz limited it and broke it off. Now, however, sitting beside Gronski he was pleased with his company. He cherished in his soul a hope that Gronski, speaking of the persons remaining in Jastrzeb, would say something about Panna Marynia and he craved to hear her name. Besides, he was moved by the leave-taking with little Anusia, for it happened for the first time in his life that any one bidding him farewell had tears in her eyes, and he was grateful to the chance which afforded him an opportunity of exchanging a few words with Panna Marynia before driving away. So his heart melted and he was willing to talk sincerely, especially with a man against whom he felt no antipathy. Somehow they did not wait long, for they had barely reached the end of the avenue when Gronski, with the kind and confidential anxiety of an older man who does not understand what has taken place and is ready to grumble, placed his hand upon his knee and said: "My dear sir, what mischief have you stirred up in Rzeslewo? It may now come to some serious collisions, and it is said that you people intend to do the same everywhere." "In Rzeslewo we did what the good of our idea demanded," answered Laskowicz. "But an agricultural school is involved and such schools are absolutely necessary for the people. Why did you circulate the story among the peasants that the land was to be divided among them?" Laskowicz hesitated as to whether to leave the question unanswered, but he was disarmed by Gronski's countenance, at once benevolent and worried, so he replied: "Every party must keep its eyes upon everything in order to know what is occurring in the country and take advantage of its opportunities. In the case of Rzeslewo I was the eye of the party, and in the further course of time I acted in accordance with the directions sent to me. In reality, we could not foresee how the deceased would dispose of his estate. But that is all one. We do not need schools founded by the classes with which we are at war and conducted in their spirit." "You do not need them, but the people need them." "The people can learn husbandry without the assistance of the nobility as soon as they own something on which they can learn. The lands of the nobles will be more beneficial to them than their schools. They have tilled that soil of Rzeslewo for hundreds of years, and if you figure at the rate of one penny for each day's labor, that land has been paid for a hundred times more than it is worth." "But you arouse merely a desire for land; you cannot give it. Besides, permit me, sir, to say that in respect to your doctrine you are illogical. For, of course, your aim is to nationalize the land. Now such land as that of Rzeslewo, for instance, donated for school purposes is, in a manner, nationalized; but a partition of it among the peasants would disintegrate it into individual ownership by a number of small holders." "The nationalization of land is our ultimate object, therefore distant. In the meantime we want to get the people into our camp, so we use such means as will lead to that end. We cannot give the land, but the people themselves can take it." "The most you can accomplish is to get them to take it. Assume that in Rzeslewo the husbandmen, tenants, and hired hands seize the land and divide it between them. What follows? Do you not see the clashes, the knouting, the courts and sanguinary executions which will overtake them?" "Do you not believe that this would be water for our mill? The more there is of that, the sooner our end will be attained." "And so I guessed rightly," said Gronski, recalling his statement to Ladislaus and Dolhanski that the summoning of the police would be playing into the hands of the agitators. Laskowicz wanted to ask what Gronski had guessed rightly, but the latter forestalled him and continued: "There is another singular thing. If misfortune overtakes any one of you, whether imprisonment, deportation, or death, then we, that is, the people who do not belong to your ranks, the people against whom you have declared war to the death, say: 'Too bad! such zeal! what a pity--such misguided sacrifice! how deplorable,--such a young head!' and we grieve for you. But you do not regret those people whose defenders you proclaim yourself to be. You arrange industrial strikes and pull the string until it breaks and later, when the manufacturers tie it again it becomes shorter than ever before. Already thousands are dying of starvation. And now you want an agricultural strike, after which bread becomes dearer and scarcer. Who suffers by this? Again the people. Truly at times it is impossible to resist the thought that you love your doctrines more than the people." To this Laskowicz answered in a harsh, hollow voice: "That is war. There must be sacrifices." Gronski involuntarily looked at him and, seeing his eyes set so closely to each other, thought: "No! Such eyes really can only look straight ahead and are incapable of taking in a wider horizon." For some time they rode in silence. A light southern breeze rose and bore with the cloud of dust the odor of the horses' sweat. From thickets on the wayside flew swarms of horse-flies, which pestered the horses so much that the coachman brushed their backs with the whip and swore. Suddenly Gronski asked: "Sacrifices! But to what divinity do you offer those sacrifices? What is your aim and what do you want?" "Daily bread and universal liberty." "But in the meantime, instead of bread, you give them stones. As to liberty, you will please, sir, take into consideration two thoughts. The first can be expressed thus: Woe to the nations that love liberty more than fatherland! Naturally I am not speaking of subjugated nations, for in such a situation the conceptions of liberty and fatherland become almost identical. But consider, sir, what really caused the political downfall of Poland and what is blighting France, which before our eyes is falling apart like a barrel without hoops? A second thought which often comes to my mind is that liberty crossing the boundaries set by national prosperity and safety is necessary only for rogues. You certainly will regard this last opinion as the acme of retrogression, but it is none the less the truth." Laskowicz's face reflected suspicion and offence, but it was so apparent that Gronski did not allude to him personally, and was only enunciating a general view, that he did not break off further conversation. "Liberty of association and syndicates," he said, "by the aid of which the proletariat is defending itself, do not endure any limitations. You, sir, after all confuse the conceptions of the people and the empire;--as a realist you are concerned above all about the empire." And Gronski began to laugh: "I, a realist?" he said. "I do not belong to the realists. They are not foolish people and on the whole act in good faith, but they commit one error. They go out to plough for the spring sowing in December; that is when the ploughshares cannot break the frozen ground. Or if you prefer another comparison, they buy their summer clothing during the severest winter season. I do not know; perhaps the sun will at some time shine and it will be warm, as everything in this world is possible, but in the meantime the ears are frost-bitten and the moths destroy the clothes." And thinking only of the realists, he continued: "Realists desire to reckon with this reality, which does not want to reckon with them or anybody else. For assume, sir, for example, that the name of a faction is Peter and this Peter in perfect sincerity turns to Reality and says: 'Listen, oh Maiden! I am prepared to acknowledge you and even love you, but in return permit me to stand on my own feet, to breathe a little and stretch out my aching bones.' And Reality with true Ural affability answers: 'Peter, my son Peter, you are wandering from the subject, and I take away from you the right to speak. I am not concerned about your acknowledging or loving me, but only that you should unbutton yourself, divest yourself of certain clothes which, speaking parenthetically, may be of service to me; that you should again lie upon that bench and as to the rest trust in my power and whip.' If any realist heard me he might dispute this, but in his soul, he would concede the justness of the illustration." "You will admit, then," exclaimed Laskowicz, with a certain triumph, "that we alone are hitting this Reality on the head?" "You are hitting her," answered Gronski, "but your fists rebound from her stony head and land in the pit of your own community, which loses its remnant of breath and swoons. By this, you even aid Reality." And here recollecting what he had said about the anthills and ant-eaters, he repeated it to Laskowicz. But Laskowicz would not agree to the comparison, observing that it had only a specious appearance of the truth, for the human conditions could not be adjusted by conditions existing in an ant-hill. "Whoever aspires to make the proletariat powerful by the same act gives the nation new strength sufficient to repel all attacks and blows. Only on this road can anything be gained, though only for the simple reason that it will have allies in the proletariat of adjoining countries, who from enemies will become friends." "That would only be a coalition at the bottom," said Gronski. "And for that reason irrepressible and effectual. For we are continually hearing of Poland! Poland! But those who all the time are repeating that combine with Poland various things which have outlived their usefulness, such as religion, church, and conservatism, which cover her with mould or with corpses which already are rotting. We alone unite Poland with an idea, powerful, young, and vital, if only for the reason that all youth is with us." "In the first place, not all youth, nor even one half," answered Gronski; "and again, the church has survived and will survive many a social movement; and thirdly, your idea is as ancient as poverty itself on this earth. If you desire, sir, to contend that the form which La Salle and Marx gave it is new, then I will answer you thus: Your modern socialism has too thick tufts of hair on its scalp, but when it begins to get bald, none will scoff at it so much as the young." "You are continually speaking in aphorisms, but fortunately aphorisms are like paper lanterns hung on the trees of dialectics; in the dark they can be seen; in the broad daylight they are extinct." "Behold another aphorism, cut and dried," answered Gronski, laughing. "No, sir, that which I said had another meaning. I wanted to say that the socialist commonwealth, if you ever establish one, will be such a surrender of human institutions, such a jamming of man into the driving-wheels of the general mechanism, such a restraint and slavery that even the present kingdom of Prussia, in comparison, would be a temple of liberty. And in reality, a reaction would set in at once. The press, literature, poetry, and art, in the name of individualism and its freedom, would declare an inexorable war; and do you know, sir, who would carry the banner of the opposition? Youth! That is as true as that those lapwings are now flying over that meadow." And here he pointed at a flock of lapwings, hovering over a field on which cattle were grazing. After which he added: "In France it is already beginning. Not long ago a few thousand students paraded the streets of Paris, shouting: 'Down with the Republic!'" "That is merely swinging around in a circle," replied Laskowicz; "that was a clash with radicalism and not with us. We also despise it. The bourgeoisie imagine that radicalism in a certain emergency will shield them from the revenge of the proletariat, but they are deceiving themselves. In the meanwhile they are clearing the way for the revolution." "In this I admit you are right;" answered Gronski, "I saw in Cairo how the _saïs_ ran before the carriages of the pashas shouting, 'Out of the way! Out of the way!' Radicalism is performing the same service for you." "Yes," corroborated Laskowicz, with a brightened countenance. Gronski took off his spectacles to wipe off the dust and winked his eyes. "But amongst you there are also differences. The French socialism is different, so is the German, and the English, and in their midst we find opposing camps. For that reason I shall not speak of socialism in general. I am only interested in the home product, of which you are an agent; for, from what you have said, I infer that you belong to the so-called Polish Socialistic party." "Yes," answered Laskowicz with energy. Gronski replaced the cleaned spectacles and unfurled all his sails: "You claim, therefore, that in the name of Poland you have joined youth with a powerful idea, through which you have infused into her veins new blood. And I reply that this idea, whatever it may be, has degenerated in your minds to the extent that it ceased to be a social idea and has become a social disease. You have infected Poland with a disease and nothing more. The new Polish edifice must be constructed with bricks and stones and not with bombs and dynamite. And in you there is neither brick nor stone. You are only a shriek of hatred. You have abandoned the old gospels and are incapable of creating a new one; in consequence of which you cannot offer any pledge of life. Your name is Error and for that reason the resultant force of your activities will be contrary to you presuppositions. By pulling the strings of strikes you lead the people to naught else than to debility and wretchedness and from feeble beggars you are not able to build a powerful Poland. That is the actual fact. Besides, on one and the same head you cannot wear two caps unless one is underneath. So I ask which is underneath? Is your socialism only a means of building Poland? Or is your Poland only a bait and catchword to gather the people into your camp? The socialists, who call themselves socialists without any qualifications and do not insist that the same entity can be fish and fowl at the same time, are, I admit, more logical. But you mislead the people. The truth is that even if you wanted to you could not do anything Polish, for there is nothing Polish in you. The schools from which you graduated did not take away the language, for they could not do that, but they molded your minds and souls in such a manner that you are not Poles, but Russians despising Russia. How Poland and Russia will fare by this is another matter, but such is the case. To you it seems that you are making a revolution, but it is an ape of a revolution, and in addition a foreign one. You are the evil flower of a foreign spirit. It is enough to take your periodicals, your writers, poets, and critics! Their whole mental apparatus is foreign. Their real aim is not even socialism nor the proletariat, but annihilation.--Firebrand in hand, and at the bottom of their souls hopelessness and the great nihil! And of course we know where it originated. The Galician socialism likewise is not an Apollo Belvedere, but nevertheless it has different lineaments and less broad cheek-bones. There is not in it this rabidness and also this despair and sorrow which conflicts with the Latin culture. You are like certain fruit: on one side green, on the other rotten. You are sick. That sickness explains the limitless want of logic, based on this; that crying against wars, you create war; decrying courts-martial, you condemn without any trial; and denouncing capital punishment, you thrust revolvers in the hands of the people and say, 'Kill.' This disease also explains your insane outbreaks, your indifference to consequences, and to the fate of those ill-fated men whom you make your tools. Let them assassinate, let them rob the treasuries, but whether later they will hang in the halter is a matter of little consequence to you. Your nihil permits you to spit upon blood and ethics. You open wide the doors to notorious scoundrels and allow them to represent not their own villany, but your idea. You, generally speaking, carry ruin with you and join Poland to that ruin. In your party there are, without doubt, men of conviction and good faith, but blind, who in their blindness are serving a different master than they imagine." Gronski knew that he was speaking in vain, but whether from habit, or because he wanted to relieve himself of all that had accumulated within him, he talked until the rattle of the wheels on the city pavements drowned his words. They parted rather coldly before the hotel, for Gronski's views touched the young medical student to the quick. He did not admit that Gronski was in the least right, but that such views should be entertained filled him with rage and indignation. He indeed said to himself, "It is not worth while answering, but our minds are not foreign, and our idea is new. Society is like a person who, having for many years lived in a house, is always reluctant to move into another though that other is much better." Nevertheless the words of Gronski stung him so deeply that at that moment he hated him as much as he did Krzycki and would have given a great deal if he could trample upon and crush the charges, so odious to him. Unfortunately for him he lacked time for it, and besides, weariness after a sleepless night began to overpower him more and more. Gronski went to the post-office, received a package with the saddle, and afterwards drove to the doctor's, but learning that the latter would not be free for an hour, he left the carriage at his door and went to visit the old notary and at the same time deliver to him an invitation from Krzycki to visit Jastrzeb. The notary was pleased to receive the invitation, as he had decided to visit the Krzyckis without one, in order, as he said, to behold the "eyes of his head" and hear her miracle-working violin. In the meantime he began to speak about the events which had occurred in the city and neighborhood. He was so impressed and affected by them that his customary choler left him, and in his words there was an undertone of bitter sorrow and heavy anxiety for the future of the community, which seemed to have lost its head. Factory strikes and to some extent agricultural strikes were spreading. In the city the lime-kilns had ceased to burn and the cement works were at a standstill. The workingmen, who, not having any savings, formerly lived from hand to mouth, in the first moments lacked bread. After the example of Warsaw, a local committee was organized for the purpose of collecting funds to prevent starvation. But as a result, this peculiar situation was created: the people most opposed to the cessation of work encouraged it by furnishing food to the idle. "A veritable round of errors!" said the worried old gentleman. "Do not give; then starvation follows and despair hurls the workingman into the arms of the socialists; give, and you also are playing into their hands, because they have something with which to support the strike and can convince the people of their omnipotence." He further related that outside of the committee the socialists were collecting money, or rather were extorting it from the timid by threats; that they called upon him but he told them that he would give for bread but not for bombs. They then threatened him with death, for which he had them thrown out of his office. For a while he remained silent for the inborn choler assumed supremacy over sorrow; he also began to roll his eyes angrily and moved his jaws furiously, as if he wanted to eat all the socialists, together with their red standard. Afterwards, when his rage had spent itself, he continued: "Day before yesterday they sent me a sentence of death which they surely will execute, as they have declared war against the government and they butcher their own countrymen. Well, that is a small matter! Three days ago they killed a master tinner and two workingmen in the cement factory. In Wilczodola, a few versts from here, they waylaid and maimed Pan Baezynski and robbed the branch office of the governmental whiskey monopoly besides. Szremski, that doctor for whom you came and whose optimism sticks like a bone in my throat, says that it is but a passing storm! Yes, everything does pass away, individuals as well as whole nations. I fear that ours too is passing away; for we have become a nation of bandits and banditism never can be a permanent institution. Well! The people, after these acts of violence, have in reality become tired of robbing for the benefit of their party and now prefer to rob on their own account. Do I know whether we will arrive alive at Krzyckis to-day? Bah! Krzycki ought to be more on his guard than any one else. He passes for a rich man and for that reason they will keep him in their eye. I will go to Jastrzeb for if I am to be assassinated, before it takes place I want to hear once more our child-wonder. But in truth, Krzycki, instead of inviting more guests, should dismiss those who are staying there now. The doctor, if he had any sense, would find an excuse for dispersing them all to-morrow." "I heard that he is an excellent man," said Gronski. "An excellent devil!" answered the notary. "You remember whom you have among you, and it is only about her that I am concerned." Gronski, though disquieted and distressed by Dzwonkowski's narrative, could not refrain from laughing when he heard the last admonition, for translated into plain words it meant, "May the deuce impale you all, if only no evil befalls the little violinist." But whenever Marynia was involved he himself was always willing to subscribe to similar sentiments; therefore he began to pacify the aged official by telling him that in Jastrzeb there were, counting the guests and manor people, too many hands and too many arms to have any fears of an attack; and that, besides, Pani Krzycki's probable departure would end the visit of the guests. Further conversation was broken by the arrival of Doctor Szremski who, having dashed in like a bomb, announced that he was free for the remainder of the day and could ride with Gronski. Gronski gazed at him with great interest, for even in Warsaw he heard of him as an original and prominent personality, in the favorable meaning of those words. He was quite a young man, with tawny hair, swarthy like a gypsy, with a countenance alive with fire, bubbling with health, somewhat loud and brisk in his manners. In the city he played an uncommon rôle not only because he had the largest medical practice, but because he belonged to the most active men in any field. He entered into every project as if to an attack, and thanks to a sober and an exceptional temper of mind, whatever he did was done, on the whole, sensibly and well. He was, as it were, a personification of that phenomenon, frequent in Poland, where, when amidst a public not only trammelled but negligent and indolent by nature, a man of energy and with an idea is found, he is able to accomplish more than any German, Frenchman, or Englishman could have done. He himself participated in every undertaking and compelled others to work with such spirit that he was nicknamed "Doctor Spur." He established secret schools, reading rooms, nurseries for the children, economical associations, and for everything he gave money, of which he earned a great deal, though he treated gratis throngs of the penniless. The local socialists hated him, for by his popularity and influence with the workingmen he frustrated their efforts. The authorities looked at him with suspicion and with an evil eye. A man who loved his country, organized life, spread enlightenment, and donated money for public uses, must in their eyes be a suspicious character and deserved at least deportation to a "distant province." Fortunately for him, the governor's wife imagined that she was suffering from some nervous ailment and the local captain of the gendarmery was actually troubled with incipient aneurism of the aorta. So then the governor's wife, who through her connections had made her husband governor and ruled the province as she pleased, was of the opinion that if it were not for this "l'homme qui rit" (as she called the doctor), eternal mourning would have befallen the governor, and the captain of the gendarmes feared alike the gubernatorial connections and the aneurism. He had indeed prepared a report which he regarded as the masterpiece of his life; and perhaps he became ill because he dared not send it to the higher authorities. Sometimes in his dreams, he arrested the doctor, subjected him to an examination, forced him to divulge his accomplices, and dreamt also that the report might be used in case the governor and himself were transferred to another province; but it was only a dream. In reality the report reposed on the bottom of a drawer and the doctor, who read it (for the captain showed it to him in proof of what he could have done but did not do), laughed so ingenuously and was so confident of himself that it occurred to the captain's mind that in reality there was no joking with the governor's wife or the aneurism. The doctor laughed because he was by nature unusually jovial. In certain cases he could think and speak gravely, but at chance meetings and at casual talks, in which there was no time for weighty discourse, he preferred to slide over the surface of the subject, scatter jests, and tell anecdotes, which later were repeated over the city, and which he himself much enjoyed. His optimism and beaming countenance created incurable optimism and hope and good thoughts wherever he appeared. He joked with the sick about their sickness and with jokes dispelled their fears. His mirth won the people and a well-grounded medical knowledge and efficacious watchfulness over their health and lives assured him a certain kind of sway over them. For this reason he did not mind the "big fish," or in fact anybody. Such was the case with the notary whose perpetual choler and irascibility were known all over the city, so that social relations with him were maintained only by those who were exceptionally interested in music. The doctor, who also cracked jokes about music, sought his company, purposely to nettle him and afterwards to tell about his outbreaks, to his own amusement and that of his hearers. And now he rushed in with the crash of a squall, became acquainted with Gronski, asked about the health of Pani Krzycki and about the pretty ladies staying in Jastrzeb of whom he had already heard; after which, observing the distressed face of the notary, he exclaimed merrily: "What a mien! Is it so bad with us in this world, or what? Seventy-five years! A great thing! Truly it is not the age of strength, but it is the strength of the age! Please show your pulse!" Here, without further asking the notary, he grabbed his hand, and pulling out his watch, began to count: "One, two--one, two!--one, two! Bad! It is the pulse of one in love. There are symptoms of a slight heartburn! Such is usually the case. Such a machine cannot last more than twenty-five years,--at the most thirty. Thank you!" Saying this he dropped the old man's hand, whose mien brightened in expectation, for he thought that twenty-five years added to what he had already lived would make quite a respectable age. Pretending, however, to scowl, he answered: "Always those jokes! The doctor thinks that I care for those wretched twenty-five years. It is not worth while living now. Of course you know what is taking place. I have such a mien because I was just talking with Pan Gronski about it. I also have a heartburn. Well, I ask what will become of us if all the people should follow the socialists?" But the doctor began to swing his arms and deny this categorically. Not all the people, nor a half, nor a hundredth part. And even those who say that they belong to the socialists say so under terror or through misapprehension. "I will give you gentlemen two examples," he said. "I live on a lower floor and beneath me in the basement there is a locksmith's shop. This morning I overheard fragments of a conversation between my servant and the locksmith. The locksmith said, 'I am a socialist; there is nothing more to be said about it.' 'Why is nothing more to be said?' said my servant. 'Then you do not believe in God and do not love Poland.' 'And why should I not believe in God and love Poland?' 'Because the socialists do not believe in God and do not love Poland.' And the locksmith replied, 'So? Then may sickness plague them.' That is the way people belong to the socialists. I do not say all, but a great many. Ha!" And he began to laugh. "The doctor always finds an anecdote," grumbled the notary; "but let us tell the truth, thousands belong to them." "Then why do they not elect one deputy in the kingdom?" retorted the doctor. "Bombs explode loudly, so they can be heard better than any other work. But how many thousands participated in the national parade? Do these also belong to them? When in a factory ten men manage to hang a red flag on the chimney it seems that the whole factory is red, but that is not true." "Why do not the others tear it down?" "Simple reason! Because the police tear it down." "And also because the socialists have revolvers and the others have not," added Gronski. "Undoubtedly," continued the doctor. "I have ten times closer relations with the workingmen than any manager of a factory. I go into their dwellings and know their home life. I know them. Socialism is engaged in a struggle with the bureaucracy; so it seems to many that they belong to it. But, to the outrages only the worst and most ignorant element assents. The latter soon change into bandits, and that is not surprising. Their consciences have been taken away from them and revolvers are given to them. But the majority--the better and more honest majority--have under the ribs Polish hearts; and for that reason this demon, who wants to snatch and carry them away, called himself, as a bait, Polish. Ah! they only need schools, enlightenment, a knowledge of Polish history, in order not to allow themselves to be hoodwinked! Ay, that is what they need! Ay, ay!" And in his gesticulations, he seized the old man's arm and began to turn him around. "Schools, Pan Notary, schools; for the Lord's mercy!" Blood rushed to the notary's head from indignation. "Are you crazy!" he yelled. "Why do you jolt me like a pear?" "True," said the doctor, leaving him alone. "True, but the extent to which these poor fellows misapprehend things is enough to cause one to weep and laugh at the same time." "No, not to laugh," said Gronski. "Do you know, sir, that at times, yes," exclaimed the doctor; "for listen to my second instance. Last Sunday, being tired as a dog, I drove out to the Gorczynski woods, just outside of the city, for a little airing. In the woods from the opposite direction came more than a dozen of workingmen who evidently were enjoying a May outing. I saw one of them carrying a red flag on a newly whittled stick. He probably brought it in his pocket and fastened it when they got to the woods. 'Good!' I thought to myself, 'Socialists!' And now, when they were near, the one who carried the flag sang lustily to the tune of 'Bartoszu! Bartoszu!' that which I will repeat to you, and I pledge my word, I will not add or subtract anything. 'Kosciuszko, though a cobbler, Oj, soundly thrashed the Germans, Oj, soundly thrashed the Germans; Only, it is a great pity For us, that he drowned. Only it is a great pity For us, that he drowned.'" "Ah, honest simplicity!" exclaimed Gronski. "I would embrace him and present him with a history of Poland of recent times." "Wait, sir," shouted the doctor. "I stopped my socialists of strange rites. It appeared that almost all were known to me and I said: 'For the fear of God, citizens, Kosciuszko was not a cobbler, he never thrashed the Germans, and he did not drown, only Prince Joseph Poniatowski did. Come to me and I will give you a book about Kosciuszko, Kilinski,[4] and Prince Joseph Poniatowski, for you have made of them a bigos.[5] They began to thank me and then I asked: 'What has become of the eagle on your flag? did he go hunting for mushrooms?' They became confused. The flag-bearer started to explain why they had no eagle. 'Why, may it please the doctor,' he said, 'they told us: Do not take a flag with an eagle, for if they take the flag away from you, they will insult the eagle and you will suffer shame and disgrace.' Yes. In this manner they cheat the Polish heart of our own people." But the notary did not want to part with his black spectacles. "Well, what of it?" he asked. "Do you claim that if it was not for this and that there would not be any socialism amongst us?" "There is socialism over the entire world," rejoined the doctor, "therefore there must be with us. Only if it was not for this and that, there would not accompany it highway robbery, savagery, and blindness; there would not be this modern socialism which has styled itself Polish, though its pitch can be smelt a mile away." "Bravo!" cried Gronski. "I said the same thing in other words to another person on the road from Jastrzeb." "Ay, Jastrzeb," said the doctor looking at his watch. "Here we are talking and it is time that we started." "Perhaps the notary can go with us," said Gronski. "The carriage has seats for four." "I can. Only I will take my flute with me. Well!" answered the notary. "Well!" repeated Szremski, mimicking him. "Aha, the flute! Then there will be a serenade in Jastrzeb, while here the socialists will rob the office." The notary who was going after his flute, suddenly turned around, sniffed vehemently, and said: "To-day they sent me a sentence of death." "Bah! I already have received two of them," merrily answered the doctor. A quarter of an hour later they were on the road to Jastrzeb. On this occasion, Gronski and the doctor drew so closely to each other and talked so much, that, as Gronski said later, there was not a place in which to stick a pin. XI The distance between the city and Jastrzeb was not more than a mile and a half. For this reason Gronski, the notary, and Szremski reached their destination before four o'clock. They were expected for dinner but in the meantime Ladislaus conducted the ladies over the sawmill; so the doctor repaired to Pani Krzycki and Gronski ordered the saddle unpacked and taken to Marynia's room. In a half hour the young company returned and, greeting the notary, assembled in the salon to await the dinner. The notary at the sight of Marynia forgot all about death sentences, about the outrages perpetrated in the city, about socialism and the whole world and, after kissing her hand, appropriated her exclusively for himself. Gronski began to initiate Pani Otocka into the reasons of his trip to the city, while Krzycki conversed with Miss Anney and became as engrossed with her as if there were no one else in the room. It was apparent that his exclamation on that morning that "one could lose his head" was but a confirmation of a symptom which intensified more and more with each moment. His uncommonly handsome young face glowed as if from the dawn, for in his bosom he did have the dawn of a new, happy feeling, which beamed through the eyes, the smile on the lips, through every motion, and through the words he addressed to Miss Anney. The spell held him more and more; a secret magnet drew him with steadily increasing power to this light-haired maid, looking so young, buxom, and alluring. He did not even attempt to resist that power. Gronski observed that he evinced his rapture too plainly and that in the presence of his mother he should have acted with more circumspection. Miss Anney also felt this, as from time to time blushes suffused her countenance and she pushed back her chair a little, besides glancing about at those present as if in fear that the excessive affability of the young host towards her might attract too much attention. But the matter, however, was agreeable to her, for in her eyes a certain joy flamed. Only Dolhanski gazed at her from time to time; the others were mutually occupied. The appearance of the doctor ended the conversations. Krzycki, after introducing him to the ladies, together with them began to inquire about the health of the patient, but the doctor was evidently disinclined to speak at any length, for he answered in a few words and in accordance with his habit spoke so loudly that Dolhanski, in his surprise, placed the monocle on his eye. "Nothing serious! Monsummano! Monsummano! or something like that! I will prescribe everything! Nothing serious! Nothing!" "But what is Monsummano?" asked Ladislaus. "That is a warm hole in Italy in which rheumatism is boiled out. A kind of purgatory after which salvation follows! Besides Italy, a delightful journey! I will prescribe everything in detail." Gronski, who often had travelled over Italy, also knew this place and began to describe it to the curious ladies. In the meantime Ladislaus talked about his mother's health with the doctor, who, however, listened to him inattentively, repeating, "I will prescribe everything," shaking his head, and looking about him, as if with curiosity, at each of the ladies in rotation. Suddenly he slapped his hand on his knee with a thwack which could be heard all over the room and exclaimed: "What marvellous faces there are in Jastrzeb and what skulls! Ha!" Dolhanski dropped his monocle, the ladies looked amazed, but Krzycki began to laugh. "The doctor has a habit of thinking aloud," he said. "And bawling out yet more loudly," grumbled the notary. "How is your flute?" the doctor replied, laughingly. But at that moment the servant announced that dinner was ready. Hearing this, Pani Otocka turned with a peculiar smile to her sister and said: "Marynia, your hair is all disheveled. Look at yourself in a glass." The young lady raised her hands to her head, but as there were no mirrors in the salon, she, a little confused, said: "Beg pardon, I will return immediately." She hastened to her room, but soon returned still more confused with blushes and with a radiant countenance. "A ladies' saddle!" she began to cry, "a most beautiful ladies' saddle!" And passing her eyes over those present, she pointed at Gronski: "Was it you?" "I confess," said Gronski, spreading out his hands and bowing his head. She, on her part, had such a desire to kiss his hand that if the doctor and the notary had not been present, she certainly would have done so. In the meanwhile she began to thank him with effusive and perfectly childish glee. "I see, Panna Marynia, that you are fond of horseback riding," said Szremski. "I am fond of everything." "There you have it," cried the amused doctor. "Only secure a gentle horse; otherwise it will not be hard to meet with accidents," observed the notary. It soon became apparent that such a one could be procured, for on the economical Jastrzeb estate horses were the only item of which a strict account was not kept. Krzycki indeed maintained that they could be bred profitably, but he did not breed them for gain but from that traditional love of them, the immoderateness of which the reverend Skarga,[6] a few centuries before, censured in his ancestors in the eloquent words: "Dearer to you is the offspring of a mare than the Son of God!" Horses therefore were not wanting in Jastrzeb and the conversation about them and horsemanship continued, to the great dissatisfaction of the notary, throughout the whole dinner. Those present learned that Marynia was not entirely a novice, for at Zalesin, at her sister's, she rode in summer time almost daily in the company of the old manager on a clumsy, lanky pony, named Pierog. Her sister would not permit her to ride on any other horse and "what enjoyment could there be riding on Pierog?" She stated that this Pierog had a nasty habit of returning home, not when she wanted to, but when he desired to, and no urging nor threats could swerve him from his purpose when once formed. She also sincerely envied Miss Anney who rode so well and had ridden all the horses in Zalesin, even those unaccustomed to the saddle. But in England all the ladies ride on horseback, while with us somebody is worrying about somebody else. She hoped, however, that in Jastrzeb with so many skilled riders, "Zosia" will not have any fears about her; and that immediately after dinner they will go on an equestrian excursion and that she will be allowed to join the party, without, thank God, Pierog. Ladislaus, in whom expectations of distant horseback jaunts in Miss Anney's company had excited fond hopes, and whom, as well as the others, the story about Pierog had put into good humor, turned to Marynia and said: "I will give you a horse with iron legs, who is called 'Swimmer' because he can swim excellently. As for an excursion, the day is long and we could arrange one, if it were not that it is beginning to get cloudy." "It will surely clear up," answered Marynia, "and I will dress myself right after dinner." In fact, after dinner the guests were barely able to finish their black coffee before she appeared on the veranda, dressed in a black, tight-fitting riding-habit. In it she was simply charming, but so slender and tall that Gronski, gazing at her with his usual admiration, was the first to begin jesting: "A real little flute," he said. "The wind will carry off such a woodcock, especially since it is commencing to blow." And a strong blast of the western, warm wind really began to bend the tree-tops and drive here and there over the heavens clouds which on the azure background assumed large, ruddy, and globular forms. Ladislaus, however, gave orders to saddle the horses and soon thereafter hastened to the stables to supervise the work. Miss Anney went upstairs to change her clothes; Gronski and Dolhanski followed her example. On the veranda remained only Pani Zosia, the doctor, the notary, and, attired as an equestrienne, Marynia, who cast uneasy glances alternately at the stables and at the sky, which was becoming more and more cloudy. After a time the first drops of rain began to fall and immediately thereafter a more important hindrance to their excursion occurred, for unexpectedly neighbors from Gorek, Pani Wlocek and daughter, the same who attended the funeral of Zarnowski, arrived in a carriage. In view of this, the horseback jaunt had to be abandoned. The Wlocek ladies came to ascertain the condition of Pani Krzycki's health and at the same time to beg Ladislaus for advice and succor, for in Gorek an agricultural strike had suddenly broke out among the manor and farmhouse laborers. The old coachman could hardly be induced to drive them to Jastrzeb for he was threatened with a beating. Both ladies were much frightened, much powdered, and more pathetic than ever. After the first greetings, mutual introductions, and a short talk about Pani Krzycki's rheumatism, the mother, at the after-dinner tea, addressed Ladislaus in doleful terms, adjuring him to hasten, like a knight of old, to the defence of oppressed innocence. She said that she was not concerned about herself, as after the losses she had survived and the suffering she had undergone, "the silent grave" in the Rzeslewo cemetery was the most appropriate refuge for her; but an orphan remained who still had some claims upon life. Let him extend some friendly protection and shield from blows and attacks this lone orphan for whom she herself was ready to sacrifice her life. To this the orphan replied that she too was not concerned about herself but about the peace of Mamma;--and in this manner the conversation changed almost exclusively in to a dialogue between these ladies in which the words, "Allow me, child," "Permit me, Mamma," were repeated every minute and in which the immoderate willingness of both parties to be immolated became in the end almost tart. Ladislaus, knowing these ladies of old, listened gravely; Pani Zosia looked at the bottom of her cup, not daring to glance at Marynia, who contracted the corners of her mouth; the notary sniffed and chewed; and the doctor ejaculated his "Ha!" with such resonance that the flies whisked off the net mantle which covered the butter and pastry. But, in the meanwhile, out-of-doors the storm and thunder began to rage and interrupted the sacrificial dialogue between mother and daughter. The rooms darkened; on the windows for a time the patter of the shower was heard; and the lightning illuminated the cloudy firmament. But this lasted a brief while; after which Ladislaus began to reply and promise aid to the ladies, always with becoming gravity but at the same time with a peculiar kind of expression on his face which portended that the young wag had a surprise concealed in his bosom. He announced, therefore, that he was ready to mount a horse and invest Gorek with his care; afterwards he quieted the ladies with the assurances that the manifestations which had so alarmed them were transient; that in Rzeslewo, it was temporarily the same, but that undoubtedly within a short time means of foiling that evil would be found. In conclusion he turned to Pani Wlocek and, pointing at Dolhanski, unexpectedly said: "I do not know whether my protection will be effective for I must watch at the same time over Rzeslewo and over Jastrzeb, in which at present we have such agreeable guests. But here is Pan Dolhanski, a man well known for his courage, energy, and sagacity, who has given me the best advice about Rzeslewo. If he wished to aid you or if he agreed to take into his hands the affairs of Gorek and Kwasnoborz, I am certain that he would establish order there in the course of a few days, and under his wings, ladies, no dangers could befall you." All eyes, and particularly the eyes of the mother and daughter, were now directed at Dolhanski. But if Ladislaus, who wanted to revenge himself on him for his "officiousness," calculated that he would get him into an unexpected scrape, he was mistaken, for Dolhanski coolly bowed to the ladies from Gorek and replied, drawling each word as usual: "With the greatest pleasure, but we must wait until the rain stops." "Then, sir, you agree to be our knight?" cried Pani Wlocek, extending her hands towards him and at the same time gazing at him with a suddenly awakened curiosity and surprise. "With the greatest pleasure," repeated Dolhanski; "the strike will be over to-morrow." His complete self-assurance impressed everybody, particularly the ladies from Gorek. At the same time, the cold tone in which he spoke affected Pani Wlocek so much that for a while she lost her usual pathetic volubility and after an interval she replied: "In the name of an orphan, I thank you." But the orphan apparently preferred to thank him herself, for she stretched out both hands towards Dolhanski and after a brief silence, which might be explained by her emotions, spoke in a voice resembling the rustle of leaves: "I am concerned about mamma." "So am I," Dolhanski assured her. But the mother and daughter now turned to each other: "Allow me, child; here I am nothing." "Permit me, Mamma; Mamma is everything." "But I beg pardon, child--" "Pardon me, Mamma,--" And the strife about the burnt offerings began anew. It did not, however, last long, as, firstly, the doctor began to make so much noise that they could be heard with difficulty and then, Pani Krzycki, whom the young physician permitted to rise and move to an armchair, sent a message asking the ladies to visit her. After their departure the doctor went to the office to write out specifically where and how the cure should be conducted; the notary became occupied with his flute in the vestibule. Gronski, Dolhanski, and Ladislaus for a while remained alone. Then Dolhanski addressed Ladislaus: "What are these Gorek and Kwasnoborz?" "About fifteen hundred acres, and there is also Zabianka." "So I have heard. And the soil?" "Almost the same as at Rzeslewo. In Zabianka it is said to be better." "So I have heard. The state of the fortune?" "Bad and good. Bad, because these ladies will not invest in anything. Good, because they have no debts and every penny which flows from the husbandry, after it gets into the stockings, never beholds daylight again." "That is what I have been waiting for," said Dolhanski. "They are as stingy as they are pathetic, and who knows whether they are not stingier?" "Let them hoard." And Gronski began to laugh and quoted: "Sic vos non vobis nidificatis aves--sic vos non vobis mellificates apes--" "Yes," said Dolhanski. After which suddenly to Gronski: "To-morrow I will propose for the hand of Cousin Otocka." "To-day you are full of surprises," replied Gronski. "Wait! And I will be given the mitten." "Without any doubt." "But I want to have a clear conscience. After which I will drive over to Gorek." "That is already known. And you will quell the agitated waves of a strike." "In the course of a day. As you see me here." After which he pointed at Ladislaus. "That simplex servus Dei became unwittingly an instrument in the hands of Providence. The Lord often avails Himself of pigmies. For this, when you become bankrupt in Jastrzeb, apply to me at Gorek." "Provided that before that time you are not reduced to the same level," responded Ladislaus, laughing. "You are an excellent leveller." "We live in an age of universal levelling. But what is Panna Wlocek's Christian name?" "Kajetana." "Plait-il?" "Kajetana," repeated Krzycki. "Her father's christian name was Kajetan and she was named in memory of him." "Tell me then why that well-stocked Kajetana preserved herself in her virgin state until the age of thirty or more?" "Thirty-five, to be accurate. That is what my mother said not long ago. She remembers the day of her birth. As to why she is unmarried the reason is plain. Parties were not wanting but those ladies looked too high. In the neighborhood, we only have the common nobility; and among the Krzyckis there was not a bachelor of suitable age. You, in this respect, would correspond to their fantasy--" "That is well!" answered Dolhanski, "only that name! Kajetana! Kajetana! That seems to be a kind of carriage or boat! Do I know?" Gronski and Ladislaus regarded Dolhanski's announcement as a joke, as one of the sallies of wit which often crossed his mind. He, however, kept his word, for on the following day he proposed to Pani Otocka with due gravity and, after receiving an equally grave refusal, rode off to Gorek and settled there for a time. The young ladies, and even Pani Krzycki, were greatly amused and interested in all this, especially when the news reached them that the agrarian strike in Gorek ended the same day on which Dolhanski appeared. And it also ended a few days later in Rzeslewo, partly from the force of circumstances, from the conviction innate in the peasant soul that the "holy land" is not to be trifled with, and partly owing to the news which spread over the village that somebody from some kind of a committee was to come and decide the whole matter. Such was the case with the manor servants. The peasants and husbandmen did not want to agree to any school and would not relinquish the possession of the manor lands, but awaited this somebody in equal fear and hope, sacredly believing that not the will nor the law but some unknown power would decide everything. In the villages, in the meantime, more peaceful days ensued, and though the daily papers brought intelligence of increased commotion in the cities, Ladislaus believed that the local storm had passed away. This belief was shared by the guests. As the doctor had announced that Pani Krzycki's departure depended upon the first signs of alleviation of her suffering, Ladislaus determined to take the best advantage he could of the brief time the young ladies were to remain in Jastrzeb. The horseback excursions began and unless prevented by rain took place every morning. They were particularly agreeable to Ladislaus because Gronski, riding leisurely, kept company with his "adoration," while he could pass hours alone with Miss Anney. Both were expert riders; they usually dashed ahead and most frequently disappeared from view in the distance. At times, they set off at full gallop, and intoxicated themselves with the mad speed, the air, the sun, and each other. At other times they rode abreast, slowly, stirrup to stirrup, and then the silence into which they fell, anxious, full of inexpressible delight, linked them with ties yet stronger than those with which their conversation bound them. With a glance Krzycki scanned the figure of the golden-haired maiden, resembling on horseback the divine Grecian forms or those on Etruscan vases, and feasted his eyes. He listened to her voice and it seemed to him that it was music still nearer perfection than that which poured forth from Marynia's violin. At times when he assisted her to mount her horse, he had to exert the full strength of his will to refrain from pressing her foot to his lips and forehead. And often he thought that if he ever dared to do so, he would desire to remain in that position as long as possible. To this feminine being all his thoughts were impelled, and through the might and flight of his feeling, his desires ceased to be like crawling serpents and became like winged birds, capable of soaring unto heaven. His love each day became more like a whirlpool which drags to itself and engulfs everything. It seemed to Ladislaus that the air, the sun, the fields, the forests, the meadows, the scent of the trees and flowers, the song of birds and the evening playing of Marynia,--all these were only some of the elements of that love which belonged to Miss Anney and entered into her being and, without her, would be insignificant and without essence. Moreover, the whirlpool seized him and plunged him more and more deeply with a power to which each day he offered less resistance, for the simple reason that the abyss appeared to him to be the abyss of happiness. Ladislaus now did not surrender her to any Englishman "with protruding jaw" or any Scot "with bare knees," and would not have given her up for the whole of England and Scotland. He ceased trying to persuade himself that this was a type of woman, which he might have loved and, instead, he confessed to himself sincerely that she was a woman whom he did love. Love generated in him a bright and determined will; so now he thought, with the strict logic of feeling, that he craved to win this, to him, most precious and most desired being, to take and retain her for his whole life. There was only one road leading to that: therefore he determined to enter upon it with that heedless willingness which a man, who desires to be happy, evinces. Sometimes also a confession quivered upon his lips. He restrained it however and deferred it from day to day, at first owing to a timidity which every enamoured heart feels, and again through calculation. For if Love is blind, it certainly is not so to whatever may bring it benefits. It can even weigh benefits and obstacles upon such delicate scales that in this regard it is perhaps the most cautious, the most prescient, and the shrewdest of human feelings. In fact Ladislaus observed that his mother and Miss Anney were bound by a sympathy which, on the part of youth, health, and strength was productive of a certain friendly care, and on the part of weakness and old age, of gratitude. All three ladies were solicitous about his mother, but neither the solicitude of Pani Otocka, nor that of Marynia, was so vigilant or so efficacious as the watchfulness of Miss Anney. Pani Krzycki candidly said that even Ladislaus could not move from room to room with such dexterity the armchair to which temporary disability had riveted her; that he could not anticipate and humor her wants as could this light-haired "good English diviner." To Krzycki, it frequently occurred that certainly this "good diviner" did all that through kindness and sincere friendship, but also because she wanted to conciliate his mother. And his heart trembled with joy at the thought that the moment would arrive when the wishes of his mother would coincide with that for which he, himself, most strongly yearned. He feared that a premature avowal might sever the ties which were being formed and for that reason he checked the word, which often burned his lips like a flame. After all, there was an avowal in their silence and glances. Ladislaus did not dare and, until that time, did not wish to tell her plainly that he loved her; he wanted, however, with each word to clear the path and approach that eagerly desired moment. In the meantime it happened that, either from lack of breath he could not speak at all, or else he said something entirely different from what he intended to say. Once when they rode amidst luxuriant winter corn and when a light breeze bent towards them the rye stalks, together with the red poppy and the gray fescue-grass, he decided to tell her that all Jastrzeb bowed at her feet; and he said, with a great beating of his heart, in a hollow voice not his own, "that in places the grain is lying down." After which, in his soul, he called himself an idiot and fretted at the supposition that a similar opinion of him must have crossed her mind. It seemed to him that she, beyond comparison, exercised a better self-control and that she could always say just what she wished to say. Consequently, even at times when partly through coquetry and partly because of her habit of repeating his expressions like an echo, she answered, for instance, "that in places the grain is lying down," he discerned in her words an unheard-of significance and later pondered over them for hours. But he also had, particularly in the morning, moments of greater tranquillity of mind and greater peace, in which his words were not like a disarrayed rank of soldiers, each one marching in a different direction. At times, the themes for these quieter conversations were furnished by some external objects, but oftener by anxiety occasioned by the impending separation. Krzycki at such times hid behind his mother and in her name expressed that which he did not dare to say in his own. "I can imagine," he said the day following the second visit of the doctor, "how Mother will long for you." And the maiden, to whom it evidently occurred that not only the mother but the son would long for her, looked at him a little teasingly, with the hazy light of her strange eyes, and replied: "I am such a bird of flight that your mother will soon become disaccustomed to me." "Oh, I warrant you that she will not," exclaimed Ladislaus. After which, he added: "I know Mother; she has fallen in love with you immensely." "Why, hardly ten days have elapsed since we arrived. Is it possible to fall in love so soon?" To this Ladislaus replied with deep conviction: "It is! I give you my word, it is!" There was something so naïve in the manner and tone of the reply that Miss Anney could not refrain from laughing. But he observed this and began to speak rapidly as if he wished to explain and justify himself: "For do we know whence love comes? Often at the first glance of the eye upon a human face we have such an impression as if we found some one whom we were seeking. There are certain unalterable forces which mutually attract people, although before that time they may have never met and though they had lived far away from each other." "And must such persons always meet each other?" "No," he answered, "I think not always. But then perhaps they are continually yearning, not knowing for what, and feel an eternal vacuity in life." And here, in spite of his will, the sincere poetry of youth and sentiment spoke through his lips: "You called yourself a bird of flight," he said. "Beloved also is that bird, only not as a bird which flies away but rather as a bird which flies hitherward. For it flies unexpectedly from somewhere in the distance--from beyond the mountains, from beyond the sea, and nests in the heart, and begins to sing such a song that one hearing it would fain close his eyes and never waken again." And thus he spoke until he grew pale from emotion. For a time he was agitated, like a whirlwind, by the desire to dismount from his horse and embrace the feet of the maiden with his arms and cry: "Thou art that beloved one: therefore do not fly away, my dear bird!" But simultaneously he was seized by a prodigious fear of that night which would encompass him if his entreaty should prove futile. So he merely uncovered his head, as if he wanted to display his heated forehead. A long silence, which fell between them, was only interrupted by the snorting of the horses, which now proceeded in an ambling pace, emitting under the bridles a white foam. After which Miss Anney spoke in a subdued voice which sounded a little like a warning: "I hear Pan Gronski approaching with Marynia." In fact the other couple soon approached, happy and animated. Marynia, a few paces away, exclaimed: "Pan Gronski was telling me such beautiful things about Rome. I am sorry that you did not hear them." "More about the neighborhood of Rome, than Rome itself," said Gronski. "Yes. I was in Tivoli. I was in Castel Gandolfo, in Nemi. Wonders! I will tease Zosia until in truth we will go there and Pan Gronski with us." "Will you take me along?" asked Miss Anney. "Of course! We will all go in the autumn or next spring. Did you folks also talk about a trip?" For a time there was no response. "No," Miss Anney finally replied. "We were talking about birds of flight." "Why, now it is spring and birds do not fly away." "Nevertheless, you ladies are making preparations for flying away," answered Ladislaus with a sigh. "True," rejoined Marynia; "but that is because Aunt is going away; and she"--here she pointed at Miss Anney with her riding whip--"has urged us all three to go where the doctor is sending Aunt." After which she said to Ladislaus: "You would not believe, sir, how honest she is and how she loves Aunt." "I, not believe? I?" cried Ladislaus with ardor. But Miss Anney, who a short time before had asked him whether one could fall in love so soon, became greatly confused and, dropping the reins, began with both hands to set something right on her hat, wishing to cover with them her countenance which glowed like the dawn. Ladislaus had heaven in his heart, and Marynia, for some time, gazed with her pellucid eyes, now at him and then at Miss Anney, for it was no secret to her that Krzycki was in love up to his ears, and this aroused her curiosity and amused her indescribably. XII "See what I received to-day," said Ladislaus, handing Gronski a letter which came with others in the morning mail. Gronski glanced at it and knit his brow. "Ah!" he said, "a death sentence." "Yes." "With the seal of the P. P. S. They are distributing them quite prodigally." "Yes, just like the opposite party." "Both are alike. The notary also has one and the doctor several. What do you think of it?" "Je m'en fiche! But the situation amuses me. I do not know whether you have heard that the Provincial guards have unearthed a secret school in Jastrzeb, which I founded a year ago because my conscience commanded me to. It is a case which I greased but have not yet greased sufficiently. As a result, I now have suspended over me the fists of the authorities and the fists of the socialists. Enjoyable, is it not?" "It has often occurred to me that elsewhere people could not live under such conditions, and we not only live but laugh quite merrily." "For such is our sinewy Lechite nature." "Perhaps that is so. You must, nevertheless, be on your guard and it will be necessary to send the ladies away." "It will be necessary, it will be necessary," repeated Ladislaus. "And abroad too, for it is unsafe in Warsaw. But please do not say anything about this foolish sentence to Mother or any one else." "Certainly." "Mother positively insists upon my accompanying her, and I do not try to shun that--oh, no, not in the least! But summer is approaching and after that there will be the harvest. The overseer is an honest man but before my departure I must give him some specific instructions how and what he is to do. After they all leave, I would like to stay yet for a week or ten days. Mother will not be alone and without care, as in the first place the younger members of the family will be with her, and again you heard Cousin Marynia say that the ladies will go wherever Mother would be. Through all my life I will ever be grateful to Miss Anney for that proposal; for to Mother nothing could be better or more agreeable." "And for her son also, it seems to me," said Gronski, laughing. Ladislaus remained silent for a time; after which he began to press the palms of his hands on his temples and replied: "Yes. For why should I deny that which I confessed to myself and which everybody sees but Mother, who has not observed it because she seldom saw us together. But she also has fallen in love with Miss Anney. Who would not love her? Such a dear, golden creature. I have not, as yet, said anything to Mother because she has her mind set upon Pani Otocka and it will be unpleasant for her to give up the thought. I fear she might be offended. After all, I only know what is taking place within me, and nothing more. I dare not even say that I have any reasons for my illusion. I fear that it may all at once burst like a soap-bubble. Ah! How unhappy I would be. Already I cannot see anything in this world beyond her. Candidly speaking, I do not know what to do with myself, Jastrzeb, and life." And grasping Gronski's hand, he continued: "If you would only speak with Pani Otocka and ascertain from her whether I may have hope; for they are friends and certainly do not keep any secrets from each other. If you would only do this for me; and in due time speak with Mother! But with Pani Otocka as soon as possible! Will you do it?" "I have spoken with Pani Otocka about that," replied Gronski, "but what, do you suppose, she answered? That she could not tell me anything as Miss Anney confided to her a certain personal secret which she was not at liberty to divulge. I admit that this surprised me. In reality, the secret cannot be anything derogatory to Miss Anney, as otherwise Pani Otocka would not be on such cordial and intimate terms with her. They are like sisters, and in Warsaw they lived together, almost door to door. After all, Pani Otocka, it seemed to me, was sincerely in your favor and, at times, I received the impression that she was concerned in having matters come to the pass which they have. As for Marynia, she wriggles her little ears and with that it ends. In any case, be assured that you have not enemies in those ladies and, if you want to know my personal views, much less in Miss Anney." "Would to God! Would to God!" answered Ladislaus. "You have given me a little encouragement and I breathe more easily." "But you, I see, have fallen unto your ears," observed Gronski. "I give you my word that I prefer one of her fingers or the ray of her hair to all the women in the world. I never had a conception that one could thus surrender himself. At times I do not know what is happening to me or what will occur, for only think: I have Jastrzeb, the estate, the Rzeslewo affairs, Mother's departure, and here I cannot think of anything but her--but her--and to nothing else can I apply my mind. I regret every moment in which I do not gaze upon her. To-day, for instance, I received a summons from the Directory to come in reference to the will and Rzeslewo, and I postpone the matter until tomorrow. I cannot--plainly--I cannot! I would go at night were it not that the Directory is closed for the night." "Remember, however, the death sentence." "May the devil take them with their sentence, or let them finally shoot me in the head. I would still be thinking of her, especially after what you have told me. But how do you know that Pani Otocka is in my favor? Those are honest, golden hearts, both of those cousins! How did you say it? That they are not my enemies? Thank God, even for that! For, why should they hate me? But please speak with Pani Otocka again. I am not concerned about her betraying any secret but only that, knowing Miss Anney, she should say something one way or the other--you know what I want--certainty--even though a morsel--" "Certainly," said Gronski, laughing, "I will seek an opportunity to-day." "Thank you! Thank you!" In fact an opportunity was easily found, as Pani Otocka also had some news which she desired to impart to Gronski, and with this object she sent her maid to him with an invitation to meet her on the yoked elm walk, near the pond. When they met there she gave him, just as Ladislaus had done a while before, a letter which arrived in the same morning's mail and said: "Please read it and advise me what to do with it." It was a letter from Laskowicz to Marynia and its tenor was as follows: "A great idea is like a gigantic bird: her wings cast a shadow over the earth, while she hovers in the sun. "Whoever does not fly upwards with her is surrounded by darkness. "And darkness is death. "In that darkness, I behold Thee, like an alabaster statuette. This night the sounds of thy music reach me. "And lo, in my lonely chamber I think of Thee and grieve for Thee. "For Thou couldst be a beam-feather in the wings of this gigantic bird idea and inhale the pure air of the dizzy heights and play in glory to the legions of the living; and Thou breathest the air of tombs and playest to a life which is moribund and to souls that wither; and not to people but to ghosts. "I grieve for Thee, my silvery one. "And my thoughts fly to Thee like eagles. "For heretofore there was imbedded in my strength a part of human happiness but there was not in it my own happiness. "Now Thou suddenly glidest before my eyes like a light, and through my ears like music, and hast filled my bosom with a yearning for things I had not known before, and hast filled me with Thine own indispensable quintessence and a consciousness of my happiness. "Therefore I loved Thee the same night when I beheld Thee and heard Thee for the first time. "Henceforth, though Thou are not near me, I am with Thee and will follow wherever Thou wilt be. "For Thou art necessary to my existence and I am to Thee, in order to resuscitate Thee. "In order to snatch Thee from destruction; from amidst those who are about to die. "In order to surrender Thee to the great idea, and the exalted, and the light, and the living hosts who suffer from a dearth of bread and music. "Thee and Thy music. "May extermination not fail upon you both. "Oh, beloved one. "A certain night I summoned Thee but Thou didst not hear me and didst not come. Now I extend my hands towards Thee and say unto Thee: Come and slumber in my heart. "And when the time of awakening comes, I will wake Thee for a brief moment of pleasure, which love gives for the toil without an end and which the idea demands. "For toil and perchance for martyrdom. "But in that martyrdom for the dawn of a new life, there is greater happiness than in the dusk, mephitic air, ashes and mould of graves. "Therefore come even for martyrdom. "And until our existence floats into the sea of nothingness, abide with me. "Oh, beloved one." Gronski's countenance reflected perturbation. For a time he and Pani Otocka walked in silence. "What shall I do with this, and what does it mean?" "This is a disagreeable and vexatious matter, and the letter means that Laskowicz, who never in his life saw a being like Marynia, has fallen in love with her from the first acquaintance, as he himself says. I observed that after a few days and if I did not say anything to you about it, it was because Laskowicz was soon to leave. But he has fallen in love with his head and not his heart, for otherwise, instead of high-flown expressions, borrowed, as it were, from some school of literature, he would have found simpler and more sincere words. His exaltation may be sincere, it may waste and destroy him like a fever; it may last for whole years, but its chief source is the head and not the heart." But Pani Otocka, who at the moment was not in the least interested in an analysis of Laskowicz's feelings, interrupted a further disquisition: "But what are we to do, in view of this? How are we to act? It is about Marynia that I am concerned." "You are right," answered Gronski. "Pardon my untimely reflections, but it is always better to know with whom and with what one has to do. My opinion is that it would be best not to do anything, just as if this letter had not arrived. You may return it to Laskowicz, but that would be exceedingly contemptuous: this letter deserves, perhaps, to be thrown into a fireplace, but in my opinion it does not merit contempt. It is, if you will permit me to thus express myself, nervous and insolent, but it preserves a certain measure in its expressions and there is nothing brutal in it. Besides it expresses rather the thoughts which came to Laskowicz's mind than any actual hopes, and to that extent it might be explained to Marynia that this is not a letter to her but a poem for her, not quite felicitously conceived. And Marynia? What impression did it make upon her and what does she say?" "Marynia," answered Pani Otocka with a certain comic uneasiness, "is a little offended, a little worried and frightened, but in the innermost recesses of her heart, she is a little proud that somebody should have written such a letter to her." "Oh, I was certain of that," exclaimed Gronski, laughing involuntarily. After a while he began to speak seriously. "No doubt other letters will come and as these maybe more glaring, we will have to persuade the little one that she should not read them. If you will permit, I will undertake that, after which, you ladies ought to go to Warsaw, and, in a short time, journey abroad and the matter will end of itself." "To tell the truth," responded Pani Otocka, "I want to leave Jastrzeb as soon as possible. We are not necessary for Aunt but are rather a hindrance in the preparations for her departure, and I confess that I am possessed by fear. Please read that letter again carefully. Why, there are threats there against all the residents of Jastrzeb and even against Marynia if she stays with us." Gronski thought of Ladislaus receiving at the same time a death sentence, and in the first moments it occurred to him that it might have some connection with Laskowicz's letter. But after a while he recollected that similar sentences were sent to the doctor and even the aged notary: therefore to pacify Pani Otocka, he said: "These are times of continual menaces and everybody receives them, but I do not think that Laskowicz intended to warn Marynia of any imminent attack threatening us in Jastrzeb. He undoubtedly wished to say that the waves of socialism will sweep away all who do not float with it, and therefore us. But as the peace of yourself and Marynia is involved, as to leaving, why of course! Why should we not leave even to-morrow?" "I already thought of that, but Aunt urged us to wait for her and Aninka promised her that." "Then let her remain, and you ladies leave. Ah, so Miss Anney delays the departure? Good news for Laudie! May I tell him that? A while ago, he begged me to learn something from you,--for the poor fellow barely lives. He is the most love-sick swain within the boundaries of the Commonwealth." "So it has gone as far as that?" "It has! Evidently there is something inflammatory in the atmosphere of Jastrzeb. Here everybody falls in love, either openly or in secret." Hearing this, Pani Otocka unexpectedly blushed like a fifteen-year-old girl, and though this happened often and upon the most trivial provocation, Gronski being unable to surmise what had passed through her mind, looked at her with a certain wonder. "How then?" he said. "There are Laudie, Laskowicz, and Dolhanski. But Dolhanski has the most energy, for, after his latest repulse, he immediately decamps upon a new expedition, while Laudie fears." "What?" asked Pani Otocka, raising her eyes. "First, a repulse from which he thinks he could not recover, and, again, a discussion with his mother which awaits him." "Perhaps something else awaits Cousin Laudie, but he need not fear about Aninka." "He will die from joy when I tell him that, but in my way, I, who am known to you as a meddler, could die from curiosity." "What of it, when I have no right to speak about it?" "Not even when we leave Jastrzeb?" "Not even then. After all, everything will soon clear up." "In such case, I have procured enough for the nonce, and in the meanwhile I will return to Laudie to tell him the good news and apprise him of our departure. I will not mention anything about Laskowicz's letter, for tomorrow he will set off for the city and, if they met, a nasty encounter might result." XIII Ladislaus, however, did not go to the city on the day following his conversation with Gronski, for he was notified that the meeting of the executors of Zarnowski's will was postponed for one week. The reason for this was that in two days a convention of the citizens of the vicinity was to commence in reference to providing insurance for the superannuated rural officials and manor-servants, and also in regard to the more burning question of introducing the Polish language into the communes,--a question in which the communal justices as well as the villagers were interested. Ladislaus determined, by all means, to participate in these debates, but as they were to take place in the forenoons, he formulated a plan of going to them every morning and returning home in the afternoon. In view of the proximity of Jastrzeb to the city, this plan was quite feasible. However, he was disappointed in the hope that he could devote those two days exclusively to the guests, or rather to the most precious of guests in Jastrzeb, as the disorders in Rzeslewo broke out with renewed virulence and they required almost all his time. The strike of the manor help, indeed, ceased so completely that the intervention, which Dolhanski advised, became superfluous and it was necessary to restrain it. But in the meantime individual tenants and some of the husbandmen began to commit depredations in the forest. Ladislaus, at the head of the local and Jastrzeb foresters, sought these disorderly persons, who, indeed, hid at the sight of him: nevertheless they assumed a very threatening attitude towards the servants, promising to all swift vengeance. The foresters received bulky letters, assuring them "that they would get a bullet in the head, and the heir also would." But the heir, who was not wanting in youthful energy and was not averse to adventure, did not at all neglect the defence of the Rzeslewo forests, and, what was more, he personally rushed over to Rzeslewo and summoning the malefactors, declared that he would invoke courts and punishment. And afterwards, he repaired at the designated time to the conference. It was to be the last day of the sojourn in Jastrzeb of Pani Otocka, Marynia, and Gronski, who decided to leave on the following day for Warsaw. Miss Anney, at Pani Krzycki's solicitation, agreed to remain for a few days, and leave with her. Ladislaus announced that he would return as soon as possible in order to spend the evening with all of them and to listen for the last time to Marynia's bewitching violin. He also said that he would induce the notary and the doctor to come with him. As a result, they waited dinner for them. In the meantime, about four o'clock, Gronski sat in his room writing a letter to Dolhanski, Marynia, upstairs, played her daily exercises, Pani Otocka sat with the patient, and Miss Anney went out on the balcony, ostensibly to photograph the old and lofty trees which enclosed the courtyard on two sides, but in reality to see whether he, whom they expected at home, was returning. So instead of photographing, she began to lose her sight and soul in the shady depths of the old linden roadway. Hope that soon she would behold in that depth a cloud of dust, horses, and carriages, and that afterwards the lively form of a youth would leap out, filled her with a quiet joy. Lo, after a while she would see before her that countenance, stately, sympathetic, and sincere; those eyes, whose every glance spoke to her a hundred times more than the lips, and would hear that voice which penetrated to her heart and thrilled it like music. At this thought, Miss Anney was encompassed with such sweet, calm feeling, as if she were a child and as if some loved hand were lightly rocking her to sleep; as if she were resting in a boat, which the gentle waves bore somewhere into a distance, unknown, but radiant. To permit herself to be rocked, to allow herself to be borne, to confide in the waves, to not think, for the time being, of where the boat will stop,--this was all that the heart of the maiden, at such moments, desired. But at other moments, when she propounded to herself the question, "What will happen further?" she looked with faith into the future. Sometimes when sleep refused to close her eyes, there flitted through her mind, like dark butterflies, uncertainties and fears, but even then she said to herself that the heaven may become cloudy in the future, but at present she was enjoying charming, fair weather, and every day was like a flower, and she plucked those flowers, one after another and laid them upon her bosom. So she thought that for this it was worth while to live and even to die. And at that moment, though her soul was dissolving in the sun, in the serene atmosphere, in the rustle of leaves and in the great pastoral calm, flooded with light, she had no desire to die, for it seemed to her that, with the air, she inhaled joyful appeasement. Everything about her began to lose the mark of reality and change into an azure vision of happiness, half dreamy, half wakeful. From this revery she was aroused by the sight, awaiting which she had sat for almost an hour on the balcony. Lo, at the uttermost end of the roadway her eagerly desired cloud of dust appeared and it approached with unusual rapidity. Miss Anney recollected herself. In the first moments she wanted to retire. "It is necessary, it is necessary," she said to herself, "otherwise he will be apt to think that I was waiting for him." And she would have been sincerely indignant had any one suggested to her that such was the case. But suddenly her knees became so weak that she sat again, clutching the camera in order that it might appear that when found on the balcony she was taking photographs. In the meantime the cloud drew nearer the gates of entry, continuing with the same speed. Soon in harmony with the picture which the maiden had previously formed, the gray heads of the fore horses emerged from the dust. Like lightning, an impression of joy shook Miss Anney. "How he is flying and how anxious he is!" But immediately afterwards, as she began to wonder at the amazing speed, she thought that the horses were frightened. They were already so close to the gates that she could perceive the wind-tossed manes, the distended bloody nostrils and the frantic motions of the horses' feet. Suddenly she rose and her eyes reflected horror, for she observed that the coachman sat, bent so that only the top of his head could be seen--without a cap. In the meantime the intractable horses dashed through the gate; at the winding, the coachman fell off and the carriage with slightly diminished speed swung in a semi-circle along the border of the flower-bed. In the carriage, on the rear seat, Ladislaus sat alone, with his head tilted upwards and propped upon a carriage cushion. A cry of terror escaped from Miss Anney's breast. The horses, in the twinkle of an eye, reached the balcony and being accustomed to stop before it, implanted their hoofs in the ground. Ladislaus moved and, pale as a corpse, with blood streaming over his collar and coat sleeves, staggered from the carriage; when the maiden hurried towards him, he cried, grasping the air with his mouth: "Nothing!... I am wounded, but it is nothing!" And he toppled to the ground at her feet. And she, in a moment raised him with a strength, amazing in a woman, and supporting him with her arms and breast, began to shriek: "Save him! Help! Help!" PART SECOND. I When Miss Anney raised the wounded young man, the household servants were in the other part of the house. Nearest to her--for they were in the vestibule playing billiards--were Pani Zosia and Marynia. These ladies rushed upon the balcony and, seeing Miss Anney supporting the disabled youth, emulating her example, began to shout at the top of their voices. She, in the meantime, placed him upon a bench on the balcony and enclosing him in her arms, called for water. Both sisters hurried to the sideboard for it and alarmed the whole house. Gronski and everything living collected there. In the first moments Gronski lost his head and when he recovered his senses he sent Pani Otocka to Ladislaus' mother to apprise her of the occurrence. In the meanwhile Miss Anney ordered the servants to carry the wounded man. She, herself, was compelled for a while to attend to her maid, who at the sight of Ladislaus, began to scream and then fell into hysterical convulsions. Gronski hastened to the stable to dispatch horses for the doctor. But before the wounded man was borne to his room his mother came precipitately. At the news of the misfortune, she forgot about her rheumatism and assisted in the removal of her son, and in undressing and laying him in bed. Afterwards she began to wash out the wounds with a sponge. Ladislaus, owing to a copious flow of blood, fell into a long faint, and, after regaining consciousness for a brief interval, fainted again: in consequence of which he could not give any information about the occurrence. He only repeated several times, "In the woods, in the woods!" From which they could infer that the attack took place, not upon the public highway but on the borders of Rzeslewo or Jastrzeb. In the meantime, the rattle of a britzka resounded before the balcony and, a moment later, Gronski summoned Miss Anney from her room, where she was hastily changing her clothes, which were covered with blood. "I am riding alone," he said. "The coachman is on the sick list and the housekeeper has taken charge of him. None of the grooms want to go. All are scared and positively refuse. Only the old lackey is willing to drive, but I think that he cannot drive any better than I can." "It is imperatively necessary to drive for the doctor at once," answered Miss Anney, pressing the palms of her hands to her burning cheeks, "but it is also necessary to prepare for the defence of the house. Please hurry to the farmers' quarters and send for the forest rangers to come with their arms. Otherwise those men will be apt to break in here and administer the finishing blow to him." "That is true." And she continued hurriedly: "It is necessary to send some one for the men in the sawmill and arm them with firearms. The field hands will follow their example. In all probability an assault will be made upon the manor-house and here are only women. You must assume charge of the defence. Please go at once, and do send for the forest rangers." Gronski admitted the propriety of the advice, and proceeded immediately to the farmers' buildings. It was within the range of possibility that the assailants, not knowing the result of their shooting, might wish to ascertain and perhaps finish their work. This had happened in several instances, and in view of this, all, and, more particularly, the women, were concerned. Gronski was not an energetic man, but no coward, and the thought of the being most precious to him in the world, Marynia, infused him with energy. He immediately sent the field hands for the forest rangers, as well as to the sawmill, where a dozen or more men worked, of whom it was known in the manor, as well as in the village, that they read "The Pole" and did not fear any one. The manor domestics very quickly recovered from their consternation. The reason for this was that the wounded coachman, though he did not see the assailants who had fired from thickets, claimed with great positiveness that "the Rzeslewo people attacked the young heir" on account of disputes about the forest. This removed from the affair the awe of mystery; and a peasant does not fear danger but mystery. Besides, as there existed between the men of Jastrzeb and the men of Rzeslewo an ancient grudge, dating from the time of the wrangle about bounding the stream, as soon as the news of the attempt of the Rzeslewo men spread over the village, those of Jastrzeb ceased not only to fear, but a desire for revenge was bred in them. The manor servants began to feel ashamed now that they had refused to drive for the doctor. Others, hearing that Rzeslewo wished to make an onslaught on Jastrzeb manor, seized pitchforks and pulled out pickets from the fences. Gronski, aware of the death sentence received by Ladislaus, viewed the matter differently, but kept his opinion to himself, understanding that a peasant, though he often suddenly displays unusual terror, when once he starts to pull out pickets from fences, does not fear anybody whatsoever. Therefore delighted with this turn of affairs, he took with him a stout groom, who undertook to convey him to the city. But here a surprise awaited him, for before the balcony there was not a trace of the britzka and on the balcony stood the old lackey Andrew, with dejected face, and Marynia, pale, terror-stricken, with tears in her eyes, and who seeing him began to cry: "How could you, sir, permit her to ride alone? How could you do it?" "Miss Anney drove alone to the city!" exclaimed Gronski. And his countenance reflected such amazement that it was easy to perceive that it had happened without his knowledge or consent. "My God!" he said, "she sent me to the farmhouses to arrange the defence, and it never occurred to me that in the meantime she would jump into the britzka and drive away. It never occurred to me for a moment." But Marynia did not stop her lamentations. "They will kill her in the woods; they will kill her," she repeated, wringing her hands. Gronski, in order to quiet her, assured her that he would send out succor at once, but returning to the farmhouses, he began to reason that if he, himself, set out after her on horseback he would accomplish nothing and would leave the house without a masculine head, and if he should send the field laborers, before they reached the forest Miss Anney would outstrip them. It was possible for them to insure, fairly well, her safe return, but to insure her safe passage through the woods in the direction of the city it was absolutely too late. This was likewise acknowledged by Dolhanski, who not knowing of anything, returned by chance a half an hour later from Gorek to Jastrzeb. Hearing of the occurrence and Miss Anney's expedition, he could not refrain from exclaiming: "But that is a brave girl. I wish I was Krzycki." After which, going with Gronski to see the injured man, he added: "We will have to go out to meet her. I will attend to that." Ladislaus was already completely conscious and wanted to rise. He did not do so on account of his mother's entreaties and adjurations. His two friends did not tell him who had gone after the doctor. They only informed him that the doctor would arrive without delay and, after a short while, left, having something else to attend to. Dolhanski now assumed command over the improvised garrison which was to defend the manor-house. Gronski did not expect to find in him such an extraordinary supply of energy, sangfroid and self-confidence. He soon imparted this feeling to the household servants and the foresters; and the organization of the defence was not difficult. Two Jastrzeb forest rangers and one from Rzeslewo, who came later, had their own firearms, and in the manor-house were found Ladislaus' six fowling-pieces and, of these, two were short rifles. Dolhanski distributed this entire arsenal among men who knew how to use the weapons. A few servants from the village, who had participated in the Japanese war, appeared. Under these circumstances there was no fear of a sudden and unexpected attack. The workingmen from the sawmill, being of the Nationalistic persuasion, were anxious "that something should happen," so that they could "show how the teeth of uninvited guests are cleaned." Having arranged everything in this manner, Dolhanski intrusted the defence of the manor-house and the women to Gronski. Before that, however, he calmed them as to Miss Anney with the assurance that he returned from Gorek through the selfsame forest and rode in safety. This was the actual fact. But what was stranger, he did not meet the Englishwoman, from which they inferred that the courageous but prudent young lady evidently drove on another side road. However, as the distance to the city was not great and her return might be expected soon, he proceeded to meet her, taking along with him two forest rangers armed from head to foot. Gronski again was compelled to admire the shrewdness and ingenuity with which he issued in the name of the "Central Government" a command to the peasants of the village, that they should, in case they heard shots in the forest, rush in a body to their aid. The peasants did not know what this "Central Government" was. Neither did Dolhanski. He only knew that the name alone would create an impression, and the supposition that it was some Polish authority would ensure it a willing obedience. But these were superfluous precautions, as it appeared that there was no one in the Jastrzeb and Rzeslewo forests which extended along the other side of the road. The miscreants who fired at Krzycki had decamped with due haste, evidently from fear of pursuit; or else they awaited the night, concealed in some distant underwood belonging to other villages. One of the forest rangers, who had previously fully questioned the coachman about the place of the ambush, found, while beating the adjacent thickets, empty revolver cartridge shells, in consequence of which the supposition arose that the attack was perpetrated by Rzeslewo peasants. Dolhanski did not doubt that what happened was a sequel of the death sentence, of which he learned from Gronski. But this seemed to him "much more interesting." He thought that to meet the assailants and settle the issue in a proper manner would be a sort of hazard not devoid of a certain charm. And, in fact, soon a few more empty shells were found, but further search was without any results. Then Dolhanski turned towards the highway leading to the city, and a half an hour later met Miss Anney, driving the britzka as fast as the horses could run; on the rear seat was the doctor. It was market-day in the city. It happened therefore that at that time a dozen or more carts from Jastrzeb and Rzeslewo were returning homeward, and there was considerable bustle on the road. In consequence of this, Miss Anney did not become frightened at the sight of three armed men approaching her from an opposite direction, and, after a while, recognizing Dolhanski, she began to slacken the speed of the horses. "How is the wounded man?" "Conscious. Good." "How is it in the house?" "Nothing new." "God be praised." The britzka again rolled on and after an interval was hidden in a cloud of dust, and Dolhanski, having naught else to do, returned also to Jastrzeb. The forest rangers who were walking behind him began to converse with each other and interchange their ideas of a lady "who drives as well as the best coachman." But in Dolhanski's eyes there lingered also the picture of a young and charming maiden, with reins in hand, glowing countenance and wind-tossed hair. How much resolution and vivacity there was in all this! Never before did Miss Anney appear to him so enchanting. He knew from Gronski in what manner she had dashed to the city, and he was sincerely captivated by her. "That is not one of our transparent, jelly maidens who quiver at the slightest cause," he said to himself, "that is life, that is bravery, that is blood." He always admired everything which was English, beginning with the House of Lords and ending with the manufactured products of yellow leather, but at the present time his admiration waxed yet greater. "If her marriage portion is reckoned not in Polish gold pieces but in guineas," he soliloquized farther, "then Laudie was born with a caul." As he was an egotist, as well as a man of courage, he, after a while, ceased to bother his head about Krzycki and the danger which threatened all, and began to ruminate over his own situation in the world. He recollected that at one time he could have sold himself for a fat marriage settlement but with such an appendage that he preferred to renounce all. But if he had only found such an appendage as Miss Anney! And suddenly he was beset by regret that, after making her acquaintance, he had not been more attentive to her and had not tried to arouse in her an interest in himself. "Who knows," he thought, "whether at the proper time, that was not possible." But, in such case, it was proper for him to appear before her as more knightly and romantic and less sardonic and fond of club life. Evidently that was not her genre. Above all he could pot delude himself as to Pani Otocka. Dolhanski, from a certain time, had suspected his cousin of a secret attachment for Gronski, and at the same time could not understand what there was in Gronski that a woman could like. At the present time he was harassed by certain doubts about himself, for he felt, contrary to the good opinion which he entertained of himself, that there was something lacking in him; that in his internal mechanism some kind of wheel was wanting, without which, the entire mechanism did not go as it should. "For if," he cogitated farther, "I can sustain myself upon the surface, only through a rich marriage and my genre pleases neither Pani Otocka, nor Miss Anney, nor women in general, then I am a twofold ass: first because I thought I could please and again because I cannot afford to change." And he felt that he could not afford to change because of his indolence and from a fear that he would appear ridiculous. "In view of this it will perhaps be necessary to end with Kajetana with her appurtenances." In a sour temper he returned to Jastrzeb and, having given orders to the night watch, he went into the house where he received better news. The doctor announced that Ladislaus had a lacerated left shoulder, but as the shot was fired from below and went upwards, the bullet coursed above the lungs. The second shot grazed over the ribs, tearing a considerable portion of the flesh, while the third one carried off the tip of the small finger. The wounds were painful but not dangerous. The coachman received a scalp wound. The most severely injured was the left forehorse, who, however, owing to the small calibre of the bullet was able to gallop with the other horses, but died an hour after the return. All of which, however, tended to prove that the attack was not the swift revenge of the landless of Rzeslewo in defence of the forest rights, but a premeditated attempt. For this reason Gronski was of the opinion that Pani Otocka and Marynia ought to leave the following day. He wanted to escort them himself to the railroad station and then return. But both declared that they would remain until all were able to leave. On this occasion Marynia, for the first time in her life, quarrelled with Gronski and the matter actually ended in this, that Gronski had to yield. After all, the departure was not delayed for a long time, for the doctor promised that if great caution was observed, they could transfer the injured man to Warsaw in the course of a week. No one suggested an immediate departure to Miss Anney. The rest of the evening was passed in conference. About ten o'clock Dr. Szremski, having performed all that was required of him, wanted to leave for the city, but out of regard for Pani Krzycki he remained for the night, and as he was much fatigued, he went to Gronski's room and fell asleep at once. The ladies divided the work among themselves in this manner: the two sisters were to watch Pani Krzycki, who after the temporary excitement suffered severely from heart trouble and asthma. Miss Anney in conjunction with Gronski undertook to pass the night with the wounded young man. II Out in the world the first glow of dawn was just visible when Ladislaus awoke, after a fitful and slightly feverish sleep. He did not feel badly; only a thirst was consuming him; he began to seek with his eyes for some one near who could give him water, and espied Miss Anney sitting at the window. She must have watched a long time for she dozed, with her hands resting inertly upon her knees, and her head was bowed so low that Ladislaus at first caught only a glimpse of her light hair, illuminated by the light of the green lamp. She immediately started up however, as if she had a premonition that the patient was awake, and it seemed to him that she divined his thoughts, for, approaching noiselessly, she asked: "Do you wish any water?" Krzycki did not answer; he only smiled and winked his eyes in sign of assent; when she handed the drink to him, he eagerly drained the glass, and afterwards gently taking her hand in his own, which was uninjured, he pressed it to his lips and held it there a long time. "My dearest ... my guardian angel," he whispered. And again he pressed her hand to his lips. Miss Anney did not even withdraw her hand; only with the other one she took the glass and placed it upon the small cupboard standing near the bed. She bent over him and said: "It is necessary for you to keep quiet.--I will be with you until you get well, but now it is essential that you think only of your health; only of your health." Her voice sounded in tones of quiet and gentle persuasiveness. Ladislaus dropped her hand. For some time he moved his lips, but not a word could be heard. Evidently, he was weakened from emotion, as he grew pale and beads of perspiration stood upon his forehead. Miss Anney began to wipe his face with a handkerchief and continued: "Please be calm. If I thought that I was harming you, I would not come here, and I do want to be with you now. Not a word about anything until the wounds are healed; not a word. Promise me that." A moment of silence ensued. "Let the lady retire for a rest," Krzycki said in a pleading voice. "I will go, I will go, but I am not at all tired. During the first half of the night, Pan Gronski sat up at your side and I slept. Really, I am not tired and I will sleep during the day. But you, sir, try to sleep. All that is necessary is for you not to look at me, and close your eyes. Then sleep will come of itself. Good-night, or rather good-day, for the day is breaking in the world." In fact the morning's dawn reddened and gilded the sky, and the sun was about to rise at any moment. The light of the green lamp grew paler each moment and was merging into the brightness of the day. Ladislaus, desiring to show how he obeyed every word of his beloved guardian, closed his eyes, pretending to sleep, but after a while footsteps were heard in the hallway and the doctor entered accompanied by Miss Anney's maid, whose turn it now was to attend to the patient. The doctor was so terribly drowsy that instead of eyes he had two slits surrounded by swollen eyelids, but he was as jovial and noisy as usual. He examined the bandages, admitted that the dressing was in proper shape, felt the pulse, and found everything in good order. Afterwards he opened the windows to freshen the air which was saturated with iodoform. "A splendid morning," said he. "Health flows from the skies. Let the windows remain open all day. As soon as they hitch the horses, I shall return to the city for I have patients who cannot wait. But I will come back in the evening and bring a nurse for our wounded friend." After which, addressing Miss Anney, he said: "Only do not let it get into your head to drive for me, alone. The injured man is getting along nicely--a slight fever, very slight. I will see Pani Krzycki before I leave. Do not let her leave her bed all day, and let her nieces watch her. To you, sir, I recommend the bed. It is permissible to inhale but not to breathe one's last breath. Ha! I will return about five in the evening, unless indeed, I am forced on the road to swallow a few pills from the socialist pharmacy. That is a stylish medicine and, it must be confessed, acts quickly." "How is Mother?" asked Ladislaus in alarm. At this the doctor again turned to Miss Anney. "Order him to lie quiet for he will not mind me. Your mother has more than fifteen years. Yesterday she started up suddenly, forgetting her rheumatism and weak heart action, laid you in bed, waited for my arrival; was present at the dressing, and after learning that there was no danger--at once! bah!--it was necessary to put her to bed. That is always the way with our women. But nothing is the matter with your mother; the usual reaction after a nervous strain. When she came to herself, I ordered her to remain in bed and not to appear here under the penalty of death--for you. With that, I restrained her. Otherwise she would have stuck here all night. Now your filigree cousins are watching her. They also almost turned topsyturvy; then I would have had four patients in one house. That would be a harvest--ha? Luckily there was to be found in this house one soul with different nerves, who did not swoon poetically. Ha!" "How he is chattering," thought Ladislaus. But the doctor began to gaze with great respect at Miss Anney and continued: "Rule Britannia! It is a pleasure to look at you, as I love God! What health, what nerves! She sat up all night until the morning,--and nothing! As if she freshly shook the dew off herself! I repeat once more, it is a pleasure to behold you. I am going to the dining-room to see if they will not give me some coffee before I leave, for I am hungry." But before he left he said to Miss Anney and her maid: "Let the lady go with me and drink something warm before going to sleep, and you, little miss, sit here beside Pan Krzycki. It will be necessary to take his temperature and write it down. In case anything happens let Pan Gronski know. I will tell him to look in here occasionally. Good-by!" Allowing Miss Anney, who smiled at the wounded man and repeated "Good-by," to pass before him, he followed her. In the dining-room, they found not only coffee, but the two sisters with Gronski and Dolhanski. The former had sat up all night with Pani Krzycki, whose illness was much more serious than the doctor told the son. At one time it was even so serious that it was doubtful whether she would revive from a long faint. Both "filigree" sisters were almost worn out, and Marynia had eyelids of actual lily color. Gronski, by all means, wanted the doctor to examine her and prescribe something strengthening. But he, feeling her pulse for a while, said: "I will prescribe for you, miss, as a medicine, a certain maxim of Confucius, which says, 'If thou wouldst know the truth, it is better to sit than stand, better to lie down than sit, and rather than lie down, it is better to sleep.'" "That is all very well," she answered, "but after all that has taken place, I do not know whether I can sleep." "Then let some one sing to you the lullaby, 'Ah, ah! Two little kittens'; but only not your sister, as for her I prescribe the same--until it is effective." The rattle of the britzka interrupted further conversation. The doctor swallowed the hot coffee and took his leave. Dolhanski followed him and mounted a horse, held by a stable-boy. He announced that he would accompany the doctor through the forest. "If that is for my safety, then it is absolutely unnecessary," said the doctor. "I ride on horseback daily," replied Dolhanski, "and besides I want to see whether some May party has not again come to the Jastrzeb forest." "No," answered the doctor, laughing. "I do not think that they will reappear so soon. They have in these matters a certain method. They prefer to be the hunters rather than the quarry, and understand that now it might come to a man hunt. In about a week or two, when they find out that their attempt was unsuccessful, it will be necessary to be more guarded." "When will Krzycki be able to leave?" "It all depends upon the purity of his blood; and I presume that it is pure. After all, it will not be necessary to wait in Jastrzeb for a complete cure. He had a pretty close call; that cannot be gainsaid. For if I had not come the same day, infection might have set in. But the antiseptic did its work. Ah, that Englishwoman who looks through a heavenly mist. There is a woman for me. What? Would you believe that at first I was upset with indignation at you gentlemen for permitting her to drive under those circumstances? Only later did she tell me the actual facts. If I do not fall in love with her, I am a marinated herring without milt." "I would not advise it," said Dolhanski, "as it seems that in that territory there already has appeared a William the Conqueror." "Do you think so? It may be possible! That also has occurred to my mind." "Was it because the English prudery has disappeared in a corner?" "No. Nursing a wounded man is a woman's duty and, in view of that, prudery must retire to a corner. Even yesterday's expedition demonstrated only courage and energy. But through that heavenly mist there reach our wounded friend such warm rays that--oh! But that does not prevent me from being in love. If old Dzwonkowski fell in love with your little cousin why should not I indulge in the same pleasure." "In the same way you might fall in love with Saint Cecilia," said Dolhanski. "My cousin is not a woman on two feet, but a symbol." And he stopped abruptly for he heard some voices coming from the depth of the forest and he sped his horse towards them. "Nevertheless this clubman does not carry his soul on his shoulder," thought the doctor. But it was only a false alarm, as it was merely village boys tending cattle. The doctor, who alighted from the britzka to rush to Dolhanski's assistance in case of need, soon saw them among the forest thickets. After a while Dolhanski reappeared and pressing on his eye the monocle which some twigs had displaced, said: "That is only an innocent rural picture; cowherds and cows trespassing in other people's forests; nothing more." After which he bade the doctor adieu and returned to the house. Miss Anney had not yet retired to sleep, for he found her conversing with Gronski and engaged in winding iodoform gauze. At the sight of him, she raised her eyes from her work and asked: "Anything new in the forest?" "Yes, indeed; something has happened to the doctor. He has been shot." At this, both suddenly rose, startled: "What? Where? In the forest?" "No! In Jastrzeb," answered Dolhanski. III Ladislaus complied in every particular with Miss Anney's injunctions for, immediately after she left, he dozed again and did not waken until the rays of the sun, which had ascended high in the heaven, fell on his head. He then knit his brows and, having partly shaken off his drowsiness, requested that the roller-blinds be lowered. The black-haired maid approached the window, wishing to lower them, but as she did this too eagerly and did not retain her hold on the string, the roller-blind dropped so suddenly that it loosened completely from the fastenings and tumbled down on the window sill. Then the maid, ashamed of her awkwardness, leaped upon the chair and from the chair to the sill and began to place anew the rollers in the rings. Krzycki looked at her bent form; at her upraised arms and at her black coiled hair, with a not yet conscious gaze, blinking his eyes as if he could not recall for the time being who that was; and not until she jumped from the frame, displaying at the same time graceful and plump limbs in black stockings, did he know who was before him; and he said: "Ah! It is Panna Pauly." "It is I," answered the girl. "I beg your pardon for making so much noise." She blushed like a rose under his glance, and he recollected how he once saw her attired only in azure watery pearls; so he gazed at her with greater curiosity and said: "That does not matter. I thank you, little Miss, for your solicitude." At the same time, as a sign of gratitude, he moved the hand lying on the bed-quilt but feeling simultaneously a piercing pain, he made a wry face and hissed. And she sat on the edge of the bed, leaned over him, and asked with intense anxiety: "Does it pain?" "It does." "Can I hand you anything? Shall I call any one?" "No, no." For a certain time, silence followed. Ladislaus frowned and clinched his teeth; after which, drawing a deep breath, he said, as if with a certain rage: "This was done for me by those scoundrels." "Oh, if they only fell into my hands," she replied through her set teeth. Such a fathomless hatred glistened in her eyes and her entire countenance assumed such an expression of cruelty, that it might serve as a model for a Gorgon face. Ladislaus was so astonished at this sight that he forgot about his pain. Again silence ensued. The maid recollected herself after a while, but her cheeks grew so pale that the dark down above her lips became more marked: She then asked: "What can I do to relieve you?" Her voice now rang with such cordial solicitude that Ladislaus smiled and answered: "Nothing, unless it be to commiserate with me." And in a moment she was transported with spasmodic grief; she flung her face at his feet, and, embracing them with her arms, began to kiss them through the quilt. Her raven-like head and bent body shook from sobbing. "Why little lady! Panna Pauly!" cried Ladislaus. And he was compelled to repeat this several times before she heard him. Finally she rose and, covering her eyes with her hands, went to the window, pressed her face against the pane, and for some time remained motionless. Afterwards she began to wipe her eyes and readjust her hair, as if in fear that somebody, entering unexpectedly, might surmise what had taken place. In the meantime, all the moments in which he had come in contact with her coursed through Ladislaus' mind, commencing with meeting her on the dark path, when she told him that a were-wolf did not look like that, and the vision in the bath-room, until his conversation with her, after that vision, on the yoked elm grove near the pond. He recalled how from that time she alternately reddened and grew pale at the sight of him; how she drooped her eyes and how she sent them after him whenever it seemed to her that he was not observing. From one view, Ladislaus accepted this as the sequel of the incident in the bath-room; from another as admiration for his shapeliness. This admiration, indeed, flattered his masculine vanity, but he did not give it much thought, as, having his mind absorbed with Miss Anney, her servant did not concern him. Now, however, he understood that this was something more than the blandishments of an artful chambermaid after a handsome young heir, and that this maiden had become distractedly infatuated with him and in a kind of morbid manner. His love for Miss Anney was too deep and true for him to be pleased with such a state of affairs or for him to think that after his wounds were healed he could take advantage of the maiden's feelings in the fashion of a gallant. On the contrary, the thought that he had unwittingly aroused such feelings appeared disagreeable and irksome to him. He was seized by a fear of what might result from it. There came to him, as if in a vision, troubles, scenes, and entanglements, which such a passion might produce. He understood that this was a fire with which he could not thoughtlessly play; that he would have to be careful and not give her any encouragement. He decided also, notwithstanding the pity and sympathy he felt in the depth of his heart for the maiden, to avoid in the future all conversations, all jests, and everything which might draw her nearer to him, encourage intimacy, or provoke in the future outbursts similar to the one of that day. It even occurred to him to request Miss Anney not to send her to him any more, but he abandoned that resolution, observing that it might cause sorrow or cast upon him a shadow of ludicrousness. Finally he came to the conclusion that above all it was incumbent upon him not to ask the maid about anything; not to demand any explanation as to the meaning of that outbreak and those tears, and to behave coolly and distantly. In the meantime the maiden, at the window, having regained her composure, again approached the bed and spoke in a meek and hesitating voice: "I beg your pardon, sir. Be not angry at me, sir." He closed his eyes and only after an interval replied: "Little lady, I am not angry, but I need peace." "I beg pardon," she repeated yet more meekly. However she observed that he spoke in a different tone, drier and colder than previously, and intense uncertainty was depicted upon her countenance, for she did not know whether this was the momentary dissatisfaction of the patient, who, in reality, did desire quiet or whether it was the displeasure of the young heir at her--a servant maid--having dared to betray her feelings. Fearing, however, to again offend him, she became silent and seating herself upon the chair which Miss Anney had occupied, she took from the commode the work which previously had been brought and began to sew, glancing from time to time with great uneasiness, and as if in fear, at Ladislaus. He also cast stealthy glances at her, and seeing her regular features, as if carved out of stone, her sharply outlined brows, the dark down above her lips, and the energetic, almost inflexible, expression of her face, he thought that it would be much easier for a man who could arouse the thoughts and feelings of such a girl to form various ties than later to be able to free himself from them. IV Contrary to expectations, the doctor did not arrive that day, owing to an unusual number of engagements and a few important operations which he was compelled to perform without delay. Instead, he sent a young hospital attendant, skilled in dressing wounds, with a letter in which he requested Gronski to inform the ladies that they should consider his postponed visit as proof that no danger actually threatened the wounded man. Ladislaus, however was not pleased with this news, for the wounds tormented him acutely; particularly the flesh torn by the bullet along the ribs afflicted him painfully; and besides, his mother felt worse. The asthmatic spell recurred, after which a general weakness followed, so that notwithstanding her warmest wishes she was not able to rise from her bed. Pani Otocka did not leave her for the entire day, and at night her place was to be taken by Miss Anney, who, however, needing rest after the recent events and, passing a sleepless night, was sent to sleep by both sisters and Gronski. The rôle of the housekeeper of Jastrzeb was assumed by Marynia, for she wanted by all means to be useful, and was not permitted to attend to the patients. Instead, she was intrusted with all the keys; the management of the house; with conferring and taking an accounting with the cook whom she feared a little and did not like, because he looked upon her as if she was a child who was amusing herself rather than one upon whose shoulders rested the responsibility of superintending everything. She adopted a mien full of importance, but nevertheless "the dear gentleman," that is Gronski, had to promise that he would be present, as if by chance, in the room when the accounting was taking place. As, after the arrival of the doctor on the third day, it appeared that Ladislaus' condition was quite favorable and Pani Krzycki's asthmatic spells were leaving her and her nerves were getting in order, the general aspect of Jastrzeb became calmer and happier. Dolhanski began to fill with a certain humor the rôle of a generalissimo of all the armed forces of Jastrzeb while Gronski played the part of military governor. The doctor brought with him a second nurse, who thenceforth was to alternate with the one who came previously. This relieved the ladies of the house of the necessity of continual watchfulness and unnecessary fatigue. Ladislaus alone was dissatisfied with the arrangement, for he understood that now Miss Anney would not pass days and nights in his chamber, and that in all probability he would not see her until he was able to leave his bed. In fact, it happened that way. Several times during the day she would come to the anteroom, send through the attendants whatever was needed, inquire about his health and also send a "good-night" or "good-day" but would not enter the room. Ladislaus sighed, swore quietly, and made life miserable for his attendants, and when he learned from Dolhanski of the enthusiasm with which the doctor spoke of Miss Anney he began to suspect him of purposely sending the attendants in order to make it more difficult for him to see her. His mother rose the fourth day and, feeling much better, visited him daily and sat up with him for hours. Ladislaus often asked himself the question whether she surmised his feelings. They were indeed known to all the guests in the house, but there was a possibility that she did not suspect anything, as for a considerable time before the occurrence in the forest she did not, in truth, leave her room; in consequence of which she seldom saw her son and Miss Anney together. Krzycki often deliberated over the question whether he should speak with his mother at once about it or defer the matter to a later date. In favor of the first thought, there was the consideration that his mother, while he lay in bed wounded, would not dare to interpose any strenuous objections from fear that his condition might grow worse. But on the other hand, such calculation, in which his beloved one and the whole happiness of his life were involved, appeared to him that day as miserable craftiness. He thought besides that to extort an assent from his mother through his sickness would be something derogatory to Miss Anney, before whom the doors of the Jastrzeb manor-house and the arms of the entire family should be widely and joyfully opened. But he was restrained by another consideration. And this was that, notwithstanding the conversation he at one time had with Gronski, notwithstanding the words he exchanged with the lady, notwithstanding her solicitude, her sacrifices, and the courage with which she did not hesitate to drive for the doctor, and finally notwithstanding the visible marks of feeling which could be discerned in every glance she bestowed upon him, Ladislaus doubted and did not dare to believe in his own good fortune. He was young, inexperienced, in love not only up to his ears but like a student; therefore full of alternating uncertainties, hopes, joys, and doubts. He doubted also himself. At times he felt at his shoulders wings, as it were, and in his soul a desire for lofty flights; a latent ability to perform acts clearly heroic; and at other times he thought: "Who am I, that such a flower should fall upon my bosom? There are people who are endowed with talent; who possess education; and others who have millions, and I, what? I am a mere nobleman farmer, who will all his life dig the soil, like a mole. Have I then the right to pinion to such a life, or rather to confine in a sort of cage such a paradisiacal bird, which soars freely across the firmament for the delectation and admiration of mankind?" And he was seized by despair. But when he pictured to himself that the moment might arrive when this paradisiacal bird might fly away forever from him, then he looked upon it with amazement as if upon a calamity which he did not deserve. He also had his hours of hope, especially in the morning when he felt better and stronger. Then he recalled everything that had taken place between them, from her first arrival at Jastrzeb and his meeting her at Zarnowski's funeral until that last night when he pressed her hand to his lips and gained greater confidence. Why, at that time, she told him "not a word about anything until the wounds are healed." Therefore through that alone she gave to him the right to repeat to her that she was dearer to him than the whole world and to surrender into her hands his fate, his future, and his entire life. Let her do with them what she will. In the meanwhile his mother will accustom herself to her, will grow more intimate, and become more attached to her. And her maternal heart is so full of admiration and gratitude for what Miss Anney had done for him that from her lips fell the words "God sent her here." Ladislaus smiled at the thought that his mother, however, ascribed the sacrifices and courage of the young maiden not to any ardent feeling but to an exceptionally honest heart, as well as to English training, which was conducive to energy alike in men and women. And she had likewise repeated to Pani Otocka several times that she would like to bring up her Anusia to be such a brave woman; give her such strength, health, and such love for her "fellow-men." Pani Otocka smiled also, hearing these praises, and Ladislaus thought that Miss Anney perhaps would not have done the same for her fellow-men, and this thought filled him with happiness. Eventually he became quite certain that his mother would consent to his marriage with Miss Anney, but he was anxious as to how she would agree. And in this regard he was much distressed. His mother, judged by former requirements and conceptions, was a person of more than medium education. She possessed high social refinement, read a number of books, and was proficient in the French and Italian languages. During her younger days she passed considerable time abroad, but only her closest friends could tell how many national and hereditary prejudices were concealed in her and to what extent all that was not Polish, particularly if it did not of necessity come from France, appeared to her peculiar, outlandish, strange, and even shocking. This appeared accidentally once before the attack upon Ladislaus when she saw Miss Anney's English prayer-book and, opening it, noticed a prayer beginning with "Oh Lord." Belonging to a generation which did not study English, and having lived in retirement for many years in Jastrzeb, Pani Krzycki could not imagine the Lord other than a being with yellow whiskers, dressed in checkered clothes, and to Marynia's great amusement could not by any means understand how the Divinity could be thus addressed. In vain Ladislaus explained to her that in the French and Polish languages analogical titles are given to God. She regarded that as something different, and exacted a promise from Miss Anney that she would pray from a Polish book, which she promised to buy for her. Finally the fact that Miss Anney was not in all probability a member of the nobility would play an important part. Ladislaus feared that his mother, having consented to the marriage, might in the depths and secrecy of her soul, deem it a mésalliance. This thought irritated and depressed him immeasurably and was one of the reasons why he postponed his consultation with his mother until their arrival in Warsaw. He was angered yet more at his enforced confinement in his bed; so that for three days he declared each evening that he would rise the following morning, and when on the fourth day Miss Anney and Marynia said to him through the doorway, "Good-day," he actually did get up, but in his weakened condition, he suffered from dizziness and was forced to lie down again. He was steadily improving, however; he continued to sigh more and more and felt his inactivity most keenly. "I have got enough of this loquacious doctor," he said to Gronski, "enough of dressings and iodoform. I envy not only you, sir, but even Dolhanski, who is roaming about on my horses all over creation, and very likely reaches as far as Gorek." "He does," answered Gronski gayly, "and this leads me to think that he makes a mystery of it, for he has ceased to talk about those ladies." This was but a half truth for Dolhanski did actually go to Gorek but did not remain entirely silent about the ladies, for returning the next day, he entered Ladislaus' room, bearing with him still the odor of the horse, and said: "Imagine to yourself that the Wlocek ladies received a command from some kind of committee from under a dark star to pay under the penalty of death one thousand roubles for 'party' purposes." "There you have it!" cried Gronski. "Now that is becoming an every-day occurrence. Who knows whether similar commands are not awaiting us upon our desks in Warsaw?" "Well, what of it?" asked Ladislaus. "Nothing," answered Dolhanski; "those ladies first argued as to who was to first expose her breast to shield the other; then fainted; after that they came to, then began to bid each other farewell, and finally asked me my advice as to what was to be done." "And what advice did you give them?" "I advised them to tell the executors of the command, who would come for the money, that their plenipotentiary and treasurer, Pan Dolhanski, resided at such and such address in Warsaw." "Really, did you advise them to do that?" "I give you my word." "In such a case, they will undoubtedly call upon you." "You can imagine what rich booty they will get! I also will have some recreation in these tedious times." "Pardon me," said Gronski, "the times are trying; that is certain, but no one can say that they are tedious." "But for whom?" answered Dolhanski. "If I ever borrow money from you, then I will have to conform to your inclination, but before that time you cannot draw me into any political discussion. In the meantime I will only tell you this much, that I am the only social microbe that can remain at perfect peace. All that I require is that 'bridge' should be going normally at the club and soon this will be impossible. These times may be interesting to you but not for me." "At any rate," observed Gronski, "a certain ventilation of torpid conditions is taking place, and since you compared yourself to a microbe, by the same token, you admit that these are times for disinfection." At this Dolhanski turned to Ladislaus. "Thank Gronski," he said, "for the disinfection started with you; from which the plain inference is to be drawn that you are a more harmful microbe than I am." "Get married, get married," answered Ladislaus banteringly; "for you, a good marriage settlement would be the best cure for pessimism." "That may be possible, as in that case, I may have something with which I can leave this dear country and settle elsewhere. I once told you that Providence speaks through the lips of little innocents. But I should have thought of marriage when in the perspective there were no Goreks, but instead, four million franks." "Did you have such an opportunity?" "As you see me here. It happened in Ostend; an old Belgian relict of a manufacturer of preserves, and having cash to the amount specified, wanted to marry me and that for the waiting." "And what?" "And nothing. I remember what Pan Birkowski, who at that time was in Ostend, told me. 'Do business,' he said. 'At the worst, you may leave the old woman two millions and leave her in the lurch, and you can take two millions with you and enjoy yourself like a king.'" "And what did you say to that?" "And I said this to that: What is that? Am I to give from my own hard-earned money two millions to an ugly old woman? For nothing! And now I think that for a mere quibble, I permitted a fortune to slip away from me and that the time may come when owing to a 'retirement from business' I will have to sacrifice myself for a smaller price." Gronski and Ladislaus began to laugh, but Dolhanski, who spoke with greater bitterness than they supposed, shrugged his shoulders and said: "Amuse yourselves, amuse yourselves. One of you already has received a taste of the times and the other, God grant, will not escape so easily. Nice times, indeed! Chaos, anarchy, political orgy, lack of any kind of authority, the dance of dynamite with the knout, and the downfall of 'bridge.' And you laugh!" V Nevertheless that which Dolhanski said about a want of any kind of authority appeared to be not exactly the truth, for, after an interval of one week, the authorities did give signs of life. An imposing armed force, together with gendarmes and police, made its appearance. Of course the perpetrators of the attempt upon Krzycki did not wait a whole week for the arrival at Jastrzeb of a military relief, as they evidently had engagements in other parts of the county. As a result the Jastrzeb, as well as the Rzeslewo, forests appeared to be deserted. In lieu of this, about a score of men in Jastrzeb, itself, were placed under arrest. Among these were the two forest rangers, the old coachman who was wounded at the time of the attack, and all the workingmen at the sawmill. In the manor-house all the passports were verified with exceeding care, reports were written, and the host, hostess, and guests, not excluding the ladies, were subjected to a strict examination. From these examinations it developed that in reality they did not come on account of the attempt upon the proprietor of Jastrzeb, but for the purpose of apprehending a dangerous revolutionist, a certain Laskowicz, who, according to the most reliable information secured by the police, was hiding in Jastrzeb and was shielded by its denizens. The declaration of the Krzyckis to the police, that in due season the passport of Laskowicz was forwarded, and if Laskowicz had left the city he must have received it, as well as the assurances of all present that Laskowicz was not in Jastrzeb did not find any credence. The authorities were too experienced and shrewd to believe such nonsense and they detected in them "an evil design, and want of sincerity and cordial candor." The house also was subjected to a most painstaking search, beginning in the garret and ending in the cellar. They knocked on the walls to ascertain whether there were any secret hiding places. They searched among the dresses and linen of the women; in the hearth, under the divans, in the drawers, in the boxes for phenicine pastilles, which Gronski brought with him; and finally in the manor outbuildings, in the mangers of the stable, in the milk churners, in the tar-boxes, and even in the beehives, whose inmates, undoubtedly being permeated with the evil-disposition prevalent in Jastrzeb, resisted the search in a manner as evil disposed as it was painful. But as the search, notwithstanding its thoroughness and the intelligence with which it was conducted, was not productive of any results, they took a hundred and some tens of books, the farm register, the entire private correspondence of the hosts as well as the guests, the bone counters used in playing cards, a little bell with a Napoleonic figure, a safety razor, a barometer, and, notwithstanding the license which Krzycki possessed, all the fowling pieces, not excepting a toy-gun with which corks were shot and which belonged to little Stas. Ladislaus himself would have been undoubtedly arrested as an accomplice, if the doctor, who treated the captain for his heart trouble, had not arrived and if Dolhanski, growing impatient beyond all endurance, had not shown the captain a message before sending it to the city. It was addressed to the highly influential general W., with whom Dolhanski played whist at the club, and it complained of the brutality and the arbitrariness of the search. This to a considerable extent cooled off the ardor of the captain and his subordinates, who previously, at the scrutiny of the passports, had learned that Dolhanski was a member of the club. In this manner Ladislaus preserved his liberty, supplemented by police surveillance, and little Stas regained his toy-gun for shooting corks. The captain could not return the arms as he had peremptory orders in black and white to confiscate even the ancient fowling-pieces of the whole community. "Doux pays! Doux pays!" cried Dolhanski after the departure of the police. "Revolvers now can be found only in the hands of the bandits. In view of this I will submit to a demission as the commander-in-chief of the Jastrzeb armed forces, land as well as naval. We are now dependent upon the kindness or unkindness of fate." "Go to Warsaw, ladies and gentlemen, to-morrow," said the doctor; "here there is no joking." "Let us go to Warsaw," repeated Dolhanski, "and, not losing any time, enroll in the ranks of the believers in expropriation. I regard social revolutionists as the only insurance association in this country which does really insure." "From accidents," added Krzycki; "and we shall insure with my personal friend and 'accomplice' Laskowicz." To this Dolhanski replied: "That accomplice gave you a payment on account. In the future you will receive yet more." To Gronski's mind came thoughts of the personal enmity of the young medical student to Krzycki and the letter of Laskowicz to Marynia, of which he among the men in Jastrzeb alone knew. It was quite probable that Laskowicz saw in Ladislaus a rival and future aspirant for the hand of Panna Marynia who, besides, had nipped in the bud his work in Rzeslewo and that he might have thought that he actually could gratify his hatred from personal consideration, and in the name of the "cause." Laskowicz, himself, in his own way, might have been an honest man, but the party ethics were, in relation to the antiquated morality, revolutionary, and sanctioned such things. But at present there was not much time to ponder over that; so after a while Gronski waved his hand and said: "Whether or not the hand of Laskowicz is imbrued in this the future will show. Now we must think of something else. I assert positively that I will take away my ladies from here, but I wish that the entire Jastrzeb family would follow my example." After which, he addressed the doctor. "Would it be safe for Ladislaus to travel to-morrow?" "He? Even as far as England," answered the doctor. Gronski and Dolhanski laughed at these words but Ladislaus blushed like a student and said: "It will be necessary to inform the ladies." "And to-morrow the general exodus will take place," added Gronski. And he went to the ladies, who received the news of the decision with evident relief. Both sisters decided to have Pani Krzycki at their residence in Warsaw, but she, desiring to be with her son, would not accept the invitation; and only consented when Gronski announced that he would take Ladislaus to his home and guaranteed that he should not suffer for want of care and comfort. Miss Anney, whose apartments were directly opposite to those of Pani Otocka also offered her rooms for the use of the younger members of the Krzycki family and their female teachers. In the meanwhile the doctor permitted Ladislaus to get up, so that he would not have to start on his journey directly from his bed. In the evening the entire company assembled on the garden veranda. There was missing only Dolhanski who rode off to Gorek, for he had decided to advise Pani Wlocek and Panna Kajetana to remove to the city likewise. Ladislaus, after a considerable loss of blood and a somewhat lengthy confinement in bed, looked pale and miserable, but his countenance had acquired a more subtile expression and actually become handsome. At the present time the ladies were occupied with him, as an invalid, with extraordinary watchfulness. He was a person who attracted general sympathy; therefore, though from time to time his eyes grew dim, he assured his mother that it was well with him, and he really was delighted to breathe the fresh evening air. At times he was overcome by a light drowsiness. Then he closed his eyelids and the conversation hushed, but when he opened them again he saw directed towards himself the eyes of his mother and, illuminated by the setting sun, the young faces of the ladies, which appeared to him simply angelic. He was surrounded by love and friendship; therefore it was well with him. His heart surged with feelings of gratitude, and at the same time with regret that those good Jastrzeb days would soon end. In his soul he cherished a hope that he would not be absent from Jastrzeb long, and promised himself a speedy return, and he promised this with all the strength with which a person craves happiness. Nevertheless, the times were so strange, so uncertain, and so many things might happen which it was impossible to foresee, that involuntarily a fear generated in his heart as to what turn the current of events would take; what the future of the country would be, and what, in a year or two, would become of Jastrzeb, which, indeed, became precious to him for it opened before him the portals, beyond which he beheld the great brightness of happiness. Love, as well as a bird, needs a nest. So Ladislaus plainly could not conceive of himself and the light-haired lady being anywhere else than at Jastrzeb. For this, his heart beat with redoubled force, when glancing at her, he indulged in fancies and imagined that perhaps after a year, or sooner, she will sit upon the same veranda, as the lady of the house and as his wife. Then he turned towards her and asked her with his soul and eyes: "Dost thou guess and perceive my thoughts?" But she, perhaps because she was restrained by the presence of so many witnesses, did not reply to his glances; sitting as if immersed in thought and letting her gaze follow the swallows, which flitted so nimbly above the trees of the garden and the pond. Ladislaus, when he now looked at her was impressed, as if with certain admiration, at the contrast between her full-grown form, powerful arms, and well developed bosom and her small, girlish face. But he saw in all this only a new charm and spell under whose powers there flew at times through his love a burning desire similar indeed to pain and stifling the breath in his breast. In the meantime the sun sank measurably and began to bathe in the ruddy evening twilight. From the freshly mown lawns came a strong fragrance of the little hay heaps, which were warmed by the daily summer heat. Somehow the air with the approach of night became more bracing, for, from the alder-trees bordering on the pond, came from time to time a cool breath, so weak and light, however, that the leaves on the trees did not stir. The swallows described curves higher and higher above the reddened surface of the pond. In the lofty poplars with trimmed tops a stork clattered in his nest, now stooping with his head backward and then lowering it as if bowing to the setting sun or officiating at the evening vespers. "I will play something as a farewell to Jastrzeb," Marynia suddenly announced. "Ah, beloved creature!" said Gronski; "shall I go for the stand and notes?" "No. I will play something from memory." And saying this, she handed to Miss Anney an album with views of Jastrzeb, and hurried upstairs. In a short time she returned with her violin. For a time she kept it propped on her shoulder and raising her eyes upwards, considered what she should play. She selected Schumann's "Ich grolle nicht." The overflowing tones filled the quiet of the garden. They began to sing, muse, long, and weep; oscillate, hush, and slumber, and with them the human soul acted in unison. Sorrow became more melancholy, yearning more longing, and love more tender and deeply enamoured. And "the little divinity" continued playing--white in her muslin dress--calm, with pensive eyes lost somewhere in the illimitable distance, immaculate, and as if borne to heaven by music and her own playing. To Gronski it seemed that he had before him some kind of mystic lily, and he began in his soul to say to her, as it were, a litany, in which every word was a worship of the little violinist, because she was playing and she awoke in him a love as destitute of the slightest earthly dross as if she were not a maiden composed of blood and flesh, but in reality some kind of mystic lily. Marynia had ceased to play and her hand, with the violin, hung at her side. No one thanked her; no one uttered a word, for the strains of that music lingered with all and, echo-like, it was yet playing within them. Pani Otocka unwittingly drew nearer to Gronski as if they were attracted towards each other by their mutual worship of this beloved child. In Pani Krzycki's eyes glittered tears, which under the spell of the music were contributed and provoked by memories of former years and the present suffering of her son and fresh worries about him, and the uncertainty of the future. Miss Anney sat in reverie, holding unknowingly between her knees the album, which during Marynia's playing had dropped from her hands; and through the open doors, in the already dimmed depths of the salon, could be seen the indistinct form of a woman, who evidently also was listening to the music. A somewhat stronger breeze which blew from the alder-trees awoke all, as if from a half-dream. Then Pani Krzycki turned towards her son: "A chill is coming from the pond. Perhaps you may wish to return to your room." "No," he answered, "I feel better than I have felt for a long time." And he began to assure her that he did not feel any chill and afterwards appealed to the doctor, who, lulled to sleep by the music, could not at once understand what was the matter. "Can Laudie remain?" asked Pani Krzycki. "He can, he can; only as soon as the sun disappears, it will be necessary to cover him better." Afterwards the doctor looked at his watch and added: "It is time for me to go, but I have had so few evenings like this that it is a hardship to leave. As God sees, it is a hardship." And here he began to rub his fatigued brow with the palm of his hand. Pani Krzycki and Ladislaus declared that they would not permit him to leave before supper. The doctor again looked at his watch, but before he could make any reply there appeared upon the veranda the same feminine figure that had been listening to the music in the depths of the parlor, but this time with two plaids upon her arm. "Is that you, Pauly?" said Miss Anney. "Ah, how sensible you are." And Panna Pauly began to cover Ladislaus with the plaids. She placed one over his shoulders and the other around his limbs. In doing this she knelt and bent in such a way that for a moment her breast rested on Krzycki's knee. "Thank you, little Miss, thank you," he said, somewhat confused. She glanced quickly into his eyes and then left without a word. "But I have taken your plaids," Ladislaus said addressing Miss Anney. "That does not matter. I am dressed warmly. Only, you, sir, will have to take care that the wounded shoulder is well covered." And approaching him, she began to push lightly and carefully a corner of the plaid between the back of the chair and his shoulder. "I am not hurting you?" she asked. "No, no. How can I thank you?" And he looked at her with such enamoured eyes that for the first time it occurred to his mother that there might be something more than gratitude in this. She glanced once or twice at Pani Zosia's delicate countenance, and sighed, and her heart was oppressed with fear, disquiet, and regret. This was her ideal for her son; this was her secret fancy. She, indeed, had fallen in love with her whole soul with the young Englishwoman, and if foreign blood did not course in her veins, she would not have had any objections, but nevertheless this first fleeting suspicion that the structure, which she, in her soul, had erected from the moment she became intimate with Zosia, might crumble, was to her immeasurably disagreeable. For a time she felt, as it were, a dislike for Miss Anney. She determined also from that moment to observe them both more carefully, and to speak with Gronski. But in the further course of the evening her hopes revived, for when the company returned to the salon it seemed to her after a time that what she had seen on the veranda was an illusion. In fact that day did not end for Ladislaus and Miss Anney as serenely as the setting sun had augured. A cooler wind blew between them, and Pani Krzycki could not know that the reason for it, on the part of her boy, was jealousy. Miss Anney, after the return to the parlor, began, on the side, a conversation with the doctor which continued so long that Ladislaus became irritated. He observed that she spoke not only with animation, but also with a desire to please. He saw the brightened visage of the doctor, from which it was easy to read that the conversation afforded him sincere pleasure, and a serpent stung Ladislaus' heart. He could not overhear what Miss Anney was saying. It seemed to him only that she was urging something. On the other hand, the doctor could not speak so quietly, but to Krzycki's eavesdropping ears from time to time came such fragmentary expressions as "I intended to do that, only after a week"; "Ha!" "Some may object"; "If that is the case, very well"; "It is well known how England conquers"; "Good, good." Ladislaus decided with all possible coolness to ask Miss Anney whom England had now subjugated and whether the newspapers had made any mention of it, but when Miss Anney and the doctor at the conclusion of their tête-à-tête had rejoined the rest of the company, he changed his plan and, with the offended dignity of a schoolboy who is ready not only to spite those dear to him but also himself, he determined to cover himself with the cloak of indifference. With this view he turned to Zosia and began to inquire about the Zalesin estate and begged her permission to inspect it; and she told him that it would give her great pleasure. He thanked her so warmly that his mother was led into an error. Miss Anney tried several times to participate in the conversation, but receiving from him indifferent replies, surprised and slightly touched, began to listen to what Gronski was saying. After supper the doctor announced that he would have to leave. For a while he spoke with Gronski, and then took his leave of the ladies, repeating, "Until to-morrow; at the railway station." He advised Ladislaus to return immediately to his room and secure a good rest before proceeding on his journey. Gronski, after escorting the doctor to the gate, accompanied Ladislaus to his room, and when they found themselves alone, perceiving his mien and easily surmising the cause asked: "What ails you? You are so agreeable." And Krzycki answered with some irritation: "I am still feeling weak; otherwise I am as usual." But Gronski shrugged his shoulders. "These," said he, "are the usual misunderstandings of lovers, but you, above all, are a child and caused her unpleasantness. And do you know what for? Simply because she urged Szremski to accompany you to Warsaw." Ladislaus' heart quivered, but he put a good face on a bad matter and would not yet be reconciled. "I do not feel at all weak and can get along without his assistance." To this Gronski replied: "Good-night to you and your logic." And he left the room. But Ladislaus when he was undressed and in bed, suddenly felt tears welling in his eyes and began with extraordinary tenderness to beg pardon of--the pillow. VI Gronski, who by nature was very obliging and devoted to his friends, was at the same time a man of ample means and high culture; in consequence of which Ladislaus found in his home not only such care as sincere good will alone can bestow, and comforts, but also various things which were lacking in Jastrzeb. He found, especially, books, a few paintings, engravings, and various small objects of vertu; moreover, the residence was spacious, well-ventilated, and not over-crowded with unnecessary articles. Thanks to the host a highly intellectual and esthetic atmosphere prevailed, in which the young heir felt indeed smaller and less self-confident than in Jastrzeb, but which he breathed with pleasure. He was seized, however, with a fear that by a lengthy stay he would cause his older friend trouble, and on the following evening he began to argue with Gronski about going to a hotel. "Even the doctor considers me well," he said. "The best proof of it is that he permits me to go about the city in three days." "I heard something about five," answered Gronski. "But that was yesterday; so, not counting to-day, three remain. You have your habits which you must not change on my account. It is indeed a pleasure to look at all these things; so I will come here, but it is one thing to visit you for an hour, or even two, and another to introduce confusion into your mode of life." "I will only say this," answered Gronski, "Pani Otocka and Panna Marynia regard me as an old bachelor and promised to make a call to-morrow, or the day after, as they have often done before, in the company of Miss Anney. Do you see that armchair? On it, during the music-playing, sat your light-haired beauty. Go, go to the hotel, and we will see who, besides your mother, will visit you." "You are too good." "I am an old egotist. You see that I have a few old household effects, which, during the course of my life, I have collected; but one thing, though I were as rich as Morgan and Jay Gould combined, I can unfortunately never buy, and that is youth. And you have so much of it that you could establish a bank and issue stock. From you rays plainly emanate. Let them illuminate and warm me a little. In other words, do not worry, and keep quiet if you are comfortable here with me." "I only do not desire to be spoiled by too much attention, for, speaking sincerely, I feel I am strong enough now." "So much the better. Thank God, Miss Anney, and the doctor that the journey did not injure you. That is what I feared a little." "It did not hurt me, neither did it help." "How is that?" "Because I had a hope that on the road I could tell my bright queen that which I hid in my soul, but in the meantime it developed that this was a foolish hope. We sat in the compartment like herrings. The doctor hung over me continually, like a hangman over a good soul, and there was not a chance, even for a moment." "Never, never make any avowals in a railway car, for in the rumble and noise the most pathetic passages are lost. Finally, as Laskowicz has not dispatched you to the other world, you will easily find an opportunity." "Do you really think that it was the work of Laskowicz?" "No. But if ever I should ascertain that it was he, I would not be much surprised; for such a situation, in which one could gratify self and serve a good cause, occurs rarely." "How gratify self and serve a good cause?" "Good in his judgment. Do you not live from human sweat and blood?" "That is very true. But why should my death afford him any gratification personally?" "Because he has conceived a hatred for you; has fallen in love with some one and regards you as a rival." Hearing this, Ladislaus jumped up as if scalded. "What, would he dare?" "I assure you that he would dare," replied Gronski quietly, "only he made a mistake. But that he is not wanting in courage he gave proofs when he wrote an avowal of love to Marynia." Ladislaus opened wide his eyes and began to wink: "What was that?" "I did not want to speak to you about it in Jastrzeb, as at that time you often drove to the city. I feared that you might meet him and might start a disagreeable brawl. But at present I can tell you every thing; Laskowicz has fallen in love with Marynia and wrote a letter to her, which of course remained unanswered." "And he thought that I also am in love with Marynia." "Permit me; that would not be anything extraordinary. He might have overheard something. Whoever is in love usually imagines that every one is reaching after the object of his love. Understand that Laskowicz did not confide in me, but that is my hypothesis which, if it is erroneous, so much the better for Laskowicz. The party sent you a death sentence in consequence of his reports and this was working in his hand for personal reasons. After all, he may not have participated personally in the attempt--" "Did you see him after that letter?" "How could I see him, since he wrote after his departure. But it was lucky that I advised Pani Otocka to burn that lucubration, for if the letter had been found during the search at Jastrzeb, you can readily understand what inferences the acuteness of the police might have drawn." Anger glittered in Ladislaus' eyes. "I prefer that Miss Anney be not involved," he said; "nevertheless I would not advise Laskowicz to meet me. That such a baboon, as Dolhanski says, should dare to lift his eyes to our female relative in our home and, in addition thereto, write to her--this I regard plainly as an insult which I cannot forgive." "In all probability you will never meet him; so you will not move a finger." "I? Then you do not know me. Why not?" "Among other reasons, out of consideration for our pleasant situation. Consider; duels they will not accept and in this they are right. What then? Will you cudgel him with a cane or pull his ears?" "That is quite possible." "Wait! In the first place there was nothing in the letter resembling an insult and, again, what further? The police would take you both into custody, and there they would discover that they had caught Laskowicz, a revolutionary bird, whom they have been seeking for a long time and would send him to Siberia, or even hang him. Can you take anything like that upon your conscience?" "May the deuce take these times," cried Ladislaus. "A man is always in a situation from which there is no escape." "As is usual between two anarchies," answered Gronski. "After all, this is a slight illustration." Further conversation was stopped by the entrance of a servant who handed to Gronski a visiting card and he, glancing at it, said: "Ask him to step in." Afterwards he asked Ladislaus: "Do you know Swidwicki?" "I have heard the name, but am not acquainted with the man." "He is a relative of Pani Otocka's deceased husband. A very peculiar figure." At that moment Swidwicki entered the room. He was a man of forty years, bald, tall, lean, with an intelligent and sour face, and at the same time impudent. He was attired carelessly in a suit which appeared to fit him too loosely. He had, however, something which betrayed his connection with the higher social spheres. "How is Swidwa?" Gronski began. After which he introduced him to Ladislaus and continued: "What has happened to you? I have not seen you for an age." "Why, you were out of the city." "Yes; but before that time you did not show up for a month." "In my old age I have become an anchorite." "Why?" "Because I am wearied by the folly of men who pass for reasonable beings and by the malice of men who pose as good. Finally, I now roam all over the streets from morning until night. Ah! There exist 'Attic Nights,' 'Florentine Nights,' and I have a desire to write about 'Warsaw Days.' Delightful days! Titles of the separate chapters 'Hands up! The Rabble on Top.' 'Away with the Geese.' Do you know that at this moment there are so many troops patrolling the streets that any one else in my place would have been arrested ten times." "I know, but how do you manage to avoid it?" "I walk everywhere as peacefully as if in my own rooms. The way I do it is simple. As often as I am not drunk, I pretend to be drunk. You would not believe what sympathy and respect an intoxicated person commands. And in my opinion this is but just, for whoever is 'under the influence' from morning till night is innocent and well thinking; upon him the so-called social order can rely with confidence." "Surely. But the social order which depended upon such people would not stand upon steady legs." "Who, to-day, does stand on steady legs? Doctrines intoxicate more than alcohol--therefore at this moment all are drunk. The empire is staggering, the revolution is reeling, the parties are floundering, and a third person stands on the side and looks on. Soon all will tumble to the ground. Then there will be order, and may it come as soon as possible." "You ought to be that third person." "The third person is the German and we are fools. We begin by falling to loggerheads, and have reached such a state that the only salvation for our social soul would be a decent civil war." Here he became silent and after a while turned to Ladislaus. "I see that your eyes are wide open, but nevertheless it is so. A civil war is a superb thing. Nothing like it to clarify the situation and purify the atmosphere. But to be led to such a situation and not to be able to create it is the acme of misfortune or folly." "I confess that I do not understand," said Ladislaus. Gronski motioned with his hand and remarked: "Do not attempt to, for after every fifteen minutes of conversation you will not know what is black and what is white and your head will swim, or you will get a fever, which as a wounded man you should try to avoid." "True," said Swidwicki, "I had heard and even read in some newspaper of the occurrence and paid close attention to it because in your home Pan Gronski and Pani Otocka with her sister were being entertained. I am a relative of the late aged Otocka. Those women must have been scared. But if they think that they are safer here in the city they are mistaken." "Judging from what can be seen, it is really no safer here. Have you seen those ladies yet?" "No, I do not like to go there." At this, Ladislaus, who by nature was impetuous and bold, frowned, and looking Swidwicki in the eyes, replied: "I do not ask the reason, for that does not interest me, but I give you warning that they are my relatives." "Whose cause a young knight would have to champion," answered Swidwicki, gazing at Ladislaus. "Ah, no! If I had any intention of saying anything against the ladies I would not say it, as Gronski would throw me down the stairs and I have a favor to ask of him. What I said is the highest praise for them and simply gall and wormwood for me." "Beg pardon, again; I do not understand." "For you see that for the average Pole to have respect for any one and not to be able to sharpen his teeth upon him is always annoying. I cannot speak of the ladies as I would wish, that is, disparagingly. I cannot endure ideal women; besides that, whenever it happens that I pass an evening with them, I become a more decent man and that is a luxury which in these times we cannot afford." Ladislaus began to laugh and Gronski said: "I told you that surely your head would swim." After which to Swidwicki: "If he should get any worse, I will induce him to send the doctor's and apothecary's bill to you." "If that is the case, I will go," answered Swidwicki, "but you had better come with me into another room for I have some business with you which I prefer to discuss without witnesses." And, taking leave of Ladislaus, he stepped out. Gronski accompanied him to the ante-room and after a while returned, shrugging his shoulders: "What a strange gentleman," said Ladislaus. "I hope I am not indiscreet, but did he want to borrow any money from you?" "Worse," answered Gronski. "This time it was a few Falk engravings. I positively refused as he most frequently returns money or rather he lets you take it out of his annuity, but books, engravings, and such things he never gives back." "Is he making a collection?" "On the contrary he throws or gives them away; loans or destroys them. Do I know? You will now have an opportunity of meeting him oftener, for though I refused to loan them, I permitted him to come here to look over and study them. He undoubtedly is writing a book about Falk." "Ah, so he is a literary man." "He might have been one. As you will meet him, I must warn you a little against him. I will describe him briefly. He is a man to whom the Lord gave a good name, a large estate, good looks, great ability, and a good heart, and he has succeeded in wasting them all." "Even a good heart?" "Inasmuch as he is a rather pernicious person, it is better that he does not write. For you see that it may happen that somebody's brains decay, just as with people, sick with consumption, their lungs decay. But no one has the right to feed the nation with the putrefaction of his lungs or his brains. And there are many like him. He does not act for the public weal but merely for his own private affairs. Do you know how he accounts for not accomplishing anything in his life? In this way: that to do so one must believe and to believe it is necessary to have a certain amount of stupidity which he does not possess. I am not speaking now of religious matters. He simply does not believe that anything can be true or false, just or unjust, good or bad. But Balzac wisely says: 'Qui dit doute, dit impuissance.' Swidwicki is irritated and filled with bitterness by the fact that he is not anything; therefore he saves himself by paradoxes and turns intellectual somersaults. I once saw a clown who amused the public by giving his cap various strange and ridiculous shapes. Swidwicki does the same with truth and logic. He is also a clown, but an embittered and spiteful one. For this reason he always holds an opinion opposite to that of the person with whom he is speaking. This happens particularly when he is drunk, and he gets drunk every night. Then to a patriot he will say that fatherland is folly; in the presence of a believer he will scoff at faith; to a conservative he will say that only anarchy and revolution are worth anything; to the socialist that the proletariat have 'snouts.' I have heard how he thus expressed himself, and only for this reason, that he, 'a superman,' might have something to hit at when the notion seizes him. And thus it is always. In discussion he shines with paradoxes, but sometimes it chances that he says something striking because in all criticism there is some justice. If you wish, I will arrange such a spectacle, though for me he has a certain regard, firstly, because he likes me, and again because I have rendered him a few services in life. He promised to repay me with black ingratitude, but in the meantime he does not molest me with such energy as the others." "And no one has yet broken his bones," observed Ladislaus. "He does not, in the least, retreat from that. He himself seeks trouble and there is not a year in which he does not provoke some encounter." "In the taverns?" "Not only there. For belonging by name and family connections to the so called higher walks of life, he has many acquaintances there. Two years ago, indeed, the artists gave him a good cudgelling in a tavern; and, for instance, Dolhanski (their dislike is mutual) shot him last spring in a duel." "Ah, that was when I heard his name; now I remember." "Perhaps you heard it before, for previously he had a few affairs about women, as, in addition, he is a great ladies' man. Finally he is an unbridled rogue." "As to women? or up to date?" "He is not an old man. For some time he has been in the state where he likes not ladies but their maids. Fancy that not long ago he was so smitten with Miss Anney's maid,--the same brunette who nursed you a little in Jastrzeb,--that for a time he was continually dogging her steps. He said that once she reviled him on the stairway but this charmed him all the more." Krzycki at the mention of the brunette who nursed him in Jastrzeb became so confused that Gronski noticed it, but not knowing what had passed between him and Pauline, judged that the enamoured youth was offended at the thought that such an individual as Swidwicki should bustle about Miss Anney. So desiring to remove the impression, he remarked: "He says that he does not like to call upon those ladies, but Pani Otocka does not welcome him at all with enthusiasm. She receives him merely out of respect for the memory of her husband, who was his cousin and who, at one time, was the conservator of his estate. After all, it is probable that Swidwicki feels out of place among such ladies." "For microbes do not love a pure atmosphere." "This much is certain: there is within him 'a moral insanity.' I have become accustomed to him, but there are certain things in him I cannot endure. You have no idea of the contemptuous pity, the dislike, and the downright hatred with which he expresses himself about everything which is Polish. And here I call a halt. Notwithstanding our good relations, it almost came to a personal encounter between us. For when he began to squirt his bilious wit, a certain night, on all Poland, I said to him, 'That lion is not yet dead, and if he dies we know who alone is capable of kicking at a dying lion.' He did not come here for over a month, but was I not right? I understand how some great hero, who was repaid with ingratitude, might speak with bitterness and venom of his country, but Swidwicki is not a Miltiades or a Themistocles. And such an outpouring of bile is directly pernicious, for he, with his immensely flashing intellect, finds imitators and creates a fashion, in consequence of which various persons who have never done anything for Poland whet their rusty wits upon this whetstone. I understand criticism, though it be inexorable, but when it becomes a horse or rather an ass from which one never dismounts, then it is bad, for it takes away the desire to live from those who, however, must live--and is vile, because it is spitting upon society, is often sinful and, above all, unprecedentedly unfortunate. Pessimism is not reason but a surrogate of reason; therefore, a cheat, such as the merchant who sells chiccory for coffee. And such a surrogate you now meet at every step in life and in literature." Here Gronski became silent for a while and raised his brows; and Krzycki said: "From what you say, I see that Swidwicki is a big ape." "At times, I think that he is a man incredibly wretched, and for that reason I did not break off relations with him. Besides he has for me a kind of attachment and this always disarms one. Finally, I confess openly that I have the purely Polish weakness, which indulges and forgives everything in people who amuse us. He at times is very amusing, especially when in a talking mood and when he is tipsy to a certain degree." "But finally, if he does not work but talks, from what does he live?" "He does not belong to the poor class. Once he was very wealthy; later he lost a greater portion of his fortune. But in the end the late Otocki who was a most upright man, and very practical besides, seeing what was taking place, took the matter in his own hands, saved considerable and changed the capital into an annuity. From this Swidwicki receives a few thousand roubles annually, and though he spends more than he ought to, he has something to live upon. If he did not drink, he would have a sufficiency: one passion he does not possess, namely, cards. He says that for cards one must have the intellect of a negro. From just that arose the encounter with Dolhanski. But after all, they could not bear each other of old. Both, as some one had said, are commercial travellers, dealing in cynicism and competing with each other." "Between the two, I, however, prefer Dolhanski," said Krzycki. "Because he amuses you, and Swidwicki has not thus far had the opportunity. Eternally, it is the same Polish weakness," answered Gronski. After a while he added: "In Dolhanski it is easier to see the bottom." "And at that bottom, Panna Kajetana." "At present it may, in truth, be so. Do you know that Dolhanski brought those ladies with him on the train which followed ours? He told me also that they would at once pay a visit to your mother and Pani Otocka." "You will really call upon them to-day?" "Yes, I call there daily. But as you are not permitted to go out, I will invite the ladies to come here to-morrow afternoon for tea." "I thank you most heartily. I am not allowed to go out but I could drive over." "My servant told me that by order of the Party a strike of the hackdrivers will begin to-morrow morning." "Then how can those ladies ride over here to-morrow?" "In the private carriages. Unless they are forbidden to ride in private.--" "In that case Mother will be unable to see me." "If it is quiet upon the streets, I will conduct her here and escort her home. At times it is so that one day the streets are turbulent as the sea, and the next, still and deserted. In reality it is a relative security; for whoever goes out to-day in the city cannot feel certain that he will return. If not these then the others may stick in your side a knife or a bayonet. But for women it is comparatively safe." "Under these circumstances, it would be better if my mother did not visit me at all. I prefer to stay out those three days which Szremski has imposed upon me, to exposing her or any of those ladies to peril. Please postpone that 'five o'clock.'" "Perhaps it will be necessary to do that. But your mother will not consent to not seeing you for three days. Maybe some one else will importune me that I should not defer the party." Ladislaus' face glowed with deep and tender joy. "Tell Mother that worry about her may harm me and cause a fever, and tell that other one that I kiss the hem of her dress." "No. Such things you must say yourself." "Oh, that I could not only tell her that as soon as possible, but do it. In the meantime I have a favor to ask of you. Please send your servant to the city. If he is afraid let him call a messenger. I would like to send that other one a few flowers." "Then send also some to your cousins, as otherwise your mother will be prematurely surprised." "Surely she would be astonished, for owing to her sickness she saw us so little together that she could not take in the situation. But soon I will confess all to her." "I will only tell you what Pani Otocka said to me. She said this: 'Let Ladislaus not speak with his mother before his final interview with Aninka as otherwise he would be unable to tell her everything.'" Krzycki looked Gronski quickly in the eyes. "And do you not know what the matter is?" "You know that I have never been accused of a lack of curiosity," answered Gronski, "but I judged that Pani Otocka has sufficient reasons for remaining silent, and, therefore, I did not question her about anything." VII Gronski actually did postpone his "five o'clock." Pani Krzycki, however, visited her son, sometimes twice in a day, claiming justly that less danger threatened an elderly woman than any one else. Ladislaus passed long hours with her, speaking about everything, but mostly about Miss Anney. After Gronski's admonition, he did not, indeed, confess to his mother his feelings for the young Englishwoman and did not mention a word about his intentions, but the fact, alone, that her name was continually on his lips, that he ascribed his preservation to her alone, and incessantly talked about the debt of gratitude which he and his family owed to her, gave his mother much to think about. The suspicion, which had flitted through her mind on the eve of their departure from Jastrzeb, returned and became more and more strongly fortified. She did not, indeed, take it for granted that Ladislaus had already taken an unbreakable resolution but came to the conclusion that he was "smitten" and finally that the light-haired maiden had made a greater impression upon him than had his cousin Otocka. This filled her with sorrow. During the journey and their few days' sojourn in Warsaw she took a fancy to Miss Anney for her demeanor, simplicity, and complaisance; but "Zosia Otocka" was the little eye in her head. From the moment she met her in Krynica, she never ceased dreaming of her for her son. She judged that, in respect to nobility and delicacy of sentiment, no one could compare with her. She regarded her as a chosen soul and the incarnation of womanly angelicalness. She had awaited her arrival with palpitation of the heart, not supposing for a moment that Ladislaus would not be captivated by her figure, her sweet countenance, that maidenly charm, which, notwithstanding her widowhood, she preserved in full bloom. And until the end Pani Krzycki indulged in the hope that all would end according to her desires, not taking into account the fleeting impression in Jastrzeb; only during the journey to Warsaw and in the course of the last few days did she note that it might happen otherwise, and that Ladislaus' eyes were enraptured by another flower. She preferred, however, not to question him for she thought that it might yet pass away. He, in the meantime, chafed as if imprisoned, and would undoubtedly have not observed those few days which the doctor stipulated, were it not for the fact that he had made a promise to his mother in Miss Anney's presence, and feared to create an opinion in her eyes that he was a man who did not keep his word. After the advice which Pani Otocka, through the instrumentality of Gronski, gave him that he should first speak with Miss Anney, it became more unendurable for him to sit in the house. From morning till night he racked his brain as to what that could be and could arrive at no satisfactory solution. The day following the conversation with Gronski, he decided to ask Pani Otocka about it by letter and sat down with great ardor to write. But after the first page he was encompassed by doubt. It seemed to him that he could not express that which he wished. He understood that, under the address of Pani Otocka, he was really writing to Miss Anney. So he yearned to make it a masterpiece, and in the meantime came to the conclusion that it was something so bungling and maladroit that it was impossible to forward it. Finally he lost all faith in his stylistic accomplishments, and this spoilt his humor so far that he again began to ask himself in his soul whether such "an ass," who is unable to indite three words, has the right to aspire to such an extraordinary and in every respect perfect being as "She." Gronski, however, comforted him with the explanation that the letter was not a success because from the beginning the project was baffling and under such circumstances no one could succeed. After which he also called his attention to another circumstance, namely, that from Pani Otocka's words and her advice that an interview with Miss Anney should precede any talk with his mother could be drawn the inference that there everything was prepared for an explosion, and all means preventative of a heart-break had been provided. Mirth immediately returned to Ladislaus and he began to laugh like a child and afterwards again sent to the three ladies bouquets of the most magnificent roses which Warsaw could provide. The day concluded yet more propitiously, for proofs of appreciation arrived. They were brought to Gronski's house by Panna Pauly in the form of a small and perfumed note, on which was written by the hand of the light-haired divinity the following words: "We thank you for the beautiful roses and hope for an early meeting." Further came the signatures of Agnes Anney, Zosia Otocka, and Marynia Zbyltowska. Krzycki pronounced the letter a masterpiece of simplicity and eloquence. He certainly would have kissed each letter of it separately, were it not for the fact that before him stood Panna Pauly, with clouded face, and eyes firmly fixed upon him--uneasy and already full of suspicious jealousy, though obviously not knowing against which one of the three ladies it was to be directed. Krzycki, not concealing the joy which the letter gave him, turned to her and said: "What is new, little Miss? Are the ladies well?" "Yes. My mistress instructed me to inquire about your health." "Kindly thank her. It is excellent, and if I am not shot again, I will not die from the first shooting." And she, not taking her bottomless eyes off him, replied: "God be praised." "But that you, little Miss, should not fear to go out in such turbulent times!" "The lackey was afraid, but I do not fear anything and wanted to see for myself how you were." "There is a daring body for me! I am grateful to you, little Miss. Since this stupid strike of hackmen ended to-day, it is better for you to return by hack. Please accept this--for--" While saying this, he began to search for his purse, and taking a five-rouble gold piece, he offered it to her. At the same time he felt that he was doing something improper, and even terrible. It was so disagreeable to him that he became confused and reddened, but it seemed to him that any other method of showing his gratitude would be food for the feeling which he perceived in her and which he wished to dispel, because of some strange kind of fear intensified even by the fact that the girl was Miss Anney's maid. Therefore he began to repeat with a forced and slightly silly smile: "Please, Panna Pauly, take it, please--" But she withdrew her hand and her face darkened in a moment. "I thank you," she said. "I did not come for that." And she turned towards the door. To the dissatisfaction with himself which Krzycki felt was joined pity for her. Therefore he followed her a few steps. "Let not the little lady be offended," he said; "here, of course, was no other thought than of her safety. It was only about this that I was concerned. Shall the servant summon a carriage?--" But she did not answer and left the house. Krzycki, walking to the window, gazed for some time at her graceful form, disappearing in the depths of the street; and suddenly again appeared before his eyes the vision of the white statue in azure drops of water. There was, however, something exasperating in her; and unwillingly there occurred to the frail young gentleman the thought that if she were not Miss Anney's maid, and if he had known her formerly, that as two and two are four he would have succumbed to temptation. But at present another, greater power had snatched away his thoughts and heart. After a while he returned to the letter and began to read it anew: "We thank you for the beautiful roses and hope for an early meeting." And so they want to see him over there. The day after to-morrow he will not be sitting here, bound by the chains of his own words, but will go there and gaze in those wonderful eyes, looking with a heavenly stream, and will so press his lips to her beloved hands that in one kiss he will tell everything which he has in his heart. Words will be later only an echo. And imagination bore him like an unmanageable horse. Perhaps that idolized maid may at once fall into his arms; perhaps she may close those wonderful eyes and offer her lips to him. At this thought a thrill passed through Krzycki from his feet to his head and it seemed to him that all the love, all the impulses, and all the desires which ever existed and exist in the world at present were hoarded in him alone. VIII Gronski spent the entire next day in the city; at night he was at Pani Otocka's, so that he did not return home until near midnight. Krzycki was not yet asleep and as his mother, on account of the disturbances on the streets could not visit him that day, he awaited with impatience Gronski's return, and immediately began to question him about the news in the city and of the ladies. "The news in the city is bad," answered Gronski; "about noon I heard the firing of musketry in the factory district. Before calling upon Pani Otocka, I was at a meeting in the Philharmonic at which representatives of some of the warring factions met, and do you know what kind of an impression I took away with me? Why, that, unfortunately, Swidwicki in certain respects was right and that we have come to the pass where only a civil war can clear the atmosphere. In this would be the greater tragedy for it would, at the same time, be the final extinction. But of this later. I have a head so tired and nerves so shattered that to-day I cannot think of such things." Here he rang for the servant, and notwithstanding the late hour directed him to prepare tea. Then he continued: "But from Pani Otocka I bring news. You would not believe your ears when I tell you what happened. Why this afternoon, before my arrival, Laskowicz called on those ladies." Krzycki dropped from his hand the cigar which he was smoking. "Laskowicz?" he asked. "Yes." "But the police are looking for him." "They are looking for him in the country and not in Warsaw. The police, like all the rest, have lost their heads. After all, it is easier to hide in a large city. But, really, if he himself flew into their hands, they might clutch him." "But what did he want from Pani Otocka?" "According to my conjectures, he wanted to see Marynia, but came ostensibly for a contribution for revolutionary purposes. After all, they are now continually soliciting contributions." "And did the ladies give?" "No. They told him that they would not give anything for the revolution, and for the hungry and those deprived of employment they had already sent as much as they could to a newspaper office. In fact, this was the truth. Pani Otocka donated a considerable amount, and Miss Anney also. Laskowicz attempted to explain to them that a refusal would expose the refractory to dangers and for that reason he came to them personally to shield them from it. He was very much displeased and incensed, particularly as he saw only Pani Zosia and Miss Anney, for Marynia did not appear. He announced however that he would come again." "Let him try!" cried Ladislaus, clenching his fists. But afterwards he asked with surprise: "How did he get in there, and why did they receive him?" "The male servants throughout the whole city are terror-stricken and the words 'From the Party' everywhere open the doors like the best pick-lock. But Laskowicz did not have to use even these means, as it happened that Pani Otocka's footman was in the cellar and he was admitted by Miss Anney's maid, who knew him from Jastrzeb and thought that he came as a good acquaintance." "In any case she acquitted herself foolishly." "My dear sir, what could she know about him? Of course, no one told her what he was and she saw him among us; she saw how he rode away to the city with me and that he was the tutor of the younger members of your family. That he participated in the attack upon you, also, could not have occurred to her mind, for from our side that is only a supposition which we did not confide to the ladies, in order not to disquiet them, and much less to her." "Perhaps she herself is a socialist." "I doubt it, for after the attempt, hearing that you were wounded, it is said she wailed so bitterly that she could be heard all over Jastrzeb; she invoked all the punishments of hades upon your would-be assassins. Miss Anney was much affected by that. I remember also that when it was rumored that the Rzeslewo people did it, she vowed to set fire to Rzeslewo. Ah, you always have luck--" "I do not care for such luck. But as to Laskowicz she, of course, saw during the search at Jastrzeb that they were seeking him." "Well, what of it? Were you not persecuted for establishing a school? In this country all sympathy is always on the side of the fugitive. Imagine for yourself that when Miss Anney forbade her to admit Laskowicz any more, she became indignant. Evidently it seemed to her that Miss Anney did that from fear of the police." "Miss Anney gave indisputable proofs that she does not fear anything." "So I also do not suspect her of fear, nor Pani Otocka. But, instead, I confess to you what I fear. That madman, if he does not personally appear there, will hover about them, and what is more will write letters; all letters now travel undoubtedly through the black cabinets. If I knew where I could find him, I would warn him above all things not to dare to write any more." "I will warn him of that and something else, if I can only meet him." "Since he visited the ladies, he may come to see me. We had, while riding together from Jastrzeb, a discussion which he has not forgiven me." "If he comes here, do you give me carte blanche?" "I would not think of it. Previously I had propounded to you the question whether if, as a result of a personal encounter with you, he was arrested you could take upon your soul his destruction, and you answered 'No.' Now I will ask you differently: If Laskowicz, tracked and pursued as a wild animal, hid in your house, would you not endeavor to hide him or assist him in escaping?" To this Krzycki replied in anger, but without hesitation: "I would help him--the dog's blood." "Ah, you see!" observed Gronski. "You curse, but admit. If they come to me for a contribution--it is all the same whether with or without Laskowicz--I will tell them that I will give for people destitute of bread but will not give for bombs, dynamite, and strike propaganda. I will tell them more: that in collecting contributions for a revolution from people who do not want to give and who give only from fear, they degrade their own citizens." "Perhaps that is of import to them. The more the higher strata become cowardly, the easier it will be for them." "That may be, but in such case they are the full brethren of all those who purposely and of old have debased the community." And Krzycki pondered and said: "With us these things are often done--from above and from below." Gronski glanced at him with a certain surprise as if he did not expect from his lips such a remark. "You are right," he declared; "from above, a continual lowering of great ideals, from below, because at present they are being directly trampled upon." "Bah! There remain yet the solid multitude of country peasantry." "Again you are right," replied Gronski. "Formerly Dabrowski's March[7] was the watchword for a hundred thousand, to-day it is the watchword for ten millions. Blessed be folk-lore!" They remained silent. Gronski for a time walked about the room, taking, according to his custom, the eyeglasses off his nose and replacing them. After which, he said: "Do you know what surprises me? This: that in such times and under such conditions, people can think of their private happiness and their private affairs. But nevertheless such is the law of life, which no power can suppress." "Have you me in mind?" "In theory, I am verifying a fact which in practice even you confirm. For lo, at this moment it is as if an earthquake took place; the buildings tumble, people perish, subterranean fires burst forth and you and Miss Anney love each other and think of founding a new nest." "How did you say it?" Krzycki asked with radiant countenance, "'you love each other.'" "I said 'you love each other,' for such is the case. You, after all, are more in love than she." "Certainly," answered Ladislaus, "there is nothing strange in that; but what inference do you draw?" "This, which you have not heretofore either directly or indirectly asked and have not even tried to ascertain, namely, how much can Miss Anney bring to you. In a rural citizen this is proof that the thermometer shows the highest temperature of love." "I give you my word, I would take her in a single dress," answered Krzycki. "But you would rather she had something?" "I will answer sincerely that I would. There are many neighbors poorer than I am and a piece of bread will never be lacking to us. But at Jastrzeb there are three of us--counting Mother, four. I am heir of one-fourth and the unsalaried manager of the three-fourths belonging to my family and Mother. I would wish that Jastrzeb would solely belong to myself and my wife, and in succession to my children, if we have any." "As to that, I have no doubt; but as to a dowry, I am not tormented by unnecessary fears," said Gronski. "Miss Anney lives, travels, dresses, and resides in comfort, but she is not a person who would desire to create false impressions. I assume that she does not possess millions, but her fortune, particularly in comparison to our condition, may appear even more considerable than we might have thought." "Let her have it or not have it," exclaimed Krzycki, "if she only will give herself to me. Whoever possesses that jewel can be crowned with it like a king." "I foresee a coronation soon," replied Gronski, laughing. IX On account of Marynia's birthday, Miss Anney with her maid went to buy flowers. The day before, Gronski told her that he saw in one of the stores Italian rosy lilies, such as are sold in whole bundles in the vicinity of Lucca and Pisa, but which are cultivated but little in the conservatories of Warsaw and seldom imported into the country. As Marynia had inquired about them with great curiosity. Miss Anney decided to purchase for her all that could be found in the store. The previous evening she bantered Gronski, telling him that she would forestall him in the purchase, for he, as a known sleepy-head, would be unable to leave his home early enough. Determined to play a joke upon him, she left the house at eight in the morning, so as to be present at the opening of the store. She had, besides, a letter prepared, with the words "They are already bought," which she intended to send to Gronski by Pauly, and exulted at the thought that Gronski would receive it at his morning coffee. In fact everything went according to her plans, for she was the first buyer at the store. She was disappointed only in this: that there were too few lilies. There was only one flower-pot, containing about a dozen stalks with flowers. So the decoration of Marynia's whole room with them was out of the question. But for just this reason Miss Anney eagerly bought the one sample and, paying the price asked for it, directed that it be sent to the Otocka residence. She was annoyed, however, when informed in the store that the gardener delivering flowers could not come until noon-time, for she desired that Marynia should have them before she rose from bed. "In that case," she said, turning to Pauly, "call a hack and we will take the flower-pot with us." But Pauly, who, though she behaved quite indifferently and even refractorily in respect to her mistress and also to Pani Otocka, had a sort of exceptional adoration, bordering on sympathy, for Marynia, replied: "Let Madame permit me to carry these flowers alone. In the hack they will be shaken up and may fall off." "But you are to go with the letter to Pan Gronski and, besides, you will tire yourself with the flower-pot." "Pan Gronski's residence is on the way; and what if I do tire myself a little for the golden little lady. May I not do that much for her?" Miss Anney understood that a refusal would cause her great vexation, therefore she said: "Very well. You are an honest soul. But if it should be too heavy for you, take a hack. I will go to church." And she went to church to pray for Ladislaus, who was that day to leave the house for the first time and pass the evening at Pani Otocka's, owing to Marynia's birthday. She expected that the following day he would visit her and she wanted also to commit that day to divine protection. Pauline, taking the lilies, went in an opposite direction towards Gronski's residence. After a few score of steps the flower-pot filled with earth began to grow heavy; so, shifting it from one arm to the other, she thought: "If it was for any one else, I would throw everything upon the ground, but she is such a bird that it is hard not to love her--I would carry for her even two such flowerpots and I would not do her any harm.--Even in case--he loved her alone." And at this gloomy thought her countenance darkened yet more. In her heart, capable only of extreme feelings, began a struggle between her strange adoration for Marynia and her blind and passionate love for Krzycki; it was accompanied by the terrible and hopeless consciousness that under no circumstance could he be hers, as he was a young lord, heir, almost prince royal, and she a simple girl for sewing, setting the parlor in order, and household work. To this was added immediately a feeling of a prodigious wrong. Why, she might have been born also a "little lady" and not brought up in an orphan asylum, under the care of sisters of charity, but in a rich lordly home. Why was it not so, instead of the vile work of the servant's station awaiting her till death? And here it occurred to her mind that there is now, however, a kind of people, a kind of "party," which wants to take away property from the rich, distribute it among the poor, level all people, so that there will be no rich men and paupers, no servants and lords, no wrong of any kind in the world; and in the place thereof, all ranks will be one and the same, and liberty will be identical. She had heard of this from the servants in the house, from the craftsmen, from the salesmen in the stores to which she went to make purchases, and also through overhearing the conversations of the "gentility." It surprised her that these people were called socialists, for heretofore a "socialist" and a madman roaming over the streets with knife in hand meant to her one and the same thing. For a time after the attack upon Krzycki, when the report was spread that the socialists did it, she even felt for them such furious and blind hatred that she was willing to poison them or bake them upon live fires. Later, when the servants in Jastrzeb began to repeat that the young heir was waylaid not by them, but by people of Rzeslewo, this hatred became extinguished. But subsequently, when the girl learned more accurately what the socialists aimed at and who they were, she was but little interested in them. She partly regarded their ideas as foolish and partly thought of other things more personal, and finally, she distinguished in Poland only "her own" and "not her own," loving, not knowing why, the first, and hating indiscriminately all the others. It was not until the last few days that it began to dawn in her head that among her own there existed terrible and painful differences; that for some there was wealth, for others poverty; that for a few there was enjoyment and for others toil; for some, laughter, for others, tears; for some, happiness, for others, woe and injury. This became clear to her, particularly at that moment when with greater suffering than ever before she became aware that this young gentleman, to whom her soul and body were urged, was simply an inaccessible star, on which she was barely permitted to gaze. And although nothing had happened that day which particularly irritated her and nothing had altered, she was possessed by a despair such as she never felt before. But the course of her gloomy meditations was finally interrupted by an external incident. Notwithstanding the early hour, she observed on the corner of the precinct a large crowd of people, agitated by some uneasiness. Their faces were turned towards the depth of a cross street, as if something unusual was taking place there. Some rushed forward while others retreated with evident fear. Some, arguing heatedly and pointing at something with their hands, looked upwards to the roofs of the houses. From all directions flocked new crowds of workingmen and striplings. Among the hack-drivers standing on the corner an unusual commotion prevailed: the drivers, in groups of varying numbers, wheeled their horses about in different directions as though they wished to blockade the street. Suddenly shrill cries resounded and then shots. In one moment an indescribable confusion arose. The throng swung to and fro and began to scamper; the cries sounded shriller and shriller each moment. It was evident that they were pursuing somebody. The girl, with her lilies, stood as if thunderstruck, not knowing what to do. Then, suddenly from amidst the hacks, a man dashed out, bent forward with lowered head, and at full speed ran towards her. On the way he flung away his cap and snatched a hat from the head of a stripling who, understanding the situation in the twinkle of an eye, did not even quiver. The hack-drivers began yet more zealously to block the street, evidently with a view to make the pursuit more difficult. But right behind them again rattled the revolver shots, and amidst the general cries and tumult already could be heard the shrill sounds of the police whistles and the hoarse, bellowing shouts of "Catch him! catch him!" A blind, excessive fright now seized Pauly, and she began to run, squeezing unconsciously to her bosom the flower-pot with the lilies, as if she wanted to save her own child. But she had barely run a dozen or more steps when a panting, low voice began to cry close behind her: "Lady, give me the flowers! For the mercy of God, lady, give me the flowers! Save!" The girl turned about suddenly with consternation, and indescribable amazement was reflected in her eyes, for she recognized Laskowicz. He, having violently wrested from her the flower-pot, to which, not knowing what she was doing, she clung with all her strength, whispered further: "Perhaps they will not recognize me. I will tell them that I am a gardener. Save me, little lady! Perhaps they will not recognize. I am out of breath!" She wanted to run farther but he restrained her. In the meantime, from among the chaos of hacks, a dozen or more policemen and civil agents emerged. The majority of the mob moved at a running pace in a direction opposite to the one in which Laskowicz and the girl were going, and undoubtedly they intentionally moved that way in order to deceive the pursuers. To better hoodwink the police, cries of "Catch him!" resounded among the laborers. Some workingman began to whistle shrilly on his fingers, imitating the sound of a police whistle. Accordingly the policemen and agents plunged headlong after the dense mob. At the intersection of the streets only a few stood still, and these, after a moment's irresolution, set off in the other direction, but they ran at full speed by the girl and the man with the light hat, carrying flowers. Rushing ahead they seized a few workingmen, but other workingmen rescued them in a moment. Pauly and Laskowicz walked farther. "They missed me," said the student. "Here no one would betray. They missed! Those flowers and another's hat fooled them. I thank you, little lady; I thank you from my whole soul, and until my death I will never be able to sufficiently repay you." But she, not having yet entirely recovered from her amazement, began to ask: "What happened? Where did you come from?" "From the roof; they pounced upon us in a printing plant. The others will get a year or two and nothing more will happen to them--but for me, there would be the halter." "How did you manage to escape?" "When we got on the roof, I slid down the gutter-pipe. I might have broken my neck. It was not until I reached the street that they observed me. They fired shots at me, but luckily I was not hit, for the blood would have betrayed me. Whoever was alive helped me, and I was hidden by the hacks. They did not see how I changed a cap for a hat. But if it was not for my female associate it would have been all over with me." "What female associate?" "I speak of you, little lady, thus. Amongst us such is the custom." "Then do not call me that, for I am no female associate." "That is a pity. But this is not the time to speak of that. Once more I thank you for the rescue, though it is for a short time." "Why for a short time?" "Because I do not know what to do with myself, where to go, and where to hide. Every night I sleep in a different place but they are seeking for me everywhere." "That is true. They were searching for you in Jastrzeb. Do you know that there was a police-search there?" "Was there?" "Yes. Gendarmes, police, and soldiers came. They almost put everybody under arrest." "Oh, they would not arrest them--" The clatter of horses' hoofs and the rattle of the horseshoes over the stony pavements interrupted for a while their conversation. From a side street ahead rode out a Cossack patrol, consisting of several scores of men. They rode slowly, with carabines resting upon their thighs and looked about cautiously. At the sight of them, Pauly became somewhat pale, while Laskowicz began to whisper: "That is nothing. They see that I am carrying flowers from the store. They will take me for a gardener and will ride by." In fact they did pass by. "They are now arresting every moment people on the streets in whole crowds," said Laskowicz. "To some one else that would be a small matter; but if I once fall into their clutches, I will never be able to get out again." "Well, what do you intend to do?" "Carry these flowers for you, little lady." "And after that?" "I do not know." "Of course you must have some acquaintances who will hide you." "I have, I have! But the police have their eyes upon all my acquaintances. Every night there is a search. For the last two nights I slept in a printing establishment, but today they discovered the printing press." A moment of silence followed. After which Laskowicz again spoke in a gloomy voice: "There is now no help for me. I will deliver these flowers and go wherever my eyes will take me." But in the heart of the girl suddenly there awoke a great pity for him. Before that she was indifferent to him. At present she only saw in him a Polish student hunted, like a mad dog, by people whom she of old despised. Therefore on her energetic and obstinate countenance, inflexible determination was depicted. "Come what may, I will not desert you," she said, knitting her dark brows. Laskowicz was suddenly seized with a desire to kiss her hand and would have done so if they were not on the street. He was moved not only by the hope of escape, but also by the fact that this girl, who hardly knew him, who did not belong to his camp, was ready to expose herself to the greatest dangers in order to come to his aid. "What can the little lady do? Where will she hide me?" he asked quietly. But she walked on with brows knitted by the strain of continuous thinking, and finally said: "I know. Let us go." He shifted the flower-pot to the left hand. "I must tell you," he said with lowered voice, "that the least punishment for concealing me is Siberia. I must tell you that! And I might cause your destruction, but in the first moments--the little lady understands--the instinct of preservation--there was no time for reflection." The little lady did not very well understand what the instinct of preservation was, but instead understood something else. This was that if she brought him, as she intended, to Gronski's, she would expose to danger not only Gronski but also Krzycki. And under the influence of this thought she stood as if stupefied. "In such a case, I do not know what I can do," she said. "Ah, you see, little lady," answered the student, as if in sorrow, while she, on her part, again began to rack her brains. It never occurred to her to conduct Laskowicz to Miss Anney's or Pani Otocka's. She felt that here masculine help was necessary and that it was imperative to find some one who would not fear and for whom she, herself, did not care. Therefore she mentally reviewed the whole array of Miss Anney's and Pani Otocka's acquaintances.--Pan Dolhanski? No!--He might be afraid or else send them to the devil and sneer at them. Dr. Szremski? He had probably left the city. Ah, were it not for this "young lord" she would conduct this poor fellow to Pan Gronski, for even if he did not receive him, at the worst he would give good advice, or would direct them to somebody. And suddenly it came to her mind that if Siberia threatened the person who concealed Laskowicz, Pan Gronski would not direct them to anybody; but if he could, he would direct them to only one man, whom she also knew. And on this thought, she dusted her dress with her hands and, turning to Laskowicz, said: "I know now! Let us try." After which, standing for a while, she continued: "Let us enter this house, here, at once. You will wait with the flowers in the hallway and I will deliver the letter upstairs and return. Do not fear anything, for the doorkeeper here knows me and he is a good man. After that I may lead you somewhere." Saying this, she entered the gate and, leaving Laskowicz below, rang, after a moment, Gronski's bell. Gronski, rising that day earlier than usual, was already dressed and sat with Krzycki having tea. When Pauly handed him the letter, he read it and, laughing, showed it to Ladislaus; after which he rose and went to his writing desk to write an answer. During this time Ladislaus began to question her about the health of his mother and the younger ladies. "I thank you, the ladies are well, but my lady has already gone down town." "So early? And is not your lady afraid to go alone about the city?" "My lady went with me and bought flowers for Panna Marynia and after that she went to church." "To what church did she go?" "I do not know." Panna Pauly knew well, but she was hurt by his asking her about her mistress; while he, conjecturing this, ceased to question her further, for he had previously resolved to converse with her as little as possible. So, silence--a little embarrassing--ensued between them, and continued until Gronski returned with the letter. "Here is the answer," he said; "let the little lady bow for us to the ladies and say that to-day we both will be there, for Pan Krzycki's imprisonment is now ended." "I thank you," replied Pauly, "but I have yet a favor,--I would like to learn the address of Pan Swidwicki?" Gronski looked at her with astonishment. "Did the ladies request you to ask?" "No--I just wanted to know--" "Panna Pauly," said Gronski, "Pan Swidwicki lives at No. 5 Oboznej, but it is not very safe for young girls to go to him." She colored to the ears from fear that the "young lord" might think something bad about her. And she hesitated for a while whether she should tell that Laskowicz was in the hallway and that it was necessary to hide him, as otherwise destruction awaited him. But again she recollected that Laskowicz had been sought in Jastrzeb and that Krzycki, on account of that had been almost arrested. A fear possessed her that perhaps Gronski himself might want to hide the student and in such case would jeopardize the young lord. She looked once or twice at the shapely form of Krzycki and decided to remain silent. But Gronski spoke further: "I do not advise you to go to him. I do not advise it. It is said that you once gave him a tongue-lashing." And she, raising her head, answered at once haughtily and indignantly: "Then I will give him a tongue-lashing a second time; but I have some business with him." And bowing, she left. Gronski shrugged his shoulders and said: "I cannot understand what she is concerned about. There is something strange in that girl, and I tell you that your future lady gives evidence of holy patience, that she has not dismissed her before this. She always says that she is a violent character but has a golden heart, and that may be possible. I know, however, from Pani Otocka that the golden heart enacts for her such scenes as no one else would tolerate." X In the evening of Marynia's birthday, Ladislaus and Miss Anney for a time found themselves at some distance from the rest of the company, at a cottage piano, decorated with flowers. His eyes shone with joy and happiness. He felt fortunate that his imprisonment had ended and that he could again gaze upon this, his lady, whom he loved with the whole strength of a young heart. "I know," he told her, "that you were this morning in the city and bought flowers. I learned this from your maid, who brought the letter to Pan Gronski. Afterwards you went to church. I asked her to which one, as I wanted to go there, but the maid did not know." "That is strange, for she knows that I always go to the Holy Cross, and at times I even take her with me. I am there, daily, at the morning mass." "She told me that she did not know," answered Ladislaus. "Will you be there to-morrow?" "Yes; unless the weather should be very inclement." Ladislaus lowered his voice: "I ask because I have a great and heartfelt prayer. Permit me to come there at the same hour and before the same altar." Blushes suffused Miss Anney's countenance and her breast began to move more quickly. She inclined her head somewhat and placing the edge of the fan to her lips answered in a low voice: "I have not the right to forbid nor to permit. The church is open to all the pious." "Yes. But I want to kneel a while beside you--together, and not with customary humility; but for a special purpose. As to my piety, I will candidly state that I believe in God, ah! especially now--I believe in God and in His goodness; but heretofore I have not been very pious--just like all others. When, however, a whole life is concerned, then even a man, totally unbelieving, is ready to kneel and pray. To kneel beside you, that alone is an immense boon, for it is as if one had beside him an angel. And I want to beg for something else: and that is that we should together, at the same time, say 'Under Thy protection we flee, Holy Mother of God.'" Ladislaus became pale from emotion and on his forehead beads of perspiration appeared. For a time he remained silent, to permit the too violent beating of his heart to subside. After which he again spoke: "'We flee'--that will mean us both. Nothing more, dear, dearest lady, nothing more. After that I will go, and in the afternoon, if you permit, I will come to your residence and will tell you everything which has collected within me from the time I first saw you in Jastrzeb. In your hands, lady, lies my fate, but I must, I must divulge it all; otherwise my bosom will burst. But if you, lady, will agree to a joint prayer of 'Under Thy protection,' before that time, then I shall be so happy that I do not know how I will survive until to-morrow." And she looked at him guilelessly and straight in his eyes with the celestial streak of the hazy pupils of her eyes and answered: "Come to church to-morrow." And Ladislaus whispered: "And not to be able to fall at your feet at this moment--not to be able to fall at your feet!" But Miss Anney tapped lightly, as if reluctantly, his hand, resting on the piano with her own, which was incased in a white glove, and walked away, for, not forgetting herself to the same extent as Ladislaus, she noticed that they were observed. Owing to Marynia's birthday there assembled that evening at Pani Otocka's quite a considerable gathering of acquaintances. The notary, Dzwonkowski, appeared; also, an old neighbor from the vicinity of Zalesin; and besides these Dolhanski and both Wlocek ladies, who after a previous exchange of visits, were invited by Pani Otocka. Gronski actually appeared the earliest and well nigh played the rôle of host, in which part he was assisted by the former teacher of Marynia, the violinist Bochener, not less in love with her, and finally Swidwicki, who on that day was exceptionally sober. Pani Otocka was occupied with the Wlocek ladies; Gronski conversed with Swidwicki in so far as he did not direct his eyes after Marynia, who, in her white dress, adorned with violets, slender, almost lithesome, actually looked like an alabaster statuette. But she, and with her Pani Krzycki, began to look with especial attention at Ladislaus and Miss Anney. The little ears of Marynia reddened from curiosity, while on Pani Krzycki's countenance there appeared uneasiness, and, as if it were, a shadow of dissatisfaction. But Miss Anney, breaking off her conversation with Ladislaus, approached directly towards his mother and sat down in a chair beside her. "Pan Ladislaus is so happy," she said, "that his confinement is ended." "I see," answered Pani Krzycki, "but I fear that conversation fatigues him yet. What did he say to you with such animation?" For a moment, Miss Anney inclined her head and began to smooth out with her fingers the folds of her bright dress as if troubled, but later, having evidently formed a sudden resolution, she raised her frank eyes straight at Pani Krzycki, just as she had previously at Ladislaus, and replied: "He said such pleasant and loving things; that he wants to go to church to-morrow and say 'Under Thy protection'--together with me--" In her eyes there were no interrogatories, nor uneasiness, nor challenge, but great goodness and truth. Pani Krzycki, on the other hand, was put out of countenance by the candor of the reply, so that at first she was silent. It seemed to her that what heretofore was a doubtful, blurred, and indistinct supposition, lightened up and plainly emerged upon the surface, but she tried to disbelieve it; so, after a certain hesitation, she replied: "Laudie otherwise would be ungrateful. He owes you so much--and I also." Miss Anney understood perfectly that Pani Krzycki wanted to give her to understand that the motive of Ladislaus' words was only gratitude, but she had no time to reply to the remark, as at that time across the arm of her chair the slender form of Marynia was leaning: "Aninka, may I trouble you to step over here for a moment?" "Certainly," answered Miss Anney. And rising, she left. Pani Krzycki eyed her and sighed. There was in that beautiful form so much youth, health, radiance, so many golden tresses, glances, so much bloom, warmth, and womanly fascination, that an older and experienced woman, like Pani Krzycki, was forced to admit in her soul that it would have been rather incomprehensible if Ladislaus had remained indifferent to all those charms. And sighing for the second time, she thought: "Why did Zosia bring her to Jastrzeb?" And she began to seek with her eyes Pani Otocka, who at that moment was approaching the door to greet an elderly gentleman with a white leonine mane and the same kind of white beard who, evidently being almost blind, stood on the threshold and gazed over the salon through his gold-rimmed spectacles. Finally espying Pani Otocka, he seized both her hands and commenced to kiss them with great ardor, while she greeted him with that shy grace, peculiarly her own, which made her resemble a young village maid. "How sweet she is and how lovable!" Pani Krzycki said to herself. But her further meditations and regrets were interrupted by Swidwicki, who, taking the chair vacated by Miss Anney, said: "But your son, benefactress, is a genuine Uhlan from under Somo-Sierra. What a race! what a type! I, who everywhere fancy beauty as a setter does partridges, observed this at once to Gronski. Only put a sabre in his hand and place him on horseback. Or at some exhibition! plainly on exhibition, as a notable specimen of the race. Ah, what blood with milk! The women must rave over him!" Pani Krzycki, notwithstanding her internal worries, was pleased to hear these words, for Ladislaus' shapeliness was from his childhood days a source of pride and joy for her. But in reality, she did not deem it proper to admit this before Swidwicki. "I do not attach any importance to that," she answered, "and I thank God that it is not the only thing that can be said of my son." And Swidwicki snapped his fingers and said: "You do attach importance to it, madame, you do, and so do I, and those ladies only pretend that they do not--that young Englishwoman as well as even that translucent little porcelain maid; though apparently she thinks of nought but music.... Perhaps the least of all Pani Zosia, but only because from a certain time she too sedulously reads Plato." "Zosia--Plato!" exclaimed Pani Krzycki. "I suspect so, and even am certain for otherwise she would not be so Platonic." "Why, she is not versed in Greek." "But Gronski is, and he can translate for her." Pani Krzycki gazed with astonishment at Swidwicki and broke off the conversation. Becoming acquainted with him only that evening and having no idea that he was a man who, for a quip, for a wretched play on words and from habit, was ready always and everywhere to talk stuff and nonsense in the most reckless manner, she could not understand why he said that to her. Nevertheless his words were for her, as it were, a ray illuminating things which heretofore she had not observed. She found new proofs that her heartfelt and secret wishes would always remain a dream without substance--and she sighed for the third time. "Ah, then it is so," she thought to herself in her soul. "Yes, yes," Swidwicki continued. "My cousin is very Platonic and in addition a trifle anæmic." In his laughter there was a kind of bitterness and even malice, so that Pani Krzycki again looked at him with astonishment. In the meantime Marynia led Miss Anney to another chamber. Her ears each moment became redder and her eyes sparkled with a perfectly childish curiosity. So pressing her little nose to Miss Anney's cheek, she began to whisper: "Tell me! Did he propose to you at the piano? Did he propose? Tell me now." And Miss Anney, embraced her neck with her arms and kissing her cordially, whispered in her ear: "Almost." "What?--at the piano! I guessed it at once! Ho, ho! I am thoroughly conversant with such matters. But how was that? Almost? How, almost?" "For I know that he loves me--" "Laudie? What did he say to you?" "He did not even have to say it." "I understand, I understand perfectly." Miss Anney, though her eyes were moist, began to laugh, and, hugging the little violinist again, said: "Let us now return to the salon." "Let us return," answered Marynia. On the way she said with delighted countenance: "You and Zosia, thought that I saw nothing, and I--oho!" In the salon they chanced upon a political discussion. The tall elderly gentleman with the white mane, who was a colleague and friend of the late Otocki and at the same time editor of one of the principal dailies in Warsaw, said: "They think that this is a new state of affairs, which henceforth is bound to continue, but it is an attack of hysteria, after which exhaustion and prostration will follow. I have lived long in the world and often have witnessed similar phenomena. Yes, it is so. It is a stupid and wicked revolution." If Swidwicki had heard from some madman that this was a wise and salutary revolution, he undoubtedly would have been of the opinion of the old editor, but, as he esteemed lightly journalists in general, he was particularly angered at the thought that the amiable old gentleman passed in certain circles as a political authority; so he began at once to dispute. "Only the bottomless naïvete of the conservatives," he said, "is capable of demanding from a revolution reason and goodness. It is the same as demanding, for instance, of a conflagration that it should be gentle and sensible. Every revolution is the child of the passions--unreason and rage--and not of love. Its aim is to blow up the old forms of folly and evil and forcibly introduce into life the new." "And how do you picture to yourself the new?" "In reality as also foolish and wicked--but new. Upon such transitions our history is based, and even the annals of mankind in general." "That is the philosophy of despair." "Or of laughter." "If of laughter, then it is egoism." "Yes, that is so. My partisanship begins with me and ends with me." Gronski impatiently smacked his lips; while the editor took off his spectacles and, winking with his eyes, began to wipe them with a handkerchief. "I beg pardon," he said with great phlegm. "Your party affiliations may be very interesting but I wanted to speak of others." "Less interesting--" But the old journalist turned to Gronski. "Our socialists," he said, "have undertaken the reconstruction of a new house, forgetting that we live huddled together in only a few rooms, and that in the others dwell strangers who will not assent to it; or rather, on the contrary, they will permit the demolition of those few rooms, but will not allow their reconstruction." "Then it is better to blow up the whole structure with dynamite," interjected Swidwicki. But this remark was passed over in silence; after which Gronski said: "One thing directly astonishes me, and that is that the conservatives turn with the greatest rage not against the revolutionists, but against the national patriots, who do not desire a revolution and who alone have sufficient strength to prevent it. I understand that a foreign bureaucracy does this, but why should our patres conscripti clear the way in this for them?" The editor replaced the spectacles, wetted his finger in the tea seeking the cup, afterwards raised it to his lips, drank, and replied: "The reason of that is their greater blindness and sense." "Please explain!" exclaimed Swidwicki, who was a little impressed by this reply. And the neighbor from Zalesin, who eagerly listened to the words of the journalist, asked: "How is that, sir benefactor? I do not understand." "Yes, it is so," answered the editor. "Their greater blindness is due to the narrower horizon, to the lack of ability to look ahead into the future, into those times and ages which are yet to come, for which it is a hundred times more important that the great Sacred Fire.[8] should not be extinguished than that any immediate paltry benefits should be obtained. It is necessary to have a sense of coming events, and this they do not possess. They are a little like Esau who relinquished his heritage for a pot of lentils. And for us it is not allowable to relinquish anything. Absolutely nothing! On the other hand, when concerned about isolated moments, about ranks and connections in a given instant of time, the conservatives are a hundred times more sensible, adroit--commit far less errors in details and view matters more soberly. I speak of this with entire impartiality for I myself am a nonpartisan." "Who is right neither in the present time nor will be in the future," interposed Swidwicki. "After all, I agree that the difference between the views of politicians favoring reconciliation and sentimental patriots and zealots in general lies in this, that from political moderation you can immediately coin money, though at times counterfeit, but from sentimental politics,--only in the future. History confirms at every stage that what one hundred, fifty, or twenty years ago appeared to be political or social insanity, to-day has entered into being. And it will be ever thus in the further course of time." "That may be," said Gronski, "but it is only just so far as radicalism of ideas or the furies of feeling do not strike terror in a great, stupid, immediate act. For if this occurs a crime is perpetrated, and error is born which menaces the future. This happens frequently." "And I assume that this is just what the conservatives fear," answered the journalist, "an excessively warm patriotism--and it must be admitted, often improvident and absurd in its manifestations--strikes them with terror. Formerly they feared that the peasants, who read 'The Pole' might take to their scythes. At present they have gooseflesh when some zealot breaks out with a word about the future kingdom of Poland." "Kingdom of Poland!" said Swidwicki, snorting ironically. "I will tell you gentlemen an anecdote. A certain Russian official became insane and suffered from a mania of greatness. In reality his delusion lay in this, that he attained the highest position in heaven as well as on earth. And whom do you suppose that he imagined himself to be?" "Well! God?" "More." "I confess that my imagination reels," answered Gronski. "Ah, you see! In the meantime he invented a position still higher, for he represented himself as the 'presiding officer' of the Holy Trinity. Understand? That there was a committee consisting of God, the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost--and he was its chairman. Is not that more?" "True, but why do you cite that anecdote?" "As a proof that for diseased brains there are no impossibilities and that only such brains can think of a kingdom of Poland." Gronski remained silent for a while, and then said: "Twenty millions of people are something tangible, and permit me to say that the chairmanship of the Holy Trinity is a greater impossibility. What do you know about the future and who can divine it? The most you can say is that in view of the present conditions the thought of creating anything like it by force, through revolution, would be a mistake, and even a crime. But our nation will be devoured only when it allows itself to be devoured. But if it does not? If through great and noble efforts it shall bring forth enlightenment, social discipline, prosperity, science, literature, art, wealth, sanitation, a quiet internal strength, then what? And who to-day can tell what shape in the future the political and social conditions will assume? Who can vouch that the systems of government of the present day may not entirely change, that they will not fall and will not be adjudged as idiotic and criminal as to-day we regard tortures? Who can divine what governments will arise in that great sea which is humanity? The man who, for instance, in the time of Cicero would have said that social economy could exist without slavery would have been deemed crazy, and, nevertheless, to-day slavery does not exist. And in our political relations something similar might take place. To-day's conditions of coercion might change into voluntary and free unions. I do not know whether it will be so, but you do not know that it will not be so. In view of this, I see the necessity of quiet and iron labor, but I do not see the necessity of the repudiation or renunciation of any ideals--and I will tell you too that the Pole who does not bear that great ideal, at the bottom of his soul, is in a measure a renegade; and I do not understand why he does not renounce everything." "Write that in verse and in Latin," answered Swidwicki with impatience, "for in that manner you will upset the heads of a less number of men." "Then our present day antagonists may themselves say to us: 'Arrange matters to suit yourselves.' At the present moment it may seem a naïve fancy, but the future carries in its bosom such surprises, as not only the shortsighted politicians have not dreamed of, but even philosophers who can look ahead." After which, having evidently sufficient of this discussion, he added: "But enough of this. I suspend the argument and pause. To-day we must occupy ourselves not with politics, but with the young lady whose birthday we celebrate and whom undoubtedly such things weary." Saying this, he turned to Marynia, standing at Miss Anney's side, but she, shaking her little head, replied at once with great ardor: "On the contrary! I am of the same opinion as Pan Gronski." And she blushed to her ears, for all began to laugh, while Swidwicki replied: "If that is so, then everything is settled." Ladislaus smiled at Marynia's embarrassment, though in truth he did not know what it all was about, as his whole soul surged in his enamoured eyes, gazing at Miss Anney. She stood between two chairs, calm, smiling, white in her light dress, cheery as the summer dawn, and only after the close of the discussion rosier than usual, and he plainly devoured her with his gaze. His thoughts and heart raged within him. He looked at her radiant countenance, on her bare arms, chiseled as if out of warm marble, at her developed strong breast, on the sinuous pliant lines of her figure, on her knees turned towards him and outlined under her light dress, and he was seized by a whirlwind of desires, which struggled with the feeling of worship and respect which he entertained for this maiden, pure as a tear. His pulse commenced to beat strangely and on his forehead appeared a braid of veins. At the thought that she was to be his wife and that all these treasures would be his, he was enveloped by a fire of blood, and at the same time by some kind of debility so great that at times he was uncertain whether he would be able to lift the chair. At the same time he quarrelled with himself. He became indignant from his whole soul at that "animal" which he could not subdue within himself, and upbraided himself to the last words because he did not love her--"that angel"--as he should love her, that is with the love which only kneels and idolizes. So, in thought, he fell on his knees before his loved one, embraced her limbs, and implored forgiveness, but when he imagined that his lips kissed her feet, again lust seized him by the hair. And in this struggle he felt not only unworthy of her, not only "a beast," but at the same time a half-baked and ludicrous blunderer, deprived of that reason, peace, and self-control which a true man should possess. He was also possessed by astonishment that everything which could promise delight should also at the same time torment him. Fortunately, his further torments and meditations were interrupted by music, with which an evening at Pani Otocka's had to conclude. Bochener sat at the piano, the irascible notary began to blow in his flute, and Marynia stood aside with the violin, and if those present were not accustomed to the sight of her, they would have been astonished at the change which took place in her. The beautiful but childish face of a delighted and inquisitive girl assumed in a single moment an expression of gravity and profound calm. Her eyes became thoughtful and sad. On the red background of the salon her slim form appeared like a design of the best style on a painted church window. There was something in her plainly hieratic. A trio began. The gentle tones began to rock Ladislaus' agitated soul. His senses gradually fell asleep and his desires were extinguished. His love metamorphosed into a great winged angel who carried his loved one in his arms as if a child, and soared with her in the immeasurable space before an altar composed of the lustre of the evening twilight and the nocturnal lights of stars. The hour was late, when Gronski, Swidwicki, and Ladislaus left Pani Otocka's. On the streets they met few pedestrians, but every few paces, they encountered the military and police patrol, which stopped them and asked for passports. This time Swidwicki did not pretend to be intoxicated, for he fell into a bad humor just because at Pani Otocka's he had to content himself with two glasses of wine. So, showing the policeman the passport, he pointed to his dress-suit and white cravat and asked them surlily whether socialists or bandits dressed in that manner. "If only lightning would smite the one and the other," he said, striking the sidewalk with his cane. "In addition, everything is closed, not only the restaurants in the hotels, but even the pharmacies, in which in an extreme case, vin de coca or alcohol can be procured. The pharmacies are striking! We have lived to see that! The doctors also ought to strike and then the grave-diggers will unwillingly have to strike also. May the devil seize all! At home I have not a single bottle; so throughout the entire night I will not be able to sleep a wink and to-morrow I will be as if taken off the cross--" "Come with us," said Gronski, "perhaps we may find a bottle of something and black coffee." "You have saved not only my life but that of my 'associate,' especially if two bottles are found." "We will seek. But what kind of associate are you speaking of?" "True, you yet know nothing. I will relate it over a glass." It was not far to Gronski's residence, so soon they were seated around a table on which was found a bottle of noble Chambertin and a coffee-percolator with black coffee, steaming in a delicious manner. Swidwicki regained his spirits. "Those ladies," he said, "are real angels, and for the reason that it is there, as if in Paradise, where happiness consists in gazing upon eternal brightness and listening to the archangel choir." Here he addressed Krzycki: "I observed that this suffices for you and Gronski--but for me it is absolutely too little." "Only do not begin to sharpen your tongue on those ladies," replied Gronski, "for I shall order the bottle removed instanter." Swidwicki hugged it with both hands. "I idolize--all three," he exclaimed with comic precipitancy. "Of what kind of associate were you speaking?" Swidwicki swallowed the wine and, closing his eyes, for a while appraised its value. "I have with me from this morning some kind of gallows-bird, for whom the police are looking and, if they find him with me, they will probably hang us both." "You, however, have given him shelter?" "I gave him shelter because he was brought by one whom I could not refuse." "I will wager that it was some woman." "That is true. I can add that she is comely and one of those who excite in me a responsive electric current. But I cannot tell you her name, as she begged me to keep that secret." "I do not ask," said Gronski, "but as to the current I have no doubt, as otherwise you would fear to place yourself in jeopardy." To this Swidwicki said: "Know this, that I do not fear anything in the world, and this gives me in this enslaved country such an unheard of independence as is not enjoyed by any one else." Saying this, he drained the glass to the bottom and exclaimed: "Long live liberty--but only my own." "Nevertheless, all this demonstrates that you have a little good in your heart." "Not in the least. I did that, firstly, because I expect a reward, on which, after all, in such virtuous company, I prefer not to dilate--unless after a second bottle--and again, because I will have some one upon whom I can vent my spleen and assert my ascendency. I assure you that my gallows-bird will not sleep upon roses--and who knows whether after a week he will not prefer the gallows to my hospitality?" "That is possible. But in the meantime?" "In the meantime I bought for him Allen's Waters in order to bleach the black tufts of hair on his head into a light color. 'Are te biondegiante'--as during Titian's time. I feel also a little satisfaction at the thought that the police will stand on their heads to find him and will not get him." "But if they find him?" "I doubt it. Do you remember that for a certain time I had a footman, a native of Bessarabia, whom you knew? Over two months ago he robbed me and ran away. He has already written to me from New York with a proposition which I will not repeat to you. A superb type! Perfectly modern. But before his escape he begged me to return to him his passport, as now they are asking about passports every moment. But I mislaid it in some book and could not find it. But recently--two or three days ago--I accidentally found it, so that my gallows-bird will have not only blond hair but also a passport." "And will he not rob you like his predecessor?" "I told him that he ought to do that, but he became indignant. It seems to me that he is boiling with indignation from morning until night, and if in the end he should steal from me it would be from indignation that I could suppose anything like that of him. That little patroness who shoved him on my neck vouches also that he is honest, but did not even tell me his name. Clever girl! For she says thus: 'If they find him, then you can excuse yourself on the plea that you did not know who he was.' And she is right--though when some marks of gratitude are concerned, she scratches like a cat. For her, I expose myself to the halter, and when I wanted from her a little of that--then I almost got it in the snout." Gronski knit his brows and began to sharply eye Swidwicki; after which, he said: "Miss Anney's servant asked me this morning about your residence. Tell me, what does that mean?" Swidwicki again drank the wine. "Ah, she also called--she was there. Pani Otocka sent through her an invitation." "Pani Otocka sent you an invitation through Pauly. Tell that to some one else." "About what are you concerned?" asked Swidwicki, with jovial effrontery. "She ordered her to send the invitation through a messenger but the messengers since last night are on a strike. Now everybody strikes. Girls also,--with the exception of the 'female associates,' particularly the old and ugly ones. These, if they strike, then sans le vouloir." The reply appeared to Gronski to be satisfactory, as in reality messengers had been absent from the streets since the previous day. Then Swidwicki turned the conversation into another direction. "I received him," he said, "not to save an ass, but because I am bored and it just suited me. Some wise Italian once said that the divinity which holds everything in this world in restraint is called la paura,--fear; and the Italian was right. If the people did not fear, nothing would remain--not a single social form of life! On this ladder of fear there are numerous rounds and the highest is the fear of death. Death! That is a real divinity! Reges rego, leges lego, judice judico! And I confess that I, whose life has been passed in toppling from pedestals various divinities, had the most difficulty in overcoming this divinity. But I overcame it and so completely that I made it my dog." "What did you do?" "A dog, which as often as it pleases me, I stroke over the hair, as for instance now, when I received that revolutionary booby. But that is yet nothing! See under what terror people live: the executioner's axe, the gallows, the bullet, cancer, consumption, typhoid fever, tabes--suffering, pain, whole months and years of torture--and why? Before the fear of death. And I jeer at that. Me, hangman will not execute, cancer will not gnaw, consumption will not consume, pain will not break, torture will not debase, for I shout, in a given moment, at this divinity before which all tremble, as at a spaniel: 'Lie down!'" After which he laughed and said: "And that mad booby of mine, however, hid himself as if before death. Tell me what would happen if people actually did not fear?" "They would not be themselves," answered Gronski. "They desire life, not death." XI Swidwicki did not lie when he said that he did not know the name of the revolutionist to whom he promised an asylum, for in reality Pauly had made a secret of it. She so arranged it with Laskowicz on the way. The young student, learning that Swidwicki, to whom the girl was conducting him, was an acquaintance of Gronski and Pani Otocka, in the first moments became frightened inordinately. He recollected the letters which he had written to Panna Marynia, and his odious relations with Krzycki upon whom his party a short time previously perpetrated an attack. Personally he did not participate in it and the suggestion did not emanate from him, but on the other hand he did not have the slightest doubt that the committee issued the death sentence as a result of his reports designating Krzycki as the chief obstacle to their propaganda, and he remembered that he did nothing to prevent the attempt, and was even pleased in his soul that a man, hateful to him and at the same time a putative rival, would be removed from his path. For a time he even felt, owing to this "washing of hands," a certain internal disgust; at the intelligence, however, that the attack was unsuccessful he experienced, as it were, a feeling of disappointment. And now he was going to seek shelter with a man who was a relative of Pani Otocka and who might have heard of the letters to Marynia and his relations with Krzycki. This was a turn of affairs, clearly fatal, which might frustrate the best intentions of Panna Pauly. Considering all this he began to beg the girl not to mention his name, giving as a reason that in case the police should find him, Swidwicki would be less culpable. Pauly admitted the full justness of this; after a while, however, she observed that if Pan Gronski should ever visit Swidwicki then everything would be disclosed. "Yes," answered the student, "but I need that refuge for only a few days; after which I will look for another, or else my chiefs may dispatch me abroad." "What chiefs?" asked Pauly. "Those who desire liberty and bread for all, and who will not tolerate that some one should be raised above you, little lady, either in rank or money." "I do not understand. How is that? I would not be a servant and would not have a mistress?" "Yes." Pauly was struck by the thought that in that case she would be nearer to her "young lord," but not having time to discuss this any longer, she repeated: "I do not understand. Later, I will question you about it, but now let us proceed." And they walked hurriedly ahead, in silence, until they reached Swidwicki's door. On the ringing of the bell, he opened it himself. With surprise but also with a smile he saw Pauly in the dark hallway and afterwards catching sight of Laskowicz, he asked: "What is he here for? Who is he?" "May we enter and may I speak with you in private?" asked the girl. "If you please. The more private, the more agreeable it will be to me." And they entered. The student remained in the first room. The master of the house conducted Pauly to another and closed the door after him. Laskowicz began to examine the large room, full of disorder, with books, and engravings, and an abundance of bottles with white and blue labels. On the round table, near the window, piled with daily newspapers, stood a bottle with the legend: "Vin de Coca; Mariani," and a few ash trays with charred lighters for cigars and cigarettes. The furniture in the room was heavy and evidently when new was costly but it was now dirty. Hanging on the wall were pictures, among them a portrait of Pani Otocka, while yet a young unmarried lady. In one corner protruded the well known statue of the Neapolitan Psyche with mutilated skull. The student placed the flower-pot with the Italian lilies on the table and began to eavesdrop. His life was involved, for if shelter was denied to him he undoubtedly would be arrested that day. Through the closed door came to him from time to time Swidwicki's outbursts of laughter, and the conversing voices, in which the voice of the girl sounded at times as if entreating, and at other moments angry and indignant. This lasted a long time. Finally the doors opened and the first to enter was Pauly, evidently angry, and with burning cheeks; after her came Swidwicki, who said: "Very well. Since the beautiful Pauly so wishes it, I will not tell any one who brought to me this Sir Ananias, and will keep him under cover, but on condition that Pauly will prove a little grateful to me." "I am grateful," answered the girl with irritation. "These are the proofs," said Swidwicki, displaying marks on the back of his hands. "A cat could not scratch any better. But to only look at little Pauly, I will agree even to that. The next time we will have some candy." "Good-by till we meet again." "Till we meet. May it be as frequent as possible." The girl took the pot with the flowers and left. Then Swidwicki thrust his hands into his pockets and began to stare at Laskowicz as if he had before him, not a human being, but some singular animal. Laskowicz looked at him in the same way, and during that short interval they acquired for each other a mutual dislike. Finally Swidwicki asked: "Ah, esteemed Sir Benefactor, of what party? Socialist, anarchist, or bandit? I beg of you! without ceremony! I do not ask your name, but it is necessary to be acquainted somehow." "I belong to the Polish Socialist Party," answered the student with a certain pride. "Aha! Then to the most stupid one. Excellent. That is as if some one said: To the atheistic-Catholic or to the national-cosmopolitan? I am truly delighted to bid you welcome." Laskowicz was not in the least meek by nature, and besides he understood in a moment that he had before him a man with whom he would gain nothing by meekness; so, gazing straight into Swidwicki's eyes, he replied almost contemptuously: "If you, sir, can be a Catholic and Pole, I can be a socialist and Pole." But Swidwicki laughed. "No, Sir Chieftain," he said, "Catholicism is a smell. One can be a cat and have a fainter or stronger odor, but one cannot be a cat and dog in one and the same person." "I am no chieftain; only a third-class agent," retorted Laskowicz. "You, sir, have given me a refuge and yourself the right to mock me." "Exactly, exactly! But for that I shall not require any gratitude. We can, after all, change the subject. Sit down, Sir Third-class Agent. What is new? How is His Majesty, the king." "What king?" "Why the one you serve and who to-day has the most courtiers; the one who, most of all, cannot endure the truth and most easily gulps adulation; the one, who in winter smells of whiskey and in summer of sour sweat,--that mangy, lousy, scabby, stinking, gracious, or rather, ungracious ruler of the day. King Rabble." If Laskowicz had heard the most monstrous blasphemies against a holy object, which heretofore mankind venerated, he would not have been more horrified than at the words which passed Swidwicki's lips. For him it was as if he were struck on the head with a club, for it never crossed his mind that any one would have dared to utter anything like that. His eyes became dim, his jaws tightened convulsively, his hands began to tremble. In the first moments he was possessed by an irrepressible desire to shoot Swidwicki in the head with the revolver he carried with him and afterwards slam the door and go wherever his eyes would take him, or else to place the barrel to his ear and shatter his own head, but he lacked the strength. All night long he had toiled in the printing plant; after which he had fled over the roofs and through the streets like a wild animal. He was fatigued, hungry, and exhausted with the frightful experiences of that morning. So he suddenly staggered on his feet, became as pale as a corpse, and would have tumbled upon the ground if a chair had not stood close by, into which he sank heavily, as if dead. "What is this? What in the devil ails you?" asked Swidwicki. And he began to assist him. He poured out of a bottle the remainder of the cognac and forced him to drink it; afterwards he lifted him from the chair and led him to another room and almost forcibly put him in his own bed. "What the devil!" he repeated; "how do you feel?" "Better," answered Laskowicz. Swidwicki glanced at his watch. "In about ten minutes, the old woman who serves here ought to come. I will order her to bring something to eat. In the meanwhile lie quietly." Laskowicz obeyed this advice, as he could not do otherwise. Lying there, however, he for a time knit his brow, and evidently his mind was laboring. Then he said: "That king--about whom you inquired--is--starving--" "May the devil take him!" replied Swidwicki. "The bourgeoisie will feed him, and for this he at the first opportunity will cut their throats. But do not take to heart too seriously whatever I say; for I say the same and stronger things to all parties. All! Do you understand, sir?" The bell interrupted further conversation. Laskowicz trembled like an aspen leaf. "That is my old woman. I recognize the ring," said Swidwicki. "She is earlier to-day than usual. Very well. I will order her to bring food at once." In fact, after a quarter of an hour, food was placed on the table. Refreshed, Laskowicz came entirely to himself and did not think of forsaking his new shelter. Swidwicki began to open and rummage through various drawers. Finally, finding a passport, he handed it to Laskowicz and said: "Before you, Sir Benefactor, become dictator of all Poland you will call yourself Zaranczko. You come from Bessarabia and have served with me a year. If they should catch you and, with you, me, repeat only one expression, '_Mamalyga_,[9] _mamalyga_.'" In this manner Laskowicz was installed in Swidwicki's home. XII The morning after Marynia's birthday was unusually gloomy. The western wind drove heavy black clouds, which hung over the city, foretelling a storm. The atmosphere became oppressive and sultry. When Ladislaus entered the church it was completely dark within. In the Chapel of the Divine Mother a quiet votive mass commenced almost with his entry, and the flickering little flames of the candles, lighted before the altar, poorly illuminated the darkness. Ladislaus began to search with his eyes for Miss Anney and he recognized her by the light hair protruding from under her hat. She knelt in the first pew, her hands crossed in prayer and resting upon an open book. Seeing Ladislaus, she nodded her head and drew aside, to make room for him, not pausing in her prayers. He wanted to speak to her but did not dare, and only kneeling, drew somewhat towards himself the book so that they might pray from it together. It was, however, so dark that he could read nothing and after a while he became convinced that he could not pray at all. He was seized by great emotion, for he understood that a new epoch in his life had commenced, and that this moment, in which by the consent of Miss Anney he knelt at her side before the altar to mutually entreat God for blessing, signified more than any other avowals, and that it was the first sanctification of their loves and their joint future lives. He was possessed by a sense of his happiness, but at the same time by some kind of solemn apprehension at the thought that everything would soon cease to be only a dream, only a fancy, only a phantom of happiness, and become realized and accomplished. Through his mind glided the interrogatories,--How will he be able to bear this happiness, what will he do with it, and how will he acquit himself,--and from these questions there was bred in him a sense of immense responsibility, surcharged with fear. It was like certain worries which hitherto, as a free man, he had not known or at least had not met face to face. And he saw before him cares more direct and immediate. The moment of his interview with his mother was approaching; there were also some secret obstacles, which Gronski mentioned, and it was incumbent upon him to weigh everything, to plan, settle various matters, and set aside anticipated difficulties. In truth, now, if ever, it was worth while and necessary to trust to the Divine favor, invoke the All-provident aid, and deliver her to the care of the Future. Ladislaus observed that similar feelings and similar thoughts must have swayed Miss Anney as her countenance was calm, composed, grave, and even sad. The little flames of the candles were reflected in her upraised eyes and for a while it seemed to Ladislaus that he saw tears in those eyes. Apparently with the whole strength of her soul she committed him and herself to God. And thus they knelt beside each other, shoulder to shoulder, heart to heart, and already united, happy, and a little timorous. Ladislaus, having suppressed the whirlwind of thoughts, at last began to pray and said to God, "Do with me whatever Thou wilt, but grant her happiness and peace." And a prodigious overflowing wave of love deluged his bosom. His prayer became at the same time a solemn espousal and internal oath that he would never wrong that most precious being in the world, and that those eyes would never weep for his sake. In the meantime the votive mass was nearing its close. When the priest turned from the altar, his words, in the half-empty chapel, were as if dreamy and like whispering amidst sighs--as usually happens at the early morning mass. But at times they were deafened by thunders, as the storm began outside. The windows of the chapel darkened yet more, and from time to time livid lightning illuminated the panes; after which the darkness grew yet denser, and on the altar the little flames of the candles twinkled uneasily. The priest turned around once more; "Dominus vobiscum!" after which, "Ite missa est." Afterwards he blessed the assembled and retired. The small number of faithful who heard the mass followed his example. Only they two remained. Then she began to say in a whisper, broken by emotion, "Under Thy protection we flee. Holy Mother of God," and the further words "Our entreaties deign not to spurn and from all evil deign to preserve us forever," were said jointly with Ladislaus, and in this manner the entire prayer concluded. After this, silence fell between them, was broken only after a long while by Ladislaus. "We will have to wait," he said in a low voice. "The storm is yet continuing." "Very well," answered Miss Anney. "My dear, dearest lady--" But she placed her finger to her lips and silence again ensued. They did not, however, have to wait very long, for the summer storms come and pass away like birds. After the lapse of a quarter of an hour they left the church. The streets were flooded by the rain, but through the rifts of the scattered and rent clouds the sun shone brightly and, it seemed, moistly. Miss Anney's eyes winked under the flood of light and her countenance was as if she was awakened from a dream. But her composure and gravity did not pass away. Ladislaus, on the other hand, at the sight of the sun, and the bustle and life on the streets, was at once imbued with gayety and hope. He glanced once and again at his companion and she seemed to him as wonderful as a dream, charming as never before, and adorable simply beyond measure and bounds. He felt that he was capable of seizing her at that moment in his arms; of showing her to the sun, the clouds, the city, the human multitude, and exclaiming: "Behold my wealth, my treasure; this is the joy of my life!" But, conjecturing properly that Miss Anney would not assent to any manifestations like that, he subdued this impulse and directed his thoughts to more important matters. "My adored lady," said he, "I must give utterance to words which burn my lips. When may I come to see you?" "To-day at four," she replied; "I also have to tell you something upon which everything depends." "Everything depends upon you, lady, and upon nothing else." But her clear cheeks were suffused with confused blushes: her eyes shone as if with disagreeable uneasiness; and she replied: "God grant--you do not know, sir--you do not know sir--" she repeated with emphasis. "We will be alone.--But now we must part." Ladislaus escorted her to the carriage, kissed her hands and remained alone. Her words, corroborating that which Gronski had intimated as a result of his interviews with Pani Otocka, disquieted him, however, but only for a short time, as he was too much in love to suppose that it could change his love or swerve him from his purpose. At the mere thought of this he shrugged his shoulders. "Women," he said to himself, "are always full of scruples and to actual difficulties they add chimerical ones." After which, he returned home in the best of humor, and besides Gronski, found there Dolhanski. "Behold," exclaimed Gronski, "lo, here is Dolhanski the bachelor. Congratulate him for he is going to marry." "No?" Truly? asked Ladislaus, amused. "With Panna Kajetana Wlocek," added Dolhanski, with sangfroid and extraordinary gravity. "Then I tender my best wishes from the whole heart. When is the wedding?" "Very soon, on account of the weather, famine, fire, and war, also similar exceptional circumstances. In a week. Without publication of the banns, on an _indult_. After the wedding, the same night a trip abroad." "And you say all this seriously?" "With the greatest seriousness in the world. Observe the exquisite consequences." "Here Dolhanski spread out his fingers and began to enumerate:" "Primo, my credit is resurrected, as a Hindoo fakir, who, buried in the ground for a whole month, awakes after exhumation to a new life; secundo: Gorek is without a copper coin of indebtedness and without society; tertio: my marriage settlement surpasses my expectations; quarto: my fiancée from good luck has grown so beautiful that you would not recognize her." "What are you saying?" cried Ladislaus, ingenuously. XIII Promptly at four, Ladislaus appeared at Miss Anney's. She received him feelingly and for a greeting offered both hands which he began to press alternately to his lips and his forehead. Afterwards they sat beside each other and for a long time heard only the quickened beating of their own hearts and the faint sounds of the clock on the writing-desk. They reciprocally glanced at each other but neither was able to say the first word. After a while life could glow for them like a new dawn, glistening with joy and happiness, but, for the time being, it was heavy, embarrassing, the more embarrassing the longer the silence continued. Finally, Ladislaus from a feeling, that, if he kept silent much longer, he would appear ridiculous, mustered enough courage and spoke in a broken voice, whose sounds appeared strange to him! "From this morning I have a little hope--and nevertheless my heart beats as if I did not have any--I could not say a single word until I caught my breath--but that is nothing strange as my whole life is concerned.--Lady, you long ago, of course, surmised how deeply--how with my whole soul I love you,--you knew this long ago--is it not so?" Here he again inhaled the air, took a deep breath, and continued: "To-day in the church I said to myself this: 'If she will hear me, if she does not spurn me, if she consents to be my own for my whole life--my wife--then I vow solemnly to God before this altar that I will love and honor her; that I will never wrong her and will give her all the happiness which is in my power.' And I swear to you that this is the truth--It only depends upon you, lady, that it shall be so--upon your consent--upon your faith in me." Saying this, he again raised Miss Anney's hands to his lips and imprinted upon them a long imploring kiss and she leaned towards him so that her hair lightly brushed his forehead, and quietly replied: "I consent and believe with my whole soul--but this does not depend upon me alone." "Only upon you, lady," exclaimed Ladislaus. And believing that Miss Anney had his mother in mind, he began to say with a brightened face and deep joy in his voice: "My mother desires my happiness above all things and I assure you that she will come here with me to beg of you; and with me she will thank you for this great, this ineffable boon, and in the meantime I on my knees thank--" He wanted to drop on his knees before her and embrace her limbs with his arms, but she began to restrain him and say with feverish haste: "No, no. Do not kneel, sir,--you must first hear me. I consent, but I must confess things upon which everything depends. Please calm yourself." Ladislaus rose, again sat beside her and said, with anxious surprise: "I listen, my dearest lady." "And I must compose myself a little," replied Miss Anney. After which she rose, and approaching the window, pressed her forehead against the pane. For some time silence again ensued. "What is it?" spoke out Krzycki. Miss Anney withdrew her forehead from the pane. Her countenance was calmer, but her eyes were dimmed as if with tears. Approaching the table, she sat down opposite to Ladislaus. "Before I relate what it is now necessary for me to state," she said, "I have a great favor to ask of you. And if you--love me truly--then you will not refuse--" "Lady, if you demanded my life, I would not refuse it. I pledge you my word," he exclaimed. "Very well. Give me your word. Then I will be certain." "I pledge it in advance and swear upon our future happiness that I will comply with your every wish." "Very well," repeated Miss Anney. "Then I first beg of you, by all you hold most precious, not to feel at all bound by anything you have said to me just now." "I not feel bound? In what way? Of course, it may not be binding upon you, lady--but on me--" "Well, then, I release you from all obligations and consider that nothing has been said. You promised me that you would not refuse me anything, but this is not all." "Not all?" "No, I am anxious that after what I shall tell you, you shall not give me any answer--and for a whole week shall not return to me and shall not try to see me." "But in the name of God, what is it?" cried Ladislaus; "why should I suffer a week of torments? What does this mean?" "And for me it also will be a torment," she answered in a soft voice. "But it is necessary, it is imperative. You will have to explain everything to yourself; weigh everything, unravel and decide everything--and form a resolution--afterwards you may return or may not return--and a week for all that will be rather too little." And perceiving the agitation on Ladislaus' face, she hurriedly added, as if alarmed: "Sir, you promised--you pledged me your word!" Ladislaus drew his hand across the hair of his head; after which he began to rub his forehead with his palm. "I gave the word," he said at last, "because you requested it, lady--but why?" And Miss Anney turned pale to the eyes; for a while her lips quivered as though she struggled vainly to draw the words from her bosom, and only after an interval did she reply: "Because--atone time I--did not bear the name of Anney." "You did not bear the name of Anney?" "I--am--Hanka Skibianka." Ladislaus rose, staggered like a drunken man, and began to stare at her with a bewildered look. And she added in almost a whisper: "Little master!--'tis I--of the mill." And tears coursed quietly over her pallid countenance. PART III. I Krzycki left Miss Anney's with a sensation as if lightning had struck directly in front of him and suddenly stunned him. He could neither collect nor connect his thoughts; he was not even in a condition to realize his situation nor reflect upon it. The only impression, or rather feeling, which in the first moments remained was a feeling of illimitable amazement. On the way he repeated every little while, "Hanka Skibianka! Hanka Skibianka!" and seemed incapable of doing aught else. He did not find Gronski at home, as the latter had left immediately after the noon hour, telling the servant that he would return late at night. So he went to his room, locked himself in without knowing why; afterwards he flung himself into an armchair and sat abstractedly for over an hour. After the lapse of that time, he opened his trunk and began to pack things into it with excessive zeal, until finally he propounded to himself the question: "Why am I doing this?" Not being able to find an answer, he abandoned that work and only resumed it when he came to the unexpected conclusion that in any case he would have to move away from Gronski's. Having finished, he put on his hat and left, without any well-defined object, for the city. For a while a desire rose in him to call upon his mother and Pani Otocka, but he stifled it at once. For what? It seemed to him that he had nothing to tell his mother about himself and his intentions; and that he could talk with her only about this unheard-of intelligence, the discussion of which would be for him, beyond all expression, afflicting. Unconsciously, he reached the Holy Cross Church and wanted to enter it, but the hour was late and the church was locked. The morning of that day and the joint prayer with her stood vividly before his eyes. Ah, how sincerely he prayed; how he loved her; how he loved her! And now he could not resist the impression that this light-haired, idolized lady, with whom he said in that chapel "Under Thy Protection," and Hanka Skibianka were two different beings. And he felt in his heart a kind of disenchantment with which he began to contend. For why was he nevertheless so acutely affected by it? Was it because Hanka was a peasant girl and he a nobleman? No! Miss Anney never represented herself as an English noblewoman, and a Polish peasant is no worse than an English commoner. He could not clearly perceive that the reason of it lay in this: that Miss Anney through her descent alone, foreign and distant, appeared to him a sort of princess, and Hanka was a near and domestic girl from Zarnow. She aroused less curiosity and therefore was less attractive. She was so much easier, therefore, cheaper to him. In vain he recalled and repeated that this Hanka is that same light-haired lady, charming as a dream, alluring, genteel, womanly, responding in sentiment to every thought and every word; the feeling of disenchantment was more powerful than those thoughts, and that charm of exoticism, which suddenly was lacking in the girl, minimized her worth in his eyes. But, besides this, there was something else, in view of which the disenchantment and all unexpected impressions stood aside and became matters of secondary importance. This was, that he had once possessed that girl--body and soul. She was at that time almost a child--a flower not yet in full bloom which he plucked and carried for some time at his bosom. The memory of that could be a reproach only for him; no fault whatever weighed on her. He recollected those moonlight nights on which he stole to the mill; those whispers which were one quiet song of love and intoxication, interrupted only by kisses; he recalled how he clasped to his heart her girlish body, fragrant with the hay of the fields; how he drank the tears from her eyes and how he said to her that he would give up for her all the ladies of all the courts. The idyl passed, but now there wafted upon him from her the breath of the first youthful years, the first love, the first ecstasy, and the truly great poetry of life. Besides, there was truth in what he had confided to Gronski in Jastrzeb: that the girl loved him as no other woman in the world surely would love him. And at the thought of this, his heart began to melt. Together with the wave of recollection, Hanka returned and again engaged his thoughts. Yes. But that was Hanka and she is Miss Anney. In Ladislaus, from the time he fell in love with her, his senses leaped wildly towards her like a pack of yelping hounds; but he held them in leash because at the same time he knelt before his beloved. She was to him an object of desire but at the same time a sacred relic; something so inaccessible, exalted, pure, and mysterious in its virginity that at the thought that the moment would arrive when he would be the master of those treasures and secrets appeared to him a delight beyond all measure of delight; all the more fathomless as it was, united, as it were, with a sacrilege. And now he had to say to himself that this sacrilege he had already committed; that the charm of something unknown was dispelled; that in this vestal there were for him no mysteries and that he had already drunk from that cup. And this again was one lure less; one disenchantment more. In this manner Miss Anney muddied his recollection of the field peasant-girl, Hanka,--Hanka depreciated the charm of Miss Anney. Both were so different, so unlike each other, that, being unable to merge them into one entity, he vainly intensified that jarring impression with a feeling of disquietude and pain. In this vexation of spirit there occurred to him one wicked, low, and ugly thought. In what manner did the poor and simple Hanka change into the brilliant Miss Anney? In what manner could a gray sparrow from under a village thatched hut be transformed into a paradisiacal bird? Hanka was a betrayed girl; therefore the bridges had been burnt behind her. Amidst the wealth of a foreign land, beautiful but poor girls have before them only one road to the acquisition of affluence and even polish, and that was the road of shame. Hanka found one patron who took care of her in the appropriate manner; how many similar patrons and protectors could Miss Anney find? At the thought of this Krzycki's head swam. Conscience said to him, "You opened those gates before her," and at the same time he was seized by such anger at Miss Anney and himself that if the life or death of both rested in his hands, he would at that moment have selected death. Something within him was rent asunder; something crashed. It seemed to him that again, just above his head, pealed lightning, which stunned him and burnt, within him, to a crisp, the ability to think. He wandered a long time over the city. He himself did not know in what manner he again found himself before Pani Otocka's home, but he did not enter for he once more felt that at that time he could not speak with his mother. He returned to his own house late at night. Gronski was already at home, and for an hour had been waiting for him with the tea. "Good evening," he said, "I have returned from your mother's." And Ladislaus asked him with blunt impetuosity, "Do you know who Miss Anney is?" "I do. Pani Otocka told me." A moment of silence followed. "What do you say to this?" "I could ask you that question." Ladislaus sat heavily in the chair, drew his palm over his forehead and replied with bitter irony: "Ah, I have time. I was given a week for consideration." "That is not too much," answered Gronski, looking at him questioningly. "Certainly. Does Mother also know?" "Yes. Pani Otocka told her everything." Again silence ensued. "My dear Laudie," said Gronski, "I can understand that this must have shocked you, and for that reason I will not speak with you of it until you calm down and regain your equipoise. You must also become familiar with and well weigh the reasons why Miss Anney told only Pani Otocka who she was and why she came to Jastrzeb under her new name, to which, after all, she has a perfect right. Here is a letter from her. She requested me to deliver it to you to-morrow and that is why I did not hand it to you as soon as you appeared. At present I do not think that it would be proper to defer the matter. But do not open it at once nor in my presence. Put it away and read it when alone, when you can ponder over every word. Positively do this. That which has happened moved me to such an extent that for the time being I could not speak of it calmly. To-day I can only give you this advice: be a man and do not allow yourself to be swept away by the current of impressions. Row!" To this Ladislaus, who sobered up a little under the influence of these words, said: "I thank you, sir. I will read the letter in privacy. It is now so indispensable to me that I trust, sir, that you will not take it ill of me if I no longer abuse your hospitality. I am sincerely and cordially grateful to you for everything, but I must lock myself up. How long--I do not know. When I am myself again, I will come to you to discuss everything, God grant, more calmly. Now in reality, I see that I was justly given one week's time. But besides time, I feel the need of my own den. I cannot get rid of various thoughts, immensely bitter and even horrible. To-day they hold me by the head and it is necessary that I should hold them by the head--and for that reason I want to have my own den." "You know how willing I am to please you," answered Gronski; "I understand you, and though in advance I decided not to torment you with any questions, nevertheless, do what is best for yourself. I must tell you also that your mother is moving to a hotel, as she is offended with Pani Otocka. She took umbrage because she did not tell her at once in Jastrzeb who Miss Anney was." "I confess that I do not understand that--" "Nevertheless, that would have been directly contrary to what those ladies desired. Pani Otocka's intentions were the noblest. Time will elucidate and equalize everything. Even Marynia did not know anything, not only because Pani Zosia was bound by her word, but also because she did not deem it proper to acquaint her with your former behavior and your relations with the Hanka of former days. With Hanka--Miss Anney! That was an unheard-of turn of affairs. Do you remember our conversation in Jastrzeb when we went hunting for woodcock? Do you remember?" "I remember, but I cannot speak of it." "Yes, better not speak of it at this time. Miss Anney's letter undoubtedly will clear up the dark sides of the affair and explain what is now unintelligible. If you desire to read it at once, I will go and leave you here." "I am very curious about it and for just that reason I will take my leave of you." "But you will pass this night with me?" "I have packed my things and the hotels are always open." "In such case good-by!--and remember what I told you. Row! Row!" After a moment Gronski remained alone. He also was agitated, distressed, but curious to the highest degree. When after Ladislaus' confessions in Jastrzeb, he said to him that "the mills of the gods grind late," he spoke it in a way one utters, off-hand, any maxim to which one does not attach any real significance. In the meantime life verified it in a manner fabulous but nevertheless logical. For as a fable only appeared the transformation of Hanka into Miss Anney, but that Miss Anney desired to see the man, whom, as a child, she loved in her first transports of love and the place which bound her with so many memories, tender and sad, was a matter natural and intelligible. And, of course, she could not return to Jastrzeb and stay under the Krzycki roof-tree otherwise than under a changed name. And thus it happened; and the later events rolled on with their own force until they reached the moment when it was necessary to reveal the secret. Gronski knew already from Pani Otocka everything which she could tell him and absolved from all sin her as well as Miss Anney. Nevertheless, he understood that an unprecedented situation was created, and such a knot was twisted that the untangling of it was impossible to foresee. It could only be untwined by Krzycki, and even he stood not only in the presence of new difficulties but, as it were, in the presence of a new person. II The very next day after the escape from the police Pauly visited Laskowicz and afterwards called to see him as often as she could find leisure time, selecting, nevertheless, hours when Swidwicki was not at home. But this did not present great difficulties as Swidwicki usually rose about noon, after which he went away and did not return until late at night. The girl was not induced to make these frequent visits by any sentimentality nor exceptional benevolence for the young student. She even felt, particularly in the first moments, that she could despise him. But women love in general to look at close range at their good deeds and to behold, even daily, the people for whom they have become providential angels; and again Laskowicz, with every word, disclosed to her worlds of whose existence she heretofore had never guessed. About socialists thus far she knew almost nothing, except what a certain old female cook once told her, that "they do not believe in God and do not eat ducks"; and she only heard that they threw bombs and shot from revolvers. After the attack upon Krzycki howsoever much she, together with all the servants in Jastrzeb, was convinced that it was perpetrated by Rzeslewo men, nevertheless, the supposition that it might have been the socialists reached her ears, and then she was inflamed against them with a temporary ungovernable hatred. But now she was learning that they were people of an entirely different stamp. She did not yet understand what in general they wanted, but understood in particular that those people desired that she, Paulina Kielkowna, should be a kind of lady like Miss Anney or Pani Otocka. And as a bee sips juice from flowers, so she, from the words of the young fanatic, extracted nourishment for her envy, her pain, her feelings. Her heart began to draw her towards that "Party," which appeared to her as a Providence and as a power; and to this was joined the purely feminine curiosity of the awful secrets of that power. Laskowicz quickly observed that the seed fell upon fit soil; and when once, for uttering inadvertently a disparaging word against Krzycki, the girl almost scratched out his eyes, he surmised her secret and determined to exploit her, not only for the good of the cause but also for his own personal ends. Although Pauly was not the servant of Pani Otocka but of Miss Anney, she nevertheless dwelt in the same house; so he could, through her, secure news of Marynia, which he craved with all his soul; he could quiet his fears as to Krzycki's intentions, could speak of her and hear her name; and finally could gain information as to when and where he could see her, though from a distance. And he questioned Panna Pauly about all this; at first cautiously and casually, afterwards more and more, and at last so incessantly that this began to surprise and anger her. Prone to extremes, and more capable of hatred than affection, she worshipped, by way of exception, Marynia, regarding her as a sort of supernal being, and this worship in her was as violent as was her hatred. On the other hand, on the ideal path, in the direction of universal equality and dislike of the higher classes she made in a brief time considerable progress. She could not however, cast off at once her former notions, and she frequently had sudden relapses to them. Hence at one time, when Laskowicz as usual began to hurl questions at her about Panna Marynia, she answered him testily: "Why are you always talking about Panna Zbyltowska?" "Perhaps I am in love with her," retorted the student, knitting his brow. At this her eyes in a moment blazed with rage. "What more yet?" And he began to peer at her keenly and asked: "Why does the little lady say 'what more yet'?" "For you are as suited for her as I am--" And she paused abruptly, but he finished: "To Pan Krzycki, for instance." Then she burst into a greater rage yet. "Why do you meddle in matters that do not concern you?" "I do not meddle in anything. I say only if the little lady fell in love with him and if I, hearing of it, said 'What more yet?' that would be disagreeable to the little lady? And it would be justly disagreeable. For if the priests prate that it is permissible to love even God, why not a human being? It is permissible for the little lady, it is permissible for me, it is permissible for everybody, for that is the law of nature and therefore our law." The words seconded that which was hidden in the girl's heart too much for her anger to remain, so she only glanced at Laskowicz, as if in sorrow, and replied: "Eh! Much good will come of that law!" "It will come or not come, in time. After all, if we adjusted the world in our own way, no dog would bark at such things. Is not the little lady worthy of Krzycki? Why not? Is it because he is richer? That is just what we are trying to prevent. Then what? Education? Lady, spit upon it. That education you can teach to a monkey. It is he, if the little lady wanted him, who ought yet to kiss the little lady's feet." But she again became impatient and replied: "Idle talk." "I also want only to say that in case I should fall in love with Panna Marynia and the little lady with Krzycki, our lot would be identical and the wrong the same." "Wrong in what?" "In the vile institutions of this world; in this, that such riff-raff as ourselves are permitted to love only to suffer, and we are not allowed to raise our eyes even upon the bourgeoisie, even though the hearts within should whine like dogs." "True," answered the girl through set teeth. "But what of it?" "This: that we ought to give to each other our hands, as brother and sister, and not be angry at each other, but assist one another. Who knows whether one may not be of service to the other?" "Eh! In what way can we help each other?" And he again began to gaze fixedly at her with his eyes set so closely to each other and said, uttering each word slowly: "I do not know whether Krzycki is in love with Panna Marynia or with that Englishwoman whom the little lady serves; or perhaps with neither of them." In one moment Pauly's face was covered with a pallor; afterwards a flame passed over it, which in turn gave way to pallor. In her soul there might have been dumb fears, but up to that time she had dared not put to herself any questions. Those ladies were entertained in Jastrzeb as guests. Pani Otocka and Panna Marynia were Krzycki's relatives; therefore there was nothing unusual in their relations. On the other hand, when the "Englishwoman" in Jastrzeb drove for the doctor and later nursed the wounded man, that was a time when the heart of the girl raged with jealousy and uneasiness. Afterwards she was placated by the thought that such a young nobleman would not wed a foreign "intruder," no matter how wealthy, but, at present, jealousy pierced her like a knife. Laskowicz continued: "The little lady asked in what way we can help one another, did she not?" "Yes." "At least in--revenge," After which, he changed the conversation. "Let the little lady come to me and, if I sometimes inquire about anything, let her not get angry. If at times it is hard for her, it is not easy for me. One lot, one wrong. Let the little lady come. I do not want to live with Swidwicki any longer. He is a peculiar man. I know that he did not take me out of the goodness of his heart, but as he placed himself in peril on my account I must endure everything from him. In the meantime he so maligns our party that I feel an impulse to shoot him in the head or stab him with a knife." "Why do you argue with that old goat?" "Because he talks and I must listen. Often he goads me into a reply. Somebody else for lesser things would get a knife under the ribs." "But I will not be able to hide you a second time, for I do not know where." "No. I myself will find some sort of hole; I have already thought of that. Our people will help. I now have a passport and am bleached yellow on the head. Some of my associates could not recognize me. Even if I am caught they will not try me as Laskowicz but as Zaranczko of Bessarabia, unless some one should betray me, but such there is not among us." "Only be careful, sir, and when you know where to hide, let me know. I will not betray." "I know, I know; such do not betray." After which he suddenly asked: "Why does not the little lady want to agree that we should call each other 'associates'? Amongst us we all speak that way." But she rebuffed him at once. "I told you once I cannot endure that." "Ah, if it is so, then it is hard." Pauly began to prepare for home. Laskowicz on the leave-taking made a second departure from the customs governing his associates, for he kissed her hand. Previously he had noticed that this raised her in her own eyes; that it flattered her and brought her into a good humor. Although not by nature over-intelligent, he observed that the principles of the Party alone would not entirely hold her, and that he would have in that girl an aid capable of all extremes, but only so far as her own personality entered into the play. This lowered the opinion which he held of her and his gratitude to her. He nevertheless submitted to this despotism, remembering that he owed to her his life. At present he had, besides, a favor to ask of her; so at the door he kissed her hand a second time and said: "Panna Pauly--the same lot, the same wrong. Let the little lady answer yet one more question. Where can I see though from a distance--though from a distance--" "Whom?" she asked, knitting her brows. "Panna Marynia." "If from a distance, then I will tell," she replied reluctantly. "The little lady is to play for the starving working people and at noon goes to the rehearsals." "Alone?" "No, with Pani Otocka or with my mistress; but sometimes with one of us servants." "Thank you." "But only from a distance--do you understand, sir,--for otherwise you will fare badly." And after these words, which sounded like a menace, she left him. The next moment Laskowicz heard through the door Swidwicki's voice and laughter, after which something resembling a scuffle, a suppressed scream, and--the sound of hasty footsteps on the stairs; finally Swidwicki stumbled into the room, drunk. "What were you doing here?" he asked. "Nothing," answered Laskowicz. And he began to scan the room, evidently desiring to satisfy himself whether he could not detect some signs of disorder, and repeated: "Nothing!" "I give you my word of honor," the student exclaimed with energy. At this Swidwicki leered at him, fingering his disheveled beard and said: "Then you are a fool!" After which he flung himself upon the sofa, for he had partaken of a sumptuous breakfast and was sleepy. III Laskowicz's extreme fanaticism could not in reality harmonize with the extreme cynical scepticism of Swidwicki, who in addition took advantage of the situation not only beyond measure, but to the point of cruelty. He himself spoke of it and boasted about it to Gronski, when he met him in the restaurant, to which Gronski went after Krzycki's removal. "I have enough of my revolutionary maggot," he said, "I have enough of him, especially since I have satisfied myself that personally he is honest and will not pilfer any money from my pocket-book. From that time he has bored me. As for harboring such a simpleton one might go to Siberia. I regarded it in the beginning as a species of sport. I thought I would have a permanent sensation of a certain anxiety and, in the meantime, I have not experienced anything of the kind. The only satisfaction which I have is to point out to him his own stupidity and that of his party. By that I drive him to rabidness." "But that he cares to argue with you--" "He does not want to but is unable to restrain himself. His temperament and fanaticism carry him away." "At one time I met a similar individual," answered Gronski, "and not very long ago--out in the country, in Jastrzeb. He was a student, a tutor of Stas, whom Krzycki later discharged because he incited the field hands and was an agitator among peasants of the neighborhood." "Ah," ejaculated, with a strange smile, Swidwicki, to whom it occurred that Pauly also was at Jastrzeb. "What? Why do you smile?" asked Gronski. "Oh, nothing. Speak further." "I rode with him once to the city and on the way had quite a chat with him." "According to your habit." "According to my habit. Now among empty phrases, which only dull minds would accept as genuine coin, he said some interesting things. I learned a little about the angle from which they view the world." "My maggot at times says interesting things. Yesterday I led him into the admission that socialists of the pure water regard as their greatest enemies the peasants and the radical members of the bourgeoisie. I began to pour oil on the fire and he unbosomed himself. An unsophisticated peasant aspires to ownership, and that aspiration the devil cannot eradicate, and as to the bourgeoisie he spoke thus: 'What harm,' he said, 'do these few nobles and priests who infest the world do to us? Our enemy is the bourgeois, rich or poor. Our enemy is the radical, who thinks that as soon as he shouts that he does not believe in God and priests that he buys us. Our enemy is that boaster, who speaks in the name of the common people and is ready to tickle us under the armpits, so that we should smile on him. He is the one who fawns on us, like a dog at a roll of butter, and preserves all the instincts of a bourgeois.' And he chattered further until I said: 'Hold on! Why, you are with the radicals "fratres Helenae!"' And he to this: 'That is not true! The radical, wealthy bourgeois, who from fear dyes in red and borrows the standard and methods from us, introduces confusion in minds and drabbles in the mud our idea; and the poor one, if he annually saves even the smallest amount, injures us for he offers to work at a lower price than the pure proletaire, who always is as poor as Job. We,' he said, 'will put the knife, above all things, to the throats of the bourgeois for latent treachery lurks in him.' Thus he chattered and I was willing to concede justice to him, if in general I believed in justice, but I did not concede it yet for another reason, and that is, he is too stupid to have reasoned out such things. It was evident that he repeated what others taught him. In fact I did not neglect to tell him so." Further discussion was interrupted by the arrival of Dolhanski who, observing Gronski, approached him, although he disliked to meet Swidwicki. "How are you?" he said, "My ladies took a trip to Czestochowo; so I am free. Will you permit me to be seated with you?" "Certainly, certainly. Why, these are your last days." "It would be worth while even for that reason to drink a little bottle," observed Swidwicki, "particularly as it is, besides, my birthday." "If the calendar was a wine-cellar and the dates in it bottles, then your birthday would occur every day," answered Gronski. "I swear to you upon everything at which I jeer, that, contrary to my habit and inclination, this time I speak the truth." Saying this, he nodded to the waiter and ordered him to bring two bottles, calculating that afterwards more would be forthcoming. In the meantime Dolhanski said: "I met Krzycki to-day. He looks poorly; somehow not himself, and he told me that he does not live with you but in a hotel. Did you by chance quarrel?" "No. But he moved away from me and Pani Krzycki from Pani Otocka's." "There is some kind of epidemic," exclaimed Swidwicki, "for my cutthroat is leaving me." "Perhaps something has passed between Krzycki and Miss Anney," said Dolhanski. "I supposed that they were getting quite intimate. Did they part--or what?" "A marchpane, that Englishwoman," interrupted Swidwicki; "but her maid has more electricity in her." Gronski hesitated for a while; after which he said: "No, they have not parted, but something has occurred. I do not know why I should make a secret of that which, sooner or later, you will find out. It has developed that Miss Anney is not the born, but adopted, child of the rich English manufacturer, lately deceased, Mr. Anney, and of his late wife." "Well, if the adoption gives her all the rights, and particularly the right of inheritance, is it not all the same to Krzycki?" "The adoption gives her all rights; nevertheless it is not entirely the same to Krzycki, for it appears that Miss Anney is the daughter of a blacksmith of Rzeslewo and is named Hanka Skibianka." "Ha!" cried Swidwicki, "Perdita has been found but not the king's daughter. What does the pretty Florizel say to this?" But Dolhanski began to stare at Gronski as if he saw him for the first time in his life. "What are you saying?" "The actual fact." "Sapristi! But that is a nursery tale. Sapristi! You are joking." "I give you my word it is so. She herself told that to Krzycki." "I like that expression of astonishment on Dolhanski's face," exclaimed Swidwicki. "Man, come to yourself." Dolhanski restrained himself, for he always proclaimed that a true gentleman never should be surprised. "I remember now," he said, "that this is the Skibianka to whom Uncle Zarnowski bequeathed a few thousand roubles." "The same." "Therefore his daughter." "Fancy to yourself otherwise. Skiba came from Galicia to Rzeslewo with a wife and a child a few years old." "Therefore of pure peasant blood." "A Piast's,[10] a Piast's," cried Swidwicki. "Absolutely pure," answered Gronski. "And what does Laudie say?" "He swallowed the tidings and is trying to digest them," again blurted out Swidwicki. "That substantially is the case. He found himself in a new situation and locked himself up. It dumfounded him a little, and he desires to come to himself." "He was enamoured to the point of ludicrousness but now he will probably break off." "I do not admit that, but I repeat, that, in view of the changed situation, he has fallen into a certain internal strife, which he must first quell." "I candidly confess that I would break off all relations unconditionally." "But if Kaska or Hanka had a hundred thousand pounds?" asked Swidwicki. "In such a case--I would have fallen into a strife," answered Dolhanski, phlegmatically. After a while he continued: "For it seems that it is nothing, but in life it may appear to be something. Omitting the various cousins, 'Mats' and 'Jacks,' who undoubtedly will be found; there also will be found dissimilar instincts, dissimilar dispositions, and dissimilar tastes. Why, the deuce! I would not want a wife who suddenly might be ruled by an unexpected passion for amber rosaries, for shelling peas, for swingling flax, for picking fruit, or for gathering mushrooms, not to say berries and nuts, and walking barefooted." Here he turned to Gronski. "Shrug your shoulders, but it is so." "That would not shock me," said Swidwicki, "only, if I were to marry Miss Anney, I would just stipulate that she at times should go about barefooted. When I am in the country, nothing affects me so much as the sight of the bare feet of girls. It is true that they often have erysipelas about the ankles, which comes from the prickle of the stubblefields. But I assume that Miss Anney has not got erysipelas." "One cannot talk with you in a dignified manner." "Why?" replied Swidwicki. "Let Krzycki now clip coupons from his dignity but not we. Did you say that he belongs to the National Democrats?" "No, not I. But what connection has that with Miss Anney?" "Oh,--oh, a nobleman--a National Democrat--has found out that his flame has peasant blood in her veins and nevertheless his belly on that account has begun to ache; nevertheless, he is stung by that deminutio capitis." "Who told you that? Besides, it should be permutatio, not deminutio." "Yes! The English wares take on the appearance of a domestic product and fall in value. Justly, justly." "Do you know who could with perfect independence enter into a marriage under such conditions?" asked Dolhanski. "A truly great gentlemen." "But not Polish," exclaimed Swidwicki. "There you are already beginning! Why not Polish?" "Because a Polish gentleman has not sufficient faith in his own blood; he plainly has not sufficient pride to believe that he will elevate a woman to himself and not lower himself to her." Gronski began to laugh: "I did not expect that charge from your lips," he said. "Why? I am an individualist, and in so far as I do not regard myself as a specimen of the basest race, so far do I regard myself as a specimen of the best. According to me one belongs to the aristocracy only through lucky chance; that is, when one brings into the world a suitable profile and corresponding brain. But Dolhanski, for instance, in so far as he has not purchased portraits of ancestors at an auction--and our other gentlemen--judge that blood constitutes that appurtenance. Now granting these premises, I contend that our tories do not know how to be proud of their blood." "At home," said Gronski, "you vent your spleen upon the socialists, and here you wish to vent it upon the aristocracy." "That does not diminish my merits. I have a few pretty remarks for the National Democracy." "I know, I know. But how will you prove that which you said about the Polish tories?" "How will I prove it? By the Socratic method--with the aid of questions. Did you ever observe when a Polish gentleman abroad becomes acquainted with a Frenchman or Englishman? I, while I had money, passed winters in Nice or in Cairo and saw a number of them. Now, every time I propounded to myself the question which now I put to you: why the devil it is not the Frenchman or Englishman who tries to please the Pole, but the Pole them? Why is it that only the Pole fawns, only the Pole coquets? Because he is almost ashamed of his descent; and if by chance a Frenchman tells him that from his accent he took him for a Frenchman, or an Englishman takes him for an Englishman, then he melts with joy, like butter in a frying-pan! Ah, I have seen such coquettes by the score--and it is an old story. Such coquetry, for instance, Stanislaus Augustus[11] possessed. At home, the Polish gentleman at times knows how to hold his nose high. Before a foreigner he is on both paws. Is not that a lack of pride in his own race, in his own blood, in his own traditions? If you have the slightest grain of a sense of justice, even though no larger than the grain of caviar, you must admit the justice of my remarks. As to myself, I have been ashamed sometimes that I am a Pole." "That means that you committed the same sin with which you charge others," replied Gronski. "If the tips of the wings of our eagle reached both seas, as at one time they did, perhaps Poles might be different. But at present--tell me--of what are they to be proud?" "You are twisting things. I am speaking of racial pride only, not political," answered Swidwicki. "After all, may the devils take them. I prefer to drink." "Say what you will," asserted Dolhanski, "but I will merely tell you this: if internal affairs were exclusively in their hands, some fooleries might take place, but we would not be fried in the sauce in which we are fried to-day." Swidwicki turned to him with eyes glistening already a little abnormally. "My dear sir," he said, "in order to govern a country it is necessary to have one of three things: either the greatest number, which the canaille has behind it--I beg pardon, I should have said the Democracy--or the greatest sound sense, which nobody amongst us possesses, or the most money, which the Jews have. And as I have demonstrated that our great gentlemen do not even have any sentiment of traditions, therefore what have they?" "At least good manners, which you lack," retorted Dolhanski with aversion. "No. I will tell you what they have--if not all of them, then the second or third one: but I will tell it to you in a whisper, so as not to shock Gronski's virgin ears." And leaning over to Dolhanski, he whispered a word to him, after which he snorted, maliciously: "I do not say that that is nothing, but it is not sufficient to govern the country with." But Dolhanski frowned and said: "If that is so, then you surely belong to the highest aristocracy." "Of course! certainly! I have a diploma certified a few years ago in Aix-la-chapelle, the place of the coronation!" Saying this, he again quaffed his wine and continued with a kind of feverish gayety: "Ah, permit me to rail, permit me to scoff at men and things! I always do that internally but at times I must expectorate the gall. Permit me! For after all, I am a Pole, and for a Pole there perhaps cannot be a greater pleasure than defacing, belittling, pecking at, calumniating, spitting on, and pulling down statues from the pedestals. Republican tradition, is it not? In addition Providence so happily arranged it that a Pole loves that the most, and when he himself is concerned, he feels it most acutely. A delightful society!" "You are mistaken," replied Gronski, "for in that respect we have changed prodigiously and in proof of it, I will cite one instance: When the painter Limiatycki received for his 'Golgotha' a grand medal in Paris, all the local little brushes at once fumed at him. So meeting him, I asked him whether he intended to retaliate, and he replied to me with the greatest serenity: 'I am serving my fatherland and art, but only stupidity cannot understand that, while only turpitude will not understand it.' And he was right, for whoever has any kind of wings at his shoulders and can raise himself a little in the air, need not pay attention to the mud of the streets." "Tut, tut; mud is a purely native product, the same as other symptoms of your national culture, namely: filth, scandals, envy, folly, indolence, big words and little deeds, cheap politics, brawling, a relish for mass-meetings, banditism, revolvers, and bombs; if I wanted to mention everything I would not finish until late at night." "Then I will throw in for you a few more things," said Gronski; "drunkenness, cynicism, a stupid pose of despair, thoughtless hypercriticism, scoffing at misfortune, fouling one's own nest, spitting at blood and suffering, undermining faith in the future, and blasphemy against the nation. Have you yet enough?" "I have not enough of wine. Order some more, order some more!" "I will not order any more wine, but I will tell yet more, that you err in claiming that these are native products. They are brought by a certain wind which evidently has fanned you." But Swidwicki, who this time had no desire to quarrel but did have a desire to drink, evidently wishing to change the subject of the conversation, unexpectedly exclaimed: "Apropos of winds, what a pity that such sensible people as the Prussians commit one gross blunder." Gronski, who had already risen to bid him farewell, was overcome temporarily by curiosity. "What blunder?" he asked. "That they assume super-villeiny to be superhumanity." "In this you are right." "I feel a contempt for myself as often as I am right." "Then we will leave you with your wine and your contempt." Saying this, Gronski nodded to Dolhanski and they departed. Swidwicki's last words, however, caused him to reflect; so after a while he said: "Now people's minds are haunted by the Prussians and they are reminded of them by the slightest cause. After all, Swidwicki's description of them was apposite." "If you knew how little I am interested in Swidwicki's descriptions." "Nevertheless, you vie with him and talk in a similar strain," answered Gronski. After which, pursuing further the train of his thoughts, he said: "Nietzsche also did not perceive that the susceptibility and appreciation of other people's woes becomes manifest only upon the culmination of the creative ..." "Good, good, but at this moment I am more interested in what Krzycki is going to do about Miss Anney." Dolhanski, who could not endure Swidwicki, would have been sorely afflicted, if he had suspected that the same question occurred to the latter's mind. Remaining alone, Swidwicki recalled Gronski's recital and began to laugh, as the thought of such unusual complications amused him immensely. He imagined to himself what excitement must have prevailed at Krzycki's and at Pani Otocka's, and how far the affair would agitate the circles of their relatives and acquaintances. And suddenly he began to soliloquize in the following manner: "And if I paid Miss Anney a visit? It even behooves me to leave her a card. That would be eminently proper. I may not find her in--that does not matter much, but if I should find her in, I will try to see whether her legs are not too bulky at the ankles. For culture, education, even polish may be acquired, but delicate ligaments of the legs and hands it is necessary to inherit through a whole series of generations. That furious Pauly, nevertheless, has a sufficiently thin ligature. The devil, however, knows who her father was, I will go. If I do not find one, I shall find the other." And he went. He was admitted not by the man-servant but by Pauly; so he smiled at her in his most ingratiating manner and said: "Good-day, pretty fennel-flower! Is Panna Hanka Skibianka at home?" "What Hanka Skibianka?" she asked in surprise. "Then, the little lady does not know the great tidings?" "What great tidings? I do not know any." "That the mistress of the little lady is not named Miss Anney?" "Do not upset our heads." "I give the little lady my word of honor. Ask Pan Gronski, or Pan Krzycki, who is chewing off his fingers from mortification. I give you my word of honor. I also could tell you more, but if the little lady is not curious I will go. Here is my card for Panna Ski-bian-ka." The eyes of the girl sparkled with curiosity. She took the card mechanically. "I do not say that you should go, but I do not believe," she said hurriedly. "And I know yet more." "What is it?" "I will whisper it in your ear." It did not occur to Pauly that there was no necessity for Swidwicki speaking in a whisper. She leaned towards him with a palpitating heart and, though he flooded her with his breath, saturated with the odor of wine, she did not withdraw her head. "What is it?" she repeated. "That Panna Skibianka is a peasant woman from Zarnow!" "That is untrue!" "As I love God." And, saying this, he suddenly smacked her ear with a broad kiss. IV Miss Anney's letter bore the impress of extraordinary simplicity. At the beginning she said that from the moment when he proposed for her hand she was compelled to reveal her former name; while in the continuation it contained an equally simple account of herself and her family from the time of their departure from Rzeslewo. This sad course of events she related in the following words: "My father came from Galicia and had in America relatives of whom he heard that through labor they had amassed fortunes. Learning of this, he decided to settle there also and seek his fortune beyond the ocean. We left Rzeslewo at a time when you were in Warsaw. I knew how to write as I was taught that in the manor-house, and would have informed you about this if I had known your address. We went, not saying anything to anybody, to Hamburg, and at that place there occurred what often happens to peasant emigrants. The agent tricked us, defrauded us of our money, and placed us on a vessel bound not for America but for England. Thrown upon the pavements of London, we soon fell into dire want. For the passage to America there now was no means. My mother died of typhoid fever in a hospital and father, from despair and nostalgia, declined rapidly in health. Under these circumstances we were found by Mr. Anney, one of the best and noblest men in the world, a friend and patron of the Poles, who gave us employment. But the succor came too late, and my father died in the course of a year. I remained in the factory and worked in it until the accident which changed my status entirely. The Anney family had only one child, a daughter, whom they loved beyond everything in the world and surrounded with a solicitude all the greater because she was threatened by a pulmonary ailment. Once it happened that Miss Anney, while visiting the factory, was almost carried away by the driving-wheel of the machinery. I rushed to her assistance, imperilling a little my own life, and from that time the gratitude of the Anney family for me had no bounds. They took me from the factory to themselves, and in this manner I became the companion and afterwards the bosom friend of their daughter. A Pole, an emigrant of the year '63, a friend of Mr. Anney and a man well educated, taught us both, and me, separately, in Polish. I endeavored to benefit, as much as lay in my power, from these lessons, and after two years was able to approach a little the intellectual plane of my friend and my environment. But Agnes--for such was the Christian name of Miss Anney--began to fail in her health. Then Mr. Anney sold his factory and we all, including our instructor, removed to Italy. There about three years were passed in a search for the best climate for our dearest patient. All efforts proved unavailing, however, as God took His angel unto Himself. After Agnes' death, the Anneys, remembering that I loved with my whole soul our dead one, adopted me as their own child and gave me not only their family name, but desiring to overcome their despair, suffering, and sorrow, even the Christian name of the deceased. Nevertheless, the sorrow could not be overcome, and though I tried with my whole heart to be to them some sort of comfort in life, in the course of two years both followed their greatest love. "And this is the end of my history. And after that came those events which brought me nearer to you; therefore I desire to justify my conduct in your eyes. I have a right to the name which I bear, and my life from the time of the departure from Rzeslewo has been pure. Conscience reproaches me with only one new error. This was that I did not confess to the Anneys that I already was unworthy of their care. But for such a confession I lacked strength. I loved too much my Agnes and feared that they would separate me from her. Later I did not want to add to their affliction. I did not have the strength. At times, also, I think that now when they look upon me from heaven and see everything, they forgive me for keeping that secret. Beyond this I once more repeat and swear that my life has been pure. But in my memory I have only coffins and coffins, and of my Rzeslewo days there remains to me only the recollection of you. I could not forget either my sin or my happiness. Often during the life of my adopted sister, while gazing into her chaste eyes, I struggled with remorse, and at the same time I wept from intense longing. After that, being left alone in the world, I had nothing to cherish in my heart, and I began to yearn yet more. When, after the death of the Anneys, I became acquainted and grew intimate with Zosia Otocka in Brussels, I accidentally learned from a conversation that she was your relative. Then I related to her my entire life, not concealing anything, and she not only did not spurn me, but loved me yet more. Emboldened by her goodness, I confessed to her my longing for the old days and Rzeslewo. Perhaps it may be a new fault on my part that I confided to Zosia my insurmountable desire of seeing yet once more in my life, Jastrzeb, Rzeslewo, and--why should I not state the whole truth?--and you. Then Zosia said to me: 'I understand you; ride with me to Jastrzeb as Miss Anney, as you cannot do otherwise. Nobody will recognize you and you will take a reckoning with your own heart. Perhaps reality may extinguish the rainbow of recollections. If they are assuaged forever, so much the better for you; if he should fall in love with you, so much the worse for him; if your former echoes reawaken, then we will assume that this was predestination.' Such was Zosia's advice, and for that reason, when your mother invited her and Marynia, I also accompanied them to Jastrzeb. But I do not wish to pass for any better than I am. I confess that on the road I always had in mind Zosia's words: 'If he falls in love with you, so much the worse for him,' and I wished that to happen. I was certain that you had entirely forgotten me, and I thought that if now you fell in love with me without any requital, that it would be a sort of condign punishment for your forgetfulness and a kind of triumph for myself and--if not such a womanly revenge as books tell of,--at least a great solace to my self-love. But it happened otherwise, for I forgot to take into account that I had a heart, not of foreign books, but of a Polish village--simple and faithful. When I saw Rzeslewo, Jastrzeb, and you, I wanted only to weep and weep, as I wept at Pan Zarnowski's funeral, and I discovered within me that Hanka, who years before loved you with her first childish love and afterwards with such affection, did not love any one else. You know, sir, what happened further. If you do not return, I will not bear any resentment towards you, but do not harbor any ill-will against me. I, too, merely skirted along the rim of happiness." The signature was "Hanka." Ladislaus' chin quivered from time to time while he was reading the letter and his eyes grew dim. He began to repeat the signature "Hanka, Hanka." He rose abruptly and paced over the room with big steps. His thoughts rolled into a ball in his head like clouds in the heavens; they collected and scattered in all directions like a startled stud of horses on the wild steppes of the Ukraine. He read the letter a second and third time, and under its influence there began to glide before his eyes pictures of the past as distinct as if all that which occurred some time ago had happened but yesterday. He recalled those bright moonlight nights when he stole away to the mill, and that village girl, fragrant with the hay, who, to the question of whether she loved him, whispered in reply, "Of course," and threw her yet half-childish arms around his neck and hugged him to her breast with such strength that no other love could make a sincerer avowal. He recollected that he nevertheless loved her at that time, and when he missed her, longed for her, and even inquired of the people about the blacksmith's family--but with reserve and faint-heartedly, as fear closed his lips. Subsequently that girl was erased from his memory so completely that even the light pangs of conscience which he felt on her account vanished; nothing remained. It was well with him in the world and he sought new sensations, while she was seized by the whirlwind of life and was hurled like a wretched leaf upon a foreign land, where she suffered from sheer starvation. Nevertheless, neither at that time, nor later, when good people took care of her, did she forget him nor did she cease to long for him. Ladislaus was not a deep connoisseur of the human soul; he felt, nevertheless, that what for him was simply a love adventure, a shallow enjoyment of the senses, a transient impression which disperses to the winds like the fragrance of flowers, for her became a new life; a surrender of her whole being and whole soul, too pure and too noble for her to seek a new happiness upon new paths. And now he understood why that coveted Miss Anney of to-day, charming as a dream, brilliant, surrounded by affluence and arousing admiration, wrote to him that she had a heart not of foreign books but of a Polish village--simple and faithful. He understood also why the letter was signed "Hanka." Suddenly and irrevocably were banished all his suspicions, and her words, "my life from the moment of the departure from Rzeslewo has been pure," touched him to the extent that he began to upbraid himself that he should for a moment have thought that it could have been otherwise. At once he seemed to himself to be little, mean, and unworthy of that noble and exalted soul. But through his heart and head there coursed during the last moments so many thoughts, impressions, and feelings that he was uncertain whether the final sensibility of his own shortcomings and wretchedness would be lasting. Nevertheless, he was seized with an ever-increasing tenderness, and more and more became obliterated that difference between Hanka and Miss Anney which was so irritating to him in the first moments. Now, on the contrary, the recollection that this simple girl of old and that fascinating lady of to-day were one and the same woman penetrated him with a kind of thrill, resembling a thrill of joy. The memory that at one time he possessed the other began to waken in him, as it were, a hunger and a new passion for the present one, and the thought of her charms intensified the play of his young blood. But he strove to stifle within him those impressions with the consciousness of the responsibilities which were imposed upon him. Above all things he propounded to himself the question. What should a man of honor do who had betrayed and therefore wronged a girl, almost a child, who was in love with him, and later, after a few years, met her under a changed name and fell in love with her? There was only one answer; even if he did not fall in love, if her love continued, he ought to assume all the consequences of his acts. If she remained a simple-minded rustic who never could understand him, or if she had deviated from the path of rectitude, even in such a case, it would not, for his vexed soul, be sufficient reason for washing his hands and withdrawing from the affair; and so much the more, since the girl had bridged the intellectual and social chasm which separated them, and in addition ennobled her own soul and had not ceased to love. "Yes it is so. I would spit in my own eyes," said Ladislaus (not thinking at that moment that in practice an act like that would be a trifle difficult to perform), "if I hesitated any longer. There is only one thing to do and I will do that at once." Having formed this resolution, he took a deep breath like a man, from whose heart a heavy load has fallen--and as much as he at first became little in his own eyes, so now he began to gain in stature. He did not, however, propound the question, what would happen if Miss Anney did not have such wondrous eyes, gazing with a heavenly streak, nor such a countenance, whose color reminded him of the petals of a white rose, nor those other charms which attracted his eyes. He said to himself that many of his acquaintances could not afford to form a similar resolution; he was pleased with himself; and that it was easier for him to do so because he was impelled thereto by his heart and senses, he deemed not as lessening the worthiness of the act itself, but as his own good fortune. He foresaw, however, that he would yet have to do with his mother as well as with the so called opinion of society, which is not concerned about principles but only about gossip, and which seeks, above all things, food for its own stupid malice. But he expected to reconcile his mother, and as to the malicious, smiling ironically upon the slightest provocation, his nostrils, distended at the very thought, and his clenched teeth boded them no good. But this anticipated knightly action was a matter of the future; in the meantime his impetuous nature urged him to immediate action. He determined to go to his mother at once and definitely come to an understanding with her. Glancing, however, at his watch, he became aware of the fact that it was almost three o'clock in the morning. In view of this, that was impossible. Not feeling, however, the least need of sleep, and desiring absolutely to do something, he sat down to write letters. First, he inclosed Miss Anney's letter in an envelope, because he wanted to send it to his mother before the decisive interview took place; after which he started to write to Miss Anney, but soon stopped, as it occurred to him that since he gave his word that he would remain silent for a week, he did not have the right to do it. Instead, after a brief deliberation, he wrote a few words to Pani Otocka, praying that she would permit him to visit her that day. Finally, when the dawn began to peer into the room and mingle with the light of the lamps, he thought of repose, but though he felt great weariness, he could not fall asleep, and mentally he conversed with his mother and Miss Anney until sunrise. He fell into a sound slumber only when the morning bustle in the hotel began and did not awake until late. Dressing himself, he rang for the servant and ordered him to deliver Miss Anney's letter to his mother, but at the last minute he made up his mind to take it to her himself. But in the rooms engaged by his mother he found only the younger members of the family and the French governess, who informed him that "madame" went to church early in the morning. V Pani Krzycki had indeed gone to church and confession, for in the grief which befell her, she needed consolation and advice. And her grief was real and profound. She lived in times in which various ancient prejudices and prepossessions clashed, and were becoming more and more obliterated, yielding place to new democratic ideas. As she often heard that the wave of these new ideas might bring benefit and salvation to the country, she, notwithstanding that her habits and former conceptions conflicted with them, not only did not struggle against them, but quietly acquiesced in them in a passive manner. This was easier for her as it never occurred to her that personally she would ever have anything to do with them. For her it was the same as if somebody had installed modern furniture in a few rooms in Jastrzeb, which were not continually occupied. Let them stay there since fashion requires it and since in the other rooms there are old armchairs, heirlooms, in which one can rest comfortably. And now, suddenly she was ordered to move to that new part of the house; suddenly she was confronted by the fact that her son was in love with a peasant woman from Rzeslewo and was about to marry her. Then in the first moments everything within her was stirred up; the old instincts and customs began to cry out. That silent and passive acquiescence in the new ideas crumbled like a building of sand, and the whole course of events appeared to the indignant citizeness-noblewoman as an unworthy intrigue in which the victim to be sported with was her son and with him, the entire Krzycki family. Amazement that the chief partner and almost author of this intrigue could be a being whom she regarded as the incarnation of all feminine virtues, and whom she desired her son should marry, only aggravated her anger. In vain did Zosia explain to her that her son was the betrayer of an innocent child and Miss Anney was an angel, and that in bringing her to Jastrzeb, she did not have any sinister designs and did only that which every other woman in her place, sympathizing with a wronged and longing woman, would have done. "If the most fervent wish of Miss Anney was to behold once more in her life the place in which her life was undone, and the man whom she could not forget and who was the author of her undoing, then it was due to her; and everybody who has the slightest heart ought to understand this. And let Aunt say," she continued, "whether I could betray her secret and whether an impossible situation would not have been created for her." The usually quiet and gentle Zosia became so wrought up in defence of her friend that she plainly told Pani Krzycki that even if Laudie fell in love with Miss Anney without any requital that it would be only what he deserved and, besides, since "Aninka" did not accept his proposal and gave him a week's time for consideration, he could withdraw it; in such case, however, "Aninka" would not be the only one whose respect he forfeited. But all this was pouring oil upon fire and only increased the ire of Pani Krzycki who declared that, at any rate, she and her son were victims of a plot. After which she moved to a hotel, announcing at the time of her departure that her feet would never again cross the threshold of that house. Nevertheless, the bitterness and anger which accumulated in her heart were not directed against Pani Otocka alone. Her son also had wounded her heart deeply and awakened a whole series of painful recollections, connected with the memory of her husband. For her husband, a man worshipped by her during the first years of their marital life for his manifold good qualities and extraordinary beauty, had caused her not a little mortification through his immoral life in relation to women in general and the female residents of Jastrzeb and its vicinity in particular. To Pani Krzycki it was no secret, that, in the course of long years, cows were led continually from the manor cow-houses as gifts or rather as rewards to various Kates and Marys and that in Jastrzeb could be found quite a number of step-brothers and step-sisters of her children. So she shed copious tears over this state of affairs until almost the last year of her husband's life. In her time she suffered in her own self-love and her womanly dignity as a wife and mother. Afterwards she forgave everything, but after the death of her husband, as a woman deeply religious, she lived in continual fear at the thought of the Divine Tribunal, before which the deceased appeared. For whole years she tried to supplicate for him forgiveness through tears, fasts, alms, and prayers. Above all she determined to bring up her son in such a manner that he would never fall into the errors of his father. She watched him in his boyhood days, like the eye in her head; she shielded him from all evil influences. After sending him to school she confided the care of him to her relative, a priest, and to Gronski, in whose morality she justly believed. And when the son grew up, when after finishing school, he attended the university, and afterwards assumed the management of the Jastrzeb estate, she had that bottomless, naïve faith, usual with women, upright and pious but unacquainted with the depravity of the world, that up to that time "Laudie" was as pure as a lily. And now unexpectedly the film over her eyes dropped. The son was following in the footsteps of his father. At this thought she was beset by despair. In her soul a protest truly vehement poured forth against the alliance of her son with a peasant woman, but having a very sensitive conscience she felt, after her conversation with Zosia, that Miss Anney had some claim on Ladislaus. Once or twice, this manner of extricating themselves from an onerous situation suggested itself to her mind; that Ladislaus in pursuance of a prearranged compact should propose to Miss Anney and she should refuse him. "But do I know," she said to herself, "how many similar Hankas may already be found in Jastrzeb?" And a horror penetrated to the marrow of her bones at the thought that among those Hankas might be Ladislaus' step-sisters, for it seemed to her that the crimes of the father fatally dragged after them the yet greater crimes of the son and with them must follow damnation. "Ah, Laudie! ah, Laudie!" she repeated despondently, and she felt besides fear, such pain, such disappointment of heart and such profound resentment, that however much she understood that it was necessary to summon Ladislaus as soon as possible and ascertain how he had received the news that Miss Anney is Hanka and what he intended to do, nevertheless she could not persuade herself to see him at once. After removing from Pani Otocka's, the information that he was not at the hotel afforded her true relief. She immediately locked herself up in her room and determined, if he called, not to admit him. The following morning she went to church and to confession and after confession she begged her relative, the prelate, the same who in his time had charge of Ladislaus, for advice. Already she was calmer. The aged prelate received her and began with extraordinary particularity to question her about Miss Anney, her stay at Jastrzeb, about the course of events after the attempt on Ladislaus' life, and about the details in Hanka's life, of which Pani Krzycki had learned from Zosia: afterwards about the fears of Pani Krzycki herself, and finally after a long silence he said: "As to the sins, which Ladislaus, after this, the first sin of his youth, might have committed, that is only a conjecture, and a fear, and as we have no irrefutable proofs of them, we should not take them into account at all. There only remains the former Hanka and the Miss Anney of to-day. It is only with this one case that we have to do. So I desire to know how you, as a mother, regard her." Pani Krzycki replied that she knew perfectly well that all people in the sight of God were equal, but she was concerned about the happiness of her son. Similar marriages were not usually happy. It may be that the reason for this is the malice of the world: it may be that the wife met with humiliation on the part of vain and malicious persons, but the husband must feel that also, in consequence of which irritation ensues and the relations grow from bad to worse even without any ill-will on either side. As to her son he is ambitious and sensitive as but few are, and even if he loved his wife most strongly, he would suffer if any one evinced towards her even a shade of disdain. Whoever lives in the world must reckon with everything, even with stupidity, even with malice, not to say with other considerations upon which marital happiness often depends. The aged prelate listened, folding and unfolding according to his habit a silk handkerchief, and finally said: "Reckoning with stupidity and malice may only mean guarding against them, not making any concessions to them." After which he began to look at Pani Krzycki with a penetrating gaze and asked: "Permit me to put one question to you: Why should your son necessarily be happy?" She looked at him with surprise. "Why, I am his mother." "Yes, but there are things more important than happiness, particularly temporal,--is it not true?" "True," she answered quietly. "That which you said in respect to temporal matters may be more or less just and may actually be the reasons which make such marriages less happy than others, but it is necessary above all things to propound to one's self the question. What in life is greater and what is less, what is more important and what is less important, and to act according to the dictates of conscience." "Well, how am I to act?" asked Pani Krzycki. The aged prelate looked at the crucifix hanging on the wall and quietly, but with emphasis, answered: "As a Christian." A momentary silence followed. "I am satisfied with the advice," said Pani Krzycki, "and I thank you." VI Ladislaus, while his mother was in church and consulting the prelate, repaired, notwithstanding the early hour, to Pani Otocka. At the very beginning he raised to his lips both of her hands and kissed them so long that she, from that act alone, perceived his intentions. "I knew it would be so! I knew it!" she cried with emotion and joy. While he replied in a soft quivering voice: "I did not require a week to perceive that I cannot live without her." "I knew it," Zosia once more repeated. "Have you spoken with your mother, yet?" "No. Yesterday, I ran about the city senselessly, after which I rushed to Gronski's and went to the hotel very late, and this morning I was informed that Mother was in church." Pani Otocka again became anxious. "Yesterday," she said, "she was very angry and God grant that she may be reconciled, for on this all depends." "Not all," answered Ladislaus; "not to speak of my great attachment for Mother, I esteem her immensely; and God sees that I would be pleased always to conform to her will. But that has its limits; when the happiness, not only of myself, but of the being most precious to me in the world, is concerned, then I cannot sacrifice that under any circumstances; I have pondered over this all night. I have a hope that Mother will consent; as I trust in her character and in that love which she has always shown to me. If, however, contrary to my hopes, it should appear otherwise, then I will tell her that this is a resolution which cannot now be and will not be revoked." "Maybe there is no necessity for that," said Pani Otocka, "for Aninka also is concerned. Yesterday, after the letter which she wrote to you and after Pan Gronski's departure, we talked until late at night. She was very nervous and cried, but spoke thus: 'If he returns to me, not joyfully and with entire good-will, but only because he did not want to withdraw his word, then I will never consent to it. There is no pride in me. I did not even reckon with my own self-love, and wrote to him sincerely what was in my heart, but even if it should break I would not wed him, if it shall seem to him that he is lowering himself for me.'" "The dear, lovely creature!" interrupted Ladislaus. Pani Otocka continued: "After that she began to cry, and added that she would not consent to be the cause of an estrangement between mother and son." "No, I repeat once more that my resolution cannot and shall not be revoked. Here my whole life is involved--and even if now Mother cannot find in her heart sufficient good-will, she will find it later. In the meantime I will do everything in order that my future wife should have in her also a mother, affectionate and grateful for her son's happiness." "Can I repeat that to Miss Anney?" "That is just what I came for. But I have yet one more prayer. She took my word that for a week I would not return to her and she alone can release me from it. But in view of what I came here for, this would be downright, needless torture. Neither a week nor a year can change anything. Nothing, absolutely! Will Cousin deign to tell her that and beg of her from me, but beg very cordially, that she release me from my word?" "With the greatest pleasure, and I have a hope this will not be a too difficult matter to adjust." "I thank you with my whole soul and now I will hurry to Mother." But before he left the room, Marynia rushed in and began to gaze sharply, now at her sister, then at Ladislaus. In reality she was not apprized of the secrets of the former relations between Ladislaus and Hanka, but she already knew that Miss Anney is the former Hanka; she knew everything which transpired afterwards and, loving Miss Anney very much, she was dying from uneasiness and curiosity as to what turn the affair would take. She was so pretty with that wistful gaze and uneasy face and, besides, she had such an amusing mien that Ladislaus, in spite of his emotions, at the sight of her, fell into a good humor. Zosia remained silent, not knowing whether he wished to speak of his affair of the heart before Marynia, while he, purposely, for sometime did not break the silence; finally he approached his little cousin and squeezing her hand, announced in a sepulchral voice: "Too late!" "How too late," she asked alarmed. "She is going to marry some one else." "Who?" "Panna--Kajetana." And he burst out into a sincere, jolly laugh. Marynia conjectured that matters could not stand so badly since Ladislaus was jesting. Desiring, however, to learn fully the good news, she began to stamp with her foot and importune like a child. "But how?--now, honestly. I could not sleep to-day! How? now, honestly. How?" "Honestly, that hope and joy and happiness--there!" answered Ladislaus, pointing in the direction of Miss Anney's quarters. After which, kissing his cousins' hands, he rushed out like a stone whirled from a sling, for he was in a great hurry. On the way he grew grave and even gloomy at the thought that the moment for his decisive interview with his mother was approaching. He found her in the hotel, where she awaited him in her own room. The sight of his mother's face, serene and filled with an unusual kind of sweetness, gave him, for the time being, encouragement, but at the same time he thought that gentle persuasion, entreaties, and perhaps tears, would be heavier to bear than anger--and he asked in an uncertain voice: "Did Mamma read her letter?" "I did," she answered, "but even before that I learned almost everything from Zosia, whom Miss Anney herself begged not to conceal anything from me." "Gronski told me that Mamma became angry at Zosia?" "Yes, that is so, but that can be rectified. Now I want above all things to talk with you sincerely." So Ladislaus began to narrate how in the first moments he was struck as if by a thunderbolt and how he could not reconcile himself to the thought that Hanka and Miss Anney were one and the same person. He confessed his vacillation, his doubts, suspicions, and the pain, which pierced him; and the internal strife and accounting with his conscience and everything through which he passed. But only after reading her letter, did he perceive that this pain had its origin in his love for her and that the struggle was a struggle with his own heart and happiness; then he ceased to waver; he could not imagine happiness otherwise than with that most precious being in the world, and without her he did not desire it. After which he said that when he became acquainted with her at Jastrzeb, as Miss Anney, from almost the first moment he was attracted to her by some incomprehensible force and she engrossed all his thoughts. He, of course, esteemed Zosia Otocka highly, and Marynia he regarded as a bright phenomenon. But admiration and love are two different things. Besides, he did not owe anything either to Zosia or to Marynia. They were kind while he was wounded and that was all. But to Miss Anney he probably owed his life, and he remembered that she for his sake placed herself in peril. With what could he repay her for that, and how could he make reparation for the former wrong, committed while she was still almost a child? Who was the worthier of the two? Was it he, who forgot and lived from day to day an easy, thoughtless, and spiritually slothful life, or she whom no new attachments could reconcile to their separation and who ennobled her mind and heart through suffering, yearning, and labor? "I scarcely dare to believe. Mother," said he, "that she not only absolves my injury, but has not ceased to love me. Perhaps it happened thus, because it was I who, for the first time in her life opened for her the doors to the world of happiness, but undoubtedly it was because hers is a totally exceptional nature. Yes, Mother! She is one of those who, in a pristine state even at the time when they are unable to realize things, possess that noble instinct, that sort of elevation of feeling that love ennobles indeed everything, but only when it is great, when it is for a whole lifetime; and those who love have such strength, such a depth of affection, that they are incapable of any other affection. But when such a one is found, then we can only thank God on our knees, and, in plain terms, my head is confused at the thought that for my transgression I meet with, not punishment, but fabulously good fortune. It may be that there are in the world more such women who can make a man happy, but I want to be happy only with this one; maybe there are others who ennoble and elevate everything about them, but I feel that through this one I will be better and better. Finally, this is a question not only of my happiness but also of my honor." Here, folding his hands, he began to gaze into her eyes with a pleading look; after which he continued: "All this I intrust to Mamma's hands; my whole life, my entire future, and the peace of my conscience, and happiness and honor." Pani Krzycki placed both of his palms to her temples and kissed his forehead. "My Laudie," she said, "I am an old woman and have various prejudices: so I will not tell you that from the first moments it was easy for me to assent to your intentions. Do you know that yesterday I became enraged at Zosia and until this morning, I persisted in my determination to oppose as far as it lay in my power your marriage. Be not surprised at this, since you admit that you were struck as if by lightning; then think, how it must have affected me, I, as is usual with a mother, had at the bottom of my soul the conviction that for you even a king's daughter would not be too high a mate. But it was not only the old mode of thought, not only a maternal vanity, and not only prejudices which inflamed my opposition. I feared also for your happiness. I would not have had anything against the person of Miss Anney herself, were it not for these other circumstances. I became acquainted with her at Jastrzeb and loved her sincerely; often I said, God grant that all our ladies could be like her. But learning who she is and what took place between you, I became alarmed at first at the thought that you might have committed similar offences in Jastrzeb." "No, Mamma," answered Krzycki; "I give my word for that." "For you see I thought you were absolutely pure; so think what a blow it was to me." Ladislaus bowed to her hands, in order to hide his face, for notwithstanding the gravity of the moment, notwithstanding his sincere emotion and anxiety, the naïvete of his mother seemed to him something so unheard-of that he feared he might betray himself by an expression of astonishment, or what was worse, a smile. "Ah," he thought, "it is lucky that I have to swear only as to Jastrzeb, for I could not tell mother what I told Gronski, that a wise wolf never takes from that village where he keeps his lair." But simultaneously it occurred to him that one must be an angel to have such a delusion, and his adoration of his mother increased yet more. And she continued: "Then I took into consideration the world and the people among whom you must live. I knew that not a few would commend your conduct, but in reality you would have to endure a thousand petty annoyances and stings which would irritate and exasperate you until they caused a pain and bitterness even in your feeling towards your wife. I was concerned about your happiness which, in my blindness I craved above all things for you. And only to-day was the film taken off my eyes. Apparently such things we know and proclaim, but, nevertheless, with real surprise and as if it was something new, I heard that happiness is not the most important thing in life and that it ought not to be the greatest concern of a mother. And before that my heart was cleansed of its pride and I was commanded to be guided by my conscience: therefore, my Laudie, I cannot dissuade you from this marriage." Ladislaus, hearing this, again bowed his head to his mother's hands and began to cover them with kisses. "Ah, Mamma, dear," he repeated, "ah, Mamma, how happy I am!" "And I," she answered; "for I feared that your feeling might be superficial, founded upon a delusion and fancy; but, after this conversation, I see that you love Aninka truly." "Yes! That is imbedded so deeply that it could only be torn from me with my life." "I believe, I believe." Thus mutually assuring each other, they both spoke with absolute sincerity, and both at the same time deluded themselves. For Ladislaus had an inflammable head, greedy senses, and soft heart, but he lived principally on the exterior, and none of his feelings could spring from great depths as, on the whole, he was not a deep man. But his mother, believing every one of his words as she believed in the gospel, said with great confidence: "May God bless you, my child. Let us at present speak of what is to come. I, of course, understand that once having agreed, it is necessary to agree not with half but with the whole heart: it is necessary to receive Aninka with open arms and give her to understand that it is she who is conferring a favor upon us for which we should be grateful." "Yes, for she does," exclaimed Ladislaus with ardor. "Very well, very well," answered Pani Krzycki, with a smile, "now it becomes me to go to her and thank her myself. I assume also that Aninka will withdraw the condition that you should not call upon her for a week." "Zosia is to attend to that, but naturally Mamma's words will be more effective." "When do you want me to go?" Ladislaus again folded his palms: "At once, Mother dear, at once." "Very well; will you wait for me here, or at Zosia's?" "Here; for Zosia might be with Marynia at the rehearsal. She sometimes accompanies her." Pani Krzycki rose heavily from the chair, as that day, from the morning, had been trying for her and the rheumatism held her more and more strongly. Having, however, straightened out her limbs, she moved briskly ahead. The thought that she was troubling herself for her boy made it an agreeable task and exertion. But on the way she began to think of matters of which thus far there had been no mention between herself and her son. She belonged to that type of women, often found among the country nobility, who know perfectly well how to line the ideal cloak with a real lining. In her time the entire management of the Jastrzeb estate rested on her head, and on that account she had a multitude of worries and had habituated herself to struggle continually with them. So at the present time her mind turned to the material side of the affair. "I would consent to this marriage" (she thought as if to justify herself to herself), "even though Aninka did not have anything, but I am curious to know how much she can have." After which she began to fondle the hope that while Aninka might not have millions and for an Englishwoman might not be very rich, she might have what in Poland might be regarded as great opulence, though in England it might be deemed a modest fortune. And amidst such meditations she rang Miss Anney's door-bell. The visit passed off as could be expected. Pani Krzycki was honest, grateful, motherly and, at the moment when she surrendered the life and happiness of her son to the hands of Miss Anney, "her dear daughter," she was, in a measure, pathetic. Miss Anney, too was in a measure, pathetic, also cordial and simple, quiet and collected as well, but she seemed to be acting with caution, though nothing whatever was said of the past. With Pani Krzycki there even remained an impression that there was by a hairbreadth too much of this "reserve." She understood perfectly that it would be want of tact on Miss Anney's part if she displayed too much enthusiasm and conceded that she acted properly, but nevertheless she carried away at the bottom of her heart a little disappointment as it were, for there was hidden in her the conviction that the woman who would get "Laudie" and would bear his name, could be excused even though she went insane from joy. Returning to the hotel, she did not, however, confess to her son this thought, but began to load "Aninka" with praises and speak of her so warmly that tears stood in the eyes of both. Ladislaus, above all else, was anxious to know whether the "taboo" was removed and the prohibition recalled; having learned that such was the case, a quarter of an hour later, he was at Hanka's feet. "My beloved, my angel, my wife!" he said, embracing her knees. VII A few days later, the old notary, Dzwonkowski, and Dr. Szremski came to visit Gronski. The latter, to whom this was an agreeable surprise, as he liked both, and, besides, esteemed the doctor highly, greeted them with great cordiality and began to ask the news of the city, the vicinity, and of themselves. "Ha! We live, we live," answered the boisterous doctor. "In these times, that is an art. But the police so far have not arrested us, the bandits have not shot us, the socialists have not blown us up into the air; so we not only live, but have come to Warsaw. I, because I must ride farther,--as far as Volhynia, and this gentleman," pointing to the notary, "on account of the concert and Panna Marynia's participation in it. Having read of it in the daily newspapers he fell into such a state that at any moment I looked for an attack of apoplexy or aneurism. There was no help for it. I had to prescribe a stay in Warsaw as a cure. Finally, he cannot at all endure our little town any more, and is thinking only of giving up his office to some one and of moving here permanently. In his heart a fire is burning, and the snow melts, and ice melts and so forth. Ha!" During these words, the old notary moved his jaws so furiously that his chin almost touched his nose; finally he declared: "The head splits! The head splits!" "The same old quarrel?" asked Gronski, laughing. "Quarrel?" repeated the notary. "It is not I who quarrel. He has shaken up my brain, shattered my nerves, stupefied me, torn to pieces, exhausted, cleaned out, sucked, and outtalked the remnants of strength within me. From yesterday, sir, on the whole road--a continual din and roar in the ears--and after that in the hotel; to-day, since morning, and now here. No, I cannot stand it, no, I cannot!" "Tut, tut. And who daily summons me? Who every day hangs out his tongue until it reaches the first button on his vest and orders me to examine it? Wait, sir. I will ride away and you will have to examine it yourself before a mirror." "Then you are really going to Volhynia? How about your patients?" asked Gronski. "I fear that in the meantime they may get well; but it can't be helped, I must go!" "And for how long?" "I do not know, but do not think very long. I am a Volhynian Mazur, from the minor nobility of that place, or as they say there of the single-manor nobles. They are mostly settled there as tenants of various petty nobles, but I have my own seat in partnership with a brother, an ex-judge, who has charge of the estate and to whom I am now riding." "But, of course, not because he is sick?" "Certainly, sir; he has become insane." "My God! Since when?" "Not long ago. From the time he became a 'local rights' man.'" "Ah." "That is so. The indigent, haughty noble took a notion to pose as a landed proprietor, hankered after the society of gentlemen, and got water on the brain. A month ago I sent him two thousand primers for our impoverished shabby gentility, of whom no one thinks and who involuntarily or rather in spite of their will, are there losing their Polish spirit. And would you believe it, sir, that he sent back to me the whole package, together with a letter in which he announced that he would not distribute the primers." "Why?" asked Gronski, whom the narrative of the doctor began to interest. "He wrote to me in the first place that they have decided to live and labor only for their own province and occupy themselves only with local or provincial affairs, and again they aim at some kind of synthesis of all nationalities, and thirdly they will Polonize nobody." "But you were only concerned about primers for the children of the petty nobility, who are Polish." "By them this is already styled Polonization, for it interferes with their 'synthesis.' We know in what that synthesis must end. May the devils take them, together with their diplomacy. But that is not enough! In the end, my ingenious brother informs me that he does not regard himself as a Pole, but only as a Volhynian with Polish culture and that this is his political position. Ah, sir, Stanczyk was wrong when he said that in Poland there are the most doctors. In Poland there are the most politicians. Every average Pole is a second Talleyrand, a second Metternich, a second Bismarck. He never participated in political life, is unacquainted with history, never passed through any schools, and never studied. That is nothing! He is by grace of God! He from nature has a pastille in his brain, of which he thinks that if he only lights it, then all the horse-flies and gnats, which suck our blood will be so hoaxed that they will cease to molest us. And every one is convinced that he alone sees clearly, that he alone has the exclusive measures, and that his diplomacy, county, local, provincial, or whatever you may call it, is a panacea. It never occurs to him, that with such county or local polities, this fatherland, as Yan Casimir said, would go into direptium gentium." "Sir," said the aged notary to Gronski, pointing to the doctor, "you have pressed in him such a button, that now he will not stop talking until we shall not be able to move hand or limb." "That is not a button, that is a sore," answered Gronski. And evidently it was a sore for the doctor, as he was so absorbed that he did not hear what was said about him, and began the following dialogue with his absent brother. "Ah! So you are not a Pole but only a Volhynian with Polish culture? Very well! Then, in the first place I will tell you that you have repudiated your father, grandfather, and great-grandfather; that you have spat upon their graves; that you have renounced your traditions, your right of existence, that you have grown smaller, that you have deserted your own people and have gone to those who do not want you, who do not invite you and who treat you with contempt; that you hang in the air and you will look prettily under such conditions in your Volhynia. Again, I will tell you that you are not yet a turncoat, since that which you are doing, you do through stupid politics which in consequence of your ignorance you regard as wise, but you have paved the way for future turncoats. Your grandson or great-grandson will renounce Polish culture. And finally, if you say that you are not a Pole, but only a Volhynian, why do you not go back farther, even as far as Darwin? You could with equal justice say that you are not a Pole, but an orang-outang or a pithecanthrope with Polish culture? What? Bah! But you still say that you do not want to Polonize any one? How can you Polonize? Whether with a whip, with prison, by religious compulsion, with school, or with a gag on the native tongue? Tell me! But, if not denying your nationality you would shine with the example of your public Polish virtues, if you would give someone your Polish hunger for liberty, your Polish ability to understand the sufferings of others, your Polish love, your Polish hope, your faith in a better future, and through these reconcile him to Poland, then would you regard such a Polonization as premature, and bad politics? But in such case, I ask you, you dunce, have you anything better to offer, and why are you staying there where you settled? You don't know? And in the end you will not even know who you are. That I will tell you. You, Brother, are a weak character and above all have a weak head." Here he turned to Gronski: "This is what I have to say to my brother and why I am riding to him. There is to be some kind of an assembly there, so I will say this, in other words, publicly." "If you would only go as quickly as possible," exclaimed the notary. And the doctor began to laugh. "But as I have yet time, I will first attend Panna Marynia's concert." "By all means," said Gronski, "ride, sir. Poland is not only being cut from the outside by inimical scissors, but she is beginning to be rent asunder internally. Ride, sir, and tell them that publicly. Perhaps some may be found who will be frightened at their amenableness to the future." "I think that such will be found. For, in the main, I assume that they, or at least a majority of them, thus far feel in the old way, and only speak as they do in order to loosen, even though for a moment, the noose which presses on their throats. But in this they are mistaken. The result will be that they will be despised and trampled upon, both from above and below." "When are you going?" "The assembly meets in about ten days, so I actually will stay here about a week, for I have various matters to attend to in Warsaw. In the meantime, I will visit my acquaintances, and among others Pani Otocka, and the Krzyckis. How is Krzycki?" "As well as a fish--and he is going to marry." "Well, well. I will wager that it is with that beautiful Englishwoman? A pure flower!" "Yes. But it seems that this is not an English flower, only genuinely Polish, from a village meadow." "For the Lord's sake. What are you saying?" "That is no longer any secret. Her name is Hanka Skibianka." Here Gronski related the whole history of Miss Anney, omitting only that Ladislaus knew her while she was Hanka. And they listened with astonishment, while the doctor slapped his knees with his palms and cried: "Ah! If I had known that; ah, if I had known that!" "Well, what would have happened? asked the notary testily. "What would have happened? I would have been in love with her not only under the ears but above. As it was, I only missed by a hair being in love with her. Ah, lucky but undeserving Krzycki! But such is my ill-luck. Let only one catch my fancy--lackaday! either some one takes her, or she is in love with somebody else. But it cannot be helped! I must see Miss Anney and tender her my best wishes. For after all Krzycki is a good boy. Such as he will not rebuild Poland, but a good boy, nevertheless. And such a comely rascal, that he ravishes the eye. I would like to see them together. That will be a couple--what!" "If you wish to see them, and have the time," said Gronski, "then it will not be difficult, for we arranged yesterday at Pani Otocka's that to-day we will all be present at the rehearsal for the concert. I can take you gentlemen to-day to the rehearsal, and afterwards, the whole party can go to breakfast." "Exactly," exclaimed the notary, "that is just what I came to ask you to do. I have dropped out of the old relations and I did not know to whom to apply--well!" Gronski glanced at his watch. "If that is the case, all right; but we have still time. In the hall at this moment there is some kind of meeting or lecture, and such meetings usually drag beyond the designated time. After that, before they ventilate the hall and replace the chairs, a half hour will elapse. I have not omitted any rehearsal, so I know how things go." "And I will not omit any," said the notary. Nevertheless, he grew so impatient that they left too early. Before the building stood about a dozen persons, evidently waiting for those in the hall; while from within there reached them a buzzing noise, at times shouts, applause, and the sound of the stamping of feet. "What kind of meeting is it?" asked the doctor. "Really, I do not know," answered Gronski. "Now we are full of that. There are political meetings, social conferences, literary lectures, and God knows what else." "I envy Warsaw," exclaimed the doctor. "There is not much to envy. At times it chances that something deserves attention, but oftener such absurdities take place that one feels ashamed." "Oh, they are already leaving," observed the notary; "but why are they shouting so?" "Let us wait; that is some kind of a brawl," said Gronski. In fact it evidently was a brawl, for from the roomy vestibule there rushed out on the wide stairs between ten, and twenty men, without caps or hats, who in the twinkling of an eye, formed a disorderly heap. In this heap, hands, canes, and umbrellas moved violently, and these motions were accompanied by a shrill shriek. Afterwards from the gyrating mob, shoved by tens of arms, shot out, as if from a sling, somebody, with bare head and tattered coat, who, leaping from the stairs, turned a somersault at the doctor's feet in such a manner as almost to tumble him and the notary on the ground. "Swidwicki!" exclaimed Gronski with astonishment. Swidwicki rose, and shaking his fist menacingly at the crowd, which, having ejected him outdoors, was again returning to the hall, began to say with a panting voice: "Ah, it is you! They have warmed my hide--they have warmed my hide! They have broken my ribs a little, and torn my coat. But that is nothing! I also have crooked a few straight noses and have straightened out a few crooked ones. This is the second time that this has happened to me--ouch!" "Come with me. You cannot stay thus, with bare head and in such a coat." "No, no!" answered Swidwicki. "Ouch! Let me recover my breath. Hey! Messenger!" And beckoning to a messenger, he said to him: "Citizen! Here are two pieces of coin and a wardrobe check. Go to the vestibule and fetch me my hat and topcoat." "But for the Lord's sake what happened?" "Directly, directly," said Swidwicki; "but let me first dress. After that we will go to some confectioner's shop--ouch! For as soon as the meeting closes, they will begin to go out and, finding me here, they will be ready to administer a new drubbing to me and to you gentlemen to boot." "So that was a meeting?" "A meeting, conference, discussion, lecture--whatever you wish. Panna Sicklawer spoke on 'Imparting knowledge.' On the platform sat Pan Citronenduft, Panna Bywalkiewicz, Panna Anserowicz, Panna Kostropacka, the editor Czubacki, and others. The hall was packed to suffocation. Ouch! I enjoyed myself like a king." "We see," observed Gronski. "You think not? But introduce me to these gentlemen. For I am the hero of the day." "Hero Swidwicki, gentlemen; Notary Dzwonkowski and Dr. Szremski," said Gronski. Swidwicki squeezed the palms of Gronski's astonished companions; after which when the messenger brought the hat, cane, and top-coat he dressed himself and said: "With this cane I would be ready to wait for them here--but for to-day I have had enough. The meeting will last twenty minutes or longer. Let us go to some confectioner's shop, for I feel a pain in my legs and cannot stand." They went to a confectioner's. Swidwicki ordered for himself one and then a second glass of cognac, after which he began to talk: "That was an instructive meeting. Panna Sicklawer, I tell you gentlemen, is a Cicero in petticoats. When she started to impart knowledge to various meek creatures of the masculine gender and various magpies of fourteen years, of whom the audience mainly consisted, even I grew warm. The meek creatures applauded or else cried 'shame' when there was a talk of parents, and the magpies blushed so violently and fidgeted in their seats so much, that they seemed to sit on needles, and everything went along smoothly. Remarks were made by Pan Citronenduft, Panna Gotower and some maid, a native of far away Kars, whose name as well as I could hear it, had a Grecian or Spanish sound,--Nieodtego. The maturer portion of the auditors was also carried away by the enthusiasm, and I, though Gronski doubts it, enjoyed myself like a king. For you see, gentlemen, that I, from principle, have nothing against imparting knowledge,--nothing. Quite the reverse! Only, I am of the opinion, if an affair is to be jolly let it be really jolly. So then, after a few addresses, I rose, asked leave to speak and announced that I desired to recite a poem in honor of the gathering. They agreed to it and I received applause in advance. Then I began to declaim--indeed, not an original poem, but my own parody on the fable: 'Once wanton little Thad.' But this did not continue long; it appeared that my Thaddy proved himself to be so wanton, that he was too wanton, even for them. They did not like also this; that in staring at Panna Nieodtego, I closed one eye. They began to shout 'Silence!' 'Fie!' 'Away with him! This is jeering!' And here my ideal fable began to change into a real epic. For when in reply to the shout 'This is jeering,' I said, 'Well what did you think it was?' there was a universal roar of 'Put him out!' At least fifty hands grappled my shoulders and neck; a nice rumpus followed. They struck me, I struck back. Finally, they dumped me into the corridor: from the corridor on to the stairs, and into the street. The rest you gentlemen know. I repeat for the third time that I enjoyed myself like a king." "That to me is at least courage," said the doctor; "it is necessary to stop such things, even by a scandal; so you did well, sir; you are a brave nationalist." "I, a nationalist," exclaimed Swidwicki, "why, the day before yesterday I was thrown out of a meeting of the National Democrats. Indeed, a little more politely, but I was ejected." Gronski began to laugh. "So this is your new sport?" But with this their conversation ended as their attention was attracted by the crowd returning from the lecture. Before the window flowed a black human stream, among which were a large number of striplings, and young girls with cheeks covered with blushes. When the stream finally passed by, there appeared after an interval the bright, vernal forms of Hanka, Marynia, and Pani Otocka, in the company of Krzycki. VIII Upon the so called "happiest period" in Krzycki's life certain small shadows fell, and this for various reasons. If on the one hand his love for Hanka grew with each day, on the other there began various petty annoyances which his mother had foreseen. They were things almost imperceptible, about which one could not pick a quarrel, but which nevertheless stung. Thus it happened that the ladies of Gorek came to Pani Krzycki to invite her to the wedding of Kajetana to Pan Dolhanski, which wedding through a special dispensation of the church was to take place in a few days. Pani Krzycki in tendering them her good wishes announced that they could also do the same to her, owing to the betrothal of her son to Miss Anney. Then both, one after the other, began to heartily embrace her, which, though apparently a sign of their good wishes, looked more like condolence, the more so as Pani Wlocek did not utter anything besides the words, "It is God's will," while Kajetana raised her eyes as piously as if she wanted to supplicate the Powers on high to comfort the heartbroken mother. Ladislaus laughed after their departure, but in his soul he wished that both would break their necks. When, however, a few days later it appeared that out of the entire circle of acquaintances only Hanka did not receive an invitation from these ladies, he wanted to start a brawl with Dolhanski: and his mother was barely able to restrain him with the declaration that neither she herself, nor Zosia, nor Marynia would attend the wedding. Krzycki was even angered because some of his acquaintances, in contrast to the ladies of Gorek, tendered to him their good wishes with excessive ardor, as if he had performed an heroic act. His marriage, as well as the antecedents of Hanka, became the subject of every conversation in "society." Out in the world, great political changes could take place, bombs could explode, strikes could break out, but in the salons for a few days only Hanka was spoken of, various flabby dames, with eyes half closed, in a questioning tone, drawling through their teeth, "Anka--Skubanka[12]--n'est ce pas?" But while the good wishes of those who tendered them to Krzycki with such excessive ardor sprang from appreciation of the heroism with which he dared to take as wife "Skubanka," Hanka's marriage settlement and the hope of "plucking" the millionaire in the future played an important rôle. This marriage settlement, which, agreeably with Pani Krzycki's anticipations, was, for local conditions, quite considerable, but by no means reached the millions, grew in public opinion with almost every hour, so that it attained almost fabulous proportions, and intensified the universal curiosity to the extent that when Hanka in the company of her two young female friends together with Pani Krzycki and her fiancé appeared at the races, all the lorgnettes were directed at their carriage. The flabby dames from "high life," gazing at her radiant countenance, sparkling with happiness and health, indeed said that they could at once surmise that "this is something a little different," and contended that in the present days this "high life" ought to open its delicate bosom to a person possessing such means for "doing good." As to her comeliness, however, the opinion prevailed that she was not sufficiently pretty for one to lose his head and that Krzycki was marrying for money. His defence was undertaken only by the ladies from Gorek, who, meeting now many people, made it everywhere understood that their young neighbor did not always seek merely money, and that only when he was disappointed in other fancies, did he come to the conclusion that it was better to have money than nothing. Thus did things shape themselves externally. But on the sky of the betrothed pair appeared tiny clouds which, as Ladislaus' love became inflamed, appeared even with greater frequency. Hanka, habituated to English customs, did not at all hesitate to receive her fiancé at her home and pass with him long hours alone; to stroll with him over the city, to drive from the city without a chaperon, and even call him by his Christian name. She said to herself that in great and sincere love there also should be room for friendship and that it was necessary before one became a wife to be a sincere friend and comrade. She thought that Ladislaus would understand this and not only would love her all the more but also cherish her all the more. Once she had read in an English book that one might love and not cherish, and that in such a case love grows embittered to the degree that it may become perpetual unhappiness. So, desiring to avoid this and place her future life upon immovable foundations, she wished to win, besides love, the deepest possible friendship. But here the misunderstandings between the engaged couple began. That golden-hair, that good friend, gazing with a heavenly light, that rose-colored, gay comrade who dressed herself in a light dress and spring hat, was so charming that Ladislaus cherished indeed without limit, but at every tête-à-tête lost his head. To Hanka it appeared that her betrothed, though he was enamoured to distraction and at the same time was a friend, should be the kind of a man upon whose shoulders she could at every moment press her head with perfect confidence that he would not abuse her trust and would not take advantage of their seclusion nor of any temporary weakness, nor of the gray hour, nor of the fact that love disarms and weakens a woman. He, on the contrary, perhaps because he lost his head, acted as if he thought that friendship and the relations of a comrade only added to the rights of betrothal. From this there was generated a mutual vigilance; in him a watchfulness for everything of which he might take advantage; in her a wariness of that which she ought to avoid. This vigilance, at first silent, soon lapsed into quarrels. They were followed by apologies, which would have intensified the love of both were it not that Ladislaus apologized too passionately. And this misunderstanding was in reality deeper than both thought, for when Hanka, remembering what once had taken place between them, believed that he should on that account be more continent, he, in moments when blinded by desire, seemed to fancy that very past, together with the burnt bridges, justified him in everything. From these causes, the enchanted edifice of their happiness from time to time became defaced and would have been defaced yet more strongly were it not for this, that in Ladislaus there was material for everything and there came upon him moments entirely different. Sometimes on clear nights when they sat on the balcony leading to the garden of Hanka's residence, and when from the neighboring balcony came the song of Marynia's violin, and the moonlight seemed to sleep quietly on the opposite walls, it also put to slumber Ladislaus' senses. His soul, lulled to sleep by the sight of the beloved being, bleaching like a white angel in the dusk,--intoxicated with the fragrance of leaves and flowers, winged by music, was dissolved into a kind of universal but sweet and chaste feeling, which enveloped Hanka and bore her towards the stars. The impressionable soul of the girl at such times was susceptible of this and was simply submerged in happiness. But these were transitory moments of tranquillity of mind. A moment later, while Ladislaus was bidding her good-night and when he kissed her hands and forehead, quickly there was awakened in him the eternal hungry desire, and he sought her lips and hugged her breast to his own; he lost his memory, and, when she broke away from his arms, he said that he did not promise her that he would be an English Quaker; and they parted, if not angry, as if both were humiliated and sad. And that sadness fraternized with love. But it often happened that Ladislaus disarmed Hanka with his great frankness which in reality was his chief attribute. "You, my Hanusia," he said to her once, after serious quarrel, "would want that I should mount a ladder and stay on the highest round, for a time--Good!--I can! But to stay there forever I could not do any more than I could walk on stilts all the time. Do not imagine that I am something more than I am. I am an ordinary mortal, who only differs from others in this, that he loves you above everything." "No, Laudie," answered Hanka, "I do not at all desire that you should be some great personage, for I remember that the Englishmen say that an honest man is the noblest work of God." "I did a little mischief once, but I think I am honest." "Yes, but remember that not he is honest who does not do evil, but he who does good. In that everything is contained." "I agree to that. You will teach me that." "And you me." "Ha I we will keep house in Jastrzeb and will do all we can. There is much work to be done there and of the kind for which I am fitted. To be a good husbandman, to be good to the people, to instruct them; to teach, love, and enlighten; to be also a good citizen of the country and in case of necessity to die for it--for this, I give my word I am fit. Yes, it is so. And now you have me. But taking everything together, no evil will befall you with me, Hanusia,--I love you too much for any evil to befall you. Only, my golden one, my love, my rosy lady, do not command me to sit on the ladder, for that I cannot do." His simplicity and sincerity propitiated Hanka. The thought of a joint life in Jastrzeb, of loving the folks whose child she was, of instructing them, of laboring over and for them, cheered and allured her more powerfully than anything else could do. To return to Poland and take charge of a Polish village was the plan which she formulated immediately after the death of the Anney family. And now just such a horizon was opened to her by this former "young lord" whom she loved while yet a simple girl. Therefore she was grateful to him: she was ready in her soul to exalt his good qualities, to exculpate his faults, to love him, and to persevere faithfully at his side, but in exchange she wanted nothing more than that he should love her not only with his senses, but with a true and chaste love, and that he should regard her above all things as his life companion, "for better or for worse." And, for that reason, whenever there came to her moments in which it seemed to her that he saw in her principally an object for his desires and was unable to find, in himself strength to struggle with them and elevate his feelings to noble heights, doubt seized her heart and she could not resist the thought that he was not such as she would wish him to be. "But nevertheless," she consoled herself in her soul, "that is a sincere and true nature, and where there is sincerity and truth, everything may be brought to light." Ladislaus on the contrary was in reality sincere to the degree that one could see through him--through and through, as though he were made of glass. The proof of this was the opinion which Dr. Szremski expressed about him in a conversation with Gronski. "To me," he said, "the present-day Hanka Skibianka is ten times more interesting than the former Miss Anney, and I wish her happiness from my whole soul. But if she bases that happiness upon the feeling which Krzycki entertains for her, I fear that she will be disappointed. I do not wish to say anything bad of him. On the contrary, to me he is a sympathetic type, for he is immensely ours, immensely domestic. If he had lived a hundred years ago and been a Uhlan, he would have charged at Samo-Sierra no worse than Kozietulski and Niegolewski. Only he belongs to that species of men for whom it is easier to die for some idea or for some feeling than to live for them and to persevere in them. To turn to one idea or to one feeling, as a magnetic needle turns to the north, is not within their power nor their concern. They require distraction, amusement. And there is nothing strange in this. Consider only that for entire ages nobody was better off than the various Krzyckis and Gronskis--nobody. So they sucked of the pleasures of life, like juice of grapes. They ate, drank, played, dissipated--bah! they even fought for the pleasure of it. They were not vicious nor terrible, for a happy man cannot be totally vicious. They had in their hearts a certain feeling of humanity. They were indulgent to people who were subject to them, but above all things they were indulgent to themselves. Hence at the bottom of the Polish soul always lies indulgence. Then came the time of penance and that indulgence by right of inheritance, particularly in the spheres to which Krzycki belongs, remains. For him, neither love for woman nor for fatherland will suffice. He will love them and, in a given case, will perish for them, but in life he will indulge himself. And you see, sir, that it was just for this reason that I said that such as he will not rebuild Society." "And who will?" asked Gronski. "The future generations--not the pot-bellied, not the easy-natured, not the chatterboxes, not the indulgers in sensual delights and the pleasures of life--no--apparently they are good for everything and fit for nothing--but only the hardy, the persistent, the quiet, and the practical. For them, misfortune and slavery have tilled the ground for a hundred years." "And the present day manures the ground," said Gronski, "only it is a pity that this manure has such a rank smell." "That is not manure; that is sand blown from abroad which renders the soil sterile," replied the doctor with energy. And he began to curse. IX Dolhanski, however, completely subdued his fiancée and his future mother-in-law, inasmuch as he prevailed upon them to call personally upon Hanka and invite her to the wedding. They were prompted to this by the consideration that at any rate it behooved them to preserve the outward semblance of good relations with their future neighbors from Jastrzeb, and they were persuaded in particular by the news, which he brought from the high spheres, that "high life" was reconciled to the idea of admitting Hanka into its fold, while he, on the other hand, wanted to see her at a close range in the church. After their visit, during which the mother and daughter, under the watchful eye of Dolhanski, acted not only properly but quite amiably, Pani Krzycki revoked her resolution, of not attending the nuptial rites. These took place early in the week at the Church of the Order of Visitation in the presence of a great concourse of dames from the "grand world" and Dolhanski's titled colleagues from the club. In this the desire to take a close view of the peasant-millionairess played as important a part as the wish to see Dolhanski. Those of his acquaintances who knew the ladies from Gorek had previously stated that he was taking a lady of wealth, but old and ludicrous; in consequence of which these good colleagues wanted to see what kind of mien he would have, so that they might afterwards have a subject for their gibes and jests. But in this respect they met with the most complete disappointment. Dolhanski, escorted on one side by Gronski, on the other by Count Gil, walked through the church with such self-confidence, such sangfroid, and with such a smile on his lips, as though he had the right and desire to jeer at his colleagues. The tall and gaunt young lady did not, after all, look so badly in her lace wedding dress. She had too much powder on her face; her veil was too long, and too much did she "tremble like a leaf," which created an impression that this leaf did that a little purposely. There was nothing in her, however, to excite ridicule, and, when the two knelt before the altar, the dames and beaux, looking from the depth of the church, had to admit that in her slender white form there was some charm. But the eyes of those present were directed principally at Hanka who glided through the nave on Ladislaus' arm, like a light spring cloud. To the gentlemen of the club it seemed that from the moment of her entrance the church grew brighter. Count Gil, who found himself near her, behind the stalls, later stated in a certain salon that a rosy warmth radiated from her. Others at once corroborated this and to the mot of a dame that in order to find favor in men's eyes it was necessary that one must not only be a woman but also a radiator, they replied that it was absolutely necessary. In the meanwhile they envied Ladislaus Mr. Anney's millions and Hanka, who so absorbed to herself the general attention that Pani Otocka and Marynia passed by almost unobserved. Neither appeared to the best advantage that day. In Pani Otocka, Dolhanski's marriage aroused a certain disgust, which was reflected in her countenance, and Marynia opened her lips too widely out of curiosity, and besides, her bared arms were so thin and, as usual with immature girls, were so red that, they could only excite compassion. The ladies of the "grand world," besides, did not look at one or the other for the further reason that Ladislaus, with his stature and visage of a Uhlan of the time of the Duchy of Warsaw, became the focus upon which the rays of their tortoise-shell lorgnettes were converged. With the appearance of the priest silence fell and the rites began. The lorgnettes were now directed towards the altar. In the distance could be seen floating under the orange blossoms the bridal veil and Dolhanski's head, somewhat bald at the summit, over which crept the reflexes of the candles flickering in the dusk. Krzycki, bending towards Hanka, began to whisper: "And we will soon--" and she dropped her eyelids in sign of assent; after which when their eyes met, she blushed violently and raised her lace handkerchief to her lips, and later fixed her gaze upon the altar, for she recalled to her mind how, not long before, the candles flickered in the same manner in the Church of the Holy Cross, when together they prayed for their future happiness. Yes, soon they would kneel there again in order not to be separated for life, and this thought, so full of sweetness and at the same time of uneasiness of feeling, expanded her breast. In the meanwhile in the silence could be heard the voice of the priest: "Edward, do you take Kajetana, whom you see before you, for wife?" and when Dolhanski firmly confirmed this and Kajetana mumbled that she wanted this Edward, their hands were bound by the stole and the rites rapidly approached an end; then the hymeneal party left the church. The bridal couple were to leave for a tour abroad within two hours, but before that in the dining-hall of the hotel a dinner awaited them, to which, of the relatives of the groom, only Pani Krzycki, Ladislaus, Hanka, as his betrothed, and the sisters were invited; of the more distant, Gronski and Count Gil, as groomsmen attended. The dinner with the inevitable toasts did not last long; after it the newly-married pair repaired to their separate apartments and after a certain time reappeared attired in their travelling clothes. Then began the usual bustle preceding a journey; trunks, small luggage, and bright travelling paraphernalia were hauled out. Dolhanski during the dinner and these last moments displayed such sangfroid and such phlegm that all the lords of England might envy him. Without the least haste he conversed with the gentlemen; he expressed his regrets to Marynia that he could not be at the concert; to Pani Otocka he said that he owed to her in a great measure his happiness of that day; and afterwards intrusted Gorek to the neighborly care of Krzycki, and bantered with Gronski, trying to persuade him to follow in his footsteps. This superb calmness of his contrasted strangely with the uneasiness and distraction of the bride. For a half hour before the departure and immediately after donning her travelling robe, she began to stare at her mother with an inquiring look as if awaiting from her something which was overlooked or forgotten and which under no circumstances ought to be overlooked. This continued so long that it attracted general attention, and when Pani Wlocek did not appear to understand the inquiring look, Kajetana beckoned her for a confidential talk in a room adjoining the dining-hall. To the ears of the guests there began to reach for a quarter of an hour some alarming though muffled cries of, "Ah!" and "Oh!" and after an interval the bride entered with her eyes covered by her palms. But after a while she dropped her hands alongside her dress and gazing at Dolhanski with the look of an antelope at a lion, she asked in an almost inaudible voice: "Edward, perhaps it is already time?" Gronski, Krzycki, and Count Gil bit their lips, while Dolhanski glanced at his watch and said: "We have yet five minutes." X The cloudlets looming between Hanka and Ladislaus began by degrees to be transformed into clouds. At times they ceased to mutually understand each other. Hanka was more and more disturbed by the thought whether Ladislaus, notwithstanding his good heart and his ability to appreciate everything which is exalted and noble, was not a weak character, that in a moment of sudden impulse or passionate ecstasy is unable to resist and cannot muster within himself sufficient strength, even though his own worth is involved, and at this thought she was oppressed by a deep sorrow. But she was yet more painfully nettled on another side of the matter. This was that she arrived at the conviction that his feelings towards her were better, purer and, as it were, more shy at the time when he thought that she was Miss Anney. She remembered various moments, both in Jastrzeb and in Warsaw, in which she was certain that this burning flame of love, which glowed in his heart, was at the same time a sacrificial flame of esteem. And now when she had told him that she is the former Hanka that pure fire has changed into an ignition of the senses. Why? Was the cause of this their former sin; was it that she was a peasant? In the answer to those questions lay the pain, for Hanka felt that whatever happened was the result of these causes. But she was mistaken in thinking that Ladislaus did not understand that just for these two reasons he ought to act directly contrary, in order to efface in her the memory of sin and to raise her in her own eyes and to respect her as his future wife. He understood this quite clearly, and often it happened that after parting from her he upbraided himself, not mincing words, and in his soul made a solemn promise of reformation. But as in his easy life he had not accustomed himself to contend with anything and, above all, with himself, therefore this lasted but a short time--as long only as he was away from her, as long as he was not enveloped by the warmth emanating from her; only when he was not absorbed with her eyes; did not feel her hand in his own, and did not intoxicate himself with her feminine attractions. Then reason blinded in him and darkened; he became the slave of blood, full of sophisms, the agent of senses, and the recollection of the former Hanka, instead of repressing the temptation, only increased it the more. Under such conditions, sooner or later, the storm had to break above the heads of both and create desolation. Accordingly it burst sooner than Krzycki could have foreseen. One day, coming at the twilight hour to Hanka, he found her in a strange and unusual condition. She was agitated, her countenance was suffused with blushes, her eyes were red, and the hand which she tendered to him, palpably trembled. At the beginning she did not want to tell him what was the matter, but when they sat beside each other, he began to beg of her that she would not make anything a secret with him, but to tell him what occurred, not only as a fiancé, but as her best friend. Hanka was always conciliated by an appeal to friendship. Therefore after a while she said, smiling sadly: "I was not concerned about any secret but I preferred to keep to myself an unpleasantness. Did you, sir, ever notice my servant, Pauly?" (Hanka from a certain time addressed her fiancé as "sir," believing that in this manner she would hold him more easily at a proper distance.) "Pauly?" repeated Ladislaus, and though, after all, he thus far had done nothing with which to reproach himself, a sudden disquiet arose in him. "Pauly? Why of course! Why, she was at Jastrzeb and I saw her here everyday. What happened?" "She created for me a horribly disagreeable scene and has left me." "Why?" "That is just what I do not know. She always was very violent and nervous, but very honest. So I was attached to her and I thought that she would be attached to me. But for some time I have observed in her something like a dislike to me, with each day greater. Really, I never was harsh to her; even the contrary. So I attributed everything to the nerves. In the meantime, to-day, it came to an outburst and it is so disagreeable to me! so disagreeable!" Hanka's voice faltered, and it could be seen that she felt the whole occurrence deeply. So Ladislaus pressed her hand to his lips and asked with sympathy: "What kind of outburst was it?" "This afternoon, or rather after Marynia's return from the rehearsal, we were to ride up town with Zosia. So, desiring to change my dress, I ordered her to hand it to me. Pauly went after it as usual and brought it, but suddenly she threw it upon the ground and began to trample upon it, and in addition screamed in a loud, shrill voice that she would serve me no longer. At first I was stupefied, for it occurred to me that she had become insane." "She surely is insane!" interrupted Ladislaus; "but what further?" "She slammed the door and left. I did not see her any more. About an hour later somebody came for her things and wages." Here Hanka began to shake her head. "And nevertheless when I recall her dislike and what she told me in the last moments, I do not think that it was an attack of insanity; it was only an outburst of hatred, which she could no longer restrain in herself. And for me this is such a disappointment, such a disappointment!" "My lady--Hanus," said Ladislaus, seizing both of her hands, "is it worth while to take to heart the deed of a foolish vixen? For she is a foolish vixen--nothing more. It is enough to look at her. Calm yourself, Hanus,--this is only a momentary matter which it is necessary to forget as soon as possible. Remember who you are and who she is! Such times have come that everything is turned topsy-turvy. Such occurrences now take place everywhere. But they will pass away. In the meantime we two have so many reasons for joy that in view of them such wretched smarts ought to disappear." And he began to press alternately her hands to his lips and to his breast and gaze in her eyes, but this increased her grief; for Hanka desiring to spare unnecessary disagreeableness to her betrothed and herself did not confess everything to him. She was particularly reticent about this, that the infuriated servant, on leaving, screamed at her in her eyes, "You base peasant. You ought to serve me, not I you! Your place is with cows, not in the palace!" Perhaps Hanka might not have taken these words so much to heart were it not for the previous friction in her relations with Ladislaus, and were it not for the thought that he transgressed certain bounds perhaps because she was his former sweetheart and a peasant. But just this reason caused the thorn to be imbedded in her heart more deeply and bred in her a fear as to future life in which similar scenes might be repeated more frequently. So, also, his words about the happiness awaiting them were only drops overflowing the cup of bitterness, and his caresses affected the aggrieved girl like a child, who the more she is consoled the more disconsolate she becomes. There came to her a moment of weakness and exhaustion. The usual strength deserted her, her nerves were unstrung, and she began to sob, but feeling at the same time ashamed of her tears she buried her face in his breast. "Hanus, my Hanus!" repeated Ladislaus. And he began to kiss her light hair. Afterwards clasping her temples with his palms, he raised her tear-stained face and kissed off her tears. She did not defend herself; so after a while he sought with his mouth her quivering lips. "Hanus! Hanus!" he whispered in a panting voice. The ferment of desire more and more obscured his reason, obscured his heart, his memory. He drank from the girl's lips while his breath held out, he forgot himself like a drunkard and finally seized her in his arms. "Hanus! Hanus!" And it happened that he offended her grievously, that to the humiliation, which she had met that day, he added a new humiliation; to insult, a new insult--that an abyss plainly separated them! XI When on the morning of the following day Ladislaus awoke after a brief feverish sleep, he was seized by grief and an insane rage at himself. He recalled everything which had taken place. He remembered that his parting with Hanka the day before was equivalent to being shown the door; there returned to him as a wicked echo his own wretched and dreadful words said in his passion at the time of separation, that if her resistance flowed from fear that later he might break their engagement, then let her know that it was an idle fear. And so he imputed this resistance to miserable motives. And he, a man who prided himself not only upon his good breeding but also upon a subtile sense of honor and personal worthiness--he, Krzycki, could act the way he did and say what he said. In the first moments after opening his eyes, it seemed to him that this was a point-blank impossibility; some kind of a continuation of the nightmare which throttled his slumber, which ought to disappear with the light of day. But that nightmare was a heavy reality. It was incumbent upon him to take it into account and remedy it in some manner. He sat down to write a letter, in which he smote himself upon the breast, complained, and apologized. He said that no one was able to condemn him as he had condemned himself, and if he dared to beg for forgiveness it was only in hope that perhaps some voice, some echo of the better moments would intercede for him in her heart and would procure for him forgiveness. At the close he begged for an opportunity of repeating in person the words of the letter and for an answer, even in case the sentence pronounced against him was final. But when the messenger who took the letter informed him upon his return that there was no answer, he fell into genuine despair. As a really spoiled child of life, unaccustomed to opposition and obstacles, and one convinced that everything was due him, it began to appear to him that this was more than he deserved; that he was the injured party. He would not admit, however, that all was lost. He indulged in the hope that Hanka might, before opening the letter, have announced that there was no answer and that after reading it she would be moved, would relent, and rescind her resolution. Sustained by this hope, he dressed himself, strolled over the city for an hour in order to give Hanka time to reckon with her heart, and afterwards rang the bell of her residence. But he was not received. Then it occurred to him to apply to Pani Otocka. After a while, he nevertheless perceived that the causes of his rupture with Hanka were of such a nature that it was impossible to discuss them either with Pani Otocka or his mother. In his soul he now began to accuse Hanka of downright cruelty, but at the same time the greater the difficulties interposed between them the greater was his grief. He could not, in any measure, be reconciled to the thought that whatever he regarded as his own should be taken away from him; and as is usual with weak persons, he began to commiserate himself. From Pani Otocka he went to Gronski, regarding him as the only person with whom he could speak frankly and whose mediation would be effective. And here disappointment awaited him. Gronski had suffered for several days with his eyes and was not allowed to read; this put him into a bad humor, and for this reason he received Ladislaus more indifferently than usual. Ladislaus became convinced that it was difficult to speak of the rupture not only with Pani Otocka and his mother, but even with a man and old friend who knew of his former relations with Hanka. A feeling of shame plainly choked the words in his throat, and he began to beat about the bush and palliate things, talk in empty phrases about a misunderstanding and the necessity of a friendly mediation, so that Gronski at last asked, with a shade of impatience: "Tell me plainly about what you had a falling out, and then I can tell whether I will undertake to bring you together again." And evidently he did not attach much importance to the matter for he waved his hand and said: "It would be best if you made it up between yourselves." "No," replied Ladislaus; "this is more serious than you think, and we ourselves cannot come to any agreement." "Well, finally, what was it about?" Shame, exertion, and constraint were depicted upon Ladislaus' face. "In a moment of forgetfulness and ecstasy," he said, "I passed--that is--I wanted to pass--certain limits--" And he stopped abruptly. Gronski began to look at him with amazed eyes and asked: "And she?" "Why, if anything had happened there would not have been any rupture and I surely would not speak of it now. She ordered me to the door and not to show myself there any more." "May God bless her," exclaimed Gronski. Silence ensued. Gronski walked with big paces over the room repeating every little while, "It is unbelievable!" and again, "An unheard-of thing!" and in addition his face became more and more severe and cold. After which he sat down and, looking at Ladislaus, began to speak deliberately: "I have known many people even among our aristocracy, in whom beneath the veneer of society, beneath high descent and all the pretensions of elegant breeding were concealed the ordinary coarse, low, peasant instincts. If this observation can be applied to you as a comfort, accept it, for I have no other for you." A sudden wave of anger swept over Ladislaus' heart and brain. For a while he struggled with himself in order not to explode and answer insult with insult; in the end he subdued himself and replied in a hollow voice: "I deserve it." But Gronski, not disarmed by this confession, continued: "No, my dear sir, I will not undertake your defence, for I should act contrary to my convictions. To you less than to any one else was it allowable to indulge yourself, even out of regard for the past. And your fiancée must have so understood it, and besides she did not forget her extraction. To you it was less permissible! She was a hundred times right in showing you the door. The matter is really more serious than I thought, and so serious that I do not see any help for it. You did not respect Hanka, your future wife, and therefore yourself and your own honor. In view of this how can she honor you and what can she think of you?" "I know," said Ladislaus in the same hollow voice, "and I have said all this to myself in almost the same words. I wrote a letter to her this morning, begging for forgiveness--there was no answer. I went to her personally--I was not received. So I came to you as the last refuge--for--for me there pleads only one thing--I acted badly, brutally, and scurvily, but I have not ceased to love her. There is no life for me without her, and though you may not believe it, nevertheless it is so that under the frenzy which possessed me, under that froth which blinded me and under which I to-day sink, lies the feeling not only deep but pure--" Gronski again began to measure with great steps the room for he was somewhat touched by Ladislaus' words. While the latter continued: "If she will not read my letters and will not receive me, then I will not be able to tell her that. Hence it is imperative that some one should speak to her in my name. I cannot apply either to Mother or Pani Zosia in this. I thought that you, sir--but since you decline, I now have no one." "Look, however, into the eyes of reality," said Gronski more gently, "for it may be that her love for you was at once torn into shreds. In such case from where will she take it when she no longer possesses it?" "Let her tell me so; that at least is yet due to me." Again silence fell. "Listen," Gronski finally said, "I always was a friend of yours and of your mother, but this mission which you want to intrust to me I cannot undertake. I cannot among other reasons, because if your fiancée does not reply to you, so likewise she may not reply to me. One look, one word, will close my mouth and with this it would end. But try another method. Panna Hanka comes quite often with Marynia to the rehearsals, at which I am always present, and afterwards I escort both home. Come with me. You may find an opportunity to speak with her. During the return home I will take Marynia and you will remain with her. I think that she will not repel you even though out of regard for Marynia, to whom she would not wish to divulge what had passed between you.--Then tell her what you have said to me and also beg her for an interview, which, if it cannot be otherwise--will be final. It will be necessary somehow to give to the world some plausible excuse for your rupture; so I presume she will agree to that. If not, we will think of something else." Ladislaus began to wring his hands and said: "Perhaps through Zosia we could ascertain whether this is forever." "You understand that she may not have wished to discuss the cause of your rupture even with Pani Zosia." "I understand, I understand." "But you now have a fever," said Gronski, "your hands are burning. Go, try to cool off and calm yourself." XII Laskowicz now beheld Marynia, indeed from a distance, but daily. Even on rainy days, when she did not walk to the rehearsals, but rode, he lay in wait on the stairway of the edifice, in order to see her alight from the carriage. On fair days he usually waited near her home, and afterwards followed after her to the hall. As among the employees in the building were found a few "associates," these facilitated his admittance to the rehearsals. To hide in the boxes or in the seats at the end of the rows was easy, as during the rehearsals only the stage was fully lit up and in the auditorium itself the dusk was illumined by only a few lamps, which were lit in order that the handful of privileged lovers of music, who occupied the seats behind the orchestra, might not be plunged in complete darkness. Amidst these privileged ones, Laskowicz often recognized acquaintances,--Gronski, Pani Otocka, the old notary. Miss Anney, sometimes Krzycki, and two or three times, Dr. Szremski. But notwithstanding his hatred of Ladislaus and dislike of the doctor and Gronski, he was little occupied by them and thought of them very little, as his eyes could not even for a moment be torn from Marynia. He encompassed with his gaze her girlish form, standing out on the edge of the stage, bathed in a lustre of electricity, luminous of her own accord, and involuntarily she reminded him of that alabaster statuette, which the venerable canon deemed his greatest treasure. Laskowicz was not an educated man. His one-sided study of physics had contracted his intellectual horizon and he was incapable of rendering to himself a clear account of certain impressions. Nevertheless, when he gazed on that maid, with violin in hand, on her pure calm countenance, on the elongated outlines of her figure and dress, there awakened in him a half conscious feeling that in her there was something of poetry, and something of the church. She seemed to him an artless supernal vision, to which one might pray. Accordingly he deified her in his wild, fanatical soul. But there raged within him a revolt against all divinities, therefore he fought with his own feelings and struggled to depress and weed them out to the last extremity. Intentionally he plucked off the wings of his own thoughts: intentionally he imposed fetters upon his vagaries and unchained his concupiscence. He discomfited himself, tortured himself, and suffered. Often he stood on the brink of madness--and in such cases he was ready to annihilate, slaughter, and set fire to the whole city in order to seize, amidst the bloodshed and conflagration, this silvery maid and possess her,--and afterward perish with her and all others. He imagined that during the revolutionary storm, which the waves of the proletariat would stir up, such an universal hour of annihilation might strike. But when reality scattered these dreams, when moments occurred in which it became plain that the people themselves put a muzzle upon the jaws of the revolutionary dragon, then the gory vision evaporated into vacuous smoke, and only exhaustion and confusion remained, for this gloomy proletaire felt that as long as he had strength the storm would rage, and that when it passed away he would sink into complete nothingness. Hence, in his heart bitterness and jealousy accumulated more and more. He loved Marynia and at the same time he hated her, for he thought that she looked upon him as a worm which squirms at her feet, unworthy of a glance. He was confirmed in this conviction by the fact that his letters evidently did not make the slightest impression upon her and did not disturb her usual tranquillity. Laskowicz had given his word to Pauly that he would see Marynia only from a distance, and he could not approach her, because she was never out alone. But in reality he could not conjecture that those letters were received and burnt by Pani Otocka and that Marynia knew nothing about them. It appeared to him that his passionate appeals in which the words, "Beloved! beloved!" were repeated every little while, and those fiery outbursts in which he prostrated himself in humility at her adored feet must have represented him to her as the ruling king-soul shoving the human wave into the unknown future, and ought to have evoked some result. "Let it be anger, let it be hatred," he said to himself in his soul, "but here there is nothing! She passes by me as if I was a street cur; she does not see me; she does not deign to recognize me." In fact it was so. In the moments when they passed each other on the street, Marynia did not and could not recognize Laskowicz, for after his departure from Jastrzeb he allowed his youthful beard to grow, and afterwards, Swidwicki, in order to disguise him in the eyes of the police, bleached his beard, together with his mustache and the hair on his head, a light yellow. His clothes and spectacles also changed his appearance but he forgot about that, and he fretted with the supposition that her eyes do not see him or do not recognize him, firstly, because a recollection of him never comes to her mind, and again because she belongs to some kind of social Olympus and he to the "proletarian garbage-box." Under such impressions his anguish changed into fury. With savage satisfaction, he thought of this: that there might come a time when the fate of this "sacred doll" and all her kin would be in his hands. He persuaded himself that that moment would be a triumph for himself personally and for the "good cause," and therefore he rejoiced at this conjunction. He pictured to himself what would happen when Marynia came to him to beg for a favor for herself and her relatives. Whether, at that time, he would prostrate himself on the ground before her and tell her to plant her foot on his head, or whether he would seize her in his arms and afterwards pass time away shamelessly--he did not know. He only had a feeling that he could do one or the other. In the meantime he often said to himself that he ought not to see her any more, and decided to seek her no more, but on the following day he rushed to the place where he could meet her. He struggled with himself, he was torn inwardly, and became exhausted to such an extent that he began to fail in health. Want of such air as he breathed in Jastrzeb, the necessity of hiding from the police, uneasiness, lack of sleep, sudden and painful spiritual changes sapped his strength. He became haggard, swarthy, and at times he thought that death threatened not on the gallows but in a hospital. In such a disposition was he found by Pauly, who after her scene with Hanka, dashed like a whirlwind into his little garret room. Her face was so changed, so pale, so sickly and malignant, and her eyes glittered so feverishly that at the first glance he knew that she was driven to him by some extraordinary accident and he asked: "What has happened?" "I am no longer with that low peasant." And she remained silent for she could not catch her breath, and only her face was twitching nervously. Laskowicz understood only that she had abandoned her employment and looked at her with a questioning gaze, awaiting further explanations. "Then, sir, you do not know," she broke out after a while, "then you do not know that he is to marry her? And that she is no Englishwoman, but only a low peasant! And such a one I served! He is to marry her--a low peasant!--a low peasant!--he!" And her voice changed into a shrill nervous hiccough. Laskowicz was frightened at her transports, but at the same time breathed easily. Howsoever he might long since have conjectured that Krzycki's affections were directed towards Miss Anney and not towards Marynia, he was nevertheless pleased in his soul that reality corroborated those conjectures. Living, however, in a world which no echoes of the higher social sphere reach, and knowing nothing of the transformation of Miss Anney into a Polish peasant woman, he began to interrogate Pauly minutely because the affair aroused his curiosity; he wished also to give time to the excited girl to calm herself. But this last was not an easy matter, and he long had to put questions to her to elicit the news which Swidwicki had first told her that Miss Anney was a simple peasant woman, but which, however, she did not at first believe, as he said it while under the influence of intoxicants. Only from the conversations which she overheard did she become convinced not only of the truth of the statement but also that Krzycki was to wed Miss Anney. Afterwards she peeped through the keyhole and saw him kneel before her and kiss her hands. Then she could not restrain herself any longer and at the first opportunity flung at the feet of her mistress her "linen frock," and, reviling her as a base peasant, left her service. Here again indignation began to seize her so that Laskowicz from fear that she might have an attack of convulsions, said: "We will consult together about this, but only let the lady be pacified." But she replied with increasing irritation: "I did not come here for you to pacify me. You, sir, have prated about our mutual wrongs and now you order me to be pacified. I want help and not your chatter." "You are anxious that he should not marry her?" "And what else do you suppose?" In any case Laskowicz would have sided with the girl for he was obligated to do that by gratitude to her for saving his life, by the similarity of their lot, and those "joint wrongs" of which he himself had previously spoken to Pauly, and of which she now reminded him. But the existence of Krzycki at present ceased to stand in his way and Miss Anney's existence less so. Only one thing he could not forgive in her: "She was a peasant woman, she was a wage-earner, and afterwards became a female bourgeois. In this is the crime." "In it or not in it, it is now I or she! Do you understand, sir?" "I understand, but what is to be done?" "When you ran away from the police, I did not ask what was to be done." "I remember." "And you said at Swidwicki's that your people could accomplish everything." "For it is so." "So if he only does not marry her, then even let the world end." Laskowicz began to look at her with his closely set eyes and after a moment commenced to speak slowly and with emphasis: "Krzycki was once already condemned and lives, thanks to you, lady, but if he gets a bullet in his head, then he will marry no one." But she, hearing this, turned pale as a corpse; in the same moment she sprang at him with her finger-nails! "What!" she cried in a hoarse voice; "what! he! Let but a hair fall from his head, then, I will have you all--" Laskowicz's patience, however, was exhausted. He was irritated, torn internally and sick; hence, after her threat, a wave of bitterness and rage flooded his brains. He started up and, glaring in her eyes, shouted! "Do not threaten with betrayal, for that is death!" "Death?" she screamed. "Death! this is what life is to me!" And shoving her palm close to his face, she blew on it so that her breath moistened him, and repeated: "Look! This is what life is to me." "And to me," exclaimed Laskowicz. For an interval they stared in each other's eyes like two odious and despairing souls. He recovered his wits first, and clasping his head with both hands, said: "Oh, how unfortunate we are! oh!" "Yes! yes!" reiterated Panna Pauly. And she began to sob hysterically. Then he commenced to quiet her. He promised her that nothing should befall Krzycki and that his marriage would not under any circumstances take place. He said that at that moment he could not indeed disclose to her what measures would be adopted, but he assured her that neither he nor his party would show any consideration to a mere female bourgeois, as here was involved a higher social justice, which does not need to take into account any particular individual. Pauly only understood that that "low peasant" would not wed the young master of Jastrzeb, and became appeased in some measure: and afterwards, both, from necessity, became occupied with other matters. It was imperative that some kind of shelter be found for the young girl: so Laskowicz placed her with "a female associate" residing in the neighborhood, who immediately went for her wages and belongings. He himself returned to his own rooms and began to revolve in his mind how he could repay Panna Pauly for saving his life. And in this feeling of gratitude lay the first reason why he took the matter to heart. A second reason was his own ill-luck and ill-fated love for Marynia which made him sensitive to similar strifes; and the third was that "social justice" which he mentioned to Pauly. As to the third reason he felt, however, the necessity of deliberating with his own soul in order that when the time for action arrived his hands would be untied, and under the pressure of this necessity he began to reason in the following fashion: "On the background of the general concern of the proletariat, personal affairs will appear. It might be said that the general concern is the sum-total of them all. In this respect whoever stands in defence of the personal affair of a proletaire by that act alone defends universal principles. But here comes the question of ethics. Whither are we tending? To universal justice. Ergo, our principle is moral for it is only the sum-total of personal affairs: therefore these personal affairs also must be moral. From this it follows that the proletaire, who is in the wrong in a controversy with a bourgeois, nevertheless has justice on his side simply because he is a proletaire. In this world everything is relative. A soldier, slaying his opponent in a war, commits manslaughter; therefore the act itself is not ethical. But as he commits it in defense of Fatherland, therefore, from the viewpoint of national welfare he acts ethically. If in addition thereto he has the spur of personal hatred to an antagonist, his act would gain in energy and would not lose its additional significance for Fatherland. For us, the Polish proletariat is the nation and the idea of their emancipation, the Fatherland. For this we wage war and if there is war, then murder and injuries are inflicted upon the antagonists; and even though the motives for them might be personal, they nevertheless are not only justifiable but are covered a hundred-fold by the universal welfare." "Besides,"--he reasoned further--, "the quintessence of our existence is unhappiness; and from unhappiness as well as, inversely, from happiness must blossom corresponding deeds. This is a necessity flowing from the nature of things; and with this ethics have nothing to do. I and that rabid girl are luckless, like homeless dogs; in view of which it is all one whether a wrong was perpetrated upon us intentionally or unintentionally; just as it is all one to the wolf whether the forester who shoots him in the head, hunted him purposely or whether they met by chance. The wolf has teeth to defend himself. That is his right. The moment has come when our fangs have grown; therefore we have the right to mangle. "As to that girl, she is mangled by despair which can only be assuaged by revenge. Is it just? Will it be beneficial to the girl? That is all one. The wage-earners without work and bread drown their woes in alcohol; the bourgeois in case of pain injects morphine into himself, and for her, revenge will be alcohol and morphine. Whatever may be the consequences, she will destroy the happiness of the pampered; she will change their joy into tears; she will break their lives and raze a particle of that world, which lies heavily, like a nightmare, upon the breasts of the proletariat. So it is necessary to aid that revenge, for so does gratitude for saving life command; likewise common wrong, also the good of the cause." In view of this, it already seemed to Laskowicz a matter of minor importance whether in that aid a rôle would be played by a knife, or by a revolver, or by casting upon Hanka some ignominy, after which nothing would remain for her to do but to fly and hide herself forever from human eyes. Neither opportunity nor willing hands were wanting. It was only necessary to deliberate upon the choice: and afterwards to act promptly and decisively. With this he went to Pauly who agreed to everything. As a compensation he demanded that she should release him from his promise to see Marynia only from a distance, and he secured that with ease. He evidently wanted to have his hands untied also in that regard. XIII "Here is the answer which I finally received," said Ladislaus, handing a letter to Gronski; "I could not expect anything else." "I knew that you would receive it," replied Gronski, blinking with his ailing eyes and searching for his binocle, "I was already informed of it by Pani Otocka, who from the beginning insisted that Miss Anney ought to answer you, and in the end prevailed upon her." Ladislaus reddened and asked: "Ah! So Zosia Otocka knows everything." "She does and does not know. Miss Anney told her only this much; 'He did not forget that he is a young lord and I a peasant woman and we ceased to understand each other.' For her it was yet harder to speak of this than for you and that difficulty festers all the more the wound which, without it, is deep enough--But I cannot find the binocle." "Here it is," said Ladislaus. Gronski placed it on his nose and began to read: "You, yourself, sir, rent and trampled upon our joy, our happiness, my trust, and that deep attachment which I had for you. To your query of whether I can ever recover those feelings, I answer that I seek for them in vain. If ever I recover them I will inform you with the same sincerity with which I to-day say that I have in my heart only grief and sadness which for a joint life will not suffice." "Only so much!" said Ladislaus. "My foresight," answered Gronski, "is verified only too perfectly. The spring for the time being has dried up." "To the bottom, to the bottom, not a drop for refreshment." Gronski remained silent for a while; after which he said: "I think otherwise, nevertheless. This is not entirely hopeless. There remains sadness, grief and, as it were, the anticipation of the recurring swell. In reality, it will not flow to-day nor to-morrow.--In view of this, for you there remains either to persevere patiently and win anew that which you lost, or else, if you have not sufficient strength, to take some shears and sever the remaining threads." "Such shears I will not find. Do you remember, sir, what she did for me when I was wounded? I will not forget that." At this Gronski shaded his eyes with his hand, gazed at Ladislaus intently and asked: "My dear sir, did you ever propound to yourself one question?" "What one?" "What pains you the more,--the loss of Miss Anney or your wounded self-love?" "I thank you, sir," answered Ladislaus, with irony. "In reality, only self-love. Through it, I do not sleep, do not eat; through it, in the course of a few days, I have grown lean like a shaving and were it not for this living wound, life for me would be one perpetual round of pleasure." And he began to laugh bitterly, while Gronski continued to gaze at him, not removing his hand from his ailing eyes, and thought: "That girl has an honest heart, and let her only see him; then she will forgive everything through compassion alone." After which he said: "Listen, after a quarter of an hour, I will put on those dark spectacles and go to the rehearsal. Come with me." "How will that help me, now?" exclaimed Ladislaus. "I do not know. I do not even guarantee that we will meet Miss Anney, for Marynia sometimes goes with a servant. But, in any event, you will not lose anything by it; so come." But further conversation was interrupted by the entrance of the doctor, the more unexpected, as he had announced, upon leaving Warsaw, that he would stay with his brother at least ten days. "How is this? You have already returned!" exclaimed Gronski. "A surprise, hey?" vociferated the doctor. "Yes! And for me it was a surprise! One medical visit, afterwards a fee supplemented with the amiable advice, 'Get out of here, while you are whole!' Lo, here I am. Oh, what a delightful journey!" "How did this happen?" "How did it happen? I will tell you immediately. But no! I know that at this hour you leave for that rehearsal: so I will go with you, gentlemen, and relate it to you on the way. That is such an amusing thing that it is worth while to hear it. Ha!" Accordingly after a while they went and the jovial doctor began to recite his Odyssey. "I arrived," he said, "a little fatigued, for that is a distant journey, and besides it is necessary to change cars, wait for trains at the stations, and so forth--the usual order with us. I reached the country-seat late and after greeting my brother, I went to bed at once. But the following day I had barely unpacked the primers--you remember, gentlemen?--those I brought with me for the petty nobility--and I had barely reproved my 'provincial' brother, when an emergency call came summoning me to a high official who has an estate adjoining our seat and in summer resides with his family in the country. Ha! there was no help for it--I ride! And what appears? Why, a thimble stuck in a child's throat. I found the child already livid, but the moment I pulled the thimble out, the infant went away playing and everything was in the best order. There was nothing else to do. I saved a future dignitary to the empire, and to the parents an only son, as the other children were daughters. So the gratitude was immense. They pay--certainly! I wanted to ride away and iterated that there is nothing more to do. They would not let me go. Gratitude, breakfast, cordiality, friendship, overflowing of Slavonic feelings, and a chat which after a time passed into a political discussion. 'There is not,' says the dignitary, 'harmony amidst brothers. And what a pity! Religion and tongue divide their languages. But what is religion, if not only an outward form? God is one. It is the same to Him whether He is glorified in the Latin or the Slavonic language. Why, for Slavonians it is more seemly if in the Slavonic. And as to the tongue, then the various dialects could be limited to conversations at home. Why, however, should not one language be adopted, not only officially, but in literature? The convenience would be greater, the control easier. Then you would abandon your Catholicism and your dialects and accept ours--the one and the other,--but heartily and voluntarily. And harmony would immediately follow. The times for you would be better. There would be downright delight.'--" "He mistook his man," interrupted Gronski, laughing. "And that he should chance upon me," replied the doctor. "I, gentlemen, am a deist, a philosopher, but a passable Catholic. Often it happens that I assail the church just as I assail Poland whenever anything occurs which displeases me. Only if some stranger does the same thing in my presence then--a strange thing!--I have a desire to knock out his teeth. Therefore I began to defend the Church as if I never in my life crawled out of a sacristy; bah, even better, in a way as if I was a Catholic apologist. 'If,' I said, 'religion is only an external form tell me just why should we abandon this form of ours, which is the most spiritualized, the most cultural, and the most beautiful. That Catholicism, with which you advise us to take our leave, has encompassed the entire West, organized society, produced European civilization, preserved learning, has founded universities, reared churches, which are masterpieces, gave us Saint Augustine, Dante, Petrarch, Saint Francis, and Saint Thomas, created the Renaissance, created Leonardo da Vinci's; "Lord's Supper," Michelangelo's "Tombs of the Medici," Raphael's "School of Athens" and "Disputa," erected such temples as Saint Peter's, not counting others scattered throughout Italy and all over Europe. That Catholicism made us partakers of the universal culture, united us with the West, imprinted a European stamp upon our Polish soul, etc., etc.' And I talked in this strain until he interrupted me and said. 'In this is the misfortune, that it has united you with the West.' And I replied to that, 'A misfortune to whom, and to whom not a misfortune? But now we will speak of your proposition of renouncing the tongue and therefore the nationality. Know, sir, that this is an empty and foolish dream. That never will take place. I proclaim and insist in advance--never! But assuming for a moment an impossible thing, that a pestilence will so blight us, that our hearts will be so debilitated that we will say to ourselves "Enough!--we can no longer be Poles!" then what? Reflect, sir, objectively, like a man who has not lost the ability to think, what could restrain us from becoming Germans? Our Slavonic extraction? But we are Slavonians, just because we are Poles. You are a people who do not know how to live and do not permit anybody else to live. So what motive would keep us with you? Is it your peace? Your welfare? Your morality? Your administration? Your science? Your learning? Your wealth? Your power? Learn to look in the eyes of reality; cultivate in yourselves the ability to reckon with it, and you will understand that by denationalizing us you labor for some one else. But I reiterate yet once more that this is only a foolish dream; that the moment of renunciation will never come and if I spoke of it, it was only to answer those things which you suggested.' "With this our conversation ended. They, in a yet higher degree than we, cannot endure unpleasant truths, so my dignitary changed into a decanter of iced water, and on the leave-taking merely said to me: 'Well, you are too candid, young man, but I thank you for the child.' A half an hour later I was at home." "I can surmise what happened afterwards," said Gronski. "Yes. As the thimble was removed, that same night I received an order to leave the next day by the first train." "Be satisfied that it ended with that." "I am satisfied. I will stay a few days in Warsaw; I will see the notary; I will attend Panna Zbyltowska's concert. Certainly! Certainly!" Here he addressed Ladislaus. "How is your mother and your fiancée?" "Thank you. Mother is not badly, but will soon have to leave." And desiring to hide his confusion, he began to gaze intently into the depths of the street, and after a while exclaimed: "But look! I see Panna Marynia with a maid-servant, and with them some third person is walking." In reality about a hundred paces down the street Marynia could be seen approaching, accompanied by a maidservant, with the violin in a case. On the other side, though somewhat behind, walked a young man with a yellowish beard, who, leaning towards Marynia, appeared to speak to her in an earnest and vehement manner. She hastened her steps, turning her head aside, evidently not desiring to listen to him, while he, keeping pace with her, gesticulated violently. "My God! Some one is molesting her!" said the doctor. And all three rushed at full speed towards her. "Who is that? Who are you, sir?" And Marynia, seeing Gronski, seized his arm and trembling all over, began to cry: "Home! Take me home, sir!" Gronski understood in a moment that nothing else could be done and that it was necessary to hurry, as otherwise Marynia might be embroiled in a vulgar street row. He was certain that Ladislaus in whom was accumulated an enormous supply of spleen and irritation, with his impulsive nature, would not permit the offence of the assailant to pass unpunished. So taking the girl aside, he placed her as soon as possible in a hackney-coach, which was passing by and ordered the coachman to drive to Pani Otocka's house. "There is nothing now. Everything is all right," he said on the way, to pacify the affrighted Marynia. "From home we will send a message that there will be no rehearsal to-day, and with that it will end. It is nothing, nothing." And he began to press her hand; after a while, he asked: "But who was that and what did he want?" "Pan Laskowicz," answered Marynia. "I did not recognize him at first, but he told me who he was." Gronski became distressed when he heard the name of the student, for it occurred to him that if the encounter with Ladislaus ended with the police, then the consequences for Laskowicz might prove fatal directly. But not desiring to betray his uneasiness before Marynia, and at the same time wishing to better quiet her, he spoke to her half jokingly: "So that was Laskowicz? Then I already know what he wanted. Ah! Ah!--Some one begins to play not only on the violin but on the soul.--Only why did you allow yourself to be so frightened?" "For he also threatened," answered Marynia. "He threatened all terribly--" "Such bugbears only children fear." "True! Especially as I am to play for the hungry; they will not do any wrong to me or any of us." "Assuredly not," confirmed Gronski. Conversing thus, they reached home. Gronski surrendered Marynia to Pani Otocka's care and when, after a moment, Hanka appeared, he related to them everything which had occurred. He likewise had to quiet Pani Otocka, who, knowing of the letters, took the whole occurrence very much to heart and announced that immediately after the concert they would leave for Zalesin, and afterwards go abroad. After the lapse of a half hour he left and on the stairs met Ladislaus. "God be praised," he said, "I see that it did not end with the police. Do you know that the man was Laskowicz?" "And it seemed so to me," said Ladislaus with animation; "but this one had light hair. How is Marynia?" "She was frightened a little but now is well. Both ladies are at her side and dandle her like a little chicken. They are so occupied with her that Pani Otocka certainly will not receive you." "And I thought so; especially, if she is there," answered Ladislaus, with bitterness; "so I will only leave my card and will return at once. Do you care to wait for me?" "Very well." Accordingly, he returned after a while, and when they were on the street, he began to say: "Yes! and to me it seemed that he was Laskowicz but I was puzzled by the light tuft of hair on his head and the spectacles. After all there was no time for thinking." "Listen--you undoubtedly cudgelled him?" asked Gronski. And Ladislaus answered reluctantly: "Far too much, for he is an emaciated creature, and he evidently did not have a revolver." For some time they walked in silence; after which Gronski said: "Your mother needs a cure; the ladies will depart from here immediately after the concert and Miss Anney undoubtedly with them. I would advise you also to think about yourself." Ladislaus waved his hand. At the same time in a garret in the quarters of the "female associate," Laskowicz said to Pauly: "Pan Krzycki is a true gentleman. He battered me a while ago because I dared to approach her." And he began to laugh through his set teeth. XIV The day of the concert arrived. On the sofa in the sisters' dressing-room lay, ready at an early hour, Marynia's evening dress, white as snow, light as foam, transparent as the mist, and fragrant with violets which were to form her sole adornment. Previously, Pani Otocka and Gronski held a long and grave consultation over that dress, for both craved warmly that their beloved "divinity" should captivate not only the ears but the eyes. In the meanwhile the "divinity" bustled about all the rooms, now seizing the violin and repeating the more difficult passages, now taking the boxes of bon-bons which Gronski had sent to her; then joking with her sister and predicting fright at her first public appearance. This fright also possessed Pani Otocka who consoled herself only with the thought that Marynia indeed would tremble upon entering on the stage, but from the moment she began to play would forget everything. She knew also that a warm ovation awaited the beloved violinist, likewise numerous baskets of flowers, from the "Committee for aiding the hungry," and from acquaintances. Notwithstanding their uneasiness both sisters felt a great joy in their souls, as the concert, owing to the arrivals during the racing season, promised to be highly successful, and it was already known that the receipts would be extraordinary. Marynia besides found a cure for her fright: "When I think," she said to her sister, "that so many eyes will gaze at me, my heart is in my mouth, but when I recollect that I am not concerned but only the poor, then I cease to fear. So I will save myself in this manner: entering upon the stage, I will repeat quietly, ''Tis for the poor! 'tis for the poor!' and everything will come off in the best possible way!" And when she spoke, her voice quivered with honest emotion as her young heart felt deeply the woes of the unfortunate who did not have any bread, and at the same time she felt proud and happy at the thought that she would be instrumental in their relief. She even experienced certain pangs of conscience on account of the new dress and the new satin shoes, as it occurred to her that this outlay might have been expended for bread. About noon Hanka came and took both sisters to her apartments for breakfast. Gronski, who was invited, did not appear, as at that time he was to meet a few journalists. Marynia took her violin with her with the intention of playing after the breakfast the first part of the programme, and in the meanwhile, waiting before they were seated at table, she began to look out from Hanka's salon through the open window on the street. The day was fair and clear. During the night an abundant rain had fallen which settled the dust, washed the city's stone pavements, refreshed the grass plots, and laved the leaves on the trees. The air became fresh and bracing. From the two acacias, growing under the windows of Hanka's residence, which strewed the walk near them with petals white as snow, came a sweet scent, strong and intoxicating as if from a censer. Marynia partly closed her eyes and, moving her delicate nostrils, sated herself with the perfume with delight, after which she turned to the depth of the room. "It smells so sweet," she said. "It does, little kitten," answered Hanka, interrupting a conversation with Pani Otocka. "I purposely ordered the window to be opened." And the acacias not only smelt sweet but seemed to sing, for both were cumbered by a countless diet of sparrows so that the leaves and flowers quivered from their chirping. The maiden watched for some time with delighted eyes the small, nimble birds; after which her attention was directed to something entirely different. On the walk before the house, in the middle of the street and on the sidewalk on the opposite side, there began to gather and stand clusters of people who, raising their heads, gazed intently at the windows of Hanka's residence. Some wretchedly dressed people spoke with the doorkeeper standing at the gate, evidently questioning him about something. The clusters each moment became more numerous and, together with the passers-by, who remained out of curiosity, changed into a mob of several hundred heads. Marynia jumped back from the window. "Look," she cried, "what is taking place on the street. Oh! oh! Perhaps they are the poor coming to thank me in advance? What shall I do if they come here? what shall I answer? I am not able.--Come, see!" And saying this, she drew her sister and Hanka to the window. The three young heads leaned out of the window on to the street, but in that moment an incomprehensible thing happened. A ragged stripling pulled out of his pocket a stone and hurled it with all his strength into the open window. The stone flew over Pani Otocka's head, rebounded on the opposite wall, and fell with noise upon the floor. Hanka, Marynia, and Zosia drew back from the window and began to look at each other with inquiring and startled eyes. In the meantime on the street resounded savage outcries; the rabble battered down the gate; on the stairs sounded the stamping of feet, after which in the twinkling of an eye the doors leading to the room burst open with a crash, and a mob, composed of Christians and some Jews, filled the residence. "Away with the kept mistress! Strike! tear! smash!" howled hoarse voices. "For the mercy of God! People, what do you want here?" cried Hanka. "Away with the kept mistress! away with the kept mistress! through the window! on to the street!" In a moment a young man-servant, who rushed to the assistance of the ladies, was thrown upon the ground and trampled upon. Amidst the dreadful commotion, which the mob increased more and more, the human beasts became unfettered. Women with disheveled hair, filthy striplings with the marks of crime upon their degenerate features, and all manner of ragamuffins with drunken faces, rushed at the furniture, divans, bed curtains, and everything which fell into their hands. In the residence an orgy of destruction prevailed. The rooms were filled with the stench of sweat and whiskey. The mob became infuriated; it broke, smashed, stole. On the street, under the windows piles of splintered furniture were formed. They threw out even the piano. Finally some ruffian, with a pock-marked visage, seized Marynia's violin and brandished it, desiring to shatter it on the wall. But she jumped to its aid and seized his fist with both hands. "That is mine! that is mine!--I am to play for the poor--" "Let go!" "I will not let go!--that is mine!" "Let go, carrion!" "That is mine!" A shot was fired, and, simultaneously, Pani Otocka's scream pierced the air. Marynia stood for a moment with upraised hands and head inclined backwards; afterwards she reeled and fell back into Hanka's arms. The shot and the murder overawed the crowd. The mob became silent, and after a moment began to scamper away, panic-stricken. XV Pani Krzycki, Zosia, and Hanka, and with them Gronski, Ladislaus, and Dr. Szremski surrounded the bed on which Marynia lay, after the operation and the extraction of the bullet. A second surgeon and his assistant sat aloof, awaiting the awakening of the patient. In the room, filled with the odor of iodoform, a profound stillness prevailed. Marynia had previously awoke immediately after the operation was performed, but stupefied still by the chloroform and weakened by the loss of blood, she soon sank again into a slumber. Her beautiful head lay motionless upon the pillow, her eyes were closed, and her countenance was waxen and transparent, as if she were already dead. In Pani Otocka and in Gronski, who but now sounded within himself the immensity of his affection for that child, despair whimpered with that quiet, terrible whimper, which lacerates, tugs and rends the bosom but fears to emerge on the surface. Both glanced time and again with alarm at Dr. Szremski who from time to time examined Marynia's pulse, but evidently he himself was uncertain whether that sleep would be final: he only nodded his head and placed his finger to his lips in sign of silence. Nevertheless, their fears for the time being were vain, as after the lapse of an hour Marynia's eyebrows commenced to rise, quiver, and after a moment she opened her eyes. Her look, at the beginning, was dull and unconscious. Slowly, however, the stupefaction left her and consciousness of what had occurred as well as of the present moment returned. On her countenance appeared an expression of amazement and affliction, such as a child feels who has been punished cruelly and unjustly. Finally her pupils darkened and two tears coursed down her cheeks. "For what?--for what?" she whispered with her pallid lips. Pani Otocka sat at her side and placed her palm on her hand. Gronski was seized with a desire to throw himself on the ground and beat his head on the floor, while the patient asked further in an amazed and mournful whisper: "For what?--for what?" God alone could answer that question. But in the meantime the doctor approached and said: "Do not speak, child, for that harms." So she became silent, but the expression of affliction did not disappear from her countenance, and tears continued to flow. Her sister began to wipe them off; repeating in a subdued voice: "Marynia, Marynia, calm yourself--you will be well--you are not dangerously wounded--no, no--the doctor guarantees that--" Marynia raised her eyes at her as if she desired to divine whether she was telling the truth. It appeared, however, that she listened to her sister's words with a certain hope. After which, she said: "It is sultry.--" The doctor opened the window of the room. Out in the open air the night was fair and starry. Waves of fresh air brought the scent of the acacias. The patient lay for some time calm, but suddenly she began again to seek somebody with her eyes and asked: "Is Pan Gronski here?" "I am, dear, I am--" "You, sir--will not--let me?--Truly--" To Gronski it seemed at that moment that he was enveloped by a deep night and that amidst that impenetrable darkness he answered in a strange voice: "No, no!" And she spoke with terror, her countenance growing more and more pallid: "I do not want to die--I am afraid--" And again tears began to trickle from her eyes--tears inconsolable, tears of a wronged child. The entrance of a priest relieved the harrowing moment. It was the same old prelate, a relative of the Krzyckis and the Zbyltowskis, who previously shrived Pani Krzycki. Drawing nearer, he sat beside Marynia's bed and bending over her with a cheering smile, full of hope, said: "How are you, dear child? Ah, the wretches!--But God is more powerful than they and everything will end well. I only came to ask about your health. God be praised the bullet is already extracted.--Now only patience is necessary and you will be patient--will you not?" Marynia winked her eyes as a token of acquiescence. The amiable old man continued in a more genial and as if jubilant voice: "Ah! I knew that you would. Now I will tell you that there is something which often is more efficacious than all the medicines and bandages. Do you know what it is? The Sacrament! Ho! how often in life have I seen that people, who were separated from death by a hair, became at once better after confession, communion, and anointment, and after that recovered their health entirely. You, my dove, are surely far from death, but since it is a Christian duty, which helps the soul and body, it is necessary to perform it. Well, child?" Marynia again winked her eyes in sign of assent. Those present retired from the room and returned only upon the sound of the little bell to be witnesses to the Communion. The patient, after receiving it, lay for some time with closed eyelids and a quiet brightness in her countenance, after which the moment of extreme unction arrived. In the room assembled, besides those previously present, the servants of the house; suppressing their sobs, they heard the customary prayers before the rite. "Lord, Jesus Christ, who hast said through Thy apostle Saint James, 'Is any man sick among you? Let him bring in the priests of the Church and let them pray over him, anointing him with oil in the name of the Lord.' We implore Thee, Lord God, our Redeemer, for the grace of The Holy Ghost: have mercy upon this sick one, heal her wounds, pardon her sins, and banish from her all pains of soul and body and in Thy mercy return health completely to her, in order that, restored to life, she may again give herself up to good deeds. Oh Thou, who being God, livest and reignest with the Father and Holy Ghost, now and forever. Amen." The priest appeared to hurry. Quickly he took the vessel standing between two candles under the crucifix and approaching the patient he whispered the second, brief prayer required by the ritual, and at the same time began to administer extreme unction. He first touched the girl's eyelids, saying, "Through this holy unction and His own most tender mercy, may the Lord pardon thee whatever sins or faults thou hast committed by sight"; after that he anointed her ears to purge the sins which she might have committed through the sense of hearing; after that the lips; after that the hands, resembling two white lilies, which that day were to have played for the poor; and finally he blessed her whole body from head to feet--already purified of all blemish and already as truly angelic and immaculate as a lily in the field. A half hour passed. To those present it seemed that the patient again succumbed to slumber. But unexpectedly she opened her eyes wide, and cried in a stronger, as if joyful, voice: "How much bread!--How much bread!--" And she expired calmly. During the depth of the night, a young man came to the gate and asked the doorkeeper whether the little lady was still alive and, hearing that she had died, he left in silence. An hour later in the garret of one of the houses near the Vistula a shot from a revolver was fired, and, filled with consternation, the inmates suddenly awakened from their sleep. The people in the neighboring rooms flocked to the place of the accident. The locked doors of the room were battered down but all aid was futile. On the bed lay the dead body of the student with his breast perforated by a shot. The gloomy, tragic soul had already flown into darkness. XVI The room in which Marynia died was changed into a funeral chamber. The coffin stood in the middle, high, amidst burning candles and a whole forest of plants and flowers, of which such a number were amassed that they filled not only the chamber but even the anteroom and the stairway. The coffin was still open and in the brightness of the day, blended with the light of the wax-candles, Marynia could be seen dressed in that same dress in which she was to have appeared at the concert. The little metal cross which she held in her folded hands glittered like a sparkling spot on a dark background of plants. Her face was pensive, but without the slightest trace of suffering,--and at the same time as if she was absorbed in listening to voices, sounds, and tones, which were inaudible and incomprehensible to mortals. Though the open windows there blew in from time to time a breeze, extinguishing here and there the unsteady flames of the candles and causing the leaves of the plants to rustle. On the acacias in front of the house the sparrows chirped boisterously; one would think that they were relating to each other feverishly what had happened; while at the side of the catafalque a human stream flowed. There came with wreaths, workingmen, for whose benefit the concert was to have been given, and at the sight of the barbarously slain little lady, they left with fire in their eyes and clenched fists. The intelligence of the monstrous and reckless crime attracted whole throngs of students, who determined to carry the coffin on their shoulders. In the meantime they moved slowly and quietly about the catafalque, gazing with bosoms swelling with sympathy and grief at the silvery profile of the girl, turned towards heaven, and unconsciously they recalled the words of the poet: "And now in pale satin enshrouded, In silence, hands folded, she lies." Horror, indignation, and at the same time curiosity aroused the city from centre to circumference. Even the streets in front of the house were thronged by great crowds--uneasy, being unable to explain to themselves how such a thing happened--and, as if, alarmed by the thought of what the future might bring forth, what other crimes might be committed and what other victims the uncertain morrow might devour. The remains of Marynia were to be conveyed to the railway and from there to Zalesin where the tombs of the Otockis were located. Immediately after noon the coffin was taken off the stretchers and then, before its sealing, came for Pani Otocka and for Gronski the dreadful moment of viewing for the last time in life that beloved being who was for them a light and sun. If she had died of some sickness their despair might not have been less, but it would have been more intelligible to them. But she was murdered! They murdered this sweet and innocent child, just at a time when she wanted to aid people and when she rejoiced at the thought of that aid. Murdered was that incarnate song, that fragrant flower, sent by God for the joy of mankind! And in just this there was something which could not be confined within the limits of despair, but reached into the borders of madness. For lo, this is the last moment for beholding that love, that youth, that maidenly charm, that white victim of crime and mistake; and after that nothingness, darkness,--solitude. But overstrained pain kills itself like a scorpion, it covers the intellect with darkness, and commands the blood to congeal in the veins. That happened with the sister of the slain. For a long time Dr. Szremski was uncertain whether he would be able to restore her to life. In the consternation and confusion it was hardly observed that into the chamber there rushed an insane woman and, whining mournfully, she flung herself upon the ground. Swidwicki led her away with the aid of the students and intrusted her to their care. In the meantime the coffin was sealed; the youths placed it on their shoulders and the funeral party moved towards the railway. After them marched a long procession, at the end of which empty carriages jogged along. The ever-increasing swarm flowed along the middle of the streets and sidewalks; and not until they reached the bridge did those who joined the procession only through curiosity begin to return home. Swidwicki approached Dr. Szremski, and for some time both walked in silence, not perceiving that they were remaining more and more behind the procession. "You knew the deceased?" asked the doctor. "Otocki was my relative." "Ah, what a horrible mistake it was?" But Swidwicki blurted out: "That was no mistake. That is the logical result of the times, and in those that are coming such accidents will become a customary, every-day occurrence." "How do you understand that?" "The way it should be understood. That coffin has greater meaning than it seems. That is an announcement! A mistake? No! That was only an incident. Lo, to-day we are burying a harp, which wanted to play for the people, but which the rabble trampled upon with their filthy feet.--Wait, sir! Let things continue to proceed thus, and who knows whether, after ten or twenty years, we will not thus bury learning, art, culture, bah! even the entire civilization. And that not only here but everywhere. There will be an endless series of such events.--To me, after all, it is all one, but absolutely it is possible." The doctor ruminated for some time in silence over Swidwicki's words; finally he exclaimed: "Ah, knowledge, knowledge, knowledge." Swidwicki stood still, seized the doctor by the flap of his coat and shaking his goat-like beard, said: "Hear, sir, an atheist, or at least, a man who has nothing to do with any religion: knowledge without religion breeds only thieves and bandits." The procession paused for a while on account of an obstruction on the road; so conversing, they drew nearer to the coffin; nevertheless, Swidwicki, though lowering his voice, did not cease to talk: "Ay, sir--a great many people think the same as I do; only they have not the courage to say it aloud. After all, I reiterate it is all one to me,--we are lost past all help. With us there are only whirlpools.--And these, not whirlpools upon a watery gulf, beneath which is a calm depth, but whirlpools of sand. Now the whirlwind blows from the East and the sterile sand buries our traditions, our civilization, our culture--our whole Poland--and transforms her into a wilderness upon which flowers perish and only jackals can live." Here he pointed to Marynia's coffin: "Lo, there is a flower which has withered. Do you know, sir, why I, though a relative, seldom visited them? Because I felt ashamed before her eyes." They reached the station and went upon the roadway, from which could be seen the coach, decorated with flowers and fir-tree boughs. "Are you riding to Zalesin?" asked the doctor. "I am. I want to gaze at Pani Otocka. God knows what now will become of her. And see, sir, how Gronski looks. An old man--what? Now his Latin and books will not help him." "Who would not have felt this," answered the doctor. "Krzycki also looks as if he were taken off the cross." "Krzycki? But perhaps it is because his matrimonial plans are broken." Further conversation was interrupted by the orchestra which began to play Chopin's "Funeral March." XVII Dr. Szremski upon his return to the hotel began to ponder over Swidwicki's words, which were imbedded deeply in his memory. Before his eyes there glided a picture of the funeral procession and that coffin, with the victim, murdered by those to whom she wanted to do good. "Yes, yes!" he said to himself, "that apparently was a mistake, but similar mistakes are the logical consequences of the unbridled, blind, animal instincts. We must admit that we are flying at break-neck speed into some bottomless abyss. And not only we. But is it allowable to conclude from this, that, as to-day we conducted song, murdered by the rabble, so after ten, twenty, or fifty years we will witness the burial of learning, culture, and civilization? Apparently--yes. It is high time that God, Who rules the world, should give new proofs that He in reality rules. It ought to thunder so that the earth would tremble--or what? Mankind are entering upon a road which is directly opposite to entire nature. For the whole endeavor of nature is to create as perfect beings as possible and through them to ennoble the species; and humanity perversely kills them as it did that angelic child, or else seizes them by the hair to drag them from the heights to the general level. And nevertheless this is but a specious appearance. If the engineers determined to excavate all the mountains and make the earth as smooth and even as a billiard ball, some convulsions would take place, some eruptions of volcanoes would occur, which would create new abysses and new heights. Of the Aryan spirit can be said that which the Grecians, enamoured with the soothing architectonical lines, said of the Roman arches: 'The arch will never fall asleep.' Likewise the Aryan spirit. The humanity, which possesses it, is incapable of drifting into infinity on one wave, thinking one thought and living in one idea. That which is to-day--will pass away. On the summits of reason, feeling, and will, new whirlwinds will generate and they will raise new waves." Here the doctor's thoughts were apparently directed nearer to matters lying more on his heart, for he began to clench his fist and pace with big, uneasy steps about the room. "Will we," he said to himself, "however, remain amidst these convulsions, waves, and whirlwinds? Whirlpools? Whirlpools!--and of sand! Sand is burying the whole of Poland and transforming her into a wilderness, on which jackals live. If this is so, then it would be best to put a bullet in the head.--I am curious as to what Gronski would say to this--but lightning has struck his head and it is of no use to speak to him.--We are lost past all help? That is untrue! Beneath these whirlpools which are whirling upon the surface of our life is something which Swidwicki did not perceive. There is more than elsewhere, for there is a bottomless depth of suffering. There plainly is not in the world greater misfortune than ours. With us the people awake in the morning and follow the plough in the field, go to the factory, to the offices, behind the benches in the shops, and all manner of labor--in pain. They go to sleep in pain. That suffering is as boundless as the expanse of the sea while the whirlpools are but ripples upon that expanse. And why do we suffer thus? Of course, we might, at once, to-morrow, breathe more freely and be happier. It would be sufficient for every one to say to Her, that Poland, of whom Swidwicki says that she is perishing, 'Too much dost Thou pain me, too much dost Thou vex me; therefore I renounce Thee and from this day wish to forget Thee.'--And nevertheless nobody says that; not even such a Swidwicki, who prevaricated when he said it is all one to him; not even they who throw bombs, and murder sisters and brothers!--And if it is so that we prefer to suffer than renounce Her, then where are the jackals and where is Her destruction? Jackals seek carrion, not suffering! So She lives in every one of us, in all of us together, and will survive all the whirlpools in the world. And we will set our teeth and will continue to suffer for Thee, Mother, and we--and if God so wills it,--and our children and grandchildren will not renounce neither Thee nor hope." Here Szremski was touched by his own thoughts, but dawn brightened his countenance. He found an answer to the question which Swidwicki thrust into his soul. Walking, he began to repeat: "For nothing, nobody would consent to suffer thus." After which it occurred to his mind that to suffer for Her was not yet sufficient, for he began to rub his hands and turn up his rumpled sleeves, as if he wanted at once to do some important and urgent work. But, after a while, he observed that he was in the hotel, so he smiled, with his sincere, peculiar smile, and said aloud: "Ha! It cannot be helped. To-morrow I must return to my hole and push the wheelbarrow along." And suddenly he sighed: "To my solitary hole." After which, he, himself, not knowing why, recollected what Swidwicki had told him about the breaking of Krzycki's matrimonial engagement, and his thoughts, like winged birds, began to fly to Zalesin. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 1: "Even bird's milk is not lacking," a Polish proverbial expression signifying "abundance," "living in clover."] [Footnote 2: "On the thief's head the cap burns:" a Polish proverb meaning that persons, conscious of guilt, always fear detection.--Translator.] [Footnote 3: "Sprinkled his eyes with poppy:" proverbial expression denoting "lulled to sleep."--Translator.] [Footnote 4: Kilinski was one of the bravest and most popular heroes who fought under Kosciuszko. He was a shoe-maker by trade.--Translator.] [Footnote 5: Bigos: a Polish dish of hashed meat and cabbage.--Translator.] [Footnote 6: Peter Skarga was the most famous pulpit orator in the history of Poland.--Translator.] [Footnote 7: "Poland is not yet lost."] [Footnote 8: Referring to the Sacred Fire of pagan Lithuanians.] [Footnote 9: Mamalyga, a kind of porridge in Bessarabia, made principally of corn.] [Footnote 10: Piast; the name of the first King of Poland, who was a peasant.] [Footnote 11: Stanislaus Augustus Poniatowski, the last king of Poland.] [Footnote 12: "Skubanka," a pun upon the word, "skubac," to pluck.] [] THE END _THE ZAGLOBA ROMANCES_ _by Henryk Sienkiewicz. Translated from the Polish by Jeremiah Curtin_. WITH FIRE AND SWORD An Historical Novel of Poland and Russia. Illustrated. Crown 8vo. $1.50 _net_. The first of the famous trilogy of historical romances of Poland, Russia, and Sweden. Their publication has been received as an event in literature. Charles Dudley Warner, in _Harper's Magazine_, affirms that the Polish author has in Zagloba _given a new creation to literature_. _A capital story_. The only modern romance with which it can be compared for fire, sprightliness, rapidity of action, swift changes, and absorbing interest is "The Three Musketeers" of Dumas.--_New York Tribune_. THE DELUGE An Historical Novel of Poland, Sweden, and Russia. A Sequel to "With Fire and Sword." With map. 2 vols. Crown 8vo. $3.00 _net_. Marvellous in its grand descriptions.--_Chicago Inter-Ocean_. Has the humor of a Cervantes and the grim vigor of Defoe.--_Boston Gazette_. PAN MICHAEL An Historical Novel of Poland, Russia, and the Ukraine. A Sequel to "With Fire and Sword" and "The Deluge." Crown 8vo. $1.50 _net_. The interest of the trilogy, both historical and romantic, is splendidly sustained.--_The Dial_, Chicago. * * * * * LITTLE, BROWN, & COMPANY, Publishers Boston, Massachusetts QUO VADIS A Narrative of the Time of Nero. By Henryk Sienkiewicz. Translated from the Polish by Jeremiah Curtin. Illustrated. Crown 8vo. $1.50 _net_. One of the greatest books of our day.--_The Bookman_. The book is like a grand historical pageant.--_Literary World_. Of intense interest to the whole Christian civilization--_Chicago Tribune_. Interest never wanes; and the story is carried through its many phases of conflict and terror to a climax that enthralls.--_Chicago Record_. As a study of the introduction of the gospel of love into the pagan world typified by Rome, it is marvellously fine.--_Chicago Interior_. The picture here given of life in Rome under the last of the Cæsars is one of unparalleled power and vividness.--_Boston Hom. Journal_. One of the most remarkable books of the decade. It burns upon the brain the struggles and triumphs of the early church.--_Boston Daily Advertiser_. It will become recognized by virtue of its own merits as the one heroic monument built by the modern novelist above the ruins of decadent Rome, and in honor of the blessed martyrs of the early Church.--_Brooklyn Eagle_. Our debt to Sienkiewicz is not less than our debt to his translator and friend, Jeremiah Curtin. The diversity of the language, the rapid flow of thought, the picturesque imagery of the descriptions are all his.--_Boston Transcript_. * * * * * LITTLE, BROWN, & COMPANY, PUBLISHERS BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS THE KNIGHTS OF THE CROSS An Historical Romance of Poland and Germany. By Henryk Sienkiewic. Translated from the Polish by Jeremiah Curtin. Illustrated. Crown 8vo. $2.00 _net_. The greatest work Sienkiewicz has given us.--_Buffalo Express_. It seems superior even to "Quo Vadis" in strength and realism.--_The Churchman_. The construction of the story is beyond praise. It is difficult to conceive of any one who will not pick the book up with eagerness.--_Chicago Evening Post_. There are some scenes in the book that for power and excitement remind one of the great encounter between Ursus and the bull in "Quo Vadis."--_Minneapolis Tribune_. Vivid, dramatic, and vigorous.... His imaginative power, his command of language, and the picturesque scenes he sets combine to fascinate the reader.--_Philadelphia Bulletin_. A book that holds your almost breathless attention as in a vise from the very beginning, for in it love and strife, the most thrilling of all worldly subjects, are described masterfully.--_The Boston Journal_. Another remarkable book. His descriptions are tremendously effective; one can almost hear the sound of the carnage; to the mind's eye the scene of battle is unfolded by a master artist.--_The Hartford Courant_. Thrillingly dramatic, full of strange local color and very faithful to its period, besides having that sense of the mysterious and weird that throbs in the Polish blood and infects alike their music and literature.--_The St. Paul Globe_. * * * * * LITTLE, BROWN, & COMPANY, PUBLISHERS BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS _OTHER NOVELS AND ROMANCES_ _by Henryk Sienkiewicz. Translated from_ _the Polish by Jeremiah Curtin_. CHILDREN OF THE SOIL Crown 8vo. $1.50 _net_. It must be reckoned among the finer fictions of our time, and shows its author to be almost as great a master in the field of the domestic novel as he had previously been shown to be in that of imaginative historical romances.--_The Dial_, Chicago. HANIA, AND OTHER STORIES With portrait. Crown 8vo. $1.50 _net_. At the highest level of the author's genius.--_The Outlook_. SIELANKA, A FOREST PICTURE And Other Stories. With frontispiece. Crown 8vo. $1.50 _net_. They exhibit the masterly genius of Sienkiewicz even better than his longer romances. They abound in fine character-drawings and beautiful descriptions.--_Chicago Inter-Ocean_. ON THE FIELD OF GLORY An Historical Romance of Poland in the Reign of King John Sobieski. 12mo. cloth. $1.50 _net_. WITHOUT DOGMA A Novel of Modern Poland. (Translated from the Polish by Iza Young.) Crown 8vo. $1.50 _net_. A human document read in the light of a great imagination.--_Boston Beacon_. * * * * * LITTLE, BROWN, & COMPANY, PUBLISHERS BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS 
47212	----	HISTORY OF THE JEWS IN RUSSIA AND POLAND FROM THE EARLIEST TIMES UNTIL THE PRESENT DAY HISTORY OF THE JEWS IN RUSSIA AND POLAND FROM THE EARLIEST TIMES UNTIL THE PRESENT DAY BY S. M. DUBNOW TRANSLATED FROM THE RUSSIAN BY I. FRIEDLAENDER VOLUME III FROM THE ACCESSION OF NICHOLAS II. UNTIL THE PRESENT DAY WITH BIBLIOGRAPHY AND INDEX [Illustration] PHILADELPHIA THE JEWISH PUBLICATION SOCIETY OF AMERICA 1920 COPYRIGHT, 1920, BY THE JEWISH PUBLICATION SOCIETY OF AMERICA NOTE The present volume, which concludes Dubnow's "History of the Jews in Russia-Poland," contains, in addition to the text, an extensive bibliography and an index to the entire work. In the bibliography an enormous amount of material has been collected, and it is arranged in such a way as to enable the reader to ascertain the sources upon which the author drew. It is thus in the nature of notes, and is therefore arranged according to the chapters of the book. The index, which has been prepared with the utmost care by the translator, is really a synopsis of Jewish history in Russia and Poland, and its usefulness cannot be over-rated. Professor Friedlaender, the translator of this work, who left the United States at the beginning of this year, did not see the proof of the bibliography and index. The tragic news has just reached this country that Professor Friedlaender was murdered under the most revolting circumstances. An eminent scholar and writer has thus been removed from American Jewry, and the entire house of Israel together with the Jewish Publication Society of America, on whose committee Professor Friedlaender served with conspicuous merit for a number of years, mourns this irreparable loss. JULY, 1920. CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE XXXI. THE ACCESSION OF NICHOLAS II. 1. Continued Policy of Oppression 7 2. The Martyrdom of the Moscow Community 12 3. Restrictions in the Right of Residence 15 4. The Economic Collapse of Russian Jewry 22 5. Professional and Educational Restrictions 26 6. Anti-Semitic Propaganda and Pogroms 31 XXXII. THE NATIONAL AWAKENING. 1. The Rise of Political Zionism 40 2. Spiritual Zionism, or Ahad-Ha´amism 48 3. Spiritual Nationalism, or National-Cultural Autonomism 51 4. The Jewish Socialistic Movement 55 5. The Revival of Jewish Letters 58 XXXIII. THE KISHINEV MASSACRE. 1. Pogroms as a Counter-Revolutionary Measure 66 2. The Organized Kishinev Butchery 69 3. Echoes of the Kishinev Tragedy 76 4. Doctor Herzl's Visit to Russia 82 XXXIV. CONTINUED POGROMS AND THE RUSSO-JAPANESE WAR. 1. The Pogrom at Homel and the Jewish Self-Defence 87 2. The Kishinev Massacre at the Bar of Russian Justice 90 3. The Jews in the Russo-Japanese War 94 4. The "Political Spring" 97 5. The Homel Pogrom Before the Russian Courts 101 XXXV. THE REVOLUTION OF 1905 AND THE FIGHT FOR EMANCIPATION. 1. The Jews in the Revolutionary Movement 105 2. The Struggle for Equal Rights 108 3. The "Black Hundred" and the "Patriotic" Pogroms 113 4. The Jewish Franchise 121 XXXVI. THE COUNTER-REVOLUTION AND THE OCTOBER MASSACRES. 1. The Fiendish Designs of the "Black Hundred" 124 2. The Russian St. Bartholomew Night 127 3. The Undaunted Struggle for Equal Rights 131 4. The Jewish Question Before the First Duma 135 5. The Spread of Anarchy and the Second Duma 139 XXXVII. EXTERNAL OPPRESSION AND INTERNAL CONSOLIDATION. 1. The New Alignments Within Russian Jewry 143 2. The Triumph of the "Black Hundred" 149 3. The Third, or Black, Duma 153 4. New Jewish Disabilities 156 5. The Spiritual Revival of Russian Jewry 160 RUSSIAN JEWRY SINCE 1911 164 BIBLIOGRAPHY 171 INDEX 205 CHAPTER XXXI THE ACCESSION OF NICHOLAS II. 1. CONTINUED POLICY OF OPPRESSION In the course of the nineteenth century every change of throne in Russia was accompanied by a change of policy. Each new reign formed, at least in its beginning, a contrast to the one which had preceded it. The reigns of Alexander I. and Alexander II. marked a departure in the direction of liberalism; those of Nicholas I. and Alexander III. were a return to the ideas of reaction. In accordance with this historic schedule, Alexander III. should have been followed by a sovereign of liberal tendencies. But in this case the optimistic expectations with which the new ruler was welcomed both by his Russian and his Jewish subjects were doomed to disappointment. The reign of Nicholas II. proved the most gloomy and most reactionary of all. A man of limited intelligence, he attempted to play the rôle of an unlimited autocrat, fighting in blind rage against the cause of liberty. This reactionary tendency came to light in the very beginning of the new reign. During the first few months after the accession of Nicholas II. to the throne--between November, 1894, and January, 1895--the liberal Zemstvo assemblies of nine governments,[1] in presenting addresses of loyalty to the new Tzar, were bold enough to voice the hope that he would eventually invite the representatives of these autonomous institutions to participate in the legislative acts of the Government. This first timid request for constitutional rights met with a harsh and clumsy rebuff. In his reply to the deputation representing the nobility, the Zemstvos, and the municipalities, which appeared in the Winter Palace on January 17, 1895, to convey to him the greetings of the Russian people, the Tzar made the following pronouncement: In several Zemstvo assemblies there have been heard lately the voices of men carried away by preposterous delusions concerning the participation of the representatives of the Zemstvos in the affairs of the inner administration. Let everybody know that I shall guard the principle of autocracy as firmly and uncompromisingly as it was guarded by my never-to-be-forgotten deceased parent. This veiled threat was enough to intimidate the faint-hearted constitutionalists. It was universally felt that the autocratic régime was still firmly entrenched and that the old constitution of "enforced safety"[2]--this charter of privileges bestowed upon the police to the disadvantage of the people--was still unshaken. The hope of seeing Russia transformed from a state based upon brute force into a body politic resting upon law and order was dashed to the ground. The Jews, too, were quick to realize that the war which had been waged against them by Alexander III. for fourteen long years was far from being at an end. True, the addresses of welcome presented in 1895 by the Jewish communities of Russia to the young Tzar on the occasion of his marriage elicited an official expression of thanks, which was not marred by any rebuke for harboring "preposterous delusions." But this was purely for the reason that these addresses were not tainted by any allusions to the hopes for emancipation entertained by the Jews. There was nothing, indeed, which might have warranted such hopes. The same dignitaries who, under Alexander III., had stood forth as the champions of savage anti-Semitic policies, remained at the helm of Russian affairs: Pobyedonostzev, the head of the Holy Synod, Durnovo, the Minister of the Interior--towards the end of 1895 he made room for Goremykin, who was not a whit less reactionary--and Witte, the double-faced Minister of Finance, who was anxious at that time to fall in line with the reactionary influences then in vogue. The thoughts which occupied Pobyedonostzev's mind at the beginning of the new reign may be gauged from the report submitted by him to the Tzar in 1895, concerning the state of affairs in the Greek-Orthodox Church. The "Grand Inquisitor" was deeply worried by the alleged fact that the Jews were exercising a dangerous influence over the religious life of their Christian domestics: The minors, after living among Jews for several years, prove entirely forgetful of the Greek-Orthodox faith. But even the beliefs of the adults are being undermined. The priests who listen to the confessions of the domestics employed in Jewish homes are stricken with horror on learning of the abominable blasphemies uttered by the Jews against Christianity, the Savior, and the Holy Virgin, which, through the domestics, are likely to gain currency among the people. These charges, which might have been bodily quoted from the sinister writings of the mediæval guardians of the Church, were intended as a means of preparing the young sovereign for a proper understanding of the Jewish problem. They were brought forward by the procurator-in-chief of the Holy Synod, the same ecclesiastical functionary who inflicted severe persecutions on the Russian dissidents and soon afterwards forced the Dukhobortzy, an Evangelistic sect, to leave their native land and to seek refuge in Canada. Having failed to realize his great ambition--to clear Russia of its Jewish population, with the help of Baron Hirsch's millions[3]--Pobyedonostzev resumed his professional duties, which were those of a procurator[4] of Jewry on behalf of the Holy Synod, the _sanctum officium_ of the militant Greek-Orthodox Church. Not content with brandishing his rusty ecclesiastical sword, Pobyedonostzev resorted to secular weapons in his fight against the hated tribe. When, in 1898, the Council of the Jewish Colonization Association in Paris sent a delegation to St. Petersburg to apply to the Government for permission to settle Russian Jews as agricultural farmers in Russia itself, Pobyedonostzev replied: "Nos cadres ne sont pas prêts pour vous recevoir,"[5] and he went out of his way to explain to the delegates that the Jews were a very clever people, intellectually and culturally superior to the Russians, and, therefore, dangerous to them: "The Jews are displacing us, and this does not suit us." When questioned as to the future of Russian Jewry under the system of uninterrupted persecutions, Pobyedonostzev on one occasion made the following candid statement: "One-third will die out, one-third will leave the country, and one-third will be completely dissolved in the surrounding population." Such being the attitude towards the Jewish problem of the ruling spheres of Russia, any improvement in the situation of Russian Jewry was manifestly out of the question. Even where such an improvement might have been found to tally with the anti-Semitic policies of the Government, it was ruled out as soon as it bade fair to benefit the Jews. Thus, when in 1895, the governor of Vilna, in his "most humble report" to the Tzar, advocated the desirability of abrogating the Pale of Settlement for the purpose "of weakening the detrimental influence of Jewry," since the latter constituted a majority of the population in the cities of the Western region,[6] Nicholas II. penned the following resolution:[7] "I am far from sharing this view of the governor." The leaders of Russian Jewry knew full well that the wind which was blowing from the heights of the Russian throne was unfavorable to them, and their initial hopefulness gave way speedily to a feeling of depression. A memorandum drafted at that time by prominent Jews of St. Petersburg, with the intention of submitting it to one of the highest functionaries at the Russian court, mirrors this pessimistic frame of mind: The Russian Jews are deprived of that powerful lever for intellectual and moral advancement which is designated as the hope for a better future. They are fully aware of the fact that the highest authority in the land, influenced by the distorted information concerning the Jews, which is systematically presented to it by officials acting from avaricious or other selfish motives, is exceedingly unfavorable to the Jews. They must resign themselves to the fact that there is actually no possibility of directing the attention of the Tzar and Sovereign to the true state of affairs, and that even those dignitaries who themselves act justly and tolerantly towards the Jews are afraid of putting in a good word for them for fear of being charged with favoritism towards them. 2. THE MARTYRDOM OF THE MOSCOW COMMUNITY The attitude which officials of high rank were prone to adopt towards the Jews was luridly illustrated at that time in Moscow. It will be remembered that the small Jewish colony which had been left in the second Russian capital after the cruel expulsions of 1891 was barred from holding religious services in its large synagogue which had been closed by order of Alexander III.[8] In view of the forthcoming festivities in honor of the coronation of Nicholas II., which were to be held in Moscow in the spring of 1896, the representatives of the Jewish community of the second Russian capital petitioned the governor-general of Moscow, Grand Duke Sergius Alexandrovitch, to secure for them the Tzar's permission to have their synagogue open at least during the coronation days, "as a special act of grace, in order that the Jews of Moscow may be given a chance to celebrate the joyful event with due solemnity." But the grand duke, maddened by Jew-hatred, notified the petitioners through the Chief of Police that their petition was "an insolent violation of the imperial will" and could not be considered. The martyrdom of the Moscow community, the heritage of the past reign, stood out like a black stain even upon the gloomy background of the new era. An imperial ukase issued in 1892 had decreed that the structure of the sealed-up Moscow synagogue should be sold to the highest bidder unless it was converted into a charitable institution.[9] The community was naturally anxious to prevent the desecration of its sanctuary and to preserve the edifice for better days to come. With this end in view it placed in the synagogue building the trade school for Jewish children which had been established in memory of Alexander II. The anti-Semitic authorities of Moscow scented in this step a wicked design. The governor-general got into communication with the Ministers of the Interior and of Public Instruction, and, as a result, on May 27, 1896, the executive board of the Moscow community received the following order: To stop the admission of pupils to the trade school and to close the school altogether after the completion of the prescribed course of studies by the present contingent of students. Thereupon the Jews of Moscow made another attempt to save their synagogue by transferring hither their school and asylum for poor and orphaned children, the so-called Talmud Torah. This attempt, too, was frustrated by the Muscovite Hamans. On October 28, 1897, the governor-general announced that, after consultation with the Minister of the Interior, the decision had been reached to close the asylum, which sheltered about one hundred poor children, on the fanciful ground that these children might just as well receive their instruction in Russian educational establishments. The underlying motive of the new order was unmistakably revealed in its latter part: Unless in the course of two months the building of the synagogue will be reconstructed and so altered as to be fitted for a hospital or a similar charitable institution, it will be sold at public auction. Once more the Jewish community endeavored to save its sanctuary, which its enemies had made up their minds to destroy. The synagogue structure was rebuilt to meet the purposes of a hospital and a shelter. But the commission appointed by the governor-general to examine the alterations found that they were not sufficiently extensive and therefore suggested that the interior of the synagogue should be entirely remodelled so as to exclude the possibility of its ever being used for devotional purposes. The struggle centering around the alterations dragged on for another eight years--until the revolution of 1905 and the assassination of the ferocious governor-general. It was then that the Jews finally succeeded in releasing their sanctuary from the death sentence which had been passed upon it. The motive which animated the Muscovite Jew-haters was perfectly evident: it was their fervent desire to wipe out the last remnants of the local Jewish community by subjecting the Jews to religious and administrative persecutions and thereby compelling them to flee from the center of Greek Orthodoxy. The growth of the Jewish settlement at Moscow was checked in ruthless fashion. The Jewish artisans had been expelled as far back as 1891, but the Jewish merchants who purchased their right of residence in the second Russian capital at the annual cost of one thousand rubles--the tax levied on first guild members--had been allowed to remain. Moreover, as the largest industrial center of Russia, Moscow naturally attracted a goodly number of Jewish merchants who came there temporarily on business. These "newcomers" were handled more severely than are alien enemies in war-time. Police detectives prowled about on the streets and at the railroad stations, seizing passers-by who happened to exhibit a "Semitic" countenance, and dragging them to the police stations, "with a view to the examination of their right of residence in Moscow." The unfortunate Jews, whose documents did not comply with all the technicalities of the law, were expelled at once. The _Moscow Police News_ carried a regular advertisement offering a reward for the capture of "rightless" Jews. In October, 1897, the Moscow Chief of Police announced a premium of equal amount for the capture of one Jew or of two burglars.[10] Finally, the Russian Government took a most effective step towards preventing the increase of the Jewish population of Moscow. On January 22, 1899, an imperial ukase was issued forthwith prohibiting Jewish merchants of the first guild from settling in Moscow, unless they shall have obtained special permission from the Minister of Finance and from the governor-general of Moscow, it being beforehand agreed that no such permission should be granted. The same ukase enacted a number of offensive discriminations against the Jewish merchants already settled in Moscow by depriving them of their vote in the commercial associations, and by other similar devices. On a subsequent occasion the admission was candidly made that all these measures were prompted by the desire "to rid as far as possible the government of Moscow of the Jews already settled there on a legal basis." 3. RESTRICTIONS IN THE RIGHT OF RESIDENCE Whereas the régime of Grand Duke Sergius in Moscow represented an acute stage of Judæophobia, manifesting itself in cruelties of an exceptional character, the central Government in St. Petersburg exhibited the same disease in a more "normal" form. Here, the oppression of the Jews was pursued systematically and quietly, and was carried on as one of the most important functions of the public administration. The sacrosanct institution of the Pale of Settlement and the other mainstays of political anti-Semitism were zealously guarded by the faithful watchdogs of Russian reaction--the various Ministers of the Interior who followed one another between the years 1895 and 1904: Durnovo (until the autumn of 1895), Goremykin (1896-1899), Sipyaghin (1899-1902), and Plehve (1902-1904). True, during the régime of the last two Ministers the anti-Semitic temperature rose above normal, but it was only due to the fact that the increased revolutionary propaganda of those days had generally stimulated the powers of reaction to a greater display of energy. Quite aside from these exceptional conditions, the rigid consistency in enforcing the restrictive laws was sufficient to account for many tragedies in the life of the Jews, while the despotism of the provincial authorities aggravated the situation still further and turned the tragedies into catastrophes. As far as the Pale of Settlement is concerned, the Government continued its old-time policy of cooping up the Jews within the area of the cities and towns by shielding the villages carefully against the influx of Jews. Since the promulgation of the "Temporary Rules" in 1882, the authorities of St. Petersburg had been aiming at the gradual elimination of those rural Jewish "old timers" who had been allowed under those rules to remain in the villages.[11] They had been looking forward to the time when the eyes of the Russian moujik would no more be offended by the sight of a Jew. But this pious wish did not materialize quickly enough. Several governors put forth the simple proposition to expel all Jews from the villages, not excluding those who had been settled there for a long time. This step, however, was deemed too radical. The Minister of Finance, Witte, wished to solve the problem in a different way. He sought to persuade the Tzar that the introduction of the state liquor monopoly would automatically have the effect of forcing the Jews to leave the country-side, inasmuch as the liquor traffic formed the principal occupation of the village Jews. Witte's conjecture was to a certain degree borne out by the facts. By the end of the nineties the Jewish country population of Russia had been considerably reduced. Nevertheless there was no relief in sight. For the lust of the administration had grown in proportion. The governors and the other gubernatorial authorities resorted to all kinds of cunning devices to force the Jews out of the villages or out of the railroad stations which were situated outside the town limits. The Christian land-owners frequently complained about these deportations, and petitioned the governors to permit the Jewish grain merchants, who were engaged in buying and shipping the grain from the manorial store-houses, to reside at the railroad stations. The Senate was compelled over and over again to pass upon the appeals of illegally deported Jews and to enter into an examination of all kinds of hair-splitting questions involved in the manipulation of the anti-Jewish laws by the lower courts, whether, for instance, an old-time Jewish villager who returns to his home after a brief absence is to be regarded as a new settler who has no right to live in the country, or whether a Jew who lives on an estate which happens to be situated in two contiguous villages is allowed to remove from the one to the other. As a rule the authorities decided these questions against the Jews, though the most revolting decisions of this kind were later reversed by the Senate. In connection with the prohibition of residence outside the cities, a new problem had arisen in Jewish life--the "summer resort question." The authorities frequently prohibited Jewish families from spending the summer in the outskirts of the cities if a particular resort or cottage was found to be situated outside the city line. Thousands of Jewish families were thus deprived of an opportunity to rest in God's free nature during the summer months, and to breathe the fresh air of the fields and forests, for no other reason than that they were Jews--a new variety of territorially affixed city serfs. The law was just as merciless in the case of Jews afflicted with disease. The watering-places situated outside the towns were barred to Jewish sufferers who wished to take a cure there. The Crimean watering-place Yalta, in the neighborhood of the imperial summer resort Livadia, was the object of particular vigilance, having been barred to the Jews by order of the dying Alexander III.[12] The Jewish consumptives who had managed to obtain "illegal" access to this spa were pitilessly expelled. The following incident, which was reported at that time in the Russian press, may serve as an illustration of this ruthless policy: The wife of a [Jewish] physician had come to Yalta to improve her shattered health. While she was suffering from severe bloodspitting, a policeman invaded the bedroom of the sick woman, insisting on her giving a written pledge to leave the place within twenty-four hours. The patient was terribly frightened. On the following day the deportation was stopped, in consequence of the testimony of her physician that the slightest motion was fraught with danger to the invalid. But the fright and uncertainty had intensified the cough; the young woman became worse, and soon afterwards died. As it happened, the action of the police was subsequently found to be entirely unwarranted; for, as the wife of a physician, this victim of bureaucratic heartlessness was, even according to the letter of the law, entitled to the right of residence in Yalta. A similar case was that of a sick Jewish student who had been sent by his physicians to Yalta to cure his lungs. He was expelled in the dead of winter and deported under a police convoy, together with a batch of prisoners, to Sevastopol, notwithstanding the fact that he was in a feverish condition. The correspondent of a local paper in Sevastopol reported that "along the entire road from the harbor to the prison, which was traversed by the batch, passers-by would stop in their walk, staggered by the extraordinary spectacle." The sufferer appealed to the Senate, but the latter found that the orders of the police "contained nothing contrary to the law." The highest tribunal of the empire went with equanimity on record that a Jewish student was liable to the penalty of being arrested and marched under a police escort, together with criminal offenders, for an attempt to heal his lungs in the warm southern climate. But no place in the empire could vie as regards hostility to the Jews with the city of Kiev--this inferno of Russian Israel. Though surrounded on all sides by a string of towns and townlets with a dense Jewish population, the southwestern metropolis was guarded by a host of police watchdogs against the invasion of "aliens." Apart from the "privileged" Jews who formed part of the permanent population, the police were forced to admit into the city Jewish visitors who came to Kiev for a few days to attend to their affairs. Yet, haunted by the fear lest these visitors might stay there too long, the police arranged _oblavas_, or raids, to hunt them down like stray dogs. About once a week, during the night, the police would raid certain hostelries in which the Jews were wont to stop, put those that were caught under arrest, and then expel them from the confines of the city. This additional heavy "night work" called for a larger police staff, and to meet this increased expenditure, an annual sum of 15,000 rubles was appropriated--from the proceeds of the Jewish meat tax. This revenue, collected from the Jews for the purpose of maintaining the charitable and educational institutions of the Jewish communities, was now used to pay the police agents to enable them to hunt down these Jews and expel them in merciless fashion. To put it more plainly, the convict, after being sentenced to be hanged, was forced to buy the rope. The methods of the Russian inquisition gradually reached the top notch of efficiency. Even the "_Kievlanin_" ("The Kievian"), the anti-Semitic official organ of Kiev, was bound to confess on one occasion that "in the course of the month of July (of the year 1901) things have taken place in Kiev which are hardly conceivable." As far as the general disabilities are concerned, the entire area of the Russian empire outside the Pale of Settlement, though open to foreigners of all nationalities, remained hermetically closed to the Jewish citizens of Russia, and the borders of that prohibited area were guarded even more rigorously than they had been during the previous reign. In the consistent enforcement of this principle the Government did not shrink from the most revolting extremes. A law passed in 1896 interdicted Jewish soldiers from spending outside the Pale of Settlement even the brief leave of absence which they were granted during their term of military service. A Jewish soldier serving in a regiment which was stationed, let us say, in St. Petersburg, Moscow, or even in far-off Siberia, was forced, under this law, to travel hundreds and even thousands of miles to the Pale of Settlement to spend his month of furlough there, being denied the right to remain in the city in which he was discharging his military duty, and it made no difference even if the furlough was granted to him for the purpose of recuperating his health. In many places of the empire, the whimsicality of the local authorities in construing the law of residence was of a nature to suggest that they had no other end in view except that of making sport of the Jews. The administration of Siberia, for instance, invented the following regulation: a Jewish merchant or artisan who is registered in one of the Siberian cities shall have the right only to live in the particular city of his registration, and in no other. Since very many Jews resided outside the localities of their accidental registration, a transmigration of Siberian Jewry was the result. The Jews registered, _e. g._, in Tomsk, though they might have lived from the day of their birth in Irkutsk, were deported in batches to Tomsk, meeting on the way parties of exiled Jews from Tomsk who had the misfortune of having their names entered upon the records of Irkutsk. Human beings were shuffled like a pack of cards. This revolting practice of the Siberian authorities, which had begun at the end of the preceding reign, was sustained by the Senate in a decision handed down in 1897. 4. THE ECONOMIC COLLAPSE OF RUSSIAN JEWRY The result of all these persecutions was the complete economic collapse of Russian Jewry. Speaking generally, the economic structure of the Russian Jews experienced violent upheavals during the first years of Nicholas II.'s reign. The range of Jewish economic endeavor, circumscribed though it was, was narrowed more and more. In 1894, the law placing the liquor trade under Government control was put into effect by Witte, the Minister of Finance. Catering to the prejudices of the ruling spheres of Russia, Witte had already endeavored to convince Alexander III. that the liquor state monopoly would have the effect of completely undermining "Jewish exploitation," the latter being primarily bound up with the sale of liquor in the towns and villages. In view of this, the monopoly was introduced with particular zeal in the western governments, where a little later, in the course of 1896-1898, during the reign of Nicholas II., all private pot-houses were replaced by official liquor stores, the so-called "imperial bar-rooms." In consequence of this reform, tens of thousands of Jewish families who had derived their livelihood either directly from the liquor trade, or indirectly from occupations connected with it, such as the keeping of inns and hostelries, were deprived of their means of subsistence. It goes without saying that, as far as the moral aspect of the problem was concerned, the best elements of Russian Jewry welcomed this reform, which bade fair to wipe out an ugly stain on the escutcheon of the Jewish people--the liquor traffic bequeathed to the Jews by ancient Poland. Known as the most sober people on earth, the Jews had been placed in the tragic position that thousands of them, in their search for a piece of bread, were forced to serve as a medium for promoting the pernicious Russian drunkenness. The memory of the days when the Jewish saloon was the breeding-place of pogroms, in which the Russian peasants and burghers filled themselves with Jewish alcohol to fortify themselves in their infamous work of demolishing the homes of the Jews, was still fresh in their minds. Cheerfully would the Jewish people have yielded its monopoly of the liquor trade to the Russian bar-room keepers and to the Russian Government who seemed genuinely attracted toward it, had it only been allowed to pursue other methods of earning a livelihood. But in closing the avenue of the liquor traffic to two hundred thousand Jews, the Government did not even think of removing the special restrictions which barred their way to other lines of endeavor. Having been robbed of the scanty livelihood they derived from their country inns, thousands of rural victims of the state monopoly flocked into the cities, only to clash with a host of urban victims of the same reform who had also been deprived of their means of sustenance. The growth of the proletariat within the Pale of Settlement, both in business and in the trades, assumed appalling proportions. The observers of economic life in the Pale, such as the well-known Russian economist Subbotin and others, called attention to the frightful increase of pauperism in that region. Between 1894 and 1898 the number of Jewish families in need of assistance increased twenty-seven per cent. as compared with former years. In 1897, the number of Jews without definite occupations amounted in certain cities to fifty per cent. and more. The number of destitute Jews applying for help before the Passover festival reached unheard of proportions, amounting in Odessa, Vilna, Minsk, Kovno, and other cities to forty and even fifty per cent. of the total Jewish population. The crop failures of 1899 and 1900 in the south of Russia resulted in a terrible famine among the impecunious Jewish masses. Whereas the peasants who suffered from the same calamity received financial assistance from the Government, the Jews had to resort to self-help, to the collection of funds throughout the empire to which only here and there liberal Christians added their mites. Many of these Jewish proletarians were willing to take up agriculture, but the "Temporary Rules" of 1882 blocked their way to the country-side, and made it impossible for them to buy or even lease a piece of land. Prominent Jews of St. Petersburg, such as Baron Günzburg and others, petitioned the Government to allow the Jews to purchase small parcels of land for personal use, but, after long deliberations, their petition was rejected. Thus, at the end of the nineteenth century, the ruling spheres of the Russian empire proved more anti-Semitic than at the beginning of the same century, when the Government of Alexander I. and even that of Nicholas I. had endeavored to promote agriculture among the Jews and had established the Jewish agricultural colonies in the south of Russia.[13] The mania of oppression went so far as to prohibit the Jews from buying or leasing parcels of land which were part of a city, but happened to be situated outside the city line. A rich Jew of Minsk, by the name of Pollak, petitioned, in 1897, the local Town Council to sell him a piece of suburban property for the establishment of a Jewish agricultural farm, but his petition was refused. This refusal was thoroughly consistent. For the fact that the Jews were forbidden to own land made the training of Jews in the art of agriculture entirely superfluous. It may be added that this prohibition of land ownership was upheld by the Government even in the case of the Jewish students who had completed their course in the school of the Jewish Agricultural Farm near Odessa. Similar methods were employed to check the development of arts and crafts, which were widely represented among the Jews, but stood on a very low technical level. Even the efforts to organize mutual help among the working classes were blocked by the Government in all kinds of ways. The well-known Jewish millionaire, Brodski, of Kiev, wishing to assist the toiling masses without distinction of creed, offered to open a trade bank in that city and to contribute towards that purpose the sum of 120,000 rubles. When, in 1895, he submitted the constitution of the proposed bank to the local authorities for their approval, he was required to insert a clause to the effect that the directors and the chairman of the bank council should always be Christians and that the council itself should not include more than one Jewish member. To this insolent demand Brodski made the only fitting retort: "Being myself a Jew, I cannot possibly agree that the constitution of an establishment which is to be founded with the money contributed by me and which is to bear my name shall contain restrictions affecting my coreligionists." He naturally withdrew his offer, and Kiev was deprived of a trade bank. The fact that the failure of the project also affected the Christian artisans did not disturb the authorities in the least. It was enough of a compensation that the Jews were made to suffer not only materially, but also morally, and the purpose of the highly-placed Jew-baiters was accomplished. 5. PROFESSIONAL AND EDUCATIONAL RESTRICTIONS In the domain of those liberal professions to which the Jewish intellectuals, being barred from entering the civil service, were particularly attracted, the law went to almost any length in its endeavor to keep them closed to the Jews. The legal career had been blocked to them ever since the passage of the law of 1889, which made the admission of a properly qualified Jew to the bar dependent upon the granting of a special permission by the Minister of Justice. In the course of a whole decade, the Minister found it possible to grant this permission only to one Jew, who, it may be added, had sat on the bench for twenty-five years--there were two or three such "relics," dating back to the liberal era of Alexander II. In consequence of this provision, the proportion of Jews at the bar, which prior to the enactment of the restriction had reached from fourteen to twenty-two per cent, was reduced to nine per cent. In 1897, a committee appointed by the Government was considering the proposal to place the disability on the statute books and to establish a ten per cent norm for Jewish lawyers. The reasons advanced by the committee for the proposed restriction were of the distinctly mediæval variety: The conduct of a lawyer is determined by the impulses of his will, of his conscience,--in other words, that sphere of his inner life which finds its manifestation in religion. Now the admission of Jews constitutes a menace, resulting from views peculiar to the Jewish race, which are contrary to Christian morality. Subsequently, the champions of "Christian morality" on the staff of the Ministry of Justice bethought themselves that it might even be better and nobler to stop the admission of Jews to the bar altogether, and the proposal regarding the percentage norm was tabled. Hundreds upon hundreds of young Jews who had completed their legal education at the universities, or who had acted as assistants to sworn attorneys, saw once more their hopes for the legitimate pursuit of their profession vanish into the air. Jewish physicians were restricted to private practice and robbed of their right to occupy a Government or public position. Even the autonomous Zemstvo institutions adopted more and more the practice of refusing to appoint Jews, and very frequently the printed advertisements of the Zemstvos offering medical positions contained the stipulation _kromye yevreyev_ ("except the Jews"). The scholastic education of the Jewish children was throttled in the same pitiless manner as theretofore. The disgraceful school norm which had been introduced in 1887[14] performed with ever-increasing relentlessness its task of dooming to spiritual death the Jewish youths who were knocking at the doors of the gymnazia and universities. In the beginning of 1898, the post of Minister of Public Instruction, which had been occupied by Dyelanov, was entrusted to Professor Bogolepov of Moscow. While Dyelanov had been occasionally inclined to soften the rigor of the school norm--it was commonly rumored that this good-natured dignitary could not bear to see a woman cry, and the tearful entreaties of the mothers of the rejected scholars made him sanction the admission of a certain number of Jewish children over and above the established percentage norm--his successor Bogolepov, an academic teacher who had become a gendarme of education, was impervious to any sentiment of pity. In the course of the three years of his administration, he not only refused to admit the slightest departure from the established norm, but attempted to curtail it still further. Thus, orders were issued to calculate the percentage norm of the Jewish applicants for admission to the universities not in its relation to the total number of the annual admissions, but separately for each faculty (1898-1899). This provision was designed to limit the number of Jewish students who flocked to the medical and legal faculties, since, in view of the fact that the Jews were entirely barred from appointments in the general educational institutions, the other faculties did not offer them even a sporting chance of earning a livelihood. The ruthlessness displayed by the Ministry of Public Instruction towards the Jewish youth was officially justified on the ground that certain elements among them were affiliated with the revolutionary movement which, just at that time, had assumed particular intensity in the Russian student body. This sentiment was openly voiced in a circular of the Ministry, issued on May 26, 1901, which makes the following statement: "The disorders which took place at the end of the nineties in the institutions of higher learning testified to the fact that the instigators of these disorders were, to a large extent, persons of non-Russian extraction." Bogolepov himself, the reactionary Minister of enlightenment, fell a victim of this agitation among the student body. He died from the bullet of a Terrorist who happened to be of unadulterated Russian extraction. His successor, General Vannovski (1901-1902), though endeavoring to assuage the university disorders by a policy of "kindly solicitude," maintained the former uncompromising attitude as far as the Jews were concerned. In view of the fact that, in spite of all restrictions, the ratio of Jewish students at all universities actually exceeded the norm prescribed by law, the new Minister decreed that the percentage of Jewish admissions be temporarily curtailed in the following proportion: Two per cent for the capitals (instead of the former three per cent), three per cent for the universities outside of the Pale of Settlement (instead of five per cent), and seven per cent for the Pale of Settlement (instead of ten per cent). Even the restrictions placed upon the admission of the Jews to the gymnazia were intensified. In 1901, Jewish children who had graduated from a pro-gymnazium[15] were forbidden to continue their education in the advanced classes of a gymnazium unless there was a free Jewish vacancy within the percentage norm--a truly miraculous contingency. The same policy was extended to the commercial schools established with funds which were provided by the merchant class and the bulk of which came from Jews. In the commercial schools maintained by the commercial associations Jewish children were admitted only in proportion to the contributions of the Jewish merchants towards the upkeep of the particular school. In private commercial schools, however, percentages of all kinds, varying from ten to fifty per cent, were fixed in the case of Jewish pupils. This provision had the effect that Jewish parents were vitally interested in securing the entrance of as many Christian children as possible in order to increase thereby the number of Jewish vacancies. Occasionally, a Jewish father, in the hope of creating a vacancy for his son, would induce a Christian to send his boy to a commercial school--though the latter, as a rule, offered little attraction for the Christian population--by undertaking to defray all expenses connected with his education. Yet many Jewish children, though enduring all these humiliations, found themselves outside the doors of the intermediate Russian schools. It is worthy of note that in this attempt at the spiritual extermination of the Jewish children by barring them from intermediate educational institutions the Russian law followed strictly the ancient rule of the Pharaohs: "If it be a son, then ye shall kill him; but if it be a daughter, then she shall live." The Government schools for girls were opened to the Jewish population without any restriction, and the influx of Jewesses to these gymnazia was only checked unofficially by the anti-Semitic authorities of this or that institution, thereby turning the tide of applicants in the direction of private girls' schools. But as far as the higher schools were concerned, Jewish girls were subjected to the same restrictions as the boys. The Higher Courses for Women and the Pedagogic Courses in St. Petersburg restricted the admission of Jewesses to five per cent. The constitution of the Medical Institute for Women, founded in 1895, provided at first for the entire exclusion of Jewesses. But in 1897, the doors of this institution were opened to the hated tribe--just enough to admit them to the extent of three per cent. It was scarcely to be expected that the Jewish youths who had been locked out of the Russian school should entertain particularly friendly sentiments towards a régime which wasted their lives, humiliated their dignity, and sullied their souls. The Jewish lad, driven from the doors of the gymnazia, became an embittered "extern," who was forced to study at home and from year to year present himself for examination before the school authorities. An immense host of young men and women who found their way blocked to the higher educational institutions in Russia went abroad, flocking to foreign universities and higher professional schools, where they learned to estimate at its full value a régime which in their own country denied them the advantages granted to them outside of it. A large number of these college youths returned home permeated with revolutionary ideas--living witnesses to the sagacity of a Government which saw its reason for existence in the suppression of all revolutionary strivings. 6. ANTI-SEMITIC PROPAGANDA AND POGROMS The reactionary Russian press, encouraged and stimulated by the official Jew-baiters, engaged in an increasingly ferocious campaign against the Jews. The Russian censorship, known all over for its merciless cruelty, which was throttling the printed word and trembling at the criminal thought of "inciting hatred toward the Government," yet granted untrammeled freedom to those who propagated hatred to Judaism, and thereby committed the equally criminal offence of "inciting one part of the population against the other." The _Novoye Vremya_, the most wide-spread semi-official press organ, and its satellites in the provincial capitals were permitted to do what they pleased. They were free to slander the Jewish religion, the Jewish people, and the Jewish communities. When the famous Dreyfus affair had started in France, the _Novoye Vremya_, the oracle of Russia's ruling spheres, arrayed itself on the side of the Jew-baiters from among the French general staff, and launched a savage campaign of slander against the Jews of the entire globe. Many an article published in the anti-Semitic press was scarcely distinguishable from the proclamations calling upon the mob to massacre the Jews. By far the most effective propaganda on behalf of pogroms was carried on, sometimes without a conscious realization of the consequences, by the Government itself: by persisting in its anti-Jewish policy. Observing this uninterrupted maltreatment of the Jews on the part of the Russian legislation and administration, which treated the Jews as if they were criminals, witnessing the expulsions inflicted upon the "illegally residing" Jews and the raids engineered against them, watching the constant mockery at the Jewish children who were driven from the doors of the educational institutions, and seeing the endless multitude of other humiliating disabilities, the unenlightened Russian populace necessarily gained the conviction that the extermination of Jewry was a noble and patriotic duty. Coupled with the usual economic and national conflicts, this trend of mind could not but lead to acts of violence. At the end of the nineties the Russian horizon was darkened again by the ominous shadow of the beginning of the eighties: pogroms, at first sporadic and within circumscribed limits, broke out again in various parts of the Pale. On February 18 and 19, 1897, an anti-Jewish riot took place in Shpola, a town in the government of Kiev. The following officially inspired account of the excesses, in which the facts were undoubtedly toned down, appeared in the _Novoye Vremya_: At three o'clock in the afternoon an immense crowd of peasants rushed into our town, and wrecked completely the stores, homes, and warehouses belonging exclusively to the Jews. A large number of rich business places and small stores, as well as hundreds of houses, were demolished by the crowd, which acted, one might say, with elemental passion, dooming to destruction everything that fell into its hands. The town of Shpola, which is celebrated for its flourishing trade and its comparative prosperity, now presents the picture of a city which has been ravaged by a hostile army. Lines of old women and children may be seen moving [into the town] to carry home with them the property of the "Zhyds." Of essential importance is the fact that these disorders were undoubtedly prearranged. The local Jews knew of the impending disaster four days before it took place; they spoke about it to the local police chief, but the latter assured them that "nothing is going to happen." Two months later, on April 16 and 17, the Christian inhabitants of the town of Kantakuzenka, in the government of Kherson, indulged in a similar "amusement" at the expense of the Jews. To quote the words of a semi-official report: A cruel pogrom has taken place. Almost the entire town has been destroyed by an infuriated mob. All Jewish stores were wrecked and the goods found there were thrown about. A part of the merchandise was looted by the rabble. The synagogue alone remained unscathed. Here, too, it was known beforehand that a pogrom was in the course of preparation. The Jews petitioned the authorities to avert the catastrophe, but the local police force was found inadequate to cope with the situation. In both devastated towns the governors of the respective provinces eventually appeared on the scene with detachments of troops, but in the meantime the revolting performances were over. Many rioters were placed under arrest and put on trial. More than sixty were sentenced by the courts to a term in prison from eight to fourteen months. One of the defendants, a Little-Russian peasant, who had been arrested for having taken part in an anti-Jewish riot, voiced his amazement in these characteristic words: "They told us we had permission to beat the Jews, and now it appears that it is all a lie." A pogrom on a more comprehensive scale, arranged in honor of the Easter festival, and lasting for three days (April 19-21, 1899), was allowed to take place in the city of Nicholayev, the South-Russian port of entry. Bands of rioters, to the number of several thousand, among them many newly arrived Great-Russian day laborers, and a few "intellectual" ringleaders, fell upon Jewish stores and residences and destroyed or looted their contents, complying faithfully with the established pogrom ritual, while the police and Cossack forces proved "powerless." On the third day, when the news of the freedom accorded to the rioters and robbers at Nicholayev reached the villages in the vicinity, a whole army of peasants, both men and women, numbering some ten thousand, started towards the city on their wagons, with the intention of carrying off the property of the Jews--but they were too late; for in the meantime Cossacks and soldiers had been ordered to stop the pogroms and disperse the rioters. The peasants were driven off and had to return to their villages on their empty wagons. Exasperated by their failure, the peasants vented their fury upon the Jewish cemetery outside the city, demolishing a large number of tombstones, and then, scattering all over the district, made an attack upon the Jewish population in the neighboring settlements and villages. In the Jewish agricultural colony of Nagartava all farm-houses and stores were wrecked and looted, and the agricultural implements demolished. The Russian peasant was unscrupulously ruining and robbing his Jewish fellow-peasant. In the adjacent colonies, the Jews, being of a robust physique, were able to put up an effective defence. The only protest against this new outbreak of barbarism was voiced by the "Son of the Fatherland" (_Syn Otyechestva_), a liberal Russian press organ: When at last--questioned the paper--will that terrible relic of the gloomy era of the Middle Ages take an end? When will there be a stop to this breaking of windows, this beating of men and this wrecking of houses and stores? This time the orders from St. Petersburg were explicit: the local authorities were commanded to prevent the further spread of the pogrom agitation. The reason for this unaccustomed attitude is not difficult to guess. Two weeks after the Nicholayev atrocities, the first International Hague Conference opened its sessions (May 6-18), having been called at the initiative of the Russian emperor to discuss the question of disarmament, and this Conference must have suggested to the Tzar the advisability of first disarming the anti-Jewish rioters in Russia itself. However, he failed to draw the more important conclusion from the Conference called by him: that it was necessary to stop, or at least to reduce, the constant arming of his own Government against the Jews and to discard the mediæval weapons of oppression and persecution which spelled destruction to an entire nation. This alone is enough to expose the hollowness of the spectacle at the Hague, which had been designed by the feeble-minded Nicholas as a sort of diplomatic entertainment. That the Russian authorities, when so minded, were fully capable of grappling with the pogrom agitation was demonstrated by the rapidity with which, on a later occasion, they suppressed the anti-Jewish excesses in the Polish city of Chenstokhov (August 19, 1902). In this hotbed of dismal Polish clericalism, the goal of thousands of Catholic pilgrims, who arrive there to worship the Holy Virgin on the "Bright Mountain," a street brawl between a Jewish tradesman and a Polish woman grew, owing to the instigations of Catholic priests, into a monstrous assault upon Jewish houses and stores by a crowd of fifteen thousand Poles. Here, too, the customary shouts were heard: "Beat the Jews! Nothing will happen to us." But the Chenstokhov rioters made a grievous error in their calculation. The protection of the Russian authorities did not extend to the Poles who were not considered politically "dependable," and were known to be equally hostile to the Zhyds and the "Moskals."[16] The excesses had started in the morning, and in the evening they were at an end, a volley from the soldiers having put the tremendous crowd to flight. When the case came up before the courts, the public prosecutor pleaded for the severe punishment of the culprits. The guilty Poles were sentenced to penal servitude and to terms in prison, and in some cases even damages were awarded to the Jewish victims--an extraordinarily rare occurrence in legal proceedings of this kind. The union of Polish anti-Semitism with Russian Judæophobia brought again to life the old monstrous accusation against the Jews--the ritual murder libel. A Polish servant girl in the employ of David Blondes, a Jewish barber in Vilna, steeped, as she was, in gross superstition and being a pliant tool in the hands of fanatical priests, ran out one night (March, 1900) into the street, shouting that her master had wounded her and had tried to squeeze blood from her for the Matzah. A crowd of Christians quickly assembled, and seeing the scratches on the neck and hands of the girl, fell upon Blondes and gave him a severe beating. The "criminal" was thrown into prison, and the prosecuting authorities, listening to the "voice of the people," were zealous in their search for the threads of the crime. The anti-Semitic press launched a well-planned campaign against the Jews in the hope of influencing the judicial verdict. The lower court recognized the fact of the assault, but denied the presence of any murderous intent, and, leaving aside the possibility of a ritual motive, sentenced Blondes to imprisonment for four months. The counsel for the defence, the well-known lawyer Gruzenberg, and others, fearing lest this sentence might be construed by the enemies of Judaism as a corroboration of the ritual murder libel, appealed from the verdict of the court, and proved victorious: a decision handed down by the Senate ordered the case to be sent back for a second trial to the District Court of Vilna, and the court of jurymen, after listening to the statements of authoritative experts and the brilliant speeches of the defence, rendered a verdict of not guilty (February 1, 1902). The prisoner was set at liberty, and the nightmare of the "ritual murder Dreyfusiad" was dispelled for the time being. Even the Russian stage was made subservient to the purposes of Jew-baiting. A converted Jew by the name of Efron-Litvin, who had joined the anti-Semitic business firm of the _Novoye Vremya_, wrote a libelous play under the title "The Sons of Israel," or "The Smugglers," in which Jews and Judaism were made the subject of the most horrible calumnies. The play was first produced at St. Petersburg, in the theatre controlled by Suvorin, the publisher of the _Novoye Vremya_, and in the course of 1901-1902 it made the rounds of the provincial stage. Everywhere, the Russian Jew-haters welcomed this talentless production, which pictured the Jews as rogues and criminals, and represented the Jewish religion and morality as the fountain-head whence the supposed hatred of the Jews against the Christians derived its origin. Naturally enough the Jews and the best elements among the Russian _intelligenzia_ looked upon the mere staging of such a play as an incitement to pogroms. They appealed repeatedly to the police, calling upon them to stop the production of a play which was sure to fan national and religious hatred. The police, however, were not guided by the wishes of the Jews, but by those of their enemies. As a result, in a considerable number of cities where the play was presented, such as Smolensk, Oryol, Kishinev, Tiflis, and others, violent demonstrations took place in the theatres. The Jewish spectators and a part of the Russian public, particularly from among the college youth, hissed and hooted, demanding the removal from the stage of this libel on a whole people. The anti-Semites, in turn, shouted: "Down with the Jews!", and started a fight with the demonstrators. The police, of course, sided with the anti-Semites, attacking the demonstrators and dragging them to the police stations. This agitation led to a number of legal proceedings against the Jews who were charged with disturbing the peace. During the trial of one of these cases (in the city of Oryol), the counsel for the defence used the following argument: The play inflames the national passions, and makes the national traits of a people the object of ridicule and mockery,--of a people, moreover, which is denied equal rights and has no means of voicing its protest. The production of such a play should never have been permitted, the more so as the police were well acquainted with the agitated state of the public mind. The argument of the defending attorney was scarcely convincing. For the article of the Russian law which forbids the "incitement of one part of the population against the other" loses its validity when the "other part" means the Jews. FOOTNOTES: [1] See on the Zemstvos, vol. II, p. 173, n. 1. [2] See vol. II, p. 246. [3] See vol. II, p. 421. [4] The Russian title for a prosecuting attorney. [5] "Our frame (of society) is not ready to receive you." [6] See on this term vol. II, p. 16, n. 1. [7] See on the meaning of this term, vol. I, p. 25, n. 1. [8] See vol. II, p. 423. [9] See vol. II, p. 424. [10] These barbarities were suspended only for a few days during that year, while the International Congress of Medicine was holding its sessions in Moscow. The police were ordered to stop these street raids upon the Jews for fear of compromising Russia in the eyes of Western Europe, since it was to be expected that the membership of the Congress would include medical celebrities with "Semitic" features. [11] The "Temporary Rules" were not given retroactive force, and those settled in the villages before the promulgation of the law of May 3, 1882, were accordingly permitted to stay there. [See vol. II, p. 311.] [12] See vol. II, p. 428 _et seq._ [13] According to the statistics of 1898-1901, some 150,000 Jews in Russia engaged in agrarian pursuits. Of these, 51,539 were occupied with raising corn in the colonies, 64,563 engaged in special branches of agrarian economy, 19,930 held land as owners or lessees, and 12,901 were engaged in temporary farm labor. [14] See vol. II, p. 350. [15] A pro-gymnazium is made up of the six (originally four) lower grades of a gymnazium which embraces eight grades. [16] A contemptuous nickname for Russians customary among the Poles. CHAPTER XXXII THE NATIONAL AWAKENING 1. THE RISE OF POLITICAL ZIONISM For two decades the sledge hammer of Russian reaction had been descending with crushing force upon the vast community of the six million Russian Jews. Yet in the end it was found that the heavy hammer, to use the well-known simile of Pushkin, instead of shattering the national organism of Jewry, had only helped to steel it and to harden its indestructible spiritual self. The Jewry of Russia showed to the world that it was endowed with an iron constitution, and those that had hoped to crush it by the strokes of their hammer were ultimately forced to admit that they had produced the opposite result. At first it seemed as if the effect of these blows would be to turn Jewry into a shapeless mass. There were moments of despair and complete prostration, when the approaching darkness threatened to obliterate all paths. This stage was followed by a period of mental haziness, marked by dim yearnings for regeneration, which were bound to remain fruitless because unaccompanied by organizing energy. This transitional state of affairs lasted throughout the eighties and during the first half of the nineties. But by and by, out of the chaos of these nebulous social tendencies, there emerged more and more clearly the outlines of definite politico-national doctrines and organizations, and new paths were blazed which, leading in different directions, converged toward one goal--that of the regeneration of the Jewish people from within, both in its national and social life. The turning-point of this process is marked by the year 1897. That year, in which the first International Zionist Congress held its sessions, inaugurated not only the political Zionist movement, but also the development of other currents of Jewish national and political thought. The entire gamut of public slogans rang through the air, all bearing testimony to one and the same fact: that the era of national prostration had come to an end, and that the vague longings for liberation and regeneration had assumed the character of a conscious endeavor pursuing a well-defined course. The careful observer could scarcely fail to perceive that beneath the hammer of history the formless mass of Jewry was being forged into a well-shaped instrument of great power. The organization of the Jewish people had made its beginning. Among the movements which arose at the end of the nineteenth century there were some which came to the surface of Jewish life rather noisily, attracting the attention of the Jewish masses as well as that of the outside world. Others, however, were imbedded more deeply in the consciousness of the educated classes and were productive of a new outlook upon the national Jewish problem. The former were an answer to the question of the "Jewish misery," of the _Judennot_, in its practical aspect. The latter offered a solution of the national-cultural problem of Judaism in its totality. The movements of the first kind are represented by Political Zionism and Territorialism. In the second category stand Spiritual Zionism and National-Cultural Autonomism. On a parallel line with both varieties of the national movement, and frequently intersecting it, went the Jewish socialistic movement, tinged to a lesser or larger degree by nationalistic tendencies. For fifteen years, the "Lovers of Zion," or the _Hibbat Zion_ movement, had been pursuing its course in Russia, without showing marked progress in the direction of that universal Jewish goal which had been formulated by its champions, Lilienblum and Pinsker.[17] During that period some fifteen Jewish agricultural colonies had sprung up in Palestine. The Jewish population of the Holy Land had been increased by some twenty thousand souls, and an effort had been made to create a national model school and to revive the ancient Hebrew tongue; but needless to say all this was far from solving the burning question of the six million Russian Jews who were clamoring for relief from their intolerable condition. At the slow rate of progress which had hitherto characterized the Jewish endeavors in Palestine any attempt to transfer a considerable portion of the Russian center to the Holy Land was doomed to failure, particularly in view of the hostility of the Turkish Government which was anxious to check even this insignificant growth of Jewish colonization. At that juncture, the air of Europe resounded with the clarion tones of Theodor Herzl's appeal to the Jews to establish a "Jewish State." The appeal came from Western Europe, from the circles in which the sufferings of their "Eastern brethren" had hitherto been viewed entirely from the philanthropic point of view. It came from a young Viennese journalist who had been aroused by the orgy of anti-Semitism in the capital of Austria (the agitation of Burgomaster Lueger, and others), and by the exciting anti-Jewish scenes enacted in the capital of France, where, as a correspondent of the Viennese daily "_Die Neu Freie Presse_," he followed the Dreyfus affair in its first early stages. Herzl became suddenly conscious of the acute pain of the Jewish misery. He saw the anti-Semitism of Western Europe closing ranks with the Judæophobia of Eastern Europe. He saw the ideal of assimilation crumbling to pieces, and he made up his mind to hoist the flag of Jewish nationalism, scarcely aware of the fact that it had already been hoisted in the East.[18] His pamphlet ("The Jewish State"), which appeared in the beginning of 1896, was in its fundamental premises a repetition of the old appeal of Pinsker. The author of the new publication was convinced, like his predecessor, that the only relief from the Jewish misery lay in the concentration of the Jewish people upon a separate territory, without determining the question whether that territory should be Palestine or Argentina. But, in contradistinction to Pinsker, Herzl was not satisfied with formulating the problem theoretically; he offered at the same time a plan of political and economic organization by means of which the problem was to be solved: the creation of special representative bodies which were to enter into negotiations with rulers and Governments concerning the cession of an appropriate territory to the Jews under an international protectorate, and were also to obtain huge funds to carry out the transplantation and resettlement of vast Jewish masses. Representing a combination of theoretic enthusiasm and practical Utopias, the "Jewish State" of Herzl revived the nearly smothered political hopes which had been cherished by the _Hobebe Zion_ circles in Russia. The Russian Jews, groaning under the yoke of an Egyptian bondage, flocked to the new Moses who announced the glad tidings of the Exodus, and Herzl, beholding the ready hosts in the shape of the _Hobebe Zion_ societies, was quick to adjust his territorialistic scheme to the existing Palestinian movement. In this wise, the organization of political Zionism sprang into life, using as its medium of expression the international party congresses, most of which convened in Switzerland, in the city of Basle. The first Basle Congress held in August, 1897, was an impressive demonstration of the national awakening of the Jewish people. For the first time, the united representatives of Eastern and Western Jewry proclaimed before the world that the scattered sections of Jewry looked upon themselves as one national organism striving for national regeneration. From the center of Western assimilation, advocating the disappearance of Jewry, came the war-cry, proclaiming the continued existence of the Jewish nation, though that existence was conditioned by the establishment of a separate "publicly and legally assured" territorial center. Of the four articles of the "Basle program," which were adopted by the first Congress, three deal with the fundamental task of the party, the political and financial endeavors looking to the colonization of large Jewish masses in Palestine, and only one voices the need "of strengthening the Jewish national feeling and self-respect." In the further progress of the Zionist organization, these two principles, the political and the cultural, were constantly struggling for mastery, the Zionists of the West gravitating toward political activities and diplomatic negotiations, while the Zionists of the East laid greater emphasis upon internal cultural work along national lines, looking upon it as an indispensable prerequisite for national rebirth. The struggle between these two principles continued at each succeeding annual Congress (at the second and third held in Basle in 1898 and 1899, at the fourth in London in 1900, and at the fifth in Basle in 1901). On the one hand, the Zionists were feverishly engaged in the external organization of the movement: the consolidation of the Shekel-payer societies, the creation of the Jewish Colonial Trust and the Jewish National Fund, the conduct of diplomatic negotiations with the Turkish Government and with the political representatives of other countries for the purpose of obtaining a guaranteed "charter" for a wholesale colonization in Palestine. On the other hand, endeavors were made to nationalize the Jewish intellectual classes, to promote the Hebrew language, to create a national school, and "to conquer the communities" for Zionism, that is, to strengthen the influence of the party in the administration of the Jewish communities. The Convention of Russian Zionists, held at Minsk in 1902, paid particular attention to the cultural aspirations of the party, and adopted a resolution calling for the appointment of two committees, an orthodox and a progressive, to find ways and means for placing Jewish education on a national basis. The same Convention demonstrated the growth of the movement, for, during the first five years of its existence, the Zionist organization in Russia had succeeded in securing about seventy thousand Shekel-payers who were organized in approximately five hundred societies. Yet the political and financial achievements of Zionism during that period of bloom--prior to the crisis of 1903--were insignificant. The diplomatic negotiations of the Zionist leader, Dr. Theodor Herzl, with the Sultan of Turkey and his Government, as well as with the German emperor and several other European sovereigns, failed of their purpose--the obtaining of a Turkish charter for the wholesale colonization of Palestine. The financial instrument of the party, the Jewish Colonial Trust, proved as yet too weak to collect the proposed fund of ten million dollars--a modest sum when compared with the purpose for which it was destined. The colonization of Palestine proceeded at a slow pace, and its miniature scale was entirely out of proportion to the grand plan of establishing a national autonomous center in Palestine. Withal, Zionism proved during that brief interval a potent factor in the national awakening of Jewry. The strength of the movement lay, not in the political aims of the organization, which were mostly beyond reach, but in the very fact that tens of thousands of Jews were organized with a national end in view. It lay, moreover, in the current national-cultural activities, in the _Gegenwartsarbeit_, which, yielding to necessity, had been raised from a means to an end. In Western Europe, the principal significance of Zionism lay in its effect as a counterbalance to assimilation, Herzl having declared that "Zionism aims at the establishment of a publicly and legally assured home for those Jews who, in their present places of residence, are not able, or not willing, to assimilate themselves." In Russia, however, where Jewish life was dominated by more powerful nationalizing influences, the chief importance of political Zionism lay in this very propaganda of a national rebirth in the midst of those whom militant Judæophobia was endeavoring to reduce by intolerable oppression to the level of moral degenerates. The apathy and faint-heartedness which had characterized public Jewish life during the eighties and the first half of the nineties was followed by a period of noisy bustle, of organizing activity, and of great animation. The Pale of Settlement resounded with the din of its hundreds of Zionist societies, with the speeches of Zionist agitators at public meetings and in the synagogues, with the intense agitation preceding the elections for each Zionist congress, with the heated debates about the program between the political and the cultural Zionists, between the Mizrahists (the faction of orthodox Zionists) and the Progressives. The public utterances of the Zionist leaders, Herzl and Nordau, were the subject of interminable discussion and comment. The Russian Jews were particularly stirred by the annual Congress addresses of Nordau on the "General Situation in Jewry," in which the famous writer pictured with characteristic vividness the tragedy of the _Golus_, the boundless extent of Jewish misery, having a material aspect in the lands of oppression and a moral aspect among the emancipated sections of Jewry, and which culminated in the thought that Jewry could not exist without Zion. Nordau's motto, "Jewry will be Zionistic, or it will not be," was differently interpreted in the different circles of the Russian Jewish _intelligenzia_. Among the Russian leaders of the party only a minority (Dr. Mandelstamm of Kiev, and others) were fully in accord with the extreme political views of the Western leaders. The majority of the former workers in the ranks of the _Hobebe Zion_ movement (Ussishkin, Chlenov, and others) sought to harmonize the political functions of Zionism with its cultural aspirations and combine the diplomatic negotiations concerning a charter with the upkeep of the existing colonization work in Palestine, which latter was contemptuously branded by the hide-bound adherents of political Zionism as "infiltration." This Babel of opinions within the ranks of the organization could not fail to weaken its effectiveness as an agency for the attainment of the ultimate Zionist goal. At the same time, it brought life and animation into the movement. The crack of the whip of the Egyptian taskmasters remained unheard amidst the clash of ideas and the proud slogans of national liberation which resounded throughout the Jewish Pale. 2. SPIRITUAL ZIONISM, OR AHAD-HA´AMISM And yet, political Zionism viewed as a theory failed to offer a satisfactory solution of the great Jewish problem in all its historic complexity. Born of the reaction against anti-Semitism, and endeavoring to soothe the pain of the wounded Jewish heart, it was marked by all the merits and demerits of a theory which was substantially Messianic in character and was entirely dependent on subjective forces, on faith and will-power. "If you only will it, then it is no fairy tale"[19]--in these words the ultimate goal of political Zionism is indicated by its founder, who firmly believed that an extraordinary exertion of the national will would transform the fairy tale of a "Jewish state" into reality. When confronted with the question as to the future of the Jewish nation in case faith and will-power should prove unable to grapple with the conditions over which it had no control, and the "fairy tale" of a united political autonomous center should not be realized, political Zionism either remained silent or indulged in a polemical retort which was in flagrant contradiction to Jewish history: "Without Zion, Judaism is bound to perish." The national conscience, however, could not be reconciled to such an answer. A more or less satisfactory solution of the problem of Judaism could not spring from the external reaction against anti-Semitism, but could only mature as the fruit of profound contemplation of the course of development pursued by the Jewish people in the Diaspora; such a solution could only be found in the endeavor to adapt the new national movement to this historic course. From this point of view political Zionism was rectified by "Spiritual Zionism," the teaching of the publicist and philosopher Ahad Ha'am (U. Ginzberg). Even before political Zionism, or "Herzlianism," appeared on the scene, Ahad Ha'am had succeeded in substantially modifying the Palestinian idea as formulated by Lilienblum and Pinsker. In the program of the semi-Masonic order _Bne Moshe_ ("Sons of Moses"), established by him in Odessa,[20] he laid down the fundamental principle that the preparation of the land for the people must be preceded by the transformation of the people into a firmly-knit national organization: "We must propagate the national idea, and convert it into a lofty moral ideal." Having become associated with the Palestinian colonization in a practical manner, as a leading member of the Odessa Palestine Society, founded in 1890,[21] Ahad Ha'am indefatigably preached that the significance of this microscopic colonization was not to be sought in its economic results, but in its spiritual and cultural effects, in establishing upon the historic soil of Judaism a nursing-ground for a pure national culture which should be free from foreign admixture, and from the inevitable cultural eclecticism of the Diaspora. After the spectacular appearance of political Zionism on the Jewish stage this fundamental idea of "Neo-Palestinianism" was more fully elaborated by Ahad Ha'am, assuming the shape of a comprehensive doctrine, known as the doctrine of "Spiritual Zionism." When the first Basle Congress was over, Ahad Ha'am declared that the "Jewish State," as formulated by Herzl, was beyond realization, for the reason that, under the prevailing circumstances, it was entirely impossible to transfer to Palestine the whole Diaspora, or even a substantial part of it. Consequently, the Palestinian colonization could not put an end to the material "Jewish misery," whereas a small Jewish center, gradually rising in Palestine, might, with the help of a proper organization, solve the national-spiritual problem of Judaism. The formation of a spiritual center in the historic homeland of the nation, the creation in that center of a Jewish national school, the revival of the Hebrew language as a medium of daily speech, the untrammelled development of a Jewish culture, without the pressure of a foreign environment--such in short he held to be the true goal of the Palestine idea. A "publicly and legally assured home for the Jewish spirit" of this kind would exert an uninterrupted nationalizing influence upon the Diaspora, serving as a living center of attraction for a genuine Jewish culture, and acting like a focus which scatters its rays over a large periphery. The Zionist doctrine of Ahad Ha'am, as a counterbalance to official Zionism which was hall-marked by the "Basle Program," led to interminable discussions among the partisans of the movement. It did not succeed in creating a separate party or a special public agency for its realization; yet the elements of that doctrine have mingled in a larger or lesser degree with the views of the political Zionists in Russia, and manifested themselves in the protests of the cultural Zionists against the extreme political advocates of the movement at the Zionist Congresses. The Zionist Convention at Minsk, referred to previously, resulted in a partial triumph for the ideas championed by Ahad Ha'am, who submitted a report on the "Spiritual Regeneration of Judaism."[22] The Convention adopted a resolution calling for a larger measure of cultural work in the schedule of the party activities, but rejected at the same time the proposal of the referee to create a Jewish world organization for the revival of Jewish culture, on the ground that such an organization might destroy the political equilibrium of Zionism. 3. SPIRITUAL NATIONALISM, OR NATIONAL-CULTURAL AUTONOMISM Both political and spiritual Zionism have their roots in the same common ground, in "the negation of the _Golus_": in the conviction that outside of Palestine--in the lands of the Diaspora--the Jewish people has no possibility of continuing its existence as a normal national entity. Both political and spiritual Zionists have their eyes equally fixed upon Zion as the anchor of safety for Judaism, whether it be in its material or in its spiritual aspect. Neither doctrine had formulated a clear idea of the future destinies of the Jewish Diaspora, that is, of the destinies of the entire Jewry of the world, minus the section settled in Palestine. The political Zionists evaded the question as to the fate of the Jewish people in case their aspirations should not materialize, and, faithful to the motto proclaimed by Nordau, were ready, as it were, to sentence the entire Diaspora to death, or to a life worse than death, in the eventuality of the Palestine charter being refused. The cultural Zionists protested against this hypothetical Zionism, insisting that the Diaspora would preserve its national vitality by mere contact with a small cultural center in Palestine. But how the tremendous bulk of the Diaspora Jewry should be organized for a Jewish life on the spot, how it should be enabled to liberate itself from the political and cultural pressure of the environment--that question remained unanswered by both wings of Zionism. An answer to this question could not be found by considering merely the last stage of Jewish history, but by viewing the latter in all its phases, beginning with the ancient Greco-Roman and Eastern Diaspora. Such an answer, based upon the entire Jewish past, was attempted by the doctrine of "Spiritual Nationalism," or, more correctly, "National-Cultural Autonomism." Its fundamental principles have been formulated by the present writer in his "Letters Concerning Ancient and Modern Judaism."[23] The theory of Autonomism takes as its point of departure the historic fact that at all times, with the exception of a few brief and partial deflections, the Jewish Diaspora, taken as a whole, represented a national organism, in which the absence of political or territorial unity was made up by the stronger cohesion of its spiritual and cultural ties and the greater intensity of its social and autonomous life. For many centuries the entire culture of Judaism assumed a religious coloring and its communal autonomy was centered in the synagogue--which circumstance gave the modern champions of assimilation reason for thinking that the Jews were only a religious group scattered among various nations. It was a fatal error on the part of the Parisian Synhedrion convoked by Napoleon when, in its declaration of 1807, it proclaimed that "Jewry to-day does not constitute a nation," an error which during the nineteenth century became an article of faith with the Jews of Western Europe. The latest development of the national movement has shown that Jewry, though scattered among various political states, is a nation full of vitality, and that the Jewish religion is only one of its functions. The Jewish national idea, secularized to a certain degree, is based on the assumption that all sections of the Jewish people, though divided in their political allegiance, form one spiritual or historico-cultural nation, which, like all national minority groups in countries with a mixed population, are in duty bound to fight in their several lands at one and the same time not only for their civil equality, but also for their national rights--the autonomy of the Jewish community, school, and language. What Jewish orthodoxy has for centuries stood for and still stands for, under the guise of religious Judaism, progressive Jews should fight for under the banner of a national Jewish culture. The fate of universal Jewry ought not to be bound up with one single center. We should take into account the historic fact of a multiplicity of centers of which those that have the largest numbers and can boast of the most genuine development of a national Jewish life are entitled to the hegemony of the Jewish people. In those lands in which civil emancipation has been achieved the fight must go on for national emancipation, the recognition of the Jews as a nation which is entitled to a comprehensive communal and cultural autonomy. In Russia, the struggle must be carried on simultaneously for civil as well as national rights. Temporary set-backs in this struggle for a national existence ought not to discourage a nation which has endured the most terrible sufferings for centuries and has been able to preserve its spiritual freedom even in the midst of slavery. A certain measure of relief from these sufferings might be found in the old-time remedy of Jewish history, in the emigration from the lands of bondage to countries enjoying a greater amount of freedom. If in one of the centers the Jews are subject to prolonged persecution, then their gradual transplantation, be it partial or complete, to another center offering more favorable opportunities in the struggle for existence ought to be attempted. Thus, during the last decades, the partial exodus of the Jews from Russia has helped to create an important Jewish center in North America and a smaller, yet spiritually valuable center, in Palestine. The latter may become a medium for the nationalization of the entire Diaspora, but only then when the Diaspora itself will be organized _directly_ upon the foundations of a cultural autonomy. Zionism, when reduced to its concrete possibilities, can form only one plank in the universal platform of the Jewish nation. The Palestinian center may strengthen the national development of the Diaspora, but it does not constitute a _conditio sine qua non_ for its autonomous existence. Similar to Spiritual Zionism which had not succeeded in forming a special party, and yet acted as a lever in the general Zionist movement, Autonomism, too, failed to find its embodiment in a party organization, and yet became an integral part of the politico-national movements of Russian Jewry at the beginning of the present century. During the revolutionary struggle in Russia, in 1905 and 1906, the demand for a national-cultural autonomy was embodied in various degrees by nearly all Jewish parties and groups in their platforms, aside from, and in addition to, the demand for civil equality.[24] 4. THE JEWISH SOCIALISTIC MOVEMENT On a parallel line with the nationalistic ideology, which formed a counterbalance to the assimilationist theory of Western Europe, the doctrine of Socialism came gradually to the fore, emphasizing the principle of the class struggle in a more or less intimate connection with the national idea. The Jewish labor movement was born at the end of the eighties in Lithuania--in Vilna, and other cities; its adherents were recruited from among the Jewish workingmen who were mainly engaged in handicrafts. In the nineties, the movement spread to the growing manufacturing centers of Lithuania and Poland--Bialystok, Smorgon, Warsaw, and Lodz. At first, the labor societies were established with a purely economic end in view--the organization of strikes for fewer working hours, increased wages, and the like. The leaders of these societies who were recruited from among the young Jewish _intelligenzia_, some of whom had received a university education abroad, endeavored to model the movement upon the pattern of the West-European Social-Democracy. The doctrine of Marxian Socialism was applied, sometimes rather hastily, to the primitive stage of capitalistic production in the Pale of Settlement where it was still very difficult to draw a line of demarcation between the poverty-stricken "petty bourgeoisie," forming the bulk of the Jewish population, and the labor proletariat. In the second half of the nineties, the Jewish Socialistic societies were drawn into the maelstrom of the Russian revolutionary movement. In 1897, all these societies were consolidated in the "League of the Jewish Workingmen of Lithuania, Poland, and Russia," known under its abbreviated name as _Der Bund_ ("The League"). The first secret convention of the "League" took place in Vilna in the month of September, just one month after the first Zionist Congress at Basle. Various party centers were organized in Russia--clandestinely, of course; the party organ, published in the language of the Jewish masses, in Yiddish, appeared abroad under the name of _Die Arbeiter Stimme_. It is worthy of note that the formation of the Jewish "Bund" gave a year later the stimulus to the organization of the "Russian Social-Democratic Party," which united the formerly existing Russian labor societies. The "Bund" now joined the ranks of Russian Social Democracy as a separate autonomous group, although a number of Jewish Social Democrats who had adopted the viewpoint of assimilation or cosmopolitanism occupied a conspicuous place in the leadership of the Russian party at large. At subsequent conventions the "Bund" endeavored to formulate its national program. At first, the tendency prevailed to limit the national element in the party platform to the use of the popular Jewish vernacular as a propaganda medium among the masses. At the third convention of the "Bund," which took place in Kovno in 1899, the proposal to demand national equality for the Jews was voted down on the ground that the attention of the workingmen should be concentrated upon their class interests and ought not to be diverted in the direction of national aspirations. The fourth convention of the party, held in 1901, similarly declared "that it was premature, under the present circumstances, to put forward the demand for a national autonomy for the Jews," although it realized at the same time that "the concept of nationality is also applicable to the Jewish people." Only after prolonged debates in the party press, and after a violent struggle with the centralizing tendencies of the Russian Social-Democratic Party, the convention of the "Bund," held in 1905, adopted a resolution, demanding "national-cultural autonomy" in the domain of popular education as well as public rights for the language spoken by the Jews. In this wise, the national element gradually permeated even the doctrine of Socialism which, in its essence, had always been opposed to it and had placed in its stead the principle of internationalism and class interests. On the other hand, an attempt was made to inject the Socialistic element into Zionism. Beginning with 1901, the _Poale-Zion_ ("The Zionist Workingmen") began to organize themselves in separate societies which proclaimed the territorial principle of Zionism as the only means of solving the Jewish social-economic question, proceeding from the assumption that in the lands of the Diaspora the Jewish masses would always be barred from the domain of big industry. 5. THE REVIVAL OF JEWISH LETTERS This national revival of Russian Jewry found its expression also in Jewish literature. The periodical press, particularly in the Hebrew language, exhibited new life and vigor, and in other domains of literary productivity various big talents made their appearance. As early as the end of the eighties, the two weekly Hebrew organs, the _ha-Melitz_ in St. Petersburg, and the _ha-Tzefirah_ in Warsaw, were transformed into dailies. The Hebrew annuals pursuing purely literary and scientific aims, such as the _ha-Asif_ ("The Harvest"), _Keneset Israel_ ("The Community of Israel"), _Pardes_ ("The Garden"), and others, made way for the more energetic _ha-Shiloah_, a monthly publication which reacted more rapidly on the questions of the day.[25] This review, which is the equal of the leading periodicals of Europe, exercised considerable influence upon the views of the nationalist Jewish youth during the period of transition from the nineteenth to the twentieth century. At one and the same time, considerable headway was made by the periodical press in the popular vernacular, called Jargon, or Yiddish. The _Jüdisches Volksblatt_, a weekly publication, appeared in St. Petersburg from 1881 to 1890. The _Hausfreund_, the _Jüdische Volksbibliothek_, the _Jüdische Bibliothek_, edited by Spektor, Shalom Aleichem, and I. L. Perez, respectively, were published in Warsaw and Kiev between 1888 and 1895. _Der Jud_, a Yiddish weekly, was issued in Warsaw in 1899-1902. As for the Jewish press in the Russian language, the former mouthpiece of the progressive _intelligenzia_, the _Voskhod_, which appeared at the same time as a weekly and as a monthly publication, leaned more and more towards the national movement. Another Russian-Jewish weekly, _Budushchnost_, "The Future," which appeared in St. Petersburg from 1899 to 1903, was Zionistic in tendency. In the theoretic branch of publicistic literature the dominant figure during that period was Ahad Ha'am, whose articles endeavored to answer not only the exciting questions of the day, but also the perpetual problems of Judaism. His brief semi-philosophic, semi-publicistic essays, under the general heading _Perurim_ ("Titbits"), served as a lode star for those who hoped to find the synthesis of "Jew" and "man" in modern Jewish nationalism. In a series of articles he lashes "slavery in freedom,"[26] or the assimilation of the emancipated Jews of Western Europe; he criticizes the theory of "Nationalism without Zion," and the manifestations of a Jewish Nietzscheanism with its denial of the Jewish ethical doctrine. Not satisfied with mere criticism, he formulates in these articles the principles of a "spiritual revival"[27] in the sense of a nationalization of Jewish culture. The essays of Ahad Ha'am, which were subsequently collected under the title _'Al Parashat Derakim_, "At the Parting of the Ways,"[28] represent a profound and closely reasoned system of thought which is firmly grounded in historico-philosophical premises. In the forefront of publicists of a less theoretic turn of mind stood the talented Nahum Sokolow, the editor of the _ha-Tzefirah_ in Warsaw, who, after some vacillation, joined the ranks of political Zionism. In the border-land between journalism and literary criticism the most conspicuous figures were David Frischman and Micah Joseph Berdychevsky. The former emphasized in his brilliant literary essays the necessity of a "Europeanization" of Judaism, while the latter championed the cause of Nietzcheanism, protesting against the suppression of the "man" in the "Jew," and against the predominance of the spiritual over the material in the doctrine of Judaism. Berdychevsky is also the author of a number of sketches portraying the tragic split in the soul of the Jewish intellectual and the primitive harmoniousness of the old hasidic world. In the realm of Jewish _belles lettres_ S. J. Abramovich, known under his pen-name _Mendele Mokher Sforim_, the writer of the "Era of Reforms," remained as theretofore the acknowledged leader. The creative energy of this author, who mastered with equal skill both the national and the popular language, attained to even greater heights during the period of the new Jewish martyrdom. His novel _Wünschfingerl_, "The Wishing Ring," which was originally written in Yiddish, and, in its Hebrew version, grew into a large volume, _Be-'Emek ha-Bakha_, "In the Valley of Tears," (1897-1907), constitutes a great epic depicting Jewish life during the gloomy reign of Nicholas I. and the "Era of Enlightenment" under Alexander II. A series of sketches, marked by inimitable humor, portray the disintegration of the old mode of life under the influence of the pogroms of 1881 and the subsequent emigration from Russia (_Bime ha-Ra'ash_, "In Stormy Days," and others). His autobiographical series (_Bayyamim Hahem_, "In Those Days") and his incomplete _Shloime Reb Hayyims_ ("Solomon the son of Hayyim") reveal the power of rare psychological analysis. Abramovich's literary activity, extending over half a century,[29] earned for him the title of "Grandfather of Neo-Hebrew Literature" (_Der Zeide_).[30] He was privileged to witness the brilliant successes of his "sons and grandsons" who came gradually to the fore, particularly in Yiddish literature. His younger contemporary, Isaac Leib Perez, wrote, during the first period of his literary endeavors, clever stories, portraying the life of the Jewish masses in Poland and distinguished by a powerful realism, often tinged with satire (his series _Reisebilder_, "Travel Pictures," and other sketches which were written mostly during the nineties). Later on, Perez leaned more and more towards modern literary symbolism, drawing his inspiration mostly from the mystic legends of the Hasidim (his series _Hasidish_, which was subsequently expanded into two volumes under the title _Volkstümliche Geschichten_, "Popular Stories," 1909).[31] Towards the end of the century, the talent of the great Jewish humorist Shalom Aleichem (S. Rabinovitz)[32] attained its full bloom. He was particularly successful in his masterly delineation of the _Luftmensch_ type of the Pale of Settlement, who is constantly on the hunt for a piece of bread, who clutches at every possible profession and subsists on illusions (his sketches _Menahem Mendel_). Using the popular vernacular with its characteristic idioms and witticisms as his vehicle of expression, Shalom Aleichem draws the pictures of the "Little People" of the Russian ghetto (his series _Kleine Menshelekh_), describes the joys and sorrows of their children (_Maassios far Jüdishe Kinder_, "Stories for Jewish Children"), and puts into the mouth of the unsophisticated philosopher of the ghetto, "Tevye (Tobias) the Dairyman," the soul-stirring epic of the great upheavals in this secluded little world (the series of sketches under the name _Tevye Der Milchiger_). To these big stars on the sky of Jewish _belles lettres_ may be added the host of lesser luminaries who write in the rejuvenated ancient language of the nation or in the vernacular of the masses, the Yiddish. The literary revival manifested itself with particular vigor in the domain of poetry. At the beginning of the nineties, the voice of Judah Leib Gordon, the poet of the "Era of Reforms"[33] was silenced (he died in 1892). The singer of the national sorrow, Simon Frug,[34] who was carried away by the new ideas of Zionism, began to sing his "Zionids" in the Russian language, writing at the same time for the masses sonorous poems in Yiddish, though neither of them reveals the poetic charm of his older national elegies. New stars now glisten on the horizon. The middle of the nineties saw the ripening of the mighty talent of Hayyim Nahman Bialik, who brought the poetical forms of ancient Hebrew speech to unprecedented perfection. The magnificence of form is matched by the wealth of content. The greatest creative power of Bialik is displayed in his treatment of national _motifs_. Himself the product of the rabbinical Yeshibah and Bet ha-Midrash, he sings of the spiritual beauty hidden behind these ancient and outwardly unattractive walls, in this antiquated citadel of the Jewish spirit, where the cult of intellectual knighthood reigned supreme, where the spiritual shield was forged which preserved a nation of lambs amidst a horde of wolves (his wonderful poems _Im Yesh Et Nafsheka la-Da'at_,[35] _ha-Matmid_, "the Diligent Student," and others). The sufferings and humiliations heaped upon his people by its enemies bring the poet to the brink of despair, for he realizes that the old shield has been laid aside, and no new shield has taken its place. He is filled with indignation at the indifference of the Jewish masses to the appeal for regeneration sounded by Zionism (_Aken Hatzir ha-'Am_, "Verily, the People are like Grass," and others). At a later stage, beginning with the Kishinev pogrom of 1903, Bialik's lyre becomes more and more pessimistic, adopting the tone of wrathful rebuke and fiery denunciation. In contradistinction to this singer of the national soul, another contemporary poet, Saul Chernikhovsky, sounds the keynote of general human experience and the joy of living. He demonstratively prostrates himself before the statue of Apollo (_Lenokah Pesel Apollo_, "Before the Statue of Apollo"), offering to it the repentant prayer of the Jew for having denied the ideal of beauty. He raves about "Hellenism," the cult of joy and light, repudiating the one-sided spirituality and rigorism of old Judaism. Erotic _motifs_, descriptions of nature, ballads, rustic idylls--such are the characteristic features of Chernokhovsky's poetry which forms, as it were, a general human _pendant_ to the poetry of Bialik, though yielding to it in the depth of literary conception. Both Bialik and Chernikhovsky fructified the field of Jewish poetry, which in the beginning of the twentieth century found a whole host of more or less talented cultivators, most of them writing in the ancient national language, though in a rejuvenated form. Less rapid was the progress of Jewish scholarly endeavors. Yet, beginning with the eighties, even this domain is marked by an uninterrupted activity which forms a continuation of the scientific achievements of the West. The nineties inaugurate systematic efforts directed toward the elucidation of the history of the Jews in Russia and Poland. A series of scholarly researches, monographs, and general accounts of Jewish history, written mostly in Russian, make their appearance. Particularly noteworthy are the efforts to blaze new paths of Jewish historiography converging towards the national conception of Judaism. The Jewish historians of the nineteenth century in Western Europe, who were swayed by assimilationist ideas, viewed Jewish history primarily from the theological or spiritualistic point of view. The scholarly endeavors of Russian Jewry constitute an attempt to understand the social development of the Diaspora as a peculiar, internally-autonomous nation which, at all times, has sought to preserve not only its religious treasures, but also the genuine complexion of its diversified national life. FOOTNOTES: [17] See vol. II, p. 332. [18] After the publication of his _Judenstaat_, Herzl openly confessed that at the time of writing he did not know of the existence of Pinsker's "Autoemancipation." [19] The motto prefixed to Herzl's Zionistic novel _Altneuland_. [20] It was founded in 1889 and disbanded in 1897. [21] [See vol. II, p. 421 _et seq._] [22] [Ahad Ha'am's report is embodied in the second volume of his collected essays (Berlin, 1903) under the title _Tehiyyat ha-Ru'ah_, "The Spiritual Revival." An English version of this article is found in Leon Simon's translation of Ahad Ha'am's essays (Jewish Publication Society of America, Philadelphia, 1912), p. 253 _et seq._] [23] [A number of articles under that title appeared originally in the Russian-Jewish monthly _Voskhod_. They were subsequently enlarged and published in book form in 1907. The first two "Letters" were rendered into German by the translator of this volume and published in 1905 by the _Jüdischer Verlag_ in Berlin, under the title _Die Grundlagen des Nationaljudentums_.] [24] See later, p. 108 _et seq._ [25] The _ha-Shiloah_ was edited from 1896 to 1902 by Ahad Ha'am in Odessa, though it was published in Berlin. Beginning with 1903, it was edited by Dr. Joseph Klausner, also in Odessa. [26] [_'Abdut be-tok Herut_, the title of one of these articles.] [27] [_Tehiyyat ha-Ru'ah_, the title of another article, based upon his report at the Zionist Convention at Minsk. See above, p. 51.] [28] The first three volumes appeared in 1895-1904. [The fourth volume appeared in 1913. A German rendering of Ahad Ha'am's selected essays by the translator of the present volume was published in Berlin in 1904; a second enlarged edition appeared in 1913. An English translation by Leon Simon was issued by the Jewish Publication Society of America in 1912.] [29] [He died, after the completion of the present volume by the author, on December 15, 1917.] [30] [The Yiddish equivalent for "Grandfather."] [31] A collection of his sketches, translated into English by Helena Frank, was issued by the Jewish Publication Society of America in 1906. [32] Died in New York on May 13, 1916. [33] See vol II, p. 228 _et seq._ [34] See vol. II, p. 330, n. 1. [35] "If thou wishe to know the fountain--whence thy martyred brethren drew their inspiration." CHAPTER XXXIII THE KISHINEV MASSACRE 1. POGROMS AS A COUNTER-REVOLUTIONARY MEASURE The frenzy of political reaction, which raged for two decades, was grist to the mill of the Revolution. Stunned by the blow it had received at the beginning of the eighties, the Russian revolutionary movement came back to consciousness at the beginning of the twentieth century, when the hopes for a change of policy on the part of Nicholas II. had been completely blasted. The agitation among the students and the workingmen, the "disorders" at the universities, the strikes at the factories, the revolutionary propaganda carried on in the underground press at home and in the public press abroad--all these endeavors were gradually co-ordinated within the frame of the two revolutionary organizations, the Social-Democratic and the Social-Revolutionary parties, both of which assumed definite shape between 1898 and 1900. The Social-Revolutionary party favored terrorism as a weapon in its struggle with the Russian Government, which had made use of all the appliances of police terrorism to suppress the faintest stirring for liberty. This official terrorism raged with unrestricted violence. Nocturnal raids, arrests, prisons, and places of deportation or of penal servitude, filled to overflowing with "political criminals," mostly young men and women--such were the agencies by means of which the Government hoped to stamp out the "revolutionary hydra," even when manifesting itself in the form of moderate constitutional demands. The revolutionaries fought terrorism with terrorism, and one of their victims was the reactionary Minister of the Interior, Sipyaghin, who was assassinated in April, 1902. The exasperated Tzar retorted by appointing to the same office von Plehve, one of the most experienced henchmen of the Russian political inquisition, who had long before, in his capacity of Chief of the Political Police, brought its mechanism to the top notch of efficiency.[36] He was destined to play an ill-fated rôle in the martyrology of Russian Jewry. It was easily to be foreseen that the Russian revolutionary movement would make a strong appeal to the Russian Jewish youth. Had any other cultured nation been tormented and humiliated as cruelly and as systematically as were the Jews in Russia it would surely have given birth to an immense host of desperate terrorists. True, the Jews supplied the revolutionary army with a larger number of fighters than was warranted by their numerical proportion to the rest of the Russian population. Yet their number was insignificant when compared with the atrocities which were constantly perpetrated against them. As a rule, the Jewish college youth joined the ranks of the Social-Democratic organization, which disapproved of political assassination. There were particularly numerous Marxists among the Jewish young men and women who had been turned away from the Russian institutions of learning and had gone to Western Europe where they imbibed the doctrines and methods of German Social Democracy. There were fewer Jews among the Social Revolutionaries (Gershuni, Gotz, and others), and these, too, did not as a rule take a direct part in the terroristic plots. As a matter of fact, the only terrorist act committed by a Jew was that of the workingman Hirsh Lekkert, in Vilna. Stung by the barbarous conduct of the governor of Vilna, von Wahl, who had given orders to flog the Jewish workingmen in public for having arranged a demonstration on May 1, 1902, Lekkert fired upon that official. The governor escaped unscathed, and Lekkert paid with his life for the attempt. But on the whole, the revolutionary activity of the Jews was limited to the frequent political demonstrations arranged by the "Bund," and to the organizing endeavors of a certain section of the Jewish intellectuals who had joined the ranks of both Russian Socialistic parties. Had the Russian Government been guided by a genuine interest in the body politic, the spread of the revolutionary movement among the Jews, which was the child of its own system of oppression, would have inevitably induced it to mitigate a system which was bound to turn millions of people into desperadoes. But the Russian Government was, properly speaking, not a Government. It was a caste of officials who had degraded the administration of the country to the systematic endeavor of saving their own personal careers and class interests, both of which were indissolubly bound up with unlimited autocracy. The Russian bureaucracy regarded the revolution as a personal threat, as a menace to its existence, and looked upon the Jewish participants in the revolution as their own individual enemies whose deeds were to be avenged upon the whole Jewish people. Thus there ripened in the mind of Plehve, the head of the bureaucratic inquisition, a truly devilish plan: to wage war against the Russian revolution by waging war against the Jews, and to divert the attention of the Russian public, which was honeycombed with the revolutionary propaganda, in the direction of the "aliens," thereby stigmatizing the entire emancipatory movement in Russia as "the work of Jewish hands," as an anti-patriotic cause which was foreign to the Russian people. It was part of this plan to engineer somewhere a barbarous anti-Jewish pogrom in order to intimidate the Jewish revolutionaries and to put it forward as a protest of the "Russian people" against the "Jewish revolution." "Drown the revolution in Jewish blood!"--this motto underlay the terrible scheme which, beginning with 1903, was put into execution by the underlings of Nicholas II. at the most crucial moments in the Russian revolutionary movement. 2. THE ORGANIZED KISHINEV BUTCHERY Needless to say, there was plenty of inflammable material for such an anti-Jewish conflagration. One of the criminal haunts of these incendiaries was situated at that time in Kishinev, the capital of semi-Moldavian Bessarabia. Until the end of the nineteenth century, the fifty thousand Jews of that city had lived in peace and harmony with their Christian neighbors who numbered some sixty thousand. At the beginning of the new century, these friendly relations were severed, owing to the untrammelled anti-Semitic agitation of a local yellow journalist, a petty official by the name of Krushevan. This official had been publishing in Kishinev since 1897 a local sheet under the name of _Bessarabetz_ ("The Bessarabian"). Having originally embarked upon a moderately progressive policy, the paper soon sold itself to the local anti-Semitic reactionaries from among the nobility and bureaucracy, and was thenceforth subvention-ed by the Government. For a number of years Krushevan's paper carried on an unbridled agitation against the Jews. The Jews were accused of every possible crime, of economic "exploitation," of Socialism, of "hatred towards the Christians," of ritual murders, and of fathering the "Godless revolution." Favored by the powers that be, the _Bessarabetz_ could do what it pleased. The censorship of the paper lay in the hands of the deputy-governor of Kishinev, Ustrugov, who during his administrative activity had proved himself a past master in the art of persecuting the Jews and curtailing the crumbs of rights that were still left to them. Under the auspices of such a censor, who was in reality a contributor to the paper, the latter was sure of immunity even when it proceeded to print appeals calling on the Christian population to make pogroms upon the Jews. This agitation was particularly dangerous in view of the fact that the _Bessarabetz_ was the only press organ in the province, the Government consistently refusing to license the publication of any other newspaper. As a matter of fact, Krushevan's activity in Bessarabia was so well thought of by Plehve that in 1902 the mercenary journalist received considerable sums from a special slush fund for the publication of a newspaper in St. Petersburg, under the name _Znamya_ ("The Banner"), with a similarly reactionary anti-Semitic tendency. However, in the capital, the filthy sheet was unable to find readers. But as far as the _Bessarabetz_ was concerned, its influence was clearly felt. Russian public opinion was affected by the poisonous doses administered to it daily. The sinister instincts of the mob became inflamed more and more, and there was the foreboding of a storm in the air. In the beginning of 1903, Krushevan found an occasion to give a definite turn to his accustomed pogrom propaganda. In the town of Dubossary the mutilated body of a Russian peasant boy, Rybalenko, had been found, who, as was subsequently brought out by the judicial inquiry, had been slain by his uncle in the hope of appropriating his portion of a bequest. The _Bessarabetz_ immediately launched a campaign against the Jews, accusing them of ritual murder. "Death to the Jews! Let all Zhyds be massacred!"--such appeals were almost daily repeated in the paper which was read in all the saloons and public-houses of Bessarabia. The unenlightened Russian mob itched for an occasion to lay its hands upon the Jews. An attempt at a pogrom was made at Dubossary, but it was frustrated by the local Jews who were of a sturdy physique. On the eve of the Easter festival of 1903, mysterious rumors were set afloat in Kishinev itself telling of the murder of a Christian servant girl, whose death was ascribed to the Jews. In reality the girl had taken poison and died, despite the efforts of her Jewish master to save her life. The goings-on in Kishinev on the eve of that Easter bore the earmarks of an energetic activity on the part of some secret organization which was hatching an elaborate fiendish scheme. That criminal organization was centered in the local Russian club which was the rallying-point of the officials of the province. Shortly before the holiday, there suddenly appeared in the city an emissary of the political police, the gendarmerie officer Levendahl, who had been despatched from St. Petersburg; after Easter, when the sanguinary crime had already been committed, the same mysterious envoy vanished just as suddenly. The triumvirate Krushevan-Ustrugov-Levendahl was evidently the soul of the terrible anti-Semitic conspiracy. Printed hand-bills were scattered about in the city, telling the people that an imperial ukase had been published, granting permission to inflict a "bloody punishment" upon the Jews in the course of the three days of the Christian Passover. The police made no attempt to suppress these circulars, for, as was subsequently brought out, they were in the conspiracy. Several police officials even hinted at the impending events in their talks with Jewish acquaintances. In the saloons and in the tea-houses, the approaching pogrom was the subject of public discussion. The Jews were fully aware of the coming storm, though they scarcely realized that it would take the form not merely of an ordinary pogrom, but of a regular butchery. On the eve of the festival of Passover, the representatives of the Jewish community waited upon the governor and the Chief of Police, praying for protection, and received the cool reply that the necessary instructions had already been given and that the proper measures for their safety had been adopted. The local Greek-Orthodox bishop asked the rabbi, who came to see him on the subject, whether it was true that there was a Jewish sect which used Christian blood for ritual purposes. The conflagration which was openly prepared by the incendiaries broke out at the moment determined upon. On Sunday, April 6, the first day of the Christian Passover and the seventh day of the Jewish holiday, the church bells began to ring at noontime, and a large crowd of Russian burghers and artisans, acting undoubtedly upon a given signal, scattered all over the town, and fell upon the Jewish houses and stores. The bands were preceded by street urchins who were throwing stones at the windows. The rioters, whose number was swelled by these youthful "fighters," seeing that the police made no attempt to interfere, began to break into the houses and stores, and to throw the contents on the street where everything was destroyed or plundered by the festive crowd. But even then the police and soldier detachments who were stationed on the streets remained passive, and made no attempt to arrest the rioters. This attitude served in the eyes of the mob as a final proof that the rumors concerning the permission of the Tzar "to beat the Jews" were correct. An immense riff-raff, in a state of intoxication, crowded the streets, shouting "Death to the Zhyds! Beat the Zhyds!" In the evening looting gave way to killing. The murderers, armed with clubs and knives, assailed the Jews in the cars, on the streets, and in the houses, wounding them severely, sometimes even fatally. Even then, the police and military remained inactive; only when in one place a group of Jews, armed with sticks, attempted to drive off the murderers, the police stepped in at once and disarmed the defenders. At ten o'clock in the evening the looting and killing were suddenly stopped. Rumor had it that the general staff of the rioters were holding a meeting concerning the further plan of military operations, and were making arrangements for a systematic butchery. The "army" soon received the necessary orders, and in the course of the entire day of April 7, from daybreak until eight o'clock in the evening, Kishinev was the scene of bestialities such as find few parallels even in the history of the most barbarous ages. Finding themselves defenceless and exposed to the passions of a savage crowd, many Jewish families hid themselves in their cellars, or in their garrets, and sometimes sought safety in the houses of their Christian neighbors, but the murderers succeeded in hunting down their unfortunate victims. The Jews were slain in most barbarous fashion. Many of them were not killed at once, but were left writhing in pre-mortal agonies. Some had nails driven into their heads or had their eyes put out. Little children were thrown from garrets to the pavement, and their brains dashed out upon the stones. Women had their stomachs ripped open or their breasts cut off. Many of them became the victims of rape. One gymnazium pupil who saw his mother attacked by these fiends threw himself single-handed upon them, and saved at the cost of his life his mother's honor; he himself was slain, and his mother's eyes were put out. The drunken hordes broke into the synagogue, and, getting hold of the Torah scrolls, tore them to shreds, defiled them, and trampled upon them. In one synagogue, the old _Shammes_ (beadle), arrayed in his prayer-shawl, and shielding with his body the Ark containing the sacred scrolls, was savagely murdered by the desecrators on the threshold of the sanctuary. Throughout the entire day, wagons were seen moving in the streets, carrying wounded and slain Jews to the hospitals which had been converted into field-lazarettes. But even this sight did not induce the police to step in. The Russian population, outside of a few isolated cases, made no attempt to defend the tormented Jews. The so-called "intelligent" public, the officials with their wives and children, the students, the lawyers, the physicians, walked leisurely upon the streets and looked on indifferently, and sometimes even sympathetically, while the terrible "work" was going on. The governor of Bessarabia, von Raaben, who, on the morning of the second day of the pogrom, was waited upon by a Jewish deputation begging for protection, replied that he could do nothing since he had received no instructions from St. Petersburg. At last at five o'clock in the afternoon, a telegram was received from Plehve, and at six o'clock large detachments of troops, fully armed, appeared on the central streets. No sooner had the crowd noticed that the soldiers were ready to act than it took to its heels, without a single shot being fired. Only in the outskirts of the town, which had not yet been reached by the troops, the plunder and massacre continued until late in the evening. It is needless to point out that had this readiness of the police and military to attend to their duty been displayed in Kishinev at the inception of the pogrom, not a single Jew would have been murdered nor a single house destroyed. As it was, the murderers and rioters were given a free hand for two days, and the result was that forty-five Jews were slain, eighty-six severely wounded or crippled, five hundred slightly wounded, apart from cases of rape, the number of which could not be determined. Fifteen hundred houses and stores were demolished and looted. The victims were mostly among the lower classes of the Jewish population, since many well-to-do Jewish families were able, by bribing the police heavily, to secure the protection of the latter and to have the rioters turned away from their houses. As against the enormous number of Jewish victims, there were only two fatalities among the intoxicated rioters. The Kishinev Jews seemed unable to resist the murderers and sell their lives dearly. 3. ECHOES OF THE KISHINEV TRAGEDY A cry of horror rang throughout Russia and the more or less civilized countries of the world when the news of the Kishinev butchery became known. The entire liberal Russian press voiced its indignation against the Kishinev atrocities. The most prominent Russian writers expressed their sympathy with the victims in letters and telegrams. Leo Tolstoi voiced his sentiments in a letter which could not be published on account of the censorship.[37] The humanitarian writer Korolenko portrayed the horrors of Kishinev in a heart-rending story under the title "House No. 13," in which, on the basis of personal observation, he pictured how the Jewish residents of one house were tortured to death by the rioters. The story was circulated in an illegal edition, its publication having been strictly forbidden by the censor. But in Russia itself, the cry was stifled by the heavy hand of Plehve's censorship, and wherever a fraction of the terrible truth managed to slip through the barriers of the censor, Plehve sent out warnings to the papers threatening to discontinue their publication for the "pursuit of an injurious policy." Such a fate actually overtook the Russian-Jewish _Voskhod_, in St. Petersburg, the legal journal _Pravo_ ("The Law"), and others. The entire Russian press was forced by the Government to publish the falsified version embodied in its official reports, in which the organized massacre was toned down to a casual brawl, and the inactivity of the troops was explained either by the inadequacy of their numbers--despite the fact that several battalions were stationed in the city--or by the incapacity of the police, while the dead and wounded were referred to in a vague manner so as to suggest that the victims of the "brawl" were to be found on both sides. But the revelations in the foreign press were of a nature to stagger all Europe and America. The correspondent of the London _Times_ published the text of a secret letter addressed by Plehve to the governor of Bessarabia, in which, two weeks before the pogrom, the latter official was told that, in the case of anti-Jewish "disorders," "no recourse shall be taken to armed interference with the urban population, so as not to arouse hostility to the Government in a population which has not yet been affected by the revolutionary propaganda." The authenticity of this letter is not entirely beyond suspicion. But there can be no doubt that instructions to that effect, rather by word of mouth than in writing, probably through the secret agent Levendahl, had been actually transmitted to the authorities in Kishinev. From the fact that on the second day of the pogrom the governor was still waiting for instructions from St. Petersburg permitting him to discontinue the massacre it is evident that he must have received previous orders to allow it to proceed up to a certain point. The horrors of the Armenian massacres in Turkey, against which even Russian diplomacy had protested more than once, faded into insignificance before the wholesale butchery at Kishinev. Europe and America were deeply agitated. The Jews outside of Russia collected large funds for their unhappy Russian brethren, but their efforts exhausted themselves in sympathy and philanthropy. The effect of the catastrophe upon Russian Jewry was more lasting. A mixed feeling of wrath and shame seized the Jewish public--wrath against the organizers and abetters of the terrible crime, and shame for the tortured and degraded brethren who, not having a chance to save their lives, had failed to save their honor by offering stout resistance to these beasts in human shape, who were sure of immunity. The poet Frug poured forth his sentiments in a Yiddish poem, voicing his sorrow at the physical helplessness of his nation and confining himself to an appeal to the kind Jewish heart: Too keen and grievous is our pain, too weak our hand the blow to parry. Come on, then, tender Jewish heart, and love and comfort to us carry! Brothers, sisters, pray, have pity; dire and dreadful is our need: Shrouds we want the dead to bury, and bread that the living we may feed.[38] A little later, the young poet Bialik gave powerful utterance to his feeling of wrath and shame in his "Burden of Nemirov."[39] He makes God address these words to the martyred nation: Your dead have died in vain, and neither you nor I Can say for what they gave their lives, and why.... No tears shall flow for you!--the Lord swears by His Name-- For though the pain be great, great also is the shame, And which of them the greater, thou, son of man, decide.... In picturing the memorial services held in honor of the Kishinev victims at the synagogues, he angrily exclaims in the name of God: Lift thine eyes and look how steeped they are in grief. You hear them cry and sob and mournful prayers read. You see them beat their breasts and for forgiveness plead.... What are they praying for?... Tell them to protest! To shake their fists at Me and justice to demand! Justice for all they've suffered throughout the generations, So that My Heaven and Throne shall quake to their foundations! Neither the pogroms at the beginning of the eighties, nor the Moscow atrocities at the beginning of the nineties can compare, in their soul-stirring effect upon Russian Jewry, with the massacre of Kishinev. It awakened the burning feeling of martyrdom, but with it also the feeling of heroism. All were seized by one and the same impulse--the organization of self-defence, as if to say: "Since the Government fails to defend our life and honor, then we ourselves are bound to defend it." The pogrom panic which spread over the entire South following upon the terrible days of April 6-7 led to the organization of self-defence societies in a number of cities. Plehve knew of these preparations, and found himself in a difficult position. He realized that these endeavors might interfere with the engineering of the pogroms, since the latter would no longer be safe for the murderers and plunderers, and he was, moreover, full of apprehension that these self-defence societies might become hotbeds of a revolutionary propaganda and provide a training ground for political demonstrations. These apprehensions were voiced in a circular issued at the end of April, in which the Minister instructed the governors, first, that "no self-defence societies should be tolerated," and, second, that the authorities should adopt measures for the "prevention of violence" and the "suppression of lawlessness." Subsequent events showed that the latter order was never put into effect. The first instruction, however, was carried out with relentless cruelty, and, during the following pogroms, the troops made it their first business to shoot down the members of the self-defence. Such being the frame of mind of Russian Jewry, the ukase of May 10, 1903, opening up to the Jews for "free domicile" one hundred and one localities in various governments of the Pale of Settlement, which had hitherto been barred to them under the "Temporary Rules" of 1882, was received with complete indifference. As a matter of fact, many of the rural settlements, included in that ukase, were in reality towns which had been converted into "villages," at the instigation of spiteful officials, for the sole purpose of rendering them inaccessible to the Jews. The stolen property was now returned with a slight surplus. The Danaid gift, which seemed to be offered to the Jews as a compensation for the Kishinev horrors, could not but fill them with disgust. Parenthetically it may be remarked that the Government itself nullified the moral effect of its "act of grace" by issuing on the same day a new repressive law prohibiting the privileged Jews who were entitled to the right of domicile outside the Pale of Settlement from acquiring real property in the villages and hamlets. The knot of rightlessness was loosened by a hair's breadth in one place, and tightened in another. Grief and shame over "the Kishinev days" armed the hand of Pincus Dashevski, a high-minded Jewish youth, against the most culpable instigator of the massacre--Krushevan. Dashevski, the son of a military surgeon, travelled from Kiev, where he was a student at the Polytechnicum, to St. Petersburg to inflict punishment on the miserable hireling of Judæophobia, who had caused the Kishinev conflagration by his criminal newspaper agitation. On June 4, 1903, he assailed Krushevan in the heart of the capital, on the so-called Nevski Prospect, wounding him in the neck with a knife. The wound proved of no consequence, and the "victim" was able to go home, without accepting the first aid proffered to him in a Jewish drug store nearby. Dashevski was arrested and brought to trial. At the preliminary examination he frankly confessed that he had intended to avenge the Kishinev massacre by killing Krushevan. Krushevan, now more ferocious than ever, demanded in his newspaper _Znamya_ that the Jewish avenger be court-martialled and executed, and his demand was echoed by the entire anti-Semitic press. The case was tried in a district court behind closed doors, the Government of Plehve evidently fearing the appearance of the sanguinary ghost of Kishinev in the court-room. Krushevan was represented by the anti-Semitic lawyer Shmakov, who subsequently figured in the Beilis trial. The counsel for Dashevski (the lawyer Gruzenberg and others) pleaded that his client's act had been inspired by the intention not to kill, but merely to voice his protest against the unbridled criminal activity of Krushevan. Dashevski received the severe sentence of penal military service for five years (August 26). An appeal was taken to the Senate, but the judgment of the lower court was sustained. The youth who, in a fit of righteous indignation, had given vent to the outraged feelings of his martyred nation, was put in chains and sent into the midst of murderers and thieves, while the venal instigator, whose hands were stained with the blood of numerous victims, escaped unscathed, and assisted by public funds, continued his criminal activity of fanning the hatred of the populace against the Jews. 4. DOCTOR HERZL'S VISIT TO RUSSIA The alert bureaucratic mind of Plehve was quick to make its deductions from the Dashevski case. He realized that the Kishinev massacre would inflame the national Jewish sentiment and divert the national or Zionist cause into the channel of the revolutionary movement. Accordingly, on June 24, 1903, Plehve issued a circular to the governors, which was marked "strictly confidential," and sent out through the Police Department, ordering the adoption of energetic measures against "the propaganda of the ideas of Zionism," which had departed from its original aim--the transfer of Jews to Palestine--and "had directed its activity towards strengthening the Jewish national idea," preaching "the organization of the Jews in secluded societies in the places of their present domicile." Acting upon these orders, the police began to persecute the Zionists in a number of cities, prohibiting the sale of Jewish Colonial Trust shares, collections for the Jewish National Fund, and meetings and conferences of the Zionist societies. Shortly thereafter, on July 25, the leader of the Zionists, Dr. Herzl, arrived in St. Petersburg to induce the Russian authorities to discontinue these persecutions. Apart from this immediate object, Herzl had another more important mission in mind. He hoped to obtain a promise from the Russian Government to exert a diplomatic pressure upon Turkey in favor of permitting the settlement of Jews in Palestine on a large scale. During his four interviews with Plehve, the Zionist leader succeeded in convincing the minister that "it was in keeping with the interests of the Russian Government to assist the Zionist movement." Plehve replied--and subsequently confirmed his reply in writing--that the Russian Government was willing to help Zionism so long as its political activity would be directed towards the attainment of its aims outside of Russia, towards the creation of a Jewish center in Palestine and the emigration of the Jews from Russia, but that as soon as the movement would be turned inwards, that is, towards the propaganda of the Jewish national idea and the organization of Jewry in Russia itself, it would not be tolerated, being subversive of the Russian national policies. Herzl assured Plehve that political Zionism _sans phrase_ had no other aim in view, except the creation of a center outside of the Diaspora. Both Plehve and Herzl seemed to be satisfied with the results of their conversation. Herzl saw also the Minister of Finance, Witte, and the Minister of Foreign Affairs, Lamsdorff, and left St. Petersburg in a hopeful mood. On his way to St. Petersburg, particularly during his stay in Vilna, Herzl was the object of stormy ovations by the Zionists. At the same time, he was severely criticized by the representatives of other Jewish political groups who thought that he had lowered the national dignity of the Jewish people by conducting negotiations for the salvation of Jewry with the man on whose forehead was stamped the Cain's mark of Kishinev. It seems that the severe crisis which had set in for political Zionism, when the hope for obtaining a charter from the Sultan had receded into a distance, had impelled Herzl to catch at a straw, at negotiations with the Russian Government. He was evidently of the opinion that the Russian Pharaohs who had countenanced the methods of reducing the Jewish population in Russia, such as had been practised at Kishinev, might be willing to achieve the same object by rendering its diplomatic assistance to the Zionist plans. A pledge in this direction was actually given to Herzl. But Herzl overestimated the importance of the promises made to him by potentates who merely looked upon him as a noble-minded dreamer. Two weeks after Herzl's visit to St. Petersburg, the acuteness of the Zionist crisis manifested itself at the sixth Congress at Basle (August 11-16, 1903). On that occasion Herzl announced his new project, the colonization of Uganda, in British East Africa, by virtue of a charter which had been offered to him by the British Government. He pointed out that this project had a definite aim in view--the amelioration of the terrible condition of Russian Jewry, for which purpose Zion at that particular moment was not available. Herzl's pronouncement rent the Congress in twain: one section seized enthusiastically upon the Uganda project, which held out the promise of at least a temporary shelter in Africa, a _Nachtasyl_, for a part of the agonized nation. The other section protested violently against this attempt to create a "Zionism without Zion," against the abandonment of Palestine and the higher aspirations of the movement. After many stormy and soul-stirring scenes, the majority of the Congress adopted a resolution to send an expedition to Uganda to investigate the proffered country from the point of view of its fitness for Jewish colonization. Thereupon, all the opponents of the Uganda project, the so-called _Neinsager_ (the "Nay-sayers"), mostly Russian Zionists, left the Congress hall in a body. The movement was now rent by a severe conflict, the result of the struggle between the two principles which had long been intermingled in the theoretic foundations of Zionism: Palestinianism and Territorialism. This internal conflict culminated in an open split between these two principles. Out of the Zionist movement was born the Territorialist Organization, which proclaimed as its object the creation of a Jewish autonomous center on any available point of the globe. For the blood of Kishinev cried out for an exodus from the new Egypt. The emigration to the United States, where the prisoners of Tzardom had in the course of twenty years, beginning with 1881, succeeded in forming a big Jewish center, had passed the million mark, and was expected to assume larger and larger dimensions. The Jewish public press insisted on the necessity "of regulating the emigration to America not only as a social-economic, but also as a national factor." It was pointed out that a considerable portion of the historic national center in Russia and Poland was, under the pressure of external events, in the process of removing to North America, and that practical Jewish politics had the direct duty of organizing this great rising center of Jewry. FOOTNOTES: [36] See vol. II, p. 381. [37] The following extract may show that the great writer had a profound insight into the causes of the Kishinev barbarities: "My opinion concerning the Kishinev crime is the result also of my religious convictions. Upon the receipt of the first news which was published in the papers, not yet knowing all the appalling details which were communicated subsequently, I fully realized the horror of what had taken place, and experienced simultaneously a burning feeling of pity for the innocent victims of the cruelty of the populace, amazement at the bestiality of all these so-called Christians, revulsion at all these so-called cultured people who instigated the mob and sympathized with its actions. But I felt a particular horror for the principal culprit, our Government with its clergy which fosters in the people bestial sentiments and fanaticism, with its horde of murderous officials. The crime committed at Kishinev is nothing but a direct consequence of that propaganda of falsehood and violence which is conducted by the Russian Government with such energy. The attitude adopted by the Russian Government in relation to this question may only serve as a new proof of the class egotism of this Government, which stops at no cruelty whenever it finds it necessary to check movements that are deemed dangerous by it. Like the Turkish Government at the time of the Armenian massacres, it remains entirely indifferent to the most horrible acts of cruelty, as long as these acts do not affect its interests." [38] _Schlaff is unser Hand zu streiten, stark un schwer is unser Schmerz, Kum-zhe du mit Treist un Liebe, gutes heisses jüdisch Herz! Brüder, Schwester, hot rachmones: groiss un schrecklich is di Noit, Giebt di Toite oif Tachrichim, giebt di Lebedige Broit!_ [39] _Massa Nemirov._ This heading was chosen to appease the censor. As the name Kishinev could not be mentioned, Nemirov was chosen, being the name of the town which yielded the largest number of victims during the Cossack massacres of 1648. [See vol. I, p. 146, _et seq._--In a later edition the poem was renamed _Be-'Ir ha-Haregah_, "In the city of Slaughter."] CHAPTER XXXIV CONTINUED POGROMS AND THE RUSSO-JAPANESE WAR 1. THE POGROM AT HOMEL AND THE JEWISH SELF-DEFENCE No sooner had the Zionist Congress, at which the heated discussions concerning the salvation of Judaism were intermingled with sobs bemoaning the martyrs of Kishinev, concluded its sessions than a new catastrophe broke out in the dominions of the Tzar--the pogrom at Homel, in the Government of Moghilev. In this lively White-Russian town, in which the twenty thousand Jews formed fully one-half of the population, public Jewish life was marked by great vigor. There existed in the city important societies of Zionists and Socialists. Both of these parties had organized several self-defence contingents, and it was to be expected that the disgrace of Kishinev would not be repeated at Homel, and that, in the case of an attack, the Jews would give a good account of themselves. On August 29, 1903, a fight broke out on the market-place between a crowd of Jews and Christians. The cause of the quarrel was a trivial incident, one peasant trying to carry off from a Jewish store a barrel of herrings at a lower price than the one demanded by the storekeeper. The rowdyish purchaser was pushed out of the store, but the peasants on the market-place took sides with him, and in the ensuing fight between them and the Jew, one peasant was accidently killed. The peasants were scared and took to their heels, while the police began to make arrests among the Jews. The Jews might have been satisfied with the fact that their energetic attitude had succeeded in preventing a pogrom, did they not anticipate the revenge which was sure to be wreaked upon them. Two days passed in a state of tense agitation. On the third day, on September 1, a crowd of Russian workingmen, numbering about two hundred, issued forth from the railroad shops, and began to demolish Jewish residences and houses of worship. The rioters were joined by a mob of stone-cutters, day-laborers, and ragamuffins. Here and there the crowd was incited by a few "intellectuals": a merchant, a student, and a teacher. On the Konnaya Square, the mob was checked by a large detachment of the Jewish self-defence, consisting of several hundred men. The rioters were on the point of giving way before the gallant attack of the self-defence; but at that moment the troops appeared on the scene, and fired a volley in the direction of the Jews, resulting in three killed and several wounded. The assistance rendered by the troops filled the rioters with fresh courage, and they continued their work of destruction with renewed vigor. All over the town a chain of soldiers shielded the attacking hordes against the Jewish self-defence contingents which tried in vain to break through the chain. The defenders were driven off with rifle butts and bayonets, while the rioters were allowed to destroy and murder without let or hindrance. In the evening, the pogrom was stopped; the results were twelve killed or dangerously wounded Jews, eight killed or dangerously wounded Christians, a large number of maltreated and slightly wounded Jews and over two hundred and fifty devastated Jewish residences and stores. Among those arrested by the police was a considerably larger number of self-defending Jews than of attacking Christians. Two days later, the governor of Moghilev came to Homel, and, having summoned the Jews to the Town Council, treated them to the following harangue: I am sorry for the unhappy victims, but how could such bitterness have arisen? Religious toleration in Russia is complete. The causes of the latest events lie deeper. The Jews have now become the leaders and instigators in all movements directed against the Government. This entire "Bund" and the Social-Democrats--they are all Jews. You are yourselves to blame for all that has happened. You do not educate your children properly. You have no influence over them. But at least you can surrender them, pointing them out to the Government, whereas you conceal them. You propagate disobedience and opposition to the Government among an uncivilized population. But the Russian populace does not care for it and turns against you. It would seem as if Plehve himself had spoken through the mouth of the governor. The Russian functionary expressed with naïve and clumsy frankness the hidden thought of the Chief of the Political Inquisition--the idea of punishing the fathers for the revolutionary leanings of their children, who were to be surrendered to the police, and of discrediting the entire Russian liberty movement as a "Jewish cause." In a Government communication which appeared after the pogrom the events at Homel were reported in such a way as to suggest that they were brought about by an attack of the Jews upon Christian residents and upon the troops, in consequence of which the latter had been forced to fire in "self-defence." The final deduction was formulated thus: "The cause of the disorders lies in the extremely hostile and defiant attitude of the local Jews toward the Christians." Thus were the actual facts distorted in an official document, and the tortured were put forward as the torturers. The Homel pogrom did not attain to the dimensions of the Kishinev massacre, nor was it as painful to the moral consciousness of the Jews. For in Homel the Jews did not allow themselves to be beaten and slaughtered like sheep, but put up a valiant defence. Had the troops not turned against the self-defence, the pogrom would not have taken place, and the cowardly rabble would have taken to flight before the gallant defenders of their national honor. Already in the spring, Plehve had foreseen that the Jews would attempt to organize a self-defence of their own, and he had in his previously mentioned circular declared in advance that this most fundamental right of human beings to defend their lives was "inadmissible." Accordingly, several Jewish heroes paid with their lives for having violated this ministerial circular. Their death was the foreboding of a new Jewish martyrdom. All this had the natural effect of enormously intensifying the revolutionary sentiments of the Jewish youth and of inspiring them with hatred towards a régime which permitted some of its citizens to commit murder and prohibited others to defend their lives. 2. THE KISHINEV MASSACRE AT THE BAR OF RUSSIAN JUSTICE In the fall of 1903 the judicial investigation in connection with the spring pogrom in Kishinev was nearing its end. The investigation was conducted with a view to obliterating the traces of the deliberate organization of the pogrom. The representatives of Government authority and of the better classes whose complicity in the Kishinev massacre had been clearly established were carefully eliminated from the trial, and only the hired assassins and plunderers from among the lower classes, numbering about four hundred men, were brought to justice. Prompted by fear lest the terrible truth might leak out in the court, the Ministry of Justice ordered the case to be tried behind closed doors. By this act, the blood-stained Russian Government refused in advance to rehabilitate itself before the civilized world, which looked upon it as the instigator of the catastrophe. In the court proceedings, the echo of which penetrated beyond the walls of the closed court-room, the counsel for the defence from among the best representatives of the Russian bar (Karabchevski, Sokolov, and others, who were Christians, and the Jews Gruzenberg, Kalmanovich, and others) succeeded in proving that the prisoners at the bar were only blind tools in the commission of the crime, whereas the organizers of the butchery and the ringleaders of the mob were escaping justice.[40] They demanded that the case be probed to the bottom. The court refused their demand, whereupon the lawyers, having stated their reasons, withdrew from the court-room one after the other.[41] The only advocates left were the anti-Semite Shmakov and other whole-hearted defenders of the Kishinev massacre, who regarded the latter as a manifestation of the honor and conscience of the Russian people. In the end, the court sentenced a score of murderers and rioters of the first group to hard labor or penal service, dismissing at the same time the civil actions for damages presented by the Jews. Six months later the Kishinev case came up before the Senate, the Jews appearing as complainants against Governor von Raaben (who had been dismissed after the pogrom), Deputy-Governor Ustrugov, and the Kishinev Chief of Police, upon whom they fastened the responsibility. The bureaucratic defendants cynically declared "that the losses suffered by the Jews have been covered many times over by contributions from Russia, Western Europe, and America." All the eloquence of the well-known lawyer Vinaver and of his associates failed to convince the judges of the Senate, and the petition for damages was dismissed. The Government did not wish to create a precedent for compensating pogrom victims out of public funds, for "this might place the representatives of the administration in an impossible position," as was stated with naïve frankness by von Raaben, since it might become necessary to increase the imperial budget by several million rubles a year. In the midst of these ghastly proceedings Plehve conceived the plan of "regulating the legislation concerning the Jews." In August, 1903, he sent out a circular to the governors, calling upon them, in view of the extraordinarily complex and tangled condition of the Russian laws affecting the Jews, to point out ways and means "of bringing these legal enactments into proper order and into as harmonious a system as possible." In reply to this circular, the governor of Vilna, Pahlen, submitted an extensive memorial, in which he pointed out that all the restrictive laws within the boundaries of the Pale of Settlement ought to be repealed on account of their pernicious political influence, since they were driving the Jews into the ranks of the paupers or revolutionaries. At the same time he suggested to retain the repressive measures "against the manifestation of the injurious characteristics of Judaism on the part of certain individuals" and also to exclude the Jewish youth from the Christian schools and establish for them special elementary and intermediate schools under the supervision of Christian teachers. A few other governors, among them the new governor of Bessarabia, Urussov, also expressed themselves in favor of mitigating the repressive policy against the Jews. In January, 1904, a committee of governors and of several high officials representing the Ministry of the Interior met to consider the Jewish question. From the very beginning the conferees were given to understand that in "the highest spheres" every thought of the slightest mitigation of the condition of Jewry was taboo. The only liberal member of the committee, Governor Urussov, subsequently stated that after the Kishinev pogrom and the agitation raised by it "one could feel quite tangibly the unfriendly attitude of the highest spheres toward the Jews"--in other words, that the hatred toward the Jews was shared personally by the Tzar and by his _camarilla_. The committee therefore applied itself to the task, not of reforming Jewish legislation, but rather of systematizing the anti-Jewish code of laws. Its labors were interrupted by the outbreak of the Russo-Japanese War, on January 27, 1904. 3. THE JEWS IN THE RUSSO-JAPANESE WAR On the day following the declaration of war, the organ of Russian Jewry, the _Voskhod_, wrote as follows: This is not the time to irritate the old wounds. Let us endeavor, as far as it is in our power, to forget also the recent expulsion from Port Arthur,[42] the pogroms of Kishinev and Homel, and many, many other things.... Let the Jewish parents not think of the bitter fate of their children who had been thrown overboard [by being barred from the educational establishments]. The Jews will go forth into battle as plain soldiers, without any hope of attaining an officer's rank, or shoulder-straps, or distinctions--the blood of our sons will flow as freely as that of the Russians. The Jews marched to the Far East to assist Russia in making the province of Manchuria part of Siberia in which they were forbidden to reside. The number of Jews at the front was disproportionately large--it amounted to some thirty thousand, owing to the fact that, in accordance with the usual military regulations, the Jewish recruits from the Western governments were generally despatched to Siberia, so that, at the very outset, they were near the theatre of military operations. Disproportionately large was also the number of Jewish physicians in the reserves. They were mobilized at once, evidently for the reason that they lived on their private practice and were not allowed to occupy any state or public office, whereas the Russian physicians were not drawn upon to the same extent, so as not to divert them from their administrative, municipal, or Zemstvo services.[43] Hundreds of Jewish physicians had to work and to encounter the murderous fire of the Japanese because of the fact that an unjust law deprived them of the right of civil service in time of peace. While scores of thousands of disfranchised Jews were fighting for the prestige of Russia in the Far East, the whip of rightlessness did not cease to lash their brethren at home. In a number of places the authorities began to expel the families of the soldiers and physicians who had been sent to the war, on the ground that with the departure of the head of the family the wife and children had forfeited the right of residence, the latter being conditioned by the profession of the husband or father. This policy, however, was too monstrous even for St. Petersburg, and Plehve was soon forced to decree that the families of the mobilized Jews should be left in their places of residence, "pending the termination of the war." Though the Government was compelled to relax for a while its oppression of the Jews, social Judæophobia, fanned by the chauvinism incident to war time, broke out with greater violence than ever. Irritated by the rapid failures of the Russian arms and by the unexpected military superiority of the Japanese, the reactionary press, headed by the _Novoye Vremya_, began to circulate preposterous rumors to the effect that the Jews were secretly helping the Japanese, their "kinsmen by race," in order to wreak their vengeance upon Russia for having perpetrated the Kishinev massacres. The story of the Jewish-Japanese alliance issued from the public press of the capital to make its rounds through the provinces, and each day gave birth to a rumor more absurd than the other: the Jews are exporting gold abroad, they are purchasing horses for Japan, they are collecting money to build cruisers for the Mikado, they are provoking England and America against Russia, and similar preposterous stories. It was clear that these rumors were the work of a gang of unscrupulous agitators _à la_ Krushevan, who were eager to instigate anti-Jewish pogroms on a modern basis--the accusation of "treachery." This assumption is confirmed by the additional fact that these incendiary rumors were particularly circulated in February and March, before the Easter festival, the old-time pogrom season, just as in the preceding year the ritual murder libel of Dubossary had been kept afloat during the same months. "The incendiaries have already set out upon their work"--with these words the Jewish organ _Voskhod_ warned its readers in its issue of March 11. A week later, the same paper had occasion to publish accounts of the panic which had spread among the Jewish population, particularly in the South. In Kishinev, a second pogrom was feared, calling forth an intensified emigration to America. In Odessa, the Jews were agitated by sinister rumors, and began to prepare themselves for self-defence. This state of alarm was reflected in the foreign press. It was rumored that the American ambassador at St. Petersburg had received instructions to make representations to the Russian Government--which rumor was subsequently officially denied. Fortunately the Government itself came to the conclusion that the time of war was not a fit opportunity for arranging pogroms. The governors received orders to adopt energetic measures for the prevention of Passover excesses. Governor Urussov of Bessarabia and the city-governor of Odessa addressed serious warnings to the Russian population. These steps had the desired effect. As soon as the police and population realized that the pogroms were not desired from above, the agitation collapsed; and in April the papers were able to tell their readers that "Passover has passed quietly everywhere." In his _Memoirs_ Urussov tells us that, during the restless day preceding the Easter festival in Kishinev, he had been engaged, together with the Chief of Police, in working out a plan looking to the maintenance of public order in the city; during this conference he noticed that the Chief of Police was rather hesitant and puzzled. This hesitation continued until the governor received from Plehve a telegram in cipher, calling upon him to prevent pogroms. No sooner had Urussov shown the Chief of Police the deciphered telegram than the latter exclaimed: "Don't trouble yourself--now there will be no disorders in Kishinev." Such was the spirit in which the provincial administrators had been trained. Without a special order from St. Petersburg, they did not have the courage to suppress the pogroms. 4. THE "POLITICAL SPRING" On the morning of July 15, 1904, the square before the Warsaw depôt in St. Petersburg presented a terrible sight. Upon the pavement lay the blood-stained body of Plehve, who had been smitten by the bomb of the Russian terrorist Sazonov while on his way to Peterhof where he was to report to the Tzar. This meant that the revolution had again raised its head. After two years of frenzied police terrorism, and in spite of all attempts to divert the attention of the public from the necessity of reforms, first by pogroms and then by the war against Japan--Plehve had insisted upon the declaration of war, hoping to drown the "seditious" movement in chauvinism--the revolutionary spectre was once more haunting the country. The martyrs of the autocratic inquisition perceived the "finger of God" in the calamities caused by the war and in the miserable end of Plehve. In February, 1904, the Russian censor confiscated an issue of the _Voskhod_ in which a young Jewish sibyl, in a poem entitled "To Haman," referring to the biblical _Mene, Mene, Tekel u-Farsin_, predicted a shameful death for the new Haman who was easily identified as the hero of Kishinev. One could feel in the air the coming of a cleansing tempest. Even the reactionary Government was taken aback by the approaching storm. It did not dare to answer the terrorism of the revolution with police terrorism. On the contrary, it made an attempt to moderate the régime of serfdom. On August 11, on the occasion of the birth of the heir-apparent Alexis, an imperial manifesto was issued, granting "favors" and "privileges" to the population, the most important of which consisted in the abrogation of corporal punishment for peasants and soldiers. On the same day, a ukase was promulgated in which the Tzar "thought it _just_ to introduce, pending the general revision of the legislation affecting the Jews, several amendments in the enactments concerning their rights of residence at present in force." The amendments were trifling: the Jews with a higher education were permitted to live in the villages and acquire real property there, as well as to carry on business everywhere. Those who had participated in the Japanese war, and had distinguished themselves or had conducted themselves irreproachably were to be accorded the right of universal domicile. The wives and under-aged children of the Jews with a higher education were granted the right of residence even after the death of their husbands and fathers. These rights were the only ones which the Government thought it "just" to confer upon the Jews, who had sent thirty thousand people into the active army to fight on the fields of Manchuria. The Jewish public received this niggardly gift with chilly indifference, and turned its gaze to wider horizons which were then opening up before Russia. The country was on the eve of a "political spring." On August 26 the post of Minister of the Interior was entrusted to Svyatopolk-Mirski, who in his previous capacity of governor-general of Vilna had displayed comparative administrative leniency. The new leader of internal Russian politics promised that he would strive for the restoration of "confidence" between the Government and the people by adjusting his actions to the demands of "true progress." The Jewish deputation which waited upon him at Vilna and the representatives of the foreign press were told that as far as the Jewish question was concerned, he would be guided by justice and "kindness." Unfortunately, at the very beginning he showed himself powerless to stem the new tide of pogroms. At the end of August, the Russian South was the scene of several "regular" pogroms, beginning with a quarrel in a Jewish store and ending with the demolition of Jewish stores and houses--as was the case in the town of Smyela, in the government of Kiev, on August 22, or in the city of Rovno, in Volhynia, where a similar attempt was made on the same day. Soon these "regular" riots gave way to a new variety of pogroms, which were distinguished by a peculiar coloring and might be termed "mobilization pogroms." The mobilized Russian reserve troops, wrought up over their impending departure to the fields of death in Manchuria where the Russian army suffered defeat after defeat, directed their protest along the line of least resistance--against the Jews. The soldiers, fortifying themselves with goodly doses of alcohol, began their "gallant exploits," and, accompanied by the street mobs, engaged in the task of devastating Jewish homes, maltreating their inmates, and looting their property. A sanguinary pogrom took place in Alexandria, in the government of Kherson, on September 6 and 7. On the sacred day of Yom Kippur a horde of intoxicated assassins invaded the synagogue which was crowded with worshippers, and butchered there twenty people in a most barbarous fashion. Among the severely wounded, who soon afterwards died from the wounds, were several gymnazium and university students. The police made no attempt to stop the killing and looting, and only on the second day, when the excesses were renewed, the Cossacks were summoned from an adjacent town, and succeeded in restoring order. A month later, the mobilized Russian reservists began to perpetrate a series of pogroms in the North, in the region of White Russia. In the city of Moghilev the lawlessness of the soldiers and the local hooligans assumed appalling dimensions (October 10). The poorest quarters of the town suffered most. Among the victims of the riots were also the families of Jewish reservists who had gone to war. From the capital of the government the pogrom epidemic spread all over the region. Everywhere the intoxicated "crusaders," prior to their departure for Manchuria, engaged in destruction, looting, and incendiarism. In some places, as was the case in the government of Vitebsk, the rioters acted with perfect religious toleration, and even attacked the police, although the center of the "stage" was still occupied by the Jews. The Government was manifestly unwilling to adopt energetic measures against the "defenders of the Fatherland" for fear of irritating them still further and spoiling the progress of mobilization. It was not until the end of October that the mobilization pogroms died out. 5. THE HOMEL POGROM BEFORE THE RUSSIAN COURTS In the same month of October, 1904, the case of the Homel pogrom of the previous year came up before the Court of Appeals of the Government of Kiev, which held its sessions at Homel. The department of justice had taken a whole year to prepare the evidence, prompted by the desire not so much to investigate the case as to entangle it and present it in a perverted political interpretation. The investigation which had started in the lifetime of Plehve and proceeded under the pressure of the anti-Semitic reactionary, Minister of Justice Muravyov, resulted in a bill of indictment which was a flagrant example of deliberate misrepresentation. The whole affair was pictured as an anti-Russian pogrom which had been perpetrated by the Jews. According to this version, the Jews of Homel, wishing to avenge the Kishinev massacre, had taken up arms and attacked the Christian population on August 29, thereby calling forth a counter-pogrom on the part of the Russian workingmen on September 1, when again the armed Jewish self-defence had taken an aggressive attitude and thereby forced the soldiers to shoot at them. Sixty people were indicted on this charge, among them thirty-six Jews, representing the part of the population which had been the victims of the pogrom. The Jews who had dared to defend themselves stood at the prisoners' bar side by side with their assailants. Yielding to the pressure of public opinion, the Government decided to have the Homel case tried in open court, but the president of the tribunal was instructed to eliminate from the judicial proceedings all political revelations which might embarrass the Government. The élite of the legal profession, both among Jews and non-Jews (Vinaver, Sliosberg, Kalmanovich, Ratner, Sokolov, Kupernik, Zarudny, and others), assembled at Homel to plead the cause of the indicted Jews and to defend the action for damages brought by the Jewish pogrom victims. The trial was drawn out for nearly three months, reducing itself to a duel between the counsel who endeavored to bring out the facts, and the bench which was anxious to suppress them. The depositions of the witnesses and the cross-examinations of the Jewish lawyers succeeded in demolishing the entire structure of the indictment, but when the case reached the stage which was bound to lead to the detection of the real authors of the pogrom and lay bare the conduct of the authorities, the president stopped the counsel despotically, denying them the floor. The gross partiality manifested by the president of the court had the effect that the counsel for the defence lost their patience, and on December 21, after a violent scene, refused to participate in the trial and demonstratively left the court-room. This action aroused public opinion throughout Russia to an extraordinary degree; it caused a storm of indignation against this official miscarriage of justice, and the fearless defenders received innumerable expressions of sympathy. The indicted Jews, too, joined in the noble demonstration of their lawyers, which was in itself an eloquent plea for a righteous cause. The trial terminated in January, 1905, and ended in the acquittal of half of the accused Jews and Christians and a verdict of guilty against the other half from among both groups. The guilty were sentenced to comparatively light penalties--to imprisonment for brief terms--and, in addition, the court decided to petition the Tzar for a mitigation even of these penalties. This verdict displayed the Jesuitic character of Russian politics. The reprobate murderers and plunderers from among the Russian group were either acquitted altogether, or were sentenced to trifling penalties and placed on the same level of culpability with the members of the Jewish self-defence whose only crime was that they had stood up for their life, honor, and property. The Russian law journal _Pravo_ ("The Law"), the organ of the progressive Russian _intelligenzia_, published on this occasion a strong article which concluded with the following words: The truth stands out in bold relief even in this verdict, and it does so against the wish of its authors. If, as is implied in this verdict, both the Jews and Christians are guilty of murder, violence, and plunder to a minimum degree only--for how could otherwise the extraordinary leniency of the verdict be justified?--then everybody is bound to ask himself the question: Who then is the real author of all the horrors that were perpetrated at Homel? Those who have followed the course of the judicial investigation with some degree of attention can only have one answer: Besides the Christians and the Jews, there is still a third culprit, the politically rotten officialdom. This culprit did not stand at the prisoners' bar, but the verdict is against him.... The best elements of the Russian public, and the Jews in particular, have been thirsting for justice and for the disclosure of the truth, but it was just that third accomplice who was afraid of justice and has managed to cover it up by a general amnesty. Such was the end of the two ill-fated years of Russian-Jewish history (1903-1904)--years, marked by the internal war against the Jews and by the external war against Japan, filled with the victories of the reaction at Kishinev and Homel and the defeats of the Russian arms at Port Arthur, Liao-Yang, and Mukden. This ghastly interval of reactionary terrorism, which began to subside only towards the end of 1904, drove from Russia to America more than 125,000 Jewish emigrants who fled for their very lives from the dominions of the Tzar. However, at the end of the long nightmare, the political horizon began to clear up. The tide of the liberty movement surged forward again and it looked as if the Russian people, and with it tormented Russian Jewry, would soon behold the new dawn. Yet the six million Jews of Russia were destined to pass through two more stormy years, standing between the firing lines of autocratic despotism and the revolutionary movement, and suffering the excruciating agonies of suspense, while hovering between degradation and emancipation. FOOTNOTES: [40] One of the instigators, Pisarevski, a notary public, had blown out his brains before the beginning of the trial. Other instigators from among the Kishinev _intelligenzia_ appeared merely as witnesses. [41] The speech of Karabchevski justifying his withdrawal was particularly powerful. He openly declared that the pogrom was only "the fulfilment of a criminal order given from above." "The whole of Kishinev," he said, "was converted during the excesses into an immense circus of antiquity, where, before the eyes of curious spectators from among the administration and the army, before a festively attired crowd, a terrible drama was enacted in the depth of the arena. From the one side defenceless victims were driven upon the arena, and from the other maddened beasts were set at them, until the signal to stop was given, and the frightful spectacle was ended at once." [42] About two months before the war, the Russian viceroy of the Far East had prohibited the Jews from residing in Port Arthur and upon the Kuantung Peninsula, whence the Russians were expelled by the Japanese a year later. [43] Out of the thirty physicians who were mobilized in Kiev twenty-six were Jews. In Odessa, the Jews furnished twenty-one physicians out of thirty. CHAPTER XXXV THE REVOLUTION OF 1905 AND THE FIGHT FOR EMANCIPATION 1. THE JEWS IN THE REVOLUTIONARY MOVEMENT The "political spring," manifesting itself in the attempt of the Government, headed by Svyatopolk-Mirski, to establish friendly relations with the liberal elements of Russia, gave the first impetus to an open movement for political emancipation. The liberal "conspirators," who had hitherto been secretly dreaming of a constitution, gave public utterance to this tabooed aspiration. In November, 1904, the conference of Zemstvo workers, assembled in St. Petersburg, adopted a resolution pointing out "the anomaly of the political order" of Russia which is founded on autocracy and proclaiming the necessity of associating the representatives of the people in the work of legislation. About the same time, a large mass-meeting, which took the form of a public banquet, attended by lawyers and littérateurs, adopted a similar resolution calling for "the repeal of all national and denominational restrictions." Taking advantage of the temporary relaxation of police despotism, the press spoke up more boldly, while the better elements of the population began to organize themselves in all kinds of public bodies. The Government was slow in making concessions, and harshly condemned the "boisterous assemblages" which called for changes in "the unshakable foundations of our political order." Nevertheless, an imperial ukase, published on December 12, 1904, promised a number of partial reforms--improvement of the legal status of the peasantry, enlargement of the activities of the Zemstvos, the establishment of a state insurance for workingmen, relaxation of the severities of police and censorship, and likewise "a revision of the laws restricting the rights of aliens," with the retention of those provisions only "which are called forth by the genuine interests of the state and the manifest needs of the Russian people." It is almost needless to add that the latter clause held forth no promises to the Jews. For their disfranchisement could always be justified by "the genuine interests of the state"--a state built upon the foundations not of law, but of police force. The carrying into effect of the promised semi-reforms was entrusted to a bureaucratic body, the Committee of Ministers. The services of the popular representatives were repudiated. The new movement for liberty forced further concessions from Russian officialdom, but these concessions could only be wrested from it in small doses and were granted only after a desperate resistance. The "bloody Sunday" of January 9, 1905, marked the beginning of the open revolution in which social, economic, and political demands were interwoven with one another. The demonstration of the striking workingmen of St. Petersburg, who marched in immense numbers to the Winter Palace to present a petition to the Tzar for economic and political reforms, ended in a tragedy. The petitioners who marched with crosses in their hands, under the leadership of the priest and demagogue Gapon, were received with a shower of bullets, resulting in a large number of victims from among the participants in the demonstration, as well as from among the public. There were also several Jews among them--a first-aid nurse, a dentist, a pharmacy student and a journalist. This scandalous conduct of the Tzar, who replied with bullets to a peaceful appeal for reforms, led to a series of demonstrations, labor strikes, and terrorist acts in the provinces. In the Western governments and in the Kingdom of Poland the Jews played a conspicuous rôle in the revolutionary movement, counting as they did a large number of organized workingmen. In Odessa, a Jewish workingman by the name of Stillman fired at the Chief of Police and wounded him (January 19). In Moghilev, a Jewish youth made a vain attempt upon the life of the local Chief of Police who was accused of having instigated the pogrom which had taken place there in the fall of 1904. These incidents served in the hands of the reactionary Government--on January 9, Svyatopolk-Mirski had been dismissed for his excessive leaning toward liberalism--as an excuse for continuing its oppression of the Jews as the "ringleaders of the revolution." The president of the Committee of Ministers, Witte, was the only one who advocated a different point of view. At the meeting of the Committee, held on February 11, he contended that "the hostile attitude toward the Government, now noticeable among the Jews, is due to the sad material conditions in which the bulk of Russian Jewry lives, being weighed down by the pressure of restrictive laws." Witte prophesied that the police authorities would be bound "to fight with redoubled zeal against the anti-governmental activity of the Jews, until the amelioration of the condition of the aliens, promised in the ukase of December 12, would be carried into effect." 2. THE STRUGGLE FOR EQUAL RIGHTS Notwithstanding these pleas, the Government was slow in realizing even the moderate reforms which had been outlined in the imperial ukase. In the meantime the representatives of Russian Jewry had decided to place before it their own more comprehensive demands. In February, 1905, several mass petitions, demanding equal rights for Jews, were addressed to Witte. A petition signed by thirty-two Jewish communities--St. Petersburg, Vilna, Kovno, Homel, Berdychev, and others--began with these words: The measures adopted for the last twenty-five years toward the Russian Jews were designed with the deliberate end in view to convert them into a mass of beggars, deprived of all means of sustenance, and of the light of education and human dignity. Consistency and comprehensiveness marked the system of oppression and violence which was skilfully planned and carefully executed.... The entire machinery of the state was directed to one end--that of making the life of the Jews in Russia impossible. The petition repudiates the idea, voiced in the ukase of December 12, 1904, of a gradual amelioration of the position of the Jews, and of a few "mitigations"; for "the insulted dignity of man cannot be reconciled to half measures; it demands the complete removal of rightlessness." All the Jews of Russia are permeated at the present moment by one thought: that the cruel system of endless restrictions and disabilities undermines the very basis of their existence, that it is impossible to continue such a life.... Worn out by all they have had to go through, and filled with grave anxiety about their future destinies, the Jews are waiting at last for their entire enfranchisement; they are waiting for a radical repeal of all restrictive laws, so that, enjoying freedom and equality with all others, they may, shoulder to shoulder with the other citizens of this great country, work for its welfare and prosperity. A memorandum couched in more resolute terms was sent by twenty-six Jewish communities--Moscow, Odessa, and others--and by the radical groups of the communities which had signed the first petition. We declare--the memorandum states--that we look upon the attempt to satisfy and appease the Jewish population by any partial measures of improvement as doomed to failure. We expect equal rights, as human beings in whom the feeling of human dignity is alive, as conscious citizens in a modern body politic. The memorandum of the Vilna community made the following addition to the last clause: "As a cultured nation, we demand the same rights of national-cultural self-determination which ought to be granted to all the nationalities that go to make up the Russian body politic." Memorials and telegrams, addressed to the president of the Committee of Ministers, with the demand for equal rights, were also sent by many individual Jewish communities. In the meantime, the general revolutionary movement in Russia proceeded apace. Professional organizations were springing into existence, such as the leagues of railroad workers, engineers, and lawyers. Here and there, huge railroad strikes were called. The college youth were in a state of ferment, and often went on strike. The agitation was answered by rifle shots and Cossack whips which were used to disperse the demonstrators. The extreme wing of the Socialist party resorted to terroristic acts. A tremendous sensation was caused by the assassination of Grand Duke Sergius, the governor-general of Moscow (February 4), one of the most detestable members of the house of Romanov. The grand duke, whose name was bound up with the expulsion of tens of thousands of Jews from Moscow in 1891 and with the cruel oppression of the Jewish colony still left there, was the victim of a bomb thrown by a non-Jew, the Social-Revolutionist Kalayev. The surging tide of the revolution intimidated Nicholas II., and wrested from him still another concession. On February 18, 1905, three enactments were published: an imperial manifesto condemning the revolutionary "unrest" at a time when "the sanguinary war in the Far East" was going on, and calling upon all "well-intentioned persons" to wage war against "the internal sedition." A rescript addressed to Bulyghin, Minister of the Interior, announced the decision of the Tzar "to invite the worthiest men, invested with the confidence of the nation and chosen by the population, to participate in the consideration of legislative projects"--in other words, a popular representation with merely consultative rights. Finally, an ukase addressed to the Senate granted permission to private persons and institutions to lay before the Government their "views and suggestions relating to the perfection of the wellbeing of the state." The progressive elements of Russia were not in a mood to be reconciled to the duplicity of these enactments in which threats and concessions followed upon one another, or to the pettiness of the concessions in themselves. They took, however, full advantage of the permission to "lay" their views before the Government, and indulged in an avalanche of resolutions and declarations, demanding the substitution of a parliamentary system of government for the existing system of autocracy. The Jewish institutions joined in this general campaign. The oldest Jewish organization, the "Society for the Diffusion of Enlightenment Among the Jews," in St. Petersburg, at a meeting, held on February 27, adopted the following resolution: The proper organization of Jewish education such as would be in keeping with the social and cultural peculiarities of the Jewish people, will only be possible when the Jews will be placed on a footing of complete equality of rights with the rest of the Russian population. As a firm guarantee of the untrammelled cultural development and the complete equality of all nationalities, it is necessary that the legislative power and the administrative control of the country shall have the co-operation of popular representatives, to be elected upon the basis of the universal, direct, and secret vote of all citizens of the country, without any distinction of nationality, denomination or calling. The need of a non-partisan political organization to direct the struggle for Jewish emancipation which was to be waged by all classes of Jewry--outside the small fraction which had already been united in the labor organization of the "Bund"--was universally felt. Such an organization was formed at the conference of public-spirited Jews which took place in Vilna at the end of March, 1905. It assumed the name of "The League for the Attainment of Equal Rights for the Jewish People in Russia," and proclaimed as its object "the realization to their full extent of the _civil, political, and national rights_ of the Jewish people in Russia." The complete civil emancipation of the Jews, the assurance of their proportionate participation in the Russian popular representation, "the freedom of national-cultural self-determination in all its manifestations," in the shape of "a comprehensive system of communal self-government, the freedom of language and school education"--such was the threefold program of the League. It was the first attempt of a Jewish organization in modern history to inscribe upon its banner not only the demand for the civil and political, but also for the national emancipation of the Jewish people, the first attempt to obtain liberty for Jewry as a nationality, and not as a mere denominational group, forming part of the dominant nation, as had been the case in Western Europe during the nineteenth century. The central bureau of the League was located in St. Petersburg, composed of twenty-two elective members, half of whom lived in the capital (M. Vinaver, G. Sliosberg, L. Bramson, and others), and the other half in the provinces (Dr. Shmaryahu Levin, S. M. Dubnow,[44] M. Ratner, and others). The first resolutions adopted by the League were in substance as follows: To demand universal suffrage at the elections to the future parliament, with a guarantee of proper representation for the national minorities; to influence the Russian public to the end that the general resolutions demanding equality for all citizens should contain an explicit reference to the emancipation of the Jews; to call upon all the Jewish aldermen in the municipal Dumas to resign their posts, in view of the fact that under the law of 1892, which had deprived the Jews of their franchise at the municipal elections,[45] these aldermen had not been elected by the Jewish population, but had been appointed by the administration--an act which implied an insult to the civic and national dignity of the Jewish people. The last-mentioned clause of this resolution, adopted at the first conference of the League, proved effective. In the majority of cities, the Jewish members of the municipal Dumas began to tender their resignations, by way of protest against the disfranchisement of the Jews in the municipal self-government. At first, the authorities were somewhat embarrassed and made an attempt to appoint other Jews in lieu of those that had resigned, but seeing that the Jewish boycott continued, they became "reconciled" to the entire absence of Jewish representatives in municipal self-government. The protest of the Jewish aldermen was drowned in the general noise of protests and demonstrations which filled the air during the revolutionary year. 3. THE "BLACK HUNDRED" AND THE "PATRIOTIC" POGROMS In this wise did the Jewish people, though chafing under thraldom and well-nigh crushed by it, strive for the light of liberty. But the forces of reaction were preparing to wreak terrible vengeance upon the prisoner for his endeavor to throw off his bonds. As the revolutionary tide, which had engulfed the best elements of the Russian people, was rolling on, it clashed with the filthy wave of the Black Hundred, which the underlings of Tzardom had called to the surface from the lowest depths of the Russian underworld. _Acheronta movebo_[46]--this threat was now carried out systematically by the Government of Nicholas II. in its struggle with the emancipatory movement. By letting loose the Russian "nether-world" against the liberal _intelligentzia_ and the Zhyds, the reactionaries hoped to achieve three objects at once: to intimidate the liberals and revolutionaries; to demonstrate the unwillingness of the "people" to abolish autocracy in favor of constitutional government, and, finally, to discredit the entire revolutionary movement as "the work of Jewish hands." The latter end could, in the opinion of the reactionaries, be obtained best by convincing the Russian masses that "the enemies of Christ are the only enemies of the Tzar." An open anti-Jewish agitation was set in motion. Proclamations of the Black Hundred with the appeals, "Slay the students and the Zhyds!" "Remember Kishinev and Homel!" were scattered broadcast. The proclamation of the "Nationalist Society" of Kiev, Odessa, Kishinev, and other cities contained the following sentences: The shouts "Down with autocracy!" are the shouts of those blood-suckers who call themselves Zhyds, Armenians, and Poles.... Be on your guard against the Zhyds! All the misfortunes in our lives are due to the Zhyds. Soon, very soon, the great time will come when there will be no Zhyds in Russia. Down with the traitors! Down with the constitution! With the approaching Passover season, pogroms were openly organized. The papers were flooded with telegrams from many cities stating that riots were imminent. In some places the governors adopted measures to check the excesses of the savage crowd, but in many localities the pogroms were deliberately permitted or even directly engineered by the police. In the manufacturing city of Bialystok, the center of the Jewish labor movement, the Cossacks assaulted Jewish passers-by on the streets, invaded the synagogues and Jewish homes, cruelly maltreating their inmates and frequently searching them and taking away their money (April 9-10). During the Passover holidays, peasants made an attack upon the Jews in the town of Dusyaty, in the government of Kovno, looting their property and beating those that dared to oppose them. In the city of Melitopol, in the government of Tavrida, an intoxicated mob demolished and set fire to Jewish stores, and thereupon started to attack the houses of Christians, but the self-defence consisting of Jewish and Christian young men checked the pogrom (April 18-19). In Simferopol, in the same government, the Black Hundred spread a rumor that a Jewish boy, the son of a pharmacist, had desecrated a Christian ikon. A pogrom was set in motion which met with the resistance of the armed Jewish youth and was afterwards checked by the troops (April 22). The most terrible outbreak took place in Zhitomir. In this quiet center of Volhynia the progressive elements of both the Jewish and the Russian population revelled in the joy of their political honeymoon. As had been the case in other large cities, here, too, the "bloody Sunday" of January called forth political strikes on the part of the workingmen, demonstrations on the part of the college youth, and the circulation of revolutionary appeals. The fact that the movement was headed by the Jewish youth was enough to inspire the Black Hundred to embark upon their criminal task. All kinds of rumors were set afloat, such as that the Jews had been firing at the Tzar's portrait on the field behind the city, that they were preparing to slaughter the Christians, and other absurd stories. At the approach of Passover, the pogrom organizers summoned to their aid a group of "Katzaps," Great-Russian laborers, from Moscow. The Jews, anticipating the danger, began to arm themselves in self-defence, and made their preparations openly. A clash between the "Black" and the "Red" was inevitable. It came in the form of a sanguinary battle which was fought on April 23-26, matching by its cruelty the pogrom at Homel, though exceeding it vastly by its dimensions. In the course of three days, the city was in the hands of the black hordes who plundered, murdered and mutilated the Jews. They were fortified not only by quantities of alcohol, but also by the conviction that they were fighting for the Tzar against the "Sicilists,"[47] who clamored for "freedom" and a "republic." The Jewish self-defence performed prodigies of valor wherever they were not interfered with by the police and military, and died gallantly where the authorities actively assisted the savage work of the infuriated rioters. During the three pogrom days fifteen Jews were killed and nearly one hundred wounded, many of them severely. The casualties were mostly among young workingmen and handicraftsmen. But there were also some students among the victims, one of them a Christian, named Blinov, who stood up nobly for the assaulted Jews. The inhuman fiends fell upon Blinov, shouting: "Though you are a Russian, you are a Sicilist and worse than the Zhyds, now that you've come to defend them." The young hero was beaten to death, and the murderers were actively assisted by soldiers and policemen. On one of those days, on April 25, a heart-rending tragedy took place in the town of Troyanov, in the government of Volhynia, not far from Zhitomir. Having learned of the massacre that was going on in Zhitomir, fourteen brave Jewish young men from the neighboring town of Chudnov armed themselves with cheap pistols, and proceeded to bring aid to their endangered fellow-Jews. On the way, while passing through Troyanov, they were met by a crowd of peasants and workingmen who had been aroused by a rumor that Jewish "slaughterers" were marching in order to exterminate the Russians. The infuriated mob fell upon the youths, and, in the presence of the local Jews, savagely killed ten of them, while the others were cruelly beaten. The following account of this ghastly occurrence was given by one of the survivors: There were fourteen of us. We were on the way from Chudnov to Zhitomir. In Troyanov we were surrounded by Katzaps. They began to search us, taking away everything we had, and then started to beat us with hatchets and clubs. I saw my comrades fall down dead one after the other. Before the constabulary appeared, only four had remained alive, I and three other men. The constabulary ordered us to be carried to the hospital at Zhitomir, but on the way we were wrested by the Katzaps from the rural police and were tortured again.... I was roped and dragged to the priest. He begged that I should be left alone. The Katzaps made fun of him, dragged me out again, and started to beat me. The policemen began to tell them that "they would answer for me," since the constabulary had ordered them to get me to Zhitomir. "Well," said the Katzaps, "if that be the case, we will let him go, but before we do this, that hound of a Jew must have a look at his fellow-Zhyds." I was then dragged in an unconscious state to my comrades. I found myself in a pool of water. I had been drenched so as to make me regain consciousness. Then I beheld the dead bodies of my ten comrades.... No matter how long I may live, I shall never forget that sight.... One of them lay with his head chopped off; another with a ripped stomach ... cut off hands.... I fell into a swoon, and found myself here in this bed. In the cemetery of Troyanov one may still behold the ten graves of the youthful martyrs who unselfishly went to the rescue of their brethren against beasts in human form, and were on the way torn to pieces by these beasts--ten graves which ought to become sacred to the entire Jewish people. The Government reacted upon the Zhitomir massacre by an official communication in which the facts were deliberately garbled in order to prove that the Jews had called forth the pogrom by their conduct. It was alleged in this communication that, during their shooting exercises in the woods, the Jews had discharged their pistols at the portrait of the Tzar, had hurled insulting remarks at the police escort which was conveying a band of political prisoners, had issued a proclamation in the name of "the criminal party of the Social-Revolutionaries" in which the authorities of Zhitomir were accused of preparing the pogrom, and similar charges. The concrete object of the official communication is betrayed in its concluding part in which the governors are enjoined "to explain to the sober-minded section of the Jewish population that, in the interest of the safety of the Jewish masses, it is in duty bound to inspire their coreligionists who have been drawn into the political struggle with the consciousness of the absolute necessity of refraining from arousing by their behavior the hatred of the Christian population against them." Translated into plain terms, the Government order meant: "If you do not wish to have pogroms and massacres, then keep your hands off the liberty movement; but if you will persist in playing a part in it, then the Christian population will make short work of you, dealing with you as with enemies of the Fatherland." Caught in the general revolutionary conflagration which flared up with particular violence in the summer of 1905, after the destruction of the Russian fleet by the Japanese near Tsushima, the Jews reacted upon the pogroms by intensifying their revolutionary activity and swelling the number of self-defence organizations. Russian Jewry played an active part in the two wings of the emancipation army, the Constitutional-Democratic as well as the Social-Democratic party, and was represented even in the extreme wing occupied by the Social-Revolutionaries. The majority of these Jewish revolutionaries were actuated by general Russian aspirations, and were often entirely oblivious of the national interests of Judaism. This, however, did not prevent the henchmen of the Tzar from visiting the "sin" of the revolution upon the Jewish masses. A vicious circle was the result of this policy: As victims of the old despotism, the Jews naturally threw in their lot with the revolution which promised to do away with it; thereupon uncivilized Russia vented its fury upon them by instituting pogroms which, in turn, pushed them more and more into the ranks of the revolution. During the summer months of 1905, a new succession of pogroms took place, this time of the military variety. Wrought up over the defeats of the Russian army in Manchuria, and roused by the vile proclamations of the Black Hundred which pictured the Jews as the inner enemy, soldiers and Cossacks began to wreak their vengeance upon this inner enemy, assaulting and killing or wounding Jews on the streets of Minsk (May 26), Brest-Litovsk (May 29-31), Syedletz and Lodz (June 9). In the first three cities, the soldiers plundered and murdered only the Jews. In Lodz, they fired at a mixed Polish-Jewish demonstration of workingmen. A regular butchery was engineered by the soldiery in Bialystok (June 30). During the entire day, the city resounded with the rifle shots of maddened soldiers who were firing into peaceful Jewish crowds. Fifty dead and a still larger number of wounded were the result of these military exploits. During the same time a regularly organized pogrom occurred in the southern outskirts of Russia, in the city of Kerch, in the Crimea. On July 27, a peaceful political demonstration of the kind then generally in vogue took place in that city; among the participants were also the Jewish youth. By way of protest, the city-governor and gendarmerie chief organized a "patriotic" counter-demonstration, which was held a few days later, on July 31. Carrying a banner with the portrait of the Tzar and singing the Russian national hymn, the "patriotic" hordes, with the notorious local thieves and hooligans as the predominating element, sacked Jewish houses and stores, and, in the name of patriotism, looted Jewish property--even the so-called respectable public participating in the latter act. When the armed Jewish self-defence began to oppose the rioters, they were scattered by a volley from the soldiers, ten of them being killed on the spot. The subsequent inquiry established the fact that the pogrom had been fully prepared by the police and gendarmerie authorities, which had been in telegraphic communication in regard to it with the Police Department in St. Petersburg. It was a rehearsal of the monstrous October pogroms which were to take place a few months later. 4. THE JEWISH FRANCHISE In the midst of the noise caused by the revolution on the one hand and by the pogroms on the other, the question of popular representation, promised in the ukase of February 18, 1905, was discussed in the highest Government spheres of Russia. A committee, which met under the chairmanship of M. Bulyghin, was drafting a scheme of a consultative popular assembly; as far as the Jews were concerned, it was proposed to exclude them from the franchise, on the ground that the latter would not be compatible with their civil disfranchisement. This proposition, which was in entire accord with the general reactionary trend of Russian politics, called forth a storm of indignation in all circles of Russian Jewry. During the month of June protest resolutions against the contemplated measure were adopted by the Jewish communities of St. Petersburg, Riga, Kishinev, Bobruisk, Zhitomir, Nicholayev, Minsk, Vitebsk, Vilna, and other cities. Many resolutions were couched in violent terms betraying the outraged sentiments of Russian Jewry. As an illustration, the following extract from the Vilna resolution may be quoted: In the proposed scheme of popular representation, we Jews, a cultured nation of six millions, are placed below the semi-savage aliens of Eastern Russia. The policy of pacification applied to other suppressed nationalities has given way to a policy of terrorization when the Jews are concerned. The mad system, consisting in the endeavor to irritate and infuriate the Jews by mediæval persecutions and thereupon wreak vengeance on them for the manifestation of that irritation, has now reached its climax.... We appeal to the Russian people, which is now called upon to renovate the antiquated political structure of the country.... We are of the hope that the malign vindictiveness toward the Jews on the part of the retiring bureaucracy, which is eager to carry over the ferments of corruption into the healthy atmosphere of the future popular representation, will not be realized. Professor Trubetzkoy, who waited upon the Tzar on June 6, at the head of a combined deputation of Zemstvos and municipalities, pointed out in his famous speech that no one should be excluded from popular representation: "It is important that there should not be any disfranchised and disinherited." The Government was shaken in its resolution, and the Council of Ministers eliminated from the Bulyghin project the clause barring the Jews from voting, justifying this step by the undesirability "to irritate the Jews still further." The Jewish question was also touched upon in the conferences at Peterhof, which were held during the month of July under the chairmanship of the Tzar, to formulate plans for an Imperial Duma. Naryshkin, a reactionary dignitary, demanded that "the dangerous Jewish nation" be barred from the Duma. But a number of other dignitaries--the Minister of Finance, Kokovtzev, the Assistant-Minister of the Interior, Trepov, and Obolenski and Chikhachev, members of the Council of State--advocated their admission, and the discussions were terminated by the brief remark of the Tzar: "The project [with the insertion of the Council of Ministers in favor of the Jews] shall be left unaltered." By this action, the Government made itself guilty of a flagrant inconsistency. It conferred upon the Jews the highest political privilege--the right of voting for popular representatives--but left them at the same time in a state of complete civil disfranchisement, even with regard to such elementary liberties as the right of domicile, the right of transit, and so on. Only one month previously, on June 8, the Tzar had approved the "Opinion" of the Committee of Ministers--in pursuance of the ukase of December 12, 1904, the Committee had been busy discussing the Jewish problem--to the effect that the consideration of the question of ameliorating the condition of the Jews should be deferred until the convocation of the new Parliament. Evidently, the anti-Jewish conscience of the Tzar made it impossible for him to grant even the slightest relief to the Jews who from pariahs had been turned into revolutionaries. FOOTNOTES: [44] The author of the present volume, who resided in Vilna at that time. [45] See vol. II, p. 246. [46] "I shall set the nether-world in motion." [47] A mutilated form of "Socialists" which is in vogue among the ignorant Russian masses. CHAPTER XXXVI THE COUNTER-REVOLUTION AND THE OCTOBER MASSACRES 1. THE FIENDISH DESIGNS OF THE "BLACK HUNDRED" Soon afterwards, on August 6, 1905, the so-called "Bulyghin Constitution" was made public, providing for a truncated Imperial Duma with a system of representation based on class qualifications and limited to advisory functions but without any restrictions as far as the franchise of the Jews was concerned. "Now," wrote the _Voskhod_, "the Jew has the right to be a popular representative, but he has no right to reside in the place in which the Imperial Duma assembles--in the capital." Russian Jewry, with the exception of its Left wing, was on the point of starting an election campaign to send its representatives to this mutilated Duma, in the hope of attaining through it to a more perfect form of representation, when the stormy course of events brought to the fore new threatening questions. This counterfeit of a national parliament failed to satisfy the Russian democracy, and the struggle with the Government broke out anew with unprecedented energy. Stormy political meetings were held at the universities and at the other institutions of higher learning, which, by an ukase of August 27, had been granted academic self-government. The autonomous professorial councils began to admit Jewish students to the schools, without any restrictive percentage, and the wave of an agitated Jewish youth was drawn into the whirling sea of the Russian student body. A new succession of strikes followed, arranged by the students, workingmen and railroad workers. A general Russian strike was being carefully prepared as a last resort in the struggle for a democratic constitution. The army of the emancipation movement was instituting a bloodless revolution, the temporary stoppage of all railroad movements and of all other activities in the country, in the hope of forcing Tzardom to an act of self-abnegation and the proclamation of civil liberties. The month of September and the beginning of October were spent in these feverish preparations, but at the same time, the black army of absolutism was making its own arrangements for a sanguinary counter-revolution, for regular St. Bartholomew nights, directed against the participants in the emancipation movement, and particularly against the Jews. The plans of the emancipation army were universally known, but the terrible designs of the dark forces of reaction were effectively concealed. Only when the bloody undertaking was accomplished, was it possible to uncover the threads of the criminal pogrom organization, which led from the palaces of the Tzar and the highest dignitaries of state, by way of the Police Department, to the slums of murderers and hooligans. In the disclosures made by Lvov, in November, 1905, in his memorandum to Witte, the president of the Council of Ministers, the officials in the immediate environment of Nicholas II. who had organized the October pogroms were pointed out by name. They were the "patriotic" General Bogdanovich in St. Petersburg, who acted with the blessing of Archbishop[48] Vladimir and with the assistance of the Imperial camarilla and of many governors and governors-general in the provinces. During the month of September "fighting contingents" of the Black Hundred, whose number, as Bogdanovich boasted in the highest government spheres, amounted to one hundred thousand, were organized all over Russia. In every city the parts to be enacted by the administrators, the police and the pogrom hirelings from among the local riff-raff were carefully prepared and assigned. The pogrom proclamations were printed openly; the "manufacturing" center of this propaganda literature, as was afterwards disclosed in the Imperial Duma by deputy Urussov (formerly Assistant-Minister of the Interior), was located in the printing office of the Police Department. There can be no question that the Tzar was acquainted, if not with all the details of these preparations, at least with the general plan of arranging a counter-revolution by means of carefully engineered massacres of which the Jews were to become the chief victims. Millions of rubles for the organization of the pogroms were appropriated from a secret ten-million ruble fund, the disposition of which lay entirely in the hands of the Tzar. Such were the conditions which ushered in the month of October, 1905. The first days of the month saw the beginning of the railroad strike; by the middle of the month it had already seized the entire country, accompanied in the industrial centers by a general strike in all lines of productive endeavor. In many cities, collisions took place between the revolutionaries and the military. At first, the Government made an attempt to resort to threats, and all over Russia rang the blood-thirsty cry of the Chief of Police Trepov: "No cartridges shall be spared!" But at the last moment, autocracy recoiled before the revolutionary tempest and gave way. On October 17, an imperial manifesto was issued, solemnly promising to bestow all civil liberties upon the Russian people--inviolability of person, freedom of conscience, liberty of speech, assemblage and organization, and a legislative Duma in which the representatives of all classes of the population were to have a voice. The manifesto made no mention, however, of the equality of all citizens before the law or of the bestowal of equal rights on the various nationalities, and even in the accompanying memorandum of Premier Witte, the author of the enactment of October 17, the subject was disposed of in a few nebulous phrases. Nevertheless, even in this hazy form, the manifesto made a tremendous impression. Everybody believed that autocratic Tzardom had been vanquished by the army of liberty and that Russia had been finally converted from a state founded on police force into a body politic based on law. But, on the day following, all these hopes were cruelly shattered. On October 18, in hundreds of cities the carefully concealed army of counter-revolutionaries, evidently obeying a prearranged signal, crawled out from beneath the ground, to indulge in an orgy of blood, lasting a full week (October 18-25), which in its horrors finds no parallel in the entire history of humanity. 2. THE RUSSIAN ST. BARTHOLOMEW NIGHT The principal victims of this protracted St. Bartholomew night were the new Huguenots of the emancipation movement--the Jews. They were to pay the penalty for having assisted in wresting from the despotic Government the manifesto with its promise of liberties. In the course of one week, nearly fifty anti-Jewish pogroms, accompanied by bloodshed, took place in various cities (Odessa, Kiev, Kishinev, Kalarash, Simferopol, Romny, Kremenchug, Chernigov, Nicholayev, Yekaterinoslav, Kamenetz-Podolsk, Yelisavetgrad, Orsha, etc.), in addition to several hundred "bloodless" pogroms, marked in regular fashion by the destruction of property, plunder, and incendiarism. The pogroms directed against the Christian participants in the emancipation movement, such as intellectuals, students, etc., in Tver, Tomsk, and other interior Russian cities, amounted in all to a score or two. This disproportion alone shows the direction in which the organized dark forces were active. The strict uniformity and consistency in the carrying out of the counter-revolutionary conspiracy was too palpable to be overlooked. The customary procedure was as follows: In connection with the manifesto of October 17, the progressive elements would arrange a street procession, frequently adorned by the red flags of the left parties and accompanied by appropriate acclamations and speeches expressive of the new liberty. Simultaneously, the participants in the "patriotic demonstration"--consisting mostly of the scum of society, of detectives and police officials in plain clothes--would emerge from their nooks and crannies, carrying the portrait of the Tzar under the shadow of the national flag, singing the national hymn and shouting, "Hurrah, beat the Zhyds! The Zhyds are eager for liberty. They go against our Tzar to put a Zhyd in his place." These "patriotic" demonstrators would be accompanied by police and Cossack patrols (or soldiers), ostensibly to preserve order, but in reality to enable the hooligans to attack and maltreat the Jews and prevent the victims from defending themselves. As soon as the Jews assembled for self-defence, they would be driven off by the police and troops. Thereupon, the "patriotic" demonstrators and the accomplices, joining them on the way, would break up into small bands and disperse all over the city, invading Jewish houses and stores, ruin, plunder, beat, and sometimes slaughter entire families. The most terrible pogrom took place in Odessa. It lasted fully four days. The rioters were openly assisted by the police and troops, and were encouraged by the active support of city-governor Neidthart, and the criminal inactivity of the military governor, Kaulbars. The heroism displayed by the Jewish self-defence was strong enough to beat off the hooligans, but it was powerless to defeat the troops and police. Over three hundred dead, thousands of wounded or crippled Jews, among them many who lost their minds from the horrors, one hundred and forty widows, five hundred and ninety-three orphans, and more than forty thousand Jews materially ruined--such were the results of the battle which was fought against the Jews of Odessa during October 18-21. Approximately along the same lines the pogrom campaign was conducted in scores of other cities, with a few lurid departures from the customary ritual, as, for instance, in Nyezhin, in the government of Chernigov, where the Jewish community, headed by the rabbi, was forced by the rioters, under the pain of death, to pronounce publicly the oath of allegiance to the Tzar. As a rule the pogroms which occurred in hundreds of cities, towns, and villages, were limited to the destruction of property, although even in small localities, such as in Semyonovka, in the government of Chernigov, the riots were occasionally accompanied by massacres. It may be added that the outbreaks were not confined to the Pale of Settlement. In a number of cities outside the Pale, such as in Saratov, Voronyezh, and other places with a small Jewish population, the Jewish communities were ruthlessly attacked. Contemporary history is not yet in a position to depict all the horrors which were perpetrated upon the Jews in Russia in the latter half of October, 1905, or to trace with any amount of accuracy their underlying causes. Let us draw a veil over this bloody spectacle. There will come a time when the world will shudder on learning the truth about the bloody happenings and about the real culprits of this prolonged Bartholomew night at the beginning of the twentieth century. The sinister counter-revolution which broke out on October 17, the day on which the manifesto of the Tzar was promulgated, threatened to drag the revolution into the abyss of anarchy. All were profoundly aroused by the perfidious Byzantine policy of Nicholas II., who with one hand waved the peace banner before the progressive section of the Russian people, and with the other plunged a knife into its heart--a knife which most of all was to slash Jewry. Not only the parties of the extreme Left, but even the Constitutionalists who were willing to accept the promises of the October manifesto, had little faith in their ultimate realization. A reign of chaos ensued. The parties of the Left demanded now a democratic, now even a social, republic. The political and labor strikes, among them those arranged by the Jewish "Bund," assumed the character of anarchy. The peasant or agrarian movement burst forth, accompanied by the burning of manors and estates. Poland and the Baltic region were in the throes of terrorism. Moscow witnessed an armed uprising with barricades and with all the paraphernalia of a popular revolution (December, 1905). The Government quelled the Moscow rebellion, and resolutely adopted a policy of repression. Arrests, executions, punitive military expeditions, were the means by which the program of the Witte-Durnovo Cabinet was to be carried into effect. The reactionary camarilla around the Tzar operated in full force, fanning the hatred against the Jews. On December 23, the Tzar received a deputation of the ringleaders of the Black Hundred, who had organized themselves in the "League of the Russian People." One of the speeches appealing to the Tzar to preserve autocracy was devoted to the Jewish question. The deputation begged the Tzar "not to give equal rights to the Jews." To this Nicholas replied laconically: "I shall think it over." 3. THE UNDAUNTED STRUGGLE FOR EQUAL RIGHTS The terrible October calamities were faced by Russian Jewry in a spirit of courage and fortitude. It stood alone in its sorrow. The progressive elements of Russian society which were themselves in the throes of a great crisis reacted feebly upon the sufferings of the Jewish people which had become the scape-goat of the counter-revolution. The indifference of the outside world, however, was counteracted by the rise of the Jewish national sentiment among the better classes of Russian Jewry. One month after the pogrom bacchanalia, the "League for the Attainment of Equal Rights for the Jewish People" held its second convention in St. Petersburg. The Convention which lasted four days (November 22-25) gave public utterance to the feeling of profound national indignation. It voted down the motion to send a deputation to Count Witte, asking for the immediate grant of equal rights to the Jews. In the resolution repudiating this step the policy of the Government was characterized in these words: The facts have incontrovertibly proved that the recent pogroms, appalling by their dimensions and by the number of their victims, have been staged with the open connivance and, in many cases, with the immediate assistance and sometimes even under the direction of the police and highest local administration; that the Government, not at all abashed by the monstrous crimes of its executive organs, the local representatives of State authority, has not removed from office a single one of the suspected functionaries, and has taken no measures to bring them to justice. In view of the fact that Count Witte has repeatedly stated that the Government does not see its way clear to proclaim at the present moment the emancipation of the Jews, supposedly in the interest of the Jews themselves, against whom the agitation of the popular masses might be intensified by such a measure, whereas, in reality, the pogroms are a result of that very rightlessness of the Jews which is fully realized by the masses of the Russian people and by the so-called Black Hundred--the Convention resolves that the sending of a deputation to Count Witte and the entering into negotiations with him will achieve no purpose, and that, instead, all efforts shall be concentrated upon organizing Russian Jewry in the struggle for its equality of citizenship by joining the ranks of the general movement for liberty. Imbued with the spirit of martyrdom, the Convention remembered the martyr Dashevski, the avenger of the Kishinev massacre,[49] and passed a resolution to convey to the youthful sufferer, who was then languishing in a penal military company, its "enthusiastic greetings." In an outburst of national enthusiasm the Convention adopted the following bold resolution: In the interest of realizing to their full extent the civil, political, and national rights of the Jewish nationality in Russia, the Convention resolves as follows: To proceed without delay to call, on the basis of universal and equal suffrage, without discrimination of sex, and by a direct secret vote, an All-Russian Jewish National Assembly in order to establish, in accordance with the will of the entire Jewish population, the forms and principles of its national self-determination as well as the foundations of its internal organization. It was the project of a national Synedrion, radically different in its conception from the Napoleonic Synedrion convened in 1807. The third convention of the "League of Equal Eights" was held on February 10-13, 1906, during the election campaign to the first Imperial Duma. The proposal of the Left wing of the League to boycott the Duma, on the ground that it "will prove a bulwark of reaction"--a prediction which was fully justified by events--and to refrain from taking part in the elections, was voted down. On the contrary, a resolution was passed, calling upon the Jews to take a most active part in the elections, to nominate everywhere their own Jewish candidates, and, wherever this was impossible, to give their votes to the non-Jewish candidates on condition that they pledge themselves to support in the Duma the civil, political, and national rights of the Jewish people. The resolution, moreover, contained this clause: "To insist that the Jewish question in the Duma shall be settled unconditionally in connection with the fundamental articles of the Constitution and with the questions of elementary liberties to be granted to all citizens." An election campaign was set in motion and carried on under the most difficult circumstances. The police authorities took advantage of the state of war which had been proclaimed in many places to interfere with a comprehensive pre-election propaganda, and at the same time the Black Hundred tried to intimidate the Jews by holding out the menace of pogroms during the approaching Passover season. In Poland, the anti-Semitic chauvinists threatened the Jews with all possible reprisals for their "audacious intention" to nominate their own candidates for the Duma, alongside of the candidates of the Christian Poles. Simultaneously, the Jewish group of the Left, the "Bund" and others, followed the policy of boycotting the Duma and did their best to interfere with the elections. However, all these apprehensions proved groundless. The Passover and election pogroms did not take place, and Russian Jewry displayed a vigorous activity in the elections, with the result that twelve Jewish deputies were sent to the first Duma. The most active among these deputies were M. Vinaver, one of the leaders of the general Russian Constitutional-Democratic party and president of the "League for the Attainment of Equal Rights"; Dr. Shmaryahu Levin, the well-known Zionist; L. Bramson, actively identified with Jewish educational activities, who was affiliated with the Russian Democratic group, known as the _Trudoviki_, or "Laborites." All the Jewish deputies were united on the nationalistic platform formulated by the "League for the Attainment of Equal Rights." By a resolution passed at the fourth Convention of the League, held on May 9-13, 1906, they pledged themselves to co-ordinate their actions in all questions pertaining to Jewish emancipation and to abide by a common discipline, without, however, forming a separate parliamentary fraction. 4. THE JEWISH QUESTION BEFORE THE FIRST DUMA The first Duma was convened on April 27, 1906, and barely three months later, on July 8, it was dissolved, or rather dispersed by the Tzar, for having displayed a spirit of excessive opposition. The prevailing element in the first Duma was the Constitutional-Democratic majority to which, by their political sympathies, the bulk of Russian Jewry and ten of its twelve representatives in the Duma--the other two stood a little more to the Left--belonged. It was natural for the Jews to expect that a Parliament of this complexion would have no difficulty in solving the question of equal rights for the Jews as one of the most fundamental prerequisites of civil liberty. Unfortunately, this expectation was not justified. The entire brief session of the Duma was spent in an uninterrupted struggle of the Opposition with the unscrupulous Government which was then headed by Goremykin, a hide-bound reactionary. True, in its reply to the speech from the throne, the Duma declared that "neither liberty nor order can be firmly established without the equality of all citizens before the law." But in the pronouncement of the Government of May 13 no word was said about this equality of citizenship. The Jewish deputy Vinaver delivered a powerful speech, in which, among other things, he spoke as follows: From this platform, from which so much has been said about political liberties, we Jews, the representatives of one of the most tortured nationalities in the land, have not uttered a single word about ourselves, because we did not consider it seemly to speak here of civil inequality.... Now, however, it is becoming clear to us that the Government has made up its mind to continue on the same road on which it has gone until now, and we are, therefore, bound to declare that, so long as you will connive at civil slavery, there will be no peace in the land. The mistake made by the Jewish deputies consisted just in the fact that they had not "uttered a single word" about themselves on a former occasion, in reply to the speech from the Throne which had equally failed to make the slightest mention of civil equality--practically affecting only the Jews--and that they did not utter that word with that feeling of righteous indignation to which the representatives of "the most tortured nationality" in Russia were morally entitled. Later on, the debates in the Duma concerning the Jewish question were, by the force of events, concentrated upon the pogrom policy of the Government. On May 8 an interpellation was introduced regarding the complicity of the Imperial Police Department in instigating the pogroms of 1905. Stolypin, the Minister of the Interior, promised to reply to the interpellation, which was substantiated by documentary evidence, a month later. But before that term had elapsed a new sanguinary pogrom broke out in Bialystok. In this center of the Jewish revolutionary and labor movement, where, in 1905, the police and troops had already twice staged a Jewish massacre, a new conspiracy was being hatched by the police and military against "the authors of the liberty movement." An accidental act of terrorism, the assassination of the Chief of Police by an unknown culprit, gave the police conspirators a proper occasion to execute their terrible design. On June 1, during a church procession, a pistol was discharged by an _agent provocateur_ from among the Black Hundred, and at once a rumor spread like wildfire among the crowd that "the Jewish anarchists are firing at the Christians." The pogrom flared up on the spot. In the course of two days the mob was busy demolishing Jewish houses and stores and attacking the Jews, while at the same time the police and military were systematically firing at the Jews not only on the streets but also in the houses, in which the unfortunate tried to hide. The bestialities of Kishinev were enacted again. Entire families were slaughtered, human beings were tortured, and hacked to pieces; limbs were cut off from the body, nails driven into the heads.... Eighty dead and hundreds of wounded Jews were the result of this new exploit of the counter-revolutionaries. On June 2, the Imperial Duma received the heart-rending news of the Bialystok massacre, and right there, after the passionate speeches of Dr. Levin, Rodichev, and other deputies, passed a resolution to bring in an interpellation to be answered by the Government within a fixed date, and to appoint a parliamentary commission which was to investigate the events on the spot. Three Duma deputies left at once for Bialystok, and on their return submitted to the Duma an unvarnished account which incontrovertibly established the fact that the Bialystok crime had been carefully prepared as a counter-revolutionary act, and that the peaceful Jewish population had been pitilessly shot down by the police and soldiery. On June 5, three days after the appearance of the bloody spectre of Bialystok in the Duma hall, a bill dealing with civil equality for the Jews came up for discussion. The burning problem involving the disfranchisement of six million human beings was discussed side by side with the question of a few petty class discriminations and with the entirely separate question of women's rights. The entire treatment of the subject by the deputies showed a distinct lack of warm-hearted sympathy. Only the speech of the Jewish deputy Levin reverberated with indignation, when he reminded the Russian Assembly that he himself, being a Jew, would in ordinary times be denied the right of residence in the capital, and that, as soon as the Duma would be dissolved, he, a representative of the people and a former legislator, would be evicted from St. Petersburg by the police. The bill was referred to a committee to receive its final shape. After an interval of three days, on June 8, the Duma had again occasion to discuss the subject of pogroms. Premier Stolypin replied to the interpellation of May 8 concerning the complicity of the Government in the pogrom of 1905. His lame attempt to exonerate the authorities called forth a strong rebuttal from a former member of the Government, the erstwhile Assistant-Minister of the Interior, Deputy Urussov, who bravely disclosed the full truth. Fortified by documentary evidence, he proved the existence of a secret printing-press in the Police Department which was issuing "patriotic" proclamations calling upon the populace to exterminate the Jews. He quoted the words of the gendarmerie officer who was in charge of that particular activity: "A pogrom may be arranged on whatever scale you please, whether it be against ten people or against ten thousand," and he concluded his speech with these words: "The danger will not disappear, so long as the affairs of the state and the destinies of the land will be subject to the influence of people who, by their training, are corporals and policemen, and by their convictions pogrom makers." These words were accompanied by a storm of applause, and the Government bench was showered with cries, "Resign, you pogrom fiends!" The Duma finally adopted a resolution echoing these cries of indignation. A more passionate tone characterized the discussions of the Duma during the days of June 23-26, in connection with the report of the parliamentary commission which had been appointed to investigate the Bialystok massacre. The Duma was scandalized by the lying official communication, in which the Jews were put forward as the authors of the pogrom, and by the shameful military order of the day, in which the troops of the Bialystok garrison were thanked "for their splendid services during the time of the pogrom." The speeches delivered by the Jewish deputies, by Jacobson, who had visited Bialystok as one of the members of the parliamentary commission, and by Vinaver and Levin, gave vent to their burning national wrath. The Russian Mirabeau, Rodichev, pilloried the highly placed instigators of the Bialystok butchery. On July 7, the Duma concluded the debate by adopting a resolution denouncing in violent terms the policy of the Government, a policy of oppression, frightfulness and extermination, which had created "a situation unprecedented in the history of civilized countries," and demanding, moreover, the immediate resignation of the reactionary Ministry. 5. THE SPREAD OF ANARCHY AND THE SECOND DUMA Two days later, when the deputies appeared before the Duma, they found the building closed, and on the doors was displayed an imperial manifesto dissolving the Duma which "has encroached upon a domain outside its jurisdiction, and has engaged in investigating the acts of the authorities appointed by us." The sudden dissolution of the Duma was answered by the "Vyborg Manifesto" which was signed by the entire parliamentary Opposition, calling upon the people to refuse to pay taxes to furnish soldiers to a Government which had driven asunder their representatives. The manifesto was also signed by all the Jewish deputies who subsequently had to pay for it with imprisonment and the loss of their electoral rights. The revolutionary terrorism which had subsided during the sessions of the Duma broke out with redoubled violence after its dissolution. Attempts upon the lives of high officials--the most terrible being the explosion of a bomb in the summer residence of Stolypin, who had been appointed Prime Minister at the dissolution of the Duma--"expropriations," _i. e._, the plunder of state funds and private moneys for revolutionary purposes, anarchistic labor strikes, were the order of the day. The Government retorted with monstrous measures of oppression. A political court-martial was instituted which, in the course of five months (September, 1906-January, 1907) sentenced over one thousand people to death, among them many who were innocent or under age. Needless to say, a considerable portion of these victims were Jews. Yet as far as the revolutionary attitude of the Jewish population was concerned, the Government was not satisfied to cope with it by "legal" executions, and therefore resorted, in addition, to the well-tried contrivance of wholesale executions, in other words, of pogroms. The chief of the political police in the city of Syedletz, Tikhanovich, engineered on August 27-28 a bloody military pogrom in that city, netting thirty dead and more than one hundred and fifty wounded Jews. The signal for the pogrom were shots fired at a sentry by an _agent provocateur_, whereupon the troops started an aimless musketry fire on the streets and even bombarded Jewish houses with grenades. Many soldiers, in a state of intoxication, committed incredible barbarities and looted Jewish property. Notwithstanding the official report of another agent of the local political police, Captain Pyetukhov, in which he asserted that the Jews had not given the slightest reason for the butchery and that the latter had been entirely engineered by the military and political authorities, the perpetrator of the pogrom, Tikhanovich, was not only allowed to go unpunished, but received from the governor-general of Warsaw an expression of thanks for his "energy and executive skill." This being the attitude of the ruling spheres of Russia, it was out of the question to expect any initiative from that quarter in regard to the solution of the Jewish question. The Government of Stolypin, in a circular issued on August 24, 1906, had promised "to find out without delay which restrictions, being a source of irritation and manifestly obsolete, could be immediately repealed, and which others, affecting basically the relationship of the Jewish nationality to the native population, seem to be a matter of popular conscience, and should therefore be referred to the legislative institutions." The Council of Ministers laid before the Tzar a draft of moderate reforms in favor of the Jews, pointing to the necessity of appeasing the Jews who, as a result of their grievous restrictions, "had been forced to carry on a desperate struggle against the existing order." But these representations had no effect. Nicholas II. is reported to have said on that occasion: "So long as I am Tzar, the Zhyds of Russia shall not have equal rights." During that time, the power of the so-called "Second Government," the horrible camarilla around the Tzar, was in the ascendancy, and their mainstay were the Black Hundred now organized in the reactionary "League of the Russian People." These reactionary terrorists knew only of one way to solve the Jewish question--by exterminating the Jews. There was only one ray of hope left--the second Duma which was to be convoked in February, 1907. The election campaign was carried on under Government pressure and was hampered by the threat of reprisals and pogroms on the part of the "Black." The elections resulted in a Duma with an anomalous complexion. The two extreme wings, the Socialists and Black Hundred, had gained in strength, whereas the Constitutional Democratic center had been weakened. The Jews had managed to elect only three deputies, apart from one Jewish Social-Democrat who ran on the ticket of his party. They were men of little renown, whereas of the deputies of the first Duma who were prosecuted for signing the Vyborg Manifesto not one was elected. The entire energy of the new Parliament spent itself in the struggle between its left and right wing. The Jewish question was entirely relegated to the "Committee on the Freedom of Conscience." The Government had brought in a bill repealing all denominational restrictions, "except those affecting the Jews," but the Committee decided to eliminate this discriminating clause and in this manner carry through the emancipation of the Jews under the guise of the "Freedom of Conscience." But this time, too, the hope for Jewish emancipation proved an illusion. The Duma was soon dissolved, under the pretext that a revolutionary conspiracy of the Socialistic deputies had been uncovered. On June 3, 1907, another _coup d'état_ took place. The former electoral law which made it possible for the Russian democracy and the oppressed nationalities to send their representatives to the Duma was arbitrarily changed by the Tzar in order to insure a conservative pro-Government majority in the Russian parliament. There followed an era of dismal reaction. FOOTNOTES: [48] In Russian, _Mitropolit_, the highest ecclesiastical dignitary in the Greek-Orthodox Church. There are three Mitropolits in Russia, residing in Petrograd, Moscow, and Kiev. [49] See above, p. 81. CHAPTER XXXVII EXTERNAL OPPRESSION AND INTERNAL CONSOLIDATION 1. THE NEW ALIGNMENTS WITHIN RUSSIAN JEWRY The terrible quadrennium of 1903-1906 had an extraordinarily quickening effect upon the national and political thought of the classes as well as of the masses of Russian Jewry. The year of Kishinev and Homel, when the rightless Jews were made defenceless; the year of the Russo-Japanese War, when these rightless and defenceless pariahs were called upon to fight for their fatherland against the enemy from without; the year of the revolution when after the sanguinary struggle for liberty the Jews received a "constitutional charter wrapped up in pogroms"; finally, the first year of the Duma when indignant utterances of the Jewish deputies from the platform of the Duma were accompanied by the moans of the wounded Jews of Bialystok--these terrible upheavals might have proved fatal to Russian Israel had it not, during the preceding period, worked out for itself a definite _nationalistic_ attitude towards the non-Jewish world. There were several varieties of this national-political formula. At the one pole stood Zionism, with its theory of a new "exodus." At the other pole was the Social-Democratic party with its premise that "the blood of the Jew must serve as lubricating oil upon the wheels of the Russian Revolution." But even these two poles came somewhat closer to one another at the moment of the great national danger, converging, in spite of all their differences in program and tactics, toward the central line above which floated the banner proclaiming the fight for the civil, political, and national rights of the Jewish people. Disfranchised, battered by pogroms, victimized by tyrannous Tzardom, the Jews of Russia never thought of degrading themselves to the point of begging equal rights "in instalments." They demanded their rights in full, and demanded them not merely as "the Jewish _population_," but as the Jewish _people_, as an autonomous nation among other nations with a culture of its own. The doctrine of "National-Cultural Autonomism"[50] was crystallized in definite slogans. These slogans were proclaimed, as we have seen, by the "League for the Attainment of Equal Rights for the Jewish People," which united on its platform all political Jewish groups, with the exception of the Social-Democratic partisans. The years of storm and stress also forced Zionism to recede from its original position of denying the possibility of a national struggle in the Diaspora. Meeting during the most exciting days of the Russian Revolution, the Seventh Zionist Congress at Basle, held in July, 1905, mourned the loss of its prematurely cut-off leader, Theodor Herzl, and adopted a resolution voicing its strict allegiance to the Palestine idea and rejecting the temptations of Territorialism. This led to a formal split within the party, the Territorialists, headed by Zangwill, seceding and forming an organization of their own. A year later, in November, 1906, the Russian Zionists met at Helsingfors, and adopted the platform of a "synthetic Zionism," that is, a combination of the Palestine idea with the fight for national and cultural autonomy in the Diaspora. The guiding resolution of the Zionist Convention was couched in the following terms: The Zionist organization of Russia sanctions the affiliation of the Zionists with the movement for liberty among the territorial nationalities of Russia, and advocates the necessity of uniting Russian Jewry upon the principles of the recognition of the Jewish nationality and its self-government in all the affairs affecting Jewish national life. This slogan of "national rights" was followed by the Zionists during the elections to the first Imperial Duma. It was acted upon to a lesser extent by the two Socialistic factions affiliated with Zionism, the _Poale Zion_ and the Zionistic Socialists[51]; both groups confined themselves to the demand of a minimum of cultural autonomy in the Diaspora, concentrating their entire energy upon emigration, whether it be into Palestine, as advocated by the _Poale Zion_, or into any other territory, as preached by the Zionistic Socialists. During 1905-1906, a new Socialistic party with strong nationalistic leanings came into existence. In distinction from the other two Socialistic factions, it demanded a maximum of national autonomy in the Diaspora, including even a Jewish Diet as the central organ of Jewish self-government. The members of this party called themselves "Saymists" (from _Saym_, "Diet"), or went by the name of the "Jewish Socialistic Labor Party." In the midst of all these partisan platforms stood the "League for the Attainment of Equal Rights for the Jewish People," disregarding all party and class affiliations.[52] During the revolutionary period, this organization endeavored to unite all public-spirited Jews in the general Russian and national Jewish struggle for liberty, but with the decline of the revolutionary movement, the centrifugal forces within the League began to assert themselves. The divergence of views and tactics among the various groups composing the League proved stronger than their common interest in the nearest aim, which, with the advent of the political reaction, had become more remote. Thus it came about that, at the beginning of 1907, the "League for the Attainment of Equal Rights" fell asunder into its component parts. The first to secede from it was the Zionist party, which preferred to carry on its own _Gegenwartsarbeit_ under a separate party flag--although, properly considered, a far-reaching activity on behalf of national-Jewish rejuvenation in the lands of the Diaspora was scarcely compatible with the fundamental principle of political Zionism, the "negation of the _Golus_." The Helsingfors program of "synthetic Zionism," the child of the liberty movement, shrank more and more, as the hopes for a Jewish emancipation in Russia receded into the distance. Out of the "League for Equal Eights" came further the "Jewish People's Group," a party which opposed the Zionist idea altogether and repudiated the attempt to find new Jewish centers outside of Russia. This group, headed by the well-known political leader, M. Vinaver, placed in the center of its program the fight for civil emancipation, in close contact with the progressive elements of the Russian people, whereas in the question of national-Jewish interests it confined itself to the principle of "self-determination" and to the freedom of Jewish culture in general outlines, without putting forward concrete demands of Jewish autonomy. The People's Group counted among its adherents many representatives of the Jewish _intelligenzia_ who had more or less discarded the idea of assimilation and had come to recognize the necessity of a minimum of "Jewish-national rights." The third group, which also took its rise in the "League for Equal Eights," and received the name _Volkspartei_, or Jewish National Party, stood firmly on the platform of national Jewish policies. The underlying principle of this organization, or, more correctly, of this far-reaching social current, which has its origin in the historic development of the Jewish people, was the same principle of national-cultural autonomism which had long before the revolution pursued its own line of development parallel to Zionism.[53] The simultaneous struggle for civil and national rights, the creation of a full-fledged national community, instead of the _Kultusgemeinde_ of Western Europe, an autonomous national school, and the rights of both languages, the Hebrew and the Yiddish--such was, in general outlines, the program of the _Volkspartei_. At the same time, this party, taking the historic idea of the transplantation of Jewish centers in the Diaspora as its point of departure, recognized the emigration to America and the colonization of Palestine as great national factors destined to create two new centers of Judaism, one quantitatively powerful center in North America, and a smaller national center, but qualitatively, from the point of view of cultural purity, more valuable, in Palestine.[54] Finally, the "League for Equal Rights" gave birth to a fourth party, the Jewish Democratic Group, which is distinguished from the People's Group by its stronger leaning towards the political parties of the Left, the Russian radicals and Socialists. Since the dissolution of the "League," these four groups have, as a rule, united in various coalitions. They are all represented on the permanent council at St. Petersburg which, together with the deputies of the Imperial Duma, discusses Jewish political questions as they arise from time to time. Thus, there emerged in Jewish public life a form of representation reflecting the national and political ideas which had assumed concrete shape during the years of the Russian revolution and counter-revolution. The only organization standing outside these federated groups and their common platform of national Jewish politics is the Jewish Social-Democratic party, known as the "Bund," which is tied down by its class program and is barred by it from co-operating with the bourgeoisie, or a non-class organization, even within the domain of national Jewish interests. 2. THE TRIUMPH OF THE "BLACK HUNDRED" All these strivings and slogans were severely hit by the _coup d'état_ of June 3, 1907, when a large part of what the revolution had achieved was rendered null and void. Owing to the amendment of the suffrage law by this clumsy act of autocratic despotism, the constitution became the handmaid of Tzardom. The ruling power slipped into the hands of the Black Hundred, the extreme monarchistic groups, which were organized in the "League of the Russian People" and openly advocated the restoration of autocracy. The head of the League, Dubrovin, congratulated the emperor upon his act of violence of June 3, and was assured in reply that henceforth the "League of the Russian People" would be the "trusted bulwark" of the Throne. Nicholas might have said with greater justification that the Throne was the bulwark of the League of the Black Hundred, the hirelings of the reaction, who were supplied with millions of rubles from the imperial counter-revolutionary fund, the so-called "black money." Street heroes and pogrom perpetrators became the masters of Russian politics. The sinister forces began the liquidation of the emancipation movement. Day after day the newspaper columns were crammed with reports concerning the arrests of politically "undependable" persons and the executions of revolutionaries. The gallows and the jails became, as it were, the emblems of governmental authority. The spectacle of daily executions which continued for two years (1907-1909) forced from the breast of the grand old man, Leo Tolstoi, the desperate cry: "I cannot keep silent." Yet Nicholas II. continued his rôle of hangman. While young men and women, among them a great number of Jews, met their fate on the scaffold, the rioters and murderers from among the Black Hundred, who during the days of October, 1905, alone had ruined hundreds of Jewish communities, remained unpunished. The majority of them were not even put on trial, for the local authorities who were charged with that duty were afraid lest the judicial inquiry might establish their own complicity in the pogroms. But even those who were prosecuted and convicted on the charge of murder and plunder were released from punishment by orders from St. Petersburg. As a rule, the local branch of the League of the Russian People would appeal to the Tzar to pardon the participants in the "patriotic demonstrations"--the official euphemism for anti-Jewish riots--and the invariable response was an immediate pardon which was ostentatiously published in the newspapers. The petitions to the Tzar applying for the pardon of convicted perpetrators of violence went regularly through the Minister of Justice, the ferocious reactionary and anti-Semite Shcheglovitov. No one doubted that this amnesty was granted by virtue of an agreement concluded in 1905 between the Government and the pogrom ringleaders, guaranteeing immunity to the anti-Jewish rioters. A different treatment was meted out to the Jewish self-defence contingents, which had the courage to oppose the murderers. They were dealt with ruthlessly. In Odessa, a court-martial sentenced six young Jews, members of a self-defence group which was active during the October pogroms, to long terms of hard labor, characterizing the "crime" of these Jews in the following words: "For having participated in a conspiracy having for its object the overthrow of the existing order by means of arming the Jewish proletariat for an attack upon the police and troops." This characterization was not far from the mark. The men engaged in defending the lives of their brothers and sisters against the murderous hordes were indeed guilty of a criminal offence against the "existing order," since the latter sought its support in these hordes, of whom "the police and troops," as was shown by the judicial inquiries, had formed a part. The appeal taken from this judgment to the highest military court was dismissed and the sentence sustained (August, 1907). The Jews who had done nothing beyond defending life and property could expect neither pardon nor mitigation. This lurid contrast between the release of the pogrom perpetrators and the conviction of the pogrom victims was interpreted as a direct challenge to the Jewish population on the part of Nicholas II. and his frenzied accomplices. The Black Hundred had a right to feel that it was their day. They knew that the League of the Russian People formed, to use the phrase then frequently applied to it in the press, a "Second Government," which wielded greater power than the official quasi-constitutional Government of Stolypin. The dregs of the Russian populace gave full vent to their base instincts. In Odessa, hordes of League members made it a regular practice to assault the Jews upon the streets with rubber sticks, and, in case of resistance, to fire at them with pistols. Grigoryev, the city-governor, one of the few honest administrators, who made an attempt to restrain this black terrorism, was dismissed in August, 1907,[55] with the result that the assaults upon the Jews in the streets assumed an even more sanguinary character. All complaints of the Jews were dismissed by the authorities with the remark: "All this is taking place because the Jews were most prominent in the revolution." The Government represented by Stolypin, which was anxious to save at least the appearance of a constitutional régime, was often forced to give way before the secret Government of the Black League, which commanded the full sympathy of the Tzar. By orders of the League, Stolypin decreed that one hundred Jewish students who had passed the competitive examination at the Kiev Polytechnicum should be excluded from that institution and that a like number of Russian students who had failed to pass should be admitted instead. The director and dean of the institution protested against this clumsy violation of academic freedom, but their protest was left unheeded, whereupon they tendered their resignation (September, 1907). Following upon this, the Ministry of Public Instruction, yielding to the pressure of the "Second Government," restored the shameful percentage norm, restricting the admission of Jews to institutions of higher learning, which, during the preceding years, had been disregarded by the autonomous professorial councils. About the same time the Senate handed down a decision declaring the Zionist organization, which had been active in Russia for many years, to be illegal, and giving full scope to the police authorities to proceed with repressive measures against the members of the movement. 3. THE THIRD, OR BLACK, DUMA Such was the atmosphere which surrounded the elections to the third Imperial Duma in the fall of 1907. The reactionary electoral law of June 3 barred from the Russian Parliament the most progressive and democratic elements of the Empire. Moreover, by splitting the electoral assemblies into class and national curias, the Government succeeded in preventing the election of any considerable number of Jewish deputies. The elections took place under severe pressure from the authorities. Many "dangerous" nominees of the Left were arbitrarily put under arrest on framed-up political charges and, pending the conclusion of the investigation, were temporarily barred from running for office. In some places, the Black Hundred openly threatened the Jews with pogroms, if they dared to nominate their own candidates. As a result, only two Jewish deputies managed to get into the Duma--Friedman from the government of Kovno, and Nisselovich from Courland. The third Duma, nicknamed the Black, assembled in November, 1907. It had an overwhelming majority of reactionaries and anti-Semites. This majority of the Right was made up of the coalition of the conservative Center, represented by the "Octobrist" party,[56] with the extreme Right wing, the Russian "Nationalists," and Black Hundred. Whenever the Jewish question came up for discussion, the reactionary bloc was always able to drown the voices of the weak opposition, the "Cadet" party (Constitutional Democrats), the _Trudoviki_ ("the Labor Party"), and the handful of Socialists. The attitude of this reactionary Duma toward the Jewish question was revealed at its early sessions when the bill concerning the inviolability of the person was the subject of discussion. The opposition demanded the establishment of the full freedom of movement as the most fundamental condition of the inviolability of the person, but the majority of the Right managed to insert in the bill the following stipulation: "No one shall be limited in the right of choosing his place of residence and in moving from place to place, except in the cases set forth in the law, and excepting the Jews who arrive in localities situated outside the Pale of Settlement" (1908). In this wise the Russian legislators cleverly succeeded in harmonizing the principle of the inviolability of the person with the life-long imprisonment of millions of people in the huge prison house known as the Pale of Settlement. Their solicitude for the maintenance of this vast ghetto was so intense that the reactionary Government of Stolypin was often the butt of criticism because it did not always show sufficient regard for this holy institution. The fact of the matter was that in May, 1907, Stolypin had issued a circular ordering the governors to stop the expulsion from the interior governments of those Jews who had settled there before August, 1906, and possessed "a family and a domestic establishment" in those provinces, provided they were "harmless to the public order and do not arouse the dissatisfaction of the Christian population." As a result of this circular, several hundred, possibly several thousand, Jewish families were saved from expulsion. In consequence, the Right brought in an interpellation calling upon the Government to explain on what ground it had dared to issue this "charter of privileges" to the Jews. The interpellation, of course, proved effective, and the Government did its utmost to nullify the exemptive provisions of the circular. The anti-Semitic Duma betrayed the same spirit on another occasion by rejecting in the same year (1908) the bill, introduced by the Opposition, conferring the right of visiting the health resorts or watering-places upon all sufferers, without distinction of nationality. Yet these legal discriminations were not the worst feature of the third Duma. Even more excruciating was the way in which the Right wing of the Russian Parliament permitted itself to make sport of Judaism and things Jewish. It almost seemed as if the devotees of autocracy, the members of the extreme Right, had come to the Russian Parliament for the express purpose of showering abuse not only on the Russian constitution but also on parliamentary government in general. The hirelings of Nicholas II. danced like a horde of savages over the dead body of the emancipation movement, singing hymns in praise of slavery and despotism. Creatures of the street, the reactionary deputies drenched the tribune of the Imperial Duma with mud and filth, and, when dealing with the Jews, they resorted to methods similar to those which were in vogue among their accomplices upon the streets of the devastated cities. The term _Zhyd_ and the adjective _Zhydovski_, in addition to other scurrilous epithets, became the most favored terms of their vocabulary. They inserted formulas and amendments in various bills submitted to the Duma which were deliberately intended to insult the Jews. They called upon the Ministry of War to bring in a bill excluding the Jews from the army, in view of the fact that the Jewish soldiers had proved an element "which corrupts the army in the time of peace and is extremely unreliable in the time of war" (1908). They supported a law barring the Jews from the military Academy of Medicine, on the ground that the Jewish surgeons had carried on a revolutionary propaganda in the army during the Russo-Japanese War (1910). The Octobrists demanded the exclusion of the Jews from the office of Justice of the Peace, for the reason that their admission was subversive of the principles of a "Christian State" (1909). The remark made on that occasion by Karaulov, a deputy of the Opposition, "Where there is no equality, where there are pariah nationalities, there is no room for a constitutional order," was met from the benches of the Right with the retort: "Thank God for it; we don't want it." A similar cynical outburst of laughter greeted the warning of Rodichev: "Without the abolition of the Jewish disabilities, there is no access to the Temple of Freedom." The two Jewish Duma deputies did their utmost to get a hearing, but the Black Hundred generally interrupted their speeches by wild and offensive exclamations. In 1910, the Jewish deputy Nisselovich succeeded in obtaining the signatures of one hundred and sixty-six deputies for a legal draft, abrogating the Pale of Settlement. It was laid before the Duma, but resulted merely in fruitless debates. It was referred to a committee which quietly strangled the bill. 4. NEW JEWISH DISABILITIES Spurred on by the reactionary Duma, the Government went to even greater lengths in its policy of Jewish discrimination. Premier Stolypin, who was getting constantly nearer to the Right, was entirely oblivious of the promise, made by him in 1905, to remove immediately all restrictions which are "the source of irritation and are manifestly obsolete." On the contrary, the Ministry presided over by him was systematically engaged in inventing new grievous disabilities. The Jewish deputy Friedman was fully justified in declaring, in a speech delivered in February, 1910, that even "during the most terrible time which the Jews had to live through under Plehve no such cruelties and barbarities were practised as at the present moment." Wholesale expulsions of Jews from the cities situated outside the Pale of Settlement and from the villages within the Pale assumed the character of an epidemic. In the spring of 1910 the Government decided on sacrificing to the Moloch of Jew-hatred a whole hecatomb by expelling twelve hundred Jewish families from Kiev--a measure which aroused a cry of indignation beyond the confines of Russia. The acts of the Government were marked by a refinement of cruelty, for even little children, invalids, and aged people were pitilessly evicted. Particular enmity was shown in the ejection of Jews who had committed the "crime" of visiting summer resorts outside the city lines. The Senate handed down a decision to the effect that the Jewish soldiers who had participated in the defence of the besieged fortress of Port Arthur during the Japanese War were not entitled to the right of residence which had been granted by a former decree[57] to the Jewish soldiers who had taken part in the war. The spiritual murder of Jewish school children was the function of the black Minister of Enlightenment, with the significant name of Schwartz. The school norm, which, before the revolution, had been applied merely as a Government order, without legislative sanction, was formulated by him into a law and ratified by the Tzar in September, 1908. Henceforth, all institutions of higher learning in the Empire were open to the Jews only in a proportion not exceeding three per cent. of the total number of students for the capitals, five per cent. for the educational establishments outside the Pale, and ten per cent. for the Pale of Settlement. In view of the fact that during the emancipation movement the influx of Jews to the higher schools had been very great, so that their number was now vastly in excess of the established norm, it would have become necessary for the higher schools to bar completely all new candidates until the number of Jewish students had been reduced to the prescribed percentage limits. For a while the Minister recoiled from taking this cruel step, and permitted for the next few years the admission of Jewish students within the limits of the percentage norm, calculating the latter in relation to the number of the _newly admitted_ Christian students during a given year, without regard to the Jewish students admitted previously. Subsequently, however, many educational institutions closed their doors completely to the Jews, referring, by way of explanation, to the "completion of the norm" by the former pupils. Once more, bands of the "martyrs of learning" could be seen wending their ways toward the universities in foreign lands. A year later, in 1909, the percentage restrictions governing the secondary schools were also placed on the statute books. The proportion of Jewish admissions was fixed between five and fifteen per cent.--_i. e._, slightly in excess of the old norm--and was extended in its application to private educational institutions with the prerogatives of government schools. This law spelled ruin to many gymnazia and schools of commerce which, though directed by Christians, were almost entirely dependent on Jewish support, eighty per cent. of their school population consisting of Jews. As for the gymnazia maintained by Jews, with very few exceptions, they never were able to obtain from the Ministry the status of government institutions. The educational Hamans, however, went a step further, and in March, 1911, secured an ukase of the Tzar extending the percentage norm to the "externs":[58] henceforward Jews were to be admitted to the examination for the "certificate of maturity"[59] or for the completion of a part of the curriculum only in a certain proportion to the number of Christian externs. In point of fact, however, there were no Christian externs, since only the Jews who had failed to find admission to the schools were forced to present themselves for examination as externs. In consequence, the enormous number of Jewish children who had been barred from the schools by the percentage norm were deprived of their right to receive a testimonial from a secondary school. This law was passed during a brief interruption in the sessions of the Duma and was never submitted to it. The deputies of the Opposition brought in an interpellation concerning this action, but the "Black Parliament" laid the matter on the table, and the law which lacked all legal basis went into operation. Swayed more and more by the tendencies of a reactionary Russian nationalism, Stolypin's Government set out to uproot the national-cultural institutions of the "alien" races in Russia. The Poles, the Finns, and other nationalities became the victims of this policy. The lash of oppression was also applied to Jewish cultural life. In 1910, Stolypin issued a circular impressing Russian officialdom with the idea that the cultural and educational societies of the "aliens" contributed towards arousing in them "a narrow national-political self-consciousness" and towards "the strengthening of national separatism," and that for this reason all the societies of the Ukrainians and Jews which were established for the purpose of fostering a separate national culture should be prohibited. 5. THE SPIRITUAL REVIVAL OF RUSSIAN JEWRY This new blow was aimed right at the heart of Judaism. For after the revolution, when the political struggle had subsided, the Jewish _intelligenzia_ directed its entire energy into the channel of national-cultural endeavors. Profiting by the law of 1906, granting the freedom of assemblies and meetings, they founded everywhere cultural, educational, and economic (co-operative and credit) societies. In 1908, the Jewish Literary Society was established in St. Petersburg, which soon counted over a hundred branches in the provinces. The same year saw the formation of the Jewish Historico-Ethnographic Society which began to publish a quarterly review under the name _Yevreyskaya Starina_ ("Jewish Antiquity").[60] The oldest educational organization among the Jews, the Society for the Diffusion of Enlightenment, enlarged its activity and was endeavoring to create a new type of national Jewish school. A multitude of other cultural societies and circles sprang into life with the sanction of the authorities throughout the length and breadth of the Pale. Everywhere lectures and conferences were held and heated debates were carried on, centering around national-cultural problems. Particularly passionate were the discussions about the position of Hebrew and Yiddish in public life, in school and in literature, leading to the alignment of two parties, the Hebraists and the Yiddishists. The lectures, conferences and debates themselves were generally carried on in one of these languages, mostly in the Yiddish vernacular. In spite of their crudities, these partisan conflicts were a clear indication of the advance of national self-consciousness and of the desire for the upbuilding of a genuine Jewish life upon the concrete foundations of a cultural autonomy. Of course, anti-Semitic Tzardom could not be expected to sympathize with this inner regeneration of Jewry, and, as in the time of Plehve, it directed its blow at the Jewish-national organizations. Here and there the blow was effective. In 1911, the Jewish Literary Society, with its one hundred and twenty branches, which had displayed an energetic activity in the establishment of libraries and the arrangement of public lectures, went out of existence. In general, however, the attacks directed against the Jewish spirit proved much more difficult of realization than the attacks upon Jewish property. The cultural activities continued in their course, defying all external restrictions and persecutions. The literary revival, which had started in the nineties, and was but temporarily interrupted by the stormy events of the revolutionary period, also came into its own again. The rejuvenation of both the national and the popular language, finding its expression in a widely ramified Jewish literature, proceeded along paralleled lines. The periodical press in Hebrew, represented by the two dailies, _ha-Tzefirah_ in Warsaw, and _ha-Zeman_ in Vilna, and the monthly ha-Shiloah in Odessa, found its counterpart in a popular press in Yiddish, reaching hundreds of thousands of readers, such as the dailies _Fraind_ ("The Friend," published since 1903 in St. Petersburg), _Haint_ ("To-day"), _Moment_, and others, in Warsaw. In addition there was the Jewish press in Russian: the weeklies _Voskhod_, _Razsvyet_, _Yevreyski Mir_ in St. Petersburg, and a few other publications. In the domain of higher literary productivity, new forces were being constantly added to the old ones. Besides the great national bard Bialik there appeared a number of gifted poets: Shneor, the singer of "storm and stress," of doubts and negations, the romantically inclined Jacob Kohan, Fichman, Reisin, David Einhorn, and many other youthful, as yet scarcely unfolded talents. J. L. Perez found a rival in Shalom Asch, the portrayer of patriarchal Jewish life in the provincial towns of Poland (_Die Städtel_, "The Provincial Town," 1904), and the author of charming sketches from Jewish life, as well as a playwright of note whose productions have met with tumultuous applause both on the Jewish and the non-Jewish stage (_Moshiah's Zeiten_, "Messianic Times," _Gott von Nekomo_, "God of Revenge," _Shabbetai Zewi_, _Yihus_, "Blue Blood"). His numerous co-workers in Yiddish letters have devoted themselves with youthful enthusiasm to the cultivation of this branch of Jewish literature. In Hebrew fiction a number of talented writers and a group of novelists, who publish their works mostly in the _ha-Shiloah_, came to the fore. The successor of Ahad Ha'am in the editorship of this periodical, Dr. Joseph Klausner, occupies a prominent place in Jewish literature as publicist, critic, and partly as historian. If we add to these talents the not inconsiderable number of writers who are domiciled in Galicia, Palestine, Germany, and America, and draw their inspiration from the vast Russian-Jewish reservoir, the growth of Jewish literature during the last decade stands forth in bold relief. This progress of inner Jewish life in Russia is truly remarkable. In spite of the catastrophes which have descended upon Russian Jewry during the first decade of the twentieth century, the productivity of the Jewish national spirit has gone on unchecked, and the national-Jewish culture has struck out in all directions. The assimilationist positions, which have been generally abandoned, are only held by a few loyal devotees of a past age. It is true that the process of _elemental_ assimilation, which penetrates from the surrounding atmosphere into Judaism through the medium of language, school and literature continues to affect Jewish life with the same force as of old. But there can be no doubt that it is effectively counterbalanced by the centripetal factor of a national culture which is becoming more and more powerful. Large as is the number of religious apostates who have deserted Judaism under the effect of external pressure, and of moral renegades who have abandoned the national ethical ideals of Judaism in favor of a new-fangled decadent æstheticism, it is negligible when compared with the compact mass of Russian Jewry and with the army of intellectuals whose national self-consciousness has been deepened by suffering. As in all previous critical moments in the history of the Jews, the spirit of the nation, defying its new tormentors, has grown stronger in the worn-out body. The Hamans of Russia who have attempted to crush the Eternal People have failed as signally as their predecessors in Persia, Syria and Byzantium. FOOTNOTES: [50] See above, p. 51 _et seq._ [51] Called by their Russian initials S. S. [52] See above, p. 111 _et seq._ [53] See above, p. 51. [54] Beginning with the year 1905, the emigration to America once more assumed enormous proportions. During 1905-1906, the years of revolution and pogroms, nearly 230,000 Jews left Russia for the United States. During the following years the figure was somewhat lower, but still continued on a fairly high level, amounting to 50,000-75,000 annually. In Palestine, the colonization went apace, and with it the cultural activities. Several schools, with a purely national program, such as the gymnazia in Jaffa and Jerusalem, and other institutions, came into being. [55] When the same official waited upon the Tzar with his report concerning the events at Odessa, he was amazed to see the Tzar come out to him with the badge of the League of the Russian People upon his chest--the same badge which was worn by the rioters in Odessa. He was subsequently given to understand that the Tzar had done so demonstratively to show his solidarity with the hordes of the Black Hundred. [56] So called because it based its program on the imperial manifesto of October 17, 1905. See above, p. 127. [57] See p. 98 _et seq._ [58] See vol. II, p. 351. [59] The name given to the graduation certificate of a gymnazium. In German it is similarly called _Reifezeugnis_. [60] It was edited by the writer of the present work, S. M. Dubnow. RUSSIAN JEWRY SINCE 1911 Being loath to cross the threshold of the present, we shall stop at the year 1911, terminating the first decade of the Thirty Years' War waged by Russian Tzardom against Jewry since 1881. The more recent phases of this war are still fresh in our memory. To put the new campaign of Jew-hatred in its proper light, it will suffice to point out its most conspicuous landmarks which stand out by their extraordinarily sinister features. In 1911, the organizations of the Black Hundred, with the help of their accomplices in the Duma and in the Government circles, manufactured the monstrous "Beilis case." The murder of a Russian boy in Kiev, of a family belonging to a band of thieves, and the discovery of the body in the neighborhood of a brickkiln owned by a Jew provided the anti-Semites with an opportunity to bring forward the old charge of ritual murder. In the beginning the Government was somewhat uncertain as to the attitude it should adopt towards the mysterious Kiev murder. But a political occurrence which took place at the time put an end to its vacillation. In September, 1911, Premier Stolypin was assassinated in a Kiev theatre in the presence of the Tzar and the dignitaries of State. The assassin, by the name of Bogrov, proved to be the son of a lawyer who was of Jewish extraction, though he had long before turned his back upon his people--a semi-anarchist, who at one time had been active as police agent for some mysterious revolutionary purposes. The Jewish extraction of the father of the assassin was enough to produce a paroxysm of fury in the camp of the anti-Semitic reactionaries who had lost in the person of Stolypin an exalted patron. In Kiev preparations were openly made for a Jewish massacre, but the Government was afraid that the proposed wholesale execution of Jews would mar the festive solemnity of the Tzar's visit to Kiev. The authorities made it known that the Tzar was not in favor of riots, and a bloody street pogrom was averted. In its place, however, a bloodless pogrom, extending over two years, was arranged in the form of the Beilis case. Minister of Justice Shcheglovitov, a former Liberal, who had become a fanatical partisan of the Black Hundred, made up his mind to impart to the trial a glaring ritual coloring. The original Judicial inquiry having failed to uncover any traces of Jewish complicity, the Minister of Justice ordered a new special inquiry and constantly changed the personnel of the investigating and prosecuting officials, until he finally secured a bill of indictment in which the whole case was represented as a ritual crime, committed by the Jew Beilis with the participation of "undiscovered persons." For two years, the Beilis case provided the pabulum for a wild anti-Semitic campaign which was carried on among the so-called better classes, on the streets, in the press, and in the Imperial Duma. The court trial which took place in Kiev in October, 1913, was expected to crown with success the criminal design harbored by the Minister of Justice and the Black Hundred, but the expectations of the Government were disappointed. In spite of a carefully selected court personnel, which consisted of anti-Semitic judges representing the Crown, and of sworn jurymen, ignorant peasants and burghers who believed in the ritual murder legend, Beilis was acquitted, and the authorities found it impossible to fasten the guilt upon the Jews. Exasperated by the failure, the Government wreaked its vengeance upon the liberal-minded intellectuals and newspaper men, who, by their agitation against the hideous libel, had wrested the prey from the hands of the Black Hundred. Scores of legal actions were instituted not only against newspaper editors and contributors but also against the St. Petersburg Bar Association, which had adopted a resolution protesting against the method pursued by Shcheglovitov in the Beilis trial. The sensational case against the metropolitan lawyers was tried in June, 1914, one month before the declaration of the World War, and terminated in a verdict of guilty for twenty-five lawyers, on the charge of "having agitated against the Government." The triennium preceding the World War witnessed the rise of a new danger for Judaism, this time coming from Poland. The extraordinary intensity of the national and religious sentiment of the Poles, accentuated by the political oppression which for more than a hundred years had been inflicted upon them, particularly by the hands of Russian despotism, has, during the last decade, been directed against the Jewish people. The economic progress made by the Jews in the two industrial centers of Russian Poland, in Warsaw and Lodz, gave rise to the boycott agitation. Polish anti-Semites proclaimed the slogan "Do not buy from Jews!", aiming the cry specifically against the "Litvaks," that is, the hundreds of thousands of Russian Jews who, in the course of the last few decades, had been chiefly instrumental in the economic advancement of those two centers. The cloak beneath which this agitation was carried on was purely that of Polish nationalism: the Russian Jews were alleged, on the one hand, "to Russify Poland," and, accused, on the other hand, of an opposite tendency, of asserting themselves as the members of a separate Jewish nationality, with a press and a social organization of their own, which refuses to be merged in the Polish people. The anti-Semitic movement in Poland, which began shortly after the revolution of 1905, assumed extraordinary dimensions in 1910-1911, when the boycott became a fierce economic pogrom, reaching its culmination in 1912, during the election campaign to the fourth Imperial Duma. The Jewish electors of Warsaw formed a majority, and were, therefore, in a position to send a Jewish deputy to the Duma. Yet out of consideration for the national susceptibilities of the Poles who insisted on sending as a representative of the Polish capital one of their "own," a Christian, the Jews were willing to accept a Polish candidate, provided the latter was not an anti-Semite. When, however, the Polish election committee, disregarding the feelings of the Jews, nominated the anti-Semitic candidate Kukhazhevski, the Jews gave their votes to the Polish Socialistic nominee Yaghello, who carried the election. This attitude of the Jews aroused a storm of indignation among the higher classes of Polish society. An anti-Jewish campaign, marked by extraordinary bitterness, was set in motion, and in the press and on the streets the Jews were nicknamed "Beilises," an echo of the ritual murder legend which had given rise to such horrors in ancient Catholic Poland. The economic boycott was carried on with incredible fury, and in a number of towns and villages the cowardly enemies of the Jews, being afraid of attacking them openly, set fire to Jewish houses, with the result that in many cases entire families were consumed in the flames. The _furor Polonicus_ assumed more and more dangerous forms, so that at the beginning of the World War, in 1914, almost the entire Polish nation, from the "progressive anti-Semites" down to the clericals, were up in arms against the Jews. From this armed camp came the defiant war cry: "On the banks of the Vistula there is no room for two nationalities," thus sentencing to death the two millions of Polish Jewry who consider themselves a part of the Jewish, and not of the Polish nation. Out of this soil of national hatred crawled forth the snake of the terrible "military libel," which during the first year of the war drenched Polish Jewry in rivers of blood. Over the bleeding body of the Jewish people Polish and Russian anti-Semitism joined hands. Horrors upon horrors were perpetrated before which the ancient annals of Jewish martyrdom fade into insignificance. * * * * * Nearly twenty centuries have passed since the ancient Judæo-Hellenic Diaspora sent forth a handful of men who established a Jewish colony upon the northern Scythian, now Russian, shores of the Black Sea. More than a thousand years ago the Jews of Byzantium from one direction, and those of the Arabian Caliphate from another, went forth to colonize the land of the Scythians. The Jew stood at the cradle of ancient Kiovian Russia, which received Christianity from the hands of the Byzantines. The Jew witnessed the birth of Catholic Poland, and, during the stormy days of the Crusades, fled from the West of Europe to this haven of refuge which was not yet entirely in the hands of the Catholic Church. He has seen Poland in its bloom and decay; he has witnessed the rise of Muscovite Russia, tying the fate of one-half of his nation to the new Russian Empire. Here the power that dominates history opened up before the Jewish people a black abyss of mediævalism in the midst of the blazing light of modern civilization, and finally threw it into the flames of the gigantic struggle of nations. What may the World War be expected to bring to the World-Nation? Full of agitation, the Jew is looking into the future, and the question of his ancient prophet is trembling on his lips: "Ah Lord God! wilt Thou make a full end of the remnant of Israel?"[61].... Let the entire past of the Jewish people serve as an answer to this question--a people which, in the maelstrom of human history, has succeeded in conquering the two cosmic forces: Time and Space. FOOTNOTES: [61] Ezekiel XI, 13. BIBLIOGRAPHY BIBLIOGRAPHY VOLUME I [_Yevr. Bibl._ = _Yevreyskaya Bibliotyeka_; _Yevr. St._ = _Yevreyskaya Starina_.] CHAPTER I THE JEWISH DIASPORA IN EASTERN EUROPE (pp. 13-38) Latyschew, Inscriptiones antiquae orae Septentrionalis Ponti Euxini, vols. I-II. St. Petersburg, 1885, 1890 [R]. Reghesty i Nadpisi. Svod materialov dla istoriyi yevreyev v Rossiyi ("Documents and Inscriptions. Collection of Materials for the History of the Jews in Russia"). Vol. I, St. Petersburg, 1899, Nos. 1-218 [R]. Dubnow, "The Historical Mystery of the Crimea," _Yevr. St._, 1914, No. 1. Harkavy, Skazaniya Musulmanskikh pisatyeley o Slavianakh i Russkikh ("The Accounts of the Mohammedan Writers concerning the Slavs and Russians") St. Petersburg, 1870 [R]. ----, Mitteilungen über die Chasaren, _Russische Revue_, 1877; also _Yevr. Bibl._, vols. VII-VIII, St. Petersburg, 1878. ----, Altjüdische Denkmäler aus der Krim, St. Petersburg, 1876. Firkovich, Abne Zikkaron. Matzebot 'al Kibre Bne Israel bi-Krim, Vilna, 1872. Chwolson, Corpus inscriptionum hebraicarum. Grabschriften aus der Krim, St. Petersburg, 1882. Petahiah of Ratisbon, Sibbub, edited by Grünhut, Jerusalem, 1904. Benjamin of Tudela, Sefer ha-Massa'ot, ed. Grünhut, Jerusalem, 1903; ed. Marcus Adler, London. Hoker, "The Jews in Kaffa under the Genoese Régime (1455)," _Yevr. St._ 1912, p. 66 _et seq._ Sobranie russkih letopisey ("Collection of Russian Chronicles") [R]. Solovyov, Historiya Rossiyi ("The History of Russia"). Vol. I, Moscow, 1863-75 [R] CHAPTER II THE JEWISH COLONIES IN POLAND AND LITHUANIA (pp. 39-65) Volumina legum. Leges et constitutiones Regni Poloniae, vol. I, St. Petersburg, 1859 (_sub anno_ 1347, 1420, 1496, 1505). Bershadski, Russko-yevreyski arkhiv ("Russian-Jewish Archives"), St. Petersburg, vol. I (1882), Nos. 1-39, and vol. III (1903), Nos. 1-15. Bersohn, Dyplomataryusz dotyczacy zydów w dawniej Polsce ("Diplomatic Documents relating to the Jews in Ancient Poland"), Warsaw, 1910, Nos. 1-4, 386-402 [P]. Hube, Constitutiones synodales provinciae Gnesnensis, St. Petersburg, 1856, pp. 68-70, 159-161. Czacki, Rozprawa o Zydach ("An Inquiry concerning the Jews"), Cracow, 1860 [P]. Gumplowicz, Prawodawstwie Polskie wzgledem zydów ("Polish Legislation relating to Jews"), Cracow, 1867 [P]. Sternberg, Geschichte der Juden in Polen, Leipzig, 1878. Bershadski, Litovskiye yevreyi ("The Lithuanian Jews"), St. Petersburg, 1883 [R]. Schipper, Studya nad stosunkami gospodarczymi zydów w Polsce podczas zredniowiecza ("A Study of the Economic Relations of the Jews in Poland during the Middle Ages"), Leinberg, 1911 [P]. CHAPTER III THE AUTONOMOUS CENTER IN POLAND AT ITS ZENITH (pp. 66-102) Volumina legum (1859-1860), vol. I, pp. 309, 375, 506, 524-525, 550; vol. II, pp. 624, 690-692, 725, 1052, 1243; vol. III, pp. 289, 809-810; vol. IV, pp. 39-40. Bershadski, Russo-yevreyski arkhiv, vol. I, pp. 62-337; vol. II (St. Petersburg, 1882); vol. III (1903), pp. 36-260 [R]. Reghesty i Nadpisi, vol. I, pp. 95-871 [R]. Akty Vilenskoy kommissiyi dla razbora drevnikh aktov ("Records of the Vilna Commission for the Examination of Ancient Documents"), vol. XXVIII, containing documents relating to Jews (Vilna, 1901), Nos. 1-278 [R]. Bersohn, Dyplomataryusz, Nos. 5-246, 351-356, 401-552 [P]. Schorr, "The Cracow Collection of the Jewish Statutes and Charters of the Fifteenth to the Sixteenth Century," _Yevr. St._, vol. I, pp. 247 _et seq._, vol. II, pp. 76, 223 _et seq._ Czacki, Rozprawa o Zydach, pp. 44-54 [P]. Kraushar, Historya Zydów w Polsce ("History of the Jews in Poland"), vol. II, Warsaw, 1866, pp. 144-318 [P]. Gumplowicz, Prawodawstwie Polskie, etc., pp. 36-45, 50-52, 58-76, 103 [P]. Nussbaum, Historya Zydów ("History of the Jews"), vol. V, pp. 108-223 [P]. Bershadski, Litovskiye yevreyi, chapters V-VI [R]. Dubnow, "The Jews and the Reformation in Poland during the Sixteenth Century," _Voskhod_, 1895. Books V-VIII. ----, "The Victims of Fictitious Accusations during the years 1636-1639," _Voskhod_, 1895. Books I-II. Perles, Geschichte der Juden in Posen, Breslau, 1865. Comp. Frankel's _Monatsschrift_, 1864-1865. Balaban, "The Jewish Physicians in Cracow and Tragedies of the Ghetto," _Yevr. St._, 1912, p. 38 _et seq._ ----, "Episodes from the History of Ritual-Murder Trials," _Yevr. St._, 1914, p. 163 _et seq._ ----, "The Legal Status of the Jews in Poland during the Middle Ages and in more Recent Times," _Yevr. St._, 1910-1911. ----, Dzieje Zydów w Krakowie ("History of the Jews in Cracow"), vol. I, Cracow, 1913 [P]. ----, Zydyi lwowscy na przelomie XVI i XVII wieku ("The Jews of Lemberg on the Border-Line between the Sixteenth and Seventeenth Century"), Lemberg, 1906 [P]. CHAPTER IV THE INNER LIFE OF POLISH JEWRY AT ITS ZENITH (pp. 103-138) Dubnow, "Kahal Constitutions," etc., _Voskhod_, 1894, Books II-XII. ----, "Documents of the Council of Four Lands," _Yevr. St._, 1912, pp. 70, 178, 453. ----, "The Record Book of the Lithuanian Provincial Assembly," _Yevr. St._, 1909-1915. ----, Wa'ad Arba 'Aratzot be-Polen, article in _Sefer ha-Yobel_ le-Rab Nahum Sokolow, Warsaw, 1904. ----, "Council of Four Lands," article in Jewish Encyclopedia, vol. IV, p. 304 _et seq._ ----, "The Inner Life of Polish Jewry during the Sixteenth Century," _Voskhod_, 1900, Books II and IV. ----, "The Vernacular of the Polish-Lithuanian Jews during the Sixteenth and Seventeenth Century," _Yevr. St._, 1909, p. 1 _et seq._ Harkavy, Hadashim gam Yeshanim. Appendix to Rabbinowitz's Hebrew translation of Grätz's History, vol. VII, Warsaw, 1899. Schorr, Organizacya Zydow w Polsce ("The Organization of the Jews in Poland"), Lemberg, 1899. ----, Zydzi w Przemyzlu ("The Jews in Pshemyshl"), 1903. Perles, Geschichte der Juden in Posen, 1865. Balaban, Zydzi lwowscy, etc. ----, Dzieye Zydow w Krakowie. ----, "Jacob Pollak, the Father of Polish Rabbinism, and His Age," _Yevr. St._, 1912, p. 225 _et seq._ ----, "Die Krakauer Judengemeinde-Ordnung von 1595," _Jahrbuch der Jüdisch-Literarischen Gesellschaft_, vol. X, Frankfurt-on-the-Maine, 1913. Horodezki, Le-Korot ha-Rabbanut, Warsaw, 1911, containing the biographies of Moses Isserles, Solomon Luria, Mordecai Joffe, Meir of Lublin, Samuel Edels, and others. ----, "Rabbi Nathan Shapiro, a Kabbalist of the Seventeenth Century," _Yevr. St._, 1910, pp. 192 _et seq._ ----, "The Age of the Ascetic Kabbalah" (Isaiah Horvitz and his family), _Yevr. St._, 1913, pp. 145, 367, 455. Rabbinovich, "Traces of Free-thinking in Polish Rabbinism of the Sixteenth Century," _Yevr. St._, 1911, p. 1 _et seq._ Warchel, "Polish Jews at the University of Padua," _Kwartalnik historyi Zydow_ ("Jewish Historical Quarterly"), Warsaw, 1913, No. 3. Bruckner, "From the History of Polish Dissidents," _Ateneum_, Warsaw, 1898, No. 2. Isaac Troki, Hizzuk Emunah, edited with German translation by D. Deutsch, Breslau, 1873. CHAPTER V THE AUTONOMOUS CENTER IN POLAND DURING ITS DECLINE (pp. 139-187) Nathan Hannover, Yewen Mezulah, Venice 1653. The other Jewish chronicles and records will be found in the collection of I. Gurland, Le-Korot ha-Gezerot `al Israel, Parts I-VI, Cracow, 1887-1892, and the posthumous edition, Odessa, 1892. Kostomarov, Bogdan Khmelnitzki, vols. I-III, St. Petersburg, 1884 [R]. Arkhiv Yugo-zapadnoy Rossiyi ("Archives of South-western Russia"), Part III, volume 3, Kiev 1876, containing the documents relating to the Haidamacks, with a preface by V. Antonovich [R]. ----, Part V, volume II, Kiev 1890, concerning the censuses of the Jewish population of the South-western region, taken during the years 1765-1791 [R]. Volumina Legum, vols. IV-VIII, passim. Bersohn, Dyplomataryusz, Nos. 247-350, 357-384. Schorr, "The Cracow Collection, etc.," see bibliography to Chapter III. Akty Vilenskoy kommissiyi (see bibliography to Chapter III), vols. XXVIII-XXIX, containing Jewish records, Vilna, 1901-1902. Reghesty i Nadpisi, vol. I, Nos. 872:1111; vol. II; vol. III, Nos. 1850-2224, St. Petersburg, 1913. Levin, Judenverfolgungen im Schwedisch-polnischen Kriege 1655-1659, Posen, 1901. Dubnow, "The Ruzhan Martyrs of 1659," _Voskhod_, 1893, Book I. Balaban, "The Jewish Physicians in Cracow, etc." (concerning Calahora), _Yevr. St._, 1912, pp. 51-53. ----, Skizzen zur Geschichte der Juden in Polen, Berlin, 1911. ----, "From the Past of a Jewish Street in Lemberg," _Yevr. St._, 1909, p. 237. ----, "The Ritual Murder Trial in Posen of 1736-1740," _Yevr. St._, 1913, p. 469 _et seq._ ----, "An Episode from the History of the Ritual Murder Trials and of the anti-Jewish Literature in Poland," _Yevr. St._, 1914, p. 318 _et seq._ Galant, "The Ritual Murder Trial in Dunaigorod of 1748," _Yevr. St._, 1911, p. 268. ----, "The Victims of the Blood Accusation in Zaslav of 1747," _Yevr. St._, 1912, p. 202 _et seq._ G. E., On the trials of Stupnitza and Voyslavitzá, _Yevr. St._, 1912, p. 26 _et seq._ The Papal Bulls concerning the Blood Accusation, Russian translation of Stern's book, pp. 29-105, containing Ganganelli's memorandum and the appended documents, Kiev, 1912. Hekker, "Anti-Semitism in Poland during the Eighteenth Century," _Yevr. St._, 1913, p. 439 _et seq._ Concerning the Haidamack uprising and the massacre at Uman, see Gurland's Le-Korot ha-Gezerot and Reghesty i Nadpisi, _sub anno_ 1768. CHAPTER VI THE INNER LIFE OF POLISH JEWRY DURING THE PERIOD OF DECLINE (pp. 188-241) Dubnow, "Records of the Council of Four Lands during 1621-1699," _Yevr. St._, 1912, pp. 178, 453. ----, "The Record Book of the Lithuanian Provincial Assembly during 1623-1761," _Yevr. St._, 1910-1915. ----, Article on the Provincial Assemblies, _Voskhod_, 1894, Books IV and XII. Schipper, Beiträge zur Geschichte der partiellen Judentage in Polen im XVII-XVIII Jahrhundert bis 1764. Grätz, Geschichte der Juden, vol. X, Index sub "Polen," particularly the chapter on Sabbatai Zevi. ----, Frank und die Frankisten, Breslau, 1868. Dubnow, "Jacob Frank and his Christianizing Sect," _Voskhod_, 1883, Book I _et seq._ ----, "The History of Frankism according to newly discovered sources," _Voskhod_, 1896, Books III-IV. Kraushar, Frank i Frankizci ("Frank and the Polish Frankists"), Cracow, 1895. Two volumes [P]. Balaban, "Notes on the History of the Frankist Sect," _He-`Atid_, vol. V, Berlin, 1913. Horodezki, Mystisch-religiöse Strömungen unter den Juden in Polen im XVI-XVIII Jahrhundert, Leipzig, 1914. Dubnow, "The Social and Spiritual Life of the Jews in Poland in the First Half of the Eighteenth Century," _Voskhod_, 1899, Books I-II. ----, "Introduction to the History of Hasidism," _He-`Atid_, vol. III, Berlin, 1911. ----, "The Rise of Hasidism and Tzaddikism. History of the Hasidic Schism. The Religious Struggle, etc.," _Voskhod_, 1888-1893. Lewin, "Aliyyot Eliyyahu" (a biography of the Gaon of Vilna), Vilna, 1875. Yatzkan, Rabbenu Eliyyahu (another biography), Warsaw, 1900. Solomon Maimon, Lebensgeschichte, Berlin, 1792. CHAPTER VII THE RUSSIAN QUARANTINE AGAINST JEWS (pp. 242-261) Reghesty i Nadpisi, vol. I, Nos. 462, 470, 527, 653, 654, 757, 877-878, 897-898. Levanda, Sbornik zakonov o yevreyakh ot 1649 do 1873 ("Compendium of the Laws relating to Jews from 1649 to 1873"), Nos. 1-29. Solovyov, Historya Rossiyi ("History of Russia"), Book III, edition 1910, p. 1345. Dubnow, "Peter the Great and the Jews." ----, Article on the Moghilev massacre of 1655, _Pardes_, vol. III, Odessa, 1896. Orshanski, Russkoye zakonodatyelstvo o yevreyakh ("The Russian Legislation relating to Jews"), St. Petersburg, 1877. Golitzin, Istoriya russkavo zakonodatyelstva o yevreyakh ("History of the Russian Legislation relating to Jews"), St. Petersburg, 1886. Kunin, "The Jews of Moscow in the Seventeenth Century," _Yevr. St._, 1913, p. 96 _et seq._ S. D., "The Expulsion of the Jews from Little Russia in the Second Quarter of the Eighteenth Century," _Yevr. St._, 1913, pp. 193, 123 _et seq._ ----, "The Census taken of the Jews of Little Russia in 1736," _Yevr. St._, 1913, pp. 400, 526. ----, "The Petition of the Nobility and the Elders of Little Russia for the Restoration of the Ancient Rights of Little Russia, presented to Catherine II. in 1764," _Kievskaya Starina_, 1883, Book 6. CHAPTER VIII POLISH JEWRY DURING THE PERIOD OF THE PARTITIONS (pp. 262-305) Czacki, Rozprawa o Zydach (see bibliography to Chapter II), 9, pp. 117-134 [P]. Korzon, Wewnetvzne dzieje Polskie za Stanislawa Augusta ("The Inner History of Poland under Stanislav Augustus"), Cracow, 1882, vol. I, pp. 164-167, 230-232, 240 _et seq._ [P]. Solomon Maimon, Lebensgeschichte. Okhotski, "Stories from Poland's Past," Russian translation, St. Petersburg, 1874, vol. I, pp. 54-55. Volumina Legum (see bibliography to Chapter II), vol. VII, pp. 333, 352; vol. VIII, p. 95. Nussbaum, Szkice historyczne z zycia zydow w Warszawie ("Historic Sketch from the Life of the Jews in Warsaw"), Warsaw, 1881, pp. 13-15 [P]. Smolenski, Stan i sprawa zydow polskich w XVIII wieku ("The Status and the Cause of the Polish Jews in the Eighteenth Century"), Warsaw, 1876 [P]. Maciejowski, Zydzi w Polsce, na Rusi i Litwie (" The Jews in Poland, Russia and Lithuania"), Warsaw, 1878 [P]. Bershadski, Litovskiye yevreyi ("The Jews of Lithuania"), St. Petersburg, 1883, pp. 46-48 [R]. Akty Vilenskoy kommissiyi (see bibliography to Chapter III), vol. 29, pp. 463-180 [R]. Hekker, "The Jews in the Polish Cities in the Second Half of the XVIII. Century," _Yevr. St._, 1913. Dubnow, "History of the Hasidic Schism," _Voskhod_, 1890-1891. Fünn, Kiryah Neemanah (history of the Vilna community), Vilna, 1860, pp. 27, 130, 273. Katz, "History of the Haskalah Movement in Russia," _Ha-Zeman_, 1903, vol. I, pp. 97-102. Kraushar, Frank i Frankizci (see bibliography to Chapter VI), vol. I, pp. 139-149 [P]. Paperna, article on Hirshovitz's memorandum, _Voskhod_, Book VI, 1902. Kraszewski, Polska w czasie trzech rozbiorów ("Poland during the Time of the Three Partitions"), vol. II, pp. 318-320; vol. III, pp. 108, 122 [P]. Gumplowicz, Stanislawa Augusta proekt reformy zydowstwa ("Stanislav Augustus' Project of Jewish Reform"), Cracow, 1875 [P]. Deiches, Sprawa zydowska podezas Sejmu Weilkiego ("The Jewish Cause at the Time of the Great, or Quadrennial Diet"), 1891. Luninski, Berek Joselwicz, Warsaw, 1909 [P]. Comp. _Yevr. St._, 1909, vol. II, p. 128 _et seq._ Moscicki, "Polish Jewry under the Sceptre of Catherine II," _Kwartalnik pozwiacony badaniu przeszlozci zydow w Polsce_ ("Quarterly devoted to the Study of the History of Polish Jewry"), Warsaw, vol. I, 1912. Pages 61-65 describe the attitude of the Jews in Vilna and Grodno in the Polish revolution of 1794 [P]. Skarbek, Dzieje ksiestwa Warszawskiego ("History of the Duchy of Warsaw"). Three volumes, Posen, 1860 [P]. Golitzin, Istoriya russkavo zakonodatyelstva (see bibliography to Chapter VII), pp. 1001 _et seq._, containing a list of the laws passed by the Duchy of Warsaw during 1807-1812 [R]. Vishnitzer, "A Plan of Reforming Jewish Life in the Duchy of Warsaw and in the Kingdom of Poland," _Perezhytoye_, vol. I, pp. 166-171, St. Petersburg, 1908 [R]. Hessen, "In an Ephemeral Body Politic," _Yevr. St._, 1910, p. 6 _et seq._ Askenazy, "The Era of the Duchy of Warsaw," _Kwartalnik_, etc., 1912, vol. I [P]. CHAPTER IX THE BEGINNINGS OF THE RUSSIAN RÉGIME (pp. 306-334) Shugurov, "History of the Jews in Russia," _Russki Arkhiv_, 1894, vol. I, pp. 163-167. The petition of the Moscow merchants is reprinted, _Voskhod_, 1895, Book I, pp. 31-33 of the second division [R]. Orshanski, Russkoye zakonodatyelstvo (see bibliography to Chapter VII), pp. 183-184. Golitzin, Istoriya russkavo zakonodatelstva, p. 136 [R]. Levanda, Sbornik, etc. (see bibliography to Chapter VII), Nos. 30-47, 55. Bershadski, "The Jewish Statute of 1804" (containing the official correspondence and plans relating to the Jewish question during 1797-1801), _Voskhod_, 1895, Books I-IV. Dyerzhavin, Collected Writings, 1878, vol. VI, pp. 113-114, 124, 715; vol. VII ("Opinion concerning the Jews") [R]. Hessen, Yevreyi v Rossiyi ("The Jews in Russia"), St. Petersburg, 1906 [R]. CHAPTER X THE "ENLIGHTENED ABSOLUTISM" OF ALEXANDER I. (pp. 335-365) Brafman, Kniga Kahala ("The Book of the Kahal"), vol. II, Nos. 335, 339, 340, 352. Hessen, Yevreyi v Rossiyi, pp. 77-78, 322. ----, "The Deputies of the Jewish People," _Yevr. St._, 1909, vol. II, pp. 19-20. Gordon, "Note on the History of the Settlement of the Jews in St. Petersburg," _Voskhod_, 1881, Book II, pp. 29, 39-40. Levanda, Sbornik zakonov, Nos. 59 (the Statute of 1804), 64, 69-70. "The Report of the Jewish Committee in 1812," _Russki Arkhiv_, 1903, Book II, pp. 253-274. Orshanski, Russkoye zakonodatelstvo, p. 271 _et seq._ Golitzin, Istoriya russkavo zakonodatelstva, pp. 543 _et seq._, 587, 590, 981, 985 [R]. Ginsburg, Otyechestvennaya Voyna 1812 goda i russkiye yevreyi ("The Patriotic War of 1812 and the Russian Jews,") St. Petersburg, 1912 [R]. Nikitin, Yevreyi-zemledyeltzy ("The Jewish Agriculturists"), St. Petersburg, 1887 [R]. Helman, Bet Rabbi (a biography of Shneor Zalman and his children), Berdychev, 1901, fol. 47. CHAPTER XI THE INNER LIFE OF RUSSIAN JEWRY DURING THE PERIOD OF "ENLIGHTENED ABSOLUTISM" (pp. 366-389) Bershadski, "The Jewish Statute of 1804," _Voskhod_, 1895. Book VI, pp. 46-63. Hessen, Yevreyi v Rossiyi, pp. 220, 237 [R]. Golitzin, Istoriya, pp. 348-355 [R]. Dubnow, "History of the Hasidic Schism." _Voskhod_, 1890, Books XI-XII; 1891, Book I. ----, "The Religious Struggle," _Voskhod_, 1893, Book I, pp. 37-49. ----, "The Intervention of the Russian Government in the War against Hasidism," _Yevr. St._, 1910, Books I-II. Hessen, Yevreyi v Rossiyi, p. 164 _et seq._ [R]. Fünn, Kiryah Neemanah (history of the Vilna community), Vilna, 1860, p. 134 _et seq._ ----, Safah le-Neemanim, Vilna, 1881, §§ 91, 94, 98. Horodezki, "Levi Itzhok of Berdychev," _Yevr. St._, 1909, vol. I, p. 205 _et seq._ ----, "Nahman of Bratzlav." _Ha-Goren_, IV (1903). Zederbaum, Keter Kehunnah, Odessa, 1866. Frenk, Yehude Polin bime Napoleon, Warsaw, 1912. Calmanson, Essai sur l'état actuel des Juifs, Warsaw, 1796; comp. _Ha-Meassef_, 1809, pp. 286-291. Nyevakhovich, Vopl dochery yudyeyskoy ("The Moan of the Daughter of Judah"), St. Petersburg, 1803. Reprinted in the collective volume published by the Russian-Jewish weekly _Budushchnost_, St. Petersburg, 1902 [R]. The same in Hebrew, under the title _Kol shaw'at bat Yehudah_, Shklov, 1804. Stanislavski, "Mendel Lewin," _Voskhod_, 1881, Book III. CHAPTER XII THE LAST YEARS OF ALEXANDER I. (pp. 390-413) Levanda, Sbornik zakonov, _sub anno_ 1815-1825. Pen, "The Deputation of the Jewish People," _Voskhod_, 1905, Books 1-3. Hessen, "The Deputies of the Jewish People," _Yevr. St._, 1909, vol. II. Way, Lewis, Mémoires sur l'état des Israélites, dediés et presentés à leurs Majestés imperiales et royales réunies au Congres d'Aix-la-Chapelle, Paris, 1819. Lerner, Yevreyi v Novo-rossiyskom kraye ("The Jews in the New-Russian Region"), Odessa, 1901 [R]. Golitzin, Istoriya, etc., pp. 608, 686 [R]. Kozmin, "Past and Present of the Siberian Subbotniks (Sabbatharians)," _Yevr. St._, 1913, Book I, p. 3 _et seq._ Dubnow, "Historical Communications," _Voskhod_, 1901, Book IV, p. 37. "A Inquiry into the Jewish Question," published by the Chancellery of the United Societies of the Nobility, St. Petersburg, 1910, vol. I, pp. 3, 18 [R]. Pestel, Russkaya Pravda ("Russian Truth"), edited by Shchogolev, St. Petersburg, 1906, pp. 50-52 [R]. Semyovski, Politicheskiya i obshchestvennyia idyeyi Dyekabristov ("The Political and Social Ideas of the Decembrists"), St. Petersburg, 1910, pp. 517-523 [R]. VOLUME II CHAPTER XIII THE MILITARY DESPOTISM OF NICHOLAS I. (pp. 13-45) _Yevr. St._, 1911, p. 589 (Nicholas' Opinions of the Jews). ----, 1909, p. 236 ff., (an account of Tziprinus, a Russian official, about the introduction of military service). Levanda, Sbornik zakonov, Nos. 153, 154, 159, etc. (see Index s. v. "Recruits"). Volhynian Legends, _Yevr. St._, 1911, p. 389. Ginzburg and Marek, Yevreyskiya Narodniya Pyesni ("Jewish Folk-Songs"), St. Petersburg, 1901, p. 42 _et seq._ [R]. Recollections of former Cantonists in _Yevr. St._, 1909, vol. II, pp. 115 _et seq._; 1911, pp. 249 _et seq._; 1912, pp. 54 _et seq._ Hertzen, Byloye i Dumy ("Recollections and Reflections"), foreign edition, vol. I, 308 [R]. Korobkov, "Jewish Conscription during the Reign of Nicholas I.," _Yevr. St._, 1913, Books I-II. Nikitin, Mnogostradalnyie ("The Martyrs"), St. Petersburg, 1871. ----, Reminiscences, _Yevr. Bibl._, St. Petersburg, 1873. On the _Beholoh_, see Bogrov, Zapiski Yevreya ("Memoirs of a Jew"), St. Petersburg, 1874, p. 114 [R]; Smolenskin, Ha-To'eh, vol. II, p. 169; and Kotik, Meine Zichroines ("My Reminiscences"), Warsaw, 1913, pp. 99 _et seq._ Levanda, Sbornik zakonov, _sub anno_ 1827-1840. Spravka po yevreyskomu voprosu ("Inquiry into the Jewish Question"), Part I, pp. 1-43 (containing archival documents on the work preliminary to the Statute of 1835). Hessen, "The Memoranda Submitted by the Kahal of Vilna and L. Feigin." _Yevr. St._, 1911, 96 _et seq._ and 394 _et seq._ _Yevr. St._, 1909, p. 112, and 1911, pp. 417-418. CHAPTER XIV COMPULSORY ENLIGHTENMENT AND INCREASED OPPRESSION (pp. 46-87) Dubnow, "Historical Communications," _Voskhod_, 1901, Books 4-5 (dealing with the work of the committee of 1840). Georgievski, Doklad po voprosu ob obrazovaniyi yevreyev ("Report on the Question of Educating the Jews"), St. Petersburg, 1886. Not published [R]. Morgulis, Voprosy yevreyskoy zhizni ("Problems of Jewish Life"), St. Petersburg, 1889, pp. 33 _et seq._ [R]. Mandelstamm, Hazon la-Mo'ed ("A Vision for the Appointed Time"), Vienna, 1877. Part II [H]. _Allgemeine Zeitung des Judentums_, 1842-1848, articles describing Lilienthal's mission. Scheinhaus, Ein deutscher Pioneer (on Lilienthal's mission), Berlin, 1911. Tzinberg, "Levinsohn and his Time," _Yevr. St._, 1910, pp. 520 _et seq._ Comp. _ibid._, 1912, p. 91. Levanda, Sbornik zakonov, Nos. 462, 475, 509-510, 575. Die Juden in Russland, Hamburg, 1844. Lerner, Yevreyi v Novorossiyi ("The Jews in New Russia"), Odessa, 1901, pp. 46 _et seq._ [R]. Loewe, Diaries of Sir Moses Montefiore, London, 1890. Hebrew edition, Warsaw, 1899. Ginzburg, "A Forerunner of Baron Hirsch" (on Altaras), _Voskhod_, 1897, Book XI. Leket Amarim ("Collection of Essays"), edited _Ha-Melitz_, St. Petersburg, 1889, pp. 81 _et seq._ Nikitin, Yevreyi zemledyeltzy ("Jews as Agriculturists"), St. Petersburg, 1887, pp. 103 _et seq._ [R]. Spravka k dokladu po yevreyskomu voprosu ("Inquiry in connection with the Report on the Jewish Question"). Part V: The Ritual Murder Trials, edited by the United Societies of the Nobility, St. Petersburg, 1912 [R]. A memorandum on the Velizh case by the Senate. Not published. Hessen, Velizhskaya Drama ("The Drama of Velizh"), St. Petersburg, 1905 [R]. Ryvkin, "The Velizh Case as reflected in local legends," _Perezhytoye_, vol. III, St. Petersburg, 1911 [R]. Dubnow's articles on Velizh, _Luah Ahiasaf_, 1895-1896; on Novaya Ushitza, _Perezhytoye_, vol. I (1909); on Mstislavl, _Voskhod_, 1899, Book 9. Hessen, "The Mstislavl Disturbances," _Perezhytoye_, vol. II. An-ski, "Some of the Legends Connected with the Mstislavl Incident," _ibid._ CHAPTER XV THE JEWS IN THE KINGDOM OF POLAND (pp. 88-110) S. Askenazy, "Concerning Jewish Affairs during the Era of Congresses," _Kwartalnik_, etc., vol. I, No. 3, Warsaw, 1913. Vishnitzer, "Reform Projects in the Kingdom of Poland," _Perezhytoye_, vol. I, St. Petersburg, 1908. Friedländer, David, Die Verbesserung der Israeliten im Königreich Polen, Berlin, 1819. Inquiry into the Jewish Question, etc. (the utterances of Zaionchek), vol. I, 43. The Legal Journal of the Kingdom of Poland (during the years indicated in the text). Golitzin, Istoria Russkavo zakonodatyelstva o yevreyakh ("The History of Russian Legislation relating to Jews,") pp. 1001-1005 [R]. Luninski, Berek Joselowicz, Warsaw, 1909. "The Ritual Murder Trials during the Year 1816," _Yevr. St._, 1912, pp. 144-163. Nussbaum, Historya Zydow, V, 390-399 [P]. "From the History of the Rabbinical School in Warsaw," _Perezhytoye_, vol. I. Kandel, "The Committee of Old Testament Believers," _Kwartalnik_, 1912, No. 12, pp. 85-103. Jost, 11. II, 302 (on Chiarini). Mstislavskaya, "The Jews in the Polish Insurrection of 1831," _Yevr. St._, 1910. Myakotin, "The Tovyanski Movement," _Voskhod_, 1888, Books 11-12. Die Juden in Russland, Hamburg, 1844, pp. 35, 38-40 (on conscription in the kingdom of Poland). CHAPTER XVI THE INNER LIFE OF RUSSIAN JEWRY DURING THE PERIOD OF MILITARY DESPOTISM (pp. 111-139) Gottlober, Autobiography, in the Hebrew periodical _Ha-Boker Or_, 1880-1881. Ginzburg, M. A., Abi`ezer (autobiography), Vilna, 1883. Plungian, Ben Porat (biography of Menashe Ilyer), Vilna, 1858. Hilman, Beth Rabbi (biography of Shneor Zalman and descendants), Berdychev, 1901. Horodezki, Rabbi Nahum mi-Chernobyl u-Banaw ("R. Nahum of Chernobyl and his Descendants"), Berdychev, 1902. Sternholz, `Alim li-Tetrufah ("Leaves for Healing," letters of Rabbi Nahman of Bratzlav), Berdychev, 1896. Nathansohn, Sefer ha-Zikronot ("Book of Recollections," on I. B. Levinsohn), Warsaw, 1878. Wengeroff, P., Memoiren einer Grossmutter, Berlin, 1908. Horodezki, "The Sadagora Dynasty," _Yevr. St._, 1909, vol. II. Zederbaum, Keter Kehunnah ("The Crown of Priesthood," on the Tzaddiks of Poland), Odessa, 1866. Magid, "M. A. Ginzburg," St. Petersburg, 1897 [H]. Fünn, Safah le-Neemanim ("Speech of the Trustworthy"), pp. 149 _et seq._, Vilna, 1881. Gordon, "A. B. Lebensohn," _Yevr. Bibl._, vol. VIII, St. Petersburg, 1880. CHAPTER XVII THE LAST YEARS OF NICHOLAS I. (pp. 140-153) Levanda, Sbornik zakonov (for the years 1848-1854). Ginzburg, "A forgotten Era," _Voskhod_, 1896, Book 2. Ginzburg and Marek, Yevreyskiya Narodnya Pyesni ("Jewish Folk-Songs"), St. Petersburg, 1901, No. 53 [R]. Osip Rabinovich, "The Penal Recruit" and "The Inherited Candlestick," collected works, vol. I, St. Petersburg, 1880 [R]. Bogrov, "The Captured Recruit," _Yevr. Bibl._, vol. IV, St. Petersburg, 1874, pp. 2-7, preface. Friedberg, "The Captured Recruits," _Sefer ha-Shanah_, edited by Sokolow, vol. III, Warsaw, 1901. Spiegel, "From the Diary of a Cantonist," _Yevr. St._, 1911, pp. 249 _et seq._ Itzkovich, "Reminiscences of a Cantonist," _Yevr. St._, 1912, pp. 54 _et seq._ Korobkov, "Jewish Conscription during the Reign of Nicholas I.," _Yevr. St._, 1913. On the Ritual Murder Trial of Saratov, see "Inquiry into the Jewish Question, etc." Part V, pp. 208-243 [R]. Trivus, "Ritual Murder Trials before the pre-Reformatory Courts," _Yevr. St._, 1912, pp. 252-262 _et seq._ CHAPTER XVIII THE ERA OF REFORMS UNDER ALEXANDER II. (pp. 154-183) Levanda, Sbornik zakonov (for the years 1855-1865). "Inquiry into the Jewish Question," etc. Part I, pp. 55-102, 105, 112; Part III, pp. 10-17, 79-92 (discussion of the projected legal bills in the Council of State, etc.). K stoletyu komityeta ministrov ("The Centenary of the Committee of Ministers"), St. Petersburg, 1902 [R]; the "resolutions" of Alexander II. are recorded in _Voskhod_, 1903, Book III. "Some Resolutions of Alexander II. on the Jewish Question in 1861," _Yevr. St._, 1912, p. 472. Hessen, "An Attempt at Jewish Emancipation in Russia," _Perezhytoye_, vol. I, p. 153 ff. Orshanski, Yevreyi v Rossiyi ("The Jews in Russia"), St. Petersburg, 1877 [R]. ----, Russkoye zakonodatyelstvo o yevreyakh ("The Russian Legislation relating to Jews"), St. Petersburg, 1877, pp. 214, 309-334 [R]. Georgievski, Doklad po voprosu ob obrazovaniyi yevreyev ("Report on the Question of educating the Jews"), St. Petersburg, 1886, pp. 92, 134 _et seq._ [R]. Marek, Ocherki po istoriyi prosvyeshchenya v Rossiyi ("Sketches from the History of Enlightenment among the Jews of Russia"), Moscow, 1909 [R]. Kandel, "The Petition of 1857," _Kwartalnik_, 1913, 147-159. Sternberg, Geschichte der Juden in Polen, Leipsic, 1878, Beilage G, pp. 186-191 (the Jewish agitation of 1859 in Warsaw, and Lelevel's reply). _Jutrzenka_ ("The Dawn"), Polish-Jewish weekly in Warsaw, for the years 1861-1863. Berg, Zapiski o polskikh zagovorakh i powstaniakh ("Memoirs concerning Polish Conspiracies and Revolutions"), St. Petersburg, 1873 [R]. "The Experiences of a Jew during the Polish Insurrection of 1863," _Yevr. St._, 1910, pp. 378-390. Inquiry into the Jewish Question, Part VII, pp. 63, 70, 89, 95. Spasovski, Zhizn i politika markiza Vyelepolskavo ("Life and Policies of Marquis Vyelepolski"), St. Petersburg, 1882 [R]. CHAPTER XIX THE REACTION UNDER ALEXANDER II. (pp. 184-205) Spravka po yevreyskomu voprosu ("Inquiry into the Jewish Question"), Part VII, pp. 63, 70, 89, 95 [R]. Brafman, Kniga Kahala, 3d edition, St. Petersburg, 1888 [R]. "The Jewish Delegation in the Vilna Commission of 1869," _Yevr. St._, 1912, pp. 187 _et seq._; comp. _Perezhytoye_, II, pp. 306 _et seq._ and III, pp. 385 _et seq._ "The Enactments against the Jewish Dress in 1871," _Yevr. St._, 1912, pp. 334-338; comp. "The Struggle with the Jewish Dress," _Perezhytoye_, I, 2d Section, pp. 16-18. Orshanski, "On the Nature of the Odessa Pogrom," in the collective volume _Yevreyi v Rossiyi_ ("The Jews in Russia"), 1877, pp. 156 _et seq._ [R]. Margulis, "The Odessa Riots of 1871," in the collective volume _Yevreyski Mir_ ("The Jewish World"), St. Petersburg, 1910. Levanda, Sbornik zakonov, for the years 1865-1873. For the additional laws for 1874-1880 see _Sobranie zakonov_ ("Collection of Laws"), edited by the Government Senate. Comp. _Systyematicheski ukazatyel literatury o yevreyakh_ ("A Systematic Index of the Literature dealing with the Jews"), St. Petersburg, 1892, pp. 59-60. "Analysis of the Legislation relating to the Jews during the past Decade," _Yevr. Bibl._, vol. VII, 1879. The memorandum of Nyekhludov "On the Emancipation of the Jews" is found in _Spravka po yevreyskomu voprosu_, Part VII, pp. 103-122; appeared also as a separate publication, St. Petersburg, 1907. On the Municipal Statute of 1870 and on the Conscription Statute of 1874, see _Spravka_, Part II, pp. 127-138, 142-209. An account of the Congress of Berlin, based on the French text of the Proceedings, _Spravka_, Part III, pp. 151-154; see also _Yevr. Bibl._, vol. VI, 1878, p. 145 _et seq._ [R]. On the Jews in the Russo-Turkish War of 1877, see Criticus (pen-name of S. M. Dubnow) in _Voskhod_, 1891, Book I, pp. 32-38. The full proceedings of the Kutais case are found in a supplement to _Yevr. Bibl._, vol. VI, pp. 1-188. Chwolson, Upotreblayut-li yevreyi khristianskuyu krov? ("Do the Jews use Christian Blood?"), 2d edition, with a reply to Kostomarov, St. Petersburg, 1879 [R]. Borissov, "Ippolit Lutostanski," Kiev, 1912 [R]. CHAPTER XX THE INNER LIFE OF RUSSIAN JEWRY DURING THE REIGN OF ALEXANDER II. (pp. 206-242) S. Ginzburg, "A forgotten Era," _Voskhod_, 1896, Books III and V. Margulis, article on "N. I. Pirogov," in _Voprosy yevreyskoy zhizni_ ("Questions of Jewish Life"), St. Petersburg, 1889. Criticus (pen-name of S. M. Dubnow), "I. S. Aksakov and the Jews," _Voskhod_, 1887, Book II. Dostoyevski, Yevreyski vopros ("The Jewish Question"), in his collected writings, edited by Marx, vol. XI, pp. 85-102; also in his _Dnyevnik pisatyela_ ("The Diary of an Author," autobiographical sketches), during 1873-1877, in various places [R]. Orshanski, Yevreyi v Rossiyi ("The Jews in Russia"). Margulis, Voprosy yevreyskoy zhizni, pp. 149-195, on the Crown rabbis and teachers of the sixties. Tarnopol, Opyt osmotrityelnoy reformy v oblasti iudaizma ("Attempt at Cautious Reforms in the Domain of Judaism"), Odessa, 1868, [R]. Gumplovich's article is found in _Jutzenka_ ("The Dawn"), 1891, No. 19 [P]. Leon Rosenthal, Toldot Hebrat Marbe Haskalah be-Israel ("History of the Society for the Diffusion of Enlightenment among the Jews"), two volumes, St. Petersburg, 1885-1890; comp. Criticus, _Voskhod_, 1891, Books X-XI. Levanda, "The Establishment of the First Periodical of Russian Jewry," _Voskhod_, 1881, Book VI. The letters of Ossip Rabinovich, published in _Yevr. St._, 1911, p. 71 _et seq._ Dubnow, "The Change of Tendencies in Jewish Journalism," in "Letters on Ancient and Modern Judaism," St. Petersburg, 1907, pp. 205-226 [R]. Frumkin, "From the History of the Revolutionary Movement among the Jews during the Seventies," _Yevr. St._, 1911, pp. 221 _et seq._, 513 _et seq._ Tzinberg, "The First Socialistic Periodicals in Hebrew Literature," _Perezhytoye_, I, pp. 233-263. Sosis, "Social Currents during the Period of Reforms," _Yevr. St._, 1914. Mandelkern, "Micah Joseph Lebensohn," _Ha-Asif_, III, 1886. Brainin, "Micah Joseph Lebensohn," _Voskhod_, 1902, Book III. ----, "Abraham Mapu," Warsaw, 1900 [H]. Cantor, "Gordon and His 25 years of Activity," _Voskhod_, 1881, Books XI-XII. S. D. (=S. Dubnow), "The Jewish Nyekrassov" (on J. L. Gordon), _Voskhod_, 1884, Book VII. Iggerot Jelag ("Letters of J. L. Gordon"), two volumes, Warsaw, 1894. Bienstock, "A Festival in Yiddish Literature" (a biography of Abramovich), _Voskhod_, 1884, Book XII. Frischmann, "Mendele Mokher Sforim," in Introduction to the collected Hebrew works of Abramovich, vol. II, Odessa, 1911. Brainin, "Perez Smolenskin," Warsaw, 1896 [H]. M. Kahan, Me-'Ereb 'ad `Ereb, vol. I, Vilna, 1904, pp. 186-244. The same volume also contains an analysis of Lilienblum's work and of the literary currents of the seventies in general. Gottlieb, "P. M. Smolenskin" ("Gallery of Jewish Worthies"), Part II, St. Petersburg, 1899 [R]. Lilienblum, Hattot Ne`urim ("Sins of Youth"), Vienna, 1876; also in his collected works, Cracow, 1910-1912, vol. II. Klausner, "Moshe Leib Lilienblum" (a biographical analysis, prefacing the first volume of Lilienblum's collected works). Hessen, "O. Rabinivich and I. Orshanski" ("Gallery of Jewish Worthies"), Part I, St. Petersburg, 1898 [R]. "Ilya Grigorievich Orshanski, an Autobiographical Sketch," _Yevr. Bibl._, vol. VI, pp. 1-43, St. Petersburg, 1878. Yampolski, "Recollections of I. G. Orshanski," _Yevr. St._, 1911, p. 55 _et seq._ Volynski, "The Portrayer of Russian Jewry" (on the stories of Levanda), _Voskhod_, 1888. "From the Correspondence of L. O. Levanda," _Yevr. Bibl._, vols. IX-X, St. Petersburg, 1901-1903, containing also some letters from Bogrov; Comp. _Yevr. St._, 1913, pp. 279-281. Wengeroff, Memoiren einer Grossmutter, vol. II, Berlin, 1910, containing valuable material for the understanding of the transition period of the fifties and sixties. CHAPTER XXI THE ACCESSION OF ALEXANDER III. AND THE INAUGURATION OF POGROMS (pp. 243-258) _Razsvyet_, 1881, pp. 494, 650, 653; 846, 1255-57. _Yevr. St._, I. pp. 9193; II. pp. 207 ff. Chronique du movement socialiste en Russie, 1878-1887. _Byloye_ (historical journal), 1907, Book VI, p. 305. CHAPTER XXII THE ANTI-JEWISH POLICIES OF IGNATYEV (pp. 259-283) _Pravityelstvyenny vyestnik_ (1881), No. 98. _Razsvyet_, No. 19. _Yevr. St._, V, p. 346. _Archives of Historical Society._ _Voskhod_ (1881), Book V, p. 83 (II part). Sagasty's letter, _Razsvyet_, 1881, p. 1105; Campos' letter, _ibid._, p. 1148. "Inquiry into the Jewish question" (ed. by the Council of the United Nobility, St. Petersburg, 1910), Part II, pp. 125-126; _Russian Jew. Encycl._, I, pp. 826-827. Dr. Mandelstamm's Reminiscences, _Perezhitnoye_, vol. IV, p. 53 et seq. (St. Petersburg, 1913). Report of the Gubernatorial Commissions on the Jewish Question, vols. I-II, St. Petersburg, 1884. Istoria Revolutzionnavo Dvizhenia v Rossiyi ("The History of the Revolutionary Movement in Russia"), St. Petersburg, 1906, pp. 260-262. Die Judenpogromen in Russland, I, pp. 46-66 (Köln, 1910). CHAPTER XXIII NEW MEASURES OF OPPRESSION AND PUBLIC PROTESTS (pp. 284-308) "Historical review of the activities of the Committee of Ministers," vol. IV, p. 183 (St. Petersburg, 1902). _Voskhod_, 1903, Book III, p. 154. _Razsvyet_ (1882), No. 3 (supplement), and No. 4, p. 125. _Yevr. St._ (1909), I. pp. 93-97. _Judische Welt_ (Yiddish monthly, St. Petersburg, 1912), No. 2. _Archives_, Nos. 10, 12, 13, 15. CHAPTER XXIV LEGISLATIVE POGROMS (pp. 309-323) _Yevr. St._, I. pp. 265-267. _Russian Jew. Encycl._, I, p. 829. Historical Review of the activities of the Commission of Ministers, IV, pp. 20-21, 183. _Voskhod_, 1903, Book III, p. 155. _Razsvyet_, No. 20. _Razsvyet_, 1882, pp. 1125, 1417. "Diary of a Palestinian Immigrant," _Voskhod Chron._, 1882. _Yevr. St._, 1915, pp. 100, 201 ff. _Voskhod_, 1883, Book I, p. 69 (II part). CHAPTER XXV INNER UPHEAVALS (pp. 324-335) _Razsvyet_, 1882, pp. 506, 1301. _Voskhod Chron._, 1882, p. 645. Bez Illuzii ("Without Illusion"), _Razsvyet_, 1881, p. 1988; 1882, p. 152 ff. Dubnow, _Razsvyet_, 1881, Nos. 34, 35. Gordon, Kol Schire Jelag, I, pp. 115-116, St. Petersburg, 1884. Dubnow, "The Question of the Day," _Razsvyet_, 1881, Nos. 34-35. Hamzefot, Chto Zhe Dielat? ("What is to be done?"), _Razsvyet_, 1882, Nos. 2-5. _Razsvyet_, 1881, Nos. 41-42, "The General Jewish Question and Palestine." Ben-Zion (Priluker), Yevreyi Reformatory ("Jewish Reformers"), St. Petersburg, 1882. CHAPTER XXVI INCREASED JEWISH DISABILITIES (pp. 336-357) "Inquiry into the Report on the Jewish question," vol. II, pp. 20-21. Pahlen's Commission, pp. 175, 251 _et seq._ _Yevr. St._, I. p. 88 _et seq._ Gieorgievski, Doklad po vøprosu ob obrazovani Yevreyev ("Report on the question of the Education of Jews"), St. Petersburg, 1886. Pozner, Yevrei v Obshchey Shkolie ("Jews in Secular Schools"), St. Petersburg, 1914, pp. 58-59. "History of Ministers' Commission" (Government publication), vol. IV, p. 433, St. Petersburg, 1902. "Review of the Last Year" (Annual reviews of the first books of the _Voskhod_ for 1884-1889; especially 1884, Book I, pp. 27, 30-31, 36-37; 1885, Book I, p. 47 _et seq._). _Voskhod_, 1891, Book II, p. 40 (II part). Frederic, "The New Exodus," London, 1902, pp. 175, 248-252. Frug, "Two Generals" (a page of reminiscences), _Yevreyskaya Zhizn_, 1915, No. 14. Mysh, Rukovodstvo k zakonodatielstvu o Yevreyakh v Rossiyi ("Guide to the Laws about Jews in Russia"), p. 384, St. Petersburg, 1892. _Yevreyskaia Bibl._, vol. IV, p. 469, St. Petersburg, 1901. Usov, Yevreyi v Armii ("Jews in the Army"), St. Petersburg, 1911, pp. 14-92. CHAPTER XXVII RUSSIAN REACTION AND JEWISH EMIGRATION (pp. 358-377) _Voskhod Chron._ (1883), Nos. 19, 20; 1884, Book VI, p. 30 _et seq._ (II part). Orshanski, "Review for the Last Year," _Voskhod_, 1884, Book II, pp. 40-49. Pahlem Commission, pp. 78-79. Margulis, "Reminiscences," _Yevreyski Mir_ (1909), Book VI; _Voskhod_ (1895), Book I, p. 50 (II part). Pozner, Yevreyi v Vysshey Shkolie ("Jews in Higher Institutions"), p. 56. "Russian Jews in America: Results of the Emigration Movement," _Voskhod_, 1890, Book X. "Jewish Agricultural Colonies in America," _Voskhod_, 1891, Books I-IV. Fornberg, Yevreyskaya Emigratzia ("Jewish Emigration"), Kiev, 1908. Lilienblum, Derekh la-`avor Golim, Warsaw, 1893. M. Kahan, Me-'Erev 'ad `Erev ("From Evening to Evening"), vol. II, Vilno, 1904. Khisin, "From the Diary of a Palestinian Emigrant," _Voskhod_, 1889, Books I-XXII. Sapir, "Zionism," Vilno, 1903, _Yevr. St._, 1915, Books I-II. CHAPTER XXVIII JUDÆOPHOBIA TRIUMPHANT (pp. 378-398) H. Frederic, "The New Exodus: A Study of Israel in Russia," p. 173 (London, 1892; the author visited Russia in 1891, and heard about the Tzar's resolution from a man who saw the document). _Voskhod Chron._, 1890, No. 21 (p. 528), 23 (p. 569), 30 (pp. 475, 752). _Voskhod_ (1891), Book I, p. 63 (II part); II, pp. 42-47. "Judenpogromem in Russland," I, p. 119. "Spravka k dokladu po yevreyskomu voprosu" ("Inquiry of the Report on the Jewish Question"), II, pp. 138-140. Letters from V. Solovyev to F. Getz (St. Petersburg, 1909), pp. 27-40, 55 _et seq._ CHAPTER XXIX THE EXPULSION FROM MOSCOW (pp. 399-413) "Mysterious References to the Work of the Councils," _Voskhod Chron._, 1891, No. 11, p. 288, and No. 12, p. 315. _Voskhod_ (1895), Book I, p. 50 (II part). _Archives of the Jew. Hist. Soc._ (interview between Baron Günzburg and the Minister of Finance in September, 1891). Weber-Kempner, La Situation des Juifs en Russie. Rapport addressé au Gouvernement des États-Unis (Paris, 1892), p. 17. Goldovski, "Jews in Moscow." "Beyond the Border," _Voskhod_ (1891), Books IV-XI, pp. 5-6. CHAPTER XXX BARON HIRSCH'S EMIGRATION SCHEME AND UNRELIEVED SUFFERING (pp. 414-429) Istoricheski Obzor Dieyatielnosti Comitieta Ministrov ("Historical Study of the Activity of the Ministers' Committee"), vol. IV, p. 184 (St. Petersburg, 1902). _Jew. Encycl._, VI, p. 415. _Russian Jew. Encycl._, VI, p. 564. _Voskhod_ (1888), No. 2. A. White, Jewish Colonization and the Russian Persecution, New Review, London, 1891, No. 27, August, pp. 97-105. _Voskhod_, 1891, Books IV-IX. Lietopisiets, "Beyond the Border." Lapin, Nastoyashchiye i Budushchiye Colonisatsii v Argentinie ("The Present and Future Colonisation in Argentine"), St. Petersburg, 1894. Fornberg, Yevreyskaya Emigratzia ("Jewish Emigration"), Kiev, 1908. Jewish Colonisation Association Rapports de L'administration Centrale, Paris, 1891-94. M. Kahan, Me-'Erev 'ad `Erev, I, pp. 55-118, Vilno, 1904. Berkenheim, "Colonisation Movement," _Voskhod_, 1895, Books I, V, VII, XI. Katzenelson, "The Martyrdom in the Moscow Synagogues," _Yevr. St._, 1909, I, pp. 175-186. Goldovski, "Jews in Moscow," _Byloye_, 1907, Book IX, 161-163. _Yevr. St._ (1911), IV, p. 109 _et seq._ Dubnow, Novieyshaya Istoria Yevreyev ("The New History of the Jews"), p. 552 (1914 ed.). _Voskhod Chron._, 1894. VOLUME III CHAPTER XXXI THE ACCESSION OF NICHOLAS II. (pp. 7-39) _Voskhod_, 1896, Book I, p. 38 (II part). _Yevr. St._ (1914), VIII, p. 400. Judenpogromen in Russland, vol. I, p. 98. "Memoirs of the commission on the Jewish question under Plehve" (1903-1904), pp. 6-7 (not published). _Archives of Jew. Hist. Soc._, coll. S. P. E., No. 134, I. _Byloye_ (1907), Book IX, p. 162. Levine, Svornik Zakonov o Yevreyakh ("Collection of Laws about Jews"), St. Petersburg, 1902. Voytanski, Yevreyi v Irkutskie ("Jews in Irkutsk"), 1915, pp. 30, 264. _Yevr. Bibl._, IX, p. 467 _et seq._ (St. Petersburg, 1901, London ed.). Pozner, Yevreyi v Obshchey Shkolie ("Jews in Secular Schools"), St. Petersburg, 1914, pp. 89-92, 105, 119-129, 127-129. _Budushchmost_ (weekly), 1902, Nos. 5-6. _Russian Jew. Encycl._, IV, pp. 661-664. CHAPTER XXXII THE NATIONAL AWAKENING (pp. 40-65) Theodor Herzl, Zionistische Schriften, vol. I, Berlin, 1905. Friedemann, Das Leben Th. Herzl's, Berlin, 1904. R. Gottheil, Zionism, Philadelphia, 1914. Protokolle der Zionisten-Kongresse 1897-1901 (_Die Welt_, official party organ, 1897-1902, Vienna). _Voskhod_ (weekly), 1987-1902. _Ha-Shiloah_ (Ahad Ha`am's monthly), Berlin Odessa, 1896-1902. Max Nordau, Zionistische Schriften, Köln, 1909. Dubnow, Letters about the Old and New Judaism, St. Petersburg, 1907, pp. 164 _et seq._, 181 ff., 230 _et seq._ (The first two "letters" were translated into German, Jud. Verlag, Berlin, 1903.) Ahad Ha'am, `Al Parashat Derakhim, vols. I-III, 1895-1904 (partly in English and partly in German translation). J. Klausner, Dukhovny Sionisme ("Spiritual Zionism"), St. Petersburg, 1900. Frumkin, "Sketches from the History of the Jewish Workingmen's Movement, 1885-97," _Yevr. St._, 1913. Geschichte vun d. Judische Arbeiter-Bewegung in Russland (Yiddish), Geneva, 1900. Medem, Natzionalnost i Proletariat ("Nationalism and the Proletariat") in Kastelanski's collection, Formy natzionalnavo dvizhenia v sovremiennykh gosudarstvakh ("The Forms of the National Movement in Contemporary Governments"), St. Petersburg, 1910, pp. 772 _et seq._ "Bund" in _Russian Jew. Encycl._, vol. V, p. 93 _et seq._ M. Philippson, Neueste Geschichte d. Jüdischen Bewegung, Berlin, 1911. Borokhov, Klassovye momenty natzionalnavo voprosa ("Classic Moments of the National Question"), St. Petersburg, 1906. J. Klausner, Novoyevreyskaya literatura ("The New Jewish Literature"), 2d edition, Odessa, 1912; M. Pines, Historie de la Litterature Judéo-Allemande, Paris, 1910. CHAPTER XXXIII THE KISHINEV MASSACRE (pp. 66-86) Die Judenpogromen in Russland, vol. II, pp. 6-8. _Voskhod_ (weekly), 1903, pp. 11 _et seq._, 16 _et seq._, 18, 20, 22, 24, 25, 28, 31, 32, 33, 38. Urusov, Zapiski Gubernatora ("A Gubernator's Memoirs"), St. Petersburg, 1907. Chemu uchit pokushenie Dashevskavo? ("What Do We Learn from Dashevski's Temptation?"), London, 1903, edition of _Molodoi Israel_ ("Young Israel"). _Yevr. St._ (1915), VIII, p. 412. Protokoll d. VI Zionisten-Congresses, 1903. Chlenov, Sion i Africa na Vi Congressie ("Zion and Africa at the VI Congress"), Moscow, 1905. Dubnow, "Historical Moment," _Voskhod_, 1903, Nos. 21-22. CHAPTER XXXIV CONTINUED POGROMS AND THE RUSSO-JAPANESE WAR (pp. 87-104) _Voskhod_, 1905, pp. 3-35. Memoirs of Pahlen, governor of Vilna, Geneva, 1904 ("Bund" edition). Voskhod Booklets, 1904, IX, pp. 134 _et seq._, 140 _et seq._, 146 _et seq._ Fornberg, Yevreyskaya Emigratzia ("Jewish Emigration"), p. 19, Kiev, 1908. CHAPTER XXXV THE REVOLUTION OF 1905 AND THE FIGHT FOR EMANCIPATION (pp. 105-123) _Voskhod_, 1905, Nos. 3-35. CHAPTER XXXVI THE COUNTER-REVOLUTION AND THE OCTOBER MASSACRE (pp. 124-142) _Voskhod_, 1905, No. 47; 1906, Nos. 10, 14, 18-21, 26, 42, 47, 49, 50. "Sources for the History of the Russian Counter-Revolution," vol. I, St. Petersburg, 1908 (Pogroms according to official documents). Judenpogromen, vol. I, pp. 187-223, 267-327, 383-400; vol. II, pp. 8-536. _Archives of the League of Equal Rights_, St. Petersburg, 1906. Vinaver, Yevreyski Vopros v Gosudarstvyennoy Dumie ("The Jewish Question in the Duma"), in _Svoboda i Ravienstvo_, 1907, Nos. 2-3. _Yevreyskaya Zhizn_ (weekly), 1906, Nos. 25-28, 32. L. Wolf, The Legal Sufferings of the Jews in Russia, London, 1902, pp. 49-50. CHAPTER XXXVII EXTERNAL OPPRESSION AND INTERNAL CONSOLIDATION (pp. 143-169) Formy natzionalnavo dvizhenia v sovremiennykh gosudarstvakh, St. Petersburg., 1910, pp. 399-423, 778-783. Dubnow, "Letters," St. Petersburg, introduction and pp. 294-361. _Svoboda i Ravienstvo_, 1907, Nos. 30-32, 38, 39, 40, 41, 43-45, 46. Stenographic Reports of the Duma for 1908-1909. "A Study of Internal Affairs," in _Yevr. Mir._, 1909, Book I. _Russian Jew. Encycl._, vol. VII, p. 374. J. Klausner, Novoyevreyskaya Literatura ("The New Jewish Literature"), 2d edition, Odessa, 1912. M. Pines, Histoire de la Litterature Judéo-Allemande, Paris, 1910. INDEX INDEX =Aaron= (=I.=), king of Khazars, I 26 =Aaron= (=II.=), king of Khazars, I 26 =Aaron=, rabbi of Tulchyn, I 148 =Aaron=, of Karlin, hasidic leader, I 234 =Aaron Samuel Kaidanover=, see Kaidanover =Abderrahman III.=, caliph of Cordova, I 24 =Abraham=, son of Isaac, Polish minter, I 42 =Abraham Prokhovnik=, see Prokhovnik =Abrahams, Israel=, quoted, I 160 =Abramius=, Russian priest, objects to erection of synagogue, I 252 =Abramovich, Shalom Jacob= (_Mendele Mokher Sforim_), Hebrew and Yiddish writer, II 231 ff, III 60 f =Abydos=, near Constantinople, seat of Sabbatai Zevi, I 206, 219 =Adam=, see Lebensohn, Abraham Baer =Adamovich, Mary=, alleged victim of ritual murder, II 73 =Adrianople=, Sabbatai Zevi active in, I 207 =Agriculture=, among Jews in Lithuania, I 60, 68, II 72 in Poland, I 68, 264, II 89 championed by Nota Shklover, I 338; by Isaac Baer Levinsohn and by Maskilim in general, II 126 promoted by Russian Government, I 342 f, II 20, 61, 71 hampered by it, II 48, 197, III 10, 24 f; see also Colonization =Ahad Ha'am=, pen-name of Asher Ginzberg, II 423 Hebrew writer and thinker, II 423, III 59 f exponent of Spiritual Zionism, II 48 ff associated with Palestinian colonization, III 49 founder of Order _Bne Moshe_, III 49 participates in Zionist Convention, III 51 founder and editor of _Ha-Shiloah_, III 58, 162 f =Ahijah=, the prophet, alleged teacher of _Besht_, I 228 =Aix-la-Chapelle=, Jewish question discussed at Congress of, I 398 f =Akhal-Tekke=, oasis in Central Asia, offered to Jews for settlement, II 306 =Akmolinsk=, territory of, in Siberia, II 367 =Aksavok, Ivan=, Russian publicist, advocates limited emancipation of Jews, II 208 defends pogroms, II 278 =Aktziznik=, Russian name for farmer of excise dues, II 186, 241 =Albedinski=, governor-general of Warsaw, suppresses pogrom, II 282 =Albo, Joseph=, philosophic work of, studied in Poland, I 133 f =Alexander the Great=, indirectly responsible for Jewish immigration into Eastern Europe, I 13 f =Alexander= (=Yaghello=), grand duke of Lithuania (1492-1506) and king of Poland (1501-1506), grants autonomy to Karaites, I 64 f favors Jewish capitalists, I 65, 71 expels Jews from Lithuania, and confiscates their property (1495), I 65 allows Jews to return to Lithuania and restores their property (1503), I 65, 70 f attended by Jewish body-physician, I 132 =Alexander I.=, emperor of Russia (1801-1825), I 335-413 receives report of "Jewish Committee," I 341 f sanctions Jewish Statute of 1804, I 342 agrees to postponement of expulsion from villages, I 347 invites Jews to send deputies, I 351 establishes friendly relations with Napoleon, I 350 f orders again expulsion from villages, I 361 again postpones it, I 352 Hasidim indebted to, I 356 releases Shneor Zalman, hasidic leader, I 378 praises patriotism of Jews, I 358 accords friendly reception to Jewish deputations, I 358, 359, 392 f appealed to by Christian residents of Vilna and Kovno against Jews, I 369 f orders investigation of ritual murder, II 74 issues decree forbidding charge of ritual murder, II 74 grants autonomy to Poland, II 88 appoints his brother Constantine military commander of Poland, II 16 receives report on Jews of Poland, II 94 appealed to by Poles against Jews, II 97, 99 vetoes Polish law barring Jews from liquor trade, II 94 reaction under, I 390 ff, 395 ff favors conversion of Jews, I 396 establishes "Society of Israelitish Christians," I 396 f refuses to dissolve it, I 400 sanctions severe measures against "Judaizers," I 403 receives memorandum of Lewis Way on Jews of Russia, I 398 renews oppression of Jews, I 404 decrees expulsion from villages in White Russia, I 406 appoints new "Jewish Committee," I 407 objects to residence of Jews in Russian Interior, I 409 contemplates introduction of military service among Jews, II 15 favors agriculture among Jews, II 197, III 24; see I 363 ff beginnings of revolutionary movement under, I 410 =Alexander II.=, emperor of Russia (1855-1881), II 154-242 descendants of Jewish converts prominent during reign of, I 388 releases imprisoned Jewish printer, II 124 confirms sentence of Jews accused of ritual murder, II 152 pardons them later, II 153 abolishes juvenile conscription, II 155 f sanctions opening of Russian Interior to first guild merchants, II 162; to university graduates, II 166, 348; to artisans, II 170 promotes handicrafts among Jews, II 346 f Jewish trade school named after, III 13 does not favor agriculture among Jews, II 197 refuses right of universal residence to "Nicholas Soldiers," II 171 ff; finally grants it, II 29, 172 restricts appointment of rabbis and teachers, II 175 sanctions removal of Jewish disabilities in Poland, II 95, 181 f admits Jews to bench, III 26 receives memorandum from Brafman, II 187 approves of popular representation, II 245 grants liberties to Zemstvos, II 386 assassinated, II 243, 279 influence of, on succeeding reign, II 349 laws in favor of Jews enacted by, repealed by successor, II 399 Jewish policy of, declared ineffective, II 271, 309 era of, depicted by Mendele Mokher Sforim, III 61 =Alexander III.=, emperor of Russia (1881-1894), II 243-429 prejudiced against Jews while yet crown prince, II 202, 203, 244 influenced by Pobyedonostzev, II 245 holds conferences to decide policy of state, II 244 promises to maintain autocracy, II 246 receives Jewish deputation, II 260 f endorses Ignatyev's anti-Jewish policy, II 272 appoints Gubernatorial Commissions, II 272 regrets necessity of suppressing pogroms, II 284 disregards Jews in coronation manifesto, II 338 bent on limiting admission of Jews to schools, II 339 f, 349 closes Jewish school of handicrafts, II 347 supports anti-Jewish minority of Pahlen Commission, II 370 affected by "miraculous" escape in railroad accident, II 378 condemns Jews for Crucifixion, II 379 reads and supports anti-Semitic papers, II 380 disregards Solovyov's appeal in favor of Jews, II 390 appealed to by Mayor of London in favor of Jews, II 390 angered by London appeal, II 393 United States Congress decides to appeal to, II 395 endorses emigration of Jewish proletariat, II 414 favors liquor state monopoly as anti-Jewish measure, III 22 refuses petition of Jewish soldiers to remain in Moscow, II 404 expels heads of Moscow Jewish community, II 424 threatens to sell at auction Moscow synagogue, II 424, III 12 causes expulsion of Jews from Yalta, II 429, III 18 death of, II 429 Jewish sect promises to name children after, II 334 =Alexandria=, Egypt, emigration from, to South Russia, I 16 =Alexandra= (government of Kherson), pogrom at, III 100 =Alexandrovka=, village in Podolia, II 301 =Alexeyev=, member of Russian Senate, investigates condition of Jews, I 347 f, 352 =Alexeyev=, burgomaster of Moscow, opposes Jews, II 400 f =Alexis Michaelovich=, Russian Tzar, annexes Little Russia, I 152 f, 244 invades Polish provinces, I 245 expels Jews from Moghilev, I 153 persecutes Jews of Vilna, I 154 imposes death penalty on converts to Judaism, I 253 =Alexis=, son of Nicholas II, birth of, occasions manifesto, III 98 =Alexius=, Russian priest, converted to Judaism, I 36 =Alfasi=, work of, studied in Poland, I 118 =Algiers=, emigration of Russian Jews to, II 69 =Aliens=, Jews in Russian law designated as, II 367 _Allgemeine Zeitung des Judentums_, quoted, II 55 founded by Ludwig Philippson, II 67, 219 hails end of persecution in Russia, II 67 =Alliance, the Holy=, inaugurates European reaction, I 390 assembles in Aix-la-Chapelle, I 398 =Alliance Israélite Universelle=, headed by Crémieux, II 153 suspected by Russian anti-Semites, II 189, 194 assists Russian-Jewish emigrants, II 268 f, 297 establishes agricultural settlement in Palestine, II 322 =Alma=, locality in Crimea, I 26 =Altaras, Isaac=, of Marseilles, visits Russia, II 69 =Alter, Isaac Itche Meier=, hasidic leader in Poland, II 122 =Alubika=, locality in Crimea, I 26 =Alus=, locality in Crimea, I 26 =America=, see Argentina and United States =American Hebrew, The=, quoted, II 296 =Amoraim=, names of, collected by Polish rabbi, I 200 =Amsterdam=, emissary of Sabbatai Zevi active in, I 204 Jews of, petition Peter the Great, I 246 =Ananyev= (government of Kherson), pogrom at, II 251 =Anapa=, see Gorgippia =Andreas=, of Brixen, alleged victim of ritual murder, I 179 =Andrusovo=, Treaty of (1667), provides for cession of Polish territory to Russia, I 159; and release of prisoners, I 245 =Anna= (=or Anne=), Russian empress, permits retail trade to Jews, I 251 expels Jews from Little Russia, I 254 attended by Jewish body-physician, I 258 =Anti-Semitism=, in Poland, I 281 f, II 94 ff, III 166 ff German A., referred to by Russian dignitaries, II 309 contrasted with Russian, III 6 f in Russia, condemned by Russian writers, II 208 denounced by Solovyov, II 387 effect on Zionism, III 48 f =Anti-Trinitarians=, Christian rationalistic sect in Poland, I 79, 136 =Antwerp=, Russian Jews in, II 420 =Apostol=, see Daniel Apostol; see also Conversion =Apter, Joshua Heshel=, hasidic leader, II 121 =Arabs=, backward condition of, II 375 Jews in Palestine buy land from, II 422 =Arakcheyev, Alexis=, Russian reactionary, I 395, 406, II 19 =Arbeiter Stimme=, socialistic organ in Yiddish, III 56 =Archangel=, government of, II 367 =Arendar=, name explained, I 93 position of, I 93, 112, 265 f in the Ukraine, I 141 f, 152 maltreated by Poles, I 169 f =Arendator=, see Arendar =Argentina=, emigration of Russian Jews to, II 413, 416 ff, 419 =Arians=, heterodox Christian sect in Poland, I 91, 136, 164 Isaac Troki argues with, I 137 =Aristotle=, studied in Polish yeshibahs, I 120, 126 =Arisu=, Slavonic tribe, I 26 =Armenians=, in Crimea, I 34 in Lemberg, I 53 =Armleder=, persecution of, drives Jews to Poland, I 50 =Army=, Jews volunteer in Polish A., I 152, 293 ff, II 105 f Jews assist Polish A., in defence of country, I 147 f, 154, 293 Jews barred from advancement in Russian A., II 157, 354 number of Jews disproportionately large in Russian A., II 355 ff, 394. promotion of Jews in Russian A., limited to rank of sergeant, II 157 Third Russian Duma proposes exclusion of Jews from, III 155 f See Military Service, Recruits, and Soldiers =Aronovich, Joseph=, Polish-Jewish patriot, I 394 =Artemisia=, name of Jewess in Crimea, I 16 =Arthur=, president of United States, submits to Congress papers relating to Russian Jews, II 294 =Artisans=, Jews form 50% of A., in Poland, I 264 excluded from Christian trade-guilds, I 266 form special estate in Russia, I 308 form part of "burgher class," II 405 encouraged in Jewish Statute of 1804, I 344 opposed by Christian trade-guilds, I 360 exempted from military service, II 20 granted right of residence outside Pale, II 161, 168, 170 fictitious A., in St. Petersburg, II 343 f restricted to products of their own workmanship, II 347 wives of, forbidden to engage in trade, II 385 attempt to withdraw from, right of residence outside Pale, II 399 school for A., closed, II 347 bank for A., opposed, III 25 f expelled from Moscow, II 402, III 14 Baron Hirsch's gift in favor of, declined, II 415 =Asefat Hakamim=, Hebrew magazine, II 223 =Ash, Shalom=, Yiddish novelist and playwright, III 162 =Asher=, rabbi in Cracow, I 104 f =Ashkenasi, Solomon=, Polish court physician, I 132 =Asia, Central=, steppes of, suggested for settlement of Russian Jews, II 285, 306 =Asia Minor=, emigration from, to Black Sea coast, I 13 f, 16 establishment of Jewish state in, advocated, I 412; see also Turkey =Assimilation=, see Polonization and Russification "=Assortment=" (classification), of Jews, decreed by Nicholas I., II 64 ff, 141 ff reflected in manifesto of Alexander II., II 157 =Astrakhan= (city), ancient Khazar capital situated near, I 19 =Astrakhan= (government), mosques destroyed in, I 254 opened to Jewish agriculturists, I 342 villages in, forbidden to Jews, I 343 Jews compared with Kalmycks in, II 367 =Atyeney ("Athenaeum")=, Russian magazine, defends Jews, II 208 =Augustus II.=, king of Poland (1697-1704), I 167 ratifies Jewish privileges, I 168 expels Jews from Sandomir, I 173 =Augustus III.=, king of Poland (1733-1763), I 167 ratifies Jewish privileges, I 168, 180 appealed to by Jews of Posen, I 175 acquits Jews of ritual murder charge, I 176 grants safe conduct to Frankists, I 215 acts as God-father to Frank, I 218 Austria, Jews flee from, to Poland, I 66 Polish Jews export goods to, I 67 Polish Jews pass, on way to Palestine, I 209 shares in partitioning of Polish territory, I 186, 262, 274, 371 Frank stays in, I 220 Berek Yoselevich arrested in, I 297 wages war against duchy of Warsaw, I 303 forbids Jews to communicate with Paris, I 346 f represented at Congress of Aix-la-Chapelle, I 398 f Jews of, forbidden to settle in Russia (1824), I 409 grants emancipation to Jews, II 30 imposes military duty on Jews, II 30 Jewish policy of, serves as model for Russia, II 46, 49 Israel of Ruzhin escapes to, II 121 Parliament of, meets in Kremsier, II 177 Jewish socialists expelled from, II 224 Russian-Jewish students in, II 351 Government of, supports plans of Baron Hirsch, II 416 anti-Semitism rampant in, III 42 =Autocracy=, upheld by Alexander III., II 246; by Nicholas II., III 8 re-establishment of, favored by Black Hundred, III 149 =Autoemancipation=, doctrine of, propounded by Leo Pinsker, II 330 ff contrasted with emancipation, II 331 =Autonomism=, national-cultural, doctrine of, propounded by Dubnow, III 41, 51 ff adopted as political platform, III 144 =Autonomy=, Jewish, in ancient Tauris, I 16 granted, or confirmed, by kings of Poland, I 52, 53, 62, 72 f, 83 f, 98, 104, 105 rise and development of, I 103 ff, 188 ff _magna charta_ of (1551), I 105 ff curtailment of, advocated by Poles, I 273, 280 f, 282 Jews of Poland plead for preservation of, I 291 recognized by Russian Government (1776), I 308 ff curtailed by it (1795), I 319 f recognized in modified form in Statute of 1804, I 344 larger amount of, demanded by Jews, I 349 abolition of, recommended by Council of State (1840), II 49 abolished by Nicholas I. (1844), II 59 ff scheme of, proposed for kingdom of Poland, II 92 abolished in Poland (1822), II 102 abolition of last remnants of, recommended by Committee of Russian Government, II 195 St. Petersburg Jews, plead for, II 370 demanded by adherents of national-cultural Autonomism, III 53 f; by "Bund," III 57; by Vilna community, III 109; by League for Equal Rights, III 112; by Russian Jewry in general, III 161; see also Kahal =Azariah=, alleged biblical prophet, quoted to substantiate ritual murder libel, II 73 =Azov, Sea of=, Jewish settlements on shores of, I 14 f movement of Khazars towards, I 19 =Baal-Shem=, name explained, I 223 Joel, I 203 founder of Hasidism acting as, I 224 _Israel Baal-Shem-Tob_, see Israel =Bab Al-Abwab= (now Derbent), city in Caucasia, I 26 =Babunj=, land of, synagogue destroyed in, I 22 =Babylonia=, Judaism of, influences Khazars, I 20 scholars of, invited by Khazars 21, I 27 Poland compared with, I 122 =Baer=, of Lubavici, head of _Habad_ sect, II 117 =Baer=, of Mezherich, disciple of Israel _Baal-Shem-Tob_, I 227, I 229 f, I 232 disciples of, carry Hasidism to North, I 234; establish Hasidism in Poland, I 33, 34 great-grandson of Israel of Ruzhin, II 120 =Bagdad=, caliphate of, relation of Khazars to, I 22 city of, threatened by Russians, I 26 f Gaon of, communicates with Jewish scholars in Russia, I 33 =Bahurs=, or Yeshibah students, supported by Jewish communities in Poland, I 116 large number of in Lithuania, II 113 affected by _pilpul_ method, I 119 study Aristotle, I 120 =Bak-Tadlud=, city in Caucasia, I 26 =Bakchi-Sarai=, Tartar capital, I 35 =Bakst=, professor, attends Jewish conference in St. Petersburg, II 304 opposes Jewish emigration from Russia, II 306 =Balkan Peninsula=, movement of Khazars towards, I 20 =Balta= (Podolia), pogrom at, II 299 ff, 314, 316, 321 rabbi of, pleads for rioters, II 316 visited by governor-general, II 316 f Jewish community of, sends deputation to St. Petersburg, II 316 f =Baltic Provinces=, number of Jews in, II 168 new Jewish settlers expelled from, II 32 Jews barred from (1835), II 40 expulsion of old settlers from, repealed, II 428 in throes of terrorism (1905), III 130; see Courland and Livonia =Bank=, St. Petersburg lawyer, member of Jewish deputation to Alexander III., II 261 =Baptism=, see Conversion =Bar= (Podolia), massacre at, I 149 Polish conference of, I 183 =Bar=, the Russian, established 1864, II 173 Jews admitted to, II 73 excluded from, II 352 f; III 26 f Bar Association of St. Petersburg protests against Beilis case, II 166 =Baranov=, Russian Senator, dispatched to White Russia, I 406 "=Bare-Footed Brigade=," the, nickname for tramps, II 253 active in pogroms, 253, 256 =Bartnit=, city in Crimea, I 26 =Baruch=, see Borukh =Bashi-Buzuks=, Turkish irregular troops, II 253 pogrom makers compared with, II 253, 289 =Basil=, the Macedonian, emperor of Byzantium, persecutes Jews, I 23 =Basil=, Christian martyr, I 17 =Basil=, grand duke of Moscow, I 242 =Basle=, Council of, adopts canonical laws against Jews, I 63 Zionist Congresses at, III 44 f, 84 f, 144 "Program," III 44; modified by Ahad Ha'am, 50 =Basurman=, Russian name for non-Orthodox, I 35 =Batory, Stephen=, king of Poland (1576-1586), forbids charge of ritual murder and desecration, I 89, 96 ratifies and amplifies Jewish privileges, I 89 defends Jews of Posen, I 90 patronizes Jesuites, I 90 f grants license to Jewish printer, I 131 attended by Jewish body-physician, I 132 recaptures city of Polotzk, I 243 =Bavaria=, Wagenseil, anti-Jewish writer, native of, I 138 Max Lilienthal, native of, II 52 =Beaconsfield, Earl of=, champions equal rights for Jews, II 202 hostile to Russia, II 288 =Beards=, shaving of (and of earlocks), recommended by Polish reformers, I 282, and by Kalmansohn, I 385 "bearded regiment" in Warsaw, II 106; see Earlocks =Beilis, Mendel=, accused of ritual murder, III 82, 164 ff nickname for Jews in Poland, III 167 =Bekri, Al-=, Arabic writer, quoted, I 21 =Belza=, Polish judge, arranges libel against Jews, I 101 =Belzhytz= (Province of Lublin), Jacob of, author of polemical treatise in Polish, I 136 =Bench=, the Russian, Jews excluded from, II 352 f, III 26 =Benckendorff=, chief of Russian gendarmerie, II 21 =Benedict XIV.=, appealed to by Jews of Poland, I 179 =Benjacob=, bibliographer in Vilna, II 136 =Benjamin=, king of Khazars, I 26 =Benjamin of Tudela=, Jewish traveller, I 32; II 233 =Benjamin II.= (Joseph Israel), Jewish traveller, II 233 =Benjamin III.=, name of fictitious traveller in Yiddish and Hebrew novel, II 233 =Berdychev= (government of Kiev), Levi Itzhok, hasidic leader, resident of, I 232 f, 382 Jews of, release fellow-Jews from prison, I 266 Jews of, support Polish cause, I 292 Tobias Feder, Hebrew writer, of, I 388 Max Lilienthal accorded friendly reception at, II 56 Halperin, resident of, member of Rabbinical Commission, II 57 Mendele Mokher Sforim, resident of, II 232 pogrom at, averted by Jewish self-defence, II 256 f visited by White, representative of Baron Hirsch, II 418 Jewish community of, signs petition for equal rights, III 108 =Berdychevsky, Micah Joseph=, Hebrew writer, III 60 =Berek=, Kahal elder, I 172 =Berek Yoselovich=, see Yoselovich =Bergson, Jacob=, prominent Jew of Warsaw, II 103 =Berkovich, Joseph=, son of Berek Yoselovich, calls for Jewish volunteers to Polish army, II 105 =Berlin= (Germany), Mendelssohn circle in, centre of enlightenment, I 238 attracts Jewish students from Poland and Russia, I 239, 388, II 114 "Berliner" synonymous with heretic, I 278, 384 enlightenment of, hated by hasidic leaders, I 383 influences Warsaw, I 300 f, 384 f epidemic of conversions in, I 388 Congress of, II 202 Jewish socialists in, II 223 stock-exchange of, affected by pogrom at Rostov, II 358 refugees from Moscow arrive in, II 408 Russian Jews emigrate to, II 420 place of publication, I 386, III 51, 52, 58, 60 =Berlin, Shmerka=, of Velizh, accused of ritual murder, II 75, 77 =Berlin, Slava=, wife of former, arrested on same charge, II 77 =Berlin=, Jewish scholar, member of Jewish deputation to Alexander III., II 261 =Berliner, A.=, quoted, I 179 =Bernardine Monks=, in Poland, active in ritual murder libel, I 100 f, 177 =Bersohn=, Polish-Jewish writer, quoted, I 105 =Berthenson, I.=, converted Jew, Russian court physician, II 214 =Besht=, see Israel Baal-Shem-Tob =Bessarabetz=, anti-Semitic paper in Kishinev, III 169 ff =Bessarabia=, included in Pale (1835), II 40 Jewish agricultural colonies in, II 72 expulsions from, II 385 anti-Semitic agitation in, III 69 ff von Raaben, governor of, III 74, 77 Urussov, governor of, III 93, 97; see Kishinev =Bezalel=, Jewish tax-farmer in Poland, I 167 =Bezalel=, of Kobrin, Hebrew author, I 201 =Bialocerkiew=, see Byelaya Tzerkov =Bibikov=, governor-general of Kiev, criticises Jews in official report, II 47 arrests Israel of Ruzhyn, II 120 f =Bialik, Hayyim Nahman=, Hebrew poet, III 63, 162 composes poem on Kishinev massacre, III 79 f =Bialystok=, province of, annexed by Prussia (1795), I 297 =Bialystok= (city, government of Grodno), Samuel Mohilever, rabbi of, II 378 Poles threaten massacre of Russians and Jews in, I 357 Jewish labor movement in, III 55 pogroms at, III 114 f, 120, 136 f; discussed by First Russian Duma, 137 f =Bible=, studied by Khazars, I 21 taught in Yiddish translation in Poland, I 114 study of, encouraged by Isaac Baer Levinsohn, II 126 =Bible Society=, of London, model of Russian Bible Society, I 396 Lewis Way, representative of, champions cause of Russian Jews, I 397 =Bible Society=, the Russian, established under Alexander I., I 396 =Bielsk= (Lithuania), Jew of, accused of ritual murder, I 87 _Bielski_, Polish chronicler, quoted, I 80 "=Bilu=," society of Palestinian pioneers, organized in Kharkov, II 321 f =Bismarck=, German chancellor, favors equal rights for Jews, II 202 =Black Death=, the, stimulates immigration of Jews into Poland, I 50 penetrates to Poland, I 52 ravages of 1648 compared with those of, I 157 =Black Hundred=, the, patronized by Nicholas II., III 113, 151 deputation of, received by Nicholas II., III 131 supposed to number 100,000, III 126 organized as "League of Russian People," III 141 gain in Second Duma, III 142 triumph of, III 149 ff active in organizing pogroms, III 113 ff, 124 ff, 126 ff, 136 engineer Beilis case, III 164 ff take advantage of Jewish rightlessness, III 132 intimidate Jews during elections, III 134, 153 insult Jewish deputies in Duma, III 156; see League of the Russian People =Black Sea=, the, ancient Jewish settlements on shores of, I 13 ff Khazars move in direction of, I 19, 28 Petahiah of Ratisbon travels to, I 33 establishment of Jewish colonies in neighborhood of, advocated, I 331 =Blaine, James G.=, American Secretary of State, expresses resentment at persecution of Russian Jews, II 395 f =Blinov=, Russian student, killed while defending Jews, III 116 =Blondes, David=, Jewish barber in Vilna, accused of ritual murder, III 37 =Board of Deputies=, Jewish organization in London, pleads for Russian Jews, II 262 =Bobovnya= (government of Minsk), Jewish convert from, slanders Jews, II 80 Jewish community of, protests against denial of Jewish franchise, III 121 =Bobrov, District of= (government of Voronyezh), Judaizing sect spreads to, I 401 =Bogdanov=, Russian soldier, accuses Jews of ritual murder, II 151 =Bogdanovich=, Russian general, organizes pogroms, III 125 f =Bogolepov=, Minister of Public Instruction, bars Jews from schools, III 27 f assassinated by Russian terrorist, 29 =Bogrov, Grigory=, Russian-Jewish writer, II 241 f =Bogrov=, assassinates Stolypin, III 164 f =Bohemia=, visited by Pethahiah of Ratisbon, I 33 oppressed Jews of, emigrate to Poland, I 41 Jews from, form community in Cracow, I 104 Magdenburg Law adopted in many parts of, I 41 talmudic learning carried from, to Poland, I 122 Mordecai Jaffe, native of, famous rabbi in Poland, I 127 Jews of, apply to Polish rabbis for religious guidance, I 125 =Boleslav the Pious= (_Polish_, Boleslav Pobozny), of Kalish, prince of Great Poland, grants charter to Jews, I 45 ff charter of, ratified by successors, I 51, 59; embodied in Polish code of law, I 71 =Boleslav the Shy= (_Polish_, Boleslav Wstydliwy), Polish prince, encourages immigration of Germans, I 44 =Bona Sporza=, Polish queen, sells office of state, I 76 =Bonaparte=, see Napoleon =Border Zone=, along Polish-Prussian and Polish-Austrian border (Twenty-one-Verst Zone), barred to Jews by Polish Government (1823), II 95 law excluding Jews from, repealed by Alexander II., II 95, 181 along Western Russian border (Fifty-Verst Zone), villages in, barred to new Jewish settlers (1835), II 40, 366 expulsion of Jews from entire B. Z. ordered, II 63; but not executed, II 64 new attempt to expel Jews from, II 385 =Borispol= (government of Poltava), pogrom at, II 267 =Borki= (government of Kherson), railroad accident to Alexander III., in neighborhood of, affects his policies, II 378 =Borukh Leibov=, Jewish tax-farmer, I 249 publicly executed, I 251 ff =Borukh Shklover=, translates Euclid into Hebrew, I 381 =Borukh of Tulchyn=, hasidic leader, I 232 succeeded by Joshua Heshel, II 121 =Bosporan Era, The=, I 15 =Bosporus=, the Cimmerian, or Taurian, also called Panticapaeum (now Kerch), ancient Jewish community in, I 14 f Greco-Jewish inscription found in, I 15 bishop of, instructed to convert Jews, I 18 =Boycott=, economic, against Jews in Poland, III 166 ff =Brafman, Jacob=, Jewish apostate, accuses Jews of forming illegal Kahal organization, II 187 ff author of "Book of the Kahal," I 189 accuses _Alliance Israélite_ of heading world Kahal, II 189 accuses Society for Diffusion of Enlightenment of forming part of Kahal, II 216 influences Russian authorities, II 190, 193 ff, 240 example of, followed by Lutestanski, II 202 =Bramson, L.=, member of Central Committee of League for Equal Rights, III 112 deputy to First Russian Duma, III 134 =Bratzlav= (Podolia), Polish deputy from, objects to extension of Jewish rights, I 288 Nahman of, leader of "Bratzlav Hasidim," I 382 f; II 121 f former name for government of Podolia, I 317 =Breslau=, Church Council of, adopts anti-Jewish restrictions, I 47 ff; ratified by Church Council of Kalish, I 57 visited by Solomon Maimon, I 239 =Brest-Kuyavsk=, name explained, I 75 anti-Jewish riot in, I 75 home of Jacob Koppelman, Hebrew author, I 133 =Brest-Litovsk=, name explained, I 75 Jews of, form important community, I 59, 73 Jewish community of, represented in Polish Federation of Kahals, I 110; and later in Lithuanian Federation, I 112 Jewish community of, headed by Saul Udich (Saul Wahl), I 94 Michael Yosefovich, tax-farmer, native of, I 72 Mendel Frank, rabbi of, I 73, 104 supposed former rabbi of, accuses Jews of ritual murder, I 173 Jews expelled from (1495), I 65 Jews of, express loyalty to Sigismund I., I 81 Jews of, protected by Sigismund III., I 94 Jews of, import goods to Moscow, I 243 Starosta of, upholds authority of Kahal, I 190 Kahal of, upbraided by Polish authorities for delaying elections, I 192 pogroms in (17th century), I 99, 161 (May, 1905), III 119 =Briskin, Arye=, Jewish apostate, informs against Jews of Mstislavl, II 85 =British East Africa=, see Uganda =British Government, The=, see England =Brodski=, Jewish merchant of Kiev, offers to establish trade bank, III 25 f =Brody= (Galicia), rabbis assembled at, excommunicate Frankists, I 214; and Hasidim, I 237 Besht settles in, 223 Jewish merchants of, settling in Odessa, spread Haskalah, II 133 rallying-point of pogrom refugees, II 268 f, 321 =Bruchsaal= (Germany), Alexander I., receives Jewish deputation at, I 359, 391 =Bruhl=, Polish Prime Minister, I 180 =Brünn=, capital of Moravia, Jacob Frank settles in, I 219 =Brussels=, newspaper in, defends Russian Government, II 393; place of publication, II 178 =Bryce, James=, English statesman, addresses London protest meeting against pogroms, II 290 =Buarezm=, see Khwarizm =Buchner, Abraham=, Polish assimilationist, II 103 f =Buckee=, influences Russian-Jewish _intelligenzia_, II 209 =Buda= (Ofen), Hungary, Church Council of, passes anti-Jewish restrictions, I 49; ratified by Council of Kalish, I 57 =Budak=, city in Crimea, I 26 =Budberg=, Russian Minister for Foreign Affairs, member of Committee to consider Jewish legislation, I 347 =Budek=, Polish priest, foments anti-Jewish agitation in Cracow, I 56 =Budny, Simon=, Polish theologian, holds disputations with Jews, I 136 =Budushchnost= ("The Future"), Zionist weekly in Russian, III 59 =Buenos Ayres=, Russian Jewish immigrants settle in, II 421 =Bukovina, The=, I 150 Hasidism gains footing in, II 121 =Bulan=, King of Khazars, embraces Judaism, I 21, 25 =Bulgar, The=, Slav tribe, I 26 =Bulgaria=, on the way to Khazaria, I 25 called upon by Congress of Berlin to grant equality to Jews, II 202 villages in, attacked by Bashibuzuks, II 253, 289 =Bulgarin, Thaddeus=, Russian anti-Semitic writer, II 139 =Bulyghin=, Russian Minister of Interior, receives rescript from Nicholas II. concerning Duma, III 110 Chairman of Committee to discuss Jewish franchise, III 121 recommends denial of Jewish franchise, III 122 "the Bulyghin Constitution" published, III 124 "=Bund=," League of the Jewish Workingmen of Lithuania, Poland, and Russia, organized (1897), III 56 ff holds secret conventions, III 56 f demands Jewish-national rights, III 57 arranges demonstrations, III 68; and strikes, III 130 held responsible for pogroms, III 89 boycotts First Duma, III 134 refuses co-operation with other Jewish parties, III 111, 148; see Revolutionary Movement and Socialism =Burghers= form estate in Poland, I 44 hostile to Jews, I 70 enter into relations with, I 84 f receive civil rights from Polish Diet, I 279 form estate in Russia, I 308 restricted in right of transit, I 322 bear burden of conscription, II 23, 29; later relieved, II 200 subject to corporal punishment, II 405 artisans included in estate of, II 405 segregation of Jews as unsettled B. proposed by Nicholas I., 142 f =Burgomaster=, office of, barred to Jews, II 199, 425 =Burtas=, Slav tribe, I 26 =Butrymovich= (_Polish_, Butrymowicz), Polish deputy, member of Jewish Commission, I 264, 287 f offers plan of Jewish reform, I 271, 274, 281 ff, 283 his plan used as a model, I 326 f, 385 =Byelaya Tzerkov= (_Polish_, Bialocerkiew), Treaty of (1651), readmits Jews to Ukraina, I 152 =Byzantine Sea, The=, see Black Sea =Byzantium, Empire of=, influences Jewish colonies in Tauris, I 17 ff Jews persecuted in, I 23 f Jews emigrate from, to Tauris, I 28 relation of, to Khazars, I 19 ff defeats Khazars in Crimea, I 28 relation of, to Russia, I 30 relations of Hasdai Ibn Shaprut with, I 24 =Cabala=, firmly entrenched in Poland, I 134 f attracts Solomon Luria, I 126 esteemed and defended by Joel Sirkis, I 130, 133 vies with Rabbinism, I 199 study of, forbidden before the age of forty, I 214 adopted by sect of Frankists, I 214 studied by Elijah of Vilna, I 235 preached by Nohum of Chernobyl, I 382 =Cabala=, Practical, name explained, I 134 spreads in Poland, I 134 f, 202 ff introduced from Italy, I 208 studied and pursued by Besht, I 222 f, 224 =Cadets, The=, see Constitutional Democrats =Calahora, Arie-Leib=, Jewish martyr in Posen, I 174 f =Calahora, Mattathiah=, Jewish martyr in Cracow, I 164 f =Calahora, Solomon=, Polish court physician, I 132 =Caliphate=, Eastern, or Caliphate of Bagdad, checks movement of Khazars, I 19 relation of, to Khazars, I 22 =Caliphate, of Cordova=, connected by Hasdai ibn Shaprut with other lands, I 24 =Calvinists=, in Poland, welcome invading Swedes, I 155 =Candia=, Delmedigo, author, born in, I 134 =Campe=, German author, work of, translated into Hebrew, II 134 =Canada=, Jewish emigration from Russia to, II 421 immigration of Dukhobortzy, Russian sect, to, III 10 =Candidate=, learned degree in Russia, term explained, II 165 =Candle Tax=, see Tax =Canterbury, Archbishop of=, sends representative to London protest meeting against pogroms, II 289 joins pogrom relief committee, II 291 =Cantonists=, or juvenile recruits, name explained, II 19 institution by Nicholas I., II 19 sent to outlying Russian provinces, II 24 f hunters, or "captors," of, II 23 martyrdom of, II 24 ff forced conversion of, II 26, 45 institution of, not extended to Poland, II 109 abolished by Alexander II., II 156; see Conscription, Military Service, Recruits, and Soldiers =Capistrano=, papal legate, "Scourge of the Jews," I 62 =Capitals=, the Russian (St. Petersburg and Moscow), Jewish first and second guild merchants permitted to visit (1835), II 40 Jewish physicians, though admitted into Interior, excluded from (1865), III 167 admission of Jews to schools of, restricted to 3%, II 350 admission of Jews to universities of, restricted to 2%, III 29 =Capiton=, Christian martyr, I 17 =Carlowitz=, Treaty of (1699), returns Podolia to Poland, I 208 =Carmelites=, Church of, in Posen, holds demonstration against Jews, I 95 monk, member of, accuses Jews of ritual murder, I 100 bring law suit against Jews of Posen, I 174 =Caro, Joseph=, author of _Beth-Yoseph_, I 123 author of Shulhan-Arukh, see Shulhan-Arukh =Carpathian Mountains, The=, Besht retires to, I 223 =Casimir the Great= (1333-1370), king of Poland, rejuvenates country, I 50 f ratifies and amplifies Jewish charter of Boleslav, I 51 f annexes Red Russia, I 42, 53 grants autonomy to Jews of Lemberg, I 53 infatuated with Jewess, I 53 f charter of, ratified by Vitovt, I 59 referred to as patron of Jews, II 98 =Casimir IV.=, king of Poland (1447-1492), pursues liberal policy towards Jews, I 61 f grants Jews new charter, I 61 f attacked by archbishop of Cracow, I 62 forced to rescind Jewish privileges, I 63 fines magistracy of Cracow for permitting riots against Jews, I 64 charter of, ratified by Sigismund II., I 83 =Casimir the Just=, Polish ruler, Jews active as ministers during reign of, I 42 =Caspian Sea, The=, called Sea of Jorjan, I 23 Khazars settled on shores of, I 19, 26; dislodged from, I 28 =Castellan=, title of Polish official, explained, I 287 =Catherine I.=, empress of Russia, changes and deports Jewish tax-farmer (1727), I 249 =Catherine II.=, The Great (1762-1796), empress of Russia, fictitious ukase of, permitting pogroms, I 183 refuses to admit Jews into Russia, I 259 f; and into Little Russia, I 260 f attitude of, towards Jews of annexed Polish provinces, I 306 ff appealed to by the Jews of White Russia, I 311 f attitude of, towards Jews, changes for worse, I 314 ff lays foundation of Pale of Settlement, I 314 ff favors removal of Jews from villages, I 319, 366 curtails Jewish autonomy, I 319, 366 endeavors to destroy "Jewish separateness," I 367 admits Jews to South Russia, I 316 substitutes term "Yevrey" for "Zhyd," I 320 =Caucasus, The=, ancient trade route leading through, I 23 Khazars originate from, I 19 Khazars occupy cities in, I 26 Jewish agriculturists permitted to settle in (1804), I 342; but not in villages of, I 343 "Judaizers" deported to, I 403 ritual murder trial in, II 204 =Censorship=, over Hebrew books, exercised by Council of Four Lands, I 195 f Government C. advocated by Polish reformers, I 723, 281 disregard of, severely punished, II 123 enforcement of, advocated by I. B. Levinsohn, II 130 hasidic books subjected to, II 212 Russian C., hampers Maskilim in Vilna, II 136 interferes with Jewish press, I 219 f suppresses _ha-Emet_, II 223; _Voskhod_, 407, III 98; _Novosti_, II 407 rages throughout Russia, II 371 suppresses news of pogroms, II 302, 358; and of Moscow expulsion, II 407 prevents Russian press from expressing sympathy with Jews, II 387 forbids Russian press to publish collective statements concerning Jews, II 387 confiscates pamphlet defending Jews, II 388 grants full scope to anti-Semitic press, III 31; see also Printing =Census=, of the Jewish population, in Poland (1764), I 197 in White Russia (1772), I 307 in Russia (1816-1819), I 390 Jews of Vilna released from municipal C. (1682), I 166; see Statistics =Central Committee=, see Committee =Champagny=, French Cabinet Minister, conducts negotiations with Polish Government, I 299 =Charles IX.=, French king, succeeded by Henry, Polish king, I 89 =Charles XII.=, Swedish king, invades Poland, I 154 ff, 169 =Charnetzki=, Polish general, massacres Jews, I 155 f =Charter=, granted to Jews by Leshek, prince of Poland (905), I 40 issued by Boleslav of Kalish (1264), I 45 ff included in Polish code of law (1505), I 71 ratified and amplified by Casimir the Great, I 51 f; burned, I 61 issued by Vitovt, grand duke of Lithuania (1388), I 59 f granted by Casimir IV. (1447), I 61 f granted to Jews of Lithuania by Sigismund I. (1540), I 81 ratified by Sigismund II. (1548), I 83 f old Ch's. ratified by Stephen Batory, I 89; by Vishniovetzki, I 160; by Augustus II., I 168; by Augustus III., I 168, 180 Ch. of Jewish autonomy issued by Sigismund II. (1551), I 105 ff Ch. demanding admission of Jews into Russia sent by Sigismund II. to Ivan the Terrible (1550), I 243 granted to Jews of Cracow by John Casimir (1661), I 159 "Golden Ch." by Catherine the Great, permitting pogroms, I 183 Theodor Herzl seeks to obtain Ch. from Sultan, III 84 offered by British Government for colonization of Uganda, III 84; see also Statute =Chartoriski (or Chartoryski), Adam=, member of Committee for Amelioration of Jews, I 335 chairman of Committee to consider Jewish question in Poland, II 89, 91 opposes liberal project of Novosiltzev, II 93 =Chatzki, Thaddeus=, Polish historian, makes special study of Jewish problem, I 263 ff proposes Jewish reforms, I 271, 288 suggestions of, adopted by others, I 327, 385 =Chatzkin=, Russian-Jewish journalist, II 207 =Chazars=, see Khazars =Chekhovich, Martin=, Polish theologian, holds disputations with Jews, I 136 f =Chenstokhov= (_Polish_, Czenstochowa), province of Piotrkov, Jacob Frank imprisoned in, I 218 f occupied by Russian troops, I 219 pogrom at, III 36 f =Cherkaski=, Count, burgomaster of Moscow, favors limitation of Jews in municipal government, II 199 =Cherkassy= (government of Kiev), hasidic center, II 120 =Chernigov= (city), Jews of, exterminated, I 149 pogrom at, III 128 ritual murder at Gorodnya, in neighborhood of, I 247 home of Isaac, early Russian-Jewish scholar, I 33 home of Litman Veigin, merchant, II 38 =Chernigov= (province or government), subject to Poland, I 140 closed to Jews (1649), I 151 opened again to Jews (1651), I 152 Jews of, exterminated, I 157 ceded to Russia (1667), I 159 few Jews left in, I 246 made part of Pale (1794), I 317, II 40 pogroms in localities of, II 257, 267, 315, 411, III 129 court of, sentences rioters, II 315 Jews expelled from villages of, II 341 governor of, misapplies laws relating to Jews, II 341 governor of, permits Jews to open stores on Christian holidays, II 411 localities in: Gorodnya, I 247 Karpovich, II 315 Konotop, II 257 Nyezhin, II 267, III 129 Semyonovka, III 129 Starodub, II 411 =Chernikhovsky, Saul=, Hebrew poet, III 64 =Chernobyl= (government of Kiev), hasidic center, I 232, 382 "dynasty" of, widely ramified, I 382, II 119 ff =Chernovitz= (Bukowina), Sadagora, in neighborhood of, hasidic center, II 121 =Chernyshev=, Count, governor-general of White Russia, assures Jews of former liberties, I 306 f sets apart Jews as an estate, I 309 =Chernyshevski=, radical Russian author, influences Jewish _Intelligenzia_, II 207, 209 effect of, on Lilienblum, 237 =Chersonesus=, near Sevastopol, bishops of, force Jews into baptism, I 17 scene of rivalry between Jews and Byzantines, I 30 =Chetvertinski=, Count, betrays Jews of Tulchyn, I 147 f =Chiarini, Abbé=, Polish anti-Semitic writer, II 104 =Chigirin= (province of Kiev), home of Khmelnitzki, I 144 =Chikhachev=, Russian Navy Minister, favors emigration of Jews from Russia, II 419 =Chikhachev=, member of Council of State, favors Jewish franchise, III 12 =Chlenov=, Zionist leader, III 47 =Chmelnicki=, see Khmelnitzki =Chresta=, name of Greco-Jewish woman, I 15 =Christianity=, propaganda of, in Tauris, I 17 f; among Khazars, I 20 fusion of Judaism and Ch. attempted by Jewish sect in Russia, II 335; see Church and Conversion =Chudnov= (Volhynia), young Jews of, martyred, III 117 =Chufut-Kale= (Crimea), harbors old Karaite community, I 35 =Church=, the Greek-Orthodox, persecutes Jews in Byzantine empire, I 18 Pobyedonostzev reports on affairs of, III 9 =Church=, the Roman-Catholic, in Poland, spreads hatred of Jews, I 44, 47 ff gains strength under Yaguello, I 54 f opposes Casimir IV., I 62 f hostile to Jews during Reformation, I 79, 85 f agitates against Jews, I 99 ff prompts anti-Jewish legislation of Polish Diets, I 160 responsible for anti-Jewish riots, I 161 Jews forbidden to leave houses during Ch. processions, I 160 =Church Council=, or Synod, of Breslau (1266), introduces canonical laws into Poland, I 47 f of Buda (1279), passes anti-Jewish restrictions, I 49 of Constance (1420), attended by Polish ecclesiastics, I 57 of Kalish (1420), ratifies former canonical enactments against Jews, I 57 f of Piotrkov (1542), adopts "Constitution" against Jews, I 82 f, 171 of Lovich (1720), forbids building of new synagogues, I 171 of Plotzk (1733), insists on necessity of Jewish suffering, I 171 =Chwolson, Daniel=, professor, converted Jew, member of Committee to investigate ritual murder, II 151 disproves ritual murder, II 205 member of Executive Committee of Society for Diffusion of Enlightenment, II 214 =Cilicia= (Asia Minor), harbors Jewish communities, I 14 =Cimmerian Bosporus=, see Bosporus =Cincinnati=, Max Lilienthal, rabbi of, II 59 "=Circular Jews=," name explained, II 404 privileges of, withdrawn, II 428 =City Government=, see Municipalities =Civil Service=, Jews barred from by Church councils, I 49 Jews in Russian army promised admission to, II 29 possessors of learned degrees admitted to, II 165 Jewish physicians admitted to, II 167; barred from, III 27 Jews in general barred from, II 352; III 26; see Tax-Farmer =Clement XIII.=, pope, protects Polish Jews, I 180 =Clement XIV.=, see Ganganelli =Cohen, Jacob Joseph=, disciple of Besht, I 227, 230 f stirs wrath of Elijah Gaon, I 237 =Cohen, Joshua Falk=, rabbi of Lublin, I 111 f presides over Council of Four Lands, I 128 head of talmudic academy in Lemberg, I 128 =Cohen, Naphtali=, Polish rabbi, engages in magic and enters into relations with Sabbatians, I 204 =Cohen, Nehemiah=, Messianic propagandist, I 207 =Cohen, Sabbatai=, called _Shak_, of Vilna, author of commentary on _Shulhun Arukh_, I 130 issues epistle picturing persecutions of 1648, I 157 f =Colchians=, tribe, I 15 =Colonies=, Jewish, in South Russia, visited by emissary of Baron Hirsch, II 418 pogroms in, II 271; III 35 =Colonization, of Jews=, undertaken by Russian Government in New (South) Russia, I 352, 363 ff; II 70 ff; checked by Government, II 365 in White Russia, II 72 in Siberia, II 71 in Palestine, II 321 f; III 42, 46, 49; promoted by Baron Rothschild, II 375 in United States, II 328, 374 in Russia, proposed by Baron Hirsch, II 415; and by ICA of Paris, III 10; but discouraged by Russian Government, III 24 f in Argentina, II 416, 421; see Agriculture =Commerce=, Jews as mediators in, between Europe and Asia, I 23 Jews engage in, with Slav countries, I 39 Jews in Polish C., I 264, 266 f Polish kings encourage Jews in, I 85 Sigismund III. confirms Jewish rights of (1588), I 93 Jews restricted in, in Posen, I 74 f; Lemberg, I 75; Cracow, I 98; Vilna, I 99 restrictions in, imposed upon Jews by Polish Diets (1538), I 78; (1768), I 182; (1643), I 99 anti-Jewish restrictions in, demanded by Synod of Piotrkov (1542), I 82; and by Polish journalist (1798), I 281 Russian Government permits Jews to engage in, at fairs of Little Russia and Kharkov government, I 250 ff Little Russians plead for admission of Jews in interest of, I 260 f Jews in Russian C., I 359 f; II 366 deprecated by I. B. Levinsohn, II 126; and other Maskilim, II 137 attitude of Russian Government towards Jewish C., II 185 Jews with higher education granted unrestricted right of (1904), III 98; see also Economic Life and Merchants =Commission=, "C. for Jewish Reform," appointed by Polish Diet (1790), I 287 ff project of, submitted to Diet and postponed, I 289 resumes labors but fails, I 290 Butrymovich, member of, I 264 project of, adopted by Friesel, Russian governor of Vilna, I 326 f =Commission=, "High C. for revision of current Laws concerning Jews" ("Pahlen C."), appointed 1883, II 336 composition of, II 336 examines material of "Gubernatorial Commissions," II 337, 363 futility of, II 337 serves as screen for anti-Jewish legislation, II 338 discusses projected educational restrictions against Jews ("school norm"), II 339; votes against them, II 349 conclusions of, II 363 ff deprecates Jewish disabilities, II 364, 366 refers to revolutionary leanings of Jews, II 364 f criticize Jewish separation and exploitation, II 365 describes poverty of Jews, II 366 f; favors gradual emancipation of Jews, II 368 f minority of, favors continuation of repression policy, II 369; supported by Alexander III., II 370 invites Jewish experts, II 369 f disbanded, II 380 =Commissions=, the Gubernatorial, appointed to counteract "injurious influence" of Jews (1881), II 272 ff circular of Ignatyev concerning appointment of, II 273; quoted by Cardinal Manning, II 289 anti-Jewish recommendations of, II 275 influence Central Committee for Revision of Jewish Question, II 277, 309 material of, examined and discarded by Pahlen Commission, II 337, 363 charges of, denied by Jewish Conference, II 307 =Commission=, the Rabbinical, see Rabbinical Commission =Committee=, to consider Jewish questions, appointed by Polish Government (1815), II 89 f; (1825), II 103 f to investigate ritual murder (1864), II 151 to investigate Brafman's charges against Kahals (1866), II 189 f, 240 Russo-Jewish C. in London, II 388 f Central C. of ICA in St. Petersburg, II 420 secret C. under Plehve plans Jewish counter-reforms (1891), II 399 C. of governors and high officials appointed with anti-Semitic instructions (1904), III 93 =Committee= for Amelioration of Jews, called "Jewish Committee" (1802), I 335 ff appointment of, causes alarm among Jews, I 336 invites deputies from Jewish Kahals, I 337 Nota Shklover invited to assist, I 338 elaborates plan of Jewish reform, I 338; and submits it to Kahals, I 339 conflicting tendencies within, I 339 f submits report to Alexander I., I 341 f supplies basis for Statute of 1804, I 342 reappointed 1809, advises against expulsion of Jews from villages, I 352 ff, 405 reappointed 1823, plans to reduce number of Jews in Russia, I 407 f drafts principal enactments concerning Jews, II 31 suggest expulsion of Jews from Courland, II 32 frame Statute of 1835, II 34 appointed 1871, II 191 charged to consider Kahal organization and economic exploitation, II 193 ff =Committee for Radical Transformation of Jews=, appointed 1840, II 49 f, 157 presided over by Kisselev, II 50, 157 considers plan of "assorting" Jews, II 64 ff Moses Montefiore permitted to communicate with Nicholas I. through, II 68 suggests modification of conscription system, II 155 resuscitated (1856), II 161 discusses right of residence outside Pale, II 161 ff, 163 ff, 169 favors opening of Interior to retired soldiers, II 171 suggests law demanding secular education of teachers and rabbis, II 175 =Committee for Revision of Jewish Question=, appointed 1881, II 277 suggests unpopulated localities for Jewish settlement, II 285 plans expulsion of Jews from villages, II 285 frames "Temporary Law" of 1882, II 309 ff =Committee of Ministers= approves measures against "Judaizers," I 402 approves expulsion of Jews from villages of White Russia, I 406 instructed to provide relief for expelled Jews, I 406 advised to stop expulsion, I 407 formulates function of "Jewish Committee," I 408 question of admitting artisans into Interior transferred to, II 169 f modifies "temporary Rules" of Ignatyev, II 311 f, 318 objects to pogroms, II 312 f advocates school norm for Jews, II 339, 349 discusses emigration to Argentina, II 419 entrusted by Nicholas II. with execution of constitutional reforms, III 106 presided over by Witte, III 107 discusses Jewish question, III 123; see Council of Ministers =Committee on Freedom of Conscience=, appointed by Second Duma, favors Jewish emancipation, III 142 =Conference of Jewish Notables=, in St. Petersburg (September, 1881), II 277; (April, 1882), II 304 ff refuses to regulate emigration, II 307 disastrous results of decision of, II 321 =Congregation of New Testament Israelites=, Judeo-Christian sect in Kishinev, II 335 =Congregational Board=, supersedes Kahal in Poland, II 102 f (of Warsaw), objects to separate Jewish regiment, II 106 sends deputation to St. Petersburg to plead for equal rights, II 110 president of, arrested by Russian Government, II 181 =Congress=, of Aix-la-Chapelle, discusses Jewish question, I 398 f of Berlin, demands equal rights for Balkan Jews, II 202 of Vienna, see Vienna, Congress of Jewish C. proposed by Pinsker, II 331 of Medicine, in Moscow, III 15 Zionist C., III 41, 44 f, 84 f, 144 of United States, see United States of Poland, see Poland, kingdom of =Congressional Record=, quoted, II 294, 296, 395 =Conscription=, see Cantonists, Military Service, and Recruits =Constance=, Synod of, attended by Polish clergy, I 57 =Constantine, Old=, see Constantinov =Constantine Pavlovich=, grand duke, Russian heir-apparent, II 13, 129 proclaimed emperor but resigns, II 13 appointed commander of Poland, II 13, 16, 91 suggests expulsion of Jews from border zone, I 408 expels Jews from villages, II 31 Isaac Baer Levinsohn submits memorandum to, II 129 =Constantinople=, capital of Byzantium, I 17 captured by Turks, I 35 patriarchs of, carry on Christian propaganda in Tauris, I 18 Church of, hopes for conversion of Khazars, I 20 Spanish exiles in, I 27 Abydos, seat of Sabbatai Zevi, in neighborhood of, I 206 Jewish pilgrims on way to Palestine arrive in, I 209 Ignetyev, Russian ambassador at, II 259 =Constantinov, Old=, or Staro-(Volhynia), Cossack massacre at, I 149 "protest" against conscription at, II 21 f =Constitution=, "anti-Jewish C.," passed by Polish Diet of 1538, 1 77 f adopted by Piotrkov Church Council of 1542, I 82 f Polish C. of May 3, 1791, 289 f. introduced by Napoleon into duchy of Warsaw, I 398 violated by Government of duchy, I 299 ff "Jewish C." of 1804, I 342 ff =Constitutional Democratic Party=, the (Cadets), in Russia, mistrusts Government, III 130 forms majority in First Duma, III 135 loses in Second Duma, III 142 weak in Third Duma, III 153 Jews in, III 119 Vinaver, leader of, III 134 majority of Jewish deputies belong to, III 135 =Contra-Talmudists=, name for Frankists, I 214 f =Conversion=, of Jews, to Christianity, recommended by patriarch of Constantinople and bishop of Bosporus, I 18, 20 forced upon Jews of Byzantium, I 23 forcible C. of children punished by Polish law (1264), I 47 of Jewish Messianic pilgrims in Palestine, I 210 of Jacob Frank and followers, I 217 f; deplored by Besht, I 229 carried on through military service, II 26 f, 45, 156 f feared by Jews of Vilna, II 54 f endeavors of Russians towards, stopped, II 173 f of Haskalah pioneers, II 132 of disillusioned _intelligenzia_, II 327 as result of expulsions in St. Petersburg, II 344; and Moscow, II 425; see Society of Israelitish Christians C. epidemic in Berlin, I 388 forced by Ivan the Terrible upon Jews of Vitebsk, I 154; and upon Jews of Polotzk, I 243 Russian Government aims at, I 396 ff; II 44 f, 188 of Khazars, to Judaism, I 20 attempted C. of Vladimir, I 30 of Turkish Sabbatians, to Mohammedanism, I 210 =Converts=, to Christianity, permitted by King John Casimir to return to Judaism, I 151 accuse Jews of ritual murder, I 173 f; II 73, 80 inform against Hebrew books, II 42 in city of Saratov, II 150 individual converts: Abraham Yosefovich, I 73 Berthenson, II 214 Bogrov, II 242 Brafman, II 187 ff Briskin, II 85 Chwolson, II 151, 205, 214 Efron-Litvin, III 38 Grudinski, II 80 Horvitz, II 202, 244 Kronenberg, II 178 Nyevakhovich, I 388 Peretz, I 388 Pfefferkorn, II 189 Priluker, II 335 Savitzki, II 73 Serafinovich, I 173 f See also, Judaizers =Cordova=, Caliphate of, see Caliphate =Coronation Diets=, see Diets, Coronation =Cosmopolitanism=, advocated by Jewish socialists, II 222; by Levanda, II 240; by Bogrov, II 241 =Cossacks=, name explained, I 142 origin of, I 142 ff Ukrainian C's., I 142 Zaporozhian C's., see Zaporozhians massacre Jews (1637), I 144; (1648), I 144 ff, 154, 246 exclude Jews from their country (1649), I 151 readmit Jews to their territory (1651), I 152 ally themselves with Russia (1654), I 152 ff invade Polish territories, I 154, 156, 244 ff rise against Poles and Jews, I 182 ff Jews visit territory of, despite prohibition, I 246 C's. of Little Russia plead for admission of Jews, I 250 See also Khmelnitzki =Costanda=, military governor of Moscow, inaugurates expulsion of Jews, II 401 =Council, Church C.=, see Church Council =Council of Ministers=, in duchy of Warsaw, opposes Jewish emancipation, I 299 in Russia, Nicholas I. appends resolution to report of, II 62 reports to Tzar on Jewish agricultural colonization, II 71 recommends appointment of "High Commission" on Jewish question, II 336 passes anti-Jewish laws, II 338 not consulted in expulsion from Moscow, II 402 favors grant of franchise to Jews, III 122 presided over by Witte, II 125 suggests moderate Jewish reforms to Nicholas II., II 141 =Council of State=, in Poland, discusses Jewish question, II 93 f formation of, in Russia, I 335 bars Jews from Russian Interior, I 316 condemns expulsion of Jews from White Russian villages, I 407; II 34 objects to further expulsions, II 34 f discusses right of residence outside Pale, II 35 f, 161 ff, 163 ff, 169 f recommends alleviation in military service, II 36 disagrees on expulsion from Kiev, II 36 f passes Statute of 1835, II 37 receives memoranda on Jewish question, II 38 discusses Jewish question and suggests measures (1840), II 47 ff discusses exact limits of Pale, II 70 acquits Velizh Jews of ritual murder charge, II 81 ff convicts Jews of Saratov, II 152 discusses Jewish separatism, under influence of Brafman's charges, II 190 recommends appointment of Commission of Amelioration of Jews, II 191, 193 material on Jewish question prepared for, II 336 plans of Pahlen Commission said to have been brought before, II 320 disregarded by Alexander III. in issuing "Temporary Rules," II 312, 386; in passing anti-Jewish restrictions, II 338; in passing school norm, II 349; in expulsion from Moscow, II 402 confirms exclusion of Jews from Zemstvos, II 386 members of, favor Jewish franchise, III 122 =Courland=, added to Pale, I 321 Jews settled in, I 341 new Jewish settler expelled from, II 32 Lipman Levy, Russian financial agent, native of, I 248 Mordecai Aaron Ginzburg, Hebrew writer, resident of, II 133 Nisselovich, Duma deputy for, III 153 =Courts=, Jews of Poland exempted from jurisdiction of municipal and ecclesiastic C's., I 45 f, 51 f, 84, 94, 103 cases between Jews tried by royal C's., or Voyevoda C. (in Lithuania, Starosta C.), I 45 f, 51 f, 59 f "Jewish Judge," Polish official nominated by Jews, attached to Voyevoda C., I 46, 52, 192 Voyevoda C. tries cases between Jews and Christians, I 84, 191; acts as Court of Appeals, I 191; Kahal elders attached to, I 84 tax-farmer Yosko and employees placed under jurisdiction of royal C., I 71 Jews on noble estates placed under C's. of nobles, I 84 Municipal C's. claim jurisdiction over Jews, I 93 f ritual murder cases tried by C's. without proper jurisdiction, I 95 f civil and partly criminal cases between Jews tried by C. of rabbis and Kahal elders, I 83, 105 f Kahal C. granted right of imposing _herem_ and other penalties, I 73, 105 f Kahal C. granted exclusive jurisdiction in cases between Jews, I 191 Kahal C. consists of rabbis as judges and Kahal elders as jury, I 191 Council of Four Lands acts as C., I 111; appoints provincial judges, I 111 Kahal C. of Vilna issues _herem_ against Hasidim (1772), I 237 Kahals recognized as C's. by Russian Senate (1776), I 309 cases between Jews tried by C's. of District and Gubernatorial Kahals, I 309 Gubernatorial Kahals act as C's. of Appeal, I 309 cases between Jews and Christians tried by municipal C's., I 309 Senate questions legality of special Jewish C's. (1782), I 310 Jews admitted to membership in municipal C's. (1783), I 310 cases between Jews tried by municipal C's. (1786), I 313 Jews represented on municipal C's. by elective jurymen, I 313 Kahal C's. limited to spiritual affairs (1786), I 313; (1795), I 319 Jews of Lithuania plead for preservation of Kahal C's. (1795), I 320 Statute of 1804 places Jews under jurisdiction of Russian C's., I 344 Jews continue to resort to Kahal C., I 367; see Kahal, Jewish Judge, and Rabbi =Cox, Samuel S.=, of New York, protests in Congress against pogroms, II 294 ff =Cracow=, leading city of Little Poland, I 42, 110, 196 capital of Western Galicia, I 53 election diets held in, I 98 superseded as Polish capital by Warsaw, I 85 conquered by Swedes, I 154 surrendered by Shlakhta, I 155 Province of, annexed by Austria, I 297 Jewish refugees from Crusade seek shelter in, I 41 Jewish Community of, represented on Council of Four Lands, I 110 Jewish communities in Province of, destroyed, I 156 Jewish charter ratified by Casimir the Great, in, I 51 Jews of, receive charter from John Casimir, I 159 anti-Jewish riots in, I 56 f, 63 f, 75 f, 102, 161, 166 Jews of, subjected to commercial restrictions, I 74 f, 98 restrictions for Jews of, demanded by Church Synod, I 82 ghetto established in, I 64, 85 ritual murder trial in, I 164 f host trial in, I 101 f "Judaizing" tendencies in, I 79 f anti-Semitic writers in, 96 f Oleshnitzki, archbishop of, I 62 Gamrat, bishop of, I 79 Kmita, Voyevoda of, I 76 Hebrew printing-press in, I 131, 195 Delacruta, Cabalist, resident of, I 134 Horowitz, Isaiah, Cabalist, studies in, I 135 Pollak, Jacob, head of yeshibah in, I 122 Spira, Nathan, head of yeshibah in, I 135 Rabbis of: Asher, I 104 Fishel, I 105, 132 Heller, I 158 Isserles, I 123 Kaidanover, Samuel, I 200 Meir of Lublin, I 129 Meisels, II 179 Peretz, I 104 Sirkis, I 133 =Crémieux, Adolf=, president of _Alliance Israélite_, corresponds with Lilienthal, II 67 petitions Alexander II. on behalf of Jews accused of ritual murder, II 153 criticized by governor-general of Kiev, II 194 =Crimea, The=, name defined, I 13 Greeks in, I 13 f conquered by Khazars, I 19 f last refuge of Khazars, I 28 known as Khazaria, I 28 f ruled by Pechenegs and Polovtzis, I 29 conquered by Tatars, I 33 Tataric Khanate of, I 35 f, 142 Tatars of, ally themselves with Cossacks, I 143 ff Kaffa, Genoese colony in, I 33 f list of cities in, I 26 visited by Petahiah of Ratisbon, I 33 Taman peninsula, in neighborhood of, I 23 Jews in, I 14 ff, 33 ff Karaite communities in, I 35 Jews of, settle in Kiev, I 30; in Lithuania, I 35 expelled Lithuanian Jews emigrate to, I 65 Jewish State in, suggested, I 412; see Tavrida, government of =Crimean War=, stops plan of Jewish "Assortment," II 143 effect of, on Jewish situation II 149 f, 154 =Crown=, the, signifying Poland as contrasted with Lithuania, I 72, 88, 110, 113, 127, 162, 193 =Crown Rabbis= ("official," or _kazyonny_, rabbis), name explained, II 176 forced upon congregations, II 176 act as Government agents See Rabbis =Crown Schools=, see Schools =Crusades=, the, stimulate immigration of Jews into Poland, I 33, 41 give rise to Teutonic order, I 63 victims of Cossack massacres (1648) compared with those of, I 156 =Cyril=, Christian missionary, disputes with Jews, I 18 =Daitzelman=, Jewish merchant in Nizhni-Novgorod, victim of pogrom, II 361 =Dakota, North and South=, Jewish agricultural colonies in, II 374 =Damascus=, ritual murder trial of, II 68 =Daniel Apostol=, Hetman of Little Russia, pleads for admission of Jewish salesman, I 250 =Dantzic=, annexed by Prussia, I 292 =Danube, The=, Jewish emigration form provinces of, to Poland, I 41 =Dardanelles, The=, commerce between Genoa and Crimea through, I 34 =Darkest Russia=, periodical published in England, II 381 =Darshanim= (Preachers), in Poland, I 201 f =Darvin, Charles=, influences Russian-Jewish _intelligenzia_, II 209 =Dashevski, Pincus=, assaults Krushevan to avenge Kishinev massacre, III 81 f trial of, induces Plehve to forbid Zionism, III 82 receives greetings of Russian-Jewish convention, III 132 =Davidov=, Russian military leader, praises Jews, I 357 =Davis, Noah=, Judge, speaks at New York protest meeting, II 297 =Decembrists= (_Russian_, Dyekabrist), Russian revolutionaries, name explained, I 410 suppressed by Nicholas I., II 13 attitude of, towards Jews, I 409 ff =Dekert, John=, mayor of Warsaw, champion of burgher class, I 286 =Delacruta, Mattathiah=, Italian Cabalist in Cracow, I 134 =Delmedigo, Joseph Solomon=, called _Yashar_, of Candia, arraigns Polish Jews for opposing secular culture, I 134 =Dembrovski=, Polish bishop, arranges disputations between Frankists and Talmudist, I 214 f orders burning of Talmud, I 215 =Demiovka=, suburb of Kiev, pogrom at, II 254 f =De non Tolerandis Iudæis=, right of excluding Jews in Warsaw (and other Polish cities), I 85 in Kiev, I 94 f abolished in Zhitomir, Vilna (and other cities), II 172 abolished throughout Poland (1862), II 181 =Denis=, Greek-orthodox priest, converted to Judaism, I 36 =Department of Law=, part of Council of State, considers Jewish legislation, II 34 ff =Deputation of the Jewish People, The=, created by Alexander I., I 392 ff disbanded in 1825, I 395 instrumental in stopping ritual murder trial in Grodno, II 74 induces Alexander I. to veto prohibition of liquor trade in Poland, II 94 =Derbent=, see Bab Al-Abwab =Diaspora=, Jewish, neglected by Zionism, III 52 as conceived by National-Cultural Autonomism, III 53 ff as conceived by Russian-Jewish historians, II 65 =Diet, The=, in Poland, term defined, I 76 controlled by Shlakhta, I 58, 77, 160 authority of, undermined by _liberum veto_, I 92, 168 Jews represented at, by "syndics," I 111 anti-Jewish tendency of, I 76 f, 160 preceded by anti-Jewish propaganda, I 165 counteracts benevolent intentions of kings, I 160 censures King Sobieski for interest in Jews, I 167 condemns anti-Jewish riots, I 166 f, 171 fixes amount of Jewish head-tax, I 194 granted right to elect government, I 263 Jews admitted to Warsaw during sessions of, I 268 ff re-established in duchy of Warsaw, I 298 Coronation D's., name explained, I 98 Jewish privileges ratified at, I 98, 160, 168 =Election D's.=, name explained, I 98 Individual Diets, according to years: 1423 (of Varta), restricts financial operations of Jews, I 58 1454 (of Nyeshava), rescinds Jewish privileges, I 63 1496 (of Piotrkov), confirms restrictions of Nyeshava Diet, I 64 1521 (of Piotrkov), limits commerce of Lemberg Jews, I 75 1538 (of Piotrkov), passes anti-Jewish "constitution," I 77; confirmed by Diet of 1562, 1565 and 1768, I 87 1548 (of Piotrkov), Sigismund II. ratifies Jewish charter at, I 83 1618, discusses passionately Jewish question, I 97 1643 (of Warsaw), restricts profits of Jews, I 99 1658 (of Warsaw), expels sectarians from Poland, I 91 1670 (of Warsaw), restricts financial operations of Jews, I 160 1693 (of Grodno), arraigns Bezalel, Jewish tax-farmer, I 167 1717 (of Warsaw), increases Jewish head-tax, I 169; protests against anti-Jewish riots, I 171 1740, rejects resolution turning Jews into serfs, I 170 1764 (of Warsaw), alters system of Jewish taxation, I 181, 197; prohibits conventions of Jewish District elders, I 198 1768 (of Warsaw), renews commercial restrictions of 1538, I 182, 267; admits Jews temporarily to Warsaw, I 268 1788-1791, see Diet, Quadrennial 1808, elections to, force Government to take up Jewish question, I 299 1818, first D. of kingdom of Poland, displays anti-Jewish attitude, II 96, 99 1831, releases Jews from conscription, II 107 =Diet, The Quadrennial=, or Great (1788-1791), name explained, I 263 reflects liberal ideas, I 278 elaborates modern constitution, I 263 equalizes burgher class, I 278 discusses agrarian question, I 279 prepares for struggle with Russia, I 279 attitude of, towards Jewish question, I 263 ff, 279 ff, 285, 288 ff refers Jewish question to special commission, I 264, 279, 287, 327 finance committee of, reports on Jews, 263 ff Chatzki, Polish historian, member of, I 263, 288 Butrymovich, champion of Polish Jews, member of, I 264, 274, 280 f, 285, 289 Chatzki and Butrymovich submit proposals to, I 271 Jews admitted to Warsaw during, I 285 notified of anti-Jewish demonstration in Warsaw, I 286; and investigates it, I 287 literature centering around, I 279 ff appealed to by Simeon Wolfovich against Kahals, I 276 project of Jewish reforms submitted to king during, I 284 =Dietines=, the, Polish provincial diets, I 76 provide occasions for anti-Jewish riots, I 170 serve as pattern for Jewish D., I 113, 196 f Jewish D., called officially "synagogues," I 196 =Dilke, Sir Charles=, English Under-Secretary of State, interpellated about pogroms, II 262 =Dillon, Eliezer=, army purveyor, represents Jews before Russian Government, I 358 member of Deputation of Jewish People, I 392 f =Disabilities=, see Restrictions =Disputations=, religious, between Jews and Christians, I 136 f between Frankists and orthodox Jews, I 214 f, 216 f; attended by Besht, I 229 =Disraeli=, see Beaconsfield =Distillers=, Jewish, admitted to Russian Interior, II 170 =Distilling=, see _Propinatzya_ =Dlugosh, Jan=, called Longinus, Polish historian, quoted, I 57 =Dnieper=, the, river, Petahiah of Ratisbon reaches banks of, I 33 Jews disappear from left bank of, I 157 Jews decimated on right bank of, I 157 southern basin of, subject to Poland, I 140 left bank of, called Little Russia, ceded to Russia, I 159 Jews penetrate into Little Russia "from other side of," I 253 Cossacks beyond Falls of, I 143 ff uprising against Poles and Jews on right bank of, I 182 Cossack army "on both sides of," plead for admission of Jewish salesmen, I 250 central river of Pale, I 317 See Moghilev on the Dnieper =Dniester, The=, river, Moghilev on, I 98 =Dobrolubov=, Russian critic, influences Jewish _intelligenzia_, II 207, 209 =Doctor=, official title of rabbis in ancient Poland, I 72, 104, 109 =Dolgoruki=, Count, governor-general of Moscow, friendly to Jews, II 400 f =Dombrovski=, Polish revolutionary leader, I 303 =Domestics, Christian=, the keeping of, prohibited by Church Council of Breslau (1266), I 49 by Synod of Piotrkov (1542), I 82 by "Lithuanian Statute" (1566), I 87 by Diet of Warsaw (1670), I 160 prohibition of, in Russia, suggested by Dyerzhavin, I 333, and Golitzin, 404 prohibited by Russian Senate (1820), I 404 f prohibited for permanent employment (1835), II 40 Christians of Pereyaslav call upon Jews to refrain from, II 266 Pobyedonostzev deplores influence of Jews on their D., III 9 =Domestics, Jewish=, outside Pale, Jewish merchants allowed limited number of, II 162 Jewish university graduates allowed two, II 166, 344 fictitious D. in St. Petersburg, II 344 f =Dominican Order=, the, church of, in Posen, collects regular fine from Jews, I 55 priest of, in Cracow, causes execution of Jews, I 164 general of, in Rome, calls upon head of, in Cracow, to defend Jews, I 165 =Don=, the, river, Khazars move towards, I 19 Territory of D. Army closed to Jews, II 346 =Dondukov-Korsakov=, governor-general of Kiev, criticizes Jews, II 193 f =Drabkin=, rabbi of St. Petersburg, reports conversation with Ignatyev, II 305 =Drenteln=, governor-general of Kiev, ferocious Jew-baiter, abets pogroms, II 252, 254 recommends severe repression of Jews, II 276 upbraids Jews of Balta, II 316 f misconstrues "Temporary Rules" against Jews, II 341 =Dresden=, Jews of, appeal to Augustus III. against ritual murder libel, I 176 =Dress, Christian=, forbidden to Jews by "Lithuanian Statute" (1566), I 87 deprecated by rabbis (1607), I 112 prescribed for Jewish visitors to Russian Interior (1835), II 40 prescribed for Jewish members of municipalities (1804), I 345 German D. adopted by "Berliners," I 384 Russian D. preferred by Jews to German D., I 350; see Dress, Jewish =Dress, Jewish= (hat or badge), prescribed by Synod of Breslau (1266), I 48 by Synod of Buda (1279), I 49 by Synod of Kalish (1420), I 57 by Diet of Piotrkov (1538), I 78 by Synod of Piotrkov (1542), I 83 abandoned by some Jews in Warsaw, I 300 f defended by Polish rabbi, I 283 Jews of Warsaw demand equal rights as reward for discarding, I 385 f prohibition of, recommended by Butrymovich, I 281; by Polish nobility of Lithuania, I 326; by Friesel, governor of Vilna, I 327; and Dyerzhavin, I 333 tax imposed on, in Russia (1843), I 110; extended to Poland (1845), I 110 Russian Council of State finds principal source of Jewish separatism in (1840), II 48; and suggests prohibition, II 49; but modifies view (1870), II 190 f governors-general advised of impending prohibition of, II 66 prohibition of, enacted (1850), I 144; and extended to female attire (1851), I 144 prohibition of, remains ineffective, I 144 f Alexander II. displeased with, in Poland, II 190 luxury in, forbidden (1566), I 87; deprecated by Abraham Hirshovich, I 284; by I. B. Levinsohn, II 128; by Christians of Pereyaslav, II 266 white D. favored by early "Hasidim," I 209, 231, 237; objected to by assembly of rabbis, I 237; see Dress, Christian =Dreyfus Affair=, the, exploited by Russian press, III 32 witnessed by Doctor Herzl, III 42 =Druskeniki= (government of Grodno), Conference of "Lovers of Zion" at, II 377 =Drusus=, name of Greek Jew, I 15 =Dubnow, S. M.=, author of present work, quoted, I 114, 163, 235 champions national rejuvenation of Judaism in Russia, II 327 formulates theory of Spiritual Nationalism, or National-Cultural Autonomism, III 52 member of central committee of League for Equal Rights, III 42 editor of periodical _Yevreyskaya Starina_, III 160 =Dubossary=, ritual murder libel at, III 70 f pogrom at, frustrated by Jews, III 71 =Dubrovin=, head of Black Hundred, received by Nicholas II., III 149 =Dubrovna= (government of Moghilev), Voznitzin, captain of navy, converted to Judaism at, I 252 =Duchy of Warsaw=, see Warsaw, Duchy of =Dukhobortzy=, Russian sect, flees from persecution to Canada, III 10 =Duma, Imperial Russian=, plans for, formulated, III 122; and published, III 124 manifesto of October 17 promises establishment of, III 127 _First D._, elections to, III 133 League for Equal Rights participates in elections to, III 133 f Zionists participate in elections to, III 145 boycotted by Left, III 134 Jewish deputies to, III 134 Jewish question before, III 135 ff pogroms discussed by, III 126, 136 ff appoints commission to investigate Bialystok pogrom, III 137 adopts resolution condemning pogroms, III 139 dissolved, III 139 _Second D._, convoked, III 141 only three Jewish deputies elected to, III 142 Jewish question referred by, to committee, III 142 dissolved, III 142 _Third D._, called the Black, III 153 only two Jewish deputies elected to, III 153 violently anti-Semitic, III 153 ff discusses Beilis case, III 165 _Fourth D._, anti-Semitic agitation in Poland during elections to, III 167 Jewish D. deputies co-operate with joint Jewish Council in St. Petersburg, III 148 =Dunaigrod= (Podolia), ritual murder trial at, I 178 =Durnovo=, Russian official, investigates ritual murder trial at Saratov, II 150 =Durnovo=, Russian Minister of Interior, fanatic reactionary, II 379 bars Jews from local self-government (Zemstvos), II 386; and municipal self-government, II 425 suggests expulsion of Jews from Moscow, II 402 revokes decree of 1880, causing expulsion of "circular Jews," II 428 continues in office under Nicholas II., III 9, 16 member of Witte cabinet, III 31 =Dusyaty= (government of Kovno), pogrom at, III 115 =Dvina=, river, Jews drowned by Russian troops in, I 243 =Dyekabristy=, see Decembrists =Dyelanov=, Minister of Public Instruction, decrees "school norm," limiting admission of Jews to schools and universities, II 349 ff applies school norm leniently, III 27 f =Dyen= ("The Day"), Russian-Jewish weekly, II 218, 220, 238 =Dyerzhavin, Gabriel=, member of Russian Senate, becomes interested in Jewish question, I 327 meets Jews for first time on tour to White Russia, I 328 meets modernized Jewish physician in White Russia, I 386 pursues anti-Jewish purpose on tour, I 329 f prepares elaborate "Opinion" on Jews, I 330 ff appointed Minister of Justice, I 335 "Opinion" of, studied by Committee for Amelioration of Jews, I 335 f retires, I 337 example of, followed later in White Russia, 405 =Earlocks= (_Peies_), discarded by modernized Jews, I 384 cutting off of, recommended in Poland, I 385 wearing of, prohibited by Nicholas I., II 144 f See Beards =Easter=, Russian, duration of, II 249 season of pogroms, II 248, 299; III 34, 71 ff, 96 f, 114 f, 134 =Economic= life, of Jews, in Poland, I 42, 44 f, 67 f, 160, 264 ff, 270 in Polish Silesia, I 42 in Lithuania, I 60 in Russia, I 353 f, 359 ff in White Russia, I 310 ff; II 14 in Russian South-west, II 193 f in Kiev, II 264 undermined under Nicholas I., II 70, 72 improved under Alexander II., II 185 f E. importance of Russian Jews pointed out by Vorontzov, II 64 f; by Pahlen Commission, II 366; and by foreign press, II 408 Russian Jews accused of E. exploitation, II 193 f, 270 ff restricted under Alexander III., II 318, 346 ff E. misery of Russian Jews, II 318, 366 f collapse of, under Nicholas II., III 22 ff in America, II 374 E. boycott in Poland, III 166 ff =Edels, Samuel=, called Maharsho, famous Polish talmudist, I 129 f =Education, Jewish=, see Heder and Yeshibah modernization of, in Poland, urged by Kalmansohn, I 385; by David Friedländer, II 90; by Polish assimilationists, II 101 criticized by Russian Council of State, II 48 negative effects of, pointed out by author, II 113 national E. demanded by Zionist Convention at Minsk, III 45 fostered by Society for Diffusion of Enlightenment, III 160 autonomy of, demanded by League for Equal Rights, III 112 progress of, in Palestine, III 148 See School =Education, Secular=, promotion of, among Jews, urged by Russian dignitaries, I 327, 333 championed by Frank, Jewish physician, I 331; by I. B. Levinsohn, II 128; and by Maskilim of Vilna, II 137 encouraged by Alexander I., I 344 f; by Nicholas I., II 20, 57 f; and by Alexander II., II 163 ff, 166, 175, 216 shunned by Russian Jews, I 350, 380; II 48, 53 ff, 175 spreads under Alexander II., II 176 f, 216 promoted by Society for Diffusion of Enlightenment spread of, among Jews feared by Russian authorities, II 339, 348 disparaged in general by Pobyedonostzev, II 348 =Educational Restrictions=, demanded by Alexander III., II 349 issued by Minister of Instruction (1887), II 350 disastrous effects of, II 350 f compel Jewish youth to study abroad, II 351; III 31 stimulate emigration, II 373 applied with increasing rigor under Nicholas II., III 27 ff abolished in institutions of higher learning (1905), III 124 restored (1907), III 152 placed on Statute books in 1908, III 157 f See Enlightenment, School, and University =Efron-Litvin=, converted Jew, anti-Semitic playwright, III 38 =Egypt=, emigration of Jews from, into Tauris, I 16 Sabbatian propaganda in, I 205 =Eibeschütz=, upheld by Polish rabbis in struggle with Emden, I 204 =Einhorn, David=, modern Jewish writer, III 162 =Eisenbaum, Anton=, Polish-Jewish assimilationist, head of rabbinical seminary, II 103 =Eisenmenger=, anti-Jewish writer, II 104 =Eisenstadt, Michael=, represents Kahals before Russian Government, I 393 =Ekaterinoslav=, see Yekaterinoslav =Ekron=, Jewish colony in Palestine, II 375 =Eliezer=, Bohemian scholar, quoted, I 43 =Elijah=, the prophet, believed to associate with Besht, I 228 Russian church festival in honor of, II 358 =Elijah of Vilna=, called the Gaon, idolized by rabbis of Lithuania and other countries, I 235 f familiar with Cabala, I 235 studied secular sciences, I 235 f tolerant towards pursuit of secular sciences, I 381 avoids _pilpul_ and cultivates method of textual analysis, I 236 introduces method into yeshibahs of Lithuania, I 380; particularly into yeshibah of Volozhin, I 381 fragmentary nature of literary work of, I 236 rigorist in religious practice, I 236 opposes Hasidism, I 236 causes issuance of _herem_ against Hasidism, I 237 reaffirms _herem_, I 373 checks growth of Hasidism in Vilna, I 372 refuses to see Shneor Zalman, I 374 f death of, I 375 Hasidim of Vilna rejoice over death of, I 375 =Elimelech of Lizno=, hasidic leader, I 232 =Elizabeth Petrovna=, Russian empress (1741-1761), persecutes non-Orthodox, I 254 decrees expulsion of Jews from entire Russian empire (1727), I 255 refuses plea of Ukrainians and Livonians for admission of Jews, I 257 pens famous resolution against Jews (1743), I 257 decrees again unconditional expulsion of Jews (1744), I 257 f dismisses Sanches, Jewish court physician, I 258 policy of, followed by Catherine II., I 259 =Elizabethgrad=, see Yelisavetgrad =Emancipation= (Equal Rights), introduced by Napoleon into duchy of Warsaw, I 298 not applied to Jews, I 298 f Warsaw Jews apply to Polish Government for, I 299 opposed by Polish Council of Ministers, I 299 suspended by duke of Warsaw for ten years, I 299 17 Jews of Warsaw apply for, as reward for assimilation, I 300 refused by Polish Minister of Justice, I 300 f representatives of Warsaw community plead for, I 301 f opposed by Polish Senate, I 302 Warsaw Jews apply to Nicholas I. for, II 110 granted to Jews of Poland by Alexander II. (1862), II 181 ff promised to Jews by early Russian revolutionaries, I 413 prominent St. Petersburg Jews apply to Alexander II. for, II 159 f recommended by Stroganov, governor-general of New Russia, II 168 f advocated by Russian-Jewish press, II 219 f, 238, 332 claimed by Young Israel, heterodox Jewish sect, II 334 recommended by Pahlen Commission, II 364, 368 urged by Guildhall meeting in London, II 391 demanded by Russian lawyers and writers for all citizens, III 105 partial E. promised by Russian Government, III 106 unrestricted E. demanded by Russian Jews, III 108 ff demanded by Society for Diffusion of Enlightenment, III 111 urged by League for Equal Rights, III 111 f adopted for all citizens by First Duma, III 135 bill providing for E. of Jews referred by First Duma to Committee, III 137 f opposed by Nicholas II., III 141 bill providing for, passed by Committee of Second Duma, III 142 forms platforms of Jewish people's group, III 140 f See League for Attainment of Equal Rights =Emden, Jacob=, opposed by Polish rabbis in fight with Eibeshütz, I 204 =Emigration=, of Jews, from Lithuania, prevented by Sigismund I. (1540) I 81 from Poland, caused by Khmelnitzki massacres (1648 ff), I 157 from Russia, caused by persecutions and pogroms, II 268, 327 ff, 413, 420; III 96 causes shortage of Jewish recruits, II 356 prompts imposition of military fine, II 373, 414 stimulated by educational restrictions, I 373 welcomed by Russian Government as solution of Jewish problem, II 419 f; III 10 encouraged by Russian Government, II 285, 414, 417 f, 420 old Russian law prohibiting E. not enforced, II 69, 285 Plehve promises to support E., III 83 to Algiers, proposed by French Jews, II 69 to Argentina, II 413, 416 ff, 419 f to Canada, II 421 to Palestine, I 269 f; II 321 f, 419 ff, 421 ff; advocated by _Poale Zion_, III 145; importance of, recognized by Russian Jewry, III 54, 147 to United States, II 297 f, 320 f, 373 ff, 409, 413, 420 f; III 96, 104; calls forth protest of U. S. Government, II 396; importance of, recognized by Russian Jewish parties, III 54, 145, 147 =Emigration, Regulation of=, attempted by emigrant societies, II 297 f urged by Mandelstamm and part of Jewish press, II 298 feared by prominent St. Petersburg Jews, II 298 deprecated by _Voskhod_ as subversive of emancipation, II 298 f rejected by Jewish Conference in St. Petersburg (April, 1882), II 307; disastrous results of rejection, II 420 proposed by Baron Hirsch, II 416, 419 sanctioned by Russian Government, II 420 =Encyclopedists=, French, praise polemical treatise of Isaac Troki, I 138 =England=, represented at Congress of Aix-la-Chapelle, I 398 Parliament in, discusses pogroms, II 262 f, 281 f, 287 ff, 388 ff prominent men in, approach Nicholas I. on behalf of Russian Jews, II 63 Priluker, Russian Jew, missionary in, II 335 Russian-Jewish students in, II 351 offers Uganda to Zionists, III 85 See London =Enlightenment=, see Haskalah =Equal Rights=, see Emancipation =Ephes-Dammim=, name of biblical place, used as book title, II 131 =Ephesus=, city in Asia Minor, Jewish community in, I 14 =Epstein, Samuel=, represents Jews before Russian Government, I 393 =Eshet Hayil=, term explained, II 113 =Estate, Real=, see Property, Real =Estherka=, concubine of Casimir the Great, I 53 f =Euclid=, geometry of, translated into Hebrew, I 381 =Euler=, German mathematician, criticizes dismissal of Jewish court physician in St. Petersburg, I 258 =Europe, Eastern=, beginnings of Diaspora in, I 13 =Euxine Colonies=, see Black Sea =Evangelists=, Protestant sect in Poland, I 91 =Evarts, William M.=, American Secretary of State, makes representations to Russian Government, II 293 =Eve=, daughter of Jacob Frank, head of Frankist sect, I 220 =Excise Farmers=, called _aktzizniks_, II 186 =Excommunication=, see _Herem_ =Execution=, or forcible seizure, term explained, II 20 =Exilarchs=, heads of Babylonian Jewry, I 20 =Exploitation=, economic, Russian Jews accused of, II 193 used as pretext for pogroms, II 261 f, 264, 270 ff, 315 handicrafts stigmatized as, I 347 =Expulsion=, of Jews, by Polish Government from Lithuania (1495), I 65 from Sandomir, I 173 from Warsaw, I 260, 286 f by Russian troops, from invaded Polish cities (1654), I 153 f, 245 by Russian Government, from Little Russia (1727), I 249 f, 253 ff from Russia in general (1741), I 255; (1744), I 257 f from Courland and Livonia (1829), II 32 from Port Arthur and Kuantung Peninsula (1904), III 94 from Russian Interior (outside of Pale), in general, I 402 f; II 264, 399, 428; III 95, 154, 157; foreign Jews expelled from, II 262, 293, 345 from Kharkov, II 319 from Moscow, II 264, 319, 396 f, 399 ff, 402, 408, 424 f; III 14 f from Oryol, II 264 from Riga, II 256 from St. Petersburg, II 319, 344, 399, 410 from Pale of Settlement; Fifty-Verst Zone, I 408; II 62 ff, 385 from Kiev, II 31, 33, 263 f, 319, 346; III 157 from Nicholayev, II 32 from Sevastopol, II 32 from Yalta, II 428 f; III 18 f from villages, I 319, 323 f, 326, 343, 345 ff, 349, 351 f, 354 f, 405 ff; II 30 f, 32 f, 35, 48, 310 f, 318 f, 385; III 17, 157 For particulars see special headings; see also Residence, Right of, and Temporary Rules =Externs=, _extra muros_ pupils, result of educational restrictions, II 351; III 31 school norm applied to, without sanction of Duma, III 159 join revolutionary ranks, III 31 =Factor=, Polish name for agent, I 170; II 55 =Fair=, commercial, Jews permitted to visit F's. of Little Russia, for wholesale trade (1728), I 250; and for retail trade (1734), I 251 of government of Smolensk (1731), I 251 of government of Kharkov, for retail trade (1734), I 251 of Warsaw (1768), I 268 of Nizhni-Novgorod, Kharlov, and other cities (1835), II 40 Jews travel to F's. abroad, particularly Leipsic, I 359 Polish F's. provide occasion for Jewish conferences, I 109 f F. of Lublin, chief meeting-place of Council of Four Lands, I 109 F. of Lantzkrona, mystical services of Frankists during, I 213, 215 F's. of Brody and Zelva, rabbis assembled at, excommunicate Hasidim, I 237 =Farrar, Canon=, addresses Mansion House Meeting in London, II 290 =Feder, Tobias=, Hebrew writer, I 388 criticizes translation of Bible into Yiddish, I 388 =Feigin, Litman=, of Chernigov, submits memorandum on Jewish question to Council of State, II 38 f =Feldshers=, Jewish, name explained, II 167 granted right of universal residence (1879), II 167 admission of, into army restricted, II 319 =Fergusson=, English Under-Secretary for Foreign Affairs, replies to interpellation concerning Russian Jews, II 382 =Fez= (Morocco), Alfasi native of, I 118 =Fichman=, modern Hebrew writer, III 162 =Fifty-Verst Zone=, see Border Zone =Finkelstein, Nahum=, delegate of Jews wishing to engage in agriculture, I 363 =Finns=, oppressed by Russian Government, III 159 =Fishel, Moses=, chief-rabbi of Cracow, I 105 studied medicine in Padua, I 132 =Foreign Jews= forbidden to settle in Russia (1824), I 409 expelled from Russia, II 262, 293, 345 =Foster, John W.=, United States Minister to Russia, reports about pogroms, II 260 =Fox=, Polish tailor, starts anti-Jewish riot at Warsaw, I 286 f =Fraind=, Yiddish daily in St. Petersburg, III 162 =France= (and French), Napoleon's policy towards Jews of, I 298 Jews killed by French for loyalty to Russia (1812), I 358 represented at Congress of Aix-la-Chapelle, I 398 high officials of, favor immigration of Russian Jews to Algiers, II 69 Polish-Jewish patriots, pursued by Russia, flee to, I 298; II 105, 109 French witness protest against pogroms, II 326 Russian Jews, in search of university education, go to, II 351 Dreyfus Affair in, III 32, 42; see Paris =Franchise=, Jewish, discussed by Russian officials, III 121 proposed denial of, elicits protests from Jewish communities in Russia, III 121; and representatives of Russian people, III 122 finally granted, III 122 =Frank=, physician in White Russia, adherent of Mendelssohn, suggests Jewish reforms, I 331, 386 =Frank, Helena=, English translator of Peretz' works, III 62 =Frank, Jacob=, Polish-Jewish sectarian, born in Podolia, I 211 settles in Wallachia, I 212 travels as salesman in Turkey, I 212 joins, and later heads, Turkish Sabbatians, I 212 banished by Polish authorities to Turkey, I 213 regarded as reincarnation of Sabbatai Zevi, I 214 reappears in Podolia, I 216 submits to preliminary baptism in Lemberg, I 217 appears for final baptism in Warsaw, I 217 f Polish king acts as godfather of, I 218 poses as Messiah, I 218 arrested in Warsaw, I 218 imprisoned in Chenstokhov, I 219 f freed by invading Russian troops, I 219 escapes to Brünn (Moravia), I 219 moves to Vienna, I 220 settles in Offenbach (Germany), I 220 supported in Offenbach by adherents in Poland, I 283 See Frankists =Frank, Mendel=, rabbi of Brest, receives large powers from Polish king, I 73, 104 f =Frankfort-on-the-Main=, Naphtali Cohen, Polish Cabalist and Sabbatian, settles in, I 204 Offenbach, in neighborhood of, residence of Jacob Frank, I 220 Oppenheim, Jewish painter, resident of, II 67 place of publication, II 202 =Frankists=, adherents of Jacob Frank, hold mystical services and engage in excesses, I 213 f excommunicated by rabbis, I 214 address themselves to Demboviski, Catholic bishop, I 214 denounce Talmud and recognize Trinity, I 214 call themselves "Contra-Talmudists," and "Zoharists," I 214 bishop arranges disputation between, and rabbis, I 214 f acknowledged victorious in disputation and awarded fine, I 215 obtain safe-conduct from Polish king, I 215 offer to embrace Christianity, I 216 hold second disputation with rabbis, I 216 f accuse Jews of ritual murder, I 216 f large number of, baptized at Lemberg, I 217 remain loyal to Frank, I 218, 283 follow Frank to Chenstokhov, his place of imprisonment, I 219 settle with Frank in Offenbach, I 220 Sabbatian movement compromised by, I 222 shunned and despised by Poles, I 283 ultimately absorbed by Poles, I 230 =Frederic, Harold=, quoted, II 378 =Freeman=, see Lieberman, A. =Frederick of Austria=, Jewish charter of, used as model by Polish rulers, I 45 =Frederick II., The Great=, annexes Polish territory, I 262 =Frederick Augustus=, Saxon king, made ruler of duchy of Warsaw, I 297 receives report of Council of Ministers, opposing Jewish emancipation, I 299 issues decree, postponing Jewish emancipation for ten years (1808), I 299 receives anti-Jewish report from Polish Senate, I 302 =Frelinghuysen, Frederic T.=, American Secretary of State, expresses regret at treatment of Russian Jews, II 294 =Friedlaender, Israel=, quoted, II 235 translator of Dubnow, III 52 translator of Ahad Ha'am, III 60 =Friedländer, David=, submits memorandum to Polish Government, suggesting reform of Polish Jewry, II 90 f followers of, in Warsaw, plead for secular culture, I 386 =Friedman=, Jewish deputy to Third Duma, III 153 complains about Jewish disabilities, III 157 =Friesel=, governor of Vilna, invites Polish nobility of Lithuania to express opinion on Jews, I 325 f submits opinion of nobility to Senate with his own memorandum, I 326 urges Jewish cultural reforms, I 327 =Frischman, David=, Hebrew writer, III 60 =Frug, Simon=, Russian and Yiddish poet, III 63 resides in St. Petersburg as "flunkey," II 345 glorifies emigration, II 330 pictures despair of Russian Jewry, II 371 appeals for victims of Kishinev massacres, III 78 =Fünn, Samuel Joseph=, Jewish historian and writer, II 136 editor of _Pirhe Tzafon_, II 136; and _ha-Karmel_, II 217 =Gabbaim=, directors of Kahal institutions, I 107 "gentlemen in waiting" of Tzaddiks, II 120 =Galatia= (Asia Minor), Jewish communities in, I 14 =Galatovski=, Ukrainian writer, quoted, I 205 =Galicia=, divided into Eastern and Western, I 53 annexed by Austria (1772), I 187, 262 Sabbatian propaganda in, I 208, 210 f intellectual development of Jews in, contrasted with North-west, I 221 Besht, founder of Hasidism, active in, I 223 Hasidism spreads in, I 229, 274 type of Tzaddik in, I 233 rabbis of, excommunicate Hasidim, I 237 Tzaddik of Sadagora (Bukovina) attracts Hasidim from, II 121 I. B. Levinsohn associates with Maskilim of, II 125 f; contrasted with them, II 127 Haskalah carried from, to Odessa, II 133 Hebrew publications of, imitated in Vilna, II 136 Meisels, rabbi of Cracow, joins Polish patriots in, II 179 Baron Hirsch establishes schools in, II 416 Hebrew writers in, III 163; see Russia (Red), Lemberg, and Yaroslav =Galicia, Eastern=, see Russia, Red Uniat Church in, I 141 =Galilee=, Jewish colonies in, II 375 =Gamrat, Peter=, bishop of Cracow, condemns woman to death for adhering to Jewish doctrine, I 79 leads agitation against Jews, I 81 f =Ganganelli=, cardinal, later Pope Clement XIV., defends Polish Jews against ritual murder charges, I 179 f =Gania=, Cossack leader, perpetrates Jewish massacre in Niemirov, I 146 =Gans, David=, work of, copied by Halperin, Polish-Jewish chronicler, I 201 =Gaons=, heads of Babylonian Jewry, I 20 Gaon of Bagdad corresponds with early Russian rabbis, I 33 Gaon of Vilna, see Elijah of Vilna =Gapon=, Russian priest and demagogue, III 106 =Gatchina=, near St. Petersburg, secret conferences of high Russian dignitaries held at, II 244 f Jewish deputation received by Alexander III. at, II 261 =Geiger, Abraham=, quoted, I 136 corresponds with Lilienthal, II 67 =Gemara=, term explained, II 114; see Talmud =Gendarmerie=, see Police =Genoa=, commercial colony of, in Crimea, I 33 f =Germany=, Poland commercially dependent on, I 39; and religiously, I 40 f, 44 Polish rulers welcome settlers from, I 43 f; bestow upon them autonomy (Magdeburg Law), I 44 Jews of, carry on commerce with Slav countries, I 39 Jewish delegation from, pleads for admission of Jews to Poland, I 40 Jews of, immigrate to Poland, I 33, 41, 66 anti-Jewish hatred in Poland fed from, I 57; fostered by German burghers in Poland, I 95 Polish-Jewish pilgrims to Palestine pass through, I 209 Jacob Frank settles in, I 220 Jews of Slav lands culturally dependent on, I 33; invite rabbis from, I 43 Jews of, apply to Polish rabbis for religious advice, I 125 grandfather of Solomon Luria native of, I 124 Haskalah originates in, I 239, 384 ff Polish Jews contrasted with Jews of, I 386 Hebrew publications of, imitated in Vilna, II 136 Russian-Jewish students in, II 381 Hebrew writers in, III 163 Doctor Herzl negotiates with emperor of, III 46 penalty of _Spiessruten_ introduced into Russia from, II 85 See Prussia and Berlin =Gershon Kutover=, see Kutover =Gershuni=, member of Social-revolutionary party, III 67 =Ghederah=, Jewish colony in Judea, II 375 =Gher= (Poland), see Goora Kalvaria =Ghetto=, separate Jewish quarter in cities, creation of, demanded by Polish Church, I 48, 57 in Cracow, I 64, 85 in Moghilev (on the Dnieper), I 98 f in Posen, I 85 in Vilna, I 99 in Warsaw, I 269 former Moscow Gh. called Glebov Yard, II 403 =Gicatilla, Joseph=, Cabalist, work of, published in Poland, I 134 =Giers, De=, Russian minister for Foreign Affairs, discusses Jewish question with American Government, II 293, 396 =Ginzberg, Asher=, see Ahad Ha'am =Ginzburg, Mordecai Aaron=, Hebrew writer, II 133 f translates German works into Hebrew, II 134 influences formation of neo-Hebraic style, II 134 =Giovio, Paolo=, Italian scholar, I 242 =Gladkov=, instigator of pogrom in Starodub, II 411 f =Gladstone=, English Prime Minister, cultivates friendly relations with Russia, II 287 f appealed to by Mansion House Meeting on behalf of Russian Jews, II 290 answers interpellation concerning Russian Jews, II 291 f =Glebov Yard=, former Ghetto in Moscow, raided by police, II 403 =Glogau= (Germany), Solomon Maimon buried in, I 240 =Gmina=, Polish name for Congregation, II 102 =Gnesen= (Province of Posen), oldest Polish diocese, I 47 seat of Polish primate, I 82 Council of Breslau demands introduction of canonical laws into diocese of, I 47 f archbishop of, attends Synod of Constance and presides over Synod of Kalish, I 57 John Casimir, primate of, becomes Polish king, I 151 =God=, conception of, by Besht, I 225 f =Goeje, De=, quoted, I 23 =Goethe=, impressed by autobiography of Solomon Maimon, I 240 =Goetz, F.=, author of pamphlet defending Jews, II 389 =Gogol=, Russian writer, anti-Jewish tendency of, 138 f "=Going to the People=," phase of Russian revolutionary movement, term explained, II 222 practised by Russian-Jewish _intelligenzia_, II 222 =Golitzin=, Count, Minister of Ecclesiastic Affairs, associate of Alexander I. in Christian mysticism, I 392, 396 president of Russian Bible Society, I 396 all Jewish matters transferred to, I 394 communicates with Kahals through "Deputies of Jewish People," I 394 receives protest of deputies against blood accusation, II 74 prohibits blood accusation by decree, II 74 f extends prohibition of blood accusation to Poland, II 99 advises dissolution of Society of Israelitish Christians, I 400 orders investigation of "Judaizing heresy," I 401 accuses Jews of proselytizing, I 404 suggests prohibition of keeping Christian domestics, I 404 discharged, I 395 =Gonta=, Cossack leader, engineers Jewish massacre, I 184 ff =Goora Kalvaria= (_Polish_, Gora Kalwarza; _Yiddish_, Gher), hasidic dynasty of, popular in Warsaw, II 122 =Gorchakov=, viceroy of Poland, receives deputation of revolutionary Poles, II 180 opposes Jewish rights at Berlin Congress, II 202 =Gordin, Jacob=, founds anti-talmudic sect, II 333 f becomes Jewish playwright in America, II 325 =Gordon, Judah Leib=, Hebrew poet, champion of Haskalah, II 228 secretary of Society of Diffusion of Enlightenment, II 229 attacks traditional Judaism, II 129 ff champions emigration from Russia, II 328 dies (1892), III 63 =Goremykin=, Minister of Interior, pursues reactionary policy, III 9, 16, 135 =Gorgippia= (Crimea), now called Anapa, ancient Jewish settlement in, I 14 =Gorodnya= (near Chernigov), alleged ritual murder at, reported to Peter the Great, I 247 f =Gotovtzev=, Assistant-Minister of Interior, chairman of Central Committee for Revision of Jewish Question, II 227 =Gotz=, member of Social Revolutionary party, III 67 =Government= (province), governor, and governor-general, terms explained, I 308 =Grace, William R.=, mayor of New York, presides at protest meeting, II 296 =Granville, Lord=, English Secretary for Foreign Affairs, receives Anglo-Jewish deputation on subject of pogroms, II 262 f receives resolutions of Mansion House Meeting, II 290 =Grazdanin= ("The Citizen"), anti-Semitic Russian paper, II 380, 381, 412 =Great Poland=, see Poland, Great =Greeks=, immigration of ancient Greeks into Tauris and Crimea, I 13 f export grain from Tauris and Crimea, I 14 Jews follow in wake of, I 14 language of, spoken by Jews of Tauris, I 16 compete with Jews in Odessa, II 191 make pogrom upon Jews of Odessa, II 192 f =Greek-Orthodox Church=, oppressed in Poland, I 91 f; and Ukraine, I 140 ff "=Gregor, Horowitz & Kohan=," semi-Jewish firm of Russian army purveyors, II 202, 244 =Greig=, Russian Admiral, member of Council of State, pleads for Jews, II 37 =Gresser=, city-governor of St. Petersburg, persecutes Jews, II 343 f issues ordinance concerning Jewish names, II 397 f deports Moscow fugitives, II 410 =Grigoryev=, member of Committee for Amelioration of Jews, pleads for maintenance of Pale, I 196 =Grigoryev=, city-governor of Odessa, dismissed for restraining "Black Hundred," III 151 =Grodno= (city), meeting-place of Polish Diet, I 76 important Jewish community in, I 59, 73 Jews of, expelled, I 65; and allowed to return, I 70 f Jews of, assure Sigismund I. of loyalty to country, I 81 Poles of, antagonistic to Russia (1812), I 357 Jews of, entrusted with police duty, I 357 blood accusation in, II 73, 80 Jewish community of, represented on Polish Council, (_Waad Aria Aratzoth_), I 110; and later on Lithuanian Council, I 112 Mordecai Jaffe rabbi of, I 127 Sundel Sonnenberg, army purveyor and Jewish deputy, native of, I 358 =Grodno= (province, or government), annexed by Russia (1795), I 297 included in Pale (1795), I 317; (1835), II 39 invited by Russian Government to send deputies, I 349 Jews expelled from villages of (1827), II 30 f placed under military dictatorship of Muravyov, II 188 Cities in: Druskeniki, II 377 Ruzhany, I 162 Zelva, I 237 =Grudinski=, convert, accuses Jews of ritual murder, II 80 =Gruzenberg=, Russian-Jewish lawyer, acts as counsel for Blondes, accused of ritual murder, III 37 defends Dashevski, assailant of Krushevan, III 82 defends Jews of Kishinev, III 91 =Gruzin= (Crimea), I 26 =Gudovich=, Count, governor-general of South-west, rebuked for interfering with Jewish deputation to Paul I., I 325 =Guido=, papal legate, convenes Church Council of Breslau, I 47 =Guilds=, mercantile, in Poland, I 44; see Merchants trade Guilds, in Poland, I 44; see Trade-Unions =Guizolfi, Zechariah=, Italian Jew, owns Taman Peninsula, I 36 corresponds with Ivan III. of Moscow, I 36 =Guizot=, French Premier, supports schemes of Russian-Jewish emigration to Algiers, II 69 =Gumbiner, Abel=, head of yeshibah in Kalish, Hebrew author, I 200 =Gumplovich=, Polish-Jewish writer and assimilator, II 213 =Günzberg, Baron Joseph Yozel=, leader of St. Petersburg community, petitions Alexander II. on behalf of victim of ritual murder accusation, II 152 petitions Alexander II. for privileges to Jews, II 159 f founder of Society for Diffusion of Enlightenment, II 214 =Günzburg, Baron Horace=, son of former, waits on Vladimir, brother of Alexander III., II 260 member of Jewish deputation to Alexander III., 261 calls conference of notables in St. Petersburg, II 277, 304 acts as link between Jews and Pahlen Commission, I 337 petitions Government to allow Jews purchase of land for personal use, III 24 =Gurko=, governor-general of Odessa, suggests restrictive school-norm for Jews, II 339 =Gurnitzki, Lucas=, Polish writer, quoted, I 79 f =Gymnazium=, secondary school, name explained, II 164 right of residence outside Pale proposed for graduates of, II 164 restrictive percentage at, intensified, III 29, 158; but not applied to girls, III 30 award of graduation certificates restricted in case of Jews, III 159 Pro-gymnazium, name explained, III 29 See Education and School =Gzheslik=, Jewish tailor, accused of desecrating host, I 101 _Ha-Asif_, Hebrew Periodical, II 372, III 58 =Habad=, adherents of "rational Hasidism," term explained, I 234 centered in White Russia, I 234, II 117 Polish Tzaddiks compared with those of, II 123 See Shneorsohn, Zalman =Haber=, title of Jewish educated layman, I 117 _Ha-Emet_, socialistic periodical in Hebrew, II 223 =Hague Conference=, the, calling of, prompts Nicholas II. to stop pogroms, III 35 f =Haidamacks=, rebellious Ukrainian peasants, name explained, I 182, II 138 massacre Jews (1648), I 49; (1734 and 1750), I 182; (1768), I 182 ff massacres of, described by Gogol, II 138 f =Haimovich, Avigdor=, rabbi of Pinsk, informs against Hasidim, I 377 f _Haint_, Yiddish daily in Warsaw, III 162 _Ha-Karmel_, Hebrew weekly, in Vilna, II 217 _Ha-Kol_, Hebrew periodical in Königsberg, II 223 =Halevi, David=, called _Taz_, rabbi of Lemberg and Ostrog, I 130 author of commentary on _Shulhan Arukh_, I 130 receives letter and present from Sabbatai Zevi, I 206 f =Halevi, Isaiah=, son of former member of Polish-Jewish delegation to Sabbatai Zevi, I 206 =Halperin=, banker of Berdychev, member of rabbinical commission, II 57 =Halperin, Jehiel=, rabbi of Minsk, Hebrew chronicler, I 200 f _Ha-Maggid_, Hebrew weekly, II 217 =Hamburg=, Solomon Maimon resides in, I 239 Moscow refugees in, II 420 _Ha-Melitz_, Hebrew weekly, in St. Petersburg, edited by Zederbaum, II 204, 217 f publishes Lilienblum's articles, II 236 champions "Love of Zion" movement, II 332 becomes daily, II 372, III 58 =Handicrafts=; see Artisans =Hannover, Nathan=, of Zaslav, historian, describes Council of Four Lands, I 111 pictures Jewish intellectual life in Poland, I 116 ff gives account of Khmelnitzki massacres, I 157 =Hanukkah=, king of Khazars, I 26 =Hardenberg=, Prussian representatives at Congress at Aix-la-Chapelle, I 399 =Harkavy=, quoted, I 23 =Harrison=, President of United States, publishes diplomatic papers bearing on Russian Jews, II 294, 394 describes, in message to Congress, plight of Russian Jewry, II 408 f =Hasdai Ibn Shaprut=, of Cordova, corresponds with king of Khazars, I 24 ff _Ha-Shahar_, Hebrew monthly, edited by Smolenskin, II 218, 234 publishes Gordon's epics, II 229 champions "Love of Zion" movement, II 332 _Ha-Shiloah_, Hebrew monthly, edited by Ahad Ha'am, and later by Klausner, III 58, 162 f =Hasidim=, adherents of Judah Hasid, I 209 emigrate to Palestine, I 209 ff adherents of Hasidism; see Hasidism struggle between H. and old-orthodox (_Mithnagdim_), I 238, 274, 278, 375 f H. of Vilna rejoice over death of Gaon, I 375 granted right of secession by Statute of 1804, I 356, 379 H. of Old-Constantinov "protest" against Nicholas I., II 22 H. of Poland refuse to discard Jewish dress, II 145 =Hasidism=, founded by Besht, I 222 doctrine of, expounded by Besht, I 22, 224 ff counteracts Rabbinism, I 224 f; and Messianism, I 222; and Asceticism, I 227 propagated by Besht's apostles, I 229 ff opposes Haskalah, I 238 f bitterly opposed by Elijah of Vilna, I 236 ff, 372 ff spread of, I 231 f triumph of, I 371 f growth of, under Alexander I., I 381 ff stagnation of, under Nicholas I., II 116 ff in North (White Russia and Lithuania), I 381 f, II 117 f in South (Ukraina), I 382 f, II 119 ff in Poland, I 384, II 122 f retrogressive character of, I 278, II 124 encourages use of alcohol, II 124 f restrictions against, suggested by Friesel, governor of Vilna, I 327 denounced by rabbi of Pinsk, as dangerous to Russian Government, I 378 extermination of, recommended by Kalmansohn, I 385 criticized by David Friedländer, II 90 attacked, or silently opposed, by I. B. Levinsohn, II 127 f subjected to rigorous censorship (1864), II 212 literature of, declared by I. B. Levinsohn as dangerous to State, II 130 See Hasidim, Tzaddiks, and Shneor Zalman =Haskalah=, attempt to harmonize Jewish and secular culture, term explained, II 125 originated by Mendelssohn in Germany, I 238 f, II 125 opposed by Rabbinism and Hasidism, I 238 f hated by Nahman of Bratzlav, I 383 Solomon Maimon influenced by, I 239 effect of, on Jews of Warsaw, I 284, 384 ff championed by Jacques Kalmansohn, I 385 need of, for Polish Jews, emphasized by David Friedländer, II 90; and followers, I 386 advocated by Frank in White Russia, I 331, 386 carried to St. Petersburg, I 386 ff Max Lilienthal appeals to adherents of (Maskilim), II 53 preached by Isaac Baer Levinsohn, II 125 ff center of, in Odessa, II 132 f center of, in Vilna, II 134, 136 f aims of adherents of, in Vilna, II 136 f. persecuted adherents of, escape through baptism, II 132 adherents of, lean on Russian Government, II 137 Russian H. compared with German, II 137 f becomes more aggressive, II 210, 224 stimulates neo-Hebraic style and literature, II 132 ff, 210 advocated by Jewish press, II 217, 332 f championed by M. L. Lilienblum, II 236 adherents of, portrayed by Mapu, II 228 See Education, Neo-Hebraic Literature, and School =Ha-Tzefirah=, Hebrew weekly in Warsaw, advocates Haskalah, II 333 edited by Sokolow, III 60 becomes a daily, II 372, III 58, 162 =Hausfreund=, Yiddish periodical, III 59 =Hayyun=, emissary of Sabbatai Zevi, I 204 =Hazakah=, priority of possession, term explained, II 188 grant of, must be sanctioned by Kahal, I 190, II 188 matters relating to, decided by Council of Four Lands, I 111 =Ha-Zeman=, Hebrew daily in Vilna, III 162 =Hebrew=, language, importance of, emphasized by Smolenskin, II 134 f position of, in Jewish life, forms party issue, III 161 promoted by Zionism, III 45 restoration of, II 133, 135, 225 modern H. (Neo-Hebraic) literature, beginnings of, I 388 f rise of, II 132 ff renaissance of, II 224 ff, III 58 ff, 162 f cultivated by Haskalah, II 132-ff, 210, 224 H. writers hail from Lithuania, II 238 H. press, beginnings of, II 217 f preaches Haskalah, II 217 recent revival of, III 58 f See also Language =Heder=, traditional Jewish school, imparts elementary education, I 114 Bible and Talmud principal subjects of instruction at, I 114, 121 secular subjects excluded from I 277 left to private initiative, but supervised by Kahal, I 114 pupils of, examined weekly by head of yeshibah, I 118 attendance at, compulsory for boys, I 114, 121 negative effects of, I 277 shortened attendance at, suggested by Dyerzhavin, I 333 criticised by Russian Council of State, II 49 abolition of, suggested by Lilienthal, II 53 defended by Rabbinical Commission, II 57 placed under Government supervision (1812), II 56; (1856), II 176 keepers of (Melammeds) required to possess secular education (1844), II 58 recognized by ukase of 1879, II 177 6,000 H's, in Russian South-west, II 194 legalized and restricted to religious subjects (1893), II 427 f See Education, School, and Yeshibah =Heder=, for poor children, called Talmud Torah, maintained by public funds, I 114 f pupils of, examined weekly by trustee, I 118 provided for, by Council of Four Lands, I 195 established in Moscow, III 13 =Helena=, Russian princess, sympathizes with "Judaizing heresy," I 36 =Helfman, Hesia=, participates in plot against Alexander II., II 244 =Heliconias=, name of Greek-speaking Jew, I 115 =Heller, Lipman=, rabbi of Cracow, describes persecutions of 1648, I 58 =Helsingfors= (Finland), Russian Zionists hold Convention at, III 144 f "H. Program" gradually weakened, III 146 =Heniochi=, tribe, I 15 =Hennadius=, archbishop of Novgorod, combats "Judaizing heresy," I 37 =Henry of Valois=, elected king of Poland, I 89 =Heracles=, name of slave freed by Crimean Jewess, I 15 =Herem= (Excommunication), right of, granted by Polish kings to rabbi of Brest (1531), I 73, 105; to rabbis of Great Poland (1551), I 106; to Kahals of Lithuania (1672), I 190 proclaimed against Sabbatians by rabbis assembled at Lemberg (1722), I 211; (1725), I 211 issued against Frankists by rabbis assembled at Brody, I 214 issued against Hasidim by rabbinical court of Vilna (1722), I 237; by rabbis assembled at Brody, I 237; and at Zelva (Grodno), I 237; reaffirmed by Elijah of Vilna (1796), I 373 f new H. against Hasidim contemplated by Kahal of Vilna (1797), I 375 issued by Kahal of Vilna against Simeon Volfovich (1788), I 276 Jews of Minsk complain about abuse of (1782), I 275 prohibited by Statute of 1804, I 344 prohibition of, occasionally disregarded, I 367 power of, criticised by Polish assimilationists, II 101 secret exercise of, alleged by Brafman, II 188 =Hernish, Stanislav=, Polish-Jewish patriot, II 105 refutes Polish attacks upon Jews, II 109 =Hershel=, Ostropoler. See Ostropoler =Hershko=, name of Jewish "arendar," I 266 =Hertzen, Alexander=, liberal Russian writer, describes sufferings of cantonists, II 24 f influences Russian-Jewish _intelligenzia_, II 207 =Herzl, Theodor=, aroused by Dreyfus Affair, III 42 f publishes _Judenstaat_, III 43 compared with _Pinsker_, III 43 revives hopes of _Hobebe Zion_, III 43 f speeches of, discussed in Russia, III 47 author of _Altneuland_, III 48 visit of, to Russia, III 82 ff negotiates with Plehve, III 83 f; and Lamsdorff, III 84 greeted enthusiastically by Russian Zionist, III 84 criticized by non-Zionists, III 84 lays Uganda project before Sixth Zionist Congress, III 84 death of, mourned by Seventh Zionist Congress, III 144 =Hetman=, name explained, I 143, 192, 250 head of Cossacks, I 143 Khmelnitzki elected to post of, I 144 H. of Lithuania sends instructions to Kahal of Brest, I 192 H. of Little Russia pleads for admission of Jews, I 250, 260 =Hezekiah=, king of Khazars, I 26 =Hirsch, Baron Maurice=, II 413 proposes to establish arts and crafts schools in Russia, II 415 proposal of, declined by Russian Government, II 415 representatives of, offer Pobyedonostzev large contribution, II 415 applies funds intended for Russia to schools in Galicia, II 416 sends expedition to Argentina, II 416 sends Arnold White to Russia, II 416 ff founds Jewish Colonization Association, II 414, 419 obtains permission of Russian Government to regulate emigration, II 420 issues appeal, warning against emigration, II 420 scheme of, results in failure, II 421, III 10 =Hirsh Kaidanover=, see Kaidanover =Hirshovich, Abraham=, Polish court broker, submits project of Jewish reforms to King Stanislav Augustus, I 284 =Historiography=, Jewish, in Russia, III 65 =Hobebe Zion=, see Zionism =Hollaenderski=, Polish-Jewish patriot and writer, lives as exile in Paris, II 109 =Holland=, Peter the Great in, I 246 Antonio Sanchez, Russian court physician, invited from, I 258 See Amsterdam =Horodno=, Nehman of, disciple of Besht, I 227 =Homel= (government of Moghilev), massacre under Khmelnitzki at (1648), I 149 pogrom at (1903), III 87 ff self-defence organized by Jews of, III 87 f pogrom at, condoned by governor of Moghilev, III 89 misrepresented in official documents, III 89 described as act of revenge by Jews, III 101 tried by Russian court, III 101 ff Jewish community of, signs petition for equal rights, III 108 =Horowitz, Isaiah=, Cabalist, author of _Sheloh_, I 135 =Horowitz, Sheftel=, son of former, rabbi of Posen and Hebrew author, I 135 author of liturgy describing catastrophe of 1648, I 158 =Horvitz=, Russian-Jewish writer, attacked by Russian periodical, II 207 f defended in public protest of Russian writers, II 208 =Host Desecration, Charge of=, causes death of Jews in Posen (1399), I 55, 95, 174; and Sokhachev (1556), I 86 f forbidden by Sigismund II. (1566), I 88; and Stephen Batory (1576), I 89 used as pretext to expel Jews of Cracow (1635), I 101 of frequent occurrence at end of 17th century, I 172 =Hoym=, Prussian minister, carries out Jewish reforms in annexed Polish provinces, I 385 =Hugo, Victor=, protests against Jewish persecutions in Russia, II 326 =Hungary=, geographical position of, I 25, 150 adopts Magdeburg Law, I 44 Church Council (of Buda) in, I 49 Louis of, king of Poland, persecutes Jews, I 54 =Husiatyn= (Galicia), place of publication, I 123 =Huss=, influence of, penetrates into Poland, I 57 adherents of, persecuted, I 62 =Ibn Fakih=, Arabic geographer, quoted, I 23 =Ibn Khordadbeh=, Arabic geographer, quoted, I 23 =Ibn Shaprut=, see Hasdai, I =Ibn Sharzi=, Arabic writer, quoted, I 23 =Ignatyev=, Nicholas Pavlovich, Russian statesman, militant pan-Slavist, II 259 ambassador at Constantinople, II 259 nicknamed "Father of Lies," II 259 member of reactionary "Sacred League," II 248 appointed Minister of Interior, II 259 ascribes pogroms to revolutionary propaganda, II 259 f changes attitude, II 261 refuses to submit memorandum in defence of Jews to Tzar, II 262 shows indifference to pogrom victims, II 263 ascribes pogroms to economic exploitation of Jews, II 271 f issues circular condemning economic activities of Jews, II 273 influences Central Committee for Revision of Jewish Question, II 277 receives deputation of Jewish Notables, II 277 calls upon Jews to leave Russia, II 285, 297 Ignatyev directed to appoint Gubernatorial Commissions, II 272, 363 circular of, read to Gubernatorial Commissions, II 274; quoted by Cardinal Manning at London protest meeting, II 289 disregards protests in England, II 292 permits holding of Jewish Conference in St. Petersburg, II 304 holds Jews responsible for pogroms, II 305 considers settlement of Jews on steppes of Central Asia, II 306 suggests "Temporary Rules," II 311 makes concessions to Committee of Ministers, II 311, 318 connivance at pogroms causes downfall of, II 314 downfall of, checks plan of Jewish emigration from Russia, II 414 =Illarion=, Metropolitan of, preaches hatred against Jews, I 31 =Illustratzia=, Russian magazine, attacks Jews, II 207 f causes public protest of Russian literateurs, II 208 =Ilovaiski=, professor, of Moscow, opposed to Jews, II 387 =Ilya= (government of Vilna), home of Menashe Ilyer, II 114 =Ilyer, Menashe= (=Manasseh=), Talmudist with modern tendencies, II 114 ff acquires modern culture, II 114 criticises spiritual leaders, II 115 book of, burned, II 115 pleads for modifications of religious law, II 115 unappreciated by contemporaries, II 116 =Imperial Messenger= (_Pravityelstvyenny Vyestnik_), official organ of Russian Government, minimizes pogroms, II 255 warns against pogrom protests, II 291 foreshadows new pogroms, II 299 criticised by _Moscow News_, II 299 =Informing and Informers=, see Mesirah =Inkerman, Heights of=, near Sevastopol, Jewish soldiers killed at, II 149 =Inns= (=and Taverns=), keeping of, forms important Jewish pursuit, I 265, 362 Jews in White Russia forbidden from, I 311 permitted by Senate, I 312 forbidden by Statute of 1804, I 342 f See Arendar, Propinatzya, and Villages =Innocent IV.=, pope, bull of, condemning ritual murder libel (1247), referred to, I 179 =Intelligenzia=, Jewish, in Russia, assimilation of, II 206 ff in league with Russian Government, II 211 f indifferent to things Jewish, II 212 Society for Diffusion of Enlightenment acts on behalf of, II 215 disillusionment of, II 324 ff =Interior, Russian=, the (Russian empire outside Pale of Settlement), barred to Jews of annexed White Russia (1790, 1791), I 316 Jewish manufacturers, merchants, and artisans permitted to sojourn temporarily in (1804), I 344 Governments of Astrakhan and Caucasia in, opened to Jewish agriculturists (1804), I 342 f Council of State considers admission of Jewish merchants into, II 35 f; negatived by Nicholas I., II 36 Jews admitted into, on temporary "furlough" (1835), II 40 Jews, illegally residing in, severely punished (1838), II 42 prominent Jews of St. Petersburg plead for opening of (1856), II 160 admission of Jews into, discussed by Council of State and "Jewish Committee," II 161 ff Jewish guild merchants admitted into (1859), II 162 Jews with learned degrees admitted into (1861), II 166 Jews with higher education admitted into (1879), II 167 Jewish artisans (mechanics and distillers) admitted into (1865), II 170 Jews begin to settle in, II 171 Alexander II. refuses to admit "Nicholas soldiers" into, II 171; but yields (1867), II 172 discharged Jewish soldiers barred from (1874), II 354 f "Jewish Committee" discusses admission of Jews into (1880), II 196 ff five "Gubernatorial Commissions" advocate opening of, II 275 "illegal" Jews in, persecuted, II 342 ff, 385 old settlers from among "illegal" Jews permitted to remain in (1880), II 404 admission of Jews to schools in, restricted to 5% (1887), II 350; restriction placed on Statute books (1908), III 158 admission of Jews to universities in, restricted to 3% (1898), III 29 pogrom in (Nizhni-Novgorod), II 360 Government endeavors to annul admission of privileged Jews into, II 399 expulsion of Jews from, II 428 barred to Jews (under Nicholas II.), III 20 f Jewish soldiers forbidden to spend furlough in (1896), III 21 Jews in, forbidden to acquire real estate in villages (1903), III 81 attempt to expel families of mobilized Jewish soldiers from, III 95 Jewish veterans of Russian-Japanese War and families of other privileged Jews admitted into (1904), III 98 f pogroms in (October, 1905), III 130 expulsion of Jews from (under Nicholas II.), III 157 See Pale of Settlement, and Residence, Right of =Ionian Islands=, emigration from, to Black Sea settlements, I 13 f =Iphicleides=, name of Greek-speaking Jew, I 15 =Isaac=, king of Khazars, I 26 =Isaac=, of Chernigov, corresponds with Gaon in Bagdad, I 33 =Isaac=, Jewish physician at Polish court, I 132 =Isaac ben Jacob=, see Alfasi =Isaacs, Henry=, Lord Mayor of London, disapproves of protest meeting against pogroms, II 382 =Ishmaelites=, see Mohammedans =Ispravnik=, title of Russian official, II 301, 409 =Israel=, son of Shakhna, succeeds his father as rabbi of Lublin, I 123 =Israel=, of Ruzhany, executed on ritual murder charge, I 162 f =Israel, Baal-Shem-Tob=, called Besht, founder of Hasidism, I 222 ff born in Podolia, I 222 sent to heder, I 222 neglects studies, I 222 strange conduct of, I 222 studies Practical Cabala, I 222 f settles in Brody, I 223 marries sister of rabbi, I 223 retires to solitude in Carpathian mountains, I 223 occupies humble position in Tlusta (Galicia), I 223 considered an ignoramus, I 223 begins to practise as _Baal-Shem_, I 223 reputed as miracle-worker, I 224 called "good _Baal-Shem_," or _Baal-Shem-Tob_, I 224 disparages exclusive Talmud study, I 224, 226 recognizes authority of Cabala, I 224 objects to Cabalistic asceticism, I 224, 226 inculcates cheerfulness, I 225 emphasizes faith and prayer, I 225, 226 f settles in Medzhibozh (Podolia), I 225 doctrine of, I 225 f evolves belief in _Tzaddik_, I 227 disciples of, I 227 f acknowledged by rabbi of Brody, I 228 sends epistle to Palestine, I 228 believed to associate with biblical prophets, I 228 popular discourses of, I 228 laments conversion of Frankists, I 229 takes part in Frankist disputation, I 229 sayings of, selected by disciple, I 230, 237 See also Hasidism and Hasidim =Israel=, of Kozhenitz, leader of Hasidim in duchy of Warsaw, I 384 successors of, II 122 =Israel=, of Ruzhin (government of Kiev), hasidic leader, keeps magnificent court, II 120 arouses suspicions of governor-general, I 120 f arrested, I 121 flees to Sadagora (Bukovina), I 121 dynasty of, branches out, I 221 contests supremacy of Joshua Heshel Apter, II 121 =Isserles, Moses= (_Remo_), son of Kahal elder in Cracow, I 123 pupil of Shakhna of Lublin, I 123 judge and head of yeshibah in Cracow, I 123 writes commentary on _Turim_, I 123 adds notes to _Shulhan Arukh_, I 124 makes _Shulhan Arukh_ great factor in Polish Jewry, I 130 differs from Solomon Luria, I 126 disparages mysticism, I 126 favors moderate philosophy, I 126 studies Maimonides' _Moreh_, I 126, 132 teacher of Mordecai Jaffe, I 127 method of, contrasted with that of Jaffe, I 128 method of, looked down upon by Meir of Lublin, I 129 unequalled by successors, I 199 =Istumin=, Pobyedonostzev's agent in Moscow, II 401 =Italy=, influence of, extends to Crimea, I 34 Guizolfi, Jew from Italy, owns Tanan Peninsula, I 36 Master Leon, Jew from, physician at Moscow court, I 37 Jews of, apply to Polish rabbis for religious advice, I 125 Jewish physicians in Poland originate from, I 132, or receive medical training in, I 132 Delacruta, founder of Polish Cabala, born in, I 134 work of Recanati, Italian Cabalist, studied in Poland, I 134 Calahora, native of, executed in Cracow, I 164 f Judah Ilasid studies Practical Cabala in, I 208 Polish-Jewish pilgrims to Palestine pass through, I 209 =Itche (Isaac) Meier Alter=, head of Gher Hasidim, has many adherents in Warsaw, II 122 =Ityl=, ancient name for Volga, I 19, 26 name of Khazar capital, I 19 =Itzele, Rabbi=, see Zelikin =Itzhaki, Itzhok= (=Isaac=), head of Volozhin yeshibah, member of Rabbinical Commission, II 57 =Ivan III.=, grand duke of Moscow, I 29 assisted by Crimean Jews in negotiations with Khan, I 35 corresponds with Guizolfi, Italian Jew, I 36 orders burning of "Judaizers," I 37 executes his Jewish body-physician, I 37 =Ivan IV., The Terrible=, Tzar of Moscow, I 29 refuses to admit Lithuanian Jews into Russia, I 243 orders drowning of Jews of Polotzk, I 243 =Izyaslav=, former name for government of Volhynia, I 317 =Jacob Itzhok= (=Isaac=), of Lublin, pioneer of Hasidism in Poland, I 384 =Jacob= (=Nahman=), of Belzhytz, Polish court physician, I 136 author of polemical treatise against Christianity, I 136 f =Jacob Zelig= (=Selek, or Jelek=), presents petition of Polish Jews to pope, I 179 f =Jacob Ben Asher=, author of _Turim_, work of, studied in Poland, I 118 =Jacobs, Joseph=, quoted, II 287 =Jacobsohn=, deputy to First Duma, reports on Bialystok pogrom, III 139 =Jaffa= (Palestine), Jewish agricultural settlements in neighborhood of, II 322 representative of Odessa Palestine Society in, II 422 gymnazium in, III 148 =Jaffe, Mordecai=, native of Bohemia, I 126 pupil of Isserles, I 126 rabbi of various Polish communities, I 126 presides over Council of Four Lands, I 126 author of elaborate code, entitled _Lebushim_, I 126 f method of, differs from that of Caro and Isserles, I 27; looked down upon by Meir of Lublin, 129 comments on Maimonides' Mareh, I 132 pupil of Delacruta, Cabalist, I 134 author of cabalistic commentary, I 134 unequalled by successors, I 199 =Japanese=, expel Russians from Kuantung (Shantung) Peninsula, III 94 destroy Russian fleet, III 110 Jews accused of alliance with, III 95 f =Jastrow, Marcus=, preacher in Warsaw, active in Polish Insurrection, II 179 ff rabbi in Philadelphia, II 179 =Jehiel Michael=, rabbi and head of yeshibah in Niemirov, killed in massacre (1648), I 146 =Jelek=, see Jacob Zelig =Jeremiah=, the prophet, teachings of, attacked by Judah Leib Gordon, II 230 =Jerome, The Holy=, quoted, I 17 =Jerusalem=, referred to by Khazarv king, I 27; and Khazar Jews, I 30 Polish-Jewish pilgrims arrive in, I 205 Gymnazium in, III 148 =Jesuits=, patronized by Stephen Batory, I 90 establish academy at Vilna, I 90 f grow in influence, I 91 derive financial benefit from ritual murder libel, I 96 hostile to Jews, I 97, 99 f effect of; on Polish people, I 171 invited in Posen to exorcise evil spirits, I 203 students of colleges of, assault Jews, I 95, 161; but in Vilna protect Jews, I 166 college of, in Vitebsk supplies anti-Jewish information, I 330 =Jewish Chronicle=, of London, quoted, II 262, 290, 292, 382 =Jewish Colonial Trust=, created by Zionists, III 45 financial weakness of, III 46 sale of shares of, forbidden in Russia, III 83 =Jewish Colonization Association= (=ICA=), founded by Baron Hirsch in London, II 414, 419 Central Committee of, established in St. Petersburg, II 420 transplants Jews to Argentina, II 421 refused permission to settle Jews as farmers in Russia, III 10 =Jewish Historico-Ethnographic Society=, in St. Petersburg, founded 1908, III 160 publishes periodical, III 160 =Jewish Judge=, attached to court of voyevoda, I 46 nominated by Jewish elders, I 191 appointed by voyevoda, I 46, 191 functions of, I 46, 191 tries cases between Jews, I 46, 52 sits in Kahal chamber, near synagogue, I 46, 52, 191 officiates in presence of Kahal elders, I 191 guided, in part, by Jewish law, I 191 =Jewish Literary Society=, in St. Petersburg, founded in 1908, III 160 dissolved (1911), III 161 =Jewish National Fund=, created by Zionists, III 45 collections for, forbidden in Russia, III 83 =Jewish National Party= (Volkspartei), in Russia based on principle of National-Cultural Autonomism, III 147 recognizes Jewish centers in America and Palestine, III 147 f =Jewish People's Group=, in Russia, opposes Zionism, III 146 satisfied with minimum of Jewish national rights, III 147 =Jewish Publication Society of America=, referred to, III 51, 60, 62 =Joel Baal-Shem= (miracle worker), of Zamoshch, I 203 =John=, Russian ecclesiastic, preaches hatred against Jews, I 31 =John Albrecht=, king of Poland (1492-1501), establishes ghetto in Cracow, I 64 permits expelled Lithuanian Jews to settle in Poland, I 65 grants right of distilling (_propinatzya_) to nobles (1496), I 67 attended by Jewish body-physician, 132 =John Casimir= (1648-1668), concludes peace with Khmelnitzki, I 151 permits baptized Jews to return to Judaism, I 151 anxious to compensate Jews for past sufferings, I 158 grants right of free commerce to Jews of Cracow, I 159 grants privileges to other communities, I 159 =John Sobieski= (1674-1696), protects Jews against enemies, I 165 f protects Jews of Vilna, I 166 =Jorjan, Sea of=, see Caspian Sea =Joseph=, king of Khazars, replies to letter of Hasdai Ibn Shaprut, I 25 ff =Joseph II.=, emperor of Austria, engages in "reformatory" experiments, I 262 project of Jewish reforms in Poland influenced by policy of, I 271, 273 Toleration Act of (1782), II 30 =Joseph Israel=, see Benjamin III =Joseph Kalish=, Polish minter, I 42 =Joseph, N. S.=, secretary of Russo-Jewish Committee in London, II 388 =Josephus=, historian, quoted, I 14 f =Joshua Heshel Apter=, see Apter =Jost=, refutes anti-Semitic book of Abbé Chiarini, II 104, quoted, I 390 =Journal De St. Petersbourg=, Russian official organ, refutes charge of pogroms, II 287 f =Jud, Der=, Yiddish weekly in Warsaw, III 59 =Judæophobia=, name for Russian anti-Semitism, II 247 growth of, II 378 ff contrasted with German anti-Semitism, II 6 =Judah Ha-Nasi=, compiler of the Mishnah, II 114 =Judah Hasid=, founds sect in Poland, I 208 f heads pilgrims to Palestine, I 209 dies in Jerusalem, I 210 =Judah Leib=, father of Jacob Frank, I 211 settles with son in Wallachia, I 212 "=Judaizing Heresy=," originated in Novgorod by Zechariah (15th century), I 36 carried to Moscow (1480), I 36 finds adherents at court, I 36 leaders of, burned at stake, I 37 checked, I 37 instills fear of Jews, I 37, 242, 249 spreads in Central Russia (1796), I 401 f severe measures adopted against (1823), I 402 f quoted by Senate as proof of Jewish proselytism, I 404 Reformation in Poland regarded as, I 79 f Christian rationalists in Poland nicknamed "Judaizers," I 136 =Jude, Der=, German-Jewish periodical, published by Riesser, II 219 =Judea=, part of Hellenistic Orient, I 14 Jewish colonies, in, II 375 =Judicial Authority=, see Courts =Jüdisch-Deutsch=, see Yiddish =Jüdische Bibliothek=, Yiddish periodical, edited by I. L. Peretz, III 59. =Jüdische Volksbibliothek=, Yiddish periodical, edited by Shalom Aleichem, III 59 =Jüdischer Verlag=, in Berlin, referred to, III 52 =Jüdisches Volksblatt=, Yiddish weekly in St. Petersburg, III 58 f =Justinian=, emperor of Byzantium, persecutes Jews, I 18 =Jutrzenka= ("The Dawn"), organ of Polish-Jewish assimilationists, II 213 =Kaffa= (now Theodosia), Crimea, maintains commercial relations with Kiev, I 33 becomes Genoese colony and international emporium, I 33 f Jews flock to, I 34 taken by Turks (1475), I 34 Khoza-Kokos, Jewish native of, exercises great influence, I 35 Jews, expelled from Lithuania, emigrate to, I 65 =Kahal= (Jewish community), under Polish régime, forms cultural, national, and civil entity, I 103 signifies "community" and "communal administration," I 105 autonomy of, recognized by Casimir the Great, I 52 fully established by Sigismund II. (1551), I 106 f organization of, I 106 f elections to, I 192 oligarchic character of, I 192 f functions of, I 107 f acts as fiscal agency, I 107, 181; and valued as such by Government, 189 f manages Jewish institutions, I 107 executes civil acts, I 107, 190 supervises elementary education, I 114 f has separate judiciary, I 83, 191 elders of, attached to general courts, I 84 K. chamber serves as a seat of judiciary, I 191 f relation of, to Polish authorities, I 191 federation of K's., I 104, 108 f, 112, 193, 196 f Conferences (or _Waads_), of federated K's., I 108 ff relation of K's. to one another, I 193 minor K's. called _Pri-Kahalki_, I 108, 193 autonomy of, stimulates learning, I 121; exerts beneficient effect on Jewish life, I 189 Polish Jews exhorted by rabbis to obey K's., I 188 f Blackmailed by Polish officials, I 169 K. of Brest ordered by authorities to hold elections (1719), I 192 K. of Lemberg receives constitution from voyevoda (1692), I 191 f court of Vilna K. excommunicates Hasidim (1772), I 237 K. of Vilna engages in litigation with rabbis, I 275 f financial indebtedness of K's., I 290 degeneration of, I 274 ff Jews of Minsk complain against (1782), I 275 Simeon Volfovich of Vilna urges abolition of (1788), I 276 abolition or curtailment of, urged by Poles, I 280 ff weakening of, recommended by Kalmansohn (1796), I 385 defended by Hirsch Yosefovich, rabbi of Khelm, I 283 supervision over, recommended by Abraham Hirschovich, I 284 abolition of, recommended by Committee of Polish Government (1815), II 89 abolition of, favored by Polish-Jewish assimilationists, II 101 criticised by David Friedländer, II 90 abolished in Poland (December 20, 1821-January 1, 1822), II 102 superseded by "Congregational Board," II 102 f See also Autonomy and Courts =Kahal= (Jewish Community), under Russian régime, attitude of Government towards, I 308 ff admission of Jews to city government conflicts with separate organization, I 308 Jews of annexed White Russia in K's. (1772), I 308 sanctioned by Senate (1776), I 309 granted right to issue passports, I 309 charged with collection of state taxes, I 309 endowed with judicial powers, I 309 Government changes attitude towards, I 310 confined to religious and fiscal functions (1786), I 313 deprived of civil and judicial powers (1795), I 319 promise of Government to maintain judicial powers of, violated, I 320 preservation of, due to fiscal considerations, I 320, 366 establishment of, in Courland, due to same motives (1799), I 321 curtailed status of, recognized in Statute of 1804, I 344 admission to city government fails to weaken power of, I 368 ff Government forced to extend functions of, I 367 Government communicates with K's., I 336, 339 K. of Minsk decides to send delegation to St. Petersburg (1802), I 336 K's. invited by Government to elect deputies (1803), I 337; (1806), I 349 ordered to assist Jews expelled from villages (1810), I 351 represented at army headquarters (1812), I 358 elected representatives of K's., called "Deputation of Jewish People," act as advisory council to Government (1818-1825), I 393 ff K. of Grodno entrusted with police duties (1812), I 357 Alexander I. receives K. of Kalish, I 358 Alexander I. assures K's. of his high favor (1814), I 359 K. of Minsk inquires about attitude of Vilna Gaon towards Hasidism, I 373 Gaon issues appeal to K's. against Hasidism (1796), I 373 Hasidim kept within K. by Statute of 1804, I 379 demoralized by hasidic schism, I 371, 379 suppression of, advocated by nobility of Lithuania (1800), I 326; and Dyerzhavin (1800), I 332 made responsible for supply of recruits (1827), II 19 f K's. directed to elect recruiting trustees, II 19 trustees of, turned into police agents, II 22 f K. of Vilna complains to Council of State about oppression of Jews, II 38 f; pleads for abolition of cantonists, II 36 f functions of, regulated by Statute of 1835, II 41 Council of State criticises power of (1840), II 47; and suggests dissolution of, II 49 abolished by Nicholas I. (December 19, 1844), II 59 ff retained as fiscal and recruiting agency, I 60 ff demoralized condition of, II 112 elders of, made personally responsible for quota of recruits (1850), 147 f misdeeds of, portrayed by Mapu, II 227; by Gordon, II 230; by Bogrov, II 241 Brafman accuses Jews of secret continuation of, in Russia, II 188; and of organizing international "World K.," II 189 minutes of K. of Minsk serve as incriminating material, II 189 Brafman's "Book of K." printed and distributed by Government, II 190; serves as material for "Jewish Committee," II 193; influences reports of governors, II 194 Russian officials repeat Brafman's charges concerning K's., II 194 f _Alliance Israélite_ of Paris accused of constituting World K., II 189, 194 Society for Diffusion of Enlightenment accused of forming part of, II 216 Jewish Conference in St. Petersburg solemnly denies charges concerning K. (1882), II 307 f Pahlen Commission questions Jewish experts in regard to (1888), II 369 f See also Municipality and Autonomy =Kaidanover, Aaron Samuel=, rabbi of Cracow, Hebrew author, I 200 =Kaidanover, Hirsch=, son of former, Hebrew author, I 202 =Kakhanov=, governor-general of Vilna, rebukes Jewish deputation of welcome, II 383 =Kalarash= (government of) pogrom at, III 128 =Kalayev=, Russian revolutionary, assassinates Grand Duke Sergius, III 110 =Kalinovski=, Polish commander, defeated by Cossacks, I 145 =Kalish=, leading city of Great Poland, I 42 Synod of, issues canonical laws against Jews, I 57, 62 surrenders to Swedes, I 155 city and province of, annexed by Prussia, I 292 Jews settle in, I 41 Jews of, petition Casimir IV for renewal of charter, I 61 communities in province of, destroyed, I 156 Alexander I. receives Kahal of, I 358 Abel Gumbiner, head of yeshibah in, I 200 Warta, in province of, place of Polish Diet, I 58 =Kalkreuth=, Count, patron of Solomon Maimon, I 240 =Kalman=, Jewish printer in Lublin, I 131 =Kalmansohn, Jacques=, author of pamphlet advocating Jewish reforms in Poland, I 385 =Kalmanovich=, Jewish lawyer, acts as council for Jewish victims of Kishinev pogrom, III 91; and of Homel pogrom, III 102 =Kalmycks=, tribe of, I 367 =Kamenetz-Podolsk= (Podolia), Dembrovski, bishop of, arranges disputation at, I 214 f Talmud burned at, I 215 Vilna Gaon appeals against Hasidim to Kahal of, I 373 pogrom at, III 128 =Kaniev= (Ukraina), Starosta of, maltreats Jews, I 169 =Kant, Immanuel=, praises Solomon Maimon, I 240 =Kantakuzenka= (government of Kherson), pogrom at, III 33 =Karabchevski=, Russian lawyer, acts as council for Jewish victims of Kishinev pogrom, III 91 =Karaites=, in Byzantine empire, I 28 in Crimea, I 28 f in Chufut-Kale (Crimea), I 35 in Lithuania, I 60 K. of Lithuania, receive autonomy from Casimir IV., I 61 autonomy of K's. of Troki confirmed by Alexander Yaguello, I 64 form separate municipality in Troki, I 73 K's. of Tavrida granted equal rights, I 318 f; II 160 excluded from bar but inofficially admitted, II 352 f Isaac Troki, Karaite, author of anti-Christian treatise, I 137 f Simha Pinsker, historian of, II 160 =Karaulov=, deputy to Third Duma, defends Jews, III 156 =Karlin=, near Pinsk (government of Minsk), Hasidim establish themselves in, I 372 Aaron of, hasidic leader, I 234 Solomon of, hasidic leader, I 372 "=Karliners=," nickname for Hasidim in Lithuania, I 372, 375 =Karnyeyev=, governor of Minsk, inquires into condition of peasantry, I 322 f =Karpov=, member of "Jewish Committees," advocates Jewish emancipation, II 196 ff =Karpovich= (government of Chernigov), pogrom at, II 315 =Kattowitz= (Prussia), conference of "Lovers of Zion," at, II 376 =Katzaps=, nickname for Great-Russians in Little Russia, II 248; III 115, 117 =Katzenellenbogen, Saul=, rabbi of Vilna, objects to heterodoxy of Menashe Ilyer, II 115 f =Kauffmann=, governor-general of Vilna, appoints commission to investigate Brafman's charges, II 189 =Kaulbars=, military governor of Odessa, fails to check pogrom, III 129 =Kazan= (Central Russia), Jews of Vitebsk exiled to (1654), I 154 cantonists stationed in, II 25 suicide of cantonists in, II 27 mosques destroyed in government of, I 254 =Kazimiezh= (_Polish_, Kazimierz), suburb of Cracow, established as Jewish ghetto, I 64 Jews of, restricted in business, I 75 =Kedars=, name for Polovtzis, conquerors of Crimea, I 29 =Kempster=, United States commissioner, sent to Russia, II 407 =Keneset Israel=, Hebrew periodical, II 372, III 58 =Kerch=, pogrom at, III 120; see Bosporus =Kertz=, Crimean city, probably identical with Kerch, I 26 =Khagan=, title of Khazar king, I 20 ff =Khappers=, Yiddish name for recruiting agents, II 23 =Kharkov= (city), Jews permitted to visit fair of (1835), II 40 Jews expelled from, II 319 merchants of, protest against exclusion of Jews, II 319 _Bilu_, organization of Palestine pioneers, formed in, II 321 =Kharkov= (government), Jews permitted to visit fairs of (1734)[62], I 251 Gubernatorial Commission appointed for, I 273 governor of, condemns Jews, II 276; advocates school-norm, II 339 =Khazars=, various forms of name, I 18 appear in Caucasus, I 19 establish kingdom on Volga, I 19 penetrate as far as Kiev, I 19 establish another center in Crimea, I 19 f church attempts conversion of, I 20 converted to Judaism, I 20 f invite teachers from Babylonia, I 21 inner life of, I 22 Jewish merchants travel through kingdom of, I 23 Jews of Byzantium flee to, I 23 f Hasdai Ibn Shaprut corresponds with king of, I 24 ff K's. defeated by Russians, I 28 withdraw to Crimea, I 28 K's. in Crimea destroyed by Russians and Byzantines, I 28 relatives of last king of, flee to Spain, I 28 Jews from kingdom of, attempt conversion of Vladimir, I 30 settle in principality of Kiev, I 31 civilizing influence of, on Kiev, II 252 =Khazars, Sea of=, name for Caspian Sea, I 23 =Khazaria=, name for Crimea, I 28 ff =Khelm= (province of Lublin), bishop of, imprisons Jews on charge of host desecration, I 86 rabbi of, author of Polish pamphlet defending Jews, I 283 =Kherson= (city), visited by White, emissary of Baron Hirsch, II 418 =Kherson= (government), seat of Zaporozhian Cossacks, I 143 Jews settled as agriculturists in, I 363 f, II 71 included in Pale (Statute of 1835), II 40 pogroms in, II 251, 304, III 33, 100 governor of, deplores effect of Jews on their domestics, I 404 Localities in: Alexandria, III 100 Anayev, II 251 Borki, II 378 Kantakuzenka, III 33 =Khlopitzki=, Polish dictator, declines offer of Jewish volunteers, II 105 =Khlops=, nickname for Polish peasants, I 140, 182; see Serfs =Khmelnitzki= (_Polish_, Chmelnicki), =Bogdan=, I 144 ff elected Hetman by Cossacks, I 144 forms alliance with Tartars of Crimea, I 144 defeats Polish army, I 145 heads rebellion of Ukrainians against Poles, I 145 organizes massacre of Jews, I 145 sends detachment of Cossacks against Niemirov, I 146 derides Polish generals, I 149 besieges Lemberg, I 150 f demands delivery of Jews, I 151 receives ransom and withdraws, I 151 defeated by Poles, I 152 signs Treaty of Byelaya Tzerkov (1651), I 152 enters into negotiations with Tzar Alexis, I 152 f extent of K. massacres, I 157 recollection of K. massacres stirs later Ukrainians, I 182 185 reports of K. massacres arouses Sabbatai Zevi, I 205 K. massacres described by Gogol, II 139; and Bogrov II 242 See Cossacks =Kholonyevski=, member of Polish Diet, objects to extension of Jewish rights, I 288 =Khomyakov=, Russian poet, condemns régime of Nicholas I., II 141 =Khovanski=, governor-general of White Russia, ordered to provide livelihood for Jews expelled from villages, I 406 recommends discontinuation of expulsion, I 407 recommends proceedings in ritual murder trial of Velish, II 76 ff believes to have discovered monstrous crime, II 78 asks governors of Pale for incriminating material, II 80 censured by Nicholas I., II 80 exposed as Jew-baiter by Council of State, I 81 =Khoza Kokos=, Jew of Crimea, agent of Grand Duke Ivan III. of Moscow, I 35 arranges alliance between grand duke and Khan of Crimea, I 35 writes to Ivan III. in Hebrew, I 35 =Khwarism=, city in Asia, I 26 =Kiev= (city), Khazars make raids on, I 19 captured by Lithuanians (1320), I 94 forms part of Polish empire, I 94, 140 incorporated, together with Little Russia, in Russian empire (1654), I 94 ceded to Russia by Poland (1667), I 159 Metropolitan of Greek-Orthodox Church resides in, III 125 Jews settle in, I 31 Jews and Khazars in, II 252 Khazar Jews appear in, to convert Prince Vladimir (986), I 30 f Greek-Orthodox priests in, preach hatred against Jews, I 31 pogroms at (12th century), I 32 Jews of, protected by Prince Svyatopolk II., I 32 fire at, damages Jews (1124), I 32 "Jewish Gate" at, mentioned in Russian Chronicles, I 32 visited by early Jewish travellers, I 32 f Jews, fleeing from Germany, settle in, I 33 Moses, rabbi of, mentioned in early Hebrew sources, I 33 "Skharia," Jew of, settles in Novgorod (15th century), I 36 burghers of, obtain right of excluding Jews (1619), I 95 Jews permitted to settle in (1794), I 317, II 31 Nicholas I. orders expulsion of Jews from (1827), II 30 ff authorities of, secure postponement of expulsion, II 33 Nicholas I. insists on expulsion from, II 36 closed to Jews by Statute of 1835, II 40 Jews permitted to visit K. temporarily, II 172 privileged categories of Jews settle in (under Alexander II.), II 264 Government agents prepare pogrom at (after accession of Alexander III.), II 248 pogrom at (April, 1881), II 251 ff, 287; tried in court, II 264 "illegal" Jews expelled from (May, 1881), II 263 f wholesale expulsions of Jews from (1882), II 319; (1886), II 346 Jews of, subjected to raids, or _oblavas_, II 346; III 20 wives of Jewish artisans in, forbidden to trade, II 385 visited by White, emissary of Baron Hirsch, II 418 persecution of Jews in (under Nicholas II.), III 19 f Jews made to pay for night raids, III 20 Government frustrates project of trade bank in, III 25 f Russian Nationalist Society of, incites to pogroms, III 114 pogrom at (October, 1905), III 128 Jewish students excluded from Polytechnicum at (1907), III 152 1200 Jewish families expelled from (1910), III 157 Stolypin assassinated at (1911), III 164 impending pogrom at, stopped, III 165 Beilis ritual murder case in, III 165 f Jewish printing-press in, II 43; transferred to Zhitomir, II 43 Jewish printers of Slavuta imprisoned in, II 123 Censorship Committee in, ordered to examine Jewish books, II 44 Professor Mandelstamm, resident of, II 298, 304, III 47 Dashevski, avenger of Kishinev pogrom, student in, III 81 _Jüdisches Volksblatt_ appears in, III 59 =Kiev= (province, or government), subject to Poland, I 140 estate in, owned by Polish nobles, I 140 ceded to Russia (1667), I 159 part of, annexed by Russia (1793), I 292 Jews of, flee to Tatars (1648), I 145 Jews forbidden to settle in (1649), I 151 Jews in part of, exterminated, I 157 few Jewish survivors in, I 246 Haidamacks massacre Jews in (1768), I 183 f included in Pale (1794), I 317; (1804), I 342; (1835), II 40 Jewish deputies from, arrive in St. Petersburg (1803), I 337 Jews of, invited to send delegates to city of Kiev (1807), I 349 Hasidism spreads in, I 382; II 119 f Jews expelled from villages in (1830), II 32; expulsion postponed until 1835, II 33 number of Jewish artisans in, II 168 Poles and Jews forbidden to acquire estates in (1864), II 173 economic activity of Jews in, II 194 pogroms in (1881), II 256 f Court of Appeals of, tries Homel pogrom, III 101 Localities in: Berdychev, II 256 f Chernobyl, I 382, II 119 Ruzhin, II 120 Shpola, III 33 Smyela, II 256 Uman, I 184 f, 383, II 122 Bibikow, governor-general of, condemns Jews, II 47; arrests Israel of Ruzhin, II 120 f Vasilchikov, Count, favors transfer of Jewish artisans to Russian Interior, II 168 Dondukov, Korsakov, points out economic danger of Jews, II 193 f Drenteln, fierce anti-Semite, II 276, 316 f, 319, 341 =Kiev=, principality of, claims overlordship over Russian lands, I 29 influenced by Byzantium, I 29 ff passes under sovereignty of Tatars, I 33; see Kiev (city) =Kievlanin=, anti-Semitic paper in Kiev, III 20 =Kings, Polish=, favor Jews because of financial advantages, I 69 elected by Poles, I 89 keep Jewish body-physicians, I 132 counteracted by Diets, I 160 lose their authority, I 168 =Kirgiz=, tribe, placed in Russian law above Jews, II 367 =Kiselev=, count, appointed chairman of Committee for Radical Transformation of Jews (1840), II 50, 157 addressess circular to governors-general concerning projected Jewish reforms (1845)[63], II 65 f receives petitions in favor of Jews from Moses Montefiore, II 688 advocates mitigation of Jewish restrictions (1856), II 157 =Kishinev=, modern Jewish school in, II 52 Jews of, accord friendly reception to Max Lilienthal, II 56 "Congregation of New Testament Israelites" in, II 225 "Smugglers," anti-Semitic play, produced in, III 38 pogrom at (1903), III 69 ff; stirs Jewish national sentiment, III 82; avenged by Jewish youth, II 81, 132; stimulates emigration, III 85; intensifies animosity of Nicholas II., III 93; tried in court, III 90 ff authorities of, impeached before Senate, III 92 Jews accused of seeking to avenge K. massacre, III 95, 101 fear of new pogrom at, causes emigration, III 96 f Russian Nationalist Society of, incites to pogroms, III 114 pogrom at (October, 1905), III 128 Jewish community of, protests against denial of Jewish franchise, III 121 =Kitovich=, Polish writer, accuses Jews of ritual murder, I 180 =Klaus=, name for hasidic house of prayer, II 124 =Klausner, Joseph=, Hebrew writer, editor of _ha-Shiloah_, III 58, 163 =Klopstock=, German poet, imitated in Hebrew, II 135 =Kmita, Peter=, voyevoda of Cracow, accepts bribes from Jewish merchants, I 76 =Kobrin= (province of Grodno), Bezalel of, Hebrew author, I 201 =Kochubay=, Minister of Interior, appointed chairman of Committees for Amelioration of Jews (1802), I 335 f instructs governors to allay fears of Jews, I 336 assisted by Speranski, I 340 recommends postponement of expulsion of Jews from villages, I 347 assists settlement of Jewish agriculturists in New Russia, I 363 accepts dedication of pamphlet by Nyevakhovich, I 387 recommends severe measures against "Judaizers," I 402 =Koenigsburg= (Prussia), visited by Solomon Maimon, I 239 visited by Menashe Ilyer, II 114 Jewish socialists arrested in, III 223 f Hebrew periodicals published in, II 223 =Kohan, Jacob=, Hebrew poet, III 162 =Kohen, Sabbatai=, see Cohen =Kokovtzev=, Minister of Finance, favors Jewish franchise, III 122 =Kol Mebasser=, Yiddish periodical, II 218 =Kollontay= (_Polish_, Kollontaj), radical member of Polish Diet, I 280 suggests abolition of Jewish autonomy, I 282 assists Jews in struggle for rights, I 291 =Kolomea= (Galicia), capital of Pokutye province, I 150 =Königsberg=, see Koenigsburg =Konotop= (government of Chernigov), pogrom at, intensified by Jewish self-defence, II 257 =Koppelman, Jacob=, Hebrew author, I 133 =Koretz= (Volhynia), Phineas of, disciple of Besht, I 227 =Korff=, Baron, advocates admission of Jewish artisans into Russian Interior, II 170 =Korobka=, or basket tax, name explained, II 61; see Tax =Korolenko=, Russian writer, signs protest against Jewish persecutions, II 387 writes public letter in defence of Jews, II 388 portrays Kishinev massacre, III 76 f =Korostyshev=, hasidic center, II 120 =Korsun= (province), Poles defeated by Cossacks at (1648), I 145 =Kosciuszko=, spelling and pronunciation of name, I 292 leads Polish uprising of 1794, I 292 liberal and democratic, I 292 f permits formation of Jewish regiment, I 294 announces it in special army order, I 294 f captured by Russians, I 296 Zayonchek, general under, I 296, II 91 =Kosovo= (Galicia), Besht settles in, I 223 Nahman of, disciple of Besht, I 227 =Kostantinia, Sea of=, name for Black Sea, I 26 =Kostomarov=, Russian historian, defends ritual murder libel, II 205 =Kotzebue=, governor-general of New Russia, fails to check Odessa pogrom (1871), II 192 =Kotzk= (_Polish_, Kock), near Warsaw, Berek Yoselevich killed in vicinity of, I 303 hasidic dynasty of, II 122 =Kovalevski=, Minister of Public Instruction, advocates admission into Russian Interior of graduates of secondary schools, II 164 =Kovno= (city), Jews of, barred from city government (1805), I 370 growth of pauperism in, III 24 "Bund" holds convention in (1899), III 57 Jewish community of, signs petition for equal rights (1905), III 108 Abraham Mapu, Hebrew writer, native of, II 226 ff Isaac Elhanan Spector, rabbi of, II 304 =Kovno= (government), part of, called Zhmud, I 293, II 133 formed originally part of government of Vilna, I 317 constituted 1872, I 317 forms part of Lithuania, II 39 vitally affected by expulsion of Jews from border zone (1843), II 63 placed under military dictatorship of Muravyov (1863), II 188 Lutostanski, anti-Semitic writer, priest in, II 203 Friedman from, deputy to Third Duma, III 153 Localities in: Dusyaty, III 115 Salant, II 133 Vilkomir, II 236 =Kozhenitz= (Poland), Israel of, hasidic leader in Poland, I 384, II 122 =Kozhmyan=, member of Polish Council of State, objects to emancipation of Jews, II 93 =Kozlovska=, witness in ritual murder case of Velizh, II 82 =Kozodavlev=, Russian assistant-minister of Interior, member of "Jewish Committee," I 352 =Kozubales=, tax to Catholic academies in Poland, I 161, 166 =Kramshtyk=, president of Warsaw community, arrested for participating in Polish Insurrection, II 181 =Krasinski, Vincent=, Polish general, author of pamphlet on Jews of Poland, II 96 f =Kraushar=, quoted, I 136 =Krechatinikov=, Russian general, captures Haidamack leaders, I 186 =Kremenchug= (government of Poltava), pogrom at (October, 1905), III 128 =Kremenetz= (Volhynia), Jewish community of, represented on Council of Four Lands, I 110 massacre at (1648), I 149 Mordecai Jaffe, rabbi of, I 127 native place of Isaac Baer Levinsohn, II 125 ff[64] =Kremsier= (Moravia), meeting-place of Austrian Parliament, II 179 =Kreslavka= (government of Vitebsk), Frank, Jewish physician, resident of, I 331, 386 =Krestentzya=, form of lease, forbidden to Jews, I 404 f =Kretingen= (province of Zhmud), Berek Yoselovich born at, I 293 =Krochmal, Nahman=, Galician thinker, associates with Isaac Baer Levinsohn, II 126 work of, compared with that of Levinsohn, II 127 =Kronenberg=, convert, protests against Polish anti-Semitism, II 178 =Kronenstadt=, fortress near St. Petersburg, place of imprisonment, II 42 =Krueger=, Russian official, accuses Jews of Saratov of ritual murder, II 151 =Krushevan=, journalist and petty official in Kishinev, III 69 editor of _Bessarabetz_, III 69 ff carries on violent agitation against Jews, III 69 ff invited by Plehve to publish =Znamya=, anti-Semitic paper, in St. Petersburg, III 70 accuses Jews of ritual murder, III 71 incites to pogroms, III 71 wounded by Dashevski, III 81 f =Krushnitza=, ancient Polish capital, Jew elected king at, I 40 =Krysa, Leib=, represents Frankists at religious disputation, I 217 baptized, I 217 =Kuantung= (=Shantung=) Peninsula, Jews expelled by Russians from, III 94 =Kukhazhevski= (=Polish=, Kucharzewski), Polish anti-Semitic candidate to Russian Duma, defeated by Warsaw Jews, III 167 =Kulak=, Russian name for village boss, II 318, 325 =Kupernik=, Jewish lawyer, acts as council for victims of Homel pogrom, III 102 =Kursk= (government), number of artisans in, II 168 =Kut=, Crimean city, I 26 =Kutais= (city in Caucasia), ritual murder case at, II 204 =Kutaysov=, Count, declares pogroms result of Jewish "exploitation," II 271 =Kutover=, Gershon, rabbi of Brody, brother-in-law of Besht, I 223 receives message from Besht in Palestine, I 228 =Kuty= (Galicia), Besht settles in neighborhood of, I 228 =Kuyavia=, former Polish province, I 75; II 90 =Ladi= (government of Moghilev), residence of Shneor Zalman, founder of _Habad_, and his successors, I 234; II 117 =Lakh=, Ukrainian nickname for Pole, I 142, 184 =Lambat=, Crimean city, I 26 =Lamsdorff=, Russian Minister of Foreign Affairs, has interview with Herzl, III 84 =Landed Property=, see Villages =Landau, Adolph=, Russian-Jewish publicist, II 221 =Language=, use of Polish L., abandonment of Yiddish, and restriction of Hebrew advocated by Poles (1788-1791), I 273, 281 use of Polish in business [and elimination of Hebrew and Yiddish] advocated by Friesel, governor of Vilna (1800), I 327 use of Russian, Polish, or German in legal documents and in business suggested by Dyerzhavin (1800), I 333 Russian, Polish, or German made obligatory for Jewish schools and for public documents and business [Statute of 1804], I 345 reading and writing knowledge of Russian, Polish, or German required for Jewish members of municipalities [Statute of 1804], I 345 Jewish deputies plead for use of Hebrew in business, I 349 f followers of David Friedländer call upon Polish Jews to abandon Yiddish and adopt L. of country, I 386 Statute of 1835 requires use of Russian, or other local dialect, for public and business documents, and forbids Hebrew categorically, II 40 Kahal elders required to read and write Russian [1835], II 41 Isaac Baer Levinsohn calls on Jews to study L. of country, II 126 Jews of Poland forbidden use of Hebrew and Yiddish in civil affairs, legal documents, and business correspondence [Act of 1862], II 182 Jews of Poland retain use of their L., II 195 freedom of L. demanded by League for Equal Rights [1905], III 112 fight between Hebrew and Yiddish (1908), III 161 See Hebrew, Polish, Russian, and Yiddish =Lanskoy=, Minister of Interior, favors admission into Russian Interior of Jewish graduates of secondary schools, II 164 corresponds with officials concerning admission of Jewish artisans into Russian Interior, II 168 =Lantzkorona= (_Polish_, Lanckorona, Podolia), assembly of Frankists at fair of, I 213, 215 =Lapin, Shalom=, of Grodno, suspected of ritual murder, II 73 =Lapkovski, Benish=, from government of Vitebsk, elected Jewish deputy, I 393 =Laski, John=, Polish chancellor, edits Polish code of laws, I 71 =Laschenko= organizes pogrom at Ananyev, government of Kherson, II 251 =Lavrov=, Russian revolutionary in London, II 223 =Layze= (=Lazarus=), son of Jewish arendar, I 266 =Lazhentzka, Dorothy=, of Sokhachev, sentenced on charge of having sold host to Jews, I 86 =League for the Attainment of Equal Rights for the Jewish People in Russia=, the, organized in Vilna (1905), III 111 program of, III 111 f establishes Central Bureau in St. Petersburg, III 112 conventions of, III 131, 133 f protests against pogroms, III 132 sends greetings to Dashevski, avenger of Kishinev pogrom, III 132 decides to call All-Russian Jewish National Assembly, III 133 Jewish Duma deputies accept program of, III 134 presided over by Vinaver, III 134 represents doctrine of National-Cultural Autonomism, III 144 stands above class and party affiliations, III 145 f disintegration of, III 146 f =League of Jewish Socialists=, in London, II 223 =League of Jewish Workingmen=, see "Bund" =League of Russian People=, organization of Black Hundred, III 141 favors re-establishment of unlimited autocracy, III 149 secures pardon for pogrom makers, III 150 forms "Second Government," III 141, 151 badge of, demonstratively worn by Nicholas II., III 151 See Black Hundred "=Learned Jew=" (_Uchony yevrey_), Russian title for Jewish Government expert, II 239 =Lebensohn, Abraham Baer= (called "Adam"), Hebrew poet, II 134 f prominent in Maskilim circle of Vilna, II 136 =Lebensohn, Micah Joseph=, son of former, Hebrew poet, II 226 =Legal Profession=, see Bar =Leipsic=, Russian-Jewish merchants visit fair of, I 359 f place of publication, II 135 =Lekkert, Hirsch=, shoots at governor of Vilna, III 67 =Lelevel= (_Polish_, Lelewel), Polish historian, issues manifesto to Jews, II 107 f calls upon Poles to be friendly to Jews, II 178 eulogized by Jews at memorial service, II 180 =Lemberg= (Lvov, _Polish_, Lwow), leading city of Red Russia, I 74, 196 anti-Jewish riots in (1463), I 63 f Jews of, restricted in commerce, I 74 besieged by Khmelnitzki(1648), I 150 f authorities of, refuse to deliver Jews, I 151 Jesuit college students in, attack Jews, I 161 Jews of, organize self-defence, I 161; but are massacred (1664), I 162 Pikolski, monk in, conducts agitation against Jews, I 174 Jews of, receive communal autonomy (1356), I 53; granted communal constitution(1692), I 191 rights of Kahal elders upheld by voyevoda of, I 190 Jewish community of, represented on Council of Four Lands, I 110 rabbis assembled at, excommunicate adherents of Sabbatai Zevi, I 211 disputation between Frankists and Orthodox at, I 216 f, 229 conversion of Frankists at, I 217 Isaiah Horowitz (_Sheloh_) educated in, I 135 Rabbis of: Joshua Falk Cohen, head of yeshibah, I 128 David Halevi (Taz), I 130, 206 Meir of Lublin, I 129 Hayyim Rapoport, I 216 Solomon, I 115 =Le Nord=, newspaper in Brussels, organ of Russian Government, II 393 =Lenchitza= (_Polish_, Leckyca, province of Kalish), Jews of, executed on ritual murder charge, I 100 Solomon Ephraim of, criticises yeshibahs, I 119 f =Leon=, Jewish physician, executed by Ivan III., I 37 =Leshek=, Polish prince, receives Jewish delegation from Germany, I 40 =Leshek The White=, Polish ruler, favorable to Jews, I 42 =Lesnaya= (White Russia), battle at, I 248 =Lessing=, referred to by Nyevakhovich, Russian-Jewish writer, I 387 =Levanda, Leon= (=Lev=), Russian-Jewish writer, native of Lithuania, II 238 teacher in Jewish Crown school, II 239 "Learned Jew" in Vilna, II 239 f novels by, II 239 f joins Palestine movement, II 240, 332 corresponds with Bogrov, II 241 =Levendahl=, Russian official, inspires Kishinev massacre, III 71, 77 =Levi Itzhok=, of Berdychev, hasidic leader, I 232 f saintliness of, I 233, 382 Hebrew author, I 382 =Levin, Shmaryahu=, member of Central Committee of League for Equal Rights, III 112 deputy to First Duma, III 134 denounces Bialystok pogrom, III 137, 139 demands equal rights for Jews, III 137 =Levinsohn, Isaac Baer=, called "the Russian Mendelssohn," II 125 ff born in Volhynia, II 125 associates with Maskilim of Galicia, II 125 f author of _Te'udah be-Israel_, II 126; conclusions of, II 126 author of anonymous anti-hasidic satire, II 127 author of _Bet Yehudah_, II 127 f suggests plan of Jewish reforms, II 128; and modifications in Jewish religious life, II 129 keeps in contact with Russian dignitaries, II 129 f receives subsidies from Russian Government, II 129, 132 advocates prohibition of "harmful" books, II 129 f _naiveté_ of, II 130 publishes refutation of blood accusation, II 131 author of apologetic treatise _Zerubbabel_, defending the Talmud, II 131 compared with scholars in other lands, II 131 dies unappreciated, II 132 =Levita, Benedict=, of Cracow, granted monopoly of importing Hebrew books, I 131 =Levy, Lipman=, financial agent at Russian Court, I 248 =Lewin, L.=, quoted, I 111 =Lewin, Mendel=, of Satanov (Podolia), Hebrew writer, I 388 =Liberum Veto=, Polish parliamentary law, source of anarchy, I 92, 168 =Lieberman, A.= (=Freeman=), Jewish socialist, II 223 f =Lieders=, Russian viceroy in Poland, arrests Jewish leaders, II 181 =Lieven=, Russian Minister of Public Instruction, receives memorandum from Isaac Baer Levinsohn, II 129 =Lifschitz, Gedaliah=, of Lublin, Hebrew author, I 133 =Lilienblum, Moses Leib=, advocates religious reforms, II 236 joins Russified _intelligenzia_, II 237 writes "Sins of Youth," II 237 joins "Love of Zion" and later Zionist movement, II 237, 328 f, 376, III 42, 49 =Lilienthal, Max=, native of Bavaria, II 52 director of modern Jewish school in Riga, II 52 commissioned by Russian Government to carry out school reforms, II 53 visits Vilna, II 54; meets with approval of local Maskilim, II 136 f meets with opposition in Minsk, II 55 presents report to Uvarov, Minister of Public Instruction, II 55 tours Russian South and South-west, II 56 assured by Jewish communities of co-operation, II 56 campaign of, hailed by Jewish leaders of western Europe, II 67 not supported by Isaac Baer Levinsohn, II 136 emigrates to America, II 59 quoted, II 55 =Lippomano=, papal nuncio, instigates host trial of Sokhachev, I 86 f =Liquor=, use of, encouraged by Hasidim, II 124 f =Liquor Trade=, see Propination =Literature=, rabbinic L. in Poland, I 121 ff; see also Hebrew, Yiddish, and Russian =Lithuania=, Kiev incorporated in, I 94 Volhynia annexed by, I 59 "Union of Lublin," between Poland and L. (1569), I 88 annexed by Russia (1795), I 297 Jews emigrate from Crimea into, I 35 important Jewish communities in, I 59 Jews of, obtain charter from Vitovt (1388), I 59 favorable economic condition of Jews in, I 60, 72 f Jewish tax farmers in, I 72, 94 Karaites in, I 60 Jews expelled from (1493), and allowed to return (1503), I 65, 70 f Jews of, suspected of sheltering proselytes, I 80; and of planning to leave country, I 81 cleared of suspicion by royal charter (1540), I 81 "=Lithuanian Statute=" (1566) imposes restrictions on Jews, I 87 blood accusations in, I 87 f, 96, 162 ff "Union of Lublin" affects unfavorably Jews of, I 88 Ukrainian rebels penetrate into, I 149 invaded by Russians (1654 ff), I 153 ff, 156, 264 Jews, persecuted by Cossacks, flee to, I 157 Jewish cultural center moves to, I 159 f Jewish conditions in, described by Solomon Maimon, I 239 f Jews of, barred from Russia, I 243 f; yet penetrate into Moscow, I 245 numbers of Jews in, I 263 f included in Pale (1795), I 317; (1804), I 342; (1835), II 39 Polish nobility of, advocate Jewish reforms (1800), I 325 f Jews establish woolen mills in, I 363 Jewish agricultural colonies in, II 72 Jews admitted to municipal government in, I 369; but speedily disfranchised, I 370 Jews of, loyal to Russia in Polish insurrections of 1861 and 1863, II 107, 182 f Russian authorities of, believe Brafman's charges against Jews, II 189 pogroms checked in, II 267, 276 Jewish labor movement in, III 55 Jews of, called Litvaks, object of Polish anti-Semitism, III 166 f Jewish communities of, represented on Council of Four Lands, I 110; but later form separate Council (1623), I 112, 193 f, 195 Michael Yosefovich appointed "senior" of Jews of, I 72 Kahals of, granted right of _herem_ (1672), I 190 different intellectual development in, I 221 strong position of Rabbinism and Talmudism in, I 199 f, 221, II 113 Elijah of Vilna, champion of Rabbinism in, see Elijah of Vilna yeshibahs of, adopt method of Elijah of Vilna, I 381 f Messianism preached among Jews of, I 208 Hasidim penetrates into, I 230 ff, 237 type of Hasidism in, I 232 f rabbis of, oppose Hasidism, II 233, 237 f Kahals of, appealed to against Hasidism, I 373 Hasidism weak in, I 274, 372 Hasidim of, denounced to Russian authorities, I 376 spirit of denunciation (_mesirah_) among Jews of, I 377 f disintegration of Kahals in, I 275 f Jews of, plead for preservation of Kahal courts, I 320 greater political sense among Jews of, I 379 rabbis of, arbitrate between Kahal and rabbi of Vilna, I 276 rabbis of, appeal to I. B. Levinsohn to refute blood accusation, II 131 opposition to secular learning among Jews of, II 114 f Haskalah movement in, see Haskalah and Vilna Hebrew writers originate from, II 238 =Little Poland=, see Poland, Little =Little Russia=, see Russia, Little =Livadia=, summer residence of Alexander III., II 429, III 18 =Livonia=, inhabitants of, demand admission of Jews, I 256 Empress Elizabeth refuses to admit Jews into, I 257 Jews expelled from (1744), I 257 Jewish newcomers expelled from (1829), II 32; see Baltic Provinces =Lizno= (Galicia), Elimelech of, hasidic leader, I 232 =Lobanov-Rostoveki=, chairman of Committee for Amelioration of Jews (1871), II 191 =Lobzovo=, near Cracow, residence of Estherka, favorite of Casimir the Great, I 53 =Lodz=, Jewish labor movement in, III 55 pogrom at, III 119 f economic success of Jews in, stimulate Polish boycott, II 166 =Loewenthal=, professor, sent by Baron Hirsch to Argentina, II 416 =Lokhvitz= (province), massacre at (1618), I 145 =London=, Moses Montefiore of, goes to Russia, II 68 M'Caul, missionary in, II 131 Jewish Socialist Society in, II 223 Mansion House Meeting held in (February 1, 1882), II 288 ff Lord Mayor of, presides at meeting, II 288; and joins pogrom committee, II 291 bishop of, joins pogrom committee, II 291 secret circular of Plehve circulated in, II 381 new protest meeting planned in, II 382 Guildhall Meeting held in (December 10, 1890), II 388 ff effect of protest meeting in, felt in St. Petersburg, II 397 f Moscow refugees in, II 408 Jewish Colonization Association in, II 414, 419 Fourth Zionist Congress held in, III 45 _L. Times_ publishes account of pogroms and persecutions, II 287; attacks Russia, II 381, 389 f; publishes secret letter of Plehve, III 77 =Longinus=, see _Dlugosh_ =Lopukhin=, Russian prosecutor general, receives denunciation against Hasidim, I 375 f =Loris-Melikov=, Russian statesman, favors popular representation, II 245 discusses Jewish question with American Minister, II 293 =Louis of Hungary=, Polish king (1370-1382), persecutes Jews, I 54 =Louisiana=, Jewish agricultural colonies, in, II 374 "=Love of Zion=," see Zionism =Lovich=, Synod of (1720), forbids building or repairing of synagogues, I 171 =Lozno= (government of Moghilev), residence of Shneor Zalman, founder of _Habad_, I 234, 330, 372, 376, 378, II 117 =Lubavichi= (government of Moghilev), residence of Shneor Zalman's successors, II 117 =Lubbock, Sir John=, protests against pogroms, II 288 =Lubenski=, Polish Minister of Justice, objects to emancipation of Jews, I 300 f suggests law barring Jews from liquor trade, I 304 =Lublin=, leading city of Little Poland and capital of Poland, I 42, 110 "Union of" (1569), I 88 =Lublin= (province), annexed by Austria (1795), I 297 ritual murder cases in, I 96, 100 Crown Tribunal in, tries ritual murder cases, I 96, 100, 172 conference of rabbis and Kahal elders meet at, I 109 f, 123 Council of Four Lands meets periodically at, I 110, 152, 194 community of, receives royal permission to open yeshibah (1567), I 115 printing-press in, I 131, 196 disputations between Jews and Christians at, I 136 Gedaliah Lifschitz, Hebrew author, of, I 133 Jacob Itzhok, hasidic leader, of, I 384 Martin Chekhovich, Christian theologian, of, I 136 Rabbis of: Shalom Shakhna, father of Polish Talmudism, I 105, 122 f Israel, son of former, I 123 Joshua Falk Cohen, I 112, 128 Solomon Luria (_Maharshal_), I 125 Mordecai Jaffe, I 127 Meir of (=Maharam=), I 128 f, 199 Samuel Edels (=Maharsho=), I 129 Towns in: Shchebreshin, I 158 Voistovitza, I 178 Zamoshch, I 203 =Lubliner=, Polish-Jewish writer and patriot, II 109 =Lubny= (province of Poltava), Cossack massacres at (1637), I 144; (1648), I 145 =Lubomirski=, Polish Crown Marshal, imposes tax on Jews sojourning in Warsaw, I 268 f =Lueger=, anti-Semitic burgomaster of Vienna, III 32 =Luga= (government of St. Petersburg), Alexander I. causes expulsion of Jews from, I 409 =Lukasinski, Valerian=, Polish army officer, defends Jews, II 97 f =Lukov= (province of Shedletz), I 287 =Luria, Isaac= (Ari), name explained, I 134 influence of Cabala system of, on Poland, I 134, 202 study of writings of, forbidden before age of forty, I 214 writings of, studied by Besht, I 223 prayer-book of, accepted by Hasidim, I 231 =Luria, Solomon= (Reshal or Maharshal) native of Posen, I 124 rabbi in Ostrog and Lublin, I 125 follows casuistic method of Tosafists, I 125 criticises _Shulhan Arukh_, I 125 gravitates towards mysticism, I 126 criticises study of Aristotle in yeshibahs, I 120 leaves profound impress on posterity, I 199 =Lutherans=, Isaac Troki argues with, I 137; see Reformation =Lutostanski, Hippolyte=, accuses Jews of ritual murder, II 203 f receives acknowledgment from Alexander III., 203, 244 =Lutzk= (Volhynia), Crimean Jews settle in, I 35 important Jewish community in, I 59 Karaites in, I 60 Jews of, expelled (1495), I 65 =Lvov=, see Lemberg =Lvov=, Russian statesman, discloses connection between Government and pogroms, III 125 f =Lyck= (Prussia), _ha-Maggid_, published in, II 217 =Lysyanka= (province of Kiev), massacre at, I 184 =Maeotis=, see Azov, Sea of "=Magdeburg Law=," name explained, I 44 granted to Germans in Poland, I 44 bestowed on city of Lemberg, I 53 granted to Karaites of Lithuania, I 61; and confirmed, I 64 taken advantage of by Polish estates to oppress Jews, I 74 Jews exempted from jurisdiction of, I 94 Jewish Kahal forms counterpart to, I 103; see also Autonomy =Magister=, Russian university degree, explained, II 165 =Magistracies=, see Municipalities =Maimon, Solomon=, born in Lithuania, I 239 receives talmudic education, I 239 studies in Germany, I 239 f student of Kantian philosophy, I 240 writes "Autobiography," I 240 quoted, I 221 =Maimonides=, philosophic writings of, studied by Moses Isserles, I 126; and Mordecai Jaffe, I 132 studied and interpreted by Solomon Maimon, I 240 influences Shneor Zalmon, I 382 does not appeal to Nahman of Bratzlav, I 383 invoked by Maskilim in support of secular learning, II 126 quoted, II 119 =Makarov= (government of Kiev), hasidic center, II 120 =Makov=, chairman of Commission for Revision of Laws concerning Jews, II 336 =Malakh, Hayyim=, Sabbatian propagandist, I 208 joins Judah Hasid, I 209 heads party of pilgrims to Palestine, I 209 holds Sabbatian services in Jerusalem, I 210 =Melchevski=, Polish bishop, invites David Friedländer to render opinion on Polish-Jewish question, II 90 =Maliss, Eda=, victim of pogrom, II 302 =Manasseh, I., and II.=, kings of Khazars, I 26 =Manassein=, Minister of Justice, excludes Jews from Russian bar, II 352 =Mandelstamm=, successor to Max Lilienthal, II 118 =Mandelstamm=, professor, of Kiev, insists on necessity of organizing emigration, II 298 attends conference of Jewish notables in St. Petersburg, II 304 denounces Ignatyev's offer to settle Jews in Central Asia, II 306 supports Zionist leaders in Western Europe, III 47 =Manifesto=, name explained, II 246 coronation M. of Alexander II. abolishes Jewish conscription, II 155 f M. of Alexander III. promising to uphold autocracy, II 246 coronation M. of Alexander III. disregards Jews, II 338 M. of Nicholas II., on birth of heir-apparent Alexis, offers trifling alleviations to Jews, III 98 M. of October 17, promising Constitution, III 127; followed by pogroms, III 127 ff Vyborg M., see Vyborg =Mankup= (=Mangup=), Crimean city, I 26 =Manning=, cardinal, protests at Mansion House Meeting against pogroms, II 289 f joins pogrom committee, II 291 expresses sympathy with Guildhall Meeting, II 390 =Mansion House Meeting=, see London _Mapu, Abraham_, Hebrew writer, II 226 ff =Margolis, M.=, Jewish expert, invited by Pahlen Commission, II 369 =Marini=, general of Dominican Order, deprecates persecution of Polish Jews, I 165 =Mark= (=Mordecai=), victim of blood accusation, I 100 =Markovich, Moses=, "general syndic" of Polish Jews, I 160 =Marriage=, among Jews, restrictions placed upon, by Polish Diet (1775), I 267; disregarded, I 268 limitation of number of M's proposed by Poles, I 282 age of, restricted by Russian law (1835), II 40 early M's in vogue, II 112 =Marseilles=, Altaras of, visits Russia, II 69 =Masalski=, bishop of Vilna, employs Berek Yoselovich, I 294 =Maskilim=, see Haskalah =Massacres=, see Pogroms =Masudi=, Arabic writer, quoted, I 23 f =May Laws=, see Temporary Rules =Maximova=, witness in ritual murder case, II 82 =Mazovia=, Polish principality and province, I 42, 85 annexed by Prussia (1795), I 297 =M'Caul=, London missionary, attacks Talmud, II 131 =Me'assef=, Hebrew periodical, I 386; II 137 =Meat Tax=, see Tax =Meath, Earl of=, addresses Guildhall Meeting, II 391 =Mechanics=, see Artisans =Mechislav=, prince of Great Poland, forbids violence against Jews, I 42 =Mechislav= (=Meshko=), Polish king, mentioned on coins, I 42 =Medicine=, see Physicians =Medzhibozh= (Podolia), Besht settles in, I 225 visited by his disciples, I 228 residence of Borukh Tulchinski, I 384; and his disciples, II 121 =Meir= of Lublin (_Maharam_), rabbi and scholar, I 128 f leaves profound impress on posterity, I 199 =Meir=, of Shchebreshin, describes Cossack persecutions, I 158 =Meir=, of Tarnopol, Hebrew author, I 201 =Meisels, Berush=, rabbi in Cracow, and member of Austrian parliament, II 179 rabbi in Warsaw, and active in Polish Insurrection (1863), II 179 ff =Melammed=, see Heder =Melitopol= (government of Tavrida), pogrom at, III 115 =Melitzah=, conventionalized Hebrew style, II 225, 228 =Menahem=, king of Khazars, I 26 =Mendel=, chief rabbi of Great Poland, I 104 =Mendel Kotzker=, hasidic leader, II 122 =Mendel=, of Lubavichi, see Shneorsohn =Mendel=, of Vitebsk, hasidic leader, I 234 =Mendele Mokher Sforim=, see Abramovich =Mendelssohn, Moses=, "Father of Enlightenment," I 238, II 125 "Enlightenment" of, contrasted with Russian Haskalah, II 137 followers of, among Polish and Russian Jews, I 239, 331, 384, 385, 387 Isaac Baer Levinsohn, called "the Russian M.," II 125 Bible translation of, rendered into Russian, II 118 David Friedländer, pupil of, approached by Polish Government, II 90 attacked by Smolenskin, II 235 Wessely, associate of, II 135 =Mengli-Guiray=, Khan of Crimea, communicates with prince of Moscow through Jewish agents, I 35 f =Menorah=, represented on tombstones in Tauris, I 16 =Merchants=, the, form separate estate in Russia, I 308 exempted from military service, II 20 called to military service (1874), II 200 few first-guild Jewish M's. in Pale, II 162 Jewish M. permitted temporary visit to Interior (1835), II 40 admission of, into Interior voted down by Council of State, II 35 f; discussed by Committee for Amelioration of Jews, II 161 f Jewish first-guild M's. admitted into Interior (1859), II 62, 343 attempt to exclude Jewish M's. from Interior (under Alexander III.), II 399 permitted to remain in Moscow, III 14; but restricted in rights, III 15 See Commerce =Meshcherski=, Count, editor of anti-semitic weekly _Grazhdanin_, II 380, 413 =Meshko=, see Mechislav =Mesirah= ("Informing") develops among Jews under Russian rule, I 377 discharged rabbi of Pinsk engages in, I 377 f in Novaya Ushitza, II 84 f, 121 in Mstislavl, II 85 ff =Messianism=, preached in Poland, I 204 ff superseded by Hasidism, I 222 defended by Smolenskin, II 235 "Love of Zion" viewed with suspicion by Orthodox as rival of, II 377 Messianic character of Political Zionism, III 48 =Methodius=, Slavonian missionary, engages in disputation with Jews, I 18 =Metternich=, represents Austria at Congress of Aix-la-Chapelle, I 399 =Mezherich= (or =Mezhirich=), Volhynia, hasidic center, I 229 f Baer of M., called "Mazhiricher Maggid," I 227, 229 f, 384, II 120 =Michinski=, =Sebastian=, Polish anti-Semitic writer, I 97 =Mickiewicz=, see Mitzkevich =Mikhailishok= (government of Vilna), residence of Abraham Lebensohn, II 134 =Mikolski=, Polish priest, favors Frankists, I 216 =Mikweh Israel=, agricultural settlement in Palestine, II 322 =Miletus= (Asia Minor), Jewish community in, I 14 =Military Service= (or =Conscription=), Jews of Poland free from, I 304 payment of ransom in lieu of, confirmed by Polish law (1812), I 304; (1817), II 95; (1831), II 107 imposed on Jews of Poland (1843), II 109 imposed on Jews of Austria, II 30 merchants in Russia exempted from, by paying conscription tax, I 318; II 15 merchants subjected to (1874), II 200 imposition of, on Jews planned by Alexander I., II 15 conceived by Nicholas I. as means of de-Judaization, II 15 danger of imposition of, on Jews set forth by Novosiltzev, II 16 Jews alarmed by rumors concerning imposition of, II 17 imposed upon Jews by conscription ukase of August 26, 1827, II 18 ff, ukase reaffirmed in Statute of 1835, II 41 juvenile M. S., see Cantonists certain classes of Jews exempted from, II 20 weight of, falls principally on burghers, II 29 horrors of, II 24 ff, 27 ff, 145 ff Jews of Old-Constantinov "protest" against, II 21 f early marriages due to fear of, II 28 alleviations in, proposed by Council of State and rejected by Nicholas I., II 36 ineffectiveness of, in reforming Jews pointed out by Council of State (1840), II 48 term of, reduced for graduates of Crown schools (1844), II 58 Jewish agriculturists exempted from, II 71 shunned by Russians in general, II 146 evaded by Jews, II 146 barbarous penalties decreed for evasion of (1850), II 147 f severities of, repealed by Alexander II. (1856), II 155 ff tax in lieu of, proposed for graduates of secular schools and rejected (1859), II 164 newly regulated by Law of 1874, II 199 ff discriminations against Jews in new M. S. Statute of 1874, II 200 f, 355 evasion of, punished by fining family of recruit (1886), II 356 fine for evasion of, stimulates emigration, II 373, 414 Jewish emigrants relieved from, II 420 See Army, Recruits, and Soldiers =Milton=, indirect effect of, on Hebrew literature, II 135 =Minor=, rabbi of Moscow, refuses blackmail offer of Lutostanski, II 203 dismissed from office and exiled by Russian Government, II 423 f =Minsk= (city), Jews of, complain against abuses of Kahal, I 275 Kahal of, decides to send deputation to Tzar, I 336 Jews of, communicate with Jews of Vilna concerning Hasidism, I 373 Max Lilienthal opposed by Jews of, II 55 visited by Alexander II., II 187 minutes of Kahal of, used by Brafman as incriminating material, II 189 growth of pauperism in, III 24 Convention of Russian Zionists at, III 45, 51, 59 pogrom at, III 119 Jewish community of, protests against denial of Jewish franchise, III 121 Jehiel Halperin, rabbi of, I 200 Naphtali, resident of, Hebrew author, I 201 Pollak, resident of, offers to establish agricultural farms, III 25 =Minsk= (province, or government), annexed by Russia (1793), I 292 included in Pale (1794), I 316 f; (1804), I 342; (1835), II 39 famine in, I 322 f Polish nobles of, propose restrictions for Jews, I 322 ff Jewish deputies from, active in St. Petersburg, I 337 Jews of, asked to elect delegates, I 349 massacre of Jews and Russians threatened by Poles in, I 357 Solomon of Karlin killed by troops in, I 372 placed under military dictatorship of Muravyov, II 188 Brafman, accuser of Jews, native of, II 187 Localities in: Bobovnia, II 80 Mir, II 113 Nesvizh, I 239 =Mint=, Polish, administered by Jews, I 42 =Mir= (government of Minsk), yeshibah at, II 113 =Mishnah=, term explained, II 114 =Mithnagdim=, name of opponents of Hasidim, I 238, 372 oppose Hasidim, I 274, 278, 372, 375 =Mitropolit=, highest ecclesiastic title in Russia, III 125 =Mitzkevich= (_Polish_, Myckiewicz), Adam, Polish poet friendly to Jews, II 108 =Mizrahi=, Orthodox Zionists, III 47 =Mladanovich=, Polish governor of Uman, betrays Jews, I 184 killed by Haidamucks, I 185 =Mocatta, Moses=, English translator of Isaac Troki's work, I 130 =Modebadze, Sarre=, Gruzinian girl, alleged victim of ritual murder, II 204 =Moghilev, on the Dnieper= (city), I 98 Jews of, transferred to outskirts of city (1633), I 98; and barred from Christian neighborhood (1646), I 98 f Jews of, expelled by invading Russians (1654), I 153; and massacred by Russian soldiers, I 154, 245 echo of Sabbatian propaganda, in, I 205 rabbinical conference at, protests against Hasidism, I 238 Kahal of, appealed to by Vilna Gaon against Hasidism, I 373 Shmerling, deputy from, dies at St. Petersburg Conference (1882), II 304 pogrom at (1904), III 100 f; avenged by Jewish youth, III 107 =Moghilev= (government), forms part of White Russia, I 187, 262, 307 communities of, form federation, I 196 Polish Jewish prisoners of war from, form nucleus of Moscow community, I 245 Jews of, visit Smolensk and Moscow, I 315 made part of Pale (1794), I 317; (1835), II 40 Jewish deputies from, arrive in St. Petersburg (1803), I 337 Jews of, invited to send delegates (1807), I 349 Jews from apply to be settled as agriculturists in New Russia, I 363 Jews elected to municipal offices in, I 368 Jews expelled from villages of (1823), I 406 governor of, reprimanded for accusing Jews falsely, II 87 governor of, decrees "polite manners" for Jews, II 383 governor of, censures Jews of Homel, III 89 Localities in: Dubrovna, I 252 Homel, III 87 ff Ladi, I 239, II 117 Lozno, I 234, II 117 Lubavichi, II 117 Monostyrchina, II 86 Mstislavl, II 85 ff, 383 =Moghilev, on the Dniester= (Podolia), I 98 =Mohammedans=, king of Khazars invites representative of, I 21 destroy Synagogue and are punished by Khazar king, I 22 protected by Khazars against Russians, I 26 persecuted in Russia, I 254 excluded from Russian bar, II 252 f =Mohilever, Samuel=, rabbi of Bialystok, joins "Love of Zion" movement, II 376 f =Moldavo-Wallachia=, Jews export goods from Poland to, I 67 f =Moldavia=, Lithuanian Jews accused of sending proselytes to, I 81 _Moment_, Yiddish daily in Warsaw, III 162 =Monastyrchina= (government of Moghilev), Itzele of, pleads for Jews, II 86 =Montagu, Sir Samuel=, of London, expelled from Moscow, II 345 =Montefiore, Sir Moses=, corresponds with Max Lilienthal, II 67 visits Russia and pleads for Jews, II 68 fund in honor of, established by "Lovers of Zion," II 376 =Moravia, Jacob Frank= moves to, I 219 Kremsier, city in, II 179 =Moravski=, Polish Minister of War, objects to Jewish volunteers, II 105 =Mordecai= (=Motele=), of Chernobyl, hasidic leader, II 119 =Mordvinov=, member of Council of State, saves Jews of Velizh from ritual murder charge, II 81 f =Morenu=, title of ordained rabbi, I 117 =Moscow, Principality= (=Tzardom=) =of= [=Muscovy=], growth of, I 29 Jews of Tauris brought into contract with, I 33 Crimean Jews render services to rulers of, I 35 f closed to Jews, I 60, 242 Little Russia incorporated in (1654), I 94, 153; (1657), I 159 Jews barred from (1610), I 244 rulers of Muscovy invade Polish provinces, I 153 f, 244; and troops of, expel or massacre Jews, I 154, 243, 245 f See Moscow (city) =Moscow= (city), "Judaizing heresy" spreads in, I 36 f Jewish court-physician burned in, 37 Jewish merchants from Poland and Lithuania penetrate into, I 242 f Ivan the Terrible refuses to admit Jews to (1550), I 243 influx of Poles and Jews into, I 244 Polish-Jewish prisoners of war permitted to stay in, I 245 Jewish cloth merchants permitted to visit, I 245 Jews barred from (1676), I 245 Borukh Leibov pays visit to, I 251; and converts Voznitzin to Judaism, I 251 f Jewish merchants of White Russia pay visits to, I 315 Russian merchants of, protest against admission of Jews, I 315 Jewish merchants excluded from (1790, 1791), I 316 Jewish merchants permitted temporary sojourn in (1835), II 40 Jewish physicians, though admitted to Interior, excluded from, II 167 burgomaster of, objects to admission of Jews to city government, II 199 Jews expelled from (under Ignatyev), II 264, 319 Russian merchants plead for admission of Jews to, II 319 Sir Samuel Montagu, of London, expelled from, II 345 admission of Jews to schools and university of, restricted to 3% (1887), II 350; restriction placed on statute books (1908), III 157 f Jews harassed in, II 385, 397 Russian celebrities of, sign protest against Jewish persecution, II 387 Dolgoruki, governor-general of, lenient towards Jews, II 401 Grand Duke Sergius appointed governor-general of, II 400 Alexeyov, burgomaster, of, agitates against Jews, II 400 f Istomin, agent of Pobyedonostzev, appointed to important post in, II 401 ukase, expelling Jews from city and government of, decreed (March 28, 1891), II 402; wording of ukase affected by hope for foreign loan, II 408 "illegal" Jews raided and imprisoned, II 403 Alexander III. pays visit to, II 404 discharged Jewish soldiers forbidden to remain in, II 404 Jewish artisans and tradesmen expelled from, II 404 f horrors of expulsion from, II 405 f news of expulsion from, suppressed in Russian press, II 407; reported in foreign press, II 407 expulsion from, witnessed by United States commissioners, II 407; causes protest of President Harrison of United States, II 408 f expulsion from, affects unfavorably Russian loan in Paris, II 408 M. refugees deported from St. Petersburg, II 410 expulsion of Jews from, continued, II 413; causes emigration to Western Europe and America, II 410, 413, 420 visited by White, representative of Baron Hirsch, II 418 synagogue of, closed (1892), II 423 Minor, rabbi of M., and Schneider expelled from, II 423 f conversion of synagogue of, into charitable institution ordered by Alexander III., II 424 "Marranos" in, II 425 request of Jews of, to open synagogue for Coronation services, refused, II 112 complete fashioning of synagogue of, ordered (1897), III 13 f Jewish merchants left in, persecuted and expelled, III 14 f new settlement of Jewish merchants in, prohibited (1899), III 15 International Congress of Medicine held in, III 15 Jewish community of, signs petition for equal rights, III 109 Grand Duke Sergius, governor-general of, assassinated, III 110 Russian laborers from, assist in Zhitomir pogrom, III 115 armed uprising in (December, 1905), III 131 Troitza monastery, in vicinity of, II 203 Minor, rabbi of, II 203, 423 f Pobyedonostzev, professor at University of, III 245 _Russ_, newspaper in, deprecates sympathy with pogrom victims, II 278 headquarters of People's Freedom, revolutionary party, II 279 f _Moscow News_ criticises _Imperial Messenger_ for connivance at pogroms, II 279 Bogolyepov, professor in, anti-Jewish minister of Public Instruction, III 27 f _Mitroplolit_, head of Russian Church, resides in, III 125 =Moser=, see Mesirah =Moses=, king of Khazars, I 26 =Moses=, of Kiev, early Jewish scholar, corresponds with Gaon in Bagdad, I 133 =Moses=, rabbi of Great Poland, confirmed in office by Polish king (1518), I 104 =Moses Ben Abraham=, rabbi, author of Polish pamphlet defending Jews, II 98 =Moskal=, nickname for Russians among Poles, III 36 =Motele=, see Mordecai =Moyetzki=, Polish priest, anti-Jewish writer, I 96 =Moyshe= (=Moses=), Jewish martyr in Zaslav, I 177 =Mstislavl= (government of Moghilev), anti-Jewish riot at, stopped by Peter the Great, I 248 Jews of, accused of mutiny (1844), II 85 ff Jews of, threatened with public whipping, II 383 =Munich= (Bavaria), Max Lilienthal born in, II 52 =Municipalities= (=Magistracies=), autonomy of Polish M. guaranteed by Magdeburg Law, I 44 subject Jews to economic restrictions, I 70, 74 f of several cities combine against Jews, I 75 form compacts with Kahals, I 84 f obtain right of excluding Jews, I 85 arrogate jurisdiction over Jews, I 93 f Jews engaged in litigations with, I 171 Jews placed under control of (1768), I 267 Russian Government regulates relation of Jews to (1785 ff), I 308 ff Jewish merchants of White Russia admitted as members of (1783), I 310, 367 f Jews complain against oppression of, I 311 f hostility of Christian burghers bars Jews from, I 320, 369 ff Jewish membership in, restricted to one-third, I 368; (1836), II 41; (1870), II 199, 425 Jews of Lithuania declared eligible to (1802), I 369 Jews of Lithuania barred from (1805), II 41 participation of Jews in, discussed by special Government Committee, II 198 f Jews of Pereyaslav invited to resign from, II 266 Jews take conspicuous part in, II 425 Jews deprived of votes in (1892), II 425 f local authorities ordered to appoint Jewish members, II 426 League for Equal Rights calls on Jewish appointees in, to resign (1905), III 112 Jewish Government appointees resign, III 113 combined deputation of Zemstvos and M. favors universal suffrage, III 122 See Kahals and Zemstvos =Muravyov=, Minister of Justice, misrepresents facts of Homel pogrom, III 101 =Muravyov, Michael=, governor-general of Vilna, subdues Poles, II 183 appointed military dictator of six governments, II 188 pursues policy of Russification, II 188, 239 =Muravyov, Nikita=, leader of "Northern" revolutionaries, I 410 limits political rights of Jews to Pale, I 413 =Musar= (Ethical Literature), name explained, I 201 flourishes in Poland, I 201 f =Muscovy=, see Moscow, principality of =Mysticism=, see Cabala =Nagartava=, agricultural Jewish colony, pogrom at, III 35 =Nahman=, of Belzhytz, see Jacob of Belzhytz =Nahman=, of Bratzlav, hasidic leader, I 382 makes pilgrimage to Palestine, I 383 deprecates rationalism, I 383 21 dies at Uman, I 383 grave of, visited annually by devotees, II 122 adherents of, persecuted by other Hasidim, II 122 =Nahman=, of Horodno, disciple of Besht, I 227 =Nahman=, of Kosovo, disciple of Besht, I 227 =Nahum=, see Nohum =Names=, Jews of St. Petersburg ordered to use mutilated first N. (1890), II 397 f Jews prohibited from using Russian first N. (1893), II 427 =Naphtali=, of Minsk, Hebrew author, I 201 =Napoleon=, creates duchy of Warsaw, I 297 f "Code of N." introduced into duchy of Warsaw, I 298 "suspensory decree" of (1808), duplicated in duchy of Warsaw, I 299 announces to Jews of Europe convocation of "Great Synhedrion," I 346 marches towards Russia (1806), I 347 influence of, over Jews feared by Russian Government, I 347 presented by Russian authorities to Jews as enemy of Judaism, I 348 denounced by Holy Synod as "savior" of Jews, I 348 f wins friendship of Alexander I., I 350 f invades Russia (1812), I 354 meets with sympathy of Poles, I 355 Russian Jews prejudiced against, I 356 f marches through Palestine, I 383 =Narodnaya Vola= ("=The People's Freedom="), revolutionary party, II 279; see Revolution =Narodnichestov= ("=Populism="), II 222; see Revolution =Narol= (Volhynia), massacre at (1648), I 149 =Naryshkin=, Russian dignitary, opposes Jewish suffrage, III 122 =Nathan=, successor of Nahman of Bratzlav, II 122 =Nationalism, Jewish=, preached by Smolenskin, II 233 ff growth of, in Russia, II 372 rise of, III 40 ff National-cultural Autonomism (spiritual nationalism), II 327, 332, III 41, 51 ff, 144 effect of, on Jewish Labor Movement, III 57 national emancipation (and self-determination) demanded by League for Equal Rights, III 112, 133 calling of Russian-Jewish National Assembly decided upon by League, III 133 national-cultural Jewish institutions prohibited and suppressed, III 160 f strength of, III 163 =Nationalist Society=, organization of Russian Black Hundred, III 114 =Neidthart=, city-governor of Odessa, assists pogrom, III 129 =Nekhludov=, member of Committee for Amelioration of Jews, favors emancipation of Jews, II 196 ff =Nemirov=, see Niemirov =Neo-Hebraic Literature=, see Hebrew =Nesselrode=, Russian Minister of Foreign Affairs, forwards memorandum on Jews to Congress of Aix-la-Chapelle, I 398 discusses plan of settling Russian Jews in Algiers, II 69 =Nestor=, Russian chronicler, refers to Jews, I 31 =Nesvizh= (government of Minsk), Solomon Maimon born in vicinity of, I 239 Simeon Volfovich, opponent of Vilna Kahal, imprisoned in, I 276 Eliezer Dillon, Jewish deputy, native of, I 358 =Netter, Charles=, sent by _Alliance Israélite_ to help emigrants in Brody, II 269 =Neu Freie Presse=, Vienna daily, Dr. Herzl acts as correspondent of, in Paris, III 42 =Neuman=, rabbi in St. Petersburg, member of Executive Committee of Society for Diffusion of Enlightenment, II 214 =Nevel=, Jews, driven from villages, huddled together in, I 407 =New Israel=, Jewish sect in Odessa, II 334 f =New Jersey=, Jewish agricultural colonies in, II 374 =New Russia=, see Russia, New =New York=, Max Lilienthal accepts post as rabbi in, II 59 Joseph Jacobs settles in, II 287 Cox, Congressman from, addresses Congress on persecutions in Russia, III 284 f protest meeting against pogroms held in, II 296 f Jewish emigrants settle in, II 374 Shalom Aleichem dies in, III 62 place of publication, II 290, 297 =Nicholas I.=, emperor of Russia (1825-1855), II 13-153 policy of, foreshadowed by Alexander I., I 390 character of reign of, I 391, II 13, 140 f era of, depicted by Mendele Mokher Sforim, III 61 coronation of, celebrated by Hebrew poet, II 135 ascends throne through resignation of brother, II 13 suppresses uprising of Decembrists, I 410, II 13 characterizes Jews as "leeches," II 14 plans to de-Judaize Jews through military conscription, II 15 f signs Conscription Ukase (August 26, 1827), II 17 decrees expulsions of Jews, II 30 ff rejects plea for postponement of expulsion, II 33 rejects recommendations of Council of State in favor of Jews, II 35 ff signs "Statute concerning Jews" (1835), II 39 sentences Jews with expired passports to penal service, II 42 subjects Hebrew books to censorship (1836), II 42 ff dissolves "Society of Israelitish Christians," I 400 interested in conversion of Jews, II 44 f appoints Committee for Radical Transformation of Jews (1840), II 49 places Jewish schools under Government supervision (1842), II 56 orders opening of Government schools for Jews (1844), II 57 f expels Jews from 51-verst zone (1843), II 62 approached on behalf of Jews during stay in England, II 63 German Jews plan gift to, II 67 receives Moses Montefiore, II 68 prohibits Jews from leaving Pale, II 70 interested in spreading agriculture among Jews, II 71 f, 197, III 24 closes synagogues in Velizh on ritual murder charge (1826), II 78 believes ritual murder accusation, II 78 f warns Commission of Inquiry, at Velizh, against exaggerations, II 80 sanctions acquittal of Velizh Jews (1835), II 82 reiterates belief in ritual murder, II 83 inflicts severe punishment on Jews of Mstislavl, II 86 deports Jewish printers to Siberia, II 123 orders "assortment" of Jews (1851), II 142 f prohibits Jewish dress (1851), II 144 f issues draconian conscription measures (1850), II 147; (1853), 148 f appoints committee to investigate blood accusation (1854), II 151, 203 eclipsed by Alexander III., II 354 See "Nicholas Soldiers" =Nicholas II.=, emperor of Russia (1894-1917), III 7-169 reign of, characterized, III 7 ascends throne, III 7 pledges himself to uphold autocracy, III 8 thanks Jews for address of welcome, III 8 surrounds himself with reactionaries, III 9 influenced by Pobyedonostzev, III 9 f objects to abrogation of Pale, III 11 Jews of Moscow restrained from celebrating coronation of, III 12 economic collapse of Russian Jewry during reign of, III 22 ff Jews barred from liquor trade, III 22 calls Hague Conference, III 35 disappoints hopes of liberals, III 66 appoints Plehve, III 67 hatred of, toward Jews, intensified by Kishinev massacre, III 93 grants trifling privileges to Jews on birth of heir-apparent, III 99 makes partial concession to revolution (1904), III 106 orders shooting of demonstrators (January, 1905), III, 106 f forced to make further concessions (February 18, 1905), III 110 patronizes Black Hundred, III 113 f receives deputation of Zemstvos and municipalities, III 122 defers consideration of Jewish question, III 123 abets counter-revolutionary pogroms (October, 1905), III 127 pursues double-faced policy, III 130 receives deputation of Black Hundred, III 131 dissolves First Duma, III 135, 139 objects to mitigation of Jewish disabilities, III 141 changes electoral law, III 142 expresses confidence in Black Hundred, III 149 pardons pogrom perpetrators, III 150 wears ostentatiously badge of Black Hundred, III 151 ratifies restrictive school norm of 1887 (1908), III 157 extends school norm to Jewish "externs" (1911), III 159 witnesses assassination of Stolypin at Kiev, III 164 checks pogrom at Kiev, and stirs up Beilis case, III 165 "=Nicholas Soldiers=," term explained, II 29 forbidden to live outside Pale, II 29 permitted to live outside Pale (1867), II 29, 172 =Nicholayev= (government of Kherson), Jews expelled from (1829), II 32 f excluded from Pale and closed to Jews (1835), II 4 included in Pale by Alexander II., II 172 pogrom at (April 19, 1899), III 34; (October, 1905), III 128 Jewish community of, protests against denial of Jewish franchise, III 128 =Niemen=, river, Lithuanians settled on banks of, I 59 part of Jewish Pale, I 317 =Niemirov= (Podolia), Khmelnitzki massacre at (1648), I 146 f pogrom at, commemorated annually, I 152 Jacob Joseph Cohen, rabbi of, I 227, 230 name of, used as substitute for Kishinev, III 79 =Nietzscheanism=, preached by Hebrew writer, III 60 =Nikitin=, Russian-Jewish writer, quoted, I 315 =Nisselovich=, Jewish deputy to Third Duma, III 153 collects signatures for abrogation of Pale, III 156 =Nissi=, king of Khazars, I 26 =Nizhni-Novgorod=, Jews permitted to visit fair of (1835), II 40 pogrom at (1884), II 360 f =Nobility=, in Poland, see Shlakhta =Nohum=, of Chernobyl, hasidic preacher and leader, I 232, 382; II 119 =Nordau, Max=, Zionist discourses of, discussed in Russia, III 47 denies future of diaspora, III 52 =Norov=, Minister of Public Instruction, suggests admission into Russian Interior of Jewish graduates of Russian schools (1857), II 163 =North-West= (Lithuania and White Russia), rabbinism of, contrasted with Hasidism of South-west (Ukraina and Poland), I 199, 221, 274 Hasidism weak in, I 371 f; and different from Hasidism of South-west, I 233 ff Kahals in, stronger than in South-west, I 274, 379 =Notkin=, see Shklover =Novaya Ushitza= (Podolia), Jews of, accused of collective crime, II 84 f Israel of Ruzhin implicated in case against Jews of, II 121 =Novgorod=, Jews of Kiev emigrate to, I 36 f Jews of Vitebsk exiled by Russians to (1654), I 154 =Novgorod-Seversk=, former name of government of Poltava, I 321 included in Pale (1794), I 317 =Novo-Moskovsk= (government of Yekaterinoslav), pogrom at (1883), II 360 =Novoshelski=, burgomaster of Odessa, favors admission of Jews to municipal government, II 199 =Novosiltzev, Nicholas=, Russian Commissary in Poland, II 16 warns against imposing conscription on Jews, II 16 f proposes plan of reorganization of Polish Jews, II 92 f plan of, discussed and rejected by Polish Council of State, II 93 f =Novosti= ("=The News="), liberal paper in St. Petersburg, II 379 suppressed for expressing sympathy with Moscow exiles, II 407 =Novoye Vremya= ("=The New Time="), St. Petersburg daily, adopts anti-Semitic policy, II 205 becomes organ of reaction, II 247 advocates repression of Jews, II 278, 381 commends pogrom at Warsaw, II 282 exerts anti-Jewish influence on Government circles, II 380 read by Alexander III., II 380 attacks Rothschild of Paris, II 410 utilizes Dreyfus Affair for attack upon Jews, III 32 report of Shpola pogrom in, quoted, III 33 Suvorin, publisher of, produces anti-Semitic play, II 38 libels Jews in Russo-Japanese war, III 95 =Nyeshava= (_Polish_, Nieszawa), Diet of, adopts anti-Jewish "Statute" (1454), I 63 "Statute" of, confirmed by Piotrkov Diet (1496), I 64 =Nyevakhovich, Judah Leib= (=Lev=), author of Russian pamphlet on Jewish question, I 386 f becomes Russian playwright, I 388 embraces Christianity, I 388 descendants of, occupy prominent Government positions, I 388 =Nyezhin= (government of Chernigov), pogrom at (1881), II 267; (October, 1905), III 129 =Obadiah=, king of Khazars, I 26; invites Jewish sages from Babylonia, I 21 =Oblavas=, or raids, on Jews of Moscow, II 403 on Jews of Kiev, III 20 =Obolanin=, procurator-general of Senate, gives anti-Jewish instructions to Dyerzhavin, I 229 =Obolenski=, member of Council of State, favors Jewish franchise, III 122 =Octobrists=, conservative Russian party, name explained, III 153 demand exclusion of Jews from office of Justice of Peace, I 156 =Odessa=, Jewish families in, converted to Christianity, I 400 Jewish model school in, II 52, 133, 137 Lilienthal kindly received by Jews of, II 56 Bezalel Stern, resident of, appointed on Rabbinical Commission, II 57 center of Haskalah, II 132 f pogrom at (1871), II 191 ff, 215 f; effects of, II 216, 239 burgomaster of, advocates admission of Jews to municipal government, II 199 Pirogov, school superintendent of, encourages Jewish cultural aspirations, II 207, 209 branch of Society for Diffusion of Enlightenment established in, II 215 f; discontinued as result of pogrom, II 216 _ha-Melitz_, published in, II 217 Jewish periodicals in Russian published in, II 219 Smolenskin removes to, II 234 Lilienblum settles in, II 237 Osip Rabinovich, founder of Russian-Jewish literature, resides in, II 238 Government emissaries prepare pogrom in, II 248 pogrom at (May, 1881), II 257 f Jewish students of, organize self-defence, II 258 "New Israel," Judeo-Christian sect, founded in, I 334 center of "Love of Zion" movement, II 376 headquarters of Palestine Relief Society, II 422 Jews of, warned by city-governor, II 383 visited by White, representative of Baron Hirsch, II 418 growth of pauperism among Jews of, III 24 pupils of Jewish Agricultural School in vicinity of, barred from land ownership, III 25 Order _Bne Moshe_ founded by Ahad Ha'am in, III 49 _ha-Shiloah_ edited in, III 58, 162 Jews of, organize self-defence (1904), III 96 Grigoryev, city-governor of, prevents pogrom, III 97; dismissed, III 151 chief-of-police of, fired at by Jew, III 107 Jewish community of, signs petition for equal rights, III 109 Russian Nationalist Society of, incites to pogrom, III 114 pogrom at (October, 1905), III 128 f Jewish self-defence of, sentenced by court-martial, III 150 f Jews of, assaulted by Black Hundred, III 151 governor-general of, condemns Jews, II 276 Gurko, governor-general of, suggests restrictive school norm, II 339 governor of, recommends forbidding Jewish emigrants to return to Russia, II 414 =Odoyevski=, Count, advises Catherine II. concerning admission of Jews into Russia, I 259 =Ofen=, see Buda =Offenbach= (Germany), Jacob Frank settles in, I 220 =Olbia=, on Black Sea, Jewish settlement in, I 14 =Old-Constantine= (=Staro-Constantine=), see Constantinov "=Old Testament Believers=," term of assimilated Polish Jews, II 96, 100 ff =Oleshnitzki, Zbignyev=, archbishop of Cracow, denounces Casimir IV. for protecting Jews, I 62 starts campaign against Jews, I 62 f dictates anti-Jewish "Statute" of Nyeshava, I 63 =Omsk, Territory of= (Siberia), lands in, set aside for Jewish colonists, II 71 =Oppenheim=, German-Jewish painter, stops painting ordered for Nicholas I., II 67 =Orlov= (government), "Judaizers" in, I 402 =Orlov=, Count, president of Council of State, urges punishment of Jews accused of ritual murder, II 162 =Orsha= (government of Moghilev), pogrom at, III 128 =Orshanski, Ilya= (=Elias=), Russian-Jewish writer, II 238 f =Orshanski, Dr.=, brother of former, reports interview with Ignatyev, II 284 f, 297 =Oryol= (city), Jews expelled from, II 264 anti-Semitic play produced at, III 38 f =Ostrog= (Volhynia), Jewish community of, represented on Council of Four Lands, I 110 Cossack massacre at (1648), I 149 bombarded by Russian army (1792), I 292 Jewish conference at (1798), I 324 Rabbis of: Solomon Luria (_Reshal_), I 125 Samuel Edels (_Maharsho_), I 129 David Halevi (_Taz_), I 130 Naphtali Cohen, I 204 =Ostropol=, Samson of, Cabalist and martyr, I 148 f =Ostropoler, Hershel=, "court-fool" of Tzaddik Borukh Tulchinski, I 348 =Ostrov=, at extreme end of Jewish Pale, II 70 =Ostrovski, Anton=, commander of National Guard in Warsaw, II 106 defends Jews, II 107 =Ottocar=, of Bohemia, Jewish charter of, serves as model for Boleslav of Kalish, I 45 =Otyechstvennyia Zapiski= ("Records of the Fatherland"), radical Russian magazine, records Jewish question as economic problem, II 325 quoted, II 325 =Oxman=, Jewish informer, II 84 =Padua=, Polish Jews study medicine at University of, I 105, 132 =Pahlen=, Count, chairman of "Pahlen Commission," II 336 f =Pahlen=, governor of Vilna, suggests removal of Jewish disabilities, III 93 =Pale of Settlement= (Russian, _cherta osyedlosti_), foreshadowed in decree of May 7, 1786, restricting Jews to annexed White Russia, I 314 f enlarged as result of second partition of Poland (1793), I 316 f formally sanctioned by Law of June 23, 1794, I 317 enlarged as result of third partition of Poland (1795), I 317 f Courland added to (1795), I 321 defined in Statute of 1804, I 342 Kiev excluded from (1827), II 31 ff Courland [and Livonia] excluded from (1829), II 32 Sevastopol and Nicholayev excluded from (1829), II 32 accurately defined in Statute of 1805, II 39 f Nicholas I. watches over strict maintenance of, II 70 number of Jews and Jewish artisans in, II 168 Commission for Amelioration of Jews considers thinning out of (1871), II 193 gubernatorial commission appointed for every government of (1881), II 273 Ignatyev refuses to add to, II 285, 306 Rostov and Taganrog excluded from (1887), II 346 admission of Jews to schools in, restricted to 10% (1887), II 350; restriction placed on Statute books (1908-1909), III 157 f admission of Jews to universities in, restricted to 7%, II 29 disproportionately large number of Jewish recruits in, II 355 f congestion in cities of, II 385 Jews in, compared with prisoner in cell, II 389 Moscow refugees driven into, II 406 visited by United States commissioners, II 407 visited by Arnold White, emissary of Baron Hirsch, II 417 Yalta excluded from (1893), II 428 f governor of Vilna recommends abrogation of, III 11 zealously maintained under Nicholas II., III 16, 20 f growth of pauperism in, III 23 f localities in, barred to Jews in 1882, reopened to them (1903), III 80 f preservation of, affirmed by Third Duma (1908), III 154 one hundred and six Duma deputies favor abrogation (1910), III 156 exclusion of Jews from villages in, see Villages See also Interior, and Residence, Right of =Palestine=, Teutonic Order originates in, I 63 Cabalists of, influence Polish Jewry, I 134 Sabbatian propaganda carried on in, II 205 mass emigration of Polish Jews to (1700), I 209 f Shneor Zalman accused of collecting money for, I 376 Nahman of Bratzlav makes pilgrimage to, I 383 Lelevel, Polish historian, promises Polish help in restoration of, II 108 restoration of Jews to, preached by Smolenskin, II 236; advocated by Levanda, II 240 _Bilu_ pioneers emigrate to (1882), II 321 f beginnings of Jewish colonization in, II 322 "Lovers of Zion" establish colonies, in, III 42 Jewish national center in, championed by Lilienblum, II 328 ff; and, as an alternative, by Pinsker, II 331 expulsion from Moscow stimulates emigration to, II 416 attempt at mass emigration to (1891), II 421 f feeble results of colonization in, III 42 colonization of, made part of Basle program, III 44 modern Hebrew writers in, III 163 See also Zionism =Palestinophilstvo=, Russian name for "Love of Zion," II 328; see also Zionism =Pan=, noble landowner in Poland, name explained, I 93 =Panticapaeum=, see Kerch =Pardes=, Hebrew annual, III 58 =Paris=, Sanchez, Jewish court-physician in St. Petersburg, removes to, I 258 Berek Yoselovich pays visit to, I 294 "Jewish Parliament" meets in, I 346 ff; III 53 Rothschilds of, II 69, 375, 407, 410 Lelevel, Polish historian, refugee in, II 107 Polish refugees in, II 108 anti-Semitism among Polish refugees in, II 109 _Alliance Israélite Universelle_ in, II 189, 194, 297, 322 Plehve's secret circular made known in, II 381 Moscow refugees arrive in, II 408 Jewish Colonization Association in, sends deputation to Pobyedonostzev, III 10 Herzl resides in, III 42 =Paskevich=, Russian viceroy in Poland, pacifies Poland (after 1831), II 109 Moses Montefiore communicates with, II 68 Altaras of Marseilles negotiates with, II 69 =Passek=, governor-general of White Russia, questioned by Senate concerning Jewish law courts, I 310 restricts Jews of White Russia in economic pursuits, I 310 f =Passover=, Christian, see Easter =Passover=, lawyer, member of Jewish deputation to Alexander III., II 261 =Passports=, Jews with expired P's. severely punished, II 42 Jews found without P's. sent into army, II 148 f Jewish P's. examined in St. Petersburg, II 343 Jewish emigrants relieved from tax on, II 418 disabilities imposed by P. Regulations of 1894, II 427 =Paul IV.=, pope, encourages anti-Jewish policy in Poland, I 86 =Paul I.=, emperor of Russia (1796-1801), I 321-334 includes Courland in area of Jewish settlement, I 321 imposes restrictions on Jews of government of Minsk, I 323 Jews of Volhynia prepare to send deputation to, I 324 f dispatches Dyerzhavin to White Russia, I 328 f releases Shneor Zalman from prison, I 376 receives denunciation against Hasidim, I 378 Arakcheyev prominent in military affairs during reign of, I 395 =Pavlovsk, District of= (government of Voroneyezh), "Judaizing" sect spreads in, I 401 =Pavluk=, Cossack leader, instigates attacks upon Jews, I 144 =Pavolochi= (province of Kiev), Jews of, accused of ritual murder, I 178 =Pecheneges= succeed Khazars in Crimea, I 29 =Pechera Monastery=, in Kiev, Abbot of, preaches hatred toward Jews, I 31 "=People's Freedom=" (in _Russian_, Narodnaya Vola), revolutionary party, responsible for assassination of Alexander II., II 279 pursues anti-Jewish policy, II 279 f =Perekop=, gulf and isthmus of, I 13, 29 =Peretz=, rabbi of Bohemian Community in Cracow, I 104 =Peretz, Abraham=, of St. Petersburg, assists Jewish deputies, I 338 acts as Jewish Maecenas, I 386 converted to Christianity, I 388 =Peretz, Gregory=, son of former, Russian revolutionary, I 412 =Pereyaslav= (province, or government of Poltava), Cossack massacre at (1648), I 145 pogrom at (1881), II 265 f =Perez, I. L.=, editor of Yiddish magazine, III 59 Yiddish and Hebrew writer, III 61 f, 162 =Perl, Joseph=, Hebrew writer in Galicia, II 126 f =Perm= (Central Russia), Jewish cantonists driven to, II 25 =Perovksi=, Russian statesman, considers emigration of Russian Jews to Algiers, II 69 =Persia=, Khazars make inroads into, I 19 Jewish merchants travel through, I 23 =Pestel, Paul=, leader of early Russian revolutionaries, I 410 discusses Jewish problem, I 410 ff favors establishment of separate Jewish Commonwealth, I 412 =Peter=, Carmelite monk in Lublin, alleged victim of ritual murder, I 100 =Peter I., The Great=, emperor of Russia (1688-1725), extends influence of Russia over Poland refuses to admit Jews into Russia, I 246 f prejudiced against Jews, I 247 f stops military riot against Jews, I 248 admits Jewish financiers to St. Petersburg, I 248 quoted in favor of barring Jews from Russia, II 35 f originator of penalty by _Spiessruten_, II 85 =Peter II.=, emperor of Russia (1727-1730), permits Jews to visit fairs in Little Russia, I 250 =Peter III.=, emperor of Russia (1761), dethroned by Catherine II., I 259 =Peterhof=, near St. Petersburg, Plehve killed on way to, III 97 Jewish franchise discussed at conferences in, III 122 =Petersburg=, see St. Petersburg =Pethahiah=, of Ratisbon, Jewish traveller, I 29 refers to Russia, I 32 f =Petrograd=, Greco-Jewish inscription kept in Hermitage at, I 15 Russian _Mitropolit_ resides at, II 125; see St. Petersburg =Pfefferkorn=, Jewish convert, II 189 =Phanagoria= (Taman Peninsula), Jews settled in, I 14, 18 =Philadelphia=, Marcus Jastrow accepts post of rabbi in, II 179 place of publication, III 51 =Philippson, Ludwig=, founder of _Allgemeine Zeitung des Judentums_, II 67 corresponds with Max Lilienthal, II 67 serves as model for Russian-Jewish publicists, II 219 =Philipson, David=, quoted, I 54 =Philosophy, Jewish=, studied in Poland, I 132 f opposed by Joel Sirkis, I 133 reflected in doctrine of Besht, I 225 f imbedded in doctrine of Shneor Zalman, I 374, 382 opposed by Rabbinism, I 381 regarded as destructive by Nahman of Bratzlav, I 383 =Phineas=, of Koretz, disciple of Besht, I 227 descendants of, II 123 =Photius=, Patriarch of Constantinople, hopes for conversion of Crimean Jews, I 18 =Physicians, Jewish=, in Poland, attacked by Christian physician, I 96 originally natives of Spain or Italy, I 131 f study at University of Padua, I 105, 132 at Polish court, I 132, 136 at Russian court, I 258 in White Russia, I 331, 386 admitted to residence in Russian Interior and to civil service (1861), II 165, 167 excluded from civil service, III 27 =Physicians, Jewish=, in Russian army: number of, restricted, II 319 f first to be mobilized in Russo-Japanese war, III 94 f families of mobilized P. expelled, III 95 accused of revolutionary propaganda, III 156 =Piast=, progenitor of Piast dynasty in Poland, I 40 =Piatoli=, secretary of Polish king, assists Jews, I 291 =Pidyon=, contribution of Hasidim, term explained, II 119 =Pikolski=, monk at Lemberg, conducts agitation against Jews, I 174 =Pilpul=, method of talmudic dialectics, fostered in Poland, I 119 f carried from Bohemia to Poland, I 122 opposed by Solomon Luria, I 256 grafted upon by Cabala, I 135, II 117 shunned by Elijah of Vilna, I 236 =Pinkasevich, Jacob=, Jewish martyr in Posen, I 175 =Pinsk=, important community in Lithuania, I 73 Jewish community of, represented in Lithuanian _Waad_, I 112 Avigdor, rabbi of, I 377 f =Pinsker, Leon=, editor of _Sion_, II 220 author of _Autoemancipation_, II 330 f ideas of, affect "Love of Zion" movement, II 332 becomes its leader, II 376, III 42, 49 elected president of Society for Granting Relief in Syria and Palestine, II 422 contrasted with Herzl, III 43 =Pinsker, Simha=, father of former, teacher in Odessa school, II 133 =Piotrkov, Diet of= (1496), confirms anti-Jewish Statute, I 64; restricts commercial rights of Lemberg Jews (1521), I 75 Sigismund II. confirms liberal Jewish Statute at Diet of (1548), I 83 Church Synod of, passes anti-Jewish "Constitution" (1542), I 82 f Crown Tribunal of, tries ritual murder cases, I 95 f; and Jews accused of blasphemy, I 164 f Jewish communities in province of, destroyed, I 156 Tobias Feder, Hebrew writer, native of, I 388 =Pirhe Tzafon=, Hebrew periodical in Vilna, II 136 =Pirogov, Nicholas=, Odessa physician, friend of Jews, II 207, 209 =Piryatin= (province of Poltavia), Cossack massacre at (1648), I 145 =Pisarevski=, instigator of Kishinev pogrom, commits suicide, III 91 =Pisaryev=, radical Russian writer, influences Russian-Jewish _intelligenzia_, II 209 influences M. L. Lilienblum, II 238 =Plehve=, Russian assistant-minister of Interior, II 379 chief of political police, II 381 objects to Jewish participation in Zemstvos, II 386 chairman of secret anti-Jewish Committee, II 399 suggests expulsion of Jews from Moscow, II 402 bars Jews from municipal government, II 425 appointed Minister of Interior, III 16, 67 plans to check revolution by pogroms, III 68 f subventions Krushevan's anti-Semitic paper, III 70 sends telegram to stop Kishinev massacre, III 75, 97 stifles press protests against Kishinev massacre, III 77 suspected of sending orders encouraging massacre, III 77 forbids Jewish self-defence, III 80, 90 forbids Zionism, III 82 f negotiates with Herzl, III 83 f plans regulating Jewish legislation, III 92 f stops expulsion of families of mobilized Jews, III 95 assassinated, III 97 urges Russo-Japanese War as anti-revolutionary measure, III 98 death of, predicted in _Voskhod_, III 98 investigation of Homel pogrom started during lifetime of, III 101 =Plotzk= (_Polish_, Plock), city in Poland, I 243 city and province of, annexed by Prussia (1793), I 292 Synod of, passes anti-Jewish resolution (1733), I 171 archbishop of, endorses project of Jewish reforms, I 292 =Poale Zion=, see Zionism =Pobyedonostzev, Constantine Petrovich=, professor at Moscow University, II 245 tutor of Alexander III., II 245 head of Holy Synod, II 245 defends autocratic régime, II 245 member of reactionary Sacred League, II 248 disparages popular education, II 348 f inspires educational restrictions for Jews, II 349 utilizes railroad accident at Borki for purposes of reaction, III 378 opposes Jewish participation in Zemstvos, II 386 endorses expulsion of Jews from Moscow, II 401 receives gift for ecclesiastic schools from Baron Hirsch, II 415 receives White, emissary of Baron Hirsch, II 417 recommends him to officials, II 418 condemns Jews as parasites, II 417 bars Jews from municipal self-government, II 425 all powerful under Nicholas II., III 9 continues fight against Jews, III 9 f =Podol=, Jewish quarter in Kiev, pogrom in, II 252 ff =Podolia=, part of Red Russia, I 53 subject to Poland, I 140 uprising against Poles in (1648), I 145 regained by Poland (1667), I 159 annexed by Turkey (1672), I 208 returned to Poland (1699), I 208 strip of, annexed by Austria (1772), I 187 annexed by Russia (1793), I 292 included in Pale (1794), I 317; (1804), I 342; (1835), II 39 Jews prohibited from selling cloth in, I 75 Jews massacred by Cossacks in (1648), I 146 ff, 157 part of, forbidden to Jews (1649), I 151 Jews massacred by haidamacks (1768), I 183 ff Talmudic culture deteriorates in, I 199 Sabbatian movement propagated in, I 208, 210 f Jacob Frank active in, I 211, 212 f, 216 rabbis of, summoned to disputation with Frankists, I 214 f difference of intellectual development in, I 221 Besht, founder of Hasidism, active in, I 222, 224 f, 228 Hasidism spreads in, I 229, 274 type of Tzaddik in, I 233 conquered by Hasidim, I 371, 383 Kahal of, appealed to by Vilna Gaon against Hasidism, I 373 remains hotbed of Hasidism, II 121 f Jews of, suffer from civil war in Poland (1792), I 292 Shlakhta of, suggests anti-Jewish measures (1798), I 324 Jews of, decide to appeal to Paul I., I 325 Jews of, send delegate to St. Petersburg (1803), I 337 Jews of, invited by Government to elect deputies (1807), I 349 Jews of, protest against discrimination in municipal government, I 369 Jews of, indifferent towards Polish insurrection (1831), II 107 Jewish economic activity in, II 194 pogroms in (1881), II 256; (1882), 299 ff, 304 governor of, favors emigration of Jewish proletariat, II 414 Localities in: Balta, II 299 ff Bratzlav, I 288, 383 Kamenitz, I 215, 324 Lantzkorona, I 213 Moghilev (on the Dniester), I 98 Satanov, I 213, 388 =Pogroms= (under Polish régime), occasioned by Black Death, I 52 at Cracow, I 56 f, 63 f, 97, 102, 161, 166 at Lemberg, I 64 at Posen, I 64, 75, 90, 95, 166 at Brest-Kuyavsk, I 75 at Brest-Litovsk, I 99 at Vilna, I 94, 99 at Warsaw (1790), I 285 ff occasioned by meetings of provincial diets, or dietines, I 170 perpetrated by Polish irregular troops (1656), I 155 f suppressed by Sigismund I., I 76 energetically opposed by Stephen Batory, I 90 forestalled by Sigismund III., I 97 prevented by Vladislav IV., I 98 forbidden by diet of Warsaw (1717), I 171 perpetrated by theological students (_Schülergelauf_), I 161 student P's. forbidden by Mechislav III. (1173), I 42; and condemned by Polish diet, I 166 f =Pogroms= (in the Ukraina), under Pavluk, Cossack leader (1637), I 144 under Khmelnitzki, Cossack leader, (1648), I 145 ff by Haidamacks (1768), I 183 at Uman, I 184 f =Pogroms= (under Russian régime), term explained, II 191 perpetrated in Poland by invading Russians (1563), I 243; (1654), I 153 f, 245 checked by Peter the Great (1708), I 248 at Odessa (1871), II 191 ff; halts assimilation endeavors, 215 f; depicted by Smolenskin, II 245; produces staggering effect on Orshanski, II 239 initiation of policy of (1881), I 247 carefully prepared by Government agents, II 248 _Katzaps_, or Great Russians, imported for perpetration of, II 248, 256, 359, III 115 at Yelisavetgrad (April, 1881), II 249 ff in district of Yelisavetgrad and government of Kherson, II 251 at Kiev (April, 1881), II 251 ff; effects of, minimized by Government press, II 255 f; tried in court, II 264 f new P's. in South Russia, II 256 ff averted at Berdychev by Jewish self-defence, II 256 f at Odessa (May, 1881), II 257 f; Jewish self-defence punished, II 264 believed by peasants to have been ordered by Tzar, II 257 ascribed by Government to Russian revolutionary propaganda, II 259 f, 269, 279 later attributed by it to Jewish economic exploitation, II 261, 315 Government indifferent towards victims of, II 263 perpetrators of, receive slight sentences in court, II 264 outbreak of new P's. in South Russia (summer 1881), II 265 ff suppressed in Lithuania and White Russia, II 267, 276 replaced there by incendiary activities, II 267 give rise to emigration movement, II 267 f at Warsaw (December, 1881), II 280 ff; effect of, on Europe and America, II 283; London, II, 287; welcomed by Government "Jewish Committee," II 310 Alexander III. regrets necessity of suppressing, II 284 Jews hold public mourning for victims of, II 286 cause agitation in England, II 287 f Mansion House Meeting in London protests against (February 1, 1882), II 288 ff committee to aid victims of, organized in London, II 290 f perpetrators of, arrested, II 291 at Balta (March, 1882), II 299 ff; horrors of, II 302 f, terrifies Government, II 314; tried in court, II 315 f; produces emigration panic, II 321 discussed by Jewish Conference in St. Petersburg, II 306 f justified in report of "Jewish Committee," II 309 policy of, abandoned by Government, II 311 ff perpetrators of, receive severe sentences, II 315 f Russian press and literature react feebly on, II 325 f effect of, on Russian-Jewish _intelligenzia_, II 326 outbreak of new P's. in South Russia (1883), II 358 ff at Rostov (May, 1883), II 358; news of, suppressed, II 358 at Yekaterinoslav (July, 1883), II 358 ff at Nizhni-Novgorod (1884), II 360 ff; prompted by greed and prospect of immunity, II 361 referred to by Pahlen Commission, II 367 at Starodub (government of Chernigov, 1891), 411 ff; displeases Government, II 412 bred in public houses, III 23 outbreak of new P's. in Russian South and South-west (1897), III 32 ff stopped by Government on account of Hague Conference, II 35 at Chenstokhov (by Poles), stopped by Russian Government (1902), III 36 planned by Plehve as counter-revolutionary measure, III 68 f at Kishinev (April, 1903), III 69 ff; see Kishinev at Homel (August, 1903), III 87 ff; tried in court and misrepresented by Government, III 101 ff impending P's. stopped by Government (1904), III 96 f in Russian South-west (August, 1904), III 99 by mobilized soldiers (September, 1904), III 100 at Moghilev (October, 1904) III 100 f; avenged by Jewish youth, III 107 in government of Vitebsk (October, 1904), III 101 organized by Black Hundred (April, 1905), III 113 ff at Bialystok, III 114 f at Dusyaty (government of Kovno), III 115 at Melitopol (government of Tavrida), III 115 at Simferopol (government of Tavrida), III 115 at Zhitomir (Volhynia), III 115 f; followed by tragedy at Troyanov, III 116 ff; misrepresented by Government, III 118 intensify revolutionary movement among Jews, III 119 perpetrated by soldiers (summer, 1905), III 119 f at Minsk, III 119 at Brest-Litovsk, III 119 at Syedletz, III 119 at Lodz, III 119 f at Bialystok (June, 1905), III 120 at Kerch (Crimea), July, 1905, III 120; prepared by Government, III 120 "October P's." (October 18-25, 1905), III 124 ff; organized by Black Hundred, with help of Tzar and police, III 125 f; vast extent of, III 128; followed by anarchy, III 130 f at Odessa, III 129; assisted by police, III 129 at Nyezhin (government of Chernigov), III 129 outside Pale (October, 1905), III 130 participation of Government in, denounced by assembled Russian Jews, III 132 Jews threatened with, during elections to First Duma, III 135; to Third Duma, III 153 discussed by First Duma, III 130 ff; and condemned in resolution (1906), III 139 at Bialystok (June, 1906), III 136 f; investigated and reported upon by commission of First Duma, III 137 perpetrators of October P. either untried or pardoned, III 150 planned at Kiev but averted (September, 1911), III 165 List of pogroms according to cities and governments: Alexandria (Kherson), III 100 Ananyev (Kherson), II 251 Balta (Podolia), II 299 ff Berdychev (Volhynia), II 256 f Bialystok, III, 114 f, 120, 136 f Borispol (Poltava), II 267 Chenstokhov (Poland), III 36 f Chernigov (city), III 128 Chernigov (government), II 257 Dusyaty (Kovno), III 115 Homel (Moghilev), III 87 ff Kularash, III 128 Kamenetz (Podolia), III 128 Kantakuzenka (Kherson), III 33 Karpovich (Chernigov), II 315 Kerch (Tavrida), III 120 Kherson (government), II 304 Kiev (city), I 32, II 251 ff, III 128, 165 Kiev (government), II 256 Kishinev, III 69 ff, 128 Konotop (Chernigov), II 257 Lodz, III 119 f Melitopol (Tavrida), III 115 Minsk, III 119 Moghilev (city), I 153 f, 245; III 100 Moghilev (government), III 100 Mstislavl (Moghilev), I 248 Nagartava, Jewish agricultural colony, III 35 Nicholayev (Crimea), III 34 f, 128 Nizhni-Novgorod, II 360 f Novo-Moskovsk (Yekaterinoslav), II 360 Nyezhin (Chernigov), II 267, III 129 Odessa, II 191 ff, 257 f, III 128 f Orsha (Moghilev), III 128 Pereyaslav (Poltava), II 265 Podolia (government), II 256, 304 Polotzk (Vitebsk), I 243 Romny, III 128 Rostov, II 358 Rovno (Volhynia), III 99 Saratov, III 130 Semyonovka (Chernigov), III 129 Shpola (Kiev), III 33 Simferopol (Tavrida), III 115, 128 Smyela (Kiev), II 256; III 99 Starodub (Chernigov), II 411 ff Syedletz (Poland), III 119 Troyanov (Volhynia), III 116 ff Vilna, I 154, 245 Vitebsk (city), I 154, 245 Vitebsk (government), III 101 Volhynia (government), II 256 Voronyezh, III 130 Warsaw, II 280 ff Yekaterinoslav, II 359 f, III 128 Yelisavetgrad, II 249 ff, III 128 Zhitomir (Volhynia), III 115 ff See also Self-Defence =Poklonski=, Russian colonel, massacres Jews of Moghilev, I 153 f =Pokutye= (_Polish_, Pokucie), region in Poland, I 150 =Polakov, Lazarus=, Jewish financier in Moscow, II 400 =Polakov, Samuel=, Jewish financier in St. Petersburg, participates in Jewish Conference, II 304 discusses Jewish question with Ignatyev, II 305 f =Poland=, first partition of (1772), I 262 condition of Jews in, after first partition, I 263 ff, 270 schemes for improving condition of Jews in, I 271 ff, 284 inner life of Jews in, I 274 ff Hasidism spreads in, I 231 f problem of Jews in, discussed in Polish literature, I 280 ff Polish Diet appoints committee to consider Jewish question, I 287 f; postpones action, I 290 second partition of (1793), and revolution under Kosciuszko, I 292 f patriotism of Jews in, I 292 ff third partition of (1795), I 297 reconstituted by Napoleon as Duchy of Warsaw (1807), I 297 equality of all citizens proclaimed in, I 298 Government of, suspends emancipation of Jews (1808), I 299, II 100 f Government of, passes anti-Jewish restrictions, I 300 assimilated Jews of, apply for equal rights, I 300 ff; and are refused, I 302 Jews of, released from military service (1812), I 304 Jews of, barred from liquor trade (1812), I 304, II 100 French influences among Jews of, I 385 f growth of Hasidism in, I 384, II 122 Poles side with Napoleon in Franco-Russian War, I 355; and threaten to massacre Jews and Russians, I 357 reconstituted as "Kingdom of Poland," and assigned by Congress of Vienna to Russia [Russian Poland, or Congress Poland] (1815), I 390 granted complete autonomy by Alexander I., II 88 number of Jews in kingdom of, I 390 Government of, appoints Committee on Jewish Question (1815), II 89 David Friedländer of Berlin submits memorandum on Jews of, II 90 Zayonchek, viceroy of, opposed to Jewish emancipation, II 91 f Polish Diet unfriendly to Jews of, II 93 f, 99 f Government of, passes anti-Jewish restrictions, II 94 f condition of Jews in, discussed in Polish literature, II 95 ff blood accusation in, II 74; forbidden by Russian Government, II 99 assimilationist tendencies among Jews of, II 100 ff Kahals abolished in, and replaced by _Gminas_ (1822), II 102 Government of, appoints Committee to Polonize Jews, II 103 anti-Semitism in, II 104 f, 178 Polish insurrection of 1831, II 33, 105 Jews volunteer in revolutionary army of, II 105 ff Polish writers express sympathy with Jews, II 108 f Nicholas I. imposes conscription on Jews of (1843), II 109 f prohibition of Jewish dress in Russia extended to (1845), II 110 Jews of, continue to wear Jewish dress, II 145 influence of Talmud prevails in, II 51 Hasidism firmly established in, II 122 f Polish insurrection of 1863, II 178 ff, 182 f patriotic attitude of Jews in, II 179 ff Jewish disabilities in, removed by Alexander II. (1862), II 181; and re-established by Alexander III., 367 Jews of, accused of separation, II 195 Poles try to stop pogrom at Warsaw (1881), II 283 Poles perpetrate pogrom on Jews of Chenstokhov (1902), III 36 Jewish labor movement in, III 55 Jews of, active in Russian revolution of 1905, III 107 terrorism in (1905), III 130 Jews in, intimidated during Duma elections, III 134 recrudescence of anti-Semitism in (1905), III 166 ff Jews of, subjected to economic boycott (1912), III 167 f Jewish life in, depicted by Perez, III 61; and Ash, III 162 See also Poland (Great), Poland (Little), Polish Language, Polonization, and Warsaw =Poland, Great=, forms feudal principality, I 41 f Posen leading city of, I 74, 110, 196 part of, conquered by Swedes (1655), I 154 f part of, annexed by Prussia (1772), I 187; (1793), I 292; (1795), I 297 formed by Napoleon into Duchy of Warsaw (1807), I 297 tribunal of, at Piotrkov, I 96 provincial diet of, I 113 Boleslav, prince of, grants charter to Jews of principality (1264), I 45, 51 Jews of, secure ratification of charter (1548), I 83 Jewish communities of, receive charter of autonomy (1551), I 105 ff "senior rabbis" of, confirmed by Sigismund I. (1518), I 105 represented on Council of Four Lands, I 110 federated Kahals of, meet periodically, I 196 Jews of, massacred by Polish troops (1656), I 155 f =Poland, Little=, forms feudal principality, I 41 f Cracow, leading city of, I 74 includes Western Galicia, I 53 part of, conquered by Swedes (1655), I 154 f annexation of, completed by Austria (1795), I 297 added by Napoleon to duchy of Warsaw (1809), I 297 tribunal of, at Lublin, I 96 "senior rabbis" of, confirmed by Sigismund I. (1541), I 105, 109, 122 represented on Council of Four Lands, I 110 federated Kahals of, meet periodically, I 196 Jews of, massacred by Polish troops (1656), I 155 f Jewish commercial activity held to be injurious to, I 288 =Polemics, and Political Literature=, between Jews and Christians in Poland, I 136 ff =Police=, central department of, in St. Petersburg co-operates with rioters in Kerch, III 120 abets October pogroms (1905), III 125 f charged by First Duma with complicity in pogroms, II 136 complicity of, in pogroms disclosed by Urussov, III 138 =Police, Political=, known as "The Third Section," term explained, II 21 chief of, appointed on Committee for Radical Transformation of Jews (1840), II 50 crushes revolutionary endeavors, II 140 calls forth terrorism, II 184 distributes anti-Semitic book among detectives, II 204 reports on revolutionary activities of Jews, II 348 =Polish Language= used for literary purposes by Nahman and Belzhytz, I 136 f by rabbi of Khelm, I 283 by anonymous orthodox rabbi, II 98 by Jewish weekly, II 213 See also Language and Polonization =Politz=, Universal History by, translated into Hebrew, II 134 =Pollak, Jacob=, of Prague, introduces _pilpul_ method into Poland, I 122 =Pollak=, of Minsk, offer of, to establish Jewish agricultural colony refused by Government, III 25 =Polonization=, advocated by David Friedländer and his followers, I 386, II 90 champions of, advocate abolition of Jewish autonomy, II 100 rabbinical seminary at Warsaw established for, II 103 among Jewish _intelligenzia_ in Poland, II 182 extreme form of, in Warsaw, II 213 =Polonnoye= (Volhynia), Khmelnitzki massacre in (1648), I 148 f Jacob Joseph Cohen, rabbi of, I 227, 230 =Polotzk= (government of Vitebsk), Jews of, drowned by Russian invaders (1654), I 243 Jewish coachmen of, forbidden to drive beyond Pale, II 70 government of, former name for government of Vitebsk; see Vitebsk (government) Kahal of, appealed to by Elijah of Vilna against Hasidism, I 373 =Polovtzis=, succeed Khazars as masters of Crimea, I 29 =Poltava= (city), Osip Rabinovich, Russian-Jewish writer, native of, II 238 =Poltava= (region, or government), subject to Poland, I 140 ceded to Russia (1667), I 159 included in Pale (1794), I 317; (1835), II 40 Pavluk, Cossack leader, massacres Jews of (1637), I 144 Jews forbidden residence in (1649), I 151; readmitted (1651), I 152 Jewish communities of, disappear almost entirely (1648), I 157 few Jews survive in (after 1648), I 246 Jews of White Russia settle in, 321 Jews expelled from villages of, II 341 Localities in: Borispol, II 267 Lokhvitz, I 145 Lubny, I 144, 145 Pereyaslav, I 145; II 265 Piryatin, I 145 =Pomerania=, annexed by Prussia (1772), I 187, 262 =Poniatovski, Stanislav Augustus=, king of Poland (1764-1795), reign of, I 180 ff election of, preceded by change in system of Jewish taxation, I 197 protects Simeon Volfovich, spokesman of Vilna Jewish masses, against Kahal, I 276 receives plan of Jewish reform from Hirshovich, royal broker, I 284 grants solemn audience to Jews, I 290 f =Pontus Euxinus=, see Black Sea =Populism= (in Russian, _narodnichestvo_), branch of Russian revolutionary movement, II 222 f anti-Semitic tendency of, II 279 f influences Jacob Gordin, II 333 =Popiel=, ancient Polish ruler, I 40 =Popov=, member of "Jewish Committee" of Russian Government, I 352 =Port Arthur=, Jews expelled from, III 94; and denied right of residence in, III 157 =Posen= (_Polish_, Poznan), leading city of Great Poland, I 42, 74, 110, 116 surrendered by Shlakhta to invading Swedes (1655), I 155 refugees from crusades settle in, I 41 Jews of, petition Casimir IV. to renew charter (1447), I 61 Jews of, petition Sigismund I. to ratify election of rabbis (1518), I 104 Jews of, persecuted on charge of host desecration, I 55, 95 riots in, I 64, 75, 90, 95, 161 Jews of, restricted in economic pursuits, I 74, 95 magistracy of, joins other cities in economic fight against Jews, I 75 Jews of, limited to separate quarter, I 75; and forbidden to increase number of houses, I 85 rights of Jews of, enlarged by Stephen Batory, I 89 f Jews of, accused of ritual murder (1736), I 172, 174 ff Jewish community of, represented on Council of Four Lands, I 110 exorcism of devils in, I 203 rabbis of: Naphtali Cohen, I 204 Solomon Edels (_Maharsho_), I 129 Sheftel Horowitz, I 135, 158 Mordecai Jaffe, I 127 Solomon Luria (_Maharshal_), native of, I 120 Arie Leib Calahora, preacher in, I 175 =Posen=, province of, annexed by Prussia (1772), I 187, 262 Polish troops destroy Jewish communities in (1656), I 156 =Posner, Solomon=, prominent Jew in Warsaw, II 103 =Potemkin=, Nota Shklover purveyor to army of, I 338 =Pototzki= (_Polish_, Potocki), commander of Polish army, I 145 =Politzki=, voyevoda of Kiev, I 184 =Polotzki, Severin=, member of "Jewish Committee" of Russian Government (1802), I 335 =Politzki, Stanislav=, delivers eulogy on Berek Yoselovich, I 303 f =Praga=, suburb of Warsaw, attached by Russian Government (1802), I 335 home of Berek Yoselovich, I 294 =Prague=, capital of Bohemia, visited by Pethahiah of Ratisbon, I 33 Jews attacked by crusaders in, I 41 Mordecai Jaffe, rabbi of, I 127 =Pravo ("The Law")=, Russian journal, suppressed for protesting against Kishinev massacre, III 77 protests against court verdict in Homel pogrom, III 103 f =Prayer=, importance of, emphasized by Besht, I 226 Hasidim adopt Ari's form of, I 231 =Press, Russian=, used euphemistically to designate Russian Government, II 386 pursues anti-Semitic policy, II 278, 379, III 31 f makes no reference to expulsion from Moscow, II 407 liberal P. protests against Kishinev massacre, III 76 f stifled by Plehve, III 77 =Press, Jewish=, in Russia, II 216 ff in Hebrew, II 217 f, 372, III 58, 162 in Yiddish, III 58 f, 162 in Russian, II 218 ff, 277 f; yields to press in Hebrew, II 372 =Press, Foreign=, protest against Jewish disabilities, II 381 reports (together with Russian P.) on anti-Semitic exploits of Russian officials, II 384 denounces expulsion of Jews from Moscow, II 407 f protests against Kishinev massacre, III 77 See Printing-Presses =Prikahalki=, name for minor Kahals, I 108, 193; see Kahals =Priluker, Jacob=, founder of Judeo-Christian sect, II 334 f becomes Christian missionary, II 335 =Printing-Press=, Hebrew, of Cracow and Lublin, I 131 of Vilna, II 42, 115, 127 of Slavuta, II 42, 123 of Kiev, II 43; transferred to Zhitomir, II 43 establishment of, by Russian Government, suggested by Dyerzhavin, I 333 See Censorship =Professions=, restrictions in pursuit of, II 26 f; see Bar, and Physicians; also Education and University =Pro-Gymnazium=, term explained, III 29; see Gymnazium =Prokhonvik, Abraham=, legendary king of Poland, I 40 =Property, Real=; see Villages =Propination= (_Polish_, Propinacya), right of distilling and selling liquor, term explained, I 67 carried on by Jews in Poland, I 67; and Ukraine, I 141 forced upon Jews by economic factors, I 266 f from Polish pan by Jewish arendar, I 93, 170, 265 connected with other economic pursuits, I 93, 361 f elimination of Jews from, advocated by Polish reformers (1782), I 272 f, 280; recommended by Polish Government Committee (1815), II 89; and demanded by Polish Diet (1818), II 100 law barring Jews from, issued by Duchy of Warsaw (1812), I 304 f; but vetoed by Alexander I. (1816), II 94 participation of Jews in, defended by Polish officer, II 98 Jews of annexed White Russia hampered in pursuit of (1784), I 311 ff Polish nobles of annexed Polish provinces advocate elimination of Jews from, I 323 ff abuses of, set forth by Russian Government Committee (1804), I 341 f committee appointed to consider elimination of Jews from (1809), I 352 f; but reports against it (1812), I 353 f economic mainstay of village Jewry, I 361 f nobility of White Russia demands elimination of Jews from, I 405; decreed for villages of White Russia (1823), I 406 occupies central place in economic structure of Russian Jewry, II 72 big Jewish capital transferred from, to railroad, II 186 Government Committee recommends elimination of Jews from (1882), II 310 Government monopoly of, urged as means of removing Jews from villages, III 17 effects of Government monopoly of, III 22 f See Villages =Protestantism=, see Reformation =Protoyerey=, Russian ecclesiastic title, term explained, II 301 =Prussia= shares in partition of Poland, I 185 f, 262, 292, 297 participates in siege of Warsaw (1794), I 293 rules over Warsaw (1796-1806), I 385 shattered by Napoleon, I 347 represented at Congress of Aix-la-Chapelle, I 398 f introduces Jewish reforms in annexed Polish provinces, I 385 Jewish regulations of, serve as model for Russian statesmen, I 331, II 46, 49 Jewish socialist expelled from, II 224 See Berlin =Pshemyshl= (_Polish_, Pszemysl), see Stupnitza =Pskov=, Jews exiled from (1654), I 154 situated outside Pale, II 70 =Ptolemies=, the Jewish center under rule of, I 14 =Pulavy=, Poland, Jews of, manifest Polish patriotism, I 292 =Pushkin=, Russian poet, relation of, to Jews, II 138 =Pyetukhov=, member of political police, exposes complicity of Government in pogrom, III 140 =Quadrennial Diet=, see Diet, Quadrennial =Raaben, von=, governor of Bessarabia, refuses to stop Kishinev pogrom, III 74 f sued for damages by Jews, III 92 =Rabbanites=, in Crimea, I 28, 34 =Rabbinical Commission=, appointed by Russian Government (1842), II 56 Jews of Western Europe invited to participate in, II 67 Rabbi Mendel of Lubavich, member of, II 118 =Rabbinical Schools= (modern), opened by assimilationist Jews in Warsaw (1826), II 103 f opening of, decreased by Nicholas I. (1844), II 38 pupils of, promised alleviations in military service, II 58 graduates of, intended to supersede former type of rabbis and teachers, II 58, 176 opened in Vilna and Zhitomir (1847), II 59, 174 f graduates of, act as Government agents, II 212 graduates of, form revolutionary circle, II 223 Levanda, graduate of, II 239 closed (1873), II 177 =Rabbinism= opposes Hasidism, I 233 f, 235 ff opposes enlightenment, I 238 f firmly entrenched during reign of Alexander I., 380 uncompromising attitude of, II 111 ff =Rabbis= (and Rabbinate), officially recognized by Polish king, I 101 ff clothed with wide powers, I 73, 105 ff bear title of _Morenu_, I 117 relation of, to Kahal, I 107 f conferences of, I 108 f conference of, "tries" demons in Posen, I 203 accused of purchasing offices from pans, I 284 jurisdiction of, limited to religious affairs (1804), I 344 deprived of right of imposing _herem_ (1804), I 344 highly respected by Jews of Russia, II 112 exempted from military service, II 20 reform of, recommended by Council of State, II 49; by I. B. Levinsohn, II 128; and by other Maskilim, II 136 f fanaticism of, attacked by Mapu, II 227 f See Crown Rabbis =Rabinovich, I.=, founder of Congregation of New Testament Israelites, II 335 =Rabinovich, Osip= (=Joseph=), editor of _Razsvyet_, II 219 f author of Jewish novels (in Russian), II 238 =Rabinovitz, S.=, see Shalom Aleichem =Radom=, see Shidlovitz =Radzieyevski=, Polish sub-chancellor, betrays Poland to Swedes, I 155 =Radzionovski=, Greek-Orthodox priest, admonishes rioters at Balta, I 301 f =Radziwill=, Prince, patron of Saul Wahl, I 94 =Radziwill=, voyevoda of Vilna, settles dispute between rabbis and Kahal, I 276 =Railroads=, Jews become interested in, II 186 =Rakhmistorvka= (government of Kiev), hasidic center, II 120 =Randar=, see Arendar =Rashi=, works of, studied in Poland, I 117 =Ratisbon=, see Pethahiah of Ratisbon =Ratner, M.=, counsel for victims of Homel pogrom, III 102 member of Central Committee of League for Equal Rights, III 112 =Rav= (or _Rov_), name for rabbi, II 120 =Ravski, M.=, prominent Jew in Warsaw, II 103 =Razryaden=, "Assortment" of Jews; see Assortment =Razsvyet= ("=The Dawn="), Jewish periodical in Russian, II 218, 219 f, 238 resumes publication, after interruption, in St. Petersburg, II 221, 277 publishes statement of Ignatyev inviting Jews to emigrate, II 285 favors organization of emigration movement, II 298 champions "Love of Zion," II 332 discontinued (1883), II 372 appears again in St. Petersburg, III 162 =Razumovksi=, president of Russian academy, deplores anti-Jewish prejudice, I 258 =Real Estate=, see Villages =Rebbe=, popular name for Tzaddik, or hasidic leader, II 120; see Tzaddik =Recanati, Menahem=, Italian Cabalist, work of, studied in Poland, I 134 =Recruits= (and Recruiting), recruiting ukase of 1827, II 18 ff minor recruits, see Cantonists Jewish committee, or Kahals held responsible for quota of, II 19 f oath of allegiance of, marked by great solemnity, II 20 kept apart from non-Jewish recruits, II 21 recruiting (or conscription) trustees of Kahals, II 19 f turned into police agents, I 22 f; retained after abolition of Kahal, II 60; made personally responsible for completion of quota, II 147 sent to recruiting jails, II 24 divorce wives before leaving home, II 28 drafting of "penal" recruits decreed (1850), II 147 f community of Mstislavl punished by drafting penal recruits, II 86 individual Jews permitted to capture recruits as substitutes (1853), II 148 f See Military Service and Soldiers =Red Russia=, see Russia, Red =Reforms=, religious, in Judaism, advocated by Lilienblum, II 236 preached by Jacob Gordin (and others), II 333 ff reform Judaism attacked by Smolenskin, II 234 =Reformation= affects unfavorably position of Jews in Poland, I 79 f, 85 ff stimulates literary polemics, I 135 ff Polish adherents of, welcome invading Swedes, I 155 fear of, responsible for Jewish tragedy in Cracow, I 164 f Russian sect of Stundists traceable to influence of, II 333 =Reisin=, Yiddish writer, III 162 =Renan= protests against Jewish persecutions, II 326 =Repnin=, governor-general of Lithuania, promises to respect Jewish autonomy, I 320 "=Republic=" (_Polish_, Rzecz Pospolita), title applied to Poland (after 1572), I 88, 262 =Residence, Right of=, denied to Jews in towns of ancient Poland; see "_De non Tolerandis Iudæis_"; particularly in Warsaw, I 85, 268, 300; II 94 f tax paid by Jews for, in Warsaw, II 95 all restrictions in, abolished in Poland (1862), II 181; reintroduced by Alexander III. (1891), II 367 withdrawn from Jews of Ukraina (1649), I 151; and returned to them (1651), II 152 withdrawn from Jews of Little Russia (1727), I 250 in ancient Russia, see Moscow, principality of in modern Russia, see Interior, Pale of Settlement, and Expulsions outside of cities and towns, see Villages non-Jews plead before Government for grant of, to Jews, I 256, II 319 denied to Jews in health and summer resorts, III 18 ff, 154, 157 See also Capitals, and under Kiev and Moscow =Resolution=, term explained, I 253 by Empress Anna, sentencing Borukkov and Voznitzin to death (1738), I 253 by Empress Elizabeth, excluding Jews from Russia (1741), I 257; referred to by Empress Catherine II., I 259, 261 by Paul I., approving of anti-Jewish restrictions (1797), I 323 by Nicholas I., postponing expulsion of Jews from villages, opposing admission of Jewish merchants to Interior, II 36; expelling Jews from 50-verst zone, II 62; limiting Jewish coachmen to Pale, II 70; closing synagogues in Velizh, II 78; expressing doubt about existence of ritual murder, II 80; punishing Jews of Mstislavl, II 86 R's. of Alexander III. assume power of laws, II 339 by Nicholas II., opposing abrogation of Pale, III 11 =Resorts=, see Residence, Right of =Restrictions=, against Jews, enormous extent of, admitted by Pahlen Commission, II 364 Guildhall meeting in London protests against, II 391 Russian governors favor repeal of, III 93 regarded by Council of Ministers as cause of revolutionary movement among Jews, III 141 new R's. decreed by Third Duma, III 156 f in army, II 319 f, 354 ff in commerce, see Commerce in dress, see Dress in keeping domestics, see Domestics in education, II 348 ff, III 27 ff; see Educational Restriction in language, see Language in professions, II 352 f, III 26 f in trades, see Artisans in rights of residence, see Residence, Right of, also Interior and Pale =Revolutionary Movement=, in Russia, unfriendly attitude of, towards Jews, I 409 ff anti-Semitic tendency of, II 279 f early pogroms ascribed to influence of, II 259 f, 269, 279 Jews participate in, II 198, 221 ff, 243 f, III 67 ff, 105 ff Jewish college men join ranks of, II 348; particularly graduates of foreign universities, III 31 Jews held responsible for, III 70 spread of, among Jews, admitted by Russian officials as due to restrictive laws, II 364 f, III 93, 141 participation of Jews in, blamed for pogroms, II 305, III 89 152; intensifies anti-Semitism, III 16; prompts anti-Jewish restrictions at universities, III 28 pogroms engineered for suppression of, III 66 ff, 137 pogroms intensify spread of, among Jews, III 90 Zionism prohibited as contributory to, III 82 intensified after death of Plehve, III 98 combated by Black Hundred, III 124 ff Jewish participants in, executed, III 140; see Bund and Socialism =Rhescupondes, Dynasty of=, rulers of Jewish colonies in Crimea, I 14 f =Rhine=, the, Jewish immigration into Poland from, I 41 =Richelieu=, Duke, governor of Kherson, interested in Jewish agriculture, I 303 f =Richter, De=, aide-de-camp of Alexander III., receives pro-Jewish petition from Mayor of London, II 393 =Riesser, Gabriel=, German-Jewish publicist, II 219 compared with Osip Rabinovich, II 238 =Riga=, magistracy of, protests against contemplated expulsion of Jews (1743), I 256 Jews of White Russia forbidden to settle in, I 313 Max Lilienthal resides in, II 52 Lilienthal's school in, pointed to as model, II 137 Jewish community of, protests against denial of Jewish franchise (1905), III 121 See also Livonia =Rindfleisch=, persecution of, in Germany, drives Jews into Poland, I 50 =Riots=, see Pogroms =Ripon=, Bishop of, addresses Guildhall meeting in favor of Russian Jews, II 391 =Rishon-le-Zion=, Jewish colony in Palestine, II 322, 375 =Ritual Murder Libel= (blood accusation), forbidden by Boleslav of Kalish (1264), I 47; by Sigismund II. (1564 and 1566), I 88; by Stephen Batory (1575), I 89 frequency of, in Poland, I 95, 172 ff, II 74, 99 General of Dominican Order in Rome warns Poles against (1664), I 165 Polish Jews appeal to pope against (1758), I 179 prohibition of, confirmed by Augustus III. (1763), I 180 supported by sect of Frankists, I 216 f forbidden in kingdom of Poland by Russian Government (1817), II 99 repeated by Abbé Chiarini in Warsaw, II 104 prejudices Peter the Great against Jews, I 247 f assumes malign aspect under Nicholas I., II 73 believed by Nicholas I., I 79, 83 affects Jewish legislation in Russia, II 79 refuted by Isaac Baer Levinsohn, II 131 commission for investigation of, appointed by Nicholas I. (1854), II 151 defended by Lutostanski, II 203 f, 244 Alexander III. gives credence to, II 203, 244 championed by _Novoye Vremya_, II 205 preached by Krushevan, III 70 cases of (in Poland): Bielsk, I 87 Cracow, I 56 f Lenchitza, I 100 f Lublin, I 96, 100 Posen, I 172 Ruzhany, I 162 ff Sandomir, I 172 ff Zaslav, I 172 Zhitomir, I 178 minor places, I 178 cases of (in Russia): Dubossary, III 71 Gordonya, II 247 f Grodno, II 73 Kiev (Beilis trial), see Beilis Kishinev, III 71 Kutais (Caucasus), II 204 Nizhni-Novgorod, II 360 f Saratov, II 150 ff Velizh, II 75 ff Vilna (Blondes trial), III 37 =Rivkes, Moses=, of Vilna, Hebrew author, I 200 =Rodichev=, Duma deputy, denounces Bialystok pogrom, II 137, 139 defends Jews, III 156 =Rodkinson=, publishes _ha-Kol_, II 223 =Rogov, Anton=, propagates "Judaizing heresy," I 402 =Roman Empire=, immigration into Western Europe proceeds from, I 13 sovereignty of, acknowledged by rulers of Crimea, I 14 f menaced by Khazars, I 20 =Rome=, nuncio Lippomano dispatched from, to Poland, I 86 general of Dominican Order in, defends Polish Jews, I 165 Ambassador of Muscovy at, I 242 =Romny=, pogrom at (October 1905), III 128 =Ronne and Simon=, quoted, I 331 =Rosenthal, Leon=, founder of Society for Diffusion of Enlightenment, II 214 =Rosenthal, N.=, leader of Vilna Maskilim, II 136 =Rosh-Pinah=, Jewish colony in Palestine, II 375 =Rosh-Yeshibah=, head of Talmudic academy, recognized by Polish Government, I 115 f position of in Jewish community, I 116 ff =Rossie=, mythical philosopher, quoted in support of blood accusation, II 73 =Rostov= (on the Don), placed outside Pale and closed to Jews, II 346 pogrom at, II 358 =Rothschild, Alphonse de=, of Paris, refuses to participate in Russian loan, II 408 attacked by _Novoye Vremya_, II 410 refusal of, infuriates Russian Government, II 417 =Rothschild, Edmond de=, of Paris, supports Jewish colonization of Palestine, II 375 f, 422 =Rothschild, Nathaniel de=, of London, member of Committee for Pogrom Victims, II 291 =Rothschilds=, the, of Paris, offer to pay transportation of Russian Jews to Algiers, II 69 expected to participate in Russian loan, II 407 f =Roumania= compelled by Congress of Berlin to emancipate Jews, II 202 Jews of, establish colonies in Palestine, II 375 =Rovno= (Volhynia), pogrom at, III 99 =Rum=, name for Byzantium, I 24 =Russ=, old name for Russia, I 33; Red Russia, I 115 =Russ=, anti-Semitic newspaper in Moscow, II 278, 325 =Russia=, ancient, see Moscow, principality of, and Kiev, principality of exercises protectorate over Poland, I 181 Jews expelled from (1741), I 255 shares in partition of Poland, I 186 f, 262, 292, 297, 314 joins Prussia in besieging Warsaw (1794), I 293 represented at Congress of Aix-la-Chapelle, I 398 Jews of Poland transferred to, I 241 Jews of White Russia brought under dominion of (1792), I 306 ff attitude of, towards Jews, I 242 ff admission of Jews to, favored by Senate and refused by Catherine II., I 259 f follows traditional Muscovite policy in excluding Jews, I 246 f, 341, II 35 f institutes Pale of Settlement, I 314 adopts policy of exceptional laws, I 314 ff Jews loyal to, in Franco-Russian War (1812), I 355 ff Zionists of, assemble at Minsk Convention, III 45 importance of Zionism for Jews of, II 146 ff =Russia, Great=, laborers from, active in pogroms, II 248, 256, 359 =Russia, Little=, population of, I 53 ceded to Russia (1654), I 94, 153 annexed by Russia (1667), I 159, 244 Jews barred from, I 246 ritual murder in, I 247 f Jews expelled from (1727), I 249 f Cossacks of, protest against exclusion of Jews, I 250 Jews admitted to fairs of, I 250 f Jews penetrate into, and settle in, I 253, 255 expelled again from (1740), I 254 inhabitants of, protest against exclusion of Jews, I 256 admission of Jews into, favored by Senate, I 257 Empress Elizabeth insists on expulsion of Jews from (1844), I 257 representatives of, plead for admission of Jews, I 260 Catherine II. refuses to admit Jews into, I 261 included in Pale (1794), I 317; (1804), 342; (1835), II 40 Jews of White Russia settle in, I 321 f Great Russians, or _Katzaps_, prepare pogroms in, II 248, 256, 359 =Russia, New (South Russia)=, steppes of, inhabited by Cossacks, I 142 f Jews permitted to settle in (1791), I 316 Karaites of, granted special privileges (1795), I 318 included in Pale (1804), I 342; (1835), II 40 expelled village Jews beg to be transferred to, I 352 Jews of White Russia settle as farmers in, I 363 f agricultural immigration into, temporarily stopped (1810), I 365 Government attempts to settle "Israelitish Christians" in, I 400 Jewish agricultural colonies in, II 70 f, 197 Max Lilienthal makes educational tour, through, II 56 represented on Rabbinical Commission of Bezalel Stern, II 57 Odessa, capital of, center of Haskalah, II 132 Vorontzov, governor-general of, defends Jews, II 64 ff Stroganov, governor-general of, advocates emancipation of Jews, II 168 f pogroms in, II 249 ff See Odessa =Russia, Red=, occasionally called Russia (or Russ), I 75, 115 corresponds to Eastern Galicia, I 53 forms independent principality, I 53 annexed by Casimir the Great, I 42, 53 Lemberg, leading city of, I 74 invaded by Khmelnitzki, I 150 f Jews forbidden to sell cloth in, I 75 Jews of, represented on Council of Four Lands, I 110 federated Kahals of, I 196 Solomon of Lemberg, chosen spiritual head of, I 115 voyevoda of, grants constitution to Lemberg Jews, I 191 See Lemberg =Russia, White=, Ukrainian bands penetrate into (1648), I 149 invaded by Russian troops (1654), I 153 f, 244 f annexed by Russia (1772), I 186, 262, 306 divided into two governments (Moghilev and Vitebsk), I 307 becomes Jewish intellectual center, I 159 f federated Kahals of, I 196 traces of Sabbatian propaganda in, I 205 differs intellectually from South-west, I 221 Hasidism spreads in, I 230, 238, 372; but excelled by Rabbinism, I 274 distinct character of Hasidism in, I 233 ff Kahals of, appealed to by Elijah Gaon against Hasidism, I 373 Hasidism in, founded by Shneor Zalman, I 234, 356, II 57; and represented by his dynasty, II 117 Jews of, penetrate into Moscow, I 245; and Smolensk, I 249 Russian Government promises Jews of, preservation of ancient liberties (1772), I 306 f, 366 Jews of, numbered and taxed, I 307 internal organization of Jews in, I 308 ff Kahals of, recognized by Government, I 309; but restricted to spiritual affairs and collection of taxes, I 313 Jews of, oppressed by Passek, governor-general, I 310 ff Jews of, appeal to Catherine II., I 311 Jews of, refused permission to settle in Riga, I 313; and outside of White Russia in general, 315 f included in Pale (1794), I 317; (1804), I 342; (1835, except villages), II 40 Jews of, immigrate to New Russia, I 364, II 70 famine in (1821), I 329 Dyerzhavin sent as investigator to, I 328 f, 386 Jews of, emigrate to New Russia, I 364; II 70 Jews in, elected to municipal offices, I 368 Jews of, marked by public spirit, I 379 traces of "Enlightenment" in, I 386 new famine in (1821), suggests expulsion of Jews from villages, I 405 f expulsion of Jews from villages of, decreed (1823), I 406; and carried out, I 407; denounced as useless by Council of State (1835), I 407, II 34 f expelled village Jews of, settle in New Russia, II 70 Jewish agricultural settlements in, II 72 Khovanski, governor-general of, active in ritual murder trial, II 76 ff; see Velizh pogroms checked by authorities of (1881), II 267 pogroms spread in, III 87 ff, 100 f; see Moghilev, Vitebsk, and Villages =Russian Language=, the, Jewish literature in, II 238 ff Jewish writers in, hail from South, II 238 declared native language of Jews by sect "New Israel," II 334 Jewish press in, III 59, 162 Frug, Jewish poet, writes in, III 63 Jewish science in, III 65 See also Language =Russian Poland=, see Poland =Russians=, the, tribe, in land of Khazars, I 22 relation of, to Khazars, I 26, 28 converted to Greek-Orthodoxy, I 31 See Russia _Russification_ of Jews, under Alexander II., II 174 ff, 206 ff, 215 advocated by Orshanski, II 239; and Levanda, II 239 f discarded by Jewish _intelligenzia_, II 326 ff, III 163 =Russkaya Zhizn= ("Russian Life"), newspaper in St. Petersburg, pictures sufferings of Moscow Jews, II 397 =Russki Vyestnik= ("Russian Herald"), Russian magazine, defends Jews, II 207 f =Russki Yevrey= ("The Russian Jew"), Jewish weekly in Russian, in St. Petersburg, II 221, 277 pursues moderate policy, II 332 discontinued (1884), II 372 =Russo-Japanese War= interrupts labor of Government Commission on Jewish Question, III 93 participation of Jews in, III 94 ff Jewish veterans of, granted universal right of residence, III 98 f Jewish surgeons in, accused of revolutionary propaganda, III 156 Jewish soldiers in, denied residence in Port Arthur, III 157 =Ruthenians, or Little Russians=, the, I 53 belong to Uniat Church, I 141; see Russia, Little =Ruzhany= (province of Grodno), ritual murder case of, I 162 =Ruzhin=, Israel of, hasidic leader, II 120 f =Rybalenko=, alleged victim of ritual murder, III 71 =Sabbatai Zevi=, name of, left out by Halperin, contemporary Polish-Jewish chronicler, I 201 Hayyun, emissary of, I 204 Polish Jews respond to claims of, I 204; and send deputation to, I 206 f betrayed by Nehemiah Cohen, I 207 Polish Jews loyal to, I 207 Jacob Frank considered reincarnation of, I 212 f, 214; and follows example of, I 216 See Sabbatians =Sabbatarians=, the, "Sabbath observers," "Judaizing" sect in Russia, I 401 ff =Sabbatians=, the, adherents of Sabbatai Zevi, movement of, in Poland, I 204 ff Council of Four Lands objects to, I 196 join adherents of Judah Hasid, I 209 pose as Mohammedans, I 210 continue secretly in Podolia and Galicia, I 210 f Jacob Frank associates with, I 212 ff Hasidim accused of continuing work of, I 376 =Sack=, St. Petersburg banker, member of Jewish deputation to Alexander III., II 261 "=Sacred League," The=, organization of high Russian officials, suspected of assisting pogroms, II 248 =Sadogora= (Bukovina), Israel of Ruzhin settles in, II 121 hasidic dynasty of, II 121 =Safed= (Palestine), _Ari_ and Vital, Cabalists, in, I 134, 134 =Salant= (government of Kovno), M. A. Ginzburg, Hebrew writer, native of, II 133 =Salisbury=, Lord, English premier, answers interpellation concerning Jewish persecutions in Russia, II 382 =Saloniki=, center of Sabbatian movement, I 207 Jacob Frank resides in, I 212 =Samkers=, Jewish city on Taman Peninsula, I 23 =Samkrtz= (Samkers), locality in Crimea, I 26 =Samogitia (Zhmud)=, Russian province, name explained, I 293, II 133 =Samson=, of Ostropol, cabalist and martyr, I 148 f =Samoyeds=, tribe in government of Archangel, II 367 =Samuel Ben Ali=, Gaon of Bagdad, corresponds with Moses of Kiev, I 33 =San=, river, provinces on, invaded by Swedes, I 154 =Sanchez, Antonio=, Jewish court physician in Russia, I 258 =Sandomir= (Galicia), ritual murder of, I 172 ff Jews expelled from, I 173 =Saratov= (city), ritual murder of, II 150 ff pogrom at, III 130 =Saratov= (government), "Judaizing" movement in, I 401 f =Sardis=, city in Asia Minor, Jewish community in, I 14 =Sarkel=, city in Crimea, I 26 =Sarmatians=, tribe, I 14 =Sassanido=, dynasty of, in Persia, I 19 =Satanov= (Podolia), rabbis assemble at, I 213 Mendel Lewin, Hebrew writer, native of, I 388 =Savitzki=, convert, accuses Jews of ritual murder, II 73 =Savory, Sir Joseph=, Lord Mayor of London, presides at Guildhall meeting, II 390 ff signs and forwards to Tzar petition on behalf of Russian Jews, II 392 =Savranski, Moses=, hasidic leader, II 121 =Saym= (_Polish_, Sejm), see Diet =Saymists=, the, name of Jewish Socialistic Labor Party, III 145 =Sazonov=, Russian terrorist, kills Plehve, III 97 =Schechter, Solomon=, quoted, I 27 =Schiller=, impressed by autobiography of Solomon Maimon, I 240 works of, translated into Hebrew, II 226 =Schiltberber=, German traveller, refers to Jews in Crimea, I 34 =Schluesselburg=, near St. Petersburg, prison at, II 97 =Schneider=, warden of Moscow synagogue, exiled, II 424 =School=, traditional Jewish, see Heder and Yeshibah modern Jewish S's. in Odessa (1826), II 133; and in Riga and Kishinev, II 52 S. of Handicrafts (in Zhitomir) closed by Alexander III. (1884), II 347 large S. fund offered to Russian Government by Baron Hirsch, II 415; transferred to S's. in Galicia, II 416 Jewish trade S. in Moscow, III 13 Talmud Torah S. in Moscow, III 13 sending of Jews to Russian Government S's. urged by Friesel, governor of Vilna, I 327, and Dyerzhavin, I 333 Statute of 1804 permits Jews to attend Government S's., or to open secular S's. of their own, I 344 f Jews shun secular S's., I 350, 380 graduates of Government S's. exempted from military service (1827), II 20 Council of State criticises traditional Jewish S. (1840), II 48; and suggests special Government (or Crown) S's. for Jews, II 49 opening of network of Jewish Crown S's. urged by Uvarov, II 51 S. of Lilienthal in Riga serves as model, II 52 Lilienthal commissioned to organize Crown S's., II 56 opening of Crown S's. decreed by Nicholas I. (1844), II 58 attendance at Crown S's. made compulsory, II 58 attendance at Crown S's. stimulated by alleviation in military service, II 58, 164, 174 graduation from Crown S's. made obligatory for rabbis and teachers, II 58 Crown S's. expected to weaken influence of Talmud, II 51, 58 Crown S's. opened (1847), II 59, 174 attendance at Crown S's. insignificant, II 175 Crown S's. closed (1873), II 177 J. L. Gordon and Levanda active as teachers in Crown S's., II 228, 239 Russian Government abandons fight against traditional Jewish S. (1879), II 177 attendance at general Government S's. urged by Russian officials, II 163 ff Jews begin to flock to Russian S's., II 209 Russian S's. as assimilationist factor, II 209 governors-general of Odessa and Kharkov suggest restrictive percentage for Jews at gymnazia (school norm), II 339 question of S. norm submitted by Pahlen Commission, II 339; and disapproved by majority thereof, II 348 Dyelanov, Minister of Public Instruction, directed by Alexander III. to frame enactment embodying S. norm, II 339, 349 S. norm decreed by ministerial circular (1887), II 350 f; without preliminary submission to Council of State, II 349 S. norm results in large number of Jewish "externs," II 351, III 31 attendance at commercial S's. and gymnazia further restricted (1901), III 29 f Jewish girls free to attend secondary S's. (gymnazia), but restricted in higher S's., III 30 f Pahlen, governor of Vilna, advocates separate S's. for Jews (1903), III 152 S. norm abolished in institutions of higher learning (1905), III 124; but restored (1907), III 152 S. norm placed on Statute books (1909), III 158 many higher S's. barred to Jews, III 158 S. norm applied to private S's., III 158 f; and extended to "externs" (1911), III 159 one hundred Jewish students excluded from Kiev Polytechnicum (1907), III 152 Jews barred from Military Academy of Medicine (1910), III 156 See Education, Enlightenment, and University =Schorr, Solomon=, follower of Jacob Frank, I 217 =Schülergelauf=, see Pogroms (in Poland) =Schussberg, Gabriel=, describes Cossack massacres of 1648, I 158 =Schwartz=, informer against Jews, II 48 =Schwartz=, Russian Minister of Public Instruction, opposed to Jews, III 157 f =Scythians=, the, tribe, I 14 =Sejm=, see Saym =Selek=, see Jacob Zelig =Seleucids=, dynasty of, I 14 =Self-Defence=, organized by Jews, in riot at Lemberg (1664), I 161 f in Posen (1687), I 166 in massacre at Uman (1768), I 184 f averts pogrom at Berdychev (1881), I 256 f intensifies pogrom at Konotop (Chernigov, 1881), II 257 checked by police in Odessa (1881), II 258; and punished in court, II 264 active in pogrom at Warsaw (1881), II 281 forbidden by authorities (during Balta pogrom, 1882), II 300 organized after Kishinev massacre, III 80 forbidden by Plehve, III 80, 90 active in pogrom at Homel (1903), III 87 ff; attacked by police, III 88; arraigned in court, III 102 Jews of Odessa organize (1904), III 96 pogroms checked by, at Melitopol and Simferopol (government of Tavrida, 1905), III 115 displays heroism during pogrom at Zhitomir (1905), III 116 ff movement for, intensified during revolution of 1905, III 119 attacked by soldiers during pogrom at Kerch (1905), III 120 police and soldiers ordered to drive off, III 129 displays heroism in Odessa pogrom (October, 1905), III 129; court-martialed, III 150 =Self-Government, Jewish=, see Autonomy local and rural, see Zemstvos urban, see Municipalities =Selim II.=, Sultan of Turkey, attended by Jewish body-physician, I 132 =Semender= (Tarku), city in Caucasus, I 26 =Semipalatinsk= (territory), in Central Asia, uncivilized tribes of, placed on level with Jews, II 367 =Semiryechensk= (territory), in Central Asia, semi-civilized tribes of, placed on level with Jews, II 367 =Semyonovka= (government of Chernigov), pogrom at, III 129 =Senate=, the, in Poland, forms upper Chamber, I 167 censures King Sobieski for favoring Jews, I 167 re-established by Napoleon in duchy of Warsaw, I 298 refuses petition of Jews for equal rights, I 301 f =Senate=, the, in Russia, recommends death penalty for conversion to Judaism (1738), I 253 decrees expulsion of Jews from Little Russia (1739), I 254 recommends admission of Jews to Little Russia and Livonia (1743), I 257 favors admission of Jews into Russian empire (1763), I 259 sanctions Kahals in White Russia (1778), I 309; but suddenly questions their legality (1782), I 310; and restricts them to spiritual affairs and collection of taxes (1786), I 313 restricts Jews of White Russia in liquor trade (1786), I 312 refuses permission to White Russian Jews to settle in Riga, thus laying foundation for Pale (1786), I 313 f reaffirms Catherine's ukase ordering transfer of village Jews to towns (1797), I 323 f Friesel, governor of Vilna, forwards suggestions of Jewish reforms to, I 326 f declares Jews not subject to serfdom, I 328 Dyerzhavin's memorandum on Jews laid before (1800), I 334 loses executive power with creation of Council of State (1801), I 335 case against Shneor Zalman transferred to, I 378 Jewish communal affairs transferred from, to Minister of Ecclesiastic Affairs (1817), I 392 prohibits keeping of Christian domestics (1820), I 404 puts harsh interpretation on decree of Nicholas I. expelling Jews from Fifty-Verst Zone (1843), II 62 f takes over ritual murder case of Velizh (1830), II 81 sends ukase to governors warning against pogroms (1882), II 313 sets aside misconstruction of Temporary Rules (1884), II 341 sustains law of 1874 denying universal right of residence to discharged Jewish soldiers (1885), II 355 passes upon complaints against misapplication of Temporary Rules, III 17; and reverses decisions of lower courts, III 18 sustains expulsion of consumptive Jewish student from health resort, III 19 sustains practice of confining Jews of Siberia to their places of registration (1897), III 22 orders second trial of Blondes, III 37 sustains sentence against Dashevski, assailant of Krushevan, II 82 dismisses complaint of victims of Kishinev massacres, III 92 receives ukase from Nicholas II. permitting submission of suggestions to Government (1905), III 110 declares Zionism illegal (1907), III 152 prohibits Jewish soldiers from residing in Port Arthur, III 157 "=Senior=," the, title for elder in Poland, I 72 f, 94 title for chief rabbi in Poland, I 105 =Separatism=, of Jews, ascribed by Russian Government to their inferior "moral status," II 158 combated by Russian Government, II 190 ff commented upon unfavorably by Ignatyev, II 273; by Gubernatorial Commissions, II 275; and by Pahlen Commission, II 365 =Serafinovich=, Jewish convert, upholds blood accusation, I 173 f =Serfs, or Khlops=, form separate estate in Poland, I 442 S's. of Ukraina, resent Polish rule, I 140 Jews in Ukraina mediators between pans and, I 142 S's. of Ukraina rise against Poles and Jews, I 182 conversion of Jews into, rejected by Polish Diet, I 170 subjection of Jews to serfdom not recognized by Russian Senate, I 328 =Sergius=, grand duke, appointed governor-general of Moscow, II 400 f entrance into Moscow of, preceded by expulsion of Jews, II closes Moscow synagogue, II 423 f refuses petition of Jews to reopen it, III 12 f assassinated, III 110 =Serra=, papal nuncio, skeptical towards Frankists, I 216 =Servia= instructed by Berlin Congress to grant equality to Jews, II 202 =Service, Military=, see Military service =Sevastopol= (Crimea), ancient Jewish Community in neighborhood of, I 17 Jews expelled from (1829), II 32 barred to Jews (1835), II 40 reopened to Jews by Alexander II., II 172 thousands of Jewish soldiers fall at (in Crimean War), II 149 consumptive Jewish student marched through streets of, III 19 =Sever=, Slav tribe, subject to Khazars, I 26 =Sforza=, see Bona Sforza =Shaftsbury=, Earl of, addresses Mansion House meeting in London on behalf of Russian Jews, II 288 =Shakhna=, see Shalom Shakhna =Shaizari, Ash-=, Arabic writer, quoted, I 23 =Shak=, see Cohen, Sabbatai =Shalom Aleichem= (S. Rabinovitz), editor of _Jüdische Volksbibliothek_, III 59 Yiddish writer, III 62 =Shalom Shakhna=, rabbi of Lublin and Little Poland, I 105, 109 pioneer of Talmud study in Poland, I 122 f rabbinical conferences initiated by, I 123 responsa of, I 123 =Shamir-Khan-Shur=, city in Caucasus, I 26 =Shantung Peninsula=, see Kuantung =Shapiro, Samuel Abba and Phinehas=, Russian-Jewish printers, II 123 f =Shargorod= (Volhynia), Jacob Joseph Cohen, rabbi of, I 227, 230 "=Shabsitzvinnikes=," nickname for adherents of Sabbatai Zevi, I 210 =Shaving= of heads by Jewish women forbidden by Nicholas I. (1852), II 144 =Shchebreshin= (_Polish_, Szezebrzeszyn), Meir, Hebrew author, native of, I 158 =Shchedrin-Saltykov=, Russian satirist, protests against persecution of Jews, II 325 f denounces _Novoye Vremya_, I 380 =Shcheglovitov=, anti-Semitic Minister of Justice, secures pardon for pogrom makers, III 150 engineers Beilis case, III 165 St. Petersburg Bar Association protests against, III 166 "=Shebsen=," nickname for adherents of Sabbatai Zevi, I 211 =Shedletz= (_Polish_, Siedlce), Judah Hasid, native of, I 208 Lukov, in province of, I 287 =Sheitel=, Jewish name for wig, II 144 =Shekel=, societies of Sh. prayers organized by Zionists, III 45 =Shidlovitz= (_Polish_, Szydlowiec), near Radom, Poland, home of Judah Hasid, I 208 =Shishkov=, Minister of Public Instruction, advocates abolition of institution of Jewish deputies, I 395 I. B. Levinsohn applies for subsidy to, II 129 =Shklov=, rabbis assembled at, condemn Shneor Zalman, I 238 Dyerzhavin sent to, in response to complaints of Jews, I 328 =Shklover, Borukh=, see Borukh Shklover =Shklover, Nota=, of St. Petersburg (family name Notkin), I 338 purveyor to Potemkin's army, I 330 proposes establishment of Jewish colonies near Black Sea, I 331 participates in work of Jewish Government Commission, I 338 =Shlakhovski, Baruch=, killed in pogrom, II 303 =Shlakhta= (_Polish_, Szlachta: Polish nobility), term explained, I 58 forms separate estate, I 44 growing influence of, I 58 favors Jews on account of financial advantages, I 69 controls diets, I 77 attitude of, towards Jews, I 77 granted jurisdiction over Jews of its estates, I 84 elects kings, I 89 usurps power, I 91 ff resorts to services of Jews, I 93 represented among sect of Socinians, I 91 acts contemptuously towards serfs in Ukraina, I 141 f surrenders cities to Swedes, I 155 diets, controlled by clergy and S., impose restrictions on, I 160 oppresses Jewish arendars, I 170 tries to turn Jews into serfs, I 170 forces kings to impose restrictions on Jews, I 181 f exterminated in Ukraina, I 183 ff Kahals warn Jews against acting as stewards of, I 188 controls Quadrennial Diet, I 278 bars Jews from buying crown lands, I 296 Jews forbidden to acquire estates of (1808), I 300 proposes anti-Jewish restrictions to Russian Government, I 322 ff, 324 ff hypocrisy of, exposed by Polish writer, II 98 =Shleshkovski=, Polish physician, attacks Jewish physicians in Poland in anti-Semitic pamphlet, I 96 =Shlieferman=, Jewish soldier in Saratov, accused of ritual murder, II 151 sentenced to penal servitude, II 152 =Shmakov=, anti-Semitic lawyer, defends Krushevan, III 82 appears in Beilis case, III 82 acts as counsel for Kishinev rioters, III 91 f =Shmerling=, of Moghilev, dies while attending Jewish Conference in St. Petersburg, I 304 =Shneor Zalman=, founder of "rational Hasidism," or _Habad_, I 234 resides at Ladi (government of Moghilev), I 234, II 117 moves to Lozno (government of Moghilev), I 234, II 117, 33 favors Russian arms in Franco-Russian War, I 356 f establishes hasidic center in White Russia, I 372 arouses ire of Vilna Gaon, I 374 denounced to Russian Government, I 376 dispatched as prisoner to St. Petersburg and liberated by Paul I., I 376 dispatched again to St. Petersburg and liberated by Alexander I., I 378 author of philosophic work entitled _Tanyo_, I 374 philosophy of, I 381 f rejects _Tzaddik_ cult, I 382 Mendel, grandson of, II 57 successors of, II 117 f See Shneorsohn =Shneor=, Hebrew poet, III 162 =Shneorsohn, Mendel=, leader of White Russian Hasidim, II 57 establishes residence at Lubavichi, II 117 member of Rabbinical Commission, II 118 forced to approve Mendelssohn's Bible translation, II 118 rejects innovations in Jewish education, II 118 f =Shpola= (government of Kiev), pogrom at, III 33 =Shtadlan=, representative of Jews before Government, term explained, I 111 officially designated in Poland as "general syndic," I 111, 160 appointed by Council of Four Lands, I 111, 193 secures ratification of Jewish privileges, I 160 presents applications of Polish Jews to King Sobieski, I 167 =Shtar Isko=, rabbinical form of promissory note, term explained, I 350 =Shtiblach=, name for hasidic houses of prayer, II 124 =Shulhan Arukh=, rabbinical code of law, composed by Joseph Caro, I 123 arrangement of, I 128 supplemented by Isserles, I 124 criticised by Solomon Luria, I 125 rivalled by code of Mordecai Jaffe, I 127 f Polish rabbis write commentaries on, I 128, 130, 200 firmly established in Poland, I 130 amplified by Gaon in Vilna, I 236 =Siberia=, Jewish prisoners in Russo-Polish War deported to (1654), I 245 "Judaizing" sectarians deported to, I 402 ff Jewish juvenile recruits, or cantonists, sent to, II 24 failure of Courland Jews to leave province punished by deportation to, II 34 colonization of Jews in, started by Government (1836); and stopped (1837), II 71 swamps of, considered for Jewish settlement (1882), II 285 accusers of Jews, in ritual murder trial of Velizh, deported to (1835), II 82 accused Jews of Novoya Ushitza (Podolia) deported to (1836) II 85 Jewish printers of Slavuta (Volhynia) deported to, II 123 revolutionaries exiled to, II 243 Jewish revolutionaries exiled to, II 224 governors granted right of deportation to, II 246 criminals sentenced to deportation to, placed in transportation prisons, II 403 "aliens" (semi-savage tribes) in, placed on level with Jews, II 367 Jews of, denied right of movement, III 21 f Jewish recruits dispatched to, III 94 =Sicilist=, vulgar pronunciation for Socialist, III 116 =Sigismund= (_Polish_, Zygmynt), I., king of Poland and duke of Lithuania (1606-1648), favorable to Jews, I 71 f appoints Jewish tax-farmers in Lithuania, I 72 warns authorities of Posen to respect Jewish privileges, I 74 forbids Jews of Posen to keep stores on market-place, I 74; and restricts Jews of Posen to separate quarters, I 75 restricts Jews of Lemberg in pursuit of commerce, I 75 prevents anti-Jewish riot in Cracow, I 76 wife of, accepts bribes from Jews, I 76 appoints commission to investigate charges against Jews of Lithuania, I 80 exonerates Lithuanian Jews, I 81 places Jews on estates under jurisdiction of nobles, I 84 appoints Michael Yosefovich "senior," or chief rabbi of Lithuanian Jews, I 72 f, 104 confirms election of other chief rabbis, I 104 f, 122 confers large powers on rabbis, I 73, 104 f rabbinical conferences meet during reign of, I 109 f kindness of, to Jews commented upon by Polish writer, II 98 =Sigismund= (_Polish_, Zygmunt) II. Augustus, king of Poland (1548-1572), ratifies Jewish privileges, I 83 enlarges and establishes Jewish autonomy, I 83 places Jews on estates under jurisdiction of nobles, I 84 endeavors to stop execution of Jews accused of host desecration, I 86 f forbids ritual murder and hosts trials, I 88 bestows on Jews of Great Poland charter of autonomy (1551), I 105 ff confers on Jews right of establishing _yeshibahs_, and bestows large powers on presidents of _yeshibahs_, I 115 grants Jews of Cracow monopoly of importing Hebrew books, I 131 attended by Jewish body physician, I 132 writes to Ivan the Terrible demanding admission of Jews to Russia, I 243 last king of Yaguello dynasty, I 88 =Sigismund= (_Polish_, Zygmunt) III., king of Poland (1588-1632), I 91 ratifies Jewish privileges, I 93 protects Jews against magistracies, I 94 reaction against "Arian" heresy during reign of, I 91 requires consent of clergy for erection of synagogues, I 98 attended by Jewish court physician, I 136 =Silesia=, Jews fleeing from Crusades seek shelter in, I 41 Jews own estates in, I 42 John Casimir, king of Poland, flees to, I 155 Solomon Maimon ends days in, I 240 =Simferopol= (government of Tavrida), pogrom at, checked (April, 1905), III 115 pogrom at (October, 1905), III 128 =Simeon Volfovich=, see Volfovich =Simon=, of Trent, alleged victim of ritual murder, I 179 =Simon, Sir John=, interpellates Gladstone concerning Russian Jews, II 291 =Simon, Leon=, quoted, III 51, 60 =Sion ("Zion")=, Jewish periodical in Russian, II 218, 220 =Sipyaghin=, Russian Minister of Interior, pursues reactionary policy, III 16 assassinated, III 66 =Sirkis, Joel=, called _Bah_, Polish rabbi and Talmudist, I 130, 206 opposed to philosophy, I 133 =Sittenfeld=, manager of secular Jewish school in Odessa, II 133 =Skarga, Peter=, leading Jesuit in Poland, I 90 =Skharia (Zechariah)= converts Russian priests to Judaism, I 36 =Skvir= (government of Kiev), hasidic center, II 120 =Slaves=, manumission of, among Jews of ancient Crimea, I 15 f =Slavium=, Slav tribe, tributary to Khazars, I 26 =Slavs=, the, tributary to Khazars, I 26 treated tolerantly by Khazars, I 22 throw off Khazar yoke, I 28 German Jews visit lands of, I 33, 39 =Slavuta= (Volhynia), Jewish printing-press in, II 42 f, 123 =Sliosberg, G.=, counsel for Jewish victims of Homel pogrom, III 102 members of Central Committee of League for Equal Rights, III 112 =Sloboda=, older name for government of Kharkov, I 251 =Slutzk=, Jewish community of, represented on Lithuanian _Waad_, I 112 =Smith, Charles Emory=, United States Minister at St. Petersburg, II 395 f =Smolensk=, Polish king appoints Jewish convert _starosta_ of, I 73 visited by Jewish merchants of Poland and Lithuania, I 242 colony of White Russian Jews in, I 249 Borukh Leibov, resident of, converts captain of navy to Judaism, I 249, 251 visited by Jewish merchants of White Russia, I 315 f; but Jews barred from settling in, I 316 anti-Semitic play produced in, III 38 =Smolenskin, Perez=, editor of _ha-Shahar_, II 218, 234 Hebrew writer, II 234 ff theory of Judaism by, II 235 f joins "Love of Zion" movement, II 232 =Smorgoni or Smorgon= (government of Vilna), home of Menashe Ilyer, II 114 Jewish labor movement in, III 55 =Smyela= (government of Kiev), pogrom at (1881), II 256; (1904), III 99 =Smyrna=, Asia Minor, Sabbatai Zevi appears in, I 205 center of Sabbatian movement, I 206 =Sobieski=, king of Poland (1674-1696), protects Jews, I 165 f enlarges autonomy of Jews, I 166 rebuked by Polish diet for protection of Jews, I 167 protects Jewish tax-farmer Bezalel, I 167 upholds authority of _Waads_, I 194 =Socialism= (and Socialists), in Russia, propaganda of, in Hebrew, II 223 f rise of, among Jews, III 55 ff championed by "League of Jewish Workingmen" ("_Bund_"), III 56 combined with Zionism by _Poale Zion_, III 57, 145 represented in Russia by Social-Democrats and Social Revolutionaries, III 66, 119 Jews active in both wings of, III 67 extreme wing of, resorts to terrorism, III 66, 109 f Socialists and Zionists organize self-defence at Homel, II 87 spread of, among Jews blamed for pogroms, III 89 gains in Second Duma, III 142 losses in Third Duma, III 153 Jewish socialists refuse co-operation with other Jewish parties, III 144 socialistic factions among Jews, III 145 socialistic candidate elected in Warsaw with help of Jews, III 167 See Bund and Revolutionary Movement =Society of Israelitish Christians=, designed for conversion of Jews, I 396, II 74 Alexander I. looked to, for solution of Jewish problem, I 399 endeavors of, futile, I 400 disbandment of, recommended by Golitzin (1824), I 400 disbanded (1833), I 400 =Society for Diffusion of Enlightenment= established in St. Petersburg (1867), II 214 f branch of, established in Odessa, II 215 f accused by Brafman of forming part of World Kahal, II 316 employs J. L. Gordon as secretary, II 229 adopts resolution demanding constitution for Russia, III 111 creates new type of Jewish school, III 160 =Society for Granting Assistance to Jewish Colonists and Artisans in Syria and Palestine= legalized by Russian Government (1891), II 421 f =Socinians=, the, Christian rationalistic sect in Poland, I 91, 136 =Socinus, Faustus=, founder of Socinian sect, I 91 =Sokhachev=, host trial in, I 86 f Jews of, display Polish patriotism, I 292 =Sokolov=, Russian lawyer, acts as council for Jewish victims of Kishinev pogrom, III 91; and of Homel pogrom, III 102 =Sokolow, Nahum=, editor of _ha-Tzefirah_, III 60 joins political Zionism, III 60 =Soldiers, Jewish=, refused right of universal residence by Alexander II., II 171 permitted to remain in St. Petersburg, II 172 forbidden to return to native villages, II 384 forbidden to remain in Moscow, II 404 forbidden to spend furlough outside of Pale, III 21 stationed in Siberia, III 94 families of, expelled, III 95 forbidden to reside in Port Arthur, III 157 Russian S's. make pogroms, III 100 f See Conscription, Military Service, "Nicholas Soldiers," and Recruiting =Solkhat= (now Eski Krym, Crimea), ancient capital of Tatar Khans, Jewish communities in, I 34 f =Solomon (Shelomo)=, of Karlin, hasidic leader, I 372 =Solomon=, of Lemberg, recognized by Polish king as _Rosh-Yeshibah_, I 115 =Solomon Ephraim=, of Lenchytaa, criticises system of Jewish education in Poland, I 119 f =Solovaychik=, editor of _Sion_, II 220 =Solovyov, Vladimir=, Russian historian, quoted, I 247 collects signatures for public protest against persecution of Jews, II 386 ff appeals to Alexander III. on behalf of Jews, II 388 =Sonnenberg, Sundel=, of Grodno, represents Jews at Russian army headquarters, I 358 acts as deputy of Russian Jews in St. Petersburg, I 392 ff deprived of office, I 395 active against ritual murder libel, II 74, 99 =South= (and South-west), of Russia, forms part of Pale (1835), II 342 Max Lilienthal tours through, II 56 represented on Rabbinical Commission, II 57 Tzaddiks in, II 119 ff Jewish writers in Russian language hail from, II 238 pogroms in, II 267 f, 209, 258 f, III 99 ff emigration from, II 297 f agricultural colonies in, III 24; see Agriculture; see also North-west and Russia, White =Spain=, Caliphate of Cordova in, I 24 epistle of king of Khazars arrives in, I 27 Jewish physicians in Poland natives of, I 131 offers shelter to Russian Jews, II 268 =Spector, Isaac Elhanan=, rabbi of Kovno, attends Jewish Conference in St. Petersburg, II 304 =Spektor=, editor of Yiddish magazine, III 59 =Spencer, Herbert=, influences Russian-Jewish _intelligenzia_, II 209 =Speranski=, Russian statesman, recommends liberal policy towards Jews, I 399 ff Statute of 1804 contravenes policy of, I 345 =Spiessruten= (running the gauntlet), term explained, II 85 applied as punishment, II 85, 123 abolished in 1863, II 85 =Spira, Nathan=, Cabalist, I 135 =Spiritual Biblical Brotherhood=, Jewish reform sect in Yelisavetgrad, II 333 f =St. Bartholomew Night=, I 89 =St. Petersburg=, capital of Russia, Jewish financial agents admitted by Peter the Great to, I 248 Borukh and Vornitzin tried at, and burned, I 252 f delegates of Gubernatorial Kahals assembled at (1803), I 337, 386 beginnings of Jewish community in, I 337 f Committee for Jewish Affairs appointed in (1809), I 352 Finkelstein, delegate of Moghilev Jews, proceeds to, I 363 Shneor Zalman arrested and dispatched to, I 376, 378 Deputies of Jewish People reside in, I 393 f, II 74 temporary residence in, permitted to Jewish merchants (1835), II 40 Jews illegally residing in, severely punished, II 42 "harmful" Hebrew books ordered sent to, II 43 Max Lilienthal invited to, II 53 Rabbinical Commission summoned to, II 56, 118 influential Jews of Western Europe invited to, II 67 visited by Moses Montefiore, II 68 visited by Altaras of Marseilles, II 69 Congregation Board of Warsaw sends deputation to, II 110 Baron Joseph Günzburg presides over Jewish community of, II 152 influential Jews of, apply for equal rights, II 159 f Jewish physicians barred from, II 167 Jewish soldiers in body-guard of, permitted to remain in, II 172 Lutostanski, accuser of Jews, welcomed in, II 203 _Illustratzia_, Russian magazine in, attacks Jews, II 207 f Jewish intellectuals in, II 214 Society for Diffusion of Enlightenment established in, II 214 f Russian-Jewish press in St. Petersburg, II 221, 332 f, 59, III 77, 162 Yiddish press in, III 59, 162 Hebrew press in, see _ha-Melitz_ Alexander II. assassinated in, III 243 governor of, granted wide discretionary powers, II 246 emissaries from, prepare pogroms in South, II 248 Jewish community of, presided over by Baron Horace Günzburg, II 260 English Jew expelled from, II 262 Jews of, forbidden to collect pogrom fund, II 263 Conference of Jewish Notables in (1881), II 277; (1882), II 299, 304 ff Jewish demonstration against pogroms in, II 286 Dr. Drabkin, rabbi of, interviews Ignatyev, II 305 Jews of Balta, send deputation to, II 316 f Jews expelled from, II 319 Jews of, persecuted by Gresser, city-governor, II 343 ff, 397 f admission of Jews to educational institutions of, limited to 3%, II 350, III 158 Jews prominent at bar of, II 352 Jewish notables of, consulted by Pahlen Commission, II 369 f British ambassador at, assured of discontinuation of Jewish persecutions, II 382 Jews of, harassed anew, II 385 Solovyov collects signatures for public protest against Jewish persecutions in, II 387 petition of Guildhall meeting in London sent to, II 392 American Minister at, instructed to exert influence on behalf of Jews, II 395 _Russkaya Zhizn_ ("Russian Life"), paper in, depicts Jewish sufferings, II 397 _Novosti_ ("The News"), paper in, confiscated for defending Jews, II 407 expulsion of all Jews from, contemplated, II 410 f visited by White, representative of Baron Hirsch, II 416 f, 419 Central Committee of Jewish Colonization Association established in, II 420 Jewish Colonization Association sends deputation to, III 10 Jews of, submit memorandum to Government, III 11 Jews of, ask permission to acquire land for agriculture, III 24 new educational restrictions in, III 30 "Smugglers," anti-Semitic play, produced in, III 38 _Znamya_ ("The Banner"), anti-Semitic paper, appears in, III 70 Levendahl, Government agent dispatched from, to arrange pogroms, III 71 visited by Dr. Herzl, III 89 American ambassadors in, reported to have protested against persecution, III 96 Plehve assassinated in, III 97 Conference of Zemstvo workers in, opposes autocracy (1904), III 105 "Bloody Sunday" in, III 106 Jewish community of, signs petition for equal rights, III 108 Society for Diffusion of Enlightenment in, demands constitution for Russia, III 111 League for Equal Rights establishes central bureau in, III 112 Jewish community of, protests against denial of Jewish franchise, III 121 Bogdanovich, general in, assists October pogroms, 111 125 League for Equal Rights holds convention in, III 131 Jewish parties form permanent council in, III 148 Jewish Literary Society founded in, III 160 f Bar Association of, protests against Beilis trial, III 166 Natives and residents of: J. L. Gordon, Hebrew poet, II 229 Nyevakhovich, convert, Russian poet, I 386 f Abraham Peretz, Jewish merchant (convert), I 338, 386, 412 Antonio Sanchez, court physician, I 258 Nota Shklover, Jewish merchant, I 330 =St. Petersburg= (government), Jews expelled from villages of, I 409 Localities in: Luga, I 409 Schlüsselburg, II 97 =Stage=, Russian, anti-Semitism on, III 38 f =Stanislav Augustus Poniatovski=, see Poniatovski =Staro-Constantinov=, see Constantinov =Starodub= (government of Chernigov), Cossack massacre at (1648), I 149 pogrom at (1891), II 411 f =Starosta=, high Polish office, name explained, I 69 encroaches on duties of voyevoda, I 46 Lithuanian Jews subject to jurisdiction of, I 60, 94, 104 S. of Sokhachev ordered by king to stop execution of Jews, I 86 S. of Brest supports Kahal, I 190 S. of Kaniev makes sport of Jews, I 169 f S's. administer Ukraina, I 142 S's. begin to oppress Jews, I 169 determines extent of Jewish autonomy, I 191 =Stashitz= (_Polish_, Stashyc), Polish priest and statesman, anti-Semitic author, I 281 f, II 95 f opposes plan of reform favorable to Jews, II 93 =Statistics=, of Jews, in Poland, I 66, 187, 263 f, 390 in Russia, II 341, 415 in White Russia, I 307 in Pale, II 168 of Jewish first-guild merchants in Pale, II 162 of Jewish artisans in Pale, II 168 of Jewish economic activity in Russian South-west, II 194 of Jews in agrarian pursuits, III 24 of Jewish recruits, II 355 f of Jewish physicians in Russian army, III 95 of Jewish pauperism, III 23 f of Jews expelled from Russia, I 254, 258 of Jewish emigration to United States, II 373, 421, III 148 of Jewish emigration to Argentina, II 419 =Statute=, "Lithuanian S." (1566), I 87 "S. concerning the Organization of the Jews" (1804), I 342 ff; criticized by Jewish representatives, I 349 ff "S. of Conscription and Military Service" (1827), II 18 ff, 29; extended to Poland (1843), II 109; leaves inner life of Jews unchanged, II 48 Military S. (1874), II 199 ff, 355 "S. on the Jews" (1835), II 28, 33, 34 ff, 39 ff; fixes age of marriage, II 112; fails to assimilate Jews, II 47 "S. concerning Zemstvos Organizations" (1864), admits Jews to local self-government, II 173 "S. concerning Zemstvos Organizations" (1890), bars Jews from local self-government, II 385 f Municipal S. (1870) limits admission of Jews to one-third and bars Jews from office of burgomaster, II 198 f "S. concerning Enforced Public Safety" (1881), II 246 See Charter =Stavropol= (government), nomads of, placed on level with Jews, II 367 =Stephen Batory=, see Batory =Stern, Abraham=, Jewish scholar and mathematician in Warsaw, II 103 =Stern, Bezalel=, principal of modern Jewish school in Odessa, II 57, 133 =Stillman=, Jewish workingman, fires at Odessa Chief of Police, III 107 =Stolypin=, Russian Minister of Interior, answers interpellation concerning pogroms, III 136, 138 appointed Prime Minister, III 138, 140 attacked by terrorist, III 140 promises mitigation of Jewish disabilities, III 141 controlled by League of Russian People, III 151 excludes Jewish students from Kiev Polytechnicum, III 152 stops expulsion of Jews from Interior, III 154 becomes more reactionary, III 156 f determines to uproot alien cultures in Russia, III 159 f assassinated at Kiev, III 164 =Strakhov=, Russian official entrusted with conduct of Velizh ritual murder case, II 76 ff =Strashun, Mattathiah=, Talmudist and Maskil in Vilna, II 136 =Strelnikov=, Russian public prosecutor, calls upon Jews to leave Russia, II 264 f =Strigolnik, Carp=, founder of Strigolniki sect, I 36 =Strikes= adopted as revolutionary weapon, III 125 f arranged by "Bund," III 130 =Stroganov=, Russian Minister of Interior, advocates liberal attitude towards Jews, II 47 =Stroganov=, Count, governor-general of New Russia, advocates emancipation of Jews, II 168 f =Studzienski=, alleged victim of ritual murder, I 178 f =Stundists=, the, rationalistic Christian sect in Russia, II 333 Jacob Gordin influenced by, II 333 =Stupnitza=, near Pshemyshl (Galicia), ritual murder libel at, I 178 =Sub-Starosta=, Polish official, Jews subject to jurisdiction of, I 60; see Starosta =Subbotin=, Russian economist, points out pauperism in Pale, III 23 =Sudak=, locality in Crimea, subject to Khazars, I 26 =Sugdas=, locality in Crimea, subject to Khazars, I 26 =Summer Resorts=, Jews barred from, III 18 f bill admitting Jews to, rejected, III 154 Jews expelled from, III 157 See Residence, Right of =Superstition= rampant in Poland, I 203 f =Supreme Secret Council=, official body in Russia (18th century), I 249 f =Surgeons=, see Physicians =Suvar=, Slav tribe, subject to Khazars, I 26 =Suvarov=, Russian general, attacks Praga, suburb of Warsaw, I 296 =Suvorin=, editor of _Novoye Vremya_, II 380 produces anti-Semitic play, III 38 =Svyatopolk II.=, prince of Kiev (1093-1113), favors Jews, I 32 =Svyatopolk-Mirski=, governor-general of Vilna and later Russian Minister of Interior, pursues liberal policy, III 99, 105 dismissed, III 107 =Svyatoslav=, prince of Kiev, defeats Khazars, I 28 =Swedes=, the, invade Poland, I 154 ff =Switzerland=, Zionist Congresses held in, III 44 =Syech=, name of Cossack Republic, I 143 =Syedletz= (_Polish_, Siedlce), pogroms at (1905), III 119, 140 f =Syn Otyechestva ("Son of the Fatherland")=, Russian magazine, protests against pogroms, III 35 =Synagogue=, in Bosporus, I 15 f erection of, in Poland, requires royal permission, I 98 building of new S's., in Poland, forbidden (1720), I 171 erection of, near church in Russia, forbidden (1835), I 41 S's. in Moscow closed, II 397 Great S. of Moscow closed, I 423 ff, III 12 Jews fight for preservation of Moscow S., III 12 ff =Synhedrion=, convoked by Napoleon, I 298, 351 convocation of, viewed with suspicion by Austria and Russia, I 346 ff represented by Russian Government both as anti-Jewish and anti-Christian, I 348 influences Jews of Warsaw, I 386 fatal error of, in denying Jewish nationality, III 53 creation of, in Russia, advocated by Dyerzhavin, I 333 convocation of, in Russia suggested by Pestel, Russian revolutionary, I 412 =Synod=, the, see Church Council =Synod, Holy=, in Russia, issues circular against Napoleon, I 348 deals severely with "Judaizers," I 402 f appoints Brafman, Jewish informer, instructor of Hebrew, II 187 presided over by Pobyedonostzev, II 245; III 9 f =Syria=, emigration of Jews from, to Tauris, I 16 =Taganrog= (government of Yekaterinoslav), excluded from Pale, II 346 =Talmud=, the, studied by Khazars, I 21 study of, pursued by early Russian Jews in Germany, I 33 predominant factor in Jewish education, I 114 ff study of, stimulated by Jewish autonomy, I 121 ff reigns supreme in Russia and Poland, I 195, 221, 264, 198 ff, 380, II 51 rejected by Frankists, I 214 f burned at Kamenetz-Podolsk, I 215 importance of study of, minimized by Besht, founder of Hasidism, I 224 ff arrogance of students of, attacked by Besht's disciple, I 230 neglected by Hasidim, I 235 burning of, recommended by Polish reformers, I 282 opposed by Frank of Kreslavka, Jewish Mendelssohnian, I 331 regarded by Russian Council of State as source of Jewish suffering, II 47 accused by Uvarov of demoralizing Jews, II 51 weakening and uprooting of, aimed at by Nicholas I., II 58, 66 criticised by David Friedländer, II 90 assailed by Abbé Chiarini in Warsaw, II 104 defended by I. B. Levinsohn, II 131 injuriousness of, emphasized by Russian Commission, II 195 attacked by Lutostanski, II 204 conceived by Lilienblum as factor in Jewish reform, II 236 attacked by Gubernatorial Commissions, II 275 rejected by New Israel Sect, II 334 =Talmud Torah=, Jewish public school in Poland, I 114, 118 maintained by Waads, I 195 in Moscow, placed in Synagogue, III 13 =Talno= (government of Kiev), hasidic center, II 120 =Taman Peninsula=, Greek city-republic on, I 14 Samkers, Jewish city on, I 23 owned by Guizolfi, Italian Jew, I 36 =Tannaim=, names of, collected by Polish rabbi, I 200 =Tanyo=, philosophic work by Shneor Zalman, I 372, II 117 =Tarashkevich=, anti-Semitic priest in Velizh, II 77 =Targovitza= (_Polish_, Targowica), confederacy of, between Russians and Poles (1792), I 292 =Tarku (Semender)=, Caucasian city, subject to Khazars, I 26 =Tarnopol= (Galicia), Meir of, Hebrew author, I 201 =Tarsus= (Asia Minor), Jewish community in, I 14 =Tatars=, the, Russia under dominion of, I 29 conquer Crimea, I 33 Jews of Crimea under rule of, I 34 ff T. of Lemberg granted autonomy by Casimir the Great, I 53 barred from office and from keeping Christian domestics in Lithuania, I 87 invade Polish border provinces and combated by Cossacks, I 142 f form alliance with Cossacks under Khmelnitzki, I 144 ff, 150 spare Jewish prisoners, I 145, 157, 205 take Jews of Polonnoye captive, I 148 cause spread of Mohammedanism, I 254 =Tauri, or Taurians=, tribe, I 13 ff =Taurian Bosporus=, see Kerch =Taurian Chersonesus=, see Bosporus =Tauris=, northern shores of Black Sea, I 13 immigration of Jews into, I 13 ff Khazars move towards, I 19 bishops of, try to proselytize Khazars, I 20 remnant of Khazar kingdom in, I 28 ruled by Pechenegs and Polovtzis, I 29 retains name Khazaria, I 29 in relations with Kiev, I 33 ff =Tavrida= (region, or government), extent of, I 13 Jews permitted to settle in (1791), I 316 f Karaites settled in, I 318 included in Pale (1835), II 40, 428 pogroms in, III 115, 120, 128 Cities in: Kerch, III 115, 120 Melitopol, III 115 Simferopol, III 115, 128 Mylta, II 428 f =Tax=, under Polish régime, paid by Jews to Church, I 57 f paid by Jews to Catholic academies (called Kozubales), I 161, 166 Polish king conditions protection to Jews on payment of, I 84 collected by Jews on estates of Shlakhta, I 93 apportioned by Waads and collected by Kahals, I 107, 181, 189 f, 197 f Council of Four Lands declines responsibility for collection of, I 194 increased (1717), I 169 changed into individual T. of two gulden per head (1764), I 197 raised to three gulden per head (1775), I 267 disproportionately assessed by Kahals, I 275 Jews of Minsk complain about abuses in collection of, I 275 paid on taking possession of real estate, I 190 paid for right of sojourn in Warsaw, I 269, II 95 imposed on Jews in lieu of conscription (1817), I 95; (1831), I 107 =Tax=, under Russian régime, per capita T. of one rubel imposed on Jews of White Russia (1772), I 307 Kahals of White Russia charged with collection of, I 309 Jews of annexed Polish provinces required to pay double T. (1794), I 318 payment of double T. confirmed by Paul I., I 321 Karaites relieved from payment of double T., I 318 payment of double T. by Jews commented upon by "Jewish Committee" (1804), I 341 manufacturers and artisans relieved from payment of double T. (1801), I 344 Jewish deputies plead for abolition of double T., I 349 Kahals in Courland organized for collection of, I 321 estates, subject to payment of (so-called taxable estates), hindered in right of transit, I 322 alleviations in payment of, promised to converts, I 397 in lieu of conscription, I 318; II 15, 20 irregularity in payment of, punished by conscription, II 19 modification in payment of, suggested by Council of State, II 49 Kahals limited to conscription and collection of (1844), I 60 revenue from meat or basket T., called _Korobka_, placed under control of Russian authorities (1844), I 61 "auxiliary basket T." (on immovable property, etc.), instituted, II 61 levied on Sabbath candles for maintenance of Crown schools, I 61 f levied on traditional Jewish dress in Russia (1843), II 110; extended to Poland, I 110, 144 T. on passports waived in case of Jewish immigrants, I 418, 420 basket T. represented as Jewish system of finance, II 194 abuses of basket T. depicted by Mendele Mokher Sforim, II 232 Pahlen Commission inquires about purposes of basket T., II 370 use of basket T. for defraying emigration suggested by Russian official, II 420 basket and candle T. for non-Jewish purposes, II 426 f basket T. used to defray night raids upon Jews, III 20 =Tax Farming (and Tax Farmers)=, Jews engage in, in Poland, I 44, 67, 69, 71 in Lithuania, I 60, 65 forbidden by Church Councils, I 49 opposed by petty Shlakhta, I 77 forbidden by Piotrkov Diet of 1538, I 77 f Shlakhta forces king to bar Jews from, I 182 law barring Jews from, upheld by rabbis, I 110 Kahals call upon Jews to refrain from, I 188 Jews from White Russia engage in, in Smolensk, I 249 class of Jewish tax farmers in Russia, II 72 Individual tax farmers: Bezalel, I 167 Borukh Leibov, I 249 Abraham and Michael Yosefovich, I 73 Yosko, I 71 Saul Yudich, I 94 =Teachers, Jewish=, see Heder and School "=Temporary Rules=" of May 3, 1882, known as May Laws, genesis of, II 309 ff contents of, II 312 effect of, II 318 f old settlers permitted to stay in villages under, II 16 misconstrued to apply to old settlers, II 340 ff check agriculture among Jews, III 24 f =Tennyson=, English poet, expresses sympathy with Russian Jews, II 258 =Teplitz, T.=, prominent Jew of Warsaw, II 103 =Terentyeva, Mary=, accuses Jews of ritual murder, II 75 ff exiled to Siberia for false accusation, II 82 =Territorialism= accepts idea of Pinsker's _Autoemancipation_, II 332 rise of, III 41 born out of Zionist organization, III 185 secedes from Zionist organization, III 144 =Terrorism=, rampant under Alexander II., II 243 favored by Social-Revolutionary party, III 66, 109 f Jews take small part in, III 67 acts of, committed by Jews, III 107 rampant in Poland and Baltic provinces (1905), III 130 used as pretext for pogroms, III 136 intensified after dissolution of First Duma, III 140 =Tetyev= (government of Kiev), massacre at, I 184 =Teutonic Order=, the, name explained, I 63 engages in war with Poland, I 63 =Theodosia=, see Kaffa =Theodosius II.=, emperor of Byzantium, persecutes Jews, I 18 =Theodosius=, Abbot of Kiev monastery, persecutes Jews, I 31 =Theophanes=, Byzantine writer, quoted, I 18 "=Third Section=," the, see Police, Political =Thorn= (_Polish_, Torun), annexed by Prussia (1793), I 292 =Tiberias= (Palestine), visited by Nahman of Bratzlav, I 383 =Tiflis= (Caucasia), anti-Semitic play produced at, III 38 =Tikhanovich=, chief of political police in Syedletz, engineers pogrom, III 140 thanked by governor-general of Warsaw, III 141 =Tilsit, Peace of= (1807), leads to establishment of duchy of Warsaw, I 297 affects policy of Alexander I. towards Jews, I 350 =Tlusta= (Galicia), Besht settles in, I 223 =Tobias=, of Ruzhany, martyr, I 162 f =Tobolsk= (government), lands in, set aside for colonization of Jews, II 71 =Toledo= (Spain), Jacob ben Asher rabbi of, I 118 =Tolstoi, Demetrius=, Minister of Interior, II 314 adopts energetic measures against pogroms, II 315 anti-pogrom circular of, quoted by United States Minister, II 293 destroys plans of Pahlen Commission, II 370 takes into consideration economic importance of Jews, II 428 =Tolstoi, Leo=, preaches "Going to the People," II 222 keeps silent on Jewish persecutions, II 325 preaches doctrine of non-resistance, II 371 protests against Jewish persecutions in Russia, II 387 f condemns Kishinev massacre, III 76 protests against atrocities of Russian Government, III 149 =Tomsk= (Siberia), pogrom against intellectuals at, III 128 =Tosafists=, the, name explained, I 117 Rabbi Eliezer, of school of, quoted, I 43 work of, studied in Poland, I 117 method of, followed by Solomon Luria, I 125 =Totleben=, Russian governor-general of Vilna, opposes settling of Jews in villages, II 276 checks pogroms, II 276 =Tovyanski= (_Polish_, Towianski), Polish mystic, preaches union of Jews and Poles peoples, II 108 =Trades=, see Artisans =Trade-Unions, or Trade-Guilds=, in Poland, hostile to Jews, I 70, 74 =Trans-Caspian Region=, Akhal-Tekke, oasis in, suggested for settlement of Jews, II 306 alien tribes of, placed on level with Jews, II 367 =Transportation Prisons=, term explained, II 403 exiled Moscow Jews placed in, II 403, 405 f =Trepov=, Assistant-Minister of Interior, favors Jewish franchise, III 122 =Trepov=, Chief of Police, orders suppression of revolution, III 126 =Tribunal=, Crown T. in Poland, name explained, I 96 tries ritual murder cases, I 96, 100, 172 f =Troitza Monastery=, near Moscow, II 203 =Troki= (province of Vilna), Crimean Jews settle in, I 35 Jewish community in, I 59 Karaites settle in, I 60 Jews expelled from (1495), I 65 =Troki, Isaac=, author of anti-Christian treatise, I 137 f =Tromba, Nicholas=, archbishop of Gnesen, attends Synod of Constance and presides over Synod of Kalish, I 57 =Troyanov= (Volhynia), tragic fate of Jewish self-defence at, III 116 ff =Trubetzkoy=, Russian commissioner, exonerates Jews of Mstislavl, II 87 =Trubetzkoy=, professor, head of delegation to Nicholas II., III 122 =Trudoviki= ("Laborites"), Bramson, Jewish member of, III 134 lose in Third Duma, III 153 =Tsushima=, Russian fleet destroyed by Japanese in vicinity of, III 119 =Tudela= (Spain), Benjamin of, Jewish traveller, I 32 =Tugendhold, Jacob=, Jewish assimilationist in Warsaw, II 98 f refutes Abbé Chiarini, II 104 =Tugendhold, Wolf=, brother of former, censor in Vilna, II 136 =Tula= (government), "Judaizers" in, I 401 f =Tulchinski, Borukh=, see Borukh of Tulchyn =Tulchyn= (Podolia), Khmelnitzki massacre at, 146 f residence of Pestel, Russian revolutionary, II 411 =Turgay, Territory of= (Central Asia), semi-civilized tribes of, placed on level with Jews, II 367 =Turgenieff= (=Turgeniev=), Russian writer, II 210 influences S. J. Abramovich, II 231 keeps silent on Jewish persecutions, II 325 =Turish=, hasidic center, II 120 =Turkey=, takes over colony in Kaffa, I 34 Jewish center in, I 66 Polish Jews export goods to, I 68 Jews of Lithuania suspected of preparing to flee to, I 51 raided by Cossacks, I 143 Jewish prisoners of war carried by Tatars to, I 145, 157, 205 lays claim to Ukraina, I 159 Sabbatai Zevi carries on propaganda in, I 205, 210 influence of, on Polish Jewry, I 207 f annexes part of Podolia (1672), I 208; returns it to Poland (1699), I 208 Jacob Frank travels about in, I 212; sent back from Poland to, I 213; returns to Poland from, I 216 engages in war with Russia (1739), I 253 f establishment of Jewish State in, suggested by Russian revolutionary, I 412 Moses Montefiore pays visit to, II 68 _Bilu_ pioneers enter into negotiations with, II 322 hampers Palestinian colonization, II 375, 422, III 42 Dr. Herzl enters into negotiations with, III 45 f Russian Government promises to exert influence over, in favor of Zionism, II 83 =Twenty-One-Verst Zone=, see Border Zone =Tver= (Central Russia), pogrom against intellectuals at, III 128 =Typography=, see Printing-Press =Tzaddik= ("=The Righteous Man="), title of hasidic leader, rival of rabbi, I 235 revered by Jewish masses, I 274; II 112 controls rabbinate in Russian South-west, I 371 gains foothold in Lithuania, I 372 type of, in Poland, resembles that of _Habad_, II 123 miraculous stories about, circulate among Hasidim, II 124 firmly entrenched, II 116 ff forbidden by Russian Government to travel about, II 212 See Tzaddikism and Hasidism =Tzaddikism= (cult of _Tzaddik_), as conceived by Besht, I 227 developed by Baer of Mezherich, I 230 practical consequences of, I 231 f extreme formulation of, I 232 f viewed with apprehension by Elijah of Vilna, I 374 triumphant in South-west, I 381 vulgar form of, rejected by Shneor Zalman, I 382 degeneration of, I 382 f extermination of, advocated by Kalmansohn, I 385 criticised by Pestel, Russian revolutionary, I 411 attacked by Maskilim, II 210; see Tzaddik and Hasidism =Tzarmis=, Slav tribe, subject to Khazars, I 26 =Uganda= (British East Africa), offered as Jewish settlement to Zionists, III 84 f =Ukase=, term explained, I 249; spelling of word, I 6 =Ukraina= (=Ukraine=), name explained, I 140 part of, called Little Russia, invaded and annexed by Russia (1654), I 153, 244 f divided between Poland and Russia (1667), I 159 Jewish massacres in (1648), I 139 ff part of, barred to Jews (1649), I 151; reopened to Jews (1651), I 152 Jews decimated in, I 157 uprisings against Poles and Jews in (18th century), I 182 ff Jewish massacres in, stimulate propaganda of Sabbatai Zevi, I 205 talmudic culture deteriorates in, I 199 intellectual development of Jews in, differs from that in North-west, I 221 character of Hasidism in, I 232, II 119 ff type of Tzaddik in, I 233; differs from that in Poland, II 123 Tzaddik dynasty of Chernobyl widely ramified in, I 382 Jews expelled from (1727), I 249 transfer of Polish Jews to, suggested, I 284 included in Pale (1794), I 317 Galatovski, Ukrainian writer, refers to Sabbatai Zevi, I 205 Russian revolutionaries appeal to Ukrainian people, II 274 Ukrainian cultural institutions suppressed by Russian Government, III 160 See Russia, Little =Ulrich Von Hutten=, epistles of, imitated in Hebrew, II 126 =Uman= (_Polish_, Human, province of Kiev), massacre at, I 184 Nahman of Bratzlav dies at, I 383 place of pilgrimage for Bratzlav Hasidim, I 383, II 122 =Uniat Church=, the, I 141 =Union of American Hebrew Congregations= appeals to United States Government on behalf of Russian Jews, II 293 "=Union of Lublin=" (1569), I 88 =Unitarians=, the, Christian rationalistic sect in Poland, I 136 =United States of America=, Max Lilienthal emigrates to, II 59 Marcus Jastrow emigrates to, II 179 emigration of Russian Jews to, II 268 f, 297 f, 321, 327 f, 373 ff, 421, III 104 stirred by Warsaw pogrom, II 283 Government of, protests against Jewish persecutions in Russia, II 292 ff, 394 ff, 408 ff Congress of, protests against Jewish persecutions in Russia, II 294 ff, 394 Jewish center in, suggested as alternative by Pinsker, II 331 Jacob Gordin settles in, II 335 Jewish agricultural colonies in, II 374 economic condition of Jews in, II 374 Jewish emigrants in, said to wish for return to Russia, II 393 Government of, sends two Commissioners to Russia, II 407 exiled Moscow Jews emigrate to, II 413, 416 emigration to, embodied in Jewish pogrom of Dubnow, III 54 agitated over Kishinev massacre, III 78 Kishinev massacre stimulates emigration to, III 85 f fear of new Kishinev pogrom intensifies emigration to, III 96 ambassador of, in St. Petersburg, reported to have protested against Jewish persecutions, III 96 emigration to, embodied in pogrom of Jewish National Party in Russia, III 147 f statistics of Jewish emigration to, III 148 Hebrew writers in, III 163 =University=, Polish Jews study at U. of Padua, I 132 "Statute of 1804" admits Jews to Russian U's., I 345 Jewish U. graduates admitted into Russian Interior and to civil service (1861), II 166; required to possess learned degree, II 165, 167; requirement dropped (1879), II 167 Jewish U. graduates permitted to keep two Jewish servants in Russian Interior, II 166; fictitious servants of, II 344 ff Jews with U. education permitted to live in villages and own property (1904), III 98; privilege extended to wives and children, III 99 Jewish U. students suspected of revolutionary leanings, II 348, III 28 admission of Jews to, restricted (1887), II 350; placed on Statute books (1908), III 157 f restricted admission drives Jews into foreign U's, II 351, III 31, 158; and makes them antagonistic to Government, III 31 restricted admission to, abolished by professional councils (1905), III 124; restored (1907), III 152; placed on Statute books (1908), III 157 f See Education and School =Ural=, territory of, semi-civilized tribes of placed on level with Jews, II 367 =Urussov=, governor of Bessarabia, and later Assistant-Minister of Interior, favors mitigation of Jewish disabilities, III 93 discloses personal animosity of Nicholas II. against Jews, III 93 issues warning against pogroms, III 97 reveals in _Memoirs_ Plehve's share in pogroms, III 97 discloses in Duma share of Russian Government in October pogroms, III 126, 138 =Ushitza=, see Novaya Ushitza =Ussishkin=, Russian Zionist leader, III 47 =Ustrugov=, deputy-governor of Bessarabia, persecutes Jews, III 70 assists in arranging Kishinev massacre, VIII 71 sued by Jews, III 92 =Uvarov, Sergius=, Minister of Public Instruction, endeavors to spread enlightenment among Russian Jews, II 46 ff lays plans before "Jewish Committee," II 50 ff visits Lilienthal's school in Riga, II 52 negotiates with Lilienthal, II 53 instructs Lilienthal to enter into correspondence with Jewish leaders in Western Europe, II 67 petitioned by Moses Montefiore on behalf of Russian Jews, II 68 plans of, received favorably by Jews of Vilna, II 136 f See Lilienthal =Valnyev=, Minister of Interior, favors admission of Jewish artisans and mechanics into Russian Interior, II 169 f =Vannovski=, Minister of War, restricts number of Jewish surgeons in Russian army, II 319 f accepts post of Minister of Public Instruction and curtails admission of Jews to universities, III 29 =Varta= (_Polish_, Warta), Diet of (1423), restricts commercial operations of Jews, I 58 =Varta= (_Polish_, Warta), river, lands on banks of, attract Jews, I 39 =Vasa Dynasty=, of Swedish origin, rules in Poland, I 91 =Vasilchikov=, Count, governor-general of Kiev, favors admission of Jewish artisans into Russian Interior, II 168 =Veitelson, Marcus=, Jewish deputy in St. Petersburg, I 393 =Velizh= (government of Vitebsk), ritual murder trial at, II 75 ff Alexander I. passes through, and orders opening of case, II 76 Jews of, acquitted, II 83 =Venentit=, Slav tribe, subject to Khazars, I 26 =Venice=, Jewish Palestine pilgrims from Poland pass through, I 209 Master Leon, Russian court physician, invited from, I 37 =Victoria=, Queen of England, recommends Moses Montefiore to Nicholas I., II 68 =Vienna=, Jewish bankers in, petition Polish king on behalf of Posen Jews, I 176 Jews of, assist Jewish Palestine pilgrims from Poland to reach Constantinople, I 209 Congress of, inaugurates European reaction, I 359 Congress of, transfers duchy of Warsaw to Russia, I 390, II 88 Lieberman, Russian-Jewish socialist, publishes _ha-Emet_ in, II 223 Smolenskin resides in, II 234; and publishes _ha-Shahar_ in, II 218 secret circular of Plehve made known in, II 381 Dr. Herzl resides in, III 42 =Vigdorovich, Samuel=, rabbi of Vilna, engages in litigation with Kahal, I 275 f =Vilenski Vyestnik= ("The Vilna Herald"), publishes Brahman's articles against Kahal, II 189 =Vilkomir= (government of Kovno), home of M. Lilienblum, II 236 =Villages=, transfer of Jews from to towns ordered by Catherine II. (1795), I 319 Jews retained in, by land owners, I 323 Russian officials given wide powers in dislodging Jews from (1797), I 323 f expulsion of Jews from, decreed in Statute of 1804, I 343 projected expulsion from, affects half million Jews, I 346 expulsion checked by fear of Napoleon's invasion (1807), I 347 f Jewish deputies plead for repeal, or postponement of expulsion from, I 349 expulsion of Jews from, reaffirmed (1808), I 351 expulsion from, started, I 351 Alexander I. admits impossibility of removing Jews from (1809), I 352 "Jewish Committee" advises against expulsion of Jews from (1812), I 353 f economic importance of Jews in, I 361 f evil effects of endeavors to dislodge Jews from, I 362 f renewal of effort to remove Jews from, I 405 Jews expelled from, in White Russia (1823), I 406 f uselessness of expulsion from, in White Russia pointed out by Council of State (1835), I 407 f, II 34 f Jews expelled from, in government of Grodno (1827), II 30 f expulsion of Jews from, in government of Kiev, decreed (1830), II 33; delayed, II 33; objected to by Council of State and indefinitely postponed, II 35 barred to Jews in government of Kiev and Little Russia in Statute of 1835, II 40 barred to Jews in Fifty-Verst-Zone under same law, II 40 Jews of Poland permitted to live in (1862), II 181, 367; permission invalidated by restriction of property rights (1891), 367 Jews of Poland permitted to acquire land in (1862), II 172, 181; permission withdrawn as result of Polish insurrection (1864), II 173 exclusion of Jews from, recommended by Totleben, governor-general of Vilna, II 276 complete elimination of Jews from, recommended by "Jewish Committee" (1882), II 310 expulsion of old settlers objected to by Committee of Ministers, II 311 Jews forbidden to settle anew in, and to acquire property in ("Temporary Rules" of May 3, 1882), II 312 remain closed to Jews, II 318 old Jewish settlers expelled from, by peasant communes, II 318 f peasants encouraged to expel old Jewish settlers from, II 319, 340 Jews in, harassed by Russian officials, II 340 ff thousands of Jews expelled from, in governments of Chernigov and Poltava, II 341 disabilities of Jews in, commented upon by Pahlen Commission, II 366 discharged Jewish soldiers, being regarded as "new settlers," barred from returning to, II 384 towns transferred into, and barred to Jews (1890), II 385; reopened to Jews (1903), III 80 f policy of eliminating Jews from, continued under Nicholas II., III 16 ff Jews dislodged from, by introduction of liquor monopoly (1894), III 23 privileged Jews, though admitted into Interior, prohibited from acquiring property in (1903), III 81; exception made for Jews with higher education (1904), III 98 wholesale expulsions of Jews from (1910), III 157 See Expulsion, and Residence, Right of =Villani, Matteo=, Italian chronicler, quoted, I 52 =Vilna= (_Polish_, Wilna, city), superseded by Warsaw as capital, I 85 conquered by Russians (1654), I 154, 245 surrendered by Poles, I 155 Lithuanian Hetman resides in, I 192 anti-Jewish riots in (under Polish Régime), I 94, 99, 161, 166; by invading Russian troops, I 245 Jews of, permitted to engage, in petty trade, I 99 Jews of, restricted to "Jewish Street" and placed under jurisdiction of Municipal Courts (1633), I 99 Jewish community of, represented on Lithuanian Waad, I 112 Kahal of, engaged in litigation with rabbi of, I 275 f Jews of, support Polish troops fighting against Russians (1792), I 292 Christian burghers of, protest to Alexander I., against admission of Jews to city-government (1805), I 370 Jews of, barred from city-government in (1805), I 370 exclusion of Jews from city-government of, confirmed in Statute of 1835, II 41 hasidic societies secretly organized in, I 237 visited by Shneor Zalman to request interview with Gaon, I 238 Kahal of, excommunicates Hasidim (1772), I 237, 371; (1796), II 371, 373 Hasidim reside "illegally" in, I 372 Kahal of, sends out messengers to stir up anti-hasidic agitation, I 373 Hasidim of, rejoice over death of Gaon, I 375 Kahal elders of, vow to avenge insult to Gaon, I 375; and denounce Hasidism to Government, I 375 f Hasidim arrested in, I 376 Hasidim of, depose Kahal elders, I 377 conference of Jewish deputies at (1815), I 393 f Kahal of, pleads for abolition of cantonists, II 36 Kahal of, complains to Council of State about Jewish disabilities, II 38; and begs permission to send spokesmen to St. Petersburg, II 39 printing-press in, II 42, 127 censorship committee in, II 44 visited by Max Lilienthal, II 54 Maskilim of, promise support to Lilienthal, II 55; and form his mainstay, II 136 Rabbinical Institute opened in (1847), II 59, 174; closed (1873), II 177; graduates of, un-Jewish, II 212 Teachers' Institute in, II 177 pupils of both Institutes form revolutionary circle in, II 223 visited by Moses Montefiore, II 68 center of Haskalah, II 132 ff Maskilim circle in, II 136 ff residential restrictions in, abolished by Alexander II., II 172 Brafman carries on anti-Jewish agitation in, II 187 ff, 240 pauperism among Jews of, III 24 Blondes, Jewish barber in, accused of ritual murder, II 37 Jewish labor movement in, III 55 "Bund" holds convention in (1897), III 56 Lekkert, Jewish workingman in, assails governor of Vilna, III 66 f Dr. Herzl enthusiastically received by Jews of, III 84 Jews of, assured by Svyatopolk-Mirski of just treatment, III 99 Jewish community of, signs petition for equal rights, III 108; and demands self-determination, III 109 league for Attainment of Equal Rights formed in (1905), III 111 Jewish community of, protests against denial of Jewish franchise, III 121 f place of publication, II 115, 126, 131, 134, 136, 226 _ha-Karmel_, published in, II 217 _ha-Zeman_, Hebrew daily, published in, III 162 Sabbatai Cohen (_Shak_), famous Talmudist, native of, I 130, 157 f Budny, Christian theologian, of, I 136 Moses Rivkes, Talmudist, of, I 200 Elijah of; see Elijah of Vilna Masalski, bishop of, employs Berek Yoselovich, I 294 Saul Katzenellenbogen, rabbi of, II 115 M. A. Ginzberg, Hebrew writer, resident of, II 133 Abraham Baer Lebensohn, Hebrew poet, resident of, II 134 f Micah Joseph Lebensohn, Hebrew poet, native of, II 226 Levanda, Russian-Jewish writer, resident of, II 239 S. M. Dubnow, author of present work, resident of, III 112 See Vilna (government) =Vilna= (province or government), annexed by Russia (1795), I 297 included in Pale (1794), I 317; (1835), I 39 includes later government of Kovno, I 317 Jews of, invited to elect deputies (1807), I 349 Poles threaten to massacres Russians and Jews in, I 357 Samuel Epstein elected Jewish deputy from, I 393 Poles and Jews forbidden to acquire estate in (1864), II 173 placed under jurisdiction of Muravyov, II 188 Friesel, governor of, suggests Jewish reforms, I 325 ff governor of, testifies to loyalty of Jews to Russia (1812), I 357 governor-general of, opposes admission of Jewish artisans into Russian Interior, II 168 Muravyov, governor-general of, pursues policy of Russification, II 183, 239 Totleben, governor-general of, favors forbidding Jews to settle in villages, II 276 Kakhanov, governor-general of, insults Jewish deputation of welcome, II 383 governor of, favors abrogation of Pale (1895), III 11 Pahlen, governor of, favors mitigation of restrictive laws, III 93 Svyatopolk-Mirski, governor-general, promises Jewish deputation favorable treatment of Jews, III 99 Localities in: Ilya, II 114 Mikhailishok, II 134 Troki, see Troki Volozhin, I 380, II 57, 113 =Vinaver, M.=, Russian-Jewish lawyer, acts as counsel for Jewish victims of Kishinev pogrom, III 92; and Homel pogrom, III 102 member of Central Bureau of League for Equal Rights, III 112 elected president of League for Equal Rights, III 134 deputy to First Duma, III 134 leader of Constitutional Democratic party, III 134 denounces in Duma oppression of Jews, III 136; and pogroms, III 139 head of Jewish People's Group, III 146 =Vinchevski, M.=, publishes Hebrew periodical _Asefat Hakamim_, II 223 =Vinnitza=, Kahal of, appealed to by Vilna Gaon against Hasidim, I 373 =Virgil, Aeneid of=, translated into Hebrew, II 226 =Visconti=, papal nuncio at Warsaw, ordered to report on ritual murder trial in Poland, I 179 =Vishniovetzki= (_Polish_, Wisniowiecki), =Count Jeremiah=, Polish commander, protects Jews against Cossacks, I 149, 161 =Vishniovetzki= (_Polish_, Wisniowiecki), =Michael=, Polish king (1669-1673), son of former, ratifies Jewish privileges, I 160 =Vistula=, river, lands on banks of, attract Jews, I 39 provinces on banks of, invaded by Swedes, I 154 Plotzk, on banks of, I 243 Poles perish in, defending Warsaw against Russians, I 296 Hasidism established on banks of, I 384 Gher, or Goora Kalvarya, on left bank of, II 122 Poles admit only "one nation on banks of," III 168 =Vital, Hayyim=, Cabalist, I 134 =Vitebsk= (city), Jews of, defend city against invading Russians, I 154 Jews of, robbed by Cossacks and maltreated or exiled, I 154 Jews of, made prisoners of war by Russians, I 245 Mendel of, hasidic leader, I 234, II 117 Dyerzhavin writes "Opinion" on Jews in, I 330 pogrom at, III 101 Jewish community of, protests against denial of Jewish franchise, III 121 See Vitebsk (government) =Vitebsk= (government), annexed by Russia (1772), I 186, 262 Jews from, made prisoners of war by Russia, I 245 formerly called government of Polotzk, I 307, 315, 317 forms part of White Russia, I 307, 315 included in Pale (1794), I 317; (1835), II 40 Jews of, visit Smolensk and Moscow, I 315 Jews of, invited to elect deputies, I 349 Jewish deputies from, I 393 expulsion of Jews from villages of, begun (1808), I 351 Jews, expelled from villages of, economically ruined, I 364 Jews elected to municipal offices in, I 368 expulsion of Jews from villages of, decreed (1823), I 406 Supreme Court acquits Velizh Jews accused of ritual murder, II 76 placed under jurisdiction of Muravyov, II 188 Cities in: Kreslavka, I 331 Polotzk, I 243 Velizh, II 75 See Vitebsk (city), and Russia, White =Vitovt= (also Vitold, or Witold; _Polish_, Witowt), grand duke of Lithuania (1388-1430) protects Jews of Lithuania, I 35 grants Jews charter (1388) and additional privileges (1389), I 59 =Vladimir= (_Polish_, Wlodzimierz Volhynia), early Jewish community in, I 59 =Vladimir=, prince of Kiev, receives Khazar Jews (986), I 30 =Vladimir, Monomakh=, prince of Kiev, stops anti-Jewish riots, I 32 =Vladimir=, grand duke, brother of Alexander III., holds Russian revolutionaries responsible for pogroms, II 260 =Vladimir=, archbishop (Mitropolit) of St. Petersburg, encourages pogroms, III 125 =Vladislav= (also Wladislaus and Leidislaus; _Polish_, Wladyslaw), =Lokietek=, Polish ruler, unites Great Poland and Little Poland, and assumes royal title (1319), I 42, 50 =Vladislav= (_Polish_, Wladyslaw) IV., Polish king (1632-1648), I 91 tolerant to other creeds, I 97 confirms Jewish privileges, I 98 makes erection of synagogues and establishment of cemeteries dependent on royal permission, I 98 restricts Jews in response to anti-Jewish petitions, I 98 f uprising of Khmelnitzki during reign of, I 144 dies during uprising, I 145 offered, as crown prince, Russian throne (1610), I 244 =Voislovitza=, near Lublin, Jews of, accused of ritual murder, I 178 f =Volfovich, Simeon=, denounces abuses of Vilna Kahal, I 276 persecuted and imprisoned, I 276 advocates abolition of Kahal, I 276 =Volga=, river, Khazars move towards banks of, I 19 Khazar capital situated at mouth of, I 23, 26, 28 called Ityl by Khazars, I 26, 28 bodies of alleged ritual murder victims found in, II 150 =Volhynia= (_Polish_, Volyn), forms part of Lithuania, I 59 ceded to Poland (1569), I 110 controlled economically by Polish magnates, I 140 uprising against Poles in (1648), I 145 returned to Poland (1667), I 159 annexed by Russia (1793), I 292 included in Pale (1794), I 317, (1804), I 342; (1835), II 39 called formerly government of Izyaslav, I 317 Cossack massacres in (1648), I 148 f Jews decimated in, I 157 Jews of, slain by haidamacks (18th century), I 182 f Jewish _arendar_ of, oppressed by Polish squire, I 266 Jews of, suffer from Polish civil war (1792), I 292 Polish nobility of, advocates anti-Jewish restrictions, I 324 Jews of, hold conference and decide to appeal to Tzar (1798), I 324 f Jews of, invited by Alexander I. to elect deputies, I 349 woolen mills established by Jews in, I 363 Jews of, indifferent towards Polish revolution (1831), I 107 statistics of Jews in, II 194 pogroms in, II 256 represented on Council of Four Lands, I 110 Jewish Provincial Assembly (or Dietine) of, I 113; called "Volhynia Synagogue," I 196 Talmudism deteriorates in, I 199 intellectual development of Jews of, differs from that in North-west, I 221 Besht travels about in, I 224 Baer of Mezherich, hasidic preacher in, I 227 Hasidism spreads in, I 229, 274 becomes hasidic headquarters, I 229 f Hasidism triumphant in, I 371, II 119 f Gubernatorial Kahal of, appealed to by Vilna Gaon, against Hasidism, I 373 Isaiah Horowitz (_Shelo_), Cabalist, rabbi in, I 135 Levi Itzhok of Berdychev, leader of Hasidim in, I 382 Menashe Ilyer, Talmudist and writer, resides in, II 115 Isaac Baer Levinsohn, native of, II 125 ff rabbis of, request Levinsohn to refute blood accusation, II 131 Localities in: Chudnov, III 117 Kremenetz, II 125[65] Old (Staro-)-Constantinov, II 21 f Ostrog, I 125 Rovno, III 99 Slavuta, II 42, 123 Troyanov, III 116 Zaslav, I 116, 177 Zhitomir, see Zhitomir =Volkspartei=, see Jewish National Party =Volozhin= (government of Vilna), yeshibah of, established by Hayyim Volozhiner, pupil of Vilna Gaon (1803), I 380 f sends forth large number of pupils, II 113 Itzhok Itzhaki, president of, member of Rabbinical Commission, II 57 =Volozhiner, Hayyim=; see Volozhin =Voltaire=, praises polemical treatise of Isaac Troki, I 138 =Vorontzov=, governor-general of New Russia, protests against proposed "assortment" of Jews by Nicholas I., II 64 ff, 142 =Voronyezh= (city and government), "Judaizers" spread in, I 401 archbishop of, reports to Government on "Judaizers," I 401 f Senate refers to "Judaizers" in, I 404 pogrom in city of (1905), III 130 =Voskhod ("The Sunrise")=, Jewish weekly and monthly, in Russian, published in St. Petersburg, II 221, 277, 332, 372, III 162 opposes organizing of emigration, as subversive of emancipation, II 298 f protests against anti-Semitic speech of governor-general of Kiev, II 317 opposes "Love of Zion" movement, II 332 suppressed by censor, II 407 publishes Dubnow's "Letters on Old and New Judaism," III 52 leaning towards nationalism, III 59 suppressed for protesting against Kishinev massacre, III 77 appeals to patriotism of Jews in Russo-Japanese War, III 94 warns against impending pogroms, III 96 confiscated by censor, III 98 points out rightlessness of Jews, III 124 =Voyevodas= (_Polish_, Wojewoda), high Polish officials, name and functions of, explained, I 46 correspond to _Starostas_ in Lithuania, I 60 exercise, as representatives of sovereign, special jurisdiction over Jews, I 46, 94 V. courts, see Courts Jewish Dietines assemble by order of, I 196 f instructed by Stephen Batory to protect Jews, I 89 accept bribes, I 76 begin to oppress Jews, I 169 V. of Cracow accepts bribes from Jews and their opponents, I 76 V. of Kiev owns city of Uman, I 184 V. of Lemberg, or Red Russia, upholds prestige of Kahal, I 190; grants constitution to Kahal of Lemberg (1692), I 191 V. of Vilna sides with Kahal against rabbi, I 276; imprisons Simeon Volfovich, opponent of Kahal, I 276 =Voyevodstvo= (_Polish_, Wojewodstwo), name for Polish province, term explained, I 46, 76 =Voznitzin, Alexander=, captain in Russian navy, converted by Borukh Leibov to Judaism, I 251 f burned at stake in St. Petersburg (1738), I 253 =Vperyod= ("=Forward="), Russian revolutionary periodical in London, II 223 =Vratislav=, prince of Bohemia, robs Jews fleeing to Poland, I 41 =Vyatka= (government) cantonists carried to, II 24 =Vyborg= (Finland), V. Manifesto, protesting against dissolution of First Duma, signed by Jewish deputies, III 139 signatories to, prosecuted, III 142 =Vyelepolski=, Marquis, Polish statesman, secures assent of Alexander II. to Act of Emancipation of Polish Jews (1862), II 181, 195 =Vyestnik Russkikh Yevreyev= ("Herald of Russian Jews"), Russian Jewish periodical, II 221 =Waad Arba Aratzoth= ("Council of Four Lands"), central organization of Polish Jewry, pronunciation of word _Waad_, I 108 grows out of conferences of rabbis and Kahal leaders, I 108 f; which meet at fair of Lublin, I 109; at initiative of Shalom Shakhna, rabbi of Lublin, I 123; exercising judicial as well as administrative and legislative functions, I 109 f presided over by Mordecai Jaffe, I 127 presided over by Joshua Falk Cohen, I 128 meets periodically at Lublin and Yaroslav, I 110, 194 composition of, I 110 provincial _Waads_ represented on, I 113, 196 f oligarchic character of, I 195 acts as court of appeals, I 111 decides litigations between Kahals, I 193 activities of, stimulate rabbinical learning, I 126 f regulates inner life of Jews, I 111 f, 152, 188 f concerned about maintenance of Talmud Torahs and yeshibahs, I 195 exercises censorship over Hebrew books, I 195 f issues _herem_ against Frankists, I 214 appoints _Shtadlans_ to represent Jews before Government, I 111, 193 apportions head-tax among Kahals, I 181, 189 f, 194 authority of, in apportioning head-tax upheld by King Sobieski (1687), I 194 authority of, undermined by withdrawing right of apportioning head-tax (1764), I 181, 197 meetings of, forbidden by diet; of 1764, I 198 =Waad Kehilloth Rashioth Di-Medinath Lita= ("Council of the Principal Communities of the Province of Lithuania"), central organization of Lithuanian Jews, formed in 1623, I 112 provincial Waads represented on, I 113, 196 meets periodically, I 194 functions of, I 112 f cultivates Jewish education, I 195 appoints _Shtadlans_ to represent Jews before Government, I 193 apportions head-tax among Jews, I 181 =Waddington=, English representative at Berlin Congress, favors emancipation of Jews, I 202 =Wagenseil=, German professor, publishes Isaac Troki's _Hizzuk Emuna_, I 138 =Wahl, Saul=, legendary king of Poland, I 94 =Wahl, Von=, governor of Vilna, flogs Jewish workingmen, I 67 =Wallachia=, Jacob Frank settles in, I 212 Besht born on border of, I 222; see Moldavo-Wallachia =Warsaw= (_Polish_, Warszawa), capital of Poland, I 85, 111 capital of duchy of Warsaw, I 298 meeting-place of Polish diet, I 76, 98, 99, 111, 160, 165, 169, 171, 181, 278, II 96; see Diet Khmelnitzki moves towards, I 151 conquered by Swedes (1655), I 154 Russia maintains Resident at, I 279 besieged by Russian troops (1794), I 293 stormed by Suvarov, I 296 annexed by Prussia (1795), I 296; held by it (1796-1806), I 385 granted right of excluding Jews, I 85, 268 Jews permitted temporary visits to, I 111, 268 Serafinovich, converted Jew, invited to disputation in, to prove blood accusation, I 173 f Jews of, appeal to Polish king on behalf of Posen Jews, I 176 Visconti, papal nuncio at, instructed to report on ritual murder cases, I 177 Jacob Frank, baptized at, I 217 f; arrested at, and exiled to Chenstokhov, I 218; returns to, I 219 Jews permitted to stay in, during sessions of diet (1768), I 268 procedure in admitting Jews to, I 269 Jews pay tax for sojourn in, I 269, II 95 Polish dignitaries rent houses to Jews in outskirts of, I 269 "New Jerusalem," district in, I 269 Jews expelled from (1775), I 269 Jews return surreptitiously to, I 269 f, 285 burghers of, demand expulsion of Jews, I 285 f anti-Jewish riot at (1790), I 286 f Jews expelled from (1790), I 287 Jews volunteer in defence of, I 293 siege of, arouses patriotism of Berek Yoselovich, I 294; appeal for special Jewish regiment, II 295 Jews display heroism in defence of, I 296 Jews barred from principal streets of, (1809), I 300, II 94; exception made for widow of Berek Yoselovich, I 304 assimilated Jews of, plead for special privileges, I 300 representatives of Jewish community of, complain about disabilities, I 301 f "Enlightenment" among Jews of, I 385 visited by Moses Montefiore, II 68 visited by Altaras of Marseilles, II 69 Tugendhold, Jewish assimilator in, II 98 Jewish assimilators in, II 100 ff Congregational Board of, objects to special Jewish regiment, II 106 Jewish militia participates in defence of (1831), II 106 Congregational Board of, sends deputation to St. Petersburg to plead for equal rights, II 110 adherents of hasidic dynasty of Gher numerous in, II 122 assimilation in, II 177 f; assumes menacing proportions, II 213 Jews of, display Polish patriotism in uprising against Russia (1861-1863), II 179 ff pogrom at (1881), II 280 ff archbishop of, endeavors to check pogrom, II 283 prominent Poles of, offer to organize civil guard for protection of Jews, II 283; offer refused by governor-general of, II 283 number of writers arrested at, II 291 effect of pogrom in, upon Western Europe and America, II 283, 287 governor-general of, reports to Tzar on pogroms in, II 284 pogrom in, welcomed by Central Jewish Committee, II 310 center of "Love of Zion" movement, II 376 Jewish labor movement in, III 55 economic progress of Jews in, III 166 Jews of, instrumental in election of socialistic deputy to Duma, III 167 Hebrew papers and periodicals published in, II 333, 372, III 58, 60, 162 Yiddish papers and periodicals published in, III 59, 162 Goora Kalvarya (Gher), in vicinity of, II 122 Kotzk, in vicinity of, I 303, II 122 Praga, suburb of, I 294 =Way, Lewis=, representative of London Bible Society, I 397 submits memorandum to Alexander I. pleading for Jewish emancipation, I 398 memorandum of, laid before Congress of Aix-la-Chapelle, I 398 =Weber=, United States Commissioner to Russia, II 407 =Wertheimer=, banking house of, in Vienna, exerts influence over Polish king, I 176 =Wessely, Naphtali Hirz=, Hebrew poet, compared with A. B. Lebensohn, II 135 =Western Europe=, Jewish diaspora in, I 13 emigration from, into Poland, I 39 ff leading Jews of, invited by Russian Government to participate in work of enlightenment, II 67 Jews of, intercede on behalf of Russian Jews, II 67 ff public opinion of, influences Russia, II 262 effect of Warsaw pogrom on, II 283, 287 emigration from Russia to, II 321, 408, 413 Political Zionism originates in, III 42, 46 Jews of, deny Jewish nationalism, III 53 public opinion of, agitated over Kishinev massacre, III 78 "=Western Region=," term explained, II 16 number of Jews in, II 168 Jews form majority of population in cities of, III 11 =Westminster=, duke of, addresses Guildhall meeting in London against oppression of Russian Jews, II 390 f =White, Arnold=, member of English parliament, sent by Baron Hirsch to Russia, II 417 discusses Jewish question with Russian dignitaries, II 417 visits Pale and is favorably impressed by Jews, II 418 recommends regulation of emigration, II 418 dispatched to Russia a second time, II 419 =White Russia=, see Russia, White _Wine_ grown by Jews in Palestine, II 376; see Liquor =Witsen=, burgomaster of Amsterdam, petitions Peter the Great to admit Jews into Russia, I 246 =Witte=, Russian Minister of Finance, advocates liquor monopoly as means of dislodging Jews from villages, III 17; and eliminating Jewish "exploitation," III 22 favors mitigation of Jewish disabilities, III 107 f Jews address petitions for equal rights to, III 108 f receives, as president of Council of State, memorandum on pogroms, III 125 appointed Prime Minister, author of manifesto of October 17, 1905, III 127 adopts policy of oppression, III 131 League for Equal Rights votes down proposal to send delegation to, III 131 =Wolff, Sir H. D.=, member of English parliament, interpellates Government concerning pogroms, II 262 =Worms, Baron Henry De=, member of English parliament, interpellates Government concerning pogroms, II 262 Gladstone replies to interpellation of, II 292 =Yadviga= (_Polish_, Jadwiga), Polish queen, marries Yaguello, grand duke of Lithuania (1386), I 54 Yaguello, Vladislav II. (_Polish_, Wladyslaw Jagiello), king of Poland and grand duke of Lithuania (1386-1434), I 54 converted from paganism to Catholicism, I 55 restricts commercial operations of Jews, I 58 Lithuania ruled by Vitovt, as representative of, I 59 extinction of Y. dynasty, I 88 f, 91 =Yalta=, health resort in Crimea, Jews expelled from, II 428 f, III 18 f =Yampol= (Volhynia), ritual murder trial at, I 178 =Yaroshevski=, Russian-Jewish novelist and physician, protests against affront to Jewish army surgeons, II 320 =Yaroslav= (_Polish_, Jaroslaw; Galicia), meeting-place of Council of Four Lands, I 110, 194 =Yekaterinoslav= (city), Orshanski, Russian-Jewish writer, native of, II 238 pogrom at (1883), II 358 ff; (October, 1905), III 128 =Yekaterinoslav= (government), territory of, raided by Turks and defended by Cossacks, I 143 territory of, opened to Jews (1791), I 316 tract of land in, set aside for Jewish converts (1820), I 400 included in Pale (1794), I 317; (1835), II 403 Jewish agricultural colonies in, II 72 Rostov and Taganrog transferred from, to territory of Don army and barred to Jews (1887), II 346 pogroms in (1883), II 360 =Yelisavetgrad= (government of Kherson), Government agents appear in, to prepare pogroms, II 248 pogroms at (1881), II 249 ff, 333; (October, 1905), III 128 "Spiritual Biblical Brotherhood," heterodox Jewish sect, founded by Jacob Gordin in (1881), II 333 f =Yellow Waters= (_Polish_, Zolte Wody), Polish army defeated by Cossacks near, I 145 =Yemetyanov, Theodore=, alleged victim of ritual murder, II 75 f =Yeremyeyeva=, Russian woman, accuses Jews of Velizh of ritual murder, II 75 convicted by Council of State, II 82 =Yeshibah, or Talmudic Academy=, imparts higher rabbinical education, I 114 f secular studies excluded from, I 120, 277 maintained by Council of Four Lands, I 195 sanctioned by Sigismund II. under name of _gymnazium_, I 115 head of, or _rosh-yeshibah_, granted wide powers by Polish Kings, I 115 f; enjoys great distinction, I 119 Y's spread all over Poland and Lithuania, I 115 f Y's of Lithuania adopt method of Talmud study of Vilna Gaon, I 380 f important Y's in Lithuania, II 113 f negative effect of, II 113 f placed under Government supervision (1842), II 56 Joshua Falk Cohen, head of, in Lemberg, I 128 Moses Isserles, head of, in Cracow, I 123 Nathan Spira, head of, in Cracow, I 135 Isaiah Horowitz (_Shelo_), studies in, of Lemberg and Cracow, I 135 Eliezer, head of, in Homel, I 150 Abel Gumbiner, head of, in Kalish, I 200 Hayyim Volozhiner, head of, in Volozhin, I 381 Itzhok Itzhaki, head of, in Volozhin, II 57 =Yesod Hama'Alah=, Jewish colony in Galilee, II 375 =Yevrey=, Russian term for Jew, officially introduced, I 320 =Yevreyskaya Bibliotyeka ("Jewish Library")=, Jewish periodical in Russian, II 221 Orshanski contributes to, II 238 =Yevreyskaya Starina ("Jewish Antiquity")=, Jewish periodical in Russian, III 160 _Yevreyski Mir_ ("Jewish World"), Jewish weekly in Russian, III 162 =Yezierski=, Polish statesman, chairman of Jewish Commission of Polish Diet, I 287 recognizes economic importance of Polish Jews, I 287 f defends Jews in Diet, I 289 =Yiddish=, brought by Jews from Germany, I 43, 114 translations of prayers in, used by women, I 121 read by women and lower classes, I 202 Mendel Lewin translates Bible into, I 388; attacked by Tobias Feder, I 388 Y. press, II 217 f, III 58 f, 162 Y. literature, III 61 ff, 162 Mendele Mokher Sforim turns to, II 232 Gordin writes plays in, II 335 Frug, Russian-Jewish poet, writes in, III 63, 78 used as propaganda means by Jewish Labor movement, III 56 f position of, hotly discussed, III 161 adherents of (Yiddishists), III 161 =Yosefovich, Hirsh=, rabbi of Khelm, author of Polish pamphlet defending Jews, I 283 =Yosefovich, Abraham=, Jewish tax-farmer in Poland, I 73 converted to Christianity and appointed Chancellor of Lithuanian Exchequer, I 73 =Yosefovich, Michael=, brother of former, Jewish tax-farmer in Poland, 172 f appointed by Sigismund I. "senior" of Lithuanian Jews, I 72 f, 104 =Yoselovich= (_Polish_, Joselowicz) =Berek=, Polish-Jewish patriot, I 293 ff accompanies Bishop Masalski to Paris, I 294 offers to form special Jewish regiment, I 294 f regiment of, displays heroism, I 296 flees to France, I 296 f returns to Poland and dies heroic death, I 303 eulogized by Pototzki, I 303 f widow of, granted special permission to sell liquor, I 304 =Yosko=, Jewish tax-farmer in Poland, I 71 =Yudich, Saul=, Jewish tax-farmer in Lithuania, I 94 possibly identical with Saul Wahl, legendary king of Poland, I 94 =Yurkevich, Peter=, accused of stealing host for Jews, I 101 f =Yurkovski=, Moscow police commissioner, makes raid on Jews, II 403 =Yushkevicher, Yankel=, of Saratov, accused of ritual murder, II 151 sentenced, with son, to penal servitude, II 152 pardoned by Alexander II. through intercession of Crémieux, II 153 =Zadok=, Messianic propagandist in Lithuania, I 208 =Zaleshkovska, Catherine=, suspected of leanings towards Judaism and burned at stake, I 79 f =Zalman Shneorsohn=, or =Zalman Borukhovich=; see Shneor Zalman =Zamyatin=, Minister of Justice, defends Jews of Saratov accused of ritual murder, II 152 =Zamoiski, Andreas=, Polish chancellor, suggests reforms for Jews of Poland, I 271 ff =Zamoshch= (_Polish_, Zamosc), Joel Baal-Shem of, I 203 =Zangwill, Israel=, founder of Territorialism, III 144 =Zaporozhians=, the, or =Zaporozhian Cossacks=, name explained, I 143 raid Turks and fight Tatars, I 143 cultivate relations with Ukrainian Cossacks, I 143 form alliance with Tatars, I 144 exterminate Jews and Poles, I 145 f plunder Jews of Vitebsk, I 154 form bands attacking Poles and Jews, I 182 f petition Russian Government to admit Jews to fairs of Little Russia, I 250 See Cossacks =Zarudny=, Council of Jewish victims of Homel pogrom, III 102 =Zaryadye=, part of Moscow illegally inhabited by Jews, II 403 =Zaslav= (_Polish_, Zaslaw; Volhynia), Cossack massacre at (1648), I 149 ritual murder case in (1747), I 172, 177 f Nathan Hannover of, see Hannover, Nathan =Zayonchek=, Polish general, flees from Poland, I 296 appointed viceroy of Poland, II 91 opposes measures in favor of Jews, II 93 makes insulting remark about Jews, II 94 =Zborov, Treaty of=, between Poles and Cossacks (1649), I 151 not kept by Polish Government, I 152 =Zebulun=, king of Khazars, I 26 =Zederbaum, Alexander=, editor of _ha-Melitz_ in St. Petersburg, II 217 refutes charge of ritual murder, I 204 publishes _Vyestnik Russkikh Yevreyev_, I 221 =Zelenoy=, city-governor of, warns Jews to use polite manners, II 383 =Zelig=, see Jacob Selig =Zelikin, Isaac=, called Rabbi Itzele, secures acquittal of Mstislavl Jews, II 86 f =Zelva= (province of Grodno), rabbis issue _herem_ against Hasidim at fair of, I 237 =Zemstvos= (local self-governments in Russia), term explained, II 173 Jews admitted to (1864), II 173 rights of, curtailed by Alexander III., II 379, 386 Jews barred from (1890), II 385 f liberal Z. voice desire for constitution, III 7 f refuse to appoint Jewish physicians, III 27 conference of, in St. Petersburg protests against autocracy (1904), III 105 combined deputation to Nicholas II. of municipalities and Z. express desire for abolition of restrictions (1905), III 122 =Zetlin, Yevzik=, of Velizh, arrested on charge of ritual murder, II 75, 77 =Zetlin, Hannah=, wife of former, arrested on same charge, II 77 =Zeno=, emperor of Byzantium, persecutes Jews, I 18 =Zhelezniak=, Cossack leader, massacres Jews (1768), I 183 f =Zhitomir=, see Zhytomir =Zhmud= (Samogitia) region in North-west Russia, I 293, II 133 =Zhukhovski, Stephen=, Polish priest, accuses Jews of ritual murder, I 172 f =Zhyd= (and =Zhydovski=), Russian derogatory appellation for Jew, I 184, 320, 403, II 14, 78, III 155 officially abolished by Catherine II., I 320 =Zhytomir= (_Polish_, =Zytomir=; Volhynia), ritual murder trial at (1753), I 178 Kahal of, appealed to by Vilna Gaon against Hasidism, I 373 printing-press of, II 43 Rabbinical Institute opened in (1847), II 59, 174; closed (1873), II 177; graduates of, un-Jewish, II 212 Teachers Institute in, closed (1873), II 177 old privilege of, excluding Jews from parts of town, abolished by Alexander II., II 172 _Mendele Mokher Sforim_ removes to, II 232 School of Handicrafts in, closed by Alexander III., II 347 pogrom in (1905), III 115 ff Jews of Chudnov attempt to defend Jews of Zhytomir and are massacred, III 116 f Jewish community of, protests against denial of Jewish franchise, III 121 =Zikhron Jacob=, Jewish colony in Galilee, II 375 =Zionism=, before Herzl, called in Hebrew _Hibbat Zion_ (in Russian, _Palestinophilstvo_) "Love of Zion," preached by Lilienblum, II 237, 328 ff expounded by Pinsker, II 220, 330 ff adopted by Lilienblum, II 237 engages in colonization of Palestine, II 375 f, 422 f adherents of, assemble in Kattowitz (1884), II 376; and Druskeniki (1887), II 377 legalized by Russian Government (1890), II 377 center of, in Odessa and Warsaw, II 376 wins over orthodoxy, II 376 f failure of, III 42 leaders of, join political Zionism, III 47 modified by Ahad Ha'am, II 423, III 49 f rise of political Z., III 41 ff proclaimed by Herzl, III 42 f First Zionist Congress (1897), III 44 political and cultural tendency within, III 44 f effects of, III 46 f Spiritual Z., or Ahad Ha'amism, III 41, 48 ff Russian Zionists Convention at Minsk, III 51 inadequacy of, III 51 f combined with Socialism by _Poale-Zion_, III 57 f, 145 Nahum Sokolow declares allegiance to, III 60 Reflected in poems of Frug, III 63 indifference to, denounced by Bialik, III 63 forbidden in Russia by Plehve, III 82 f Plehve promises support of, as result of Dr. Herzl's visit, III 83 Vilna Zionists give ovation to Dr. Herzl, III 84 crisis of, at Sixth Congress, III 84 f Schism between Palestinianism and Territorialism, III 85 organize self-defence at Homel, III 87 Shmaryahu Levin, representative of, deputy to First Duma, III 134 forms contrast to Social Democracy, III 143 Seventh Zionist Congress reaffirms allegiance to Palestine, III 144 Russian Zionist Convention at Helsingfors (1906) recognizes rights of diaspora, III 144 f adherents of, secede from League for Equal Rights, III 146 declared illegal by Senate, III 152 =Znamya= ("The Banner") anti-Semitic paper in St. Petersburg, III 70 demands execution of Dashevski, assailant of Krushevan, III 81 f =Zohar=, the, cabalistic standard work, study of, not permitted before the age of thirty, I 214 Frankists recognize authority of, I 214; call themselves Zoharists, 214 used by Besht to foretell the future, I 224 =Zonch=, Russian general, maltreats Jews on his estates, I 328 =Zubov=, Count, governor-general of New Russia, secures equal rights for Karaites, I 318 member of "Jewish Commission" appointed by Alexander I., I 335 =Zunz=, refutes charges of Abbé Chiarini, II 104 =Zverovich=, synagogue built in, by Borukh Leibov of Smolensk, I 249, 252 FOOTNOTES: [62] The text has 1774 by mistake. [63] The text has 1815 by mistake. [64] P. 125, line 3 from below, read "Volhynia," instead of "Podolia." [65] Page 125, line 3 from bottom, read Volhynia, instead of Podolia. The mistake is due to a confusion with Kamenetz. _The Lord Baltimore Press_ BALTIMORE, MD., U. S. A. Transcriber's Notes: Simple spelling, grammar, and typographical errors were corrected. Punctuation normalized. Anachronistic and non-standard spellings retained as printed. Italics markup is enclosed in _underscores_. Bold markup is enclosed in =equals=. 
60867	----	generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) [Illustration: KOSCIUSZKO. _Born in Poland A.D. 1756. Died the 15th. October 1817 near Solothurn in Switzerland. He and G'al. Lafayette were the only two Europeans who wore the Cross of the Order of Cincinnatus._ _Dedicated to the American people._ _Entered according to Act Congress by Paulin Miedzielsky, N.-York, 1833._] HISTORY OF THE LATE POLISH REVOLUTION, AND THE EVENTS OF THE CAMPAIGN. BY JOSEPH HORDYNSKI, MAJOR OF THE LATE TENTH REGIMENT OF LITHUANIAN LANCERS. Fourth Edition. BOSTON: PRINTED FOR SUBSCRIBERS. 1833. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1833, By Joseph Hordynski, In the Clerk's Office of the District of Massachusetts. TO THE GREAT AND FREE NATION OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. Liberated from prison, and from the prospect of a more gloomy future, by some of your fellow citizens, I have been so fortunate as to reach these happy shores. Providence has granted me to behold that fair country, and that nation, which every lover of freedom desires to see with his own eyes, and every freeman of Poland is wont to think of with love and esteem. Your land, long since the asylum of the persecuted, has welcomed me with hearty benevolence. From the first moment of my arrival to the present time, I have received daily proofs of your sympathy. Full of gratitude, and in the hope of doing you an acceptable service, I cannot better employ the moments allowed me during my stay among you, than by giving you a faithful account of our revolution, and of its true causes and motives, as well as of the events of the war by which it was followed. By a brief statement of the circumstances which brought about that revolution, I wish to inform you of the injustice and outrages, which my nation was compelled to endure, during fourteen years, in which both its natural rights, and the constitution solemnly guarantied to it, were trampled under foot. By a true account of the events of the ensuing war, you will be enabled to convince yourselves of the means by which small forces became victorious over a colossal power, as well as of the causes of the final catastrophe to which Poland has been doomed. I am convinced that in many respects my narrative will be entirely opposed to the representations given in the public papers; for our land, like most countries struggling for liberty, was surrounded by enemies rather than friends. The sources from which these accounts have been drawn, are, first, my own recollections of events of which I was an eye-witness; secondly, the reports of my friends and comrades who were present; and lastly, (particularly as to the operations of the detached corps) the official reports of the army, which have not yet escaped my memory. The same course I have followed in the design of the plans, which have been traced partly from my own recollections of positions and scenes at which I was present, partly from the accurate reports of friends, and partly from public reports, assisted by my personal knowledge of localities. Americans! I am neither an author nor a scholar by profession, but a simple republican and soldier. In such a one you will forgive faults in the form and style of writing. Do not then judge me as a writer, but see in me an unhappy Pole, who presents to your sympathies the picture of the fatal disasters of his unfortunate country, and of the manner in which it strove to regain its liberty, that first and greatest of national blessings. In this hope of your indulgence, I beg you to accept this work as a token of my gratitude and as a memorial of my short stay among you, as well as an expression of the great esteem, with which I shall always remain, Americans, your devoted servant, JOSEPH HORDYNSKI. To the gentlemen who have aided me, by the translation, the execution of the plates, and the publication of the work, I offer the only recompense which they will permit me to make--my heartfelt thanks; and I assure them that in the feelings which prompt this acknowledgment, all my comrades will participate. J.H. PRONUNCIATION.--_To the Reader._ There are difficulties in the way of accurate rules for the pronunciation of Polish words arising from the circumstance that some letters have varieties of sound which are indicated by signs in the Polish alphabet, and which cannot be represented in the English. Thus, the letter _Z_ has, in addition to that of the English _Z_ the sounds of _jet_ and _zet_; the first indicated by a short line and the second by a dot placed over the letter. It has therefore been thought more for the convenience of readers, who may wish to know the English pronunciation of the names which occur in this work, to subjoin an alphabetical list of them and their pronunciation, than to give rules which must necessarily be imperfect. This list will be found at the end of the Volume. [Illustration: CASIMIR PULASKI, _the undaunted Chief of the Poles during the Confederacy of Bar from 1768 to 1772. Born in 1746 & killed before Savannah in 1779 while fighting for the Liberty & Independence of these U.S._ _Dedicated to the American people._ _Entered according to Act of Congress by Paulin Miedzielsky, N.-York, 1833._] CONTENTS. CHAPTER I. Geographical extent, population, and political importance of Poland, as anciently constituted.--Conduct of Napoleon in 1812.--Congress of Vienna.--Grand-duchy of Warsaw erected into a kingdom.--Dispositions of Alexander.--Zajaczek appointed Viceroy, and Constantine commander of the army.--Constantine encroaches upon the civil administration.--Acts of tyranny.--Meeting of the Diet.--Public debates suppressed.--The Polish Conspiracy of 1821.--The Russian Conspiracy of 1824.--Union of the Patriotic Associations.--Death of Alexander.--The Revolt at St Petersburgh.--Punishment of the Patriots.--Coronation of Nicholas.--Constantine appointed Viceroy of Poland.--Oppressions of the Government.--Patriotic Club.--Influence of the French and Belgic Revolutions.--The Quartering-tax.--Excitement in Warsaw.--Arrest of the students at Praga.--Day of the Revolution fixed upon. Page 5 CHAPTER II. Principles of the Revolution.--THE FIRST NIGHT.--Attack on the Barracks of the Russian Cavalry.--Their Dispersion.--Attempt to secure the person of the Grand Duke.--Capture of Russian general officers and spies.--Actions with detached bodies of Russian cavalry.--Two companies of Polish light-infantry join the patriots.--Death of Potocki and Trembicki.--The Russian infantry attacked and dispersed.--Armament and assembling of the people.--Detachments sent to Praga. 30 CHAPTER III. THE FIRST DAY.--Expulsion of the Russians from Warsaw.--Choice of Chlopicki as Commander in Chief.--Provisional Government, under the Presidency of prince Adam Czartoryski.--Deputation sent to the Grand Duke.--Propositions and answer.--Abolition of the Bureau of Police.--Establishment of the National Guard.--Proclamations addressed to the inhabitants of the provinces and the distant troops.--Provision for the Russian prisoners.--The Academical Legions formed.--Arrival of detachments from the provinces.--The Grand Duke consents to leave the kingdom, and addresses a proclamation to the Poles. 47 CHAPTER IV. The Patriotic Club commences its sessions.--Character of that association.--The Grand Duke departs for the frontier.--Particulars of his march.--The Polish regiments which had remained with him return to Warsaw.--Their reception.--Krasynski and Kornatowski.--Deputation to St Petersburgh.--Demands to be laid before the Emperor.--Sierawski made Governor of Warsaw, and Wasowiez chief of the staff.--Order respecting the army.--Arrival of volunteers from the interior.--Opening of the theatre.--Religious solemnities at Praga.--Chlopicki nominated and proclaimed Dictator. Page 59 CHAPTER V. The Dictator enters upon his duties.--Plans for the enrollment of new forces.--System of officering them.--Want of energy in the execution of his plans.--Fortifications neglected.--The people supply the deficiencies of the administration.--Discovery of the correspondence between the ministers Grabowski and Lubecki.--The march of the army delayed.--Answer of the Emperor Nicholas to the deputies.--His proclamation.--Its effect on the nation.--The Diet demand of the Dictator an account of his trust.--The result of their investigations.--Chlopicki deprived of the Dictatorial power.--The civil administration entrusted to Prince Adam Czartoryski, and the command of the army to Prince Michael Radziwil, each subordinate to the Diet. 71 CHAPTER VI. Remarks on the policy of the late Dictator.--System of operations adopted.--The army leaves Warsaw.--Statement of the existing forces.--Of the forces proposed to be raised.--Unfortunate consequences of the delay in the preparation of the forces.--Statement of the force with which the war was actually commenced. 87 CHAPTER VII. Entrance of the Russian forces into the Kingdom.--Proclamations of Marshal Diebitsch.--Their effect.--Disposition of the Russian and Polish forces.--Plan of operations of the Poles. 98 CHAPTER VIII. The opening fire.--Affairs of the 10th and 11th February.--Combat of Stoczek.--Disposition in consequence of that battle.--Battle of Boimie.--Retrograde movement to Dobre.--Combat of Makowiec.--Passage of the Orsyca.--Combat of Dobre.--Attack on the right wing at Minsk. 109 CHAPTER IX. Retrograde movement of the 18th of February.--Details of this movement, and of the actions which took place.--The army reaches the field of Praga.--Its reception at Warsaw.--Position of the army.--Battle of Wawr and Bialolenka.--Operations of general Dwernicki against the corps of Prince Wirtemberg.--Defeat of that corps by general Dwernicki at Swierza.--Renewal of the enemy's attack on the main army on the 20th.--Its successful resistance.--Review of the events of the preceding days.--Examination of the plan of operations of the Polish army. Page 126 CHAPTER X. Proceedings of the National Government.--Marshal Diebitsch continues in a state of inactivity.--Negotiations are opened by him.--His propositions are declined.--Position of the army on the 24th, and battle of Bialolenka.--Position on the 25th.--Great battle of Grochow.--Details.--State of the Russian army after its defeat.--Examination of the plan of the battle of Grochow.--Remarks upon the course adopted by prince Radziwil after that victory.--The Polish army crosses the Vistula to Warsaw.--Its reception by the national government and the citizens.--Resignation of prince Radziwil. 148 CHAPTER XI. Passage of the Vistula to Warsaw.--Disposition of the Polish forces on its left bank.--Appointment of general John Skrzynecki to the chief command.--Proclamation.--Prompt attention is given to the re-organization of the army, the arsenals and manufactories of arms, the fortifications, &c.--Deportment of the commander in chief towards the army.--General enthusiasm of the nation.--The Patriotic offers of the Polish women.--New regulations established for conferring orders of merit.--Disorderly state of the Russian army.--Attempt of Diebitsch to bribe the Polish soldiery. --General view of the encouraging circumstances of this epoch.--The insurrection in Russia under Yermolow.--View of the state of the Polish forces when general Skrzynecki took the chief command.--He presses the organization of the new forces.--Their distribution and that of the general forces.--Positions of the Polish army and the detached corps.--Russian position. 175 CHAPTER XII. Operations of the corps of general Dwernicki against the Russian corps under the prince of Wirtemberg, in the Palatinate of Lublin. --Battle of Pulawy, and defeat of Wirtemberg.--Atrocities of that prince at Pulawy.--Pursuit of the enemy.--Battle of Kurow, and annihilation of Wirtemberg's corps.--Operations of colonel Valentin, between Modlin and Pultusk.--A detachment of the enemy is surprised at Nasielsk.--Transports of provisions for the enemy from Prussia taken.--Successful skirmishes.--Marshal Diebitsch demands the capitulation of the fortress of Modlin. Reply of colonel Leduchowski.--A detachment from the garrison of Modlin attacks and defeats a Russian force at Serock.--General Skrzynecki makes an offer of pacification on the basis of the concessions originally demanded by the Poles.--This proposition is rejected and hostilities are recommenced.--Reconnoissance upon the right bank of the Vistula under Jankowski and Gielgud.--A Russian corps under general Witt is sent against Dwernicki.--General Uminski is sent against the Russian guard.--First encounter.--The Russian guard is compelled to leave their position for Ostrolenka.--The guard evacuates Ostrolenka to join the grand army. 195 CHAPTER XIII. Plan of general Skrzynecki to act upon the isolated corps of Rosen and Gaismer.--Battle of Wawr.--Various detachments of the enemy are taken after that battle, and a great number of prisoners.--Battle of Dembe-Wielkie.--Destructive pursuit of the enemy by our cavalry.--View of the Russian losses in the preceding days.--Marshal Diebitsch abandons his plan of crossing the Vistula, and marches to the rescue of the remains of the corps of Rosen and Gaismer, and the Imperial Guard.--View of the position of the two armies, after the second repulse of the enemy from before Warsaw.--Operations of general Dwernicki.--Successes of a reconnoissance under colonel Russyian at Uscilog.--Effect of Dwernicki's victories on the inhabitants of the provinces.--Acknowledgment of general Dwernicki's services by the National Government.--The instructions for his future operations. 213 CHAPTER XIV. The insurrection in Lithuania.--Dispositions of the Lithuanians at the breaking out of our revolution.--Their offers of co-operation were rejected by the dictator.--View of the condition of Lithuania under the Russian sway.--Scheme of the Russian government to destroy all Polish national feeling in that province.--The insurrection is brought about by the massacre of the patriots at Osmiany.--Capture of numerous towns by the insurgents, and dispersion of their garrisons.--Storm of Wilno, and delivery of prisoners.--Several partizan corps are formed.--Their destination and successes. 229 CHAPTER XV. Plan of operation against the two corps of Rosen and Kreutz.--Battle of Iganie.--Reflections on the state of the Polish cause after the victory of Iganie.--Review of the course of the campaign.--Condition of the Russian army.--Discontents in Russia.--Representations of the Senate at St Petersburgh to the Emperor.--Comparative view of the forces of the two armies at the present stage of the conflict. 238 CHAPTER XVI. Position of the two armies after the battle of Iganie.--Plan of a simultaneous attack upon the Russian forces upon opposite sides.--Instructions to the different corps.--Operations on the enemy's front.--Unfortunate operations of general Sierawski, and the _first defeat_.--Details of those operations.--Operations of general Dwernicki.--He defeats Rudiger; but by a false operation exposes himself to be attacked disadvantageously by two Russian corps.--In the course of the action the Austrian frontier is passed by the combatants.--An Austrian force interposes, and general Dwernicki consents to go into camp.--His arms and prisoners are taken from him, while the enemy is permitted to leave the territory freely.--Reflections on the conduct of Austria.--Consequences of the loss of Dwernicki's corps.--The cholera makes its appearance in the two armies. 254 CHAPTER XVII. The Russian commander resumes offensive operations.--Object of the attack of the 25th of April.--Combat of Kuflew.--General Dembinski evacuates the position of Kuflew and awaits the enemy at Bady.--Battle of Minsk.--The enemy suddenly evacuates his position.--Reflections on this stage of the conflict.--Positions of the two armies. 271 CHAPTER XVIII. General Skrzynecki resumes the offensive.--He decides to adopt an enlarged plan of operations, and to make the revolutionized provinces supply the place of a corps d'armee.--The corps of Chrzanowski is sent to occupy the Russian corps of Witt and Kreutz.--Admirable execution of this enterprise.--Attack on Kock.--Attack of Rudiger's camp.--Plan of operations by the main army against the Russian guard.--Forced march from Kaluszyn by Praga to Serock.--Advanced post of the guard attacked and defeated.--The corps of Saken is cut off.--The 2d division under Gielgud sent into Lithuania.--The imperial guard are driven with great loss beyond the frontier.--Retrograde movement. 283 CHAPTER XIX. The Lithuanians compel two Russian corps to evacuate Samogitia.--Operations of general Chlapowski in the department of Bialystok.--Capture of Bielsk.--Defeat of a Russian force at Narewka and expulsion of the enemy from the department.--Recapitulation of the forces which had been sent into Lithuania.--Operations of the main army.--Attempt of marshal Diebitsch to intercept Skrzynecki on his retrograde march, by a diversion to Ostrolenka.--General Lubinski surprises the Russian advanced guard at Czyzew.--Marshal Diebitsch attacks the Polish rear-guard at Kleczkowo.--The rear-guard quits its position at night, and joins the main army at Ostrolenka.--Battle of Ostrolenka. 298 CHAPTER XX. Operations of the Lithuanian corps.--Battle of Raygrod and defeat of the Russian corps of Saken.--Importance of this first success in Lithuania.--General Gielgud neglects to follow up his advantages.--He loses time by passing the Niemen at Gielgudyszki, and enables the enemy to concentrate his forces in Wilno.--Entrance into Lithuania and reception by the inhabitants.--Position of the two main armies.--The Russian forces remain inactive and receive supplies from Prussia.--Death of marshal Diebitsch. 313 CHAPTER XXI. General Gielgud advances into Lithuania.--Allows a Russian corps to pass within a league of him unperceived.--Operations on Wilno.--Enumeration of our present force.--Plan of a simultaneous attack upon Wilno on opposite sides by the corps in two divisions.--General Dembinski engages the enemy with the smaller part of the corps.--Being unsupported by Gielgud, is forced to retreat.--General Gielgud attacks Wilno.--Battle of Wilno.--A retreat is commenced.--Prodigious efforts of the Polish cavalry in protecting this retreat.--Consequences of the repulse from Wilno.--The removal of general Gielgud is called for.--General Chlapowski consents to take the virtual command of the corps, in the post of chef d'etat major.--Consideration on the state of things consequent to the battle of Wilno.--Details of the admirable plan of operations proposed by colonel Valentin. 328 CHAPTER XXII. Operations of the main army.--Expedition under Jankowski.--General Chrzanowski having driven Rudiger from his position, crosses the Vistula, but returns to act in concert with general Jankowski against the enemy near Kock.--Details of general Jankowski's movement.--He remains inactive within sight of the fire of the corps with which he was to co-operate.--Other evidences of treason.--Generals Jankowski and Bukowski are arrested and ordered for trial.--View of the advantages that were sacrificed by this misconduct.--Discovery of a plot to liberate and arm the Russian prisoners at Warsaw, and to deliver the city to the enemy. --State of the public mind induced by these events. 342 CHAPTER XXIII. General Chlapowski arrives at Keydany, having ordered general Dembinski to withdraw to Wilkomierz.--The position of the two forces and their line of operations.--Examination of these arrangements.--Neglect of the important position of Kowno.--General Chlapowski, at Keydany, proposes to form a provisional government, and obtain a levy of troops.--Dispositions of the Lithuanians, as effected by the mismanagement of our leaders.--Advantages offered to the enemy by the delay at Keydany.--Brave defence of Kowno, by the small force left there.--Skirmish at Wilkomierz.--The opportunity of concentrating all the forces at Keydany, and repassing the Niemen, is neglected.--The enemy presses his pursuit.--Battle of Rosseyny.--Attack on Szawla.--Loss of the ammunition and baggage of the corps.--The corps retreats in order to Kurzany, protected by a rear guard of cavalry and light artillery.--At Kurzany the corps is subdivided into three parts.--Destination and strength of each.--Examination of this plan. 350 CHAPTER XXIV. The three subdivisions of the Lithuanian corps take their respective destinations.--Details of the operations of that of general Rohland.--He meets alone the attack of the whole Russian force.--Battle of Powenduny and Worna.--General Rohland, on his way to Polonga, learns that general Chlapowski had marched towards the Prussian frontier.--He presses his march to overtake and form a junction with him.--The greater part of the corps of Gielgud and Chlapowski were found to have passed the frontier, when that of Rohland came in sight.--Indignation of the soldiery.--Death of general Gielgud.--General Rohland, joined by a portion of the corps of Gielgud which had not yet passed the frontier, continues his march to Nowe-Miasto.--He declines a proposition from general Kreutz, to surrender.--Successful skirmish with the enemy's cavalry.--General Rohland takes a position at Nowe-Miasto, and awaits the enemy.--The Russian forces, however, do not continue their pursuit, but go into camp.--Propositions to pass the frontier are sent to general Rohland by the Prussian authorities.--They are submitted to the corps and accepted. 367 CHAPTER XXV. Effect of the news of the Lithuanian disasters on the minds of the people.--Distrust of the National Government.--The Russian army resumes the offensive under general Paszkiewicz.--He decides to pass the Vistula.--Examination of the merits of this plan.--Plan of general Skrzynecki to act on the different detached corps of the enemy.--Advantages of general Chrzanowski over the corps of Rudiger.--The Russian forces execute the passage of the Vistula.--General Skrzynecki crosses the Vistula at Warsaw to operate against the enemy on the left bank.--An inquiry into the conduct of general Skrzynecki, and the appointment of a Council of War is demanded by the nation.--Arrival of the corps of general Dembinski at Warsaw. 384 CHAPTER XXVI. Operation of general Dembinski's corps.--He traverses the country between Szawla and the Niemen without being observed by the enemy.--Attacks and disperses a brigade of Russian infantry.--Passes the Niemen and throws himself into the forest of Bialystok.--After leaving that forest, is joined by the corps of general Rozycki.--Reaches Warsaw.--His reception at Warsaw.--View of the exposed situation of Paszkiewicz after his passage of the Vistula.--Examination of the plan of operations of the Polish commander.--Morbid state of the public mind at Warsaw.--Skrzynecki and Czartoriski deprived of their trust.--Capture of the city.--Documents showing the influence exercised by the cabinets in discouraging active operations.--Conclusion. 394 APPENDIX. 409 POLISH REVOLUTION. CHAPTER I. Geographical extent, population, and political importance of Poland, as anciently constituted.--Conduct of Napoleon in 1812.--Congress of Vienna.--Grand-duchy of Warsaw erected into a Kingdom.--Dispositions of Alexander.--Zajaczek appointed Viceroy, and Constantine Commander of the Army.--Constantine encroaches upon the civil administration.--Acts of tyranny.--Meeting of the Diet.--Public debates suppressed.--The Polish Conspiracy of 1821.--The Russian Conspiracy of 1824.--Union of the Patriotic Associations.--Death of Alexander.--The Revolt at St Petersburgh.--Punishment of the Patriots.--Coronation of Nicholas.--Constantine appointed Viceroy of Poland.--Oppressions of the Government.--Patriotic Club.--Influence of the French and Belgic Revolutions.--The Quartering-tax.--Excitement in Warsaw.--Arrest of the Students at Praga.--Day of the Revolution fixed upon. In the early part of July, 1812, when the victorious armies of Napoleon had occupied Wilna, and threatened to annihilate the throne of the Czars, the Polish nation cherished the hope of recovering its former grandeur. The destiny of Poland was then in the hands of Napoleon, and it may be said with truth that on the destiny of Poland depended the security and peace of Europe. Poland, as is well known to the reader, viewed in regard to its geographical situation and extent, as formerly constituted, forms a strong outwork against the Russian Colossus. Its territories extend to the eastward as far as the Dneiper, and westward as far as the Oder. Toward the north, they reach the Baltic and the government of Skoff, and their southern frontiers are the Carpathian Mountains and the Black Sea. This vast region, composed of the present Kingdom of Poland, the Grand-duchy of Posen, of Samogitia, Lithuania, Livonia, White Russia and Black Russia, Volhynia, Podolia, Ukraine, and Gallicia, is inhabited by twenty-two millions of Poles of the same descent, the same manners and customs, and the same language and religion. According to its ancient limits, the kingdom of Poland is among the first in Europe with regard to population and geographical extent. The deputies, who, at the period above named, were sent from Warsaw to the Emperor Napoleon, laid before him the most earnest solicitations for the restoration of this state, and endeavoured to direct his views to the future, in order to convince him of its necessity. They concluded with the following words;--'Dites, Sire, que le royaume de Pologne existe, et ce décret sera pour le monde l'equivalent de la réalité.' To this he answered;--'Dans ma situation, j'ai beaucoup d'interêts à concilier, beaucoup de devoirs à remplir. Si j'avais regné pendant le premier, le second, ou le troisiême partage de la Pologne, j'aurais armé mes peuples pour la defendre. J'aime votre nation, j'autorise les efforts que vous voulez faire. C'est entièrment dans l'unanimité de sa population, que vous pourez trouver l'éspoir de succes. Je dois ajouter que j'ai guaranti a l'empereur d'Autriche l'intégrité de ses domaines.'[1] Such a reply from Napoleon, the Poles could never have expected. For, who accompanied him so faithfully in all his expeditions as the sons of Poland? Thousands of Poles lie buried in Italy, Egypt, St Domingo, Spain, and Russia, who had fought for the integrity of the French Republic and for the aggrandizement of Napoleon. His cold reception of the deputies of Poland filled all patriots with sadness. They were now convinced, that the good wishes of Napoleon for Poland were not sincere, and that, through his marriage with Maria Louisa, he had come under Austrian influence. Thus the hope of territorial enlargement and national existence vanished away, and Napoleon, by his indifference to the interests of Poland, accelerated his own fall. The burning of Moscow, which was a chance that did not enter into his calculations, became the turning point of his fate. The Poles, who had contributed to his greatness, did not desert him in his distress; they were his companions to the very last. Half a squadron of them followed him to Elba, at his own request. The disasters of France decided the fate of Poland. By the Congress of Vienna, the Grand-duchy of Warsaw was made into a kingdom, and subjected to the iron sceptre of Russia. At the first moment of entering upon the government of the kingdom, the Emperor Alexander seemed disposed to load Poland with benefits. On his return from Paris he was received by the inhabitants of Warsaw with the most unfeigned good will, and his stay in that city was marked by acts of beneficence. The words with which he then addressed the representatives of the nation, are still in the memory of every Pole.--'Gentlemen, I respect and love your nation. To these feelings on my part, in which all Europe partakes, you are entitled by your continual and disinterested sacrifices for the prosperity of other nations. I swear to maintain your constitution with all the privileges guarantied by it; and this same constitution I promise to grant to your brethren in the provinces, which are to be united with you in one kingdom.' The nation believed in these promises the more readily as the affectionate deportment of the monarch seemed to confirm them. During his stay in Warsaw, he paid visits to several of the most popular and patriotic families and individuals, and every where expressed himself in terms of the highest esteem for the Polish nation. This show of benevolence, and the dreams of happiness with which it inspired the people, were not, however of long duration. Before his departure from Warsaw, the Emperor named as viceroy of Poland, the old general Zajaczek,[2] raising him to the dignity of a prince, and his own brother, the Grand Duke Constantine, as commander in chief of the Polish army. The appointment of these persons to the supreme power was already in direct opposition to all the promises he had made. For Zajaczek, through the infirmities of his advanced age, was unfit for the post of viceroy, and could be but an instrument in Russian hands; while in Constantine, the commander in chief of their army, the Poles received a tyrant. Not long after the departure of Alexander, the encroachments of the Russian cabinet began to be felt. Removals of officers took place in all the branches of government, in particular of those known as patriots, who were supplanted by minions of Russia, men full of ambition and intrigue. In the first year of the Russian government, the bureau of Police was enlarged, and filled with persons whom the nation despised. The Polish army, which had gathered laurels in so many countries of the three continents, and which was held in such high estimation by the first monarch and general in Europe, was exposed, on the very first days of the new government, to the insults of Constantine. There was not an officer, but was grossly offended by the Grand Duke, and more than all, those who wore military decorations for their merits. No past services were valued; they only exposed those who were distinguished by them to greater persecution. In the first six months, many officers, among whom was the renowned general Sokolnicki, committed suicide; and nearly one half the officers and generals asked their dismission, among whom was General, the late Dictator, Chlopicki, who preferred poverty and want to such an ignominious service. The Polish army, those soldiers animated by feelings of honor and the love of distinction, were to be transformed into the machines of despotism. They who had faced death in so many battles, who were covered with wounds, and who had been called 'brethren' by the greatest leader of his age, were now to be beaten with the Russian knout. In the first year, few days passed in which some of the soldiers did not commit suicide. This prince, who appeared not to find victims enough for his cruelty in the army, began to meddle with all the branches of administration, and to control them. Soon the liberty of the press was prohibited, freemasonry was interdicted, and a bureau of spies was established. The chief in this bureau of spies were Rozniecki, the vice-president of the city of Warsaw, Lubowidzki, a man of the name of Macrot, and Schlee. From the documents found upon Schlee and Macrot, it was ascertained that there were in Warsaw alone 900 spies. In the provinces their number amounted to 2000. The expenses and salaries of these spies, according to accounts found among their papers, drew from the public treasury $1,000,000, or 6,000,000 Polish gilders. Thus, our poor country, instead of employing her resources for the happiness of her children, was forced to pay the mercenaries hired to distress them. Soon Warsaw and the whole kingdom became one vast prison. These spies endeavoured to steal into every company, and were present in all public places. They tried to catch every conversation, and distorted every word spoken, with however innocent an intention, in regard to the policy and administration of the country. In order to extort money, they accused some of the most respected and honest persons, who were thrown into prison, and many of whom were never again seen by their families, from the midst of whom they had been dragged in the night-time, in order to conceal the crime from the eyes of the world. Persons who did not take off their hats in the streets before the Grand Duke, were compelled to draw barrows of mud upon the public places. There passed hardly a month in which some students were not arrested, and, without any trial, at the mere denunciation of a hireling spy, thrown into prison, where they lingered for years. Thus faded away in dungeons many fair and hopeful youths, the flower of our nation. In Warsaw, besides the public gaols, there were, beneath almost all of the barracks, prisons, where the victims of tyranny were tortured. The very orangery of the Grand Duke was transformed into a prison, from which some persons were liberated during the revolution, who had been confined there for years. It was in this prison that Lukasinski had been kept for a long time, though subsequently bound to a cannon and carried into Russia. In the gaols below the barracks of the artillery many dead bodies were found. At the first meeting of the Diet, when the Grand Duke Constantine was among the deputies from the city of Praga, and debates commenced on various subjects which concerned the welfare of the country,--such as, the liberty of the press, the abolition of the central police and the spies, and the deposition of several of the higher officers, for which petitions had been sent to the monarch,--a decision was promulgated that the Diet should act in subordination to the will of the Grand Duke, and, in order to add force to this decision, the palace and its galleries were surrounded and filled by guards. All public debates during the session were prohibited, and a ticket from the police was required for admission. These tickets were distributed among Russian generals, officers of government and their families, and creatures of the court. Before such an auditory, discussions of the most sacred interest to the nation were to take place. No patriot could behold, without tears, the senators and fathers of the nations, descendants of Tarnowski, Zamoiski, Chodkiewicz, and Kosciusko, sitting with sad and drooping countenances, exposed to the scoffing and laughter of those minions of the court. The sacred halls were transformed into a theatre for Russian spectators. In all the different bureaus, spies held important offices, and thus those bureaus became scenes of the most detestable intrigues. Law and right were trampled under foot, and the constitution itself was derided. They used to express themselves in the following and similar terms:--'What is the constitution? It is an impediment to the administration of the government, and the course of justice. The Grand Duke is the best constitution.' A few years had passed away in this wretched state of the nation, when, towards 1821, our noble patriots, Krzyzanowski, Jablonowski, Plichta, Debek, and Soltyk, conceived the idea of emancipating their country by a revolution. Whilst occupied with their noble scheme, they were most agreeably surprised by receiving information, in 1824, of a similar patriotic union in Russia for throwing off the yoke of despotism. Their joy was increased when they received a summons from this patriotic union in Russia, at the head of which were Pestel, Releiew, Bestuzew, Kichelbeker, Murawiew, and Kachowski, to join hands with them. This junction was effected in Kiow, on the day of the great fair, when Prince Jablonowski became acquainted with some of their members, and was initiated into their plans. The invitation was received by the Poles with delight. Accustomed to combat for liberty, they offered with their whole hearts their aid in the redemption of the Sarmatic nation from the chains by which they had been so long bound down. Soon after this, it was agreed to meet in the town of Orla, in the province of Little Russia, where solemn oaths were sworn to sacrifice life and property in the cause. Resolutions were taken, and the means of their execution were devised. The Russians promised to the Poles, in case of success, the surrender of all the provinces as far as the frontiers which Boleslaw-Chrobry had established. This promise, as well as that of eternal friendship between the two brother-nations, was sanctioned by the solemnity of oaths. The day fixed upon for the breaking out of the revolution, was the 25th anniversary of the accession of Alexander, in the month of May, 1826; and Biala-Cerkiew in Volhynia was the place selected for the first blow. The reason for choosing this place, was, that the whole imperial family and the greater part of the army were to assemble there, on the great plain of the Dneiper, to celebrate the anniversary of the coronation. This occasion was to be improved, to gain over all the well-disposed generals, and at the same time to secure the imperial family. In the meeting at Orla, it was required of the Poles, that, at the moment of the breaking out of the revolution, they should take the life of the Grand Duke Constantine. To this proposition, however, Prince Jablonowski answered in these well known words: 'Russians, brother Sarmatians, you have summoned us to co-operate in the holy work of breaking the bonds of slavery under which our Sarmatic race has so long pined. We come to you with sincere hearts, willing to sacrifice our fortunes and lives. Rely, my dear friends, on this our promise. The many struggles in which we have already fought for the sake of liberty, may warrant our assertions. Brethren, you demand of us to murder the Grand Duke. This we can never do. The Poles have never stained their hands with the blood of their princes. We promise you to secure his person in the moment of the revolution, and, as he belongs to you, we shall deliver him into your hands.' The patriotic associations on both sides endeavored to increase their party, by the initiation of many brave men in the army and in civil life. In Lithuania, the respectable president of the nobles, Downarowicz, and the noble Rukiewicz of the Lithuanian corps, with many other officers, were admitted into the conspiracy, and among others Jgelstrom, Wigielin, Hoffman, and Wielkaniec. All the plans for the approaching revolution were arranged with the utmost circumspection, and every circumstance seemed to promise success, when the sudden death of the Emperor Alexander, at Taganrog, in the early part of December, 1825, darkened our bright hopes. The news of his death had, at first, a stunning effect upon the patriotic club in Petersburgh. Nevertheless, they resolved to act. They hoped to profit by the troubles between Constantine and Nicholas, about the succession. On the 18th of December of the same year, the signal for revolt was given in Petersburgh. Some regiments of the guard were on the side of the patriots, and with them assembled great numbers of the people ready to fight for liberty. Yet all this was done without sufficient energy, and without good leaders. It was unfortunate, that at the time, Colonel Pestel, acknowledged by all to be a man of great talents and energy, happened to be absent in Moscow. The people assembled in their holy cause, but, being without leaders, began to fall into disorder, and a few discharges of cannon were sufficient to disperse them. As the Grand Duke Constantine, on account of his marriage with a noble Polish lady, Grudzinska, in 1825, was obliged to renounce the throne of Russia, the imperial power was, by a written document, given to the Grand Duke Nicholas, as the eldest in succession after him. Some days after the proclamation of Nicholas, all the prisons of the realm were prepared to receive their new inmates. Petersburgh, Moscow, Wilna, Kiow, Bialystok, and Warsaw, were appointed for the places of trial. Over the whole of Poland and Russia the sword of cruel revenge was suspended. In Petersburgh, the martyrs of liberty, Pestel, Muraview, Releiew, Bestuzew, Kachowski, were hung on the gallows, and more than two hundred persons of the noblest families were sent to Siberia. In Wilna, Kiow, and Moscow, an immense number were thrown into prison, or transported to Siberia. In Bialystok the Russian general, Wiliaminow, was appointed an inquisitor. This infamous character treated the wretched prisoners with the utmost cruelty. Rukiewicz,[3] Jgelstrom, and Wigelin, were exiled to Siberia for life. In Warsaw, the Grand Duke himself undertook the business of establishing an inquisition over the unhappy prisoners. This court was composed of persons in the Russian interest, a circumstance, the melancholy consequences of which soon became manifest. Senator Soltyk, an old man seventy years of age, was flogged with the knout. Krzyzanowski, unable to endure the tortures inflicted upon him, committed suicide. General Procurator Wyezechowski, that unworthy son of Poland, sentenced all who were condemned to death, to be hung on a gallows, and their bodies to be exposed upon the wheel. This horrid sentence, however, was, notwithstanding all the Grand Duke's influence, mitigated by the supreme court of the senate, which still contained many worthy men under the presidency of the venerable woyewode, Bilinski. The infamous Wyezechowski was unable to oppose this virtuous old man, whose powerful eloquence was a mirror of his noble heart. President Bilinski, fearless of the threats of the Russians, whose briberies he was accustomed to treat with disdain, guided by the articles of the criminal code, altered the sentence of death to a few years imprisonment. This mitigation of the sentence was signed by all the senators, with one exception.[4] After Nicholas had ascended the throne over steps of blood, he was crowned, in 1826, Emperor of Russia. Two years after this, in 1828, he was again crowned in Warsaw as King of Poland. This monarch at first intended not to go through with the ceremony of the coronation in Warsaw, in order to avoid the oath of the constitution. Yet, from fear of revolutionary scenes, he suffered himself to be persuaded to do it, and took the oath, like his predecessor and brother, Alexander, to maintain the constitution and the privileges guarantied by it. Poland may have suffered under Alexander; yet he loved the nation like a friend, as every one of my countrymen will allow. When he was mistaken in his measures, it was, that, surrounded by bad men and enemies of our nation, he was prevented from knowing the truth. He was himself too much engrossed in pleasures, to visit the hut of the poor in order to obtain information of his condition. Poland forgave him all his faults, in the grateful recollection that he had restored her to a separate existence, and respected the constitution. Far different in our eyes appeared the present emperor, Nicholas. Partaking of the errors of his predecessor, he exhibited none of his virtues. Alexander, with a benignant countenance, permitted every one to approach him freely, and his features were never distorted by passion. Nicholas, on the contrary, seemed to terrify by his very look. His lowering and overbearing eye was the true mirror of Asiatic despotism. Every movement was that of command; and his imperious air was in true harmony with the ruling passion of his mind. Such a sovereign, acting through the instrumentality of a brother like himself, the Grand Duke Constantine, must needs bring distress upon our country. Whole volumes might be filled with the relation of the atrocities of this government. The daily increasing host of spies in its employ, among whom even females were found, regarded nothing as sacred, and mocked at the most holy institutions. They lavished away millions of the public funds. Everything was permitted to them. In short, the intention of this government seemed to be to plunge our country into the deepest distress, in order to force us to the abandonment of every national feeling, and to make us slaves of the Russians. Yet in this hope they were deceived. The more the nation was oppressed,[5] the more its energy of character was steeled, and the more the love of country developed itself. Two worthy sons of Poland, Wysocki and Schlegel, mourning over the martyrdom of Krzyzanowoski, Soltyk, Dembek, and Plichta, and meditating on the distresses of their country, resolved to attempt its deliverance. By these two young champions of Poland, the first idea of the revolution was conceived. They communicated their hopes to several other patriots, and thus was formed the Patriotic Club. This association, nourishing in their secret breasts the holy spark of liberty, increased it soon to a flaming light, by which the whole nation was led to honor and glory. These heroic men fearlessly persevered in their endeavors, during five years, exposed to the greatest dangers and amidst thousands of spies. Witnesses of the continually aggravated oppression of their country, they became more and more animated to risk every thing for their holy object. While this tyrannical government was exulting in the success of its measures, and the honor and morals of our country were fast declining, the revolution of France occurred, and it instantly roused every mind to a comparison of our state with that of the French, who had thrown off the yoke of a Machiavelian dynasty. The three days of July were days of joy, not only to every brave son of France, but to every patriotic heart in Poland. How much were they enraptured, who hitherto in secret had been labouring for the redemption of their country! The happy result of those glorious days was a peal of terror to the Grand Duke Constantine, and to the whole swarm of agents in his tyrannical sway. It gave them a presage of their approaching retribution. Yet, instead of adopting milder measures, and endeavouring to propitiate the nation, their cruelties went on as before. The government had, indeed, advanced too far in its barbarous system to draw back. The activity of the spies was redoubled. From the first reception of the news of the French revolution, there did not pass a day on which some persons were not imprisoned in Warsaw or the provinces. On the night of the 7th of September, forty students were seized in their beds and carried to prison. Again, the new revolutionary eruption of Belgium cheered and encouraged the heart of every patriotic Pole. The hour for throwing off the yoke of tyranny was fast approaching. The leaders of the revolution succeeded in communicating their sentiments to continually increasing numbers. Many officers of the 4th regiment of the line and of the sappers were initiated. Yet at this very time, when the revolution was every moment expected to break out, the Russian despot, in concert with Prussia and Austria, commenced his preparations for a war against France and Belgium. The Polish army was destined to serve as the vanguard of this expedition, and Modlin and Warsaw were stored with large quantities of arms and ammunition from Russia. All the regiments were completed, and the order for marching was momentarily expected. These circumstances attracted the notice of our patriots, and they decided to accelerate the revolution, in order to anticipate the march of the army. The eruption was hastened by the following event. The citizens of Warsaw were obliged to furnish quarters for the officers of the army. To lighten this burden, and to avoid various inconveniences, as well as to accommodate the officers,--by an understanding with the inhabitants, it was determined, that instead of furnishing quarters, a quartering tax should be paid. It was intended in this regulation to proportion the tax to the size of the houses, and consequently to the profit which the proprietors would derive from letting them. The tax would in this way be equalized, because, wherever levied, it would be attended by a proportionate compensation, and it was satisfactory to the inhabitants. This regulation, however, was executed in an entirely different manner. In many cases the heavier taxes were paid by the poorer inhabitants, and indeed they had sometimes to provide quarters in addition to the payment of the tax. All the persons employed by the police as spies, and who had by vile means acquired immense fortunes and kept the finest houses in Warsaw, were exempt both from the tax and the providing of quarters. The money collected for the tax was purloined by the commissioners for quartering, who thus amassed millions of gilders.[7] A short time before the revolution, the gross impositions of this commission were discovered. The inhabitants of Warsaw began to murmur against it, and addressed the government for the removal of the persons employed, and the substitution of others in their places, who should be deserving of the confidence of the citizens. Among others, the deposition of the president of the city, Woyda, was demanded; and when the government refused to comply with the request, he was publicly insulted and flogged in the streets. The discontent of the citizens, in particular of the poorer classes, continued to increase, and of this discontent the patriots made use in endeavouring to propagate their views of the necessity of a revolution. Public opinion was from day to day expressed more boldly. Papers were pasted up in the streets, with inscriptions such as these:--'The dwelling of the Grand Duke will be let from next new year's day.'--'Away with the tyrants! Away with the barbarians to Asia!' A great concourse of citizens assembled one evening before the city hall, and demanded the punishment of the quartering commissioner, Czarnecki, who, in his desperation, committed suicide. The holy moment was now fast approaching, and Warsaw was in anxious expectation. Fear and terror was painted in the faces of the spies, while, on the other hand, all true patriots were in raptures of joy, and waited impatiently for the moment to strike the blow. For several nights the whole garrison of the city had been under arms, by the orders of the Grand Duke, who, tortured with the consciousness of so many crimes, had no rest, and surrounded himself with large bodies of guards. A hundred gens d'armes were on horseback for many nights, constantly bringing in their victims. Strong patroles of Russian soldiers traversed the streets. All was in vain. His mercenaries could not protect the tyrant. The word was given, the oath was sworn, to fight for our sacred rights and the freedom of our country. An event which served to irritate all minds, and hasten the revolution, was the arrest and imprisonment of eighty students. These brave young men were assembled in a private house, in order to pray to God in secret for the souls of their murdered ancestors, on the anniversary of the storming of Praga, by the bloody Suwarrow, in 1796, when none were spared, and Praga swam with blood, and was strewed with the corpses of 30,000 of its inhabitants. Neither old men, women, children, nor pregnant mothers, were spared by the barbarous Russian soldiers. In memory of this event, the patriots had every year met for secret prayer, since public devotions on the occasion had been forbidden by the Grand Duke. The abovementioned students, with some priests, were in the act of worship, praying to the Almighty, and honoring the memory of their forefathers, when the doors were broken open with great violence, and a number of gens d'armes, under their captain, Jurgaszko, with a company of Russian soldiers behind them, entered the apartment. Our brave youths continued their prayers upon their knees about the altar, and in that position suffered themselves to be bound, and dragged away to prison. But this was the last act of cruelty the Russian government was permitted to perpetrate, for it exhausted the patience of the nation. The measure was full, and the hour of retribution was at hand. The news of this outrage was spread through Warsaw with the quickness of lightning, and it thrilled every heart. This was the occasion for fixing upon the 29th of November, as the day for commencing the revolution, on which day the 4th Polish regiment, many of the officers of which were among the initiated, were to mount guard in Warsaw. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 1: 'Say, Sire, that the kingdom of Poland exists, and that declaration will be, in the eyes of the world, the equivalent of the reality.' To this he answered;--'In my situation, I have many interests to conciliate, many duties to fulfil. If I had reigned during the first, the second, or the third partition of Poland, I would have armed my people to defend her. I love your nation; I authorize the efforts which you wish to make. It is alone in the unanimity of your population that you will find the hope of success. I ought to add that I have guarantied to the Emperor of Austria the integrity of his dominions.'] [Footnote 2: Zajaczek commenced his military career in the time of Kosciusko, continued it among the Polish legions, and accompanied Napoleon to Egypt, where he served with distinction. He was present in all the later campaigns of Napoleon, till 1809, when he returned, on account of his advanced age and the loss of one of his legs.] [Footnote 3: This nobleman (Rukiewicz) had two beautiful sisters, Cornelia and Theresa, whose heroic behavior deserves to be recorded. He was secretary of the Patriotic Club in Lithuania, and kept the records and papers of the society in the village where he lived, near Bialystok; and in order to do this business without disturbance, he had prepared a little summer-house in the garden near his mansion. He happened to be from home when arrested, and immediately after his arrest, the police sent a Russian officer with gens d'armes to his village, in order to take possession of his papers. His sisters, who were ignorant of the event, were quietly at home when they beheld the officer with his suite riding into the court-yard. A presaging fear of the truth seized them, but gave place immediately to an heroic resolution. The younger remained in the room in order to receive and detain these agents of tyranny, whilst the elder, Cornelia, carried in haste some combustibles to the summer-house, which was soon on fire, and more than two hundred persons, whose names were contained in the register, were thus saved by the presence of mind of that heroic lady. She returned to the parlor with the noblest and most delighted mien, and, on the officer's enquiring as to the cause of the fire, she answered with a smile, 'Gentlemen, I only wanted to save you the trouble of some farther brutalities. I have burnt the papers and documents of my brother. You may be sure not to find anything left; and now I am your prisoner. Drag me along with you, to increase the number of your victims.' Both the ladies were carried to prison, and treated in the most unworthy manner during three years. When these noble sisters were dismissed from prison, they found themselves bereft of every consolation. They had no parents left. Their only brother, who had been both parent and brother to them, was now gone. They could not endure the thought of leaving him to pine away so far from them in chains, and they resolved to partake and thus to relieve his sufferings. Regardless of the remonstrances of their friends, they left everything, and, travelling in the humblest manner, mostly on foot or upon the wagons of the peasantry, they undertook the journey to Siberia. It is not known whether Providence granted them to reach their beloved brother or not.] [Footnote 4: To this court, which was called the Supreme Court of the Diet, and which was established in order to try these prisoners of state, was appointed general Count Vincenti Krasinski, a man of great merit, a brave soldier as well as a good citizen, and on this account very much beloved by the nation. The soldiers, indeed, regarded him as a father. Yet this man could so far forget himself as to take up the bloody pen to sign the death of his fellow citizens--the only one of his nation. It is with painful feelings that I name him in this narrative as the enemy of his country, after having been faithful to it for fifty years, and after having made for it the greatest sacrifices. Vincenti Krasinski, whom his country has erased, as a lost son, from the register of her children, is a strong example of the great power of Russian seduction.] [Footnote 5: As already remarked, it would be impossible to describe the various kinds of cruelty exercised by the Russian government. Yet, in order to make the reader acquainted with some of them, I shall here state a few facts.--In our country, the distilling and brewing of spirituous liquors, and the planting of tobacco, as well as the sale of these articles, was a privilege of the landed proprietors. Warsaw, as the capital and the most populous city, was the best market for these productions, and all the noblemen endeavoured to bring their produce to Warsaw for sale. In this manner they supplied themselves with money and enhanced the value of their grain, while their liquors, as well as tobacco, could be sold at very low prices, to the pecuniary benefit of all the laboring classes and the soldiery. These advantages, however, soon became an object of attention to the government agents. One of their number, the Jew, Nowachowiez, who, by the greatest impositions, had acquired an immense fortune, devised a plan for monopolizing the production and sale of every kind of liquor and of tobacco. He obtained the exclusive right of selling them, and all the noblemen were forbidden to dispose of these articles without his permission, for which a duty was to be paid. For this monopoly he paid to the government 2,000,000 of Polish gilders ($333,333 1/3) for which he more than doubly indemnified himself by the enormous taxes levied upon the consumers of these articles. This innovation, so oppressive to the poorer classes, and invented merely to enrich this Jew and his partners, irritated all the land proprietors, and still more the laboring classes, who were suffering by it. For two years in succession petitions were made for the reformation of these abuses, but the government only insisted upon the prohibition with the greater severity. Nowachowiez, indeed, employed a guard, who wore uniforms. All the environs of Warsaw were filled with these guards, and the greatest excesses were committed by them. A poor day-laborer, after having purchased at some distance from the city, some brandy and tobacco, carried these articles at evening to Warsaw. On his way he was stopped by these men. They took all from him, and demanded a heavier fine than the articles were worth. As the poor man was unable to pay the fine, they abused him, and were about to carry him to prison. He succeeded, however, in making his escape, and, as it was in the vicinity of the residence of a nobleman by the name of Biernacki, he sought shelter on his estate. The guards in pursuit entered the mansion of this nobleman. Biernacki heard the tumult of the guard seizing and roughly handling the poor man, and, ascertaining the cause of the disturbance, he censured them for their inhumanity about such a trifle. In order, however, to save the man from farther insults, he retained him, with the intention of sending him the next day with a note to Nowachowiez for his exculpation. The very moment that Biernacki was occupied in writing the letter, an officer of the gens d'armes, with four privates, stepped in. Biernacki inquired the cause of this visit, and was told in answer, that he was arrested for having protected a defrauder. Thus, surrounded by four soldiers, this man was publicly carried through Warsaw to the prison of the Carmelites. Not satisfied with this, Nowachowiez succeeded in obtaining from the Grand Duke, who hated Biernacki as a patriotic Pole, a squadron of Russian Hulans, consisting of 200 horse, to quarter for a whole week on his estate, _in execution_, as it is termed. The Russian soldiers took possession of all the buildings on the estate. In the apartments which they used for barracks, they broke all the furniture, lustres, pianos, &c, and carried in their straw for sleeping. In the court-yard they made a fire, for which they used the pieces of furniture for fuel. They took the wheat from the barns to feed their horses, and butchered the cattle. In short, the most shameful depredations and excesses were committed by officers and soldiers, regardless of the situation of the lady of this nobleman, who was confined in childbed, and who for a whole year was in danger of her life from the consequences of her terror. This barbarous order of the Grand Duke ruined the fortune of that unhappy man, and the amount of his property destroyed may be estimated at least at from 70,000 to 80,000 gilders. Biernacki was imprisoned for a whole year, after which he was dismissed to weep over the sufferings of his wife, and his ruined fortune. The poor offender was punished with 800 blows of the knout, of which he died in a few days. The second story perhaps surpasses the former in cruelty, and would suit the times of Nero. General Rozniecki, and the vice president of the City of Warsaw, Lubowiecki, had their agents, who travelled through the country in order to superintend the services of the secret police. Among them was a Jew, named Birnbaum, whose crimes surpass conception. He travelled through the whole country, and every where found pretexts for accusations against the noblemen, who had to pay him fines to secure themselves from prison. He took up vast sums, that were never accounted for to his superiors. They were divided with Rozniecki, Lubowiecki, Macrot, and Schlee, with some Russian generals, and the servants of the Grand Duke, Kochanowski and Trize, all of whom, like this Jew, made immense fortunes, some of them to the amount of hundreds of thousands. When, in order to encourage the manufactures of the country, the importation of all broadcloths, cotton and linen goods were forbidden, Birnbaum, in secret understanding with his superiors, found out the way of drawing to himself the greatest advantages from this decree. He persuaded two other Jews, by the promise of a part of the gain, and of his protection, to smuggle these articles and to sell them among the gentry of the country. A place on the frontiers was selected for a depot of these contraband wares, which the country noblemen purchased in ignorance of their unlawful importation, and induced by their low prices. On a sudden, Birnbaum visited these districts, examined the warehouses of the noblemen, found the contraband goods, and forced them to the alternative of either paying him a large sum of money or going to prison. Many, for the sake of peace, paid the fines imposed; others, who refused, were imprisoned. By such means, this Jew, as was found afterwards by the records and documents of the police, brought to prison more than a hundred persons, who were treated in the most barbarous manner. They had no food given them but herrings without water, and many of these unfortunate persons died in consequence. At last Birnbaum fell out with his accomplices, on occasion of the division of profits. He had them, likewise, thrown into prison to perish there. Their families, however, accused him at their Kahal,[6] or Council of the Jews, and by means of money contrived to have him arrested. He was poisoned in his prison, as many persons of consequence were found to be implicated in his impositions.] [Footnote 6: Kahal is a Jewish court of administration, composed of the elders, who are responsible to the government for their nation, and are of great authority.] [Footnote 7: One man of the name of Czarnecki, a commissioner of the quartering bureau, in a short time made by these means two millions of gilders; and this robber of the poor carried his luxury so far as to make use of bathing tubs lined with silver.] CHAPTER II. Principles of the Revolution.--THE FIRST NIGHT.--Attack on the Barracks of the Russian Cavalry.--Their Dispersion.--Attempt to secure the person of the Grand Duke.--Capture of Russian general officers and spies.--Actions with detached bodies of Russian cavalry.--Two companies of Polish light-infantry join the patriots.--Death of Potocki and Trembicki.--The Russian infantry attacked and dispersed.--Armament and assembling of the people.--Detachments sent to Praga. It is undeniable that the history of our nation abounds in heroic acts and glorious passages. Need we instance the times of Boleslaw, Casimir, Jagelo, Augustus of Warna, and Sobieski; or the deeds of our renowned generals Czarnecki, Chodkiewicz, Tarnowski, Sapieha, Kosciusko, and Poniatowski? Yet, in our whole history, nothing transcends this last revolution; and indeed few more memorable events have ever occurred. Its plan was based on the purest motives, and this constitutes its peculiar character. Those true sons of Poland, Wysocki and Schlegel, had no other design than to regenerate public morals and the national character, which had already begun to deteriorate under Russian influence; though, perhaps, there may have mingled with these another impulse--that of vengeance for the ignominy to which we were subjected. These feelings were shared by the whole nation--certainly a rare instance in history. Inspired by the example of the brave, even the wavering joined in upholding the good cause to support which the sword was drawn. It was this unanimity which emboldened us, small as our numbers were, to meet that colossal power dreaded by all Europe. We were not animated to this unequal struggle by any vain desire of conquest, but by a resolution to shake off a yoke so disgraceful, and by the wish to preserve our civilization, and to extend it even to Russia. In drawing the sword, every Pole had in view not only the freedom of his own country, but that of his Sarmatian brethren also. The Poles believed that Russia still remembered those martyrs of liberty, Pestel, Bestuzew, Morawiew, Kachowski, and Releiew, who suffered an ignominious death, and more than five hundred others who were sent in chains to Siberia. We believed they would bear in mind, that, in 1824, they themselves summoned us to fight, side by side, with them against despotism. Their words were still in our memory--'Poles, help us in our holy cause! Unite your hearts with ours! Are we not brethren?' Unworthy nation--soothed by the momentary blandishments of the autocrat, who scattered his decorations with a lavish hand, they forgot their own past sufferings and the future that awaits them. They suffered themselves to be led against those who were in arms for the liberty of both nations. At the very time when the funeral rites of those who had died in battle, Russians as well as Poles, were being celebrated in Warsaw and all the provinces, they burned our villages, and murdered our fathers and brothers. Russians! You have covered yourselves with eternal shame, in the eyes of the whole world. Even the nations you consider your friends and allies contemn you! THE FIRST NIGHT. The patriots assembled early in the morning of the 29th of November, to renew their oaths and ask the blessing of the Almighty on their great undertaking. The moment approached. Seven in the evening was the hour appointed for the commencement of the revolution. The signal agreed upon was, that a wooden house should be set on fire in Szulec street, near the Vistula. The patriots were scattered over the city, ready to stir up the people on the appearance of the signal. Most of them were young men and students. Some hundred and twenty students, who were to make the beginning, were assembled in the southern part of Warsaw. All was ready. At the stroke of seven, as soon as the flame of the house was seen reflected on the sky, many brave students, and some officers, rode through the streets of that part of the city called The Old Town, shouting, 'Poles! brethren! the hour of vengeance has struck! The time to revenge the tortures and cruelties of fifteen years is come! Down with the tyrants! To arms, brethren; to arms! Our country forever!' The excitement spread through this part of the city with incredible rapidity. The citizens flocked together from all quarters, shouting 'Down with the tyrants! Poland forever!' At the same time a hundred and twenty students left their barrack (which is called the Hotel of the Cadets, and is situated in the royal gardens of Lazienki) under their gallant leaders, Wysocki and Schlegel, and marched to the quarters of the Russian cavalry, cuirasseurs, hulans and hussars. It was resolved to take immediate possession of all the chief gates. The issuing out of the Russian troops was thereby rendered very difficult and bloody, as the barracks were surrounded by a wide and deep moat, over which there were few bridges. On their arrival, the cadets found the soldiers in the utmost confusion. Some were saddling their horses, some were leading them out, and others were occupied in securing the magazines, &c. In short, panic and disorder pervaded officers and men; each sought his own safety only. Our young heroes took advantage of this confusion, and after firing a few rounds, rushed with the _hurrah_ through the gates. This charge sufficed: a hundred and twenty of these young Poles, after having killed forty or fifty men with ball and bayonet, dispersed some eighteen hundred Russian cavalry. Cuirasseurs, hulans and hussars mingled together, joined in the cry of terror, and began to seek concealment in garrets, stables, cellars, &c. A great number were drowned in attempting to cross the canal in order to escape into the adjoining gardens. As the barracks were closely connected with wooden buildings filled with hay, straw, and other combustible articles, not a man would have escaped had they been fired. The young Poles refrained from this, in mercy. The Russians might all have been made prisoners; for so great was their panic that they were not ashamed to beg for quarter on their knees. But these advantages were, for the time, neglected. The cadets abandoned the attack, and hastened into the city, where their presence was more necessary. While their comrades were attacking the barracks, some ten or twelve students traversed the gardens towards the palace of the Grand Duke (called the Belvidere) in order to secure his person.[8] Some of them guarded the passages on the side of the gardens, while others penetrated to the tyrant's apartment. But he had escaped through a secret door. On the failure of the party of cadets sent to secure the person of the Grand Duke, they left his apartments without in the least disturbing the repose of his lady. As they reached the foot of the stairs, they met Lubowicki, the vice-president of the city, coming to the Grand Duke for instructions. As soon as he saw them, he began to cry for aid, but the next moment fell on his knees and begged for his life. They took him with them, intending to extract from him all the information he was able to give. In the court-yard they met the Russian general, Gendre,[9] aid-de-camp of the Grand Duke, with some ten or twelve armed men. They resolutely attacked him. Gendre fell under their bayonets, and his followers fled. The party meeting with no farther obstacles, returned to their friends, whom they found at the bridge of Sobieski. The company of cadets, after having finished their attack upon the barracks of the Russian cavalry, marched along the high road which traverses the Park, over the bridge of Sobieski, towards the main avenue between the terraces of the hospital Ujasdow on one side, and those of the Botanical Garden on the other. After having arrived at this bridge, they heard the noise of horses in front, as of cavalry advancing. It was in fact a company of Russian cuirasseurs, who were on guard in this part of the park, and who were now hastening to save the barracks. Immediately a plan was formed to receive them. The cadets, forming in a line, concealed themselves in the Park near the street. The cuirasseurs came up; they were permitted to advance, and were then received with a brisk fire. The heavy cavalry, who could not turn in this narrow road, suffered severely. Sixty bodies were found on the spot. The rest fled in the greatest disorder. From this bridge, that handful of brave young men passed the street of Wieyska, and, after arriving at the barracks of Radziwil, they met a squadron of Russian hussars returning from a patrol. At the same time they heard the Russian cavalry in pursuit, who had gained time to mount at their barracks. This was a critical moment, but it was met with resolution. One half threw themselves into the ditch in order to receive the hussars; and the others formed a platoon, and with hurrahs and the shout of 'Poland forever!' discharged their pieces and attacked the cuirasseurs in their rear, at the point of the bayonet. The Russians were thrown into disorder, and fled with the greatest precipitaion, leaving many dead behind them. The cadets, not having lost a single man in all these skirmishes, arrived at the part of the city called the Nowy-Swiat, (or the New World,) and the Trzy Zlote Krzyze, (the Three Golden Crosses.) Here they found two companies of Polish light infantry, and with them the two Polish generals, Stanislaus Potocki and Trembicki, who were giving commands for restoring order by force, and for arresting the assembled inhabitants. The company of cadets arrived, and hailed the light infantry with the following words:--'Brothers! Are you here to shed the blood of your brethren? Have you forgotten the Russian tyranny? Come to our embrace, and hand to hand let us attack the tyrants. Poland forever!' This address was enough. They disobeyed the commands of their unworthy generals, and joined the cadets and the populace. When the two generals had the madness to reproach the soldiers, some of the cadets went to them and told them in a few words the state of affairs, and on their knees and with tears intreated them not to forsake the cause of their country. To Stanislaus Potocki the command of the army was offered. At the same time they were both warned of the fatal consequences of their refusal. It was of no avail. These infatuated men could not see the justice of the cause, and began to insult the students. Upon this the cadets left them, and they fell victims to the indignation of the populace.[10] In this place some gens d'armes who undertook to disperse the citizens, were killed. After the union with the two companies of light infantry, it was decided they should both march to the street of Szulec, on the left bank of the Vistula, endeavor there to assemble the citizens, and establish a degree of order, and after that to take possession of the bridge, for the purpose of maintaining the necessary communications between Praga and Warsaw during the night, and to defend it to the last against any attack of the enemy. The cadets marched directly into the city through the Nowy-Swiat, singing patriotic songs and shouting 'Poland forever!' Every where the citizens answered their shouts with the greatest enthusiasm, and joined the ranks of those brave youths. Both old and young men, and even women, left their dwellings in order to increase the numbers of the liberators of their country. In their passage through that street this company made prisoners of many Russian generals, officers, &c, who were on their flight. After advancing as far as the palace of the Viceroy they met the Polish general Hauke, and colonel Mieciszewski. These worthless men, accompanied by some gens d'armes, were on their way to the Grand Duke in the Belvidere. Some cadets stepped in their way, and exhorted them to dismount and surrender themselves. Instead of answering, general Hauke drew a pistol and wounded one of them, which act cost him and his companion their lives.[11] In the same manner general Siemiontkowski, with some gens d'armes and soldiers, endeavored to disperse and arrest the citizens assembled in the Saxon-platz. He likewise was a Russian instrument, and was hated by the nation. Whilst this company of cadets was engaged in the south part of the city, the 4th regiment, a battalion of which had mounted guard, were active in another quarter. This regiment, as soon as the signals were given, revolted. The battalion on guard beat the alarm-drum at every guard-house, and the two other battalions formed for the attack of the Russian infantry in their barracks called the barracks of Sapieha. The shouts of the soldiers and citizens advancing to the attack mingled with the noise of the drums on every side. A great number of Russian general officers and spies were taken in their flight, in the street of the Little Theatre, and the street of Napoleon. As soon as the numbers assembled would admit of it, divisions were detached to liberate the prisoners, especially those in the Franciscan and Carmelite prisons. These prisons, always guarded by Russian troops, were stormed. The Russian soldiers were driven in, and a massacre commenced in the corridors, where a great number of them fell by the bayonet, together with many police officers and turnkeys. The doors were broken down--and an indescribable scene took place, when the victims, already sentenced, perhaps, to death, or reserved for tortures, were set at liberty. With tears in their eyes, they fell into the arms of their deliverers. Here, a father found a son--there, a son a father. Many of the emaciated captives could only creep to meet the embraces of their brethren. But what was most shocking, was the appearance of four ladies who had been incarcerated for having resisted the brutal advances of certain Russian generals. They were reduced to mere skeletons. There was not one of the spectators who did not shudder and weep at the sight, and swear to avenge them. A hundred and seventy students, and from forty to fifty older persons, Polish soldiers and citizens, all innocent victims of the system of espionage, were rescued from these two prisons. The above mentioned battalions of the 4th and the battalion of sappers marched to attack the Russian infantry in the barracks of Alexander and Stanislaus. On their arrival there, they found some companies under arms, and summoned them to surrender. Instead of complying, they began to fire, and our soldiers fell instantly upon them, with the 'hurrah.' They were dispersed in a moment, and many officers and soldiers were made prisoners. So panic struck were many of the officers of the Russian guard that they did not hesitate to creep head-foremost into the cellars, whence they were dragged out by the legs. The Russians fled from the barracks and the city in the utmost disorder, and took refuge beyond the Powonzki barrier. After all these successes, the northern, eastern, and western parts of the city were occupied, at about noon, by divisions of patriot soldiers and citizens. A small part of the south side of the city only was now in possession of the enemy's cavalry, who had at last left their barracks. A few houses opposite the Lottery Buildings were set on fire, as a signal for assembling. Strong patrols were sent to the western part of the city, and by them all the public treasures and the bank were secured. One of these parties, composed of sappers, met the Russian colonel, Sass,[12] in his flight. As he did not stop at their challenge, he was shot. When the city had been nearly freed of the Russians, great multitudes hastened to the arsenal for arms and ammunition. Here they found the Polish general Blummer, who was rash enough to resist. He ordered his soldiers to fire on the people, but they refused to obey, and joined their brethren. This general was slain,--a just punishment for his murderous intentions. All the apartments were immediately opened, and more than 80,000 muskets, pistols, sabres, and carbines were obtained. They were distributed with admirable good order. The people, being now armed, were arrayed in divisions, under different commanders, and sent to various parts of the city. Parties were appointed to patrol the streets and arrest all spies[13] and Russian officers who might attempt to fly. They arrested upwards of three hundred. One of these patrols went to the office of the secretary of spies, Macrot, to seize his person and papers. This man had hid himself in the cellar, with some of his satellites, and fired upon the patrol. The consequence was that Macrot and his people were massacred. Toward two in the morning, the quiet of the city was restored. Most of the patriots assembled in the Ulica Dluga, (or Long Street,) to consult on the measures to be adopted on the following day, and the manner in which the nation should be addressed by the patriotic party. They called to memory the cruelties of the Russian government, and urged the necessity of a revolution to prevent the decay of all moral and national feeling. They implored the people to aid in this holy cause, yet at the same time besought them never to violate the dictates of humanity. 'Dear brethren,' they said, 'let no one have a right to accuse us of cruelty. May the sanctity of our cause never be polluted by barbarious passions. Having a single end in view, national freedom, and justice, may we prove lions in battle, mild and indulgent to defenceless foes, and repentant apostates. Brethren, let unity, love and friendship be ours! Let us forget private rancor and selfish interest; Children of one mother, our dear Poland--let us save her from ruin!' These addresses were received by the people with the most fervent enthusiasm, and with cries of 'Poland forever!' They swore to fight for her while a drop flowed in their hearts, and never to forsake the field of valor or the path of virtue. The assembled multitude then knelt down before the Almighty, to thank him for a deliverance accomplished with so little bloodshed, and to implore a continuation of his mercies. It was a scene which no description can equal. In the depth of the night the immense crowds of people kneeling, their figures illuminated by the glare of the fires lighted in the streets, praying to God their deliverer, presented a sight to have touched even tyrants, could they have witnessed it. When prayers were over, plans were adopted for the defence of the city. Some of the barriers were barricaded, and fortified with cannon. Officers were sent to Praga with detachments to reinforce the garrison at the bridge. Wagons were also sent to Praga for ammunition. As the detachments approached the bridge, they perceived that their way was obstructed by a body of Russian cavalry. This cavalry were not aware of the presence of the two companies of light infantry who had been sent thither by the patriots. As the cavalry advanced upon the bridge the light infantry gave them a volley and charged. At the same time the detachments fell on from the Border Street, and compelled them to retire with severe loss. Some companies formed by the populace, had already taken possession of Praga, and all was quiet. Many wagon loads of cartridges, balls, and barrels of powder, were taken from the magazine to Warsaw before morning. These are the details of the first night of our revolution. The order which prevailed in all these tumults and during the fight, was truly admirable. The foreigners then in Warsaw declared that they could not enough praise the behavior of the troops and populace in the very height of a revolution. The utmost forbearance was evinced toward persons and property. No individual was slain or abused without provocation, nor was any house or store entered without the consent of the owner. From the open windows of many houses even ladies witnessed our deeds, and waved their handkerchiefs, without fear of danger or insult. They were quiet and delighted spectators of the crowds, who, after expelling the Russians, moved through the streets in perfect order, shouting songs of joy. These were moments in which the heart of every good patriot rejoiced, and traitors alone hid their heads. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 8: The enemies of our country have endeavored to persuade the world that this party was sent to take the Grand Duke's life. It is an infamous calumny. The order to seize the Grand Duke, was given with the noblest intention;--to secure him from the dangers attendant on a revolution, and to prevent farther bloodshed by his captivity. The Poles magnanimously intended to requite his long continued cruelty with the kindest treatment. He would have been placed in safety, and supplied with all the comforts of life in the palace of Bruhl, which was expressly named for the place of his abode. The persons sent to seize him were selected for their habitual moderation and self-restraint. By his flight, Constantine accused himself. The just man fears nothing; the guilty conscience anticipates danger. The Grand Duke injured himself as well as our cause by his flight. His melancholy end is well known.] [Footnote 9: Gendre was one of the Russian generals, who was among the chief spies. He was dismissed by the deceased emperor, Alexander, on account of impositions and even accusations of theft, nor was he allowed to show himself in Petersburgh during the life-time of Alexander. He arrived, in 1829, in Warsaw, when it was the pleasure of Constantine to associate and surround himself with the outcasts of society; and he made him his master of horse, and afterwards general and aid-de-camp. The swindling of this general and his wife, in Warsaw, surpassed all imagination. They cheated and robbed the noblemen, the merchants, the Jews, and their own master, the Grand Duke. According to the accounts found during the revolution, their debts, in gaming and otherwise, amounted to more than a million of Polish gilders.] [Footnote 10: Every Pole lamented the melancholy fate of Stanislaus Potocki. He was one of the most honest of men, and beloved by the army and the whole nation. He always kept aloof from all familiar intercourse with the Russians, and his house was a true Polish dwelling. He had always scorned Russian protection; and, to every patriot, the end of this man, who had become gray in the service of his country, is a sad recollection. Yet every one must confess his death was just, and cannot be a reproach to his countrymen, since he listened neither to the advice nor the intreaties of his brethren, and thus publicly avowed his adherence to the cause of despotism.--As to General Trembizki, he had always been a creature of the Russians, and a proud and mischievous man.] [Footnote 11: The early part of the career of general Hauke was not without merit, but it was tarnished by his later conduct. He was born in Germany, and came to Poland, under the reign of Stanislaus, as a poor mechanic. After leaving his trade he was enrolled in the army, and advanced rapidly in the revolutionary war under Kosciusko, in which he distinguished himself by military skill. In the wars under Napoleon he defended the fortress of Zamosc with great valor. But, from the beginning of the Russian sway and the arrival of the Grand Duke at Warsaw, this man became one of his chief minions, and by fawning and intrigue obtained the post of Minister of War. In the same year he was raised to the nobility, and was made count, senator, and wayewode. In the whole history of Poland the rapidity of this advancement is unexampled. Hauke received these dignities as a reward for his oppression of his inferiors, and for acts of injustice of every kind. As for Mieciszewski, he had always been a villain.] [Footnote 12: This bad man was one of the principal instruments of our oppressors. He was one of the chiefs of the spies, and his particular business was to observe all foreigners coming to Warsaw. He invited them to his house to ascertain their characters, and was assisted at his soirees in his base designs, by the female spies. Under the show of the utmost cordiality, by presents, and by means of love affairs, he was wont to endeavor to draw them to the Russian interest, in order to use them as spies in their own countries. He often succeeded, and several foreigners might be named, who came to Warsaw on the most innocent business or to gratify their curiosity, but who, after having frequented the parties of Sass, and handled Russian gold, returned to their own country to betray it. Such are the means by which Russia steals deeper and deeper into the heart of Europe.] [Footnote 13: The chief of spies, general Rozniecki, escaped. He was one of the most vicious characters imaginable: his crimes surpass expression. He was the oldest general in the Polish army, in which he had served forty years. He entered the service under king Stanislaus. Under Napoleon he commanded a brigade, and subsequently a division of cavalry. Of his character, while in the service of Napoleon, not much is known. Under the government of Russia, this man, already sixty years old, degraded himself irredeemably by becoming one of the most atrocious and detestable tools of tyranny. A volume might be filled with the history of his intrigues, swindlings, and other crimes. As chief of the secret police, he had under him many agents whom he sent throughout the land to extort money for him on unjust pretences. Wo to the unhappy man who refused compliance with any of his demands! He was sure to find his fate in a prison. In the army, those who bribed him were promoted. Rozniecki was the intimate friend of the Grand Duke. The following anecdote may serve to give the reader some idea of his consummate art in fraud. It was a part of Rozniecki's business to pay the spies, and they received their salaries at his house. He divided the delators into several classes, and rewarded them according to the quickness and importance of their information. By his arrangement of this business he cheated the very spies! In the room where he received their denunciations he had a chest of drawers placed, behind which a clerk was concealed. This clerk wrote down their reports as he heard them, taking care to date them somewhat earlier. When the spy had ended his story and applied for his reward, Rozniecki would declare that he recollected having heard the whole affair the day before. He would then leave the room and return with the forged record. Thus would he defraud the spy of his shameful earnings. Accounts of immense sums received by him were found in his house during the revolution. He was more than once accused of murder by poison, and other enormous crimes, but the proceedings against him were suppressed. On the first evening of the revolution this man happened to be in an assembly of spies in the City Hall. He was there to give his instructions. On hearing the tumult, his conscience smote him, and he stole away without saying a word. Finding a coach at hand, he offered the coachman money to permit him to drive himself whither he pleased. He made his escape in the coachman's cloak. His effigy was exhibited on the gallows seven days, decorated with a dozen Russian orders.] CHAPTER III. THE FIRST DAY.--Expulsion of the Russians from Warsaw.--Choice of Chlopicki as Commander in Chief.--Provisional Government under the Presidency of Prince Adam Czartoriski.--Deputation sent to the Grand Duke.--Propositions and answer.--Abolition of the Bureau of Police.--Establishment of the National Guard.--Proclamations addressed to the inhabitants of the provinces and the distant troops.--Provision for the Russian prisoners.--The Academical Legions formed.--Arrival of detachments from the provinces.--The Grand Duke consents to leave the kingdom, and addresses a proclamation to the Poles. The first day of freedom, after so many years of oppression, was hailed with shouts of 'Our country! Poland forever!' At about six in the morning the drums beat for the assembly of the troops in all the parts of the city in our possession. Crowds flocked from all sides to the public places. It was a scene never equalled. The whole people assembled, without distinction of rank, age, or sex. Old men who were past the use of swords, brandished their sticks and crutches, and recalled the times of Kosciusko. Clergymen, civil officers, foreigners, Jews, even women and children armed with pistols, mingled in the ranks. The multitude, thus assembled, marched to the northern and southern parts of the city, to drive the Russians out. The fourth regiment and a body of the inhabitants marched into the northern quarter of Warsaw, to attack two regiments of infantry who occupied the _Champ de Mars_ and the whole district thence to the barrier of Powazko. This division had with them two small pieces of cannon. As soon as they reached the point of attack they fired a few rounds, raised the 'hurrah,' and threw themselves upon the Russians, who made no resistance, but fled in disorder beyond the barrier above mentioned, where the pursuit ceased. In the mean while, the battalion of sappers had marched through the suburb of Cracow and the street of Wirzbwa to the southern part of the city. They met the enemy's cavalry, at the Place of Saxony, a short distance from the Church of the Cross. The Russians discharged their carbines, and a brisk fire was kept up until the cry to cease firing and attack with the bayonet was heard on all sides. They gave way before the charge, and fled in the greatest confusion, as the infantry had done before them. They were pursued beyond the barriers of Mokotow. The whole city was cleared of the Russians before nine o'clock. The walls opposite the Russian troops were manned by soldiers and armed citizens. While this expulsion was being effected, some of the patriots were employed in the city in choosing a military chief. They agreed to offer the command to Chlopicki.[14] Towards eleven, General Chlopicki was led by the people, with acclamations, to the hotel of the Minister of Finance, where many senators and other persons were assembled to take measures respecting a provisional government, the security of public order, &c. Chlopicki was received with acclamations by the chiefs of the nation; and after all had declared their consent, he was proclaimed Commander in Chief. He was addressed on this occasion by Professor Lelewell, one of the patriots, who, after drawing the picture of our past sufferings, and comparing it with our hopes of the future, concluded with the following words, addressed directly to Chlopicki. 'Brother--take the sword of your ancestors and predecessors, Czarnecki, Dombrowski, and Kosciusko. Guide the nation that has placed its trust in you, in the way of honor. Save this unhappy country.' This ceremony concluded, Chlopicki was shown to the assembled people from the balcony. They received him with shouts of 'Our country and our liberator Chlopicki forever!' Many cried, 'Chlopicki, rely on us, and lead us to Lithuania!' The general thanked them for their confidence in him, promised never to abuse it, and swore that he would defend the liberty of Poland to the last moment. The patriots now proceeded to choose members of the provisional government. Prince Adam Czartoriski,[15] Radzivil,[16] Niemcewicz, and Lelewell were elected, and one of the old ministers, Lubecki, was retained to assist them. This arrangement was made public about noon, in order to tranquilize the people. The first step taken by the new government was to send deputies to the Grand Duke. They were instructed to demand whether he meant to depart peaceably, or to attack the city. Among the deputies were Lubecki and Lelewell. They found the Grand Duke encamped, with his army, in the fields of Mokotow. The deputies represented to Constantine the consequences that would result from an attack on the city, as well in regard to himself as to the nation. They informed him that the army had already joined the people, and proposed to him that he should depart unmolested, on a prescribed route. They promised that he should find every possible accommodation provided on that route, for himself and his troops. The Grand Duke demanded some time for reflection, and finally gave the deputies the following answer in writing. ART. I. The Grand Duke declares that it was never his intention to attack Warsaw. In case he should find himself under the necessity of so doing, he will give the authorities notice of his intention forty-eight hours before the attack. ART. II. The Grand Duke will entreat the Emperor to grant an amnesty for the past. ART. III. The Grand Duke declares that he has sent no orders to the Russian forces in Lithuania to pass the frontier of the kingdom. ART. IV. Prisoners will be exchanged. The deputies returned to Warsaw with this answer, at three o'clock. It was immediately published, but did not satisfy the people. They demanded to know the day and hour of the Grand Duke's departure. If he should refuse to obey, they declared that they would attack him. It was finally concluded to allow him two days for his necessary arrangements, and then to send a second deputation to insist on his instant departure.[17] The provisional government immediately set about restoring order to every department of the administration. The Bureau of Police was abolished, and a council of citizens was substituted in its place, under the direction of the aged and worthy Wengrzecki. This man had been president of Warsaw in the times of the grand duchy. He was compelled to leave this office, by certain persecutions, which he brought upon himself by not being sufficiently in the spirit of the Russian government. At the same time the national guard was established, and placed under the command of Count Lubinski. The guard began their service on the very same day. They mounted guard at the bank and the public treasury, and their patrols maintained order in all parts of the city. Their duties were performed with the utmost punctuality. All the shops were opened, and the city wore as peaceful an aspect as if there had been no army before it. At the same time the provisional government sent proclamations into all the provinces, to inform the nation of these events. They began with the following beautifully figurative expression: 'Poles! The eagle of Poland has broken his chains, and will soon have burst through the clouds into those purer regions in which nothing shall shut from him the light of the sun.' The military government issued proclamations to the troops at all the distant stations, ordering them to repair forthwith to Warsaw. The divisions of chasseurs received orders in case of an attack from the Grand Duke, to fall on his rear and cut off his retreat. The city itself was put in a better state of defence; the barriers were fortified, and guarded by strong detachments; all was prepared for an attack. The government made proper provision for the care of the Russian prisoners, of whatever rank, as well as of the ladies of the Russian civil and military officers who had left Warsaw. The royal palace was assigned for the residence of the officers and ladies; the privates were lodged in barracks. At a later period they were permitted to go about the streets and earn money by their labor, in addition to their usual allowance. The Russians were so touched by this generous treatment, that they swore, with tears, never to forget it. These details of the first day of our revolution, for the correctness of which I pledge myself, may serve to answer the accusations of some journalists, who have stated that the commencement of the national struggle was marked with the greatest atrocities, and that more than forty field officers, many subalterns, and large parties of privates were butchered for declining to engage in the cause. These impeachments of the Polish nation are unjust and false. As has been said before, the foreigners in Warsaw could not sufficiently praise the admirable order with which our first movements were conducted. Our enemies accuse the people of having robbed the public treasuries.--I affirm that not a gilder was lost--neither public nor private property was pillaged. As the enemy was still encamped before the city on the first and second of December, and had as yet given no decisive answer respecting the time of his departure, the people, as well as the army, were still under arms and upon the walls. At this time the twelve companies of students, called the Academical Legions, were organized. It was heart-stirring to see these noble youths assembled in arms to defend their country. Many of them had just been rescued from prison, and could not walk without difficulty. This did not damp their ardor; the hope of fighting successfully for the liberty of Poland renewed their strength. The Academical Legions requested to be sent to the posts nighest the enemy. These two days passed in entire quietness. In the afternoon of the second of December, general Schenbek arrived from Plock with the first regiment of chasseurs. At the same time came colonel Sierawski from Serock, with his regiment. Both were received with great enthusiasm. New detachments from the provinces marched into Warsaw every day. A truly affecting sight it was to see more than a thousand peasants, and about fifty peasant girls from the country about Warsaw, marching into the city with clubs, scythes, and weapons of every description. They were escorted by the shouting populace to the Bank, and there welcomed by the national government. At the request of the people, another deputation was this day sent to the Grand Duke, to urge his departure, and to inform him that an attack would be the necessary consequence of his refusal. The Grand Duke saw the necessity of compliance, and decided to commence his march on the following day, by the prescribed route of Pulawa. He issued a proclamation to the Polish nation, wherein he promised never to fight against those, 'whom,' to use his own expression, 'he had always loved.' He adduced his marriage with a young Polish lady as a proof of his affection for the nation. At the same time he promised to entreat the emperor to grant an amnesty, and to take, in general, the mildest measures. He begged the Poles to deal gently with the Russian prisoners, their families, the ladies, and in short with all Russian subjects remaining in Warsaw.[18] FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 14: General Chlopicki, a man of rare merit, began his career in the struggle for liberty under Kosciusko. In 1807, he was colonel commandant of the first regiment of the legion of the Vistula, under Napoleon. He had the command of a brigade, and afterwards of a division, of the same legion in Spain. This general distinguished himself at the storming of Saragossa, where the Poles performed prodigies of valor, as well as at the battle of Saginta. Under the Russian government of Constantine, Chlopicki left the army, not being able to endure his commander's brutal deportment. The Grand Duke censured the general on parade, in an unbecoming manner, saying that his division was not in order. Chlopicki replied, 'I did not gain my rank on the parade ground, nor did I receive my decorations there.' He asked his discharge the next day. In later times the emperor Alexander and the Grand Duke himself endeavored to induce him to return to the service, but Chlopicki never consented. He preferred a retired life to the splendor of Russian slavery. This gained him the esteem of the whole nation.] [Footnote 15: Prince Adam Czartoriski was born on the 14th of June, 1770. He is the oldest son of Prince Casimir Czartoriski, Palatine of Russia, and Princess Elizabeth Fleming, daughter of Count George Fleming, first treasurer of Lithuania and Palatine of Pomerania. The Czartoriski family are descended from the Gedamines, who reigned over Lithuania in the thirteenth century, a descendant of whom, Jagelon, reigned long and gloriously in Poland. At the last partition of Poland, Adam Czartoriski and his brother Constantine were sent to St Petersburgh as hostages. While residing in the Russian capital, Prince Adam was on terms of friendly intimacy with the Grand Duke Alexander. This friendship influenced, perhaps, his political career. He was sent as an ambassador to the court of Sardinia, and when Alexander ascended the throne, he was recalled, and entrusted with the portfolio of foreign affairs. He declined this charge for a long time, and at last accepted it at the earnest entreaty of Alexander, on condition that he should be allowed to retire as soon as the discharge of his official duties should militate against the interests of his country. At the same time, he was appointed Curator of the university of Wilna, and yet another important duty devolved on him, which was the establishment of schools in all the Russian provinces of Poland. Though the Russians cannot see a Pole in so honorable a station without jealousy, the conduct of Prince Adam was so noble as to win the hearts of all. He did not surround himself with parasites; his course was plain and upright, and he scorned the idea of receiving rewards from government. He would not even accept a salary. In 1808, Czartoriski resigned his ministerial office, but retained his place over the university, hoping to do more good in it. He increased the number of elementary schools and those of all classes of instruction. He reformed the antiquated institutions of the university, and gave the whole course of instruction a more simple and convenient form, which was also better adapted to the wants of the middle classes of the people. By these means he hoped to develope and elevate the national character, in these classes. The events of 1812 showed but too plainly that the misfortunes which then befell France was owing to the same cause to which the previous distress of Russia was attributable; viz. the non-existence of Poland. If Poland had remained independent in her original extent, the two gigantic powers could not have come in contact, and the equilibrium of Europe, now entirely lost, would have been preserved. It was, then, a true and necessary policy to bring forward the question of the independence of Poland again. This was the object Prince Adam Czartoriski kept in view during the war between France and Russia, and it was in the hope of effecting it that he accompanied Alexander to Paris in 1814. He was not anxious without reason. The Emperor Alexander satisfied him, in part, and proposed to the Congress of Vienna to erect the grand duchy of Poland into a Kingdom. This kingdom received a constitution and several other national institutions. An entire freedom of trade with the remaining Polish provinces under Russia, Austria, and Prussia, was assured to it. All these promises were published and confirmed by Alexander at Warsaw in 1816. Yet, in the very act of confirmation, several privileges which the Emperor had promised to Czartoriski were retracted; and this was owing to the influence of the other powers, and the principles of the Holy Alliance. Russian policy made these restrictions more and more sensibly felt, and unfortunate Poland beheld, one after another, the institutions so solemnly guarantied to her, vanishing away. Indignant at these breaches of promise on the part of Russia, Prince Czartoriski resigned the Curatorship of the university of Wilna, in 1824, in which he had been the means of effecting much good, particularly in the cause of patriotism and liberty; and in order to free himself from all connection with the intriguing cabinet of Russia, he went, with his whole family, on a journey to foreign countries. This prince was proprietor of the beautiful town of Pulawa, which Nature and Art have united to make one of the finest in Europe. The reader will, perhaps, be pleased with a short description of this place, which no traveller in the north of Europe will fail to visit. The little town of Pulawa is situated about eighteen leagues south of Warsaw, on the main road to Lemberg in Gallicia, on the right bank of the Vistula. The windings of this noble stream are so happily turned as to present a prospect of both its sides, till it reaches the horizon. The breadth of the river near this town is nearly three English miles. Its shores are broken into little hills covered with wood, in the intervals of which fine villages meet the eye, and in the distance are seen the picturesque ruins of Casimir. The town of Pulawa itself is situated on the declivity of a high bank, which declines toward the river in the form of an amphitheatre. This declivity is laid out as a garden in the purest taste, terminating, toward the river, in extensive meadows, planted with groves of oaks and poplars, and enlivened by herds of Tyrolese cattle, cottages, shepherds' cabins, &c, in various styles of building. This garden surrounds Pulawa, and is itself surrounded by great parks, which extend several leagues beyond it in every direction. These are intersected by beautiful avenues of linden trees. Among the many works in marble, statues, obelisks, &c, the temple of Sibylla, with its magnificent statue of alabaster, is distinguished, as is also the statue of a nymph in one of the grottos, a masterpiece of sculpture. The palace, consisting of a main building with two wings, is a noble piece of architecture. Its apartments are rich and splendid. Prince Czartoriski has the largest library in Poland, and the greatest private library in Europe, which is open to the public. Czartoriski happened to be in Pulawa when the revolution broke out. Summoned to the helm of the state by the nation, he hastened to devote his exertions to his country. Laudable as his previous career had been, it was excelled by his conduct during the struggle, in which he represented the _beau ideal_ of virtue and patriotism. Through all the stormy changes of popular opinion he continued firm and unwavering, having but one view, one aim, the good of his country. He carried to the chief magistrate's seat the same calmness, the same mildness which had characterised his private life. He was never actuated by passion. He considered all Poles as brethren. Though in the sixtieth year of his age, he did not shrink from the fatigues of war, but constantly accompanied Skrzynecki, to whom he was much attached, in his marches, and was at his side in many battles. His whole character was essentially noble.] [Footnote 16: Prince Michael Radzivil was born in Lithuania, on his family estate called Nieswiez. He is nephew of Prince Anthony Radzivil, governor-general of the grand duchy of Posen, and brother-in-law of the king of Prussia. This prince was commander of a brigade in the time of Napoleon, and distinguished himself at the siege of Dantzic. He retired from service under the Russian government, and lived privately in Warsaw. He was a man of quiet character, and a sincere patriot, but not of eminent military talents.] [Footnote 17: The Grand Duke's army at Mokatow, consisted of the following regiments. |Infantry.|Cavalry.|Artillery. 1. Infantry grenadiers, two battalions | 2000 | | 2. Light Infantry | 2000 | | 3. Battalion for instruction | 1000 | | 4. Cuirasseurs of Podolia 4 squadrons | | 800 | 5. Hulan, Cesarowicz 4 ' | | 800 | 6. Hussars of Grodno 4 ' | | 800 | 7. Battery of Horse Artillery | | |12 pieces. 8. Battery of Foot Artillery | | |12 " +---------+--------+---------- Total, | 5000 | 2400 |24 " +---------+--------+---------- Of Polish soldiers, he had six companies of grenadiers of the foot guard, and one regiment of chasseurs of the guard. These regiments, however, returned to Warsaw and joined the nation on the second of December. The true cause of the Grand Duke's demand for time was, that he hoped to exert a secret influence on those of the Polish troops who had not yet joined the people. This fact was confirmed by two captured spies, one of whom he had despatched to the light-horse in Lowicz, and the other to the division of hussars of Siedlec. The letters they carried to the commanders of these forces urged them, with promises of great rewards, to join the Grand Duke.] [Footnote 18: These proclamations, which were immediately published in the Warsaw papers, contain clear proof that the Grand Duke had no injuries on the part of the Polish nation to complain of, and that he himself felt that the Poles were constrained to revolt.] CHAPTER IV. The Patriotic Club commences its sessions.--Character of that association.--The Grand Duke departs for the frontier.--Particulars of his march.--The Polish regiments which had remained with him return to Moscow.--Their reception.--Krazynski and Kornatowski.--Deputation to St Petersburgh.--Demands to be laid before the Emperor.--Sierawski made Governor of Warsaw, and Wasowiez chief of the staff.--Order respecting the army.--Arrival of volunteers from the interior.--Opening of the theatre.--Religious solemnities at Praga.--Chlopicki nominated and proclaimed Dictator. On the third of December the Patriotic Club began its session, under the guidance of very worthy persons. The object of this society was, to watch over all the departments of the administration, to see that the measures adopted were congenial with the wishes of the people, and in the spirit of the revolution; and to promote fraternity and union throughout the nation. They desired to repress all manifestations of selfishness or ambition, to discover and bring before the people the persons best qualified for public offices, and, in short, to promote the best interests of the nation with unwearied zeal. If this club was, at times, led by the fervor of patriotic feeling to adopt measures considered rigorous by many, their acts were never inconsistent with the love of country, or their own views of the national honor. At this time, a committee was also appointed for the trial of the spies. On the morning of the third of December, the Grand Duke commenced his march towards Pulawa, according to agreement,[19] and the Polish regiments which had remained with Constantine up to this time, now returned to Warsaw. These troops were at first regarded by the people with feelings of indignation. Such feelings were, however, soon dissipated by the explanations which were given. They had been misled by their generals, Krasynski and Kornatowski. As to general Zimyrski, who commanded the grenadiers, he was entirely blameless. He had intended to join the patriots at first, but was detained as a prisoner by the Russians. The other two generals persuaded their men that the revolutionary movements were only disturbances of the mob, excited by the students, and would quickly come to an end. They ought not, they told them, to forsake their legitimate government and the Grand Duke. It was impossible afterwards for these regiments to learn the truth, as they were closely surrounded by the Russians, and cut off from all communication with others. Early on the third of December, when the Grand Duke had resolved to depart, he visited these troops in person, and declared before them that he left Warsaw only to avoid useless bloodshed, and that order would soon be restored. He requested them to go with him, as they were regiments of guards, in whom the emperor had peculiar confidence. 'Soldiers,' he said, 'will you go with us; or stay and unite with those who have proved faithless to their sovereign?' With one voice the whole corps exclaimed, 'We will remain--we will join our brethren and fight for the liberty of our country. We are sorry that we could not do so from the beginning, but we were deceived.' The people who had assembled to gaze at these unfortunate men, with unfavorable and unjust feelings toward them, were disarmed of their resentment at the very sight of them, and rushed into their embraces. They were surrounded by the multitude, and taken, with joyful acclamations, to the Place of the Bank. But though the people forgave the soldiers, their indignation remained unabated against their generals, and the greatest efforts of the leading patriots were required to save Krasynski and Kornatowski from their rage. It was dreadful to behold these generals riding with downcast looks, not daring to look on those whom they had intended to betray. Death would certainly have been preferable to thus meeting the curses of a justly incensed people. Mothers held up their children, and, pointing at the two generals, exclaimed, 'See the traitors!' Arriving at the Bank, the people demanded that Krasynski and Kornatowski should give their reasons for having acted as they had done; and as the wretched men could say nothing in their own defence, a general cry arose of 'Death to the traitors!' Nothing but the love of the people for Chlopicki and Schembeck, who interceded, could have hindered them from carrying their wishes into immediate execution. Several excited individuals made their way toward the culprits with pistols in their hands, and, after aiming at them, fired their weapons into the air, crying, 'You are unworthy of a shot from a Polish hand. Live--to be everlastingly tortured by your consciences!' The unfortunate men entreated that they might be permitted to serve in the ranks, as privates. They were immediately deprived of their commissions, and from that time they lived in retirement during the war.[20] The people were this day informed that prince Adam Czartoriski had been nominated president of the national government; that the eighteenth of December was appointed for the opening of the Diet; that till that day the rights of the Emperor Nicholas would be acknowledged; and that Lubecki, Osvowski, and Jezierski would be sent to St Petersburgh, as a deputation, to inform the emperor of all that had happened. They were also to lay before him the following demands: 1st. That all Russian troops should be withdrawn from the kingdom forever, that a perpetual conflict between the two nations might be avoided. 2d. That the privileges of the constitution should be again confirmed in their fullest extent. 3d. That all the ancient Polish provinces incorporated with Russia should partake in the privileges of the constitution, as Alexander had promised. The deputies were also instructed to entreat the emperor to come to Warsaw and open the Diet, in order to satisfy himself respecting the actual state of affairs. The deputies left Warsaw that very evening. The commander in chief appointed general Sierawski governor of the city of Warsaw, and colonel count Wonsowicz chief of the staff. These officers were both beloved by the people, and proved themselves able and zealous defenders of their country through the whole campaign. The commander in chief also published an order, that the army should consist of 200,000 men. Each wayewodeship (principality) was to furnish 9,000 infantry and 11,000 horse. There are eight wayewodeships in Poland. The army already existing, the volunteer forces, and the regiments raised and equipped by some of the noblemen, were not reckoned in this estimate, nor did it include the volunteers which were to be expected from the Polish provinces under other foreign governments. The fourth, fifth, and sixth of December were remarkable days in the history of our revolution. Soldiers and peasants flocked in from all sides--from all quarters of the country. In a short time, more than five thousand peasants, armed with scythes, axes, and other weapons, were counted. Among them were more than two hundred peasant girls, with sickles. These were days of real joy, when all united in the defence of Poland, without distinction of rank, age, or even sex--when rich and poor, nobles and peasants, met, as friends escaped from common sufferings, and embraced. Tables were spread with refreshments for those who arrived, in the streets. The fourth was remarkable for the opening of the theatre.[21] Religious solemnities took place in Praga on the fifth, and on the sixth a Dictator was nominated.[22] When, on the sixth of December, the national government notified Chlopicki of his nomination as generalissimo, he replied, that they had no power to place him in that station; that in such critical times the civil and military power ought to be vested in one person, and that he felt himself entitled, by his long services, to nominate himself Dictator. His powers, he said, he would lay down on the assemblage of the Diet. In the afternoon of the next day he was proclaimed Dictator in the Champ de Mars, amidst the acclamations of an immense multitude. After this, he took a public oath to act in accordance with the spirit of the people, and to defend the rights and privileges of Poland. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 19: The details of the Grand Duke's march may not be uninteresting to the reader, and at the same time they will serve to refute the false report that he was pursued by the Poles. Early in the morning of the third of December, the Grand Duke left his camp at Mokotow, and marched on the route of Kosienice and Pulawa. Agents had been sent in advance in this direction, to procure for him every convenience, which he found uniformly prepared. In a village between Kosienice and Graniza, where he halted with his troops, he met intendant general Wolicki, who was on his way from Lublin to Warsaw. Wolicki waited on the Grand Duke, in the hope that he might render him some service. Constantine had quartered himself in the house of the curate of the village, and received the intendant general in the parlor, where the Grand Duchess Lowicz was present. Wolicki requested his orders with regard to the accommodation of the troops. Constantine coldly thanked him, and immediately began to complain of the Poles; in which he was joined by his lady. He reproached the nation with the benefits he had conferred on them, and seizing Wolicki violently by the hand, added, 'And for all this they wanted to assassinate me!' When Wolicki, in the most delicate manner, represented that his residence had been entered with the best intentions toward his person, the Grand Duke, with yet greater exasperation and fury, exclaimed, 'They have chased me out of the country--but I shall soon return.' In his rage he again seized Wolicki's hand, saying, 'You shall stay with me, as a hostage for my generals retained in Warsaw.' Notwithstanding the expostulations of Wolicki, he was arrested and detained. He however was not long a prisoner, for he soon found means to regain his liberty. The Grand Duke passed that night at the village of Graniza, some of the inhabitants of which Wolicki knew. He found opportunity to speak with one of them in the night, told him what had befallen, and desired him to raise a false alarm, as if the Poles were at hand. It was done. The citizens began to shout in the streets, and Wolicki, profiting by the fright and disorder of the Russians, escaped. He arrived at Warsaw on the following day, and related his adventure, which was published as an illustration of the Grand Duke's perfidy and inconsistency. This conduct, together with his threats, would have justified the Poles in pursuing and taking him, with his whole army, prisoners. But the nation generously suffered this opportunity for revenge to pass by, and adhered to the promise of a free passage. On his arrival in Pulawa, Constantine was received by the princess Czartoriska in the most friendly manner, as he also was in Lubartow by the princess Lubomirska. In the latter place, general Rosniecki, who accompanied the Grand Duke, demanded an apartment in a pavilion adjoining the palace, which was designed for the suite of Constantine. The princess answered, in the presence of the Grand Duke, 'There is no room for traitors to their country in my house.' On the way to Lenczna, the Russian army met a division of Polish lancers, marching to Siedlec. They halted in order to go through the ceremony of saluting. The Grand Duke, with his suite, approached them with an air of perfect friendship, shook hands with several, and endeavored to persuade them to return with him. 'Hulans,' said he, 'do not forget your duty to your monarch, but set your comrades a good example.' He then offered them money and other rewards. Indignant at his proposals, the lancers replied, 'Prince, we thank you for the money and promises you offer us, but there is no command more sacred in our eyes than the call of our country; no greater reward than the privilege of fighting in her cause!' With this, they wheeled, and continued their march past the Russian troops, singing patriotic songs. The Grand Duke passed the frontier with his forces on the thirteenth of December, and crossing the Wadowa, entered Volhynia, an ancient Polish province, now incorporated with Russia. I cannot forbear to record the noble conduct of colonel Turno, a Pole, and aid-de-camp to the Grand Duke. This officer had been fourteen years with Constantine, and was one of the few honest men in his suite. His long endurance of his chief's follies and rudeness could have had no other motive than the hope of doing good to others, and preventing mischief. Constantine loved him, valued him highly, and was firmly convinced that Turno would remain with him. What was his surprise, when, at the frontier, Turno rode up to take his leave! At first, he was unable to answer. After some time he said, with an expression of heartfelt grief, 'Turno, and will you leave me--you, upon whom I had placed my greatest hopes--whom I loved so much--who have been with me so long?' Turno answered, with dignity, 'Your Highness may be assured that I am sorry to part with you. I have certainly always been your friend, and I am so still. I should never leave you in another cause--no, not in the greatest distress: on the contrary I should be happy to share every misfortune with you. But, your Highness, other circumstances and duties call me now--the highest and weightiest duty--the duty a man owes to his country. Your Highness, I have done all that honor and duty commanded as your aid-de-camp--I have accompanied you to the frontier, that I might be your guide as long as you should remain on Polish ground, and preserve you from every possible danger. _Now_ you need me no longer. You are in your own country, and my duty as your aid-de-camp being at an end, it is now my sacred duty as a Pole to return at the summons of my country.' The Grand Duke marched with his corps towards Bialystok, where he remained till the beginning of the campaign. In the war, he was not ashamed to accept the command of a corps of the army, and to fight against those who had treated him so generously, his promises to the contrary notwithstanding.] [Footnote 20: These Polish regiments and generals are, doubtless, the same who were reported by the Berlin State Gazette to have been butchered. So far from that, the nation received them kindly, and forgave them. Prussians! you know little of the Poles, or of their feelings. The time may come when we shall know one another better.] [Footnote 21: This was the first time the theatre was opened during the revolution. A patriotic piece was performed, viz. 'The Krakovians and Guralians,' or 'The Union of the two Tribes.' This play had been prohibited before. As early as six, P.M. the theatre was crowded. No distinction was observed in regard to places. Before the play began, one of the patriots addressed the audience with a speech, in which he called to memory all the outrages by which the revolution had been rendered necessary, and informed them what measures the National Assembly had taken to insure the success of the good cause. 'Poles! Brethren!' he said, 'we have sent deputies to the Emperor, to represent our sufferings for fifteen years--our oppressions--which drew neither attention nor relief from Russia, while our rights were trampled upon, and our innocent brethren tortured. Perhaps the Emperor, surrounded by bad men, has been kept in ignorance of our wrongs, and will be astonished to hear of all this injustice from the mouths of our deputies. Perhaps he will take measures to redress all these villanies without delay. If the grace of God has granted him to reign over Poland, he may follow the steps of our good kings of old; of whom no one ever tarnished the throne with tyranny. As for us, brethren, let us forget past dissensions, and unitedly and patiently strive with one accord for the redemption of our country.' After this speech, which was joyfully received, the orchestra played Kosciusko's march, which had not been heard for fifteen years. At first, the music was drowned in the shouts of the audience--'Hail, our country--our father Kosciusko! France, and Lafayette the friend of Kosciusko, forever!' After this, the Marseilles hymn was played, and then the Mazur of Dombrowski. The play was full of patriotic songs, and the audience joined their voices to those of the actors. But when, at the end of the play, three standards, with the armorial bearings of the ancient provinces of Poland, were brought in, and were folded into one in the embraces of the actors who represented the three chief tribes, the exultation of the audience surpassed all bounds. One of the favorite actors addressed the spectators in these words--'The monster tyranny, terrified by the sudden light of liberty, which he could not endure, has left the den from which he has hitherto spread death and affright. Oh that, scared by this light, he may be driven farther and farther, nor be suffered to rest on any of the fields of Poland. May he retire to the dark, icy regions of the north, whence he came, and God grant that he may never return to us.' After this, those of the patriots who had been most actively distinguished on the first night of the revolution and after, and those who had suffered in dungeons for their love of country, were presented to the assemblage. They were received with infinite joy, and carried about on the shoulders of the people with shouts. Many ladies were then brought forward, who had followed the patriots in arms on the first night, or had sacrificed their wealth on the altar of patriotism. At first sight, these beautiful and noble beings might have been taken for angels sent down for the redemption of unhappy Poland. These scenes surpass description--they can only be felt by hearts truly free. These were moments to unite the whole nation. Persons who had shunned each other for years, each fearing a spy in the other, explained themselves and embraced. These scenes will live eternally in the memory of every Pole. Beholding his countrymen in this ecstasy of joy, there was none who did not weep--none who did not feel ready to die on the morrow, having seen them thus happy. The prisoner condemned to death, when unexpectedly rescued, and permitted to breathe the free air, laughs, weeps, endeavors to express his gratitude, and cannot. Such was the feeling of Poland in these blessed moments.] [Footnote 22: On Sunday, the fifth of December, prayers were offered up in all the churches of Warsaw by the people from the provinces as well as the inhabitants. The blessing of the Most High was implored on our arms. Of all the religious solemnities, those of Praga were the most edifying and affecting. A mass was said in the open air, at an altar erected on the spot where the victims of Suwarrow had been buried. This altar was surrounded by more than 50,000 men, who sent up one voice to God. The twelve academical legions formed the innermost circle, among whom those who had been imprisoned for assisting on a similar occasion were conspicuous. In the intervals of divine service, and after its termination, several speeches were delivered, one of which was by one of the liberated prisoners. Recalling the cruelties perpetrated by Suwarrow, as well as those which we had lately suffered, he observed, 'Brethren, we were lately forbidden--nay, it was accounted a crime, to pray for our unfortunate murdered ancestors. To-day, under this free vault of heaven, on the grave of our fathers, on the soil moistened with their sacred blood, which cries to us for retribution, in the presence of their spirits hovering over us, we swear never to lay down our arms till we shall have avenged, or fallen like them.' The assembled multitude then sung a patriotic hymn. The sixth of December was remarkable for the nomination of Chlopicki to the dictatorship;--the union of the supreme civil and military powers in his person. The authority of the provisional government was thus at an end; every thing was referred to the Dictator. In the afternoon, more than 100,000 persons assembled in the Champ de Mars and the space around it. The greater part of the army, too, were present. Chlopicki came with the senators, and was received by those who had entrusted him with their defence with shouts of joy. His aspect was, indeed, venerable. His silver head, grown white in the service of Poland, bespoke the confidence of all. The people were informed by one of the senators that all the powers of government had been delegated to Chlopicki, in order that operations might be conducted with greater energy and despatch; yet with this restriction--that his authority should cease on the eighteenth of December. This, it will be remembered, was the day fixed for the opening of the Diet, to which body all farther dispositions were referred. The proclamation made, Chlopicki himself addressed the people thus: 'Poles! brethren! The circumstances in which our country is placed demand strict unity of purpose, and therefore I have thought it best to accept the supreme power. But this is only for a time. I shall resign it on the meeting of the Diet. Rely on my experience, which is the fruit of long service, and on my age, which has taught me the knowledge of mankind. Be assured that no selfish feeling has impelled me to this step, and that I have consented to take it only to promote the welfare of Poland. The truth of this I call God to witness.--May he assist me to make my promises good. Hail to our dear country!' The last sentence was clamorously echoed by the people, with the addition of, 'and its brave defender Chlopicki!' Many in the assembly exclaimed, 'Lead us to Lithuania, Chlopicki!'] CHAPTER V. The Dictator enters upon his duties.--Plans for the enrollment of new forces.--System of officering them.--Want of energy in the execution of his plans.--Fortifications neglected.--The people supply the deficiencies of the administration.--Discovery of the correspondence between the ministers Grabowski and Lubecki.--The march of the army delayed.--Answer of the Emperor Nicholas to the deputies. His proclamation.--Its effect on the nation.--The Diet demand of the Dictator an account of his trust.--The result of their investigations.--Chlopicki deprived of the Dictatorial power.--The civil administration entrusted to Prince Adam Czartoryski, and the command of the Army to Prince Michael Radziwil, each subordinate to the Diet. On the seventh of December, the new Dictator took possession of the residence which had been prepared for him. A guard of honor was assigned him, consisting of a company of the Academical Legion. The twelve companies of which this legion was composed mounted guard in succession. The nation had conceived the highest hopes of Chlopicki; they expected, above all, the most energetic measures in regard to the armament and organization of the forces. These hopes were not fulfilled. At the very commencement of his administration, it began to be seen that this man, either from his advanced age or the original inadequacy of his talents to the demands of such a situation, would fail to satisfy the wants of the nation. Indeed, the union of so many different duties in the hands of one individual demanded abilities of no ordinary strength and compass. As might have been expected, the evident incapacity of Chlopicki early became the occasion of dissension in the patriotic association already referred to, accusations being preferred, as a matter of course, against those who had been active in procuring his investment with such high powers. The succeeding events will enable the reader to decide for himself of the justice of such accusations. On assuming his post, the Dictator adopted the following arrangements in regard to the enrollments of the new forces, and other objects of military administration. He estimated the army already in existence at 25,000 men, and sixty-two pieces of cannon. This army was constituted as follows:--The infantry was composed of nine regiments, of two battalions each, and a battalion of sappers, making a total of 19,000 men. The cavalry was also composed of nine regiments, each regiment consisting of four squadrons, 7,200 men in all. The artillery was divided into nine battalions, of eight pieces each, in all seventy-two pieces, exclusive of the artillery in the fortresses of Modlin and Zamosc. This force the Dictator proposed to augment in the following manner:--Each existing regiment was to receive a third battalion; and he intended to form fifteen new regiments, of three battalions each. This would have increased the total of infantry to 54,000 men, without taking into the account the National Guard of Warsaw and the other cities, amounting to 10,000 men. The cavalry was to be augmented by 8000, making a total of 15,200. To the artillery were to be added twenty-four pieces of cannon, making a total of ninety-six pieces. In this estimate the Dictator did not include the aid that might be calculated upon from the provinces of Prussian, Austrian, and Russian Poland, the volunteers of every kind, and the regiments raised and equipped by the large landed proprietors. For each of the eight palatinates into which the kingdom was divided, an officer was appointed, whose duty it was to superintend the organization of the military forces, of which from seven to eight thousand infantry, and one thousand cavalry, were to be furnished by each palatinate. These officers were subordinate to two others, who had the supervision of four palatinates each, and bore the title of _Regimentarz_. These last had the power of appointing all the officers of the new forces.[23] The augmentation of the army was to have been completed by the twentieth of January, 1831. But all these arrangements were made on paper only--the government did not press their execution. In fact, such a degree of negligence existed, that in some places where the people assembled to be enrolled, they found no officers to receive them, and, after waiting some time, they returned to their homes. It was, in truth, only by the energy of the nation, which supplied the deficiencies of the administration, that our forces were ever in any degree augmented. The volunteer force was in an especial manner liberally furnished by the people. A similar state of things existed with regard to the fortifications; and here again the energy of the people atoned for the negligence of the administration. This was especially the case at Warsaw and Praga, where all the citizens labored on the works of defence, without distinction of age or sex. The construction of barricades in the different streets of Warsaw, and of mines in several parts of the city, was commenced by the citizens. The Dictator, however, instead of occupying his attention with these warlike preparations, devoted it to diplomatic negociations, and despatched emissaries to the neighboring courts, charged with propositions made without the knowledge or the wish of the nation, and even, in some cases, incompatible with its honor, and inconsistent with the design of the revolution. All the measures, indeed, of the Dictator, however well intended they might have been, indicated much weakness and indecision. Such was the state of affairs when an event occurred that seemed to augur well for our prospects. This was the discovery of the correspondence between the ministers Grabowski and Lubecki, the former being Secretary of State for Poland and a member of the cabinet at St Petersburgh, the latter Minister of Finance at Warsaw. This correspondence afforded the clearest evidence that Russia had intended to declare war against France, and that she was prepared to commence that war in December following.[24] These letters were sent to Paris in the early part of December, by an express, and ought to have convinced the French government of the hostile intentions of Russia. They should have satisfied France that our revolution, and the war that was to follow, were a part of the great struggle in which her own existence was concerned. The existing army was, through the activity of the general officers, brought into such a state, by the middle of December, that it could then have taken the field against the enemy. The soldiers were eager for the struggle, but the delay of their march gave color to the supposition that an answer from the Emperor was waited for. It was even rumored that the Emperor was coming to Warsaw in person. All this tended to damp the excitement of the moment. What, then, was the astonishment of the nation, when it was found that the monarch, far from admitting the severity of the oppression under which we had suffered fifteen years,--far from giving a paternal audience to the deputies which the nation had sent to him, and who, in its name, had presented the most moderate demands, (limited, in fact, to the ratification and observance of the constitution granted to us, and the union of the Polish provinces under one government, as had been promised by Alexander,)--far from consenting to repair to Warsaw, as the deputies had entreated him to do, as a father among his children, to hear their complaints and satisfy himself as to their justice,--far from all this,--in a word, discarding all paternal feelings, he applied the term 'infamous' to the sacred effort we had been forced to make by the oppression under which we had so long suffered.[25] The Russian generals Benkendorf and Diebitsch, in a conversation, of which our revolution was the subject, and which took place in an interview with colonel Wielezynski who was one of the deputies sent to the emperor, spoke of a general war as impending after Poland should be crushed.[26] Colonel Wielezynski returned from St Petersburgh in the latter part of December, bringing with him the proclamation which has already been given to the reader, and which, being published, was received by the people with the utmost indignation. It was an insult to the honor and character of the nation, which demanded vengeance. The day of the promulgation of this document was a day of terrible agitation. The cry of 'To battle! To battle!' was heard in every quarter. The nation demanded to be led against the enemy at once. The word had gone forth 'there is no hope of peace.'[27] It was with difficulty that the people could be restrained from rushing at once to the field and be persuaded to wait for a convocation of the Diet fixed on the 17th of January. This delay was another error, for the time which intervened was uselessly employed. This Diet in the opinion of the nation could decide upon nothing short of war. Upon a just interpretation of the spirit of the Emperor's proclamation, no other course could be taken consistently with the national honor. It was in consequence of this proclamation, of so criminatory, so unjust, so insulting a character, that Nicholas Romanoff and his successors were declared to have forfeited all claims to the throne of Poland, and that that throne was declared vacant. The Poles could no longer submit to a King, who, far from being willing to hear their complaints, far from guarantying the rights secured by the constitution, went the length of insulting that national honor to which all history has borne testimony. To what a future must Poland, under such a king, have looked forward. Better were it to risk the bloodiest conflict, nay, to be buried under the ruins of our country, than to remain the vile slaves of a man, who, relying on the force which he could control, was willing to take advantage of his strength to be unjust. The Diet demanded of general Chlopicki an account of his trust, in regard to the military and civil administration generally, and in a particular manner in regard to the preparation of the forces. The result of this inquiry was to satisfy them that there had been a general negligence of his duties, especially in regard to the increase and organization of the army. On examining the military reports, it was found that only the fifth part of the amount of force ordered to be levied, was as yet enrolled. Two months had been wasted. The Dictator, as has been already stated, occupied himself principally with diplomatic affairs, and seemed to forget that the country was to be defended. The Diet saw that general Chlopicki was hoping to finish the war by conferences, and that his eagerness for peace was betraying him into a forgetfulness of what was due to the national honor. In fine, a correspondence with the Emperor Nicholas was found to have been carried on by him.[28] The Dictator, it was seen, had been equally neglectful of the different fortifications. Except at the principal points, Praga, Zamosc, and Modlin, no works of defence had been constructed. The important places of Serock, and Zegrz, the former on the Narew, and the latter below the confluence of the Narew and the Bug, were forgotten, as were all the positions on the great road which leads from Warsaw to Brzese, upon which, or in its vicinity, our principal operations were to be executed. No point on the frontier was strengthened. The country was left entirely open. The Diet, considering all these circumstances, resolved to send a deputation to the Dictator, to demand of him, for the last time, what his intentions were, and to require of him to take the field forthwith. As the Dictator would not submit himself to this expression of the will of the Diet, and even opened to prince Adam Czartoriski, who was one of that deputation, propositions deemed inconsistent with the national honor,--the Diet deprived him of his trust. The affairs of the civil administration were confided, as before the dictatorship, to the senate, under the presidency of prince Czartoriski, and the command in chief of the army was given to the prince Michael Radzivil. All these powers were subordinate to the Diet. In this manner ended the dictatorship of Chlopicki, who afterwards took a place in the suite of prince Radzivil, and was admitted into the counsels of the administration of military affairs. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 23: A very important circumstance, which either escaped the notice of the Dictator, or was wilfully neglected by him, respected the nomination and rank of officers. As the army was to be considerably augmented, a proportionally greater number of officers was requisite. All arrangements upon this subject were confided to the Regimentarz, with whom the important power of making these appointments was entirely left. This course soon led to trouble. The Regimentarz, not having the power to transfer the older officers of the existing army, excepting in cases where the offer was made by those officers, were compelled to appoint new officers to newly formed regiments. These newly levied soldiers were thus placed under officers who were but learners themselves. The evil effects of this injudicious system were indeed sensibly felt in the first actions of the campaign. Besides the evil here alluded to, a degree of jealousy between the old and new officers resulted from the operation of these arrangements. It was natural for those who were old in service to see with dissatisfaction recently commissioned officers placed above them in rank. Instead, then, of studying to preserve the utmost harmony between those who were going forth together to shed their blood in the cause of their common country, that course was in fact taken, which if it had been designed to disturb this harmony, would have been deemed the most efficacious. Arrangements for officering the army might have been made in such a manner as the following, to the satisfaction of all parties. After dividing the officers into three classes, the first, consisting of those actually in service, the second of those who had been in service, but had given up their commissions and were in retirement, and the third, of the newly commissioned officers; a military commission might have been formed, who should have before them lists of officers showing their periods of service. This commission could have designated the rank of each upon an examination of these lists, placing the retired officers in the grades in which they stood at the time of their retirement. The new regiments should have been officered from the two first classes, advancement being made in the grade of each officer. The third class, or the new officers, should have been appointed to the vacancies thus left in the old regiments. Besides the justice which such an arrangement would have done to the officers of older standing, it would have this good effect: the experienced officers would have been more widely distributed through the army, and the new regiments would have advanced more rapidly in organization and discipline. General Skrzynecki clearly saw the defects of the actual arrangement; but once made, it was difficult to reform it. He took, however, every opportunity that offered, to transfer the older officers to advanced grades in the new regiments.] [Footnote 24: _Letter to Prince Lubecki, Minister of Finance at Warsaw, dated St Petersburgh, the 18th of August, 1830._ 'My Prince,--His Majesty the Emperor and King directs me to inform you that the Polish troops being now in marching condition, you are requested to provide the necessary funds, without delay, upon which the public treasury may count as occasion may require, to support the expenses of the movement of the army, and of the approaching campaign.' (Signed) 'Turkul, _Secretary of State_.' In an answer to this letter, dated the third of September, Prince Lubecki renders an account of the means at his command. 'Poland,' he says, 'has 8,000,000 gilders in its treasury, and 1,000,000 in the bank of Berlin. She is then ready to undertake the necessary preparations.' _Extract of a letter addressed to Prince Lubecki by Count Grabowski, Secretary of State for Poland, at St Petersburgh._ 'The official correspondence which, by the order of his Majesty, I have the honor to communicate to you, my Prince, and which directs the placing of the Polish army on the war establishment, was, undoubtedly, even more unwelcome to you than to myself. I suffer, truly, in seeing the progress of our financial arrangements thus arrested. Our treasury would have been in the most perfect condition, but for the expenses of this war, which will absolutely exhaust its coffers; for on this occasion our geographical position places us in the front line.' 'Dated St Petersburgh, 15th October, 1830. (Signed) 'Grabowski.' From the same to the same. _Dated October 18th, 1830._ 'Having been this day informed by his excellency, the aid-de-camp of his Majesty, Czerniszew, that orders have been given to his royal highness the Cæsarowicz, to place on the war establishment all the troops under his command, without excepting those of the Polish kingdom, and that these orders are to be carried into effect by the 22d of December, I have the honor, my Prince, to communicate this information to you, by his Majesty's order, so that the necessary funds may be furnished without delay to the Minister of War. And I farther request you, my Prince, by the order of his Majesty, to have the goodness to assign to his imperial highness the Cæsarowicz all the funds for which he may have occasion in the execution of his orders. (Signed) 'Grabowski.' From the same to the same. _Dated 20th November, 1830._ 'The return of Marshal Diebitsch will determine what measures it will be necessary to take. He has received orders to pass through Warsaw, on his return from Berlin, with the view to consult with the Grand Duke Constantine, in an especial manner upon subjects connected with the movement and subsistence of the army. The Emperor wishes that you would see the Marshal, as soon as possible after his arrival in Warsaw, in order to consult with him on all these subjects; and he authorizes you to execute all the arrangements which may be determined upon by Marshal Diebitsch and the Grand Duke, without waiting for farther orders from his Majesty. You will conform strictly to the wishes of his imperial Highness. His Majesty, in conclusion, orders me to invite you to repair to St Petersburgh as soon as the army shall have commenced its movement and the war shall have been declared, so that you may receive in person the orders of his Majesty. We are now in the month of November, the distances are great, our armies cannot be ready before the spring, and events follow each other so rapidly that God only knows what may happen before that time. The rapidity of their succession has made it impossible to receive intelligence of events in season to influence their course. It is this which has caused the unfortunate state of affairs in regard to Belgium. And here, again, is opened a train of events, in reference to which it is useless to act, for the next courier may bring us intelligence of an entirely new state of things.'] [Footnote 25: The proclamations of the Emperor on the 17th and 24th of December were in effect the same. There was a perfect correspondence between them in severity of language and spirit. We will give the last. 'By the grace of God, we, Nicholas the First, Emperor and Autocrat of all the Russias, make known to all our faithful subjects that an infamous treason has convulsed the kingdom of Poland, which is united to Russia. Evil-minded men, who had not been disarmed of their bad passions by the beneficence of the immortal emperor Alexander, the generous restorer of their country, under the protection of the laws he had given them, have secretly concerted plots for the subversion of the established order of things, and began to execute their projects on the 29th of November last, by rebellion, effusion of blood, and attempts against the life of our well beloved brother the Cæsarowicz Grand Duke Constantine Paulowicz. Profiting by the obscurity of the night, a furious populace, excited by these men, precipitated themselves upon the palace of the Cæsarowicz; while, spreading throughout the city of Warsaw the false report that the Russian troops were massacring the peaceable inhabitants, they collected the people about them and filled the city with all the horrors of anarchy. The Cæsarowicz, with the Russians who were about his person, and the Polish troops who remained faithful to their duty, determined to take a position in the vicinity of Warsaw, and not to act with hostility, in order that, avoiding all occasion of shedding blood, they might prove in the clearest manner the falsehood of the report which had been circulated, and give the authorities of the city time and means of bringing back to their duty, in concert with the well-intentioned citizens, those who had been misled, and to restrain the discontented. This hope was not fulfilled. The council of the city were unable to re-establish order. Incessantly menaced by rebels, who had formed some illegal union among themselves, and had gained an influence in the council by separating from it some members named by us, and filling their places with others named by the chiefs of the conspirators, there was no course left to it but to beseech the Cæsarowicz to send back the Polish troops who had left Warsaw with him, to protect the public and private property from new pillage. Soon after this council was entirely dissolved, and all its powers were united in the hand of one general. In the interval, the news of the revolt was spread through all the provinces of Poland. Everywhere the same means were employed. Imposture, menaces, falsehood were used to inveigle the pacific inhabitants into the power of the rebels. In this unfortunate and serious state of things, the Cæsarowicz considered it indispensable to yield to the request of the government. He permitted the small body of Polish troops which remained faithful to him to return to Warsaw, in order to insure as far as possible the security of persons and property. He himself quitted the kingdom with the Russian troops, and entered on the 13th December the town of Wlodawa, in the government of Volhynia. 'Thus was executed a crime which had been resolved upon, probably, for a long time before. After so many misfortunes, and when at least in the enjoyment of peace and prosperity under the protection of our power, the people of the kingdom of Poland have plunged themselves again into the abyss of revolt and misery, and multitudes of credulous men, though already trembling in fear of the chastisement which awaits them, dare to think, for a moment, of victory; and propose to us the condition of being placed on an equality with ourselves! Russians, you know that we reject them with indignation! Your hearts burn with zeal for the throne. Already you appreciate the sentiments we feel. At the first intelligence of the treason, your response was a new oath of unshaken fidelity, and at this moment we see but one movement in the whole extent of our vast empire. But one sentiment animates all hearts; the desire to spare nothing, to sacrifice all, even life itself, for the honor of the Emperor and the integrity of the empire. We witness with deep emotion the strong manifestation of the love of the people for ourselves and for their country. We might, indeed, answer you with tranquillity, that new sacrifices and new efforts will not be necessary. God, the protector of right, is with us, and all-powerful Russia will be able, with a decisive blow, to bring to order those who have dared to disturb her tranquillity. Our faithful troops, who have so recently distinguished themselves by new victories, are already concentrating upon the western frontier of the empire. We are in readiness to punish the perjured; but we wish to distinguish the innocent from the guilty, and to pardon the weak, who, from inconsiderateness or fear have followed the current. All the subjects of our kingdom of Poland, all the inhabitants of Warsaw, have not taken part in the conspiracy and its melancholy consequences. Many have proved by a glorious death, that they knew their duty. Others, as we learn by the report of the Grand Duke, have been forced, with tears of despair, to return to the places occupied by the rebels. These last, together with the misguided, compose, no doubt, a great part of the army and of the inhabitants of the kingdom of Poland. We have addressed ourselves to them by a proclamation on the 17th of this month, in which, manifesting our just indignation against the perjured men who have commenced this rebellion, we gave orders to put an end to all illegal armaments, and to restore every thing to its former footing. They have yet time, then, to repair the fault of their compatriots, and to save the Polish kingdom from the pernicious consequences of a blind criminality. In pointing out the only means of safety, we make known this manifestation of our benevolence toward our faithful subjects. They will see in it our wish to protect the inviolability of the throne and of the country, as well as the firm resolution to spare misguided and penitent men. Russians! the example of your Emperor will guide you, the example of justice without vengeance, of perseverance in the combat for the honor and prosperity of the empire, without hatred of adversaries, of love and regard for the subjects of our kingdom of Poland who have remained faithful to the oath they have made to us, and of an earnest desire for reconciliation with all those who shall return to their duty. You will fulfil our hopes, as you have hitherto done. Remain in peace and quietness; full of confidence in God, the constant benefactor of Russia, and in a monarch who appreciates the magnitude and the sacredness of his duties, and who knows how to keep inviolable the dignity of his empire, and the honor of the Russian people. 'Given at St Petersburgh the twenty-fourth of the month of December, 1830. (Signed) 'Nicholas.'] [Footnote 26: The following is part of a conversation, in presence of the Emperor, between generals field marshal Diebitsch and Benkendorf, and colonel Wielezynski, (one of the deputies sent by the Polish Dictator,) at the close of a short interview, which took place at a council on the affairs of state to which those generals had been called by the Emperor. 'Well, gentlemen of Poland,' said marshal Diebitsch, 'your revolution has not even the merit of being well timed. You have risen at the moment when the whole force of the empire was on the march toward your frontiers, to bring the revolutionary spirits of France and Belgium to order.' When the colonel observed that Poland thought herself capable of arresting the torrent long enough to give Europe the alarm, and to prepare her for the struggle, marshal Diebitsch answered, 'Well, what will you gain by the result? We had calculated to make our campaign on the Rhine; we shall now make it on the Elbe or the Oder, having crushed you first. Consider this well.'] [Footnote 27: According to the testimony of colonel Wielezynski, the proclamation of the Emperor was in entire contradiction to the sentiments he expressed in the conversation above mentioned. The tone of that conversation was anything but severe. He even conceded that the Poles had just reason to be discontented, and admitted many of the barbarities of his brother, the Grand Duke Constantine. He promised colonel Wielezynski that he would act with the strictest justice, and would consider it a duty to inquire scrupulously into, and carefully distinguish all the circumstances of the case, in regard to which a manifesto should shortly be published. As he took leave of the colonel, in presence of Diebitsch and Benkendorf, he declared that he loved and esteemed the Poles, and that these his feelings should be the basis of his course with regard to them. How inconsistent such language with that of the proclamation!] [Footnote 28: Some letters of the Emperor Nicholas were found among the papers of Chlopicki, in which the Emperor expressed his thanks to him for having taken the Dictatorship, and for the service which he had done to him, by the preservation of public tranquillity. The emperor exhorted him to follow 'the conditions which had been prescribed to him.' The conditions here referred to could not be found. The reader will permit me to dwell, for a moment, upon the mode of conduct, on the part of the Emperor Nicholas, which is here indicated. What conditions could Nicholas propose to the Dictator, which the nation should not know of? If those conditions were compatible with justice and with the honor of the nation, why was all this secrecy necessary? If they were incompatible with justice and our honor, the Dictator certainly could not have it in his power to make the nation accept of them. On the contrary, the nation who had given him its confidence, the moment that it should have been convinced that the Dictator had intended to compromise its honor, would have despised him as a traitor, and he would have fallen a sacrifice to its indignation. To wish to induce him, on his own responsibility, to commit acts contrary to the honor of the nation, is to be willing, for selfish ends, to induce him to do that which would render him infamous in history. Is this a course becoming a King? A conduct so insincere, Machiavelian, and even malignant, is based on the system of intrigue, and is in correspondence with the accustomed policy of the Russian cabinet,--a policy which has always brought divisions and misery upon the nations who have been under her power. Such a system, however, is far from being ultimately favorable to the interests of Russia herself, for it can never lead to a sure result. Sooner or later duplicity will be discovered, and the more a nation has been deceived, the deeper will be its determination of vengeance. The letters referred to, which, I believe, are now in the hands of some of our countrymen, will be, in the eyes of the world, a new justification of our revolution.] CHAPTER VI. Remarks on the policy of the late Dictator.--System of operations adopted.--The army leaves Warsaw.--Statement of the existing forces.--Of the forces proposed to be raised.--Unfortunate consequences of the delay in the preparation of the forces.--Statement of the force with which the war was actually commenced. The dictatorship had exercised a most unpropitious influence upon our affairs.[29] Every movement had been retarded, and the most invaluable time was lost. Instead of offensive operations, the defensive was now necessarily taken. We awaited the enemy on our native soil, and exposed that soil to his insults and outrages. Even, however, at this point, the patriots called on the government to take the offensive, but it was too late. An immense Russian army was concentrated upon our frontiers, and was ready to pass them. Our forces were not strong enough to defend every point against the enemy's entrance. It was decided to keep our troops concentrated, and presenting to him always a narrow and recurvated front, to lead the enemy to the environs of Warsaw, and to give him a decisive battle there. On about the 20th of January, the prince Radzivil renewed the orders for the most rapid organization of all the different corps, and directed those corps which were already organized to hold themselves in readiness for marching. A division of lancers which was in the environs of Siedlce, augmented by some regiments of newly raised light cavalry, occupied, as a corps of observation, all the country between Wlodawa and Ciechanowiec, and were ordered to watch every movement of the enemy in that region. On about the 25th of January, the troops began to leave Warsaw and the other towns of the department, and to concentrate themselves upon a line embracing the towns of Siedlce, Ostrolenka, and Lukow.[30] STATEMENT OF THE EXISTING ARMY, AND OF THE NEW FORCES PROPOSED TO BE LEVIED. The whole Polish force under the Russian government, consisted, of _Infantry_, nine regiments of two battalions each, 19,000 men, and a battalion of sappers of 1,000 men, in all 20,000; _Cavalry_, nine regiments of four squadrons each; in all, 7,200; _Artillery_, six batteries of eight pieces each, and two batteries of light artillery, also, of eight pieces each; in all, sixty-four pieces. According to the plans of the Dictator, the infantry was to be augmented in the following manner. To each of the existing regiments was to be added a battalion of 1,000, making a total of 9,000 men. He then proposed to form fifteen new regiments, thus increasing the number of regiments of infantry to twenty-four. Each one of the new regiments was to be composed of three battalions of 1,000 men each. The total of these new regiments would then have been 45,000 men, and the grand total of the new levy would be 54,000 men. This body of recruits was to be made up from those of the exempts (their term of service[31] having expired) who were yet under the age of forty, and from all others under that age, and above that of sixteen. Of this force, six thousand men was to be furnished by Warsaw, and an equal number by each of the eight palatinates. Besides this force, the enrollment of a national guard at Warsaw of 10,000 men was ordered; and in forming this body, no exemption was admitted except from age or bodily infirmity. Each of the eight palatinates was also to enroll a national guard of a thousand men. Thus the whole national guard was to consist of 18,000 men. The cavalry was to be augmented as follows. From the whole gend'armerie, it was proposed to form a regiment of carabiniers, consisting of two squadrons of two hundred men each. To the nine existing regiments of cavalry it was proposed to add, as a reserve, four squadrons of two hundred each, making, in all, eight hundred. Ten new regiments were to be formed, of four squadrons each; so that the whole number of old and new cavalry would be twenty regiments. The whole augmentation of this army would amount to 9,200. The raising of this force, as in the case of the infantry, was to be equally divided between Warsaw and each of the eight palatinates. The artillery was to be augmented by four batteries, of eight pieces each, making a total of thirty-two pieces. RECAPITULATION. Infantry. Cavalry. Artillery. New forces, 54,000 9,200 32 pieces. Existing forces, 19,000 7,200 64 ------ ------ -- Total, 73,000 16,400 96 If we should add to this number the regiments formed by the land proprietors at their own expense, detachments of volunteers, foreigners, and detachments of partizans, amounting perhaps to 6,000 2,000 The total might be ------ ------ -- increased to 79,000 18,400 96 This force, although it would seem to be disproportionate to the resources of the kingdom, it was certainly possible to have raised; for the energy and spirit of the people were at the highest point, and every one felt the importance of improving the favorable moment, which the general state of Europe, and the weakness of Russia, presented. If the reader will anticipate the course of events, and remember what a struggle, against the Russian force of more than 200,000 men, was sustained by the 40,000 only which we actually brought into the field, he may conjecture what advantages might have been expected from twice that number, which we should certainly have brought to the field, had the energy of the government followed out its plans. But from the incapacity of the Dictator for the energetic execution of his trust, these forces were never raised, and it was soon seen that Chlopicki, by assuming a duty to which he was unequal, gave the first blow to the rising fortunes of his country. The Dictator, as we have seen, had not even taken a step towards the organization of these forces, and one would have thought that he had thrown out these plans merely to blind the eyes of the nation, without having entertained the thought of taking the field. Two months passed away, the inevitable moment of the conflict arrived, and the nation was obliged to march to the fight with half the force which, under an energetic administration, it would have wielded. If we add to this unfortunate state of things, that, besides the threatening forces of our gigantic enemy, Prussia and Austria, at this late moment, and especially the former, had began to take an attitude of hostility towards us, and thus all hope of sympathy from her neighbors was lost to Poland, the perilous nature of the crisis to which the delay of the dictatorial government had brought us, thus unprepared, may be imagined. But Poland did not suffer herself to be discouraged by all these unpropitious circumstances. Trusting to the righteousness of her cause, she went forth to the contest, determined to fall or to be free. STATEMENT OF THE FORCES WITH WHICH THE WAR WAS ACTUALLY COMMENCED. A great exactitude in the computation of these forces would be obviously impracticable, as the precise number of the detachments of volunteers, occasionally joining the army, serving in a particular locality only, and often perhaps for a limited period, cannot be ascertained; but it will not be difficult to make a pretty near approximation to the truth. At the beginning of the campaign, the forces were divided into four divisions of infantry, four of cavalry, and twelve batteries of artillery, of eight pieces each. The whole infantry consisted of: The nine existing regiments, enlarged by one battalion to each regiment, making in all, 27,000 One battalion of sappers, 1,000 A tenth regiment, of two battalions, called 'The Children of Warsaw,' 2,000 A battalion of volunteers, added to the 4th regiment, 1,000 Different detachments of volunteers, as the detachments of Michael Kuszel, and the Kurpie or Foresters, &c., 1,600 ------ Total of infantry, 32,600 The four divisions of infantry were nearly equal, consisting of from 7 to 8,000 men each. To each of these divisions a corps of 250 sappers was attached. The divisions were commanded as follows; 1st division by general Krukowiecki; 2d division, general Zymirski; 3d division, general Skrzynecki; 4th division, general Szembek. The cavalry consisted of the nine existing regiments, 7,200 Four squadrons, added to these as a reserve, 800 Two squadrons of carabiniers, 400 Two regiments of krakus or light cavalry, of Podlasia and Lublin, 1,600 Two regiments of Mazurs, 1,600 Six squadrons of Kaliszian cavalry, 1,200 Two squadrons of lancers of Zamoyski, 400 ------ Total of cavalry, 13,200 This cavalry, which was composed of 66 squadrons, was divided into four nearly equal bodies. They were commanded as follows. 1st division, by general Uminski, consisting of 15 squadrons; 2d division, general Stryinski, 15 squadrons; 3d division, general Lubinski, 15 squadrons; 4th division, making the reserve, under general Pac, 17 squadrons. Besides those divisions, four squadrons were designated for the corps of general Dwernicki. The artillery was divided into 12 batteries of eight pieces each, making in all 96 pieces. The general statement of the forces with which the campaign was commenced is then as follows: _Infantry_, 32,600. _Cavalry_, 13,200. _Artillery_, 96 pieces. This incredibly small number marched to the combat against a Russian force of at least 200,000 men and 300 cannon. In fact, by the reports of field marshal Diebitsch, found after his retreat, and the detailed statements confidently made in the Berlin Gazette, the Russian forces amounted to 300,000; but we reject one third on the supposition that the regiments had not been entirely completed. If the very thought of commencing a war with such disproportionate means, against so overwhelming a force, should seem to the reader to be little better than madness, he will appreciate the energy and courage with which it was supported, when he learns that in _twenty days_, from the 10th of February to the 2d of March, _thirteen_ sanguinary battles were fought with the enemy, besides twice that number of small skirmishes, in which, as we shall see, that enemy was uniformly defeated, and a full third part of his forces annihilated. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 29: The dictatorship may be said to have been the first of our misfortunes. The Dictator, acting in contradiction to the spirit of the revolution, did not take advantage of that enthusiasm with which the revolution commenced and by which prodigies might have been achieved. But not only did he neglect to make use of that enthusiasm, or to foster it, he even took measures which had a tendency to repress it. The first fault with which he was reproached by the Patriotic Club, was his having given permission to the Grand Duke to leave the kingdom with his corps, taking with them their arms and accoutrements, which were really Polish property. The retaining of the Grand Duke would have been of the greatest importance to us. No historian could have blamed such an act; for if the justice of our revolution be once acknowledged, every energetic and decisive act which would favor its happy result must also be justified in the view of history. The Russians indeed have regarded our conduct on this point as an indication of weakness and timidity rather than as an act of delicacy and magnanimity, in which light Chlopicki intended that it should be considered. That same corps, attached to the Grand Duke, consisting, as we have said, of 7,000 men and 24 cannon, with the Grand Duke himself, did not regard it in this light, for they fought against us in the very first battle. Another fault of general Chlopicki was, not to have taken immediately the offensive, passed the Bug, and entered the brother provinces which had been incorporated with Russia. The Russian troops, especially those in Lithuania, were not in a state to resist the first impetuosity of our national forces. The Russian soldiers, as the reader probably knows, are not, except in the large cities, concentrated in barracks, as in other states of Europe, but are dispersed in quarters throughout the country, in small bodies; so that sometimes a single regiment may be spread to a circumference which may embrace eighty to a hundred villages, with perhaps from ten to thirty soldiers only, in each. In fact, the soldiers of a company may have often from six to twelve miles march to reach the quarters of their captain. All this made the concentration of these forces an affair of time and difficulty; and one regiment after another could have been fallen upon, and their whole forces annihilated in detail, and that without much effusion of blood. Besides this, the Russian corps of Lithuania was composed, in part, of our brethren enrolled in that province, and even commanded, in part, by officers natives of that province. They would of course have united themselves with us, and the revolution would have spread, with the rapidity of lightning, to the very borders of the Dwina and the Dnieper; and after this, not four millions alone, but sixteen millions of Poles, would have been united in one cause. At a later period, all this was no longer possible. Russia began to become alive to the danger of the occurrence of such a state of things, and all the regiments with Polish soldiers in their ranks were withdrawn into the interior, and three hundred Polish officers in the Russian service were sent to take commands in regiments posted in the regions about the Caucasus, in Asia. The Dictator, who gave as a reason for not having taken the above course, that the neighboring cabinets would have taken umbrage at it as a violation of a foreign territory, can with difficulty be conceived to have really felt that this would have been the case. Even if such apprehensions were well founded, are diplomatic formalities to be regarded, on an occasion like this? Should we, in such a cause, forbear, from apprehensions of this kind, to press on to the delivery of our brethren from the despotism under which they were suffering? But, in fact, the true interests of those cabinets were to be found in, what every sagacious observer of European history has pointed out as the great safeguard of Europe, the establishment of the Polish kingdom as a barrier against the threatening preponderance of our barbarous enemy. It was indeed ridiculous to require of the Poles that they should regard, as their only limits, the little kingdom into which the violence and fraud of the combined sovereigns had contracted them. The Poles, in entering those provinces, would have been still on the soil of their ancient country; and, in fact, the revolution was equally justifiable at Wilna, Kiow, and Smolensk, as at Warsaw. The patriots, indeed, who began the latter, did not think of their own sufferings alone, they bore in mind also the even greater sufferings of their brethren who were more absolutely in the power of despotism. It was indeed the great end of the patriots and of the nation, the union of all the provinces of ancient Poland, which was abandoned by the Dictator. Nothing else, in fact, but the forcing of the frontiers, would have subdued the arrogance of the Emperor, and forced him to listen to our claims. The unanimous voice of sixteen millions of Poles could not have safely been despised. This compulsory amelioration of our condition would have also spared Nicholas the remorse with which he must reflect on the sacrifice of nearly 200,000 lives, and the death or suffering to which he has condemned, and is still condemning, the best spirits of Poland.] [Footnote 30: I cannot forbear to dwell for a moment upon the occasion of the departure of our troops from Warsaw and the other towns. It was one of the fine and touching moments of our revolution. Every friend of liberty would have desired to have brought together all the autocrats of the world to witness the animation with which our national troops went forth to engage in the combat for liberty. Perhaps they would have been involuntarily struck with the conviction that this liberty must be a blessing when men will sacrifice themselves so cheerfully to achieve it. When the march was commenced, all the inhabitants of the neighboring country left their homes to witness the departure, and all the plains about Warsaw and the road sides between Warsaw and Siedlce were covered with people. The soldiers, in marching through the streets of the city, passed between lines of people composed of senators, officers of the government, the clergy, children from the schools, the members of the national guard, and in short an immense assembly of both sexes, reaching even to two miles beyond Praga. All the regiments passed in review before the general in chief, and each regiment took the oath to defend their country to the last drop of their blood. Exclamations such as these were constantly uttered: 'Dear General, if you see us turn from before the enemy, point the artillery against us, and annihilate our ranks.' The fourth regiment, the bravest of the brave, knowing that our magazines were ill provided with powder, refused at first to receive any cartridges; but on the remonstrance of the chief, they agreed to take thirty each man, (half of the complement for one battle,) saying that they would furnish themselves afterwards from the Russians. They then entreated the commander in chief never to send them against a smaller body of the enemy than a division, and to use them wherever a decisive blow was required. 'Forget, dear general,' said they, 'that we have no powder; but trust to our bayonets!' It was truly affecting to witness the parting of the soldiers from their friends and relatives,--fathers taking leave of children, children of fathers, husbands of wives,--and to hear the cries of sorrow mingled with animating shouts and patriotic hymns. These are moments of which I am unequal to the description; but which every freeman will form a conception of,--moments of the struggle between domestic happiness and public duty; moments which show that the love of country is the most powerful of all sentiments, and that men will sacrifice every thing under its impulses.] [Footnote 31: A service of ten years in the army, in person, or by substitute, was required by law of every citizen.] CHAPTER VII. Entrance of the Russian forces into the Kingdom.--Proclamations of Marshal Diebitsch.--Their effect.--Disposition of the Russian and Polish forces.--Plan of operations of the Poles. The Russian forces, simultaneously with the Polish, began to concentrate themselves on the frontiers of the kingdom, (_See Plan No. 1_) particularly at Bialystok (11) and Grodno (10). Four general points were designated for the entrance of this enormous force, viz. Zlotoria (12), Ciechanowiec (9), Brzesc (8), and Wlodawa (7). Marshal Diebitsch, on entering the kingdom, published a proclamation to the Poles, a copy of which is given in the note.[32] [Illustration: _I_] Those proclamations were published in the latter part of January. The people were disgusted with their promises and their menaces, and rejecting all idea of reconciliation on such terms as these proclamations set forth, they entreated to be led to the struggle in which they had once decided to engage, preferring every sacrifice to so degrading a submission. They demanded that an answer should be sent to Diebitsch, informing him that they were ready to meet him, and called upon the government to commence hostilities without a moment's delay.[33] The Russian forces, [_See plan No. 1_, (_a_)] consisting, as we have already mentioned, of about 200,000 men and 300 pieces of cannon, had, on about the 5th of February, passed the Polish frontier at the four general points above named (7, 8, 9, 12). Their different commanders, besides the marshal Diebitsch, were, the Grand Duke Constantine, generals Rosen, Pablen, Geismer, Kreutz, prince Wirtemberg, and Witt. The chief d'etat major was general Toll, the most skilful of the Russian generals. The space designated for the entrance of the different detachments of the Russian corps embraced an extent of ninety-six English miles. This space was almost wholly occupied by either small or large detachments. General Diebitsch, meaning to attack our centre at Siedlce with a part of his army, intended to outflank us with the rest, and to march directly upon Warsaw, and thus, following the plan of Napoleon in the campaign of Prussia, in 1806, at Jena and Auerstacdt, to cripple our front, and to put an end to the war in a moment. The plans of this renowned commander were well understood by our general officers, and to resist them, it was determined to contract our forces (_b_) into a line of operations, narrow, but concentrated and strong; a course which our inferiority of force seemed to require. This line was posted as follows. Our left wing, consisting of the fourth division of general Szembek and a division of cavalry under general Uminski, was in the environs of Pultusk (14). This wing sent its reconnoissances towards Ostrolenka (4). In the environs of the town of Jadow (16) was the division of general Krukowiecki; and in the environs of Wengrow (15), the division of general Skrzynecki, with the division of cavalry commanded by general Lubinski. The centre of our position was about half way between the two latter places. Our right wing was at Siedlce (2), and was composed of the 2nd division of infantry under general Zymirski, and the 2nd division of cavalry under general Stryinski. To cover the right wing, a small corps under the command of general Dwernicki was posted at Seroczyn (17). That corps consisted of 3,000 infantry, 800 horse, and three pieces of cannon. Different patrols of cavalry were employed in observing the enemy along the whole space between Sokolow, Miendzyrzec, and Parczewo. The rivers Narew (N), Bug (B), and Liewiec (L), covered the whole line of our operations, and made it sufficiently strong. Our centre, especially, was well posted between Jadow (16), Wengrow (15), and Siedlce (2). It was protected by the great marshes formed by the river Lieviec (L). Excepting in a few points, which were well fortified, these marshes were wholly impassable. It is to be regretted that this position was not made still stronger by more ample fortifications. Besides making the passage of this point cost a more severe loss to the enemy, such fortifications would have enabled us to spare one whole division for other purposes. Fortifications of positions should always be the more freely combined with tactics, in proportion to the inferiority of a force. In the above mentioned position we were to await the first shock of the enemy, after which the army was to retire slowly towards the environs of Praga, and in such a manner that each corps should always be on the parallel with the rest. In this retreat each corps was required to profit by every opportunity, to cause the utmost loss to the enemy, and to harass him as much as possible. By a retreat of this nature, it was intended to draw the enemy on to the walls of Warsaw, and, having weakened him during such a retreat, to give him a decisive battle there. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 32: _Proclamation of the Field Marshal Count Diebitsch Zabalkansky to the Poles._ POLES! His Majesty the Emperor and King, our august sovereign, has confided to me the command of the troops destined to put an end to the deplorable disorders which afflict the kingdom of Poland. The proclamation of his majesty the Emperor and King has already apprised you that the Emperor has wished, in his generosity, to distinguish his faithful subjects who have respected their oaths, from the guilty instigators of disorder who have sacrificed to their odious ambition the interests of a happy and peaceful community. Nay, more, he wishes to extend his benevolence and his clemency to the unfortunate persons who through weakness or fear have lent themselves as the accomplices of a deplorable enterprize. Poles! Hear the voice of your sovereign and your father, the successor of the august restorer of your country, who like him has always desired your happiness. Even the guilty will experience the effects of his magnanimity, if they will trust to it with confidence. Those only who have dipped their hands in blood, and those who still more guilty perhaps, have excited others to do this, will meet the just punishment to which the law condemns them. 1. At the moment of entering with the troops which I command into the kingdom of Poland, I wish to convince you of the principles which will guide all my steps. A faithful soldier, and a conscientious executor of the orders of my sovereign, I will never depart from them. The peaceful inhabitants who shall receive us as friends and brothers, will find their friendly dispositions reciprocated by the troops placed under my orders. The soldiers will pay a fair price for every thing which shall be furnished to them, and if circumstances require that the troops shall be provisioned by the inhabitants, or if we shall be forced to make requisitions (which we shall endeavor to avoid as far as possible,) in such cases the inhabitants will receive payment in printed certificates, which will be taken as money at the offices for the payment of imposts. Prices will be established for the provisions furnished according to the current value of the articles in the different districts. 2. On the approach of the Russian troops, the inhabitants of the towns and villages, who have taken arms in obedience to the orders of the government which has been illegally instituted, will be required to surrender their arms to the local authorities, if those latter shall have returned to their duties. In other cases, they will be required to give up their arms upon the entrance of the troops of his majesty the Emperor and King. 3. Every inhabitant, who, forgetting the duties which he owes to his sovereign, shall persevere in the revolt, and shall be taken with arms in his hands, will have to meet the utmost rigor of the law. Those who shall attempt to defend themselves against the troops, shall be delivered over to a council of war. The towns and villages who shall dare to resist his majesty the Emperor and King, will be punished according to the degree their resistance shall have been carried, by an extraordinary contribution, more or less heavy. This contribution will be principally levied upon those who shall have taken part in a criminal defence, either by carrying arms themselves, or by exciting others to that crime. In case of relapse from a return to duty, and of rebellion in the rear of the Russian army, the insurgent places shall be treated with the utmost military rigor. The principal instigators shall be punished with death, and the others exiled; but the greatest care will be taken to distinguish and protect those who shall have had no part in the crime. 4. To prevent such evils, I invite all the authorities, civil as well as military, who may be in the towns and cities, to send deputies to the commanders of the Russian forces, when these forces shall arrive. Such deputations will bring with them as a sign of submission to their legitimate sovereign, a white flag. They will be expected to announce that the inhabitants submit themselves to the benevolence of his majesty the Emperor and King, and that their arms have been deposited in some place which shall be designated. The Russian commanders will then take the necessary measures of security. They will maintain the civil authorities, which existed before the revolt, as well as those which shall have been instituted afterwards, if they have taken no active part in the rebellion. The sedentary guard of veterans will be continued, if they have not engaged in the resistance, or given manifest proofs of treason towards their legitimate sovereign. All those authorities, civil as well as military, will be required to renew their oaths of fidelity. Conformably to the orders of his majesty the Emperor and King, an amnesty and pardon for the past will be given to all of those who shall submit without delay, and shall comply with the conditions which have been above mentioned. 5. The Russian commanders shall organize, as circumstances may require, in the places where no Russian garrisons may remain, a civil and municipal guard, who shall be chosen from among the most faithful of the veterans, and the inhabitants shall be entrusted with the interior police, as far as may be necessary to secure order and tranquillity. 6. The organization of the administration of the palatinates, arrondissements, and communes, will remain upon the footing on which it was before the insurrection. It will be the same with all the direct and indirect taxes. The authorities will remain in their places after they shall have complied with the above conditions. In other cases, new authorities will be established by the choice of the commanders of the Russian forces. That choice will fall principally upon the individuals who may unite, with the necessary capacity, an established moral character, and who shall have given proofs of their fidelity to their legitimate sovereign. All those will be excluded who shall have taken any part whatever in the rebellion, as well as those who after the entrance of the Russian troops into the kingdom shall persist in an organized opposition against legal order. The proprietors of land and houses who may remain tranquil in their habitations, and shall submit to the conditions above announced, will be protected in their rights, as well by the local authorities as by the Russian troops. In other cases, the property of all those who shall remain in the revolutionary ranks will be sequestered, as well as that of those who shall have continued to exercise the functions entrusted to them by the illegal government, or in some who shall have openly taken part in the revolt. Such are, Poles, the principles which will direct the army which his Majesty has deigned to confide to my command. You have to choose between the benefits which an unqualified submission to the will of our magnanimous sovereign assures to you, and the evils which will be brought upon you by a state of things without object as well as without hope. I hold it an honor to have been called upon to make known to you these resolutions, emanating from the generous intentions of the Emperor and King. I shall execute them scrupulously, but I shall not fail to punish criminal obstinacy with inflexible severity. (Signed) The Marshal Count Diebitsch Zabalkansky. _Proclamation of the Count Diebitsch Zabalkansky to the Polish troops._ GENEROUS POLES! Twenty-five years since, your country was implicated in the wars which the gigantic plans of a celebrated conqueror had kindled. The hope, often awakened, and always disappointed, of an illusory regeneration, had connected you with his fortunes. Faithful, although unfortunate, you answered those deceptive promises by the sacrifice of your blood. There is scarce a country, however distant it may have been, that has not been wet with that blood which you have prodigally shed for interests altogether foreign to the destiny of your country. Great events brought at last, at a remarkable epoch, an end to your misfortunes. After a contest, forever memorable, in which Russia saw you among the number of her enemies, the Emperor Alexander, of immortal memory, obeying only the impulse of his magnanimous heart, wished to add to all his other titles to glory, that of being the restorer of your country. Poland recovered her name, and the Polish army a new life. All the elements of national welfare, of tranquillity, and of prosperity, were miraculously united, and fifteen years of uninterrupted progress prove, to this day, the greatness of the benefits for which your country is indebted to the paternal solicitude of the sovereign who was its restorer, and to the no less earnest concern of him who has so nobly continued the work of his predecessor. POLISH WARRIORS! His Majesty the Emperor and King has trusted to your gratitude and your fidelity. A short time since he gladly did justice to your devotedness and your good will. The exemplary conduct of all the Polish officers, without exception, who partook with our armies the fatigues and the glory of the Turkish war, had given a high satisfaction to his Majesty. We accepted with pleasure this fraternity of arms which became a new bond between the Russian and Polish troops. The best hope of reciprocal advantages should connect with that union, which was founded upon all that is sacred in military honor. Those hopes have been cruelly deceived. A handful of young men, who have never known the dangers of battle, of young officers who had never passed through a campaign or even a march, have shaken the fidelity of the brave. The latter have seen committed in their ranks the greatest of crimes, the murder of their commanders; they have not arrested the revolt against their legitimate sovereign. What unhappy blindness, what criminal condescension has been able to induce these veterans to permit the consummation of the greatest of offences, and to join themselves with those whose hands were stained with blood! Can it be possible that the design of rendering a service to their country has been made for a moment a pretext for such conduct? That country can answer that for a long period she had never enjoyed so much happiness. She had attained much, and she could still hope much from her fidelity, and the support of public order. She exposes herself to the loss of all these advantages by engaging in an unequal struggle, in revolting against a sovereign whose firm and energetic character is well known, and in braving a power which has never been defied with impunity. Polish Warriors! Rebellion would stamp upon your front the stain of dishonor. Put away from you such an ignominy. History will one day relate, that, in the hope of serving your country, you have been faithful and devoted to the man who promised you every thing, and kept his promise in nothing. Shall it also say that, paying with ingratitude and perjury, the sovereign who has generously granted you every thing which you had any right to hope for, you have drawn down upon your country new misfortunes, and upon yourselves an indelible disgrace? If some grievances existed, you should have had confidence enough in the character of our august sovereign to have laid before him your complaints, in a legal manner, and with that frankness which characterizes the true soldier. And I too, Poles, I speak the sincere language of a soldier; I have never known any other. Obedient to the orders of my sovereign, I reiterate, by his wishes, all the propositions which, in his clemency, he has already made to you by his proclamation of the 17th of December. Our august sovereign has witnessed, with marked satisfaction, the fidelity of the brave light-cavalry of the guard, of the greater part of the grenadiers of the guard, and of the sub-officers of the cavalry. He does not doubt that the greater part of the troops cherished the desire to remain faithful to their oaths, and that many others were hurried away only by the impulse of the moment. Let each one hasten to execute the orders which are contained in the proclamation of his majesty. But if unforeseen circumstances do not permit you to follow the course which has been pointed out to you; at least, on the approach of the faithful armies of our common sovereign, remember your duties and your oaths. It is not as enemies that the troops placed under my command enter the kingdom of Poland. It is on the contrary with the noble object of re-establishing public order and the laws. They will receive as brothers all persons, either in civil or military life, who shall return to their duties; but they will know how to subdue, with the constancy and courage which they have ever manifested, the resistance which evil-minded men may attempt to oppose to them,--men who, trampling under foot the sacredness of their oaths and the laws of honor, sacrifice to their ambitious and even criminal projects the dearest interests of their country. It is to you especially, generals and colonels of the Polish army, that I address myself with confidence; to you, whom I have been accustomed to regard as my worthy brothers in arms. Return from the momentary error to which you have been capable of surrendering yourselves, that you may, in joining the rebellious, bring them back to their duties, and serve your country without violating your oaths. Experience will have disabused you of your error: return to the path of fidelity, and you will by that restore the happiness of your country. You know the clemency of our august sovereign: return to him. Weigh well the immense responsibility which you will take upon your heads by a criminal obstinacy. Join yourselves to your brothers in arms. Show that you are still worthy to be the commanders of the troops which your sovereign has entrusted to you. You will be received as brothers. An amnesty of the past is assured to you. The troops which I command will fulfil with loyalty the intentions of our sovereign, and the gratitude of your country, restored to tranquillity, will be a delightful reward for your return to your duty. But if there are found among you men hardened in crime, who cannot be persuaded to trust in magnanimity, because they know not the elevated sentiments in which it has its origin, let all the bonds of military fraternity between you and them be broken; the all-powerful hand of God, the protector of the good cause, will bring down upon their heads the punishment due to their crimes. (Signed) The Marshal Diebitsch Zabalkansky.] [Footnote 33: To the proclamations of general Diebitsch, one of our countrymen made a reply, in the form of a letter, which was published in the gazettes, and which, as far as my memory serves me, was in nearly the following terms: 'General, your proclamations, which breathe the spirit of injustice, arrogance, and cruelty--the menacing tone of which is backed by the colossal force you have led to the invasion of our territory, and which you are to wield as an instrument for establishing a new tyranny and inflicting new sufferings upon a country of freemen,--these proclamations, general, prove that the favorable opinion which Europe entertained of you was ill-grounded, and that you too, like the rest, are willing to lend yourself an easy and vile instrument in the hands of the oppressor. Diebitsch! Can it be you who so recently passed the Balkan, to deliver a nation from the yoke of barbarism,--an action which gained for you so great a name in history? 'Do you remember the proclamations which you published on that occasion, how different from these, filled with noble thoughts, and in which you felicitated yourself on being placed in command of an army destined to deliver the unfortunate Greek nation from the barbarism which was oppressing it. What a contrast! There you went to deliver the unfortunate; here you come to increase the sufferings of a nation which has for fifteen years been oppressed in a manner which was well known to you, and which it is horrible to think of. General, have you forgotten how you were received at Warsaw, after your return from the campaign of Turkey? Have you lost the recollection of those looks of welcome and of joy at the sight of the man who had effected the deliverance of an unfortunate and oppressed nation? You were then touched, for the sentiments of the Polish nation were in harmony with those which you yourself then entertained. All those recollections you have turned away from. Dazzled by false ideas of greatness, arrogance has driven from your heart those noble sentiments which would have made you truly great. Diebitsch! Poland once had confidence in you. Many Poles had hoped that you would act as a mediator between your monarch and us. No one could be in a more favorable situation than yourself to set before that monarch the nature of our sufferings, and the claims which we had upon his justice. You would have been in a situation to persuade him that the time had come to aid the cause of civilization, and to promote his own happiness, by conceding to a nation those rights which are essential to its happiness and prosperity. Poland had such expectations of you. You alone, who are so near the person of the monarch, and to whom his character is so intimately known, you could have done this. Such conduct would have added indeed to the glory you had already acquired. Who then would have equalled you? But, for your misfortune, you have chosen another course, and by acting as a servile instrument of tyranny you have tarnished all your former glory. Know then, Diebitsch, that the Poles despise you. Spare both your promises and your menaces; for with neither will you effect anything. They long for the approach of your colossal masses, that they may give you an example of what freemen can do.'] CHAPTER VIII. The opening fire.--Affairs of the 10th and 11th February.--Combat of Stoczek.--Disposition in consequence of that battle.--Battle of Boimie.--Retrograde movement to Dobre.--Combat of Makowiec.--Passage of the Orsyca.--Combat of Dobre. Attack on the right wing at Minsk. The tenth of February, 1831, was the first day, after an interval of fifteen years, of the encounter between the Russian and Polish arms. Mendzyrzec (18) was the place in which the first fire was given; and the little skirmish which took place there was of good presage. On the morning of that day, two regiments of Cossacks showed themselves upon the plain before the town, on which were posted two regiments of krakus, or light cavalry, and the 4th regiment of lancers, as an advanced guard. Our cavalry were impatient to engage with the enemy, and begged of their commander to be allowed to attack him. When it was seen that this body of the enemy was detached from his larger force, permission was given to one of the two new regiments of light cavalry, supported by a squadron of the old cavalry as a reserve, to throw themselves upon the enemy. In a moment our cavalry were among the ranks of the Cossacks. Both of the enemy's regiments were dispersed, and one squadron with six officers were taken prisoners. The enemy was not pursued, our troops being satisfied with this successful attack, and with having excited the first consternation in the enemy's ranks. After this skirmish, our cavalry, in obedience to previous instructions, retired to the environs of Siedlce (2). In this town was a little garrison consisting of a regiment of light infantry and a detachment of riflemen, formed and commanded by Michael Kuszel. On the 11th, at about mid-day, the whole of the advanced guard of the Russian centre, which was commanded by Diebitsch in person, reached the environs of Siedlce (2), and took position there. Before the night set in, other Russian columns began to place themselves upon the same plain. Their advanced guard then recommenced the march, throwing their tirailleurs forward, who began a warm fire, which was answered by our own light troops, who were placed in the faubourgs and the sides of the town. The brave detachment of Kuszel's riflemen, who were finely trained and equipped, caused a great loss to the enemy. The Russian artillery, to protect their tirailleurs and the columns of infantry which followed them, commenced a heavy fire upon the faubourgs occupied by our infantry. This fire of the Russian artillery was ineffectual; but our own fire, as the Russians were exposed in an open plain, was very destructive. The action continued until dark, when our infantry began to evacuate the town, and marched to rejoin the divisionary camp, which was about a mile in the rear. [Illustration: _II Steizel._ ] At 8 o'clock, general Zymirski, supposing that the enemy had taken possession of the town, determined to make an attack, with two regiments, upon the town and the Russian camp, at the point of the bayonet. The 7th regiment of the line and the 4th regiment of light infantry, which were designated for this object, fell with impetuosity upon the enemy, whom they found in an wholly unprepared state. A few hundred prisoners were the fruits of this attack, after which our forces evacuated the town. These little advantages gained in those two days, retarded the advance of the enemy. He remained inactive on the 12th and 13th. On the 14th, the Russian corps under the command of general Kreutz, composed of 15,000 men and 24 pieces of cannon, attacked the small corps of observation on our right, under the command of general Dwernicki. COMBAT OF STOCZEK. [_See Plan_ II.] General Dwernicki, although aware of the vast superiority of the enemy's force, yet, trusting in the strength of his own position, determined to meet his attack, and give him battle. The position of Stoczek (_a_) was strong in several respects; first, from its commanding elevation; secondly, from the circumstance that the town is protected by the river Swider (_b_), which forms marshes that are not passable but by a dyke (_m_) at a short distance from the city, in the direction in which the Russian army was approaching. That dyke was defended by the whole artillery of our corps, consisting of three pieces (_e_); and the declivity descending toward the dyke was occupied by two companies of light troops dispersed in favorable positions as sharp-shooters, and in such a manner as to act on the dyke. General Dwernicki divided his forces into the smallest possible bodies, to give an appearance of extent to his line, and thus mask his inferiority of force. Leaving a battalion of infantry (_d_) to protect the artillery and prevent the passage of the dyke,--which passage, he was sure that the enemy could not possibly execute rapidly, and that this small force was sufficient, if not to prevent at least to retard it,--he took the two battalions (_d_) which made the remainder of his force, and throwing them upon the right bank (A) of this river, in the forest, where an easier and safer passage was open to the enemy, he there awaited the enemy's movements. The first step of the Russians (_g_, _h_) was to place all their artillery (_f_) at the nearest possible point to our position, and to commence a warm fire upon the town. Under this fire they thought to effect the passage of the dyke. General Dwernicki ordered his artillery not to fire, until the Russian columns should make their appearance on the dyke, and then to open a fire of grape upon them. In this manner some hours passed, during which the Russian artillery kept up an ineffectual fire, and the Russian corps executed various manoeuvres in attempting to force the passage of the dyke, and in pushing their attack in the direction of the forest. General Kreutz, seeing that his attempts to force the dyke were attended with severe loss, and thinking that in the other direction, the passage would be much more easy, decided on a general attack in that quarter. He divided his corps, leaving one part before the dyke, and with the remainder advanced to the attack of our right (A). Strong columns of Russian infantry and cavalry marched against it. As soon as this manoeuvre was observed by Dwernicki, the idea was conceived by him of preventing the attack, by throwing himself with the utmost impetuosity upon the enemy before he had taken a position, and while on the march. He renewed his orders to defend with the utmost firmness the passage of the dyke; and, taking all the cavalry with him, he passed over towards the forest; and, with the united force of this cavalry and the infantry who were concealed in the forest, he threw himself upon the Russian artillery, and the cavalry which was protecting it. In a moment both artillery and cavalry were completely overthrown and dispersed, and seven pieces of cannon remained in our hands. The disorder communicated itself to the columns which were on the march, who thought no longer of following up their attack, but retreated as fast as possible, and in fact a general and disorderly retreat commenced. The ruin of their left wing caused a consternation in the forces composing their right, who, not knowing what had happened, ceased their fire, quitted their position, and joined in the general retreat. Besides the killed and wounded, more than 1,000 prisoners, with twenty officers, were taken, together with a great quantity of ammunition, baggage, &c., among which were several voitures containing the chapels of the camp.[34] The enemy was followed a short distance only, as the inferiority of our force would not of course admit of an extended pursuit, and it was an important object also with general Dwernicki not to permit the enemy to discover that inferiority. He contented himself therefore with having destroyed nearly a third part of the enemy's corps, and with having thrown his whole force into the greatest consternation. This brilliant affair was the commencement of the remarkable career of general Dwernicki; and it was a propitious opening for our campaign. General Dwernicki resumed his former position at Stoczek, where he awaited the orders which the commander in chief might issue on receiving the report of what had taken place. To make this position more strong, he ordered a barricade of trees to be made at the termination of the dyke and at the other points where the approach was easy, and, in order to keep a close observation upon the enemy, he sent patrols in the direction of Kock and Zelechow. While thus occupied, he received orders to leave his position immediately by a rapid march in the direction of Zelechow and Macieiowice, then to pass the Vistula and meet the Russian corps under the command of the Prince Wirtemburg, who, after having crossed that river at Pulawa, had made a demonstration on its left bank, and was approaching Warsaw. On receiving these orders, general Dwernicki left Stoczek on the same night. In consequence of the enemy's attack upon Dwernicki's corps, which covered our right wing, that wing was inclined and withdrawn towards Kaluszyn, in order not to be exposed to the enemy's demonstrations upon its flank or rear. The town of Minsk was also occupied by a detachment. On the 15th the Russians made a simultaneous attack on Wengrow and Kaluszyn. But the principal attack was intended to be directed against Kaluszyn, or rather the village of Boimie adjoining it. At Wengrow the attack was masked. By a strong attack upon our right wing, the enemy had the design of gaining the great road to Warsaw, a plan which it was of the utmost importance for us to defeat; for, if he should have succeeded in forcing our right wing, he would have cut off our communications with the corps of general Skrzynecki, and Krukowiecki, which were in a more advanced position. Our generals saw the necessity of the most determined defence of the position, and general Zymirski resolved to resist to the last extremity. BATTLE OF BOIMIE. (_See Plan_ III.) The battle of Boimie consisted of a persevering effort on the part of the enemy to force the passage of a dyke (_k_), under the protection of the fire of a strong battery of artillery (_e_). On our side, every effort was directed to the making of the passage of that dyke as destructive as possible to the enemy. For this object our arrangements were made as follows. On the night of the 14th, we destroyed the bridges (_m_) over the small river of Kostrzyn, which traverses the dyke or main road in two places. Not far from the nearest bridge, a defence of branches of trees (_n_) was thrown together, which having been well placed, made a good cover for our marksmen, and for a battalion of infantry (_o_), which were concealed behind them. The fire of grape from the enemy's artillery was rendered ineffective to a great degree by this mass of trees. Upon the nearest elevations of ground (B), general Zymirski placed eighteen pieces of cannon (_a_), the fire of which was concentrated upon the dyke. By this means every attempt of the enemy to re-construct the bridge was made to cost him a severe loss, and was rendered ineffectual. The main body of our forces was placed without the reach of the enemy's artillery. On the left of our position, at the distance of about half a mile, a small road (_p_) led to Dobre, and that road was intersected by the small river above mentioned. The bridge which continued the road over this river was destroyed by us, and a small detachment placed there to prevent its reconstruction and its passage by the enemy. [Illustration: _Boimie_ III] Such was the distribution of the small force which, profiting by the strength of its position, was able to meet the attacks of the numerous body of the enemy commanded by marshal Diebitsch in person, and which were renewed during the whole day. The details of the action are as follows:--At about 9 o'clock on the morning of the 15th, the Russian force commenced debouching from the forests which border the main road, between Mingosy and Boimie, and deploying to the right and left, took position. In a short time the field was covered with the enemy's masses. His force consisted of twelve regiments of infantry (_f_), six of cavalry (_g_), and sixty pieces of cannon. It was at about noon that the enemy placed his artillery upon the heights (A) above the bridge and commenced his fire. After continuing for some time this fire, which was but occasionally answered by our artillery, the enemy sent several battalions in column, upon the bridge, a part of which force engaged in the repair of the bridge, and the rest attempted to make the passage. Every approach of the enemy was met with a warm fire from behind the defence of trees above mentioned, and our artillery at the same time opened a destructive fire of grape upon the bridge. The attempts of the enemy were renewed for some hours, in vain. Finding the impossibility of forcing this passage, he directed his efforts to that on his right (D), and sent a cloud of light infantry and cavalry to attempt to pass the marshes, and ford the stream. But this passage was equally impossible, and several Russian regiments, who were engaged in the attempt, exposed themselves to a severe fire of platoons from our troops, and several staff officers of the enemy were killed at the head of those regiments. In these renewed and bloody attempts, the day passed away, and as the night approached, our troops quietly evacuated their position, and took another a few miles in the rear. As to the affair at Wengrow, it was only an engagement with the rear guard of the corps of general Skrzynecki. That general, knowing his position to be too far advanced, decided to retire as far as the environs of Dobre. This retreat was so orderly that it seemed rather an evolution than a retreat. All the movements were executed with perfect coolness, and the alternate retreat and fire of the different battalions, the displaying and closing of the columns, the change of front, &c, were executed with such precision that it impressed the enemy with a certain degree of respect, and though three times superior in force he did not attempt to push his attack. In this manner the corps arrived at the village of Makowiec, where it took position. On the next day, with the exception of a few light skirmishes between the outposts, nothing of importance took place. The right wing received on that day the order to fall back as far as Minsk, some miles in the rear of their former position. On the evening of that day the line of operation of our army was as follows:--Our left wing was at Zegrz, the centre in the environs of Dobre, and the right wing at Minsk. On the 17th, the enemy attacked our centre at Dobre and our right at Minsk. It was a day of great bloodshed along our whole line, but, like the preceding, highly honorable to our arms. BATTLE OF MAKOWIEC AND DOBRE. (_See Plan_ IV.) This battle is generally known by the name of the battle of Dobre; but as it was fought in two different positions, and with two different plans of operation, I have given the name of the two general positions, in speaking of the battle. General Skrzynecki was, as we have already remarked, in a position too far in advance of our right wing; and as the enemy on that day had attacked, as we have also stated, the right wing and the centre simultaneously, and could have made, as will be seen by the plan, a demonstration on Stanislawow, and thus have acted on the rear of Skrzynecki, which was nearest to him, that general had two objects to effect. First to make the attack of the enemy as costly to him as possible, and next to arrange his retrograde movement in such a manner as to be able to reach Stanislawow by night. Both of these designs were exceedingly well executed. Upon each of his positions he was master of his own movements, and quitted them at his own time. This affair of the 17th of February was the occasion of the first development of the remarkable talents of this commander. It was then that he first awakened the high expectations and gained the confidence of the nation, which soon after committed to him the trust so honorably and faithfully executed by him. In regard to the first position at Makowiec, the reader will observe, on examining the plan, that the Polish forces were principally engaged in defending a triangular space embraced between the two roads (_f_) which lead from Wengrow and Kaluszyn and meet behind Makowiec (_h_). This space, over which small elevations covered with brush-wood were scattered, afforded good positions for artillery as well as infantry: but the principal advantage of this peculiarity of the ground was, that it concealed the inferiority of our forces. In this position, the village of Makowiec was made a _point d'appui_ upon our left wing, and it was defended by five companies (_d_), under the command of colonel Dombrowski. Six pieces of artillery (_e_) placed in the rear of this village, reached with their fire the village and the plain in front of it. The Russian position was an open plain. [Illustration: _IV Makowiec 104._ ] [Illustration: V. _Dobre p. 104._ ] The enemy commenced by an attack upon the two roads from Wengrow and Kaluszyn; and as the attack was met with a strong resistance, he began to deploy upon the plain between the two roads, and to take order of battle. Nearly 30,000 Russians, with fifty or sixty pieces of cannon (_c_), in a short time were seen upon that plain, and commenced a terrible fire of artillery and musquetry along their whole line, directed principally against the village and the wooded ground. Several battalions (_a_), in column, attempted an attack upon these points. Those attacks were witnessed by colonels Dombrowski and Boguslawski with perfect indifference. They even ordered our artillery not to fire. Our tirailleurs, and all the infantry in that position, formed themselves into detached columns (_k_) of half battalions, and the Russian columns approached. Our artillery then commenced a fire of grape, and this fire was a signal for our columns, with the brave colonels Boguslawski and Dombrowski at their head, to leave their cover and to throw themselves upon the enemy. The 4th regiment immortalized itself in that attack. One of its columns threw itself upon three of the enemy,--the fire ceased, and a terrible carnage at the point of the bayonet commenced. The enemy repeatedly renewed his attacking force, but he found it impossible to move our position. At about mid-day, having suffered so much from loss and exhaustion, he discontinued the attack. General Skrzynecki, profiting by the cessation of the enemy's fire, took the opportunity to pass the Liwiec, and ordered a light fire of tirailleurs to be kept up, under cover of which his columns commenced executing the passage. When the greater part of the corps had passed, the tirailleurs began to make a retrograde movement, and were undisturbed by the enemy. Six squadrons of cavalry (_e_), left as a rear guard, protected the passage of the river by the light troops. In this manner the position was slowly evacuated, the bridge destroyed, and by about two o'clock the whole corps were on the march for Dobre. The six squadrons abovenamed, to which were added nine pieces of light artillery (_m_), prevented for a long while the reconstruction of the bridge by the enemy, and did not quit their position until the corps was at a safe distance, after which they followed rapidly and overtook the corps at about four o'clock, and with it took position in order of battle near Dobre. BATTLE OF DOBRE. [_See Plan_ V.] The position of Dobre was more advantageous for us than the former. It was protected in front by two ponds of considerable size, which lost themselves at their extremities in marshy ground. The only passage which led between those two ponds was easy of defence, and general Skrzynecki posted upon it twelve pieces of artillery of large calibre (_a_). The remaining part of this position was, like the former, covered with scattered clumps of brush-wood. The principal circumstance, however, which made this position eligible, was the declivity of the ground, inclining towards the marshy ponds above mentioned. General Skrzynecki collected all his cavalry upon his right wing, to hinder the enemy from gaining the road that leads to Minsk (A). The left of his position (B) he laid open to the enemy. The position in that direction was surrounded by marshes, upon which, if the enemy should advance, it would be impossible for him to extricate himself without being exposed to fight on the most disadvantageous terms. On this oblique front, general Skrzynecki awaited the approach of the Russian force. In about half an hour after our position was taken, the enemy arrived, and began to debouch between the two ponds, which he was allowed to do, under a very light fire of our artillery. Every manoeuvre, however, upon our right was met with desperate charges of the bayonet, and the fire of our whole artillery. All his attempts in that quarter were ineffectual. In the repulses of these attacks, two of our bravest colonels, Boguslawski, commander of the 4th regiment of infantry, and Ziemiecki, commander of the 2d regiment of hulans, (the former fighting on foot with his carbine in his hand at the head of his regiment,) were severely wounded. At last, after these ineffectual attempts on our right, the enemy fell into the plans of general Skrzynecki, and began to act on our left, when our commander hastened to take all the advantage of the situation in which the enemy were about to expose themselves, that the lateness of the day permitted. General Skrzynecki passed down the front of our line, and addressed the soldiers in a few animating words, to prepare them to make a general attack on the enemy. Our forces were divided into two parts, the smaller of which occupied, by their attack, the main body of the enemy, while the larger threw itself upon the enemy's right wing, which was at some distance from the rest of his forces, and was apparently intending to act on our right wing and to turn it. In a moment this body of the enemy's force was completely broken up. The fury of the attack was such, that some Russian battalions were entirely destroyed. It was only the near approach of night, and the inadequacy of our force for a pursuit, which saved the whole of the enemy's corps from destruction; for his entire right wing took to flight, and a general consternation ensued. The enemy lost on that day, according to his own reports, more than 6,000 men, in killed, wounded, and prisoners. On our side the loss amounted to about 800. Thus ended the memorable battle of Dobre. General Skrzynecki left his position, and arrived on the same night at Stanislawow. Marshal Diebitsch and the Grand Duke Constantine were with the Russian forces, in person, on that day, according to the report of the prisoners. The former, to whom this commencement of the withering of his laurels had led to a state of the greatest exasperation, often led the columns in person to the fire--but all in vain. On the same day, as we have already remarked, our right wing was attacked at Minsk. The enemy supposed that our main force was there, and it was for that reason that he chose to attack Dobre, being more confident of piercing our line at that point. The Russian corps under general Rosen, which attacked our right wing, satisfied themselves with keeping up a fire of artillery on Minsk, and the day passed without any attempt to force the position having been made. Our troops were in the same position at night as in the morning, and nothing of importance occurred, although occasionally severe losses were sustained on both sides. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 34: It was in this battle that the celebrated Matuszka (in Russian Mamyuika,) or the image of the Holy Mother, fell into our hands. This image was held in great veneration by that superstitious people. In the campaign of Turkey, many of their successes were attributed to the Mamyuika. Its loss occasioned a general sensation in the Russian army, and was regarded by them as a most unfavorable presage. We often heard the prisoners whom we afterwards took, attribute all their misfortunes to the Holy Mother having abandoned them.] CHAPTER IX. Retrograde movement of the 18th of February.--Details of this movement, and of the actions which took place.--The army reaches the field of Praga.--Its reception at Warsaw.--Position of the army.--Battle of Wavre and Bialolenka.--Operations of general Dwernicki against the corps of Prince Wirtemburg.--Defeat of that corps by general Dwernicki at Swierza.--Renewal of the enemy's attack on the main army on the 20th.--Its successful resistance.--Review of the events of the preceding days.--Examination of the plan of operations of the Polish army. On the 18th, our whole line was ordered to make a retrograde movement. [_See Plan_ VI.] The utmost order and tranquillity was to be observed in this movement. The several corps were required to preserve a constant communication with each other, and to keep themselves uniformly on the same parallel. General Zimirski, commanding the right wing (A), and who remained on the main road, received orders to take advantage of every good position which he should meet with between Dembe-Wielkie (13) and Milosna (12). Three points in particular were recommended to his attention, Dembe-Wielkie, (14), and Milosna. Nature presents at those points commanding positions surrounded by forests. In each of those positions, the enemy would be exposed to the fire of our artillery, on debouching from the intervening forests; and it was designed to make the attack of those positions as costly as possible to the enemy. [Illustration: _VI. p. 100_] The centre (B), which was commanded by generals Skrzynecki and Krukowiecki, was to retire upon the road which leads from Stanislawow (9) to Okuniew (11). Upon this winding road, which traverses thick forests, the means of defence was easy. The left wing (C), commanded by Szembek and Uminski, which was in the environs of Zegrz (4), received orders to gain Jablonna (16), and Zombke (15), on the same night. The great bridge over the Narew at Zegrz was to be destroyed, and a small detachment to be left at Zagroby, for the purpose of observing the enemy. Conformably to the above orders, our entire line commenced the evacuation of its position, and an incessant fire was kept up throughout the line, during the whole day. In the morning, two squadrons of light cavalry, which were sent from Minsk to Stanislawow, met a regiment of cossacks, who were making a reconnoisance, after having traversed the forest of Jakubow. The cavalry threw themselves upon them, dispersed them, and took two hundred prisoners with their horses. Upon the position of Dembe, our cavalry threw themselves upon some Russian artillery which appeared upon our right, and were marching in a direction from Ruda. Six chests of ammunition were taken, and four pieces of cannon were spiked. At Stanislaus, the 2d regiment of hulans and the 4th of the line performed prodigies of valor, throwing themselves continually upon superior masses of the enemy. The division of general Zimirski repelled two successive attacks from a superior force of the enemy at Konik, upon the road between Dembe-Wielkie and Janowek. Twelve pieces of artillery, placed upon the elevated points of the road, poured an incessant fire of grape upon the masses which were advancing to the attack, and which were enclosed by forests on both sides, as well as impeded in their progress by the trees which had been placed across the road to obstruct them; and, although the enemy constantly renewed his attacking columns, he was not able to force our position, which indeed was not evacuated, until the movement of the general line required a corresponding withdrawal of this division. Our left wing fought with equal advantages at Nasielsk. From this town, which was entirely in flames, the attacks of the enemy were repeatedly repulsed. Our artillery distinguished themselves by acts of daring valor. They drew their pieces into the midst of blazing streets, in order to pour a more effective fire upon the masses of the enemy, who had entered at the opposite extremities. The first regiment of light infantry, having at their head the brave Szembek, threw themselves upon a part of the town occupied by a whole division of the enemy, and drove them out. Even in the midst of the burning town, our chasseurs fell upon and destroyed the different parties of the enemy. The enemy, on quitting the place, were exposed to continual attacks from our cavalry, under the command of general Uminski, who took on that day some hundred prisoners, and among them several officers. Our right wing in its last position at Milosna (12), held the enemy in check before that town. General Zimirski placed his artillery upon the heights behind the town, from which the town and the adjoining plain was commanded. Every attempt of the enemy, every debouchment from the forest, cost him a severe loss. The enemy in vain took positions with his artillery to act upon us. He was not permitted to occupy Milosna until night approached. At Okuniew, the road passes a marshy forest for more than half a mile. The enemy was imprudent enough to push his columns upon this road. General Skrzynecki awaited them at a point not far distant on the opposite side. The advanced guard of the enemy, imprudently composed of several regiments of cossack cavalry, had already passed the dyke, when the 4th regiment threw themselves in columns upon them. These forces of the enemy were thrown into the utmost consternation. Their only escape was into the marshes on either side, where some hundreds of them were taken prisoners without resistance. The arrival of the night terminated the scene, and saved this advanced guard of the enemy from total destruction. Thus ended a sanguinary day, on which, in every part of our line, our troops were victorious, and the enemy was subjected to immense losses. Our generals had made the best choice of their positions, and had profited by them to the utmost. The enemy's loss on that day, in killed, wounded, and prisoners, amounted to at least 10,000 men. On our side the loss did not exceed 1,000.[35] On the night of the 18th our army took the following position. [_See Plan_ VII.] Our left wing was between Jablonna (16) and Zombki (15), and sent out its reconnoisances as far as Zagroby (4), upon the Narew (N), the bridge over which at that place they destroyed. Our centre was between Okuniew (11) and Zombki (15). Our right wing was at Wavre (17). After two such bloody days, as the preceding had been for the Russians, we cannot sufficiently express our astonishment that marshal Diebitsch should have allowed his army no repose, but should have again pushed his attack, without any new plan, on the 19th and 20th. These operations of Diebitsch, without an assignable end, indicated a blind confidence in numbers, or the headlong fury of a man inflamed by the renown which he had acquired, and who was determined to make the event bear out as nearly as possible, whatever sacrifice it might cost, the rash boast which he is said to have made, that he would finish the war in twenty-four hours. But he sacrificed his thousands in vain. On the 19th an action took place, not only with the grand army under the walls of Warsaw, or on the fields of Praga, but also on the left bank of the Vistula at Swierza [(7) _Pl._ VI], forty miles from Warsaw, where general Dwernicki beat prince Wirtemberg, who, as we have already mentioned, had passed the Vistula at Pulawa [(6) _Pl._ VI], and was approaching Warsaw [(1) _Pl._ VI]. BATTLE OF WAVRE AND BIALOLENKA. [_Pl._ VIII _and_ IX.] At the break of day, upon every point, the right wing, the centre, and the left wing, our line was attacked. We might remark in regard to the positions of the two armies on that day, that our right wing, (A) which was at Wavre, was unprotected, while on the other hand the left wing (C) of the enemy, opposite to it, was very advantageously placed on heights covered with wood, between Milosna and Wavre. Our centre (B) was better posted at Kawenzyn. It occupied this village, (which was in a commanding position,) and the declivity descending from it to the plain of Zombki. Our left wing at Bialolenka was also advantageously covered by little wooded hills, having two dykes in front leading toward them. The Russians on that day directed their strongest attack upon our right wing, which occupied the weakest position. With the view of carrying this position, they sent against it some forty battalions of infantry and some thirty squadrons of cavalry, supported by seventy pieces of artillery. Our position was defended by a division of about ten battalions of infantry and fifteen squadrons of artillery, supported by twenty-four pieces of artillery. This enormous disproportion did not discourage our soldiers. Their energy supplied the place of numbers. The enemy commenced his attack by a warm fire of light troops and a fire from his artillery, which commanded the plain. The skilful manoeuvres of general Zimirski, in displaying his front, contracting it, dividing it into small parties, and withdrawing or advancing, as the direction of the enemy's artillery required, and thus avoiding the effect of his fire, prevented the loss which it would else have occasioned. In this way several hours were occupied, when the enemy, trusting to the impression which he supposed his fire to have made, at about ten o'clock sent forward twelve or more battalions (D) to the charge. General Zimirski, anticipating this movement, withdrew, in order to lead them on to the plain between Wavre and Grokow, sending to general Skrzynecki an aid-de-camp to inform him of this manoeuvre, and to engage him to send a force of cavalry to act upon the enemy's columns in flank. General Skrzynecki, who occupied, as we have stated, the heights of Kawenzyn, was also warmly engaged with a brigade of the enemy, and had already observed this imprudent advance of the enemy in his attack, who had indeed gone beyond the line of Skrzynecki's position. In a moment the order was given for the brigade of general Kicki to throw themselves upon the enemy's flank; and as general Kicki approached with the ten squadrons (E) which composed his command, general Zimirski gave orders for a general charge both upon the enemy's cavalry (F) and infantry (D). The columns of the enemy were carried away before these charges, and their attack was wholly paralyzed. This onset, which was so successfully made, forced the enemy (H) to incline his position back from Kawenzyn to Milosna. That manoeuvre was decisive of the enemy's fate, and it was well understood by our generals. General Skrzynecki, by pushing forward the left of his division, cut off the right wing of the enemy from all communication with his centre, and at about mid-day our right wing and centre occupied their former position at Wavre, including the small forest of elders which was between the enemy's left wing and centre; and, in fact, general Skrzynecki occupied a part also of the Great Forest. This state of things was to be profited by, and the right wing of the enemy, thus separated, was to be attacked before the enemy should be able to renew his attack upon Kawenzyn, and the forest of elders, and our right wing. To execute this plan, the two divisions of Krukowiecki and Szembek, composing our left wing, which was fighting at Bialolenka, [_See Plan_ IX] received orders to push a strong attack against the enemy's front, at the same moment that a brigade (B) of Skrzynecki's division, supported by some pieces of cannon, operated upon the road (_a_) leading from Kawenzyn (_b_) to Zombki (_k_). By this manoeuvre the enemy was menaced with being taken in the rear. The left wing, as we have said, was warmly engaged with the superior force of the Russians; who, by placing some fifty pieces of cannon (_f_) behind the two dykes (_e_) above named, kept up a sweeping fire of grape upon our artillery (_d_) and infantry (_c_), which were defending the passage of the dykes. A considerable body of the enemy had already reached the hither side of the dykes, when general Uminski, with a brigade of cavalry (D), advanced to the charge, and at the same time communicated the orders to the two divisions to commence the general attack. Under a warm fire of grape, our cavalry threw themselves upon the enemy's infantry, which had debouched over the dykes. A general charge commenced, and our cavalry penetrated the enemy's masses. The 2nd and 3rd regiments of chasseurs distinguished themselves by their feats of bravery. The enemy was repulsed, and began to fall back and crowd upon the dykes, and at this moment their rout was effected. A brigade (B) from general Skrzynecki's division arrived, and commenced a fire of grape upon the dykes, over which the enemy was flying in the greatest disorder. Their ranks were in the utmost confusion; they crowded with precipitation upon the dykes, exposed continually to our destructive fire. By this repulse the whole of the enemy's right wing was broken, and they commenced a general retreat, leaving a great number of prisoners, who either had not reached the dykes or could not get from them, amounting to perhaps a thousand men, besides another thousand killed and wounded. The enemy also lost two standards, four pieces of cannon, several chests of ammunition, and many horses. [Illustration: _VII. p. 114._] [Illustration: _VIII. p. 116._] [Illustration: _IX. p. 119._] [Illustration: _X. p. 122._] In this manner ended the attack upon that wing; and indeed the general attack might be said to have ended here. Towards night the enemy renewed his attacks upon our centre and right, but they were feeble. Thus closed another day, which, like the preceding, was most propitious to our arms. BATTLE AT SWIERZA. [_See Plan_ X.] On this same day, as we have mentioned, general Dwernicki, with a detached corps, fought the enemy at Swierza. The reader is already aware that this general, having gained a victory over the corps of general Kreutz at Stoczek [_Plan_ VI, (18)], on the 14th of February, received orders to pass the Vistula, in order to defend the palatinate of Mazovie, to check the operations of the enemy there, and to obstruct his demonstrations upon Warsaw. On receiving this order, general Dwernicki, on the night of the same day, quitted Stoczek, traversed Zelechow (19) and Macieiowice, and on the 17th passed the Vistula near Ryczywol (7). On the 18th he commenced his operations against the corps of prince Wirtemberg, which was on its way from Radom, and the advanced guard of which begun to show itself upon the plain of Ryczywol.[36] General Dwernicki harassed the enemy on that day [_See Plan_ X,] by continual charges of cavalry, in which the krakus of Krakowie were particularly distinguished. His only plan upon that day was to keep the enemy upon the plain of Ryczywol. During the night he intended to pass, with the chief part of his force, the river Radomierza above Ryczywol (_f_), and by this course to present himself to the enemy upon the road which leads from Radom to Ryczywol, the same road in fact upon which the enemy had advanced, and attack him both on his flank and rear, the Vistula being on his front. In executing this movement, general Dwernicki left two squadrons of cavalry (A), one battalion of infantry (A), and two pieces of cannon, at the side of the river, under the command of colonel Russyian. He then quietly left his position, and crossed the river in its fordable places (_f_) about half a league above. Colonel Russyian, who as we have said remained on the position at Ryczywol, was ordered to commence a light fire of skirmishers at break of day, but to retrograde constantly, and to allow the enemy an easy passage over the bridge. On the 19th, the enemy (D), who had no suspicions of the manoeuvre, commenced in the morning his debouchment upon the bridge, having the expectation of engaging with our whole force in a decisive battle upon the field of Ryczywol. His astonishment may be imagined, when, as the day commenced, he found both upon his flank and his rear a force marching against him to the attack (B). The enemy stopped passing the bridge, and attempted to turn and meet the attack, but this was not permitted him. Our cavalry threw themselves with impetuosity upon that part of his forces which were attempting to place themselves in position; and our artillery, which was boldly brought near the enemy's columns, poured a terribly destructive fire of grape upon them. The utmost consternation ensued, and a general and disorderly flight was commenced in the direction of Nowawies (N), to which place our corps continued the pursuit of the enemy (R). This day, which may be called one of the most brilliant in our war, cost the enemy, besides his killed and wounded, two thousand prisoners, with more than twenty officers, four standards, ten pieces of cannon, some hundred horses, and about thirty chests with ammunition, with officers' baggage, &c. The prince Wirtemberg with the remains of his corps retreated by forced marches to the small town of Granica, where he repassed the Vistula and reached Pulawa. Thus, by a single battle, the whole country on this side of the Vistula was cleared of the presence of the enemy. General Dwernicki permitted to his corps, who were really much exhausted by fighting and marching, to repose by a slow march as far as Kozienice, where he remained stationary, sending out, however, his reconnoisances as far as Pulawa. On the 20th of February our main army was engaged with the enemy the whole day upon the same position as on the preceding. This repetition of his attack, without a change of plan or position, was a great weakness in the enemy. On that day, feeling sensibly the loss of a part of the great forest opposite Kawenzyn, as well as that of the small forest of elders, the enemy commenced his attack upon those points. Some twenty battalions were incessantly pushed forward to the attack, against which eight battalions on our part kept an effectual stand for several hours. This day, although uninteresting and indecisive in manoeuvres, was bloody. No important blow was attempted by us, but every attack of the enemy was met with a vigorous and sanguinary repulse. It was a day of glory for the 4th regiment--the day on which that celebrated regiment, though already distinguished, began to take its high place in our reports; and on which it fought with a degree of valor that could never have been surpassed. Without even waiting for orders, this brave regiment was seen constantly pushing itself towards the points of the greatest danger; and its companies were often fighting singly in the very midst of the thickest masses of the enemy. By the unsuccessful and costly attacks of the enemy the whole day was occupied, and at its close, after the loss of thousands of men, he had not gained a foot of ground. Thus ten days had passed in continual and bloody actions upon the same position, during which the Polish army had been uniformly successful, and at the end of which the enemy discontinued his attacks, thus giving the most convincing proof of the extent of the losses he had suffered on all points, during that period, amounting, in fact, in killed, wounded and prisoners, to full 30,000 men. In this space of ten days, the whole Russian army had been engaged, and that army amounted, as we have already said, and as will be confirmed by all the official reports, to more than 150,000 infantry, 50,000 cavalry, and 300 pieces of cannon. To this force was opposed a handful, comparatively, of Poles, consisting of 30,000 infantry, 12,000 cavalry, and 96 pieces of cannon; a sixth part, in fact, of the Russian force. This memorable commencement of our war will show to the world what can be effected by a nation fighting in defence of its liberty and to throw off an oppressive yoke. Those bloody combats, and that enthusiasm, to which my feeble pen cannot render justice, but which some better historian will present to the world in their true colors, should convince men that the immense mercenary forces which a despot may lead on, and by which he trusts to enforce his will, may avail him little. His enormous masses are like a heap of sand, which a little stone can pierce. Without animating motives, and therefore without energy,--a machine scarcely to be trusted,--that army itself, upon the slightest change of circumstances, may become terrible to the despot, of whom and of whose creatures it was to have been made the unhappy sacrifice. The reader will pardon me, if I fatigue him with farther reflections upon this stage of our affairs. I shall not exaggerate in saying that this enormous mass of the enemy's forces would in an equal period have been absolutely annihilated, if we had then had a commander in chief of greater talent, and a general plan of operation differently arranged,--for the different operations in detail were, generally speaking, perfectly executed. The commander in chief, prince Radzivil, was an individual of the most estimable character, but as he afterwards himself avowed, not possessed of military talent. General Chlopicki, who was always near him, and who in fact virtually commanded, if he had in the early part of his life exhibited military talent, in his present advanced age had certainly lost much of his energy, and was unfit to undertake things which demanded the most active intellect, and the most absolute devotedness of mind and body to the cause. We cannot too strongly express our astonishment that general Chlopicki, who had formed the plan, and a very judicious one it was, of drawing the enemy on to the walls of Warsaw, to give him there a decisive battle, should have neglected to fortify the natural positions upon his route, by which the enemy's loss would have been doubled or even trebled. Serock and Zagroby (4), [_See Plan_ VI], situated upon points of the greatest importance, especially the first, were evacuated by our forces, for the want of proper defences. Not the slightest fortification was constructed at the different passages of the Narew (N), the Bug (B), the Liewiec (L), and the Swider (S), nor upon the region between those rivers, which was full of forests and impenetrable marshes, and in which proper fortifications would have presented the most important obstructions to the enemy's passage. No concealed passages or by-roads through those forests were constructed, as they should have been, by which a body of troops could be led in ambuscade and brought to act suddenly on the enemy's flanks or otherwise, in critical moments, and with decisive effect. Such works would have required but little expense, and could have been made by the Jewish inhabitants, of whom there are some millions in Poland, (twenty thousand in Warsaw alone,) and who could have no claims for exemption, for they render no service to the country, but on the contrary lead a life of profitable fraud and deception, practised upon the inhabitants. The Jews, indeed, with some very few exceptions, did not in the least aid in the war, but often frustrated our exertions by their espionage; and there are in fact instances of their having fought against us,--against those who had given them an asylum upon their soil. In the towns of Nasielsk and Makow this occurred. This part of our population, who had an equal interest with us in the protection of the country, as far as property was concerned, could have been thus employed with perfect justice and propriety. If, by such arrangements, a system of fortification had been properly united with tactics, and all the plans directed by a man of talents and energy, of which examples were certainly to be found in our ranks, with such troops to command, the reader will admit that the Russian forces could have been soon driven back to the frontiers. The succession of victories which we have described were not the results of any general system:--they were victories of detail, executed with energy and rapidity, and for which we were indebted to the generals of divisions and brigades, the colonels of regiments, &c. These successes were isolated, but, had they been made to bear upon each other, their advantages would have been much greater. For example, the battle of Dobre, which was so brilliantly gained by Skrzynecki, would have caused the total ruin of the corps opposed to him, if the 11th division of Krukowiecki, which was in the environs of Jadow, had come to the aid of Skrzynecki during that action. And indeed this was the expectation of Skrzynecki when he remained so long upon the position of Makowiec. But this division, instead of acting upon the rear of the enemy, as it might have done, having no orders to this effect, continued its retrograde march, although within the sound of the cannon of that action. On the 18th there was not enough of harmony in the operations of the several divisions. On that day, if those operations had been directed from one point as from a centre, the enemy, who had been guilty of extreme imprudence in the advance which he had made into the marshy and wooded region between Stanislawow (9), Okuniew (11), and the great road, could have been completely hedged in. [_See Plan_ VI.] The manoeuvres of general Zimirski, when the enemy made his rapid attack on the morning of the 19th, were executed at hazard, no general order having been given in anticipation of such an attack. These manoeuvres were well executed by general Zimirski: but if the case had been thus anticipated by the commander in chief, and, at the commencement of the action, our right wing had been withdrawn to Grochow, [_See_ (A) _Plan_ VIII,] an obstinate defence of the commanding position of Kawenzyn (B) being kept up, and the enemy had been thus allowed to follow our right wing with his left; by the same method of operation which was in fact executed by Skrzynecki and Zimirski, in concert, but with much larger forces; the enemy could have been attacked on his flank, and instead of the annihilation of his sixteen battalions, the same fate would have attended twice or thrice that number;--for, when a force is taken by surprise in flank and rear, numbers avail comparatively little in resistance;--indeed, the greater the number, the greater is the difficulty of changing position, and the greater the disorder and consternation which follows. The Russian army was thus early inspired with terror at the resistance which it had experienced, and the immense losses to which it had been subjected. It was of the utmost importance to profit by this consternation; but the vast advantages which might have been gained under such circumstances, by some general plan of offensive operations of bold and decisive character, were let pass. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 35: I cannot pass over this occasion of describing the manner in which the nation received that army, which had but a month before left the walls of Warsaw, and had, after so many glorious actions, returned to give there a decisive battle to the enemy, and to fall or conquer there before the eyes of the nation. Those were moments rare in history, and should be handed down to posterity, to demonstrate to what a height the feelings of the nation were exalted, and what a unanimity was felt in the great cause that warmed all hearts. The thunder of the cannon which, during the 15th, rolled over the fields of Milosna and Okuniew, was heard at Warsaw, and announced the approach of the army. At nightfall, when our first detachments began to show themselves from the forests of Milosna and Jablonna, and to deploy upon the plains of Wavre and Bialolenka, the whole population of Warsaw began to leave the city, and go forth to meet and hail their defenders. The senate, whose estimable president, Czartoriski, was with the army, left the city also. In a short time the fields were covered with an exulting multitude. When the army took its position, and all was quiet under the protection of night, the people drew near and entered the camp. What a touching scene was there presented! Here a father and mother seek their son, who meeting them, presses them to his bosom. There a wife, leading her children, finds her husband and their father, and throws herself into his arms, while the children cling around the knees of their delighted parents. A melancholy contrast was presented by those who sought in vain for son--husband--parent. But no complaint was heard. The tears falling for those who were no more, were checked by the thought that they had died for their country. The senate, in the name of the nation, and in the most touching language, thanked the commander in chief and his officers for the services which they had rendered to their country, and requested them to communicate these sentiments to the whole army. They finished their address in nearly the following terms: 'Preserve, brave compatriots, this noble energy, and in a short time the throne of despotism will fall, and upon its ruins civilization and public happiness will rise.' The people continued with the army, furnishing them with every comfort, and regardless of the fire which was commenced the next day from the enemy's artillery. Under this fire, vehicles with provisions and ammunition were continually arriving from the city, and some of them were destroyed by the enemy's shot. During the actions before Warsaw, the inhabitants made it a duty to be at hand, to bear off and succor the wounded; and among those who engaged in these offices were some of the most distinguished ladies of Warsaw. The strangers who were then there, and who witnessed the enthusiasm which animated the people, and seemed to unite them into one family, exclaimed that such a nation could never, and ought never be conquered. The following days, the 21st, 22nd, and 23rd of February, in which no action took place, were devoted to thanksgiving to God, for his favor in protecting the Polish cause thus far. In all the churches the people assembled to offer prayers for the welfare of the country; and the army employed this period of repose in the same manner. On that field, over which the three hundred cannon of the enemy were pointed in battle array; while the first line was in position, the rest of the army were engaged in these devotional exercises. At each assemblage of troops, the ministers of religion administered patriotic oaths, and animated the soldiers to perseverance in the holy struggle. Those sacred ceremonies were followed by hymns, which were sung along the whole line, and which, mingling with the solemn sounds of the bells of Warsaw tolling for the assembly of the people in the churches, produced an indescribably impressive effect. These exercises ended in the general shout of 'Poland forever!' To convince the Russians that the Poles were not blindly fighting against them as Russians, but for that cause of civilization and happiness which was of equal moment to themselves, several hundred white flags were prepared with inscriptions in the Russian language, in terms such as follows: 'Russians! brother Sarmatians! we march to combat not as your enemies, but to fight for your welfare as well as our own.' Each regiment received from ten to twenty of those flags, which, during the combat, were to be distributed among the tirailleurs and flankers. They were directed to throw them, as occasion might offer, among the Russian ranks. Many of those volunteers, in rushing forward to plant those flags among the Russian skirmishers, met their death at the hands of those whom they wished to save from tyranny. Thus the Poles had done all that their duty required of them in this holy contest, to convince the world that the general cause of civilization and happiness was the great end of their struggle. They sought not their own aggrandizement by conquests from the territory of another nation, for their ancient boundaries are wide enough for them. They fought for that liberty which they had for ages possessed; and that ancient liberty and those ancient limits they will sooner or later regain.] [Footnote 36: The prince Wirtemberg, who commanded the corps against which general Dwernicki was sent, had served in the Polish army as brigadier-general. He was cousin to the present king of Wirtemberg, and nephew of the late Emperor Alexander, who married his aunt. This prince commanded the 2d and 4th regiment of hulans, of the first of which regiments general Dwernicki was colonel. In this way the prince was perfectly well known to general Dwernicki, and was held by him in very low esteem, as a man of vanity and pretension, and a tyrant over his subalterns. The vices of his character developed themselves sufficiently during our revolution. At the breaking out of the revolution at Warsaw, this man was at Krasny-staw, a small town in the palatinate of Lublin, in which his brigade was posted. On the arrival of the news of the revolution, his first care was to secrete himself. Afterwards, finding that it was impossible to keep concealed, he began to tamper with the brigade, and tried to persuade his soldiers to adhere to the service of the Grand Duke, and to refuse to join the cause of their country. These false persuasions, coming from him, a general in the Polish service, in open defiance of the will of the nation, and in opposition to its holiest efforts, afforded a sufficient ground of accusation against him, to have brought him to judgment as a traitor. Besides all this, by his tyrannic conduct as a general, he had deserved severe treatment. But all these offences were forgotten, and the nation spared him, merely ordering him to quit the country. He exhibited his gratitude for this delicate treatment, by departing for Russia and the Polish provinces, and pointing out for arrest some of the most respectable citizens, who were known for their patriotic sentiments. He passed several days at Wlodawa, a small frontier town between the Polish kingdom and the government of Grodno. There he was guilty of the mean act of intercepting the correspondence between the different patriotic individuals. This was not enough. In the campaign, he took the command of a Russian corps destined to act in the very palatinate of Lublin where he had held his Polish command for fourteen years, and where all the proprietors had treated him with the greatest kindness and delicacy. Arriving there with his corps, he left at every step the traces of his tyranny. On reaching Pulawa, the estate of the beloved Czartoriski, the president of the national government, the residence of that family from which he had himself received so many kindnesses, and in which every virtue reigned, he did not scruple to give orders to burn the town;--he did not scruple to take the name in history of 'the devastator of Pulawa'--of that beautiful spot on which the labor of ages had been expended, and which was so celebrated for the charms with which nature as well as art had enriched it. His cruelties were carried to such a height, that he actually caused to be beaten with the knout, a young lady, a friend of the princess Czartoriski, who had manifested her patriotic sentiments by the sacrifice of her jewels to aid the cause of her country. Even the princess Czartoriski, who was already at an advanced age, was not spared the insults of this gross man, who, to put the finishing stroke to his barbarity, on his second visit to Pulawa, directed a fire of artillery upon the palace, which he knew was occupied only by the princess and her ladies. Even the Russians themselves regarded these actions with abhorrence. In regard to his military talents, they were of the lowest order. General Dwernicki promised that in a few weeks he would despatch him; and he in fact kept this promise to the letter.] CHAPTER X. Proceedings of the National Government.--Marshal Diebitsch continues in a state of inactivity.--Negotiations are opened by him.--His propositions are declined.--Position of the army on the 24th, and battle of Bialolenka.--Position on the 25th.--Great battle of Grochow.--Details.--State of the Russian army after its defeat.--Examination of the plan of the battle of Grochow.--Remarks upon the course adopted by prince Radzivil after that victory.--The Polish army crosses the Vistula to Warsaw.--Its reception by the national government and the citizens.--Resignation of prince Radzivil. Whilst the army was thus gloriously fighting, the national government were laboring for the happiness of the people. Among other valuable institutions, it adopted a paternal guardianship over the defenders of the country by designating an allotment of lands for each soldier. Many of the most wealthy families contributed of their landed property for that object. Another act was to free the peasantry from the Corvee, by purchasing the rights of the landholders over them. Each peasant was made a proprietor, and for the landholders an arrangement of compensation in the form of annual instalments for a period of years, was made by the government. Other institutions for the public welfare, as the establishment of schools, &c, received also the attention of the government. When, after so many battles, the Russian commander discontinued his attacks, it may be supposed that besides the repose which his army required, he had another object, viz. to wait the arrival of new corps, consisting of 20,000 men, and 36 pieces of cannon, under prince Sczachowski. He evidently wished to concentrate all his small detachments and all his reserves, in order to strike, with his whole force, a decisive blow; and the attempt was, in fact, soon made. Our army, which in the ten preceding days had lost about six thousand men, was reinforced by three regiments armed with pitchforks, amounting to about the number we had lost. Our whole army, infantry and cavalry, may have amounted to 40,000 men, and, with the pieces taken from the enemy, 100 cannon.--The Russian army, with the new corps of Sczachowski, amounted to 188,000 men and 316 pieces of cannon, deducting the artillery which had been lost or dismounted. Marshal Diebitsch, before commencing hostile operations, opened negotiations, and, for this purpose, sent a general of division, Witt, with a flag of truce to our head-quarters. This general was stopped at our advanced post, whither general Krukowiecki was sent by the commander in chief, with full powers, to meet him. General Witt commenced with expressions of the greatest sensibility, and enlarged much upon the friendship which ought to exist between the Poles and the Russians as brother nations. He then spoke in very flattering terms of the heroism of the Poles, lamenting that it was not displayed in a better cause. After much complimentary language, he insensibly passed to the ideas of duty and obedience to the monarch. General Krukowiecki, who understood perfectly well all these professions, which he knew to be insidious, answered nearly in the following laconic terms: 'General, after the sad circumstances which have taken place, after the bloody combats to which we have been forced by the tyranny of fifteen years, by the refusal of justice, and in fine by the violation of our frontier, and the laying waste of our territory,--upon this territory we can make no arrangements. You know well what are the frontiers of Poland. Upon the banks of the Dnieper, four hundred miles hence, we may enter into negotiations.' Thus all was ready for the sanguinary battle of two days, which followed, and one memorable in the annals of war. It commenced by a combat on the 24th at Bialolenka, and ended on the 25th on the plain of Grochow. POSITION ON THE 24th, AND BATTLE OF BIALOLENKA The position of the two armies, on the 24th, was as follows. The Polish army occupied the same ground as when they ceased firing on the 20th; but the force was disposed in a different manner.--The right wing was reinforced by the division of general Szembek; and although Bialolenka, Kawenzyn, and Wavre composed the line of combat, there was this difference, that, while before, the centre was at Kawenzyn, and the left wing at Bialolenka, at present the left wing was at Kawenzyn; the forces which were at Bialolenka were posted as a detached corps, and the centre of the army was at the forest of elders. The right wing occupied the space between the great road and the marshes of the Vistula, called the marshes of Goclaw. This arrangement made our line more concentrated. The first division under Krukowiecki, which was at Bialolenka, with the division of cavalry under Uminski, was directed to observe the great road from Jablonna, and all the roads leading from Radzimin and Zombki to Warsaw. Between Kawenzyn and Bialolenka the debouchment of the enemy was prevented by extensive marshes. The Russian army was upon the same points as on the 20th. Their greatest force was opposed to our right wing at Wavre. On the afternoon of the 24th, the enemy attacked with impetuosity the first division at Bialolenka. The corps of the enemy which made this attack was that of the prince Sczachowski, which had recently joined the main army, and for which marshal Diebitsch was supposed to have waited. This corps, as was afterwards ascertained, had missed their road, and became unintentionally engaged with our forces on that day. The orders of that corps were to traverse the forests between Radzimin and Zombki, and to join the army without being observed by our forces. It was the false direction which they took that brought on the engagement at Bialolenka. This battle consisted, like the former actions at this place, of an attempt by the enemy to force the passage of the dykes, which were defended on our side by about eight battalions, protected by some twenty pieces of cannon. This small force repulsed the enemy in three successive attacks upon the dykes. At about 5, P.M. another Russian corps, under general Pahlen, came to the succor of Sczachowski, and as the first corps attempted to pass the road leading from Radzimin, the latter attempted to force the passage of the two dykes leading from Zombki, and at both points under the cover of a terrible fire of artillery. If the reader will consider that our small force, consisting of only eight battalions and fifteen squadrons, stood their ground against two Russian corps of nearly 40,000 men and 60 pieces of cannon, the efforts which were made on that day may be appreciated. Our plan of action consisted chiefly in allowing a part of the enemy's forces to pass the dykes, and then falling upon and cutting them up by successive charges of cavalry and infantry, supported by an effective fire of artillery. By such efforts this handful of brave men repulsed the attacks of the enemy until night, when his attacks ceased. At the approach of night, general Krukowiecki sent small reconnoitering parties upon the roads from Radzimin and Zombki. These patrols, pushing as far as, and even beyond Zombki, saw nothing of the enemy, and in fact learnt, to their astonishment, from the marauders whom they took, that the two Russian corps had quitted their position, and were on their march across the forest of Kawenzyn, to join the main army. This sudden withdrawal of the enemy's corps was an indication that they had received orders to join the grand army, and that a general attack was in contemplation for the next day. In expectation of this attack, a body of men was sent, during the night, to obstruct, by defences, the three roads leading from Radzimin and Zombki. Small detachments were left on those roads, and the forces which were at Bialolenka quitted their position, to reinforce the larger corps upon the plain of Wavre. The following was the position of the two armies on the 25th, the day of the memorable battle of Grochow. [_See Plans_ XI _and_ XII]. The Russian army was distributed into eight divisions of combatants, and three divisions of reserves. Those eight divisions consisted of 126,000 infantry (_a_), 42,000 cavalry (_b_), and 280 pieces of cannon (_c_). The three divisions of reserve (E) were composed of 16,000 infantry, 4,000 cavalry, and 32 pieces of cannon. This enormous force, which occupied the space between Kawenzyn (A) and the marshes Goclaw (B), a distance of about three English miles, was arranged in two lines of combatants (C, D) and a third of reserve. Their position was as follows: Their left wing was between Wavre (_r_) and the above marshes of the Vistula, and was composed of four divisions of infantry, of 47,000 men, four divisions of cavalry, 15,700, and 120 pieces of cannon. The centre, opposite the forest of elders, consisted also of four divisions of infantry of 57,000 men, three of cavalry of 10,500 men, and 108 pieces of cannon. The right wing, opposite the village of Kawenzyn consisted of three and a half divisions of infantry of 31,000 men, four divisions of cavalry of 15,750 men, and 52 pieces of cannon. Upon the borders of the great forest opposite the forest of elders, was placed the reserve, commanded by the Grand Duke Constantine. Against this force our inconsiderable army was posted in the following manner. The right wing (G), formed by the division of Szembek, consisting of about 7,000 infantry (_d_) and 24 pieces of cannon (_f_), occupied the space between the road and the marshes above mentioned. The centre (H) occupied the forest of elders, and touched upon the great road. It was composed of two divisions commanded by Skrzynecki and Zimirski, composed of about 15,000 infantry (_d_) and 60 pieces of cannon (_f_). The left wing (T) occupied Kawenzyn, consisting of the first division, commanded by Krakowiecki, composed of 6,500 men (_d_) and 12 pieces of cannon (_f_). Four divisions of cavalry (_g_), consisting of 9,500 men, commanded by Uminski, Lubinski, Skarzynski, and Jankowski, were not posted on any fixed point, but stood in readiness to act wherever occasions might offer. Besides these, was a small reserve (K) of four battalions and eight squadrons, in all about 5,400 men, under the command of general Pac. [Illustration: XI. _Grochow p.139_ ] BATTLE OF GROCHOW. On the 25th, at break of day, the fire commenced on our left wing, on the position of Kawenzyn. The enemy pushed forward all the forces which were collected on his right wing, and commenced a terrible fire of artillery and musquetry, with the apparent determination to carry our wing by a single overpowering effort. Nearly fifty pieces of artillery opened their fire upon Kawenzyn, and numerous columns of infantry, under the protection of this fire, pressed forward to carry the position. But our forces prepared to meet the attack. Small as they were, consisting only of seven battalions with twelve pieces of cannon, they had formed the determination to die or conquer upon that ground. They could hope for no succor, for the whole line was in expectation of a general attack. The brave generals Krukowiecki and Malachowski made every effort to sustain the perseverance of their troops, and each of them, at the head of their columns and on foot, threw themselves upon the enemy's ranks. Our artillery did not answer that of the Russians, but directed its fire of grape wholly upon the columns which were approaching. By the unparalleled bravery of our wing, of which every soldier seemed to have formed the resolution to fall rather than yield a foot of ground, this tremendous attack of the enemy was sustained for several hours, till at last he was obliged to slacken it. During the whole of this attack upon our left wing, the centre and the right remained still in their positions, awaiting the expected attack. It was near ten o'clock when the fields of Wavre became, as it were, in one moment, covered with the forces of the enemy, which issued out of the cover of the forests overhanging the plain. Looking over that plain, between the forest of elders and the Vistula, one would have thought it was an undivided mass of troops which was in motion; for in that comparatively limited space, the eye could not distinguish the different divisions from each other. Two hundred pieces of cannon, posted upon that plain, in a single line, commenced a fire which made the earth tremble, and which was more terrible than the oldest officers had ever witnessed. After having prolonged for some time this tremendous fire of artillery, the enemy made an attempt to carry our right wing; but in a moment all our cavalry were collected there, and fell upon and overthrew his columns, and his efforts were as fruitless here, as they had been against our left. Having been unsuccessful in these two attacks on the wings, and hoping that he had weakened our line by the terrible fire of artillery, which he constantly kept up, the Russian commander collected the greater part of his forces opposite the forest of elders, and it was there that an attack was commenced which presented a scene unheard of in the annals of war. It could with more propriety be called a massacre of nearly four hours duration. The Russians brought together at this point one hundred and twenty pieces of cannon, posted in the rear and on the sides of that forest. Some fifty battalions were incessantly pushed to the attack, with the view to get possession of that forest. Had they been able to effect this, they would have divided our army into two parts, and thus could not but have ensured its destruction. It was the consideration of this important fact which prompted the horrible attack, and the desperate resistance which it met. The brave Skrzynecki, Zimirski, Boguslawski, Czyzewski, and Rohland, defended this forest with fourteen battalions, whose admirably executed manoeuvres, the change of front, the arrangement of the attack in columns and escalon, the concentration of force upon the points in which the enemy's line seemed to waver, a fire which was never lost, but was always reserved for the closest approach of the enemy--all were executed with an activity, order and coolness never surpassed. It was only by such conduct that the tremendous attack of the enemy could have been sustained for four hours, and that, after having nine times gained possession of the forest, he was as often repulsed with an immense loss. Like the infantry, our artillery performed prodigies. All the batteries, protected by cavalry which never abandoned them, pushed themselves in advance even of the line of the skirmishers, and approached sometimes within a hundred feet of the enemy's columns, in order to give their fire with the most infallible execution. The battery of the brave colonel Pientka, which defended the border of the forest, was so far advanced that it was sometimes surrounded by the enemy, who, in his own disorder, did not become aware of the advantage. All the different operations indeed, of our artillery in this battle were truly admirable. Batteries, now concentrated upon one point, were in a moment hurried to another and distant one, where the enemy was wholly unprepared for them, and was thrown into disorder by their sudden attack. In the early part of the afternoon, when the enemy, after having been several times repulsed, renewed his attack with the greatest determination, and our 2d division began to give way, the four batteries of artillery of the brave Adamski, Maslowski, Hilderbrand, and Bielak, in concert with that of colonel Pientka, advanced like cavalry to the charge, and, approaching close to the Russian columns, opened a fire of grape, which spread destruction and disorder in their ranks. Our infantry, thus animated to the contest, rallied, and threw themselves again upon the enemy, who then yielded before them. Like the artillery and infantry, our cavalry, besides the different charges which they executed with so much bravery, was manoeuvred with the utmost skill by our generals, and was made to fill the voids occasioned by the inferiority of our forces, so as always to present to the enemy an unbroken line. By such manoeuvres of the three arms, executed with the greatest determination, in which every commander performed his duty to the utmost, the enemy's plans were continually disorganized, and his enormous force, which at first sight would have been supposed capable to have absolutely crushed the small army opposed to it, was in effect only a great mass, making a continual oscillation, and which seemed to trust to do every thing by a terrible fire of artillery, which was always kept up, whether necessary or not. Thus it was that fifty battalions of the enemy, amounting to over 40,000 men, supported by 120 pieces of artillery, in a concentrated attack upon one point, the forest of elders, the decisive point of the position, were nine times repulsed from that forest, which was left literally covered with their dead. From eleven o'clock until three, these attacks continued through the whole line, (the most powerful being in the centre), and the destruction of life was immense. At the last named hour, our generals, each of whom we may remark had had their horses shot under them, and several of whom were severely wounded, formed the plan of giving the enemy a decisive blow. Their plan was to withdraw from the fire the 2d and 3d divisions, which had suffered most, and to make a general retrograde movement in such a form as to have the wings considerably in advance of the centre, which was to be drawn back as far as the Obelisk of Iron (_k_), at which there was a position more commanding. This plan had the following objects:--The first was, to draw the enemy upon the open plain; the second was, to concentrate our force still more, and to place it in two lines, the inner one to be composed of the whole of the 2d and a part of the 3d division, which were withdrawn for repose. A third object was, to lead the enemy to believe that a retrograde movement was forced upon us by our losses, and that we felt ourselves too weak to continue the defence of the forest. To execute this manoeuvre, and to enable the 2d division to retire without being molested, the artillery was left with some twenty squadrons of cavalry to protect the retrograde movement. This artillery and cavalry were ordered afterwards to evacuate their positions gradually, and the former to take post in the centre under the protection of the whole of the cavalry, which were in escalon, and prepared for a general attack. The manoeuvre was as admirably executed as it was conceived. The enemy had no suspicion of its object, but, presuming it to be a flight, undertook to profit by it. It was at this moment that marshal Diebitsch, as if sure of victory, saw himself already at Warsaw, and, on the field of battle, he allowed these words to escape him: 'Well, then, it appears that after this bloody day, I shall take tea in the Belvidere palace.' It was about three P.M. that our 2nd division, in conformity with the plan adopted, began to retire by an escalon movement. To hasten the execution of this movement, it was ordered that the columns, retiring in succession, on reaching a considerable distance from the enemy, should quicken their pace as they proceeded, in order to form the second line as soon as possible, and to give space for the operations of the artillery and cavalry. It was at this moment that general Zimirski, who had lost several horses under him, and had just placed himself upon a fresh horse, to superintend this movement, was struck with a twelve pound ball in the left shoulder, which carried away his arm, and caused his death in a few hours. The melancholy loss of this general was most deeply felt by the whole army, and particularly by his own division, but it did not interfere with the execution of these orders. The brave general Czyzewski immediately took command of the division, and continued the orderly movement of the division towards the rear, and he received great support from generals Rohland and Zaluski. As soon as the last columns of this force quitted the forest, [_See Plan_ XII] the Russian troops began to debouch from it, and our artillery commenced a terrible fire. The brave colonel Pientka, who was still far in advance, checked the debouchement from the forest near him. Seated with the most perfect sangfroid upon a disabled piece of artillery, this brave officer directed an unremitting fire from his battery. The artillery and cavalry, after having protected the retrograde movement of the centre, still continued to keep their ground, to enable the wings also to retire undisturbed. All our forces were then in movement, and the enemy pressed on. The Russian columns had already advanced beyond the position of colonel Pientka, but that brave officer still kept up the defence.[37] By this time, however, the 2nd division had already reached their destined position, and their battalions had commenced forming. Such was the state of things, when, between Kawenzyn and the forest, a cloud of Russian cavalry was seen advancing to the attack, having at their head five regiments of heavy cuirassiers; a force in fact of some forty squadrons, or between eight and nine thousand in all. Colonel Pientka, with his artillery, supported only by a single regiment of Mazurs, still held his post, to give yet another effective fire upon this advancing cavalry, which was already between him and Skrzynecki's division; and then, to save himself from being cut off, he quitted at full gallop a post which he had occupied for five hours under the terrible fire of the artillery of the enemy. This rapid movement of Pientka's battery and the regiment of cavalry which attended him, animated the Russian cuirassiers in their advance, and the infantry and artillery of the enemy followed their cavalry. At this moment Chlopicki was wounded by a grenade, and the army was without a head; but generals Skrzynecki and Czyzewski had already formed their divisions into squares, and awaited the attack of the enemy. The Russian cavalry advanced upon the trot, and came in a direction perpendicular to the line of our battery of rockets, which was posted between the 2d and 3d divisions (A). Suddenly a discharge from this battery was poured into their ranks, and enveloped them with flame and noise. Their horses, galled to madness by the flakes of fire which were showered over them, became wholly ungovernable, and, breaking away from all control, spread disorder in every direction. The enemy's ranks were soon in the most utter confusion, and in a short time this enormous body of cavalry became one disordered mass, sweeping along towards the fire of our squares. In a very few minutes that cavalry was almost annihilated. So nearly complete, in fact, was their destruction, that of a regiment of cuirassiers, which was at the head of the attacking force, called the regiment of Albert, and which also bore the designation of the 'Invincible' inscribed upon their helmets, not a man escaped. The few who were not left dead upon the field were taken prisoners. In fact, some hundred horse of that regiment were whirled along through the intervals of our squares, and were left to be taken prisoners at leisure. The wrecks of this routed cavalry, closely pursued by our lancers, carried along in their flight the columns of infantry which were following them, and a general retreat of all the enemy's forces commenced. The battle was gained. The cry of 'Poland forever!' arose along our line, and reached the walls of Warsaw, to cheer the hearts of its anxious inhabitants. Nothing was wanting but a skilful commander in chief to our forces, to have insured the entire destruction of the Russian army. Two thousand prisoners, among them twenty officers of different grades, five pieces of cannon, and upwards of a thousand horses, were the trophies of that immortal day, the memory of which will be forever terrible to tyrants. It was nearly five P.M. when the Russian army commenced a general flight, and even evacuated its first position, which it had occupied in the early morning. It is to be regretted that the order to follow up the pursuit was wanting. Szembek alone threw himself, at times, with his division, among the Russian ranks, and took a great number prisoners, baggage and chests of ammunition. According to the declaration of general Szembek, if, during the retreat of the enemy, a charge of cavalry and artillery had been ordered between the left wing and the centre of the enemy, a great part (P) of that wing, which was considerably detached from the centre, would have been cut off. This could have been easily done, for no part of our little reserve was brought into action during the day, and they were eager to be permitted to make the charge. The prince Radzivil, after the withdrawal of general Chlopicki from the army in consequence of his wound, found himself without council; and not feeling himself sufficiently capable to risk any bold manoeuvre; seeing too that the army was much exhausted by the fighting of that day and the preceding; and fearing also that the Vistula might become impassable, and the bridges be endangered by the melting of the ice; in fine, being unwilling to take upon himself the great responsibility of attempting to pursue his advantages, decided to give the army an interval of repose, and to occupy the time in re-organizing it. Some farther details, and remarks upon this important battle may not be unacceptable to the reader. 1st. In regard to position: On examining critically the position of the Polish army, we notice some great faults. The right wing was upon a plain entirely uncovered, and exposed to the commanding fire of the enemy's artillery. All the talents of the brave Szembek were required to prevent this wing from being unprofitably sacrificed. This same wing, if it had been withdrawn a thousand paces farther to the rear, in such a manner as not to have leant on the marshes of the Vistula, but have occupied the small wooded hills on the right of the main road, and on a line with the village of Grochow, would have been then in a commanding position, and safe from the tremendous fire of the enemy. The enemy would probably have then occupied the plain, and thus been disadvantageously exposed to our fire. His loss would have been doubled, and all the charges of our cavalry and infantry would have been much more effective. But what was above all unpardonable, was that, with a full knowledge of the enemy's intention to attack us, together with a consciousness of our own inferiority of force, and the nature of our position, which was wanting in strength, no fortifications whatever were erected, although four days and five nights were passed in that position, during which the national guard of Warsaw, and all the unenrolled population, who would have cheerfully volunteered for the purpose, could have been employed in the construction of works to any desired extent. In regard to the centre, we may remark, that it was indeed covered by the forest of elders, of which it occupied a part, but the attack of this forest by the enemy was thus made necessary, and their repulse cost us too great sacrifices. But besides the sacrifices which the support of such a position required, our troops were so incessantly occupied with repulse of the successive attacks of the enemy, that it was impossible to attempt any decisive manoeuvre. It was not there, in fact, as we have seen, that the battle was decided, but at the Obelisk of Iron, and by other means. The centre, like the right wing, should have been withdrawn so far as to have been on a line with the village of Grochow, and in such a manner as to profit by all the commanding positions between Targowek and Grochow, upon which our artillery (which, as the case was, were upon a low and exposed position opposite the forest), would have been very advantageously posted. In general, our whole position was too extended, reaching from Kawenzyn to the marshes of the Vistula at Goclaw. It ought to have been from the beginning more concentrated, and supported on the outermost circumvallations of Praga (B). It could thus have profited by the advantageous positions which adjoin those defences. In consequence of this too great extent of position, our forces remained in a single line for five hours in succession, in most dangerous exposure. In regard to the evolutions, although the details were admirably executed, it is to be remarked that the left wing did not yield a sufficient support to the other bodies. The communications with that wing were not well sustained--another effect of the too great extent of the position. The line of the enemy was encumbered with artillery, and there were favorable moments for a general attack on that artillery by our cavalry. Such opportunities were perceived by our generals of cavalry, and the attack suggested by them to the commander in chief, but nothing was done. The greatest fault of all, however, and that which perhaps saved the Russian army from entire destruction, was the neglect to follow up the enemy in his retreat, and by a judicious manoeuvre to cut off his right wing, as was perfectly practicable;--by such a manoeuvre, as it will be seen was, in fact, afterwards successfully practised by Skrzynecki at Wavre, where a great part of that same force were taken prisoners. The battle of Grochow cost the enemy in killed, wounded, and prisoners, according to the reports published by the Russians themselves, 20,000 men. On our side the loss amounted to 5,000. But to give the reader an idea of the terrible fire of that day, it may be remarked that there was not a single general or staff officer, who had not his horse killed or wounded under him. Full two thirds of the officers, and perhaps the same proportion of the soldiers, had their clothes pierced with balls, and more than a tenth part of the army were slightly wounded, though not unfitted for service. In this battle the 2d and 3d divisions of infantry suffered the most, and twenty of their officers were mortally wounded with grape-shot. I would not desire to present a revolting picture of the horrors of a battle-field, yet to impress upon the reader how great a scourge tyranny is to mankind, I could wish to point out to him, along the whole road from Kawenzyn to the marshes of Goclaw, hillocks of dead at every step, especially in the forest of elders, where rank upon rank was seen prostrate upon the earth. Indeed, so strewed with bodies was this forest that it received from that day the name of _the forest of the dead_.[38] With the twilight, our whole army began to evacuate their position, and to cross the Vistula to Warsaw. The passage of the river occupied the whole night. On the morning of the next day, all that remained of our forces upon the right bank, were two battalions of infantry, and thirty-six pieces of cannon, which were at the bridge-head of Praga. The Russians were well satisfied with our passage of the Vistula, for they felt the need of repose. It was at first presumed that in a few days the enemy would storm Praga. This, however, was soon found not to be their intention; and, for what cause we cannot conjecture, they continued in a state of complete inaction. Such then was the end of the grand operation of marshal Diebitsch, with his colossal forces, by which it was his purpose to put an end to the war in a few days! The boasted Crosser of the Balkan, with from 180,000 to 200,000 men, and 316 pieces of cannon, was not only unable to crush, as he proposed to do, an army of scarcely 40,000 men and 100 cannon, but was beaten by that small army, and only escaped a total ruin from the absence of a competent leader to the Polish forces. Such facts, so rare in history, cannot be too frequently impressed upon the mind of the reader, and they should be held up to the view of every despot, to teach him upon what a frail foundation his confidence in numbers may rest, and to convince him that his masses must melt away and be dispersed, before a people, who, on their own soil, are resolved to throw off the yoke of despotism, and who fight for liberty with the energy of despair.[39] The nation and the army occupied this interval of repose in giving thanks to Providence for the successes of the preceding day. In all the churches Te Deums were sung, as well as in the chapels of the camp near Warsaw. The army was received by the people with solemnities. The senate, accompanied by the inhabitants, repaired to the camp, where patriotic addresses were delivered, and a public fete given to the army. For three successive nights, Warsaw was illuminated, and the inscription 'To the defenders of their Country,' was every where seen. Unequal to the description of these moments of exultation of a people animated with the recovery of their freedom, I can only say that they were moments which will live forever in the heart of every Pole, and will satisfy him that a nation so united will be always capable of great efforts. On the day after the religious ceremonies, the provisional government met in the National (formerly the Royal) Palace, where all the general officers of the army were also assembled to deliberate upon the measures to be adopted both in regard to military and civil affairs. It was on that occasion that the prince Michael Radziwil, actuated by the noblest impulses, and having a single view to the good of his country, abdicated the chief command, surrendering his trust into the hands of the national government, with the avowal that he did not feel himself sufficiently capable to continue to hold so responsible a post. This step, which showed a great elevation of character, impressed the nation with feelings of gratitude, and has given to prince Radziwil a name in history. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 37: Admirable as was the conduct of all our artillery, every man in which deserved a decoration, yet among this artillery, the battery of colonel Pientka must be distinguished. Without yielding a step of ground, that battery held its place for five hours, and it often happened during the battle, that this single battery was left exposed alone to the fire of thirty or forty of the enemy's pieces. It was computed that this battery alone caused a greater loss to the enemy than the entire loss that his whole artillery caused in our ranks; and I do not exaggerate in saying, that the fire, chiefly of grape, which Pientka kept up for five hours, and at the distance often of a few hundred paces only, must have cost the Russians from one to two thousand men. What is most remarkable, this battery itself, during the whole of the fire, did not lose more than one officer and six men killed, six wounded, and ten or twelve horses, two of which were killed under colonel Pientka, whose clothes were pierced through and through with grape, and his casque torn in pieces, while, as if providentially preserved, his person was not in the slightest degree injured.] [Footnote 38: Up to the 10th of March, when a reconnoisance was made, as far as the plain of Wavre, the dead were not yet interred, and all the confusion of a battle-field remained, proving that the enemy was too much occupied to give the ordinary attention to these duties. On that day several wagons filled with Russian cuirassiers were sent to Warsaw. Many ruined caissons of ammunition, many gun-carriages, three deserted cannons, and several hundred carbines, sabres, and pistols, knapsacks, and helmets in considerable numbers were strewed over the field, and indicated the disorder in which the enemy had made his retreat. To prevent an epidemical malady, our government made a request to general Diebitsch to send a body of his men to aid in the interment of the dead, which was in fact done. Contemplating these masses of Russian dead, the victims of a horrible despotism, what reflections were awakened! Those unfortunate men were dragged to the combat to be sacrificed. Not one of that mass of victims could see the justice of the cause for which they were thus sacrificed. What consolation could there be in the last agonies of suffering incurred in such a cause? There could be none. How different must have been the death of the Polish soldier, who felt the sacredness and importance of the struggle on which he had entered. His last moments were consoled with the thought that his life was sacrificed for the good of his country. If the deaths of the Russian and the Polish soldier were thus different, their lives are not less so. What reward awaits the Russian soldier? Is it a service of twenty-five years under the terror of the knout, in which service he most generally dies, or if he survives, is too much broken down to be able to gain a subsistence afterwards? The Russian soldier, besides the fatigues of the general service, is subject to a private service under any one of his superiors, the merest subaltern perhaps, who, far from rewarding him for such services, abuses him but the more freely. The full pay of a Russian soldier is a groat a day; and even out of this little pay his superiors exact a profit. The consequence is, that the degree of his misery is excessive, and he would be in extremity if the proprietors of land where he is quartered did not succor him. What other recompense is given to these wretched men, who are thus led to the sacrifice of their lives for the self-will of a despot, who, while the soldier, covered with wounds, is groaning under his sufferings, spends his time in luxurious enjoyment, and perhaps mocks at the abjectness of men who are thus willing instruments of his pleasure? What other recompense for all this? Perhaps to this soldier is given a medal of brass, which, if his commander in a moment of good humor, as he passes down the line, may have addressed him with the title of 'Staryk' or 'old soldier,' he receives as a token of his having been through a campaign. Compare this with the recompense which awaited the Polish soldier on his return from the campaign. He was received by his countrymen with the warmest demonstrations of joy. Mothers lifted their children in their arms, and pointed him out to them as one of the defenders of their country. No anxiety for the future weighed upon him, for his country had made ample provision for him. It was at his will to remain in the service, or to go to occupy the land designated for him by the national government. He would find there all that his wants might require. Remaining in the military service, he enjoyed the respect of those about him. All were his brothers, and the greatest delicacy of intercourse was observed between him and his superiors. His service was an agreeable duty, in which, besides gaining an honorable subsistence, he received each day some new mark of friendship and esteem.] [Footnote 39: The courage of our forces that day, was no doubt much animated by the vicinity of Warsaw, for the battle was fought within view of the inhabitants, who covered the fields about Praga. Many of the equipages of the wealthy families attended to receive the wounded from the field of battle, and all the inhabitants, without distinction of rank, pressed forward to remove and succor them. Those of the wounded who could not be led to the carriages, were carried in the arms of the citizens, and among those who performed this office were the highest members of the national government, ministers of religion, and even ladies. How then could such an attachment of the nation to her defenders, fail to be answered by an enthusiasm in her defence which knew no bounds. The wounded soldiers, in order not to draw upon this sympathy, conquered their sufferings, and stifled their groans; and to check the tears of those who bore them, they even forced themselves to raise the patriotic shout, and sing the national hymn. To the details illustrating the courage which was displayed upon that field, I may add the following:--In one of the attacks upon the forest of elders, when the enemy had gained possession of it, there was an interruption to our advance from a ditch which had been cut across the road, and which it was necessary to pass. The Russian artillery, observing the effect of this obstruction, poured a heavy fire of grape upon the spot to add to the confusion. Lieutenant Czaykowski, who commanded a platoon of grenadiers of the 7th regiment, in the attacking columns, had passed with his platoon this small ditch, when he received a grape shot in the leg, which threw him down. As he fell, he cried, 'Grenadiers, advance!' and continued this cry, regardless of his suffering, as he lay prostrate on the ground. Those brave grenadiers, animated by this noble spirit, pushed their attack with such fury that they drove the enemy from his position. Our artillery, which had so bravely fought, and which had to answer the terrible fire of the numerous artillery of the enemy, as well as to check the strong attacks of the Russian columns, were obliged often to change their place, to concentrate, and disperse, as occasion required. It was in one of those evolutions, that a battery, posted near that commanded by captain Hilderbrand, was required to change its position. The bombardier Kozieradzki was sent to give orders to this effect. He was on his way to execute this commission, when a ball carried away his arm. That brave man, however, continued his way, thus severely wounded, reached the battery, executed his commission, and then fell from the loss of blood. The following incidents of this battle-field deserve to be mentioned, as indicating how little of national animosity mingled with the feelings of the combatants. It was often seen that the wounded soldiers of the hostile forces who happened to be thrown in each other's vicinity, would drag themselves towards each other for mutual relief, and engage in friendly conversation. 'Why,' would a Polish soldier say to the Russian, 'why are we shedding each other's blood? The cause for which we have taken arms is that of your happiness, as well as our own.' The Russian soldier could only answer, with tears of shame, 'We have been driven to march against you.' No stronger example could be given, of the kindest dispositions of the Poles towards the Russians, than the treatment of the latter in our hospitals. They were nursed and fed, like our own wounded, by the hands of those benevolent and patriotic females who had devoted themselves to these holy duties. On leaving those hospitals, the Russian soldiers swore never to forget the kindness they had experienced.] CHAPTER XI. Passage of the Vistula to Warsaw.--Disposition of the Polish forces on its left bank.--Appointment of general John Skrzynecki to the chief command.--Proclamation.--Prompt attention is given to the re-organization of the army, the arsenals and manufactories of arms, the fortifications, &c.--Deportment of the commander in chief towards the army.--General enthusiasm of the nation.--The patriotic offers of the Polish women.--New regulations established for conferring orders of merit.--Disorderly state of the Russian army.--Attempt of Diebitsch to bribe the Polish soldiery.--General view of the encouraging circumstances of this epoch.--The insurrection in Russia under Yermolow.--View of the state of the Polish forces when general Skrzynecki took the chief command.--He presses the organization of the new forces.--Their distribution and that of the general forces.--Positions of the Polish army and the detached corps.--Russian position. After the memorable battle of Grochow, fought on the 25th of February, before the walls of Warsaw, a day on which we had defeated a force three times superior to our own, the prince Radziwil made the passage of the Vistula to Warsaw and the left bank. The objects which he had in view in that movement we have already detailed. Two battalions of infantry, with thirty-six pieces of artillery, were left to defend the fortifications of Praga, on the right bank of the Vistula opposite to and separated by a bridge from Warsaw, and which were in the form of a horn-work, supported on each wing by the river. The army was disposed in the following manner upon the left bank. The cavalry were posted in positions a few miles above and below Warsaw. The infantry and the artillery were either concentrated in Warsaw, or were encamped near the city. Upon receiving the resignation of prince Radziwil, the national government proceeded to the choice of his successor, and on the 27th of February, 1831, elected, by an unanimous voice, to the chief command of all the national forces, the hero of Dobre, general John Skrzynecki, a man of the most devoted patriotism, of great decision of character, and uncommon military talent. He was, above all, eminently possessed of that rapidity of _coup d'oeil_, that capacity of seizing conjunctures, which enabled him, in the midst of the most complicated movements, to perceive, and instantly to profit by, every advantage which offered itself. This general was, in the time of the Russian government, and at the commencement of our revolution, colonel of the 8th regiment of infantry of the line, a regiment by which he was regarded with an almost filial attachment. On the enrollment of new forces, after the revolution had taken place, he was made general of brigade. In the month of January, before the commencement of the campaign, he was advanced to the rank of general of a division, and the command of the 3d division of infantry was confided to him, at the head of which division, as the reader already knows, he gained laurels in several brilliant actions. On the 27th, at mid-day, proclamation was made of the abdication of the prince Radzivil, and the appointment of general Skrzynecki, as commander in chief of the army. The nation to whom the great merit of this officer was already so well known, received this annunciation with the greatest satisfaction. No dissentient voice was heard. Even the oldest generals in the service warmly applauded the choice. General Skrzynecki, on receiving the chief command, addressed to the army, on the 28th of February, the following proclamation:-- 'Soldiers and brethren! God has willed that, through your choice, I should be made the instrument of his providence in the important trust to which I have been designated. The Senate, the Chamber of Deputies, and the National Government have honored me with a difficult task, which I cannot worthily execute, but as your valor and constancy shall second me. Soldiers! we have before us an enemy, proud of his former successes, of his strength in numbers, and of the influence which he exercises in Europe. But if, in one point of view, his power appears formidable, on the other hand, the outrages with which the Russian government have oppressed us, render that enemy so guilty in the eyes of God and of man, that, full of confidence in Providence and the sacredness of our cause, we can boldly measure our strength with him. We have only to swear in our hearts that we will be faithful to that motto which we so often repeat, "To conquer or die for our country," and we shall surely serve as an example, in the annals of the world, of encouragement to the defenders of the sacred rights of the people. If we do not succeed in conquering our powerful enemy, we will not live to submit to him--to him who has violated in regard to us every obligation of good faith. There is enough of glory in the sacrifice which I call on you to make; and in this heroic career, and so full of danger, I offer you crowns of laurel. We shall be sure to gain them, if you will support me by your valor, your union, your subordination, and your promptitude in performing the orders which will be given you.' The first object upon which the attention of the general in chief was fixed, was the state of the army. Even from the first hour of his investiture with the chief command, prompt and energetic orders and instructions were issued, to form new forces, to complete those which were already in a state of formation, and to fill up the ranks of the regiments which had suffered in the late engagements. During the dictatorship of Chlopicki, and under the command of the prince Radziwil, all the arrangements of the military administration were sluggishly attended to, as the reader is well aware. At the time of the battle of Grochow there had been only ten thousand new infantry levied, and even this infantry was neither well organized nor armed; the only armament of the greater part of them consisted of pikes or pitchforks. It was the same with the new cavalry, of which the number at the time of that battle did not amount to more than three thousand six hundred: and even these forces were not formed by the exertions of the government, but were volunteers. In the arsenals the works were not conducted with promptitude. This department of the military administration had been made great account of on paper, but was in reality neglected. As we have before remarked, the time was occupied in useless diplomatic discussions, while the subject of the greatest importance--the armament of our forces, was lost sight of. General Skrzynecki was well aware of this neglect, and soon gave a new aspect to these matters. From the 1st of March, in which he commenced the inspection of the arsenals, he was daily occupied with this duty, entering into all the details, (with which he was familiarly acquainted,) and infusing a new vigor and promptitude into this essential department of the military administration. In fact in the several manufactories of arms, six hundred musquets per day were soon made. The soldiers, who before had but rarely seen their commander, and to the greater part of whom indeed the former commander was personally unknown, were elated to meet their chief often among them, and their enthusiasm was augmented by the frequent words of encouragement with which he took every occasion to address them. General Skrzynecki established a new regulation in respect to the conferring of orders of merit, which was, that none should be given either to the officers or the soldiers, but upon the expressed consent and approbation of the latter. By thus submitting the conferring of these honors to the judgment of the soldier, he encouraged his self-respect, destroyed the power of the personal influence of the generals, and added much to the value of those honors as a motive for exertion.[40] The time at which Skrzynecki received the chief command, was indeed a happy period with us, and enthusiasm was then at the very greatest height. No stronger evidence of this could be given, than the fact that the women of Poland actually formed three companies of infantry, composed from their own sex.[41] Our army was victorious and full of energy, and being then at Warsaw, it enjoyed all the conveniences which could be required by an army in a state of war. Their arms of every kind were well constructed, and in good order. The Russian army, on the other hand, was in a most disadvantageous situation. Their number had been sensibly diminished, and was diminishing every day, from the difficulty of subsistence and shelter, situated as they were in the environs of Praga which had been sacked and burnt by themselves. Marshal Diebitsch and his army began to be convinced, by the victories which had been gained over them, and the firm resistance which they had uniformly met, that they were fighting with a nation which had resolved to sacrifice every thing for liberty and independence, and that this war, which Diebitsch expected, and even promised, to finish in a few weeks, would be long protracted, and presented to him as yet no hope of a fortunate issue. A certain degree of disorder also began to take place in the Russian army, caused by the physical wants and the severe treatment to which the soldiers were subjected. Their wounded and sick were left neglected, and were accumulated in great numbers in the ruined buildings of the half-burnt villages, exposed to the open air in the severe month of February. Desertions too began to take place. Every day, indeed, small parties of deserters, and among them even officers, arrived at Warsaw. Those men assured us that a smothered discontent pervaded the army. They stated that the soldiers had marched under the expectation that they were to act against the French and Belgians, and not against the Poles, whose revolution had been represented to them as merely the revolt of one or two regiments; and that, seeing the true state of things, great numbers of them desired even to unite with us, when a favorable moment should offer. These unfortunate men, who were in the most deplorable state, with tears in their eyes, addressed themselves to our soldiers in terms like these: 'Dear Poles, do you think that we willingly fight against you? what could we do? We were compelled to march against you by the force of blows. Many of our brethren gave out, and, falling from exhaustion on the road, have died under the blows of the knout.' These deserters stated also that such a severity was exercised in the regulations of the camp, that some officers were shot, merely for having spoken on political subjects; and that it was strictly forbidden to any persons to assemble together to the number of three or four. Such information satisfied us, that, although the Russian army was strong in numbers, morally speaking, it was weak. Our own army began soon to conceive high hopes, and to dream of victory under its brave chief.[42] At this period, with the exception of Prussia, who had publicly manifested her hostility to our cause, none of the great powers had directly injured us. Austria was occupied with Italy. From France and England the Poles had even cherished hopes of a favorable interposition. From the former, especially, after the intelligence derived from the correspondence of the two ministers, Lubecki and Grabowski, found among the papers of Constantine, which has been presented to the reader, (giving satisfactory evidence that Russia was in preparation for a campaign against her, and showing that our cause was the cause of France,) we had certainly the right to cherish the strongest hopes. But more important still than all these circumstances, was the intelligence received of a revolution which had broken out in the Russian department of Orenburg, under the famous Yermolow, and the point of concentration of which was to have been the town of Samara, situated on the frontier of Europe and Asia. The highest expectations were entertained of the results of this movement, from our knowledge of the character of this celebrated general, and of his great influence, as one of that distinguished family of Yermolow, perhaps the most influential in the empire, (which, in fact, cherishes pretensions to the throne,) and of the distinction which he had acquired as a bold and firm leader, in a service of many years. His proclamations to the Russians, of which a few copies were found on the persons of their officers who were killed in the battle of Grochow, were full of energy, and breathed the sentiments of a true republican--of one who calmly and dispassionately aims at the good of his country. These proclamations were published in all the gazettes of Warsaw on the first of March.[43] This general was for a long while governor of the provinces beyond the Caucasus, Abassia, Migretia, Imiretia, and Georgia, provinces which were conquered from Persia and Turkey. Besides possessing a great degree of military knowledge, Yermolow was familiar with the duties of the civil administration. Those provinces were happy under his government. He ameliorated the state of the commerce by which they were enriched. The city of Tiflis, under him, rapidly increased to a great extent. That city became in fact a general depot of all the trade of Armenia, Persia, and Turkey in Asia. This general, who could have held a post of greater distinction, and nearer the throne, asked for this situation with the view to be removed as far as possible from that court which he despised, and the intrigues of which excited his abhorrence. Out of the reach of its influence, he could follow the impulses of his heart, and labor for the happiness of his fellow men. But this separation was not enough; those intrigues passed the barrier of the Caucasus to interrupt him in his benevolent labors. Several commissions were sent to make inquiries into his administration in various departments. Yermolow, to avoid these persecutions, sent in his resignation. General, now marshal Paszkewiczh, filled his place. Yermolow, on quitting his post, retired to his own estates in the government of Orenburg, and lived there quietly in the bosom of his family. The breaking out of the revolutions of France, Belgium, and at last that of Poland, filled his heart with joy. He hoped that the time was near at hand, when the people would have security for their rights, and would emerge from the darkness into which despotism had plunged them. He commenced the revolution in his part of the empire, and (as we learnt at Warsaw) sustained himself for a long while against the superior forces which were sent against him. He was not, however, sufficiently supported by the people, and was too isolated to continue hostilities. It is to be regretted, that he did not commence this movement in the provinces which border upon Poland. A VIEW OF THE STATE OF THE POLISH FORCES AT THE PERIOD OF SKRZYNECKI'S APPOINTMENT TO THE CHIEF COMMAND. After the battle of Grochow, the Polish grand army was composed, as at the commencement of the war, of nine regiments of infantry, each consisting of three battalions. They amounted, after deducting the losses sustained during the campaign, to about 25,000. The newly formed infantry, which was in the battle of Grochow, amounted to about 6,000; from which are to be deducted about 500, lost in that battle. The whole force of infantry, then, amounted to 30,500 men. The cavalry was also composed of nine regiments, each comprising four squadrons; making, after the deduction of the losses by that battle, about 6,000 in all. The newly-formed cavalry, consisting of eighteen squadrons, can also be estimated, after the losses at Grochow, at about 3,000; making, in all, 9,000 cavalry. The artillery was composed of ninety-six pieces of cannon. Total of the grand army:--_Infantry_, 30,500. _Cavalry_, 9,000. _Artillery_, 96 pieces. The detached corps of general Dwernicki consisted, at the beginning of the campaign, of one regiment of infantry, composed of three battalions, numbering, after the losses of the campaign, 2,800 men. The cavalry consisted of six squadrons, making, in all, about 1,000. The artillery, consisting at first of but three pieces, augmented by seven pieces taken from the Russians, amounted then to 10 pieces. The small partizan corps under the command of colonel Valentin, operating in the environs of Pultusk, consisted of 600 infantry and 100 cavalry. The garrison of Zamosc consisted of 3,000 infantry and eighty-four pieces of cannon. That of Modlin, of 3,500 infantry and seventy-two pieces of cannon; and that of Praga, of 2,000 infantry and thirty-six pieces of cannon. The total amount then, of disposable forces, (excluding, of course, the garrisons,) on the 1st of March, the day on which Skrzynecki took the command, was,--_Infantry_, 33,900. _Cavalry_, 10,100. _Artillery_, 106 pieces. General Skrzynecki renewed the arrangements of the dictator Chlopicki, in regard to the organization of new forces. These were, that each department should furnish from 6 to 8,000 infantry and 1,000 cavalry. When this arrangement was first made, four departments on the right bank of the Vistula, were occupied by the enemy; viz. Augustow, Podlasia, Lublin, and Plock. Besides the forces which these departments should furnish, general Skrzynecki proposed to the nation, that in the other departments, on the left bank of the Vistula, viz. Mazovia, Kalisz, Sandomierz, and Cracovia, a general levy should be made. These arrangements were executed with such promptitude, that six regiments of two battalions each, the formation of which had begun in December, and were but half formed on the 1st of March, were, by the 10th, in a complete state for service. Those regiments were distributed among the four divisions of the grand army. In addition to these, four regiments of cavalry, of four squadrons each, were also formed; and in this manner, the army received a reinforcement of 12,000 infantry, among which were 2,000 volunteer chasseurs, and of 3,200 cavalry. These newly levied forces, besides being well equipped and in fine condition, were full of spirit and energy. When Skrzynecki made the inspection of these new troops, they entreated of him to be led to the first fire. In addition to the above forces, general Skrzynecki ordered the formation of eight regiments of infantry and four of cavalry, to be kept as a reserve to fill the ranks of the army as they should be wasted by the campaign. From this last body, was afterwards, (on the 1st of May,) formed a fifth division. The infantry of the grand army was distributed into four divisions. They were formed and commanded as follows:-- The 1st division, under general Rybinski, consisted of four regiments. The 2d division, under general Gielgud, three regiments. The 3d division, under general Malachowski, four regiments. The 4th division, under general Muhlberg, four regiments. The total of the four divisions was about 45,000 men. In this number are included the different small detachments of volunteers, who acted with the army. Besides this infantry, was the National Guard of Warsaw, amounting to 10,000 men. The cavalry were also formed into four divisions, as follows. The 1st division, under the command of general Uminski, 16 squadrons. The 2d, under general Lubinski, 16 squadrons. The 3d, under general Stryinski, 16 squadrons. The 4th, which formed the reserve of 19 squadrons, was under general Pac. The whole force of cavalry amounted to about 14,000. The construction and completion of the fortifications at Warsaw and Praga were not less actively pressed than the administration of the army; and, as the left bank of the Vistula, on which Warsaw is situated, commands the right, with Praga and its environs, general Skrzynecki placed on the left bank twelve pieces of cannon of 24 pound calibre, on the heights of Dynasow and Zoliborz. This battery covered with its fire the neighboring plain, to the extent of a circle of three miles in diameter, and could overpower any battery which the enemy might open against Praga. That town is divided into two parts, the first of which borders on the Vistula, and formed the bridge-head of the position; the other part, which is more distant, was not fortified. This latter part was taken possession of by the Russians, after the battle of Grochow, and was burnt by them. To the inhabitants this was a disaster; but for our defence it was a most favorable circumstance, as it left the enemy's approach unprotected, and opened a range for our fire. General Krukowiecki, who was appointed governor of Warsaw, continued the works in the city and its suburbs with great activity. The rampart, which surrounds the city beyond the walls, had been constructed for a defence against musquetry only; but at several points, it was now made defensible against artillery. The ditch was considerably widened and deepened. Beyond the ramparts, the city was surrounded by a chain of _lunettes_, placed in two lines, so as to alternate with each other, and afford a mutual support. The city itself was divided into six parts; each part being susceptible of an independent defence. The barricades in the streets were constructed with openings for the fire of the artillery, above which platforms were raised for the infantry. Mines were also prepared in different parts of the city.[44] The positions of the army, and of the different detached corps were as follows:--The infantry, the artillery, and the 4th division of cavalry of the grand army, were at Warsaw and its environs. Three divisions of cavalry were posted above and below the city, on the left bank of the Vistula, whose duty it was to patrol the river, and to guard the communications between the fortress of Modlin and Kozienice. This chain of patrols, by watching the movements of the enemy, kept the grand army continually advised of his intentions, and in constant readiness to act against him, at any point which he might choose for attempting the passage of the Vistula. The corps of general Dwernicki was at Pulawy. The plan of operations which had been assigned to him, and which, indeed, he had already put in execution, was to transfer the seat of hostilities to the right bank of the Vistula, to hang over and harass the left wing of the enemy, to relieve the palatinate of Lublin from his presence, and, in case of danger, to fall back to the fortress of Zamosc, and from that point to act on the neighboring region, according as circumstances might indicate. Colonel Valentin was in the environs of Pultusk, with his small corps of partizans. In concert with the garrison of Modlin, he was to act on the right wing of the enemy, and hold in check all his manoeuvres upon Plock. This concave line of operations, of which the extremities were at Zamosc and Modlin, and the centre at Warsaw and Praga, was strengthened by the Vistula, which, although frozen, would not allow of a passage by the enemy in large bodies, or of the construction of a bridge, as the ice of the river was momentarily expected to break up. The position of the Russian army was as follows. The right wing was at Nowy-dwor, opposite to Modlin. At Jablonna, which is situated half way from Praga to Nowy-dwor, was placed a strong detachment. At Praga were two divisions, one of infantry, and the other of cavalry, with twelve pieces of cannon, under the command of general Giesmar. The greater body of the Russian forces was between Wawr and Milosna; and with them was the head-quarters of Diebitsch and Constantine. Their left wing occupied Karczew, and their patrols extended themselves along the right bank of the river, as far as Macieowice. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 40: This regulation led to an occasion for the exhibition of the firmness of general Skrzynecki's character. On the very day of the issuing of the order, the general of division, Szembek, brought in a report, in which he presented for decorations the names of several officers. General Skrzynecki refused his application. General Szembek, thinking himself injured by this refusal, addressed a letter to the general in chief, renewing his application, and adding that if it should not be granted, he would feel obliged to surrender his commission. General Skrzynecki, far from being moved from the resolution which he had adopted, again promptly refused the request. Szembek surrendered his commission. The whole nation regretted the loss of the valuable services of this officer, and under such circumstances. But in regretting their loss they applauded the firmness of general Skrzynecki. The latter indeed felt this regret strongly, but on the other hand he was satisfied that he had done his duty. The opinion of most of the patriots was decidedly expressed against general Szembek, who, upon such a point of personal feeling, could forget his duties to his country, and abandon the ranks of his fellow-soldiers, by whom he was held in high estimation. Szembek indeed more than once reproached himself for the sacrifice which he had thus made. The following anecdote will show the degree to which general Skrzynecki was beloved by the army, and the influence which his appointment to the chief command had on the minds of the soldiers. A soldier named Golembiewski, of the 7th regiment of infantry, who had been wounded in the battle of Boimie, had, on the 1st day of March, left the hospital convalescent, although his wounds were not entirely healed. Skrzynecki, while inspecting the regiment, noticed him with his head still bandaged, and said to him, 'My dear comrade, why have you left the hospital in such a state? You had better return immediately.' The soldier answered, 'General, I have heard of your courage and your achievements, and how much you are beloved by the nation, and I could not refuse myself the satisfaction of being present at the first fire under your command, and in which I hope that the Polish army will be victorious.' Skrzynecki, embracing him, exclaimed, 'With such soldiers to command, I need have no fear that I shall fail to support the honor of my country.'] [Footnote 41: The Polish women, wishing to share the dangers and sufferings, and to witness the triumphs of their brethren, proposed to follow the example of the daughters of Sparta, and to form three companies under the command of several ladies of the most distinguished families. They proposed to march upon the rear of the army, and when an action occurred, they were to advance to the aid of their countrymen. The first company, to be composed of the young and active, were to receive and carry off the wounded from the field of battle, thus at the same time animating the soldiers by their presence. The second company was to be placed near the vehicles in which the wounded were transported, there to receive and place them, and to dress their wounds. The third was to take charge of the provisions, the preparation of lint and bandages, and even of the washing of the clothing of the soldiers. These patriotic propositions, however, neither the nation nor the general in chief were willing to accept, considering that the fatigues of a campaign would be too trying to the female constitution. But to satisfy in some degree the noble impulses of these ladies, the three companies were distributed among the hospitals, to take care of the sick and wounded there.] [Footnote 42: To satisfy the reader that marshal Diebitsch had began to be conscious of his weakness, the following trifling circumstances will suffice. On the first day of March, two of our soldiers who had been made prisoners by the Russians, returned to Warsaw, and presented themselves to the general in chief. One of them, who was a Galician volunteer, on the question being asked in what way they escaped, answered, that general Diebitsch himself dismissed them with a present of four ducats each, enjoining them to make it known in the army, and to say that each soldier who should go over to the Russians, would receive a like sum, and in addition to it a portion of land sufficient for his maintenance; and that moreover they should not be forced to enter the service of the army. He also assured them that if they should return with many of their comrades, to accept these terms, they should be made officers. 'Dear general,' the Galician added, 'we have sought your presence, in order to apprize you of these circumstances, and to place you upon your guard. The money which we have received, we request you to take as a contribution to the service of our country. We have no need of it; your care will provide for our wants, and our desires are limited to the satisfaction of fighting for the cause of our beloved country.' These brave soldiers were hailed with enthusiastic expressions of respect and affection by their comrades, and the circumstance was published in an order of the day, to the whole army. This adoption of such a system of intrigue and espionage indicated sufficiently the sense of weakness which marshal Diebitsch began to feel, in the situation in which he was then placed. One of our generals published in the Gazette some remarks upon this conduct of general Diebitsch, from which the following is a passage. 'Marshal! such conduct is reproachful to you; and by it, you have strengthened the current suspicions of the world, that the passage of the Balkan, which has given you such a name in history, was made upon a bridge of gold. But if such measures might have been successful in Turkey, they will not do in Poland. If you do not by this time know it, I can assure you that every Pole is willing to sacrifice his all in the cause of his country, and your offers can therefore avail little. I repeat to you, that the words of our motto are, "to die or conquer." Come then, Marshal, with the sabre, and not with ducats, to the contest!'] [Footnote 43: _Extract from the proclamation of Yermolow._ 'Brave sons of Russia! An old man of seventy, who, the contemporary of four reigns, knows well his nation and its sovereigns, lifts his voice towards you, with a heart devoted to the good of his country. He wishes, in the decline of a life which has been agitated by the storms of despotism, to infuse into your hearts the sentiments of liberty, and to die a freeman. Our complaints have been uttered in vain: our blood has been shed in vain. Are these complaints the only arms worthy of the Russian people? No! It is with the sword in hand, in the capital itself, on the field of battle, in the north and in the south, that you should claim your national liberty. The idols of despotism will fall before you. The books of the divine law will be opened. The Czars will become the fathers of their people: we shall be no longer orphans and strangers upon our native soil. As the French and English have done, and even as the Greeks, our brethren in Jesus Christ, have done, we will swear to conquer our liberty, and that achievement will immortalize us. Nations less celebrated, and less populous than ours, surrounded by monarchs who have combined to destroy them, have arisen. Their brave men have joined together. They hasten, at the call of their country, to defend their national liberty, by their arms and their acts of valor. The hour is come. God, who holds in his hands the fate of kings and people, will bless us. Russians! break the chains of despotism! You have sworn fidelity to the Czar, but he also has sworn to be our father. He has perjured himself, and we are therefore released from our oaths. Respect nevertheless the person of the Czar, for he is the anointed of the Lord, and our sovereign. Limit yourselves to a change of the form of the government, and demand a constitution. Rise up, and the throne will tremble. But if the despot should attempt to arrest your enterprize by the aid of the accomplices upon whom he lavishes all his favors, forgetting that he is our monarch, and not theirs, and that he is the father of the great family of Russians; it is then that it will be seen that the autocracy must cease to exist, that the Russians long for liberty, that they can and will be free. Yermolow. _Samara, 29th of January, 1831.'_] [Footnote 44: In the construction of these works in the city and the environs, all the citizens engaged, without distinction of age or sex. One of the outworks received the name of the '_lunette_ of the women,' having been constructed wholly by the hands of the fair sex.] CHAPTER XII. Operations of the corps of general Dwernicki against the Russian corps under the prince of Wirtemberg, in the Palatinate of Lublin.--Battle of Pulawy, and defeat of Wirtemberg.--Atrocities of that prince at Pulawy.--Pursuit of the enemy.--Battle of Kurow, and annihilation of Wirtemberg's corps.--Operations of colonel Valentin, between Modlin and Pultusk.--A detachment of the enemy is surprised at Nasielsk.--Transports of provisions for the enemy from Prussia taken.--Successful skirmishes.--Marshal Diebitsch demands the capitulation of the fortress of Modlin. Reply of colonel Leduchowski.--A detachment from the garrison of Modlin attacks and defeats a Russian force at Serock.--General Skrzynecki makes an offer of pacification on the basis of the concessions originally demanded by the Poles.--This proposition is rejected and hostilities are recommenced.--Reconnoissance upon the right bank of the Vistula under Jankowski and Gielgud.--A Russian corps under general Witt is sent against Dwernicki.--General Uminski is sent against the Russian guard.--First encounter.--The Russian guard is compelled to leave their position for Ostrolenka.--The guard evacuates Ostrolenka to join the grand army. On the day after the battle of Grochow, colonel Lagowski fought with success at Pulawy, at the head of a detachment from the corps of general Dwernicki. The details of that combat are as follows: COMBAT OF PULAWA. [_See Plan_ XIII.] The prince of Wirtemberg, having been beaten, as the reader has seen, by general Dwernicki at Swierza and Nowawies, was forced to retreat rapidly in the direction of Pulawy, and to repass the Vistula, opposite that place. The ice of the river was, fortunately for him, still strong enough to admit of a passage upon its surface; but notwithstanding this advantage, he had been pursued by Dwernicki so closely, through the whole of his line of retreat, that he daily lost great numbers of prisoners. It was on the night of the 23d of February, that this passage was made by the Russians, and Pulawy occupied by them. As the position of that place was strong and commanding, general Dwernicki did not think it expedient to attack the enemy in front, who, although beaten, were still superior in force. He conceived the plan of passing the Vistula, at a point at some distance below Pulawy, and of making an attack upon the Russian right wing. On the evening of the 26th, the brave colonel Lagowski, with 500 infantry and two squadrons of cavalry, passed the Vistula (_p_). On reaching the opposite side of the river, he threw himself into the forests which surround Pulawy. The position of Lagowski would have been critical, if the Russians had obtained intelligence of this manoeuvre; but they had no suspicions of it. Colonel Lagowski, expecting that general Dwernicki would soon make a demonstration in front, left the forest, and approached the town, keeping up a brisk fire of skirmishers (_a_). The Russians, surprised by this attack, directed against it as strong a fire of artillery (_f_) and infantry (_d_) as its suddenness would allow; but our light troops succeeded in approaching the town, and getting possession of several houses, keeping up a continued fire. The two squadrons of cavalry (_b_) which had been sent to attack the enemy in his rear, threw themselves upon him at the same time, with great impetuosity. The consternation of the Russians became general, the greatest disorder soon followed, and a retreat was commenced, which was attended with the loss of several hundred men and horses, and four pieces of artillery. The enemy, in evacuating the town, set it on fire, to complete the barbarities which they had been practising. Pulawy, a spot one of the most favored of nature, and perhaps presenting one of the finest scenes in Europe, was soon a mass of ruins, the sight of which filled the bosom of every Pole with regret and horror. Those ruins, such indeed as the whole country is now filled with, evidences of the horrible barbarity of the Russians, in recalling to the minds of the Poles the lost beauty and magnificence of their country, will be a pledge of their eternal hatred of the despotism which authorized those ravages. [Illustration: XIV. _p.180_.] [Illustration: _Pulawy_ XIII. _p.178_.] [Illustration: _Kurow_ XV] The Russians had gained already a considerable distance from Pulawy, before the corps of general Dwernicki approached it, and, of course, the whole glory of that defeat is due to colonel Lagowski.[45] The corps of general Dwernicki, after a short repose at Pulawy, renewed the pursuit of the enemy on that night. In every part of their route the enemy's stragglers were continually falling into their hands. This corps overtook the enemy so soon, that in order to save himself from total destruction, he was forced to give battle. BATTLE OF KUROW. (_See Plans_ XIV _and_ XV.) General Dwernicki, in his pursuit of Wirtemberg, had the intention of effecting the destruction of this corps before they could reach Lublin. To accomplish this object, he took advantage of the two roads (_g_, _g_) which lead from Pulawy to Lublin (1). Remaining himself with the greater part of his forces (_a_) upon the causeway which leads to Lublin by Konskawola (2), Kurow (3), and Markuszew (4), he sent a small detachment (_b_) with two pieces of cannon by the other and smaller road, which, traversing the forest between Belzyc and Pulawy, presents a shorter and more direct route to Lublin. This road had not been occupied by the enemy. Colonel Lagowski, who commanded this detachment, had instructions to follow out this road, and to keep up a constant communication with the superior force under general Dwernicki. He was ordered to keep himself constantly abreast of the enemy (_d_). At the moment that he should hear the fire of our cannon, he was directed to hasten to the attack of the enemy on his left wing, or on his rear, as circumstances might direct. This manoeuvre was executed with the utmost punctuality. The enemy pressed in upon the causeway by the larger body under Dwernicki, and thus forced to give battle, took a position upon the heights of the town of Kurow, in doing which, his consternation or his inconsiderateness was such, that he neglected the ordinary means of security, and did not occupy the roads which centre at that place, not even that which it was of the utmost importance for him to occupy,--the one which leads from Belzyc to Pulawy; in fact, he had even neglected to send out reconnoissances on any side, supposing that our entire force was before him on the causeway. This battle commenced on the afternoon of the 2d of March, and continued only a few hours. General Dwernicki, after reconnoitering the enemy's position, which was commanding, and strengthened in its front by sixteen pieces of cannon [(_f_), _Pl._ XV,] thought it expedient to commence with a fire of skirmishers only (_a_), under cover of which he manoeuvred his cavalry (_b_) upon the Russian wings, with the sole purpose of occupying the attention of the enemy until the detachment of colonel Lagowski should make its appearance. The enemy, on the other hand, commenced a warm fire from his artillery, and threw forward his light troops (_d_) in every direction. Some hours passed in this manner, the enemy attempting from time to time to force our position. But the hour of his destruction was approaching. General Dwernicki perceiving, from an elevation of ground, the detachment of Lagowski (A) advancing upon the enemy's rear, instantaneously gave orders for the cavalry to concentrate themselves. The signal for advance was then given, and the cavalry having formed on each side of the main road, pressed forward and fell upon the centre of the enemy. At the same moment, a charge was made by the cavalry of Lagowski upon the enemy's rear. The disorder and consternation of the Russian forces was indescribable. In a moment ten pieces of cannon, a thousand prisoners, some hundreds of horses, with many wagons of ammunition and baggage, fell into our hands. The route was general. The enemy fled pell-mell, and his loss was much increased by a fire of grape from the two pieces of artillery of colonel Lagowski, which he placed by the side of the road from Kurow to Lublin, over which the Russians retreated. This road was literally covered with dead. Nothing but the coming on of night saved the enemy from entire destruction. After this battle, the forces of the prince of Wirtemberg ceased to act as a corps. What remained of them, took the direction of Lublin, where the corps of general Dwernicki arrived the next day, having taken prisoners during the whole route. The prince of Wirtemberg barely escaped from our hands, for he was in quarters in that city when our advanced detachments entered it, and was just able to save himself by flight. Such was the end of this Russian corps, which, when it began to act against Dwernicki with his small force of 3,000 men, and ten pieces of cannon, consisted of 15,000 infantry and 24 pieces of cannon. In the course of eleven days, general Dwernicki gave battle to this corps four separate times, viz. at Swierza, Nowawies, Pulawy, and Kurow; and besides the loss he caused them in killed and wounded, he took 8,000 prisoners, 19 pieces of cannon, besides 1,000 horses, with a great quantity of ammunition, baggage, &c. In all these actions the corps of general Dwernicki lost but 500 men, in killed and wounded. The panic which had began to prevail in the Russian forces, in consequence of these disasters, reached such a degree that, at times, the mere sight of our troops was sufficient to put them to flight. The Russian commander in chief deprived the prince of Wirtemberg of his post, and his name was not heard of during the rest of the war. General Dwernicki, by his victories over this corps, had completely freed the department of Lublin from the presence of the enemy. On arriving at Lublin, he restored the authority of the National Government in that place, and the region about. He made the necessary arrangements for reinforcing his corps, and left for Krasny-taw, in the environs of Zamosc. While these successful operations of general Dwernicki, in the southern part of the kingdom, were in progress, and by this series of victories, he was approaching the frontiers of Wolhynia and Podolia, our arms were not less successful in the North. The brave colonel Valentin, with a small detachment of partizans, fought the enemy with success between Modlin and Pultusk. This detachment was thrown into that region, (acting, however, more particularly between the rivers Wkra and Orsyca,) in order to hold in check the operations of the enemy upon Plock. This detachment was to obtain succor, in case of necessity, from the garrisons of Modlin. It was especially destined to intercept the transports which were to come from Prussia upon the road to Mlara, for the relief of the Russian army. Colonel Valentin was occupying with his detachment the forest near the town of Nasielsk, when he was apprised that a small body of Russian troops, under the order of colonel Schindler, consisting of two regiments of cavalry, a battalion of infantry, and two pieces of cannon, had arrived on the 3d of March, at that town. This detachment had been sent to protect a transport which was to pass there. Colonel Valentin immediately formed a plan to attack it. During the night of the 3d and 4th of March, he approached the town, invested it, and ordered an attack, in which the detachment surprised the enemy, and forced him to quit the city, leaving his two pieces of artillery, and a number of prisoners. Colonel Valentin, thinking that the Russians might possibly return with a superior force, evacuated the city, and took his prisoners to Modlin, in order, by disembarrasing himself of them, to hasten his march and reach the environs of Pultusk, in time to intercept the transport. On the 5th, he took this transport, consisting of eighty vehicles loaded with various kinds of provision, together with twelve loads of equipage, &c, for the Russian generals, which he sent to Warsaw. The detachment of colonel Valentin continued to manoeuvre for a long while in those environs without any support. In the vicinity of Warsaw, along the banks of the Vistula, both above and below the city, small skirmishes almost daily occurred. On the fourth of March, the brave lieutenant Berowski, passing the Vistula opposite Jablonna with his platoon, surprised a squadron of cossacks, and took a hundred prisoners and as many horses. The battalion of volunteer chasseurs of colonel Grotus, posted in the environs of the villages Siekierki, and Wilanow, brought in, almost every day, parties of Russian prisoners, by surprising the different detachments of the enemy placed upon the island of Saxe, opposite to the above mentioned places. This same battalion burnt two batteaux, in which were a party of Russian troops, who were sent during the night with combustibles to burn the bridge between Warsaw and Praga. These boats were sunk, and the Russians who escaped drowning, were taken prisoners. In the environs of the small town of Gora, about twenty miles from Warsaw, a considerable body of workmen who were sent by the enemy to prepare the materials for building a bridge, were surprised by a battalion of the 2d regiment of light infantry. A hundred pioneers and sappers were taken prisoners, and many hundred male and female peasants set at liberty, who had been forced to work for the enemy. At about the 8th of March, marshal Diebitsch demanded the capitulation of the fortress of Modlin, for which object he despatched colonel Kil. This officer was entrusted with a letter to the count Leduchowski, written by the marshal's own hand. His proposition was rejected.[46] Some days after this answer, a part of the garrison of this fortress, sent as a reinforcement to colonel Valentin, surprised the Russians in the town of Serock. They had passed the river Bug, and the Narew opposite that town, to make requisitions of forage in the country around. By a prompt arrangement, the batteaux of the enemy were taken by our troops; and his forces, suddenly attacked and defeated, were compelled to evacuate their position, leaving a thousand prisoners in our hands, which were immediately carried to Modlin, and thence to Warsaw. In this state of things, and while circumstances were continually occurring with uniform advantage to the Polish arms, general Skrzynecki, with the most sincere wish to finish a bloody struggle, and anxious to show that the Poles were always ready to hold out the hand of reconciliation, wrote, with the permission of the provisional government, a communication to marshal Diebitsch, with propositions of that purport. But as these offers of conciliation were rejected by the marshal, the contest was recommenced.[47] On the 10th of March, the operations of the campaign were recommenced. The 2d division, the command of which, after the death of general Zimirski, was given to general Gielgud, and a division of cavalry, under the command of general Jankowski, received orders to make a strong reconnoissance upon the right bank of the Vistula. This division was ordered to pass the bridge in the night, and at break of day to commence the attack upon whatever force of the enemy they might find on the plains of Grochow or Kawenczyn, and, by this manoeuvre, to harass the right wing of the enemy. But general Jankowski arrived late. It was near eight o'clock, A.M. before he approached with his division, at which time the two divisions united left Praga to commence their attack, but this operation being thus retarded, could not be made effective. The enemy, seeing our movement, had time to prepare themselves to counteract it. Our forces having advanced a mile or two upon the main road, commenced a fire of tirailleurs, and the enemy began to retire. As it was designed to act upon Kawenczyn, a battalion was sent to attempt an attack on the forest of elders, well known to the reader; but as the enemy was quite strong at that point, and particularly in artillery, a fire from which was immediately opened upon our force, the attack was not made, and our battalion was ordered to withdraw. The Russians, at about mid-day, began to show a stronger force upon the plains of Wawr. Their artillery, also, opened a fire upon the main road. This fire had continued an hour, when our generals, not perceiving that the artillery was protected by cavalry, decided to make a charge upon them with the regiment of Mazurs, and the 3d regiment of light cavalry. This brigade of cavalry, under the command of the brave colonels Blendowski and Miller, threw themselves with courage upon that artillery, when, at the moment of the charge, two regiments of Attaman Cossacks, which were posted in a wood adjoining, displayed their front, and advanced to charge our cavalry upon the flank and rear. Our attack therefore failed, and it was owing to good fortune alone that by a rapid bending of our flank, this body of cavalry was saved from total ruin. This unfortunate affair cost us a heavy loss of men, and of both of the brave colonels who commanded the attack. At about 2, P.M. as the enemy began to debouch from the great forest with increased forces, it was decided to return to Warsaw, and thus ended this reconnoissance, which had it been executed by more skilful generals, might have had the best success, for all the Russian regiments which had advanced towards Praga, at a considerable distance from their main forces, might have been taken. A reprimand was publicly given to the two generals, Gielgud and Jankowski, for their remissness in executing their instructions. The only advantage which was gained by this reconnoissance, was the taking of a great quantity of fascines and other materials prepared for a storm of Praga, and the collection from off the field of a considerable quantity of arms, which had been left there by the enemy, after the battle of the 25th.[48] The Russian commander having, as the reader is aware, lost nearly the whole of the corps of the prince Wirtemberg, the remnants of which was dispersed and had wholly ceased active operations, sent against general Dwernicki the corps of general Witt, composed of 8,000 infantry, 2,000 cavalry, and 16 pieces of cannon. This corps arrived on the 11th at Lublin, in which town was a small detachment of Dwernicki's corps, commanded by the colonel Russyian. This small detachment, having only barricaded a few streets, defended with much firmness the passage of the small river Bystrzyca, and left the city at nightfall to rejoin its corps, which was in the environs of Zamosc. Again the corps of the Russian guard, which had recently arrived, under the command of prince Michael, consisting of 16,000 infantry, 4,000 cavalry, and 36 pieces of cannon, a division of cavalry, with eight pieces of cannon, was sent into the environs of Pultusk, commanded by general Uminski, who was to take under his command the detachment of colonel Valentin, and acting in concert with the garrison of Modlin, he was to occupy the attention of the enemy, in order that our main body should not be disturbed in the offensive operations which general Skrzynecki had decided to adopt. General Uminski arriving with his corps, met an advanced detachment of the Russian guard in the environs of Makow, composed of two regiments of hussars and eight pieces of cannon, who were sent forward as a party of observation in that vicinity. This was the first encounter with this celebrated guard. Our cavalry waited impatiently for the moment to try their strength with them. Two young regiments, one a regiment of Krakus of Podlasia, and the other the 5th Hulans, entreated their general to be permitted to make the charge. General Uminski observing that there was no stronger force near, ordered an immediate attack. Our cavalry, on receiving the order, did not even give the enemy time to display his front, or to make use of his artillery; but rushed upon him with an impetuous charge, under which he was at once borne down. Of one regiment of those hussars nearly a squadron were taken prisoners. This Russian cavalry, which were in full rout, were pursued as far as the environs of Magnuszewo. The enemy was not permitted to take position, and the pursuit was pressed with such rapidity, that they had not time to destroy the bridge which crosses the river Orsyca, but were followed even to the environs of Rozany, where they reached the position of their main body. General Uminski, in order not to expose his force to the observation of the enemy, halted in an advantageous position in the forests near Rozany, and from this position he continued to hold the enemy in check. In fact, by harassing and wearying the enemy with continual attacks, he at length forced the prince Michael to quit Rozany, taking the direction of Ostrolenka. General Uminski sent in pursuit of the enemy the brigade of cavalry under the command of colonel Dembinski. This brigade, opposite Ostrolenka upon the Narew, had on the 26th of March an advantageous affair with the advanced guard of the enemy, in which forty prisoners were taken. By closely observing the enemy in this manner, it was ascertained that the Russian guard, after destroying the bridge, had completely evacuated Ostrolenka. It was evident that the design of prince Michael, in this sudden evacuation of Ostrolenka, was to join himself to the grand army. General Uminski immediately sent an officer to inform the commander in chief of this movement, continuing in the mean time in the position which he had taken before Ostrolenka. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 45: General Dwernicki, on arriving at Pulawy, regarded it as his first duty to repair to the palace of the princess Czartoriski, the estimable lady of the president of the National Senate, to offer his services to her, and to assure her of safety. On entering the court, the venerable Dwernicki and the officers who accompanied him, could not restrain their tears at the sight of the ruins of that edifice, so uselessly destroyed, to gratify the brutality of the prince of Wirtemberg, who pushed his fury to such a degree, as to have directed a fire of artillery against the central division of the palace, occupied at that moment by the princess and her attendants. General Dwernicki and his officers, struck by the melancholy scene before them, feared to advance another step, in the dread of meeting even more horrible traces of barbarity,--to find perhaps the princess and her suite the victims of Russian cruelty. But what was their astonishment, when, on entering the porch of the edifice, they were accosted by the princess, who with a cheerful air exclaimed: 'Brave general, and officers! how happy am I, that God has allowed me to greet my brave countrymen once more, before my death.' Then giving her hand to general Dwernicki, and presenting to him and his officers the ladies who were her attendants during the whole of these horrible scenes, she continued, 'General, do not be astonished to see us accoutred in the best garments which the Russians have left to us; we have arrayed ourselves in our funeral attire,'--and pointing to the holes with which the enemy's artillery had pierced the walls, she added, 'Those marks will explain my language.' General Dwernicki, struck with the heroism of the princess and her companions, addressed her in the following terms:--'Madam, permit me, in the name of the whole nation, to make to you the homage of my high admiration. Brave indeed ought Poles to be, with mothers and sisters such as these!' He then urged upon the princess the expediency of leaving Pulawa, which might still be the scene of distressing events, and upon this suggestion she departed under an escort furnished by general Dwernicki, for her estates in Galicia.] [Footnote 46: The reader will perhaps be gratified with a short topographical description of this fortress, and some details of this affair. The fortress of Modlin, which is in a pentagonal form, is situated sixteen miles from Warsaw, upon the right bank of the Vistula, at the junction of the Narew with the former river. Not far from this fortress, the small river Wkra also joins the Narew. The fortress is thus situated between three rivers. In addition to this peculiarity of its situation in regard to the rivers, its commanding elevation makes it a point of great strength. Opposite to it is the small town of Nowy-dwor, but this town is so low that it is commanded by the fortress, and it is besides too distant for the erection of batteries by which the latter could be bombarded with success. This post is very important in regard to tactics, and it is a key of position, to protect, or to act upon, all operations between the Narew and the Vistula. Marshal Diebitsch considering these circumstances, and seeing that an open attack was scarcely possible, was led to attempt negotiation. The letter sent by the marshal, was full of flattering language in regard to the heroism of the Polish army. He permitted himself, however, to say that it was to be regretted that such a degree of heroism was not exhibited in a better cause--that the brave Polish army was made a sacrifice of, by some ambitious and opinionated men, who had forgotten their duties to their monarch, and their oaths of fidelity. From such men as those, he wished to distinguish the count Leduchowski, for whom he had the highest esteem, and who, he was convinced, had no desire to continue a useless expenditure of blood, and would willingly surrender the fortress to the troops of his legitimate monarch. To all this, marshal Diebitsch added the assurance that the fortress should be garrisoned by equal bodies of Russian and Polish troops. Colonel Leduchowski made a reply to this complimentary communication in nearly the following terms:--'Marshal, to your letter, in which you have chosen to flatter the valor of my countrymen, and in which you have honored me, in particular, with your attentions, I have the honor to answer, that I cannot better deserve your good opinion, than in defending, with my compatriots, our beloved country to the last drop of my blood. This is the course which the honor of each brave Pole dictates to him.'] [Footnote 47: This letter, written at the moment when our army was victorious, and when a revolution, ready to break out in all the Polish provinces attached to Russia, made the position of the Russian army extremely dangerous, was couched in most conciliatory terms, having for its sole object the termination of a fraternal struggle. In this letter, the generalissimo sought to convince marshal Diebitsch, that this was not a war undertaken on our part at the instigation of a few individuals, but that it was espoused by the whole nation, and that the people were forced to take up arms by the enormity of those acts of tyranny, which were not perhaps even known to the monarch. He urged him to consider the amount of blood which had been already shed, and the indefinite prolongation to which such a struggle might be extended. He urged him also, to make known these representations to the monarch, and to invite him to lay aside all enmity, to visit and hear in person the complaints of the nation, who would receive him with sincerity, and who demanded of him only the confirmation and observance of the rights granted by the constitution, and the extension of the same rights to our brethren in the Russo-Polish provinces. What an opportunity was here presented to the Emperor Nicholas to act with magnanimity, and to extend a conciliatory hand to the Polish nation! Those letters will be an eternal testimony, that the Poles attempted every amicable means, to establish upon an equal basis their own happiness and civilization, and that of the whole north, and that all the responsibility of the bloody struggle which was continued, rests on the side of despotism.] [Footnote 48: The following particulars will demonstrate to the reader how much even the enemy appreciated Polish courage and devotedness. After this affair, our generalissimo, regretting much the loss of the brave colonel Blendowski, who had fallen in his wounded state into the enemy's hands, sent a flag to general Giesmar, the commander of the Russian advanced guard, to propose an exchange, if colonel Blendowski was still living, and if dead, to request that his body might be given up. At the moment that the officer bearing the flag, with a party of lancers, arrived at the Russian quarters, he saw a body of Russians with general Giesmar, and his suite at their side, bearing a wounded officer, and advancing towards them. Our officer, as they approached, recognized colonel Blendowski in the wounded officer, and announced to general Giesmar that it was to obtain him that he had been sent. On receiving this communication, general Giesmar replied, 'You see, sir, that I had anticipated your object. Make my intentions known to your commander, and let him know how much I honor Polish heroism.' This general took part, with his own hand, in all the arrangements for transferring the wounded officer, and two of his suite were among those who bore his body.] CHAPTER XIII. Plan of general Skrzynecki to act upon the isolated corps of Rosen and Giesmar.--Battle of Wawr.--Various detachments of the enemy are taken after that battle, and a great number of prisoners.--Battle of Dembe-Wielke.--Destructive pursuit of the enemy by our cavalry.--View of the Russian losses in the preceding days.--Marshal Diebitsch abandons his plan of crossing the Vistula, and marches to the rescue of the remains of the corps of Rosen and Giesmar, and the Imperial Guard.--View of the position of the two armies, after the second repulse of the enemy from before Warsaw.--Operations of general Dwernicki.--Successes of a reconnoissance under colonel Russyian at Uscilog.--Effect of Dwernicki's victories on the inhabitants of the provinces.--Acknowledgment of general Dwernicki's services by the National Government.--The instructions for his future operations. The news of this prompt and sudden evacuation of Ostrolenka by the Russian guard, and the evident intention of the Grand Duke Michael to discontinue his operations in the palatinate of Plock, and to make a junction with the grand army, as well as other certain intelligence that marshal Diebitsch had withdrawn the main body of his forces, [_See_ (A) _Plan_ XVI,] and had left only a corps of observation, composed of the two corps of Rosen and Giesmar (B), in the environs of Wawr and Milosna, determined our generalissimo to hasten to the execution of the plan, for a long time decided upon, which was to throw himself with his whole force upon the nearest Russian corps, and to crush them before marshal Diebitsch could come to their succor. On the 29th and 30th, our general in chief made a review of the greater part of the army. All the troops received him with expressions of the greatest enthusiasm. He could not but be delighted at the sight of that fine and energetic force, and be confident of the most brilliant successes. All the troops defiled before the general, carrying with them the trophies which they had taken from the enemy; and each platoon, as they passed, hailed him with some patriotic exclamation, and pledged themselves that they would never return without having satisfied his orders to the utmost. On the night of that day, the commanders of the several divisions received the order to hold themselves in readiness to march at a moment's warning. BATTLE OF WAWR. [_See Plan_ XVII.] On the evening of the 30th, the two divisions of infantry under Rybinski and Gielgud, and the brigade of cavalry under Kicki, received orders to pass from Warsaw to Praga. That force quitted Warsaw at ten o'clock, P.M. [Illustration: _XVI. p. 264._] [Illustration: _XVII. p. 266._] Whilst the division of Gielgud and the cavalry of Kicki were to occupy the great road (_g_) leading to Grochow, the 1st division under Rybinski was to march upon the right wing of the enemy at Kawenczyn (K). This last division was to drive the enemy from his position in as short a time as possible. If the enemy's forces at Kawenczyn were found to be greatly superior to his own, general Rybinski was directed to continue his fire, and await a reinforcement, which should be immediately sent to him. If he should be so fortunate as to take Kawenczyn, general Rybinski was to send, by a small road (_l_) leading from this place, through the forest, to Milosna, a few battalions (_m_) to that village. Other battalions (_d_) were to be dispersed in the forest, between that small road and the main road. Having made those arrangements, the position of Kawenczyn was to be vigorously defended, in order to baffle every effort of the enemy to retake it. The accurate and prompt execution of this plan was expected to effect the cutting off of all the enemy's forces, which were to be found upon the field of Wawr. In regard to the division of Gielgud upon the main road, the instructions given were that it should not commence its fire until apprised of general Rybinski's having gained possession of Kawenczyn. This division was till then to limit its attention to the object of retaining the enemy in his position near Praga, long enough to give time for the corps of general Rybinski to occupy the above mentioned forest, and to operate in the enemy's rear. The moment for the advance of the 2d division, was to be, when the fire of the light troops of Rybinski should be heard in the forest. All these dispositions were executed with the greatest exactitude under the protection of a thick fog. The division of general Rybinski having quitted Praga at midnight, arrived as far as the environs of Kawenczyn, without being in the least disturbed by the enemy. This skilful general had the precaution not to attack the enemy until an hour before day-break; in the interval, while resting in the woody ground near Kawenczyn, he sent forward a patrol, with directions to approach near enough to ascertain, as far as practicable, the position, the strength, and the nature of the force of the enemy, and sent another patrol in the direction of the forest of elders to reconnoitre the enemy there. Those patrols returned with the intelligence that the enemy's force could not be great, as they could perceive no large detachments placed as advanced posts. It was between five and six in the morning, when the first fire of general Rybinski, at Kawenczyn, gave notice to the 2d division of Gielgud, at Praga, that it was the time to advance. The brigade of cavalry under Kicki, (_b_), with the 2d and 7th regiments of lancers, having with them three pieces of cannon, spread out their flankers, and advanced slowly, directed continually by the fire of general Rybinski, who in the mean time had pushed two battalions at the charge, supported by a few pieces of artillery, and had carried the enemy's position by storm, and taken possession of Kawenczyn. The enemy were instantly routed by this impetuous attack, and lost three pieces of cannon. The division passed through Kawenczyn, sent two battalions (_m_) to Milosna, occupied the forest (A) in the rear of the enemy's principal force, and commenced a fire. When this fire was heard by our forces (B) upon the main road, they pushed forward, and a general and rapid advance was commenced under cover of the thick fog. Two regiments of cossack cavalry, (_h_), who were posted in columns near the Obelisk of Iron, were borne down before them. A great number of prisoners were taken on the spot. Our brave lancers, under Kicki, animated by this success, did not halt in their attack. They fell upon an advanced post of Russian artillery of three pieces (_f_) near Grochow, and took them before they had time to fire. By seven or eight o'clock, the enemy was entirely surrounded, and his retreat by Milosna was wholly cut off. It was with the dissipation of the fog that we witnessed the confusion into which had been thrown the whole advanced guard of Giesmar, composed of four regiments or sixteen battalions of infantry (_a_), eight squadrons of cavalry (_h_), and twenty-four pieces of cannon (_f_). The disorder of this advanced guard was such, that the Russian battalions had actually been firing against each other, and that fire ceased only with the clearing up of the fog. The 95th and 96th Russian regiments, amounting to 5,000 men, with all their officers and colors, were taken in a body, and with them the brigadier general Lewandowski. If the fog had continued half an hour longer, so that we could have occupied the road to Karczew, the whole of this advanced guard would have been taken; for what remained of them saved themselves only by flying along that road. This attack, which was the business of a few hours, forced the enemy to quit his advantageous position in the commanding forest, between Wawr and Milosna, which he had occupied for a month, and on which he had constructed considerable fortifications. Driven from this important position, he could only expect to be subjected to still greater losses. At Milosna (3), three battalions of the enemy, with four pieces of cannon, placed as an isolated detachment, were dispersed, and their cannon taken. Another isolated detachment of cavalry of hussars and cossacks of Czarno-morskie, posted at Janowek, met the same fate, and prisoners were taken in every direction. Our two divisions pursued the enemy with unremitted celerity, and, followed by our main forces, reached Dembe-Wielke, at which place was the corps of general Rosen, composed of about 30,000 men and 40 pieces of cannon. BATTLE OF DEMBE-WIELKE. [_See Plate_ XVIII.] As the enemy occupied the heights (D) of Dembe-Wielke, on the side of the marsh opposite to our forces, which, to attack him, would have had to traverse the dyke (_k_) constructed over this marsh,--the commanders of the two divisions considered it expedient to await the arrival of our whole force, which approached some hours after. General Skrzynecki, satisfied that an attack made, over the dyke, upon the commanding position of the enemy on the other side, in broad day, would cost too great a sacrifice of men, determined to amuse him by a constant fire of our skirmishers (_a_), who advanced as far as the marshy ground which divided the two armies would permit. A little before night, the general in chief ordered all the cavalry (_b_) to be brought together, and formed in columns of attack, with the two squadrons of carbiniers, under the brave colonel Sznayder, at their head. At the approach of twilight, he ordered these columns to pass the dyke on a trot, and to throw themselves upon the enemy on the right and left, attacking with the sabre. While the cavalry was passing the dyke, the artillery (_c_) was to open a general fire, ceasing, however, when the passage of the dyke should be effected. The order was given, and this mass of cavalry, under the fire of the artillery, raised the hurrah, and passed the dyke with the rapidity of lightning, followed by our infantry, having at their head the brave 4th regiment. The enemy was in such consternation that he was not in a state to make a defence, and his whole battery was overthrown. Full three thousand prisoners were taken, together with the entire battery, consisting of twelve pieces of cannon of large calibre, some fifty voitures of different kinds, as caissons of ammunition, baggage-wagons, &c, and a great number of horses.[49] In a word, the corps of general Rosen was completely broken up; the coming on of night, and the forests, alone saved them from total ruin. General Rosen himself, with his suite, was pursued and was near being taken. All his equipage, consisting of three voitures, fell into our hands. Thus ended the glorious 30th of March. The generalissimo, who was always in the advance, and who had personally arranged all the details of that day's operations, particularly at Dembe, justified well the high opinion which the general officers and the army had entertained of him. The 30th of March placed his name high on the roll of distinguished leaders. On that memorable day, two Russian corps, those of Giesmar and Rosen, were completely broken up. It cost the enemy, in dead, wounded and prisoners, full 10,000 men and 22 pieces of cannon. On our side the loss was not more than 500 killed and wounded. For the successes of that day general Skrzynecki received from the government the order of the great Cross of Military Merit. The general in chief was accompanied, during the actions, by prince Adam Czartoriski, and the members of the National Government, Berzykowski, and Malachowski. [Illustration: _XVIII. p. 200_] [Illustration: _XIX. p. 202_] To follow up the pursuit [_See Plan_ XIX] of the fragments of the two Russian corps, general Skrzynecki designated the division of cavalry (A) under general Lubinski, with a battery of light artillery. This detachment set out during the night, sending reconnoissances to the right and left, to see that the enemy did not prepare ambuscades. The army followed this advanced guard, which soon overtook the enemy (B), who was still in great disorder. Infantry, cavalry, artillery, and vehicles, were mingled together, pressing their retreat. At each step, our cavalry took up prisoners. Upon some positions the enemy attempted to make a stand, but every such attempt was thwarted, and he was carried along before our troops. This was the case in the position of Minsk and of Jendrzeiow, where two regiments of Russian cavalry were routed by the second regiment of chasseurs. It was the same case in the forest of Kaluszyn, where our artillery approached the Russian rear-guard, and poured upon them a fire of grape, which scattered death among their ranks. The Russians, being no longer in a state to make any stand whatever, fell into a panic, and commenced a general flight. They were pursued by general Lubinski as far as Kaluszyn, where night closed upon the scene of destruction. This day cost the enemy nearly as much as the preceding. Besides their loss in dead and wounded, 3,000 prisoners fell into our hands, with three standards, four pieces of cannon, and a hundred vehicles of baggage, ammunition, &c,--in fact, the whole baggage of the corps. But the most agreeable success of our army, on that day, was the taking possession of the hospitals of Minsk and Jendrzeiow, in which as many as two hundred of our comrades were lying wounded. To witness the joy of those brave sufferers was recompense enough for all our fatigues. The impetuosity of our attack was such, that the enemy had not time to burn the magazines of Milosna, Minsk, and Kaluszyn, which fell into our hands. To make a recapitulation of the loss of the enemy on those two days--it was as follows:--Two of their generals, Lewandowski and Szuszerin, taken prisoners, with as many as sixty officers, of different grades, 15,000 soldiers in killed, wounded and prisoners; 26 pieces of cannon, seven standards, 1,500 horses, a great quantity of different kinds of arms and implements, and as many as 100 vehicles of various kinds. The disasters of these two Russian corps were the cause of the abandonment of the plan which had been adopted by marshal Diebitsch, of passing the Vistula between Pulawy and Maceiowice, opposite Kozienice, with the greater part of his army; and to execute which he had left his position on the latter days of March, and had reached the environs of Ryk. [_See Plan_ XVI.] The fear of losing those two corps, together with the guard, had led him to return in the direction of the town of Kock, to afford them succor. After these days, so fortunate for us, in which the Russian forces were again driven from before the walls of Warsaw, the position of their army was as follows. Their right wing, formed of the remains of the corps of Giesmar and Rosen, was at Boimie; detachments being also placed in the environs of Wengrow. The main body, under Diebitsch, was at Kock. His advanced posts extended to Wodynie, Seroczyn, and Zelechow. The Russian guard, which, as we have said, had formed the plan of joining their main body, and had left Ostrolenka by the road through Wengrow, was obliged, in consequence of the successes of our army, to abandon that plan, and to retire again to the environs of Ostrolenka, where they now were posted. In the palatinate of Lublin was the Russian corps under general Witt. The position of our army was as follows. Our left wing was opposite Boimie. It sent out its reconnoissances along the river Kostrzyn, as far as Grombkow, Zimna-woda, and even beyond. The head-quarters of the general in chief were with the main body, at Latowicz. Our right wing was at Siennica. Its reconnoissances were sent out as far as Zelechow, at which place was a detached corps, under the command of general Pac. In this manner, the marshy rivers, Kostrzyn and Swider, covered our front. [_Refer to Plan_ VI.] General Uminski, with his detached corps, was at Rozany, in the palatinate of Plock, opposed to the Russian guard. In the environs of the fortress of Zamosc in the palatinate of Lublin, opposed to the Russian corps of general Witt, was the corps of general Dwernicki. Besides this, a small corps was placed in the environs of the town of Granica, upon the left bank of the Vistula, under the command of general Sierawski. While the main forces were acting with such success, the two detached corps, under generals Uminski and Dwernicki, had also fought gloriously, and gained important advantages. The corps of general Dwernicki spread terror in its vicinity, and the Russians were compelled to send a new corps against him, under the command of general Kreutz; so that the combined Russian forces opposed to him amounted to 20,000 men. Greatly superior as this force was, they did not dare to attack general Dwernicki, who, reinforced every day by volunteers coming from Galicia and Volhynia, soon found himself at the head of 4500 men, and 20 pieces of cannon. This corps, in concert with the garrison of Zamosc, was sufficient to hold in check all the operations of the enemy in that quarter. On the 25th of March, general Dwernicki sent a reconnoissance as far as the environs of Uscilug, at which place a new Russian corps, coming from Turkey, was expected to arrive. This reconnoissance was composed of two battalions of infantry, one company of Galician volunteers, three squadrons of cavalry, and four pieces of cannon. The commander of this force was the brave colonel Russyian. The detachment arrived at the above place, and received intelligence of the approach of an advanced guard of the corps of general Rudiger, composed of two regiments or six battalions of infantry, one regiment of cossacks, and eight pieces of cannon. Colonel Russyian did not stay for the approach of this guard. He took possession of the different batteaux which were prepared for, and were waiting the arrival of the Russian force at the distance of a league from the town. Passing the river Bug, with his corps, in these boats, he suddenly attacked the Russian advanced guard with such success, that he took two thousand prisoners, and six pieces of cannon, and several hundred horses. With these trophies he returned and joined the corps, to their astonishment, for they had received but a single report from him, and had no expectation of such results. The rumor of the continual successes of this corps of general Dwernicki, spread along the borders of the Dnieper, reached the distant regions of our brethren in the Ukraine, and awakened in them an ardent desire to unite themselves to our cause. For the continued and glorious advantages of this corps, which commenced its operations with 3,000 infantry, 800 cavalry, and three pieces of cannon, and had nearly destroyed two Russian corps, those of Kreutz and Wirtemberg, taking 10,000 prisoners, and thirty pieces of cannon, the national government promoted its brave commander to the rank of full general of cavalry, and honored him with the surname of the famous Czarnecki, the ancient polish chief.[50] The general in chief communicated to general Dwernicki his promotion, with the sincere thanks of the national government; and at the same time sent him instructions and advice in regard to the operations which he was then to follow. The corps of general Dwernicki was to manoeuvre in such a manner as to menace continually the left wing of the Russian grand army. Keeping this object in view, he was not, unless with the expectation of some very extraordinary advantages, to remove himself very far from the fortress of Zamosc. This place was to serve as a _point d'appui_ in every case of sudden danger. About this point he was to manoeuvre, and from thence he was to push himself, as circumstances might allow, into the environs of Lublin and Wlodawa, to trouble incessantly the above mentioned wing, and even the rear of the Russian grand army. In this instruction of keeping himself near the fortress of Zamosc, and in the palatinate of Lublin generally, another advantage was contemplated: viz. that he might receive daily accessions of volunteers from Volhynia and Podolia. Our brethren, in those provinces, would hasten to join themselves to his victorious eagles, (of which disposition, indeed, he received continual evidence,) and, in this manner his corps would be gradually increased by such aid from those provinces, without attracting the attention of the enemy. As the provinces of Volhynia and Podolia, from their geographical character, having no large forests, were not in a state to carry on a partizan warfare, as was quite practicable in Lithuania and Samogitia, and also as the Russians had several corps upon the frontiers of Turkey, which, by being concentrated in that open country, might be dangerous to our small forces, general Skrzynecki was of the opinion that general Dwernicki, by keeping near the frontiers of the above mentioned provinces, should rather act by a moral influence upon their inhabitants, than hazard certain advantages by entering them. The river Wieprz was to be the leaning point of his left wing, and the river Bug of his right. Between those two rivers, in a woody and marshy region, he would find many strong natural positions. Of such he would take advantage, and endeavor to strengthen them by different fortifications. General Dwernicki, in receiving these instructions, was also invested with full powers, by the national government, to institute a provisional administration over the above provinces, (in case that circumstances should lead him to establish a footing there,) similar to that of the kingdom in general, and to bring them into a state to act with effect in concert with the rest of the kingdom. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 49: The horses taken on that day, and at the battle of Wawr, were employed to mount the entire new regiment of the Lancers of Augustow.] [Footnote 50: General Dwernicki, who received, among other titles, that also of the 'Provider of cannon,' used his cavalry so constantly in the charge upon artillery, that if the artillery of the enemy began its fire, and the charge was not ordered, our cavalry were always disappointed. This was the case at the battle of Kurow, on the 2d of March. As the enemy in that battle had placed his artillery in a commanding position, and as general Dwernicki was awaiting the arrival of detachments under colonel Lagowski, in the direction of Belzge, he was not disposed then to give the order for a charge, but preferred to amuse the enemy by various manoeuvres of his cavalry. Passing down the front of his lancers, he observed that they wore a look of dissatisfaction. On noticing this, he was astonished, and demanded an explanation. 'What does this mean, my dear comrades?' said he; 'you are sad at a moment when, after so many victories, you ought to be joyful.' The lancers replied--'Dear general, it is an hour since the enemy's artillery commenced their fire, and you do not allow us to charge upon them.' The general, smiling, answered, 'Make yourselves content; you shall soon have that satisfaction;'--and in a short time, as the reader will remember, general Dwernicki, seeing the detachment of colonel Lagowski approaching, gave the order for an attack upon the enemy's artillery, and in a moment they were driven from their position, sabred, and ten pieces of their cannon taken. The Russians, to whom the name of Dwernicki was a terror, would speak of him in the following manner: 'What can we make of such a general? He performs no manoeuvres, and never permits our artillery to fire. His generalship appears to lie only in taking possession at once of our cannon!'] CHAPTER XIV. The insurrection in Lithuania.--Dispositions of the Lithuanians at the breaking out of our revolution.--Their offers of co-operation were rejected by the dictator.--View of the condition of Lithuania under the Russian sway.--Scheme of the Russian government to destroy all Polish national feeling in that province.--The insurrection is brought about by the massacre of the patriots at Osmiany.--Capture of numerous towns by the insurgents, and dispersion of their garrisons.--Storm of Wilno, and delivery of prisoners.--Several partizan corps are formed.--Their destination and successes. It had pleased Providence thus far to make the success of our arms, in every point, a just chastisement of our enemy, and encouraged by this success, the nation had begun to cherish the brightest hopes for the future. Their confidence and exultation were complete, when the report was received, that our brethren in Lithuania and Samogitia had risen to break the yoke of despotism, and had openly commenced a revolution. The certain confirmation of this happy intelligence was brought to the kingdom by one of the students of the University of Wilno. This brave young man belonged to the patriotic club which had been secretly formed there, and that club had sent him to Warsaw to carry the authentic intelligence of the insurrection.[51] Then it was, at last, that the voice of liberty was heard upon the shores of the Baltic, and at the sources of the Dwina and the Niemen; and with this voice, was heard that of union with ancient Poland. The brave inhabitants of this immense region, animated with an attachment for us, the strength of which ages had proved, regarded themselves only as a part of one great family with ourselves. Almost within hearing of the bloody combats which had been fought, they could not restrain themselves from joining in the struggle, and acting side by side with us, for our common Poland. Before I enter upon the details of this revolution in Lithuania, the reader will permit me to refer him, in the Appendix, to a short description of that country and a view of its connection with Poland, which is, in general, so imperfectly understood. The Lithuanians of Wilno knew, four days after the 29th of November, that Warsaw had given the signal of a new Polish insurrection. A deputation was immediately sent by them to the dictator Chlopicki, announcing to him _that all Lithuania, and particularly the Lithuanian corps d'armee, of 60,000 strong, was ready to pass to the side of the Poles_. But that inexplicable and lamentable dictatorship _rejected this offer_, so great and so generous. The Lithuanians, however, not despairing, waited for a more propitious moment; and scarcely was the dictatorship abolished, when the national government,--thanks to the thoughtful care of Joachim Lelewell,--addressed itself officially to the Lithuanian committee. Every disposition was made for a rising at an appointed time, which at length arrived. It would not be in my power to give the reader a just idea of the tyranny and persecution to which the Polish provinces united to Russia were subjected. If the kingdom was oppressed, it has always had some glimmer of constitutional right, but in the provinces the only constitution was absolute power. Those provinces, abounding in resources, and which, had they been protected by free laws, would have been, as they formerly were, the granary of Europe, presented every where traces of misery, being exposed to the abuses of the Russian administration and its agents, who wrung them to the last drop, to enrich themselves. Justice was unknown. Sometimes the governors, or sprawnaks, men of most depraved conduct, changed the laws at their own will, and not to obey that will was to be subject to be sent into Siberia. All those provinces were submerged by the Russian military, who were quartered in every village; and those soldiers, receiving only the small compensation of a groat a day, which was altogether insufficient for their subsistence, levied upon the inhabitants the means of their support. But the cause of the greatest suffering in Lithuania, was, that, in order to prevent all sympathy between the soldiers and peasantry, and all national feeling in the Lithuanian soldiers, most of the levies from that province were sent to serve on the barbarian frontiers of Asia, while Russian soldiers were substituted for them, who were without any sympathy with the inhabitants, and who would be regardless of their feelings in their deportment towards them, and merciless in their exactions. It was not so under Alexander,--the arrangement was made by Nicholas. No idea can be given of the distress which it caused. Many a family was obliged to deny themselves their necessary food, to supply the demands of the military tyrant who was quartered upon them. The peasantry in those provinces were treated like brutes. No civilization, not the least glimmer of light, not a school was permitted. That poor race were kept in a state so degraded, that the elements of civilization seemed to be lost in them, and the possibility of their being recovered seemed almost hopeless. One of the greatest evils was the systematic endeavor to destroy all national sympathy with Poland. The Russians carried their oppression, indeed, so far, as to change the religion of the country, and to introduce the Greek schism. But through all these persecutions, Providence saved that people from losing their national sentiments as Poles. On the contrary, they have proved that neither time nor persecutions will ever destroy that attachment, but will, indeed, rather strengthen it. The late insurrections in Lithuania and Samogitia, which have been so long under the Russian government, and the inhabitants of which hastened to take up their arms, at the signal of our revolution, afford a sufficient evidence of this attachment. What deserves especially to be noticed, is, that in Lithuania, it was the peasants and the priests, joined by the youths of the academies, who first began the revolt, and who were the most zealous defenders of the common cause. That heroic people commenced the revolution without any munitions, and without any arms but the implements of husbandry. Armed in most cases with clubs alone, they abandoned all to unite in our aid, and fought with courage and success for nearly two months, against the different Russian corps, before the corps of Gielgud and Chlapowski arrived, which, instead of succoring them, by the misconduct of their generals, sacrificed the Lithuanians, as well as themselves, and gave the first downward impulse to our cause. The insurrection of Lithuania and Samogitia, was propagated with rapidity through all the departments of those provinces. The commencement was made in the departments of Osmiany and Troki, accelerated by the following circumstance. Many of the patriots, for the purpose of consulting upon the different arrangements for the revolt, had secretly assembled on the last of March at Osmiany, and held their secret conferences in the church of the place. While occupied in this manner, a loud shouting was heard in the town. A regiment of cossacks had entered the place, and a great part of the regiment surrounded the church. The doors were broken down, and the cossacks entered and sabred the unfortunate men within these sacred walls. Wounded as they were, those who survived the attack were thrown into wagons to be carried to Wilno. But in this the barbarians did not succeed. A few escaped from their bloody hands, ran into the suburbs of the town and collected the peasantry, and on that very night, some hundreds of the inhabitants having been got together, Osmiany was attacked with the greatest fury by the patriots. Several hundreds of cossacks were massacred. The others took flight, and the poor prisoners were delivered. From that moment the flame spread to the departments of Wilno, Wilkomierz, Rosseyny, and Szawla. In a few weeks, more than twelve towns were taken by storm, and the Russian garrisons driven out and dispersed. The principal of these towns were Jarbourg, Szawla, Keydany, Wilkomierz, Kowno, Troki, Swienciany, Rosienice, and Beysagola. In a short time, more than a thousand Russians fell under the blows of the Lithuanians, and another thousand were taken prisoners. The Lithuanians accoutred themselves with their arms. Some hundred horses, and several pieces of cannon were also taken. The most bloody affair was the storm of Wilno, on the night of the 4th of April. Two hundred Lithuanians attacked this town, and fought with 4,000 Russian infantry, (nearly two regiments,) six squadrons of cavalry, and twelve pieces of cannon. For the whole night, the Lithuanians pressed their attack with fury. They took the powder magazine and arsenal, where they found many arms. But the most consolatory success was, the rescuing of some hundred patriotic students, and proprietors, who had been confined in prison there for years. The battle of Keydany and Szerwinty was also severe, and the valor of the brave Lithuanians was equally displayed there. At Keydany, twenty of the brave youths of the academy defended the bridge over the Niewiaza, against two squadrons of cavalry, while, on the other side, some hundreds of those brave youths made a storm upon the city, and routed the garrison, which consisted of three squadrons of hussars. In a word, not quite 2,000 Lithuanians, armed in the most defective manner, commenced the struggle, and drove out garrisons to the amount of eight or ten thousand Russian regular troops, spreading consternation throughout the whole of the enormous space between the Dwina and the Niemen. Their numbers were soon augmented, and armed with weapons taken from the Russians. Their forces were afterwards divided into several small detached partizan corps, which received the following destination. 1st, the corps under the command of B***, consisting of about 1,500 infantry and 100 horse, was to observe the territory upon the Russian frontier, between Jarbourg, upon the Niemen, as far as the frontier of Courland. This corps was to interrupt the transport of provisions, from the Russian territory, and also to keep a communication between the ports of the Baltic Sea, Lipawa and Polonga, so as to secure a correspondence with foreign vessels which might arrive with ammunition and other aid for Poland. The 2d corps consisted of about 2,000 infantry, under the command of P***, and Z***, and were to act between Uceamy and Dawgeliszki. There this corps of partizans was to profit by the strong positions which the nature of the country offers, among its lakes and forests. This corps was to observe the great road which leads through that country from St Petersburgh to Warsaw, and to surprise and attack all the Russian detachments which might pass that road, on their way to Poland. To act in communication with this corps, and against the garrison of Wilno, was designated a 3d corps, under the command of M***, composed of nearly 2,000 infantry and 100 cavalry. This corps made itself severely felt. A fourth small detachment, under the command of B***, of about 800 strong, acted in the department of Grodno, and occupied a part of the forest of Bialowiez. Besides these, was a detachment of 400 horse, under the command of V***. This detachment was constantly in movement, and kept open the communications between the other corps, and acted as occasion required. It was especially to attempt to surprise the enemy's artillery, which was often sent in an unprotected state. This detachment of cavalry, with the first named corps under the command of B***, attacked so sudden and vigorously the Russian corps under the command of general Szyrman, that they were forced to take refuge upon the Prussian territory at Memel. The Prussians received them, and afterwards permitted them to leave with their arms and ammunition. This was not the first nor the last example of such relief afforded to our enemy by Prussia. The insurrections of Lithuania and Samogitia, which had begun so successfully and promised to extend even to the borders of the Dnieper and the Black Sea, could not but threaten the utmost danger to the Russian forces which had entered the kingdom, and it was from this moment that the situation of the enemy became in a high degree critical, as every military judge will perceive. The danger of their position was still more to be augmented by our success in the battle of Iganie, on the 9th of April. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 51: The young Lithuanian, whose name was Szymanski, had passed, on foot, two hundred and eighty miles in eight days, in the vilest habit of a beggar, and even without shoes, through forests, marshes, and fords, to avoid interception, exposed in fact to every kind of privation. He arrived on the 4th of April, at the camp of the generalissimo, at Jendrzeiow, where he was received with great enthusiasm. He was immediately sent to Warsaw, to announce the happy intelligence to the people.] CHAPTER XV. Plan of operation against the two corps of Rosen and Kreutz.--Battle of Iganie.--Reflections on the state of the Polish cause after the victory of Iganie.--Review of the course of the campaign.--Condition of the Russian army.--Discontents in Russia.--Representations of the Senate at St Petersburgh to the Emperor.--Comparative view of the forces of the two armies at the present stage of the conflict. Marshal Diebitsch, as is known to the reader, was forced, by our victories of the 31st of March and the 1st of April, to abandon his plan of passing the Vistula opposite to Kozienice, and to think of nothing farther at present, than of saving the two corps of Rosen and Giesmar, and the guard. He was so far separated from them while between Kock and Ryk, where he then was, that by a prompt diversion on our part, by Lukow, he might have lost those corps, and it was in fear of this, that he hastened to arrive as soon as possible to their succor at Siedlce. Our general in chief thought to anticipate this movement, and to throw himself upon the combined corps of Giesmar and Rosen, before Diebitsch should reach them.[52] [Illustration: _XX. p 220_] [Illustration: _XXI. p. 224_] BATTLE OF IGANIE. [_See Plans_ XX _and_ XXI.] On the 9th of April, the Russian army was nearly in the same position as we have last described them. The main body, under marshal Diebitsch, were in the environs of Kock, and the combined corps of Rosen and Giesmar [_Plan_ XX, (_a_)], were upon the small river Kostrzyn (_b_), at Boimie. Our army also had not changed its position. The following were the dispositions for the attack. The reader, on examining the plan, will see that the two corps opposed to our forces, which were at Latowicz (_c_), were too far advanced, which exposed them to be turned on their left wing, and even taken in the rear, if our forces there should succeed in driving back the forces (_e_) of the enemy on the road (_d_) from Latowicz by Wodynie to Siedlce. To execute this movement the order was given that when the first division of infantry (_f_), supported by twenty-four pieces of cannon, should commence the attack upon the great road opposite Boimie, the third division (_g_), having with them the brigade of cavalry of Kicki, should leave the position at Latowicz before day-break, and take the direction of Wodynie, to attack the forces which it might find there; but if those forces should be found greatly superior, the division was to remain in a strong position at Jeruzalem (_h_). If it should succeed in driving back the enemy's forces, it was to take the road on the left, leading from Wodynie through Iganie (_i_) to Siedlce. Every effort was to be directed to the point of arriving as soon as possible upon the dyke (_k_) at Iganie, which leads over the marshes of the river Sucha (_l_). By a prompt manoeuvre of this kind, the enemy could not, as we have said, escape being turned. For the better execution of this plan, the enemy was to be harassed on the main road, in order that general Prondzynski, who was to command the expedition to Wodynie, might have time to manoeuvre upon the enemy's flank. A division of cavalry (_m_), under the command of general Stryinski, was to leave Boimie, and take a direction on the left, towards the village of Gruszki, to pass there the fords of the river Kostrzyn, and in case of the retreat of the enemy, to fall upon his right wing. Having issued these instructions, and confided the command of the little corps which was to act upon the enemy's left wing at Wodynie, to general Prondzynski, the general in chief left himself for Boimie, to lead the attack in person upon the main road. As was the case in the position at Boimie, [_Refer to Plan_ II,] we were separated from the enemy by the marshes of the river Kostrzyn. The two ruined bridges upon the dyke not permitting either ourselves or the enemy to pass, general Skrzynecki contented himself with opening a fire of artillery upon the Russian position, in order to occupy the attention of the enemy, while preparations were making to repair the bridges sufficiently to admit a passage. The moment that the work of reconstructing the bridges was to be put in execution, was to be decided by the time and the direction in which the fire of general Prondzynski should be heard. If the latter general should succeed on the enemy's flank, then, of course, the bridges were to be reconstructed, if not, they were to remain in their present state to obstruct the passage of the enemy. Several hours were occupied by this fire of artillery, and slight manoeuvres of the light troops, when at last, between eight and nine o'clock, the fire of general Prondzynski was heard, who had evidently passed Wodynie, and had begun acting on the enemy's flank. This was the signal to commence repairing the bridges. General Skrzynecki, with his suite, superintended the work, and several battalions were employed in bringing together the materials. A degree of consternation was observed in the enemy's forces, in consequence of the attack on his flank, and his columns began a movement; but his artillery continued in their position, and commenced a terrible fire upon our men who were engaged in reconstructing the bridges. The presence of mind, however, of the general in chief, who exposed himself at the most dangerous points, encouraged the men to persevere in their labors under this destructive fire of artillery.[53] When the fire on his flank was at its height, the enemy began to withdraw his artillery, and commenced a retreat. By between 10 and 11 o'clock no part of the enemy's forces were remaining upon the plain of Boimie; but, although the work of repairing the bridges was pressed to the utmost, it was near two o'clock before they could be brought to such a state as to admit the passage of artillery; and although several battalions of the infantry had passed over before this, they were not able, without too much exposure, to overtake the enemy, who was in rapid retreat, leaving his cavalry as a rear guard. It was not until the last mentioned hour, that the whole division passed the bridges, and pressed forward at a rapid pace in the pursuit, the cavalry advancing upon the trot. While this was taking place upon the great road to Boimie, general Prondzynski [_Plan_ XXI, (A),] who, according to his instructions, advanced to Wodynie, found there a division of sixteen squadrons of Russian cavalry, whom he drove from their position: he pursued them in the direction of Siedlce, and reached the environs of Iganie, where he saw the corps of Rosen and Giesmar (B) in full retreat. At this moment the position of general Prondzynski was also critical; for, as the reader is already aware, our main army was not in a condition to follow the enemy, on account of the obstruction from the broken bridges. If the enemy had thrown himself upon Prondzynski, they could have crushed him, and with their other forces could have safely passed the dyke (_a_) at Iganie, before our main forces, retarded as they were, could have arrived. This danger was perceived by Prondzynski, and he therefore contented himself with driving the division of Russian cavalry (C) from a position they had taken upon the heights of Iganie, (a task which was bravely executed by the cavalry of Kicki, and in which the colonel Mycielski was wounded) and occupying that position himself, placing there the brigade of Romarino to defend it. It was between four and five o'clock that Prondzynski first perceived our lancers (D) advancing upon the main road. A great part of the enemy, particularly of their cavalry, had not yet passed the dyke (_a_), being obstructed by their artillery. Generals Prondzynski and Romarino, dismounting from their horses, with carbines in their hands, placed themselves at the head of their columns, and commenced a fire of artillery, to apprize our advancing cavalry of their position. At the sound of this fire, the cavalry of Lubinski raised the hurrah, rushed forward, and as they approached near the brigade of Romarino, threw themselves at the charge upon that portion of the enemy's rear guard which had not yet passed the dyke. Our infantry and cavalry thus fell simultaneously upon them, the enemy were terribly cut up, and the battle was gained. Nearly five Russian battalions, amounting to 4,000 men, with their officers, amounting to near one hundred, their standards, and eight pieces of cannon of large calibre, were taken. Six regiments of cavalry were dispersed, many of them were lost in the marshes of the river into which they were driven, and several hundred men and horse were taken prisoners there. In this battle, which may be counted one of the finest in the campaign, the circumstance that our main force was retarded by the state of the bridges, alone saved the enemy from total ruin. It is to be remarked that the 2d division of cavalry of general Stryinski, did not improve its time, and effected nothing upon the right flank of the enemy, as the instructions contemplated. The negligence of that general was inexcusable, and the commander in chief deprived him of his command. We lost in this battle about five hundred men, in killed and wounded. The brave general Prondzynski was slightly wounded. Before night the two armies were not at the distance of a cannon-shot from each other, but all was tranquil. The disorder and consternation of the enemy may be imagined, when it is stated that our columns took position before their eyes, on the field of Iganie, without being in the least disturbed by them. The reader will permit me to fix his attention upon the epoch of the battle of Iganie, which was indeed the brightest moment of our war, the moment of the highest success of the Polish arms, the moment of the most confident hopes, when every Pole in imagination saw his country already restored to her ancient glory. Let us then, from this point, cast a look backwards to the commencement of this terrible contest. Two months before, an enormous Russian force had invaded our country, defended as it was by a mere handful of her sons; and any one who had seen that immense army enter upon our soil, could not but have looked on Poland with commiseration, as about to be instantaneously annihilated. In this expectation, in fact, all Europe looked on, and at every moment the world expected to hear of the terrible catastrophe,--to see Poland again in chains, and the Russian arms reposing on the borders of the Rhine. Such, in fact, were the expectations and even the promises of marshal Diebitsch. Providence, however, willed otherwise. The first shock of the Polish arms with the Russians taught the latter what was the moral strength of patriotism,--what a nation can do for love of country and of liberty. The fields of Siedlce, Dobre, and Stoczek, the first witnesses of our triumphs, and the grave of so many of our enemies, taught them to respect the nation which they expected to subdue, made them repent the audacity of having passed our frontiers, and gave them a terrible presage of how dearly they would have to pay for this unjust invasion of our soil. Battle upon battle was given, in which the enemy were uniformly subjected to the severest losses. The two great roads leading from different directions to Warsaw, on which they had followed the Poles, were covered with their dead. Thus subjected to loss at every step, the enemy reached at last the field of Praga, and there collecting all his forces in one body, under a tremendous fire of artillery he thought to overpower our small forces. But he failed to do it. The immortal day of the 25th of February was nearly the destruction of his enormous force, and, after fifteen days of severe fighting, that great army, which was designed to destroy Poland and to make Europe tremble, was brought to a state of extremity. The autocrat and his general blushed at the menaces which they had uttered. Poland believed that the former would reflect upon those bloody struggles and the immense losses which he had suffered, and would be unwilling to continue such sacrifices. Nearly 50,000 Russians were already sacrificed. How many more lives might he not still lose? The Poles, although conquerors, held out the hand of reconciliation, as the letters that Skrzynecki addressed to Diebitsch have proved. In those letters, written with the utmost cordiality, frankness, and directness, he invited the Russian commander to present the real state of things to the monarch, and to assure him that the Poles longed to put an end to this fraternal struggle. A word of justice, of good will, indicative of a disposition to act for the happiness of the nation, and to observe the privileges which the constitution granted,--a word of this nature, from the lips of the monarch, would have disarmed the Poles, blood would have ceased to flow, and those arms outstretched for the fight, would have thrown away the sabre, and would have been extended towards him as to a father,--to him, the author of a happy reconciliation. He would have been immortalized in history, and would have taken a place by the side of Titus. Far, however, from that true and noble course, that proud autocrat, as well as his servant, Diebitsch, thought little of the thousands of human beings he was sacrificing:--far from such magnanimous conduct, he sent for other thousands to be sacrificed, to gratify his arrogance and ambition. He contrives new plans to pass the Vistula. It was not enough to have covered four palatinates with ruin on one side of that river. He determines to spread devastation and ruin upon the other also:--in fine, to attack Warsaw, and bury in its own ruins that beautiful capital, the residence of the successors of Piast and Jagellow, and where he himself could have reigned in tranquillity, by only having been just and good. In the execution of this plan of destruction, he was arrested and justly punished upon the glorious days of the 31st of March and the 1st of April, which, in conjunction with the recent revolutions in Lithuania and Samogitia, and the recent battle of Iganie, seemed to threaten the ruin of his army. The Russian army was now in a state of the greatest disaffection, being posted in a devastated country, and having their resources for subsistence entirely cut off by the state of Lithuania and Samogitia. In addition to their immense losses in action, fatigue, sickness, and other inconveniences had reduced them to a state of extreme distress. Besides the influence of physical evils, there was a moral influence which impaired their strength, arising from a conviction which they could not avoid feeling, of the justice of the Polish cause. The Russian soldiers began also to reflect, that by thus serving the ends of despotism, they were only securing the continuance of their own servitude. These reflections were not made by the army alone, but, as we were secretly advised by persons coming from the interior of Russia, they were made there also, and were accompanied with the same sentiments of discontent. At St Petersburgh, as well as at Moscow, various discontents were manifested, and notices of such must have met the eye of the reader in the journals of the day. The senate of St Petersburgh presented to the consideration of the monarch the continual severe losses of the preceding years, in the wars with Persia and Turkey, and those of this campaign, (though much underrated by them,) which they had reason to fear would be still increased, and which might encourage revolutions in all the provinces. For these reasons the senate took upon themselves to advise some propitiatory measures, and some attempt by concessions to satisfy the demands of the Poles. The party most zealous in favor of such a course was composed of those who had relations and friends exiled to Siberia, on account of the revolutionary movement of 1825. The Russian patriots in general, not only thought it a favorable moment to attempt to effect an amelioration of the fate of those individuals, but they hoped that the restoration of their ancient constitutional privileges and nationality to the Polish provinces attached to Russia, would authorize a claim for equal privileges to the people of the whole Russian empire. To these circumstances, is to be added that at this time the other cabinets began to feel dissatisfied at the course of Russia, and decidedly refused the requests of aid in men and money which she made on the pretext of former treaties. Every thing, in fine, seemed to promise a near end of the present difficulties. The Polish army, to whom this state of things was well known, waited impatiently for the moment of a decisive contest. One victory more, and the Russians would not be in a state to push their attempts farther. Nothing could then stop the progress of our arms, which would rest on the borders of the Dnieper, the only frontier known to our ancestors. One struggle more, and the darkness of ages, which had hung over the Polish provinces of the North, would be dispersed. The light of civilization would then spread its rays as far as the Ural mountains, and with that civilization a new happiness would cheer those immense regions. Upon the borders of the Dnieper fraternal nations would hold out their hands towards us, and there would be made the great appeal: 'Russians! why all this misery? The Poles wish to deprive you of nothing. Nay, they have even sacrificed their children for your good. Russians! awake to a sense of your condition! You, like us, are only the unhappy victims of the relentless will of those who find their account in oppressing you and us. Let us end this struggle, caused by despotism alone. Let it be our common aim to rid ourselves of its cruel power. It is despotism alone that we have any interest in fighting against. Let us mark these frontiers, which so much fraternal blood has been shed to regain, by monuments, that shall tell posterity, that here ended forever the contest between brothers, which shall recall the disasters that despotism has caused, and be a memorial of eternal friendship between us, and of eternal warning to tyranny.' A COMPARATIVE VIEW OF THE FORCE OF THE TWO ARMIES AFTER THE BATTLE OF IGANIE. The Russian forces, which commenced the contest on the 10th of December, amounted, as has been before stated, to about 200,000 men and 300 pieces of cannon. That army received two reinforcements, viz. the corps of general prince Szachowski, consisting of 20,000 men, and 36 pieces of cannon; and the corps of the imperial guard, consisting also of 20,000 men and 36 pieces of cannon. The whole Russian force, then, which had fought against us, amounted to 240,000 men, and 372 pieces of cannon. To act against this force, our army, counting the reinforcements of 6000 men which it received before the battle of Grochow, had in service about 50,000 men, and about 100 pieces of cannon. Up to the battle of Iganie, fifteen principal battles had been given, viz. those of Stoczek, Dobre, Milosna, Swierza and Nowawies, Bialolenka (on the 20th and 24th), Grochow (on the 20th and 25th), Nasielsk, Pulawy, Kurow, Wawr (on the 18th and 31st), Dembe-Wielkie and Iganie. To these are to be added a great number of small skirmishes, in not one of which could it have been said that the Russians were successful. By their own official reports,--after the battle of Grochow, more than fifty thousand Russians were _hors du combat_. It will not, then, be an exaggeration to say, that their whole loss, taking into the account prisoners and those who fell under the ravages of the cholera, which had begun to extend itself in their army, must have amounted to between 80,000 and 100,000 men.[54] From the enormous park of artillery which the Russians had brought against us, they lost as many as sixty pieces. It may then be presumed that the Russian army remained at between 130,000 and 150,000 men, and about 240 pieces of cannon, not estimating, however, which it would be impossible to do, the number of cannon which might have been dismounted. Our army, which was reorganized at Warsaw, after its losses, was brought to about the same state as at the commencement of the war, that is, about 40,000 strong. The artillery was now augmented to 140 pieces. Although the enemy's force was still sufficiently imposing, the reader will permit me to say, (and in fact we did reasonably calculate thus) that as we had fought with such success against the enemy in his unimpaired strength, we might with confidence promise ourselves a certain issue of the conflict in our favor, when, with his forces thus diminished in numbers, sick, discouraged, and discontented, we could meet him with the same and even a stronger force than that with which we had already been victorious, animated too, as we now were, by the inspiriting influence of our past success, and aided by the terror with which our arms had inspired the enemy. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 52: Every military reader, who shall follow, with strict attention, the plans of our general in strategy and tactics, will be astonished, perhaps, that after such victories as those of the 31st of March and 1st of April, he should have abandoned the advantages which he might have gained, in following up, immediately, his operations upon the two corps of Rosen and Giesmar, and then throwing himself rapidly upon the superior forces of Diebitsch, which, after those corps were cut off, could, by a simultaneous diversion upon Zelechow and Lukow, [_See Plan_], have been attacked on both sides, and thrown into confusion. Although I cannot give a satisfactory explanation of this apparent fault, it must be considered, that those subsequent events which give a color to the imputation, could not, perhaps, have then been reasonably anticipated by the general; and the talent so uniformly displayed by Skrzynecki should force us to suppose that there were some conclusive objections to such a course, occurring to his mind, which are not now apparent to the observer.] [Footnote 53: No terms can express the admirable conduct of our commander and his suite, who directed the work of reconstructing these bridges, in person. The general and his officers all labored with their own hands at this important task. Some of them were wounded. Our brave soldiers, witnessing the fine example of their chief, shouted their patriotic songs, as they worked, under this destructive fire. While a party were placing some trunks of trees, a shell fell among them. To have left their labor in order to avoid the danger, would have delayed the work, they therefore remained in their places, and with the noise of the explosion was mingled the shout of 'Poland forever!' Providence granted that in that exposed labor our loss was very inconsiderable.] [Footnote 54: I cannot pretend to give the reader an accurate idea of the number of prisoners which were taken during the first days of April. From the battle of Wawr to that of Iganie, not a day passed in which great numbers of them, with baggage and effects of all kinds, were not brought in. They must have amounted in that interval to full 16,000. Those prisoners arrived generally without escort, and it was often the case that old men and even women of the peasantry were seen leading them, or rather showing them the way,--two or three peasants, perhaps, with twenty prisoners. This continual influx of prisoners gave a name in fact to that interval of time, which was referred to, as 'the Period of the Prisoners.' The inhabitants of Warsaw found an amusement in witnessing this continual arrival of the captured Russians. 'Let us go to Praga, to see the prisoners brought in,' was a proposition often made, as referring to an ordinary recreation which might be counted on with perfect certainty. If, for a half day, no prisoners appeared, the complaint would be sportively made, 'What is Mr John about, (referring to Skrzynecki) that he sends us no prisoners to-day?' The great number of the prisoners engaged the attention of the national government. It was impossible to leave them all at Warsaw; and they were at first divided into three parts, one of which remained in Warsaw to work upon the fortifications, and every soldier was paid for his labor. The second part being also employed upon wages, labored on the great roads leading from Warsaw, in a direction opposite to the seat of the war. The third part were dispersed among the farmers in the proportion of one Russian for three farmers; and these were also paid for their labor. At stated times, an assemblage of the prisoners was held, in which they were addressed in such a manner as to produce a moral effect upon them. They were instructed in the true nature of their political rights, the real causes of the contest were exhibited to them, and they were made to be convinced that it was for their advantage as well as our own that we were fighting. The greatest harmony reigned between the Poles and their prisoners; and I am sure that those Russians will remember the days they passed as prisoners, as the happiest in their lives. With us their prison was a state of freedom and tranquillity, in which they received a liberal reward for their labor, while in their own country they were the slaves of despots, great and little, to whom obedience was enforced by the knout.] CHAPTER XVI. Position of the two armies after the battle of Iganie.--Plan of a simultaneous attack upon the Russian forces upon opposite sides.--Instructions to the different corps.--Operations on the enemy's front.--Unfortunate operations of general Sierawski, and the _first defeat_.--Details of those operations.--Operations of general Dwernicki.--He defeats Rudiger; but by a false operation exposes himself to be attacked disadvantageously by two Russian corps.--In the course of the action the Austrian frontier is passed by the combatants.--An Austrian force interposes, and general Dwernicki consents to go into camp.--His arms and prisoners are taken from him, while the enemy is permitted to leave the territory freely.--Reflections on the conduct of Austria.--Consequences of the loss of Dwernicki's corps.--The cholera makes its appearance in the two armies. The positions of the two armies, [_See Plan_ XXII,] were now as follows:--The Russian army was divided into four principal bodies, having no communication with each other. First, their main body (_a_), consisting of about 60,000 men and 130 pieces of cannon, were between Lukow (1) and Cock (2). Secondly, the remains of the corps of Rosen and Giesmar (_b_) were at Siedlce (3). They could be counted at about 20,000 men and perhaps 50 pieces of cannon. Thirdly, at Ostrolenka (4) was the Imperial guard (_c_), consisting of 18,000 men and 36 cannon. Fourthly, in the palatinate of Lublin, were the combined corps of Witt and Kreutz (_d_), consisting of 30,000 men and 60 pieces of cannon. Their different scattered detachments might be counted at 10,000 men. This separation of their different corps invited a sudden attack on either, before it could receive succor from the others. [Illustration: _XXII. p. 234_] [Illustration: _XXIII. p. 243._] Our main body (_e_), composed of four divisions of infantry, and three of cavalry, making in all about 30,000 men and 80 pieces of cannon, was placed between Iganie (5) and Siennica (6). Our reconnoissances were pushed along the left bank of the river Liwiec (L), as far as its junction with the river Bug (B). On the right, those reconnoissances reached Zelechow (7). This was nearly the same as our first position, and it was strong. Besides this main force, was the division of cavalry of general Uminski (_f_) upon the right bank of the Narew, at Nasielsk (8), amounting to 3,200 horse and 24 pieces of artillery, placed there to observe the Russian guard. In the environs of Pulawy (9) was a small partizan corps, under the command of general Sierawski (_g_), with 3,000 men and four pieces of cannon. The corps of general Dwernicki (_h_) was in the environs of Zamosc, (10) and consisted of 4500 men, and 30 pieces of cannon. This corps, though at a distance from the rest of our forces, could not be cut off, having the fortress of Zamosc as a _point d'appui_. If the reader will examine a map of the country, or even the small plan in the preceding pages [_No._ VI, _or_ XXII,] he will be satisfied that by our forces, small as they were, the Russian army was already surrounded, and that on the least advantage which Dwernicki, in conjunction with Sierawski, might gain over Witt and Kreutz, that army could have been taken in the rear, by means of a diversion upon Kock (2) and Radzyn (11). In a word, the moment approached at which our commander had determined to give the enemy a last decisive blow, by attacking him at the same time on every side; and for this object, the following instructions and orders were given. First. The generalissimo renewed the order for strengthening the fortifications of Warsaw and Praga, as well as those on the whole plain of Grochow. From the first day of April, as many as 5000 Russian prisoners were continually employed upon those fortifications. Warsaw, which was already, as the reader is informed, defended by a girdle of lunettes and redoubts, communicating with each other, received the additional defence in some places of block-houses. To strengthen the fortifications of Praga, besides the bridge-head, there were constructed, within the distance of an English mile, a line of circumvallation, which could hold more than twelve thousand men. Still farther, at a distance of two miles beyond, or nearly upon the field of Grochow, was constructed a third line of lunettes and redoubts, which occupied the whole distance from Kawenczyn to the marshes of Goclaw, or the entire field of battle of Grochow, as seen in the plan of that battle. In fine, the approach to Praga was so defended, that the enemy, before reaching it, would have to pass three different lines of fortification. The general in chief gave instructions to the governor of Warsaw in regard to the defence of the city, in which he placed his chief trust upon the national guard. The guard counted it an honor to be entrusted with this duty, and were unwilling that a single soldier of the regular army should be detailed for the service. How admirably they executed their noble resolutions, when the occasion came, is probably well known to every reader. After his plans for the defence of Warsaw were communicated to the authorities of the city, he gave particular attention to those points on which he intended to support all his operations, and, relying on which, he could at any time hazard the boldest attempts. Having thus made Warsaw an axis, upon which all his operations could revolve, he proceeded to arrange his attack. In the first place he sent orders to general Dwernicki (_h_) to attack immediately the combined corps of generals Witt and Kreutz (_d_). In this attack the small corps of general Sierawski (_g_) was to aid, and the two corps were to preserve a constant communication with each other. For that object general Sierawski was to pass the Vistula at Kazimierz (12), and, avoiding an engagement with the enemy, to endeavor to join, as soon as possible, the corps of general Dwernicki, who received orders to leave Zamosc and approach Lublin (13). These two corps were to take such a position, that they could at any time retire upon Zamosc or Kazimierz. General Dwernicki was also informed that a third small corps would be sent in the direction of Zelechow (7) and Kock (2), to act in concert with him on the enemy's rear. If they should succeed in the attack, general Dwernicki was to endeavor to force the enemy to take the direction of Pulawy (9), to drive him into the angle formed by the Vistula (V) and the Wieprz (P); in fine, so to act as to cut off those two corps from all communication whatever with their main body. Leaving the corps of general Sierawski to continue to observe them, and to push his advantages over them, Dwernicki himself was to pass the Wieprz at Kock, and from thence by forced marches to leave in the direction of Radzyn (11) for Lukow (1) or Seroczyn (14), as circumstances might direct, and according as he should ascertain the position of the enemy to be. Arrived at Lukow or Seroczyn, as the case might be, he was to await there the orders of the general in chief, to join in the attack upon the main force of the enemy under Diebitsch (_e_), in which attack he was to act on the enemy's left wing. The main body of the enemy, thus taken in front and in flank, simultaneously, could not but have been broken up. For all these operations the general in chief had destined fourteen days only. On the night of the battle of Iganie, the general in chief having decided upon the above plan, sent officers in every direction with orders and instructions. The officers sent to the corps of general Dwernicki were enjoined to communicate their orders to him with the utmost haste. The generalissimo, while making his preparations for this last blow, continued an unremitting observation upon all the movements of the enemy, even to the minutest details, and in order that the enemy might be constantly occupied, and diverted from suspecting our plans, he directed small attacks to be continually made upon his front. For this object the second division, posted at Siennica, received orders to advance to the small town of Jeruzalem. The division, in executing that order, fought the enemy for three successive days, the 12th, 13th and 14th of April, at Jedlina, Wodynie, and Plomieniece, and always with advantage. In one of those attacks, at Jedlina, a small detachment of sixteen Krakus attacked a squadron of Russian hussars, coming from Wodynie, dispersed them, and took some twenty prisoners. This division received also the order to communicate constantly with the corps of general Pac at Zelechow. This last general was to send continual reconnoissances towards Kock, to keep a constant observation upon the Russian corps of Kreutz and Witt. Of the movements of those two corps, the generalissimo was each day to receive the most accurate information, in order to be ready prepared to prevent, at any moment, a junction which might be attempted between those corps and their main body. General Skrzynecki, seeing that the enemy had fallen into his plan, (of which, indeed, he could not have had the least suspicion,) and full of the brightest hopes, waited impatiently in his strong position, for intelligence from general Dwernicki, and the approach of the moment for his attack upon Diebitsch. Almost sure of the successful execution of his admirable arrangements, what can express his disappointment on hearing of the unfortunate operations of the corps of general Sierawski, and of the defeat of that corps at Kazimierz in the palatinate of Lublin, _the first defeat in the whole war_. That general, in neglecting the instructions of the commander in chief, not to engage with the enemy, on account of the inferiority of his own forces, (with which forces in fact he could not expect to act but in partizan warfare,) approached Lublin, where the two corps of Kreutz and Witt were supposed to be posted, while his orders were, by avoiding those corps, and taking the most circuitous roads, to endeavor to join as secretly and as soon as possible, the corps of Dwernicki. He was probably deceived by false information as to the direction of the enemy's corps, and led to believe that those two corps had quitted Lublin, to attack general Dwernicki at Zamosc. He therefore probably took the direction of Lublin, with the idea of acting upon the rear of the enemy at the moment of his attack upon Dwernicki. In this manner general Sierawski, quitting Kazimierz, arrived on the 16th of April at Belzyca. To his great astonishment he found there a strong advanced guard of the above mentioned corps. To avoid compromitting himself, he engaged with this advanced guard, when, observing the very superior force and the advantageous position of the enemy, he ordered a retreat, which retreat was well executed and without much loss. This general should have continued his march the whole night, with as little delay as possible, in order to repass quietly the Vistula, and thus be protected from all molestation by the enemy. But, for what cause it is almost impossible to conjecture, he awaited the enemy in order of battle the next day, at Serauow. Perhaps, finding himself in rather a strong position, he thought that the corps of general Dwernicki might arrive to his aid. The enemy approached the next day with his whole force against Sierawski, and as warm an action commenced as the nature of the ground would admit, it being covered by woods with patches of open ground intervening. Some squadrons of young Kaliszian cavalry, led by the general himself, advanced to the attack of the enemy's artillery, which being disadvantageously posted, was exposed to be captured. That cavalry, however, by a false direction of their charge, fell among the concealed masses of the enemy's infantry, and their attack failed. This unsuccessful attack had unfortunate results. The corps of general Sierawski was obliged to evacuate its position, and along its whole retrograde march continual attacks of the enemy were pressed upon it. The peculiar nature of the ground, and the extreme brevity of general Sierawski, a veteran of between sixty and seventy, who, at the head of the detachments of his rear guard always led the charges against the enemy, and held him in check, was all that saved the corps from destruction. At length the corps reached Kazimierz, the point which it had left; and here again, instead of passing the Vistula, Sierawski awaited another attack from the overwhelming force of the enemy, and that too with only the half of his corps, for the other half was sent to pass the Vistula. This course was inexplicable, and excited much remark in the army. On the 18th, the Russians reached Kazimierz. The town was vigorously attacked by them, and their assaults were repeatedly repulsed by the new Kazimierz infantry, under colonel Malachowski, who, with a scythe in his hand, marched at their head. But the death of that brave patriot spread among the ranks of those new soldiers a degree of disorder, and the city was taken by the enemy. We must again thank general Sierawski for having saved the rest of the corps from ruin; having executed the evacuation of the town with such order that he passed the Vistula at the point of Borowa, not far from Kazimierz, without being molested in the attempt. He then took a position on the left bank. Although the unfortunate affairs of those two days were not attended by severe losses, yet they were deeply afflictive to the general in chief. They threatened the entire disarrangement of his plans, and were followed by the more important disasters of general Dwernicki. The latter general, who, as is known to the reader, commenced his career so gloriously; whose very name, indeed, was a terror to the Russians, and who, by his successive victories over the three corps of Kreutz, Wirtemberg, and Rudiger, had established the strongest claims upon the gratitude of his country,--this general, I must repeat it with pain, finished his great career in the most unfortunate manner. His case should serve as a strong example, that it is not bravery alone which is required in a great general, for in that it would be difficult to find his equal, but that this bravery loses its value when not united with circumspection. The following are the details of the operations of general Dwernicki. [_See Plan No._ XXIII.] We cannot well imagine the cause which induced that general to quit Zamosc (1), and the important operations in the palatinate of Lublin, and, neglecting all his instructions and orders, to have crossed the Bug (B) and entered the province of Volhynia, unless it were the reception of some certain news of a fresh insurrection in that province, and of the collection of insurgent forces there, who might be waiting for his approach, and who needed his protection. He might, perhaps, have thought to be able so to accelerate his movement as to avail himself of such new strength before a superior Russian force should arrive in that province to crush such insurrection, and disperse the insurgents. At the moment when Dwernicki might have conceived such a plan, there was, in fact, only a corps of about 12,000 men and some 20 pieces of cannon, under Rudiger, in the province. This corps, Dwernicki perhaps intended to attack, in his way, and crush them, and then attaching the insurgents to his corps, to return to the palatinate, or if circumstances might make it expedient, to follow up his blow into the heart of Volhynia. In fine, on the 15th of April, this general quitted the environs of Zamosc, taking the direction of Uscilog (2), where, on the evening of the 16th, he passed the river Bug. On the 17th he continued his march in the direction of Dubno (3), where the insurgents were perhaps supposed to be awaiting him. On the road to that town he received information that the corps of Rudiger had marched from Radziwilow (4) and was now in the direction of Milatyn (5). General Dwernicki turned immediately from the direction in which he was marching, to throw himself upon this corps, which he found on its march, at the village of Boromel (6), where, without giving the enemy time to take position, he attacked and overthrew him. The enemy was routed, and lost several hundred in killed and prisoners, with eight pieces of cannon. That in this fine, and the last fine battle of Dwernicki, the Russian corps was not wholly destroyed, was owing to the circumstance that a branch of the river Styr (S), over which the bridge had been destroyed, stopped our pursuit. The Russians, during the night of the 18th, evacuated their position, and took the road to Beresteczko (7), where they took a new position. In regard to tactics, the corps of general Rudiger could not have chosen a worse direction than that of the angle formed by the river Styr, and the frontier of Austria (F). General Dwernicki, by a passage to the right bank of the Styr, could have cut off all the enemy's communications with his other corps, and could have again fought him at the greatest advantage. It was here then that our brave Dwernicki committed his great fault, and in place of acting upon the right bank of the river, where he would have had an open field for the most enlarged operations, he chose to follow up the attack; and as he saw that the enemy could not be safely assailed in front, on account of his strong position between two small lakes, but found that this position was open towards the frontier of Austria,--there it was that the unhappy idea occurred to him, of marching to the environs of Kolodno (8), on the frontier of Austria, and attacking the enemy on that side, feeling sure of victory. But general Rudiger did not wait for this attack. Perceiving his exposed position between the river and the frontier, he was satisfied with being permitted to escape, and declined battle. Upon observing that general Dwernicki was manoeuvring upon the frontiers of Austria, general Rudiger repassed the Styr, avoided the attack by this manoeuvre, and was in a situation to join himself with all the Russian detachments which might come into the province from the heart of Russia, by the different directions of Krzemieniece, Ostrog, &c, and to act with them in surrounding Dwernicki, who was confined in this above described angle. This is what in fact took place. Dwernicki remained, for what reason we cannot conceive, at Kolodno until the 23d of April, whence, following along the frontiers of Austria, he took the direction of Wereszczaki (9). There dispersing a Russian detachment, he arrived on the 26th at Knielce and Wielkie (10). Knowing that the Russians were observing him, he determined to remain there and take advantage of a strong natural position. He wished in this position to await the enemy and give him battle, hoping by a victory to free himself from the contracted space in which he was confined. In fact, on the next day, the corps of general Rudiger (_b_) made its appearance, having come in the direction of Krzemienic (11). The battle commenced, and in the midst of the action another Russian corps (_c_) was seen approaching in the direction of Proskirow (12) and Stary-Konstantynow (13) under the command of general Rott, acting thus upon the right wing and even the rear of general Dwernicki's corps. To avoid being turned, general Dwernicki retired in such a manner as to lean his right wing upon the Austrian frontier. The Russians, not regarding this, passed that frontier, and proceeded to push their attack upon his flank. This obliged general Dwernicki to withdraw his left wing, and indeed his whole front, upon the Austrian territory, where, in fact, the line was not distinctly marked, all the while being engaged with the enemy. The action having continued thus for some hours, a detachment of Austrian cavalry, under colonel Fac, approached and threw themselves between the combatants, calling on them to respect the neutrality of the territory. In this manner the combat ceased. General Dwernicki gave his parole to discontinue hostilities, and consented to advance farther into the interior, and, placing himself in camp, waited the result of the decision of the Austrian government upon what had occurred. The Russian corps, which had just passed the frontier, and which had in fact entered it with its whole force, was permitted to leave freely. The first duty which general Dwernicki thought imposed upon him in his present situation, was to make a full and true report of what had occurred to the National Government and the general in chief, which he was permitted to do. He also sent a letter to the commander in chief of the Austrian forces in Gallicia, explaining how it was that, in a necessary manoeuvre he had passed over a point of land on the Austrian territory without the intention of occupying it. Having done this, he supposed that he would be permitted to remain in camp, retaining his own arms, those taken from the enemy, and his prisoners, until conferences between the governments should decide respecting the course to be taken. But the Austrian government, far from giving such a reasonable permission, collected a strong corps in the environs of Tarnopol, and the Austrian commander in chief demanded of general Dwernicki to surrender both his own arms and those taken from the enemy. General Dwernicki, although this Austrian corps was not formidable to him, yet being anxious to avoid the serious political consequences which might possibly follow resistance, submitted to this unjust demand, which will be an eternal reproach to the Austrian government. The Austrians returned their arms to the Russian prisoners, whom they liberated, and retained the arms of the Polish troops. The whole corps was conducted into the interior, and thus ended the career of that important body of our forces.[55] The conduct of Austria, in regard to the corps of Dwernicki, I am sure will excite the indignation of the reader. If general Dwernicki had entered upon the Austrian territory, he was forced to do it by the Russian corps, which had already passed the frontier; and that cannot be regarded as an intentional invasion of the frontiers which was done without design, and was a mere transition over an indistinct line, made necessary by the position which the enemy had taken. Such a case certainly should have formed an exception to a general rule. To the Russian corps all the prisoners were returned, without any consent obtained from our government, to whom they, in fact, belonged, and should have been considered as belonging, until the end of the war. It was in this manner that those intriguing cabinets repaid the debt of gratitude which they owed to Poland. They had forgotten the times of John Sobieski, who, in 1683, delivered their capital, and their whole territory, from destruction at the hands of the Turks. They had forgotten that they thus owe their very existence to Poland. At present, regardless of all obligations of justice, they concert with our enemy for our ruin. But if by this unjust treatment of their benefactors, the Austrians may have gained some temporary advantages, the reader will acknowledge that in reference to their ultimate good, they have acted with a most short-sighted and mistaken policy. The aggrandizement of Russia can never be an advantage to Austria. There were few more melancholy events in our war than this. The disaster of this corps grievously paralyzed all the fine plans of the general in chief. It reinforced the Russian superior force by 40,000 men;--for the different corps of Kreutz, Witt, Rudiger and Rott, could now rejoin their main army without obstruction. To these disasters of the two corps of Dwernicki and Sierawski, which were deeply felt by the nation, was now to be added the appearance of that horrible malady, the cholera, which after the battle of Iganie commenced its devastations in our ranks. On the night of that battle several hundreds of our troops fell sick. This terrible disease caused us, on the first few days, the loss of nearly 1,000 men; but if it was terrible with us, nothing can express the suffering it produced in the Russian camp, aided by the want of comfort in the arrangements of that camp, and the acid food upon which the Russian soldiers were habitually fed. Thousands of those wretched sufferers were left exposed to the open air, and died upon the field. The Poles took even more care of them than of their own sick. They were brought together, and transported to Menie, where there was a large convent, which was turned into an hospital for their use. The total number of those sufferers may be imagined, when it is stated, that, in that hospital and village alone, two thousand Russian sick were reported. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 55: This unfortunate and painful event should serve as an impressive example, which cannot be too often brought to mind, of what disastrous consequences may follow from the neglect of observing a constant communication between corps acting together, and, above all, the departing from orders which are given upon a general plan, the absolute control of which should belong to the general in chief. Had general Dwernicki, conforming to his instructions, acted only against the corps of Kreutz and Witt, and in concert with the corps of Sierawski, he would have been apprised of that general's quitting Kazimierz, and both of those two corps could have joined in the attack, in which they would have been aided by another corps which was to be sent, as the reader is aware, to act against the enemy's rear. If those corps of Kreutz and Witt had been defeated, immense advantages would have followed; indeed the war would have been over, for the Russian main army would have been taken in flank and rear, and, in fact, completely cut off.] CHAPTER XVII. The Russian commander resumes offensive operations.--Object of the attack of the 25th of April.--Combat of Kuflew.--General Dembinski evacuates the position of Kuflew and awaits the enemy at Bady.--Battle of Minsk.--The enemy suddenly evacuates his position.--Reflections on this stage of the conflict.--Positions of the two armies. The Russian main army, which, since the last of March had been on the defensive, from weakness or from indecision, on the 23d of April began to change its position, and to take the offensive. Having received intelligence, as we may suppose, of the disasters of Sierawski, and also of the passage of general Dwernicki into Volhynia, general Diebitsch gave orders to the corps of Witt and Kreutz to pass the Wieprz at Kock, and to attack our detachment at Zelechow, which was forced to retire. On the same day, (23d) the brigade of colonel Dembinski was attacked at Jeruzalem, without any decisive result. Those small attacks by the enemy served, however, as an indication of the intention of general Diebitsch to take the offensive on a larger scale. To meet this intention, all our detachments received orders to hold themselves in readiness. Firstly, these detachments were to concentrate themselves upon a line of operations, between Kaluszyn, Siennica, and Zelechow. [_The reader can refer to Plan_ VI.] The whole line, in case of attack, on whatever quarter it might be, was to make a retrograde movement, upon the same plan as heretofore, as far as the field of Wawr. General Pac, in particular, who was the farthest removed from Zelechow, was to use the utmost vigilance, and to make this retrograde movement in the promptest manner, when occasion required. On the 25th of April, in fact, marshal Diebitsch commenced his attack at two principal points, Boimie and Kuflew. Upon the last of these two points, he threw his greatest force, intending to pierce our line there, and by a diversion at Minsk to divide our forces. Besides the prevention of this design, the defence of Kuflew was of the greatest importance to us from the circumstance that along the whole course of the river Swider, at Latowicz, Starygrod, &c, were posted various small detachments, which would have been cut off, if we should be forced to make a sudden evacuation of that point. COMBAT OF KUFLEW. [_See Plan_ XXIV.] This combat deserved to be forever held up as an example in tactics, to show how much can be done with a small force, managed with prudence and skill. Colonel Dembinski, who, in this battle, commanded the inconsiderable forces that met the attack of the masses of Diebitsch, well merited the rank of general, to which he was then advanced. Our position was covered by the river Swider (S) and its marshes, which secured it from being taken in flank. The enemy had one debouchment (_a_), consisting of a kind of dyke, which led from Kolacze (1). He could pass this dyke easily, for the bridge was entire. On our side, not far from this dyke, were small forests, or rather brush-wood, occupied by two battalions (_b_) of our infantry. Upon the plain between Kuflew and the river Swider, ten squadrons of our cavalry (_c_) manoeuvred. Near the village (II) upon a little hill, on which was a wind-mill, our artillery (_d_), consisting of only four pieces, were posted, and directed their fire upon the passage over which the enemy were to debouch. The position of the enemy was commanding, for his artillery could sweep the whole plain on each side of the Swider. The details of this battle were as follow:--At sunrise, on the 25th, several regiments of cossacks (_e_) appeared upon the heights of Jeruzalem. They even several times attempted to pass the dyke, but were repulsed by the fire of our tirailleurs from the brush-wood. It was mid-day when strong columns of infantry (_f_) began to show themselves in the direction of Lukowiec and Plomieniec. In a short time all the heights of Jeruzalem were covered with columns of infantry, and they began their descent to Kolacze. The Russian light troops (_g_) began their debouchment, and a warm fire commenced between the Russian infantry upon the dyke, and our own tirailleurs in the brush-wood. The Russian artillery (_h_) which remained upon the heights on the other side, consisting of twenty and more pieces of large calibre, poured for several hours a heavy fire upon Kuflew, where they supposed a large force to be placed, but where, in fact, besides the four pieces of artillery, we had but one company of infantry. Under this terrible fire, that village was burnt to the ground. Those attacks of the Russian artillery and infantry continued for three successive hours, when colonel Dembinski, being informed that the small detachments at Latowicz, &c, above referred to, had evacuated their position and were safe from being cut off, commenced his retreat, as his instructions directed. By accelerating his retreat he had another object in view, namely, to lead the enemy in the direction of the 2d division, which was posted at Ceglow, and was prepared to receive him. Our infantry and artillery had left their position and were on the road, when colonel Dembinski, placing himself at the head of his cavalry, threw himself with great boldness upon the columns of the enemy which had debouched over the dyke, and by repeated attacks kept them off from our rear. After having passed the first forest without molestation, between Ceglow and Kuflew, colonel Dembinski took a position, between forests, in the environs of Bady, where a part of the 2d division was placed in expectation of the enemy, in a kind of ambuscade. Here our forces waited in vain until night for the enemy, who had contented himself with having taken Kuflew. Two squadrons of cossacks, whom he ventured to send towards our position, to reconnoitre, were, as soon as they were seen, fallen upon by our cavalry, and either cut down or made prisoners, to the amount of more than a hundred men and horses, with two officers. As the enemy attempted nothing more, our forces, during the night, evacuated their position, agreeably to instructions, and reached Minsk at 3, A.M. of the next day. At Kuflew, full 40,000 men, with some twenty pieces of artillery, and commanded by Diebitsch in person, were opposed to general Dembinski, who had not quite 4,000 men and four pieces of artillery, with which force he stood against the enemy for that whole day. The loss of the Russians was about a thousand men, and on our own side it was not fifty. [Illustration: _XXIV._] [Illustration: _XXV._] The actions which took place on the same day at Boimie, were without any decisive result, consisting only of a continued fire of artillery. During the night of that day, our forces in every point made a retrograde movement. The general in chief arranged his preparations to receive the enemy on the 26th, dividing his forces into two parts. The second division under Gielgud, and the division of cavalry, under Skarzynski, was to await the enemy at Minsk; while the general in chief, with the main body, awaited him in person at Dembe-Wielke. BATTLE OF MINSK. [_See Plan_ XXV.] The position of Minsk may be considered as one of the strongest upon the great road from Siedlce to Warsaw. That town is situated in a plain, surrounded by an impenetrable forest, and traversed by a small river, which falls into the Swider. Upon the side of Warsaw, where our forces were placed, are heights which overlook the whole town, and they were particularly commanding upon the right of the roads leading to Warsaw. The fire from those heights could sweep almost every street of the city, and they were occupied by twenty-four pieces of artillery (_a_). Upon the side of Siedlce and Ceglow, whence the enemy was approaching, the whole plain was exposed to the commanding fire of this artillery. The town of Minsk was occupied by two battalions of our light infantry, dispersed as sharp shooters (_b_). It was mid-day when the Russians (_c_) (_d_) debouched from the forest, commenced their advance, and deployed upon the plain under the fire of our artillery, which was opened immediately. Some fifty pieces of the enemy's artillery, (_e_) approached the city, took position, and commenced their fire. As the town was occupied by so small a force, and so distributed as not to be affected by the enemy's fire, he was permitted to continue this fire, and our artillery reserved theirs for the moment when he should make a general advance to storm the town. This soon took place. An enormous mass of infantry (_f_) advanced to the assault. Our light troops evacuated the part of the town beyond the river, to enable our artillery to open upon it. That part was immediately occupied by the enemy, who, crowded together in the streets, were subjected to a fire which spread death among their ranks. The enemy hesitated whether to advance or retire, and remained in the utmost disorder, falling under the fire of our artillery and the torn and burning fragments of the wooden buildings which were rent in pieces by that fire. While the enemy remained in this horrible suspense, the brave colonel Oborski led his regiment to the charge, and bore down all before him. A most terrible massacre, at the point of the bayonet, then took place in the Square of the Church (_g_), where great masses of the enemy were crowded together. The Russians were driven out of the town after a most severe loss. They were left at liberty to take possession of the same part again, but they did not repeat their attacks upon the town, satisfying themselves with concentrating a heavy fire of artillery principally upon the heights occupied by our own. This state of things continued till three o'clock, when general Gielgud gave orders to evacuate the position, agreeably to the directions of the general in chief. Sixteen squadrons of cavalry were left to cover the movement, and in this way our division, reaching the village of Stoiadly, two English miles distant, took a second position there. This new position was advantageous, on account of the elevation of the ground. Our right wing, in particular, was well supported upon a thick marshy forest, and was pushed forward far enough to give a cross fire to the enemy, in case he should try to force the passage of the great road. As the enemy was so imprudent, after our evacuation, as to commence his debouchment through the town, with his cavalry in advance, he exposed himself to a severe loss; for our artillery, consisting of six pieces, poured a destructive fire upon the main street of the city, which led to the only passage over the river; and again, after deploying under this fire upon the plain, he was subjected to vigorous charges from our cavalry under Skarzynski, which cost him a severe loss, and delayed his advance for more than half an hour. As the space between Stoiadly and Minsk was a plain gently descending from our side, moist in the lower parts, and in every way favorable for attacks by our cavalry, their charges were continually repeated, and the combat on this plain deserved the name of the combat of cavalry. To give the reader an idea of these effective charges against a cavalry of much superior force, I will merely state that each squadron of the sixteen, was engaged some three or four successive times with the enemy. Their horses were continually in foam. The regiment of Zamoyski, the Krakus, and the 5th Hulans greatly distinguished themselves. The loss of the enemy's cavalry, of which the greater part consisted of regiments of heavy dragoons, was very great. Their horses hoofs sunk into the humid ground, and our Krakus, on their light animals, assaulted them in the very midst of their ranks. Many staff and other officers of the enemy were left dead upon the field. Our advanced guard having, in this way, fought with such advantages, against the whole Russian army, at Minsk and Stoiadly, from mid-day until 5, P.M.; the general in chief ordered them to evacuate their position as promptly as possible, and retire to Dembe-Wielke, where he awaited the enemy in order of battle, and where he was desirous of meeting his attack before night. This movement was executed without molestation from the Russians. Our advanced guard passed the forests between Dembe-Wielke and Stoiadly, and arrived at the position of Dembe-Wielke, where fifty pieces of our artillery were posted to receive the enemy, and our whole force took the order of battle. The enemy, however, did not debouch from the forests, but remained on the other side. This finishes the details of that day and of the battle of Minsk, in which the early cessation of the attacks of the enemy proved how much he had suffered. He had two generals mortally wounded, general Pahlen and the prince Galiczyn, and lost nearly 4,000 men. On our side the loss was four or five hundred only. For their conduct in this battle, the National Government and the general in chief presented their thanks to the 2d division under Gielgud and the division of cavalry under Skarzynski. General Gielgud was advanced to the rank of general of division, and it was perhaps owing to his skilful dispositions and brave conduct on that day, that it was not feared to entrust him with the command of the all important expedition to Lithuania. On the 27th and 28th, no events took place. During the night of the 28th, the enemy, to our astonishment, evacuated his position and retired as far as Kaluszyn, twenty-four English miles distant. We cannot give the true cause of this sudden and unexpected retreat. Perhaps it was on account of a failure of provisions. Another cause might have been the rumors, which had begun to take an aspect of importance, of the revolutions in Lithuania and Samogitia. The reader will allow me to dwell for a moment upon this extraordinary movement of the enemy, which must be considered an indication, either of the extreme of physical and moral weakness to which the Russian army was reduced, or of a great want of generalship on the part of marshal Diebitsch. Such a course, voluntarily taken, in the eyes of the military critic, is enough to destroy all claim to military talent on the part of that commander. Such great objects attempted, followed up with so little perseverance, and abandoned without an adequate cause, would seem to indicate either the absence of any fixed plan, or a degree of indecision inconsistent with any sound military pretensions. Our commander in chief felt sure that when general Diebitsch attacked, on the 25th, and 26th, it was with the view, having no longer any fear of the corps of generals Dwernicki and Sierawski, and being reinforced by the corps which had been opposed to the former, to follow up his attack and compel us to a general battle. Whatever might have been the result of that battle, it was the only course which a true general could have followed, especially when his army was in such superiority of strength. To one who considers these circumstances, two questions will arise. First, what was the object of commencing the attack? Secondly, what was, in regard to tactics, the cause of its cessation, and of that sudden retreat? It will be very difficult to find a satisfactory answer to either of those questions.[56] Our army, after this retreat of the enemy, commenced anew its advance, and, on the 30th, it occupied again its former position at Boimie, on the river Kostrzyn. At this time, our left wing under Uminski, which, as the reader is aware, was on the right bank of the Narew, at the environs of Pultusk, received orders to join the main army, leaving a detachment at Zagroby, where the generalissimo ordered a strong bridge-head to be erected. The position of the two armies on the 30th was as follows. [_Plans_ VI _and_ XXIX.] Our army was again concentrated between Wengrow and Ceglow, and indeed Wengrow was occupied by a small detachment. The centre or the greater force was on the main road at Kaluszyn. Its advanced posts were along the banks of the river Kostrzyn at Grombkowo, Strzebucza, and Boimie. Our right wing was again posted upon the river Swider, between Karczew and Ceglow. The Russian army was concentrated in the environs of Mordy and Sucha, where marshal Diebitsch entrenched himself in a fortified camp, and took again a defensive attitude. The corps of Kreutz and Witt were in the environs of Pulawy, and the Russian imperial guard advanced to the environs of Pultusk. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 56: In the whole of this war, the videttes of the two armies were at no time so near as they were after this last battle. On the 27th and 28th, those of the Russian cavalry, cossacks and hussars, occupying the main road, were within fifty paces of the videttes of our lancers, so near in fact that they could have conversed together. On having this circumstance reported to him, the general in chief did not take advantage of any attack, but ordered the utmost forbearance to be observed, and the most friendly demonstrations to be made by our outposts. On changing of the guard, our sentinels, as they quitted their post, bade a friendly adieu to the opposite sentinel of the enemy; and under the cover of night, the enemy's sentinels, and even some of their officers, approached our videttes, gave their hands, and entered into friendly conversation. It was touching to see those brave soldiers deeply affected at such meetings. With tears in their eyes, the Russians could only repeat that they had been forced to this contest, and confessed that, even if we should be conquerors, they would be the gainers in other respects. They also uttered their complaints of the tyranny and the privations to which they were subjected, and our lancers gave them all the relief which their own means could furnish.] CHAPTER XVIII. General Skrzynecki resumes the offensive.--He decides to adopt an enlarged plan of operations, and to make the revolutionized provinces supply the place of a corps d'armee.--The corps of Chrzanowski is sent to occupy the Russian corps of Witt and Kreutz.--Admirable execution of this enterprise.--Attack on Kock.--Attack of Rudiger's camp.--Plan of operations by the main army against the Russian guard.--Forced march from Kaluszyn by Praga to Serock.--Advanced post of the guard attacked and defeated.--The corps of Saken is cut off.--The 2d division under Gielgud sent into Lithuania.--The imperial guard are driven with great loss beyond the frontier.--Retrograde movement. As several days passed away, without any thing having been attempted on the part of the enemy, our general in chief decided to re-commence hostilities by small attacks, which were designed to mask the great plan he intended to put into execution. The general view which occupied our commander, was to continue the offensive, to follow up the enemy constantly, and not to leave him unless some very important occasion should call for a different course. Let us reflect upon the difficulties of such a plan, and let us then examine how it was in fact executed by the general in chief. General Skrzynecki, regarding all the existing circumstances, the actual position of the enemy, and his strength, found a great difference between the present state of things and that which existed after the battle of Iganie. The misfortunes of the corps of Dwernicki and Sierawski, had made a vast change in the relative strength of the two parties. The fate of those two corps gave a great advantage to the enemy, leaving him free to concentrate all his forces and to act in one mass. This advantage of the enemy was to be met, and means were to be taken to keep his forces in detached bodies, by giving occupation to each. To provide such means, it was next an object to give an important character to the revolution in Lithuania, and in fact to make that revolution supply the place of a _corps d'armee_, to send a body of troops to aid it, and to direct and lead the partizan forces which might be there enrolled. If then by such operation, Lithuania and Samogitia could be kept in constant communication with the main army, the line of operations would be enlarged, and would be based upon Wilno and Warsaw. This line of operations would embrace also the towns of Grodno and Lomza. To occupy the corps of Witt and Kreutz, which were still in the palatinate of Lublin, the general in chief detached a small corps under the command of general Chrzanowski, which were furnished with the same instructions as its predecessor, that of general Dwernicki, which were, in general, to act in the environs of Zamosc. To facilitate the execution of these plans, the general in chief determined to give daily occupation to the enemy. On the 2d of May, the fire was renewed along our whole line. Each following day presented sanguinary scenes at different points. In the midst of one of these actions, on the 7th, the small corps above mentioned, consisting of 4,000 men and eight pieces of cannon, under general Chrzanowski, left the main body [_See Plan_ XXVI], took the direction of Stoczek (1), Zelechow (2), and Kock (3), to reach the environs of Zamosc (4). The reader, on examining the plan, and looking at the space which this corps (_a_) was to pass over, in the midst of the enemy's detached corps (_b_), and in which it was exposed every moment to be surrounded and cut off, will acknowledge that this expedition, which was most successfully executed, is to be ranked among the finest operations in the campaign. It demanded a general of talent, and a soldier of determination. [Illustration: _XXVI. p 265_] [Illustration: _XXVII. p 267_] [Illustration: _XXVIII. p. 266_] When I allow myself thus to detain the attention of the reader upon the extraordinary efforts of this war, it is only with the view to convince him that nothing is difficult of execution which is prompted by a resolute determination based upon high principles, and that what would be deemed almost impossible in an ordinary war, in which despots, to gratify their ambition or their caprices, force their subjects to battle--an involuntary sacrifice, is far from being so, in a war like ours. In such a war, moral impulse becomes an element, the importance of which cannot be over-estimated. General Chrzanowski, quitting, as we have mentioned, the main body, took the direction of Ceglow, and threw himself into the great forest of Plomieniec. Leaving that forest, he met, near Wodynie, a strong detachment of the enemy, composed of infantry, cavalry, and several pieces of artillery, belonging to their main body, and probably detached to make a reconnoissance. By a sudden attack that detachment was at once overthrown. The cavalry ordered for their pursuit were instructed to return in another direction, in order to deceive the enemy. In this manner general Chrzanowski, frequently meeting with small detachments of the enemy and deceiving them continually, traversed the woody plain between Stoczek and Zelechow, and arrived, on the night of the 9th, at the environs of Kock, where he had to pass the river Wieprz. ATTACK OF KOCK. [_See Plan_ XXVII.] At the moment of the arrival of the corps of general Chrzanowski, this town was occupied by a part of the corps of general Witt, composed of 6,000 men and 20 pieces of artillery. Besides this considerable garrison, the place had been strengthened by several fortifications (1) on each side of the river, to defend the passage of the bridge (2), and without taking those fortifications it would be impossible for us to pass the bridge. In such circumstances there was no alternative, and it was necessary to attempt to take the town by storm. General Chrzanowski announced his intention to the corps, and addressed a few animating words to them. Having divided his corps into small parties (_a, a_), he surrounded the town. He placed especial importance upon the forcing of the avenue (3) leading to the palace, and getting possession of the garden (4) which surrounded the palace, and bordered on the river. If all this could be rapidly executed, the enemy would be taken in the rear. The signal for the attack being given, a warm fire from our skirmishers was commenced in all points round the city, and, while the cavalry (_b_), divided into detachments, threw themselves continually upon the Russian infantry (_c_), our infantry, at the charge, forced the entrance to the palace and garden, which was immediately occupied by our tirailleurs, who opened their fire upon the fortifications (1) and on the Russian columns in the square (_d_). In this manner the enemy was surrounded, and forced to evacuate the city with great loss, and to take the direction of Radzyn. General Chrzanowski passed the river and took the direction of Lubartow. Leaving the town of Lublin on the right, and following the banks of the river Wieprz, he reached on the 11th the environs of Piaski. In the latter place he was apprized that a Russian corps under Rudiger was at Krasny-staw. Chrzanowski decided to attack them. ATTACK OF RUDIGER'S CAMP. [_See Plan_ XXVIII.] The corps of general Rudiger, after the unfortunate disaster of general Dwernicki, having traversed Volhynia, entered the frontiers of the kingdom, and took the direction of Lublin, being destined probably to reinforce the main army under Diebitsch. This corps, which was composed of about 12,000 men, and some twenty pieces of cannon, was in camp (E) near the town of Krasny-staw, having that town and the river Wieprz in its rear. General Chrzanowski, who halted with his corps in the forest between Piaski and Krasny-staw, having sent out patrols, was perfectly informed of the position of the enemy, and ascertained that he had not his wing supported on the river;--indeed, he was in such a state, as satisfied our general that he had no expectation of meeting a Polish force, and that he might be surprised in his camp. To effect this object, general Chrzanowski divided his corps into two parties, and giving the command of one to the brave general Romarino, he ordered him to traverse the forest longitudinally, as far as the road which leads from Tarnogora to Krasny-staw, and by this road, which is wholly through forests, to approach, as near as possible, to the left of the enemy's camp; and also, if circumstances might permit it, to push himself even against the enemy's rear. On arriving there, he was to commence his fire immediately. These instructions to general Romarino being given, general Chrzanowski (B) advanced with the other part of the corps, through the forest, keeping the left bank of the Wieprz. He approached so near the enemy, without being perceived, as even to be on a line with him. Not long before evening, Romarino having reached the enemy on the other side (C), began his attack, and his fire was a signal for Chrzanowski to quit the forest. Thus suddenly assaulted upon his two wings and his rear, the disorder of the enemy was unimaginable, and he was not in a state to offer resistance. The whole camp was taken, with all its baggage, ammunition, &c, and as many as two thousand prisoners and six pieces of artillery fell into our hands. The remains of his force fled along the great road (D), which was purposely left open to him. General Chrzanowski contented himself with occupying the town, in which he furnished himself with ammunition from the magazines, and, remaining there but a short time, left for the environs of Zamosc, in which fortress he deposited his prisoners. Conformably to his instructions, he remained in camp, near this fortress, at Labunia.[57] The general in chief having thus accomplished his object of supplying the place of general Dwernicki's corps, and holding in check the corps of Witt and Kreutz, in the palatinate of Lublin, it remained to him to complete his great plan by sending a corps into Lithuania. He decided to remove the only obstacle to this attempt by attacking the Russian imperial guard, which was somewhat detached from the Russian grand army. To carry this bold purpose into effect, the following instructions were given to the different commanders. [Illustration: _XXIX._] [Illustration: _XXX._] OPERATIONS AGAINST THE RUSSIAN GUARD. [_Plan_ XXIX.] On the 12th of May, general Uminski with his division of cavalry (_a_) was ordered to quit the left wing and the position of Zimna-Woda, and to move to the position of Kaluszyn. This traverse of the line he was to make in full view of the enemy, and he was to give to the manoeuvre the aspect of a reconnoissance. The object of this change of position was, that in the new position he might mask the movements of the main body. This important disposition general Uminski was directed to carry into effect with the utmost prudence. The enemy was to be each day harassed, but never to be engaged with in any decisive manner. Small detachments were to be sent against the enemy, along his whole line, and especially on the first days of the movement. The general in chief instructed general Uminski to watch every movement of the enemy, and give information of such at head-quarters. If the main body of the Russian force should make an attack, he was to execute his retreat upon the main road, as far as the fortifications of Praga, and there he was to act in junction with the other detachments left there for the defence of those fortifications. If, on the contrary, the Russian army should make a retrograde movement, general Uminski was to endeavor, by following them, to keep them constantly in view. If circumstances permitted, the rear guard of the Russians might be harassed during the night. Above all, general Uminski was to endeavor to keep up his communications with the neighboring corps, that of general Lubinski, and the detachments left at Siennica and Karczew. In this moderate pursuit of the enemy, the general was to ascertain whether their retrograde movement was a retreat or a manoeuvre, in order to avoid every hazard. General Lubinski (_b_), with his division of cavalry, was to pass the right bank of the Bug (B), and leaving small detachments at Wyszkow (1) and Brok (2), he was to advance as far as the environs of Nar (3), not quitting the right bank of the river. All his care was to be devoted to the observing of the enemy, and to the preventing of any sudden passage of the river by him. In regard to his communications, the same instructions were given to him as to general Uminski. Having given these orders to the above mentioned corps, general Skrzynecki, with the main force (_d_), left suddenly the position at Kaluszyn (4), making a retrograde movement upon the great road, by Minsk (5), traversed Praga (6), and through Jablonna (7), and Zegrz (8), arrived on the 15th, at Serock (9). On the 16th, he passed the Narew (N), at this place, leaving a brigade of infantry and cavalry (_e_), under general Dembinski, upon the right bank, with orders to advance to Ostrolenka (10), through the towns of Pultusk, Magnuszewo and Rozany (11). This detachment was not to commence the attack on meeting the enemy, but was only to harass him and keep him in check, and detain him as near as possible to Serock. If the enemy should commence the retreat, this corps was to pursue him with the greatest activity, in order that at Ostrolenka, where the general in chief had determined to attack him, he might be exposed between two fires. On the 17th, this corps met the first advanced post (_f_) of the Russian imperial guard at Modzele, which, after a slight engagement, evacuated its position, and retired. Being pursued by the brigade of cavalry under general Dembinski, they, on the 18th, commenced the passage of the Narew, at Ostrolenka. In attempting this passage, the rear-guard of the enemy was overthrown, and four regiments of the light infantry of Finland were taken prisoners. This pursuit by the brave Dembinski was executed with such rapidity, that the corps of general Saken, which made a part of the grand corps of the guard, but was a little detached, was completely cut off from the main body and forced to take refuge in the palatinate of Augustow. It is much to be regretted that our main force (_d_) could not reach Ostrolenka; having to pass narrow roads, through forests, in which the artillery met with much obstruction. Otherwise, the whole of that imperial guard would have been surrounded. With the arrival of our main body, on the night of the 18th, the Russians passed the Narew, but many voitures and stragglers fell into the hands of our cavalry in the forest of Troszyn (12). The general in chief, having given the corps a short rest, and having despatched a detachment, under the command of colonel Sierawski, for the pursuit of the corps of Saken, on the same night continued his march in pursuit of the guard, in the direction of Troszyn (12). On the morning of the next day, arriving at Dlugie-Siodlo (13), this village was found occupied by two regiments of infantry and two of cavalry, the latter covering the village. Our 1st regiment of lancers, which were the leading force, leaving the forest and finding the Russian cavalry in line before that village, threw themselves upon them with the rapidity of lightning. The enemy's cavalry was borne down before them, and pursued by our lancers into the village; but his infantry, under cover of the village, opened a terrible fire upon our cavalry, which compelled them to retire and await the arrival of the artillery. At length, eight pieces of light artillery, commanded by colonel Boehm, arrived, and commenced a vigorous fire of grape upon the village, which compelled the enemy's infantry to evacuate it, and they were pursued with such spirit, that one battalion was taken, and the rest were dispersed in the forest. On the same day, the enemy was again pressed upon in his retreat, in the environs of Xienzopol (14), especially on the passage of the river and marshes of Kamionka. The 1st lancers, and the battery of light artillery, who did not quit the enemy a moment, arrived simultaneously with him at the point of the passage. The enemy was obliged to debouch under the fire of our artillery and the charges of our cavalry, and lost again several hundred in dead, wounded and prisoners. I cannot give the reader a satisfactory explanation, why general Skrzynecki did not pursue the enemy on the 20th. Perhaps he considered the great fatigue of the army, particularly the infantry, which the reader will, of course, presume to have been incurred by the forced march which the distance passed over supposes. Another reason, perhaps, was, that he had sent from this place the first detachment (_i_) for Lithuania, wishing to be sure of its safe passage to the frontiers. The detachment, in fact, left on that day, in the direction of Mniszew, and passed the frontier of the kingdom at the village of Mien, between Ciechanowiec and Suraz, opposite Brainsk. Our army, having halted one day at Xienzopol, on the evening of the 20th, quitted this position to continue the pursuit of the guard, and overtook them in the forest of Menzynin (15). This forest, occupied by the Russian rear-guard, was so near the heights of the village, which command the whole vicinity, that it was exposed to a fire of artillery from these heights. Our generalissimo placed his artillery on the heights, and directed a fire upon the forest; the infantry was ordered to take the enemy in front, in case he should quit the forest, and the cavalry was to advance in strong columns along the road, to cut off his escape from the forest into the road. In this they were successful, and took many prisoners. Thus continually pursued, and subject to severe losses along the whole route, the guard (_l_) was again pressed at the passage of the Narew at Tykocin (16). The consternation and disorder of the enemy was such, that he did not take time to destroy the bridge. Our lancers, commanded by the brave colonel Langerman, commenced an attack upon the Russian cuirassiers, on the bridge itself. The regiment of cuirassiers was almost annihilated, many being thrown from the bridge, and a great number taken prisoners. Having thus driven the Russian guard from the kingdom, (of which the Narew was the boundary,) general Skrzynecki commenced a retrograde movement, to meet the demonstration which general Diebitsch might make upon his rear. On the night of the 22d, our army (_m_) began this movement, having destroyed the several bridges of the Narew. These then are the details of the operations upon the Russian guard, which will be admitted to be among the finest in the history of modern warfare. The operations of Napoleon, in the campaign of Italy--the brilliant commencement of his career, in 1796,--will be always cited as the highest examples of stratago-tactics, but I do not think that a finer and bolder plan of operations can be found even there. In both cases, success was owing, not more to the great military genius of the leaders, than to those high moral impulses which must animate armies in every contest for national existence. Our army, evacuating on the 12th, the position at Kaluszyn, from that date to the 26th, when the battle of Ostrolenka took place, had passed over a distance of from 200 to 250 miles, which, deducting the six days occupied in action, was executed in eight days, making an average of twenty-eight English miles per day, an extraordinary and perhaps unexampled effort. The rapidity, in fact, with which this movement was performed, was such, that our forces were on their return before marshal Diebitsch commenced his march to intercept them. This object the marshal thought himself in season to effect, but the reader will see in the sequel how completely he failed of it. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 57: The reader may be pleased with a short biographical sketch of general Chrzanowski, who distinguished himself here so much. This skilful officer commenced his military career in 1815, on leaving the military school at Warsaw, as officer of the corps of engineers, in which department he was distinguished for his skill and industry. In the year 1828, during the war of Turkey, the Emperor Nicholas was desirous of obtaining the aid of Polish officers of engineers, and Chrzanowski was among the number chosen. In this campaign his talents made themselves remarked, and marshal Diebitsch gave him great marks of confidence, and placed him near his person. He returned from the campaign as captain, and received several Russian decorations. In the revolution, like a worthy son of Poland, he offered his services to the common cause; but the dictator Chlopicki, who, among his other faults, had that of either being unable to appreciate, or willing to disregard the merits of the officers from among whom he was to make his appointments, did not give any important trust to general Chrzanowski;--perhaps it was because Chrzanowski was among the number of those who were desirous of taking the field without delay. With the glorious commencement of the era of the command of our estimable Skrzynecki, this brave officer was advanced to the rank of lieutenant colonel, and was placed in the post of chef d'etat major. While in this post he was advanced to the rank of general. The generalissimo, who in all his plans observed the greatest secrecy, and his example ought to be followed by every good general, initiated, however, Chrzanowski, and Prondzynski, who succeeded the former as chef d'etat, into all his plans: and indeed those two brave generals were valuable counsellors to Skrzynecki. Among other qualities necessary to a great general, Chrzanowski was endowed with great coolness and presence of mind, and with a spirit of system, which he carried into every thing which he undertook. He was seen in the midst of the hottest fire, with his plan of the battle before him, referring the movements to the plan, and giving his orders with the greatest sangfroid imaginable. The generalissimo could not enough regret that he had not given him the command of the expedition to Lithuania, in place of Gielgud. If the skill and coolness of Chrzanowski could have been united, in that expedition, with the bold and adventurous enterprise of Dwernicki, every thing would have been effected there in a few weeks.] CHAPTER XIX. The Lithuanians compel two Russian corps to evacuate Samogitia.--Operations of general Chlapowski in the department of Bialystok.--Capture of Bielsk.--Defeat of a Russian force at Narewka and expulsion of the enemy from the department.--Recapitulation of the forces which had been sent into Lithuania.--Operations of the main army.--Attempt of marshal Diebitsch to intercept Skrzynecki on his retrograde march, by a diversion to Ostrolenka.--General Lubinski surprises the Russian advanced guard at Czyzew.--Marshal Diebitsch attacks the Polish rear-guard at Kleczkowo.--The rear-guard quits its position at night, and joins the main army at Ostrolenka.--Battle of Ostrolenka. Quitting the main army, which had thus successfully executed the important operation of driving the Russian imperial guard from the kingdom, and sending a corps into Lithuania,--we will now turn to take a view of the state of affairs in that province. The brave Lithuanians in a series of bloody encounters had made themselves severely felt by the enemy. In the departments of Roszyienie and Szawla, at about the middle of the month of May, a short time before the battle of Ostrolenka, the two Russian corps, under Malinowski and Szyrman, were almost annihilated by the Lithuanian insurgents, who, night and day, falling upon them from forest ambuscades, subjected them to immense losses. Those corps literally wandered about, for some time, and being unable to hold themselves in any position, were forced at last to evacuate Samogitia. In the department of Bialystok, the little corps recently sent under the command of general Chlapowski, began its operations with great success. In the environs of Bielsk, that small detachment, composed of four squadrons of the 1st regiment of lancers, consisting of four hundred and eighty horsemen, a hundred and ninety light infantry volunteers mounted,[58] and two pieces of cannon, routed two regiments of cossacks and two battalions of infantry, the latter being taken in a body and the former dispersed; and, what was of much importance to us, in Bielsk, as well as in Brainsk, several magazines of powder were found. In the environs of Bielsk, colonel Mikotin, aid-de-camp of the grand duke Michael, and on his way with despatches from him to the Grand Duke Constantine, was taken prisoner.[59] The corps of general Chlapowski left Bielsk in the direction of the town of Orla, and entered the forest of Bialowiek, where he received reinforcements of Lithuanian insurgents. On the same day that our main army fought at Ostrolenka, the 26th of May, this little corps had an engagement with the enemy in the environs of Narewka. A considerable Russian detachment, under the command of general Rengardt, composed of 6,000 infantry, 3,000 cavalry, and five pieces of cannon--in all, nearly 9,000 men--was posted near Nasielsk. This considerable force was attacked by our small corps, to which were added some hundreds of insurgents, making in all, a force of not more than a thousand men. The Russians were completely beaten in this action. Full a thousand prisoners were taken, and all their artillery. An important advantage of this affair, was the taking of a great transport of some hundred vehicles with provisions, destined for the Russian grand army. By the dispersion and ruin of this corps, the department of Bialystok was entirely cleared of the Russians, and nothing interrupted the formation and organization of the insurgent forces. The taking of Bielsk, and the affair of Narewka, will be admitted by the reader to have been above the rank of ordinary achievements, and should immortalize the handful of brave men which formed this detachment. They may be pointed at, as examples, with many others, in this war, of how much can be effected by that prompt and energetic action which no ordinary motives will sustain. While the affairs of Lithuania and Samogitia, and those in the department of Bialystok, wore this favorable aspect, a new corps was approaching to aid this propitious state of things, to protect the insurrections, and, as might be confidently hoped, to bring them to a sure and happy result. The new force destined for this object consisted of the 2d division, reinforced by a squadron of cavalry, which force quitted Lomza on the 27th for Lithuania. Before returning to the operations of the grand army, we will give a short recapitulation of the forces which had been sent into Lithuania and Samogitia, at successive periods, to support the insurrections in those provinces. The first corps under general Chlapowski, left, on the 20th of May, the village of Xienzopol, with this destination;--to enter the department of Bialystok, to occupy the forest of Bialowiez, in which were collected the forces of the revolted Lithuanians, with the view to organize these forces; from that position to act on the Russian communications, and, if circumstances might allow it, to make an approach upon Wilno. This little corps, as we have seen, was composed of 190 infantry volunteers mounted, the 1st regiment of lancers, consisting of 480 horsemen, and two pieces of light artillery. The second corps, under the command of colonel Sierakowski, left, a few days before that of general Chlapowski, with the view, as we have also seen, to follow and observe the division of general Saken, who had been cut off by general Skrzynecki from the Russian guard, and compelled to remain on the right bank of the Narew. This corps consisted of two battalions of infantry of the 18th regiment, recently formed, amounting to 1,500 men, two squadrons of horse, of Plock, also recently formed, 250 in all, and two pieces of cannon. This corps, in the execution of its instructions, obtained several advantages over general Saken, near Stavisk. Colonel Sierakowski then advanced to the environs of the little town of Graiewo, where he took a strong position, and awaited the arrival of the corps of general Gielgud. The third corps, under the command of general Gielgud, being the second division, left the town of Lomza on the 27th of May. It was composed of 9 battalions of infantry, consisting of 4,500 men, 5 squadrons of cavalry of 600 men, 160 sappers, and 24 pieces of cannon. The total force of these three corps was then as follows: _Artillery_, 28 pieces. _Infantry_, 6,350 men. _Cavalry_, 1,300. Besides these forces, which were detached from the grand army, there were formed in Lithuania, several regiments of infantry and cavalry, which we shall designate in the sequel, but which did not commence active service until the battle of Wilno. To return to the main army. Such was the rapidity with which the operations of general Skrzynecki upon the Russian guard were executed, that, as we have said, he was on his retrograde march, after having driven that guard beyond the frontiers, before marshal Diebitsch received intelligence of his operations. It was then that the Russian commander, having no hope of saving the guard, conceived the plan of attempting, by a prompt diversion towards Ostrolenka, to cut off the communication of our army with Warsaw. [_See Plan_ XXIX.] With this view he evacuated his position at Sucha and Mordy (_o_), passed by Sokolow, crossed the river Bug at Granne (16), entered into the Russian province of Bialystok, passed through a corner of this department on the 24th of May, and crossing the little river Nurzec (R), at Ciechanowiec (17), entered again into the Polish territory, and occupied the road of Czyzew (18) and Zambrowo (19). Without any delay he pushed his advanced guard as far as Czyzew. General Lubinski was then at Nur. This little town was at the same distance from Ostrolenka as Czyzew, but the communications with Ostrolenka were more difficult, Czyzew being on a principal road. The enemy, observing this circumstance, and taking it for granted that Lubinski was cut off from the main army, sent an aid-de-camp with a flag of truce to summon him to surrender.[60] This summons was rejected. After the departure of the aid-de-camp, general Lubinski commenced his march, and, though it was practicable for him to reach Ostrolenka by a direct route, yet thinking it possible that Czyzew was not occupied by a very strong force, and that he might profit by the approach of night, he determined to march at once upon the latter place, and to attack the Russian advanced guard there. This bold thought was executed with perfect success. On reaching Czyzew he found two regiments of cavalry encamped, and wholly unprepared for an attack. They had not even an outer-guard upon the road to Nur. He made a charge which threw them into complete disorder, and compelled them to retreat with the loss of a great number in killed and wounded, and four to five hundred prisoners. It was to be regretted that the necessity under which general Lubinski was placed of reaching Ostrolenka as soon as possible, did not permit him to profit farther by these advantages. On the next day, (the 25th) the rear-guard of our main army, consisting of the brigade of general Wengierski, was attacked at mid-day by the Russians, on the side of Zambrowo, near Kleczkowo (20), a village situated at the distance of three leagues from Ostrolenka, on the left bank of the Narew. General Diebitsch, being under the conviction that he had encountered the whole Polish force at Kleczkowo, consolidated his strength there, and determined to come to action, and, by so doing, give time for another corps to advance in the direction of Czyzew, and occupy Ostrolenka, by which movement he trusted that our army would be cut off from Warsaw, and forced to retire to Lomza. The Russian commander, presuming on the celerity of his movements, was so confident of meeting our whole army at this point, that nothing could exceed his surprise on learning that our army had already passed the town, and that it was only the rear-guard which was before him.[61] In order to lose no time, he commenced an immediate attack on the rear-guard thus posted at Kleczkowo. Our general in chief who was then at Troszyn, on hearing the fire of the Russians at Kleczkowo, immediately repaired thither, and profiting by the fine position of that place, which commanded the marshy plain on the side of the enemy, passable only by a dyke, the bridge over which had been demolished by our troops, ordered general Wengierski to sustain himself in that position until night. In vain the Russian cavalry and infantry attempted to pass this dyke. At each approach they were uniformly driven back by a destructive fire of grape from our artillery. In vain were sixteen pieces of their artillery employed to silence this fire; our position was too commanding to be affected by them. The brigade of general Wengierski having held out in this position, with the greatest determination against a vastly superior force, for nine hours, left the place at night in the greatest order, and followed the main army. On the next day, the 26th of May, our army (_h_) evacuated Ostrolenka, passed the river Narew, and took, upon the right bank of that river, opposite to Ostrolenka, a new position,[62] leaving the bridge partly destroyed, but in such a state that the Russian infantry might pass it slowly. Not long after we had occupied our position, the enemy commenced debouching over this bridge. BATTLE OF OSTROLENKA. [_See Plan_ XXX.] The battle of Ostrolenka, which cost us the lives of two brave generals, Kicki, and Henry Kaminski, was, in point of tactics, simply the passage of the river. We may presume that the intention of general Diebitsch was, by passing the Narew at this point, to send at the same time a corps to Serock, in order to cut off our army, and place it between two fires. At 11 o'clock, the Russian infantry (_a_) under the protection of a most terrible fire from fifty-four pieces of artillery, (_b_) placed in a very strong position on the left bank of the Narew, commenced, as we have said, the passage of the river. General Skrzynecki, not wishing absolutely to prevent this passage, placed but sixteen cannon in advantageous positions, on slight elevations of ground, (_d_) designed to prevent the repairing of the bridge, and the consequent rapid passage of the enemy's infantry. The powerful Russian artillery attempted, without success, to silence these few pieces. Their fire was equally harmless to the main army (A); for the latter was withdrawn to an advantageous position. Our artillery, on the other hand, was used with great effect, being brought to bear directly upon the bridge. During these operations, the advanced guard, with all the baggage and ammunition of the army, received the order to take up the march towards Warsaw. At 3 o'clock, our artillery received orders to evacuate their position, and the skirmishers (_e_) were ordered to advance. On the cessation of the fire of the artillery, the light troops commenced a warm fire upon the columns of Russian infantry, which had already passed the bridge. The enemy, profiting by the withdrawal of our artillery, commenced repairing the bridge, to afford a passage for large masses of infantry, and artillery. A strong Russian column (_f_), after passing the bridge, took a direction to the left, to throw itself into the forest which borders on the Narew, at the distance of a quarter of a league from the bridge; and by occupying that forest and the communications which traverse it, they thought to commence an attack upon our right wing. To have permitted this would have much deranged our dispositions. The Polish commander, observing that a great body of the Russian infantry had already passed the bridge, and that this strong column had been sent to occupy the forest, ordered general Lubinski to send forward a brigade of cavalry (_g_), to charge upon this column, on its march, and at the same time ordered general Kaminski, with a division of infantry, to make a charge upon the Russian infantry near the bridge. These two attacks were executed with great promptness and spirit, and were successful. The column which the cavalry attacked on its march to the forest, was dispersed with the loss of more than a hundred men left on the field. The attack of the division of general Kaminski was equally fortunate. The Russian columns, on receiving his charge, fell back upon the bridge, or concealed themselves under the banks of the river. These two attacks cost us the lives of the two generals, Kaminski and Kicki, who threw themselves upon the enemy, at the head of their respective columns. Their loss was deeply regretted by the army and the nation. Although the result of these attacks was favorable to us, yet, the general in chief, considering the terribly destructive fire of the Russian artillery, which commanded the whole plain near the bridge, decided that the repetition of them would cost us too severe a loss, and commanded both the cavalry and infantry to withdraw to their former position, and to cease firing. At 6 o'clock, the firing on both sides had entirely ceased. Profiting by this interval, the Polish army pursued its route, and the Russian infantry again commenced debouching upon the bridge. At dusk, nearly the whole Polish army was on the march to Warsaw, and one division only [_Plan_ XXXI, (_d_)] remained on our position. On the part of the Russian army, we may suppose that nearly two divisions had passed the bridge, when our general in chief, wishing to profit by the obscurity of the night, in order to subject the enemy to still greater losses, conceived the bold idea of advancing our artillery (_a_) so near the Russian columns (_b_), as to pour upon them a fire of grape-shot. General Skrzynecki himself approached colonel Boehm, and taking the command of the twelve pieces of light artillery under him, led them in person to the distance of within three hundred paces of the enemy, and brought forward at the same time two regiments of cavalry for the support of this artillery. Placing this little detachment in a very advantageous position behind small elevations of ground, he commanded colonel Boehm to commence firing. The Russian columns were thrown into confusion by this unexpected and terrible fire; and it may be imagined that their loss was immense, enclosed as they were within a narrow space, on the bank and on the bridge. Every discharge of the artillery was with effect, and by the testimony of the prisoners taken, their loss must have amounted to an entire brigade, without estimating those who left the field wounded, and those who fell into the river. On our side, this attack cost us only the loss of two officers of the artillery, although this detachment was exposed to the fire of the whole Russian artillery.[63] Our battery fired but three rounds, when the general gave the order to withdraw, and follow the main army (A) to Warsaw.[64] These are the details of the battle of Ostrolenka, in which the loss on the enemy's side was from 10,000 to 15,000 men, and on our side, the two general officers above mentioned, with about 4,000 men. On the afternoon of the day of the battle of Ostrolenka, the division of general Gielgud received orders to depart from the town of Lomza. General Dembinski, on the night of the same day was ordered to join him with two squadrons of lancers of Poznan. The latter general left the field of battle with these squadrons, and on the next day joined the division of general Gielgud.[65] [Illustration: _XXXI._] [Illustration: _XXXII._] FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 58: We found, on experiment, that this species of force acting in conjunction with cavalry could be used with great advantage, especially against a hostile cavalry. The mounted infantry were placed in the rear of the cavalry. When the latter advanced to the charge the former dismounted, and leaving their horses in the care of a party detailed for the purpose, dispersed themselves as sharp-shooters, and commenced a fire upon the enemy, who, thrown into confusion by this unexpected attack, were open to a destructive charge from the cavalry.] [Footnote 59: The capture of the town of Bielsk and its garrison was marked with such singular circumstances, that I think that some of the details will interest the reader. The small corps of general Chlapowski arriving suddenly before this town, on the 22d of May, was informed that it had a garrison of two battalions of infantry, and that near the town was a body of a thousand cossacks, in camp. The advanced guard of our small corps, with which was the general and several of his officers, approached the barriers of the town. The Russian sentinel observing our party, and seeing a general officer among them, did not recognize them as enemies, but called the guard to give them the honors of the place. General Chlapowski, on the approach of the guard, commanded them to lay down their arms, which they did. The same ceremony was gone through with the grand-guard in the square of the town, and the Russians mechanically obeyed these orders, in a state of amazement. General Chlapowski fearing that he might be surrounded by the cossacks, left his infantry volunteers to disperse any detachments of the enemy in the town that might rally to oppose him, and led all the artillery and cavalry against the camp of the cossacks. The Russian infantry who attempted to make a resistance in the town, were dispersed at the point of the bayonet, and, with the assistance of the inhabitants, they were all made prisoners; while by the attack of the artillery and cavalry, the encamped cossacks were entirely dispersed, and several of them taken prisoners. General Chlapowski left his prisoners in the care of the inhabitants, taking with him only those who were Poles, and who volunteered their services.] [Footnote 60: The officer announced to general Lubinski that the whole Russian army had occupied Ciechanowiec, that the advanced guard was already at Czyzew, and that those circumstances ought to satisfy him that his communications with his friends were entirely cut off, and that therefore he would do well to lay down his arms and throw himself upon the magnanimity of the Emperor. To this proposition general Lubinski replied, that although such might be his situation, he could not think of surrendering himself without a struggle; and to satisfy the aid-de-camp that this was not his individual feeling alone, but that it was partaken by the whole body of his soldiers, he would present him to them, and enable him to satisfy himself personally on this point. The aid-de-camp was then conducted to the front of the line, and he addressed himself to the troops, exhibiting the circumstances under which they were placed, assuring them that the bravest resistance would be hopeless, and inviting them to surrender. This address was interrupted by a universal shout of indignation from the soldiery, and they commanded him to leave their presence. This division was composed of two regiments of old light infantry, and two recently formed regiments of Mazurs.] [Footnote 61: Marshal Diebitsch must by this time have become satisfied that the operations, both in strategy and tactics, of the Polish commander, were the result of extensive and just combinations. General Skrzynecki, in contriving this plan (with the valuable assistance of general Prondzynski,) of surprising and defeating the Russian guard, had satisfied himself of the practicability of returning to Ostrolenka without being intercepted.] [Footnote 62: The question might be asked by some, whether this battle was necessary, and why general Skrzynecki did not pursue his route to Warsaw, as he could have done without molestation. In the course which he took, he had two objects in view; the one was, to cause this destructive passage of the Narew, and thus diminish the forces of his enemy; the other was, by thus occupying general Diebitsch to give time to general Gielgud to leave Lomza in safety for Lithuania. (_See Plan_ XXIX.)] [Footnote 63: This fire of the Russian artillery might almost be compared to the terrible fire of the 25th of February, at Grochow, in the attack on the forest of elders.] [Footnote 64: This manoeuvre, of bringing the artillery so near the columns of the enemy, and under the terrible fire of the Russian artillery, was one of those bold and hazardous steps which were necessary for the object of reducing the immense superiority of the enemy's force. The personal agency of general Skrzynecki was demanded for a blow like this; and in executing it he displayed equally the qualities of the soldier and the general. The admiration of his soldiers was excited by seeing him dismount and place himself with the utmost coolness at the head of this battery of artillery, exposed to the incessant fire of that of the enemy. Neither the fear of the enemy, nor the entreaties of his officers, who begged him, on their knees, to withdraw and to reserve his valuable life for his country, could induce him to move from his place, until he had seen the successful termination of this effort.] [Footnote 65: For those who have asserted that general Gielgud was cut off from the main body of the Polish forces and compelled to escape into Lithuania, the sending of these two squadrons of lancers to join him, will be a sufficient answer. The division of general Gielgud could have even remained at Lomza for as many as three days after this battle.] CHAPTER XX. Operations of the Lithuanian corps.--Battle of Raygrod and defeat of the Russian corps of Saken.--Importance of this first success in Lithuania.--General Gielgud neglects to follow up his advantages.--He loses time by passing the Niemen at Gielgudyszki, and enables the enemy to concentrate his forces in Wilno.--Entrance into Lithuania and reception by the inhabitants.--Position of the two main armies.--The Russian forces remain inactive and receive supplies from Prussia.--Death of marshal Diebitsch. On the 27th of May, the corps of general Gielgud, attached to which were generals Rohland, Szymanowski, Dembinski, and colonel Pientka, left Lomza, and commenced their march into Lithuania. On the evening of that day, they arrived at Stawisk, passing through Szczuczyn and Graiewo. In the last town they were joined by the little corps of general, then colonel, Sierakowski, which, as we have already remarked, had been employed in observing general Saken, and was here occupying an advantageous position. The force of this corps has been already stated. BATTLE OF RAYGROD. [_Plan_ XXXII.] I have divided this battle into two different periods, marked by the two different positions which the enemy successively took. On examining the plan of the first position of the Russians, it will be at once seen that they had no knowledge of the arrival of our corps. They supposed that they were acting against the corps of colonel Sierakowski alone, and they had conceived the design of out-flanking him. On the morning of the 29th, our whole corps, quitting the little town of Graiewo, met, at the distance of about a quarter of a league, the Russian flankers, against whom our own were immediately sent out. The Russian cavalry began to retire. Our columns continued their march slowly, having the forces of colonel Sierakowski in front, as an advanced guard,[66] and we thus arrived at the lake of Raygrod, the advanced guard meeting only small detachments of the Russian cavalry, which retired as we approached. On reaching the lake, our advanced guard were fired upon by the Russian skirmishers, concealed in the woods on the opposite side of the lake, which bordered upon the causeway. Colonel Sierakowski received orders to engage with them. He sent forward his own light troops, and placed two cannons upon the causeway, with which he commenced a fire upon the woods. The Russian infantry instantly evacuated the woods, and allowed our skirmishers to occupy them. By this manoeuvre, the Russians intended to lead on our forces with the view to attack them on their flank, and even to surround them, by sending detachments (_a_, _b_) to the right and left, as will be seen on the plan. In a short time our larger force, under general Gielgud, commenced debouching between the two lakes. A strong column (_c_) of our infantry took a direction towards the forest, to the left, and another column (_d_) to that on the right, to dislodge the enemy, if he should be found to have occupied either. At the same time our artillery (_e_), to the number of fourteen pieces, taking a position at the side of the causeway, opposite to that of the enemy (_f_), commenced firing. The whole of our cavalry, and the greater part of our infantry remained in the centre, and constituted a formidable front. In a few moments after these dispositions were made, a brisk fire of tirailleurs was commenced on our left wing (A). The Russian centre (B), suffering from the fire of our artillery, and taken by surprise at the unexpected strength of our forces, began to waver. This was a signal for our advance. Colonel Pientka, who commanded the artillery, gave the order. A strong column of three battalions of infantry commenced the hurrah, and charged with the bayonet, upon the wavering columns of the enemy. At the same time, general Dembinski gave the order to our cavalry (_g_) to charge upon that of the enemy on the right and left. The first squadron of the lancers of Poznan received the order to throw themselves forward, and fall upon the breaking columns of the enemy. The greatest consternation and disorder began to exist in the Russian ranks. It was no longer a retreat; it was a flight. This squadron of lancers, commanded by the brave major Mycielski, performed prodigies of valor. They entered the town simultaneously with the Russian columns, cutting down immense numbers of the enemy, and taking many prisoners. This squadron courageously remained in the streets of the city, exposed to the fire of the enemy's infantry, who had occupied the houses, until the arrival of our own infantry. In this exposed situation they lost their commander.[67] These several attacks, which did not occupy two hours, caused an immense loss to the enemy. Three entire battalions, which formed their right wing (C), consisting of 2,000 men, were taken prisoners, with three superior officers, and fourteen of a lower grade. By the entry of our forces, the enemy were driven from the town, and took another position (D) upon elevated ground, on the opposite side of a small stream, near the town. This position was strong, and commanded the town and the whole of the other side of the stream. General Saken would certainly have remained long in this position, if our right wing under colonel Koss had not, as we shall see, succeeded in passing the stream at a higher point (_i_), and acted on his flank. The Russian general, as soon as he had established himself in his new position, commenced a fire upon the town, which was returned by our artillery. It was during this fire that colonel Koss succeeded in passing the stream, at a quarter of a league above the city, on the right. This was effected by demolishing the buildings in the vicinity, and making a passage for the artillery from their materials. General Saken, seeing his left wing thus menaced, evacuated his position, in which, as we have said, but for this attack on his flank, he could have well supported himself for some time. At 3 o'clock the Russians commenced their retreat upon the road to Kowno, and thus terminated a battle of the most advantageous character for us, and with which begins an important era in our affairs. By this battle the Polish forces had made the acquisition of great advantages, both in respect to strategy and tactics, and the highest hopes might reasonably be cherished in regard to the future. It was, as it were, a return of the state of things brought about by the victory of Iganie, and which menaced the enemy with total ruin. Our main army was then near to Warsaw, composed of a force of considerable strength, and which, under the command of Skrzynecki, had been victorious in every battle. New troops had been formed there. Neither provisions nor forage had failed, for they were constantly sent from Warsaw to the army, in whatever quarter it might be. The Russian army was, in the mean while, suffering under all the disadvantages which we have before described. Wearied and discouraged by the disasters of the campaign, posted in regions which they had devastated, and therefore suffering from scarcity; without hospitals for their sick and their wounded,--for the towns which contained them had been destroyed,--and with the cholera ravaging their ranks, that army was in the most precarious situation. The communications between the Russian provinces and the army were entirely cut off by the Polish Lithuanian corps. They received their provisions exclusively from Prussia; and, but for this assistance of Prussia, no one can doubt that Diebitsch would have been, before this, under the necessity of withdrawing from the country. The reader will also remember that at this time, the brave and skilful general Chrzanowski, had obtained repeated advantages over Rudiger, in the environs of Zamosc, and that the little corps of general Chlapowski which had entered, on the 20th of May, the Russian department of Bialystok, was acting with great advantages. From the Baltic to the Black Sea, the provinces of Podolia, Volhynia, Ukraine, as well as Lithuania and Samogitia, containing a population of twelve millions of inhabitants, were in a state of excitement, and would soon have risen in the holy cause. They were waiting only the arrival of our victorious troops. It cannot but be assumed, therefore, that if general Gielgud, at the head of the Polish corps in Lithuania, had acted with promptness and energy, the most happy results would have been achieved. It is, therefore, with the deepest chagrin, that I have to record that from the moment of the termination of the fortunate battle of Raygrod, all the operations of general Gielgud were not only deficient in energy, but altogether wrongly planned. The first fault which he committed, was not continuing to press the attack upon general Saken, after he had retired from Raygrod. Under the pretext that the soldiers were fatigued, the corps was encamped. This pretext was groundless, for the soldiers themselves demanded to be led in pursuit of the enemy. In this camp we passed the whole night, and left it [_Plan_ XXXIII.] at the hour of nine the following morning; having given fifteen hours to the retreating enemy. We continued our march to Kowno, through the duchy of Augustow. On the 30th of May, we arrived at Suwalki (1) its capital, and remained there a day and a night, without any conceivable reason. The enemy, profiting by the slowness of our movements, escaped the certain destruction with which he had been threatened. On the 1st of June, we arrived at Kalwaryia (2), and at that town our corps was very uselessly divided into two parts, the larger (_a_), under general Gielgud, took the road to Gielgudyszki (3), on the Niemen,[68] to pass the river at that point. General Dembinski, with the remainder of the corps (_b_), continued on the main road, and on the 3d of June arrived at Alexota (4). This separation of our forces into two bodies, to pass the Niemen at Gielgudyszki, was not recommended by any conceivable advantage, and, indeed, operated much to our injury. This plan of operations was also in opposition to the instructions, not only of the general in chief, but of the National Government, and obstructed the rapid execution of the great designs of the campaign. In any plan for the occupation of a foreign country, the first object should be to get possession of the principal towns, for at those points are chiefly concentrated both the moral and physical resources of the country. Of Lithuania, the town of Wilno (5) is the capital. Against it all our plans should have been directed; and, in fact, the instructions of the government to general Gielgud were all to this effect. By a prompt occupation of that city, we should have unquestionably reaped the greatest advantages. As Wilno was the residence of the principal officers of the government of the province, it would have been there that all the arrangements could best be made for a provisional administration, and for the convocation of a conventional Diet of the people. In regard also to the formation of new forces, Wilno was the place that presented the greatest facilities. Taking all these circumstances into view, it must be conceded that after the battle of Raygrod, the first object of general Gielgud ought to have been to march upon and to occupy Wilno with the utmost promptness. With this view, his course should have been, after masking his movement at Kowno, to have passed the Niemen (N) at Rumszyski (6), a village which was about sixteen English miles above Kowno (7) and in the direction of Wilno, while Gielgudyszki, on the other hand, was thirty-two miles below Kowno, and forty-eight from Rumszyski, and out of the direction of Wilno. With the exception of that of general Saken, no other Russian force was interposed between us and Wilno. Indeed the corps of general Chlapowski (_c_), with which he had traversed the department of Bialystok, was at that moment between Kowno and Wilno, and had we passed at Rumszyski, we should have been within but one day's march of him. It is evident, then, that Wilno would have fallen into our hands without a blow. All these advantages were sacrificed by making the passage at Gielgudyszki. General Saken, meeting with no interruption, thus escaped a second time, and marched from Kowno to Wilno. At the same time several other Russian corps began to concentrate themselves at Wilno. The corps of general Dembinski, having maintained a moderate fire upon Kowno for two days, in order to mask our movements from the enemy, marched for Gielgudyszki, to follow the other corps in the passage of the river, at that point, on the 7th of June. Our troops thus entered the province of Lithuania, an interesting day for us, thus engaged in the effort to re-unite this dissevered portion of our country to its ancient parent. The manner in which the inhabitants of every village received us, expressive of the warmest satisfaction, showed that they regarded us as brothers. This reception deeply affected both soldiers and officers. They hailed us as their deliverers, and it is now a mournful reflection that, owing to the misconduct of our commanders, that enthusiasm, instead of leading to happy results, proved, in the end, only an aggravation of their misfortunes. * * * * * Leaving the corps of general Gielgud upon the Niemen, we will return again to the operations of the grand army, and of the different detached corps. Our main body, which, after the battle of Ostrolenka, retired towards Warsaw, was now at Praga, where the head-quarters of the commander in chief were fixed. General Skrzynecki, during the repose of the army, occupied himself with its re-organization. In the environs of Zamosc, the corps of general Chrzanowski, in which the brave general Romarino commanded a brigade, was sufficient to keep the different Russian corps in check. On the 3d of June, the Russian army, which, up to the present time, continued in the environs of Ostrolenka, on the left bank of the Narew, commenced its operations upon the right bank of that river. A considerable corps, amounting to 20,000 men, passed that river in the neighborhood of Prasnysz. The principal object of this corps was not to re-ommence hostilities, but to protect the large transports of provisions which were sent daily from Prussia. In the environs of Brzesc was the corps of general Kreutz. The Russian army thus fed by Prussia, remained inactive in their position at Ostrolenka, during which interval, and while he was perhaps contriving new plans for our subjugation, occurred the sudden death of marshal Diebitsch. He died at Kleczkowo, not far from Ostrolenka, on the 9th of June.[69] The provisional command of the Russian army was taken by general Toll. If the reader should examine closely the operations of the two armies after the battle of Ostrolenka, he will, perhaps, be astonished at their inactivity. He will, however, acknowledge that the blame of that inactivity cannot rest upon the Polish side. The retreat which we made was necessary; first, for the sake of the re-organizing of the army; secondly, for the object of leading the enemy to the environs of Praga, which were in a state of devastation, and generally into the region between the Bug and the Liwiec, where he would not be able to support himself; and in this manner to force him either to attack the fortifications of Praga, to attempt a passage of the Vistula, or to evacuate the country. That either of the two first would be attempted, while the insurrections in Lithuania and Samogitia, &c, were in progress, and after our success at Raygrod, was hardly to have been expected; for the one would cost too great a sacrifice of men, and the other would be attended with too much hazard. If, then, the Russian forces undertook nothing, it was a consequence of their critical situation. We can, in fact, safely assume that it was their intention to evacuate the country; for to have obtained sufficient supplies by their own means was almost impracticable. When, therefore, this army remained there, it was only because it was fed by Prussia, who did not scruple openly to succor the enemy in his perilous position, by sending enormous transports by the roads of Neydenburg and Mlawa. It was those transports which saved the Russian army from the utmost extremity. I leave to the reader to judge, then, whether it was with one enemy alone that the Poles had to contend. The Prussian government, which arrested all the volunteers who were passing through its territory to augment our ranks, and which stopped all the aids of money and arms sent to us by the generous friends of liberty in other countries, took every occasion to aid and protect our enemy. If that government has satisfied its own inhuman will, by this interference to injure a cause so sacred as that of the Poles, they have unintentionally aided that cause by raising its merit in the eyes of the present and future ages, who will know with what difficulties we had to struggle. In return for these good offices of the Prussian government, the Poles will only say,--Przyidzie kryska na malyska,'--'Every one has his turn.' If the two main armies were at rest, it was not so with the corps in the palatinate of Lublin, where general Chrzanowski beat, on the 10th of June, general Rudiger, between Zamosc and Uchania, and took from him numerous prisoners. General Rudiger was forced, by this action, to retire to Lublin, and to cease offensive operations. General Chrzanowski then prepared to surprise this corps, with the aid of the garrison of Zamosc. It was on the 12th of June, that after being apprized of the continual victories of general Chrzanowski, the general in chief concluded to re-commence hostilities. His plan was, to act in concert with this corps, and to crush the enemy in all the southern parts of the kingdom. He would afterwards have to do only with the Russian main army, which had commenced passing the Narew and entering into the palatinate of Plock, to keep its communications open with Prussia, and where it would have been in a manner cooped up between the Narew and the Vistula, with insurrectionized Lithuania in its rear, and our army in its front or flank, according as that army should operate, at Stanislawow, at Wyskow, or at Ostrolenka. It was here again that our commander in chief felt his hopes renewed, confiding always in the fortunate result of the operations in Lithuania, which had so happily commenced; but he was to be again mournfully disappointed, by the pusillanimity of the generals to whom the all-important expedition to Lithuania had been entrusted. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 66: This disposition was made, expressly with the view of confirming the Russian general in the idea, that he was opposed by colonel Sierakowski alone.] [Footnote 67: The reader will allow me to give some details of this charge of cavalry, which was, indeed, of an extraordinary character. At the moment that the Russian centre began to waver;--with the view to continue and augment the disorder of the enemy, and to break their front, order was given to the cavalry to push their attacks, without intermission, on the sides of the great road. With this force was the 1st squadron of the lancers of Poznan, of between 80 and 100 men. This squadron threw themselves upon the Russian columns, and, simultaneously with them, entered the town, which was full of the enemy's infantry. Far from being discouraged by this overwhelming force, the brave Poznanians penetrated the different streets, and continued their attack on the enemy on every side. But the Russian infantry protected themselves within the houses, and behind the walls, and commenced a fire of musquetry, which fell like hail upon this brave handful of lancers, so that it would have been thought that not a man would have escaped. It was impossible for our lancers either to advance or retire, for the streets before them were commanded by artillery, and the enemy's columns of infantry had closed in behind them; there was only one outlet for them, which was by a small street, issuing out of the town to the left, and that was also occupied by the enemy. There was no alternative but to force their way through it. Our Hulans then, forming a phalanx of lances, opened a passage through the enemy, and quitted the town. It was here that the brave Mycielski fell. The brave Poznanians, leaving the town, by the side of the lake, whither the Russian right wing had retreated and were about entering the city, presented to the Russians the impression that the city was in possession of our troops, and supposing themselves between two fires, they no longer hesitated to lay down their arms to the pursuing force.] [Footnote 68: Gielgudyszki was the paternal estate of the Polish general.] [Footnote 69: The reader may be curious to know some details of the career of marshal Diebitsch. He was born in Silesia, not far from Wroclaw, the capital of that province. His father was a major in the Prussian service, and young Diebitsch was sent by him at an early age to the military school at Berlin. It was, perhaps, in about the year 1805, that he first entered the Russian military service, as a cadet in one of the regiments of the guard, from which he was, in 1807, transferred to the corps of engineers. In this service he advanced rapidly, not so much by real talent, as by a certain art which he had of exhibiting himself to the best advantage. In the place of aid-de-camp of the late emperor Alexander, to which he was soon advanced, he was known to have intrigued in opposition to the interest of Poland. These intrigues, as well as those which he afterwards practised, to supersede Wittgenstein, in the command of the army against Turkey, degraded him in the esteem of all upright men. He was never regarded by us as a general of talent, and the truth of our estimate will be by this time conceded. One cannot but be impressed with the fate which has awaited the two greatest enemies of Poland, Diebitsch and Constantine. Arrested by Providence, amid the persecutions which they had inflicted, and were designing to inflict upon our country, they perished in disgrace. They died acting the part of the enemies of humanity, and their names thus rest, sealed with the eternal reproach of history. Here is a fate which ought to alarm despots. The thought that in the moment that they are most deeply engaged in contriving the oppression of their fellow-men, a sudden death may come upon them, and thus stigmatize their names forever, should teach them an impressive lesson.] CHAPTER XXI. General Gielgud advances into Lithuania.--Allows a Russian corps to pass within a league of him unperceived.--Operations on Wilno.--Enumeration of our present force.--Plan of a simultaneous attack upon Wilno on opposite sides by the corps in two divisions.--General Dembinski engages the enemy with the smaller part of the corps.--Being unsupported by Gielgud, is forced to retreat.--General Gielgud attacks Wilno.--Battle of Wilno.--A retreat is commenced.--Prodigious efforts of the Polish cavalry in protecting this retreat.--Consequences of the repulse from Wilno.--The removal of general Gielgud is called for.--General Chlapowski consents to take the virtual command of the corps, in the post of chef d'etat major.--Consideration on the state of things consequent to the battle of Wilno.--Details of the admirable plan of operations proposed by colonel Valentin. The forces of general Gielgud having thus crossed the Niemen, passed a night at Rewdany, and the next day [_Plan_ XXXIV.] marched on to Czaykiszki (1), in the direction of Keydany. We cannot understand why general Gielgud did not attack Malinowski (_b_), who passed at the distance of half a league from us, at the head of 6,000 men, on his march to Wilno. It is, we believe, a thing unheard of in the history of military affairs, that an inferior force should be suffered to pass, unmolested, so near a hostile army. It discovered the very last degree of carelessness, to enter a country in the occupation of the enemy, without sending out even the ordinary reconnoissances. General Malinowski,[70] with his corps, which ought to have fallen into our hands, escaped, and made the second Russian force which had owed its safety to our negligence, and contributed a new accession to the forces which we should have to contend with. [Illustration: _XXXIV._ ] On the 10th of June, the corps arrived at Keydany (2), in which place it was joined by general Chlapowski with his corps, which had so successfully traversed the departments of Bialystok and Grodno. This force, which, on quitting Xienzopol, amounted to scarce 1,000 men, received reinforcements of cavalry and infantry, from the insurgents of the provinces, through which it had passed.[71] From the new forces, ten squadrons of cavalry, counting nearly 1,200 horse, and two battalions of infantry, amounting to nearly 1,800 men, were formed. On the 11th of June, the united corps quitted Keydany, to march to Zeymy (3), where we arrived at night. In this little town we remained several days, we know not for what object. From this place general Chlapowski was sent with a detachment, consisting of the 1st regiment of lancers and five pieces of light artillery, to make reconnoissances in the direction of Wilno. The new forces of which we have just spoken, were attached to the main body, under general Gielgud. A few hundred of insurgent cavalry of Lithuania also arrived at Zeymy, which were joined to the lancers of Poznan and the 3d regiment of lancers. On the day of our departure, general Szymanowski received orders to leave for Polonga with a small corps of insurgents (_c_) from the department of Szawla. This corps consisted of 1,500 infantry, 400 light cavalry, and two pieces of cannon. As it was from Zeymy that we commenced our operations upon Wilno, after having organized the new forces; and as from this point begins an era in the history of the expedition, it may be well to give a new enumeration of our forces. Our infantry consisted of 13 battalions of infantry, amounting in all to nearly 8,700 men, including a body of sappers; our cavalry of 24 squadrons, amounting to about 2,750; and our artillery of 29 pieces of cannon. To these forces we might add a detachment of 500 men and 100 horse, acting independently as a corps of partizans, under colonel Zaliwski. This corps of colonel Zaliwski was formed in the duchy of Augustow, with the destination to operate there upon all the demonstrations of the enemy, on his communications, his magazines, his baggage, his transportations of provisions, &c; and when it is considered that this officer remained for four months thus successfully employed, and exposed to the enemy's forces on all sides, a particular acknowledgment is due to him for his meritorious services. In the above enumeration we have, of course, excluded the force of general Szymanowski, which, as we have stated, received another destination. With the forces which we have enumerated, general Gielgud left Zeymy on the 14th of June. The operations on Wilno were planned for an attack on two sides, and with that view general Dembinski was detached with a small corps (_d_) of 1,200 infantry, 900 cavalry, and 4 pieces of cannon. This general was to attack Wilno on the road from Wilkomierz to that city, at the same time that the larger force (_e_) made the attack on the road from Kowno, on the left bank of the river Wiliia. This plan demanded the most exact communication between the two attacking corps. That communication was not observed, and, in fact, as it will be seen, the plan itself was not executed. The corps of general Dembinski reached Wieprz (4), on the river Swieta, on the 14th of June. On the next day it passed that river, and arrived at Szerwinty (5). From thence, after resting for a few hours, the corps marched to Myszogola (6), where it passed the night. On the 16th, leaving this village, after a march of two leagues, the corps began to meet with small detachments of the enemy's Circassian cavalry.[72] General Dembinski gave the order to throw forward the flankers. The Circassians commenced a retreating fire, and, thus engaged with them, we approached within a league of Wilno, taking a position at Karczma-biskupia (7), or The Tavern of the Bishop, a large public house, surrounded by small dwellings, and which was in rather a commanding situation. On the 17th, general Dembinski sent parties of cavalry to the right as far as the river Wiliia (W), and to the left as far as Kalwaria (8), to make reconnoissances, and advanced with the body of the corps in the centre, for the same object. In these reconnoissances a constant fire of flankers was kept up, with which the whole day was occupied. It was a great fault in general Dembinski, to have commenced this fire, without having any intelligence of the situation of the corps of general Gielgud, with which he was to act in concert. On the morning of the same day, in fact, on which general Dembinski was thus employed, the corps of general Gielgud was at the distance of thirty-six English miles from him. By these imprudent reconnoissances, general Dembinski laid open all his forces to the knowledge of the enemy. Of this fault the enemy took advantage on the next day. On the 18th, at sunrise, clouds of Circassian cavalry made their appearance, and commenced attacks upon our flanks, endeavoring to turn them. Several columns of Russian infantry then approached, and manoeuvred upon our centre, on which also 12 pieces of Russian artillery of large calibre commenced firing. Other columns of cavalry manoeuvred upon our wings. As far as we could judge, the enemy's forces amounted to about 8,000 men. General Dembinski, seeing the strength of the enemy, and appreciating his own danger, gave orders for a retreat, which was commenced under a terrible fire from the enemy's artillery, and from his flankers, who harassed us on every side. The retreat was executed in the greatest order, as far as Myszogola, a distance of 12 miles from our position, with the loss only of some fifty cavalry. On arriving at Myszogola, general Dembinski, concerned at receiving no intelligence from general Gielgud, sent an officer with a report of what had occurred. That officer found general Gielgud with his corps, at Oyrany, occupied in making the passage of the Wiliia, at that place. The report of general Dembinski, as we can assert from personal knowledge, gave a faithful description of the occurrences of the preceding days, and contained a request, that, in case he (Dembinski) was expected to maintain the position in which he then was, general Gielgud must send him reinforcements of infantry and artillery. The report finished with the suggestion, that it would be, under all circumstances, the course most expedient, to re-unite his forces with those of general Gielgud. Upon the receipt of this report, to which general Gielgud gave little attention, orders were sent to general Dembinski to depart for Podbrzeze (9), eight miles to the left of the road which leads from Wilkomierz to Wilno. The pretext of this order was to attack Wilno on the side of Kalwaryi, and to pass the river Wiliia at that point. Thus, instead of being allowed to unite his corps with that of general Gielgud, as he had proposed, general Dembinski was ordered to remove to a still greater distance, a disposition for which we can conceive no possible motive. On the 19th of June, the day on which general Gielgud commenced his attack on Wilno, general Dembinski was thus employed on his march, without an object, to Podbrzeze. BATTLE OF WILNO. [_Plan_ XXXV.] The battle of Wilno was, in point of tactics, simply a strong attack upon the Russian centre (A), with the view, by forcing it, to pass on to the occupation of the city. The adoption of such a plan supposes an ignorance of the nature of the position of the enemy, and of the strength of his forces.[73] Indeed any plan of attacking this city on its strongest side, that toward Kowno, was almost impossible of execution. [Illustration: _XXXV. p. 312_] [Illustration: _XXXIII. p. 296_] The battle commenced on the morning of the 19th of June. The enemy was dislodged from his first position, which was about one mile from the city. Their retreat was caused by a spirited charge, by the 1st regiment of lancers, upon the Russian artillery, and the columns of infantry in the centre. The enemy, on quitting this position, took another of great strength on the heights called Gory-Konarskie (B). This strong position was already covered with fortifications. The right wing of the enemy (C), composed of strong columns of infantry (_a_), rested on the river Wiliia; the centre, (A), embracing all their artillery, which consisted of 50 pieces of cannon (_b_), occupied the heights above mentioned; the declivity of those heights was covered with sharp-shooters (_d_), concealed behind small heaps of earth, thrown up for this purpose. The left wing of the enemy (D) was entirely composed of cavalry (_e_). After driving the Russians from their first position, our artillery (_f_) was brought forward and placed opposite the enemy's centre. This is to be regarded as a great fault. At the same time that our artillery was thus disposed, our left wing received orders to attack the right wing of the enemy. The columns of our infantry (_g_), composed in part from the new Lithuanian levies,[74] threw themselves with such fury upon the enemy, that they did not give them even time to fire, but fought them hand to hand: an immense slaughter ensued, and the Russians began to give way before this desperate assault; but at this very moment, our artillery, who could not sustain themselves under the overpowering fire of the enemy from his commanding position, began to fall back; and gave time to the Russians to send fresh bodies of infantry to support their right wing. Our left wing, being unable to sustain a conflict with the reinforced strength of the enemy, and apprehensive of being cut off, to which hazard they were exposed by the retreat of our artillery, began to give way also, and upon that a retreat commenced along our whole line, under the protection of the cavalry (_h_). The cavalry, both old and new, performed prodigies of valor, in executing this duty. Single squadrons were obliged to make charges against whole regiments of the enemy, who constantly pressed upon us, with the object of throwing our forces into disorder. All the efforts of the enemy were thwarted, by this determined bravery. The Russians themselves have borne testimony to the unparalleled efforts of our cavalry on that occasion. Our lancers seemed to feel the imminent danger of permitting the Russian cavalry to fall upon our ranks, and they fought with the energy of desperation. They repelled the attacks of a cavalry three times superior in force, and which was in part composed of regiments of the imperial guard. The enemy having been thus foiled in his attacks, our forces repassed in safety the bridge of Oyrany, leaving it destroyed. The battle of Wilno, so disastrous to us, was our greatest fault in the expedition to Lithuania; and it was the first of a series of disasters. The evil consequences of this battle did not rest with ourselves; they fell heavily upon the inhabitants of Wilno, whose hopes of acting in concert with us were disappointed. At the sound of our cannon, a revolt of the inhabitants was commenced, and after the repulse of our forces, arrests and imprisonments of course followed. This unfortunate battle, in fine, disorganized all the plans of the main army, and had a most discouraging effect upon the spirits both of the army and the nation. An attack upon Wilno, at a time when all the enemy's forces were concentrated there, should only have been made upon the basis of the most extensive and carefully adjusted combinations. A successful attack on Wilno would have been a difficult achievement, even by a force equal to that of the enemy, when the strong positions of the place are considered. What then shall we say of an attack, with a force amounting to but one third of that of the enemy, and made also, in broad day, upon the most defensible point of the enemy's position? But, as if these disadvantages were not enough, general Dembinski, after having been compromitted at Myszggola, instead of being enabled to aid in this attack, was, by the orders of general Gielgud, at the very moment of the attack, marching in the direction of Podbrzeze, [(9) _Plan_ XXXIV,] and was also by this separation exposed even to be cut off by the enemy, who could easily have done it, by sending a detachment for this object on the road from Wilno to Wilkomierz. This succession of inconceivable faults arrested the attention of the corps, and created a universal dissatisfaction. The removal of general Gielgud, and the substitution of general Chlapowski in the chief command, who had distinguished himself so much in the departments of Bialystok and Grodno, was loudly called for. General Chlapowski was unwilling to take the chief command, but, to satisfy the wishes of the corps, he consented to take the office of chef d'etat major, a post in which he was virtually chief, having the exclusive responsibility of every operation. To this arrangement general Gielgud readily consented. It took effect on the evening of the 20th. From that day general Chlapowski was the director of all our operations. After all these disasters, which had both morally and physically weakened us, and with a clear knowledge of the amount of the enemy's strength, our leaders should have been satisfied that it must be out of the question with us to act any longer on the offensive, and that our whole plan of operations on Samogitia ought to be abandoned. We will give the reader an exposition of the views of a great majority of the officers of the corps, upon this point, formed even during the battle of Wilno. It was near mid-day on the 19th, and when our line was commencing their retreat, that colonel Valentin, with several other officers, addressed themselves to general Gielgud, represented to him the disastrous situation in which we were placed, and proposed to him a plan of operations adapted to our new circumstances. There was, in their opinion, but one course to pursue. This was, to abandon our whole plan of operations between the rivers Niemen, Dwina, and Wiliia. The space enclosed between these rivers, the Baltic Sea and the Prussian territory, was a dangerous position for us, as it contracted our movements, and at the same time exposed us to being surrounded by the superior forces of the enemy. Colonel Valentin designated, as the most eligible line of operations, the space between Kowno and Lida. From this oblique line we could at any moment menace Wilno. He proposed to occupy Kowno, and to fortify that town as well as Alexota and Lida in the very strongest manner. On this line we should have been in a situation to profit by any advantageous opportunities which the negligence of the enemy might leave to us, of acting upon Wilno; and if we might not be fortunate enough to surprise that city, we should, at least, compel the Russians to keep a strong force within its walls, as a garrison. The town of Lida touches upon the great forest of Bialowiez. It is situated at the meeting of three great roads, viz. those from Poland, from Volhynia, and from the province of Black Russia, a circumstance in its position which made it a place of great importance. The communications of the town with the neighboring forest were extremely easy, and this forest colonel Valentin designed a place of concentration for all the insurgent forces of Lithuania and the other provinces. He proposed to fortify, in the strongest manner, all the roads which concentrated here, and thus to make the position difficult and dangerous of access to the enemy. This forest, which is more than one hundred and twenty English miles in length, and from thirty to sixty in breadth, reaches the great road which passes by Bielsk, from Warsaw to St Petersburgh and Moscow, and extends northwards to the environs of Wilno. By means of prompt operations, according as circumstances might direct, our forces could act upon each of these roads, and could obstruct all the communications of the enemy with St Petersburgh and Moscow. Colonel Valentin, in proposing this plan, also gave much weight to the consideration that our main army under general Skrzynecki, was victorious in the vicinity of Warsaw, and that general Chrzanowski was with a corps in the environs of Zamosc, having been victorious over Rudiger, and on the point of entering into Volhynia; with this latter corps, a junction could easily be effected, and the two corps could act in concert, for the support of the insurrections which might occur in all the provinces between the Dnieper and the Black Sea; and even if all these great advantages, which we should have been justified in counting upon, had not been attained, we should, at least, have compelled the enemy to retain a great body of forces in Lithuania, and thus have hindered him from reinforcing his main army.[75] FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 70: This general Malinowski, as was generally understood, was a native of Mohilew, or Little Russia, a province of ancient Poland, and had been long in the Russian service. The Lithuanians and Samogitians had much reason to complain of his conduct in those provinces.] [Footnote 71: Among the Lithuanians who hastened to join our ranks, and aid in the restoration of their beloved country, were several of the fair sex,--generally from the principal families of the province. There were personally known to me the following, whose names I deem it an honor to record;--Plater, Rasinowicz, Karwoska, Matusiewicz, Zawadzka, and Lipinska. The countess Plater, perhaps, should receive a more especial notice. This young heroine joined our corps with a regiment of from five to six hundred Lithuanians, raised and equipped at her own expense, and she was uniformly at their head in the midst of the severest engagements. How strongly do such examples prove the sacred nature of our cause! What claims must not their country have presented to the minds of these females of the most exalted character, to have induced them thus to go out of their natural position in society, and to sacrifice domestic happiness, wealth, life itself, in the effort to rescue that country from her degradation!] [Footnote 72: This was a formidable force from the province of Circassia, consisting of two regiments, amounting to about 3,000 men, which had recently arrived at Wilno. It was a species of light cavalry, of the most efficient character. The fleetness of their horses was such, that they would often throw themselves in the very midst of our flankers, and having discharged their arms, retreat in safety. They were armed with two pistols, a long fusil, a sabre, a long knife, and a lance.] [Footnote 73: As we have been informed, Wilno was defended by five corps, consisting in all, of about 30,000 men, under generals Kuruta, Tolstoy, Saken, Malinowski, and Szyrman.] [Footnote 74: This Lithuanian force consisted of the regiment of the countess Plater, who accompanied them in the charge.] [Footnote 75: This valuable officer, colonel Valentin, unfortunately lost his life on the day after the battle of Wilno, while bathing in the Wiliia. The regrets of his brother officers were aggravated by their sense of the value of those wise counsels, the suggestion of which was the last act of his life. He had every quality of heart and intellect for the highest military station.] CHAPTER XXII. Operations of the main army.--Expedition under Jankowski.--General Chrzanowski having driven Rudiger from his position, crosses the Vistula, but returns to act in concert with general Jankowski against the enemy near Kock.--Details of general Jankowski's movement.--He remains inactive within sight of the fire of the corps with which he was to co-operate.--Other evidences of treason.--Generals Jankowski and Bukowski are arrested and ordered for trial.--View of the advantages that were sacrificed by this misconduct.--Discovery of a plot to liberate and arm the Russian prisoners at Warsaw, and to deliver the city to the enemy.--State of the public mind induced by these events. From these melancholy occurrences in Lithuania, let us turn to follow the operations of the grand army. On the 13th and 14th of June, a division of infantry, under the command of general Muhlberg, left Praga, and took the direction of the environs of Stanislawow and Jadow. In the latter place this division surprised a strong detachment of the enemy in camp, and took many prisoners. Thence they were instructed to follow the left bank of the Liwiec as far as the environs of Kaluszyn, and even to Zelechow, clearing each bank of the presence of the enemy. This division was then to join itself with the division of cavalry of general Jankowski, which on that day left for Kock. Those two divisions combined, were to endeavor to act upon the different corps of the enemy which were pressed by the corps of general Chrzanowski. The latter general had commenced the offensive on the 16th, and had driven the corps of general Rudiger from its position at Krasny-taw, and compelled it to retreat to Lublin, continually pursued by him. On the 23d, he took that town by storm. The enemy was obliged to evacuate it in disorder, leaving a great number killed, wounded, and prisoners, and to take the direction of Kock. The corps of Rudiger would have been inevitably destroyed, if another Russian corps of 15,000 strong had not marched to its aid. General Chrzanowski, apprized of the arrival of this reinforcement, quitted the pursuit, for a more favorable moment; and, to avoid an engagement with this combined force of the enemy, as well as to escort the prisoners, which he had taken at Lublin, to a place of safety, he repassed the Vistula, at Pulawy. He had scarce reached the opposite side of the river, when he received the intelligence that the division of general Jankowski, reinforced by a brigade of infantry, was approaching Kock, where was already the corps of general Rudiger, and whither the corps of general Keisarow, above mentioned, was hastening to join him. In order, therefore, to take between the two fires all the forces which might be collected at Kock, general Chrzanowski promptly repassed the river, reached the environs of Kock, and waited impatiently for the attack of general Jankowski, in the opposite direction; but Jankowski delayed his movement, and allowed the corps of Kiesarow to join Rudiger. The following are the details of this expedition, as they were related by an officer of the division of Muhlberg, and which exhibit satisfactory evidence of treason on the part of general Jankowski. 'The issue of this expedition, which could have had the most brilliant results, has filled us with grief and indignation. We were marching in the utmost haste upon Kock, with the hope of beating Rudiger. On our route, at Stoczek, for our misfortune, we were joined by the division of cavalry under general Jankowski, who then took the command. We ought to have passed the Wieprz, to meet Rudiger, and cut him off. Suddenly news was brought to us that the enemy had passed the Wieprz, at Lysobyki, with 6,000 infantry, sixteen squadrons of cavalry, and ten pieces of cannon. General Jankowski then called a council of war, at which the following plans were adopted. General Turno was to attack the enemy, in the direction of Sorokomla, and general Jankowski was to come to his support at the first sound of his cannon. The brigade of general Romarino (detached from the corps of general Chrzanowski, and destined to act as an independent corps) was to act upon the left wing, and general Bukowski, with a brigade of cavalry, upon the right wing of the enemy by Bialobrzegi. This plan, which in the conviction of all our officers would have exterminated the corps of general Rudiger, and the execution of which was reserved to general Jankowski, came to nothing. 'General Turno, trusting in the faithful execution of the plan, attacked the enemy with courage and vigor. He was sure of receiving support on three sides. He made head against the enemy for six hours, while generals Jankowski and Bukowski, at the distance of about three miles from him, hearing and even seeing the fire of the action, remained in a state of complete inaction. Nay more, a Russian detachment took possession, almost before their eyes, of the ammunition and baggage of a whole regiment, and they did not stir to prevent it. General Turno fought with bravery and sangfroid, notwithstanding that none came to his support, and did not retire till he received orders to do so. The whole corps was indignant at the conduct of Jankowski, and his brother-in-law, Bukowski, who had evidently acted the part of traitors.' General Skrzynecki was deeply afflicted with the sad result of an expedition, which, based upon infallible calculations, had promised the very surest success. The event was of the most disastrous consequence to us. If the corps of general Rudiger had been crushed, as it certainly could have been, the combined corps of Chrzanowski, Muhlberg, and Jankowski, could have acted upon all the corps of the enemy, which might be found between the Wieprz, the Swider, and the Liwiec. As those corps were quite distant from their main army, which was now upon the right of the Narew, and as they were even without a free communication with each other, they could have each been beaten in detail, by a prompt action on our part. I leave to the reader to decide, whether, after we should have obtained such successes over these detached corps, we could not have acted with certain success against the Russian main army. The corps of general Rudiger, which thus escaped its fate, left for the environs of Lukow, whither it was followed by general Chrzanowski. The corps of general Jankowski returned in the direction of Macieiowiec and Laskarzew, and the division of general Muhlberg returned to Minsk. The general in chief deprived generals Jankowski and Bukowski of their command, and ordered them to be tried by a court-martial. But other and even more affecting disasters were awaiting us. Poland, which had been so often made a sacrifice of, through her own generosity and confidence, now nourished upon her bosom the monsters who were plotting her destruction. On the 28th of June, general Skrzynecki received information of a conspiracy which had for its object the delivering up of Warsaw into the hands of the enemy, by liberating and arming the Russian prisoners. Several generals, of whom distrust had been felt, and who had been deprived of their commands when the revolution broke out, having been known as the vile instruments of the former government, were at the bottom of this plot. Of this painful intelligence, general Skrzynecki immediately apprized the National Government, who, relying on his report, caused to be arrested general Hurtig, former commander of the fortress of Zamosc, and a base instrument of Constantine, general Salacki, colonel Slupecki, the Russian chamberlain Fenshawe, a Mr Lessel, and a Russian lady, named Bazanow. Generals Jankowski and Bukowski were also implicated in the conspiracy. This band of traitors intended to get possession of the arsenal, to arm the Russian prisoners, and to destroy the bridges; (in order to cut off all communication with the army, which was then on the right bank of the Vistula;) and the Russian army, advertised of this movement, was then to pass to the left bank of the Vistula, at Plock or Dobzyn, and take possession of Warsaw. Those traitors succeeded in setting at large a great number of Russian prisoners at Czenstochowa. What a terror must poor Poland have been to the Russian cabinet, which did not find it enough to have deluged her with their immense forces, and to have engaged all the neighboring cabinets to aid them against her, but must go farther, and, by the employment of such vile means, attempt to kindle hostilities in her interior, and to subject her at the same time to a civil and an external war! They had good cause for these desperate attempts. From the earliest stage of the conflict, they had seen that the Poles, nerved by the consciousness of the justice of their cause, were capable of crushing the force which they had sent to execute the will of the despot. Unable to meet us in the open field, they must invent some new method, no matter how base, to accomplish their end. It was through the instrumentality of their intrigues that the dictatorship was prolonged. It was by such intrigues, that the apple of discord was thrown into our national congress, and even into the ranks of that handful of brave men who had sworn to sacrifice themselves in the cause of their country. They employed their vile accomplices to betray us, and they succeeded. The discovery of this extensive treason struck the people with consternation and dismay. It drove them to a state bordering on desperation. When Poland had sent and was sending her sons, and even her daughters, to the field of death;--when she was sacrificing every thing to achieve her deliverance, and was awaiting the fruits of such sacrifices, sure, if not to conquer, at least to fall with honor,--she sees that all is in vain--that her holy purposes are mocked at, and that all her noble efforts are thwarted! Can we be surprised, then, at the state of the popular mind which ensued? The state of feeling which these events caused was aggravated by the reflection, that the surveillance of certain individuals, of whom distrust had been already entertained, had been more than once demanded; and that from an early period it was urged upon the government, that the Russian prisoners, particularly those of distinction, should be carefully watched, and prevented from holding free communication together, or with others. So far, however, from such care having been taken, the very Jews were permitted to communicate with them constantly, and to bring them intelligence of the events of the war. Can it be wondered then, that the neglect of these repeated warnings, and the tremendous consequences which had well nigh followed this neglect, should have weighed upon the minds of the people, and have even brought the National Government itself into suspicion? It was, in fact, from this moment, that the nation began first to look with dissatisfaction and distrust upon that government, upon prince Czartoriski its head, and even upon the general in chief himself. The melancholy news of the treason of Jankowski filled the minds of the patriots with bitter anticipations; they naturally foreboded, that if such treasons could be perpetrated in the grand army, under the very eyes of the general in chief, the danger might be still greater in the more distant corps. Their forebodings were but too well justified by the events which took place in Lithuania, the intelligence of which was soon received at Warsaw. CHAPTER XXIII. General Chlapowski arrives at Keydany, having ordered general Dembinski to Wilkomierz.--The position of the two forces and their line of operations.--Examination of these arrangements.--Neglect of the important position of Kowno.--General Chlapowski, at Keydany, proposes to form a provisional government, and obtain a levy of troops.--Dispositions of the Lithuanians, as effected by the mismanagement of our leaders.--Advantages offered to the enemy by the delay at Keydany.--Brave defence of Kowno, by the small force left there.--Skirmish at Wilkomierz.--The opportunity of concentrating all the forces at Keydany, and repassing the Niemen, is neglected.--The enemy presses his pursuit.--Battle of Rosseyny.--Attack on Szawla.--Loss of the ammunition and baggage of the corps.--The corps retreats in order to Kurzany, protected by a rear guard of cavalry and light artillery.--At Kurzany the corps is subdivided into three parts.--Destination and strength of each.--Examination of this plan. General Chlapowski, whom we shall hereafter name as having the chief command of the Lithuanian force, arrived on the night of the 22d of June at Keydany, having sent orders to general Dembinski to withdraw with his corps, and to march to Wilkomierz. (10) [_Plan_ XXXIV.] The corps of general Dembinski arrived, on the 21st, at Szerwinty, and on the 22d, at Wilkomierz. On quitting Podbrzeze, general Dembinski left a small detachment in the environs of Myszogola, to act as partizans. The position of our corps was then as follows;--The larger force was at Keydany (2). The corps of Dembinski was at Wilkomierz, and a small corps (_c_) under the command of general Szymanowski was in the environs of Szawla. Our line of operations was on the river Swienta (S) and along the Wiliia (W), for a short distance below the junction of the former river with it. To defend the passage of those rivers against the enemy, the following detachments were designated. Kowno (11) was occupied by two battalions of Lithuanian infantry, recently levied, under the command of colonel Kikiernicki, and a squadron of the 11th regiment of lancers, also Lithuanian, and recently formed. At Janow (12) was a battalion of infantry and a squadron of the 11th lancers, under the command of colonel Piwecki. At Wieprz were three squadrons of the 10th lancers. This separation of our forces in Lithuania, and, above all, this designation of the most recently organized troops for the defence of the passage of the two rivers, with a full knowledge of the great strength of the enemy, was a gross error. To leave the defence of Kowno, a place of so much importance, to three battalions of infantry and a squadron of cavalry, all of them newly formed troops, and that, too, without ammunition, (for they had barely three rounds each,) was a course perfectly inexplicable. Besides all this, the river Swienta was so shallow as to be fordable by both infantry and cavalry, and in some places even by artillery. Why then was that river defended? It was owing, in fact, to good fortune that all these detachments were not cut off. On the arrival of the two corps at Keydany and Wilkomierz, the organization of a provisional government for the province, was commenced. Diets were convoked at these two places, to organize an administration, and to procure levies of forces. Although these arrangements were all proper in themselves, yet it was a late hour to undertake them, and no place could have been so well adapted for them as Wilno. Had the corps of Saken been pursued and broken up, Wilno would have been ours; and all such arrangements could have been made there under the most favorable circumstances. In that event, the brave Lithuanians would have come in from all sides and crowded our ranks, without waiting for any appeal to be made to them. But at present, a new crisis had arrived. We had fought the battle of Wilno with a disastrous result. The enemy had become acquainted with the inferiority of our forces, and had begun to understand the errors of our commander, and was prepared to take advantage of them. In fine, the Lithuanians themselves, witnessing all this gross mismanagement, became disgusted, and after having once so cheerfully tendered their co-operation, began, at length, to discover that they were sacrificing themselves in vain, and that the fate of the inhabitants of Wilno would await them. This people, as we have already stated, had commenced their insurrection two months before they had hopes of any assistance from our forces, and badly armed as they were, they had maintained a partizan warfare during this period with uniform success. We can, therefore, have no reason to reproach them, if after the misconduct which was exhibited before their eyes, they began to be reluctant to join their forces to our own, and chose to reserve the sacrifice of their exertions and their lives for some other occasion, when there might be some hope of useful results. The six or seven days which we passed thus at Keydany and Wilkomierz, seemed as if designed to invite the enemy to pursue his advantages, and to lead him to the idea of surrounding our forces. The enemy, fortunately for us, did not improve the opportunity which we presented him, but remained inactive. This inactivity, whether it arose from the imbecility of his commanders, or whatever other cause, afforded us an opportunity of changing our plans, and of extricating ourselves from the dangerous position in which we were placed. But instead of this, we awaited his attack. On the 29th, the enemy commenced an attack upon every point, at Wilkomierz, Wieprz, Janow, and Kowno, with his whole force. A corps of 4,000 Russians, with 16 cannon, commenced the attack on Kowno, defended, as we have said, by 2,000 new troops. From morning until night, the defence was sustained with great courage. The contest was for the first half of the day in the town itself, and the rest of the day was spent in disputing the passage of the bridge over the Wiliia. The Russians occupying all the houses upon the banks of the river, and the neighboring heights, commenced a terrible fire of artillery and musquetry upon the bridge, which was defended by a body of infantry, almost without ammunition. At nightfall, colonel Kikiernicki, seeing that the Russian cavalry had found means of fording the river, ordered a retreat, but remained himself at the head of a single company, defending the bridge, until he learnt that the rest of the corps had passed the town of Sloboda, and had gained the heights which are behind the town. Upon that bridge, fell the captain of this company, Zabiello, a Lithuanian. He was shot in the act of cutting away the bridge with his own hands. This company, after having thus sustained their post at the bridge with the greatest bravery, commenced their retreat. The Russian cavalry, having succeeded in fording the river, had already commenced acting in their rear. At the same time, the Russian columns of infantry were debouching upon the bridge. Colonel Kikiernicki, perceiving his situation, animated his little corps to make the desperate effort of breaking through the Russian cavalry, and of gaining Sloboda. His spirit was seconded by his brave followers, and this company of one hundred men, raising the hurrah, forced a passage through the enemy's cavalry, gained Sloboda, and, under cover of night, succeeded in joining their comrades.[76] In this effort, colonel Kikiernicki fell wounded, and was made prisoner by the enemy. The detachment, having lost one half of their numbers in the sanguinary attack to which the mismanagement of our general had exposed them, took the road to Janow. In this manner ended the attack on Kowno, and the Russians took possession of that important post, which might be regarded as the key to all our communications with Poland. There can be no excuse for not having fortified Kowno. It is a town, containing ten or twelve thousand inhabitants, of which one half, perhaps, were Jews, but they could have been employed in the construction of the works. It was also most favorably situated for defence, being surrounded by heights on every side. On the same day, sanguinary skirmishes took place at Janow, Wieprz, and Wilkomierz. The two first towns were abandoned. In the attack on Wilkomierz, which was successfully repelled, an action took place, in which the lancers of Poznan and Plock threw themselves upon the flank of Russian cavalry, and, after causing severe loss, took about eighty prisoners, consisting of Circassians. General Dembinski, on the night of the 29th, learning that our positions of Janow and Wieprz were abandoned, quitted Wilkomierz on the next day, and took the road to Szawla. [_Plan_ XXXIV, (13)]. Although the occupation, by the enemy, of the town of Kowno, and the interruption of our whole line of operations on the Swienta and Wiliia, made our situation very perilous; yet it was still possible to avoid the disasters which followed, and to effect a return to Poland. By concentrating all our forces at Keydany, we could have effected a passage of the Niemen, in the same manner as we had already done in the direction of Gielgudyszki, which would have left the enemy in our rear; while on the other side of the Niemen, the enemy were not in force enough to prevent our passage. But, instead of doing this, as if to insure our ruin, a small detachment, consisting of four squadrons of cavalry, and the sappers, under the command of colonel Koss, were sent to make a bridge over the Niemen! This measure is perfectly inexplicable. Scarcely had this detachment arrived at the river, and commenced the erection of the bridge, when they were attacked on two sides, by the cuirassiers and the artillery of the enemy. They were saved only by the judicious conduct of colonel Koss, who threw himself into the protection of the neighboring forest, and succeeded in rejoining the corps. The loss which we incurred by this expedition, of all our implements for the construction of bridges, was irreparable. From this time, the enemy did not for a moment lose sight of us; and throwing his superior forces upon the great road which leads from Keydany, through Rosseyny (14), to Szawla, forced us to take that direction which was the most dangerous for us, as the field of operation for our forces was continually becoming more and more contracted. COMBAT OF ROSSEYNY. The cause of this action, which it would have been most desirable to have avoided, was a strong attack by the enemy upon the rear-guard of general Chlapowski which was marching on the road to Szawla. To avoid exposing the rear-guard to a great loss, or even to the chance of it, the command was given, to take position, and the corps was placed in order of battle. The battle of Rosseyny, which lasted scarcely four hours, was very sanguinary, and highly honorable to the Polish arms. The object of the enemy on this occasion was to surround our left wing. As soon as he perceived that our corps had taken position and was arranged in order of battle, the enemy brought forward his artillery, consisting of 24 pieces of cannon, and commenced a heavy fire upon our centre. This fire did not cause a great loss, for, our position being elevated, the shot struck too low to be effective. A few moments after this fire of artillery was commenced, a strong column of Russian cavalry showed itself on our right wing. This column had with it a body of light artillery, which commenced fire also. On our left wing, which was supported upon a marsh, and, for that reason, in little expectation of an attack, but a small force was collected. This wing was composed of a battalion of infantry and the 1st regiment of lancers. These troops had been placed on this wing to repose from the combats and fatigues of the day and night preceding, in which they had acted as rear-guard. The brave lancers, however, at the first sight of the enemy, demanded of the general to be permitted to make a charge. This permission being given, at the first discharge of the Russian artillery, our soldiers threw themselves with impetuosity upon both the cavalry and the artillery of the enemy. The capture of sixty prisoners and the spiking of three cannon were the fruits of this brilliant attack. It was the last charge of that brave regiment. Our centre was not less fortunate than our left wing. Our artillery being better placed than that of the enemy, several of his pieces were dismounted, and his fire began to slacken. For some hours a light fire of tirailleurs was continued on both sides, when our generals, seeing that the enemy did not renew the attack, gave orders to evacuate the position, and to resume the march for Szawla. On the same night, the corps arrived at Cytowiany. There our forces were joined by the corps of general Rohland, which had had a bloody skirmish at Beysagola, [_Plan_ XXXIV, (15)] on the same day on which general Dembinski was also attacked at Poniewieze. The corps of general Chlapowski left the next day for the attack of Szawla, which was occupied by a Russian garrison. The corps of general Dembinski, which as we have already stated, was marching by another route upon Szawla, arrived there at mid-day on the 7th. That general, considering the smallness of the Russian garrison in this town, consisting only of four battalions of infantry, and six pieces of cannon, after waiting a short time for the arrival of the corps of general Chlapowski, concluded to send a summons, by colonel Miroszewski, to the Russian commandant, proposing to him to surrender, and save a useless effusion of blood. The Russian colonel Kurow would not accept of these friendly propositions, and compelled general Dembinski to order an attack; a very moderate one, however, as he was in hopes that the arrival of our superior forces would soon convince the Russian commander that a defence would be useless. In fact, the corps of general Chlapowski arrived at about 5, P.M. at a village about four miles from Szawla, where he was met by an officer, sent by general Dembinski, with a report of the circumstances which had taken place. Indeed, the sound of the cannon and musquetry, ought already to have satisfied general Chlapowski that general Dembinski was engaged in the attack; but instead of hastening to his assistance he went into camp, and thus remained until two hours past midnight. At two o'clock then, of the morning of the 8th, the corps took up the march, and arrived by day-break before Szawla. ATTACK ON SZAWLA. On examining the plan of this battle, and considering the smallness of the Russian garrison in Szawla, we cannot but be satisfied that the town ought to have been taken at the first assault, and it will seem almost incredible that after having occupied four hours in an unsuccessful attack, we should have at last quitted our position. On arriving on the plain before Szawla, the two corps were placed in order of battle. The force of general Dembinski changed its position, and formed our left wing. We commenced a fire of artillery from the right wing and the centre, at the same time throwing forward our skirmishers. The enemy had made an entrenchment round the whole town, behind which his infantry was concealed; and upon the right of the town he had constructed a redoubt. On the sides of the town against which the right wing and centre were posted, a general fire of musquetry and artillery was commenced, under the cover of which our light troops endeavored to take possession of the ramparts. General Szymanowski and colonel Pientka, who were the only general officers who were actively engaged in this battle, seeing that this attack of the light troops upon the Russian infantry, thus safely entrenched, was very destructive to us, and would prolong the attack, ordered two battalions of infantry, under colonel Jeroma and Piwecki, to make an assault, protected by two pieces of cannon and a squadron of the 3d regiment of lancers. This order was executed with the greatest determination. Our artillery having fired two rounds of grape, the two battalions of infantry entered the city at the charge, and regardless of the terrible fire from the windows of the houses, they reached the market-place of the town.[77] The enemy was in consternation, and the taking of a hundred prisoners by us, showed the disorder into which he had already fallen. If but two other battalions had been sent to support those which had entered the town, the attack would have ended here. But this was neglected, and the latter were remaining in their dangerous situation, while the rest of our forces were uselessly engaged, and received no orders. The bold idea of the brave colonel Pientka, of forcing the attack, was no where seconded. The corps of general Dembinski remained wholly inactive, although officers were occasionally sent by him to general Chlapowski for orders. By this fault the battalions who had entered the city were exposed to the superior forces of the enemy, who, falling upon them from all sides, forced them to quit the city, leaving among their dead the brave colonels Jeroma and Piwecki, and nearly one half of their whole number.[78] With the retreat of these brave battalions, all our forces commenced evacuating their position,--we cannot tell for what reason. The enemy did not attack us; on the contrary, he was well satisfied with the cessation of hostilities on our part. At 9 o'clock our corps recommenced its march. These are the details of the battle, or rather the attack, of Szawla, which town we quitted, after investing it for nearly five hours, and after having sustained a severe loss in men and officers, a sacrifice which was owing to our most defective and ill-judged arrangements. On this same day, we were again unfortunate, in the loss of all our baggage and several wagons of ammunition, which were sent forward by a road on our right, and fell into the hands of the light Circassian cavalry of the enemy. This battle discovered an extreme of negligence in our commander in chief. With the knowledge that the enemy was pursuing us in the rear, and on each side, we remained uselessly encamped during the night of the 7th, which we ought to have employed in the attack. The true course should have been to have set fire to the place, which would have required only the agency of a few bold men. This town, indeed, deserved no better fate; for it was inhabited almost exclusively by hostile Jews. When the general welfare is at risk, there should be no hesitation in sacrificing the convenience of individuals. If we compare the consequences of having burnt this town, and of having attacked it, we shall see that, by the former course, we should have compelled the Jews to fly with their effects, and the Russian garrison to surrender, without any effusion of blood, while, by attacking it, we lost nearly one thousand men, without any advantage whatever. In regard to the attack, the surrounding of the town was a great fault; for neither the fire of the artillery nor of the light troops could be effective, as the Russian artillery was in a dominant position, and was concealed within the city, as their infantry was behind their entrenchments. The skirmishers, in approaching the city, fell, without having harmed the enemy. The plan of colonel Pientka, of masking the attack on one side, and forcing the attack upon the other, at a single point, was well conceived, but failed, as we have seen, by the want of support. At about ten o'clock the flanking parties of the Russian cavalry began to show themselves on each side of us, upon the road to Wilkomierz, and on that of Cytowiany. Our corps was already on the march for Kurszany. The 1st regiment of lancers and the light artillery were designated as a rear-guard. This rear-guard, taking advantage of a small defile, which presented a favorable position, took post there, and sustained themselves for some hours against an attack from the Russian advanced guard; thus protecting the march of our main body, which was executed with the greatest order. The lancers and light artillery then evacuated their position, by a retreat at full speed, which, by taking advantage of the windings of the road, and the vicinity of the forests, they were able to effect with inconsiderable loss. On the evening of the same day, we arrived at Kurszany. On the next day we remained some hours in that place, to hold a council of war. General Chlapowski proposed to divide our forces into three corps, each to act independently. This arrangement was carried into effect, and our forces were thus distributed. The 1st corps, under general Chlapowski, with which general Gielgud remained, consisted of five battalions of infantry, amounting to 1,500 men; four squadrons of the 1st regiment of lancers, and two squadrons of Kaliszian cavalry; in all, 450 horse, and an artillery consisting of 13 pieces of cannon. This corps received the destination, to march for Rosseyny, leaving the enemy on the right, and from thence directly for Kowno, and, by this unsuspected march, to surprise the last important position. By that means, the communication between us and Poland would be re-opened; and to protect this communication was to be the principal employment of that corps. The 2d corps, under the command of generals Rohland and Szymanowski, was composed of eight battalions of infantry, amounting to about 3,000 men; all the cavalry which was recently formed in Lithuania, consisting of nearly 1,000 horse; and an artillery, commanded by the brave colonel Pientka, consisting of 12 pieces of cannon. This corps was directed to march upon Polonga, a port on the Baltic. It had been rumored that two French vessels with arms, funds, and ammunition, together with a small body of volunteers, were cruising near that port. After they should have received these expected supplies, the corps was directed to march towards the Dwina, and, by following along the banks of that river, to observe and interrupt the communications between the forces of the enemy in Lithuania, and the province of Courland. The 3d corps, under general Dembinski, was composed of three battalions of infantry of the 18th regiment, recently formed, consisting of about 1,000 men; two squadrons of the lancers of Poznan, two squadrons of the lancers of Plock, and one squadron of the 3d regiment of Hulans, in all, about 500 cavalry; and seven pieces of artillery. This corps received orders to march for the environs of Szawla, traversing the forests, and leaving the enemy on the right; from thence to take a direction to Wilkomierz, and thence to the environs of Wilno, and to attack that city, if circumstances might allow of it; and then to manoeuvre in the department of Minsk, and in the forests of Bialystok, acting there in support of the insurrection, and collecting the forces of the insurgents. An important object of this corps was to support a communication with the corps of general Chlapowski. This plan, the reader will observe, was, in many of its points, the same with that suggested by colonel Valentin. A proper reflection upon all these arrangements would convince any one that much more loss than advantage was to be anticipated from them. This subdivision of the force was, in fact, a visionary scheme. Many officers openly declared their opinions to this effect, and urged that in our critical situation, almost surrounded as we were by a hostile force, so superior to our own, we ought not to form any new projects, but, profiting by the concentration of our forces, to redouble the rapidity of our march, and, taking advantage of the forests and covered roads, to reach Poland as soon as possible. This would, indeed, be attended with difficulties; but it would still be much easier of execution, and much more proper to be attempted, than the plan which we have detailed. Such views, however, were not regarded. The project was highly colored, and the most brilliant successes were promised to follow it. The separation of the corps was accordingly ordered, and our fate was sealed. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 76: With this company was the countess Plater, and her aid-de-camp M'lle Rasynowiecz.] [Footnote 77: The Jewish inhabitants of the city even fired upon our soldiers. Many of them were taken with pistols in their hands, and afterwards executed.] [Footnote 78: In this affair we ought to make particular mention of the estimable Laga, a priest, who was at the head of the squadron in this attack, having the cross in one hand and the sabre in the other.] CHAPTER XXIV. The three subdivisions of the Lithuanian corps take their respective destinations.--Details of the operations of that of general Rohland.--He meets alone the attack of the whole Russian force.--Battle of Powenduny and Worna.--General Rohland, on his way to Polonga, learns that general Chlapowski had marched towards the Prussian frontier.--He presses his march to overtake and form a junction with him.--The greater part of the corps of Gielgud and Chlapowski were found to have passed the frontier, when that of Rohland came in sight.--Indignation of the soldiery.--Death of general Gielgud.--General Rohland, joined by a portion of the corps of Gielgud which had not yet passed the frontier, continues his march to Nowe-Miasto.--He declines a proposition from general Kreutz, to surrender.--Successful skirmish with the enemy's cavalry.--General Rohland takes a position at Nowe-Miasto, and awaits the enemy.--The Russian forces, however, do not continue their pursuit, but go into camp.--Propositions to pass the frontier are sent to general Rohland by the Prussian authorities.--They are submitted to the corps, and accepted. On the 9th of July, at about 10, A.M., each of the three subdivisions of the corps took the road designated for it. From this moment, commences a new epoch in our operations in Lithuania, and we shall give a separate detail of the proceedings of each of these corps, commencing with that of general Rohland, which was in the line of the enemy's pursuit, and was followed by his whole force. This corps, quitting Kurszany, took the road for Telze. On the night of the 10th, it arrived at Powenduny and the lake of Worna. Upon the road, it was joined by colonel Koss, who had been sent, as we have said, with his detachment, from Keydany, to construct a bridge over the Niemen, and who had extricated himself from the exposed situation in which this attempt had placed him. As the position was advantageous, and as our soldiers had need of repose after their fatiguing march, we remained there the whole night. On the next day, at sunrise, our camp was alarmed by the approach of the Circassian cavalry of the enemy. Our generals decided to wait the enemy's attack in their eligible position, and that day was one of most brilliant success. We will present to the reader full details of the events of that day, for they were of an extremely interesting character. The manoeuvres of all our forces were admirable; but those of the cavalry were indeed extraordinary. The reader will be astonished to find how much was done by a cavalry, fatigued, their accoutrements in disorder, and almost without ammunition, against a cavalry like that of the enemy, well mounted, with fresh horses, and in every respect in perfect order. COMBAT OF POWENDUNY AND WORNA. The battle commenced at sunrise, as we have already mentioned, with an attack from two squadrons of Circassian cavalry. Those squadrons turned our outer guard, and came in contact with our tirailleurs, who received them with a warm and unexpected fire. These tirailleurs were concealed in the forest and brush-wood. The Circassians halted, and commenced a fire of carbines in return. Our fire could not but be attended with great loss to the enemy, and they were forced to retire. In this retreat, our own cavalry, which was at Powenduny, and which had debouched by a covered road, and taken position, entirely surrounded these two squadrons, and, attacking them on all sides, causing a severe loss and taking forty prisoners. An hour after, the Russians renewed the attack. Strong columns of infantry and cavalry passed through a little village which is on the road from Kurszany to Powenduny. The Russian artillery took positions upon the declivity of the heights adjoining that village, and commenced a fire upon our cavalry. At the same time, several columns of the Russian infantry threw themselves into the brush-wood on the right of our position, while a strong detachment, composed of infantry, artillery, and cavalry, was pushed forward upon our right wing, with the design to turn our flank, and, by surrounding us, to cut off our communications with Worna. This detachment, after losing several hours in attempting to act upon us, under the obstacles which were presented by the marshy nature of the ground, returned without having effected any thing. Our generals, seeing the superior force of the enemy, ordered our cavalry to retire, and to place themselves in the rear of our artillery, which occupied heights commanding the whole vicinity, and arrested by an incessant fire, for more than four hours, the advance of the enemy. After our cavalry had retired, the tirailleurs began to evacuate the wood, and concentrating themselves upon the road to Powenduny, retired also, after having destroyed the bridge which crosses a small marshy stream, intersecting the road, and burnt a faubourg which adjoins Powenduny, and was near this bridge. Such was the state of things when, at about ten o'clock, a flag was announced from the Russian commander. It was brought by an aid-de-camp of general Delinghausen. The proposition borne by this flag was, that we should surrender, on the ground that we were engaged with the whole of the Russian force, amounting to nearly 20,000 men, and that that force had already occupied the road to Worna, the only communication which remained to us. This proposition was followed by the usual considerations,--the wish to prevent the needless effusion of blood, &c. It was declined, and the aid-de-camp returned to the Russian head-quarters, but in a short time appeared again with a renewal of the proposition. General Szymanowski, who received the aid-de-camp, persisted in his refusal, adding, that 'he knew the duties of a soldier--duties which were doubly obligatory upon one who is fighting in the cause of liberty, and in the defence of the country of his ancestors.' After the departure of the aid-de-camp, the order was given to the artillery and infantry to re-commence their fire. At the same time, arrangements were made for the continuation of our march to Worna. At about mid-day, our columns of infantry, and a part of the cavalry and artillery, quitted their position, and took up the march for Worna. After a short time, there remained but one battalion of infantry, and three squadrons of cavalry. The cavalry was employed to mask the withdrawing of the remaining artillery. After our corps had, by a march, arranged in the manner we have described, reached a point sufficiently distant from our first position, the battalion of light infantry which remained in that position was ordered to withdraw as far as certain mills, keeping up a retreating fire. After passing those mills, the tirailleurs received orders to run at full speed to rejoin the corps, and to occupy the adjoining forests, while the cavalry were ordered to take post at the mills, to cover this movement, and afterwards to retire slowly, pass a small village which was on the road, and on the opposite side of that village to await the approach of the enemy. This manoeuvre was well executed by both the infantry and cavalry, the latter placing themselves on rather an open space behind the village, to await the enemy. After some time, six squadrons of the light Russian cavalry, consisting of hussars and Circassians, passed through the village, and seeing the small number of our cavalry, gave the hurrah, and threw themselves upon them. Our cavalry, expecting this attack, received orders to quit their position with promptness, in order to lead the Russian cavalry upon the fire of our infantry, who were concealed in the woods. The Russian cavalry, presuming that this was a disorderly retreat, followed with impetuosity, while our cavalry threw themselves on one side, to pass a ford which had been designated for that object, and thus left the enemy exposed in a mass, to the fire of our tirailleurs. The manoeuvre cost the Russians two hundred men, by the acknowledgment of officers who were made prisoners. After having caused this severe loss to the enemy, our infantry and cavalry retired slowly, to occupy their third position, and the enemy did not follow. A short time after we quitted our second position, the Russian cavalry showed themselves again. General Szymanowski remained, with two companies of the 7th regiment of the line, to defend the passage of the third village against the enemy, and to give time to our cavalry to take a third position. This general, for nearly an hour, resisted the attack of a strong force of cavalry, but commenced evacuating the position on the approach of considerable bodies of the Russian infantry, withdrawing through the forests. The Russian cavalry, seeing that the village was abandoned by our infantry, began to debouch through it. It was an act of the greatest imprudence in the Russian cavalry, unsupported by either infantry or artillery, to advance thus upon a plain surrounded by forests, in which they might have supposed infantry, and even cavalry, to be concealed. Two squadrons of our cavalry commenced a fire in order to harass them, and draw them on to the middle of the plain. Afterwards, those two squadrons wheeling about, laid open the Russian cavalry to the fire of our artillery, which was posted on a little elevation and concealed by brush-wood. This fire of our artillery was effective. The enemy's cavalry began to waver. General Szymanowski observing this, ordered an immediate attack by our whole cavalry, consisting of twelve squadrons. This attack was made with great impetuosity. Sixteen hussars, with two officers, were taken prisoners, and forty or fifty were left, killed or wounded, on the field. After this, the corps recommenced its march to Worna, leaving two battalions of the 7th regiment of infantry, as a rear-guard, in the forests which border on that road. The successes which we had thus obtained in our three first positions were over the advanced guard of the enemy; but in the fourth position, arranged by the brave and skilful colonel Koss, and in which our successes were even greater, we had to encounter the whole body of the Russian forces in Lithuania, which, according to some of our prisoners, were to be estimated at 18,000, and by others at 25,000 men, with 36 pieces of artillery, under the command of the several Russian generals, Kreutz, Tolstoy, Szyrman, Delinghausen, and Saken. The town of Worna is surrounded by two large lakes, in such a manner that the only communication with that town to the west, is by a neck of land, separating the extremities of those two lakes. The town is situated upon an elevated ground, which overlooks the whole vicinity. On our left wing was a forest, that reached one of the lakes. This forest was occupied by two battalions of infantry. Our right wing leaned upon the other lake. All our artillery remained in the centre, and occupied the heights near Worna. When our arrangements were completed, we heard the fire of the two battalions composing our rear-guard, who were engaged, while withdrawing, with the Russian infantry. Strong columns of the enemy's infantry, which were following these battalions began to debouch from the forest, and to deploy upon the plains before Worna. Those columns were followed by the enemy's artillery, 12 pieces of which took post on the side of the road, and immediately opened a fire upon our centre. At the same time, a warm fire of skirmishers was commenced on each side. Our artillery, which was very advantageously placed, without replying to that of the enemy, opened a fire upon the columns of the enemy's infantry. Before night, the whole Russian forces had deployed upon the plain, and a powerful attack on their side was expected; but instead of this we were astonished to find that their fire began to slacken, perhaps owing to a heavy rain, which had just began to fall. Our commander with the view to profit by this rain and the approach of darkness, after an interval of not more than ten minutes, ordered the two battalions which remained in the forests on our left, to make a sudden charge with the bayonet upon the right wing of the enemy. These battalions, under the command of the brave colonel Michalowski, performed prodigies of valor in this charge, and bore down all before them. Colonel Koss at the same time taking the command of the cavalry, and addressing a few exciting words to them, led them upon the centre of the enemy at the charge. The consternation of the Russians was extreme. A great part of their cavalry was found dismounted, for they had not the least expectation of an attack; their artillery fled, and abandoned their cannon; the utmost disorder followed, and a vast number of the enemy fell upon the field. According to the testimony of prisoners, the consternation was at such a height that we might have put their whole corps to rout. Our forces, however, could not follow up these advantages; for the obscurity of the night and our own weakness made it impossible. We were content with having reduced the strength of the enemy by the great losses we had occasioned; and we continued our route towards the seaport of Polonga, agreeably to our orders, where we were looking for reinforcements, and where our generals believed that the corps of general Chlapowski would join, and act with us upon some new plan. On the morning of the 12th we arrived at Retow. The battle of Powenduny and Worna, in which we had beaten the Russians in four positions, and which cost the enemy more than a thousand men, including prisoners and wounded, renewed our hopes. We were expecting, as we have said, new accessions of strength at Polonga; and we were not without hope that our other corps under Dembinski and Chlapowski, who could not have been far distant, finding that we had been thus engaged and so successfully, with the whole force of the enemy, would change their plan of operations, and attack him in his rear or his flank. To this end, in fact, on the very morning of that battle, after our first successes, we sent two officers in the direction of Dembinski and Chlapowski, to apprize them of the circumstances in which we were placed, and especially to inform them of the important fact that the whole force of the enemy were before us. With these hopes awakened in our minds, our disappointment may be imagined on learning, at Retow, that the corps of general Chlapowski had passed through that place on the day before, in a rapid march towards the Prussian frontier. During the battle of Powenduny, therefore, the corps of general Chlapowski was at the distance of only _four miles_ from us. He heard our fire during the whole day, but instead of marching to our support, which, as we afterwards learnt, his officers and even his soldiers loudly called upon him to do, he declined doing it, answering their appeals in the following terms:--"What do you ask of me, gentlemen? I can assure you that the corps of general Rohland, on whom the whole force of the enemy has fallen, is destroyed. The baggage of his officers have passed through Retow.[79] All is lost, and, surrounded as we are on all sides by the enemy, it only remains for us to seek at once the frontiers of Prussia, and to throw ourselves upon the protection of that power." Generals Rohland and Szymanowski, on receiving the unwelcome intelligence of the course which general Chlapowski had adopted, concluded to change their plan of operations, and instead of going to Polonga, to follow the march of general Chlapowski, to endeavor to join him as soon as possible, and by exhibiting to him the unimpaired strength of our corps, which he had believed to be annihilated, to induce him to abandon the project of crossing the Prussian frontier, and to make some farther attempts in junction with us. With this view, after resting a few hours at Retow, we left, by a forced march, for Gorzdy, a small town near the Prussian frontier, at which we hoped to overtake the corps of general Chlapowski, and at which we arrived on the next day (13th,) at noon. But it was already too late. The greater part of the corps of Chlapowski and Gielgud had passed the frontier at the village of Czarna, about a half league from the former place, and an inconsiderable part only of the corps, which had not yet passed over, could unite with us. The other part were already advanced a considerable distance within the Prussian territory, and having been disarmed, were placed under a guard of Prussian sentinels. Such was the end of the corps of generals Chlapowski and Gielgud, composed of our best troops, and which had performed such feats of valor in so many battles. Those brave soldiers were led, against their will, into the territory of a foreign nation, to seek a protection of which they themselves had not even dreamed. This step, which every historian of our revolution will record with horror, when it was seen how totally without justification it was, awakened the disgust and indignation of all. The part of the corps of general Chlapowski which was already in the Prussian territory, when they saw the corps of general Rohland, which they had been made to believe was destroyed, continuing its march in an entire state, and even with nearly 200 Russian prisoners in its train, and hearing too the animating shouts which naturally burst from their comrades, as they came in view of them, and who called on them to rejoin them, fell into a state of the utmost exasperation. A great number rushed forward, and, breaking through the Prussian guard, unarmed as they were, reached our side of the frontier. The brave commander of the light artillery, who was already on the Prussian territory with his battery, profiting by the circumstance that his horses were not yet unharnessed, returned, and joined our corps, with five pieces of cannon. Both officers and soldiers surrounded general Gielgud, and loudly demanded some explanation of this state of things. That general betrayed the utmost confusion, and seemed wholly at a loss to satisfy these demands; his manner, indeed, was such as to encourage the suspicions of treason, which his previous conduct had but too well justified. At this moment, one of his officers, in a frenzy of patriotic indignation, advanced towards him, drew a pistol from his side, and exclaiming, 'This is the reward of a traitor,' shot him through the heart. After this sad event, general Chlapowski was sought after, and the same fate would have probably awaited him, had he not succeeded in concealing himself. A scene of great confusion then took place throughout the corps. General Rohland and the other officers exerted themselves to tranquillize the soldiers, reminding them that our situation was critical, and that the Russians were pressing upon us. These appeals had the effect of restoring quiet; and at about 4 o'clock the corps of general Rohland, joined by a part of that of Chlapowski, took up the march in the direction of Yurburg, in order to pass the Niemen there, and attempt to reach Poland. At night, we arrived at Wierzbna. After having marched four miles from the spot where the Prussian frontier was passed by general Chlapowski, we were met by an aid-de-camp of general Kreutz, sent with a flag of truce, and bearing a letter to general Rohland, which was read aloud, containing propositions to surrender, and setting forth the circumstances under which we were placed. In declining the proposition, general Rohland, among other expressions, used the following: 'The strength of your forces is well known to us; we have seen them at Powenduny and Worna. If Providence protected us there, it will still protect us;' and turning towards the officers of his suite, he added, 'Gentlemen, look on my grey hairs! they have become blanched in a service of thirty years under the Polish eagles, and during that whole period I have endeavored to keep the path of honor and duty. Permit me in my old age to continue in that path.' The answer having been communicated to the corps, the cry of 'Long life to Rohland,' burst forth on every side. The aid-de-camp departed, and we continued our route. Having passed the night at Wierzbna, we arrived on the noon of the next day (the 14th,) at Nowe-Miasto, at which place we put to flight a squadron of Russian cavalry posted there. Before reaching that town, and at the distance of about a half league from it, our cavalry had a small skirmish with four squadrons of the Russian light cavalry. This cavalry fell upon a small detachment of our sappers, which had been detailed for the object of destroying a bridge upon a branch of the main road, at the distance of about a mile from it. The sappers, in withdrawing, kept up a fire, and thus drew the enemy on, till our cavalry falling upon them, dispersed them, causing a considerable loss, and taking several prisoners.[80] On arriving at Nowe-Miasto, our commander sent a reconnoitering party in the direction of Yurburg, in order to ascertain if any of the enemy's forces were there, and considering the strong position of Nowe-Miasto, he decided to remain there, and to await the result of this reconnoissance. Our forces were placed in order of battle, to await the enemy, in case he should choose to make an attack. Remaining for two hours in this position, we were astonished that the enemy did not show himself; and a platoon of cavalry, sent in the direction of the enemy to observe him, returned with the intelligence that he was _encamped_ at the distance of two miles from us. Four hours had thus passed, when the arrival of a Prussian officer upon the frontier was announced, who requested an interview with our general. General Rohland, accompanied with a party of officers, went to receive him. The Prussian officer was an aid-de-camp of the commandant general of the forces on this part of the frontier, (general Kraft, we believe). The officer, after some complimentary language, presented a letter from his commander, which was filled with expressions of respect and good will, and in which it was proposed that, in consideration of our position, surrounded as we were by a force so much superior to our own, and in a state of destitution in respect to arms and ammunition, we should accept the offer which the Prussian government had authorised him to make, in order to save the useless effusion of the blood of so many brave men, and throw ourselves upon the protection of its territory, where we would be convinced of the cordial disposition of that government towards us,--adding, that our sojourn there would be short, and that we should soon be allowed to return to our firesides, as was the case with the Russian soldiers who had sought the same protection. We have already mentioned that several detachments of Russian soldiers, who had before sought the protection of Prussia, had been allowed to return with their arms and ammunition. Our generals, on being thus apprised of the liberal intentions of the Prussian government, which were confirmed by the personal representations of the officer who brought the letter,--reflecting on the deplorable state of our soldiers, fatigued and weakened by so many forced marches; the greater part of the infantry being without covering to their feet, which were lacerated with wounds; the greater part of the cavalry, almost without horses, (for their animals were so broken down, and chafed by unremitted use, as to be unfit for service;) both artillery and infantry nearly destitute of ammunition, a great quantity of which had been thrown into the river by the orders of generals Gielgud and Chlapowski, on passing the frontier;--considering also the assurance which had been made that we could return to our country, and hoping therefore to be able to renew their services to that country at some more favorable period,--presented these circumstances to the whole corps, and solicited the opinion of the soldiers upon the question of acceding to the propositions of the Prussian government. The soldiers, manifesting their entire confidence in the judgment and the honor of their officers, signified their assent to the acceptance of the propositions, influenced strongly by the assurance of being allowed to return to their country. In consequence of this assent, a protocol was prepared that night, and signed by our generals, and by several Prussian officers on the other part, who came over for that object. On the morning of the next day, we passed the frontier and marched into the Prussian territory, and by that act the operations of the Lithuanian corps were ended. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 79: It might have been the case, that a few wagons with some of the baggage of the corps, were sent in advance in the direction of Polonga, merely as a precautionary arrangement.] [Footnote 80: In this affair major the prince Giedroyc distinguished himself at the head of his regiment, the 6th chasseurs, and killed with his own hand the commander of the enemy's cavalry, an officer of the rank of general.] CHAPTER XXV. Effect of the news of the Lithuanian disasters on the minds of the people.--Distrust of the National Government.--The Russian army resumes the offensive under general Paszkewicz.--He decides to pass the Vistula.--Examination of the merits of this plan.--Plan of general Skrzynecki to act on the different detached corps of the enemy.--Advantages of general Chrzanowski over the corps of Rudiger.--The Russian forces execute the passage of the Vistula.--General Skrzynecki crosses the Vistula at Warsaw to operate against the enemy on the left bank.--An inquiry into the conduct of general Skrzynecki, and the appointment of a Council of War is demanded by the nation.--Arrival of the corps of general Dembinski at Warsaw. While the nation was afflicted by the treasons at Warsaw, their hopes had been still kept alive by looking towards Lithuania. What, then, can express the disheartening effect produced by the intelligence that the Lithuanian corps existed no longer;--that that pillar, so essential to the support of the fabric we had been rearing, had fallen; and that this disaster had been brought on by the gross negligence, if not the treason, of those to whom that all-important expedition had been entrusted. They felt that this was an almost mortal blow. They saw a horrible future opening upon them, prepared by parricidal hands. After such renewed outrages, the people fell into the greatest exasperation. That people, whose confidence had been so basely abused, whose holiest purposes had been so shamelessly sported with, seemed at last to have changed their nature. So often betrayed, they lost confidence in all, and seemed to see in every one a traitor. If, in the frenzy of indignation, which such an experience had justified, they allowed themselves to be carried away by their feelings, and to be guilty of acts of severity, it can scarcely be wondered at. Immediately after the arrival of the sad news from Lithuania, the nation demanded explanations of the generalissimo. They demanded to know how he could have given the command of so important an expedition to a man like Gielgud, one who had never been esteemed by the nation or the army, and who had not even the reputation of a general of talent. How could an expedition which demanded the very highest talents, and the most undoubted patriotism, have been confided to a man like him? With him had been associated general Chlapowski, who was the brother-in-law of the Grand Duke Constantine. That circumstance alone, they justly considered, should have been enough to suggest suspicion, and to have at least indicated the expediency of keeping him near the eye of the commander in chief, and subject to his constant observation. Such were the complaints of the people, and they went to the heart of the commander in chief, and the president of the National Government; for they were conscious, but too late, of their justice.[81] The Russian army, the command of which, on the death of general Diebitsch, was taken by general count Paszkewicz, and the main body of which remained in a state of inaction at Ostrolenka, having no longer any apprehensions from Lithuania, could now act with freedom, and the offensive was recommenced under the command of its new chief, who decided to pass the Vistula, and to act upon the left bank. I may be allowed to detain the attention of the reader a moment upon this passage of the Vistula by Paszkewicz, a manoeuvre of which so much boast has been made, and to consider whether it is really to be regarded as a great and bold step, or one of necessity. What was the state of the Russian army after the battle of Ostrolenka?--A month had passed, and that army had not made a single movement, but was kept there merely to be fed by Prussia. Was not this inactivity an infallible evidence of weakness? Does it not show that, alarmed by the prospects in Lithuania, it was in a state of hesitation, not daring to advance into the kingdom, and holding itself in readiness to evacuate it on an occasion of necessity, which indeed seemed near at hand? In this period of hesitation, the new general arrives from the regions of the Caucasus. He must do something. The question presents itself to him,--what course is best to be taken? His army, now reinforced by the corps which had been in Lithuania, amounted to perhaps near one hundred and fifty thousand men. Although this force was considerable, yet to attack the fortifications of Praga, which, as is known to the reader, had been augmented, and which the Russian army in their primitive and unimpaired strength had never had the temerity to attack, was out of the question. What other course could he take, unless he could submit to continue in this state of inactivity, but to pass the Vistula, and under the assistance of Prussia, to make his attempts against Warsaw on the other side, a step, however, which he never would have dared to have taken without that assistance. This is the natural explanation of that boasted plan, in which we can see nothing but an almost necessary movement, encouraged by a reliance on Prussia. In the first days of the month of June the Russian army began to approach the Vistula, in order to execute the passage. Their march was in three principal columns, and was arranged in the following manner:--general Witt, commanding the columns of the left wing, took the direction of Sochoczyn. The centre, under marshal Paszkewicz, left for Sonk and Luberacz, passing the river Wkra at Maluszyn. The column of the right, consisting of the imperial guard, under the command of the grand duke Michael, marched from Makow, by Ciechanow and Racionz. General Pablen commanded the advanced guard. A considerable train of ammunition, with provisions for twenty days, and a park of artillery of reserve, formed the fourth column, and followed the imperial guard. Detached posts towards Modlin and Serock, covered this march on the left. One regiment of dragoons remained at Pultusk. This combined force consisted of 80,000 men and three hundred pieces of cannon. Besides these forces, there were in the kingdom, the corps of general Rudiger at Kaluszyn, and that of general Rott at Zamosc. Those two corps might now number about 20,000 men, and some thirty pieces of cannon. Opposed to these forces, we had an army of 40,000 men, a hundred and twenty pieces of cannon, not counting the national guard of Warsaw, and the garrisons of the two fortresses of Modlin and Zamosc. The plan of our generalissimo was to throw himself upon the detached corps of the enemy, under Rott and Rudiger, and afterwards to act upon his main body. For this end an attack was ordered upon the corps of Rudiger, which was beaten in the environs of Minsk by the corps of general Chrzanowski, in successive actions, on the 14th, 15th, and 16th of July. A third part of his corps being destroyed, a thousand prisoners, four pieces of cannon and all his baggage taken, he was forced to retire behind Kaluszyn. After these new advantages, the general in chief prepared to act upon the rear of the Russian main army, and to attack them while engaged in the passage of the Vistula, which he supposed they would attempt either at Plock, or between Plock and Modlin. But as he was afterwards apprized that the Russians were to attempt the passage at a much more distant point from Warsaw, and beyond his reach while on the right bank, he thought it most expedient to pass the Vistula at Warsaw, and to operate against the enemy on the other side. The Russian army thus passed the Vistula without being intercepted, between the 12th and the 20th of July. Having reached the left bank, the enemy took the direction of Lowicz, where, on the 27th, the head-quarters of general Paszkewicz were established, and whither our army marched to meet him. At this important moment, when the operations of the enemy had taken a new face, and seemed, in the eyes of the people, by his near approach to Warsaw, to menace the utmost danger--made more threatening in their imaginations by the recent discovery of the conspiracy of Jankowski and the news of the misfortunes in Lithuania;--at this anxious moment, the nation demanded a council of war, and called on the National Government to make an inquisition into the conduct of the general in chief, to demand of him full explanations of his purposes, and a submission of all his plans of operation to the examination of such a council. Such a council of war was instituted by the government and directed to be attached to the person of the general, and to be initiated into all his designs, in order to be enabled to tranquillize and re-assure the minds of the nation, which had so naturally become distrustful and suspicious, after the events which had taken place. The council having been organized, and having taken an oath of secrecy, general Skrzynecki laid before them all the plans of operation that he had hitherto followed, as well as those which he had in contemplation, and gave a full exposition of the reasons for each. This council then published to the nation an address, announcing their entire confidence in the patriotic intentions of the general in chief, and assuring them that the crisis was by no means as dangerous as they apprehended. By these proceedings the minds of the people were much tranquillized, and this tranquillity was increased by the arrival of the corps of general Dembinski from Lithuania after its glorious retreat; which arrival not only cheered them by the addition which it brought to our forces, but by the more encouraging accounts than had before been received, which it gave of the state of Lithuania, authorizing some hope of a renewal of the insurrection in that province at a more propitious hour. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 81: A few details of the history of the two generals who were the cause of these fatal disasters, may gratify the curiosity of the reader. General Gielgud was born in Lithuania, at Gielgudyszki, (the place at which he crossed the Niemen in 1831). Passing over his early life, which presents nothing noticeable, he commenced his military career in 1812, when Napoleon entered Lithuania. In a moment of patriotic fervor, he formed a small detachment at his own expense, and joined the ranks of the supposed deliverer of Poland; and this perhaps was the most praise-worthy act of his life. During the campaign of 1812, 13, and 14, he was in no way distinguished either for good or bad conduct. At the end of the Russian campaign, in 1815, he was made colonel. As during that year, Poland came under the Russian government, our army was subjected to a change of organization, and as many officers of high rank, who were in independent circumstances, gave up their commands, Gielgud then obtained the rank of general, at about the age of thirty. This rapid advancement, as was natural to a man of weak character, inspired him with an extreme of arrogance and pretension; qualities which were encouraged in his intercourse with the Russian generals, with whom he was much associated. It was this arrogance which uniformly lost him the esteem of those under his command. When the revolution broke out, general Gielgud was at the town of Radom, and his life was in great danger from the suspicions of which he was naturally the object, but he was protected by some of the patriots, on the assurances which he gave of his patriotic dispositions. Still, however, the military demanded his removal from his post, and, in fact, for some weeks he was without command. The dictator, Chlopicki, whose modes of action were, as the reader knows, too often inexplicable, restored him to his command, persuading himself that he was one of the best of patriots, and that if his exterior was offensive, he was right at heart. In the war,--having first commanded a brigade, and afterwards a division,--while he was attached to the grand army, his conduct was not marked by any very great faults; indeed, in the battle of Minsk he performed his part well. It was such occasional exhibitions of good conduct which kept him in some consideration. After having taken command of the corps of Lithuania, and when he was removed from the observation of the army, he exhibited himself in his true character. He was giddy with the distinction, and feeling himself the absolute master of his own conduct, he gave himself up to all the suggestions of his vanity. His first act of folly was to surround himself with a numerous suite, (it was in number four times that of the commander in chief,) in which suite those individuals were held in greatest esteem, who were most fertile in resources for amusement. It was to this love of personal gratification that we can attribute those delays which were sacrificing the cause of the country. At Gielgudyszki the general gave a _fête_ to his officers; and it is not impossible that it was a motive of mere personal ostentation which induced him to make the passage of the Niemen, at that place, by which two days' march were given to the retreating enemy, time was allowed him to concentrate his forces in Wilno, and that capital was lost to us! This general was never seen to share the privations, fatigues, and exposure of his subalterns. In his personal deportment he neglected the true means of gaining the confidence and attachment of his troops. On the eve of a battle, in moments of danger and anxiety, it is cheering to the soldier to see the face of his commander, and to hear from him a few words of encouragement. These are apparent trifles, but they are in reality of most serious consequence. They are the secret keys by which every thing can be obtained from the soldier. The personal attachment of the soldier to his commander, is worth more than the finest combinations in strategy and tactics. The commander, who succeeds in gaining the affection of the soldier, inspires him with a new impulse for exertion. To his other motives is added the dread of forfeiting the confidence and esteem of a friend; and perhaps, with the mass of an army, such a motive would yield to no other in efficiency. To the modes of conduct which would have secured this result, general Gielgud was an entire stranger. Instead of freely approaching the soldier and endeavoring to gain his attachment, he treated him with uniform coldness and reserve. It is on the whole a matter of just surprise, that a man with such glaring faults of character should have been appointed to so responsible a trust. General Chlapowski commenced his military career also in 1812. In the Russian war he advanced to the rank of officer, and was made aid-de camp of prince Poniatowski. While in this situation he advanced to the rank of a staff officer, in which rank he left the army in 1815, and retired to his estates in the grand duchy of Pozen, where he married the sister of the princess of Lowicz, the wife of the Grand Duke Constantine. The entrance of this general into the revolutionary ranks excited considerable surprise. But as he joined himself to the squadrons of Pozen, which were formed of the bravest and most patriotic materials, there was no distrust felt of him. His successes in traversing the department of Bialystok, entitled him to the highest praise. It was this fine expedition which gained him the confidence of the Lithuanian corps, and after the battle of Wilno, they were unanimous in inviting him to take the chief command. The nominal command, as we have related, he declined, but took a post which gave him the superintendence of all the operations. While he was thus in the direction of affairs, the greatest faults, as we have seen, were committed, for which no adequate explanation can be given. We will recapitulate some of them.--They were, 1. The sending of the sappers to build the bridge over the Niemen. 2. The ill-arranged attack on Szawla. 3. His not succoring general Rohland in the combat of Powenduny. 4. The inexplicable secrecy which he kept upon his intention of passing the Prussian frontier; having left Kurszany for that object, whilst all his officers were given to understand that the separation of the corps at that place was with the view of marching to act in the environs of Kowno. These are points upon which this officer has yet to answer at the bar of his country. Chlapowski was a more dangerous person even than Gielgud, for Gielgud was a man of such undisguised arrogance, that he repelled the confidence of others; but Chlapowski, with all the faults of Gielgud, had an exterior of dissimulation which won insensibly upon those who had not thoroughly studied his character. But none who had observed and known him well, could ever yield him their esteem.] CHAPTER XXVI. Operations of general Dembinski's corps.--He traverses the country between Szawla and the Niemen without being observed by the enemy.--Attacks and disperses a brigade of Russian infantry.--Passes the Niemen and throws himself into the forest of Bialystok.--After leaving that forest, is joined by the corps of general Rozycki.--Reaches Warsaw.--His reception at Warsaw.--View of the exposed situation of Paszkewicz after his passage of the Vistula.--Examination of the plan of operations of the Polish commander.--Morbid state of the public mind at Warsaw.--Skrzynecki and Czartoriski deprived of their trust.--Capture of the city.--Documents showing the influence exercised by the cabinets in discouraging active operations.--Conclusion. The corps of general Dembinski had been more fortunate than those of Chlapowski and Rohland. That general, quitting Kurszany on the 9th of July, returned, in obedience to the orders which we have detailed, by means of the forests, to the environs of Szawla, leaving the enemy upon the right, and without being observed by him;--he having advanced with his whole force in the direction of Worna, under the belief that our undivided forces were in that position. This corps traversed the country between Szawla and Rosseyny, and arrived during the night of the 15th at Janow, where they dispersed a squadron of the enemy's cavalry and took fifty prisoners, and passed there the river Wiliia without interruption. From thence they left for the environs of Kowno, where, not far from Rumszyski, on the 16th, they met a brigade of Russian infantry which was on the march from Wilno to the frontier of Poland. General Dembinski attacked this brigade with such impetuosity, that they were thrown into the greatest consternation. Two cannons and several prisoners were taken. The great forests, by which the Russians were able to effect their escape, alone saved this brigade from entire destruction. Having thus opened their road, they took the direction of the town of Lida, passing the Niemen not far from that place. Afterwards they threw themselves into the forests of Bialystok, and in these forests the corps was reinforced by a considerable number of Lithuanian insurgent cavalry, which had been acting with great advantages over the enemy, by cutting off his transports of ammunition and other modes of harassing him, during the whole of our campaign. This force was under the command of colonel B***. General Dembinski quitted the forests in the environs of Orla, and leaving the town of Bielsk on his right, passed through the town of Bocki, near which he surprised and dispersed a regiment of cossacks, and took several prisoners, and among them a number of officers. In the environs of Siemiatycze, where the corps arrived on the 20th of June, they were arrested by the sudden appearance of a large body of troops. General Dembinski halted and placed his forces in order of battle, sending his flankers in advance. On the other side the same movement was made. The flanking parties of the opposite forces approached each other, but what was the astonishment of the two corps at seeing the tirailleurs, in place of firing upon each other, rushing into each other's arms, and rending the air with patriotic exclamations. The corps which was thus met by that of general Dembinski, was the corps of general Rozycki, which had been sent from our grand army to reinforce the corps of general Gielgud. The reader will now call to mind the plan of operations proposed by colonel Valentin after the battle of Wilno; and the arrival of this reinforcement at the very spot which was to have been the point of concentration aggravates the regret that his plans were not adopted. Nothing could exceed the satisfaction of the two corps at thus meeting. General Rozycki, learning the disastrous circumstances which had occurred, changed his plan of operation, and decided to unite himself with the corps of general Dembinski, and to return with it to the grand army. The junction of these two corps had scarcely taken place, when a cloud of dust, in the direction of Bielsk, announced the march of another body of troops. A small reconnoissance, sent in that direction, returned with the intelligence that it was the Russian corps under Golowkin. Our generals, considering all circumstances, determined not to engage with them, and continued their march towards Poland, passing at night the river Bug. They then took the direction of Wengrow and Kaluszyn, and by that route arrived at Warsaw, toward the end of the month of July. The corps of general Dembinski, which had traversed more than four hundred miles in about twenty days from its departure from Kurszany, in the midst of detachments of the enemy, was received by the nation with the greatest enthusiasm. The president of the senate, prince Adam Czartoriski, the generalissimo Skrzynecki, with all the officers of government, followed by an immense body of citizens, met him at the distance of a half league from the city; and he was greeted with an address expressive of the thanks of the nation for his courageous and persevering exertions. It ended in the following terms:--'Dear general, and brethren in arms, you will be a living reproach to those who, forgetting their sacred duties, have, by their misconduct, forced their countrymen to lay down their arms, and seek the protection of another nation.' To commemorate the brave exertions of this corps, and to transmit these events to posterity, the address above referred to was ordered to be enregistered in the volumes of the public laws. A printed copy was also given to each soldier of the corps. At the same time a commission was appointed to inquire into the conduct of generals Gielgud and Chlapowski. When we consider the manner in which the Russian army, after their passage of the Vistula, passed the interval between the 27th of July, (the day of their arrival at Lowicz) and the 15th of August, we shall be at a loss to account for their inaction. If general Paszkewicz was in a condition to take Warsaw, he could gain nothing by this repose. Nay, every moment of delay might increase the difficulties he would have to overcome. Why then all this delay? What could have prevented us from reinforcing our ranks, strengthening the fortifications of Warsaw, and even sending another corps, however small, into Lithuania, to support a new insurrection? Such a corps could have easily made its way even in the midst of the Russian detached corps remaining on the other side of the Vistula, and indeed those corps, so imprudently left there, could have been beaten in detail by our forces. If these circumstances are well considered, the reader will be satisfied that this manoeuvre of passing the Vistula, though in appearance so threatening to us, was in reality a most imprudent step on the enemy's part, and exposed him to the most imminent danger. Many detailed considerations might be given upon this point, but as they would occupy much space, and would withdraw us too far from the purpose of this narrative, we must leave them to abler pens. The general view, however, which we have taken of the position of the enemy, will be enough to awaken the astonishment of the reader that the event of the contest should have arrived so suddenly and so fatally to us. We are, therefore, led to present some reflections upon what seems to us to have been the true causes of the disastrous issue of the struggle. We may, in the first place, be permitted to remark that the removal of our army from Warsaw to Lowicz to meet the enemy there, does not appear to have been a fortunate disposition. By it, some twenty days were spent in indecisive manoeuvres against a superior force. If, during that interval, in place of marching to meet the enemy, the army had been concentrated in the environs of Warsaw, and employed in constructing fortifications upon the great roads leading to Warsaw, from Blonie, Nadarzyn, Piaseczno, and Kalwaryia, as a first line of defence, and in strengthening the great fortifications of Warsaw:--then, leaving half of our force to defend these fortifications, we might have crossed the Vistula with the other half, and acted upon all the detached corps of the enemy on the right bank, and have, besides, intercepted all the reinforcements for the main army of Paszkewicz. Our communications, also, with the provinces, being thus opened, and their territory freed from the presence of the enemy, we should have again been enabled to avail ourselves of their co-operation. I cannot but think that if such a plan of operation had been adopted, for which, in fact, there was ample time in the interval above named, an altogether different turn would have been given to our affairs. If the objection should be made that the delay which actually occurred could not have been reasonably anticipated, and that Paszkewicz might have immediately advanced to the attack of Warsaw, still, without entering for the present into more detailed considerations in support of my opinion, it will be enough to answer, that if twenty-four hours merely were to be had, those twenty-four hours should have been employed in fortification rather than manoeuvring, for it was not at Lowicz, but under the walls of Warsaw, that the enemy were to be fought. As it was at Warsaw, then, that the decisive encounter must inevitably have taken place, would it not have been the most judicious course, to have confined our operations on the left bank of the Vistula, to the strengthening of the defences of Warsaw; to have in fact adopted in regard to the enemy, who had now transferred his strength to the left bank of the Vistula, the same course of operations which we had hitherto pursued against him while he was in occupation of the right; in short, to have made of Warsaw another Praga. Our course of operations should in fact have been just reversed, to correspond with the change which the enemy's passage of the Vistula had made in our relative positions. While he was on the right bank, the region on the left of the river was open to us, and there were our resources; but now that he was acting with his main army on the left bank, it should have been our aim, by annihilating his detached corps, to have opened to our operations the whole region of the right, which was far more extensive than the other, and which, besides, had the advantage to us of being contiguous to the insurrectionary provinces. In case of an attack on Warsaw, which of course could not be an affair of a few days only, that part of our forces operating on the right bank could be withdrawn in ample season to present our whole strength to the enemy in its defence. Since I have allowed myself to make the above remarks in regard to the plans of the general in chief, I must also be permitted to add that, at that period of inquietude and distrust, the presence of the commander in chief and of the president of the National Government, at Warsaw, was of the utmost importance. That presence was continually needed to act on the minds of the people, to preserve union and tranquillity, and to discover and bring to exemplary punishment the traitors who had been plotting the ruin of their country; in short, to encourage the patriotic and to alarm the treacherous. If those two individuals so deservedly beloved and honored by the nation had been present, we doubt whether those melancholy scenes at Warsaw, on the 14th, 15th, and 16th of August, when some forty persons who were under conviction of treason, perished by the hands of the people, would ever have taken place. Revolting as those scenes were, we must yet consider whether the circumstances of the moment will not afford some palliation for them. Deserted by those who had been the objects of their profoundest attachment and confidence, haunted by the recollections of the terrible disasters which had been incurred, and which they could attribute to nothing short of treason,--seeing twenty days again sacrificed, during which the Russian corps from Lithuania were permitted to pass the Vistula, (that of Kreutz at Plock, and that of Rudiger at Pulawy,) and join their main army; in fine, seeing this immense Russian force approaching the capital, from which perhaps they were expecting a repetition of all the atrocities of Suwarow,--remembering the thousands of victims which these traitors had already sacrificed, and reflecting on the thousands whom they had plotted to sacrifice; can it be wondered that, in those moments of despair, that people should have yielded to their impulses of indignation and have chosen rather to sacrifice at once those convicted traitors, than permit them to live, and perhaps be the instruments of the vengeance of the conqueror. Abandoned thus by those who should have been near to tranquillize them, the people took that justice into their own hands which the government had neglected to execute, and with their suspicions operated upon by this accumulation of disasters, they went to the degree of demanding the removal from their posts of prince Czartoriski and the general in chief. Such are, I think, the true explanations of those acts, so serious in their consequences, and which have created so much surprise. The removal of Skrzynecki from the chief command was certainly one of the most deplorable results of this disordered state of the minds of the people;--for who could so well meet the exigencies of the time as he, familiar with every detail, engaged in the midst of events, and possessing the entire confidence of the army? It was in this period of distrust and suspicion that the Russian army, which seemed to have been waiting only for such a moment, received the intelligence from some traitors, yet undiscovered, within the walls of Warsaw, that the time had arrived for their attack. It was undoubtedly directed by such intelligence, that they made their attack on Warsaw, at the moment when the greater part of our army had been sent by its new commander, Prondzynski, to act on the right bank of the Vistula against the corps of Golowkin, which was menacing Praga. The city thus defended by the national guard and a small part of the army alone, and distracted by the divisions which Russian intrigues had fomented, fell, after a bloody defence,[82] and the fate of Poland was decided. We have stated our belief that the fatal events which hastened the catastrophe might have been prevented by the mere presence, at the capital, of the heads of the army and the National Government, at those trying moments which brought on that disordered state of the public mind. Of this error we cannot readily acquit them, upright and patriotic as we know their intentions to have been. But upon the other point--that mysterious inaction of our forces, for so considerable a period, there is an important light thrown, in the following extracts from the correspondence of the prince Czartoriski with the French minister of the Exterior, read in the chamber of deputies, on the 19th of September, by the venerable general Lafayette, and in the extracts from his remarks, and those of general Lamarque, made on that occasion, and which have probably before met the eye of the reader. EXTRACT FROM THE LETTER OF PRINCE CZARTORISKI. 'But we relied upon the magnanimity and the wisdom of the cabinets; trusting to them, we have not availed ourselves of all the resources which were at our command, both exterior and interior. To secure the approbation of the cabinets, to deserve their confidence, and to obtain their support, we have never departed from the strictest moderation; by which moderation, indeed, we have paralyzed many of the efforts which might have saved us in those latter days. But for the promises of the cabinets, _we should have been able to strike a blow, which perhaps would have been decisive_. We thought that it was necessary to temporize, to leave nothing to chance--and we have at last seen the certainty, at the present moment, that there is nothing but chance that can save us.' _General Lafayette_: 'If it be said that the promises here referred to might have been only an affair of the gazettes,--I answer, that I have demanded explanations of the Polish legation, and here is the reply which I have obtained. '"In answer to the letter which we have received from you, general, we hasten to assure you-- '"1. That it was the Minister of Foreign Affairs who engaged us on the 7th of July, to send a messenger to Warsaw, whose travelling expenses were advanced by the Minister: that the object of this messenger was, as his Excellency the Count Sebastiani told us, to induce our government to wait two months longer, for that was the time necessary for the negociations. '"2. That the circular of our Minister of Foreign Affairs, dated the 15th of August, signed by the Minister ad interim, Audne Horodyski, and also another circular of the 24th of the same month, signed by the new Minister of Foreign Affairs, Theodore Morawski, came to our hands by the post of the 14th current; that they are the same circulars which we at first officially communicated to the Count Sebastiani, on the 15th of September, and which we immediately after addressed to the journals, where they appeared on the 17th and 18th, and that those two circulars in fact explain the effect which the mission of the above envoy produced at Warsaw. '"Le Gen. Kniazewiecz--L: Plater."' _Paris, the 20th November, 1831_. _Gen. Lamarque_: 'Poland! Can it be true that this heroic nation, who offered her bosom to the lance of the Tartars only to serve as a buckler for us, is to fall because she has followed the counsels which France and England have given her! Thus then is to be explained the inaction of her army at the moment when it ought to have taken a decisive step. Thus is to be explained the irresolution of the generalissimo, who from the first moment had showed so much audacity and skill. We may now know why he did not profit by the passage of the Vistula, which divided the army of the enemy, to give him battle either on one bank or the other. The minister rejects with indignation this imputation of complicity. He declares formally that he had made no promise, that he had given no hope, that he had fixed no date.--Honorable Poles, whom I have seen this morning, affirm the contrary. Our colleague, M. Lafayette, will give you details, almost official, on this subject.' SESSION OF THE 13th SEPTEMBER. _Gen. Lafayette_: 'I will ask this, without the least expectation of receiving a reply, but only to render a just homage to the conduct of the Poles, and of their government,--I will ask, if it is true that the Poles were urged by the French government, by the English ministers, and by the French ambassador at London, to use moderation, and not to risk a battle, because the measures which those powers were to take in behalf of Poland would not be delayed but for two months, and that in two months Poland would enter into the great family of nations.--Those two months have expired; and I state this here to render justice to the conduct of the Polish government, the Polish army, and its chief, who may have thought that on his giving a general battle, to prevent the passage of the Vistula, they could thwart the good intentions of the French and English government in this respect. I think that this will be considered a fair procedure towards Messieurs the Ministers, to whom the questions shall be addressed on Monday, to apprize them that this is one of those which will be then submitted to them.' * * * * * These documents will be for the present age and for posterity an explanation of the true causes of the ruin of Poland. She fell not by the enormous forces of her enemy, but by his perfidious intrigues. We cannot accuse France or England, and indeed no Pole does accuse them; for, although we may have some enemies in those countries, yet we cannot conceive of the existence of any causes of hostility towards us, by which those nations can be actuated.[83] They were blinded by the promises of Russia,--by the solemn assurances[84] which she gave, that she would soon arrange every thing in the most favorable manner for Poland. In this web of intrigue were those cabinets entangled, who would else have followed the common dictates of humanity in succoring Poland. While she was thus deceiving the cabinets, Russia was doing her utmost to sow distrust and disunion among our people. It was her intrigues, through the instrumentality of the traitors whom she had gained for her accomplices, that caused the estrangement of the nation from Skrzynecki, who, having a true Polish heart, had repelled all her vile attempts to shake his integrity, and who, by his talent and energy, had so often defeated and might still defeat the enormous masses which she had sent against us. Those intrigues succeeded, and Russia gained her end in overwhelming Poland with misery; not reflecting that by so doing she was bringing misfortunes upon her own head. Russia, by a liberal concession to Poland of her national rights, could have been truly great. Not to speak of the influence of the Polish institutions upon the happiness of her own people; her true stability and strength could in no way be so well secured as by the independent existence of Poland. They who have labored for our destruction were not then true Russians; they were the enemies of their country and of humanity;--heartless calculators, acting with a single view to their own personal aggrandizement;--men, in fact, who have no country but self. Equally the enemies of the monarch and of the people, they make the one a tyrant, and sport with the misery of the other. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 82: As the author was attached to the Lithuanian corps, and as he was actually in a Prussian prison at the time of the capture of Warsaw, he cannot undertake to give any details upon so important an event with the limited information at present at his command.] [Footnote 83: Appendix No. III, IV.] [Footnote 84: Appendix No. IV.] APPENDIX. No. I. HISTORICAL VIEW OF LITHUANIA. If, notwithstanding the many good works recently published upon Poland, the history of that country is still but imperfectly known to the rest of the world; it may be said that the history of Lithuania is almost absolutely unknown to the people of the West. It is generally thought that it has always composed an integral part of the Russian empire, and that it was only occasionally that it has held relations with ancient Poland;--a false impression, and one which the public journals have but too frequently assisted in propagating. The truth is, that for five hundred years, Lithuania has voluntarily associated herself with the destinies of ancient Poland, and it is only with shame and reluctance that she has borne the Russian yoke. But that which is of great importance at present to consider, is, the ancient sympathy which has constantly united the two people. There is a common spirit of nationality, which, notwithstanding the studiously contrived disintegration of their territory, has always animated the Lithuanians and the Poles;--a most important fact, for it is on this fraternity of feeling and community of opinion between the ancient Polish provinces, that the salvation of modern Poland essentially depends. We will endeavor, by presenting to the reader the following extracts from the work of Leonard Chodzko, to throw some light upon the political history of this interesting portion of the Slavian race. 'For a long time a distinct power, and governed by its Grand Dukes, united for the first time with Poland in the year 1386, and making, in 1569, an integral part of the republic of Poland, Lithuania, from that epoch, to that of 1795, formed, in the political state, the third province of Poland; being composed of the palatinates of Wilno, of Troki, the duchies of Starostia, and Samogitia, of Nowogrodek, of Brzsclitewski, of Minsk, of Polock, of Witepsk, Mscislaw and of Smolensk. The Grand Duchy was bounded on the north by Courland, Semigallia, Polish Livonia, and the province of Great Nowogorod; on the east by Moscovy; on the south by the Ukraine, Volhynia, and the country of Chelme; on the west, by the Baltic Sea, the duchy of Prussia, and the palatinates of Podlasia and Lublin. Its arms were a cavalier at full speed, with a sabre raised over his head. This cavalier of Lithuania, joined with the white eagle of Poland, figured inseparably upon the arms of the republic, upon the national standards, the public edifices and the coins, up to the moment when foreign force and domestic treason struck a liberticide blow at that union which ages has consecrated. In 1812, for a moment, those fraternal arms were united; but separated again, they once more floated upon every banner after the memorable date of the 29th of November. According to ancient traditions, towards the year 900, there landed on the coast of Samogitia, between Memel, Polonga, and Libau, a colony of Italians who introduced into that country a certain degree of civilization, and from thence came that multitude of Latin words which are to be remarked in the Lithuanian language. From these Italian families, arose several sovereign dynasties, which governed Lithuania and Samogitia. Of this origin were, without doubt, the Gerules or Herules, who formerly governed Lithuania. This people is the same which in the fifth century invaded Italy, with Odacre, and returning on their steps, spread themselves upon the shores of the Baltic, which embrace, at the present day, Oriental Prussia, Lithuania, Samogitia, and Courland. 'The Lithuanians, though subjugated first by the Russians, did not fail to make their strength soon felt by their invaders. In the 13th century, when the Tartars ravaged on one side the Russian States, the Lithuanians on the other side took possession of Grodno, Brzesc, and Drohyczyn, and did not stop till they reached the banks of the Prypec and the town of Mozyr. In the north their victorious arms were pushed as far as the Dwina, and the city of Polock. In the year 1220, the Russians, under Mscislaw-Romanowicz, declared war upon Lithuania, but they were beaten near the river Tasiolda, and the Lithuanians augmented their possessions by the occupation of Pinsk and Turow. Ringold was the first who took the title of Grand Duke of Lithuania, in 1235. Mindowe or Mendog, having promised the Pope to embrace the Christian religion, was crowned king of Lithuania in 1252, at Nowogrodek; but this did not continue long, for Mindowe, finding himself deceived, returned to Paganism, and died in 1263. From 1280 to 1315, the dukes Latuwer and Witènes reigned over this country; but the greatest power of Lithuania dates from the fourteenth century, when Gédymin seized the reins of government. Impatient to crush the Russian power, which had distressed Lithuania, this prince defeated the enemy in 1320, upon the river Pirna, made himself master of Volhynia, of Küovie, of Sewerie, of Czerniechovia, and extended his boundaries as far as Putiwel upon the Diésna. In 1340, when Gédymin perished upon the field of battle by the hands of the Teutonic knights, the Tartaro-Russian power commenced ravaging Polodia, but Olgerd, successor of Gédymin, came to the succor of his nephews, Koryatowicz, who were in possession of that province, defeated the Czars of the Tartars in a pitched battle, and extended the territory of Lithuania as far as the banks of the Don and the Black Sea. To form an idea of the extent of the Lithuanian provinces, it is sufficient to point out here the partition between the sons of Gédymin: Monwid possessed Kiernow and Slonim; Narymond--Pinsk, Mozyr, and a part of Volhynia: Olgerd--Krewo, the ancient capital of the duchy, and all the country as far as the Berezina; Kieystat--Samogitia, Troki, and Podlachia: Koryat--Nowogrodek and Wolkowysk: Lubar--Wlodgimierz, with the rest of Volhynia: Jawnat--Wilno, Osmiana, Wilkomierz, Braslaw. The last succeeded first to his father, but after his death it was Olgerd who took the reins of government. 'Olgerd was the most powerful of the sovereigns of Lithuania. The republic of Pskow, in 1346, and that of Nowogorod, in 1349, acknowledged him for their master. In 1363, the Tartars of Pérékop (Krimea,) became his vassals. On the east, embracing the cause of the duke of Twer, he came three times, in 1368, 1370, 1373, to break his lance against the ramparts of the city of Moscow; of that city where at a later day the great generals of Poland and of Lithuania, and at last, in 1812, the Gallo-Polono-Lithuanian lances were crossed in front of the superb Kremlin! Kiegstut powerfully seconded his brother in his conquests. It was under such auspices that Olgerd, descending to the tomb, left his brilliant inheritance to Jagellon, one of his thirteen sons. Jagellon, who ascended the grand-ducal throne in 1381, ceded it to his cousin Witold, in 1386, when he went to place upon his head the crown of the Piasts, to unite his hand to that of Hedwige, and to cement forever the glorious junction of Lithuania and Poland. In 1389, he gave the government of the duchy of Sévérie-Nowogorodien and the republic of Nowogorod-the-Great to his two brothers; while on the other side, his cousin Witold, being attacked in his new conquests by the Tartars, beat them, chased a part of them beyond the Don, and transported those who fell into his hands into the different countries of Lithuania, where, instead of reducing them to slavery, he gave them possessions, with the liberty of freely exercising their religious rights. It was the descendants of those Tartars who showed themselves such worthy children of their adopted country, at the epoch of the war of independence, in 1794, and in the campaign of 1812. In this manner Witold acquired the possession, not only of the Russian territories, delivered from the yoke of the Tartars by his grandfather and his uncle, but those which were held by the other small Trans-Borysthenian Czars. Turning then his victorious army to the north, he forced the northern republics, whose fidelity he suspected, to humble themselves before him, and recognize his unqualified supremacy. In fine, Poland and Lithuania arrived, at that epoch, to such a degree of power, that the dukes of Mazovia and Russia, the Czars of Moscow, Basile, that of Twer Borys, that of Riezan, Olegh, the little Czars of Pérékop and Volga, the Teutonic masters, the Prussians and Livonians, in fine, the emperor of Germany, Sigismond himself, accompanied by his wife, and several princes, Erik, king of Denmark and Sweden, as well as the ambassadors of the emperor of the East, Paleogogus, presented themselves to Wladislas-Jagellon at Luck, in Volhynia, and held there a general congress in 1428, in which they deliberated upon the war against the Ottomans; and at which the emperor of Germany attempted in vain, by means of intrigues, to throw some seeds of dissension between Jagellon and Witold. Witold died in 1430. Kasimir le Jagellon, successor of Wladislay, was reigning still with eclat; when the moment approached, at which from one side the Ottomans began to take possession of the Tauride, while a new Muscovite power, subjugating the Russians from the north and east, were soon to contract the frontiers of Lithuania. 'All this, however, could have no effect upon the union of the two nations, which daily acquired new strength; for, subsequently to the first union of 1386, a Diet, in 1413, held in the bourg of Horoldo, having declared the Lithuanians to be on an equal footing with the Poles in regard to taxes and laws, many Lithuanian families allied themselves with Polish families; in fine, the arms of the two nations were united. It was then determined that the Lithuanians should receive their grand duke from the hands of the king of Poland, and that, when the latter should die without children or descendants worthy to succeed him, the Poles should elect their new king conjointly with the Lithuanians. The alliance concluded in 1413, was renewed in 1499; and it was added, explicitly, that the Lithuanians should not elect their grand duke without the concurrence of the Poles, nor the Poles their king, without that of the Lithuanians. In 1561, the knights militant submitted themselves, and the part of Livonia which remained with them, to the domination of the king of Poland, as grand duke of Lithuania; the new duke of Courland became also his feudatory. In fine, in 1569, under Sigismond-Augustus, the Poles and Lithuanians held a Diet at Lublin, in which the grand duchy was limited to the kingdom of Poland, so that they thereafter formed but one body, subject to one prince, who was conjointly elected by the two nations, under the double title of king of Poland and grand duke of Lithuania. It was agreed, also, that the Diet should be always held at Warsaw, that the two people should have the same senate, the same chamber of deputies; that their coins should be of the same designation; that, in fine, their alliances, their auxiliary troops, and every thing, should be in common. The campaigns of Moskow under Sigismond III, Wladislaz IV, and Etienne Batory, amply proved that the Lithuanians were worthy of calling the Poles brethren; for they were found ready for every sacrifice, when the general good of the country was in question. In the laws of 1673, 1677, and 1685, it was ruled that each third Diet should be held in Lithuania at Grodno; the Diets of convocation, and of election and coronation were excepted, however, from this rule. In 1697, the Polish and Lithuanian laws received an equal force and authority. 'At the epoch of the regeneration of Poland, the Lithuanians gave the most convincing proofs of their devotedness to the Polish cause, in the last years of the existence of Poland. In effect, when they became satisfied that, for the common interest, and to give more consistency to the new form of government which it was proposed to establish, at the Diet of 1788, it was necessary to strengthen still more the relations between Lithuania and the crown; that is to say, between Little and Great Poland, so as to form out of the three provinces a single powerful state, and to obliterate totally all the distinctions which had before existed between the Poles and the Lithuanians, they made a voluntary sacrifice of the privileges which they had held with great pertinacity, and renounced, without hesitation, that of having a separate army and treasury, consenting to unite themselves under a single administration with the two other provinces. 'The whole world was witness to the heroism which the Lithuanians displayed in the glorious confederation of Bar, from 1768 to 1772; in the campaigns of 1792 and 1794, against foreign rapacity, when Kosciuszko, a Lithuanian by birth, covered with imperishable laurels the chains of Poland. The Lithuanians fell, but they fell with the whole of Poland, and were buried in the common ruin. How nobly have not the Lithuanians been seen to figure among the brave Polish patriots, who sought in France, in Italy, and in Turkey, some chances of restoration for a country which had been the victim of foreign ambition! And how many of them have not been found under the banners of Dombrowski, in Italy, and under those of Kniaziewiez, upon the Danube? Have we not seen, in the years 1806 and 1809, twelve thousand Lithuanians, united with their brethren, the Volhynians, the Podolians, and the Ukranians, hastening to range themselves under the banners of the army of the Grand Duchy of Warsaw? In 1812, their joy was extreme, when they thought that their political existence was, at last, about to be renewed. Then was seen the cavalier of Lithuania, united with the white eagle, decorating the flags planted on the walls of Wilno. But the disastrous retreat of the French army struck a mortal blow to the destinies of those countries. The kingdom of Poland was proclaimed in 1815; the Diets of Warsaw, of 1818, 1820, and 1825, preserved silence respecting the lot of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania. A look full of hope from all Lithuania was turned once more towards Warsaw, upon the 24th of May, 1829, the day of coronation of Nicholas the 1st, but the reunion of Lithuania was not even made a question of.' [_Tableau de la Pologne, ancienne et moderne, par Malte Brun, edition refondue et augmentee par Leonard Chodzko. Paris, 1831._ pp. 288-295. Tom. I.] No. II. ADDRESS OF THE NATIONAL GOVERNMENT OF POLAND TO THE INHABITANTS OF LITHUANIA, VOLHYNIA, PODOLIA, AND UKRAINE.[85] _Brethren, and Fellow Citizens!_ The National Government of regenerated Poland, happy on being able at last to address you in the name of the bond of brotherhood and liberty, is anxious to lay before you the present state of our country, and to show you our wants, our dangers, and our hopes. The wall which separated us is broken down--your wishes and ours realized. The Polish eagle flies over our territory. United as we are, hand and heart, we will henceforth proceed in concert to accomplish the difficult, perilous, but just and sacred work--the restoration of our country. The Manifesto of the Diet, in explaining the cause of our rising, gave an account of our sentiments as well as yours. Scarcely had we risen in arms, provided with but few means, and uncertain what course to pursue, before we showed to the world and to the Emperor Nicholas that the same spirit animated us, and that we were desirous to become, as we had formerly been, but one and the same nation. The Emperor Nicholas did not wish to consecrate the tomb of his brother by a monument, which, during the life time of Alexander, would have sealed the glory of his reign. He did not wish to regard us as Poles, bowed down with injuries--as citizens of a free and independent country;--and would treat with us only as slaves who had rebelled against Russia. We have arrested--we have driven back the threatening phalanxes of his different corps. Of the forces of which our army was composed, some fought here against the main body of the enemy; others penetrated into your provinces to call forth our brethren to range themselves under the national banner. You did not wait for this appeal. At the very commencement of the insurrection, many of your citizens explained their sentiments and their wishes in the National Assembly, and some raised regiments, dignified by the names of your provinces; in fine, whole districts of Lithuania and Volhynia rose _en masse_. The partition of Poland has been denominated a crime by the unanimous voice of Europe, and who at this day will revoke such a decision? Who will venture to come forward as the champion against it? Undoubtedly none! And we have the well-grounded hope that Europe will hasten to recognize our independence, as soon as we have proved by our courage, our perseverance, our union, our moderate and noble conduct, that we deserve to be a free nation. This revolution is only a consequence of our oppression and our misfortunes. It was the wish of our hearts, and arises from the nature of our history, which displays our determination from the very beginning, and proves that our rising was not of foreign prompting. It is not civil war--it is not tainted with the blood of our brethren--we have not overturned social institutions in order to raise up new ones at hazard;--it is a war of independence, the most just of wars. This is the character of our revolution, which is at once mild, but firm--which with one arm conquers the enemy, and with the other raises and ennobles the needy peasant. We admire England and France--we wish to be, like them, a civilized nation, but without ceasing to be Poles! Nations cannot and ought not to change the elements of their existence. Each has its climate, industry, religion, manners, character, education, and history. From these different elements spring the feelings or passions which display themselves in revolutions, and the circumstances proper to be adopted in their future conduct. Individuality strongly expressed, forms the power of a people. We have preserved ours in the midst of slavery. Love of country, prepared to make every sacrifice--courage--piety--noble-mindedness, and gentleness, formed the character of our forefathers. These qualities also are ours. The patriots of Warsaw triumphed without chiefs and without law; yet with what crime can they be charged? An army of 30,000 men, and, in short, the whole kingdom, rose as if by enchantment; and how did they conduct themselves towards the Grand Duke Constantine? That prince, who for fifteen years had shown himself destitute of regard or pity for our feelings and liberties, was in our power; but he knew the nation, and, just to it for once only, he intrusted his person and his army to our honor! At the moment of alarm, we did not listen to the voice of public vengeance, but respected the prince and his troops, without taking advantage of our superiority. Our battalions who had awaited with a firm determination all the forces of Russia, allowed to pass through their ranks the fallen enemy, whose safety was guaranteed by the national honor. The generosity of the nation has been proved by many isolated facts, and Europe admires our moderation as much as our valor. Brethren, fellow-citizens, equal admiration still awaits us. Without delay, then, come forward with the whole of your force simultaneously, and act as one man in peace and in war; it is the people who are the source of all power. To the people, then, direct your views and your affections. Children, worthy of your fathers, you will act like them; you will break the odious bonds, and you will cement a holy alliance by reciprocal benefits and by gratitude. In other countries it is by force, and force alone, that the people recover their liberties--here those liberties are received as the gift of their brethren. A generous, just, and necessary deed will become the act only of your own choice, and you will proclaim to the people their independence, and the return of the Polish eagles to their native soil. Our fields will lose nothing in cultivation and value when they are tilled by the industry of brave men. You will be ennobled in the eyes of civilized Europe, and your country will gain millions of fellow-citizens, who, like our brave peasants, will fly to the defence of their liberty, and drive back a power whose character is that only of slavery. Do not forget, brethren and fellow citizens, that the Greek religion is professed by a great part of the people. Toleration is one of the qualities of civilization. The clergy, the churches, and religion, shall be placed under the protection of the government, and will lend you their assistance in carrying this measure of justice into effect. [The address goes on to enlarge upon the respect paid by Polish noblemen to religious rites and feelings, and calls on the people on this occasion to follow their example; also to send deputies from the different provinces to the National Congress. It then goes on to describe the vast power of Russia, and the difficulties to be encountered, much in the same manner as the proclamation of Skrzynecki, and concludes thus:--] God hath already wrought prodigies for us. God, and not the Emperor of Russia, will be our judge! He will decide. He will decide who hath committed perjury, who has been the victim of oppression, and who ought to obtain the victory. We have already fought with success, in the name of the God of our fathers; and we will fight till at length we have accomplished the ends of justice. All the nations of Europe possessed of the feelings of humanity tremble for our fate, and exult with joy at our successes.--They only wait your general rising to hail you as members of the free and independent nations of Europe. Brethren and fellow-citizens! when we shall have finished this terrible and unequal contest, we will invite the Powers of Europe to form themselves into a tribunal of justice; we will appear before them covered with our blood, lay open the book of our annals, unroll the chart of Europe, and say--'Behold our cause and yours! The injustice done to Poland is known to you: you behold her despair; for her courage and generosity appears to her enemies!' Brethren! let us hope in God. He will inspire the breast of our judges, who, obeying the dictates of eternal justice, will say--'Long live Poland! free and independent!' The President of the National Government, (Signed) The Prince Czartoriski. Warsaw, May 13, 1831. No. III. There is a rich consolation for the sufferings of a just cause, in the demonstrations of sympathy which my countrymen have uniformly met with on the part of the people among whom they have been thrown in their exile. I cannot refuse myself the satisfaction of inserting here one among the many notices which have appeared in the journals of the day, exhibiting the warm interest with which they have been regarded by the people of France. [From the N.Y. Courier des Etats Unis, 7th April.] 'The _Journal of Saoine and Loire_ publishes full details of the arrival of the Poles at Maçon. The reception given to the third detachment, which has passed through that city, was even still more marked, affectionate, and touching than that of the preceding. All the inhabitants of the country quitted their labors, to go out to meet the exiles. The national guard and the troops of the line paid them the honors of the place. Salvos of artillery announced their arrival and their departure. It was a triumphal march. The director of the packet boats gratuitously transported the Poles from Chalons to Lyons. At Maçon, just as the packet boat pushed off, a Polish captain threw his sword upon the bank, exclaiming--'Brave Maçonnois, I give you the dearest possession I have in the world; preserve it as a token of our gratitude.' The sword was carried in triumph to the _Hotel de Ville_, of Maçon, where it was deposited, and a subscription was opened to make a present to the brave stranger of a sword of honor. 'The arrival of this column at Lyons was celebrated with great solemnity. An idea of it may be formed from the recital which is given in the _Precurseur de Lyon_. '"Since the triumphal passage of the veteran of Liberty, Lyons has seen nothing so magnificent as the great movement of which the arrival of the Poles was the signal. From eighty to a hundred thousand souls marched before the column, upon the road of Bresse, and from far beyond the faubourgs. Having reached the entrance of the city, escorted by the elite of its inhabitants, the Poles found themselves in the midst of an immense crowd, who made the air ring with their cries of enthusiasm and sympathy. From thence to the Place de Terreaux, the column experienced extreme difficulty in advancing through the throngs of the delirious multitude. Words would fail to give the brilliant colors of this truly sublime picture. '"Maledictions against the infamous policy of the Cabinets, mingled with the cries of 'Vive la Pologne!' The accents of generous indignation were united with those of a deep and heartfelt pity for those remnants of an exiled people. '"A banquet was prepared at the Brotteaux. One of the committee ascended a carriage to conduct hither that young heroine [the countess Plater, we presume,] who follows to a land of exile her noble companions in arms, as she had followed them upon the field of battle. The people had scarcely recognized her, when they precipitated themselves towards her, unharnessed the horses, and dragged the carriage in triumph to the place of the assemblage. '"The banquet was attended by more than five hundred persons, and the committee had been forced to refuse a great number of subscribers on account of the smallness of the accommodations. '"The first toast, given by the president, M. Galibert, was, 'To immortal Poland!' This toast, enlarged upon with an eloquence full of warmth and pathos, excited a universal enthusiasm. The French embraced their noble guests, and it was a touching spectacle--this assembly, electrified by the most pure emotions of the soul, and in which tears flowed from every eye. '"It was affecting to see the physiognomies of the brave Poles during this solemnity. Many of them understood the French language, and tears flowed down their cheeks at each of the allusions which the orators made to their absent country, their crushed revolution. The young heroine, seated by the side of the president, and who excited a profound and general interest, could hardly suppress the sobs which oppressed her. '"The most perfect order reigned through the whole fete. Not a gendarme was present, and no excess of the slightest kind occurred. This countless multitude was calm, notwithstanding the violence of its emotions. The people proved how little their masters understand them."' No. IV. The following extract from the London Courier of April 9th, 1832, in reference to the recent Imperial Manifesto which converts Poland into a province of Russia, may serve to confirm the remarks which we have made in the text, on the system of deception practised by the Emperor Nicholas towards the Cabinets both of England and France, on the subject of Poland. * * * * * 'We perceive that the Manifesto of the Emperor of Russia, relative to Poland, which we gave on Saturday, has excited general indignation in France, as well as in this country. Perhaps, as the Poles are not of a character to be awed into submission by the power of their oppressors, whilst the slightest chance of emancipation is open to them, it is better for the cause of humanity that they should be tied hand and foot in the bonds of slavery, than that any opportunity should be afforded them of again saturating the soil of Poland with the blood of its best and bravest patriots. If life with disgrace be better than death without dishonor, the destruction of the nationality of Poland may not be so great an evil as the world at large imagine. If the utter impossibility of successful revolt be clearly shown, the Poles may at length wear their fetters without resorting to vain attempts to shake them off; and the monarch who has enslaved them, may gradually witness the extinction of mind, in proportion as he coerces and binds the body. But what a sad disgrace it is upon the government and people of this country to have neglected, in proper season, the means of securing to the brave and unfortunate people of Poland a nationality which would have given to them the form and substance of liberty, without involving the necessity of a rupture with the Power which has conquered them. Is it not true, that, at a time when the warm-hearted and generous portion of the people of this country were calling upon the Government to exercise the influence and power of the British Crown on behalf of the Poles, the reply was, 'We cannot go to war with the Emperor of Russia for foreign interests--we cannot insist upon his evacuating Poland, and leaving the country in a state of complete independence; but we will use our good offices towards obtaining favorable terms for the insurgents; and we have already the satisfaction of knowing that the Emperor Nicholas has declared that the nationality of Poland shall in no case be forfeited, and that in all other respects the world shall be astonished at the extent of his generosity towards the vanquished.' 'Is there a member of the Government, or any other person, who will tell us that such language as this was not made publicly and privately, in Parliament and out of Parliament, in the newspapers and out of the newspapers, and that the sole excuse for non-intervention was not the real or pretended belief that the nationality of Poland would be respected, and the conduct of the Emperor Nicholas be full of generosity and magnanimity? Gracious God! and are we come to such a pass that the sovereign of a semi-barbarous country can laugh at the honor and dignity of the British name! Is all the respect that he can show to the good offices of the British Government, in behalf of a great-minded people, to be found in empty professions and unmeaning declarations; and are we to put up tamely with one of the greatest insults that ever was inflicted upon the Government of the country? Was it for this that we conciliated the Autocrat of the North on the Belgian question? And is all the return of our concessions a bold and naked defiance of our power, and a determination to convince the world that the days of British influence are passed forever? Perhaps we shall be told, even now, of the magnanimous intentions of the Emperor of Russia; but the cheat is too stale. Every body knows not only that we have truckled to Russia in vain, but that to deception she has added insult, and that at this moment there is a Russian Ambassador in town, with instructions to cajole the Government on the Belgian question, and to withhold the ratification of the treaty until after the passing or rejecting of the Reform Bill, when the Emperor may be enabled by a change of government to dispense with it altogether.--But we are tired of the subject; the more we look at it, the more we feel disgraced. We blame not this or that minister; for the intentions of the government towards Poland, we firmly believe, were kind in the extreme; but we blush for the country at large in having purchased the chance of peace at the sacrifice of honor.' No. V. The following is the Imperial Manifesto referred to in the preceding article, as it appears in the Berlin State Gazette, under the head of Warsaw, March 25th, 1832. * * * * * 'By the grace of God, Nicholas I, Emperor of Russia, King of Poland, etc. When, by our Manifesto of Jan. 2, last year, we announced to our faithful subjects the march of our troops into the kingdom of Poland, which was momentarily snatched from the lawful authority, we at the same time informed them of our intention to fix the future fate of this country on a durable basis, suited to its wants, and calculated to promote the welfare of our whole empire. Now that an end has been put by force of arms to the rebellion in Poland, and that the nation, led away by agitators, has returned to its duty, and is restored to tranquillity, we deem it right to carry into execution our plan with regard to the introduction of the new order of things, whereby the tranquillity and union of the two nations, which Providence has entrusted to our care, may be forever guarded against new attempts. Poland, conquered in the year 1815 by the victorious arms of Russia, obtained by the magnanimity of our illustrious predecessor, the Emperor Alexander, not only its national existence, but also special laws sanctioned by a Constitutional Charter. These favors, however, would not satisfy the eternal enemies of order and lawful power. Obstinately persevering in their culpable projects, they ceased not one moment to dream of a separation between the two nations subject to our sceptre, and in their presumption they dared to abuse the favors of the restorer of their country, by employing for the destruction of his noble work the very laws and liberties which his mighty arm had generously granted them. Bloodshed was the consequence of this crime. The tranquillity and happiness which the kingdom of Poland had enjoyed to a degree till then unknown, vanished in the midst of civil war and a general devastation. All these evils are now passed. The kingdom of Poland, again subject to our sceptre, will regain tranquillity, and again flourish in the bosom of peace, restored to it under the auspices of a vigilant government. Hence we consider it one of our most sacred duties to watch with paternal care over the welfare of our faithful subjects, and to use every means in our power to prevent the recurrence of similar catastrophes, by taking from the ill-disposed the power of disturbing public tranquillity. As it is, moreover, our wish to secure to the inhabitants of Poland the continuance of all the essential requisites for the happiness of individuals, and of the country in general, namely, security of persons and property, liberty of conscience, and all the laws and privileges of towns and communes, so that the kingdom of Poland, with a separate administration adapted to its wants, may not cease to form an integral part of our empire, and that the inhabitants of this country may henceforward constitute a nation united with the Russians by sympathy and fraternal sentiments, we have, according to these principles, ordained and resolved this day, by a new organic statute, to introduce a new form and order in the administration of our kingdom of Poland. 'St Petersburgh, February 26, 1832. 'NICHOLAS. 'The Secretary of State, Count Stephen Grabowski.' After this Manifesto, the organic statutes of Poland are given, the principal of which are as follows: * * * * * 'By the grace of God, we, Nicholas I, Emperor and Autocrat of all the Russias, King of Poland, &c, &c. 'In our constant solicitude for the happiness of the nations which Providence has confided to our government, we are occupied in fixing the basis for the future organization of the kingdom of Poland, having regard to the true interests and positions of the country, and to the local wants and manners of the inhabitants. 'GENERAL DISPOSITIONS. 'Art. 1. The kingdom of Poland is forever to be re-united to the Russian empire, and form an inseparable part of that empire. It shall have a particular administration conformably to its local necessities, as well as a civil and military code. The statutes and the laws of cities and towns remain in full vigor. 'Art. 2. The Crown of the kingdom of Poland is hereditary in our person and in our heirs and successors, agreeably to the order of succession to the throne prescribed by all the Russias. 'Art. 3. The Coronation of the Emperors of all the Russias and Kings of Poland shall be one and the same ceremonial, which shall take place at Moscow, in the presence of a deputation from the kingdom of Poland, which shall assist at that solemnity with the deputies from the other parts of the empire. 'Art. 4. In the possible event of a regency in Russia, the power of the regent or regentess of the empire will extend over the kingdom of Poland. 'Art. 5. The freedom of worship is guarantied; every one is at liberty to exercise his religion openly, under the protection of Government; and the difference of Christian faiths shall never prove a pretext for the violation of the rights and privileges which are allowed to all the inhabitants. The Roman Catholic religion, being that of the majority of our Polish subjects, shall be the object of especial protection of the Government. 'Art. 6. The funds which the Roman Catholic clergy possess, and those of the Greek church united, shall be considered as the common and inviolable property of the hierarchy of each of those creeds. 'Art. 7. The protection of the laws is assured to all the inhabitants without distinction of rank or class. Each shall be empowered to assume dignities or to exercise public functions, according to his personal merits or talents. 'Art. 8. Individual liberty is guarantied and protected by the existing laws. No one shall be deprived of his liberty, or called to justice, if he be not a transgressor of the law in all the forms prescribed. Every one detained shall be apprised of the motive of arrest. 'Art. 9. Each person arrested must submit to a delay of three days to be heard and judged of, according to the forms of law, before competent tribunals: if he be found innocent, he will instantly obtain his liberty. He will be equally restored to liberty who shall furnish a sufficient surety. 'Art. 10. The form of judicial inquests directed against the superior functionaries of the kingdom, and against persons accused of high treason, shall be determined by a particular law, the foundation of which shall be accordant with the other laws of our empire. 'Art. 11. The right of property of individuals, and of corporations, is declared sacred and inviolable, inasmuch as it will be conformable to the existing laws. All the subjects of the kingdom of Poland are perfectly free to quit the country, and to carry away their goods, provided they conform to the regulations published to that effect. 'Art. 12. The penalty of confiscation shall not be enforced but against state crimes of the first class, as may be hereafter determined by particular laws. 'Art. 13. Publication of sentiments, by means of the press, shall be subjected to restrictions which will protect religion, the inviolability of superior authority, the interests of morals, and personal considerations. Particular regulations, to this effect, will be published according to the principles which serve as a basis to this object in the other parts of our empire. 'Art. 14. The kingdom of Poland shall proportionably contribute to the general expenditure and to the wants of the empire. The proportion of taxes will be stated hereafter. 'Art. 15. All contributions and all taxes which existed in November, 1830, shall be levied after the manner formerly settled till the new fixing of taxes. 'Art. 16. The treasury of the kingdom of Poland, and all the other branches of the administration, shall be separated from the administration of the other parts of the kingdom. 'Art. 17. The public debt of Poland, acknowledged by us, shall be guarantied as formerly, by the government, and indemnified by the receipts of the kingdom. 'Art. 18. The bank of the kingdom of Poland, and the laws respecting credit, shall continue under the protection of Government. 'Art. 19. The mode of commercial transactions between the Russian empire and the kingdom of Poland shall be regulated according to the respective interests of the two countries. 'Art. 20. Our army in the empire and in the kingdom shall compose one in common, without distinction of Russian or Polish troops. We shall reserve to ourselves a future decision of this, by an especial law, by what arrangement, and upon what basis, the kingdom of Poland shall participate with our army. The number of troops which shall serve as the military defence of the kingdom will be also ultimately determined upon by a law. 'Art. 21. Those of our subjects of the empire of Russia, who are established in the kingdom of Poland, who possess or shall possess, real property in that country, shall enjoy all the rights of natives. It shall be the same with those of our subjects of the kingdom of Poland, who shall establish themselves, and shall possess property, in the other provinces of the empire. We reserve to ourselves to grant hereafter letters of naturalization to other persons, as well to strangers as to Russians, who are not yet established there. Those of our subjects of the Russian empire who may reside for a certain time in Poland, and those of our subjects of the kingdom of Poland who may sojourn in the other parts of the empire, are subject to the laws of the country where they reside. 'Art. 22. The superior administration of the kingdom of Poland is confided to a council of administration, which shall govern the kingdom in our name, under the presidency of the governor of the kingdom. 'Art. 23. The council of administration is composed of the governor of the kingdom, of superior directors, who superintend the commissions, and among whom are divided the interests of the administration, of comptroller, presiding over the supreme Chamber of Finance, and of other members, whom we shall appoint by special orders.' FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 85: Not having a copy of this address in the original, we make use of a rather unsatisfactory translation, which we find in the journals of the day.] LIST OF POLISH NAMES, _With their Pronunciation in English_. POLISH ALPHABET. a b c d e f g h i j k l m n o p q ah bey tsey dey ey ef ghey hah ye ee kah el em en o pey koo r s t u w x y z. err es tey oo voo ix ee zed. _Note._ In every Polish name, or word, the letters are all sounded and pronounced, as their names indicate. Names as spelled in Their pronunciation. Polish. A Adamski Ahdamsky Augustow Owgoostov Alexota Ahlexotah B Bestuzew Bestoozhev Boleslaw-Chrobry Boleslav-Khrobry Biala-Cerkiew Beahlah-Tseyrkyev Bilinski Belinsky Biernacki Byernatsky Bialystok Beahlistok Brzesc Brzhests Boimie Boimea Boguslawski Bogooslavsky Bialolenka Beahlolenkah Bug Boog Bielak Bieylak Berowski Beyrovsky Blendowsky Blendovsky Bystrzyca Bistrzhitsa Berzykowski Berzhyhkovsky Beysogola Beysogolah Bialowiez Beahlovyezh Belzyca Belzheetsah Borowa Borovah Beresteczko Beyrestechko Bady Bahdy Brainsk Brainsk Bielsk Byelsk Bukowski Bookovsky Bialobrzegi Byahlobrzheygy Bocki Botsky Blonie Blony C Chlopicki Khlopitsky Chodkiewicz Khodkyavitch Czarnecki Tcharnetsky Czartoryski Tchartorisky Ciechanowiec Tsyakhanovyets Czyzewski Tcheejevski Czaykowski Tshahovski Czarno-morskie Tcharna-morskyey Chlapowski Khlaposvky Ceglow Tseyglov Chrzanowski Khrzhahnovsky Czyzew Tcheejev Czaykiszki Tchaikishki Czenstochowa Tchenstokhovah Cytowiany Tsetoviahny Czarna Tcharnah Ciechanow Tsyeykhhanov Chodzko Khodzko D Dembek Dembek Downarowicz Dovnarovich Dombrowski Dombrovsky Diebitsch Deebich Dwernicki Dvernitsky Dobre Dobrey Dembe-Wielkie Dembey-Vielkye Dnieper Dneeper Dembinski Dembinsky Dawgeliszki Davgalishky Dubno Doobno Dlugie-Siodlo Dloogya-Syodlo Dobzyn Dobzhin. G Grabowski Grahbovsky Grodno Grodno Grochow Grokhov Granica Grahnitsah Goclaw Gotslav Gotembiewski Gotembyevsky Gielgud Gyelgood Grombkow Grombkov Gruszki Grooshky Galiczyn Gahlichyn Graiewo Grahyeyvo Gielgudyszki Gyelgoodishky Gury-Konarskie Goory-Konarskya Gorzdy Gorsdy Giedroyc Gyedroits H Hauke Houka Hildebrand Hildeybrand Hurtig Hoortig J Jablonowski Yablonovsky Jgelstrom Eegelstrom Jurgaszko Yoorgashko Jezierski Yazhyersky Jadow Yahdov Jablonna Yablonnah Jakubow Yahkoobov Januwek Yahnoovek Jankowski Yankovsky Jendrzeiow Yendrzhagov Jarburg Yarboorg Jagiellow Yahgyellov Jedlina Yedlenah Janow Yahnov Jeroma Yaroma K Kosciuszko Kostchioushko Krzyzanowski Krzhezhanovsky Kichelbeker Keekhelbaker Kachowski Kakhovsky Krasinski Krahsinsky Kornatowski Kornahtovsky Kozienice Kozhyanetsey Krukowiecki Krookovyetsky Kock Kotsk Kaluszyn Kahlooshyn Kostrzyn Kostrzhyn Konik Konyik Kawenczyn Kahvenchyn Kicki Keetsky Krasny-taw Krasneestav Kozieradzki Kozhyaradzky Karczew Karchev Kurow Koorov Konskawola Konskahvolah Keydany Kaydahny Kowno Kovno Kazimierz Kahzheemyerzh Kolodno Kolodno Krzemieniece Krzheymyeynyets Knielce Knyeltsa Kuflew Kooflev Kolacze Kolachey Kamionka Kahmyonkah Kleczkowo Klechkovo Kaminski Kaminsky Koss Koss Kalwaryia Kalvahreya Karwowska Kavovskah Kurzany Koorzhahny Kikiernicki Kekyornitsky Kniaziewicz Knyahzyavich L Lubowidzki Looboveedzky Lazienki Lahzhyenky Lelewel Leyleyvel Lubecki Loobetsky Lubinski Loobinsky Lowicz Lovich Lubomirska Loobomeerskah Lenczna Lenchnah Lukow Lookov Lublin Looblin Liwiec Levyets Leduchowski Leydookhovsky Lagowski Lahgovsky Lewandowski Leyvandovsky Latowicz Lahtovich Lipawa Lepahvah Lukowiec Lookovyets Lomza Lomzah Lubartow Loobartov Lubania Loobahnyah Lipinska Lepinskah Lida Ledah Lysobyki Lysobyky Laskarzew Laskarzhev Laga Lahgah Luberacz Loobeyrach M Murawiew Mooravyev Mieciszewski Myatsishevsky Mokotow Mokotov Miendzyrzyc Myenjeerzhyts Makowiec Mahkovyets Minsk Minsk Macieiowice Matsyaovcetsa Mingosy Mingosy Milosna Melosna Makow Mahkov Malachowski Mahlahkhovsky Maslowski Maslovsky Markuszew Markushev Magnuszewo Magnooshavo Memel Mamel Mycielski Meetsyelsky Modlin Modlin Milatyn Meelahtyn Mordy Mordy Modzele Modzala Mniszew Mneshev Menzynin Menzhenin Malinowski Mahlenovsky Mlawa Mlahvah Matusiewicz Mahtoosyavich Myszogola Meshogolah Michalowski Mekhahlovsky Maluszyn Mahlooshyn Morawski Moravsky N Niemcewicz Nyemtseyvich Nasielsk Nahsyelsk Narew Nahrev Nowawies Novah-vies Nowy-dwor Novy-dvor Niewiaza Nyavyahzhah Narewska Nahrevkah Nurzec Noorzhets Neydenburg Nidenboorg Nowe-miasto Nova-myasto Nadarzyn Nahdarzhyn O Ostrowski Ostrovsky Ostrolenka Ostrolenkah Orsyca Orseetsah Okuniew Okoonyev Osmiany Osmyahny Ostrog Ostrog Orla Orlah Oyrany Oyrahny P Plichta Plikhtah Pestel Pestel Potocki Pototsky Poniatowski Ponyahtovsky Powonzki Povonsky Pac Pats Pultusk Pooltoosk Parczewo Parchavo Praga Prahgah Pientka Pyentkah Paszkiewicz Pashkyavich Pulawy Poolahoy Polonga Polongah Prondzynski Proodzynsky Piast Pyast Plomieniec Plomyanyets Proskirow Proskerov Piaski Pyasky Poznan Pornan Prasynsz Prasnysh Plater Plahter Podbrzeze Podbrzhazha Piwecki Pevetsky Pawenduny Pahvendoony Piaseczno Pyasechno R Rozniecki Rozhnyetsky Releiew Reyleyiev Rukiewicz Rookyavich Ruda Roodah Ryczywol Reecheevol Radom Rahdom Radomierza Rahdomyerzhah Radzimin Rahjeemin Rybinski Reebinsky Rozany Rozhahny Rosseyny Rosseyny Radziwil Rahjecvel Radziwilow Rahjeevelov Raygrod Raigrod Rumszyski Roomshysky Rewdany Revdahny Rasinowicz Rahsenovich Retow Retov Racioncz Rahtsyonzh Ruzycki Roozhytsky S Sokolnicki Sokolnitsky Soltyk Soltyk Szlegel Shleygel Suwarow Soovahrov Sobieski Sobyesky Sapieha Sahpyahah Szulec Shoolets Siemiontkowski Syamyontkovsky Skrzynecki Skrzhynetsky Szembek Shembek Sierawski Syeyravsky Siedlce Syedltsa Serock Seyrotsk Stryinski Stryinsky Seroczyn Serochyn Sokolow Sokolov Stoczek Stochek Swider Sveder Stanislawow Stahneslahvov Swierza Svyerzhah Szachowski Shakhovsky Skarzynski Skarkhynsky Siekierki Syakerky Sznayder Shnider Szuszerin Shoosherin Siennica Syenneetsah Szymanski Shymansky Szawla Shavlah Swienciany Svyentsyahny Szerwinty Shervinty Sucha Sookhah Styr Styr Stary-Konstantynow Stahry-Konstantenov Starygrod Stahregrod Stoiadly Stoyadly Strzebucza Strzhaboocha Suraz Sooraz Sierakowski Syeyrahkovsky Szymanowski Shemahnovsky Szczuczyn Shchoochyn Suwalki Soovalky Swieta Svieytah Salacki Sahlatsky Slupecki Sloopeytsky Sloboda Slobodah Sonk Sonk Siemiatycze Syamyahtecha T Tarnowski Tarnovsky Trembicki Trembitski Turno Toorno Targowek Targovek Troki Troky Tarnopol Tarnopol Tarnogura Tarnogoorah Troszyn Troshyn Tykocin Tykotsin U Uminski Oominski Uscilug Oostseloog Uchania Ookhanyah W Wigielin Vegyalen Wielkaniee Vyelkahneetsa Wiliaminow Velyahmeenov Wyzechowski Vezhakhovsky Wysocki Vesotsky Wengrzecki Vengrzhetsky Wonsowicz Vonsovich Wolicki Volitsky Wlodawa Vlodahvah Wielezynski Vealazhynsky Wengrow Vengrov Wawr Vavr Wkra Vkrah Wilanow Velahnov Wodynie Vodenya Wieprz Vyeyprzh Wilno Vilno Wilkomierz Vilkomyerzh Wereszczaki Vareshchahky Wielkie Vyelkya Wyszkow Vyshkov Wroclaw Vrotslav Wiliia Veleyah Worna Vornah Wierzbna Vyerzhbnah Z Zamoyski Zahmoisky Zymirski Zymeersky Zegrz Zeygrzh Zlotoria Zlotoryah Zelechow Zheyleykhov Ziemiecki Zyeymyeytsky Zombky Zombky Zagroby Zahgroby Zaluski Zahloosky Zoliborz Zoleborzh Zimna-woda Zimna-vodah Zamosc Zahmosts Zambrowo Zambrovo Zeymy Zaymy Zawadzka Zahvadzkah Zaliwski Zahlivsky Zabiello Zabyello [Transcribers Note: Original spelling of names and place-names has been retained] 
37198	----	Transcriber's Notes: 1. Page scan source: http://www.archive.org/details/delugeanhistori00siengoog 2. The diphthong oe is represented by [oe]. [.Z] represents Z with a dot above it. THE DELUGE. Vol. I. THE WORKS OF HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ. AUTHORIZED UNABRIDGED TRANSLATIONS BY JEREMIAH CURTIN. LIBRARY EDITION. * * * Historical Romances. _Poland, Turkey, Russia, and Sweden_. With Fire And Sword. 1 vol. The Deluge. 2 vols. Pan Michael. 1 vol. _Rome in the time of Nero_. "Quo Vadis." 1 vol. Novels of Modern Poland. Children of the Soil. 1 vol. Without Dogma. 1 vol. (Translated by Iza Young.) Short Stories. Hania, and Other Stories. 1 vol. Sielanka, a Forest Picture, and Other Stories. 1 vol. * * * On the Bright Shore. 1 vol. Let Us Follow Him. 1 vol. *** The above two are also included in the volume entitled "Hania." Yanko the Musician, and Other Stories, 1 vol. Lillian Morris, and Other Stories, 1 vol. *** The tales and sketches included in these two volumes are now reprinted with others by Sienkiewicz in the volume entitled "Sielanka, a Forest Picture, and Other Stories." THE DELUGE. An Historical Novel OF POLAND, SWEDEN, AND RUSSIA. A SEQUEL TO "WITH FIRE AND SWORD." BY HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ. _AUTHORIZED AND UNABRIDGED TRANSLATION FROM THE POLISH BY_ JEREMIAH CURTIN. IN TWO VOLUMES. Vol. I. BOSTON: LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY 1915. _Copyright, 1891_, by Jeremiah Curtin. * * * * * Printers S. J. Parkhill & Co., Boston, U.S.A. TO HON. CHARLES A. DANA, Editor of "The Sun," New York. Sir,--I beg to dedicate to you this translation of a remarkable work, touching a period eventful in the history of the Poles, and the Slav race in general. You will appreciate the pictures of battle and trial contained in these volumes, for you know great events not from books merely but from personal contact. You receive pleasure from various literatures, and from considering those points of character by which nations and men are distinguished; hence, as I think, THE DELUGE will give you some mental enjoyment, and perhaps turn your attention to a new field of history. JEREMIAH CURTIN. Smithsonian Institution, Bureau of Ethnology, November 25, 1891. INTRODUCTION. The wars described in THE DELUGE are the most complicated and significant in the whole career of the Commonwealth, for the political motives which came into play during these wars had their origin in early and leading historical causes. The policy of the Teutonic Knights gave the first of its final results in the war of 1655, between Sweden and Poland, since it made the elector independent in Prussia, where soon after, his son was crowned king. The war with Great Russia in 1654, though its formal cause came, partly at least, from the struggle of 1612, in which the Poles had endeavored to subjugate Moscow, was really roused by the conflict of Southern Russian with Poland to win religious and material equality. The two fundamental events of Polish history are the settlement of the Teutonic Knights in Prussia, through the action of the Poles themselves; and the union of Poland with Lithuania and Russia by the marriage of Yadviga, the Polish princess, to Yagyello, Grand Prince of Lithuania. Before touching on the Teutonic Knights, a few words may be given to the land where they began that career which cut off Poland from the sea, took from the Poles their political birthplace, and gave its name and territory to the chief kingdom of the new German Empire, the kingdom which is in fact the creator and head of that Empire. Prussia in the thirteenth century extended from the Vistula eastward to the Niemen, and from the Baltic southward about as far as it does at present. In this territory lived the Prussians. East of the Niemen lived the Lithuanians, another division of the same stock of people. West of the Vistula lay Pomorye,[1] now Pomerania, occupied at that time exclusively by Slavs under Polish dominion. The Prussians, a people closely related to the Slavs, were still Pagans, as were also the Lithuanians; and having a more highly developed religion than either the pre-Christian Slavs or the Germans, their conversion was likely to be of a more difficult nature. At the end of the tenth and in the beginning of the thirteenth centuries attempts were made to convert the Prussians; but the only result was the death of the missionaries, who seem to have been too greatly filled with zeal to praise their own faith and throw contempt on that of the people among whom they were really only guests and sojourners. Finally, a man appeared more adroit and ambitious than others,--Christian, a monk of Olivka, near Dantzig. This monk, we are told, had a knowledge of the weak points of men, spoke Prussian as well as Polish, was not seeking the crown of martyrdom, and never made light of things held sacred by those to whom he was preaching. After a few years his success was such as to warrant a journey to Rome, where he explained to Innocent III. the results of his labor. The Pope encouraged the missionary, and in 1211 instructed the Archbishop of Gnezen to aid Christian with his co-workers and induce secular princes to help them. Christian returned from Rome with renewed zeal; but instead of being helped he was hindered, for tribute and labor were imposed on his converts by the secular power. Since the new religion was coupled with servitude, the Prussians were roused greatly against it. Christian strove to obtain relief for his converts, but in vain. Then, taking two native followers, he made a second journey to Rome, was created first Bishop of Prussia, and returned again to the field. The great body of Prussians now considered all converts as traitors. The priests of the native religion roused the people, and attacked those persons as renegades who had deserted the ancient faith and were bringing slavery to the country. They went farther and fell upon Mazovia, whence the propaganda had issued. Konrad, unable to defend himself, bought them off with rich presents. The newly made converts were killed, captured, or driven to deep forests. Christian turned to the Pope a third time, and implored him to direct against Prussia those Poles who were going to the Holy Land. The Archbishop of Gnezen was instructed from Rome to make this change, and the Poles were summoned against Prussia for the following year. The crusade was preached also in Germany. Warriors arrived from both countries in fairly large numbers, and during their presence ruined villages and churches were rebuilt in the district of Culm, where the conversions had taken place mainly. In a couple of seasons the majority of the warriors found their way home again. A second crusade was proclaimed, and men responded freely. All these forces were simply guarding the missionaries and the converts,--a position which could not endure. Christian, seeing this, formed the plan of founding an order of armed monks in Poland like the Knights of the Sword in Livonia. Konrad gave his approval at once. The Bishop of Modena, at that time papal legate in Poland, hastened the establishment of the order; for to him it seemed the best agent to bend the stiff necks of idolaters. Permission to found the order was obtained from the Pope, and a promise of means to maintain it from Konrad. Christian, who had interested Rome and the West in his work, now gave great praise before the world to the Prince of Mazovia, who thereupon rewarded him with a gift of twelve castles and one hundred villages, reserving merely sovereign rights without income. This gift was confirmed to the Bishop of Prussia by Honorius III. Christian labored so zealously that in 1225 he consecrated twenty-five superior knights in his new order, which received the same rules as the Livonian Knights of the Sword,--that is, the rules of the Templars. The new knights were called Brothers of Dobjin, from the castle of Dobjin, which Konrad gave them as a residence, adding the district of Leslin near Inovratslav as a means of support. As soon as the Brothers had settled in their castle, they attacked the Prussians, ruined villages, and brought in plunder. The enraged Prussians collected large forces, and attacked the land of Culm, with the intent to raze Dobjin. On hearing this, Konrad with his own troops and a general levy hastened to the relief of the order. A bloody and stubborn battle of two days' duration was fought with great loss on both sides. Konrad, despairing of victory, left the field, thus causing the complete overthrow of the Poles. The surviving Brothers of Dobjin took refuge in the castle, which the Prussians were unable to capture. The order, shattered at its very inception, hoped for reinforcements from abroad; but the Pope at that juncture was sending a crusade to Palestine, and would not permit a division in the forces of the West. The Prussians, elated with victory, plundered at pleasure the lands bordering on their own. In this disaster Christian conceived the idea of calling in the Teutonic Knights against Prussia. This idea, suicidal from a Polish point of view, was accepted by the Prince of Mazovia. The Teutonic Order was founded in Palestine near the end of the twelfth century to succeed some German hospitallers who had resided in Jerusalem till the capture of the city by Saracens in 1187. In a few years the new order became military, and under the patronage of Frederick, Duke of Suabia, afterward the Emperor Frederick II., acquired much wealth, with great imperial and papal favor. Under Herman Von Salza, who was grand master from 1210 to 1239, the future of the order was determined, its main scene of action transferred to the West, and that career begun which made the Teutonic Order the most remarkable of the weapon-bearing monks of Europe. Herman Von Salza--a keen, crafty man, of great political astuteness and ambition--had determined to win separate territory for the order, and the dignity of Prince of the Empire for the grand master. Nothing therefore could be more timely for his plans than the invitation from the Prince of Mazovia, who in 1225 sent envoys to Herman; especially since the order had just been deprived in Transylvania of lands given to support it while warding off heathen Kumanians. The envoys offered the Teutonic master Culm and some adjoining lands for the order, in return for curbing the Prussians. Herman resolved to accept, should the Emperor prove friendly to the offer. He hastened to Frederick at Rimini, explained the whole question, received a grant in which Konrad's endowment was confirmed; besides the order was given all the land it could conquer and make subject to the Emperor alone. The grand master's next care was to obtain papal approval. Two envoys from Herman were sent to Poland, where they obtained, as the chronicles of the order relate, a written title to Culm and the neighboring land as well as to all Prussia which they could conquer. Near Torun (Thorn) a wooden fortress was built, called in German Fogelsang (Bird-song). This fortress was the first residence of the knights, who later on had so much power and such influence in the history of Poland. Only two years later did Herman send his knights to Culm. One of the first acts was to purchase for various considerations, from the Bishop of Plotsk and from Christian, the Bishop of Prussia, their rights over the lands granted them in Culm. The labor of conversion began, and soon the grand master prevailed on the Pope to proclaim throughout Europe a crusade against Prussia. From Poland alone came twenty thousand men, and many more from other parts of Europe. When the knights had made a firm beginning of work, their design of independence was revealed. They wished to be rid of even a show of submission to the Prince of Mazovia. They raised the question by trying to incorporate the remaining Brothers of Dobjin, and thus acquire the grant given them by Konrad. They had disputes also with Bishop Christian and the Bishop of Plotsk. In 1234 the Bishop of Modena was sent as papal legate to settle the disputes. The legate decided, to the satisfaction of the bishops, that of all lands won from the Pagans two thirds were to be retained by the knights and one third given to the bishops, the church administration being under the order in its own two thirds. For the Prince of Mazovia nothing was left, though he asserted sovereign rights in Culm and Prussia, and would not permit the order to acquire the grant given the Brothers of Dobjin by incorporating the remaining members of that body. The Teutonic Order would not recognize the sovereignty of the Polish prince, and insisted on incorporating the Brothers of Dobjin. The order, knowing that Konrad would yield only under constraint, placed its possessions at the feet of the Pope, made them the property of the Holy See. This action found success; the Pope declared Culm and all the acquisitions of the order the property of Saint Peter, which the church for a yearly tax then gave in feudal tenure to the Teutonic Knights, who therefore could not recognize in those regions the sovereignty of any secular prince. In August, 1234, the Pope informed Konrad in a special bull of the position of the order, and enjoined on him to aid it with all means in his power. The Polish prince could do nothing; he could not even prevent the incorporation of the majority of the remaining Brothers of Dobjin, and of the lands and property given for their use he was able to save nothing but the castle of Dobjin. Konrad now found himself in a very awkward position; he had introduced of his own will a foreign and hostile power which had all Western Europe and the Holy See to support it, which had unbounded means of discrediting the Poles and putting them in the wrong before the world; and these means the order never failed to use. In half a century after their coming the knights, by the aid of volunteers and contributions from all Europe, had converted Prussia, and considered Poland and the adjoining parts of Lithuania as sure conquests to be made at their own leisure and at the expense of all Western Christendom. The first Polish territory acquired was Pomerania. The career of the knights was easy and successful till the union of Poland and Lithuania in 1386. In 1410, at the battle called by the names both of Grünwald and Tannenberg, the power of the order was broken. Some years later Pomerania was returned to Poland, and the order was allowed to remain in East Prussia in the position of a vassal to the Commonwealth. In this reduced state the knights lived for a time, tried to gain allies, but could not; the most they did--and that was the best for the German cause--was to induce Albert, a member of the Franconian branch of the Hohenzollerns, to become grand master. He began to reorganize the order, and tried to shake off allegiance to Poland; but finding no aid in the Empire or elsewhere, he acted on Luther's advice to introduce Protestantism and convert Prussia into a secular and hereditary duchy. This he did in 1525. Poland, with a simplicity quite equal to that of Konrad, who called in the order at first, permitted the change. The military monks married, and were converted into hereditary nobles. Albert became Duke of Prussia, and took the oath of allegiance to Poland. Later the Hohenzollerns of Brandenburg inherited the duchy, became feudatories of Poland as well as electors at home. This was the position during the war between Sweden and Poland described in THE DELUGE. Frederick William, known as the Great Elector, was ruling at that time in Brandenburg and Prussia. He acted with great adroitness and success; paying no attention to his oath as vassal, he took the part of one side, and then of the other when he saw fit. He fought on the Swedish side in the three days' battle around Warsaw in which Yan Kazimir was defeated. This service was to be rewarded by the independence of Prussia. Hardly had the scale turned in favor of Poland when the Great Elector assisted Yan Kazimir against Sweden; and in the treaty of Wehlau (1657) Poland relinquished its rights over Prussia, which thus became sovereign and independent in Europe. This most important change was confirmed three years later at the peace of Oliva. Frederick, son of the Great Elector, was crowned "King in Prussia" at Königsberg in 1701. The Elector of Brandenburg became king in that territory in which he had no suzerain. At the first division of Poland, Royal Prussia of THE DELUGE, the territory lying between the Vistula and Brandenburg, went to the new kingdom; and Brandenburg, Pomerania, and Prussia became continuous territory. The early success of the Teutonic Knights was so great that in the third half century of their rule on the Baltic their power overshadowed Poland, which was thus seriously threatened. Toward the end of the fourteenth century, however (1386), the Poles escaped imminent danger by their union with Lithuania and Russia. Through this most important connection they rose at once from a position of peril to one of safety and power. This union, brought about through the marriage of the Polish princess Yadviga to Yagyello, Grand Prince of Lithuania, and by exceedingly adroit management on the part of the Polish nobles and clergy, opened to the Poles immense regions of country and the way to vast wealth. Before the union their whole land was composed of Great and Little Poland, with Mazovia (see map); after the union two thirds of the best lands of pre-Tartar Russia formed part of the Commonwealth. Since Poland managed to place and maintain itself at the head of affairs, though this roused at all times opposition of varying violence in the other two parts of the Commonwealth, the social ideals and political structure of Poland prevailed in Lithuania and Russia, so far as the upper classes were concerned. In Lithuania, by the terms of the union, all were obliged to become Catholic; in different parts of Russia, which was Orthodox, the people were undisturbed in their religion at first; but after a time the majority of the nobles became Catholic in religion, and Poles in language, name, manners, and ideas. To these was added a large immigration of Polish nobles seeking advancement and wealth. All Russia found itself after a time under control of an upper class which was out of all sympathy with the great mass and majority of the people. During the Yagyellon dynasty, which lasted from 1386 to 1572, the religious question was not so prominent for any save nobles; but ownership of their own land and their own labor was gradually slipping away from the people. During the reign of Sigismund III. (1587-1632), religion was pushed to the foreground, the United Church was brought into Russia; and land and religion, which raise the two greatest problems in a State, the material and the spiritual, were the main objects of thought throughout Russia. Under Vladislav in 1648 the storm burst forth in Southern Russia. There was a popular uprising, the most wide-spread and stubborn in history, during which the Poles lost many battles and gained one great victory, that of Berestechko; the Southern Russians turned to the North, and selected the Tsar Alexai Mihailovich as sovereign. Jan. 8, 1654, there was a great meeting in Pereyaslav,[2] at which Bogdan Hmelnitski, hetman of the Zaporojian army and head of all Southern Russia, after he had consulted with the Cossacks, took his place in the centre of the circle, and in presence of the army, the people, and Buturlin, the envoy of Alexai Mihailovich, said:-- "Gentlemen, Colonels, Essauls, Commanders of hundreds, the whole Zaporojian army, and all Orthodox Christians,--You know how the Lord delivered us from the hands of our enemies who persecuted the Church of God and were envenomed against all Christians of our Eastern Orthodoxy. We have lived six years without a sovereign, in endless battles against our persecutors and enemies who desire to root out the church of God, so that the Russian name may not be heard in our land. This position has grown unendurable, and we cannot live longer without a sovereign. Therefore we have assembled a council before the whole people, so that you with us may choose from four sovereigns that one whom you wish. The first is the Sovereign of Turkey, who has invited us under his authority many times through his envoys; the second is the Khan of the Crimea; the third the King of Poland, who, if we wish, may receive us into former favor; the fourth is the Orthodox sovereign, the Tsar and Grand Prince Alexai Mihailovich, the sole ruler of all Russia, whom we have been imploring six years with unceasing petitions. Choose whom you like. The Sovereign of Turkey is a Mussulman; you all know how our brethren, the Greeks, Orthodox Christians, suffer, and what persecution they endure from godless men. A Mussulman also is the Khan of the Crimea, whom we took into friendship of necessity, by reason of the unendurable woes which we passed through. Of persecutions from Polish lords it is needless to speak; you know yourselves that they esteemed a Jew and a dog more than a Christian, our brother. But the great Orthodox sovereign of the East is of one faith with us, one confession of the Greek rite; we are one spiritual body with the Orthodoxy of Great Russia, having Jesus Christ for our head. This great sovereign, this Christian Tsar, taking pity on the suffering of our Orthodox church in Little Russia, giving ear to our six years' entreating, has inclined his heart to us graciously, and was pleased to send with his favor dignitaries from near his person. If we love him earnestly, we shall not find a better refuge than his lofty hand. If any man is not agreed with us, let him go whither he pleases; the road is free--" Here the whole people shouted: "We choose to be under the Orthodox sovereign; better to die in our Orthodox faith than to go to a hater of Christ, to a Pagan!" Then the Pereyaslav colonel, Teterya, passed around in the circle, and asked in every direction: "Are all thus agreed?" "All with one spirit," was the answer. The hetman now said: "May the Lord our God strengthen us under the strong hand of the Tsar." The people shouted back in one voice: "God confirm us! God give us strength to be one for the ages!" The hetman, the army, and the representatives of Southern Russia took the oath of allegiance to the Tsar. The result of this action was a war between the Commonwealth on one side, and Northern and Southern Russia on the other. The Commonwealth being thus occupied on the east, Sweden decided to attack on the west. The war between Russia and the Commonwealth lasted thirteen years, and ended with a truce of thirteen years more, made at Andrusovo. By this agreement the city and province of Smolensk went to Russia, and all the left bank of the Dnieper, while Kieff was to be occupied by Poland after two years. This truce became a treaty during the reign of Sobyeski. Kieff remained with the Russians, and peace was unbroken till the second half of the following century, when all Russia west of the Dnieper was restored to the East in nearly the same limits which it had before the Tartar invasion; excepting the territory included in Galicia, and known as Red Russia. Jeremiah Curtin. Smithsonian Institution, Bureau of Ethnology, November 25, 1891. REMARKS ON PERSONAGES IN "THE DELUGE." Yan Kazimir was a son of Sigismund III., who was a son of King John of Sweden and Catherine, daughter of Sigismund I. of Poland. John of Sweden was succeeded by his son Sigismund, who under the name of Sigismund III. was elected King of Poland in 1587 to succeed his mother's brother, Sigismund Augustus, the last descendant of Yagyello in the male line. Sigismund III. was dethroned by the Swedes, and his issue excluded from the succession. Duke Charles, the ablest of Gustavus Vasa's sons, and uncle of Sigismund, was made king as Charles IX. This Charles IX. was father of Gustavus Adolphus. Gustavus Adolphus was succeeded by his only daughter, Christina, who would not marry, and who after reigning for a time resigned in favor of her cousin Karl Gustav of Zweibrücken,[3] son of the only sister of Gustavus Adolphus. Gustavus Vasa was therefore the great-grandfather of both Yan Kazimir and Karl Gustav, who were thus second cousins. The Polish Vasas laid claim to the Swedish crown, thereby causing the Commonwealth during sixty years much loss in money and men. Yan Kazimir relinquished this claim when he made peace with Sweden. Before his election Yan Kazimir, being a cardinal, was dispensed from his vows by the Pope. Chosen king, he married Louise Marie, daughter of the Duke of Nevers, a woman of strong will and much beauty. Discouraged and wearied by many wars and reverses, and more than all by the endless dissensions of magnates, Yan Kazimir resigned the kingly office in 1668, and retired to France. Being now a widower, he became Abbot of St. Germain and St. Martin, and lived on his stipend from these foundations, for the Poles refused to continue his pension. It seems, however, that he did not remain in seclusion till the end, for he is mentioned as marrying in secret a widow who had once been a laundress. He died in 1672, remembering the world much more than the world remembered him. Yan Zamoyski, one of the most celebrated nobles in Polish history, was the grandfather of Sobiepan Zamoyski. The time of Zamoyski's success was during the reign of Stephen Batory, who gave him more offices and power than any citizen of the Commonwealth had ever enjoyed. As castellan of Cracow, he was the first among lay senators; as starosta of the same territory, he had extensive jurisdiction over criminals in Little Poland; as hetman, he was commander of all the military forces of the kingdom; as chancellor, he held the seals, without which no official act of the king had validity. Perhaps the most notable action in Zamoyski's career as a civilian during Batory's reign was his treatment of the Zborovskis, one of whom he had beheaded, and another condemned to decapitation and infamy. The hatred of the Zborovskis for Zamoyski became so intense that later on they tried to seat their candidate, Maximilian of Austria, in opposition to Sigismund III., Zamoyski's choice and that of the majority. The Zborovski party brought their candidate to the gate of Cracow, intending to enthrone him with armed hand. Zamoyski repulsed and pursued them to Silesia, where he defeated and made Maximilian prisoner. The Austrian Archduke was held in captivity till he renounced all claim to the throne. This is the captivity to which Sobiepan refers on page 324, Vol. II. Zamoyski had Sigismund impeached in 1592, not to condemn him, but to give him a lesson. Zamoyski's course in this affair, and his last speech in the Diet of 1605 are his most prominent acts during a reign in which he was first in opposition, as he had been first on the king's side during Batory's time. Zamoyski died in 1605, alarmed, as Lelevel says, for the future of his country. Sobiepan Zamoyski, who conceived such a friendship for Zagloba, married the daughter of Henri de la Grange, a captain in the guard of Philip, Duke of Orleans. After Zamoyski's death, his widow, a woman of great beauty and ambition, married Sobyeski, subsequently elected king to succeed Michael Vishnyevetski, who is mentioned on page 253, Vol. II. Kmita, the hero of THE DELUGE, was probably of the Kmitas of Little Poland, and of those who inherited lands granted Poles in Lithuania and Russia after the union. Kmitsits, which means "son of Kmita," as "starostsits" means "son of a starosta," is the name used by Sienkiewicz; but as that word would baffle most English readers, I have taken Kmita, the original form of the family name. Kmita is mentioned in Solovyóff's Russian history as co-operating with Sapyeha and Charnyetski against Hovanski and Dolgoruki; in that connection he is called Kmitich. NOTES. POLISH ALPHABET. Since the Polish alphabet has many peculiar phonetic combinations which are difficult to one who does not know the language, it was decided to transliterate the names of persons and places in which such combinations occur in this book. The following are the letters and combinations which are met with most frequently;-- Polish Letters. English Sounds. _c_ _ts_ _ch_ _h_ _cz_ _ch_ _rz_ _r_ followed by the French _j_ _sz_ _sh_ _szcz_ _shch_ _w_ _v_ _[.z]_ _j_ In this transliteration _ch_ retains its ordinary English sound. _J_ is the French _j_; the vowels _e_, _i_, _u_, are, respectively, _ai_ in "bait," _ee_ in "beet," _oo_ in "pool," when long; when short, "bet," "bit," "put" would represent their values. _I_, when unaccented and followed by a vowel, is sounded as _y_. The following names will illustrate the method of this transliteration:-- Polish Form of Name. Form in Transliteration. Potocki Pototski Chudzynski Hudzynski Czarnkowski Charnkovski Rzendzian Jendzian Bleszynski Bleshynski Szandarowski Shandarovski Szczaniecki Shchanyetski Wlostowski Vlostovski [.Z]yromski Jyromski In Jendzian and Jechytsa,--only names, as I believe, beginning in Polish with _rz_ in this work,--the initial _r_ has been omitted in the transliteration on account of the extreme difficulty, for any one not a Pole, of pronouncing _r_ followed by the French _j_. ACCENT. All Polish words, with few exceptions, are accented on the syllable next the last, the penult. The exceptions are foreign names, some compounds, some words with enclitics. Polish names of men and places are generally accented on the penult. * * * * * MAP OF THE POLISH COMMONWEALTH. This map, though diminutive, contains data through which the reader may see, at least in part, the historical course of the Commonwealth. The territory is indicated which was lost to the Teutonic Knights, and which became later the kingdom of Prussia. On the east are indicated the Russian lands which became connected with Poland, and which rose against Polish rule in 1618. These lands are included between the lines running north and south on the map, and which are designated, respectively, "Western limit of Russia before the Tartar invasion," "Eastern limit of the Polish Commonwealth at the accession of Yan Kazimir." The names of more important places mentioned in FIRE AND SWORD and THE DELUGE appear also on the map. A few of these names are not so familiar in their Polish forms, which I have preserved; therefore the German is given, as follows:-- Polish. German. Elblang Elbing Glogov Glogau Gnyezno Gnesen Taurogi Tauroggen Tyltsa Tilsit Opol Oppeln Poznan Posen * * * * * TITLES OF RANK AND ADDRESS. The highest military rank in Poland was grand hetman; next in order came field-hetman, which has appeared inadvertently in these volumes as full hetman. "Your worthiness," so frequently used, would be better translated "your dignity," "dignity" being used in the sense of "office." The terms Pan, Pani, and Panna are applied, respectively, to a gentleman, a married lady, and an unmarried lady; they are now equivalent to Mr., Mrs. or Madame, and Miss. [Illustration: Map of the Polish Commonwealth at the accession of Yan Kazimir.] THE DELUGE CHAPTER I. There was in Jmud a powerful family, the Billeviches, descended from Mendog, connected with many, and respected, beyond all, in the district of Rossyeni. The Billeviches had never risen to great offices, the highest they had filled were provincial; but in war they had rendered the country unsurpassed services, for which they were richly rewarded at various times. Their native nest, existing to this day, was called Billeviche; but they possessed many other estates, both in the neighborhood of Rossyeni and farther on toward Krakin, near Lauda, Shoi, Nyevyaja, and beyond Ponyevyej. In later times they branched out into a number of houses, the members of which lost sight of one another. They all assembled only when there was a census at Rossyeni of the general militia of Jmud on the plain of the invited Estates. They met also in part under the banners of the Lithuanian cavalry and at provincial diets; and because they were wealthy and influential, even the Radzivills, all powerful in Lithuania and Jmud, had to reckon with them. In the reign of Yan Kazimir, the patriarch of all the Billeviches, was Heraclius, colonel of light-horse and under-chamberlain of Upita. He did not dwell in the ancestral nest, which was rented at that time by Tomash, the sword-bearer of Rossyeni; Heraclius Billevich owned also Vodokty, Lyubich, and Mitruny, situated near Lauda, surrounded, as if with a sea, by agriculturists of the petty nobility. Besides the Billeviches there were only a few of the more considerable families in the neighborhood, such as the Sollohubs, the Montvills, the Schyllings, the Koryznis, the Sitsinskis,--though there was no lack of smaller nobility of these names; finally, the whole river region of Lauda was thickly studded with so-called "neighborhoods," or, in common parlance, _zastsianki_,[4] occupied by the nobility of Lauda, renowned and celebrated in the history of Jmud. In other neighborhoods of the region the families took their names from the places, or the places from the families, as was customary in Podlyasye; but along the river region of Lauda it was different. In Morezi dwelt the Stakyans, whom Batory in his time settled there for bravery at Pskoff; in Volmontovichi, on good land, swarmed the Butryms, the bulkiest fellows in all Lauda, noted for few words and heavy hands,--men who in time of provincial diets, raids on property, or wars were wont to go in close rank and in silence. The lands in Drojeykani and Mozgi were managed by the numerous Domasheviches, famed hunters; these men tramped through the wilderness of Zyelonka as far as Wilkomir on bear-trails. The Gashtovts occupied Patsuneli; their women were famous for beauty, so that finally all pretty girls around Krakin, Ponyevyej, and Upita were known as Patsuneli girls. The Sollohubs Mali were rich in horses and excellent cattle, bred in forest pastures. The Gostsyeviches in Goshchuni made tar in the woods, from which occupation they were called Gostsyevichi Charni (Black) or Dymni (Smoky),--the Black or Smoky Gostsyeviches. There were other villages and families also. The names of many of them are still extant; but these villages are not situated as before, and men call them by other names. Wars came too with misfortunes and fires, villages were not always rebuilt on the ruins; in a word, much has changed. But in that time old Lauda was still flourishing in its primeval estate; and the nobles had reached their highest repute a few years before, when, fighting at Loyovo against the uprisen Cossacks, they covered themselves with great glory under the lead of Yanush Radzivill. All the Lauda men served in the regiment of old Heraclius Billevich,--the richer with two horses, the poorer with one, and the poorest as attendants. In general, these nobles were warlike, and especially enamoured of a knightly career; but in questions which formed the ordinary subjects of discussion at a provincial diet they were less skilled. They knew that there was a king in Warsaw; that Radzivill and Pan Hlebovich were starostas in Jmud, and Pan Billevich at Vodokty in Lauda. That was sufficient for them; and they voted as Pan Billevich instructed them, convinced that he wanted the same as Pan Hlebovich, and that the latter went hand in hand with Radzivill. Radzivill was the king's arm in Lithuania and Jmud; the king was the consort of the Commonwealth, the father of the legion of nobles. Pan Billevich was, in fact, a friend rather than a client of the powerful oligarchs in Birji, and a greatly esteemed one at that; for at every call he had a thousand voices and a thousand Lauda sabres,--and sabres in the hands of the Stakyans, the Butryms, the Domasheviches, or the Gashtovts were despised at that period by no man on earth. It was only later that everything changed, just at the time when Pan Heraclius Billevich was no more. This father and benefactor of the nobles of Lauda died in 1654. In that year a terrible war[5] flamed forth along the whole eastern line of the Commonwealth; Pan Billevich did not go to it, for his age and his deafness did not permit; but the Lauda men went. When tidings came that Radzivill was defeated at Shklov, and the Lauda regiment in an attack on the hired infantry of France was cut almost to pieces, the old colonel, stricken by apoplexy, yielded his soul. These tidings were brought by a certain Pan Michael Volodyovski, a young but very famous warrior, who instead of Heraclius had led the Lauda regiment by appointment of Radzivill. The survivors came with him to their inherited fields, wearied, weighed down, and famished; in common with the whole army, they complained that the grand hetman, trusting in the terror of his name and the spell of victory, had rushed with small forces on a power ten times greater than his own, and thus had overwhelmed the army and the whole country. But amid the universal complaining not one voice was raised against Volodyovski. On the contrary, those who had escaped lauded him to the skies, relating wonders of his skill and his deeds. And the only solace left the survivors was the memory of the exploits performed under the young colonel's leadership,--how in the attack they had burst through the first line of reserves as through smoke; how later they fell on the French mercenaries and cut to pieces with their sabres the foremost regiment, on which occasion Pan Volodyovski with his own hand killed the colonel; how at last, surrounded and under fire from four sides, they saved themselves from the chaos by desperate fighting, falling in masses, but breaking the enemy. Those of the Lauda men who, not serving in the Lithuanian quota, were obliged to form a part of the general militia, listened in sorrow but with pride to these narratives. It was hoped on all sides that the general militia, the final defence of the country, would soon be called. It was agreed already that Volodyovski would be chosen captain of Lauda in that event; for though not of the local residents, there was no man among them more celebrated than he. The survivors said, besides, that he had rescued the hetman himself from death. Indeed, all Lauda almost bore him in its arms, and one neighborhood seized him from another. The Butryms, the Domasheviches, and the Gashtovts disputed as to whose guest he should be for the longest period. He pleased that valiant nobility so much that when the remnant of Radzivill's troops marched to Birji so as to be brought to some order after the defeat, he did not go with others, but passing from village to village took up his abode at last in Patsuneli with the Gashtovts, at the house of Pakosh Gashtovt, who had authority over all in that place. In fact, Pan Volodyovski could not have gone to Birji in any event, for he was so ill as to be confined to the bed. First an acute fever came on him; then from the contusion which he had received at Tsybihovo he lost the use of his right arm. The three daughters of his host, who were noted for beauty, took him into their tender care, and vowed to bring back to his original health such a celebrated cavalier. The nobility to the last man were occupied with the funeral of their former chief, Heraclius Billevich. After the funeral the will of the deceased was opened, from which it transpired that the old colonel had made his granddaughter, Aleksandra Billevich, daughter of the chief hunter of Upita, the heiress of all his property with the exception of the village of Lyubich. Guardianship over her till her marriage he confided to the entire nobility of Lauda-- "who, as they were well wishing to me," continued he in the will, "and returned kindness for kindness, let them do the same too for the orphan in these times of corruption and wickedness, when no one is safe from the license of men or free of fear; let them guard the orphan from mischance, through memory of me. "They are also to see that she has safe use of her property with the exception of the village of Lyubich, which I give, present, and convey to the young banneret of Orsha, so that he may meet no obstacle in entering into possession of it. Should any man wonder at this my affection for Andrei Kmita, or see in it injustice to my own granddaughter Aleksandra, he must and should know that I held in friendship and true brotherly love from youthful years till the day of his death the father of Andrei Kmita. I was with him in war, he saved my life many times; and when the malice and envy of the Sitsinskis strove to wrest from me my fortune, he lent me his aid to defend it. Therefore I, Heraclius Billevich, under-chamberlain of Upita, and also an unworthy sinner standing now before the stern judgment of God, went four years ago, while alive and walking upon the earthly vale, to Pan Kmita, the father, the sword-bearer of Orsha, to vow gratitude and steady friendship. On that occasion we made mutual agreement, according to ancient noble and Christian custom, that our children--namely his son Andrei and my granddaughter Aleksandra--were to be married, so that from them posterity might rise to the praise of God and the good of the State, which I wish most earnestly; and by the will here written I bind my granddaughter to obedience unless the banneret of Orsha (which God forbid) stain his reputation with evil deeds and be despoiled of honor. Should he lose his inheritance near Orsha, which may easily happen, she is to take him as husband with blessing; and even should he lose Lyubich, to pay no heed to the loss. "However, if by the special favor of God, my granddaughter should wish in praise of Him to make an offering of her virginity and put on the habit of a nun, it is permitted her to do so, for I know that the praise of God is to precede that of man." In such fashion did Pan Heraclius Billevich dispose of his fortune and his granddaughter, at which no one wondered much. Panna Aleksandra had been long aware of what awaited her, and the nobles had heard from of old of the friendship between Billevich and the Kmitas; besides, in time of defeat the thoughts of men were occupied with other things, so that soon they ceased to talk of the will. But they talked of the Kmitas continually in the house at Vodokty, or rather of Pan Andrei, for the old sword-bearer also was dead. The younger Kmita had fought at Shklov with his own banner and with volunteers from Orsha. Then he vanished from the eye; but it was not admitted that he had perished, since the death of so noted a cavalier would surely not have escaped notice. The Kmitas were people of birth in Orsha, and lords of considerable fortune; but the flame of war had ruined those regions. Districts and entire lands were turned into deserts, fortunes were devoured, and people perished. After the crushing of Radzivill no one offered firm resistance. Gosyevski, full hetman, had no troops; the hetmans of the Crown with their armies in the Ukraine were struggling with what strength they had left and could not help him, exhausted as well as the Commonwealth by the Cossack wars. The deluge covered the land more and more, only breaking here and there against fortified walls; but the walls fell one after another, as had fallen Smolensk. The province of Smolensk, in which lay the fortune of the Kmitas, was looked on as lost. In the universal chaos, in the general terror, people were scattered like leaves in a tempest, and no man knew what had become of the banneret of Orsha. But war had not reached Jmud yet. The nobles of Lauda returned to their senses by degrees. "The neighborhoods" began to assemble, and discuss both public and private affairs. The Butryms, readiest for battle, muttered that it would be necessary to go to Rossyeni to the muster of the general militia, and then to Gosyevski, to avenge the defeat of Shklov; the Domasheviches, the hunters, had gone through the wilderness of Rogovo by the forests till they found parties of the enemy and brought back news; the Smoky Gostsyeviches smoked meat in their huts for a future expedition. In private affairs it was decided to send tried and experienced men to find Pan Andrei Kmita. The old men of Lauda held these deliberations under the presidency of Pakosh Gashtovt and Kassyan Butrym, two neighborhood patriarchs. All the nobility, greatly flattered by the confidence which the late Pan Billevich had placed in them, swore to stand faithfully by the letter of the will, and to surround Panna Aleksandra with well-nigh fatherly care. This was in time of war, when even in places to which war had not come disturbance and suffering were felt. On the banks of the Lauda all remained quiet, there were no disputes, there was no breaking through boundaries on the estates of the young heiress, landmarks were not shifted, no ditches were filled, no branded pine-trees were felled on forest borders, no pastures were invaded. On the contrary, the heiress was aided with provisions,--whatever the neighborhood had; for instance, the Stakjans on the river sent salt-fish, wheat came from the surly Butryms at Voimontovichi, hay from the Gashtovts, game from the Domasheviches (the hunters), tar and pitch from the Gostsyeviches. Of Panna Aleksandra no one in the villages spoke otherwise than as "our lady," and the pretty girls of Patsuneli waited for Pan Kmita perhaps as impatiently as she. Meanwhile came the summons calling the nobility. The Lauda men began to move. He who from being a youth had grown to be a man, he whom age had not bent, had to mount his horse. Yan Kazimir arrived at Grodno, and fixed that as the place of general muster. There, then, they mustered. The Butryms in silence went forth; after them others, and the Gashtovts last,--as they always did, for they hated to leave the Patsuneli girls. The nobles from other districts appeared in scant numbers only, and the country was left undefended; but God-fearing Lauda had appeared in full quota. Pan Volodyovski did not march, for he was not able yet to use his arm; he remained therefore as if district commander among the women. The neighborhoods were deserted, and only old men and women sat around the fires in the evening. It was quiet in Ponyevyej and Upita; they were waiting on all sides for news. Panna Aleksandra in like manner shut herself in at Vodokty, seeing no one but servants and her guardians of Lauda. CHAPTER II. The new year 1655 came. January was frosty, but dry; a stern winter covered sacred Jmud with a white coat three feet thick, the forests were bending and breaking under a wealth of snow bunches, snow dazzled the eyes during days of sunshine, and in the night by the moon there glittered as it were sparks vanishing on a surface stiffened by frost; wild beasts approached the dwellings of men, and the poor gray birds hammered with their beaks the windows covered with hoar frost and snow-flowers. On a certain evening Panna Aleksandra was sitting in the servants' hall with her work-maidens. It was an old custom of the Billeviches, when there were no guests, to spend evenings with the servants singing hymns and edifying simple minds by their example. In this wise did Panna Aleksandra; and the more easily since among her house-maidens were some really noble, very poor orphans. These performed every kind of work, even the rudest, and were servants for ladies; in return they were trained in good manners, and received better treatment than simple girls. But among them were peasants too, differing mainly in speech,[6] for many did not know Polish. Panna Aleksandra, with her relative Panna Kulvyets, sat in the centre, and the girls around on benches; all were spinning. In a great chimney with sloping sides pine-logs were burning, now dying down and now flaming freshly with a great bright blaze or with sparks, as the youth standing near the chimney threw on small pieces of birch or pitch-pine. When the flame shot upward brightly, the dark wooden walls of the great hall were to be seen, with an unusually low ceiling resting on cross-beams. From the beams hung, on threads, many-colored stars, made of wafers, trembling in the warm air; behind, from both sides of the beams, were bunches of combed flax, hanging like captured Turkish horse-tail standards. Almost the whole ceiling was covered with them. On the dark walls glittered, like stars, tin plates, large and small, standing straight or leaning on long oaken shelves. In the distance, near the door, a shaggy-haired man of Jmud was making a great noise with a hand-mill, and muttering a song with nasal monotone. Panna Aleksandra slipped her beads through her fingers in silence; the spinners spun on, saying nothing the one to the other. The light of the flame fell on their youthful, ruddy faces. They, with both hands raised,--with the left feeding the soft flax, with the right turning the wheel,--spun eagerly, as if vying with one another, urged on by the stern glances of Panna Kulvyets. Sometimes, too, they looked at one another with quick eye, and sometimes at Panna Aleksandra, as if in expectation that she would tell the man to stop grinding, and would begin the hymn; but they did not cease working. They spun and spun on; the threads were winding, the wheel was buzzing, the distaff played in the hand of Panna Kulvyets, the shaggy-haired man of Jmud rattled on with his mill. But at times he stopped his work. Evidently something was wrong with the mill, for at those times was heard his angry voice: "It's down!" Panna Aleksandra raised her head, as if roused by the silence which followed the exclamations of the man; then the blaze lighted up her face and her serious blue eyes looking from beneath black brows. She was a comely lady, with flaxen hair, pale complexion, and delicate features. She had the beauty of a white flower. The mourning robes added to her dignity. Sitting before the chimney, she seemed buried in thought, as in a dream; doubtless she was meditating over her own lot, for her fates were in the balance. The will predestined her to be the wife of a man whom she had not seen for ten years; and as she was now almost twenty, there remained to her but unclear childhood reminiscences of a certain boisterous boy, who at the time when he with his father had come to Vodokty, was more occupied with racing through the swamps with a gun than in looking at her. "Where is he, and what manner of man is he now?" These were the questions which thrust themselves on the mind of the dignified lady. She knew him also, it is true, from the narratives of the late under-chamberlain, who four years before had undertaken the long journey to Orsha. According to those narratives, he was a cavalier "of great courage, though very quick-tempered." By the contract of marriage for their descendants concluded between old Billevich and Kmita the father, Kmita the son was to go at once to Vodokty and be accepted by the lady; but a great war broke out just then, and the cavalier, instead of going to the lady, went to the fields of Berestechko. Wounded at Berestechko, he recovered at home; then he nursed his sick father, who was near death; after that another war broke out, and thus four years passed. Since the death of the old colonel considerable time had elapsed, but no tidings of Kmita. Panna Aleksandra therefore had something to meditate upon, and perhaps she was pining for the unknown. In her pure heart, especially because it knew not love as yet, she bore a great readiness for that feeling. A spark only was needed to kindle on that hearth a flame quiet but bright, and as steady as the undying sacred fire of Lithuania. Disquiet then seized her,--at times pleasant, at times bitter; and her soul was ever putting questions to which there was no answer, or rather the answer must come from distant fields. The first question was whether he would marry her with good-will and respond with readiness to her readiness. In those days contracts by parents for the marriage of their children were usual; and if the parents died the children, held by the blessing, observed in most cases the contract. In the engagement itself the young lady saw nothing uncommon; but good pleasure does not always go hand in hand with duty; hence the anxiety that weighed down the blond head of the maiden. "Will he love me?" And then a flock of thoughts surrounded her, as a flock of birds surround a tree standing alone in spacious fields: "Who art thou? What manner of person? Art walking alive in the world, or perhaps thou hast fallen? Art thou distant or near?" The open heart of the lady, like a door open to a precious guest, called involuntarily to distant regions, to forests and snow-fields covered with night: "Come hither, young hero; for there is naught in the world more bitter than waiting." That moment, as if in answer to the call, from outside, from those snowy distances covered with night, came the sound of a bell. The lady trembled, but regaining her presence of mind, remembered that almost every evening some one came to Vodokty to get medicine for the young colonel. Panna Kulvyets confirmed that idea by saying, "Some one from the Gashtovts for herbs." The irregular sound of the bell shaken by the shaft rang more distinctly each moment; at last it stopped on a sudden. Evidently the sleigh had halted before the door. "See who has come," said Panna Kulvyets to the man of Jmud who was turning the mill. The man went out of the servants' hall, but soon returned, and taking again the handle of the mill, said phlegmatically, "Panas Kmitas."[7] "The word is made flesh!" cried Panna Kulvyets. The spinners sprang to their feet; the flax and the distaffs fell to the floor. Panna Aleksandra rose also. Her heart beat like a hammer; a flush came forth on her face, and then pallor; but she turned from the chimney, lest her emotion might be seen. Then in the door appeared a certain lofty figure in a fur mantle and fur-bound cap. A young man advanced to the middle of the room, and seeing that he was in the servants' hall, inquired in a resonant voice, without removing his cap, "Hei! but where is your mistress?" "I am the mistress," said Panna Billevich, in tones sufficiently clear. Hearing this, the newly arrived removed his cap, cast it on the floor, and inclining said, "I am Andrei Kmita." The eyes of Panna Aleksandra rested with lightning-like swiftness on the face of Kmita, and then dropped again to the floor; still during that time the lady was able to see the tuft shaven high, yellow as wheat, an embrowned complexion, blue eyes, looking quickly to the front, dark mustache, a face youthful, eagle-like, but joyous and gallant. He rested his left hand on his hip, raised his right to his mustache, and said: "I have not been in Lyubich yet, for I hastened here like a bird to bow down at the feet of the lady, the chief hunter's daughter. The wind--God grant it was a happy one!--brought me straight from the camp." "Did you know of the death of my grandfather?" asked the lady. "I did not; but I bewailed with hot tears my benefactor when I learned of his death from those rustics who came from this region to me. He was a sincere friend, almost a brother, of my late father. Of course it is well known to you that four years ago he came to us at Orsha. Then he promised me your ladyship, and showed a portrait about which I sighed in the night-time. I wished to come sooner, but war is not a mother: she makes matches for men with death only." This bold speech confused the lady somewhat. Wishing to change the subject, she said, "Then you have not seen Lyubich yet?" "There will be time for that. My first service is here; and here the dearest inheritance, which I wish to receive first. But you turned from the hearth, so that to this moment I have not been able to look you in the eye--that's the way! Turn, and I will stand next the hearth; that's the way!" Thus speaking, the daring soldier seized by the hand Olenka,[8] who did not expect such an act, and brought her face toward the fire, turning her like a top. She was still more confused, and covering her eyes with her long lashes, stood abashed by the light and her own beauty. Kmita released her at last, and struck himself on the doublet. "As God is dear to me, a beauty! I'll have a hundred Masses said for my benefactor because he left you to me. When the betrothal?" "Not yet awhile; I am not yours yet," said Olenka. "But you will be, even if I have to burn this house! As God lives, I thought the portrait flattered. I see that the painter aimed high, but missed. A thousand lashes to such an artist, and stoves to paint, not beauties, with which eyes are feasted! Oh, 'tis a delight to be the heir to such an inheritance, may the bullets strike me!" "My late grandfather told me that you were very hot-headed." "All are that way with us in Smolensk; not like your Jmud people. One, two! and it must be as we want; if not, then death." Olenka laughed, and said with a voice now more confident, raising her eyes to the cavalier, "Then it must be that Tartars dwell among you?" "All one! but you are mine by the will of parents and by your heart." "By my heart? That I know not yet." "Should you not be, I would thrust myself with a knife!" "You say that laughing. But we are still in the servants' hall; I beg you to the reception-room. After a long road doubtless supper will be acceptable. I beg you to follow me." Here Olenka turned to Panna Kulvyets. "Auntie, dear, come with us." The young banneret glanced quickly. "Aunt?" he inquired,--"whose aunt?" "Mine,--Panna Kulvyets." "Then she is mine!" answered he, going to kiss her hand. "I have in my company an officer named Kulvyets-Hippocentaurus. Is he not a relative?" "He is of the same family," replied the old maid, with a courtesy. "A good fellow, but a whirlwind like myself," added Kmita. Meanwhile a boy appeared with a light. They went to the antechamber, where Pan Andrei removed his shuba; then they passed to the reception-room. Immediately after their departure the spinners gathered in a close circle, and one interrupted another, talking and making remarks. The stately young man pleased them greatly; therefore they did not spare words on him, vying with one another in praises. "Light shines from him," said one; "when he came I thought he was a king's son." "And he has lynx eyes, so that he cuts with them," said another; "do not cross such a man." "That is worst of all," said a third. "He met the lady as a betrothed. It is easily seen that she pleased him greatly, for whom has she not pleased?" "But he is not worse than she, never fear! Could you get his equal, you would go even to Orsha, though likely that is at the end of the world." "Ah, lucky lady!" "It is always best for the rich in the world. Ei, ei, that's gold, not a knight." "The Patsuneli girls say that that cavalry captain who is stopping with old Pakosh is a handsome cavalier." "I have not seen him; but how compare him with Pan Kmita! Such another as Pan Kmita surely there is not in the world!" "It's down!" cried the man of Jmud on a sudden, when something broke again in the mill. "Go out, shaggy head, with thy freaks! Give us peace, for we cannot hear.--True, true; hard to find better than Pan Kmita in the whole world; surely in Kyedani there is none such." "Dream of one like him!" "May his like come in a dream!" In such fashion did the girls talk among themselves in the servants' hall. Meanwhile in the dining-room the table was laid in all haste, while in the drawing-room Panna Aleksandra conversed face to face with Kmita, for Aunt Kulvyets had gone to bustle about the supper. Pan Andrei did not remove his gaze from Olenka, and his eyes shot sparks more and more every moment; at last he said,-- "There are men to whom land is dearer than all things else; there are others who chase after plunder in war, others love horses; but I would not give you for any treasure. As God lives, the more I look the more I wish to marry; so that even if it were to-morrow-- Oh, that brow,--just as if painted with burned cork!" "I hear that some use such strange things, but I am not of that kind." "And eyes as from heaven! From confusion, words fail me." "You are not greatly confused, if in my presence you can be so urgent that I am wonder-stricken." "That is our way in Smolensk,--to go boldly at women as we do into battle. You must, my queen, grow accustomed to this, for thus will it ever be." "You must put it aside, for thus it cannot be." "Perhaps I may yield, may I be slain! Believe, believe me not, but with gladness would I bend the skies for you. For you, my queen, I am ready to learn other manners; for I know myself that I am a simple soldier, I have lived more in camps than in chambers of castles." "Oh, that harms nothing, for my grandfather was a soldier; but I give thanks for the good-will," said Olenka; and her eyes looked with such sweetness on Pan Andrei that his heart melted like wax in a moment, and he answered,-- "You will lead me on a thread." "Ah, you are not like those who are led on threads; to do that is most difficult with men who are unsteady." Kmita showed in a smile teeth as white as a wolf's teeth, "How is that?" asked he. "Are the rods few that the fathers broke on me in the monastery to bring me to steadiness and make me remember various fair maxims for guidance in life--" "And which one do you remember best?" "'When in love, fall at the feet,'--in this fashion." When he had spoken, Kmita was already on his knees. The lady screamed, putting her feet under the table. "For God's sake! they did not teach that in the monastery. Leave off, or I shall be angry--my aunt will come this minute--" Still on his knees, he raised his head and looked into her eyes. "Let a whole squadron of aunts come; I shall not forbid their pleasure." "But stand up!" "I am standing." "Sit down!" "I am sitting." "You are a traitor, a Judas!" "Not true, for when I kiss 'tis with sincerity,--will you be convinced?" "You are a serpent!" Panna Aleksandra laughed, however, and a halo of youth and gladness came from her. His nostrils quivered like the nostrils of a young steed of noble blood. "Ai! ai!" said he. "What eyes, what a face! Save me, all ye saints, for I cannot keep away!" "There is no reason to summon the saints. You were absent four years without once looking in here; sit still now!" "But I knew only the counterfeit. I will have that painter put in tar and then in feathers, and scourge him through the square of Upita. I will tell all in sincerity,--forgive, if it please you; if not, take my head. I thought to myself when looking at that portrait: 'A pretty little rogue, pretty; but there is no lack of pretty ones in the world. I have time.' My late father urged me hither, but I had always one answer: 'I have time! The little wife will not vanish; maidens go not to war and do not perish.' I was not opposed at all to the will of my father, God is my witness; but I wanted first to know war and feel it on my own body. This moment I see my folly. I might have married and gone to war afterward; and here every delight was waiting for me. Praise be to God that they did not hack me to death! Permit me to kiss your hand." "Better, I'll not permit." "Then I will not ask. In Orsha we say, 'Ask; but if they don't give, take it thyself.'" Here Pan Andrei clung to the hand of the lady and began to kiss it; and the lady did not resist too greatly, lest she might exhibit ill-will. Just then Panna Kulvyets came in. When she saw what was going on, she raised her eyes. That intimacy did not please her, but she dared not scold. She gave invitation to supper. Both went to the supper-room, holding each the other's hand as if they were related. In the room stood a table covered, and on it an abundance of all kinds of food, especially choice smoked meats and a mouldy thick bottle of strength-giving wine. It was pleasant for the young people with each other, gladsome, vivacious. The lady had supped already; therefore Kmita sat alone, and began to eat with animation equal to that with which he had just been conversing. Olenka looked at him with sidelong glance, glad that he was eating and drinking. When he had appeased his first hunger, she began again to inquire,-- "Then you are not direct from Orsha?" "Scarcely do I know whence I come,--here to-day, tomorrow in another place. I prowled near the enemy as a wolf around sheep, and what was possible to seize I seized." "And how had you daring to meet such a power, before which the grand hetman himself had to yield?" "How had I daring? I am ready for all things, such is the nature within me." "That is what my grandfather said. Great luck that you were not killed!" "Ai, they covered me with cap and with hand as a bird is covered on the nest; but I, whom they covered, sprang out and bit them in another place. I made it so bitter for them that there is a price on my head-- A splendid half-goose!" "In the name of the Father and the Son!" cried Olenka, with unfeigned wonder, gazing with homage on that young man who in the same moment mentions the price on his head and the half-goose. "Had you many troops for defence?" "I had, of course, my poor dragoons,--very excellent men, but in a month they were all kicked to bits. Then I went with volunteers whom I gathered wherever I could without question. Good fellows for battle, but knave upon knave! Those who have not perished already will sooner or later be meat for the crows." Pan Andrei laughed, emptied his goblet of wine, and added: "Such plunderers you have not seen yet. May the hangman light them! Officers,--all nobles from our parts, men of family, worthy people, but against almost every one of them is a sentence of outlawry. They are now in Lyubich, for where else could I send them?" "So you have come to us with the whole squadron?" "I have. The enemy took refuge in towns, for the winter is bitter. My men too are as ragged as brooms after long sweeping. The prince voevoda assigned me winter quarters in Ponyevyej. God knows the breathing-spell is well earned!" "Eat, I beg you." "I would eat poison for your sake! I left a part of my ragged fellows in Ponyevyej, a part in Upita, and the most worthy officers I invited to Lyubich as guests. These men will come to beat to you with the forehead." "But where did the Lauda men find you?" "They found me on the way to winter quarters in Ponyevyej. Had I not met them I should have come here." "But drink." "I would drink even poison for you!" "Were the Lauda men the first to tell you of my grandfather's death and the will?" "They told of the death.--Lord, give light to the soul of my benefactor!--Did you send those men to me?" "Think not such a thing! I had nothing but mourning and prayer on my mind." "They too said the same. They are an arrogant set of homespuns. I wanted to give them a reward for their toil; instead of accepting it, they rose against me and said that the nobility of Orsha might take drink-money, but the Lauda men never. They spoke very foully to me; while listening, I thought to myself: 'If you don't want money, then I'll command to give you a hundred lashes.'" Panna Aleksandra seized her head. "Jesus Mary! and did you do that?" Kmita looked at her in astonishment. "Have no fears! I did not, though my soul revolts within me at such trashy nobility, who pretend to be the equal of us. But I thought to myself, 'They will cry me down without cause in those parts, call me tyrant, and calumniate me before you!'" "Great is your luck," said Olenka, drawing a deep breath of relief, "for I should not have been able to look you in the eyes." "But how so?" "That is a petty nobility, but ancient and renowned. My dear grandfather always loved them, and went with them to war. He served all his life with them. In time of peace he received them in his house. That is an old friendship of our family which you must respect. You have moreover a heart, and will not break that sacred harmony in which thus far we have lived." "I knew nothing of them at that moment,--may I be slain if I did!--but yet I confess that this barefooted nobledom somehow cannot find place in my head. With us a peasant is a peasant, and nobles are all men of good family, who do not sit two on one mare. God knows that such scurvy fellows have nothing to do with the Kmitas nor with the Billeviches, just as a mudfish has nothing to do with a pike, though this is a fish and that also." "My grandfather used to say that blood and honor, not wealth, make a man; and these are honorable people, or grandfather would not have made them my guardians." Pan Andrei was astonished and opened wide his eyes, "Did your grandfather make all the petty nobility of Lauda guardians over you?" "He did. Do not frown, for the will of the dead is sacred. It is a wonder to me that the messengers did not mention this." "I should have-- But that cannot be. There is a number of villages. Will they all discuss about you? Will they discuss me,--whether I am to their thinking or not? But jest not, for the blood is storming up in me." "Pan Andrei, I am not jesting; I speak the sacred and sincere truth. They will not debate about you; but if you will not repulse them nor show haughtiness, you will capture not only them, but my heart. I, together with them, will thank you all my life,--all my life, Pan Andrei." Her voice trembled as if in a beseeching request; but he did not let the frown go from his brow, and was gloomy. He did not burst into anger, it is true, though at moments there flew over his face as it were lightnings; but he answered with haughtiness and pride,-- "I did not look for this! I respect the will of the dead, and I think the under-chamberlain might have made those petty nobles your guardians till the time of my coming; but when once I have put foot here, no other, save me, will be guardian. Not only those gray coats, but the Radzivills of Birji themselves have nothing in this place to do with guardianship." Panna Aleksandra grew serious, and answered after a short silence: "You do ill to be carried away by pride. The conditions laid down by my late grandfather must be either all accepted or all rejected. I see no other way. The men of Lauda will give neither trouble nor annoyance, for they are worthy people and peaceful. Do not suppose that they will be disagreeable. Should any trouble arise, they might say a word; but it is my opinion that all will pass in harmony and peace, and then the guardianship will be as if it had not been." Kmita held silence a moment, then waved his hand and said: "It is true that the marriage will end everything. There is nothing to quarrel about. Let them only sit quietly and not force themselves on me; for God knows I will not let my mustache be blown upon. But no more of them. Permit an early wedding; that will be best." "It is not becoming to mention that now, in time of mourning." "Ai, but shall I be forced to wait long?" "Grandfather himself stated that no longer than half a year." "I shall be as dried up as a chip before that time. But let us not be angry. You have begun to look on me as sternly as on an offender. God be good to you, my golden queen! In what am I to blame if the nature within me is such that when anger against a man takes me I would tear him to pieces, and when it passes I would sew him together again." "'Tis a terror to live with such a man," answered Olenka, more joyously. "Well, to your health! This is good wine; for me the sabre and wine are the basis. What kind of terror to live with me? You will hold me ensnared with your eyes, and make a slave of me,--a man who hitherto would endure no superior. At the present time I chose to go with my own little company in independence rather than bow to the hetman. My golden queen, if anything in me does not please you, overlook it; for I learned manners near cannon and not among ladies, in the tumult of soldiers and not at the lute. Our region is restless, the sabre is never let go from the hand. There, though some outlawry rests on a man, though he be pursued by sentences, 'tis nothing! People respect him if he has the daring of a warrior. For example, my companions who in some other place would have long been in prison are in their fashion worthy persons. Even women among us go in boots, and with sabres lead parties,--like Pani Kokosinski, the aunt of my lieutenant. She died a heroes death; and her nephew in my command has avenged her, though in life he did not love her. Where should we, even of the greatest families, learn politeness? But we know when there is war how to fight, when there is a diet how to talk; and if the tongue is not enough, then the sabre. That's the position; as a man of such action did the late chamberlain know me, and as such did he choose me for you." "I have always followed the will of my grandfather willingly," answered the lady, dropping her eyes. "Let me kiss your hand once again, my dear girl! God knows you have come close to my heart. Feeling has so taken hold of me that I know not how I can find that Lyubich which I have not yet seen." "I will give you a guide." "Oh, I shall find the way. I am used to much pounding around by night. I have an attendant from Ponyevyej who must know the road. And there Kokosinski and his comrades are waiting for me. With us the Kokosinskis are a great family, who use the seal of Pypka. This one was outlawed without reason because he burned the house of Pan Orpishevski, carried off a maiden, and cut down some servants. A good comrade!-- Give me your hand once more. I see it is time to go." Midnight began to beat slowly on the great Dantzig clock standing in the hall. "For God's sake! 'tis time, 'tis time!" cried Kmita. "I may not stay longer. Do you love me, even as much as would go around your finger?" "I will answer another time. You will visit me, of course?" "Every day, even if the ground should open under me! May I be slain!" Kmita rose, and both went to the antechamber. The sleigh was already waiting before the porch; so he enrobed himself in the shuba, and began to take farewell, begging her to return to the chamber, for the cold was flying in from the porch. "Good-night, my dear queen," said he, "sleep sweetly, for surely I shall not close an eye thinking of your beauty." "May you see nothing bad! But better, I'll give you a man with a light, for there is no lack of wolves near Volmontovichi." "And am I a lamb to fear wolves? A wolf is a friend to a soldier, for often has he profit from his hand. We have also firearms in the sleigh. Good-night, dearest, good-night." "With God." Olenka withdrew, and Pan Kmita went to the porch. But on the way, through the slightly open door of the servants' hall he saw a number of pairs of eyes of maidens who waiting to see him once more had not yet lain down to sleep. To them Pan Andrei sent, soldier-fashion, kisses from his mouth with his hand, and went out. After a while the bell began to jingle, at first loudly, then with a continually decreasing sound, ever fainter and fainter, till at last it was silent. It grew still in Vodokty, till the stillness amazed Panna Aleksandra. The words of Pan Andrei were sounding in her ears; she heard his laughter yet, heartfelt, joyous; in her eyes stood the rich form of the young man; and now after that storm of words, mirth, and joyousness, such marvellous silence succeeded. The lady bent her ear,--could she not hear even one sound more from the sleigh? But no! it was sounding somewhere off in the forest, near Volmontovichi. Therefore a mighty sadness seized the maiden, and never had she felt so much alone in the world. Taking the light, slowly she went to her chamber, and knelt down to say the Lord's Prayer. She began five times before she could finish with proper attention; and when she had finished, her thoughts, as if on wings, chased after that sleigh and that figure sitting within. On one side were pine-woods, pine-woods on the other, in the middle a broad road, and he driving on,--Pan Andrei! Here it seemed to Olenka that she saw as before her the blond foretop, the blue eyes, the laughing mouth in which are gleaming teeth as white as the teeth of a young dog. For this dignified lady could hardly deny before her own face that this wild cavalier had greatly pleased her. He alarmed her a little, he frightened her a little, but he attracted her also with that daring, that joyous freedom and sincerity, till she was ashamed that he pleased her, especially with his haughtiness when at mention of the guardians he reared his head like a Turkish war-horse and said, "Even the Radzivills of Birji themselves have nothing to do here with guardianship." "That is no dangler around women; that is a true man," said the lady to herself. "He is a soldier of the kind that my grandfather loved most of all,--and he deserved it!" So meditated the lady; and a happiness undimmed by anything embraced her. It was an unquiet; but that unquiet was something dear. Then she began to undress; the door creaked, and in came Panna Kulvyets, with a candle in her hand. "You sat terribly long," said she. "I did not wish to interfere with young people, so that you might talk your fill the first time. He seems a courteous cavalier. But how did he please you?" Panna Aleksandra gave no answer at first, but barefooted ran up to her aunt, threw herself on her neck, and placing her bright head on her bosom, said with a fondling voice, "Auntie, oh, Auntie!" "Oho!" muttered the old maid, raising her eyes and the candle toward heaven. CHAPTER III. When Pan Andrei drove up to the mansion at Lyubich, the windows were gleaming, and bustle reached the front yard. The servants, hearing the bell, rushed out through the entrance to greet their lord, for they had learned from his comrades that he would come. They greeted him with submission, kissing his hands and seizing his feet. The old land-steward, Znikis, stood in the entrance holding bread and salt, and beating worship with the forehead; all gazed with uneasiness and curiosity,--how would their future lord look? Kmita threw a purse full of thalers on the tray, and asked for his comrades, astonished that no one of them had come forth to meet his proprietary mightiness. But they could not come forth, for they were then the third hour at the table, entertaining themselves at the cup, and perhaps in fact they had not taken note of the sounding of the bell outside. But when he entered the room, from all breasts a loud shout burst forth: "The heir, the heir has come!" and all his comrades, springing from their places, started toward him with their cups. But he placed his hands on his hips, and laughed at the manner in which they had helped themselves in his house, and had gone to drinking before his arrival. He laughed with increasing heartiness when he saw them advance with tipsy solemnity. Before the others went the gigantic Pan Yaromir Kokosinski, with the seal of Pypka, a famous soldier and swaggerer, with a terrible scar across his forehead, his eye, and his cheek, with one mustache short, the other long, the lieutenant and friend of Kmita, the "worthy comrade," condemned to loss of life and honor in Smolensk for stealing a maiden, for murder and arson. At that time war saved him, and the protection of Kmita, who was of the same age; and their lands were adjoining in Orsha till Pan Yaromir had squandered his away. He came up holding in both hands a great-eared bowl filled with dembniak. Next came Ranitski, whose family had arms,--Dry Chambers (Suche Komnaty). He was born in the province of Mstislavsk, from which he was an outlaw for killing two noblemen, landowners. One he slew in a duel, the other he shot without an encounter. He had no estate, though he inherited his step-mother's land on the death of his father. War saved him, too, from the executioner. He was an incomparable hand-to-hand sword-slasher. The third in order was Rekuts-Leliva, on whom blood did not weigh, save the blood of the enemy. But he had played away, drunk away his substance. For the past three years he had clung to Kmita. With him came the fourth, also from Smolensk, Pan Uhlik, under sentence of death and dishonor for breaking up a court. Kmita protected him because he played beautifully on the flageolet. Besides them was Pan Kulvyets-Hippocentaurus, in stature the equal of Kokosinski, in strength even his superior; and Zend, a horse-trainer, who knew how to imitate wild beasts and all kinds of birds,--a man of uncertain descent, though claiming to be a noble of Courland; being without fortune he trained Kmita's horses, for which he received an allowance. These then surrounded the laughing Pan Andrei. Kokosinski raised the eared bowl and intoned:-- "Drink with us, dear host of ours, Dear host of ours! With us thou mightst drink to the grave, Drink to the grave!" Others repeated the chorus; then Kokosinski gave Kmita the eared bowl, and Zend gave Kokosinski a goblet. Kmita raised high the eared bowl and shouted, "Health to my maiden!" "Vivat! vivat!" cried all voices, till the window-panes began to rattle in their leaden fittings. "Vivat! the mourning will pass, the wedding will come!" They began to pour forth questions: "But how does she look? Hei! Yendrus,[9] is she very pretty, or such as you pictured her? Is there another like her in Orsha?" "In Orsha?" cried Kmita. "In comparison with her you might stop chimneys with our Orsha girls! A hundred thunders! there's not another such in the world." "That's the kind we wanted for you," answered Ranitski. "Well, when is the wedding to be?" "The minute the mourning is over." "Oh, fie on the mourning! Children are not born black, but white." "When the wedding comes, there will be no mourning. Hurry, Yendrus!" "Hurry, Yendrus!" all began to exclaim at once. "The little bannerets of Orsha are crying in heaven for the earth," said Kokosinski. "Don't make the poor little things wait!" "Mighty lords," added Rekuts-Leliva, with a thin voice, "at the wedding we'll drink ourselves drunk as fools." "My dear lambs," said Kmita, "pardon me, or, speaking more correctly, go to a hundred devils, let me look around in my own house." "Nonsense!" answered Uhlik. "To-morrow the inspection, but now all to the table; there is a pair of demijohns there yet with big bellies." "We have already made inspection for you. This Lyubich is a golden apple," said Ranitski. "A good stable!" cried Zend; "there are two ponies, two splendid hussar horses, a pair of Jmud horses, and a pair of Kalmuks,--all in pairs, like eyes in the head. We will look at the mares and colts to-morrow." Here Zend neighed like a horse; they wondered at his perfect imitation, and laughed. "Is there such good order here?" asked Kmita, rejoiced. "And how the cellar looks!" piped Rekuts; "resinous kegs and mouldy jugs stand like squadrons in ranks." "Praise be to God for that! let us sit down at the table." "To the table! to the table!" They had barely taken their places and filled their cups when Ranitski sprang up again: "To the health of the Under-chamberlain Billevich!" "Stupid!" answered Kmita, "how is that? You are drinking the health of a dead man." "Stupid!" repeated the others. "The health of the master!" "Your health!" "May we get good in these chambers!" Kmita cast his eyes involuntarily along the dining-hall, and he saw on the larch wood walls, blackened by age, a row of stern eyes fixed on him. Those eyes were gazing out of the old portraits of the Billeviches, hanging low, within two ells of the floor, for the wall was low. Above the portraits in a long unbroken row were fixed skulls of the aurochs, of stags, of elks, crowned with their antlers: some, blackened, were evidently very old; others were shining with whiteness. All four walls were ornamented with them. "The hunting must be splendid, for I see abundance of wild beasts," said Kmita. "We will go to-morrow or the day after. We must learn the neighborhood," answered Kokosinski. "Happy are you, Yendrus, to have a place to shelter your head!" "Not like us," groaned Ranitski. "Let us drink for our solace," said Rekuts. "No, not for our solace," answered Kulvyets-Hippocentaurus, "but once more to the health of Yendrus, our beloved captain. It is he, my mighty lords, who has given here in Lyubich an asylum to us poor exiles without a roof above our heads." "He speaks justly," cried a number of voices; "Kulvyets is not so stupid as he seems." "Hard is our lot," piped Rekuts. "Our whole hope is that you will not drive us poor orphans out through your gates." "Give us peace," said Kmita; "what is mine is yours." With that all rose from their places and began to take him by the shoulders. Tears of tenderness flowed over those stern drunken faces. "In you is all our hope, Yendrus," cried Kokosinski, "Let us sleep even on pea straw; drive us not forth." "Give us peace," repeated Kmita. "Drive us not forth; as it is, we have been driven,--we nobles and men of family," said Uhlik, plaintively. "To a hundred fiends with you, who is driving you out? Eat, drink! What the devil do you want?" "Do not deny us," said Ranitski, on whose face spots came out as on the skin of a leopard. "Do not deny us, Andrei, or we are lost altogether." Here he began to stammer, put his finger to his forehead as if straining his wit, and suddenly said, looking with sheepish eyes on those present, "Unless fortune changes." And all blurted out at once in chorus, "Of course it will change." "And we will yet pay for our wrongs." "And come to fortune." "And to office." "God bless the innocent! Our prosperity!" "Your health!" cried Pan Andrei. "Your words are holy, Yendrus," said Kokosinski, placing his chubby face before Kmita. "God grant us improvement of fortune!" Healths began to go around, and tufts to steam. All were talking, one interrupting the other; and each heard only himself, with the exception of Rekuts, who dropped his head on his breast and slumbered. Kokosinski began to sing, "She bound the flax in bundles," noting which Uhlik took a flageolet from his bosom and accompanied him. Ranitski, a great fencer, fenced with his naked hand against an unseen opponent, repeating in an undertone, "You thus, I thus; you cut, I strike,--one, two, three, check!" The gigantic Kulvyets-Hippocentaurus stared fixedly for some time at Ranitski; at last he waved his hand and said: "You're a fool! Strike your best, but still you can't hold your own before Kmita with a sabre." "For no one can stand before him; but try yourself." "You will not win against me with a pistol." "For a ducat a shot." "A ducat! But where and at what?" Ranitski cast his eyes around; at last he cried out, pointing at the skulls, "Between the antlers, for a ducat!" "For what?" asked Kmita. "Between the antlers, for two ducats, for three! Bring the pistols!" "Agreed!" cried Kmita. "Let it be three. Zend, get the pistols!" All began to shout louder and louder, and bargain among themselves; meanwhile Zend went to the antechamber, and soon returned with pistols, a pouch of bullets, and a horn with powder. Ranitski grasped for a pistol. "Is it loaded?" asked he. "Loaded." "For three, four, five ducats!" blustered Kmita, drunk. "Quiet! you will miss, you will miss." "I shall hit at that skull between the antlers--one! two!" All eyes were turned to the strong elk-skull fixed in front of Ranitski. He straightened his arm; the pistol turned in his palm. "Three!" cried Kmita. The shot sounded; the room was filled with powder smoke. "He has missed, he has missed! See where the hole is!" cried Kmita, pointing with his hand at the dark wall from which the bullet had torn out a brighter chip. "Two shots each time!" "No; give it to me," cried Kulvyets. At that moment the astonished servants ran in at the sound of the shot. "Away! away!" called Kmita. "One! two! three!" Again the roar of a shot; this time the pieces fell from the bone. "But give us pistols too!" shouted all at the same time. And springing up, they began to pound on the shoulders of their attendants, urging them to hurry. Before a quarter of an hour had passed, the whole room was thundering with shots. The smoke hid the light of the candles and the forms of the men shooting. The report of discharges was accompanied by the voice of Zend, who croaked like a raven, screamed like a falcon, howled like a wolf, bellowed like an aurochs. The whistle of bullets interrupted him; bits flew from the skulls, chips from the wall, and portraits from their frames; in the disorder the Billeviches were shot, and Ranitski, falling into fury, slashed them with his sabre. The servants, astonished and terrified, stood as if bereft of their senses, gazing with startled eyes on that sport which resembled a Tartar invasion. The dogs began to howl and bark. All in the house were on their feet; in the yard groups of people assembled. The girls of the house ran to the windows, and putting their faces to the panes, flattening their noses, gazed at what was passing within. Zend saw them at last; he whistled so piercingly that it rang in the ears of all, and then shouted, "Mighty lords! titmice are under the window,--titmice!" "Titmice! titmice!" "Now for a dance!" roared dissonant voices. The drunken crowd sprang through the anteroom to the porch. The frost did not sober their steaming heads. The girls, screaming in voices that rose to the sky, ran in every direction through the yard; but the men chased them, and brought each one they seized to the room. After a while they began dancing in the midst of smoke, bits of bone, and chips around the table on which spilled wine lay in pools. In such fashion did Pan Kmita and his wild company revel in Lyubich. CHAPTER IV. For a number of subsequent days Pan Andrei was at Vodokty daily; and each time he returned more in love, and admired more and more his Olenka. He lauded her to the skies, too, before his companions, till on a certain day he said to them,-- "My dear lambs, you will go to-day to beat with the forehead; then, as we have stipulated with the maiden, we will go to Mitruny to have a sleigh-ride through the forests and look at the third estate. She will entertain us there, and do you bear yourselves decently; for I would cut into hash the man who offended her in anything." The cavaliers hurried willingly to prepare, and soon four sleighs were bearing the eager young men to Vodokty. Kmita sat in the first sleigh, which was highly ornamented and had the form of a silvery bear. This sleigh was drawn by three captured Kalmuk horses in variegated harness, in ribbons and peacock feathers, according to the Smolensk fashion, borrowed from more distant neighbors. A young fellow sitting in the neck of the bear drove the horses. Pan Andrei was dressed in a green velvet coat buttoned on golden cords and trimmed with sable, and wore a sable cap with a heron's feather. He was gladsome, joyous, and spoke to Kokosinski sitting at his side,-- "Listen, Kokoshko! I suppose we played tricks wild beyond measure on two evenings, and especially the first, when the skulls and the portraits suffered. But the case of the girls was still worse. The Devil always pushes forward that Zend, and then on whom does he pound out the punishment? On me. I am afraid that people will talk, for in this place my reputation is at stake." "Hang yourself on your reputation; it is good for nothing else, just like ours." "And who is to blame for that, if not you men? Remember, Kokoshko, they held me for a disturbing spirit in Orsha, and tongues were sharpened on me like knives on a whetstone." "But who dragged Pan Tumgrat out in the frost with a horse; who cut up that official, who asked whether men walked on two feet in Orsha or on four? Who hacked the Vyzinskis, father and son? Who broke up the last provincial Diet?" "I broke up the Diet in Orsha, not somewhere else; that was a home affair. Pan Tumgrat forgave me when he was dying; and as to the others, speak not, for a duel may happen to the most innocent." "I have not told all yet; I have not spoken of the trials in the army, of which two are still waiting for you." "Not for me, but for you men; for I am to blame only for letting you rob the people. But no more of this! Shut your mouth, Kokoshko, and say nothing to Olenka about the duels, and especially nothing of that shooting at the portraits and of the girls. If it is told, I shall lay the blame on you. I have informed the servants and the girls that if a word is said, I will order belts taken out of their skins." "Have yourself shod like a horse, Yendrus, if you are in such dread of your maiden. You were another man in Orsha. I see already that you will go in leading-strings, and there is no good in that. Some ancient philosopher says, 'If you will not manage Kahna, Kahna will manage you.' You have given yourself to be tied up in all things." "You are a fool, Kokoshko! But as to Olenka you will stand on one foot and then on the other when you put eyes on her, for another woman with such proper intent is not to be found. What is good she will praise in a moment, but the bad she will blame without waiting; for she judges according to virtue, and has in herself a ready measure. The late under-chamberlain reared her in that way. Should you wish to boast of warlike daring before her, and say that you trampled on justice, you will soon be ashamed; for at once she will say, 'An honorable citizen should not do that; it is against the country.' She will speak so to you that it will be as if some one had slapped you on the face, and you'll wonder that you did not know these things yourself. Tfu! shame! We have raised fearful disorder, and now must stand open-eyed before virtue and innocence. The worst was those girls--" "By no means the worst. I have heard that in the villages there are girls of the petty nobility like blood and milk, and probably not stubborn at all." "Who told you?" asked Kmita, quickly. "Who told me? Who, if not Zend? Yesterday while trying the roan steed he rode to Volmontovichi; he merely rode along the highway, but he saw many titmice, for they were coming from vespers. 'I thought,' said he, 'that I should fly off the horse, they were so handsome and pretty.' And whenever he looked at any one of them she showed her teeth directly. And no wonder! for all the grown men of the nobles have gone to Rossyeni, and it is dreary for the titmice alone." Kmita punched his companion in the side with his fist. "Let us go, Kokoshko, some time in the evening,--pretend we are astray,--shall we?" "But your reputation?" "Oh, to the Devil! Shut your mouth! Go alone, if that is the way; but better drop the matter. It would not pass without talk, and I want to live in peace with the nobles here, for the late under-chamberlain made them Olenka's guardians." "You have spoken of that, but I would not believe it. How did he have such intimacy with homespuns?" "Because he went with them to war, and I heard of this in Orsha, when he said that there was honorable blood in those Lauda men. But to tell the truth, Kokoshko, it was an immediate wonder to me, for it is as if he had made them guards over me." "You will yield to them and bow to your boots before dish-cloths." "First may the pestilence choke them! Be quiet, for I am angry! They will bow to me and serve me. Their quota is ready at every call." "Some one else will command this quota. Zend says that there is a colonel here among them--I forget his name--Volodyovski or something? He led them at Shklov. They fought well, it appears, but were combed out there." "I have heard of a Volodyovski, a famous warrior--But here is Vodokty in sight." "Hei, it is well for people in Jmud; for there is stern order. The old man must have been a born manager. And the house,--I see how it looks. The enemy brought fire here seldom, and the people could build." "I think that she cannot have heard yet of that outburst in Lyubich," said Kmita, as if to himself. Then he turned to his comrade: "My Kokoshko, I tell you, and do you repeat it to the others, that you must bear yourselves decently here; and if any man permits himself anything, as God is dear to me, I will cut him up like chopped straw." "Well, they have saddled you!" "Saddled, saddled not, I will cut you up!" "Don't look at my Kasia or I'll cut you to pieces," said Kokosinski, phlegmatically. "Fire out thy whip!" shouted Kmita to the driver. The youth standing in the neck of the silvery bear whirled his whip, and cracked it very adroitly; other drivers followed his example, and they drove with a rattling, quick motion, joyous as at a carnival. Stepping out of the sleighs, they came first to an antechamber as large as a granary, an unpainted room; thence Kmita conducted them to the dining-hall, ornamented as in Lyubich with skulls and antlers of slain beasts. Here they halted, looking carefully and with curiosity at the door of the adjoining room, by which Panna Aleksandra was to enter. Meanwhile, evidently keeping in mind Kmita's warning, they spoke with one another in subdued tones, as in a church. "You are a fellow of speech," whispered Uhlik to Kokosinski, "you will greet her for us all." "I was arranging something to say on the road," answered Kokosinski, "but I know not whether it will be smooth enough, for Yendrus interrupted my ideas." "Let it be as it comes, if with spirit. But here she is!" Panna Aleksandra entered, halting a little on the threshold, as if in wonder at such a large company. Kmita himself stood for a while as if fixed to the floor in admiration of her beauty; for hitherto he had seen her only in the evening, and in the day she seemed still more beautiful. Her eyes had the color of star-thistles; the dark brows above them were in contrast to the forehead as ebony with white, and her yellow hair shone like a crown on the head of a queen. Not dropping her eyes, she had the self-possessed mien of a lady receiving guests in her own house, with clear face seeming still clearer from the black dress trimmed with ermine. Such a dignified and exalted lady the warriors had not seen; they were accustomed to women of another type. So they stood in a rank as if for the enrolling of a company, and shuffling their feet they also bowed together in a row; but Kmita pushed forward, and kissing the hand of the lady a number of times, said,-- "See, my jewel, I have brought you fellow soldiers with whom I fought in the last war." "It is for me no small honor," answered Panna Billevich, "to receive in my house such worthy cavaliers, of whose virtue and excellent qualities I have heard from their commander, Pan Kmita." When she had said this she took her skirt with the tips of her fingers, and raising it slightly, courtesied with unusual dignity. Kmita bit his lips, but at the same time he was flushed, since his maiden had spoken with such spirit. The worthy cavaliers continuing to shuffle their feet, all nudged at the same moment Pan Kokosinski: "Well, begin!" Kokosinski moved forward one step, cleared his throat, and began as follows: "Serene great mighty lady, under-chamberlain's daughter--" "Chief-hunter's daughter," corrected Kmita. "Serene great mighty lady, chief-hunter's daughter, but to us right merciful benefactress," repeated Kokosinski,--"pardon, your ladyship, if I have erred in the title--" "A harmless mistake," replied Panna Aleksandra, "and it lessens in no wise such an eloquent cavalier--" "Serene great mighty lady, chief-hunter's daughter, benefactress, and our right merciful lady, I know not what becomes me in the name of all Orsha to celebrate more,--the extraordinary beauty and virtue of your ladyship, our benefactress, or the unspeakable happiness of the captain and our fellow-soldier, Pan Kmita; for though I were to approach the clouds, though I were to reach the clouds themselves--I say, the clouds--" "But come down out of those clouds!" cried Kmita. With that the cavaliers burst into one enormous laugh; but all at once remembering the command of Kmita, they seized their mustaches with their hands. Kokosinski was confused in the highest degree. He grew purple, and said, "Do the greeting yourselves, pagans, since you confuse me." Panna Aleksandra took again, with the tips of her fingers, her skirt. "I could not follow you gentlemen in eloquence," said she, "but I know that I am unworthy of those homages which you give me in the name of all Orsha." And again she made a courtesy with exceeding dignity, and it was somehow out of place for the Orsha roisterers in the presence of that courtly maiden. They strove to exhibit themselves as men of politeness, but it did not become them. Therefore they began to pull their mustaches, to mutter and handle their sabres, till Kmita said,-- "We have come here as if in a carnival, with the thought to take you with us and drive to Mitruny through the forest, as was the arrangement yesterday. The snow-road is firm, and God has given frosty weather." "I have already sent Aunt Kulvyets to Mitruny to prepare dinner. But now, gentlemen, wait just a little till I put on something warm." Then she turned and went out. Kmita sprang to his comrades. "Well, my dear lambs, isn't she a princess? Now, Kokosinski, you said that she had saddled me, and why were you as a little boy before her? Where have you seen her like?" "There was no call to interrupt me; though I do not deny that I did not expect to address such a person." "The late under-chamberlain," said Kmita, "lived with her most of the time in Kyedani, at the court of the prince voevoda, or lived with the Hleboviches; and there she acquired those high manners. But her beauty,--what of that? You cannot let your breath go yet." "We have appeared as fools," said Ranitski, in anger; "but the biggest fool was Kokosinski." "Traitor! why punch me with your elbow? You should have appeared yourself, with your spotted mouth." "Harmony, lambs, harmony!" said Kmita; "I will let you admire, but not wrangle." "I would spring into the fire for her," said Rekuts. "Hew me down, Yendrus, but I'll not deny that." Kmita did not think of cutting down; he was satisfied, twisted his mustache, and gazed on his comrades with triumph. Now Panna Aleksandra entered, wearing a marten-skin cap, under which her bright face appeared still brighter. They went out on the porch. "Then shall we ride in this sleigh?" asked the lady, pointing to the silvery bear. "I have not seen a more beautiful sleigh in my life." "I know not who has used it hitherto, for it was captured. It suits me very well, for on my shield is a lady on a bear. There are other Kmitas who have banners on their shield, but they are descended from Filon Kmita of Charnobil; he was not of the same house from which the great Kmitas are descended." "And when did you capture this bear sleigh?" "Lately, in this war. We poor exiles who have fallen away from fortune have only what war gives us in plunder. But as I serve that lady faithfully, she has rewarded me." "May God grant a better; for war rewards one, but presses tears from the whole dear fatherland." "God and the hetmans will change that." Meanwhile Kmita wrapped Panna Aleksandra in the beautiful sleigh robe of white cloth lined with white wolfskin; then taking his own seat, he cried to the driver, "Move on!" and the horses sprang forward at a run. The cold wind struck their faces with its rush; they were silent, therefore, and nothing was heard save the wheezing of frozen snow under the runners, the snorting of the horses, their tramp, and the cry of the driver. At last Pan Andrei bent toward Olenka. "Is it pleasant for you?" "Pleasant," answered she, raising her sleeve and holding it to her mouth to ward off the rush of air. The sleigh dashed on like a whirlwind. The day was bright, frosty; the snow sparkled as if some one were scattering sparks on it. From the white roofs of the cottages, which were like piles of snow, rosy smoke curled in high columns. Flocks of crows from among the leafless trees by the roadside flew before the sleighs with shrill cawing. About eighty rods from Vodokty they came out on a broad road into dark pine-woods which stood gloomy, hoary, and silent as if sleeping under the thick snow-bunches. The trees flitted before the eye, appeared to be fleeing to some place in the rear of the sleigh; but the sleigh flew on, every moment swiftly, more swiftly, as if the horses had wings. From such driving the head turns, and ecstasy seizes one; it seized Panna Aleksandra. She leaned back, closed her eyes, and yielded completely to the impetus. She felt a sweet powerlessness, and it seemed to her that that boyar of Orsha had taken her by violence: that he is rushing away like a whirlwind, and she growing weak has no strength to oppose or to cry,--and they are flying, flying each moment more swiftly. Olenka feels that arms are embracing her; then on her cheek as it were a hot burning stamp. Her eyes will not open, as if in a dream; and they fly, fly. An inquiring voice first roused the sleeping lady: "Do you love me?" She opened her eyes. "As my own soul." "And I for life and death." Again the sable cap of Kmita bent over the marten-skin cap of Olenka. She knew not herself which gave her more delight,--the kisses or the magic ride. And they flew farther, but always through pine-woods, through pine-woods. Trees fled to the rear in whole regiments. The snow was wheezing, the horses snorting; but the man and the maiden were happy. "I would ride to the end of the world in this way," cried Kmita. "What are we doing? This is a sin!" whispered Olenka. "What sin? Let us commit it again." "Impossible! Mitruny is not far." "Far or near, 'tis all one!" And Kmita rose in the sleigh, stretched his arms upward, and began to shout as if in a full breast he could not find place for his joy: "Hei-ha! hei-ha!" "Hei-hop! hoop-ha!" answered the comrades from the sleighs behind. "Why do you shout so?" asked the lady. "Oh, so, from delight! And shout you as well!" "Hei-ha!" was heard the resonant, thin alto voice. "O thou, my queen! I fall at thy feet." "The company will laugh." After the ecstasy a noisy joyousness seized them, as wild as the driving was wild. Kmita began to sing,-- "Look thou, my girl! look through the door, To the rich fields! Oh, knights from the pine-woods are coming, my mother, Oh, that's my fate! Look not, my daughter! cover thy eyes, With thy white hands, For thy heart will spring out of thy bosom With them to the war." "Who taught you such lovely songs?" asked Panna Aleksandra. "War, Olenka. In the camp we sang them to one another to drive away sadness." Further conversation was interrupted by a loud calling from the rear sleighs: "Stop! stop! Hei there--stop!" Pan Andrei turned around in anger, wondering how it came to the heads of his comrades to call and stop him. He saw a few tens of steps from the sleigh a horseman approaching at full speed of the horse. "As God lives, that is my sergeant Soroka; what can have happened?" said Pan Andrei. That moment the sergeant coming up, reined his horse on his haunches, and began to speak with a panting voice: "Captain!--" "What is the matter, Soroka?" "Upita is on fire; they are fighting!" "Jesus Mary!" screamed Olenka. "Have no fear!--Who is fighting?" "The soldiers with the townspeople. There is a fire on the square! The townspeople are enraged, and they have sent to Ponyevyej for a garrison. But I galloped here to your grace. I can barely draw breath." During this conversation the sleighs behind caught up; Kokosinski, Ranitski, Kulvyets-Hippocentaurus, Uhlik, Rekuts, and Zend, springing out on the snow, surrounded the speakers with a circle. "What is the matter?" asked Kmita. "The townspeople would not give supplies for horses or men, because there was no order for it; the soldiers began to take by force. We besieged the mayor and those who barricaded themselves in the square. Firing was begun, and we burned two houses; at present there is terrible violence, and ringing of bells--" Kmita's eyes gleamed with wrath. "We must go to the rescue!" shouted Kokosinski. "The rabble are oppressing the army!" cried Ranitski, whose whole face was covered at once with red, white, and dark spots. "Check, check! mighty lords!" Zend laughed exactly as a screech-owl hoots, till the horses were frightened; and Rekuts raised his eyes and piped, "Strike, whoso believes in God! smoke out the ruffians!" "Be silent!" roared Kmita, till the woods echoed, and Zend, who stood nearest, staggered like a drunken man. "There is no need of you there, no need of slashing! Sit all of you in two sleighs, leave me the third. Drive back to Lyubich; wait there unless I send for succor." "How is that?" asked Ranitski, opposing. But Pan Andrei laid a hand on his throat, and his eyes gleamed more terribly. "Not a breath out of you!" said he, threateningly. They were silent; evidently they feared him, though usually on such familiar footing. "Go back, Olenka, to Vodokty," said Kmita, "or go for your Aunt Kulvyets to Mitruny. Well, our party was not a success. But it will be quieter there soon; only a few heads will fly off. Be in good health and at rest; I shall be quick to return." Having said this, he kissed her hand, and wrapped her in the wolf-skin; then he took his seat in the other sleigh, and cried to the driver, "To Upita!" CHAPTER V. A number of days passed, and Kmita did not return; but three men of Lauda came to Vodokty with complaints to the lady. Pakosh Gashtovt from Patsuneli came,--the same who was entertaining at his house Pan Volodyovski. He was the patriarch of the village, famed for wealth and six daughters, of whom three had married Butryms, and received each one hundred coined dollars as dowry, besides clothing and cattle. The second who came was Kassyan Butrym, who remembered Batory well, and with him the son-in-law of Pakosh, Yuzva Butrym; the latter, though in the prime of life,--he was not more than fifty years old,--did not go to Rossyeni to the registry of the general militia, for in the Cossack wars a cannon-ball had torn off his foot. He was called on this account Ankle-foot, or Yuzva Footless. He was a terrible man, with the strength of a bear, and great sense, but harsh, surly, judging men severely. For this reason he was feared somewhat in the capitals, for he could not pardon either himself or others. He was dangerous also when in liquor; but that happened rarely. These men came, then, to the lady, who received them graciously, though she divined at once that they had come to make complaints, and wanted to hear something from her regarding Pan Kmita. "We wish to pay our respects to Pan Kmita, but perhaps he has not come back yet from Upita," said Pakosh; "so we have come to inquire, our dear darling, when it will be possible to see him." "I think the only hindrance is that he is not here," answered the lady. "He will be glad with his whole soul to see you, my guardians, for he has heard much good concerning you,--in old times from my grandfather, and lately from me." "If only he does not receive us as he received the Domasheviches when they went to him with tidings of the colonel's death," muttered Yuzva, sullenly. The lady listened to the end, and answered at once with animation: "Be not unjust about that. Perhaps he did not receive them politely enough, but he has confessed his fault in this house. It should be remembered too that he was returning from a war in which he endured much toil and suffering. We must not wonder at a soldier, even if he snaps at his own, for warriors have tempers like sharp swords." Pakosh Gashtovt, who wished always to be in accord with the whole world, waved his hand and said: "We did not wonder, either. A beast snaps at a beast when it sees one suddenly; why should not a man snap at a man? We will go to old Lyubich to greet Pan Kmita, so that he may live with us, go to war and to the wilderness, as the late under-chamberlain used to do." "Well, tell us, dear darling, did he please you or did he not please you?" asked Kassyan Butrym. "It is our duty to ask this." "God reward you for your care. Pan Kmita is an honorable cavalier, and even if I had found something against him it would not be proper to speak of it." "But have you not seen something, our dearest soul?" "Nothing! Besides, no one has the right to judge him here, and God save us from showing distrust. Let us rather thank God." "Why thank too early? When there will be something to thank for, then thank; if not, then not thank," answered the sullen Yuzva, who, like a genuine man of Jmud, was very cautious and foreseeing. "Have you spoken about the marriage?" inquired Kassyan. Olenka dropped her eyes: "Pan Kmita wishes it as early as possible." "That's it! and why shouldn't he wish it?" muttered Yuzva; "he is not a fool! What bear is it that does not want honey from a tree? But why hurry? Is it not better to see what kind of man he is? Father Kassyan, tell what you have on your tongue; do not doze like a hare at midday under a ridge." "I am not dozing, I am only turning in my head what to say," answered the old man. "The Lord Jesus has said, 'As Kuba [Jacob] is to God, so will God be to Kuba.' We wish no ill to Pan Kmita, if he wishes no ill to us,--which God grant, amen." "If he will be to our thinking," said Yuzva. Panna Billevich frowned with her falcon brows, and said with a certain haughtiness: "Remember that we are not receiving a servant. He will be master here; and his will must have force, not ours. He will succeed you in the guardianship." "Does that mean that we must not interfere?" asked Yuzva. "It means that you are to be friends with him, as he wishes to be a friend of yours. Moreover he is taking care of his own property here, which each man manages according to his wish. Is not this true, Father Pakosh?" "The sacred truth," answered the old man of Patsuneli. Yuzva turned again to old Butrym. "Do not doze, Father Kassyan!" "I am not dozing, I am only looking into my mind." "Then tell what you see there." "What do I see? This is what I see: Pan Kmita is a man of great family, of high blood, and we are small people. Moreover he is a soldier of fame; he alone opposed the enemy when all had dropped their hands,--God give as many as possible of such men! But he has a company that is worthless. Pan Pakosh, my neighbor, what have you heard about them from the Domasheviches? That they are all dishonored men, against whom outlawry has been declared, infamous and condemned, with declarations and trials hanging over them, children of the hangman. They were grievous to the enemy, but more grievous to their own people. They burned, they plundered, they rioted; that is what they did. They may have slain people in duels or carried out executions,--that happens to honest men; but they have lived in pure Tartar fashion, and long ago would have been rotting in prison but for the protection of Pan Kmita, who is a powerful lord. He favors and protects them, and they cling to him just as flies do in summer to a horse. Now they have come hither, and it is known to all what they are doing. The first day at Lyubich they fired out of pistols,--and at what?--at the portraits of the dead Billeviches, which Pan Kmita should not have permitted, for the Billeviches are his benefactors." Olenka covered her eyes with her hands. "It cannot be! it cannot be!" "It can, for it has been. He let them shoot at his benefactors, with whom he was to enter into relationship; and then they dragged the girls of the house into the room for debauchery. Tfu! an offence against God! That has never been among us! The first day they began shooting and dissoluteness,--the first day!" Here old Kassyan grew angry, and fell to striking the floor with his staff. On Olenka's face were dark blushes, and Yuzva said,-- "And Pan Kmita's troops in Upita, are they better? Like officers, like men. Some people stole Pan Sollohub's cattle; it is said they were Pan Kmita's men. Some persons struck down on the road peasants of Meizagol who were drawing pitch. Who did this? They, the same soldiers. Pan Sollohub went to Pan Hlebovich for satisfaction, and now there is violence in Upita again. All this is in opposition to God. It used to be quiet here as in no other place, and now one must load a gun for the night and stand guard; but why? Because Pan Kmita and his company have come." "Father Yuzva, do not talk so," cried Olenka. "But how must I talk? If Pan Kmita is not to blame, why does he keep such men, why does he live with such men? Great mighty lady, tell him to dismiss them or give them up to the hangman, for otherwise there will be no peace. Is it a thing heard of to shoot at portraits and commit open debauchery? Why, the whole neighborhood is talking of nothing else." "What have I to do?" asked Olenka. "They may be evil men, but he fought the war with them. If he will dismiss them at my request?" "If he does not dismiss them," muttered Yuzva, in a low voice, "he is the same as they." With this the lady's blood began to boil against those men, murderers and profligates. "Let it be so. He must dismiss them. Let him choose me or them. If what you say is true,--and I shall know to-day if it is true,--I shall not forgive them either the shooting or the debauchery. I am alone and a weak orphan, they are an armed crowd; but I do not fear them." "We will help you," said Yuzva. "In God's name," continued Olenka, more and more excited, "let them do what they like, but not here in Lyubich. Let them be as they like,--that is their affair, their necks' answer; but let them not lead away Pan Kmita to debauchery. Shame and disgrace! I thought they were awkward soldiers, but now I see that they are vile traitors, who stain both themselves and him. That's the truth! Wickedness was looking out of their eyes; but I, foolish woman, did not recognize it. Well, I thank you, fathers, for opening my eyes on these Judases. I know what it beseems me to do." "That's it!" said old Kassyan. "Virtue speaks through you, and we will help you." "Do not blame Pan Kmita, for though he has offended against good conduct he is young; and they tempt him, they lead him away, they urge him to license with example, and bring disgrace to his name. This is the condition; as I live, it will not last long." Wrath roused Olenka's heart more and more, and indignation at the comrades of Pan Kmita increased as pain increases in a wound freshly given; for terribly wounded in her were the love special to woman and that trust with which she had given her whole unmixed feeling to Pan Andrei. She was ashamed, for his sake and for her own, and anger and internal shame sought above all guilty parties. The nobles were glad when they saw their colonel's granddaughter so terrible and ready for unyielding war against the disturbers from Orsha. She spoke on with sparkling eyes: "True, they are to blame; and they must leave not only Lyubich, but the whole country-side." "Our heart, we do not blame Pan Kmita," said old Kassyan. "We know that they tempt him. Not through bitterness nor venom against him have we come, but through regret that he keeps near his person revellers. It is evident, of course, that being young he is foolish. Even Pan Hlebovich the starosta was foolish when he was young, but now he keeps us all in order." "And a dog," said the mild old man from Patsuneli, with a voice of emotion,--"if you go with a young one to the field, won't the fool instead of running after the game fall about your feet, begin to play, and tug you by the skirts?" Olenka wanted to say something, but suddenly she burst into tears. "Do not cry," said Yuzva Butrym. "Do not cry, do not cry," repeated the two old men. They tried to comfort her, but could not. After they had gone, care, anxiety, and as it were an offended feeling against them and against Pan Andrei remained. It pained the proud lady more and more deeply that she had to defend, justify, and explain him. But the men of that company! The delicate hands of the lady clinched at thought of them. Before her eyes appeared as if present the faces of Pan Kokosinski, Uhlik, Zend, Kulvyets-Hippocentaurus, and the others; and she discovered what she had not seen at first, that they were shameless faces, on which folly, licentiousness, and crime had all fixed their stamps in common. A feeling of hatred foreign to Olenka began to seize her as a rattling fire seizes fuel; but together with this outburst offence against Pan Kmita increased every minute. "Shame, disgrace," whispered the maiden, with pallid lips, "that yesterday he went from me to house-wenches!" and she felt herself overborne. A crushing burden stopped the breath in her breast. It was growing raw out of doors. Panna Aleksandra walked in the room with hurried step, but anger was seething in her soul without ceasing. Hers was not the nature to endure the persecutions of fate without defending herself against them. There was knightly blood in the girl. She wanted straightway to begin a struggle with that band of evil spirits,--straightway. But what remained to her? Nothing, save tears and the prayer that Pan Andrei would send to the four winds those shame-bringing comrades. But if he will not do that--And she did not dare to think more of the question. The meditations of the lady were interrupted by a youth who brought an armful of juniper sticks to the chimney, and throwing them down at the side of the hearth, began to pull out the coals from under the smouldering ashes. Suddenly a decision came to Olenka's mind. "Kostek!" said she, "sit on horseback for me at once, and ride to Lyubich. If the master has returned, ask him to come here; but if he is not there, let the manager, old Znikis, mount with thee and come straight to me, and quickly." The youth threw some bits of pitch on the coals and covered them with clumps of dry juniper. Bright flames began to crackle and snap in the chimney. It grew somewhat lighter in Olenka's mind. "Perhaps the Lord God will change this yet," thought she to herself, "and maybe it is not so bad as the guardians have said." After a while she went to the servants' room to sit, according to the immemorial custom of the Billeviches, with the maidens to oversee the spinning and sing hymns. In two hours Kostek entered, chilled from cold. "Znikis is in the antechamber," said he. "The master is not in Lyubich." The lady rose quickly. The manager in the antechamber bowed to her feet. "But how is your health, serene heiress? God give you the best." They passed into the dining-hall; Znikis halted at the door. "What is to be heard among you people?" asked the lady. The peasant waved his hand. "Well, the master is not there." "I know that, because he is in Upita. But what is going on in the house?" "Well!--" "Listen, Znikis, speak boldly; not a hair will fall from thy head. People say that the master is good, but his companions wild?" "If they were only wild, serene lady!--" "Speak candidly." "But, lady, if it is not permitted me--I am afraid--they have forbidden me." "Who has forbidden?" "My master." "Has he?" asked the lady. A moment of silence ensued. She walked quickly in the room, with compressed lips and frowning brow. He followed her with his eyes. Suddenly she stopped before him. "To whom dost thou belong?" "To the Billeviches. I am from Vodokty, not from Lyubich." "Thou wilt return no more to Lyubich; stay here. Now I command thee to tell all thou knowest." The peasant cast himself on his knees at the threshold where he was standing. "Serene lady, I do not want to go back; the day of judgment is there. They are bandits and cut-throats; in that place a man is not sure of the day nor the hour." Panna Billevich staggered as if stricken by an arrow. She grew very pale, but inquired calmly, "Is it true that they fired in the room, at the portraits?" "Of course they fired! And they dragged girls into their rooms, and every day the same debauchery. In the village is weeping, at the house Sodom and Gomorrah. Oxen are killed for the table, sheep for the table. The people are oppressed. Yesterday they killed the stable man without cause." "Did they kill the stable-man?" "Of course. And worst of all, they abused the girls. Those at the house are not enough for them; they chase others through the village." A second interval of silence followed. Hot blushes came out on the lady's face, and did not leave it. "When do they look for the master's return?" "They do not know, my lady. But I heard, as they were talking to one another, that they would have to start to-morrow for Upita with their whole company. They gave command to have horses ready. They will come here and beg my lady for attendants and powder, because they need both there." "They are to come here? That is well. Go now, Znikis, to the kitchen. Thou wilt return to Lyubich no more." "May God give you health and happiness!" Panna Aleksandra had learned what she wanted, and she knew how it behooved her to act. The following day was Sunday. In the morning, before the ladies had gone to church, Kokosinski, Uhlik, Kulvyets-Hippocentaurus, Ranitski, Rekuts, and Zend arrived, followed by the servants at Lyubich, armed and on horseback, for the cavaliers had decided to march to Upita with succor for Kmita. The lady went out to meet them calmly and haughtily, altogether different from the woman who had greeted them for the first time a few days before. She barely motioned with her head in answer to their humble bows; but they thought that the absence of Pan Kmita made her cautious, and took no note of the real situation. Kokosinski stepped forward more confidently than the first time, and said,-- "Serene great mighty lady, chief-hunter's daughter, benefactress; we have come in here on our way to Upita to fall at the feet of our lady benefactress and beg for assistance, such as powder, and that you would permit your servants to mount their horses and go with us. We will take Upita by storm, and let out a little blood for the basswood-barks." "It is a wonder to me," answered Panna Billevich, "that you are going to Upita, when I heard myself how Pan Kmita commanded you to remain quietly in Lyubich, and I think that it beseems him to command and you to obey, as subordinates." The cavaliers hearing these words looked at one another in astonishment. Zend pursed out his lips as if about to whistle in bird fashion. Kokosinski began to draw his broad palm over his head. "As true as life," said he, "a man would think that you were speaking to Pan Kmita's baggage-boys. It is true that we were to sit at home; but since the fourth day is passing and Yendrus has not come, we have reached the conviction that some serious tumult may have risen, in which our sabres, too, would be of service." "Pan Kmita did not go to a battle, but to punish turbulent soldiers, and punishment may meet you also if you go against orders. Besides, a tumult and slashing might come to pass more quickly if you were there." "It is hard to deliberate with your ladyship. We ask only for powder and men." "Men and powder I will not give. Do you hear me, sirs!" "Do I hear correctly?" asked Kokosinski. "How is this? You will not give? You will spare in the rescue of Kmita, of Yendrus? Do you prefer that some evil should meet him?" "The greatest evil that can meet him is your company." Here the maiden's eyes began to flash lightning, and raising her head she advanced some steps toward the cutthroats, and they pushed back before her in astonishment. "Traitors!" said she, "you, like evil spirits, tempt him to sin; you persuade him on. But I know you,--your profligacy, your lawless deeds. Justice is hunting you; people turn away from you, and on whom does the shame fall? On him, through you who are outlaws, and infamous." "Hei, by God's wounds, comrades, do you hear?" cried Kokosinski. "Hei, what is this? Are we not sleeping, comrades?" Panna Billevich advanced another step, and pointing with her hand to the door, said, "Be off out of here!" The ruffians grew as pale as corpses, and no one of them found a word in answer. But their teeth began to gnash, their hands to quiver toward their sword-hilts, and their eyes to shoot forth malign gleams. After a moment, however, their spirits fell through alarm. That house too was under the protection of the powerful Kmita; that insolent lady was his betrothed. In view of this they gnawed their rage in silence, and she stood unflinchingly with flashing eyes pointing to the door with her finger. At last Kokosinski spoke in a voice broken with rage: "Since we are received here so courteously, nothing remains to us but to bow to the polished lady and go--with thanks for the entertainment." Then he bowed, touching the floor with his cap in purposed humility; after him all the others bowed, and went out in order. When the door closed after the last man, Olenka fell exhausted into the armchair, panting heavily, for she had not so much strength as daring. They assembled in counsel in front of the entrance near their horses, but no man wanted to speak first. At last Kokosinski said, "Well, dear lambs, what's that?" "Do you feel well?" "Do you?" "Ei! but for Kmita," said Ranitski, rubbing his hands convulsively, "we would revel with this lady here in our own fashion." "Go meet Kmita," piped Rekuts. Ranitski's face was covered completely with spots, like the skin of a leopard. "I'll meet him and you too, you reveller, wherever it may please you!" "That's well!" cried Rekuts. Both rushed to their sabres, but the gigantic Kulvyets-Hippocentaurus thrust himself between. "See this fist!" said he, shaking as it were a loaf of bread; "see this fist!" repeated he. "I'll smash the head of the first man who draws his sabre." And he looked now at one and now at the other, as if asking in silence who wished to try first; but they, addressed in such fashion, were quiet at once. "Kulvyets is right," said Kokosinski. "My dear lambs, we need agreement now more than ever. I would advise to go with all speed to Kmita, so that she may not see him first, for she would describe us as devils. It is well that none of us snarled at her, though my own hands and tongue were itching. If she is going to rouse him against us, it is better for us to rouse him first. God keep him from leaving us! Straightway the people here would surround us, hunt us down like wolves." "Nonsense!" said Ranitski. "They will do nothing to us. There is war now; are there few men straggling through the world without a roof, without bread? Let us collect a party for ourselves, dear comrades, and let all the tribunals pursue us. Give your hand, Rekuts, I forgive you." "I should have cut off your ears," piped Rekuts; "but let us be friends, a common insult has met us." "To order out cavaliers like us!" said Kokosinski. "And me, in whom is senatorial blood!" added Ranitski. "Honorable people, men of good birth!" "Soldiers of merit!" "And exiles!" "Innocent orphans!" "I have boots lined with wool, but my feet are freezing," said Kulvyets. "Shall we stand like minstrels in front of this house? They will not bring us out heated beer. We are of no use here; let us mount and ride away. Better send the servants home, for what good are they without guns and weapons? We will go on alone." "To Upita!" "To Yendrus, our worthy friend! We will make complaint before him." "If only we do not miss him." "To horse, comrades, to horse!" They mounted, and moved on at a walk, chewing their anger and shame. Outside the gate Ranitski, whom rage still held as it were by the throat, turned and threatened the house with his fist. "Ei! I want blood! I want blood!" "If we can only raise a quarrel between her and Kmita," said Kokosinski, "we shall go through this place yet with fire." "That may happen." "God aid us!" added Uhlik. "Oh, pagan's daughter, mad heath-hen!" Railing thus, and enraged at the lady, snarling sometimes too at themselves, they reached the forest. They had barely passed the first trees when an enormous flock of crows whirled above their heads. Zend began at once to croak in a shrill voice; thousands of voices answered him from above. The flock came down so low that the horses began to be frightened at the sound of their wings. "Shut your mouth!" cried Ranitski to Zend. "You'll croak out misfortune on us yet. Those crows are circling over us as over carrion." The others laughed. Zend croaked continually. The crows came down more and more, and the party rode as if in the midst of a storm. Fools! they could not see the ill omen. Beyond the forest appeared Volmontovichi, toward which the cavaliers moved at a trot, for the frost was severe; they were very cold, and it was still a long way to Upita, but they had to lessen their speed in the village itself. In the broad road of the village the space was full of people, as is usual on Sundays. The Butryms, men and women, were returning on foot and in sleighs from Mitruny after receiving indulgence. The nobles looked on these unknown horsemen, half guessing who they were. The young women, who had heard of their license in Lyubich and of the notorious public sinners whom Pan Kmita had brought, looked at them with still greater curiosity. But they rode proudly in imposing military posture, with velvet coats which they had captured, in panther-skin caps, and on sturdy horses. It was to be seen that they were soldiers by profession,--their gestures frequent and haughty, their right hands resting on their hips, their heads erect. They gave the way to no man, advancing in a line and shouting from time to time, "Out of the road!" One or another of the Butryms looked at them with a frown, but yielded; the party chatted among themselves about the village. "See, gentlemen," said Kokosinski, "what sturdy fellows there are here; one after another like an aurochs, and each with the look of a wolf." "If it were not for their stature and swords, they might be taken for common trash." "Just look at those sabres,--regular tearers, as God is dear to me!" remarked Ranitski. "I would like to make a trial with some of those fellows." Here he began to fence with his hand: "He thus, I thus! He thus, I thus--and check!" "You can easily have that delight for yourself," said Rekuts. "Not much is needed with them for a quarrel." "I would rather engage with those girls over there," said Zend, all at once. "They are candles, not girls!" cried Rekuts, with enthusiasm. "What do you say,--candles? Pine-trees! And each one has a face as if painted with crocus." "It is hard to sit on a horse at such a sight." Talking in this style, they rode out of the village and moved on again at a trot. After half an hour's ride they came to a public house called Dola, which was half-way between Volmontovichi and Mitruny. The Butryms, men and women, generally stopped there going to and returning from church, in order to rest and warm themselves in frosty weather. So the cavaliers saw before the door a number of sleighs with pea-straw spread in them, and about the same number of saddle-horses. "Let us drink some gorailka, for it is cold," said Kokosinski. "It wouldn't hurt," answered the others, in a chorus. They dismounted, left their horses at the posts, and entered the drinking-hall, which was enormous and dark. They found there a crowd of people,--nobles sitting on benches or standing in groups before the water-pail, drinking warmed beer, and some of them a punch made of mead, butter, vudka, and spice. Those were the Butryms themselves, stalwart and gloomy; so sparing of speech that in the room scarcely any conversation was heard. All were dressed in gray overcoats of home-made or coarse cloth from Rossyeni, lined with sheepskin; they had leather belts, with sabres in black iron scabbards. By reason of that uniformity of dress they had the appearance of soldiers. But they were old men of sixty or youths under twenty. These had remained at home for the winter threshing; the others, men in the prime of life, had gone to Rossyeni. When they saw the cavaliers of Orsha, they drew back from the water-bucket and began to examine them. Their handsome soldierly appearance pleased that warlike nobility; after a while, too, some one dropped the word,-- "Are they from Lyubich?" "Yes, that is Pan Kmita's company!" "Are these they?" "Of course." The cavaliers drank gorailka, but the punch had a stronger odor. Kokosinski caught it first, and ordered some. They sat around a table then; and when the steaming kettle was brought they began to drink, looking around the room at the men and blinking, for the place was rather dark. The snow had blocked the windows; and the broad, low opening of the chimney in which the fire was burning was hidden completely by certain figures with their backs to the crowd. When the punch had begun to circulate in the veins of the cavaliers, bearing through their bodies an agreeable warmth, their cheerfulness, depressed by the reception at Vodokty, sprang up again; and all at once Zend fell to cawing like a crow, so perfectly that all faces were turned toward him. The cavaliers laughed, and the nobles, enlivened, began to approach, especially the young men,--powerful fellows with broad shoulders and plump cheeks. The figures sitting at the chimney turned their faces to the room, and Rekuts was the first to see that they were women. Zend closed his eyes and cawed, cawed. Suddenly he stopped, and in a moment those present heard the cry of a hare choked by a dog; the hare cried in the last agony, weaker and lower, then screamed in despair, and was silent for the ages; in place of it was heard the deep bellow of a furious stag as loud as in spring-time. The Butryms were astonished. Though Zend had stopped, they expected to hear something again; but they heard only the piping voice of Rekuts,-- "Those are titmice sitting near the chimney!" "That is true!" replied Kokosinski, shading his eyes with his hand. "As true as I live!" added Uhlik, "but it is so dark in the room that I could not see them." "I am curious. What are they doing?" "Maybe they have come to dance." "But wait; I will ask," said Kokosinski. And raising his voice, he asked, "My dear women, what are you doing there at the chimney?" "We are warming our feet," answered thin voices. Then the cavaliers rose and approached the hearth. There were sitting at it, on a long bench, about ten women, old and young, holding their bare feet on a log lying by the fire. On the other side of the log their shoes wet from the snow were drying. "So you are warming your feet?" asked Kokosinski. "Yes, for they are cold." "Very pretty feet," piped Rekuts, inclining toward the log. "But keep at a distance," said one of the women. "I prefer to come near. I have a sure method, better than fire, for cold feet; which is,--only dance with a will, and the cold flies away." "If to dance, then dance," said Uhlik. "We want neither fiddles nor bass-viols. I will play for you on the flageolet." Taking from its leather case which hung near his sabre the ever-present flageolet, he began to play; and the cavaliers, pushing forward with dancing movement to the maidens, sought to draw them from the benches. The maidens appeared to defend themselves, but more with their voices than their hands, for in truth they were not greatly opposed. Maybe the men, too, would have been willing in their turn; for against dancing on Sunday after Mass and during the carnival no one would protest greatly. But the reputation of the "company" was already too well known in Volmontovichi; therefore first the gigantic Yuzva Butrym, he who had but one foot, rose from the bench, and approaching Kulvyets-Hippocentaurus, caught him by the breast, held him, and said with sullen voice,-- "If your grace wants dancing, then dance with me." Kulvyets-Hippocentaurus blinked, and began to move his mustaches convulsively. "I prefer a girl," said he; "I can attend to you afterward." Meanwhile Ranitski ran up with face already spotted, for he sniffed a quarrel. "Who are you, road-blocker?" asked he, grasping his sabre. Uhlik stopped playing, and Kokosinski shouted, "Hei, comrades! together, together!" But the Butryms were already behind Yuzva; sturdy old men and great youths began to assemble, growling like bears. "What do you want? Are you looking for bruises?" asked Kokosinski. "No talk! Be off out of here!" said Yuzva, stolidly. Then Ranitski, whose interest it was that an hour should not pass without a fight, struck Yuzva with the hilt of his sword in the breast, so that it was heard in the whole room, and cried, "Strike!" Rapiers glittered; the scream of women was heard, the clatter of sabres, uproar and disturbance. Then the gigantic Yuzva pushed out of the crowd, took a roughly hewn bench from beside a table, and raising it as though it were a light strip of wood, shouted, "Make way! make way!" Dust rose from the floor and hid the combatants; but in the confusion groans were soon heard. CHAPTER VI. In the evening of that same day Pan Kmita came to Vodokty, at the head of a hundred and some tens of men whom he had brought from Upita so as to send them to Kyedani; for he saw himself that there were no quarters in such a small place for a large number of soldiers, and when the townspeople had been brought to hunger the soldiers would resort to violence, especially soldiers who could be held in discipline only by fear of a leader. A glance at Kmita's volunteers was enough to convince one that it would be difficult to find men of worse character in the whole Commonwealth. Kmita could not have others. After the defeat of the grand hetman, the enemy deluged the whole country. The remnants of the regular troops of the Lithuanian quota withdrew for a certain time to Birji and Kyedani, in order to rally there. The nobility of Smolensk, Vityebsk, Polotsk, Mstislavsk, and Minsk either followed the army or took refuge in the provinces still unoccupied. Men of superior courage among the nobility assembled at Grodno around the under-treasurer, Pan Gosyevski; for the royal proclamation summoning the general militia appointed that as the place of muster. Unfortunately few obeyed the proclamation, and those who followed the voice of duty assembled so negligently that for the time being no one offered real resistance save Kmita, who fought on his own account, animated more by knightly daring than patriotism. It is easy to understand that in the absence of regular troops and nobility he took such men as he could find, consequently men who were not drawn by duty to the hetmans and who had nothing to lose. Therefore there gathered around him vagrants without a roof and without a home, men of low rank, runaway servants from the army, foresters grown wild, serving-men from towns, or scoundrels pursued by the law. These expected to find protection under a flag and win profit from plunder. In the iron hands of Kmita they were turned into daring soldiers, daring even to madness; and if Kmita had been prudent he might have rendered high service to the Commonwealth. But Kmita was insubordinate himself, his spirit was always seething; besides, whence could he take provisions and arms and horses, since being a partisan he did not hold even a commission, and could not look for any aid from the treasury of the Commonwealth? He took therefore with violence,--often from the enemy, often from his own,--could suffer no opposition, and punished severely for the least cause. In continual raids, struggles, and attacks he had grown wild, accustomed to bloodshed in such a degree that no common thing could move the heart within him, which however was good by nature. He was in love with people of unbridled temper who were ready for anything. Soon his name had an ominous sound. Smaller divisions of the enemy did not dare to leave the towns and the camps in those regions where the terrible partisan was raging. But the townspeople ruined by war feared his men little less than they did the enemy, especially when the eye of Kmita in person was not resting on them. When command was taken by his officers, Kokosinski, Uhlik, Kulvyets, Zend, and particularly by Ranitski,--the wildest and most cruel of them all, though a man of high lineage,--it might always be asked, Are those defenders or ravagers? Kmita at times punished his own men without mercy when something happened not according to his humor; but more frequently he took their part, regardless of the rights, tears, and lives of people. His companions with the exception of Rekuts, on whom innocent blood was not weighing, persuaded the young leader to give the reins more and more to his turbulent nature. Such was Kmita's army. Just then he had taken his rabble from Upita to send it to Kyedani. When they stopped in front of the house at Vodokty, Panna Aleksandra was frightened as she saw them through the window, they were so much like robbers. Each one had a different outfit: some were in helmets taken from the enemy; others in Cossack caps, in hoods and Polish caps; some in faded overcoats, others in sheep-skin coats; their arms were guns, spears, bows, battle-axes; their horses, poor and worn, were covered with trappings, Polish, Russian, or Turkish. Olenka was set at rest only when Pan Andrei, gladsome and lively as ever, entered the room and rushed straight to her hands with incredible quickness. And she, though resolved in advance to receive him with dignity and coldness, was still unable to master the joy which his coming had caused her. Feminine cunning too may have played a certain part, for it was necessary to tell Pan Andrei about turning his comrades out of doors; therefore the clever girl wished to incline him first to her side. And in addition he greeted her so sincerely, so lovingly that the remnant of her offended feeling melted like snow before a blaze. "He loves me! there is no doubt about that," thought she. And he said: "I so longed for you that I was ready to burn all Upita if I could only fly to you the sooner. May the frost pinch them, the basswood barks!" "I too was uneasy lest it might come to a battle there. Praise be to God that you have returned!" "And such a battle! The soldiers had begun to pull around the basswood barks a little--" "But you quieted them?" "This minute I will tell you how it all happened, my jewel; only let me rest a little, for I am wearied. Ei! it is warm here. It is delightful in this Vodokty, just as in paradise. A man would be glad to sit here all his life, look in those beautiful eyes, and never go away--But it would do no harm, either, to drink something warm, for there is terrible frost outside." "Right away I will have wine heated, with eggs, and bring it myself." "And give my gallows' birds some little keg of gorailka, and give command to let them into the stable, so that they may warm themselves a little even from the breath of the cattle. They have coats lined with wind, and are terribly chilled." "I will spare nothing on them, for they are your soldiers." While speaking she smiled, so that it grew bright in Kmita's eyes, and she slipped out as quietly as a cat to have everything prepared in the servants' hall. Kmita walked up and down in the room, rubbing the top of his head, then twirling his young mustache, thinking how to tell her of what had been done in Upita. "The pure truth must be told," muttered he; "there is no help for it, though the company may laugh because I am here in leading-strings." And again he walked, and again he pushed the foretop on his forehead; at last he grew impatient that the maiden was so long in returning. Meanwhile a boy brought in a light, bowed to the girdle, and went out. Directly after the charming lady of the house entered, bringing with both hands a shining tin tray, and on it a small pot, from which rose the fragrant steam of heated Hungarian, and a goblet of cut glass with the escutcheon of the Kmitas. Old Billevich got this goblet in his time from Andrei's father, when at his house as a guest. Pan Andrei when he saw the lady sprang toward her. "Hei!" cried he, "both hands are full, you will not escape me." He bent over the tray, and she drew back her head, which was defended only by the steam which rose from the pot. "Traitor! desist, or I will drop the drink." But he feared not the threat; afterward he cried, "As God is in heaven, from such delight a man might lose his wits!" "Then you lost your wit long ago. Sit down." He sat down obediently; she poured the drink into the goblet. "Tell me how you sentenced the guilty in Upita." "In Upita? Like Solomon!" "Praise to God for that! It is on my heart that all in this region should esteem you as a steady and just man. How was it then?" Kmita took a good draught of the drink, drew breath, and began,-- "I must tell from the beginning. It was thus: The townspeople with the mayor spoke of an order for provisions from the grand hetman or the under-treasurer. 'You gentlemen,' said they to the soldiers, 'are volunteers, and you cannot levy contributions. We will give you quarters for nothing, and provisions we will give when it is shown that we shall be paid.'" "Were they right, or were they not?" "They were right according to law; but the soldiers had sabres, and in old fashion whoever has a sabre has the best argument. They said then to the basswood barks, 'We will write orders on your skins immediately.' And straightway there rose a tumult. The mayor and the people barricaded themselves in the street, and my men attacked them; it did not pass without firing. The soldiers, poor fellows, burned a couple of barns to frighten the people, and quieted a few of them also." "How did they quiet them?" "Whoso gets a sabre on his skull is as quiet as a coward." "As God lives, that is murder!" "That is just why I went there. The soldiers ran to me at once with complaints and outcries against the oppression in which they were living, being persecuted without cause. 'Our stomachs are empty,' said they, 'what are we to do?' I commanded the mayor to appear. He hesitated long, but at last came with three other men. They began: 'Even if the soldiers had not orders, why did they beat us, why burn the place? We should have given them to eat and to drink for a kind word; but they wanted ham, mead, dainties, and we are poor people, we have not these things for ourselves. We will seek defence at law, and you will answer before a court for your soldiers.'" "God will bless you," cried Olenka, "if you have rendered justice as was proper." "If I have." Here Pan Andrei wriggled like a student who has to confess his fault, and began to collect the forelock on his forehead with his hand. "My queen!" cried he at last, in an imploring voice, "my jewel, be not angry with me!" "What did you do then?" asked Olenka, uneasily. "I commanded to give one hundred blows apiece to the mayor and the councillors," said Kmita, at one breath. Olenka made no answer; she merely rested her hands on her knees, dropped her head on her bosom, and sank into silence. "Cut off my head!" cried Kmita, "but do not be angry! I have not told all yet!" "Is there more?" groaned the lady. "There is, for they sent then to Ponyevyej for aid. One hundred stupid fellows came with officers. These men I frightened away, but the officers--for God's sake be not angry!--I ordered to be chased and flogged with braided whips, naked over the snow, as I once did to Pan Tumgrat in Orsha." Panna Billevich raised her head; her stern eyes were flashing with indignation, and purple came out on her cheeks. "You have neither shame nor conscience!" said she. Kmita looked at her in astonishment, he was silent for a moment, then asked with changed voice, "Are you speaking seriously or pretending?" "I speak seriously; that deed is becoming a bandit and not a cavalier. I speak seriously, since your reputation is near my heart; for it is a shame to me that you have barely come here, when all the people look on you as a man of violence and point at you with their fingers." "What care I for the people? One dog watches ten of their cabins, and then has not much to do." "There is no infamy on those modest people, there is no disgrace on the name of one of them. Justice will pursue no man here except you." "Oh, let not your head ache for that. Every man is lord for himself in our Commonwealth, if he has only a sabre in his hand and can gather any kind of party. What can they do to me? Whom fear I here?" "If you fear not man, then know that I fear God's anger, and the tears of people; I fear wrongs also. And moreover I am not willing to share disgrace with any one; though I am a weak woman, still the honor of my name is dearer to me than it is to a certain one who calls himself a cavalier." "In God's name, do not threaten me with refusal, for you do not know me yet." "I think that my grandfather too did not know you." Kmita's eyes shot sparks; but the Billevich blood began to play in her. "Oh, gesticulate and grit your teeth," continued she, boldly; "but I fear not, though I am alone and you have a whole party of robbers,--my innocence defends me. You think that I know not how you fired at the portraits in Lyubich and dragged in the girls for debauchery. You do not know me if you suppose that I shall humbly be silent. I want honesty from you, and no will can prevent me from exacting it. Nay, it was the will of my grandfather that I should be the wife of only an honest man." Kmita was evidently ashamed of what had happened at Lyubich; for dropping his head, he asked in a voice now calmer, "Who told you of this shooting?" "All the nobles in the district speak of it." "I will pay those homespuns, the traitors, for their good will," answered Kmita, sullenly. "But that happened in drink,--in company,--for soldiers are not able to restrain themselves. As for the girls I had nothing to do with them." "I know that those brazen ruffians, those murderers, persuade you to everything." "They are not murderers, they are my officers." "I commanded those officers of yours to leave my house." Olenka looked for an outburst; but she saw with greatest astonishment that the news of turning his comrades out of the house made no impression on Kmita; on the contrary, it seemed to improve his humor. "You ordered them to go out?" asked be. "I did." "And they went?" "They did." "As God lives, you have the courage of a cavalier. That pleases me greatly, for it is dangerous to quarrel with such people. More than one man has paid dearly for doing so. But they observe manners before Kmita! You saw they bore themselves obediently as lambs; you saw that,--but why? Because they are afraid of me." Here Kmita looked boastfully at Olenka, and began to twirl his mustache. This fickleness of humor and inopportune boastfulness enraged her to the last degree; therefore she said haughtily and with emphasis, "You must choose between me and them; there is no other way." Kmita seemed not to note the decision with which she spoke, and answered carelessly, almost gayly: "But why choose when I have you and I have them? You may do what you like in Vodokty; but if my comrades have committed no wrong, no license here, why should I drive them away? You do not understand what it is to serve under one flag and carry on war in company. No relationship binds like service in common. Know that they have saved my life a thousand times at least. I must protect them all the more because they are pursued by justice. They are almost all nobles and of good family, except Zend, who is of uncertain origin; but such a horse-trainer as he there is not in the whole Commonwealth. And if you could hear how he imitates wild beasts and every kind of bird, you would fall in love with him yourself." Here Kmita laughed as if no anger, no misunderstanding, had ever found place between them; and she was ready to wring her hands, seeing how that whirlwind of a nature was slipping away from her grasp. All that she had said of the opinions of men, of the need of sedateness, of disgrace, slipped along on him like a dart on steel armor. The unroused conscience of this soldier could give no response to her indignation at every injustice and every dishonorable deed of license. How was he to be touched, how addressed? "Let the will of God be done," said she at last; "since you will resign me, then go your way. God will remain with the orphan." "I resign you?" asked Kmita, with supreme astonishment. "That is it!--if not in words, then in deeds; if not you me, then I you. For I will not marry a man weighted by the tears and blood of people, whom men point at with their fingers, whom they call an outlaw, a robber, and whom they consider a traitor." "What, traitor! Do not bring me to madness, lest I do something for which I should be sorry hereafter. May the thunderbolts strike me this minute, may the devils flay me, if I am a traitor,--I, who stood by the country when all hands had dropped!" "You stand by the country and act like an enemy, for you trample on it. You are an executioner of the people, regarding the laws neither of God nor man. No! though my heart should be rent, I will not marry you; being such a man, I will not!" "Do not speak to me of refusal, for I shall grow furious. Save me, ye angels! If you will not have me in good-will, then I'll take you without it, though all the rabble from the villages were here, though the Radzivills themselves were here, the very king himself and all the devils with their horns stood in the way, even if I had to sell my soul to the Devil!" "Do not summon evil spirits, for they will hear you," cried Olenka, stretching forth her hands. "What do you wish of me?" "Be honest!" Both ceased speaking, and silence followed; only the panting of Pan Andrei was heard. The last words of Olenka had penetrated, however, the armor covering his conscience. He felt himself conquered; he knew not what to answer, how to defend himself. Then he began to go with swift steps through the room. She sat there motionless. Above them hung disagreement, dissension, and regret. They were oppressive to each other, and the long silence became every instant more unendurable. "Farewell!" said Kmita, suddenly. "Go, and may God give you a different inspiration!" answered Olenka. "I will go! Bitter was your drink, bitter your bread. I have been treated here to gall and vinegar." "And do you think you have treated me to sweetness?" answered she, in a voice in which tears were trembling. "Be well." "Be well." Kmita, advancing toward the door, turned suddenly, and springing to her, seized both her hands and said, "By the wounds of Christ! do you wish me to drop from the horse a corpse on the road?" That moment Olenka burst into tears; he embraced her and held her in his arms, all quivering, repeating through her set teeth, "Whoso believes in God, kill me! kill, do not spare!" At last he burst out: "Weep not, Olenka; for God's sake, do not weep! In what am I guilty before you? I will do all to please you. I'll send those men away, I'll come to terms in Upita, I will live differently,--for I love you. As God lives, my heart will burst! I will do everything; only do not cry, and love me still." And so he continued to pacify and pet her; and she, when she had cried to the end, said: "Go now. God will make peace between us. I am not offended, only sore at heart." The moon had risen high over the white fields when Pan Andrei pushed out on his way to Lyubich, and after him clattered his men, stretching along the broad road like a serpent. They went through Volmontovichi, but by the shortest road, for frost had bound up the swamps, which might therefore be crossed without danger. The sergeant Soroka approached Pan Andrei. "Captain," inquired he, "where are we to find lodgings in Lyubich?" "Go away!" answered Kmita. And he rode on ahead, speaking to no man. In his heart rose regret, at moments anger, but above all, vexation at himself. That was the first night in his life in which he made a reckoning with conscience, and that reckoning weighed him down more than the heaviest armor. Behold, he had come into this region with a damaged reputation, and what had he done to repair it? The first day he had permitted shooting and excess in Lyubich, and thought that he did not belong to it, but he did; then he permitted it every day. Further, his soldiers wronged the townspeople, and he increased those wrongs. Worse, he attacked the Ponyevyej garrison, killed men, sent naked officers on the snow. They will bring an action against him; he will lose it. They will punish him with loss of property, honor, perhaps life. But why can he not, after he has collected an armed party of the rabble, scoff at the law as before? Because he intends to marry, settle in Vodokty, serve not on his own account, but in the contingent; there the law will find him and take him. Besides, even though these deeds should pass unpunished, there is something vile in them, something unworthy of a knight. Maybe this violence can be atoned for; but the memory of it will remain in the hearts of men, in his own conscience, and in the heart of Olenka. When he remembered that she had not rejected him yet, that when he was going away he read in her eyes forgiveness, she seemed to him as kind as the angels of heaven. And behold the desire was seizing him to go, not to-morrow, but straightway, as fast as the horse could spring, fall at her feet, beg forgetfulness, and kiss those sweet eyes which today had moistened his face with tears. Then he wished to roar with weeping, and felt that he loved that girl as he had never in his life loved any one. "By the Most Holy Lady!" thought he, in his soul, "I will do what she wishes; I will provide for my comrades bountifully, and send them to the end of the world; for it is true that they urge me to evil." Then it entered his head that on coming to Lyubich he would find them most surely drunk or with girls; and such rage seized him that he wanted to slash somebody with a sabre, even those soldiers whom he was leading, and cut them up without mercy. "I'll give it to them!" muttered he, twirling his mustache. "They have not yet seen me as they will see me." Then from madness he began to prick the horse with his spurs, to pull and drag at the reins till the steed grew wild. Soroka, seeing this, muttered to the soldiers,-- "The captain is mad. God save us from falling under his hand!" Pan Andrei had become mad in earnest. Round about there was great calm. The moon shone mildly, the heavens were glittering with thousands of stars, not the slightest breeze was moving the limbs on the trees; but in the heart of the knight a tempest was raging. The road to Lyubich seemed to him longer than ever before. A certain hitherto unknown alarm began to play upon him from the gloom of the forest depths, and from the fields flooded with a greenish light of the moon. Finally weariness seized Pan Andrei,--for, to tell the truth, the whole night before he had passed in drinking and frolicking in Upita; but he wished to overcome toil with toil, and rouse himself from unquiet by swift riding; he turned therefore to the soldiers and commanded,-- "Forward!" He shot ahead like an arrow, and after him the whole party. And in those woods and along those empty fields they flew on like that hellish band of knights of the cross of whom people tell in Jmud,--how at times in the middle of bright moonlight nights they appear and rush through the air, announcing war and uncommon calamities. The clatter flew before them and followed behind, from the horses came steam, and only when at the turn of the road the roofs of Lyubich appeared did they slacken their speed. The swinging gate stood open. It astonished Kmita that when the yard was crowded with his men and horses no one came out to see or inquire who they were. He expected to find the windows gleaming with lights, to hear the sound of Uhlik's flageolet, of fiddles, or the joyful shouts of conversation. At that time in two windows of the dining-hall quivered an uncertain light; all the rest of the house was dark, quiet, silent. The sergeant Soroka sprang first from his horse to hold the stirrup for the captain. "Go to sleep," said Kmita; "whoever can find room in the servants' hall, let him sleep there, and others in the stable. Put the horses in the cattle-houses and in the barns, and bring them hay from the shed." "I hear," answered the sergeant. Kmita came down from the horse. The door of the entrance was wide open, and the entrance cold. "Hei! Is there any one here?" cried Kmita. No one answered. "Hei there!" repeated he, more loudly. Silence. "They are drunk!" muttered Pan Andrei. And such rage took possession of him that he began to grit his teeth. While riding he was agitated with anger at the thought that he should find drinking and debauchery; now this silence irritated him still more. He entered the dining-hall. On an enormous table was burning a tallow lamp-pot with a reddish smoking light. The force of the wind which came in from the antechamber deflected the flame so that for a time Pan Andrei could not see anything. Only when the quivering had ceased did he distinguish a row of forms lying just at the wall. "Have they made themselves dead drunk or what?" muttered he, unquietly. Then he drew near with impatience to the side of the first figure. He could not see the face, for it was hidden in the shadow; but by the white leather belt and the white sheath of the flageolet he recognized Pan Uhlik, and began to shake him unceremoniously with his foot. "Get up, such kind of sons! get up!" But Pan Uhlik lay motionless, with his hands fallen without control at the side of his body, and beyond him were lying others. No one yawned, no one quivered, no one woke, no one muttered. At the same moment Kmita noticed that all were lying on their backs in the same position, and a certain fearful presentiment seized him by the heart. Springing to the table, he took with trembling hand the light and thrust it toward the faces of the prostrate men. The hair stood on his head, such a dreadful sight met his eyes. Uhlik he was able to recognize only by his white belt, for his face and his head presented one formless, foul, bloody mass, without eyes, without nose or mouth,--only the enormous mustaches were sticking out of the dreadful pool. Kmita pushed the light farther. Next in order lay Zend, with grinning teeth and eyes protruding, in which in glassy fixedness was terror before death. The third in the row, Ranitski, had his eyes closed, and over his whole face were spots, white, bloody, and dark. Kmita took the light farther. Fourth lay Kokosinski,--the dearest to Kmita of all his officers, being his former near neighbor. He seemed to sleep quietly, but in the side of his neck was to be seen a large wound surely given with a thrust. Fifth in the row lay the gigantic Kulvyets-Hippocentaurus, with the vest torn on his bosom and his face slashed many times. Kmita brought the light near each face; and when at last he brought it to the sixth, Rekuts, it seemed that the lids of the unfortunate victim quivered a little from the gleam. Kmita put the light on the floor and began to shake the wounded man gently. After the eyelids the face began to move, the eyes and mouth opened and closed in turn. "Rekuts, Rekuts, it is I!" said Kmita. The eyes of Rekuts opened for a moment; he recognized the face of his friend, and groaned in a low voice, "Yendrus--a priest--" "Who killed you?" cried Kmita, seizing himself by the hair. "Bu-try-my-" (The Butryms), answered he, in a voice so low that it was barely audible. Then he stretched himself, grew stiff, his open eyes became fixed, and he died. Kmita went in silence to the table, put the tallow lamp upon it, sat down in an armchair, and began to pass his hands over his face like a man who waking from sleep does not know yet whether he is awake or still sees dream figures before his eyes. Then he looked again on the bodies lying in the darkness. Cold sweat came out on his forehead, the hair rose on his head, and suddenly he shouted so terribly that the panes rattled in the windows,-- "Come hither, every living man! come hither!" The soldiers, who had disposed themselves in the servants' hall, heard that cry and fell into the room with a rush. Kmita showed them with his hand the corpses at the wall. "Murdered! murdered!" repeated he, with hoarse voice. They ran to look; some came with a taper, and held it before the eyes of the dead men. After the first moment of astonishment came noise and confusion. Those hurried in who had found places in the stables and barns. The whole house was bright with light, swarming with men; and in the midst of all that whirl, shouting, and questioning, the dead lay at the wall unmoved and quiet, indifferent to everything, and, in contradiction to their own nature, calm. The souls had gone out of them, and their bodies could not be raised by the trumpet to battle, or the sound of the goblets to feasting. Meanwhile in the din of the soldiers shouts of threatening and rage rose higher and higher each instant. Kmita, who till that moment had been as it were unconscious, sprang up suddenly and shouted, "To horse!" Everything living moved toward the door. Half an hour had not passed when more than one hundred horsemen were rushing with breakneck speed over the broad snowy road, and at the head of them flew Pan Andrei, as if possessed of a demon, bareheaded and with a naked sabre in his hand. In the still night was heard on every side the wild shouts: "Slay! kill!" The moon had reached just the highest point on its road through the sky, when suddenly its beams began to be mingled and mixed with a rosy light, rising as it were from under the ground; gradually the heavens grew red and still redder as if from the rising dawn, till at last a bloody glare filled the whole neighborhood. One sea of fire raged over the gigantic village of the Butryms; and the wild soldiers of Kmita, in the midst of smoke, burning, and sparks bursting in columns to the sky, cut down the population, terrified and blinded from fright. The inhabitants of the nearer villages sprang from their sleep. The greater and smaller companies of the Smoky Gostsyeviches and Stakyans, Gashtovts and Domasheviches, collected on the road before their houses, and looking in the direction of the fire, gave alarm from mouth to mouth: "It must be that an enemy has broken in and is burning the Butryms,--that is an unusual fire!" The report of muskets coming at intervals from the distance confirmed this supposition. "Let us go to assist them!" cried the bolder; "let us not leave our brothers to perish!" And when the older ones spoke thus, the younger, who on account of the winter threshing had not gone to Rossyeni, mounted their horses. In Krakin and in Upita they had begun to ring the church bells. In Vodokty a quiet knocking at the door roused Panna Aleksandra. "Olenka, get up!" cried Panna Kulvyets. "Come in, Aunt, what is the matter?" "They are burning Volmontovichi!" "In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost!" "Shots are heard, there is a battle! God have mercy on us!" Olenka screamed terribly; then she sprang out of bed and began to throw on her clothes hurriedly. Her body trembled as in a fever. She alone guessed in a moment what manner of enemy had attacked the ill-fated Butryms. After a while the awakened women of the whole house rushed into the room with crying and sobbing. Olenka threw herself on her knees before an image; they followed her example, and all began to repeat aloud the litany for the dying. They had scarcely gone through half of it when a violent pounding shook the door of the antechamber. The women sprang to their feet; a cry of alarm was rent from their breasts. "Do not open! do not open!" The pounding was heard with redoubled force; it seemed that the door would spring from its hinges. That moment the youth Kostek rushed into the midst of the assembled women. "Panna!" cried he, "some man is knocking; shall I open or not?" "Is he alone?" "Alone." "Go open." The youth hurried away. She, taking a light, passed into the dining-room; after her, Panna Kulvyets and all the spinning-women. She had barely put the light on the table when in the antechamber was heard the rattle of iron bolts, the creak of the opening door; and before the eyes of the women appeared Pan Kmita, terrible, black from smoke, bloody, panting, with madness in his eyes. "My horse has fallen at the forest," cried he; "they are pursuing me!" Panna Aleksandra fixed her eyes on him: "Did you burn Volmontovichi?" "I--I--" He wanted to say something more, when from the side of the road and the woods came the sound of voices and the tramp of horses approaching with uncommon rapidity. "The devils are after my soul; let them have it!" cried Kmita, as if in a fever. Panna Aleksandra that moment turned to the women. "If they ask, say there is no one here; and now go to the servants' hall and come here at daylight!" Then to Kmita: "Go in there," said she, pointing to an adjoining room; and almost by force she pushed him through the open door, which she shut immediately. Meanwhile armed men filled the front yard; and in the twinkle of an eye the Butryms, Gostsyeviches, Domasheviches, with others, burst into the house. Seeing the lady, they halted in the dining-room; but she, standing with a light in her hand, stopped with her person the passage to doors beyond. "Men, what has happened? What do you want?" asked she, without blinking an eye before the terrible looks and the ominous gleam of drawn sabres. "Kmita has burned Volmontovichi!" cried the nobles, in a chorus. "He has slaughtered men, women, children,--Kmita did this." "We have killed his men," said Yuzva Butrym; "now we are seeking his own head." "His head, his blood! Cut down the murderer!" "Pursue him!" cried the lady. "Why do you stand here? Pursue him!" "Is he not hidden here? We found his horse at the woods." "He is not here! The house was closed. Look for him in the stables and barns." "He has gone off to the woods!" cried some noble. "Come, brothers." "Be silent!" roared with powerful voice Yuzva Butrym. "My lady," said he, "do not conceal him! That is a cursed man!" Olenka raised both hands above her head: "I join you in cursing him!" "Amen!" shouted the nobles. "To the buildings, to the woods! We will find him! After the murderer!" "Come on! come on!" The clatter of sabres and tramp of feet was heard again. The nobles hurried out through the porch, and mounted with all speed. A part of them searched still for a time in the stables, the cow-houses, and hay-shed; then their voices began to retreat toward the woods. Panna Aleksandra listened till they had ceased altogether; then she tapped feverishly at the door of the room in which she had hidden Kmita. "There is no one here now, come out." Pan Andrei pushed himself forth from the room as if drunk. "Olenka!" he began. She shook her loosened tresses, which then covered her face like a veil. "I wish not to see you or know you. Take a horse and flee hence!" "Olenka!" groaned Kmita, stretching forth his hands. "There is blood on your hands, as on Cain's!" screamed she, springing back as if at the sight of a serpent. "Be gone, for the ages!" CHAPTER VII. The day rose gray, and lighted a group of ruins in Volmontovichi,--the burned remnants of houses, out-buildings, bodies of people and horses burned or slain with swords. In the ashes amidst dying embers crowds of pale people were seeking for the bodies of the dead or the remains of their property. It was a day of mourning and misfortune for all Lauda. The numerous nobility had obtained, it is true, a victory over Kmita's men, but a grievous and bloody one. Besides the Butryms, who had fallen in greater numbers than the others, there was not a village in which widows were not bewailing husbands, parents sons, or children their fathers. It was the more difficult for the Lauda people to finish the invaders, since the strongest were not at home; only old men or youths of early years took part in the battle. But of Kmita's soldiers not one escaped. Some yielded their lives in Volmontovichi, defending themselves with such rage that they fought after they were wounded; others were caught next day in the woods and killed without mercy. Kmita himself was as if he had dropped into water. The people were lost in surmising what had become of him. Some insisted that he had reached the wilderness of Zyelonka and gone thence to Rogovsk, where the Domasheviches alone might find him. Many too asserted that he had gone over to Hovanski and was bringing the enemy; but these were the fewest, their fears were untimely. Meanwhile the surviving Butryms marched to Vodokty, and disposed themselves as in a camp. The house was full of women and children. Those who could not find a place there went to Mitruny, which Panna Aleksandra gave up to those whose homes had been burned. There were, besides, in Vodokty for defence about a hundred armed men in parties which relieved one another regularly, thinking that Kmita did not consider the affair ended, but might any day make an attempt on the lady with armed hand. The most important houses in the neighborhood, such as the Schyllings, the Sollohubs, and others, sent their attendant Cossacks and haiduks. Vodokty looked like a place awaiting a siege. And Panna Aleksandra went among the armed men, the nobles, the crowds of women, mournful, pale, suffering, hearing the weeping of people, and the curses of men against Pan Kmita,--which pierced her heart like swords, for she was the mediate cause of all the misfortune. For her it was that that frenzied man had come to the neighborhood, disturbed the peace, and left the memory of blood behind, trampled on laws, killed people, visited villages with fire and sword like an infidel, till it was a wonder that one man could commit so much evil in such a short time, and he a man neither entirely wicked nor entirely corrupt. If there was any one who knew this best, it was Panna Aleksandra, who had become acquainted with him most intimately. There was a precipice between Pan Kmita himself and his deeds. But it was for this reason precisely that so much pain was caused Panna Aleksandra by the thought that that man whom she had loved with the whole first impulse of a young heart might be different, that he possessed qualities to make him the model of a knight, of a cavalier, of a neighbor, worthy to receive the admiration and love of men instead of their contempt, and blessings instead of curses. At times, therefore, it seemed to the lady that some species of misfortune, some kind of power, great and unclean, impelled him to all those deeds of violence; and then a sorrow really measureless possessed her for that unfortunate man, and unextinguished love rose anew in her heart, nourished by the fresh remembrance of his knightly form, his words, his imploring, his loving. Meanwhile a hundred complaints were entered against him in the town, a hundred actions threatened, and the starosta, Pan Hlebovich, sent men to seize the criminal. The law was bound to condemn him. Still, from sentences to their execution the distance was great, for disorder increased every hour in the Commonwealth. A terrible war was hanging over the land, and approaching Jmud with bloody steps. The powerful Radzivill of Birji, who was able alone to support the law with arms, was too much occupied with public affairs and still more immersed in great projects touching his own house, which he wished to elevate above all others in the country, even at the cost of the common weal. Other magnates too were thinking more of themselves than of the State. All the bonds in the strong edifice of the Commonwealth had burst from the time of the Cossack war. A country populous, rich, filled with a valiant knighthood, had become the prey of neighbors; and straightway arbitrariness and license raised their heads more and more, and insulted the law, so great was the power which they felt behind them. The oppressed could find the best and almost the only defence against the oppressor in their own sabres; therefore all Lauda, while protesting in the courts against Kmita, did not dismount for a long time, ready to resist force with force. But a month passed, and no tidings of Kmita. People began to breathe with greater freedom. The more powerful nobility withdrew the armed servants whom they had sent to Vodokty as a guard. The lesser nobles were yearning for their labors and occupations at home, and they too dispersed by degrees. But when warlike excitement calmed down, as time passed, an increased desire came to that indigent nobility to overcome the absent man with law and to redress their wrongs before the tribunals. For although decisions could not reach Kmita himself, Lyubich remained a large and handsome estate, a ready reward and a payment for losses endured. Meanwhile Panna Aleksandra restrained with great zeal the desire for lawsuits in the Lauda people. Twice did the elders of Lauda meet at her house for counsel; and she not only took part in these deliberations but presided over them, astonishing all with her woman's wit and keen judgment, so that more than one lawyer might envy her. The elders of Lauda wanted to occupy Lyubich with armed hand and give it to the Butryms, but "the lady" advised against this firmly. "Do not return violence for violence," said she; "if you do, your case will be injured. Let all the innocence be on your side. He is a powerful man and has connections, he will find too in the courts adherents, and if you give the least pretext you may suffer new wrongs. Let your case be so clear that any court, even if made up of his brothers, could not decide otherwise than in your favor. Tell the Butryms to take neither tools nor cattle, and to leave Lyubich completely in peace. Whatever they need I will give them from Mitruny, where there is more than all the property that was at any time in Volmontovichi. And if Pan Kmita should appear here again, leave him in peace till there is a decision, let them make no attempt on his person. Remember that only while he is alive have you some one from whom to recover for your wrongs." Thus spoke the wise lady with prudent intent, and they applauded her wisdom, not seeing that delay might benefit also Pan Andrei, and especially in this that it secured his life. Perhaps too Olenka wished to guard that unfortunate life against sudden attack. But the nobility obeyed her, for they were accustomed from very remote times to esteem as gospel every word that came from the mouth of a Billevich. Lyubich remained intact, and had Pan Andrei appeared he might have settled there quietly for a time. He did not appear, but a month and a half later a messenger came to the lady with a letter. He was some strange man, known to no one. The letter was from Kmita, written in the following words:-- "Beloved of my heart, most precious, unrelinquished Olenka! It is natural for all creatures and especially for men, even the lowest, to avenge wrongs done them, and when a man has suffered evil he will pay it back gladly in kind to the one who inflicted it. If I cut down those insolent nobles, God sees that I did so not through cruelty, but because they murdered my officers in defiance of laws human and divine, without regard to their youth and high birth, with a death so pitiless that the like could not be found among Cossacks or Tartars. I will not deny that wrath more than human possessed me; but who will wonder at wrath which had its origin in the blood of one's friends? The spirits of Kokosinski, Ranitski, Uhlik, Rekuts, Kulvyets, and Zend, of sacred memory; slain in the flower of their age and repute, slain without reason, put arms in my hands when I was just thinking.--and I call God to witness,--just thinking of peace and friendship with the nobles of Lauda, wishing to change my life altogether according to your pleasant counsels. While listening to complaints against me, do not forget my defence, and judge justly. I am sorry now for those people in the village. The innocent may have suffered; but a soldier avenging the blood of his brothers cannot distinguish the innocent from the guilty, and respects no one. God grant that nothing has happened to injure me in your eyes. Atonement for other men's sins and faults and my own just wrath is most bitter to me, for since I have lost you I sleep in despair and I wake in despair, without power to forget either you or my love. Let the tribunals pass sentence on me, unhappy man; let the diets confirm the sentences, let them trumpet me forth to infamy, let the ground open under my feet, I will endure everything, suffer everything, only, for God's sake, cast me not out of your heart! I will do all that they ask, give up Lyubich, give up my property in Orsha,--I have captured rubles buried in the woods, let them take those,--if you will promise to keep faith with me as your late grandfather commands from the other world. You have saved my life, save also my soul; let me repair wrongs, let me change my life for the better; for I see that if you will desert me God will desert me, and despair will impel me to still worse deeds." How many voices of pity rose in the soul of Olenka in defence of Pan Andrei, who can tell! Love flies swiftly, like the seed of a tree borne on by the wind; but when it grows up in the heart like a tree in the ground, you can pluck it out only with the heart. Panna Billevich was of those who love strongly with an honest heart, therefore she covered that letter of Kmita's with tears. But still she could not forget everything, forgive everything after the first word. Kmita's compunction was certainly sincere, but his soul remained wild and his nature untamed; surely it had not changed so much through those events that the future might be thought of without alarm. Not words, but deeds were needed for the future on the part of Pan Andrei. Finally, how could she say to a man who had made the whole neighborhood bloody, whose name no one on either bank of the Lauda mentioned without curses, "Come! in return for the corpses, the burning, the blood, and the tears, I will give you my love and my hand"? Therefore she answered him otherwise:-- "Since I have told you that I do not wish to know you or see you, I remain in that resolve, even though my heart be rent. Wrongs such as you have inflicted on people here are not righted either with property or money, for it is impossible to raise the dead. You have not lost property only, but reputation. Let these nobles whose houses you have burned and whom you have killed forgive you, then I will forgive you; let them receive you, and I will receive you; let them rise up for you first, then I will listen to their intercession. But as this can never be, seek happiness elsewhere; and seek the forgiveness of God before that of man, for you need it more." Panna Aleksandra poured tears on every word of the letter; then she sealed it with the Billevich seal and took it herself to the messenger. "Whence art thou?" asked she, measuring with her glance that strange figure, half peasant, half servant. "From the woods, my lady." "And where is thy master?" "That is not permitted me to say. But he is far from here; I rode five days, and wore out my horse." "Here is a thaler!" said Olenka. "And thy master is well?" "He is as well, the young hero, as an aurochs." "And he is not in hunger or poverty?" "He is a rich lord." "Go with God." "I bow to my lady's feet." "Tell thy master--wait--tell thy master--may God aid him!" The peasant went away; and again began to pass days, weeks, without tidings of Kmita, but tidings of public affairs came worse and worse. The armies of Moscow under Hovanski spread more and more widely over the Commonwealth. Without counting the lands of the Ukraine, in the Grand Duchy of Lithuania alone, the provinces of Polotsk, Smolensk, Vitebsk, Mstislavsk, Minsk, and Novgorodek were occupied; only a part of Vilna, Brest-Litovsk, Trotsk, and the starostaship of Jmud breathed yet with free breast, but even these expected guests from day to day. The Commonwealth had descended to the last degree of helplessness, since it was unable to offer resistance to just those forces' which hitherto had been despised and which had always been beaten. It is true that those forces were assisted by the unextinguished and re-arisen rebellion of Hmelnitski, a genuine hundred-headed hydra; but in spite of the rebellion, in spite of the exhaustion of forces in preceding wars, both statesmen and warriors gave assurance that the Grand Duchy alone might be and was in a condition not only to hurl back attack, but to carry its banners victoriously beyond its own borders. Unfortunately internal dissension stood in the way of that strength, paralyzing the efforts even of those citizens who were willing to sacrifice their lives and fortunes. Meanwhile thousands of fugitives had taken refuge in the lands still unoccupied,--both nobles and common people. Towns, villages, and hamlets in Jmud were filled with men brought by the misfortunes of war to want and despair. The inhabitants of the towns were unable either to give lodgings to all or to give them sufficient food; therefore people died not infrequently of hunger,--namely, those of low degree. Not seldom they took by force what was refused them; hence tumults, battles, and robbery became more and more common. The winter was excessive in its severity. At last April came, and deep snow was lying not only in the forests but on the fields. When the supplies of the preceding year were exhausted and there were no new ones yet, Famine, the brother of War, began to rage, and extended its rule more and more widely. It was not difficult for the wayfarer to find corpses of men lying in the field, at the roadside, emaciated, gnawed by wolves, which having multiplied beyond example approached the villages and hamlets in whole packs. Their howling was mingled with the cries of people for charity; for in the woods, in the fields, and around the many villages as well, there gleamed in the night-time fires at which needy wretches warmed their chilled limbs; and when any man rode past they rushed after him, begging for a copper coin, for bread, for alms, groaning, cursing, threatening all at the same time. Superstitious dread seized the minds of men. Many said that those wars so disastrous, and those misfortunes till then unexampled, were coupled with the name of the king; they explained readily that the letters "J. C. K." stamped on the coins signified not only "Joannes Casimirus Rex," but also "Initium Calamitatis Regni" (beginning of calamity for the kingdom). And if in the provinces, which were not yet occupied by war, such terror rose with disorder, it is easy to understand what happened in those which were trampled by the fiery foot of war. The whole Commonwealth was distracted, torn by parties, sick and in a fever, like a man before death. New wars were foretold, both foreign and domestic. In fact, motives were not wanting. Various powerful houses in the Commonwealth, seized by the storm of dissension, considered one another as hostile States, and with them entire lands and districts formed hostile camps. Precisely such was the case in Lithuania, where the fierce quarrel between Yanush Radzivill, the grand hetman, and Gosyevski, full hetman, and also under-treasurer of Lithuania, became almost open war. On the side of the under-treasurer stood the powerful Sapyeha, to whom the greatness of the house of Radzivill had long been as salt in the eye. These partisans loaded the grand hetman with heavy reproaches indeed,--that wishing glory for himself alone, he had destroyed the army at Shklov and delivered the country to plunder; that he desired more than the fortune of the Commonwealth, the right for his house of sitting in the diets of the German Empire; that he even imagined for himself an independent crown, and that he persecuted the Catholics. It came more than once to battles between the partisans of both sides, as if without the knowledge of their patrons; and the patrons made complaints against one another in Warsaw. Their quarrels were fought out in the diets; at home license was let loose and disobedience established. Such a man as Kmita might be sure of the protection of one of those magnates the moment he stood on his side against his opponent. Meanwhile the enemy were stopped only here and there by a castle; everywhere else the advance was free and without opposition. Under such circumstances all in the Lauda region had to be on the alert and under arms, especially since there were no hetmans near by, for both hetmans were struggling with the troops of the enemy without being able to effect much, it is true, but at least worrying them with attacks and hindering approach to the provinces still unoccupied. Especially did Pavel Sapyeha show resistance and win glory. Yanush Radzivill, a famous warrior, whose name up to the defeat at Shklov had been a terror to the enemy, gained however a number of important advantages. Gosyevski now fought, now endeavored to restrain the advance of the enemy by negotiations; both leaders assembled troops from winter quarters and whencesoever they could, knowing that with spring war would blaze up afresh. But troops were few, and the treasury empty; the general militia in the provinces already occupied could not assemble, for the enemy prevented them. "It was necessary to think of that before the affair at Shklov," said the partisans of Grosyevski; "now it is too late." And in truth it was too late. The troops of the kingdom could not give aid, for they were all in the Ukraine and had grievous work against Hmelnitski, Sheremetyeff, and Buturlin. Tidings from the Ukraine of heroic battles, of captured towns, of campaigns without parallel, strengthened failing hearts somewhat, and gave courage for defence. The names of the hetmans of the kingdom thundered with a loud glory, and with them the name of Stefan Charnetski was heard more and more frequently in the mouths of men; but glory could not take the place of troops nor serve as an auxiliary. The hetmans of Lithuania therefore retreated slowly, without ceasing to fight among themselves. At last Radzivill was in Jmud. With him came momentary peace in Lauda. But the Calvinists, emboldened by the vicinity of their chief, raised their heads in the towns, inflicting wrongs and attacking Catholic churches. As an offset, the leaders of various volunteer bands and parties--it is unknown whose--who under the colors of Radzivill, Grosyevski, and Sapyeha had been ruining the country, vanished in the forests, discharged their ruffians, and let people breathe more freely. Since it is easy to pass from despair to hope, a better feeling sprang up at once in Lauda. Panna Aleksandra lived quietly in Vodokty. Pan Volodyovski, who dwelt continually in Patsuneli, and just now had begun to return gradually to health, gave out the tidings that the king with newly levied troops would come in the spring, when the war would take another turn. The encouraged nobles began to go out to the fields with their ploughs. The snows too had melted, and on the birch-trees the first buds were opening. Lauda River overflowed widely. A milder sky shone over that region, and a better spirit entered the people. Meanwhile an event took place which disturbed anew the quiet of Lauda, tore away hands from the plough, and let not the sabres be stained with red rust. CHAPTER VIII. Pan Volodyovski--a famous and seasoned soldier, though a young man--was living, as we have said, in Patsuneli with the patriarch of the place, Pakosh Gashtovt, who had the reputation of being the wealthiest noble among all the small brotherhood of Lauda. In fact, he had dowered richly with good silver his three daughters who had married Butryms, for he gave to each one a hundred thalers, besides cattle, and an outfit so handsome that not one noble woman or family had a better. The other three daughters were at home unmarried; and they nursed Volodyovski, whose arm was well at one time and sore at another, when wet weather appeared in the world. All the Lauda people were occupied greatly with that arm, for Lauda men had seen it working at Shklov and Sepyel, and in general they were of the opinion that it would be difficult to find a better in all Lithuania. The young colonel, therefore, was surrounded with exceeding honor in all the neighborhoods. The Gashtovts, the Domasheviches, the Gostsyeviches, the Stakyans, and with them others, sent faithfully to Patsuneli fish, mushrooms, and game for Volodyovski, and hay for his horses, so that the knight and his servants might want for nothing. Whenever he felt worse they vied with one another in going to Ponyevyej for a barber;[10] in a word, all strove to be first in serving him. Pan Volodyovski was so much at ease that though he might have had more comforts in Kyedani and a noted physician at his call, still he remained in Patsuneli. Old Gashtovt was glad to be his host, and almost blew away the dust from before him, for it increased his importance extremely in Lauda that he had a guest so famous that he might have added to the importance of Radzivill himself. After the defeat and expulsion of Kmita, the nobility, in love with Volodyovski, searched in their own heads for counsel, and formed the project of marrying him to Panna Aleksandra. "Why seek a husband for her through the world?" said the old men at a special meeting at which they discussed this question. "Since that traitor has so befouled himself with infamous deeds that if he is now alive he should be delivered to the hangman, the lady must cast him out of her heart, for thus was provision made in the will by a special clause. Let Pan Volodyovski marry her. As guardians we can permit that, and she will thus find an honorable cavalier, and we a neighbor and leader." When this proposition was adopted unanimously, the old men went first to Volodyovski, who, without thinking long, agreed to everything, and then to "the lady," who with still less hesitation opposed it decisively. "My grandfather alone had the right to dispose of Lyubich," said she, "and the property cannot be taken from Pan Kmita until the courts punish him with loss of life; and as to my marrying, do not even mention it. I have too great sorrow on my mind to be able to think of such a thing. I have cast that man out of my heart; but this one, even though the most worthy, bring not hither, for I will not receive him." There was no answer to such a resolute refusal, and the nobles returned home greatly disturbed. Less disturbed was Pan Volodyovski, and least of all the young daughters of Gashtovt,--Terka, Maryska, and Zonia. They were well-grown, blooming maidens, with hair like flax, eyes like violets, and broad shoulders. In general the Patsuneli girls were famed for beauty; when they went in a flock to church, they were like flowers of the field. Besides, old Gashtovt spared no expense on the education of his daughters. The organist from Mitruny had taught them reading and church hymns, and the eldest, Terka, to play on the lute. Having kind hearts, they nursed Volodyovski sedulously, each striving to surpass the others in watchfulness and care. People said that Maryska was in love with the young knight; but the whole truth was not in that talk, for all three of them, not she alone, were desperately in love with Pan Michael. He loved them too beyond measure, especially Maryska and Zonia, for Terka had the habit of complaining too much of the faithlessness of men. It happened often in the long winter evenings that old Gashtovt, after drinking his punch, went to bed, and the maidens with Pan Michael sat by the chimney; the charming Terka spinning flax, mild Maryska amusing herself with picking down, and Zonia reeling thread from the spindle into skeins. But when Volodyovski began to tell of the wars or of wonders which he had seen in the great houses of magnates, work ceased, the girls gazed at him as at a rainbow, and one would cry out in astonishment, "Oh! I do not live in the world! Oh, my dears!" and another would say, "I shall not close an eye the whole night!" Volodyovski, as he returned to health and began at times to use his sword with perfect freedom, was more joyous and told stories more willingly. A certain evening they were sitting as usual, after supper, in front of the chimney, from beneath which the light fell sharply on the entire dark room. They began to chat; the girls wanted stories, and Volodyovski begged Terka to sing something with the lute. "Sing something yourself," answered she, pushing away the instrument which Volodyovski was handing her; "I have work. Having been in the world, you must have learned many songs." "True, I have learned some. Let it be so to-day; I will sing first, and you afterward. Your work will not run away. If a woman had asked, you would not have refused; you are always opposed to men." "For they deserve it." "And do you disdain me too?" "Oh, why should I? But sing something." Volodyovski touched the lute; he assumed a comic air, and began to sing in falsetto,-- "I have come to such places Where no girl will have me!--" "Oh, that is untrue for you," interrupted Maryska, blushing as red as a raspberry. "That's a soldier's song," said Volodyovski, "which we used to sing in winter quarters, wishing some good soul to take pity on us." "I would be the first to take pity on you." "Thanks to you. If that is true, then I have no reason to sing longer, and I will give the lute into worthier hands." Terka did not reject the instrument this time, for she was moved by Volodyovski's song, in which there was more cunning indeed than truth. She struck the strings at once, and with a simpering mien began,-- "For berries of elder go not to the green wood. Trust not a mad dug, believe not a young man. Each man in his heart bears rank poison; If he says that he loves thee, say No." Volodyovski grew so mirthful that he held his sides from laughter, and cried out: "All the men are traitors? But the military, my benefactress!" Panna Terka opened her mouth wider and sang with redoubled energy,-- "Far worse than mad dogs are they, far worse, oh, far worse!" "Do not mind Terka; she is always that way," said Marysia.[11] "Why not mind," asked Volodyovski, "when she speaks so ill of the whole military order that from shame I know not whither to turn my eyes?" "You want me to sing, and then make sport of me and laugh at me," said Terka, pouting. "I do not attack the singing, but the cruel meaning of it for the military," answered the knight. "As to the singing I must confess that in Warsaw I have not heard such remarkable trills. All that would be needed is to dress you in trousers. You might sing at St. Yan's, which is the cathedral church, and in which the king and queen have their box." "Why dress her in trousers?" asked Zonia, the youngest, made curious by mention of Warsaw, the king, and the queen. "For in Warsaw women do not sing in the choir, but men and young boys,--the men with voices so deep that no aurochs could bellow like them, and the boys with voices so thin that on a violin no sound could be thinner. I heard them many a time when we came, with our great and lamented voevoda of Rus, to the election of our present gracious lord. It is a real wonder, so that the soul goes out of a man. There is a host of musicians there: Forster, famous for his subtle trills, and Kapula, and Gian Battista, and Elert, a master at the lute, and Marek, and Myelchevski,--beautiful composers. When all these are performing together in the church, it is as if you were listening to choirs of seraphim in the flesh." "Oh, that is as true as if living!" said Marysia, placing her hands together. "And the king,--have you seen him often?" asked Zonia. "I have spoken with him as with you. After the battle of Berestechko he pressed my head. He is a valiant lord, and so kind that whoso has once seen him must love him." "We love him without having seen him. Has he the crown always on his head?" "If he were to go around every day in the crown, his head would need to be iron. The crown rests in the church, from which its importance increases; but his Grace the King wears a black cap studded with diamonds from which light flashes through the whole castle." "They say that the castle of the king is even grander than that at Kyedani?" "That at Kyedani! The Kyedani castle is a mere plaything in comparison. The king's castle is a tremendous building, all walled in so that you cannot see a stick of wood. Around are two rows of chambers, one more splendid than the other. In them you can see different wars and victories painted with brushes on the wall,--such as the battles of Sigismund III. and Vladislav; a man could not satisfy himself with looking at them, for everything is as if living. The wonder is that they do not move, and that those who are fighting do not shout. But not even the best artist can paint men to shout. Some chambers are all gold; chairs and benches covered with brocade or cloth of gold, tables of marble and alabaster, and the caskets, bottle-cases, clocks showing the hour of day and night, could not be described on an ox-hide. The king and queen walk through those chambers and delight themselves in plenty; in the evening they have a theatre for their still greater amusement--" "What is a theatre?" "How can I tell you? It is a place where they play comedies and exhibit Italian dances in a masterly manner. It is a room so large that no church is the equal of it, all with beautiful columns. On one side sit those who wish to see, and on the other the arts are exhibited. Curtains are raised and let down; some are turned with screws to different sides. Darkness and clouds are shown at one moment; at another pleasant light. Above is the sky with the sun or the stars; below you may see at times hell dreadful--" "Oh, God save us!" cried the girls. "--with devils. Sometimes the boundless sea; on it ships and sirens. Some persons come down from the skies; others rise out of the earth." "But I should not like to see hell," cried Zonia, "and it is a wonder to me that people do not run away from such a terrible sight." "Not only do they not run away, but they applaud from pleasure," said Volodyovski; "for it is all pretended, not real, and those who take farewell do not go away. There is no evil spirit in the affair, only the invention of men. Even bishops come with his Grace the King, and various dignitaries who go with the king afterward and sit down to a feast before sleeping." "And what do they do in the morning and during the day?" "That depends on their wishes. When they rise in the morning they take a bath. There is a room in which there is no floor, only a tin tank shining like silver, and in the tank water." "Water, in a room--have you heard?" "It is true; and it comes and goes as they wish. It can be warm or altogether cold; for there are pipes with spigots, running here and there. Turn a spigot and the water runs till it is possible to swim in the room as in a lake. No king has such a castle as our gracious lord, that is known, and foreign proverbs tell the same. Also no king reigns over such a worthy people; for though there are various polite nations on earth, still God in his mercy has adorned ours beyond others." "Our king is happy!" sighed Terka. "It is sure that he would be happy were it not for unfortunate wars which press down the Commonwealth in return for our discords and sins. All this rests on the shoulders of the king, and besides at the diets they reproach him for our faults. And why is he to blame because people will not obey him? Grievous times have come on the country,--such grievous times as have not been hitherto. Our most despicable enemy now despises us,--us who till recently carried on victorious wars against the Emperor of Turkey. This is the way that God punishes pride. Praise be to Him that my arm works well in its joints,--for it is high time to remember the country and move to the field. 'Tis a sin to be idle in time of such troubles." "Do not mention going away." "It is difficult to do otherwise. It is pleasant for me here among you; but the better it is, the worse it is. Let men in the Diet give wise reasons, but a soldier longs for the field. While there is life there is service. After death God, who looks into the heart, will reward best those who serve not for advancement, but through love of the country; and indeed the number of such is decreasing continually, and that is why the black hour has come." Marysia's eyes began to grow moist; at last they were filled with tears which flowed down her rosy cheeks. "You will go and forget us, and we shall pine away here. Who in this place will defend us from attack?" "I go, but I shall preserve my gratitude. It is rare to find such honest people as in Patsuneli. Are you always afraid of this Kmita?" "Of course. Mothers frighten their children with him as with a werewolf." "He will not come back, and even if he should he will not have with him those wild fellows, who, judging from what people say, were worse than he. It is a pity indeed that such a good soldier stained his reputation and lost his property." "And the lady." "And the lady. They say much good in her favor." "Poor thing! for whole days she just cries and cries." "H'm!" said Volodyovski; "but is she not crying for Kmita?" "Who knows?" replied Marysia. "So much the worse for her, for he will not come back. The hetman sent home a part of the Lauda men, and those forces are here now. We wanted to cut him down at once without the court. He must know that the Lauda men have returned, and he will not show even his nose." "Likely our men must march again," said Terka, "for they received only leave to come home for a short time." "Eh!" said Volodyovski, "the hetman let them come, for there is no money in the treasury. It is pure despair! When people are most needed they have to be sent away. But good-night! it is time to sleep, and let none of you dream of Pan Kmita with a fiery sword." Volodyovski rose from the bench and prepared to leave the room, but had barely made a step toward the closet when suddenly there was a noise in the entrance and a shrill voice began to cry outside the door-- "Hei there! For God's mercy! open quickly, quickly!" The girls were terribly frightened. Volodyovski sprang for his sabre to the closet, but had not been able to get it when Terka opened the door. An unknown man burst into the room and threw himself at the feet of the knight. "Rescue, serene Colonel!--The lady is carried away!" "What lady?" "In Vodokty." "Kmita!" cried Volodyovski. "Kmita!" screamed the girls. "Kmita!" repeated the messenger. "Who art thou?" asked Volodyovski. "The manager in Vodokty." "We know him," said Terka; "he brought herbs for you." Meanwhile the drowsy old Gashtovt came forth from behind the stove, and in the door appeared two attendants of Pan Volodyovski whom the uproar had drawn to the room. "Saddle the horses!" cried Volodyovski. "Let one of you hurry to the Butryms, the other give a horse to me!" "I have been already at the Butryms," said the manager, "for they are nearer to us; they sent me to your grace." "When was the lady carried away?" asked Volodyovski. "Just now--the servants are fighting yet--I rushed for a horse." Old Gashtovt rubbed his eyes. "What's that? The lady carried off?" "Yes; Kmita carried her off," answered Volodyovski. "Let us go to the rescue!" Then he turned to the messenger: "Hurry to the Domasheviches; let them come with muskets." "Now, my kids," cried the old man suddenly to his daughters, "hurry to the village, wake up the nobles, let them take their sabres! Kmita has carried off the lady--is it possible--God forgive him, the murderer, the ruffian! Is it possible?" "Let us go to rouse them," said Volodyovski; "that will be quicker! Come; the horses are ready, I hear them." In a moment they mounted, as did also the two attendants, Ogarek and Syruts. All pushed on their way between the cottages of the village, striking the doors and windows, and crying with sky-piercing voices: "To your sabres, to your sabres! The lady of Vodokty is carried away! Kmita is in the neighborhood!" Hearing these cries, this or that man rushed forth from his cottage, looked to see what was happening, and when he had learned what the matter was, fell to shouting himself, "Kmita is in the neighborhood; the lady is carried away!" And shouting in this fashion, he rushed headlong to the out-buildings to saddle his horse, or to his cottage to feel in the dark for his sabre on the wall. Every moment more voices cried, "Kmita is in the neighborhood!" There was a stir in the village, lights began to shine, the cry of women was heard, the barking of dogs. At last the nobles came out on the road,--some mounted, some on foot. Above the multitude of heads glittered in the night sabres, pikes, darts, and even iron forks. Volodyovski surveyed the company, sent some of them immediately in different directions, and moved forward himself with the rest. The mounted men rode in front, those on foot followed, and they marched toward Volmontovichi to join the Butryms. The hour was ten in the evening, and the night clear, though the moon had not risen. Those of the nobles whom the grand hetman had sent recently from the war dropped into ranks at once; the others, namely the infantry, advanced with less regularity, making a clatter with their weapons, talking and yawning aloud, at times cursing that devil of a Kmita who had robbed them of pleasant rest. In this fashion they reached Volmontovichi, at the edge of which an armed band pushed out to meet them. "Halt! who goes?" called voices from that band. "The Gashtovts!" "We are the Butryms. The Domasheviches have come already." "Who is leading you?" asked Volodyovski. "Yuzva the Footless at the service of the colonel." "Have you news?" "He took her to Lyubich. They went through the swamp to avoid Volmontovichi." "To Lyubich?" asked Volodyovski, in wonder. "Can he think of defending himself there? Lyubich is not a fortress, is it?" "It seems he trusts in his strength. There are two hundred with him. No doubt he wants to take the property from Lyubich; they have wagons and a band of led horses. It must be that he did not know of our return from the army, for he acts very boldly." "That is good for us!" said Volodyovski. "He will not escape this time. How many guns have you?" "We, the Butryms, have thirty; the Domasheviches twice as many." "Very good. Let fifty men with muskets go with you to defend the passage in the swamps, quickly; the rest will come with me. Remember the axes." "According to command." There was a movement; the little division under Yuzva the Footless went forward at a trot to the swamp. A number of tens of Butryms who had been sent for other nobles now came up. "Are the Gostsyeviches to be seen?" asked Volodyovski. "Yes, Colonel. Praise be to God!" cried the newly arrived. "The Gostsyeviches are coming; they can be heard through the woods. You know that they carried her to Lyubich?" "I know. He will not go far with her." There was indeed one danger to his insolent venture on which Kmita had not reckoned; he knew not that a considerable force of the nobles had just returned home. He judged that the villages were as empty as at the time of his first stay in Lyubich; while on the present occasion counting the Gostsyeviches, without the Stakyans, who could not come up in season, Volodyovski was able to lead against him about three hundred sabres held by men accustomed to battle and trained. In fact, more and more nobles joined Volodyovski as he advanced. At last came the Gostsyeviches, who had been expected till that moment. Volodyovski drew up the division, and his heart expanded at sight of the order and ease with which the men stood in ranks. At the first glance it was clear that they were soldiers, not ordinary untrained nobles. Volodyovski rejoiced for another reason; he thought to himself that soon he would lead them to more distant places. They moved then on a swift march toward Lyubich by the pine-woods through which Kmita had rushed the winter before. It was well after midnight. The moon sailed out at last in the sky, and lighting the woods, the road, and the marching warriors, broke its pale rays on the points of the pikes, and was reflected on the gleaming sabres. The nobles talked in a low voice of the unusual event which had dragged them from their beds. "Various people have been going around here," said one of the Domasheviches; "we thought they were deserters, but they were surely his spies." "Of course. Every day strange minstrels used to visit Vodokty as if for alms," said others. "And what kind of soldiers has Kmita?" "The servants in Vodokty say they are Cossacks. It is certain that Kmita has made friends with Hovanski or Zolotarenko. Hitherto he was a murderer, now he is an evident traitor." "How could he bring Cossacks thus far?" "With such a great band it is not easy to pass. Our first good company would have stopped him on the road." "Well, they might go through the forests. Besides, are there few lords travelling with domestic Cossacks? Who can tell them from the enemy? If these men are asked they will say that they are domestic Cossacks." "He will defend himself," said one of the Gostsyeviches, "for he is a brave and resolute man; but our colonel will be a match for him." "The Butryms too have vowed that even if they have to fall one on the other, he will not leave there alive. They are the most bitter against him." "But if we kill him, from whom will they recover their losses? Better take him alive and give him to justice." "What is the use in thinking of courts now when all have lost their heads? Do you know that people say war may come from the Swedes?" "May God preserve us from that! The Moscow power and Hmelnitski at present; only the Swedes are wanting, and then the last day of the Commonwealth." At this moment Volodyovski riding in advance turned and said, "Quiet there, gentlemen!" The nobles grew silent, for Lyubich was in sight. In a quarter of an hour they had come within less than forty rods of the building. All the windows were illuminated; the light shone into the yard, which was full of armed men and horses. Nowhere sentries, no precautions,--it was evident that Kmita trusted too much in his strength. When he had drawn still nearer, Pan Volodyovski with one glance recognized the Cossacks against whom he had warred so much during the life of the great Yeremi, and later under Radzivill. "If those are strange Cossacks, then that ruffian has passed the limit." He looked farther; brought his whole party to a halt. There was a terrible bustle in the court. Some Cossacks were giving light with torches; others were running in every direction, coming out of the house and going in again, bringing out things, packing bags into the wagons; others were leading horses from the stable, driving cattle from the stalls. Cries, shouts, commands, crossed one another in every direction. The gleam of torches lighted as it were the moving of a tenant to a new estate on St. John's Eve. Kryshtof, the oldest among the Domasheviches, pushed up to Volodyovski and said, "They want to pack all Lyubich into wagons." "They will take away," answered Volodyovski, "neither Lyubich nor their own skins. I do not recognize Kmita, who is an experienced soldier. There is not a single sentry." "Because he has great force,--it seems to me more than three hundred strong. If we had not returned he might have passed with the wagons through all the villages." "Is this the only road to the house?" asked Volodyovski. "The only one, for in the rear are ponds and swamps." "That is well. Dismount!" Obedient to this command, the nobles sprang from their saddles. The rear ranks of infantry deployed in a long line, and began to surround the house and the buildings. Volodyovski with the main division advanced directly on the gate. "Wait the command!" said he, in a low voice. "Fire not before the order." A few tens of steps only separated the nobles from the gate when they were seen at last from the yard. Men sprang at once to the fence, bent forward, and peering carefully into the darkness, called threateningly, "Hei! Who are there?" "Halt!" cried Volodyovski; "fire!" Shots from all the guns which the nobles carried thundered together; but the echo had not come back from the building when the voice of Volodyovski was heard again: "On the run!" "Kill! slay!" cried the Lauda men, rushing forward like a torrent. The Cossacks answered with shots, but they had not time to reload. The throng of nobles rushed against the gate, which soon fell before the pressure of armed men. A struggle began to rage in the yard, among the wagons, horses, and bags. The powerful Butryms, the fiercest in hand-to-hand conflict and the most envenomed against Kmita, advanced in line. They went like a herd of stags bursting through a growth of young trees, breaking, trampling, destroying, and cutting wildly. Alter them rolled the Domasheviches and the Gostsyeviches. Kmita's Cossacks defended themselves manfully from behind the wagons and packs; they began to fire too from all the windows of the house and from the roof,--but rarely, for the trampled torches were quenched, and it was difficult to distinguish their own from the enemy. After a while the Cossacks were pushed from the yard and the house to the stables; cries for quarter were heard. The nobles had triumphed. But when they were alone in the yard, fire from the house increased at once. All the windows were bristling with muskets, and a storm of bullets began to fall on the yard. The greater part of the Cossacks had taken refuge in the house. "To the doors!" cried Volodyovski. In fact, the discharges from the windows and from the roof could not injure those at the very walls. The position, however, of the besiegers was difficult. They could not think of storming the windows, for fire would greet them straight in the face. Volodyovski therefore commanded to hew down the doors. But that was not easy, for they were bolts rather than doors, made of oak pieces fixed crosswise and fastened with many gigantic nails, on the strong heads of which axes were dented without breaking the doors. The most powerful men pushed then from time to time with their shoulders, but in vain. Behind the doors wore iron bars, and besides they were supported inside by props. But the Butryms hewed with rage. At the doors of the kitchen leading also to the storehouse the Domasheviches and Gashtovts were storming. After vain efforts of an hour the men at the axes were relieved. Some cross-pieces had fallen, but in place of them appeared gun-barrels. Shots sounded again. Two Butryms fell to the ground with pierced breasts. The others, instead of being put to disorder, hewed still more savagely. By command of Volodyovski the openings were stopped with bundles of coats. Now in the direction of the road new shouts were heard from the Stakyans, who had come to the aid of their brethren; and following them were armed peasants from Vodokty. The arrival of these reinforcements had evidently disturbed the besieged, for straightway a voice behind the door called loudly: "Stop there! do not hew! listen! Stop, a hundred devils take you! let us talk." Volodyovski gave orders to stop the work and asked; "Who is speaking?" "The banneret of Orsha, Kmita; and with whom am I speaking?" "Col. Michael Volodyovski." "With the forehead!" answered the voice from behind the door. "There is no time for greetings. What is your wish?" "It would be more proper for me to ask what you want. You do not know me, nor I you; why attack me?" "Traitor!" cried Volodyovski. "With me are the men of Lauda who have returned from the war, and they have accounts with you for robbery, for blood shed without cause and for the lady whom you have carried away. But do you know what _raptus puellæ_ means? You must yield your life." A moment of silence followed. "You would not call me traitor a second time," said Kmita, "were it not for the door between us." "Open it, then! I do not hinder." "More than one dog from Lauda will cover himself with his legs before it is open. You will not take me alive." "Then we will drag you out dead, by the hair. All one to us!" "Listen with care, note what I tell you! If you do not let us go, I have a barrel of powder here, and the match is burning already. I'll blow up the house and all who are in it with myself, so help me God! Come now and take me!" This time a still longer silence followed. Volodyovski sought an answer in vain. The nobles began to look at one another in fear. There was so much wild energy in the words of Kmita that all believed his threat. The whole victory might be turned into dust by one spark, and Panna Billevich lost forever. "For God's sake!" muttered one of the Butryms, "he is a madman. He is ready to do what he says." Suddenly a happy thought came to Volodyovski, as it seemed to him. "There is another way!" cried he. "Meet me, traitor, with a sabre. If you put me down, you will go away in freedom." For a time there was no answer. The hearts of the Lauda men beat unquietly. "With a sabre?" asked Kmita, at length. "Can that be?" "If you are not afraid, it will be." "The word of a cavalier that I shall go away in freedom?" "The word--" "Impossible!" cried a number of voices among the Butryms. "Quiet, a hundred devils!" roared Volodyovski; "if not, then let him blow you up with himself." The Butryms were silent; after a while one of them said, "Let it be as you wish." "Well, what is the matter there?" asked Kmita, derisively. "Do the gray coats agree?" "Yes, and they will take oath on their swords, if you wish." "Let them take oath." "Come together, gentlemen, come together!" cried Volodyovski to the nobles who were standing under the walls and surrounding the whole house. After a while all collected at the main door, and soon the news that Kmita wanted to blow himself up with powder spread on every side. They were as if petrified with terror. Meanwhile Volodyovski raised his voice and said amid silence like that of the grave,-- "I take you all present here to witness that I have challenged Pan Kmita, the banneret of Orsha, to a duel, and I have promised that if he puts me down he shall go hence in freedom, without obstacle from you; to this you must swear on your sword-hilts, in the name of God and the holy cross--" "But wait!" cried Kmita,--"in freedom with all my men, and I take the lady with me." "The lady will remain here," answered Volodyovski, "and the men will go as prisoners to the nobles." "That cannot be." "Then blow yourself up with powder! We have already mourned for her; as to the men, ask them what they prefer." Silence followed. "Let it be so," said Kmita, after a time. "If I do not take her to-day, I will in a month. You will not hide her under the ground! Take the oath!" "Take the oath!" repeated Volodyovski. "We swear by the Most High God and the Holy Cross. Amen!" "Well, come out, come out!" cried Volodyovski. "You are in a hurry to the other world?" "No matter, no matter, only come out quickly." The iron bars holding the door on the inside began to groan. Volodyovski pushed back, and with him the nobles, to make room. Soon the door opened, and in it appeared Pan Andrei, tall, straight as a poplar. The dawn was already coming, and the first pale light of day fell on his daring, knightly, and youthful face. He stopped in the door, looked boldly on the crowd of nobles, and said,-- "I have trusted in you. God knows whether I have done well, but let that go. Who here is Pan Volodyovski?" The little colonel stepped forward. "I am!" answered he. "Oh! you are not like a giant," said Kmita, with sarcastic reference to Volodyovski's stature, "I expected to find a more considerable figure, though I must confess you are evidently a soldier of experience." "I cannot say the same of you, for you have neglected sentries. If you are the same at the sabre as at command, I shall not have work." "Where shall we fight?" asked Kmita, quickly. "Here,--the yard is as level as a table." "Agreed! Prepare for death." "Are you so sure?" "It is clear that you have never been in Orsha, since you doubt. Not only am I sure, but I am sorry, for I have heard of you as a splendid soldier. Therefore I say for the last time, let me go! We do not know each other; why should we stand the one in the way of the other? Why attack me? The maiden is mine by the will, as well as this property; and God knows I am only seeking my own. It is true that I cut down the nobles in Volmontovichi, but let God decide who committed the first wrong. Whether my officers were men of violence or not, we need not discuss; it is enough that they did no harm to any one here, and they were slaughtered to the last man because they wanted to dance with girls in a public house. Well, let blood answer blood! After that my soldiers were cut to pieces. I swear by the wounds of God that I came to these parts without evil intent, and how was I received? But let wrong balance wrong, I will still add from my own and make losses good in neighbor fashion. I prefer that to another way." "And what kind of people have you here? Where did you get these assistants?" asked Volodyovski. "Where I got them I got them. I did not bring them against the country, but to obtain my own rights." "Is that the kind of man you are? So for private affairs you have joined the enemy. And with what have you paid him for this service, if not with treason? No, brother, I should not hinder you from coming to terms with the nobles, but to call in the enemy is another thing. You will not creep out. Stand up now, stand up, or I shall say that you are a coward, though you give yourself out as a master from Orsha." "You would have it," said Kmita, taking position. But Volodyovski did not hurry, and not taking his sabre out yet, he looked around on the sky. Day was already coming in the east. The first golden and azure stripes were extended in a belt of light, but in the yard it was still gloomy enough, and just in front of the house complete darkness reigned. "The day begins well," said Volodyovski, "but the sun will not rise soon. Perhaps you would wish to have light?" "It is all one to me." "Gentlemen!" cried Volodyovski, turning to the nobles, "go for some straw and for torches; it will be clearer for us in this Orsha dance." The nobles, to whom this humorous tone of the young colonel gave wonderful consolation, rushed quickly to the kitchen. Some of them fell to collecting the torches trampled at the time of the battle, and in a little while nearly fifty red flames were gleaming in the semi-darkness of the early morning. Volodyovski showed them with his sabre to Kmita. "Look, a regular funeral procession!" And Kmita answered at once: "They are burying a colonel, so there must be parade." "You are a dragon!" Meanwhile the nobles formed in silence a circle around the knights, and raised the burning torches aloft; behind them others took their places, curious and disquieted; in the centre the opponents measured each other with their eyes. A grim silence began; only burned coals fell with a crackle to the ground. Volodyovski was as lively as a goldfinch on a bright morning. "Begin!" said Kmita. The first clash raised an echo in the heart of every onlooker. Volodyovski struck as if unwillingly; Kmita warded and struck in his turn; Volodyovski warded. The dry clash grew more rapid. All held breath. Kmita attacked with fury. Volodyovski put his left hand behind his back and stood quietly, making very careless, slight, almost imperceptible movements; it seemed that he wished merely to defend himself, and at the same time spare his opponent. Sometimes he pushed a short step backward, again he advanced; apparently he was studying the skill of Kmita. Kmita was growing heated; Volodyovski was cool as a master testing his pupil, and all the time calmer and calmer. At last, to the great surprise of the nobles, he said,-- "Now let us talk; it will not last long. Ah, ha! is that the Orsha method? 'Tis clear that you must have threshed peas there, for you strike like a man with a flail. Terrible blows! Are they really the best in Orsha? That thrust is in fashion only among tribunal police. This is from Courland, good to chase dogs with. Look to the end of your sabre! Don't bend your hand so, for see what will happen! Raise your sabre!" Volodyovski pronounced the last words with emphasis; at the same time he described a half-circle, drew the hand and sabre toward him, and before the spectators understood what "raise" meant, Kmita's sabre, like a needle pulled from a thread, flew above Volodyovski's head and fell behind his shoulders; then he said,-- "That is called shelling a sabre." Kmita stood pale, wild-eyed, staggering, astonished no less than the nobles of Lauda; the little colonel pushed to one side, and repeated again,-- "Take your sabre!" For a time it seemed as if Kmita would rush at him with naked hands. He was just ready for the spring, when Volodyovski put his hilt to his own breast, presenting the point. Kmita rushed to take his own sabre, and fell with it again on his terrible opponent. A loud murmur rose from the circle of spectators, and the ring grew closer and closer. Kmita's Cossacks thrust their heads between the shoulders of the nobles, as if they had lived all their lives in the best understanding with them. Involuntarily shouts were wrested from the mouths of the onlookers; at times an outburst of unrestrained, nervous laughter was heard; all acknowledged a master of masters. Volodyovski amused himself cruelly like a cat with a mouse, and seemed to work more and more carelessly with the sabre. He took his left hand from behind his back and thrust it into his trousers' pocket. Kmita was foaming at the mouth, panting heavily; at last hoarse words came from his throat through his set lips,-- "Finish--spare the shame!" "Very well!" replied Volodyovski. A short terrible whistle was heard, then a smothered cry. At the same moment Kmita threw open his arms, his sabre dropped to the ground, and he fell on his face at the feet of the colonel. "He lives!" said Volodyovski; "he has not fallen on his back!" And doubling the skirt of Kmita's coat, he began to wipe his sabre. The nobles shouted with one voice, and in those shouts thundered with increasing clearness: "Finish the traitor! finish him! cut him to pieces!" A number of Butryms ran up with drawn sabres. Suddenly something wonderful happened,--and one would have said that little Volodyovski had grown tall before their eyes: the sabre of the nearest Butrym flew out of his hand after Kmita's, as if a whirlwind had caught it, and Volodyovski shouted with flashing eyes,-- "Stand back, stand back! He is mine now, not yours! Be off!" All were silent, fearing the anger of that man; and he said: "I want no shambles here! As nobles you should understand knightly customs, and not slaughter the wounded. Enemies do not do that, and how could a man in a duel kill his prostrate opponent?" "He is a traitor!" muttered one of the Butryms. "It is right to kill such a man." "If he is a traitor he should be given to the hetman to suffer punishment and serve as an example to others. But as I have said, he is mine now, not yours. If he recovers you will be free to get your rights before a court, and it will be easier to obtain satisfaction from a living than a dead man. Who here knows how to dress wounds?" "Krysh Domashevich. He has attended to all in Lauda for years." "Let him dress the man at once, then take him to bed, and I will go to console the ill-fated lady." So saying, Volodyovski put his sabre into the scabbard. The nobles began to seize and bind Kmita's men, who henceforth were to plough land in the villages. They surrendered without resistance; only a few who had escaped through the rear windows of the house ran toward the ponds, but they fell into the hands of the Stakyans who were stationed there. At the same time the nobles fell to plundering the wagons, in which they found quite a plentiful booty; some of them gave advice to sack the house, but they feared Pan Volodyovski, and perhaps the presence of Panna Billevich restrained the most daring. Their own killed, among whom were three Butryms and two Domasheviches, the nobles put into wagons, so as to bury them according to Christian rites. They ordered the peasants to dig a ditch for Kmita's dead behind the garden. Volodyovski in seeking the lady burst through the whole house, and found her at last in the treasure-chamber situated in a corner to which a low and narrow door led from the sleeping-room. It was a small chamber, with narrow, strongly barred windows, built in a square and with such mighty walls, that Volodyovski saw at once that even if Kmita had blown up the house with powder that room would have surely remained unharmed. This gave him a better opinion of Kmita. The lady was sitting on a chest not far from the door, with her head drooping, and her face almost hidden by her hair. She did not raise it when she heard the knight coming. She thought beyond doubt that it was Kmita himself or some one of his people. Pan Volodyovski stood in the door, coughed once, a second time, and seeing no result from that, said,-- "My lady, you are free!" "From under the drooping hair blue eyes looked at the knight, and then a comely face appeared, though pale and as it were not conscious. Volodyovski was hoping for thanks, an outburst of gladness; but the lady sat motionless, distraught, and merely looked at him. Therefore the knight spoke again,-- "Come to yourself, my lady! God has regarded innocence,--you are free, and can return to Vodokty." This time there was more consciousness in the look of Panna Billevich. She rose from the chest, shook back her hair, and asked, "Who are you?" "Michael Volodyovski, colonel of dragoons with the voevoda of Vilna." "Did I hear a battle--shots? Tell me." "Yes. We came to save you." She regained her senses completely. "I thank you," said she hurriedly, with a low voice, through which a mortal disquiet was breaking. "But what happened to him?" "To Kmita? Fear not, my lady! He is lying lifeless in the yard; and without praising myself I did it." Volodyovski uttered this with a certain boastfulness; but if he expected admiration he deceived himself terribly. She said not a word, but tottered and began to seek support behind with her hands. At last she sat heavily on the same chest from which she had risen a moment before. The knight sprang to her quickly: "What is the matter, my lady?" "Nothing, nothing--wait, permit me. Then is Pan Kmita killed?" "What is Pan Kmita to me?" interrupted Volodyovski; "it is a question here of you." That moment her strength came back; for she rose again, and looking him straight in the eyes, screamed with anger, impatience, and despair: "By the living God, answer! Is he killed?" "Pan Kmita is wounded," answered the astonished Volodyovski. "Is he alive?" "He is alive." "It is well! I thank you." And with step still tottering she moved toward the door. Volodyovski stood for a while moving his mustaches violently and shaking his head; then he muttered to himself, "Does she thank me because Kmita is wounded, or because he is alive?" He followed Olenka, and found her in the adjoining bed room standing in the middle of it as if turned to stone. Four nobles were bearing in at that moment Pan Kmita; the first two advancing sidewise appeared in the door, and between them hung toward the floor the pale head of Pan Andrei, with closed eyes, and clots of black blood in his hair. "Slowly," said Krysh Domashevich, walking behind, "slowly across the threshold. Let some one hold his head. Slowly!" "With what can we hold it when our hands are full?" answered those in front. At that moment Panna Aleksandra approached them, pale as was Kmita himself, and placed both hands under his lifeless head. "This is the lady," said Krysh Domashevich. "It is I. Be careful!" answered she, in a low voice. Volodyovski looked on, and his mustaches quivered fearfully. Meanwhile they placed Kmita on the bed. Krysh Domashevich began to wash his head with water; then he fixed a plaster previously prepared to the wound, and said,-- "Now let him lie quietly. Oh, that's an iron head not to burst from such a blow! He may recover, for he is young. But he got it hard." Then he turned to Olenka: "Let me wash your hands,--here is water. A kind heart is in you that you were not afraid to put blood on yourself for that man." Speaking thus, he wiped her palms with a cloth; but she grew pale and changed in the eyes. Volodyovski sprang to her again: "There is nothing here for you, my lady. You have shown Christian charity to an enemy; return home." And he offered her his arm. She however, did not look at him, but turning to Krysh Domashevich, said, "Pan Kryshtof, conduct me." Both went out, and Volodyovski followed them. In the yard the nobles began to shout at sight of her, and cry, "Vivat!" But she went forward, pale, staggering, with compressed lips, and with fire in her eyes. "Long life to our lady! Long life to our colonel!" cried powerful voices. An hour later Volodyovski returned at the head of the Lauda men toward the villages. The sun had risen already; the early morning in the world was gladsome, a real spring morning. The Lauda men clattered forward in a formless crowd along the highway, discussing the events of the night and praising Volodyovski to the skies; but he rode on thoughtful and silent. Those eyes looking from behind the dishevelled hair did not leave his mind, nor that slender form, imposing though bent by grief and pain. "It is a marvel what a wonder she is," said he to himself,--"a real princess! I have saved her honor and surely her life, for though the powder would not have blown up the treasure-room she would have died of pure fright. She ought to be grateful. But who can understand a fair head? She looked on me as on some serving-lad, I know not whether from haughtiness or perplexity." CHAPTER IX. These thoughts did not let Volodyovski sleep on the night following. For a number of days he was thinking continually of Panna Aleksandra, and saw that she had dropped deeply into his heart. Besides, the Lauda nobles wished to bring about a marriage between them. It is true that she had refused him without hesitation, but at that time she neither knew him nor had seen him. Now it was something quite different. He had wrested her in knightly fashion from the hands of a man of violence, had exposed himself to bullets and sabres, had captured her like a fortress. Whose is she, if not his? Can she refuse him anything, even her hand? Well, shall he not try? Perhaps affection has begun in her from gratitude, since it happens often in the world that the rescued lady gives straightway her hand to her rescuer. If she has not conceived an affection for him as yet, it behooves him all the more to exert himself in the matter. "But if she remembers and loves the other man still?" "It cannot be," repeated Volodyovski to himself; "if she had not rejected him, he would not have taken her by force. She showed, it is true, uncommon kindness to him; but it is a woman's work to take pity on the wounded, even if they are enemies. She is young, without guardianship; it is time for her to marry. It is clear that she has no vocation for the cloister, or she would have entered one already. There has been time enough. Men will annoy such a comely lady continually,--some for her fortune, others for her beauty, and still others for her high blood. Oh, a defence the reality of which she can see with her own eyes will be dear to her. It is time too for thee to settle down, my dear Michael!" said Volodyovski to himself. "Thou art young yet, but the years hurry swiftly. Thou wilt win not fortune in service, but rather more wounds in thy skin, and to thy giddy life will come an end." Here through the memory of Pan Volodyovski passed a whole line of young ladies after whom he had sighed in his life. Among them were some very beautiful and of high blood, but one more charming and distinguished there was not. Besides, the people of these parts exalted that family and that lady, and from her eyes there looked such honesty that may God give no worse wife to the best man. Pan Volodyovski felt that a prize was meeting him which might not come a second time, and this the more since he had rendered the lady such uncommon service. "Why delay?" said he to himself. "What better can I wait for? I must try." Pshaw! but war is at hand. His arm was well. It was a shame for a knight to go courting when his country was stretching forth its hands imploring deliverance. Pan Michael had the heart of an honest soldier; and though he had served almost from boyhood, though he had taken part in nearly all the wars of his time, he knew what he owed his country, and he dreamed not of rest. Precisely because he had served his country not for gain, reward, or praise, but from his soul, had he in that regard a clean conscience, he felt his worth, and that gave him solace. "Others were frolicking, but I was fighting," thought he. "The Lord God will reward the little soldier, and will help him this time." But he saw that soon there would be no time for courting; there was need to act promptly, and put everything on the hazard at once,--to make a proposal on the spot, and either marry after short bans or eat a watermelon.[12] "I have eaten more than one; I'll eat another this time," muttered Volodyovski, moving his yellow mustaches. "What harm will it do?" But there was one side to this sudden decision which did not please him. He put the question to himself if going with a visit so soon after saving the lady he would not be like an importunate creditor who wishes a debt to be paid with usury and as quickly as possible. Perhaps it will not be in knightly fashion? Nonsense! for what can gratitude be asked, if not for service? And if this haste does not please the heart of the lady, if she looks askance at him, why, he can say to her, "Gracious lady, I would have come courting one year, and gazed at you as if I were near-sighted; but I am a soldier, and the trumpets are sounding for battle!" "So I'll go," said Pan Volodyovski. But after a while another thought entered his head: if she says, "Go to war, noble soldier, and after the war you will visit me during one year and look at me like a nearsighted man, for I will not give in a moment my soul and my body to one whom I know not!" Then all will be lost! That it would be lost Pan Volodyovski felt perfectly; for leaving aside the lady whom in the interval some other man might marry, Volodyovski was not sure of his own constancy. Conscience declared that in him love was kindled like straw, but quenched as quickly. Then all will be lost! And then wander on farther, thou soldier, a vagrant from one camp to another, from battle to battle, with no roof in the world, with no living soul of thy kindred! Search the four corners of earth when the war will be over, not knowing a place for thy heart save the barracks! At last Volodyovski knew not what to do. It had become in a certain fashion narrow and stifling for him in the Patsuneli house; he took his cap therefore to go out on the road and enjoy the May sun. On the threshold he came upon one of Kmita's men taken prisoner, who in the division of spoils had come to old Pakosh, The Cossack was warming himself in the sun and playing on a bandura. "What art thou doing here? asked Volodyovski. "I am playing," answered the Cossack, raising his thin face, "Whence art thou?" asked Volodyovski, glad to have some interruption to his thoughts. "From afar, from the Viahla." "Why not run away like the rest of thy comrades? Oh, such kind of sons! The nobles spared your lives in Lyubich so as to have laborers, and your comrades all ran away as soon as the ropes were removed." "I will not run away. I'll die here like a dog." "So it has pleased thee here?" "He runs away who feels better in the field; it is better for me here. I had my leg shot through, and the old man's daughter here dressed it, and she spoke a kind word. Such a beauty I have not seen before with my eyes. Why should I go away?" "Which one pleased thee so?" "Maryska." "And so thou wilt remain?" "If I die, they will carry me out; if not, I will remain." "Dost thou think to earn Pakosh's daughter?" "I know not." "He would give death to such a poor fellow before he would his daughter." "I have gold pieces buried in the woods," said the Cossack,--"two purses." "From robbery?" "From robbery." "Even if thou hadst a pot of gold, thou art a peasant and Pakosh is a noble." "I am an attendant boyar." "If thou art an attendant boyar, thou art worse than a peasant, for thou'rt a traitor. How couldst thou serve the enemy?" "I did not serve the enemy." "And where did Pan Kmita find thee and thy comrades?" "On the road. I served with the full hetman; but the squadron went to pieces, for we had nothing to eat. I had no reason to go home, for my house was burned. Others went to rob on the road, and I went with them." Volodyovski wondered greatly, for hitherto he had thought that Kmita had attacked Olenka with forces obtained from the enemy. "So Pan Kmita did not get thee from Trubetskoi?" "Most of the other men had served before with Trubetskoi and Hovanski, but they had run away too and taken to the road." "Why did you go with Pan Kmita?" "Because he is a splendid ataman. We were told that when he called on any one to go with him, thalers as it were flowed out of a bag, to that man. That's why we went. Well, God did not give us good luck!" Volodyovski began to rack his head, and to think that they had blackened Kmita too much; then he looked at the pale attendant boyar and again racked his head. "And so thou art in love with her?" "Oi, so much!" Volodyovski walked away, and while going he thought: "That is a resolute man. He did not break his head; he fell in love and remained. Such men are best. If he is really an attendant boyar, he is of the same rank as the village nobles. When he digs up his gold pieces, perhaps the old man will give him Maryska. And why? Because he did not go to drumming with his fingers, but made up his mind that he would get her. I'll make up my mind too." Thus meditating, Volodyovski walked along the road in the sunshine. Sometimes he would stop, fix his eyes on the ground or raise them to the sky, then again go farther, till all at once he saw a flock of wild ducks flying through the air. He began to soothsay whether he should go or not. It came out that he was to go. "I will go; it cannot be otherwise." When he had said this he turned toward the house; but on the way he went once more to the stable, before which his two servants were playing dice. "Syruts, is Basior's mane plaited?" "Plaited, Colonel!" Volodyovski went into the stable. Basior neighed at him from the manger; the knight approached the horse, patted him on the side, and then began to count the braids on his neck. "Go--not go--go." Again the soothsaying came out favorably. "Saddle the horse and dress decently," commanded Volodyovski. Then he went to the house quickly, and began to dress. He put on high cavalry boots, yellow, with gilded spurs, and a new red uniform, besides a rapier with steel scabbard, the hilt ornamented with gold; in addition a half breastplate of bright steel covering only the upper part of the breast near the neck. He had also a lynxskin cap with a beautiful heron feather; but since that was worn only with a Polish dress, he left it in the trunk, put on a Swedish helmet with a vizor, and went out before the porch. "Where is your grace going?" asked old Pakosh, who was sitting on the railing. "Where am I going? It is proper for me to go and inquire after the health of your lady; if not, she might think me rude." "From your grace there is a blaze like fire. Every bulfinch is a fool in comparison! Unless the lady is without eyes, she will fall in love in a minute." Just then the two youngest daughters of Pakosh hurried up on their way home from the forenoon milking, each with a pail of milk. When they saw Volodyovski they stood as if fixed to the earth from wonder. "Is it a king or not?" asked Zonia. "Your grace is like one going to a wedding," added Marysia. "Maybe there will be a wedding," laughed old Pakosh, "for he is going to see our lady." Before the old man had stopped speaking the full pail dropped from the hand of Marysia, and a stream of milk flowed along till it reached the feet of Volodyovski. "Pay attention to what you are holding!" said Pakosh, angrily. "Giddy thing!" Marysia said nothing; she raised the pail and walked off in silence. Volodyovski mounted his horse; his two servants followed him, riding abreast, and the three moved on toward Vodokty. The day was beautiful. The May sun played on the breastplate and helmet of the colonel, so that when at a distance he was gleaming among the willows it seemed that another sun was pushing along the road. "I am curious to know whether I shall come back with a ring or a melon?" said the knight to himself. "What is your grace saying?" asked Syruts. "Thou art a blockhead!" Syruts reined in his horse, and Volodyovski continued: "The whole luck of the matter is that it is not the first time!" This idea gave him uncommon comfort. When he arrived at Vodokty, Panna Aleksandra did not recognize him at the first moment, and he had to repeat his name. She greeted him heartily, but ceremoniously and with a certain constraint; but he presented himself befittingly,--for though a soldier, not a courtier, he had still lived long at great houses, had been among people. He bowed to her therefore with great respect, and placing his hand on his heart spoke as follows:-- "I have come to inquire about the health of my lady benefactress, whether some pain has not come from the fright. I ought to have done this the day after, but I did not wish to give annoyance." "It is very kind of you to keep me in mind after having saved me from such straits. Sit down, for you are a welcome guest." "My lady," replied Volodyovski, "had I forgotten you I should not have deserved the favor which God sent when he permitted me to give aid to so worthy a person." "No, I ought to thank first God, and then you." "Then let us both thank; for I implore nothing else than this,--that he grant me to defend you as often as need comes." Pan Michael now moved his waxed mustaches, which curled up higher than his nose, for he was satisfied with himself for having gone straight in _medias res_ and placed his sentiments, so to speak, on the table. She sat embarrassed and silent, but beautiful as a spring day. A slight flush came on her cheeks, and she covered her eyes with the long lashes from which shadows fell on the pupils. "That confusion is a good sign," thought Volodyovski; and coughing he proceeded: "You know, I suppose, that I led the Lauda men after your grandfather?" "I know," answered Olenka. "My late grandfather was unable to make the last campaign, but he was wonderfully glad when he heard whom the voevoda of Vilna had appointed to the command, and said that he knew you by reputation as a splendid soldier." "Did he say that?" "I myself heard how he praised you to the skies, and how the Lauda men did the same after the campaign." "I am a simple soldier, not worthy of being exalted to the skies, nor above other men. Still I rejoice that I am not quite a stranger, for you do not think now that an unknown and uncertain guest has fallen with the last rain from the clouds. Many people are wandering about who call themselves persons of high family and say they are in office, and God knows who they are; perhaps often they are not even nobles." Pan Volodyovski gave the conversation this turn with the intent to speak of himself and of what manner of man he was. Olenka answered at once,-- "No one would think that of you, for there are nobles of the same name in Lithuania." "But they have the seal Ossorya, while I am a Korchak Volodyovski and we take our origin from Hungary from a certain noble, Atylla, who while pursued by his enemies made a vow to the Most Holy Lady that he would turn from Paganism to the Catholic faith if he should escape with his life. He kept this vow after he had crossed three rivers in safety,--the same rivers that we bear on our shield." "Then your family is not from those parts?" "No, my lady, I am from the Ukraine of the Russian Volodyovskis, and to this time I own villages there which the enemy have occupied; but I serve in the army from youth, thinking less of land than of the harm inflicted on our country by strangers. I have served from the earliest years with the voevoda of Rus, our not sufficiently lamented Prince Yeremi, with whom I have been in all his wars. I was at Mahnovka and at Konstantinoff; I endured the hunger of Zbaraj, and after Berestechko our gracious lord the king pressed my head. God is my witness that I have not come here to praise myself, but desire that you might know, my lady, that I am no hanger-on, whose work is in shouting and who spares his own blood, but that my life has been passed in honorable service in which some little fame was won, and my conscience stained in nothing, so God be my aid! And to this worthy people can give testimony." "Would that all were like you!" sighed Olenka. "Surely you have now in mind that man of violence who dared to raise his godless hand against you." Panna Aleksandra fixed her eyes on the floor, and said not a word. "He has received pay for his deeds," continued Volodyovski, "though it is said that he will recover, still he will not escape punishment. All honorable people condemn him, and even too much; for they say that he had relations with the enemy so as to obtain reinforcements,--which is untrue, for those men with whom he attacked you did not come from the enemy, but were collected on the highway." "How do you know that?" asked the lady, raising her blue eyes to Volodyovski. "From the Cossacks themselves. He is a wonderful man, that Kmita; for when I accused him of treason before the duel he made no denial, though I accused him unjustly. It is clear that there is a devilish pride in him." "And have you said everywhere that he is not a traitor?" "I have not, for I did not know that he was not a traitor; but now I will say so. It is wrong to cast such a calumny even on our own greatest enemy." Panna Aleksandra's eyes rested a second time on the little knight with an expression of sympathy and gratitude. "You are so honorable a man that your equal is rare." Volodyovski fell to twitching his mustaches time after time with contentment. "To business, Michael dear!" said he, mentally. Then aloud to the lady: "I will say more: I blame Pan Kmita's method, but I do not wonder that he tried to obtain you, my lady, in whose service Venus herself might act as a maid. Despair urged him on to an evil deed, and will surely urge him a second time, should opportunity offer. How will you remain alone, with such beauty and without protection? There are more men like Kmita in the world; you will rouse more such ardors, and will expose your honor to fresh perils. God sent me favor that I was able to free you, but now the trumpets of Gradivus call me. Who will watch over you? My gracious lady, they accuse soldiers of fickleness, but unjustly. Neither is my heart of rock, and it cannot remain indifferent to so many excellent charms." Here Volodyovski fell on both knees before Olenka. "My gracious lady," said he, while kneeling, "I inherited the command after your grandfather; let me inherit the granddaughter too. Give me guardianship over you; let me enjoy the bliss of mutual affection. Take me as a perpetual protection, and you will be at rest and free from care, for though I go to the war my name itself will defend you." The lady sprang from the chair and heard Pan Volodyovski with astonishment; but he still spoke on:-- "I am a poor soldier, but a noble, and a man of honor. I swear to you that on my shield and on my conscience not the slightest stain can be found. I am at fault perhaps in this haste; but understand too that I am called by the country, which will not yield even for you. Will you not comfort me,--will you not give me solace, will you not say a kind word?" "You ask the impossible. As God lives, that cannot be!" answered Olenka, with fright. "It depends on your will." "For that reason I say no to you promptly." Here she frowned. "Worthy sir, I am indebted to you much, I do not deny it. Ask what you like, I am ready to give everything except my hand." Pan Volodyovski rose. "Then you do not wish me, my lady? Is that true?" "I cannot." "And that is your last word?" "The last and irrevocable word." "Perhaps the haste only has displeased you. Give me some hope." "I cannot, I cannot." "Then there is no success for me here, as elsewhere there was none. My worthy lady, offer not pay for services, I have not come for that; and if I ask your hand it is not as pay, but from your own good-will. Were you to say that you give it because you must, I would not take it. Where there is no freedom there is no happiness. You have disdained me. God grant that a worse do not meet you. I go from this house as I entered, save this that I shall not come here again. I am accounted here as nobody. Well, let it be so. Be happy even with that very Kmita, for perhaps you are angry because I placed a sabre between you. If he seems better to you, then in truth you are not for me." Olenka seized her temples with her hands, and repeated a number of times: "O God! O God! O God!" But that pain of hers made no impression on Volodyovski, who, when he had bowed, went out angry and wrathful; then he mounted at once and rode off. "A foot of mine shall never stand there again!" said he, aloud. His attendant Syruts riding behind pushed up at once. "What does your grace say?" "Blockhead!" answered Volodyovski. "You told me that when we were coming hither." Silence followed; then Volodyovski began to mutter again: "Ah, I was entertained there with ingratitude, paid for affection with contempt. It will come to me surely to serve in the cavalry till death; that is fated. Such a devil of a lot fell to me,--every move a refusal! There is no justice on earth. What did she find against me?" Here Pan Michael frowned, and began to work mightily with his brain; all at once he slapped his leg with his hand. "I know now," shouted he; "she loves that fellow yet,--it cannot be otherwise." But this idea did not clear his face. "So much the worse for me," thought he, after a while; "for if she loves him yet, she will not stop loving him. He has already done his worst. He may go to war, win glory, repair his reputation. And it is not right to hinder him; he should rather be aided, for that is a service to the country. He is a good soldier, 'tis true. But how did he fascinate her so? Who can tell? Some have such fortune that if one of them looks on a woman she is ready to follow him into fire. If a man only knew how this is done or could get some captive spirit, perhaps he might effect something. Merit has no weight with a fair head. Pan Zagloba said wisely that a fox and a woman are the most treacherous creatures alive. But I grieve that all is lost. Oh, she is a terribly beautiful woman, and honorable and virtuous, as they say; ambitious as the devil,--that's evident. Who knows that she will marry him though she loves him, for he has offended and disappointed her sorely. He might have won her in peace, but he chose to be lawless. She is willing to resign everything,--marriage and children. It is grievous for me, but maybe it is worse for her, poor thing!" Here Volodyovski fell into a tit of tenderness over the fate of Olenka, and began to rack his brain and smack his lips. At last he said,-- "May God aid her! I have no ill feeling against her! It is not the first refusal for me, but for her it is the first suffering. The poor woman can scarcely recover now from sorrows. I have put out her eyes with this Kmita, and besides have given her gall to drink. It was not right to do that, and I must repair the wrong. I wish bullets had struck me, for I have acted rudely. I will write a letter asking forgiveness, and then help her in what way I can." Further thoughts concerning Pan Kmita were interrupted by the attendant Syruts, who riding forward again said: "Pardon, but over there on the hill is Pan Kharlamp riding with some one else." "Where?" "Over there!" "It is true that two horsemen are visible, but Pan Kharlamp remained with the prince voevoda of Vilna. How dost thou know him so far away?" "By his cream-colored horse. The whole array knows that horse anywhere." "As true as I live, there is a cream-colored horse in view, but it may be some other man's horse." "When I recognize the gait, it is surely Pan Kharlamp." They spurred on; the other horsemen did the same, and soon Volodyovski saw that Pan Kharlamp was in fact approaching. Pan Kharlamp was the lieutenant of a light-horse squadron in the Lithuanian quota. Pan Volodyovski's acquaintance of long standing, an old soldier and a good one. Once he and the little knight had quarrelled fiercely, but afterward while serving together and campaigning they acquired a love for each other. Volodyovski sprang forward quickly, and opening his arms cried,-- "How do you prosper, O Great-nose? Whence do you come?" The officer--who in truth deserved the nickname of Great-nose, for he had a mighty nose--fell into the embraces of the colonel, and greeted him joyously; then after he had recovered his breath, he said, "I have come to you with a commission and money." "But from whom?" "From the prince voevoda of Vilna, our hetman. He sends you a commission to begin a levy at once, and another commission to Pan Kmita, who must be in this neighborhood." "To Pan Kmita also? How shall we both make a levy in one neighborhood?" "He is to go to Troki, and you to remain in these parts." "How did you know where to look for me?" "The hetman himself inquired carefully till the people from this place who have remained near him told where to find you. I came with sure information. You are in great and continual favor there. I have heard the prince himself say that he had not hoped to inherit anything from Prince Yeremi, but still he did inherit the greatest of knights." "May God grant him to inherit the military success of Yeremi! It is a great honor for me to conduct a levy. I will set about it at once. There is no lack of warlike people here, if there was only something with which to give them an outfit. Have you brought much money?" "You will count it at Patsuneli." "So you have been there already? But be careful; for there are shapely girls in Patsuneli, like poppies in a garden." "Ah, that is why stopping there pleased you! But wait, I have a private letter from the hetman to you." "Then give it." Kharlamp drew forth a letter with the small seal of the Radzivills. Volodyovski opened it and began to read:-- Worthy Colonel Pan Volodyovski,--Knowing your sincere wish to serve the country, I send you a commission to make a levy, and not as is usually done, but with great haste, for _periculum in mora_ (there is danger in delay). If you wish to give us joy, then let the squadron be mustered and ready for the campaign by the end of July, or the middle of August at the latest. We are anxious to know how you can find good horses, especially since we send money sparingly, for more we could not hammer from the under-treasurer, who after his old fashion is unfriendly to us. Give one half of this money to Pan Kmita, for whom Pan Kharlamp has also a commission. We hope that he will serve us zealously. But tidings have come to our ears of his violence in Upita, therefore it is better for you to take the letter directed to him from Kharlamp, and discover yourself whether to deliver it to him or not. Should you consider the accusations against him too great, and creating infamy, then do not give it, for we are afraid lest our enemies--such as the under-treasurer, and the voevoda of Vityebsk--might raise outcries against us because we commit such functions to unworthy persons. But if you give the letter after having found that there is nothing important, let Pan Kmita endeavor to wipe away his faults by the greatest exertion in service, and in no case to appear in the courts, for he belongs to our hetman's jurisdiction,--we and no one else will judge him. Pay attention to our charge at once, in view of the confidence which we have in your judgment and faithful service. Yanush Radzivill, _Prince in Birji and Dubinki, Voevoda of Vilna_. "The hetman is terribly anxious about horses for you," said Kharlamp, when the little knight had finished reading. "It will surely be difficult in the matter of horses," answered Volodyovski. "A great number of the small nobility here will rally at the first summons, but they have only wretched little Jmud ponies, not very capable of service. For a good campaign it would be needful to give them all fresh horses." "Those are good horses; I know them of old, wonderfully enduring and active." "Bah!" responded Volodyovski, "but small, and the men here are large. If they should form in line on such horses, you would think them a squadron mounted on dogs. There is where the rub is. I will work with zeal, for I am in haste myself. Leave Kmita's commission with me, as the hetman commands; I will give it to him. It has come just in season." "But why?" "For he has acted here in Tartar fashion and taken a lady captive. There are as many lawsuits and questions hanging over him as he has hairs on his head. It is not a week since I had a sabre-duel with him." "Ai!" cried Kharlamp. "If you had a sabre-duel with him, he is in bed at this moment." "But he is better already. In a week or two he will be well. What is to be heard _de publicis_?" "Evil in the old fashion. The under-treasurer, Pan Gosyevski, the full hetman, is ever quarrelling with the prince; and as the hetmans do not agree, affairs do not move in harmony. Still we have improved a little, and I think that if we had concord we might manage the enemy. God will permit us yet to ride on their necks to their own land. Gosyevski is to blame for all." "But others say it is specially the grand hetman, Prince Radzivill." "They are traitors. The voevoda of Vityebsk talks that way, for he and the under-treasurer are cronies this long time." "The voevoda of Vityebsk is a worthy citizen." "Are you on the side of Sapyeha against the Radzivills?" "I am on the side of the country, on whose side all should be. In this is the evil,--that even soldiers are divided into parties, instead of fighting. That Sapyeha is a worthy citizen, I would say in the presence of the prince himself, even though I serve under him." "Good people have striven to bring about harmony, but with no result," said Kharlamp. "There is a terrible movement of messengers from the king to our prince. They say that something is hatching. We expected with the visit of the king a call of the general militia; it has not come! They say that it may be necessary in some places." "In the Ukraine, for instance." "I know. But once Lieutenant Brohvich told what he heard with his own ears. Tyzenhauz came from the king to our hetman, and when they had shut themselves in they talked a long time about something which Brohvich could not overhear; but when they came out, with his own ears he heard the hetman say, 'From this a new war may come.' We racked our heads greatly to find what this could mean." "Surely he was mistaken. With whom could there be a new war? The emperor is more friendly to us now than to our enemies, since it is proper for him to take the side of a civilized people. With the Swedes the truce is not yet at an end, and will not be for six years; the Tartars are helping us in the Ukraine, which they would not do without the will of Turkey." "Well, we could not get at anything." "For there was nothing. But, praise God, I have fresh work; I began to yearn for war." "Do you wish to carry the commission yourself to Kmita?" "I do, because, as I have told you, the hetman has so ordered. It is proper for me to visit Kmita now according to knightly custom, and having the commission I shall have a still better chance to talk with him. Whether I give the commission is another thing; I think that I shall, for it is left to my discretion." "That suits me; I am in such haste for the road. I have a third commission to Pan Stankyevich. Next I am commanded to go to Kyedani, to remove the cannon which are there; then to inspect Birji and see if everything is ready for defence." "And to Birji too?" "Yes." "That is a wonder to me. The enemy have won no new victories, and it is far for them to go to Birji on the boundary of Courland. And since, as I see, new squadrons are being formed, there will be men to defend even those parts which have fallen under the power of the enemy. The Courlanders do not think of war with us. They are good soldiers, but few; and Radzivill might put the breath out of them with one hand." "I wonder too," answered Kharlamp, "all the more that haste is enjoined on me, and instructions given that if I find anything out of order I am to inform quickly Prince Boguslav Radzivill, who is to send Peterson the engineer." "What can this mean? I hope 'tis no question of domestic war. May God preserve us from that! But when Prince Boguslav touches an affair the devil will come of the amusement." "Say nothing against him; he is a valiant man." "I say nothing against his valor, but there is more of the German or Frenchman in him than the Pole. And of the Commonwealth he never thinks; his only thought is how to raise the house of Radzivill to the highest point and lower all others. He is the man who rouses pride in the voevoda of Vilna, our hetman, who of himself has no lack of it; and those quarrels with Sapyeha and Gosyevski are the tree and the fruit of Prince Boguslav's planting." "I see that you are a great statesman. You should marry, Michael dear, as soon as possible, so that such wisdom is not lost." Volodyovski looked very attentively at his comrade. "Marry,--why is that?" "Maybe you are going courting, for I see that you are dressed as on parade." "Give us peace!" "Oh, own up!" "Let each man eat his own melons, not inquire about those of other men. You too have eaten more than one. It is just the time now to think of marriage when we have a levy on our hands!" "Will you be ready in July?" "At the end of July, even if I have to dig horses out of the ground. Thank God that this task has come, or melancholy would have devoured me." So tidings from the hetman and the prospect of heavy work gave great consolation to Pan Michael; and before he reached Patsuneli, he had scarcely a thought of the rebuff which had met him an hour before. News of the commission flew quickly through the whole village. The nobles came straightway to inquire if the news was true; and when Volodyovski confirmed it, his words made a great impression. The readiness was universal, though some were troubled because they would have to march at the end of July before harvest. Volodyovski sent messengers to other neighborhoods,--to Upita, and to the most considerable noble houses. In the evening a number of Butryms, Stakyans, and Domasheviches came. They began to incite one another, show greater readiness, threaten the enemy, and promise victory to themselves. The Butryms alone were silent; but that was not taken ill, for it was known that they would rise as one man. Next day it was as noisy in all the villages as in bee-hives. People talked no more of Pan Kmita and Panna Aleksandra, but of the future campaign. Volodyovski also forgave Olenka sincerely the refusal, comforting himself meanwhile in his heart that that was not the last one, as the love was not the last. At the same time he pondered somewhat on what he had to do with the letter to Kmita. CHAPTER X. A time of serious labor began now for Volodyovski,--of letter-writing and journeying. The week following he transferred his head-quarters to Upita, where he began the levy. The nobles flocked to him willingly, both great and small, for he had a wide reputation. But especially came the Lauda men, for whom horses had to be provided. Volodyovski hurried around as if in boiling water; but since he was active and spared no pains, everything went on successfully enough. Meanwhile he visited in Lyubich Pan Kmita, who had advanced considerably toward health; and though he had not risen yet from his bed, it was known that he would recover. Kmita recognized the knight at once, and turned a little pale at sight of him. Even his hand moved involuntarily toward the sabre above his head; but he checked himself when he saw a smile on the face of his guest, put forth his thin hand, and said,-- "I thank you for the visit. This is courtesy worthy of such a cavalier." "I have come to inquire if you cherish ill feeling against me," said Pan Michael. "I have no ill feeling; for no common man overcame me, but a swordsman of the first degree. Hardly have I escaped." "And how is your health?" "It is surely a wonder to you that I have come out alive. I confess myself that it is no small exploit." Here Kmita laughed. "Well, the affair is not lost. You may finish me at your pleasure." "I have not come with such intent--" "You must be the devil," interrupted Kmita, "or must have a captive spirit. God knows I am far from self-praise at this moment, for I am returning from the other world; but before meeting you I thought, 'If I am not the best sabre in the Commonwealth, I am the second.' But I could not have warded off the first blow if you had not wished it. Tell me where did you learn so much?" "I had some little innate capacity, and my father taught me from boyhood. He said many a time, 'God has given you insignificant stature; if men do not fear you, they will laugh at you.' Later on, while serving with the voevoda of Rus, I finished my course. With him were a few men who could stand boldly before me." "But could there be such?" "There could, for there were. There was Pan Podbipienta, a Lithuanian of high birth, who fell at Zbaraj,--the Lord light his soul!--a man of such strength that there were no means to stop him, for he could cut through opponent and weapons. Then there was Skshetuski, my heartfelt friend and confidant, of whom you must have heard." "Of course! He came out of Zbaraj, and burst through the Cossacks. So you are of such a brace, and a man of Zbaraj! With the forehead! with the forehead! Wait a moment; I have heard of you at the castle of Radzivill, voevoda of Vilna. Your name is Michael?" "Exactly; I am Michael. My first name is Yerzi; but since Saint Michael leads the whole host of heaven, and has gamed so many victories over the banners of hell, I prefer him as a patron." "It is sure that Yerzi is not equal to Michael. Then you are that same Volodyovski of whom it is said that he cut up Bogun?" "I am he." "Well, to receive a slash on the head from such a man is not a misfortune. If God would grant us to be friends! You called me a traitor, 'tis true, but you were mistaken." When he said this, Kmita frowned as if his wound caused him pain again. "I confess my mistake," answered Volodyovski. "I do not learn that from you; your men told me. And know that if I had not learned it I should not have come here." "Tongues have cut me and cut me," said Kmita, with bitterness. "Let come what may, I confess more than one mark is against me; but in this neighborhood men have received me ungraciously." "You injured yourself most by burning Volmontovichi, and by the last seizure." "Now they are crushing me with lawsuits. I am summoned to courts. They will not give a sick man time to recover. I burned Volmontovichi, 'tis true, and cut down some people; but let God judge me if I did that from caprice. The same night, before the burning I made a vow to live with all men in peace, to attract to myself these homespuns around here, to satisfy the basswood barks in Upita, for there I really played the tyrant. I returned to my house, and what did I find? I found my comrades cut up like cattle, lying at the wall. When I learned that the Butryms had done this, the devil entered me, and I took stern vengeance. Would you believe why they were cut up, why they were slaughtered? I learned myself later from one of the Butryms, whom I found in the woods. Behold, it was for this,--that they wanted to dance with the women of the nobles in a public house! Who would not have taken vengeance?" "My worthy sir," answered Volodyovski, "it is true that they acted severely with your comrades; but was it the nobles who killed them? No; their previous reputation killed them,--that which they brought with them; for if orderly soldiers had wished to dance, surely they would not have slain them." "Poor fellows!" said Kmita, following his own thoughts, "while I was lying here now in a fever, they came in every evening through that door from the room outside. I saw them around this bed as if living, blue, hacked up, and groaning continually, 'Yendrus! give money to have a Mass for our souls; we are in torments!' Then I tell you the hair stood on my head, for the smell of sulphur from them was in the room. I gave money for a Mass. Oh, may it help them!" A moment of silence then followed. "As to the carrying off," continued Kmita, "no one could have told you about that; for in truth she saved my life when the nobles were hunting me, but afterward she ordered me to depart and not show myself before her eyes. What was there left for me after that?" "Still it was a Tartar method." "You know not what love is, and to what despair it may bring a man when he loses that which he prizes most dearly." "I know not what love is?" cried Volodyovski, with excitement. "From the time that I began to carry a sabre I was in love. It is true that the object changed, for I was never rewarded with a return. Were it not for that, there could have been no Troilus more faithful than I." "What kind of love can that be when the object is changing?" said Kmita. "I will tell you something else which I saw with my own eyes. In the first period of the Hmelnitski affair, Bogun, the same who next to Hmelnitski has now the highest respect of the Cossacks, carried off Princess Kurtsevich, a maiden loved by Skshetuski above all things. That was a love! The whole army was weeping in view of Skshetuski's despair; for his beard at some years beyond twenty grew gray, and can you guess what he did?" "I have no means of knowing." "Well, because the country was in need, in humiliation, because the terrible Hmelnitski was triumphing, he did not go to seek the girl. He offered his suffering to God, and fought under Prince Yeremi in all the battles, including Zbaraj, and covered himself with such glory that to-day all repeat his name with respect. Compare his action with your own and see the difference." Kmita was silent, gnawed his mustache. Volodyovski continued,-- "Then God rewarded and gave him the maiden. They married immediately after Zbaraj, and now have three children, though he has not ceased to serve. But you by making disturbance have given aid to the enemy and almost lost your own life, not to mention that a few days ago you might have lost the lady forever." "How is that?" asked Kmita, sitting up in the bed; "what happened to her?" "Nothing; but there was found a man who asked for her hand and wanted to marry her." Kmita grew very pale; his hollow eyes began to shoot flames. He wanted to rise, even struggled for a moment; then cried, "Who was this devil's son? By the living God, tell me!" "I," said Pan Volodyovski. "You,--you?" asked Kmita, with astonishment, "Is it possible?" "It is." "Traitor! that will not go with you! But she--what--tell me everything. Did she accept?" "She refused me on the spot, without thinking." A moment of silence followed. Kmita breathed heavily, and fixed his eyes on Volodyovski, who said,-- "Why call me traitor? Am I your brother or your best man? Have I broken faith with you? I conquered you in battle, and could have done what I liked." "In old fashion one of us would seal this with his blood,--if not with a sabre, with a gun. I would shoot you; then let the devils take me." "Then you would have shot me, for if she had not refused I should not have accepted a second duel. What had I to fight for? Do you know why she refused me?" "Why?" repeated Kmita, like an echo. "Because she loves you." That was more than the exhausted strength of the sick man could bear. His head fell on the pillows, a copious sweat came out on his forehead, and he lay there in silence. "I am terribly weak," said he, after a while. "How do you know that she loves me?" "Because I have eyes and see, because I have reason and observe; just after I had received the refusal my head became clear. To begin with, when after the duel I came to tell her that she was free, for I had slain you, she was dazed, and instead of showing gratitude she ignored me entirely; second, when the Domasheviches were bringing you in, she carried your head like a mother; and third, because when I visited her, she received me as if some one were giving me a slap in the face. If these explanations are not sufficient, it is because your reason is shaken and your mind impaired." "If that is true," said Kmita, with a feeble voice, "many plasters are put on my wounds; better balsam than your words there could not be." "But a traitor applies this balsam." "Oh, forgive me! Such happiness cannot find place in my mind, that she has a wish for me still." "I said that she loves you; I did not say that she has a wish for you,--that is altogether different." "If she has no wish for me, I will break my head against the wall; I cannot help it." "You might if you had a sincere desire of effacing your faults. There is war now; you may go, you may render important services to our dear country, you may win glory with bravery, and mend your reputation. Who is without fault? Who has no sin on his conscience? Every one has. But the road to penance and correction is open to all. You sinned through violence, then avoid it henceforth; you offended against the country by raising disturbance in time of war, save the country now; you committed wrongs against men, make reparation for them. This is a better and a surer way for you than breaking your head." Kmita looked attentively at Volodyovski; then said, "You speak like a sincere friend of mine." "I am not your friend, but in truth I am not your enemy; and I am sorry for that lady, though she refused me and I said a sharp word to her in parting. I shall not hang myself by reason of the refusal; it is not the first for me, and I am not accustomed to treasure up offences. If I persuade you to the right road, that will be to the country a service on my part, for you are a good and experienced soldier." "Is there time for me to return to this road? How many summonses are waiting for me? I shall have to go from the bed to the court--unless I flee hence, and I do not wish to do that. How many summonses, and every case a sure sentence of condemnation!" "Look, here is a remedy!" said Volodyovski, taking out the commission. "A commission!" cried Kmita; "for whom?" "For you! You need not appear at any court, for you are in the hetman's jurisdiction. Hear what the prince voevoda writes me." Volodyovski read to Kmita the private letter of Radzivill, drew breath, moved his mustaches, and said, "Here, as you see, it depends on me either to give you the commission or to retain it." Uncertainty, alarm, and hope were reflected on Kmita's face. "What will you do?" asked he, in a low voice. "T will give the commission," said Volodyovski. Kmita said nothing at first; he dropped his head on the pillow, and looked some time at the ceiling. Suddenly his eyes began to grow moist; and tears, unknown guests in those eyes, were hanging on the lashes. "May I be torn with horses," said he at last, "may I be pulled out of my skin, if I have seen a more honorable man! If through me you have received a refusal,--if Olenka, as you say, loves me,--another would have taken vengeance all the more, would have pushed me down deeper; but you give your hand and draw me forth as it were from the grave." "Because I will not sacrifice to personal interests the country, to which you may render notable service. But I say that if you had obtained those Cossacks from Trubetskoi or Hovanski, I should have kept the commission. It is your whole fortune that you did not do that." "It is for others to take an example from you," said Kmita. "Give me your hand. God permit me to repay you with some good, for you have bound me in life and in death." "Well, we will speak of that later. Now listen! There is no need of appearing before any court, but go to work. If you will render service to the Commonwealth, these nobles will forgive you, for they are very sensitive to the honor of the State. You may blot out your offences yet, win reputation, walk in glory as in sunlight, and I know of one lady who will give you a lifelong reward." "Hei!" cried Kmita, in ecstasy, "why should I rot here in bed when the enemy is trampling the country? Hei! is there any one there? Come, boy, give me my boots; come hither! May the thunderbolts strike me in this bed if I stay here longer in uselessness!" Volodyovski smiled with satisfaction and said, "Your spirit is stronger than your body, for the body is not able to serve you yet." When he had said this he began to take farewell; but Kmita would not let him go, thanked him, and wished to treat him with wine. In fact, it was well toward evening when the little knight left Lyubich and directed his course to Vodokty. "I will reward her in the best fashion for her sharp word," said he to himself, "when I tell her that Kmita will rise, not only from his bed, but from evil fame. He is not ruined yet, only very passionate. I shall comfort her wonderfully too, and I think she will meet me better this time than when I offered myself to her." Here our honest Van Michael sighed and muttered: "Could it be known that there is one in the world predestined to me?" In the midst of such meditations he came to Vodokty. The tow-headed man of Jmud ran out to the gate, but made no hurry to open; he only said,-- "The heiress is not at home." "Has she gone away?" "She has gone away." "Whither?" "Who knows?" "When will she come back?" "Who knows?" "Speak in human fashion. Did she not say when she would return?" "Maybe she will not return at all, for she went away with wagons and bags. From that I think she has gone far for a long time." "Is that true?" muttered Pan Michael. "See what I have done!" CHAPTER XI. Usually when the warm rays of the sun begin to break through the wintry veil of clouds, and when the first buds appear on the trees and the green fleece spreads over the damp fields, a better hope enters the hearts of men. But the spring of 1655 brought not the usual comfort to the afflicted inhabitants of the Commonwealth. The entire eastern boundary, from the north to the wilderness on the south, was bound as it were by a border of flame; and the spring torrents could not quench the conflagration, but that border grew wider continually and occupied broader regions. And besides there appeared in the sky signs of evil omen, announcing still greater defeats and misfortunes. Time after time from the clouds which swept over the heavens were formed as it were lofty towers like the flanks of fortresses, which afterward rolled down with a crash. Thunderbolts struck the earth while it was still covered with snow, pine-woods became yellow, and the limbs of trees crossed one another in strange sickly figures; wild beasts and birds fell down and died from unknown diseases. Finally, strange spots were seen on the sun, having the form of a hand holding an apple, of a heart pierced through, and a cross. The minds of men were disturbed more and more; monks were lost in calculating what these signs might mean. A wonderful kind of disquiet seized all hearts. New and sudden wars were foretold, God knows from what source. An ominous report began to circulate from mouth to mouth in villages and towns that a tempest was coming from the side of the Swedes. Apparently nothing seemed to confirm this report, for the truce concluded with Sweden had six years yet to run; and still people spoke of the danger of war, even at the Diet, which Yan Kazimir the king had called on May 19 in Warsaw. Anxious eyes were turned more and more to Great Poland, on which the storm would come first. Leshchynski, the voevoda of Lenchytsk, and Narushevich, chief secretary of Lithuania, went on an embassy to Sweden; but their departure, instead of quieting the alarmed, increased still more the disquiet. "That embassy smells of war," wrote Yanush Radzivill. "If a storm were not threatening from that direction, why were they sent?" asked others. Kanazyl, the first ambassador, had barely returned from Stockholm; but it was to be seen clearly that he had done nothing, since immediately after him important senators were sent. However people of more judgment did not believe yet in the possibility of war. "The Commonwealth," said they, "has given no cause, and the truce endures in full validity. How could oaths be broken, the most sacred agreements violated, and a harmless neighbor attacked in robber fashion? Besides, Sweden remembers the wounds inflicted by the Polish sabre at Kirchholm and Putsk; and Gustavus Adolphus, who in western Europe found not his equal, yielded a number of times to Pan Konyetspolski. The Swedes will not expose such great military glory won in the world to uncertain hazard before an opponent against whom they have never been able to stand in the field. It is true that the Commonwealth is exhausted and weakened by war; but Prussia and Great Poland, which in the last wars did not suffer at all, will of themselves be able to drive that hungry people beyond the sea to their barren rocks. There will be no war." To this alarmists answered again that even before the Diet at Warsaw counsel was taken by advice of the king at the provincial diet in Grodno concerning the defence of the boundary of Great Poland, and taxes and soldiers assigned, which would not have been done unless danger was near. And so minds were wavering between fear and hope; a grievous uncertainty weighed down the spirits of people, when suddenly an end was put to it by the proclamation of Boguslav Leshchynski, commander in Great Poland, summoning the general militia of the provinces of Poznan and Kalisk for the defence of the boundaries against the impending Swedish storm. Every doubt vanished. The shout, "War!" was heard throughout Great Poland and all the lands of the Commonwealth. That was not only a war, but a new war. Hmelnitski, reinforced by Buturlin, was raging in the south and the east; Hovanski and Trubetskoi on the north and east; the Swede was approaching from the west! The fiery border had become a fiery wheel. The country was like a besieged camp; and in the camp evil was happening. One traitor, Radzeyovski, had fled from it, and was in the tent of the invaders. He was guiding them to ready spoil, he was pointing out the weak sides; it was his work to tempt the garrisons. And in addition there was no lack of ill will and envy,--no lack of magnates quarrelling among themselves or angry with the king by reason of offices refused, and ready at any moment to sacrifice the cause of the nation to their own private profit; there was no lack of dissidents wishing to celebrate their own triumph even on the grave of the fatherland; and a still greater number was there of the disorderly, the heedless, the slothful, and of those who were in love with themselves, their own ease and well being. Still Great Poland, a country wealthy and hitherto untouched by war, did not spare at least money for defence. Towns and villages of nobles furnished as many infantry as were assigned to them; and before the nobles moved in their own persons to the camp many-colored regiments of land infantry had moved thither under the leadership of captains appointed by the provincial diet from among men experienced in the art of war. Tan Stanislav Dembinski led the land troops of Poznan, Pan Vladyslav Vlostovski those of Kostsian, and Pan Golts, a famous soldier and engineer, those of Valets. The peasants of Kalisk were commanded by Pan Stanislav Skshetuski, from a stock of valiant warriors, a cousin of the famous Yan from Zbaraj. Pan Katsper Jyhlinski led the millers and bailiffs of Konin. From Pyzdri marched Pan Stanislav Yarachevski, who had spent his youth in foreign wars; from Ktsyna, Pan Pyotr Skorashevski, and from Naklo, Pan Kosletski. But in military experience no one was equal to Pan Vladyslav Skorashevski, whose voice was listened to even by the commander in Great Poland himself and the voevodas. In three places--at Pila, Uistsie, Vyelunie--had the captains fixed the lines on the Notets, waiting for the arrival of the nobles summoned to the general militia. The infantry dug trenches from morning till evening, looking continually toward the rear to see if the wished for cavalry were coming. The first dignitary who came was Pan Andrei Grudzinski, voevoda of Kalisk. He lodged in the house of the mayor, with a numerous retinue of servants arrayed in white and blue colors. He expected that the nobles of Kalisk would gather round him straightway; but when no one appeared he sent for Captain Stanislav Skshetuski, who was occupied in digging trenches at the river. "Where are my men?" asked he, after the first greetings of the captain, whom he had known from childhood. "What men?" asked Pan Stanislav. "The general militia of Kalisk." A smile of pain mingled with contempt appeared on the swarthy face of the soldier. "Serene great mighty voevoda," said he, "this is the time for shearing sheep, and in Dantzig they will not pay for badly washed wool. Every noble is now at a pond washing or weighing, thinking correctly that the Swedes will not run away." "How is that?" asked the troubled voevoda; "is there no one here yet?" "Not a living soul, except the land infantry. And, besides, the harvest is near. A good manager will not leave home at such a season." "What do you tell me?" "But the Swedes will not run away, they will only come nearer," repeated the captain. The pock-pitted face of the voevoda grew suddenly purple. "What are the Swedes to me? But this will be a shame for me in the presence of the other lords if I am here alone like a finger." Pan Stanislav laughed again: "Your grace will permit me to remark," said he, "that the Swedes are the main thing here, and shame afterward. Besides, there will be no shame; for not only the nobles of Kalisk, but all other nobles, are absent." "They have run mad!" exclaimed Grudzinski. "No; but they are sure of this,--if they will not go to the Swedes, the Swedes will not fail to come to them." "Wait!" said the voevoda. And clapping his hands for an attendant, he gave command to bring ink, pen, and paper; then he sat down and began to write. In half an our he had covered the paper; he struck it with his hand, and said,-- "I will send another call for them to be here at the latest _pro die 27 praesentis_ (on the 27th of the present month), and I think that surely they will wish at this last date _non deesse patriæ_ (not to fail the country). And now tell me have you any news of the enemy?" "We have. Wittemberg is mustering his troops on the fields at Dama." "Are there many?" "Some say seventeen thousand, others more." "H'm! then there will not be so many of ours. What is your opinion? Shall we be able to oppose them?" "If the nobles do not appear, there is nothing to talk about." "They will come; why should they not come? It is a known fact that the general militia always delay. But shall we be able to succeed with the aid of the nobles?" "No," replied Pan Stanislav, coolly. "Serene great mighty voevoda, we have no soldiers." "How no soldiers?" "Your grace knows as well as I that all the regular troops are in the Ukraine. Not even two squadrons were sent here, though at this moment God alone knows which storm is greater." "But the infantry, and the general militia?" "Of twenty peasants scarcely one has seen war; of ten, one knows how to hold a gun. After the first war they will be good soldiers, but they are not soldiers now. And as to the general militia let your grace ask any man who knows even a little about war whether the general militia can stand before regulars, and besides such soldiers as the Swedes, veterans of the whole Lutheran war, and accustomed to victory." "Do you exalt the Swedes, then, so highly above your own?" "I do not exalt them above my own; for if there were fifteen thousand such men here as were at Zbaraj, quarter soldiers and cavalry, I should have no fear. But with such as we have God knows whether we can do anything worth mention." The voevoda placed his hands on his knees, and looked quickly into the eyes of Pan Stanislav, as if wishing to read some hidden thought in them. "What have we come here for, then? Do you not think it better to yield?" Pan Stanislav spat in answer, and said: "If such a thought as that has risen in my head, let your grace give command to impale me on a stake. To the question do I believe in victory I answer, as a soldier, that I do not. But why we have come here,--that is another question, to which as a citizen I will answer. To offer the enemy the first resistance, so that by detaining them we shall enable the rest of the country to make ready and march, to restrain the invasion with our bodies until we fall one on the other." "Your intention is praiseworthy," answered the voevoda, coldly; "but it is easier for you soldiers to talk about death than for us, on whom will fall all the responsibility for so much noble blood shed in vain." "What is noble blood for unless to be shed?" "That is true, of course. We are ready to die, for that is the easiest thing of all. But duty commands us, the men whom providence has made leaders, not to seek our own glory merely, but also to look for results. War is as good as begun, it is true; but still Carolus Gustavus is a relative of our king, and must remember this fact. Therefore it is necessary to try negotiations, for sometimes more can be effected by speech than by arms." "That does not pertain to me," said Pan Stanislav, dryly. Evidently the same thought occurred to the voevoda at that moment, for he nodded and dismissed the captain. Pan Stanislav, however, was only half right in what he said concerning the delay of the nobles summoned to the general militia. It was true that before sheep-shearing was over few came to the camp between Pila and Uistsie; but toward the 27th of June,--that is, the date mentioned in the second summons--they began to assemble in numbers considerable enough. Every day clouds of dust, rising by reason of the dry and settled weather, announced the approach of fresh reinforcements one after another. And the nobles travelled noisily on horses, on wheels, and with crowds of servants, with provisions, with wagons, and abundance on them of every kind of thing, and so loaded with weapons that many a man carried arms of every description for three lances, muskets, pistols, sabres, double-handed swords and hussar hammers, out of use even in that time, for smashing armor. Old soldiers recognized at once by these weapons men unaccustomed to war and devoid of experience. Of all the nobles inhabiting the Commonwealth just those of Great Poland were the least warlike. Tartars, Turks, and Cossacks had never trampled those regions which from the time of the Knights of the Cross had almost forgotten how war looked in the country. Whenever a noble of Great Poland felt the desire for war he joined the armies of the kingdom, and fought there as well as the best; but those who preferred to stay at home became real householders, in love with wealth and with ease,--real agriculturists, filling with their wool and especially with their wheat the markets of Prussian towns. But now when the Swedish storm swept them away from their peaceful pursuits, they thought it impossible to pile up too many arms, provide too great supplies, or take too many servants to protect the persons and goods of the master. They were marvellous soldiers, whom the captains could not easily bring to obedience. For example, one would present himself with a lance nineteen feet long, with a breastplate on his breast, but with a straw hat on his head "for coolness;" another in time of drill would complain of the heat; a third would yawn, eat, or drink; a fourth would call his attendant; and all who were in the ranks thought it nothing out of the way to talk so loudly that no man could hear the command of an officer. And it was difficult to introduce discipline, for it offended the brotherhood terribly, as being opposed to the dignity of a citizen. It is true that "articles" were proclaimed, but no one would obey them. An iron ball on the feet of this army was the innumerable legion of wagons, of reserve and draft horses, of cattle intended for food, and especially of the multitude of servants guarding the tents, utensils, millet, grits, hash, and causing on the least occasion quarrels and disturbance. Against such an army as this was advancing from the side of Stettin and the plains on the Oder, Arwid Wittemberg, an old leader, whose youth had been passed in the thirty years' war; he came at the head of seventeen thousand veterans bound together by iron discipline. On one side stood the disordered Polish camp, resembling a crowd at a country fair, vociferous, full of disputes, discussions about the commands of leaders, and of dissatisfaction; composed of worthy villagers turned into prospective infantry, and nobles taken straight from sheep-shearing. From the other side marched terrible, silent quadrangles, which at one beck of their leaders turned, with the precision of machines, into lines and half-circles, unfolding into wedges and triangles as regularly as a sword moves in the hands of a fencer, bristling with musket-barrels and darts: genuine men of war, cool, calm; real masters who had attained perfection in their art. Who among men of experience could doubt the outcome of the meeting and on whose side the victory must fall? The nobles, however, were assembling in greater and greater numbers; and still earlier the dignitaries of Great Poland and other provinces began to meet, bringing bodies of attendant troops and servants. Soon after the arrival of Pan Grudzinski at Pila came Pan Kryshtof Opalinski, the powerful voevoda of Poznan. Three hundred haiduks in red and yellow uniforms and armed with muskets went before the carriage of the voevoda; a crowd of attendant nobles surrounded his worthy person; following them in order of battle came a division of horsemen with uniforms similar to those of the haiduks; the voevoda himself was in a carriage attended by a jester, Staha Ostrojka, whose duty it was to cheer his gloomy master on the road. The entrance of such a great dignitary gave courage and consolation to all; for those who looked on the almost kingly majesty of the voevoda, on that lordly face in which under the lofty vaulting of the forehead there gleamed eyes wise and severe, and on the senatorial dignity of his whole posture, could hardly believe that any evil fate could come to such power. To those accustomed to give honor to office and to person it seemed that even the Swedes themselves would not dare to raise a sacrilegious hand against such a magnate. Even those whose hearts were beating in their breasts with alarm felt safer at once under his wing. He was greeted therefore joyfully and warmly; shouts thundered along the street through which the retinue pushed slowly toward the house of the mayor, and all heads inclined before the voevoda, who was as visible as on the palm of the hand through the windows of the gilded carriage. To these bows Ostrojka answered, as well as the voevoda, with the same importance and gravity as if they had been given exclusively to him. Barely had the dust settled after the passage of Opalinski when couriers rushed in with the announcement that his cousin was coming, the voevoda of Podlyasye, Pyotr Opalinski, with his brother-in-law Yakob Rozdrajevski, the voevoda of Inovratslav. These brought each a hundred and fifty armed men, besides nobles and servants. Then not a day passed without the arrival of dignitaries such as Sendzivoi Charnkovski, the brother-in-law of Krishtof Opalinski, and himself castellan of Kalisk; Maksymilian Myaskovski, the castellan of Kryvinsk; and Pavel Gembitski, the lord of Myendzyrechka. The town was so filled with people that houses failed for the lodging even of nobles. The neighboring meadows were many-colored with the tents of the general militia. One might say that all the various colored birds had flown to Pila from the entire Commonwealth. Red, green, blue, azure, white were gleaming on the various coats and garments; for leaving aside the general militia, in which each noble wore a dress different from his neighbor, leaving aside the servants of the magnates, even the infantry of each district were dressed in their own colors. Shop-keepers came too, who, unable to find places in the market-square, built a row of booths by the side of the town, on these they sold military supplies, from clothing to arms and food. Field-kitchens were steaming day and night, bearing away in the steam the odor of hash, roast meat, millet; in some liquors were sold. Nobles swarmed in front of the booths, armed not only with swords but with spoons, eating, drinking, and discussing, now the enemy not yet to be seen, and now the incoming dignitaries, on whom nicknames were not spared. Among the groups of nobles walked Ostrojka, in a dress made of party-colored rags, carrying a sceptre ornamented with bells, and with the mien of a simple rogue. Wherever he showed himself men came around in a circle, and he poured oil on the fire, helped them to backbite the dignitaries, and gave riddles over which the nobles held their sides from laughter, the more firmly the more biting the riddles. On a certain midday the voevoda of Poznan himself came to the bazaar, speaking courteously with this one and that, or blaming the king somewhat because in the face of the approaching enemy he had not sent a single squadron of soldiers. "They are not thinking of us, worthy gentlemen," said he, "and leave us without assistance. They say in Warsaw that even now there are too few troops in the Ukraine, and that the hetmans are not able to make head against Hmelnitski. Ah, it is difficult! It is pleasanter to see the Ukraine than Great Poland. We are in disfavor, worthy gentlemen, in disfavor! They have delivered us here as it were to be slaughtered." "And who is to blame?" asked Pan Shlihtyng, the judge of Vskov. "Who is to blame for all the misfortunes of the Commonwealth," asked the voevoda,--"who, unless we brother nobles who shield it with our breasts?" The nobles, hearing this, were greatly flattered that the "Count in Bnino and Opalenitsa" put himself on an equality with them, and recognized himself in brotherhood; hence Pan Koshutski answered,-- "Serene great mighty voevoda, if there were more such counsellors as your grace near his Majesty, of a certainty we should not be delivered to slaughter here; but probably those give counsel who bow lower." "I thank you, brothers, for the good word. The fault is his who listens to evil counsellors. Our liberties are as salt in the eye to those people. The more nobles fall, the easier will it be to introduce _absolutum dominium_ (absolute rule)." "Must we die, then, that our children may groan in slavery?" The voevoda said nothing, and the nobles began to look at one another and wonder. "Is that true then?" cried many. "Is that the reason why they sent us here under the knife? And we believe! This is not the first day that they are talking about _absolutum dominium_. But if it comes to that, we shall be able to think of our own heads." "And of our children." "And of our fortunes, which the enemy will destroy _igne et ferro_ (with fire and sword)." The voevoda was silent. In a marvellous manner did this leader add to the courage of his soldiers. "The king is to blame for all!" was shouted more and more frequently. "But do you remember, gentlemen, the history of Yan Olbracht?" asked the voevoda. "The nobles perished for King Olbracht. Treason, brothers!" "The king is a traitor!" cried some bold voices. The voevoda was silent. Now Ostrojka, standing by the side of the voevoda, struck himself a number of times on the legs, and crowed like a cock with such shrillness that all eyes were turned to him. Then he shouted, "Gracious lords! brothers, dear hearts! listen to my riddle." With the genuine fickleness of March weather, the stormy militia changed in one moment to curiosity and desire to hear some new stroke of wit from the jester. "We hear! we hear!" cried a number of voices. The jester began to wink like a monkey and to recite in a squeaking voice,-- "After his brother he solace! himself with a crown and a wife, But let pilory go down to the grave with his brother. He drove out the vice-chancellor; hence now has the fame Of being vice-chancellor to--the vice-chancellor's wife." "The king! the king! As alive! Yan Kazimir!" they began to cry from every side; and laughter, mighty as thunder, was heard in the crowd. "May the bullets strike him, what a masterly explanation!" cried the nobles. The voevoda laughed with the others, and when it had grown somewhat calm he said, with increased dignity: "And for this affair we must pay now with our blood and our heads. See what it has come to! Here, jester, is a ducat for thy good verse." "Kryshtofek! Krysh dearest!" said Ostrojka, "why attack others because they keep jesters, when thou not only keepest me, but payest separately for riddles? Give me another ducat and I'll tell thee another riddle." "Just as good?" "As good, only longer. Give me the ducat first." "Here it is!" The jester slapped his sides with his hands, as a cock with his wings, crowed again, and cried out, "Gracious gentlemen, listen! Who is this?" "He complains of self-seeking, stands forth as a Cato; Instead of a sabre he took a goose's tail-feather He wanted the legacy of a traitor, and not getting that He lashed the whole Commonwealth with a biting rhyme. "God grant him love for the sabre! less woe would it bring. Of his satire the Swedes have no fear. But he has barely tasted the hardships of war When following a traitor he is ready to betray his king." All present guessed that riddle as well as the first. Two or three laughs, smothered at the same instant, were heard in the assembly; then a deep silence fell. The voevoda grew purple, and he was the more confused in that all eyes were fixed on him at that moment. But the jester looked on one noble and then on another; at last he said, "None of you gentlemen can guess who that is?" When silence was the only answer, he turned with the most insolent mien to the voevoda: "And thou, dost thou too not know of what rascal the speech is? Dost thou not know? Then pay me a ducat." "Here!" said the voevoda. "God reward thee. But tell me, Krysh, hast thou not perchance tried to get the vice-chancellorship after Radzeyovski?" "No time for jests," replied Opalinski; and removing his cap to all present: "With the forehead, gentlemen! I must go to the council of war." "To the family council thou didst wish to say, Krysh," added Ostrojka; "for there all thy relatives will hold council how to be off." Then he turned to the nobles and imitating the voevoda in his bows, he added, "And to you, gentlemen, that's the play." Both withdrew; but they had barely gone a few steps when an immense outburst of laughter struck the ears of the voevoda, and thundered long before it was drowned in the general noise of the camp. The council of war was held in fact, and the voevoda of Poznan presided. That was a strange council! Those very dignitaries took part in it who knew nothing of war; for the magnates of Great Poland did not and could not follow the example of those "kinglets" of Lithuania or the Ukraine who lived in continual fire like salamanders. In Lithuania or the Ukraine whoever was a voevoda or a chancellor was a leader whose armor pressed out on his body red stripes which never left it, whose youth was spent in the steppes or the forests on the eastern border, in ambushes, battles, struggles, pursuits, in camp or in tabors. In Great Poland at this time dignitaries were in office who, though they had marched in times of necessity with the general militia, had never held positions of command in time of war. Profound peace had put to sleep the military courage of the descendants of those warriors, before whom in former days the iron legions of the Knights of the Cross were unable to stand, and turned them into civilians, scholars, and writers. Now the stern school of Sweden was teaching them what they had forgotten. The dignitaries assembled in council looked at one another with uncertain eyes, and each feared to speak first, waiting for what "Agamemnon," voevoda of Poznan, would say. But "Agamemnon" himself knew simply nothing, and began his speech again with complaints of the ingratitude and sloth of the king, of the frivolity with which all Great Poland and they were delivered to the sword. But how eloquent was he; what a majestic figure did he present, worthy in truth of a Roman senator! He held his head erect while speaking; his dark eyes shot lightnings, his mouth thunderbolts; his iron-gray beard trembled with excitement when he described the future misfortunes of the land. "For in what does the fatherland suffer," said he, "if not in its sons? and we here suffer, first of all. Through our private lands, through our private fortunes won by the services and blood of our ancestors, will advance the feet of those enemies who now like a storm are approaching from the sea. And why do we suffer? For what will they take our herds, trample our harvests, burn our villages built by our labor? Have we wronged Radzeyovski, who, condemned unjustly, hunted like a criminal, had to seek the protection of strangers? No! Do we insist that that empty title 'King of Sweden,' which has cost so much blood already, should remain with the signature of our Yan Kazimir? No! Two wars are blazing on two boundaries; was it needful to call forth a third? Who was to blame, may God, may the country judge him! We wash our hands, for we are innocent of the blood which will be shed." And thus the voevoda thundered on further; but when it came to the question in hand he was not able to give the desired advice. They sent then for the captains leading the land infantry, and specially for Vladyslav Skorashevski, who was not only a famous and incomparable knight, but an old, practised soldier, knowing war as he did the Lord's Prayer. In fact, genuine leaders listened frequently to his advice; all the more eagerly was it sought for now. Pan Skorashevski advised then to establish three camps,--at Pila, Vyelunie, and Uistsie,--so near one another that in time of attack they might give mutual aid, and besides this to cover with trenches the whole extent of the river-bank occupied by a half-circle of camps which were to command the passage. "When we know," said Skorashevski, "the place where the enemy will attempt the crossing, we shall unite from all three camps and give him proper resistance. But I with the permission of your great mighty lordships, will go with a small party to Chaplinko. That is a lost position, and in time I shall withdraw from it; but there I shall first get knowledge of the enemy, and then will inform your great mighty lordships." All accepted this counsel, and men began to move around somewhat more briskly in the camp. At last the nobles assembled to the number of fifteen thousand. The land infantry dug trenches over an extent of six miles. Uistsie, the chief position, was occupied by the voevoda of Poznan and his men. A part of the knights remained in Vyelunie, a part in Pila, and Vladyslav Skorashevski went to Chaplinko to observe the enemy. July began; all the days were clear and hot. The sun burned on the plains so violently that the nobles hid in the woods between the trees, under the shade of which some of them gave orders to set up their tents. There also they had noisy and boisterous feasts; and still more of an uproar was made by the servants, especially at the time of washing and watering the horses which, to the number of several thousand at once, were driven thrice each day to the Notets and Berda, quarrelling and fighting for the best approach to the bank. But in the beginning there was a good spirit in the camp; only the voevoda of Poznan himself acted rather to weaken it. If Wittemberg had come in the first days of July, it is likely that he would have met a mighty resistance, which in proportion as the men warmed to battle might have been turned into an invincible rage, of which there were often examples. For still there flowed knightly blood in the veins of these people, though they had grown unaccustomed to war. Who knows if another Yeremi Vishnyevetski might not have changed Uistsie into another Zbaraj, and described in those trenches a new illustrious career of knighthood? Unfortunately the voevoda of Poznan was a man who could only write; he knew nothing of war. Wittemberg, a leader knowing not merely war but men, did not hasten, perhaps on purpose. Experience of long years had taught him that a newly enrolled soldier is most dangerous in the first moments of enthusiasm, and that often not bravery is lacking to him, but soldierly endurance, which practice alone can develop. More than once have new soldiers struck like a storm on the oldest regiments, and passed over their corpses. They are iron which while it is hot quivers, lives, scatters sparks, burns, destroys, but which when it grows cold is a mere lifeless lump. In fact, when a week had passed, a second, and the third had come, long inactivity began to weigh upon the general militia. The heat became greater each day. The nobles would not go to drill, and gave as excuse that their horses tormented by flies would not stand in line, and as to marshy places they could not live from mosquitoes. Servants raised greater and greater quarrels about shady places, concerning which it came to sabres among their masters. This or that one coming home in the evening from the water rode off to one side from the camp not to return. Evil example from above was also not wanting. Pan Skorashevski had given notice from Chaplinko that the Swedes were not distant, when at the military council Zygmunt Grudzinski got leave to go home; on this leave his uncle Andrei Grudzinski, voevoda of Kalisk, had greatly insisted. "I have to lay down my head and my life here," said he; "let my nephew inherit after me my memory and glory, so that my services may not be lost." Then he grew tender over the youth and innocence of his nephew, praising the liberality with which he had furnished one hundred very choice soldiers; and the military council granted the prayer of the uncle. On the morning of July 16, Zygmunt with a few servants left the camp openly for home, on the eve almost of a siege and a battle. Crowds of nobles conducted him amid jeering cries to a distance beyond the camp. Ostrojka led the party, and shouted from afar after the departing,-- "Worthy Pan Zygmunt, I give thee a shield, and as third name Deest!"[13] "Vivat Deest-Grudzinski!" "But weep not for thy uncle," continued Ostrojka. "He despises the Swedes as much as thou; and let them only show themselves, he will surely turn his back on them." The blood of the young magnate rushed to his face, but he pretended not to hear the insults. He put spurs to his horse, however, and pushed aside the crowds, so as to be away from the camp and his persecutors as soon as possible, who at last, without consideration for the birth and dignity of the departing, began to throw clods of earth at him and to cry,-- "Here is a gruda, Grudzinski![14] You hare, you coward!" They made such an uproar that the voevoda of Poznan hastened up with a number of captains to quiet them, and explain that Grudzinski had taken leave only for a week on very urgent affairs. Still the evil example had its effect; and that same day there were several hundred nobles who did not wish to be worse than Grudzinski, though they slipped away with less aid and more quietly. Stanislav Skshetuski, a captain from Kalisk and cousin of the famous Yan of Zbaraj, tore the hair on his head; for his land infantry, following the example of "officers," began to desert from the camp. A new council of war was held in which crowds of nobles refused absolutely to take part. A stormy night followed, full of shouts and quarrels. They suspected one another of the intention to desert. Cries of "Either all or none!" flew from mouth to mouth. Every moment reports were given out that the voevodas were departing, and such an uproar prevailed that the voevodas had to show themselves several times to the excited multitude. A number of thousands of men were on their horses before daybreak. But the voevoda of Poznan rode between the ranks with uncovered head like a Roman senator, and repeated from moment to moment the great words,-- "Worthy gentlemen, I am with you to live and die." He was received in some places with vivats; in others shouts of derision were thundering. The moment he had pacified the crowd he returned to the council, tired, hoarse, carried away by the grandeur of his own words, and convinced that he had rendered inestimable service to his country that night. But at the council he had fewer words in his mouth, twisted his beard, and pulled his foretop from despair, repeating,-- "Give counsel if you can; I wash my hands of the future, for it is impossible to make a defence with such soldiers." "Serene great mighty voevoda," answered Stanislav Skshetuski, "the enemy will drive away that turbulence and uproar. Only let the cannon play, only let it come to defence, to a siege, these very nobles in defence of their own lives must serve on the ramparts and not be disorderly in camp. So it has happened more than once." "With what can we defend ourselves? We have no cannon, nothing but saluting pieces good to fire off in time of a feast." "At Zbaraj Hmelnitski had seventy cannon, and Prince Yeremi only a few eight-pounders and mortars." "But he had an army, not militia,--his own squadrons famed in the world, not country nobles fresh from sheep-shearing." "Send for Pan Skorashevski," said the castellan of Poznan. "Make him commander of the camp. He is at peace with the nobles, and will be able to keep them in order." "Send for Skorashevski. Why should he be in Drahim or Chaplinko?" repeated Yendrei Grudzinski, the voevoda of Kalisk. "Yes, that is the best counsel!" cried other voices. A courier was despatched for Skorashevski. No other decisions were taken at the council; but they talked much, and complained of the king, the queen, the lack of troops, and negligence. The following morning brought neither relief nor calm spirits. The disorder had become still greater. Some gave out reports that the dissidents, namely the Calvinists, were favorable to the Swedes, and ready on the first occasion to go over to the enemy. What was more, this news was not contradicted by Pan Shlihtyng nor by Edmund and Yatsck Kurnatovski, also Calvinists, but sincerely devoted to the country. Besides they gave final proof that the dissidents formed a separate circle and consulted with one another under the lead of a noted disturber and cruel man. Pan Rei, who serving in Germany during his youth as a volunteer on the Lutheran side, was a great friend of the Swedes. Scarcely had this suspicion gone out among the nobles when several thousand sabres were gleaming, and a real tempest rose in the camp. "Let us punish the traitors, punish the serpents, ready to bite the bosom of their mother!" cried the nobles. "Give them this way!" "Cut them to pieces! Treason is most infectious, worthy gentlemen. Tear out the cockle or we shall all perish!" The voevodas and captains had to pacify them again, but this time it was more difficult than the day before. Besides, they were themselves convinced that Rei was ready to betray his country in the most open manner; for he was a man completely foreignized, and except his language had nothing Polish in him. It was decided therefore to send him out of the camp, which at once pacified somewhat the angry multitude. Still shouts continued to burst forth for a long time,-- "Give them here! Treason, treason!" Wonderful conditions of mind reigned finally in the camp. Some fell in courage and were sunk in grief; others walked in silence, with uncertain steps, along the ramparts, casting timid and gloomy glances along the plains over which the enemy had to approach, or communicated in whispers worse and worse news. Others were possessed of a sort of desperate, mad joy and readiness for death. In consequence of this readiness they arranged feasts and drinking-bouts so as to pass the last days of life in rejoicing. Some thought of saving their souls, and spent the nights in prayer. But in that whole throng of men no one thought of victory, as if it were altogether beyond reach. Still the enemy had not superior forces; they had more cannon, better trained troops, and a leader who understood war. And while in this wise on one side the Polish camp was seething, shouting, and feasting, rising up with a roar, dropping down to quiet, like a sea lashed by a whirlwind, while the general militia were holding diets as in time of electing a king, on the other side, along the broad green meadows of the Oder, pushed forward in calmness the legions of Sweden. In front marched a brigade of the royal guard, led by Benedykt Horn, a terrible soldier, whose name was repeated in Germany with fear. The soldiers were chosen men, large, wearing lofty helmets with rims covering their ears, in yellow leather doublets, armed with rapiers and muskets; cool and constant in battle, ready at every beck of the leader. Karl Schedding, a German, led the West Gothland brigade, formed of two regiments of infantry and one of heavy cavalry, dressed in armor without shoulder-pieces. Half of the infantry had muskets; the others spears. At the beginning of a battle the musketeers stood in front, but in case of attack by cavalry they stood behind the spearmen, who, placing each the butt of his spear in the ground, held the point against the onrushing horses. At a battle in the time of Sigismund III. one squadron of hussars cut to pieces with their sabres and with hoofs this same West Gothland brigade, in which at present Germans served mainly. The two Smaland brigades were led by Irwin, surnamed Handless, for he had lost his right hand on a time while defending his flag; but to make up for this loss he had in his left such strength that with one blow he could hew off the head of a horse. He was a gloomy warrior, loving battles and bloodshed alone, stern to himself and to soldiers. While other captains trained themselves in continual wars into followers of a craft, and loved war for its own sake, he remained the same fanatic, and while slaying men he sang psalms to the Lord. The brigade of Westrmanland marched under Drakenborg; and that of Helsingor, formed of sharpshooters famed through the world, under Gustav Oxenstiern, a relative of the renowned chancellor,--a young soldier who roused great hopes. Fersen commanded the East Gothland brigade; the Nerik and Werland brigades were directed by Wittemberg himself, who at the same time was supreme chief of the whole army. Seventy-two cannon pounded out furrows in the moist meadows; of soldiers there were seventeen thousand, the fierce plunderers of all Germany, and in battle they were so accurate, especially the infantry, that the French royal guard could hardly compare with them. After the regiments followed the wagons and tents. The regiments marched in line, ready each moment for battle. A forest of lances was bristling above the mass of heads, helmets, and hats; and in the midst of that forest flowed on toward the frontier of Poland the great blue banners with white crosses in the centre. With each day the distance decreased between the two armies. At last on July 27, in the forest at the village of Heinrichsdorf, the Swedish legions beheld for the first time the boundary pillar of Poland. At sight of this the whole army gave forth a mighty shout; trumpets and drums thundered, and all the flags were unfurled. Wittemberg rode to the front attended by a brilliant staff, and all the regiments passed before him, presenting arms,--the cavalry with drawn rapiers, the cannon with lighted matches. The time was midday; the weather glorious. The forest breeze brought the odor of resin. The gray road, covered with the rays of the sun,--the road over which the Swedish regiments had passed,--bending out of the Heinrichsdorf forest, was lost on the horizon. When the troops marching by it had finally passed the forest, their glances discovered a gladsome land, smiling, shining with yellow fields of every kind of grain, dotted in places with oak groves, in places green from meadows. Here and there out of groups of trees, behind oak groves and far away rose bits of smoke to the sky; on the grass herds were seen grazing. Where on the meadows the water gleamed widely spread, walked storks at their leisure. A certain calm and sweetness was spread everywhere over that land flowing with milk and honey, and it seemed to open its arms ever wider and wider before the army, as if it greeted not invaders but guests coming with God. At this sight a new shout was wrested from the bosoms of all the soldiers, especially the Swedes by blood, who were accustomed to the bare, poor, wild nature of their native land. The hearts of a plundering and needy people rose with desire to gather those treasures and riches which appeared before their eyes. Enthusiasm seized the ranks. But the soldiers, tempered in the fire of the Thirty Years' War, expected that this would not come to them easily; for that grainland was inhabited by a numerous and a knightly people, who knew how to defend it. The memory was still living in Sweden of the terrible defeat of Kirchholm, where three thousand cavalry under Hodkyevich ground into dust eighteen thousand of the best troops of Sweden. In the cottages of West Gothland, Smaland, or Delakarlia they told tales of those winged knights, as of giants from a saga. Fresher still was the memory of the struggles in the time of Gustavus Adolphus, for the warriors were not yet extinct who had taken part in them. But that eagle of Scandinavia, ere he had flown twice through all Germany, broke his talons on the legions of Konyetspolski. Therefore with the gladness there was joined in the hearts of the Swedes a certain fear, of which the supreme chief, Wittemberg himself, was not free. He looked on the passing regiments of infantry and cavalry with the eye with which a shepherd looks on his flock; then he turned to the rear man, who wore a hat with a feather, and a light-colored wig falling to his shoulders. "Your grace assures me," said he, "that with these forces it is possible to break the army occupying Uistsie?" The man with the light wig smiled and answered: "Your grace may rely completely on my words, for which I am ready to pledge my head. If at Uistsie there were regular troops and some one of the hetmans, I first would give counsel not to hasten, but to wait till his royal Grace should come with the whole army; but against the general militia and those gentlemen of Great Poland our forces will be more than sufficient." "But have not reinforcements come to them?" "Reinforcements have not come for two reasons,--first, because all the regular troops, of which there are not many, are occupied in Lithuania and the Ukraine; second, because in Warsaw neither the King Yan Kazimir, the chancellor, nor the senate will believe to this moment that his royal Grace Karl Gustav has really begun war in spite of the truce, and notwithstanding the last embassies and his readiness to compromise. They are confident that peace will be made at the last hour,--ha, ha!" Here the rear man removed his hat, wiped the sweat from his red face, and added: "Trubetskoi and Dolgoruki in Lithuania, Hmelnitski in the Ukraine, and we entering Great Poland,--behold what the government of Yan Kazimir has led to." Wittemberg gazed on him with a look of astonishment, and asked, "But, your grace, do you rejoice at the thought?" "I rejoice at the thought, for my wrong and my innocence will be avenged; and besides I see, as on the palm of my hand, that the sabre of your grace and my counsels will place that new and most beautiful crown in the world on the head of Karl Gustav." Wittemberg turned his glance to the distance, embraced with it the oak-groves, the meadows, the grain-fields, and after a while said: "True, it is a beautiful country and fertile. Your grace may be sure that after the war the king will give the chancellorship to no one else but you." The man in the rear removed his cap a second time. "And I, for my part, wish to have no other lord," added he, raising his eyes to heaven. The heavens were clear and fair; no thunderbolt fell and crashed to the dust the traitor who delivered his country, groaning under two wars already and exhausted, to the power of the enemy on that boundary. The man conversing with Wittemberg was Hieronim Kailzeyovski, late under-chancellor of the Crown, now sold to Sweden in hostility to his country. They stood a time in silence. Meanwhile the last two brigades, those of Nerik and Wermland, passed the boundary; after them others began to draw in the cannon; the trumpets still played unceasingly; the roar and rattle of drums outsounded the tramp of the soldiers, and filled the forest with ominous echoes. At last the staff moved also. Radzeyovski rode at the side of Wittemberg. "Oxenstiern is not to be seen," said Wittemberg. "I am afraid that something may have happened to him. I do not know whether it was wise to send him as a trumpeter with letters to Uistsie." "It was wise," answered Radzeyovski, "for he will look at the camp, will see the leaders, and learn what they think there; and this any kind of camp-follower could not do." "But if they recognize him?" "Rei alone knows him, and he is ours. Besides, even if they should recognize him, they will do him no harm, but will give him supplies for the road and reward him. I know the Poles, and I know they are ready for anything, merely to show themselves polite people before strangers. Our whole effort is to win the praise of strangers. Your grace may be at rest concerning Oxenstiern, for a hair will not fall from his head. He has not come because it is too soon for his return." "And does your grace think our letters will have any effect?" Radzeyovski laughed. "If your grace permits, I will foretell what will happen. The voevoda of Poznan is a polished and learned man, therefore he will answer us very courteously and very graciously; but because he loves to pass for a Roman, his answer will be terribly Roman. He will say, to begin with, that he would rather shed the last drop of his blood than surrender, that death is better than dishonor, and the love which he bears his country directs him to fall for her on the boundary." Radzeyovski laughed still louder. The stern face of Wittemberg brightened also. "Your grace does not think that he will be ready to act as he writes?" asked Wittemberg. "He?" answered Radzeyovski. "It is true that he nourishes a love for his country, but with ink; and that is not over-strong food. His love is in fact more scant than that of his jester who helps him to put rhymes together. I am certain that after that Roman answer will come good wishes for health, success, offers of service, and at last a request to spare his property and that of his relatives, for which again he with all his relatives will be thankful." "And what at last will be the result of our letters?" "The courage of the other side will weaken to the last degree, senators will begin to negotiate with us, and we shall occupy all Great Poland after perhaps a few shots in the air." "Would that your grace be a true prophet!" "I am certain that it will be as I say, for I know these people. I have friends and adherents in the whole country, and I know how to begin. And that I shall neglect nothing is made sure by the wrong which I endure from Van Kazimir, and my love for Karl Gustav. People with us are more tender at present about their own fortunes than the integrity of the Commonwealth. All those lands upon which we shall now march are the estates of the Opalinskis, the Charnkovskis, the Grudzinskis; and because they are at Uistsie in person they will be milder in negotiating. As to the nobles, if only their freedom of disputing at the diets is guaranteed, they will follow the voevodas." "By knowledge of the country and the people your grace renders the king unexampled service, which cannot remain without an equally noteworthy reward. Therefore from what you say I conclude that I may look on this land as ours." "You may, your grace, you may, you may," repeated Radzeyovski hurriedly, a number of times. "Therefore I occupy it in the name of his Royal Grace Karl Gustav," answered Wittemberg, solemnly. While the Swedish troops were thus beginning beyond Heinrichsdorf to walk on the land of Great Poland, and even earlier, for it was on July 18, a Swedish trumpeter arrived at the Polish camp with letters from Radzeyovski and Wittemberg to the voevodas. Vladyslav Skorashevski himself conducted the trumpeter to the voevoda of Poznan, and the nobles of the general militia gazed with curiosity on the "first Swede," wondering at his valiant bearing, his manly face, his blond mustaches, the ends combed upward in a broad brush, and his really lordlike mien. Crowds followed him to the voevoda; acquaintances called to one another, pointing him out with their fingers, laughed somewhat at his boots with enormous round legs, and at the long straight rapier, which they called a spit, hanging from a belt richly worked with silver. The Swede also cast curious glances from under his broad hat, as if wishing to examine the camp and estimate the forces, and then looked repeatedly at the crowd of nobles whose oriental costumes were apparently novel to him. At last he was brought to the voevoda, around whom were grouped all the dignitaries in the camp. The letters were read immediately, and a council held. The voevoda committed the trumpeter to his attendants to be entertained in soldier fashion; the nobles took him from the attendants, and wondering at the man as a curiosity, began to drink for life and death with him. Pan Skorashevski looked at the Swede with equal scrutiny; but because he suspected him to be some officer in disguise, he went in fact to convey that idea in the evening to the voevoda. The latter, however, said it was all one, and did not permit his arrest. "Though he were Wittemberg himself, he has come hither as an envoy and should go away unmolested. In addition I command you to give him ten ducats for the road." The trumpeter meanwhile was talking in broken German with those nobles who, through intercourse with Prussian towns, understood that language. He told them of victories won by Wittemberg in various lands, of the forces marching against Uistsie, and especially of the cannon of a range hitherto unknown and which could not be resisted. The nobles were troubled at this, and no small number of exaggerated accounts began to circulate through the camp. That night scarcely any one slept in Uistsie. About midnight those men came in who had stood hitherto in separate camps, at Pila and Vyelunie. The dignitaries deliberated over their answer to the letters till daylight, and the nobles passed the time in stories about the power of the Swedes. With a certain feverish curiosity they asked the trumpeter about the leaders of the army, the weapons, the method of fighting; and every answer of his was given from mouth to mouth. The nearness of the Swedish legions lent unusual interest to all the details, which were not of a character to give consolation. About daylight Stanislav Skshetuski came with tidings that the Swedes had arrived at Valch, one day's march from the Polish camp. There rose at once a terrible hubbub; most of the horses with the servants were at pasture on the meadows. They were sent for then with all haste. Districts mounted and formed squadrons. The moment before battle was for the untrained soldier the most terrible; therefore before the captains were able to introduce any kind of system there reigned for a long time desperate disorder. Neither commands nor trumpets could be heard; nothing but voices crying on every side: "Yan! Pyotr! Onufri! This way! I wish thou wert killed! Bring the horses! Where are my men? Yan! Pyotr!" If at that moment one cannon-shot had been heard, the disorder might easily have been turned to a panic. Gradually, however, the districts were ranged in order. The inborn capacity of the nobles for war made up for the want of experience, and about midday the camp presented an appearance imposing enough. The infantry stood on the ramparts looking like flowers in their many-colored coats, smoke was borne away from the lighted matches, and outside the ramparts under cover of the guns the meadows and plain were swarming with the district squadrons of cavalry standing in line on sturdy horses, whose neighing roused an echo in the neighboring forests and filled all hearts with military ardor. Meanwhile the voevoda of Poznan sent away the trumpeter with an answer to the letter reading more or less as Radzeyovski had foretold, therefore both courteous and Roman; then he determined to send a party to the northern bank of the Notets to seize an informant from the enemy. Pyotr Opalinski, voevoda of Podlyasye, a cousin of the voevoda Poznan, was to go in person with a party together with his own dragoons, a hundred and fifty of whom he had brought to Uistsie; and besides this it was given to Captains Skorashevski and Skshetuski to call out volunteers from the nobles of the general militia, so that they might also look in the eyes of the enemy. Both rode before the ranks, delighting the eye by manner and posture,--Pan Stanislav black as a beetle, like all the Skshetuskis, with a manly face, stern and adorned with a long sloping scar which remained from a sword-blow, with raven black beard blown aside by the wind; Pan Vladyslav portly, with long blond mustaches, open under lip, and eyes with red lids, mild and honest, reminding one less of Mars,--but none the less a genuine soldier spirit, as glad to be in fire as a salamander,--a knight knowing war as his ten fingers, and of incomparable daring. Both, riding before the ranks extended in a long line, repeated from moment to moment,-- "Now, gracious gentlemen, who is the volunteer against the Swedes? Who wants to smell powder? Well, gracious gentlemen, volunteer!" And so they continued for a good while without result, for no man pushed forward from the ranks. One looked at another. There were those who desired to go and had no fear of the Swedes, but indecision restrained them. More than one nudged his neighbor and said, "Go you, and then I'll go." The captains were growing impatient, till all at once, when they had ridden up to the district of Gnyezno, a certain man dressed in many colors sprang forth on a hoop, not from the line but from behind the line, and cried,-- "Gracious gentlemen of the militia, I'll be the volunteer and ye will be jesters!" "Ostrojka! Ostrojka!" cried the nobles. "I am just as good a noble as any of you!" answered the jester. "Tfu! to a hundred devils!" cried Pan Rosinski; under-judge, "a truce to jesting! I will go." "And I! and I!" cried numerous voices. "Once my mother bore me, once for me is death!" "As good as thou will be found!" "Freedom to each. Let no man here exalt himself above others." And as no one had come forth before, so now nobles began to rush out from every district, spurring forward their horses, disputing with one another and fighting to advance. In the twinkle of an eye there were five hundred horsemen, and still they were riding forth from the ranks. Pan Skorashevski began to laugh with his honest, open laugh. "Enough, worthy gentlemen, enough! We cannot all go." Then the two captains put the men in order and marched. The voevoda of Podlyasye joined the horsemen as they were riding out of camp. They were seen as on the palm of the hand crossing the Notets; after that they glittered some time on the windings of the road, then vanished from sight. At the expiration of half an hour the voevoda of Poznan ordered the troops to their tents, for he saw that it was impossible to keep them in the ranks when the enemy were still a day's march distant. Numerous pickets were thrown out, however; it was not permitted to drive horses to pasture, and the order was given that at the first low sound of the trumpet through the mouthpiece all were to mount and be ready. Expectation and uncertainty had come to an end, quarrels and disputes were finished at once, for the nearness of the enemy had raised their courage as Pan Skshetuski had predicted. The first successful battle might raise it indeed very high; and in the evening an event took place which seemed of happy omen. The sun was just setting,--lighting with enormous glitter, dazzling the eyes, the Notets, and the pine-woods beyond,--when on the other side of the river was seen first a cloud of dust, and then men moving in the cloud. All that was living went out on the ramparts to see what manner of guests these were. At that moment a dragoon of the guards rushed in from the squadron of Pan Grudzinski with intelligence that the horsemen were returning. "The horsemen are returning with success! The Swedes have not eaten them!" was repeated from mouth to mouth. Meanwhile they in bright rolls of dust approached nearer and nearer, coming slowly; then they crossed the Notets. The nobles with their hands over their eyes gazed at them; for the glitter became each moment greater, and the whole air was filled with gold and purple light. "Hei! the party is somewhat larger than when it went out," said Shlihtyng. "They must be bringing prisoners, as God is dear to me!" cried a noble, apparently without confidence and not believing his eyes. "They are bringing prisoners! They are bringing prisoners!" They had now come so near that their faces could be recognized. In front rode Skorashevski, nodding his head as usual and talking joyously with Skshetuski; after them the strong detachment of horse surrounded a few tens of infantry wearing round hats. They were really Swedish prisoners. At this sight the nobles could not contain themselves; and ran forward with shouts: "Vivat Skorashevski! Vivat Skshetuski!" A dense crowd surrounded the party at once. Some looked at the prisoners; some asked, "How was the affair?" others threatened the Swedes. "Ah-hu! Well now, good for you, ye dogs! Ye wanted to war with the Poles? Ye have the Poles now!" "Give them here! Sabre them, make mince-meat of them!" "Ha, broad-breeches! ye have tried the Polish sabres?" "Gracious gentlemen, don't shout like little boys, for the prisoners will think that this is your first war," said Skorashevski; "it is a common thing to take prisoners in time of war." The volunteers who belonged to the party looked with pride on the nobles who overwhelmed them with questions: "How was it? Did they surrender easily? Had you to sweat over them? Do they fight well?" "They are good fellows," said Rosinski, "they defended themselves well; but they are not iron,--a sabre cuts them." "So they couldn't resist you, could they?" "They could not resist the impetus." "Gracious gentlemen, do you hear what is said,--they could not resist the impetus. Well, what does that mean? Impetus is the main thing." "Remember if only there is impetus!--that is the best method against the Swedes." If at that moment those nobles had been commanded to rush at the enemy, surely impetus would not have been lacking; but it was well into the night when the sound of a trumpet was heard before the forepost. A trumpeter arrived with a letter from Wittemberg summoning the nobles to surrender. The crowds hearing of this wanted to cut the messenger to pieces; but the voevodas took the letter into consideration, though the substance of it was insolent. The Swedish general announced that Karl Gustav sent his troops to his relative Yan Kazimir, as reinforcements against the Cossacks, that therefore the people of Great Poland should yield without resistance. Pan Grudzinski on reading this letter could not restrain his indignation, and struck the table with his fist; but the voevoda of Poznan quieted him at once with the question,-- "Do you believe in victory? How many days can we defend ourselves? Do you wish to take the responsibility for so much noble blood which may be shed to-morrow?" After a long deliberation it was decided not to answer, and to wait for what would happen. They did not wait long. On Saturday, July 24, the pickets announced that the whole Swedish army had appeared before Pila. There was as much bustle in camp as in a beehive on the eve of swarming. The nobles mounted their horses; the voevodas hurried along the ranks, giving contradictory commands till Vladyslav Skorashevski took everything in hand; and when he had established order he rode out at the head of a few hundred volunteers to try skirmishing beyond the river and accustom the men to look at the enemy. The cavalry went with him willingly enough, for skirmishing consisted generally of struggles carried on by small groups or singly, and such struggles the nobles trained to sword exercise did not fear at all. They went out therefore beyond the river, and stood before the enemy, who approached nearer and nearer, and blackened with a long line the horizon, as if a grove had grown freshly from the ground. Regiments of cavalry and infantry deployed, occupying more and more space. The nobles expected that skirmishers on horseback might rush against them at any moment. So far they were not to be seen; but on the low hills a few hundred yards distant small groups halted, in which were to be seen men and horses, and they began to turn around on the place. Seeing this, Skorashevski commanded without delay, "To the left! to the rear!" But the voice of command had not yet ceased to sound when on the hills long white curls of smoke bloomed forth, and as it were birds of some kind flew past with a whistle among the nobles; then a report shook the air, and at the same moment were heard cries and groans of a few wounded. "Halt!" cried Skorashevski. The birds flew past a second and a third time; again groans accompanied the whistle. The nobles did not listen to the command of the chief, but retreated at increased speed, shouting, and calling for the aid of heaven. Then the division scattered, in the twinkle of an eye, over the plain, and rushed on a gallop to the camp. Skorashevski was cursing, but that did no good. Wittemberg, having dispersed the skirmishers so easily pushed on farther, till at last he stood in front of Uistsie, straight before the trenches defended by the nobles of Kalish. The Polish guns began to play, but at first no answer was made from the Swedish side. The smoke fell away quietly in the clear air in long streaks stretching between the armies, and in the spaces between them the nobles saw the Swedish regiments, infantry and cavalry, deploying with terrible coolness as if certain of victory. On the hills the cannon were fixed, trenches raised; in a word, the enemy came into order without paying the least attention to the balls which, without reaching them, merely scattered sand and earth on the men working in the trenches. Pan Skshetuski led out once more two squadrons of the men of Kalish, wishing by a bold attack to confuse the Swedes. But they did not go willingly; the division fell at once into a disorderly crowd, for when the most daring urged their horses forward the most cowardly held theirs back on purpose. Two regiments of cavalry sent by Wittemberg drove the nobles from the field after a short struggle, and pursued them to the camp. Now dusk came, and put an end to the bloodless strife. There was firing from cannon till night, when firing ceased; but such a tumult rose in the Polish camp that it was heard on the other bank of the Notets. It rose first for the reason that a few hundred of the general militia tried to slip away in the darkness. Others, seeing this, began to threaten and detain them. Sabres were drawn. The words "Either all or none" flew again from mouth to mouth. At every moment it seemed most likely that all would go. Great dissatisfaction burst out against the leaders: "They sent us with naked breasts against cannon," cried the militia. They were enraged in like degree against Wittemberg, because without regard to the customs of war he had not sent skirmishers against skirmishers, but had ordered to fire on them unexpectedly from cannon. "Every one will do for himself what is best," said they; "but it is the custom of a swinish people not to meet face to face." Others were in open despair. "They will smoke us out of this place like badgers out of a hole," said they. "The camp is badly planned, the trenches are badly made, the place is not fitted for defence." From time to time voices were heard: "Save yourselves, brothers!" Still others cried: "Treason! treason!" That was a terrible night: confusion and relaxation increased every moment; no one listened to commands. The voevodas lost their heads, and did not even try to restore order; and the imbecility of the general militia appeared as clearly as on the palm of the hand. Wittemberg might have taken the camp by assault on that night with the greatest ease. Dawn came. The day broke pale, cloudy, and lighted a chaotic gathering of people fallen in courage, lamenting, and the greater number drunk, more ready for shame than for battle. To complete the misfortune, the Swedes had crossed the Notets at Dzyembovo and surrounded the Polish camp. At that side there were scarcely any trenches, and there was nothing from behind which they could defend themselves. They should have raised breastworks without delay. Skorashevski and Skshetuski had implored to have this done, but no one would listen to anything. The leaders and the nobles had one word on their lips, "Negotiate!" Men were sent out to parley. In answer there came from the Swedish camp a brilliant party, at the head of which rode Radzeyovski and General Wirtz, both with green branches. They rode to the house in which the voevoda of Poznan was living; but on the way Radzeyovski stopped amid the crowd of nobles, bowed with the branch, with his hat, laughed, greeted his acquaintances, and said in a piercing voice,-- "Gracious gentlemen, dearest brothers, be not alarmed! Not as enemies do we come. On you it depends whether a drop of blood more will be shed. If you wish instead of a tyrant who is encroaching on your liberties, who is planning for absolute power, who has brought the country to final destruction,--if you wish, I repeat, a good ruler, a noble one, a warrior of such boundless glory that at bare mention of his name all the enemies of the Commonwealth will flee,--give yourselves under the protection of the most serene Karl Gustav. Gracious gentlemen, dearest brothers, behold, I bring to you the guarantee of all your liberties, of your freedom, of your religion. On yourselves your salvation depends. Gracious gentlemen, the most serene Swedish king undertakes to quell the Cossack rebellion, to finish the war in Lithuania; and only he can do that. Take pity on the unfortunate country if you have no pity on yourselves." Here the voice of the traitor quivered as if stopped by tears. The nobles listened with astonishment; here and there scattered voices cried, "Vivat Radzeyovski, our vice-chancellor!" He rode farther, and again bowed to new throngs, and again was heard his trumpet-like voice: "Gracious gentlemen, dearest brothers!" And at last he and Wirtz with the whole retinue vanished in the house of the voevoda of Poznan. The nobles crowded so closely before the house that it would have been possible to ride on their heads, for they felt and understood that there in that house men were deciding the question not only of them but of the whole country. The servants of the voevodas, in scarlet colors, came out and began to invite the more important personages to the council. They entered quickly, and after them burst in a few of the smaller; but the rest remained at the door, they pressed to the windows, put their ears even to the walls. A deep silence reigned in the throng. Those standing nearest the windows heard from time to time the sound of shrill voices from within the chamber, as it were the echo of quarrels, disputes, and fights. Hour followed hour, and no end to the council. Suddenly the doors wore thrown open with a crash, and out burst Vladyslav Skorashevski. Those present pushed back in astonishment. That man, usually so calm and mild, of whom it was said that wounds might be healed under his hand, had that moment a terrible face. His eyes were red, his look wild, his clothing torn open on his breast; both hands were grasping his hair, and he rushed out like a thunderbolt among the nobles, and cried with a piercing voice,-- "Treason! murder! shame! We are Sweden now, and Poland no longer!" He began to roar with an awful voice, with a spasmodic cry, and to tear his hair like a man who is losing his reason. A silence of the grave reigned all around. A certain fearful foreboding seized all hearts. Skorashevski sprang away quickly, began to run among the nobles and cry with a voice of the greatest despair: "To arms, to arms, whoso believes in God! To arms, to arms!" Then certain murmurs began to fly through the throngs,--certain momentary whispers, sudden and broken, like the first beatings of the wind before a storm. Hearts hesitated, minds hesitated, and in that universal distraction of feelings the tragic voice was calling continually, "To arms, to arms!" Soon two other voices joined his,--those of Pyotr Skorashevski and Stanislav Shshetuski. After them ran up Klodzinski, the gallant captain of the district of Pozpan. An increasing circle of nobles began to surround them. A threatening murmur was heard round about; flames ran over the faces and shot out of the eyes; sabres rattled. Vladyslav Skorashevski mastered the first transport, and began to speak, pointing to the house in which the council was being held,-- "Do you hear, gracious gentlemen? They are selling the country there like Judases, and disgracing it. Do you know that we belong to Poland no longer? It was not enough for them to give into the hands of the enemy all of you,--camp, army, cannon. Would they were killed! They have affirmed with their own signatures and in your names that we abjure our ties with the country, that we abjure our king; that the whole land--towns, towers, and we all--shall belong forever to Sweden. That an army surrenders happens, but who has the right to renounce his country and his king? Who has the right to tear away a province, to join strangers, to go over to another people, to renounce his own blood? Gracious gentlemen, this is disgrace, treason, murder, parricide! Save the fatherland, brothers! In God's name, whoever is a noble, whoever has virtue, let him save our mother. Let us give our lives, let us shed our blood! We do not want to be Swedes; we do not, we do not! Would that he had never been born who will spare his blood now! Let us rescue our mother!" "Treason!" cried several hundred voices, "treason! Let us cut them to pieces." "Join us, whoever has virtue!" cried Skshetuski. "Against the Swedes till death!" added Klodzinski. And they went along farther in the camp, shouting: "Join us! Assemble! There is treason!" and after them moved now several hundred nobles with drawn sabres. But an immense majority remained in their places; and of those who followed some, seeing that they were not many, began to look around and stand still. Now the door of the council-house was thrown open, and in it appeared the voevoda of Poznan, Pan Opalinski, having on his right side General Wirtz, and on the left Radzeyovski. After them came Andrei Grudzinski, voevoda of Kalisk; Myaskovski, castellan of Kryvinsk; Gembitski, castellan of Myendzyrechka, and Andrei Slupski. Pan Opalinski had in his hand a parchment with seals appended; he held his head erect, but his face was pale and his look uncertain, though evidently he was trying to be joyful. He took in with his glance the crowds, and in the midst of a deathlike silence began to speak with a piercing though somewhat hoarse voice,-- "Gracious gentlemen, this day we have put ourselves under the protection of the most serene King of Sweden. Vivat Carolus Gustavus Rex!" Silence gave answer to the voevoda; suddenly some loud voice thundered, "Veto!" The voevoda turned his eyes in the direction of the voice and said: "This is not a provincial diet, therefore a veto is not in place. And whoever wishes to veto let him go against the Swedish cannon turned upon us, which in one hour could make of this camp a pile of ruins." Then he was silent, and after a while inquired, "Who said Veto?" No one answered. The voevoda again raised his voice, and began still more emphatically: "All the liberties of the nobles and the clergy will be maintained; taxes will not be increased, and will be collected in the same manner as hitherto; no man will suffer wrongs or robbery. The armies of his royal Majesty have not the right to quarter on the property of nobles nor to other exactions, unless to such as the quota of the Polish squadrons enjoy." Here he was silent, and heard an anxious murmur of the nobles, as if they wished to understand his meaning; then he beckoned with his hand. "Besides this, we have the word and promise of General Wirtz, given in the name of his royal Majesty, that if the whole country will follow our saving example, the Swedish armies will move promptly into Lithuania and the Ukraine, and will not cease to war until all the lands and all the fortresses of the Commonwealth are won back. Vivat Carolus Gustavus Rex!" "Vivat Carolus Gustavus Rex!" cried hundreds of voices. "Vivat Carolus Gustavus Rex!" thundered still more loudly in the whole camp. Here, before the eyes of all, the voevoda of Poznan turned to Radzeyovski and embraced him heartily; then he embraced Wirtz; then all began to embrace one another. The nobles followed the example of the dignitaries, and joy became universal. They gave vivats so loud that the echoes thundered throughout the whole region. But the voevoda of Poznan begged yet the beloved brotherhood for a moment of quiet, and said in a tone of cordiality,-- "Gracious gentlemen! General Wittemberg invites us today to a feast in his camp, so that at the goblets a brotherly alliance may be concluded with a manful people." "Vivat Wittemberg! vivat! vivat! vivat!" "And after that, gracious gentlemen," added the voevoda, "let us go to our homes, and with the assistance of God let us begin the harvest with the thought that on this day we have saved the fatherland." "Coming ages will render us justice," said Radzeyovski. "Amen!" finished the voevoda of Poznan. Meanwhile he saw that the eyes of many nobles were gazing at and scanning something above his head. He turned and saw his own jester, who, holding with one hand to the frame above the door, was writing with a coal on the wall of the council-house over the door: "Mene Tekel-Peres."[15] In the world the heavens were covered with clouds, and a tempest was coming. CHAPTER XII. In the district of Lukovo, on the edge of Podlyasye, stood the village of Bujets, owned by the Skshetuskis. In a garden between the mansion and a pond an old man was sitting on a bench; and at his feet were two little boys,--one five, the other four years old,--dark and sunburned as gypsies, but rosy and healthy. The old man, still fresh, seemed as sturdy as an aurochs. Age had not bent his broad shoulders; from his eyes--or rather from his eye, for he had one covered with a cataract--beamed health and good-humor; he had a white beard, but a look of strength and a ruddy face, ornamented on the forehead with a broad scar, through which his skull-bone was visible. The little boys, holding the straps of his boot-leg, were pulling in opposite directions; but he was gazing at the pond, which gleamed with the rays of the sun,--at the pond, in which fish were springing up frequently, breaking the smooth surface of the water. "The fish are dancing," muttered he to himself. "Never fear, ye will dance still better when the floodgate is open, or when the cook is scratching you with a knife." Then he turned to the little boys: "Get away from my boot-leg, for when I catch one of your ears, I'll pull it off. Just like mad horse-flies! Go and roll balls there on the grass and let me alone! I do not wonder at Longinek, for he is young; but Yaremka ought to have sense by this time. Ah, torments! I'll take one of you and throw him into the pond." But it was clear that the old man was in terrible subjection to the boys, for neither had the least fear of his threats; on the contrary, Yaremka, the elder, began to pull the boot-leg still harder, bracing his feet and repeating,-- "Oh, Grandfather, be Bogun and steal away Longinek." "Be off, thou beetle, I say, thou rogue, thou cheese-roll!" "Oh, Grandfather, be Bogun!" "I'll give thee Bogun; wait till I call thy mother!" Yaremka looked toward the door leading from the house to the garden, but finding it closed, and seeing no sign of his mother, he repeated the third time, pouting, "Grandfather, be Bogun!" "Ah, they will kill me, the rogues; it cannot be otherwise. Well, I'll be Bogun, but only once. Oh, it is a punishment of God! Mind ye do not plague me again!" When he had said this, the old man groaned a little, raised himself from the bench, then suddenly grabbed little Longinek, and giving out loud shouts, began to carry him off in the direction of the pond. Longinek, however, had a valiant defender in his brother, who on such occasions did not call himself Yaremka, but Pan Michael Volodyovski, captain of dragoons. Pan Michael, then, armed with a basswood club, which took the place of a sabre in this sudden emergency, ran swiftly after the bulky Bogun, soon caught up with him, and began to beat him on the legs without mercy. Longinek, playing the rôle of his mamma, made an uproar, Bogun made an uproar, Yaremka-Volodyovski made an uproar; but valor at last overcame even Bogun, who, dropping his victim, began to make his way back to the linden-tree. At last he reached the bench, fell upon it, panting terribly and repeating,-- "Ah, ye little stumps! It will be a wonder if I do not suffocate." But the end of his torment had not come yet, for a moment later Yaremka stood before him with a ruddy face, floating hair, and distended nostrils, like a brisk young falcon, and began to repeat with greater energy,-- "Grandfather, be Bogun!" After much teasing and a solemn promise given to the two boys that this would surely be the last time, the story was repeated in all its details; then they sat three in a row on the bench and Yaremka began,-- "Oh, Grandfather, tell who was the bravest." "Thou, thou!" said the old man. "And shall I grow up to be a knight?" "Surely thou wilt, for there is good soldier blood in thee. God grant thee to be like thy father; for if brave thou wilt not tease so much--understand me?" "Tell how many men has Papa killed?" "It's little if I have told thee a hundred times! Easier for thee to count the leaves on this linden-tree than all the enemies which thy father and I have destroyed. If I had as many hairs on my head as I myself have put down, the barbers in Lukovsk would make fortunes just in shaving my temples. I am a rogue if I li--" Here Pan Zagloba--for it was he--saw that it did not become him to adjure or swear before little boys, though in the absence of other listeners he loved to tell even the children of his former triumphs; he grew silent this time especially because the fish had begun to spring up in the pond with redoubled activity. "We must tell the gardener," said he, "to set the net for the night; a great many fine fish are crowding right up to the bank." Now that door of the house which led into the garden opened, and in it appeared a woman beautiful as the midday sun, tall, firm, black-haired, with bloom on her brunette face, and eyes like velvet. A third boy, three years old, dark as an agate ball, hung to her skirt. She, shading her eyes with her hand, looked in the direction of the linden-tree. This was Pani Helena Skshetuski, of the princely house of Bulyga-Kurtsevich. Seeing Pan Zagloba with Yaremka and Longinek under the tree, she went forward a few steps toward the ditch, full of water, and called: "Come here, boys! Surely you are plaguing Grandfather?" "How plague me! They have acted nicely all the time," said the old man. The boys ran to their mother; but she asked Zagloba, "What will Father drink to-day,--dembniak or mead?" "We had pork for dinner; mead will be best." "I'll send it this minute; but Father must not fall asleep in the air, for fever is sure to come." "It is warm to-day, and there is no wind. But where is Yan, Daughter?" "He has gone to the barns." Pani Skshetuski called Zagloba father, and he called her daughter, though they were in no way related. Her family dwelt beyond the Dnieper, in the former domains of Vishnyevetski; and as to him God alone knew his origin, for he told various tales about it himself. But Zagloba had rendered famous services to Pani Skshetuski when she was still a maiden, and he had rescued her from terrible dangers; therefore she and her husband treated him as a father, and in the whole region about he was honored beyond measure by all, as well for his inventive mind as for the uncommon bravery of which he had given many proofs in various wars, especially in those against the Cossacks. His name was known in the whole Commonwealth. The king himself was enamored of his stories and wit; and in general he was more spoken of than even Pan Skshetuski, though the latter in his time had burst through besieged Zbaraj and all the Cossack armies. Soon after Pani Skshetuski had gone into the house a boy brought a decanter and glass to the linden-tree. Zagloba poured out some mead, then closed his eyes and began to try it diligently. "The Lord God knew why he created bees," said he, with a nasal mutter. And he fell to drinking slowly, drawing deep breaths at the same time, while gazing at the pond and beyond the pond, away to the dark and blue pine-woods stretching as far as the eye could reach on the other side. The time was past one in the afternoon, and the heavens were cloudless. The blossoms of the linden were falling noiselessly to the earth, and on the tree among the leaves were buzzing a whole choir of bees, which soon began to settle on the edge of the glass and gather the sweet fluid on their shaggy legs. Above the great pond, from the far-off reeds obscured by the haze of distance, rose from time to time flocks of ducks, teal, or wild geese, and moved away swiftly in the blue ether like black crosses; sometimes a row of cranes looked dark high in the air, and gave out a shrill cry. With these exceptions all around was quiet, calm, sunny, and gladsome, as is usual in the first days of August, when the grain has ripened, and the sun is scattering as it were gold upon the earth. The eyes of the old man were raised now to the sky, following the flocks of birds, and now they were lost in the distance, growing more and more drowsy, as the mead in the decanter decreased; his lids became heavier and heavier,--the bees buzzed their song in various tones as if on purpose for his after-dinner slumber. "True, true, the Lord God has given beautiful weather for the harvest," muttered Zagloba. "The hay is well gathered in, the harvest will be finished in a breath. Yes, yes--" Here he closed his eyes, then opened them again for a moment, muttered once more, "The boys have tormented me," and fell asleep in earnest. He slept rather long, but after a certain time he was roused by a light breath of cooler air, together with the conversation and steps of two men drawing near the tree rapidly. One of them was Yan Skshetuski, the hero of Zbaraj, who about a month before had returned from the hetmans in the Ukraine to cure a stubborn fever; Pan Zagloba did not know the other, though in stature and form and even in features he resembled Yan greatly. "I present to you, dear father," said Yan, "my cousin Pan Stanislav Skshetuski, the captain of Kalish." "You are so much like Yan," answered Zagloba, blinking and shaking the remnants of sleep from his eyelids, "that had I met you anywhere I should have said at once, 'Skshetuski!' Hei, what a guest in the house!" "It is dear to me to make your acquaintance, my benefactor," answered Stanislav, "the more since the name is well known to me, for the knighthood of the whole Commonwealth repeat it with respect and mention it as an example." "Without praising myself, I did what I could, while I felt strength in my bones. And even now one would like to taste of war, for _consuetudo altera natura_ (habit is a second nature). But why, gentlemen, are you so anxious, so that Yan's face is pale?" "Stanislav has brought dreadful news," answered Yan. "The Swedes have entered Great Poland, and occupied it entirely." Zagloba sprang from the bench as if forty years had dropped from him, opened wide his eyes, and began involuntarily to feel at his side, as if he were looking for a sabre. "How is that?" asked he, "how is that? Have they occupied all of it?" "Yes, for the voevoda of Poznan and others at Uistsie have given it into the hands of the enemy," answered Stanislav. "For God's sake! What do I hear? Have they surrendered?" "Not only have they surrendered, but they have signed a compact renouncing the King and the Commonwealth. Henceforth Sweden, not Poland, is to be there." "By the mercy of God, by the wounds of the Crucified! Is the world coming to an end? What do I hear! Yesterday Yan and I were speaking of this danger from Sweden, for news had come that they were marching; but we were both confident that it would end in nothing, or at most in the renunciation of the title of King of Sweden by our lord, Yan Kazimir." "But it has begun with the loss of a province, and will end with God knows what." "Stop, for the blood will boil over in me! How was it? And you were at Uistsie and saw all this with your own eyes? That was simply treason the most villanous, unheard of in history." "I was there and looked on, and whether it was treason you will decide when you hear all. We were at Uistsie, the general militia and the land infantry, fifteen thousand men in all, and we formed our lines on the Notets _ab incursione hostili_ (against hostile invasion). True the army was small, and as an experienced soldier you know best whether the place of regular troops can be filled by general militia, especially that of Great Poland, where the nobles have grown notably unused to war. Still, if a leader had been found, they might have shown opposition to the enemy in old fashion, and at least detained them till the Commonwealth could find reinforcements. But hardly had Wittemberg shown himself when negotiations were begun before a drop of blood had been shed. Then Radzeyovski came up, and with his persuasions brought about what I have said,--that is, misfortune and disgrace, the like of which has not been hitherto." "How was that? Did no one resist, did no one protest? Did no one hurl treason in the eyes of those scoundrels? Did all agree to betray the country and the king?" "Virtue is perishing, and with it the Commonwealth, for nearly all agreed. I, the two Skorashevskis, Pan Tsisvitski, and Pan Klodzinski did what we could to rouse a spirit of resistance among the nobles. Pan Vladyslav Skorashevski went almost frantic. We flew through the camp from the men of one district to those of another, and God knows there was no beseeching that we did not use. But what good was it when the majority chose to go in bonds to the banquet which Wittemberg promised, rather than with sabres to battle? Seeing that the best went in every direction,--some to their homes, others to Warsaw,--the Skorashevskis went to Warsaw, and will bring the first news to the king; but I, having neither wife nor children, came here to my cousin, with the idea that we might go together against the enemy. It was fortunate that I found you at home." "Then you are directly from Uistsie?" "Directly. I rested on the road only as much as my horses needed, and as it was I drove one of them to death. The Swedes must be in Poznan at present, and thence they will quickly spread over the whole country." Here all grew silent. Yan sat with his palms on his knees, his eyes fixed on the ground, and he was thinking gloomily. Pan Stanislav sighed; and Zagloba, not having recovered, looked with a staring glance, now on one, now on the other. "Those are evil signs," said Yan at last, gloomily. "Formerly for ten victories there came one defeat, and we astonished the world with our valor. Now not only defeats come, but treason,--not merely of single persons, but of whole provinces. May God pity the country!" "For God's sake," said Zagloba, "I have seen much in the world. I can hear, I can reason, but still belief fails me." "What do you think of doing, Yan?" asked Stanislav. "It is certain that I shall not stay at home, though fever is shaking me yet. It will be necessary to place my wife and children somewhere in safety. Pan Stabrovski, my relative, is huntsman of the king in the wilderness of Byalovyej, and lives in Byalovyej. Even if the whole Commonwealth should fall into the power of the enemy, they would not touch that region. To-morrow I will take my wife and children straight there." "And that will not be a needless precaution," said Stanislav; "for though 'tis far from Great Poland to this place, who knows whether the flame may not soon seize these regions also?" "The nobles must be notified," said Yan, "to assemble and think of defence, for here no one has heard anything yet." Here he turned to Zagloba: "And, Father, will you go with us, or do you wish to accompany Helena to the wilderness?" "I?" answered Zagloba, "will I go? If my feet had taken root in the earth, I might not go; but even then I should ask some one to dig me out. I want to try Swedish flesh again, as a wolf does mutton. Ha! the rascals, trunk-breeches, long-stockings! The fleas make raids on their calves, their legs are itching, and they can't sit at home, but crawl into foreign lands. I know them, the sons of such a kind, for when I was under Konyetspolski I worked against them; and, gentlemen, if you want to know who took Gustavus Adolphus captive, ask the late Konyetspolski. I'll say no more! I know them, but they know me too. It must be that the rogues have heard that Zagloba has grown old. Isn't that true? Wait! you'll see him yet! O Lord! O Lord, all-Powerful! why hast thou unfenced this unfortunate Commonwealth, so that all the neighboring swine are running into it now, and they have rooted up three of the best provinces? What is the condition? Ba! but who is to blame, if not traitors? The plague did not know whom to take; it took honest men, but left the traitors. O Lord, send thy pest once more on the voevoda of Poznan and on him of Kalish, but especially on Radzeyovski and his whole family. But if 'tis thy will to favor hell with more inhabitants, send thither all those who signed the pact at Uistsie. Has Zagloba grown old? has he grown old? You will find out! Yan, let us consider quickly what to do, for I want to be on horseback." "Of course we must know whither to go. It is difficult to reach the hetmans in the Ukraine, for the enemy has cut them off from the Commonwealth and the road is open only to the Crimea. It is lucky that the Tartars are on our side this time. According to my head it will be necessary for us to go to Warsaw to the king, to defend our dear lord." "If there is time," remarked Stanislav. "The king must collect squadrons there in haste, and will march on the enemy before we can come, and perhaps the engagement is already taking place." "And that may be." "Let us go then to Warsaw, if we can go quickly," said Zagloba. "Listen, gentlemen! It is true that our names are terrible to the enemy, but still three of us cannot do much, therefore I should give this advice: Let us summon the nobles to volunteer; they will come in such numbers that we may lead even a small squadron to the king. We shall persuade them easily, for they must go anyhow when the call comes for the general militia,--it will be all one to them--and we shall tell them that whoever volunteers before the call will do an act dear to the king. With greater power we can do more, and they will receive us (in Warsaw) with open arms." "Wonder not at my words," said Pan Stanislav, "but from what I have seen I feel such a dislike to the general militia that I choose to go alone rather than with a crowd of men who know nothing of war." "You have no acquaintance with the nobles of this place. Here a man cannot be found who has not served in the army; all have experience and are good soldiers." "That may be." "How could it be otherwise? But wait! Yan knows that when once I begin to work with my head I have no lack of resources. For that reason I lived in great intimacy with the voevoda of Rus, Prince Yeremi. Let Yan tell how many times that greatest of warriors followed my advice, and thereby was each time victorious." "But tell us, Father, what you wish to say, for time is precious." "What I wish to say? This is it: not he defends the country and the king who holds to the king's skirts, but he who beats the enemy; and he beats the enemy best who serves under a great warrior. Why go on uncertainties to Warsaw, when the king himself may have gone to Cracow, to Lvoff or Lithuania? My advice is to put ourselves at once under the banners of the grand hetman of Lithuania, Prince Yanush Radzivill. He is an honest man and a soldier. Though they accuse him of pride, he of a certainty will not surrender to Swedes. He at least is a chief and a hetman of the right kind. It will be close there, 'tis true, for he is working against two enemies; but as a recompense we shall see Pan Michael Volodyovski, who is serving in the Lithuanian quota, and again we shall be together as in old times. If I do not counsel well, then let the first Swede take me captive by the sword-strap." "Who knows, who knows?" answered Yan, with animation. "Maybe that will be the best course." "And besides we shall take Halshka[16] with the children, for we must go right through the wilderness." "And we shall serve among soldiers, not among militia," added Stanislav. "And we shall fight, not debate, nor eat chickens and cheese in the villages." "I see that not only in war, but in council you can hold the first place," said Stanislav. "Well, are you satisfied?" "In truth, in truth," said Yan, "that is the best advice. We shall be with Michael as before; you will know, Stanislav, the greatest soldier in the Commonwealth, my true friend, my brother. We will go now to Halshka, and tell her so that she too may be ready for the road." "Does she know of the war already?" asked Zagloba. "She knows, she knows, for in her presence Stanislav told about it first. She is in tears, poor woman! But if I say to her that it is necessary to go, she will say straightway. Go!" "I would start in the morning," cried Zagloba. "We will start in the morning and before daybreak," said Yan. "You must be terribly tired after the road, Stanislav, but you will rest before morning as best you can. I will send horses this evening with trusty men to Byala, to Lostsi, to Drohichyn and Byelsk, so as to have relays everywhere. And just beyond Byelsk is the wilderness. Wagons will start to-day also with supplies. It is too bad to so into the world from the dear corner, but 'tis God's will! This is my comfort: I am safe as to my wife and children, for the wilderness is the best fortress in the world. Come to the house, gentlemen; it is time for me to prepare for the journey." They went in. Pan Stanislav, greatly road-weary, had barely taken food and drink when he went to sleep straightway; but Pan Yan and Zagloba were busied in preparations. And as there was great order in Pan Yan's household the wagons and men started that evening for an all-night journey, and next morning at daybreak the carriage followed in which sat Helena with the children and an old maid, a companion. Pan Stanislav and Pan Yan with five attendants rode on horseback near the carriage. The whole party pushed forward briskly, for fresh horses were awaiting them. Travelling in this manner and without resting even at night, they reached Byelsk on the fifth day, and on the sixth they sank in the wilderness from the side of Hainovshyna. They were surrounded at once by the gloom of the gigantic pine-forest, which at that period occupied a number of tens of square leagues, joining on one side with an unbroken line the wilderness of Zyelonka and Rogovsk, and on the other the forests of Prussia. No invader had ever trampled with a hoof those dark depths in which a man who knew them not might go astray and wander till he dropped from exhaustion or fell a prey to ravenous beasts. In the night were heard the bellowing of the aurochs, the growling of bears, with the howling of wolves and the hoarse screams of panthers. Uncertain roads led through thickets or clean-trunked trees, along fallen timber, swamps, and terrible stagnant lakes to the scattered villages of guards, pitch-burners, and hunters, who in many cases did not leave the wilderness all their lives. To Byalovyej itself a broader way led, continued by the Suha road, over which the kings went to hunt. By that road also the Skshetuskis came from the direction of Byelsk and Hainovshyna. Pan Stabrovski, chief-hunter of the king, was an old hermit and bachelor, who like an aurochs stayed always in the wilderness. He received the visitors with open arms, and almost smothered the children with kisses. He lived with beaters-in, never seeing the face of a noble unless when the king went to hunt. He had the management of all hunting matters and all the pitch-making of the wilderness. He was greatly disturbed by news of the war, of which he heard first from Pan Yan. Often did it happen in the Commonwealth that war broke out or the king died and no news came to the wilderness; the chief-hunter alone brought news when he returned from the treasurer of Lithuania, to whom he was obliged to render account of his management of the wilderness each year. "It will be dreary here, dreary," said Stabrovski to Helena, "but safe as nowhere else in the world. No enemy will break through these walls, and even if he should try the beaters-in would shoot down all his men. It would be easier to conquer the whole Commonwealth--which may God not permit!--than the wilderness. I have been living here twenty years, and even I do not know it all, for there are places where it is impossible to go, where only wild beasts live and perhaps evil spirits have their dwelling, from whom men are preserved by the sound of church-bells. But we live according to God's law, for in the village there is a chapel to which a priest from Byelsk comes once a year. You will be here as if in heaven, if tedium does not weary you. As a recompense there is no lack of firewood." Pan Yan was glad in his whole soul that he had found for his wife such a refuge; but Pan Stabrovski tried in vain to delay him awhile and entertain him. Halting only one night, the cavaliers resumed at daybreak their journey across the wilderness. They were led through the forest labyrinths by guides whom the hunter sent with them. CHAPTER XIII. When Pan Skshetuski with his cousin Stanislav and Zagloba, after a toilsome journey from the wilderness, came at last to Upita, Pan Volodyovski went almost wild from delight, especially since he had long had no news of them; he thought that Yan was with a squadron of the king which he commanded under the hetmans in the Ukraine. Pan Michael took them in turn by the shoulders, and after he had pressed them once he pressed them again and rubbed his hands. When they told him of their wish to serve under Radzivill, he rejoiced still more at the thought that they would not separate soon. "Praise God that we shall be together, old comrades of Zbaraj!" said he. "A man has greater desire for war when he feels friends near him." "That was my idea," said Zagloba; "for they wanted to fly to the king. But I said, 'Why not remember old times with Pan Michael? If God will give us such fortune as he did with Cossacks and the Tartars, we shall soon have more than one Swede on our conscience.'" "God inspired you with that thought," said Pan Michael. "But it is a wonder to me," added Yan, "how you know already of the war. Stanislav came to me with the last breath of his horse, and we in that same fashion rode hither, thinking that we should be first to announce the misfortune." "The tidings must have come through the Jews," said Zagloba; "for they are first to know everything, and there is such communication between them that if one sneezes in Great Poland in the morning, others will call to him in the evening from Lithuania and the Ukraine, 'To thy health!'" "I know not how it was, but we heard of it two days ago," said Pan Michael, "and there is a fearful panic here. The first day we did not credit the news greatly, but on the second no one denied it. I will say more; before the war came, you would have said that the birds were singing about it in the air, for suddenly and without cause all began to speak of war. Our prince voevoda must also have looked for it and have known something before others, for he was rushing about like a fly in hot water, and during these last hours he has hastened to Kyedani. Levies were made at his order two months ago. I assembled men, as did also Stankyevich and a certain Kmita, the banneret of Orsha, who, as I hear, has already sent a squadron to Kyedani. Kmita was ready before the rest of us." "Michael, do you know Prince Radzivill well?" asked Yan. "Why should I not know him, when I have passed the whole present war[17] under his command?" "What do you know of his plans? Is he an honest man?" "He is a finished warrior; who knows if after the death of Prince Yeremi he is not the greatest in the Commonwealth? He was defeated in the last battle, it is true; but against eighteen thousand he had six thousand men. The treasurer and the voevoda of Vityebsk blame him terribly for this, saying that with small forces he rushed against such a disproportionate power to avoid sharing victory with them. God knows how it was! But he stood up manfully and did not spare his own life. And I who saw it all, say only this, that if we had had troops and money enough, not a foot of the enemy would have left the country. So I think that he will begin at the Swedes more sharply, and will not wait for them here, but march on Livonia." "Why do you think that?" "For two reasons,--first, because he will wish to improve his reputation, shattered a little after the battle of Tsybihova; and second, because he loves war." "That is true," said Zagloba. "I know him, for we were at school together and I worked out his tasks for him. He was always in love with war, and therefore liked to keep company with me rather than others, for I too preferred a horse and a lance to Latin." "It is certain that he is not like the voevoda of Poznan; he is surely a different kind of man altogether," said Pan Stanislav. Volodyovski inquired about everything that had taken place at Uistsie, and tore his hair as he listened to the story. At last, when Pan Stanislav had finished, he said,-- "You are right! Our Radzivill is incapable of such deeds. He is as proud as the devil, and it seems to him that in the whole world there is not a greater family than the Radzivills. He will not endure opposition, that is true; and at the treasurer, Pan Gosyevski, an honest man, he is angry because the latter will not dance when Radzivill plays. He is displeased also with his Grace the king, because he did not give him the grand baton of Lithuania soon enough. All true, as well as this,--that he prefers to live in the dishonorable error of Calvinism rather than turn to the true faith, that he persecutes Catholics where he can, that he founds societies of heretics. But as recompense for this, I will swear that he would rather shed the last drop of his proud blood than sign a surrender like that at Uistsie. We shall have war to wade in; for not a scribe, but a warrior, will lead us." "That's my play," said Zagloba, "I want nothing more. Pan Opalinski is a scribe, and he showed soon what he was good for. They are the meanest of men! Let but one of them pull a quill out of a goose's tail and he thinks straightway that he has swallowed all wisdom. He will say to others, 'Son of a such kind,' and when it comes to the sabre you cannot find him. When I was young myself, I put rhymes together to captivate the hearts of fair heads, and I might have made a goat's horn of Pan Kohanovski with his silly verses, but later on the soldier nature got the upper hand." "I will add, too," continued Volodyovski, "that the nobles will soon move hither. A crowd of people will come, if only money is not lacking, for that is most important." "In God's name I want no general militia!" shouted Pan Stanislav. "Yan and Pan Zagloba know my sentiments already, and to you I say now that I would rather be a camp-servant in a regular squadron than hetman over the entire general militia." "The people here are brave," answered Volodyovski, "and very skilful. I have an example from my own levy. I could not receive all who came, and among those whom I accepted there is not a man who has not served before. I will show you this squadron, gentlemen, and if you had not learned from me you would not know that they are not old soldiers. Every one is tempered and hammered in fire, like an old horseshoe, and stands in order like a Roman legionary. It will not be so easy for the Swedes with them, as with the men of Great Poland at Uistsie." "I have hope that God will change everything," said Pan Yan. "They say that the Swedes are good soldiers, but still they have never been able to stand before our regular troops. We have beaten them always,--that is a matter of trial; we have beaten them even when they were led by the greatest warrior they have ever had." "In truth I am very curious to know what they can do," answered Volodyovski; "and were it not that two other wars are now weighing on the country, I should not be angry a whit about the Swedes. We have tried the Turks, the Tartars, the Cossacks, and God knows whom we have not tried; it is well now to try the Swedes. The only trouble in the kingdom is that all the troops are occupied with the hetmans in the Ukraine. But I see already what will happen here. Prince Radzivill will leave the existing war to the treasurer and full hetman Pan Gosyevski, and will go himself at the Swedes in earnest. It will be heavy work, it is true. But we have hope that God will assist us." "Let us go, then, without delay to Kyedani," said Pan Stanislav. "I received an order to have the squadron ready and to appear in Kyedani myself in three days," answered Pan Michael. "But I must show you, gentlemen this last order, for it is clear from it that the prince is thinking of the Swedes." When he had said this, Volodyovski unlocked a box standing on a bench under the window, took out a paper folded once, and opening it began to read:-- Colonel Volodyovski: Gracious Sir,--We have read with great delight your report that the squadron is ready and can move to the campaign at any moment. Keep it ready and alert, for such difficult times are coming as have not been yet; therefore come yourself as quickly as possible to Kyedani, where we shall await you with impatience. If any reports come to you, believe them not till you have heard everything from our lips. We act as God himself and our conscience command, without reference to what malice and the ill will of man may invent against us. But at the same time we console ourselves with this,--that times are coming in which it will be shown definitely who is a true and real friend of the house of Radzivill and who even _in rebus adversis_ is willing to serve it. Kmita, Nyevyarovski, and Stankyevich have brought their squadrons here already; let yours remain in Upita, for it may be needed there, and it may have to march to Podlyasye under command of my cousin Prince Boguslav, who has considerable bodies of our troops under his command there. Of all this you will learn in detail from our lips; meanwhile we confide to your loyalty the careful execution of orders, and await you in Kyedani. Yanush Radzivill, _Prince in Birji and Dubinki, voevoda of Vilna, grand hetman of Lithuania_. "Yes, a new war is evident from this letter," said Zagloba. "And the prince's statement that he will act as God commands him, means that he will fight the Swedes," added Stanislav. "Still it is a wonder to me," said Pan Yan, "that he writes about loyalty to the house of Radzivill, and not to the country, which means more than the Radzivills, and demands prompter rescue." "That is their lordly manner," answered Volodyovski; "though that did not please me either at first, for I too serve the country and not the Radzivills." "When did you receive this letter?" asked Pan Yan. "This morning, and I wanted to start this afternoon. You will rest to-night after the journey; to-morrow I shall surely return, and then we will move with the squadron wherever they command." "Perhaps to Podlyasye?" said Zagloba. "To Prince Boguslav," added Pan Stanislav. "Prince Boguslav is now in Kyedani," said Volodyovski. "He is a strange person, and do you look at him carefully. He is a great warrior and a still greater knight, but he is not a Pole to the value of a copper. He wears a foreign dress, and talks German or French altogether; you might think he was cracking nuts, might listen to him a whole hour, and not understand a thing." "Prince Boguslav at Berestechko bore himself well," said Zagloba, "and brought a good number of German infantry." "Those who know him more intimately do not praise him very highly," continued Volodyovski, "for he loves only the Germans and French. It cannot be otherwise, since he was born of a German mother, the daughter of the elector of Brandenburg, with whom his late father not only received no dowry, but, since those small princes (the electors) as may be seen have poor housekeeping, he had to pay something. But with the Radzivills it is important to have a vote in the German Empire, of which they are princes, and therefore they make alliances with the Germans. Pan Sakovich, an old client of Prince Boguslav, who made him starosta of Oshmiani, told me about this. He and Pan Nyevyarovski, a colonel, were abroad with Prince Boguslav in various foreign lands, and acted always as seconds in his duels." "How many has he fought?" asked Zagloba. "As many as he has hairs on his head! He cut up various princes greatly and foreign counts, French and German, for they say that he is very fiery, brave, and daring, and calls a man out for the least word." Pan Stanislav was roused from his thoughtfulness and said: "I too have heard of this Prince Boguslav, for it is not far from us to the elector, with whom he lives continually. I have still in mind how my father said that when Prince Boguslav's father married the elector's daughter, people complained that such a great house as that of the Radzivills made an alliance with strangers. But perhaps it happened for the best; the elector as a relative of the Radzivills ought to be very friendly now to the Commonwealth, and on him much depends at present. What you say about their poor housekeeping is not true. It is certain, however, that if any one were to sell all the possessions of the Radzivills, he could buy with the price of them the elector and his whole principality; but the present kurfürst, Friedrich Wilhelm, has saved no small amount of money, and has twenty thousand very good troops with whom he might boldly meet the Swedes,--which as a vassal of the Commonwealth he ought to do if he has God in his heart, and remembers all the kindness which the Commonwealth has shown his house." "Will he do that?" asked Pan Yan. "It would be black ingratitude and faith-breaking on his part if he did otherwise," answered Pan Stanislav. "It is hard to count on the gratitude of strangers, and especially of heretics," said Zagloba. "I remember this kurfürst of yours when he was still a stripling. He was always sullen; one would have said that he was listening to what the devil was whispering in his ear. When I was in Prussia with the late Konyetspolski, I told the kurfürst that to his eyes,--for he is a Lutheran, the same as the King of Sweden. God grant that they make no alliance against the Commonwealth!" "Do you know, Michael," said Pan Yan, suddenly, "I will not rest here; I will go with you to Kyedani. It is better at this season to travel in the night, for it is hot in the daytime, and I am eager to escape from uncertainty. There is resting-time ahead, for surely the prince will not march to-morrow." "Especially as he has given orders to keep the squadron in Upita," answered Pan Michael. "You speak well!" cried Zagloba; "I will go too." "Then we will all go together," said Pan Stanislav. "We shall be in Kyedani in the morning," said Pan Michael, "and on the road we can sleep sweetly in our saddles." Two hours later, after they had eaten and drunk somewhat, the knights started on their journey, and before sundown reached Krakin. On the road Pan Michael told them about the neighborhood, and the famous nobles of Lauda, of Kmita, and of all that had happened during a certain time. He confessed also his love for Panna Billevich, unrequited as usual. "It is well that war is near," said he, "otherwise I should have suffered greatly, when I think at times that such is my misfortune, and that probably I shall die in the single state." "No harm will come to you from that," said Zagloba, "for it is an honorable state and pleasing to God. I have resolved to remain in it to the end of my life. Sometimes I regret that there will be no one to leave my fame and name to; for though I love Yan's children as if they were my own, still the Skshetuskis are not the Zaglobas." "Ah, evil man! You have made this choice with a feeling like that of the wolf when he vowed not to kill sheep after all his teeth were gone." "But that is not true," said Zagloba. "It is not so long, Michael, since you and I were in Warsaw at the election. At whom were all the women looking if not at me? Do you not remember how you used to complain that not one of them was looking at you? But if you have such a desire for the married state, then be not troubled; your turn will come too. This seeking is of no use; you will find just when you are not seeking. This is a time of war, and many good cavaliers perish every year. Only let this Swedish war continue, the girls will be alone, and we shall find them in market by the dozen." "Perhaps I shall perish too," said Pan Michael "I have had enough of this battering through the world. Never shall I be able to tell you, gentlemen, what a worthy and beautiful lady Panna Billevich is. And if it were a man who had loved and petted her in the tenderest way--No! the devils had to bring this Kmita. It must be that he gave her something, it cannot be otherwise; for if he had not, surely she would not have let me go. There, look! Just beyond the hills Vodokty is visible; but there is no one in the house. She has gone God knows whither. The bear has his den, the pig his nest, but I have only this crowbait and this saddle on which I sit." "I see that she has pierced you like a thorn," said Zagloba. "True, so that when I think of myself or when riding by I see Vodokty, I grieve still. I wanted to strike out the wedge with a wedge,[18] and went to Pan Schilling, who has a very comely daughter. Once I saw her on the road at a distance, and she took my fancy greatly. I went to his house, and what shall I say, gentlemen? I did not find the father at home, but the daughter Panna Kahna thought that I was not Pan Volodyovski, but only Pan Volodyovski's attendant. I took the affront so to heart that I have never shown myself there again." Zagloba began to laugh. "God help you, Michael! The whole matter is this,--you must find a wife of such stature as you are yourself. But where did that little rogue go to who was in attendance on Princess Vishnyevetski, and whom the late Pan Podbipienta--God light his soul!--was to marry? She was just your size, a regular peach-stone, though her eyes did shine terribly." "That was Anusia Borzabogati," said Pan Yan. "We were all in love with her in our time,--Michael too. God knows whore she is now!" "I might seek her out and comfort her," said Pan Michael. "When you mention her it grows warm around my heart. She was a most respectable girl. Ah, those old days of Lubni were pleasant, but never will they return. They will not, for never will there be such a chief as our Prince Yeremi. A man knew that every battle would be followed by victory. Radzivill was a great warrior, but not such, and men do not serve him with such heart, for he has not that fatherly love for soldiers, and does not admit them to confidence, having something about him of the monarch, though the Vishnyevetskis were not inferior to the Radzivills." "No matter," said Pan Yan. "The salvation of the country is in his hands now, and because he is ready to give his life for it, God bless him!" Thus conversed the old friends, riding along in the night. They called up old questions at one time; at another they spoke of the grievous days of the present, in which three wars at once had rolled on the Commonwealth. Later they repeated "Our Father" and the litany; and when they had finished, sleep wearied them, and they began to doze and nod on the saddles. The night was clear and warm; the stars twinkled by thousands in the sky. Dragging on at a walk, they slept sweetly till, when day began to break. Pan Michael woke. "Gentlemen, open your eyes; Kyedani is in sight!" cried he. "What, where?" asked Zagloba. "Kyedani, where?" "Off there! The towers are visible." "A respectable sort of place," said Pan Stanislav. "Very considerable," answered Volodyovski; "and of this you will be able to convince yourselves better in the daytime." "But is this the inheritance of the prince?" "Yes. Formerly it belonged to the Kishkis, from whom the father of the present prince received it as dowry with Panna Anna Kishki, daughter of the voevoda of Vityebsk. In all Jmud there is not such a well-ordered place, for the Radzivills do not admit Jews, save by permission to each one. The meads here are celebrated." Zagloba opened his eyes. "But do people of some politeness live here? What is that immensely great building on the eminence?" "That is the castle just built during the rule of Yanush." "Is it fortified?" "No, but it is a lordly residence. It is not fortified, for no enemy has ever entered these regions since the time of the Knights of the Cross. That pointed steeple in the middle of the town belongs to the parish church built by the Knights of the Cross in pagan times; later it was given to the Calvinists, but the priest Kobylinski won it back for the Catholics through a lawsuit with Prince Krishtof." "Praise be to God for that!" Thus conversing they arrived near the first cottages of the suburbs. Meanwhile it grew brighter and brighter in the world, and the sun began to rise. The knights looked with curiosity at the new place, and Pan Volodyovski continued to speak,-- "This is Jew street, in which dwell those of the Jews who have permission to be here. Following this street, one comes to the market. Oho! people are up already, and beginning to come out of the houses. See, a crowd of horses before the forges, and attendants not in the Radzivill colors! There must be some meeting in Kyedani. It is always full of nobles and high personages here, and sometimes they come from foreign countries, for this is the capital for heretics from all Jmud, who under the protection of the Radzivills carry on their sorcery and superstitious practices. That is the market-square. See what a clock is on the town-house! There is no better one to this day in Dantzig. And that which looks like a church with four towers is a Helvetic (Calvinistic) meeting-house, in which every Sunday they blaspheme God; and farther on the Lutheran church. You think that the townspeople are Poles or Lithuanians,--not at all. Real Germans and Scots, but more Scots. The Scots are splendid infantry, and cut terribly with battle-axes. The prince has also one Scottish regiment of volunteers of Kyedani. Ei, how many wagons with packs on the market-square! Surely there is some meeting. There are no inns in the town; acquaintances stop with acquaintances, and nobles go to the castle, in which there are rooms tens of ells long, intended for guests only. There they entertain, at the prince's expense, every one honorably, even if for a year; there are people who stay there all their lives." "It is a wonder to me that lightning has not burned that Calvinistic meeting-house," said Zagloba. "But do you not know that that has happened? In the centre between the four towers was a cap-shaped cupola; on a time such a lightning-flash struck this cupola that nothing remained of it. In the vault underneath lies the father of Prince Boguslav, Yanush,--he who joined the mutiny against Sigismund III. His own haiduk laid open his skull, so that he died in vain, as he had lived in sin." "But what is that broad building which looks like a walled tent?" asked Pan Yan. "That is the paper-mill founded by the prince; and at the side of it is a printing-office, in which heretical books are printed." "Tfu!" said Zagloba; "a pestilence on this place, where a man draws no air into his stomach but what is heretical! Lucifer might rule here as well as Radzivill." "Gracious sir," answered Volodyovski, "abuse not Radzivill, for perhaps the country will soon owe its salvation to him." They rode farther in silence, gazing at the town and wondering at its good order; for the streets were all paved with stone, which was at that period a novelty. After they had ridden through the market-square and the street of the castle, they saw on an eminence the lordly residence recently built by Prince Yanush,--not fortified, it is true, but surpassing in size not only palaces but castles. The great pile was on a height, and looked on the town lying, as it were, at its feet. From both sides of the main building extended at right angles two lower wings, which formed a gigantic courtyard, closed in front with an iron railing fastened with long links. In the middle of the railing towered a strong walled gate; on it the arms of the Radzivills and the arms of the town of Kyedani, representing an eagle's foot with a black wing on a golden field, and at the foot a horseshoe with three red crosses. In front of the gate were sentries and Scottish soldiers keeping guard for show, not for defence. The hour was early, but there was movement already in the yard; for before the main building a regiment of dragoons in blue jackets and Swedish helmets was exercising. Just then the long line of men was motionless, with drawn rapiers; an officer riding in front said something to the soldiers. Around the line and farther on near the walls, a number of attendants in various colors gazed at the dragoons, making remarks and giving opinions to one another. "As God is dear to me," said Pan Michael, "that is Kharlamp drilling the regiment!" "How!" cried Zagloba; "is he the same with whom you were going to fight a duel at Lipkovo?" "The very same; but since that time we have lived in close friendship." "'Tis he," said Zagloba; "I know him by his nose, which sticks out from under his helmet. It is well that visors have gone out of fashion, for that knight could not close any visor; he would need a special invention for his nose." That moment Pan Kharlamp, seeing Volodyovski, came to him at a trot. "How are you, Michael?" cried he. "It is well that you have come." "It is better that I meet you first. See, here is Pan Zagloba, whom you met in Lipkovo--no, before that in Syennitsy; and these are the Skshetuskis,--Yan, captain of the king's hussars, the hero of Zbaraj--" "I see, then, as God is true, the greatest knight in Poland!" cried Kharlamp. "With the forehead, with the forehead!" "And this is Stanislav Skshetuski, captain of Kalisk, who comes straight from Uistsie." "From Uistsie? So you saw a terrible disgrace. We know already what has happened." "It is just because such a thing happened that I have come, hoping that nothing like it will happen in this place." "You may be certain of that; Radzivill is not Opalinski." "We said the same at Upita yesterday." "I greet you, gentlemen, most joyfully in my own name and that of the prince. The prince will be glad to see such knights, for he needs them much. Come with me to the barracks, where my quarters are. You will need, of course, to change clothes and eat breakfast. I will go with you, for I have finished the drill." Pan Kharlamp hurried again to the line, and commanded in a quick, clear voice: "To the left! face--to the rear!" Hoofs sounded on the pavement. The line broke into two; the halves broke again till there were four parts, which began to recede with slow step in the direction of the barracks. "Good soldiers," said Skshetuski, looking with skilled eye at the regular movements of the dragoons. "Those are petty nobles and attendant boyars who serve in that arm," answered Volodyovski. "Oh, you could tell in a moment that they are not militia," cried Pan Stanislav. "But does Kharlamp command them," asked Zagloba, "or am I mistaken? I remember that he served in the light-horse squadron and wore silver loops." "True," answered Volodyovski; "but it is a couple of years since he took the dragoon regiment. He is an old soldier, and trained." Meanwhile Kharlamp, having dismissed the dragoons, returned to the knights. "I beg you, gentlemen, to follow me. Over there are the barracks, beyond the castle." Half an hour later the five were sitting over a bowl of heated beer, well whitened with cream, and were talking about the impending war. "And what is to be heard here?" asked Pan Michael. "With us something new may be heard every day, for people are lost in surmises and give out new reports all the time," said Kharlamp. "But in truth the prince alone knows what is coming. He has something on his mind, for though he simulates gladness and is kind to people as never before, he is terribly thoughtful. In the night, they say, he does not sleep, but walks with heavy tread through all the chambers, talking audibly to himself, and in the daytime takes counsel for whole hours with Harasimovich." "Who is Harasimovich?" asked Volodyovski. "The manager from Zabludovo in Podlyasye,--a man of small stature, who looks as though he kept the devil under his arm; but he is a confidential agent of the prince, and probably knows all his secrets. According to my thinking, from these counsellings a terrible and vengeful war with Sweden will come, for which war we are all sighing. Meanwhile letters are flying hither from the Prince of Courland, from Hovanski, and from the Elector of Brandenburg. Some say that the prince is negotiating with Moscow to join the league against Sweden; others say the contrary; but it seems there will be a league with no one, but a war, as I have said, with these and those. Fresh troops are coming continually; letters are sent to nobles most faithful to the Radzivills, asking them to assemble. Every place is full of armed men. Ei, gentlemen, on whomsoever they put the grain, on him will it be ground; but we shall have our hands red to the elbows, for when Radzivill moves to the field, he will not negotiate." "That's it, that's it!" said Zagloba, rubbing his palms. "No small amount of Swedish blood has dried on my hands, and there will be more of it in future. Not many of those old soldiers are alive yet who remember me at Putsk and Tjtsianna; but those who are living will never forget me." "Is Prince Boguslav here?" asked Volodyovski. "Of course. Besides him we expect to-day some great guests, for the upper chambers are made ready, and there is to be a banquet in the evening. I have my doubts, Michael, whether you will reach the prince to-day." "He sent for me himself yesterday." "That's nothing; he is terribly occupied. Besides, I don't know whether I can speak of it to you--but in an hour everybody will know of it, therefore I will tell you--something or another very strange is going on." "What is it, what is it?" asked Zagloba. "It must be known to you, gentlemen, that two days ago Pan Yudytski came, a knight of Malta, of whom you must have heard." "Of course," said Yan; "he is a great knight." "Immediately after him came the full hetman and treasurer. We were greatly astonished, for it is known in what rivalry and enmity Pan Gosyevski is with our prince. Some persons were rejoiced therefore that harmony had come between the lords, and said that the Swedish invasion was the real cause of this. I thought so myself; then yesterday the three shut themselves up in counsel, fastened all the doors, no one could hear what they were talking about; but Pan Krepshtul, who guarded the door, told us that their talk was terribly loud, especially the talk of Pan Gosyevski. Later the prince himself conducted them to their sleeping-chambers, and in the night--imagine to yourselves" (here Kharlamp lowered his voice)--"guards were placed at the door of each chamber." Volodyovski sprang up from his seat. "In God's name! impossible!" "But it is true. At the doors of each Scots are standing with muskets, and they have the order to let no one in or out under pain of death." The knights looked at one another with astonishment; and Kharlamp was no less astonished at his own words, and looked at his companions with staring eyes, as if awaiting the explanation of the riddle from them. "Does this mean that Pan Gosyevski is arrested? Has the grand hetman arrested the full hetman?" asked Zagloba; "what does this mean?" "As if I know, and Yudytski such a knight!" "But the officers of the prince must speak with one another about it and guess at causes. Have you heard nothing?" "I asked Harasimovich last night." "What did he say?" asked Zagloba. "He would explain nothing, but he put his finger on his mouth and said, 'They are traitors!'" "How traitors?" cried Volodyovski, seizing his head. "Neither the treasurer nor Pan Yudytski is a traitor. The whole Commonwealth knows them as honorable men and patriots." "At present 'tis impossible to have faith in any man," answered Pan Stanislav, gloomily. "Did not Pan Opalinski pass for a Cato? Did he not reproach others with defects, with offences, with selfishness? But when it came to do something, he was the first to betray, and brought not only himself, but a whole province to treason." "I will give my head for the treasurer and Pan Yudytski!" cried Volodyovski. "Do not give your head for any man, Michael dear," said Zagloba. "They were not arrested without reason. There must have been some conspiracy; it cannot be otherwise,--how could it be? The prince is preparing for a terrible war, and every aid is precious to him. Whom, then, at such a time can he put under arrest, if not those who stand in the way of war? If this is so, if these two men have really stood in the way, then praise be to God that Radzivill has anticipated them. They deserve to sit under ground. Ah, the scoundrels!--at such a time to practise tricks, communicate with the enemy, rise against the country, hinder a great warrior in his undertaking! By the Most Holy Mother, what has met them is too little, the rascals!" "These are wonders,--such wonders that I cannot put them in my head," said Kharlamp; "for letting alone that they are such dignitaries, they are arrested without judgment, without a diet, without the will of the whole Commonwealth,--a thing which the king himself has not the right to do." "As true as I live," cried Pan Michael. "It is evident that the prince wants to introduce Roman customs among us," said Pan Stanislav, "and become dictator in time of war." "Let him be dictator if he will only beat the Swedes," said Zagloba; "I will be the first to vote for his dictatorship." Pan Yan fell to thinking, and after a while said, "Unless he should wish to become protector, like that English Cromwell who did not hesitate to raise his sacrilegious hand on his own king." "Nonsense! Cromwell? Cromwell was a heretic!" cried Zagloba. "But what is the prince voevoda?" asked Pan Yan, seriously. At this question all were silent, and considered the dark future for a time with fear; but Kharlamp looked angry and said,-- "I have served under the prince from early years, though I am little younger than he; for in the beginning, when I was still a stripling, he was my captain, later on he was full hetman, and now he is grand hetman. I know him better than any one here; I both love and honor him; therefore I ask you not to compare him with Cromwell, so that I may not be forced to say something which would not become me as host in this room." Here Kharlamp began to twitch his mustaches terribly, and to frown a little at Pan Yan; seeing which, Volodyovski fixed on Kharlamp a cool and sharp look, as if he wished to say, "Only growl, only growl!" Great Mustache took note at once, for he held Volodyovski in unusual esteem, and besides it was dangerous to get angry with him; therefore he continued in a far milder tone,-- "The prince is a Calvinist; but he did not reject the true faith for errors, for he was born in them. He will never become either a Cromwell, a Radzeyovski, or an Opalinski, though Kyedani had to sink through the earth. Not such is his blood, not such his stock." "If he is the devil and has horns on his head," said Zagloba, "so much the better, for he will have something to gore the Swedes with." "But that Pan Gosyevski and Pan Yudytski are arrested, well, well!" said Volodyovski, shaking his head. "The prince is not very amiable to guests who have confided in him." "What do you say, Michael?" answered Kharlamp. "He is amiable as he has never been in his life. He is now a real father to the knights. Think how some time ago he had always a frown on his forehead, and on his lips one word, 'Service.' A man was more afraid to go near his majesty than he was to stand before the king; and now he goes every day among the lieutenants and the officers, converses, asks each one about his family, his children, his property, calls each man by name, and inquires if injustice has been done to any one in service. He who among the highest lords will not own an equal, walked yesterday arm-in-arm with young Kmita. We could not believe our eyes; for though the family of Kmita is a great one, he is quite young, and likely many accusations are weighing on him. Of this you know best." "I know, I know," replied Volodyovski. "Has Kmita been here long?" "He is not here now, for he went yesterday to Cheykishki for a regiment of infantry stationed there. No one is now in such favor with the prince as Kmita. When he was going away the prince looked after him awhile and said, 'That man is equal to anything, and is ready to seize the devil himself by the tail if I tell him!' We heard this with our own ears. It is true that Kmita brought a squadron that has not an equal in the whole army,--men and horses like dragons!" "There is no use in talking, he is a valiant soldier, and in truth ready for everything," said Pan Michael. "He performed wonders in the last campaign, till a price was set on his head, for he led volunteers and carried on war himself." Further conversation was interrupted by the entrance of a new figure. This was a noble about forty years of age, small, dry, alert, wriggling like a mud-fish, with a small face, very thin lips, a scant mustache, and very crooked eyes. He was dressed in a ticking-coat, with such long sleeves that they covered his hands completely. When he had entered he bent double, then he straightened himself as suddenly as if moved by a spring, again he inclined with a low bow, turned his head as if he were taking it out of his own armpits, and began to speak hurriedly in a voice which recalled the squeaking of a rusty weather-cock,-- "With the forehead, Pan Kharlamp, with the forehead. Ah! with the forehead, Pan Colonel, most abject servant!" "With the forehead, Pan Harasimovich," answered Kharlamp; "and what is your wish?" "God gave guests, distinguished guests. I came to offer my services and to inquire their rank." "Did they come to you, Pan Harasimovich?" "Certainly not to me, for I am not worthy of that; but because I take the place of the absent marshal. I have come to greet them profoundly." "It is far from you to the marshal," said Kharlamp; "for he is a personage with inherited land, while you with permission are under-starosta of Zabludovo." "A servant of the servants of Radzivill. That is true, Pan Kharlamp, I make no denial; God preserve me therefrom. But since the prince has heard of the guests, he has sent me to inquire who they are; therefore you will answer, Pan Kharlamp, if I were even a haiduk and not the under-starosta of Zabludovo." "Oh, I would answer even a monkey if he were to come with an order," said Big Nose. "Listen now, and calk these names into yourself if your head is not able to hold them. This is Pan Skshetuski, that hero of Zbaraj; and this is his cousin Stanislav." "Great God! what do I hear?" cried Harasimovich. "This is Pan Zagloba." "Great God! what do I hear?" "If you are so confused at hearing my name," said Zagloba, "think of the confusion of the enemy in the field." "And this is Colonel Volodyovski," finished Kharlamp. "And he has a famous sabre, and besides is a Radzivill man." said Harasimovich, with a bow. "The prince's head is splitting from labor; but still he will find time for such knights, surely he will find it. Meanwhile with what can you be served? The whole castle is at the service of such welcome guests, and the cellars as well." "We have heard of the famous meads of Kyedani," said Zagloba, hurriedly. "Indeed!" answered Harasimovich, "there are glorious meads in Kyedani, glorious. I will send some hither for you to choose from right away. I hope that my benefactors will stay here long." "We have come hither," said Pan Stanislav, "not to leave the side of the prince." "Praiseworthy is your intention, the more so that trying times are at hand." When he had said this, Harasimovich wriggled and became as small as if an ell had been taken from his stature. "What is to be heard?" asked Kharlamp. "Is there any news?" "The prince has not closed an eye all night, for two envoys have come. Evil are the tidings, increasingly evil. Karl Gustav has already entered the Commonwealth after Wittemberg; Poznan is now occupied, all Great Poland is occupied, Mazovia will be occupied soon; the Swedes are in Lovich, right at Warsaw. Our king has fled from Warsaw, which he left undefended. To-day or to-morrow the Swedes will enter. They say that the king has lost a considerable battle, that he thinks of escaping to Cracow, and thence to foreign lands to ask aid. Evil, gracious gentlemen, my benefactors! Though there are some who say that it is well; for the Swedes commit no violence, observe agreements sacredly, collect no imposts, respect liberties, do not hinder the faith. Therefore all accept the protection of Karl Gustav willingly. For our king, Yan Kazimir, is at fault, greatly at fault. All is lost, lost for him! One would like to weep, but all is lost, lost!" "Why the devil do you wriggle like a mudfish going to the pot," howled Zagloba, "and speak of a misfortune as if you were glad of it?" Harasimovich pretended not to hear, and raising his eyes to heaven he repeated yet a number of times: "All is lost, lost for the ages! The Commonwealth cannot stand against three wars. Lost! The will of God, the will of God! Our prince alone can save Lithuania." The ill-omened words had not yet ceased to sound when Harasimovich vanished behind the door as quickly as if he had sunk through the earth, and the knights sat in gloom bent by the weight of terrible thoughts. "We shall go mad!" cried Volodyovski at last. "You are right," said Stanislav. "God give war, war at the earliest,--war in which a man does not ruin himself in thinking, nor yield his soul to despair, but fights." "We shall regret the first period of Hmelnitski's war," said Zagloba; "for though there were defeats then, there were no traitors." "Three such terrible wars, when in fact there is a lack of forces for one," said Stanislav. "Not a lack of forces, but of spirit. The country is perishing through viciousness. God grant us to live to something better!" said Pan Yan, gloomily. "We shall not rest till we are in the field," said Stanislav. "If we can only see this prince soon!" cried Zagloba. Their wishes were accomplished directly; for after an hour's time Harasimovich came again, with still lower bows, and with the announcement that the prince was waiting anxiously to see them. They sprang up at once, for they had already changed uniforms, and went. Harasimovich, in conducting them from the barracks, passed through the courtyard, which was full of soldiers and nobles. In some places they were conversing in crowds, evidently over the same news which the under-starosta of Zabludovo had brought the knights. On all faces were depicted lively alarm and a certain feverish expectation. Isolated groups of officers and nobles were listening to the speakers, who standing in the midst of them gesticulated violently. On the way were heard the words: "Vilna is burning, Vilna is burned!--No trace of it, nor the ashes! Warsaw is taken!--Untrue, not taken yet!--The Swedes are in Little Poland! The people of Syeradz will resist!--They will not resist, they will follow the example of Great Poland!--Treason! misfortune! O God, God! It is unknown where to put sabre or hand!" Such words as these, more and more terrible, struck the ears of the knights; but they went on pushing after Harasimovich through the soldiers and nobles with difficulty. In places acquaintances greeted Volodyovski: "How is your health, Michael? 'Tis evil with us; we are perishing! With the forehead, brave Colonel! And what guests are these whom you are taking to the prince?" Pan Michael answered not, wishing to escape delay; and in this fashion they went to the main body of the castle, in which the janissaries of the prince, in chain-mail and gigantic white caps, were on guard. In the antechamber and on the main staircase, set around with orange-trees, the throng was still greater than in the courtyard. They were discussing there the arrest of Gosyevski and Yudytski; for the affair had become known, and roused the minds of men to the utmost. They were astonished and lost in surmises, they were indignant or praised the foresight of the prince; but all hoped to hear the explanation of the riddle from Radzivill himself, therefore a river of heads was flowing along the broad staircase up to the hall of audience, in which at that time the prince was to receive colonels and the most intimate nobility. Soldiers disposed along the stone banisters to see that the throng was not too dense, repeated, from moment to moment, "Slowly, gracious gentlemen, slowly!" And the crowd pushed forward or halted for a moment, when a soldier stopped the way with a halbert so that those in front might have time to enter the hall. At last the blue vaultings of the hall gleamed before the open door, and our acquaintances entered. Their glances fell first on an elevation, placed in the depth of the hall, occupied by a brilliant retinue of knights and lords in rich, many-colored dresses. In front stood an empty arm-chair, pushed forward beyond the others. This chair had a lofty back, ending with the gilded coronet of the prince, from beneath which flowed downward orange-colored velvet trimmed with ermine. The prince was not in the hall yet; but Harasimovich, conducting the knights without interruption, pushed through the nobility till he reached a small door concealed in the wall at the side of the elevation. There he directed them to remain, and disappeared through the door. After a while he returned with the announcement that the prince asked them to enter. The two Skshetuskis, with Zagloba and Volodyovski, entered a small but very well-lighted room, having walls covered with leather stamped in flowers, which were gilded. The officers halted on seeing in the depth of the room, at a table covered with papers, two men conversing intently. One of them, still young, dressed in foreign fashion, wearing a wig with long locks falling to his shoulders, whispered something in the ear of his elder companion; the latter heard him with frowning brow, and nodded from time to time. So much was he occupied with the subject of the conversation that he did not turn attention at once to those who had entered. He was a man somewhat beyond forty years, of gigantic stature and great shoulders. He wore a scarlet Polish coat, fastened at the neck with costly brooches. He had an enormous face, with features expressing pride, importance, and power. It was at once the face of an angry lion, of a warrior, and a ruler. Long pendent mustaches lent it a stern expression, and altogether in its strength and size it was as if struck out of marble with great blows of a hammer. The brows were at that moment frowning from intense thought; but it could easily be seen that when they were frowning from anger, woe to those men and those armies on whom the thunders of that anger should fall. There was something so great in the form that it seemed to those knights that not only the room, but the whole castle was too narrow for it; in fact, their first impression had not deceived them, for sitting in their presence was Yanush Radzivill, prince at Birji and Dubinki, voevoda of Vilna and grand hetman of Lithuania,--a man so powerful and proud that in all his immense estates, in all his dignities, nay, in Jmud and in Lithuania itself, it was too narrow for him. The younger man in the long wig and foreign dress was Prince Boguslav, the cousin of Yanush. After a while he whispered something more in the ear of the hetman, and at last said audibly,-- "I will leave, then, my signature on the document and go." "Since it cannot be otherwise, go," said Yanush, "though I would that you remained, for it is unknown what may happen." "You have planned everything properly; henceforth it is needful to look carefully to the cause, and now I commit you to God." "May the Lord have in care our whole house and bring it praise." "Adieu, mon frère." "Adieu." The two princes shook hands; then Boguslav went out hurriedly, and the grand hetman turned to the visitors. "Pardon me, gentlemen, that I let you wait," said he, with a low, deliberate voice; "but now time and attention are snatched from us on every side. I have heard your names, and rejoice in my soul that God sent me such knights in this crisis. Be seated, dear guests. Who of you is Pan Yan Skshetuski?" "I am, at the service of your highness." "Then you are a starosta--pardon me, I forgot." "I am not a starosta," answered Yan. "How is that?" asked the prince, frowning with his two mighty brows; "they have not made you a starosta for what you did at Zbaraj?" "I have never asked for the office." "But they should have made you starosta without the asking. How is this? What do you tell me? You rewarded with nothing, forgotten entirely? This is a wonder to me. But I am talking at random. It should astonish no man; for in these days only he is rewarded who has the back of a willow, light-bending. You are not a starosta, upon my word! Thanks be to God that you have come hither, for here we have not such short memories, and no service remains unrewarded. How is it with you, worthy Colonel Volodyovski?" "I have earned nothing yet." "Leave that to me, and now take this document, drawn up in Rossyeni, by which I give you Dydkyemie for life. It is not a bad piece of land, and a hundred ploughs go out to work there every spring. Take even that, for I cannot give more, and tell Pan Skshetuski that Radzivill does not forget his friends, nor those who give their service to the country under his leadership." "Your princely highness!" stammered Pan Michael, in confusion. "Say nothing, and pardon that it is so small; but tell these gentlemen that he who joins his fortune for good and ill with that of Radzivill will not perish. I am not king; but if I were, God is my witness that I would never forget such a Yan Skshetuski or such a Zagloba." "That is I!" said Zagloba, pushing himself forward sharply, for he had begun to be impatient that there was no mention of him. "I thought it was you, for I have been told that you were a man of advanced years." "I went to school in company with your highness's worthy father; and there was such knightly impulse in him from childhood that he took me to his confidence, for I loved the lance before Latin." To Pan Stanislav, who knew Zagloba less, it was strange to hear this, since only the day before, Zagloba said in Upita that he had gone to school, not with the late Prince Kryshtof, but with Yanush himself,--which was unlikely, for Prince Yanush was notably younger. "Indeed," said the prince; "so then you are from Lithuania by family?" "From Lithuania!" answered Zagloba, without hesitation. "Then I know that you need no reward, for we Lithuanians are used to be fed with ingratitude. As God is true, if I should give you your deserts, gentlemen, there would be nothing left for myself. But such is fate! We give our blood, lives, fortunes, and no one nods a head to us. Ah! 'tis hard; but as they sow will they reap. That is what God and justice command. It is you who slew the famous Burlai and cut off three heads at a blow in Zbaraj?" "I slew Burlai, your highness," answered Zagloba, "for it was said that no man could stand before him. I wished therefore to show younger warriors that manhood was not extinct in the Commonwealth. But as to cutting off the three heads, it may be that I did that in the thick of battle; but in Zbaraj some one else did it." The prince was silent awhile, then continued: "Does not that contempt pain you, gentlemen, with which they pay you?" "What is to be done, your highness, even if it is disagreeable to a man?" said Zagloba. "Well, comfort yourselves, for that must change. I am already your debtor, since you have come here; and though I am not king, still with me it will not end with promises." "Your princely highness," said Pan Yan, quickly and somewhat proudly, "we have come hither not for rewards and estates, but because the enemy has invaded the country, and we wish to go with our strength to assist it under the leadership of a famous warrior. My cousin Stanislav saw at Uistsie fear, disorder, shame, treason, and finally the enemy's triumph. Here under a great leader and a faithful defender of our country and king we will serve. Here not victories, not triumphs, but defeats and death await the enemy. This is why we have come to offer our service to your highness. We are soldiers; we want to fight, and are impatient for battle." "If such is your desire, you will be satisfied," answered the prince, with importance. "You will not wait long, though at first we shall march on another enemy, for the ashes of Vilna demand vengeance. To-day or to-morrow we shall march in that direction, and God grant will redeem the wrongs with interest. I will not detain you longer, gentlemen; you need rest, and work is burning me. But come in the evening to the hall; maybe some proper entertainment will take place before the march, for a great number of fair heads have assembled under our protection at Kyedani before the war. Worthy Colonel Volodyovski, entertain these welcome guests as if in your own house, and remember that what is mine is yours. Pan Harasimovich, tell my brother nobles assembled in the hall, that I will not go out, for I have not the time, and this evening they will learn everything that they wish to know. Be in good health, gentlemen, and be friends of Radzivill, for that is greatly important for him now." When he had said this, that mighty and proud lord gave his hand in turn to Zagloba, the two Skshetuskis, Volodyovski, and Kharlamp, as if to equals. His stern face grew radiant with a cordial and friendly smile, and that inaccessibleness usually surrounding him as with a dark cloud vanished completely. "That is a leader, that is a warrior!" said Stanislav, when on the return they had pushed themselves through the throng of nobles assembled in the audience-hall. "I would go into fire after him!" cried Zagloba. "Did you notice how he had all my exploits in his memory? It will be hot for the Swedes when that lion roars, and I second him. There is not another such man in the Commonwealth; and of the former men only Prince Yeremi first, and second Konyetspolski, the father, might be compared with him. That is not some mere castellan, the first of his family to sit in a senator's chair, on which he has not yet smoothed out the wrinkles of his trousers, and still turns up his nose and calls the nobles younger brothers, and gives orders right away to paint his portrait, so that while dining he may have his senatorship before him, since he has nothing to look at behind. Pan Michael, you have come to fortune. It is evident now that if a man rubs against Radzivill he will gild at once his threadbare coat. It is easier to get promotion here, I see, than a quart of rotten pears with us. Stick your hands into the water in this place, and with closed eyes you will catch a pike. For me he is the magnate of magnates! God give you luck, Pan Michael! You are as confused as a young woman just married; but that is nothing! What is the name of your life estate? Dudkovo, or something? Heathen names in this country! Throw nuts against the wall, and you will have in the rattling the proper name of a village or noble. But names are nothing if the income is only good." "I am terribly confused, I confess," said Pan Michael, "because what you say about easy promotion is not true. More than once have I heard old soldiers charge the prince with avarice, but now unexpected favors are showered one after the other." "Stick that document behind your belt,--do that for me,--and if any one in future complains of the thanklessness of the prince, draw it out and give it to him on the nose. You will not find a better argument." "One thing I see clearly: the prince is attracting people to his person, and is forming plans for which he needs help." said Pan Yan. "But have you not heard of those plans?" asked Zagloba. "Has he not said that we have to go to avenge the ashes of Vilna? They complained that he had robbed Vilna, but he wants to show that he not only does not need other people's property, but is ready to give of his own. That is a beautiful ambition, Yan, God give us more of such senators." Conversing thus, they found themselves in the courtyard, to which every moment rode in now divisions of mounted troops, now crowds of armed nobles, and now carriages rolled in, bringing persons from the country around, with their wives and children. Seeing this, Pan Michael drew all with him to the gate to look at those entering. "Who knows, Michael, this is your fortunate day? Maybe there is a wife for you among these nobles' daughters," said Zagloba. "Look! see, there an open carriage is approaching, and in it something white is sitting." "That is not a lady, but a man who may marry me to one," answered the swift-eyed Volodyovski; for from a distance he recognized the bishop Parchevski, coming with Father Byalozor, archdeacon of Vilna. "If they are priests, how are they visiting a Calvinist?" "What is to be done? When it's necessary for public affairs, they must be polite." "Oh, it is crowded here! Oh, it is noisy!" cried Zagloba, with delight. "A man grows rusty in the country, like an old key in a lock; here I think of better times. I'm a rascal if I don't make love to some pretty girl to-day." Zagloba's words were interrupted by the soldiers keeping guard at the gate, who rushing out from their booths stood in two ranks to salute the bishop; and he rode past, making the sign of the cross with his hand on each side, blessing the soldiers and the nobles assembled near by. "The prince is a polite man," said Zagloba, "since he honors the bishop, though he does not recognize the supremacy of the Church. God grant this to be the first step toward conversion!" "Oh, nothing will come of it! Not few were the efforts of his first wife, and she accomplished nothing, only died from vexation. But why do the Scots not leave the line? It is evident that another dignitary will pass." In fact, a whole retinue of armed soldiers appeared in the distance. "Those are Ganhoff's dragoons,--I know them," said Volodyovski; "but some carriages are in the middle!" At that moment the drums began to rattle. "Oh, it is evident that some one greater than the bishop of Jmud is there!" cried Zagloba. "Wait, they are here already." "There are two carriages in the middle." "True. In the first sits Pan Korf, the voevoda of Venden." "Of course!" cried Pan Yan; "that is an acquaintance from Zbaraj." The voevoda recognized them, and first Volodyovski, whom he had evidently seen oftener; in passing he leaned from the carriage and cried,-- "I greet you, gentlemen, old comrades! See, I bring guests!" In the second carriage, with the arms of Prince Yanush, drawn by four white horses, sat two gentlemen of lordly mien, dressed in foreign fashion, in broad-brimmed hats, from under which the blond curls of wigs flowed to their shoulders over wide lace collars. One was very portly, wore a pointed light-blond beard, and mustaches bushy and turned up at the ends; the other was younger, dressed wholly in black. He had a less knightly form, but perhaps a higher office, for a gold chain glittered on his neck, with some order at the end. Apparently both were foreigners, for they looked with curiosity at the castle, the people, and the dresses. "What sort of devils?" asked Zagloba. "I do not know them, I have never seen them," answered Volodyovski. Meanwhile the carriages passed, and began to turn in the yard so as to reach the main entrance of the castle, but the dragoons remained outside the gate. "Volodyovski knew the officer leading them. "Tokarzevich!" called he, "come to us, please." "With the forehead, worthy Colonel." "And what kind of hedgehogs are you bringing?" "Those are Swedes." "Swedes!" "Yes, and men of distinction. The portly one is Count Löwenhaupt, and the slender man is Benedikt Schitte, Baron von Duderhoff." "Duderhoff?" asked Zagloba. "What do they want here?" inquired Volodyovski. "God knows!" answered the officer. "We escorted them from Birji. Undoubtedly they have come to negotiate with our prince, for we heard in Birji that he is assembling a great army and is going to move on Livonia." "Ah, rascals! you are growing timid," cried Zagloba. "Now you are invading Great Poland, now you are deposing the king, and now you are paying court to Radzivill, so that he should not tickle you in Livonia. Wait! you will run away to your Dunderhoff till your stockings are down. We'll soon dunder with you. Long life to Radzivill!" "Long life!" repeated the nobles, standing near the gate. "Defender of the country! Our shield! Against the Swedes, worthy gentlemen, against the Swedes!" A circle was formed. Every moment nobles collected from the yard; seeing which, Zagloba sprang on the low guard-post of the gate, and began to cry,-- "Worthy gentlemen, listen! Whoso does not know me, to him I will say that I am that defender of Zbaraj who with this old hand slew Burlai, the greatest hetman after Hmelnitski; whoso has not heard of Zagloba was shelling peas, it is clear, in the first period of the Cossack war, or feeling hens (for eggs), or herding calves,--labors which I do not connect with such honorable cavaliers as you." "He is a great knight!" called numerous voices. "There is no greater in the Commonwealth! Hear!" "Listen, honorable gentlemen. My old bones craved repose; better for me to rest in the bakehouse, to eat cheese and cream, to walk in the gardens and gather apples, or putting my hands behind my back to stand over harvesters or pat a girl on the shoulder. And it is certain that for the enemy it would have been better to leave me at rest; for the Swedes and the Cossacks know that I have a very heavy hand, and God grant that my name is as well known to you, gentlemen, as to the enemy." "What kind of rooster is that crowing so loud?" asked some voice in the crowd, suddenly. "Don't interrupt! Would you were dead!" cried others. But Zagloba heard him. "Forgive that cockerel, gentlemen," said he; "for he knows not yet on which end of him is his tail, nor on which his head." The nobles burst into mighty laughter, and the confused disturber pushed quickly behind the crowd, to escape the sneers which came raining on his head. "I return to the subject," said Zagloba. "I repeat, rest would be proper for me; but because the country is in a paroxysm, because the enemy is trampling our land, I am here, worthy gentlemen, with you to resist the enemy in the name of that mother who nourished us all. Whoso will not stand by her to-day, whoso will not run to save her, is not a son, but a step-son; he is unworthy of her love. I, an old man, am going, let the will of God be done; and if it comes to me to die, with my last breath will I cry, 'Against the Swedes! brothers, against the Swedes!' Let us swear that we will not drop the sabre from our hands till we drive them out of the country." "We are ready to do that without oaths!" cried numbers of voices. "We will go where our hetman the prince leads us; we will go where 'tis needful." "Worthy brothers, you have seen how two stocking-wearers came here in a gilded carriage. They know that there is no trifling with Radzivill. They will follow him from chamber to chamber, and kiss him on the elbows to give them peace. But the prince, worthy gentlemen, with whom I have been advising and from whom I have just returned, has assured me, in the name of all Lithuania, that there will be no negotiations, no parchments, nothing but war and war!" "War! war!" repeated, as an echo, the voices of the hearers. "But because the leader," continued Zagloba, "will begin the more boldly, the surer he is of his soldiers, let us show him, worthy gentlemen, our sentiments. And now let us go under the windows of the prince and shout, 'Down with the Swedes!' After me, worthy gentlemen!" Then he sprang from the post and moved forward, and after him the crowd. They came under the very windows with an uproar increasing each moment, till at last it was mingled in one gigantic shout,--"Down with the Swedes! down with the Swedes!" Immediately Pan Korf, the voevoda of Venden, ran out of the antechamber greatly confused; after him Ganhoff; and both began to restrain the nobles, quieting them, begging them to disperse. "For God's sake!" said Korf, "in the upper hall the window-panes are rattling. You gentlemen do not think what an awkward time you have chosen for your shouting. How can you treat envoys with disrespect, and give an example of insubordination? Who roused you to this?" "I," said Zagloba. "Your grace, tell the prince, in the name of us all, that we beg him to be firm, that we are ready to remain with him to the last drop of our blood." "I thank you, gentlemen, in the name of the hetman, I thank you; but I beg you to disperse. Consider, worthy gentlemen. By the living God, consider that you are sinking the country! Whoso insults an envoy to-day, renders a bear's service to the Commonwealth." "What do we care for envoys! We want to fight, not to negotiate!" "Your courage comforts me. The time for fighting will come before long, God grant very soon. Rest now before the expedition. It is time for a drink of spirits and lunch. It is bad to fight on an empty stomach." "That is as true as I live!" cried Zagloba, first. "True, he struck the right spot. Since the prince knows our sentiments, we have nothing to do here!" And the crowd began to disperse. The greater part flowed on to rooms in which many tables were already spread. Zagloba sat at the head of one of them. Pan Korf and Colonel Ganhoff returned then to the prince, who was sitting at counsel with the Swedish envoys, Bishop Parchevski, Father Byalozor, Pan Adam Komorovski, and Pan Alexander Myerzeyevski, a courtier of Yan Kazimir, who was stopping for the time in Kyedani. "Who incited that tumult?" asked the prince, from whose lion-like face anger had not yet disappeared. "It was that noble who has just come here, that famous Zagloba," answered Pan Korf. "That is a brave knight," said the prince, "but he is beginning to manage me too soon." Having said this, he beckoned to Colonel Ganhoff and whispered something in his ear. Zagloba meanwhile, delighted with himself, went to the lower halls with solemn tread, having with him Volodyovski, with Yan and Stanislav Skshetuski. "Well, friends, I have barely appeared and have roused love for the country in those nobles. It will be easier now for the prince to send off the envoys with nothing, for all he has to do is to call upon us. That will not be, I think, without reward, though it is more a question of honor with me. Why have you halted, Michael, as if turned to stone, with eyes fixed on that carriage at the gate?" "That is she!" said Volodyovski, with twitching mustaches. "By the living God, that is she herself!" "Who?" "Panna Billevich." "She who refused you?" "The same. Look, gentlemen, look! Might not a man wither away from regret?" "Wait a minute!" said Zagloba, "we must have a closer look." Meanwhile the carriage, describing a half-circle, approached the speakers. Sitting in it was a stately noble with gray mustaches, and at his side Panna Aleksandra; beautiful as ever, calm, and full of dignity. Pan Michael fixed on her a complaining look and bowed low, but she did not see him in the crowd. "That is some lordly child," said Zagloba, gazing at her fine, noble features, "too delicate for a soldier. I confess that she is a beauty, but I prefer one of such kind that for the moment you would ask, 'Is that a cannon or a woman?'" "Do you know who that is who has just passed?" asked Pan Michael of a noble standing near. "Of course," answered the noble; "that is Pan Tomash Billevich, sword-bearer of Rossyeni. All here know him, for he is an old servant and friend of the Radzivills." CHAPTER XIV. The prince did not show himself to the nobles that day till evening, for he dined with the envoys and some dignitaries with whom he had held previous counsel. But orders had come to the colonels to have the regiments of Radzivill's guard ready, and especially the infantry under foreign officers. It smelt of powder in the air. The castle, though not fortified, was surrounded with troops as if a battle was to be fought at its walls. Men expected that the campaign would begin on the following morning at latest; of this there were visible signs, for the countless servants of the prince were busied with packing into wagons arms, valuable implements, and the treasury of the prince. Harasimovich told the nobles that the wagons would go to Tykotsin in Podlyasye, for it was dangerous to leave the treasury in the undefended castle of Kyedani. Military stores were also prepared to be sent after the army. Reports went out that Gosyevski was arrested because he would not join his squadrons stationed at Troki with those of Radzivill, thus exposing the whole expedition to evident destruction. Moreover preparations for the march, the movement of troops, the rattle of cannon drawn out of the castle arsenal, and all that turmoil which ever accompanies the first movements of military expeditions, turned attention in another direction, and caused the knights to forget the arrest of Pan Gosyevski and cavalier Yudytski. The nobles dining in the immense lower halls attached to the castle spoke only of the war, of the fire at Vilna, now burning ten days and burning with ever-growing fury, of news from Warsaw, of the advance of the Swedes, and of the Swedes themselves, against whom, as against faith-breakers attacking a neighbor in spite of treaties still valid for six years, hearts and minds were indignant and souls filled with rancor. News of swift advances, of the capitulation of Uistsie, of the occupation of Great Poland and the large towns, of the threatened invasion of Mazovia and the inevitable capture of Warsaw, not only did not cause alarm, but on the contrary roused daring and a desire for battle. This took place since the causes of Swedish success were evident to all. Hitherto the Swedes had not met a real army once, or a real leader. Radzivill was the first warrior by profession with whom they had to measure strength, and who at the same time roused in the nobility absolute confidence in his military gifts, especially as his colonels gave assurance that they would conquer the Swedes in the open field. "Their defeat is inevitable!" said Pan Stankyevich, an old and experienced soldier. "I remember former wars, and I know that they always defended themselves in castles, in fortified camps, and in trenches. They never dared to come to the open field, for they feared cavalry greatly, and when trusting in their numbers they did come out, they received a proper drilling. It was not victory that gave Great Poland into their hands, but treason and the imbecility of general militia." "True," said Zagloba. "The Swedish people are weak, for their land is terribly barren, and they have no bread; they grind pine cones, and of that sort of flour make ash-cakes which smell of resin. Others go to the seashore and devour whatever the waves throw up, besides fighting about it as a tidbit. Terrible destitution! so there are no people more greedy for their neighbors' goods. Even the Tartars have horse-flesh in plenty, but these Swedes do not see meat once a year, and are pinched with hunger unless when a good haul of fish comes." Here Zagloba turned to Stankyevich: "Have you ever made the acquaintance of the Swedes?" "Under Prince Krishtof, the father of the present hetman." "And I under Konyetspolski, the father. We gave Gustavus Adolphus many crushing defeats in Prussia, and took no small number of prisoners; there I became acquainted with them through and through, and learned all their methods. Our men wondered at them not a little, for you must know that the Swedes as a people always wading in water and having their greatest income from the sea, are divers _exquisitissimi_. What would you, gentlemen, say to what we made them do? We would throw one of the rascals into a hole in the ice, and he would swim out through another hole with a live herring in his mouth." "In God's name, what do you tell us?" "May I fall down a corpse on this spot if with my own eyes I have not seen this done at least a hundred times, as well as other wonderful customs of theirs! I remember also that as soon as they fed on Prussian bread, they did not want to go home. Pan Stankyevich says truly that they are not sturdy soldiers. They have infantry which is so-so; but the cavalry--God pity us! for there are no horses in their country, and they cannot train themselves to riding from childhood." "Probably we shall not attack them first, but march on Vilna," said Pan Shchyt. "True, I gave that advice to the prince myself, when he asked what I thought of this matter," answered Zagloba. "But when we have finished with the others,[19] we will go against the Swedes. The envoys upstairs must be sweating!" "They are received politely," said Pan Zalenski, "but they will not effect the least thing; the best proof of that is that orders are issued to the army." "Dear God, dear God!" said Pan Tvarkovski, judge of Rossyeni, "how alacrity comes with danger! We were well-nigh despairing when we had to do with one enemy, but now we have two." "Of course," answered Stankyevich. "It happens not infrequently, that we let ourselves be beaten till patience is lost, and then in a moment vigor and daring appear. Is it little that we have suffered, little endured? We relied on the king and the general militia of the kingdom, not counting on our own force, till we are in a dilemma; now we must either defeat both enemies or perish completely." "God will assist us! We have had enough of this delay." "They have put the dagger to our throats." "We too will put it to theirs; we'll show the kingdom fellows what sort of soldiers we are! There will be no Uistsie with us, as God is in heaven!" In the measure of the cups, heads became heated, and warlike ardor increased. At the brink of a precipice the last effort often brings safety; this was understood by those crowds of soldiers and that nobility whom so recently Yan Kazimir had called to Grodno with despairing universals to form the general militia. Now all hearts, all minds were turned to Radzivill; all lips repeated that terrible name, which till recently had ever been coupled with victory. In fact, he had but to collect and move the scattered and drowsy strength of the country, to stand at the head of a power sufficient to end both wars with victory. After dinner the colonels were summoned to the prince in the following order: Mirski, lieutenant of the armored squadron of the hetman; and after him Stankyevich, Ganhoff, Kharlamp, Volodyovski, and Sollohub. Old soldiers wondered a little that they were asked singly, and not collectively to counsel; but it was a pleasant surprise, for each came out with some reward, with some evident proof of the prince's favor; in return the prince asked only loyalty and confidence, which all offered from heart and soul. The hetman asked anxiously also if Kmita had returned, and ordered that Pan Andrei's arrival be reported to him. Kmita came, but late in the evening, when the hall was lighted and the guests had begun to assemble. He went first to the barracks to change his uniform; there he found Volodyovski, and made the acquaintance of the rest of the company. "I am uncommonly glad to see you and your famous friends," said he, shaking the hand of the little knight, "as glad as to see a brother! You may be sure of this, for I am unable to pretend. It is true that you went through my forehead in evil fashion, but you put me on my feet afterward, which I shall not forget till death. In presence of all, I say that had it not been for you I should be at this moment behind the grating. Would more such men were born! Who thinks differently is a fool, and may the devil carry me off if I will not clip his ears." "Say no more!" "I will follow you into fire, even should I perish. Let any man come forward who does not believe me!" Here Pan Andrei cast a challenging look on the officers. But no one contradicted him, for all loved and respected Pan Michael; but Zagloba said,-- "This is a sulphurous sort of soldier; give him to the hangman! It seems to me that I shall have a great liking to you for the love you bear Pan Michael, for I am the man to ask first how worthy he is." "Worthier than any of us!" said Kmita, with his usual abruptness. Then he looked at the Skshetuskis, at Zagloba, and added: "Pardon me, gentlemen, I have no wish to offend any one, for I know that you are honorable men and great knights; be not angry, for I wish to deserve your friendship." "There is no harm done," said Pan Yan; "what's in the heart may come to the lip." "Let us embrace!" cried Zagloba. "No need to say such a thing twice to me!" They fell into each other's arms. Then Kmita said, "To-day we must drink, it cannot be avoided!" "No need to say such a thing twice to me!" said Zagloba, like an echo. "We'll slip away early to the barracks, and I'll make provision." Pan Michael began to twitch his mustaches greatly. "You will have no great wish to slip out," thought he, looking at Kmita, "when you see who is in the hall tonight." And he opened his mouth to tell Kmita that the sword-bearer of Rossyeni and Olenka had come; but he grew as it were faint at heart, and turned the conversation. "Where is your squadron?" asked he. "Here, ready for service. Harasimovich was with me, and brought an order from the prince to have the men on horseback at midnight. I asked him if we were all to march; he said not. I know not what it means. Of other officers some have the same order, others have not. But all the foreign infantry have received it." "Perhaps a part of the army will march to-night and a part in the morning," said Pan Yan. "In every case I will have a drink here with you, gentlemen. Let the squadron go on by itself; I can come up with it afterward in an hour." At that moment Harasimovich rushed in. "Serene great mighty banneret of Orsha!" cried he, bowing in the doorway. "What? Is there a fire? I am here!" said Kmita. "To the prince! to the prince!" "Straightway, only let me put on my uniform. Boy, my coat and belt, or I'll kill thee!" The boy brought the rest of the uniform in a twinkle; and a few minutes later Pan Kmita, arrayed as for a wedding, was hurrying to the prince. He was radiant, he seemed so splendid. He had a vest of silver brocade with star-shaped buttons, from which there was a gleam over his whole figure; the vest was fastened at the neck with a great sapphire. Over that a coat of blue velvet; a white belt of inestimable value, so thin that it might be drawn through a finger-ring. A silver-mounted sword set with sapphires hung from the belt by silk pendants; behind the belt was thrust the baton, which indicated his office. This dress became the young knight wonderfully, and it would have been difficult in that countless throng gathered at Kyedani to find a more shapely man. Pan Michael sighed while looking at him; and when Kmita had vanished beyond the door of the barracks he said to Zagloba, "With a fair head there is no opposing a man like that." "But take thirty years from me," answered Zagloba. When Kmita entered, the prince also was dressed, attended by two negroes; he was about to leave the room. The prince and Pan Andrei remained face to face. "God give you health for hurrying!" said the hetman. "At the service of your highness." "But the squadron?" "According to order." "The men are reliable?" "They will go into fire, to hell." "That is good! I need such men,--and such as you, equal to anything. I repeat continually that on no one more than you do I count." "Your highness, my services cannot equal those of old soldiers; but if we have to march against the enemy of the country, God sees that I shall not be in the rear." "I do not diminish the services of the old," said the prince, "though there may come such perils, such grievous junctures, that the most faithful will totter." "May he perish for nothing who deserts the person of your highness in danger!" The prince looked quickly into the face of Kmita. "And you will not draw back?" The young knight flushed. "What do you wish to say, your princely highness? I have confessed to you all my sins, and the sum of them is such that I thank only the fatherly heart of your highness for forgiveness. But in all these sins one is not to be found,--ingratitude." "Nor disloyalty. You confessed to me as to a father; I not only forgave you as a father, but I came to love you as that son--whom God has not given me, for which reason it is often oppressive for me in the world. Be then a friend to me." When he had said this, the prince stretched out his hand. The young knight seized it, and without hesitation pressed it to his lips. They were both silent for a long time; suddenly the prince fixed his eyes on the eyes of Kmita and said, "Panna Billevich is here!" Kmita grew pale, and began to mutter something unintelligible. "I sent for her on purpose so that the misunderstanding between you might be at an end. You will see her at once, as the mourning for her grandfather is over. To-day, too, though God sees that my head is bursting from labor, I have spoken with the sword-bearer of Rossyeni." Kmita seized his head. "With what can I repay your highness, with what can I repay?" "I told him emphatically that it is my will that you and she should be married, and he will not be hostile. I commanded him also to prepare the maiden for it gradually. We have time. All depends upon you, and I shall be happy if a reward from my hand goes to you; and God grant you to await many others, for you must rise high. You have offended because you are young; but you have won glory not the last in the field, and all young men are ready to follow you everywhere. As God lives, you must rise high! Small offices are not for such a family as yours. If you know, you are a relative of the Kishkis, and my mother was a Kishki. But you need sedateness; for that, marriage is the best thing. Take that maiden if she has pleased your heart, and remember who gives her to you." "Your highness, I shall go wild, I believe! My life, my blood belongs to your highness. What must I do to thank you,--what? Tell me, command me!" "Return good for good. Have faith in me, have confidence that what I do I do for the public good. Do not fall away from me when you see the treason and desertion of others, when malice increases, when--" Here the prince stopped suddenly. "I swear," said Kmita, with ardor, "and give my word of honor to remain by the person of your highness, my leader, father, and benefactor, to my last breath." Then Kmita looked with eyes full of fire at the prince, and was alarmed at the change which had suddenly come over him. His face was purple, the veins swollen, drops of sweat were hanging thickly on his lofty forehead, and his eyes cast an unusual gleam. "What is the matter, your highness?" asked the knight, unquietly. "Nothing! nothing!" Radzivill rose, moved with hurried step to a kneeling desk, and taking from it a crucifix, said with powerful, smothered voice, "Swear on this cross that you will not leave me till death." In spite of all his readiness and ardor, Kmita looked for a while at him with astonishment. "On this passion of Christ, swear!" insisted the hetman. "On this passion of Christ, I swear!" said Kmita, placing his finger on the crucifix. "Amen!" said the prince, with solemn voice. An echo in the lofty chamber repeated somewhere under the arch, "Amen," and a long silence followed. There was to be heard only the breathing of the powerful breast of Radzivill. Kmita did not remove from the hetman his astonished eyes. "Now you are mine,' said the prince, at last. "I have always belonged to your highness," answered the young knight, hastily; "but be pleased to explain to me what is passing. Why does your highness doubt? Or does anything threaten your person? Has any treason, have any machinations been discovered?" "The time of trial is approaching," said the prince, gloomily, "and as to enemies do you not know that Pan Gosyevski, Pan Yudytski, and the voevoda of Vityebsk would be glad to bury me in the bottom of the pit? This is the case! The enemies of my house increase, treason spreads, and public defeats threaten. Therefore, I say, the hour of trial draws near." Kmita was silent; but the last words of the prince did not disperse the darkness which had settled around his mind, and he asked himself in vain what could threaten at that moment the powerful Radzivill. For he stood at the head of greater forces than ever. In Kyedani itself and in the neighborhood there were so many troops that if the prince had such power before he marched to Shklov the fortune of the whole war would have come out differently beyond doubt. Gosyevski and Yudytski were, it is true, ill-wishers, but he had both in his hands and under guard, and as to the voevoda of Vityebsk he was too virtuous a man, too good a citizen to give cause for fear of any opposition or machinations from his side on the eve of a new expedition against enemies. "God knows I understand nothing!" cried Kmita, being unable in general to restrain his thoughts. "You will understand all to-day," said Radzivill, calmly. "Now let us go to the hall." And taking the young colonel by the arm, he turned with him toward the door. They passed through a number of rooms. From a distance out of the immense hall came the sound of the orchestra, which was directed by a Frenchman brought on purpose by Prince Boguslav. They were playing a minuet which at that time was danced at the French court. The mild tones were blended with the sound of many voices. Prince Radzivill halted and listened. "God grant," said he, after a moment, "that all these guests whom I have received under my roof will not pass to my enemies to-morrow." "Your highness," said Kmita, "I hope that there are no Swedish adherents among them." Radzivill quivered and halted suddenly. "What do you wish to say?" "Nothing, worthy prince, but that honorable soldiers are rejoicing there." "Let us go on. Time will show, and God will decide who is honorable. Let us go!" At the door itself stood twenty pages,--splendid lads, dressed in feathers and satin. Seeing the hetman, they formed in two lines. When the prince came near, he asked, "Has her princely highness entered the hall?" "She has, your highness." "And the envoys?" "They are here also." "Open!" Both halves of the door opened in the twinkle of an eye; a flood of light poured in and illuminated the gigantic form of the hetman, who having behind him Kmita and the pages, went toward the elevation on which were placed chairs for the most distinguished guests. A movement began in the hall; at once all eyes were turned to the prince, and one shout was wrested from hundreds of breasts: "Long live Radzivill! long live! Long live the hetman! long live!" The prince bowed with head and hand, then began to greet the guests assembled on the elevation, who rose the moment he entered. Among the best known, besides the princess herself, were the two Swedish envoys, the envoy of Moscow, the voevoda of Venden, Bishop Parchevski, the priest Byalozor, Pan Komorovski, Pan Myerzeyevski, Pan Hlebovich, starosta of Jmud, brother-in-law of the hetman, a young Pats, Colonel Ganhoff, Colonel Mirski, Weisenhoff, the envoy of the Prince of Courland, and ladies in the suite of the princess. The hetman, as was proper for a welcoming host, began by greeting the envoys, with whom he exchanged a few friendly words; then he greeted others, and when he had finished he sat on the chair with a canopy of ermine, and gazed at the hall in which shouts' were still sounding: "May he live! May he be our hetman! May he live!" Kmita, hidden behind the canopy, looked also at the throng. His glance darted from face to face, seeking among them the beloved features of her who at that moment held all the soul and heart of the knight. His heart beat like a hammer. "She is here! After a while I shall see her, I shall speak to her," said he in thought. And he sought and sought with more and more eagerness, with increasing disquiet. "There! beyond the feathers of a fan some dark brows are visible, a white forehead and blond hair. That is she!" Kmita held his breath, as if fearing to frighten away the picture; then the feathers moved and the face was disclosed. "No! that is not Olenka, that is not that dear one, the dearest." His glance flies farther, embraces charming forms, slips over feathers and satin, faces blooming like flowers, and is mistaken each moment. That is she, not she! Till at last, see! in the depth, near the drapery of the window, something white is moving, and it grew dark in the eyes of the knight; that was Olenka, the dear one, the dearest. The orchestra begins to play; again throngs pass. Ladies are moving around, shapely cavaliers are glittering; but he, like one blind and deaf, sees nothing, only looks at her as eagerly as if beholding her for the first time. She seems the same Olenka from Vodokty, but also another. In that great hall and in that throng she seems, as it were, smaller, and her face more delicate, one would say childlike. You might take her all in your arms and caress her! And then again she is the same, though different,--the very same features, the same sweet lips, the same lashes casting shade on her cheeks, the same forehead, clear, calm, beloved. Here memory, like lightning-flashes, began to bring before the eyes of Pan Andrei that servants' hall in Vodokty where he saw her the first time, and those quiet rooms in which they had sat together. What delight only just to remember! And the sleigh-ride to Mitruny, the time that he kissed her! After that, people began to estrange them, and to rouse her against him. "Thunderbolts crush it!" cried Kmita, in his mind. "What have I had and what have I lost? How near she has been and how far is she now!" She sits there far off, like a stranger; she does not even know that he is here. Wrath, but at the same time immeasurable sorrow seized Pan Andrei,--sorrow for which he had no expression save a scream from his soul, but a scream that passed not his lips: "O thou Olenka!" More than once Kmita was so enraged at himself for his previous deeds that he wished to tell his own men to stretch him out and give him a hundred blows, but never had he fallen into such a rage as that time when after long absence he saw her again, still more wonderful than ever, more wonderful indeed than he had imagined. At that moment he wished to torture himself; but because he was among people, in a worthy company, he only ground his teeth, and as if wishing to give himself still greater pain, he repeated in mind: "It is good for thee thus, thou fool! good for thee!" Then the sounds of the orchestra were silent again, and Pan Andrei heard the voice of the hetman: "Come with me." Kmita woke as from a dream. The prince descended from the elevation, and went among the guests. On his face was a mild and kindly smile, which seemed still more to enhance the majesty of his figure. That was the same lordly man who in his time, while receiving Queen Marya Ludwika in Nyeporente, astonished, amazed, and eclipsed the French courtiers, not only by his luxury, but by the polish of his manners,--the same of whom Jean La Boureur wrote with such homage in the account of his journey. This time he halted every moment before the most important matrons, the most respectable nobles and colonels, having for each of the guests some kindly word, astonishing those present by his memory and winning in a twinkle all hearts. The eyes of the guests followed him wherever he moved. Gradually he approached the sword-bearer of Rossyeni, Pan Billevich, and said,-- "I thank you, old friend, for having come, though I had the right to be angry. Billeviche is not a hundred miles from Kyedani, but you are a _rara avis_ (rare bird) under my roof." "Your highness," answered Pan Billevich, bowing low, "he wrongs the country who occupies your time." "But I was thinking to take vengeance on you by going myself to Billeviche, and I think still you would have received with hospitality an old comrade of the camp." Hearing this, Pan Billevich flushed with delight, and the prince continued,-- "Time, time is ever lacking! But when you give in marriage your relative, the granddaughter of the late Pan Heraclius, of course I shall come to the wedding, for I owe it to you and to her." "God grant that as early as possible," answered the sword-bearer. "Meanwhile I present to you Pan Kmita, the banneret of Orsha, of those Kmitas who are related to the Kishkis and through the Kishkis to the Radzivills. You must have heard his name from Heraclius, for he loved the Kmitas as brothers." "With the forehead, with the forehead!" repeated the sword-bearer, who was awed somewhat by the greatness of the young cavalier's family, heralded by Radzivill himself. "I greet the sword-bearer, my benefactor, and offer him my services," said Pan Andrei, boldly and not without a certain loftiness. "Pan Heraclius was a father and a benefactor to me, and though his work was spoiled later on, still I have not ceased to love all the Billeviches as if my own blood were flowing in them." "Especially," said the prince, placing his hand confidentially on the young man's shoulder, "since he has not ceased to love a certain Panna Billevich, of which fact he has long since informed us." "And I will repeat it before every one's face," said Kmita, with vehemence. "Quietly, quietly!" said the prince. "This you see, worthy sword-bearer, is a cavalier of sulphur and fire, therefore he has made some trouble; but because he is young and under my special protection, I hope that when we petition together we shall obtain a reversal of the sentence from that charming tribunal." "Your highness will accomplish what you like," answered Pan Billevich. "The maiden must exclaim, as that pagan priestess did to Alexander the Great, 'Who can oppose thee?'" "And we, like that Macedonian, will stop with that prophecy," replied the prince, smiling. "But enough of this! Conduct us now to your relative, for I shall be glad to see her. Let that work of Pan Heraclius which was spoiled be mended." "I serve your highness-- There is the maiden; she is under the protection of Pani Voynillovich, our relative. But I beg pardon if she is confused, for I have not had time to forewarn her." The foresight of Pan Billevich was just. Luckily that was not the first moment in which Olenka saw Pan Andrei at the side of the hetman; she was able therefore to collect herself somewhat, but for an instant presence of mind almost left her, and she looked at the young knight as if she were looking at a spirit from the other world. And for a long time she could not believe her eyes. She had really imagined that that unfortunate was either wandering somewhere through forests, without a roof above his head, deserted by all, hunted by the law, as a wild beast is hunted by man, or enclosed in a tower, gazing with despair through the iron grating on the glad world of God. The Lord alone knew what terrible pity sometimes gnawed her heart and her eyes for that lost man; God alone could count the tears which in her solitude she had poured out over his fate, so terrible, so cruel, though so deserved; but now he is in Kyedani, free, at the side of the hetman, proud, splendid, in silver brocade and in velvet, with the baton of a colonel at his belt, with head erect, with commanding, haughty, heroic face, and the grand hetman Radzivill himself places his hand confidentially on his shoulder. Marvellous and contradictory feelings interwove themselves at once in the heart of the maiden; therefore a certain great relief, as if some one had taken a weight from her shoulders, and a certain sorrow as well that so much pity and grief had gone for naught; also the disappointment which every honest soul feels at sight of perfect impunity for grievous offences and sins; also joy, with a feeling of personal weakness, with admiration bordering on terror, before that young hero who was able to swim out of such a whirlpool. Meanwhile the prince, the sword-bearer, and Kmita had finished conversation and were drawing near. The maiden covered her eyes with her lids and raised her shoulders, as a bird does its wings when wishing to hide its head. She was certain that they were coming to her. Without looking she saw them, felt that they were nearer and nearer, that they were before her. She was so sure of this that without raising her lids, she rose suddenly and made a deep courtesy to the prince. He was really before her, and said: "By the passion of the Lord! Now I do not wonder at this young man, for a marvellous flower has bloomed here. I greet you, my lady, I greet you with my whole heart and soul, beloved granddaughter of my Billevich. Do you know me?" "I know your highness," answered the maiden. "I should not have known you; you were still a young, unblossomed thing when I saw you last, not in this ornament in which I see you now. But raise those lashes from your eyes. As God lives! fortunate is the diver who gets such a pearl, ill-fated he who had it and lost it. Here he stands before you, so despairing, in the person of this cavalier. Do you know him?" "I know," whispered Olenka, without raising her eyes. "He is a great sinner, and I have brought him to you for confession. Impose on him what penance you like, but refuse not absolution, for despair may bring him to still greater sins." Here the prince turned to the sword-bearer and Pani Voynillovich: "Let us leave the young people, for it is not proper to be present at a confession, and also my faith forbids me." After a moment Pan Andrei and Olenka were alone. The heart beat in Olenka's bosom as the heart of a dove over which a falcon is hovering, and he too was moved. His usual boldness, impulsiveness, and self-confidence had vanished. For a long time both were silent. At last he spoke in a low, stifled voice,-- "You did not expect to see me, Olenka?" "I did not," whispered the maiden. "As God is true! you would be less alarmed if a Tartar were standing here near you. Fear not! See how many people are present. No harm will meet you from me. And though we were alone you would have nothing to fear, for I have given myself an oath to respect you. Have confidence in me." For a moment she raised her eyes and looked at him, "How can I have confidence?" "It is true that I sinned, but that is past and will not be repeated. When on the bed and near death, after that duel with Volodyovski, I said to myself: 'Thou wilt not take her by force, by the sabre, by fire, but by honorable deeds wilt thou deserve her and work out thy forgiveness. The heart in her is not of stone, and her anger will pass; she will see thy reformation and will forgive.' Therefore I swore to reform, and I will hold to my oath. God blessed me at once, for Volodyovski came and brought me a commission. He had the power not to give it; but he gave it,--he is an honorable man! Now I need not appear before the courts, for I am under the hetman's jurisdiction. I confessed all my offences to the prince, as to a father; he not only forgave me, but promised to settle everything and to defend me against the malice of men. May God bless him! I shall not be an outlaw, I shall come to harmony with people, win glory, serve the country, repair the wrongs I have committed. What will you answer? Will you not say a good word to me?" He gazed at Olenka and put his hands together as if praying to her. "Can I believe?" "You can, as God is dear to me; it is your duty to believe. The hetman believed, and Pan Volodyovski too. All my acts are known to them, and they believed me. You see they did. Why should you alone have no trust in me?" "Because I have seen the result of your deeds,--people's tears, and graves not yet grown over with grass." "They will be grown over, and I will moisten them with tears." "Do that first." "Give me only the hope that when I do that I shall win you. It is easy for you to say, 'Do that first.' Well, I do it; meanwhile you have married another. May God not permit such a thing, for I should go wild. In God's name I implore you, Olenka, to give me assurance that I shall not lose you before I come to terms with your nobles. Do you remember? You have written me of this yourself. I keep the letter, and when my soul is deeply downcast I read it. I ask you only to tell me again that you will wait, that you will not marry another." "You know that by the will I am not free to marry another. I can only take refuge in a cloister." "Oh, that would be a treat for me! By the living God, mention not the cloister, for the very thought of it makes me shudder. Mention it not, Olenka, or I will fall down here at your feet in the presence of all, and implore you not to do so. You refused Volodyovski, I know, for he told me himself. He urged me to win you by good deeds. But what use in them if you are to take the veil? If you tell me that virtue should be practised for its own sake, I will answer that I love you to distraction, and I will hear of nothing else. When you left Vodokty, I had barely risen from the bed but I began to search for you. When I was enlisting my squadron every moment was occupied; I had not time to eat food, to sleep at night, but I ceased not to seek you. I was so affected that without you there was neither life for me nor rest. I was so deeply in the toils that I lived only on sighs. At last I learned that you were in Billeviche with the sword-bearer. Then I tell you I wrestled with my thoughts as with a bear. 'To go or not to go?' I dared not go, lest I should be treated to gall. I said to myself at last: 'I have done nothing good yet, I will not go.' Finally the prince, my dear father, took pity on me, and sent to invite you and your uncle to Kyedani, so that I might fill even my eyes with my love. Since we are going to the war, I do not ask you to marry me to-morrow; but if with God's favor I hear a good word from you, I shall feel easier,--you, my only soul! I have no wish to die; but in battle death may strike any man, and I shall not hide behind others; therefore 'tis your duty to forgive me as a man before death." "May God preserve you and guide you," responded the maiden, in a mild voice, by which Pan Andrei knew at once that his words had produced their effect. "You, my true gold! I thank you even for that. But you will not go to the cloister?" "I will not go yet." "God bless you!" And as snow melts in spring-time, their mutual distrust was now melting, and they felt nearer to each other than a moment before. Their hearts were easier, and in their eyes it grew clear. But still she had promised nothing, and he had the wit to ask for nothing that time. But she felt herself that it was not right for her to close the road to the reform of which he had spoken so sincerely. Of his sincerity she had no doubt for a moment, for he was not a man who could pretend. But the great reason why she did not repulse him again, why she left him hope, was this,--that in the depth of her heart she loved yet that young hero. Love had brought her a mountain of bitterness, disillusion, and pain; but love survived ever ready to believe and forgive without end. "He is better than his acts," thought the maiden, "and those are living no longer who urged him to sin; he might from despair permit himself to do something a second time; he must never despair." And her honest heart was rejoiced at the forgiveness which it had given. On Olenka's cheeks a flush came forth as fresh as a rose under the morning dew; her eyes had a gleam sweet and lively, and it might be said that brightness issued from them to the hall. People passed and admired the wonderful pair; for in truth such a noble couple it would have been difficult to find in that hall, in which, however, were collected the flower of the nobility. Besides both, as if by agreement, were dressed in like colors, for she wore silver brocade fastened with sapphire and a sacque of blue Venetian velvet. "Like a brother and sister," said persons who did not know them; but others said straightway, "Impossible, for his eyes are too ardent toward her." Meanwhile in the hall the marshal announced that it was time to be seated at table, and at once there was unusual movement. Count Löwenhaupt, all in lace, went in advance, with the princess on his arm; her train was borne by two very beautiful pages. Next after them Baron Schitte escorted Pani Hlebovich; next followed Bishop Parchevski with Father Byalozor, both looking troubled and gloomy. Prince Yanush, who in the procession yielded to the guests, but at the table took the highest place next to the princess, escorted Pani Korf, wife of the voevoda of Venden, who had been visiting about a week at Kyedani. And so the whole line of couples moved forward, like a hundred-colored serpent, unwinding and changing. Kmita escorted Olenka, who rested her arm very lightly on his; but he glanced sidewise at the delicate face, was happy, gleaming like a torch,--the greatest magnate among those magnates, since he was near the greatest treasure. Thus moving to the sound of the orchestra, they entered the banqueting-hall, which looked like a whole edifice by itself. The table was set in the form of a horseshoe, for three hundred persons, and was bending under silver and gold. Prince Yanush, as having in himself a portion of kingly majesty and being the blood relative of so many kings, took the highest place, at the side of the princess; and all when passing him, bowed low and took their places according to rank. But evidently, as it seemed to those present, the hetman remembered that this was the last feast before an awful war in which the destiny of great states would be decided, for his face was not calm. He simulated a smile and joyousness, but he looked as if a fever were burning him. At times a visible cloud settled on his menacing forehead, and those sitting near him could see that that forehead was thickly covered with drops of sweat; at times his glance ran quickly over the assembled faces, and halted questioningly on the features of various colonels; then again those lion brows frowned on a sudden, as if pain had pierced them, or as if this or that face had roused in him wrath. And, a wonderful thing! the dignitaries sitting near the prince, such as the envoys, Bishop Parchevski, Father Byalozor, Pan Komorovski, Pan Myerzeyevski, Pan Hlebovich, the voevoda of Venden, and others, were equally distraught and disturbed. The two sides of the immense horseshoe sounded with a lively conversation, and the bustle usual at feasts; but the centre of it was gloomy and silent, whispered rare words, or exchanged wandering and as it were alarmed glances. But there was nothing wonderful in that, for lower down sat colonels and knights whom the approaching war threatened at most with death. It is easier to fall in a war than to bear the responsibility for it. The mind of the soldier is not troubled, for when he has redeemed his sins with his blood, he flies from the battlefield to heaven; he alone bends his head heavily who in his soul must satisfy God and his own conscience, and who on the eve of the decisive day knows not what chalice the country will give him to drink on the morrow. This was the explanation which men gave themselves at the lower parts of the table. "Always before each war he talks thus with his own soul," said the old Colonel Stankyevich to Zagloba; "but the gloomier he is the worse for the enemy, for on the day of battle he will be joyful to a certainty." "The lion too growls before battle," said Zagloba, "so as to rouse in himself fierce hatred for the enemy. As to great warriors, each has his custom. Hannibal used to play dice; Scipio Africanus declaimed verses; Pan Konyetspolski the father always conversed about fair heads; and I like to sleep an hour or so before battle, though I am not averse to a glass with good friends." "See, gentlemen, Bishop Parchevski is as pale as a sheet of paper!" said Stanislav Skshetuski. "For he is sitting at a Calvinist table, and may swallow easily something unclean in the food," explained Zagloba, in a low voice. "To drinks, the old people say, the devil has no approach, and those can be taken everywhere; but food, and especially soups, one should avoid. So it was in the Crimea, when I was there in captivity. The Tartar mullahs or priests knew how to cook mutton with garlic in such a way that whoever tasted it was willing that moment to desert his faith and accept their scoundrel of a prophet." Here Zagloba lowered his voice still more: "Not through contempt for the prince do I say this, but I advise you, gentlemen, to let the food pass, for God protects the guarded." "What do you say? Whoso commends himself to God before eating is safe; with us in Great Poland there is no end of Lutherans and Calvinists, but I have not heard that they bewitched food." "With you in Great Poland there is no end of Lutherans, and so they sniffed around at once with the Swedes," said Zagloba, "and are in friendship with them now. In the prince's place, I would hunt those envoys away with dogs, instead of filling their stomachs with dainties. Hut look at that Löwenhaupt; he is eating just as if he were to be driven to the fair with a rope around his leg before the month's end. Besides, he will stuff his pockets with dried fruit for his wife and children. I have forgotten how that other fellow from over the sea is called. Oh, may thou--" "Father, ask Michael," said Yan. Pan Michael was sitting not far away; but he heard nothing, he saw nothing, for he was between two ladies. On his left sat Panna Syelavski, a worthy maiden about forty years old, and on his right Olenka, beyond whom sat Kmita. Panna Syelavski shook her feather-decked head above the little knight, and narrated something with great rapidity. He looked at her from time to time with a vacant stare, and answered continually, "As true as life, gracious lady!" but understood not a word she said, for all his attention was turned to the other side. He was seizing with his ear the sound of Olenka's words, the flutter of her silver dress, and from sorrow moving his mustaches in such fashion as if he wished to frighten away Panna Syelavski with them. "Ah, that is a wonderful maiden! Ah, but she is beautiful!" said he, in his mind. "O God, look down on my misery, for there is no lonelier orphan than I. My soul is piping within me to have my own beloved, and on whomsoever I look another soldier stands quartered there. Where shall I go, ill-fated wanderer?" "And after the war, what do you think of doing?" inquired Panna Syelavski, all at once pursing up her mouth and fanning herself violently. "I shall go to a monastery!" said the little knight, testily. "Who mentions monastery here at the banquet?" cried Kmita, joyously, bending in front of Olenka. "Oh, that is Pan Volodyovski." "There is nothing like that in your head," retorted Pan Michael; "but I think I shall go." Then the sweet voice of Olenka sounded in his ear: "Oh, no need to think of that! God will give you a wife beloved of your heart, and honest as you are." The good Pan Michael melted at once: "If any one were to play on a flute to me, it would not be sweeter to my ear." The increasing bustle stopped further conversation, for it had come now to the glasses. Excitement increased. Colonels disputed about the coming war, frowning and casting fiery glances. Pan Zagloba was describing to the whole table the siege of Zbaraj; and the ardor and daring of the hearers rose till the blood went to their faces and hearts. It might seem that the spirit of the immortal "Yarema"[20] was flying above that hall, and had filled the souls of the soldiers with heroic inspiration. "That was a leader!" said the famous Mirski, who led all Radzivill's hussars. "I saw him only once, but to the moment of my death I shall remember it." "Jove with thunderbolts in his grasp!" cried old Stankyevich. "It would not have come to this were he alive now!" "Yes; think of it! Beyond Romni he had forests cut down to open a way for himself to the enemy." "The victory at Berestechko was due to him." "And in the most serious moment God took him." "God took him," repeated Pan Yan, in a loud voice; "but he left a testament behind him for all coming leaders and dignitaries and for the whole Commonwealth. This is it: to negotiate with no enemy, but to fight them all." "Not to negotiate; to fight!" repeated a number of powerful voices, "fight! fight!" The heat became great in the hall, and the blood was boiling in the warriors; therefore glances began to fall like lightning-flashes, and the heads shaven on the temples and lower forehead began to steam. "Our prince, our hetman, will be the executioner of that will!" said Mirski. Just at that moment an enormous clock in the upper part of the hall began to strike midnight, and at the same time, the walls trembled, the window-panes rattled plaintively, and the thunder of cannon was heard saluting in the courtyard. Conversation was stopped, silence followed. Suddenly at the head of the table they began to cry: "Bishop Parchevski has fainted! Water!" There was confusion. Some sprang from their seats to see more clearly what had happened. The bishop had not fainted, but had grown very weak, so that the marshal supported him in his chair by the shoulders, while the wife of the voevoda of Venden sprinkled his face with water. At that moment the second discharge of cannon shook the window-panes; after it came a third, and a fourth. "Live the Commonwealth! May its enemies perish!" shouted Zagloba. But the following discharges drowned his speech. The nobles began to count: "Ten, eleven, twelve!" Each time the window-panes answered with a mournful groan. The candles quivered from the shaking. "Thirteen, fourteen! The bishop is not used to the thunder. With his timidity he has spoiled the entertainment; the prince too is uneasy. See, gentlemen, how swollen he is! Fifteen, sixteen!--Hei, they are firing as if in battle! Nineteen, twenty!" "Quiet there! the prince wants to speak!" called the guests at once, from various parts of the table. "The prince wishes to speak!" There was perfect silence; and all eyes were turned to Radzivill, who stood, like a giant, with a cup in his hand. But what a sight struck the eyes of those feasting! The face of the prince was simply terrible at that moment, for it was not pale, but blue and twisted, as if in a convulsion, by a smile which he strove to call to his lips. His breathing, usually short, became still shorter; his broad breast welled up under the gold brocade, his eyes were half covered with their lids, and there was a species of terror and an iciness on that powerful face such as are usual on features stiffening in the moments before death. "What troubles the prince? what is taking place here?" was whispered unquietly around; and an ominous foreboding straitened all hearts, startled expectation was on every face. He began to speak, with a short voice broken by asthma: "Gracious gentlemen! this toast will astonish many among you,--or simply it will terrify them,--but whoso trusts and believes in me, whoso really wishes the good of the country, whoso is a faithful friend of my house, will drink it with a will, and repeat after me, 'Vivat Carolus Gustavus Rex, from this day forth ruling over us graciously!'" "Vivat!" repeated the two envoys, Löwenhaupt and Schitte; then some tens of officers of the foreign command. But in the hall there reigned deep silence. The colonels and the nobles gazed at one another with astonishment, as if asking whether the prince had not lost his senses. A number of voices were heard at last at various parts of the table: "Do we hear aright? What is it?" Then there was silence again. Unspeakable horror coupled with amazement was reflected on faces, and the eyes of all were turned again to Radzivill; but he continued to stand, and was breathing deeply, as if he had cast off some immense weight from his breast. The color came back by degrees to his face; then he turned to Pan Komorovski, and said,-- "It is time to make public the compact which we have signed this day, so that those present may know what course to take. Read, your grace!" Komorovski rose, unwound the parchment lying before him, and began to read the terrible compact, beginning with these words:-- "Not being able to act in a better and more proper way in this most stormy condition of affairs, after the loss of all hope of assistance from the Most Serene King, we the lords and estates of the Grand Principality of Lithuania, forced by extremity, yield ourselves to the protection of the Most Serene King of Sweden on these conditions:-- "1. To make war together against mutual enemies, excepting the king and the kingdom of Poland. "2. The Grand Principality of Lithuania will not be incorporated with Sweden, but will be joined to it in such manner as hitherto with the kingdom of Poland; that is, people shall be equal to people, senate to senate, and knighthood to knighthood in all things. "3. Freedom of speech at the diets shall not be prohibited to any man. "4. Freedom of religion is to be inviolable--" And so Pan Komorovski read on further, amid silence and terror, till he came to the paragraph: "This act we confirm with our signature for ourselves and our descendants, we promise and stipulate--" when a murmur rose in the hall, like the first breath of a storm shaking the pine-woods. But before the storm burst, Pan Stankyevich, gray as a pigeon, raised his voice and began to implore,-- "Your highness, we are unwilling to believe our own ears! By the wounds of Christ! must the labor of Vladislav and Sigismund Augustus come to nothing? Is it possible, is it honorable, to desert brothers, to desert the country, and unite with the enemy? Remember the name which you bear, the services which you have rendered the country, the fame of your house, hitherto unspotted; tear and trample on that document of shame. I know that I ask not in my own name alone, but in the names of all soldiers here present and nobles. It pertains to us also to consider our own fate. Gracious prince, do not do this; there is still time! Spare yourself, spare us, spare the Commonwealth!" "Do it not! Have pity, have pity!" called hundreds of voices. All the colonels sprang from their places and went toward him; and the gray Stankyevich knelt down in the middle of the hall between the two arms of the table, and then was heard more loudly: "Do that not! spare us!" Radzivill raised his powerful head, and lightnings of wrath began to fly over his forehead; suddenly he burst out,-- "Does it become you, gentlemen, first of all to give an example of insubordination? Does it become soldiers to desert their leader, their hetman, and bring forward protests? Do you wish to be my conscience? Do you wish to teach me how to act for the good of the country? This is not a diet, and you are not called here to vote; but before God I take the responsibility!" And he struck his broad breast with his fist, and looking with flashing glance on the officers, after a while he shouted again: "Whoso is not with me is against me! I knew you, I knew what would happen! But know ye that the sword is hanging over your heads!" "Gracious prince! our hetman!" implored old Stankyevich, "spare yourself and spare us!" But his speech was interrupted by Stanislav Skshetuski, who seizing his own hair with both hands, began to cry with despairing voice: "Do not implore him; that is vain. He has long cherished this dragon in his heart! Woe to thee, O Commonwealth! woe to us all!" "Two dignitaries at the two ends of the Commonwealth have sold the country!" cried Yan Skshetuski. "A curse on this house, shame and God's anger!" Hearing this, Zagloba shook himself free from amazement and burst out: "Ask him how great was the bribe he took from the Swedes? How much have they paid him? How much have they promised him yet? Oh, gentlemen, here is a Judas Iscariot. May you die in despair, may your race perish, may the devil tear out your soul, O traitor, traitor, thrice traitor!" With this Stankyevich, in an ecstasy of despair, drew the colonel's baton from his belt, and threw it with a rattle at the feet of the prince. Mirski threw his next; the third was Yuzefovich; the fourth, Hoshchyts; the fifth, pale as a corpse, Volodyovski; the sixth, Oskyerko,--and the batons rolled on the floor. Meanwhile in that den of the lion these terrible words were repeated before the eyes of the lion from more and more mouths every moment: "Traitor! traitor!" All the blood rushed to the head of the haughty magnate. He grew blue; it seemed that he would tumble next moment a corpse under the table. "Ganhoff and Kmita, to me!" bellowed he, with a terrible voice. At that moment four double doors leading to the hall opened with a crash, and in marched divisions of Scottish infantry, terrible, silent, musket in hand. Ganhoff led them from the main door. "Halt!" cried the prince. Then he turned to the colonels: "Whoso is with me, let him go to the right side of the hall!" "I am a soldier, I serve the hetman; let God be my judge!" said Kharlamp, passing to the right side. "And I!" added Myeleshko. "Not mine will be the sin!" "I protested as a citizen; as a soldier I must obey," added a third, Nyevyarovski, who, though he had thrown down his baton before, was evidently afraid of Radzivill now. After them passed over a number of others, and quite a large group of nobles; but Mirski, the highest in office, and Stankyevich, the oldest in years, Hoshchyts, Volodyovski, and Oskyerko remained where they were, and with them the two Skshetuskis, Zagloba, and a great majority as well of the officers of various heavy and light squadrons as of nobles. The Scottish infantry surrounded them like a wall. Kmita, the moment the prince proposed the toast in honor of Karl Gustav, sprang up from his seat with all the guests, stared fixedly and stood as if turned to stone, repeating with pallid lips, "God! God! God! what have I done?" At the same time a low voice, but for his ear distinct, whispered near by, "Pan Andrei!" He seized suddenly his hair with his hands. "I am cursed for the ages! May the earth swallow me!" A flame flashed out on Olenka's face; her eyes bright as stars were fixed on Kmita. "Shame to those who remain with the hetman! Choose! O God, All Powerful!--What are you doing? Choose!" "Jesus! O Jesus!" cried Kmita. Meanwhile the hall was filled with cries. Others had thrown their batons at the feet of the prince, but Kmita did not join them; he did not move even when the prince shouted, "Ganhoff and Kmita, to me!" nor when the Scottish infantry entered the hall; and he stood torn with suffering and despair, with wild look, with blue lips. Suddenly he turned to Panna Billevich and stretched his hands to her. "Olenka! Olenka!" repeated he, with a sorrowful groan, like a child whom some wrong is confronting. But she drew back with aversion and fear in her face. "Away, traitor!" she answered with force. At that moment Ganhoff commanded, "Forward!" and the division of Scots surrounding the prisoners moved toward the door. Kmita began to follow them like one out of his mind, not knowing where he was going or why he was going. The banquet was ended. CHAPTER XV. That same night the prince held a long consultation with the voevoda of Venden and with the Swedish envoys. The result of the treaty had disappointed his expectations, and disclosed to him a threatening future. It was the prince's plan to make the announcement in time of feasting, when minds are excited and inclined to agreement. He expected opposition in every event, but he counted on adherents also; meanwhile the energy of the protest had exceeded his reckoning. Save a few tens of Calvinist nobles and a handful of officers of foreign origin, who as strangers could have no voice in the question, all declared against the treaty concluded with Karl Gustav, or rather with his field-marshal and brother-in-law, Pontus de la Gardie. The prince had given orders, it is true, to arrest the stubborn officers of the army, but what of that? What will the squadrons say? Will they not think of their colonels? Will they not rise in mutiny to rescue their officers by force? If they do, what will remain to the proud prince beyond a few dragoon regiments and foreign infantry? Then the whole country, all the armed nobles, and Sapyeha, voevoda of Vityebsk,--a terrible opponent of the house of Radzivill, ready to fight with the whole world in the name of the unity of the Commonwealth? Other colonels whose heads he cannot cut off, and Polish squadrons will go to Sapyeha, who will stand at the head of all the forces of the country, and Prince Radzivill will see himself without an army, without adherents, without significance. What will happen then? These were terrible questions, for the position was terrible. The prince knew well that if he were deserted the treaty on which he had toiled so much in secret would by the force of events lose all meaning and the Swedes would despise him, or take revenge for the discovered deceit. But he had given them his Birji as a guaranty of his loyalty; by that he had weakened himself the more. Karl Gustav was ready to scatter rewards and honors with both hands for a powerful Radzivill, but Radzivill weak and deserted by all he would despise; and if the changing wheel of fortune should send victory to Yan Kazimir, final destruction would come to that lord who this day in the morning had no equal in the Commonwealth. When the envoys and the voevoda of Venden had gone, the prince seized with both hands his head weighed down with care, and began to walk with swift steps through the room. From without came the voices of the Scottish guards and the rattle of the departing carriages of the nobles. They drove away quickly and hurriedly, as if a pest had fallen on the lordly castle of Kyedani. A terrible disquiet rent the soul of Radzivill. At times it seemed to him that besides himself there was some other person who walked behind him and whispered in his ear, "Abandonment, poverty, and infamy as well!" But he, the voevoda of Vilna and grand hetman, was already trampled upon and humiliated! Who would have admitted yesterday that in all Kyedani, in Lithuania, nay, in the whole world, there could be found a man who would dare to shout before his eyes, "Traitor!" Nevertheless he had heard it, and he lives yet, and they who spoke that word are living too. Perhaps if he were to re-enter that hall of the banquet he would still hear as an echo among the cornices and under the vaults, "Traitor! traitor!" And wild, mad rage seized at moments the breast of the oligarch. His nostrils dilated, his eyes shot lightnings, veins came out on his forehead. Who here dares to oppose his will? His enraged mind brought before his eyes the picture of punishments and torments for rebels who had the daring not to follow his feet like a dog. And he saw their blood flowing from the axes of executioners, he heard the crunching of their bones broken by the wheel, and he took delight in and sated himself with visions of blood. But when more sober judgment reminded him that behind those rebels is an army, that he cannot take their heads with impunity, an unendurable and hellish unquiet came back and filled his soul, and some one whispered anew in his ear, "Abandonment, poverty, judgment, and infamy!" How is that? Is it not permitted to Radzivill to decide the fate of the country,--to retain it for Yan Kazimir or give it to Karl Gustav,--to give, to convey, to present, to whom it may please him? The magnate looked before himself with amazement. Who then are the Radzivills? Who were they yesterday? What was said everywhere in Lithuania? Was that all deception? Will not Prince Boguslav join the grand hetman with his regiments, after him his uncle the Elector of Brandenberg, and after all three Karl Gustav, the Swedish king, with all his victorious power, before which recently all Germany trembled through the length and the breadth of it? Did not the Polish Commonwealth itself extend its arms to the new master, and yield at the mere report of the approach of the lion of the North? Who will offer resistance to that unrestrained power? On one side the King of Sweden, the Elector of Brandenberg, the Radzivills, in case of necessity Hmelnitski too, with all his power, and the hospodar of Wallachia, and Rakotsy of Transylvania,--almost half Europe; on the other side the voevoda of Vityebsk with Mirski, Pan Stankyevich, and those three nobles who had just come from Lukovo, and also a few rebellious squadrons! What is that?--a jest, an amusement. Then suddenly the prince began to laugh loudly. "By Lucifer and all the Diet of hell, it must be that I have gone mad! Let them all go to the voevoda of Vityebsk!" But after a while his face had grown gloomy again: "The powerful admit only powerful to alliance. Radzivill casting Lithuania at the feet of the Swedes will be sought for; Radzivill asking aid against Lithuania will be despised. What is to be done?" The foreign officers will stay with him, but their power is not enough; and if the Polish squadrons go over to the voevoda of Vityebsk, he will have the fate of the country in his hands. Each foreign officer will carry out commands, it is true; but he will not devote his whole soul to the cause of Radzivill, he will not give himself to it with ardor, not merely as a soldier, but as an adherent. For devotion there is absolute need, not of foreigners, but of men of his own people to attract others by their names, by their bravery, by their reputation, by their daring example and readiness to do everything. He must have adherents in the country, even for show. Who of his own men responded to the prince? Kharlamp, an old, worn-out soldier, good for service and nothing more; Nyevyarovski, not loved in the army and without influence; besides these a few others of still less distinction; no man of another kind, no man whom an army would follow, no man to be the apostle of a cause. There remained Kmita, young, enterprising, bold, covered with great knightly glory, bearing a famous name, standing at the head of a powerful squadron, partly fitted out at his own expense,--a man as it were created to be the leader of all the bold and restless spirits in Lithuania, and withal full of ardor. If he should take up the cause of Radzivill, he would take it up with the faith which youth gives, he would follow his hetman blindly, and spread the faith in his name; and such an apostle means more than whole regiments, whole divisions of foreigners. He would be able to pour his faith into the heart of the young knighthood, to attract it and fill the camp of Radzivill with men. But he too had hesitated evidently. He did not cast his baton, it is true, at the feet of the hetman, but he did not stand at his side in the first moment. "It is impossible to reckon on any one, impossible to be sure of any man," thought the prince, gloomily. "They will all go to the voevoda of Vityebsk, and no man will wish to share with me." "Infamy!" whispered his conscience. "Lithuania!" answered, on the other hand, pride. It had grown dim in the room, for the wicks had burned long on the candles, but through the windows flowed in the silver light of the moon. Radzivill gazed at those rays and fell into deep thought. Gradually something began to grow dark in those rays; certain figures rose up each moment, increasing in number, till at last the prince saw as it were an army coming toward him from the upper trails of the sky on the broad road of the moonbeams. Regiments are marching, armored hussars and light horse; a forest of banners are waving; in front rides some man without a helmet, apparently a victor returning from war. Around is quiet, and the prince hears clearly the voice of the army and people, "Vivat defensor patriae! vivat defensor patriae! (Live the defender of the country!)" The army approaches, each moment increasing in number; now he can see the face of the leader. He holds the baton in his hand; and by the number of bunchuks ( horse-tails on his standard). Radzivill can see that he is the grand hetman. "In the name of the Father and the Son!" cries the prince, "that is Sapyeha, that is the voevoda of Vityebsk! And where am I, and what is predestined to me?" "Infamy!" whispers his conscience. "Lithuania!" answers his pride. The prince clapped his hands; Harasimovich, watching in the adjoining room, appeared at once in the door and bent double. "Lights!" said the prince. Harasimovich snuffed the candles, then went out and returned with a candlestick in his hand. "Your Highness," said he, "it is time to repose; the cocks have crowed a second time." "I have no wish to sleep," replied the prince. "I dozed, and the nightmare was suffocating me. What is there new?" "Some noblemen brought a letter from Nyesvyej from the Prince Michael, but I did not venture to enter unsummoned." "Give me the letter at once!" Harasimovich gave the sealed letter; the prince opened it, and began to read as follows:-- May God guard and restrain your highness from such plans as might bring eternal infamy and destruction to our house! Set your mind on a hair-shirt rather than on dominion. The greatness of our house lies at my heart also, and the best proof of this is in the efforts which I made in Vienna that we should have a vote in the diets of the Empire. But I will not betray the country nor my king for any reward or earthly power, so as not to gather after such a sowing a harvest of infamy during life and damnation after death. Consider, your highness, the services of your ancestors and their unspotted fame; think of the mercy of God while the time is fitting. The enemy have surrounded me in Nyesvyej, and I know not whether this letter will reach your hands; but though destruction threatens me every moment, I do not ask God to rescue me, but to restrain your highness from those plans and bring you to the path of virtue. Even if something evil is done already, it is possible yet to draw hack, and it is necessary to blot out the offences with a swift hand. But do not expect aid from me, for I say in advance that without regard to bonds of blood, I will join my forces with those of Pan Gosyevski and the voevoda of Vityebsk; and a hundred times rather would I turn my arms against your highness than put my hands voluntarily to that infamous treason. I commend your highness to God. Michael Kazimir, _Prince in Nyesvyej and Olyta, Chamberlain of the Grand Principality of Lithuania_. When the hetman had finished the letter he dropped it on his knee, and began to shake his head with a painful smile on his face. "And he leaves me, my own blood rejects me, because I wished to adorn our house with a glory hitherto unknown! Ah! it is difficult! Boguslav remains, and he will not leave me. With us is the Elector and Karl Gustav; and who will not sow will not reap." "Infamy!" whispered his conscience. "Is your highness pleased to give an answer?" asked Harasimovich. "There will be no answer." "May I go and send the attendants?" "Wait! Are the guards stationed carefully?" "They are." "Are orders sent to the squadrons?" "They are." "What is Kmita doing?" "He was knocking his head against the wall and crying about disgrace. He was wriggling like a mudfish. He wanted to run after the Billeviches, but the guards would not let him. He drew his sabre; they had to tie him. He is lying quietly now." "Has the sword-bearer of Rossyeni gone?" "There was no order to stop him." "I forgot!" said the prince. "Open the windows, for it is stifling and asthma is choking me. Tell Kharlamp to go to Upita for the squadron and bring it here at once. Give him money, let him pay the men for the first quarter and let them get merry. Tell him that he will receive Dydkyemie for life instead of Volodyovski. The asthma is choking me. Wait!" "According to order." "What is Kmita doing?" "As I said, your highness, he is lying quietly." "True, you told me. Give the order to send him here. I want to speak with him. Have his fetters taken off." "Your highness, he is a madman." "Have no fear, go!" Harasimovich went out. The prince took from a Venetian cabinet a case with pistols, opened it, and placed it near at hand on the table by which he sat. In a quarter of an hour Kmita entered, attended by four Scottish soldiers. The prince ordered the men to withdraw, and remained face to face with Kmita. There did not seem to be one drop of blood in the visage of the young man, so pale was it, but his eyes were gleaming feverishly; for the rest he was calm, resigned, though apparently sunk in endless despair. Both were silent for a while. The prince spoke first. "You took oath on the crucifix not to desert me." "I shall be damned if I keep that oath, damned if I break it. It is all one to me!" "Even if I had brought you to evil, you would not be responsible." "A month ago judgments and punishments threatened me for killing; to-day it seems to me that then I was as innocent as a child." "Before you leave this room, you will feel absolved from all your previous sins," said the prince. Suddenly, changing his tone, he inquired with a certain confidential kindness, "What do you think it was my duty to do in the face of two enemies, a hundred-fold stronger than I, enemies against whom I could not defend this country?" "To die!" answered Kmita, rudely. "You soldiers, who can throw off so easily the pressing burden are to be envied. To die! For him who has looked death in the eyes and is not afraid, there is nothing in the world simpler. Your head does not ache over this, and it will occur to the mind of none that if I had roused an envenomed war and had died without making a treaty, not a stone would be left on a stone in this country. May God not permit this, for even in heaven my soul could not rest. _O, terque, quaterque beati_ (O thrice and four times blessed) are ye who can die! Do you think that life does not oppress me, that I am not hungry for everlasting sleep and rest? But I must drain the chalice of gall and vinegar to the bottom. It is needful to save this unhappy land, and for its salvation to bend under a new burden. Let the envious condemn me for pride, let them say that I betrayed the country to exalt myself. God has seen me, God is the judge whether I desire this elevation, and whether I would not resign it could matters be otherwise. Find you who desert me means of salvation; point out the road, ye who call me a traitor, and this night I will tear that document and rouse all the squadrons from slumber to move on the enemy." Kmita was silent. "Well, why are you silent?" exclaimed Radzivill, in a loud voice. "I will make you grand hetman in my place and voevoda of Vilna. You must not die, for that is no achievement, but save the country. Defend the occupied provinces, avenge the ashes of Vilna, defend Jmud against Swedish invasion, nay, defend the whole Commonwealth, drive beyond the boundaries every enemy! Rush three on a thousand; die not,--for that is not permitted,--but save the country." "I am not hetman and voevoda of Vilna," answered Kmita, "and what does not belong to me is not on my head. But if it is a question of rushing the third against thousands I will go." "Listen, then, soldier! Since your head has not to save the country, leave it to mine." "I cannot!" said Kmita, with set teeth. Radzivill shook his head. "I did not count on the others, I looked for what happened; but in you I was deceived. Interrupt not, but listen. I placed you on your feet, I freed you from judgment and punishment, I gathered you to my heart as my own son. Know you why? Because I thought that in you was a daring soul, ready for grand undertakings. I needed such men, I hide it not. Around me was no man who would dare to look at the sun with unflinching eye. There were men of small soul and petty courage. To such never show a path other than that on which they and their fathers have travelled, for they will halt saying that you have sent them on a devious way. And still, where, if not to the precipice, have we all come by these old roads? What is happening to the Commonwealth which formerly could threaten the world?" Here the prince seized his head in his hands and repeated thrice: "O God! God! God!" After a while he continued: "The time of God's anger has come,--a time of such misfortunes and of such a fall that with the usual methods we cannot rise from this sickness; and if I wish to use new ones, which alone can bring us salvation, even those desert me on whose readiness I counted, whose duty it was to have confidence, who took oath on the cross to trust me. By the blood and wounds of Christ! Did you think that I submitted to the protection of Karl Gustav forever, that in truth I think to join this country to Sweden, that the treaty, for which I am called a traitor, will last beyond a year? Why do you look with astonished eyes? You will be still more astonished when you hear all. You will be more astonished, for something will happen which no one will think of, no one admit, which the mind of a common man has not power to grasp. But I say to you, Tremble not, for in this is the country's salvation; do not draw back, for if I find no one to help me, possibly I may perish, but with me will perish the Commonwealth and ye all for the ages. I alone can save, but I must bend and trample all obstacles. Woe to him who opposes me; for God himself will crush him through me, whether he be the voevoda of Vityebsk or Pan Gosyevski or the army, or a refractory nobility. I wish to save the Commonwealth; and to me all ways, all methods are good for that end. Rome in times of disaster named dictators,--such power, nay, greater and more lasting, is needful to me. Not pride draws me to it,--whoso feels equal to this power let him take it instead of me. But if no one does I will take the power, though these walls should fall first on my head!" Then the prince stretched both his hands upward, as if in fact he wished to support the arches falling upon his head, and there was in him something so gigantic that Kmita opened his eyes and gazed as if he had never seen him before; and at last he asked with changed voice: "Whither art thou striving, your highness? What do you wish?" "A crown!" cried Radzivill. "Jesus, Mary!" A moment of deep silence followed; but an owl on the tower of the castle began to hoot shrilly. "Listen," said the prince, "it is time to tell you all. The Commonwealth is perishing, and must perish. There is no salvation on earth for it. The question is to save first from the ruin this country (Lithuania), this our immediate fatherland, and then--then make the whole Commonwealth rise from its own ashes, as the ph[oe]nix rises. I will do this; and the crown, which I desire, I will place as a burden on my head, so as to bring out from this great tomb a new life. Do not tremble! The ground will not open, everything stands on its own place; but new times are coming. I give this country to the Swedes so as to stop with Swedish arms another enemy, to drive him beyond the boundaries, to win back what is lost, and force with the sword a treaty from that enemy in his own capital. Do you hear me? But in rocky, hungry Sweden there are not men enough, not forces enough, not sabres enough to take possession of this immense Commonwealth. They may defeat our army once and a second time; but to hold us in obedience they cannot. If one Swede were given as a guard to every ten men in this land, there would still be many tens of them without guards. Karl Gustav knows this well, and neither does he wish nor is he able to take the whole Commonwealth. He will occupy Royal Prussia, most of Great Poland, and will be content with that. But to hold in coming time these acquisitions securely, he must break the union of the kingdom with us; otherwise he could not remain in those provinces. What will happen then to this country? To whom will it be given? Well, if I refuse the crown which God and fortune places on my head, it will be given to him who at this moment is in possession. But Karl Gustav is not willing to consent to this act, which would increase a neighboring power too greatly, and create for himself a formidable enemy. But if I refuse the crown, he will be forced to consent. Have I the right, then, to refuse? Can I allow that to take place which would threaten us with final ruin? For the tenth and the hundredth time I ask, Where are there other means of salvation? Let the will of God, then, be done! I take this burden on my shoulders. The Swedes are on my aide; the elector, our relative, promises aid. I will free the country from war! With victories and extension of boundaries will begin the rule of my house. Peace and prosperity will flourish; fire will not burn towns and villages. Thus it will be, thus it must be. So help me God and the holy cross! I feel within me power and strength from heaven, I desire the happiness of this land, and that is not yet the end of my plans. And by those heavenly lights I swear, by those trembling stars, that if only strength and health remain to me, I will build anew all this edifice, now tumbling to ruins; I will make it stronger than ever." Fire was flashing from the pupils and eyes of the prince; his whole form shed an uncommon halo. "Your highness," cried Kmita, "I cannot grasp that thought; my head is bursting, my eyes fear to look ahead." "Besides," said Radzivill, as if pursuing the further course of his own thoughts, "the Swedes will not deprive Yan Kazimir of the kingdom nor of rule, but will leave him in Mazovia and Little Poland. God has not given him posterity. An election will come in time. Whom will they choose to the throne if they wish a further union with Lithuania? When did the kingdom grow strong and crush the Knights of the Cross? After Vladyslav Yagyello had mounted the throne. It will be the same this time. The Poles can call to the throne only him who will be reigning here. They cannot and will not call another, for they would perish, because the breath would not remain in their breasts between the Germans and the Turks, and as it is, the Cossack cancer is gnawing the kingdom. They can call no one else! Blind is he who does not see this; foolish who does not understand it. Both countries will unite again and become one power in my house. Then I shall see if those kinglets of Scandinavia will remain in their Prussia and Great Poland acquired to-day. Then I will say to them, _Quos ego!_ and with this foot will crush their lean ribs, and create a power such as the world has not seen, such as history has not described; perhaps I may carry the cross with fire and sword to Constantinople, and in peace at home terrify the enemy. Thou great God, who orderest the circuits of the stars, grant me to save this ill-fated land, for thy glory and that of all Christendom; give me men to understand my thought, men to put their hands to salvation. There is where I stand!" Here the prince opened his arms, and raised his eyes aloft: "Thou seest me, thou judgest me!" "Mighty prince, mighty prince!" cried Kmita. "Go, desert me, cast the baton at my feet, break your oath, call me traitor! Let no thorn be lacking in that prickly crown which they have put on my head. Destroy ye the country, thrust it over the precipice, drag away the hand that could save it, and go to the judgment of God! Let him decide between us." Kmita cast himself on his knees before Radzivill. "Mighty prince, I am with you to the death! Father of the country, savior!" Radzivill put both hands on his head, and again followed a moment of silence. Only the owl hooted unceasingly on the tower. "You will receive all that you have yearned for and wished," said the prince, with solemnity. "Nothing will miss you, and more will meet you than your father and mother desired. Rise, future grand hetman and voevoda of Vilna!" It had begun to dawn in the sky. CHAPTER XVI. Pan Zagloba had his head mightily full when he hurled the word "traitor" thrice at the eyes of the terrible hetman. At an hour nearer morning, when the wine had evaporated from his bald head, and he found himself with the two Skshetuskis and Pan Michael in a dungeon of Kyedani Castle, he saw, when too late, the danger to which he had exposed his own neck and the necks of his comrades, and was greatly cast down. "But what will happen now?" asked he, gazing with dazed look on the little knight, in whom he had special trust in great peril. "May the devil take life! it is all one to me!" answered Volodyovski. "We shall live to such times and such infamy as the world and this kingdom have not seen hitherto!" said Pan Yan. "Would that we might live to them!" answered Zagloba; "we could restore virtue in others by our good example. But shall we live? That is the great question." "This is a terrible event, passing belief!" said Pan Stanislav. "Where has the like of it happened? Save me, gentlemen, for I feel that there is confusion in my head. Two wars,--a third, the Cossack,--and in addition treason, like a plague: Radzyovski, Opalinski, Grudzinski, Radzivill! The end of the world is coming, and the day of judgment; it cannot be otherwise! May the earth open under our feet! As God is dear to me, I am losing my mind!" And clasping his hands at the back of his head, he began to pace the length and width of the cellar, like a wild beast in a cage. "Shall we begin to pray, or what?" asked he at last. "Merciful God, save us!" "Be calm!" said Zagloba; "this is not the time to despair." Pan Stanislav ground his teeth on a sudden; rage carried him away. "I wish you were killed!" cried he to Zagloba. "It was your thought to come to this traitor. May vengeance reach you and him!" "Bethink yourself, Stanislav," said Pan Yan, sternly. "No one could foresee what has happened. Endure, for you are not the only man suffering; and know that our place is here, and not elsewhere. Merciful God! pity, not us, but the ill-fated country." Stanislav made no answer, but wrung his hands till the joints were cracking. They were silent. Pan Michael, however, began to whistle through his teeth, in despair, and feigned indifference to everything happening around him, though, in fact, he suffered doubly,--first, for the misfortune of the country, and secondly, because he had violated his obedience to the hetman. The latter was a terrible thing for him, a soldier to the marrow of his bones. He would have preferred to die a thousand times. "Do not whistle, Pan Michael," said Zagloba. "All one to me!" "How is it? Is no one of you thinking whether there are not means of escape? It is worth while to exercise one's wits on this. Are we to rot in this cellar, when every hand is needed for the country, when one man of honor must settle ten traitors?" "Father is right," said Pan Yan. "You alone have not become stupid from pain. What do you suppose? What does that traitor think of doing with us? Surely he will not punish us with death?" Pan Michael burst out in a sudden laugh of despair. "But why not? I am curious to learn! Has he not authority, has he not the sword? Do you not know Radzivill?" "Nonsense! What right do they give him?" "Over me, the right of a hetman; over you, force!" "For which he must answer." "To whom,--to the King of Sweden?" "You give me sweet consolation; there is no denying that!" "I have no thought of consoling you." They were silent, and for a time there was nothing to be heard but the measured tread of Scottish infantry at the door of the cellar. "There is no help here," said Zagloba, "but stratagem." No one gave answer; therefore he began to talk again after a while: "I will not believe that we are to be put to death. If for every word spoken in haste and in drink, a head were cut off, not one noble in this Commonwealth would walk around with his head on his shoulders. But _neminem captivabimus?_ Is that a trifle?" "You have an example in yourself and in us," answered Stanislav. "Well, that happened in haste; but I believe firmly that the prince will take a second thought. We are strangers; in no way do we come under his jurisdiction. He must respect opinion, and not begin with violence, so as not to offend the nobles. As true as life, our party is too large to have the heads cut from all of us. Over the officers he has authority, I cannot deny that; but, as I think, he will look to the army, which surely will not fail to remember its own. And where is your squadron, Michael?" "In Upita." "But tell me, are you sure that the men will be true to you?" "Whence should I know? They like me well enough, but they know that the hetman is above me." Zagloba meditated awhile. "Give me an order to them to obey me in everything, as they would you, if I appear among them." "You think that you are free!" "There is no harm in that. I have been in hotter places, and God saved me. Give an order for me and the two Skshetuskis. Whoso escapes first will go straight to the squadron, and bring it to rescue the others." "You are raving! It is a pity to lose time in empty talk! Who will escape from this place? Besides, on what can I give an order; have you paper, ink, pen? You are losing your head." "Desperation!" cried Zagloba; "give me even your ring." "Here it is, and let me have peace!" Zagloba took the ring, put it on his little finger, and began to walk and meditate. Meanwhile the smoking candle went out, and darkness embraced them completely; only through the grating of the high window a couple of stars were visible, twinkling in the clear sky. Zagloba's eye did not leave the grating. "If heaven-dwelling Podbipienta were living and with us," mattered the old man, "he would tear out that grating, and in an hour we should see ourselves beyond Kyedani." "But raise me to the window," said Pan Yan, suddenly. Zagloba and Pan Stanislav placed themselves at the wall; in a moment Yan was on their shoulders. "It cracks! As God is dear to me, it cracks!" cried Zagloba. "What are you talking about, father? I haven't begun to pull it yet." "Crawl up with your cousin; I'll hold you somehow. More than once I pitied Pan Michael because he was so slender; but now I regret that he is not still thinner, so as to slip through like a snake." But Yan sprang down from their shoulders. "The Scots are standing on this side!" said he. "May God turn them into pillars of salt, like Lot's wife!" said Zagloba. "It is so dark here that you might strike a man in the face, and he could not see you. It will soon be daybreak. I think they will bring us food of some kind, for even Lutherans do not put prisoners to a hunger death. Perhaps, too, God will send reflection to the hetman. Often in the night conscience starts up in a man, and the devils pinch sinners. Can it be there is only one entrance to this cellar? I will look in the daytime. My head is somehow heavy, and I cannot think out a stratagem. To-morrow God will strengthen my wit; but now we will say the Lord's Prayer, and commit ourselves to the Most Holy Lady, in this heretical dungeon." In fact they began a moment later to say the Lord's Prayer and the litany to the Mother of God; then Yan, Stanislav, and Volodyovski were silent, for their breasts were full of misfortune, but Zagloba growled in a low voice and muttered,-- "It must be beyond doubt that to-morrow he will say to us, _aut_, _aut!_ (either, or). 'Join Radzivill and I will pardon everything.' But we shall see who outwits the other. Do you pack nobles into prison, have you no respect for age or services? Very good! To whom the loss, to him the weeping! The foolish will be under, and the wise on top. I will promise what you like, but what I observe would not make a patch for your boot. If you do not hold to the country, he is virtuous who holds not to you. This is certain, that final ruin is coming on the Commonwealth if its foremost dignitaries join the enemy. This has never been in the world hitherto, and surely a man may lose his senses from it. Are there in hell torments sufficient for such traitors? What was wanting to such a Radzivill? Is it little that the country has given him, that he should sell it like a Judas, and in the very time of its greatest misfortunes, in the time of three wars? Just is thy anger, O Lord! only give swiftest punishment. So be it! Amen! If I could only get out of here quickly, I would create partisans for thee, mighty hetman! Thou wilt know how the fruits of treason taste. Thou wilt look on me yet as a friend; but if thou findest no better, do not hunt a bear unless thy skin is not dear to thee." Thus did Zagloba converse with himself. Meanwhile one hour passed, and a second; at last day began to dawn. The gray light falling through the grating dissipated slowly the darkness in the cellar, and brought out the gloomy figures sitting at the walls. Volodyovski and the Skshetuskis were slumbering from weariness; but when things were more visible, and when from the courtyard came the sounds of soldiers' footsteps, the clatter of arms, the tramp of hoofs, and the sound of trumpets at the gate, the knights sprang to their feet. "The day begins not too favorably for us," said Yan. "God grant it to end more favorably," answered Zagloba. "Do you know what I have thought in the night? They will surely treat us with the gift of life if we will take service with Radzivill and help him in his treason; we ought to agree to that, so as to make use of our freedom and stand up for the country." "May God preserve me from putting my name to treason," answered Yan; "for though I should leave the traitor afterward, my name would remain among those of traitors as an infamy to my children. I will not do that, I prefer to die." "Neither will I!" said Stanislav. "But I tell you beforehand that I will. No one will think that I did it voluntarily or sincerely. May the devils take that dragon Radzivill! We shall see yet who gets the upper hand." Further conversation was stopped by sounds in the yard. Among them were the ominous accents of anger and indignation. At the same time single voices of command, the echo of footsteps of whole crowds, and heavy thunder as of cannon in motion. "What is going on?" asked Zagloba. "Maybe there is some help for us." "There is surely an uncommon uproar," said Volodyovski. "But raise me to the window, for I shall see right away what it is." Yan took Volodyovski and raised him as he would a boy. Pan Michael caught the grating, and looked carefully through the yard. "There is something going on,--there is!" said he, with sudden alertness. "I see the Hungarian castle regiment of infantry which Oskyerko led--they loved him greatly, and he too is arrested; they are demanding him surely. As God lives! they are in order of battle. Lieutenant Stahovich is with them; he is a friend of Oskyerko." At that moment the cries grew still louder. "Ganhoff has ridden up. He is saying something to Stahovich, and what a shout! I see that Stahovich with two officers is walking away from the troops. They are going of course as a deputation to the hetman. As God is dear to me, mutiny is spreading in the army! The cannon are pointed against the Hungarians, and the Scottish regiment is also in order of battle. Men from the Polish squadrons are gathering to the Hungarians. Without them they would not be so daring, for in the infantry there is stern discipline." "In God's name!" cried Zagloba. "In that is salvation for us. Pan Michael, are there many Polish squadrons? If they rise, it will be a rising!" "Stankyevich's hussars and Mirski's mailed squadrons are two days' march from Kyedani," answered Volodyovski. "If they had been here, the hetman would not have dared to arrest their commanders. Wait! There are Kharlamp's dragoons, one regiment, Myeleshko's another; they are for the prince. Nyevyarovski declared also for the prince, but his regiment is far away,--two Scottish regiments." "Then there are four with the prince?" "And the artillery under Korf, two regiments." "Oh, that's a strong force!" "And Kmita's squadron, well equipped,--six hundred men." "And on whose side is Kmita?" "I do not know." "Did you not see him? Did he throw down his baton?" "We know not." "Who are against the prince,--what squadrons?" "First, these Hungarians evidently, two hundred men; then a number of detached men from the commands of Mirski and Stankyevich; some nobles and Kmita,--but he is uncertain." "God grant him!--By God's mercy!--Too few, too few." "These Hungarians are as good as two regiments, old soldiers and tried. But wait! They are lighting the matches at the cannon; it looks like a battle!" Yan and Stanislav were silent; Zagloba was writhing as in a fever,-- "Slay the traitors! Slay the dog-brothers! Ai, Kmita! Kmita! All depends on him. Is he daring?" "As the devil,--ready for anything." "It must be that he will take our side." "Mutiny in the army! See to what the hetman has brought things!" cried Volodyovski. "Who is the mutineer,--the army, or the hetman who rose against his own king?" asked Zagloba. "Godwin judge that. Wait! Again there is a movement! Some of Kharlamp's dragoons take the part of the Hungarians. The very best nobles serve in that regiment. Hear how they shout!" "The colonels! the colonels!" cried threatening voices in the yard. "Pan Michael! by the wounds of God, cry to them to send for your squadron and for the armored regiment and the hussars." "Be silent!" Zagloba began to shout himself: "But send for the rest of the Polish squadrons, and cut down the traitors!" "Be silent there!" Suddenly, not in the yard, but in the rear of the castle, rang forth a sharp salvo of muskets. "Jesus Mary!" cried Volodyovski. "Pan Michael, what is that?" "Beyond doubt they have shot Stahovich and the two officers who went as a deputation," said Volodyovski, feverishly. "It cannot be otherwise!" "By the passion of our Lord! Then there is no mercy. It is impossible to hope." The thunder of shots drowned further discourse. Pan Michael grasped the grating convulsively and pressed his forehead to it, but for a while he could see nothing except the legs of the Scottish infantry stationed at the window. Salvos of musketry grew more and more frequent; at last the cannon were heard. The dry knocking of bullets against the wall over the cellar was heard distinctly, like hail. The castle trembled to its foundation. "Jump down, Michael, or you will be killed!" cried Yan. "By no means. The balls go higher; and from the cannon they are firing in the other direction. I will not jump down for anything." And Volodyovski, seizing the grating more firmly, drew himself entirely to the window-sill, where he did not need the shoulder of Pan Yan to hold him. In the cellar it became really dark, for the window was small and Pan Michael though slender filled it completely; but as a recompense the men below had fresh news from the field of battle every minute. "I see now!" cried Pan Michael. "The Hungarians are resting against the wall and are firing. I was afraid that they would be forced to a corner, then the cannon would destroy them in a moment. Good soldiers, as God is dear to me! Without officers, they know what is needed. There is smoke again! I see nothing--" The firing began to slacken. "O merciful God, delay not thy punishment!" cried Zagloba. "And what, Michael?" asked Yan. "The Scots are advancing to the attack!" "Oh, brimstone thunderbolts, that we must sit here!" cried Stanislav. "They are there already, the halberd-men! The Hungarians meet them with the sabre! Oh, my God! that you cannot look on. What soldiers!" "Fighting with their own and not with an enemy." "The Hungarians have the upper hand. The Scots are falling back on the left. As I love God! Myeleshko's dragoons are going over to them! The Scots are between two fires. Korf cannot use his cannon, for he would strike the Scots. I see Ganhoff uniforms among the Hungarians. They are going to attack the gate. They wish to escape. They are advancing like a storm,--breaking everything!" "How is that? I wish they would capture this castle!" cried Zagloba. "Never mind! They will come back to-morrow with the squadrons of Mirski and Stankyevich--Oh, Kharlamp is killed! No! He rises; he is wounded--they are already at the gate. What is that? Just as if the Scottish guard at the gate were coming over to the Hungarians, for they are opening the gate,--dust is rising on the outside; I see Kmita! Kmita is rushing through the gate with cavalry!" "On whose side is he, on whose side?" cried Zagloba. For a moment Pan Michael gave no answer; but very soon the clatter of weapons, shrieks, and shouts were heard with redoubled force. "It is all over with them!" cried Pan Michael, with a shrill voice. "All over with whom, with whom?" "With the Hungarians. The cavalry has broken them, is trampling them, cutting them to pieces! Their flag is in Kmita's hand! The end, the end!" When he had said this, Volodyovski dropped from the window and fell into the arms of Pan Yan. "Kill me!" cried he, "kill me, for I had that man under my sabre and let him go with his life; I gave him his commission. Through me he assembled that squadron with which he will fight now against the country. I saw whom he got: dog-brothers, gallows-birds, robbers, ruffians, such as he is himself. God grant me to meet him once more with the sabre--God! lengthen my life to the death of that traitor, for I swear that he will not leave my hands again." Meanwhile cries, the trample of hoofs, and salvos of musketry were thundering yet with full force; after a time, however, they began to weaken, and an hour later silence reigned in the castle of Kyedani, broken only by the measured tread of the Scottish patrols and words of command. "Pan Michael, look out once more and see what has happened," begged Zagloba. "What for?" asked the little knight. "Whoso is a soldier will guess what has happened. Besides, I saw them beaten,--Kmita triumphs here!" "God give him to be torn with horses, the scoundrel, the hell-dweller! God give him to guard a harem for Tartars!" CHAPTER XVII. Pan Michael was right. Kmita had triumphed. The Hungarians and a part of the dragoons of Myeleshko and Kharlamp who had joined them, lay dead close together in the court of Kyedani. Barely a few tens of them had slipped out and scattered around the castle and the town, where the cavalry pursued them. Many were caught; others never stopped of a certainty till they reached the camp of Sapyeha, voevoda of Vityebsk, to whom they were the first to bring the terrible tidings of the grand hetman's treason, of his desertion to the Swedes, of the imprisonment of the colonels and the resistance of the Polish squadrons. Meanwhile Kmita, covered with blood and dust, presented himself with the banner of the Hungarians before Radzivill, who received him with open arms. But Pan Andrei was not delighted with the victory. He was as gloomy and sullen as if he had acted against his heart. "Your highness," said he, "I do not like to hear praises, and would rather a hundred times fight the enemy than soldiers who might be of service to the country. It seems to a man as if he were spilling his own blood." "Who is to blame, if not those insurgents?" answered the prince. "I too would prefer to send them to Vilna, and I intended to do so. But they chose to rebel against authority. What has happened will not be undone. It was and it will be needful to give an example." "What does your highness think of doing with the prisoners?" "A ball in the forehead of every tenth man. Dispose the rest among other regiments. You will go to-day to the squadrons of Mirski and Stankyevich, announce my order, to them to be ready for the campaign. I make you commander over those two squadrons, and over the third, that of Volodyovski. The lieutenants are to be subordinate to you and obey you in everything. I wished to send Kharlamp to that squadron at first, but he is useless. I have changed my mind." "What shall I do in case of resistance? For with Volodyovski are Lauda men who hate me terribly." "Announce that Mirski, Stankyevich, and Volodyovski will be shot immediately." "Then they may come in arms to Kyedani to rescue these officers. All serving under Mirski are distinguished nobles." "Take a regiment of Scottish infantry and a German regiment. First surround them, then announce the order." "Such is the will of your highness." Radzivill rested his hands on his knees and fell to thinking. "I would gladly shoot Mirski and Stankyevich were they not respected in the whole country as well as in their own regiments. I fear tumult and open rebellion, an example of which we have just had before our eyes. I am glad, thanks to you, that they have received a good lesson, and each squadron will think twice before rising against us. But it is imperative to act swiftly, so that resisting men may not go to the voevoda of Vityebsk." "Your highness has spoken only of Mirski and Stankyevich, you have not mentioned Volodyovski and Oskyerko." "I must spare Oskyerko, too, for he is a man of note and widely related; but Volodyovski comes from Russia[21] and has no relatives here. He is a valiant soldier, it is true. I counted on him,--so much the worse that I was deceived. If the devil had not brought hither those wanderers his friends, he might have acted differently; but after what has happened, a bullet in the forehead waits him, as well as those two Skshetuskis and that third fellow, that bull who began first to bellow, 'Traitor, traitor!'" Pan Andrei sprang up as if burned with iron: "Your highness, the soldiers say that Volodyovski saved your life at Tsibyhova." "He did his duty; therefore I wanted to give him Dydkyemie for life. Now he has betrayed me; hence I give command to shoot him." Kmita's eyes flashed, and his nostrils began to quiver. "Your highness, that cannot be!" "How cannot be?" asked Radzivill, frowning. "I implore your highness," said Kmita, carried away, "that not a hair fall from Volodyovski. Forgive me, I implore. Volodyovski had the power not to deliver to me the commission, for it was sent to him and left at his disposal. But he gave it. He plucked me out of the whirlpool. Through that act of his I passed into the jurisdiction of your highness. He did not hesitate to save me, though he and I were trying to win the same woman. I owe him gratitude, and I have vowed to repay him. Your highness, grant for my sake that no punishment touch him or his friends. A hair should not fall from the head of either of them, and as God is true, it will not fall while I live. I implore your highness." Pan Andrei entreated and clasped his hands, but his words were ringing with anger, threats, and indignation. His unrestrained nature gained the upper hand, and he stood above Radzivill with flashing eyes and a visage like the head of an angry bird of prey. The hetman too had a storm in his face. Before his iron will and despotism everything hitherto in Lithuania and Russia had bent. No one had ever dared to oppose him, no one to beg mercy for those once condemned; but now Kmita's entreating was merely for show, in reality he presented demands; and the position was such that it was impossible to refuse him. At the very beginning of his career of treason, the despot felt that he would have to yield more than once to the despotism of men and circumstances, and would be dependent on adherents of far less importance than this one; that Kmita, whom he wished to turn into a faithful dog, would be rather a captive wolf, ready when angry to bite its master's hand. All this roused the proud blood of Radzivill. He resolved to resist, for his inborn terrible vengefulness urged him to that. "Volodyovski and the other three must lose their heads," said he, with a loud voice. But to speak thus was to throw powder on fire. "If I had not dispersed the Hungarians, these are not the men who had lost their heads," shouted Kmita. "How is this? Are you renouncing my service already?" asked the hetman, threateningly. "Your highness," answered Pan Andrei, with passion, "I am not renouncing; I am begging, imploring. But the harm will not happen. These men are famous in all Poland. It cannot be, it cannot be! I will not be a Judas to Volodyovski. I will follow your highness into fire, but refuse not this favor." "But if I refuse?" "Then give command to shoot me; I will not live! May thunderbolts split me! May devils take me living to hell!" "Remember, unfortunate, before whom you are speaking." "Bring me not to desperation, your highness." "To a prayer I may give ear, but a threat I will not consider." "I beg,--I implore." Here Pan Andrei threw himself on his knees. "Permit me, your highness, to serve you not from constraint, but with my heart, or I shall go mad." Radzivill said nothing. Kmita was kneeling; pallor and flushes chased each other like lightning gleams over his face. It was clear that a moment more and he would burst forth in terrible fashion. "Rise!" said Radzivill. Pan Andrei rose. "To defend a friend you are able. I have the test that you will also be able to defend me and will never desert. But God made you of nitre, not of flesh, and have a care that you run not to fluid. I cannot refuse you anything. Listen to me: Stankyevich, Mirski, and Oskyerko I will send to the Swedes at Birji; let the two Skshetuskis and Volodyovski go with them. The Swedes will not tear off their heads there, and it is better that they sit out the war in quiet." "I thank your highness, my father," cried Andrei. "Wait," said the prince. "I have respected your oath already too much; now respect mine. I have recorded death in my soul to that old noble,--I have forgotten his name,--that bellowing devil who came here with Skshetuski. He is the man who first called me traitor. He mentioned a bribe; he urged on the others, and perhaps there would not have been such opposition without his insolence." Here the prince struck the table with his fist. "I should have expected death sooner, and the end of the world sooner, than that any one would dare to shout at me, Radzivill, to my face, 'Traitor!' In presence of people! There is not a death, there are not torments befitting such a crime. Do not beg me for him; it is useless." But Pan Andrei was not easily discouraged when once he undertook a thing. He was not angry now, nor did he blaze forth. But seizing again the hand of the hetman, he began to cover it with kisses and to entreat with all the earnestness in his soul-- "With no rope or chain could your highness bind my heart as with this favor. Only do it not half-way nor in part, but completely. That noble said yesterday what all thought. I myself thought the same till you opened my eyes,--may fire consume me, if I did not! A man is not to blame for being unwise. That noble was so drunk that what he had on his heart he shouted forth. He thought that he was defending the country, and it is hard to punish a man for love of country. He knew that he was exposing his life, and shouted what he had on his mind. He neither warms nor freezes me, but he is to Pan Volodyovski as a brother, or quite as a father. Volodyovski would mourn for him beyond measure, and I do not want that. Such is the nature within me, that if I wish good to a man I would give my soul for him. If any one has spared me, but killed my friend, may the devil take him for such a favor! Your highness, my father, benefactor, do a perfect kindness,--give me this noble, and I will give you all my blood, even tomorrow, this day, this moment!" Radzivill gnawed his mustaches. "I determined death to him yesterday in my soul." "What the hetman and voevoda of Vilna determined, that can the Grand Prince of Lithuania and, God grant in the future, the King of Poland, as a gracious monarch, efface." Pan Andrei spoke sincerely what he felt and thought; but had he been the most adroit of courtiers he could not have found a more powerful argument in defence of his friends. The proud face of the magnate grew bright at the sound of those titles which he did not possess yet, and he said,-- "You have so understood me that I can refuse you nothing. They will all go to Birji. Let them expiate their faults with the Swedes; and when that has happened of which you have spoken, ask for them a new favor." "As true as life, I will ask, and may God grant as quickly as possible!" said Kmita. "Go now, and bear the good news to them." "The news is good for me, not for them; and surely they will not receive it with gratitude, especially since they did not suspect what threatened them. I will not go, your highness, for it would seem as if I were hurrying to boast of my intercession." "Do as you please about that, but lose no time in bringing the squadrons of Mirski and Stankyevich; immediately after there will be another expedition for you, from which surely you will not flee." "What is that?" "You will go to ask on my behalf Pan Billevich, the sword-bearer of Rossyeni, to come to me here at Kyedani, with his niece, and stay during the war. Do you understand?" Kmita was confused. "He will not be ready to do that. He went from Kyedani in a great rage." "I think that the rage has left him already. In every case take men, and if they will not come of their own will put them in a carriage, surround it with dragoons, and bring them. He was as soft as wax when I spoke with him; he blushed like a maiden and bowed to the floor, but he was as frightened at the name of the Swedes as the devil is at holy water, and went away. I want him here for myself and for you; I hope to form out of that wax a candle that I can light when I like and for whom I like. It will be all the better if it happens so; but if not, I will have a hostage. The Billeviches are very powerful in Jmud, for they are related to almost all the nobles. When I have one of them in my hands, and that one the eldest, the others will think twice before they undertake anything against me. Furthermore, behind them and your maiden are all that throng of Lauda men, who, if they were to go to the camp of the voevoda of Vityebsk, would be received by him with open arms. That is an important affair, so important that I think to begin with the Billeviches." "In Volodyovski's squadron are Lauda men only." "The guardians of your maiden. If that is true, begin by conveying her to Kyedani. Only listen: I will undertake to bring the sword-bearer to our side, but do you win the maiden as you can. When I bring over the sword-bearer, he will help you with the girl. If she is willing, I will have the wedding for you at once. If not, take her to the altar without ceremony. When the storm is over, all will be well. That is the best method with women. She will weep, she will despair, when they drag her to the altar; but next day she will think that the devil is not so terrible as they paint him, and the third day she will be glad. How did you part from her yesterday?" "As if she had given me a slap in the face." "What did she say?" "She called me a traitor. I was almost struck with paralysis." "Is she so furious? When you are her husband, tell her that a distaff is fitter for her than public affairs, and hold her tight." "Your highness does not know her. She must have a thing either virtue or vice; according to that she judges, and more than one man might envy her her mind. Before you can look around she has struck the point." "She has struck you to the heart. Try to strike her in like manner." "If God would grant that, your highness! Once I took her with armed hand, but afterward I vowed to do so no more. And something tells me that were I to take her by force to the altar it would not be to my heart, for I have promised her and myself not to use force again. If her uncle is convinced he will convince her, and then she will look on me differently. Now I will go to Billeviche and bring them both here, for I am afraid that she may take refuge in some cloister. But I tell your highness the pure truth, that though it is a great happiness for me to look on that maiden, I would rather attack the whole Swedish power than stand before her at present, for she does not know my honest intentions and holds me a traitor." "If you wish I will send another,--Kharlamp or Myeleshko." "No, I would rather go myself; besides, Kharlamp is wounded." "That is better. I wanted to send Kharlamp yesterday to Volodyovski's squadron to take command, and if need be force it to obedience; but he is an awkward fellow, and it turns out that he knows not how to hold his own men. I have no service for him. Go first for the sword-bearer and the maiden, and then to those squadrons. In an extreme case do not spare blood, for we must show the Swedes that we have power and are not afraid of rebellion. I will send the colonels away at once under escort; I hope that Pontus de la Gardie will consider this a proof of my sincerity. Myeleshko will take them. The beginning is difficult. I see that half Lithuania will rise against me." "That is nothing, your highness. Whoso has a clean conscience fears no man." "I thought that all the Radzivills at least would be on my side, but see what Prince Michael writes from Nyesvyej." Here the hetman gave Kmita the letter of Kazimir Michael. Pan Andrei cast his eyes over the letter. "If I knew not the intentions of your highness I should think him right, and the most virtuous man in the world. God give him everything good! He speaks what he thinks." "Set out now!" said the prince, with a certain impatience. CHAPTER XVIII. Kmita, however, did not start that day, nor the following, for threatening news began to arrive at Kyedani from every side. Toward evening a courier rushed in with tidings that Mirski's squadron and Stankyevich's also were marching to the hetman's residence, prepared to demand with armed hand their colonels; that there was terrible agitation among them, and that the officers had sent deputations to all the squadrons posted near Kyedani, and farther on to Podlyasye and Zabludovo, with news of the hetman's treason, and with a summons to unite in defence of the country. From this it was easy to see that multitudes of nobles would fly to the insurgent squadrons and form an important force, which it would be difficult to resist in unfortified Kyedani, especially since not every regiment which Radzivill had at hand could be relied on with certainty. This changed all the calculations and plans of the hetman; but instead of weakening, it seemed to rouse his courage still more. He determined to move at the head of his faithful Scottish regiments, cavalry and artillery, against the insurgents, and stamp out the fire at its birth. He knew that the soldiers without colonels were simply an unorganized throng, that would scatter from terror at the mere name of the hetman. He determined also not to spare blood, and to terrify with examples the whole army, all the nobles, nay, all Lithuania, so that it should not dare even to tremble beneath his iron hand. Everything that he had planned must be accomplished, and accomplished with his own forces. That very day a number of foreign officers went to Prussia to make new enlistments, and Kyedani was swarming with armed men. The Scottish regiments, the foreign cavalry, the dragoons of Myeleshko and Kharlamp, with the "fire people" of Pan Korf, were preparing for the campaign. The prince's haiduks, his servants, and the citizens of Kyedani were obliged to increase the military forces; and it was determined to hasten the transfer of the prisoners to Birji, where it would be safer to keep them than in exposed Kyedani. The prince hoped with reason that to transport the colonels to a remote fortress, in which, according to treaty, there must be a Swedish garrison already, would destroy in the minds of the rebellious soldiers all hope of rescuing them, and deprive the rebellion itself of every basis. Pan Zagloba, the Skshetuskis, and Volodyovski were to share the lot of the others. It was already evening when an officer with lantern in hand entered the cellar in which they were, and said,-- "Prepare, gentlemen, to follow me." "Whither?" asked Zagloba, with a voice of alarm. "That will be seen. Hurry, hurry!" "We come." They went out. In the corridor Scottish soldiers armed with muskets surrounded them. Zagloba grew more and more alarmed. "Still they would not lead us to death without a priest, without confession," whispered he in the ear of Volodyovski. Then he turned to the officer; "What is your rank, I pray?" "What is my rank to you?" "I have many relatives in Lithuania, and it is pleasant to know with whom one has to do." "No time for inquiries, but he is a fool who is ashamed of his name. I am Roh Kovalski, if you wish to know." "That is an honorable stock! The men are good soldiers, the women are virtuous. My grandmother was a Kovalski, but she made an orphan of me before I came to the world. Are you from the Vyerush, or the Korab Kovalskis?" "Do you want to examine me as a witness, in the night?" "Oh, I do this because you are surely a relative of mine, for we have the same build. You have large bones and shoulders, just like mine, and I got my form from my grandmother." "Well, we can talk about that on the road. We shall have time!" "On the road?" said Zagloba; and a great weight fell from his breast. He breathed like a bellows, and gained courage at once. "Pan Michael," whispered he, "did I not say that they would not cut our heads off?" Meanwhile they had reached the courtyard. Night had fallen completely. In places red torches were burning or lanterns gleaming, throwing an uncertain light on groups of soldiers, horse and foot, of various arms. The whole court was crowded with troops. Clearly they were ready to march, for a great movement was manifest on all sides. Here and there in the darkness gleamed lances and gun-barrels; horses' hoofs clattered on the pavement; single horsemen hurried between the squadrons,--undoubtedly officers giving commands. Kovalski stopped the convoy and the prisoners before an enormous wagon drawn by four horses, and having a box made as it were of ladders. "Take your places, gentlemen," said he. "Some one is sitting there already," said Zagloba, clambering up. "But our packs?" "They are under the straw," said Kovalski; "hurry, hurry!" "But who are sitting here?" asked Zagloba, looking at dark figures stretched on the straw. "Mirski, Stankyevich, Oskyerko," answered voices. "Volodyovski, Yan and Stanislav Skshetuski, and Zagloba," answered our knights. "With the forehead, with the forehead!" "With the forehead! We are travelling in honorable company. And whither are they taking us, do you know, gentlemen?" "You are going to Birji," said Kovalski. When he said this, he gave the command. A convoy of fifty dragoons surrounded the wagon and moved on. The prisoners began to converse in a low voice. "They will give us to the Swedes," said Mirski; "I expected that." "I would rather sit among enemies than traitors," answered Stankyevich. "And I would rather have a bullet in my forehead," said Volodyovski, "than sit with folded arms during such an unfortunate war." "Do not blaspheme, Michael," answered Zagloba, "for from the wagon, should a convenient moment come, you may give a plunge, and from Birji also; but it is hard to escape with a bullet in the forehead. I foresaw that that traitor would not dare to put bullets in our heads." "Is there a thing which Radzivill does not dare to do?" asked Mirski. "It is clear that you have come from afar and know him not. On whomsoever he has sworn vengeance, that man is as good as in the grave; and I remember no instance of his forgiving any one the slightest offence." "But still he did not dare to raise hands on me!" answered Zagloba. "Who knows if you have not to thank me for your lives?" "And how?" "Because the Khan loves me wonderfully, for I discovered a conspiracy against his life when I was a captive in the Crimea. And our gracious king, Yan Kazimir, loves me too. Radzivill, the son of a such a one, did not wish to break with two such potentates; for they might reach him, even in Lithuania." "Ah! what are you saying? He hates the king as the devil does holy water, and would be still more envenomed against you did he know you to be a confidant of the king," observed Stankyevich. "I think this," said Oskyerko. "To avoid odium the hetman would not stain himself with our blood, but I could swear that this officer is bearing an order to the Swedes in Birji to shoot us on the spot." "Oi!" exclaimed Zagloba. They were silent for a moment; meanwhile the wagon had rolled into the square of Kyedani. The town was sleeping, there were no lights in the windows, only the dogs before the houses snapped angrily at the passing party. "Well," said Zagloba, "we have gained time anyhow, and perhaps a chance will serve us, and some stratagem may come to my head." Here he turned to the old colonels: "Gentlemen, you know me little, but ask my comrades about the hot places in which I have been, and from which I have always escaped. Tell me, what kind of officer is this who commands the convoy? Could he be persuaded not to adhere to a traitor, but take the side of his country and join us?" "That is Roh Kovalski of the Korab Kovalskis," answered Oskyerko. "I know him. You might as well persuade his horse as him; for as God is bountiful I know not which is more stupid." "But why did they make him officer?" "He carried the banner with Myeleshko's dragoons; for this no wit is needed. But he was made officer because his fist pleased the prince; for he breaks horseshoes, wrestles with tame bears, and the man has not yet been discovered whom he cannot bring to the earth." "Has he such strength?" "That he has such strength is true; but were his superior to order him to batter down a wall with his head he would fall to battering it without a moment's delay. He is ordered to take us to Birji, and he will take us, even if the earth had to sink." "'Pon my word," said Zagloba, who listened to this conversation with great attention, "he is a resolute fellow." "Yes, but with him resolution consists in stupidity alone. When he has time, and is not eating, he is sleeping. It is an astonishing thing, which you will not believe; but once he slept forty-eight hours in the barracks, and yawned when they dragged him from the plank bed." "This officer pleases me greatly," said Zagloba, "for I always like to know with whom I have to do." When he had said this he turned to Kovalski. "But come this way, please!" cried he, in a patronizing tone. "What is it?" asked Kovalski, turning his horse. "Have you gorailka?" "I have." "Give it!" "How give it?" "You know, gracious Kovalski, if it were not permitted you would have had an order not to give it; but since you have not an order, give it." "Ah," said Kovalski, astonished, "as I live! but that is like forcing." "Forcing or not forcing, it is permitted you; and it is proper to assist a blood relative and an older man, who, if he had married your mother, might have been your father as easily as wink." "What relative are you of mine?" "I am, for there are two stocks of Kovalskis,--they who use the seal of Vyerush and have a goat painted on their shield, with upraised hind leg; and they who have on their shield the ship in which their ancestor Kovalski sailed from England across the sea to Poland; and these are my relatives, through my grandmother, and this is why I, too, have the ship on my shield." "As God lives! you are my relative." "Are you a Korab (ship)?" "A Korab." "My own blood, as God is dear to me!" cried Zagloba. "It is lucky that we have met, for in very truth I have come here to Lithuania to see the Kovalskis; and though I am in bonds while you are on horseback and in freedom I would gladly embrace you, for what is one's own is one's own." "How can I help you? They commanded me to take you to Birji; I will take you. Blood is blood, but service is service." "Call me Uncle," said Zagloba. "Here is gorailka for you, Uncle," said Kovalski; "I can do that much." Zagloba took the flask gladly, and drank to his liking. Soon a pleasant warmth spread through his members. It began to grow clear in his brain, and his mind became bright. "Come down from the horse," said he to Kovalski, "and sit here a short time in the wagon; let us talk, for I should like to have you say something about our family. I respect service, but this too is permitted." Kovalski did not answer for a while. "This was not forbidden," said he, at last. Soon after he was sitting at the side of Zagloba, and stretched himself gladly on the straw with which the wagon was filled. Zagloba embraced him heartily. "How is the health of thy old father?--God help me,--I've forgotten his name." "Roh, also." "That's right, that's right. Roh begat Roh,--that is according to command. You must call your son Roh as well, so that every hoopoo may have his topknot. But are you married?" "Of course! I am Kovalski, and here is Pani Kovalski; I don't want any other." So saying, the young officer raised to the eyes of Zagloba the hilt of a heavy dragoon sabre, and repeated, "I don't want any other." "Proper!" said Zagloba. "Roh, son of Roh, you are greatly pleasing to me. A soldier is best accommodated when he has no wife save such a one, and I will say more,--she will be a widow before you will be a widower. The only pity is that you cannot have young Rohs by her, for I see that you are a keen cavalier, and it would be a sin were such a stock to die out." "Oh, no fear of that!" said Kovalski; "there are six brothers of us." "And all Kohs?" "Does Uncle know that if not the first, then the second, has to be Roh?--for Roh is our special patron." "Let us drink again." "Very well." Zagloba raised the bottle; he did not drink all, however, but gave it to the officer and said, "To the bottom, to the bottom! It is a pity that I cannot see you," continued he. "The night is so dark that you might hit a man in the face, you would not know your own fingers by sight. But hear me, Roh, where was that army going from Kyedani when we drove out?" "Against the insurgents." "The Most High God knows who is insurgent,--you or they." "I an insurgent? How could that be? I do what my hetman commands." "But the hetman does not do what the king commands, for surely the king did not command him to join the Swedes. Would you not rather slay the Swedes than give me, your relative, into their hands?" "I might; but for every command there is obedience." "And Pani Kovalski would rather slay Swedes; I know her. Speaking between us, the hetman has rebelled against the king and the country. Don't say this to any one, but it is so; and those who serve him are rebels too." "It is not proper for me to hear this. The hetman has his superior, and I have mine; what is his own belongs to the hetman, and God would punish me if I were to oppose him. That is an unheard of thing." "You speak honestly; but think, Roh, if you were to happen into the hands of those insurgents, I should be free, and it would be no fault of yours, for _nec Hercules contra plures!_--I do not know where those squadrons are, but you must know, and you see we might turn toward them a little." "How is that?" "As if we went by chance to them? It would not be your fault if they rescued us. You would not have me on your conscience,--and to have a relative on a man's conscience, believe me, is a terrible burden." "Oh Uncle, what are you saying! As God lives, I will leave the wagon and sit on my horse. It is not I who will have uncle on my conscience, but the hetman. While I live, nothing will come of this talk." "Nothing is nothing!" said Zagloba; "I prefer that you speak sincerely, though I was your uncle before Radzivill was your hetman. And do you know, Roh, what an uncle is?" "An uncle is an uncle." "You have calculated very adroitly; but when a man has no father, the Scriptures say that he must obey his uncle. The power of an uncle is as that of a father, which it is a sin to resist. For consider even this, that whoever marries may easily become a father; but in your uncle flows the same blood as in your mother. I am not in truth the brother of your mother, but my grandmother must have been your grandmother's aunt. Know then that the authority of several generations rests in me; for like everything else in the world we are mortal, therefore authority passes from one of us to another, and neither the hetman nor the king can ignore it, nor force any one to oppose it. It is sacred! Has the full hetman or even the grand hetman the right to command not merely a noble or an officer, but any kind of camp-follower, to rise up against his father, his mother, his grandfather, or his blind old grandmother? Answer me that, Roh. Has he the right?" "What?" asked Kovalski, with a sleepy voice. "Against his blind old grandmother!" repeated Zagloba. "Who in that case would be willing to marry and beget children, or wait for grandchildren? Answer me that, Roh." "I am Kovalski, and this is Pani Kovalski," said the still sleepier officer. "If it is your wish, let it be so," answered Zagloba. "Better indeed that you have no children, there will be fewer fools to storm around in the world. Is it not true, Roh?" Zagloba held down his ear, but heard nothing,--no answer now. "Roh! Roh!" called he, in a low voice. Kovalski was sleeping like a dead man. "Are you sleeping?" muttered Zagloba. "Wait a bit--I will take this iron pot off your head, for it is of no use to you. This cloak is too tight at the throat; it might cause apoplexy. What sort of relative were I, did I not save you?" Here Zagloba's hands began to move lightly about the head and neck of Kovalski. In the wagon all were in a deep sleep; the soldiers too nodded in the saddles; some in front were singing in a low voice, while looking out the road carefully,--for the night, though not rainy, was exceedingly dark. After a time, however, the soldier leading Kovalski's horse behind the wagon saw in the darkness the cloak and bright helmet of his officer. Kovalski, without stopping the wagon, slipped out and nodded to give him the horse. In a moment he mounted. "Pan Commandant, where shall we stop to feed?" asked the sergeant, approaching him. Pan Roh gave no word in reply, but moving forward passed slowly those riding in front and vanished in the darkness. Soon there came to the ears of the dragoons the quick tramp of a horse. "The commandant has gone at a gallop!" said they to one another. "Surely he wants to look around to see if there is some public house near by. It is time to feed the horses,--time." A half-hour passed, an hour, two hours, and Pan Kovalski seemed to be ahead all the time, for somehow he was not visible. The horses grew very tired, especially those drawing the wagon, and began to drag on slowly. The stars were leaving the sky. "Gallop to the commandant," said the sergeant; "tell him the horses are barely able to drag along, and the wagon horses are tired." One of the soldiers moved ahead, but after an hour returned alone. "There is neither trace nor ashes of the commandant," said the soldier; "he must have ridden five miles ahead." The soldiers began to grumble. "It is well for him he slept through the day, and just now on the wagon; but do thou, soldier, pound through the night with the last breath of thy horse and thyself!" "There is an inn eighty rods distant," said the soldier who had ridden ahead. "I thought to find him there, but no! I listened, trying to hear the horse--Nothing to be heard. The devil knows where he is!" "We will stop at the inn anyhow," said the sergeant. "We must let the horses rest." In fact they halted before the inn. The soldiers dismounted. Some went to knock at the door; others untied bundles of hay, hanging at the saddles, to feed the horses even from their hands. The prisoners woke when the movement of the wagon ceased. "But where are we going?" asked old Stankyevich. "I cannot tell in the night," answered Volodyovski, "especially as we are not going to Upita." "But does not the load from Kyedani to Birji lie through Upita?" asked Pan Yan. "It does. But in Upita is my squadron, which clearly the prince fears may resist, therefore he ordered Kovalski to take another road. Just outside Kyedani we turned to Dalnovo and Kroki; from the second place we shall go surely through Beysagoli and Shavli. It is a little out of the way, but Upita and Ponyevyej will remain at the right. On this road there are no squadrons, for all that were there were brought to Kyedani, so as to have them at hand." "But Pan Zagloba," said Stankyevich, "instead of thinking of stratagems, as he promised, is sleeping sweetly, and snoring." "Let him sleep. It is clear that he was wearied from talk with that stupid commandant, relationship with whom he confessed. It is evident that he wanted to capture him, but with no result. Whoso would not leave Radzivill for his country, will surely not leave him for a distant relative." "Are they really relatives?" asked Oskyerko. "They? They are as much relatives as you and I," answered Volodyovski. "When Zagloba spoke of their common escutcheon, I knew it was not true, for I know well that his is called wczele (in the forehead)." "And where is Pan Kovalski?" "He must be with the soldiers or in the inn." "I should like to ask him to let me sit on some soldier's horse," said Mirski, "for my bones are benumbed." "He will not grant that," said Stankyevich; "for the night is dark, you could easily put spurs to the horse, and be off. Who could overtake?" "I will give him my word of honor not to attempt escape; besides, dawn will begin directly." "Soldier, where is the commandant?" asked Volodyovski of a dragoon standing near. "Who knows?" "How, who knows? When I ask thee to call him, call him." "We know not ourselves, Colonel, where he is," said the dragoon. "Since he crawled out of the wagon and rode ahead, he has not come back." "Tell him when he comes that we would speak with him." "As the Colonel wishes," answered the soldier. The prisoners were silent. From time to time only loud yawning was heard on the wagon; the horses were chewing hay at one side. The soldiers around the wagon, resting on the saddles, were dozing; others talked in a low voice, or refreshed themselves each with what he had, for it turned out that the inn was deserted and tenantless. The night had begun to grow pale. On its eastern side the dark background of the sky was becoming slightly gray; the stars, going out gradually, twinkled with an uncertain, failing light. Then the roof of the inn became hoary; the trees growing near it were edged with silver. The horses and men seemed to rise out of the shade. After a while it was possible to distinguish faces, and the yellow color of the cloaks. The helmets began to reflect the morning gleam. Volodyovski opened his arms and stretched himself, yawning from ear to ear; then he looked at the sleeping Zagloba. All at once he threw back his arms and shouted,-- "May the bullets strike him! In God's name! Gracious gentlemen, look here!" "What has happened?" asked the colonels, opening their eyes. "Look here, look here!" said Volodyovski, pointing at the sleeping form. The prisoners turned their glances in the direction indicated, and amazement was reflected on every face. Under the burka, and in the cap of Zagloba, slept, with the sleep of the just, Pan Roh Kovalski; but Zagloba was not in the wagon. "He has escaped, as God is dear to me!" said the astonished Mirski, looking around on every side, as if he did not yet believe his own eyes. "Oh, he is a finished rogue! May the hangman--" cried Stankyevich. "He took the helmet and yellow cloak of that fool, and escaped on his horse." "Vanished as if he had dropped into water." "He said he would get away by stratagem." "They will never see him again!" "Gentlemen," said Volodyovski, with delight, "you know not that man; and I swear to you to-day that he will rescue us yet,--I know not how, when, with what means,--but I swear that he will." "God grant it! One cannot believe his eyesight," said Pan Stanislav. The soldiers now saw what had happened. An uproar rose among them. One crowded ahead of the other to the wagon, stared at their commandant, dressed in a camel's hair burka and lynx-skin cap, and sleeping soundly. The sergeant began to shake him without ceremony. "Commandant! commandant!" "I am Kovalski, and this is Pani Kovalski," muttered Roh. "Commandant, a prisoner has fled." Kovalski sat up in the wagon and opened his eyes. "What?" "A prisoner has fled,--that bulky noble who was talking with the commandant." The officer came to his senses. "Impossible!" cried he, with terrified voice. "How was it? What happened? How did he escape?" "In the helmet and cloak of the commandant; the soldiers did not know him, the night was dark." "Where is my horse?" cried Kovalski. "The horse is gone. The noble fled on him." "On my horse?" "Yes." Kovalski seized himself by the head. "Jesus of Nazareth! King of the Jews!" After a while he shouted, "Give here that dog-faith, that son of a such a one who gave him the horse!" "Pan Commandant, the soldier is not to blame. The night was dark, you might have struck a man in the face, and he took your helmet and cloak; rode near me, and I did not know him. If your grace had not sat in the wagon, he could not have done it." "Kill me, kill me!" cried the unfortunate officer. "What is to be done?" "Kill him, catch him!" "That cannot be done in any way. He is on your horse,--the best horse; ours are terribly road-weary. He fled at the first cock-crow; we cannot overtake him." "Hunt for a wind in the field!" said Stankyevich. Kovalski, in a rage, turned to the prisoners. "You helped him to escape! I will--" Here he balled his gigantic fist, and began to approach them. Then Mirski said threateningly, "Shout not, and remember that you are speaking to superiors." Kovalski quivered, and straightened himself involuntarily; for really his dignity in presence of such a Mirski was nothing, and all his prisoners were a head above him in rank and significance. Stankyevich added: "If you have been commanded to take us, take us; but raise no voice, for to-morrow you may be under the command of any one of us." Kovalski stared and was silent. "There is no doubt you have fooled away your head, Pan Roh," said Oskyerko. "To say, as you do, that we helped him is nonsense; for, to begin with, we were sleeping, just as you were, and secondly, each one would have helped himself rather than another. But you have fooled away your head. There is no one to blame here but you. I would be the first to order you shot, since being an officer you fell asleep like a badger, and allowed a prisoner to escape in your own helmet and cloak, nay, on your own horse,--an unheard of thing, such as has not happened since the beginning of the world." "An old fox has fooled the young man!" said Mirski. "Jesus, Mary! I have not even the sabre!" cried Kovalski. "Will not the sabre be of use to him?" asked Stankyevich, laughing. "Pan Oskyerko has said well,--you have fooled away your head. You must have had pistols in the holsters too?" "I had!" said Kovalski, as if out of his mind. Suddenly he seized his head with both hands: "And the letter of the prince to the commandant of Birji! What shall I, unfortunate man, do now? I am lost for the ages! God give me a bullet in the head!" "That will not miss you," said Mirski, seriously. "How will you take us to Birji now? What will happen if you say that you have brought us as prisoners, and we, superior in rank, say that you are to be thrown into the dungeon? Whom will they believe? Do you think that the Swedish commandant will detain us for the reason simply that Pan Kovalski will beg him to do so? He will rather believe us, and confine you under ground." "I am lost!" groaned Kovalski. "Nonsense!" said Volodyovski. "What is to be done, Pan Commandant?" asked the sergeant. "Go to all the devils!" roared Kovalski. "Do I know what to do, where to go? God give thunderbolts to slay thee!" "Go on, go on to Birji; you will see!" said Mirski. "Turn back to Kyedani," cried Kovalski. "If they will not plant you at the wall there and shoot you, may bristles cover me!" said Oskyerko. "How will you appear before the hetman's face? Tfu! Infamy awaits you, and a bullet in the head,--nothing more." "For I deserve nothing more!" cried the unfortunate man. "Nonsense, Pan Roh! We alone can save you," said Oskyerko. "You know that we were ready to go to the end of the world with the hetman, and perish. We have shed our blood more than once for the country, and always shed it willingly; but the hetman betrayed the country,--he gave this land to the enemy; he joined with them against our gracious lord, to whom we swore allegiance. Do you think that it came easy to soldiers like us to refuse obedience to a superior, to act against discipline, to resist our own hetman? But whoso to-day is with the hetman is against the king. Whoso to-day is with the hetman is a traitor to the king and the Commonwealth. Therefore we cast down our batons at the feet of the hetman; for virtue, duty, faith, and honor so commanded. And who did it? Was it I alone? No! Pan Mirski, Pan Stankyevich, the best soldiers, the worthiest men. Who remained with the hetman? Disturbers. But why do you not follow men better, wiser, and older than yourself? Do you wish to bring infamy on your name, and be trumpeted forth as a traitor? Enter into yourself; ask your conscience what you should do,--remain a traitor with Radzivill, the traitor, or go with us, who wish to give our last breath for the country, shed the last drop of our blood for it. Would the ground had swallowed us before we refused obedience to the hetman; but would that our souls never escaped hell, if we were to betray the king and the country for the profit of Radzivill!" This discourse seemed to make a great impression on Kovalski. He stared, opened his mouth, and after a while said, "What do you wish of me, gentlemen?" "To go with us to the voevoda of Vityebsk, who will fight for the country." "But when I have an order to take you to Birji?" "Talk with him," said Mirski. "We want you to disobey the command,--to leave the hetman, and go with us; do you understand?" said Oskyerko, impatiently. "Say what you like, but nothing will come of that. I am a soldier; what would I deserve if I left the hetman? It is not my mind, but his; not my will, but his. When he sins he will answer for himself and for me, and it is my dog-duty to obey him. I am a simple man; what I do not effect with my hand, I cannot with my head. But I know this,--it is my duty to obey, and that is the end of it." "Do what you like!" cried Mirski. "It is my fault," continued Roh, "that I commanded to return to Kyedani, for I was ordered to go to Birji; but I became a fool through that noble, who, though a relative, did to me what a stranger would not have done. I wish he were not a relative, but he is. He had not God in his heart to take my horse, deprive me of the favor of the prince, and bring punishment on my shoulders. That is the kind of relative he is! But, gentlemen, you will go to Birji, let come what may afterward." "A pity to lose time, Pan Oskyerko," said Volodyovski. "Turn again toward Birji!" cried Kovalski to the dragoons. They turned toward Birji a second time. Pan Roh ordered one of the dragoons to sit in the wagon; then he mounted that man's horse, and rode by the side of the prisoners, repeating for a time, "A relative, and to do such a thing!" The prisoners, hearing this, though not certain of their fate and seriously troubled, could not refrain from laughter; at last Volodyovski said, "Comfort yourself, Pan Kovalski, for that man has hung on a hook persons not such as you. He surpassed Hmelnitski himself in cunning, and in stratagems no one can equal him." Kovalski said nothing, but fell away a little from the wagon, fearing ridicule. He was shamefaced in presence of the prisoners and of his own soldiers, and was so troubled that he was pitiful to look at. Meanwhile the colonels were talking of Zagloba, and of his marvellous escape. "In truth, 'tis astonishing," said Volodyovski, "that there are not in the world straits, out of which that man could not save himself. When strength and bravery are of no avail, he escapes through stratagem. Other men lose courage when death is hanging over their heads, or they commit themselves to God, waiting for what will happen; but he begins straightway to work with his head, and always thinks out something. He is as brave in need as Achilles, but he prefers to follow Ulysses." "I would not be his guard, though he were bound with chains," said Stankyevich; "for it is nothing that he will escape, but besides, he will expose a man to ridicule." "Of course!" said Pan Michael. "Now he will laugh at Kovalski to the end of his life; and God guard a man from coming under his tongue, for there is not a sharper in the Commonwealth. And when he begins, as is his custom, to color his speech, then people are bursting from laughter." "But you say that in need he can use his sabre?" asked Stankyevich. "Of course! He slew Burlei at Zbaraj, in view of the whole army." "Well, God save us!" cried Stankyevich, "I have never seen such a man." "He has rendered us a great service by his escape," said Oskyerko, "for he took the letters of the hetman, and who knows what was written in them against us? I do not think that the Swedish commandant at Birji will give ear to us, and not to Kovalski. That will not be, for we come as prisoners, and he as commanding the convoy. But certainly they will not know what to do with us. In every case they will not cut off our heads, and that is the main thing." "I spoke as I did merely to confuse Kovalski completely," said Mirski; "but that they will not cut off our heads, as you say, is no great consolation, God knows. Everything so combines that it would be better not to live; now another war, a civil war, will break out, that will be final ruin. What reason have I, old man, to look on these things?" "Or I, who remember other times?" said Stankyevich. "You should not say that, gentlemen; for the mercy of God is greater than the rage of men, and his almighty hand may snatch us from the whirlpool precisely when we least expect." "Holy are these words," said Pan Yan. "And to us, men from under the standard of the late Prince Yeremi, it is grievous to live now, for we were accustomed to victory; and still one likes to serve the country, if the Lord God would give at last a leader who is not a traitor, but one whom a man might trust with his whole heart and soul." "Oi! true, true!" said Pan Michael. "A man would fight night and day." "But I tell you, gentlemen, that this is the greatest despair," said Mirski; "for every one wanders as in darkness, and asks himself what to do, and uncertainty stifles him, like a nightmare. I know not how it is with you, but mental disquiet is rending me. And when I think that I cast my baton at the feet of the hetman, that I was the cause of resistance and mutiny, the remnants of my gray hair stand on my head from terror. So it is! But what is to be done in presence of open treason? Happy are they who do not need to give themselves such questions, and seek for answers in their souls." "A leader, a leader; may the merciful Lord give a leader!" said Stankyevich, raising his eyes toward heaven. "Do not men say that the voevoda of Vityebsk is a wonderfully honest man?" asked Pan Stanislav. "They do," replied Mirski; "but he has not the baton of grand or full hetman, and before the king clothes him with the office of hetman, he can act only on his own account. He will not go to the Swedes, or anywhere else; that is certain." "Pan Gosyevski, full hetman, is a captive in Kyedani." "Yes, for he is an honest man," said Oskyerko. "When news of that came to me, I was distressed, and had an immediate foreboding of evil." Pan Michael fell to thinking, and said after a while: "I was in Warsaw once, and went to the king's palace. Our gracious lord, since he loves soldiers and had praised me for the Berestechko affair, knew me at once and commanded me to come to dinner. At this dinner I saw Pan Charnyetski, as the dinner was specially for him. The king grew a little merry from wine, pressed Charnyetski's head, and said at last: 'Even should the time come in which all will desert me, you will be faithful.' With my own ears I heard that said, as it were with prophetic spirit. Pan Charnyetski, from emotion, was hardly able to speak. He only repeated: 'To the last breath! to the last breath!' And then the king shed tears--" "Who knows if those were not prophetic words, for the time of disaster had already come," said Mirski. "Charnyetski is a great soldier," replied Stankyevich. "There are no lips in the Commonwealth which do not repeat his name." "They say," said Pan Yan, "that the Tartars, who are aiding Revera Pototski against Hmelnitski, are so much in love with Charnyetski that they will not go where he is not with them." "That is real truth," answered Oskyerko. "I heard that told in Kyedani before the hetman. We were all praising at that time Charnyetski wonderfully, but it was not to the taste of Radzivill, for he frowned and said, 'He is quartermaster of the king, but he might be under-starosta with me at Tykotsin.'" "Envy, it is clear, was gnawing him." "It is a well-known fact that an apostate cannot endure the lustre of virtue." Thus did the captive colonels converse; then their speech was turned again to Zagloba. Volodyovski assured them that aid might be looked for from him, for he was not the man to leave his friends in misfortune. "I am certain," said he, "that he has fled to Upita, where he will find my men, if they are not yet defeated, or taken by force to Kyedani. With them he will come to rescue us, unless they refuse to come, which I do not expect; for in the squadron are Lauda men chiefly, and they are fond of me." "But they are old clients of Radzivill," remarked Mirski "True; but when they hear of the surrender of Lithuania to the Swedes, the imprisonment of the full hetman and Pan Yudytski, of you and me, it will turn their hearts away greatly from Radzivill. Those are honest nobles; Pan Zagloba will neglect nothing to paint the hetman with soot, and he can do that better than any of us." "True," said Pan Stanislav; "but meanwhile we shall be in Birji." "That cannot be, for we are making a circle to avoid Upita, and from Upita the road is direct as if cut with a sickle. Even were they to start a day later, or two days, they could still be in Birji before us, and block our way. We are only going to Shavli now, and from there we shall go to Birji directly; but you must know that it is nearer from Upita to Birji than to Shavli." "As I live, it is nearer, and the road is better," said Mirski, "for it is a high-road." "There it is! And we are not yet in Shavli." Only in the evening did they see the hill called Saltuves-Kalnas, at the foot of which Shavli stands. On the road they saw that disquiet was reigning in all the villages and towns through which they passed. Evidently news of the hetman's desertion to the Swedes had run through all Jmud. Here and there the people asked the soldiers if it were true that the country was to be occupied by Swedes; here and there crowds of peasants were leaving the villages with their wives, children, cattle, and effects, and going to the depths of the forest, with which the whole region was thickly covered. In places the aspect of the peasants was almost threatening, for evidently the dragoons were taken for Swedes. In villages inhabited by nobles they were asked directly who they were and where they were going; and when Kovalski, instead of answering, commanded them to leave the road, it came to shouts and threats to such a degree that muskets levelled for firing were barely sufficient to open a passage. The highway leading from Kovno through Shavli to Mitava was covered with wagons and carriages, in which were the wives and children of nobles wishing to take refuge from war in estates in Courland. In Shavli itself, which was an appanage of the king, there were no private squadrons of the hetman, or men of the quota; but here the captive colonels saw for the first time a Swedish detachment, composed of twenty-five knights, who had come on a reconnoissance from Birji. Crowds of Jews and citizens were staring at the strangers. The colonels too gazed at them with curiosity, especially Volodyovski, who had never before seen Swedes; hence he examined them eagerly with the desiring eyes with which a wolf looks at a flock of sheep. Pan Kovalski entered into communication with the officer, declared who he was, where he was going, whom he was conveying, and requested him to join his men to the dragoons, for greater safety on the road. But the officer answered that he had an order to push as far as possible into the depth of the country, so as to be convinced of its condition, therefore he could not return to Birji; but he gave assurance that the road was safe everywhere, for small detachments, sent out from Birji, were moving in all directions,--some were sent even as far as Kyedani. After he had rested till midnight, and fed the horses, which were very tired, Pan Roh moved on his way, turning from Shavli to the east through Yohavishkyele and Posvut toward Birji, so as to reach the direct highway from Upita and Ponyevyej. "If Zagloba comes to our rescue," said Volodyovski, about daylight, "it will be easiest to take this road, for he could start right at Upita." "Maybe he is lurking here somewhere," said Pan Stanislav. "I had hope till I saw the Swedes," said Stankyevich, "but now it strikes me that there is no help for us." "Zagloba has a head to avoid them or to fool them; and he will be able to do so." "But he does not know the country." "The Lauda people know it; for some of them take hemp, wainscots, and pitch to Riga, and there is no lack of such men in my squadron." "The Swedes must have occupied all the places about Birji." "Fine soldiers, those whom we saw in Shavli, I must confess," said the little knight, "man for man splendid! Did you notice what well-fed horses they had?" "Those are Livland horses, very powerful," said Mirski. "Our hussar and armored officers send to Livland for horses, since our beasts are small." "Tell me of the Swedish infantry!" put in Stankyevich. "Though the cavalry makes a splendid appearance, it is inferior. Whenever one of our squadrons, and especially of the important divisions, rushed on their cavalry, the Swedes did not hold out while you could say 'Our Father' twice." "You have tried them in old times," said the little knight, "but I have no chance of testing them. I tell you, gentlemen, when I saw them now in Shavli, with their beards yellow as flax, ants began to crawl over my fingers. Ei, the soul would to paradise; but sit thou here in the wagon, and sigh." The colonels were silent; but evidently not Pan Michael alone was burning with such friendly feeling toward the Swedes, for soon the following conversation of the dragoons surrounding the wagon came to the ears of the prisoners. "Did you see those pagan dog-faiths?" said one soldier; "we were to fight with them, but now we must clean their horses." "May the bright thunderbolts crush them!" muttered another dragoon. "He quiet, the Swede will teach thee manners with a broom over thy head!" "Or I him." "Thou art a fool! Not such as thou wish to rush at them; thou seest what has happened." "We are taking the greatest knights to them, as if into the dog's mouth. They, the sons of Jew mothers, will abuse these knights." "Without a Jew you cannot talk with such trash. The commandant in Shavli had to send for a Jew right away." "May the plague kill them!" Here the first soldier lowered his voice somewhat and said, "They say the best soldiers do not wish to fight against their own king." "Of course not! Did you not see the Hungarians, or how the hetman used troops against those resisting. It is unknown yet what will happen. Some of our dragoons too took part with the Hungarians; these men very likely are shot by this time." "That is a reward for faithful service!" "To the devil with such work! A Jew's service!" "Halt!" cried, on a sudden, Kovalski riding in front. "May a bullet halt in thy snout!" muttered a voice near the wagon. "Who is there?" asked the soldiers of one another. "Halt!" came a second command. The wagon stopped. The soldiers held in their horses. The day was pleasant, clear. The sun had risen, and by its rays was to be seen, on the highway ahead, clusters of dust rising as if herds or troops were coming. Soon the dust began to shine, as if some one were scattering sparks in the bunches of it; and lights glittered each moment more clearly, like burning candles surrounded with smoke. "Those are spears gleaming!" cried Pan Michael. "Troops are coming." "Surely some Swedish detachment!" "With them only infantry have spears; but there the dust is moving quickly. That is cavalry,--our men!" "Ours, ours!" repeated the dragoons. "Form!" thundered Pan Roh. The dragoons surrounded the wagon in a circle. Pan Volodyovski had flame in his eyes. "Those are my Lauda men with Zagloba! It cannot be otherwise!" Now only forty rods divided those approaching from the wagon, and the distance decreased every instant, for the coming detachment was moving at a trot. Finally, from out the dust pushed a strong body of troops moving in good order, as if to attack. In a moment they were nearer. In the first rank, a little from the right side, moved, under a bunchuk, some powerful man with a baton in his hand. Scarcely had Volodyovski put eye on him when he cried,-- "Pan Zagloba! As I love God, Pan Zagloba!" A smile brightened the face of Pan Yan. "It is he, and no one else, and under a bunchuk! He has already created himself hetman. I should have known him by that whim anywhere. That man will die as he was born." "May the Lord God give him health!" said Oskyerko. Then he put his hands around his mouth and began to call, "Gracious Kovalski! your relative is coming to visit you!" But Pan Roh did not hear, for he was just forming his dragoons. And it is only justice to declare that though he had a handful of men, and on the other side a whole squadron was rolling against him, he was not confused, nor did he lose courage. He placed the dragoons in two ranks in front of the wagon; but the others stretched out and approached in a half-circle, Tartar fashion, from both sides of the field. But evidently they wished to parley, for they began to wave a flag and cry,-- "Stop! stop!" "Forward!" cried Kovalski. "Yield!" was cried from the road. "Fire!" commanded in answer Kovalski. Dull silence followed,--not a single dragoon fired. Pan Roh was dumb for a moment; then he rushed as if wild on his own dragoons. "Fire, dog-faiths!" roared he, with a terrible voice; and with one blow of his fist he knocked from his horse the nearest soldier. Others began to draw back before the rage of the man, but no one obeyed the command. All at once they scattered, like a flock of frightened partridges, in the twinkle of an eye. "Still I would have those soldiers shot!" muttered Mirski. Meanwhile Kovalski, seeing that his own men had left him, turned his horse to the attacking ranks. "For me death is there!" cried he, with a terrible voice. And he sprang at them, like a thunderbolt. But before he had passed half the distance a shot rattled from Zagloba's ranks. Pan Roh's horse thrust his nose into the dust and fell, throwing his rider. At the same moment a soldier of Volodyovski's squadron pushed forward like lightning, and caught by the shoulder the officer rising from the ground. "That is Yuzva Butrym," cried Volodyovski, "Yuzva Footless!" Pan Roh in his turn seized Yuzva by the skirt, and the skirt remained in his hand; then they struggled like two enraged falcons, for both had gigantic strength. Butrym's stirrup broke; he fell to the ground and turned over, but he did not let Pan Roh go, and both formed as it were one ball, which rolled along the road. Others ran up. About twenty hands seized Kovalski, who tore and dragged like a bear in a net; he hurled men around, as a wild boar hurls dogs; he raised himself again and did not give up the battle. He wanted to die, but he heard tens of voices repeating the words, "Take him alive! take him alive!" At last his strength forsook him, and he fainted. Meanwhile Zagloba was at the wagon, or rather on the wagon, and had seized in his embraces Pan Yan, the little knight, Mirski, Stankyevich, and Oskyerko, calling with panting voice,-- "Ha! Zagloba was good for something! Now we will give it to that Radzivill. We are free gentlemen, and we have men. We'll go straightway to ravage his property. Well! did the stratagem succeed? I should have got you out,--if not in one way, in another. I am so blown that I can barely draw breath. Now for Radzivill's property, gracious gentlemen, now for Radzivill's property! You do not know yet as much of Radzivill as I do!" Further outbursts were interrupted by the Lauda men, who ran one after another to greet their colonel. The Butryms, the Smoky Gostsyeviches, the Domasheviches, the Stakyans, the Gashtovts, crowded around the wagon, and powerful throats bellowed continually,-- "Vivat! vivat!" "Gracious gentlemen," said the little knight when it grew somewhat quieter, "most beloved comrades, I thank you for your love. It is a terrible thing that we must refuse obedience to the hetman, and raise hands against him; but since his treason is clear, we cannot do otherwise. We will not desert our country and our gracious king--Vivat Johannes Casimirus Rex!" "Vivat Johannes Casimirus Rex!" repeated three hundred voices. "Attack the property of Radzivill!" shouted Zagloba, "empty his larders and cellars!" "Horses for us!" cried the little knight. They galloped for horses. Then Zagloba said, "Pan Michael, I was hetman over these people in place of you, and I acknowledge willingly that they acted with manfulness; but as you are now free, I yield the command into your hands." "Let your grace take command, as superior in rank," said Pan Michael, turning to Mirski. "I do not think of it, and why should I?" said the old colonel. "Then perhaps Pan Stankyevich?" "I have my own squadron, and I will not take his from a stranger. Remain in command; ceremony is chopped straw, satisfaction is oats! You know the men, they know you, and they will fight better under you." "Do so, Michael, do so, for otherwise it would not be well," said Pan Yan. "I will do so." So saying, Pan Michael took the baton from Zagloba's hands, drew up the squadron for marching, and moved with his comrades to the head of it. "And where shall we go?" asked Zagloba. "To tell the truth, I don't know myself, for I have not thought of that," answered Pan Michael. "It is worth while to deliberate on what we should do," said Mirski, "and we must begin at once. But may I be permitted first to give thanks to Pan Zagloba in the name of all, that he did not forget us in straits and rescued us so effectually?" "Well," said Zagloba, with pride, raising his head and twisting his mustache. "Without me you would be in Birji! Justice commands to acknowledge that what no man can think out, Zagloba thinks out. Pan Michael, we were in straits not like these. Remember how I saved you when we were fleeing before the Tartars with Helena?" Pan Michael might have answered that in that juncture not Zagloba saved him, but he Zagloba; still he was silent, and his mustache began to quiver. The old noble spoke on,-- "Thanks are not necessary, since what I did for you today you certainly would not fail to do for me to-morrow in case of need. I am as glad to see you free as if I had gained the greatest battle. It seems that neither my hand nor my head has grown very old yet." "Then you went straightway to Upita?" asked Volodyovski. "But where should I go,--to Kyedani?--crawl into the wolf's throat? Of course to Upita; and it is certain that I did not spare the horse, and a good beast he was. Yesterday early I was in Upita, and at midday we started for Birji, in the direction in which I expected to meet you." "And how did my men believe you at once? For, with the exception of two or three who saw you at my quarters, they did not know you." "To tell the truth, I had not the least difficulty; for first of all, I had your ring, Pan Michael, and secondly, the men had just learned of your arrest and the treason of the hetman. I found a deputation to them from Pan Mirski's squadron and that of Pan Stankyevich, asking to join them against the hetman, the traitor. When I informed them that you were being taken to Birji, it was as if a man had thrust a stick into an ant-hill. Their horses were at pasture; boys were sent at once to bring them in, and at midday we started. I took the command openly, for it belonged to me." "But, father, where did you get the bunchuk?" asked Pan Yan. "We thought from a distance that you were the hetman." "Of course, I did not look worse than he? Where did I get the bunchuk? Well, at the same time with the deputations from the resisting squadrons, came also Pan Shchyt with a command to the Lauda men to march to Kyedani, and he brought a bunchuk to give greater weight to the command. I ordered his arrest on the spot, and had the bunchuk borne above me to deceive the Swedes if I met them." "As God lives, he thought all out wisely!" cried Oskyerko. "As Solomon!" added Stankyevich. Zagloba swelled up as if he were yeast. "Let us take counsel at once as to what should be done," said he at last. "If it is agreeable to the company to listen to me with patience, I will tell what I have thought over on the road. I do not advise you to commence war with Radzivill now, and this for two reasons: first, because he is a pike and we are perches. It is better for perches never to turn head to a pike, for he can swallow them easily, but tail, for then the sharp scales protect them. May the devil fix him on a spit in all haste, and baste him with pitch lest he burn overmuch." "Secondly?" asked Mirski. "Secondly," answered Zagloba, "if at any time, by any fortune, we should fall into his hands, he would give us such a flaying that all the magpies in Lithuania would have something to scream about. See what was in that letter which Kovalski was taking to the Swedish commandant at Birji, and know the voevoda of Vilna, in case he was unknown to you hitherto." So saying, he unbuttoned his vest, and taking from his bosom a letter, gave it to Mirski. "Pshaw! it is in German or Swedish," said the old colonel. "Who can read this letter?" It appeared that Pan Stanislav alone knew a little German, for he had gone frequently to Torun (Thorn), but he could not read writing. "I will tell you the substance of it," said Zagloba. "When in Upita the soldiers sent to the pasture for their horses, there was a little time. I gave command to bring to me by the locks a Jew whom every one said was dreadfully wise, and he, with a sabre at his throat, read quickly all that was in the letter and shelled it out to me. Behold the hetman enjoined on the commandant at Birji, and for the good of the King of Sweden directed him, after the convoy had been sent back, to shoot every one of us, without sparing a man, but so to do it that no report might go abroad." All the colonels began to clap their hands, except Mirski, who, shaking his head, said,-- "It was for me who knew him marvellous, and not find a place in my head, that he would let us out of Kyedani. There must surely be reasons to us unknown, for which he could not put us to death himself." "Doubtless for him it was a question of public opinion." "Maybe." "It is wonderful how venomous he is," said the little knight; "for without mentioning services, I and Ganhof saved his life not so long ago." "And I," said Stankyevich, "served under his father and under him thirty-five years." "He is a terrible man!" added Pan Stanislav. "It is better not to crawl into the hands of such a one," said Zagloba. "Let the devils take him! We will avoid fighting with him, but we will pluck bare these estates of his that lie on our way." "Let us go to the voevoda of Vityebsk, so as to have some defence, some leader; and on the road we will take what can be had from the larders, stables, granaries, and cellars. My soul laughs at the thought, and it is sure that I will let no one surpass me in this work. What money we can take from land-bailiffs we will take. The more noisily and openly we go to the voevoda of Vityebsk, the more gladly will he receive us." "He will receive us gladly as we are," said Oskyerko. "But it is good advice to go to him, and better can no one think out at present." "Will all agree to that?" asked Stankyevich. "As true as life!" said Pan Mirski. "So then to the voevoda of Vityebsk! Let him be that leader for whom we prayed to God." "Amen!" said the others. They rode some time in silence, till at last Pan Michael began to be uneasy in the saddle. "But could we not pluck the Swedes somewhere on the road?" asked he at last, turning his eyes to his comrades. "My advice is: if a chance comes, why not?" answered Stankyevich. "Doubtless Radzivill assured the Swedes that he had all Lithuania in his hands, and that all were deserting Yan Kazimir willingly; let it be shown that this is not true." "And properly!" said Mirski. "If some detachment crawls into our way, we will ride over it. I will say also: Attack not the prince himself, for we could not stand before him, he is a great warrior! But, avoiding battles, it is worth while to move about Kyedani a couple of days." "To plunder Radzivill's property?" asked Zagloba. "No, but to assemble more men. My squadron and that of Pan Stankyevich will join us. If they are already defeated,--and they may be,--the men will come to us singly. It will not pass either without a rally of nobles to us. We will bring Pan Sapyeha fresh forces with which he can easily undertake something." In fact, that reckoning was good; and the dragoons of the convoy served as the first example, though Kovalski himself resisted--all his men went over without hesitation to Pan Michael. There might be found more such men in Radzivill's ranks. It might also be supposed that the first attack on the Swedes would call forth a general uprising in the country. Pan Michael determined therefore to move that night toward Ponyevyej, assemble whom he could of the Lauda nobles in the vicinity of Upita, and thence plunge into the wilderness of Rogovsk, in which, as he expected, the remnants of the defeated resisting squadrons would be in hiding. Meanwhile he halted for rest at the river Lavecha, to refresh horses and men. They halted there till night, looking from the density of the forest to the high-road, along which were passing continually new crowds of peasants, fleeing to the woods before the expected Swedish invasion. The soldiers sent out on the road brought in from time to time single peasants as informants concerning the Swedes; but it was impossible to learn much from them. The peasants were frightened, and each repeated separately that the Swedes were here and there, but no one could give accurate information. When it had become completely dark, Pan Volodyovski commanded the men to mount their horses; but before they started a rather distinct sound of bells came to their ears. "What is that?" asked Zagloba, "it is too late for the Angelus." Volodyovski listened carefully, for a while. "That is an alarm!" said he. Then he went along the line. "And does any one here know what village or town there is in that direction?" "Klavany, Colonel," answered one of the Gostsyeviches; "we go that way with potash." "Do you hear bells?" "We hear! That is something unusual." Volodyovski nodded to the trumpeter, and in a low note the trumpet sounded in the dark forest. The squadron pushed forward. The eyes of all were fixed in the direction from which the ringing came each moment more powerful; indeed they were not looking in vain, for soon a red light gleamed on the horizon and increased every moment. "A fire!" muttered the men in the ranks. Pan Michael bent toward Skshetuski. "The Swedes!" said he. "We will try them!" answered Pan Yan. "It is a wonder to me that they are setting fire." "The nobles must have resisted, or the peasants risen if they attacked the church." "Well, we shall see!" said Pan Michael. And he was panting with satisfaction. Then Zagloba clattered up to him. "Pan Michael?" "What?" "I see that the odor of Swedish flesh has come to you. There will surely be a battle, will there not?" "As God gives, as God gives!" "But who will guard the prisoner?" "What prisoner?" "Of course, not me, but Kovalski. Pan Michael, it is a terribly important thing that he should not escape. Remember that the hetman knows nothing of what has happened, and will learn from no one, if Kovalski does not report to him. It is requisite to order some trusty men to guard him; for in time of battle he might escape easily, especially if he takes up some stratagem." "He is as capable of stratagems as the wagon on which he is sitting. But you are right; it is necessary to station some one near. Will you have him under your eye during this time?" "H'm! I am sorry to be away from the battle! It is true that in the night near fire I am as good as blind. If it were in the daytime you would never have persuaded me; but since the public good requires it, let this be so." "Very well, I will leave you with five soldiers to assist; and if he tries to escape, fire at his head." "I'll squeeze him like wax in my fingers, never fear!--But the fire is increasing every moment. Where shall I stay with Kovalski?" "Wherever you like. I've no time now!" answered Pan Michael, and he rode on. The flames were spreading rapidly. The wind was blowing from the fire and toward the squadron, and with the sound of bells brought the report of firearms. "On a trot!" commanded Volodyovski. CHAPTER XIX. When near the village, the Lauda men slackened their speed, and saw a broad street so lighted by flames that pins might be picked from the ground; for on both sides a number of cottages were burning, and others were catching fire from these gradually, for the wind was strong and carried sparks, nay, whole clusters of them, like fiery birds, to the adjoining roofs. On the street the flames illuminated greater and smaller crowds of people moving quickly in various directions. The cries of men were mingled with the sounds of the church-bells hidden among trees, with the bellowing of cattle, the barking of dogs, and with infrequent discharges of firearms. After they had ridden nearer, Volodyovski's soldiers saw troopers wearing round hats, not many men. Some were skirmishing with groups of peasants, armed with scythes and forks; firing at them from pistols, and pushing them beyond the cottages, into the gardens; others were driving oxen, cows, and sheep to the road with rapiers; others, whom it was barely possible to distinguish among whole clouds of feathers, had covered themselves with poultry, with wings fluttering in the agonies of death; some were holding horses, each man having two or three belonging to officers who were occupied evidently in plundering the cottages. The road to the village descended somewhat from a hill in the midst of a birch-grove; so that the Lauda men, without being seen themselves, saw, as it were, a picture representing the enemy's attack on the village, lighted up by flames, in the glare of which could be clearly distinguished foreign soldiers, villagers, women dragged by troopers, and men defending themselves in disordered groups. All were moving violently, like puppets on springs, shouting, cursing, lamenting. The conflagration shook a full mane of flame over the village, and roared each moment more terribly. Volodyovski led his men to the open gate, and ordered them to slacken their pace. He might strike, and with one blow wipe out the invaders, who were expecting nothing; but the little knight had determined "to taste the Swedes" in open battle,--he had so arranged that they might see him coming. Some horsemen, standing near the gate, saw the approaching squadron first. One of them sprang to an officer, who stood with drawn rapier in the midst of a considerable group of horsemen, in the middle of the road, and began to speak to him, pointing to where Volodyovski was descending with his men. The officer shaded his eyes with his hand and gazed for a time; then he gave a sign, and at once the sharp sound of a trumpet was heard, mingled with various cries of men and beasts. And here our knight could admire the regularity of the Swedish soldiers; for barely were the first tones of the trumpet heard, when some of the horsemen rushed out in hot haste from the cottages, others left the plundered articles, the oxen and sheep, and ran to their horses. In the twinkle of an eye they stood in regular line; at sight of which the little knight's heart rose with wonder, so select were the men. All were large, sturdy fellows, dressed in coats, with leather straps over the shoulders, and black hats with rim raised on the left side; all had matched bay horses, and stood in line with rapiers at their shoulders, looking sharply, but calmly, at the road. An officer stepped forth from the line with a trumpeter, wishing apparently to inquire what sort of men were approaching so slowly. Evidently they were thought to be one of Radzivill's squadrons, from which no encounter was expected. The officer began to wave his rapier and his hat; the trumpeter sounded continually, as a sign that they wished to parley. "Let some one fire at him," said the little knight, "so that he may know what to expect from us." The report sounded; but the shot did not reach, for the distance was too great. Evidently the officer thought that there was some misunderstanding, for he began to shout and to wave his hat. "Let him have it a second time!" cried Volodyovski. After the second discharge the officer turned and moved, though not too hurriedly, toward his own, who also approached him on a trot. The first rank of Lauda men were now entering the gate. The Swedish officer, riding up, shouted to his men; the rapiers, hitherto standing upright by the shoulders of the horsemen, dropped and hung at their belts; but all at the same instant drew pistols from the holsters, and rested them on the pommels of their saddles, holding the muzzle upward. "Finished soldiers!" muttered Volodyovski, seeing the rapidity of their movements, which were simultaneous and almost mechanical. Then he looked at his own men to see if the ranks were in order, straightened himself in the saddle, and cried,-- "Forward!" The Lauda men bent down to the necks of their horses, and rushed on like a whirlwind. The Swedes let them come near, and then gave a simultaneous discharge from their pistols; but this did little harm to the Lauda men hidden behind the heads of their horses; only a few dropped the reins and fell backward, the rest rushed on and struck the horsemen, breast to breast. The Lithuanian light squadrons used lances yet, which in the army of the kingdom the hussars alone used; but Volodyovski expecting a battle at close quarters, had ordered his men to plant their lances at the roadside, therefore it came to sabres at once. The first impetus was not sufficient to break the Swedes, but it pushed them back, so that they began to retreat, cutting and thrusting with their rapiers; but the Lauda men pushed them furiously along the road. Bodies began to fall thickly. The throng grew denser each moment; the clatter of sabres frightened the peasants out of the broad road, in which the heat from the burning houses was unendurable, though the houses were separated from the road and the fences by gardens. The Swedes, pressed with increasing vigor, retreated gradually, but still in good order. It was difficult moreover to scatter them, since strong fences closed the road on both sides. At times they tried to stop, but were unable to do so. It was a wonderful battle, in which, by reason of the relatively narrow place of meeting, only the first ranks fought, those next in order could only push forward those standing in front of them; but just for this reason the struggle was turned into a furious encounter. Volodyovski, having previously requested the old colonels and Pan Yan to look after the men during the attack, enjoyed himself to the full in the first rank. And every moment some Swedish hat fell before him in the throng, as if it had dived into the ground; sometimes a rapier, torn from the hand of a horseman, flew whistling above the rank, and at the same instant was heard the piercing cry of a man, and again a hat fell; a second took its place, then a third the place of the second; but Volodyovski pushed ever forward. His eyes glittered like two ill-omened sparks, but he was not carried away and did not forget himself; at moments, when he had no one at sword's length in front of him, he turned his face and blade somewhat to the right or left, and destroyed in the twinkle of an eye a horseman, with a movement apparently trifling; and he was terrible through these slight and lightning movements which were almost not human. As a woman pulling hemp disappears in it and is hidden completely, but by the falling stalks her road is known easily, so he vanished from the eye for a time in the throng of large men; but where soldiers were falling like stalks under the sickle of the harvester who cuts near the ground, there was Pan Michael. Pan Stanislav and the gloomy Yuzva Butrym, called Footless, followed hard in his track. At length the Swedish rear ranks began to push out from between the fences to the broad grass-plot before the church and the bell-tower, and after them came the front ranks. Now was heard the command of the officer, who wished evidently to bring all his men into action at once; and the oblong rectangular body of horsemen stretched out, deployed in the twinkle of an eye, into a long line to present its whole front. But Pan Yan, who directed the battle and led the squadron, did not imitate the Swede; he rushed forward with a dense column which, striking the now weaker line, broke it, as if with a wedge, and turned swiftly to the right toward the church, taking with this movement the rear of one half of the Swedes, while on the other half Mirski and Stankyevich sprang with the reserve in which were a part of the Lauda men and all of Kovalski's dragoons. Two battles now began; but they did not last long. The left wing, on which Pan Yan had struck, was unable to form, and scattered first; the right, in which was the commanding officer, resisted longer, but being too much extended, it began to break, to fall into disorder, and at last followed the example of the left wing. The grass-plot was broad, but unfortunately was enclosed on all sides by a lofty fence; and the church-servants closed and propped the opposite gate when they saw what was taking place. The scattered Swedes then ran around, but the Lauda men rushed after them. In some places larger groups fought, a number at a time, with sabres and rapiers; in other places the conflict was turned into a series of duels, and man met man, the rapier crossed the sabre, and at times the report of a pistol burst forth. Here and there a Swedish horseman, escaping from one sabre, ran, as if to a trap, under another. Here and there a Swede or a Lithuanian rose from under a fallen horse and fell that moment under the blow of a weapon awaiting him. Through the grass-plot terrified horses rushed about riderless, with waving mane and nostrils distended from fear; some bit one another; others, blinded from fright, turned their tails to the groups of fighting men and kicked them. Pan Volodyovski, hurling down Swedes as he went, searched the whole place with his eyes for the officer in command; at last he saw him defending himself against two Butryms, and he sprang toward him. "Aside!" cried he to the Butryms, "aside!" The obedient soldiers sprang aside, the little knight rushed on and closed with the Swede, the horses of the two stood on their haunches. The officer wished evidently to unhorse his opponent with a thrust; but Volodyovski, interposing the hilt of his sabre, described a half-circle like lightning, and the rapier flew away. The officer bent to his holsters, but, cut through the cheek at that moment, he dropped the reins from his left hand. "Take him alive!" shouted Volodyovski to the Butryms. The Lauda men seized the wounded officer and held him tottering in the saddle; the little knight pushed on and rode farther against the Swedes, quenching them before him like candles. But the Swedes began to yield everywhere before the nobles, who were more adroit in fencing and single combat. Some of the Swedes, seizing their rapier blades, extended the hilts to their opponents; others threw their weapons at their feet; the word "Pardon!" was heard more and more frequently on the field. But no attention was paid to the word, for Pan Michael had commanded to spare but few. The Swedes, seeing this, rushed anew to the struggle, and died as became soldiers after a desperate defence, redeeming richly with blood their own death. An hour later the last of them were cut down. The peasants ran in crowds from the village to the grass-plot to catch the horses, kill the wounded, and plunder the dead. Such was the end of the first encounter of Lithuanians with Swedes. Meanwhile Zagloba, stationed at a distance in the birch-grove with the wagon in which lay Pan Roh, was forced to hear the bitter reproach that, though a relative, he had treated that young man shamefully. "Uncle, you have ruined me utterly, for not only is a bullet in the head waiting for me at Kyedani, but eternal infamy will fall on my name. Henceforth whoso wants to say, 'Fool,' may say, 'Roh Kovalski!'" "The truth is that not many will be found to contradict him," answered Zagloba; "and the best proof of your folly is that you wonder at being hung on a hook by me who moved the Khan of the Crimea as a puppet. Well, did you think to yourself, worthless fellow, that I would let you take me and other men of importance to Birji, and throw us, the ornaments of the Commonwealth, into the jaws of the Swedes?" "I was not taking you of my own will." "But you were the servant of an executioner, and that for a noble is infamy from which you must purify yourself, or I will renounce you and all the Kovalskis. To be a traitor is worse than to be a crabmonger, but to be the servant of some one worse than a crabmonger is the lowest thing." "I was serving the hetman." "And the hetman the devil. There you have it! You are a fool, Roh: get that into your head once and forever, dispute not, but hold to my skirts, and a man will come of you yet; for know this, that advancement has met more than one personage through me." The rattle of shots interrupted further conversation, for the battle was just beginning in the village. Then the discharges stopped, but the noise continued, and shouts reached that retreat in the birch-grove. "Ah, Pan Michael is working," said Zagloba. "He is not big, but he bites like a viper. They are shelling out those devils from over the sea like peas. I would rather be there than here, and through you I must listen here. Is this your gratitude? Is this the act of a respectable relative?" "What have I to be grateful for?" asked Roh. "For this, that a traitor is not ploughing with you, as with an ox,--though you are grandly fitted for ploughing, since you are stupid and strong. Understand me? Ai! it is getting hotter and hotter there. Do you hear? That must be the Swedes who are bawling like calves in a pasture." Here Zagloba became serious, for he was a little disturbed; on a sudden he asked, looking quickly into Pan Roh's eyes,-- "To whom do you wish victory?" "To ours, of course." "See that! And why not to the Swedes?" "I would rather pound them. Who are ours, are ours!" "Conscience is waking up in you. But how could you take your own blood to the Swedes?" "For I had an order." "But now you have no order?" "True." "Your superior is now Pan Volodyovski, no one else." "Well, that seems to be true." "You must do what Pan Volodyovski commands." "I must." "He commands you now to renounce Radzivill future, and not to serve him, but the country." "How is that?" asked Pan Roh, scratching his head. "A command!" cried Zagloba. "I obey!" said Kovalski. "That is right! At the first chance you will thrash the Swedes." "If it is the order, it is the order!" answered Kovalski, and breathed deeply, as if a great burden had fallen from his breast. Zagloba was equally well satisfied, for he had his own views concerning Kovalski. They began then to listen in harmony to the sounds of the battle which came to them, and listened about an hour longer, until all was silent. Zagloba was more and more alarmed. "If they have not succeeded?" asked he. "Uncle, you an old warrior and can say such things! If they were beaten they would come back to us in small groups." "True! I see thy wit will be of service." "Do you hear the tramp, Uncle? They are riding slowly. They must have cut the Swedes to pieces." "Oi, if they are only ours! Shall I go forward, or not?" Saying this, Zagloba dropped his sabre at his side, took his pistol in his hand, and moved forward. Soon he saw before him a dark mass moving slowly along the road; at the same time noise of conversation reached him. In front rode a number of men talking with one another loudly; soon the well-known voice of Pan Michael struck the ear of Zagloba. "They are good men! I don't know what kind of infantry they have, but the cavalry is perfect." Zagloba touched his horse with the spurs. "Ah! how is it, how is it? Oh, impatience was tearing me, I wanted to fly into the fire! But is no one wounded?" "All are sound, praise to God; but we have lost more than twenty good soldiers." "And the Swedes?" "We laid them down like a pavement." "Pan Michael, you must have enjoyed yourself as a dog in a spring. But was it a decent thing to leave me, an old man, on guard? The soul came near going out of me, so much did I want Swedish meat. Oh, I should have gnawed them!" "You may have a roast now if you like, for a number of them are in the fire." "Let the dogs eat them. And were prisoners taken?" "A captain, and seven soldiers." "What do you think to do with them?" "I would have them hanged, for like robbers they fell on an innocent village and were killing the people. Yan says, however, that that will not do." "Listen to me, gentlemen, hear what has come to my head just now: there is no good in hanging them; on the contrary, let them go to Birji as soon as possible." "What for?" "You know me as a soldier, know me now as a statesman. We will let the Swedes go, but we will not tell them who we are. We will say that we are Radzivill's men, that we have cut off this detachment at command of the hetman, and in future will cut off whom we meet, for the hetman only pretended, through strategy, to join the Swedes. They will break their heads over this, and thus we will undermine the hetman's credit terribly. Just think, this hits the Swedes and hits Radzivill too. Kyedani is far from Birji, and Radzivill is still farther from Pontus de la Gardie. Before they explain to each other what has happened and how, they will be ready to fight. We will set the traitor against the invaders; and who will gain by this, if not the Commonwealth?" "This is excellent counsel, and quite worth the victory. May the bullets strike him!" said Stankyevich. "You have the mind of a chancellor," added Mirski, "for this will disturb their plans." "Surely we should act thus," said Pan Michael. "I will set them free to-morrow; but to-day I do not wish to know of anything, for I am dreadfully wearied. It was as hot in the village as in an oven! Uf! my arms are paralyzed completely. The officer could not go to-day in any case, for his face is cut." "But in what language shall we tell them all this? What is your counsel, father?" asked Pan Yan. "I have been thinking of that too," answered Zagloba. "Kovalski told me that there are two Prussians among his dragoons who know how to jabber German, and are sharp fellows. Let them tell in German,--which the Swedes know of course, after fighting so many years in Germany. Kovalski is ours, soul and body. He is a man in a hundred, and we will have no small profit from him." "Well done!" said Volodyovski. "Will some of you, gentlemen, be so kind as to see to this, for I have no voice in my throat from weariness? I have told the men that we shall stay in this grove till morning. The villagers will bring us food, and now to sleep! My lieutenant will see to the watch. 'Pon my word, I cannot see you, for my eyes are closing." "Gentlemen," said Zagloba, "there is a stack of hay just outside the birches; let us go to the stack, we shall sleep like susliks, and to the road on the morrow. We shall not come back to this country, unless with Pan Sapyeha against Radzivill." CHAPTER XX. In Lithuania a civil war had begun, which, with two invasions of the Commonwealth and the ever more stubborn war of the Ukraine, filled the measure of misfortune. The army of the Lithuanian quota, though so small in number that alone it could not offer effectual resistance to any of the enemies, was divided into two camps. Some regiments, and specially the foreign ones, remained with Radzivill; others, forming the majority, proclaimed the hetman a traitor, protested in arms against joining Sweden, but without unity, without a leader, without a plan. Sapyeha might be its leader, but he was too much occupied at that time with the defence of Byhovo and with the desperate struggle in the interior of the country, to be able to take his place immediately at the head of the movement against Radzivill. Meanwhile the invaders, each considering a whole region as his own, began to send threatening messages to the other. From their misunderstandings might rise in time the salvation of the Commonwealth; but before it came to hostile steps between them there reigned the most terrible chaos in all Lithuania. Radzivill, deceived in the army, determined to bring it to obedience through force. Volodyovski had barely reached Ponyevyej with his squadron, after the battle of Klavany, when news came to him of the destruction, by Radzivill, of Mirski's squadron, and that of Stankyevich. Some of the men were placed by force among Radzivill's troops; others were cut down or scattered to the four winds; the remainder were wandering singly or in small groups through villages and forests, seeking a place to hide their heads from vengeance and pursuit. Fugitives came daily to Pan Michael's detachment, increasing his force and bringing news the most varied. The most important item was news of the mutiny of Lithuanian troops stationed in Podlyasye, near Byalystok and Tykotsin. After the armies of Moscow had occupied Vilno the squadrons from that place had to cover the approach to the territories of the kingdom. But hearing of the hetman's treason, they formed a confederation, at the head of which were two colonels, Horotkyevich and Yakub Kmita, a cousin of Andrei, the most trusty assistant of Radzivill. The name of the latter was repeated with horror by the soldiers. He mainly had caused the dispersion of Stankyevich's squadron and that of Mirski; he shot without mercy the captured officers. The hetman trusted him blindly, and just recently had sent him against Nyevyarovski's squadron, which, disregarding the example of its colonel, refused obedience. Volodyovski heard the last account with great attention; then he turned to the officers summoned in counsel, and asked,-- "What would you say to this,--that we, instead of hurrying to the voevoda of Vityebsk, go to those squadrons which have formed a confederacy in Podlyasye?" "You have taken that out of my mouth!" said Zagloba "It is nearer home there, and it is always pleasanter among one's own people." "Fugitives mention too a report," added Pan Yan, "that the king has ordered some squadrons to return from the Ukraine, to oppose the Swedes on the Vistula. If this should prove true, we might be among old comrades instead of pounding from corner to corner." "But who is going to command those squadrons? Does any one know?" "They say that Charnyetski will," answered Volodyovski; "but people say this rather than know it, for positive intelligence could not come yet." "However it may be," said Zagloba, "my advice is to hurry to Podlyasye. We can bring to our side those squadrons that have risen against Radzivill, and take them to the king, and that certainly will not be without a reward." "Let it be so!" said Oskyerko and Stankyevich. "It is not easy," said the little knight, "to get to Podlyasye, for we shall have to slip through the fingers of the hetman. If fortune meanwhile should grant us to snap up Kmita somewhere on the road, I would speak a couple of words in his ear, from which his skin would grow green." "He deserves it," said Mirski. "That some old soldiers who have served their whole lives under the Radzivills hold to the hetman, is less to be wondered at; but that swaggerer serves only for his own profit, and the pleasure which he finds in betrayal." "So then to Podlyasye?" asked Oskyerko. "To Podlyasye! to Podlyasye!" cried all in one voice. But still the affair was difficult, as Volodyovski had said; for to go to Podlyasye it was necessary to pass near Kyedani, as near a den in which a lion was lurking. The roads and lines of forest, the towns and villages were in the hands of Radzivill; somewhat beyond Kyedani was Kmita, with cavalry, infantry, and cannon. The hetman had heard already of the escape of the colonels, the mutiny of Volodyovski's squadron, and the battle of Klavany; the last brought him to such rage that there was fear for his life, since a terrible attack of asthma had for a time almost stopped his breathing. In truth he had cause enough for anger, and even for despair, since that battle brought on his head a whole Swedish tempest. People began at once after this battle to cut up here and there small Swedish detachments. Peasants did this, and individual nobles independently; but the Swedes laid it to the account of Radzivill, especially as the officers and men sent by Volodyovski to Birji declared before the commandant that one of Radzivill's squadrons had fallen upon them at his command. In a week a letter came to the prince from the commandant at Birji, and ten days later from Pontus de la Gardie himself, the commander-in-chief of the Swedish forces. "Either your highness has no power and significance," wrote the latter,--"and in such case how could you conclude a treaty in the name of the whole country!--or it is your wish to bring about through artifice the ruin of the king's army. If that is the case, the favor of my master will turn from your highness, and punishment will come quickly, unless you show obedience and efface your faults by faithful service." Radzivill sent couriers at once with an explanation of what had happened and how; but the dart had fastened in his haughty soul, and the burning wound began to rankle more and more. He whose word not long before terrified the country more than all Sweden; he for the half of whose property all the Swedish lords might have been bought; he who stood against his own king, thinking himself the equal of monarchs; he who had acquired fame in the whole world by his victories, and who walked in his own pride as in sunshine--must now listen to the threats of one Swedish general, must hear lectures on obedience and faithfulness. It is true that that general was brother-in-law to the king; but the king himself,--who was he? A usurper of the throne belonging by right and inheritance to Yan Kazimir. Above all, the rage of the hetman was turned against those who were the cause of that humiliation, and he swore to himself to trample Volodyovski and those colonels who were with him and the whole squadron of Lauda. With this object he marched against them; and as hunters to clear out the wolf's nest surround a forest with shares, he surrounded them and began to pursue without rest. Meanwhile tidings came that Kmita had crushed Nyevyarovski's squadron, cut down or scattered the officers, and joined the men to his own. Radzivill, to strike the more surely, commanded Pan Andrei to send him some of these troops. "Those men," wrote the hetman, "for whose lives you interceded with us so persistently, and mainly Volodyovski with that other straggler, escaped on the road to Birji. We sent the stupidest officer with them on purpose, so that they might not win him over; but even he either became a traitor, or they fooled him. Now Volodyovski has the whole Lauda squadron, and fugitives are reinforcing him. They cut to pieces one hundred and twenty Swedes at Klavany, saying that they did it at our command, from which great distrust has arisen between us and Pontus. The whole cause may be ruined by those traitors, whose heads, had it not been for your interference, would have been cut off at our command, as God is in heaven. So we have to repent of our mildness, though we hope in God that vengeance will soon overtake them. Tidings have come to us, too, that in Billeviche nobles assemble at the house of the sword-bearer and conspire against us. This must be stopped! You will send all the cavalry to us, and the infantry to Kyedani to guard the castle and the town, for from those traitors anything may be expected. You will go yourself with some tens of horsemen to Billeviche, and bring the sword-bearer and his niece to Kyedani. At present it is important, not only for you, but for us; for whoso has them in hand has the whole Lauda region, in which the nobles, following the example of Volodyovski, are beginning to rise against us. We have sent Harasimovich to Zabludovo with instructions how to begin with those confederates. Of great importance among them is Yakub, your cousin, to whom you will write, if you think you can act on him through a letter. Signifying to you our continual favor, we commit you to the care of God." When Kmita had read this letter, he was content at heart that the colonels had succeeded in escaping the Swedes, and in secret he wished them to escape Radzivill. Still he carried out all commands of the prince, sent him the cavalry, garrisoned Kyedani with infantry, and began to make trenches along the castle and the town, promising himself to go immediately after this work was done to Billeviche for the sword-bearer and the young woman. "I will use no force, unless in the last resort," thought he, "and in no case will I urge Olenka. Finally, it is not my will, 'tis the command of the prince. She will not receive me pleasantly, I know; but God grant that in time she will know my intentions, and that I serve Radzivill not against the country, but for its salvation." Thinking thus, he labored zealously at fortifying Kyedani, which was to be the residence of his Olenka in the future. Meanwhile Volodyovski was slipping away before the hetman, but the hetman pursued him furiously. It was, however, too narrow for Pan Michael; for from Birji considerable detachments of Swedish troops pushed toward the south, the east of the country was occupied by the legions of the Tsar, and on the road to Kyedani the hetman was lying in wait. Zagloba was greatly depressed by such a condition of affairs, and he turned with increasing frequency to Pan Michael with questions: "Pan Michael, by the love of God, shall we break through or shall we not break through?" "There is not even talk of breaking through here," answered the little knight. "You know that I am not lined with cowardice, and that I attack whom I will, even the devil himself. But I cannot meet the hetman, for I am not equal to him. You have said yourself that he is a pike and we perches. I shall do what is in my power to slip out, but if it comes to a battle, I tell you plainly that he will defeat us." "Then he will command to chop us up and throw us to the dogs. As God lives! into any man's hands save Radzivill's! But in this case why not turn to Pan Sapyeha?" "It is too late now, for the hetman's troops and the Swedes have closed the roads." "The devil tempted me when I persuaded Pan Yan and his cousin to go to Radzivill!" said Zagloba, in despair. But Pan Michael did not lose hope yet, especially since the nobles, and even the peasants, brought him warning of the hetman's movements; for all hearts were turning from Radzivill. Pan Michael twisted out therefore as he knew how,--and he knew how famously, for almost from childhood he had inured himself to war with Tartars and Cossacks. He had been made renowned in the army of Yeremi by descents on Tartar chambuls, by scouting expeditions, unexpected attacks, lightning escapes, in which he surpassed other officers. At present hemmed in between Upita and Rogova on one side and Nyevyaja on the other, he doubled around on the space of a few miles, avoiding battle continually, worrying the Radzivill squadrons, and even plucking them a little as a wolf hunted by dogs slips by often near the hunters, and when the dogs press him too closely, turns and shows his white gleaming teeth. But when Kmita's cavalry came up, the hetman closed the narrowest gaps with them, and went himself to see that the two ends of the snare came together. That was at Nyevyaja. The regiments of Myeleshko and Ganhoff with two squadrons of cavalry, under the lead of the prince himself, formed as it were a bow, the string of which was the river. Volodyovski with his squadron was in the centre of the bow. He had in front of him, it is true, one ford which led through a swampy stream, but just on the other side of the ford were two Scottish regiments and two hundred of Radzivill's Cossacks, with six fieldpieces, turned in such manner that even one man could not have reached the other side under the fire of them. Now the bow began to contract. The middle of it was led by the hetman himself. Happily for Volodyovski, night and a storm with pouring rain stopped the advance; but for the enclosed men there remained not more than a square half-mile of meadow, grown over with willows, in the middle of the half-ring of Radzivill's army, and the river guarded on the other side by the Scots. Next morning when the early dawn was just whitening the tops of the willows, the regiments moved forward to the river and were struck dumb with amazement. Volodyovski had gone through the earth,--there was not a living soul in the willows. The hetman himself was astounded, and then real thunders fell on the heads of the officers commanding at the ford. And again an attack of asthma seized the prince with such force that those present trembled for his life. But rage overcame even the asthma. Two officers, intrusted with guarding the bank, were to be shot; but Ganhoff prevailed on the prince to have inquiries made first as to how the beast had escaped from the toils. It appeared in fact that Volodyovski, taking advantage of the darkness and rain, had led his whole squadron out of the willows into the river, and swimming or wading with the current had slipped along Radzivill's right wing, which touched the bank at that point. Some horses, sunk to their bellies in the mud, indicated the place where he had come out on the right bank. From farther tracks it was easy to see that he had moved with all horse-breath in the direction of Kyedani. The hetman guessed at once from this that he wished to make his way to Horotkyevich and Yakub Kmita in Podlyasye. "But in passing near Kyedani would he not burn the town or try to plunder the castle?" A terrible fear straitened the heart of the prince. The greater part of his ready money and treasures were in Kyedani. Kmita, it is true, was bound to supply it with infantry; but if he had not done so, the undefended castle would easily become plunder for the insolent colonel. Radzivill felt sure that courage would not be wanting Volodyovski to attack the residence of Kyedani itself. It might be that time would not be wanting, for escaping in the beginning of the night he had left pursuit at least six hours behind. In every case it was imperative to hasten with all breath to the rescue. The prince left the infantry, and pushed on with the cavalry. When he arrived at Kyedani he did not find Kmita, but he found everything quiet; and the opinion which he had of the young colonel's ability increased doubly at sight of the finished trenches and field-cannon standing on them. That same day he reviewed them in company with Ganhoff, to whom he remarked in the evening,-- "He acted thus of his own mind, without my order, and finished those trenches so well that a protracted defence might be made here, even against artillery. If that man does not break his neck too early, he may rise high." There was another man, at thought of whom the hetman could not restrain a certain kind of admiration, but mingled with rage, for the man was Pan Michael. "I could finish the mutiny soon," said he to Ganhoff, "if I had two such servants. Kmita may be still more alert, but he has not the experience, and the other was brought up in the school of Yeremi, beyond the Dnieper." "Does your highness give command to pursue him?" asked Ganhoff. The prince looked at Ganhoff, and said with emphasis, "He would beat you and escape from me." But after a while he frowned, and added, "Everything is quiet here now; but we must move to Podlyasye at once, and finish those there." "Your highness," said Ganhoff, "as soon as we move a foot out of this place, all will seize arms against the Swedes." "Which all?" "The nobles and peasants. And not stopping with the Swedes, they will turn against the dissidents, for they put all the blame of this war on our co-religionists, saying that we sent to the enemy, and in fact brought the enemy in." "It is a question with me of my cousin Boguslav. I know not whether he is able to hold out against the confederates in Podlyasye." "It is a question of Lithuania to keep it in obedience to us and the King of Sweden." The prince began to walk through the room, saying, "If I could in any way get Horotkyevich and Yakub Kmita into my hands! They will devour my property, destroy, plunder it; they will not leave a stone upon a stone." "Unless we stipulate with General de la Gardie to send hither as many troops as possible, while we are in Podlyasye." "With Pontus,--never!" answered Radzivill, to whose head a wave of blood rushed. "If with any one, with the king himself. I do not need to treat with servants when I can treat with their master. If the king were to command Pontus to place two thousand cavalry at my disposal, that would be another thing. But I will not ask Pontus for them. It is needful to send some one to the king; it is time to negotiate with him directly." The lean face of Ganhoff flushed slightly, and his eyes were lighted with desire. "If your highness commanded--" "You would go; but for you to arrive there is another thing. You are a German, and it is dangerous for a foreigner to enter an uprisen country. Who knows where the king is at this moment, and where he will be in half a month or a month? It is necessary to ride through the whole country. Besides, it cannot be! You will not go, for it is necessary to send one of my own people, a man of high family, so as to convince the king that not all the nobles have left me." "An inexperienced man might do much harm," said Ganhoff, timidly. "An envoy will have no work there except to deliver my letter, and bring back an answer; and any man can explain that it was not I who gave orders to beat the Swedes at Klavany." Ganhoff was silent. The prince began again to walk with unquiet steps through the room; on his forehead was manifest a continual struggle of thought. In truth, he had not known a moment of peace from the time of his treaty with the Swedes. Pride devoured him, his conscience gnawed him, the unexpected resistance of the country and the army gnawed him; the uncertainty of the future, and the threat of ruin terrified him. He struggled, he fought, he passed sleepless nights, he was failing in health. His eyes were sinking, he was growing thin; his face, formerly red, became blue, and almost with every hour silver threads increased in his mustaches and his forelock. In a word, he lived in torment, and bent under the burden. Ganhoff followed him with his eyes as he walked through the room; he had still a little hope that the prince would bethink himself, and send him. But the prince halted suddenly, and struck his forehead with his palm. "Two squadrons of cavalry, to horse at once! I will lead them myself." Ganhoff looked on him with wonderment. "An expedition?" inquired he, involuntarily. "Move on!" said the prince. "God grant that it be not too late!" CHAPTER XXI. When Kmita had finished the trenches and secured Kyedani from sudden attack, he was unable to delay further his expedition for the sword-bearer and Olenka, especially since the command of the prince to bring them to Kyedani was imperative. But still Pan Andrei loitered, and when at last he did move at the head of fifty dragoons, he was as unquiet as if going on a forlorn hope. He felt that he would not be thankfully received, and he trembled at the thought that the old man might try to resist, even with armed hand, and in such an event it would be necessary to use force. But he determined first to persuade and entreat. With the intent of stripping his visit of all semblance of armed attack, he left the dragoons at an inn a quarter of a mile from the village, and two from the house, and ordering the carriage to follow a little later, rode ahead himself, with only the sergeant and one attendant. It was in the afternoon, and the sun was already well inclined toward the west, but after a rainy and stormy night the day was beautiful and the sky pure, only here and there was it variegated on the western side by small rosy clouds which pushed slowly beyond the horizon, like a flock of sheep leaving a field. Kmita rode through the village with throbbing heart and as uneasy as the Tartar who entering a village first, in advance of a chambul, looks around on every side to see if he can discover armed men in ambush. But the three horsemen attracted no attention. Barefooted little peasant boys merely jumped out of the road before the horses; peasants seeing the handsome officer, bowed to him, sweeping the ground with their caps. He rode on, and passing the village saw ahead a large dwelling, the old Billevich nest; behind it broad gardens ending far beyond in the flat fields. Kmita slackened his pace still more, and began to talk with himself, evidently framing answers to questions; and meanwhile he gazed with anxious eye on the buildings rising before him. It was not at all a lordly mansion, but at the first glance it would have been guessed that a noble lived there of more than medium fortune. The house itself, with its back to the gardens and front to the highway, was enormous, but of wood. The pine of the walls had grown so dark with age that the panes in the windows seemed white in contrast. Above the walls rose a gigantic roof with four chimneys in the middle, and two dovecotes at the gables. A whole cloud of white doves were collected on the roof, now flying away with clapping of wings, now dropping, like snowy kerchiefs, on the black ridges, now flapping around the pillars supporting the entrance. That entrance, adorned with a shield on which the Billevich arms were painted, disturbed the proportions of the house, for it was not in the middle, but toward one side of it. Evidently the house had once been smaller, but new parts were added subsequently from one side, though the added parts had grown so black with the passage of years as not to differ in anything from the old. Two wings, of enormous length, rose on both sides of the house proper, and formed as it were two arms of a horseshoe. In these wings were guest-chambers used in time of great gatherings, kitchens, store-houses, carriage-houses, stables for carriage horses which the masters wished to keep near at hand, rooms for officials, servants, and house Cossacks. In the middle of the broad yard grew old linden-trees, on them were storks' nests. Among the trees was a bear chained to a pillar. Two well-sweeps at the sides of the yard, a cross with the Passion of the Lord between two spears at the entrance, completed this picture of the residence of a powerful, noble family. At the right of the house, in the middle of frequent linden-trees, rose the straw roofs of stables, cow-houses, sheep-houses, and granaries. Kmita entered the gate, which was open on both sides; like the arms of a noble awaiting the arrival of a guest. Then two dogs loitering through the yard announced the stranger, and from a wing two boys ran to take the horses. At the same moment in the door of the main building stood a female figure, in which Kmita recognized Olenka at once. His heart beat more quickly, and throwing the reins to the servant, he went toward the porch with uncovered head, holding in one hand his sabre, and in the other his cap. She stood before him like a charming vision, shading her eyes with her hand against the setting sun, and then vanished on a sudden, as if frightened by the sight of the approaching guest. "Bad!" thought Pan Andrei; "she hides from me." He was pained, and his pain was all the greater since just before the mild sunset, the view of that house, and the calm so spread around it filled his heart with hope, though perhaps Pan Andrei did not note that. He cherished as it were an illusion that he was going to his betrothed, who would receive him with eyes gleaming from joy and a blush on her cheeks. And the illusion was broken. Scarcely had she seen him when she rushed away, as if from an evil spirit; and straightway Pan Tomash came out to meet him with a face at once unquiet and cloudy. Kmita bowed and said, "I have long wished to express duly my devotion to you, my benefactor; but I was unable to do so sooner in these times of disturbance, though surely there was no lack in me of desire." "I am very grateful, and I beg you to enter," answered the sword-bearer, smoothing the forelock on his head,--an act usual with him when confused or uncertain of himself. And he stepped aside from the door to let the guest pass. Kmita for a while did not wish to enter first, and they bowed to each other on the threshold; at last Pan Andrei took the step before the sword-bearer, and in a moment they were in the room. They found there two nobles,--one, a man in the bloom of life, Pan Dovgird of Plemborg, a near neighbor of the Billeviches; the other, Pan Hudzynski, a tenant in Eyragoly. Kmita noticed that they had barely heard his name when their faces changed and they seemed to act like dogs at sight of a wolf; he looked at them first defiantly, and then feigned not to see them. A disagreeable silence succeeded. Pan Andrei grew impatient and gnawed his mustaches; the guests looked at him with a fixed frown, and the sword-bearer stroked his forelock. "Will you drink a glass of poor nobles' mead with us?" asked he at last, pointing to a decanter and a glass. "I request you--" "I will drink with a gentleman!" said Kmita, rather abruptly. Dovgird and Hudzynski began to puff, taking the answer as an expression of contempt for them; but they would not begin a quarrel at once in a friendly house, and that with a roisterer who had a terrible reputation throughout all Jmud. Still the insult nettled them. Meanwhile the sword-bearer clapped his hands for a servant, and ordered him to bring a fourth glass; then he filled it, raised his own to his lips, and said, "Into your hands-- I am glad to see you in my house." "I should be sincerely glad were that true." "A guest is a guest," said the sword-bearer, sententiously. After awhile, conscious evidently of his duty as a host to keep up the conversation, he asked, "What do you hear at Kyedani? How is the health of the hetman?" "Not strong," answered Kmita, "and in these unquiet times it cannot be otherwise. The prince has a world of troubles and annoyances." "I believe that!" said Pan Hudzynski. Kmita looked at him for a while, then turned to the host and continued,-- "The prince, being promised assistance by the Swedish King, expected to move against the enemy at Vilna without delay, and take vengeance for the ashes of that place, which have not yet grown cold. And it must be known also to you that now it is necessary to search for Vilna in Vilna, for it was burning seventeen days. They say that nothing is visible among the ruins but the black holes of cellars from which smoke is still rising continually." "Misfortune!" said the sword-bearer. "Of course a misfortune, which if it could not have been prevented should be avenged and similar ruins made of the enemy's capital. In fact, it was coming to this when disturbers, suspecting the best intentions of an honorable man, proclaimed him a traitor, and resisted him in arms instead of aiding him against the enemy. It is not to be wondered, therefore, that the health of the prince totters, since he, whom God predestined to great things, sees that the malice of man is ever preparing new obstacles through which the entire undertaking may come to naught. The best friends of the prince have deceived him; those on whom he counted most have left him, or gone to the enemy." "So it is," said the sword-bearer, seriously. "That is very painful," continued Kmita, "and I myself have heard the prince say, 'I know that honorable men pass evil judgments on me; but why do they not come to Kyedani, why do they not tell me to my face what they have against me, and listen to my reasons?'" "Whom has the prince in mind?" asked the sword-bearer. "In the first rank you, my benefactor, for whom he has a genuine regard, and he suspects that you belong to the enemy." The sword-bearer began to smooth his forelock quickly. At last, seeing that the conversation was taking an undesirable turn, he clapped his hands. A servant appeared in the doorway. "Seest not that it is growing dark? Bring lights!" cried Pan Tomash. "God sees," continued Kmita, "that I had intended to lay before you proper assurances of my own devotion separately, but I have come here also at the order of the prince, who would have come in person to Billeviche if the time were more favoring." "Our thresholds are too lowly," said the sword-bearer. "Do not say that, since it is customary for neighbors to visit one another; but the prince has no time unoccupied, therefore he said to me, 'Explain in my name to Pan Billevich that I am not able to visit him, but let him come to me with his niece, and that of course without delay, for to-morrow or the day following I know not where I shall be.' So I have come with a request, and I trust that both of you are in good health; for when I drove in here I saw Panna Aleksandra in the door, but she vanished at once, like mist from the field." "That is true," said the sword-bearer; "I sent her myself to see who had come." "I am waiting for your reply, my benefactor," said Kmita. At that moment the attendant brought in a light and placed it on the table; by the shining of the light it was seen that Billevich was greatly confused. "This is no small honor for me," said he, "but--I cannot go at once. Be pleased to excuse me to the hetman--you see that I have guests." "Oh, surely that will not hinder, for these gentlemen will yield to the prince." "We have our own tongues in our mouths, and can answer for ourselves," said Pan Hudzynski. "Without waiting for others to make decisions concerning us," added Dovgird. "You see," continued Kmita, pretending to take in good part the churlish words of the nobles, "I knew that these were polite cavaliers. But to avoid slighting any one, I invite them also in the name of the prince to come to Kyedani." "Too much favor," said both; "we have something else to do." Kmita looked on them with a peculiar expression, and then said coldly, as if speaking to some fourth person, "When the prince invites, it is not permitted to refuse." At that they rose from their chairs. "But is that constraint?" asked the sword-bearer. "Pan Billevich, my benefactor," answered Kmita, quickly, "those gentlemen will go whether they wish or not, for thus it has pleased me; but I desire not to use force with you, and I beg most sincerely that you will deign to gratify the prince. I am on service, and have an order to bring you; but as long as I do not lose hope of effecting something with entreaty, I shall not cease to entreat,--and I swear to you that not a hair will fall from your head while there. The prince wishes to talk with you, and wishes you to live in Kyedani during these troubled times, when even peasants collect in crowds and plunder. This is the whole affair! You will be treated with fitting respect in Kyedani, as a guest and a friend; I give my word of honor for that." "As a noble, I protest," said the sword-bearer, "and the law protects me." "And sabres!" cried Hudzynski and Dovgird. Kmita laughed, frowned, and said, "Put away your sabres, gentlemen, or I shall give the order to place you both against the barn and put a bullet into the head of each one of you." At this they grew timid, and began to look at each other and at Kmita; but the sword-bearer cried,-- "The most outrageous violence against the freedom of nobles, against privileges!" "There will be no violence if you comply of your own will," said Kmita; "and the proof is in this that I left dragoons in the village, and came here alone to invite you as one neighbor another. Do not refuse, for the times are such that it is difficult to pay attention to refusals. The prince himself will excuse you therefore, and know that you will be received as a neighbor and a friend. Understand, too, that could you be received otherwise, I would a hundred times rather have a bullet in my head than come here for you. Not a hair will fall from any Billevich head while I am alive. Call to mind who I am, remember Heraclius Billevich, remember his will, and consider whether the prince would have selected me did he not intend to deal with you in sincerity." "Why then does he use force, why have I to go under constraint? How am I to trust him, when all Lithuania talks of the oppression under which honorable citizens are groaning in Kyedani?" Kmita drew breath; for, from his words and voice he knew that Billevich was beginning to weaken in his resistance. "Worthy benefactor," said he, almost joyously, "constraint among neighbors often rises from affection. And when you order servants to put the carriage-wheel of a welcome guest in the storehouse, or his provision-chest in the larder, is not that constraint? And when you force him to drink, even when wine is flowing out through his nostrils, is not that constraint? And be assured that even had I to bind you and take you bound to Kyedani among dragoons, that would be for your good. Just think, insurgent soldiers are wandering about and committing lawless deeds, peasants are mustering, Swedish troops are approaching, and do you think to save yourself from accident in the uproar, or that some of these will not come to-day or tomorrow, plunder and burn your property, and attack your person? Is Billeviche a fortress? Can you defend yourself here? What does the prince wish for you? Safety; for Kyedani is the only place where you are not in danger. A detachment of the prince's troops will guard your property here, as the eyes in their heads, from all disorder of soldiers; and if one fork is lost, then take my whole fortune." Billevich began to walk through the room. "Can I trust your word?" At that moment Panna Aleksandra entered the room. Kmita approached her quickly, but suddenly remembered the events of Kyedani, and her cold face fixed him to the floor; he bowed therefore from a distance, in silence. Pan Billevich stood before her. "We have to go to Kyedani," said he. "And for what reason?" asked she. "For the hetman invites." "Very kindly,--as a neighbor," added Kmita. "Yes, very kindly," said Billevich, with a certain bitterness; "but if we do not go of our own will, this cavalier has the order to surround us with dragoons and take us by force." "God preserve us from that!" said Kmita. "Have not I told you, Uncle," asked Panna Aleksandra, "that we ought to flee as far as possible, for they would not leave us here undisturbed? Now my words have come true." "What's to be done, what's to be done? There is no remedy against force," cried Billevich. "True," answered the lady: "but we ought not to go to that infamous house of our own will. Let murderers take us, bind us, and bear us. Not we alone shall suffer persecution, not us alone will the vengeance of traitors reach; but let them know that we prefer death to infamy." Here she turned with an expression of supreme contempt to Kmita: "Bind us, sir officer, or sir executioner, and take us with horses, for in another way we will not go." The blood rushed to Kmita's face; it seemed for a time that he would burst forth in terrible anger, but he restrained himself. "Ah, gracious lady," said he, with a voice stifled from excitement, "I have not favor in your eyes, since you wish to make me a murderer, a traitor, and a man of violence. May God judge who is right,--whether I serving the hetman, or you insulting me as a dog. God gave you beauty, but a heart venomous and implacable. You are glad to suffer yourself, that you may inflict still greater pain on another. You exceed the measure,--as I live, you exceed it,--and nothing will come of that." "The maiden speaks well," cried Billevich, to whom daring came suddenly; "we will not go of our own will. Take us with dragoons." But Kmita paid no attention whatever to him, so much was he excited, and so deeply touched. "You are in love with the sufferings of people," continued he to Olenka, "and you proclaim me a traitor without judgment, without considering a reason, without permitting me to say a word in my own defence. Let it be so. But you will go to Kyedani,--of your own will or against your will; it is all one. There my intentions will become evident; there you will know whether you have justly accused me of wrong, there conscience will tell you who of us was whose executioner. I want no other vengeance. God be with you, but I want that vengeance. And I want nothing more of you, for you have bent the bow to the breaking. There is a serpent under your beauty as under a flower." "We will not go!" repeated Billevich, still more resolutely. "As true as life we will not!" shouted Hudzynski and Dovgird. Kmita turned to them; but he was very pale now, for rage was throttling him, and his teeth chattered as in a fever. "Ei! Try now to resist! My horses are to be heard,--my dragoons are coming. Will some one say again that he will not go?" In fact the tramp of numerous horses was heard. All saw that there was no help, and Kmita said,-- "Young lady, within the time that a man could repeat the Lord's Prayer twice you must be in the carriage, or your uncle will have a bullet in his head." And it was evident that the wild frenzy of anger was taking possession more and more of Pan Andrei, for suddenly he shouted till the panes rattled in the windows, "To the road!" That same instant the door of the front chamber opened quietly, and some strange voice inquired,-- "To what place, Cavalier?" All became as stone from amazement, and every eye was turned to the door, in which stood some small man in armor, and with a naked sabre in his hand. Kmita retreated a step, as if he had seen an apparition. "Pan Volodyovski!" cried he. "At your service!" answered the little man. And he advanced into the middle of the chamber; after him entered in a crowd Mirski, Zagloba, Pan Yan, Pan Stanislav, Stankyevich, Oskyerko and Roh Kovalski. "Ha!" cried Zagloba; "the Cossack caught a Tartar, and the Tartar holds him by the head!" Billevich began to speak: "Whoever you are, gentlemen, save a citizen whom in spite of law, birth, and office they wish to arrest and confine. Save, brothers, the freedom of a noble, whoever you may be." "Fear not!" answered Volodyovski, "the dragoons of this cavalier are already in fetters, and now he needs rescue himself more than you do." "But a priest most of all!" added Zagloba. "Sir Knight," said Volodyovski, turning to Kmita, "you have no luck with me; a second time I stand in your way. You did not expect me?" "I did not! I thought you were in the hands of the prince." "I have just slipped out of those hands,--this is the road to Podlyasye. But enough! The first time that you bore away this lady I challenged you to sabres, is it not true?" "True," answered Kmita, reaching involuntarily to his head. "Now it is another affair. Then you were given to fighting,--a thing usual with nobles, and not bringing the last infamy. To-day you do not deserve that an honest man should challenge you." "Why is that?" asked Kmita; and raising his proud head, he looked Volodyovski straight in the eyes. "You are a traitor and a renegade," answered Volodyovski, "for you have cut down, like an executioner, honest soldiers who stood by their country,--for it is through your work that this unhappy land is groaning under a new yoke. Speaking briefly, prepare for death, for as God is in heaven your last hour has come." "By what right do you judge and execute me?" inquired Kmita. "Gracious sir," answered Zagloba, seriously, "say your prayers instead of asking us about a right. But if you have anything to say in your defence, say it quickly, for you will not find a living soul to take your part. Once, as I have heard, this lady here present begged you from the hands of Pan Volodyovski; but after what you have done now, she will surely not take your part." Here the eyes of all turned involuntarily to Panna Aleksandra, whose face at that moment was as if cut from stone; and she stood motionless, with downcast lids, icy-cold, but she did not advance a step or speak a word. The voice of Kmita broke the silence--"I do not ask that lady for intercession." Panna Aleksandra was silent. "This way!" called Volodyovski, turning toward the door. Heavy steps were heard, followed by the gloomy rattle of spurs; and six soldiers, with Yuzva Butrym in front, entered the room. "Take him!" commanded Volodyovski, "lead him outside the village and put a bullet in his head." The heavy hand of Butrym rested on the collar of Kmita, after that two other hands. "Do not let them drag me like a dog!" said Kmita to Volodyovski. "I will go myself." Volodyovski nodded to the soldiers, who released him at once, but surrounded him; and he walked out calmly, not speaking to any man, only whispering his prayers. Panna Aleksandra went out also, through the opposite door, to the adjoining rooms. She passed the first and the second, stretching out her hand in the darkness before her; suddenly her head whirled, the breath failed in her bosom, and she fell, as if dead, on the floor. Among those who were assembled in the first room a dull silence reigned for some time; at last Billevich broke it. "Is there no mercy for him?" asked he. "I am sorry for him," answered Zagloba, "for he went manfully to death." To which Mirski said, "He shot a number of officers out of my squadron, besides those whom he slew in attack." "And from mine too," added Stankyevich; "and he cut up almost all of Nyevyarovski's men." "He must have had orders from Radzivill," said Zagloba. "Gentlemen," said Billevich, "you bring the vengeance of Radzivill on my head." "You must flee. We are going to Podlyasye, for there the squadrons have risen against traitors; go with us. There is no other help. You can take refuge in Byalovyej, where a relative of Pan Skshetuski is the king's hunter. There no one will find you." "But my property will be lost." "The Commonwealth will restore it to you." "Pan Michael," said Zagloba, suddenly, "I will gallop off and see if there are not some orders of the hetman on that unfortunate man. You remember what I found on Roh Kovalski." "Mount a horse. There is time yet; later the papers will be bloody. I ordered them to take him beyond the village, so that the lady might not be alarmed at the rattle of muskets, for women are sensitive and given to fright." Zagloba went out, and after a while the tramp of the horse on which he rode away was heard. Volodyovski turned to the host. "What is the lady doing?" "Beyond doubt she is praying for that soul which must go before God." "May the Lord give him eternal rest!" said Pan Yan. "Were it not for his willing service with Radzivill, I should be the first to speak in his favor; but if he did not wish to stand by his country, he might at least not have sold his soul to Radzivill." "That is true!" added Volodyovski. "He is guilty and deserves what has come upon him," said Pan Stanislav; "but I would that Radzivill were in his place, or Opalinski--oh, Opalinski!" "Of how far he is guilty, you have best proof here," put in Oskyerko; "this lady, who was his betrothed, did not find a word in his favor. I saw clearly that she was in torment, but she was silent; for how could she take the part of a traitor." "She loved him once sincerely, I know that," said Billevich. "Permit me, gentlemen, to go and see what has befallen her, as this is a grievous trial for a woman." "Make ready for the road!" cried the little knight, "for we shall merely give rest to the horses. We move farther. Kyedani is too near this place, and Radzivill must have returned already." "Very well!" said the noble, and he left the room. After a while his piercing cry was heard. The knights sprang toward the sound, not knowing what had happened; the servants also ran in with the lights, and they saw Billevich raising Olenka, whom he had found lying senseless on the floor. Volodyovski sprang to help him, and together they placed her on the sofa. She gave no sign of life. They began to rub her. The old housekeeper ran in with cordials, and at last the young lady opened her eyes. "Nothing is the matter," said the old housekeeper; "go ye to that room, we will take care of her." Billevich conducted his guests. "Would that this had not happened!" said the anxious host. "Could you not take that unfortunate with you, and put him out of the way somewhere on the road, and not on my place? How can I travel now, how flee, when the young woman is barely alive, on the brink of serious illness?" "The illness is all over now," answered Volodyovski. "We will put the lady in a carriage; you must both flee, for the vengeance of Radzivill spares no man." "The lady may recover quickly," said Pan Yan. "A comfortable carriage is ready, with horses attached, for Kmita brought it with him," said Volodyovski. "Go and tell the lady how things are, and that it is impossible to delay flight. Let her collect her strength. We must go, for before to-morrow morning Radzivill's troops may be here." "True," answered Billevich; "I go!" He went, and after a while returned with his niece, who had not only collected her strength, but was already dressed for the road. She had a high color on her face, and her eyes were gleaming feverishly. "Let us go, let us go!" repeated she, entering the room. Volodyovski went out on the porch for a moment to send men for the carriage; then he returned, and all began to make ready for the road. Before a quarter of an hour had passed, the roll of wheels was heard outside the windows, and the stamping of horses' hoofs on the pavement with which the space before the entrance was covered. "Let us go!" said Olenka. "To the road!" cried the officers. That moment the door was thrown open, and Zagloba burst into the room like a bomb. "I have stopped the execution!" cried he. Olenka from being ruddy became in one moment as white as chalk; she seemed ready to faint again; but no one paid attention to her, for all eyes were turned on Zagloba, who was panting like a whale, trying to catch breath. "Have you stopped the execution?" inquired Volodyovski. "Why was that?" "Why?--Let me catch breath. This is why,--without Kmita, without that honorable cavalier, we should all of us be hanging on trees at Kyedani. Uf! we wanted to kill our benefactor, gentlemen! Uf!" "How can that be?" cried all, at once. "How can it be? Read this letter; in it is the answer." Here Zagloba gave a letter to Volodyovski. He began to read, stopping every moment and looking at his comrades; for it was in fact the letter in which Radzivill reproached Kmita bitterly because by his stubborn persistence he had freed the colonels and Zagloba from death at Kyedani. "Well, what do you think?" repeated Zagloba, at each interval. The letter ended, as we know, with the commission for Kmita to bring Billevich and his niece to Kyedani. Pan Andrei had the letter with him, apparently to show it to the sword-bearer in case of necessity, and it had not come to that. Above all there remained no shadow of doubt that but for Kmita the two Skshetuskis, Volodyovski, and Zagloba would have been killed without mercy in Kyedani, immediately after the famous treaty with Pontus de la Gardie. "Worthy gentlemen," said Zagloba, "if you wish now to shoot him, as God is dear to me, I will leave your company and know you no longer." "There is nothing more to be said here!" replied Volodyovski. "Ah!" said Skshetuski, seizing his head with both hands, "what a happiness that father read that letter at once, instead of bringing it to us!" "They must have fed you with starlings from childhood!" cried Mirski. "Ha! what do you say to that?" asked Zagloba. "Every one else would have put a bullet in his head. But the moment they brought me the paper which they found on him, something touched me, because I have by nature a universal curiosity. Two men were going ahead of me with lanterns, and they were already in the field. Said I to them, 'Give me light here; let me know what is in this!' I began to read. I tell you, gentlemen, there was darkness before me as if some man had thumped my bald head with his fist. 'In God's name!' said I, 'why did you not show this letter?' And he answered, 'Because it did not suit me!' Such a haughty fellow, even at the point of death! But didn't I seize him, embrace him? 'Benefactor,' cried I, 'without you the crows would have eaten us already!' I gave orders to bring him back and lead him here; and I almost drove the breath out of the horse to tell you what had happened as quickly as possible. Uf!" "That is a wonderful man, in whom it is clear as much good as evil resides," said Pan Stanislav. "If such would not--" But before he had finished, the door opened and the soldiers came in with Kmita. "You are free," said Volodyovski, at once; "and while we are alive none of us will attack you. What a desperate man you are, not to show us that letter immediately! We would not have disturbed you." Here he turned to the soldiers: "Withdraw, and every man to horse!" The soldiers withdrew, and Pan Andrei remained alone in the middle of the room. He had a calm face; but it was gloomy, and he looked at the officers standing before him, not without pride. "You are free!" repeated Volodyovski; "go whithersoever you please, even to Radzivill, though it is painful to see a man of honorable blood aiding a traitor to his country." "Reflect well," answered Kmita, "for I say beforehand that I shall go nowhere else but to Radzivill." "Join us; let the thunderbolt crush that tyrant of Kyedani!" cried Zagloba. "You will be to us a friend and dear comrade; the country, your mother, will forgive your offences against her." "It is no use," said Kmita, with energy. "God will decide who serves the country better,--you who begin civil war on your own responsibility, or I, serving a lord who alone can save this ill-fated Commonwealth. Go your own way, I will go mine. It is not time to convert you, and the attempt is vain; but I tell you from the depth of my soul that you are ruining the country,--you who stand in the way of its salvation. I do not call you traitors, for I know that your intentions are honorable; but this is the position,--the country is perishing, Radzivill stretches a hand to it, and you thrust swords into that hand, and in blindness make traitors of him and all those who stand by him." "As God is true!" said Zagloba, "if I had not seen how manfully you went to meet death, I should think that terror had disturbed your mind. To whom have you given oath,--to Radzivill or Yan Kazimir, to Sweden or the Commonwealth? You have lost your wits!" "I knew that it would be vain to attempt to convert you. Farewell!" "But wait," said Zagloba; "for here is a question of importance. Tell me, did Radzivill promise that he would spare us when you interceded for us in Kyedani?" "He did," said Kmita. "You were to remain during the war in Birji." "Know now your Radzivill, who betrays not only the country, not only the king, but his own servants." When he had said this, Zagloba gave the hetman's letter to Kmita. He took it, and began to run over it with his eyes; and as he read, the blood came to his face, and a blush of shame for his own leader covered his forehead more and more. All at once he crushed the letter in his hand, and threw it on the floor. "Farewell!" said he. "Better I had perished at your hands!" and he went out of the room. "Gentlemen," said Pan Yan, after a moment's silence, "an affair with that man is difficult, for he believes in his Radzivill as a Turk in Mohammed. I thought myself, as you do, that he was serving him for profit or ambition, but that is not the case. He is not a bad man, only an erring one." "If he has had faith in his Mohammed hitherto, I have undermined that faith infernally," said Zagloba. "Did you see how he threw down the letter as soon as he had read it? There will be no small work between them, for that cavalier is ready to spring at the eyes, not only of Radzivill, but the devil. As God is dear to me, if a man had given me a herd of Turkish horses I should not be so well pleased as I am at having saved him from death." "It is true he owes his life to you," said Billevich; "no one will deny that." "God be with him!" said Volodyovski; "let us take counsel what to do." "But what? Mount and take the road; the horses have rested a little," answered Zagloba. "True, we should go as quickly as possible! Are you going with us?" asked Mirski of the sword-bearer. "I cannot remain here in peace, I must go. But if you wish to take the road at once, gentlemen, I say sincerely that it is not convenient to tear away now with you. Since that man has left here alive, they will not burn me up immediately, neither will they kill any one; and before such a journey it is necessary to provide one's self with this thing and that. God knows when I shall return. It is necessary to make one arrangement and another,--to secrete the most valuable articles, send my cattle to the neighbors, pack trunks. I have also a little ready money which I would take with me. I shall be ready to-morrow at daybreak; but to go now, in seize-grab fashion, I cannot." "On our part we cannot wait, for the sword is hanging over our heads," said Volodyovski. "And where do you wish to take refuge?" "In the wilderness, as you advised. At least, I shall leave the maiden there; for I am not yet old, and my poor sabre may be of use to the country and the king." "Farewell! God grant us to meet in better times!" "God reward you, gentlemen, for coming to rescue me. Doubtless we shall see one another in the field." "Good health!" "Happy journey!" They began to take farewell of one another, and then each came to bow down before Panna Billevich. "You will see my wife and little boys in the wilderness: embrace them for me, and bloom in good health," said Pan Yan. "Remember at times the soldier, who, though he had no success in your eyes, is always glad to bend the skies for you." After them others approached, and last Zagloba. "Receive, charming flower, farewell from an old man too. Embrace Pani Skshetuski and my little stumps. They are boys in a hundred!" Instead of an answer, Olenka seized his hand, and pressed it in silence to her lips. CHAPTER XXII. That night, at the latest two hours after the departure of Volodyovski's detachment, Radzivill himself came to Billeviche at the head of his cavalry. He came to the assistance of Kmita, fearing lest he might fall into the hands of Volodyovski. When he learned what had happened he took the sword-bearer and Olenka and returned to Kyedani, without even giving rest to the horses. The hetman was enraged beyond measure when he heard the story from the mouth of the sword-bearer, who told everything in detail, wishing to turn from himself the attention of the terrible magnate. He dared not protest, for the same reason, against the journey to Kyedani, and was glad in his soul that the storm ended thus. Radzivill, on his part, though suspecting Billevich of "practices" (conspiracy), had in fact too many cares to remember the matter at that moment. The escape of Volodyovski might change affairs in Podlyasye. Horotkyevich and Yakub Kmita, who were there at the head of squadrons confederated against the hetman, were good soldiers, but not important; hence the whole confederacy had no weight. But now with Volodyovski had fled such men as Mirski, Stankyevich, and Oskyerko, without counting the little knight himself,--all excellent officers, enjoying universal respect. But in Podlyasye was Prince Boguslav also, who with the castle squadrons was opposing the confederates, waiting meanwhile for aid from his uncle the elector; but the elector delayed, evidently waiting for events; and the confederated forces were gaining strength, and adherents came to them every day. For some time the hetman had been wishing to march to Podlyasye himself, and crush the insurgents with one blow, but he was restrained by the thought that let him set foot over the boundary of Jmud the whole country would rise, and the importance of the Radzivills be reduced in the eyes of the Swedes to zero. The prince was meditating whether it were not better to abandon Podlyasye altogether for the time, and bring Prince Boguslav to Jmud. That was necessary and urgent. On the other hand threatening news came touching the deeds of the voevoda of Vityebsk. The hetman had tried to negotiate and bring him over to his plans, but Sapyeha sent back the letters unanswered; and besides, as report said, the voevoda was selling his effects at auction, disposing of what he could, melting silver into coin, selling his cattle for ready money, pawning tapestry and valuables to the Jews, renting his lands and collecting troops. The hetman, greedy by nature and incapable of making sacrifices of money, refused to believe, at first, that any man would cast his whole fortune without hesitation on the altar of the country; but time convinced him that this was really the case, for Sapyeha's military power increased daily. Fugitives, settled nobles, patriots gathered around him,--enemies of the hetman, and still worse, his blood relatives, such as Prince Michael Radzivill, of whom news came that he had ordered all the income of his estates still unoccupied by the enemy to be given to the voevoda of Vityebsk. In this way then did the edifice, built by the pride of Yanush Radzivill, crack from its foundations and totter. The whole Commonwealth was to find a place in that edifice, but now it appeared in advance that it could not contain even Jmud. The condition was becoming more and more like a vicious circle; for Radzivill might summon against the voevoda of Vityebsk Swedish forces which were occupying the country by degrees, but that would be to acknowledge his own weakness. Besides, the relations of the hetman with the generalissimo of the Swedes were strained since the affair at Klavany, thanks to the plan of Zagloba; and in spite of all explanations, irritation and distrust reigned between them. The hetman, when setting out to aid Kmita, had hope that perhaps he might yet seize Volodyovski and destroy him; therefore, when his reckoning was at fault, he returned to Kyedani angry and frowning. It astonished him too that he did not meet Kmita on the road to Billeviche; this happened because Pan Andrei, whose dragoons Volodyovski did not fail to take with him, returned alone, and therefore chose the shortest road through the forest, avoiding Plemborg and Eyragoly. After a night spent entirely on horseback the hetman came back to Kyedani on the following day at noon with his troops, and his first question was about Kmita. He was informed that Pan Andrei had returned, but without soldiers. Of that last circumstance the prince knew already; but he was curious to hear from the lips of Kmita himself the story, therefore he gave command to call him at once. "There was no success for you, as there was none for me," said he, when Kmita stood before him. "The sword-bearer told me that you fell into the hands of that little devil." "That is true," answered Kmita. "And my letter saved you?" "Of what letter are you speaking, your highness? For when they had read themselves the one found on me, they read to me in return another letter, written to the commandant of Birji." The gloomy face of Radzivill was covered as it were with a bloody skin. "Then do you know?" "I know!" answered Kmita, emphatically. "Your highness, how could you act so with me? For a common noble it is a shame to break his word, but what is it for a prince and a leader?" "Silence!" cried Radzivill. "I will not be silent, for before the eyes of those men I had to take your place. They were urging me to join them; but I would not, and said, 'I serve Radzivill; for with him is justice, with him virtue.' Then they showed me that letter: 'See what a man your Radzivill is!' I had to shut my mouth and gulp shame." The hetman's lips began to quiver from fury. A wild desire seized him to wring that insolent head from its shoulders, and he was already raising his hands to clap for the servants. Rage closed his eyes, stopped the breath in his breast; and surely Kmita would have paid dearly for his outburst were it not for the sudden attack of asthma which at that moment seized the prince. His face grew black, he sprang up from the chair and began to beat the air with his hands, his eyes were coming out of his head, and from his throat rose a hoarse bellow, in which Kmita barely heard the word, "Choking!" At the alarm the servants and the castle physicians ran in. They tried to restore the prince, who had lost consciousness. They roused him in about an hour; and when he showed signs of life Kmita left the room. In the corridor he met Kharlamp, who had recovered from the wounds and bruises received in the battle with Oskyerko's insurgent Hungarians. "What news?" asked Great Mustache. "He has come to himself," answered Kmita. "H'm! But any day he may not come! Bad for us, Colonel; for when the prince dies they will grind out his deeds on us. My whole hope is in Volodyovski. I trust that he will shield his old comrades; therefore I tell you" (here Kharlamp lowered his voice) "that I am glad he escaped." "Was he cornered so closely, then?" "What, cornered! From that willow grove in which we surrounded him wolves could not have sprung out, and he sprang out. May the bullets strike him! Who knows, who knows that we shall not have to grasp hold of his skirts, for there is something bad about us here. The nobles are turning away terribly from our prince, and all say that they would rather have a real enemy, a Swede, even a Tartar, than a renegade. That is the position. And, besides, the prince gives more and more orders to seize and imprison citizens,--which, speaking between us, is against law and liberty. To-day they brought in the sword-bearer of Rossyeni." "Have they indeed?" "Yes, with his niece. The lady is a beauty. You are to be congratulated!" "Where are they lodged?" "In the right wing. Five rooms are assigned them; they cannot complain, unless of this,--that a guard walks before their doors. And when will the wedding be, Colonel?" "The music is not yet engaged for it. Farewell!" added Kmita. Pan Andrei went from Kharlamp to his own room. A sleepless night with its stormy events, and his last meeting with the prince had wearied him to such a degree that he was barely able to stand. And as every touch causes pain to a wearied, bruised body, so had he a soul full of anguish. Kharlamp's simple question 'When will the wedding be?' pierced him sorely; for before his eyes at once appeared, as if alive, the icy face of Olenka, and her fixed lips when their silence confirmed the death-sentence against him. Even a word from her would have saved him. Volodyovski would have respected it. All the sorrow and pain which Kmita felt at that moment consisted in this, that she did not say that word. Still she had not hesitated to save him twice before. Such now was the precipice between them, so utterly quenched in her heart was not merely love, but simple kind feeling, which it was possible to have even for a stranger,--simple pity, which it is incumbent to have for every one. The more Kmita thought over this, the more cruel did Olenka seem to him, the greater his complaint against her, and the deeper his wrong. "What have I done of such character," asked he of himself, "that I am scorned, like one cursed by the church? Even if it were evil to serve Radzivill, still I feel innocent, since I can answer on my conscience, that not for promotion, not for gain, nor for bread do I serve him, but because I see profit to the country from my service. Why am I condemned without trial? Well, well! Let it be so! I will not go to clear myself of uncommitted offences, nor to beg love," repeated he for the thousandth time. Still the pain did not cease; it increased. On returning to his quarters Pan Andrei cast himself on the bed and tried to sleep; but he could not, despite all his weariness. After a while he rose and began to walk through the room. From time to time he raised his hands to his forehead and said aloud to himself,-- "Oh, the heart of that woman is hard!" And again,-- "I did not expect that of you, young lady,--May God reward you!" In these meditations an hour passed, and a second. At last he tired himself out and began to doze, sitting on the bed; but before he fell asleep an attendant of Radzivill, Pan Skillandz, roused him and summoned him to the prince. Radzivill felt better already, and breathed more freely, but on his leaden face could be seen a great weakening. He sat in a deep armchair, covered with leather, having before him a physician whom he sent out immediately after Kmita entered. "I had one foot in the other world and through you," said he to Pan Andrei. "Your highness, it was not my fault; I said what I thought." "Let no further mention be made of this. But do not add to the weight of the burden which I bear; and know this, that what I have forgiven you I would not forgive another." Kmita was silent. "If I gave order," added the prince, after a while, "to execute in Birji these men whom at your request I pardoned in Kyedani, it was not because I wanted to deceive you, but to spare you pain. I yielded apparently, because I have a weakness for you. But their death was imperative. Am I an executioner, or do you think that I spill blood merely to feast my eyes on red? But when older you will know that if a man would achieve anything in this world, he is not free to sacrifice great causes to smaller. It was imperative that these men should die here in Kyedani, for see what has happened through your prayers: resistance is increased in the country, civil war begun, friendship with the Swedes is strained, an evil example given to others, from which mutiny is spreading like a plague. More than this, I had to go on a later expedition in my own person, and be filled with confusion in the presence of the whole army; you came near death at their hands, and now they will go to Podlyasye and become chiefs of an uprising. Behold and learn! If they had perished in Kyedani, nothing of all this would have happened; but when imploring for them you were thinking only of your own feelings. I sent them to die at Birji, for I am experienced, I see farther; for I know from practice that whoso in running stumbles, even against a small stone, will easily fall, and whoso falls may not rise again, and the faster he was running the less likely is he to rise. God save us, what harm these people have done!" "They are not so important as to undo the whole work of your highness." "Had they done no more than rouse distrust between me and Pontus, the harm would be incalculable. It has been explained that they, not my men, attacked the Swedes; but the letter with threats which Pontus wrote to me remains, and I do not forgive him that letter. Pontus is brother-in-law of the king, but it is doubtful whether he could become mine, and whether the Radzivill thresholds are not too high for him." "Let your highness treat with the king himself, and not with his servant." "So I intend to do; and if vexation does not kill me I will teach that little Swede modesty,--if troubles do not kill me; and would that that were all, for no one here spares me thorns or pain. It is grievous to me, grievous! Who would believe that I am the man who was at Loyovo, Jechytsa, Mozyr, Turoff, Kieff, Berestechko? The whole Commonwealth gazed at me and Vishnyevetski, as at two suns. Everything trembled before Hmelnitski, but he trembled before me. And the very men whom in time of universal disaster I led from victory to victory, forsake me to-day and raise their hands against me as against a parricide." "But all are not thus, for there are some who believe in your highness yet," said Kmita, abruptly. "They believe till they stop," added Radzivill, with bitterness. "Great is the love of the nobles! God grant that I be not poisoned by it! Stab after stab does each one of you give me, though it occurs not to any that--" "Consider intentions, not words, your highness." "I give thanks for the counsel. Henceforth I will consider carefully what face each common man shows me, and endeavor with care to please all." "Those are bitter words, your highness." "But is life sweet? God created me for great things, and look at me; I must wear out my powers in district struggles, which village might wage against village. I wanted to measure myself with mighty monarchs, and I have fallen so low that I must hunt some Volodyovski through my own estates. Instead of astonishing the world with my power, I astonish it with my weakness; instead of paying for the ashes of Vilna with the ashes of Moscow, I have to thank you for digging trenches around Kyedani. Oh, it is narrow for me, and I am choking,--not alone because the asthma is throttling me; helplessness is killing me, inactivity is killing me! It is narrow for me and heavy for me! Do you understand?" "I thought myself that affairs would go differently," answered Kmita, gloomily. Radzivill began to breathe with effort. "Before another crown can come to me they have crowned me with thorns. I commanded the minister, Aders, to look at the stars. He made a figure and said that the conjunctions were evil, but that they would pass. Meanwhile I am suffering torments. In the night there is something which will not let me sleep; something walks in the room, faces of some kind stare at me in the bed, and at times a sudden cold comes. This means that death is walking around me. I am suffering. I must be prepared for more treason and apostasy, for I know that there are men still who waver." "There are no longer such," answered Kmita, "for whoso was to go has gone." "Do not deceive yourself; you see that the remnant of the Polish people are beginning to take thought." Kmita remembered what he had heard from Kharlamp and was silent. "Never mind!" continued Radzivill, "it is oppressive and terrible, but it is necessary to endure. Tell no one of what you have heard from me. It is well that this attack came to-day, for it will not be repeated; and especially to-day I need strength, for I wish to have a feast, and show a glad face to strengthen the courage of people. And do you brighten your face and tell nothing to any man, for what I say to you is for this purpose only, that you at least refrain from tormenting me. Anger carried me away to-day. Be careful that this happen not again, for it is a question of your head. But I have forgiven you. Of those trenches with which you surrounded Kyedani, Peterson himself would not be ashamed. Go now and send me Myeleshko. They have brought in deserters from his squadron,--common soldiers. I shall order them hanged to a man. We need to give an example. Farewell! It must be joyful to-day in Kyedani." CHAPTER XXIII. The sword-bearer of Rossyeni had a difficult struggle with Panna Aleksandra before she consented to go to that feast which the hetman had prepared for his people. He had to implore almost with tears the stubborn, bold girl, and swear that it was a question of his head; that all, not only the military, but citizens dwelling in the region of Kyedani, as far as Radzivill's hand reached, were obliged to appear under terror of the prince's wrath: how then could they oppose who were subject to the favor and disfavor of the terrible man? Olenka, not to endanger her uncle, gave way. The company was really not small, for he had forced many of the surrounding nobles to come with their wives and daughters. But the military were in the majority, and especially officers of the foreign regiments, who remained nearly all with the prince. Before he showed himself to the guests he prepared an affable countenance, as if no care had weighed on him previously; he wished with that banquet to rouse courage, not only in his adherents and the military, but to show that most of the citizens were on his side, and only turbulent people opposed the union with Sweden. He did not spare therefore trouble or outlay to make the banquet lordly, that the echo of it might spread as widely as possible through the land. Barely had darkness covered the country when hundreds of barrels were set on fire along the road leading to the castle and in the courtyard; from time to time cannons were thundering, and soldiers were ordered to give forth joyous shouts. Carriages and covered wagons followed one another on the road, bringing personages of the neighborhood and the "cheaper" (smaller) nobility. The courtyard was filled with equipages, horses, and servants, who had either come with guests or belonged to the town. Crowds dressed in velvet, brocade, and costly furs filled the so-called "Golden Hall;" and when the prince appeared at last, all glittering from precious stones, and with a welcoming smile on his face, usually gloomy, and besides wrinkled at that time by sickness, the first officers shouted in one voice,-- "Long live the prince hetman! Long live the voevoda of Vilna!" Radzivill cast his eyes suddenly on the assembled citizens, wishing to convince himself whether they repeated the cries of the soldiers. In fact a few tens of voices from the most timid breasts repeated the cry; the prince on his part began at once to bow, and to thank them for the sincere and "unanimous" love. "With you, gracious gentlemen!" said he, "we will manage those who would destroy the country. God reward you! God reward you!" And he went around through the hall, stopped before acquaintances, not sparing titles in his speech,--"Lord brother," "dear neighbor;" and more than one gloomy face grew bright under the warm rays of the magnate's favor. "But it is not possible," said those who till recently looked on his deeds with dislike, "that such a lord, such a lofty senator should wish ill to his country; either he could not act differently from what he has acted, or there is some secret in this, which will come out for the good of the Commonwealth." "In fact, we have more rest already from one enemy who does not wish to light about us with the Swedes." "God grant that all turn out for the best." Some, however, shook their heads, or said with a look to one another, "We are here because they put the knife to our throats." But these were silent; meanwhile others, more easily brought over, said in loud voices, to be heard by the prince,-- "It is better to change the king than ruin the Commonwealth." "Let the kingdom think of itself, but we will think of ourselves." "Besides, who has given us an example, if not Great Poland? _Extrema necessitas, extremis nititur rationibus! Tentanda omnia!_" "Let us put all confidence in our prince, and trust him in everything. Let him have Lithuania and the government in his hands." "He deserves both. If he will not save us, we perish,--in him is salvation." "He is nearer to us than Yan Kazimir, for he is our blood." Radzivill caught with an eager ear those voices, dictated by fear or flattery, and did not consider that they came from the mouths of weak persons, who in danger would be the first to desert him,--from the mouths of persons whom every breath of wind might bend as a wave. And he was charmed with those expressions, and tempted himself, or his own conscience, repeating from the maxims he had heard that which seemed to excuse him the most: "_Extrema necessitas, extremis nititur rationibus!_" But when passing a large group of nobles he heard from the lips of Pan Yujits, "He is nearer to us than Yan Kazimir," his face grew bright altogether. To compare him with the king, and then to prefer him, flattered his pride; he approached Pan Yujits at once and said,-- "You are right, brothers, for in Yan Kazimir, in one pot of blood there is a quart of Lithuanian, but in me there is nothing but Lithuanian. If hitherto the quart has commanded the potful, it depends on you, brothers, to change that condition." "We are ready to drink a potful to your health," answered Pan Yujits. "You have struck my mind. Rejoice, brothers; I would gladly invite hither all Lithuania." "It would have to be trimmed still better," said Pan Shchanyetski of Dalnovo,--a bold man, and cutting with the tongue as with the sword. "What do you mean by that?" asked the prince, fixing his eyes on him. "That the heart of your highness is wider than Kyedani." Radzivill gave a forced laugh and went farther. At this moment the marshal of the castle approached him with the announcement that the banquet was ready. Crowds began to flow, like a river, after the prince to the same hall in which not long before the union with Sweden was declared. The marshal seated the guests according to dignity, calling each one by name and rank. But it was evident that the orders of the prince had been issued in advance on this point, for Kmita's place was between Billevich and Panna Aleksandra. The hearts jumped in both when they heard their names called in succession, and both hesitated at the first moment; but it occurred to them that to refuse would be to draw on themselves the eyes of all present, therefore they sat side by side. They were angry and ill at ease. Pan Andrei determined to be as indifferent as if a stranger were sitting next him; but soon he understood that he could not be so indifferent, and that his neighbor was not such a stranger that they could begin an ordinary conversation. But both saw that in that throng of persons of the most varied feelings, interests, and passions, he thinks only of her and she of him. For this very reason it was awkward for them. They would not and could not tell sincerely, clearly, and openly, what lay on their hearts. They had the past, but no future. Recent feelings, confidence, even acquaintance, were all broken. There was nothing between them save the feeling of disappointment and offence. If this link should burst, they would be freer; but time only could bring forgetfulness: it was too soon for that. For Kmita it was so disagreeable that he almost suffered torments; still he would not have yielded, for anything in the world, the place which the marshal had given him. He caught with his ear the rustle of her dress; he watched every movement of hers,--he watched while feigning not to watch; he felt the warmth beating from her, and all this caused him a certain painful delight. At the same moment he discovered that she too was equally on the alert, though she was as if not paying attention. An unconquerable desire of looking at her drew him on; therefore he glanced sidewise, until he saw her clear forehead, her eyes covered with dark lashes, and her fair face, not touched by paint, as were those of other ladies. For him there had always been something attractive in that face, so that the heart in the poor knight was shivering from sorrow and pain. "To think that such animosity could find a place with such beauty," thought he. But the offence was too deep; hence he added soon in his soul, "I have nothing to do with you; let some other man take you." And he felt suddenly that if that "other" were merely to try to make use of the permission, he would cut him into pieces as small as chopped straw. At the very thought terrible anger seized him; but he calmed himself when he remembered that he was still alone, that no "other" was sitting near her, and that no one, at least at that moment, was trying to win her. "I will look at her once more and turn to the other side," thought he. And again he cast a sidelong glance; but just at that moment she did the same, and both dropped their eyes with all quickness, terribly confused, as if they had been caught in a crime. Panna Aleksandra too was struggling with herself. From all that had happened, from the action of Kmita at Billeviche, from the words of Zagloba and Pan Yan, she learned that Kmita erred, but that he was not so guilty and did not deserve such contempt, such unreserved condemnation, as she had thought previously. Besides, he had saved those worthy men from death, and there was so much in him of a certain grand pride that when he had fallen into their hands, having a letter on his person sufficient to vindicate him, or at least to save him from execution, he did not show that letter, he said not a word, but went to death with head erect. Olenka, reared by an old soldier who placed contempt for death above all virtues, worshipped courage with her whole heart; therefore she could not resist an involuntary admiration for that stern knightly daring which could be driven from the body only with the soul. She understood also that if Kmita served Radzivill he did so in perfect good faith; what a wrong therefore to condemn him for intentional treason! And still she had put that wrong on him, she had spared him neither injustice nor contempt, she would not forgive him even in the face of death. "Right the wrong," said her heart; "all is finished between you, but it is thy duty to confess that thou hast judged him unjustly. In this is thy duty to thyself also." But there was in this lady no little pride, and perhaps something of stubbornness; therefore it came at once to her mind that that cavalier was not worth such satisfaction, and a flush came to her face. "If he is not worth it, let him go without it," said her mind. But conscience said further that whether the injured one is worth satisfaction or not, it is needful to give it; but on the other side her pride brought forth continually new arguments,-- "If--which might be--he was unwilling to listen, she would have to swallow her shame for nothing. And secondly, guilty or not guilty, whether he acts purposely or through blindness, it is enough that he holds with traitors and enemies of the country, and helps them to ruin it. It is the same to the country whether he lacks reason or honesty. God may forgive him; men must and ought to condemn, and the name of traitor will remain with him. That is true! If he is not guilty, is she not right in despising a man who has not the wit to distinguish wrong from right, crime from virtue?" Here anger began to carry the lady away, and her cheeks flushed. "I will be silent!" said she to herself. "Let him suffer what he has deserved. Until I see penitence I have the right to condemn him." Then she turned her glance to Kmita, as if wishing to be convinced whether penitence was yet to be seen in his face. Just then it was that the meeting of their eyes took place, at which both were so shame-stricken. Olenka, it may be, did not see penitence in the face of the cavalier, but she saw pain and suffering; she saw that face pale as after sickness; therefore deep pity seized her, tears came perforce to her eyes, and she bent still more over the table to avoid betraying emotion. Meanwhile the banquet was becoming animated. At first all were evidently under a disagreeable impression, but with the cups came fancy. The bustle increased. At last the prince rose,-- "Gracious gentlemen, I ask leave to speak." "The prince wishes to speak! The prince wishes to speak!" was called from every side. "I raise the first toast to the Most Serene King of Sweden, who gives us aid against our enemies, and ruling meanwhile this country, will not leave it till he brings peace. Arise, gentlemen, for that health is drunk standing." The guests rose, except ladies, and filled their glasses, but without shouts, without enthusiasm. Pan Shchanyetski of Dalnovo muttered something to his neighbors, and they bit their mustaches to avoid laughter. It was evident that he was jeering at the King of Sweden. It was only when the prince raised the other toast to his "beloved guests" kind to Kyedani, who had come even from distant places to testify their confidence in the intentions of the host, that they answered him with a loud shout,-- "We thank you from our hearts!" "The health of the prince!" "Our Hector of Lithuania!" "May he live! Long life to the prince hetman, our voevoda." Now Pan Yujits, a little drunk already, cried with all the strength of his lungs, "Long life to Yanush I., Grand Prince of Lithuania!" Radzivill blushed like a young lady at her betrothal, but remarking that those assembled were stubbornly silent and looking at him with astonishment, he said,-- "That is in your power; but your wishes are premature, Pan Yujits, premature." "Long live Yanush I., Grand Prince of Lithuania!" repeated Pan Yujits, with the stubbornness of a drunken man. Pan Shchanyetski rose in his turn and raised his glass. "True," said he, coolly, "Grand Prince of Lithuania, King of Poland, and Emperor of Germany!" Again an interval of silence. Suddenly the company burst out into laughter. All were staring, their mustaches were dancing on their reddened faces, and laughter shook their bodies, echoed from the arches of the hall, and lasted long; and as suddenly as it rose so suddenly did it die on the lips of all at sight of the hetman's face, which was changing like a rainbow. Radzivill restrained the terrible anger which had seized his breast and said, "Low jests, Pan Shchanyetski." The noble pouted, and not at all disconcerted answered: "That also is an elective throne, and we cannot wish your highness too much. If as a noble your highness may become King of Poland, as a prince of the Gorman Empire you might be raised to the dignity of Emperor. It is as far or near for you to the one as to the other; and who does not wish this to you, let him rise. I will meet him with the sabre." Here he turned to the company: "Rise, whoso does not wish the crown of the German Empire to the voevoda of Vilna!" Of course no one rose. They did not laugh either, for in the voice of Pan Shchanyetski there was so much insolent malice that an involuntary disquiet came upon all as to what would happen. Nothing happened, save that relish for the banquet was spoiled. In vain did the servants of the castle fill the glasses every moment. Wine could not scatter gloomy thoughts in the minds of the banqueters, nor the disquiet increasing every moment. Radzivill concealed his anger with difficulty, for he felt that, thanks to the toasts of Pan Shchanyetski, he was belittled in the eyes of the assembled nobles, and that, intentionally or not, that man had forced the conviction on those present that the voevoda of Vilna was no nearer the throne of grand prince than the crown of Germany. Everything was turned into jests, into ridicule, while the banquet was given mainly to accustom men's minds to the coming rule of the Radzivills. What is more, Radzivill was concerned lest this ridicule of his hopes should make a bad impression on the officers, admitted to the secret of his plans. In fact, deep dissatisfaction was depicted on their faces. Ganhoff filled glass after glass, and avoided the glance of the prince. Kmita, however, did not drink, but looked at the table before him with frowning brow, as if he were thinking of something, or lighting an internal battle. Radzivill trembled at the thought that a light might flash into that mind any moment, and bring forth truth from the shadows, and then that officer, who furnished the single link binding the remnants of the Polish squadrons with the cause of Radzivill, would break the link, even if he had at the same time to drag the heart out of his own breast. Kmita had annoyed Radzivill already over much; and without the marvellous significance given him by events, he would long since have fallen a victim to his own impetuosity and the wrath of the hetman. But the prince was mistaken in suspecting him of a hostile turn of thought, for Pan Andrei was occupied wholly with Olenka and that deep dissension which separated them. At times it seemed to him that he loved that woman sitting at his side beyond the whole world; then again he felt such hatred that he would give death to her if he could but give it to himself as well. Life had become so involved that for his simple nature it was too difficult, and he felt what a wild beast feels when entangled in a net from which it cannot escape. The unquiet and gloomy humor of the whole banquet irritated him in the highest degree. It was simply unendurable. The banquet became more gloomy every moment. It seemed to those present that they were feasting under a leaden roof resting on their heads. At that time a new guest entered the hall. The prince, seeing him, exclaimed,-- "That is Pan Suhanyets, from Cousin Boguslav! Surely with letters!" The newly arrived bowed profoundly. "True, Most Serene Prince, I come straight from Podlyasye." "But give me the letters, and sit at the table yourself. The worthy guests will pardon me if I do not defer the reading, though we are sitting at a banquet, for there may be news which I shall need to impart to you. Sir Marshal, pray think of the welcome envoy there." Speaking thus, he took from the hands of Pan Suhanyets a package of letters, and broke the seal of the first in haste. All present fixed curious eyes on his face, and tried to divine the substance of the letter. The first letter did not seem to announce anything favorable, for the face of the prince was filled with blood, and his eyes gleamed with wild anger. "Brothers!" said the hetman, "Prince Boguslav reports to me that those men who have chosen to form a confederation rather than march against the enemy at Vilna, are ravaging at this moment my villages in Podlyasye. It is easier of course to wage war with peasant women in villages. Worthy knights, there is no denying that!--Never mind! Their reward will not miss them." Then he took the second letter, but had barely cast his eyes on it when his face brightened with a smile of triumph and delight,-- "The province of Syeradz has yielded to the Swedes!" cried he, "and following Great Poland, has accepted the protection of Karl Gustav." And after a while another,-- "This is the latest dispatch. Good for us, worthy gentlemen, Yan Kazimir is beaten at Vidava and Jarnov. The army is leaving him! He is retreating on Cracow; the Swedes are pursuing. My cousin writes that Cracow too must fall." "Let us rejoice, gracious gentlemen," said Shchanyetski, with a strange voice. "Yes, let us rejoice!" repeated the hetman, without noticing the tone in which Shchanyetski had spoken. And delight issued from the whole person of the prince, his face became in one moment as it were younger, his eyes gained lustre; with hands trembling from happiness, he broke the seal of the last letter, looked, became all radiant as the sun, and cried,-- "Warsaw is taken! Long life to Karl Gustav!" Here he first noticed that the impression which these tidings produced on those present was entirely different from that which he felt himself. For all sat in silence, looking forward with uncertain glance. Some frowned; others covered their faces with their hands. Even courtiers of the hetman, even men of weak spirit, did not dare to imitate the joy of the prince at the tidings that Warsaw was taken, that Cracow must fall, and that the provinces, one after the other, would leave their legal king and yield to the enemy. Besides, there was something monstrous in the satisfaction with which the supreme leader of half the armies of the Commonwealth, and one of its most exalted senators, announced its defeats. The prince saw that it was necessary to soften the impression. "Gentlemen," said he, "I should be the first to weep with you, if harm were coming to the Commonwealth; but here the Commonwealth suffers no harm, it merely changes kings. Instead of the ill-fated Yan Kazimir we shall have a great and fortunate warrior. I see all wars now finished, and enemies vanquished." "Your highness is right," answered Shchanyetski. "Cup for cup, the same thing that Radzeyovski and Opalinski held forth at Uistsie. Let us rejoice, gracious gentlemen! Death to Yan Kazimir!" When he had said this, Shchanyetski pushed back his chair with a rattle, and walked out of the hall. "The best of wines that are in the cellar!" cried the prince. The marshal hastened to carry out the order. In the hall it was as noisy as in a hive. When the first impression had passed, the nobles began to talk of the news and discuss. They asked Pan Suhanyets for details from Podlyasye, and adjoining Mazovia, which the Swedes had already occupied. After a while pitchy kegs were rolled into the hall and opened. Spirits began to grow brighter and improve by degrees. More and more frequently voices were heard to repeat: "All is over! perhaps it is for the best!" "We must bend to fortune!" "The prince will not let us be wronged." "It is better for us than for others. Long life to Yanush Radzivill, our voevoda, hetman, and prince!" "Grand Prince of Lithuania!" cried again Pan Yujits. But at this time neither silence nor laughter answered him; but a number of tens of hoarse throats roared at once,-- "That is our wish,--from heart and soul our wish! Long life to him! May he rule!" The magnate rose with a face as red as purple. "I thank you, brothers," said he, seriously. In the hall it had become as suffocating and hot, from lights and the breath of people, as in a bath. Panna Aleksandra bent past Kmita to her uncle. "I am weak," said she; "let us leave here." In truth her face was pale, and on her forehead glittered drops of perspiration; but the sword-bearer of Rossyeni cast an unquiet glance at the hetman, fearing lest it be taken ill of him to leave the table. In the field he was a gallant soldier, but he feared Radzivill with his whole soul. At that moment, to complete the evil, the hetman said,-- "He is my enemy who will not drink all my toasts to the bottom, for I am joyful to-day." "You have heard?" asked Billevich. "Uncle, I cannot stay longer, I am faint," said Olenka, with a beseeching voice. "Then go alone," answered Pan Tomash. The lady rose, wishing to slip away unobserved; but her strength failed, and she caught the side of the chair in her weakness. Suddenly a strong knightly arm embraced her, and supported the almost fainting maiden. "I will conduct you," said Pan Andrei. And without asking for permission he caught her form as if with an iron hoop. She leaned on him more and more; before they reached the door, she was hanging powerless on his arm. Then he raised her as lightly as he would a child, and bore her out of the hall. CHAPTER XXIV. That evening after the banquet, Pan Andrei wished absolutely to see the prince, but he was told that the prince was occupied in a secret interview with Pan Suhanyets. He went therefore early next morning, and was admitted at once. "Your highness," said he "I have come with a prayer." "What do you wish me to do for you?" "I am not able to live here longer. Each day increases my torment. There is nothing for me here in Kyedani. Let your highness find some office for me, send me whithersoever it please you. I have heard that regiments are to move against Zolotarenko; I will go with them." "Zolotarenko would be glad to have an uproar with us, but he cannot get at us in any way, for Swedish protection is here already, and we cannot go against him without the Swedes. Count Magnus advances with terrible dilatoriness because he does not trust me. But is it so ill for you here in Kyedani at our side?" "Your highness is gracious to me, and still my suffering is so keen that I cannot describe it. To tell the truth, I thought everything would take another course,--I thought that we should fight, that we should live in fire and smoke, day and night in the saddle. God created me for that. But to sit here, listen to quarrels and disputes, rot in inactivity, or hunt down my own people instead of the enemy,--I cannot endure it, simply I am unable. I prefer death a hundred times. As God is dear to me, this is pure torture!" "I know whence that despair comes. From love,--nothing more. When older, you will learn to laugh at these torments. I saw yesterday that you and that maiden were more and more angry with each other." "I am nothing to her, nor she to me. What has been is ended." "But what, did she fall ill yesterday?" "She did." The prince was silent for a while, then said: "I have advised you already, and I advise once more, if you care for her take her. I will give command to have the marriage performed. There will be a little screaming and crying,--that's nothing! After the marriage take her to your quarters; and if next day she still cries, that will be the most." "I beg, your highness, for some office in the army, not for marriage," said Kmita, roughly. "Then you do not want her?" "I do not. Neither I her, nor she me. Though it were to tear the soul within me, I will not ask her for anything. I only wish to be as far away as possible, to forget everything before my mind is lost. Here there is nothing to do; and inactivity is the worst of all, for trouble gnaws a man like sickness. Remember, your highness, how grievous it was for you yesterday till good news came. So it is with me to-day, and so it will be. What have I to do? Seize my head, lest bitter thoughts split it, and sit down? What can I wait for? God knows what kind of times these are, God knows what kind of war this is, which I cannot understand nor grasp with my mind,--which causes me still more grief. Now, as God is dear to me, if your highness will not use me in some way, I will flee, collect a party, and fight." "Whom?" asked the prince. "Whom? I will go to Vilna, and attack as I did Hovanski. Let your highness permit my squadron to go with me, and war will begin." "I need your squadron here against internal enemies." "That is the pain, that is the torment, to watch in Kyedani with folded arms, or chase after some Volodyovski whom I would rather have as a comrade by my side." "I have an office for you," said the prince. "I will not let you go to Vilna, nor will I give you a squadron; and if you go against my will, collect a squadron and fight, know that by this you cease to serve me." "But I shall serve the country." "He serves the country who serves me,--I have convinced you of that already. Remember also that you have taken an oath to me. Finally, if you go as a volunteer you will go also from under my jurisdiction, and the courts are waiting for you with sentences. In your own interest you should not do this." "What power have courts now?" "Beyond Kovno none; but here, where the country is still quiet, they have not ceased to act. It is true you may not appear, but decisions will be given and will weigh upon you until times of peace. Whom they have once declared they will remember even in ten years, and the nobles of Lauda will see that you are not forgotten." "To tell the truth to your highness, when it comes to atonement I will yield. Formerly I was ready to war with the whole Commonwealth, and to win for myself as many sentences as the late Pan Lashch, who had a cloak lined with them. But now a kind of galled spot has come out on my conscience. A man fears to wade farther than he wished, and mental disquiet touching everything gnaws him." "Are you so squeamish? But a truce to this! I will tell you, if 'tis your wish to go hence, I have an office for you and a very honorable one. Ganhoff is creeping into my eyes for this office, and talks of it every day. I have been thinking to give it to him. Still 'tis impossible to do so, for I must have a man of note, not with a trifling name, not a foreigner, but a Pole, who by his very person will bear witness that not all men have left me, that there are still weighty citizens on my side. You are just the man; you have so much good daring, are more willing to make others bend than to bow down yourself." "What is the task?" "To go on a long journey." "I am ready to-day!" "And at your own cost, since I am straitened for money. Some of my revenues the enemy have taken; others, our own people are ravaging, and no part comes in season; besides, all the army which I have here, has fallen to my expense. Of a certainty the treasurer, whom I have now behind a locked door, does not give me a copper,--first, because he has not the wish to do so; second; because he has not the coin. Whatever public money there is, I take without asking; but is there much? From the Swedes you will get anything sooner than money, for their hands tremble at sight of a farthing." "Your highness need not explain. If I go, it will be at my own expense." "But it will be necessary to appear with distinction, without sparing." "I will spare nothing." The hetman's face brightened; for in truth he had no ready money, though he had plundered Vilna not long before, and, besides, he was greedy by nature. It was also true that the revenues from his immense estates, extending from Livonia to Kieff and from Smolensk to Mazovia, had really ceased to flow in, and the cost of the army increased every day. "That suits me," said he; "Ganhoff would begin at once to knock on my coffers, but you are another kind of man. Hear, then, your instructions." "I am listening with care." "First, you will go to Podlyasye. The road is perilous; for the confederates, who left the camp, are there and acting against me. How you will escape them is your own affair. Yakub Kmita might spare you; but beware of Horotkyevich, Jyromski, and especially of Volodyovski with his Lauda men." "I have been in their hands already, and no evil has happened to me." "That is well. You will go to Zabludovo, where Pan Harasimovich lives; you will order him to collect what money he can from my revenues, the public taxes and whencesoever it is possible, and send it to me,--not to this place, however, but to Tyltsa, where there are effects of mine already. What goods or property he can pawn, let him pawn; what he can get from the Jews, let him take. Secondly, let him think how to ruin the confederates. But that is not your mission; I will send him instructions under my own hand. You will give him the letter and move straight to Tykotsin, to Prince Boguslav--" Here the hetman stopped and began to breathe heavily, for continuous speaking tortured him greatly. Kmita looked eagerly at Radzivill, for his own soul was chafing to go, and he felt that the journey, full of expected adventures, would be balsam to his grief. After a while the hetman continued: "I am astonished that Boguslav is loitering still in Podlyasye. As God is true, he may ruin both me and himself. Pay diligent attention to what he says; for though you will give him my letters, you should supplement them with living speech, and explain that which may not be written. Now understand that yesterday's intelligence was good, but not so good as I told the nobles,--not so good, in fact, as I myself thought at first. The Swedes have the upper hand, it is true; they have occupied Great Poland, Mazovia, Warsaw; the province of Syeradz has yielded to them, they are pursuing Yan Kazimir to Cracow, and as God is in heaven, they will besiege the place. Charnyetski is to defend it. He is a newly baked senator, but, I must confess, a good soldier. Who can foresee what will happen? The Swedes, of course, know how to take fortresses, and there was no time to fortify Cracow. Still, that spotted little castellan[22] (Charnyetski) may hold out there a month, two, three. Such wonders take place at times, as we all remember in the case of Zbaraj. If he will stand obstinately, the devil may turn everything around. Learn now political secrets. Know first that in Vienna they will not look with willing eye on the growing power of Sweden, and may give aid. The Tartars, too, I know this well, are inclined to assist Yan Kazimir, and to move against the Cossacks and Moscow with all force; and then the armies in the Crimea under Pototski would assist. Yan Kazimir is in despair, but tomorrow his fortune may be preponderant." Here the prince was forced to give rest again to his wearied breast, and Pan Andrei experienced a wonderful feeling which he could not himself account for at once. Behold, he, an adherent of Radzivill and Sweden, felt as it were a great joy at the thought that fortune might turn from the Swedes! "Suhanyets told me," said the prince, "how it was at Vidava and Jarnov. There in the first onset our advance guard--I mean the Polish--ground the Swedes into the dust. They were not general militia, and the Swedes lost courage greatly." "Still victory was with the Swedes, was it not?" "It was, for the squadrons mutinied against Yan Kazimir, and the nobles declared that they would stand in line, but would not fight. Still it was shown that the Swedes are no better in the field than the quarter soldiers. Only let there be one or two victories and their courage may change. Let money come to Yan Kazimir to pay wages, and the troops will not mutiny. Pototski has not many men, but they are sternly disciplined and as resolute as hornets. The Tartars will come with Pototski, but the elector will not move with his reinforcement." "How is that?" "Boguslav and I concluded that he would enter at once into a league with the Swedes and with us, for we know how to measure his love for the Commonwealth. He is too cautious, however, and thinks only of his own interest. He is waiting to see what will happen; meanwhile he is entering into a league, but with the Prussian towns, which remain faithful to Yan Kazimir. I think that in this there will be treason of some kind, unless the elector is not himself, or doubts Swedish success altogether. But until all this is explained, the league stands against Sweden; and let the Swedes stumble in Little Poland, Great Poland and Mazovia will rise, the Prussians will go with them, and it may come to pass--" Here the prince shuddered as if terrified at his supposition. "What may come to pass?" asked Kmita. "That not a Swedish foot will go out of the Commonwealth," answered the prince, gloomily. Kmita frowned and was silent. "Then," continued the hetman, in a low voice, "our fortune will have fallen as low as before it was high." Pan Andrei, springing from his seat, cried with sparkling eyes and flushed face: "What is this? Why did your highness say not long ago that the Commonwealth was lost,--that only in league with the Swedes, through the person and future reign of your highness, could it possibly be saved? What have I to believe,--what I heard then, or what I hear now? If what your highness says to-day is true, why do we hold with the Swedes, instead of beating them?--and the soul laughs at the thought of this." Radzivill looked sternly at Kmita. "You are over bold!" said he. But Kmita was careering on his own enthusiasm as on a horse. "Speak later of what kind of man I am; but now answer my question, your highness." "I will give this answer," said Radzivill, with emphasis: "if things take the turn that I mention, we will fall to beating the Swedes." Pan Andrei ceased distending his nostrils, slapped his forehead with his palm, and cried, "I am a fool! I am a fool!" "I do not deny that," answered the prince. "I will say more: you exceed the measure of insolence. Know then that I send you to note the turns of fortune. I desire the good of the country, nothing else. I have mentioned to you suppositions which may not, which certainly will not, come true. But there is need to be cautious. Whoso wishes that water should not bear him away must know how to swim, and whoso goes through a pathless forest must stop often to note the direction in which he should travel. Do you understand?" "As clearly as sunshine." "We are free to draw back, and we are bound to do so if it will be better for the country; but we shall not be able if Prince Boguslav stays longer in Podlyasye. Has he lost his head, or what? If he stays there, he must declare for one side or the other,--either for the Swedes or Yan Kazimir,--and that is just what would be worst of all." "I am dull, your highness, for again I do not understand." "Podlyasye is near Mazovia; and either the Swedes will occupy it or reinforcements will come from the Prussian towns against the Swedes. Then it will be necessary to choose." "But why does not Prince Boguslav choose?" "Until he chooses, the Swedes will seek us greatly and must win our favor; the same is true of the elector. If it comes to retreating and turning against the Swedes, he is to be the link between me and Yan Kazimir. He is to ease my return, which he could not do if previously he had taken the side of the Swedes. But since he will be forced to make a final choice if he remains in Podlyasye, let him go to Prussia, to Tyltsa, and wait there for events. The elector stays in Brandenburg. Boguslav will be of greater importance in Prussia; he may take the Prussians in hand altogether, increase his army, and stand at the head of a considerable force. And then both the Swedes and Yan Kazimir will give what we ask in order to win us both; and our house will not only not fall, but will rise higher, and that is the main thing." "Your highness said that the good of the country was the main thing." "But do not break in at every word, since I told you at first that the two are one; and listen farther. I know well that Prince Boguslav, though he signed the act of union with Sweden here in Kyedani, does not pass as an adherent of theirs. Though the report will be baseless, do you declare along the road that I forced him to sign it against his heart. People will believe this readily, for it happens frequently that even full brothers belong to different parties. In this way he will be able to gain the confidence of the confederates, invite the leaders to his camp as if for negotiations, and then seize and take them to Prussia. That will be a good method, and salutary for the country, which those men will ruin completely unless they are stopped." "Is this all that I have to do?" asked Kmita, with a certain disillusion. "This is merely a part, and not the most important. From Prince Boguslav you will go with my letters to Karl Gustav himself. I cannot come to harmony with Count Magnus from the time of that battle at Klavany. He looks at me askance, and does not cease from supposing that if the Swedes were to stumble, if the Tartars were to rush at the other enemy, I would turn against the Swedes." "By what your highness has said just now, his supposition is correct." "Correct or not, I do not wish it held, or wish him to see what trumps I have in my hand. Besides, he is ill-disposed toward me personally. Surely he has written more than once against me to the king, and beyond a doubt one of two things,--either that I am weak, or that I am not reliable. This must be remedied. You will give my letter to the king. If he asks about the Klavany affair, tell the truth, neither adding nor taking away. You may confess that I condemned those officers to death, and you obtained their pardon. That will cost you nothing, but the sincerity may please him. You will not complain against Count Magnus directly in presence of the king, for he is his brother-in-law. But if the king should ask, so, in passing, what people here think, say that they are sorry because Count Magnus does not repay the hetman sufficiently, in view of his sincere friendship for the Swedes; that the prince himself (that is I) grieves greatly over this. If he asks if it is true that all the quota troops have left me, say that 'tis not true; and as proof offer yourself. Tell him that you are colonel; for you are. Say that the partisans of Pan Gosyevski brought the troops to mutiny, but add that there is a mortal enmity between us. Say that if Count Magnus had sent me cannon and cavalry I should have crushed the confederates long ago,--that this is the general opinion. Finally, take note of everything, give ear to what they are saying near the person of the king, and report, not to me, but, if occasion offers, to Prince Boguslav in Prussia. You may do so even through the elector's men, should you meet them. Perhaps you know German?" "I had an officer, a noble of Courland, a certain Zend, whom the Lauda men slew; from him I learned German not badly. I have also been often in Livonia." "That is well." "But, your highness, where shall I find the King of Sweden?" "You will find him where he will be. In time of war he may be here to-day and there to-morrow. Should you find him at Cracow, it would be better, for you will take letters to other persons who live in those parts." "Then I am to go to others?" "Yes. You must make your way to the marshal of the kingdom. Pan Lyubomirski. It is of great moment to me that he come to our views. He is a powerful man, and in Little Poland much depends on him. Should he declare sincerely for the Swedes, Yan Kazimir would have no place in the Commonwealth. Conceal not from the King of Sweden that you are going from me to Lyubomirski to win him for the Swedes. Do not boast of this directly, but speak as it were inadvertently. That will influence him greatly in my favor. God grant that Lyubomirski declare for us. He will hesitate, that I know; still I hope that my letters will turn the scale, for there is a reason why he must care greatly for my good will. I will tell you the whole affair, that you may know how to act. You see Pan Lyubomirski has been coming around me for a long time, as men go around a bear in a thicket, and trying from afar to see if I would give my only daughter to his son Heraclius. They are children yet, but the contract might be made,--which is very important for the marshal, more than for me, since there is not another such heiress in the Commonwealth, and if the two fortunes were united, there would not be another such in the world. That is a well-buttered toast! But if the marshal were to conceive the hope that his son might receive the crown of the Grand Principality as the dower of my daughter! Rouse that hope in him and he will be tempted, as God is in heaven, for he thinks more of his house than he does of the Commonwealth." "What have I to tell him?" "That which I cannot write. But it must be placed before him with skill. God preserve you from disclosing that you have heard from me how I desire the crown,--it is too early for that yet,--but say, 'All the nobles in Lauda and Lithuania talk of crowning Radzivill, and rejoice over it; the Swedes themselves mention it, I have heard it near the person of the king.' You will observe who of his courtiers is the marshal's confidant, and suggest to that courtier the following thought: 'Let Lyubomirski join the Swedes and ask in return the marriage of Heraclius and Radzivill's daughter, then let him support Radzivill as Grand Prince. Heraclius will be Radzivill's heir.' That is not enough; suggest also that once Heraclius has the Lithuanian crown he will be elected in time to the throne of Poland, and so the two crowns may be united again in these two families. If they do not grasp at this idea with both hands, they will show themselves petty people. Whoso does not aim high and fears great plans, should be content with a little baton, with a small castellanship; let him serve, bend his neck, gain favor through chamber attendants, for he deserves nothing better! God has created me for something else, and therefore I dare to stretch my hands to everything which it is in the power of man to reach, and to go to those limits which God alone has placed to human effort." Here the prince stretched his hands, as if wishing to seize some unseen crown, and gleamed up altogether, like a torch; from emotion the breath failed in his throat again. After a while he calmed himself and said with a broken voice,-- "Behold--where my soul flies--as if to the sun--Disease utters its warning--let it work its will--I would rather death found me on the throne--than in the antechamber of a king." "Shall the physician be called?" asked Kmita. Radzivill waved his hand. "No need of him--I feel better now--That is all I had to say--In addition keep your eyes open, your ears open--See also what the Pototskis will do. They hold together, are true to the Vazas (that is, to Yan Kazimir)--and they are powerful--It is not known either how the Konyetspolskis and Sobyeskis will turn--Observe and learn--Now the suffocation is gone. Have you understood everything clearly?" "Yes. If I err, it will be my own fault." "I have letters written already; only a few remain. When do you wish to start?" "To-day! As soon as possible." "Have you no request to make?" "Your highness," began Kmita, and stopped suddenly. The words came from his mouth with difficulty, and on his face constraint and confusion were depicted. "Speak boldly," said the hetman. "I pray," said Kmita, "that Billevich and she--suffer no harm while here." "Be certain of that. But I see that you love the girl yet." "Impossible," answered Kmita. "Do I know! An hour I love her, an hour I hate her. The devil alone knows! All is over, as I have said,--suffering only is left. I do not want her, but I do not want another to take her. Your highness, pardon me, I know not myself what I say. I must go,--go with all haste! Pay no heed to my words, God will give back my mind the moment I have gone through the gate." "I understand that, because till love has grown cold with time, though not wanting her yourself, the thought that another might take her burns you. But be at rest on that point, for I will let no man come here, and as to going away they will not go. Soon it will be full of foreign soldiers all around, and unsafe. Better, I will send her to Tanrogi, near Tyltsa, where my daughter is. Be at rest, Yendrek. Go, prepare for the road, and come to me to dine." Kmita bowed and withdrew, and Radzivill began to draw deep breaths. He was glad of the departure of Kmita. He left him his squadron and his name as an adherent; for his person the prince cared less. But Kmita in going might render him notable services; in Kyedani he had long since grown irksome to the hetman, who was surer of him at a distance than near at hand. The wild courage and temper of Kmita might at any instant bring an outburst in Kyedani and a rupture very dangerous for both. The departure put danger aside. "Go, incarnate devil, and serve!" muttered the prince, looking at the door through which the banneret of Orsha had passed. Then he called a page and summoned Ganhoff. "You will take Kmita's squadron," said the prince to him, "and command over all the cavalry. Kmita is going on a journey." Over the cold face of Ganhoff there passed as it were a ray of joy. The mission had missed him, but a higher military office had come. He bowed in silence, and said,-- "I will pay for the favor of your highness with faithful service." Then he stood erect and waited. "And what will you say further?" asked the prince. "Your highness, a noble from Vilkomir came this morning with news that Pan Sapyeha is marching with troops against your highness." Radzivill quivered, but in the twinkle of an eye he mastered his expression. "You may go," said he to Ganhoff. Then he fell into deep thought. CHAPTER XXV. Kmita was very busily occupied in preparations for the road, and in choosing the men of his escort; for he determined not to go without a certain-sized party, first for his own safety, and second for the dignity of his person as an envoy. He was in a hurry, since he wished to start during the evening of that day, or if the rain did not cease, early next morning. He found men at last,--six trusty fellows who had long served under him in those better days when before his journey to Lyubich he had stormed around Hovanski,--old fighters of Orsha, ready to follow him even to the end of the earth. They were themselves nobles and attendant boyars, the last remnant of that once powerful band cut down by the Butryms. At the head of them was the sergeant Soroka, a trusty servant of the Kmitas,--an old soldier and very reliable, though numerous sentences were hanging over him for still more numerous deeds of violence. After dinner the prince gave Pan Andrei the letters and a pass to the Swedish commanders whom the young envoy might meet in the more considerable places; he took farewell of him and sent him away with much feeling, really like a father, recommending wariness and deliberation. Meanwhile the sky began to grow clear; toward evening the weak sun of autumn shone over Kyedani and went down behind red clouds, stretched out in long lines on the west. There was nothing to hinder the journey. Kmita was just drinking a stirrup cup with Ganhoff, Kharlamp, and some other officers when about dusk Soroka came in and asked,-- "Are you going, Commander?" "In an hour," answered Kmita. "The horses and men are ready now in the yard." The sergeant went out, and the officers began to strike glasses still more; but Kmita rather pretended to drink than to drink in reality. The wine had no taste for him, did not go to his head, did not cheer his spirit, while the others were already merry. "Worthy Colonel," said Ganhoff, "commend me to the favor of Prince Boguslav. That is a great cavalier; such another there is not in the Commonwealth. With him you will be as in France. A different speech, other customs, every politeness may be learned there more easily than even in the palace of the king." "I remember Prince Boguslav at Berestechko," said Kharlamp; "he had one regiment of dragoons drilled in French fashion completely,--they rendered both infantry and cavalry service. The officers were French, except a few Hollanders; of the soldiers the greater part were French, all dandies. There was an odor of various perfumes from them as from a drug-shop. In battle they thrust fiercely with rapiers, and it was said that when one of them thrust a man through he said, 'Pardonnez-moi!' (pardon me); so they mingled politeness with uproarious life. But Prince Boguslav rode among them with a handkerchief on his sword, always smiling, even in the greatest din of battle, for it is the French fashion to smile amid bloodshed. He had his face touched with paint, and his eyebrows blackened with coal, at which the old soldiers were angry and called him a bawd. Immediately after battle he had new ruffs brought him, so as to be always dressed as if for a banquet, and they curled his hair with irons, making marvellous ringlets out of it. But he is a manful fellow, and goes first into the thickest fire. He challenged Pan Kalinovski because he said something to him, and the king had to make peace." "There is no use in denying," said Ganhoff. "You will see curious things, and you will see the King of Sweden himself, who next to our prince is the best warrior in the world." "And Pan Charnyetski," said Kharlamp; "they are speaking more and more of him." "Pan Charnyetski is on the side of Yan Kazimir, and therefore is our enemy," remarked Ganhoff, severely. "Wonderful things are passing in this world," said Kharlamp, musingly. "If any man had said a year or two ago that the Swedes would come hither, we should all have thought, 'We shall be fighting with the Swedes;' but see now." "We are not alone; the whole Commonwealth has received them with open arms," said Ganhoff. "True as life," put in Kmita, also musingly. "Except Sapyeha, Gosyevski, Charnyetski, and the hetmans of the crown," answered Kharlamp. "Better not speak of that," said Ganhoff. "But, worthy Colonel, come back to us in good health; promotion awaits you." "And Panna Billevich?" added Kharlamp. "Panna Billevich is nothing to you," answered Kmita, brusquely. "Of course nothing, I am too old. The last time-- Wait, gentlemen, when was that? Ah, the last time during the election of the present mercifully reigning Yan Kazimir." "Cease the use of that name from your tongue," interrupted Ganhoff. "To-day rules over us graciously Karl Gustav." "True! _Consuetudo altera natura_ (custom is a second nature). Well, the last time, during the election of Yan Kazimir, our ex-king and Grand Duke of Lithuania, I fell terribly in love with one lady, an attendant of the Princess Vishnyevetski. Oh, she was an attractive little beast! But when I wanted to look more nearly into her eyes, Pan Volodyovski thrust up his sabre. I was to fight with him; then Bogun came between us,--Bogun, whom Volodyovski cut up like a hare. If it had not been for that, you would not see me alive. But at that time I was ready to fight, even with the devil. Volodyovski stood up for her only through friendship, for she was betrothed to another, a still greater swordsman. Oh, I tell you, gentlemen, that I thought I should wither away--I could not think of eating or drinking. When our prince sent me from Warsaw to Smolensk, only then did I shake off my love on the road. There is nothing like a journey for such griefs. At the first mile I was easier, before I had reached Vilna my head was clear, and to this day I remain single. That is the whole story. There is nothing for unhappy love like a journey." "Is that your opinion?" asked Kmita. "As I live, it is! Let the black ones take all the pretty girls in Lithuania and the kingdom, I do not need them." "But did you go away without farewell?" "Without farewell; but I threw a red ribbon behind me, which one old woman, very deeply versed in love matters, advised me to do." "Good health!" interrupted Ganhoff, turning again to Pan Andrei. "Good health!" answered Kmita, "I give thanks from my heart." "To the bottom, to the bottom! It is time for you to mount, and service calls us. May God lead you forth and bring you home." "Farewell!" "Throw the red ribbon behind," said Kharlamp, "or at the first resting-place put out the fire yourself with a bucket of water; that is, if you wish to forget." "Be with God!" "We shall not soon see one another." "Perhaps somewhere on the battlefield," added Ganhoff. "God grant side by side, not opposed." "Of course not opposed," said Kmita. And the officers went out. The clock on the tower struck seven. In the yard the horses were pawing the stone pavement with their hoofs, and through the window were to be seen the men waiting. A wonderful disquiet seized Pan Andrei. He was repeating to himself, "I go, I go!" Imagination placed before his eyes unknown regions, and a throng of strange faces which he was to see, and at the same time wonder seized him at the thought of the journey, as if hitherto it had never been in his mind. He must mount and move on. "What happens, will happen. What will be, will be!" thought he to himself. When, however, the horses were snorting right there at the window, and the hour of starting had struck, he felt that the new life would be strange, and all with which he had lived, to which he had grown accustomed, to which he had become attached heart and soul, would stay in that region, in that neighborhood, in that place. The former Kmita would stay there as well. Another man as it were would go hence,--a stranger to all outside, as all outside were strangers to him. He would have to begin there an entirely new life. God alone knew whether there would be a desire for it. Pan Andrei was mortally wearied in soul, and therefore at that moment he felt powerless in view of those new scenes and new people. He thought that it was bad for him here, that it would be bad for him there, at least it would be burdensome. But it is time, time. He must put his cap on his head and ride off. But will he go without a last word? Is it possible to be so near and later to be so far, to say not one word and go forth? See to what it has come! But what can he say to her? Shall he go and say, "Everything is ruined; my lady, go thy way, I will go mine"? Why, why say even that, when without saying it is so? He is not her betrothed, as she is not and will not be his wife. What has been is lost, is rent, and will not return, will not be bound up afresh. Loss of time, loss of words, and new torture. "I will not go!" thought Pan Kmita. But, on the other hand, the will of a dead man binds them yet. It is needful to speak clearly and without anger of final separation, and to say to her, "My lady, you wish me not; I return you your word. Therefore we shall both act as though there had been no will, and let each seek happiness where each can find it?" But she may answer: "I have said that long since; why tell it to me now?" "I will not go, happen what may!" repeated Kmita to himself. And pressing the cap on his head, he went out of the room into the corridor. He wished to mount straightway and be outside the gate quickly. All at once, in the corridor, something caught him as it were by the hair. Such a desire to see her, to speak to her, possessed him, that he ceased to think whether to go or not to go, he ceased to reason, and rather pushed on with closed eyes, as if wishing to spring into water. Before the very door whence the guard had just been removed, he came upon a youth, a servant of the sword-bearer. "Is Pan Billevich in the room?" asked he. "The sword-bearer is among the officers in the barracks." "And the lady?" "The lady is at home." "Tell her that Pan Kmita is going on a long journey and wishes to see the lady." The youth obeyed the command; but before he returned with an answer Kmita raised the latch and went in without question. "I have come to take farewell," said he, "for I do not know whether we shall meet again in life." Suddenly he turned to the youth: "Why stand here yet?" "My gracious lady," continued Kmita, when the door had closed after the servant, "I intended to go without parting, but had not the power. God knows when I shall return, or whether I shall return, for misfortunes come lightly. Better that we part without anger and offence in our hearts, so that the punishment of God fall not on either of us. There is much to say, much to say, and now the tongue cannot say it all. Well, there was no happiness, clearly by the will of God there was not; and now, O man, even if thou batter thy head against the wall, there is no cure! Blame me not, and I will not blame you. We need not regard that testament now, for as I have said, the will of man is nothing against the will of God. God grant you happiness and peace. The main thing is that we forgive each other. I know not what will meet me outside, whither I am going. But I cannot sit longer in torture, in trouble, in sorrow. A man breaks himself on the four walls of a room without result, gracious lady, without result! One has no labor here,--only to take grief on the shoulders, only think for whole days of unhappy events till the head aches, and in the end think out nothing. This journey is as needful to me, as water to a fish, as air to a bird, for without it I should go wild." "God grant you happiness," said Panna Aleksandra. She stood before him as if stunned by the departure, the appearance, and the words of Pan Kmita. On her face were confusion and astonishment, and it was clear that she was struggling to recover herself; meanwhile she gazed on the young man with eyes widely open. "I do not cherish ill will against you," said she after a time. "Would that all this had not been!" said Kmita. "Some evil spirit came between us and separated us as if with a sea, and that water is neither to be swum across nor waded through. The man did not do what he wanted, he went not where he wished, but something as it were pushed him till we both entered pathless regions. But since we are to vanish the one from the eyes of the other, it is better to cry out even from remoteness, 'God guide!' It is needful also for you to know that offence and anger are one thing, and sorrow another. From anger I have freed myself, but sorrow sits in me--maybe not for you. Do I know myself for whom and for what? Thinking, I have thought out nothing; but still it seems to me that it will be easier both to you and to me if we talk. You hold me a traitor, and that pricks me most bitterly of all, for as I wish my soul's salvation, I have not been and shall not be a traitor." "I hold you that no longer," said Olenka. "Oi, how could you have held me that even one hour? You know of me, that once I was ready for violence, ready to slay, burn, shoot; that is one thing, but to betray for gain, for advancement, never! God guard me, God judge me! You are a woman, and cannot see in what lies the country's salvation; hence it beseems you not to condemn, to give sentence. And why did you utter the sentence? God be with you! Know this, that salvation is in Prince Radzivill and the Swedes; and who thinks otherwise, and especially acts, is just ruining the country. But it is no time to discuss, it is time to go. Know that I am not a traitor, not one who sells. May I perish if I ever be that! Know that unjustly you scorned me, unjustly consigned me to death--I tell you this under oath and at parting, and I say it that I may say with it, I forgive you from my heart; but do you forgive me as well." Panna Aleksandra had recovered completely. "You say that I have judged you unjustly; that is true. It is my fault; I confess it and beg your forgiveness." Here her voice trembled, her blue eyes filled with tears, and he cried with transport,-- "I forgive! I forgive! I would forgive you even my death!" "May God guide you and bring you to the right road. May you leave that on which you are erring." "But give peace, give peace!" cried Kmita, excitedly; "let no misunderstanding rise between us again. Whether I err or err not, be silent on that point. Let each man follow the way of his conscience; God will judge every intention. Better that I have come hither, than to go without farewell. Give me your hand for the road. Only that much is mine; for to-morrow I shall not see you, nor after tomorrow, nor in a month, perhaps never--Oi, Olenka! and in my head it is dim--Olenka! And shall we never meet again?" Abundant tears like pearls were falling from Panna Aleksandra's lashes to her cheeks. "Pan Andrei, leave traitors, and all may be." "Quiet, oh, quiet!" said Kmita, with a broken voice. "It may not be--I cannot--better say nothing-- Would I were slain! less should I suffer-- For God's sake, why does this meet us? Farewell for the last time. And then let death close my eyes somewhere outside-- Why are you weeping? Weep not, or I shall go wild!" And in supreme excitement he seized her half by constraint, and though she resisted, he kissed her eyes and her mouth, then fell at her feet. At last he sprang up, and grasping his hair like a madman, rushed forth from the chamber. "The devil could do nothing here, much less a red ribbon." Olenka saw him through the window as he was mounting in haste; the seven horsemen then moved forward. The Scots on guard at the gate made a clatter with their weapons, presenting arms; then the gate closed after the horsemen, and they were not to be seen on the dark road among the trees. Night too had fallen completely. CHAPTER XXVI. Kovno, and the whole region on the left bank of the Vilia, with all the roads, were occupied by the enemy (the Russians); therefore Kmita, not being able to go to Podlyasye by the high-road leading from Kovno to Grodno and thence to Byalystok, went by side-roads from Kyedani straight down the course of the Nyevyaja to the Nyemen, which he crossed near Vilkovo, and found himself in the province of Trotsk. All that part of the road, which was not over great, he passed in quiet, for that region lay as it were under the hand of Radzivill. Towns, and here and there even villages, were occupied by castle squadrons of the hetman, or by small detachments of Swedish cavalry which the hetman pushed forward thus far of purpose against the legions of Zolotarenko, which stood there beyond the Vilia, so that occasions for collisions and war might be more easily found. Zolotarenko would have been glad too to have an "uproar" with the Swedes, according to the words of the hetman; but those whose ally he was did not wish war with them, or in every case wished to put it off as long as possible. Zolotarenko therefore received the strictest orders not to cross the river, and in case that Radzivill himself, together with the Swedes, moved on him, to retreat with all haste. For these reasons the country on the right side of the Vilia was quiet; but since from one side Cossack pickets, from the other those of the Swedes and Radzivill were looking at one another, one musket-shot might at any, moment let loose a terrible war. In prevision of this, people took timely refuge in safe places. Therefore the whole country was quiet, but empty. Pan Andrei saw deserted towns, everywhere the windows of houses held up by sticks, and whole villages depopulated. The fields were also empty, for there was no crop that year. Common people secreted themselves in fathomless forests, to which they drove all their cattle; but the nobles fled to neighboring Electoral Prussia, at that time altogether safe from war. For this reason there was an uncommon movement over the roads and trails of the wilderness, and the number of fugitives was still more increased by those who from the left bank of the Vilia were able to escape the oppression of Zolotarenko. The number of these was enormous, and especially of peasants; for the nobles who had not been able hitherto to flee from the left bank went into captivity or yielded their lives on their thresholds. Pan Andrei, therefore, met every moment whole crowds of peasants with their wives and children, and driving before them flocks of sheep with horses and cattle. That part of the province of Trotsk touching upon Electoral Prussia was wealthy and productive; therefore the well-to-do people had something to save and guard. The approaching winter did not alarm fugitives, who preferred to await better days amid mosses of the forest, in snow covered huts, than to await death in their native villages at the hands of the enemy. Kmita often approached the fleeing crowds, or fires gleaming at night in dense forest places. Wherever he met people from the left bank of the Vilia, from near Kovno, or from still remoter neighborhoods, he heard terrible tales of the cruelties of Zolotarenko and his allies, who exterminated people without regard to age or sex; they burned villages, cut down even trees in the gardens, leaving only land and water. Never had Tartar raids left such desolation behind. Not death alone was inflicted on the inhabitants, but before death they were put to the most ingenious tortures. Many of those people fled with bewildered minds. These filled the forest depths at night with awful shrieks; others were ever in a species of continual fear and expectation of attack, though they had crossed the Nyemen and Vilia, though forests and morasses separated them from Zolotarenko's bands. Many of these stretched their hands to Kmita and his horsemen of Orsha, imploring rescue and pity, as if the enemy were standing there over them. Carriages belonging to nobles were moving toward Prussia; in them old men, women, and children; behind them, dragged on wagons with servants, effects, supplies of provisions, and other things. All these fleeing people were panic-stricken, terrified and grieved because they were going into exile. Pan Andrei comforted these unfortunates at times by telling them that the Swedes would soon pass over and drive that enemy far away. Then the fugitives stretched their hands to heaven and said,-- "God give health, God give fortune to the prince voevoda! When the Swedes come we will return to our homes, to our burned dwellings." And they blessed the prince everywhere. From mouth to mouth news was given that at any moment he might cross the Vilia at the head of his own and Swedish troops. Besides, they praised the "modesty" of the Swedes, their discipline, and good treatment of the inhabitants. Radzivill was called the Gideon of Lithuania, a Samson, a savior. These people from districts steaming with fresh blood and fire were looking for him as for deliverance. And Kmita, hearing those blessings, those wishes, those almost prayers, was strengthened in his faith concerning Radzivill, and repeated in his soul,-- "I serve such a lord! I will shut my eyes and follow blindly his fortune. At times he is terrible and beyond knowing; but he has a greater mind than others, he knows better what is needed, and in him alone is salvation." It became lighter and calmer in his breast at this thought; he advanced therefore with greater solace in his heart, dividing his soul between sorrow for Kyedani and thoughts on the unhappy condition of the country. His sorrow increased continually. He did not throw the red ribbon behind him, he did not put out the fire with water; for he felt, first, that it was useless, and then he did not wish to do so. "Oh that she were present, that she could hear the wailing and groans of people, she would not beg God to turn me away, she would not tell me that I err, like those heretics who have left the true faith. But never mind! Earlier or later she will be convinced, she will see that her own judgment was at fault. And then what God will give will be. Maybe we shall meet again in life." And yearning increased in the young cavalier; but the conviction that he was marching by the right, not by the wrong road, gave him a peace long since unknown. The conflict of thought, the gnawing, the doubts left him by degrees, and he rode forward; he sank in the shoreless forest almost with gladness. From the time that he had come to Lyubich, after his famous raids on Hovanski, he had not felt so vivacious. Kharlamp was right in this, that there is no cure like the road for cares and troubles. Pan Andrei had iron health; his daring and love of adventures were coming back every hour. He saw these adventures before him, smiled at them, and urged on his convoy unceasingly, barely stopping for short night-rests. Olenka stood ever before the eyes of his spirit, tearful, trembling in his arms like a bird, and he said to himself, "I shall return." At times the form of the hetman passed before him, gloomy, immense, terrible. But it may be just because he was moving away more and more, that that form became almost dear to him. Hitherto he had bent before Radzivill; now he began to love him. Hitherto Radzivill had borne him along as a mighty whirlpool of water seizes and attracts everything that comes within its circle; now Kmita felt that he wished with his whole soul to go with him. And in the distance that gigantic voevoda increased continually in the eyes of the young knight, and assumed almost superhuman proportions. More than once, at his night halt, when Pan Andrei had closed his eyes in sleep, he saw the hetman sitting on a throne loftier than the tops of the pine-trees. There was a crown on his head; his face was the same, gloomy, enormous; in his hand a sword and a sceptre, at his feet the whole Commonwealth. And in his soul Kmita did homage to greatness. On the third day of the journey they left the Nyemen far behind, and entered a country of still greater forests. They met whole crowds of fugitives on the roads; but nobles unable to bear arms were going almost without exception to Prussia before the bands of the enemy, who, not held in curb there, as on the banks of the Vilia, by the regiments of Sweden and Radzivill, pushed at times far into the heart of the country, even to the boundary of Electoral Prussia. Their main object was plunder. Frequently these were detachments as if from the army of Zolotarenko, but really recognizing no authority,--simply robber companies, so called "parties" commanded at times even by local bandits. Avoiding engagements in the field with troops and even with townspeople, they attacked small villages, single houses, and travellers. The nobles on their own account attacked these parties with their household servants, and ornamented with them the pine-trees along the roads; still it was easy in the forest to stumble upon their frequent bands, and therefore Pan Andrei was forced to exercise uncommon care. But somewhat beyond Pilvishki on the Sheshupa, Kmita found the population living quietly in their homes. The townspeople told him, however, that not longer than a couple of days before, a strong band of Zolotarenko's men, numbering as many as five hundred, had made an attack, and would, according to their custom, have cut down all the people, and let the place rise in smoke, were it not for unexpected aid which fell as it were from heaven. "We had already committed ourselves to God," said the master of the inn in which Pan Andrei had taken lodgings, "when the saints of the Lord sent some squadrons. We thought at first that a new enemy had come, but they were ours. They sprang at once on Zolotarenko's ruffians, and in an hour they laid them out like a pavement, all the more easily as we helped them." "What kind of a squadron was it?" asked Kmita. "God give them health! They did not say who they were, and we did not dare to ask. They fed their horses, took what hay and bread there was, and rode away." "But whence did they come, and whither did they go?" "They came from Kozlova Ruda, and they went to the south. We, who before that wished to flee to the woods, thought the matter over and stayed here, for the under-starosta said that after such a lesson the enemy would not look in on us again soon." The news of the battle interested Kmita greatly, therefore he asked further: "And do you not know who commanded that squadron?" "We do not know; but we saw the colonel, for he talked with us on the square, he is young, and sharp as a needle. He does not look like the warrior that he is." "Volodyovski!" cried Kmita. "Whether he is Volodyovski, or not, may his hands be holy, may God make him hetman!" Pan Andrei fell into deep thought. Evidently he was going by the same road over which a few days before Volodyovski had marched with the Lauda men. In fact, that was natural, for both were going to Podlyasye. But it occurred to Pan Andrei that if he hastened he might easily meet the little knight and be captured; in that case, all the letters of Radzivill would fall with him into possession of the confederates. Such an event might destroy his mission, and bring God knows what harm to the cause of Radzivill. For this reason Pan Andrei determined to stay a couple of days in Pilvishki, so that the squadron of Lauda might have time to advance as far as possible. The men, as well as the horses, travelling almost with one sweep from Kyedani (for only short halts had been given on the road hitherto), needed rest; therefore Kmita ordered the soldiers to remove the packs from the horses and settle themselves comfortably in the inn. Next day he was convinced that he had acted not only cleverly but wisely, for scarcely had he dressed in the morning, when his host stood before him. "I bring news to your grace," said he. "It is good?" "Neither good nor bad, but that we have guests. An enormous court arrived here to-day, and stopped at the starosta's house. There is a regiment of infantry, and what crowds of cavalry and carriages with servants!--The people thought that the king himself had come." "What king?" The innkeeper began to turn his cap in his hand. "It is true that we have two kings now, but neither one came,--only the prince marshal." Kmita sprang to his feet. "What prince marshal? Prince Boguslav?" "Yes, your grace; the cousin of the prince voevoda of Vilna." Pan Andrei clapped his hands from astonishment. "And so we have met." The innkeeper, understanding that his guest was an acquaintance of Prince Boguslav, made a lower bow than the day before, and went out of the room; but Kmita began to dress in haste, and an hour later was before the house of the starosta. The whole place was swarming with soldiers. The infantry were stacking their muskets on the square; the cavalry had dismounted and occupied the houses at the side. The soldiers and attendants in the most varied costumes had halted before the houses, or were walking along the streets. From the mouths of the officers were to be heard French and German. Nowhere a Polish soldier, nowhere a Polish uniform; the musketeers and dragoons were dressed in strange fashion, different, indeed, from the foreign squadrons which Pan Andrei had seen in Kyedani, for they were not in German but in French style. The soldiers, handsome men and so showy that each one in the ranks might be taken for an officer, delighted the eyes of Pan Andrei. The officers looked on him also with curiosity, for he had arrayed himself richly in velvet and brocade, and six men, dressed in new uniforms, followed him as a suite. Attendants, all dressed in French fashion, were hurrying about in front of the starosta's house; there were pages in caps and feathers, armor-bearers in velvet kaftans, and equerries in Swedish, high, wide-legged boots. Evidently the prince did not intend to tarry long in Pilvishki, and had stopped only for refreshment, for the carriages were not taken to the shed; and the equerries, in waiting, were feeding horses out of tin sieves which they held in their hands. Kmita announced to an officer on guard before the house who he was and what was his mission; the officer went to inform the prince. After a while he returned hastily, to say that the prince was anxious to see a man sent from the hetman; and showing Kmita the way, he entered the house with him. After they had passed the antechamber, they found in the dining-hall a number of attendants, with legs stretched out, slumbering sweetly in arm-chairs; it was evident that they must have started early in the morning from the last halting-place: The officer stopped before the door of the next room, and bowing to Pan Andrei, said,-- "The prince is there." Pan Andrei entered and stopped at the threshold. The prince was sitting before a mirror fixed in the corner of the room, and was looking so intently at his own face, apparently just touched with rouge and white, that he did not turn attention to the incomer. Two chamber servants, kneeling before him, were fastening buckles at the ankles on his high travelling-boots, while he was arranging slowly with his fingers the luxuriant, evenly cut forelock of his bright gold-colored wig, or it might be of his own abundant hair. He was still a young man, of thirty-five years, but seemed not more than five and twenty. Kmita knew the prince, but looked on him always with curiosity: first, because of the great knightly fame which surrounded him, and which was won mainly through duels fought with various foreign magnates; second, by reason of his peculiar figure,--whoso saw his form once was forced to remember it ever after. The prince was tall and powerfully built, but on his broad shoulders stood a head as diminutive as if taken from another body. His face, also, was uncommonly small, almost childlike; but in it, too, there was no proportion, for he had a great Roman nose and enormous eyes of unspeakable beauty and brightness, with a real eagle boldness of glance. In presence of those eyes and the nose, the rest of his face, surrounded, moreover, with plentiful tresses of hair, disappeared almost completely; his mouth was almost that of a child; above it was a slight mustache barely covering his upper lip. The delicacy of his complexion, heightened by rouge and white paint, made him almost like a young lady; and at the same time the insolence, pride, and self-confidence depicted in that face permitted no one to forget that he was that _chercheur de noises_ (seeker of quarrels), as he was nicknamed at the French court,--a man out of whose mouth a sharp word came with ease, but whose sword came from its scabbard with still greater ease. In Germany, in Holland, in France, they related marvels of his military deeds, of his disputes, quarrels, adventures, and duels. He was the man who in Holland rushed into the thickest whirl of battle, among the incomparable regiments of Spanish infantry, and with his own princely hand captured a flag and a cannon; he, at the head of the regiments of the Prince of Orange, captured batteries declared by old leaders to be beyond capture; he, on the Rhine, at the head of French musketeers, shattered the heavy squadrons of Germany, trained in the Thirty Years' War; he wounded, in a duel in France, the most celebrated fencer among French knights. Prince de Fremouille; another famous fighter, Baron Von Goetz, begged of him life, on his knees; he wounded Baron Grot, for which he had to hear bitter reproaches from his cousin Yanush, because he was lowering his dignity as prince by fighting with men beneath him in rank; finally, in presence of the whole French court, at a ball in the Louvre, he slapped Marquis de Rieux on the face, because he had spoken to him "unbecomingly." The duels that he had fought incognito in smaller towns, in taverns and inns, did not enter into reckoning. He was a mixture of effeminacy and unbounded daring. During rare and short visits to his native land he amused himself by quarrels with the Sapyehas, and with hunting; but on those occasions the hunters had to find for him she-bears with their young, as being dangerous and enraged; against these he went armed only with a spear. But it was tedious for him in his own country, to which he came, as was said, unwillingly, most frequently in time of war; he distinguished himself by great victories at Berestechko, Mogilyoff, and Smolensk. War was his element, though he had a mind quick and subtle, equally fitted for intrigues and diplomatic exploits. In these he knew how to be patient and enduring, far more enduring than in the "loves," of which a whole series completed the history of his life. The prince, at the courts where he had resided, was the terror of husbands who had beautiful wives. For that reason, doubtless, he was not yet married, though his high birth and almost inexhaustible fortune made him one of the most desirable matches in Europe. The King and Queen of France, Marya Ludvika of Poland, the Prince of Orange, and his uncle, the Elector of Brandenburg, tried to make matches for him; but so far he preferred his freedom. "I do not want a dower," said he, cynically; "and of the other pleasures I have no lack as I am." In this fashion he reached the thirty-fifth year of his age. Kmita, standing on the threshold, examined with curiosity Boguslav's face, which the mirror reflected, while he was arranging with seriousness the hair of his forelock; at last, when Pan Andrei coughed once and a second time, he said, without turning his head,-- "But who is present? Is it a messenger from the prince voevoda?" "Not a messenger, but from the prince voevoda," replied Pan Andrei. Then the prince turned his head, and seeing a brilliant young man, recognized that he had not to do with an ordinary servant. "Pardon, Cavalier," said he, affably, "for I see that I was mistaken in the office of the person. But your face is known to me, though I am not able to recall your name. You are an attendant of the prince hetman?" "My name is Kmita," answered Pan Andrei, "and I am not an attendant; I am a colonel from the time that I brought my own squadron to the prince hetman." "Kmita!" cried the prince, "that same Kmita, famous in the last war, who harried Hovanski, and later on managed not worse on his own account? I have heard much about you." Having said this, the prince began to look more carefully and with a certain pleasure at Pan Andrei, for from what he had heard he thought him a man of his own cut. "Sit down," said he, "I am glad to know you more intimately. And what is to be heard in Kyedani?" "Here is a letter from the prince hetman," answered Kmita. The servants, having finished buckling the prince's boots, went out. The prince broke the seal and began to read. After a while there was an expression of weariness and dissatisfaction on his face. He threw the letter under the mirror and said,-- "Nothing new! The prince voevoda advises me to go to Prussia, to Tyltsa or to Taurogi, which, as you see, I am just doing. _Ma foi_, I do not understand my cousin. He reports to me that the elector is in Brandenburg, and that he cannot make his way to Prussia through the Swedes, and he writes at the same time that the hairs are standing on his head because I do not communicate with him, either for health or prescription; and how can I? If the elector cannot make his way through the Swedes, how can my messenger do so? I am in Podlyasye, for I have nothing else to do. I tell you, my cavalier, that I am as much bored as the devil doing penance. I have speared all the bears near Tykotsin; the fair heads of that region have the odor of sheepskin, which my nostrils cannot endure. But-- Do you understand French or German?" "I understand German," answered Kmita. "Praise be to God for that! I will speak German, for my lips fly off from your language." When he had said this the prince put out his lower lip and touched it with his fingers, as if wishing to be sure that it had not gone off: then he looked at the mirror and continued,-- "Report has come to me that in the neighborhood of Lukovo one Skshetuski, a noble, has a wife of wonderful beauty. It is far from here; but I sent men to carry her off and bring her. Now, if you will believe it, Pan Kmita, they did not find her at home." "That was good luck," said Pan Andrei, "for she is the wife of an honorable cavalier, a celebrated man, who made his way out of Zbaraj through the whole power of Hmelnitski." "The husband was besieged in Zbaraj, and I would have besieged the wife in Tykotsin. Do you think she would have held out as stubbornly as her husband?" "Your highness, for such a siege a counsel of war is not needed, let it pass without my opinion," answered Pan Andrei, brusquely. "True, loss of time!" said the prince. "Let us return to business. Have you any letters yet?" "What I had to your highness I have delivered; besides those I have one to the King of Sweden. Is it known to your highness where I must seek him?" "I know nothing. What can I know? He is not in Tykotsin; I can assure you of that, for if he had once seen that place he would have resigned his dominion over the whole Commonwealth. Warsaw is now in Swedish hands, but you will not find the king there. He must be before Cracow, or in Cracow itself, if he has not gone to Royal Prussia by this time. To my thinking Karl Gustav must keep the Prussian towns in mind, for he cannot leave them in his rear. Who would have expected, when the whole Commonwealth abandons its king, when all the nobles join the Swedes, when the provinces yield one after the other, that just then towns, German and Protestant, would not hear of the Swedes but prepare for resistance? They wish to save the Commonwealth and adhere to Yan Kazimir. In beginning our work we thought that it would be otherwise: that before all they would help us and the Swedes to cut that loaf which you call your Commonwealth; but now they won't move! The luck is that the elector has his eye on them. He has offered them forces already against the Swedes; but the Dantzig people do not trust him, and say that they have forces enough of their own." "We knew that already in Kyedani," said Kmita. "If they have not forces enough, in every case they have a good sniff," continued the prince, laughing; "for the elector cares as much, I think, about the Commonwealth as I do, or as the prince voevoda of Vilna does." "Your highness, permit me to deny that," said Kmita, abruptly. "The prince cares that much about the Commonwealth that he is ready at every moment to give his last breath and spill his last blood for it." Prince Boguslav began to laugh. "You are young, Cavalier, young! But enough! My uncle the elector wants to grab Royal Prussia, and for that reason only, he offers his aid. If he has the towns once in hand, if he has his garrisons in them, he will be ready to agree with the Swedes next day, nay, even with the Turks or with devils. Let the Swedes add a bit of Great Poland, he will be ready to help them with all his power to take the rest. The only trouble is in this, that the Swedes are sharpening their teeth against Prussia, and hence the distrust between them and the elector." "I hear with astonishment the words of your highness," said Kmita. "The devils were taking me in Podlyasye," answered the prince,--"I had to stay there so long in idleness. But what was I to do? An agreement was made between me and the prince voevoda, that until affairs were cleared up in Prussia, I was not to take the Swedish side publicly. And that was right, for thus a gate remains open. I sent even secret couriers to Yan Kazimir, announcing that I was ready to summon the general militia in Podlyasye if a manifesto were sent me. The king, as king, might have let himself be tricked; but the queen it is clear does not trust me, and must have advised against it. If it were not for that woman, I should be to-day at the head of all the nobles of Podlyasye; and what is more, those confederates who are now ravaging the property of Prince Yanush would have no choice but to come under my orders. I should have declared myself a partisan of Yan Kazimir, but, in fact, having power in my hand, would treat with the Swedes. But that woman knows how grass grows, and guesses the most secret thought. She is the real king, not queen! She has more wit in one finger than Yan Kazimir in his whole body." "The prince voevoda--" began Kmita. "The prince voevoda," interrupted Boguslav, with impatience, "is eternally late with his counsel; he writes to me in every letter, 'Do this and do that,' while I have in fact done it long before. Besides, the prince voevoda loses his head. For listen what he asks of me." Here the prince took up the letter and began to read aloud,-- "Be cautious yourself on the road; and those rascals, the confederates, who have mutinied against me and are ravaging Podlyasye, for God's sake think how to disperse them, lest they go to the king. They are preparing to visit Zabludovo, and beer in that place is strong; when they get drunk, let them be cut off,--each host may finish his guest. Nothing better is needed; for when the heads are removed, the rest will scatter--" Boguslav threw the letter with vexation on the table. "Listen, Pan Kmita," said he, "you see I have to go to Prussia and at the same time arrange a slaughter in Zabludovo. I must feign myself a partisan of Yan Kazimir and a patriot, and at the same time cut off those people who are unwilling to betray the king and the country. Is that sense? Does one hang to the other? _Ma foi_, the prince is losing his head. I have met now, while coming to Pilvishki, a whole insurgent squadron travelling along through Podlyasye. I should have galloped over their stomachs with gladness, even to gain some amusement; but before I am an open partisan of the Swedes, while my uncle the elector holds formally with the Prussian towns, and with Yan Kazimir too, I cannot permit myself such pleasure, God knows I cannot. What could I do more than to be polite to those insurgents, as they are polite to me, suspecting me of an understanding with the hetman, but not having black on white?" Here the prince lay back comfortably in the armchair, stretched out his legs, and putting his hands behind his head carelessly, began to repeat,-- "Ah, there is nonsense in this Commonwealth, nonsense! In the world there is nothing like it!" Then he was silent for a moment; evidently some idea came to his head, for he struck his wig and inquired,-- "But will you not be in Podlyasye?" "Yes," said Kmita, "I must be there, for I have a letter with instructions to Harasimovich, the under-starosta in Zabludovo." "In God's name!" exclaimed the prince, "Harasimovich is here with me. He is going with the hetman's effects to Prussia, for we were afraid that they might fall into the hands of the confederates. Wait, I will have him summoned." Here the prince summoned a servant and ordered him to call the under-starosta. "This has happened well," said the prince, "You will save yourself a journey,--though it may be too bad that you will not visit Podlyasye, for among the heads of the confederacy there is a namesake of yours whom you might secure." "I have no time for that," said Kmita, "since I am in a hurry to go to the king and Pan Lyubomirski." "Ah, you have a letter to the marshal of the kingdom? Well, I can divine the reason of it. Once the marshal thought of marrying his son to Yanush's daughter. Did not the hetman wish this time to renew negotiations delicately?" "That is just the mission." "Both are quite children. H'm! that's a delicate mission, for it does not become the hetman to speak first. Besides--" Here the prince frowned. "Nothing will come of it. The daughter of the hetman is not for Heraclius, I tell you that! The prince hetman must understand that his fortune is to remain in possession of the Radzivills." Kmita looked with astonishment on the prince, who was walking with quicker and quicker pace through the room. All at once he stopped before Pan Andrei, and said, "Give me the word of a cavalier that you will answer truly my question." "Gracious prince," said Kmita, "only those lie who are afraid, and I fear no man." "Did the prince voevoda give orders to keep secret from me the negotiations with Lyubomirski?" "Had I such a command, I should not have mentioned Lyubomirski." "It might have slipped you. Give me your word." "I give it," said Kmita, frowning. "You have taken a weight from my heart, for I thought that the voevoda was playing a double game with me." "I do not understand, your highness." "I would not marry, in France, Rohan, not counting half threescore other princesses whom they were giving me. Do you know why?" "I do not." "There is an agreement between me and the prince voevoda that his daughter and his fortune are growing up for me. As a faithful servant of the Radzivills, you may know everything." "Thank you for the confidence. But your highness is mistaken. I am not a servant of the Radzivills." Boguslav opened his eyes widely. "What are you?" "I am a colonel of the hetman, not of the castle; and besides I am the hetman's relative." "A relative?" "I am related to the Kishkis, and the hetman is born of a Kishki." Prince Boguslav looked for a while at Kmita, on whose face a light flush appeared. All at once he stretched forth his hands and said,-- "I beg your pardon, cousin, and I am glad of the relationship." The last words were uttered with a certain inattentive though showy politeness, in which there was something directly painful to Pan Andrei. His face flushed still more, and he was opening his mouth to say something hasty, when the door opened and Harasimovich appeared on the threshold. "There is a letter for you," said Boguslav. Harasimovich bowed to the prince, and then to Pan Andrei, who gave him the letter. "Read it!" said Prince Boguslav. Harasimovich began to read,-- "Pan Harasimovich! Now is the time to show the good will of a faithful servant to his lord. As whatever money you are able to collect, you in Zabludovo and Pan Pjinski in Orel--" "The confederates have slain Pan Pjinski in Orel, for which reason Pan Harasimovich has taken to his heels," interrupted the prince. The under-starosta bowed and read further,-- "--and Pan Pjinski in Orel, even the public revenue, even the excise, rent--" "The confederates have already taken them," interrupted Boguslav again. "--send me at once," continued Harasimovich. "If you can mortgage some villages to neighbors or townspeople, obtaining as much money on them as possible, do so, and whatever means there may be of obtaining money, do your best in the matter, and send the money to me. Send horses and whatever effects there are in Orel. There is a great candlestick too, and other things,--pictures, ornaments, and especially the cannons on the porch at my cousins; for robbers may be feared--" "Again counsel too late, for these cannons are going with me," said the prince. "If they are heavy with the stocks, then take them without the stocks and cover them, so it may not be known that you are bringing them. And take these things to Prussia with all speed, avoiding with utmost care those traitors who have caused mutiny in my army and are ravaging my estates--" "As to ravaging, they are ravaging! They are pounding them into dough," interrupted the prince anew. "--ravaging my estates, and are preparing to move against Zabludovo on their way perhaps to the king. With them it is difficult to fight, for they are many; but if they are admitted, and given plenty to drink, and killed in the night while asleep (every host can do that), or poisoned in strong beer, or (which is not difficult in that place) a wild crowd let in to plunder them--" "Well, that is nothing new!" said Prince Boguslav. "You may journey with me, Pan Harasimovich." "There is still a supplement," said the under-starosta. And he read on, "The wines, if you cannot bring them away (for with us such can be had nowhere), sell them quickly--" Here Harasimovich stopped and seized himself by the head,-- "For God's sake! those wines are coming half a day's road behind us, and surely have fallen into the hands of that insurgent squadron which was hovering around us. There will be a loss of some thousands of gold pieces. Let your highness give witness with me that you commanded me to wait till the barrels were packed in the wagons." Harasimovich's terror would have been still greater had he known Pan Zagloba, and had he known that he was in that very squadron. Meanwhile Prince Boguslav smiled and said,-- "Oh, let the wines be to their health! Read on!" "--if a merchant cannot be found--" Prince Boguslav now held his sides from laughter. "He has been found," said he, "but you must sell to him on credit." "--but if a merchant cannot be found," read Harasimovich, in a complaining voice, "bury it in the ground secretly, so that more than two should not know where it is; but leave a keg in Orel and one in Zabludovo, and those of the best and sweetest, so that the officers may take a liking to it; and put in plenty of poison, so that the officers at least may be killed, then the squadron will break up. For God's sake, serve me faithfully in this, and secretly, for the mercy of God. Burn what I write, and whoso finds out anything send him to me. Either the confederates will find and drink the wine, or it may be given as a present to make them friendly." The under-starosta finished reading, and looked at Prince Boguslav, as if waiting for instructions; and the prince said,-- "I see that my cousin pays much attention to the confederates; it is only a pity that, as usual, he is too late. If he had come upon this plan two weeks ago, or even one week, it might have been tried. But now go with God, Pan Harasimovich; I do not need you." Harasimovich bowed and went out. Prince Boguslav stood before the mirror, and began to examine his own figure carefully; he moved his head slightly from right to left, then stepped back from the mirror, then approached it, then shook his curls, then looked askance, not paying any attention to Kmita, who sat in the shade with his back turned to the window. But if he had cast even one look at Pan Andrei's face he would have seen that in the young envoy something wonderful was taking place; for Kmita's face was pale, on his forehead stood thick drops of sweat, and his hands shook convulsively. After a while he rose from the chair, but sat down again immediately, like a man struggling with himself and suppressing an outburst of anger or despair. Finally his features settled and became fixed; evidently he had with his whole strong force of will and energy enjoined calm on himself and gained complete self-control. "Your highness," said he, "from the confidence which the prince hetman bestows on me you see that he does not wish to make a secret of anything. I belong soul and substance to his work; with him and your highness my fortune may increase; therefore, whither you both go, thither go I also. I am ready for everything. But though I serve in those affairs and am occupied in them, still I do not of course understand everything perfectly, nor can I penetrate all the secrets of them with my weak wit." "What do you wish then, Sir Cavalier, or rather, fair cousin?" "I ask instruction, your highness; it would be a shame indeed were I unable to learn at the side of such statesmen. I know not whether your highness will be pleased to answer me without reserve--" "That will depend on your question and on my humor," answered Boguslav, not ceasing to look at the mirror. Kmita's eyes glittered for a moment, but he continued calmly,-- "This is my question: The prince voevoda of Vilna shields all his acts with the good and salvation of the Commonwealth, so that in fact the Commonwealth is never absent from his lips; be pleased to tell me sincerely, are these mere pretexts, or has the hetman in truth nothing but the good of the Commonwealth in view?" Boguslav cast a quick glance on Pan Andrei. "If I should say that they are pretexts, would you give further service?" Kmita shrugged his shoulders carelessly. "Of course! As I have said, my fortune will increase with the fortune of your highness and that of the hetman. If that increase comes, the rest is all one to me." "You will be a man! Remember that I foretell this. But why has my cousin not spoken openly with you?" "Maybe because he is squeamish, or just because it did not happen to be the topic." "You have quick wit, Cousin Cavalier, for it is the real truth that he is squeamish and shows his true skin unwillingly. As God is dear to me, true! Such is his nature. So, even in talking with me, the moment he forgets himself he begins to adorn his speech with love for the country. When I laugh at him to his eyes, he comes to his senses. True! true!" "Then it is merely a pretext?" asked Kmita. The prince turned the chair around and sat astride of it, as on a horse, and resting his arms on the back of it was silent awhile, as if in thought; then he said,-- "Hear me, Pan Kmita. If we Radzivills lived in Spain, France, or Sweden, where the son inherits after the father, and where the right of the king comes from God himself, then, leaving aside civil war, extinction of the royal stock, or some uncommon event, we should serve the king and the country firmly, being content with the highest offices which belong to us by family and fortune. But here, in the land where the king has not divine right at his back, but the nobles create him, where everything is in free suffrage, we ask ourselves with reason,--Why should a Vaza rule, and not a Radzivill? There is no objection so far as the Vazas are concerned, for they take their origin from hereditary kings; but who will assure us, who will guarantee that after the Vazas the nobles will not have the whim of seating on the throne of the kingdom and on the throne of the Grand Principality even Pan Harasimovich, or some Pan Myeleshko, or some Pan Pyeglasyevich from Psivolki? Tfu! can I guess whom they may fancy? And must we, Radzivills, and princes of the German Empire, come to kiss the hand of King Pyeglasyevich? Tfu! to all the horned devils, Cavalier, it is time to finish with this! Look meanwhile at Germany,--how many provincial princes there, who in importance and fortune are fitted to be under-starostas for us. Still they have their principalities, they rule, wear crowns on their heads, and take precedence of us, though it would be fitter for them to bear the trains of our mantles. It is time to put an end to this, and accomplish that which was already planned by my father." Here the prince grew vivacious, rose from the chair, and began to walk through the room. "This will not take place without difficulty and obstacles," continued he, "for the Radzivills of Olyta and Nyesvyej are not willing to aid us. I know that Prince Michael wrote to my cousin that he would better think of a hair-shirt than of a royal mantle. Let him think of a hair-shirt himself, let him do penance, let him sit on ashes, let the Jesuits lash his skin with disciplines; if he is content with being a royal carver, let him carve capons virtuously all his virtuous life, till his virtuous death! We shall get on without him and not drop our hands, for just now is the time. The devils are taking the Commonwealth; for now it is so weak, has gone to such dogs, that it cannot drive them away. Every one is crawling in over its boundaries, as into an unfenced garden. What has happened here with the Swedes has happened nowhere on earth to this day. We, Sir Cavalier, may sing in truth 'Te Deum laudamus.' In its way the event is unheard of, unparalleled. Just think: an invader attacks a country, an invader famous for rapacity; and not only does he not find resistance, but every living man deserts his old king and hurries to a new one,--magnates, nobles, the army, castles, towns, all,--without honor, without fame, without feeling, without shame! History gives not another such example. Tfu! tfu! trash inhabit this country,--men without conscience or ambition. And is such a country not to perish? They are looking for our favor! Ye will have favor! In Great Poland already the Swedes are thumb-screwing nobles; and so will it be everywhere,--it cannot be otherwise." Kmita grew paler and paler, but with the remnant of his strength he held in curb an outburst of fury; the prince, absorbed in his own speech, delighted with his own words, with his own wisdom, paid no attention to his listener, and continued,-- "There is a custom in this land that when a man is dying his relatives at the last moment pull the pillow from under his head, so that he may not suffer longer. I and the prince voevoda of Vilna have determined to render this special service to the Commonwealth. But because many plunderers are watching for the inheritance and we cannot get it all, we wish that a part, and that no small one, should come to us. As relatives, we have that right. If with this comparison I have not spoken on a level with your understanding, and have not been able to hit the point, I will tell you in other words: Suppose the Commonwealth a red cloth at which are pulling the Swedes, Hmelnitski, the Hyperboreans,[23] the Tartars, the elector, and whosoever lives around. But I and the prince voevoda of Vilna have agreed that enough of that cloth must remain in our hands to make a robe for us; therefore we do not prevent the dragging, but we drag ourselves. Let Hmelnitski stay in the Ukraine; let the Swedes and the elector settle about Prussia and Great Poland; let Rakotsy, or whoever is nearer, take Little Poland,--Lithuania must be for Prince Yanush, and, together with his daughter, for me." Kmita rose quickly. "I give thanks, your highness; that is all I wanted to know." "You are going out. Sir Cavalier?" "I am." The prince looked carefully at Kmita, and at that moment first noted his pallor and excitement. "What is the matter, Pan Kmita?" asked he. "You look like a ghost." "Weariness has knocked me off my feet, and my head is dizzy. Farewell, your highness; I will come before starting, to bow to you again." "Make haste, then, for I start after midday myself." "I shall return in an hour at furthest." When he had said this, Kmita bent his head and went out. In the other room the servants rose at sight of him, but he passed like a drunken man, seeing no one. At the threshold of the room he caught his head with both hands, and began to repeat, almost with a groan,-- "Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews! Jesus, Mary, Joseph!" With tottering steps he passed through the guard, composed of six men with halberds. Outside the gate were his own men, the sergeant Soroka at the head of them. "After me!" called Kmita. And he moved through the town toward the inn. Soroka, an old soldier of Kmita's, knowing him perfectly, noticed at once that something uncommon had happened to the colonel. "Let your soul be on guard," said he quietly to the men; "woe to him on whom his anger falls now!" The soldiers hastened their steps in silence, but Kmita did not go at a walk; he almost ran, waving his hand and repeating words well-nigh incoherent. To the ears of Soroka came only broken phrases,-- "Poisoners, faith-breakers, traitors! Crime and treason,--the two are the same--" Then he began to mention his old comrades. The names Kokosinski, Kulvyets, Ranitski, Rekuts, and others fell from his lips one after another; a number of times he mentioned Volodyovski. Soroka heard this with wonder, and grew more and more alarmed; but in his mind he thought,-- "Some one's blood will flow; it cannot be otherwise." Meanwhile they had come to the inn. Kmita shut himself in his room at once, and for about an hour he gave no sign of life. The soldiers meanwhile had tied on the packs and saddled the horses without order. "That is no harm," said Soroka; "it is necessary to be ready for everything." "We too are ready!" answered the old fighters, moving their mustaches. In fact, it came out soon that Soroka knew his colonel well; for Kmita appeared suddenly in the front room, without a cap, in his trousers and shirt only. "Saddle the horses!" cried he. "They are saddled." "Fasten on the packs!" "They are fastened." "A ducat a man!" cried the young colonel, who in spite of all his fever and excitement saw that those soldiers had guessed his thought quickly. "We give thanks, Commander!" cried all in chorus. "Two men will take the pack-horses and go out of the place immediately toward Dembova. Go slowly through the town; outside the town put the horses on a gallop, and stop not till the forest is reached." "According to command!" "Four others load their pistols. For me saddle two horses, and let another be ready." "I knew there would be something!" muttered Soroka. "Now, Sergeant, after me!" cried Kmita. And undressed as he was, in trousers only, and open shirt, he went out of the front room. Soroka followed him, opening his eyes widely with wonder; they went in this fashion to the well in the yard of the inn. Here Kmita stopped, and pointing to the bucket hanging from the sweep, said,-- "Pour water on my head!" Soroka knew from experience how dangerous it was to ask twice about an order; he seized the rope, let the bucket down into the water, drew up quickly, and taking the bucket in his hands, threw the water on Pan Andrei, who, puffing and blowing like a whale, rubbed his wet hair with his hands, and cried,-- "More!" Soroka repeated the act, and threw water with all his force, just as if he were putting out a fire. "Enough!" said Kmita, at length. "Follow me, help me to dress." Both went to the inn. At the gate they met the two men going out with two pack-horses. "Slowly through the town; outside the town on a gallop!" commanded Kmita; and he wont in. Half an hour later he appeared dressed completely, as if for the road, with high boots and an elkskin coat, girded with a leather belt into which was thrust a pistol. The soldiers noticed, too, that from under his kaftan gleamed the edge of chain mail, as if he were going to battle. He had his sabre also girt high, so as to seize the hilt more easily. His face was calm enough, but stern and threatening. Casting a glance at the soldiers to see if they were ready and armed properly, he mounted his horse, and throwing a ducat at the innkeeper, rode out of the place. Soroka rode at his side; three others behind, leading a horse. Soon they found themselves on the square filled by Boguslav's troops. There was movement among them already; evidently the command had come to prepare for the road. The horsemen were tightening the girths of the saddle and bridling the horses; the infantry were taking their muskets, stacked before the houses; others were attaching horses to wagons. Kmita started as it were from meditation. "Hear me, old man," said he to Soroka; "from the starosta's house does the road go on,--it will not be necessary to come back through the square?" "But where are we going, Colonel?" "To Dembova." "Then we must go from the square past the house. The square will be behind us." "It is well," said Kmita. "Oh, if only those men were alive now! Few are fitted for work like this,--few!" Meanwhile they passed the square, and began to turn toward the starosta's house, which lay about one furlong and a half farther on, near the roadside. "Stop!" cried Kmita, suddenly. The soldiers halted, and he turned to them. "Are you ready for death?" asked he, abruptly. "Ready!" answered in chorus these dare-devils of Orsha. "We crawled up to Hovanski's throat, and he did not devour us,--do you remember?" "We remember!" "There is need to dare great things to-day. If success comes, our gracious king will make lords of you,--I guarantee that! If failure, you will go to the stake!" "Why not success?" asked Soroka, whose eyes began to gleam like those of an old wolf. "There will be success!" said three others,--Biloüs, Zavratynski, and Lubyenyets. "We must carry off the prince marshal!" said Kmita. Then he was silent, wishing to see the impression which the mad thought would make on the soldiers. But they were silent too, and looked on him as on a rainbow; only, their mustaches quivered, and their faces became terrible and murderous. "The stake is near, the reward far away," added Kmita. "There are few of us," muttered Zavratynski. "It is worse than against Hovanski," said Lubyenyets. "The troops are all in the market-square, and at the house are only the sentries and about twenty attendants," said Kmita, "who are off their guard, and have not even swords at their sides." "You risk your head; why should we not risk ours?" said Soroka. "Hear me," continued Kmita. "If we do not take him by cunning, we shall not take him at all. Listen! I will go into the room, and after a time come out with the prince. If the prince will sit on my horse, I will sit on the other, and we will ride on. When we have ridden about a hundred or a hundred and fifty yards, then seize him from both sides by the shoulders, and gallop the horses with all breath." "According to order!" answered Soroka. "If I do not come out," continued Kmita, "and you hear a shot in the room, then open on the guards with pistols, and give me the horse as I rush from the door." "That will be done," answered Soroka. "Forward!" commanded Kmita. They moved on, and a quarter of an hour later halted at the gate of the starosta's house. At the gate were six guards with halberds; at the door of the anteroom four men were standing. Around a carriage in the front yard were occupied equerries and outriders, whom an attendant of consequence was overseeing,--a foreigner, as might be known from his dress and wig. Farther on, near the carriage-house, horses were being attached to two other carriages, to which gigantic Turkish grooms were carrying packs. Over these watched a man dressed in black, with a face like that of a doctor or an astrologer. Kmita announced himself as he had previously, through the officer of the day, who returned soon and asked him to the prince. "How are you, Cavalier?" asked the prince, joyfully. "You left me so suddenly that I thought scruples had risen in you from my words, and I did not expect to see you again." "Of course I could not go without making my obeisance." "Well, I thought: the prince voevoda has known whom to send on a confidential mission. I make use of you also, for I give you letters to a number of important persons, and to the King of Sweden himself. But why armed as if for battle?" "I am going among confederates; I have heard right here in this place, and your highness has confirmed the report, that a confederate squadron passed. Even here in Pilvishki they brought a terrible panic on Zolotarenko's men, for a famed soldier is leading that squadron." "Who is he?" "Pan Volodyovski; and with him are Mirski, Oskyerko, and the two Skshetuskis,--one that man of Zbaraj, whose wife your highness wanted to besiege in Tykotsin. All rebelled against the prince voevoda; and it is a pity, for they were good soldiers. What is to be done? There are still fools in the Commonwealth who are unwilling to pull the red cloth with Cossacks and Swedes." "There is never a lack of fools in the world, and especially in this country," said the prince. "Here are the letters; and besides, when you see his Swedish grace, say as if in confidence that in heart I am as much his adherent as my cousin, but for the time I must dissemble." "Who is not forced to that?" answered Kmita. "Every man dissembles, especially if he thinks to do something great." "That is surely the case. Acquit yourself well, Sir Cavalier, I will be thankful to you, and will not let the hetman surpass me in rewarding." "If the favor of your highness is such, I ask reward in advance." "You have it! Surely my cousin has not furnished you over abundantly for the road. There is a serpent in his money-box." "May God guard me from asking money! I did not ask it of the hetman, and I will not take it from your highness. I am at my own expense, and I will remain so." Prince Boguslav looked at the young knight with wonder. "I see that in truth the Kmitas are not of those who look at men's hands. What is your wish then, Sir Cavalier?" "The matter is as follows: without thinking carefully in Kyedani, I took a horse of high blood, so as to show myself before the Swedes. I do not exaggerate when I say there is not a better in the stables of Kyedani. Now I am sorry for him, and I am afraid to injure him on the road, in the stables of inns, or for want of rest. And as accidents are not hard to meet, he may fall into enemies' hands, even those of that Volodyovski, who personally is terribly hostile to me. I have thought, therefore, to beg your highness to take him to keep and use until I ask for him at a more convenient time." "Better sell him to me." "Impossible,--it would be like selling a friend. At a small estimate that horse has taken me a hundred times out of the greatest danger; for he has this virtue too, that in battle he bites the enemy savagely." "Is he such a good horse?" asked Prince Boguslav, with lively interest. "Is he good? If I were sure your highness would not be offended, I would bet a hundred gold florins without looking, that your highness has not such a one in your stables." "Maybe I would bet, if it were not that to-day is not the time for a trial. I will keep him willingly, though; if possible, I would buy. But where is this wonder kept?" "My men are holding him just here in front of the gate. As to his being a wonder, he is a wonder; for it is no exaggeration to say that the Sultan might covet such a horse. He is not of this country, but from Anatolia; and in Anatolia, as I think, only one such was found." "Then let us look at him." "I serve your highness." Before the gate Kmita's men were holding two horses completely equipped: one was indeed of high breed, black as a raven, with a star on his forehead, and a white fetlock to a leg like a lance; he neighed slightly at sight of his master. "I guess that to be the one," said Boguslav. "I do not know whether he is such a wonder as you say, but in truth he is a fine horse." "Try him!" cried Kmita; "or no, I will mount him myself!" The soldiers gave Kmita the horse; he mounted, and began to ride around near the gate. Under the skilled rider the horse seemed doubly beautiful. His prominent eyes gained brightness as he moved at a trot; he seemed to blow forth inner fire through his nostrils, while the wind unfolded his mane. Pan Kmita described a circle, changed his gait; at last he rode straight on the prince, so that the nostrils of the horse were not a yard from his face, and cried,-- "Halt!" The horse stopped with his four feet resisting, and stood as if fixed to the ground. "What do you say?" asked Kmita. "The eyes and legs of a deer, the gait of a wolf, the nostrils of an elk, and the breast of a woman!" said Boguslav. "Here is all that is needed. Does he understand German command?" "Yes; for my horse-trainer Zend, who was a Courlander, taught him." "And the beast is swift?" "The wind cannot come up with him; a Tartar cannot escape him." "Your trainer must have been a good one, for I see that the horse is highly taught." "Is he taught? Your highness will not believe. He goes so in the rank that when the line is moving at a trot, you may let the reins drop and he will not push one half of his nose beyond the line. If your highness will be pleased to try, and if in two furlongs he will push beyond the others half a head, then I will give him as a gift." "That would be the greatest wonder, not to advance with dropped reins." "It is wonderful and convenient, for both hands of the rider are free. More than once have I had a sabre in one hand and a pistol in the other, and the horse went alone." "But if the rank turns?" "Then he will turn too without breaking the line." "Impossible!" exclaimed the prince; "no horse will do that. I have seen in France horses of the king's musketeers, greatly trained, of purpose not to spoil the court ceremonies, but still it was necessary to guide them with reins." "The wit of man is in this horse. Let your highness try him yourself." "Give him here!" said the prince, after a moment's thought. Kmita held the horse till Boguslav mounted. He sprang lightly into the saddle, and began to pat the steed on his shining neck. "A wonderful thing," said he; "the best horses shed their hair in the autumn, but this one is as if he had come out of water. In what direction shall we go?" "Let us move in a line, and if your highness permits, toward the forest. The road is even and broad, but in the direction of the town some wagon might come in the way." "Let us ride toward the forest." "Just two furlongs. Let your highness drop the reins and start on a gallop. Two men on each side, and I will ride a little behind." "Take your places!" said the prince. The line was formed; they turned the horses' heads from the town. The prince was in the middle. "Forward!" said he. "On a gallop from the start,--march!" The line shot on, and after a certain time was moving like a whirlwind. A cloud of dust hid them from the eyes of the attendants and equerries, who, collecting in a crowd at the gate, looked with curiosity at the racing. The trained horses going at the highest speed, snorting from effort, had run already a furlong or more; and the prince's steed, though not held by the reins, did not push forward an inch. They ran another furlong. Kmita turned, and seeing behind only a cloud of dust, through which the starosta's house could barely be seen, and the people standing before it not at all, cried with a terrible voice,-- "Take him!" At this moment Biloüs and the gigantic Zavratynski seized both arms of the prince, and squeezed them till the bones cracked in their joints, and holding him in their iron fists, put spurs to their own horses. The prince's horse in the middle held the line, neither pushing ahead nor holding back an inch. Astonishment, fright, the whirlwind beating in his face, deprived Prince Boguslav of speech for the first moment. He struggled once and a second time,--without result, however, for pain from his twisted arms pierced him through. "What is this, ruffians? Know ye not who I am?" cried he at last. Thereupon Kmita pushed him with the barrel of the pistol between the shoulders. "Resistance is useless; it will only bring a bullet in your body!" cried he. "Traitor!" said the prince. "But who are you?" asked Kmita. And they galloped on farther. CHAPTER XXVII. They ran long through the pine-forest with such speed that the trees by the roadside seemed to flee backward in panic; inns, huts of forest guards, pitch-clearings, flashed by, and at times wagons singly or a few together, going to Pilvishki. From time to time Boguslav bent forward in the saddle as if to struggle; but his arms were only wrenched the more painfully in the iron hands of the soldiers, while Pan Andrei held the pistol-barrel between the princess shoulders again, and they rushed on till the white foam was falling in flakes from the horses. At last they were forced to slacken the speed, for breath failed both men and beasts, and Pilvishki was so far behind that all possibility of pursuit had ceased. They rode on then a certain time at a walk and in silence, surrounded by a cloud of steam, which was issuing from the horses. For a long time the prince said nothing; he was evidently trying to calm himself and cool his blood. When he had done this he asked,-- "Whither are you taking me?" "Your highness will know that at the end of the road," answered Kmita. Boguslav was silent, but after a while said, "Cavalier, command these trash to let me go, for they are pulling out my arms. If you command them to do so, they will only hang; if not, they will go to the stake." "They are nobles, not trash," answered Kmita; "and as to the punishment which your highness threatens, it is not known whom death will strike first." "Know ye on whom ye have raised hands?" asked the prince, turning to the soldiers. "We know," answered they. "By a million horned devils!" cried Boguslav, with an outburst. "Will you command these people to let me go, or not?" "Your highness, I will order them to bind your arms behind your back; then you will be quieter." "Impossible! You will put my arms quite out of joint." "I would give orders to let another off on his word that he would not try to escape, but you know how to break your word," said Kmita. "I will give another word," answered the prince,--"that not only will I escape at the first opportunity, but I will have you torn apart with horses, when you fall into my hands." "What God wants to give, he gives!" said Kmita. "But I prefer a sincere threat to a lying promise. Let go his hands, only hold his horse by the bridle; but, your highness, look here! I have but to touch the trigger to put a bullet into your body, and I shall not miss, for I never miss. Sit quietly; do not try to escape." "I do not care, Cavalier, for you or your pistol." When he had said this, the prince stretched his aching arms, to straighten them and shake off the numbness. The soldiers caught the horse's bridle on both sides, and led him on. After a while Boguslav said, "Yon dare not look me in the eyes, Pan Kmita; you hide in the rear." "Indeed!" answered Kmita; and urging forward his horse, he pushed Zavratynski away, and seizing the reins of the prince's horse, he looked Boguslav straight in the face. "And how is my horse? Have I added even one virtue?" "A good horse!" answered the prince. "If you wish, I will buy him." "This horse deserves a better fate than to carry a traitor till his death." "You are a fool, Pan Kmita." "Yes, for I believed the Radzivills." Again came a moment of silence, which was broken by the prince. "Tell me, Pan Kmita, are you sure that you are in your right mind, that your reason has not left you? Have you asked yourself what you have done, madman? Has it not come to your head that as things are now it would have been better for you if your mother had not given you birth, and that no one, not only in Poland, but in all Europe, would have ventured on such a dare-devil deed?" "Then it is clear that there is no great courage in that Europe, for I have carried off your highness, hold you, and will not let you go." "It can only be an affair with a madman," said the prince, as if to himself. "My gracious prince," answered Pan Andrei, "you are in my hands; be reconciled to that, and waste not words in vain. Pursuit will not come up, for your men think to this moment that you have come off with me voluntarily. When my men took you by the arms no one saw it, for the dust covered us; and even if there were no dust, neither the equerries nor the guards could have seen, it was so far. They will wait for you two hours; the third hour they will be impatient, the fourth and fifth uneasy, and the sixth will send out men in search; but we meanwhile shall be beyond Maryapole." "What of that?" "This, that they will not pursue; and even if they should start immediately in pursuit, your horses are just from the road, while ours are fresh. Even if by some miracle they should come up, that would not save you, for, as truly as you see me here, I should open your head,--which I shall do if nothing else is possible. This is the position! Radzivill has a court, an army, cannon, dragoons; Kmita has six men, and Kmita holds Radzivill by the neck." "What further?" asked the prince. "Nothing further! We will go where it pleases me. Thank God, your highness, that you are alive; for were it not that I gave orders to throw many gallons of water on my head to-day, you would be in the other world already, that is, in hell, for two reasons,--as a traitor and as a Calvinist." "And would you have dared to do that?" "Without praising myself I say that your highness would not easily find an undertaking on which I would not venture; you have the best proof of that in yourself." The prince looked carefully at the young man and said, "Cavalier, the devil has written on your face that you are ready for anything, and that is the reason why I have a proof in myself. I tell you, indeed, that you have been able to astonish me with your boldness, and that is no easy thing." "That's all one to me. Give thanks to God, your highness, that you are alive yet, and quits." "No, Cavalier. First of all, do you thank God; for if one hair had fallen from my head, then know that the Radzivills would find you even under the earth. If you think that because there is disunion between us and those of Nyesvyej and Olyta, and that they will not pursue you, you are mistaken. Radzivill blood must be avenged, an awful example must be given, otherwise there would be no life for us in this Commonwealth. You cannot hide abroad, either: the Emperor of Germany will give you up, for I am a prince of the German Empire; the Elector of Brandenburg is my uncle; the Prince of Orange is his brother-in-law; the King and Queen of France and their ministers are my friends. Where will you hide? The Turks and Tartars will sell you, though we had to give them half our fortune. You will not find on earth a corner, nor such deserts, nor such people--" "It is a wonder to me," replied Kmita, "that your highness takes such thought in advance for my safety. A great person a Radzivill! Still I have only to touch a trigger." "I do not deny that. More than once it has happened in the world that a great man died at the hands of a common one. A camp-follower killed Pompey; French kings perished at the hands of low people. Without going farther, the same thing happened to my great father. But I ask you what will come next?" "What is that to me? I have never taken much thought of what will be to-morrow. If it comes to close quarters with all the Radzivills, God knows who will be warmed up best. The sword has been long hanging over my head, but the moment I close my eyes I sleep as sweetly as a suslik. And if one Radzivill is not enough for me, I will carry off a second, and a third." "As God is dear to me, Cavalier, you please me much; for I repeat that you alone in Europe could dare a deed like this. The beast does not care, nor mind what will come to-morrow. I love daring people, and there are fewer and fewer of them in the world. Just think! he has carried off a Radzivill and holds him as his own. Where were you reared in this fashion, Cavalier? Whence do you come?" "I am banneret of Orsha." "Pan Banneret of Orsha, I grieve that the Radzivills are losing a man like you, for with such men much might be done. If it were not a question of myself--h'm! I would spare nothing to win you." "Too late!" said Kmita. "That is to be understood," answered the prince. "Much too late! But I tell you beforehand that I will order you only to be shot, for you are worthy to die a soldier's death. What an incarnate devil to carry me off from the midst of my men!" Kmita made no answer; the prince meditated awhile, then cried,-- "If you free me at once, I will not take vengeance. Only give me your word that you will tell no one of this, and command your men to be silent." "Impossible!" replied Kmita. "Do you want a ransom?" "I do not." "What the devil, then, did you carry me off for? I cannot understand it." "It would take a long time to tell. I will tell your highness later." "But what have we to do on the road unless to talk? Acknowledge, Cavalier, one thing: you carried me off in a moment of anger and desperation, and now you don't know well what to do with me." "That is my affair!" answered Kmita; "and if I do not know what to do, it will soon be seen." Impatience was depicted on Prince Boguslav's face. "You are not over-communicative, Pan Banneret of Orsha; but answer me one question at least sincerely: Did you come to me, to Podlyasye, with a plan already formed of attacking my person, or did it enter your head in the last moment?" "To that I can answer your highness sincerely, for my lips are burning to tell you why I left your cause; and while I am alive, while there is breath in my body, I shall not return to it. The prince voevoda of Vilna deceived me, and in advance brought me to swear on the crucifix that I would not leave him till death." "And you are keeping the oath well. There is nothing to be said on that point." "True!" cried Kmita, violently. "If I have lost my soul, if I must be damned, it is through the Radzivills. But I give myself to the mercy of God, and I would rather lose my soul, I would rather burn eternally, than to sin longer with knowledge and willingly,--than to serve longer, knowing that I serve sin and treason. May God have mercy on me! I prefer to burn, I prefer a hundred times to burn; I should burn surely, if I remained with you. I have nothing to lose; but at least I shall say at the judgment of God: 'I knew not what I was swearing, and had I discovered that I had sworn treason to the country, destruction to the Polish name, I should have broken the oath right there.' Now let the Lord God be my judge." "To the question, to the question!" said Boguslav, calmly. But Pan Andrei breathed heavily, and rode on some time in silence, with frowning brow and eyes fixed on the earth, like a man bowed down by misfortune. "To the question!" repeated the prince. Kmita roused himself as if from a dream, shook his head, and said,-- "I believed the prince hetman as I would not have believed my own father. I remember that banquet at which he announced his union with the Swedes. What I suffered then, what I passed through, God will account to me. Others, honorable men, threw their batons at his feet and remained with their country; but I stood like a stump with the baton, with shame, with submission, with infamy, in torture, for I was called traitor to my eyes. And who called me traitor? Oi, better not say, lest I forget myself, go mad, and put a bullet right here in the head of your highness. You are the men, you the traitors, the Judases, who brought me to that." Here Kmita gazed with a terrible expression on the prince, and hatred came out on his face from the bottom of his soul, like a dragon which had crawled out of a cave to the light of day; but Boguslav looked at the young man with a calm, fearless eye. At last he said,-- "But that interests me, Pan Kmita; speak on." Kmita dropped the bridle of the prince's horse, and removed his cap as if wishing to cool his burning head. "That same night," continued he, "I went to the hetman, for he gave command to call me. I thought to myself, 'I will renounce his service, break my oath, suffocate him, choke him with these hands, blow up Kyedani with powder, and then let happen what may.' He knew too that was ready for anything, knew what I was; I saw well that he was fingering a box in which there were pistols. 'That is nothing,' thought I to myself; 'either he will miss me or he will kill me.' But he began to reason, to speak, to show such a prospect to me, simpleton, and put himself forward as such a savior, that your highness knows what happened." "He convinced the young man," said Boguslav. "So that I fell at his feet," cried Kmita, "and saw in him the father, the one savior, of the country; so that I gave myself to him soul and body as to a devil. For him, for his honesty I was ready to hurl myself headlong from the tower of Kyedani." "I thought such would be the end," said Boguslav. "What I lost in his cause I will not say, but I rendered him important services. I held in obedience my squadron, which is in Kyedani now,--God grant to his ruin! Others, who mutinied, I cut up badly. I stained my hands in brothers' blood, believing that a stern necessity for the country. Often my soul was pained at giving command to shoot honest soldiers; often the nature of a noble rebelled against him, when one time and another he promised something and did not keep his word. But I thought: 'I am simple, he is wise!--it must be done so.' But to-day, when I learned for the first time from those letters of the poisons, the marrow stiffened in my bones. How? Is this the kind of war? You wish to poison soldiers? And that is to be in hetman fashion? That is to be the Radzivill method, and am I to carry such letters?" "You know nothing of politics, Cavalier," interrupted Boguslav. "May the thunders crush it! Let the criminal Italians practise it, not a noble whom God has adorned with more honorable blood than others, but at the same time obliged him to war with a sabre and not with a drug-shop." "These letters, then, so astonished you that you determined to leave the Radzivills?" "It was not the letters,--I might have thrown them to the hangman, or tossed them into the fire, for they refer not to my duties; it was not the letters. I might have refused the mission without leaving the cause. Do I know what I might have done? I might have joined the dragoons, or collected a party again, and harried Hovanski as before. But straightway a suspicion came to me: 'But do they not wish to poison the country as well as those soldiers?' God granted me not to break out, though my head was burning like a grenade, to remember myself, to have the power to think: 'Draw him by the tongue, and discover the whole truth; betray not what you have at heart, give yourself out as worse than the Radzivills themselves, and draw him by the tongue.'" "Whom,--me?" "Yes! God aided me, so that I, simple man, deceived a politician,--so that your highness, holding me the last of ruffians, hid nothing of your own ruffianism, confessed everything, told everything, as if it had been written on the hand. The hair stood on my head, but I listened and listened to the end. O traitors! arch hell-dwellers! O parricides! How is it, that a thunderbolt has not stricken you down before now? How is it that the earth has not swallowed you? So you are treating with Hmelnitski, with the Swedes, with the elector, with Rakotsy, and with the devil himself to the destruction of this Commonwealth? Now you want to cut a mantle out of it for yourself, to sell it to divide it, to tear your own mother like wolves? Such is your gratitude for all the benefits heaped on you,--for the offices, the honors, the dignities, the wealth, the authority, the estates which foreign kings envy you? And you were ready without regard to those tears, torments, oppression. Where is your conscience, where your faith, where your honesty? What monster brought you into the world?" "Cavalier," interrupted Boguslav, coldly, "you have me in your hand, you can kill me; but I beg one thing, do not bore me." Both were silent. However, it appeared plainly, from the words of Kmita, that the soldier had been able to draw out the naked truth from the diplomat, and that the prince was guilty of great incautiousness, of a great error in betraying his most secret plans and those of the hetman. This pricked his vanity; therefore, not caring to hide his ill-humor, he said,-- "Do not ascribe it to your own wit merely, Pan Kmita, that you got the truth from me. I spoke openly, for I thought the prince voevoda knew people better, and had sent a man worthy of confidence." "The prince voevoda sent a man worthy of confidence," answered Kmita, "but you have lost him. Henceforth only scoundrels will serve you." "If the way in which you seized me was not scoundrelly, then may the sword grow to my hand in the first battle." "It was a stratagem! I learned it in a hard school. You wish, your highness, to know Kmita. Here he is! I shall not go with empty hands to our gracious lord." "And you think that a hair of my head will fall from the hand of Yan Kazimir?" "That is a question for the judges, not for me." Suddenly Kmita reined in his horse: "But the letter of the prince voevoda,--have you that letter on your person?" "If I had, I would not give it. The letter remained in Pilvishki." "Search him!" cried Kmita. The soldiers seized the prince again by the arms. Soroka began to search his pockets. After a while he found the letter. "Here is one document against you and your works," said Pan Andrei, taking the letter. "The King of Poland will know from it what you have in view; the Swedish King will know too, that although now you are serving him, the prince voevoda reserves to himself freedom to withdraw if the Swedish foot stumbles. All your treasons will come out, all your machinations. But I have, besides, other letters,--to the King of Sweden, to Wittemberg, to Radzeyovski. You are great and powerful; still I am not sure that it will not be too narrow for you in this Commonwealth, when both kings will prepare a recompense worthy of your treasons." Prince Boguslav's eyes gleamed with ill-omened light, but after a while he mastered his anger and said,-- "Well, Cavalier! For life or death between us! We have met! You may cause us trouble and much evil, but I say this: No man has dared hitherto to do in this country what you have done. Woe be to you and to yours!" "I have a sabre to defend myself, and I have something to redeem my own with," answered Kmita. "You have me as a hostage," said the prince. And in spite of all his anger he breathed calmly; he understood one thing at this moment, that in no case was his life threatened,--that his person was too much needed by Kmita. Then they went again at a trot, and after an hour's ride they saw two horsemen, each of whom led a pair of packhorses. They were Kmita's men sent in advance from Pilvishki. "What is the matter?" asked Kmita. "The horses are terribly tired, for we have not rested yet." "We shall rest right away!" "There is a cabin at the turn, maybe 'tis a public house." "Let the sergeant push on to prepare oats. Public house or not, we must halt." "According to order, Commander." Soroka gave reins to the horses, and they followed him slowly. Kmita rode at one side of the prince, Lubyenyets at the other. Boguslav had become completely calm and quiet; he did not draw Pan Andrei into further conversation. He seemed to be exhausted by the journey, or by the position in which he found himself, and dropping his head somewhat on his breast, closed his eyes. Still from time to time he cast a side look now at Kmita, now at Lubyenyets, who held the reins of the horse, as if studying to discover who would be the easier to overturn so as to wrest himself free. They approached the building situated on the roadside at a bulge of the forest. It was not a public house, but a forge and a wheelwright-shop, in which those going by the road stopped to shoe their horses and mend their wagons. Between the forge and the road there was a small open area, sparsely covered with trampled grass; fragments of wagons and broken wheels lay thrown here and there on that place, but there were no travellers. Soroka's horses stood tied to a post. Soroka himself was talking before the forge to the blacksmith, a Tartar, and two of his assistants. "We shall not have an over-abundant repast," said the prince; "there is nothing to be had here." "We have food and spirits with us," answered Kmita. "That is well! We shall need strength." They halted. Kmita thrust his pistol behind his belt, sprang from the saddle, and giving his horse to Soroka, seized again the reins of the prince's horse, which however Lubyenyets had not let go from his hand on the other side. "Your highness will dismount!" said Kmita. "Why is that? I will eat and drink in the saddle," said the prince, bending down. "I beg you to come to the ground!" said Kmita, threateningly. "But into the ground with you!" cried the prince, with a terrible voice; and drawing with the quickness of lightning the pistol from Kmita's belt, he thundered into his very face. "Jesus, Mary!" cried Kmita. At this moment the horse under the prince struck with spurs reared so that he stood almost erect; the prince turned like a snake in the saddle toward Lubyenyets, and with all the strength of his powerful arm struck him with the pistol between the eyes. Lubyenyets roared terribly and fell from the horse. Before the others could understand what had happened, before they had drawn breath, before the cry of fright had died on their lips, Boguslav scattered them as a storm would have done, rushed from the square to the road, and shot on like a whirlwind toward Pilvishki. "Seize him! Hold him! Kill him!" cried wild voices. Three soldiers who were sitting yet on the horses rushed after him; but Soroka seized a musket standing at the wall, and aimed at the fleeing man, or rather at his horse. The horse stretched out like a deer, and moved forward like an arrow urged from the string. The shot thundered. Soroka rushed through the smoke for a better view of what he had done; he shaded his eyes with his hand, gazed awhile, and cried at last,-- "Missed!" At this moment Boguslav disappeared beyond the bend, and after him vanished the pursuers. Then Soroka turned to the blacksmith and his assistants, who were looking up to that moment with dumb astonishment at what had happened, and cried,-- "Water!" The blacksmith ran to draw water, and Soroka knelt near Pan Andrei, who was lying motionless. Kmita's face was covered with powder from the discharge, and with drops of blood; his eyes were closed, his left brow and left temple were blackened. The sergeant began first to feel lightly with his fingers the head of his colonel. "His head is sound." But Kmita gave no signs of life, and blood came abundantly from his face. The blacksmith's assistants brought a bucket of water and a cloth. Soroka, with equal deliberation and care, began to wipe Kmita's face. Finally the wound appeared from under the blood and blackness. The ball had opened Kmita's left cheek deeply, and had carried away the end of his ear. Soroka examined to see if his cheek-bone were broken. After a while he convinced himself that it was not, and drew a long breath. Kmita, under the influence of cold water and pain, began to give signs of life. His face quivered, his breast heaved with breath. "He is alive!--nothing! he will be unharmed," cried Soroka, joyfully; and a tear rolled down the murderous face of the sergeant. Meanwhile at the turn of the road appeared Biloüs, one of the three soldiers who had followed the prince. "Well, what?" called Soroka. The soldier shook his head. "Nothing!" "Will the others return soon?" "The others will not return." With trembling hands the sergeant laid Kmita's head on the threshold of the forge, and sprang to his feet. "How is that?" "Sergeant, that prince is a wizard! Zavratynski caught up first, for he had the best horse, and because the prince let him catch up. Before our eyes Boguslav snatched the sabre from his hand and thrust him through. We had barely to cry out. Vitkovski was next, and sprang to help; and him this Radzivill cut down before my eyes, as if a thunderbolt had struck him. He did not give a sound. I did not wait my turn. Sergeant, the prince is ready to come back here." "There is nothing in this place for us," said Soroka. "To horse!" That moment they began to make a stretcher between the horses for Kmita. Two of the soldiers, at the command of Soroka, stood with muskets on the road, fearing the return of the terrible man. But Prince Boguslav, convinced that Kmita was not alive, rode quietly to Pilvishki. About dark he was met by a whole detachment of horsemen sent out by Patterson, whom the absence of the prince had disturbed for some time. The officer, on seeing the prince, galloped to him,-- "Your highness, we did not know--" "That is nothing!" interrupted Prince Boguslav. "I was riding this horse in the company of that cavalier, of whom I bought him." And after a while he added: "I paid him well." CHAPTER XXVIII. The trusty Soroka carried his colonel through the deep forest, not knowing himself what to begin, whither to go or to turn. Kmita was not only wounded, but stunned by the shot. Soroka from time to time moistened the piece of cloth in a bucket hanging by the horse, and washed his face; at times he halted to take fresh water from the streams and forest ponds; but neither halts nor the movement of the horse could restore at once consciousness to Pan Andrei, and he lay as if dead, till the soldiers going with him, and less experienced in the matter of wounds than Soroka, began to be alarmed for the life of their colonel. "He is alive," answered Soroka; "in three days he will be on horseback like any of us." In fact, an hour later, Kmita opened his eyes; but from his mouth came forth one word only,-- "Drink!" Soroka held a cup of pure water to his lips; but it seemed that to open his mouth caused Pan Andrei unendurable pain, and he was unable to drink. But he did not lose consciousness: he asked for nothing, apparently remembered nothing; his eyes were wide open, and he gazed, without attention, toward the depth of the forest, on the streaks of blue sky visible through the dense branches above their heads, and at his comrades, like a man roused from sleep, or like one recovered from drunkenness, and permitted Soroka to take care of him without saying a word,--nay, the cold water with which the sergeant washed the wound seemed to give him pleasure, for at times his eyes smiled. But Soroka comforted him,-- "To-morrow the dizziness will pass, Colonel; God grant recovery." In fact, dizziness began to disappear toward evening; for just before the setting of the sun Kmita seemed more self-possessed and asked on a sudden, "What noise is that?" "What noise? There is none," answered Soroka. Apparently the noise was only in the head of Pan Andrei, for the evening was calm. The setting sun, piercing the gloom with its slanting rays, filled with golden glitter the forest darkness, and lighted the red trunks of the pine-trees. There was no wind, and only here and there, from hazel, birch, and hornbeam trees leaves dropped to the ground, or timid beasts made slight rustle in fleeing to the depths of the forest in front of the horsemen. The evening was cool; but evidently fever had begun to attack Pan Andrei, for he repeated,-- "Your highness, it is life or death between us!" At last it became dark altogether, and Soroka was thinking of a night camp; but because they had entered a damp forest and the ground began to yield under the hoofs of their horses, they continued to ride in order to reach high and dry places. They rode one hour and a second without being able to pass the swamp. Meanwhile it was growing lighter, for the moon had risen. Suddenly Soroka, who was in advance, sprang from the saddle and began to look carefully at the ground. "Horses have passed this way," said he, at sight of tracks in the soft earth. "Who could have passed, when there is no road?" asked one of the soldiers supporting Pan Kmita. "But there are tracks, and a whole crowd of them! Look here between the pines,--as evident as on the palm of the hand!" "Perhaps cattle have passed." "Impossible. It is not the time of forest pastures; horse-hoofs are clearly to be seen, somebody must have passed. It would be well to find even a forester's cabin." "Let us follow the trail." "Let us ride forward!" Soroka mounted again and rode on. Horses' tracks in the turfy ground were more distinct; and some of them, as far as could be seen in the light of the moon, seemed quite fresh. Still the horses sank to their knees, and beyond. The soldiers were afraid that they could not wade through, or would come to some deeper quagmire; when, at the end of half an hour, the odor of smoke and rosin came to their nostrils. "There must be a pitch-clearing here," said Soroka. "Yes, sparks are to be seen," said a soldier. And really in the distance appeared a line of reddish smoke, filled with flame, around which were dancing the sparks of a fire burning under the ground. When they had approached, the soldiers saw a cabin, a well, and a strong shed built of pine logs. The horses, wearied from the road, began to neigh; frequent neighing answered them from under the shed, and at the same time there stood before the riders some kind of a figure, dressed in sheepskin, wool outward. "Are there many horses?" asked the man in the sheepskin. "Is this a pitch-factory?" inquired Soroka. "What kind of people are ye? Where do ye come from?" asked the pitch-maker, in a voice in which astonishment and alarm were evident. "Never fear!" answered Soroka; "we are not robbers." "Go your own way; there is nothing for you here." "Shut thy mouth, and guide us to the house since we ask. Seest not, scoundrel, that we are taking a wounded man?" "What kind of people are ye?" "Be quick, or we answer from guns. It will be better for thee to hurry. Take us to the house; if not, we will cook thee in thy own pitch." "I cannot defend myself alone, but there will be more of us. Ye will lay down your lives here." "There will be more of us too; lead on!" "Go on yourselves; it is not my affair." "What thou hast to eat, give us, and gorailka. We are carrying a man who will pay." "If he leaves here alive." Thus conversing, they entered the cabin; a fire was burning in the chimney, and from pots, hanging by the handles, came the odor of boiling meat. The cabin was quite large. Soroka saw at the walls six wooden beds, covered thickly with sheepskins. "This is the resort of some company," muttered he to his comrades. "Prime your guns and watch well. Take care of this scoundrel, let him not slip away. The owners sleep outside to-night, for we shall not leave the house." "The men will not come to-day," said the pitch-maker. "That is better, for we shall not quarrel about room, and to-morrow we will go on," replied Soroka; "but now dish the meat, for we are hungry, and spare no oats on the horses." "Where can oats be found here, great mighty soldiers?" "We heard horses under the shed, so there must be oats; thou dost not feed them with pitch." "They are not my horses." "Whether they are yours or not, they must eat as well as ours. Hurry, man, hurry! if thy skin is dear to thee!" The pitch-maker said nothing. The soldiers entered the house, placed the sleeping Kmita on a bed, and sat down to supper. They ate eagerly the boiled meat and cabbage, a large kettle of which was in the chimney. There was millet also, and in a room at the side of the cabin Soroka found a large decanter of spirits. He merely strengthened himself with it slightly, and gave none to the soldiers, for he had determined to hold it in reserve for the night. This empty house with six beds for men, and a shed in which a band of horses were neighing, seemed to him strange and suspicious. He judged simply that this was a robbers' retreat, especially since in the room from which he brought the decanter he found many weapons hanging on the wall, and a keg of powder, with various furniture, evidently plundered from noble houses. In case the absent occupants of the cabin returned, it was impossible to expect from them not merely hospitality, but even mercy. Soroka therefore resolved to hold the house with armed hand, and maintain himself in it by superior force or negotiations. This was imperative also in view of the health of Pan Kmita, for whom a journey might be fatal, and in view of the safety of all. Soroka was a trained and seasoned soldier, to whom one feeling was foreign,--the feeling of fear. Still in that moment, at thought of Prince Boguslav, fear seized him. Having been for long years in the service of Kmita, he had blind faith, not only in the valor, but the fortune of the man; he had seen more than once deeds of his which in daring surpassed every measure, and touched almost on madness, but which still succeeded and passed without harm. With Kmita he had gone through the "raids" on Hovanski; had taken part in all the surprises, attacks, fights, and onsets, and had come to the conviction that Pan Andrei could do all things, succeed in all things, come out of every chaos, and destroy whomsoever he wished. Kmita therefore was for him the highest impersonation of power and fortune,--but this time he had met his match seemingly, nay, he had met his superior. How was this? One man carried away, without weapons, and in Kmita's hands, had freed himself from those hands; not only that, he had overthrown Kmita, conquered his soldiers, and terrified them so that they ran away in fear of his return. That was a wonder of wonders, and Soroka lost his head pondering over it. To his thinking, anything might come to pass in the world rather than this, that a man might be found who could ride over Kmita. "Has our fortune then ended?" muttered he to himself, gazing around in wonder. It was not long since with eyes shut he followed Pan Kmita to Hovanski's quarters surrounded by eighty thousand men; now at the thought of that long-haired prince with lady's eyes and a painted face, superstitious terror seized him, and he knew not what to do. The thought alarmed him, that to-morrow or the next day he would have to travel on highways where the terrible prince himself or his pursuers might meet him. This was the reason why he had gone from the road to the dense forest, and at present wished to stay in that cabin until pursuers were deluded and wearied. But since even that hiding-place did not seem to him safe for other reasons, he wished to discover what course to take; therefore he ordered the soldiers to stand guard at the door and the windows, and said to the pitch-maker,-- "Here, man, take a lantern and come with me." "I can light the great mighty lord only with a pitch-torch, for we have no lantern." "Then light the torch; if thou burn the shed and the horses, it is all one to me." After such words a lantern was found right away. Soroka commanded the fellow to go ahead, and followed himself with a pistol in his hand. "Who live in this cabin?" asked he on the road. "Men live here." "What are their names?" "That is not free for me to say." "It seems to me, fellow, that thou'lt get a bullet in thy head." "My master," answered the pitch-maker, "if I had told in a lie any kind of name, you would have to be satisfied." "True! But are there many of those men?" "There is an old one, two sons, and two servants." "Are they nobles?" "Surely nobles." "Do they live here?" "Sometimes here, and sometimes God knows where." "But the horses, whence are they?" "God knows whence they bring them." "Tell the truth; do thy masters not rob on the highway?" "Do I know? It seems to me they take horses, but whose,--that's not on my head." "What do they do with the horses?" "Sometimes they take ten or twelve of them, as many as there are, and drive them away, but whither I know not." Thus conversing, they reached the shed, from which was heard the snorting of horses. "Hold the light," said Soroka. The fellow raised the lantern, and threw light on the horses standing in a row at the wall. Soroka examined them one after another with the eye of a specialist, shook his head, smacked his lips, and said,-- "The late Pan Zend would have rejoiced. There are Polish and Muscovite horses here,--there is a Wallachian, a German,--a mare. Fine horses! What dost thou give them to eat?" "Not to lie, my master, I sowed two fields with oats in springtime." "Then thy masters have been handling horses since spring?" "No, but they sent a servant to me with a command." "Then art thou theirs?" "I was till they went to the war." "What war?" "Do I know? They went far away last year, and came back in the summer." "Whose art thou now?" "These are the king's forests." "Who put thee here to make pitch?" "The royal forester, a relative of these men, who also brought horses with them; but since he went away once with them, he has not come back." "And do guests come to these men?" "Nobody comes here, for there are swamps around, and only one road. It is a wonder to me that ye could come, my master; for whoso does not strike the road, will be drawn in by the swamp." Soroka wanted to answer that he knew these woods and the road very well; but after a moment's thought he determined that silence was better, and inquired,-- "Are these woods very great?" The fellow did not understand the question. "How is that?" "Do they go far?" "Oh! who has gone through them? Where one ends another begins, and God knows where they are not; I have never been in that place." "Very well!" said Soroka. Then he ordered the man to go back to the cabin, and followed himself. On the way he was pondering over what he should do, and hesitated. On one hand the wish came to him to take the horses while the cabin-dwellers were gone, and flee with this plunder. The booty was precious, and the horses pleased the old soldier's heart greatly; but after a while he overcame the temptation. To take them was easy, but what to do further. Swamps all around, one egress,--how hit upon that? Chance had served him once, but perhaps it would not a second time. To follow the trail of hoofs was useless, for the cabin-dwellers had surely wit enough to make by design false and treacherous trails leading straight into quagmires. Soroka knew clearly the methods of men who steal horses, and of those who take booty. He thought awhile, therefore, and meditated; all at once he struck his head with his fist,-- "I am a fool!" muttered he. "I'll take the fellow on a rope, and make him lead me to the highway." Barely had he uttered the last word when he shuddered, "To the highway? But that prince will be there, and pursuit. To lose fifteen horses!" said the old fox to himself, with as much sorrow as if he had cared for the beasts from their colthood. "It must be that our fortune is ended. We must stay in the cabin till Pan Kmita recovers,--stay with consent of the owners or without their consent; and what will come later, that is work for the colonel's head." Thus meditating, he returned to the cabin. The watchful soldiers were standing at the door, and though they saw a lantern shining in the dark from a distance,--the same lantern with which Soroka and the pitch-maker had gone out,--still they forced them to tell who they were before they let them enter the cabin. Soroka ordered his soldiers to change the watch about midnight, and threw himself down on the plank bed beside Kmita. It had become quiet in the cabin; only the crickets raised their usual music in the adjoining closet, and the mice gnawed from moment to moment among the rubbish piled up there. The sick man woke at intervals and seemed to have dreams in his fever, for to Soroka's ears came the disconnected words,-- "Gracious king, pardon--Those men are traitors--I will tell all their secrets--The Commonwealth is a red cloth--Well, I have you, worthy prince--Hold him!--Gracious king, this way, for there is treason!" Soroka rose on the bed and listened; but the sick man, when he had screamed once and a second time, fell asleep, and then woke and cried,-- "Olenka, Olenka, be not angry!" About midnight he grew perfectly calm and slept soundly. Soroka also began to slumber; but soon a gentle knocking at the door of the cabin roused him. The watchful soldier opened his eyes at once, and springing to his feet went out. "But what is the matter?" asked he. "Sergeant, the pitch-maker has escaped." "A hundred devils! he'll bring robbers to us right away." "Who was watching him?" "Biloüs." "I went with him to water our horses," said Biloüs, explaining. "I ordered him to draw the water, and held the horses myself." "And what? Did he jump into the well?" "No, Sergeant, but between the logs, of which there are many near the well, and into the stump-holes. I let the horses go; for though they scattered there are others here, and sprang after him, but I fell into the first hole. It was night,--dark; the scoundrel knows the place, and ran away. May the pest strike him!" "He will bring those devils here to us,--he'll bring them. May the thunderbolts split him!" The sergeant stopped, but after a while said,-- "We will not lie down; we must watch till morning. Any moment a crowd may come." And giving an example to the others, he took his place on the threshold of the cabin with a musket in his hand. The soldiers sat near him talking in an undertone, listening sometimes to learn if in the night sounds of the pine-woods the tramp and snort of coming horses could reach them. It was a moonlight night, and calm, but noisy. In the forest depths life was seething. It was the season of mating; therefore the wilderness thundered with terrible bellowing of stags. These sounds, short, hoarse, full of anger and rage, were heard round about in all parts of the forest, distant and near,--sometimes right there, as if a hundred yards from the cabin. "If men come, they will bellow too, to mislead us," said Biloüs. "Eh! they will not come to-night. Before the pitch-maker finds them 'twill be day," said the other soldiers. "In the daytime, Sergeant, it would be well to examine the cabin and dig under the walls; for if robbers dwell here there must be treasures." "The best treasures are in that stable," said Soroka, pointing with his finger to the shed. "But we'll take them?" "Ye are fools! there is no way out,--nothing but swamps all around." "But we came in." "God guided us. A living soul cannot come here or leave here without knowing the road." "We will find it in the daytime." "We shall not find it, for tracks are made everywhere purposely, and the trails are misleading. It was not right to let the man go." "It is known that the highroad is a day's journey distant, and in that direction," said Biloüs. Here he pointed with his finger to the eastern part of the forest. "We will ride on till we pass through,--that's what we'll do! You think that you will be a lord when you touch the highway? Better the bullet of a robber here than a rope there." "How is that, father?" asked Biloüs. "They are surely looking for us there." "Who, father?" "The prince." Soroka was suddenly silent; and after him were silent the others, as if seized with fear. "Oi!" said Biloüs, at last. "It is bad here and bad there; though you twist, you can't turn." "They have driven us poor devils into a net; here robbers, and there the prince," said another soldier. "May the thunderbolts burn them there! I would rather have to do with a robber than with a wizard," added Biloüs; "for that prince is possessed, yes, possessed. Zavratynski could wrestle with a bear, and the prince took the sword from his hands as from a child. It can only be that he enchanted him, for I saw, too, that when he rushed at Vitkovski Boguslav grew up before the eyes to the size of a pine-tree. If he had not, I shouldn't have let him go alive." "But you were a fool not to jump at him." "What had I to do, Sergeant? I thought this way: he is sitting on the best horse; if he wishes, he will run away, but if he attacks me I shall not be able to defend myself, for with a wizard is a power not human! He becomes invisible to the eye or surrounds himself with dust--" "That is truth," answered Soroka; "for when I fired at him he was surrounded as it were by a fog, and I missed. Any man mounted may miss when the horse is moving, but on the ground that has not happened to me for ten years." "What's the use in talking?" said Biloüs, "better count: Lyubyenyets, Vitkovski, Zavratynski, our colonel; and one man brought them all down, and he without arms,--such men that each of them has many a time stood against four. Without the help of the devil he could not have done this." "Let us commend our souls to God; for if he is possessed, the devil will show him the road to this place." "But without that he has long arms for such a lord." "Quiet!" exclaimed Soroka, quickly; "something is making the leaves rustle." The soldiers were quiet and bent their ears. Near by, indeed, were heard some kind of heavy steps, under which the fallen leaves rustled very clearly. "I hear horses," whispered Soroka. But the steps began to retreat from the cabin, and soon after was heard the threatening and hoarse bellowing of a stag. "That is a stag! He is making himself known to a doe, or fighting off another horned fellow." "Throughout the whole forest are entertainments as at the wedding of Satan." They were silent again and began to doze. The sergeant raised his head at times and listened for a while, then dropped it toward his breast. Thus passed an hour, and a second; at last the nearest pine-trees from being black became gray, and the tops grew whiter each moment, as some one had burnished them with molten silver. The bellowing of stags ceased, and complete stillness reigned the forest depths. Dawn passed gradually into day; the white and pale light began to absorb rosy and gold gleams; at last perfect morning had come, and lighted the tired faces of the soldiers sleeping a firm sleep at the cabin. Then the door opened, Kmita appeared on the threshold and called,-- "Soroka! come here!" The soldiers sprang up. "For God's sake, is your grace on foot?" asked Soroka. "But you have slept like oxen; it would have been possible to cut off your heads and throw them out before any one would have been roused." "We watched till morning, Colonel; we fell asleep or in the broad day." Kmita looked around. "Where are we?" "In the forest, Colonel." "I see that myself. But what sort of a cabin is this?" "We know not ourselves." "Follow me," said Kmita. And he turned to the inside of the cabin. Soroka followed. "Listen," said Kmita, sitting on the bed. "Did the prince fire at me?" "He did." "And what happened to him?" "He escaped." A moment of silence followed. "That is bad," said Kmita, "very bad! Better to lay him down than to let him go alive." "We wanted to do that, but--" "But what?" Soroka told briefly all that had happened. Kmita listened with wonderful calmness; but his eyes began to glitter, and at last he said,-- "Then he is victor; but we'll meet again. Why did you leave the highroad?" "I was afraid of pursuit." "That was right, for surely there was pursuit. There are too few of us now to fight against Boguslav's power,--too few. Besides, he has gone to Prussia; we cannot reach him there, we must wait--" Soroka was relieved. Pan Kmita evidently did not fear Boguslav greatly, since he talked of overtaking him. This confidence was communicated at once to the old soldier accustomed to think with the head of his colonel and to feel with his heart. Meanwhile Pan Andrei, who had fallen into deep thought, came to himself on a sudden, and began to seek something about his person with both his hands. "Where are my letters?" asked he. "What letters?" "Letters that I had on my body. They were fastened to my belt; where is the belt?" asked Pan Andrei, in haste. "I unbuckled the belt myself, that your grace might breathe more easily; there it is." "Bring it." Soroka gave him a belt lined with white leather, to which a bag was attached by cords. Kmita untied it and took out papers hastily. "These are passes to the Swedish commandants; but where are the letters?" asked he, in a voice full of disquiet. "What letters?" asked Soroka. "Hundreds of thunders! the letters of the hetman to the Swedish King, to Pan Lyubomirski, and all those that I had." "If they are not on the belt, they are nowhere. They must have been lost in the time of the riding." "To horse and look for them!" cried Kmita, in a terrible voice. But before the astonished Soroka could leave the room Pan Andrei sank to the bed as if strength had failed him, and seizing his head with his hands, began to repeat in a groaning voice,-- "Ai! my letters, my letters!" Meanwhile the soldiers rode off, except one, whom Soroka commanded to guard the cabin. Kmita remained alone in the room, and began to meditate over his position, which was not deserving of envy. Boguslav had escaped. Over Pan Andrei was hanging the terrible and inevitable vengeance of the powerful Radzivills. And not only over him, but over all whom he loved, and speaking briefly, over Olenka. Kmita knew that Prince Yanush would not hesitate to strike where he could wound him most painfully,--that is, to pour out his vengeance on the person of Panna Billevich. And Olenka was still in Kyedani at the mercy of the terrible magnate, whose heart knew no pity. The more Kmita meditated over his position, the more clearly was he convinced that it was simply dreadful. After the seizure of Boguslav, the Radzivills will hold him a traitor; the adherents of Yan Kazimir, the partisans of Sapyeha, and the confederates who had risen up in Podlyasye look on him as a traitor now, and a damned soul of the Radzivills. Among the many camps, parties, and foreign troops occupying at that moment the fields of the Commonwealth, there is not a camp, a party, a body of troops which would not count him as the greatest and most malignant enemy. Indeed, the reward offered for his head by Hovanski is still in force, and now Radzivill and the Swedes will offer rewards,--and who knows if the adherents of the unfortunate Yan Kazimir have not already proclaimed one? "I have brewed beer and must drink it," thought Kmita. When he bore away Prince Boguslav, he did so to throw him at the feet of the confederate's, to convince them beyond question that he had broken with the Radzivills, to purchase a place with them, to win the right of fighting for the king and the country. Besides, Boguslav in his hands was a hostage for the safety of Olenka. But since Boguslav has crushed Kmita and escaped, not only is Olenka's safety gone, but also the proof that Kmita has really left the service of the Radzivills. But the road to the confederates is open to him; and if he meets Volodyovski's division and his friends the colonels, they may grant him his life, but will they take him as a comrade, will they believe him, will they not think that he has appeared as a spy, or has come to tamper with their courage and bring over people to Radzivill? Here he remembered that the blood of confederates was weighing on him; that to begin with, he had struck down the Hungarians and dragoons in Kyedani, that he had scattered the mutinous squadrons or forced them to yield, that he had shot stubborn officers and exterminated soldiers, that he had surrounded Kyedani with trenches and fortified it, and thus assured the triumph of Radzivill in Jmud. "How could I go?" thought he; "the plague would in fact be a more welcome guest there than I! With Boguslav on a lariat at the saddle it would be possible; but with only my mouth and empty hands!" If he had those letters he might join the confederates, he would have had Prince Yanush in hand, for those letters might undermine the credit of the hetman, even with the Swedes,--even with the price of them he might save Olenka; but some evil spirit had so arranged that the letters were lost. When Kmita comprehended all this, he seized his own head a second time. "For the Radzivills a traitor, for Olenka a traitor, for the confederate's a traitor, for the king a traitor! I have ruined my fame, my honor, myself, and Olenka!" The wound in his face was burning, but in his soul hot pain, a hundred-fold greater, was burning him. In addition to all, his self-love as a knight was suffering. For he was shamefully beaten by Boguslav. Those slashes which Volodyovski had given him in Lyubich were nothing. There he was finished by an armed man whom he had called out in a duel, here by a defenceless prisoner whom he had in his hand. With every moment increased in Kmita the consciousness of how terrible and shameful was the plight into which he had fallen. The longer he examined it the more clearly he saw its horror; and every moment he saw new black corners from which were peering forth infamy and shame, destruction to himself, to Olenka, wrong against the country,--till at last terror and amazement seized him. "Have I done all this?" asked he of himself; and the hair stood on his head. "Impossible! It must be that fever is shaking me yet," cried he. "Mother of God, this is not possible!" "Blind, foolish quarreller," said his conscience, "this would not have come to thee in fighting for the king and the country, nor if thou hadst listened to Olenka." And sorrow tore him like a whirlwind. Hei! if only he could say to himself: "The Swedes against the country, I against them! Radzivill against the king, I against him!" Then it would be clear and transparent in his soul. Then he might collect a body of cut-throats from under a dark star and, frolic with them as a gypsy at a fair, fall upon the Swedes, and ride over their breasts with pure heart and conscience; then he might stand in glory as in sunlight before Olenka, and say,-- "I am no longer infamous, but _defensor patriæ_ (a defender of the country); love me, as I love thee." But what was he now? That insolent spirit, accustomed to self-indulgence, would not confess to a fault altogether at first. It was the Radzivills who (according to him) had pushed him down in this fashion; it was the Radzivills who had brought him to ruin, covered him with evil repute, bound his hands, despoiled him of honor and love. Here Pan Kmita gnashed his teeth, stretched out his hands toward Jmud, on which Yanush, the hetman, was sitting like a wolf on a corpse, and began to call out in a voice choking with rage,-- "Vengeance! Vengeance!" Suddenly he threw himself in despair on his knees in the middle of the room, and began to cry,-- "I vow to thee, O Lord Christ, to bend those traitors and gallop over them with justice, with fire, and with sword, to cut them, while there is breath in my throat, steam in my mouth, and life for me in this world! So help me, O Nazarene King! Amen!" Some kind of internal voice told him in that moment, "Serve the country, vengeance afterward." Pan Andrei's eyes were flaming, his lips were baked, and he trembled as in a fever; he waved his hands, and talking with himself aloud, walked, or rather ran, through the room, kicked the bed with his feet; at last he threw himself once more on his knees. "Inspire me, O Christ, what to do, lest I fall into frenzy." At that moment came the report of a gun, which the forest echo threw from pine-tree to pine-tree till it brought it like thunder to the cabin. Kmita sprang up, and seizing his sabre ran out. "What is that?" asked he of the soldier standing at the threshold. "A shot, Colonel." "Where is Soroka?" "He went to look for the letters." "In what direction was the shot?" The soldier pointed to the eastern part of the forest, which was overgrown with dense underwood. "There!" At that moment was heard the tramp of horses not yet visible. "Be on your guard!" cried Kmita. But from out the thicket appeared Soroka, hurrying as fast as his horse could gallop, and after him the other soldier. They rushed up to the cabin, sprang from the horses, and from behind them, as from behind breastworks, took aim at the thicket. "What is there?" asked Kmita. "A party is coming," answered Soroka. CHAPTER XXIX. Silence succeeded; but soon something began to rustle in the near thicket, as if wild beasts were passing. The movement, however, grew slower the nearer it came. Then there was silence a second time. "How many of them are there?" asked Kmita. "About six, and perhaps eight; for to tell the truth I could not count them surely," said Soroka. "That is our luck! They cannot stand against us." "They cannot. Colonel; but we must take one of them alive, and scorch him so that he will show the road." "There will be time for that. Be watchful!" Kmita had barely said, "Be watchful," when a streak of white smoke bloomed forth from the thicket, and you would have said that birds had fluttered in the near grass, about thirty yards from the cabin. "They shot from old guns, with hob-nails!" said Kmita; "if they have not muskets, they will do nothing to us, for old guns will not carry from the thicket." Soroka, holding with one hand the musket resting on the saddle of the horse standing in front of him, placed the other hand in the form of a trumpet before his mouth, and shouted,-- "Let any man come out of the bushes, he will cover himself with his legs right away." A moment of silence followed; then a threatening voice was heard in the thicket,-- "What kind of men are you?" "Better than those who rob on the highroad." "By what right have you found out our dwelling?" "A robber asks about right! The hangman will show you right! Come to the cabin." "We will smoke you out just as if you were badgers." "But come on; only see that the smoke does not stifle you too." The voice in the thicket was silent; the invaders, it seemed, had begun to take counsel. Meanwhile Soroka whispered to Kmita,-- "We must decoy some one hither, and bind him; we shall then have a guide and a hostage." "Pshaw!" answered Kmita, "if any one comes it will be on parole." "With robbers parole may be broken." "It is better not to give it!" said Kmita. With that questions sounded again from the thicket. "What do you want?" Now Kmita began to speak. "We should have gone as we came if you had known politeness and not fired from a gun." "You will not stay there,--there will be a hundred horse of us in the evening." "Before evening two hundred dragoons will come, and your swamps will not save you, for they will pass as we passed." "Are you soldiers?" "We are not robbers, you may be sure." "From what squadron?" "But are you hetman? We will not report to you." "The wolves will devour you, in old fashion." "And the crows will pick you!" "Tell what you want, a hundred devils! Why did you come to our cabin?" "Come yourselves, and you will not split your throat crying from the thicket. Nearer, nearer!" "On your word." "A word is for knights, not for robbers. If it please you, believe; if not, believe not." "May two come?" "They may." After a while from out the thicket a hundred yards distant appeared two men, tall and broad-shouldered. One somewhat bent seemed to be a man of years; the other went upright, but stretched his neck with curiosity toward the cabin. Both wore short sheepskin coats covered with gray cloth of the kind used by petty nobles, high cowhide boots, and fur caps drawn down to their ears. "What the devil!" said Kmita, examining the two men with care. "Colonel!" cried Soroka, "a miracle indeed, but those are our people." Meanwhile they approached within a few steps, but could not see the men standing near the cabin, for the horses concealed them. All at once Kmita stepped forward. Those approaching did not recognize him, however, for his face was bound up; they halted, and began to measure him with curious and unquiet eyes. "And where is the other son, Pan Kyemlich?" asked Kmita; "he has not fallen, I hope." "Who is that--how is that--what--who is talking?" asked the old man, in a voice of amazement and as it were terrified. And he stood motionless, with mouth and eyes widely open; then the son, who since he was younger had quicker vision, took the cap from his head. "For God's sake, father! that's the colonel!" cried he. "O Jesus! sweet Jesus!" cried the old man, "that is Pan Kmita!" And both took the fixed posture of subordinates saluting their commanders, and on their faces were depicted both shame and wonder. "Ah! such sons," said Pan Andrei, laughing, "and greeted me from a gun?" Here the old man began to shout,-- "Come this way, all of you! Come!" From the thicket appeared a number of men, among whom were the second son of the old man and the pitch-maker; all ran up at breakneck speed with weapons ready, for they knew not what had happened. But the old man shouted again,-- "To your knees, rogues, to your knees! This is Pan Kmita! What fool was it who fired? Give him this way!" "It was you, father," said young Kyemlich. "You lie,--you lie like a dog! Pan Colonel, who could know that it was your grace who had come to our cabin? As God is true, I do not believe my own eyes yet." "I am here in person," answered Kmita, stretching his hand toward him. "O Jesus!" said the old man, "such a guest in the pine-woods. I cannot believe my own eyes. With what can we receive your grace here? If we expected, if we knew!" Here he turned to his sons: "Run, some blockhead, to the cellar, bring mead!" "Give the key to the padlock, father." The old man began to feel in his belt, and at the same time looked suspiciously at his son. "The key of the padlock? But I know thee, gypsy; thou wilt drink more thyself than thou'lt bring. What's to be done? I'll go myself; he wants the key of the padlock! But go roll off the logs, and I'll open and bring it myself." "I see that you have spoons hidden under the logs, Pan Kyemlich," said Kmita. "But can anything be kept from such robbers!" asked the old man, pointing to the sons. "They would eat up their father. Ye are still here? Go roll away the logs. Is this the way ye obey him who begat you?" The young men went quickly behind the cabin to the pile of logs. "You are in disagreement with your sons in old fashion, it seems?" said Kmita. "Who could be in agreement with them? They know how to fight, they know how to take booty; but when it comes to divide with their father, I must tear my part from them at risk of my life. Such is the pleasure I have; but they are like wild bulls. I beg your grace to the cabin, for the cold bites out here. For God's sake! such a guest, such a guest! And under the command of your grace we took more booty than during this whole year. We are in poverty now, wretchedness! Evil times, and always worse; and old age, too, is no joy. I beg you to the cabin, over our lowly threshold. For God's sake! who could have looked for your grace here!" Old Kyemlich spoke with a marvellously rapid and complaining utterance, and while speaking cast quick, restless glances on every side. He was a bony old man, enormous in stature, with a face ever twisted and sullen! He, as well as his two sons, had crooked eyes. His brows were bushy, and also his mustaches, from beneath which protruded beyond measure an underlip, which when he spoke came to his nose, as happens with men who are toothless. The agedness of his face was in wonderful contrast to the quickness of his movements, which displayed unusual strength and alertness. His movements were as rapid as if a spring stirred him; he turned his head continually, trying to take in with his eyes everything around,--men as well as things. Toward Kmita he became every minute more humble, in proportion as subservience to his former leader, fear, and perhaps admiration or attachment were roused in him. Kmita knew the Kyemliches well, for the father and two sons had served under him when single-handed he had carried on war in White Russia with Hovanski. They were valiant soldiers, and as cruel as valiant. One son, Kosma, was standard-bearer for a time in Kmita's legion; but he soon resigned that honorable office, since it prevented him from taking booty. Among the gamblers and unbridled souls who formed Kmita's legion, and who drank away and lost in the day what they won with blood in the night from the enemy, the Kyemliches were distinguished for mighty greed. They accumulated booty carefully, and hid it in the woods. They took with special eagerness horses, which they sold afterward at country houses and in towns. The father fought no worse than the twin sons, but after each battle he dragged away from them the most considerable part of the booty, scattering at the same time complaints and regrets that they were wronging him, threatening a father's curse, groaning and lamenting. The sons grumbled at him, but being sufficiently stupid by nature they let themselves be tyrannized over. In spite of their endless squabbles and scoldings, they stood up, one for the other, in battle venomously without sparing blood. They were not liked by their comrades, but were feared universally, for in quarrels they were terrible; even officers avoided provoking them. Kmita was the one man who had roused indescribable fear in them, and after Kmita, Pan Ranitski, before whom they trembled when from anger his face was covered with spots. They revered also in both lofty birth; for the Kmitas, from old times, had high rank in Orsha, and in Ranitski flowed senatorial blood. It was said in the legion that they had collected great treasures, but no one knew surely that there was truth in this statement. On a certain day Kmita sent them away with attendants and a herd of captured horses; from that time they vanished. Kmita thought that they had fallen; his soldiers said that they had escaped with the horses, the temptation in this case being too great for their hearts. Now, as Pan Andrei saw them in health, and as in a shed near the cabin horses were neighing, and the rejoicing and subservience of the old man were mingled with disquiet, he thought that his soldiers were right in their judgment. Therefore, when they had entered the cabin he sat on a plank bed, and putting his hands on his sides, looked straight into the old man's eyes and asked,-- "Kyemlich, where are my horses?" "Jesus! sweet Jesus!" groaned the old man. "Zolotarenko's men took the horses; they beat us and wounded us, drove us ninety miles; we hardly escaped with our lives. Oh, Most Holy Mother! we could not find either your grace or your men. They drove us thus far into these pine-woods, into misery and hunger, to this cabin and these swamps. God is kind that your grace is living and in health, though, I see, wounded. Maybe we can nurse you, and put on herbs; and those sons of mine went to roll off the logs, and they have disappeared. What are the rogues doing? They are ready to take out the door and get at the mead. Hunger here and misery; nothing more! We live on mushrooms; but for your grace there will be something to drink and a bite to eat. Those men took the horses from us, robbed us,--there is no denying that! And they deprived us of service with your grace. We shall not have a bit of bread for old age, unless your grace takes us back into service." "That may happen too," answered Kmita. Now the two sons of the old man came in,--Kosma and Damian, twins, big fellows, awkward, with enormous heads completely overgrown with an immensely thick bush of hair, stiff as a brush, sticking out unevenly around the ears, forming hair-screws and fantastic tufts on their skulls. When they came in they stood near the door, for in presence of Kmita they dared not sit down; and Damian said,-- "The cellar is cleared." "'Tis well," answered old Kyemlich, "I will go to bring mead." Here he looked significantly at his sons. "And Zolotarenko's men took the horses," said he, with emphasis; and went out of the cabin. Kmita glanced at the two who stood by the door, and who looked as if they had been hewn out of logs roughly with an axe. "What are you doing now?" "We take horses!" answered the twins at the same time. "From whom?" "From whomsoever comes along." "But mostly?" "From Zolotarenko's men." "That is well, you are free to take from the enemy; but if you take from your own you are robbers, not nobles. What do you do with those horses?" "Father sells them in Prussia." "Has it happened to you to take from the Swedes? Swedish companies are not far from here. Have you attacked the Swedes?" "We have." "Then you fall on single men or small companies; but when they defend themselves, what then?" "We pound them." "Ah, ha, you pound them! Then you have a reckoning with Zolotarenko's men and with the Swedes, and surely you could not have got away dry had you fallen into their hands." Kosma and Damian were silent. "You are carrying on a dangerous business, more becoming to robbers than nobles. It must be, also, that some sentences are hanging over you from old times?" "Of course there are!" answered Kosma and Damian. "So I thought. From what parts are you?" "We are from these parts." "Where did your father live before?" "In Borovichko." "Was that his village?" "Yes, together with Pan Kopystynski." "And what became of him?" "We killed him." "And you had to flee before the law. It will be short work with you Kyemliches, and you'll finish on trees. The hangman will light you, it cannot be otherwise!" Just then the door of the room creaked, and the old man came in bringing a decanter of mead and two glasses. He looked unquietly at his sons and at Kmita, and then said,-- "Go and cover the cellar." The twins went out at once. The old man poured mead into one glass; the other he left empty, waiting to see if Kmita would let him drink with him. But Kmita was not able to drink himself, for he even spoke with difficulty, such pain did the wound cause him. Seeing this, the old man said,-- "Mead is not good for the wound, unless poured in, to clear it out more quickly. Your grace, let me look at the wound and dress it, for I understand this matter as well as a barber." Kmita consented. Kyemlich removed the bandage, and began to examine the wound carefully. "The skin is taken off, that's nothing! The ball passed along the outside; but still it is swollen." "That is why it pains me." "But it is not two days old. Most Holy Mother! some one who must have been very near shot at your grace." "How do you know that?" "Because all the powder was not burned, and grains like cockle are under the skin. They will stay with your grace. Now we need only bread and spider-web. Terribly near was the man who fired. It is well that he did not kill your grace." "It was not fated me. Mix the bread and the spider-web and put them on as quickly as possible, for I must talk with you, and my jaws pain me." The old man looked suspiciously at the colonel, for in his heart there was fear that the talk might touch again on the horses said to have been taken by the Cossacks; but he busied himself at once, kneaded the moistened bread first, and since it was not hard to find spider-webs in the cabin he attended promptly to Kmita. "I am easy now," said Pan Andrei; "sit down, worthy Kyemlich." "According to command of the colonel," answered the old man, sitting on the edge of a bench and stretching out his iron-gray bristly head uneasily toward Kmita. But Kmita, instead of conversing, took his own head in his hands and fell into deep thought. Then he rose and began to walk in the room; at moments he halted before Kyemlich and gazed at him with distraught look; apparently he was weighing something, wrestling with thoughts. Meanwhile about half an hour passed; the old man squirmed more and more uneasily. All at once Kmita stopped before him. "Worthy Kyemlich," said he, "where are the nearest of those squadrons which rose up against the prince voevoda of Vilna?" The old man began to wink his eyes suspiciously. "Does your grace wish to go to them?" "I do not request you to ask, but to answer." "They say that one squadron is quartered in Shchuchyn,--that one which came here last from Jmud." "Who said so?" "The men of the squadron themselves." "Who led it?" "Pan Volodyovski." "That's well. Call Soroka!" The old man went out, and returned soon with the sergeant. "Have the letters been found?" asked Kmita. "They have not, Colonel," answered Soroka. Kmita shook his hands. "Oh, misery, misery! You may go, Soroka. For those letters which you have lost you deserve to hang. You may go. Worthy Kyemlich, have you anything on which to write?" "I hope to find something," answered the old man. "Even two leaves of paper and a pen." The old man vanished through the door of a closet which was evidently a storeroom for all kinds of things, but he searched long. Kmita was walking the while through the room, and talking to himself,-- "Whether I have the letters or not," said he, "the hetman does not know that they are lost, and he will fear lest I publish them. I have him in hand. Cunning against cunning! I will threaten to send them to the voevoda of Vityebsk. That is what I will do. In God is my hope, that the hetman will fear this." Further thought was interrupted by old Kyemlich, who, coming out of the closet, said,-- "Here are three leaves of paper, but no pens or ink." "No pens? But are there no birds in the woods here? They may be shot with a gun." "There is a falcon nailed over the shed." "Bring his wing hither quickly!" Kyemlich shot off with all speed, for in the voice of Kmita was impatience, and as it were a fever. He returned in a moment with the falcon's wing. Kmita seized it, plucked out a quill, and began to make a pen of it with his dagger. "It will do!" said he, looking at it before the light; "but it is easier to cut men's heads than quills. Now we need ink." So saying, he rolled up his sleeve, cut himself deeply in the arm, and moistened the quill in blood. "Worthy Kyemlich," said he, "leave me." The old man left the room, and Pan Andrei began to write at once:-- I renounce the service of your highness, for I will not serve traitors and deceivers. And if I swore on the crucifix not to leave your highness, God will forgive me; and even if he were to damn me, I would rather burn for my error than for open and purposed treason to my country and king. Your highness deceived me, so that I was like a blind sword in your hand, ready to spill the blood of my brethren. Therefore I summon your highness to the judgment of God, so that it may be known on whose side was treason, and on whose honest intention. Should we ever meet, though you are powerful and able to strike unto death, not only a private man, but the whole Commonwealth, and I have only a sabre in my hand, still I will vindicate my own, and will strike your highness, for which my regret and compunction will give me power. And your highness knows that I am of those who without attendant squadrons, without castles and cannon, can injure. While in me there is breath, over you there is vengeance, so that you can be sure neither of the day nor the hour. And this is as certain to be as that this is my own blood with which I write. I have your letters, letters to ruin you, not only with the King of Poland, but the King of Sweden, for in them treason to the Commonwealth is made manifest, as well as this too, that you are ready to desert the Swedes if only a leg totters under them. Even had you twice your present power, your ruin is in my hands, for all men must believe signatures and seals. Therefore I say this to your highness: If a hair falls from the heads which I love and which are left in Kyedani, I will send those letters and documents to Pan Sapyeha, and I will have copies printed and scattered through the land. Your highness can go by land or water (you have your choice); but after the war, when peace comes to the Commonwealth, you will give me the Billeviches, and I will give you the letters, or if I hear evil tidings Pan Sapyeha will show them straightway to Pontus de la Gardie. Your highness wants a crown, but where will you put it when your head falls either from the Polish or the Swedish axe? It is better, I think, to have this understanding now; though I shall not forget revenge hereafter, I shall take it only in private, excepting this case. I would commend you to God were it not that you put the help of the devil above that of God. Kmita. P. S. Your highness will not poison the confederates, for there will be those who, going from the service of the devil to that of God, will forewarn them to drink beer neither in Orel nor Zabludovo. Here Kmita sprang up and began to walk across the room. His face was burning, for his own letter had heated him like fire. This letter was a declaration of war against the Radzivills; but still Kmita felt in himself some extraordinary power, and was ready, even at that moment, to stand eye to eye before that powerful family who shook the whole country. He, a simple noble, a simple knight, an outlaw pursued by justice, who expected assistance from no place, who had offended all so that everywhere he was accounted an enemy,--he, recently overthrown, felt in himself now such power that he saw, as if with the eyes of a prophet, the humiliation of Prince Yanush and Boguslav, and his own victory. How he would wage war, where he would find allies, in what way he would conquer, he knew not,--what is more, he had not thought of this. But he had profound faith that he would do what he ought to do,--that is, what is right and just, in return for which God would be with him. He was filled with confidence beyond measure and bounds. It had become sensibly easier in his soul. Certain new regions were opened as it were entirely before him. Let him but sit on his horse and ride thither to honor, to glory, to Olenka. "But a hair will not fall from her head," repeated he to himself, with a certain feverish joy; "the letters will defend her. The hetman will guard her as the eye in his head,--as I myself would. Oh, I have settled this! I am a poor worm, but they will be afraid of my sting." Then this thought came to him: "And shall I write to her too? The messenger who will take the letter to the hetman can give a slip of paper to her secretly. Why not inform her that I have broken with the Radzivills, and that I am going to seek other service?" This thought struck his heart greatly. Cutting his arm again, he moistened the pen and began to write,-- Olenka,--I am no longer on the Radzivill side, for I have seen through them at last-- But suddenly he stopped, thought awhile, and said to himself, "Let deeds, not words, bear witness for me henceforth; I will not write." And he tore the paper. But he wrote on a third sheet a short letter to Volodyovski in the following words,-- Gracious Colonel,--The undersigned friend warns you and the other colonels to be on your guard. There were letters from the hetman to Prince Boguslav and Pan Harasimovich to poison you, or to have men under you in your own quarters. Harasimovich is absent, for he has gone with Prince Boguslav to Tyltsa in Prussia; but there may be similar commands to other managers. Be careful of those managers, receive nothing from them, and at night do not sleep without guards. I know also to a certainty that the hetman will march against you soon with an army; he is waiting only for cavalry which General de la Gardie is to send, fifteen hundred in number. See to it, therefore, that he does not fall upon you and destroy you singly. But better send reliable men to the voevoda of Vityebsk to come, with all haste and take chief command. A well-wisher counsels this,--believe him. Meanwhile keep together, choosing quarters for the squadrons one not far from the other, so that you may be able to give mutual assistance. The hetman has few cavalry, only a small number of dragoons, and Kmita's men, but they are not reliable. Kmita himself is absent. The hetman found some other office for him; it being likely that he does not trust him. Kmita too is not such a traitor as men say; he is merely led astray. I commit you to God. Babinich. Pan Andrei did not wish to put his own name to the letter, for he judged that it would rouse in each one aversion and especially distrust. "In case they understand," thought he, "that it would be better for them to retreat before the hetman than to meet him in a body, they will suspect at once, if they see my name, that I wish to collect them, so that the hetman may finish them at a blow; they will think this a new trick, but from some Babinich they will receive warning more readily." Pan Andrei called himself Babinich from the village Babiniche, near Orsha, which from remote times belonged to the Kmitas. When he had written the letter, at the end of which he placed a few timid words in his own defence, he felt new solace in his heart at the thought that with that letter he had rendered the first service, not only to Volodyovski and his friends, but to all the colonels who would not desert their country for Radzivill. He felt also that that thread would go farther. The plight into which he had fallen was difficult, indeed, almost desperate; but still there was some help, some issue, some narrow path which would lead to the highroad. But now when Olenka in all probability was safe from the vengeance of Radzivill, and the confederates from an unexpected attack. Pan Andrei put the question, What was he to do himself? He had broken with traitors, he had burned the bridges in the rear, he wished now to serve his country, to devote to it his strength, his health, his life; but how was he to do this, how begin, to what could he put his hand? Again it came to his head to join the confederates; but if they will not receive him, if they will proclaim him a traitor and cut him down, or what is worse, expel him in disgrace? "I would rather they killed me!" cried Pan Andrei; and he flushed from shame and the feeling of his own disgrace. Perhaps it is easier to save Olenka or the confederates than his own fame. Now the position was really desperate, and again the young hero's soul began to seethe. "But can I not act as I did against Hovanski?" asked he of himself. "I will gather a party, will attack the Swedes, burn, pursue. That is nothing new for me! No one has resisted them; I will resist until the time comes when the whole Commonwealth will ask, as did Lithuania, who is that hero who all alone dares to creep into the mouth of the lion? Then I will remove my cap and say, 'See, it is I, it is Kmita!'" And such a burning desire drew him on to that bloody work that he wished to rush out of the room and order the Kyemliches, their attendants, and his own men to mount and move on. But before he reached the door he felt as if some one had suddenly punched him in the breast and pushed him back from the threshold. He stood in the middle of the room, and looked forward in amazement. "How is this? Shall I not efface my offences in this way?" And at once he began to reckon with his own conscience. "Where is atonement for guilt?" asked his conscience. "Here something else is required!" "What?" asked Kmita. "With what can thy guilt be effaced, if not with service of some kind, difficult and immense, honorable and pure as a tear? Is it service to collect a band of ruffians and rage like a whirlwind with them through the fields and the wilderness? Dost thou not desire this because fighting has for thee a sweet odor, as has roast meat for a dog? That is amusement, not service; a carnival, not war; robbery, not defence of the country! And didst thou not do the same against Hovanski, but what didst thou gain? Ruffians infesting the forests are ready also to attack the Swedish commands, and whence canst thou get other men? Thou wilt attack the Swedes, but also the inhabitants; thou wilt bring vengeance on these inhabitants, and what wilt thou effect? Thou art trying to escape, thou fool, from toil and atonement." So conscience spoke in Kmita; and Kmita saw that it was right, and vexation seized him, and a species of grief over his own conscience because it spoke such bitter truth. "What shall I begin?" asked he, at last; "who will help me, who will save me?" Here somehow his knees began to bend till at last he knelt down at the plank bed and began to pray aloud, and implore from his whole soul and heart,-- "O Jesus Christ, dear Lord," said he, "as on the cross thou hadst pity for the thief, so now have pity for me. Behold I desire to cleanse myself from sins, to begin a new life, and to serve my country honestly; but I know not how, for I am foolish. I served those traitors, O Lord, also not so much from malice, but especially as it were through folly; enlighten me, inspire me, comfort me in my despair, and rescue me in thy mercy, or I perish." Here Pan Andrei's voice quivered; he beat his broad breast till it thundered in the room, and repeated, "Be merciful to me, a sinner! be merciful to me, a sinner! Be merciful to me, a sinner!" Then placing his hands together and stretching them upward, he said, "And thou, Most Holy Lady, insulted by heretics in this land, take my part with thy Son, intercede for my rescue, desert me not in my suffering and misery, so that I may be able to serve thee, to avenge the insults against thee, and at the hour of my death have thee as a patroness for my unhappy soul." When Pan Andrei was imploring thus, tears began to fall from his eyes; at last he dropped his head on the plank bed and sank into silence, as if waiting for the effect of his ardent prayer. Silence followed in the room, and only the deep sound of the neighboring pine-trees entered from outside. Then chips crackled under heavy steps beyond the window, and two men began to speak,-- "What do you think, Sergeant? Where shall we go from here?" "Do I know?" answered Soroka. "We shall go somewhere, maybe far off, to the king who is groaning under the Swedish hand." "Is it true that all have left him?" "But the Lord God has not left him." Kmita rose suddenly from the bed, but his face was clear and calm; he went straight to the door, and opening it said to the soldier,-- "Have the horses ready! it is time for the road!" CHAPTER XXX. A movement rose quickly among the soldiers, who were glad to go out of the forest to the distant world, all the more since they feared pursuit on the part of Boguslav Radzivill; and old Kyemlich went to the cabin, understanding that Kmita would need him. "Does your grace wish to go?" asked he. "I do. Will you guide me out of the forest? Do you know all the roads?" "I know all the roads in these parts. But whither does your grace wish to go?" "To our gracious king." The old man started back in astonishment. "O Wise Lady!" cried he. "To what king." "Not to the Swedish, you may be sure." Kyemlich not only failed to recover, but began to make the sign of the cross. "Then surely your grace does not know that people say our lord the king has taken refuge in Silesia, for all have deserted him. Cracow is besieged." "We will go to Silesia." "Well, but how are we to pass through the Swedes?" "Whether we pass through as nobles or peasants, on horseback or on foot, is all one to me, if only we pass." "Then too a tremendous lot of time is needed." "We have time enough, but I should be glad to go as quickly as possible." Kyemlich ceased to wonder. The old man was too cunning not to surmise that there was some particular and secret cause for this undertaking of Pan Kmita's, and that moment a thousand suppositions began to crowd into his head. But as the soldiers, on whom Pan Andrei had enjoined silence, said nothing to the old man or his sons about the seizure of Prince Boguslav, the supposition seemed to him most likely that the prince voevoda of Vilna had sent the young colonel on some mission to the king. He was confirmed in this opinion specially because he counted Kmita a zealous adherent of Prince Yanush, and knew of his services to the hetman; for the confederate squadrons had spread tidings of him throughout the whole province of Podlyasye, creating the opinion that Kmita was a tyrant and a traitor. "The hetman is sending a confidant to the king," thought the old man; "that means that surely he wishes to agree with him and leave the Swedes. Their rule must be bitter to him already, else why send?" Old Kyemlich did not struggle long over this question, for his interest in the matter was altogether different; and namely, what profit could he draw from such circumstances? If he served Kmita he would serve at the same time the hetman and the king, which would not be without a notable reward. The favor of such lords would be of service, too, should he be summoned to account for old sins. Besides, there will surely be war, the country will flame up, and then plunder will crawl of itself into his hands. All this smiled at the old man, who besides was accustomed to obey Kmita, and had not ceased to fear him like fire, cherishing toward him also a certain kind of love, which Kmita knew how to rouse in all his subordinates. "Your grace," said he, "must go through the whole Commonwealth to reach the king. Swedish troops are nothing, for we may avoid the towns and go through the woods; but the worst is that the woods, as is usual in unquiet times, are full of parties of freebooters, who fall upon travellers; and your grace has few men." "You will go with me, Pan Kyemlich, and your sons and the men whom you have; there will be more of us." "If your grace commands I will go, but I am a poor man. Only misery with us; nothing more. How can I leave even this poverty and the roof over my head?" "Whatever you do will be paid for; and for you it is better to take your head out of this place while it is yet on your shoulders." "All the Saints of the Lord! What does your grace say? How is that? What threatens me, innocent man, in this place? Whom do we hinder?" "I know you robbers!" answered Pan Andrei. "You had partnership with Kopystynski, and killed him; then you ran away from the courts, you served with me, you took away my captured horses. "As true as life! O Mighty Lady!" cried the old man. "Wait and be silent! Then you returned to your old lair, and began to ravage in the neighborhood like robbers, taking horses and booty everywhere. Do not deny it, for I am not your judge, and you know best whether I tell the truth. If you take the horses of Zolotarenko, that is well; if the horses of the Swedes, that is well. If they catch you they will flay you; but that is their affair." "True, true; but we take only from the enemy," said the old man. "Untrue; for you attack your own people, as your sons have confessed to me, and that is simple robbery, and a stain on the name of a noble. Shame on you, robbers! you should be peasants, not nobles." "Your grace wrongs us," said old fox, growing red, "for we, remembering our station, do no peasant deed. We do not take horses at night from any man's stable. It is something different to drive a herd from the fields, or to capture horses. This is permitted, and there is no prejudice to a noble therefrom in time of war. But a horse in a stable is sacred; and only a gypsy, a Jew, or a peasant would steal from a stable,--not a noble. We, your grace, do not do that. But war is war!" "Though there were ten wars, only in battle can plunder be taken; if you seek it on the road, you are robbers." "God is witness to our innocence." "But you have brewed beer here. In few words, it is better for you to leave this place, for sooner or later the halter will take you. Come with me; you will wash away your sins with faithful service and win honor. I will receive you to my service, in which there will be more profit than in those horses." "We will go with your grace everywhere; we will guide you through the Swedes and through the robbers,--for true is the speech of your grace, that evil people persecute us here terribly, and for what? For our poverty,--for nothing but our poverty. Perhaps God will take pity on us, and save us from suffering." Here old Kyemlich rubbed his hands mechanically, and his eyes glittered. "From these works," thought he, "it will boil in the country as in a kettle, and foolish the man who takes no advantage." Kmita looked at him quickly. "Only don't try to betray me!" said he, threateningly, "for you will not be able, and the hand of God only could save you." "We have never betrayed," answered Kyemlich, gloomily, "and may God condemn me if such a thought entered my head." "I believe you," said Kmita, after a short silence, "for treason is something different from robbery; no robber will betray." "What does your grace command now?" asked Kyemlich. "First, here are two letters, requiring quick delivery. Have you sharp men?" "Where must they go?" "Let one go to the prince voevoda, but without seeing Radzivill himself. Let him deliver the letter in the first squadron of the prince, and come back without awaiting an answer." "The pitch-maker will go; he is a sharp man and experienced." "He will do. The second letter must be taken to Podlyasye; inquire for Pan Volodyovski's Lauda squadron, and give it into the hands of the colonel himself." The old man began to mutter cunningly, and thought, "I see work on every side; since he is sniffing with the confederates there will be boiling water,--there will be, there will be!" "Your grace," said he, aloud, "if there is not such a hurry with this letter, when we leave the forest it perhaps might be given to some man on the road. There are many nobles here friendly to the confederates; any one would take it willingly, and one man more would remain to us." "You have calculated shrewdly," answered Kmita, "for it is better that he who delivers the letter should not know from whom he takes it. Shall we go out of the forest soon?" "As your grace wishes. We can go out in two weeks, or to-morrow." "Of that later; but now listen to me carefully, Kyemlich." "I am attending with all my mind, your grace." "They have denounced me in the whole Commonwealth as a tyrant, as devoted to the hetman, or altogether to Sweden. If the king knew who I am, he might not trust me, and might despise my intention, which, if it is not sincere, God sees! Are you attending, Kyemlich?" "I am, your grace." "Therefore I do not call myself Kmita, but, Babinich, do you understand? No one must know my real name. Open not your lips; let not a breath out. If men ask whence I come, say that you joined me on the road and do not know, but say, 'Whoso is curious, let him ask the man himself.'" "I understand, your grace." "Warn your sons, and also your men. Even if straps were cut out of them, they must say my name is Babinich. You will answer for this with your life." "It will be so, your grace. I will go and tell my sons, for it is necessary to put everything into the heads of those rogues with a shovel. Such is the joy I have with them. God has punished me for the sins of my youth; that is the trouble. Let me say another word, your grace." "Speak boldly." "It seems to me better not to tell soldiers or men where we are going." "That is true." "It is enough for them to know that Babinich, not Pan Kmita, is travelling. And on such a journey it is better to conceal your grace's rank." "Why?" "Because the Swedes give passes to the more considerable people; and whoso has not a pass, him they take to the commandant." "I have passes to the Swedish troops." Astonishment gleamed in the cunning eyes of Kyemlich; but after a while he asked, "Will your grace let me say once more what I think?" "If you give good counsel and delay not, speak; for I see that you are a clever man." "If you have passes, it is better, for in need they may be shown; but if your grace is travelling on an errand that should remain secret, it is safer not to show the passes. I know not whether they are given in the name of Babinich or Kmita; but if you show them, the trace will remain and pursuit will be easier." "You have struck the point!" cried Kmita. "I prefer to reserve the passes for another time, if it is possible to go through without them." "It is possible, your grace; and that disguised either as a peasant or a petty noble,--which will be easier, for I have some clean clothes, a cap and gray coat, for example, just such as petty nobles wear. We may travel with a band of horses, as if we were going to the fairs, and drive farther till we come to Lovich and Warsaw, as I have done more than once during peace, and I know the roads. About this time there is a fair in Sobota, to which people come from afar. In Sobota we shall learn of other places where there are fairs, and so on. The Swedes too take less note of small nobles, for crowds of them stroll about at all the fairs. If some commandant inquires we will explain ourselves, but if a small party asks we will gallop over their bellies, God and the Most Holy Lady permitting." "But if they take our horses? Requisitions in time of war are of daily occurrence." "Either they will buy or they will take them. If they buy we will go to Sobota, not to sell, but to buy horses; and if they take them, we will raise a lament and go with our complaint to Warsaw and to Cracow." "You have a cunning mind," said Kmita, "and I see that you will serve me. Even if the Swedes take these horses, some man will be found to pay for them." "I was going to Elko in Prussia with them; this turns out well, for just in that direction does our road lie. From Elko we will go along the boundary, then turn to Ostrolenko, thence through the wilderness to Pultusk and to Warsaw." "Where is that Sobota?"[24] "Not far from Pyantek."[25] "Are you jesting, Kyemlich?" "How should I dare," answered the old man, crossing his arms on his breast and bending his head; "but they have such wonderful names for towns in this region. It is a good bit of road beyond Lovich, your grace." "Are there large fairs in that Sobota?" "Not such as in Lovich; but there is one at this time of year, to which horses are driven from Prussia, and crowds of people assemble. Surely it will not be worse this year, for it is quiet about there. The Swedes are in power everywhere, and have garrisons in the towns. Even if a man wanted to rise against them, he could not." "Then I will take your plan. We will go with horses, and that you suffer no loss I will pay for them in advance." "I thank your grace for the rescue." "Only get sheepskin coats ready and common saddles and sabres, for we will start at once. Tell your sons and men who I am, what my name is, that I am travelling with horses, that you and they are hired assistants. Hurry!" When the old man turned to the door, Pan Andrei said further, "No one will call me grace nor commandant nor colonel, only _you_ and _Babinich_." Kyemlich went out, and an hour later all were sitting on their horses ready to start on the long journey. Kmita dressed in the gray coat of a poor noble, a cap of worn sheepskin, and with a bandaged face, as if after a duel in some inn, was difficult of recognition, and looked really like some poor devil of a noble, strolling from one fair to another. He was surrounded by people dressed in like fashion, armed with common poor sabres, with long whips to drive the horses, and lariats to catch those that might try to escape. The soldiers looked with astonishment at their colonel, making various remarks, in low tones, concerning him. It was a wonder to them that he was Babinich instead of Pan Kmita, that they were to say _you_ to him; and most of all shrugged his shoulders old Soroka, who, looking at the terrible colonel as at a rainbow, muttered to Biloüs,-- "That _you_ will not pass my throat. Let him kill me, but I will give him, as of old, what belongs to him." The soldiers knew not that the soul in Pan Andrei had changed as well as his external form. "Move on!" cried Babinich, on a sudden. The whips cracked; the riders surrounded the horses, which were huddled together, and they moved on. CHAPTER XXXI. Passing along the very boundary between the province of Trotsk and Prussia, they travelled through broad and pathless forests known only to Kyemlich, until they entered Prussia and reached Leng, or, as old Kyemlich, called it, Elko, where they got news of public affairs from nobles stopping there, who, taking their wives, children, and effects, had fled from the Swedes and sought refuge under the power of the elector. Leng had the look of a camp, or rather it might be thought that some petty diet was in session there. The nobles drank Prussian beer in the public houses, and talked, while every now and then some one brought news. Without making inquiries and merely by listening with care, Babinich learned that Royal Prussia and the chief towns in it had taken decisively the side of Yan Kazimir, and had made a treaty of mutual defence with the elector against every enemy. It was said, however, that in spite of the treaty the most considerable towns were unwilling to admit the elector's garrisons, fearing lest that adroit prince, when he had once entered with armed hand, might hold them for good, or might in the decisive moment join himself treacherously to the Swedes,--a deed which his inborn cunning made him capable of doing. The nobles murmured against this distrust entertained by townspeople; but Pan Andrei, knowing the Radzivill intrigues with the elector, had to gnaw his tongue to refrain from telling what was known to him. He was held back by the thought that it was dangerous in Electoral Prussia to speak openly against the elector; and secondly, because it did not beseem a small gray-coated noble who was going to a fair with horses, to enter into the intricate subject of politics, over which the ablest statesmen were racking their brains to no purpose. He sold a pair of horses, bought new ones, and journeyed farther, along the Prussian boundary, but by the road leading from Leng to Shchuchyn, situated in the very corner of the province of Mazovia, between Prussia on the one side and the province of Podlyasye on the other. To Shchuchyn Pan Andrei had no wish to go, for he learned that in that town were the quarters of the confederate squadron commanded by Volodyovski. Volodyovski must have passed over almost the same road on which Kmita was travelling, and stopped before the very boundary of Podlyasye, either for a short rest or for temporary quarters, in Shchuchyn, where it must have been easier to find food for men and horses than in greatly plundered Podlyasye. Kmita did not wish to meet the famous colonel, for he judged that having no proofs, except words, he would not be able to persuade Volodyovski of his conversion and sincerity. He gave command, therefore, to turn to the west toward Vansosh, ten miles from Shchuchyn. As to the letter he determined to send it to Pan Michael at the first opportunity. But before arriving at Vansosh, they stopped at a wayside inn called "The Mandrake," and disposed themselves for a night's rest, which promised to be comfortable, for there was no one at the inn save the host, a Prussian. But barely had Kmita with the three Kyemliches and Soroka sat down to supper when the rattling of wheels and the tramp of horses were heard. As the sun had not gone down yet, Kmita went out in front of the inn to see who was coming, for he was curious to know if it was some Swedish party; but instead of Swedes he saw a carriage, and following it two pack-wagons, surrounded by armed men. At the first glance it was easy to see that some personage was coming. The carriage was drawn by four good Prussian horses, with large bones and rather short backs; a jockey sat on one of the front horses, holding two beautiful dogs in a leash; on the seat was a driver, and at his side a haiduk dressed in Hungarian fashion; in the carriage was the lord himself, in a cloak lined with wolfskin and fastened with numerous gilded buttons. In the rear followed two wagons, well filled, and at each of them four servants armed with sabres and guns. The lord, though a personage, was still quite young, a little beyond twenty. He had a plump, red face, and in his whole person there was evidence that he did not stint himself in eating. When the carriage stopped, the haiduk sprang to give his hand to help down the lord; but the lord, seeing Kmita standing on the threshold, beckoned with his glove, and called,-- "Come this way, my good friend!" Kmita instead of going to him withdrew to the interior, for anger seized him at once. He had not become accustomed yet to the gray coat, or to being beckoned at with a glove. He went back therefore, sat at the table, and began to eat. The unknown lord came in after him. When he had entered he half closed his eyes, for it was dark in the room, since there was merely a small fire burning in the chimney. "But why did no one come out as I was driving up?" asked the unknown lord. "The host has gone to another room," answered Kmita, "and we are travellers, like your grace." "Thank you for the confidence. And what manner of travellers?" "Oh, a noble travelling with horses." "And your company are nobles too?" "Poor men, but nobles." "With the forehead, then, with the forehead. Whither is God guiding you?" "From fair to fair, to sell horses." "If you stay here all night, I'll see, perhaps I'll pick out something. Meanwhile will you permit me to join you at the table?" The unknown lord asked, it is true, if they would let him sit with them, but in such a tone as if he were perfectly sure that they would; and he was not mistaken. The young horse-dealer said,-- "We beg your grace very kindly, though we have nothing to offer but sausage and peas." "There are better dainties in my bags," answered the lordling, not without a certain pride; "but I have a soldier's palate, and sausage with peas, if well cooked, I prefer to everything." When he had said this,--and he spoke very slowly, though he looked quickly and sharply,--he took his seat on the bench on which Kmita pushed aside to give convenient room. "Oh, I beg, I beg, do not incommode yourself. On the road rank is not regarded; and though you were to punch me with your elbow, the crown would not fall from my head." Kmita, who was pushing a plate of peas to the unknown, and who, as has been said, was not used to such treatment, would certainly have broken the plate on the head of the puffed up young man if there had not been something in that pride of his which amused Pan Andrei; therefore not only did he restrain his internal impulse at once, but laughed and said,-- "Such times are the present, your grace, that crowns fall from the loftiest heads; for example, our king Yan Kazimir, who by right should wear two crowns, has none, unless it be one of thorns." The unknown looked quickly at Kmita, then sighed and said, "Times are such now that it is better not to speak of this unless with confidants." Then after a moment he added: "But you have brought that out well. You must have served with polished people, for your speech shows more training than your rank." "Rubbing against people, I have heard this and that, but I have never been a servant." "Whence are you by birth, I beg to ask?" "From a village in the province of Trotsk." "Birth in a village is no drawback, if you are only noble; that's the main thing. What is to be heard in Lithuania?" "The old story,--no lack of traitors." "Traitors, do you say? What kind of traitors?" "Those who have deserted the king and the Commonwealth." "How is the prince voevoda of Vilna?" "Sick, it is said; his breath fails him." "God give him health, he is a worthy lord!" "For the Swedes he is, since he opened the gates to them." "I see that you are not a partisan of his." Kmita noticed that the stranger, while asking him questions as it were good-naturedly, was observing him. "What do I care!" said he; "let others think of him. My fear is that the Swedes may take my horses in requisition." "You should have sold them on the spot, then. In Podlyasye are stationed, very likely, the squadrons which rebelled against the hetman, and surely they have not too many horses." "I do not know that, for I have not been among them, though some man in passing gave me a letter to one of their colonels, to be delivered when possible." "How could that passing man give you a letter when you are not going to Podlyasye?" "Because in Shchuchyn one confederate squadron is stationed, therefore the man said to me, 'Either give it yourself or find an opportunity in passing Shchuchyn.'" "That comes out well, for I am going to Shchuchyn." "Your grace is fleeing also before the Swedes?" The unknown, instead of an answer, looked at Kmita and asked phlegmatically, "Why do you say _also_, since you not only are not fleeing from the Swedes, but are going among them and will sell them horses, if they do not take your beasts by force?" At this Kmita shrugged his shoulders. "I said _also_, because in Leng I saw many nobles who escaped before the Swedes; and as to me, if all were to serve them as much as I wish to serve them, I think they would not warm the places here long." "Are you not afraid to say this?" "I am not afraid, for I am not a coward, and in the second place your grace is going to Shchuchyn, and there every one says aloud what he thinks. God grant a quick passage from talking to action." "I see that you are a man of wit beyond your station," repeated the unknown. "But if you love not the Swedes, why leave these squadrons, which have mutinied against the hetman? Have they mutinied because their wages were kept back, or from caprice? No! but because they would not serve the hetman and the Swedes. It would have been better for those soldiers, poor fellows, to remain under the hetman, but they preferred to give themselves the name of rebels, to expose themselves to hunger, hardships, and many destructive things, rather than act against the king. That it will come to war between them and the Swedes is certain, and it would have come already were it not that the Swedes have not advanced to that corner as yet. Wait, they will come, they will meet here, and then you will see!" "I think, too, that war will begin here very soon," said Kmita. "Well, if you have such an opinion, and a sincere hatred for the Swedes,--which looks out of your eyes, for you speak truth, I am a judge of that,--then why not join these worthy soldiers? Is it not time, do they not need hands and sabres? Not a few honorable men are serving among them, who prefer their own king to a foreign one, and soon there will be more of these. You come from places in which men know not the Swedes as yet, but those who have made their acquaintance are shedding hot tears. In Great Poland, though it surrendered to them of its own will, they thumbscrew nobles, plunder, make requisitions, seize everything they can. At present in this province their manner is no better. General Stenbok gave forth a manifesto that each man remain quietly at home, and his property would be respected. But what good was in that! The General has his will, and the smallest commandants have theirs, so that no man is sure of to-morrow, nor of what property he holds. Every man wishes to get good of what he has, to use it in peace, wants it to bring him pleasure. But now the first best adventurer will come and say, 'Give.' If you do not give, he will find reason to strip you of your property, or without reason will have your head cut off. Many shed bitter tears, when they think of their former king. All are oppressed and look to those confederates unceasingly, to see if some rescue for the country and the people will not come from them." "Your grace, as I see, has no better wish for the Swedes than I have," said Kmita. The unknown looked around as it were with a certain alarm, but soon calmed himself and spoke on,-- "I would that pestilence crushed them, and I hide that not from you, for it seems to me that you are honest; and though you were not honest, you would not bind me and take me to the Swedes, for I should not yield, having armed men, and a sabre at my side." "Your grace may be sure that I will not harm you; your courage is to my heart. And it pleases me that your grace did not hesitate to leave property behind, in which the enemy will not fail to punish you. Such good-will to the country is highly deserving of praise." Kmita began unwittingly to speak in a patronizing tone, as a superior to a subordinate, without thinking that such words might seem strange in the mouth of a small horse-dealing noble; but apparently the young lord did not pay attention to that, for he merely winked cunningly and said,-- "But am I a fool? With me the first rule is that my own shall not leave me, for what the Lord God has given must be respected. I stayed at home quietly with my produce and grain, and when I had sold in Prussia all my crops, cattle, and utensils, I thought to myself: 'It is time for the road. Let them take vengeance on me now, let them take whatever pleases their taste.'" "Your grace has left the hind and the buildings for good?" "Yes, for I hired the starostaship of Vansosh from the voevoda of Mazovia, and just now the term has expired. I have not paid the last rent, and I will not, for I hear the voevoda of Mazovia is an adherent of the Swedes. Let the rent be lost to him for that, and it will add to my ready money." "'Pon my word," said Kmita, smiling, "I see that your grace is not only a brave cavalier, but an adroit one." "Of course," replied the unknown. "Adroitness is the main thing! But I was not speaking of that. Why is it that, feeling the wrongs of our country and of our gracious king, you do not go to those honorable soldiers in Podlyasye and join their banner? You would serve both God and yourself; luck might come, for to more than one has it happened to come out of war a great man, from being a small noble. It is evident that you are bold and resolute, and since your birth is no hindrance, you might advance quickly to some fortune, if God favors you with booty. If you do not squander that which here and there will fall into your hands, the purse will grow heavy. I do not know whether you have land or not, but you may have it; with a purse it is not hard to rent an estate, and from renting an estate to owning one, with the help of the Lord, is not far. And so, beginning as an attendant, you may die an officer, or in some dignity in the country, in case you are not lazy in labor; for whoso rises early, to him God gives treasure." Kmita gnawed his mustache, for laughter seized him; then his face quivered, and he squirmed, for from time to time pain came from the healing wound. The unknown continued,-- "As to receiving you there, they will receive you, for they need men; besides, you have pleased me, and I take you under my protection, with which you may be certain of promotion." Here the young man raised his plump face with pride, and began to smooth his mustaches; at last he said,-- "Will you be my attendant, carry my sabre, and manage my men?" Kmita did not restrain himself, but burst out in sincere, joyous laughter, so that all his teeth gleamed. "Why laugh?" asked the unknown, frowning. "From delight at the service." But the youthful personage was offended in earnest, and said,-- "He was a fool who taught you such manners, and be careful with whom you are speaking, lest you exceed measure in familiarity." "Forgive me, your grace," answered Kmita, joyously, "for really I do not know before whom I am standing." The young lord put his hands on his hips: "I am Pan Jendzian of Vansosh," said he, with importance. Kmita had opened his mouth to tell his assumed name, when Biloüs came hurriedly into the room. "Pan Com--" Here the soldier, stopped by the threatening look of Kmita, was confused, stammered, and finally coughed out with effort,-- "I beg to tell you some people are coming." "Where from?" "From Shchuchyn." Kmita was embarrassed, but hiding his confusion quickly, he answered, "Be on your guard. Are there many?" "About ten men on horseback." "Have the pistols ready. Go!" When the soldier had gone out, Kmita turned to Pan Jendzian of Vansosh and asked,-- "Are they not Swedes?" "Since you are going to them," answered Pan Jendzian, who for some time had looked with astonishment on the young noble, "you must meet them sooner or later." "I should prefer the Swedes to robbers, of whom there are many everywhere. Whoso goes with horses must go armed and keep on the watch, for horses are very tempting." "If it is true that Pan Volodyovski is in Shchuchyn," said Pan Jendzian, "this is surely a party of his. Before they take up their quarters there they wish to know if the country is safe, for with Swedes at the border it would be difficult to remain in quiet." When he heard this, Pan Andrei walked around in the room and sat down in its darkest corner, where the sides of the chimney cast a deep shadow on the corner of the table; but meanwhile the sound of the tramp and snorting of horses came in from outside, and after a time a number of men entered the room. Walking in advance, a gigantic fellow struck with wooden foot the loose planks in the floor of the room. Kmita looked at him, and the heart died within his bosom. It was Yuzva Butrym, called Footless. "But where is the host?" inquired he, halting in the middle of the room. "I am here!" answered the innkeeper, "at your service." "Oats for the horses!" "I have no oats, except what these men are using." Saying this, he pointed at Jendzian and the horse-dealer's men. "Whose men are you?" asked Jendzian. "And who are you yourself?" "The starosta of Vansosh." His own people usually called Jendzian starosta, as he was the tenant of a starostaship, and he thus named himself on the most important occasions. Yuzva Butrym was confused, seeing with what a high personage he had to do; therefore he removed his cap, and said,-- "With the forehead, great mighty lord. It was not possible to recognize dignity in the dark." "Whose men are these?" repeated Jendzian, placing his hands on his hips. "The Lauda men from the former Billevich squadron, and now of Pan Volodyovski's." "For God's sake! Then Pan Volodyovski is in the town of Shchuchyn?" "In his own person, and with other colonels who have come from Jmud." "Praise be to God, praise be to God!" repeated the delighted starosta. "And what colonels are with Pan Volodyovski?" "Pan Mirski was," answered Butrym, "till apoplexy struck him on the road; but Pan Oskyerko is there, and Pan Kovalski, and the two Skshetuskis." "What Skshetuskis?" cried Jendzian. "Is not one of them Skshetuski from Bujets?" "I do not know where he lives," said Butrym, "but I know that he was at Zbaraj." "Save us! that is my lord!" Here Jendzian saw how strangely such a word would sound in the mouth of a starosta, and added,-- "My lord godson's father, I wanted to say." The starosta said this without forethought, for in fact he had been the second godfather to Skshetuski's first son, Yaremka. Meanwhile thoughts one after another were crowding to the head of Pan Kmita, sitting in the dark corner of the room. First the soul within him was roused at sight of the terrible graycoat, and his hand grasped the sabre involuntarily. For he knew that Yuzva, mainly, had caused the death of his comrades, and was his most inveterate enemy. The old-time Pan Kmita would have commanded to take him and tear him with horses, but the Pan Babinich of that day controlled himself. Alarm, however, seized him at the thought that if the man were to recognize him various dangers might come to his farther journey and the whole undertaking. He determined, therefore, not to let himself be known, and he pushed ever deeper into the shade; at last he put his elbow on the table, and placing his head in his palms began to feign sleep; but at the same time he whispered to Soroka, who was sitting at the table,-- "Go to the stable, let the horses be ready. We will go in the night." Soroka rose and went out; Kmita still feigned sleep. Various memories came to his head. These people reminded him of Lauda, Vodokty, and that brief past which had vanished as a dream. When a short time before Yuzva Butrym said that he belonged to the former Billevich squadron, the heart trembled in Pan Andrei at the mere name. And it came to his mind that it was also evening, that the fire was burning in the chimney in the same way, when he dropped unexpectedly into Vodokty, as if with the snow, and for the first time saw in the servants' hall Olenka among the spinners. He saw now with closed lids, as if with eyesight, that bright, calm lady; he remembered everything that had taken place,--how she wished to be his guardian angel, to strengthen him in good, to guard him from evil, to show him the straight road of worthiness. If he had listened to her, if he had listened to her! She knew also what ought to be done, on what side to stand; knew where was virtue, honesty, duty, and simply would have taken him by the hand and led him, if he had listened to her. Here love, roused by remembrance, rose so much in Pan Andrei's heart that he was ready to pour out all his blood, if he could fall at the feet of that lady; and at that moment he was ready to fall on the neck of that bear of Lauda, that slayer of his comrades, simply because he was from that region, had named the Billeviches, had seen Olenka. His own name repeated a number of times by Yuzva Butrym roused him first from his musing. The tenant of Vansosh inquired about acquaintances, and Yuzva told him what had happened in Kyedani from the time of the memorable treaty of the hetman with the Swedes; he spoke of the oppression of the army, the imprisonment of the colonels, of sending them to Birji, and their fortunate escape. The name of Kmita, covered with all the horror of treason and cruelty, was repeated prominently in those narratives. Yuzva did not know that Pan Volodyovski, the Skshetuskis, and Zagloba owed their lives to Kmita; but he told of what had happened in Billeviche,-- "Our colonel seized that traitor in Billeviche, as a fox in his den, and straightway commanded to lead him to death; I took him with great delight, for the hand of God had reached him, and from moment to moment I held the lantern to his eyes, to see if he showed any sorrow. But no! He went boldly, not considering that he would stand before the judgment of God,--such is his reprobate nature. And when I advised him to make even the sign of the cross, he answered, 'Shut thy mouth, fellow; 'tis no affair of thine!' We posted him under a pear-tree outside the village, and I was already giving the word, when Pan Zagloba, who went with us, gave the order to search him, to see if he had papers on his person. A letter was found. Pan Zagloba said, 'Hold the light!' and he read. He had barely begun reading when he caught his head: 'Jesus, Mary! bring him back to the house!' Pan Zagloba mounted his horse and rode off, and we brought Kmita back, thinking they would burn him before death, to get information from him. But nothing of the kind! They let the traitor go free. It was not for my head to judge what they found in the letter, but I would not have let him go." "What was in that letter?" asked the tenant of Vansosh. "I know not; I only think that there must have been still other officers in the hands of the prince voevoda, who would have had them shot right away if we had shot Kmita. Besides, our colonel may have taken pity on the tears of Panna Billevich, for she fell in a faint so that hardly were they able to bring her to her senses. I do not make bold to complain; still evil has happened, for the harm which that man has done, Lucifer himself would not be ashamed of. All Lithuania weeps through him; and how many widows and orphans and how many poor people complain against him is known to God only. Whoso destroys him will have merit in heaven and before men." Here conversation turned again to Pan Volodyovski, the Skshetuskis, and the squadrons in Podlyasye. "It is hard to find provisions," said Butrym, "for the lands of the hetman are plundered completely,--nothing can be found in them for the tooth of a man or a horse; and the nobles are poor in the villages, as with us in Jmud. The colonels have determined therefore to divide the horses into hundreds, and post them five or ten miles apart. But when winter comes, I cannot tell what will happen." Kmita, who had listened patiently while the conversation touched him, moved now, and had opened his mouth to say from his dark corner, "The hetman will take you, when thus divided, one by one, like lobsters from a net." But at that moment the door opened, and in it stood Soroka, whom Kmita had sent to get the horses ready for the road. The light from the chimney fell straight on the stern face of the sergeant. Yuzva Butrym glanced at him, looked a long time, then turned to Jendzian and asked,-- "Is that a servant of your great mightiness? I know him from some place or another." "No," replied Jendzian; "those are nobles going with horses to fairs." "But whither?" asked Yuzva. "To Sobota," said old Kyemlich. "Where is that?" "Not far from Pyantek." Yuzva accounted this answer an untimely jest, as Kmita had previously, and said with a frown, "Answer when people ask!" "By what right do you ask?" "I can make that clear to you, for I am sent out to see if there are not suspicious men in the neighborhood. Indeed it seems to me there are some, who do not wish to tell where they are going." Kmita, fearing that a fight might rise out of this conversation, said, without moving from the dark corner,-- "Be not angry, worthy soldier, for Pyantek and Sobota are towns, like others, in which horse-fairs are held in the fall. If you do not believe, ask the lord starosta, who must know of them." "They are regular places," said Jendzian. "In that case it is all right. But why go to those places? You can sell horses in Shchuchyn, where there is a great lack of them, and those which we took in Pilvishki are good for nothing; they are galled." "Every man goes where it is better for him, and we know our own road," answered Kmita. "I know not whether it is better for you; but it is not better for us that horses are driven to the Swedes and informants go to them." "It is a wonder to me," said the tenant of Vansosh. "These people talk against the Swedes, and somehow they are in a hurry to go to them." Here he turned to Kmita: "And you do not seem to me greatly like a horse-dealer, for I saw a fine ring on your finger, of which no lord would be ashamed." "If it has pleased your grace, buy it of me; I gave two quarters for it in Leng." "Two quarters? Then it is not genuine, but a splendid counterfeit. Show it." "Take it, your grace." "Can you not move yourself? Must I go?" "I am terribly tired." "Ah, brother, a man would say that you are trying to hide your face." Hearing this, Yuzva said not a word, but approached the chimney, took out a burning brand, and holding it high above his head, went straight toward Kmita and held the light before his eyes. Kmita rose in an instant to his whole height, and during one wink of an eyelid they looked at each other eye to eye. Suddenly the brand fell from the hand of Yuzva, scattering a thousand sparks on the way. "Jesus, Mary!" screamed Butrym, "this is Kmita!" "I am he!" said Pan Andrei, seeing that there were no further means of concealment. "This way, this way! Seize him!" shouted Yuzva to the soldiers who had remained outside. Then turning to Pan Andrei, he said,-- "Thou art he, O hell-dweller, traitor! Thou art that Satan in person! Once thou didst slip from my hands, and now thou art hurrying in disguise to the Swedes. Thou art that Judas, that torturer of women and men! I have thee!" So saying, he seized Pan Andrei by the shoulder; but Pan Andrei seized him. First, however, the two young Kyemliches, Kosma and Damian, had risen from the bench, almost touching the ceiling with their bushy heads, and Kosma asked,-- "Shall we pound, father?" "Pound!" answered old Kyemlich, unsheathing his sabre. The doors burst open, and Yuzva's soldiers rushed in; but behind them, almost on their necks, came Kyemlich's men. Yuzva caught Pan Andrei by the shoulder, and in his right hand held a naked rapier, making a whirlwind and lightning with it around himself. But Pan Andrei, though he had not the gigantic strength of his enemy, seized Butrym's throat as if in a vice. Yuzva's eyes were coming out; he tried to stun Kmita with the hilt of his rapier, but did not succeed, for Kmita thundered first on his forehead with the hilt of his sabre. Yuzva's fingers, holding the shoulder of his opponent, opened at once; he tottered and bent backward under the blow. To make room for a second blow, Kmita pushed him again, and slashed him with full sweep on the face with his sabre. Yuzva fell on his back like an oak-tree, striking the floor with his skull. "Strike!" cried Kmita, in whom was roused, in one moment, the old fighting spirit. But he had no need to urge, for it was boiling in the room, as in a pot. The two young Kyemliches slashed with their sabres, and at times butted with their heads, like a pair of bullocks, putting down a man with each blow; after them advanced their old father, bending every moment to the floor, half closing his eyes, and thrusting quickly the point of his weapon under the arms of his sons. But Soroka, accustomed to fighting in inns and close quarters, spread the greatest destruction. He pressed his opponents so sorely that they could not reach him with a blade; and when he had discharged his pistols in the crowd, he smashed heads with the butts of the pistols, crushing noses, knocking out teeth and eyes. Kyemlich's servants and Kmita's two soldiers aided their masters. The fight moved from the table to the upper end of the room. The Lauda men defended themselves with rage; but from the moment that Kmita, having finished Yuzva, sprang into the fight and stretched out another Butrym, the victory began to incline to his side. Jendzian's servants also sprang into the room with sabres and guns; but though their master cried, "Strike!" they were at a loss what to do, for they could not distinguish one side from the other, since the Lauda men wore no uniforms, and in the disturbance the starosta's young men were punished by both sides. Jendzian held himself carefully outside the battle, wishing to recognize Kmita, and point him out for a shot; but by the faint light of the fire Kmita vanished time after time from his eye,--at one instant springing to view as red as a devil, then again lost in darkness. Resistance on the part of the Lauda men grew weaker and weaker, for the fall of Yuzva and the terrible name of Kmita had lessened their courage; still they fought on with rage. Meanwhile the innkeeper went past the strugglers quietly with a bucket of water in his hand and dashed it on the fire. In the room followed black darkness; the strugglers gathered into such a dense crowd that they could strike with fists only; after a while cries ceased; only panting breaths could be heard, and the orderless stamp of boots. Through the door, then flung open, sprang first Jendzian's people, after them the Lauda men, then Kmita's attendants. Pursuit began in the first room, in the bins before the house, and in the shed. Some shots were heard; then uproar and the noise of horses. A battle began at Jendzian's wagons, under which his people hid themselves; the Lauda men too sought refuge there, and Jendzian's people, taking them for the other party, fired at them a number of times. "Surrender!" cried old Kyemlich, thrusting the point of his sabre between the spokes of the wagon and stabbing at random the men crouched beneath. "Stop! we surrender!" answered a number of voices. Then the people from Vansosh threw from under the wagon their sabres and guns; after that the young Kyemliches began to drag them out by the hair, till the old man cried,-- "To the wagons! take what comes under your hands! Quick! quick! to the wagons!" The young men did not let the command be given thrice, but rushed to untie the coverings, from beneath which the swollen sides of Jendzian's sacks appeared. They had begun to throw out the sacks, when suddenly Kmita's voice thundered,-- "Stop!" And Kmita, supporting his command by his hand, fell to slashing them with the flat of his bloody sabre. Kosma and Damian sprang quickly aside. "Cannot we take them, your grace?" asked the old man, submissively. "Stand back!" cried Kmita. "Find the starosta for me." Kosma and Damian rushed to the search in a moment, and behind them their father; in a quarter of an hour they came bringing Jendzian, who, when he saw Kmita, bowed low and said,-- "With the permission of your grace, I will say that wrong is done me here, for I did not attack any man, and to visit acquaintances, as I am going to do, is free to all." Kmita, resting on his sabre, breathed heavily and was silent; Jendzian continued,-- "I did no harm here either to the Swedes or the prince hetman. I was only going to Pan Volodyovski, my old acquaintance; we campaigned together in Russia. Why should I seek a quarrel? I have not been in Kyedani, and what took place there is nothing to me. I am trying to carry off a sound skin; and what God has given me should not be lost, for I did not steal it, but earned it in the sweat of my brow. I have nothing to do with this whole question! Let me go free, your great mightiness--" Kmita breathed heavily, looking absently at Jendzian all the time. "I beg humbly, your great mightiness," began the starosta again. "Your great mightiness saw that I did not know those people, and was not a friend of theirs. They fell upon your grace, and now they have their pay; but why should I be made to suffer? Why should my property be lost? How am I to blame? If it cannot be otherwise, I will pay a ransom to the soldiers of your great mightiness, though there is not much remaining to me, poor man. I will give them a thaler apiece, so that their labor be not lost,--I will give them two; and your great mightiness will receive from me also--" "Cover the wagons!" cried Kmita, suddenly. "But do you take the wounded men and go to the devil!" "I thank your grace humbly," said the lord tenant of Vansosh. Then old Kyemlich approached, pushing out his underlip with the remnants of his teeth, and groaning,-- "Your grace, that is ours. Mirror of justice, that is ours." But Kmita gave him such a look that the old man cowered, and dared not utter another word. Jendzian's people rushed, with what breath they had, to put the horses to the wagons. Kmita turned again to the lord starosta,-- "Take all the wounded and killed, carry them to Pan Volodyovski, and tell him from me that I am not his enemy, but may be a better friend than he thinks. I wish to avoid him, for it is not yet time for us to meet. Perhaps that time will come later; but to-day he would neither believe me, nor have I that wherewith to convince him,--perhaps later--Do you understand? Tell him that those people fell upon me and I had to defend myself." "In truth it was so," responded Jendzian. "Wait; tell Pan Volodyovski, besides, to keep the troops together, for Radzivill, the moment he receives cavalry from Pontus de la Gardie, will move on them. Perhaps now he is on the road. Yanush and Boguslav Radzivill are intriguing with the Elector of Brandenburg, and it is dangerous to be near the boundary. But above all, let them keep together, or they will perish for nothing. The voevoda of Vityebsk wishes to come to Podlyasye; let them go to meet him, so as to give aid in case of obstruction." "I will tell everything, as if I were paid for it." "Though Kmita says this, though Kmita gives warning, let them believe him, take counsel with other colonels, and consider that they will be stronger together. I repeat that the hetman is already on the road, and I am not an enemy of Pan Volodyovski." "If I had some sign from your grace, that would be still better," said Jendzian. "What good is a sign?" "Pan Volodyovski would straightway have greater belief in your grace's sincerity; would think, 'There must be something in what he says if he has sent a sign.'" "Then here is the ring; though there is no lack of signs of me on the heads of those men whom you are taking to Pan Volodyovski." Kmita drew the ring from his finger. Jendzian on his part took it hastily, and said,-- "I thank your grace humbly." An hour later, Jendzian with his wagons and his people, a little shaken up however, rode forward quietly toward Shchuchyn, taking three killed and the rest wounded, among whom were Yuzva Butrym, with a cut face and a broken head. As he rode along Jendzian looked at the ring, in which the stone glittered wonderfully in the moonlight, and he thought of that strange and terrible man, who having caused so much harm to the confederates and so much good to the Swedes and Radzivill, still wished apparently to save the confederates from final ruin. "For he gives sincere advice," said Jendzian to himself. "It is always better to hold together. But why does he forewarn? Is it from love of Volodyovski, because the latter gave him his life in Billeviche? It must be from love! Yes, but that love may come out with evil result for the hetman. Kmita is a strange man; he serves Radzivill, wishes well to our people, and is going to the Swedes; I do not understand this." After a while he added: "He is a bountiful lord; but it is evil to come in his way." As earnestly and vainly as Jendzian, did old Kyemlich rack his brain in effort to find an answer to the query, "Whom does Pan Kmita serve?" "He is going to the king, and kills the confederates, who are fighting specially on the king's side. What is this? And he does not trust the Swedes, for he hides from them. What will happen to us?" Not being able to arrive at any conclusion, he turned in rage to his sons: "Rascals! You will perish without blessing! And you could not even pull away a little from the slain?" "We were afraid!" answered Kosma and Damian. Soroka alone was satisfied, and he clattered joyously after his colonel. "Evil fate has missed us," thought he, "for we killed those fellows. I'm curious to know whom we shall kill next time." And it was all one to him, as was also this,--whither he was faring. No one dared approach Kmita or ask him anything, for the young colonel was as gloomy as night. He grieved terribly that he had to kill those men, at the side of whom he would have been glad to stand as quickly as possible in the ranks. But if he had yielded and let himself be taken to Volodyovski, what would Volodyovski have thought on learning that he was seized making his way in disguise to the Swedes, and with passes to the Swedish commandants? "My old sins are pursuing and following me," said Kmita to himself. "I will flee to the farthest place; and guide me, O God!" He began to pray earnestly and to appease his conscience, which repeated, "Again corpses against thee, and not corpses of Swedes." "O God, be merciful!" answered Kmita. "I am going to my king; there my service will begin." CHAPTER XXXII. Jendzian had no intention of passing a night at "The Mandrake," for from Vansosh to Shchuchyn was not far,--he wanted merely to give rest to his horses, especially to those drawing the loaded wagons. Therefore, when Kmita let him travel farther, Jendzian lost no time, and entered Shchuchyn late in the evening. Having announced himself to the sentries, he took his place on the square; for the houses were occupied by soldiers, who even then were not all able to find lodgings. Shchuchyn passed for a town, but was not one in reality; for it had not yet even walls, a town hall, courts of justice, or the college of monks, founded in the time of King Yan III. It had a few houses, but a greater number of cabins than houses, and was called a town, because it was built in a quadrangular form with a market-place in the centre, slightly less swampy than the pond at which the paltry little place was situated. Jendzian slept under his warm wolfskin till morning, and then went straight to Pan Volodyovski, who, as he had not seen him for an age, received him with gladness and took him at once to Pan Yan and Zagloba. Jendzian shed tears at sight of his former master, whom he had served faithfully so many years; and with whom he had passed through so many adventures and worked himself finally to fortune. Without shame of his former service, Jendzian began to kiss the hands of Pan Yan and repeat with emotion,-- "My master, my master, in what times do we meet again!" Then all began in a chorus to complain of the times; at last Zagloba said,-- "But you, Jendzian, are always in the bosom of fortune, and as I see have come out a lord. Did I not prophesy that if you were not hanged you would have fortune? What is going on with you now?" "My master, why hang me, when I have done nothing against God, nothing against the law? I have served faithfully; and if I have betrayed any man, he was an enemy,--which I consider a special service. And if I destroyed a scoundrel here and there by stratagem, as some one of the rebels, or that witch,--do you remember, my master?--that is not a sin; but even if it were a sin, it is my master's, not mine, for it was from you that I learned stratagems." "Oh, that cannot be! See what he wants!" said Zagloba. "If you wish me to howl for your sins after death, give me their fruit during life. You are using alone all that wealth which you gained with the Cossacks, and alone you will be turned to roast bacon in hell." "God is merciful, my master, though it is untrue that I use wealth for myself alone; for first I beggared our wicked neighbors with lawsuits, and took care of my parents, who are living now quietly in Jendziane, without any disputes,--for the Yavorskis have gone off with packs to beg, and I, at a distance, am earning my living as I can." "Then you are not living in Jendziane?" asked Pan Yan. "In Jendziane my parents live as of old, but I am living in Vansosh, and I cannot complain, for God has blessed me. But when I heard that all you gentlemen were in Shchuchyn, I could not sit still, for I thought to myself, 'Surely it is time to move again!' There is going to be war, let it come!" "Own up," said Zagloba, "the Swedes frightened you out of Vansosh?" "There are no Swedes yet in Vidzka, though small parties appear, and cautiously, for the peasants are terribly hostile." "That is good news for me," said Volodyovski, "for yesterday I sent a party purposely to get an informant concerning the Swedes, for I did not know whether it was possible to stay in Shchuchyn with safety; surely that party conducted you hither?" "That party? Me? I have conducted it, or rather I have brought it, for there is not even one man of that party who can sit on a horse alone." "What do you say? What has happened?" inquired Volodyovski. "They are terribly beaten!" explained Jendzian. "Who beat them?" "Pan Kmita." The Skshetuskis and Zagloba sprang up from the benches, one interrupting the other in questioning,-- "Pan Kmita? But what was he doing here? Has the prince himself come already? Well! Tell right away what has happened." Pan Volodyovski rushed out of the room to see with his eyes, to verify the extent of the misfortune, and to look at the men; therefore Jendzian said,-- "Why should I tell? Better wait till Pan Volodyovski comes back; for it is more his affair, and it is a pity to move the mouth twice to repeat the same story." "Did you see Kmita with your own eyes?" asked Zagloba. "As I see you, my master!" "And spoke with him?" "Why should I not speak with him, when we met at 'The Mandrake' not far from here? I was resting my horses, and he had stopped for the night. An hour would have been short for our talk. I complained of the Swedes, and he complained also of the Swedes--" "Of the Swedes? He complained also?" asked Pan Yan. "As of devils, though he was going among them." "Had he many troops?" "He had no troops, only a few attendants; true, they were armed, and had such snouts that even those men who slaughtered the Holy Innocents at Herod's command had not rougher or viler. He gave himself out as a small noble in pigskin boots, and said that he went with horses to the fairs. But though he had a number of horses, his story did not seem clear to me, for neither his person nor his bearing belonged to a horse-dealer, and I saw a fine ring on his finger,--this one." Here Jendzian held a glittering stone before the listeners. Zagloba struck himself on the side and cried: "Ah, you gypsied that out of him! By that alone might I know you, Jendzian, at the end of the world!" "With permission of my master, I did not gypsy it; for I am a noble, not a gypsy, and feel myself the equal of any man, though I live on rented lands till I settle on my own. This ring Pan Kmita gave as a token that what he said was true; and very soon I will repeat his words faithfully to your graces, for it seems to me that in this case our skins are in question." "How is that?" asked Zagloba. At this moment Volodyovski came in, roused to the utmost, and pale from anger; he threw his cap on the table and cried,-- "It passes imagination! Three men killed; Yuzva Butrym cut up, barely breathing!" "Yuzva Butrym? He is a man with the strength of a bear!" said the astonished Zagloba. "Before my eyes Pan Kmita stretched him out," put in Jendzian. "I've had enough of that Kmita!" cried Volodyovski, beside himself; "wherever that man shows himself he leaves corpses behind, like the plague. Enough of this! Balance for balance, life for life; but now a new reckoning! He has killed my men, fallen upon good soldiers; that will be set to his account before our next meeting." "He did not attack them, but they him; for he hid himself in the darkest corner, so they should not recognize him," explained Jendzian. "And you, instead of giving aid to my men, testify in his favor!" said Volodyovski, in anger. "I speak according to justice. As to aid, my men tried to give aid; but it was hard for them, for in the tumult they did not know whom to beat and whom to spare, and therefore they suffered. That I came away with my life and my sacks is due to the sense of Pan Kmita alone, for hear how it happened." Jendzian began a detailed account of the battle in "The Mandrake," omitting nothing; and when at length he told what Kmita had commanded him to tell, they were all wonder fully astonished. "Did he say that himself?" asked Zagloba. "He himself," replied Jendzian. "'I,' said he, 'am not an enemy to Pan Volodyovski or the confederates, though they think differently. Later this will appear; but meanwhile let them come together, in God's name, or the voevoda of Vilna will take them one by one like lobsters from a net.'" "And did he say that the voevoda was already on the march?" asked Tan Yan. "He said that the voevoda was only waiting for Swedish reinforcements, and that he would move at once on Podlyasye." "What do you think of all this, gentlemen?" asked Volodyovski, looking at his comrades. "Either that man is betraying Radzivill, or he is preparing some ambush for us. But of what kind? He advises us to keep in a body. What harm to us may rise out of that?" "To perish of hunger," answered Volodyovski. "I have just received news that Jyromski, Kotovski, and Lipnitski must dispose their cavalry in parties of some tens each over the whole province, for they cannot get forage together." "But if Radzivill really does come," asked Pan Stanislav, "who can oppose him?" No one could answer that question, for really it was as clear as the sun that if the grand hetman of Lithuania should come and find the confederates scattered, he could destroy them with the greatest ease. "An astonishing thing!" repeated Zagloba; and after a moment's silence he continued: "Still I should think that he had abandoned Radzivill. But in such a case he would not be slipping past in disguise, and to whom,--to the Swedes." Here he turned to Jendzian: "Did he tell you that he was going to Warsaw?" "He did." "But the Swedish forces are there already." "About this hour he must have met the Swedes, if he travelled all night," answered Jendzian. "Have you ever seen such a man?" asked Zagloba, looking at his comrades. "That there is in him evil with good, as tares with wheat, is certain," said Pan Yan; "but that there is any treason in this counsel that he gives us at present, I simply deny. I do not know whither he is going, why he is slipping past in disguise; and it would be idle to break my head over this, for it is some mystery. But he gives good advice, warns us sincerely: I will swear to that, as well as to this,--that the only salvation for us is to listen to his advice. Who knows if we are not indebted to him again, for safety and life?" "For God's sake," cried Volodyovski, "how is Radzivill to come here when Zolotarenko's men and Hovanski's infantry are in his way? It is different in our case! One squadron may slip through, and even with one we had to open a way through Pilvishki with sabres. It is another thing with Kmita, who is slipping by with a few men; but when the prince hetman passes with a whole army? Either he will destroy those first--" Volodyovski had not finished speaking when the door opened and an attendant came in. "A messenger with a letter to the Colonel," said he. "Bring it." The attendant went out and returned in a moment with the letter. Pan Michael broke the seal quickly and read,-- That which I did not finish telling the tenant of Vansosh yesterday, I add to-day in writing. The hetman of himself has troops enough against you, but he is waiting for Swedish reinforcements, so as to go with the authority of the King of Sweden; for then if the Northerners[26] attack him they will have to strike the Swedes too, and that would mean war with the King of Sweden. They will not venture to make war without orders, for they fear the Swedes, and will not take on themselves the responsibility of beginning a war. They have discovered that it is Radzivill's purpose to put the Swedes forward against them everywhere; let them shoot or cut down even one man, there would be war at once. The Northerners themselves know not what to do now, for Lithuania is given up to the Swedes; they stay therefore in one place, only waiting for what will be, and warring no further. For these reasons they do not restrain Radzivill, nor oppose him. He will go directly against you, and will destroy you one after the other, unless you collect in one body. For God's sake, do this, and beg the voevoda of Vityebsk to come quickly, since it is easier for him to reach you now through the Northerners while they stand as if stupefied. I wanted to warn you under another name, so that you might more easily believe, but because tidings are given you already from another, I write my own name. It is destruction if you do not believe. I am not now what I was, and God grant that you will hear something altogether different about me. Kmita. "You wished to know how Radzivill would come to us; here is your answer!" said Pan Yan. "That is true, he gives good reasons," answered Volodyovski. "What good reasons! holy reasons!" cried Zagloba. "There can be no doubt here. I was the first to know that man; and though there are no curses that have not been showered on his head, I tell you we shall bless him yet. With me it is enough to look at a man to know his value. You remember how he dropped into my heart at Kyedani? He loves us, too, as knightly people. When he heard my name the first time, he came near suffocating me with admiration, and for my sake saved you all." "You have not changed," remarked Jendzian; "why should Pan Kmita admire you more than my master or Pan Volodyovski?" "You are a fool!" answered Zagloba. "He knew you at once; and if he called you the tenant, and not the fool of Vansosh, it was through politeness." "Then maybe he admired you through politeness!" retorted Jendzian. "See how the bread swells; get married, lord tenant, and surely you will swell better--I guarantee that." "That is all well," said Volodyovski; "but if he is so friendly, why did he not come to us himself instead of slipping around us like a wolf and biting our men?" "Not your head, Pan Michael. What we counsel do you carry out, and no evil will come of it. If your wit were as good as your sabre, you would be grand hetman already, in place of Revera Pototski. And why should Kmita come here? Is it not because you would not believe him, just as you do not now believe his letter, from which it might come to great trouble, for he is a stubborn cavalier. But suppose that you did believe him, what would the other colonels do, such as Kotovski, Jyromski, or Lipnitski? What would your Lauda men say? Would not they cut him down the moment you turned your head away?" "Father is right!" said Pan Yan; "he could not come here." "Then why was he going to the Swedes?" insisted the stubborn Pan Michael. "The devil knows, whether he is going to the Swedes; the devil knows what may flash into Kmita's wild noddle. That is nothing to us, but let us take advantage of the warning, if we wish to carry away our heads." "There is nothing to meditate on here," said Pan Stanislav. "It is needful to inform with all speed Kotovski, Jyromski, Lipnitski, and that other Kmita," said Pan Yan. "Send to them, Michael, news at once; but do not write who gave the warning, for surely they would not believe." "We alone shall know whose the service, and in due time we shall not fail to publish it!" cried Zagloba, "Onward, lively, Michael!" "And we will move to Byalystok ourselves, appointing a muster there for all. God give us the voevoda of Vityebsk at the earliest," said Yan. "From Byalystok we must send a deputation from the army to him. God grant that we shall stand before the eyes of the hetman of Lithuania," said Zagloba, "with equal force or greater than his own. It is not for us to rush at him, but it is different with the voevoda. He is a worthy man, and honest; there is not another such in the Commonwealth." "Do you know Pan Sapyeha?" asked Stanislav. "Do I know him! I knew him as a little boy, not higher than my sabre. But he was then like an angel." "And now he has turned into money, not only his property, not only his silver and jewels, but most likely he has melted into coin the metal of his horse-trappings, so as to collect as many troops as possible against the enemy," said Volodyovski. "Thank God that there is even one such man," answered Pan Stanislav, "for remember how we trusted in Radzivill." "Oh that is blasphemous!" cried Zagloba. "Voevoda of Vityebsk, ba! ba! Long life to the voevoda of Vityebsk! And you, Michael, to the road with all speed, to the road! Let the mudfish remain in these swamps of Shchuchyn, but we will go to Byalystok, where perhaps we shall find other fish. The Jews there, on Sabbath, bake very excellent bread. Well, at least war will begin; I am yearning for it. And if we break through Radzivill we will begin at the Swedes. We have shown them already what we can do. To the road, Michael, for _periculum in mora_ (there is danger in delay)!" "I will go to put the squadrons in line!" said Pan Yan. An hour later, messengers, between ten and twenty in number, were flying as a horse gallops toward Podlyasye, and soon after them moved the whole squadron of Lauda. The officers went in advance, arranging and discussing; and Roh Kovalski, the lieutenant, led the soldiers. They went through Osovyets and Gonyandz, shortening for themselves the road to Byalystok, where they hoped to find other confederate squadrons. CHAPTER XXXIII. Pan Volodyovski's letters, announcing the expedition of Radzivill, found hearing with all the colonels, scattered throughout the whole province of Podlyasye. Some had divided their squadrons already into smaller detachments, so as to winter them more easily; others permitted officers to lodge in private houses, so that there remained at each flag merely a few officers and some tens of soldiers. The colonels permitted this partly in view of hunger, and partly through the difficulty of retaining in just discipline squadrons which after they had refused obedience to their own proper authority were inclined to oppose officers on the slightest pretext. If a chief of sufficient weight had been found, and had led them at once to battle against either of the two enemies, or even against Radzivill, discipline would have remained surely intact; but it had become weakened by idleness in Podlyasye, where the time passed in shooting at Radzivill's castles, in plundering the goods of the voevoda, and in parleying with Prince Boguslav. In these circumstances the soldier grew accustomed only to violence and oppression of peaceful people in the province. Some of the soldiers, especially attendants and camp-followers, deserted, and forming unruly bands, worked at robbery on the highway. And so that army, which had not joined any enemy and was the one hope of the king and the patriots, was dwindling day by day. The division of squadrons into small detachments had dissolved them completely. It is true that it was difficult to subsist in a body, but still it may be that the fear of want was exaggerated purposely. It was autumn, and the harvest had been good; no enemy had up to that time ravaged the province with fire and sword. Just then the robberies of the confederate soldiers were destroying this province precisely as inactivity was destroying the soldiers themselves; for things had combined so wonderfully that the enemy left those squadrons in peace. The Swedes, flooding the country from the west and extending to the south, had not yet come to that corner which between the province of Mazovia and Lithuania formed Podlyasye; from the other side the legions of Hovanski, Trubetskoi, and Serebryani, stood in inactivity in the district occupied by them, hesitating, or rather not knowing what to lay hold on. In the Russian provinces Buturlin and Hmelnitski sent parties out in old fashion, and just then they had defeated at Grodek a handful of troops led by Pototski, grand hetman of the kingdom. But Lithuania was under Swedish protection. To ravage and to occupy it further meant, as was stated justly by Kmita in his letter, to declare war against the Swedes, who were terrible and roused universal alarm in the world. "There was therefore a moment of relief from the Northerners;" and some experienced men declared that they would soon be allies of Yan Kazimir and the Commonwealth against the King of Sweden, whose power, were he to become lord of the whole Commonwealth, would not have an equal in Europe. Hovanski therefore attacked neither Podlyasye nor the confederate squadrons, while these squadrons, scattered and without a leader, attacked no one, and were unable to attack or to undertake anything more important than plundering the property of Radzivill; and withal they were dwindling away. But Volodyovski's letters, touching the impending attack by the hetman, roused the colonels from their inactivity and slumber. They assembled the squadrons, called in scattered soldiers, threatening with penalties those who would not come. Jyromski, the most important of the colonels, and whose squadron was in the best condition, moved first, and without delay, to Byalystok; after him came in one week Yakub Kmita,--true, with only one hundred and twenty men; then the soldiers of Kotovski and Lipnitski began to assemble, now singly, now in crowds; petty nobles from the surrounding villages also came in as volunteers, such as the Zyentsinkis, the Sviderskis, the Yavorskis, the Jendzians, the Mazovyetskis; volunteers came even from the province of Lyubelsk, such as the Karvovskis and the Turs; and from time to time appeared a more wealthy noble with a few servants, well armed. Deputies were sent from the squadrons to levy contributions, to collect money and provisions for receipts; in a word, activity reigned everywhere, and military preparations sprang up. When Volodyovski with his Lauda squadron arrived, there were already some thousands of people under arms, to whom only a leader was wanting. These men were unorganized and unruly, though not so unorganized nor so unruly as those nobles of Great Poland, who a few months before had the task of defending the passage of Uistsie against the Swedes; for these men from Podlyasye, Lublin, and Lithuania were accustomed to war, and there were none among them, unless youths, who had not smelled powder, and who "had not used the snuff-box of Gradivus." Each in his time had fought,--now against the Cossacks, now against the Turks, now against Tartars; there were some who still held in remembrance the Swedish wars. But above all towered in military experience and eloquence Pan Zagloba; and he was glad to be in that assemblage of soldiers, in which there were no deliberations with a dry throat. Zagloba extinguished the importance of colonels the most important. The Lauda men declared that had it not been for him, Volodyovski, the Skshetuskis, Mirski, and Oskyerko would have died at the hands of Radzivill, for they were being taken to Birji to execution. Zagloba did not hide his own services, but rendered complete justice to himself, so that all might know whom they had before them. "I do not like to praise myself," said he, "nor to speak of what has not been; for with me truth is the basis, as my sister's son also can testify." Here he turned to Roh Kovalski, who straightway stepped forth from behind Pan Zagloba, and said, with a ringing, stentorian voice,-- "Uncle never lies!" And, puffing, Pan Roh rolled his eyes over the audience, as if seeking the insolent man who would dare to gainsay him. But no one ever gainsaid him. Then Zagloba began to tell of his old-time victories,--how during the life of Konyetspolski he had caused victory twice over Gustavus Adolphus, how in later times he staggered Hmelnitski, how he acted at Zbaraj, how Prince Yeremi relied on his counsels in everything, how he confided to him the leadership in sorties. "And after each sortie," said ho, "when we had spoiled five or ten thousand of the ruffians, Hmelnitski in despair used to butt his head against the wall, and repeat, 'No one has done this but that devil of a Zagloba!' and when it came to the treaty of Zborovo, the Khan himself looked at me as a wonder, and begged for my portrait, since he wished to send it as a gift to the Sultan." "Such men do we need now more than ever," said the hearers. And since many had heard besides of the marvellous deeds of Zagloba, accounts of which were travelling over the whole Commonwealth, and since recent events in Kyedani, such as the liberation of the colonels, and the battle with the Swedes at Klavany, confirmed the old opinion concerning the man,--his glory increased still more; and Zagloba walked in it, as in the sunlight, before the eyes of all men, bright and radiant beyond others. "If there were a thousand such men in the Commonwealth, it would not have come to what it has!" said the soldiers. "Let us thank God that we have even one among us." "He was the first to proclaim Radzivill a traitor." "And he snatched honorable men from his grasp, and on the road he so pommelled the Swedes at Klavany that a witness of their defeat could not escape." "He won the first victory!" "God grant, not the last!" Colonels like Jyromski, Kotovski, Yakub Kmita, and Lipnitski looked also on Zagloba with great respect. They urged him to their quarters, seizing him from one another by force; and his counsel was sought in everything, while they wondered at his prudence, which was quite equal to his bravery. And just then they were considering an important affair. They had sent, it is true, deputies to the voevoda of Vityebsk, asking him to come and take command; but since no one knew clearly where the voevoda was at that moment, the deputies went away, and as it were fell into water. There were reports that they had been taken by Zolotarenko's parties, which came as far as Volkovysk, plundering on their own account. The colonels at Byalystok therefore decided to choose a temporary leader who should have management of all till the arrival of Sapyeha. It is not needful to say that, with the exception of Volodyovski, each colonel was thinking of himself. Then began persuading and soliciting. The army gave notice that it wished to take part in the election, not through deputies, but in the general circle which was formed for that purpose. Volodyovski, after advising with his comrades, gave strong support to Jyromski, who was a virtuous man and important; besides, he impressed the troops by his looks, and a senatorial beard to his girdle. He was also a ready and experienced soldier. He, through gratitude, recommended Volodyovski; but Kotovski, Lipnitski, and Yakub Kmita opposed this, insisting that it was not possible to select the youngest, for the chief must represent before the country the greatest dignity. "But who is the oldest here?" asked many voices. "Uncle is the oldest," cried suddenly Roh Kovalski, with such a thundering voice that all turned toward him. "It is a pity that he has no squadron!" said Yahovich, Jyromski's lieutenant. But others began to cry: "Well, what of that? Are we bound to choose only a colonel? Is not the election in our power? Is this not free suffrage? Any noble may be elected king, not merely commander." Then Pan Lipnitski, as he did not favor Jyromski, and wished by all means to prevent his election, raised his voice,-- "As true as life! You are free, gracious gentlemen, to vote as may please you. If you do not choose a colonel, it will be better; for there will be no offence to any man, nor will there be jealousy." Then came a terrible uproar. Many voices cried, "To the vote! to the vote!" but others, "Who here is more famous than Pan Zagloba? Who is a greater knight? Who is a more experienced soldier? We want Pan Zagloba! Long life to him! Long life to our commander!" "Long life to Pan Zagloba! long life to him!" roared more and more throats. "To the sabres with the stubborn!" cried the more quarrelsome. "There is no opposition! By acclamation!" answered crowds. "Long life to him! He conquered Gustavus Adolphus! He staggered Hmelnitski!" "He saved the colonels themselves!" "He conquered the Swedes at Klavany!" "Vivat! vivat! Zagloba dux! Vivat! vivat!" And throngs began to hurl their caps in the air, while running through the camp in search of Zagloba. He was astonished, and at the first moment confused, for he had not sought the office. He wanted it for Pan Yan, and did not expect such a turn of affairs. So when a throng of some thousands began to shout his name, his breath failed him, and he became as red as a beet. Then his comrades rushed around him; but in their enthusiasm they interpreted everything in a good sense, for seeing his confusion they fell to shouting,-- "Look at him! he blushes like a maiden! His modesty is equal to his manhood! Long life to him, and may he lead us to victory!" Meanwhile the colonels also came up,--glad, not glad; they congratulated him on his office, and perhaps some were even glad that it had missed their rivals. Pan Volodyovski merely moved his mustaches somewhat, he was not less astonished than Zagloba; and Jendzian, with open eyes and mouth, stared with unbelief, but already with respect, at Zagloba, who came to himself by degrees, and after a while put his hands on his hips, and rearing his head, received with fitting dignity the congratulations. Jyromski congratulated first on behalf of the colonels, and then of the army. Pan Jymirski, an officer of Kotovski's squadron, spoke very eloquently, quoting the maxims of various sages. Zagloba listened, nodded; finally, when the speaker had finished, the commander gave utterance to the following words,-- "Gracious gentlemen! Even if a man should endeavor to drown honest merit in the unfordable ocean, or cover it with the heaven-touching Carpathians, still, having like oil the property of floating to the surface, it would work itself out, so as to say to the eyes of men, 'I am that which trembles not before light, which has no fear of judgment, which waits for reward.' But as a precious stone is set in gold, so should that virtue be set in modesty; therefore, gracious gentlemen, standing here in your presence, I ask: Have I not hidden myself and my services? Have I praised myself in your presence? Have I asked for this office, with which you have adorned me? You yourselves have discovered my merits, for I am this moment ready to deny them, and to say to you: There are better than I, such as Pan Jyromski, Pan Kotovski, Pan Lipnitski, Pan Kmita, Pan Oskyerko, Pan Skshetuski, Pan Volodyovski,--such great cavaliers that antiquity itself might be proud of them. Why choose me leader, and not some one of them? It is still time. Take from my shoulders this office, and clothe in this mantle a worthier man!" "Impossible! impossible!" bellowed hundreds and thousands of voices. "Impossible!" repeated the colonels, delighted with the public praise, and wishing at the same time to show their modesty before the army. "I see myself that it is impossible now," said Zagloba; "then, gracious gentlemen, let your will be done. I thank you from my heart, lords brothers, and I have faith that God will grant that you be not deceived in the trust which you have placed in me. As you are to stand with me to death, so I promise to stand with you; and if an inscrutable fate brings us either victory or destruction, death itself will not part us, for even after death we shall share a common renown." Tremendous enthusiasm reigned in the assembly. Some grasped their sabres, others shed tears; sweat stood in drops on the bald head of Zagloba, but the ardor within him grew greater. "We will stand by our lawful king, by our elected, and by our country," shouted he; "live for them, die for them! Gracious gentlemen, since this fatherland is a fatherland never have such misfortunes fallen on it. Traitors have opened the gates, and there is not a foot of land, save this province, where an enemy is not raging. In you is the hope of the country, and in me your hope; on you and on me the whole Commonwealth has its eyes fixed! Let us show that it holds not its hands forth in vain. As you ask from me manhood and faith, so I ask of you discipline and obedience; and if we be worthy, if we open, by our example, the eyes of those whom the enemy has deceived, then half the Commonwealth will fly to us! Whoso has God and faith in his heart will join us, the forces of heaven will support us, and who in that hour can oppose us?" "It will be so! As God lives, it will be so! Solomon is speaking! Strike! strike!" shouted thundering voices. But Zagloba stretched forth his hands to the north, and shouted,-- "Come now, Radzivill! Come now, lord hetman, lord heretic, voevoda of Lucifer! We are waiting for you,--not scattered, but standing together; not in discord, but in harmony; not with papers and compacts, but with swords in our hands! An army of virtue is waiting for you, and I am its leader. Take the field! Meet Zagloba! Call the devils to your side; let us make the trial! Take the field!" Here he turned again to the army, and roared till his voice was heard throughout the whole camp,-- "As God is true, gracious gentlemen, prophecies support me! Only harmony, and we shall conquer those scoundrels, those wide-breeches and stocking fellows, fish-eaters and lousy rogues, sheepskin tanners who sleigh-ride in summer! We'll give them pepper, till they wear off their heels racing home. Let every living man slay them, the dog brothers! Slay, whoso believes in God, to whom virtue and the country are dear!" Several thousand sabres were gleaming at once. Throngs surrounded Zagloba, crowding, trampling, pushing, and roaring,-- "Lead us on! lead us on!" "I will lead you to-morrow! Make ready!" shouted Zagloba, with ardor. This election took place in the morning, and in the afternoon there was a review of the army. The squadrons were disposed on the plain of Horoshchan, one by the other in great order, with the colonels and banners in front; and before the regiments rode the commander, under a horse-tail standard, with a gilded baton in his hand, and a heron feather in his cap,--you would have said, a born hetman! And so he reviewed in turn the squadrons, as a shepherd examines his flock, and courage was added to the soldiers at sight of that lordly figure. Each colonel came out to him in turn, and he spoke with each,--praised something, blamed something; and in truth those of the new-comers who in the beginning were not pleased with the choice were forced to admit in their souls that the new commander was a soldier very well conversant with military affairs, and for whom leadership was nothing new. Volodyovski alone moved his mustaches somewhat strangely when the new commander clapped him on the shoulder at the review, in presence of the other colonels, and said,-- "Pan Michael, I am satisfied with you, for your squadron is in such order as no other. Hold on in this fashion, and you may be sure that I'll not forget you." "'Pon my word!" whispered Volodyovski to Pan Yan on the way home from the review, "what else could a real hetman have told me?" That same day Zagloba sent detachments in directions in which it was needful to go, and in direction in which there was no need of going. When they returned in the morning, he listened with care to every report; then he betook himself to the quarters of Volodyovski, who lived with Pan Yan and Pan Stanislav. "Before the army I must uphold dignity," said he, kindly; "when we are alone we can have our old intimacy,--here I am a friend, not a chief. Besides, I do not despise your counsel, though I have my own reason; for I know you as men of experience such as few in the Commonwealth have." They greeted him therefore in old fashion, and "intimacy" soon reigned completely. Jendzian alone dared not be with him as formerly, and sat on the very edge of his bench. "What does father think to do?" asked Pan Yan. "First of all to uphold order and discipline, and keep the soldiers at work, that they may not grow mangy from laziness. I said well, Pan Michael, that you mumbled like a suckling when I sent those parties toward the four points of the world; but I had to do so to inure men to service, for they have been idle a long time. That first, second, what do we need? Not men, for enough of them come, and more will come yet. Those nobles who fled from Mazovia to Prussia before the Swedes, will come too. Men and sabres will not be wanting; but there are not provisions enough, and without supplies no army on earth can remain in the field. I had the idea to order parties to bring in whatever falls into their hands,--cattle, sheep, pigs, grain, hay; and in this province and the district of Vidzko in Mazovia, which also has not seen an enemy yet, there is abundance of everything." "But those nobles will raise heaven-climbing shouts," said Pan Yan, "if their crops and cattle are taken." "The army means more for me than the nobles. Let them cry! Supplies will not be taken for nothing. I shall command to give receipts, of which I have prepared so many during the night, that half the Commonwealth might be taken under requisition with them. I have no money; but when the war is over and the Swedes driven out, the Commonwealth will pay. What is the use in talking! It would be worse for the nobles if the army were to grow hungry, go around and rob. I have a plan too of scouring the forests, for I hear that very many peasants have taken refuge there with their cattle. Let the army people return thanks to the Holy Ghost, who inspired them to choose me, for no other man would have managed in such fashion." "On your great mightiness is a senator's head, that is certain!" exclaimed Jendzian. "Hei!" retorted Zagloba, rejoiced at the flattery, "and you are not to be imposed on, you rogue! Soon it will be seen how I'll make you lieutenant, only let there be a vacancy." "I thank your great mightiness humbly," replied Jendzian. "This is my plan," continued Zagloba: "first to collect such supplies that we could stand a siege, then to make a fortified camp, and let Radzivill come with Swedes or with devils. I'm a rascal if I do not make a second Zbaraj here!" "As God is dear to me, a noble idea!" cried Volodyovski; "but where can we get cannon?" "Pan Kotovski has two howitzers, and Yakub Kmita has one gun for firing salutes; in Byalystok are four eight-pounders which were to be sent to the castle of Tykotsin; for you do not know, gentlemen, that Byalystok was left by Pan Vyesyolovski for the support of Tykotsin Castle, and those cannon were bought the past year with the rent, as Pan Stempalski, the manager here, told me. He said also that there were a hundred charges of powder for each cannon. We'll help ourselves, gracious gentlemen; only support me from your souls, and do not forget the body either, which would be glad to drink something, for it is time now for that." Volodyovski gave orders to bring drink, and they talked on at the cups. "You thought that you would have the picture of a commander," continued Zagloba, sipping lightly the old mead. "Never, never! I did not ask for the favor; but since they adorn me with it, there must be obedience and order. I know what each office means, and see if I am not equal to every one. I'll make a second Zbaraj in this place, nothing but a second Zbaraj! Radzivill will choke himself well; and the Swedes will choke themselves before they swallow me. I hope that Hovanski will try us too; I would bury him in such style that he would not be found at the last judgment. They are not far away, let them try!--Mead, Pan Michael!" Volodyovski poured out mead. Zagloba drank it at a draught, wrinkled his forehead, and as if thinking of something said,-- "Of what was I talking? What did I want?--Ah! mead, Pan Michael!" Volodyovski poured out mead again. "They say," continued Zagloba, "that Pan Sapyeha likes a drink in good company. No wonder! every honorable man does. Only traitors, who have false thoughts for their country, abstain, lest they tell their intrigues. Radzivill drinks birch sap, and after death will drink pitch. I think that Sapyeha and I shall be fond of each other; but I shall have everything here so arranged that when he comes all will be ready. There is many a thing on my head; but what is to be done? If there is no one in the country to think, then think thou, old Zagloba, while breath is in thy nostrils. The worst is that I have no chancellery." "And what does father want of a chancellery?" asked Pan Yan. "Why has the king a chancellery? And why must there be a military secretary with an army? It will be necessary to send to some town to have a seal made for me." "A seal?" repeated Jendzian, with delight, looking with growing respect at Zagloba. "And on what will your lordship put the seal?" asked Volodyovski. "In such a confidential company you may address me as in old times. The seal will not be used by me, but by my chancellor,--keep that in mind, to begin with!" Here Zagloba looked with pride and importance at those present, till Jendzian sprang up from the bench, and Pan Stanislav muttered,-- "_Honores mutant mores_ (honors change manners)!" "What do I want of a chancellery? But listen to me!" said Zagloba. "Know this, to begin with, that those misfortunes which have fallen upon our country, according to my understanding, have come from no other causes than from license, unruliness, and excesses--Mead, Pan Michael!--and excesses, I say, which like a plague are destroying us; but first of all, from heretics blaspheming with ever-growing boldness the true faith, to the damage of our Most Holy Patroness, who may fall into just anger because of these insults." "He speaks truly," said the knights, in chorus; "the dissidents were the first to join the enemy, and who knows if they did not bring the enemy hither?" "For example, the grand hetman of Lithuania!" "But in this province, where I am commander, there is also no lack of heretics, as in Tykotsin and other towns; therefore to obtain the blessing of God on our undertaking at its inception, a manifesto will be issued, that whoso is living in error must turn from it in three days, and those who will not do that will have their property confiscated to the army." The knights looked at one another with astonishment. They knew that there was no lack of adroit reason and stratagem in Zagloba, but they did not suppose him to be such a statesman and judge of public questions. "And you ask," continued Zagloba, with triumph, "where we shall get money for the army? But the confiscations, and all the wealth of the Radzivills, which by confiscation will become army property?" "Will there be right on our side?" asked Volodyovski. "There are such times at present that whoever has a sword is right. And what right have the Swedes and all those enemies who are raging within the boundaries of the Commonwealth?" "It is true!" answered Pan Michael, with conviction. "That is not enough!" cried Zagloba, growing warmer, "another manifesto will be issued to the nobles of Podlyasye, and those lands in the neighboring provinces which are not yet in the hands of the enemy, to assemble a general militia. These nobles must arm their servants, so that we may not lack infantry. I know that many would be glad to appear, if only they could see some government. They will have a government and manifestoes." "You have, in truth, as much sense as the grand chancellor of the kingdom," cried Volodyovski. "Mead, Pan Michael!--A third letter will be sent to Hovanski, telling him to go to destruction; if not, we will smoke him out of every town and castle. They (the Northerners) are quiet now in Lithuania, it is true, and do not capture castles; but Zolotarenko's men rob, going along in parties of one or two thousand. Let him restrain them, or we will destroy them." "We might do that, indeed," said Pan Yan, "and the troops would not be lying idle." "I am thinking of this, and I will send new parties today, precisely to Volkovysk; but some things are to be done, and others are not to be omitted. I wish to send a fourth letter to our elected, our good king, to console him in his sorrow; saying that there are still men who have not deserted him, that there are sabres and hearts ready at his nod. Let our father have at least this comfort in a strange land; our beloved lord, our Yagellon blood, which must wander in exile,--think of it, think of it!" Here Zagloba fell to sobbing, for he had much mead in his head, and at last he roared from pity over the fate of the king, and Pan Michael at once seconded him in a thinner voice. Jendzian sobbed too, or pretended to sob; but Pan Yan and Pan Stanislav rested their heads on their hands, and sat in silence. The silence continued for a while; suddenly Zagloba fell into a rage. "What is the elector doing?" cried he. "If he has made a pact with the Prussian towns, let him take the field against the Swedes, let him not intrigue on both sides, let him do what a loyal vassal is bound to do, and take the field in defence of his lord and benefactor." "Who can tell that he will not declare for the Swedes?" asked Pan Stanislav. "Declare for the Swedes? Then I will declare to him! The Prussian boundary is not far, and I have some thousands of sabres within call! You will not deceive Zagloba! As true as you see me here, the commander of this noble army, I will visit him with fire and sword. We have not provisions; well, we shall find all we need in Prussian storehouses." "Mother of God!" cried Jendzian, in ecstasy. "Your great mightiness will conquer crowned heads!" "I will write to him at once: 'Worthy Pan Elector, there is enough of turning the cat away by the tail, enough of evasion and delay! Come out against the Swedes, or I will come on a visit to Prussia. It cannot be otherwise.'--Ink, pen, and paper!--Jendzian, will you go with the letter?" "I will go!" answered the tenant of Vansosh, delighted with his new dignity. But before pen, ink, and paper were brought to Zagloba, shouts were raised in front of the house, and throngs of soldiers darkened the windows. Some shouted "Vivat!" others cried, "Allah," in Tartar. Zagloba and his comrades went out to see what was taking place. It appeared that they were bringing those eight pounders which Zagloba had remembered, and the sight of which was now delighting the hearts of the soldiers. Pan Stempalski, the manager of Byalystok, approached Zagloba, and said,-- "Serene, great mighty Commander! From the time that he of immortal memory, the lord marshal of the Grand Principality of Lithuania, left by will his property at Byalystok to support the castle of Tykotsin, I, being manager of that property, have applied faithfully and honestly all its income to the benefit of that castle, as I can show to the whole Commonwealth by registers. So that working more than twenty years I have provided that castle with powder and guns and brass; holding it as a sacred duty that every copper should go to that object to which the serene great mighty marshal of the Grand Principality of Lithuania commanded that it should go. But when by the changing wheel of fate the castle of Tykotsin became the greatest support in this province of the enemies of the country, I asked God and my own conscience whether I ought to strengthen it more, or whether I was not bound to give into the hands of your great mightiness this wealth and these military supplies obtained from the income of the present year." "You should give them to me!" interrupted Zagloba, with importance. "I ask but one thing,--that your great mightiness be pleased, in presence of the whole army and in writing, to give me a receipt, that I applied nothing from that property to my own use, and that I delivered everything into the hands of the Commonwealth, worthily represented here by you, the great mighty commander." Zagloba motioned with his head as a sign of assent, and began at once to look over the register. It appeared that besides the eight-pounders there were put away in the storehouses three hundred German muskets, very good ones; besides two hundred Moscow halberts, for infantry in the defence of walls and breastworks; and six thousand ducats in ready money. "The money will be divided among the army," said Zagloba; "and as to the muskets and halberts,"--here he looked around,--"Pan Oskyerko, you will take them and form a body of infantry; there are a few foot-soldiers here from the Radzivill fugitives, and as many as are lacking may be taken from the millers." Then he turned to all present: "Gracious gentlemen, there is money, there are cannons, there will be infantry and provisions,--these are my orders, to begin with." "Vivat!" shouted the army. "And now, gracious gentlemen, let all the young men go on a jump to the villages for spades, shovels, and pickaxes. We will make a fortified camp, a second Zbaraj! But whether a man belongs to cavalry or infantry, let none be ashamed of the shovel, and to work!" Then the commander withdrew to his quarters, attended by the shouts of the army. "As God is true, that man has a head on his shoulders," said Volodyovski to Pan Yan, "and things begin to go in better order." "If only Radzivill does not come soon," put in Pan Stanislav, "for he is such a leader that there is not another like him in the Commonwealth. Our Pan Zagloba is good for provisioning the camp; but it is not for him to measure strength with such a warrior as Radzivill." "That is true!" answered Pan Yan. "When it comes to action we will help him with counsel, for he does not understand war. Besides, his rule will come to an end the moment Sapyeha arrives." "He can do much good before that time," said Volodyovski. In truth, the army needed some leader, even Zagloba; for from the day of his election better order reigned in the camp. On the following day they began to make breastworks near the Byalystok ponds. Pan Oskyerko, who had served in foreign armies and understood fortification, directed the whole labor. In three days there had arisen a very strong entrenchment, really something like Zbaraj, for the sides and the rear of it were defended by swampy ponds. The sight of this work raised the hearts of the soldiers; the whole army felt that it had some ground under its feet. But courage was strengthened still more at sight of the supplies of food brought by strong parties. Every day they drove in oxen, sheep, pigs; every day came wagons bringing all kinds of grain and hay. Some things came from Lukovo, others from Vidzko. There came also, in continually greater numbers, nobles, small and great, for when the tidings went around that there was a government, an army, and a commander, there was more confidence among people. It was burdensome for the inhabitants to support a "whole division:" but to begin with, Zagloba did not inquire about that; in the second place, it was better to give half to the army and enjoy the rest in peace, than to be exposed every moment to losing all through the unruly bands, which had increased considerably and raged like Tartars, and which, at command of Zagloba, were pursued and destroyed. "If the commander turns out to be such a leader as he is a manager," said the soldiers in camp, "the Commonwealth does not know yet how great a man it has." Zagloba himself was thinking, with definite alarm, of the coming of Yanush Radzivill. He called to mind all the victories of Radzivill; then the form of the hetman took on monstrous shapes in the imagination of the new commander, and in his soul he said,-- "Oh, who can oppose that dragon? I said that he would choke himself with me, but he will swallow me as a sheat-fish a duck." And he promised himself, under oath, not to give a general battle to Radzivill. "There will be a siege," thought he, "and that always lasts long. Negotiations can be tried too, and by that time Sapyeha will come up." In case he should not come up, Zagloba determined to listen to Pan Yan in everything, for he remembered how highly Prince Yeremi prized this officer and his military endowments. "You, Pan Michael," said Zagloba to Volodyovski, "are just created for attack, and you may be sent scouting, even with a large party, for you know how to manage, and fall on the enemy, like a wolf on sheep; but if you were commanded to be hetman of a whole army,--I pass, I pass! You will not fill a vault with your mind, since you have no wit for sale; but Yan, he has the head of a commander, and if I were to die he is the only man who could fill my place." Meanwhile contradictory tidings came. First it was reported that Radzivill was marching through Electoral Prussia; second, that having defeated Hovanski's troops, he had taken Grodno and was marching thence with great force; further, there were men who insisted that not Prince Yanush, but Sapyeha, with the aid of Prince Michael Radzivill, had defeated Hovanski. Scouting-parties brought no reliable news, saving this, that a body of Zolotarenko's men, about two thousand in number, were at Volkovysk, and threatened the town. The neighborhood was in flames. One day later fugitives began to come in who confirmed the news, reporting besides that the townspeople had sent envoys to Hovanski and Zolotarenko with a prayer to spare the place, to which they received answer from Hovanski that that band was a separate one, having nothing to do with his army. Zolotarenko advised the people to ransom themselves; but they, as poor men after the recent fire and a number of plunderings, had no ransom to give. They implored the commander in God's name to hasten to their rescue, while they were conducting negotiations to ransom the town, for afterward there would not be time. Zagloba selected fifteen hundred good troops, among them the Lauda men, and calling Volodyovski, said,-- "Now, Pan Michael, it is time to show what you can do. Go to Volkovysk and destroy those ruffians who are threatening an undefended town. Such an expedition is not a novelty for you; I think you will take it as a favor that I give such functions." Here he turned to the other colonels: "I must remain in camp myself, for all the responsibility is on me, that is, first; and second, it does not beseem my office to go on an expedition against ruffians. But let Radzivill come, then in a great battle it will be shown who is superior,--the hetman or the commander." Volodyovski set out with alacrity, for he was weary of camp life and yearned for battle. The squadrons selected marched out willingly and with singing; the commander appeared on the rampart on horseback, and blessed the departing, making over them the sign of the cross for the road. There were some who wondered that Zagloba sent off that party with such solemnity, but he remembered that Jolkyevski and other hetmans had the habit of making the sign of the cross over squadrons when going to battle; besides, he loved to do everything with ceremony, for that raised his dignity in the eyes of the soldiers. Barely had the squadrons vanished in the haze of the distance, when he began to be alarmed about them. "Yan!" said he, "another handful of men might be sent to Volodyovski." "Be at rest, father," answered Pan Yan. "For Volodyovski to go on such an expedition is the same as to eat a plate of fried eggs. Dear God, he has done nothing else all his life!" "That is true; but if an overwhelming force should attack him? _Nec Hercules contra plures_ (Neither Hercules against [too] many)." "What is the use in talking about such a soldier? He will test everything carefully before he strikes; and if the forces against him are too great, he will pluck off what he can and return, or will send for reinforcements. You may sleep quietly, father." "Ah, I also knew whom I was sending, but I tell you that Pan Michael must have given me some herb; I have such a weakness for him. I have never loved any one so, except Podbipienta and you. It cannot be but that little fellow has given me something." Three days passed. Provisions were brought continually, volunteers also marched in, but of Pan Michael not a sound. Zagloba's fears increased, and in spite of Pan Yan's remonstrance that in no way could Volodyovski return yet from Volkovysk, Zagloba sent one hundred of Yakub Kmita's light horse for intelligence. The scouts marched out, and two days more passed without news. On the seventh day, during a gray misty nightfall, the camp-attendants sent for food to Bobrovniki returned in great haste, with the report that they had seen some army coming out of the forest beyond Bobrovniki. "Pan Michael!" exclaimed Zagloba, joyfully. But the men contradicted that. They had not gone to meet it for the special reason that they saw strange flags, not belonging to Volodyovski's troops. And besides, this force was greater. The attendants, being attendants, could not fix the number exactly; some said there were three thousand; others five thousand, or still more. "I will take twenty horsemen and go to meet them," said Captain Lipnitski. He went. An hour passed, and a second; at last it was stated that not a party was approaching, but a whole army. It is unknown why, but on a sudden it was thundered through the camp,-- "Radzivill is coming!" This report, like an electric shock, moved and shook the whole camp; the soldiers rushed to the bulwarks. On some faces terror was evident; the men did not stand in proper order; Oskyerko's infantry only occupied the places indicated. Among the volunteers there was a panic at the first moment. From mouth to mouth flew various reports: "Radzivill has cut to pieces Volodyovski and the second party formed of Yakub Kmita's men," repeated some. "Not a witness of the defeat has escaped!" said others. "And now Lipnitski has gone, as it were, under the earth." "Where is the commander? Where is the commander?" The colonels rushed to establish order; and since all in the camp, save a few volunteers, were old soldiers, they soon stood in order, waiting for what would appear. When the cry came, "Radzivill is coming!" Zagloba was greatly confused; but in the first moment he would not believe it. "What has happened to Volodyovski? Has he let himself be surrounded, so that not a man has come back with a warning? And the second party? And Pan Lipnitski? Impossible!" repeated Zagloba to himself, wiping his forehead, which was sweating profusely. "Has this dragon, this man-killer, this Lucifer, been able to come from Kyedani already? Is the last hour approaching?" Meanwhile from every side voices more and more numerous cried, "Radzivill! Radzivill!" Zagloba ceased to doubt. He sprang up and rushed to Pan Yan's quarters. "Oh, Yan, save! It is time now!" "What has happened?" asked Pan Yan. "Radzivill is coming! To your head I give everything, for Prince Yeremi said that you are a born leader. I will superintend myself, but do you give counsel and lead." "That cannot be Radzivill!" said Pan Yan. "From what direction are the troops marching?" "From Volkovysk. It is said that they have taken Volodyovski and the second party which I sent not long ago." "Volodyovski let himself be taken! Oh, father, you do not know him. He is coming back himself,--no one else!" "But it is said that there is an enormous army!" "Praise be to God! it is clear then that Sapyeha is coming." "For God's sake! what do you tell me? Why then was it said that Lipnitski went against them?" "That is just the proof that it is not Radzivill who is coming. Lipnitski discovered who it was, joined, and all are coming together. Let us go out, let us go out!" "I said that the first moment!" cried Zagloba. "All were frightened, but I thought, 'That cannot be!' I saw the position at once. Come! hurry, Yan, hurry! Those men out there are confused. Aha!" Zagloba and Pan Yan hastened to the ramparts, occupied already by the troops, and began to pass along. Zagloba's face was radiant; he stopped every little while, and cried so that all heard him,-- "Gracious gentlemen, we have guests! I have no reason to lose heart! If that is Radzivill, I'll show him the road back to Kyedani!" "We'll show him!" cried the army. "Kindle fires on the ramparts! We will not hide ourselves; let them see us, we are ready! Kindle fires!" Straightway they brought wood, and a quarter of an hour later the whole camp was flaming, till the heavens grew red as if from daybreak. The soldiers, turning away from the light, looked into the darkness in the direction of Bobrovniki. Some of them cried that they heard a clatter and the stamp of horses. Just then in the darkness musket-shots were heard from afar. Zagloba pulled Pan Yan by the skirts. "They are beginning to fire!" said he, disquieted. "Salutes!" answered Pan Yan. After the shots shouts of joy were heard. There was no reason for further doubt; a moment later a number of riders rushed in on foaming horses, crying,-- "Pan Sapyeha! the voevoda of Vityebsk!" Barely had the soldiers heard this, when they rushed forth from the walls, like an overflowed river, and ran forward, roaring so that any one hearing their voices from afar might think them cries from a town in which victors were putting all to the sword. Zagloba, wearing all the insignia of his office, with a baton in his hand and a heron's feather in his cap, rode out under his horse-tail standard, at the head of the colonels, to the front of the fortifications. After a while the voevoda of Vityebsk at the head of his officers, and with Volodyovski at his side, rode into the lighted circle. He was a man already in respectable years, of medium weight, with a face not beautiful, but wise and kindly. His mustaches, cut evenly over his upper lip, were iron-gray, as was also a small beard, which made him resemble a foreigner, though he dressed in Polish fashion. Though famous for many military exploits he looked more like a civilian than a soldier; those who knew him more intimately said that in the countenance of the voevoda Minerva was greater than Mars. But, besides Minerva and Mars, there was in that face a gem rarer in those times; that is honesty, which flowing forth from his soul was reflected in his eyes as the light of the sun is in water. At the first glance people recognized that he was a just and honorable man. "We waited as for a father!" cried the soldiers. "And so our leader has come!" repeated others, with emotion. "Vivat, vivat!" Pan Zagloba, at the head of his colonels, hurried toward Sapyeha, who reined in his horse and began to bow with his lynx-skin cap. "Serene great mighty voevoda!" began Zagloba, "though I possessed the eloquence of the ancient Romans, nay, of Cicero himself, or, going to remoter times, of that famous Athenian, Demosthenes, I should not be able to express the delight which has seized our hearts at sight of the worthy person of the serene great mighty lord. The whole Commonwealth is rejoicing in our hearts, greeting the wisest senator and the best son, with a delight all the greater because unexpected. Behold, we were drawn out here on these bulwarks under arms, not ready for greeting, but for battle,--not to hear shouts of delight, but the thunder of cannon,--not to shed tears, but our blood! When however hundred-tongued Fame bore around the news that the defender of the fatherland was coming, not the heretic,--the voevoda of Vityebsk, not the grand hetman of Lithuania,--Sapyeha, not Radzivill--" But Pan Sapyeha was in an evident hurry to enter; for he waved his hand quickly, with a kindly though lordly inattention, and said,-- "Radzivill also is coming. In two days he will be here!" Zagloba was confused; first, because the thread of his speech was broken, and second, because the news of Radzivill made a great impression on him. He stood therefore a moment before Sapyeha, not knowing what further to say; but he came quickly to his mind, and drawing hurriedly the baton from his belt, said with solemnity, calling to mind what had taken place at Zbaraj,-- "The army has chosen me for its leader, but I yield this into worthier hands, so as to give an example to the younger how we must resign the highest honors for the public good." The soldiers began to shout; but Pan Sapyeha only smiled and said,-- "Lord brother, I would gladly receive it, but Radzivill might think that you gave it through fear of him." "Oh, he knows me already," answered Zagloba, "and will not ascribe fear to me. I was the first to stagger him in Kyedani; and I drew others after me by my example." "If that is the ease, then lead on to the camp," said Sapyeha. "Volodyovski told me on the road that you are an excellent manager and have something on which to subsist; and we are wearied and hungry." So saying, he spurred on his horse, and after him moved the others; and all entered the camp amid measureless rejoicing. Zagloba, remembering what was said of Sapyeha,--that he liked feasts and the goblet,--determined to give fitting honor to the day of his coming; hence he appeared with a feast of such splendor as had not been yet in the camp. All ate and drank. At the cups Volodyovski told what had happened at Volkovysk,--how forces, considerably greater than his own, had been sent out by Zolotarenko, how the traitor had surrounded him, how straitened he was when the sudden arrival of Sapyeha turned a desperate defence into a brilliant victory. "We gave them something to think of," said he, "so that they will not stick an ear out of their camp." Then the conversation turned to Radzivill. The voevoda of Vityebsk had very recent tidings, and knew through reliable people of everything that took place in Kyedani. He said therefore that the hetman had sent a certain Kmita with a letter to the King of Sweden, and with a request to strike Podlyasye from two sides at once. "This is a wonder of wonders to me!" exclaimed Zagloba; "for had it not been for that Kmita, we should not have concentrated our forces to this moment, and if Radzivill had come he might have eaten us up, one after the other, like puddings of Syedlets." "Volodyovski told me all that," said Sapyeha, "from which I infer that Kmita has a personal affection for you. It is too bad that he hasn't it for the country. But people who see nothing above themselves, serve no cause well and are ready to betray any one, as in this case Kmita Radzivill." "But among us there are no traitors, and we are ready to stand up with the serene great mighty voevoda to the death!" said Jyromski. "I believe that here are most honorable soldiers," answered Sapyeha, "and I had no expectation of finding such order and abundance, for which I must give thanks to his grace Pan Zagloba." Zagloba blushed with pleasure, for somehow it had seemed to him hitherto that though the voevoda of Vityebsk had treated him graciously, still he had not given him the recognition and respect which he, the ex-commander, desired. He began therefore to relate how he had made regulations, what he had done, what supplies he had collected, how he had brought cannon, and formed infantry, finally what an extensive correspondence he had carried on; and not without boasting did he make mention of the letters sent to the banished king, to Hovanski, and to the elector. "After my letter, his grace the elector must declare for us openly or against us," said he, with pride. The voevoda of Vityebsk was a humorous man, and perhaps also he was a little joyous from drink; therefore he smoothed his mustache, laughed maliciously, and said,-- "Lord brother, but have you not written to the Emperor of Germany?" "No!" answered Zagloba, astonished. "That is a pity," said the voevoda; "for there an equal would have talked with an equal." The colonels burst into a thundering laugh; but Zagloba showed at once that if the voevoda wished to be a scythe, he had struck a stone. "Serene great mighty lord," said he, "I can write to the elector, for as a noble I am an elector myself, and I exercised my rights not so long ago when I gave my voice for Yan Kazimir." "You have brought that out well," answered Sapyeha. "But with such a potentate as the Emperor I do not correspond," continued Zagloba, "lest he might apply to me a certain proverb which I heard in Lithuania." "What was the proverb?" "Such a fool's head as that must have come out of Vityebsk!" answered Zagloba, without confusion. Hearing this, the colonels were frightened; but the voevoda leaned back and held his sides from laughter. "Ah, but you have settled me this time! Let me embrace you! Whenever I want to shave my beard I'll borrow your tongue!" The feast continued till late in the night; it was broken up by the arrival of nobles from Tykotsin, who brought news that Radzivill's scouts had already reached that place. CHAPTER XXXIV. Radzivill would have fallen on Podlyasye long before, had not various reasons held him back in Kyedani. First, he was waiting for the Swedish reinforcements, which Pontus de la Gardie delayed by design. Although bonds of relationship connected the Swedish general with the king himself, he could not compare in greatness of family, in importance, in extensive connections by blood, with that Lithuanian magnate; and as to fortune, though at that time there was no ready money in Radzivill's treasury, all the Swedish generals might have been portioned with one half of the prince's estates and consider themselves wealthy. Now, when by the turn of fortune Radzivill was dependent on Pontus, the general could not deny himself the pleasure of making that lord feel his dependence and the superiority of De la Gardie. Radzivill did not need reinforcements to defeat the confederates, since for that he had forces enough of his own; but the Swedes were necessary to him for the reasons mentioned by Kmita in his letter to Volodyovski. He was shut off from Podlyasye by the legions of Hovanski, who might block the road to him; but if Radzivill marched together with Swedish troops, and under the ægis of the King of Sweden, every hostile step on the part of Hovanski would be considered a challenge to Karl Gustav. Radzivill wished this in his soul, and therefore he waited impatiently for the arrival of even one Swedish squadron, and while urging Pontus he said more than once to his attendants,-- "A couple of years ago he would have thought it a favor to receive a letter from me, and would have left the letter by will to his descendants; but to-day he takes on the airs of a superior." To which a certain noble, loud-mouthed and truth-telling, known in the whole neighborhood, allowed himself to answer at once,-- "According to the proverb, mighty prince, 'As a man makes his bed, so must he sleep on it.'" Radzivill burst out in anger, and gave orders to cast the noble into the tower; but on the following day he let him out and presented him with a gold button; for of this noble it was said that he had ready money, and the prince wanted to borrow money of him on his note. The noble accepted the button, but gave not the money. Swedish reinforcements came at last, to the number of eight hundred horse, of the heavy cavalry. Pontus sent directly to the castle of Tykotsin three hundred infantry and one hundred light cavalry, wishing to have his own garrison there in every event. Hovanski's troops withdrew before them, making no opposition; they arrived therefore safely at Tykotsin, for this took place when the confederate squadrons were still scattered over all Podlyasye, and were occupied only in plundering the estates of Radzivill. It was hoped that the prince, after he had received the desired reinforcements, would take the field at once; but he loitered yet. The cause of this was news from Podlyasye of disagreement in that province; of lack of union among the confederates, and misunderstandings between Kotovski, Lipnitski, and Yakub Kmita. "It is necessary to give them time," said the prince, "to seize one another by the heads. They will gnaw one another to pieces; their power will disappear without war; and then we will strike on Hovanski." But on a sudden contradictory news began to come; the colonels not only did not fight with one another, but had assembled in one body at Byalystok. The prince searched his brain for the cause of this change. At last the name of Zagloba, as commander, came to his ears. He was informed also of the making of a fortified camp, the provisioning of the army, and the cannon dug out at Byalystok by Zagloba, of the increase of confederate strength, of volunteers coming from the interior. Prince Yanush fell into such wrath that Ganhoff, a fearless soldier, dared not approach him for some time. At last the command was issued to the squadrons to prepare for the road. In one day a whole division was ready,--one regiment of German infantry, two of Scottish, one of Lithuanian. Pan Korf led the artillery; Ganhoff took command of the cavalry. Besides, Kharlamp's dragoons, the Swedish cavalry, and the light regiment of Nyevyarovski, there was the princess own heavy squadron, in which Slizyen was lieutenant. It was a considerable force, and composed of veterans. With a force no greater the prince, during the first wars with Hmelnitski, had won those victories which had adorned his name with immortal glory; with a power no greater he had beaten Nebaba at Loyovo, crushed a number of tens of thousands led by the famous Krechovski, destroyed Mozyr and Turoff, had taken Kieff by storm, and so pushed Hmelnitski in the steppes that he was forced to seek safety in negotiations. But the star of that powerful warrior was evidently setting, and he had no good forebodings himself. He cast his eyes into the future, and saw nothing clearly. He would go to Podlyasye, tear apart with horses the insurgents, give orders to pull out of his skin the hated Zagloba,--and what would come of that? What further? What change of fate would come? Would he then strike Hovanski, would he avenge the defeat at Tsibyhova, and adorn his own head with new laurels? The prince said that he would, but he doubted, for just then reports began to circulate widely that the Northerners, fearing the growth of Swedish power, would cease to wage war, and might even form an alliance with Yan Kazimir. Sapyeha continued to pluck them still, and defeated them where he could; but at the same time he negotiated with them. Pan Gosyevski had the same plans. Then in case of Hovanski's retreat that field of action would be closed, and the last chance of showing his power would vanish from Radzivill; or if Yan Kazimir could make a treaty with those who till then had been his enemies, and urge them against the Swedes, fortune might incline to his side against Sweden, and thereby against Radzivill. From Poland there came, it is true, the most favorable news. The success of the Swedes surpassed all expectation. Provinces yielded one after another; in Great Poland Swedes ruled as in Sweden; in Warsaw, Radzeyovski governed; Little Poland offered no resistance; Cracow might fall at any moment; the king, deserted by the army and the nobles, with confidence in his people broken to the core, went to Silesia; and Karl Gustav himself was astonished at the ease with which he had crushed that power, always victorious hitherto in war with the Swedes. But just in that ease had Radzivill a foreboding of danger to himself; for the Swedes, blinded by triumph, would not count with him, would not consider him, especially because he had not shown himself so powerful and so commanding as all, not excepting himself, had thought him. Will the Swedish King give him then Lithuania, or even White Russia? Will he not prefer to pacify an eternally hungry neighbor with some eastern slice of the Commonwealth, so as to have his own hands free in the remnants of Poland? These were the questions which tormented continually the soul of Prince Yanush. Days and nights did he pass in disquiet. He conceived that Pontus de la Gardie would not have dared to treat him so haughtily, almost insultingly, had he not thought that the king would confirm such a manner of action, or what is worse, had not his instructions been previously prepared. "As long as I am at the head of some thousands of men," thought Radzivill, "they will consider me; but when money fails, when my hired regiments scatter, what then?" And the revenues from his enormous estates did not come in. An immense part of them, scattered throughout Lithuania and far away to Polesie or Kieff, lay in ruins; those in Podlyasye the confederates had plundered completely. At times it seemed to the prince that he would topple over the precipice; that from all his labor and plotting only the name traitor would remain to him,--nothing more. Another phantom terrified him--the phantom of death, which appeared almost every night before the curtain of his bed, and beckoned with its hand, as if wishing to say to him, "Come into darkness, cross the unknown river." Had he been able to stand on the summit of glory, had he been able to place on his head, even for one day, for one hour, that crown desired with such passion, he might meet that awful and silent phantom with unterrified eye. But to die and leave behind evil fame and the scorn of men, seemed to that lord, who was as proud as Satan himself, a hell during life. Alone than once then, when he was alone or with his astrologer, in whom he placed the greatest trust, did he seize his temples and repeat with stifled voice,-- "I am burning, burning, burning!" Under these conditions he was preparing for the campaign against Podlyasye, when the day before the march it was announced that Prince Boguslav had left Taurogi. At the mere news of this, Prince Yanush, even before he saw his cousin, revived as it were; for that Boguslav brought with him his youth and a blind faith in the future. In him the line of Birji was to be renewed, for him alone was Prince Yanush toiling. When he heard that Boguslav was coming, the hetman wished to go out to meet him, but etiquette did not permit him to go forth to meet a younger cousin; he sent therefore a gilded carriage, and a whole squadron as escort, and from the breastworks raised by Kmita and from the castle itself mortars were fired at his command, just as at the coming of a king. When the cousins, after a ceremonial greeting, were left alone at last, Yanush seized Boguslav in his embrace and began to repeat, with a voice of emotion,-- "My youth has returned! My health has returned in a moment!" But Boguslav looked at him carefully and asked,-- "What troubles your highness?" "Let us not give ourselves titles if no one obeys us. What troubles me? Sickness irritates me so that I am falling like a rotten tree. But a truce to this! How is my wife and Maryska?" "They have gone from Taurogi to Tyltsa. They are both well, and Marie is like a rosebud; that will be a wonderful rose when it blooms. _Ma foi!_ more beautiful feet there are not in the world, and her tresses flow to the very ground." "Did she seem so beautiful to you? That is well. God inspired you to come; I feel better in spirit when I see you. But what do you bring touching public affairs? 'What is the elector doing?" "You know that he has made a league with the Prussian towns?" "I know." "But they do not trust him greatly. Dantzig will not receive his garrisons. The Germans have a good sniff." "I know that too. But have you not written to him? What are his plans touching us?" "Touching us?" repeated Boguslav, inattentively. He cast his eyes around the room, then rose. Prince Yanush thought that he was looking for something; but he hurried to a mirror in the corner, and withdrawing a proper distance, rubbed his whole face with a finger of his right hand; at last he said,-- "My skin is chapped a little from the journey, but before morning it will be healed. What are the elector's plans touching us? Nothing; he wrote to me that he will not forget us." "What does that mean?" "I have the letter with me; I will show it to you. He writes that whatever may happen he will not forget us; and I believe him, for his interests enjoin that. The elector cares as much for the Commonwealth as I do for an old wig, and would be glad to give it to Sweden if he could seize Prussia; but the power of Sweden begins to alarm him, therefore he would be glad to have an ally ready for the future; and he will have one if you mount the throne of Lithuania." "Would that had happened! Not for myself do I wish that throne!" "All Lithuania cannot be had, perhaps, at first, but even if we get a good piece with White Russia and Jmud--" "But what of the Swedes?" "The Swedes will be glad also to use us as a guard against the East." "You pour balsam on me." "Balsam! Aha! A certain necromancer in Taurogi wanted to sell me balsam, saying that whoever would anoint himself with it would be safe from spears, swords, and sabres. I ordered a soldier to rub him with it at once and thrust a spear into him. Can you imagine, the spear went right through his body." Here Prince Boguslav laughed, showing teeth as white as ivory. But this conversation was not to the taste of Yanush; he began again therefore on public affairs. "I sent letters to the King of Sweden, and to many others of our dignitaries. You must have received a letter through Kmita." "But wait! I was coming to that matter. What is your idea of Kmita?" "He is hot-headed, wild, dangerous, and cannot endure restraint; but he is one of those rare men who serve us in good faith." "Surely," answered Boguslav; "and he came near earning the kingdom of heaven for me." "How is that?" asked Yanush, with alarm. "They say, lord brother, that if your bile is stirred suffocation results. Promise me to listen with patience and quietly, and I will tell something of your Kmita, from which you will know him better than you have up to this moment." "Well, I will be patient, only begin." "A miracle of God saved me from the hands of that incarnate devil," said Boguslav; and he began to relate all that had happened in Pilvishki. It was no smaller miracle that Prince Yanush did not have an attack of asthma, but it might be thought that apoplexy would strike him. He trembled all over, he gnashed his teeth, he covered his eyes with his hand; at last he cried with a hoarse voice,-- "Is that true? Very well! He has forgotten that his little wench is in my hands--" "Restrain yourself, for God's sake! Hear on. I acquitted myself with him as beseems a cavalier, and if I have not noted this adventure in my diary, and do not boast of it, I refrain because 'tis a shame that I let myself be tricked by that clown, as if I were a child,--I, of whom Mazarin said that in intrigue and adroitness there was not my equal in the whole court of France. But no more of this! I thought at first that I had killed your Kmita; now I have proof in my hands that he has slipped away." "That is nothing! We will find him! We will dig him out! We will get him, even from under the earth! Meanwhile I will give him a sorer blow than if I were to flay him alive." "You will give him no blow, but only injure your own health. Listen! in coming hither I noticed some low fellow on a pied horse, who held himself at no great distance from my carriage. I noticed him specially because his horse was pied, and I gave the order at last to summon him. 'Where art thou going?' 'To Kyedani.' 'What art thou taking?' 'A letter to the prince voevoda.' I ordered him to give the letter, and as there are no secrets between us I read it. Here it is!" Then he gave Prince Yanush Kmita's letter, written from the forest at the time when he was setting out with the Kyemliches. The prince glanced over the letter, and crushing it with rage, cried,-- "True! in God's name, true! He has my letters, and in them are things which may make the King of Sweden himself suspicious, nay more, give him mortal offence." Here choking seized him, and the expected attack came on. His mouth opened widely, and he gasped quickly after air; his hands tore the clothing near his throat. Prince Boguslav, seeing this, clapped his hands, and when the servants ran in, he said,-- "Save the prince your lord, and when he recovers breath beg him to come to my chamber; meanwhile I will rest a little." And he went out. Two hours later, Yanush, with bloodshot eyes, hanging lids, and a blue face, knocked at Prince Boguslav's chamber. Boguslav received him lying in bed, his face rubbed with milk of almonds, which was to enhance the softness and freshness of his skin. Without a wig on his head, without the colors on his face, and with unblackened brows, he seemed much older than in full dress; but Prince Yanush paid no heed to that. "I have come to the conclusion," said he, "that Kmita will not publish those letters, for if he should he would by that act write the sentence of death for the maiden. He understands well that only by keeping them does he hold me; but I cannot pour out my vengeance, and that gnaws me, as if I were carrying about a mad dog in my breast." "Still, it will be necessary to get those letters," said Boguslav. "But _quo modo_ (in what way)?" "Some adroit man must be sent after him, to enter into friendship and at a given opportunity seize the letters and punch Kmita with a knife. It is necessary to offer a great reward." "Who here would undertake that deed?" "If it were only in Paris, or even in Germany, I could find a hundred volunteers in one day, but in this country such wares are not found." "And one of our own people is needed, for he would be on his guard against a stranger." "It seems to me that I can find some one in Prussia." "Oh, if he could be taken alive and brought to my hands, I would pay him once for all. I say that the insolence of that man passes every measure. I sent him away because he enraged me, for he would spring at my throat for any reason, just like a cat; he hurled at me his own wishes in everything. A hundred times lacking little had I the order just--just in my mouth to shoot him; but I could not, I could not." "Tell me, is he really a relative of ours? "He is a relative of the Kishkis, and through the Kishkis of us." "In his fashion he is a devil, and an opponent dangerous in the highest degree." "He? You might command him to go to Tsargrad[27] and pull the Sultan from his throne, or tear out the beard of the King of Sweden and bring it to Kyedani. But what did he not do here in time of war?" "He has that look, but he has promised us vengeance to the last breath. Luckily he has a lesson from me that 'tis not easy to encounter us. Acknowledge that I treated him in Radzivill fashion; if a French cavalier had done a deed like mine, he would boast of it whole days, excepting the hours of sleeping, eating, and kissing; for they, when they meet, emulate one another in lying, so that the sun is ashamed to shine." "It is true that you squeezed him, but I would that it had not happened." "And I would that you had chosen better confidants, with more respect for the Radzivill bones." "Those letters! those letters!" The cousins were silent for a while. Boguslav spoke first. "But what sort of a maiden is she?" "Panna Billevich?" "Billevich or Myeleshko, one is the equal of the other. I do not ask for her name, but if she is beautiful." "I do not look on those things; but this is certain,--the Queen of Poland need not ho ashamed of such beauty." "The Queen of Poland? Marya Ludvika? In the time of Cinq-Mars maybe the Queen of Poland was beautiful, but now the dogs howl when they see her. If your Panna Billevich is such as she, then I'll hide myself; but if she is really a wonder, let me take her to Tanrogi, and there she and I will think out a vengeance for Kmita." Yanush meditated a moment. "I will not give her to you," said he at last, "for you will constrain her with violence, and then Kmita will publish the letters." "I use force against one of your tufted larks! Without boasting I may say that I have had affairs with not such as she, and I have constrained no one. Once only, but that was in Flanders,--she was a fool,--the daughter of a jeweller. After me came the infantry of Spain, and the affair was accounted to them." "You do not know this girl; she is from an honorable house, walking virtue, you would say a nun." "Oh, we know the nuns too!" "And besides she hates us, for she is a patriot. She has tried to influence Kmita. There are not many such among our women. Her mind is purely that of a man; and she is the most ardent adherent of Yan Kazimir." "Then we will increase his adherents." "Impossible, for Kmita will publish the letters. I must guard her like the eyes in my head--for a time. Afterward I will give her to you or to your dragoons, all one to me!" "I give my word of a cavalier that I will not constrain her; and a word given in private I always keep. In politics it is another thing. It would be a shame for me indeed if I could gain nothing by her." "You will not." "In the worst case I'll get a slap in the face, and from a woman that is no shame. You are going to Podlyasye, what will you do with her? You will not take her with you, you cannot leave her here; for the Swedes will come to this place, and the girl should remain always in our hands as a hostage. Is it not better that I take her to Tanrogi and send Kmita, not an assassin, but a messenger with a letter in which I shall write, 'Give the letters and I'll give you the maiden.'" "True," answered Prince Yanush; "that's a good method." "But if," continued Boguslav, "not altogether as I took her, that will be the first step in vengeance." "But you have given your word not to use violence." "I have, and I say again that it would be a shame for me--" "Then you must take also her uncle, the sword-bearer of Rossyeni, who is staying here with her." "I do not wish to take him. The noble in the fashion of this region wears, of course, straw in his boots, and I cannot bear that." "She will not go alone." "That's to be seen. Ask them to supper this evening, so that I may see and know whether she is worth putting between the teeth, and immediately I'll think out methods against her. Only, for God's sake, mention not Kmita's act, for that would confirm her in devotion to him. But during supper, no matter what I say, contradict not. You will see my methods, and they will remind you of your own years of youth." Prince Yanush waved his hands and went out; and Boguslav put his hands under his head, and began to meditate over means. CHAPTER XXXV. To the supper, besides the sword-bearer of Rossyeni and Olenka, were invited the most distinguished officers of Kyedani and some attendants of Prince Boguslav. He came himself in such array and so lordly that he attracted all eyes. His wig was dressed in beautiful waving curls; his face in delicacy of color called to mind milk and roses; his small mustache seemed to be of silken hair, and his eyes stars. He was dressed in black, in a kaftan made of stripes of silk and velvet, the sleeves of which were slashed and fastened together the length of the arm. Around his neck he had a broad collar, of the most marvellous Brabant lace, of inestimable value, and at the wrists ruffles of the same material. A gold chain fell on his breast, and over the right shoulder along the whole kaftan went to his left hip a sword-strap of Dutch leather, so set with diamonds that it looked like a strip of changing light. The hilt of his sword glittered in like manner, and in his shoe-buckles gleamed the two largest diamonds, as large as hazel-nuts. The whole figure seemed imposing, and as noble as it was beautiful. In one hand he held a lace handkerchief; in the other he carried, according to the fashion of the time, on his sword-hilt, a hat adorned with curling black ostrich feathers of uncommon length. All, not excepting Prince Yanush, looked at him with wonder and admiration. His youthful years came to the memory of the prince voevoda, when he in the same way surpassed all at the French court with his beauty and his wealth. Those years were now far away, but it seemed at that moment to the hetman that he was living again in that brilliant cavalier who bore the same name. Prince Yanush grew vivacious, and in passing he touched with his index finger the breast of his cousin. "Light strikes from you as from the moon," said he. "Is it not for Panna Billevich that you are so arrayed?" "The moon enters easily everywhere," answered Boguslav, boastingly. And then he began to talk with Ganhoff, near whom he halted, perhaps of purpose to exhibit himself the better, for Ganhoff was a man marvellously ugly; he had a face dark and pitted with small-pox, a nose like the beak of a hawk, and mustaches curled upward. He looked like the spirit of darkness, but Boguslav near him like the spirit of light. The ladies entered,--Pani Korf and Olenka. Boguslav cast a swift glance at Olenka, and bowed promptly to Pani Korf; he was just putting his fingers to his mouth, to send in cavalier fashion a kiss to Panna Billevich, when he saw her exquisite beauty, both proud and dignified. He changed his tactics in an instant, caught his hat in his right hand, and advancing toward the lady bowed so low that he almost bent in two; the curls of his wig fell on both sides of his shoulders, his sword took a position parallel with the floor, and he remained thus, moving purposely his cap and sweeping the floor in front of Olenka with the ostrich feather, in sign of respect. A more courtly homage he could not have given to the Queen of France. Panna Billevich, who had learned of his coming, divined at once who stood before her; therefore seizing her robe with the tips of her fingers, she gave him in return a courtesy equally profound. All wondered at the beauty and grace of manners of the two, which was evident from the greeting itself,--grace not over usual in Kyedani, for, as a Wallachian, Yanush's princess was more in love with eastern splendor than with courtliness, and Yanush's daughter was still a little girl. Boguslav now raised his head, shook the curls of his wig over his shoulders, and striking his heels together with force, moved quickly toward Olenka; at the same time he threw his hat to a page and gave her his hand. "I do not believe my eyes, and see as it were in a dream what I see," said he, conducting her to the table; "but tell me, beautiful goddess, by what miracle you have descended from Olympus to Kyedani?" "Though simply a noble woman, not a goddess," answered Olenka, "I am not so simple-minded as to take the words of your highness as anything beyond courtesy." "Though I tried to be politest of all, your glass would tell more than I." "It would not tell more, but more truly," answered Olenka, pursing her mouth according to the fashion of the time. "Were there a mirror in the room, I would conduct you to it straightway; meanwhile look into my eyes, and you will see if their admiration is not sincere." Here Boguslav bent his head before Olenka; his eyes gleamed large, black as velvet, sweet, piercing, and at the same time burning. Under the influence of their fire the maiden's face was covered with a purple blush. She dropped her glance and pushed away somewhat, for she felt that with his arm Boguslav pressed lightly her arm to his side. So he came to the table. He sat near her, and it was evident that in truth her beauty had made an uncommon impression on him. He expected to find a woman of the nobles, shapely as a deer, laughing and playful as a nutcracker, ruddy as a poppy-flower; but he found a proud lady, in whose black brows unbending will was revealed, in whose eyes were reason and dignity, in whose whole face was the transparent repose of a child; and at the same time she was so noble in bearing, so charming and wonderful, that at any king's castle she might be the object of homage and courtship from the first cavaliers of the realm. Her beauty aroused admiration and desire; but at the same time there was in it a majesty which curbed these, so that despite himself Boguslav thought, "I pressed her arm too early; with such a one subtlety is needed, not haste!" Nevertheless he determined to possess her heart, and he felt a wild delight at the thought that the moment would come when the majesty of the maiden and that purest beauty would yield to his love or his hatred. The threatening face of Kmita stood athwart these imaginings; but to that insolent man this was but an incentive the more. Under the influence of these feelings he grew radiant; blood began to play in him, as in an Oriental steed; all his faculties flashed up uncommonly, and light gleamed from his whole form as from his diamonds. Conversation at the table became general, or rather it was turned into a universal chorus of praise and flattery of Boguslav, which the brilliant cavalier heard with a smile, but without overweening delight, since it was common and of daily occurrence. They spoke first of his military deeds and duels. The names of the conquered princes, margraves, barons, streamed as if out of a sleeve. He threw in carelessly from time to time one more. The listeners were astonished; Prince Yanush stroked his long mustaches with delight, and at last Ganhoff said,-- "Even if fortune and birth did not stand in my way, I should not like to stand in the way of your highness, and the only wonder to me is that men of such daring have been found." "What is to be done, Ganhoff? There are men of iron visage and wild-cat glance, whose appearance alone causes terror; but God has denied me that power,--even a young lady would not be frightened at my face." "Just as darkness is not afraid of a torch," said Pani Korf, simpering and posing, "until the torch burns in it." Boguslav laughed, and Pani Korf talked on without ceasing to pose,-- "Duels concern soldiers more, but we ladies would be glad to hear of your love affairs, tidings of which have come to us." "Untrue ones, my lady benefactress, untrue,--they have all merely grown on the road. Proposals were made for me, of course. Her Grace, the Queen of France was so kind--" "With the Princess de Rohan," added Yanush. "With another too,--De la Forse," added Boguslav; "but even a king cannot command his own heart to love, and we do not need, praise be to God, to seek wealth in France, hence there could be no bread out of that flour. Graceful ladies they were, 'tis true, and beautiful beyond imagination; but we have still more beautiful, and I need not go out of this hall to find such." Here he looked long at Olenka, who, feigning not to hear, began to say something to the sword-bearer; and Pani Korf raised her voice again,-- "There is no lack here of beauties; still there are none who in fortune and birth could be the equal of your highness." "Permit me, my benefactress, to differ," responded Boguslav, with animation; "for first I do not think that a Polish noble lady is inferior in any way to a Rohan or De la Forse; second, it is not a novelty for the Radzivills to marry a noble woman, since history gives many examples of that. I assure you, my benefactress, that that noble lady who should become Radzivill would have the step and precedence of princesses in France." "An affable lord!" whispered the sword-bearer to Olenka. "That is how I have always understood," continued Boguslav, "though more than once have I been ashamed of Polish nobles, when I compare them with those abroad; for never would that have happened there which has happened in this Commonwealth,--that all should desert their king, nay, even men are ready to lay in wait for his life. A French noble may permit the worst action, but he will not betray his king--" Those present began to look at one another and at the prince with astonishment. Prince Yanush frowned and grew stern; but Olenka fixed her blue eyes on Boguslav's face with an expression of admiration and thankfulness. "Pardon, your highness," said Boguslav, turning to Yanush, who was not able yet to recover himself, "I know that you could not act otherwise, for all Lithuania would have perished if you had followed my advice; but respecting you as older, and loving you as a brother, I shall not cease to dispute with you touching Yan Kazimir. We are among ourselves, I speak therefore what I think. Our insufficiently lamented king, good, kind, pious, and doubly dear to me,--I was the first of Poles to attend him when he was freed from durance in France. I was almost a child at the time, but all the more I shall never forget him; and gladly would I give my blood to protect him, at least from those who plot against his sacred person." Though Yanush understood Boguslav's game now, still it seemed to him too bold and too hazardous for such a trifling object; therefore without hiding his displeasure he said,-- "In God's name, of what designs against the safety of our ex-king are you speaking? Who cherishes them, where could such a monster be found among the Polish people? True as life, such a thing has not happened in the Commonwealth since the beginning of the world." Boguslav hung his head. "Not longer than a month ago," said he, with sadness in his voice, "on the road between Podlyasye and Electoral Prussia, when I was going to Tanrogi, there came to me a noble of respectable family. That noble, not being aware of my real love for our gracious king, and thinking that I, like others, was an enemy of his, promised for a considerable reward to go to Silesia, carry off Yan Kazimir and deliver him to the Swedes, either living or dead." All were dumb with amazement. "And when with anger and disgust I rejected such an offer," said Boguslav, in conclusion, "that man with brazen forehead said, 'I will go to Radzeyovski; he will buy and pay me gold by the pound.'" "I am not a friend of the ex-king," said Yanush; "but if the noble had made me a proposal like that, I should have placed him by a wall, and in front of him six musketeers." "At the first moment I wanted to do so, but did not," answered Boguslav, "as the conversation was with four eyes, and people might cry out against the violence and tyranny of the Radzivills. I frightened him, however, by saying that Radzeyovski and the King of Sweden, even Hmelnitski, would put him to death for such a proposal; in one word, I brought that criminal so far that he abandoned his plan." "That was not right; it was not proper to let him go living, he deserved at least the impaling-stake," cried Korf. Boguslav turned suddenly to Yanush. "I cherish also the hope that punishment will not miss him, and first I propose that he perish not by an ordinary death; but your highness alone is able to punish him, for he is your attendant and your colonel." "In God's name! my colonel? Who is he,--who? Speak! "His name is Kmita," said Boguslav. "Kmita!" repeated all, with astonishment. "That is not true!" cried Panna Billevich at once, rising from her chair, with flashing eyes and heaving breast. Deep silence followed. Some had not recovered yet from the fearful news given by Boguslav; others were astonished at the boldness of that lady who had dared to throw a lie in the eyes of Prince Boguslav; the sword-bearer began to stutter, "Olenka! Olenka!" But Boguslav veiled his face in sorrow, and said without anger,-- "If he is your relative or betrothed, I am grieved that I mentioned this fact; but cast him out of your heart, for he is not worthy of you, O lady." She remained yet a moment in pain, flushed, and astonished; but by degrees her face became cool, until it was cold and pale. She sank down in the chair, and said,-- "Forgive me, your highness, I made an unseemly contradiction. All is possible for that man." "May God punish me if I feel aught save pity!" answered Boguslav, mildly. "Ho was the betrothed of this lady," said Prince Yanush, "and I myself made the match. He was a young man, hot-headed; he caused a world of turmoil. I saved him from justice, for he was a good soldier. I saw that he was lawless, and would be; but that he, a noble, could think of such infamy, I did not expect." "He is an evil man; that I knew long since," said Ganhoff. "And why did you not forewarn me?" inquired Yanush, in a tone of reproach. "I was afraid that your highness might suspect me of envy, for he had everywhere the first step before me." "_Horribile dictu et auditu_ (horrible in the speaking and the hearing)," said Korf. "Gracious gentlemen," exclaimed Boguslav, "let us give peace to him. If it is grievous for you to hear of this, what must it be for Panna Billevich?" "Your highness, be pleased not to consider me," said Olenka; "I can listen to everything now." The evening was drawing toward its close. Water was given for the washing of fingers; then Prince Yanush rose first and gave his arm to Pani Korf, and Prince Boguslav to Olenka. "God has punished the traitor already," said he to her; "for whoso has lost you has lost heaven. It is less than two hours since I first saw you, charming lady, and I should be glad to see you forever, not in pain and in tears, but in joy and in happiness." "I thank your highness," answered Olenka. After the departure of the ladies the men returned to the table to seek consolation in cups, which went around frequently. Prince Boguslav drank deeply, for he was satisfied with himself. Prince Yanush conversed with the sword-bearer of Rossyeni. "I march to-morrow with the army for Podlyasye," said he. "A Swedish garrison will come to Kyedani. God knows when I shall return. You cannot stay here with the maiden; it would not be a fit place for her among soldiers. You will both go with Prince Boguslav to Taurogi, where she may stay with my wife among her ladies in waiting." "Your highness," answered the sword-bearer, "God has given us a corner of our own; why should we go to strange places? It is a great kindness of your highness to think of us: but not wishing to abuse favor, we prefer to return to our own roof." The prince was unable to explain to the sword-bearer all the reasons for which he would not let Olenka out of his hands at any price; but some of them he told with all the rough outspokenness of a magnate. "If you wish to accept it as a favor, all the better, but I will tell you that it is precaution as well. You will be a hostage there; you will be responsible to me for all the Billeviches, who I know well do not rank themselves among my friends, and are ready to raise Jmud in rebellion when I am gone. Advise them to sit in peace, and do nothing against the Swedes, for your head and that of your niece will answer for their acts." At this juncture patience was evidently lacking to the sword-bearer, for he answered quickly,-- "It would be idle for me to appeal to my rights as a noble. Power is on the side of your highness, and it is all one to me where I must sit in prison; I prefer even that place to this." "Enough!" said the prince, threateningly. "What is enough, is enough!" answered the sword-bearer. "God grant to this violence an end, and to justice new power. Speaking briefly, do not threaten, your highness, for I fear not." Evidently Boguslav saw lightnings of anger gleaming on the face of Yanush, for he approached quickly. "What is the question?" asked he, standing between them. "I was telling the hetman," said the sword-bearer, with irritation, "that I choose imprisonment in Taurogi rather than in Kyedani." "In Taurogi there is for you not a prison, but my house, in which you will be as if at home. I know that the hetman chooses to see in you a hostage; I see only a dear guest." "I thank your highness," answered the sword-bearer. "And I thank you. Let us strike glasses and drink together, for they say that a libation must be made to friendship, or it will wither at its birth." So saying, Boguslav conducted the sword-bearer to the table, and they fell to touching glasses and drinking to each other often and frequently. An hour later the sword-bearer turned with somewhat uncertain step toward his room, repeating in an undertone,-- "An amiable lord! A worthy lord! A more honest one could not be found with a lantern,--gold, pure gold! I would gladly shed my blood for him!" Meanwhile the cousins found themselves alone. They had something yet to talk over, and besides, certain letters came; a page was sent to bring these from Ganhoff. "Evidently," said Yanush, "there is not a word of truth in what you reported of Kmita?" "Evidently. You know best yourself. But, well? Acknowledge, was not Mazarin right? With one move to take terrible vengeance on an enemy, and to make a breach in that beautiful fortress,--well, who could do that? This is called intrigue worthy of the first court in the world! But that Panna Billevich is a pearl, and charming too, lordly and distinguished as if of princely blood. I thought I should spring from my skin." "Remember that you have given your word,--remember that he will ruin us if he publishes those letters." "What brows! What a queenly look, so that respect seizes one! Whence is there such a girl, such well-nigh royal majesty? I saw once in Antwerp, splendidly embroidered on Gobelin tapestry Diana hunting the curious Actæon with dogs. She was like this one as cup is like cup." "Look out that Kmita does not publish the letters, for then the dogs would gnaw us to death." "Not true! I will turn Kmita into an Actæon, and hunt him to death. I have struck him down on two fields, and it will come to battle between us yet." Further conversation was interrupted by the entrance of a page with a letter. The voevoda of Vilna took the letter in his hand and made the sign of the cross. He did that always to guard against evil tidings; then, instead of opening, he began to examine it carefully. All at once his countenance changed. "Sapyeha's arms are on the seal!" exclaimed he; "it is from the voevoda of Vityebsk." "Open quickly!" said Boguslav. The hetman opened and began to read, interrupting himself from time to time with exclamations. "He is marching on Podlyasye! He asks if I have no messages for Tykotsin! An insult to me! Still worse; for listen to what he writes further,-- "'Do you wish civil war, your highness? do you wish to sink one more sword in the bosom of the mother? If you do, come to Podlyasye. I am waiting for you, and I trust that God will punish your pride with my hands. But if you have pity on the country, if conscience stirs within you, if you value your deeds of past times and you wish to make reparation, the field is open before you. Instead of beginning a civil war, summon the general militia, raise the peasants, and strike the Swedes while Pontus, feeling secure, suspects nothing and is exercising no vigilance. From Hovanski you will have no hindrance, for reports come to me from Moscow that they are thinking there of an expedition against Livonia, though they keep that a secret. Besides, if Hovanski wished to undertake anything I hold him in check, and if I could have sincere trust I would certainly help you with all my forces to save the country. All depends on you, for there is time yet to turn from the road and efface your faults. Then it will appear clearly that you did not accept Swedish protection for personal purposes, but to avert final defeat from Lithuania. May God thus inspire you; for this I implore him daily, though your highness is pleased to accuse me of envy. "'P. S. I have heard that the siege of Nyesvyej is raised, and that Prince Michael will join us as soon as he repairs his losses. See, your highness, how nobly your family act, and consider their example; in every case remember that you have now a boat and a carriage.'[28] "Have you heard?" asked Prince Yanush, when he had finished reading. "I have heard--and what?" answered Boguslav, looking quickly at his cousin. "It would be necessary to abjure all, leave all, tear down our work with our own hands." "Break with the powerful Karl Gustav, and seize the exiled Yan Kazimir by the feet, that he might deign to forgive and receive us back to his service, and also implore Sapyeha's intercession." Yanush's face was filled with blood. "Have you considered how he writes to me: 'Correct yourself, and I will forgive you,' as a lord to an underling." "He would write differently if six thousand sabres were hanging over his neck." "Still--" Here Prince Yanush fell to thinking gloomily. "Still, what?" "Perhaps for the country it would be salvation to do as Sapyeha advises." "But for you,--for me, for the Radzivills?" Yanush made no answer; he dropped his head on his fists and thought. "Let it be so!" said he, at last; "let it be accomplished!" "What have you decided?" "To-morrow I march on Podlyasye, and in a week I shall strike on Sapyeha." "You are a Radzivill!" cried Boguslav. And they grasped each other's hands. After a while Boguslav went to rest. Yanush remained alone. Once, and a second time he passed through the room with heavy steps. At last he clapped his hands. A page entered the room. "Let the astrologer come in an hour to me with a ready figure," said he. The page went out, and the prince began again to walk and repeat his Calvinistic prayers. After that he sang a psalm in an undertone, stopping frequently, for his breath failed him, and looking from time to time through the window at the stars twinkling in the sky. By degrees the lights were quenched in the castle; but besides the astrologer and the prince one other person was watching in a room, and that was Olenka Billevich. Kneeling before her bed, she clasped both hands over her head, and whispered with closed eyes,-- "Have mercy on us! Have mercy on us!" The first time since Kmita's departure she would not, she could not pray for him. CHAPTER XXXVI. Kmita had, it is true, Radzivill's passes to all the Swedish captains, commandants, and governors, to give him a free road everywhere, and make no opposition, but he did not dare to use those passes; for he expected that Prince Boguslav, immediately after Pilvishki, had hurried off messengers in every direction with information to the Swedes of what had happened, and with an order to seize him. For this reason Pan Andrei had assumed a strange name, and also changed his rank. Avoiding therefore Lomja and Ostrolenko, to which the first warning might have come, he directed his horses and his company to Pjasnysh, whence he wished to go through Pultusk to Warsaw. But before he reached Pjasnysh he made a bend on the Prussian boundary through Vansosh, Kolno, and Myshynyets, because the Kyemliches, knowing those wildernesses well, were acquainted with the forest trails, and besides had their "cronies" among the Bark-shoes,[29] from whom they might expect aid in case of emergency. The country at the boundary was occupied for the most part by the Swedes, who limited themselves, however, to occupying the most considerable towns, going not too boldly into the slumbering and fathomless forests inhabited by armed men,--hunters who never left the wilderness, and were still so wild that just a year before, the Queen, Marya Ludvika, had given a command to build a chapel in Myshynyets and settle there Jesuits, who were to teach religion and soften the manners of those men of the wilderness. "The longer we do not meet the Swedes," said old Kyemlich, "the better for us." "We must meet them at last," answered Pan Andrei. "If a man meets them in a large town they are often afraid to do him injustice; for in a town there is always some government and some higher commandant to whom it is possible to make complaint. I have always asked people about this, and I know that there are commands from the King of Sweden forbidding violence and extortion. But the smaller parties sent far away from the eyes of commandants have no regard for orders, and plunder peaceful people." They passed on then through the forests, meeting Swedes nowhere, spending the nights with pitch-makers in forest settlements. The greatest variety of tales concerning the invasion were current among the Bark-shoes, though almost none of them had known the Swedes hitherto. It was said that a people had come from over the sea who did not understand human speech, who did not believe in Christ the Lord, the Most Holy Lady, or the Saints, and that they were wonderfully greedy. Some told of the uncommon desire of those enemies for cattle, skins, nuts, mead, and dried mushrooms, which if refused, they burned the woods straightway. Others insisted that, on the contrary, they were a people of were-wolves, living on human flesh, and feeding specially on the flesh of young girls. Under the influence of those terrible tidings, which flew into the remotest depths of the wilderness, the Bark-shoes began to watch and to search through the forests. Those who were making potash and pitch; those who worked at gathering hops; wood-cutters and fishermen, who had their wicker nets fixed in the reedy banks, of the Rosoga; trappers and snarers, bee-keepers and beaver-hunters, assembled at the most considerable settlements, listening to tales, communicating news, and counselling how to drive out the enemy in case they appeared in the wilderness. Kmita, going with his party, met more than once greater or smaller bands of these men, dressed in hemp shirts, and skins of wolves, foxes, or bears. More than once he was stopped at narrow places, and by inquiries,-- "Who art thou? A Swede?" "No!" answered Pan Andrei. "God guard thee!" Kmita looked with curiosity at those men who lived always in the gloom of forests, and whose faces the open sun had never burned; he wondered at their stature, their boldness of look, the sincerity of their speech, and their daring, not at all peasant-like. The Kyemliches, who knew them, assured Pan Andrei that there were no better shots than these men in the whole Commonwealth. When he discovered that they all had good German muskets bought in Prussia for skins, he asked them to show their skill in shooting, was astonished at sight of it, and thought, "Should I need to collect a party, I will come here." At Myshynyets itself he found a great assembly. More than a hundred marksmen held constant watch at the mission, for it was feared that the Swedes would show themselves there first, especially because the starosta of Ostrolenko had commanded them to cut out a road in the forest so that the priests settled at the mission might have "access to the world." The hop-raisers, who took their produce to Pjasnysh to the celebrated breweries there, and hence passed for men of experience, related that Lomja, Ostrolenko, and Pjasnysh were swarming with Swedes, who were managing and collecting taxes there as if at home. Kmita tried to persuade the Bark-shoes not to wait for the Swedes in the wilderness, but to strike on them at Ostrolenko, and begin war; he offered to command them himself. He found a great willingness among them; but two priests led them away from this mad enterprise, telling them to wait till the whole country moved, and not draw on themselves the terrible vengeance of the enemy by premature attack. Pan Andrei departed, but regretted his lost opportunity. The only consolation remaining was this,--he had convinced himself that if powder were to explode anywhere, neither the Commonwealth nor the king would lack defenders in those parts. "This being the case," thought he, "it is possible to begin in another place." His fiery nature was restive for quick action, but judgment said: "The Bark-shoes alone cannot conquer the Swedes. You will go through a part of the country; you will look around, examine, and then obey the king's order." He travelled on therefore. He went out of the deep wilderness to the forest borders, to a neighborhood more thickly settled; he saw an uncommon movement in all the villages. The roads were crowded with nobles going in wagons, carriages, and carts, of various kinds, or on horseback. All were hastening to the nearest towns and villages to give Swedish commanders an oath of loyalty to the new king. In return they received certificates which were to preserve their persons and property. In the capitals of provinces and districts "capitulations" were published securing freedom of confession and privileges pertaining to the order of nobles. The nobles went with the requisite oath, not only willingly, but in haste; for various punishments threatened the stubborn, and especially confiscation and robbery. It was said that here and there the Swedes had already begun, as in Great Poland, to thumb-screw suspected men. It was repeated also, with alarm, that they were casting suspicion on the wealthiest on purpose to rob them. In view of all this, it was unsafe to remain in the country; the wealthier therefore hurried to the towns to live under the immediate eye of Swedish commandants, so as to avoid suspicion of intrigue against the King of Sweden. Pan Andrei bent his ear carefully to what nobles were saying, and though they did not wish greatly to speak with him, since he was a poor fellow, he discovered this much, that near neighbors, acquaintances, even friends, did not speak among themselves with sincerity touching the Swedes or the new government. It is true they complained loudly of the "requisitions;" and in fact there was reason, for to each village, each hamlet, came letters from commandants with orders to furnish great quantities of grain, bread, salt, cattle, money; and frequently these orders exceeded the possible, especially because when supplies of one kind were exhausted, others were demanded; whoso did not pay, to him was sent an execution in thrice the amount. But the old days had gone! Each man extricated himself as best he was able, took out of his own mouth, gave, paid; complaining, groaning, and thinking in his soul that long ago it was different. But they comforted themselves for the time, saying that when the war was over the requisitions would cease. The Swedes promised the same, saying, "Only let the king gain the whole country, he will begin to govern at once like a father." For the nobles who had given up their own king and country; who before, and not long before, had called the kindly Yan Kazimir a tyrant, suspecting him of striving for absolute power; who opposed him in everything, protesting in provincial and national diets, and in their hunger for novelty and change went so far that they recognized, almost without opposition, an invader as lord, so as to have some change,--it would be a shame then even to complain. Karl Gustav had freed them from the tyrant, they had abandoned of their own will their lawful king; but they had the change so greatly desired. Therefore the most intimate did not speak sincerely among themselves touching what they thought of that change, inclining their ears willingly to those who asserted that the attacks, requisitions, robberies, and confiscations were, of course burdens, but only temporary ones, which would cease as soon as Karl Gustav was firm on the throne. "This is grievous, brother, grievous," said one noble to another at times, "but still we must be thankful for the new ruler. He is a great potentate and warrior; he will conquer the Tartars, restrain the Turks, drive the Northerners away from the boundaries; and we together with Sweden will flourish." "Even if we were not glad," answered another, "what is to be done against such power? We cannot fly to the sun on a spade." At times, too, they referred to the fresh oath. Kmita was enraged listening to such talks and discussions; and once when a certain noble said in his presence in an inn that a man must be faithful to him to whom he had taken oath. Pan Andrei shouted out to him,-- "You must have two mouths,--one for true and the other for false oaths, for you have sworn to Yan Kazimir!" There were many other nobles present, for this happened not far from Pjasnysh. Hearing these words, all started. On some faces wonder was visible at the boldness of Kmita; others flushed. At last the most important man said,-- "No one here has broken his oath to the former king. He broke it himself; for he left the country, not watching over its defence." "Would you were killed!" cried Kmita. "But King Lokyetek,--how many times was he forced to leave the country, and still he returned, for the fear of God was yet in men's hearts. It was not Yan Kazimir who deserted, but those who sold him and who now calumniate him, so as to palliate their own sins before God and the world!" "You speak too boldly, young man! Whence come you who wish to teach us people of this place the fear of God? See to it that the Swedes do not overhear you." "If you are curious, I will tell you whence I am. I am from Electoral Prussia, and belong to the elector. But being of Sarmatian blood, I feel a good will toward the country, and am ashamed of the indifference of this people." Here the nobles, forgetting their anger, surrounded him and began to inquire hurriedly and with curiosity,-- "You are from Electoral Prussia? But tell what you know! What is the elector doing there? Does he think of rescuing us from oppression?" "From what oppression? You are glad of the new ruler, so do not talk of oppression. As you have made your bed, so you must sleep on it." "We are glad, for we cannot help it. They stand with swords over our necks. But speak out, as if we were not glad." "Give him something to drink, let his tongue be loosened! Speak boldly, there are no traitors here among us." "You are all traitors!" roared Pan Andrei, "and I don't wish to drink with you; you are servants of the Swedes." Then he went out of the room, slamming the door, and they remained in shame and amazement; no man seized his sabre, no man moved after Kmita to avenge the insult. But he went directly to Pryasnysh. A few furlongs before the place Swedish patrols took him and led him before the commandant. There were only six men in the patrol, and an under-officer was the seventh; therefore Soroka and the two Kyemliches began to look at them hungrily, like wolves at sheep, and asked Kmita with their eyes, if he would not give order to surround them. Pan Andrei also felt no small temptation, especially since the Vengyerka flowed near, between banks overgrown with reeds; but he restrained himself, and let the party be taken quietly to the commandant. There he told the commandant who he was,--that he had come from the elector's country, and that he went every year with horses to Sobota. The Kyemliches too had certificates with which they provided themselves in Leng, for the place was well known to them; therefore the commandant, who was himself a Prussian German, made no difficulty, only inquired carefully what kind of horses they were driving and wished to see them. When Kmita's attendants drove the beasts up, in accordance with the commandant's wish, he looked at them carefully and said,-- "I will buy these. From another I would have taken them without pay; but since you are from Prussia, I will not harm you." Kmita seemed somewhat confused when it came to selling, for by this the reason for going farther was lost, and he would have to go back to Prussia. He asked therefore a price so high that it was almost twice the real value of the horses. Beyond expectation the officer was neither angry, nor did he haggle about the price. "Agreed!" said he. "Drive the horses into the shed, and I will bring you the pay at once." The Kyemliches were glad in their hearts, but Pan Andrei fell into anger and began to curse. Still there was no way but to drive in the horses. If they refused, they would be suspected at once of trading only in appearance. Meanwhile the officer came back, and gave Kmita a piece of paper with writing. "What is this?" asked Pan Andrei. "Money or the same as money,--an order." "And where will they pay me?" "At headquarters!" "Where are headquarters?" "In Warsaw," said the officer, laughing maliciously. "We sell only for ready money." "How's that, what's that, oh, gates of heaven?" began old Kyemlich, groaning. Kmita turned, and looking at him threateningly, said,-- "For me the word of the commandant is the same as ready money. I will go willingly to Warsaw, for there I can buy honest goods from the Armenians, for which I shall be well paid in Prussia." Then, when the officer walked away, Pan Andrei said, to comfort Kyemlich,-- "Quiet, you rogue! These orders are the best passes; we can go to Cracow with our complaints, for they will not pay us. It is easier to press cheese out of a stone than money out of the Swedes. But this is just playing into my hand. This breeches fellow thinks that he has tricked me, but he knows not what service he has rendered. I'll pay you out of my own pocket for the horses; you will be at no loss." The old man recovered himself, and it was only from habit that he did not cease yet for a while to complain,-- "They have plundered us, brought us to poverty!" But Pan Andrei was glad to find the road open before him, for he foresaw that the Swedes would not pay for the horses in Warsaw, and in all likelihood they would pay nowhere,--hence he would be able to go on continually as it were seeking for justice, even to the Swedish king, who was at Cracow occupied with the siege of the ancient capital. Meanwhile Kmita resolved to pass the night in Pjasnysh to give his horses rest, and without changing his assumed name to throw aside his exterior of a poor noble. He saw that all despised a poor horse-dealer, that any one might attack him more readily and have less fear to answer for injustice to an insignificant man. It was more difficult in that dress to have approach to important nobles, and therefore more difficult to discover what each one was thinking. He procured therefore clothing answering to his station and his birth, and went to an inn so as to talk with his brother nobles. But he was not rejoiced at what he heard. In the taverns and public houses the nobles drank to the health of the King of Sweden, and to the success of the protector, struck glasses with the Swedish officers, laughed at the jokes which these officers permitted themselves to make at the expense of Yan Kazimir and Charnyetski. Fear for their own lives and property had debased people to such a degree that they were affable to the invaders, and hurried to keep up their good humor. Still even that debasement had its limits. The nobles allowed themselves, their king, the hetmans, and Pan Charnyetski to be ridiculed, but not their religion; and when a certain Swedish captain declared that the Lutheran faith was as good as the Catholic, Pan Grabkovski, sitting near him, not being able to endure that blasphemy, struck him on the temple with a hatchet, and taking advantage of the uproar, slipped out of the public house and vanished in the crowd. They fell to pursuing him, but news came which turned attention in another direction. Couriers arrived with news that Cracow had surrendered, that Pan Charnyetski was in captivity, and that the last barrier to Swedish dominion was swept away. The nobles were dumb at the first moment, but the Swedes began to rejoice and cry "Vivat." In the church of the Holy Ghost, in the church of the Bernardines, and in the cloister of Bernardine nuns, recently erected by Pani Muskovski, it was ordered to ring the bells. The infantry and cavalry came out on the square, from the breweries and cloth-shearing mills, in battle-array, and began to fire from cannons and muskets. Then they rolled out barrels of gorailka, mead, and beer for the army and the citizens; they burned pitch-barrels and feasted till late at night. The Swedes dragged out the inhabitants from the houses to dance with them, to rejoice and frolic; and together with throngs of soldiers straggled along nobles who drank with the cavalry, and were forced to feign joy at the fall of Cracow and the defeat of Charnyetski. Disgust carried away Kmita, and he took refuge early in his quarters outside the town, but he could not sleep. A fever tormented him, and doubts besieged his soul. Had he not turned from the road too late, when the whole country was in the hands of the Swedes? It came into his head that all was lost now, and the Commonwealth would never rise from its fall. "This is not a mere unlucky war," thought he, "which may end with the loss of some province; this is accomplished ruin! This means that the whole Commonwealth becomes a Swedish province. We have caused this ourselves, and I more than others." This thought burned him, and conscience gnawed. Sleep fled from him. He knew not what to do,--to travel farther, remain in the place, or return. Even if he collected a party and harried the Swedes, they would hunt him as a bandit, and not treat him as a soldier. Besides, he is in a strange region, where no one knows who he is. Who will join him? Fearless men rallied to him in Lithuania, where he, the most famous, called them together; but here, even if some had heard of Kmita, they held him a traitor and a friend of the Swedes, but surely no one had ever heard of Babinich. All is useless! It is useless to go to the king, for it is too late; it is useless to go to Podlyasye, for the Confederates think him a traitor; it is useless to go to Lithuania, for there the Radzivills own all; it is useless to stay where he is, for there he has nothing to do. The best would be to drive out the soul, and not look on this world, but flee from remorse. But will it be better in that world for those who having sinned their fill in this life, have not effaced their sins in any way, and will stand before judgment beneath the whole weight of these sins? Kmita struggled in his bed, as if lying on a bed of torture. Such unendurable torments he had not passed through, even in the forest cabin of the Kyemliches. He felt strong, healthy, enterprising,--the soul in him was rushing out to begin something, to do something,--and here every road was blocked; even knock the head against a wall,--there is no issue, no salvation, no hope. After he had tossed during the night on his bed, he sprang up before daybreak, roused his men, and rode on. They went toward Warsaw, but he knew not himself wherefore or why. He would have escaped to the Saitch in despair, if times had not changed, and if Hmelnitski, together with Buturlin, had not just overborne the grand hetman of the kingdom, at Grodek, carrying at the same time fire and sword through the southwestern regions of the Commonwealth, and sending predatory bands as far as Lublin. Along the roads to Pultusk, Pan Andrei met at all points Swedish parties, escorting wagons with provisions, grain, bread, beer, and herds of every kind of cattle. With the herds and wagons went crowds of peasants, small nobles, weeping and groaning, for they were dragged away numbers of miles with the wagons. Happy the man who was allowed to return home with his wagon; and this did not happen in every case, for after they had brought the supplies peasants and petty nobles were forced to labor at repairing castles, building sheds and magazines. Kmita saw also that in the neighborhood of Pultusk the Swedes acted more harshly with the people than in Pjasnysh; and not being able to understand the cause, he inquired about it of the nobles whom he met on the road. "The nearer you go to Warsaw," answered one of the travellers, "the harsher you will find the oppressors. Where they have just come and are not secure, they are more kindly, publish the commands of the king against oppression, and promulgate the capitulations; but where they feel safe, and have occupied castles in the neighborhood, they break all promises, have no consideration, commit injustice, plunder, rob, raise their hands against churches, the clergy, and sacred nuns. It is nothing here yet, but to describe what is going on in Great Poland words fail in the mouths of men." Here the noble began to describe what was taking place in Great Poland,--what extortions, violence, and murders the savage enemy committed; how men were thumbscrewed and tortured to discover money; how the Provincial, Father Branetski, was killed in Poznan itself; and peasants were tortured so fearfully that the hair stood on one's head at the mere thought of it. "It will come to this everywhere," said the noble; "it is the punishment of God. The last judgment is near. Worse and worse every day,--and salvation from no point." "It is a marvel to me," said Kmita, "for I am not of these parts and know not how people feel here, that you, gracious gentlemen, being nobles and knightly persons, endure these oppressions in patience." "With what can we rise up?" answered the noble. "In their hands are the castles, fortresses, cannon, powder, muskets; they have taken from us even fowling-pieces. There was still some hope in Charnyetski; but since he is in prison, and the king in Silesia, who will think of resistance? There are hands, but nothing in them, and there is no head." "And there is no hope," added Kmita, in a hollow voice. Here they dropped the conversation, for a Swedish division came up convoying wagons, small nobles, and a "requisition." It was a wonderful spectacle. Sitting on horses as fat as bullocks, mustached and bearded troopers rode on in a cloud of dust, with their right hands on their hips, with their hats on the sides of their heads, with tens of geese and hens hanging at their saddles. Looking at their warlike and insolent faces, it was easy to see that they felt like lords, gladsome and safe. But the brotherhood of petty nobles walked at the side of the wagons, not only barefooted, but with heads drooping on their bosoms, abused, troubled, frequently urged forward with whips. On seeing this, Kmita's lips quivered as in a fever, and he fell to repeating to the noble near whom he was riding,-- "Oh, my hands are itching, my hands are itching, my hands are itching!" "Quiet, in the name of the Merciful God! you will ruin yourself, me, and my little children." More than once, however, Pan Andrei had before him sights still more marvellous. Behold at times, among parties of horsemen, he saw marching groups, larger or smaller, of Polish nobles, with armed attendants; these nobles were joyous, singing songs, drunk, and with Swedes and Germans on the footing of "lord brother." "How is this?" asked Kmita. "They are persecuting some nobles and crushing them, while with others they enter into friendship. It must be that those citizens whom I see among the soldiers are fanatical traitors?" "Not merely fanatical traitors, but worse, for they are heretics," answered the noble. "They are more grievous to us Catholics than the Swedes; they are the men who plunder most, burn houses, carry off maidens, commit private offences. The whole country is in alarm from them, for everything drops from these men altogether without punishment, and it is easier to get justice from Swedish commanders against a Swede, than against one of our own heretics. Every commandant, if you utter a word, will answer at once, 'I have no right to touch him, for he is not my man; go to your own tribunals.' And what tribunals are there here now, and what execution of law when everything is in Swedish hands? Where the Swede cannot go the heretics will take him, and they are the men chiefly who incite the Swedes against churches and clergy. This is the way in which they punish the country, our mother, for having given them refuge here and freedom for their blasphemous faith when they were persecuted in other Christian lands justly, for their intrigues and abominations." The noble stopped and looked with alarm at Kmita,-- "But you say that you are from Electoral Prussia, so you may be a Lutheran?" "God save me from that," answered Pan Andrei. "I am from Prussia, but of a family Catholic for ages, for we went from Lithuania to Prussia." "Then praise to the Most High, for I was frightened. My dear sir, as to Lithuania there is no lack of dissidents there; and they have a powerful chief in Radzivill, who has turned out so great a traitor that he can come into comparison with Radzeyovski alone." "May God grant the devils to pull the soul out through his throat before the New Year!" exclaimed Kmita, with venom. "Amen!" answered the noble, "and also the souls of his servants, his assistants, his executioners, of whom tidings have come even to us, and without whom he would not have dared to bring destruction on this country." Kmita grew pale and said not a word. He did not ask even--he did not dare to ask--of what assistants, servants, and executioners that noble was speaking. Travelling slowly, they came to Pultusk late in the evening; there they called Kmita to the bishop's palace or castle to give answer to the commandant. "I am furnishing horses to the army of his Swedish Grace," said Pan Andrei, "and I have orders with which I am going to Warsaw for money." Colonel Israel (such was the name of the commandant) smiled under his mustaches and said,-- "Oh, make haste, make haste, and take a wagon for the return, so as to have something to carry that money in!" "I thank you for the counsel," answered Pan Andrei. "I understand that you are jeering at me; but I will go for my own, even if I have to go to his grace the king!" "Go! don't give away your own; a very nice sum belongs to you." "The hour will come when you'll pay me," retorted Kmita, going out. In the town itself he came on celebrations again, for rejoicing over the capture of Cracow was to last three days. He learned, however, that in Pjasnysh the Swedish triumph was exaggerated, perhaps by design. Charnyetski, the castellan of Kieff, had not fallen into captivity, but had obtained the right of marching from the city with his troops, with arms and lighted matches at the cannon. It was said that he was to retire to Silesia. This was not a great consolation, but still a consolation. In Pultusk there were considerable forces which were to go thence to the Prussian boundary, under command of Colonel Israel, to alarm the elector; therefore neither the town nor the castle, though very spacious, could furnish lodging for the soldiers. Here too, for the first time, Kmita saw soldiers encamped in a church,--in a splendid Gothic structure, founded almost two hundred years before by Bishop Gijytski, were quartered hireling German infantry. Inside the sanctuary it was flaming with light as on Easter, for on the stone floor were burning fires kindled in various places. Kettles were steaming over the fires. Around kegs of beer were groups of common soldiers,--hardened robbers, who had plundered all Catholic Germany, and of a certainty were not spending their first night in a church. In the church were heard talking and shouting. Hoarse voices were singing camp songs; there sounded also the outcry and merriment of women, who in those days straggled usually in the wake of an army. Kmita stood in the open door; through the smoke in the midst of ruddy flames he saw the red, mustached faces of soldiers who, inflamed with drink, were sitting on kegs and quaffing beer; some throwing dice or playing cards, some selling church vestments, others embracing low women dressed in bright garments. Uproar, laughter, the clatter of tankards, the sound of muskets, the echoes thundering in the vaults deafened him. His head whirled; he could not believe what his eyes saw; the breath died in his breast; hell would not have more greatly amazed him. At last he clutched his hair and ran out repeating as if in bewilderment,-- "O God, aid us! O God, correct us! O God, deliver us!" CHAPTER XXXVII. In Warsaw the Swedes had been managing for a long time. Wittemberg, the real governor of the city and the commander of the garrison, was at that moment in Cracow; Radzeyovski carried on the government in his place. Not less than two thousand soldiers were in the city proper surrounded by walls, and in the jurisdictions beyond the walls built up with splendid edifices belonging to the church and the world. The castle and the city were not destroyed; for Pan Vessel, starosta of Makovo, had yielded them up without battle, and he with the garrison disappeared hurriedly, fearing the personal vengeance of Radzeyovski, his enemy. But when Pan Kmita examined more closely and carefully, he saw on many houses the traces of plundering hands. These were the houses of those citizens who had fled from the city, not wishing to endure foreign rule, or who had offered resistance when the Swedes were breaking over the walls. Of the lordly structures in the jurisdictions those only retained their former splendor the owners of which stood soul and body with the Swedes. Therefore the Kazanovski Palace remained in all its magnificence, for Radzeyovski had saved that, his own, and the palace of Konyetspolski, the standard-bearer, as well as the edifice reared by Vladislav IV., and which was afterward known as the Kazimirovski Palace. But edifices of the clergy were injured considerably; the Denhof Palace was half wrecked; the chancellor's or the so-called Ossolinski Palace, on Reformatski Street, was plundered to its foundations. German hirelings looked out through its windows; and that costly furniture which the late chancellor had brought from Italy at such outlay,--those Florentine leathers, Dutch tapestry, beautiful cabinets inlaid with mother-of-pearl, pictures, bronze and marble statues, clocks from Venice and Dantzig, and magnificent glasses were either lying in disordered heaps in the yard, or, already packed, were waiting to be taken, when the time came, by the Vistula to Sweden. Guards watched over these precious things, but meanwhile they were being ruined under the wind and rain. In other cities the same thing might be seen; and though the capital had yielded without battle, still thirty gigantic flat-boats were ready on the Vistula to bear away the plunder. The city looked like a foreign place. On the streets foreign languages were heard more than Polish; everywhere were met Swedish soldiers, German, French, English, and Scottish mercenaries, in the greatest variety of uniforms,--in hats, in lofty helmets, in kaftans, in breastplates, half breastplates, in stockings, or Swedish boots, with legs as wide as water-buckets. Everywhere a foreign medley, foreign garments, foreign faces, foreign songs. Even the horses had forms different from those to which the eye was accustomed. There had also rushed in a multitude of Armenians with dark faces, and black hair covered with bright skull-caps; they had come to buy plundered articles. But most astonishing of all was the incalculable number of gypsies, who, it is unknown for what purpose, had gathered after the Swedes from all parts of the country. Their tents stood at the side of the Uyazdovski Palace, and along the monastery jurisdiction, forming as it were a special town of linen houses within a town of walled structures. In the midst of these various-tongued throngs the inhabitants of the city almost vanished; for their own safety they sat gladly enclosed in their houses, showing themselves rarely, and then passing swiftly along the streets. Only occasionally the carriage of some magnate, hurrying from the Cracow suburbs to the castle, and surrounded by haiduks, Turkish grooms, or troops in Polish dress, gave reminder that the city was Polish. Only on Sundays and holidays, when the bells announced services, did crowds come forth from the houses, and the capital put on its former appearance,--though even then lines of foreign soldiers stood hedgelike in front of the churches, to look at the women or pull at their dresses when, with downcast eyes, they walked past them. These soldiers laughed, and sometimes sang vile songs just when the priests were singing Mass in the churches. All this flashed past the astonished eyes of Pan Kmita like jugglery; but he did not warm his place long in Warsaw, for not knowing any man he had no one before whom to open his soul. Even with those Polish nobles who were stopping in the city and living in public houses built during the reign of King Sigismund III. on Dluga Street, Pan Andrei did not associate closely. He conversed, it is true, with this one and that, to learn the news; but all were fanatical adherents of the Swedes, and waiting for the return of Karl Gustav, clung to Radzeyovski and the Swedish officers with the hope of receiving starostaships, confiscated private estates, and profits from church and other recoupments. Each man of them would have been served rightly had some one spat in his eyes, and from this Kmita did not make great effort to restrain himself. From the townspeople Kmita only heard that they regretted past times, and the good king of the fallen country. The Swedes persecuted them savagely, seized their houses, exacted contributions, imprisoned them. They said also that the guilds had arms secreted, especially the linen-weavers, the butchers, the furriers, and the powerful guild of tailors; that they were looking continually for the return of Yan Kazimir, did not lose hope, and with assistance from outside were ready to attack the Swedes. Hearing this, Kmita did not believe his own ears. It could not find place in his head that men of mean station and rank should exhibit more love for the country and loyalty to their lawful king than nobles, who ought to bring those sentiments into the world with their birth. But it was just the nobles and magnates who stood by the Swedes, and the common people who for the greater part wished to resist; and more than once it happened that when the Swedes were driving common people to work at fortifying Warsaw, these common people chose to endure flogging, imprisonment, even death itself, rather than aid in confirming Swedish power. Beyond Warsaw the country was as noisy as in a beehive. All the roads, the towns, and the hamlets were occupied by soldiers, by attendants of great lords and nobles, and by lords and nobles serving the Swedes. All was captured, gathered in, subdued; everything was as Swedish as if the country had been always in their hands. Pan Andrei met no people save Swedes, adherents of the Swedes, or people in despair, indifferent, who were convinced to the depth of their souls that all was lost. No one thought of resistance; commands were carried out quietly and promptly one half or a tenth part of which would have been met in times not long past with opposition and protest. Fear had reached that degree that even those who were injured praised loudly the kind protector of the Commonwealth. Formerly it happened often enough that a noble received his own civil and military deputies of exaction with gun in hand, and at the head of armed servants; now such tributes were imposed as it pleased the Swedes to impose, and the nobles gave them as obediently as sheep give their wool to the shearer. It happened more than once that the same tribute was taken twice. It was vain to use a receipt as defence; it was well if the executing officer did not moisten it in wine and make the man who showed it swallow the paper. That was nothing! "Vivat protector!" cried the noble; and when the officer had departed he ordered his servant to crawl out on the roof and see if another were not coming. And well if only all were ended with Swedish contributions; but worse than the enemy were, in that as in every other land, the traitors. Old private grievances, old offences were brought up; ditches were filled, meadows and forests were seized, and for the friend of the Swedes everything went unpunished. Worst, however, were the dissidents; and they were not all. Armed bands were formed of unfortunates, desperadoes, ruffians, and gamblers. Assisted by Swedish marauders, Germans, and disturbers of all kinds, these bands fell upon peasants and nobles. The country was filled with fires; the armed hand of the soldier was heavy on the towns; in the forest the robber attacked. No one thought of curing the Commonwealth; no one dreamed of rescue, of casting off the yoke; no one had hope. It happened that Swedish and German plunderers near Sohachev besieged Pan Lushchevski, the starosta of that place, falling upon him at Strugi, his private estate. He, being of a military turn, defended himself vigorously, though an old man. Kmita came just then; and since his patience had on it a sore ready to break at any cause, it broke at Strugi. He permitted the Kyemliches, therefore, "to pound," and fell upon the invaders himself with such vigor that he scattered them, struck them down; no one escaped, even prisoners were drowned at his command. The starosta, to whom the aid was as if it had fallen from heaven, received his deliverer with thanks and honored him at once. Pan Andrei, seeing before him a personage, a statesman, and besides a man of old date, confessed his hatred of the Swedes, and inquired of the starosta what he thought of the future of the Commonwealth, in the hope that he would pour balsam on his soul. But the starosta viewed the past differently, and said: "My gracious sir, I know not what I should have answered had this question been put when I had ruddy mustaches and a mind clouded by physical humor; but to-day I have gray mustaches, and the experience of seventy years on my shoulders, and I see future things, for I am near the grave; therefore I say that not only we, even if we should correct our errors, but all Europe, cannot break the Swedish power." "How can that be? Where did it come from?" cried Kmita. "When was Sweden such a power? Are there not more of the Polish people on earth, can we not have a larger army? Has that army yielded at any time to Sweden in bravery?" "There are ten times as many of our people. God has increased our produce so that in my starostaship of Sohachev more wheat is grown than in all Sweden; and as to bravery, I was at Kirchholm when three thousand hussars of us scattered in the dust eighteen thousand of the best troops of Sweden." "If that is true," said Kmita, whose eyes flashed at remembrance of Kirchholm, "what earthly causes are there why we should not put an end to them now?" "First, this," answered the old man, with a deliberate voice, "that we have become small and they have grown great; that they have conquered us with our own hands, as before now they conquered the Germans with Germans. Such is the will of God; and there is no power, I repeat, that can oppose them to-day." "But if the nobles should come to their senses and rally around their ruler,--if all should seize arms, what would you advise to do then, and what would you do yourself?" "I should go with others and fall, and I should advise every man to fall; but after that would come times on which it is better not to look." "Worse times cannot come! As true as life, they cannot! It is impossible!" cried Kmita. "You see," continued the starosta, "before the end of the world and before the last judgment Antichrist will come, and it is said that evil men will get the upper hand of the good. Satans will go through the world, will preach a faith opposed to the true one, and will turn men to it. With the permission of God, evil will conquer everywhere until the moment in which trumpeting angels shall sound for the end of the world." Here the starosta leaned against the back of the chair on which he was sitting, closed his eyes, and spoke on in a low, mysterious voice,-- "It was said, 'There will be signs.' There have been signs on the sun in the form of a hand and a sword. God be merciful to us, sinners! The evil gain victory over the just, for the Swedes and their adherents are conquering. The true faith is failing, for behold the Lutheran is rising. Men! do ye not see that _dies iræ, dies illa_ (the day of wrath, that day) is approaching? I am seventy years old; I stand on the brink of the Styx,--I am waiting for the ferryman and the boat,--I see--" Here the starosta became silent, and Kmita looked at him with terror; for the reasons seemed to him just, the conclusions fitting, therefore he was frightened at his decisions and reflected deeply. But the starosta did not look at him; he only looked in front of himself, and said at last,-- "And of course the Swedes conquer here when that is the permission of God, the express will mentioned and spoken of in the Prophecies--Oi, people, to Chenstohova, to Chenstohova!" And again the starosta was silent. The sun was just setting, and looking only aslant into the room, its light broke into colors on the glass fitted in lead, and made seven colored stripes on the floor; the rest of the room was in darkness. It became more and more awe-inspiring for Kmita; at moments it seemed to him that if the light were to vanish, that instant the trumpeting angel would summon to judgment. "Of what prophecies is your grace speaking?" asked Kmita, at last; for the silence seemed to him still more solemn. The starosta instead of an answer turned to the door of an adjoining room, and called,-- "Olenka! Olenka!" "In God's name!" cried Kmita, "whom are you calling?" At that moment he believed everything,--believed that his Olenka by a miracle was brought from Kyedani and would appear before his eyes. He forgot everything, fastened his gaze on the door, and waited without breath in his breast. "Olenka! Olenka!" The door opened, and there entered not Panna Billevich, but a young woman, shapely, slender, tall, a little like Olenka, with dignity and calm spread over her face. She was pale, perhaps ill, and maybe frightened at the recent attack; she walked with downcast eyes as lightly and quietly as if some breath were moving her forward. "This is my daughter," said the starosta. "I have no sons at home; they are with Pan Pototski, and with him near our unfortunate king." Then he turned to his daughter: "Thank first this manful cavalier for rescuing us, and then read to him the prophecy of Saint Bridget." The maiden bowed down before Pan Andrei, then went out, and after a while returned with a printed roll in her hand, and standing in that many-colored light, began to read in a resonant and sweet voice,-- "The prophecy of Saint Bridget, I will declare to you first of the five kings and their rule: Gustav the son of Erick, the lazy ass, because neglecting the right worship he went over to the false. Rejecting the faith of the Apostles, he brought to the kingdom the Augsburg Confession, putting a stain on his reputation. Look at Ecclesiastes, where it is stated of Solomon that lie defiled his glory with idolatry--" "Are you listening?" asked the starosta, pointing toward Kmita with the index finger of his left hand and holding the others, ready for counting. "Yes," answered Kmita. "Erick, the son of Gustavus, a wolf of unsatiable greed," read the lady, "with which he drew on himself the hatred of all men and of his brother Yan. First, suspecting Yan of intrigues with Denmark and Poland, he tormented him with war, and taking him with his wife he held them four years in a dungeon. Yan, at last brought out of imprisonment and aided by change of fortune, conquered Erick, expelled him from the kingdom, and put him into prison forevermore. There is an unforeseen event!" "Consider," said the old man. "Here is another." The lady read further:-- "Yan, the brother of Erick, a lofty eagle, thrice conqueror over Erick, the Danes, and the Northerners. His son Sigismund, in whom dwells nobility of blood, chosen to the Polish throne. Praise to his offshoots!" "Do you understand?" asked the starosta. "May God prosper the years of Yan Kazimir!" answered Kmita. "Karl, the prince of Sudermanii, the ram, who as rams lead the flock, so he led the Swedes to injustice; and he attacked justice." "That is the fourth!" interrupted the starosta. "The fifth, Gustavus Adolphus," read the lady, "is the lamb slain, but not spotless, whose blood was the cause of suffering and misfortune--" "Yes; that is Gustavus Adolphus!" said the starosta. "Of Christiana there is no mention, for only men are counted. Read now the end, which refers accurately to the present time." She read as follows:-- "I will show to thee the sixth, who distracts land and sea and brings trouble on the simple; whose hour of punishment I will place in my own hand. Though he attained his end quickly, my judgment draws near him; he will leave the kingdom in suffering and it will be written: They sowed rebellion and reap suffering and pain. Not only will I visit that kingdom, but rich cities and powerful; for the hungry are called, who will devour their sufficiency. Internal evils will not be lacking, and misfortune will abound. The foolish will rule, and the wise and the old men will not raise their heads. Honor and truth will fall, till that man shall come who will implore away my anger and who will not spare his own soul in love of truth." "There you have it!" said the starosta. "All is verified, so that only a blind man could doubt!" answered Kmita. "Therefore the Swedes cannot be conquered," said the starosta. "Till that man shall come who will not spare his soul for the love of truth!" exclaimed Kmita. "The prophecy leaves hope! Not judgment, but salvation awaits us." "Sodom was to be spared if ten just men could be found in it," said the starosta; "but that many were not found. In the same manner will not be found the man who will not spare his soul for love of truth; and the hour of judgment will strike." "It cannot be but that he will be found," called out Kmita. Before the starosta answered the door opened, and into the room walked a man no longer young, in armor and with a musket in his hand. "Pan Shchebjytski?" said the starosta. "Yes," answered the newly arrived. "I heard that ruffians had besieged you, and I hastened with my servants to the rescue." "Without the will of God a hair will not fall from the head of a man," answered the starosta. "This cavalier has already freed me from oppression. But whence do you come?" "From Sohachev." "Have you heard anything new?" "Every news is worse. New misfortune--" "What has happened?" "The provinces of Cracow, Sandomir, Rus, Lubelsk, Belzk, Volynia, and Kieff have surrendered to Karl Gustav. The act is already signed by envoys and by Karl." The starosta shook his head, and turned to Kmita,-- "See," said he, "do you still think that the man will be found who will not spare his soul for the love of truth?" Kmita began to tear the hair from his forelock; "Despair! despair!" repeated he, in distraction. And Pan Shchebjytski continued: "They say also that the remnants of the army, which are with Pototski, the hetman, have already refused obedience and wish to go to the Swedes. The hetman probably is not sure of safety or life among them, and must do what they want." "They sow rebellion and reap suffering and pain," said the starosta. "Whoso wishes to do penance for his sins, now is his time!" Kmita could not hear further either prophecies or news; he wanted to sit with all speed on his horse and cool his head in the wind. He sprang up therefore, and began to take farewell of the starosta. "Rut whither so hastily?" asked the latter. "To Chenstohova, for I too am a sinner!" "Though glad to entertain, I will not delay you, since your work is more urgent, for the day of judgment is at hand." Kmita went out; and after him went the young lady, wishing instead of her father to do honor to the guest, for the old man was weak on his feet. "Be in good health, young lady," said Kmita; "you do not know how thankful I am to you." "If you are thankful to me," answered the young lady, "do me one service. You are going to Chenstohova; here is a ruddy ducat,--take it, I beg, and give it for a Mass in the chapel." "For whose intention?" asked Kmita. The prophetess dropped her eyes, trouble spread over her face; at the same time a slight flush came to her cheeks, and she said with a low voice, like the rustle of leaves,-- "For the intention of Andrei, that God may turn him from sinful ways." Kmita pushed back two steps, stared, and from astonishment could not speak for a time. "By the wounds of Christ!" cried he, at last, "what manner of house is this? Where am I? The prophecy itself, the soothsaying, and the indications--Your name is Olenka, and you give me for a Mass for the intentions of a sinful Andrei. This cannot be chance; it is the finger of God,--it is, it is. I shall go wild!--As God lives, I shall!" "What is the matter?" He caught her hands violently and began to shake them. "Prophesy further, speak to the end! If that Andrei will return and efface his faults, will Olenka keep faith with him? Speak, answer, for I shall not go away without that!" "What is your trouble?" "Will Olenka keep faith with him?" repeated Kmita. Tears came suddenly into the eyes of the maiden: "To the last breath, to the hour of death!" said she, with sobbing. She had not finished speaking when Kmita fell his whole length at her feet. She wanted to flee; he would not let her, and kissing her feet, he said,-- "I too am a sinful Andrei, who wants to return. I too have my loved one, Olenka. May yours return, and may mine keep faith. May your words be prophetic. You have poured balsam and hope into my suffering soul,--God reward you, God reward you!" Then he sprang up, sat on his horse, and rode away. CHAPTER XXXVIII. The words of the young daughter of the starosta of Sohachev filled Kmita with great consolation, and for three days they did not leave his head. In the daytime on horseback, in the night on the bed, he was thinking of what had happened to him, and he came always to the conclusion that this could not be simple chance, but an indication from God, and a presage that if he would hold out, if he would not leave the good road, that same road which Olenka had shown him, she would keep faith and give him her former affection. "If the starosta's daughter," thought Kmita, "keeps faith with her Andrei, who has not begun to grow better, there is still hope for me, with my honest intention of serving virtue, the country, and the king." But, on the other hand, suffering was not absent from Pan Andrei. He had an honest intention, but had it not come too late? Was there yet any road, were there yet any means? The Commonwealth seemed to sink deeper each day, and it was difficult to close one's eyes to the terrible truth that for it there was no salvation. Kmita wished nothing more intently than to begin some kind of work, but he saw no willing people. Every moment new figures, every moment new faces, passed before him in the time of his journey; but the sight of them, their talk and discussions, merely took from him the remnant of his hopes. Some had gone body and soul to the Swedish camp, seeking in it their own profit; these people drank and caroused as at a wake, drowning, in cups and in riot, shame and the honor of nobles; others told, with blindness beyond understanding, of that power which the Commonwealth would form in union with Sweden, under the sceptre of the first warrior on earth; and these were the most dangerous, for they were sincerely convinced that the whole earth must bow before such an alliance. A third party, like the starosta of Sohachev, honorable people and wishing well to the country, sought signs on the earth and in the heavens, repeated prophecies, and seeing the will of God and unbending predestination in all things that happened, came to the conclusion that there was no hope, no salvation; that the end of the world was drawing nigh; therefore it would be madness to think of earthly instead of heavenly salvation. Others hid in the forest, or escaped with their lives beyond the boundaries of the Commonwealth. Kmita met only unrestrained, corrupted, mad, timid, or desperate people. He met no man who had hope. Meanwhile the fortune of the Swedes was increasing. News that the rest of the army had revolted, were conspiring, threatening the hetmans, and wishing to go over to the Swedes, gained certainty every day. The report that Konyetspolski with his division had joined Karl Gustav reverberated like thunder through every corner of the Commonwealth, and drove out the remnant of faith from men's hearts, for Konyetspolski was a knight of Zbaraj. He was followed by the starosta of Yavor and Prince Dymitr Vishnyevetski, who was not restrained by a name covered with immortal glory. Men had begun now to doubt Lyubomirski, the marshal. Those who knew him well asserted that ambition surpassed in him both reason and love of country; that for the time being he was on the king's side because he was flattered, because all eyes were turned to him, because one side and the other tried to win him, to persuade him, because he was told that he had the fate of the country in his hands. But in view of Swedish success he began to hesitate, to delay; and each moment he gave the unfortunate Yan Kazimir to understand more clearly that he could save him, or sink him completely. The refugee king was living in Glogov with a handful of trusted persons, who shared his fate. Each day some one deserted him, and went over to the Swedes. Thus do the weak bend in days of misfortune, even men to whom the first impulse of the heart points out the thorny path of honor. Karl Gustav received the deserters with open arms, rewarded them, covered them with promises, tempted and attracted the remnant of the faithful, extended more widely his rule; fortune itself pushed from before his feet every obstacle; he conquered Poland with Polish forces; he was a victor without a battle. Crowds of voevodas, castellans, officials of Poland and Lithuania, throngs of armed nobles, complete squadrons of incomparable Polish cavalry, stood in his camp, watching the eyes of their newly made lord and ready at his beck. The last of the armies of the kingdom was calling more and more emphatically to its hetman: "Go, incline thy gray head before the majesty of Karl,--go, for we wish to belong to the Swedes." "To the Swedes! to the Swedes!" And in support of these words thousands of sabres flashed forth. At the same time war was flaming continually on the east. The terrible Hmelnitski was besieging Lvoff again; and legions of his allies, rolling on past the unconquered walls of Zamost, spread over the whole province of Lubelsk, reaching even to Lublin. Lithuania was in the hands of the Swedes and Hovanski. Radzivill had begun war in Podlyasye, the elector was loitering, and any moment he might give the last blow to the expiring Commonwealth; meanwhile he was growing strong in Royal Prussia. Embassies from every side were hastening to the King of Sweden, wishing him a happy conquest. Winter was coming; leaves were falling from the trees; flocks of ravens, crows, and jackdaws had deserted the forests, and were flying over the villages and towns of the Commonwealth. Beyond Pyotrkoff Kmita came again upon Swedish parties, who occupied all the roads and highways. Some of them, after the capture of Cracow, were marching to Warsaw, for it was said that Karl Gustav, having received homage from the northern and eastern provinces and signed the "capitulations," was only waiting for the submission of those remnants of the army under Pototski and Lantskoronski; that given, he would go straightway to Prussia, and therefore he was sending the army ahead. The road was closed in no place to Pan Andrei, for in general nobles roused no suspicion. A multitude of armed attendants were going with the Swedes; others were going to Cracow,--one to bow down before the new king, another to obtain something from him. No one was asked for a pass or a letter, especially since in the neighborhood of Karl, who was counterfeiting kindness, no man dared trouble another. The last night before Chenstohova met Pan Andrei in Krushyn; but barely had he settled down when guests arrived. First a Swedish detachment of about one hundred horse, under the lead of a number of officers and some important captain. This captain was a man of middle age, of a form rather imposing, large, powerful, broad-shouldered, quick-eyed; and though he wore a foreign dress and looked altogether like a foreigner, still when he entered the room he spoke to Pan Andrei in purest Polish, asking who he was and whither he was going. Pan Andrei answered at once that he was a noble from Sohachev, for it might have seemed strange to the officer that a subject of the elector had come to that remote place. Learning that Pan Andrei was going to the King of Sweden with complaint that payment of money due him by the Swedes was refused, the officer said,-- "Prayer at the high altar is best, and wisely you go to the king; for though he has a thousand affairs on his head, he refuses hearing to no one, and he is so kind to Polish nobles that you are envied by the Swedes." "If only there is money in the treasury?" "Karl Gustav is not the same as your recent Yan Kazimir, who was forced to borrow even of Jews, for whatever he had he gave straightway to him who first asked for it. But if a certain enterprise succeeds, there will be no lack of coin in the treasury." "Of what enterprise is your grace speaking?" "I know you too little to speak confidentially, but be assured that in a week or two the treasury of the King of Sweden will be as weighty as that of the Sultan." "Then some alchemist must make money for him, since there is no place from which to get it in this country." "In this country? It is enough to stretch forth daring hands. And of daring there is no lack among us, as is shown by the fact that we are now rulers here." "True, true," answered Kmita; "we are very glad of that rule, especially if you teach us how to get money like chips." "The means are in your power, but you would rather die of hunger than take one copper." Kmita looked quickly at the officer, and said,-- "For there are places against which it is terrible, even for Tartars, to raise hands." "You are too mysterious. Sir Cavalier," answered the officer, "and remember that you are going, not to Tartars, but to Swedes for money." Further conversation was interrupted by the arrival of a new party of men, whom the officer was evidently expecting, for he hurried out of the inn. Kmita followed and stood in the door to see who were coming. In front was a closed carriage drawn by four horses, and surrounded by a party of Swedish horsemen; it stopped before the inn. The officer who had just been talking to Kmita went up to the carriage quickly, and opening the door made a low bow to the person sitting inside. "He must be some distinguished man," thought Kmita. That moment they brought from the inn a flaming torch. Out of the carriage stepped an important personage dressed in black, in foreign fashion, with a cloak to his knees, lined with fox-skin, and a hat with feathers. The officer seized the torch from the hands of a horseman, and bowing once more, said,-- "This way, your excellency!" Kmita pushed back as quickly as possible, and they entered after him. In the room the officer bowed a third time and said,-- "Your excellency, I am Count Veyhard Vjeshchovich, ordinarius proviantmagister, of his Royal Grace Karl Gustav, and am sent with an escort to meet your excellency." "It is pleasant for me to meet such an honorable cavalier," said the personage in black, giving bow for bow. "Does your excellency wish to stop here some time or to go on at once? His Royal Grace wishes to see your excellency soon." "I had intended to halt at Chenstohova for prayers," answered the newly arrived, "but in Vyelunie I received news that his Royal Grace commands me to hurry; therefore, after I have rested, we will go on. Meanwhile dismiss the escort, and thank the captain who led it." The officer went to give the requisite order. Pan Andrei stopped him on the way. "Who is that?" asked he. "Baron Lisola, the Imperial Envoy, now on his way from the court of Brandenburg to our lord," answered the officer. Then he went out, and after a while returned. "Your excellency's orders are carried out," said he to the baron. "I thank you," said Lisola; and with great though very lofty affability he indicated to Count Veyhard a place opposite himself. "Some kind of storm is beginning to whistle outside," said he, "and rain is falling. It may continue long; meanwhile let us talk before supper. What is to be heard here? I have been told that the voevodas of Little Poland have submitted to his Grace of Sweden." "True, your excellency; his Grace is only waiting for the submission of the rest of the troops, then he will go at once to Warsaw and to Prussia." "Is it certain that they will surrender?" "Deputies from the army are already in Cracow. They have no choice, for if they do not come to us Hmelnitski will destroy them utterly." Lisola inclined his reasoning head upon his breast. "Terrible, unheard of things!" said he. The conversation was carried on in the German language. Kmita did not lose a single word of it. "Your excellency." said Count Veyhard, "that has happened which had to happen." "Perhaps so; but it is difficult not to feel compassion for a power which has fallen before our eyes, and for which a man who is not a Swede must feel sorrow." "I am not a Swede; but if Poles themselves do not feel sorrow, neither do I," answered the count. Lisola looked at him seriously. "It is true that your name is not Swedish. From what people are you, I pray?" "I am a Cheh" (Bohemian). "Indeed? Then you are a subject of the German emperor? We are under the same rule." "I am in the service of the Most Serene King of Sweden," said Veyhard, with a bow. "I wish not to derogate from that service in the least," answered Lisola, "but such employments are temporary; being then a subject of our gracious sovereign, whoever you may be, whomsoever you may serve, you cannot consider any one else as your natural sovereign." "I do not deny that." "Then I will tell you sincerely, that our lord mourns over this illustrious Commonwealth, over the fate of its noble monarch, and he cannot look with a kindly or willing eye on those of his subjects who are aiding in the final ruin of a friendly power. What have the Poles done to you, that you show them such ill will?" "Your excellency, I might answer many things, but I fear to abuse your patience." "You seem to me not only a famous soldier, but a wise man. My office obliges me to observe, to listen, to seek causes; speak then, even in the most minute way, and fear not to annoy my patience. If you incline at any time to the service of the emperor, which I wish most strongly, you will find in me a friend who will explain and repeat your reasons, should any man wish to consider your present service as wrong." "Then I will tell you all that I have on my mind. Like many nobles, younger sons, I had to seek my fortune outside my native land. I came to this country where the people are related to my own, and take foreigners into service readily." "Were you badly received?" "Salt mines were given to my management I found means of livelihood, of approach to the people and the king himself; I serve the Swedes at present, but should any one wish to consider me unthankful, I could contradict him directly." "How?" "Can more be asked of me than of the Poles themselves? Where are the Poles to-day? Where are the senators of this kingdom, the princes, the magnates, the nobles, if not in the Swedish camp? And still they should be the first to know what they ought to do, where the salvation of their country is, and where its destruction. I follow their example; who of them then has the right to call me unthankful? Why should I, a foreigner, be more faithful to the King of Poland and the Commonwealth than they themselves are? Why should I despise that service for which they themselves are begging?" Lisola made no answer. He rested his head on his hand and fell into thought. It would seem that he was listening to the whistle of the wind and the sound of the autumn rain, which had begun to strike the windows of the inn. "Speak on," said he, at last; "in truth you tell me strange things." "I seek fortune where I can find it," continued Count Veyhard; "and because this people are perishing, I do not need to care for them more than they do for themselves, besides, even if I were to care, it would avail nothing, for they must perish." "But why is that?" "First, because they wish it themselves; second, because they deserve it. Your excellency, is there another country in the world where so many disorders and such violence may be seen? What manner of government is there here? The king does not rule, because they will not let him; the diets do not rule, because the members break them; there is no army, because the Poles will not pay taxes; there is no obedience, for obedience is opposed to freedom; there is no justice, for there is no one to execute decisions, and each strong man tramples on decisions; there is no loyalty in this people, for all have deserted their king; there is no love for the country, for they have given it to the Swede, for the promise that he will not prevent them from living in old fashion according to their ancient violence. Where could anything similar be found? What people in the world would aid an enemy in conquering their own country? Who would desert a king, not for his tyranny, not for his evil deeds, but because a stronger one came? Where is there a people who love private profits more, or trample more on public affairs? What have they, your excellency? Let any one mention to me even one virtue,--prudence, reason, cleverness, endurance, abstinence. What have they? Good cavalry? that and nothing more. But the Numidians were famous for cavalry, and the Gauls, as may be read in Roman history, had celebrated soldiers; but where are they? They have perished as they were bound to perish. Whoso wishes to save the Poles is merely losing time, for they will not save themselves. Only the mad, the violent, the malicious, and the venal inhabit this land." Count Veyhard pronounced the last words with a genuine outburst of hatred marvellous in a foreigner who had found bread among that people; but Lisola was not astonished. A veteran diplomat, he knew the world and men. He knew that whoso does not know how to pay his benefactor with his heart, seeks in him faults, so as to shield with them his own unthankfulness. Besides, it may be that he recognized that Count Veyhard was right. He did not protest, but asked quickly, "Are you a Catholic?" The count was confused. "Yes, your excellency," answered he. "I have heard in Vyelunie that there are persons who persuade the king, Karl Gustav, to occupy the monastery of Yasna Gora.[30] Is it true?" "Your excellency, the monastery lies near the Silesian boundary, and Yan Kazimir can easily receive messages therefrom. We must occupy it to prevent that. I was the first to direct attention to this matter, and therefore his Royal Grace has confided these functions to me." Here Count Veyhard stopped suddenly, remembered Kmita, sitting in the other corner of the room, and coming up to him, asked,-- "Do you understand German?" "Not a word, even if a man were to pull my teeth," answered Pan Andrei. "That is too bad, for we wished to ask you to join our conversation." Then he turned to Lisola. "There is a strange noble here, but he does not understand German; we can speak freely." "I have no secret to tell," said Lisola; "but as I am a Catholic too, I should not like to see such injustice done to a sacred place. And because I am certain that the most serene emperor has the same feeling, I shall beg his Grace the King of Sweden to spare the monks. And do not hurry with the occupation until there is a new decision." "I have express, though secret, instructions; but I shall not withhold them from your excellency, for I wish to serve faithfully my lord the emperor. I can assure your excellency that no profanation will come to the sacred place. I am a Catholic." Lisola laughed, and wishing to extort the truth from a man less experienced than himself, asked jokingly,-- "But you will shake up their treasury for the monks? It will not pass without that, will it?" "That may happen," answered Count Veyhard. "The Most Holy Lady will not ask for thalers from the priors' caskets. When all others pay, let the monks pay too." "But if the monks defend themselves?" The count laughed. "In this country no man will defend himself, and to-day no man is able. There was a time for defence,--now it is too late." "Too late," repeated Lisola. The conversation ended there. After supper they went away. Kmita remained alone. This was for him the bitterest night that he had spent since leaving Kyedani. While listening to the words of Count Veyhard, Kmita had to restrain himself with all his power to keep from shouting at him, "Thou liest, thou cur!" and from falling on him with his sabre. But if he did not do so, it was unhappily because he felt and recognized truth in the words of the foreigner,--awful truth burning like fire, but genuine. "What could I say to him?" thought he; "with what could I offer denial except with my fist? What reasons could I bring? He snarled out the truth. Would to God he were slain! And that statesman of the emperor acknowledged to him that in all things and for all defence it was too late." Kmita suffered in great part perhaps because that "too late" was the sentence not only of the country, but of his own personal happiness. And he had had his fill of suffering; there was no strength left in him, for during all those weeks he had heard nothing save, "All is lost, there is no time left, it is too late." No ray of hope anywhere fell into his soul. Ever riding farther, he had hastened greatly, night and day, to escape from those prophecies, to find at last some place of rest, some man who would pour into his spirit even one drop of consolation. But he found every moment greater fall, every moment greater despair. At last the words of Count Veyhard filled that cup of bitterness and gall; they showed to him clearly this, which hitherto was an undefined feeling, that not so much the Swedes, the Northerners, and the Cossacks had killed the country, as the whole people. "The mad, the violent, the malicious, the venal, inhabit this land," repeated Kmita after Count Veyhard, "and there are no others! They obey not the king, they break the diets, they pay not the taxes, they help the enemy to the conquest of this land. They must perish. "In God's name, if I could only give him the lie! Is there nothing good in us save cavalry; no virtue, nothing but evil itself?" Kmita sought an answer in his soul. He was so wearied from the road, from sorrows, and from everything that had passed before him, that it grew cloudy in his head. He felt that he was ill and a deathly sickness seized possession of him. In his brain an ever-growing chaos was working. Faces known and unknown pushed past him,--those whom he had known long before and those whom he had met on this journey. Those figures spoke, as if at a diet, they quoted sentences, prophecies; and all was concerning Olenka. She was awaiting deliverance from Kmita; but Count Veyhard held him by the arms, and looking into his eyes repeated: "Too late! what is Swedish is Swedish!" and Boguslav Radzivill sneered and supported Count Veyhard. Then all of them began to scream: "Too late, too late, too late!" and seizing Olenka they vanished with her somewhere in darkness. It seemed to Pan Andrei that Olenka and the country were the same, that he had ruined both and had given them to the Swedes of his own will. Then such measureless sorrow grasped hold of him that he woke, looked around in amazement and listening to the wind which in the chimney, in the walls, in the roof, whistled in various voices and played through each cranny, as if on an organ. But the visions returned, Olenka and the country were blended again in his thoughts in one person whom Count Veyhard was conducting away saying: "Too late, too late!" So Pan Andrei spent the night in a fever. In moments of consciousness he thought that it would come to him to be seriously ill, and at last he wanted to call Soroka to bleed him. But just then dawn began; Kmita sprang up and went out in front of the inn. The first dawn had barely begun to dissipate the darkness; the day promised to be mild; the clouds were breaking into long stripes and streaks on the west, but the east was pure; on the heavens, which were growing pale gradually, stars, unobscured by mist, were twinkling. Kmita roused his men, arrayed himself in holiday dress, for Sunday had come and they moved to the road. After a bad sleepless night, Kmita was wearied in body and spirit. Neither could that autumn morning, pale but refreshing, frosty and clear, scatter the sorrow crushing the heart of the knight. Hope in him had burned to the last spark, and was dying like a lamp in which the oil is exhausted. What would that day bring? Nothing!--the same grief, the same suffering, rather it will add to the weight on his soul; of a surety it will not decrease it. He rode forward in silence, fixing his eyes on some point which was then greatly gleaming upon the horizon. The horses were snorting; the men fell to singing with drowsy voices their matins. Meanwhile it became clearer each moment, the heavens from pale became green and golden and that point on the horizon began so to shine that Kmita's eyes were dazzled by its glitter. The men ceased their singing and all gazed in that direction, at last Soroka said,-- "A miracle or what?--That is the west, and it is as if the sun were rising." In fact, that light, increased in the eyes: from a point it became a ball, from a ball a globe; from afar you would have said that some one had hung above the earth a giant star, which was scattering rays immeasurable. Kmita and his men looked with amazement on that bright, trembling, radiant vision, not knowing what was before their sight. Then a peasant came along from Krushyn in a wagon with a rack. Kmita turning to him saw that the peasant, holding his cap in his hand and looking at the light, was praying. "Man," asked Pan Andrei, "what is that which shines so?" "The church on Yasna Gora." "Glory to the Most Holy Lady!" cried Kmita. He took his cap from his head, and his men removed theirs. After so many days of suffering, of doubts, and of struggles, Pan Andrei felt suddenly that something wonderful was happening in him, Barely had the words, "the church on Yasna Gora," sounded in his ears when the confusion fell from him as if some hand had removed it. A certain inexplicable awe seized hold of Pan Andrei, full of reverence, but at the same time a joy unknown to experience, great and blissful. From that church shining on the height in the first rays of the sun, hope, such as for a long time Pan Andrei had not known, was beating,--a strength invincible on which he wished to lean. A now life, as it were, entered him and began to course through his veins with the blood. He breathed as deeply as a sick man coming to himself out of fever and unconsciousness. But the church glittered more and more brightly, as if it were taking to itself all the light of the sun. The whole region lay at its feet, and the church gazed at it from the height; you would have said, "'Tis the sentry and guardian of the land." For a long time Kmita could not take his eyes from that light; he satisfied and comforted himself with the sight of it. The faces of his men had grown serious, and were penetrated with awe. Then the sound of a bell was heard in the silent morning air. "From your horses!" cried Pan Andrei. All sprang from their saddles, and kneeling on the road began the litany. Kmita repeated it, and the soldiers responded together. Other wagons came up. Peasants seeing the praying men on the road joined them, and the crowd grew greater continually. When at length the prayers were finished Pan Andrei rose, and after him his men; but they advanced on foot, leading their horses and singing: "Hail, ye bright gates!" Kmita went on with alertness as if he had wings on his shoulders. At the turns of the road the church vanished, then came out again. When a height or a mist concealed it, it seemed to Kmita that light had been captured by darkness; but when it gleamed forth again all faces were radiant. So they went on for a long time. The cloister and the walls surrounding it came out more distinctly, became more imposing, more immense. At last they saw the town in the distance, and under the mountain whole lines of houses and cottages, which, compared with the size of the church, seemed as small as birds' nests. It was Sunday; therefore when the sun had risen well the road was swarming with wagons, and people on foot going to church. From the lofty towers the bells great and small began to peal, filling the air with noble sounds. There was in that sight and in those metal voices a strength, a majesty immeasurable, and at the same time a calm. That bit of land at the foot of Yasna Gora resembled in no wise the rest of the country. Throngs of people stood black around the walls of the church. Under the hill were hundreds of wagons, carriages, and equipages; the talk of men was blended with the neighing of horses tied to posts. Farther on, at the right, along the chief road leading to the mountain, were to be seen whole rows of stands, at which were sold metal offerings, wax candles, pictures, and scapulars. A river of people flowed everywhere freely. The gates were wide open; whoso wished entered, whoso wished went forth; on the walls, at the guns, were no soldiers. Evidently the very sacredness of the place guarded the church and the cloister, and perhaps men trusted in the letters of Karl Gustav in which he guaranteed safety. CHAPTER XXXIX. From the gates of the fortress peasants and nobles, villagers from various neighborhoods, people of every age, of both sexes, of all ranks, pressed forward to the church on their knees, singing prayerful hymns. That river flowed slowly, and its course was stopped whenever the bodies of people crowded against one another too densely. At times the songs ceased and the crowds began to repeat a litany, and then the thunder of words was heard from one end of the place to the other. Between hymn and litany, between litany and hymn, the people were silent, struck the ground with their foreheads, or cast themselves down in the form of a cross. At these moments were heard only the imploring and shrill voices of beggars, who sitting at both banks of the human river exposed their deformed limbs to public gaze. Their howling was mingled with the clinking of coppers thrown into tin and wooden dishes. Then again the river of heads flowed onward, and again the hymns thundered. As the river flowed nearer to the church door, excitement grew greater, and was turned into ecstasy. You could see hands stretched toward heaven, eyes turned upward, faces pale from emotion or glowing with prayer. Differences of rank disappeared: the coat of the peasant touched the robe of the noble, the jacket of the soldier the yellow coat of the artisan. In the church door the crush was still greater. The bodies of men had become not a river, but a bridge, so firm that you might travel on their heads and their shoulders without touching the ground with a foot. Breath failed their breasts, space failed their bodies; but the spirit which inspired gave them iron endurance. Each man was praying; no one thought of aught else. Each one bore on himself the pressure and weight of the whole of that mass, but no man fell; and pressed by those thousands he felt in himself power against thousands, and with that power he pushed forward, lost in prayer, in ecstasy, in exaltation. Kmita, creeping forward in the first ranks with his men, reached the church with the earliest; then the current carried him too to the chapel of miracles, where the multitude fell on their faces, weeping, embracing the floor with their hands, and kissing it with emotion. So also did Pan Andrei; and when at last he had the boldness to raise his head, delight, happiness, and at the same time mortal awe, almost took from him consciousness. In the chapel there was a ruddy gloom not entirely dispersed by the rays of candles burning on the altar. Colored rays fell also through the window-panes; and all those gleams, red, violet, golden, fiery, quivered on the walls, slipped along the carvings and windings, made their way into dark depths bringing forth to sight indistinct forms buried as it were in a dream. Mysterious glimmers ran along and united with darkness, so undistinguishable that all difference between light and darkness was lost. The candles on the altar had golden halos; the smoke from the censers formed purple mist; the white robes of the monks serving Mass played with the darkened colors of the rainbow. All things there were half visible, half veiled, unearthly; the gleams were unearthly, the darkness unearthly, mysterious, majestic, blessed, filled with prayer, adoration, and holiness. From the main nave of the church came the deep sound of human voices, like the mighty sound of the sea; but in the chapel deep silence reigned, broken only by the voice of the priest chanting Mass. The image was still covered; expectation therefore held the breath in all breasts. There were only to be seen, looking in one direction, faces as motionless as if they had parted with earthly life, hands palm to palm and placed before mouths, like the hands of angels in pictures. The organ accompanied the singing of the priest, and gave out tones mild and sweet, flowing as it were from flutes beyond the earth. At moments they seemed to distil like water from its source; then again they fell softly but quickly like dense rain showers in May. All at once the thunder of trumpets and drums roared, and a quiver passed through all hearts. The covering before the picture was pushed apart from the centre to the sides, and a flood of diamond light flashed from above on the faithful. Groans, weeping, and cries were heard throughout the chapel. "_Salve, Regina!_" (Hail, O Queen!) cried the nobles, "_Monstra te esse matrem!_" (Show thyself a mother); but the peasants cried, "O Most Holy Lady! Golden Lady! Queen of the Angels! save us, assist us, console us, pity us!" Long did those cries sound, together with sobs of women and complaints of the hapless, with prayers for a miracle on the sick or the maimed. The soul lacked little of leaving Kmita; he felt only that he had before him infinity, which he could not grasp, could not comprehend, and before which all things were effaced. What were doubts in presence of that faith which all existence could not exhaust? what was misfortune in presence of that solace? what was the power of the Swedes in presence of that defence? what was the malice of men before the eyes of such protection? Here his thoughts became settled, and turned into faculties; he forgot himself, ceased to distinguish who he was, where he was. It seemed to him that he had died, that his soul was now flying with the voices of organs, mingled in the smoke of the censers; his hands, used to the sword and to bloodshed, were stretched upward, and he was kneeling in ecstasy, in rapture. The Mass ended. Pan Andrei knew not himself how he reached again the main nave of the church. The priest gave instruction from the pulpit; but Kmita for a long time heard not, understood not, like a man roused from sleep, who does not at once note where his sleeping ended and his waking moments began. The first words which he heard were: "In this place hearts change and souls are corrected, for neither can the Swedes overcome this power, nor those wandering in darkness overcome the true light!" "Amen!" said Kmita in his soul, and he began to strike his breast; for it seemed to him then that he had sinned deeply through thinking that all was lost, and that from no source was there hope. After the sermon Kmita stopped the first monk he met, and told him that he wished to see the prior on business of the church and the cloister. He got hearing at once from the prior, who was a man in ripe age, inclining then toward its evening. He had a face of unequalled calm. A thick black beard added to the dignity of his face; he had mild azure eyes with a penetrating look. In his white habit he seemed simply a saint Kmita kissed his sleeve; he pressed Kmita's head, and inquired who he was and whence he had come. "I have come from Jmud," answered Kmita, "to serve the Most Holy Lady, the suffering country, and my deserted king, against all of whom I have hitherto sinned, and in sacred confession I beg to make a minute explanation. I ask that to-day or to-morrow my confession be heard, since sorrow for my sins draws me to this. I will tell you also, revered father, my real name,--under the seal of confession, not otherwise, for men ill inclined to me prevent and bar me from reform. Before men I wish to be called Babinich, from one of my estates, taken now by the enemy. Meanwhile I bring important information to which do you, revered father, give ear with patience, for it is a question of this sacred retreat and this cloister." "I praise your intentions and the change of life which you have undertaken," said the prior, Father Kordetski; "as to confession, I will yield to your urgent wish and hear it now." "I have travelled long," added Kmita, "I have seen much and I have suffered not a little. Everywhere the enemy has grown strong, every where heretics are raising their heads, nay, even Catholics themselves are going over to the camp of the enemy; who, emboldened by this, as well as by the capture of two capitals, intend to raise now sacrilegious hands against Yasna Gora." "From whom have you this news?" asked the prior. "I spent last night at Krushyn, where I saw Count Veyhard Vjeshchovich and Baron Lisola, envoy of the Emperor of Germany, who was returning from the Brandenburg court, and is going to the King of Sweden." "The King of Sweden is no longer in Cracow," said the prior, looking searchingly into the eyes of Pan Andrei. But Pan Andrei did not drop his lids and talked on,-- "I do not know whether he is there or not. I know that Lisola is going to him, and Count Veyhard was sent to relieve the escort and conduct him farther. Both talked before me in German, taking no thought of my presence; for they did not suppose that I understood their speech. I knowing German, was able to learn that Count Veyhard has proposed the occupation of this cloister and the taking of its treasure, for which he has received permission from the king." "And you have heard this with your own ears?" "Just as I am standing here." "The will of God be done!" said the priest, calmly. Kmita was alarmed. He thought that the priest called the command of the King of Sweden the will of God and was not thinking of resistance; therefore he said,-- "I saw in Pultusk a church in Swedish hands, the soldiers were playing cards in the sanctuary of God, kegs of beer were on the altars, and shameless women were there with the soldiers." The prior looked steadily, directly in the eyes of the soldier. "A wonderful thing!" said he; "sincerity and truth are looking out of your eyes." Kmita flushed. "May I fall a corpse here if what I say is not true." "In every case these tidings over which we must deliberate are important." "You will permit me to ask the older fathers and some of the more important nobles who are now dwelling with us. You will permit,--" "I will repeat gladly the same thing before them." Father Kordetski went out, and in quarter of an hour returned with four older fathers. Soon after Pan Rujyts-Zamoyski, the sword-bearer of Syeradz, entered,--a dignified man; Pan Okyelnitski, banneret of Vyelunie; Pan Pyotr Charnyetski, a young cavalier with a fierce war-like face, like an oak in stature and strength; and other nobles of various ages. The prior presented to them Pan Babinich from Jmud, and repeated in the presence of all the tidings which he had brought. They wondered greatly and began to measure Pan Andrei with their eyes inquiringly and incredulously, and when no one raised his voice the prior said,-- "May God preserve me from attributing to this cavalier evil intention or calumny; but the tidings which he brings seem to me so unlikely that I thought it proper for us to ask about them in company. With the sincerest intention this cavalier may be mistaken; he may have heard incorrectly, understood incorrectly, or have been led into error through heretics. To fill our hearts with fear, to cause panic in a holy place, to harm piety, is for them an immense delight, which surely no one of them in his wickedness would like to deny himself." "That seems to me very much like truth," said Father Nyeshkovski, the oldest in the assembly. "It would be needful to know in advance if this cavalier is not a heretic himself?" said Pyotr Charnyetski. "I am a Catholic, as you are!" answered Kmita. "It behooves us to consider first the circumstances," put in Zamoyski. "The circumstances are such," said the prior, Kordetski, "that surely God and His Most Holy Mother have sent blindness of purpose on these enemies, so that they might exceed the measure in their iniquities; otherwise they never would have dared to raise the sword against this sacred retreat. Not with their own power have they conquered this Commonwealth, whose own sons have helped them. But though our people have fallen low, though they are wading in sin, still in sin itself there is a certain limit which they would not dare to pass. They have deserted their king, they have fallen away from the Commonwealth; but they have not ceased to revere their Mother, their Patroness and Queen. The enemy jeer at us and ask with contempt what has remained to us of our ancient virtues. I answer they have all perished; still something remains, for faith in the Most Holy Lady and reverence for Her have remained to them, and on this foundation the rest may be built. I see clearly that, let one Swedish ball make a dint in these sacred walls, the most callous men will turn from the conqueror,--from being friends will become enemies of the Swedes and draw swords against them. But the Swedes have their eyes open to their own danger, and understand this well. Therefore, if God, as I have said, has not sent upon them blindness intentionally, they will never dare to strike Yasna Gora; for that day would be the day of their change of fortune and of our revival." Kmita heard the words of the prior with astonishment, words which were at the same time an answer to what had come from the mouth of Count Veyhard against the Polish people. But recovering from astonishment, he said,-- "Why should we not believe, revered father, that God has in fact visited the enemy with blindness? Let us look at their pride, their greed of earthly goods, let us consider their unendurable oppression and the tribute which they levy even on the clergy, and we may understand with ease that they will not hesitate at sacrilege of any kind." The prior did not answer Kmita directly, but turning to the whole assembly, continued,-- "This cavalier says that he saw Lisola, the envoy, going to the King of Sweden. How can that be since I have undoubted news from the Paulists in Cracow that the king is not in Cracow, nor in Little Poland, since he went to Warsaw immediately after the surrender of Cracow." "He cannot have gone to Warsaw," answered Kmita, "and the best proof is that he is waiting for the surrender and homage of the quarter soldiers, who are with Pototski." "General Douglas is to receive homage in the name of the king, so they write me from Cracow." Kmita was silent; he knew not what to answer. "But I will suppose," continued the prior, "that the King of Sweden does not wish to see the envoy of the emperor and has chosen purposely to avoid him. Carolus likes to act thus,--to come on a sudden, to go on a sudden; besides the mediation of the emperor displeases him. I believe then readily that he went away pretending not to know of the coming of the envoy. I am less astonished that Count Veyhard, a person of such note, was sent out to meet Lisola with an escort, for it may be they wished to show politeness and sugar over the disappointment for the envoy; but how are we to believe that Count Veyhard would inform Baron Lisola at once of his plans." "Unlikely!" said Father Nyeshkovski, "since the baron is a Catholic and friendly both to us and the Commonwealth." "In my head too that does not find place," added Zamoyski. "Count Veyhard is a Catholic himself and a well-wisher of ours," said another father. "Does this cavalier say that he has heard this with his own ears?" asked Charnyetski, abruptly. "Think, gentlemen, over this too," added the prior, "I have a safeguard from Carolus Gustavus that the cloister and the church are to be free forever from occupation and quartering." "It must be confessed," said Zamoyski, with seriousness, "that in these tidings no one thing holds to another. It would be a loss for the Swedes, not a gain, to strike Yasna Gora; the king is not present, therefore Lisola could not go to him; Count Veyhard would not make a confidant of him; farther. Count Veyhard is not a heretic, but a Catholic,--not an enemy of the cloister, but its benefactor; finally, though Satan tempted him to make the attack, he would not dare to make it against the order and safeguard of the king." Here he turned to Kmita,-- "What then will you say, Cavalier, and why, with what purpose, do you wish to alarm the reverend fathers and us in this place?" Kmita was as a criminal before a court. On one hand, despair seized him, because if they would not believe, the cloister would become the prey of the enemy; on the other, shame burned him, for he saw that all appearances argued against his information, and that he might easily be accounted a calumniator. At thought of this, anger tore him, his innate impulsiveness was roused, his offended ambition was active; the old-time half-wild Kmita was awakened. But he struggled until he conquered himself, summoned all his endurance, and repeated in his soul: "For my sins, for my sins!" and said, with a changing face,-- "What I have heard, I repeat once more: Count Veyhard is going to attack this cloister. The time I know not, but I think it will be soon,--I give warning and on you will fall the responsibility if you do not listen." "Calmly, Cavalier, calmly," answered Pyotr Charnyetski, with emphasis. "Do not raise your voice." Then he spoke to the assembly,--"Permit me, worthy fathers, to put a few questions to the newly arrived." "You have no right to offend me," cried Kmita. "I have not even the wish to do so," answered Pan Pyotr, coldly; "but it is a question here of the cloister and the Holy Lady and Her capital. Therefore you must set aside offence; or if you do not set it aside, do so at least for the time, for be assured that I will meet you anywhere. You bring news which we want to verify--that is proper and should not cause wonder; but if you do not wish to answer, we shall think that you are afraid of self-contradiction." "Well, put your questions!" said Babinich, through his teeth. "You say that you are from Jmud?" "True." "And you have come here so as not to serve the Swedes and Radzivill the traitor?" "True." "But there are persons there who do not serve him, and oppose him on the side of the country; there are squadrons which have refused him obedience; Sapyeha is there. Why did you not join them?" "That is my affair." "Ah, ha! your affair," said Charnyetski. "You may give me that answer to other questions." Pan Andrei's hands quivered, he fixed his eyes on the heavy brass bell standing before him on the table, and from that bell they were turned to the head of the questioner. A wild desire seized him to grasp that bell and bring it down on the skull of Charnyetski. The old Kmita was gaining the upper hand over the pious and penitent Babinich; but he broke himself once more and said,-- "Inquire." "If you are from Jmud, then you must know what is happening at the court of the traitor. Name to me those who have aided in the ruin of the country, name to me those colonels who remain with him." Kmita grew pale as a handkerchief, but still mentioned some names. Charnyetski listened and said, "I have a friend, an attendant of the king, Pan Tyzenhauz, who told me of one, the most noted. Do you know nothing of this arch criminal?" "I do not know." "How is this? Have you not heard of him who spilled his brother's blood, like Cain? Have you not heard, being from Jmud, of Kmita?" "Revered fathers!" screamed Pan Andrei, on a sudden, shaking as in a fever, "let a clerical person question me, I will tell all. But by the living God do not let this noble torment me longer!" "Give him peace," said the prior, turning to Pan Pyotr. "It is not a question here of this cavalier." "Only one more question," said Zamoyski; and turning to Babinich, he asked,--"You did not expect that we would doubt your truth?" "As God is in heaven I did not!" "What reward did you expect?" Pan Andrei, instead of giving an answer, plunged both hands into a small leather sack which hung at his waist from a belt, and taking out two handfuls of pearls, emeralds, turquoises, and other precious stones, scattered them on the table. "There!" said he, with a broken voice, "I have not come here for money! Not for your rewards! These are pearls and other small stones; all taken from the caps of boyars. You see what I am. Do I want a reward? I wish to offer these to the Most Holy Lady; but only after confession, with a clean heart. Here they are--That's the reward which I ask. I have more, God grant you--" All were silent in astonishment, and the sight of jewels thrown out as easily as grits from a sack made no small impression; for involuntarily every one asked himself what reason could that man have, if he had no thought of rewards? Pan Pyotr was confused; for such is the nature of man that the sight of another's power and wealth dazzles him. Finally his suspicions fell away, for how could it be supposed that that great lord, scattering jewels, wanted to frighten monks for profit. Those present looked at one another and Kmita stood over his jewels with head upraised like the head of a roused eagle, with fire in his eyes and a flush on his face. The fresh wound passing through his cheek and his temple was blue; and terrible was Pan Babinich threatening with his predatory glance Charnyetski, on whom his anger was specially turned. "Through your anger truth itself bursts forth," said Kordetski; "but put away those jewels, for the Most Holy Lady cannot receive that which is offered in anger, even though the anger be just; besides, as I have said, it is not a question here of you, but of the news which has filled us with terror and fear. God knows whether there is not some misunderstanding or mistake in it, for, as you see yourself, what you say does not fit with reality. How are we to drive out the faithful, diminish the honor of the Most Holy Lady, and keep the gates shut night and day?" "Keep the gates shut, for God's mercy, keep the gates shut!" cried Pan Andrei, wringing his hands till his fingers cracked in their joints. There was so much truth and unfeigned despair in his voice that those present trembled in spite of themselves, as if danger was really there at hand, and Zamoyski said,-- "As it is, we give careful attention to the environs, and repairs are going on in the walls. In the day-time we can admit people for worship; but it is well to observe caution even for this reason, that the king has gone, and Wittemberg rules in Cracow with iron hand, and oppresses the clergy no less than the laity." "Though I do not believe in an attack, I have nothing to say against caution," answered Charnyetski. "And I," said the prior, "will send monks to Count Veyhard to enquire if the safeguard of the king has validity." Kmita breathed freely and cried,-- "Praise be to God, praise be to God!" "Cavalier," said the prior, "God reward you for the good intention. If you have warned us with reason, you will have a memorable merit before the Holy Lady and the country; but wonder not if we have received your information with incredulity; more than once have we been alarmed. Some frightened us out of hatred to our faith, to destroy the honor shown the Most Holy Lady; others, out of greed, so as to gain something; still others, so as to bring news and gain consideration in the eyes of people; and maybe there were even those who were deceived. Satan hates this place most stubbornly, and uses every endeavor to hinder piety here and to permit the faithful to take as little part in it as possible, for nothing brings the court of hell to such despair as reverence for Her who crushed the head of the serpent. But now it is time for vespers. Let us implore Her love, let us confide ourselves to her guardianship, and let each man go to sleep quietly; for where should there be peace and safety, if not under Her wings?" All separated. When vespers were finished Father Kordetski himself heard the confession of Pan Andrei, and listened to him long in the empty church; after that, Pan Andrei lay in the form of a cross before the closed doors of the chapel till midnight. At midnight he returned to his room, roused Soroka, and commanded the old man to flog him before he went to sleep, so that his shoulders and back were covered with blood. CHAPTER XL. Next morning, a wonderful and unusual movement reigned in the cloister. The gate was open, and entrance was not refused to the pious. Services were celebrated in the usual course; but after services all strangers were directed to leave the circuit of the cloister. Kordetski himself, in company with Zamoyski and Pan Pyotr, examined carefully the embrasures, and the escarpments supporting the walls from the inside and outside. Directions were given for repairing places here and there; blacksmiths in the town received orders to make hooks and spears, scythes fixed on long handles, clubs and heavy sticks of wood filled with strong spikes. And since it was known that they had already a considerable supply of such implements in the cloister, people in the town began at once to say that the cloister expected a sudden attack. New orders in quick succession seemed to confirm these reports. Toward night two hundred men were working at the side of the walls. Twelve heavy guns sent at the time of the siege of Cracow by Pan Varshytski, castellan of Cracow, were placed on new carriages and properly planted. From the cloister storehouses monks and attendants brought out balls, which were placed in piles near the guns; carts with powder were rolled out; bundles of muskets were untied, and distributed to the garrison. On the towers and bastions watchmen were posted to look carefully, night and day, on the region about; men were sent also to make investigation through the neighborhood,--to Pjystaini, Klobuchek, Kjepitsi, Krushyn, and Mstov. To the cloister storehouses, which were already well filled, came supplies from the town, from Chenstohovka and other villages belonging to the cloister. The report went like thunder through the whole neighborhood. Townspeople and peasants began to assemble and take counsel. Many were unwilling to believe that any enemy would dare to attack Yasna Gora. It was said that only Chenstohova itself was to be occupied; but even that excited the minds of men, especially when some of them remembered that the Swedes were heretics, whom nothing restrained, and who were ready to offer a purposed affront to the Most Holy Lady. Therefore men hesitated, doubted, and believed in turn. Some wrung their hands, waiting for terrible signs on earth and in heaven,--visible signs of God's anger; others were sunk in helpless and dumb despair; an anger more than human seized a third party, whose heads were filled as it were with flame. And when once the fancy of men had spread its wings for flight, straightway there was a whirl of news, ever changing, ever more feverish, ever more monstrous. And as when a man thrusts a stick or throws fire into an ant-hill, unquiet swarms rush forth at once, assemble, separate, reassemble; so was the town, so were the neighboring hamlets, in an uproar. In the afternoon crowds of townspeople and peasants, with women and children, surrounded the walls of the cloister, and held them as it were in siege, weeping and groaning. At sunset Kordetski went out to them, and pushing himself into the throng, asked,-- "People, what do you want?" "We want to go as a garrison to the cloister to defend the Mother of God," cried men, shaking their flails, forks, and other rustic weapons. "We wish to look for the last time on the Most Holy Lady," groaned women. The prior went on a high rock and said,-- "The gates of hell will not prevail against the might of heaven. Calm yourselves, and receive consolation into your hearts. The foot of a heretic will not enter these holy walls. Neither Lutherans nor Calvinists will celebrate their superstitious incantations in this retreat of worship and faith. I know not in truth whether the insolent enemy will come hither; but I know this, that if he does come, he will be forced to retreat in shame and disgrace, for a superior power will crush him, his malice will be broken, his power rubbed out, and his fortune will fail. Take consolation to your hearts. You are not looking for the last time on our Patroness: you will see her in still greater glory, and you will see new miracles. Take consolation, dry your tears, and strengthen yourselves in faith; for I tell you--and it is not I who speak, but the Spirit of God speaks through me--that the Swede will not enter these walls; grace will flow hence, and darkness will not put out the light, just as the night which is now coming will not hinder God's sun from rising to-morrow." It was just sunset. Dark shade had covered already the region about; but the church was gleaming red in the last rays of the sun. Seeing this, the people knelt around the walls, and consolation flowed into their hearts at once. Meanwhile the Angelus was sounded on the towers, and Kordetski began to sing, "The Angel of the Lord;" and after him whole crowds sang. The nobles and the soldiers standing on the walls joined their voices, the bells greater and smaller pealed in accompaniment, and it seemed that the whole mountain was singing and sounding like a gigantic organ to the four points of the earth. They sang till late; the prior blessed the departing on their way, and said,-- "Those men who have served in war, who know how to wield weapons and who feel courage in their hearts, may come in the morning to the cloister." "I have served, I was in the infantry, I will come!" cried numerous voices. And the throngs separated slowly. The night fell calmly. All woke next morning with a joyous cry: "The Swede is not here!" Still, all day workmen were bringing supplies which had been called for. An order went out also to those who had shops at the eastern walls of the cloister to bring their goods to the cloister; and in the cloister itself work did not cease on the walls. Secured especially were the so-called "passages;" that is, small openings in the walls, which were not gates, but which might serve in making sallies. Pan Zamoyski gave orders to bring beams, bricks, and dung, so at a given moment they could be easily closed from within. All day, too, wagons were coming in with supplies and provisions; there came also some noble families who were alarmed by the news of the impending attack of the enemy. About midday the men who had been sent out the preceding day to gather tidings came back; but no one had seen the Swedes nor even heard of them, except those who were stationed near Kjepitsi. Still, preparations were not abandoned in the cloister. By order of the prior, those of the townspeople and peasantry came who had formerly served in the infantry and who were accustomed to service. They were assigned to the command of Pan Mosinski, who was defending the northeastern bastion. Pan Zamoyski was occupied during the day either in disposing the men in their places, instructing each one what to do, or holding counsel with the fathers in the refectory. Kmita with joy in his heart looked at the military preparations, at the soldiers as they were mustered, at the cannon, at the stacks of muskets, spears, and hooks. That was his special element. In the midst of those terrible implements, in the midst of the urgent preparations and military feverishness, it was light, pleasant, and joyous for him. It was the easier and more joyous because he had made a general confession of his whole life, and beyond his own expectations had received absolution, for the prior took into account his intention, his sincere desire to reform, and this too, that he had already entered on the road. So Pan Andrei had freed himself from the burdens under which he was almost falling. Heavy penances had been imposed on him, and every day his back was bleeding under Soroka's braided lash; he was enjoined to practice obedience, and that was a penance still more difficult, for he had not obedience in his heart; on the contrary, he had pride and boastfulness. Finally, he was commanded to strengthen his reformation by virtuous deeds; but that was the easiest, he desired and asked for nothing more; his whole soul was tearing forth toward exploits, for by exploits he understood war and killing the Swedes from morning till evening without rest and without mercy. And just then, what a noble road was opening to him! To kill Swedes, not only in defence of the country, not only in defence of the king to whom he had sworn loyalty, but in defence of the Queen of the Angels,--that was a happiness beyond his merit. Whither had those times gone when he was standing as it were on the parting of the roads, asking himself whither he should go? where are those times in which he knew not what to begin, in which he was always meeting doubt, and in which he had begun to lose hope? And those men, those white monks, and that handful of peasants and nobles were preparing for serious defence, for a life-and-death struggle. That was the one spot of such character in the Commonwealth, and Pan Andrei had come just to that spot, as if led by some fortunate star. And he believed sacredly in victory, though the whole power of Sweden were to encircle those walls; hence in his heart he had prayer, joy, and gratitude. In this frame of mind he walked along the walls, and with a bright face examined, inspected, and saw that good was taking place. With the eye of experience, he saw at once from the preparations that they were made by men of experience, who would be able to show themselves when it came to the test. He wondered at the calmness of the prior, for whom he had conceived a deep reverence; he was astonished at the prudence of Zamoyski, and even of Pan Charnyetski; though he was displeased at him, he did not show a wry face. But that knight looked on Pan Andrei harshly, and meeting him on the wall the day after the return of the messengers, he said,-- "No Swedes are to be seen; and if they do not come, the dogs will eat your reputation." "If any harm should result from their coming to this holy place, then let the dogs eat my reputation." "You would rather not smell their powder. We know knights who have boots lined with hare's skin." Kmita dropped his eyes like a young girl. "You might rather let disputes rest," said he. "In what have I offended you? I have forgotten your offences against me, do you forget mine against you." "You called me a whipper-snapper," said Charnyetski, sharply. "I should like to know who you are. In what are the Babiniches better than the Charnyetskis? Are they a senatorial family too?" "My worthy sir," said Kmita, with a pleasant face, "if it were not for the obedience which was imposed on me in confession, if it were not for those blows which are given me every day on my back for my follies of past time, I would speak to you differently; but I am afraid of relapsing into previous offences. As to whether the Babiniches or the Charnyetskis are better, that will appear when the Swedes come." "And what kind of office do you think of getting? Do you suppose that they will make you one of the commanders?" Kmita grew serious. "You accused me of seeking profit; now you speak of office. Know that I have not come here for honor. I might have received higher honor elsewhere. I will remain a simple soldier, even under your command." "Why, for what reason?" "Because you do me injustice, and are ready to torment me." "H'm! There is no reason for that. It is very beautiful of you to be willing to remain a simple soldier when it is clear that you have wonderful daring, and obedience does not come easy. Would you like to fight?" "That will appear with the Swedes, as I have said." "But if the Swedes do not come?" "Then do you know what? we will go to look for them," said Kmita. "That pleases me!" cried Charnyetski. "We could assemble a nice party. Silesia is not far from this place, and at once soldiers could be collected. Officers, like my uncle, have promised, but nothing has been said about soldiers; a great number of them might be had at the first call." "And this would give a saving example to others!" cried Kmita, with warmth. "I have a handful of men too,--you ought to see them at work." "Good, good!" said Charnyetski, "as God is dear to me! let me have your face!" "And give yours," said Kmita. And without long thinking they rushed into each other's arms. Just then the prior was passing, and seeing what had happened he began to bless both. They told at once of what they had been talking. The prior merely smiled quietly, and went on saying to himself,-- "Health is returning to the sick." Toward evening preparations were finished, and the fortress was entirely ready for defence. Nothing was wanting,--neither supplies, nor powder, nor guns; only walls sufficiently strong and a more numerous garrison. Chenstohova, or rather Yasna Gora, though strengthened by nature and art, was counted among the smallest and weakest fortresses of the Commonwealth. But as to the garrison, as many people might have been had for the summoning as any one wished; but the prior purposely did not overburden the walls with men, so that supplies might hold out for a long time. Still there were those, especially among the German gunners, who were convinced that Chenstohova could not defend itself. Fools! they thought that it had no defence but its walls and its weapons; they knew not what hearts filled with faith are. The prior then fearing lest they might spread doubt among the people, dismissed them, save one who was esteemed a master in his art. That same day old Kyemlich and his sons came to Kmita with a request to be freed from service. Anger carried away Pan Andrei. "Dogs!" cried he, "you are ready to resign such a service and will not defend the Most Holy Lady.--Well, let it be so! You have had pay for your horses, you will receive the rest for your services soon." Here he took a purse from a casket, and threw it on the floor to them. "Here are your wages! You choose to seek plunder on that side of the walls,--to be robbers instead of defenders of Mary! Out of my sight! you are not worthy to be here! you are not worthy of Christian society! you are not worthy to die such a death as awaits you in this place! Out, out!" "We are not worthy," answered the old man, spreading his hands and bending his head, "we are not worthy to have our dull eyes look on the splendors of Yasna Gora, Fortress of heaven! Morning Star! Refuge of sinners! We are not worthy, not worthy." Here he bent so low that he bent double, and at the same time with his thin greedy hands, grown lean, seized the purse lying on the floor. "But outside the walls," said he, "we shall not cease to serve your grace. In sudden need, we will let you know everything; we will go where 'tis needful; we will do what is needful. Your grace will have ready servants outside the walls." "Be off!" repeated Pan Andrei. They went out bowing; for fear was choking them, and they were happy that the affair had ended thus. Toward evening they were no longer in the fortress. A dark and rainy night followed. It was November 8; an early winter was approaching, and together with waves of rain the first flakes of wet snow were flying to the ground. Silence was broken only by the prolonged voices of guards calling from bastion to bastion, "Hold watch!" and in the darkness slipped past here and there the white habit of the prior, Kordetski. Kmita slept not; he was on the walls with Charnyetski, with whom he spoke of his past campaigns. Kmita narrated the course of the war with Hovanski, evidently not mentioning the part which he had taken in it himself; and Charnyetski talked of the skirmishes with the Swedes at Pjedbor, at Jarnovtsi, and in the environs of Cracow, of which he boasted somewhat and said,-- "What was possible was done. You see, for every Swede whom I stretched out I made a knot on my sword-sash. I have six knots, and God grant me more! For this reason I wear the sword higher toward my shoulder. Soon the sash will be useless; but I'll not take out the knots, in every knot I will have a turquoise set; after the war I will hang up the sash as a votive offering. And have you one Swede on your conscience?" "No!" answered Kmita, with shame. "Not far from Sohachev I scattered a band, but they were robbers." "But you might make a great score of Northerners?" "I might do that." "With the Swedes it is harder, for rarely is there one of them who is not a wizard. They learned from the Finns how to use the black ones, and each Swede has two or three devils in his service, and there are some who have seven. These guard them terribly in time of battle; but if they come hither, the devils will help them in no way, for the power of devils can do nothing in a circle where the tower on Yasna Gora is visible. Have you heard of this?" Kmita made no answer; he turned his head to listen attentively. "They are coming!" said he, suddenly. "Who, in God's name? What do you say?" "I hear cavalry." "That is only wind and the beating of rain." "By the wounds of Christ! that is not the wind, but horses! I have a wonderfully sharp ear. A multitude of cavalry are marching, and are near already; but the wind drowns the noise. The time has come! The time has come!" The voice of Kmita roused the stiffened guards, dozing near at hand; but it had not yet ceased when below in the darkness was heard the piercing blare of trumpets, and they began to sound, prolonged, complaining, terrible. All sprang up from slumber in amazement, in fright, and asked one another,-- "Are not those the trumpets sounding to judgment in this gloomy night?" Then the monks, the soldiers, the nobles, began to come out on the square. The bell-ringers rushed to the bells; and soon they were all heard, the great, the smaller, and the small bells, as if for a fire, mingling their groans with the sounds of the trumpets, which had not ceased to play. Lighted matches were thrown into pitch-barrels, prepared of purpose and tied with chains; then they were drawn upward with cranks. Red light streamed over the base of the cliff, and then the people on Yasna Gora saw before them a party of mounted trumpeters,--those standing nearest with trumpets at their mouths, behind them long and deep ranks of mounted men with unfurled flags. The trumpeters played some time yet, as if they wished with those brazen sounds to express the whole power of the Swedes, and to terrify the monks altogether. At last they were silent; one of them separated from the rank, and waving a white kerchief, approached the gate. "In the name of his Royal Grace," cried the trumpeter, "the Most Serene King of the Swedes, Goths, and Vandals, Grand Prince of Finland, Esthonia, Karelia, Stettin, Pomerania, and the Kashubes, Prince of Rugen, Lord of Ingria, Wismark, and Bavaria, Count of the Rhenish Palatinate, open the gates." "Admit him," said Kordetski. They opened, but only a door in the gate. The horseman hesitated for a time; at last he came down from his horse, entered within the circle of the walls, and seeing a crowd of white habits, he asked,-- "Who among you is the superior?" "I am," answered Kordetski. The horseman gave him a letter with seals, and said: "Count Veyhard will wait for an answer at Saint Barbara's." The prior summoned at once the monks and nobles to the council-chamber to deliberate. On the way, Pan Charnyetski said to Kmita: "Come you also." "I will go, but only through curiosity," answered Pan Andrei; "for I have no work there. Henceforward I will not serve the Most Holy Lady with my mouth." When they had entered the council-chamber, the prior broke the seal and read as follows:-- "It is not a secret to you, worthy fathers, with what favorable mind and with what heart I have always looked on this holy place and your Congregation; also, how constantly I have surrounded you with my care and heaped benefits on you. Therefore I desire that you remain in the conviction that neither my inclination nor good wishes toward you have ceased in the present juncture. Not as an enemy, but as a friend, do I come this day. Put your cloister under my protection without fear, as the time and present circumstances demand. In this way you will find the calm which you desire, as well as safety. I promise you solemnly that the sacredness of the place will be inviolate; your property will not be destroyed. I will bear all expenses myself, and in fact add to your means. Consider also carefully how much you will profit if, satisfying me, you confide to me your cloister. Remember my advice, lest a greater misfortune reach you from the terrible General Miller, whose orders will be the more severe because he is a heretic and an enemy of the true faith. When he comes, you must yield to necessity and carry out his commands; and you will raise useless complaints with pain in your souls and your bodies, because you disregarded my mild counsel." The memory of recent benefactions of Count Veybard touched the monks greatly. There were some who had confidence in his good-will, and wished to see in his counsel the avoidance of future defeats and misfortunes. But no one raised a voice, waiting for what Kordetski would say. He was silent for a while, but his lips were moving in prayer; then he said,-- "Would a true friend draw near in the night-time and terrify with such a dreadful voice of trumpets and crooked horns the sleeping servants of God? Would he come at the head of those armed thousands who are now standing under these walls? Why did he not come with four or nine others, if he hoped for the reception given a welcome benefactor? What do those stern legions mean, if not a threat in case we refuse to yield up this cloister? Listen; remember, too, dearest brothers, that this enemy has never kept word nor oath nor safeguard. We too have that of the King of Sweden sent us spontaneously, in which is an express promise that the cloister shall remain free of occupation. And why are they standing now under its walls, trumpeting their own lie with fearful brazen sound? My dear brothers, let each man raise his heart to heaven, so that the Holy Ghost may enlighten it, and then let us consider what conscience dictates to each one touching the good of this holy retreat." Silence followed. Then Kmita's voice rose: "I heard in Krushyn Lisola ask him, 'Will you shake up their treasury for the monks?' to which the count, who now stands under these walls, answered, 'The Mother of God will not ask for the thalers in the priors' chests.' To-day this same Count Veyhard writes to you, reverend fathers, that he will bear all expenses himself, and besides add to your means. Consider his sincerity!" To this Father Myelko, one of the oldest in the assembly, and besides a former soldier, answered: "We live in poverty, and burn these torches before the altar of the Most Holy Lady in Her praise. But though we were to take them from the altar so as to purchase immunity for this holy place, where is our guarantee that the Swedes will respect the immunity, that they with sacrilegious hands will not remove offerings, sacred vestments, church furniture? Is it possible to trust liars?" "Without the Provincial to whom we owe obedience, we can do nothing," said Father Dobrosh. "War is not our affair," added Father Tomitski; "let us listen to what these knights will say who have taken refuge under the wings of the Mother of God in this cloister." All eyes were now turned to Pan Zamoyski, the oldest in years, the highest in dignity and office. He rose and spoke in the following words:-- "It is a question here of your fate, reverend fathers. Compare then the strength of the enemy with the resistance which you can place against him according to your force and will. What counsel can we, guests here, impart to you? But, reverend fathers, since you ask us what is to be done, I will answer: Until the inevitable forces us, let the thought of surrender be far away; for it is a shameful and an unworthy act to purchase with vile submission an uncertain peace from a faithless enemy. We have taken refuge here of our own will, with our wives and children; surrendering ourselves to the guardianship of the Most Holy Lady, we have determined with unswerving faith to live with you, and, if God shall so desire, to die with you. It is indeed better for us thus than to accept a shameful captivity or behold an affront to a holy place; of a certainty, that Mother of the Most High God who has inspired our breasts with a desire of defending Her against godless and sacrilegious heretics will second the pious endeavors of Her servants and support the cause of Her own defence." At this point Pan Zamoyski ceased speaking; all paid attention to his words, strengthening themselves with the meaning of them; and Kmita, without forethought, as was his wont, sprang forward and pressed the hand of the old man to his lips. The spectators were edified by this sight, and each one saw a good presage in that youthful ardor, and a desire to defend the cloister increased and seized all hearts. Meanwhile a new presage was given: outside the window of the refectory was heard unexpectedly the trembling and aged voice of Constantsia, the old beggar woman of the church, singing a pious hymn:-- "In vain dost thou threaten me, O savage Hussite, In vain dost thou summon devils' horns to thy aid, In vain dost thou burn, sparing no blood, For thou'lt not subdue me; Though thousands of pagans were now rushing hither, Though armies were flying against me on dragons, Neither sword, flame, nor men will avail thee, For I shall be victor!" "Here," said Kordetski, "is the presage which God sends through the lips of that old beggar woman. Let us defend ourselves, brothers; for in truth besieged people have never yet had such aids as will come to us." "We will give our lives willingly," said Charnyetski. "We will not trust faith-breakers! We will not trust heretics, nor those among Catholics who have accepted the service of the evil spirit!" shouted others, who did not wish to let those speak who opposed. It was decided to send two priests to Count Veyhard with information that the gates would remain closed and the besieged would defend themselves, to which action the safeguard of the king gave them a right. But in their own way the envoys were to beg the Count humbly to desist from his design, or at least to defer it for a time until the monks could ask permission of Father Teofil Bronyevski, Provincial of the order, who was then in Silesia. The envoys, Fathers Benedykt Yarachevski and Martseli Tomitski, passed out through the gate; the others awaited, in the refectory, their return with throbbing hearts, for terror had seized those monks, unused to war, when the hour had struck and the moment had come in which they were forced to choose between duty and the anger and vengeance of the enemy. But half an hour had barely elapsed when the two fathers appeared before the council. Their heads were hanging over their breasts, on their faces were pallor and grief. In silence they gave Kordetski a letter from Count Veyhard, which he took from their hands and read aloud. There were eight points of capitulation under which the count summoned the monks to surrender the cloister. When he had finished reading, the prior looked long in the faces of those assembled; at last he said with a solemn voice,-- "In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost! in the name of the Most Pure and Most Holy Mother of God! to the walls, beloved brethren!" "To the walls, to the walls!" was the answer of all. A little later a bright flame lighted the base of the cloister. Count Veyhard had given orders to burn the buildings connected with the church of Saint Barbara. The fire seizing the old houses grew with each moment. Soon pillars of red smoke reared themselves toward the sky; in the midst of these, fiery sparkling tongues were gleaming. Finally one conflagration was spreading in clouds. By the gleam of the fire, divisions of mounted soldiers could be seen passing quickly from place to place. The usual license of soldiers had begun. The horsemen drove out from the stables cattle, which running with fright, filled the air with plaintive bellowing; sheep, gathered in groups, pushed at random toward the fire. Many of the defenders saw for the first time the bloody face of war, and their hearts grew benumbed with terror at sight of people driven by soldiers and slashed with sabres, at sight of women dragged by the hair through the market-place. And by the bloody gleams of the fire all this was as visible as on the palm of the hand. Shouts, and even words, reached the ears of the besieged perfectly. Since the cannon of the cloister had not answered yet, horsemen sprang from their horses and approached the foot of the mountain itself, shaking their swords and muskets. Every moment some sturdy fellow, dressed in a yellow cavalry jacket, putting his hands around his mouth, jeered and threatened the besieged, who listened patiently, standing at their guns with lighted matches. Kmita was at the side of Charnyetski, just in front of the church, and saw everything clearly. On his cheeks a deep flush came out, his eyes were like two torches, and in his hand he held an excellent bow, which he had received as an inheritance from his father, who had captured it from a celebrated Agá at Hotsin. He heard the threats and invectives, and finally when a gigantic horseman had come under the cliff and was making an uproar he turned to Charnyetski,-- "As God is true, he is blaspheming against the Most Holy Lady. I understand German; he blasphemes dreadfully! I cannot endure it!" And he lowered the bow; but Charnyetski touched him with his hand,-- "God will punish him for his blasphemy," said he; "but Kordetski has not permitted us to shoot first, let them begin." He had barely spoken when the horseman raised his musket to his face; a shot thundered, and the ball, without reaching the walls, was lost somewhere among the crannies of the place. "We are free now!" cried Kmita. "Yes," answered Charnyetski. Kmita, as a true man of war, became calm in a moment. The horseman, shading his eyes with his hands, looked after the ball; Kmita drew the bow, ran his finger along the string till it twittered like a swallow, then he bent carefully and cried,-- "A corpse, a corpse!" At the same moment was hoard the whirring whistle of the terrible arrow; the horseman dropped his musket, raised both hands on high, threw up his head, and fell on his back. He struggled for a while like a fish snatched from water, and dug the earth with his feet; but soon he stretched himself and remained without motion. "That is one!" said Kmita. "Tie it in your sword-sash," answered Charnyetski. "A bell-rope would not be long enough, if God will permit!" cried Pan Andrei. A second horseman rushed to the dead man, wishing to see what had happened to him, or perhaps to take his purse, but the arrow whistled again, and the second fell on the breast of the first. Meanwhile the field-pieces which Count Veyhard had brought with him opened fire. He could not storm the fortress with them, neither could he think of capturing it, having only cavalry, but he gave command to open fire to terrify the priests. Still a beginning was made. Kordetski appeared at the side of Charnyetski, and with him came Father Dobrosh, who managed the cloister artillery in time of peace, and on holidays fired salutes; therefore he passed as an excellent gunner among the monks. The prior blessed the cannon and pointed them out to the priest, who rolled up his sleeves and began to aim at a point in a half circle between two buildings where a number of horsemen were raging, and among them an officer with a rapier in his hand. The priest aimed long, for his reputation was at stake. At last he took the match and touched the priming. Thunder shook the air and smoke covered the view; but after a while the wind bore it aside. In the space between the buildings there was not a single horseman left. A number were lying with their horses on the ground; the others had fled. The monks on the walls began to sing. The crash of buildings falling around Saint Barbara's church accompanied the songs. It grew darker, but vast swarms of sparks sent upward by the fall of timbers pierced the air. Trumpets were sounded again in the ranks of Count Veyhard's horsemen; but the sound from them receded. The fire was burning to the end. Darkness enveloped the foot of Yasna Gora. Here and there was heard the neighing of horses; but ever farther, ever weaker, the Count was withdrawing to Kjepitsi. Kordetski knelt on the walls. "Mary! Mother of the one God," said he, with a powerful voice, "bring it to pass that he whose attack comes after this man will retreat in like manner,--with shame and vain anger in his soul." While he prayed thus the clouds broke suddenly above his head, and the bright light of the moon whitened the towers, the walls, the kneeling prior and the burned ruins of buildings at Saint Barbara. CHAPTER XLI. The following day peace reigned at the foot of Yasna Gora; taking advantage of which, the monks were occupied the more earnestly in preparations for defence. The last repairs were made in the walls and the curtains, and still more appliances were prepared to serve in resisting assault. From Zdebov, Krovodja, Lgota, and Grabuvka a number of tens of peasants volunteered, who had served before in the land-infantry. These were accepted and placed among the defenders. Kordetski doubled and trebled himself. He performed divine service, sat in council, neglected the sick neither day nor night, and in the interval visited the walls, talked with nobles and villagers. Meanwhile he had in his face and whole person a calm of such character that one might almost say it belonged to stone statues only. Looking at his face, grown pale from watching, it might be thought that that man slept an easy and sweet sleep; but the calm resignation and almost joy burning in his eyes, his lips moving in prayer, announced that he watched, thought, prayed, and made offerings for all. From his spirit, with all its powers intent upon God, faith flowed in a calm and deep stream; all drank of this faith with full lips, and whoso had a sick soul was made well. Wherever his white habit was seen, there calm appeared on the faces of men, their eyes smiled, and their lips repeated: "Our kind father, our comforter, our defender, our good hope." They kissed his hands and his habit; he smiled like the dawn, and went farther, while around him, above and before him, went confidence and serenity. Still he did not neglect earthly means of salvation; the fathers who entered his cell found him, if not on his knees, over letters which he sent in every direction. He wrote to Wittemberg, the commander-in-chief at Cracow, imploring him to spare a sacred place; and to Yan Kazimir, who in Opola had made the last effort to save a thankless people; to Stefan Charnyetski, held by his own word as on a chain at Syevyej; to Count Veyhard; and to Colonel Sadovski, a Lutheran Cheh, who served under Miller, but who, having a noble soul, had endeavored to dissuade the fierce general from this attack on the cloister. Two conflicting councils were held before Miller. Count Veyhard, irritated by the stubbornness which he had met on November 8, used all efforts to incline the general to a campaign; he promised him untold treasures and profit, he asserted that in the whole world there were scarcely churches which could be compared with Chenstohova or Yasna Gora. Sadovski opposed in the following manner:-- "General," said he to Miller, "you who have taken so many famed fortresses that you have been justly named Poliorcetes by cities in Germany, know how much blood and time it may cost to take even the weakest fortress, if the assaulted are willing to resist unto death. "But the monks will not resist?" asked Miller. "I think just the contrary. The richer they are, the more stubborn a defence will they make; they are confident not only in the might of arms, but in the sacredness of the place, which the Catholic superstition of this whole country considers inviolable. It is enough to recall the German war; how often have monks given an example of daring and stubbornness, even in cases where soldiers themselves despaired of defence! It will take place this time too, all the more since the fortress is not so insignificant as Count Veyhard would like to consider it. It is situated on a rocky eminence difficult for the miner, the walls which, if they were not indeed in good condition, have been repaired before this time; and as to supplies of arms, powder, and provisions, a cloister so rich has inexhaustible supplies; fanaticism will animate their hearts and,--" "And do you think, gracious colonel, that they will force me to retreat?" "I do not think that, but I believe that we shall be forced to remain long under the walls, we shall have to send for larger guns than those we have here, and you must go to Prussia. It is necessary to calculate how much time we can devote to Chenstohova; for if his Grace the King of Sweden summons you from the siege for the more important affairs of Prussia, the monks will report without fail that you were forced to retreat. And then think, your grace, what a loss your fame as Poliorcetes will sustain, not to speak of the encouragement which the resisting will find in the whole country. Only [here Sadovski lowered his voice] let the mere intention of attacking this cloister be noised about, and it will make the worst impression. You do not know--for no foreigner, not a papist, can know--what Chenstohova is to this people. Very important for us are those nobles, who yielded so readily; those magnates; the quarter troops, who together with the hetmans, have come over to our side. Without them we could not have done what we have done. With their hands we have occupied half the country,--nay, more than half; but let one shot fall at Chenstohova,--who knows? perhaps not a Pole will remain with us. So great is the strength of superstition! A new most terrible war may flame up!" Miller recognized in his soul the justice of Sadovski's reasoning, all the more since he considered monks in general, and the Chenstohova monks in particular, wizards,--that Swedish general feared enchantments more than guns; still wishing to irritate, and maybe prolong the dispute, he said,-- "You speak as though you were prior of Chenstohova, or as if they had begun to pay you a ransom." Sadovski was a daring soldier and impulsive, and because he knew his value he was easily offended. "I will not say another word," answered he, haughtily. Miller in his turn was angry at the tone in which the above words were spoken. "I will make no further request of you," said he; "Count Veyhard is enough for me, he knows this country better." "We shall see!" responded Sadovski, and went out of the room. Count Veyhard in fact took his place. He brought a letter, which he had received from Varshytski with a request to leave the cloister in peace; but from this letter the obstinate man drew counsel directly opposed. "They beg," said he to Miller; "therefore they know that there will be no defence." A day later the expedition against Chenstohova was decided upon at Vyelunie. It was not kept a secret; therefore Father Yatsek Rudnitski, provost of the monastery at Vyelunie, was able to go in time to Chenstohova with the news. The poor monk did not admit for one moment that the people of Yasna Gora would defend themselves. He only wanted to forewarn them so that they might know what course to take and seek favorable conditions. In fact, the news bowed down the minds of the monks. In some souls courage weakened at once. But Kordetski strengthened it; he warmed the cold with the heat of his own heart, he promised days of miracle, he made the very presence of death agreeable, and changed them so much through the inspiration of his own soul that unwittingly they began to prepare for the attack as they were accustomed to prepare for great church festivals,--hence with joy and solemnity. The chiefs of the lay garrison, Zamoyski and Charnyetski, also made their final preparations. They burned all the shops which were nestled around the walls of the fortress and which might lighten an assault for the enemy; the buildings near the mountain were not spared either, so that for a whole day a ring of flame surrounded the fortress; but when there remained of the shops merely the ashes of timbers and planks, the guns of the cloister had before them empty space, unhedged by any obstacles. Their black jaws gaped freely into the distance, as if searching for the enemy impatiently and wishing to greet them at the earliest moment with ominous thunder. Meanwhile winter was drawing near with swift step. A sharp north wind was blowing, swamps were turned into lumps of earth; and in the mornings, water in shallow places was congealed into frail icy shells. The prior, Kordetski, making the rounds of the walls, rubbed his hands blue from cold, and said,-- "God will send frost to assist us. It will be hard to intrench batteries and dig mines; meanwhile you will take rest in warm rooms, and the north wind will soon disgust them with the siege." But for this very reason Miller was anxious to finish quickly. He had nine thousand troops, mostly infantry, and nineteen guns. He had also two squadrons of Polish cavalry, but he could not count on them; first, because he could not employ the cavalry in taking the lofty fortress; and second, because the men went unwillingly, and gave notice beforehand that they would take no part in the struggles. They went rather to protect the fortress, in case of capture, against the greed of the conquerors,--so at least the colonels declared to the soldiers; they went finally because the Swedes commanded, for the whole army of the country was in their camp and had to obey. From Vyelunie to Chenstohova the road is short. On November 18 the siege was to begin. But the Swedish general calculated that it would not last above a couple of days, and that he would take the precious fortress by negotiation. Meanwhile Kordetski, the prior, prepared the souls of men. They went to divine services as on a great and joyous festival; and had it not been for the unquiet and pallor of some faces, it might have been supposed that that was a joyous and solemn thanksgiving. The prior himself celebrated Mass; all the bells were ringing. The services did not end with Mass, for a grand procession went out on the walls. The prior, bearing the Most Holy Sacrament, was supported under the arms by Zamoyski and Pan Pyotr Charnyetski. In front walked young boys in robes, they carried censers with myrrh and incense; before and after the baldachin marched ranks of white-habited monks, with eyes and heads raised toward heaven,--men of various years, from decrepit old men to tender youths who had just begun their novitiate. The yellow flames of the candles quivered in the air; but the monks moved onward and sang, buried altogether in God, as if mindful of naught else in the world. Behind them appeared the shaven temples of nobles, the tearful faces of women, but calm beneath their tears, inspired with faith and trust; peasants marched also, long-haired, wearing coarse coats, resembling the primitive Christians; little children, maidens, and boys mingled with the throng, joining their thin voices with the general chorus. And God heard that pouring forth of hearts, that fleeing from earthly oppression to the single defence of His wings. The wind went down, the air grew calm, the heavens became azure, and the autumnal sun poured a mild pale golden, but still warm, light on the earth. The procession passed once around the walls, but did not return, did not disperse,--went farther. Rays from the monstrance fell on the face of the prior, and that face seemed golden and radiant from their light. Kordetski kept his eyes closed, and on his lips was a smile not of earth,--a smile of happiness, of sweetness, of exaltation; his soul was in heaven, in brightness, in endless delight, in unbroken calm. But as if taking orders from above, and forgetting not this earthly church, the men, the fortress, and that hour then impending, he halted at moments, opened his eyes, elevated the monstrance, and gave blessing. He blessed the people, the army, the squadrons, blooming like flowers and gleaming like a rainbow; he blessed the walls, and that eminence which looked down and around upon the land; he blessed the cannon, the guns, smaller and greater, the balls, iron and lead, the vessels with powder, the planking at the cannon, the piles of harsh implements used to repel the assaults of the enemy; he blessed the armies lying at a distance; he blessed the north, the south, the east, and the west, as if to cover that whole region, that whole land, with the power of God. It had struck two in the afternoon, the procession was still on the walls; but meanwhile on those edges, where the sky and the earth seemed to touch, a bluish haze was spread out, and just in that haze something began to shimmer, to move,--forms of some kind were creeping. At first dim, unfolding gradually, these forms became every moment more distinct. A cry was heard suddenly at the end of the procession,-- "The Swedes are coming; the Swedes are coming!" Then silence fell, as if hearts and tongues had grown numb; bells only continued to sound. But in the stillness the voice of the prior thundered, far reaching though calm,-- "Brothers, let us rejoice! the hour of victories and miracles is drawing near!" And a moment later he exclaimed: "Under Thy protection we take refuge. Our Mother, Our Lady, Our Queen!" Meanwhile the Swedish cloud had changed into an immeasurable serpent, which was crawling forward ever nearer. Its terrible curves were visible. It twisted, uncoiled; at one time it glittered under the light with its gleaming steel scales, fit another it grew dark, crawled, crawled on, emerged from the distance. Soon eyes looking from the walls could distinguish everything in detail. In advance came the cavalry, after it infantry in quadrangles; each regiment formed a long rectangular body, over which rose a smaller one formed of erect spears; farther on, behind, after the infantry, came cannon with jaws turned rearward and inclined to the earth. Their slowly moving barrels, black or yellowish, shone with evil omen in the sun; behind them clattered over the uneven road the powder-boxes and the endless row of wagons with tents and every manner of military appliance. Dreadful but beautiful was that advance of a regular army, which moved before the eyes of the people on Yasna Gora, as if to terrify them. A little later the cavalry separated from the rest of the army and approached at a trot, trembling like waves moved by wind. They broke soon into a number of greater and smaller parties. Some pushed toward the fortress; some in the twinkle of an eye scattered through the neighboring villages in pursuit of plunder; others began to ride around the fortress, to examine the walls, study the locality, occupy the buildings which were nearest. Single horsemen flew back continually as fast as a horse could gallop from the larger parties to the deep divisions of infantry to inform the officers where they might dispose themselves. The tramp and neighing of horses, the shouts, the exclamations, the murmur of thousands of voices, and the dull thump of cannon, came distinctly to the ears of the besieged, who till that moment were standing quietly on the wall, as if for a spectacle, looking with astonished eyes at that great movement and deploying of the enemy's troops. At last the infantry regiments arrived and began to wander around the fortress, seeking places best fitted for fortification. Now they struck, on Chenstohovka, an estate near the cloister, in which there were no troops, only peasants living in huts. A regiment of Finns, who had come first, fell savagely on the defenceless peasants. They pulled them out of the huts by the hair, and simply cut down those who resisted; the rest of the people driven from the manor-house were pursued by cavalry and scattered to the four winds. A messenger was sent with Miller's summons to surrender; he had already sounded his trumpet before the gates of the church; but the defenders, at sight of the slaughter and cruelty of the soldiers in Chenstohova, answered with cannon fire. Now, when the people of the town had been driven out of all the nearer buildings, and the Swedes had disposed themselves therein, it behooved to destroy them with all haste, so that the enemy might not injure the cloister under cover of those buildings. Therefore the walls of the cloister began to smoke all around like the sides of a ship surrounded by a storm and by robbers. The roar of cannon shook the air till the walls of the cloister were trembling, and glass in the windows of the church and other buildings was rattling. Fiery balls in the form of whitish cloudlets describing ill-omened arcs fell on the Swedish places of refuge, they broke rafters, roofs, walls; and columns of smoke were soon rising from the places into which balls had descended. Conflagration had enwrapped the buildings. Barely had the Swedish regiments taken possession when they fled from the new quarters with all breath, and, uncertain of their positions, hurried about in various directions. Disorder began to creep among them; they removed the cannon not yet mounted, so as to save them from being struck. Miller was amazed; he had not expected such a reception, nor such gunners on Yasna Gora. Meanwhile night came, and since he needed to bring the army into order, he sent a trumpeter with a request for a cessation. The fathers agreed to that readily. In the morning, however, they burned another enormous storehouse with great supplies of provisions, in which building the Westland regiment had taken its quarters. The fire caught the building so quickly, the shots fell, one after another, with such precision that the Westlanders were unable to carry off their muskets or ammunition, which exploded, hurling far around burning brands. The Swedes did not sleep that night; they made preparations, entrenchments for the guns, filled baskets with earth, formed a camp. The soldiers, though trained during so many years in so many battles, and by nature valiant and enduring, did not wait for the following day with joy. The first day had brought defeat. The cannon of the cloister caused such loss among the Swedes that the oldest warriors were confounded, attributing this to careless approach to the fortress, and to going too near the walls. But the next day, even should it bring victory, did not promise glory; for what was the capture of an inconsiderable fortress and a cloister to the conquerors of so many famed cities, a hundred times better fortified? The greed of rich plunder alone upheld their willingness, but that oppressive alarm with which the allied Polish squadrons had approached this greatly renowned Yasna Gora was imparted in a mysterious way to the Swedes. Some of them trembled at the thought of sacrilege, while others feared something indefinite, which they could not explain, and which was known under the general name of enchantment. Miller himself believed in it; why should not the soldiers believe? It was noticed that when Miller was approaching the church of Saint Barbara, the horse under him slipped suddenly, started back, distended his nostrils, pricked up his ears, snorted with fright, and refused to advance. The old general showed no personal alarm; still the next day he assigned that place to the Prince of Hesse, and marched himself with the heavier guns to the northern side of the cloister, toward the village of Chenstohova; there he made intrenchments during the night, so as to attack in the morning. Barely had light begun to gleam in the sky when heavy artillery firing began; but this time the Swedish guns opened first. The enemy did not think of making a breach in the walls at once, so as to rush through it to storm; he wanted only to terrify, to cover the church and the cloister with balls, to set fire, to dismount cannon, to kill people, to spread alarm. A procession went out again on the walls of the fortress, for nothing strengthened the combatants like a view of the Holy Sacrament, and the monks marching forward with it calmly. The guns of the cloister answered,--thunder for thunder, lightning for lightning, so far as the defenders were able, so far as breath held out in the breast. The very earth seemed to tremble in its foundations. A sea of smoke stretched over the cloister and the church. What moments, what sights for men who had never in their lives beheld the bloody face of war! and there were many such in the fortress. That unbroken roar, lightnings, smoke, the howling of balls tearing the air, the terrible hiss of bombs, the clatter of shot on the pavement, the dull blows against the wall, the sound of breaking windows, the explosions of bursting bombs, the whistling of fragments of them, the breaking and cracking of timbers; chaos, annihilation, hell! In those hours there was not a moment of rest nor cessation; breasts half-suffocated with smoke, every moment new flocks of cannon-balls; and amid the confusion shrill voices in various parts of the fortress, the church, and the cloister, were crying,-- "It is on fire! water, water!" "To the roof with barefooted men! more cloth!" "Aim the cannon higher!--higher!--aim at the centre of the buildings--fire!" About noon the work of death increased still more. It might seem that, if the smoke were to roll away, the Swedes would see only a pile of balls and bombs in place of the cloister. A cloud of lime, struck from the walls by the cannon, rose up, and mingling with the smoke, hid the light. Priests went out with relics to exorcise these clouds, lest they might hinder defence. The thunders of cannon were interrupted, but were as frequent as the breath gulps of a panting dragon. Suddenly on a tower, newly built after a fire of the previous year, trumpets began to sound forth the glorious music of a church hymn. That music flowed down through the air and was heard round about, was heard everywhere, as far as the batteries of the Swedes. The sound of the trumpets was accompanied by the voices of people, and amidst the bellowing and whistling, amidst the shouts, the rattle and thunder of muskets, were heard the words,-- "Mother of God, Virgin, Glorified by God Mary!" Here a number of bombs burst; the cracking of rafters and beams, and then the shout: "Water!" struck the ear, and again the song flowed on in calmness. "From Thy Son the Lord Send down to us, win for us, A time of bread, a time of plenty." Kmita, who was standing on the wall at the cannon, opposite the village of Chenstohova, in which Miller's quarters were, and whence the greatest fire came, pushed away a less accurate cannoneer to begin work himself; and worked so well that soon, though it was in November and the day cold, he threw off his fox-skin coat, threw off his vest, and toiled in his trousers and shirt. The hearts grew in people unacquainted with war, at sight of this soldier blood and bone, to whom all that was passing--that bellowing of cannon, those flocks of balls, that destruction and death--seemed as ordinary an element as fire to a salamander. His brow was wrinkled, there was fire in his eyes, a flush on his cheeks, and a species of wild joy in his face. Every moment he bent to the cannon, altogether occupied with the aiming, altogether given to the battle, thinking of naught else; he aimed, lowered, raised, at last cried, "Fire!" and when Soroka touched the match, he ran to the opening and called out from time to time,-- "One by the side of the other!" His eagle eyes penetrated through smoke and dust, and when among the buildings he saw somewhere a dense mass of caps or helmets, straightway he crushed it with an accurate shot, as if with a thunderbolt. At times he burst out into laughter when he had caused greater or less destruction. The balls flew over him and at his side,--he did not look at anything; suddenly, after a shot he sprang to the opening, fixed his eyes in the distance, and cried,-- "The gun is dismounted! Only three pieces are playing there now!" He did not rest until midday. Sweat was pouring from him, his shirt was steaming; his face was blackened with soot, and his eyes glittering. Pyotr Charnyetski himself wondered at his aim, and said to him repeatedly,-- "War is nothing new to you; that is clear at a glance. Where have you learned it so well?" At three o'clock in the afternoon a second Swedish gun was silent, dismounted by Kmita's accurate aim. They drew out the remaining guns from the intrenchments about an hour later. Evidently the Swedes saw that the position was untenable. Kmita drew a deep breath. "Rest!" said Charnyetski to him. "Well! I wish to eat something. Soroka, give me what you have at hand." The old sergeant bestirred himself quickly. He brought some gorailka in a tin cup and some dried fish. Kmita began to eat eagerly, raising his eyes from time to time and looking at the bombs flying over at no great distance, just as if he were looking at crows. But still they flew in considerable number, not from Chenstohova, but from the opposite side; namely, all those which passed over the cloister and the church. "They have poor gunners, they point too high," said Pan Andrei, without ceasing to eat; "see, they all go over us, and they are aimed at us." A young monk heard these words,--a boy of seventeen years, who had just entered his novitiate. He was the first always to bring balls for loading, and he did not leave his place though every vein in him was trembling from fear, for he saw war for the first time. Kmita made an indescribable impression on him by his calmness, and hearing his words he took refuge near him with an involuntary movement as if wishing to seek protection and safety under the wings of that strength. "Can they reach us from that side?" asked he. "Why not?" answered Kmita. "And why, my dear brother, are you afraid?" "I thought," answered the trembling youth, "that war was terrible; but I did not think it was so terrible." "Not every bullet kills, or there would not be men in the world, there would not be mothers enough to give birth to them." "I have the greatest fear of those fiery balls, those bombs. Why do they burst with such noise? Mother of God, save us! and they wound people so terribly." "I will explain to you, and you will discover by experience, young father. That ball is iron, and inside it is loaded with powder. In one place there is an opening rather small, in which is a fuse of paper or sometimes of wood." "Jesus of Nazareth! is there a fuse in it?" "There is; and in the fuse some tow steeped in sulphur, which catches fire when the gun is discharged. Then the ball should fall with the fuse toward the ground, so as to drive it into the middle; then the fire reaches the powder and the ball bursts. But many balls do not fall on the fuse; that does not matter, however, for when the fire burns to the end, the explosion comes." On a sudden Kmita stretched out his hand and cried, "See, see! you have an experiment." "Jesus! Mary! Joseph!" cried the young brother, at sight of the coming bomb. The bomb fell on the square that moment, and snarling and rushing along began to bound on the pavement, dragging behind a small blue smoke, turned once more, and rolling to the foot of the wall on which they were sitting, fell into a pile of wet sand, which it scattered high to the battlement, and losing its power altogether, remained without motion. Luckily it had fallen with the fuse up; but the sulphur was not quenched, for the smoke rose at once. "To the ground! on your faces!" frightened voices began to shout. "To the ground, to the ground!" But Kmita at the same moment sprang to the pile of sand, with a lightning movement of his hand caught the fuse, plucked it, pulled it out, and raising his hand with the burning sulphur cried,-- "Rise up! It is just as if you had pulled the teeth out of a dog! It could not kill a fly now." When he had said this, he kicked the bomb, those present grew numb at sight of this deed, which surpassed human daring, and for a certain time no one made bold to speak; at last Charnyetski exclaimed,-- "You are a madman! If that had burst, it would have turned you into powder!" Pan Andrei laughed so heartily that his teeth glittered. "But do we not need powder? You could have loaded a gun with me, and after my death I could have done harm to the Swedes." "May the bullets strike you! Where is your fear?" The young monk placed his hands together and looked with mute homage on Kmita. But the deed was also seen by Kordotski, who was approaching on that side. He came up, took Pan Andrei with his hands by the head, and then made the sign of the cross on him. "Such men as you will not surrender Yasna Gora; but I forbid exposing a needful life to danger. When the firing is over and the enemy leave the field, take that bomb, pour the powder out of it, and bear it to the Most Holy Lady. That gift will be dearer to Her than those pearls and bright stones which you offered Her." "Father," answered Kmita, deeply moved, "what is there great in that? For the Most Holy Lady I would--Oh! words do not rise in my mouth--I would go to torments, to death. I know not what I would not do to serve Her." Tears glistened in the eyes of Pan Andrei, and the prior said,-- "Go to Her with those tears before they dry. Her favor will flow to thee, calm thee, comfort thee, adorn thee with glory and honor." When he had said this he took him by the arm and led him to the church. Pan Charnyetski looked after them for a time. At last he said,-- "I have seen many daring men in my life, who counted no danger to themselves; but this Lithuanian is either the D----" Here Charnyetski closed his mouth with his hand, so not to speak a foul name in the holy place. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 1: Means "On the sea."] [Footnote 2: Pereyaslav will be remembered by the readers of FIRE AND SWORD as the place where the Polish commissioners with Adam Kisel brought the baton and banner from the king to Hmelnitski.] [Footnote 3: "Two-bridges." the Bipont of page 523, Vol. II.] [Footnote 4: This word means technically "villages inhabited by petty nobles:" etymologically it means "behind walls,"--hence, "beyond or outside the walls," as above.] [Footnote 5: This war was carried on by the Tsar Alexis, father of Peter the Great and son of Michael Romanoff. Set Introduction.] [Footnote 6: The speech of the main body of the people in Jmud is Lithuanian to this day.] [Footnote 7: Lithuanian forms, with nominative ending in _s_ and _as_.] [Footnote 8: The diminutive or more familiar form for Aleksandra. It is used frequently in this book.] [Footnote 9: The diminutive of Andrei.] [Footnote 10: A barber in those parts at that time did duty for a surgeon.] [Footnote 11: Marysia and Maryska are both diminutives of Marya = Maria or Mary, and are used without distinction by the author. There are in Polish eight or ten other variants of the same name.] [Footnote 12: It is the custom to put a watermelon in the carriage of an undesirable suitor,--a refusal without words.] [Footnote 13: Deest = lacking.] [Footnote 14: The name Grudzinski is derived from gruda = clod.] [Footnote 15: See Daniel v. 25-28.] [Footnote 16: Helena.] [Footnote 17: The war against Russia.] [Footnote 18: This Polish saying of striking out a wedge with a wedge means here, of course, to cure one love with another.] [Footnote 19: "Others" here = "Russians."] [Footnote 20: Prince Yeremi Vishnyevetski.] [Footnote 21: Volodyovski was from the Ukraine.] [Footnote 22: Charnyetski was pock-marked.] [Footnote 23: The Russians.] [Footnote 24: Saturday.] [Footnote 25: Friday.] [Footnote 26: Russians.] [Footnote 27: Tsargrad = Tsar's city, Constantinople.] [Footnote 28: "A boat and a carriage" means you can go by either,--that is, by land or water: you have your choice.] [Footnote 29: So called because they wore shoes made from the inner bark of basswood or linden trees.] [Footnote 30: Bright Mountain.] END OF VOL. I. 
6566	----	[Illustration: DR. MIDDLETON.] THADDEUS OF WARSAW BY JANE PORTER AUTHOR OF "THE SCOTTISH CHIEFS," ETC. "Loin d'aimer la guerre, il l'abhorre; En triomphant même il déplore Les désastres qu'elle produit Et, couronné par la victoire, II gémit de sa propre gloire. Si la paix n'en est pas le fruit." A NEW AND REVISED EDITION WITH NEW NOTES, ETC., BY THE AUTHOR THE AUTHOR, TO HER FRIENDLY READERS. Written for the new edition of "Thaddeus of Warsaw," forming one of the series called "The Standard Novels." To such readers alone who, by the sympathy of a social taste, fall in with any blameless fashion of the day, and, from an amiable interest, also, in whatever may chance to afford them innocent pleasure, would fain know something more about an author whose works have brought them that gratification than the cold letter of a mere literary preface usually tells: to such readers this--something of an egotistical--epistle is addressed. For, in beginning the republication of a regular series of the novels, or, as they have been more properly called, biographical romances, of which I have been the author, it has been considered desirable to make certain additions to each work, in the form of a few introductory pages and scattered notes, illustrative of the origin of the tale, of the historical events referred to in it, and of the actually living characters who constitute its personages, with some account, also, of the really local scenery described; thus giving, it is thought, a double zest to the entertainment of the reader, by bringing him into a previous acquaintance with the persons he is to meet in the book, and making him agreeably familiar with the country through which he is to travel in their company. Indeed, the social taste of the times has lately fully shown how advantageous the like conversational disclosures have proved to the recent republications of the celebrated "Waverley Novels," by the chief of novel-writers; and in the new series of the admirable naval tales by the distinguished American novelist, both of whom paid to the mother- country the gratifying tribute of making it their birthplace. Such evidences in favor of an argument could not fail to persuade me to undertake the desired elucidating task; feeling, indeed, particularly pleased to adopt, in my turn, a successful example from the once Great Unknown--now the not less great avowed author of the Waverley Novels, in the person of Sir Walter Scott, who did me the honor to adopt the style or class of novel of which "Thaddeus of Warsaw" was the first,--a class which, uniting the personages and facts of real history or biography with a combining and illustrative machinery of the imagination, formed a new species of writing in that day, and to which Madame de Staël and others have given the appellation of "an epic in prose." The day of its appearance is now pretty far back: for "Thaddeus of Warsaw" (a tale founded on Polish heroism) and the "Scottish Chiefs" (a romance grounded on Scottish heroism) were both published in England, and translated into various languages abroad, many years before the literary wonder of Scotland gave to the world his transcendent story of Waverley, forming a most impressive historical picture of the last struggle of the papist, but gallant, branch of the Stuarts for the British throne. [Footnote: It was on the publication of these, her first two works, in the German language that the authoress was honored with being made a lady of the Chapter of St. Joachim, and received the gold cross of the order from Wirtemburg.] "Thaddeus of Warsaw" being the first essay, in the form of such an association between fact and fancy, was published by its author with a natural apprehension of its reception by the critical part of the public. She had not, indeed, written it with any view to publication, but from an almost resistless impulse to embody the ideas and impressions with which her heart and mind were then full. It was written in her earliest youth; dictated by a fervent sympathy with calamities which had scarcely ceased to exist, and which her eager pen sought to portray; and it was given to the world, or rather to those who might feel with her, with all the simple-hearted enthusiasm which saw no impediment when a tale of virtue or of pity was to be told. In looking back through the avenue of life to that time, what events have occurred, public and private, to the countries and to the individuals named in that tale! to persons of even as lofty names and excellences, of our own and other lands, who were mutually affected with me in admiration and regret for the virtues and the sorrows described! In sitting down now to my retrospective task, I find myself writing this, my second preface to the story of "Thaddeus of Warsaw," just thirty years from the date of its first publication. Then, I wrote when the struggle for the birthright independence of Poland was no more; when she lay in her ashes, and her heroes in their wounds; when the pall of death spread over the whole country, and her widows and orphans travelled afar. In the days of my almost childhood,--that is, eight years before I dipped my pen in their tears,--I remember seeing many of those hapless refugees wandering about St. James's Park. They had sad companions in the like miseries, though from different enemies, in the emigrants from France; and memory can never forget the variety of wretched yet noble-looking visages I then contemplated in the daily walks which my mother's own little family group were accustomed to take there. One person, a gaunt figure, with melancholy and bravery stamped on his emaciated features, is often present to the recollection of us all. He was clad in a threadbare blue uniform great coat, with a black stock, a rusty old hat, pulled rather over his eyes; his hands without gloves; but his aspect was that of a perfect gentleman, and his step that of a military man. We saw him constantly at one hour, in the middle walk of the Mall, and always alone; never looking to the right nor to the left, but straight on; with an unmoving countenance, and a pace which told that his thoughts were those of a homeless and hopeless man--hopeless, at least, of all that life might bring him. On, on he went to the end of the Mall; turned again, and on again; and so he continued to do always, as long as we remained spectators of his solitary walk: once, indeed, we saw him crossing into St. Martin's Lane. Nobody seemed to know him, for he spoke to none; and no person ever addressed him, though many, like ourselves, looked at him, and stopped in the path to gaze after him. We often longed to be rich, to follow him wherever his wretched abode might have been, and then silently to send comforts to him from hands he knew not of. We used to call him, when speaking of him to ourselves, _Il Penseroso;_ and by that name we yet not unfrequently talk of him to each other, and never without recurrence to the very painful, because unavailing, sympathy we then felt for that apparently friendless man. Such sympathy is, indeed, right; for it is one of the secondary means by which Providence conducts the stream of his mercies to those who need the succor of their fellow-creatures; and we cannot doubt that, though the agency of such Providence was not to be in our hands, there were those who had both the will and the power given, and did not, like ourselves, turn and pity that interesting emigrant in vain. Some time after this, General Kosciusko, the justly celebrated hero of Poland, came to England, on his way to the United States; having been released from his close imprisonment in Russia, and in the noblest manner, too, by the Emperor Paul, immediately on his accession to the throne. His arrival caused a great sensation in London, and many of the first characters of the times pressed forward to pay their respects to such real patriotic virtue in its adversity. An old friend of my family was amongst them; his own warm heart encouraging the enthusiasm of ours, he took my brother Robert to visit the Polish veteran, then lodging at Sablonière's Hotel, in Leicester Square. My brother, on his return to us, described him as a noble looking man, though not at all handsome, lying upon a couch in a very enfeebled state, from the effects of numerous wounds he had received in his breast by the Cossacks' lances after his fall, having been previously overthrown by a sabre stroke on his head. His voice, in consequence of the induced internal weakness, was very low, and his speaking always with resting intervals. He wore a black bandage across his forehead, which covered a deep wound there; and, indeed, his whole figure bore marks of long suffering. Our friend introduced my brother to him by name, and as "a boy emulous of seeing and following noble examples." Kosciusko took him kindly by the hand, and spoke to him words of generous encouragement, in whatever path of virtuous ambition he might take. They never have been forgotten. Is it, then, to be wondered at, combining the mute distress I had so often contemplated in other victims of similar misfortunes with the magnanimous object then described to me by my brother, that the story of heroism my young imagination should think of embodying into shape should be founded on the actual scenes of Kosciusko's sufferings, and moulded out of his virtues! To have made him the ostensible hero of the tale, would have suited neither the modesty of his feelings nor the humbleness of my own expectation of telling it as I wished. I therefore took a younger and less pretending agent, in the personification of a descendant of the great John Sobieski. But it was, as I have already said, some years after the partition of Poland that I wrote, and gave for publication, my historical romance on that catastrophe. It was finished amid a circle of friends well calculated to fan the flame which had inspired its commencement some of the leading heroes of the British army just returned from the victorious fields of Alexandria and St. Jean d'Acre; and, seated in my brother's little study, with the war-dyed coat in which the veteran Abercrombie breathed his last grateful sigh, while, like Wolfe, he gazed on the boasted invincible standard of the enemy, brought to him by a British soldier,--with this trophy of our own native valor on one side of me, and on the other the bullet-torn vest of another English commander of as many battles,--but who, having survived to enjoy his fame, I do not name here,--I put my last stroke to the first campaigns of Thaddeus Sobieski. When the work was finished, some of the persons near me urged its being published. But I argued, in opposition to the wish, its different construction to all other novels or romances which had gone before it, from Richardson's time-honored domestic novels to the penetrating feeling in similar scenes by the pen of Henry Mackenzie; and again, Charlotte Smith's more recent, elegant, but very sentimental love stories. But the most formidable of all were the wildly interesting romances of Anne Radcliffe, whose magical wonders and mysteries were then the ruling style of the day. I urged, how could any one expect that the admiring readers of such works could consider my simply-told biographical legend of Poland anything better than a dull union between real history and a matter-of-fact imagination? Arguments were found to answer all this; and being excited by the feelings which had dictated my little work, and encouraged by the corresponding characters with whom I daily associated, I ventured the essay. However, I had not read the sage romances of our older times without turning to some account the lessons they taught to adventurous personages of either sex; showing that even the boldest knight never made a new sally without consecrating his shield with some impress of acknowledged reverence. In like manner, when I entered the field with my modern romance of Thaddeus of Warsaw, I inscribed the first page with the name of the hero of Acre. That dedication will be found through all its successive editions, still in front of the title-page; and immediately following it is a second inscription, added, in after years, to the memory of the magnanimous patriot and exemplary man, Thaddeus Kosciusko, who had first filled me with ambition to write the tale, and who died in Switzerland, A. D. 1817, fuller of glory than of years. Yet, if life be measured by its vicissitudes and its virtues, we may justly say, "he was gathered in his ripeness." After his visit to old friends in the United States,--where, in his youth, he had learned the art of war, and the science of a noble, unselfish independence, from the marvel of modern times, General Washington,--Kosciusko returned to Europe, and abode a while in France, but not in its capital. He lived deeply retired, gradually restoring his shattered frame to some degree of health by the peace of a resigned mind and the occupation of rural employments. Circumstances led him to Switzerland; and the country of William Tell, and of simple Christian fellowship, could not but soon be found peculiarly congenial to his spirit, long turned away from the pageants and the pomp of this world. In his span he had had all, either in his grasp or proffered to him. For when nothing remained of all his military glory and his patriotic sacrifices but a yet existing fame, and a conscious sense within him of duty performed, he was content to "eat his crust," with that inheritance alone; and he refused, though with an answering magnanimity of acknowledgment, a valuable property offered to him by the Emperor of Russia, as a free gift from a generous enemy, esteeming his proved, disinterested virtues. He also declined the yet more dazzling present of a crown from the then master of the continent, who would have set him on the throne of Poland--but, of a truth, under the vassalage of the Emperor of the French! Kosciusko was not to be consoled for Poland by riches bestowed on himself, nor betrayed into compromising her birthright of national independence by the casuistry that would have made his parental sceptre the instrument of a foreign domination. Having such a theme as his name, and the heroes his co-patriots, the romance of "Thaddeus of Warsaw" was no sooner published than it overcame the novelty of its construction, and became universally popular. Nor was it very long before it fell into General Kosciusko's hands, though then in a distant land; and he kindly and promptly lost no time in letting the author know his approbation of the narrative, though qualified with several modest expressions respecting himself. From that period she enjoyed many treasured marks of his esteem; and she will add, though with a sad satisfaction, that amongst her several relics of the Great Departed who have honored her with regard, she possesses, most dearly prized, a medal of Kosciusko and a lock of his hair. About the same time she received a most incontestable proof of the accuracy of her story from the lips of General Gardiner, the last British minister to the court of Stanislaus Augustus. On his reading the book, he was so sure that the facts it represented could only have been learned on the spot, that he expressed his surprise to several persons that the author of the work, an English lady, could have been at Warsaw during all the troubles there and he not know it. On his repeating this observation to the late Duke of Roxburgh, his grace's sister-in-law, who happened to overhear what was said, and knew the writer, answered him by saying, "The author has never been in Poland." "Impossible!" replied the general; "no one could describe the scenes and occurrences there, in the manner it is done in that book, without having been an eyewitness." The lady, however, convinced the general of the fact being otherwise, by assuring him, from her own personal knowledge, that the author of "Thaddeus of Warsaw" was a mere school-girl in England at the time of the events of the story. How, then, it has often been asked, did she obtain such accurate information with regard to those events? and how acquire her familiar acquaintance with the palaces and persons she represents in the work? The answer is short. By close questioning every person that came in her way that knew anything about the object of her interest; and there were many brave hearts and indignant lips ready to open with the sad yet noble tale. Thus every illustrious individual she wished to bring into her narrative gradually grew upon her knowledge, till she became as well acquainted with all her desired personages as if they were actually present with her; for she knew their minds and their actions; and these compose the man. The features of the country, also, were learned from persons who had trodden the spots she describes: and that they were indeed correct pictures of their homes and war-fields, the tears and bursting enthusiasm of many of Poland's long expatriated sons have more than once borne testimony to her. As one instance, out of the number I might repeat, of the inextinguishable love of those noble wanderers from their native country, I shall subjoin the copy of a letter addressed to me by one of those gallant men, then holding a high military post in a foreign service, and who, I afterwards learned, was of the family of Kosciusko, whose portrait he sent to me: for the letter was accompanied with a curiously-wrought ring of pure gold, containing a likeness of that hero. The letter was in French, and I transcribe it literally in the words of the writer:-- "Madame! "Un inconnu ose addresser la parole à l'auteur immortel de Thaddeus de Warsaw; attaché par tent de liens à l'héros que vous avez chanté, je m'enhardis à distraire pour un moment vos nobles veilles. "Qu'il me soit permis de vous offrir, madame, l'hommage de mon admiration la plus exaltée, en vous présentant la bague qui contient le buste du Général Kosciusko:--elle a servi de signe de ralliment aux patriots Polonois, lorsque, en 1794, ils entreprirent de sécouer leur joug. "Les anciens déposoient leurs offrandes sur l'autel de leurs divinités tutélaires;--je ne fais qu'imiter leur exemple. Vous êtes pour tous les Polonois cette divinité, qui la première ait élevée sa voix, du fond de l'impériale, Albion, en leur faveur. "Un jour viendra, et j'ose conserver dans mon coeur cet espoir, que vos accens, qui ont retenti dans le coeur de l'Europe sensible, produiront leur effêt célestial, en ressuscitant l'ombre sanglante de ma chère patrie. "Daignez agréer, madame, l'hommage respectueuse d'un de vos serviteurs le plus dévoué, &c. &c." Probably the writer of the above is now returned to his country, his vows having been most awfully answered by one of the most momentous struggles she has ever had, or to which the nations around have ever yet stood as spectators; for the balance of Europe trembles at the turning of her scale. Thus, then, it cannot but be that in the conclusion of this my, perhaps, last introductory preface to any new edition of "Thaddeus of Warsaw," its author should offer up a sincerely heartfelt prayer to the King of kings, the Almighty Father of all mankind, that His all- gracious Spirit may watch over the issue of this contest, and dictate the peace of Poland! ESHER, _May_, 1831. DEDICATION TO THE FIRST EDITION. THADDEUS OF WARSAW is inscribed to SIR SIDNEY SMITH; in the hope that, as SIR PHILIP SIDNEY did not disdain to write a romance, SIR SIDNEY SMITH will not refuse to read one. SIR PHILIP SIDNEY CONSIGNED HIS EXCELLENT WORK TO THE AFFECTION OF A SISTER. I CONFIDE MY ASPIRING ATTEMPT TO THE URBANITY OF THE BRAVE; TO THE MAN OF TASTE, OF FEELING, AND OF CANDOR; TO HIM WHOSE FRIENDSHIP WILL BESTOW THAT INDULBENCE ON THE AUTHOR WHICH HIS JUDGMENT MIGHT HAVE DENIED TO THE BOOK; TO HIM OF WHOM FUTURE AGES WILL SPEAK WITH HONOR AND THE PRESENT TIMES BOAST AS THEIR GLORY! TO SIR SIDNEY SMITH, I SUBMIT THIS HUMBLE TRIBUTE OF THE HIGHEST RESPECT WHICH CAN BE OFFERED BY A BRITON, OR ANIMATE THE HEART OF HIS SINCERE FRIEND, THE AUTHOR. PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION. Having attempted a narrative of the intended description, but written, in fact, from the mere impulse of sympathy with its subject still fresh in my own and every pitying memory, it is natural that, after having made up my mind to assent to its publication, in which much time and thought has been expended in considering the responsibility of so doing, from so unpractised a pen, I should feel an increase of anxiety respecting its ultimate fate. Therefore, before the reader favors the tale itself with his attention, I beg leave to offer him a little account of the principles that actuated its composition, and in regard to which one of the most honored heads in the author's family urged her "not to withhold it from the press;" observing, in his persuasions, that the mistakes which many of my young contemporaries of both sexes continually make in their estimates of human character, and of the purposes of human life, require to have a line of difference between certain splendid vices and some of the brilliant order of virtues to be distinctly drawn before them. "And," he remarked, "it appeared to be so done in the pages of my Polish manuscript. Therefore," added he, "let Thaddeus of Warsaw speak openly for himself!" This opinion decided me. Though with fear and trembling, yet I felt an encouraging consciousness that in writing the manuscript narrative for my own private enjoyment only, and the occasional amusement of those friends dearest around me, I had wished to portray characters whose high endowments could not be misled into proud ambitions, nor the gift of dazzling social graces betray into the selfish triumphs of worldly vanity,--characters that prosperity could not inflate, nor disappointments depress, from pious trust and honorable action. The pure fires of such a spirit declare their sacred origin; and such is the talisman of those achievements which amaze everybody but their accomplisher. The eye fixed on it is what divine truth declares it to be "single!" There is no double purpose in it; no glancing to a man's own personal aggrandizement on one side and on professing services to his fellow-creatures on the other; such a spirit has only one aim-- Heaven! and the eternal records of that wide firmament include within it "all good to man." What flattered Alexander of Macedon into a madman, and perverted the gracious-minded Julius Caesar into usurpation and tyranny, has also been found by Christian heroes the most perilous ordeal of their virtue; but, inasmuch as they are Christian heroes, and not pagan men, worshippers of false gods, whose fabled examples inculcated all these deeds of self-absorbing vain-glory, our heroes of a "better revelation" have no excuse for failing under their trial, and many there be who pass through it "pure and undefiled." Such were the great Alfred of England, Gustavus Vasa of Sweden, and his greater successor in true glory, Gustavus Adolphus,--all champions of immutable justice and ministers of peace. And though these may be regarded as personages beyond the sphere of ordinary emulations, yet the same principles, or their opposites, prevail in every order of men from the prince to the peasant; and, perhaps, at no period of the world more than the present were these divers principles in greater necessity to be considered, and, according to the just conclusion, be obeyed. On all sides of us we see public and private society broken up, as it were by an earthquake: the noblest and the meanest passions of the human bosom at contention, and the latter often so disguised, that the vile ambuscade is not even suspected till found within the heart of the fortress itself. We have, however, one veritable touchstone, that of the truest observation, "ye shall know a tree by its fruits." Let us look round, then, for those which bear "good fruits," wholesome to the taste as well as pleasant to the sight, whether they grow on high altitudes or in the humbler valleys of the earth; let us view men of all degrees in life in their actions, and not in their pretensions,--such men as were some of the Sobieski race in Poland, in every change of their remarkable lives. When placed at the summit of mortal fame, surrounded by greatness and glory, and consequent power, they evinced neither pride to others nor a sense of self-aggrandizement in themselves; and, when under a reverse dispensation, national misfortunes pursued them, and family sorrows pierced their souls, the weakness of a murmur never sunk the dignity of their sustaining fortitude, nor did the firmness of that virtue harden the amiable sensibilities of their hearts. To exhibit so truly heroic and endearing a portrait of what every Christian man ought to be,--for the law of God is the same to the poor as to the rich,--I have chosen one of that illustrious and, I believe, now extinct race for the subject of my sketch; and the more aptly did it present itself, it being necessary to show my hero amidst scenes and circumstances ready to exercise his brave and generous propensities, and to put their personal issues to the test on his mind. Hence Poland's sadly-varying destinies seemed to me the stage best calculated for the development of any self-imposed task. There certainly were matters enough for the exhibition of all that human nature could suffer and endure, and, alas! perish under, in the nearly simultaneous but terrible regicidal revolution of France; but I shrunk from that as a tale of horror, the work of demons in the shapes of men. It was a conflict in which no comparisons, as between man and man, could exist; and may God grant that so fearful a visitation may never be inflicted on this world again. May the nations of this world lay its warnings to their hearts! It sprung from a tree self-corrupted, which only could produce such fruits: the demon hierarchy of the French philosophers, who had long denied the being of that pure and Almighty God, and who, in the arrogance of their own deified reason, and while in utter subjection to the wildest desires of their passions, published their profane and polluted creed amongst all orders of the people, and the natural and terrible consequences ensued. Ignorant before, they became like unto their teachers, demons in their unbelief,--demons in one common envy and hatred of all degrees above them, or around them, whose existence seemed at all in the way of even their slightest gratification: mutual spoliation and destruction covered the country. How often has the tale been told me by noble refugees, sheltered on our shores from those scenes of blood, where infamy triumphed and truth and honor were massacred; but such narratives, though they never can be forgotten, are too direful for the hearer to contemplate in memory. Therefore, when I sought to represent the mental and moral contest of man with himself, or with his fellow-men, I did not look for their field amongst human monsters, but with natural and civilized man; inasmuch as he is seen to be influenced by the impulses of his selfish passions--ambition, covetousness, and the vanities of life, or, on the opposite side, by the generous amenities of true disinterestedness, in all its trying situations; and, as I have said, the recent struggle in Poland, to maintain her laws and loyal independence, against the combined aggressions of the three most powerful states in Europe, seemed to afford me the most suitable objects for my moral aim, to interest by sympathy, while it taught the responsible commission of human life. I have now described the plan of my story, its aim and origin. If it be disapproved, let it be at once laid aside; but should it excite any interest, I pray its perusal may be accompanied with an indulgent candor, its subjects being of so new, and therefore uncustomary, a character in a work of the kind. But if the reader be one of my own sex, I would especially solicit her patience while going through the first portion of the tale, its author being aware that war and politics are not the most promising themes for an agreeable amusement; but the battles are not frequent, nor do the cabinet councils last long. I beg the favor, if the story is to be read at all, that no scene may be passed over as extraneous, for though it begin like a state-paper, or a sermon, it always terminates by casting some new light on the portrait of the hero. Beyond those events of peril and of patriotic devotedness, the remainder of the pages dwell generally with domestic interests; but if the reader do not approach them regularly through the development of character opened in the preceding troubled field, what they exhibit will seem a mere wilderness of incidents, without interest or end; indeed I have designed nothing in the personages of this narrative out of the way of living experience. I have sketched no virtue that I have not seen, nor painted any folly from imagination. I have endeavored to be as faithful to reality in my pictures of domestic morals, and of heroic duties, as a just painter would seek to be to the existing objects of nature, "wonderful and wild, or of gentlest beauty!" and on these grounds I have steadily attempted to inculcate "that virtue is the highest proof of understanding, and the only solid basis of greatness; that vice is the natural consequence of grovelling thoughts, which begin in mistake and end in ignominy." * * * * * * * POSTCRIPT TO A SUBSEQUENT EDITION. After so many intervening years have passed since the author of Thaddeus of Warsaw wrote the foregoing preface, to introduce a work so novel in its character to the notice and candid judgment of the British public, it was her intention to take the present occasion of its now perfectly new republication, at the distance of above forty years from its earliest appearance and so continued editions, to express her grateful sense of that public's gratifying sympathies and honoring testimonies of approbation, from its author's youth to age; but even in the hour she sits down to perform the gracious task, she feels a present incapability to undertake it. The very attempt has too sensibly recalled to her heart events that have befallen her since she lived amongst the models of her tale; and she has also more recently been in many of the places it describes; and circumstances, both of joys and sorrows, having occurred to her there to influence the whole future current of her mortal life, she finds it impossible to yet touch on those times and scenes connected with the subjects of her happy youth, which would now only reverberate notes of sadness it is her duty to repress. Hence, though while revising the work itself she experiences a calm delight in the occupation, being a kind of parting duty, also, to the descendants of her earliest, readers, she would rather defer any little elucidations she may have met with regarding the objects of her pen to a few pages in the form of an Appendix at the end of the work; all, indeed, bringing her observations, whether by weal or woe, to the one great and guiding conclusion. "Man is formed for two states of existence--a mortal and an immortal being;" in the Holy Scriptures authoritatively declared, "For the life that now is, and for that which is to come." JANE PORTER. BRISTOL, _November_, 1844. CONTENTS. I. II. The Mill of Mariemont. III. The Opening of the Campaign. IV. The Pass of Volunna. V. The Banks of the Vistula. VI. Society in Poland. VII. The Diet of Poland. VIII. Battle of Brzesc--The Tenth of October. IX. The Last Days of Villanow. X. Sobieski's Departure from Warsaw. XI. The Baltic. XII. Thaddeus's First Day in England. XIII. The Exile's Lodgings. XIV. A Robbery and its Consequences. XV. The Widow's Family. XVI. The Money-Lender. XVII. The Meeting of Exiles. XVIII. The Veteran's Narrative. XIX. Friendship a Staff in Human Life. XX. Woman's Kindness. XXI. Fashionable Sketches from the Life. XXII. Honorable Resources of an Exile. XXIII. XXIV. Lady Tinemouth's Boudoir. XXV. The Countess of Tinemouth's Story. XXVI. The Kindredship of Minds. XXVII. Such Things Were. XXVIII. Mary Beaufort and her Venerable Aunt. XXIX. Hyde Park. XXX. Influences of Character. XXXI. The Great and the Small of Society. XXXII. The Obduracy of Vice--The Inhumanity of Folly. XXXIII. Passion and Principle. XXXIV. Requiescat in Pace. XXXV. Deep are the Purposes of Adversity. XXXVI. An English Prison. XXXVII. XXXVIII. Zeal is Power. XXXIX. The Vale of Grantham--Belvoir. XL. Somerset Castle. XLI. The Maternal Heart. XLII. Harrowby Abbey. XLIII. The Old Village Hotel. XLIV. Letters of Farewell. XLV. Deerhurst. XLVI. The Spirit of Peace. XLVII. An Avowal. XLVIII. A Family Party. XLIX. L. APPENDIX. CHAPTER I. The large and magnificent palace of Villanow, whose vast domains stretch along the northern bank of the Vistula, was the favorite residence of John Sobieski, King of Poland. That monarch, after having delivered his country from innumerable enemies, rescued Vienna and subdued the Turks, retired to this place at certain seasons, and thence dispensed those acts of his luminous and benevolent mind which rendered his name great and his people happy. When Charles the Twelfth of Sweden visited the tomb of Sobieski, at Cracow, he exclaimed, "What a pity that so great a man should ever die!" [Footnote: In the year 1683, this hero raised the siege of Vienna, then beleagured by the Turks; and driving them out of Europe, saved Christendom from a Mohammedan usurpation.] Another generation saw the spirit of this lamented hero revive in the person of his descendant, Constantine, Count Sobieski, who, in a comparatively private station, as Palatine of Masovia, and the friend rather than the lord of his vassals, evinced by his actions that he was the inheritor of his forefather's virtue as well as of his blood. He was the first Polish nobleman who granted freedom to his peasants. He threw down their mud hovels and built comfortable villages; he furnished them with seed, cattle, and implements of husbandry, and calling their families together, laid before them the deed of their enfranchisement; but before he signed it, he expressed a fear that they would abuse this liberty of which they had not had experience, and become licentious. "No," returned a venerable peasant; "when we were ignorant men, and possessed no property of our own except these staffs in our hands, we were destitute of all manly motives for propriety of conduct; but you have taught us to read out of the Holy Book, how to serve God and honor the king. And shall we not respect laws which thus bestow on us, and ensure to us, the fruits of our labors and the favor of Heaven!" The good sense and truth of this answer were manifested in the event. On the emancipation of these people, they became so prosperous in business and correct in behavior, that the example of the palatine was speedily followed by the Chancellor Zamoiski [Footnote: This family had ever been one of the noblest and most virtuous in Poland. And had its wisdom been listened to in former years by certain powerful and wildly ambitious lords that once great kingdom would never have exchanged its long line of hereditary native-princes for an elective monarchy--that arena of all political mischiefs.] and several of the principal nobility. The royal Stanislaus's beneficent spirit moved in unison with that of Sobieski, and a constitution was given to Poland to place her in the first rank of free nations. Encircled by his happy tenantry, and within the bosom of his family, this illustrious man educated Thaddeus, the only male heir of his name, to the exercise of all the virtues which ennoble and endear the possessor. But this reign of public and domestic peace was not to continue. Three formidable and apparently friendly states envied the effects of a patriotism they would not imitate; and in the beginning of the year 1792, regardless of existing treaties, broke in upon the unguarded frontiers of Poland, threatening with all the horrors of a merciless war the properties, lives, and liberties of the people. The family of Sobieski had ever been foremost in the ranks of their country; and at the present crisis its venerable head did not hang behind the youngest warrior in preparations for the field. On the evening of an anniversary of the birthday of his grandson, the palatine rode abroad with a party of friends, who had been celebrating the festival with their presence. The countess (his daughter) and Thaddeus were left alone in the saloon. She sighed as she gazed on her son, who stood at some distance, fitting to his youthful thigh a variety of sabres, which his servant a little time before had laid upon the table. She observed with anxiety the eagerness of his motion, and the ardor that was flashing from his eyes. "Thaddeus," said she, "lay down that sword; I wish to speak with you." Thaddeus looked gayly up. "My dear Thaddeus!" cried his mother, and tears started to her eyes. The blush of enthusiasm faded from his face; he threw the sabre from him, and drew near the countess. "Why, my dear mother, do you distress yourself? When I am in battle, shall I not have my grandfather near me, and be as much under the protection of God as at this moment?" "Yes, my child," answered she, "God will protect you. He is the protector of the orphan, and you are fatherless." The countess paused--"Here, my son," said she, giving him a sealed packet, "take this; it will reveal to you the history of your birth and the name of your father. It is necessary that you should know a painful fact, which has hitherto been concealed from you by the wish and noble judgment of your grandfather." Thaddeus received it, and stood silent with surprise. "Read it, my love," continued she, "but go to your own apartments; here you may be interrupted." Bewildered by the manner of the countess, Thaddeus, without answering, instantly obeyed. Shutting himself within his study, he impatiently opened the papers, and soon found his whole attention absorbed in the following recital. "TO MY DEAR SON, THADDEUS CONSTANTINE SOBIESKI. "You are now, my Thaddeus, at the early age of nineteen, going to engage the enemies of your country. Ere I resign my greatest comfort to the casualties of war; ere I part with you, perhaps forever, I would inform you who your father really was--that father whose existence you have hardly known and whose name you have never heard. You believe yourself an orphan, your mother a widow; but, alas! I have now to tell you that you were made fatherless by the perfidy of man, not by the dispensation of Heaven. "Twenty-three years ago, I accompanied my father in a tour through Germany and Italy. Grief for the death of my mother had impaired his health, and the physicians ordered him to reside in a warmer climate; accordingly we fixed ourselves near the Arno. During several visits to Florence, my father met in that city with a young Englishman of the name of Sackville. These frequent meetings opened into intimacy, and he was invited to our villa. "Mr. Sackville was not only the most interesting man I had ever seen, but the most accomplished, and his heart seemed the seat of every graceful feeling. He was the first man for whose society I felt a lively preference. I used to smile at this strange delight, or sometimes weep; for the emotions which agitated me were undefinable, but they were enchanting, and unheedingly I gave them indulgence. The hours which we passed together in the interchange of reciprocal sentiments, the kind beaming of his looks, the thousand sighs that he breathed, the half-uttered sentences, all conspired to rob me of myself. "Nearly twelve months were spent in these delusions. During the last three, doubts and anguish displaced the blissful reveries of an infant tenderness. The attentions of Mr. Sackville died away. From being the object of his constant search, he then sedulously sought to avoid me. When my father withdrew to his closet, he would take his leave, and allow me to walk alone. Solitary and wretched were my rambles. I had full leisure to compare my then disturbed state of mind with the comparative peace I had enjoyed in my own country. Immured within the palace of Villanow, watching the declining health of my mother, I knew nothing of the real world, the little I had learned of society being drawn from books; and, uncorrected by experience, I was taught to believe a perfection in man which, to my affliction, I since found to be but a poet's dream. When my father took me to Italy, I continued averse to public company. In such seclusion, the presence of Sackville, being almost my only pleasure, chased from my mind its usual reserve, and gradually and surely won upon the awakened affections of my heart. Artless and unwarned, I knew not the nature of the passion which I cherished until it had gained an ascendancy that menaced my life. "On the evening of one of those days in which I had been disappointed of seeing this too-dearly-prized companion, I strolled out, and, hardly conscious of my actions, threw myself along the summit of a flight of steps in our garden that led down to the Arno. My head rested against the base of a statue which, because of its resemblance to me, Sackville had presented to my father. Every recollected kindness of his now gave me additional torment; and clinging to the pedestal as to the altar of my adoration, in the bitterness of disappointment I addressed the insensible stone: 'O! were I pale as thou art, and this breast as cold and still, would Sackville, when he looked on me, give one sigh to the creature he had destroyed? My sobs followed this adjuration, and the next moment I felt myself encircled in his arms. I struggled, and almost fainting with shame at such utter weakness, implored to be released. He did release me, and, in an agony of emotion, besought my pardon for the misery I had endured. 'Now, Therese,' cried he, 'all is as it ought to be! you are my only hope. Consent to be mine, or the world has no hold on me!' His voice was hurried and incoherent. Raising my eyes to his, I beheld them wild and bloodshot. Terrified at his look, and overcome by my own distracted thoughts, my head sunk on the marble. With increased violence he exclaimed, 'Have I deceived myself here too? Therese, did you not prefer me? Did you not love me? Speak now, I conjure you, by your own happiness and mine! Do you reject me?' He clasped my hands with a force that made me tremble, and I hardly articulated, 'I will be yours.' At these words he hurried me down a dark vista, which led out of the gardens to the open country. A carriage stood at the gate. I fearfully asked what he intended. 'You have given yourself to me,' cried he; 'and by that vow, written in heaven, no power shall separate us until you are mine beyond the reach of man!' Unnerved in body and weak in mind, I yielded to his impetuosity, and suffering him to lift me into the chariot, was carried to the door of the nearest monastery, where in a few minutes we were married. "I am thus particular in the relation of every incident, in the hope that you, my dear son, will find some excuse for my great imprudence,--in the circumstances of my youth, and in the influence which a man who seemed all excellence had gained over my heart. However, my fault went not long unpunished. "The ceremony past, my husband conducted me in silence back to the carriage. My full bosom discharged itself in abundance of tears, while Sackville sat by me, without any movement, and mute. Two or three times I raised my eyes, in hopes of discerning in his some consolation for my hasty compliance. But no; his gaze, vacant and glaring, was fixed on the window, and his brow became heavily clouded, as if he had been forced into an alliance with one he hated, rather than had just made a voluntary engagement with the woman he loved. My soul shuddered at this commencement of a contract which I had dared to make unsanctioned by my father's consent. At length my sighs seemed to startle my husband; and suddenly turning round, he cried, 'Therese, this marriage must not be told to the palatine. I have been precipitate. It would ruin me with my family. Refrain, only for one month, and then I will publicly acknowledge you.' The agitation of his features and the feverish burning of his hand, which then held mine, alarmed me. Trembling from head to foot, I answered, 'Sackville! I have already erred enough in consenting to this stolen marriage. I will not transgress further by concealing it. I will instantly throw myself at my father's feet, and confess all.' His countenance darkened again. 'Therese,' said he, 'I am your husband. You have sworn to obey me, and till I allow you, divulge this marriage at your peril!' This last stern sentence, and the sterner look that accompanied it, pierced me to the heart, and I fell senseless on the seat. "When I recovered, I found myself at the foot of that statue beneath which my unfortunate destiny had been fixed. My husband was leaning over me. He raised me with tenderness from the ground, and conjured me, in the mildest accents, to be comforted; to pardon the severity of those words, which had arisen from a fear that, by an imprudent avowal on my part, I should risk both his happiness and my own. He informed me that he was heir to one of the first families in England; and before he set out for the continent, he had pledged his honor to his father never to enter into any matrimonial engagement without first acquainting him with the particulars of the lady and her family. Should he omit this duty, his father declared that, though she were a princess, he would disinherit him, and never again admit him to his presence. "'Consider this, my dear Therese,' continued he; 'could you endure to behold me an outcast, and stigmatized with a parent's curse, when a little forbearance on your part would make all right? I know I have been hasty in acting as I have done, but now I cannot remedy my error. To-morrow I will write to my father, describe your rank and merits, and request his consent to our immediate union. The moment his permission arrives, I will cast myself on the palatine's friendship, and reveal what has passed.' The tenderness of my husband blinded my reason, and with many tears, I sealed his forgiveness and pledged my faith on his word. "My dear deceived parent little suspected the perfidy of his guest. He detained him as his visitor, and often rallied himself on the hold which this distinguished stranger's accomplishments had taken on his heart. Sackville's manner to me in public was obliging and free; it was in private only that I found the tender, the capricious, the unkind husband. Night after night I have washed the memory of my want of duty to my father with bitter tears; but my husband was dear to me--he was more precious than my life! One affectionate look from him, one fond word, would solace every pain, and make me wait the arrival of his father's letter with all the sanguine anticipations of youth and love. "A fortnight passed away. A month--a long and lingering month. Another month, and a packet of letters was presented to Sackville. He was conversing with us. At sight of the superscription, he tore open the paper, ran his eyes over a few lines, and then, flushed and agitated, started from his seat and left the room. My emotions were almost uncontrollable. I had already half risen from my chair to follow him, when the palatine exclaimed, 'What can be in that letter? Too plainly I see some afflicting tidings.' And without observing me, or waiting for a reply, he hurried out after him. I hastened to my chamber, where, throwing myself on my bed, I tried, by all the delusions of hope, to obtain some alleviation from the pangs of my suspense. "The dinner-bell roused me from my reverie. Dreading to excite suspicion, and anxious to read in the countenance of my husband the denunciation of our fate, I obeyed the summons and descended to the dining-room. On entering it, my eyes irresistibly wandered round to fix themselves on Sackville. He was leaning against a pillar, his face pale as death. My father looked grave, but immediately took his seat, and tenderly placed his friend beside him. I sat down in silence. Little dinner was eaten, and few words spoken. As for myself, my agitation almost choked me. I felt that the first words I should attempt to pronounce must give them utterance, and that their vehemence would betray our fatal secret. "When the servants had withdrawn, Sackville rose, and said, in a faltering voice, 'Count, I must leave you.' 'Nay,' replied the palatine; 'you are unwell--disturbed--stay till to-morrow.' 'I thank your excellency,' answered he, 'but I must go to Florence to-night. You shall see me again before to-morrow afternoon; all will then, I hope, be settled to my wish.' My husband took his hat. Motionless, and incapable of speaking, I sat fixed to my chair, in the direct way that he must pass. His eye met mine. He stopped and looked at me, abruptly snatched my hand; then as abruptly quitting it, darted out of the room. I never saw him more. "I had not the power to dissemble another moment. I fell back into the arms of my father. He did not, even by this imprudence, read what I almost wished him to guess, but, with all the indulgence of perfect confidence, lamented the distress of Sackville, and the sensibility of my nature, which sympathized so painfully with his friend. I durst not ask what was the distress of his friend. Abashed at my duplicity to my father, and overwhelmed with a thousand dreads, I obtained his permission to retire to my chamber. "The next day I met him with calmness, for I had schooled my heart to endure the sufferings it had deserved. He did not remark my recovered tranquillity, so entirely was his generous heart occupied in conjecturing the cause of Sackville's grief, who had acknowledged having received a great shock, but would not reveal the occasion. This double reserve to my father surprised and distressed me, and to all his suppositions I said little. My soul was too deeply interested in the subject to trust to the faithfulness of my lips. "The morning crept slowly on, and the noon appeared to stand still. I anxiously watched the declining sun, as the signal for my husband's return. Two hours had elapsed since his promised time, and my father grew so impatient that he went out to meet him. I eagerly wished that they might miss each other. I should then see Sackville a few minutes alone, and by one word be comforted or driven to despair. "I was listening to every footstep that sounded under the colonnade, when my servant brought me a letter which had just been left by one of Mr. Sackville's grooms. I broke open the seal, and fell senseless on the floor ere I had read half the killing contents." Thaddeus, with a burning cheek, and a heart all at once robbed of that elastic spring which till now had ever made him the happiest of the happy, took up the letter of his father. The paper was worn, and blistered with his mother's tears. His head seemed to swim as he contemplated the handwriting, and he said to himself, "Am I to respect or to abhor him?" He proceeded in the perusal. "TO THERESE, COUNTESS SOBIESKI. "How, Therese, am I to address you? But an attempt to palliate my conduct would be to no purpose; indeed it is impossible. You cannot conceive a viler opinion of me than I have of myself. I know that I forfeit all claim to honor, in the most delicate point of your noble and trusting heart!--that I have sacrificed your tenderness to my distracted passions; but you shall no more be subject to the caprices of a man who cannot repay your innocent love with his own. _You_ have no guilt to torture you; and you possess virtues which will render you tranquil under every calamity. I leave you to your own purity, and, therefore, peace of mind. Forget the ceremony which has passed between us; my wretched heart disclaims it forever. Your father is happily ignorant of it; pray spare him the anguish of knowing that I was so utterly unworthy of his kindness; I feel that I am more than ungrateful to you and to him. Therese, your most inveterate hate cannot more strongly tell me than I can tell myself that to you I have been a villain. But I cannot retract. I am going where all search will be vain; and I now bid you an eternal farewell. May you be happier than ever can be the self-abhorring. "R. S------." "FLORENCE." Thaddeus, after a brief pause, went on with his mother's narrative. "When my senses returned, I was lying on the floor, holding the half- perused paper in my hand. Grief and horror had locked up the avenues of complaint, and I sat as one petrified to stone. My father entered. At the sight of me, he started as if he had been a spectre. His well- known features opened at once my agonized heart. With fearful cries I cast myself at his feet, and putting the letter into his hand, clung, almost expiring, to his knees. "When he had read it, he flung it from him, and dropping into a chair, covered his face with his hands. I looked up imploringly, for I could not speak. My father stooped forward, and raising me in his arms, pressed me to his bosom. 'My Therese,' said he, 'it is I who have done this. Had I not harbored this villain, he never could have had an opportunity of ruining the peace of my child.' In return for the unexampled indulgence of this speech, and his repeated assurances of forgiveness, I promised to forget a man who could have had so little respect for truth and gratitude, and his own honor. The palatine replied that he expected such a resolution, in consequence of the principles my exemplary mother had taught me; and to show me how far dearer to him was my real tranquillity than any false idea of impossible restitution, he would not remove even from one principality to another, were he sure by that means to discover Mr. Sackville and to avenge my wrongs. My understanding assented to the justice and dignity of all he said; but long and severe were my struggles before I could erase from my soul the image of that being who had been the lord of all my young hopes. "It was not until you, my dear Thaddeus, were born that I could repay the goodness of my father with the smiles of cheerfulness. And he would not permit me to give you any name which could remind him or myself of the faithless husband who knew not even of your existence; and by his desire I christened you Thaddeus Constantine, after himself, and his best beloved friend General Kosciusko. You have not yet seen that illustrious Polander; his prescient watchfulness for his country keeps him so constantly employed on the frontiers. He is now with the army at Winnica, whither you must soon go; and in him you may study one of the brightest models of patriotic and martial virtue that ever was presented to mankind. It is well said of him 'that he would have shone with distinguished lustre in the ages of chivalry.' Gallant, generous, and strictly just, he commands obedience by the reverence in which he is held, and attaches the troops to his person by the affability of his manners and the purity of his life. He teaches them discipline, endurance of fatigue, and contempt of danger, by his dauntless example, and inspires them with confidence by his tranquillity in the tumult of action and the invincible fortitude with which he meets the most adverse stroke of misfortune. His modesty in victory shows him to be one of the greatest among men, and his magnanimity under defeat confirms him to be a Christian hero. "Such is the man whose name you share. How bitterly do I lament that the one to which nature gave you a claim was so unworthy to be united with it, and that of my no less heroic father! "On our return to Poland, the story which the palatine related, when questioned about my apparently forlorn state, was simply this:--'My daughter was married and widowed in the course of two months. Since then, to root from her memory as much as possible all recollection of a husband who was only given to be taken away, she still retains my name; and her son, as my sole heir, shall bear no other.' This reply satisfied every one; the king, who was my father's only confidant, gave his sanction to it, and no further inquiries were ever made. "You are now, my beloved child, entering on the eventful career of life. God only knows, when the venerable head of your grandfather is laid in dust, and I, too, have shut my eyes upon you in this world, where destiny may send you! perhaps to the country of your father. Should you ever meet him--but that is unlikely; so I will be silent on a thought which nineteen years of reflection have not yet deprived of its sting. "Not to embitter the fresh spring of your youth, my Thaddeus, with the draught that has poisoned mine: not to implant in your breast hatred of a parent whom you may never behold, have I written this; but to inform you in fact from whom you sprung. My history is made plain to you, that no unexpected events may hereafter perplex your opinion of your mother, or cause a blush to rise on that cheek for her, which from your grandfather can derive no stain. For his sake as well as for mine, whether in peace or in war, may the angels of heaven guard my boy! This is the unceasing prayer of thy fond mother, "THERESE, COUNTESS SOBIESKI. "VILLANOW, _March_, 1792." When he finished reading, Thaddeus held the papers in his hand; but, unable to recover from the shock of their contents, he read them a second time to the end; then laying them on the table, against which he rested his now aching head, he gave vent to the fulness of his heart in tears. The countess, anxious for the effect which her history might have made on her son, at this instant entered the room. Seeing him in so dejected an attitude, she approached, and pressing him to her bosom, silently wept with him. Thaddeus, ashamed of his emotions, yet incapable of dissembling them, struggled a moment to release himself from her arms. The countess, mistaking his motive, said in a melancholy voice, "And do you, my son, despise your mother for the weakness which she has revealed? Is this the reception that I expected from a child on whose affection I reposed my confidence and my comfort?" "No, my mother" replied Thaddeus; "it is your afflictions which have distressed me. This is the first unhappy hour I ever knew, and can you wonder I should be affected? Oh! mother," continued he, laying his hand on his father's letter, "whatever were his rank, had my father been but noble in mind, I would have gloried in bearing his name; but now, I put up my prayers never to hear it more." "Forget him," cried the countess, hiding her eyes with her handkerchief. "I will," answered Thaddeus, "and allow my memory to dwell on the virtues of my mother only." It was impossible for the countess or her son to conceal their agitation from the palatine, who now opened the door. On his expressing alarm at a sight so unusual, his daughter, finding herself incapable of speaking, put into his hand the letter which Thaddeus had just read. Sobieski cast his eye over the first lines; he comprehended their tendency, and seeing the countess had withdrawn, he looked towards his grandson. Thaddeus was walking up and down the room, striving to command himself for the conversation he anticipated with his grandfather. "I am sorry, Thaddeus," said Sobieski, "that your mother has so abruptly imparted to you the real country and character of your father. I see that his villany has distressed a heart which Heaven has made alive to even the slightest appearance of dishonor. But be consoled, my son! I have prevented the publicity of his conduct by an ambiguous story of your mother's widowhood. Yet notwithstanding this arrangement, she has judged it proper that you should not enter general society without being made acquainted with the true events of your birth. I believe my daughter is right. And cheer yourself, my child! ever remembering that you are one of the noblest race in Poland! and suffer not the vices of one parent to dim the virtues of the other." "No, my lord," answered his grandson; "you have been more than a parent to me; and henceforward, for your sake as well as my own, I shall hold it my duty to forget that I draw my being from any other source than that of the house of Sobieski." "You are right," cried the palatine, with an exulting emotion; "you have the spirit of your ancestors, and I shall live to see you add glory to the name!" [Footnote: John Sobieski, King of Poland, was the most renowned sovereign of his time. His victories over the Tartars and the Turks obtained for him the admiration of Europe. Would it might be said, "the gratitude also of her posterity!" For his signal courage and wondrous generalship on the field of Vienna, against the latter Mohammedan power, rescued Austria, and the chief part of Christendom at that time, from their ruinous grasp. Where was the memory of these things, when the Austrian emperor marched his devastating legions into Poland, in the year 1793?] The beaming eyes and smiling lips of the young count declared that he had shaken sorrow from his heart. His grandfather pressed his hand with delight, and saw in his recovered serenity the sure promise of his fond prophecy. CHAPTER II. THE MILL OF MARIEMONT. The fearful day arrived when Sobieski and his grandson were to bid adieu to Villanow and its peaceful scenes. The well-poised mind of the veteran bade his daughter farewell with a fortitude which imparted some of its strength even to her. But when Thaddeus, ready habited for his journey, entered the room, at the sight of his military accoutrements she shuddered; and when, with a glowing countenance, he advanced, smiling through his tears, towards her, she clasped him in her arms, and riveted her lips to that face the very loveliness of which added to her affliction. She gazed at him, she wept on his neck, she pressed him to her bosom. "Oh! how soon might all that beauty be mingled with the dust! how soon might that warm heart, which then beat against hers, be pierced by the sword--be laid on the ground, mangled and bleeding, exposed and trampled on!" These thoughts thronged upon her soul, and deprived her of sense. She was borne away by her maids, while the palatine compelled Thaddeus to quit the spot. It was not until the lofty battlements of Villanow blended with the clouds that Thaddeus could throw off his melancholy. The parting grief of his mother hung on his spirits; and heavy and frequent were his sighs while he gazed on the rustic cottages and fertile fields, which reminded him that he was yet passing through the territories of his grandfather. The picturesque mill of Mariemont was the last spot on which his sight lingered. The ivy that mantled its sides sparkled with the brightness of a shower which had just fallen; and the rays of the setting sun, gleaming on its shattered wall, made it an object of such romantic beauty, that he could not help pointing it out to his fellow-travellers. Whilst the eyes of General Butzou, who was in the carriage, followed the direction of Thaddeus, the palatine observed the heightening animation of the old man's features; and recollecting at the same time the transports which he himself had enjoyed when he visited that place more than twenty years before, he put his hand on the shoulder of the veteran, and exclaimed, "General, did you ever relate to my boy the particulars of that mill?" "No, my lord." "I suppose," continued the palatine, "the same reason deterred you from speaking of it, uncalled for, as lessened my wish to tell the story? We are both too much the heroes of the tale to have volunteered the recital." "Does your excellency mean," asked Thaddeus, "the rescue of our king from this place?" "I do." "I have an indistinct knowledge of the affair," continued his grandson, "from I forget who, and should be grateful to hear it clearly told me, while thus looking on the very spot." "But," said the palatine, gayly, whose object was to draw his grandson from melancholy reflections, "what will you say to me turning egotist?" "I now ask the story of you," returned Thaddeus, smiling; "besides, as soldiers are permitted by their peaceful hearth to 'fight their battles o'er again,' your modesty, my dear grandfather, cannot object to repeat one to me on the way to more." "Then, as a preliminary," said the palatine, "I must suppose it is unnecessary to tell you that General Butzou was the brave soldier who, at the imminent risk of his own life, saved our sovereign." "Yes, I know that!" replied the young count, "and that you too had a share in the honor: for when I was yesterday presented to his majesty, amongst other things which he said, he told me that, under Heaven, he believed he owed his present existence to General Butzou and yourself." "So very little to me," resumed the palatine, "that I will, to the best of my recollection, repeat every circumstance of the affair. Should I err, I must beg of you, general" (turning to the veteran), "to put me right." Butzou, with a glow of honest exultation, nodded assent; and Thaddeus bowing in sign of attention, his smiling grandsire began. "It was on a Sunday night, the 3d of September, in the year 1771, that this event took place. At that time, instigated by the courts of Vienna and Constantinople, a band of traitorous lords, confederated together, were covertly laying waste the country, and perpetrating all kinds of unsuspected outrage on their fellow-subjects who adhered to the king. "Amongst their numerous crimes, a plan was laid for surprising and taking the royal person. Casimir Pulaski was the most daring of their leaders; and, assisted by Lukawski, Strawenski, and Kosinski, three Poles unworthy of their names, he resolved to accomplish his design or perish. Accordingly, these men, with forty other conspirators, in the presence of their commander swore with the most horrid oaths to deliver Stanislaus alive or dead into his hands. "About a month after this meeting, these three parricides of their country, at the head of their coadjutors, disguised as peasants, and concealing their arms in wagons of hay, which they drove before them, entered the suburbs of Warsaw undetected. "It was about ten o'clock P. M., on the 3d of September, as I have told you, they found an apt opportunity to execute their scheme. They placed themselves, under cover of the night, in those avenues, of the city through which they knew his majesty must pass in his way from Villanow, where he had been dining with me. His carriage was escorted by four of his own guards, besides myself and some of mine. We had scarcely lost sight of Villanow, when the conspirators rushed out and surrounded us, commanding the coachman to stop, and beating down the serving men with the butt ends of their muskets. Several shots were fired into the coach. One passed through my hat as I was getting out, sword in hand, the better to repel an attack the motive of which I could not then divine. A cut across my right leg with a sabre laid me under the wheels; and whilst in that situation, I heard the shot pouring into the coach like hail, and felt the villains stepping over my body to finish the murder of their sovereign. "It was then that our friend Butzou (who at that period was a private soldier in my service) stood between his majesty and the rebels, parrying many a stroke aimed at the king; but at last, a thrust from a bayonet into his gallant defender's breast cast him weltering in his blood upon me. By this time all the persons who had formed the escort were either wounded or dispersed, and George Butzou, our friend's only brother, was slain. So dropped one by one the protectors of our trampled bodies and of our outraged monarch. Secure then of their prey, one of the assassins opened the carriage door, and with shocking imprecations seizing the king, discharged his pistol so near his majesty's face, that he felt the heat of the flash. A second villain cut him on the forehead with a sabre, whilst the third, who was on horseback, laying hold of the king's collar, dragged him along the ground through the suburbs of the city. "During the latter part of this murderous scene, some of our affrighted people, who had fled, returned with a detachment, and seeing Butzou and me apparently lifeless, carried us to the royal palace, where all was commotion and distraction. But the foot-guards followed the track which the conspirators had taken. In one of the streets they found the king's hat dyed in blood, and his pelisse also. This confirmed their apprehensions of his death; and they came back filling all Warsaw with dismay. "The assassins, meanwhile, got clear of the town. Finding, however, that the king, by loss of blood, was not likely to exist much longer by dragging him towards their employer, and that delay might even lose them his dead body, they mounted him, and redoubled their speed. When they came to the moat, they compelled him to leap his horse across it. In the attempt the horse fell and broke its leg. They then ordered his majesty, fainting as he was, to mount another and spur it over. The conspirators had no sooner passed the ditch, and saw their king fall insensible on the neck of his horse, than they tore from his breast the ribbon of the black eagle, and its diamond cross. Lukawski was so foolishly sure of his prisoner, dead or alive, that he quitted his charge, and repaired with these spoils to Pulaski, meaning to show them as proofs of his success. Many of the other plunderers, concluding that they could not do better than follow their leader's example, fled also, tired of their work, leaving only seven of the party, with Kosinski at their head, to remain over the unfortunate Stanislaus, who shortly after recovered from his swoon. "The night was now grown so dark, they could not be sure of their way; and their horses stumbling at every step, over stumps of trees and hollows in the earth, increased their apprehensions to such a degree, that they obliged the king to keep up with them on foot. He literally marked his path with his blood; his shoes having been torn off in the struggle at the carriage. Thus they continued wandering backward and forward, and round the outskirts of Warsaw, without any exact knowledge of their situation. The men who guarded him at last became so afraid of their prisoner's taking advantage of these circumstances to escape, that they repeatedly called on Kosinski for orders to put him to death. Kosinski refused; but their demands growing more imperious, as the intricacies of the forest involved them completely, the king expected every moment to find their bayonets in his breast. "Meanwhile," continued the palatine, "when I recovered from my swoon in the palace, my leg had been bound up, and I felt able to stir. Questioning the officers who stood about my couch, I found that a general panic had seized them. They knew not how to proceed; they shuddered at leaving the king to the mercy of the confederates, and yet were fearful, by pursuing him further, to incense them through terror or revenge to massacre their prisoner, if he were still alive. I did all that was in my power to dispel this last dread. Anxious, at any rate, to make another attempt to preserve him, though I could not ride myself, I strenuously advised an immediate pursuit on horseback, and insisted that neither darkness nor apprehension of increasing danger should be permitted to impede their course. Recovered presence of mind in the nobles restored hope and animation to the terrified soldiers, and my orders were obeyed. But I must add, they were soon disappointed, for in less than half an hour the detachment returned in despair, showing me his majesty's coat, which they had found in the fosse. I suppose the ruffians tore it off when they rifled him. It was rent in several places, and so wet with blood that the officer who presented it to me concluded they had murdered the king there, and drawn away his body, for by the light of the torches the soldiers could trace drops of blood to a considerable distance. "Whilst I was attempting to invalidate this new evidence of his majesty's being beyond the reach of succor, he was driven before the seven conspirators so far into the wood of Bielany, that, not knowing whither they went, they came up with one of the guard-houses, and, to their extreme terror, were accosted by a patrol. Four of the banditti immediately disappeared, leaving two only with Kosinski, who, much alarmed, forced his prisoner to walk faster and keep a profound silence. Notwithstanding all this precaution, scarce a quarter of an hour afterwards they were challenged by a second watch; and the other two men taking flight, Kosinski, full of indignation at their desertion, was left alone with the king. His majesty, sinking with pain and fatigue, besought permission to rest for a moment; but Kosinski refused, and pointing his sword towards the king, compelled him to proceed. "As they walked on, the insulted monarch, who was hardly able to drag one limb after the other, observed that his conductor gradually forgot his vigilance, until he was thoroughly given up to thought. The king conceived some hope from this change, and ventured to say 'I see that you know not how to proceed. You cannot but be aware that the enterprise in which you are engaged, however it may end, is full of peril to you. Successful conspirators are always jealous of each other. Pulaski will find it as easy to rid himself of your life as it is to take mine. Avoid that danger, and I will promise you none on my account. Suffer me to enter the convent of Bielany: we cannot be far from it; and then, do you provide for your own safety.' Kosinski, though rendered desperate by the circumstances in which he was involved, replied, 'No; I have sworn, and I would rather sacrifice my life than my honor.' "The king had neither strength nor spirits to urge him further, and they continued to break their way through the bewildering underwood, until they approached Mariemont. Here Stanislaus, unable to stir another step, sunk down at the foot of the old yew-tree, and again implored for one moment's rest. Kosinski no longer refused. This unexpected humanity encouraged his majesty to employ the minutes they sat together in another attempt to soften his heart, and to convince him that the oath which he had taken was atrocious, and by no means binding to a brave and virtuous man. "Kosinski heard him with attention, and even showed he was affected. 'But,' said he, 'if I should assent to what you propose, and reconduct you to Warsaw, what will be the consequence to me? I shall be taken and executed.' 'I give you my word,' answered the king, 'that you shall not suffer any injury. But if you doubt my honor, escape while you can. I shall find some place of shelter, and will direct your pursuers to take the opposite road to that which you may choose.' Kosinski, entirely overcome, threw himself on his knees before his majesty, and imploring pardon from Heaven for what he had done, swore that from this hour he would defend his king against all the conspirators, and trust confidently in his word for future preservation. Stanislaus repeated his promise of forgiveness and protection, and directed him to seek refuge for them both in the mill near which they were discoursing. Kosinski obeyed. He knocked, but no one gave answer. He then broke a pane of glass in the window, and through it begged succor for a nobleman who had been waylaid by robbers. The miller refused to come out, or to let the applicants in, expressing his belief that they were robbers themselves, and if they did not go away he would fire on them. "This dispute had continued some time, when the king contrived to crawl up close to the windows and spoke. 'My good friend,' said he, 'if we were banditti, as you suppose, it would be as easy for us, without all this parley, to break into your house as to break this pane of glass; therefore, if you would not incur the shame of suffering a fellow-creature to perish for want of assistance, give us admittance.' This plain argument had its weight upon the man, and opening the door, he desired them to enter. After some trouble, his majesty procured pen and ink, and addressing a few lines to me at the palace, with difficulty prevailed on one of the miller's sons to carry it, so fearful were they of falling in with any of the troop who they understood had plundered their guests. "My joy at the sight of this note I cannot describe. I well remember the contents; they were literally these:-- "'By the miraculous hand of Providence I have escaped from the hands of assassins. I am now at the mill of Mariemont. Send immediately and take me hence. I am wounded, but not dangerously.' "Regardless of my own condition, I instantly got into a carriage, and followed by a detachment of horse, arrived at the mill. I met Kosinski at the door, keeping guard with his sword drawn. As he knew my person, he admitted me directly. The king had fallen into a sleep, and lay in one corner of the hovel on the ground, covered with the miller's cloak. To see the most virtuous monarch in the world thus abused by a party of ungrateful subjects pierced me to the heart. Kneeling down by his side, I took hold of his hand, and in a paroxysm of tears, which I am not ashamed to confess, I exclaimed, 'I thank thee, Almighty God, that I again see our true-hearted sovereign still alive!' It is not easy to say how these words struck the simple family. They dropped on their knees before the king, whom my voice had awakened, and besought his pardon, for their recent opposition to give him entrance. The good Stanislaus soon quieted their fears, and graciously thanking them for their kindness, told the miller to come to the palace the next day, when he would show him his gratitude in a better way than by promises. "The officers of the detachment then assisted his majesty and myself into the carriage, and accompanied by Kosinski, we reached Warsaw about six in the morning." "Yes," interrupted Butzou; "I remember my tumultuous joy when the news was brought to me in my bed that my brave brother had not died in vain for his sovereign; it almost deprived me of my senses; and besides, his majesty visited me, his poor soldier, in my chamber. Does not your excellency recollect how he was brought into my room on a chair, between two men? and how he thanked me, and shook hands with me, and told me my brother should never be forgotten in Poland? It made me weep like a child." "And he never can!" cried Thaddeus, hardly recovering from the deep attention with which he had listened to this recital. [Footnote: The king had his brave defender buried with military honors, and caused a noble monument to be raised over him, with an inscription, of which the following is a translation:-- "Here lieth the respected remains of George Butzou, who, on the 3d of September, 1771, opposing his own breast to shield his sovereign from the weapons of national parricides, was pierced with a mortal wound, and triumphantly expired. Stanislaus the king, lamenting the death of so faithful a subject, erects this monument as a tribute to him and an example of heroic duty to others."] "But what became of Kosinski? For doubtless the king kept his word." "He did indeed," replied Sobieski; "his word is at all times sacred. Yet I believe Kosinski entertained fears that he would not be so generous, for I perceived him change color very often while we were in the coach. However, he became tranquillized when his majesty, on alighting at the palace in the midst of the joyous cries of the people, leaned upon his arm and presented him to the populace as his preserver. The great gate was ordered to be left open; and never whilst I live shall I again behold such a scene! Every loyal soul in Warsaw, from the highest to the lowest, came to catch a glimpse of their rescued sovereign. Seeing the doors free, they entered without ceremony, and thronged forward in crowds to get near enough to kiss his hand, or to touch his clothes; then, elated with joy, they turned to Kosinski, and loaded him with demonstrations of gratitude, calling him the 'saviour of the king.' Kosinski bore all this with surprising firmness; but in a day or two, when the facts became known, he feared he might meet with different treatment from the people, and therefore petitioned his majesty for leave to depart. Stanislaus consented--and he retired to Semigallia, where he now lives on a handsome pension from the king." "Generous Stanislaus!" exclaimed the general; "you see, my dear young count, how he has rewarded me for doing that which was merely my duty. He put it at my option to become what I pleased about his person, or to hold an officer's rank in his body-guard. Love ennobles servitude; and attached as I have ever been to your family, under whom all my ancestors have lived and fought, I vowed in my own mind never to quit it, and accordingly begged permission of my sovereign to remain with the Count Sobieski. I did remain; but see," cried he, his voice faltering, "what my benefactors have made of me. I command those troops amongst whom it was once my greatest pride to be a private soldier." Thaddeus pressed the hand of the veteran between both his, and regarded him with respect and affection, whilst the grateful old man wiped away a gliding tear from his face. [Footnote: Lukawski and Strawenski were afterwards both taken, with others of the conspirators. At the king's entreaty, those of inferior rank were pardoned after condemnation; but the two noblemen who had deluded them were beheaded. Pulaski, the prime ring-leader, escaped, to the wretched life of an outlaw and an exile, and finally died in America, in 1779.] "How happy it ought to make you, my son," observed Sobieski, "that you are called out to support such a sovereign! He is not merely a brave king, whom you would follow to battle, because he will lead you to honor; the hearts of his people acknowledge him in a superior light; they look on him as their patriarchal head, as being delegated of God to study what is their greatest good, to bestow it, and when it is attacked, to de-fend it. To preserve the life of such a sovereign, who would not sacrifice his own?" "Yes," cried Butzou; "and how ought we to abhor those who threaten his life! How ought we to estimate those crowned heads who, under the mask of amity, have from the year sixty-four, when he ascended the throne, until now, been plotting his overthrow or death! Either calamity, O Heaven, avert! for his death, I fear, will be a prelude to the certain ruin of our country." "Not so," interrupted Thaddeus, with eagerness; "not whilst a Polander has power to lift an arm in defence of a native king, and an hereditary succession, can she be quite lost! What was ever in the hearts of her people that is not now there? For one, I can never forget how her sons have more than once rolled back on their own lands legions of invaders, from those very countries now daring to threaten her existence!" Butzou applauded his spirit, and was warmly seconded by the palatine, who (never weary of infusing into every feeling of his grandson an interest for his country) pursued the discourse, and dwelt minutely on the happy tendency of the glorious constitution of 1791, in defence of which they were now going to hazard their lives. As Sobieski pointed out its several excellences, and expatiated on the pure spirit of freedom which animated its revived laws, the soul of Thaddeus followed his eloquence with all the fervor of youth, forgetting his late domestic regrets in the warm aspirations of patriotic hopes; and at noon on the third day, with smiling eyes he saw his grandfather put himself at the head of his battalions and commence a rapid march. CHAPTER III. THE OPENING OF THE CAMPAIGN. The little army of the palatine passed by the battlements of Chelm, crossed the Bug into the plains of Volhinia, and impatiently counted the leagues over those vast tracts until it reached the borders of Kiovia. When the column at the head of which Thaddeus was stationed descended the heights of Lininy, and the broad camp of his countrymen burst upon his sight, his heart heaved with an emotion quite new to him. He beheld with admiration the regular disposition of the intrenchments, the long intersected tented streets, and the warlike appearance of the soldiers, whom he could descry, even at that distance, by the beams of a bright evening sun which shone upon their arms. In half an hour his troops descended into the plain, where, meeting those of the palatine and General Butzou, the three columns again united, and Thaddeus joined his grandfather in the van. "My lord," cried he, as they met, "can I behold such a sight and despair of the freedom of Poland!" Sobieski made no reply, but giving him one of those expressive looks of approbation which immediately makes its way to the soul, commanded the troops to advance with greater speed. In a few minutes they reached the outworks of the camp, and entered the lines. The eager eyes of Thaddeus wandered from object to object. Thrilling with that delight with which youth beholds wonders, and anticipates more, he stopped with the rest of the party before a tent, which General Butzou informed him belonged to the commander-in-chief. They were met in the vestibule by an hussar officer of a most commanding appearance. Sobieski and he having accosted each other with mutual congratulations, the palatine turned to Thaddeus, took him by the hand, and presenting him to his friend, said with a smile, "Here, my dear Kosciusko, this young men is my grandson; he is called Thaddeus Sobieski, and I trust that he will not disgrace either of our names!" Kosciusko embraced the young count, and with a hearty pressure of his hand, replied, "Thaddeus, if you resemble your grandfather, you can never forget that the only king of Poland who equalled our patriotic Stanislaus was a Sobieski; and as becomes his descendant, you will not spare your best blood in the service of your country." [Footnote: Kosciusko, noble of birth, and eminently brave in spirit, had learnt the practice of arms in his early youth in America. During the contest between the British colonies there and the mother country, the young Pole, with a few of his early compeers in the great military college at Warsaw, eager to measure swords in an actual field, had passed over seas to British America, and offering their services to the independents, which were accepted, the extraordinary warlike talents of Kosciusko were speedily honored by his being made an especial aid-de-camp to General Washington. When the war ended, in the peace of mutual concessions between the national parent and its children on a distant land, the Poles returned to their native country, where they soon met circumstances which caused them to redraw their swords for her. But to what issue, was yet behind the floating colors of a soldier's hope.] As Kosciusko finished speaking, an aid-de-camp came forward to lead the party into the room of audience. Prince Poniatowski welcomed the palatine and his suite with the most lively expressions of pleasure. He gave Thaddeus, whose figure and manner instantly charmed him, many flattering assurances of friendship, and promised that he would appoint him to the first post of honor which should offer. After detaining the palatine and his grandson half an hour, his highness withdrew, and they rejoined Kosciusko, who conducted them to the quarter where the Masovian soldiers had already pitched their tents. The officers who supped with Sobieski left him at an early hour, that he might retire to rest; but Thaddeus was neither able nor inclined to benefit by their consideration. He lay down on his mattress, shut his eyes, and tried to sleep; but the attempt was without success. In vain he turned from side to side; in vain he attempted to restrict his thoughts to one thing at once; his imagination was so roused by anticipating the scenes in which he was to become an actor, that he found it impossible even to lie still. His spirits being quite awake, he determined to rise, and to walk himself drowsy. Seeing his grandfather sound asleep, he got up and dressed himself quietly; then stealing gently from the marquée, he gave the word in a low whisper to the guard at the door, and proceeded down the lines. The pitying moon seemed to stand in the heavens, watching the awaking of those heroes who the next day might sleep to rise no more. At another time, and in another mood, such might have been his reflections; but now he pursued his walk with different thoughts: no meditations but those of pleasure possessed his breast. He looked on the moon with transport; he beheld the light of that beautiful planet, trailing its long stream of glory across the intrenchments. He perceived a solitary candle here and there glimmering through the curtained entrance of the tents, and thought that their inmates were probably longing with the same anxiety as himself for the morning's dawn. Thaddeus walked slowly on, sometimes pausing at the lonely footfall of the sentinel, or answering with a start to the sudden challenge for the parole; then lingering at the door of some of these canvas dwellings, he offered up a prayer for the brave inhabitant who, like himself, had quitted the endearments of home to expose his life on this spot, a bulwark of liberty. Thaddeus knew not what it was to be a soldier by profession; he had no idea of making war a trade, by which a man may acquire subsistence, and perhaps wealth; he had but one motive for appearing in the field, and one for leaving it,--to repel invasion and to establish peace. The first energy of his mind was a desire to maintain the rights of his country; it had been inculcated into him when an infant; it had been the subject of his morning thoughts and nightly dreams; it was now the passion which beat in every artery of his heart. Yet he knew no honor in slaughter; his glory lay in defence; and when that was accomplished, his sword would return to its scabbard, unstained by the blood of a vanquished or invaded people. On these principles, he was at this hour full of enthusiasm; a glow of triumph flitted over his cheek, for he had felt the indulgences of his mother's palace, had left her maternal arms, to take upon him the toils of war, and risk an existence just blown into enjoyment. A noble satisfaction rose in his mind; and with all the animation which an inexperienced and raised fancy imparts to that age when boyhood breaks into man, his soul grasped at every show of creation with the confidence of belief. Pressing the sabre which he held in his hand to his lips, he half uttered, "Never shall this sword leave my arm but at the command of mercy, or when death deprives my nerves of their strength." Morning was tinging the hills which bound the eastern horizon of Winnica before Thaddeus found that his pelisse was wet with dew, and that he ought to return to his tent. Hardly had he laid his head upon the pillow, and "lulled his senses in forgetfulness," when he was disturbed by the drum beating to arms. He opened his eyes, and seeing the palatine out of bed, he sprung from his own, and eagerly inquired the cause of his alarm. "Only follow me directly," answered his grandfather, and quitted the tent. Whilst Thaddeus was putting on his clothes, and buckling on his arms with a trembling eagerness which almost defeated his haste, an aid- de-camp of the prince entered. He brought information that an advanced guard of the Russians had attacked a Polish outpost, under the command of Colonel Lonza, and that his highness had ordered a detachment from the palatine's brigade to march to its relief. Before Thaddeus could reply, Sobieski sent to apprise his grandson that the prince had appointed him to accompany the troops which were turning out to resist the enemy. Thaddeus heard this message with delight; yet fearful in what manner the event might answer the expectations which this wished distinction declared, he issued from his tent like a youthful Mars,--or rather like the Spartan Isadas,--trembling at the dazzling effects of his temerity, and hiding his valor and his blushes beneath the waving plumes of his helmet. Kosciusko, who was to head the party, observed this modesty with pleasure, and shaking him warmly by the hand, said, "Go, Thaddeus; take your station on the left flank; I shall require your fresh spirits to lead the charge I intend to make, and to ensure its success." Thaddeus bowed to these encouraging words, and took his place according to order. Everything being ready, the detachment quitted the camp, and dashing through the dews of a sweet morning (for it was yet May), in a few hours arrived in view of the Russian battalions. Lonza, who, from the only redoubt now in his possession, caught a glimpse of this welcome reinforcement, rallied his few remaining men, and by the time that Kosciusko came up, contrived to join him in the van. The fight recommenced. Thaddeus, at the head of his hussars, in full gallop bore down upon the enemy's right flank. They received the charge with firmness; but their young adversary, perceiving that extraordinary means were necessary to make the desired effect, calling on his men to follow him, put spurs to his horse and rushed into the thickest of the battle. His soldiers did not shrink; they pressed on, mowing down the foremost ranks, whilst he, by a lucky stroke of his sabre, disabled the sword-arm of the Russian standard-bearer and seized the colors. His own troops seeing the standard in his hand, with one accord, in loud and repeated cries, shouted victory. Part of the reserve of the enemy, alarmed at this outcry, gave ground, and retreating with precipitation, was soon followed by some of the rear ranks of the centre, to which Kosciusko had penetrated, while its commander, after a short but desperate resistance, was slain. The left flank next gave way, and though holding a brave stand at intervals, at length fairly turned about and fled across the country. The conquerors, elated with so sudden a success, put their horses on full speed; and without order or attention, pursued the fugitives until they were lost amidst the trees of a distant wood. Kosciusko called on his men to halt, but he called in vain; they continued their career, animating each other, and with redoubled shouts drowned the voice of Thaddeus, who was galloping forward repeating the command. At the entrance of the wood they were stopped by a few Russian stragglers, who had formed themselves into a body. These men withstood the first onset of the Poles with considerable steadiness; but after a short skirmish, they fled, or, perhaps, seemed to fly, a second time, and took refuge in the bushes, where, still regardless of orders, their enemies followed. Kosciusko, foreseeing the consequence of this rashness, ordered Thaddeus to dismount a part of his squadron, and march after these headstrong men into the forest. He came up with them on the edge of a heathy tract of land, just as they were closing in with a band of the enemy's arquebusiers, who, having kept up a quick running fire as they retreated, had drawn their pursuers thus far into the thickets. Heedless of anything but giving their enemy a complete defeat, the Polanders went on, never looking to the left nor to the right, till at once they found themselves encompassed by two thousand Muscovite horse, several battalions of chasseurs, and in front of fourteen pieces of cannon, which this dreadful ambuscade opened upon them. Thaddeus threw himself into the midst of his countrymen, and taking the place of their unfortunate conductor, who had been killed in the first sweep of the artillery, prepared the men for a desperate stand. He gave his orders with intrepid coolness--though under a shower of musketry and a cannonade which carried death in every round--that they should draw off towards the flank of the battery. He thought not of himself; and in a few minutes the scattered soldiers were consolidated into a close body, squared with pikemen, who stood like a grove of pines in a day of tempest, only moving their heads and arms. Many of the Russian horse impaled themselves on the sides of this little phalanx, which they vainly attempted to shake, although the ordnance was rapidly weakening its strength. File after file the men were swept down, their bodies making a horrid rampart for their resolute brothers in arms, who, however, rendered desperate, at last threw away their most cumbrous accoutrements, and crying to their leader, "Freedom or death!" followed him sword in hand, and bearing like a torrent upon the enemy's ranks, cut their way through the forest. The Russians, exasperated that their prey should not only escape, but escape by such dauntless valor, hung closely on their rear, goading them with musketry, whilst they (like a wounded lion closely pressed by the hunters, retreats, yet stands proudly at bay) gradually retired towards the camp with a backward step, their faces towards the foe. Meanwhile the palatine Sobieski, anxious for the fate of the day, mounted the dyke, and looked eagerly around for the arrival of some messenger from the little army. As the wind blew strongly from the south, a cloud of dust precluded his view; but from the approach of firing and the clash of arms, he was led to fear that his friends had been defeated, and were retreating towards the camp. He instantly quitted the lines to call out a reinforcement; but before he could advance, Kosciusko and his squadron on the full charge appeared in flank of the enemy, who suddenly halted, and wheeling round, left the harassed Polanders to enter the trenches unmolested. Thaddeus, covered with dust and blood, flung himself into his grandfather's arms. In the heat of action his left arm had been wounded by a Cossack. [Footnote: Cossacks. There are two descriptions of these formidable auxiliaries: those of clear Tartar race, the other mixed with Muscovites and their tributaries. The first and the fiercest are called Don Cossacks, because of their inhabiting the immense steppes of the Don river, on the frontiers of Asia. They are governed by a hetman, a native chief, who personally leads them to battle. The second are the Cossacks of the Crimea, a gallant people of that finest part of the Russian dominions, and, by being of a mingled origin, under European rule, are more civilized and better disciplined than their brethren near the Caucasus. They are generally commanded by Russian officers.] Aware that neglect then might disable him from further service, at the moment it happened he bound it up in his sash, and had thought no more of the accident until the palatine remarked blood on his cloak. "My injury is slight, my dear sir." said he. "I wish to Heaven that it were all the evil which has befallen us to-day! Look at the remnant of our brave comrades." Sobieski turned his eyes on the panting soldiers, and on Kosciusko, who was inspecting them. Some of them, no longer upheld by desperation, were sinking with wounds and fatigue; these the good general sent off in litters to the medical department; and others, who had sustained unharmed the conflict of the day, after having received the praise and admonition of their commander, were dismissed to their quarters. Before this inspection was over, the palatine had to assist Thaddeus to his tent; in spite of his exertions to the contrary, he became so faint, it was necessary to lead him off the ground. A short time restored him. With his arm in a sling, he joined his brother officers on the fourth day. After the duty of the morning, he heard with concern that, during his confinement, the enemy had augmented their force to so tremendous a strength, it was impossible for the comparatively slender force of the Poles to remain longer at Winnica. In consequence of this report, the prince had convened a council late the preceding night, in which it was determined that the camp should immediately be razed, and removed towards Zielime. This information displeased Thaddeus, who in his fairy dreams of war had always made conquest the sure end of his battles; and many were the sighs he drew when, at an hour before dawn on the following day, he witnessed the striking of the tents, which he thought too like a prelude to a shameful flight from the enemy. While he was standing by the busy people, and musing on the nice line which divides prudence from pusillanimity, his grandfather came up, and bade him mount his horse, telling him that, owing to the unhealed state of his wound, he was removed from the vanguard, and ordered to march in the centre, along with the prince. Thaddeus remonstrated against this arrangement, and almost reproached the palatine for forfeiting his promise, that he should always be stationed near his person. The veteran would not be moved, either by argument or entreaty; and Thaddeus, finding that he neither could nor ought to oppose him, obeyed, and followed an aid-de-camp to his highness. CHAPTER IV. THE PASS OF VOLUNNA. After a march of three hours, the army came in sight of Volunna, where the advanced column suddenly halted. Thaddeus, who was about a half mile to its rear, with a throbbing heart heard that a momentous pass must be disputed before they could proceed. He curbed his horse, then gave it the spur, so eagerly did he wish to penetrate the cloud of smoke which rose in volumes from the discharge of musketry, on whose wing, at every round, he dreaded might be carried the fate of his grandfather. At last the firing ceased, and the troops were commanded to go forward. On approaching near the contested defile, Thaddeus shuddered, for at every step the heels of his charger struck upon the wounded or the dead. There lay his enemies, here lay his friends! His respiration was nearly suspended, and his eyes clung to the ground, expecting at each moment to fasten on the breathless body of his grandfather. Again the tumult of battle presented itself. About an hundred soldiers, in one firm rank, stood at the opening of the pass, firing on the now vacillating steadiness of the enemy. Thaddeus checked his horse. Five hundred had been detached to this post; how few remained! Could he hope that Sobieski had escaped so desperate a rencontre? Fearing the worst, and dreading to have those fears confirmed, his heart sickened when he received orders from Poniatowski to examine the extent of the loss. He rode to the mouth of the defile. He could nowhere see the palatine. A few of his hussars, a little in advance, were engaged over a heap of the killed, defending it from a troop of Cossacks, who appeared fighting for the barbarous privilege of trampling on the bodies. At this sight Thaddeus, impelled by despair, called out, "Courage, soldiers! The prince with artillery!" The enemy, looking forward, saw the information was true, and with a shout of derision, took to flight. Poniatowski, almost at the word, was by the side of his young friend, who, unconscious of any idea but that of filial solicitude, had dismounted. "Where is the palatine?" was his immediate inquiry to a chasseur who was stooping towards the slain. The man made no answer, but lifted from the heap the bodies of two soldiers; beneath, Thaddeus saw the pale and deathly features of his grandfather. He staggered a few paces back, and the prince, thinking he was falling, hastened to support him; but he recovered himself, and flew forward to assist Kosciusko, who had raised the head of the palatine upon his knee. "Is he alive?" inquired Thaddeus. "He breathes." Hope was now warm in his grandson's breast. The soldiers soon released Sobieski from the surrounding dead; but his swoon continuing, the prince desired that he might be laid on a bank, until a litter could be brought from the rear to convey him to a place of security. Meantime, Thaddeus and General Butzou bound up his wounds and poured some water into his mouth. The effusion of blood being stopped, the brave veteran opened his eyes, and in a few moments more, whilst he leaned on the bosom of his grandson, was so far restored as to receive with his usual modest dignity the thanks of his highness for the intrepidity with which he had preserved a passage which ensured the safety of the whole army, Two surgeons, who arrived with the litter, relieved the anxiety of the bystanders by an assurance that the wounds, which they re-examined, were not dangerous. Having laid their patient on the vehicle, they were preparing to retire with it into the rear, when Thaddeus petitioned the prince to grant him permission to take the command of the guard which was appointed to attend his grandfather. His highness consented; but Sobieski positively refused. "No, Thaddeus," said he; "you forget the effect which this solicitude about so trifling a matter might have on the men. Remember that he who goes into battle only puts his own life to the hazard, but he that abandons the field, sports with the lives of his soldiers. Do not give them leave to suppose that even your dearest interest could tempt you from the front of danger when it is your duty to remain there." Thaddeus obeyed his grandfather in respectful silence; at seven o'clock the army resumed its march. Near Zielime the prince was saluted by a reinforcement. It appeared very seasonably, for scouts had brought information that directly across the plain a formidable division of the Russian army, under General Brinicki, was drawn up in order of battle, to dispute his progress. Thaddeus, for the first time, shuddered at the sight of the enemy, Should his friends be defeated, what might be the fate of his grandfather, now rendered helpless by many wounds! Occupied by these fears, with anxiety in his heart, he kept his place at the head of the light horse, close to the hill. Prince Poniatowski ordered the lines to extend themselves, that the right should reach to the river, and the left be covered by the rising ground, on which were mounted seven pieces of ordnance. Immediately after these dispositions, the battle commenced with mutual determination, and continued with unabated fury from eight in the morning until sunset. Several times the Poles were driven from their ground; but as often recovering themselves, and animated by their commanders, they prosecuted the fight with advantage. General Brinicki, perceiving that the fortune of the day was going against him, ordered up the body of reserve, which consisted of four thousand men and several cannon. He erected temporary batteries in a few minutes, and with these new forces opened a rapid and destructive fire on the Polanders. Kosciusko, alarmed at perceiving a retrograde motion in his troops, gave orders for a close attack on the enemy in front, whilst Thaddeus, at the head of his hussars, should wheel round the hill of artillery, and with loud cries charge the opposite flank. This stratagem succeeded. The arquebusiers, who were posted on that spot, seeing the impetuosity of the Poles, and the quarter whence they came, supposed them to be a fresh squadron, gave ground, and opening in all directions, threw their own people into a confusion that completed the defeat. Kosciusko and the prince were equally successful, and a general panic amongst their adversaries was the consequence. The whole of the Russian army now took to flight, except a few regiments of carabineers, which were entangled between the river and the Poles. These were immediately surrounded by a battalion of Masovian infantry, who, enraged at the loss their body had sustained the preceding day, answered a cry for quarter with reproach and derision. At this instant the Sobieski squadron came up, and Thaddeus, who saw the perilous situation of these regiments, ordered the slaughter to cease, and the men to be taken prisoners. The Masovians exhibited strong signs of dissatisfaction at such commands; but the young count charging through them, ranged his troops before the Russians, and declared that the first man who should dare to lift a sword against his orders should be shot. The Poles dropped their arms. The poor carabineers fell on their knees to thank his mercy, whilst their officers, in a sullen silence, which seemed ashamed of gratitude, surrendered their swords into the hands of their deliverers. During this scene, only one very young Russian appeared wholly refractory. He held his sword in a menacing posture when Thaddeus drew near, and before he had time to speak, the young man made a cut at his head, which a hussar parried by striking the assailant to the earth, and would have killed him on the spot, had not Thaddeus caught the blow on his own sword; then instantly dismounting, he raised the officer from the ground, and apologized for the too hasty zeal of his soldier. The youth blushed, and, bowing, presented his sword, which was received and as directly returned. "Brave sir," said Thaddeus, "I consider myself ennobled in restoring this weapon to him who has so courageously defended it." The Russian made no reply but by a second bow, and put his hand on his breast, which seemed wet with blood. Ceremony was now at an end. Thaddeus never looked upon the unfortunate as strangers, much less as enemies. Accosting the wounded officer with a friendly voice, he assured him of his services, and bade him lean on him. Overcome, the young man, incapable of speaking, accepted his assistance; but before a conveyance could arrive, for which two men were dispatched, he fainted in his arms. Thaddeus being obliged to join the prince with his prisoners, unwillingly left the young Russian in this situation; but before he did so he directed one of his lieutenants to take care that the surgeons should pay attention to the officer, and have his litter carried next to the palatine's during the remainder of the march. When the army halted at nine o'clock, P.M., preparations were made to fix the camp; and in case of a surprise from any part of the dispersed enemy which might have rallied, orders were delivered for throwing up a dyke. Thaddeus, having been assured that his grandfather and the wounded Russian were comfortably stationed near each other, did not hesitate to accept the command of the intrenching party. To that end he wrapped himself loosely in his pelisse, and prepared for a long watch. The night was beautiful. It being the month of June, a softening warmth still floated through the air, as if the moon, which shone over his head, emitted heat as well as splendor. His mind was in unison with the season. He rode slowly round from bank to bank, sometimes speaking to the workers in the fosse, sometimes lingering for a few minutes. Looking on the ground, he thought on the element of which he was composed, to which he might so soon return; then gazing upward, he observed the silent march of the stars and the moving scene of the heavens. On whatever object he cast his eyes, his soul, which the recent events had dissolved into a temper not the less delightful for being tinged with melancholy, meditated with intense compassion, and dwelt with wonder on the mind of man, which, whilst it adores the Creator of the universe, and measures the immensity of space with an expansion of intellect almost divine, can devote itself to the narrow limits of sublunary possessions, and exchange the boundless paradise above for the low enjoyments of human pride. He looked with pity over that wide tract of land which now lay betwixt him and the remains of those four thousand invaders who had just fallen victims to the insatiate desires of ambition. He well knew the difference between a defender of his own country and the invader of another's. His heart beat, his soul expanded, at the prospect of securing liberty and life to a virtuous people. He _felt_ all the happiness of such an achievement, while he could only _imagine_ how that spirit must shrink from reflection which animates the self-condemned slave to fight, not merely to fasten chains on others, but to rivet his own the closer. The best affections of man having put the sword into the hand of Thaddeus, his principle as a Christian did not remonstrate against his passion for arms. When he was told the fortifications were finished, he retired with a tranquil step towards the Masovian quarters. He found the palatine awake, and eager to welcome him with the joyful information that his wounds were so slight as to promise a speedy amendment, Thaddeus asked for his prisoner. The palatine answered that he was in the next tent, where a surgeon closely attended him, who had already given a very favorable opinion of the wound, which was in the muscles of the breast. "Have you seen him, my dear sir?" inquired Thaddeus. "Yes," replied the palatine; "I was supported into his marquée before I retired to my own. I told him who I was, and repeated your offers of service. He received my proffer with expressions of gratitude, and at the same time declared he had nothing to blame but his own folly for bringing him to the state in which he now lies." "How, my lord?" rejoined Thaddeus. "Does he repent of being a soldier? or is he ashamed of the cause for which he fought?" "Both, Thaddeus; he is not a Muscovite, but a young Englishman." "An Englishman! and raise his arm against a country struggling for loyalty and liberty!" "It is very true," returned the palatine; "but as he confesses it was his folly and the persuasions of others which impelled him, he may be pardoned. He is a mere youth; I think hardly your age. I understand that he is of rank; and having undertaken a tour in whatever part of Europe is now open to travellers, under the direction of an experienced tutor, they took Russia in their route. At St. Petersburg he became intimate with many of the nobility, particularly with Count Brinicki, at whose house he resided; and when the count was named to the command of the army in Poland, Mr. Somerset (for that is your prisoner's name), instigated by his own volatility and the arguments of his host, volunteered with him, and so followed his friend to oppose that freedom here which he would have asserted in his own nation." Thaddeus thanked his grandfather for this information; and pleased that the young man, who had so much interested him, was a brave Briton, not in heart an enemy, he gayly and instantly repaired to his tent. A generous spirit is as eloquent in acknowledging benefits as it is bounteous in bestowing them; and Mr. Somerset received his preserver with the warmest demonstrations of gratitude. Thaddeus begged him not to consider himself as particularly obliged by a conduct which every soldier of honor has a right to expect from another. The Englishman bowed his head, and Thaddeus took a seat by his bedside. Whilst he gathered from his own lips a corroboration of the narrative of the palatine, he could not forbear inquiring how a person of his apparent candor, and who was also the native of a soil where national liberty had so long been the palladium of its happiness, could volunteer in a cause the object of which was to make a brave people slaves? Somerset listened to these questions with blushes; and they did not leave his face when he confessed that all he could say in extenuation of what he had done was to plead his youth, and having thought little on the subject. "I was wrought upon," continued he, "by a variety of circumstances: first, the predilections of Mr. Loftus, my governor, are strongly in favor of the court of St. Petersburg; secondly, my father dislikes the army, and I am enthusiastically fond of it--this was the only opportunity, perhaps, in which I might ever satisfy my passion; and lastly, I believe that I was dazzled by the picture which the young men about me drew of the campaign. I longed to be a soldier; they persuaded me; and I followed them to the field as I would have done to a ballroom, heedless of the consequences." "Yet," replied Thaddeus, smiling, "from the intrepidity with which you maintained your ground, when your arms were demanded, any one might have thought that your whole soul, as well as your body, was engaged in the cause." "To be sure," returned Somerset, "I was a blockhead to be there; but when there, I should have despised myself forever had I given up my honor to the ruffians who would have wrested my sword from me! But when _you_ came, noble Sobieski, it was the fate of war, and I confided myself to a brave man." CHAPTER V. THE BANKS OF THE VISTULA. Each succeeding morning not only brought fresh symptoms of recovery to the two invalids, but condensed the mutual admiration of the young men into a solid and ardent esteem. It is not the disposition of youthful minds to weigh for months and years the sterling value of those qualities which attract them. As soon as they see virtue, they respect it; as soon as they meet kindness, they believe it: and as soon as a union of both presents itself, they love it. Not having passed through the disappointments of a delusive world, they grasp for reality every pageant which appears. They have not yet admitted that cruel doctrine which, when it takes effect, creates and extends the misery it affects to cure. Whilst we give up our souls to suspicion, we gradually learn to deceive; whilst we repress the fervors of our own hearts, we freeze those which approach us; whilst we cautiously avoid occasions of receiving pain, at every remove we acquire an unconscious influence to inflict it on those who follow us. They, again, meet from our conduct and lips the lesson that destroys the expanding sensibilities of their nature; and thus the tormenting chain of deceived and deceiving characters may be lengthened to infinitude. About the latter end of the month, Sobieski received a summons to court, where a diet was to be held on the effect of the victory at Zielime, to consider of future proceedings. In the same packet his majesty enclosed a collar and investiture of the order of St. Stanislaus, as an acknowledgment of service to the young Thaddeus; and he accompanied it with a note from himself, expressing his commands that the young knight should return with the palatine and other generals, to receive thanks from the throne. Thaddeus, half wild with delight at the thoughts of so soon meeting his mother, ran to the tent of his British friend to communicate the tidings. Somerset participated in his pleasure, and with reciprocal warmth accepted the invitation to accompany him to Villanow. "I would follow you, my friend," said he, pressing the hand of Thaddeus, "all over the world." "Then I will take you to the most charming spot in it?" cried he. "Villanow is an Eden; and my mother, the dear angel, would make a desert so to me." "You speak so rapturously of your enchanted castle, Thaddeus," returned his friend, "I believe I shall consider my knight-errantry, in being fool enough to trust myself amidst a fray in which I had no business, as one of the wisest acts of my life!" "I consider it," replied Thaddeus, "as one of the most auspicious events in mine." Before the palatine quitted the camp, Somerset thought it proper to acquaint Mr. Loftus, who was yet at St. Petersburg, of the particulars of his late danger, and that he was going to Warsaw with his new friends, where he should remain for several weeks. He added, that as the court of Poland, through the intercession of the palatine, had generously given him his liberty, he should be able to see everything in that country worthy of investigation, and that he would write to him again, enclosing letters for England, soon after his arrival at the Polish capital. The weather continuing fine, in a few days the party left Zielime; and the palatine and Somerset, being so far restored from their wounds that they could walk, the one with a crutch and the other by the support of his friend's arm, they went through the journey with animation and pleasure. The benign wisdom of Sobieski, the intelligent enthusiasm of Thaddeus, and the playful vivacity of Somerset, mingling their different natures, produced such a beautiful union, that the minutes flew fast as their wishes. A week more carried them into the palatinate of Masovia, and soon afterwards within the walls of Villanow. Everything that presented itself to Mr. Somerset was new and fascinating. He saw in the domestic felicity of his friend scenes which reminded him of the social harmony of his own home. He beheld in the palace and retinue of Sobieski all the magnificence which bespoke the descendant of a great king, and a power which wanted nothing of royal grandeur but the crown, which he had the magnanimity to think and to declare was then placed upon a more worthy brow. Whilst Somerset venerated this true patriot, the high tone his mind acquired was not lowered by associating with characters nearer the common standard. The friends of Sobieski were men of tried probity-- men who at all times preferred their country's welfare before their own peculiar interest. Mr. Somerset day after day listened with deep attention to these virtuous and energetic noblemen. He saw them full of fire and personal courage when the affairs of Poland were discussed; and he beheld with admiration their perfect forgetfulness of themselves in their passion for the general good. In these moments his heart bowed down before them, and all the pride of a Briton distended his breast when he thought that such men as these his ancestors were. He remembered how often their chivalric virtues used to occupy his reflections in the picture-gallery at Somerset Castle, and his doubts, when he compared what is with what was, that history had glossed over the actions of past centuries, or that a different order of men lived then from those which now inhabit the world. Thus, studying the sublime characters of Sobieski and his friends, and enjoying the endearing kindness of Thaddeus and his mother, did a fortnight pass away without his even recollecting the promise of writing to his governor. At the end of that period, he stole an hour from the countess's society, and enclosed in a short letter to Mr. Loftus the following epistle to his mother:-- To LADY SOMERSET, SOMERSET CASTLE, LEICESTERSHIRE. "Many weeks ago, my dearest mother, I wrote a letter of seven sheets from the banks of the Neva, which, long ere this time, you and my dear father must have received. I attempted to give you some idea of the manners of Russia, and my vanity whispers that I succeeded tolerably well. The court of the famous Catharine and the attentions of the hospitable Count Brinicki were then the subjects of my pen. "But how shall I account for my being here? How shall I allay your surprise and displeasure on seeing that this letter is dated from Warsaw? I know that I have acted against the wish of my father in visiting one of the countries he proscribes. I know that I have disobeyed your commands in ever having at any period of my life taken up arms without an indispensable necessity; and I have nothing to allege in my defence. I fell in the way of temptation, and I yielded to it. I really cannot enumerate all the things which induced me to volunteer with my Russian friends; suffice it to say that I did so, and that we were defeated by the Poles at Zielime; and as Heaven has rather rewarded your prayers than punished my imprudence, I trust you will do the same, and pardon an indiscretion I vow never to repeat. "Notwithstanding all this, I must have lost my life through my folly, had I not been preserved, even in the moment when death was pending over me, by a young officer with whose family I now am. The very sound of their title will create your respect; for we of the patrician order have a strange tenacity in our belief that virtue is hereditary, and in this instance our creed is duly honored. Their patronymic is Sobieski; the family which bears it is the only remaining posterity of the great monarch of that name; and the count, who is at its head, is Palatine of Masovia, which, next to the throne, is the first dignity in the state. He is one of the warmest champions of his country's rights; and though born to command, has so far transgressed the golden adage of despots, 'Ignorance and subjection,' that throughout his territories every man is taught to worship his God with his heart as well as with his knees. The understandings of his peasants are opened to all useful knowledge. He does not put books of science and speculation into their hands, to consume their time in vain pursuits: he gives them the Bible, and implements of industry, to afford them the means of knowing and of practising their duty. All Masovia around his palace blooms like a garden. The cheerful faces of the farmers, and the blessings which I hear them implore on the family when I am walking in the field with the young count (for in this country the sons bear the same title with their fathers [Footnote: _Prince_, (ancient _Kniaz_) and _Boyard_, (which is equivalent in rank to our old English Baron,) are titles used by Russians and Polanders, both nations being descended from the Sclavonians, and their languages derived from the same roots. _Prince_ indicates the highest rank of a subject; _Boyard_ simply that of _Nobleman_. But both personages must be understood to be of hereditary power to raise forces on their estates for the service of the sovereign, to lead them in battle, and to maintain all their expenses. The title of _Count_ has been adopted within a century or two by both nations, and occasionally appended to the ancient heroic designation of _Boyard_. The feminine to these titles is formed by adding _gina_ to the paternal title; thus _Kniazgina Olga_, means Princess Olga; also, _Boyarda_, Lady. The titles of _Palatine, Vaivode, Starost_ and the like belong to civil and military offices.]), have even drawn a few delighted drops from the eyes of your thoughtless son. I know that you think I have nothing sentimental about me, else you would not so often have poured into my not inattentive ears, 'that to estimate the pleasures of earth and heaven, we must cultivate the sensibilities of the heart. Shut our eyes against them, and we are merely nicely- constructed speculums, which reflect the beauties of nature, but enjoy none.' You see, mamma, that I both remember and adopt your lessons. "Thaddeus Sobieski is the grandson of the palatine, and the sole heir of his illustrious race. It is to him that I owe the preservation of my life at Zielime, and much of my happiness since; for he is not only the bravest but the most amiable young man in the kingdom; and he is my friend! Indeed, as things have happened, you must think that out of evil has come good. Though I have been disobedient, I have repented my fault, and it has introduced me to the knowledge of a people whose friendship will henceforward constitute the greatest pleasure of my days. The mother of Thaddeus is the only daughter of the palatine; and of her I can say no more than that nothing on earth can more remind me of you; she is equally charming, equally tender to your son. "Whilst the palatine is engaged at the diet, her excellency, Thaddeus, and myself, with now and then a few visitors from Warsaw, form the most agreeable parties you can suppose. We walk together, we read together, we converse together, we sing together--at least, the countess sings to us, which is all the same; and you know that time flies swiftly on the wings of harmony. She has an uncommonly sweet voice, and a taste which I never heard paralleled. By the way, you cannot imagine anything more beautiful than the Polish music. It partakes of that delicious languor so distinguished in the Turkish airs, with a mingling of those wandering melodies which the now- forgotten composers must have caught from the Tartars. In short, whilst the countess is singing, I hardly suffer myself to breathe; and I feel just what our poetical friend William Scarsdale said a twelvemonth ago at a concert of yours, 'I feel as if love sat upon my heart and flapped it with his wings.' "I have tried all my powers of persuasion to prevail on this charming countess to visit our country. I have over and over again told her of you, and described her to you; that you are near her own age (for this lovely woman, though she has a son nearly twenty, is not more than forty;) that you are as fond of your ordinary boy as she is of her peerless one; that, in short, you and my father will receive her and Thaddeus, and the palatine, with open arms and hearts, if they will condescend to visit our humbler home at the end of the war. I believe I have repeated my entreaties, both to the countess and my friend, regularly every day since my arrival at Villanow, but always with the same issue: she smiles and refuses; and Thaddeus 'shakes his ambrosial curls' with a 'very god-like frown' of denial; I hope it is self-denial, in compliment to his mother's cruel and unprovoked negative. "Before I proceed, I must give you some idea of the real appearance of this palace. I recollect your having read a superficial account of it in a few slight sketches of Poland which have been published in England; but the pictures they exhibit are so faint, they hardly resemble the original. Pray do not laugh at me, if I begin in the usual descriptive style! You know there is only one way to describe houses and lands and rivers; so no blame can be thrown on me for taking the beaten path, where there is no other. To commence:-- "When we left Zielime, and advanced into the province of Masovia, the country around Praga rose at every step in fresh beauty. The numberless chains of gently swelling hills which encompass it on each side of the Vistula were in some parts checkered with corn fields, meadows, and green pastures covered with sheep, whose soft bleatings thrilled in my ears and transported my senses into new regions, so different was my charmed and tranquillized mind from the tossing anxieties attendant on the horrors I had recently witnessed. Surely there is nothing in the world, short of the most undivided reciprocal attachment, that has such power over the workings of the human heart as the mild sweetness of nature. The most ruffled temper, when emerging from the town, will subside into a calm at the sight of a wide stretch of landscape reposing in the twilight of a fine evening. It is then that the spirit of peace settles upon the heart, unfetters the thoughts and elevates the soul to the Creator. It is then that we behold the Parent of the universe in his works; we see his grandeur in earth, sea, and sky: we feel his affection in the emotions which they raise, and, half mortal, half etherealized, forget where we are, in the anticipation of what that world must be of which this earth is merely the shadow. [Footnote: This description of the banks of the Vistula was given to me with smiles and sighs. The reality was once enjoyed by the narrator, and there was a delight in the retrospection "sweet and mournful to the soul." At the time these reflections arose on such a scene, I often tasted the same pleasure in evening visits to the beautiful rural environs of London, which then extended from the north side of Fitzroy Square to beyond the Elm Grove on Primrose Hill, and forward through the fields to Hampstead. But most of that is all streets, or Regent's Park; and the sweet Hill, then the resort of many a happy Sunday group, has not now a tree standing on it, and hardly a blade of grass, "to mark where the primrose has been."] "Autumn seemed to be unfolding all her beauties to greet the return of the palatine. In one part the haymakers were mowing the hay and heaping it into stacks; in another, the reapers were gathering up the wheat, with a troop of rosy little gleaners behind them, each of whom might have tempted the proudest Palemon in Christendom to have changed her toil into 'a gentler duty.' Such a landscape intermingled with the little farms of these honest people, whom the philanthropy of Sobieski has rendered free (for it is a tract of his extensive domains I am describing), reminded me of Somerset. Villages repose in the green hollows of the vales, and cottages are seen peeping from amidst the thick umbrage of the woods which cover the face of the hills. The irregular forms and thatched roofs of these simple habitations, with their infant inhabitants playing at the doors, compose such lovely groups, that I wish for our dear Mary's pencil and fingers (for, alas! that way mine are motionless!) to transport them to your eyes. "The palace of Villanow, which is castellated, now burst upon my view. It rears its embattled head from the summit of a hill that gradually slopes down towards the Vistula, in full view to the south of the plain of Vola, a spot long famous for the election of the kings of Poland. [Footnote: It was from this very assumption by the nation, on the extinction of the male line of the monarchs of the house of Jaghellon, that all their subsequent political calamities may be dated. The last two sovereigns of this race were most justly styled good and great kings---father and son--Sigismund I. and II. But on the death of the last, about the middle of the sixteenth century, certain nobles of the nation, intoxicated with their wealth and privileges, run wild for dictation in all things; and as the foundation for such rule, they determined to make the succession of their future kings entirely dependent on the free vote of public suffrage; and the plain of Vola was made the terrible arena. So it may be called; for, from the time of the first monarch so elected, Henry of Valois, a stranger to the country, and brother to the execrable Charles IX. of France, bribery or violence have been the usual keys to the throne of Poland. For the doors of the country being once opened by the misguided people themselves to the influence of ambition, partiality, and passion, and shut against the old tenure of a settled succession, foreign powers were always ready to step in, with the gold or the sword; and Poland necessarily became a vassal adjunct to whatever neighboring country furnished the new sovereign. Thus it was, with a few exceptions (as is still case of the glorious John Sobieski), until the election of Stanislaus Augustus, who, though nominated by the power of the Empress of Russia, yet being, like Sobieski, a native prince of the nation, determined to govern the people of Poland in the spirit of his and their most glorious ancestors; and true to the vow, treading in the steps of the last of the Jaghellons, he gave to Poland the constitution of 1791, which, with the re-enaction of many wise laws, again made the throne hereditary. Hence the devoted struggles of every arm in the country in loyal defence of such a recovered existence.] On the north of the building, the earth is cut into natural ramparts, which rise in high succession until they reach the foundations of the palace, where they terminate in a noble terrace. These ramparts, covered with grass, overlook the stone outworks, and spread down to the bottom of the hill, which being clothed with fine trees and luxuriant underwood, forms such a rich and verdant base to the fortress as I have not language to describe: were I privileged to be poetical, I would say it reminds me of the God of war sleeping amid roses in the bower of love. Here the eye may wander over the gifts of bounteous Nature, arraying hill and dale in all the united treasures of spring and autumn. The forest stretches its yet unseared arms to the breeze; whilst that breeze comes laden with the fragrance of the tented hay, and the thousand sweets breathed from flowers, which in this delicious country weep honey. "A magnificent flight of steps led us from the foot of the ramparts up to the gate of the palace. We entered it, and were presently surrounded by a train of attendants in such sumptuous liveries, than I found myself all at once carried back into the fifteenth century, and might have fancied myself within the courtly halls of our Tudors and Plantagenets. You can better conceive that I can paint the scene which took place between the palatine, the countess, and her son. I can only repeat, that from that hour I have known no want of happiness but what arises from regret that my dear family are not partakers with me. "You know that this stupendous building was the favorite residence of John Sobieski, and that he erected it as a resting-place from the labors of his long and glorious reign. I cannot move without meeting some vestige of that truly great monarch. I sleep in his bed chamber: there hangs his portrait, dressed in the robes of sovereignty; here are suspended the arms with which he saved the very kingdoms which have now met together to destroy his country. On one side is his library; on the other, the little chapel in which he used to pay his morning and evening devotions. Wherever I look, my eye finds some object to excite my reflections and emulation. The noble dead seem to address me from their graves; and I blush at the inglorious life I might have pursued had I never visited this house and its inhabitants. Yet, my dearest mother, I do not mean to insinuate that my honored father and brave ancestors have not set me examples as bright as man need follow. But human nature is capricious; we are not so easily stimulated by what is always in our view as with sights which, rising up when we are removed from our customary associations, surprise and captivate our attention. Villanow has only awakened me to the lesson which I conned over in drowsy carelessness at home. Thaddeus Sobieski is hardly one year my senior; but, good heaven! what has he not done? what has he not acquired? Whilst I abused the indulgence of my parents, and wasted my days in riding, shooting, and walking the streets, he was learning to act as became a man of rank and virtue; and by seizing every opportunity to serve the state, he has obtained a rich reward in the respect and admiration of his country. I am not envious, but I now feel the truth of Caesar's speech, when he declared 'The reputation of Alexander would not let him sleep.' Nevertheless, I dearly love my friend. I murmur at my own dements, not at his worth. "I have scribbled over all my paper, otherwise I verily believe I should write more; however, I promise you another letter in a week or two. Meanwhile I shall send this packet to Mr. Loftus, who is at St. Petersburg, to forward it to you. Adieu, my dear mother! I am, with reverence to my father and yourself. "Your truly affectionate son, "PEMBROKE SOMERSET. "VILLANOW, _August_, 1792." CHAPTER VI. SOCIETY IN POLAND. "TO LADY SOMERSET, SOMERSET CASTLE, ENGLAND. [Written three weeks after the preceding.] "You know, my dear mother, that your Pembroke is famous for his ingenious mode of showing the full value of every favor he confers! Can I then relinquish the temptation of telling you what I have left to make you happy with this epistle? "About five minutes ago, I was sitting on the lawn at the feet of the countess, reading to her and the Princess Poniatowski the charming poem of 'The Pleasures of Memory.' As both these ladies understand English, they were admiring it, and paying many compliments to the graces of my delivery, when the palatine presented himself, and told me, if I had any commands for St. Petersburg, I must prepare them, for a messenger was to set off on the next morning, by daybreak.' I instantly sprang up, threw my book into the hand of Thaddeus, and here I am in my own room scribbling to you! "Even at the moment in which I dip my pen in the ink, my hurrying imagination paints on my heart the situation of my beloved home when this letter reaches you. I think I see you and my good aunt, seated on the blue sofa in your dressing-room, with your needle work on the little table before you; I see Mary in her usual nook--the recess by the old harpsichord--and my dear father bringing in this happy letter from your son! I must confess this romantic kind of fancy-sketching makes me feel rather oddly: very unlike what I felt a few months ago, when I was a mere coxcomb--indifferent, unreflecting, unappreciating, and fit for nothing better than to hold pins at my lady's toilet. Well, it is now made evident to me that we never know the blessings bestowed on us until we are separated from the possession of them. Absence tightens the strings which unites friends as well as lovers: at least I find it so; and though I am in the fruition of every good on this side the ocean, yet my very happiness renders me ungrateful, and I repine because I enjoy it alone. Positively, I must bring you all hither to pass a summer, or come back at the termination of my travels, and carry away this dear family by main force to England. "Tell my cousin Mary that, either way, I shall present to her esteem the most amiable and accomplished of my sex; but I warn her not to fall in love with him, neither in _propriâ, personâ_, nor by his public fame, nor with his private character. Tell her 'he is a bright and particular star,' neither in her sphere nor in any other woman's. In this way he is as cold as 'Dian's Crescent;' and to my great amazement too, for when I throw my eyes over the many lovely young women who at different times fill the drawing-room of the countess, I cannot but wonder at the perfect indifference with which he views their (to me) irresistible charms. "He is polite and attentive to them all; he talks with them, smiles with them, and treats them with every gentle complacency; but they do not live one instant in his memory. I mean they do not occupy his particular wishes; for with regard to every respectful sentiment towards the sex in general, and esteem to some amiable individuals, he is as awake as in the other case he is still asleep. The fact is, he has no idea of appropriation; he never casts one thought upon himself; kindness is spontaneous in his nature; his sunny eyes beam on all with modest benignity, and his frank and glowing conversation is directed to every rank of people. They imbibe it with an avidity and love which makes its way to his heart, without kindling one spark of vanity. Thus, whilst his fine person and splendid actions fill every eye and bosom, I see him moving in the circle unconscious of his eminence and the admiration he excites. "Drawn by such an example, to which his high quality as well as extraordinary merit gives so great an influence, most of the younger nobility have been led to enter the army. These circumstances, added to the detail of his bravery and uncommon talents in the field, have made him an object of universal regard, and, in consequence, wherever he is seen he meets with applause and acclamation: nay, even at the appearance of his carriage in the streets, the passengers take off their hats and pray for him till he is out of sight. It is only then that I perceive his cheek flush with the conviction that he is seated in their hearts. "'It is this, Thaddeus,' said I to him one day, when walking together we were obliged to retire into a house from the crowds that followed him; 'it is this, my dear friend, which shields your heart against the arrows of love. You have no place for that passion; your mistress is glory, and she courts you.' "'My mistress is my country,' replied he; 'at present I desire no other. For her I would die; for her only would I wish to live.' Whilst he spoke, the energy of his soul blazed in his eye. I smiled. "'You are an enthusiast, Thaddeus,' I said. "'Pembroke!' returned he, in a surprised and reproachful tone. "'I do not give you that name opprobriously,' resumed I, laughing; 'but there are many in my country, who, hearing these sentiments, would not scruple to call you mad.' "'Then I pity them,' returned Thaddeus. 'Men who cannot ardently feel, cannot taste supreme happiness. My grandfather educated me at the feet of patriotism; and when I forget his precepts and example, may my guardian angel forget me!' "'Happy, glorious Thaddeus!' cried I, grasping his hand; 'how I envy you your destiny! to live as you do, in the lap of honor, virtue and glory the aim and end of your existence!' "The animated countenance of my friend changed at these words, and laying his hand on my arm, he said, 'Do not envy me my destiny. Pembroke, you are the son of a free and loyal country, at peace with itself; insatiate power has not dared to invade its rights. Your king, in happy security, reigns in the confidence of his people, whilst our anointed Stanislaus is baited and insulted by oppression from without and ingratitude within. Do not envy me; I would rather live in obscurity all my days than have the means which calamity may produce of acquiring celebrity over the ruins of Poland. O! my friend, the wreath that crowns the head of conquest is thick and bright; but that which binds the olive of peace on the bleeding wounds of my country will be the dearest to me.' "Such sentiments, my clear madam, have opened new lights upon my poor mistaken faculties. I never considered the subject so maturely as my friend has done; victory and glory were with me synonymous words. I had not learned, until frequent conversations with the young, ardent, and pious Sobieski taught me, how to discriminate between animal courage and true valor--between the defender of his country and the ravager of other states. In short, I see in Thaddeus Sobieski all that my fancy hath ever pictured of the heroic character. Whilst I contemplate the sublimity of his sentiments and the tenderness of his soul, I cannot help thinking how few would believe that so many admirable qualities could belong to one mind, and that mind remain unacquainted with the throes of ambition or the throbs of self-love." Pembroke judged rightly of his friend; for if ever the real disinterested _amor patriæ_ glowed in the breast of a man, it animated the heart of the young Sobieski. At the termination of the foregoing sentence in the letter to his mother, Pembroke was interrupted by the entrance of a servant, who presented him a packet which had that moment arrived from St. Petersburg. He took it, and putting his writing materials into a desk, read the following epistle from his governor: "TO PEMBROKE SOMERSET, ESQ. "My dear sir, "I have this day received your letter, enclosing one for Lady Somerset. You must pardon me that I have detained it, and will continue to do so until I am favored with your answer to this, for which I shall most anxiously wait. "You know, Mr. Somerset, my reputation in the sciences; you know my depth in the languages; and besides, the Marquis of Inverary, with whom I travelled over the Continent, offered you sufficient credentials respecting my knowledge of the world, and the honorable manner in which I treat my pupils. Sir Robert Somerset and your lady mother were amply satisfied with the account which his lordship gave of my character; but with all this, in one point every man is vulnerable. No scholar can forget those lines of the poet:-- 'Felices ter, et amplius, Quos irrupta tenet copula; nec malis Divulsus quærimoniis, Supremâ citius solvet amor die.' It has been my misfortune that I have felt them. "You are not ignorant that I was known to the Brinicki family, when I had the honor of conducting the marquis through Russia. The count's accomplished kinswoman, the amiable and learned widow of Baron Surowkoff, even then took particular notice of me; and when I returned with you to St. Petersburg. I did not find that my short absence had obliterated me from her memory. "You are well acquainted with the dignity of that lady's opinions on political subjects. She and I coincided in ardor for the consolidating cause of sovereignty, and in hatred of that levelling power which pervades all Europe. Many have been the long and interesting conversations we have held together on the prosecution of the grand schemes of the three great contracting monarchs. "The baroness, I need not observe, is as handsome as she is ingenuous; her understanding is as masculine as her person is desirable; and I had been more or less than man had I not understood that my figure and talents were agreeable to her. I cannot say that she absolutely promised me her hand, but she went as far that way as delicacy would permit. I am thus circumstantial, Mr. Somerset, to show you that I do not proceed without proof, She has repeatedly said in my presence that she would never marry any man unless he were not only well-looking, but of the profoundest erudition, united with an acquaintance with men and manners which none can dispute. 'Besides,' added she, 'he must not differ with me one tittle in politics, for on that head I hold myself second to no man or woman in Europe.' And then she has complimented me, by declaring that I possessed more judicious sentiments on government than any man in St. Petersburg, and that she should consider herself happy, on the first vacancy in the imperial college, to introduce me at court, where she was 'sure the empress would at once discover the value of my talents; but,' she continued, 'in such a case, I will not allow that even her majesty shall rival me in your esteem.' The modesty natural to my character told me that these praises must have some other source than my comparatively unequal abilities; and I unequivocally found it in the partiality with which her ladyship condescended to regard me. "Was I to blame, Mr. Somerset? Would not any man of sensibility and honor have comprehended such advances from a woman of her rank and reputation? I could not be mistaken; her looks and words needed no explanation which my judgment could not pronounce. Though I am aware that I do not possess that _lumen purpureum juveniæ_ which attracts very young, uneducated women, yet I am not much turned of fifty; and from the baroness's singular behavior, I had every reason to expect handsomer treatment than she has been pleased to dispense to me since my return to this capital. "But to proceed regularly--(I must beg your pardon for the warmth which has hurried me to this digression): you know, sir, that from the hour in which I had the honor of taking leave of your noble family in England, I strove to impress upon your rather volatile mind a just and accurate conception of the people amongst whom I was to conduct you. When I brought you into this extensive empire, I left no means unexerted to heighten your respect not only for its amiable sovereign, but for all powers in amity with her. It is the characteristic of genius to be zealous. I was so, in favor of the pretensions of the great Catherine to that miserable country in which you now are, and to which she deigned to offer her protection. To this zeal, and my unfortunate though honorable devotion to the wishes of the baroness, I am constrained to attribute my present dilemma. "When Poland had the insolence to rebel against its illustrious mistress, you remember that all the rational world was highly incensed. The Baroness Surowkoff declared herself frequently, and with vehemence she appealed to me. My veracity and my principles were called forth, and I confessed that I thought every friend to the Tzaritza ought to take up arms against that ungrateful people. The Count Brinicki was then appointed to command the Russian forces preparing to join the formidable allies; and her ladyship, very unexpectedly on my part, answered me by approving what I said, and added that of course I meant to follow her cousin into Poland, for that even she, as a woman, was so earnest in the cause, she would accompany him to the frontiers, and there await the result. "What could I do? How could I withstand the expectations of a lady of her quality, and one who I believed loved me? However, for some time I did oppose my wish to oblige her; I urged my cloth, and the impossibility of accounting for such a line of conduct to the father of my pupil? The baroness ridiculed all these arguments as mere excuses, and ended with saying, 'Do as you please, Mr. Loftus. I have been deceived in your character; the friend of the Baroness Surowkoff must be consistent; he must be as willing to fight for the cause he espouses as to speak for it: in this case, the sword must follow the oration, else we shall see Poland in the hands of a rabble.' "This decided me. I offered my services to the count to attend him to the field. He and the young lords persuaded you to do the same; and as I could not think of leaving you, when your father had placed you under my charge, I was pleased to find that my approval confirmed your wish to turn soldier. I was not then acquainted, Mr. Somerset (for you did not tell me of it until we were far advanced into Poland), with Sir Robert's and my lady's dislike of the army. This has been a prime source of my error throughout this affair. Had I known their repugnance to your taking up arms, my duty would have triumphed over even my devotion to the baroness; but I was born under a melancholy horoscope; nothing happens as any one of my humblest wishes might warrant. "At the first onset of the battle, I became so suddenly ill that I was obliged to retire; and on this unfortunate event, which was completely unwilled on my part (for no man can command the periods of sickness), the baroness founded a contempt which has disconcerted all my schemes. Besides, when I attempted to remonstrate with her ladyship on the promise which, if not directly given, was implied, she laughed at me; and when I persisted in my suit, all at once, like the rest of her ungrateful and undistinguishing sex, she burst into a tempest of invectives, and forbade me her presence. "What am I now to do, Mr. Somerset? This inconsistent woman has betrayed me into conduct diametrically opposite to the commands of your family. Your father particularly desired that I would not suffer you to go either into Hungary or Poland. In the last instance I have permitted you to disobey him. And my Lady Somerset (who, alas! I now remember lost both her father and brother in different engagements), you tell me, had declared that she never would pardon the man who should put military ideas into your head. "Therefore, sir, though you are my pupil, I throw myself on your generosity. If you persist in acquainting your family with the late transactions at Zielime, and your present residence in Poland, I shall finally be ruined. I shall not only forfeit the good opinion of your noble father and mother, but lose all prospect of the living of Somerset, which Sir Robert was so gracious as to promise should be mine on the demise of the present incumbent. You know, Mr. Somerset, that I have a mother and six sisters in Wales, whose support depends on my success in life; if my preferment be stopped now, they must necessarily be involved in a distress which makes me shudder. "I cannot add more, sir; I know well your character for generosity, and I therefore rest upon it with the utmost confidence. I shall detain the letter which you did me the honor to enclose for my Lady Somerset till I receive your decision; and ever, whilst I live, will I henceforth remain firm to my old and favorite maxim, which I adopted from the glorious epistle of Horace to Numicius. Perhaps you may not recollect the lines? They run thus:-- Nil admirari, prope res est una, Numici, Solaque, quae possit facere et servare beatum. "I have the honor to be, "Dear sir, "Your most obedient servant, "ANDREW LOFTUS. "St. PETERSBURG, _September_, 1792." "P. S. Just as I was about sealing this packet, the English ambassador forwarded to me a short letter from your father, in which he desires us to quit Russia, and to make the best of our way to England, where you are wanted on a most urgent occasion. He explains himself no further, only repeating his orders in express commands that we set off instantly. I wait your directions." This epistle disconcerted Mr. Somerset. He always guessed the Baroness Surowkoff was amusing herself with his vain and pedantic preceptor; but he never entertained a suspicion that her ladyship would carry her pleasantry to so cruel an excess. He clearly saw that the fears of Mr. Loftus with regard to the displeasure of his parents were far from groundless; and therefore, as there was no doubt, from the extreme age of Dr. Manners, that the rectory of Somerset would soon become vacant, he thought it better to oblige his poor governor, and preserve their secret for a month or two, than to give him up to the indignation of Sir Robert. On these grounds, Pembroke resolved to write to Mr. Loftus, and ease the anxiety of his heart. Although he ridiculed his vanity, he could not help respecting the affectionate solicitude of a son and a brother, and as that plea had won him, half angry, half grieved, and half laughing, he dispatched a few hasty lines. "To THE REVEREND ANDREW LOFTUS, ST. PETERSBURG. "What whimsical fit, my dear sir, has seized my father, that I am recalled at a moment's notice? Faith, I am so mad at the summons, and at his not deigning to assign a reason for his order, that I do not know how I may be tempted to act. "Another thing, you beg of me not to say a word of my having been in Poland; and for that purpose you have withheld the letter which I sent to you to forward to my mother! You offer far-fetched and precious excuses for having betrayed your own wisdom, and your pupil's innocence, into so mortal an offence. One cause of my being here, you say, was your 'ardor in the cause of insulted Russia, and your hatred of that levelling power which pervades all Europe.' "Well, I grant it. I understood from you and Brinicki that you were leading me against a set of violent, discontented men of rank, who, in proportion as each was inflated with his own personal pride, despised all of their own order who did not agree with them, and, coalescing together under the name of freedom, were introducing anarchy throughout a country which Catharine would graciously have protected. All this I find to be in error. But both of you may have been misled: the count by partiality and you by misrepresentation; therefore I do not perceive why you should be in such a terror. The wisest man in the world may see through bad lights; and why should you think my father would never pardon you for having been so unlucky? "Yet to dispel your dread of such tidings ruining you with Sir Robert, I will not be the first to tell him of our quixoting. Only remember, my good sir,--though, to oblige you, I withhold my letters to my mother, and when I arrive in England shall lock up my lips from mentioning Poland,--that positively, I will not be mute one day longer than that in which my father presents you with the living of Somerset; then you will be independent of his displeasure, and I may, and will, declare my everlasting gratitude to this illustrious family. "I am half mad when I think of leaving them. I must now tear myself from this mansion of comfort and affection, to wander with you in some rumbling old barouche 'over brake and through briar!' Well, patience! Another such upset to your friends of the Neva, and with 'victory perched like an eagle on their laurelled brows,' I may have some chance of wooing the Sobieskis to the banks of the Thames. At present, I have not sufficient hope to keep me in good-humor. "Meet me this day week at Dantzic: I shall there embark for England. You had best not bring the foreign servants with you; they might blab. Discharge them at St. Petersburg, and hire a courier for yourself, whom we may drop at the seaport. "I have the honor to remain, "Dear sir, "Your most obedient servant, PEMBROKE SOMERSET. "VILLANOW, _September_, 1792." When Somerset joined his friends at supper, and imparted to them the commands of his father, an immediate change was produced in the spirits of the party. During the lamentations of the ladies and the murmurs of the young men, the countess tried to dispel the effects of the information by addressing Pembroke with a smile, and saying, "But we hope that you have seen enough at Villanow to tempt you back again at no very distant period? Tell Lady Somerset you have left a second mother in Poland, who will long to receive another visit from her adopted son." "Yes, my dear madam," returned he; "and I shall hope, before a very distant period, to see those two kind mothers united as intimately by friendship as they are in my heart." Thaddeus listened with a saddened countenance. He had not been accustomed to the thought of a long separation, and when he met it now, he hardly knew how to proportion his uneasiness to the privation. Hope and all the hilarities of youth flushed in his soul; his features continually glowed with animation, whilst the gay beaming of his eyes ever answered to the smile on his lips. Hence the slightest veering of his mind was perceptible to the countess, who, turning round, saw him leaning thoughtfully in his chair, whilst Pembroke, with increasing vehemence, was running through various invectives against the hastiness of his recall. "Come, come, Thaddeus!" cried she; "let us think no more of this parting until it arrives. You know that anticipation of evil is the death of happiness; and it will be a kind of suicide should we destroy the hours we may yet enjoy together in vain complainings that they are so soon to terminate." A little exhortation from the countess, and a maternal kiss which she imprinted on his cheek, restored him to cheerfulness, and the evening passed more pleasantly than it had portended. Much as the palatine esteemed Pembroke Somerset, his mind was too deeply absorbed in the condition of the kingdom to attend to less considerable cares. He beheld his country, even on the verge of destruction, awaiting with firmness the approach of the earthquake which threatened to ingulf it in the neighboring nations. He saw the storm lowering; but he determined, whilst there remained one spot of vantage ground above the general wreck, that Poland should yet have a name and a defender. These thoughts possessed him; these plans engaged him; and he had not leisure to regret pleasure when he was struggling for existence. The empress continued to pour her armies into the heart of the kingdom. The King of Prussia, boldly flying from his treaties, marched to bid her colors a conqueror's welcome; and the Emperor of Germany, following the example of so great a prince, did not blush to show that his word was equally contemptible. Dispatches daily arrived of the villages being laid waste; that neither age, sex, nor situation shielded the unfortunate inhabitants, and that all the frontier provinces were in flames. The Diet was called, [Footnote: The constitutional Diet of Poland nearly answers in principle to the British three estates in Parliament--King, Lords, and Commons.] and the debates agitated with the anxiety of men who were met to decide on their dearest interests. The bosom of the benevolent Stanislaus bled at the dreadful picture of his people's sufferings, and hardly able to restrain his tears, he answered the animated exordiums of Sobieski for resistance to the last with an appeal immediately to his heart. "What is it that you urge me to do, my lord?" said he. "Was it not to secure the happiness of my subjects that I labored? and finding my designs impracticable, what advantage would it be to them should I pertinaciously oppose their small numbers to the accumulated array of two empires, and of a king almost as powerful as either. What is my kingdom but the comfort of my people? What will it avail me to see them fall around me, man by man, and the few who remain bending in speechless sorrow over their graves? Such a sight would break my heart. Poland without its people would be a desert, and I a hermit rather than a king." In vain the palatine combated these arguments, showing the vain quiet such a peace might afford, by declaring it could only be temporary. In vain he told his majesty that he would purchase safety for the present race at the vast expense of not only the liberty of posterity, but of its probity and happiness. "However you disguise slavery," cried he, "it is slavery still. Its chains, though wreathed with roses, not only fasten on the body but rivet on the mind. They bend it from the loftiest virtue to a debasement beneath calculation. They disgrace honor; they trample upon justice. They transform the legions of Rome into a band of singers. They prostrate the sons of Athens and of Sparta at the feet of cowards. They make man abjure his birth right, bind himself to another's will, and give that into a tyrant's hands which he received as a deposit from Heaven--his reason, his conscience, and his soul. Think on this, and then, if you can, subjugate Poland to her enemies." Stanislaus, weakened by years and subdued by disappointment, now retained no higher wish than to save his subjects from immediate outrage. He did not answer the palatine, but with streaming eyes bent over the table, and annulled the glorious constitution of 1791. Then with emotions hardly short of agony, he signed an order presented by a plenipotentiary from the combined powers, which directed Prince Poniatowski to deliver the army under his command into the hands of General Brinicki. As the king put his signature to these papers, Sobieski, who had strenuously withstood each decision, started from his chair, bowed to his sovereign, and in silence left the apartment. Several noblemen followed him. These pacific measures did not meet with better treatment from without. When they were noised abroad, an alarming commotion arose among the inhabitants of Warsaw, and nearly four thousand men of the first families in the kingdom assembled themselves in the park of Villanow, and with tumultuous eagerness declared their resolution to resist the invaders of their country to their last gasp. The Prince Sapieha, Kosciusko, and Sobieski, with the sage Dombrowski, were the first who took this oath of fidelity to Poland; and they administered it to Thaddeus, who, kneeling down, inwardly invoked Heaven to aid him, as he swore to fulfil his trust. In the midst of these momentous affairs, Pembroke Somerset bade adieu to his Polish friends, and set sail with his governor from Dantzic for England. CHAPTER VII. THE DIET OF POLAND. Those winter months which before this year had been at Villanow the season for cheerfulness and festivity, now rolled away in the sad pomp of national debates and military assemblies. Prussia usurped the best part of Pomerelia, and garrisoned it with troops; Catharine declared her dominion over the vast tract of land which lies between the Dwina and Borysthenes; and Frederick William marked down another sweep of Poland. to follow the fate of Dantzic and of Thorn, while watching the dark policy of Austria regarding its selecting portions of the dismembering state. Calamities and insults were heaped day after day on the defenceless Poles. The deputies of the provinces were put into prison, and the provisions intended for the king's table interrupted and appropriated by the depredators to their own use. Sobieski remonstrated on this last outrage; but incensed at reproof, and irritated at the sway which the palatine still held, an order was issued for all the Sobieski estates in Lithuania and Podolia to be sequestrated and divided between four of the invading generals. In vain the Villanow confederation endeavored to remonstrate with the empress. Her ambassador not only refused to forward the dispatches, but threatened the nobles "if they did not comply with every one of his demands, he would lay all the estates, possessions, and habitations of the members of the Diet under an immediate military execution. Nay, punishment should not stop there; for if the king joined the Sobieski party (to which he now appeared inclined), the royal domains should not only meet the same fate, but harsher treatment should follow, until both the people and their proud sovereign were brought into due subjection." These menaces were too arrogant to have any other effect upon the Poles than that of giving a new spur to their resolution. With the same firmness they repulsed similar fulminations from the Prussian ambassador, and, with a coolness which was only equalled by their intrepidity, they prepared to resume their arms. Hearing by private information that their threats were despised, next morning, before daybreak, these despotic envoys surrounded the building where the confederation was sitting with two battalions of grenadiers and four pieces of cannon, and then issued orders that no Pole should pass the gates without being fired on. General Rautenfeld, who was set over the person of the king, declared that not even his majesty might stir until the Diet had given an unanimous and full consent to the imperial commands. The Diet set forth the unlawfulness of signing any treaty whilst thus withheld from the freedom of will and debate. They urged that it was not legal to enter into deliberation when violence had recently been exerted against any individual of their body; and how could they do it now, deprived as they were of five of their principal members, whom the ambassadors well knew they had arrested on their way to the Senate? Sobieski and four of his friends being the members most inimical to the oppression going on, were these five. In vain their liberation was required; and enraged at the pertinacity of this opposition, Rautenfeld repeated the former threats, with the addition of more, swearing that they should take place without appeal if the Diet did not directly and unconditionally sign the pretensions both of his court and that of Prussia. After a hard contention of many hours, the members at last agreed amongst themselves to make a solemn public protest against the present tyrannous measures of the two ambassadors; and seeing that any attempt to inspire them even with decency was useless, they determined to cease all debate, and kept a profound silence when the marshal should propose the project in demand. This sorrowful silence was commenced in resentment and retained through despair; this sorrowful silence was called by their usurpers a consent; this sorrowful silence is held up to the world and to posterity as a free cession by the Poles of all those rights which they had received from nature, ratified by laws, and defended with their blood. [Footnote: Thus, like the curule fathers of Rome, they sat unyielding, awaiting the threatened stroke. But the dignity of virtue held her shield over them; and with an answering silence on the part of the confederated ambassadors, the Diet-chamber was vacated.] The morning after this dreadful day, the Senate met at one of the private palaces; and, indignant and broken-hearted, they delivered the following declaration to the people:-- "The Diet of Poland, hemmed in by foreign troops, menaced with an influx of the enemy, which would be attended by universal ruin, and finally insulted by a thousand outrages, have been forced to witness the signing of a submissive treaty with their enemies. "The Diet had strenuously endeavored to have added to that treaty some conditions to which they supposed the lamentable state of the country would have extorted an acquiescence, even from the heart of a conqueror's power. But the Diet were deceived: they found such power was unaccompanied by humanity; they found that the foe, having thrown his victim to the ground, would not refrain from exulting in the barbarous triumph of trampling upon her neck. "The Diet rely on the justice of Poland--rely on her belief that they would not betray the citadel she confided to their keeping. Her preservation is dearer to them than their lives; but fate seems to be on the side of their destroyer. Fresh insults have been heaped upon their heads and new hardships have been imposed upon them. To prevent all deliberations on this debasing treaty, they are not only surrounded by foreign troops, and dared with hostile messages, but they have been violated by the arrest of their prime members, whilst those who are still suffered to possess a personal freedom have the most galling shackles laid upon their minds. "Therefore, I, the King of Poland, enervated by age, and sinking under the accumulated weight of my kingdom's afflictions, and also we, the members of the Diet, declare that, being unable, even by the sacrifice of our lives, to relieve our country from the yoke of its oppressors, we consign it to our children and the justice of Heaven. "In another age, means may be found to rescue it from chains and misery; but such means are not put in our power. Other countries neglect us. Whilst they reprobate the violations which a neighboring nation is alleged to have committed against rational liberty, they behold, not only with apathy but with approbation, the ravages which are now desolating Poland. Posterity must avenge it. We have done. We accede in silence, for the reasons above mentioned, to the treaty laid before us, though we declare that it is contrary to our wishes, to our sentiments, and to our rights." Thus, in November, 1793, compressed to one fourth of her dimensions by the lines of demarcation drawn by her invaders, Poland was stripped of her rank in Europe; her "power delivered up to strangers, and her beauty into the hands of her enemies!" Ill-fated people! Nations will weep over your wrongs; whilst the burning blush of shame, that their fathers witnessed such wrongs unmoved, shall cause the tears to blister as they fall. During these transactions, the Countess Sobieski continued in solitude at Villanow, awaiting with awful anxiety the termination of those portentous events which so deeply involved her own comforts with those of her country. Her father was in prison, her son at a distance with the army. Sick at heart, she saw the opening of that spring which might be the commencement only of a new season of injuries; and her fears were prophetic. It being discovered that some Masovian regiments in the neighborhood of Warsaw yet retained their arms, they were ordered by the foreign envoys to lay them down. A few, thinking denial vain, obeyed; but bolder spirits followed Thaddeus Sobieski towards South Prussia, whither he had directed his steps on the arrest of his grandfather, and where he had gathered and kept together a handful of brave men, still faithful to their liberties. His name alone collected numbers in every district through which he marched. Persecution from their adversary as well as admiration of Thaddeus had given a resistless power to his appearance, look, and voice, all of which had such an effect on the peasantry, that they eagerly crowded to his standard, whilst their young lords committed themselves without reserve to his sole judgment and command. The Prussian ambassador, hearing of this, sent to Stanislaus to command the grandson of Sobieski to disband his troops. The king refusing, and his answer being communicated to the Russian envoy also, war was renewed with redoubled fury. The palatine remained in confinement, hopeless of obtaining release without the aid of stratagem. His country's enemies were too well aware of their interest to give freedom to so active an opponent. They sought to vex his spirit with every mental torture; but he rather received consolation than despair in the reports daily brought to him by his jailers. They told him "that his grandson continued to carry himself with such insolent opposition in the south, it would be well if the empress, at the termination of the war, allowed him to escape with banishment to Siberia." But every reproach thus levelled at the palatine he found had been bought by some new success of Thaddeus; and instead of permitting their malignity to intimidate his age or alarm his affection, he told the officer (who kept guard in his chambers) that if his grandson were to lose his head for fidelity to Poland, he should behold him with as proud an eye mounting the scaffold as entering the streets of Warsaw with her freedom in his hand. "The only difference would be," continued Sobieski, "that as the first cannot happen until all virtue be dead in this land, I should regard his last gasp as the expiring sigh of that virtue which, by him, had found a triumph even under the axe. But for the second, it would be joy unutterable to behold the victory of justice over rapine and violence! But, either way, Thaddeus Sobieski is still the same--ready to die or ready to live for his country, and equally worthy of the sacred halo with which posterity would encircle his name forever." Indeed, the accounts which arrived from this young soldier, who had formed a junction with General Kosciusko, were in the highest degree formidable to the coalesced powers. Having gained several advantages over the Prussians, the two victorious battalions were advancing towards Inowlotz, when a large and fresh body of the enemy appeared suddenly on their rear. The enemy on the opposite bank of the river, (whom the Poles were driving before them,) at sight of this reinforcement, rallied; and not only to retard the approach of the pursuers, but to ensure their defeat from the army in view, they broke down the wooden bridge by which they had escaped themselves. The Poles were at a stand. Kosciusko proposed swimming across, but owing to the recent heavy rains, the river was so swollen and rapid that the young captains to whom he mentioned the project, terrified by the blackness and dashing of the water, drew back. The general, perceiving their panic, called Thaddeus to him, and both plunged into the stream. Ashamed of hesitation, the others now tried who could first follow their example; and, after hard buffeting with its tide, the whole army gained the opposite shore. The Prussians who were in the rear, incapable of the like intrepidity, halted; and those who had crossed on their former defeat, now again intimidated at the daring courage of their adversaries, concealed themselves amidst the thickets of an adjoining valley. The two friends proceeded towards Cracow, [Footnote: Cracow is considered the oldest regal city in Poland; the tombs of her earliest and noblest kings are there, John Sobieski's being one of the most renowned. It stands in a province of the same name, about 130 miles south-west of Warsaw, the more modern capital of the kingdom, and also the centre of its own province.] carrying redress and protection to the provinces through which they marched. But they had hardly rested a day in that city before dispatches were received that Warsaw was lying at the mercy of General Brinicki. No time could be lost; officers and men had set their lives on the cause, and they recommenced their toil of a new march with a perseverance which brought them before the capital on the 16th of April. Things were in a worse state than even was expected. The three ambassadors had not only demanded the surrender of the national arsenal, but subscribed their orders with a threat that whoever of the nobles presumed to dispute their authority should be arrested and closely imprisoned there; and if the people should dare to murmur, they would immediately order General Brinicki to lay the city in ashes. The king remonstrated against such oppression, and to "punish his presumption," his excellency ordered that his majesty's garrison and guards should instantly be broken up and dispersed. At the first attempt to execute this mandate, the people flew in crowds to the palace, and, falling on their knees, implored Stanislaus for permission to avenge the insult offered to his troops. The king looked at them with pity, gratitude, and anguish. For some time his emotions were too strong to allow him to speak; at last, in a voice of agony, wrung from his tortured heart, he answered, "Go, and defend your honor!" The army of Kosciusko marched into the town at this critical moment; they joined the armed people; and that day, after a dreadful conflict, Warsaw was rescued from the immediate grasp of the hovering Black Eagle. During the fight, the king, who was alone in one of the rooms of his palace, sank in despair on the floor; he heard the mingling clash of arms, the roar of musketry, and the cries and groans of the combatants; ruin seemed no longer to threaten his kingdom, but to have pounced at once upon her prey. At every renewed volley which followed each pause in the firing, he expected to see his palace gates burst open, and himself, then indeed made a willing sacrifice, immolated to the vengeance of his enemies. While he was yet upon his knees petitioning the God of battles for a little longer respite from that doom which was to overwhelm devoted Poland, Thaddeus Sobieski, panting with heat and toil, flew into the room, and before he could speak a word, was clasped in the arms of the agitated Stanislaus. "What of my people?" asked the king. "They are victorious!" returned Thaddeus. "The foreign guards are beaten from the palace; your own have resumed their station at the gates." At this assurance, tears of joy ran over the venerable cheeks of his majesty, and again embracing his young deliverer, he exclaimed, "I thank Heaven, my unhappy country is not bereft of all hope! Whilst a Kosciusko and a Sobieski live, she need not quite despair. They are thy ministers, O Jehovah, of a yet longer respite!" * * * * * * * CHAPTER VIII. BATTLE OF BRZESC--THE TENTH OF OCTOBER. Thaddeus was not less eager to release his grandfather than he had been to relieve the anxiety of his sovereign. He hastened, at the head of a few troops, to the prison of Sobieski, and gave him liberty, amidst the acclamations of his soldiers. The universal joy at these prosperous events did not last many days: it was speedily terminated by information that Cracow had surrendered to a Prussian force, that the King of Prussia was advancing towards the capital, and that the Russians, more implacable in consequence of the late treatment their garrison had received at Warsaw, were pouring into the country like a deluge. At this intelligence the consternation became dreadful. The Polonese army in general, worn with fatigue and long service, and without clothing or ammunition, were not in any way, excepting courage, fitted for resuming the field. The treasury was exhausted, and means of raising a supply seemed impracticable. The provinces were laid waste, and the city had already been drained of its last ducat. In this exigency a council met in his majesty's cabinet, to devise some expedient for obtaining resources. The consultation was as desponding as their situation, until Thaddeus Sobieski, who had been a silent observer, rose from his seat. Sudden indisposition had prevented the palatine attending, but his grandson knew well how to be his substitute. Whilst blushes of awe and eagerness crimsoned his cheek, he advanced towards Stanislaus, and taking from his neck and other parts of his dress those magnificent jewels it was customary to wear in the presence of the king, he knelt down, and laying them at the feet of his majesty, said, in a suppressed voice, "These are trifles; but such as they are, and all of the like kind which we possess, I am commanded by my grandfather to beseech your majesty to appropriate to the public service." "Noble young man!" cried the king, raising him from the ground; "you have indeed taught me a lesson. I accept these jewels with gratitude. Here," said he, turning to the treasurer, "put them into the national fund, and let them be followed by my own, with my gold and silver plate, which latter I desire may be instantly sent to the mint. Three parts the army shall have; the other we must expend in giving support to the surviving families of the brave men who have fallen in our defence." The palatine readily united with his grandson in the surrender of all their personal property for the benefit of their country; and, according to their example, the treasury was soon filled with gratuities from the nobles. The very artisans offered their services gratis; and all hands being employed to forward the preparations, the army was soon enabled to take the field, newly equipped and in high spirits. The countess had again to bid adieu to a son who was now become as much the object of her admiration as of her love. In proportion as glory surrounded him and danger courted his steps, the strings of affection drew him closer to her soul; the "aspiring blood" of the Sobieskis which beat in her veins could not cheer the dread of a mother, could not cause her to forget that the spring of her existence now flowed from the fountain which had taken its source from her. Her anxious and watching heart paid dearly in tears and sleepless nights for the honor with which she was saluted at every turning as the mother of Thaddeus: that Thaddeus who was not more the spirit of enterprise, and the rallying point of resistance, than he was to her the gentlest, the dearest, the most amiable of sons. It matters not to the undistinguishing bolt of carnage whether it strike common breasts or those rare hearts whose lives are usually as brief as they are dazzling; this leaden messenger of death banquets as greedily on the bosom of a hero as if it had lit upon more vulgar prey; all is levelled to the seeming chance of war, which comes like a whirlwind of the desert, scattering man and beast in one wide ruin. Such thoughts as these possessed the melancholy but prayerful reveries of the Countess Sobieski, from the hour in which she saw Thaddeus and his grandfather depart for Cracow until she heard it was retaken, and that the enemy were defeated in several subsequent contests. Warsaw was again bombarded, and again Kosciusko, with the palatine and Thaddeus, preserved it from destruction. In short, wherever they moved, their dauntless little army carried terror to its adversaries, and diffused hope through the homes and hearts of their countrymen. They next turned their course to the relief of Lithuania; but whilst they were on their route thither, they received intelligence that a division of the Poles, led by Prince Poniatowski, having been routed by a formidable body of Russians under Suwarrow, that general, elated with his success, was hastening forward to re-attack the capital. Kosciusko resolved to prevent him, prepared to give immediate battle to Ferfen, another Russian commander, who was on his march to form a junction with his victorious countrymen. To this end Kosciusko divided his forces; half of them to not only support the retreat of the prince, but to enable him to hover near Suwarrow, and to keep a watchful eye over his motions; whilst Kosciusko, accompanied by the two Sobieskis, would proceed with the other division towards Brzesc. It was the tenth of October. The weather being fine, a cloudless sun diffused life and brilliancy through the pure air of a keen morning. The vast green plain before them glittered with the troops of General Ferfen, who had already arranged them in order of battle. The word was given. Thaddeus, as he drew his sabre [Footnote: The sabre (like the once famed claymore of Scotland) was the characteristic weapon of Poland. It was the especial appendage to the sides of the nobles;--its use, the science of their youth, their ornament and graceful exercise in peace, their most efficient manual power of attack or defence in war. It is impossible for any but an eye-witness to have any idea of the skill, beauty, and determination with which this weapon was, and is, wielded in Poland.] from its scabbard, raised his eyes to implore the justice of Heaven on that day's events. The attack was made. The Poles kept their station on the heights. The Russians rushed on them like wolves, and twice they repulsed them by their steadiness. Conquest declared for Poland. Thaddeus was seen in every part of the field. But reinforcements poured in to the support of Ferfen, and war raged in new horrors. Still the courage of the Poles was unabated. Sobieski, fighting at the head of his cavalry, would not recede a foot, and Kosciusko, exhorting his men to be resolute, appeared in the hottest places of the battle. At one of these portentous moments, the commander-in-chief was seen struggling with the third charger which had been shot under him that day. Thaddeus galloped to his assistance, gave him his horse, mounted another offered by a hussar, and remained fighting by his side, till, on the next charge, Kosciusko himself fell forward. Thaddeus caught him in his arms, and finding that his own breast was immediately covered with blood, (a Cossack having stabbed the general through the shoulder,) he unconsciously uttered a cry of horror. The surrounding soldiers took the alarm, and "Kosciusko, our father, is killed!" was echoed from rank to rank with such piercing shrieks, that the wounded hero started from the breast of his young friend just as two Russian chasseurs in the same moment made a cut at them both. The sabre struck the exposed head of Kosciusko, who sunk senseless to the ground, and Thaddeus received a gash near his neck that laid him by his side. The consternation became universal; groans of despair seemed to issue from the whole army, whilst the few resolute Poles who had been stationed near the fallen general fell in mangled heaps upon his breast. Thaddeus with difficulty extricated himself from the bodies of the slain; and, fighting his way through the triumphant troops which pressed around him, amidst the smoke and confusion soon joined his terror-stricken comrades, who in the wildest despair were dispersing under a heavy fire, and flying like frighted deer. In vain he called to them--in vain he urged them to avenge Kosciusko; the panic was complete, and they fled. Almost alone, in the rear of his soldiers, he opposed with his single and desperate arm party after party of the enemy, until a narrow stream of the Muchavez stopped his retreat. The waters were crimsoned with blood. He plunged in, and beating the blushing wave with his left arm, in a few seconds gained the opposite bank, where, fainting from fatigue and loss of blood, he sunk, almost deprived of sense, amidst a heap of the killed. When the pursuing squadrons had galloped past him, he again summoned strength to look round. He raised himself from the ground, and by the help of his sabre supported his steps a few paces further; but what was the shock he received when the bleeding and lifeless body of his grandfather lay before him? He stood for a few moments motionless and without sensation; then, kneeling down by his side, whilst he felt as if his own heart were palsied with death, he searched for the wounds of the palatine. They were numerous and deep. He would have torn away the handkerchief with which he had stanched his own blood to have applied it to that of his grandfather; but in the instant he was so doing, feeling the act might the next moment disable himself from giving him further assistance, he took his sash and neck-cloth, and when they were insufficient, he rent the linen from his breast; then hastening to the river, he brought a little water in his cap, and threw some of its stained drops on the pale features of Sobieski. The venerable hero opened his eyes; in a minute afterwards he recognized that it was his grandson who knelt by him. The palatine pressed his hand, which was cold as ice: the marble lips of Thaddeus could not move. "My son," said the veteran, in a low voice, "Heaven hath led you hither to receive the last sigh of your grandfather." Thaddeus trembled. The palatine continued; "Carry my blessing to your mother, and bid her seek comfort in the consolations of her God. May that God preserve you! Ever remember that you are his servant; be obedient to him; and as I have been, be faithful to your country." "May God so bless me!" cried Thaddeus, looking up to heaven. "And ever remember," said the palatine, raising his head, which had dropped on the bosom of his grandson, "that you are a Sobieski! it is my dying command that you never take any other name." "I promise." Thaddeus could say no more, for the countenance of his grandfather became altered; his eyes closed. Thaddeus caught him to his breast. No heart beat against his; all was still and cold. The body dropped from his arms, and he sunk senseless by its side. When consciousness returned to him, he looked up. The sky was shrouded in clouds, which a driving wind was blowing from the orb of the moon, while a few of her white rays gleamed sepulchrally on the weapons of the slaughtered soldiers. The scattered senses of Thaddeus gradually returned to him. He was now lying, the only living creature amidst thousands of the dead who, the preceding night, had been, like himself, alive to all the consciousness of existence! His right hand rested on the pale face of his grandfather. It was wet with dew. He shuddered. Taking his own cloak from his shoulders, he laid it over the body. He would have said, as he did it, "So, my father, I would have sheltered thy life with my own!" but the words choked in his throat, and he sat watching by the corpse until the day dawned, and the Poles returned to bury their slain. The wretched Thaddeus was discovered by a party of his own hussars seated on a little mound of earth, with the cold hand of Sobieski grasped in his. At this sight the soldiers uttered a cry of dismay and sorrow. Thaddeus rose up. "My friends," said he, "I thank God that you are come! Assist me to bear my dear grandfather to the camp." Astonished at this composure, but distressed at the dreadful hue of his countenance, they obeyed him in mournful silence, and laid the remains of the palatine upon a bier, which they formed with their sheathed sabres; then gently raising it, they retrod their steps to the camp, leaving a detachment to accomplish the duty for which they had quitted it. Thaddeus, hardly able to support his weakened frame, mounted a horse and followed the melancholy procession. General Wawrzecki, on whom the command had devolved, seeing the party returning so soon, and in such an order, sent an aid-de-camp to inquire the reason. He came back with dejection in his face, and informed his commander that the brave Palatine of Masovia, whom they supposed had been taken prisoner with his grandson and Kosciusko, was the occasion of this sudden return; that he had been killed, and his body was now approaching the lines on the arms of the soldiers. Wawrzecki, though glad to hear that Thaddeus was alive and at liberty, turned to conceal his tears; then calling out a guard, he marched at their head to meet the corpse of his illustrious friend. The bier was carried into the general's tent. An aid-de-camp and some gentlemen of the faculty were ordered to attend Thaddeus to his quarters; but the young count, though scarcely able to stand, appeared to linger, and holding fast by the arm of an officer, he looked steadfastly on the body. Wawrzecki understood his hesitation. He pressed his hand. "Fear not, my dear sir," said he; "every honor shall be paid to the remains of your noble grandfather." Thaddeus bowed his head, and was supported out of the tent to his own. His wounds, of which he had received several, were not deep; and might have been of little consequence, had not his thoughts continually hovered about his mother, and painted her affliction when she should be informed of the lamentable events of the last day's battle. These reflections, awake or in a slumber, (for he never slept,) possessed his mind, and, even whilst his wounds were healing, produced such an irritation in his blood as hourly threatened a fever. Things were in this situation, when the surgeon put a letter from the countess into his hand. He opened it, and read with breathless anxiety these lines: "TO THADDEUS, COUNT SOBIESKI. "Console yourself, my most precious son, console yourself for my sake. I have seen Colonel Lonza, and I have heard all the horrors which took place on the tenth of this month. I have heard them, and I am yet alive. I am resigned. He tells me you are wounded. Oh! do not let me be bereft of my son also! Remember that you were my dear sainted father's darling; remember that, as his representative, you are to be my consolation; in pity to me, if not to our suffering country, preserve yourself to be at least the last comfort Heaven's mercy hath spared to me. I find that all is lost to Poland as well as to myself! that when my glorious father fell, and his friend with him, even its name, as a country, became extinct. The allied invaders are in full march towards Masovia, and I am too weak to come to you. Let me see you soon, very soon, my beloved son. I beseech you to come to me. You will find me feebler in body than in mind; for there is a holy Comforter that descends on the bruised heart, which none other than the unhappy have conceived or felt. Farewell, my dear, dear Thaddeus! Let the memory that you have a mother check your too ardent courage. God forever guard you! Live for your mother, who has no stronger words to express her affection for you than she is thy mother--thy "THERESE SOBIESKI. "VILLANOW, _October,_ 1794." This letter was indeed a balm to the soul of Thaddeus. That his mother had received intelligence of the cruel event with such "holy resignation" was the best medicine that could now be applied to his wounds, both of mind and body; and when he was told that on the succeeding morning the body of his grandfather would, be removed to the convent near Biala, he declared his resolution to attend it to the grave. In vain his surgeons and General Wawrzecki remonstrated against the danger of this project; for once the gentle and yielding spirit of Thaddeus was inflexible. He had fixed his determination, and it was not to be shaken. Next day, being the seventh from that in which the fatal battle had been decided, Thaddeus, at the first beat of the drum, rose from his pallet, and, almost unassisted, put on his clothes. His uniform being black, he needed no other index than his pale and mournful countenance to announce that he was chief mourner. The procession began to form, and he walked from his tent. It was a fine morning. Thaddeus looked up, as if to upbraid the sun for shining so brightly. Lengthened and repeated rounds of cannon rolled along the air. The solemn march of the dead was moaning from the muffled drum, interrupted at measured pauses by the shrill tremor of the fife. The troops, preceded by their general, moved forward with a decent and melancholy step. The Bishop of Warsaw followed, bearing the sacred volume in his hands; and next, borne upon the crossed pikes of his soldiers, and supported by twelve of his veteran companions, appeared the body of the brave Sobieski. A velvet pall covered it, on which were laid those arms with which for fifty years he had asserted the loyal independence of his country. At this sight the sobs of the men became audible. Thaddeus followed with a slow but firm step, his eyes bent to the ground and his arms wrapped in his cloak; it was the same which had shaded his beloved grandfather from the dews of that dreadful night. Another train of solemn music succeeded; and then the squadrons which the deceased had commanded dismounted, and, leading their horses, closed the procession. On the verge of the plain that borders Biala, and within a few paces of the convent gate of St. Francis, the bier stopped. The monks saluted its appearance with a requiem, which they continued to chant till the coffin was lowered into the ground. The earth received its sacred deposit. The anthems ceased; the soldiers, kneeling down, discharged their muskets over it; then, with streaming cheeks, rose and gave place to others. Nine volleys were fired, and the ranks fell back. The bishop advanced to the head of the grave. All was hushed. He raised his eyes to heaven; then, after a pause, in which he seemed to be communing with the regions above him, he turned to the silent assembly, and, in a voice collected and impressive, addressed them in a short but affecting oration, in which he set forth the brightness of Sobieski's life, his noble forgetfulness of self in the interests of his country, and the dauntless bravery which laid him in the dust. A general discharge of cannon was the awful response to this appeal. Wawrzecki took the sabre of the palatine, and, breaking it, dropped it into the grave. The aids-de-camp of the deceased did the same with theirs, showing that by so doing they resigned their offices; and then, covering their faces with their handkerchiefs, they turned away with the soldiers, who filed off. Thaddeus sunk on his knees. His hands were clasped, and his eyes for a few minutes fixed themselves on the coffin of his grandfather; then rising, he leaned on the arm of Wawrzecki, and with a tottering step and pallid countenance, mounted his horse, which had been led to the spot, and returned with the scattered procession to the camp. The cause for exertion being over, his spirits fell with the rapidity of a spring too highly wound up, which snaps and runs down to immobility. He entered his tent and threw himself on the bed, from which he did not raise for the five following days. CHAPTER IX. THE LAST DAYS OF VILLANOW. At a time when the effects of these sufferings and fatigues had brought his bodily strength to its lowest ebb, the young Count Sobieski was roused by information that the Russians had planted themselves before Praga, and were preparing to bombard the town. The intelligence nerved his heart's sinews again, and rallied the spirits, also, of his depressed soldiers, who energetically obeyed their commander to put themselves in readiness to march at set of sun. Thaddeus saw that the decisive hour was pending. And as the moon rose, though hardly able to sit his noble charger, he refused the indulgence of a litter, determining that no illness, while he had any power to master its disabilities, should make him recede from his duty. The image of his mother, too, so near the threatened spot, rushed on his soul. In quick march he led on his troops. Devastation met them over the face of the country. Scared and houseless villagers were flying in every direction; old men stood amongst the ashes of their homes, wailing to the pitying heavens, since man had none. Children and woman sat by the waysides, weeping over the last sustenance the wretched infants drew from the breasts of their perishing mothers. Thaddeus shut his eyes on the scene. "Oh, my country! my country!" exclaimed he; "what are my personal griefs to thine? It is your afflictions that barb me to the heart! Look there," cried he to the soldiers, pointing to the miserable spectacles before him; "look there, and carry vengeance into the breasts of their destroyers. Let Praga be the last act of this tragedy." "Unhappy young man! unfortunate country! It was indeed the last act of a tragedy to which all Europe were spectators--a tragedy which the nations witnessed without one attempt to stop or to delay its dreadful catastrophe! Oh, how must virtue be lost when it is no longer a matter of policy even to assume it." [Footnote: To answer this, we must remember that Europe was then no longer what she was a century before. Almost all her nations had turned from the doctrines of "sound things," and more or less drank deeply of the cup of infidelity, drugged for them by the flattering sophistries of Voltaire. The draught was inebriation, and the wild consequences burst asunder the responsibilities of man to man. The selfish principle ruled, and balance of justice was then seen only aloft in the heavens!] After a long march through a dark and dismal night, the morning began to break; and Thaddeus found himself on the southern side of that little river which divides the territories of Sobieski from the woods of Kobylka. Here, for the first time, he endured all the torturing varieties of despair. The once fertile fields were burnt to stubble; the cottages were yet smoking from the ravages of the fire; and in place of smiling eyes and thankful lips coming to meet him, he beheld the dead bodies of his peasants stretched on the high roads, mangled, bleeding, and stripped of that decent covering which humanity would not deny to the vilest criminal. Thaddeus could bear the sight no longer, but, setting spurs to his horse, fled from the contemplation of scenes which harrowed up his soul. At nightfall, the army halted under the walls of Villanow. The count looked towards the windows of the palace, and by a light shining through the half-drawn curtains, distinguished his mother's room. He then turned his eye on that sweep of building which contained the palatine's apartments; but not one solitary lamp illumined its gloom: the moon alone glimmered on the battlements, silvering the painted glass of the study window, where, with that beloved parent, he had so lately gazed upon the stars, and anticipated with the most sanguine hopes the result of the campaign which had now terminated so disastrously for his unhappy country. But these thoughts, with his grief and his forebodings, were buried in the depths of his determined heart. Addressing General Wawrzecki, he bade him welcome to Villanow, requesting at the same time that his men might be directed to rest till morning, and that he and the officers would take their refreshment within the palace. As soon as Thaddeus had seen his guests seated at different tables in the eating-hall, and had given orders for the soldiers to be served from the buttery and cellars, he withdrew to seek the countess. He found her in her chamber, surrounded by the attendants who had just informed her of his arrival. The moment he appeared at the room door, the women went out at an opposite passage, and Thaddeus, with a bursting heart, threw himself on the bosom of his mother. They were silent for some time. Poignant recollection stopped their utterance; but neither tears nor sighs filled its place, until the countess, on whose soul the full tide of maternal affection pressed, and mingled with her grief, raised her head from her son's neck, and said, whilst she strained him in her arms, "Receive my thanks, O Father of mercy, for having spared to me this blessing!" Thaddeus Sobieski (all that now remained of that beloved and honored name!) with a sacred emotion breathed a response to the address of his mother, and drying her tears with his kisses, dwelt upon the never-dying fame of his revered grandfather, upon his preferable lot to that of their brave friend Kosciusko, who was doomed not only to survive the liberty of his country, but to pass the residue of his life within the dungeons of his enemies. He then tried to reanimate her spirits with hope. He spoke of the approaching battle, without any doubt of the valor and desperation of the Poles rendering it successful. He talked of the resolution of their leader, General Wawrzecki, and of his own good faith in the justice of their cause. His discourse began in a wish to cheat her into tranquillity; but as he advanced on the subject, his soul took fire at its own warmth, and he half believed the probability of his anticipations. The countess looked on the honorable glow which crimsoned his harassed features with a pang at her heart. "My heroic son!" cried she, "my darling Thaddeus! what a vast price do I pay for all this excellence! I could not love you were you otherwise than what you are; and being what you are, oh, how soon may I lose you! Already has your noble grandfather paid the debt which he owed to his glory. He promised to fall with Poland; he has kept his word; and now, all that I love on earth is concentrated in you." The countess paused, and pressing his hand almost wildly on her heart, she continued in a hurried voice, "The same spirit is in your breast; the same principle binds you; and I may be at last left alone. Heaven have pity on me!" She cast her eyes upward as she ended. Thaddeus, sinking on his knees by her side, implored her with all the earnestness of piety and confidence to take comfort. The countess embraced him with a forced smile. "You must forgive me, Thaddeus; I have nothing of the soldier in my heart: it is all woman. But I will not detain you longer from the rest you require; go to your room, and try and recruit yourself for the dangers to-morrow will bring forth. I shall employ the night in prayers for your safety." Consoled to see any composure in his mother, he withdrew, and after having heard that his numerous guests were properly lodged, went to his own chamber. Next morning at sunrise the troops prepared to march. General Wawrzecki, with his officers, begged permission to pay their personal gratitude to the countess for the hospitality of her reception; but she declined the honor, on the plea of indisposition. In the course of an hour, her son appeared from her apartment and joined the general. The soldiers filed off through the gates, crossed the bridge, and halted under the walls of Praga. The lines of the camp were drawn and fortified before evening, at which time they found leisure to observe the enemy's strength. Russia seemed to have exhausted her wide regions to people the narrow shores of the Vistula; from east to west, as far as the eye could reach, her arms were stretched to the horizon. Sobieski looked at them, and then on the handful of intrepid hearts contained in the small circumference of the Polish camp. Sighing heavily, he retired into his tent; and vainly seeking repose, mixed his short and startled slumbers with frequent prayers for the preservation of these last victims to their country. The hours appeared to stand still. Several times he rose from his bed and went to the door, to see whether the clouds were tinged with any appearance of dawn. All continued dark. He again returned to his marquée, and standing by the lamp which was nearly exhausted, took out his watch, and tried to distinguish the points; but finding that the light burned too feebly, he was pressing the repeating spring, which struck five, when the report of a single musket made him start. He flew to his tent door, and looking around, saw that all near his quarter was at rest. Suspecting it to be a signal of the enemy, he hurried towards the intrenchments, but found the sentinels in perfect security from any fears respecting the sound, as they supposed it to have proceeded from the town. Sobieski paid little attention to their opinions, but ascending the nearest bastion to take a wider survey, in a few minutes he discerned, though obscurely, through the gleams of morning, what appeared to be the whole host of Russia advancing in profound silence towards the Polish lines. The instant he made this discovery, he came down, and lost no time in giving orders for the defence; then flying to other parts of the camp, he awakened the commander-in-chief, encouraged the men, and saw that the whole encampment was not only in motion, but prepared for the assault. In consequence of these prompt arrangements, the assailants were received with a cross-fire of the batteries, and case-shot and musketry from several redoubts, which raked their flanks as they advanced. But in defiance of this shower of bullets, they pressed on with an intrepidity worthy of a better cause, and overleaping the ditch by squadrons, entered the camp. A passage once secured, the Cossacks rushed in by thousands, and spreading themselves in front of the storming party, put every soul to the spear who opposed them. The Polish works being gained, the enemy turned the cannon on its former masters, and as they rallied to the defence of what remained, swept them down by whole regiments. The noise of artillery thundered from all sides of the camp; the smoke was so great, that it was hardly possible to distinguish friends from foes; nevertheless, the spirits of the Poles flagged not a moment; as fast as one rampart was wrested from them, they threw themselves within another, which was as speedily taken by the help of hurdles, fascines, ladders, and a courage as resistless as it was ferocious, merciless, and sanguinary. Every spot of vantage position was at length lost; and yet the Poles fought like lions; quarter was neither offered to them nor required; they disputed every inch of ground, until they fell upon it in heaps, some lying before the parapets, others filling the ditches and the rest covering the earth, for the enemy to tread on as they cut their passage to the heart of the camp. Sobieski, almost maddened by the scene, dripping with his own blood and that of his brave friends, was seen in every part of the action; he was in the fosse, defending the trampled bodies of the dying; he was on the dyke, animating the few who survived. Wawrzecki was wounded, and every hope hung upon Thaddeus. His presence and voice infused new energy into the arms of his fainting countrymen; they kept close to his side, until the victors, enraged at the dauntless intrepidity of this young hero, uttered the most fearful imprecations, and rushing on his little phalanx, attacked it with redoubled numbers and fury. Sobieski sustained the shock with firmness; but wherever he turned his eyes, they were blasted with some object which made them recoil; he beheld his companions and his soldiers strewing the earth, and their triumphant adversaries mounting their dying bodies, as they hastened with loud huzzas to the destruction of Praga, whose gates were now burst open. His eyes grew dim at the sight, and at the very moment in which he tore them from spectacles so deadly to his heart, a Livonian officer struck him with a sabre, to all appearance dead upon the field. When he recovered from the blow, (which, having lit on the steel of his cap, had only stunned him,) he looked around, and found that all near him was quiet; but a far different scene presented itself from the town. The roar of cannon and the bursting of bombs thundered through the air, which was rendered livid and tremendous by long spires of fire streaming from the burning houses, and mingling with the volumes of smoke which rolled from the guns. The dreadful tocsin, and the hurrahs of the victors, pierced the soul of Thaddeus. Springing from the ground, he was preparing to rush towards the gates, when loud cries of distress issued from within. They were burst open, and a moment after, the grand magazine blew up with a horrible explosion. In an instant the field before Praga was filled with women and children, flying in all directions, and rending the sky with their shrieks. "Father Almighty!" cried Thaddeus, wringing his hands, "canst thou suffer this?" Whilst he yet spake, some straggling Cossacks near the town, who were prowling about, glutted, but not sated with blood, seized the poor fugitives, and with a ferocity as wanton as unmanly, released them at once from life and misery. This hideous spectacle brought his mother's defenceless state before the eyes of Sobieski. Her palace was only four miles distant; and whilst the barbarous avidity of the enemy was too busily engaged in sacking the place to permit them to perceive a solitary individual hurrying away amidst heaps of dead bodies, he flew across the desolated meadows which intervened between Praga and Villanow. Thaddeus was met at the gate of his palace by General Butzou, who, having learned the fate of Praga from the noise and flames in that quarter, anticipated the arrival of some part of the victorious army before the walls of Villanow. When its young count, with a breaking heart, crossed the drawbridge, he saw that the worthy veteran had prepared everything for a stout resistance; the ramparts were lined with soldiers, and well mounted with artillery. "Here, thou still honored Sobieski," cried he, as he conducted Thaddeus to the keep; "let the worst happen, here I am resolved to dispute the possession of your grandfather's palace until I have not a man to stand by me!" [Footnote: It was little more than just a century before this awful scene took place that the invincible John Sobieski, King of Poland, acting upon the old mutually protecting principles of Christendom, saved the freedom and the faith of Christian Europe from the Turkish yoke. And in this very mansion he passed his latter years in honored peace. He died in 1694--a remarkable coincidence, the division of Poland occurring in 1794.] Thaddeus strained him in silence to his breast; and after examining the force and dispositions, he approved all with a cold despair of their being of any effectual use, and went to the apartments of his mother. The countess's women, who met him in the vestibule, begged him to be careful how he entered her excellency's room, for she had only just recovered from a swoon, occasioned by alarm at hearing the cannonade against the Polish camp. Her son waited for no more, but not hearing their caution, threw open the door of the chamber, and hastening to his mother's couch, cast himself into her arms. She clung round his neck, and for a while joy stopped her respiration. Bursting into tears, she wept over him, incapable of expressing by words her tumultuous gratitude at again beholding him alive. He looked on her altered and pallid features. "O! my mother," cried he clasping her to his breast; "you are ill; and what will become of you?" "My beloved son!" replied she kissing his forehead through the clotted blood that oozed from a cut on his temple; "my beloved son, before our cruel murderers can arrive, I shall have found a refuge in the bosom of my God." Thaddeus could only answer with a groan. She resumed. "Give me your hand. I must not witness the grandson of Sobieski given up to despair; let your mother incite you to resignation. You see I have not breathed a complaining word, although I behold you covered with wounds." As she spoke, her eye pointed to the sash and handkerchief which were bound round his thigh and arm. "Our separation will not be long; a few short years, perhaps hours, may unite us forever in a better world." The count was still speechless; he could only press her hand to his lips. After a pause, she proceeded-- "Look up, my dear boy! and attend to me. Should Poland become the property of other nations, I conjure you, if you survive its fall, to leave it. When reduced to captivity, it will no longer be an asylum for a man of honor. I beseech you, should this happen, go that very hour to England: that is a free country; and I have been told that the people are kind to the unfortunate. Perhaps you will find that Pembroke Somerset hath not quite forgotten Poland. Thaddeus! Why do you delay to answer me? Remember, these are your mother's dying words!" "I will obey them, my mother!" "Then," continued she, taking from her bosom a small miniature, "let me tie this round your neck. It is the portrait of your father." Thaddeus bent his head, and the countess fastened it under his neck- cloth. "Prize this gift, my child; it is likely to be all that you will now inherit either from me or that father. Try to forget his injustice, my dear son; and in memory of me, never part with that picture. O, Thaddeus! From the moment in which I first received it until this instant, it has never been from my heart!" "And it shall never leave mine," answered he, in a stifled voice," whilst I have being." The countess was preparing to reply, when a sudden volley of firearms made Thaddeus spring upon his feet. Loud cries succeeded. Women rushed into the apartment, screaming, "The ramparts are stormed!" and the next moment that quarter of the building rocked to its foundation. The countess clung to the bosom of her son. Thaddeus clasped her close to his breast, and casting up his petitioning eyes to heaven, cried, "Shield of the desolate! grant me a shelter for my mother!" Another burst of cannon was followed by a heavy crash, and the most piercing shrieks echoed through the palace. "All is lost!" cried a soldier, who appeared for an instant at the room door, and then vanished. Thaddeus, overwhelmed with despair, grasped his sword, which had fallen to the ground, and crying, "My mother, we will die together!" would have given her one last and assuring embrace, when his eyes met the sight of her before-agitated features tranquillized in death. She fell from his palsied arms back on the couch, and he stood gazing on her as if struck by a power which had benumbed all his faculties. The tumult in the palace increased every moment; but he heard it not, until Butzou, followed by two or three of his soldiers, ran into the apartment, calling out "Count, save yourself!" Sobieski still remained motionless. The general caught him by the arm, and instantly covering the body of the deceased countess with the mantle of her son, hurried his unconscious steps, by an opposite door, through the state chambers into the gardens. Thaddeus did not recover his recollection until he reached the outward gate; then, breaking from the hold of his friend, was returning to the sorrowful scene he had left, when Butzou, aware of his intentions, just stopped him in time to prevent his rushing on the bayonets of a party of the enemy's infantry, who were pursuing them at full speed. The count now rallied his distracted faculties, and making a stand, with the general and his three Poles, they compelled this merciless detachment to seek refuge among the arcades of the building. Butzou would not allow his young lord to follow in that direction, but hurried him across the park. He looked back, however; a column of fire issued from the south towers. Thaddeus sighed, as if his life were in that sigh, "All is indeed over;" and pressing his hand to his forehead, in that attitude followed the steps of the general towards the Vistula. The wind being very high, the flame soon spread itself over the roof of the palace, and catching at every combustible in its way, the invaders became so terrified at the quick progress of fire which threatened to consume themselves as well as their plunder, that they quitted the spot with precipitation. Decrying the count and his soldiers at a short distance, they directed their motions to that point. Speedily confronting the brave fugitives, they blocked up a bridge by a file of men with fixed pikes, and not only menaced the Polanders as they advanced, but derided their means of resistance. Sobieski, indifferent alike to danger and to insults, stopped short to the left, and followed by his friends, plunged into the stream, amidst a shower of musket-balls from the enemy. After hard buffeting with the torrent, he at last reached the opposite bank, and was assisted from the river by some of the weeping inhabitants of Warsaw, who had been watching the expiring ashes of Praga, and the flames then devouring the boasted towers of Villanow. Emerged from the water, Thaddeus stood to regain his breath; and leaning on the shoulder of Butzou, he pointed to his burning palace with a smile of agony. "See," said he, "what a funeral pile Heaven has given to the manes of my unburied mother!" The general did not speak, for grief stopped his utterance; but motioning the two soldiers to proceed, he supported the count into the citadel. CHAPTER X. SOBIESKI'S DEPARTURE FROM WARSAW. From the termination of this awful day, in which a brave and hitherto powerful people were consigned to an abject dependence, Thaddeus was confined to his apartment in the garrison. It was now the latter end of November. General Butzou, supposing that the illness of his young lord might continue some weeks, and aware that no time ought to be lost in maintaining all that was yet left of the kingdom of Poland, obtained his permission to seek its only remaining quarter. Quitting Warsaw, he joined Prince Poniatowski, who was yet at the head of a few troops near Sachoryn, supported by the undaunted Niemcivitz, the bard and the hero, who had fought by the side heart, would have thrown himself on his knee, but the king presented him, and pressed him with emotion in his arms. "Brave young man!" cried he, "I embrace in you the last of those Polish youth who were so lately the brightest jewels in my crown." Tears stood in the monarch's eyes while he spoke. Sobieski, with hardly a steadier utterance, answered, "I come to receive your majesty's commands. I will obey them in all things but in surrendering this sword (which was my grandfather's) into the hands of your enemies." "I will not desire it," replied Stanislaus. "By my acquiescence with the terms of Russia, I only comply with the earnest petitions of my people. I shall not require of you to compromise your country; but alas! you must not throw away your life in a now hopeless cause. Fate has consigned Poland to subjection; and when Heaven, in its mysterious decrees, confirms the chastisement of nations, it is man's duty to submit. For myself, I am to bury my griefs and indignities in the castle of Grodno." The blood rushed over the cheek of Thaddeus at this declaration, to which the proud indignation of his soul could in no way subscribe, and with an agitated voice he exclaimed, "If my sovereign be already at the command of our oppressors, then indeed is Poland no more! and I have nothing to do but to perform the dying will of my mother. Will your majesty grant me permission to set off for England, before I may be obliged to witness the last calamity of my wretched country?" "I would to Heaven," replied the king, "that I, too, might repose my age and sorrows in that happy kingdom! Go, Sobieski; your name is worthy of such an asylum; my prayers and blessings shall follow you." Thaddeus pressed his hand in silence to his lips. "Believe me, my dear count," continued Stanislaus, "my soul bleeds at this parting. I know the treasure which your family has always been to this nation; I know your own individual merit. I know the wealth which you have sacrificed for me and my subjects, and I am powerless to express my gratitude." "Had I done more than my duty in that," replied Thaddeus, "such words from your majesty would have been a reward adequate to any privation; but, alas! no. I have perhaps performed less than my duty; the blood of Sobieski ought not to have been spared one drop when the liberties of his country perished!" Thaddeus blushed while he spoke, and almost repented the too ready zeal of his friends in having saved him from the general destruction at Villanow. The voice of the venerable Stanislaus became fainter as he resumed-- "Perhaps had a Sobieski reigned at this time, these horrors might not have been accomplished. That resistless power which has overwhelmed my people, I cannot forget is the same that put the sceptre into my hand. But Catherine misunderstood my principles, when assisting in my election to the throne; she thought she was planting merely her own viceroy there. But I could not obliterate from my heart that my ancestors, like your own, were hereditary sovereigns of Poland, nor cease to feel the stamp the King of kings had graven upon that heart-- to uphold the just laws of my fathers! and, to the utmost, I have struggled to fulfil my trust." "Yes, my sovereign," replied Thaddeus; "and whilst there remains one man on earth who has drawn his first breath in Poland, he will bear witness in all the lands through which he may be doomed to wander that he has received from you the care and affection of a father. O! sire, how will future ages believe that, in the midst of civilized Europe, a brave people and a virtuous monarch were suffered, unaided, and even without remonstrance, to fall into the grasp of usurpation!-- nay, of annihilation of their name!" Stanislaus laid his hand on the arm of the count. "Man's ambition and baseness," said the king, "are monstrous to the contemplation of youth only. You are learning your lesson early; I have studied mine for many years, and with a bitterness of soul which in some measure prepared me for the completion. My kingdom has passed from me at the moment you have lost your country. Before we part forever, my dear Sobieski, take with you this assurance--you have served the unfortunate Stanislaus to the latest hour in which you beheld him. That which you have just said, expressive of the sentiments of those who were my subjects, is indeed a balm to my heart, and I will earn its consolations to my prison." The king paused. Sobieski, agitated, and incapable of speaking, threw himself at his majesty's feet, and pressed his hand with fervency and anguish to his lips. The king looked down on his graceful figure, and pierced to the soul by the more graceful feelings which dictated the action, the tear which stood in his eye, rolled over his cheek, and was followed by another before he could add--pented the too ready zeal of his friends in having saved him from the general destruction at Villanow. The voice of the venerable Stanislaus became fainter as he resumed-- "Perhaps had a Sobieski reigned at this time, these horrors might not have been accomplished. That resistless power which has overwhelmed my people, I cannot forget is the same that put the sceptre into my hand. But Catherine misunderstood my principles, when assisting in my election to the throne; she thought she was planting merely her own viceroy there. But I could not obliterate from my heart that my ancestors, like your own, were hereditary sovereigns of Poland, nor cease to feel the stamp the King of kings had graven upon that heart-- to uphold the just laws of my fathers! and, to the utmost, I have struggled to fulfil my trust." "Yes, my sovereign," replied Thaddeus; "and whilst there remains one man on earth who has drawn his first breath in Poland, he will bear witness in all the lands through which he may be doomed to wander that he has received from you the care and affection of a father. O! sire, how will future ages believe that, in the midst of civilized Europe, a brave people and a virtuous monarch were suffered, unaided, and even without remonstrance, to fall into the grasp of usurpation!-- nay, of annihilation of their name!" Stanislaus laid his hand on the arm of the count. "Man's ambition and baseness," said the king, "are monstrous to the contemplation of youth only. You are learning your lesson early; I have studied mine for many years, and with a bitterness of soul which in some measure prepared me for the completion. My kingdom has passed from me at the moment you have lost your country. Before we part forever, my dear Sobieski, take with you this assurance--you have served the unfortunate Stanislaus to the latest hour in which you beheld him. That which you have just said, expressive of the sentiments of those who were my subjects, is indeed a balm to my heart, and I will carry its consolations to my prison." The king paused. Sobieski, agitated, and incapable of speaking, threw himself at his majesty's feet, and pressed his hand with fervency and anguish to his lips. The king looked down on his graceful figure, and pierced to the soul by the more graceful feelings which dictated the action, the tear which stood in his eye, rolled over his cheek, and was followed by another before he could add-- "Rise, my young friend. Take from me this ring. It contains my picture. Wear it in remembrance of a man who loves you, and who can never forget your worth or the loyalty and patriotism of your house." The Chancellor Zamoyisko at that moment being announced, Thaddeus rose from his knee, and was preparing to leave the room, when his majesty, perceiving his intention, desired him to stop. "Stay, count!" cried he, "I will burden you with one request. I am now a king without a crown, without subjects, without a foot of land in which to bury me when I die. I cannot reward the fidelity of any one of the few friends of whom my enemies have not deprived me; but you are young, and Heaven may yet smile upon you in some distant nation. Will you pay a debt of gratitude for your poor sovereign? Should you ever again meet with the good old Butzou, who rescued me when my preservation lay on the fortune of a moment, remember that I regard him as once the saviour of my life! I was told to-day that on the destruction of Praga this brave man joined the army of my brother. It is now disbanded, and he, with the rest of my faithful soldiers, is cast forth in his old age, a wanderer in a pitiless world. Should you ever meet him, Sobieski, succor him for my sake." "As Heaven may succor me!" cried Thaddeus; and putting his majesty's hand a second time to his lips, he bowed to the chancellor and passed into the street. When the count returned to the citadel, he found that all was as the king had represented. The soldiers in the garrison were reluctantly preparing to give up their arms; and the nobles, in compassion to the cries of the people, were trying to humble their necks to the yoke of the dictator. The magistrates lingered as they went to take the city keys from the hands of their good king, and with sad whispers anticipated the moment in which they must surrender them, and their laws and national existence, to the jealous dominion of three despotic foreign powers. Poland was now no place for Sobieski. He had survived all his kindred. He had survived the liberties of his country. He had seen the king a prisoner, and his countrymen trampled on by deceit and usurpation. As he walked on, musing over these circumstances, he met with little interruption, for the streets were deserted. Here and there a poor miserable wretch passed him, who seemed, by his wan cheeks and haggard eyes, already to repent the too successful prayers of the deputation, The shops were shut. Thaddeus stopped a few minutes in the great square, which used to be crowded with happy citizens, but now, not one man was to be seen. An awful and painful silence reigned over all. His soul felt too truly the dread consciousness of this utter annihilation of his country, for him to throw off the heavy load from his oppressed heart, in this his last walk down the east street towards the ramparts which covered the Vistula. He turned his eyes to the spot where once stood the magnificent towers of his paternal palace. "Yes," cried he, "it is now time for me to obey the last command of my mother! Nothing remains of Poland but its soil--nothing of my home but its ashes!" The victors had pitched a detachment of tents amidst the ruins of Villanow, and were at this moment busying themselves in searching amongst the stupendous fragments for what plunder the fire might have spared. "Insatiate robbers!" exclaimed Thaddeus; "Heaven will requite this sacrilege." He thought on his mother, who lay beneath the ruins, and tore himself from the sight, whilst he added, "Farewell! forever farewell! thou beloved, revered Villanow, where I was reared in bliss and tenderness! I quit thee and my country forever!" As he spoke, he raised his hands and eyes to heaven, and pressing the picture his mother had given him to his lips and bosom, turned from the parapet, determining to prepare that night for his departure the next morning. He arose by daybreak, and having gathered together all his little wealth, the whole of which was compressed within the portmanteau that was buckled on his gallant horse, precisely two hours before the triumphal car of General Suwarrow entered Warsaw, Sobieski left it. As he rode along the streets, he bedewed its stones with his tears. They were the first that he had shed during the long series of his misfortunes, and they now flowed so fast, that he could hardly discern his way out of the city. At the great gate his horse stopped, and neighed with a strange sound. "Poor Saladin!" cried Thaddeus, stroking his neck; "are you so sorry at leaving Warsaw that, like your unhappy master, you linger to take a last lamenting look!" His tears redoubled; and the warder, as he closed the gate after him, implored permission to kiss the hand of the noble Count Sobieski, ere he should turn his back on Poland, never to return. Thaddeus looked kindly round, and shaking hands with the honest man, after saying a few friendly words to him, rode on with a loitering pace, until he reached that part of the river which divides Masovia from the Prussian dominions. Here he flung himself off his horse, and standing for a moment on the hill that rises near the bridge, retraced, with his almost blinded sight, the long and desolated lands through which he had passed; then involuntarily dropping on his knee, he plucked a tuft of grass, and pressing it to his lips, exclaimed, "Farewell, Poland! Farewell all my earthly happiness!" Almost stifled by emotion, he put this poor relic of his country into his bosom, and remounting his noble animal, crossed the bridge. As one who, flying from any particular object, thinks to lose himself and his sorrows when it lessens to his view, Sobieski pursued the remainder of his journey with a speed which soon brought him to Dantzic. Here he remained a few days, and during that interval the firmness of his mind was restored. He felt a calm arising from the conviction that his afflictions had gained their summit, and that, however heavy they were, Heaven had laid them on him for a trial of his faith and virtue. Under this belief, he ceased to weep; but he never was seen to smile. Having entered into an agreement with the master of a vessel to carry him across the sea, he found the strength of his finances would barely defray the charges of the voyage. Considering this circumstance, he saw the impossibility of taking his horse to England. The first time this idea presented itself, it almost overset his determined resignation. Tears would again have started into his eyes, had he not by force repelled them. "To part from my faithful Saladin," said he to himself, "that has borne me since I first could use a sword; that has carried me through so many dangers, and has come with me even into exile--it is painful, it is ungrateful!" He was in the stable when this thought assailed him; and as the reflections followed each other, he again turned to the stall. "But, my poor fellow, I will not barter your services for gold. I will seek for some master who may be kind to you, in pity to my misfortunes." He re-entered the hotel where he lodged, and calling a waiter, inquired who occupied the fine mansion and park on the east of the town. The man replied, "Mr. Hopetown, an eminent British merchant, who has been settled at Dantzic above forty years." "I am glad he is a Briton!" was the sentiment which succeeded this information in the count's mind. He immediately took his resolution, but hardly had prepared to put it into execution, when he received a summons from the vessel to be on board in half an hour, the wind having set fair. Thaddeus, somewhat disconcerted by this hasty call, with an agitated hand wrote the following letter:-- "TO JOHN HOPETOWN, ESQ. "Sir, "A Polish officer, who has sacrificed everything but his honor to the last interests of his country, now addresses you. "You are a Briton; and of whom can an unhappy victim to the cause of loyalty and freedom with less debasement solicit an obligation? "I cannot afford support to the fine animal which has carried me through the battles of this fatal war; I disdain to sell him, and therefore I implore you, by the respect that you pay to the memory of your ancestors, who struggled for and retained that liberty in defence of which we are thus reduced--I implore you to give him an asylum in your park, and to protect him from injurious usage. "Perform this benevolent action, sir, and you shall ever be remembered with gratitude by an unfortunate "POLANDER. "DANTZIC, _November_, 1794." The count, having sealed and directed this letter, went to the hotel yard, and ordered that his horse might be brought out. A few days of rest had restored him to his former mettle, and he appeared from the stable prancing and pawing the earth, as he used to do when Thaddeus was about to mount him for the field. The groom was striving in vain to restrain the spirit of the animal, when the count took hold of the bridle. The noble creature knew his master, and became gentle as a lamb. After stroking him two or three times, with a bursting heart Thaddeus returned the reins to the man's hand, and at the same time gave him a letter. "There," said he; "take that note and the horse directly to the house of Mr. Hopetown. Leave them, for the letter requires no answer." This last pang mastered, he walked out of the yard towards the quay. The wind continuing fair, he entered the ship, and within an hour set sail for England. CHAPTER XI. THE BALTIC. Sobieski passed the greater part of each day and the whole of every night on the deck of the vessel. He was too much absorbed in himself to receive any amusement from the passengers, who, observing his melancholy, thought to dispel it by their company and conversation. When any of these people came upon deck, he walked to the head of the ship, took his seat upon the cable which bound the anchor to the forecastle, and while their fears rendered him safe from their well- meant persecution, he gained some respite from vexation, though none from misery. The ship having passed through the Baltic, and entered on the British sea, the passengers, running from side to side of the vessels, pointed out to Thaddeus the distant shore of England, lying like a hazy ridge along the horizon. The happy people, whilst they strained their eyes through glasses, desired him to observe different spots on the hardly-perceptible line which they called Flamborough Head and the hills of Yorkshire. His heart turned sick at these objects of their delight, for not one of them raised an answering feeling in his breast. England could be nothing to him; if anything, it would prove a desert, which contained no one object for his regrets or wishes. The image of Pembroke Somerset, indeed, rose in his mind, like the dim recollection of one who has been a long time dead. Whilst they were together at Villanow, they regarded each other warmly, and when they parted they promised to correspond. One day, in pursuit of the enemy, Thaddeus was so unlucky as to lose the pocket-book which contained his friend's address; but yet, uneasy at his silence, he ventured two letters to him, directed merely at Sir Robert Somerset's, England. To these he received no answer; and the palatine evinced so just a displeasure at such marked neglect and ingratitude, that he would not suffer him to be mentioned in his presence, and indeed Thaddeus, from disappointment and regret, felt no inclination to transgress the command. When the young count, during the prominent interests of the late disastrous campaign, remembered these things, he found little comfort in recollecting the name of his young English guest; and now that he was visiting England as a poor exile, with indignation and grief he gave up the wish with the hope of meeting Mr. Somerset. Sensible that Somerset had not acted as became the man to whom he could apply in his distress, he resolved, unfriended as he was, to wipe him at once from his memory. With a bitter sigh he turned his back on the land to which he was going, and fixed his eyes on the tract of sea which then divided him from all that he had ever loved, or had given him true happiness. "Father of mercy!" murmured he, in a suppressed voice, "what have I done to deserve this misery? Why have I been at one stroke deprived of all that rendered existence estimable? Two months ago, I had a mother, a more than father, to love and cherish me; I had a country, that looked up to them and to me with veneration and confidence. Now, I am bereft of all. I have neither father, mother, nor country, but I am going to a land of utter strangers." Such impatient adjurations were never wrung from Sobieski by the anguish of sudden torture without his ingenuous and pious mind reproaching itself for such faithless repining. His soul was soft as a woman's; but it knew neither effeminacy nor despair. Whilst his heart bled, his countenance retained its serenity. Whilst affliction crushed him to the earth, and nature paid a few hard-wrung drops to his repeated bereavements, he contemned his tears, and raised his fixed and confiding eye to that Power which poured down its tempests on his head. Thaddeus felt as a man, but received consolation as a Christian. When his ship arrived at the mouth of the Thames, the eagerness of the passengers increased to such an excess that they would not stand still, nor be silent a moment; and when the vessel, under full sail, passed Sheerness, and the dome of St. Paul's appeared before them, their exclamations were loud and incessant. "My home! my parents! my wife! my friends!" were the burden of every tongue. Thaddeus found his calmed spirits again disturbed; and, rising from his seat, he retired unobserved by the people, who were too happy to attend to anything which did not agree with their own transports. The cabin was as deserted as himself. Feeling that there is no solitude like that of the heart, when it looks around and sees in the vast concourse of human beings not one to whom it can pour forth its sorrows, or receive the answering sigh of sympathy, he threw himself on one of the lockers, and with difficulty restrained the tears from gushing from his eyes. He held his hand over them, while he contemned himself for a weakness so unbecoming his manhood. He despised himself: but let not others despise him. It is difficult for those who lie morning and evening in the lap of domestic indulgence to conceive the misery of being thrown out into a bleak and merciless world; it is impossible for the happy man, surrounded by luxury and gay companions, to figure to himself the reflections of a fellow-creature who, having been fostered in the bosom of affection and elegance, is cast at once from all society, bereft of home, of comfort, of "every stay, save innocence and Heaven." None but the wretched can imagine what the wretched endure from actual distress, from apprehended misfortune, from outraged feelings, and ten thousand nameless sensibilities to offence which only the unfortunate can conceive, dread and experience. But what is it to be not only without a home, but without a country? Thaddeus unconsciously uttered a groan like that of death. The noise redoubled above his head, and in a few minutes afterwards one of the sailors came rumbling clown the stairs. "Will it please your honor," said he, "to get up? That be my chest, and I want my clothes to clean myself before I go on shore. Mother I know be waiting me at Blackwall." Thaddeus rose, and with a withered heart again ascended to the deck. On coming up the hatchway, he saw that the ship was moored in the midst of a large city, and was surrounded by myriads of vessels from every quarter of the globe. He leaned over the railing, and in silence looked down on the other passengers, who where bearing off in boats, and shaking hands with the people who came to receive them. "It is near dark, sir," said the captain; "mayhap you would wish to go on shore? There is a boat just come round, and the tide won't serve much longer: and as your friends don't seem to be coming for you, you are welcome to a place in it with me." The count thanked him; and after defraying the expenses of the voyage, and giving money amongst the sailors, he desired that his portmanteau might be put into the wherry. The honest fellows, in gratitude to the bounty of their passenger, struggled who should obey his commands, when the skipper, angry at being detained, snatched away the baggage, and flinging it into the boat, leaped in after it, and was followed by Thaddeus. The taciturnity of the seamen and the deep melancholy of his guest were not broken until they reached the Tower stairs. "Go, Ben, fetch the gentleman a coach." The count bowed to the captain, who gave the order, and in a few minutes the boy returned, saying there was one in waiting. He took up the portmanteau, and Thaddeus, following him, ascended the Tower stairs, where the carriage stood. Ben threw in the baggage and the count put his foot on the step. "Where must the man drive to?" Thaddeus drew it back again. "Yes, sir," continued the lad; "where be your honor's home?" "In my grave," was the response his aching heart made to this question. He hesitated before he spoke. "An hotel," said he, flinging himself on the seat, and throwing a piece of silver into the lad's hat. "What hotel, sir?" asked the coachman. "Any." The man closed the door, mounted his box, and drove off. It was now near seven o'clock, on a dark December evening. The lamps were lighted; and it being Saturday-night, the streets were crowded with people. Thaddeus looked at them as he was driven along. "Happy creatures!" thought he; "you have each a home to go to; you have each expectant friends to welcome you; every one of you knows some in the world who will smile when you enter; whilst I, wretched, wretched Sobieski where are now all thy highly-prized treasures, thy boasted glory, and those beloved ones who rendered that glory most precious to thee? Alas! all are withdrawn; vanished like a scene of enchantment, from which I have indeed awakened to a frightful solitude." His reflections were broken by the stopping of the carriage. The man opened the door. "Sir, I have brought you to the Hummums, Covent Garden; it has as good accommodations as any in the town. My fare is five shillings." Thaddeus paid the amount, and followed him and his baggage into the coffee-room. At the entrance of a man of his figure, several waiters presented themselves, begging to know his commands. "I want a chamber." He was ushered into a very handsome dining-room, where one of them laid down the portmanteau, and then bowing low, inquired whether he had dined. The waiter having received his orders, (for the count saw that it was necessary to call for something,) hastened into the kitchen to communicate them to the cook. "Upon my word, Betty," cried he, "you must do your best to-night; for the chicken is for the finest-looking fellow you ever set eyes on. By Jove, I believe him to be some Russian nobleman; perhaps the great Suwarrow himself! and he speaks English as well as I do myself." "A prince, you mean, Jenkins!" said a pretty girl who entered at that moment. "Since I was borne I never see'd any English lord walk up and down the room with such an air; he looks like a king. For my part, I should not wonder if he is one of them there emigrant kings, for they say there is a power of them now wandering about the world." "You talk like a fool, Sally," cried the sapient waiter. "Don't you see that his dress is military? Look at his black cap, with its long bag and great feather, and the monstrous sword at his side; look at them, and then if you can, say I am mistaken in deciding that he is some great Russian commander,--most likely come over as ambassador!" "But he came in a hackney-coach," cried a little dirty boy in the corner. "As I was running up stairs with Colonel Leson's shoes, I see'd the coachman bring in his portmanteau." "Well, Jack-a-napes, what of that?" cried Jenkins; "is a nobleman always to carry his equipage about him, like a snail with its shell on its back? To be sure, this foreign lord, or prince, is only come to stay here till his own house is fit for him. I will be civil to him." "And so will I, Jenkins," rejoined Sally, smiling; "for I never see'd such handsome blue eyes in my born days; and they turned so sweet on me, and he spoke so kindly when he bade me stir the fire; and when he sat down by it, and throwed off his great fur cloak, I see'd a glittering star on his breast, and a figure so noble, that indeed, cook, I do verily believe he is, as Jenkins says, an enthroned king!" "You and Jenkins be a pair of fools," cried the cook, who, without noticing their description, had been sulkily basting the fowl. "I will be sworn he's just such another king as that palavering rogue was a French duke who got my master's watch and pawned it! As for you, Sally, you had better beware of hunting after foreign men-folk: it's not seemly for a young woman, and you may chance to rue it." The moralizing cook had now brought the whole kitchen on her shoulders. The men abused her for a surly old maid, and the women tittered, whilst they seconded her censure by cutting sly jokes on the blushing face of poor Sally, who stood almost crying by the side of her champion, Jenkins. Whilst this hubbub was going forward below stairs, its unconscious subject was, as Sally had described, sitting in a chair close to the fire, with his feet on the fender, his arms folded, and his eyes bent on the flames. He mused; but his ideas followed each other in such quick confused succession, it hardly could be said he thought of anything. The entrance of dinner roused him from his reverie. It was carried in by at least half a dozen waiters. The count had been so accustomed to a numerous suite of attendants, he did not observe the parcelling out of his temperate meal: one bringing in the fowl, another the bread, his neighbor the solitary plate, and the rest in like order, so solicitous were the male listeners in the kitchen to see this wonderful Russian. Thaddeus partook but lightly of the refreshment. Being already fatigued in body, and dizzy with the motion of the vessel, as soon as the cloth was withdrawn, he ordered a night candle, and desired to be shown to his chamber. Jenkins, whom the sight of the embroidered star confirmed in his decision that the foreigner must be a person of consequence, with increased agility whipped up the portmanteau and led the way to the sleeping-rooms. Here curiosity put on a new form; the women servants, determined to have their wishes gratified as well as the men, had arranged themselves on each side of the passage through which the count must pass. At so strange an appearance, Thaddeus drew back; but supposing that it might be a custom of the country, he proceeded through this fair bevy, and bowed as he walked along to the low curtesies which they continued to make, until he entered his apartment and closed the door. The unhappy are ever restless; they hope in every change of situation to obtain some alteration in their feelings. Thaddeus was too miserable awake not to view with eagerness the bed on which he trusted that, for a few hours at least, he might lose the consciousness of his desolation, with its immediate suffering. CHAPTER XII. THADDEUS'S FIRST DAY IN ENGLAND. When he awoke in the morning, his head ached, and he felt as unrefreshed as when he had lain down; he undrew the curtain, and saw, from the strength of the light, it must be midday. He got up; and having dressed himself, descended to the sitting-room, where he found a good fire and the breakfast already placed. He rang the bell, and walked to the window, to observe the appearance of the morning. A heavy snow had fallen during the night; and the sun, ascended to its meridian, shone through the thick atmosphere like a ball of fire. All seemed comfortless without; and turning back to the warm hearth, which was blazing at the other end of the room, he was reseating himself, when Jenkins brought in the tea-urn. "I hope, my lord," said the waiter, "that your lordship slept well last night?" "Perfectly, I thank you," replied the count, unmindful that the man had addressed him according to his rank; "when you come to remove these things, bring me my bill." Jenkins bowed and withdrew, congratulating himself on his dexterity in having saluted the stranger with his title. During the absence of the waiter, Thaddeus thought it time to examine the state of his purse. He well recollected how he had paid at Dantzic; and from the style in which he was served here, he did not doubt that to defray what he had already contracted would nearly exhaust his all. He emptied the contents of his purse into his hands; a guinea and some silver was all that he possessed. A flush of terror suffused itself over his face; he had never known the want of money before, and he trembled now lest the charge should exceed his means of payment. Jenkins entered with the bill. On the count's examining it, he was pleased to find it amounted to no more than the only piece of gold his purse contained. He laid it upon the tea-board, and putting half- a-crown into the hand of Jenkins, who appeared waiting for something, wrapped his cloak round him as he was walking out of the room. "I suppose, my lord," cried Jenkins, pocketing the money with a smirk, and bowing with the things in his hands, "we are to have the honor of seeing your lordship again, as you leave your portmanteau behind you?" Thaddeus hesitated a few seconds, then again moving towards the door, said, "I will send for it." "By what name, my lord?" "The Count Sobieski." Jenkins immediately set down the tea-board, and hurrying after Thaddeus along the passage, and through the coffee-room, darted before him, and opening the door into the lobby for him to go out, exclaimed, loud enough for everybody to hear, "Depend upon it, Count Sobieski, I will take care of your lordship's baggage." Thaddeus, rather displeased at his noisy officiousness, only bent his head, and proceeded into the street. The air was piercing cold; and on his looking around, he perceived by the disposition of the square in which he was that it must be a market-place. The booths and stands were covered with snow, whilst parts of the pavement were rendered nearly impassable by heaps of black ice, which the market people of the preceding day had shoveled up out of their way. He recollected it was now Sunday, and consequently the improbability of finding any cheaper lodgings on that day. [Footnote: Those who remember the terrible winter of 1794, will not call this description exaggerated. That memorable winter was one of mourning to many in England. Some of her own brave sons perished amidst the frozen dykes of Holland and the Netherlands, vainly opposing the march of the French anarchists. How strange appeared then to him the doom of nations.] Thaddeus stood under the piazzas for two or three minutes, bewildered on the plan he should adopt. To return to the hotel for any purpose but to sleep, in the present state of his finances, would be impossible; he therefore determined, inclement as the season was, if he could not find a chapel, to walk the streets until night. He might then go back to the Hummums to his bed chamber; but he resolved to quit it in the morning, for a residence more suitable to his slender means. The wind blew keenly from the north-east, accompanied with a violent shower of sleet and rain; yet such was the abstraction of his mind, that he hardly observed its bitterness, but walked on, careless whither his feet led him, until he stopped opposite St. Martin's church. "God is my only friend! and in any house of His I shall surely find shelter!" He turned up the steps, and was entering the porch, when he met the congregation thronging out of it. "Is the service over?" he inquired of a decent old woman who was passing him down the stairs. The woman started at this question, asked her in English by a person whose dress was so completely foreign. He repeated it. Smiling and curtseying, she replied-- "Yes, sir; and I am sorry for it. Lord bless your handsome face, though you be a stranger gentleman, it does one's heart good to see you so devoutly given!" Thaddeus blushed at this personal compliment, though it came from the lips of a wrinkled old woman; and begging permission to assist her down the stairs, he asked when service would begin again. "At three o'clock, sir, and may Heaven bless the mother who bore so pious a son!" While the poor woman spoke, she raised her eyes with a melancholy resignation. The count, touched with her words and manner, almost unconsciously to himself, continued by her side as she hobbled down the street. His eyes were fixed on the ground, until somebody pressing against him, made him look round. He saw that his aged companion had just knocked at the door of a mean-looking house, and that she and himself were surrounded by nearly a dozen people, besides boys who through curiosity had followed them from the church porch. "Ah! sweet sir," cried she, "these folks are staring at so fine a gentleman taking notice of age and poverty." Thaddeus was uneasy at the inquisitive gaze of the bystanders; and his companion observing the fluctuation of his countenance, added, as the door was opened by a little girl, "Will your honor walk in out of the rain, and warm yourself by my poor fire?" He hesitated a moment; then, accepting her invitation, bent his head to get under the humble door-way, and following her through a neatly- sanded passage, entered a small but clean kitchen. A little boy, who was sitting on a stool near the fire, uttered a scream at the sight of the stranger, and running up to his grandmother, rolled himself in her cloak, crying out, "Mammy, mammy, take away that black man!" "Be quiet, William; it is a gentleman, and no black man. I am so ashamed, sir; but he is only three years old." "I should apologize to you," returned the count, smiling, "for introducing a person so hideous as to frighten your family." By the time he finished speaking, the good dame had pacified the shrieking boy, who stood trembling, and looking askance at the tremendous black gentleman stroking the head of his pretty sister. "Come here, my dear!" said Thaddeus, seating himself by the fire, and stretching out his hand to the child. He instantly buried his head in his grandmother's apron. "William! William!" cried his sister, pulling him by the arm, "the gentleman will not hurt you." The boy again lifted up his head. Thaddeus threw back his long sable cloak, and taking off his cap, whose hearse-like plumes he thought might have terrified the child, he laid it on the ground, and again stretching forth his arms, called the boy to approach him. Little William now looked steadfastly in his face, and then on the cap, which he had laid beside him; whilst he grasped his grandmother's apron with one hand, he held out the other, half assured, towards the count. Thaddeus took it, and pressing it softly, pulled him gently to him, and placed him on his knee. "My little fellow," said he, kissing him, "you are not frightened now?" "No," said the child; "I see you are not the ugly black man who takes away naughty boys. The ugly black man has a black face, and snakes on his head; but these are pretty curls!" added he, laughing, and putting his little fingers through the thick auburn hair which hung in neglected masses over the forehead of the count. "I am ashamed that your honor should sit in a kitchen," said the old lady; "but I have not a fire in any other room." "Yes," said her granddaughter, who was about twelve years old; "grandmother has a nice first-floor up stairs, but because we have no lodgers, there be no fire there." "Be silent, Nanny Robson," said the dame; "your pertness teases the gentleman." "O, not at all," cried Thaddeus; "I ought to thank her, for she informs me you have lodgings to let; will you allow me to engage them!" "You, sir!" cried Mrs. Robson, thunderstruck; "for what purpose? Surely so noble a gentleman would not live in such a place as this?" "I would, Mrs. Robson: I know not where I could live with more comfort; and where comfort is, my good madam, what signifies the costliness or plainness of the dwelling?" "Well, sir, if you be indeed serious; but I cannot think you are; you are certainly making a joke of me for my boldness in asking you into my poor house." "Upon my honor, I am not, Mrs. Robson. I will gladly be your lodger if you will admit me; and to convince you that I am in earnest, my portmanteau shall this moment be brought here." "Well, sir," resumed she, "I shall be honored in having you in my house; but I have no room for any one but yourself, not even for a servant." "I have no servant." "Then I will wait on him, grandmother," cried the little Nanny; "do let the gentleman have them; I am sure he looks honest." The woman colored at this last observation of the child, and proceeded: "Then, sir, if you should not disdain the rooms when you see them, I shall be too happy in having so good a gentleman under my roof. Pardon my boldness, sir; but may I ask? I think by your dress you are a foreigner?" "I am," replied Thaddeus, the radiance which played over his features contracting into a glow; "if you have no objection to take a stranger within your doors, from this hour I shall consider your house my home?" "As your honor pleases," said Mrs. Robson; "my terms are half-a- guinea a week; and I will tend on you as though you were my own son! for I cannot forget, excellent young gentleman, the way in which we first met." "Then I will leave you for the present;" returned he, rising, and putting down the little William, who had been amusing himself with examining the silver points of the star of St. Stanislaus which the count wore on his breast. "In the meanwhile," said he, "my pretty friend," stooping to the child, "let this bit of silver," was just mounting to his tongue, as he put his hand into his pocket to take out half-a-crown; but he recollected that his necessities would no longer admit of such gifts, and drawing his hand back with a deep and bitter sigh, he touched the boy's cheek with his lips, and added, "let this kiss remind you of your new friend." This was the first time the generous spirit of Sobieski had been restrained; and he suffered a pang, for the poignancy of which he could not account. His had been a life accustomed to acts of munificence. His grandfather's palace was the asylum of the unhappy-- his grandfather's purse a treasury for the unfortunate. The soul of Thaddeus did not degenerate from his noble relative: his generosity, begun in inclination, was nurtured by reflection, and strengthened with a daily exercise which had rendered it a habit of his nature. Want never appeared before him without exciting a sympathetic emotion in his heart, which never rested until he had administered every comfort in the power of wealth to bestow. His compassion and his purse were the substance and shadow of each other. The poor of his country thronged from every part of the kingdom to receive pity and relief at his hands. With those houseless wanderers he peopled the new villages his grandfather had erected in the midst of lands which in former times were the haunts of wild beasts. Thaddeus participated in the happiness of his grateful tenants, and many were the old men whose eyes he had closed in thankfulness and peace. These honest peasants, even in their dying moments, wished to give up that life in his arms which he had rescued from misery. He visited their cottage; he smoothed their pillow; he joined in their prayers; and when their last sigh came to his ear, he raised the weeping family from the dust, and cheered them with pious exhortations and his kindest assurances of protection. How often has the countess clasped her beloved son to her breast, when, after a scene like this, he has returned home, the tears of the dying man and his children yet wet upon his hand! how often has she strained him to her heart, whilst floods of rapture have poured from her own eyes! Heir to the first fortune in Poland, he scarcely knew the means by which he bestowed all these benefits; and with a soul as bounteous to others as Heaven had been munificent to him, wherever he moved he shed smiles and gifts around him. How frequently he had said to the palatine, when his carriage-wheels were chased by the thankful multitude, "O my father! how can I ever be sufficiently grateful to God for the happiness he hath allotted to me in making me the dispenser of so many blessings! The gratitude of these people overpowers and humbles me in my own eyes; what have I done to be so eminently favored of Heaven? I tremble when I ask myself the question." "You may tremble, my dear boy," replied his grandfather, "for indeed the trial is a severe one. Prosperity, like adversity, is an ordeal of conduct. Two roads are before the rich man--vanity or virtue; you have chosen the latter, and the best; and may Heaven ever hold you in it! May Heaven ever keep your heart generous and pure! Go on, my dear Thaddeus, as you have commenced, and you will find that your Creator hath bestowed wealth upon you not for what you have done, but as the means of evincing how well you would prove yourself his faithful steward." This _was_ the fortune of Thaddeus; and _now_, he who had scattered thousands without counting them drew back his hand with something like horror at his own injustice, when he was going to give away one little piece of silver, which he might want in a day or two, to defray some indispensible debt. "Mrs. Robson," said he, as he replaced his cap upon his head, "I shall return before it is dark." "Very well, sir," and opening the door, he went out into the lane. Ignorant of the town, and thanking Providence for having prepared him an asylum, he directed his course towards Charing Cross. He looked about him with deepened sadness; the wet and plashy state of the streets gave to every object so comfortless an appearance, he could scarcely believe himself to be in that London of which he had read with so much delight. Where were the magnificent buildings he expected to see in the emporium of the world? Where that cleanliness, and those tokens of greatness and splendor, which had been the admiration and boast of travellers? He could nowhere discover them; all seemed parts of a dark, gloomy, common-looking city. Hardly heeding whither he went, he approached the Horse-Guards; a view of the Park, as it appears through the wide porch, promised him less unpleasantness than the dirty pavement, and he turned in, taking his way along the Bird-Cage Walk. [Footnote: The young readers of these few preceding pages will not recognize this description of St. Martin's Lane, Charing Cross, and St. James's Park, in 1794, in what they now see there in 1844. St. Martin's noble church was then the centre of the east side of a long, narrow, and somewhat dirty lane of mean houses, particularly in the end below the church. Charing Cross, with its adjoining streets, showed nothing better than plain tradesmen's shops; and it was not till we saw the Admiralty, and entered the Horse-Guards, that anything presented itself worthy the great name of London. The Park is almost completely altered. The lower part of the lane has totally disappeared; also its adjunct, the King's Mews, where now stands the royal National Gallery, while the church of St. Martin's rears its majestic portico and spire, no longer obscured by its former adjacent common buildings; and the grand naval pillar lately erected to the memory of Britain's hero, Nelson, occupies the centre of the new quadrangle now called Trafalgar Square.] The trees, stripped of their leaves, stood naked, and dripping with melten snow. The season was in unison with the count's fate. He was taking the bitter wind for his repast, and quenching his thirst with the rain that fell on his pale and feverish lips. He felt the cutting blast enter his soul, and shutting his eyelids to repel the tears which were rising from his heart, he walked faster; but in spite of himself, their drops mingled with the wet that trickled from his cap upon his face. One melancholy thought introduced another, until his bewildered mind lived over again, in memory, every calamity which had reduced him from happiness to all this lonely misery. Two or three heavy convulsive sighs followed these reflections; and quickening his pace, he walked several times quite round the Park. The rain ceased. But not marking time, and hardly observing the people who passed, he threw himself down upon one of the benches, and sat in a musing posture, with his eyes fixed on the opposite tree. A sound of voices approaching roused him. Turning his eyes, he saw the speakers were two young men, and by their dress he judged they must belong to the regiment of a sentinel who was patrolling at the end of the Mall. "By heavens! Barrington," cried one, "it is the best shaped boot I ever beheld! I have a good mind to ask him whether it be English make." "And if it be," replied the other, "you must ask him who shaped his legs, that you may send yours to be mended." "Who the devil can see my legs through that boot?" "Oh, if to veil them be your reason, pray ask him immediately." "And so I will, for I think the boot perfection." At these words, he was making towards Sobieski with two or three long strides, when his companion pulled him back. "Surely, Harwold, you will not be so ridiculous? He appears to be a foreigner of rank, and may take offence, and give you the length of his foot!" "Curse him and rank too; he is some paltry emigrant, I warrant! I care nothing about his foot or his legs, but I should like to know who made his boots!" While he spoke he would have dragged his companion along with him, but Barrington broke from his arm; and the fool, who now thought himself dared to it, strode up close to the chair, and bowed to Thaddeus, who (hardly crediting that he could be the subject of this dialogue) returned the salutation with a cold bend of his head. Harwold looked a little confounded at this haughty demeanor; and, once in his life, blushing at his own insolence, he roared out, as if in defiance of shame. "Pray, sir, where did you get your boots?" "Where I got my sword, sir," replied Thaddeus, calmly; and rising from his seat, he darted his eyes disdainfully on the coxcomb, and walked slowly down the Mall. Surprised and shocked at such behavior in a British officer, while he moved away he distinctly heard Barrington laughing aloud, and ridiculing the astonished and set-down air of his impudent associate. This incident did not so much ruffle the temper of Thaddeus as it amazed and perplexed him. "Is this a specimen," though he, "of a nation which on the Continent is venerated for courage, manliness, and generosity? Well, I find I have much to learn. I must go through the ills of life to estimate myself thoroughly; and I must study mankind in themselves, and not in reports of them, to have a true knowledge of what they are." This strange rencontre was of service to him, by diverting his mind from the intense contemplation of his situation; and as the dusk drew on, he turned his steps towards the Hummums. On entering the coffee-room, he was met by the obsequious Jenkins, who, being told by Thaddeus that he wanted his baggage and a carnage, went for the things himself, and sent a boy for a coach. A man dressed in black was standing by the chimney, and seemed to be eyeing Thaddeus, as he walked up and down the room, with great attention. Just as he had taken another turn, and so drew nearer the fireplace, this person accosted him rather abruptly-- "Pray, sir, is there any news stirring abroad? You seem, sir, to come from abroad." "None that I know of, sir." "Bless me, that's strange! I thought, sir, you came from abroad, sir; from the Continent, from Poland, sir? at least the waiter said so, sir." Thaddeus colored. "The waiter, sir?" "I mean, sir," continued the gentleman, visibly confused at the dilemma into which he had brought himself, "the waiter said that you were a count, sir--a Polish count; indeed the Count Sobieski! Hence I concluded that you are from Poland. If I have offended, I beg pardon, sir; but in these times we are anxious for every intelligence." Thaddeus made no other reply than a slight inclination of his head, and walking forward to see whether the coach had arrived, he thought, whatever travellers had related of the English, they were the most impertinent people he had ever met with. The stranger would not be contented with what he had already said, but plucking up new courage, pursued the count to the glass door through which he was looking, and resumed: "I believe, sir, I am not wrong? You are the Count Sobieski; and I have the honor to be now speaking with the bravest champion of Polish liberty!" Thaddeus again bowed. "I thank you, sir, for the compliment you intend me, but I cannot take it to myself; all the men of Poland, old and young, nobles and peasants, were her champions, equally sincere, equally brave." Nothing could silence the inquisitive stranger. The coach drew up, but he went on: "Then I hope that many of these patriots, besides your excellency, have taken care to bring away their wealth from a land which they must now see is abandoned to destruction?" For a moment Thaddeus forget himself, indignation for his country, and all her rights and all her sufferings rose in his countenance. "No, sir! not one of those men, and least of all would I have drawn one vital drop from her heart! I left in her murdered bosom all that was dear to me--all that I possessed; and not until I saw the chains brought before my eyes that were to lay her surviving sons in irons did I turn my back on calamities I could no longer avert or alleviate." The ardor of his manner and the elevation of his voice had drawn the attention of every person in the room upon him, when Jenkins entered with his baggage. The door being opened, Sobieski sprang into the coach, and gladly shut himself there, from a conversation which had awakened all his griefs. "Ah, poor enthusiast!" exclaimed his inquisitor, as the carriage drove off. "It is a pity that so fine a young man should have made so ill a use of his birth, and other natural advantages!" "He appears to me," observed an old clergyman who sat in an adjoining box, "to have made the best possible use of his natural advantages; and had I a son, I would rather hear him utter such a sentiment as the one with which that young man quitted the room, than see him master of millions." "May be so," cried the questioner, with a contemptuous glance; "'different minds incline to different objects!' His has decided for 'the wonderful, the wild;' and a pretty finale he has made of his choice!" "Why, to be sure," observed another spectator, "young people should be brought up with reasonable ideas of right and wrong, and prudence; nevertheless, I should not like a son of mine to run harum-scarum through my property, and his own life; and yet one cannot help, when one hears such a brave speech as that from yonder Frenchman just gone out,--I say one cannot help thinking it very fine." "True, true," cried the inquisitor; "you are right, sir; very fine indeed, but too fine to wear; it would soon leave us acreless, as it has done him; for it seems, by his own confession, he is penniless; and I know that a twelvemonth ago he was an heir to a fortune which, however incalculable, he has managed, with all his talents, to see the end of." "Then he is in distress!" exclaimed the clergyman, "and you know him. What is his name?" The man colored at this unexpected inference; and glad the company had not attended to that part of the dialogue in which the name of Sobieski was mentioned, he stammered some indistinct words, took up his hat, and looking at his watch, begged pardon, having an appointment, and hurried out of the room without speaking further; although the good clergyman, whose name was Blackmore, hastened after him, requesting to know where the young foreigner lived. "Who is that spectacled coxcomb?" cried the reverend doctor, as he returned from his unavailing application. "I don't know, sir," replied the waiter "I never saw him in this house before last night, when he came in late to sleep; and this morning he was in the coffee-room at breakfast, just as that foreign gentleman walked through; and Jenkins bawling his name out very loud, as soon as he was gone, this here gentleman asked him who that count was. I heard Jenkins say some Russian name, and tell him he came last night, and would likely come back again; and so that there gentleman has been loitering about all day till now, when the foreign gentleman coming in, he spoke to him." "And don't you know anything further of this foreigner?" "No, sir; I forget what he is called; but I see Jenkins going across the street; shall I run after him and ask him?" "You are very obliging," returned the old clergyman; "but does Jenkins know where the stranger lives?" "No, sir I am sure he don't." "I am sorry for it," sighed the kind questioner; "then your inquiry would be of no use; his name will not do without his direction. Poor fellow! he has been unfortunate, and I might have befriended him." "Yes, to be sure, doctor," cried the first speaker, who now rose to accompany him out; "it is our duty to befriend the unfortunate; but charity begins at home; and as all's for the best, perhaps it is lucky we did not hear any more about this young fellow. We might have involved ourselves in a vast deal of unnecessary trouble; and you know people from outlandish parts have no claims upon us." "Certainly," replied the doctor, "none in the world, excepting those which no human creature can dispute,--the claims of nature. All mankind are born heirs of suffering; and as joint inheritors, if we do not wipe away each other's tears, it will prove but a comfortless portion." "Ah! doctor," cried his companion, as they separated at the end of Charles-street, "you have always the best of an argument: you have logic and Aristotle at your finger ends." "No, my friend; my arguments are purely Christian. Nature is my logic, and the Bible my teacher." "Ah, there you have me again. You parsons are as bad as the lawyers; when once you get a poor sinner amongst you, he finds it as hard to get out of the church as out of chancery. However, have it your own way; charity is your trade, and I won't be in a hurry to dispute the monopoly. Good-day! If I stay much longer, you will make me believe that black is white." Dr. Blackmore shook him by the hand, and wishing him good-evening, returned home, pitying the worldliness of his friend's mind, and musing on the interesting stranger, whom he could not but admire, and compassionate with a lively sorrow, for he believed him to be a gentleman, unhappy and unfortunate. Had he known that the object of his solicitude was the illustrious subject of many a former eulogium from himself, how increased would have been his regret--that he had seen Count Thaddeus Sobieski, that he had seen him an exile, and that he had suffered him to pass out of the reach of his services! CHAPTER XIII. THE EXILE'S LODGINGS. Meanwhile the homeless Sobieski was cordially received by his humble landlady. He certainly never stood in more need of kindness. A slow fever, which had been gradually creeping over him since he quitted Poland, soon settled on his nerves, and reduced him to such weakness, that he possessed neither strength nor spirits to stir abroad. Mrs. Robson was sincerely grieved at this illness of her guest. Her own son, the father of the orphans she protected, had died of consumption, and any appearance of that cruel disorder was a certain call upon her compassion. Thaddeus gave himself up to her management. He had no money for medical assistance, and to please her he took what little medicines she prepared. According to her advice, he remained for several days shut up in his chamber, with a large fire, and the shutters closed, to exclude the smallest portion of that air which the good woman thought had already stricken him with death. But all would not do; her patient became worse and worse. Frightened at the symptoms, Mrs. Robson begged leave to send for the kind apothecary who had attended her deceased son. In this instance only she found the count obstinate, no arguments, nor even tears, could move him to assent. When she stood weeping, and holding his burning hand, his answer was constantly the same. "My excellent Mrs. Robson, do not grieve on my account; I am not in the danger you think; I shall do very well with your assistance." "No, no; I see death in your eyes. Can I feel this hand and see that hectic cheek without beholding your grave, as it were, opening before me?" She was not much mistaken; for during the night after this debate Thaddeus grew so delirious that, no longer able to subdue her terrors, she sent for the apothecary to come instantly to her house. "Oh, doctor!" cried she, while he ascended the stairs, "I have the best young gentleman ever the sun shone on dying in that room! He would not let me send for you; and now he is raving like a mad creature." Mr. Vincent entered the count's humble apartment, and undrew the curtains of the bed. Exhausted by delirium, Thaddeus had sunk senseless on his pillow. At this sight, supposing him dead, Mrs. Robson uttered a shriek, which was echoed by the cries of the little William, who stood near his grandmother. "Hush! my good woman," said the doctor; "the gentleman is not dead. Leave the room till you have recovered yourself, and I will engage that you shall see him alive when you return." Blessing these words she quitted the room with her grandson. On entering the chamber, Mr. Vincent had felt that its hot and stifling atmosphere must augment the fever of his patient; and before he attempted to disturb him from the temporary rest of insensibility, he opened the window-shutters and also the room-door wide enough to admit the air from the adjoining apartment. Pulling the heavy clothes from the count's bosom he raised his head on his arm and poured some drops into his mouth. Sobieski opened his eyes and uttered a few incoherent words; but he did not rave, he only wandered, and appeared to know that he did so, for he several times stopped in the midst of some confused speech, and laying his hand on his forehead, strove to recollect himself. Mrs. Robson soon after re-entered the room, and wept out her thanks to the apothecary, whom she revered as almost a worker of miracles. "I must bleed him, Mrs. Robson," continued he; "and for that purpose shall go home for my assistant and lancets; but in the meanwhile I charge you to let every thing remain in the state I have left it. The heat alone would have given a fever to a man in health." When the apothecary returned, he saw that his commands had been strictly obeyed; and finding that the change of atmosphere had wrought the expected alteration in his patient, he took his arm without difficulty and bled him. At the end of the operation Thaddeus again fainted. "Poor gentleman!" cried Mr. Vincent, binding up the arm. "Look here, Tom," (pointing to the scars, on the count's shoulder and breast;) "see what terrible cuts have been here! This has not been playing at soldiers! Who is your lodger, Mrs. Robson?" "His name is Constantine, Mr. Vincent; but for Heaven's sake recover him from that swoon." Mr. Vincent poured more drops into his mouth; and a minute afterwards he opened his eyes, divested of their feverish glare, but still dull and heavy. He spoke to Mrs. Robson by her name, which gave her such delight, that she caught his hands to her lips and burst again into tears. The action was so abrupt and violent, that it made him feel the stiffness of his arm. Casting his eyes towards the surgeon's, he conjectured what had been his state, and what the consequence. "Come, Mrs. Robson," said the apothecary, "you must not disturb the gentleman. How do you find yourself, sir?" As the deed could not be recalled, Thaddeus thanked the doctor for the service he had received, and said a few kind and grateful words to his good hostess. Mr. Vincent was glad to see so promising an issue to his proceedings, and soon after retired with his assistant and Mrs. Robson, to give further directions. On entering the parlor, she threw herself into a chair and broke into a paroxysm of lamentations. "My good woman, what is all this about?" inquired the doctor. "Is not my patient better?" "Yes," cried she, drying her eyes; "but the whole scene puts me so in mind of the last moments of my poor misguided son, that the very sight of it goes through my heart like a knife. Oh! had my boy been as good as that dear gentleman, had he been as well prepared to die, I think I would scarcely have grieved! Yet Heaven spare Mr. Constantine. Will he live?" "I hope so, Mrs. Robson. His fever is high; but he is young, and with extreme care we may preserve him." "The Lord grant it!" cried she, "for he is the best gentleman I ever beheld. He has been above a week with me; and till this night, in which he lost his senses, though hardly able to breath or see, he has read out of books which he brought with him; and good books too: for it was but yesterday morning that I saw the dear soul sitting by the fire with a book on the table, which he had been studying for an hour. As I was dusting about, I saw him lay his head down on it, and put his hand to his temples. 'Alas!, sir,' said I, 'you tease your brains with these books of learning when you ought to be taking rest.' No, Mrs. Robson,' returned he, with a sweet smile, 'it is this book which brings me rest. I may amuse myself with others, but this alone contains perfect beauty, perfect wisdom, and perfect peace. It is the only infallible soother of human sorrows.' He closed it, and put it on the chimney-piece; and when I looked at it afterwards, I found it was the Bible. Can you wonder that I should love so excellent a gentleman?" "You have given a strange account of him," replied Vincent. "I hope he is not a twaddler; [Footnote: A term of derision, forty years ago, amongst unthinking persons, when speaking of eminently religious people.] if so, I shall despair of his cure, and think his delirium had another cause besides fever." "I don't understand you, sir. He is a Christian, and as good a reasonable, sweet-tempered gentleman as ever came into a house. Alas! I believe he is most likely a papist; though they say papists don't read the Bible, but worship images." "Why, what reason have you to suppose that? He's an Englishman, is he not?" "No, he is an emigrant." "An emigrant! Oh, ho!" cried Mr. Vincent, with a contemptuous twirl of his lip. "What, a poor Frenchman! Good Lord! how this town is overrun with these fellows!" "No, doctor," exclaimed Mrs. Robson, greatly hurt at this scorn to her lodger, whom she really loved; "whatever he be, he is not poor, for he has a power of fine things; he has got a watch all over diamonds, and diamond rings, and diamond pictures without number. So, doctor, you need not fear you are attending him for charity; no, I would sell my gown first." "Nay, don't be offended, Mrs. Robson; I meant no offence," returned he, much mollified by this explanation; "but, really, when we see the bread that should feed our children and our own poor eaten up by a parcel of lazy French drones--all _Sans Culottes_ [The democratic rabble were commonly so called at that early period of the French Revolution; and certainly some of their demagogues did cross the Channel at times, counterfeiting themselves to be loyal emigrants, while assiduously disseminating their destructive principles wherever they could find an entrance.] in disguise, for aught we know, who cover our land, and destroy its produce like a swarm of filthy locusts--we should be fools not to murmur. But Mr.----, Mr.----, what do you call him, Mrs. Robson? is a different sort of body." "Mr. Constantine," replied she, "and indeed he is; and no doubt, when you recover him, he will pay you as though he were in his own country." This last assertion banished all remaining suspicion from the mind of the apothecary; and, after giving the good woman what orders he thought requisite, he returned home, promising to call again in the evening. Mrs. Robson went up stairs to the count's chamber with other sentiments to her sapient doctor than those with which she came down. She well recollected the substance of his discourse, and she gathered from it that, however clever he might be in his profession, he was a hard-hearted man, who would rather see a fellow-creature perish than administer relief to him without a reward. She had paid him to the uttermost farthing for her poor son. But here Mrs. Robson was mistaken. She did him justice in esteeming his medical abilities, which were great. He had made medicine the study of his life, and not allowing any other occupation to disturb his attention, he became master of that science, but remained ignorant of every other with which it had no connection. He was the father of a family, and, in the usual acceptation of the term, a very good sort of a man. He preferred his country to every other, because it was his country; he loved his wife and his children; he was kind to the poor, to whom he gave his advice gratis, and letters to the dispensary for drugs; and when he had any broken victuals to spare, he desired that they might be divided amongst them; but he seldom caught his maid obeying this part of his commands without reprimanding her for her extravagance, in giving away what ought to be eaten in the kitchen: "in these times, it was a shame to waste a crumb, and the careless hussy would come to want for thinking so lightly of other people's property." Thus, like many in the world, he was a loyal citizen by habit, an affectionate father from nature, and a man of charity because he now and then felt pity, and now and then heard it preached from the pulpit. He was exhorted to be pious, and to pour wine and oil into the wounds of his neighbor; but it never once struck him that piety extended further than going to church, mumbling his prayers and forgetting the sermon, through most of which he generally slept; and his commentaries on the good Samaritan were not more extensive, for it was so difficult to make him comprehend who was his neighbor, that the subject of the argument might have been sick, dead and buried before he could be persuaded that he or she had any claims on his care. Indeed, his "chanty began at home;" and it was so fond of its residence, that it stopped there. To have been born on the other side of the British Channel, spread an ocean between every poor foreigner and Mr. Vincent's purse which the swiftest wings of chanty could never cross. "He saw no reason," he said, "for feeding the natural enemies of our country. Would any man be mad enough to take the meat from his children's mouths and throw it to a swarm of wolves just landed on the coast?" "These wolves" were his favorite metaphor when he spoke of the unhappy French, or of any other penniless strangers that came in his way. After this explanation, it may appear paradoxical to mention an inconsistency in the mind of Mr. Vincent which never permitted him to discover the above Cainish mark of outlawry upon a wealthy visitor, of whatever country. In fact, it was with him as with many: riches were a splendid and thick robe that concealed all blemishes; take it away, and probably the poor stripped wretch would be treated worse than a criminal. That his new patient possessed some property was sufficient to ensure the respect and medical skill of Mr. Vincent; and when he entered his own house, he told his wife he had found "a very good job at Mrs. Robson's, in the illness of her lodger--a foreigner of some sort," he said, "who, by her account, had feathered his nest well in the spoils of battle (like Moore's honest Irishman) with jewels and gold." So much for the accuracy of most quotations adopted according to the convenience of the speaker. When the Count Sobieski quitted the Hummums, on the evening in which he brought away his baggage, he was so disconcerted by the impertinence of the man who accosted him there, that he determined not to expose himself to a similar insult by retaining a title which might subject him to the curiosity of the insolent and insensible; and, therefore, when Mrs. Robson asked him how she should address him, as he was averse to assume a feigned name, he merely said Mr. Constantine. Under that unobtrusive character, he hoped in time to accommodate his feelings to the change of fortune which Providence had allotted to him. He must forget his nobility, his pride, and his sensibility; he must earn his subsistence. But by what means? He was ignorant of business; and he knew not how to turn his accomplishments to account. Such were his meditations, until illness and delirium deprived him of them and of reason together. At the expiration of a week, in which Mr. Vincent attended his patient very regularly, Sobieski was able to remove into the front room; but uneasiness about the debts he had so unintentionally incurred retarded his recovery, and made his hours pass away in cheerless musings on his poor means of repaying the good widow and of satisfying the avidity of the apothecary. Pecuniary obligation was a load to which he was unaccustomed; and once or twice the wish almost escaped his heart that he had died. Whenever he was left to think, such were his reflections. Mrs. Robson discovered that he appeared more feverish and had worse nights after being much alone during the day, and therefore contrived, though she was obliged to be in her little shop, to leave either Nanny to attend his wants or little William to amuse him. This child, by its uncommon quickness and artless manner, gained upon the count, who was ever alive to helplessness and innocence. Children and animals had always found a friend and protector in him. From the "majestic war-horse, with his neck clothed in thunder," to "the poor beetle that we tread upon"--every creature of creation met an advocate of mercy in his breast; and as human nature is prone to love what it has been kind to, Thaddeus never saw either children, dogs, or even that poor slandered and abused animal, the cat, without showing them some spontaneous act of attention. Whatever of his affections he could spare from memory, the count lavished upon the little William. The child hardly ever left his side, where he sat on a stool, prattling about anything that came into his head; or, seated on his knee, followed with his eyes and playful fingers the hand of Thaddeus, while he sketched a horse or a soldier for his pretty companion. * * * * * * * CHAPTER XIV. A ROBBERY AND ITS CONSEQUENCES. By these means Thaddeus slowly acquired sufficient strength to allow him to quit his dressing-gown, and prepare for a walk. A hard frost had succeeded to the chilling damps of November; and looking out of the window, he longed, almost eagerly, to inhale again the fresh air. After some tender altercations with Mrs. Robson, who feared to trust him even down stairs, he at length conquered; and taking the little William by his hand, folded his pelisse round him, and promising to venture no further than the King's Mews, was suffered to go out. As he expected, he found the keen breeze act like a charm on his debilitated frame; and with braced nerves and exhilarated spirits, he walked twice up and down the place, whilst his companion played before him, throwing stones, and running to pick them up. At this moment one of the king's carriages, pursued by a concourse of people, suddenly drove in at the Charing-Cross gate. The frightened child screamed, and fell. Thaddeus darted forward, and seizing the heads of the horses which were within a yard of the boy, stopped them; meanwhile, the mob gathering about, one of them raised William, who continued his cries. The count now let go the reins, and for a few minutes tried to pacify his little charge; but finding that his alarm and shrieks were not to be quelled, and that his own figure, from its singularity of dress, (his high cap and plume adding to its height) drew on him the whole attention of the people, he took the trembling child in his arms, and walking through the Mews, was followed by some of the bystanders to the very door of Mrs. Robson's shop. Seeing the people, and her grandson sobbing on the breast of her guest, she ran out, and hastily asked what had happened. Thaddeus simply answered, that the child had been frightened. But when they entered the house, and he had thrown himself exhausted on a seat, William, as he stood by his knee, told his grandmother that if Mr. Constantine had not stopped the horses, he must have been run over. The count was now obliged to relate the whole story, which ended with the blessings of the poor woman, for his goodness in risking his own life for the preservation of her darling child. Thaddeus in vain assured her the action deserved no thanks. "Well," cried she, "it is like yourself, Mr. Constantine; you think all your good deeds nothing; and yet any odd little thing I can do, out of pure love to serve you, you cry up to the skies. However, we won't fall out; I say, heaven bless you! and that is enough. Has your walk refreshed you? But I need not ask; you have got a fine color." "Yes," returned he, rising and taking off his cap and cloak, "it has put me in aglow, and made me quite another creature." As he finished speaking, he dropped the things from the hand that held them, and staggered back a few paces against the wall. "Good Lord! what is the matter?" cried Mrs. Robson, looking in his face, which was now pale as death; "what is the matter?" "Nothing, nothing," returned he, recovering himself, and gathering up the cloak he had let fall; "don't mind me, Mrs. Robson; nothing:" and he was leaving the kitchen, but she followed him, terrified at his look and manner. "Pray, Mr. Constantine!" "Nay, my dear madam," said he, leading her back, "I am not well; I believe my walk has overcome me. Let me be a few minutes alone, till I have recovered myself. It will oblige me." "Well, sir, as you please!" and then, laying her withered hand fearfully upon his arm, "forgive me, dear sir," said she, "if my attentions are troublesome. Indeed, I fear that sometimes great love appears like great impertinence; I would always be serving you, and therefore I often forget the wide difference between your honor's station and mine." The count could only press her hand gratefully, and with an emotion which made him hurry up stairs to hide. When in his own room, he shut the door, and cast a wild and inquisitive gaze around the apartment; then, throwing himself into a chair, he struck his head with his hand, and exclaimed, "It is gone! What will become of me?--of this poor woman, whose substance I have consumed?" It was true; the watch, by the sale of which he had calculated to defray the charges of his illness, was indeed lost. A villain in the crowd, having perceived the sparkling of the chain, had taken it unobserved from his side; and he knew nothing of his loss until, feeling for his watch to see the hour, he discovered his misfortune. The shock went like a stroke of electricity through his frame; but it was not until the last glimmering of hope was extinguished, on examining his room where he thought he might have left it, that he saw the full horror of his situation. He sat for some minutes, absorbed, and almost afraid to think. It was not his own, but the necessities of the poor woman, who had, perhaps, incurred debts on herself to afford him comforts, which bore so hard upon him. At last, rising from his seat, he exclaimed, "I must determine on something. Since this is gone, I must seek what else I have to part with, for I cannot long bear my present feelings!" He opened the drawer which contained his few valuables. With a trembling hand he took them out one by one. There were several trinkets which had been given to him by his mother; and a pair of inlaid pistols, which his grandfather put into his belt on the morning of the dreadful 10th of October; his miniature lay beneath them: the mild eyes of the palatine seemed beaming with affection upon his grandson. Thaddeus snatched it up, kissed it fervently, and then laid it back into the drawer, whilst he hid his face with his hands. When he recovered himself, he replaced the pistols, believing that it would be sacrilege to part with them. Without allowing himself time to think, he put a gold pencil-case and a pair of brilliant sleeve- buttons into his waistcoat pocket. He descended the stairs with a soft step, and passing the kitchen- door unperceived by his landlady, crossed through a little court; and then anxiously looking from right to left, in quest of some shop where he might probably dispose of the trinkets, he took his way up Castle Street, and along Leicester Square. When he turned up the first street to his right, he was impeded by two persons who stood in his path, the one selling, the other buying a hat. The thought immediately struck Thaddeus to ask one of these men (who appeared to be a Jew, and a vender of clothes) to purchase his pelisse. By parting with a thing to which he annexed no more value than the warmth it afforded him, he should possibly spare himself the pain, for this time at least, of sacrificing those gifts of his mother, which had been bestowed upon him in happier days, and hallowed by her caresses. He did not permit himself to hesitate, but desired the Jew to follow him into a neighboring court. The man obeyed; and having no ideas independent of his trade, asked the count what he wanted to buy. "Nothing: I want to sell this pelisse," returned he, opening it. The Jew, without any ceremony, inspected its covering and its lining of fur. "Ay, I see: black cloth and sable; but who would buy it of me? An embroidered collar! nobody wears such things here." "Then I am answered," replied Thaddeus. "Stop, sir," cried the Jew, pursuing him, "what will you take for it?" "What would you give me?" "Let me see. It is very long and wide. At the utmost I cannot offer you more than five guineas." A few months ago, it had cost the count a hundred; but glad to get any money, however small, he readily closed with the man's price; and taking off the cloak, gave it to him, and put the guineas into his pocket. He had not walked much further before the piercing cold of the evening, and a shower of snow, which began to fall, made him feel the effects of his loss; however, that did not annoy him; he had been too heavily assailed by the pitiless rigors of misfortune to regard the pelting of the elements. Whilst the wind blew in his face, and the sleet falling on his dress, lodged in its lappels, he went forward, calculating whether it were likely that this money, with the few shillings he yet possessed, would be sufficient to discharge what he owed. Unused as he had been to all kinds of expenditure which required attention, he supposed, from what he had already seen of a commerce with the world, that the sum he had received from the Jew was not above half what he needed; and with a beating heart he walked towards one of those shops which Mrs. Robson had described, when speaking of the irregularities of her son, who had nearly reduced her to beggary. The candles were lit. And as he hovered about the door, he distinctly saw the master through the glass, assorting some parcels on the counter. He was a gentleman-like man, and the count's feelings took quite a different turn from those with which he had accosted the Jew, who, being a low, sordid wretch, looked upon the people with whom he trafficked as mere purveyors to his profit. Thaddeus felt little repugnance at bargaining with him: but the sight of a respectable person, before whom he was to present himself as a man in poverty, as one who, in a manner, appealed to charity, all at once overcame the resolution of a son of Sobieski, and he debated whether or not he should return. Mrs. Robson, and her probable distresses, rose before him; and fearful of trusting his pride any further, he pulled his cap over his face, and entered the shop. The man bowed very civilly on his entrance, and requested to be honored with his commands. Thaddeus felt his face glow; but indignant at his own weakness, he laid the gold case on the counter, and said, in a voice which, notwithstanding his emotion, he constrained to be without appearance of confusion, "I want to part with this." Astonished at the dignity of the applicant's air, and the nobility of his dress, (for the star did not escape the shop-keeper's eye), he looked at him for a moment, holding the case in his hand. Hurt by the steadiness of his gaze, the count, rather haughtily, repeated what he had said. The man hesitated no longer. He had been accustomed to similar requests from the emigrant French _noblesse_; but there was a loftiness and aspect of authority in the countenance and mien of this person which surprised and awed him; and with a respect which even the application could not counteract, he opened the case, and inquired of Thaddeus what was the price he affixed to it. "I leave that to you," replied he. "The gold is pure," returned the man, "but it is very thin; I cannot give more than three guineas. Though the workmanship is fine, it is not in the fashion of England, and will be of no benefit to me till melted." "You may have it," said Thaddeus, hardly able to articulate, while the gift of his mother was passing into a stranger's hand. The man directly paid him down the money, and the count, with a bursting heart, darted out of the shop. Mrs. Robson was shutting up the windows of her little parlor, when he hastily passed her and glided up the stairs. Hardly believing her senses, she hastened after him, and just got into the room as he drank off a glass of water. "Good lack! sir, where has your honor been? I thought you were all the while in the house, and I would not come near, though I was very uneasy; and there has been poor William crying himself blind, because you desired to be left alone." Thaddeus was unprepared to make an answer. He was in hopes to have gotten in as he had stolen out, undiscovered; for he determined not to agitate her too kind mind by the history of his loss. He would not allow her to know anything of his embarrassments, from a sentiment of justice, as well as from that sensitive pride which all his sufferings and philosophy could not wholly subdue. "I have been taking a walk, Mrs. Robson." "Dear heart! I thought when you staggered back, and looked so ill, after you brought in William, you had over-walked yourself." "No; I fancy my fears had a little discomposed me; and I hoped that more air might do me good; I tried it, and it has: but I am grieved for having alarmed you." This ambiguous speech satisfied his worthy landlady; and, fatigued by a bodily exertion, which, in the present feeble state of his frame, nothing less than the resolution of his mind could have carried him through, Thaddeus went directly to bed, where tired nature soon found temporary repose in a profound sleep. CHAPTER XV. THE WIDOW'S FAMILY. Next morning Sobieski found himself rather better than worse by the exertions of the preceding clay. When Nanny appeared as usual with his breakfast and little William, (who always sat on his knee, and shared his bread and butter,) the count desired her to request her grandmother to send to Mr. Vincent with his compliments, and to say her lodger felt himself so much recovered as to decline any further medical aid, and therefore wished to have his bill. Mrs. Robson, who could not forget the behavior of the apothecary, undertook to deliver the message herself, happy in the triumph she should enjoy over the littleness of Mr. Vincent's suspicions. After the lapse of a quarter of an hour, she re-appeared in the count's rooms, accompanied by the apothecary's assistant, who, with many thanks, received the sum total of the account, which amounted to three guineas for ten days' attendance. The man having withdrawn, Thaddeus told Mrs. Robson, he should next defray the smallest part of the vast debt he must ever owe to her parental care. "Oh, bless your honor, it goes to my heart to take a farthing of you! but these poor children," cried she, laying a hand on each, and her eyes glistening, "they look up to me as their all here; and my quarter-day was yesterday, else, dear sir, I should scorn to be like Doctor Vincent, and take your money the moment you offer it." "My good madam," returned Sobieski, giving her a chair, "I am sensible of your kindness: but it is your just due; and the payment of it can never lessen your claim on my gratitude for the maternal care with which you have attended me, a total stranger." "Then, there, sir," said she, looking almost as ashamed as if she were robbing him, when she laid it on the table; "there is my bill. I have regularly set down everything. Nanny will bring it to me." And quite disconcerted, the good woman hurried out of the room. Thaddeus looked after her with reverence. "There goes," thought he, "in that lowly and feeble frame, as generous and noble a spirit: as ever animated the breast of a princess! Here, Nanny," said he, glancing his eye over the paper, "there is the gold, with my thanks; and tell your grandmother I am astonished at her economy." This affair over, the count was relieved of a grievous load; and turning the remaining money in his hand, how he might replenish the little stock before it were expended next occupied his attention. Notwithstanding the pawnbroker's civil treatment, he recoiled at again presenting himself at his shop. Besides, should he dispose of all that he possessed, it might not be of sufficient value here to subsist him a month. He must think of some source within himself that was not likely to be so soon exhausted. To be reduced a second time to the misery which he had endured yesterday from suspense and wretchedness, appeared too dreadful to be hazarded, and he ran over in his memory the different merits of his several accomplishments. He could not make any use of his musical talents; for at public exhibitions of himself his soul revolted; and as to his literary acquirements, his youth, and being a foreigner, precluded all hopes on that head. At length he found that his sole dependence must rest on his talents for painting. Of this art he had always been remarkably fond; and his taste easily perceived that there were many drawings exhibited for sale much inferior to those which he had executed for mere amusement. He decided at once; and purchasing, by the means of Nanny, pencils and Indian ink, he set to work. When he had finished half-a-dozen drawings, and was considering how he might find the street in which he had seen the print-shops, the recollection occurred to him of the impression his appearance had made on the pawnbroker. He perceived the wide difference between his apparel and the fashion of England; and considering the security from impertinence with which he might walk about, could he so far cast off the relics of his former rank as to change his dress, he rose up with an intention to go out and purchase a surtout coat and a hat for that purpose, when catching an accidental view of his uniform, with the star of St. Stanislaus on its breast, as he passed the glass, he no longer wondered at the curiosity which such an appendage, united with poverty, had attracted. Rather than again subject himself to a similar situation, he summoned his young messenger; and, by her assistance, furnished himself with an English hat and coat, whilst with his penknife he cut away the embroidery of the order from the cloth to which it was affixed. Thus accoutred, with his hat flapped over his face and his great-coat wrapped round him, he put the drawings into his bosom, and about eight o'clock in the evening walked out on his disagreeable errand. After some wearying search, he at last found Great Newport Street, the place he wanted; but as he advanced, his hopes died away, and his fears and reluctance re-awakened. He stopped at the door of the nearest print-shop. All that he had suffered at the pawnbroker's assailed him with redoubled violence. What he presented there possessed a fixed value, and was at once to be taken or refused; but now he was going to offer things of mere taste, and he might meet not only with a denial, but affronting remarks. He walked to the threshold of the door, then as hastily withdrew, and hurried two or three paces down the street. "Weak, contemptible that I am!" said he to himself, as he again turned round; "where is all my reason, and rectitude of principle, that I would rather endure the misery of dependence and self-reproach than dare the attempt to seek support from the fruits of my own industry?" He quickened his step and started into the shop, almost fearful of his former irresolution. He threw his drawings instantly upon the counter. "Sir, you purchase drawings. I have these to sell. Will they suit you?" The man took them up without deigning to look at the person who had accosted him, and turning them over in his hand, "One, two, three, hum; there is half-a-dozen. What do you expect for them?" "I am not acquainted with the prices of these things." The printseller, hearing this, thought, by managing well, to get them for what he liked, and throwing them over with an air of contempt, resumed-- "And pray, where may the views be taken?" "They are recollections of scenes in Germany." "Ah!" replied the man, "mere drugs! I wish, honest friend, you could have brought subjects not quite so threadbare, and a little better executed; they are but poor things! But every dauber nowadays sets up for a fine artist, and thinks we are to pay him for spoilt paper and conceit." Insulted by this speech, and, above all, by the manner of the printseller, Thaddeus was snatching up the drawings to leave the shop without a word, when the man, observing his design, and afraid to lose them, laid his hand on the heap, exclaiming-- "Let me tell you, young man, it does not become a person in your situation to be so huffy to his employers. I will give you a guinea for the six, and you may think yourself well paid." Without further hesitation, whilst the count was striving to subdue the choler which urged him to knock him down, the man laid the gold on the counter, and was slipping the drawings into a drawer; but Thaddeus, snatching them out again, suddenly rolled them up, and walked out of the shop as he said-- "Not all the money of all your tribe should tempt an honest man to pollute himself by exchanging a second word with one so contemptible." Irritated at this unfeeling treatment, he returned home, too much provoked to think of the consequences which might follow a similar disappointment. Having become used to the fluctuations of his looks and behavior, the widow ceased altogether to tease him with inquiries, which she saw he was sometimes loath to answer. She now allowed him to walk in and out without a remark, and silently contemplated his pale and melancholy countenance, when, after a ramble of the greatest part of the day, he returned home exhausted and dispirited. William was always the first to welcome his friend at the threshold, by running to him, taking hold of his coat, and asking to go with him up stairs. The count usually gratified him, and brightened many dull hours with his innocent caresses. This child was literally his only earthly comfort; for he saw that in him he could still excite those emotions of happiness which had once afforded him his sweetest joy. William ever greeted him with smiles, and when he entered the kitchen, sprang to his bosom, as if that were the seat of peace, as it was of virtue. But, alas! fate seemed adverse to lend anything long to the unhappy Thaddeus which might render his desolate state more tolerable. Just risen from a bed of sickness, he required the hand of some tender nurse to restore his wasted vigor, instead of being reduced to the hard vigils of poverty and want. His recent disappointment, added to a cold which he had caught, increased his feverish debility; yet he adhered to the determination not to appropriate to his own subsistence the few valuables he had assigned as a deposit for the charges of his rent. During a fortnight he never tasted anything better than bread and water; but this hermit's fare was accompanied by the resigned thought that if it ended in death, his sufferings would then be over, and the widow amply remunerated by what little of his property remained. In this state of body and mind he received a most painful shock, when one evening, returning from a walk of many hours, in the place of his little favorite, he met Mrs. Robson in tears at the door. She told him William had been sickening all the day, and was now so delirious, that neither she nor his sister could keep him quiet. Thaddeus went to the side of the child's bed, where he lay gasping on the pillow, held clown by the crying Nanny. The count touched his cheek. "Poor child!" exclaimed he; "he is in a high fever. Have you sent for Mr. Vincent?" "O, no; I had not the heart to leave him." "Then I will go directly," returned Thaddeus "there is not a moment to be lost." The poor woman thanked him. Hastening through the streets with an eagerness which nearly overset several of the foot-passengers, he arrived at Lincoln's-Inn-fields; and in less than five minutes after he quitted Mrs. Robson's door he returned with the apothecary. On Mr. Vincent's examining the pulse and countenance of his little patient, he declared the symptoms to be the small-pox, which some casualty had repelled. In a paroxysm of distress, Mrs. Robson recollected that a girl had been brought into her shop three days ago, just recovered from that frightful malady. Thaddeus tried to subdue the fears of the grandmother, and at last succeeded in persuading her to go to bed, whilst he and Nanny would watch by the pillow of the invalid. Towards morning the disorder broke out on the child's face, and he recovered his recollection. The moment he fixed his eyes on the count, who was leaning over him, he stretched out his little arms, and begged to lie on his breast. Thaddeus refused him gently, fearing that by any change of position he might catch cold, and so again retard what had now so fortunately appeared; but the poor child thought the denial unkind, and began to weep so violently, that his anxious friend believed it better to gratify him than hazard the irritation of his fever by agitation and crying. Thaddeus took him out of bed, and rolling him in one of the blankets, laid him in his bosom; and drawing his dressing-gown to shield the little face from the fire, held him in that situation asleep for nearly two hours. When Mrs. Robson came down stairs at six o'clock in the morning, she kissed the hand of the count as he sustained her grandson in his arms; and almost speechless with gratitude to him, and solicitude for the child, waited the arrival of the apothecary. On his second visit, he said a few words to her of comfort, but whispered to the count, while softly feeling William's pulse, that nothing short of the strictest care could save the boy, the infection he had received having been of the most malignant kind. These words fell like an unrepealable sentence on the heart of Thaddeus. Looking on the discolored features of the patient infant, he fancied that he already beheld its clay-cold face, and its little limbs stretched in death. The idea was bitterness to him; and pressing the boy to his breast, he resolved that no attention should be wanting on his part to preserve him from the grave. And he kept his promise. From that hour until the day in which the poor babe expired in his arms, he never laid him out of them for ten minutes together; and when he did breathe his last sigh, and raised up his little eyes, Thaddeus met their dying glance with a pang which he thought his soul had long lost the power to feel. His heart seemed to stop; and covering the motionless face of the dead child with his hand, he made a sign to Nanny to leave the room. The girl, who from respect had been accustomed to obey his slightest nod, went to her grandmother in the shop. The instant the girl quitted the room, with mingled awe and grief the count lifted the little corpse from his knee; and without allowing himself to cast another glance on the face of the poor infant, now released from suffering, he put it on the bed, and throwing the sheet over it, sunk into a chair and burst into tears. The entrance of Mrs. Robson in some measure restored him; for the moment she perceived her guest with his handkerchief over his eyes, she judged what had happened, and, with a piercing scream, flew forward to the bed, where, pulling down the covering, she uttered another shriek, and must have fallen on the floor had not Thaddeus and little Nanny, who ran in at her cries, caught her in their arms and bore her to a chair. Her soul was too much agitated to allow her to continue long in a state of insensibility; and when she recovered, she would again have approached the deceased child, but the count withheld her, and trying by every means in his power to soothe her, so far succeeded as to melt her agonies into tears. Whilst she concealed her venerable head in the bosom of her granddaughter, he once more lifted the remains of the little William; and thinking it best for the tranquillity of the unhappy grandmother to take him out of her sight, he carried him up stairs, and laid him on his own bed. By the time he returned to the humble parlor, one of the female neighbors, having heard the unusual outcry, and suspecting the cause, kindly stepped in to offer her consolation and services. Mrs. Robson could only reply by sobs, which were answered by the loud weeping of poor Nanny, who lay with her head against the table. When the count came down, he thanked the worthy woman for her benevolent intentions, and took her up stairs into his apartments. Pointing to the open door of the bedroom, "There, madam," said he, "you will find the remains of my dear little friend. I beg you will direct everything for his interment that you think will give satisfaction to Mrs. Robson. I would spare that excellent woman every pang in my power." All was done according to his desire; and Mrs. Watts, the charitable neighbor, excited by a kindly disposition, and reverence for "the extraordinary young gentleman who lodged with her friend," performed her task with tenderness and activity. "Oh! sir," cried Mrs. Robson, weeping afresh as she entered the count's room, "Oh, sir, how shall I ever repay all your goodness? and Mrs. Watt's? She has acted like a sister to me. But, indeed, I am yet the most miserable creature that lives. I have lost my dearest child, and must strip his poor sister of her daily bread to bury him. That cruel Dr. Vincent, though he might have imagined my distress, sent his account late last night, saying he wanted to make up a large bill, and he wished I would let him have all, or part of the payment. Heaven knows, I have not a farthing in the house; but I will send poor little Nanny to pawn my silver spoons, for, alas! I have no other means of satisfying the cruel man." "Rapacious wretch!" cried Thaddeus, rising indignantly from his chair, and for a moment forgetting how incapable he was to afford relief: "you shall not be indebted one instant to his mercy. I will pay him." The words had passed his lips; he could not retract, though conviction immediately followed that he had not the means; and he would not have retracted, even should he be necessitated to part with everything he most valued. Mrs. Robson was overwhelmed by this generous promise, which, indeed, saved her from ruin. Had her little plate been pledged, it could not have covered one half of Mr. Vincent's demand, who, to do him justice, did not mean to cause any distress. But having been so readily paid by Thaddeus for his own illness, and observing his great care and affection for the deceased child, he did not doubt that, rather than allow Mrs. Robson a minute's uneasiness, her lodger would defray his bill. So far he calculated right; but he had not sufficient sagacity to foresee that in getting his money this way, he should lose the future business of Mrs. Robson and her friend. The child was to be buried on the morrow, the expenses of which event Thaddeus saw he must discharge also; and he had engaged to pay Mr. Vincent that night! He had not a shilling in his purse. Over and over he contemplated the impracticability of answering these debts; yet he could not for an instant repent of what he had undertaken: he thought he was amply recompensed for bearing so heavy a load in knowing that he had taken it off the worn-down heart of another. * * * * * * * CHAPTER XVI. THE MONEY-LENDER. Since the count's unmannerly treatment at the printseller's, he had not sufficiently conquered his pride to attempt an application to another. Therefore, he had no prospect of collecting the money he had pledged himself to Mrs. Robson to pay but by selling some more of his valuables to the pawnbroker. For this purpose he took his sabre, his pistols, and the fated brilliants he had brought back on a similar errand. He drew them from their deposit, with less feeling of sacrilege, in so disposing of such relics of the sacred past, than he had felt on the former occasion. They were now going to be devoted to gratitude and benevolence--an act which he knew his parents, were they alive, would warmly approve; and here he allowed the end to sanctify the means. About half-past six in the evening, he prepared himself for the task. Whether it be congenial with melancholy to seek the gloom, or whether the count found himself less observed under the shades of night, is not evident; but since his exile, he preferred the dusk to any other part of the day. Before he went out, he asked Mrs. Robson for Mr. Vincent's bill. Sinking with obligation and shame, she put it into his hand, and he left the house. When he approached a lighted lamp, he opened the paper to see the amount, and finding that it was almost two pounds, he hastened forward to the pawn-broker's. The man was in the shop alone. Thaddeus thought himself fortunate; and, after subduing a few qualms, entered the door. The moment he laid his sword and pistols on the counter, and declared his wish, the man, even through the disguise of a large coat and slouched hat, recollected him. This honest money-lender carried sentiments in his breast above his occupation. He did not commiserate all who presented themselves before him, because many exhibited too evidently the excesses which brought them to his shop. But there was something in the figure and manner of the Count Sobieski which had struck him at first sight, and by continuing to possess his thoughts, had excited so great an interest towards him as to produce pleasure with regret, when he discerned the noble foreigner again obliged to proffer such things. Mr. Burket (for so this money-lender was called) respectfully asked what he demanded for the arms. "Perhaps more than you would give. But I have something else here," laying down the diamonds; "I want eight guineas." Mr. Burket looked at them, and then at their owner, hesitated and then spoke. "I beg your pardon, sir; I hope I shall not offend you, but these things appear to have a value independent of their price; they are inlaid with crests and ciphers." The blood flushed over the cheeks of the count. He had forgotten this circumstance. Unable to answer, he waited to hear what the man would say further. "I repeat, sir, I mean not to offend; but you appear a stranger to these transactions. I only wish to suggest, in case you should ever like to repossess these valuables--had you not better pledge them?" "How?" asked Thaddeus, irresolutely, and not knowing what to think of the man's manner. At that instant some other people came into the shop; and Mr. Burket, gathering up the diamonds and the arms in his hand, said, "If you do not object, sir, we will settle this business in my back-parlor." The delicacy of his behavior penetrated the mind of Thaddeus, and without demurring, he followed him into a room. While Mr. Burket offered his guest a chair, the count took off his hat and laid it on the table. Burket contemplated the saddened dignity of his countenance with renewed interest entreating him to be seated, he resumed the conversation. "I see, sir, you do not understand the meaning of pledging, or pawning, for it is one and the same thing; but I will explain it in two words. If you leave these things with me, I will give you a paper in acknowledgment, and lend on them the guineas you request; for which sum, when you return it to me with a stated interest, you shall have your deposit in exchange." Sobieski received this offer with pleasure and thanks. He had entertained no idea of anything more being meant by the trade of a pawnbroker than a man who bought what others wished to sell. "Then, sir," continued Burket, opening an escritoire, "I will give you the money, and write the paper I spoke of." Just as he put his hand to the drawer, he heard voices in an adjoining passage; and instantly shutting the desk, he caught up the things on the table, threw them behind a curtain, and hastily taking the count by the hand, said, "My dear sir, do oblige me, and step into that closet; you will find a chair. A person is coming, whom I will dispatch in a few seconds." Thaddeus, rather surprised at such hurry, did as he was desired; and the door was closed on him just as the parlor door opened. Being aware from such concealment that the visitor came on secret business, he found his situation not a little awkward. Seated behind a curtained window, which the lights in the room made transparent, he could not avoid seeing as well as hearing everything that passed. "My dear Mr. Burket," cried an elegant young creature, who ran into the apartment, "positively without your assistance, I shall be undone." "Anything in my power, madam," returned My. Burket, with a distant, respectful voice; "will your ladyship sit down?" "Yes; give me a chair. I am half dead with distraction. Mr. Burket, I must have another hundred upon those jewels." "Indeed, my lady, it is not in my power; you have already had twelve hundred; and, upon my honor, that is a hundred and fifty more than I ought to have given." "Pshaw! who minds the honor of a pawnbroker!" cried the lady, laughing; "you know very well you live by cheating." "Well, ma'am," returned he, with a good-natured smile, "as your ladyship pleases." "Then I please that you let me have another hundred. Why, man, you know you let Mrs. Hinchinbroke two thousand upon a case of diamonds not a quarter so many as mine." "But consider, madam; Mrs. Hinchinbroke's were of the best water." "Positively, Mr. Burnet," exclaimed her ladyship, purposely miscalling his name, "not better than mine! The King of Sardinia gave them to Sir Charles when he knighted him. I know mine are the best, and I must have another hundred. Upon my life, my servants have not had a guinea of board wages these four months, and they tell me they are starving. Come, make haste, Mr. Burnet you cannot expect me to stay here all night; give me the money." "Indeed, my lady, I cannot." "Heavens! what a brute of a man you are! There," cried she, taking a string of pearls from her neck, and throwing it on the table; "lend me some of your trumpery out of your shop, for I am going immediately from hence to take the Misses Dundas to the opera; so give me the hundred on that, and let me go." "This is not worth a hundred." "What a teasing man you are!" cried her ladyship, angrily. "Well, let me have the money now, and I will send you the bracelets which belong to the necklace to-morrow." "Upon those conditions I will give your ladyship another hundred." "Oh, do; you are the veriest miser I ever met with. You are worse than Shylock, or,--Good gracious! what is this?" exclaimed she, interrupting herself, and taking up the draft he had laid before her; "and have you the conscience to think, Mr. Pawnbroker, that I will offer this at your banker's? that I will expose myself so far? No, no; take it back, and give me gold. Come, dispatch! else I must disappoint my party. Look, there is my purse," added she, showing it; "make haste and fill it." After satisfying her demands, Mr. Burket handed her ladyship out the way she came in, which was by a private passage; and having seated her in her carriage, made his bow. Meanwhile the Count Sobieski, wrapped in astonishment at the profligacy which the scene he had witnessed implied, remained in concealment until the pawnbroker returned, and opened the closet- door. "Sir," said he, coloring, "you have, undesignedly on your part, been privy to a very delicate affair; but my credit, sir, and your honor--" "Shall both be sacred," replied the count, anxious to relieve the poor man from his perplexity, and forbearing to express surprise. But Burket perceived it in his look; and before he proceeded to fulfill the engagement with him, stepped half way to the escritoire, and resumed. "You appear amazed, sir, at what you have seen. And if I am not mistaken, you are from abroad?" "Indeed, I am amazed," replied Sobieski; "and I am from a country where the slightest suspicion of a transaction such as this would brand the woman with infamy." "And so it ought," answered Burket; "though by that assertion I speak against my own interest, for it is by such as Lady Hilliars we make our money. Now, sir," continued he, drawing nearer to the table, "perhaps, after what you have just beheld, you will not hesitate to credit what I am going to tell you. I have now in my hands the jewels of one duchess, of three countesses, and of women of fashion without number. When these ladies have an ill run at play, they apply to me in their exigencies; they bring their diamonds here, and as their occasions require, on that deposit I lend them money, for which they make me a handsome present when the jewels are released." "You astonish me!" exclaimed Thaddeus; "what a degrading system of deceit must govern the lives of these women!" "It is very lamentable," returned Burket; "but so it is. And they continue to manage matters very cleverly. By giving me their note or word of honor, (for if these ladies are not honorable with me, I know by what hints to keep them in order,) I allow them to have the jewels out for the birth-days, and receive them again when their exhibition is over. As a compensation for these little indulgences, I expect considerable additions to the _douceur_ at the end." Thaddeus could hardly believe such a history of those women, whom travellers mentioned as not only the most lovely but the most amiable creatures in the world. "Surely, Mr. Burket," cried he, "these ladies must despise each other, and become contemptible even to our sex." "O, no," rejoined the pawnbroker; "they seldom trust each other in these affairs. All my fair customers are not so silly as that pretty little lady who just now left us. She and another woman of quality have made each other confidants in this business. And I have no mercy when both come together! They are as ravenous of my money as if it had no other use but to supply them. As to their husbands, brothers, and fathers, they are usually the last people who suspect or hear of these matters; their applications, when they run out, are made to Jews and professed usurers, a race completely out of our line." "But are all English women of quality of this disgraceful stamp?" "No; Heaven forbid!" cried Burket; "if these female spendthrifts were not held in awe by the dread of superior characters, we could have no dependence on their promises. Oh, no; there are ladies about the court whose virtues are as eminent as their rank; women whose actions might all be performed in mid-day, before the world; and them I never see within my doors." "Well, Mr. Burket," rejoined Thaddeus, smiling; "I am glad to hear that. Yet I cannot forget the unexpected view of the famous British fair which this night has offered to my eyes. It is strange!" "It is very bad, indeed, sir," returned the man, giving him the money and the paper he had been preparing; "but if you should have occasion to call again upon me, perhaps you may be astonished still further." The count bowed; and thanking him for his kindness, wished him a good evening and left the shop. [Footnote: The whole of this scene at the pawnbroker's is too true; the writer knows it from an eye and ear- witness.] It was about seven o'clock when Thaddeus arrived at the apothecary's. Mr. Vincent was from home. To say the truth, he had purposely gone out of the way. For though he did not hesitate to commit a shabby action, he wanted courage to face its consequence; and to avoid the probable remonstrances of Mrs. Robson, he commissioned his assistant to receive the amount of the bill. Without making an observation, the count paid the man, and was returning homeward along Duke Street and the piazzas of Drury Lane Theatre, when the crowd around the doors constrained him to stop. After two or three ineffectual attempts to get through the bustle, he retreated a little behind the mob, at the moment when a chariot drew up, and a gentleman stepping out with two ladies, darted with them into the house. One glance was sufficient for Sobieski, who recognized his friend Pembroke Somerset, in full dress, gay and laughing. The heart of Thaddeus sprang to him at the sight; and forgetting his neglect, and his own misfortunes, he ejaculated-- "Somerset!" Trembling with eagerness and emotion, he pressed through the crowd, and entered the passage at the instant a green door within shut upon his friend. His disappointment was dreadful. To be so near Somerset, and to lose him, was more than he could sustain. His bounding heart recoiled, and the chill of despair running through his veins turned him faint. Leaning against the passage door, he took his hat off to give himself air. He scarcely had stood a minute in this situation, revolving whether he should follow his friend into the house or wait until he came out again, when a gentleman begged him to make way for a party of ladies that were entering. Thaddeus moved to one side; but the opening of the green door casting a strong light both on his face and the group behind, his eyes and those of the impertinent inquisitor of the Hummums met each other. Whether the man was conscious that he deserved chastisement for his former insolence, and dreaded to meet it now, cannot be explained; but he turned pale, and shuffled by Thaddeus, as if he were fearful to trust himself within reach of his grasp. As for the count, he was too deeply interested in his own pursuit to waste one surmise upon him. He continued to muse on the sight of Pembroke Somerset, which had conjured up ten thousand fond and distressing recollections; and with impatient anxiety, determining to watch till the performance was over, he thought of inquiring his friend's address of the servants; but on looking round for that purpose, he perceived the chariot had driven away. Thus foiled, he returned to his post near the green door, which was opened at intervals by footmen passing and repassing. Seeing that the chamber within was a lobby, in which it would be less likely he should miss his object than if he continued standing without, he entered with the next person that approached; finding seats along the sides he sat down on the one nearest to the stairs. His first idea was to proceed into the playhouse. But he considered the small chance of discovering any particular individual in so vast a building as not equal to the expense he must incur. Besides, from the dress of the gentlemen who entered the box-door, he was sensible that his greatcoat and round hat were not admissible. [Footnote: A nearly full dress was worn at that time by ladies and gentlemen at the great theatres. And much respect has been lost to the higher classes by the gradual change.] Having remained above an hour with his eyes invariably fixed on the stairs, he observed that some curious person, who had passed almost directly after his friend, came down the steps and walked out. In two minutes he was returning with a smirking countenance, when, his eyes accidentally falling on the count, (who sat with his arms folded, and almost hidden by the shadow of the wall,) he faltered in his step. Stretching out his neck towards him, the gay grin left his features; and exclaiming, in an impatient voice, "Confound him," he hastened once more into the house. This rencontre with his Hummums' acquaintance affected Thaddeus as slightly as the former; and without annexing even a thought to his figure as it flitted by him, he remained watching in the lobby until half-past eleven. At that hour the doors were thrown open, and the company began to pour forth. The count's hopes were again on his lips and in his eyes. With the first party who came clown the steps, he rose; and planting himself close to the bottom stair, drew his hat over his face, and narrowly examined each group as it descended. Every set that approached made his heart palpitate. How often did it rise and fall during the long succession which continued moving for nearly half an hour! By twelve the house was cleared. He saw the middle door locked, and, motionless with disappointment, did not attempt to stir, until the man who held the keys told him to go, as he was about to fasten the other doors. This roused Thaddeus; and as he was preparing to obey, he asked the man if there were any other passage from the boxes. "Yes," cried he; "there is one into Drury Lane." "Then, by that I have lost him!" was the reply which he made to himself. And returning homewards, he arrived there a few minutes after twelve. * * * * * * * CHAPTER XVII. THE MEETING OF EXILES. "And they lifted up their voices and wept." Thaddeus awoke in the morning with his heart full of the last night's rencontre. One moment he regretted that he had not been seen by his friend. In the next, when he surveyed his altered state, he was almost reconciled to the disappointment. Then, reproaching himself for a pride so unbecoming his principles and dishonorable to friendship, he asked, if he were in Somerset's place, and Somerset in his, whether he could ever pardon the morose delicacy which had prevented the communication of his friend's misfortunes, and arrival in the same kingdom with himself. These reflections soon persuaded his judgment to what his heart was so much inclined: determining him to inquire Pembroke's address of every one likely to know a man of Sir Robert Somerset's consequence, and then to venture a letter. In the midst of these meditations the door opened, and Mrs. Robson appeared, drowned in tears. "My dear, dear sir!" cried she, "my William is going. I have just taken a last look of his sweet face. Will you go down and say farewell to the poor child you loved so dearly?" "No, my good madam," returned Thaddeus, his straying thoughts at once gathering round this mournful centre; "I will rather retain you here until the melancholy task be entirely accomplished." With gentle violence he forced her upon a seat, and in silence supported her head on his breast, against which she unconsciously leaned and wept. He listened with a depressed heart to the removal of the coffin; and at the closing of the street door, which forever shut the little William from that house in which he had been the source of its greatest pleasure, a tear trickled down the cheek of Thaddeus; and the sobbings of the poor grandmother were audible. The count, incapable of speaking, pressed her hand in his. "Oh, Mr. Constantine!" cried she, "see how my supports, one after the other, are taken from me! first my son, and now his infant! To what shall I be reduced?" "You have still, my good Mrs. Robson, a friend in Heaven, who will supply the place of all you have lost on earth." "True, dear sir! I am a wicked creature to speak as I have done; but it is hard to suffer: it is hard to lose all we loved in the world!" "It is," returned the count, greatly affected by her grief. "But God, who is perfect wisdom as well as perfect love, chooseth rather to profit us than to please us in his dispensations. Our sweet William has gained by our loss: he is blessed in heaven, while we weakly lament him on earth. Besides, you are not yet deprived of all; you have a grand-daughter." "Ah, poor little thing! what will become of her when I die? I used to think what a precious brother my darling boy would prove to his sister when I should be no more!" This additional image augmented the affliction of the good old woman; and Thaddeus, looking on her with affectionate compassion, exclaimed-- "Mrs. Robson, the same Almighty Being that protected me, the last of my family, will protect the orphan offspring of a woman so like the revered Naomi!" Mrs. Robson lifted up her head for a moment. She had never before heard him utter a sentence of his own history; and what he now said, added to the tender solemnity of his manner, for an instant arrested her attention. He went on. "In me you see a man who, within the short space of three months, has lost a grandfather, who loved him as fondly as you did your William; a mother, whom he saw expire before him, and whose sacred remains he was forced to leave in the hands of her murderers! Yes, Mrs. Robson, I have neither parents nor a home. I was a stranger, and you took me in; and Heaven will reward your family, in kind. At least, I promise that whilst I live, whatever be my fate, should you be called hence, I will protect your grand-daughter with a brother's care." "May Heaven in mercy bless you!" cried Mrs. Robson, dropping on her knees. Thaddeus raised her with gushing eyes; having replaced her in a seat, he left the room to recover himself. According to the count's desire, Mrs. Watts called in the evening, with an estimate of the expenses attending the child's interment. Fees and every charge collected, the demand on his benevolence was six pounds. The sum proved rather more than he expected, but he paid it without a demur, leaving himself only a few shillings. He considered what he had done as a fulfilment of a duty so indispensible, that it must have been accomplished even by the sacrifice of his uttermost farthing. Gratitude and distress held claims upon him which he never allowed his own necessities to transgress. All gifts of mere generosity were beyond his power, and, consequently, in a short time beyond his wish; but to the cry of want and wretchedness his hand and heart were ever open. Often has he given away to a starving child in the street that pittance which was to purchase his own scant meal; and he never felt such neglect of himself a privation. To have turned his eyes and ears from the little mendicant would have been the hardest struggle; and the remembrance of such inhumanity would have haunted him on his pillow. This being the disposition of Count Sobieski, he found it more difficult to bear calamity, when viewing another's poverty he could not relieve, than when assailed himself by penury, in all its other shapes of desolation. Towards night, the idea of Somerset again presented itself. When he fell asleep, his dreams repeated the scene at the playhouse; again he saw him, and again he eluded his grasp. His waking thoughts were not less true to their object; and next morning he went to a quiet coffee-house in the lane where he called for breakfast, and inquired of the master, "did he know the residence of Sir Robert Somerset?" The question was no sooner asked than it was answered to his satisfaction. The Court Guide was examined, and he found this address: _"Sir Robert Somerset, Bart., Grosvenor Square,--Somerset Castle, L----shire,----Deerhurst, W----shire."_ Gladdened by the discovery, Thaddeus hastened home and unwilling to affect his friend by a sudden appearance, with an overflowing heart he wrote the following letter:-- "To PEMBROKE SOMERSET, ESQ., GROSVENOR SQUARE. "Dear Somerset, "Will the name at the bottom of this paper surprise you? Will it give you pleasure? I cannot suffer myself to retain a doubt! although the silence of two years might almost convince me I am forgotten. In truth, Somerset, I had resolved never to obtrude myself and my misfortunes on your knowledge, until last Wednesday night, when I saw you going into Drury Lane Theatre; the sight of you quelled all my resentment, and I called after you, but you did not hear. Pardon me, my dear friend, that I speak of resentment. It is hard to learn resignation to the forgetfulness of those we love. "Notwithstanding that I lost the pocket-book in a battlefield which contained your direction, I wrote to you frequently at a venture; and yet, though you knew in what spot in Poland you had left Thaddeus and his family, I have never heard of you since the day of our separation. You must have some good reason for your silence; at least I hope so. "Doubtless public report has afforded you some information relative to the destruction of my ever-beloved country! I bear its fate on myself. You will find me in a poor lodging at the bottom of St. Martin's Lane. You will find me changed in everything. But the first horrors of grief have subsided; and my clearest consolation in the midst of my affliction rises out of its bitterest cause: I thank Heaven, my revered grandfather and mother were taken from a consummation of ills which would have reduced them to a misery I am content to endure alone. "Come to me, dear Somerset. To look on you, to press you in my arms, will be a happiness which, even in hope, makes my heart throb with pleasure. "I will remain at home all day to-morrow, in the expectation of seeing you; meanwhile, adieu, my dear Somerset. You will find at No. 5 St. Martin's Lane your ever affectionate "THADDEUS CONSTANTINE, COUNT SOBIESKI." _Friday noon._ "_P.S._ Inquire for me by the name of Mr. Constantine." [Footnote: The humble, English home of Thaddeus Sobieski is now totally vanished, along with the whole row of houses of which it was one.] With the most delightful emotions, Thaddeus sealed this letter and gave it to Nanny, with orders to inquire at the post-office "when he might expect an answer?" The child returned with information that it would reach Grosvenor Square in an hour, and he could have a reply by three o'clock. Three o'clock arrived, and no letter. Thaddeus counted the hours until midnight, but they brought him nothing but disappointment. The whole of the succeeding day wore away in the same uncomfortable manner. His heart bounded at every step in the passage; and throwing open his room-door, he listened to every person that spoke, but no voice bore any resemblance to that of Somerset. Night again shut in; and overcome by a train of doubts, in which despondence held the greatest share he threw himself on his bed, though unable to close his eyes. Whatever be our afflictions, not one human creature who has endured misfortune will hesitate to aver, that of all the tortures incident to mortality, there are none like the rackings of suspense. It is the hell which Milton describes with such horrible accuracy; in its hot and cold regions, the anxious soul is alternately tossed from the ardors of hope to the petrifying rigors of doubt and dread. Men who have not been suspended between confidence and fear, in their judgment of a beloved friend's faithfulness, are ignorant of "the nerve whence agonies are born." It is when sunk in sorrow, when adversity loads us with divers miseries, and our wretchedness is completed by such desertion!--it is then we are compelled to acknowledge that, though life is brief, there are few friendships which have strength to follow it to the end. But how precious are those few! The are pearls above price! Such were the reflections of the Count Sobieski when he arose in the morning from his sleepless pillow. The idea that the letter might have been delayed afforded him a faint hope, which he cherished all day, clinging to the expectation of seeing his friend before sunset. But Somerset did not appear; and obliged to seek an excuse for his absence, in the supposition of his application having miscarried, Thaddeus determined to write once more, and to deliver the letter himself at his friend's door. Accordingly, with emotions different from those with which he had addressed him a few days before, he wrote these lines-- "To PEMBROKE SOMERSET, ESQ., "If he who once called Thaddeus Sobieski his friend has received a letter which that exile addressed to him on Friday last, this note will meet the same neglect. But if this be the first intelligence that tells Somerset his friend is in town, perhaps he may overlook that friend's change of fortune; he may visit him in his distress! who will receive him with open arms, at his humble abode in St. Martin's Lane. "SUNDAY EVENING, No. 5, St. Martin's Lane." Thaddeus having sealed the letter, walked out in search of Sir Robert Somerset's habitation. After some inquiries, he found Grosvenor Square; and amidst the darkness of the night, was guided to the house by the light of the lamps and the lustres which shone through the open windows. He hesitated a few minutes on the pavement, and looked up. An old gentleman was standing with a little boy at the nearest window. Whilst the count's eyes were fixed on these two figures, he saw Somerset himself come up to the child, and lead it away towards a group of ladies. Thaddeus immediately flew to the door, with a tremor over his frame which communicated itself to the knocker; for he knocked with such violence that the door was opened in an instant by half-a-dozen footmen at once. He spoke to one. "Is Mr. Pembroke Somerset at home?" "Yes," replied the man, who saw by his plain dress that he could not be an invited guest; "but he is engaged with company." "I do not want to see him now," rejoined the count; "only give him that letter, for it is of consequence." "Certainly, sir," replied the servant; and Thaddeus instantly withdrew. He now turned homeward, with his mind more than commonly depressed. There was a something in the whole affair which pierced him to the soul. He had seen the house that contained the man he most warmly loved, but he had not been admitted within it. He could not forbear recollecting that when his gates opened wide as his heart to welcome Pembroke Somerset, how he had been implored by his then grateful friend to bring the palatine and the countess to England, "where his father would be proud to entertain them, as the preservers of his son." How different from these professions did he find the reality! Instead of seeing the doors widely unclose to receive him, he was allowed to stand like a beggar on the threshold; and he heard them shut against him, whilst the form of Somerset glided above him, even as the shadow of his buried joys. These discomforting retrospections on the past, and painful meditations on the present, continued to occupy his mind, until crossing over from Piccadilly to Coventry Street, he perceived a wretched-looking man, almost bent double, accosting a party of people in broken French, and imploring their charity. The voice and the accent being Sclavonian, arrested the ear of Thaddeus. Drawing close to the man, as the party proceeded without taking notice of the application, he hastily asked, "Are you a Polander?" "Father of mercies!" cried the beggar, catching hold of his hand, "am I so blessed! have I at last met him?" and, bursting into tears, he leaned upon the arm of the count, who, hardly able to articulate with surprise, exclaimed-- "Dear, worthy Butzou! What a time is this for you and I to meet! But, come, you must go home with me." "Willingly, my dear lord," returned he; "for I have no home. I begged my way from Harwich to this town, and have already spent two dismal nights in the streets." "O, my country!" cried the full heart of Thaddeus. "Yes," continued the poor old soldier; "it received its death wounds when Kosciusko and my honored master fell." Thaddeus could not reply; but supporting the exhausted frame of his friend, who was hardly able to walk, after many pauses, gladly descried his own door. The widow opened it the moment he knocked; and seeing some one with him, was retreating, when Thaddeus, who found from the silence of Butzou that he was faint, begged her to allow him to take his companion into her parlor. She instantly made way, and the count placed the now insensible old man in the arm-chair by the fire. "He is my friend, my father's friend!" cried Thaddeus, looking at his pale and haggard face, with a strange wildness in his own features; "for heaven's sake give me something to restore him." Mrs. Robson, in dismay, and literally having nothing better in the house, gave him a glass of water. "That will not do," exclaimed he, still upholding the motionless body on his arm; "have you no wine? No anything? He is dying for want." "None, sir; I have none," answered she, frightened at the violence of his manner. "Run, Nanny, and borrow something warming of Mrs. Watts." "Or," cried Thaddeus, "bring me a bottle of wine from the nearest inn." As he spoke, he threw her the only half-guinea he possessed, and added, "Fly, for he may die in a moment." The child flew like lightning to the Golden Cross, and brought the wine just as Butzou had opened his eyes, and was gazing at Thaddeus with a languid agony that penetrated his soul. Mrs. Robson held the water to his lips. He swallowed a little, then feebly articulated, "I am perishing for want of food." Thaddeus had caught the bottle from Nanny, and pouring some of its contents into a glass, made him drink it. This draught revived him a little. He raised himself in his seat; but still panting and speechless, leaned his swimming head upon the bosom of his friend, who knelt by his side, whilst Mrs. Robson was preparing some toasted bread, with a little more heated wine, which was fortunately good sherry. After much kind exertion between the good landlady and the count, they sufficiently recovered the poor invalid to enable them to support him up stairs to lie down on the bed. The drowsiness usually attendant on debility, aided by the fumes of the wine, threw him into an immediate and deep sleep. Thaddeus seeing him at rest, thought it proper to rejoin Mrs. Robson, and by a partial history of his friend, acquaint her with the occasion of the foregoing scene. He found the good woman surprised and concerned, but no way displeased; and, in a few words, he gave her a summary explanation of the precipitancy with which, without her permission, he had introduced a stranger under her roof. The substance of what he said related that the person up stairs had served with him in the army; that on the ruin of his country (which he could no longer conceal was Poland), the venerable man had come in quest of him to England, and in his journey had sustained misfortunes which had reduced him to the state she saw. "I met him," continued he, "forlorn and alone in the street; and whilst he lives, I shall hold it my duty to protect him. I love him for his own sake, and I honor him for my grandfather's. Besides, Mrs. Robson," cried he, with additional energy, "before I left my country, I made a vow to my sovereign that wherever I should meet this brave old man, I would serve him to the last hour of his life. Therefore we must part no more. Will you give him shelter?" added he, in a subdued voice. "Will you allow me to retain him in my apartments?" "Willingly, sir; but how can I accommodate him? he is already in your bed, and I have not one to spare." "Leave that to me, best, kindest of women!" exclaimed the count; "your permission has rendered me happy." He then wished her a good night, and returning up stairs, wrapped himself in his dressing-gown, and passed the night by the little fire of the sitting-room. * * * * * * * CHAPTER XVIII. THE VETERAN'S NARRATIVE. Owing to comfortable refreshment and a night of undisturbed sleep, General Butzou awoke in the morning much recovered from the weakness which had subdued him the preceding day. Thaddeus observed this change with pleasure. Whilst he sat by his bed, ministering to him with the care of a son, he dwelt with a melancholy delight on his revered features, and listened to his languid voice with those tender associations which are dear to the heart, though they pierce it with regretful anguish. "Tell me, my dear general," said he, "for I can bear to hear it now-- tell me what has befallen my unhappy country since I quitted it." "Every calamity," cried the brave old man, shaking his head, "that tyranny could devise." "Well, go on," returned the count, with a smile, which truly declared that the composure of his air was assumed; "we, who have beheld her sufferings, and yet live, need not fear hearing them described! Did you see the king before he left Warsaw?" "No," replied Butzou; "our oppressors took care of that. Whilst you, my lord, were recovering from your wounds in the citadel, I set off for Sachoryn, to join Prince Poniatowski. In my way thither I met some soldiers, who informed me that his highness, having been compelled to discharge his troops, was returning to support his royal brother under the indignities which the haughtiness of the victor might premeditate. I then directed my steps towards Sendomir, where I hoped to find Dombrowski, with still a few faithful followers; but here, too, I was disappointed. Two days before my arrival, that general, according to orders, had disbanded his whole party.[Footnote: Dombrowski withdrew into France, where he was soon joined by others of his countrymen; which little band, in process of time, by gradual accession of numbers, became what was afterwards styled the celebrated Polish legion, in the days of Napoleon; at the head of which legion, the Prince Poniatowski, so often mentioned in these pages, lost his life in the fatal frontier river his dauntless courage dared to swim. His remains were taken to Cracow, and buried near to the tomb of John Sobieski.] I now found that Poland was completely in the hands of her ravagers, and yet I prepared to return into her bosom; my feet naturally took that course. But I was agonized at every step I retrod. I beheld the shores of the Vistula, lined on every side with the allied troops. Ten thousand were posted on her banks, and eighteen thousand amongst the ruins of Praga and Villanow. "When I approached the walls of Warsaw, imagine, my dear lord, how great was my indignation! How barbarous the conduct of our enemies! Batteries of cannon were erected around the city, to level it with the ground on the smallest murmur of discontent. "On the morning of my arrival, I was hastening to the palace to pay my duty to the king, when a Cossack officer intercepted me, whom I formerly knew, and indeed kindly warned me that if I attempted to pass, my obstinacy would be fatal to myself and hazardous to his majesty, whose confinement and suffering were augmented in proportion to the adherents he retained amongst the Poles. Hearing this, I was turning away, overwhelmed with grief, when the doors of the audience chamber opened, and the Counts Potocki, Kilinski, and several others of your grandfather's dearest friends, were led forth under a guard. I was standing motionless with surprise, when Potocki, perceiving me, held forth his hand. I took it, and wringing it, in the bitterness of my heart uttered some words which I cannot remember, but my Cossack friend whispered me to beware how I again gave way to such dangerous remarks. "'Farewell, my worthy general' said Potocki, in a low voice, 'you see we are arrested. We loved Poland too faithfully, for her enemies: and for that reason we are to be sent prisoners to St. Petersburg. Sharing the fate of Kosciusko, our chains are our distinction; such a collar of merit is the most glorious order which the imperial sceptre could bestow on a knight of St. Stanislaus.' "'Sir, I cannot admit of this conversation,' cried the officer of the guard; and commanding the escort to proceed, I lost sight of these illustrious patriots, probably forever.[Footnote: The Potocki family at that time had still large possessions in the Crimean country of the Cossacks; for it had formerly belonged to the crown of Poland. And hence a kind of kindred memory lingered amongst the people: not disaffecting them from their new masters but allowing a natural respect for the descendants of the old.] "I understood, from the few Poles who remained in the citadel, that the good Stanislaus was to be sent on the same dismal errand of captivity, to Grodno, the next day. They also told me that Poland being no more, you had torn yourself from its bleeding remains, rather than behold the triumphant entry of its conqueror. This insulting pageant was performed on the 9th of November last. On the 8th, I believe you left Warsaw for England." "Yes," replied the count, who had listened with a breaking heart to this distressing narrative; "and doubtless I saved myself much misery." "You did. One of the magistrates described to me the whole scene, at which I would not have been present for the world's empire! He told me that when the morning arrived in which General Suwarrow, attended by the confederated envoys, was to make his public _entrée_, not a citizen could be seen that was not compelled to appear. A dead silence reigned in the streets; the doors and windows of every house remained so closed that a stranger might have supposed it to be a general mourning; and it was the bitterest sight which could have fallen upon our souls! At this moment, when Warsaw, I may say, lay dying at the feet of her conqueror, the foreign troops marched into the city, the only spectators of their own horrible tragedy. At length, with eyes which could no longer weep, the magistrates, reluctant, and full of indignation, proceeded to meet the victor on the bridge of Praga. When they came near the procession, they presented the keys of Warsaw on their knees."-- "On their knees!" interrupted Thaddeus, starting up, and the blood flushing over his face. "Yes," answered Butzou, "on their knees." "Almighty Justice!" exclaimed the count, pacing the room with emotion; "why did not the earth open and swallow them! Why did not the blood which saturated the spot whereon they knelt cry out to them? O Butzou, this humiliation of Poland is worse to me than all her miseries!" "I felt as you feel, my lord," continued the general, "and I expressed myself with the same resentment; but the magistrate who related to me that circumstance urged in excuse for himself and his brethren that such a form was necessary; and had they refused, probably their lives would have been forfeited." "Well," inquired Thaddeus, resuming his seat, "but where was the king during this transaction?" "In the castle, where he received orders to be present next day at a public thanksgiving, at which the inhabitants of Warsaw were also commanded to attend, to perform a _Te Deum_, in gratitude for the destruction of their country. Thank heaven! I was spared from witnessing this blasphemy; I was then at Sendomir. But the day after I had heard of it, I saw the carriage which contained the good Stanislaus guarded like a traitor's out of the gates, and that very hour I left the city. I made my way to Hamburgh, where I took a passage to Harwich. But when there, owing to excessive fatigue, one of my old wounds broke out afresh; and continuing ill a week, I expended all my money. Reduced to my last shilling, and eager to find you, I begged my way from that town to this. I had already spent two miserable days and nights in the open air, with no other sustenance than the casual charity of passengers, when Heaven sent you, my honored Sobieski, to save me from perishing in the streets." Butzou pressed the hand of his young friend, as he concluded. Indignation still kept its station on the count's features. The poor expatriated wanderer observed it with satisfaction, well pleased that this strong emotion at the supposed pusillanimity of his countrymen had prevented those bursts of grief which might have been expected from his sensitive nature, when informed that ruined Poland was not only treated by its ravagers like a slave, but loaded with the shackles and usage of a criminal. Towards evening, General Butzou fell asleep. Thaddeus, leaning back in his chair, fixed his eyes on the fire, and mused with amazement and sorrow on what had been told him. When it was almost dark, and he was yet lost in reflection, Mrs. Robson gently opened the door and presented a letter. "Here, sir," said she, "is a letter which a servant has just left; he told me it required no answer." Thaddeus sprang from his seat at sight of the paper, and almost catching it from her, his former gloomy cogitations dispersed before the hopes and fond emotions of friendship which now lit up in his bosom. Mrs. Robson withdrew. He looked at the superscription--it was the handwriting of his friend. Tearing it asunder, two folded papers presented themselves. He opened them, and they were his own letters, returned without a word. His beating heart was suddenly checked. Letting the papers fall from his hand, he dropped back on his seat and closed his eyes, as if he would shut them from the world and its ingratitude. Unable to recover from his astonishment, his thoughts whirled about in a succession of accusations, surmises and doubts, which seemed for a few minutes to drive him to distraction. "Was it really the hand of Somerset?" Again he examined the envelope. It was; and the enclosures were his own letters, without one word of apology for such incomprehensible conduct. "Could he make one? No," replied Thaddeus to himself. "Unhappy that I am, to have been induced to apply twice to so despicable a man! Oh, Somerset," cried he, looking at the papers as they lay before him; "was it necessary that insult should be added to unfaithfulness and ingratitude, to throw me off entirely? Good heavens! did he think because I wrote twice, I would persecute him with applications? I have been told this of mankind; but, that I should find it in him?" In this way, agitated and muttering, and walking up and down the room, he spent another wakeful and cheerless night. When he went down stairs next morning, to beg Mrs. Robson to attend his friend until his return, she mentioned how uneasy she was at having heard him most of the preceding night moving above her head. He was trying to account to her for his restlessness, by complaining of a headache, but she interrupted him by saying, "O no, sir; I am sure it is the hard boards you lie on, to accommodate the poor old gentleman. I am certain you will make yourself ill." Thaddeus thanked her for her solicitude; but declaring that all beds hard, or soft, were alike to him, he left her more reconciled to his pallet on the floor. And with his drawings in his pocket, once more took the path to Great Newport Street. Resentment against his fickle friend, and anxiety for the tranquillity of General Butzou, whose age, infirmities and sufferings threatened a speedy termination of his life, determined the count to sacrifice all false delicacy and morbid feelings, and to hazard another attempt at acquiring the means of affording those comforts to the sick veteran which his condition demanded. Happen how it would, he resolved that Butzou should never know the complete wreck of his property. I shuddered at loading him with the additional distress of thinking he was a burden on his protector. Thaddeus passed the door of the printseller who had behaved so ill to him on his first application; and walking to the farthest shop on the same side, entered it. Laying his drawings on the counter, he requested the person who stood there to look at them. They were immediately opened; and the count, dreading a second repulse, or even more than similar insolence, hastily added-- "They are scenes in Germany. If you like to have them their price is a guinea." "Are you the painter, sir?" was the reply. "Yes, sir. Do they please you?" "Yes," answered the tradesman, (for it was the master, examining them nearer); "there is a breadth and freedom in the style which is novel, and may take. I will give you your demand;" and he laid the money on the counter. Rejoiced that he had succeeded where he had entertained no hope, Thaddeus, with a bow, was leaving the shop, when the man called after him, "Stay, sir!" He returned, prepared to now hear some disparaging remark. It is strange, but it is true, that those who have been thrust by misfortune into a state beneath their birth and expectations, too often consider themselves the objects of universal hostility. They see contempt in every eye, they suppose insult in every word; the slightest neglect is sufficient to set the sensitive pride of the unfortunate in a blaze; and, alas! how little is this sensibility respected by the rich and gay in their dealings with the unhappy! To what an addition of misery are the wretched exposed, meeting not only those contumelies which the prosperous are not backward to bestow, but those fancied ills which, however unfounded, keep the mind in a feverish struggle with itself, and an uttered warfare with the surrounding world! Repeated insults infused into the mind of Sobieski much of this anticipating irritability; and it was with a very haughty step that he turned back to hear what the printseller meant to say. "I only want to ask whether you follow this art as a profession?" "Yes." "Then I shall be glad if you can furnish me with six such drawings every week." "Certainly," replied Thaddeus, pleased with the probability thus securing something towards the support of his friend. "Then bring me another half-dozen next Monday." Thaddeus promised, and with a relieved mind took his way homeward. Who is there in England, I repeat, who does not remember the dreadfully protracted winter of 1794, when the whole country lay buried in a thick ice which seemed eternal? Over that ice, and through those snows, the venerable General Butzou had begged his way from Harwich to London. He rested at night under the shelter of some shed or outhouse, and cooled his feverish thirst with a little water taken from under the broken ice which locked up the springs. The effect of this was a painful rheumatism, which fixed itself in his limbs, and soon rendered them nearly useless. Two or three weeks passed over the heads of the general and his young protector, Thaddeus cheering the old man with his smiles, and he, in return, imparting the only pleasure to him which his melancholy heart could receive--the conviction that his attentions and affection were productive of comfort. In the exercise of these duties, the count not only found his health gradually recover its tone, but his mind became more tranquil, and less prone to those sudden floods of regret which were rapidly sapping his life. By a strict economy on his part, he managed to pay the widow and support his friend out of the weekly profits of his drawings, which were now and then augmented by a commission to do one or two more than the stipulated number. Thus, conversing with Butzou, reading to him when awake or pursuing his drawings when he slept, Thaddeus spent the time until the beginning of March. One fine starlight evening in that month, just before the frost broke up, after painting all day, he desired little Nanny to take care of the general; and leaving his work at the printseller's, he then proceeded through Piccadilly, intending to go as far as Hyde Park Corner, and return. Pleased with the beauty of the night, he walked on, not remarking that he had passed the turnpike, until he heard a scream. The sound came from near the Park wall. He hurried along, and at a short distance perceived a delicate-looking woman struggling with a man, who was assaulting her in a very offensive manner. Without a moment's hesitation, with one blow of his arm, Thaddeus sent the fellow reeling against the wall. But while he supported the outraged person who seemed fainting, the man recovered himself, and rushing on her champion, aimed a stroke at his head with an immense bludgeon, which the count, catching hold of as it descended, wrenched out of his hand. The horrid oaths of the ruffian and the sobs of his rescued victim collected a mob; and then the villain, fearing worse usage, made off and left Thaddeus to restore the terrified female at his leisure. As soon as she was able to speak, she thanked her deliverer in a voice and language that assured him it was no common person he had befriended. But in the circumstance of her distress, all would have been the same to him;--a helpless woman was insulted; and whatever her rank might be, he thought she had an equal claim on his protection. The mob dispersed; and finding the lady capable of walking, he begged permission to see her safe home. "I thank you, sir," she replied, "and I accept your offer with gratitude. Besides, after your generous interference, it is requisite that I should account to you how a woman of my appearance came out at this hour without attendance. I have no other excuse to advance for such imprudence than that I have often done so with impunity. I have a friend whose husband, being in the Life-Guards, lives near the barracks. We often drink tea with each other; sometimes my servants come for me, and sometimes, when I am wearied and indisposed, I come away earlier and alone. This happened to-night; and I have to thank your gallantry, sir, for my rescue from the first outrage of the kind which ever assailed me." By the time that a few more complimentary words on her side, and a modest reply from Thaddeus, had passed, they stopped before a house in Grosvenor Place. [Footnote: All this local scenery is changed. There is no turnpike gate now at the Hyde Park end of Piccadilly; neither is there a park wall. Splendid railings occupy its place; and two superb triumphal arches, in the fashion of France, one leading into the Park and the other leading towards Buckingham Palace, gorgeously fill the sites of the former plain, wayfaring, English turnpike-lodges.--1845.] The lady knocked at the door; and as soon as it was opened, the count was taking his leave, but she laid her hand on his arm, and said, in a voice of sincere invitation: "No, sir; I must not lose the opportunity of convincing you that you have not succored a person unworthy of your kindness. I entreat you to walk in!" Thaddeus was too much pleased with her manner not to accept this courtesy. He followed her up stairs into a drawing-room, where a young lady was seated at work. "Miss Egerton," cried his conductress, "here is a gentleman who has this moment saved me from a ruffian. You must assist me to express my gratitude." "I would with all my heart," returned she; "but your ladyship confers benefits so well, you cannot be at a loss how to receive them." Thaddeus took the chair which a servant set for him, and, with mingled pleasure and admiration, turned his eyes on the lovely woman he had rescued. She had thrown off her cloak and veil, and displayed a figure and countenance full of dignity and interest. She begged him to lay aside his great-coat, for she must insist upon his supping with her. There was a commanding softness in her manner, and a gentle yet unappealable decision in her voice, he could not withstand; and he prepared to obey, although he was aware the fashion and richness of the military dress concealed under his coat would give her ideas of his situation he could not answer. The lady did not notice his hesitation, but, ringing the bell, desired the servant to take the gentleman's hat and coat. Thaddeus instantly saw in the looks of both the ladies what he feared. "I perceive," said the elder, as she took her seat, "that my deliverer is in the army: yet I do not recollect having seen that uniform before." "I am not an Englishman," returned he. "Not an Englishman," exclaimed Miss Egerton, "and speak the language so accurately! You cannot be French?" "No, madam; I had the honor of serving under the King of Poland." "Then his was a very gallant court, I suppose," rejoined Miss Egerton, with a smile; "for I am sorry to say there are few about St. James's who would have taken the trouble to do what you have done by Lady Tinemouth." He returned the young lady's smile. "I have seen too little, madam, of Englishmen of rank to show any gallantry in defending this part of my sex against so fair an accuser." Indeed, he recollected the officers in the Park, and the perfidy of Somerset, and thought he had no reason to give them more respect than their countrywomen manifested. "Come, come, Sophia," cried Lady Tinemouth; "though no woman has less cause to speak well of mankind than I have. I will not permit my countrymen to be run down _in toto_. I dare say this gentleman will agree with me that it shows neither a candid nor a patriotic spirit." Her ladyship uttered this little rebuke smilingly. "I dare say he will not agree with you, Lady Tinemouth. No gentleman yet, who had his wits about him, ever agreed with an elder lady against a younger. Now, Mr. gentleman!--for it seems the name by which we are to address you,--what do you say? Am I so very reprobate?" Thaddeus almost laughed at the singular way she had chosen to ask his name; and allowing some of the gloom which generally obscured his fine eyes to disperse, he answered with a smile-- "My name is Constantine." "Well, you have replied to my last question first; but I will not let you off about my sometimes bearish countrymen. I do assure you, the race of the Raleighs, with their footstep cloaks, is quite _hors de combat_; and so don't you think, Mr. Constantine, I may call them so, without any breach of good manners to them or duty to my country? For you see her ladyship hangs much upon a spinster's patriotism?" Lady Tinemouth shook her head. "O, Sophia, Sophia, you are a strange mad-cap." "I don't care for that; I will have Mr. Constantine's unprejudiced reply. I am sure, if he had taken as long a time in answering your call as he does mine, the ruffian might have killed and eaten you too before he moved to your assistance. Come, may I not say they are anything but well-bred men?" "Certainly. A fair lady may say anything." "Positively, Mr. Constantine, I won't endure contempt! Say such another word, and I will call you as abominable a creature as the worst of them." "But I am not a proper judge, Miss Egerton. I have never been in company with any of these men; so, to be impartial, I must suspend my opinion." "And not believe my word!" Thaddeus smiled and bowed. "There, Lady Tinemouth," cried she, affecting pet, "take your champion to yourself; he is no _preux chevalier_ for me?" "Thank you, Sophia," returned her ladyship, giving her hand to the count to lead her to the supper-room. "This is the way she skirmishes with all your sex, until her shrewd humor transforms them to its own likeness." "And where is the man," observed Thaddeus, "who would not be so metamorphosed under the spells of such a Circe?" "It won't do, Mr. Constantine," cried she, taking her place opposite to him: "my anger is not to be appeased by calling me names; you don't mend the compliment by likening me to a heathen and a witch." Lady Tinemouth bore her part in the conversation in a strain more in unison with the count's mind. However, he found no inconsiderable degree of amusement from the unreflecting volubility and giddy sallies of her friend; and, on the whole, spent the two hours he passed there with some perceptions of his almost forgotten sense of pleasure. He was in an elegant apartment, in the company of two lovely and accomplished women, and he was the object of their entire attention and gratitude. He had been used to this in his days of happiness, when he was "the expectancy and rose of the fair state, the glass of fashion and the mould of form,--the observed of all observers!" and the re-appearance of such a scene awakened, with tender remembrances, an associating sensibility which made him rise with regret when the clock struck eleven. Lady Tinemouth bade him good-night, with an earnest request that he would shortly repeat his visit; and they parted, mutually pleased with each other. CHAPTER XIX. FRIENDSHIP A STAFF IN HUMAN LIFE. Pleased as the count was with the acquaintance to which his gallantry had introduced him, he did not repeat his visit for a long time. A few mornings after his meeting with Lady Tinemouth, the hard frost broke up. The change in the atmosphere produced so alarming a relapse of the general's rheumatic fever, that his friend watched by his pillow ten days and nights. At the end of this period he recovered sufficiently to sit up and read or to amuse himself by registering the melancholy events of the last campaigns in a large book, and illustrating it with plans of the battles. The sight of this volume would have distressed Thaddeus, had he not seen that it afforded comfort to the poor veteran, whom it transported back into the scenes on which he delighted to dwell; yet he would often lay down his pen, shut the book, and weep like an infant. The count left him one morning at his employment, and strolled out, with the intention of calling on Lady Tinemouth. As he walked along by Burlington House, he perceived Pembroke Somerset, with an elderly gentleman, of a very distinguished air, leaning on his arm. They approached him from Bond Street. All the blood in the count's body seemed rushing to his heart. He trembled. The ingenuous smile on his friend's countenance, and his features so sweetly marked with frankness, made his resolution falter. "But proofs," cried he to himself, "are absolute!" and turning his face to a stand of books that was near him, he stood there until Somerset had passed. He went past him, speaking these words-- "I trust, father, that ingratitude is not his vice." "But it is yours, Somerset!" murmured Thaddeus, while for a moment he gazed after them, and then proceeded on his walk. When his name was announced at Lady Tinemouth's, he found her with another lady, but not Miss Egerton. Lady Tinemouth expressed her pleasure at this visit, and her surprise that it had been so long deferred. "The pain of such an apparent neglect of your ladyship's goodness," replied he, "has been added to my anxiety for the declining health of a friend, whose increased illness is my apology," "I wish," returned her ladyship, her eyes beaming approbation, "that all my friends could excuse their absence so well!" "Perhaps they might if they chose," observed the other lady, "and with equal sincerity." Thaddeus understood the incredulity couched under these words. So did Lady Tinemouth, who, however, rejoined, "Be satisfied, Mr. Constantine, that I believe you." The count bowed. "Fie, Lady Tinemouth!" cried the lady; "you are partial: nay, you are absurd; did you ever yet hear a man speak truth to a woman?" "Lady Sara!" replied her ladyship, with one of those arch glances which seldom visited her eyes, "where will be your vanity if I assent to this?" "In the moon, with man's sincerity." Thaddeus paid little attention to this dialogue. His thoughts, in spite of himself, were wandering after the figures of Somerset and his father. Lady Tinemouth, whose fancy had not been quiet about him since his prompt humanity had introduced him to her acquaintance, observed his present absence without noticing it. Indeed, the fruitful imagination of Sophia Egerton had not lain still. She declared, "he was a soldier by his dress, a man of rank from his manners, an Apollo in his person, and a hero from his gallantry!" Thus had Miss Egerton described him to Lady Sara Ross; "and," added she, "what convinces me he is a man of fashion, he has not been within these walls since we told him we should take it as a favor." Lady Sara was eager to see this handsome stranger; and having determined to drop in at Lady Tinemouth's every morning until her curiosity was gratified, she was not a little pleased when she heard his name announced. Lady Sara was married; but she was young and of great beauty, and she liked that its power should be acknowledged by others besides her husband. The instant she beheld the Count Sobieski, she formed the wish to entangle him in her flowery chains. She learnt, by his pale countenance and thoughtful air, that he was a melancholy character; and above all things, she sighed for such a lover. She expected to receive from one of his cast a rare tenderness and devotedness; in short, a fervent and romantic passion!--the fashion of the day ever since the extravagant French romances, such as Delphine and the like, came in; and this unknown foreigner appeared to her to be the very creature of whom her fancy had been in search. His abstraction, his voice and eyes, the one so touching and the other so neglectful of anything but the ground, were irresistible, and she resolved from that moment (in her own words) "to make a set at him." Not less pleased with this second view of her acquaintance than she had been at the first, Lady Tinemouth directed her discourse to him, accompanied by all that winning interest so endearing to an ingenuous heart. Lady Sara never augured well to the success of her fascinations when the countess addressed any of her victims; and therefore she now tried every means in her power to draw aside the attention of the count. She played with her ladyship's dog; but that not succeeding, she determined to strike him at once with the full graces of her figure. Complaining of heat, she threw off her large green velvet mantle, and rising from her chair, walked towards the window. When she looked round to enjoy her victory, she saw that this manoeuvre had failed like the rest, for the provoking countess was still standing between her and Thaddeus. Almost angry, she flung open the sash, and putting her head out of the window, exclaimed, in her best-modulated tones: "How d'ye do?" "I hope your ladyship is well this fine morning!" was answered in the voice of Pembroke Somerset. Thaddeus grew pale, and the countess feeling the cold, turned about to ask Lady Sara to whom she was speaking. "To a pest of mine," returned she gayly; and then, stretching out her neck, resumed: "but where, in the name of wonder, Mr. Somerset, are you driving with all that travelling apparatus?" "To Deerhurst: I am going to take Lord Avon down. But I keep you in the cold. Good-morning!" "My compliments to Sir Robert. Good-by! good-by!" waving her white hand until his curricle vanished from sight; and when she turned round, her desires were gratified, for the elegant stranger was standing with his eyes fixed on that hand. But had she known that, for any cognizance they took of its beauty, they might as well have been fixed on vacancy, she would not have pulled down the window, and reseated herself with such an air of triumph. The count took his seat with a sigh, and Lady Tinemouth did the same. "So that is the son of Sir Robert Somerset?" "Yes," replied Lady Sara; "and what does your ladyship think of him? He is called very handsome." "You forget that I am near-sighted," answered the countess; "I could not discriminate his features, but I think his figure fine. I remember his father was a singularly-admired man, and celebrated for taste and talents." "That may be," resumed Lady Sara, laughing, and anxious to excite some emotion of rivalry in the breast of Thaddeus. "I am sure I ought not to call in question his talents and taste, for he has often wished that fate had reserved me for his son." She sighed while she spoke, and looked down. This sigh and gesture had more effect upon her victim than all her exhibited personal charms. So difficult is it to break the cords of affection and habit. Anything relating to Pembroke Somerset could yet so powerfully interest the desolate yet generous Sobieski, as to stamp itself on his features. Besides, the appearance of any latent disquietude, where all seemed splendor and vivacity, painfully reminded him of the checkered lot of man. His eyes were resting upon her ladyship, full of a tender commiseration, pregnant with compassion for her, himself, and all the world, when she raised her head. The meeting of such a look from him filled her with agitation. She felt something strange at her heart. His eyes seemed to have penetrated to its inmost devices. Blushing like scarlet, she got up to hide an embarrassment not to be subdued; and hastily wishing the countess a good-morning curtseyed to him and left the room. Her ladyship entered her carriage with feelings all in commotion. She could not account for the confusion which his look had occasioned; and half angry at a weakness so like a raw, inexperienced girl, she determined to become one of Lady Tinemouth's constant visitors, until she should have brought him (as she had done most of the men in her circle) to her feet. These were her ladyship's resolutions, while she rolled along towards St. James's Place. But she a little exceeded the fact in the statement of her conquests; for notwithstanding she could have counted as many lovers as most women, yet few of them would have ventured the folly of a kneeling petition. In spite of her former unwedded charms, these worthy lords and gentlemen had, to a man, adopted the oracle of the poet-- "Love, free as air, at sight of human ties, Spreads his light wings, and in a moment flies." They all professed to adore Lady Sara; some were caught by her beauty, others by her _eclat_, but none had the most distant wish to make this beauty and _eclat_ his own legal property. For she had no other property to bestow. The young Marquis of Severn seemed serious towards her ladyship during the first year of his appearance at court; but at the end of that time, instead of offering her his hand, he married the daughter of a rich banker. Lady Sara was so incensed at this disappointment, that, to show her disdain of her apostate lover, she set off next day for Gretna Green, with Horace Ross, a young and early celebrated commander in the navy, whose honest heart had been some time sueing to her in vain. He was also nephew to the Earl of Wintown. They were married, and her ladyship had the triumph of being presented as a bride the same day with the Marchioness of Severn. When the whirlwind of her resentment subsided, she began most dismally to repent her union. She loved Captain Ross as little as she had loved Lord Severn. She had admired the rank and fashion of the one, and the profound adoration of the other had made a friend of her vanity. But now that her revenge was gratified, and the homage of a husband ceased to excite the envy of her companions, she grew weary of his attentions, and was rejoiced when the Admiralty ordered him to take the command of a frigate bound to the Mediterranean. The last fervent kiss which he imprinted on her lips, as she breathed out the cold "Good-by, Ross; take care of yourself!" seemed to her the seal of freedom; and she returned into her dressing-room, not to weep, but to exult in the prospect of a thousand festivities and a thousand captives at her feet. Left at an early age without a mother, and ignorant of the duties of a wife, she thought that if she kept her husband and herself out of Doctor's Commons, she should do no harm by amusing herself with the heart of every man who came in her way. Thus she hardly moved without a train of admirers. She had already attracted everyone she deemed worthy of the trouble, and listened to their compliments, and insolent presumptions, until she was wearied of both. In this juncture of _ennui_, Miss Egerton related to her the countess's recontre with the gallant foreigner. As soon as she heard he was of rank, (for Miss Egerton was not backward to affirm the dreams of her own imagination,) she formed a wish to see him; and when, to her infinite satisfaction, he did present himself, in her eyes he exceeded everything that had been described. To secure such a conquest, she thought, would not only raise the envy of the women, but put the men on the alert to discover some novel and attractive way of proving their devotion. Whilst Lady Sara was meditating on her new conquest, the count and Lady Tinemouth remained in their _tete-à-tete_. Her ladyship talked to him on various subjects; but he answered ill upon them all, and sometimes very wide of the matter. At last, conscious that he must be burdensome, he arose, and, looking paler and more depressed than when he entered, wished her a good morning. "I am afraid, Mr. Constantine, you are unwell." Like most people who desire to hide what is passing in their minds, Thaddeus gladly assented to this, as an excuse for a taciturnity he could not overcome. "Then," cried her ladyship, "I hope you will let me know where to send to inquire after your health." Thaddeus was confounded for a moment; then, returning into the room, he took up a pen, which lay on the table, and said, "I will write my address to a place where any of your ladyship's commands may reach me; but I will do myself the honor to repeat my call very soon." "I shall always be happy to see you," replied the countess, while he was writing; "but before I engage you in a promise of which you may afterwards repent, I must tell you that you will meet with dull entertainment at my house. I see very little company; and were it not for the inexhaustible spirits of Miss Egerton, I believe I should become a complete misanthrope." "Your house will be my paradise!" exclaimed the count, with an expressiveness to the force of which he did not immediately attend. Lady Tinemouth smiled. "I must warn you here, too," cried she. "Miss Egerton must not be the deity of your paradise. She is already under engagements." Thaddeus blushed at being mistaken, and wished to explain himself. "You misunderstand me, madam. I am not insensible to beauty; but upon my word, at that moment I had nothing else in my thoughts than gratitude for your ladyship's kindness to an absolute stranger." "That is true, Mr. Constantine: you are an absolute stranger, if the want of a formal introduction and an ignorance of your family constitute that title. But your protection introduced you to me; and there is something in your appearance which convinces me that I need not be afraid of admitting you into the very scanty number of my friends." Thaddeus perceived the delicacy of Lady Tinemouth, who wished to know who he was, and yet was unwilling to give him pain by a question so direct that he must answer it. As she now proposed it, she left him entirely to his own discretion; and he determined to satisfy her very proper curiosity, as far as he could without exposing his real name and circumstances. The countess, whose benevolent heart was deeply interested in his favor, observed the changes of his countenance with an anxious hope that he would be ingenuous. Her solicitude did not arise from any doubts of his quality and worth, but she wished to be enabled to reply with promptness to the inquisitive people who might see him at her house. "I hardly know," said Thaddeus, "in what words to express my sense of your ladyship's generous confidence in me; and that my character is not undeserving of such distinction, time, I trust, will prove." He paused for a moment, and then resumed: "For my rank, Lady Tinemouth, it is now of little consequence to my comfort; rather, perhaps, a source of mortification; for--" he hesitated, and then proceeded, with a faint color tinging his cheek: "exiles from their country, if they would not covet misery, must learn to forget; hence I am no other than Mr. Constantine; though, in acknowledgment of your ladyship's goodness, I deem it only just that I should not conceal my real quality from you. "My family was one of the first in Poland. Even in banishment, the remembrance that its virtues were as well known as its name, affords some alleviation to the conviction that when my country fell, all my property and all my kindred were involved in the ruin. Soon after the dreadful sealing of its fate, I quitted it, and by the command of a dying parent, who expired in my arms, sought a refuge in this island from degradations which otherwise I could neither repel nor avoid." Thaddeus stopped; and the countess, struck by the graceful modesty with which this simple account was related, laid her hand upon his. "Mr. Constantine, I am not surprised at what you have said. The melancholy of your air induced me to suspect that you were not happy, and my sole wish in penetrating your reserve was to show you that a woman can be a sincere friend." Tears of gratitude glistened in the count's eyes. Incapable of making a suitable reply, he pressed her hand to his lips. She rose; and willing to relieve a sensibility that delighted her, added, "I will not detain you longer: only let me see you soon." Thaddeus uttered a few inarticulate words, whose significancy conveyed nothing, but all he felt was declared in their confusion. The countess's eloquent smile showed that she comprehended their meaning; and he left the room. CHAPTER XX. WOMAN'S KINDNESS. On the count's return home, he found General Butzou in better spirits, still poring over his journal. This book seemed to be the representative of all which had ever been dear to him. He dwelt upon it and talked about it with a doating eagerness bordering on insanity. These symptoms, increasing from day to day, gave his young friend considerable uneasiness. He listened with pain to the fond dreams which took possession of the poor old man, who delighted in saying that much might yet be done in Poland when he should be recovered, and they be enabled to return together to Warsaw, and stimulate the people to resume their rights. Thaddeus at first attempted to prove the emptiness of these schemes; but seeing that contradiction on this head threw the general into deeper despondency, he thought it better to affect the same sentiments, too well perceiving that death would soon terminate these visions with the venerable dreamer's life. Accordingly, as far as lay in the count's power, he satisfied all the fancied wants of his revered friend, who on every other subject was perfectly reasonable; but at last he became so absorbed in this chimerical plot, that other conversation, or his meals, seemed to oppress him with restraint. When Thaddeus perceived that his company was rather irksome than a comfort to his friend, he the more readily repeated his visits to Lady Tinemouth. She now looked for his appearance at least once a day. If ever a morning and an evening passed away without his appearance, he was sure of being scolded by Miss Egerton, reproached by the countess, and frowned at by Lady Sara Ross. In defiance of all other engagements, this lady contrived to drop in every night at Lady Tinemouth's. Her ladyship was not more surprised at this sudden attachment of Lady Sara to her house than pleased with her society. She found she could lay aside in her little circle that tissue of affectation and fashion which she wore in public, and really became a charming woman. Though Lady Sara was vain, she was mistress of sufficient sense to penetrate with tolerable certainty into the characters of her acquaintance. Most of the young men with whom she had hitherto associated having lived from youth to manhood amongst those fashionable assemblies where individuality is absorbed in the general mass of insipidity, she saw they were frivolous, though obsequious to her, or, at the best, warped in taste, if not in principle; and the fascinations she called forth to subdue them were suited to their objects--her beauty, her thoughtless, or her caprice. But, on the reverse, when she formed the wish to entangle such a man as Thaddeus, she soon discovered that to engage his attention she must appear in the unaffected graces of nature. To this end she took pains to display the loveliness of her form in every movement and position; yet she managed the action with so inartificial and frank an air, that she seemed the only person present who was unconscious of the versatility and power of her charms. She conversed with good sense and propriety. In short, she appeared completely different from the gay, ridiculous creature he had seen some weeks before in the countess's drawing-room. He now admired both her person and her mind. Her winning softness, the vivacity of Miss Egerton, and the kindness of the countess, beguiled him many an evening from the contemplation of melancholy scenes at his humble and anxious home. One night it came into the head of Sophia Egerton to banter him about his military dress. "Do, for heaven's sake, my dear Don Quixote," cried she, "let us see you out of your rusty armor! I declare I grow frightened at it. And I cannot but think you would be merrier out of that customary suit of solemn black!" This demand was not pleasing to Thaddeus, but he good-humoredly replied, "I knew not till you were so kind as to inform me that a man's temper depends on his clothes." "Else, I suppose," cried she, interrupting him, "you would have changed yours before? Therefore, I expect you will do as I bid you now, and put on a Christian's coat against you next enter this house." Thaddeus was at a loss what to say; he only bowed; and the countess and Lady Sara smiled at her nonsense. When they parted for the night, this part of the conversation passed off from all minds but that of Lady Tinemouth. She had considered the subject, but in a different way from her gay companion. Sophia supposed that the handsome Constantine wore the dress of his country because it was the most becoming. But as such a whim did not correspond with the other parts of his character, Lady Tinemouth. in her own mind, attributed this adherence to his national habit to the right cause. She remarked that whenever she wished him to meet any agreeable people at her house, he always declined these introductions under the plea of his dress, though he never proposed to alter it. This conduct, added to his silence on every subject which related to the public amusements about town, led her to conclude, that, like the banished nobility of France he was encountering the various inconveniences of poverty in a foreign land. She hoped that he had escaped its horrors; but she could not be certain, for he always shifted the conversation when it too closely referred to himself. These observations haunted the mind of Lady Tinemouth, and made her anxious to contrive some opportunity in which she might have this interesting Constantine alone, and by a proper management of the discourse, lead to some avowal of his real situation. Hitherto her benevolent intentions had been frustrated by various interruptions at various times. Indeed, had she been actuated by mere curiosity, she would long ago have resigned the attempt as fruitless; but pity and esteem kept her watchful until the very hour in which her considerate heart was fully satisfied. One morning, when she was writing in her cabinet, a servant informed her that Mr. Constantine was below. Pleased at this circumstance, she took advantage of a slight cold that affected her; and hoping to draw something out of him in the course of a _tete-à-tete_, begged he would favor her by coming into her private room. When he entered, she perceived that he looked more pensive than usual. He sat down by her, and expressed his concern at her indisposition. She sighed heavily, but remained silent. Her thoughts were too much occupied with her kind plan to immediately form a reply. She had determined to give him a cursory idea of her own unhappiness, and thus, by her confidence, attract him. "I hope Miss Egerton is well?" inquired he. "Very well, Mr. Constantine. A heart at ease almost ever keeps the body in health. May she long continue as happy as at this period, and never know the disappointments of her friend!" He looked at the countess. "It is true, my dear sir," continued she. "It is hardly probable that the mere effect of thirty-seven years could have made the inroads on my person which you see; but sorrow has done it; and with all the comforts you behold around me, I am miserable. I have no joy independent of the few friends which Heaven has preserved to me; and yet," added she, "I have another anxiety united with those of which I complain; some of my friends, who afford me the consolation I mention, deny me the only return in my power, the office of sharing their griefs." Thaddeus understood the expression of her ladyship's eye and the tenderness of her voice as she uttered these words. He saw to whom the kind reproach was directed, and he looked down confused and oppressed. The countess resumed. "I cannot deny what your countenance declares; you think I mean you. I do, Mr. Constantine. I have marked your melancholy; I have weighed other circumstances; and I am sure that you have many things to struggle with besides the regrets which must ever hang about the bosom of a brave man who has witnessed the destruction of his country. Forgive me, if I give you pain," added she, observing his heightening color. "I speak from real esteem; I speak to you as I would to my own son were he in your situation." "My dearest madam!" cried Thaddeus, overcome by her benevolence, "you have judged rightly; I have many things to struggle with. I have a sick friend at home, whom misfortune hath nearly bereft of reason, and whose wants are now so complicated and expensive, that never till now did I know the complete desolation of a man without a country or a profession. For myself, Lady Tinemouth, adversity has few pangs; but for my friend, for an old man whose deranged faculties have forgotten the change in my affairs, he who leans on me for support and comfort,--it is this that must account to your ladyship for those inconsistencies in my manner and spirits which are so frequently the subject of Miss Egerton's raillery." Thaddeus, in the course of this short and rapid narrative, gradually lowered the tone of his voice, and at the close covered his face with his hand. He had never before confided the history of his embarrassments to any creature; and he thought (notwithstanding the countess's solicitations) he had committed an outrage on the firmness of his character by having in anyway acknowledged the weight of his calamities. Lady Tinemouth considered a few minutes, and then addressed him. "I should ill repay this generous confidence, my noble young friend, were I to hesitate a moment in forming some plan which may prove of service to you. You have told me no more, Mr. Constantine, than I suspected. And I had something in view." Here the countess stopped, expecting that her auditor would interrupt her. He remained silent, and she proceeded: "You spoke of a profession, of an employment." "Yes, madam," returned he, taking his hands from his eyes; "I should be glad to engage in any profession or employment you would recommend." "I have little interest," answered her ladyship, "with people in power; therefore I cannot propose anything which will in any degree suit with your rank; but the employment that I have in view, several of the most illustrious French nobility have not disdained to execute." "Do not fear to mention it to me," cried the count, perceiving her reluctance; "I would attempt anything that is not dishonorable, to render service to my poor friend." "Well, then, would you have any objection to teach languages?" Thaddeus immediately answered, "Oh, no! I should be happy to do so." "Then," replied she, greatly relieved by the manner in which he received her proposal, "I will now tell you that about a week ago I paid a visit to Lady Dundas, the widow of Sir Hector Dundas, the rich East Indian director. Whilst I was there, I heard her talking with her two daughters about finding a proper master to teach them German. That language has become a very fashionable accomplishment amongst literary ladies; and Misa Dundas, being a member of the Blue-stocking Club, [Footnote: Such was the real name given at the time to Mrs. Montague's celebrated literary parties, held at her house in Portman Square. The late venerable Sir William Pepys was one of their last survivors.] had declared her resolution to make a new translation of Werter. Lady Dundas expressed many objections against the vulgarity of various teachers whom the young ladies proposed, and ended with saying that unless some German gentleman could be found, they must remain ignorant of the language. Your image instantly shot across my mind; and deeming it a favorable opportunity, I told her ladyship that if she could wait a few days, I would sound a friend of mine, who I knew, if he would condescend to take the trouble, must be the most eligible person imaginable. Lady Dundas and the girls gladly left the affair to me, and I now propose it to you." "And I," replied he, "with a thousand thanks, accept the task." "Then I will make the usual arrangements," returned her ladyship, "and send you the result." After half an hour's further conversation, Lady Tinemouth became more impressed with the unsophisticated delicacy and dignity of the count's mind; and he, more grateful than utterance could declare, left his respects for Miss Egerton, and took his leave. CHAPTER XXI. FASHIONABLE SKETCHES FROM THE LIFE. Next morning, whilst Thaddeus was vainly explaining to the general that he no longer possessed a regiment of horse, which the poor old man wanted him to order out, to try the success of some manoeuvres he had been devising, little Nanny brought in a letter from Slaughter's Coffee-house, where he had noted Lady Tinemouth to direct it to him.[Footnote: This respectable hotel still exists, near the top of St. Martin's Lane.--1845.] He opened it, and found these contents:-- "My dear Sir, "So anxious was I to terminate the affair with Lady Dundas, that I went to her house last night. I affirmed it as a great obligation that you would undertake the trouble to teach her daughters; and I insist that you do not, from any romantic ideas of candor, invalidate what I have said. I know the world too well not to be convinced of the truth of Dr. Goldsmith's maxim,--'If you be poor, do not seem poor, if you would avoid insult as well as suffering.' "I told Miss Dundas that you had undertaken the task solely at my persuasion, and that I could not propose other terms than a guinea for two lessons. She is rich enough for any expense, and made no objection to my demand; besides, she presented the enclosed, by way of entrance-money. It is customary. Thus I have settled all preliminaries, and you are to commence your first lesson on Monday, at two o'clock. But before then, pray let me see you. "Cannot you dine with us on Sunday? A sabbath privilege! to speak of good is blameless. I have informed Miss Egerton of as much of the affair as I think necessary to account for your new occupation. In short, gay in spirits as she is, I thought it most prudent to say as little to her and to Lady Sara as I have done to the Dundases; therefore, do not be uneasy on that head. "Come to-morrow, if not before, and you will give real pleasure to your sincere friend, "ADELIZA TINEMOUTH." "SATURDAY MORNING, GROSVENOR PLACE." Truly grateful to the active friendship of the countess, and looking at the general, who appeared perfectly happy in the prosecution of his wild schemes, Thaddeus inwardly exclaimed, "By these means I shall at least have it in my power to procure the assistance which your melancholy state, my revered friend, requires." On opening the enclosed, which her ladyship mentioned, he found it to be a bank note for ten pounds. Both the present and its amount gave him pain: not having done any service yet to the donor, he regarded the money more as a gift than as a bond of engagement. However, he found that this delicacy, with many other painful repugnances, must at this moment be laid aside; and, without further self-torment, he consigned the money to the use for which he felt aware the countess had wished it to be applied, namely, to provide himself with an English dress. During these various reflections, he did not leave Lady Tinemouth's letter unanswered. He thanked her sincerely for her zeal, but declined dining with her the next day, on account of leaving his poor friend so long alone; though he promised to come in the evening when he should be retired to rest. This excuse was regretted by none more than Lady Sara Ross, who, having heard from Lady Tinemouth that she expected Mr. Constantine to dinner on a Sunday, invited herself to be one of the party. She had now seen him constantly for nearly a month, and found, to her amazement, that in seeking to beguile him, she had only ensnared herself. Every word he uttered penetrated to her heart; every glance of his eyes shook her frame like electricity. She had now no necessity to affect softness. A young and unsuspected passion had stolen into her bosom, and imparted to her voice and countenance all its subtle power to enchant and to subdue. Thaddeus was not insensible to this gentle fascination; for it appeared to his ingenuous nature to be unconsciously shown, and from under "veiled lids." He looked on her as indeed a lovely woman, who, with a touching delicacy, he observed, often tried to stifle sigh after sigh, which, fluttering rose to her silent lips. Thus, as silently remarking her, he became deeply interested in her; for he believed her yearning heart then thought of her gallant husband, far, far at sea. So had been his conclusion when he first noticed these demonstrations of an inward unuttered sensibility. But in a little while afterwards, when those veiled lids were occasionally raised, and met his compassionate gaze, she mistook the nature of its expression; and her responsive glance, wild with ecstasy, returned him one that darted astonishment, with an appalling dread of his meaning, through his every vein. But on his pillow the same night, when he reflected on what he had felt on receiving so strange a look from a married woman, and one, too, whom he believed to be a virtuous one! he could not, he would not, suppose it meant anything to him; and ashamed of even the idea having entered his head, he crushed it at once, indignant at himself. Though, whenever he subsequently met her at Lady Tinemouth's, he could not help, as if by a natural impulse, avoiding the encountering of her eyes. In the course of conversation at dinner, on the day Thaddeus had been expected by Lady Tinemouth, in a tone of pleasure she mentioned that she had conferred a great favor on her young cousins, the Misses Dundas, by having prevailed on Mr. Constantine to undertake the trouble of teaching them German. Lady Sara could not conceal her vexation, nor her wonder at Lady Tinemouth's thinking of such a thing; and she uttered something like angry contempt at acquiescence, while inwardly she hated her former old friend for having made the proposal. Miss Egerton laughed at the scrape into which Lady Tinemouth had brought his good nature, and declared she would tell him next time she saw him what a mulish pair of misses he had presumed to manage. It was the youngest of these misses that excited Lady Sara's displeasure. Euphemia Dundas was very pretty; she had a large fortune at her disposal; and what might not such united temptations effect on the mind of a man exposed every day to her habitual flirtation? Stung with jealousy, Lady Sara caught at a slight intimation of his possibly coming in before the evening should close. Rallying her smiles, she resolved to make one more essay on his relapsed insensibility, before she beheld him enter scenes so likely to extinguish her hopes. Hopes of what? She never allowed herself to inquire. She knew that she never had loved her husband, that now she detested him, and was devoted to another. To be assured of a reciprocal passion from that other, she believed was the extent of her wish. Thinking that she held her husband's honor safe as her life, she determined to do what she pleased with her heart. Her former admirers were now neglected; and, to the astonishment and admiration of the graver part of her acquaintance, she had lately relinquished all the assemblies in which she had so recently been the brightest attraction, to seclude herself by the domestic fireside of the Countess of Tinemouth. Thus, whilst the world were admiring a conduct they supposed would give a lasting happiness to herself and to her husband, she was cherishing a passion which might prove the destruction of both. On Sunday evening, Thaddeus entered Lady Tinemouth's drawing-room just as Miss Egerton seated herself before the tea equipage. At sight of him she nodded her head, and called him to sit by her. Lady Tinemouth returned the grateful pressure of his hand. Lady Sara received him with a palpitating heart, and stooped to remove something that seemed to incommode her foot; but it was only a feint, to hide the blushes which were burning on her cheek. No one observed her confusion. So common is it for those who are the constant witnesses of our actions to be the most ignorant of their expression and tendency. Thaddeus could not, in spite of himself, be so uninformed, and he gladly obeyed a second summons from the gay Sophia, and drew his chair close to hers. Lady Sara observed his motions with a pang she could not conceal; and pulling her seat as far from the opposite side as possible, began in silence to sip her tea. "Ye powers of gallantry!" suddenly exclaimed Miss Egerton, pushing away the table, and lifting her eye-glass to her eye, "I declare I have conquered! Look, Lady Tinemouth; look, Lady Sara! If Mr. Constantine does not better become this English dress than his Polish horribles did him, drown me for a witch!" "You see I have obeyed you, madam," returned Thaddeus smiling. "Ah! you are in the right. Most men do that cheerfully, when they know they gain by the bargain. Now, you look like a Christian man; before, you always reminded me of some stalking hero in a tragedy." "Yes," cried Lady Sara, forcing a smile; "and now you have given him a striking resemblance to George Barnwell!" Sophia, who did not perceive the sarcasm couched under this remark, good-humoredly replied: "May be so, Lady Sara; but I don't care for his black suit: obedience was the thing I wanted, and I have it in the present appearance." "Pray, Lady Tinemouth," asked her ladyship, seeking to revenge herself on his alacrity to obey Miss Egerton, "what o'clock is it? I have promised to be at Lady Sarum's concert by ten." "It is not nine," returned the countess; "besides, this is the first time I have heard of your engagement. I hoped you would have spent all the evening with us." "No," answered Lady Sara, "I cannot." And ringing the bell, she rose. "Bless me, Lady Sara!" cried Miss Egerton, "you are not going? Don't you hear that it is little more than eight o'clock?" Busying herself in tying her cloak, Lady Sara affected not to hear her, and told the servant who opened the door to order her carriage. Surprised at this precipitation, but far from guessing the cause, Lady Tinemouth requested Mr. Constantine to see her ladyship down stairs. "I would rather not," cried she, in a quick voice; and darting out of the room, was followed by Thaddeus, who came up with her just as she reached the street door. He hastened to assist her into the carriage, and saw by the light of the flambeaux her face streaming with tears. He had already extended his hand, when, instead of accepting it, she pushed it from her, and jumped into the carriage, crying in an indignant tone, "To Berkeley Square." He remained for a few minutes looking after her; then returned into the house, too well able to translate the meaning of all this petulance. When he reascended the stairs, Lady Tinemouth expressed her wonder at the whimsical departure of her friend; but as Thaddeus (who was really disturbed) returned a vague reply, the subject ended. Miss Egerton, who hardly thought two minutes on the same thing, sent away the tea-board, and, sitting down by him, exclaimed,-- "Mr. Constantine, I hold it right that no man should be thrown into a den of wild creatures without knowing what sort of animals he must meet there. Hence, as I find you have undertaken the taming of that _ursa major_ Lady Dundas, and her pretty cubs, I must give you a taste of their quality. Will you hear me?" "Certainly." "Will you attend to my advice?" "If I like it." "Ha!" replied she, returning his smile with another; "that is just such an answer as I would have made myself, so I won't quarrel with you. Lady Tinemouth, you will allow me to draw your kinsfolks' pictures?" "Yes, Sophia, provided you don't make them caricatures. Remember, your candor is at stake; to-morrow Mr. Constantine will judge for himself." "And I am sure he will agree with me. Now, Lady Dundas, if you please! I know your ladyship is a great stickler for precedence." Lady Tinemouth laughed, and interrupted her-- "I declare, Sophia, you are a very daring girl. What do you not risk by giving way to this satirical spirit?" "Not anybody's love that I value, Lady Tinemouth: _you_ know that I never daub a fair character; Mr. Constantine takes me on your credit; and if you mean Charles Montresor, he is as bad as myself, and dare not for his life have any qualms." "Well, well, proceed," cried her ladyship; "I will not interrupt you again." "Then," resumed she, "I must begin with Lady Dundas. In proper historical style, I shall commence with her birth, parentage, and education. For the first, my father remembers her when she was _damoiselle a'honneur_ to Judge Sefton's lady at Surat, and soon after her arrival there, this pretty Abigail by some means captivated old Hector Dundas, (then governor of the province,) who married her. When she returned in triumph to England, she coaxed her foolish husband to appropriate some of his rupee riches to the purchase of a baronetage. I suppose the appellation _Mistress_ put her in mind of her ci-devant abigailship; and in a fond hour he complied, and she became _My Lady_. That over, Sir Hector had nothing more obliging to do in this world but to clear her way to perhaps a coronet. He was so good as to think so himself: and, to add to former obligations, had the civility to walk out of it; for one night, whether he had been dreaming of his feats in India, or of a review of his grand entry into his governorship palace, I cannot affirm, but he marched out of his bed room window and broke his neck. Ever since that untoward event, Lady Dundas has exhibited the finest parties in town. Everybody goes to see her, but whether in compliment to their own taste or to her silver muslins, I don't know; for there are half a dozen titled ladies of her acquaintance who, to my certain knowledge, have not bought a ball-dress this twelvemonth. Well, how do you like Lady Dundas?" "I do not like your sketch," replied Thaddeus, with an unconscious sigh. "Come, don't sigh about my veracity," interrupted Miss Egerton; "I do assure you I should have been more correct had I been more severe; for her Indian ladyship is as ill-natured as she is ill-bred, and is as presumptuous as ignorant; in short she is a fit mamma for the delectable Miss Dundas, whose description you shall have in two questions. Can you imagine Socrates in his wife's petticoats? Can you imagine a pedant, a scold, and a coquette in one woman? If you can, you have a foretaste of Diana Dundas. She is large and ugly, and thinks herself delicate and handsome; she is self-willed and arrogant, and believes herself wise and learned; and, to sum up all, she is the most malicious creature breathing." "My dear Sophia," cried Lady Tinemouth, alarmed at the effect such high coloring might have on the mind of Thaddeus; "for heaven's sake be temperate! I never heard you so unbecomingly harsh in my life." Miss Egerton peeped archly in her face. "Are you serious, Lady Tinemouth? You know that I would not look unbecoming in your eyes. Besides, she is no real relation of yours. Come, shake hands with me, and I will be more merciful to the gentle Euphemia, for I intend that Mr. Constantine shall be her favorite. Won't you?" cried she, resigning her ladyship's hand. Thaddeus shook his head. "I don't understand your Lord Burleigh nods; answer me in words, when I have finished: for I am sure you will delight in the zephyr smiles of so sweet a fairy. She is so tiny and so pretty, that I never see her without thinking of some gay little trinket, all over precious stones. Her eyes are two diamond sparks, melted into lustre; and her teeth, seed pearl, lying between rubies. So much for the casket; but for the quality of the jewel within, I leave you to make the discovery." Miss Egerton having run herself out of breath, suddenly stopped. Seeing that he was called upon to say something, Thaddeus made an answer which only drew upon him a new volley of raillery. Lady Tinemouth tried to avert it, but she failed; and Sophia continued talking with little interruption until the party separated for the night. CHAPTER XXII. HONORABLE RESOURCES OF AN EXILE. Now that the count thought himself secure of the means of payment, he sent for a physician, to consult him respecting the state of the general. When Dr. Cavendish saw and conversed with the venerable Butzou, he gave it as his opinion that his malady was chiefly on the nerves, and had originated in grief. "I can too well suppose it," replied Thaddeus. "Then," rejoined the physician, "I fear, sir, that unless I know something of its cause, my visits will prove almost useless." The count was silent. The doctor resumed-- "I shall be grieved if his sorrows be of too delicate a nature to be trusted with a man of honor; for in these cases, unless we have some knowledge of the springs of the derangement, we lose time, and perhaps entirely fail of a cure. Our discipline is addressed both to the body and the mind of the patient." Thaddeus perceived the necessity of compliance, and did so without further hesitation. "The calamities, sir, which have occasioned the disorder of my friend need not be a secret: too many have shared them with him; his sorrows have been public ones. You must have learnt by his language, Dr. Cavendish, that he is a foreigner and a soldier. He held the rank of general in the King of Poland's service. Since the period in which his country fell, his wandering senses have approximated to what you see." Dr. Cavendish paused for a moment before he answered the count; then fixing his eyes on the veteran, who was sitting at the other end of the room, constructing the model of a fortified town, he said-- "All that we can do at present, sir, is to permit him to follow his schemes without contradiction, meanwhile strengthening his system with proper medicines, and lulling its irritation by gentle opiates. We must proceed cautiously, and I trust in Heaven that success will crown us at last. I will order something to be taken every night." When the doctor had written his prescription, and was preparing to go, Thaddeus offered him his fee; but the good Cavendish, taking the hand that presented it, and closing it on the guinea, "No, my dear sir" said he; "real patriotism is too much the idol of my heart to allow me to receive payment when I behold her face. Suffer me, Mr. Constantine, to visit you and your brave companion as a friend, or I never come again." "Sir, this generous conduct to strangers--" "Generous to myself, Mr. Constantine, and not to strangers; I cannot consider you as such, for men who devote themselves to their country must find a brother in every honest breast. I will not hear of our meeting on any other terms." [Footnote: This generous man is no fictitious character, the original being Dr. Blackburne, late of Cavendish Square; but who, since the above was written, has long retired from his profession, passing a revered old age in the beautiful neighborhood of our old British classic scenes, the Abbey of Glastonbury.] Thaddeus could not immediately form a reply adequate to the sentiment which the generous philanthropy of the doctor awakened. Whilst he stood incapable of speaking, Cavendish, with one glance of his penetrating eye, deciphered his countenance, and giving him a friendly shake by the hand, disappeared. The count took up his hat; and musing all the way he went on the unexpected scenes we meet in life,--disappointment where we expected kindness, and friendship where no hope could arise,--he arrived at the door of Lady Dundas, in Harley Street. He was instantly let in, and with much ceremony ushered into a splendid library, where he was told the ladies would attend him. Before they entered, they allowed him time to examine its costly furniture, its glittering book-cases, bird-cages, globes, and reading-stands, all shining with burnished gilding; its polished plaster casts of the nine muses, which stood in nine recesses about the room, draperied with blue net, looped up with artificial roses; and its fine cut-steel Grecian stove, on each side of which was placed, on sandal-wood pedestals, two five-feet statues of Apollo and Minerva. Thaddeus had twice walked round these fopperies of learning, when the door opened, and Lady Dundas, dressed in a morning wrapper of Indian shawls, waddled into the apartment. She neither bowed nor curtseyed to the count, who was standing when she entered, but looking at him from head to foot, said as she passed, "So you are come;" and ringing the bell, called to the servant in no very soft tones, "Tell Miss Dundas the person Lady Tinemouth spoke of is here." Her ladyship then sat down in one of the little gilded chairs, leaving Thaddeus still standing on the spot where he had bowed to her entrance. "You may sit down," cried she, stirring the fire, and not deigning to look at him; "for my daughter may not choose to come this half-hour." "I prefer standing," replied the count, who could have laughed at the accuracy of Miss Egerton's picture, had he not prognosticated more disagreeableness to himself from the ill manners of which this was a specimen. Lady Dundas took no further notice of him. Turning from her bloated countenance, (which pride as well as high living had swollen from prettiness to deformity,) he walked to a window and stationed himself there, looking into the street, until the door was again opened, and two ladies made their appearance. "Miss Dundas," cried her ladyship, "here is the young man that is to teach you German." Thaddeus bowed; the younger of the ladies curtseyed; and so did the other, not forgetting to accompany such condescension with a toss of the head, that the effect of undue humility might be done away. Whilst a servant was setting chairs round a table, on which was painted the Judgment of Hercules, Lady Dundas again opened her lips. "Pray, Mr. Thingumbob, have you brought any grammars, and primers, and dictionaries, and syntaxes with you?" Before he had time to reply in the negative, Miss Dundas interrupted her mother. "I wish, madam, you would leave the arrangement of my studies to myself. Does your ladyship think we would learn out of any book which had been touched by other people? Thomas," cried she to a servant, "send Stephens hither." Thaddeus silently contemplated this strange mother and daughter, whilst the pretty Euphemia paid the same compliment to him. During his stay, he ventured to look once only at her sylph-like figure. There was an unreceding something in her liquid blue eyes, when he chanced to meet them, which displeased him; and he could not help seeing that from the instant she entered the room she had seldom ceased staring in his face. He was a little relieved by the maid putting the books on the table. Miss Dundas, taking her seat, desired him to sit down by her and arrange the lessons. Lady Dundas was drawing to the other side of Thaddeus, when Euphemia, suddenly whisking round, pushed before her mother, and exclaimed-- "Dear mamma! you don't want to learn!" and squeezed herself upon the edge of her mother's chair, who, very angrily getting up, declared that rudeness to a parent was intolerable from such well-bred young women, and left the room. Euphemia blushed at the reproof more than at her conduct; and Miss Dundas added to her confusion by giving her a second reprimand. Thaddeus pitied the evident embarrassment of the little beauty, and to relieve her, presented the page in the German grammar with which they were to begin. This had the desired effect; and for an hour and a half they prosecuted their studies with close attention. Whilst the count continued his directions to her sister, and then turned his address to herself, Miss Euphemia, wholly unseen by him, with a bent head was affecting to hear him though at the same time she looked obliquely through her thick flaxen ringlets, and gazing with wonder and admiration on his face as it inclined towards her, said to herself, "If this man were a gentleman, I should think him the most charming creature in the world." "Will your task be too long, madam?" inquired Thaddeus; "will it give you any inconvenience to remember?" "To remember what?" asked she, for in truth she had neither seen what he had been pointing at nor heard what he had been saying. "The lesson madam, I have just been proposing." "Show it to me again, and then I shall be a better judge." He did as he was desired, and was taking his leave, when she called after him: "Pray, Mr. Constantine, come to-morrow at two. I want you particularly." The count bowed and withdrew. "And what do you want with him to-morrow, child?" asked Miss Dundas; "you are not accustomed to be so fond of improvement." Euphemia knew very well what she was accustomed to be fond of; but not choosing to let her austere sister into her predilection for the contemplation of superior beauty, she merely answered, "You know, Diana, you often reproach me for my absurd devotion to novel-reading, and my repugnance to graver books; now I want at once to be like you, a woman of great erudition: and for that purpose I will study day and night at the German, till I can read all the philosophers, and be a fit companion for my sister." This speech from Euphemia (who had always been so declared an enemy to pedantry as to affirm that she learnt German merely because it was the fashion) would have awakened Miss Dundas to some suspicion of a covert design, had she not been in the habit of taking down such large draughts of adulation, that whenever herself was the subject, she gave it full confidence. Euphemia seldom administered these doses but to serve particular views; and seeing in the present case that a little flattery was necessary, she felt no compunction in sacrificing sincerity to the gratification of caprice. Weak in understanding, she had fed on works of imagination, until her mind loathed all kinds of food. Not content with devouring the elegant pages of Mackenzie, Radcliffe, and Lee, she flew with voracious appetite to sate herself on the garbage of any circulating library that fell in her way. The effects of such a taste were exhibited in her manners. Being very pretty, she became very sentimental. She dressed like a wood nymph, and talked as if her soul were made of love and sorrow. Neither of these emotions had she ever really felt; but in idea she was always the victim of some ill-fated passion, fancying herself at different periods in love with one or other of the finest young men in her circle. By this management she kept faithful to her favorite principle that "love was a want of her soul!" As it was the rule of her life, it ever trembled on her tongue, ever introduced the confession of any new attachment, which usually happened three times a year, to her dear friend Miss Arabella Rothes. Fortunately for the longevity of their mutual friendship, this young lady lived in an ancient house, forty miles to the north of London. This latter circumstance proved a pretty distress for their pens to descant on; and Arabella remained a most charming sentimental writing-stock, to receive the catalogue of Miss Euphemia's lovers; indeed, that gentle creature might have matched every lady in Cowley's calendar with a gentleman. But every throb of her heart must have acknowledged a different master. First, the fashionable sloven, Augustus Somers, lounged and sauntered himself into her good graces; but his dishevelled hair, and otherwise neglected toilette, not exactly meeting her ideas of an elegant lover, she gave him up at the end of three weeks. The next object her eyes fell upon, as most opposite to her former fancy, was the charming Marquis of Inverary. But here all her arrows failed, for she never could extract from him more than a "how d'ye do?" through the long lapse of four months, during which time she continued as constant to his fine figure, and her own folly, as could have fallen to the lot of any poor despairing damsel. However, my lord was so cruel, so perfidious, as to allow several opportunities to pass in which he might have declared his passion; and she told Arabella, in a letter of six sheets, that she would bear it no longer. She put this wise resolution in practice, and had already played the same game with half a score, (the last of whom was a young guardsman, who had just ridden into her heart by managing his steed with the air of a "feathered Mercury," one day in Hyde Park,) when Thaddeus made his appearance before her. The moment she fixed her eyes on him, her inflammable imagination was set in a blaze. She forgot his apparent subordinate quality in the nobleness of his figure; and once or twice that evening, while she was flitting about, the sparkling cynosure of the Duchess of Orkney's masquerade, her thoughts hovered over the handsome foreigner. She viewed the subject first one way and then another, and, in her ever varying mind, "he was everything by turns, and nothing long;" but at length she argued herself into a belief that he must be a man of rank from some of the German courts, who having seen her somewhere unknown to herself, had fallen in love with her, and so had persuaded Lady Tinemouth to introduce him as a master of languages to her family that he might the better appreciate the disinterestedness of her disposition. This wild notion having once got into her head, received instant credence. She resolved, without seeming to suspect it, to treat him as his quality deserved, and to deliver sentiments in his hearing which should charm him with their delicacy and generosity. With these chimeras floating in her brain, she returned home, went to bed, and dreamed that Mr. Constantine had turned out to be the _Duc d'Enghien_, had offered her his hand, and that she was conducted to the altar by a train of princes and princesses, his brothers and sisters. She woke the next morning from these deliriums in an ecstasy, deeming them prophetic; and, taking up her book, began with a fluttering attention to scan the lesson which Thaddeus had desired her to learn. CHAPTER XXIII. "What are these words? These seeming flowers? Maids to call them, 'Love in idleness.'" The following day at noon, as the Count Sobieski was crossing Cavendish Square to keep his appointment in Harley Street, he was met by Lady Sara Ross. She had spoken with the Misses Dundas the night before, at the masquerade, where discovering the pretty Euphemia through the dress of Eloisa, her jealous and incensed heart could not withstand the temptation of hinting at the captivating Abelard she had selected to direct her studies. Her ladyship soon penetrated into the situation of Euphemia's heated fancy, and drew from her, without betraying herself, that she expected to see her master the following day. Stung to the soul, Lady Sara quitted the rooms, and in a paroxysm of disappointment, determined to throw herself in his way as he went to her rival's house. With this hope, she had already been traversing the square upwards of half an hour, attended by her maid, when her anxious eye at last caught a view of his figure proceeding along Margaret Street. Hardly able to support her tottering frame, shaken as it was with contending emotions, she accosted him first: for he was passing straight onward, without looking to the right or the left. On seeing her ladyship, he stopped, and expressed his pleasure at the meeting. "If you _really_ are pleased to meet me," said she, forcing a smile, "take a walk with me round the square. I want to speak with you." Thaddeus bowed, and she put her arm through his, but remained silent for a few minutes, in evident confusion. The count recollected it must now be quite two. He knew the awkwardness of making the Misses Dundas wait; and notwithstanding his reluctance to appear impatient with Lady Sara, he found himself obliged to say-- "I am sorry I must urge your ladyship to honor me with your commands, for it is already past the time when I ought to have been with the Misses Dundas." "Yes," cried Lady Sara, angrily, "Miss Euphemia told me as much; but, Mr. Constantine, as a friend, I must warn you against her acts, as well as against those of another lady, who would do well to correct the boldness of her manner." "Whom do you mean, madam?" interrogated Thaddeus, surprised at her warmth, and totally at a loss to conjecture to whom she alluded. "A little reflection would answer you," returned she, wishing to retreat from an explanation, yet stimulated by her double jealousy to proceed: "she may be a good girl, Mr. Constantine, and I dare say she is; but a woman who has promised her hand to another ought not to flirt with you. What business had Miss Egerton to command you to wear an English dress. But she must now see the danger of her conduct, by your having presumed to obey her." "Lady Sara!" exclaimed the count, much hurt at this speech, "I hardly understand you; yet I believe I may venture to affirm that in all which you have just now said, you are mistaken. Who can witness the general frankness of Miss Egerton, or listen to the candid manner with which she avows her attachment to Mr. Montresor, and conceive that she possesses any thoughts which would not do her honor to reveal? And for myself," added he, lowering the tone of his voice, "I trust the least of my faults is presumption. It never was my character to presume on any lady's condescension; and if dressing as she approved be deemed an instance of that kind, I can declare, upon my word, had I not found other motives besides her raillery, my appearance should not have suffered a change." "Are you sincere, Mr. Constantine?" cried Lady Sara, now smiling with pleasure. "Indeed I am, and happy if my explanation have met with your ladyship's approbation." "Mr. Constantine," resumed she, "I have no motive but one in my discourse with you,--friendship." And casting her eyes down, she sighed profoundly. "Your ladyship does me honor." "I would have you to regard me with the same confidence that you do Lady Tinemouth. My father possesses the first patronage in this country, I therefore have it a thousand times more in my power than she has to render you a service." Here her ladyship overshot herself; she had not calculated well on the nature of the mind she wished to ensnare. "I am grateful to your generosity," replied Thaddeus, "but on this head I must decline your kind offices. Whilst I consider myself the subject of one king, though he be in a prison, I cannot accept of any employment under another who is in alliance with his enemies." Lady Sara discovered her error the moment he had made his answer; and, in a disappointed tone, exclaimed, "Then you despise my friendship!" "No, Lady Sara; it is an honor far beyond my merits; and any gratitude to Lady Tinemouth must be doubled when I recollect that I possess such honor through her means." "Well," cried her ladyship, "have that as you will; but I expect, as a specimen of your confidence in me, you will be wary of Euphemia Dundas. I know she is artful and vain; she finds amusement in attracting the affections of men; and then, notwithstanding her affected sensibility, she turns them into a subject for laughter." "I thank your ladyship," replied the count; "but in this respect I think I am safe, both from the lady and myself." "How," asked Lady Sara, rather too eagerly, "is your heart?"--She paused and looked down. "No, madam!" replied he, sighing as deeply as herself: but with his thoughts far from her and the object of their discourse; "I have no place in my heart to give to love. Besides, the quality in which I appear at Lady Dundas's would preclude the vainest man alive from supposing that such notice from any lady there to him could be possible. Therefore, I am safe, though I acknowledge my obligation to your ladyship's caution." Lady Sara was satisfied with the first part of this answer. It declared that his heart was unoccupied; and, as he had accepted her proffered friendship, she doubted not, when assisted by more frequent displays of her fascinations, she could destroy its lambent nature, and in the end light up in his bosom a similar fire to that which consumed her own. The unconscious object of all these devices began internally to accuse his vanity of having been too fanciful in the formation of suspicions which on a former occasion he had believed himself forced to admit. Blushing at a quickness of perception his contrition now denominated folly, he found himself at the bottom of Harley Street. Lady Sara called her servant to walk nearer to her; and telling Thaddeus she should expect him the next evening at Lady Tinemouth's, wished him good-morning. He was certain that he must have stayed at least half an hour beyond the time when he ought to be with the sisters. Anticipating very haughty looks, and perhaps a reprimand, he knocked at the door, and was again shown into the library. Miss Euphemia was alone. He offered some indistinct excuse for having made her wait; but Euphemia, with good-humored alacrity, interrupted him. "O pray, don't mind; you have made nobody wait but me, and I can easily forgive it; for mamma and my sister chose to go out at one, it being May-day, to see the chimney-sweepers dine at Mrs. Montague's.[Footnote: This was a gay spectacle, and a most kind act to these poor children, who thus once a-year found themselves refreshed and happy. They resorted to the green court-yard of Mrs. Montague's house every May-day, about one o'clock, dressed in their gala wreaths, and sporting with their brushes and shovels, where they found a good dinner, kind words from their hostess and her guests, and each little sweep received a shilling at parting. On the death of Mrs. Montague, this humane and pleasurable spectacle ceased.] They did as they liked, and I preferred staying at home to repeat my lesson." Thaddeus, thanking her for her indulgence, sat down, and taking the book, began to question her. Not one word could she recollect. She smiled. "I am afraid, madam, you have never thought of it since yesterday morning." "Indeed, I have thought of nothing else: you must forgive me. I am very stupid, Mr. Constantine, at learning languages; and German is so harsh--at least to my ears! Cannot you teach me any other thing? I should like to learn of you of all things, but do think of something else besides this odious jargon! Cannot you teach me to read poetry elegantly?--Shakspeare, for instance; I doat upon Shakspeare!" "That would be strange presumption in a foreigner?" "No presumption in the least," cried she; "if you can do it, pray begin! There is Romeo and Juliet." Thaddeus pushed away the book with a smile. "I cannot obey. I understand Shakspeare with as much ease as you, madam, will soon do Schiller, if you apply; but I cannot pretend to read the play aloud." "Dear me, how vexatious!--but I must hear you read something. Do, take up that Werter. My sister got it from the Prussian ambassador, and he tells me it is sweetest in its own language." The count opened the book. "But you will not understand a word of it." "I don't care for that; I have it by heart in English; and if you will only read his last letter to Charlotte, I know I can follow you in my own mind." To please this whimsical little creature, Thaddeus turned to the letter, and read it forward with a pathos natural to his voice and character. When he came to an end and closed the volume, the cadence of his tones, and the lady's memory, did ample justice to her sensibility. She looked up, and smiling through her watery eyes, which glittered like violets wet with dew, drew out her perfumed handkerchief, and wiping them, said-- "I thank you, Mr. Constantine. You see by this irrepressible emotion that I feel Goethe, and did not ask you a vain favor." Thaddeus bowed, for he was at a loss to guess what kind of a reply could be expected by so strange a creature. She continued-- "You are a German, Mr. Constantine. Did you ever see Charlotte?" "Never, madam." "I am sorry for that; I should have liked to have heard what sort of a beauty she was. But don't you think she behaved cruelly to Werter? Perhaps you knew him?" "No, madam; this lamentable story happened before I was born." "How unhappy for him! I am sure you would have made the most charming friends in the world! Have you a friend, Mr. Constantine." The count looked at her with surprise. She laughed at the expression of his countenance. "I don't mean such friends as one's father, mother, sisters and relations: most people have enough of them. I mean a tender, confiding friend, to whom you unbosom all your secrets: who is your other self--a second soul! In short, a creature in whose existence you forget your own!" Thaddeus followed with his eyes the heightened color of the fair enthusiast, who, accompanying her rhapsody with action expressive as her words, had to repeat her question, "Have you such a friend?" before he found recollection to answer her in the negative. The count, who had never been used to such extravagant behavior in a woman, would have regarded Miss Euphemia Dundas as little better than insane had he not been prepared by Miss Egerton's description; and he now acquiesced in the young lady's desire to detain him another hour, half amused and half wearied with her aimless and wild fancies. But here he was mistaken. Her fancies were not aimless; his heart was the game she had in view, and she determined a desperate attack should make it her own, in return for the deep wounds she had received from every tone of his voice, whilst reading the Sorrows of Werter. CHAPTER XXIV. LADY TINEMOUTH'S BOUDOIR. Thaddeus spent nearly a fortnight in the constant exercise of his occupations. In the forepart of each day, until two, he prepared those drawings by the sale of which he was empowered every week to pay the good Mrs. Robson for her care of his friend. And he hoped, when the ladies in Harley Street should think it time to defray any part of their now large debt to him, he might be enabled to liquidate the very long bill of his friend's apothecary. But the Misses Dundas possessed too much money to think of its utility; they used it as counters; for they had no conception that to other people it might be the purchaser of almost every comfort. Their comforts came so certainly, they supposed they grew of necessity out of their situation, and their great wealth owned no other commission than to give splendid parties and buy fine things. Their golden shower being exhaled by the same vanity by which it had been shed, they as little regarded its dispersion as they had marked its descent. Hence, these amiable ladies never once recollected that their master ought to receive some weightier remuneration for his visits than the honor of paying them; and as poets say the highest honors are achieved by suffering, so these two sisters, though in different ways, seemed resolved that Thaddeus should purchase his distinction with adequate pains. Notwithstanding that Miss Dundas continued very remiss in her lessons, she unrelentingly required the count's attendance, and sometimes, not in the most gentle language, reproached him for a backwardness in learning she owed entirely to her own inattention and stupidity. The fair Diana would have been the most erudite woman in the world could she have found any fine-lady path to the temple of science; but the goddess who presides there being only to be won by arduous climbing, poor Miss Dundas, like the indolent monarch who made the same demand of the philosophers, was obliged to lay the fault of her own slippery feet on the weakness of her conductors. As Thaddeus despised her most heartily, he bore ill-humor from that quarter with unshaken equanimity. But the pretty Euphemia was not so easily managed. She had now completely given up her fanciful soul to this prince in disguise, and already began to act a thousand extravagances. Without suspecting the object, Diana soon discovered that her sister was in one of her love fits. Indeed she cared nothing about it; and leaving her to pursue the passion as she liked, poor Euphemia, according to her custom when laboring under this whimsical malady, addicted herself to solitude. This romantic taste she generally indulged by taking her footman to the gate of the green in Cavendish Square, where he stood until she had performed a pensive saunter up and down the walk. After this she returned home, adjusted her hair in the Madonna fashion, (because Thaddeus had one day admired the female head in a Holy Family, by Guido, over the chimney- piece,) and then seating herself in some becoming attitude, usually waited, with her eyes constantly turning to the door, until the object of these devices presented himself. She impatiently watched all his motions and looks whilst he attended to her sister; and the moment that was done, she ran over her own lessons with great volubility, but little attention. Her task finished, she shut the books, and employed the remainder of the time in translating a number of little mottoes into German, which she had composed for boxes, baskets, and other frippery. One day, when her young teacher was, as usual, tired almost beyond endurance with making common sense out of so much nonsense, Euphemia observed that Diana had removed to the other end of the room with the Honorable Mr. Lascelles. To give an _éclat_ to her new studies, Miss Dundas had lately opened her library door to morning visitors; and seeing her sister thus engaged, Euphemia thought she might do what she wished without detection. Hastily drawing a folded paper from her pocket, she desired Thaddeus to take it home, and translate it into the language he liked best. Surprised at her manner, he held it in his hand. "Put it in your pocket," added she, in a hurrying voice, "else my sister may see it, and ask what it is!" Full of wonder, he obeyed her; and the little beauty, having executed her scheme, seemed quite intoxicated with delight. When he was preparing to withdraw, she called to him, and asked when he should visit Lady Tinemouth. "This evening, madam." "Then," returned she, "tell her ladyship I shall come and sit half- an-hour with her to-night; and here," added she, running up to him, "present her that rose, with my love." Whilst she put it into his hand, she whispered in a low voice, "and you will tell me what you think of the verses I have given you." Thaddeus colored and bowed. He hurried out of the house into the street, as if by that haste he could have gotten out of a dilemma to which he feared all this foolish mystery might be only the introduction. Though of all men in the world he was perhaps the least inclined to vanity, yet he must have been one of the most stupid had he not been convinced by this time of the dangerous attachment of Lady Sara. Added to that painful certainty he now more than dreaded a similar though a slighter folly in Miss Euphemia. Can a man see himself the daily object of a pair of melting eyes, hear everlasting sighs at his entrance and departure, day after day receive tender though covert addresses about disinterested love, can he witness all this, and be sincere when he affirms it is the language of indifference? If that be possible, the Count Sobieski has no pretensions of modesty. He comprehended the "discoursing" of Miss Euphemia's "eye;" also the tendency of the love-sick mottoes which, under various excuses, she put into his hand; and with many a pitying smile of contempt he contemplated her childish absurdity. A few days prior to that in which she made this appointment with Thaddeus, she had presented to him another of her posies, which ran thus: "Frighted love, like a wild beast, shakes the wood in which it hides." Thaddeus almost laughed at the oddity of the conceit. "Do, dear Mr. Constantine," cried she, "translate it into the sweetest French you can; for I mean to have it put into a medallion, and to give it to the person whom I most value on earth!" There was something so truly ridiculous in the sentence, that, reluctant to allow even Miss Euphemia to expose herself so far, he considered a moment how he should make anything so bad better, and then said, "I am afraid I cannot translate it literally; but surely, madam, you can do it yourself!" "Yes; but I like your French better than mine; so pray oblige me." He had done the same kind of thing a hundred times for her, and, without further discussion, wrote as follows:-- "L'amour tel qu'une biche blessée, se trahit lui-même par sa crainte, qui fait remuer le feuillage qui le couvre." "Bless me, how pretty!" cried she, and immediately put it into her bosom. To this unlucky addition of the words _se trahit lui-meme_ Thaddeus was indebted for the present of the folded paper. The ever- working imagination of Euphemia had seized the inverted thought as a delicate avowal that he was the wounded deer he had substituted in place of the wild beast; and as soon is he arrived at home, he found the fruits of her mistake in the packet she had given with so much secrecy. When he broke the seal, something dropped out and fell on the carpet. He took it up, and blushed for her on finding a gold medallion, with the words he had altered for Miss Euphemia engraved on blue enamel. With a vexed haste he next looked at the envelope; it contained a copy of verses, with this line written at the top: "To him who will apply them." On perusing them, he found them to be Mrs. Phillips's beautiful translation of that ode of Sappho which runs-- "Blest as the immortal gods is he, The friend who fondly sits by thee, And hears and sees thee all the while Softly speak and sweetly smile! "'Twas this deprived my soul of rest, And rais'd such tumults in my breast: For while I gazed, in transport tost, My breath was gone, my voice was lost. "My bosom glow'd; the subtle flame Ran quick through all my vital frame; O'er my dim eyes a darkness hung; My ears with hollow murmurs rung. "In dewy damps my limbs were chill'd; My blood with gentle horrors thrill'd: My feeble pulse forgot to play; I fainted, sunk and died away! "EUPHEMIA." Thaddeus threw the verses and the medallion together on the table, and sat for a few minutes considering how he could extricate himself from an affair so truly farcical in itself, but which might be productive of a very distressing consequence to him. He was thinking of at once giving up the task of attending either of the sisters, when his eyes falling on the uncomplaining but melancholy features of his poor friend, he exclaimed, "No; for thy sake, gallant Butzou, I will brave every scene, however abhorrent to my heart." Well aware, from observation on Miss Euphemia, that this seeming tenderness which prompted an act so wild and unbecoming originated in mere caprice, ha did not hesitate in determining to return the things in as handsome a manner as possible and by so doing, at once crush the whole affair. He felt no pain in forming those resolves, because he saw that not one impulse of her conduct sprung from her heart. It was a whim raised by him to-day, which might be superseded by another to-morrow. But how different was the case with regard to Lady Sara! Her uncontrolled nature could not long brook the restraints of friendship. Every attention he gave to Lady Tinemouth, every civility he paid to Miss Egerton, or to any other lady whom he met at the countess's, went like a dagger to her soul; and whenever she could gain his ear in private, she generally made him sensible of her misery, and his own unhappiness in being its cause, by reproaches which too unequivocally proclaimed their source. He now saw that she had given way to a reprehensible and headstrong passion; and, allowing for the politeness which is due to the sex, he tried, by an appearance of the most stubborn coldness, and an obstinate perversity in shutting his apprehension against all her speeches and actions, to stem a tide that threatened her with ruin. Lady Tinemouth at least began to open her eyes to the perilous situation of both her friends. Highly as she esteemed Thaddeus, she knew not the extent of his integrity. She had lived too long near the circle of the heir apparent, and had seen too many men from the courts of the continent, to place much reliance on the firmness of a single and unattached young man when assailed by rank, beauty and love. Alarmed at what might be the result of her observations, and fearing to lose any time, she had that very evening in winch she expected Thaddeus to supper drawn out of Lady Sara the unhappy state of her heart. The dreadful confession was made by her ladyship, with repeated showers of tears, and in paroxysms of agony which pierced the countess to the soul. "My dear Lady Sara," cried she, "for heaven's sake, remember your duty to Captain Ross!" "I shall never forget it," exclaimed her ladyship, shaking her head mournfully, and striking her breast with her clenched hand, "I never look on the face of Constantine that I do not execrate from my heart the vows which I have sworn to Ross, but I have bound myself his property, and though I hate him, whatever it may cost me, I will never forget that my faith and honor are my husband's." With a countenance bathed in tears, Lady Tinemouth put her arms round the waist of Lady Sara, who now sat motionless, with her eyes fixed on the fire. "Dear Lady Sara! that was spoken like yourself. Do more; abstain from seeing Mr. Constantine." "Don't require of me that?" cried she; "I could easier rid myself of existence. He is the very essence of my happiness. It is only in his company that I forget that I am a wretch." "This is obstinacy, my dear Lady Sara! This is courting danger." "Lady Tinemouth, urge me no more. Is it not enough?" continued she, sullenly, "that I am miserable? Would you drive me to desperation? If there be danger; you brought me into it." "I! Lady Sara?" "Yes, you, Lady Tinemouth; you introduced him to me." "But you are married! Singularly attractive and amiable as indeed he is, could I suppose--" "Nonsense!" cried her ladyship, interrupting her; "you know that I am married to a mere sailor, more in love with his ugly ship than with me! But it is not because Constantine is so handsome that I like him. No; though no human form can come nearer to perfection, yet it was not that: it was you. You and Sophia Egerton were always telling me of his bravery; what wealth and honors he had sacrificed in the service of his country; how nobly he succored the distresses of others; how heedless he was of his own. This fired my imagination and won my heart. No; it was not his personal attractions: I am not so despicable!" "Dear Lady Sara, be calm!" entreated the countess, completely at a loss how to manage a spirit of such violence. "Think, my dear friend, what horrors you would experience if Mr. Constantine were to discover this predilection, and presume upon it! You know where even the best men are vulnerable." The eyes of Lady Sara sparkled with pleasure. "Why, surely, Lady Sara!" exclaimed Lady Tinemouth, doubtingly. "Don't fear me, Lady Tinemouth; I know my own dignity too well to do anything disgraceful; yet I would acquire the knowledge that he loves me at almost any price. But he is cold," added she: "he is a piece of obstinate petrefaction, which Heaven itself could not melt!" Lady Tinemouth was glad to hear this account of Thaddeus; but ere she could reply, the drawing-room door opened, and Miss Euphemia Dundas was announced. When the little beauty expressed her amazement at not seeing Mr. Constantine, Lady Sara gave her such a withering look, that had her ladyship's eyes been Medusan, poor Euphemia would have stood there forever after, a stone statue of disappointment. CHAPTER XXV. THE COUNTESS OF TINEMOUTH'S STORY. Meanwhile the count, having seen Dr. Cavendish, and received a favorable opinion of his friend, wrote the following note to Miss Euphemia:-- "TO MISS EUPHEMIA DUNDAS. "Mr. Constantine very much admires the taste of Miss Euphemia Dundas in her choice of the verses which she did him the honor of requesting he would translate into the most expressive language, and to the utmost of his abilities he has obeyed her commands in Italian, thinking that language the best adapted to the versification of the original. "Mr. Constantine equally admires the style of the medallion which Miss E. Dundas has condescended to enclose for his inspection, and assures her the letters are correct." Having sealed his note, and seen the general in bed, with little Nanny seated by him to watch his slumbers, Thaddeus pursued his way to Grosvenor Place. When he entered Lady Tinemouth's drawing-room, he saw that his young _inamorata_ had already arrived, and was in close conversation with the countess. Lady Sara, seated alone on a sofa, inwardly upbraided Constantine for what she thought an absolute assignation with Euphemia. Her half-resentful eyes, yet dewed with the tears which her discourse with Lady Tinemouth had occasioned, sought his averted face, while he looked at Miss Dundas with evident surprise and disgust. This pleased her; and the more so as he only bowed to her rival, shook the countess by the hand, and then turning, took his station beside herself on the sofa. She would not trust her triumphant eyes towards Lady Tinemouth, but immediately asked him some trifling question. At the same moment Euphemia tapped him on the arm with her fan, and inquired how it happened that she had arrived first. He was answering Lady Sara. Euphemia impatiently repeated her demand, "How did it happen that I arrived first?" "I suppose, madam," replied he, smiling, "because you were so fortunate as to set out first. But had I been so happy as to have preceded you, the message and present with which I was honored would have been faithfully delivered, and I hope your ladyship will permit me to do it now," said he, rising, and taking Euphemia's rose from his button, as he approached the countess; "Miss Euphemia Dundas had done me the honor to make me the bearer of sweets to the sweet; and thus I surrender my trust." He bowed, and put the flower into Lady Tinemouth's hand, who smiled and thanked Euphemia. But the little beauty blushed like her own rose; and murmuring within herself at the literal apprehension of her favorite, whom she thought as handsome as Cimon, and as stupid too, she flirted her fan, and asked Miss Egerton whether she had read Charlotte Smith's last delightful novel. The evening passed off more agreeably to Thaddeus than he had augured on his entrance. Lady Sara always embarrassed and pained him; Miss Euphemia teased him to death; but to-night the storm which had agitated the breast of her ladyship having subsided into thoughtfulness, it imparted so abstracted an air to her ever-lovely countenance, that, merely to elude communication with Euphemia, he remained near her, and by paying those attentions which, so situated, he could not avoid, he so deluded the wretched Lady Sara, as to subdue her melancholy into an enchanting softness which to any other man might have rendered her the most captivating woman on earth. The only person present who did not approve this change was Lady Tinemouth. At every dissolving smile of her Circean ladyship, she thought she beheld the intoxicating cup at the lips of Thaddeus, and dreaded its effect. Euphemia was too busily employed repeating some new poems, and too intensely dreaming of what her tutor might say on the verses and medallion in his possession, to observe the dangerous ascendency which the superior charms of Lady Sara might acquire over his heart. Indeed, she had no suspicion of finding a rival in her ladyship; and when a servant announced the arrival of her mother's coach, and she saw by her watch that it was twelve o'clock, she arose reluctantly, exclaiming, "I dare say some plaguing people have arrived who are to stay with us, else mamma would not have sent for me so soon." "I call it late," said Lady Sara, who would not lose an opportunity of contradicting her; "so I will thank you, Mr. Constantine." addressing herself to him, "to hand me to my coach at the same time." Euphemia bit her lip at this movement of her ladyship, and followed her down stairs, reddening with anger. Her carriage being first, she was obliged to get into it, but would not suffer the servant to close the door until she had seen Lady Sara seated in hers; and then she called to Mr. Constantine to speak with her. Lady Sara leaned her head out of the window. While she saw the man she loved approach Lady Dundas's carriage, she, in her turn, bit her lips with vexation. "Home, my lady?" asked the servant, touching his hat. "No; not till Miss Dundas's coach drives on." Miss Euphemia desired Thaddeus to step in for a moment, and he reluctantly obeyed. "Mr. Constantine!" cried the pretty simpleton, trembling with expectation, as she made room for him beside her, "have you opened the paper I gave you?" "Yes, madam," returned he, holding the door open, and widening it with one hand, whilst with the other he presented his note, "and I have the honor, in that paper, to have executed your commands." Euphemia caught it eagerly; and Thaddeus immediately leaping out, wished her a good-night, and hurried back into the house. Whilst the carriages drove away, he ascended to the drawing-room, to take leave of the countess. Lady Tinemouth, seated on the sofa, was leaning thoughtfully against one of its arms when he re-entered. He approached her. "I wish you a good-night, Lady Tinemouth." She turned her head. "Mr. Constantine, I wish you would stay a little longer with me! My spirits are disturbed, and I am afraid it will be near morning before Sophia returns from Richmond. These rural balls are sad, dissipated amusements!" Thaddeus laid down his hat and took a seat by her side. "I am happy, dear Lady Tinemouth, at all times to be with you; but I am sorry to hear that you have met with any thing to discompose you. I was afraid when I came in that something disagreeable had happened; your eyes----" "Alas! if my eyes were always to show when I have been weeping, they might ever be telling tales!" Her ladyship passed her hand across them, while she added, "We may think on our sorrows with an outward air of tranquillity, but we cannot always speak of them without some agitation." "Ah, Lady Tinemouth!" exclaimed the count, drawing closer to her; "could not even your generous sympathizing heart escape calamity?" "To cherish a sympathizing heart, my young friend," replied she, "is not a very effectual way to avoid the pressure of affliction. On the reverse, such a temper extracts unhappiness from causes which would fail to extort even a sigh from dispositions of less susceptibility. Ideas of sensibility and sympathy are pretty toys for a novice to play with; but change those wooden swords into weapons of real metal, and you will find the points through your heart before you are aware of the danger--at least, I find it so. Mr. Constantine, I have frequently promised to explain to you the reason of the sadness which so often tinges my conversation; and I know not when I shall be in a fitter humor to indulge myself at your expense, for I never was more wretched, never stood more in need of the consolations of a friend." She covered her face with her handkerchief, and remained so for some time. Thaddeus pressed her hand several times, and waited in respectful silence until she recommenced. "Forgive me, my dear sir; I am very low to-night--very nervous. Having encountered two or three distressing circumstances to-day, these tears relieve me. You have heard me speak of my son, and of my lord; yet I never collected resolution to recount how we were separated. This morning I saw my son pass my window; he looked up; but the moment I appeared, he turned away and hastened down the street. Though I have received many stronger proofs of dislike, both from his father and himself, yet slight as this offence may seem, it pierced me to the soul. O, Mr. Constantine, to know that the child to whom I gave life regards me with abhorrence, is dreadful--is beyond even the anxious partiality of a mother either to excuse or to palliate!" "Perhaps, dear Lady Tinemouth, you misjudge Lord Harwold; he may be under the commands of his father, and yet yearn to show you his affection and duty." "No, Mr, Constantine; your heart is too good even to guess what may be the guilt of another. Gracious Heaven! am I obliged to speak so of my son!--he who was my darling!--he who once loved me so dearly! But hear me, my dear sir; you shall judge for yourself, and you will wonder that I am now alive to endure more. I have suffered by him, by his father, and by a dreadful woman, who not only tore my husband and children from me, but stood by till I was beaten to the ground. Yes, Mr. Constantine, any humane man would shudder as you do at such an assertion; but it is too true. Soon after Lady Olivia Lovel became the mistress of my lord, and persuaded him to take my son from me, I heard that the poor boy had fallen ill through grief, and lay sick at his lordship's house in Hampshire. I heard he was dying. Imagine my agonies. Wild with distress, I flew to the park lodge, and, forgetful of anything but my child, was hastening across the park, when I saw this woman, this Lady Olivia, approaching me, followed by two female servants. One of them carried my daughter, then an infant, in her arms; and the other, a child of which this unnatural wretch had recently become the mother. I was flying towards my little Albina, to clasp her to my heart, when Lady Olivia caught hold of my arm. Her voice now rings in my ears. 'Woman!' cried she, 'leave this place; there are none here to whom you are not an object of abhorrence.' "Struggling to break from her, I implored to be permitted to embrace my child; but she held me fast, and, regardless of my cries, ordered both the women to return into the house. Driven to despair, I dropped on my knees, conjuring her, by her feelings as a mother, to allow me for one moment to see my dying son, and that I would promise, by my hopes of everlasting happiness, to cherish her child as my own should it ever stand in need of a friend. The horrid woman only laughed at my prayers, and left me in a swoon. When I recovered, the first objects I beheld were my lord and Lady Olivia standing near me, and myself in the arms of a man-servant, whom they had commanded to carry me outside the gate. At the sight of my husband, I sprang to his feet, when with one dreadful blow of his hand he struck me to the ground. Merciful Providence! how did I retain my senses! I besought this cruel husband to give me a second blow, that I might suffer no more. "'Take her out of my sight,' cried he; 'she is mad.' "I was taken out of his sight, more dead than alive, and led by his pitying servants to an inn, where I was afterwards confined for three weeks with a brain fever. From that hour I have never had a day of health." Thaddeus was shocked beyond utterance at this relation. The paleness of his countenance being the only reply he made, the anguished narrator resumed. "I have gone out of order. I proposed to inform you clearly of my situation, but the principal outrage of my heart rose immediately to my lips. I will commence regularly, if I can methodize my recollection. "The Earl of Tinemouth married me from passion: I will not sanctify his emotions by the name of affection; though," added she, forcing a smile, "these faded features too plainly show that of all mankind, I loved but him alone. I was just fifteen when he came to visit my father, who lived in Berkshire. My father, Mr. Cumnor, and his father, Lord Harwold, had been friends at college. My lord, then Mr. Stanhope, was young, handsome, and captivating. He remained the autumn with us, and at the end of that period declared an affection for me which my heart too readily answered. About this time he received a summons from his father, and we parted. Like most girls of my age, I cherished an unconquerable bashfulness against admitting any confidant to my attachment; hence my parents knew nothing of the affair until it burst upon them in the cruelest shape. "About two months after Mr. Stanhope's departure, a letter arrived from him, urging me to fly with him to Scotland. He alleged as a reason for such a step that his grandfather, the Earl of Tinemouth, insisted on his forming a union with Lady Olivia Lovel, who was then a young widow, and the favorite niece of the most powerful nobleman in the kingdom. Upon this demand, he confessed to the earl that his affections were engaged. His lordship, whose passions were those of a madman, broke into such horrible execrations of myself and my family, that Mr. Stanhope, himself, alas! enraged, intemperately swore that no power on earth should compel him to marry so notorious a woman as Lady Olivia Lovel, nor to give me up. After communicating these particulars, he concluded with repeating his entreaties that I would consent to marry him in Scotland. The whole of this letter so alarmed me, that I showed it to my parents. My father answered it in a manner befitting his own character; but that only irritated the impetuous passions of my lover. In the paroxysm of his rage, he flew to the earl his grandfather, upbraided him with the ruin of his happiness, and so exasperated the old man, that he drew his sword upon him; and had it not been for the interference of his father, Lord Harwold, who happened to enter at the moment, a most fatal catastrophe might have ensued. To end the affair at once, the latter, whose gentle nature embraced the mildest measures, obtained the earl's permission to send Mr. Stanhope abroad. "Meanwhile I was upheld by my revered parent, who is now no more, in firmly rejecting my lover's entreaties for a private marriage. And as his grandfather continued resolutely deaf to his prayers or threats, he was at length persuaded by his excellent father to accompany some friends to France. "At the end of a few weeks Mr. Stanhope began to regard them as spies on him; and after a violent quarrel, they parted, no one knowing to what quarter my lover directed his steps. I believe I was the first who heard any tidings of him. I remember well; it was in 1773, about four-and-twenty years ago, that I received a letter from him. Oh! how legibly are these circumstances written on my memory! It was dated from Italy, where, he told me, he resided in complete retirement, under the assumed name of Sackville." At this name, with every feature fixed in dismay, Thaddeus fell back on the sofa. The countess caught his hand. "What is the matter? You are ill? What is the matter?" The bolt of indelible disgrace had struck to his heart. It was some minutes before he could recover; but when he did speak, he said, "Pray go on, madam; I am subject to this. Pray forgive me, and go on; I shall become better as you proceed." "No, my dear friend; I will quit my dismal story at present, and resume it some other time." "Pray continue it now," rejoined Thaddeus; "I shall never be more fit to listen. Do, I entreat you." "Are you sincere in your request? I fear I have already affected you too much." "No; I am sincere: let me hear it all. Do not hold back anything which relates to that stain to the name of Englishman, who completed his crimes by rendering you wretched!" "Alas! he did," resumed her ladyship; "for when he returned, which was in consequence of the Earl of Tinemouth's death, my father was also dead, who might have stood between me and my inclinations, and so preserved me from many succeeding sorrows. I sealed my fate, and became Stanhope's wife. "The father of my husband was then Earl of Tinemouth; and as he had never been averse to our union, he presented me with a cottage on the banks of the Wye, where I passed three delightful years, the happiest of womankind. My husband, my mother, and my infant son formed my felicity; and greatly I prize it--too greatly to be allowed a long continuance! "At the end of this period, some gay friends paid us a visit. When they returned to town, they persuaded my lord to be of the party. He went; and from that fatal day all my sufferings arose. "Lord Harwold, instead of being with me in a fortnight, as he had promised, procrastinated his absence under various excuses from week to week, during which interval my Albina was born. Day after day I anticipated the delight of putting her into the arms of her father; but, what a chasm! she was three months old before he appeared; and ah! how changed. He was gloomy to me, uncivil to my mother, and hardly looked at the child." Lady Tinemouth stopped at this part of her narrative to wipe away her tears. Thaddeus was sitting forward to the table, leaning on his arm, with his hand covering his face. The countess was grateful for an excess of sympathy she did not expect; and taking his other hand, as it lay motionless on his knee, "What a consolation would it be to me," exclaimed she, "durst I entertain a hope that I may one day behold but half such pity from my own son!" Thaddeus pressed her hand. He did not venture to reply; he could not tell her that she deceived herself even here; that it was not her sorrows only which so affected him, but the remembered agonies of his own mother, whom he did not doubt the capricious villany of this very earl, under the name of Sackville (a name that had struck like a death-bolt to the heart of Thaddeus when he first heard his mother utter it), had devoted to a life of uncomplaining but ceaseless self- reproach. And had he derived his existence from such a man--the reprobate husband of Lady Tinemouth! The conviction humbled him, crushed him, and trod him to the earth. He did not look up, and the countess resumed: "It would be impossible, my dear sir, to describe to you the gradual changes which assured me that I had lost the heart of my husband. Before the end of the winter he left me again, and I saw him no more until that frightful hour in which he struck me to the ground. "The good earl came into Monmouthshire about six weeks after I parted with my lord. I was surprised and rejoiced to see my kind father-in- law; but how soon were my emotions driven into a different course! He revealed to me that during Lord Harwold's first visit to town he had been in the habit of spending entire evenings with Lady Olivia Lovel." 'This woman,' added he, 'is the most artful of her sex. In spite of her acknowledged dishonor, you well know my deceased father would gladly have married her to my son; and now it seems, actuated by revenge, she resents Lord Harwold's refusal of her hand by seducing him from his wife. Alas! I am too well convinced that the errors of my son bear too strict a resemblance to those of his grandfather. Vain of his superior abilities, and impatient of contradiction, flattery can mould him to what it pleases. Lady Olivia had discovered these weak points in his character; and, I am informed, she soon persuaded him that you impose on his affection by detaining him from the world; and, seconded by other fascinations, my deluded son has accompanied her into Spain.' "You may imagine, Mr. Constantine, my distraction at this intelligence. I was like one lost; and the venerable earl, fearing to trust me in such despair out of his sight, brought me and my children with him to London. In less than four months afterwards, I was deprived of this inestimable friend by a paralytic stroke. His death summoned the new earl to England. Whilst I lay on a sick bed, into which I had been thrown by the shock of my protector's death, my lord and his mistress arrived in London. "They immediately assumed the command of my lamented father-in-law's house, and ordered my mother to clear it directly of me. My heart- broken parent obeyed, and I was carried in a senseless state to a lodging in the nearest street. But when this dear mother returned for my children, neither of them were permitted to see her. The malignant Lady Olivia, actuated by an insatiable hatred of me, easily wrought on my frantic husband (for I must believe him mad) to detain them entirely. A short time after this, that dreadful scene happened which I have before described. "Year succeeded year, during which time I received many cruel insults from my husband, many horrible ones from my son; for I had been advised to institute a suit against my lord, in which I only pleaded for the return of my children. I lost my cause, owing, I hope, to bad counsel, not the laws of my country. I was adjudged to be separated from the earl, with a maintenance of six hundred a-year, which he hardly pays. I was tied down never to speak to him, nor to his son nor his daughter. Though this sentence was passed, I never acknowledged its justice, but wrote several times to my children. Lord Harwold, who is too deeply infected with his father's cruelty, has either returned my letters unopened or with insulting replies. For my daughter, she keeps an undeviating silence; and I have not even seen her since the moment in which she was hurried from my eyes in Tinemouth Park. "In vain her brother tries to convince me that she detests me. I will not believe it; and the hope that, should I survive her father, I may yet embrace my child, has been, and will be, my source of maternal comfort until it be fulfilled, or I bury my disappointment in the grave." Lady Tinemouth put her handkerchief to her eyes, which were again flowing with tears. Thaddeus thought he must speak, if he would not betray an interest in her narrative, which he determined no circumstance should ever humble him to reveal. Raising his head from his hand, he unconsciously discovered to the countess his agonized countenance. "Kind, affectionate Constantine! surely such a heart as thine never would bring sorrow to the breast of a virtuous husband! You could never betray the self-deluded Lady Sara to any fatal error!" Lady Tinemouth did not utter these thoughts. Thaddeus rose from his seat. "Farewell, my honored friend!" said he; "may Heaven bless you and pardon your husband!" Then grasping her hand, with what he intended should be a pressure of friendship, but which his internal tortures rendered almost intolerable, he hastened down stairs, opened the outward door, and got into the street. Unknowing and heedless whither he went, with the steps of a man driven by the furies, he traversed one street and then another. As he went along, in vain the watchmen reminded him by their cries that it was past three o'clock: he still wandered on, forgetting that it was night, that he had any home, any destination. His father was discovered!--that father of whom he had entertained a latent hope, should they ever meet, that he might produce some excuse for having been betrayed into an act disgraceful to a man of honor. But when all these filial dreams were blasted by the conviction that he owed his being to the husband of Lady Tinemouth, that his mother was the victim of a profligate, that he had sprung from a man who was not merely a villain, but the most wanton, the most despicable of villains, he saw himself bereft of hope and overwhelmed with shame and horror. Full of reflections which none other than a son in such circumstances can conceive, he was lost amidst the obscure alleys of Tottenham Court Yard, when loud and frequent cries recalled his attention. A quantity of smoke, with flashes of light, led him to suppose that they were occasioned by a fire; and a few steps further the awful spectacle burst upon his sight. It was a house from the windows of which the flames were breaking out in every direction, whilst a gathering concourse of people were either standing in stupefied astonishment or uselessly shouting for engines and assistance. At the moment in which he arrived, two or three naked wretches just escaped from their beds, were flying from side to side, making the air echo with their shrieks. "Will nobody save my children?" cried one of them, approaching Thaddeus, and wringing her hands in agony; "will nobody take them from the fire?" "Where shall I seek them?" replied he. "Oh! in that room," exclaimed she, pointing; "the flames are already there; they will be burnt! they will be burnt!" The poor woman was hurrying madly forward, when the count stopped her, and giving her in charge of a bystander, cried: "Take care of this woman, if possible, I will save her children." Darting through the open door, in defiance of the smoke and danger, he made his way to the children's room, where, almost suffocated by the sulphurous cloud that surrounded him, he at last found the bed; but it contained one child only. This he instantly caught up in his arms, and was hastening down the stairs, when the cries of the other from a distant part of the building made him hesitate; but thinking it better to secure one than to hazard both by lingering, he rushed into the street just as a post-chaise had stopped to inquire the particulars of the accident. The carriage-door being open, Thaddeus, seeing ladies in it, without saying a word, threw the sleeping infant into their laps, and hastened back into the house, where he hoped to rescue the other child before the fire could increase to warrant despair. The flames having now made dreadful progress, his face, hands, and clothes were scorched by their fury as he flew from the room, following the shrieks of the child, who seemed to change its situation with every exertion that he made to reach it. At length, when every moment he expected the house would sink under his feet, as a last attempt he directed his steps along a passage he had not before observed, and to his great joy beheld the object of his search flying down a back staircase. The boy sprung into his arms; and Thaddeus, turning round, leaped from one landing-place to another, until he found himself again in the street, surrounded by a crowd of people. He saw the poor mother clasp this second rescued child to her breast; and whilst the spectators were loading her with congratulations, he slipped away unseen, and proceeded homewards, with a warmth at his heart which made him forget, in the joy of a benevolent action, that petrifying shock which had been occasioned by the vices of one too nearly allied to his being to be hated without horror. CHAPTER XXVI. THE KINDREDSHIP OF MINDS. When Thaddeus awoke next morning, he found himself more refreshed, and freer from the effects of the last night's discovery, than he could have reasonably hoped. The presence of mind and activity which the fire called on him to exert, having forced his thoughts into a different channel, had afforded his nerves an opportunity to regain some portion of their usual strength. He could now reflect on what he had heard without suffering the crimes of another to lay him on the rack. The reins were again restored to his hand, and neither agitation nor anxiety showed themselves in his face or manner. Though the count's sensibility was very irritable, and when suddenly excited he could not always conceal his emotion, yet he possessed a power of look which immediately repressed the impertinence of curiosity or insolence. Indeed, this mantle of repulsion proved to be his best shield; for never had man more demands on the dignity of his soul to shine out about his person. Not unfrequently has his sudden appearance in the study-room at Lady Dundas's at once called a natural glow through the ladies' rouge, and silenced the gentlemen, when he has happened to enter while Miss Dundas and half-a-dozen other beaux and belles have been ridiculing Euphemia on the absurd civilities she paid to her language-master. The morning after the fire, a little bevy of these fashionable butterflies were collected in this way at one corner of Miss Dundas's Hercules table, when, during a moment's pause, "I hope, Miss Beaufort," cried the Honorable Mr. Lascelles, "I hope you don't intend to consume the brightness of your eyes over this stupid language?" "What language, Mr. Lascelles?" inquired she; "I have this moment entered the room, and I don't know what you are talking about." "Good Lud! that is very true," cried he; "I mean a shocking jargon, which a shocking penseroso man teaches to these ladies. We want to persuade Miss Euphemia that it spoils her mouth." "You are always misconceiving me, Mr. Lascelles," interrupted Miss Dundus, impatiently; "I did not advance one word against the language; I merely remonstrated with Phemy against her preposterous attentions to the man we hire to teach it." "That was what I meant, madam," resumed he, with a low bow. "You meant what, sir?" demanded the little beauty, contemptuously; "but I need not ask. You are like a bad mirror, which from radical defect always gives false reflections." "Very good, faith, Miss Euphemia! I declare, sterling wit! It would honor Sheridan, or your sister." "Mr. Lascelles," cried Euphemia, more vexed than before, "let me tell you such impertinence is very unbecoming a gentleman." "Upon my soul, Miss Euphemia!" "Pray allow the petulant young lady to get out of her airs, as she has, I believe, got out of her senses, without our help!" exclaimed Miss Dundas; "for I declare I know not where she picked up these vile democratic ideas." "I am not a democrat, Diana," answered Euphemia, rising from her seat; "and I won't stay to be abused, when I know it is all envy, because Mr. Constantine happened to say that I have a quicker memory than you have." She left the room as she ended. Miss Dundas, ready to storm with passion, but striving to conceal it, burst into a violent laugh, and turning to Miss Beaufort, said: "You now see, my dear Mary, a sad specimen of Euphemia's temper; yet I hope you won't think too severely of her, for, poor thing, she has been spoilt by us all." "Pray, do not apologize to me in particular!" replied Miss Beaufort; "but, to be frank, I think it probable she would have shown her temper less had that little admonition been given in private. I doubt not she has committed something wrong, yet----" "Yes, something very wrong," interrupted Miss Dundas, reddening at this rebuke; "both Mr. Lascelles and Lord Berington there----" "Don't bring in my name, I pray, Miss Dundas," cried the viscount, who was looking over an old edition of Massinger's plays; "you know I hate being squeezed into squabbles." Miss Dundas dropped the corners of her mouth in contempt, and went on. "Well, then, Mr. Lascelles, and Miss Poyntz, here, have both at different times been present when Phemy has conducted herself in a very ridiculous way towards a young man Lady Tinemouth sent here to teach us German. Can you believe it possible that a girl of her fashion could behave in this style without having first imbibed some very dangerous notions? I am sure I am right, for she could not be more civil to him if he were a gentleman." Miss Dundas supposed she had now set the affair beyond controversy, and stopped with an air of triumph. Miss Beaufort perceived that her answer was expected. "I really cannot discover anything in the matter so very reprehensible," replied she. "Perhaps the person you speak of may have the qualifications of a gentleman; he may be above his situation." "Ah! above it, sure enough!" cried Lascelles, laughing boisterously at his own folly. He is tall enough to be above everything, even good manners; for notwithstanding his plebeian calling, I find he doesn't know how to keep his distance." "I am sorry for that, Lascelles," cried Berrington, measuring the puppy with his good-natured eye; "for these Magog men are terrible objects to us of meaner dimensions! 'A substitute shines brightly as a king until a king be by,'" "Why, my lord, you do not mean to compare me with such a low fellow as this? I don't understand Lord Berrington----" "Bless me, gentlemen!" cried Miss Dundas, frightened at the angry looks of the little honorable; "why, my lord, I thought you hated squabbles?" "So I do, Miss Dundas," replied he, laying down his book and coming forward; "and upon my honor, Mr. Lascelles," added he, smiling, and turning towards the coxcomb, who stood nidging his head with anger by Miss Beaufort's chair,--"upon my honor, Mr. Lascelles, I did not mean to draw any parallel between your person and talents and those of this Mr,----, I forget his name, for truly I never saw him in my life; but I dare swear no comparison can exist between you." Lascelles took the surface of this speech, and bowed, whilst his lordship, turning to Miss Beaufort, began to compliment himself on possessing so fair an ally in defence of an absent person. "I never have seen him," replied she; "and what is more, I never heard of him, till on entering the room Mr. Lascelles arrested me for my opinion about him. I only arrived from the country last night, and can have no guess at the real grounds of this ill-judged bustle of Miss Dundas's regarding a man she styles despicable. If he be so, why retain him in her service? and, what is more absurd, why make a person in that subordinate situation the subject of debate amongst her friends?" "You are right, Miss Beaufort, returned Lord Berrington; but the eloquent Miss Dundas is so condescending to her friends, she lets no opportunity slip of displaying her sceptre, both over the republic of words and the empire of her mother's family." "Are not you severe now, Lord Berrington? I thought you generous to the poor tutor!" "No; I hope I am just on both subjects. I know the lady, and it is true that I have seen nothing of the tutor; but it is natural to wield the sword in favor of the defenceless, and I always consider the absent in that light." Whilst these two conversed at one end of the room, the other group were arraigning the presumption of the vulgar, and the folly of those who gave it encouragement. At a fresh burst of laughter from Miss Dundas, Miss Beaufort mechanically turned her head; her eye was arrested by the appearance of a gentleman in black, who was standing a few paces within the door. He was regarding the party before him with that lofty tranquillity which is inseparable from high rank, when accompanied by a consciousness of as high inward qualities. His figure, his face, and his air contained that pure simplicity of contour which portrays all the graces of youth with the dignity of manhood. Miss Beaufort in a moment perceived that he was unobserved; rising from her seat, she said, "Miss Dundas, here is a gentleman." Miss Dundas looked round carelessly. "You may sit down, Mr. Constantine." "Is it possible!" thought Miss Beaufort, as he approached, and the ingenuous expression of his fine countenance was directed towards her; "can this noble creature have been the subject of such impertinence!" "I commend little Phemy's taste!" whispered Lord Berrington, leaving his seat. "Ha! Miss Beaufort, a young Apollo?" "And not in disguise!" replied she in the same manner, just as Thaddeus had bowed to her; and, with "veiled lids," was taking up a book from the table: not to read, but literally to have an object to look on which could not insult him. "What did Miss Dundas say was his name?" whispered the viscount. "Constantine, I think." "Mr. Constantine," said the benevolent Berrington, "will you accept this chair?" Thaddeus declined it. But the viscount read in the "proud humility" of his bow that he had not always waited, a dependent, on the nods of insolent men and ladies of fashion; and, with a good-humored compulsion, he added, "pray oblige me for by that means I shall have an excuse to squeeze into the _Sultane_, which is so 'happy as to bear the weight of Beaufort!'" Though Miss Beaufort was almost a stranger to his lordship, having seen him only once before, with her cousin in Leicestershire, she smiled at this unexpected gallantry, and in consideration of the motive, made room for him on the sofa. Offence was not swifter than kindness in its passage to the heart of Thaddeus, who, whilst he received the viscount's chair, raised his face towards him with a look beaming such graciousness and obligation, that Miss Beaufort turned with a renewed glance of contempt on the party. The next instant they left the study. The instant Miss Dundas closed the door after her, Lord Berrington exclaimed, "Upon my honor, Mr. Constantine, I have a good mind to put that terrible pupil of yours into my next comedy! Don't you think she would beat Katharine and Petruchio all to nothing? I declare I will have her." "In _propria persona_, I hope?" asked Miss Beaufort, with a playful smile. Lord Berrington answered with a gay sally from Shakspeare. The count remained silent during these remarks, though he fully appreciated the first civil treatment which had greeted him since his admission within the doors of Lady Dundas Miss Euphemia's attentions owned any other source than benevolence. Miss Beaufort wished to relieve his embarrassment by addressing him; but the more she thought, the less she knew what to say; and she had just abandoned it as a vain attempt, when Euphemia entered the room alone. She curtseyed to Thaddeus and took her place at the table. Lord Berrington rose. "I must say good-by, Miss Euphemia; I will not disturb your studies. Farewell, Miss Beaufort!" added he, addressing her, and bending his lips to her hand. "Adieu! I shall look in upon you to-morrow. Good- morning, Mr. Constantine!" Thaddeus bowed to him, and the viscount disappeared. "I am surprised. Miss Beaufort," observed Euphemia, pettishly (her temper not having subsided since her sister's lecture), "how you can endure that coxcomb!" "Pardon me, Euphemia," replied she; "though I did not exactly expect the ceremony his lordship adopts in taking leave, yet I think there is a generosity in his sentiments which deserves a better title." "I know nothing about his sentiments, for I always run away from his conversation. A better title! I declare you make me laugh. Did you ever see such fantastical dressing? I vow I never meet him without thinking of Jemmy Jessamy, and the rest of the gossamer beaux who squired our grandmothers!" "My acquaintance with Lord Berrington is trifling," returned Miss Beaufort, withdrawing her eyes from the pensive features of the count, who was sorting the lessons; "yet I am so far prepossessed in his favor, that I see little in his appearance to reprehend. However, I will not contest that point, as perhaps the philanthropy I this morning discovered in his heart, the honest warmth with which he defended an absent character, after you left the room, might render his person as charming in my eyes as I certainly found his mind." Thaddeus had not for a long time heard such sentiments out of Lady Tinemouth's circle; and he now looked up to take a distinct view of the speaker. In consequence of the established mode, that the presiding lady of the house is to give the tone to her guests, many were the visitors of Miss Dundas whose faces Thaddeus was as ignorant of when they went out of the library as when they came in. They took little notice of him; and he, regarding them much less, pursued his occupation without evincing a greater consciousness of their presence than what mere ceremony demanded. Accordingly, when in compliance with Lord Berrington's politeness he received his chair, and saw him remove to a sofa beside a very beautiful woman, in the bloom of youth, Thaddeus supposed her manner might resemble the rest of Miss Dundas's friends, and never directed his glance a second time to her figure. But when he heard her (in a voice that was melody itself) defend his lordship's character, on principles which bore the most honorable testimony to her own, his eyes were riveted on her face. Though a large Turkish shawl involved her fine person, a modest grace was observable in its every turn. Her exquisitely moulded arm, rather veiled than concealed by the muslin sleeve that covered it, was extended in the gentle energy of her vindication. Her lucid eyes shone with a sincere benevolence, and her lips seemed to breathe balm while she spoke. His soul startled within itself as if by some strange recognition that agitated him, and drew him inexplicably towards its object. It was not the beauty he beheld, nor the words she uttered, but he did not withdraw his fixed gaze until it encountered an accidental turn of her eyes, which instantly retreated with a deep blush mantling her face and neck. She had never met such a look before, except in an occasional penetrating glance from an only cousin, who had long watched the movements of her heart with a brother's care. But little did Thaddeus think at that time who she was, and how nearly connected with that friend whose neglect has been a venomed shaft unto his soul! Mary Beaufort was the orphan heiress of Admiral Beaufort, one of the most distinguished officers in the British navy. He was the only brother of the now lamented Lady Somerset, the beloved mother of Pembroke Somerset, so often the eloquent subject of his discourse in the sympathizing ear of Thaddeus Sobieski! The admiral and his wife, a person also of high quality, died within a few months after the birth of their only child, a daughter, having bequeathed her to the care of her paternal aunt; and to the sole guardianship of that exemplary lady's universally-honored husband, Sir Robert Somerset, baronet, and M. P. for the county. When Lady Somerset's death spread mourning throughout his, till then, happy home, (which unforeseen event occurred hardly a week before her devoted son returned from the shores of the Baltic,) a double portion of Sir Robert's tenderness fell upon her cherished niece. In her society alone he found any consolation for his loss. And soon after Pembroke's arrival, his widowed father, relinquishing the splendid scenes of his former life in London, retired into the country, sometimes residing at one family seat, sometimes at another, hoping by change of place to obtain some alleviating diversion from his ever sorrow-centred thoughts. Sir Robert Somerset, from the time of his marriage with the accomplished sister of Admiral Beaufort to the hour in which he followed her to the grave, was regarded as the most admired man in every circle, and yet more publicly respected as being the magnificent host and most munificent patron of talent, particularly of British growth, in the whole land. Besides, by his own genius as a statesman, he often stood a tower of strength in the senate of his country; and his general probity was of such a stamp, that his private friends were all solicitous to acquire the protection of his name over any important trusted interests for their families. For instance, the excellent Lord Avon consigned his only child to his guardianship, and his wealthy neighbor, Sir Hector Dundas, made him sole trusted over the immense fortunes of his daughters. This latter circumstance explains the intimacy between two families, the female parts of which might otherwise have probably seldom met. On Sir Robert Somerset's last transient visit to London, (which had been only on a call of business, on account of his minor charge, Lord Avon,) Lady Dundas became so urgent in requesting him to permit Miss Beaufort to pass the ensuing season with her in town, that he could not, without rudeness, refuse. In compliance with this arrangement, the gentle Mary, accompanied by Miss Dorothy Somerset, a maiden sister of the baronet's, quitted Deerhurst to settle themselves with her importunate ladyship in Harley Street for the remainder of the winter--at least the winter of fashion! which, by a strange effect of her magic wand, in defiance of grassy meadows, leafy trees, and sweetly-scented flowers, extends its nominal sceptre over the vernal months of April, May, and even the rich treasures of "resplendent June." The summer part of this winter Miss Beaufort reluctantly consented should be sacrificed to ceremony, in the dust and heat of a great city; and if the melancholy which daily increased upon Sir Robert since the death of his wife had not rendered her averse to oppose his wishes, she certainly would have made objections to the visit. During the journey, she could not refrain from drawing a comparison to Miss Dorothy between the dissipated insipidity of Lady Dundas's way of life and the rationality as well as splendor of her late lamented aunt's. Lady Somerset's monthly assemblies were not the most elegant and brilliant parties in town, but her weekly _conversaziones_ surpassed everything of the kind in the kingdom. On these nights her ladyship's rooms used to be filled with the most eminent characters which England could produce. There the young Mary Beaufort listened to pious divines of every Christian persuasion. There she gathered wisdom from real philosophers; and in the society of our best living poets, amongst whom were those leaders of our classic song, Rogers and William Southey, and the amiable Jerningham, cherished an enthusiasm for all that is great and good. On these evenings Sir Robert Somerset's house reminded the visitor of what he had read or imagined of the school of Athens. He beheld not only sages, soldiers, statesmen, and poets, but intelligent and amiable women. And in this rare assembly did the beautiful Mary imbibe that steady reverence for virtue and talent which no intermixture with the ephemera of the clay could ever after either displace or impair. Notwithstanding this rare freedom from the chains with which her merely fashionable friends would have shackled her mind, Miss Beaufort possessed too much judgment and delicacy to flash her liberty in their eyes. Enjoying her independence with meekness, she held it more secure. Mary was no declaimer, not even in the cause of oppressed goodness or injured genius. Aware that direct opposition often incenses malice, she directed the shaft from its aim, if it were in her power, and when the attempt failed, strove by respect or sympathy to heal the wound she could not avert. Thus, whatever she said or did bore the stamp of her soul, whose leading attribute was modesty. By having learned much, and thought more, she proved in her conduct that reflection is the alchemy which turns knowledge into wisdom. Never did she feel so much regret at the shrinking of her powers from coming forth by some word or deed in aid of offended worth, as when she beheld the foreign stranger, so noble in aspect, standing under the overbearing insolence of Miss Dundas's parasites. But she perceived that his dignified composure rebounded their darts upon his insulters, and respect took the place of pity. The situation was new to her; and when she dropped her confused eyes beneath his unexpected gaze, she marvelled within herself at the ease with which she had just taken up the cause of Lord Berrington, and the difficulty she had found to summon one word as a repellant to the unmerited attack on the man before her. Euphemia cared nothing about Lord Berrington; to her his faults or his virtues were alike indifferent; and forgetting that civility demanded some reply to Miss Beaufort's last observation, or rather taking advantage of the tolerated privilege usurped by many high-bred people of being ill-bred, when and how they pleased, she returned to Thaddeus, and said with a forced smile-- "Mr. Constantine, I don't like your opinion upon the ode I showed to you; I think it a very absurd opinion; or perhaps you did not understand me rightly?" Miss Beaufort took up a book, that her unoccupied attention might not disturb their studies. Euphemia resumed, with a more natural dimple, and touching his glove with the rosy points of her fingers, said, "You are stupid at translation." Thaddeus colored, and sat uneasily; he knew not how to evade this direct though covert attack. "I am a bad poet, madam. Indeed, it would be dangerous even for a good one to attempt the same path with Sappho and Phillips." Euphemia now blushed as deeply as the count, but from another motive. Opening her grammar, she whispered, "You are either a very dull or a very modest man!" and, sighing, began to repeat her lesson. While he bent his head over the sheet he was correcting; she suddenly exclaimed, "Bless me, Mr. Constantine, what have you been doing? I hope you don't read in bed! The top of your hair is burnt to a cinder! Why, you look much more like one who has been in a fire than Miss Beaufort does." Thaddeus put his hand to his head. "I thought I had brushed away all marks of a fire, in which I really was last night." "A fire!" interrupted Miss Beaufort, closing her book; "was it near Tottenham Court Road?" "It was, madam," answered he, in a tone almost as surprised as her own. "Good gracious!" cried Euphemia, exerting her little voice, that she might be heard before Miss Beaufort could have time to reply; "then I vow you are the gentleman who Miss Beaufort said ran into the burning house, and, covered with flames, saved two children from perishing!" "And I am so happy as to meet one of the ladies," replied he, turning with an animated air to Miss Beaufort, "in you, madam, who so humanely assisted the poor sufferers, and received the child from my arms?" "It was indeed myself, Mr. Constantine," returned she, a tear swimming over her eye, which in a moment gave the cue to the tender Euphemia. She drew out her handkerchief; and whilst her pretty cheeks overflowed, and her sweet voice was rendered sweeter by an emotion raised by ten thousand delightful fancies, she took hold of Miss Beaufort's hand. "Oh! my lovely friend, wonder not that I esteem this brave Constantine far beyond his present station!" Thaddeus drew back. Miss Beaufort looked amazed; but Euphemia had mounted her romantic Pegasus, and the scene was too sentimental to close. "Come here, Mr. Constantine," cried she, extending her other hand to his. Wondering where this folly would terminate, he gave it to her, when, instantly joining it with that of Miss Beaufort, she pressed them together, and said, "Sweet Mary! heroic Constantine! I thus elect you the two dearest friends of my heart. So charmingly associated in the delightful task of compassion, you shall ever be commingled in my faithful bosom." Then putting her handkerchief to her eyes, she walked out of the room, leaving Miss Beaufort and the count, confused and confounded, by the side of each other. Miss Beaufort, suspecting that some extravagant fancy had taken possession of the susceptible Euphemia towards her young tutor, declined speaking first. Thaddeus, fixing his gaze on her downcast and revolving countenance, perceived nothing like offended pride at his undesigned presumption. He saw that she was only embarrassed, and after a minute's hesitation, broke the silence. "I hope that Miss Beaufort is sufficiently acquainted with the romance of Miss Euphemia's character to pardon the action, unintentional on my part, of having touched her hand? I declare I had no expectation of Miss Euphemia's design." "Do not make any apology to me, Mr. Constantine," returned she, resuming her seat; "to be sure I was a little electrified by the strange situation in which her vivid feelings have just made us actors. But I shall not forego my claim on what she promised--your acquaintance." Thaddeus expressed his high sense of her condescension. "I am not fond of fine terms," continued she, smiling; "but I know that time and merit must purchase esteem. I can engage for the first, as I am to remain in town at least three months; but for the last, I fear I shall never have the opportunity of giving such an earnest of my desert as you did last night of yours." Footsteps sounded on the stairs. Thaddeus took up his hat, and bowing, replied to her compliment with such a modest yet noble grace, that she gazed after him with wonder and concern. Before he closed the door he again bowed. Pleased with the transient look of a soft pleasure which beamed from his eyes, through whose ingenuous mirrors every thought of his soul might be read, she smiled a second adieu, and as he disappeared, left the room by another passage. * * * * * * * CHAPTER XXVII. SUCH THINGS WERE. When the count appeared the succeeding day in Harley Street, Miss Beaufort introduced him to Miss Dorothy Somerset as the gentleman who had so gallantly preserved the lives of the children at the hazard of his own. Notwithstanding the lofty tossings of Miss Dundas's head, the good old maid paid him several encomiums on his intrepidity; and telling him that the sufferers were the wife and family of a poor tradesman, who was then absent in the country, she added, "But we saw them comfortably lodged before we left them; and all the time we stayed, I could not help congratulating myself on the easy compliance of Mary with my whims. I dislike sleeping at an inn; and to prevent it then, I had prevailed on Miss Beaufort to pursue our road to town even through the night. It was lucky it happened so, for I am certain Mary will not allow these poor creatures a long lament over the wreck of their little property." "How charmingly charitable, my lovely friend!" cried Euphemia; "let us make a collection for this unfortunate woman and her babes. Pray, as a small tribute, take that from me!" She put five guineas into the hand of the glowing Mary. The ineffable grace with which the confused Miss Beaufort laid the money on her aunt's knee did not escape the observance of Thaddeus; neither did the unintended approbation of his eye pass unnoticed by its amiable object. When Lady Tinemouth was informed that evening by the count of the addition to the Harley Street party, she was delighted at the news, saying she had been well acquainted with Miss Dorothy and her niece during the lifetime of Lady Somerset, and would take an early day to call upon them. During this part of her ladyship's discourse, an additional word or two had unfolded to her auditor the family connection that had subsisted between the lady she regretted and his estranged friend. And when the countess paused, Thaddeus, struck with a forgiving pity at this intelligence, was on the point of expressing his concern that Pembroke Somerset had lost so highly-prized a mother; but recollecting that Lady Tinemouth was ignorant of their ever having known each other, he allowed her to proceed without a remark. "I never have been in company with Sir Robert's son," continued the countess; "it was during his absence on the Continent that I was introduced to Lady Somerset. She was a woman who possessed the rare talent of conforming herself to all descriptions of people; and whilst the complacency of her attentions surpassed the most refined flattery, she commanded the highest veneration for herself. Hence you may imagine my satisfaction in an acquaintance which it is probable would never have been mine had I been the happy Countess of Tinemouth, instead of a deserted wife. Though the Somersets are related to my lord, they had long treated him as a stranger; and doubly disgusted at his late behavior, they commenced a friendship with me, I believe, to demonstrate more fully their detestation of him. Indeed, my husband is a creature of inconsistency. No man possessed more power to attract friends than Lord Tinemouth, and no man had less power to retain them; as fast as he made one he offended the other, and has at last deprived himself of every individual out of his own house who would not regard his death as a fortunate circumstance." "But, Lady Somerset," cried Thaddeus, impatient to change a subject every word of which was a dagger to his heart, "I mean Miss Dorothy Somerset, Miss Beaufort--" "Yes," returned her ladyship; "I see, kind Mr. Constantine, your friendly solicitude to disengage me from retrospections so painful! Well, then, I knew and very much esteemed the two ladies you mention; but after the death of Lady Somerset, their almost constant residence in the country has greatly prevented a renewal of this pleasure. However, as they are now in town, I will thank you to acquaint them with my intention to call upon them in Harley Street. I remember always thinking Miss Beaufort a very charming girl." Thaddeus thought her more. He saw that she was beautiful; he had witnessed instances of her goodness, and the recollection filled his mind with a complacency the more tender since it had so long been a stranger to his bosom; and again he felt the strange emotion which had passed over his heart at their first meeting. But further observations were prevented by the entrance of Miss Egerton and Lady Sara Ross. "I am glad to see you, Mr. Constantine," cried the lively Sophia, shaking hands with him; "you are the very person I have been plotting against." Lady Tinemouth was uneasy at the care with which Lady Sara averted her face, well knowing that it was to conceal the powerful agitation of her features, which always took place at the sight of Thaddeus. "What is your plot, Miss Egerton?" inquired he; "I shall consider myself honored by your commands, and do not require a conspiracy to entrap my obedience." "That's a good soul! Then I have only to apply to you, Lady Tinemouth. Your ladyship must know," cried she, "that as Lady Sara and I were a moment ago driving up the Haymarket, I nodded to Mr. Coleman, who was coming out of the playhouse. He stopped, I pulled the check-string, and we had a great deal of confab out of the window. He tells me a new farce is to come out this day week, and he hoped I would be there! 'No,' said I, 'I cannot, for I am on a visit with that precise body, the Countess of Tinemouth, who would not, to save you and all your generation, come into such a mob,' 'Her ladyship shall have my box,' cried he; 'for I would not for the world lose the honor of your opinion on the merits of my farce.' 'To be sure not!' cries I; so I accepted his box, and drove off, devising with Lady Sara how to get your ladyship as our chaperon and Mr. Constantine to be our beau. He has just promised; so dear Lady Tinemouth, don't be inflexible!" Thaddeus was confounded at the dilemma into which his ready acquiescence had involved his prudence. The countess shook her head. "Now I declare, Lady Tinemouth," exclaimed Miss Egerton, "this is an absolute stingy fit! You are afraid of your purse! You know this private box precludes all awkward meetings, and you can have no excuse." "But it cannot preclude all awkward sights," answered her ladyship. "You know, Sophia, I never go into public, for fear of being met by the angry looks of my lord or my son." "Disagreeable people!" cried Miss Egerton, pettishly; "I wish some friendly whirlwind would take your lord and son out of the world together." "Sophia!" retorted her ladyship, with a grave air. "Rebuke me, Lady Tinemouth, if you like; I confess I am no Serena, and these trials of temper don't agree with my constitution. There," cried she, throwing a silver medal on the table, and laughing in spite of herself: "there is our passport; but I will send it back, and so break poor Coleman's heart." "Fie! Sophia," answered her ladyship, patting her half-angry cheeks; "would you owe to your petulance what was denied to your good humor?" "Then your ladyship will go!" exclaimed she, exultingly. "You have yielded; these sullens were a part of my stratagem, and I won't let you secede." Lady Tinemouth thought this would be a fair opportunity to show one of the theatres to her young friend, without involving him in expense or obligation, and accordingly she gave her consent. "Do you intend to favor us with your company, Lady Sara?" asked the countess, with a hope that she might refuse. Lady Sara, who had been standing silently at the window, rather proudly answered-- "Yes, madam, if you will honor me with your protection." Lady Tinemouth was the only one present who understood the resentment which these words conveyed; and, almost believing that she had gone too far, by implying suspicion, she approached her with a pleading anxiety of countenance. "Then, Lady Sara, perhaps you will dine with me? I mean to call on Miss Dorothy Somerset, and would invite her to be of the party." Lady Sara curtseyed her acceptance of the invitation, and, smiling, appeared to think no more of the matter. But she neither forgot it nor found herself able to forgive Lady Tinemouth for having betrayed her into a confidence which her own turbulent passions had made but too easy. She had listened unwillingly to the reasonable declaration of the countess, that her only way to retreat from an error which threatened criminality was to avoid the object. "When a married woman," observed her ladyship, in that confidential conference, "is so unhappy as to love any man besides her husband, her only safety rests in the resolution to quit his society, and to banish his image whenever it obtrudes." Lady Sara believed herself incapable of this exertion, and hated the woman who thought it necessary. By letter and conversation Lady Tinemouth tried to display in every possible light the enormity of giving encouragement to such an attachment, and ended with the unanswerable climax--the consideration of her duty to Heaven. Of this argument Lady Sara knew little. She never reflected on the true nature of religion, though she sometimes went to church, repeated the prayers, without being conscious of their spirit; and when the coughing, sneezing, and blowing of noses which commonly accompany the text subsided, she generally called up the remembrance of the last ball, or an anticipation of the next assembly, to amuse herself until the prosing business was over. From church she drove to the Park, where, bowling round the ring, or sauntering in the gardens, she soon forgot that there existed in the universe a Power of higher consequence to please than her own vanity--and the admiration of the spectators. Lady Sara would have shuddered at hearing any one declare himself a deist, much more an atheist; but for any influence which her nominal belief held over her desires, she might as well have been either. She never committed an action deserving the name of premeditated injury, nor went far out of her way to do her best friend a service,--not because she wanted inclination, but she ceased to remember both the petitioner and his petition before he had been five minutes from her sight. She had read as much as most fine ladies have read: a few histories, a few volumes of essays, a few novels, and now and then a little poetry comprised the whole range of her studies; these, with morning calls and evening assemblies, occupied her whole day. Such had been the routine of her life until she met the once "young star" of Poland, Thaddeus Sobieski, in an unknown exile, an almost nameless guest, at Lady Tinemouth's, which event caused a total revolution in her mind and conduct. The strength of Lady Sara's understanding might have credited a better education; but her passions bearing an equal power with this mental vigor, and having taken a wrong direction, she neither acknowledged the will nor the capability to give the empire to her reason. When love really entered her heart, its first conquest was over her universal vanity; she surrendered all her admirers, in the hope of securing the admiration of Thaddeus; its second victory mastered her discretion; she revealed her unhappy affection to Lady Tinemouth, and more than hinted it to himself. What had she else to lose? She believed her honor to be safer than her life. Her _honor_ was the term. She had no conception, or, at best, a faint one, that a breach of the marriage vow could be an outrage on the laws of Heaven. The word sin had been gradually ignored by the oligarchy of fashion, from the hour in which Charles the Second and his profligate court trod down piety with hypocrisy; and in this day the new philosophy has accomplished its total outlawry, denouncing it as a rebel to decency and the freedom of man. Thus, the Christian religion being driven from the haunts of the great, pagan morality is raised from that prostration where, Dagon- like, it fell at the feet of the Scriptures, and is again erected as the idol of adoration. Guilt against Heaven fades before the decrees of man; his law of ethics reprobates crime. But crime is only a temporal transgression, in opposition to the general good; it draws no consequent punishment heavier than the judgment of a broken human law, or the resentment of the offended private parties. Morality neither promises rewards after death nor denounces future chastisement for error. The disciples of this independent doctrine hold forth instances of the perfectibility of human actions, produced by the unassisted decisions of human intellect on the limits of right and wrong. They admire virtue, because it is beautiful. They practice it, because it is heroic. They do not abstain from the gratification of an intemperate wish under the belief that it is sinful, but in obedience to their reason, which rejects the commission of a vicious act because it is uncomely. In the first case, God is their judge; in the latter, themselves. The comparison need only be proposed, to humble the pride that made it necessary. How do these systematizers refine and subtilize? How do they dwell on the principle of virtue, and turn it in every metaphysical light, until their philosophy rarifies it to nothing! Some degrade, and others abandon, the only basis on which an upright character can stand with firmness. The bulwark which Revelation erected between the passions and the soul is levelled first; and then that instinctive rule of right which the modern casuist denominates the citadel of virtue falls of course. By such gradations the progress of depravity is accomplished; and the general leaven having worked to Lady Sara's mind on such premises, (though she might not arrange them so distinctly,) she deduced that what is called conjugal right is a mere establishment of man, and might be extended or limited by him to any length he pleased. For instance, the Turks were not content with one wife, but appropriated hundreds to one man; and because such indulgence was permitted by Mohammed, no other nation presumed to call them culpable. Hence she thought that if she could once reconcile herself to believe that her own happiness was dearer to her than the notice of half a thousand people to whom she was indifferent; that only in their opinion and the world's her flying to the protection of Thaddeus would be crime;--could she confidently think this, what should deter her from instantly throwing herself into the arms of the man she loved? [Footnote: Such were the moral tactics for human conduct at the commencement of this century. But, thanks to the patience of God, he has given a better spirit to the present age,--to his philosophy an admirable development of the wisdom and beneficence of his works, instead of the former metaphysical vanities and contradictory bewilderments of opinions concerning the divine nature and the elements of man, which, as far as a demon-spirit could go, had plunged the created world, both physically and morally, into the darkness of chaos again. The Holy Scriptures are now the foundation studies of our country, and her ark is safe.--1845.] "Ah!" cried the thus self-deluded Lady Sara, one night, as she traversed her chamber in a paroxysm of tears; "what are the vows I have sworn? How can I keep them? I have sworn to love, to honor Captain Ross; but in spite of myself, without any action of my own, I have broken both these oaths. I cannot love him; I hate him; and I cannot honor the man I hate. What have I else to break? Nothing. Ny nuptial vow is as completely annihilated as if I had left him never to return. How?" cried she, after a pause of some minutes, "how shall I know what passes in the mind of Constantine? Did he love me, would he protect me, I would brave the whole universe. Oh, I should be the happiest of the happy!" Fatal conclusion of reflection! It infected her dreaming and her waking fancy. She regarded everything as an enemy that opposed her passion; and as the first of these enemies, she detested Lady Tinemouth. The countess's last admonishing letter enraged her by its arguments; and, throwing it into the fire with execrations and tears, she determined to pursue her own will, but to affect being influenced by her ladyship's counsels. The Count Sobieski, who surmised not the hundredth part of the infatuation of Lady Sara, began to hope that her ardent manner had misled him, or that she had seen the danger of such imprudence. Under these impressions, the party for the theatre was settled; and Thaddeus, after sitting an hour in Grosvenor Place, returned to his humble home, and attendance on his venerated friend. CHAPTER XXVIII. MARY BEAUFORT AND HER VENERABLE AUNT. The addition of Miss Dorothy Somerset and Miss Beaufort to the morning group at Lady Dundas's imparted a less reluctant motion to the before tardy feet of the count, whenever he turned them towards Harley Street. Miss Dorothy readily supposed him to have been better born than he appeared; and displeased with the treatment he had received from Miss Dundas and her guests, behaved to him herself with the most gratifying politeness. Aunt Dorothy (for that was the title by which every branch of the baronet's family addressed her) was full twenty years the senior of her brother, Sir Robert Somerset. Having in her youth been thought very like the famous and lovely Mrs. Woffington, she had been considered the beauty of her time, and, as such, for ten years continued the reigning belle. Nevertheless, she arrived at the age, of seventy-two without having been either the object or the subject of a fervent passion. Possessing a fine understanding, a refined taste, and fine feelings, by some chance she had escaped love. It cannot be denied that she was much admired, much respected, and much esteemed, and that she received two or three splendid proposals from men of rank. Some of those men she admired, some she respected, and some she esteemed, but not one did she love, and she successively refused them all. Shortly after their discharge, they generally consoled themselves by marrying other women, who, perhaps, wanted both the charms and the sense of Miss Somerset; yet she congratulated them on their choice, and usually became the warm friend of the happy couple. Thus year passed over year; Miss Somerset continued the esteemed of every worthy heart, though she could not then kindle the embers of a livelier glow in any one of them; and at the epoch called a _certain age_, she found herself an old maid, but possessing so much good humor and affection towards the young people about her, she did not need any of her own to mingle in the circle. This amiable old lady usually took her knitting into the library before the fair students; and whenever Thaddeus entered the room, (so natural is it for generous natures to sympathize,) his eyes first sought her venerable figure; then glancing around to catch an assuring beam from the lovely countenance of her niece, he seated himself with confidence. The presence of these ladies operated as a more than sufficient antidote to the disagreeableness of his situation. To them he directed all the attention that was not required by his occupation; he heard them only speak when a hundred others were talking; he saw them only when a hundred others were in company. In addition to this pleasant change, Miss Euphemia's passion assumed a less tormenting form. She had been reading Madame d'Arblay's Camilla; and becoming enamored of the delicacy and pensive silence of the interesting heroine, she determined on adopting the same character; and at the same time taking it into her ever-creative brain that Constantine's coldness bore a striking affinity to the caution of Edgar Mandelbert, she wiped the rouge from her pretty face, and prepared to "let concealment, like a worm in the bud, feed on her damask cheek." To afford decorous support to this fancy, her gayest clothes were thrown aside, to make way for a negligence of apparel which cost her two hours each morning to compose. Her dimpling smiles were now quite banished. She was ever sighing, and ever silent, and ever lolling and leaning about; reclining along sofas, or in some disconsolate attitude, grouping herself with one of the marble urns, and sitting "like Patience on a monument smiling at grief." Thaddeus preferred this pathetic whim to her former Sapphic follies; it afforded him quiet, and relieved him from much embarrassment. Every succeeding visit induced Miss Beaufort to observe him with a more lively interest. The nobleness yet humility with which he behaved towards herself and her aunt, and the manly serenity with which he suffered the insulting sarcasms of Miss Dundas, led her not merely to conceive but to entertain many doubts that his present situation was that of his birth. The lady visitors who dropped in on the sisters' studies were not backward in espousing the game of ridicule, as it played away a few minutes, to join in a laugh with the "witty Diana." These gracious beings thought their sex gave them privilege to offend; but it was not always that the gentlemen durst venture beyond a shrug of the shoulder, a drop of the lip, a wink of the eye, or a raising of the brows. Mary observed with contempt that they were prudent enough not to exercise even these specimens of a mean hostility except when its noble object had turned his back, and regarding him with increased admiration, she was indignant, and then disdainful, at the envy which actuated these men to treat with affected scorn him whom they secretly feared. [Illustration: MISS EUPHEMIA DUNDAS.] The occasional calls of Lady Tinemouth and Miss Egerton stimulated the cabal against Thaddeus. The sincere sentiment of equality with themselves which these two ladies evinced by their behavior to him, and the same conduct being adopted by Miss Dorothy and her beautiful niece, besides the evident partiality of Euphemia, altogether inflamed the spleen of Miss Dundas, and excited her _coterie_ to acts of the most extravagant rudeness. The little phalanx, at the head of which was the superb Diana, could offer no real reason for disliking a man who was not only their inferior, but who had never offended them even by implication. It was a sufficient apology to their easy consciences that "he gave himself such courtly airs as were quite ridiculous--that his presumption was astonishing. In short, they were all idle, and it was exceedingly amusing to lounge a morning with the rich Dundases and hoax Monsieur." Had Thaddeus known one fourth of the insolent derision with which his misfortunes were treated behind his back, perhaps even his friend's necessity could not have detained him in his employment. The brightness of a brave man's name makes shadows perceptible which might pass unmarked over a duller surface. Sobieski's delicate honor would have supposed itself sullied by enduring such contumely with toleration. But, as was said before, the male adjuncts of Miss Dundas had received so opportune a warning from an accidental knitting of the count's brow, they never after could muster temerity to sport their wit to his face. These circumstances were not lost upon Mary; she collected them as part of a treasure, and turned them over on her pillow with the jealous examination of a miser. Like Euphemia, she supposed Thaddeus to be other than he seemed. Yet her fancy did not suppose him gifted with the blood of the Bourbons; she merely believed him to be a gentleman; and from the maternal manner of Lady Tinemouth towards him, she suspected that her ladyship knew more of his history than she chose to reveal. Things were in this state, when the countess requested that Miss Dorothy would allow her niece to make one in her party to the Haymarket Theatre. The good lady having consented, Miss Beaufort received the permission with pleasure; and as she was to sup in Grosvenor Place, she ventured to hope that something might fall from her hostess or Miss Egerton which would throw a light on the true situation of Mr. Constantine. From infancy Miss Beaufort had loved with enthusiasm all kinds of excellence. Indeed, she esteemed no person warmly whom she did no think exalted by their virtues above the common race of mankind. She sought for something to respect in every character; and when she found anything to greatly admire, her ardent soul blazed, and by its own pure flame lit her to a closer inspection of the object about whom she had become more than usually interested. In former years Lady Somerset collected all the virtue and talent in the country around her table, and it was now found that they were not brought there on a vain errand. From them Miss Beaufort gathered her best lessons in conduct and taste, and from them her earliest perceptions of friendship. Mary was the beloved pupil and respected friend of the brightest characters in England; and though some of them were men who had not passed the age of forty, she never had been in love, nor had she mistaken the nature of her esteem so far as to call it by that name. Hence she was neither afraid nor ashamed to acknowledge a correspondence she knew to be her highest distinction. But had the frank and innocent Mary exhibited half the like attentions which she paid to these men in one hour to the common class of young men through the course of a month, they would have declared that the poor girl was over head and ears in love with them, and have pitied what they would have justly denominated her folly. Foolish must that woman be who would sacrifice the most precious gift in her possession--her heart--to the superficial graces or empty blandishments of a self-idolized coxcomb! Such a being was not Mary Beaufort; and on these principles she contemplated the extraordinary fine qualities she saw in the exiled Thaddeus with an interest honorable to her penetration and her heart. When Miss Egerton called with Lady Sara Ross to take Miss Beaufort to the Haymarket, Mary was not displeased at seeing Mr. Constantine step out of the carnage to hand her in. During their drive, Miss Egerton informed her that Lady Tinemouth had been suddenly seized with a headache, but that Lady Sara had kindly undertaken to be their chaperon, and had promised to return with them to sup in Grosvenor Place. Lady Sara had never seen Mary, though she had frequently heard of her beauty and vast fortune. This last qualification her ladyship hoped might have given an unmerited _éclat_ to the first; therefore when she saw in Miss Beaufort the most beautiful creature she had ever beheld, nothing could equal her surprise and vexation. The happy lustre that beamed in the fine eyes of Mary shone like a vivifying influence around her; a bright glow animated her cheek, whilst a pleasure for which she did not seek to account bounded at her heart, and modulated every tone of her voice to sweetness and enchantment. "Syren!" thought Lady Sara, withdrawing her large dark eyes from her face, and turning them full of dissolving languor upon Thaddeus; "here are all thy charms directed!" then drawing a sigh, so deep that it made her neighbor start, she fixed her eyes on her fan, and never looked up again until they had reached the playhouse. The curtain was raised as the little party seated themselves in the box. "Can anybody tell me what the play is?" asked Lady Sara. "I never thought of inquiring," replied Sophia. "I looked in the newspaper this morning," said Miss Beaufort, "and I think it is called _Sighs_,--a translation from a drama of Kotzebue's." "A strange title!" was the general observation. When Mr. Suett, who personated one of the characters, began to speak, their attention was summoned to the stage. On the entrance of Mr. Charles Kemble in the character of Adelbert, the count unconsciously turned pale. He perceived by the dress of the actor that he was to personate a Pole; and alarmed at the probability of seeing something to recall recollections which he had striven to banish, his agitation did not allow him to hear anything that was said for some minutes. Miss Egerton was not so tardy in the use of her eyes and ears; and stretching out her hand to the back of the box, where Thaddeus was standing by Lady Sara's chair, she caught hold of his sleeve. "There, Mr. Constantine!" cried she; "look at Adelbert! that is exactly the figure you cut in your outlandish gear two months ago." Thaddeus bowed with a forced smile, and glancing at the stage, replied-- "Then, for the first time in my life, I regret having followed a lady's advice; I think I must have lost by the change." "Yes," rejoined she, "you have lost much fur and much embroidery, but you now look much more like a Christian.'" The substance of these speeches was not lost on Mary, who continued with redoubling interest to mark the changes his countenance underwent along with the scene. As she sat forward, by a slight turn of the head she could discern the smallest fluctuation in his features, and they were not a few. Placing himself at the back of Lady Sara's chair, he leaned over, with his soul set in his eye, watching every motion of Mr. Charles Kemble. Mary knew, by some accidental words from Lady Tinemouth, that Constantine was a Polander, and the surmise she had entertained of his being unfortunate received full corroboration at the scene in which Adelbert is grossly insulted by the rich merchant. During the whole of it, she scarcely dared trust her eyes towards Constantine's flushed and agitated face. The interview between Adelbert and Leopold commenced. When the former was describing his country's miseries with his own, Thaddeus unable to bear it longer, unobserved by any but Mary, drew back into the box. In a moment or two afterwards Mr. Charles Kemble made the following reply to an observation of Leopold's, that "poverty is no dishonor." "Certainly none to me! To Poland, to my struggling country, I sacrificed my wealth, as I would have sacrificed my life if she had required it. My country is no more; and we are wanderers on a burdened earth, finding no refuge but in the hearts of the humane and virtuous." The passion and force of these words could not fail of reaching the ears of Thaddeus. Mary's attention followed them to their object, by the heaving of whose breast she plainly discovered the anguish of their effect. Her heart beat with increased violence. How willingly would she have approached him, and said something of sympathy, of consolation! but she durst not; and she turned away her tearful eye, and looked again towards the stage. Lady Sara now stood up, and hanging over Mary's chair, listened with congenial emotions to the scene between Adelbert and the innocent Rose. Lady Sara felt it all in her own bosom; and looking round to catch what was passing in the count's mind, she beheld him leaning against the box, with his head inclined to the curtain of the door. "Mr. Constantine!" almost unconsciously escaped her lips. He started, and discovered by the humidity on his eyelashes why he had withdrawn. Her ladyship's tears were gliding down her cheeks. Miss Egerton, greatly amazed at the oddness of this closet scene, turned to Miss Beaufort, who a moment before having caught a glimpse of the distressed countenance of the count, could only bow her head to Sophia's sportive observation. Who is there that can enter into the secret folds of the heart and know all its miseries? Who participate in that joy which dissolves and rarifies man to the essence of heaven? Soul must mingle with soul, and the ethereal voice of spirits must speak before these things can be comprehended. Ready to suffocate with the emotions she repelled from her eyes, Mary gladly affected to be absorbed in the business of the stage, (not one object of which she now saw), and with breathless attention lost not one soft whisper which Lady Sara poured into the ear of Thaddeus. "Why," asked her ladyship, in a tremulous and low tone, "why should we seek ideal sorrows, when those of our own hearts are beyond alleviation? Happy Rose!" sighed her ladyship. "Mr. Constantine," continued she, "do not you think that Adelbert is consoled, at least, by the affection of that lovely woman?" Like Miss Beaufort, Constantine had hitherto replied with bows only. "Come," added Lady Sara, laying her soft hand on his arm, and regarding him with a look of tenderness, so unequivocal that he cast his eyes to the ground, while its sympathy really touched his heart. "Come," repeated she, animated by the faint color which tinged his cheek; "you know that I have the care of this party, and I must not allow our only _cavalier_ to be melancholy." "I beg your pardon, Lady Sara," returned he, gratefully pressing the hand that yet rested on his arm; "I am not very well. I wish that I had not seen this play." Lady Sara sunk into the seat from which she had risen. He had never before taken her hand, except when assisting her to her carriage; this pressure shook her very soul, and awakened hopes which rendered her for a moment incapable of sustaining herself or venturing a reply. There was something in the tones of Lady Sara's voice and in her manner far more expressive than her words: mutual sighs which breathed from her ladyship's bosom and that of Thaddeus, as they sat down, made a cold shiver run from the head to the foot of Miss Beaufort. Mary's surprise at the meaning of this emotion caused a second tremor, and with a palpitating heart she asked herself a few questions. Could this interesting young man, whom every person of sense appeared to esteem and respect, sully his virtues by participating in a passion with a married woman? No; it was impossible. Notwithstanding this decision, so absolute in his exculpation, her pure heart felt a trembling, secret resolve, "even for the sake of the honor of human nature," (she whispered to herself), to observe him so hereafter as to be convinced of the real worth of his principles before she would allow any increase of the interest his apparently reversed fate had created in her compassionate bosom. What might be altogether the extent of that "reversed fate," she could form no idea. For though she had heard, in common with the rest of the general society, of the recent "melancholy fate of Poland!" she knew little of its particulars, politics of every kind, and especially about foreign places, being an interdicted subject in the drawing-rooms of Sir Robert Somerset. Therefore the simply noble mind of Mary thought more of the real nobility that might dwell in the soul of this expatriated son of that country than of the possible appendages of rank he might have left there. With her mind full of these reflections, she awaited the farce without observing it when it appeared. Indeed, none of the party knew anything about the piece (to see which they had professedly come to the theatre) excepting Miss Egerton, whose ever merry spirits had enjoyed alone the humor of Totum in the play, and who now laughed heartily, though unaccompanied, through the ridiculous whims of the farce. Nothing that passed could totally disengage the mind of Thaddeus from those remembrances which the recent drama had aroused. When the melting voice of Lady Sara, in whispers, tried to recall his attention, by a start only did he evince his recollection of not being alone. Sensible, however, to the kindness of her motive, he exerted himself; and by the time the curtain dropped, he had so far rallied his presence of mind as to be able to attend to the civility of seeing the ladies safe out of the theatre. Miss Egerton, laughing, as he assisted her into the carriage, said, "I verily believe, Mr. Constantine, had I glanced round during the play, I should have seen as pretty a lachrymal scene between you and Lady Sara as any on the stage. I won't have this flirting! I declare I will tell Captain Ross--" She continued talking; but turning about to offer his service to Miss Beaufort, he heard no more. Miss Beaufort, however self-composed in thought, felt strangely: she felt cold and reserved; and undesignedly she appeared what she felt. There was a grave dignity in her air, accompanied with a collectedness and stillness in her before animated countenance, which astonished and chilled Thaddeus, though she had bowed her head and given him her hand to put her into the coach. On their way home Miss Egerton ran over the merits of the play and farce; rallied Thaddeus on the "tall Pole," which she threatened should be his epithet whenever he offended her; and then, flying from subject to subject, talked herself and her hearers so weary, that they internally rejoiced when the carriage stopped in Grosvenor Place. After they had severally paid their respects to Lady Tinemouth, who, being indisposed, was lying on the sofa, she desired Thaddeus to draw a chair near her. "I want to learn," said she, "what you think of our English theatre?" "Prithee, don't ask him!" cried Miss Egerton, pouring out a glass of water; "we have seen a tremendous brother Pole of his, who I believe has 'hopped off' with all his spirits! Why, he has been looking as rueful as a half-drowned man all the night; and as for Lady Sara, and I could vow Miss Beaufort, too, they have been two Niobes--'all tears.' So, good folks, I must drink better health to you, to save myself from the vapors." "What is all this, Mr. Constantine?" asked the countess, addressing Thaddeus, whose eyes had glanced with a ray of delighted surprise on the blushing though displeased face of Miss Beaufort. "My weakness," replied he, commanding down a rising tremor in his voice, and turning to her ladyship; "the play relates to a native of Poland, one who, like myself, an exile in a strange land, is subjected to sufferings and contumelies the bravest spirits may find hard to bear. Any man may combat misery; but even the most intrepid will shrink from insult. This, I believe, is the sum of the story. Its resemblance in some points to my own affected me; and," added he, looking gratefully at Lady Sara, and timidly towards Miss Beaufort, "if these ladies have sympathized with emotions against which I strove, but could not entirely conceal, I owe to it the sweetest consolation now in the power of fate to bestow." "Poor Constantine!" cried Sophia Egerton, patting his head with one hand, whilst with the other she wiped a tear from her always smiling eye, "forgive me if I have hurt you. I like you vastly, though I must now and then laugh at you; you know I hate dismals, so let this tune enliven us all!" and flying to her piano, she played and sang two or three merry airs, till the countess commanded her to the supper- table. At this most sociable repast of the whole day, cheerfulness seemed again to disperse the gloom which had threatened the circle. Thaddeus set the example. His unrestrained and elegant conversation acquired new pathos from the anguish that was driven back to his heart; like the beds of rivers, which infuse their own nature with the current, his hidden grief imparted an indescribable interest and charm to all his sentiments and actions. [Footnote: When this was written, (in the year 1804,) domestic hours were earlier; and the "supper hour" had not then dissipation and broken rest for a consequence.] Mary now beheld him in his real character. Unmolested by the haughty presence of Miss Dundas, he became unreserved, intelligent, and enchanting. He seemed master of every subject talked on, and discoursed on all with a grace which corroborated her waking visions that he was as some bright star fallen from his sphere. With the increase of Miss Beaufort's admiration of the count's fine talents, she gradually lost the recollection of what had occupied her mind relative to Lady Sara; and her own beautiful countenance dilating into confidence and delight, the evening passed away with chastened pleasure, until the little party separated for their several homes. Lady Tinemouth was more than ever fascinated by the lovely Miss Beaufort. Miss Beaufort was equally pleased with the animation of the countess; but when she thought on Thaddeus, she was surprised, interested, absorbed. Lady Sara Ross's reflections were not less delightful. She dwelt with redoubled passion on that look from the count's eyes, that touch of his hand, which she thought were signs of a reciprocal awakened flame. Both actions were forgotten by him the moment after they were committed; yet he was not ungrateful; but whilst he acknowledged her generous sympathy at that time, he could not but see that she was straying to the verge of a precipice which no thoroughly virtuous woman should ever venture to approach. He found a refuge from so painful a meditation in the idea of the ingenuous Mary, on whose modest countenance virtue seemed to have "set her seal." Whilst recollecting the pitying kindness of her voice and looks, his heart owned the empire of purity, and in the contemplation of her unaffected excellence, he the more deplored the witcheries of Lady Sara, and the dangerous uses to which her impetuous feelings addressed them. * * * * * * * CHAPTER XXIX. HYDE PARK. Next morning, when Thaddeus approached the general's bed to give him his coffee, he found him feverish, and his mind more than usually unsettled. The count awaited with anxiety the arrival of the benevolent Cavendish, whom he expected. When he appeared, he declared his increased alarm. Dr. Cavendish having felt the patient's pulse, expressed a wish that he could be induced to take a little exercise. Thaddeus had often urged this necessity to his friend, but met with constant refusals. He hopelessly repeated the entreaty now, when, to his surprise and satisfaction, the old man instantly consented. Having seen him comfortably dressed, (for the count attended to these minutiae with the care of a son,) the doctor said they must ride with him to Hyde Park, where he would put them out to walk until he had made a visit to Piccadilly, whence he would return and take them home. The general not only expressed pleasure at the drive, but as the air was warm and balmy, (it being about the beginning of June,) he made no objection to the proposed subsequent walk. He admired the Park, the Serpentine River, the cottages on its bank, and seemed highly diverted by the horsemen and carriages in the ring. The pertinence of his remarks afforded Thaddeus a ray of hope that his senses had not entirely lost their union with reason; and with awakened confidence he was contemplating what might be the happy effects of constant exercise, when the general's complaints of weariness obliged him to stop near Piccadilly Gate, and wait the arrival of the doctor's coach. He was standing against the railing, supporting Butzou. and with his hat in his hand shading his aged friend's face from the sun, when two or three carriages driving in, he met the eye of Miss Euphemia Dundas, who pulling the check-string, exclaimed, "Bless me, Mr. Constantine! Who expected to see you here? Why, your note told us you were confined with a sick friend." Thaddeus bowed to her, and still sustaining the debilitated frame of the general on his arm, advanced to the side of the coach. Miss Beaufort, who now looked out, expressed her hope that his invalid was better. "This is the friend I mentioned," said the count, turning his eyes on the mild features of Butzou; "his physician having ordered him to walk, I accompanied him hither." "Dear me! how ill you look, sir," cried Euphemia, addressing the poor invalid; "but you are attended by a kind friend." "My dear lord!" exclaimed the old man, not regarding what she said, "I must go home. I am tired; pray call up the carriage." Euphemia was again opening her mouth to speak, but Miss Beaufort, perceiving a look of distress in the expressive features of Thaddeus, interrupted her by saying, "Good-morning! Mr. Constantine. I know we detain you and oppress that gentleman, whose pardon we ought to beg." She bowed her head to the general, whose white hairs were blowing about his face, as he attempted to pull the count towards the pathway. "My friend cannot thank you, kind Miss Beaufort," cried Thaddeus, with a look of gratitude that called the brightest roses to her cheeks; "but I do from my heart!" "Here it is! Pray, my dear lord, come along!" cried Butzou. Thaddeus, seeing that his information was right, bowed to the ladies, and their carriage drove off. Though the wheels of Lady Dundas's coach rolled away from the retreating figures of Thaddeus and his friend, the images of both occupied the meditations of Euphemia and Miss Beaufort whilst, _tete-à-tete_ and in silence, they made the circuit of the Park. When the carriage again passed the spot on which the subject of their thoughts had stood, Mary almost mechanically looked out towards the gate. "Is he gone yet?" asked Euphemia, sighing deeply. Mary drew in her head with the quickness of conscious guilt; and whilst a color stained her face, which of itself might have betrayed her prevarication, she asked, "Who?" "Mr. Constantine," replied Euphemia, with a second sigh. "Did you remark, Mary, how gracefully he supported that sick old gentleman? Was it not the very personification of Youth upholding the fainting steps of Age? He put me in mind of the charming young prince, whose name I forget, leading the old Belisarius." "Yes," returned Mary ashamed of the momentary insincerity couched in her former uncertain replying word, "Who?" yet still adding, while trying to smile, "but some people might call our ideas enthusiasm." "So all tell me," replied Euphemia; "so all say who neither possess the sensibility nor the candor to allow that great merit may exist without being associated with great rank. Yet," cried she, in a more animated tone, "I have my doubts, Mary, of his being what he seems. Did you observe the sick gentleman call him _My lord?_" "I did," returned Mary, "and I was not surprised. Such manners as Mr. Constantine's are not to be acquired in a cottage." "Dear, dear Mary!" cried Euphemia, flinging her ivory arms round her neck; "how I love you for these words! You are generous, you think nobly, and I will no longer hesitate to--to--" and breaking off, she hid her head in Miss Beaufort's bosom. Mary's heart throbbed, her cheeks grew pale, and almost unconsciously she wished to stop the tide of Miss Dundas's confidence. "Dear Euphemia!" answered she, "your regard for this interesting exile is very praiseworthy. But beware of----." She hesitated; a remorseful twitch in her own breast stayed the warning that was rising to her tongue; and blushing at a motive she could not at the instant assign to friendship, selfishness, or to any interest she would not avow to herself, she touched the cheek of Euphemia with her quivering lips. Euphemia had finished the sentence for her, and raising her head, exclaimed, "What should I fear in esteeming Mr. Constantine? Is he not the most captivating creature in the world! And for his person! Oh, Mary, he is so beautiful, that when the library is filled with the handsomest men in town, the moment Constantine enters, their reign is over. I compare them with his godlike figure, and I feel as one looking at the sun; all other objects appear dim and shapeless." "I hope," returned Mary,--pressing her own forehead with her hand, her head beginning to ache strangely,--"that Mr. Constantine does not owe your friendship to his fine person. I think his mental qualities are more deserving of such a gift." "Don't look so severe, dear Mary!" cried Miss Dundas, observing her contracting brow; "are you displeased with me?" Mary's displeasure was at the austerity of her own words, and not at her auditor. Raising her eyes with a smile, she gently replied, "I do not mean, my dear girl, to be severe; but I would wish, for the honor of our sex, that the objects which attract either our love or our compassion should have something more precious than mere exterior beauty to engage our interest." "Well, I will soon be satisfied," cried Euphemia, in a gayer tone, as they drove through Grosvenor Gate; "we all know that Constantine is sensible and accomplished: he writes poetry like an angel, both in French and Italian. I have hundreds of mottoes composed by him; one of them, Mary, is on the work-box I gave you yesterday; and, what is more, I will ask him to-morrow why that old gentleman called him _My lord?_ It he be a lord!" exclaimed she. "What then?" inquired the eloquent eyes of Mary. "Don't look so impertinent, my dear," cried the now animated beauty: "I positively won't say another word to you today." Miss Beaufort's headache became so painful, she rejoiced when Euphemia ceased and the carriage drew up to Lady Dundas's door. A night of almost unremitted sleep performed such good effects on the general condition of General Butzou, that Dr. Cavendish thought his patient so much better as to sanction his hoping the best consequences from a frequent repetition of air and exercise. When the drive and walk had accordingly been repeated the following day, Thaddeus left his friend to his maps, and little Nanny's attendance, and once more took the way to Harley Street. He found only Miss Dundas with her sister in the study. Mary (against her will, which she opposed because it was her will) had gone out shopping with Miss Dorothy and Lady Dundas. Miss Dundas left the room the moment she had finished her lessons. Delighted at being _tete-à-tete_ with the object of her romantic fancies, Euphemia forgot that she was to act the retreating character of Madame d'Arblay's heroine; and shutting her book the instant Diana disappeared, all at once opened her attack on his confidence. To her eager questions, which the few words of the general had excited, the count afforded no other reply than that his poor friend knew not what he said, having been a long time in a state of mental derangement. This explanation caused a momentary mortification in the imaginative Euphemia; but her busy mind was nimble in its erection of airy castles, and she rallied in a moment with the idea that "he might be more than a lord." At any rate, let him be what he may, he charmed her; and he had much ado to parry the increasing boldness of her speeches, without letting her see they were understood. "You are very diffident, Mr. Constantine," cried she, looking down. "If I consider you worthy of my friendship, why should _you_ make disqualifying assertions?" "Every man, madam," returned Thaddeus, bowing as he rose from his chair, "must be diffident of deserving the honor of your notice." "There is no man living," replied she, "to whom I would offer my friendship but yourself." Thaddeus bit his lip; he knew not what to answer. Bowing a second time, he stretched out his hand and drew his hat towards him. Euphemia's eyes followed the movement. "You are in a prodigious haste, Mr. Constantine!" "I know I intrude, madam; and I have promised to be with my sick friend at an early hour." "Well, you may go, since you are obliged," returned the pretty Euphemia, rising, and smiling sweetly as she laid one hand on his arm and put the other into her tucker. She drew out a little white leather _souvenir_, marked on the back in gold letters with the words, "_Toujours cher_;" and slipping it into his hand, "There, receive that, _monsignor_, or whatever else you may be called, and retain it as the first pledge of Euphemia Dundas's friendship." Thaddeus colored as he took it; and again having recourse to the convenient reply of a bow, left the room in embarrassed vexation. There was an indelicacy in this absolutely wooing conduct of Miss Euphemia which, notwithstanding her beauty and the softness that was its vehicle, filled him with the deepest disgust. He could not trace real affection in her words or manner; and that any woman, instigated by a mere whim, should lay aside the maidenly reserves of her sex, and actually court his regard, surprised whilst it impelled him to loathe her. They who adopt Euphemia's sentiments,--and, alas! there are some,-- can be little aware of the conclusion which society infer from such intemperate behavior. The mistaken creature who, either at the impulsion of her own disposition or by the influence of example, is induced to despise the guard of modesty, literally "forsakes the guide of her youth" and leaves herself open to every attack which man can devise against her. By levelling the barrier raised by nature, she herself exposes the stronghold of virtue, and may find, too late for recovery, that what modesty has abandoned is not long spared by honor. Euphemia's affected attachment suggested to Thaddeus a few unpleasant recollections respecting the fervent and unequivocal passion of Lady Sara. Though guilty, it sprung from a headlong ardor of disposition which formed at once the error and its palliation. He saw that love was not welcomed by her (at least he thought so) as a plaything, but struggled against as with a foe. He had witnessed her tortures; he pitied them, and to render her happy, would gladly have made any sacrifice short of his conscience. Too well assured of being all the world to Lady Sara, the belief that Miss Euphemia liked him only from idleness, caprice, and contradiction, caused him to repay her overtures with decided contempt. When he arrived at home, he threw on his table the pocket-book whose unambiguous motto made him scorn her, and almost himself for being the object of such folly. Looking round his humble room, whose wicker-chairs, oil-cloth floor, and uncurtained windows announced anything but elegance: "Poor Euphemia!" said he; "how would you be dismayed were the indigent Constantine to really take you at your word, and bring you home to a habitation like this!" * * * * * * * CHAPTER XXX. INFLUENCES OF CHARACTER. The recital of the preceding scene, which was communicated to Miss Beaufort by Euphemia, filled her with still more doubting thoughts. Mary could discover no reason why the old gentleman's mental derangement should dignify his friend with titles he had never borne. She remarked to herself that his answer to Euphemia was evasive; she remembered his emotion and apology on seeing Mr. C. Kemble in Adelbert; and uniting with these facts his manners and acquirements, so far beyond the charges of any subordinate rank, she could finally retain no doubt of his being at least well born. Thus this mysterious Constantine continued to occupy her hourly thoughts during the space of two months, in which time she had full opportunity to learn much of a character with whom she associated almost every day. At Lady Tinemouth's (one of whose evening guests she frequently became) she beheld him disencumbered of that armor of reserve which he usually wore in Harley Street. In the circle of the countess, Mary saw him welcomed like an idolized being before whose cheering influence all frowns and clouds must disappear. When he entered, the smile resumed its seat on the languid features of Lady Tinemouth; Miss Egerton's eye lighted up to keener archness; Lady Sara's Circassian orbs floated in pleasure; and for Mary herself, her breast heaved, her cheeks glowed, her hands trembled, a quick sigh fluttered in her bosom; and whilst she remained in his presence, she believed that happiness had lost its usual evanescent property, and become tangible, to hold and press upon her heart. Mary, who investigated the cause of these tremors on her pillow, bedewed it with delicious though bitter tears, when her alarmed soul whispered that she nourished for this amiable foreigner "a something than friendship dearer." "Ah! is it come to this?" cried she, pressing down her saturated eyelids with her hand. "Am I at last to love a man who, perhaps, never casts a thought on me? How despicable shall I become in my own eyes!" The pride of woman puts this charge to her taken heart--that heart which seems tempered of the purest clay, and warmed with the fire of heaven; that tender and disinterested heart asks as its appeal--What is love? Is it not an admiration of all that is beautiful in nature and in the soul? Is it not a union of loveliness with truth? Is it not a passion whose sole object is the rapture of contemplating the supreme beauty of this combined character? "Where, then," cried the enthusiastic Mary, "where is the shame that can be annexed to my loving Constantine? If it be honorable to love delineated excellence, it must be equally so to love it when embodied in a human shape. Such it is in Constantine; and if love be the reflected light of virtue, I may cease to arraign myself of that which otherwise I would have scorned. Therefore, Constantine," cried she, raising her clasped hands, whilst renewed tears streamed over her face, "I will love thee! I will pray for thy happiness, though its partner should be Euphemia Dundas." Mary's eager imagination would not allow her to perceive those obstacles in the shapes of pride and prudence, which would stand in the way of his obtaining Euphemia's hand; its light showed to her only a rival in the person of the little beauty; but from her direct confidence she continued to retreat with abhorrence. Had Euphemia been more deserving of Constantine, Miss Beaufort believed she would have been less reluctant to hear that she loved him. But Mary could not avoid seeing that Miss E. Dundas possessed little to ensure connubial comfort, if mere beauty and accidental flights of good humor were not to be admitted into the scale. She was weak in understanding, timid in principle, absurd in almost every opinion she adopted; and as for love, true, dignified, respectable love, she knew nothing of the sentiment. Whilst Miss Beaufort meditated on this meagre schedule of her rival's merits, the probability that even such a man as Constantine might sacrifice himself to flattery and to splendor stung her to the soul. The more she reflected on it, the more she conceived it possible. Euphemia was considered a beauty of the day; her affectation of refined prettiness pleased many, and might charm Constantine: she was mistress of fifty thousand pounds, and did not esteem it necessary to conceal from her favorite the empire he had acquired. Perhaps there was generosity in this openness? If so, what might it not effect on a grateful disposition? or, rather, (her mortified heart murmured in the words of her aunt Dorothy,) "how might it not operate on the mind of one of that sex, which, at the best, is as often moved by caprice as by feeling." Mary blushed at her adoption of this opinion; and, angry with herself for the injustice which a lurking jealousy had excited in her to apply to Constantine's noble nature, she resolved, whatever might be her struggles, to promote his happiness, though even with Euphemia, to the utmost of her power. The next morning, when Miss Beaufort saw the study door opened for her entrance, she found Mr. Constantine at his station, literally baited between Miss Dundas and her honorable lover. At such moments Mary appeared the kindest of the kind. She loved to see Constantine smile; and whenever she could produce that effect, by turning the spleen of these polite sneerers against themselves, his smiles, which ever entered her heart, afforded her a banquet for hours after his departure. Mary drew out her netting, (which was a purse for Lady Tinemouth,) and taking a seat beside Euphemia, united with her to occupy his attention entirely, that he might not catch even one of those insolent glances which were passing between Lascelles and a new visitant the pretty lady Hilliars. This lady seemed to take extreme pleasure in accosting Thaddeus by the appellation of "Friend," "My good man," "Mr. What's-your-name," and similar squibs of insult, with which the prosperous assail the unfortunate. Such random shots they know often inflict the most galling wounds. However, "Friend," "My good man," and "Mr. What's-your-name," disappointed this lady's small artillery of effect. He seemed invulnerable both to her insolence and to her affectation; for to be thought a wit, by even Miss Dundas's emigrant tutor, was not to be despised; though at the very moment in which she desired his admiration, she supposed her haughtiness had impressed him with a proper sense of his own meanness and a high conception of her dignity. She jumped about the room, assumed infantine airs, played with Euphemia's lap-dag, fondled it, seated herself on the floor and swept the carpet with her fine flaxen tresses; but she performed the routine of captivation in vain. Thaddeus recollected having seen this pretty full-grown baby, in her peculiar character of a profligate wife, pawning her own and her husband's property; he remembered this, and the united shafts of her charms and folly fell unnoticed to the ground. When Thaddeus took his leave, Miss Beaufort, as was her custom, retired for an hour to read in her dressing-room, before she directed her attention to the toilet. She opened a book, and ran over a few pages of Madame de Stael's Treatise on the Passions; but such reasoning was too abstract for her present frame of mind, and she laid the volume down. She dipped her pen in the inkstand. Being a letter in debt to her guardian, she thought she would defray it now. She accomplished "My dear uncle," and stopped. Whilst she rested on her elbow, and, heedless of what she was doing, picked the feather of her quill to pieces, no other idea offered itself than the figure of Thaddeus sitting 'severe in youthful beauty!' and surrounded by the contumelies with which the unworthy hope to disparage the merit they can neither emulate nor overlook. Uneasy with herself, she pushed the table away, and, leaning her cheek on her arm, gazed into the rainbow varieties of a beaupot of flowers which occupied the fireplace. Even their gay colors appeared to fade before her sight, and present to her vacant eye the form of Thaddeus, with the melancholy air which shaded his movements. She turned round, but could not disengage herself from the spirit that was within her; his half-suppressed sighs seemed yet to thrill in her ear and weigh upon her heart. "Incomparable young man!" cried she, starting up, "why art thou so wretched? Oh! Lady Tinemouth, why have you told me of his many virtues? Why have I convinced myself that what you said is true? Oh! why was I formed to love an excellence which I never can approach?" The natural reply to these self-demanded questions suggesting itself, she assented with a tear to the whisperings of her heart--that when cool, calculating reason would banish the affections, it is incapable of filling their place. She rang the bell for her maid. "Marshall, who dines with Lady Dundas to-day?" "I believe, ma'am," replied the girl, "Mr. Lascelles, Lady Hilliars, and the Marquis of Elesmere." "I dislike them all three!" cried Mary, with an impatience to which she was little liable; "dress me how you like: I am indifferent to my appearance." Marshall obeyed the commands of her lady, who, hoping to divert her thoughts, took up the poems of Egerton Brydges. But the attempt only deepened her emotion, for every line in that exquisite little volume "gives a very echo to the seat where love is throned!" She closed the book and sighed. Marshall having fixed the last pearl comb in her mistress's beautiful hair, and observing that something was wrong that disquieted her, exclaimed, "Dear ma'am, you are so pale to-day! I wish I might put on some gayer ornaments!" "No," returned Mary, glancing a look at her languid features; "no, Marshall: I appear as well as I desire. Any chance of passing unnoticed in company I dislike is worth retaining. No one will be here this evening whom I care to please." She was mistaken; other company had been invited besides those whom the maid mentioned. But Miss Beaufort continued from seven o'clock until ten, the period at which the ladies left the table, the annoyed victim of the insipid and pert compliments of Lord Elesmere. Sick of his subjectless and dragging conversation, she gladly followed Lady Dundas to the drawing-room, where, opening her knitting case, she took her station in a remote corner. After half an hour had elapsed, the gentlemen from below, recruited by fresh company, thronged in fast; and, notwithstanding it was styled a family party, Miss Beaufort saw many new faces, amongst whom she observed an elderly clergyman, who was looking about for a chair. The yawning Lascelles threw himself along the only vacant sofa, just as the reverend gentleman approached it. Miss Beaufort immediately rose, and was moving on to another room, when the coxcomb, springing up, begged permission to admire her work; and, without permission, taking it from her, pursued her, twisting the purse around his fingers and talking all the while. Mary walked forward, smiling with contempt, until they reached the saloon, where the Misses Dundas were closely engaged in conversation with the Marquis of Elesmere. Lascelles, who trembled for his Golconda at this sight, stepped briskly up. Miss Beaufort, who did not wish to lose sight of her purse whilst in the power of such a Lothario, followed him, and placed herself against the arm of the sofa on which Euphemia sat. Lascelles now bowed his scented locks to Diana in vain; Lord Elesmere was describing the last heat at Newmarket, and the attention of neither lady could be withdrawn. The beau became so irritated by the neglect of Euphemia, and so nettled at her sister's overlooking him, that assuming a gay air, he struck Miss Dundas's arm a smart stroke with Miss Beaufort's purse; and laughing, to show the strong opposition between his broad white teeth and the miserable mouth of his lordly rival, hoped to alarm him by his familiarity, and to obtain a triumph over the ladies by degrading them in the eyes of the peer. "Miss Dundas," demanded he, "who was that quiz of a man in black your sister walked with the other day in Portland Place?" "Me!" cried Euphemia, surprised. "Ay!" returned he; "I was crossing from Weymouth Street, when I perceived you accost a strange-looking person--a courier from the moon, perhaps! You may remember you sauntered with him as far as Sir William Miller's. I would have joined you, but seeing the family standing in the balcony, I did not wish them to suppose that I knew anything of such queer company." "Who was it, Euphemia?" inquired Miss Dundas, in a severe tone. "I wonder he affects to be ignorant," answered her sister, angrily; "he knows very well it was only Mr. Constantine." "And who is Mr. Constantine?" demanded the marquis. Mr. Lascelles shrugged his shoulders. "E'faith, my lord! a fellow whom nobody knows--a teacher of languages, giving himself the airs of a prince--a writer of poetry, and a man who will draw you, your house or dogs, if you will pay him for it." Mary's heart swelled. "What, a French emigrant?" drawled his lordship, dropping his lip; "and the lovely Euphemia wishes to soothe his sorrows." "No, my lord," stammered Euphemia, "he is--he is----" "What!" interrupted Lascelles, with a malicious grin. "A wandering beggar, who thrusts himself into society which may some day repay his insolence with chastisement! And for the people who encourage him, they had better beware of being themselves driven from all good company. Such confounders of degrees ought to be degraded from the rank they disgrace. I understand his chief protectress is Lady Tinemouth; his second, Lady Sara Ross, who, by way of _passant le temps,_ shows she is not quite inconsolable at the absence of her husband." Mary, pale and trembling at the scandal his last words insinuated, opened her lips to speak, when Miss Dundas (whose angry eyes darted from her sister to her lover) exclaimed, "Mr. Lascelles, I know not what you mean. The subject you have taken up is below my discussion; yet I must confess, if Euphemia has ever disgraced herself so far as to be seen walking with a schoolmaster, she deserves all you have said." "And why might I not walk with him, sister?" asked the poor culprit, suddenly recovering from her confusion, and looking pertly up; "who knew that he was not a gentleman?" "Everybody, ma'am," interrupted Lascelles; "and when a young woman of fashion condescends to be seen equalizing herself with a creature depending on his wits for support, she is very likely to incur the contempt of her acquaintance and the censure of her friends." "She is, sir," said Mary, holding down her indignant heart and forcing her countenance to appear serene; "for she ought to know that if those men of fashion, who have no wit to be either their support or ornament, did not proscribe talents from their circle, they must soon find 'the greater glory dim the less.'" "True, madam," cried Lord Berrington, who, having entered during the contest, had stood unobserved until this moment; "and their gold and tinsel would prove but dross and bubble, if struck by the Ithuriel touch of Merit when so advocated." Mary turned at the sound of his philanthropic voice, and gave him one of those glances which go immediately to the soul. "Come, Miss Beaufort," cried he, taking her hand; "I see the young musician yonder who has so recently astonished the public. I believe he is going to sing. Let us leave this discordant corner, and seek harmony by his side." Mary gladly acceded to his request, and seating herself a few paces from the musical party, Berrington took his station behind her chair. When the last melting notes of "From shades of night" died upon her ear, Mary's eyes, full of admiration and transport, which the power of association rendered more intense, remained fixed on the singer. Lord Berrington smiled at the vivid expression of her countenance, and as the young Orpheus moved from the instrument, exclaimed, "Come, Miss Beaufort, I won't allow you quite to fancy Braham the god on whom Enamored Clitie turned and gazed! [Footnote: This accomplished singer and composer still lives--one of the most admired ornaments of the British orchestra.--1845.] Listen a little to my merits. Do you know that if it were not for my timely lectures, Lascelles would grow the most insufferable gossip about town? There is not a match nor a divorce near St. James's of which he cannot repeat all the whys and wherefores. I call him Sir Benjamin Backbite; and I believe he hates me worse than Asmodeus himself." "Such a man's dislike," rejoined Mary, "is the highest encomium he can bestow. I never yet heard him speak well of any person who did not resemble himself." "And he is not consistent even there," resumed the viscount: "I am not sure I have always heard him speak in the gentlest terms of Miss Dundas. Yet, on that I cannot quite blame him; for, on my honor, she provokes me beyond any woman breathing." "Many women," replied Mary, smiling, "would esteem that a flattering instance of power." "And, like everything that flatters," returned he, "it would tell a falsehood. A shrew can provoke a man who detests her. As to Miss Dundas, notwithstanding her parade of learning, she generally espouses the wrong side of the argument; and I may say with somebody, whose name I have forgotten, that any one who knows Diana Dundas never need be at a loss for a woman to call impertinent." "You are not usually so severe, my lord!" "I am not usually so sincere, Miss Beaufort," answered he; "but I see you think for yourself, therefore I make no hesitation in speaking what I think--to you." His auditor bowed her head sportively but modestly. Lady Dundas at that moment beckoned him across the room. She compelled him to sit down to whist. He cast a rueful glance at Mary, and took a seat opposite to his costly partner. "Lord Berrington is a very worthy young man," observed the clergyman to whom at the beginning of the evening Miss Beaufort had resigned her chair; "I presume, madam, you have been honoring him with your conversation?" "Yes," returned Mary, noticing the benign countenance of the speaker; "I have not had the pleasure of long knowing his lordship, but what I have seen of his character is highly to his advantage." "I was intimate in his father's house for years," rejoined the gentleman: "I knew this young nobleman from a boy. If he has faults, he owes them to his mother, who doated on him, and rather directed his care to the adornment of his really handsome person than to the cultivation of talents he has since learned to appreciate." "I believe Lord Berrington to be very sensible, and, above all, very humane," returned Miss Beaufort. "He is so," replied the old gentleman; "yet it was not till he had attained the age of twenty-two that he appeared to know he had anything to do in the world besides dressing and attending on the fair sex. His taste produced the first, whilst the urbanity of his disposition gave birth to the latter. When Berrington arrived at his title, he was about five-and-twenty. Sorrow for the death of his amiable parents, who died in the same month, afforded him leisure to find his reason. He discovered that he had been acting a part beneath him, and he soon implanted on the good old stock those excellent acquirements which you see he possesses. In spite of his regeneration," continued the clergyman, casting a good-humored glance on the dove-colored suit of the viscount, "you perceive that first impressions will remain. He loves dress, but he loves justice and philanthropy better." "This eulogy, sir," said Mary, "affords me real pleasure, may I know the name of the gentleman with whom I have the honor to converse?" "My name is Blackmore," returned he. "Dr. Blackmore?" "The same." He was the same Dr. Blackmore who had been struck by the appearance of the Count Sobieski at the Hummums, but had never learned his name, and who, being a rare visitor at Lady Dundas's, had never by chance met a second time with the object of his compassion. "I am happy," resumed Miss Beaufort, "in having the good fortune to meet a clergyman of whom I have so frequently heard my guardian, Sir Robert Somerset, speak with the highest esteem." "Ah!" replied he, "I have not seen him since the death of his lady; I hope that he and his son are well!" "Both are perfectly so now," returned she, "and are together in the country!" "You, madam, I suppose are my lady's niece, the daughter of the brave Admiral Beaufort?" "I am, sir." "Well, I rejoice at this incident," rejoined he, pressing her hand; "I knew your mother when she was a lovely girl. She used to spend her summers with the late Lady Somerset, at the castle. It was there I had the honor of cultivating her friendship." "I do not remember ever having seen my mother," replied the now thoughtful Mary. Dr. Blackmore observing the expression of her countenance, smiled kindly, and said, "I fear I am to blame here. This is a somewhat sad way of introducing myself. But your goodness must pardon me," continued he; "for I have so long accustomed myself to speak what I think to those in whom I see cause to esteem, that sometimes, as now, I undesignedly inflict pain." "Not in this case," returned Miss Beaufort. "I am always pleased when listening to a friend of my mother, and particularly so when he speaks in her praise." The breaking up of the card-tables prevented further conversation. Lord Berrington again approached the sofa where Mary sat, exclaiming, as he perceived her companion, "Ah my good doctor; have you presented yourself at this fair shrine I declare you eccentric folk may dare anything. Whilst you are free, Miss Beaufort," added he turning to her, "adopt the advice which a good lady once gave me, and which I have implicitly followed: 'When you are young, get the character of an oddity, and it seats you in an easy chair for life.'" Mary was interrupted in her reply by a general stir amongst the company, who, now the cards were over, like bees and wasps were swarming about the room, gathering honey or stinging as they went. At once the house was cleared; and Miss Beaufort threw herself on the pillow, to think, and then to dream of Thaddeus. CHAPTER XXXI. THE GREAT AND THE SMALL OF SOCIETY. If it be true what the vivid imaginations of poets have frequently asserted, that when the soul dreams, it is in the actual presence of those beings whose images present themselves to their slumbers, then have the spirit, of Thaddeus and Mary been often commingled at the hour of midnight; then has the young Sobieski again visited his distant country, again seen it victorious, again knelt before his sainted parents. From such visions as these did Thaddeus awake in the morning, after having spent the preceding evening with Lady Tinemouth. He had walked with her ladyship in Hyde Park till a late hour. By the mild light of the moon, which shone brightly through the still, balmy air of a midsummer night, they took their way along the shadowy bank of the Serpentine. There is a solemn appeal to the soul in the repose of nature that "makes itself be felt." No syllable from either Thaddeus or the countess for some time broke the universal silence. Thaddeus looked around on the clear expanse of water, over-shaded by the long reflection of the darkening trees; then raising his eyes to that beautiful planet which has excited tender thoughts in every feeling breast since the creation of the world, he drew a deep sigh. The countess echoed it. [Illustration: LADY TINEMOUTH.] "In such a night as this," said Thaddeus, in a low voice, as if afraid to disturb the sleeping deity of the place, "I used to walk the ramparts of Villanow with my dear departed mother, and gaze on that lovely orb; and when I was far from her, I have looked at it from the door of my tent, and fancying that her eyes were then fixed on the same object as mine, I found happiness in the idea." A tear stole down the cheek of Thaddeus. That moon yet shone brightly; but his mother's eyes were closed in the grave. "Villanow!" repeated the countess, in a tone of tender surprise; "surely that was the seat of the celebrated Palatine of Masovia! You have discovered yourself, Constantine! I am much mistaken if you be not his grandson, the young, yet far-famed, Thaddeus Sobieski?" Thaddeus had allowed the remembrances pressing on his mind to draw him into a speech which had disclosed to the quick apprehension of the countess what his still too sensitive pride would forever have concealed. "I have indeed betrayed my secret," cried he, incapable of denying it; "but, dear lady Tinemouth, as you value my feelings, never let it escape your lips. Having long considered you as my best friend, and loved you as a parent, I forgot, in the recollection of my beloved mother, that I had withheld any of my history from you." "Mysterious Providence!" exclaimed her ladyship, after a pause, in which ten thousand admiring and pitying reflections thronged on her mind: "is it possible? Can it be the Count Sobieski, that brave and illustrious youth of whom every foreigner spoke with wonder? Can it be him that I behold in the unknown, unfriended Constantine?" "Even so," returned Thaddeus, pressing her hand. "My country is no more. I am now forgotten by the world, as I have been by fortune. I have nothing to do on the earth but to fulfil the few duties which a filial friendship has enjoined, and then it will be a matter of indifference to me how soon I am laid in its bosom." "You are too young, dear Constantine, (for I am still to call you by that name,) to despair of happiness being yet reserved for you." "No, my dear Lady Tinemouth, I do not cheat myself with such hope; I am not so importunate with the gracious Being who gave me life and reason. He bestowed upon me for awhile the tenderest connections-- friends, rank, honors, glory. All these were crushed in the fall of Poland; yet I survive, I sought resignation only, and I have found it. It cost me many a struggle; but the contest was due to the decrees of that all-wise Creator who gave my first years to happiness." "Inestimable young man!" cried the countess, wiping the flowing tears from her eyes; "you teach misfortune dignity! Not when all Warsaw rose in a body to thank you, not when the king received you in the senate with open arms, could you have appeared to me so worthy of admiration as at this moment, when, conscious of having been all this, you submit to the direct reverse, because you believe it to be the will of your Maker! Ah! little does Miss Beaufort think, when seated by your side, that she is conversing with the youthful hero whom she has so often wished to see!" "Miss Beaufort!" echoed Thaddeus, his heart glowing with delight. "Do you think she ever heard of me by the name of Sobieski?" "Who has not?" returned the countess; "every heart that could be interested by heroic virtue has heard and well remembers its glorious struggles against the calamities of your country. Whilst the newspapers of the day informed us of these things, they noticed amongst the first of her champions the Palatine of Masovia, Kosciusko, and the young Sobieski. Many an evening have I passed with Miss Dorothy and Mary Beaufort, lamenting the fate of that devoted kingdom." During this declaration, a variety of indeed happy emotions agitated the mind of Thaddeus, until, recollecting with a bitter pang the shameless ingratitude of Pembroke, when all those glories were departed from him, and the cruel possibility of being recognized by the Earl of Tinemouth as his son, he exclaimed, "My dearest madam, I entreat that what I have revealed to you may never be divulged. Miss Beaufort's friendship would indeed be happiness; but I cannot purchase even so great a bliss at the expense of memories which are knit with my life." "How?" cried the countess; "is not your name, and all its attendant ideas, an honor which the proudest man might boast?" Thaddeus pressed her hand to his heart. "You are kind--very kind! yet I cannot retract. Confide, dear Lady Tinemouth, in the justice of my resolution. I could not bear cold pity; I could not bear the heartless comments of people who, pretending to compassion, would load me with a heavy sense of my calamities. Besides, there are persons in England who are so much the objects of my aversion, I would rather die than let them know I exist. Therefore, once again, dear Lady Tinemouth, let me implore you to preserve my secret." She saw by the earnestness of his manner that she ought to comply, and without further hesitation promised all the silence he desired. This long moonlight conversation, by awakening all those dormant remembrances which were cherished, though hidden in the depths of his bosom, gave birth to that _mirage_ of imagination which painted that night, in the rapid series of his tumultuous dreams, the images of every being whom he had ever loved, or now continued to regard with interest. Proceeding next morning towards Harley Street, he mused on what had happened; and pleased that he had, though unpremeditatedly, paid the just compliment of his entire confidence to the uncommon friendship of the countess, he arrived at Lady Dundas's door before he was sensible of the ground he had passed over, and in a few minutes afterwards was ushered into his accustomed purgatory. When the servant opened the study-door, Miss Euphemia was again alone. Thaddeus recoiled, but he could not retreat. "Come in, Mr. Constantine," cried the little beauty, in a languid tone; "my sister is going to the riding-school with Mr. Lascelles. Miss Beaufort wanted me to drive out with her and my mother, but I preferred waiting for you." The count bowed; and almost retreating with fear of what might next be said, he gladly heard a thundering knock at the door, and a moment after the voice of Miss Dundas ascending the stairs. He had just opened his books when she entered, followed by her lover. Panting under a heavy riding-habit, she flung herself on a sofa, and began to vilify "the odious heat of Pozard's odious place;" then telling Euphemia she would play truant to-day, ordered her to attend to her lessons. Owing to the warmth of the weather, Thaddeus came out this morning without boots; and it being the first time the exquisite proportion of his figure had been so fully seen by any of the present company excepting Euphemia, Lascelles, bursting with an emotion which he would not call envy, measured the count's graceful limb with his scornful eyes; then declaring he was quite in a furnace, took the corner of his glove and waving it to and fro, half-muttered, "Come gentle air." "The fairer Lascelles cries!" exclaimed Euphemia, looking off her exercise. "What! does your master teach you wit?" drawled the coxcomb, with a particular emphasis. Thaddeus, affecting not to hear, continued to direct his pupil. The indefatigable Lascelles having observed the complacence with which the count always regarded Miss Beaufort determined the goad should fret; and drawing the knitting out of his pocket which he had snatched the night before from Mary, he exclaimed, "'Fore heaven, here is my little Beaufort's purse!" Thaddeus started, and unconsciously looking up, beheld the well-known work of Mary dangling in the hand of Lascelles. He suffered pangs unknown to him; his eyes became dim; and hardly knowing what he saw or said, he pursued the lesson with increased rapidity. Finding that his malice had taken effect, with a careless air the malicious puppy threw his clumsy limbs on the sofa, which Miss Dundas had just quitted to seat herself nearer the window, and cried out, as in a voice of sudden recollection: "By the bye, that Miss Mary Beaufort, when she chooses to be sincere, is a staunch little Queen Bess." "You may as well tell me," replied Miss Dundas, with a deriding curl of her lip, "that she is the Empress of Russia." "I beg your pardon!" cried he, and raising his voice to be better heard, "I do not mean in the way of learning. But I will prove in a moment her creditable high-mightiness in these presumptuous times, though a silly love of popularity induces her to affect now and then a humble guise to some people beneath her. When she gave me this gewgaw," added he, flourishing the purse in his hand, "she told me a pretty tissue about a fair friend of hers, whose music-master, mistaking some condescension on her part, had dared to press her snowy fingers while directing them towards a tender chord on her harp. You have no notion how the gentle Beaufort's blue eyes blazed up while relating poor Tweedledum's presumption!" "I can have a notion of anything these boasted meek young ladies do when thrown off their guard," haughtily returned his contemptuous auditress, "after Miss Beaufort's violent sally of impertinence to you last night." "Impertinence to me!" echoed the fop, at the same time dipping the end of the knitting into Diana's lavender-bottle, and dabbing his temples; "she was always too civil by half. I hate forward girls." Thaddeus shut the large dictionary which lay before him with a force that made the puppy start, and rising hastily from his chair, with a face all crimson, was taking his hat, when the door opened, and Mary appeared. A white-chip bonnet was resting lightly on the glittering tresses which waved over her forehead, whilst her lace-shade, gently discomposed by the air, half veiled and half revealed her graceful figure. She entered with a smile, and walking up to the side of the table where Thaddeus was standing, inquired after his friend's health. He answered her in a voice unusually agitated. All that he had been told by the countess of her favorable opinion of him, and the slander he had just heard from Diana's lover, were at once present in his mind. He was yet speaking, when Miss Beaufort, casually looking towards the other side of the room, saw her purse still acting the part of a handkerchief in the hand of Mr. Lascelles. "Look, Mr. Constantine," said she, gayly tapping his arm with her parasol, "how the most precious things may be degraded! There is the knitting you have so often admired, and which I intended for Lady Tinemouth's pocket, debased to do the office of Mr. Lascelles's napkin." "You gave it to him, Miss Beaufort," cried Miss Dundas; "and after that, surely he may use it as he values it!" "If I could have given it to Mr. Lascelles, madam, I should hardly have taken notice of its fate." Believing what her lover had advanced, Miss Dundas was displeased at Mary for having, by presents, interfered with any of her danglers, and rather angrily replied, "Mr. Lascelles said you gave it to him; and certainly you would not insinuate a word against his veracity?" "No, not insinuate," returned Miss Beaufort, "but affirm, that he has forgotten his veracity in this statement." Lascelles yawned. "Lord bless me, ladies, how you quarrel! You will disturb Monsieur?" "Mr. Constantine," returned Mary, blushing with indignation, "cannot be disturbed by nonsense." Thaddeus again drew his hat towards him, and bowing to his lovely champion, with an expression of countenance which he little suspected had passed from his heart to his eyes, he was preparing to take his leave, when Euphemia requested him to inform her whether she had folded down the right pages for the next exercise. He approached her, and was leaning over her chair to look at the book, when she whispered, "Don't be hurt at what Lascelles says; he is always jealous of anybody who is handsomer than himself." Thaddeus dropped his eyelids with a face of scarlet; for on meeting the eyes of Mary, he saw that she had heard this intended comforter as well as himself. Uttering a few incoherent sentences to both ladies he hurried out of the room. * * * * * * * CHAPTER XXXII. THE OBDURACY OF VICE--THE INHUMANITY OF FOLLY. The Count Sobieski was prevented paying his customary visit next morning in Harley Street by a sudden dangerous increase of illness in the general, who had been struck at seven o'clock by a fit of palsy. When Dr. Cavendish beheld the poor old man stretched on the bed, and hardly exhibiting signs of life, he pronounced it to be a death- stroke. At this remark, Thaddeus, turning fearfully pale, staggered to a seat, with his eyes fixed on the altered features of his friend. Dr. Cavendish took his hand. "Recollect yourself, my dear sir! Happen when it may, his death must be a release to him. But he may yet linger a few days." "Not in pain, I hope!" said Thaddeus. "No," returned the doctor; "probably he will remain as you now see him, till he expires like the last glimmer of a dying taper." The benevolent Cavendish gave proper directions to Thaddeus, also to Mrs. Robson, who promised to act carefully as nurse; and then with regret left the stunned count to the melancholy task of watching by the bedside of his last early friend. Thaddeus now retained no thought that was not riveted to the emaciated form before him. Whilst the unconscious invalid struggled for respiration, he listened to his short and convulsed breathing with sensations which seemed to tear the strings of his own breast. Unable to bear it longer, he moved to the fireside, and seating himself, with his pallid face and aching head supported on his arm, which rested on a plain deal table, he remained; meeting no other suspension from deep and awestruck meditation than the occasional appearance of Mrs. Robson on tiptoes, peeping in and inquiring whether he wanted anything. From this reverie, like unto the shadow of death, he was aroused next morning at nine o'clock by the entrance of Dr. Cavendish. Thaddeus seized his hand with the eagerness of his awakened suspense. "My dear sir, may I hope--" Not suffering him to finish with what he hoped, the doctor shook his head in gentle sign of the vanity of that hope, and advanced to the bed of the general. He felt his pulse. No change of opinion was the consequence, only that he now saw no threatenings of immediate dissolution. "Poor Butzou!" murmured Thaddeus, when the doctor withdrew, putting the general's motionless hand to his quivering lips; "I never will leave thee! I will watch by thee, thou last relic of my country! It may not be long ere we lie side by side." With anguish at his heart, he wrote a few hasty lines to the countess; then addressing Miss Dundas, he mentioned as the reason for his late and continued absence the danger of his friend. His note found Miss Dundas attended by her constant shadow, Mr. Lascelles, Lady Hilliars, and two or three more fine ladies and gentlemen, besides Euphemia and Miss Beaufort, who, with pensive countenances, were waiting the arrival of its writer. When Miss Dundas took the billet off the silver salver on which her man presented it, and looked at the superscription, she threw it into the lap of Lacelles. "There," cried she, "is an excuse, I suppose, from Mr. Constantine, for his impertinence in not coming hither yesterday. Read it, Lascelles." "'Fore Gad, I wouldn't touch it for an earldom!" exclaimed the affected puppy, jerking it on the table. "It might affect me with the hypochondriacs. Pray, Phemy, do you peruse it." Euphemia, in her earnestness to learn what detained Mr. Constantine, neglected the insolence of the request, and hastily breaking the seal, read as follows:-- "Mr. Constantine hopes that a sudden and dangerous disorder which has attacked the life of a very dear friend with whom he resides will be a sufficient appeal to the humanity of the Misses Dundas, and obtain their pardon for his relinquishing the honor of attending them yesterday and to-day." "Dear me!" cried Euphemia, piteously; "how sorry I am. I dare say it is that white-haired old man we saw in the park, You remember, Mary, he was sick?" "Probably," returned Miss Beaufort, with her eyes fixed on the agitated handwriting of Thaddeus. "Throw the letter into the street, Phemy!" cried Miss Dundas, affecting sudden terror; "who knows but what it is a fever the man has got, and we may all catch our deaths." "Heaven forbid!" exclaimed Mary, in a voice of real alarm; but it was for Thaddeus--not fear of any infection which the paper might bring to herself. "Lascelles, take away that filthy scrawl from Phemy. How can you be so headstrong, child?" cried Diana, snatching the letter from her sister and throwing it from the window. "I declare you are sufficient to provoke a saint." "Then you may keep your temper, Di," returned Euphemia, with a sneer; "you are far enough from that title." Miss Dundas made a very angry reply, which was retaliated by another; and a still more noisy and disagreeable altercation might have taken place had not a good-humored lad, a brother-in-law of Lady Hilliars, in hopes of calling off the attention of the sisters, exclaimed, "Bless me, Miss Dundas, your little dog has pulled a folded sheet of paper from under that stand of flowers! Perhaps it may be of consequence." "Fly! Take it up, George!" cried Lady Hilliars; "Esop will tear it to atoms whilst you are asking questions." After a chase round the room, over chairs and under tables, George Hilliars at length plucked the devoted piece of paper out of the dog's mouth; and as Miss Beaufort was gathering up her working materials to leave the room, he opened it and cried, in a voice of triumph, "By Jove, it is a copy of verses!" "Verses!" demanded Euphemia, feeling in her pocket, and coloring; "let me see them." "That you sha'n't," roared Lascelles, catching them out of the boy's hand; "if they are your writing, we will have them." "Help me, Mary!" cried Euphemia, turning to Miss Beaufort; "I know that nobody is a poet in this house but myself. They must be mine, and I will have them." "Surely, Mr. Lascelles," said Mary, compassionating the poor girl's anxiety, "you will not be so rude as to detain them from their right owner?" "Oh! but I will," cried he, mounting on a table to get out of Euphemia's reach, who, half crying, tried to snatch at the paper. "Let me alone, Miss Phemy. I will read them; so here goes it." Miss Dundas laughed at her sister's confused looks, whilst Lascelles prepared to read in a loud voice the following verses. They had been hastily written in pencil by Thaddeus a long time ago; and having put them, by mistake, with some other papers into his pocket, he had dropped them next day, in taking out his handkerchief at Lady Dundas's. Lascelles cleared his throat with three hems, then raising his right hand with a flourishing action, in a very pompous tone began-- "Like one whom Etna's torrent fires have sent Far from the land where his first youth was spent; Who, inly drooping on a foreign shore, Broods over scenes which charm his eyes no more: And while his country's ruin wakes the groan, Yearns for the buried hut he called his own. So driv'n, O Poland! from thy ravaged plains, So mourning o'er thy sad and but loved remains, A houseless wretch, I wander through the world, From friends, from greatness, and from glory hurl'd! "Oh! not that each long night my weary eyes Sink into sleep, unlull'd by Pity's sighs; Not that in bitter tears my bread is steep'd-- Tears drawn by insults on my sorrows heap'd; Not that my thoughts recall a mother's grave-- Recall the sire I would have died to save, Who fell before me, bleeding on the field, Whilst I in vain opposed the useless shield. Ah! not for these I grieve! Though mental woe, More deadly still, scarce Fancy's self could know! O'er want and private griefs the soul can climb,-- Virtue subdues the one, the other Time: But at his country's fall, the patriot feels A grief no time, no drug, no reason heals. "Mem'ry! remorseless murderer, whose voice Kills as it sounds; who never says, Rejoice! To my deserted heart, by joy forgot; Thou pale, thou midnight spectre, haunt me not! Thou dost but point to where sublimely stands A glorious temple, reared by Virtue's hands, Circled with palms and laurels, crown'd with light, Darting Truth's piercing sun on mortal sight: Then rushing on, leagued fiends of hellish birth Level the mighty fabric with the earth! Slept the red bolt of Vengeance in that hour When virtuous Freedom fell the slave of Power! Slumber'd the God of Justice! that no brand Blasted with blazing wing the impious band! Dread God of Justice! to thy will I kneel, Though still my filial heart must bleed and feel; Though still the proud convulsive throb will rise, When fools my country's wrongs and woes despise; When low-soul'd Pomp, vain Wealth, that Pity gives, Which Virtue ne'er bestows and ne'er receives,-- That Pity, stabbing where it vaunts to cure, Which barbs the dart of Want, and makes it sure. How far removed from what the feeling breast Yields boastless, breathed in sighs to the distress'd! Which whispers sympathy, with tender fear, And almost dreads to pour its balmy tear. But such I know not now! Unseen, alone, I heave the heavy sigh, I draw the groan; And, madd'ning, turn to days of liveliest joy, When o'er my native hills I cast mine eyes, And said, exulting--"Freemen here shall sow The seed that soon in tossing gold shall glow! While Plenty, led by Liberty, shall rove, Gay and rejoicing, through the land they love; And 'mid the loaded vines, the peasant see His wife, his children, breathing out,--'We're free!' But now, O wretched land! above thy plains, Half viewless through the gloom, vast Horror reigns, No happy peasant, o'er his blazing hearth, Devotes the supper hour to love and mirth; No flowers on Piety's pure altar bloom; Alas! they wither now, and strew her tomb! From the Great Book of Nations fiercely rent, My country's page to Lethe's stream is sent-- But sent in vain! The historic Muse shall raise O'er wronged Sarmatia's cause the voice of praise,-- Shall sing her dauntless on the field of death, And blast her royal robbers' bloody wrath!" "It must be Constantine's!" cried Euphemia, in a voice of surprised delight, while springing up to take the paper out of the deriding reader's hand when he finished. "I dare say it is," answered the ill-natured Lascelles, holding it above his head. "You shall have it; only first let us hear it again, it is so mighty pretty, so very lackadaisical!" "Give it to me!" cried Euphemia, quite angry. "Don't, Lascelles," exclaimed Miss Dundas, "the man must be a perfect idiot to write such rhodomontade." "O! it is delectable!" returned her lover, opening the paper again; "it would make a charming ditty! Come, I will sing it. Shall it be to the tune of 'The Babes in the Wood,' or 'Chevy Chase,' or 'The Beggar of Bethnal Green?" "Pitiless, senseless man!" exclaimed Mary, rising from her chair, where she had been striving to subdue the emotions with which every line in the poem filled her heart. "Monster!" cried the enraged Euphemia, taking courage at Miss Beaufort's unusual warmth; "I will have the paper." "You sha'n't," answered the malicious coxcomb; and raising his arm higher than her reach, he tore it in a hundred pieces. "I'll teach pretty ladies to call names!" At this sight, no longer able to contain herself, Mary rushed out of the room, and hurrying to her chamber, threw herself upon the bed, where she gave way to a paroxysm of tears which shook her almost to suffocation. During the first burst of her indignation, her agitated spirit breathed every appellation of abhorrence and reproach on Lascelles and his malignant mistress. Then wiping her flowing eyes, she exclaimed, "Yet can I wonder, when I compare Constantine with what they are? The man who dares to be virtuous beyond others, and to appear so, arms the self-love of all common characters against him." Such being her meditations, she excused herself from joining the family at dinner, and it was not until evening that she felt herself at all able to treat the ill-natured group with decent civility. To avoid spending more hours than were absolutely necessary in the company of a woman she now loathed, next morning Miss Beaufort borrowed Lady Dundas's sedan-chair, and ordering it to Lady Tinemouth's, found her at home alone, but evidently much discomposed. "I intrude on you, Lady Tinemouth!" said Mary, observing her looks, and withdrawing from the offered seat. "No, my dear Miss Beaufort," replied she, "I am glad you are come. I assure you I have few pleasures in solitude. Read that letter," added she, putting one into her hand: "it has just conveyed one of the cruelest stabs ever offered by a son to the heart of his mother. Read it, and you will not be surprised at finding me in the state you see." The countess looked on her almost paralyzed hands as she spoke; and Miss Beaufort taking the paper, sat down and read to herself the following letter: TO THE RIGHT HONORABLE THE COUNTESS OF TINEMOUTH. "Madam, "I am commissioned by the earl, my father, to inform you that if you have lost all regard for your own character, he considers that some respect is due to the mother of his children; therefore he watches your conduct. "He has been apprized of your frequent meetings, during these many months past, in Grosvenor Place, and at other people's houses, with an obscure foreigner, your declared lover. The earl wished to suppose this false, until your shameless behavior became so flagrant, that he esteems it worthy neither of doubt nor indulgence. "With his own eyes he saw you four nights ago alone with this man in Hyde Park. Such demonstration is dreadful. Your proceedings are abominable; and if you do not, without further parley, set off either to Craighall, in Cornwall, or to the Wolds, you shall receive a letter from my sister as well as myself, to tell the dishonored Lady Tinemouth how much she merits her daughter's contempt, added to that of her brother. "HARWOLD." Mary was indeed heart-struck at the contents of this letter, but most especially at the accusation which so distinctly pointed out the innocent object of her already doubly-excited pity. "Oh! why these persecutions," cried her inward soul to heaven, "against an apparently obscure but noble, friendless stranger?" Unable to collect her thoughts to make any proper remarks whatever on the letter to Lady Tinemouth, she hastily exclaimed, "It is indeed horrible; and what do you mean to do, my honored friend?" "I will obey my lord!" returned the countess, with a meek but firm emphasis. "My last action will be in obedience to his will. I cannot live long; and when I am dead, perhaps the earl's vigilance may be satisfied; perhaps some kind friend may then plead my cause to my daughter's heart. One cruel line from her would kill me. I will at least avoid the completion of that threat, by leaving town to-morrow night." "What! so soon? But I hope not so far as Cornwall?" "No," replied her ladyship; "Craighall is too near Plymouth; I determine on the Wolds. Yet why should I have a choice? It is almost a matter of indifference to what spot I am banished--in what place I am to die; anywhere to which my earthly lord would send me, I shall be equally remote from the sympathy of a friend." Miss Beaufort's heart was oppressed when she entered the room! Lady Tinemouth's sorrows seemed to give her a license to weep. She took her ladyship's hand, and with difficulty sobbed out this inarticulate proposal:--"Take me with you, dear Lady Tinemouth! I am sure my guardian will be happy to permit me to be with you, where and how long you please." "My dear young friend," replied the countess, kissing her tearful cheek, "I thank you from my heart; but I cannot take so ungenerous an advantage of your goodness as to consign your tender nature to the harassing task of attending on sorrow and sickness. How strangely different may even amiable dispositions be tempered! Sophia Egerton is better framed for such an office. Kind as she is, the hilarity of her disposition does nor allow the sympathy she bestows on others to injure either her mind or her body." Mary interrupted her. "Ah! I should be grieved to believe that my very aptitude to serve my friends will prove the first reason why I should be denied the duty. It is only in scenes of affliction that friendship can be tried, and declare its truth. If Miss Egerton were not going with you, I should certainly insist on putting my affection to the ordeal.' "You mistake, my sweet friend." returned her ladyship; "Sophia is forbidden to remain any longer with me. You have overlooked the postscript to Lord Harwold's letter, else you must have seen the whole of my cruel situation. Turn over the leaf." Miss Beaufort re-opened the sheet, and read the following few lines, which, being written on the interior part of the paper, had before escaped her sight:-- "Go where you will, it is our special injunction that you leave Miss Egerton behind you. She, we hear, has been the ambassadress in this intrigue. If we learn that you disobey, it shall be worse for you in every respect, as it will convince us, beyond a possibility of doubt, how uniform is the turpitude of your conduct." Lady Tinemouth grasped Miss Beaufort's hand when she laid the matricidal letter back upon the table. "And that is from the son for whom I felt all a mother's throes--all a mother's love!--Had he died the first hour in which he saw the light, what a mass of guilt might he not have escaped! It is he," added she, in a lower voice, and looking wildly round, "that breaks my heart. I could have borne his father's perfidy; but insult, oppression, from my child! Oh, Mary, may you never know its bitterness!" Miss Beaufort could only answer with her tears. After a pause of many minutes, in which the countess strove to tranquillize her spirits, she resumed in a more composed voice. "Excuse me for an instant, my dear Miss Beaufort; I must write to Mr. Constantine. I have yet to inform him that my absence is to be added to his other misfortunes." With her eyes now raining down upon the paper, she took up a pen and hastily writing a few lines, was sealing them when Mary, looking up, hardly conscious of the words which escaped her, said, with inarticulate anxiety, "Lady Tinemouth, you know much of that noble and unhappy young man?" Her eyes irresolute and her cheek glowing, she awaited the answer of the countess, who continued to gaze on the letter she held in her hand, as if in profound thought; then all at once raising her head, and regarding the now downcast face of her lovely friend with tenderness, she replied, in a tone which conveyed the deep interest of her thoughts:-- "I do, Miss Beaufort; but he has reposed his griefs in my friendship and honor, therefore I must hold them sacred." "I will not ask you to betray them," returned Mary, in a faltering voice; "yet I cannot help lamenting his sufferings, and I esteeming the fortitude with which he supports his fall." The countess looked steadfastly on her fluctuating countenance. "Has Constantine, my dear girl, hinted to you that he ever was otherwise than as he now appears?" Miss Beaufort could not reply. She would not trust her lips with words, but shook her head in sign that he had not. Lady Tinemouth was too well read in the human heart to doubt for an instant the cause of her question, and consequent emotion. Feeling that something was due to an anxiety so disinterested, she took her passive hand, and said, "Mary, you have guessed rightly. Though I am not authorized to tell you the real name of Mr. Constantine, nor the particulars of his history, yet let this satisfy your generous heart, that it can never be more honorably employed than in compassionating calamities which ought to wreath his young brows with glory." Miss Beaufort's eyes streamed afresh, whilst her exulting soul seemed ready to rush from her bosom. "Mary!" continued the countess, wanned by the recollection of his excellence, "you have no need to blush at the interest which you take in this amiable stranger! Every trial of spirit which could have tortured youth or manhood has been endured by him with the firmness of a hero. Ah, my sweet friend," added the countess, pressing the hand of the confused Miss Beaufort, who, ashamed, and conscious that her behavior betrayed how dearly she considered him, had covered her face with her handkerchief, "when you are disposed to believe that a man is as great as his titles and personal demands seem to assert, examine with a nice observance whether his pretensions be real or artificial. Imagine him disrobed of splendor and struggling with the world's inclemencies. If his character cannot stand this ordeal, he is only a vain pageant, inflated and garnished; and it is reasonable to punish such arrogance with contempt. But on the contrary, when, like Constantine, he rises from the ashes of his fortunes in a brighter blaze of virtue, then, dearest girl," cried the countess, encircling her with her arms, "it is the sweetest privilege of loveliness to console and bless so rare a being." Mary raised her weeping face from the bosom of her friend, and clasping her hands together with trepidation and anguish, implored her to be as faithful to her secret as she had proved herself to Constantine's. "I would sooner die," added she, "than have him know my rashness, perhaps my indelicacy! Let me possess his esteem, Lady Tinemouth! Let him suppose that I only _esteem_ him! More I should shrink from. I have seen him beset by some of my sex; and to be classed with them--to have him imagine that my affection is like theirs!--I could not bear it. I entreat you, let him respect me!" The impetuosity, and almost despair, with which Miss Beaufort uttered these incoherent sentences penetrated the soul of Lady Tinemouth with admiration. How different was the spirit of this pure and dignified love to the wild passion she had seen shake the frame of Lady Sara Ross. They remained silent for some time. "May I see your ladyship to-morrow?" asked Mary, drawing her cloak about her. "I fear not," replied the countess; "I leave this house tomorrow morning." Miss Beaufort rose; her lips, hands, and feet trembled so that she could hardly stand. Lady Tinemouth put her arm round her waist, and kissing her forehead, added, "Heaven bless you, my sweet friend! May all the wishes of your innocent heart be gratified!" The countess supported her to the door. Mary hesitated an instant; then flinging her snowy arms over her ladyship's neck, in a voice scarcely audible, articulated, "Only tell me, does he love Euphemia?" Lady Tinemouth strained her to her breast. "No, my dearest girl; I am certain, both from what I have heard him say and observed in his eyes, that did he dare to love any one, _you_ would be the object of his choice." How Miss Beaufort got into Lady Dundas's sedan-chair she had no recollection, so completely was she absorbed in the recent scene. Her mind was perplexed, her heart ached; and she arrived in Harley Street so much disordered and unwell as to oblige her to retire immediately to her room, with the excuse of a violent pain in her head. CHAPTER XXXIII. PASSION AND PRINCIPLE. This interview induced Lady Tinemouth to destroy the note she had written to Thaddeus, and to frame another, better calculated to produce comfort to all parties. What she had declared to Mary respecting the state of the count's affections was sincere. She had early pierced the veil of bashfulness with which Miss Beaufort overshadowed, when in his presence, that countenance so usually the tablet of her soul. The countess easily translated the quick receding of her eye whenever Thaddeus turned his attention towards her, the confused reply that followed any unexpected question from his lips, and, above all, the unheeded sighs heaved by her when he left the room, or when his name was mentioned during his absence. These symptoms too truly revealed to Lady Tinemouth the state of her young friend's bosom. But the circumstances being different, her observations on Thaddeus were not nearly so conclusive. Mary had absolutely given the empire of her happiness, with her heart, into his hands. Thaddeus felt that his ruined hopes ought to prevent him laying his at her feet, could he even be made to believe that he had found any favor in her sight! and regarding her as a being beyond his reach, he conceived no suspicions that she entertained one dearer thought of him than what mere philanthropy could authorize. He contemplated her unequalled beauty, graces, talents and virtues with an admiration bordering on idolatry! yet his heart flew from the confession that he loved her; and it was not until reason demanded of his sincerity why he felt a pang on seeing Mary's purse in the hands of Mr. Lascelles, that with a glowing cheek he owned to himself that he was jealous: that although he had not presumed to elevate one wish towards the possession of Miss Beaufort, yet when Lascelles flaunted her name on his tongue, he found how deep would be the wound in his peace should she ever give her hand to another than himself! Confounded at this discovery of a passion the seeds of which he supposed had been crushed by the weight of his misfortunes and the depths of his griefs, he proceeded homewards in a trance of thought, not far differing from that of the dreamer who sinks into a harassing slumber, and, filled with terror, doubts whether he be sleeping or awake. The sudden illness of General Butzou having put these ideas to flight, Thaddeus was sitting on the bedside, with his anxious thoughts fixed on the pale spectacle of mortality before him, when Nanny brought in a letter from the countess. He took it, and going to the window, read with mingled feelings the folding epistle:-- "TO MR. CONSTANTINE." I know not, my dear count, when I shall be permitted to see you again: perhaps never on this side of the grave! "Since Heaven has denied me the tenderness of my own children, it would have been a comfort to me might I have continued to act a parent's part by you. But my cruel lord, and my more cruel son, jealous of the consolation I meet in the society of my few intimate friends, command me to quit London; and as I have ever made it a rule to conform to their injunctions to the furthest extent of my power, I shall go. "It pierces me to the soul, my dear son! (allow my maternal heart to call you by that name) it distresses me deeply that I am compelled to leave the place where you are, and the more that I cannot see you before my departure, for I quit town early to-morrow. "Write to me often, my loved Sobieski; your letters will be some alleviation to my lot during the fulfilment of my hard duty. "Wear the enclosed gold chain for my sake; it is one of two given me a long time ago by Miss Beaufort. If I have not greatly mistaken you, the present will now possess a double value in your estimation: indeed it ought. Sensibility and thankfulness being properties of your nature, they will not deny a lively gratitude to the generous interest with which that amiable and noble young woman regards your fate. It is impossible that the avowed Count Sobieski (whom, a year ago, I remember her animated fancy painted in colors worthy of his actions) could excite more of her esteem than I know she has bestowed on the untitled Constantine. "She is all nobleness and affection. For, although I am sensible that she would leave much behind her in London to regret, she insists on accompanying me to the Wolds. Averse to transgress so far on her goodness, I firmly refused her offer until this evening, when I received so warm and urgent a letter from her disinterested, generous heart, that I could no longer withhold my grateful assent. "Indeed, this lovely creature's active friendship proves of high consequence to me now, situated as I am with regard to a new whim of the earl's. Had she not thus urged me, in obedience to my lord's commands I should have been obliged to go alone, he having taken some wild antipathy to Miss Egerton whose company he has interdicted. At any rate, her parents would not have allowed me her society much longer, for Mr. Montresor is to return this month. "I shall not be easy, my dear count, until I hear from you. Pray write soon, and inform me of every particular respecting the poor general. Is he likely to recover? "In all things, my loved son, in which I can serve you, remember that I expect you will refer yourself to me as to a mother. Your own could hardly have regarded you with deeper tenderness than does your affectionate and faithful "ADELIZA TINEMOUTH." "GROSVENOR PLACE," _Thursday, midnight._ "Direct to me at Harwold Place, Wolds, Lincolnshire." Several opposite emotions agitated the mind of Thaddeus whilst reading this epistle,--increased abhorrence of the man whom he believed to be his father, and distress at the increase of his cruelty to his unhappy wife! Yet these could neither subdue the balmy effect of her maternal affection towards himself nor wholly check the emotion which the unusual mentioning of Miss Beaufort's name had caused his heart to throb. He read the sentence which contained the assurance of her esteem a third time. "Delicious poison!" cried he, kissing the paper; "if adoring thee, lovely Mary, be added to my other trials, I shall be resigned! There is sweetness even in the thought. Could I credit all which my dear lady Tinemouth affirms, the conviction that I possess one kind solicitude in the mind of Miss Beaufort would be ample compensation for---" He did not finish the sentence, but sighing profoundly, rose from his chair. "For anything, except beholding her the bride of another!" was the sentiment with which his heart swelled. Thaddeus had never known a selfish wish in his life; and this first instance of his desiring that good to be unappropriated which he might not himself enjoy, made him start. "There is an evil in my breast I wotted not of!" Dissatisfied with himself at this, he was preparing to answer her ladyship's letter, when turning to the date, he discovered that it had been written on Thursday night, and in consequence of Nanny's neglect in not calling at the coffee-house, had been delayed a day and a half before it reached him. His disappointment at this accident was severe. She was gone, and Miss Beaufort along with her. "Then, indeed, I am unfortunate. Yet this treasure!" cried he, fondly clasping the separated bracelet in his hand; "it will, indeed, be a representative of both--honored, beloved--to this deserted heart!" He put the chain round his neck, and, with a true lover-like feeling, thought that it warmed the heart which mortification had chilled; but the fancy was evanescent, and he again turned to watch the fading life of his friend. During the lapse of a few days, in which the general appeared merely to breathe, Thaddeus, instead of his attendance, despatched regular notes of excuse to Harley Street. In answer to these, he commonly received little tender billets from Euphemia, the strain of which he seemed totally to overlook, by the cold respect he evinced in his continued diurnal apologies for absence. This young lady was so full of her own lamentations over the trouble which her elegant tutor must endure in watching his sick friend, that she never thought it worth while to mention in her notes any creature in the house excepting herself, and her commiseration. Thaddeus longed to inquire about Miss Beaufort; but the more he wished it, the greater was his reluctance to write her name. Things were in this situation, when one evening, as he was reading by the light of a solitary candle in his little sitting-room, the door opened, and Nanny stepped in, followed by a female wrapped in a large black cloak. Thaddeus rose. "A lady, sir," said Nanny, curtseying. The moment the girl withdrew, the visitor cast herself into a chair, and sobbing aloud, seemed in violent agitation. Thaddeus, astonished and alarmed, approached her, and, though she was unknown, offered her every assistance in his power. Catching hold of the hand which, with the greatest respect, he extended towards her, she instantly displayed to his dismayed sight the features of Lady Sara Ross. "Merciful Heaven!" exclaimed he, involuntarily starting back. "Do not cast me off, Constantine!" cried she, clasping his arm, and looking up to him with a face of anguish; "on you alone I now depend for happiness--for existence!" A cold damp stood on the forehead of her auditor. "Dear Lady Sara, what am I to understand by this emotion; has anything dreadful happened? Is Captain Ross--" Lady Sara shuddered, and still grasping his hand, answered with words every one of which palsied the heart of Thaddeus. "He is coming home. He is now at Portsmouth. O, Constantine! I am not yet so debased as to live with him when my heart is yours." At this shameful declaration, Thaddeus clenched his teeth in agony of spirit; and placing his hand upon his eyes, to shut her from his sight, he turned suddenly round and walked towards another part of the room. Lady Sara followed him. Her cloak having fallen off, now displayed her fine form in all the fervor of grief and distraction. She rung her fair and jewelled arms in despair, and with accents rendered more piercing by the anguish of her mind, exclaimed, "What! You hate me? You throw me from you? Cruel, barbarous Constantine! Can you drive from your feet the woman who adores you? Can you cast her who is without a home into the streets?" Thaddeus felt his hand wet with her tears. He fixed his eyes upon her with almost delirious horror. Her hat being off, gave freedom to her long black hair, which, falling in masses over her figure and face, gave such additional wildness to the imploring and frantic expression of her eyes, that his distracted soul felt reeling within him. "Rise, madam! For Heaven's sake, Lady Sara!" and he stooped to raise her. "Never!" cried she, clinging to him--"never! till you promise to protect me. My husband comes home to-night, and I have left his house forever. You--you!" exclaimed she, extending her hand to his averted face; "Oh, Constantine! you have robbed me of my peace! On your account I have flown from my home. For mercy's sake, do not abandon me!" "Lady Sara," cried he, looking in desperation around him, "I cannot speak to you in this position! Rise, I implore you!" "Only," returned she, "only say that you will protect me!--that I shall find shelter here! Say this, and I will rise and bless you forever." Thaddeus stood aghast, not knowing how to reply. Terror-struck at the violent lengths to which she seemed determined to carry her unhappy and guilty passion, he in vain sought to evade this direct demand. Lady Sara, perceiving the reluctance and horror of his looks, sprang from her knees, while in a more resolute voice she exclaimed, "Then, sir, you will not protect me? You scorn and desert a woman whom you well know has long loved you?--whom, by your artful behavior, you have seduced to this disgrace!" The count, surprised and shocked at this accusation, with gentleness, but resolution, denied the charge. Lady Sara again melted into tears, and supporting her tottering frame against his shoulder, replied, in a stifled voice, "I know it well: I have nothing to blame for my wretched state but my own weakness. Pardon, dear Constantine, the dictates of my madness! Oh! I would gladly owe such misery to any other source than myself!" "Then, respected lady," rejoined Thaddeus, gaining courage from the mildness of her manner, "let me implore you to return to your own house!" "Don't ask me," cried she, grasping his hand. "O, Constantine! if you knew what it was to receive with smiles of affection a creature whom you loathe, you would shrink with disgust from what you require. I detest Captain Ross. Can I open my arms to meet him, when my heart excludes him forever? Can I welcome him home when I wish him in his grave?" Sobieski extricated his hand from her grasp. Her ladyship perceived the repugnance which dictated this action, and with renewed violence ejaculated, "Unhappy woman that I am! to hate where I am loved! to love where I am hated! Kill me, Constantine!" cried she, turning suddenly towards him, and sinking clown on a chair, "but do not give me such another look as that!" "Dear Lady Sara," replied he, seating himself by her side, "what would you have me do? You see that I have no proper means of protecting you. I have no relations, no friends to receive you. You see that I am a poor man. Besides, your character--" "Talk not of my character!" cried she: "I will have none that does not depend on you! Cruel Constantine! you will not understand me. I want no riches, no friends, but yourself. Give me _your_ home and _your_ arms," added she, throwing herself in an agony on his bosom, "and beggary would be paradise! But I shall not bring you poverty; I have inherited a fortune since I married Ross, on which he has no claim." Thaddeus now shrunk doubly from her. Why had she not felt a sacred spell in that husband's name? He shuddered, and tore himself from her clinging arms. Holding her off with his hand, he exclaimed, in a voice of mental agony, "Infatuated woman! leave me, for his honor and your own peace." "No, no!" cried she, hoping she had gained some advantage over his agitated feelings, and again casting herself at his feet, exclaimed, "Never will I leave this spot till you consent that your home shall be my home; that I shall serve you forever!" Thaddeus pressed his hands upon his eyes, as if he would shut her from his sight. But with streaming tears she added, while clasping his other hand to her throbbing bosom, "Exclude me not from those dear eyes! reject me not from being your true wife, your willing slave!" Thaddeus heard this, but he did not look on her, neither did he answer. He broke from her, and fled, in a stupor of horror at his situation, into the apartment where the general lay in a heavy sleep. Little expecting to see anyone but the man she loved, Lady Sara rushed in after him, and was again wildly pressing towards her determined victim, when her eyes were suddenly arrested by a livid, and, she thought, dead face of a person lying on the bed. Fixed to the spot, she stood for a moment; then putting her spread hand on her forehead, uttered a faint cry, and fell soul-struck to the floor. Having instant conviction of her mistake, Thaddeus eagerly seized the moment of her insensibility to convey her home. He hastily went to the top of the stairs, called to Nanny to run for a coach, and then returning to the extended figure of Lady Sara, lifted her in his arms and carried her back to the room they had left. By the help of a little water, he restored her to a sense of existence. She slowly opened her eyes; then raising her head, looked round with a terrified air, when her eye falling on the still open door of the general's room, she caught Thaddeus by the arm, and said, in a shuddering voice, "Oh! take me hence." Whilst she yet spoke, the coach stopped at the door. The count rose, and attempted to support her agitated frame on his arm; but she trembled so, he was obliged to almost carry her down stairs. When he placed her in the carriage, she said, in a faint tone, "You surely will not leave me?" Thaddeus made no reply; then desiring Nanny to sit by the general until his return, which should be in a few minutes, and having stepped into the coach, Lady Sara snatched his hand, while in dismayed accents she quickly said, "Who was that fearful person?" "Alas! the revered friend whose long illness Lady Tinemouth has sometimes mentioned in your presence." Lady Sara shuddered again, but with a rush of tears, while she added imploringly, "Then, whither are you going to take me?" "You shall again, dear Lady Sara," replied he, "return to guiltless and peaceful home." "I cannot meet my husband," cried she, wringing her hands; "he will see all my premeditated guilt in my countenance. O! Constantine, have pity on me! Miserable creature that I am! It is horrible to live without you! It is dreadful to live with him! Take me not home, I entreat you!" The count took her clasped hands in his, saying, "Reflect for a moment. Lady Tinemouth's eulogiums on our first acquaintance taught me to honor you. I believe that when you distinguished me with any portion of your regard, it was in consequence of virtues which you thought I possessed." "Indeed, you do me justice!" cried she, with renewed energy. He continued, feeling that he must be stern in words as well as in purpose if he would really rescue her from herself. "Think, then, should I yield to the influence of your beauty, and sink your respected name to a level with those"--and he pointed to a group of wretched women assembled at the corner of Pall-Mall. "Think, where would be the price of your innocence? I being no longer worthy of your esteem, you would hate yourself; and we should continue together, two guilty creatures, abhorring each other, and justly despised by a virtuous world." Lady Sara sat as one dumb, and did not inarticulate any sound--except the groan of horror which had shot through her when she had glanced at those women--until the coach stopped in James's Place. "Go in with me," were all the words she could utter, while, pulling her veil over her face, she gave him her hand to assist her down the steps. "Is Captain Ross arrived?" asked Thaddeus of a servant, who, to his great joy, replied in the negative. During the drive, he had alarmed himself by anticipating the disagreeable suspicions which might rise in the mind of the husband should he see his wife in her present strange and distracted state. When Thaddeus seated Lady Sara in her drawing room, he offered to take a respectful leave; but she laid one hand on his arm, whilst with the other she covered her convulsed features, and said, "Constantine, before you go, before we part perhaps eternally, O! tell me that you do not, even now, hate me!--that you do not hate me!" repeated she, in a firmer tone; "I know too well how deeply I am despised." "Cease, ah, cease these vehement self-reproaches!" returned he, tenderly replacing her on the sofa. "Shame does not depend on possessing passions, but in yielding to them. You have conquered yours, dear Lady Sara; and in future I must respect and love you like a sister of my heart." "Noble Constantine! there is no guile in thee," exclaimed she, straining his hand to her lips. "May Heaven bless you wherever you go!" He dropped on his knees, imprinted on both her hands a true brother's sacred kiss, and, hastily rising, was quitting the room without a word, when he heard, in a short, low sound from her voice, "O, why had I not a mother, a sister, to love and pity me! Should I have been such a wretch as now?" Thaddeus turned from the door at the tone and substance of this apparently unconsciously uttered apostrophe. She was standing with her hands clasped, and her eyes fixed on the ground. By an irresistible impulse he approached her. "Lady Sara," said he, with a tender reverence in his voice, "there is penitence and prayer to a better Parent in those words! Look up to Him, and He will save you from yourself, and bless you in your husband." She did raise her eyes at this adjuration, and without one earthward glance at her young monitor in their movement to the heaven she sought. Neither did she speak, but pressed, with an unutterable emotion, the hand which now held hers, while his own heart did indeed silently re-echo the prayer he saw in her upward eyes. Turning gently away, he glided, in a suffusion of grateful tears, out of the apartment. CHAPTER XXXIV. REQUIESCAT IN PACE. The dream-like amazement which enveloped the count's faculties after the preceding scene was dissipated next morning by the appearance of Dr. Cavendish. When he saw the general, he declared it to be his opinion that, in consequence of his long and tranquil slumbers, some favorable crisis seemed near. "Probably," added he, "the recovery of his intellects. Such phenomena in these cases often happen immediately before death." "Heaven grant it may in this!" ejaculated Thaddeus; "to hear his venerable voice again acknowledge that I have acted by him as became the grandson of his friend, would be a comfort to me." "But, sir," replied the kind physician, touching his burning hand, "you must not forget the cares which are due to your own life. If you wish well to the general during the few days he may have to live, you are indispensably obliged to preserve your own strength. You are already ill, and require air. I have an hour of leisure," continued he, pulling out his watch; "I will remain here till you have taken two or three walks round St. James's Park. It is absolutely necessary; in this instance I must take the privilege of friendship, and insist on obedience." Seeing the benevolent Cavendish would not be denied, Thaddeus took his hat, and with harassed spirits walked down the lane towards Charing Cross. On entering Spring Garden gate, to his extreme surprise the first objects that met his sight were Miss Euphemia Dundas and Miss Beaufort. Euphemia accosted him with ten thousand inquiries respecting his friend, besides congratulations on his own good looks. Thaddeus bowed; then smiling faintly, turned to the blushing Mary, who, conscious of what had passed in the late conversation between herself and Lady Tinemouth, trembled so much that, fearing to excite the suspicion of Euphemia by such tremor, she withdrew her arm, and walked forward alone, tottering at every step. "I thought, Miss Beaufort," said he, addressing himself to her, "that Lady Tinemouth was to have had the happiness of your company at Harwold Park?" "Yes," returned she, fearfully raising her eyes to his face, the hectic glow of which conveyed impressions to her different from those which Euphemia expressed; "but to my indescribable alarm and disappointment, the morning after I had written to fix my departure with her ladyship, my aunt's foot caught in the iron of the stair- carpet as she was coming down stairs, and throwing her from the top to the bottom, broke her leg. I could not quit her a moment during her agonies; and the surgeons having expressed their fears that a fever might ensue, I was obliged altogether to decline my attendance on the countess." "And how is Miss Dorothy?" inquired Thaddeus, truly concerned at the accident. "She is better, though confined to her bed," replied Euphemia, speaking before her companion could open her lips; "and, indeed, poor Mary and myself have been such close nurses, my mother insisted on our walking out to-day." "And Lady Tinemouth," returned Thaddeus, again addressing Miss Beaufort, "of course she went alone?" "Alas, yes!" replied she; "Miss Egerton was forced to join her family in Leicestershire." "I believe," cried Euphemia, sighing, "Miss Egerton is going to be married. Hers has been a long attachment. Happy girl! I have heard Captain Ross say (whose lieutenant her intended husband was) that he is the finest young man in the navy. Did you ever see Mr. Montresor?" added she, turning her pretty eyes on the count. "I never had that pleasure." "Bless me! that is odd, considering your intimacy with Miss Egerton. I assure you he is very charming." Thaddeus neither heard this nor a great deal more of the same trifling chit-chat which was slipping from the tongue of Miss Euphemia, so intently were his eyes (sent by his heart) searching the downcast but expressive countenance of Miss Beaufort. His soul was full; and the fluctuations of her color, with the embarrassment of her step, more than affected him. "Then you do not leave town for some time, Miss Beaufort?" inquired he; "I may yet anticipate the honor of seeing--" he hesitated a moment, then added in a depressed tone--"your aunt, when I next wait on the Misses Dundas." "Our stay depends entirely on her health" returned she, striving to rally herself; "and I am sure she will be happy to find you better; for I am sorry to say I cannot agree with Euphemia in thinking you look well." "Merely a slight indisposition," replied he, "the effect of an anxiety which I fear will too soon cease in the death of its cause. I came out now for a little air, whilst the physician remains with my revered friend." "Poor old gentleman!" sighed Mary; "how venerable was his appearance the morning in which we saw him in the Park! What a benign countenance!" "His countenance," replied Thaddeus, his eyes turning mournfully towards the lovely speaker, "is the emblem of his character. He was the most amiable of men." "And you are likely to lose so interesting a friend; dear Mr. Constantine, how I pity you!" While Euphemia uttered these words, she put the corner of her glove to her eye. The count looked at her, and perceiving that her commiseration was affectation, he turned to Miss Beaufort, who was walking pensively by his side, and made further inquiries respecting Miss Dorothy. Anxious to be again with his invalid, he was preparing to quit them, when Mary, as with a full heart she curtseyed her adieu, in a hurried and confused manner, said--"Pray, Mr. Constantine, take care of yourself. You have other friends besides the one you are going to lose. I know Lady Tinemouth, I know my aunt--" She stopped short, and, covered with blushes, stood panting for another word to close the sentence; when Thaddeus, forgetting all presence but her own, with delighted precipitancy caught hold of the hand which, in her confusion, was a little extended towards him, and pressing it with fervor, relinquished it immediately; then, overcome by confusion at the presumption of the action, he bowed with agitation to both ladies, and hastened through the Friary passage into St. James's Street. "Miss Beaufort!" cried Euphemia, reddening with vexation, and returning a perfumed handkerchief to her pocket, "I did not understand that you and Mr. Constantine were on such intimate terms!" "What do you mean, Euphemia?" "That you have betrayed the confidence I reposed in you," cried the angry beauty, wiping away the really starting tears with her white lace cloak. "I told you the elegant Constantine was the lord of my heart; and you have seduced him from me! Till you came, he was so respectful, so tender, so devoted! Bat I am rightly used! I ought to have carried my secret to the grave." In vain Miss Beaufort protested; in vain she declared herself ignorant of possessing any power over even one wish of Constantine's. Euphemia thought it monstrous pretty to be the injured friend and forsaken mistress; and all along the Park, and up Constitution-hill, until they arrived at Lady Dundas's carriage, which was waiting opposite Devonshire wall, she affected to weep. When seated, she continued her invectives. She called Miss Beaufort ungenerous, perfidious, traitor to friendship, and every romantic and disloyal name which her inflamed fancy could devise; till the sight of Harley Street checked her transports, and relieved her patient hearer from a load of impertinence and reproach. During this short interview, Thaddeus had received an impulse to his affections which hurried them forward with a force that neither time nor succeeding sorrows could stop nor stem. Mary's heavenly-beaming eyes seemed to have encircled his head with love's purest halo. The command, "Preserve yourself for others besides your dying friend," yet throbbed at his heart; and with ten thousand rapturous visions flitting before his sight, he trod in air, until the humble door of his melancholy home presenting itself, at once wrecked the illusion, and offered sad reality in the person of his emaciated friend. On the count's entrance to the sick chamber, Doctor Cavendish gave him a few directions to pursue when the general should awake from the sleep into which he had been sunk for so many hours. With a heart the more depressed from its late unusual exaltation, Thaddeus sat down at the side of the invalid's bed for the remainder of the day. At five in the afternoon, General Butzou awoke. Seeing the count, he stretched out his withered hand, and as the doctor predicted, accosted him rationally. "Come, dear Sobieski! Come nearer, my dear master." Thaddeus rose, and throwing himself on his knees, took the offered hand with apparent composure. It was a hard struggle to restrain the emotions which were roused by this awful contemplation the return of reason to the soul on the instant she was summoned into the presence of her Maker! "My kind, my beloved lord!" added Butzou, "to me you have indeed performed a Christian's part; you have clothed, sheltered and preserved me in your bosom. Blessed son of my most honored master!" The good old man put the hand of Thaddeus to his lips. Thaddeus could not speak. "I am going, dear Sobieski," continued the general, in a lower voice, "where I shall meet your noble grandfather, your mother, and my brave countrymen; and if Heaven grants me power, I will tell them by whose labor I have lived, on whose breast I have expired." Thaddeus could no longer restrain his tears. "Dear, dear general!" exclaimed he, grasping his hand; "my grandfather, my mother, my country! I lose them all again in thee! O! would that the same summons took me hence!" "Hush!" returned the dying man; "Heaven reserves you, my honored lord, for wise purposes. Youth and health are the marks of commission: [Footnote: I cannot but pause here, in revising the volume, to publicly express the emotion (grateful to Heaven) I experienced on receiving a letter quoting these words, many, many years ago. It was from the excellent Joseph Fox, the well-known Christian philanthropist of our country, who spent both his fortune and his life in establishing and sustaining several of our best charitable and otherwise patriotic institutions. And once, when some of his anxious friends would gladly have persuaded him to grant himself more personal indulgences, and to labor less in the then recently-begun plans for national education, he wrote "to the author of Thaddeus of Warsaw," and, quoting to her those words from the work, declared "they were on his heart! and he would, with the blessing of God, perform what he believed to be his commission to the last powers of his youth and health." This admirable man has now been long removed to his heavenly country-- to the everlasting dwelling-place of the just made perfect. And such recollections cannot but make an historical novel-writer at least feel answerable for more, in his or her pages, than the purposes of mere amusement. They guide by examples. Plutarch, in his lives of Grecian and Roman Worthies taught more effectually the heroic and virtuous science of life than did all his philosophical works put together.] _you_ possess them, with virtues which will bear you through the contest. _I_ have done; and my merciful Judge has evinced his pardon of my errors by sparing me in my old age, and leading me to die with you." Thaddeus pressed his friend's hand to his streaming eyes, and promised to be resigned. Butzou smiled his satisfaction; then closing his eyelids, he composed himself to a rest that was neither sleep nor stupor, but a balmy serenity, which seemed to be tempering his lately recovered soul for its immediate entrance on a world of eternal peace. At nine o'clock his breath became broken with quick sighs. The count's heart trembled, and he drew closer to the pillow. Butzou felt him; and opening his eyes languidly, articulated, "Raise my head." Thaddeus put his arm under his neck, and lifting him up, reclined him against his bosom. Butzou grasped his hands, and looking gratefully in his face, said, "The arms of a soldier should be a soldier's death-bed. I am content." He lay for a moment on the breast of the almost fainting Thaddeus; then suddenly quitting his hold, he cried, "I lose you, Sobieski! But there is----" and he gazed fixedly forward. "I am here," exclaimed the count, catching his motionless hand. The dying general murmured a few words more, and turning his face inward, breathed his last sigh on the bosom of his last friend. For a minute Sobieski continued incapable of thought or action. When he recovered recollection, he withdrew from his melancholy station. Laying the venerable remains back on the bed, he did not trust his rallied faculties with a second trial, but hastening down stairs, was met by Mrs. Robson. "My dear madam," said he, "all is over with my poor friend. Will you do me the kindness to perform those duties to his sacred relics which I cannot?" Thaddeus would not allow any person to watch by his friend's coffin besides himself. The meditations of this solitary night presented to his sound and sensible mind every argument rather to induce rejoicing than regret that the eventful life of the brave Butzou was terminated. "Yes, illustrious old man!" cried he, gazing on his marble features; "if valor and virtue be the true sources of nobility, thou surely wast noble! Inestimable defender of Stanislaus and thy country! thou hast run a long and bright career; and though thou art fated to rest in the humble grave of poverty, it will be embalmed by the tears of Heaven--it will be engraven on my heart." Thaddeus did not weep whilst he spoke. Nor did he weep when he beheld the mold of St. Paul's, Covent Garden, close from his view the last remains of his friend. It began to rain. The uncovered head of the officiating minister was wet; and so was that of a little delicate boy, in a black cloak, who stood near, holding the aged rector's hat during the service. As the shower descended faster, Dr. Cavendish put his arm through the count's to draw him away, but he lingered an instant, looking on the mold while the sexton piled it up. "Wretched Poland!" sighed he; "how far from thee lies one of thy bravest sons!" The words were breathed in so low a murmur, that none heard them except the ear of Heaven! and that little boy, whose gaze had been some time fixed on Thaddeus, and whose gentle heart never forgot them. Dr. Cavendish, regarding with redoubled pity the now doubly desolated exile in this last resignation of his parental friend to a foreign grave, attempted to persuade him to return with him to dinner. He refused the kind invitation, alleging, with a faint smile, that under every misfortune he found his best comforter in solitude. Respecting the resignation and manliness of this answer, Doctor Cavendish urged him no further; but expressing his regret that he could not see him again until the end of the week, as he was obliged to go to Stanford next day on a medical consultation, he shook hands with him at the door of Mrs. Robson and bade him farewell. Thaddeus entered his lonely room, and fell on his knees before the "ark of his strength,"--the Holy Book, that had been the gift of his mother. The first page he opened presented to him the very words which had poured consolation onto his sad heart, from the lips of the venerable clergyman when he met him on his entrance into the church- porch before the coffin of his friend! "I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord. He that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live; and whosoever liveth, and believeth in me, shall never die." After reading this, how truly did the young mourner feel that "Death had lost its sting--the grave its victory." * * * * * * * CHAPTER XXXV. DEEP ARE THE PURPOSES OF ADVERSITY. Next morning, when the Count Sobieski unfolded the several packets of papers which were put into his hands by little Nanny, he laid them one after the other on the table, and sighing heavily, said to himself, "Now comes the bitterness of poverty! Heaven only knows by what means I shall pay these heavy charges." Mere personal privations, induced by his fallen fortunes, excited little uneasiness in the mind of Thaddeus. As he never had derived peculiar gratification from the enjoyment of a magnificent house, splendid table, and numerous attendants, he was contented in the field, where he slept on the bare ground, and snatched his hasty meals at uncertain intervals. Watching, rough fare, and other hardships were dust in the path of honor; he had dashed through them with light and buoyant spirits; and he repined as little at the actual wants of his forlorn state in exile, until, compelled by friendship to contract demands which he could not defray, he was plunged at once into the full horrors of poverty and debt. He looked at the amount of the bills. The apothecary was twelve pounds; the funeral fifteen. Thaddeus turned pale. The value of all that he possessed would not produce one half of the sum; besides, he owed five guineas to his good landlady for numerous little comforts procured for his deceased friend. "Whatever be the consequence," cried he, "that excellent woman shall not suffer by her humanity! If I have to pay with the last memorial of those who were so dear, she shall be repaid." He scarcely had ceased speaking, when Nanny re-entered the room, and told him the apothecary's young man and the undertaker were both below, waiting for answers to their letters. Reddening with disgust at the unfeeling haste of these men, he desired Nanny to say that he could not see either of them to-day, but would send to their houses to-morrow. In consequence of this promise, the men made their bows to Mrs. Robson (who too well guessed the reason of this message), and took their leave. When Thaddeus put the pictures of his mother and the palatine, with other precious articles, into his pocket, he could not forbear an internal invective against the thoughtless meanness of the Misses Dundas, who had never offered any further liquidation of the large sum they now stood indebted to him than the trifling note which had been transmitted to him, prior to his attendance, through the hands of Lady Tinemouth. Whilst his necessities reproached them for this illiberal conduct, his proud heart recoiled at making a request to their chanty; for he had gathered from the haughty demeanor of Miss Diana that what he was entitled to demand would be given, not as a just remuneration for labor received, but as alms of humanity to an indigent emigrant. "I would rather perish," cried he, putting on his hat, "than ask that woman for a shilling." When the count laid his treasure on the table of the worthy pawnbroker, he desired to have the value of the settings of the pictures, and the portraits themselves put into leather cases. With the other little things, there were a pair of gold spurs, the peculiar insignia of his princely rank, which the palatine himself had buckled on his grandson's heels on mounting his noble charger for his first field. There was a peculiar pang in parting with these--a sort of last relic of what he had been! But there was no alternative: all that had any intrinsic value must pass from him. Having examined the setting of the miniatures, and the gold of the other trinkets, with that of the spurs (which their hard service had something marred), Mr. Burket declared, on the word of an honest man, that he could not give more than fifteen pounds. With difficulty Thaddeus stifled as torturing a sigh as ever distended his breast, whilst he said, "I will take it, I only implore you to be careful of the things, trifling as they are; circumstances with which they were connected render them valuable to me to redeem." "You may depend on me, sir," replied the pawnbroker, presenting him the notes and acknowledgment. When Thaddeus took them, Mr. Burket's eye was caught by the ring on his finger. "That ring seems curious? If you won't think me impertinent, may I ask to look at it?" The count pulled it off, and forcing a smile, replied, "I suppose it is of little jewel value. The setting is slight, though the painting is fine." Burket breathed on the diamonds. "If you were to sell it," returned he, "I don't think it would fetch more than three guineas. The diamonds are flawed, and the emeralds would be of little use, being out of fashion here; as for the miniature, it goes for nothing." "Of course," said Thaddeus, putting it on again; "but I shall not part with it." While he drew on his glove, Mr. Burket asked him "whether the head were not intended for the King of Poland?" The count, surprised, answered in the affirmative. "I thought so," answered the man; "it is very like two or three prints which I had in my shop of that king. [Footnote: The author has a very correct likeness of this memorable king, copied from an original miniature; and it is not one of the least valued portraits in a little room which contains those of several other heroes of different countries,--friends and gallant foes.] Indeed, I believe I have them somewhere now: these matters are but a nine-day's wonder, and the sale is over." His auditor did not clearly comprehend him, and he told him so. "I meant nothing," continued he, "to the disparagement of the King of Poland, or of any other great personage who is much the subject of conversation. I only intended to say that everything has its fashion. The ruin of Poland was the fashionable topic for a month after it happened; and now nobody minds it--it is forgotten." Thaddeus, in whose bosom all its miseries were written, with a clouded brow bowed to the remarks of Mr. Burket, and in silence quitted the shop. Having arrived at home, he discharged his debt to the worthy Mrs. Robson; then entering his room, he laid the remainder of his money on the bills of the two claimants. It was unequal to the demands of either; yet, in some measure to be just to both, he determined on dividing it between them and to promise the liquidation of the rest by degrees. Surely he might hope that, even should the Misses Dundas entirely forget his claims on them, he could, in the course of time make drawings sufficient to discharge the residue of this debt; but he was not permitted to put this calculation to the trial. When he called on the apothecary, and offered him only half his demand, the man refused it with insolence, insisting upon having the whole then, "or he would make him pay for it!" Unused to the language of compulsion and vulgarity, the count quitted the shop saying "he was at liberty to act as he thought fit." With no very serene countenance, he entered the undertaker's warehouse. This man was civil; to him Thaddeus gave the entire sum, half of which the apothecary had rejected with so much derision. The undertaker's politeness a little calmed the irritated feelings of the count, who returned home musing on the vile nature of that class of mankind who can with indifference heap insult upon distress. Judging men by his own disposition, he seldom gave credence to the possibility of such conduct. He had been told of dastardly spirits, but never having seen them, and possessing no archetype within his own breast of what he heard, the repeated relation passed over his mind without leaving an impression. He had entered the world filled with animating hopes of virtue and renown. He was virtuous; he became powerful, great, and renowned. Creation seemed paradise to his eyes; it was the task of adversity to teach him a different lesson of mankind. Not less virtuous, not less great, his fortunes fell: he became poor. The perfidy, the hard-heartedness of man, made and kept him friendless. When he wanted succor and consolation, he found the world peopled by a race too mean even to bear the stamp of the devil. Whilst Sobieski was employed next morning at his drawing, Mrs. Robson sent Nanny to say that there were two strange-looking men below who wanted to speak with him. Not doubting they were messengers from the apothecary, he desired the girl to show them up stairs. When they entered his room, the count rose. One of the men stepped forward, and laying a slip of paper on the table, said, "I arrest you, sir, at the suit of Messrs. Vincent and Jackson, apothecaries!" Thaddeus colored; but suppressing his indignant emotion, he calmly asked the men whither they were going to take him? "If you like," replied one of them, "you may be well enough lodged. I never heard a word against Clement's in Wych Street." "Is that a prison?" inquired Thaddeus. "No, not exactly that, sir," answered the other man, laughing. "You seem to know little of the matter, which, for a Frenchman, is odd enough; but mayhap you have never a lock-upd-house in France, since ye pulled down the bastile! Howsoever, if you pay well, Mr. Clements will give you lodgings as long as you like. It is only poor rogues who are obligated to go to Newgate; such gemmen as you can live as ginteely in Wych Street as at their own houses." There was such an air of derision about this fellow while he spoke, and glanced around the room, that Thaddeus, sternly contracting his brows, took no further notice of him, but, turning towards his more civil companion, said: "Has this person informed me rightly? Am I going to a prison, or am I not? If I do not possess money to pay Mr. Jackson, I can have none to spend elsewhere." "Then you must go to Newgate!" answered the man, in as surly a tone as his comrade's had been insolent. "I'll run for a coach, Wilson," cried the other, opening the room door. "I will not pay for one," said Thaddeus, at once comprehending the sort of wretches into whose custody he had fallen; "follow me down stairs. I shall walk." Mrs. Robson was in her shop as he passed to the street. She called out, "You will come home to dinner, sir?" "No," replied he; "but you shall hear from me before night." "The men, winking at each other, sullenly pursued his steps down the lane. In the Strand, Thaddeus asked them which way he was to proceed?" "Straight on," cried one of them; "most folks find the road to a jail easy enough." Involved in thought, the count walked forward, unmindful of the stare which the well-known occupation of his attendants attracted towards him. When he arrived at Somerset House, one of the men stepped up to him, and said, "We are now nearly opposite Wych Street. You had better take your mind again, and go there instead of Newgate. I don't think your honor will like the debtor's hole." Thaddeus, coldly thanking him, repeated his determination to be led to Newgate. But when he beheld the immense walls within which he believed he should be immured for life, his feet seemed rooted to the ground; and when the massive doors were opened and closed upon him, he felt as if suddenly deprived of the vital spring of existence. A mist spread over his eyes, his soul shuddered, and with difficulty he followed the men into the place where his commitment was to be ratified. Here all the proud energies of his nature again rallied round his heart. The brutal questions of the people in office, re-echoed by taunts from the wretches who had brought him to the prison, were of a nature so much beneath his answering, that he stood perfectly silent during the business; and when dismissed, without evincing any signs of discomposure, he followed the turnkey to his cell. One deal chair, a table, and a miserable bed, were all the furniture it contained. The floor was paved with flags, and the sides of the apartment daubled with discolored plaster, part of which, having been peeled off by the damp, exposed to view large spaces of the naked stones. Before the turnkey withdrew he asked Thaddeus whether he wanted anything? "Only a pen, ink, and paper." The man held out his hand. "I have no money," replied Sobieski. "Then you get nothing here," answered the fellow, pulling the door after him. Thaddeus threw himself on the chair, and in the bitterness of his heart exclaimed, "Can these scoundrels be Christians?--can they be men?" He cast his eyes round him with the wildness of despair. "Mysterious Heaven, can it be possible that for a few guineas I am to be confined in this place for life? In these narrow bounds am I to waste my youth, my existence? Even so; I cannot, I will not, degrade the spirit of Poland by imploring assistance from any native of a land in which avarice has extinguished the feelings of humanity." By the next morning, the first paroxysm of indignation having subsided, Thaddeus entertained a cooler and more reasonable opinion of his situation. He considered that though he was a prisoner, it was in consequence of debts incurred in behalf of a friend whose latter hours were rendered less wretched by such means. Notwithstanding "all that man could do unto him," he had brought an approving conscience to lighten the gloom of his dungeon; and resuming his wonted serenity, he continued to distance the impertinent freedom of his jailers by a calm dignity, which extorted civility and commanded respect. * * * * * * * CHAPTER XXXVI. AN ENGLISH PRISON. Several days elapsed without the inhabitants of Harley Street hearing any tidings of Thaddeus. Miss Dundas never bestowed a thought on his absence, except when, descanting on her favorite subject, "the insolence of dependent people," she alleged his daring to withdraw himself as an instance. Miss Euphemia uttered all her complaints to Miss Beaufort, whom she accused of not being satisfied with seducing the affections of Mr. Constantine, but she must also spirit him away, lest by remorse he should be induced to renew his former devotion at the shrine of her tried constancy. Mary found these secret conferences very frequent and very teasing. She believed neither the count's past devoirs to Euphemia nor his present allegiance to herself. With anxiety she watched the slow decline of every succeeding day, hoping that each knock at the door would present either himself or an apology for his absence. In vain her reason urged the weakness and folly of giving way to the influence of a sentiment as absorbing as it was unforeseen. "It is not his personal graces," murmured she, whilst her dewy eyes remained riveted on the floor; "they have not accomplished this effect on me! No; matchless as he is, though his countenance, when illumined by the splendors of his mind, expresses consummate beauty, yet my heart tells me I would rather see all that perfection demolished than lose one beam of those bright charities which first attracted my esteem. Yes, Constantine!" cried she, rising in agitation, "I could adore thy virtues were they even in the bosom of deformity. It is these that I love; it is these that are thyself! it is thy noble, godlike soul that so entirely fills my heart, and must forever!" She recalled the hours which, in his society, had glided so swiftly by to pass in review before her. They came, and her tears redoubled. Neither his words nor his looks had been kinder to her than to Miss Egerton or to Lady Sara Ross. She remembered his wild action in the park: it had transported her at the moment; it even now made her heart throb; but she ceased to believe it intended more than an animated expression of gratitude. An adverse apprehension seemed to have taken possession of her breast. In proportion to the vehemence of Miss Euphemia's reproaches (who insisted on the passion of Thaddeus for Mary), she the more doubted the evidence of those delightful emotions which had rushed over her soul when she found her hand so fervently pressed in his. Euphemia never made a secret of the tenderness she professed; and Miss Beaufort having been taught by her own heart to read distinctly the eyes of Lady Sara, the result of her observations had long acted as a caustic on her peace; it had often robbed her cheeks of their bloom, and compelled her to number the lingering minutes of the night with sighs. But her deep and modest flame assumed no violence; removed far from sight, it burnt the more intensely. Instead of over-valuing the fine person of Thaddeus, the encomiums which it extorted, even from the lips of prejudice, occasioned one source of her pain. She could not bear to think it probable that the man whom she believed, and knew, to be gifted with every attribute of goodness and of heroism, might one day be induced to sacrifice the rich treasure of his mind to a creature who would select him from the rest merely on account of his external superiority. Such was the train of Mary's meditations. Covering her face with her handkerchief, she exclaimed in a tender and broken voice, "Ah, why did I leave my quiet home to expose myself to the vicissitudes of society? Sequestered from the world, neither its pageants nor its mortifications could have reached me there. I have seen thee, matchless Constantine! Like a bright planet, thou has passed before me!--like a being of a superior order! And I never, never can debase my nature to change that love. Thy image shall follow me into solitude--shall consecrate my soul to the practice of every virtue! I will emulate thy excellence, when, perhaps, thou hast forgotten that I exist." The fit of despondence which threatened to succeed this last melancholy reflection was interrupted by the sudden entrance of Euphemia. Miss Beaufort hastily rose, and drew her ringlets over her eyes. "O, Mary!" cried the little beauty, holding up her pretty hands, "what do you think has happened?" "What?" demanded she in alarm, and hastening towards the door; "anything to my aunt?" "No, no," answered Euphemia, catching her by the arm; "but could my injured heart derive satisfaction from revenge, I should now be happy. Punishment has overtaken the faithless Constantine." Miss Beaufort looked aghast, and grasping the back of the chair to prevent her from falling, breathlessly inquired what she meant? "Oh! he is sent to prison," cried Euphemia, not regarding the real agitation of her auditor (so much was she occupied in appearing overwhelmed herself), and wringing her hands, she continued, "That frightful wretch Mr. Lascelles is just come in to dinner. You cannot think with what fiendish glee he told me that several days ago, as he was driving out of town, he saw Mr. Constantine, with two bailiffs behind him, walking down Fleet Street! And, besides, I verily believe he said he had irons on." "No, no!" ejaculated Mary, with a cry of terror, at this _ad libitum_ of Euphemia's; "what can he have done?" "Bless me!" returned Euphemia, staring at her pale face; "why, what frightens you so? Does not everybody run in debt, without minding it?" Miss Beaufort shook her head, and looking distractedly about, put her hand to her forehead. Euphemia, determining not to be outdone in "tender woe," drew forth her handkerchief, and putting it to her eyes, resumed in a piteous tone-- "I am sure I shall hate Lascelles all my life, because he did not stop the men and inquire what jail they were taking him to? You know, my clear, you and I might have visited him. It would have been delightful to have consoled his sad hours! We might have planned his escape." "In irons!" ejaculated Mary, raising her tearless eyes to heaven. Euphemia colored at the agonized manner in which these words were reiterated, and rather confusedly replied, "Not absolutely in irons. You know that is a metaphorical term for captivity." "Then he was not in irons?" cried Miss Beaufort, seizing her hand eagerly: "for Heaven's sake, tell me he was not in irons? '"' "Why, then," returned Euphemia, half angry at being obliged to contradict herself, "if you are so dull of taste, and cannot understand poetical language, I must tell you he was not." Mary heard no further, but even at the moment, overcome by a revulsion of joy, sunk, unable to speak, into the chair. Euphemia, supposing she had fainted, flew to the top of the stairs, and shrieking violently, stood wringing her hands, until Diana and Lady Dundas, followed by several gentlemen, hastened out of the saloon and demanded what was the matter? As Euphemia pointed to Miss Beaufort's dressing-room, she staggered, and sinking into the arms of Lord Elesmere, fell into the most outrageous hysterics. The marquis, who had just dropped in on his return from St. James's, was so afraid of the agitated lady's tearing his point-lace ruffles, that, in almost as trembling a state as herself, he gladly shuffled her into the hands of her maid; and scampering down stairs, as if all Bedlam were at his heels, sprung into his _vis-à-vis_, and drove off like lightning. When Miss Beaufort recovered her scattered senses, and beheld this influx of persons entering her room, she tried to dispel her confusion, and rising gently from her seat, while supporting herself on the arm of Miss Dorothy's maid, thanked the company for their attention and withdrew into her chamber. Meanwhile, Euphemia, who had been carried down into the saloon, thought it time to raise her lily head and utter a few incoherent words. The instant they were breathed, Miss Dundas and Mr. Lascelles, in one voice, demanded what was the matter? "Has not Mary told you?" returned her sister, languidly opening her eyes. "No," answered Lascelles, rubbing his hands with delighted curiosity; "come, let us have it." Euphemia, pleased at this, and loving mystery with all her heart, waved her hand solemnly, and in an awful tone replied, "Then it passes not my lips." "What, Phemy!" cried he, "you want us to believe you have seen a ghost? But you forget, they don't walk at midday." "Believe what you like," returned she, with an air of consequential contempt; "I am satisfied to keep the secret." Miss Dundas burst into a provoking laugh; and calling her the most incorrigible little idiot in the world, encouraged Lascelles to fool her to the top of his bent. Determining to gratify his spleen, if he could not satisfy his curiosity, this witless coxcomb continued the whole day in Harley Street, for the mere pleasure of tormenting Euphemia. From the dinner hour until twelve at night, neither his drowsy fancy nor wakeful malice could find one other weapon of assault than the stale jokes of mysterious chambers, lovers incognito, or the silly addition of two Cupid-struck sweeps popping down the chimney to pay their addresses to the fair friends. Diana talked of Jupiter with his thunder; and patting her sister under the chin, added, "I cannot doubt that Miss Beaufort is the favored Semelé; but, my dear, you over-acted your character? As confidant, a few tears were enough when your lady fainted." During these attacks, Euphemia reclined pompously on a sofa, and not deigning a reply, repelled them with much conceit and haughtiness. Miss Beaufort remained above an hour alone in her chamber before she ventured to go near her aunt. Hurt to the soul that the idle folly of Euphemia should have aroused a terror which had completely unveiled to the eyes of that inconsiderate girl the empire which Thaddeus held over her fate, Mary, overwhelmed with shame, and arraigning her easy credulity, threw herself on her bed. Horror-struck at hearing he was led along the streets in chains, she could have no other idea but that, betrayed into the commission of some dreadful deed, he had become amenable to the laws, and might suffer an ignominious death. Those thoughts having rushed at once on her heart, deprived her of self-command. In the conviction of some fatal rencontre, she felt as if her life, her honor, her soul, were annihilated. And when, in consequence of her agonies, Euphemia confessed that she had in this last matter told a falsehood, the sudden peace to her soul had for an instant assumed the appearance of insensibility. Before Miss Beaufort quitted her room, various plans were suggested by her anxiety and inexperience, how to release the object of her thoughts. She found no hesitation in believing him poor, and perhaps rendered wretchedly so by the burden of that sick friend, who, she suspected, might be a near relation. At any rate, she resolved that another sun should not pass over her head and shine on him in a prison. Having determined to pay his debts herself, she next thought of how she might manage the affair without discovering the hand whence the assistance came. Had her aunt been well enough to leave the house, she would not have scrupled unfolding to her the recent calamity of Mr. Constantine. But well aware that Miss Dorothy's maidenly nicety would be outraged at a young woman appearing the sole mover in such an affair, she conceived herself obliged to withhold her confidence at present, and to decide on prosecuting the whole transaction alone. In consequence of these meditations, her spirits became less discomposed. Turning towards Miss Dorothy Somerset's apartments, she found the good lady sipping her coffee. "What is this I have just heard, my dear Mary? Williams tells me you have been ill!" Miss Beaufort returned her aunt's gracious inquiry with an affectionate kiss; and informing her that she had only been alarmed by an invention of Miss Euphemia's, begged that the subject might drop, it being merely one out of the many schemes which she believed that young lady had devised to render her visit to London as little pleasant as possible. "Ah!" replied Miss Dorothy, "I hope I shall be well enough to travel in the course of a few days. I can now walk with a stick; and upon my word, I am heartily tired both of Lady Dundas and her daughters." Mary expressed similar sentiments; but as the declaration passed her lips, a sigh almost buried the last word. Go when she would, she must leave Constantine behind, leave him without an expectation of beholding him more--without a hope of penetrating the thick cloud which involved him, and with which he had ever baffled any attempt she had heard to discover his birth or misfortunes. She wept over this refinement on delicacy, and "loved him dearer for his mystery." When the dawn broke next morning, it shone on Miss Beaufort's yet unclosed eyes. Sleep could find no languid faculty in her head whilst her heart was agitated with plans for the relief of Thaddeus. The idea of visiting the coffee-house to which she knew the Misses Dundas directed their letters, and of asking questions about a young and handsome man, made her timidity shrink. "But," exclaimed she, "I am going on an errand which ought not to spread a blush on the cheek of prudery itself. I am going to impart alleviation to the sufferings of the noblest creature that ever walked the earth!" Perhaps there are few persons who, being auditors of this speech, would have decided quite so candidly on the superlative by which it was concluded. Mary herself was not wholly divested of doubt about the issue of her conduct; but conscious that her motive was pure, she descended to the breakfast-room with a quieter mind than countenance. Never before having had occasion to throw a gloss on her actions, she scarcely looked up during breakfast. When the cloth was removed, she rose suddenly from her chair, and turning to Miss Dorothy, who sat at the other end of the parlor, with her foot on a stool, said in a low voice, "Good-by, aunt! I am going to make some particular calls; but I shall be back in a few hours." Luckily, no one observed her blushing face whilst she spoke, nor the manner in which she shook hands with the old lady and hurried out of the room. Breathless with confusion, she could scarcely stand when she arrived in her own chamber; but aware that no time ought to be lost, she tied on a long, light silk cloak, of sober gray, over her white morning- dress, and covering her head with a straw summer bonnet, shaded by a black lace veil, hesitated a moment within her chamber-door--her eyes filling with tears, drawn from her heart by that pure spirit of truth which had ever been the guardian of her conduct! Looking up to heaven, she sunk on her knees, and exclaimed with impetuosity, "Father of mercy! thou only knowest my heart! Direct me, I beseech thee! Let me not commit anything unworthy of myself nor of the unhappy Constantine--for whom I would sacrifice my life, but not my duty to thee!" Reassured by the confidence which this simple act of devotion inspired, she took her parasol and descended the stairs. The porter was alone in the hall. She inquired for her servant. "He is not returned, madam," Having foreseen the necessity of getting rid of all attendants, she had purposely sent her footman on an errand as far as Kensington. "It is of no consequence," returned she to the porter, who was just going to propose one of Lady Dundas's men. "I cannot meet with anything disagreeable at this time of day, so I shall walk alone." The man opened the door; and with a bounding heart Mary hastened down the street, crossed the square, and at the bottom of Orchard Street stepped into a hackney-coach, which she ordered to drive to Slaughter's Coffee-house, St. Martin's Lane. She drew up the glasses and closed her eyes. Various thoughts agitated her anxious mind whilst the carriage rolled along; and when it drew up at the coffee-house, she involuntarily retreated into the corner. The coach-door was opened. "Will you alight, ma'am?" "No; call a waiter." A waiter appeared; and Miss Beaufort, in a tolerably collected voice, inquired whether Mr. Constantine lived there? "No, ma'am." A cold dew stood on her forehead; but taking courage from a latent and last hope, she added, "I know he has had letters directed to this place." "Oh! I beg your pardon, ma'am!" returned the man recollecting himself; "I remember a person of that name has received letters from hence, but they were always fetched away by a little girl." "And do you not know where he lives?" "No, ma'am," answered he; "yet some one else in the house may: I will inquire." Miss Beaufort bowed her head in token of acknowledgment, and sat shivering with suspense until he returned, followed by another man. "This person, ma'am," resumed he, "says he can tell you." "Thank you, thank you!" cried Mary; then, blushing at her eagerness, she stopped and drew back into the carriage. "I cannot for certain," said the man, "but I know the girl very well by sight who comes for the letters; and I have often seen her standing at the door of a chandler's shop a good way down the lane. I think it is No. 5, or 6. I sent a person there who came after the same gentleman about a fortnight ago. I dare say he lives there." Miss Beaufort's expectations sunk again, when she found that she had nothing but a dare say to depend on; and giving half-a-crown to each of her informers, she desired the coachman to drive as they would direct him. While the carriage drove down the lane, with a heart full of fears she looked from side to side, almost believing she should know by intuition the house which had contained Constantine. When the man checked his horses, and her eyes fell on the little mean dwelling of Mrs. Robson, she smothered a deep sigh. "Can this be the house in which Constantine has lived? How comfortless! And should it not," thought she, as the man got off the box to inquire, "whither shall I go for information?" The appearance of Mrs. Robson, and her immediate affirmative to the question, "Are these Mr. Constantine's lodgings?" at once dispelled this last anxiety. Encouraged by the motherly expression of the good woman's manner, Mary begged leave to alight. Mrs. Robson readily offered her arm, and with many apologies for the disordered state of the house, led her up stairs to the room which had been the count's house. Mary trembled; but seeing that everything depended on self-command, with apparent tranquillity she received the chair that was presented to her, and turning her eyes from the books and drawings which told her so truly in whose apartment she was, she desired Mrs. Robson, who continued standing, to be seated. The good woman obeyed. After some trepidation, Mary asked where Mr. Constantine was? Mrs. Robson colored, and looking at her questioner for some time, as if doubting what to say, burst into tears. Miss Beaufort's ready eyes were much inclined to flow in concert; but subduing the strong emotions which shook her, she added, "I do not come hither out of impertinent curiosity. I have heard of the misfortunes of Mr. Constantine. I am well known to his friends." "Dear lady!" cried the good woman, grasping at any prospect of succor to her benefactor: "if he has friends, whoever they are, tell them he is the noblest, most humane gentleman in the world. Tell them he has saved me and mine from the deepest want; and now he is sent to prison because he cannot pay the cruel doctor who attended the poor dead general." "What! is his friend dead?" ejaculated Mary, unable to restrain the tears which now streamed over her face. "Yes," replied Mrs. Robson; "poor old gentleman! he is dead, sure enough; and, Heaven knows, many have been the dreary hours the dear young man has watched by his pillow! He died in that room." Miss Beaufort's swimming eyes would not allow her to discern objects through the open door of that apartment within which the heart of Thaddeus had undergone such variety of misery. Forming an irresistible wish to know whether the deceased were any relation of Constantine, she paused a moment to compose the agitation which might betray her, and then asked the question. "I thought, ma'am," replied Mrs. Robson, "you said you knew his friends?" "Only his English ones," returned Mary, a little confused at the suspicion this answer implied; "I imagined that this old gentleman might have been his father or an uncle, or----" "O no," interrupted Mrs. Robson, sorrowfully; "he has neither father, mother nor uncle in the wide world. He once told me they were all dead, and that he saw them die. Alas! sweet soul! What a power of griefs he must have seen in his young life! But Heaven will favor his at last; for though he is in misfortune himself, he has been a blessing to the widow and the orphan!" "Do you know the amount of his debts?" asked Miss Beaufort. "Not more than twenty pounds," returned Mrs. Robson, "when they took him out of this room, a week ago, and hurried him away without letting me know a word of the matter. I believe to this hour I should not have known where he was, if that cruel Mr. Jackson had not come to demand all that Mr. Constantine left in my care. But I would not let him have it. I told him if my lodger had filled my house with bags of gold, _he_ should not touch a shilling; and then he abused me, and told me Mr. Constantine was in Newgate." "In Newgate!" "Yes, madam. I immediately ran there, and found him more able to comfort me than I was able to speak to him." "Then be at rest, my good woman," returned Miss Beaufort, rising from her chair; "when you next hear of Mr. Constantine, he shall be at liberty. He has friends who will not sleep till he is out of prison." "May Heaven bless you and them, dear lady!" cried Mrs. Robson, weeping with joy; "for they will relieve the most generous heart alive. But I must tell you," added she, with recollecting energy, "that the costs of the business will raise it to some pounds more. For that wicked Jackson, getting frightened to stand alone in what he had done, went and persuaded poor weak-minded Mr. Watson, the undertaker, to put in a detainer against Mr. Constantine for the remainder of his bill. So I fear it will be full thirty pounds before his kind friends can release him." Mary replied, "Be not alarmed: all shall be done." While she spoke, she cast a wistful look on the drawings on the bureau; then withdrawing her eyes with a deep sigh, she descended the stairs. At the street-door she took Mrs. Robson's hand, and not relinquishing it until she was seated in the coach, pressed it warmly, and leaving within it a purse of twenty guineas, ordered the man to return whence he came. Now that the temerity of going herself to learn the particulars of Mr. Constantine's fate had been achieved, determined as she was not to close her eyes whilst the man whom she valued above her life remained a prisoner and in sorrow, she thought it best to consult with Miss Dorothy respecting the speediest means of compassing his emancipation. In Oxford Road she desired the coachman to proceed to Harley Street. She alighted at Lady Dundas's door, paid him his fare, and stepped into the hall before she perceived that a travelling-carriage belonging to her guardian had driven away to afford room for her humble equipage. "Is Sir Robert Somerset come to town?" she hastily inquired of the porter. "No, madam; but Mr. Somerset is just arrived." The next minute Miss Beaufort was in the drawing-room, and clasped within the arms of her cousin. "Dear Mary!"--"Dear Pembroke!" were the first words which passed between these two affectionate relatives. Miss Dorothy, who doted on her nephew, taking his hand as he seated himself between her and his cousin, said, in a congratulatory voice, "Mary, our dear boy has come to town purposely to take us down." "Yes, indeed," rejoined he; "my father is moped to death for want of you both. You know I am a sad renegade! Lord Avon and Mr. Loftus have been gone these ten days to his lordship's aunt's in Bedfordshire; and Sir Robert is so completely weary of solitude, that he has commanded me"--bowing to the other ladies--"to run off with all the fair inhabitants of this house sooner than leave you behind." "I shall be happy at another opportunity to visit Somerset Hall," returned Lady Dundas; "but I am constrained to spend this summer in Dumbartonshire. I have not yet seen the estate my poor dear Sir Hector bought of the Duke of Dunbar." Pembroke offered no attempt to shake this resolution. In the two or three morning calls he had formerly made with Sir Robert Somerset on the rich widow, he saw sufficient to make him regard her arrogant vulgarity with disgust; and for her daughters, they were of too artificial a stamp to occupy his mind any longer than with a magic- lantern impression of a tall woman with bold eyes, and the prettiest yet most affected little fairy he had ever beheld. After half an hour's conversation with this family group, Miss Beaufort sunk into abstraction. During the first month of Mary's acquaintance with Thaddeus, she did not neglect to mention in her correspondence with Pembroke having met with a very interesting and accomplished emigrant, in the capacity of a tutor at Lady Dundas's. But her cousin, in his replies, beginning to banter her on pity being allied to love, she had gradually dropped all mention of Constantine's name, as she too truly found by what insensible degrees the union had taken place within her own breast. She remembered these particulars, whilst a new method of accomplishing her present project suggested itself; and determining (however extraordinary her conduct might seem) to rest on the rectitude of her motives, a man being the most proper person to transact such a business with propriety, she resolved to engage Pembroke for her agent, without troubling Miss Dorothy about the affair. So deeply was she absorbed in these reflections, that Somerset, observing her vacant eye fixed on the opposite window, took her hand with an arch smile, and exclaimed. "Mary! What is the matter? I hope, Lady Dundas, you have not suffered any one to run away with her heart? You know I am her cousin, and it is my inalienable right." Lady Dundas replied that young ladies best know their own secrets. "That may be, madam," rejoined he; "but I won't allow Miss Beaufort to know anything that she does not transfer to me. Is not that true, Mary?" "Yes," whispered she, coloring; "and the sooner you afford me an opportunity to interest you in one, the more I shall be obliged to you." Pembroke pressed her hand in token of assent; and a desultory conversation continuing for another half-hour, Miss Beaufort, who dreaded the wasting one minute in a day so momentous to her peace, sat uneasily until her aunt proposed retiring to her dressing-room a while, and requested Pembroke to assist her up stairs. When he returned to the drawing-room, to his extreme satisfaction he found all the party were gone to prepare for their usual drives, excepting Miss Beaufort, who was standing by one of the windows, lost in thought. He approached her, and taking her hand-- "Come, my dear cousin," said he, "how can I oblige you?" Mary struggled with her confusion. Had she loved Thaddeus less, she found she could with greater ease have related the interest which she took in his fate. She tried to speak distinctly, and she accomplished it, although her burning cheek and downcast look told to the fixed eye of Pembroke what she vainly attempted to conceal. "You can, indeed, oblige me! You must remember a Mr. Constantine! I once mentioned him to you in my letters." "I do, Mary. You thought him amiable!" "He was the intimate friend of Lady Tinemouth," returned she, striving to look up; but the piercing expression she met from the eyes of Somerset, beating hers down again, covered her face and neck with deeper blushes. She panted for breath. "Rely on me," said Pembroke, pitying her embarrassment, whilst he dreaded that her gentle heart had indeed become the victim of some accomplished and insidious foreigner--"rely on me, my beloved cousin: consider me as a brother. If you have entangled yourself--" Miss Beaufort guessed what he would say, and interrupting him, added, with a more assured air, "No, Pembroke, I have no entanglements. I am going to ask your friendly assistance on behalf of a brave and unfortunate Polander." Pembroke reddened and she went on. "Mr. Constantine is a gentleman. Lady Tinemouth tells me he has been a soldier, and that he lost all his possessions in the ruin of his country. Her ladyship introduced him here. I have seen him often, and I know him to be worthy the esteem of every honorable heart. He is now in prison, in Newgate, for a debt of about thirty pounds, and I ask you to go and release him. That is my request--my secret; and I confide in your discretion that you will keep it even from him." "Generous, beloved Mary!" cried Pembroke, pressing her hand; "it is thus you always act. Possessed of all the softness of thy sex, dearest girl," added he, still more affectionately, "nature has not alloyed it with one particle of weakness!" Miss Beaufort smiled and sighed. If to love tenderly, to be devoted life and soul to one being, whom she considered as the most perfect work of creation, be weakness, Mary was the weakest of the weak; and with a languid despondence at her heart, she was opening her lips to give some directions to her cousin, when the attention of both was arrested by a shrill noise of speakers talking above stairs. Before the cousins had time to make an observation, the disputants descended towards the drawing-room, and bursting open the door with a violent clamor, presented the enraged figure of Lady Dundas followed by Diana, who, with a no less swollen countenance, was scolding vociferously, and dragging forward the weeping Euphemia. "Ladies! ladies!" exclaimed Somerset, amazed at so extraordinary a scene; "what has happened?" Lady Dundas lifted up her clenched hand in a passion. "A jade!--a hussy!" cried her vulgar ladyship, incapable of articulating more. Miss Dundas, still grasping the hands of her struggling sister, broke out next, and turning furiously towards Mary, exclaimed, "You see, madam, what disgrace your ridiculous conduct to that vagabond foreigner has brought on our family! This bad girl has followed your example, and done worse-she has fallen in love with him!" Shocked, and trembling at so rude an accusation, Miss Beaufort was unable to speak. Lost in wonder, and incensed at his cousin's goodness having been the dupe of imposition. Pembroke stood silent, whilst Lady Dundas took up the subject. "Ay," cried she, shaking her daughter by the shoulder, "you little minx! if your sister had not picked up these abominable verses you chose to write on the absence of this beggarly fellow, I suppose you would have finished the business by running off with him! But you shall go down to Scotland, and be locked up for months. I won't have Sir Hector Dundas's family disgraced by a daughter of mine." "For pity's sake, Lady Dundas," said Pembroke, stepping between her shrewish ladyship and the trembling Euphemia, "do compose yourself. I dare say your daughter is pardonable. In these cases, the fault in general lies with our sex. We are the deluders." Mary was obliged to reseat herself; and in pale attention she listened for the reply of the affrighted Euphemia, who, half assured that her whim of creating a mutual passion in the breast of Thaddeus was no longer tenable, without either shame or remorse she exclaimed, "Indeed, Mr. Somerset, you are right; I never should have thought of Mr. Constantine if he had not teased me every time he came with his devoted love." Miss Beaufort rose hastily from her chair. Though Euphemia colored at the suddenness of this motion, and the immediate flash she met from her eye, she went on: "I know Miss Beaufort will deny it, because she thinks he is in love with her; but indeed, indeed, he has sworn a thousand times on his knees that he was a Russian nobleman in disguise, and adored me above every one else in the world." "Villain!" cried Pembroke, inflamed with indignation at his double conduct. Afraid to read in the expressive countenance of Mary her shame and horror at this discovery, he turned his eyes on her with trepidation; when, to his surprise, he beheld her standing perfectly unmoved by the side of the sofa from which she had arisen. She advanced with a calm step towards Euphemia, and taking hold of the hand which concealed her face whilst uttering this last falsehood, she drew it away, and regarding her with a serene but penetrating look, she said: "Euphemia! you well know that you are slandering an innocent and unfortunate man. You know that never in his life did he give you the slightest reason to suppose that he was attached to you; for myself, I can also clear him of making professions to me. Upon the honor of my word, I declare," added she, addressing herself to the whole group, "that he never breathed a sentence to me beyond mere respect. By this last deviation of Euphemia from truth, you may form an estimate how far the rest she has alleged deserves credit." The young lady burst into a vehement passion of tears. "I will not be browbeaten and insulted, Miss Beaufort!" cried she, taking refuge in noise, since right had deserted her. "You know you would fight his battles through thick and thin, else you would not have fallen into fits yesterday when I told you he was sent to jail." This last assault struck Mary motionless; and Lady Dundas, lifting up her hands, exclaimed, "Good la! keep me from the forward misses of these times! As for you, Miss Euphemia," added she, seizing her daughter by the arm, "you shall leave town tomorrow morning. I will have no more tutoring and falling in love in my house; and for you, Miss Beaufort," turning to Mary, (who, having recovered herself, stood calmly at a little distance,) "I shall take care to warn Miss Dorothy Somerset to keep an eye over your conduct." "Madam," replied she, indignantly, "I shall never do anything which can dishonor either my family or myself; and of that Miss Dorothy Somerset is too well assured to doubt for an instant, even should calumny be as busy with me as it has been injurious to Mr. Constantine." With the words of Mrs. Robson suddenly reverberating on her heart, "He has no father, no mother, no kindred in this wide world!" she walked towards the door. When she passed Mr. Somerset, who stood bewildered and frowning near Miss Dundas, she turned her eyes on her cousin, full of the effulgent pity in her soul, and said, in a collected and decisive voice, "Pembroke, I shall leave the room; but, remember, I do not release you from your engagement." Staggered by the open firmness of her manner, he looked after her as she withdrew, and was almost inclined to believe that she possessed the right side of the argument. Malice did not allow him to think so long. The moment the door closed on her, both the sisters fell on him pell-mell; and the prejudiced illiberality of the one, supported by the ready falsehoods of the other, soon dislodged all favorable impressions from the mind of Somerset, and filled him anew with displeasure. In the midst of Diana's third harangue, Lady Dundas having ordered Euphemia to be taken to her chamber, Mr. Somerset was left alone, more incensed than ever against the object of their invectives, whom he now considered in the light of an adventurer, concealing his poverty, and perhaps his crimes beneath a garb of lies. That such a character, by means of a fine person and a few meretricious talents, could work himself into the confidence of Mary Beaufort, pierced her cousin to the soul; and as he mounted the stairs with an intent to seek her in her dressing-room, he almost resolved to refuse obeying her commands. When he opened the room-door, he found Miss Beaufort and his aunt. The instant he appeared, the ever-benevolent face of Miss Dorothy contracted into a frown. "Nephew," cried she, "I shall not take it well of you if you give stronger credence to the passionate and vulgar assertions of Lady Dundas and her daughters than you choose to bestow on the tried veracity of your cousin Mary." Pembroke was conscious that if his countenance had been a faithful transcript of his mind, Miss Beaufort did not err in supposing he believed the foreigner to be a villain. Knowing that it would be impossible for him to relinquish his reason into what he now denominated the partial hands of his aunt and cousin, he persisted in his opinion to both the ladies, that their unsuspicious natures had been rendered subservient to knavery and artifice. "I would not, my dear madam," said he, addressing Miss Dorothy, "think so meanly of your sex as to imagine that such atrocity can exist in the female heart as could give birth to ruinous and unprovoked calumnies against an innocent man. I cannot suspect the Misses Dundas of such needless guilt, particularly poor Euphemia, whom I truly pity. Lady Dundas forced me to read her verses, and they were too full of love and regret for this adventurer to come from the same breast which could wantonly blacken his character. Such wicked inconsistencies in so young a woman are not half so probable as that you, my clear aunt and cousin, have been deceived. "Nephew," returned the old lady, "you are very peremptory. Methinks a little more lenity of opinion would better become your youth! I knew nothing of this unhappy young man's present distress until Miss Beaufort mentioned it to me; but before she breathed a word in his favor, I had conceived a very high respect for his merits. From the first hour in which I saw him, I gathered by his deportment that he must be a gentleman, besides a previous act of benevolent bravery, in rescuing at the hazard of his own life two poor children from a house in flames--in all this I saw he must have been born far above his fortunes. I thought so; I still think so; and, notwithstanding all that the Dundasses may choose to fabricate, I am determined to believe the assertions of an honest countenance." Pembroke smiled, whilst he forced his aunt's reluctant hand into his, and said, "I see, my dear madam, you are bigoted to the idol of your own fancy! I do not presume to doubt this Mr. Constantine's lucky exploits, nor his enchantments: but you must pardon me if I keep my senses at liberty. I shall think of him as I could almost swear he deserves, although I am aware that I hazard your affection by my firmness." He then turned to Mary, who, with a swelling and distressed heart, was standing by the chimney. "Forgive me, my dearest cousin," continued he, addressing her in a softened voice, "that I am forced to appear harsh. It is the first time I ever dissented from you; it is the first time I ever thought you prejudiced!" Miss Beaufort drew the back of her hand over her glistening eyes. All the tender affections of Pembroke's bosom smote him at once, and throwing his arms around his cousin's waist, he strained her to his breast, and added, "Ah! why, dear girl, must I love you better for thus giving me pain? Every way my darling Mary is more estimable. Even now, whilst I oppose you, I am sure, though your goodness is abused, it was cheated into error by the affectation of honorable impulses and disasters!" Miss Beaufort thought that if the prudence of reserve and decorum dictated silence in some circumstances, in others a prudence of a higher order would justify her in declaring her sentiments. Accordingly she withdrew from the clasping arms of Mr. Somerset, and whilst her beautiful figure seemed to dilate into more than its usual dignity, she mildly replied: "Think what you please, Pembroke; I shall not contend with you. Mr. Constantine is of a nature not to be hidden by obscurity; his character will defend itself; and all that I have to add is this, I do not release you from your promise. Could a woman transact the affair with propriety, I would not keep yon to so disagreeable an office; but I have passed my word to myself that I will neither slumber nor sleep till he is out of prison." She put a pocket-book into Pembroke's hand, and added, "Take that, my clear cousin; and without suffering a syllable to transpire by which he may suspect who served him, accomplish what I have desired, acting by the memorandum you will find within." "I will obey you, Mary," returned he; "but I am sorry that such rare enthusiasm was not awakened by a worthier object. When you see me again, I hope I shall be enabled to say that your ill-placed generosity is satisfied." "Fie, nephew, fie!" cried Miss Dorothy; "I could not have supposed you capable of conferring a favor so ungraciously." Pained at what he called the obstinate infatuation of Miss Beaufort, and if possible more chagrined by what he considered the blind and absurd encouragement of his aunt, Mr. Somerset lost the whole of her last reprimand in his hurry to quit the room. Disturbed, displeased, and anxious, he stepped into a hackney-coach; and ordering it to drive to Newgate, called on the way at Lincoln's Inn, to take up a confidential clerk of his father's law-agent there, determining by his assistance to go through the business without exposing himself to any interview with a man whom he believed to be an artful and unprincipled villain. CHAPTER XXXVII. "Calumny is the pastime of little minds, and the venomed shaft of base ones." The first week of the count's confinement was rendered in some degree tolerable by the daily visits of Mrs. Robson, who, having brought his drawing materials, enabled him, through the means of the always punctual printseller, to purchase some civility from the brutal and hardened people who were his keepers. After the good woman had performed her diurnal kindness, Thaddeus did not suffer his eyes to turn one moment on the dismal loneliness of his abject prison, but took up his pencil to accomplish its daily task, and when done, he opened some one of his books, which had also been brought to him, and so sought to beguile his almost hopeless hours,--hopeless with regard to any human hope of ever re-passing those incarcerating walls. For who was there but those who had put him there who could now know even of his existence? The elasticity and pressing enterprise of soul inherent in worth renders; no calamity so difficult to be borne as that which betters its best years and most active virtues under the lock of any captivity. Thaddeus felt this benumbing effect in every pulse of his ardent and energetic heart. He retraced all that he had been. He looked on what he was. Though he had reaped glory when a boy, his "noon of manhood," his evening sun, was to waste its light and set in an English prison. At short and distant intervals such melancholy reveries gave place to the pitying image of Mary Beaufort. It sometimes visited him in the day--it always was his companion during the night. He courted her lovely ideal as a spell that for a while stole him from painful reflections. With an entranced soul he recalled every lineament of her angel--like face, every tender sympathy of that gentle voice which had hurried him into the rashness of touching her hand. One moment he pressed her gold chain closer to his heart, almost believing what Lady Tinemouth had insinuated; the next, he would sigh over his credulity, and return with despondent though equally intense love to the contemplation of her virtues, independent of himself. The more he meditated on the purity of her manners, the elevated principles to which he could trace her actions, and, above all, on the benevolent confidence with which she had ever treated him (a man contemned by one part of her acquaintance, and merely received on trust by the remainder), the more he found reasons to regard that character with his grateful admiration. When he drew a comparison between Miss Beaufort and most women of the same quality whom he had seen in England and in other countries, he contemplated with delighted wonder that spotless mind which, having passed through the various ordeals annexed to wealth and fashion, still bore itself uncontaminated. She was beautiful, and she did not regard it; she was accomplished, but she did not attempt a display; what she acquired from education, the graces had so incorporated with her native intelligence, that the perfection of her character seemed to have been stamped at once by the beneficent hand of Providence. Never were her numberless attractions so fascinating to Thaddeus as when he witnessed the generous eagerness with which, forgetful of her own almost unparalleled talents, she pointed out merit and dispensed applause to the deserving. Miss Beaufort's nature was gentle and benevolent; but it was likewise distinguishing and animated. Whilst the count saw that the urbanity of her disposition made her politeness universal, he perceived that neither rank, riches nor splendor, when alone, could extract from her bosom one spark of that lambet flame which streamed from her heart, like fire to the sun, towards the united glory of genius and virtue. He dwelt on her lovely, unsophisticated character with an enthusiasm bordering on idolatry. He recollected that she had been educated by the mother of Pembroke Somerset; and turning from the double remembrance with a sigh fraught with all the bitterness and sweetness of love, he acknowledged how much wisdom (which includes virtue) gives spirit and immortality to beauty. "Yes," cried he, "it is the fragrance of the flower, which lives after the bloom is withered." From such reflections of various hues Thaddeus was one evening awakened by the entrance of the chief jailer into his cell. His was an unusual visit. He presented a sealed packet to his prisoner, saying he brought it from a stranger, who, having paid the debts and costs for which he was confined, and all the prison dues, had immediately gone away, leaving that packet to be instantly delivered into the hand of Mr. Constantine. While Thaddeus, scarcely crediting the information, was hastily opening the packet, hoping it might throw some light on his benefactor, the jailer civilly withdrew. But the breaking of the seal discovered a blank cover only, save these words, in a handwriting unknown to him--"You are free!"--and bank of England notes to the amount of fifty pounds. Overwhelmed with surprise, gratitude to Heaven, and to this generous unknown, he sank down into his solitary chair, and tried to conjecture who could have acted the part of such a friend, and yet be so careful to conceal that act of friendship. He had seen sufficient proofs of a heedless want of benevolence in Miss Euphemia Dundas to lead him to suppose that she could not be so munificent, and solicitous of secrecy. Besides, how could she have learned his situation? He thought it was impossible; and that impossibility compelled an erratic hope of his present liberty having sprung from the goodness of Miss Beaufort to pass by him with a painful swiftness. "Alas!" cried he, starting from his chair, "it is the indefatigable spirit of Lady Sara Ross that I recognize in this deed! The generous but unhappy interest which she yet takes in my fate has discovered my last misfortune, and thus she seeks to relieve me!" The moment he conceived this idea, he believed it; and taking up a pen, with a grateful though disturbed soul he addressed to her the following guarded note:-- "TO THE RIGHT HONORABLE LADY SARA ROSS. "An unfortunate exile, who is already overpowered by a sense of not having deserved the notice which Lady Sara Ross has deigned to take of his misfortunes, was this day liberated from prison in a manner so generous and delicate, that he can ascribe the act to no other than the noble heart of her ladyship. "The object of this bounty, bending under a weight of obligations which he cannot repay, begs permission to re-enclose the bills which Lady Sara's agent transmitted to him; but as the deed which procures his freedom cannot be recalled, with the most grateful emotions he accepts that new instance of her ladyship's goodness." Thaddeus was on the point of asking one of the turnkeys to send him some trusty person to take this letter to St. James Place, when, recollecting the impropriety of making any inmate of Newgate his messenger to Lady Sara, he was determining to remove immediately to St. Martin's Lane, and thence dispatch his packet to his generous friend, when Mrs. Robson herself was announced by his turnkey, who, as customary, disappeared the moment he had let her in. She hastened forward to him with an animated countenance, and exclaimed, before he had time to speak, "Dear sir, I have seen a dear, sweet lady, who has promised me not to sleep till you are out of this horrid place!" The suspicions of the count, that his benefactress was indeed Lady Sara Ross, were now confirmed. Seating his warmhearted landlady in the only chair his apartment contained, to satisfy her humility, he took his station on the table, and then said: "The lady has already fulfilled her engagement. I am free, and I only wait for a hackney- coach--which I shall send for immediately--to take me back to your kind home." At this assurance the delighted Mrs. Robson, crying and laughing by turns, did not cease her ejaculations of joy until the turnkey, whom he had recalled to give the order for the coach, returned to say that it was in readiness. He took up his late prisoner's small portmanteau, with the drawing- materials, &c., which had been brought to him during his incarceration; and Thaddeus, with a feeling as if a band of iron had been taken from his soul, passed through the door of his cell; and when he reached the greater portal of Newgate, where the coach stood, he gave the turnkey a liberal _douceur_, and handing Mrs. Robson into the vehicle, stepped in after her, full of thankfulness to Heaven for again being permitted to taste the wholesome breeze of a free atmosphere. They drove quickly on, and from the fullness of his thoughts, little passed between the count and his happy companion till they alighted at her door and he had re-entered his humble apartment. But so true is it that advantages are only appreciated by comparison, when he looked around, he considered it a palace of luxury, compared to the stifling dungeon he had left. "Ah!" cried Mrs. Robson, pointing to a chair, "there is the seat in which that dear lady sat--sweet creature! I If I had known I durst believe all she promised, I would have fallen on my knees and kissed her feet for bringing back your dear self!" "I thank you, my revered friend!" replied Thaddeus, with a grateful smile and a tear at so ardent a demonstration of her maternal affection. "But where is little Nanny, that I may shake hands with her?" It being yet early in the evening, he was also anxious, before the probable retiring time of Lady Sara into her dressing-room to prepare for dinner should elapse, to dispatch his letter to her; and he inquired of his still rejoicing landlady "whether she could find him a safe porter to take a small packet of importance to St. James's Place, and wait for an answer?" The good woman instantly replied that "Mrs. Watts, her neighbor, had a nephew at present lodging with her, a steady man, recently made one of the grooms in the King's Mews, and as this was the customary hour of his return from the stables, she was sure he would be glad to do the service." While the count was sealing his letter, Mrs Robson had executed her commission, and reentered with young Watts. He respectfully received his instructions from Thaddeus, and withdrew to perform the duty. Nanny had also appeared, and welcomed her grandmother's beloved lodger with all those artless and animated expressions of joy which are inseparable from a good and unsophisticated heart. The distance between the royal precincts of St. James's and the unostentatious environs of St. Martin's church being very short, in less than half an hour the count's messenger returned with the wished-for reply. It was with pain that he opened it, for he saw, by the state of the paper, that it had been blotted with tears. He hurriedly took out the re-enclosed bills, with a flushed cheek, and read as follows:-- "I cannot be mistaken in recognizing the proud and high-minded Constantine in the lines I hold in my hand. Could anything have imparted to me more comfort than your generous belief that there is indeed some virtue left in my wretched and repentant heart, it would have arisen from the consciousness of having been the happy person who succored you in your distress. But no: that enjoyment was beyond my deserving. The bliss of being the lightener of your sorrows was reserved by Heaven for a less criminal creature. I did not even know that you were in prison. Since our dreadful parting, I have never dared to inquire after you; and much as it might console me to serve one so truly valued, I will not insult your nice honor by offering any further instance of my friendship than what will evince my soul's gratitude to your prayers and my acquiescence with the commands of duty. "My husband is here, without perceiving the ravages which misery and remorse have made in my unhappy heart. Time, perhaps, may render me less unworthy of his tenderness; at present, I detest myself. "I return the bills; you may safely use them, for they never were mine. "S. R." The noble heart of Thaddeus bled over every line of this letter. He saw that it bore the stamp of truth which did not leave him a moment in doubt that he owed his release to some other hand. Whilst he folded it up, his grateful suspicions next lighted on Lady Tinemouth. He had received one short letter from her since her departure, mentioning Sophia's stay in town to meet Mr. Montresor, and Miss Beaufort's detention there, on account of Miss Dorothy's accident, and closing with the intelligence of her own arrival at the Wolds. He was struck with the idea that, as he had delayed answering this letter in consequence of his late embarrassment, she must have made inquiries after him; that probably Miss Egerton was the lady who had visited Mrs. Robson, and finding the information true had executed the countess's commission to obtain his release. According to these suppositions, he questioned his landlady about the appearance of the lady who had called. Mrs. Rob-son replied, "She was of an elegant height, but so wrapped up I could neither see her face nor her figure, though I am certain from the softness of her voice, she must be both young and handsome. Sweet creature! I am sure she wept two or three times. Besides, she is the most charitable soul alive, next to you, sir; for she gave me a purse with twenty guineas, and she told me she knew your honor's English friends." This narration substantiating his hope of Lady Tinemouth's being his benefactress, that the kind Sophia was her agent, and the gentleman who defrayed the debt Mr. Montresor, he felt easier under an obligation which a mysterious liberation would have doubled. He knew the countess's maternal love for him. To reject her present benefaction, in any part, would be to sacrifice gratitude to an excessive and haughty delicacy. Convinced that nothing can be great that it is great to despise, he no longer hesitated to accept Lady Tinemouth's bounty, but smothered in his breast the embers of a proud and repulsive fire, which, having burst forth in the first hour of his misfortunes, was ever ready to consume any attempt that might oppress him with the weight of obligation. Being exhausted by the events of the day, he retired at an early hour to his grateful devotions and to his pillow, where he found that repose which he had sought in vain within the gloomy and (he supposed) ever-sealed walls of his prison. In the morning he was awakened by the light footsteps of his pretty waiting-maid entering the front room. His chamber-door being open, he asked her what the hour was? She replied nine o'clock; adding that she had brought a letter, which one of the waiters from Slaughter's Coffee-house had just left, with information that he did so by the orders of a footman in a rich livery. Thaddeus desired that it might be given to him. The child obeyed, and quitted the room. He saw that the superscription was in Miss Dundas's hand; and opening it with pleasure,--because everything interested him which came from the house which contained Mary Beaufort,--to his amazement and consternation he read the following accusations:-- "To MR. CONSTANTINE. "Sir, "By a miraculous circumstance yesterday morning, your deep and daring plan of villany has been discovered to Lady D---and myself. The deluded victim, whom your arts and falsehoods would have seduced to dishonor her family by connecting herself with a vagabond, has at length seen through her error, and now detests you as much as ever your insufferable presumption could have hoped she would distinguish you with her regard. Thanks be to Heaven! you are completely exposed. This young woman of fashion (whose name I will not trust in the same page with yours) has made a full confession of your vile seductions, of her own reprehensible weakness, in ever having deigned to listen to so low a creature. She desires me to assure you that she hates you, and commands you never again to attempt the insolence of appearing in her sight. Indeed this is the language of every soul in this house, Lady D----, Miss D----, S----, Miss B---, besides that of "D----D----. "HARLEY STREET." Thaddeus read this ridiculous letter twice before he could perfectly comprehend its meaning. In a paroxysm of indignation at the base subterfuge under which he did not doubt Euphemia had screened some accidental discovery of her absurd passion, he hastily threw on his clothes, and determined, though in defiance of Miss Dundas's mandates, to fly to Harley Street, and clear himself in the eyes of Miss Beaufort and her venerable aunt. Having flown rather than walked, he arrived in sight of Lady Dundas's house just as a coachful of her ladyship's maids and packages drove from the door. Hurrying up the step, he asked the porter if Miss Dorothy Somerset were at home. "No," replied the man; "she and Miss Beaufort, with Miss Dundas and Mr. Somerset, went out of town this morning by eight o'clock; and my lady and Miss Euphemia, about an hour ago, set off for Scotland, where they mean to stay all the summer." At this information, which seemed to be the sealing of his condemnation with Mary, the heart of Thaddeus was pierced to the core. Unacquainted until this moment with the torments attending the knowledge of being calumniated, he could scarcely subdue the tempest in his breast, when forced to receive the conviction that the woman he loved above all the world now regarded him as not merely a villain, but the meanest of villains. He returned home indignant and agitated. The probability that Pembroke Somerset had listened to the falsehood of Euphemia, without suggesting one word in defence of him who once was his friend, inflicted a pang more deadly than the rest. Shutting himself within his apartment, tossed and tortured in soul, he traversed the room. First one idea occurred and then another, until he resolved to seek redress from the advice of Lady Tinemouth. With this determination he descended the stairs, and telling Mrs. Robson he should leave London the ensuing day for Lincolnshire, begged her not to be uneasy on his account, as he went on business, and would return in a few days. The good woman almost wept at this intelligence, and prayed Heaven to guard him wherever he went. Next morning, having risen at an early hour, he was collecting his few articles of wardrobe to put into his cloak-bag for his meditated short visit, when going to open one of the top drawers in his chamber, he found it sealed, and observed on the black wax the impress of an eagle. It was a large seal. Hardly crediting his eyes, it appeared to be the armorial eagle of Poland, surmounted by its regal crown. Nay, it seemed an impression of the very seal which had belonged to his royal ancestor, John Sobieski, and which was appended to the watch of his grandfather when he was robbed of it on his first arrival in England. Thaddeus, in a wondering surprise, immediately rang the bell, and Mrs. Robson herself came up stairs. He hurriedly but gently inquired "how the drawer became not only locked as he had left it, but fastened with such a seal?" Mrs. Robson did not perceive his agitation, and simply replied, "While his honor was in that horrid place, and after the attempt of Mr. Jackson to get possession of his property, she had considered it right to so secure the drawer, which she believed contained his most valuable pictures, and the like. So, having no impression of her own big enough, she went and bought a bunch of tarnished copper-seals she had seen hanging in the window of a huckster's shop at the corner of an ally hard by, one of them appearing about the size she wanted. The woman of the shop told her she had found them at the bottom of a tub of old iron, sold to her a while ago by a dustman; and as, to be sure, they were damaged and very dirty, she would not ask more than a couple of shillings for the lot, and would be glad to get rid of them!" "So, sir," continued Mrs. Robson, with a pleased look, "I gave the money, and hastened home as fast as I could, and with Mrs. Watts by my side to witness it, you see I made all safe which I thought you most cared for." "You are very thoughtful for me, kindest of women!" returned Thaddeus, with grateful energy; "but let me see the seals--for it is possible I may recognize in the one of this impression, indeed, a relic precious to my memory!" Mrs. Robson put her hand into her pocket, and instantly gave them to him. There were three, one large, two small, and strung together by a leather thong. The former massive gold chain was no longer their link, and the rust from the iron had clouded the setting; but a glance told Sobieski they were his! He pressed them to his heart, whilst with glistening eyes he turned away to conceal his emotion. His sensible landlady comprehended there was something more than she knew of in the recognition (he never having told her of the loss of his watch, when he had saved her little grandchild from the plunging horses in the King's Mews;) and from her native delicacy not to intrude on his feelings, she gently withdrew unobserved, and left him alone. About half an hour afterwards, when she saw her beloved lodger depart in the stage-coach that called to take him up, her eyes followed the wheels down the lane with renewed blessings. His long journey passed not more in melancholy reveries against the disappointing characters he had met in revered England than in affectionate anticipations of the moment in which he should pour out his gratitude to the maternal tenderness of Lady Tinemouth, and learn from her ingenuous lips how to efface from the minds of Miss Dorothy Somerset and her angel-like niece the representations, so dishonoring, torturing, and false, which had been heaped upon him by the calumnies of the family in Harley Street. CHAPTER XXXVIII. ZEAL IS POWER. The porter at Lady Dundas's had been strictly correct in his account respecting the destination of the dispersed members of her ladyship's household. Whilst Pembroke Somerset was sullenly executing his forced act of benevolence at Newgate, Miss Dundas suddenly took into her scheming head to compare the merits of Somerset's rich expectancy with the penniless certainty of Lascelles. She considered the substantial advantages which the wife of a wealthy baronet would hold over the thriftless _cara sposa_ of a man owning no other estate than a reflected lustre from the coronet of an elder brother. Besides, Pembroke was very handsome--Lascelles only tolerably so; indeed, some women had presumed to call him "very plain." But they were "stupid persons," who, not believing the _metempsychosis_ doctrine of the tailor and his decorating adjuncts, could not comprehend that although a mere human creature can have no such property, a man of fashion may possess an _elixir vitae_ which makes age youth, deformity beauty, and even transforms vice into virtue. In spite of recollection, which reminded Diana how often she had contended that all Mr. Lascelles' teeth were his own; that his nose was not a bit too long, being a facsimile of the feature which reared its sublime curve over the capricious mouth of his noble brother, the Earl of Castle Conway--notwithstanding all this, the Pythagorean pretensions of fashion began to lose their ascendency; and in the recesses of her mind, when Miss Dundas compared the light elegance of Pembroke's figure with the heavy limbs of her present lover, Pembroke's dark and ever-animated eyes with the gooseberry orbs of Lascelles, she dropped the parallel, and resolving to captivate the heir of Somerset Castle, admitted no remorse at jilting the brother of Castle Conway. To this end, before Pembroke's return from Newgate, Diana had told her mother of her intention to accompany Miss Dorothy to the baronet's, where she would remain until her ladyship should think Euphemia might be trusted to rejoin her in town. Neither Miss Dorothy nor Miss Beaufort liked this arrangement; and next morning, with an aching heart, the latter prepared to take her seat in the travelling equipage which was to convey them all into Leicestershire. After supper, Pembroke coldly informed his cousin of the success of her commands--that Mr. Constantine was at liberty. This assurance, though imparted with so ungracious an air, laid her head with less distraction on her pillow, and as she stepped into Sir Robert's carriage next day, enabled her with more ease to deck her lips with smiles. She felt that the penetrating eyes of Mr. Somerset were never withdrawn from her face. Offended with his perverseness, and their scrutiny, she tried to baffle their inspection. She attempted gayety, when she gladly would have wept. But when the coach mounted the top of Highgate Hill, and she had a last view of that city which contained the being whose happiness was the sole object of her thoughts and prayers, she leaned out of the window to hide a tear she could not repress; feeling that another and another would start, she complained of the dust, and pulling her veil over her eyes, drew back into the corner of the carriage. The trembling of her voice and hands during the performance of this little artifice too well explained to Pembroke what was passing in her mind. At once dispelling the gloom which shrouded his own countenance, he turned towards her with compassionate tenderness in his words and looks; he called her attention by degrees to the happy domestic scene she was to meet at the Castle; and thus gradually softening her displeasure into the easy conversation of reciprocal affection, he rendered the remainder of their long journey less irksome. When, at the end of the second day, Miss Beaufort found herself in the old avenue leading to the base of the hill which sustains the revered walls of Somerset's castellated towers, a mingled emotion took possession of her breast; and when the carriage arrived at the foot of the highest terrace, she sprang impatiently out of it, and hastening up the stone stairs into the front hall, met her uncle at the door of the breakfast-parlor, where he held out his arms to receive her. "My Mary! My darling!" cried he, embracing her now wet cheek, and straining her throbbing bosom to his own, "Why, my dear love," added he, almost carrying her into the room, "I am afraid this visit to town has injured your nerves! Whence arises this agitation?" She knew it had injured her peace; and now that the floodgates of her long-repelled tears were opened, it was beyond her power, or the soothings of her affectionate uncle, to stay them. A moment afterwards her cousin entered the room, followed by Miss Dorothy and Miss Dundas. Miss Beaufort hastily rose, to conceal what she could not check. Kissing Sir Robert's hand, she asked permission to retire, under the pretence of regaining those spirits which had been dissipated by the fatigues of her journey. In her own chamber she did indeed struggle to recover herself. She shuddered at the impetuosity of her emotions when once abandoned of their reins, and resolved from this hour to hold a stricter control over such betrayals of her ill-fated, devoted heart. She sat in the window of her apartment, and looking down the extensive vale of Somerset, watched the romantic meanderings of its shadowed river, winding its course through the domains of the castle, and nourishing the roots of those immense oaks which for many a century had waved their branches over its stream. She reflected on the revolution which had take place in herself since she walked on its banks the evening that preceded her visit to London. Then she was free as the air, gay as the lark; each object was bright and lovely in her eyes hope seemed to woo her from every green slope, every remote dingle. All nature breathed of joy, because her own breast was the abode of gladness. Now, all continued the same, but she was changed. Surrounded by beauty, she acknowledged its presence; the sweetness of the flowers bathed her senses in fragrance; the setting sun, gilding the height, shed a yellow glory over the distant hills; the birds were hailing the falling dew which spangled every leaf. She gazed around, and sighed heavily, when she said to herself, "Even in this paradise I shall be wretched. Alas! my heart is far away! My soul lingers about one I may never more behold!--about one who may soon cease to remember that such a being as Mary Beaufort is in existence. He will leave England!" cried she, raising her hands and eyes to the glowing heavens. "He will live, he will die, far, far from me! In a distant land he will wed another, whilst I shall know no wish that strays from him." Whilst she indulged in these soliloquies, she forgot both Sir Robert and her resolution, until he sent her maid to beg, if she were better, that she would come down and make tea for him. At this summons she dried her eyes, and with assumed serenity descended to the saloon, where the family were assembled. The baronet having greeted Miss Dundas with an hospitable welcome, seated himself between his sister and his son; and whilst he received his favorite beverage from the hands of his beloved niece, he found that comfort once more re-entered his bosom. Sir Robert Somerset was a man whose appearance alone attracted respect. His person bore the stamp of dignity, and his manners, which possessed the exquisite polish of travel, and of society in its most refined courts, secured him universal esteem. Though little beyond fifty, various perplexing situations having distressed his youth, had not only rendered his hair prematurely gray, but by clouding his once brilliant eyes with thoughtfulness, marked his aspect with premature old age and melancholy. The baronet's entrance into town life had been celebrated for his graceful vivacity; he was the animating spirit of every party, till an inexplicable metamorphosis suddenly took place. Soon after his return from abroad, he had married Miss Beaufort (a woman whom he loved to adoration), When, strange to say, excess of happiness seemed to change his nature and give his character a deep tinge of sadness. After his wife's death, the alteration in his mind produced still more extraordinary effects, and showed itself more than once in all the terrors of threatened mental derangement. His latest attack of the kind assailed him during the last winter, under the appearance of a swoon, while he sat at breakfast reading the newspaper. He was carried to bed, and awoke in a delirium which menaced either immediate death or the total extinction of his intellects. However, neither of these dreads being confirmed, in the course of several weeks, to the wonder of everybody, he recovered much of his health and his sound mind. Notwithstanding this happy event, the circumstances of his danger so deeply affected his family, that he ceased not to be an object of the most anxious attention. Indeed, solicitude did not terminate with them: the munificence of his disposition having spread itself through every county in which he owned a rood of land, as many prayers ascended for the repose of his spirit as ever petitioned Heaven from the mouths of "monkish beadsmen" in favor of power and virtue. Since the demise of Lady Somerset, this still-admired man drew all his earthly comfort from the amiable qualities of his son Pembroke. Sometimes in his livelier hours, which came "like angel visits, few and far between," he amused himself with the playfulness of the little Earl of Avon, the pompous erudition of Mr. Loftus, (who was become his young ward's tutor), and with giving occasional entertainments to the gentry in his neighborhood. Of all the personages contained within this circle (which the hospitality of Sir Robert extended to a circumference of fifty miles,) the noble family of Castle Granby, brave, patriotic, and accomplished, with female beauty at its head, "Fitted to move in courts or walk the shade, With innocence and contemplation joined," were held in the highest and most intimate appreciation; while many of the numerous titled visitants who attended the celebrated and magnificent Granby hunt were of too convivial notoriety to be often admitted within the social home-society of either Castle Granby or Somerset Castle, the two cynosure mansions which, now palace-like, crest with their peaceful groves the summits of those two promontory heights whereon in former times they stood in fortress strength, the guardians of each opening pass into that spacious and once important belligerent vale! Amongst the less-esteemed frequenters of the chase was devoted Nimrod, Sir Richard Shafto, who every season fixed himself and family at a convenient hunting-lodge near the little town of Grantham, with his right worthy son and heir who by calling at Somerset Castle soon after the arrival of his guests, caused a trifling change in its arrangements. When Dick Shafto (as all the grooms in the stables familiarly designated him) was ushered into the room, he nodded to Sir Robert, and, turning his back on the ladies, told Pembroke he had ridden to Somerset "on purpose to _bag_ him for Woodhill Lodge." "Upon my life," cried he, "if you don't come, I will cut and run. There is not a creature but yourself within twenty miles to whom I can speak--not a man worth a sixpence. I wish my father had broken his neck before he accepted that confounded embassy, which encumbers me with the charge of my old mother!" After this dutiful wish, which brought down a weighty admonition from Miss Dorothy, the young gentleman promised to behave better, provided she would persuade Pembroke to accompany him to the Lodge. Mr. Somerset did not show much alacrity in his consent; but to rid his family of so noisy a guest, he rose from his chair, and acquiescing in the sacrifice of a few clays to good nature, bade his father farewell, and gave orders for a ride to Grantham. As soon as the gentlemen left the saloon, Miss Dundas ran up stairs, and from her dressing-room window in the west tower pursued the steps of their horses as they cantered down the winding steep into the high road. An abrupt angle of the hill hiding them from her view, she turned round with a toss of the head, and flinging herself into a chair, exclaimed, "Now I shall be bored to death by this prosing family! I wish his boasted hunter had run away with Shafto before he thought of coming here!" In consequence of the temper which engendered the above no very flattering compliment to the society at the Castle, Miss Dundas descended to the dining-room with sulky looks and a chilling air. She ate what the baronet laid on her plate with an indolent appetite, cut her meat carelessly, and dragged the vegetables over the table-cloth. Miss Dorothy colored at this indifference to the usual neatness of her damask covers; but Miss Dundas was so completely in the sullens, that, heedless of any other feelings than her own, she continued to pull and knock about the things just as her ill-humor dictated. The petulance of this lady's behavior did not in the least assimilate with the customary decorum of Sir Robert's table; and when the cloth was drawn, he could not refrain from expressing his concern that Somerset Castle appeared so little calculated to afford satisfaction to a daughter of Lady Dundas. Miss Dundas attempted some awkward declaration that she never was more amused--never happier. But the small credit Sir Robert gave to her assertion was fully warranted the next morning by the ready manner in which she accepting a casual invitation to spend the ensuing day and night at Lady Shafto's. Her ladyship called on Miss Dorothy, and intended to have a party in the evening, invited the two young ladies to return with her to Woodhill Lodge, and be her guests for a week. Miss Beaufort, whose spirits were far from tranquillized, declined her civility; but with a gleam of pleasure she heard it accepted by Miss Dundas, who departed with her ladyship for the Lodge. Whilst the enraptured Diana, all life and glee, bowled along with Lady Shafto, anticipating the delight of once more seating herself at the elbow of Pembroke Somerset, Mary Beaufort, relieved from a load of ill-requited attentions, walked out into the park, to enjoy in solitude the "sweet sorrow" of thinking on the unhappy and far- distant Constantine. Regardless of the way, her footsteps, though robbed of elasticity by nightly watching and daily regret, led her beyond the park, to the ruined church of Woolthorpe, its southern boundary. Her eyes were fixed on the opposite horizon. It was the extremity of Leicestershire; and far, far behind those hills was that London which contained the object dearest to her soul. The wind seemed scarcely to breathe as it floated towards her; but it came from that quarter, and believing it laden with every sweet which love can fancy, she threw back her veil to inhale its balm, then, blaming herself for such weakness, she turned, blushing, homewards and wept at what she thought her unreasonably tenacious passion. The arrival of Miss Dundas at the Lodge was communicated to the two young men on their return from traversing half the country in quest of game. The news drew an oath from Shafto, but rather pleased Somerset, who augured some amusement from her attempts at wit and judgment. Tired to death, and dinner being over when they entered, with ravenous appetites they devoured their uncomfortable meal in a remote room; then throwing themselves along the sofas, yawned and slept for nearly two hours. Pembroke waking first, suddenly jumped on the floor, and shaking his disordered clothes, exclaimed, "Shafto! get up This is abominable! I cannot help thinking that if we spend one half of our days in pleasure and the other in lolling off its fatigues, we shall have passed through life more to our shame than our profit!" "Then you take the shame and leave me the profit," cried his companion, turning himself round: "so good-night to you!" Pembroke rang the bell. A servant entered. "What o'clock is it?" "Nine, sir." "Who are above?" "My lady, sir, and a large party of ladies." "There, now!" cried Shafto, yawning and kicking out his legs. "You surely won't go to be bored with such maudlin company?" "I choose to join your mother," replied Pembroke. "Are there any gentlemen, Stephen?" "One sir: Doctor Denton." "Off with you!" roared Shafto; "what do you stand jabbering there for? You won't let me sleep. Can't you send away the fellow, and go look yourself?" "I will, if you can persuade yourself to rise off that sofa and come with me." "May Lady Hecate catch me if I do! Get about your business, and leave me to mine." "You are incorrigible, Shafto," returned Pembroke, as he closed the door. He went up stairs to change his dress, and before he gained the second flight, he resolved not to spend another whole day in the company of such an ignorant, unmannerly cub. On Mr. Somerset's entrance into Lady Shafto's drawing-room, he saw many ladies, but only one gentleman, who was, the before-mentioned Dr. Denton--a poor, shallow-headed, parasitical animal. Pembroke having seen enough of him to despise his pretensions both to science and sincerity, returned his wide smirk and eager inquiries with a ceremonious bow, and took his seat by the side of the now delighted Miss Dundas. The vivid spirits of Diana, which she now strove to render peculiarly sparkling, entertained him. When compared with the insipid sameness of her ladyship, or the coarse ribaldry of her son, the mirth of Miss Dundas was wit and her remarks wisdom. "Dear Mr. Somerset!" cried she, "how good you are to break this sad solemnity. I vow, until you showed your face, I thought the days of paganism were revived, and that lacking men, we were assembled here to celebrate the mysteries of the _Bona Dea_." "Lacking men!" replied he, smiling; "you have over-looked the assiduous Doctor Denton?" "O, no; that is a chameleon in man's clothing. He breathes air, he eats air, he speaks air; and a most pestilential breath it is. Only observe how he is pouring its fumes into the ear of yonder sable statue." Pembroke directed his eyes as Miss Dundas desired him, and saw Dr. Denton whispering and bowing before a lady in black. The lady put up her lip: the doctor proceeded; she frowned: he would not be daunted; the lady rose from her seat, and slightly bending her head, crossed the room. Whilst Mr. Somerset was contemplating her graceful figure, and fine though pale features, Miss Dundas touched his arm, and smiling satirically, repeated in an affected voice-- "Hail, pensive nun! devout and holy! Hail, divinest Melancholy!" "If she be Melancholy," returned Pembroke, "I would forever say "Hence, unholy Mirth, of Folly born!" Miss Dundas reddened. She never liked this interesting woman, who was not only too handsome for competition, but possessed an understanding that would not tolerate ignorance or presumption. Diana's ill-natured impertinence having several times received deserved chastisement from that quarter, she was vexed to the soul when Pembroke closed his animated response with the question, "Who is she?" Rather too bitterly for the design on his heart, Miss Dundas iterated his words, and then answered, "Why, she is crazed. She lives in a place called Harrowby Abbey, at the top of that hill," continued she, pointing through the opposite window to a distant rising ground, on which the moon was shining brightly; "and I am told she frightens the cottagers out of their wits by her midnight strolls." Hardly knowing how to credit this wild account, Pembroke asked his informer if she were serious. "Never more so. Her eyes are uncommonly wild." "You must be jesting," returned he; "they seem perfectly reasonable." Miss Dundas laughed, "like Hamlet's, they 'know not seems, but have that within which passeth show!' Believe me, she is mad enough for Bedlam; and of that I could soon convince you. I wonder how Lady Shafto thought of inviting her, she quite stupefied our dinner." "Well," cried Pembroke, "if those features announce madness, I shall never admire a look of sense again." "Bless us," exclaimed Miss Dundas, "you are wonderfully struck! Don't you see she is old enough to be your mother?" "That maybe," answered he, smiling; "nevertheless she is one of the most lovely women I ever beheld." Come, tell me her name." "I will satisfy you in a moment," rejoined Diana; "and then away with your rhapsodies! She is the very Countess of Tinemouth, who brought that vagabond foreigner to our house who would have run off with Phemy!" "Lady Tinemouth!" exclaimed Pembroke; "I never saw her before. My ever-lamented mother knew her whilst I was abroad, and she esteemed her highly. Pray introduce me to her!" "Impossible," replied Diana, vexed at the turn his curiosity had taken; "I wrote to her about the insidious wretch, and now we don't speak." "Then I will introduce myself," answered he. He was moving away, when Miss Dundas caught his arm, and by various attempts at badinage and raillery, held him in his place until the countess had made her farewell curtsey to Lady Shafto, and the door was closed. Disappointed by this manoeuvre, Pembroke re-seated himself; and wondering why his aunt and cousin had not heard of Lady Tinemouth's arrival at Harrowby, he determined to wait on her next day. Regardless of every word which the provoked Diana addressed to him, he remained silent and meditating, until the loud voice of Shafto, bellowing in his ear, made him turn suddenly round. Miss Dundas tried to laugh at his reverie, though she knew that such a flagrant instance of inattention was death to her hopes; but Pembroke, not inclined to partake in the jest, coolly asked his bearish companion what he wanted? "Nothing," cried he, "but to hear you speak! Miss Dundas tells me you have lost your heart to yonder grim countess? My mother wanted me to gallant her up the hill; but I would see her in the river first!" "Shafto!" answered Pembroke, rising from his chair, "you cannot be speaking of Lady Tinemouth?" "Efaith I am," roared he; "and if she be such a scamp as to live without a carriage, I won't be her lackey for nothing. The matter of a mile is not to be tramped over by me with no pleasanter companion than an old painted woman of quality." "Surely you cannot mean," returned Pembroke, "that her ladyship was to walk from this place?" "Without a doubt," cried Shafto, bursting into a hoarse laugh; "you would be clever to see my Lady Stingy in any other carriage than her clogs." Irritated at the malice of Miss Dundas, and despising the vulgar illiberality of Shafto, without deigning a reply, Pembroke abruptly left the room, and hastening out of the house, ran, rather than walked, in hopes of overtaking the countess before she reached Harrowby. * * * * * * * CHAPTER XXXIX. THE VALE OF GRANTHAM.--BELVOIR. Pembroke crossed the little wooden bridge which lies over the Witham; he scoured the field; he leaped every stile and gate in his way, and at last gained the enclosure that leads to the top of the hill, where he descried a light moving, and very rightly conjectured it must be the lantern carried by the countess's attendant. Another spring over the shattered fence cleared all obstacles, and he found himself close to Lady Tinemouth, who was leaning on the arm of a gentleman. Pembroke stopped at this sight. Supposing she had been met by some person belonging to the neighborhood, whose readier gallantry now occupied the place which Miss Dundas had prevented him from filling, he was preparing to retreat, when Lady Tinemouth happening to turn her head, imagined, from the hesitating embarrassment of his manner, that he was a stranger, who had lost his way, and accosted him with that inquiry. Pembroke bowed in some confusion, and related the simple fact of his having heard that she had quitted Lady Shafto's house without any guard but the servant, and that the moment he learned the circumstance he had hurried out to proffer his services. The countess not only thanked him for such attention, but, constrained by a civility which at that instant she could have wished not to have been necessary, asked him to walk forward with her to the abbey, and partake of some refreshment. "But," added she, "though I perfectly recollect having seen another gentleman in Lady Shafto's room besides Doctor Denton, I have not the honor of knowing your name." "It is Somerset," returned Pembroke; "I am the son of that Lady Somerset, who, during the last year of her life, had the happiness of being intimate with your ladyship." Lady Tinemouth expressed her pleasure at this meeting; and turning to the gentleman who was walking in silence by her side, said, "Mr. Constantine, allow me to introduce to you the cousin of the amiable Miss Beaufort." Thaddeus, who had too well recognized the voice of his false friend in the first accents he addressed to the countess, with a swelling heart bent his head to the cold salutation of Somerset. Hearing that her ladyship's companion was the same Constantine whom he had liberated from prison, Pembroke was stimulated with a desire to take the perhaps favorable occasion to unmask his double villany to Lady Tinemouth; and conceiving a curiosity to see the man whose person and meretricious qualities had blinded the judgment of his aunt and cousin, he readily obeyed the second invitation of the countess, and consented to go home and sup with her. Meanwhile, Thaddeus was agitated with a variety of emotions. Every tone of Pembroke's voice, reminding him of happier days, pierced his heart, whilst a sense of his ingratitude awakened all the pride and indignation of his soul. Full of resentment, he determined that, whatever might be the result, he would not shrink from an interview, the anticipation of which Pembroke (who had received from himself an intimation of the name he had assumed) seemed to regard with so much contemptuous indifference. Not imagining that Somerset and the count had any personal knowledge of each other, Lady Tinemouth begged the gentlemen to accompany her into the supper-parlor, Pembroke, with inconsiderate, real indifference, passed by Thaddeus to give his hand to the countess. Thaddeus was so shocked at this instance of something very like a personal affront, that, insulted in every nerve, he was obliged to pause a moment in the hall, to summon coolness to follow him with a composed step and dispassionate countenance. He accomplished this conquest over himself, and taking off his hat, entered the room. Lady Tinemouth began to congratulate herself with many kind expressions on his arrival. The eyes of Pembroke fixed themselves on the calm but severe aspect of the man before him; he stood by the table with such an air of noble greatness, that the candid heart of Pembroke Somerset soon whispered to himself, "Sure nothing ill can dwell in such a breast!" Still his eyes followed him, when he turned round, and when he bent his head to answer the countess, but in a voice so low that it escaped his ear. Pembroke was bewildered. There was something in the features, in the mien of this foreigner, so like his friend Sobieski! But then Sobieski was all frankness and animation; his cheek bloomed with the rich coloring of youth and happiness; his eyes flashed pleasure, and his lips were decked with smiles. On the contrary, the person before him was not only considerably taller, and of more manly proportions, but his face was pale, reserved, and haughty; besides, he did not appear even to recollect the name of Somerset; and what at once might destroy the supposition, his own was simply Constantine. These reasonings having quickly passed through the mind of Pembroke, they left his heart unsatisfied. The conflict of his doubts flushed his cheeks; his bosom beat; and keeping his searching and ardent gaze riveted on the man who was either his friend or his counterpart, on Lady Tinemouth turning away to lay her cloak down, the eyes of the young men met. Thaddeus turned paler than before. There is an intelligence in the interchange of looks which cannot be mistaken; it is the communication of souls, and there is no deception in their language. Pembroke flew forward, and catching hold of his friend's hand, exclaimed in an impetuous voice, "Am I right? Are you Sobieski?" "I am," returned Thaddeus, almost inarticulate with emotion, and hardly knowing what to understand by Somerset's behavior. "Gracious heaven!" cried he, still grasping his hand; "can you have forgotten your friend Pembroke Somerset?" The ingenuous heart of Thaddeus acknowledged the words and manner of Pembroke to be the language of truth. Trusting that some mistake had involved his former conduct, he at once cast off suspicion, and throwing his arms around him, strained him to his breast and burst into tears. Lady Tinemouth, who during this scene stood mute with surprise, now advanced to the friends, who were weeping on each other's necks, and taking a hand of each, "My dear Sobieski," cried she, "why did you withhold the knowledge of this friendship from me? Had you told me that you and Mr. Somerset were acquainted, this happy meeting might have been accomplished sooner." "Yes," replied Pembroke, turning to the countess, and wiping away the tears which were trembling on his cheek; "nothing could have given me pain at this moment but the conviction that he who was the preserver of my life, and my most generous protector, should in this country have endured the most abject distress rather than let me know it was in my power to be grateful." Thaddeus took out his handkerchief, and for a few moments concealed his face. The countess looked on him with tenderness; and believing he would sooner regain composure were he alone with his friend, she stole unobserved out of the room. Pembroke affectionately resumed: "But I hope, dear Sobieski, you will never leave me more. I have an excellent father, who, when he is made acquainted with my obligations to you and your noble family, will glory in loving you as a son." Having subdued "the woman in his heart," Thaddeus raised his head with an expression in his eyes far different from that which had chilled the blood of Pembroke on their first encounter. "Circumstances," said he, "dear Somerset, have made me greatly injure you. A strange neglect on your side, since we separated at Villanow, gave the first blow to my confidence in your friendship. Though I lost your direct address, I wrote to you often, and yet you persevered in silence. After having witnessed the destruction of all that was dear to me in Poland, and then of Poland itself, when I came to England I wished to give your faithfulness another chance. I addressed two letters to you. I even delivered the last at your door myself, and I saw you in the window when I sent it in." "By all that is sacred," cried Pembroke, vehemently, and amazed, "I never saw any letter from you! I wrote you many. I never heard of those you mention. Indeed, I should even now have been ignorant of the palatine's and your mother's cruel fate had it not been too circumstantially related in the newspapers." "I believe you," returned Thaddeus, drawing an agonizing sigh at the dreadful picture which the last sentence recalled. "I believe you; though at the time of which I speak, I thought otherwise, for both my last letters were re-enclosed to me in a blank cover, directed as if by your hand, and brought by a servant, with a message that there was no answer." "Amazing!" exclaimed Somerset; "there must be some horrible treachery! Can it be that some lurking foreign spy got amongst my servants at Dantzic, and has been this traitor ever since? Oh, Thaddeus!" cried he, abruptly interrupting himself, and grasping his hand, "I would have flown to you, had it been to meet death, instead of the greatest joy Heaven could bestow upon me. But why did you not come in yourself? then no mistake could have happened! Oh, why did you not come in?" "Because I was uncertain of your sentiments. My first letter remained unnoticed: and my heart, dear Somerset," added he, pressing his hand, "would not stoop to solicitation." "Solicitation!" exclaimed Pembroke, with warmth; "you have a right to demand my life! But there is some deep villany in this affair; nothing else could have carried it through. Oh, if anybody belonging to me have dared to open these letters--Oh, Sobieski!" cried he, interrupting himself, "how you must have despised me!" "I was afflicted," returned Thaddeus, "that the man whom my family so warmly loved could prove so unworthy; and afterwards, whenever I met you in the streets, which I think was more than once or twice, I confess that to pass you cut me to the heart." "And you have met me?" exclaimed Pembroke, "and I not see you; I cannot comprehend it." "Yes," answered Thaddeus; "and the first time was going into the playhouse. I believe I called after you." "Is it not now ten months since?" returned Pembroke. "I remember very well that some one called out my name in a voice that seemed known to me, while I was handing Lady Calthorpe and her sister into the porch. I looked about, but not seeing any one I knew, I thought I must have been mistaken. But why, dear Sobieski, why did you not follow me into the theatre?" Thaddeus shook his head and smiled languidly. "My poverty would not permit," replied he; "but I waited in the hall until everybody left the house, in hopes of intercepting you as you passed again." Pembroke sprung from his chair at these words, and with vehemence exclaimed, "I see it! That hypocrite Loftus is at the bottom of it! He followed me into the theatre; he must have seen you, and his cursed selfishness was alarmed. Yes; it is no foreign traitor! it must be he! He would not allow me to return that way. When I said I would, he told me a thousand lies about the carriages coming round; and I, believing him, went out by another door. I will tax him of it to his face!" "Who is Mr. Loftus?" inquired Thaddeus, surprised at his friend's suspicion; "I do not know the man." "What!" returned Pembroke, "don't you remember that Loftus is the name of my scoundrel tutor who persuaded me to volunteer against Poland? To screen his baseness I have brought all this upon myself." "Now I recollect it," replied Thaddeus; "but I never saw him." "Yet I am not less certain that I am right," replied Somerset. "I will tell you my reasons. After I quitted Villanow, you may remember I was to meet him at Dantzic. Before we left the port, he implored, almost on his knees, that in pity to his mother and sisters, whom he said he supported out of his salary, I would refrain from incensing my parents against him by relating any circumstance of our visit to Poland. The man shed tears as he spoke; and, like a fool, I consented to keep the secret till the Vicar of Somerset (a poor soul, still ill of dropsy) dies, and he be in possession of the living. When we landed in England, I found the cause of my sudden recall had been the illness of my dear mother. But Heaven denied me the happiness of beholding her again; she had been buried two days before I reached the shore." Pembroke paused a moment, and then resumed: "For near a month after my return, I could not quit my room; on my recovery, I wrote both to you and to the palatine. But I still locked up your names within my heart, the old rector being yet in existence. I repeated my letters at least every six weeks during the first year of our separation, though you persisted in being silent. Hurt as I was at this neglect, I believed that gratitude demanded some sacrifices from pride, and I continued to write even till the spring following. Meanwhile the papers of the day teemed with Sobieski's actions-- Sobieski's fame; and supposing that increasing glory had blotted me out of your memory, I resolved thenceforth to regard our friendship as a dream, and never to speak of it more." Confounded at this double misapprehension, Thaddeus with a glowing countenance expressed his regret for having doubted his friend, and repeating the assurance of having been punctual to his promise of correspondence, even when he dreamed him inconstant, acknowledged that nothing but a premeditated scheme could have effected so many disappointments. "Ay," returned Pembroke, reddening with awakened anger; "I could swear that Mr. Loftus has all my letters in his bureau at this moment! No house ever gave a man a better opportunity to play the rogue in than ours. It is a custom with us to lay our letters every morning on the hall-table, whence they are sent to the office; and when the post arrives they are spread out in the same way, that their several owners may take them as they pass to breakfast. From this arrangement I cannot doubt the means by which Mr. Loftus, under the hope of separating us forever, has intercepted every letter to you and every letter from you. I suppose the wretch feared I might become impatient, and break my engagement if our correspondence were allowed. He trembled lest the business should be blown before the rector died, and he, in consequence, lose both the expected living and his present situation about Lord Avon. A villain! for once he has judged rightly. I will unmask him to my father, and show him what it is to purchase advancement at the expense of honor and justice." Thaddeus, who could not withhold immediate credit to these evidences of chicanery, tried to calm the violence of his friend, who only answered by insisting on having his company back with him to Somerset Castle. "I long to present you to my father," cried he. "When I tell him who you are, of your kindness to me, how rejoiced will he be! How happy, how proud to have you his guest; to show the grandson of the Palatine of Masovia the warm gratitude of a Briton's heart! Indeed, Sobieski, you will love him, for he is generous and noble, like your inestimable grandfather. Besides," added he, smiling with a sudden recollection, "there is my lovely cousin, Mary Beaufort, who I verily believe will fly into your arms!" The blood rushed over the cheeks of Thaddeus at this speech of his friend, and suppressing a bitter sigh, he shook his head. "Don't look so like an infidel," resumed Somerset. "If you have any doubts of possessing her most precious feelings, I can put you out of your suspense by a single sentence! When Lady Dundas's household, with myself amongst them (for little did I suspect I was joining the cry against my friend), were asserting the most flagrant instances of your deceit to Euphemia, Mary alone withstood the tide of malice, and compelled me to release you." "Gracious Providence!" cried Thaddeus, catching Pembroke's hand, and looking eagerly and with agitation in his face "was it you who came to my prison? Was it Miss Beaufort who visited my lodgings?" "Indeed it was," returned his friend, "and I blush for my self that I quitted Newgate without an interview. Had I followed the dictates of common courtesy, in the fulfilment of my commission, I should have seen you; and then, what pain would have been spared my dear cousin! What a joyful surprise would have awaited myself!" Thaddeus could only reply by pressing his friend's hand. His brain whirled. He could not decide on the nature of his feelings; one moment he would have given worlds to throw himself at Miss Beaufort's feet, and the next he trembled at the prospect of meeting her so soon. "Dear Sobieski!" cried Pembroke, "how strangely you receive this intelligence! Is it possible such sentiments from Mary Beaufort can be regarded by a soul like yours with coldness?" "O no!" cried the count, his fine face flushed with emotion. "I adore Miss Beaufort. Her virtues possess my whole heart. But can I forget that I have only that heart to offer? Can I forget that I am a beggar?--that even now I exist on her bounty?" The eyes of Thaddeus, and the sudden tremor which shook his frame, finished this appeal to his fate. Pembroke found it enter his soul. To hide its effect, he threw himself on his friend's breast, and exclaimed, "Do not injure me and my father by such thoughts. You are come, dearest Sobieski, to a second home. Sir Robert Somerset will consider himself ennobled in supplying the place of your lamented grandfather--in endowing you like a son! Oh, Thaddeus, you must be my cousin, dear as a brother, as well as my friend!" Thaddeus replied with an agitated affection as true as that of the generous speaker. "But," added he, "I must not allow the noble heart of my now regained Somerset to believe that I can live a dependant on any power but the Author of my being. Therefore, if Sir Robert Somerset will assist me to procure some unobtrusive way of acquiring my own support in the simplicity I wish, I shall thank him from my soul. In no other way my kindest friend, can I ever be brought to tax the munificence of your father." Pembroke colored at this, and exclaimed, in a voice of distress and displeasure, "Sobieski! what can you mean? Do you imagine that ever my father or myself can forget that you were little less than a prince in your own country?--that when in so high a station you treated me like a brother; that you preserved me even when I lifted my arm against your life. Can we be such monsters as to forget all this, or to think that we act justly by you in permitting you to labor for your bread? No, Thaddeus; my very soul spurns the idea. Your mother sheltered me as a son; and I insist that you allow my father to perform the same part by you! Besides, you shall not be idle; you may have a commission in the army, and I will follow you." The count pressed the hand of his friend, and looking gratefully but mournfully in his face, replied, "Had I a hundred tongues, my generous Pembroke, I could not express my sense of your friendship; it is indeed a cordial to my heart; it imparts to me an earnest of happiness which I thought had fled forever. But it shall not allure me from my principles. I am resolved not to live a life of indolent uselessness; and I cannot, at this period, enter the British army. No," added he, emotion elevating his tone and manner; "rather would I toil for subsistence by the sweat of my brow than be subjected to the necessity of acting in concert with those ravagers who destroyed my country! I cannot fight by the side of the allied powers who dismembered it! I cannot enlist under the allies! I will not be led out to devastation! Mine was, and ever shall be, a defensive sword; and should danger threaten England, I would be as ready to withstand her enemies as I ardently, though ineffectually, opposed those of unhappy Poland." Pembroke recognized the devoted soul of Thaddeus of Warsaw in this lofty burst of enthusiasm; and aware that his father's munificence and manner of conferring it would go further towards removing these scruples than all his own arguments, he did not attempt to combat a resolution which he knew he could not subdue, but tried to prevail with him to become his guest until something could be arranged to suit his wishes. With an unuttered emotion at the thought of meeting Miss Beaufort, Thaddeus had just consented to accompany Somerset to the Castle, after Sir Robert had been apprized of his coming, when the countess's old and faithfully attached manservant entered, and respectfully informed her guests that his lady, not willing to disturb their conversation, had retired to her room for the night, but that beds were prepared for them in the Abbey, and she hoped to meet both friends at her breakfast table in the morning. The honest man then added, "It was now past eleven o'clock; and after their honors had partaken of their yet untasted refreshment, he would be ready to attend them to their chambers." Pembroke started up at this, and shaking his friend warm by the hand, bade him, he said, "a short farewell;" and hastening down the hill, arrived at the gate of the Wold Lodge just at the turn of midnight. At an early hour the next morning he gave orders to his groom, wrote a slight apology to Shafto for his abrupt departure, and, mounting his fleet horse, galloped away full of delight towards Somerset Castle. CHAPTER XL. SOMERSET CASTLE. But Sobieski did not follow the attentive domestic of his maternal friend to the prepared apartment in the Abbey. He asked to be conducted back through the night shadowed grounds to the little hotel he had seen early in the evening on his approach to the mansion. It stood at the entrance of the adjoining village, and under its rustic porch he had immediately entered, to engage a lodging beneath its humble sign, "The Plough," for the few clays of his intended visit to Lady Tinemouth. A boy had been his guide, and bearer of his small travelling bag, from the famous old Commandery inn, the "Angel," at Grantham, where the Wold diligence had set him down in the afternoon at the top of the market-place of that memorable town of ancient chivalry, to find his way up to the occasional rural palace cells on Harrowby Hill, of the same doughty and luxurious knights who were now lying, individually forgotten, in their not only silent but unknown graves, there not being a trace of them amongst the chapel ruins of the Abbey, nor below the hill, on the sight of the old Commandery church at Grantham. "Ah, transit mundi!" exclaimed Thaddeus to himself, with a calmed sigh, as he thought on those things, while resting under the modest little portal of the hotel, whose former magnificence, when a hermit cell, might still be discernible in a few remaining remnants of the rich Gothic lintel yet mingling with the matted straw and the clinging ivy of the thatch. "What art thou, world, and thine ambitions?" again echoed in silence from the heart of Thaddeus. "Though yet so young, I have seen thee in all thy phases which might wean me from this earth. But there are still some beings dear to me in the dimmed aspect, that seem to hold my hopes to this transitory and yet too lovely world." He was then thinking of his restored friend Pembroke Somerset, and of her whose name had been so fondly uttered by him, as a possible bond of their still more intimate relationship. He tried to quell the wild hope this recollection waked in his bosom, and hurried from the little parlor of the inn, where Lady Tinemouth's old servant had left him, to seek repose in his humbly-prepared chamber. At sight of its white-robed bed and simple furniture, and instantly conscious to the balmy effects of the sweet freshness that breathed around him, where no perfume but that of flowers ever entered, his agitated feelings soon became soothed into serenity, and within a quarter of an hour after he had laid his grateful head on that quiet pillow, he had sunk to a sleep of gentle peace with man and Heaven. Next morning, when the countess met her gladly re-welcomed guest at the breakfast-table, she expressed surprise and pleasure at the scene of the preceding night, but intimated some mortification that he had withheld any part of his confidence from her. Sobieski soon obtained her pardon, by relating the manner of his first meeting with Mr. Somerset in Poland, and the consequent events of that momentous period. Lady Tinemouth wept over the distressful fate that marked the residue of his narrative with a tenderness which yet more endeared her to his soul. But when, in compliance with his inquiries, she informed him how it happened that he had to seek her at Harrowby Abbey, when he supposed her to be on the Wolds, it was his turn to pity, and to shudder at his own consanguinity with Lord Harwold. "Indeed," added the countess, wishing to turn from the painful subject, "you must have had a most tedious journey from Harwold Park to Harrowby, and nothing but my pleasure could exceed my astonishment when I met you last night on the hill." Thaddeus sincerely declared that travelling a few miles further than he intended was no fatigue to him; yet, were it otherwise, the happiness which he then enjoyed would have acted as a panacea for worse ills, could he have seen her looking as well as when she left London. Lady Tinemouth smiled. "You are right, Sobieski. I am worse than when I was in town. My solitary journey to Harwold oppressed me; and when my son sent me orders to leave it, because his father wanted the place for the autumnal months, his capricious cruelty seemed to augment the hectic of my distress. Nevertheless, I immediately obeyed, and in augmented disorder, arrived here last week. But how kind you were to follow me! Who informed you of the place of my destination?--hardly any of Lady Olivia's household?" "No," returned Thaddeus; "I luckily had the precaution to inquire at the inn on the Wolds where the coach stopped, what part of Lord Tinemouth's family were at the Park; and when I heard that the earl himself was there, my next question was, "Where, then, was the countess?" The landlord very civilly told me of your having engaged a carriage from his house a day or two before, to carry you to one of his lordship's seats within a few miles of Somerset Castle. Hence, from what I heard you say of the situation of Harrowby, I concluded it must be the Abbey, and so I sought you at a venture." "And I hope a happy issue," replied she, "will arise from your wanderings! This rencontre with so old a friend as Mr. Somerset is a pleasing omen. For my part, I was ignorant of the arrival of the family at the Castle until yesterday morning, and then I sent off a messenger to apprize my dear Miss Beaufort of my being in her neighborhood. To my great disappointment, Lady Shafto found me out immediately; and when, in compliance with her importunate invitation, I walked down to an early dinner with her yesterday, little did I expect to meet the amiable cousin of our sweet friend. So delightful an accident has amply repaid me for the pain I endured in seeing Miss Dundas at the Lodge; an insolent and reproachful letter which she wrote to me concerning you has rendered her an object of my aversion." Thaddeus smiled and gently bent his head. "Since, my dear Lady Tinemouth, her groundless malice and Miss Euphemia's folly have failed in estranging either your confidence or the esteem of Miss Beaufort from me, I pardon them both. Perhaps I ought to pity them; for is it not difficult to pass through the brilliant snares of wealth and adulation and emerge pure as when we entered them? Unclouded fortune is, indeed, a trial of spirits; and how brightly does Miss Beaufort rise from the blaze! Surrounded by splendor, homage and indulgence, she is yet all nature, gentleness and virtue!" The latter part of this burst of heart he uttered rapidly, the nerves of that heart beating full at every word. The countess, who wished to appear cheerful, rallied him on the warmth of his expressions; and observing that "the day was fine," invited him to walk out with her through the romantic, though long- neglected, domains of the Abbey. Meanwhile, the family at Somerset were just drawn round the breakfast-board, when they were agreeably surprised by the sudden entrance of Pembroke. During the repast Miss Beaufort repeated the contents of the note she had received the preceding day from Lady Tinemouth, and requested that her cousin would be kind enough to drive her in his curricle that morning to Harrowby. "I will, with pleasure," answered he. "I have seen her ladyship, and even supped with her last night." "How came that?" asked Miss Dorothy. "I shall explain it to my father, whenever he will honor me with an audience," returned her happy nephew, addressing the baronet with all the joy of his heart looking out at his eyes. "Will you indulge me, dear sir, by half an hour's attention?" "Certainly," replied Sir Robert; "at present I am going into my study to settle my steward's books, but the moment I have finished, I will send for you." Miss Dorothy walked out after her brother, to attend her aviary, and Miss Beaufort, remaining alone with her cousin, made some inquiries about the countess's reasons for coming to the Abbey. "I know nothing about them," replied he, gayly, "for she went to bed almost the instant I entered the house. Too good to remain where her company was not wanted, she left me to enjoy a most delightful _tete-à-tete_ with a dear friend, from whom I parted nearly four years ago. In short, we sat up the whole night together, talking over past scenes-- and present ones too, for, I assure you, you were not forgotten." "I! what had I to do with it?" replied Mary, smiling. "I cannot recollect any dear friend of yours whom you have not seen these four years." "Well, that is strange!" answered Pembroke; "he remembers you perfectly; but, true to your sex, you affirm what you please, though I know there is not a man in the world I prefer before him." Miss Beaufort shook her head, laughed, and sighed; and withdrawing her hand from his, threatened to leave him if he would not be serious. "I am serious," cried he. "Would you have me _swear_ that I have seen him whom you most wish to see?" She regarded the expression of his countenance with a momentary emotion; taking her seat again, she said, "You can have seen no one that is of consequence to me; whoever your friend may be, I have only to congratulate you on a meeting which affords you so much delight." Pembroke burst into a joyous laugh at her composure. "So cold!" cried he--"so cautious! Yet I verily believe you would participate in my delights were I to tell you who he is. However, you are such a skeptic, that I wont hint even one of the many fine things he said of you." She smiled incredulously. "I could beat you, Mary," exclaimed he, "for this oblique way of saying I am telling lies! But I will have my revenge on your curiosity; for on my honor I declare," added he, emphatically, "that last night I met with a friend at Lady Tinemouth's who four years ago saved my life, who entertained me several weeks in his house, and who has seen and adores you! Tis true; true, on my existence! And what is more, I have promised that you will repay these weighty obligations by the free gift of this dear hand. What do you say to this, my sweet Mary?" Miss Beaufort looked anxious at the serious and energetic manner in which he made those assertions; even the sportive kiss that ended the question did not dispel the gravity with which she prepared to reply. Pembroke perceiving her intent, prevented her by exclaiming, "Cease, Mary, cease! I see you are going to make a false statement. Let truth prevail, and you will not deny that I am suing for a plighted faith? You will not deny who it was that softened and subdued your heart? You cannot conceal from me that the wanderer Constantine possesses your affections?" Amazed at so extraordinary a charge from her hitherto always respectful as well as fraternally affectionate cousin, she reddened with pain and displeasure. Rising from her seat, and averting her tearful eyes, she said, "I did not expect this cruel, this ungenerous speech from you, Pembroke! What have I done to deserve so rude, so unfeeling a reproach?" Pembroke threw his arm round her. "Come," said he, in a sportive voice; "don't be tragical. I never meant to reproach you, Mary. I dare say if you gave your heart, it was only in return for his. I know you are a grateful girl; and I verily believe you won't find much difference between my friend the young Count Sobieski and the forlorn Constantine." A suspicion of the truth flashed across Miss Beaufort's mind. Unable to speak, she caught hold of her cousin's hands, and looking eagerly in his face, her eyes declared the question she would have asked. Pembroke laughed triumphantly. A servant entering to tell him that Sir Robert was ready, he strained her to his breast and exclaimed, "Now I am revenged! Farewell! I leave you to all the pangs of doubt and curiosity!" He then flew out of the room with an arch glance at her agitated countenance, and hurried up stairs. She clasped her trembling hands together as the door closed on him. "O, gracious Providence!" cried she, "what am I to understand by this mystery, this joy of my cousin's? Can it be possible that the illustrious Sobieski and my contemned Constantine are the same person?" A burning blush overspread her face at the expression _my_ which had escaped her lips. Whilst the graces, the sweetness, the dignity of Thaddeus had captivated her notice, his sufferings, his virtues, and the mysterious interests which involved his history, in like manner had fixed her attention had awakened her esteem. From these grounds the step is short to love. "When the mind is conquered, the heart surrenders at discretion." But she knew not that she had advanced too far to retreat, until the last scene at Dundas House, by forcing her to defend Constantine against the charge of loving her, made her confess to herself how much she wished the charge were true. Poor and lowly as he seemed, she found that her whole heart and life were wrapped in his remembrance; that his worshipped idea was her solace; her most precious property the dear treasure of her secret and sweetest felicity, It was the companion of her walks, the monitor of her actions. Whenever she planned, whenever she executed, she asked herself, how would Constantine consider this? and accordingly did she approve or condemn her conduct, for she had heard enough from Mrs. Robson to convince her that piety was the sure fountain of his virtues. When she had left London, and so far separated from this idol of her memory, such was the impression he had stamped on her heart; he seemed ever present. The shade of Laura visited the solitude of Vaucluse; the image of Constantine haunted the walks of Somerset. The loveliness of nature, its leafy groves and verdant meadows, its blooming mornings and luxuriant sunsets, the romantic shadows of twilight or the soft glories of the moon and stars, as they pressed beauty and sentiment upon her heart, awoke it to the remembrance of Constantine; she saw his image, she felt his soul, in every object. Subtile and undefinable is that ethereal chord which unites our tenderest thought, with their chain of association! Before this conversation, in which Pembroke mentioned the name of Constantine with so much badinage and apparent familiarity, he never heard him spoken of by Mary or his aunt without declaring a displeasure nearly amounting to anger. Hence when she considered his now so strangely altered tone, Miss Beaufort necessarily concluded that he had seen, in the person of him she most valued, the man whose public character she had often heard him admire, and who, she now doubted not, had at some former period given him some private reason for calling him his friend. Before this time, she more than once had suspected, from the opinions which Somerset occasionally repeated respecting the affairs of Poland, that he could only have acquired so accurate a knowledge of its events by having visited the country itself. She mentioned her suspicion to Mr. Loftus: he denied the fact; and she had thought no more on the subject until the present ambiguous hints of her cousin conjured up these doubts anew, and led her to suppose that if Pembroke had not disobeyed his father so far as to go to Warsaw, he must have met with the Count Sobieski in some other realm. The possibility that this young hero, of whom fame spoke so loudly, might be the mysterious Constantine, bewildered and delighted her. The more she compared what she had heard of the one with what she had witnessed in the other, the more was she reconciled to the probability of her ardent hope. Besides, she could not for a moment retain a belief that her cousin would so cruelly sport with her delicacy and peace as to excite expectations that he could not fulfil. Agitated by a suspense which bordered on agony, with a beating heart she heard his quick step descending the stairs. The door opened, and Pembroke, flying into the room, caught up his hat. As he was darting away again, unable to restrain her impatience, Miss Beaufort with an imploring voice ejaculated his name. He turned, and displayed to her amazed sight a countenance in which no vestige of his former animation could be traced. His cheek was flushed, and his eyes shot a wild fire that struck to her heart. Unconscious what she did, she ran up to him; but Pembroke, pushing her back, exclaimed, "Don't ask me any questions, if you would not drive me to madness." "O Heaven!" cried she, catching his arm, and clinging to him, while the eagerness of his motion dragged her into the hall. "Tell me! Has anything happened to my guardian--to your friend--to Constantine?" "No," replied he, looking at her with a face full of desperation; "but my father commands me to treat him like a villain." She could hardly credit her senses at this confirmation that Constantine and Sobieski were one. Turning giddy with the tumultuous delight that rushed over her soul, she staggered back a few paces, and leaning against the open door, tried to recover breath to regain the room she had left. Pembroke, having escaped from her grasp, ran furiously down the hill, mounted his horse, and forbidding any groom to attend him, galloped towards the high road with the impetuosity of a madman. All the powers of his soul were in arms, Wounded, dishonored, stigmatized with ingratitude and baseness, he believed himself to be the most degraded of men. It appeared that Sir Robert Somerset had long cherished a hatred to the Poles, in consequence of some injury he affirmed he had received in early youth from one of that nation. In this instance his dislike was implacable; and when his son set out for the continent, he positively forbade him to enter Poland. Notwithstanding his remembrance of this violated injunction, when Pembroke joined the baronet in his library, he did it with confidence. With a bounding heart and animated countenance, he recapitulated how he had been wrought upon by his young Russian friends to take up arms in their cause and march into Poland. At these last words his father turned pale, and though he did not speak, the denunciation was on his brow. Pembroke, who expected some marks of displeasure, hastened to obliterate his disobedience by narrating the event which had introduced not only the young Count Sobieski to his succor, but the consequent friendship of the whole of that princely family. Sir Robert still made no verbal reply, but his countenance deepened in gloom; and when Pembroke, with all the pathos of a deep regret, attempted to describe the death of the palatine, the horrors which attended the last hours of the countess, and the succeeding misery of Thaddeus, who was now in England, no language can paint the frenzy which burst at once from the baronet. He stamped on the ground, he covered his face with his clenched hands; then turning on his son with a countenance no longer recognizable, he exclaimed with fury, "Pembroke! you have outraged my commands! Never will I pardon you if that young man ever blasts me with his sight." "Merciful Heaven!" cried Pembroke, thunderstruck at a violence which he almost wished might proceed from real madness: "surely something has agitated my father! What can this mean?" Sir Robert shook his head, whilst his teeth ground against each other. "Don't mistake me," replied he, in a firm voice "I am perfectly in my senses. It depends on _you_ that I continue so. You know my oath against all of that nation! and I repeat again, if you ever bring that young man into my presence, you shall never see me more." A cold dew overspread the body of Pembroke. He would have caught his father's hand, but he held it back. "O sir," said he, "you surely cannot intend that I shall treat with ingratitude the man who saved my life?" Sir Robert did not vouchsafe him an answer, but continued walking up and down the room, until, his hesitation increasing at every step, he opened the door of an interior apartment and retired, bidding his son remain where he left him. The horror-struck Pembroke waited a quarter of an hour before his father re-entered. When he did appear, the deep gloom of his eye gave no encouragement to his son, who, hanging down his head, recoiled from speaking first. Sir Robert approached with a composed but severe countenance, and said, "I have been seeking every palliation that your conduct might admit, but I can find none. Before you quitted England, you knew well my abhorrence of Poland. One of that country many years ago wounded my happiness in a way I shall never recover. From that hour I took an oath never to enter its borders, and never to suffer one of its people to come within my doors. Rash, disobedient boy! You know my disposition, and you have seen the emotion with which this dilemma has shaken my soul! I But be it on your own head that you have incurred obligations which I cannot repay. I will not perjure myself to defray a debt contracted against my positive and declared principles. I never will see this Polander you speak of; and it is my express command, on pain of my eternal malediction, that you break with him entirely." Pembroke fell into a seat. Sir Robert proceeded. "I pity your distress, but my resolution cannot be shaken. Oaths are not to be broken with impunity. You must either resign him or resign me. We may compromise your debt of gratitude. I will give you deeds to put your friend in possession of five hundred pounds a-year for life forever; nay, I would even double it to give you satisfaction; but from the hour in which you tell him so, you must see him no more." Sir Robert was quitting the room, when Pembroke, starting from his chair, threw himself in agony on his knees, and catching by the skirt of his father's coat, implored him for God's sake to recall his words; to remember that he was affixing everlasting dishonor on his son! "Remember, dear sir!" cried he, holding his struggling hand, "that the man to whom you offer money as a compensation for insult is of a nature too noble to receive it. He will reject it, and spurn me; and I shall know that I deserve his scorn. For mercy's sake, spare me the agony of harrowing up the heart of my preserver--of meeting reproach from his eyes!" "Leave me!" cried the baronet, breaking from him; "I repeat, unless you wish to incur my curse, do as I have commanded." Thus outraged, thus agonised, Pembroke had appeared before the eyes of his cousin Mary more like a distracted creature than a man possessed of his senses. Shortly after his abrupt departure, her apprehension was petrified to a dreadful certainty of some cruel ruin to her hopes, by an order she received in the handwriting of her uncle, commanding her not to attempt visiting Lady Tinemouth whilst the Count Sobieski continued to be her guest, and under peril of his displeasure never to allow that name to pass her lips. Hardly knowing whither he went, Pembroke did not arrive at the ruined aisle which leads to the habitable part of the Abbey until near three o'clock. He inquired of the groom that took his horse whether the countess and Mr. Constantine were at home. The man replied in the affirmative, but added, with a sad countenance, he feared neither of them could be seen. "For what reason?" demanded Somerset. "Alas! sir," replied the servant, "about an hour ago my lady was seized with a violent fit of coughing, which ended in the rupture of a blood-vessel. It continued to flow so long, that Mr. Constantine told the apothecary, whom he had summoned, to send for a physician. The doctor is not yet arrived, and Mr. Constantine won't leave my lady," Though Mr. Somerset was truly concerned at the illness of the countess, the respite it afforded him from immediately declaring the ungrateful message of Sir Robert gave him no inconsiderable degree of ease. Somewhat relieved by the hope of being for one day spared the anguish of displaying his father in a disgraceful light, he entered the Abbey, and desired that a maid-servant might be sent to her ladyship's room to inform his friend that Mr. Somerset was below. In a few minutes the girl returned with the following lines on a slip of paper: "To Pembroke Somerset, Esq. "I am grieved that I cannot see my dear Somerset to-day I fear my revered friend is on her death-bed. I have sent for Dr. Cavendish, who is now at Stanford; doubtless you know he is a man of the first abilities. If human skill can preserve her, I may yet have hopes; but her disorder is on the lung and in the heart, and I fear the stroke is sure. I am now sitting by her bedside, and writing what she dictates to her husband, her son, and her daughter. Painful, you may believe, is this task! I cannot, my dear Somerset, add more than my hope of seeing you soon, and that you will join in prayers to Heaven for the restoration of my inestimable friend, with your faithful and affectionate "Sobieski." "Alas! unhappy, persecuted Sobieski!" thought Pembroke, as he closed the paper; "to what art thou doomed! Some friends are torn from thee by death; others desert thee in the hour of trouble." He took out his pencil to answer this distressing epistle, but he stopped at the first word; he durst not write that his father would fulfil any one of those engagements which he had so largely promised; and throwing away the pencil and the paper, he left a verbal declaration of his sorrow at what had happened, and an assurance of calling next day. Turning his back on a house which he had left on the preceding night with so many joyful hopes, he remounted his horse, and, melancholy and slow, rode about the country until evening,--so unwilling was he to return to that home which now threatened him with the frowns of his father, the tears of Mary Beaufort, and the miserable reflections of his own wretched heart. CHAPTER XLI. THE MATERNAL HEART. Doctor Cavendish having been detained beyond his expected time with his invalid friend at Stanford, was happily still there, and set off for Harrowby the instant Mr. Constanine's messenger arrived, and before midnight alighted at the Abbey. When he entered Lady Tinemouth's chamber he found her supported in the arms of Thaddeus, and struggling with a second rupture of her lungs. As he approached the bed, Thaddeus turned his eyes on him with an expression that powerfully told his fears. Dr. Cavendish silently pressed his hand; then taking from his pocket some styptic drops, he made the countess swallow them, and soon saw that they succeeded in stopping the hemorrhage. Thaddeus and her physician remained by the side of the patient sufferer until ten in the morning, when she sunk into a gentle sleep. Complete stillness being necessary to continue this repose, the good doctor proposed leaving the maid to watch by her ladyship, and drawing the count out of the room, descended the stairs. Mr. Somerset had been arrived half an hour, and met them in the breakfast parlor. After a few kind words exchanged between the parties, they sat down with dejected countenances to their melancholy meal. Thaddeus was too much absorbed in the scene he had left to take anything but a dish of coffee. "Do you think Lady Tinemouth is in imminent danger?" inquired Pembroke of the doctor. Dr. Cavendish sighed, and turning to Thaddeus, directed to him the answer which his friend's question demanded. "I am afraid, my dear Mr. Constantine," said he, in a reluctant voice, "that you are to sustain a new trial! I fear she cannot live eight-and-forty hours." Thaddeus cast down his eyes and shuddered, but made no reply. Further remarks were prevented by a messenger from the countess, who desired Mr. Constantine's immediate attendance at her bedside. He obeyed. In half an hour he returned, with the mark of tears upon his cheek. "Dearest Thaddeus!" cried Pembroke, "I trust the countess is not worse? This threatened new bereavement is too much: it afflicts my very heart." Indeed it rent it; for Pembroke could not help internally acknowledging that when Sobieski should close the eyes of Lady Tinemouth, he would be paying the last sad office to his last friend. That dear distinction he durst no longer arrogate to himself. Denied the fulfilment of its duties, he thought that to retain the title would be an assumption without a right. Thaddeus drew his hand over his again filling eyes. "The countess herself," said he, "feels the truth of what Dr. Cavendish told us. She sent for me, and begged me, as I loved her or would wish to see her die in peace, to devise some means for bringing her daughter to the Abbey to-night. As for Lord Harwold, she says his behavior since he arrived at manhood has been of a nature so cruel and unnatural, that she would not draw on herself the misery, nor on him the added guilt, of a refusal; but with regard to Lady Albina, who has been no sharer in those barbarities, she trusts a daughter's heart might be prevailed on to seek a last embrace from a dying parent. It is this request," continued he, "that agitates me. When she pictured to me, with all the fervor of a mother, her doating fondness for this daughter, (on whom, whenever she did venture to hope, all those hopes rested;) when she wrung my hand, and besought me, as if I had been the sole disposer of her fate, to let her see her child before she died, I could only promise every exertion to effect it, and with an aching heart I came to consult you." Dr. Cavendish was opening his lips to speak, but Somerset, in his eagerness to relieve his friend, did not perceive it, and immediately answered, "This very hour I will undertake what you have promised. I know Lord Tinemouth's family are now at the Wolds. It is only thirty miles distant; I will send a servant to have relays of horses ready. My curricle, which is now at the door, will be more convenient than a chaise; and I will engage to be back before to-morrow morning. Write a letter, Thaddeus," added he, "to Lady Albina; tell her of her mother's situation; and though I have never seen the young lady, I will give it into her own hand, and then bring her off, even were it in the face of her villanous father." The pale cheeks of Sobieski flushed with a conscious scarlet. Turning to Dr. Cavendish, he requested him, as the most proper person, to write to Lady Albina, whilst he would walk out with his friend to order the carriage. Pembroke was thanked for his zeal, but it was not by words; they are too weak vehicles to convey strong impressions. Thaddeus pressed his hand, and accompanied the action with a look which spoke volumes. The withered heart of Pembroke expanded under the animated gratitude of his friend. Receiving the letter, he sprang into his seat, and, until he lost sight of Harrowby Hill, forgot how soon he must appear to that friend the most ungrateful of men. It was near six in the evening before Mr. Somerset left his curricle at the little inn which skirts the village of Harthorpe. He affected to make some inquiries respecting the families in the neighborhood; and his host informed him that the ladies of the earl's family were great walkers, passing almost the whole of the day in the grounds. The measures to be adopted were now obvious. The paling belonging to Lord Tinemouth's park was only a few yards distant; but fearful of being observed, Pembroke sought a more obscure part. Scaling a wall which was covered by the branches of high trees, he found his way to the house through an almost impassable thicket. He watched nearly an hour in vain for the appearance of Lady Albina, whose youth and elegance, he thought, would unequivocally distinguish her from the rest of the earl's household. Despairing of success, he was preparing to change his station, when he heard a sound among the dry leaves, and the next moment a beautiful young creature passed the bush behind which he was concealed. The fine symmetry of her profile assured him that she must be the daughter of Lady Tinemouth. She stooped to gather a china-aster. Knowing that no time should be lost, Pembroke gently emerged from his recess, but not in so quiet a manner as to escape the ear of Lady Albina, who instantly looking round, screamed, and would have fled, had he not thrown himself before her, and exclaimed, "Stay, Lady Albina! For heaven's sake, stay! I come from your mother!" She gazed fearfully in his face, and tried to release her hand, which he had seized to prevent her flight. "Do not be alarmed," continued he; "no harm is intended you. I am the son of Sir Robert Somerset, and the friend of your mother, who is now at the point of death. She implores to see you this night (for she has hardly an hour to live) to hear from your own lips that you do not hate her." Lady Albina trembled dreadfully, and with faded cheeks and quivering lips replied, "Hate my mother! Oh, no! I have ever dearly loved her!" A flood of tears prevented her speaking further; and Pembroke, perceiving that he had gained her confidence, put the doctor's letter into her hand. The gentle heart of Lady Albina bled at every word which her almost blinded eyes perused. Turning to Pembroke, who stood contemplating her lovely countenance with the deepest interest, she said, "Pray, Mr. Somerset, take me now to my mother. Were she to die before I arrive, I should be miserable for life. Alas! alas! I have never been allowed to behold her!--never been allowed to visit London, because my father knew that I believed my poor mother innocent, and would have seen her, had it been possible." Lady Albina wept violently while she spoke, and giving her hand to Pembroke, timidly looked towards the house, and added, "You must take me this instant. We must haste away, in case we should be surprised. If Lady Olivia were to know that I have been speaking with anybody out of the family I should be locked up for months." Pembroke did not require a second command from his beautiful charge. Conducting her through the unfrequented paths by which he had entered, he seated her in his curricle and whipping his horses, set off, full speed, towards the melancholy goal of his enterprise. CHAPTER XLII. HARROWBY ABBEY. Whilst the two anxious travellers were pursuing their sad journey, the inhabitants of the Abbey were distracted with apprehension lest the countess might expire before their arrival. Ever since Lady Tinemouth received information that Mr. Somerset was gone to the Wolds, hope and fear agitated her by turns, till, wearied out with solicitude and expectation, she turned her dim eyes upon Thaddeus, and said, in a languid voice, "My dear friend, it must be near midnight. I shall never see the morning; I shall never in this world see my child. I pray you, thank Mr. Somerset for all the trouble I have occasioned; and my daughter--my Albina! O father of mercies!" cried she, holding up her clasped hands, "pour all thy blessings upon her head! She never wilfully gave this broken heart a pang!" The countess had hardly ended speaking when Thaddeus heard a bustle on the stairs. Suspecting that it might be the arrival of his friend, he made a sign to Dr. Cavendish to go and inquire. His heart beat violently whilst he kept his eye fixed on the door, and held the feeble pulse of Lady Tinemouth in his hand. The doctor re-entered, and in a low voice whispered, "Lady Albina is here." The words acted like magic on the fading senses of the countess. With preternatural strength she started from her pillow, and catching hold of Sobieski's arm with both hers, cried, "O give her to me whilst I have life." Lady Albina appeared, led in by Pembroke, but instantly quitting his hand, with an agonizing shriek she rushed towards the bed, and flung herself into the extended arms of her mother, whose arms closed on her, and the head of the countess rested on her bosom. Dr. Cavendish perceived by the struggles of the young lady that she was in convulsions; and taking her off the bed, he consigned her to Pembroke and his friend, who, between them, carried her into another apartment. He remained to assist the countess. Albina was removed; but the eyes of her amiable and injured mother were never again unclosed: she had breathed her last sigh, in grateful ecstasy, on the bosom of her daughter; and Heaven had taken her spotless soul to Himself. Being convinced that the countess was indeed no more, the good doctor left her remains in charge of the women; and repairing to the adjoining room, found Lady Albina yet senseless in the arms of his two friends. She was laid on a sofa, and Cavendish was pouring some drops into her mouth, when he descried Thaddeus gliding out of the room. Desirous to spare him the shock of suddenly seeing the corpse of one whom he loved so truly, he said, "Stop, Mr. Constantine! I conjure you, do not go into the countess's room!" The eyes of Thaddeus turned with emotion on the distressed face of the physician; one glance explained what the doctor durst not speak. Faintly answering, "I will obey you," he hurried from the apartment. In the count's silent descent from Lady Albina's room to the breakfast-parlor, he too plainly perceived by the tears of the servants that he had now another sorrow to add to his mournful list. He hastened from participation in their clamorous laments, almost unseen, into the parlor, and shutting the door, threw himself into a chair; but rest induced thought, and thought subdued his soul. He started from his position; he paced the room in a paroxysm of anguish; he would have given worlds for one tear to relieve his oppressed heart. Ready to suffocate, he threw open a window and leaned out. Not a star was visible to light the darkness. The wind blew freshly, and with parched lips he inhaled it as the reviving breath of Heaven. He was sitting on the window-seat, with his head leaning against the casement, when Pembroke entered unobserved; walking up to him, he laid his hand upon his arm, and ejaculated in a tremulous voice, "Thaddeus, dear Thaddeus!" Thaddeus rose at the well-known sounds: they reminded him that he was not yet alone in the world for his soul had been full of the dying image of his own mother. Clasping Somerset in his arms, he exclaimed, "Heaven has still reserved thee, faithful and beloved, to be my comforter! In thy friendship and fond memories," he added, with a yet heaving breast, "I shall find tender bonds of the past still to endear me to the world." Pembroke received the embrace of his friend; he felt his tears upon his cheek; but he could neither return the one nor sympathize with the other. The conviction that he was soon to sever that cord, that he was to deprive the man who had preserved his life of the only stay of his existence, and abandon him to despair, struck to his soul. Grasping the hand of his friend, he gazed on his averted and dejected features with a look of desperate horror. "Sobieski," cried he, "whatever may happen, never forget that I swear I love you dearer than my life! And when I am forced to abandon my friend, I shall not be long of abandoning what will then be worthless to me." Not perceiving the frenzied look which accompanied this energetic declaration, Thaddeus gave no other meaning to the words than a renewed assurance of his friend's affection. The entrance of Dr. Cavendish disturbed the two young men, to whom he communicated the increased indisposition of Lady Albina. "The shock she has received," said he, "has so materially shaken her frame, I have ordered her to bed and administered an opiate, which I hope will procure her repose; and you, my dear sir," added he, addressing the count, "you had better seek rest! The stoutest constitution might sink under what you have lately endured. Pray allow Mr. Somerset and myself to prevail with you, on our accounts, if not on your own, to retire for half an hour!" Thaddeus, in disregard of his personal comfort, never infringed on that of others; he felt that he could not sleep, but he knew it would gratify his benevolent friends to suppose that he did; and accordingly he went to a room, and throwing himself on a bed, lay for an hour, ruminating on all that had passed. There is an omnipresence in thought, or a celerity producing nearly the same effect, which brings within the short space of a few minutes the images of many foregoing years. In almost the same moment, Thaddeus reflected on his strange meeting with the countess; the melancholy story; her forlorn death-bed; the fatal secret that her vile husband and son were his father and brother; and that her daughter, whom his warm heart acknowledged as a sister, was with him under the same roof, and, like him, the innocent inheritor of her father's shame. Whilst these multifarious and painful meditations were agitating his perturbed mind, Dr. Cavendish found repose on a couch; and Pembroke Somerset, resolving once more to try the influence of entreaty on the hitherto generous spirit of his father, with mingled hope and despondence commenced a last attempt to shake his fatal resolution, in the following letter: "TO SIR ROBERT SOMERSET, BART, SOMERSET CASTLE. "I have not ventured into the presence of my dear father since he uttered the dreadful words which I would give my existence to believe I had never heard. You denounced a curse upon me if I opposed your will to have me break all connection with the man who preserved my life! When I think on this, when I remember that it was from _you_ I received a command so inexplicable from one of your character, so disgraceful to mine, I am almost mad; and what I shall be should you, by repeating your injunctions, force me to obey them, Heaven only knows! but I am certain that I cannot survive the loss of my honor; I cannot survive the sacrifice of all my principles of virtue which such conduct must forever destroy. "Oh, my father! I conjure you, reflect, before, in compliance with an oath it was almost guilt to make, you decree your only son to everlasting shame and remorse. Act how I will, I shall never be happy more. I cannot live under your malediction; and should I give up my friend, my conscience will reproach me every instant of my existence. Can I draw the breath which he prolonged and cease to remember that I have abandoned him to want and misery? It were vain to flatter myself that he will condescend to escape either by the munificence which you offer as a compensation for my friendship. No; I cannot believe that his sensible and independent nature is so changed; circumstances never had any power over the nobility of his soul. "Misfortune, which threw the Count Sobieski on the bounty of England, cannot make him appear otherwise in my eyes than as the idol of Warsaw, whose smile was honor and whose friendship conferred distinction. "Though deprived of the splendor of command; though the eager circle of friends no longer cluster round him; though a stranger in this country, and without a home; though, in place of an equipage and retinue, he is followed by calamit and neglect, yet, in my mind, I still see him in a car of triumph I see not only the opposer of his nation's enemies, but the vanquisher of his own desires. I see the heir of a princely house, who, when mankind have deserted him, is yet encompassed by his virtues. I see him, though cast out from a hardened and unjust society, still surrounded by the lingering spirits of those who were called to better worlds! "And this is the man, my dear father, (whom I am sure, had he been of any other country than Poland, you would have selected from all other men to be the friend and example of your son),--this is he whom you command me to thrust away. "I beseech you to examine this injunction! I am now writing under the same roof with him; it depends on you, my ever-revered father, whether I am doing so for the last time; whether this is the last day in which your son is to consider himself a man of honor, or whether he is henceforth to be a wretch overwhelmed with shame and sorrow! "I have not yet dared to utter one word of your cruel orders to my unhappy friend. He is now retired to seek some rest, after the new anguish of having witnessed the almost sudden death of Lady Tinemouth. Should I have to tell him that he is to lose me too-but I cannot add more. Your own heart, my father, must tell you that my soul is on the rack until I have an answer to this letter." "Before I shut my paper, let me implore you on my knees, whatever you may decide, do not hate me; do not load my breaking heart with a parent's curse! Whatever I may be, however low and degraded in my own eyes, still, that I sacrificed what is most precious to me, to my father, will impart the only consolation which will then have power to reach your dutiful and afflicted son. "P. SOMERSET. "HARROWBY ABBEY, TWO O'CLOCK IN THE MORNING." Dr. Cavendish remained in a profound sleep, whilst Pembroke, with an aching heart having written the above letter, and dispatched it by a man and horse, tried to compose himself to half an hour's forgetfulness of life and its turmoils; but he found his attempts as ineffectual as those of his friend. Thaddeus had found no repose on his restless pillow. Reluctant to disturb the doctor and Somerset, who, he hoped, having less cause for regret, were sleeping tranquilly, he remained in bed; but he longed for morning. To his fevered nerves, any change of position, with movement, seemed better than where he was, and with some gleams of pleasure he watched the dawn, and the rising of the son behind the opposite hill. He got up, opened the window to inhale the air, and looking out, saw a man throw himself off a horse, which was all in foam, and enter the house. Surprised at this circumstance, he descended to the parlor to make inquiry, and met the man in the hall, who, being Pembroke's messenger, had returned express from the Castle, bearing an order from Sir Robert (who was taken alarmingly ill) that his son must come back immediately. Dismayed with this new distress, Mr. Somerset, on its instant information, pressed the count so closely to his breast when he bade him farewell, that a more suspicious person might have apprehended it was a final parting; but Thaddeus discerned nothing more in the anguish of his friend's countenance than fear for the safety of Sir Robert; and fervently wishing his recovery, he bade Pembroke remember that should more assistance be necessary, Dr. Cavendish would remain at the Abbey until Lady Albina's return to the Wolds. Mr. Somerset being gone, towards noon, when the count was anxiously awaiting the appearance of the physician from the room of the new invalid, he was disappointed by the abrupt entrance of two gentlemen. He rose, and with his usual courtesy to strangers, inquired their business? The elder of the men, with a fierce countenance and a voice of thunder, announced himself to be the Earl of Tinemouth, and the other his son. "We are come," said he, standing at a haughty distance--"we are come to carry from this nest of infamy Lady Albina Stanhope, whom some one of her mother's paramours--perhaps you, sir--dared to steal from her father's home yesterday evening. And I am come to give you, sir, who I guess to be some fugitive vagabond! the chastisement your audacity deserves." With difficulty the Count Sobieski suppressed the passions which were rising in his breast. He turned a scornful glance on the person of Lord Harwold (who, with an air of insufferable derision, was coolly measuring his figure through an eyeglass); and then, replying to the earl, said, in a firm voice, "My lord, whoever you suppose me to be, it matters not; I now stand in the place of Lady Tinemouth's confidential friend, and to my last gasp I will prove myself the defender of he injured name." "Her lover!" interrupted Lord Harwold, turning on his heel. "Her defender, sir!" repeated Thaddeus, with a tremendous frown; "and shame and sorrow will pursue that son who requires a stranger to supply his duty." "Wretch!" cried the earl, forgetting his assumed loftiness, and advancing passionately towards Thaddeus, with his stick held up; "how dare you address such language to an English nobleman?" "By the right of nature, which holds her laws over all mankind," returned Thaddeus, calmly looking on the raised stick. "When an English nobleman forgets that he is a son, he deserves reproach from his meanest vassal." "You see, my lord," cried Harwold, sliding behind his father, "what we bring on ourselves by harboring these democratic foreigners! Sir," added he, addressing himself to Thaddeus, "your dangerous principles shall be communicated to Government. Such traitors ought to hanged." Sobieski eyed the enraged little lord with contempt; and turning to the earl, who was again going to speak, he said, in an unaltered tone, "I cannot guess, Lord Tinemouth, what is the reason of this attack on me. I came hither by accident; I found the countess ill; and, from respect to her excellent qualities, I remained with her until her eyes were closed forever. She desired to see her daughter before she died,--what human heart could deny a mother such a request?--and Pembroke Somerset, her kinsman, undertook to bring Lady Albina to the Abbey. "Pembroke Somerset!" echoed the earl. "A pretty guard for my daughter, truly! I have no doubt that he is just such a fellow as his father--just such a person as yourself! I am not to be imposed upon. I know Lady Tinemouth to have been a disgrace to me, and you to be that German adventurer on whose account I sent her from London." Shocked at this calumny on the memory of a woman whose fame from any other mouth came as unsullied as purity itself, Thaddeus gazed with horror at the furious countenance of the man whom he believed to be his father. His heart swelled; but not deigning to reply to a charge as unmanly as it was false, he calmly took out of his pocket two letters which the countess had dictated to her husband and her son. Lord Harwold tore his open, cast his eyes over the first words, then crumpling it in his hand, threw it from him, exclaiming, "I am not to be frightened either by her arts or the falsehoods of the fellows with whom she dishonored her name." Thaddeus, no longer master of himself, sprang towards his unnatural son, and seized his arm with an iron grasp. "Lord Harwold!" cried he, in a dreadful voice, "were it not that I have some mercy on you for that parent's sake, to whom, like a parricide, you are giving a second death by such murderous slander, I would resent her wrongs at the hazard of your worthless life!" "My lord! my lord!" cried the trembling Harwold, quaking under the gripe of Thaddeus, and shrinking from the terrible brightness of his eye,--"my lord! my lord, rescue me!" The earl, almost suffocated with rage, called out, "Ruffian! let go my son!" and again raising his arm, aimed a blow at the head of Thaddeus, who, wrenching the stick out of the foaming lord's hand, snapped it in two, and threw the pieces out of the open window. Lord Harwold took this opportunity to ring the bell violently, on which summons two of his servants entered the room. "Now, you low-born, insolent scoundrel," cried the disarmed earl, stamping with his feet, and pointing to the men who stood at the door; "you shall be turned by the neck and heels out of this house. Richard, James, collar that fellow instantly." Thaddeus only extended his arm to the men (who were looking confusedly on each other), and calmly said, "If either of you attempt to obey this command of your lord, you shall have cause to repent it." The men retreated. The earl repeated his orders. "Rascals! do as I command you, or instantly quit my service. I will teach you," added he, clenching his fist at the count, who stood resolutely and serenely before him, "I will teach you how to behave to a man of high birth." The footmen were again deterred from approaching by a glance from the intimidating eyes of Thaddeus, who, turning with stern dignity to the storming earl, said, "You can teach me nothing about high birth that I do not already know. Could it be of any independent benefit to a man, then had I not received the taunts and insults which you have dared to cast upon me." At that moment Dr. Cavendish, having heard a bustle, made his appearance. Amazed at the sight of two strangers, who from their enraged countenances and the proud elevation with which Thaddeus was standing between them, he rightly judged to be the earl and his son, he advanced towards his friend, intending to support him in the attack which he saw was menaced by the violent gestures of these visitors. "Dr. Cavendish," said Thaddeus, speaking to him as he approached, "your name must be a passport to the confidence of any man; I therefore shall gratify the husband of my ever lamented friend by quitting this house; but I delegate to you the office with which she entrusted me. I leave you in charge of her sacred remains, and of the jewels which you will find in her apartment. She desired that half of them might be given with her blessing, to her daughter, and the other half, with her pardon, to her son." "Tell me. Dr. Cavendish," cried the earl, as Thaddeus was passing him to leave the room, "who is that insolent fellow? By heaven, he shall smart for this!" "Ay, that he shall," rejoined Lord Harwold, "if I have any interest with the Alien-office." Dr. Cavendish was preparing to speak, when Thaddeus, turning round at this last threat of the viscount, said, "If I did not know myself to be above Lord Harwold's power, perhaps he might provoke me to treat him according to his deserts; but I abjure resentment, while I pity his delusions. For you, my lord," added he, addressing the earl with a less calm countenance, "there is an angel in heaven who pleads against the insults you have uninquiringly and unjustly heaped upon an innocent man!" Thaddeus disappeared from the apartment while uttering the last word; hastening from the house and park, he stopped near the brow of the hill, at the porch of his lately peaceful little hotel. The landlady was a sister of John Jacobs, the faithful servant of his lamented friend, and who was then watching the door of the neglected chamber in which the sacred remains of his dear mistress lay, as he would have guarded her life, had the foes who had now destroyed it been still menacing its flickering flame. The worthy couple were also attached to that benevolent lady; and with sad looks, but respectful welcoming, they saw Mr. Constantine re-enter their humble home, and assured him of its retirement as long as he might wish to abide in the neighborhood of the Abbey. Any prospect of repose promised elysium to him; and with harassed and torn nerves he took possession of his apartment, which looked down the road that led from the old monastic structure to the town of Grantham. The rapidity of the recent events bewildered his senses, like the illusions of a dream. He had seen his father, his sister, his brother; and most probably he had parted from them forever!--at least, he hoped he should never again be tortured with the sight of Lord Tinemouth or his son. "How," thought he, whilst walking up and down his solitary parlor, "could the noble nature of my mother love such a man? and how could he have held so long an empire over the pure heart he has just now broken." He could nowhere discern, in the bloated visage and rageful gestures of the earl, any of that beauty of countenance or grace of manners which had alike charmed Therese Sobieski and the tender Acleliza. Like those hideous chasms which are dug deep in the land by the impetuous sweep of a torrent, the course of violent passions leaves vast and irreparable traces on the features and in the soul. So it was with Lord Tinemouth. "How legibly does vice or virtue," ejaculated Thaddeus, "write itself on the human face! The earl's might once have been fine, but the lineaments of selfishness and sin have degraded every part of him. Mysterious Providence! Can he be my father--can it be his blood that is now running in my veins? Can it be his blood that rises at this moment with detestation against him?" Before the sun set, Sobieski was aroused from these painful soliloquies by still more painful feelings. He saw from his window a hearse driving at full speed up the road that ascended to the Abbey, and presently return at a slower pace, followed by a single black coach. "Inhuman men!" exclaimed he, while pursuing with his eyes the tips of the sable plumes as the meagre cavalcade of mourners wound down the hill; "could you not allow this poor corse a little rest? Must her persecution be extended to the grave? Must her cold relics be insulted, be hurried to the tomb without reverence--without decency?" The filial heart that uttered this thought also of his own injured mother, and shrunk with horror at this climax of the earl's barbarity. Dr. Cavendish entered with a flushed countenance. He spoke indignantly of the act he still saw from the window, which he denounced as a sacrilege against the dead. "Not four-and-twenty hours since," cried he, "she expired! and she is hurried into the cold bosom of the earth, like a criminal, or a creature whose ashes a moment above ground might spread a pestilence. Oh, how can that sweet victim, Lady Albin, share such peccant blood?" Thaddeus, whose soul had just writhed under a similar question with regard to himself, could little bear the repetition and interrupted the good physician by tenderly inquiring how she had borne that so abrupt removal of her mother's remains. "With mute anguish," returned Dr. Cavendish, in a responding, calmer voice of pity; "and though I had warned her father that the shock of so suddenly tearing his daughter from such beloved relics might peril her own life, he continued obdarate; and putting her into his travelling chariot in a state of insensibility, along with her maid, in a few minutes afterwards I saw him set off in a hired post-chaise, accompanied by his detestable son, loaded with more than one curse, muttered by the honest rustics. Only servants followed in that mourning coach." In the midst of this depressing conversation a courier arrived from Stamford to Dr. Cavendish, recalling him immediately to return thither, the invalid there having sustained an alarming relapse. The good doctor, sincerely reluctant to quit Thaddeus (whom he still knew by no other name than Constantine), ordered the dispatch-chaise to the hotel door. When it was announced, he shook hands with the now lonely survivor of his departed friend in this stranger land, requested that he might hear from him before he left that part of the country for London again, and bidding him many cordial adieus, continued to look out of the back window of the carriage, until the faint light of the moon and the receding glimmer of the village candles finally hid the little spot that yet contained this young and sadly-stricken exile from his lingering eyes. CHAPTER XLIII. THE OLD VILLAGE HOTEL. For the first time during many nights, Thaddeus slept soundly; but his dreams were disturbed, and he awoke from them at an early hour, unrefreshed and in much fever. The simple breakfast which his attentive host and hostess set before him was scarcely touched. Their nicely-dressed dinner met with the same fate. He was ill, and possessed neither appetite nor spirits to eat. The good people being too civil to intrude upon him, he sat alone in his window from eight o'clock (at which hour he had arisen) until the cawing of the rooks, as they returned to the Abbey-woods, reminded him of the approach of evening. He was uneasy at the absence of Somerset, not so much on his own account, as on that of Sir Robert, whose increased danger might have occasioned this delay; however, he hoped otherwise. Longing earnestly for a temporary sanctuary under his friend's paternal roof, in the quiet of its peace and virtues, he trusted that the sympathy of Pembroke, the only confidant of his past sorrows, would tend to heal his recent wounds (though the nature of the most galling, he felt, must ever remain unrevealed even to him!) and so fit him, should it be required, to yet further brave the buffets of an adverse fate. Nor was Miss Beaufort forgotten. If ever one idea more than another sweetened the bitterness of his reflections, it was the remembrance of Mary Beaufort. Whenever her image rose before him--whether he were standing in the lonely clay with folded arms, in vacant gaze on the valley beneath, or when lying on his watchful pillow he opened his aching eyes to the morning light-still, as her angel figure presented itself to his mind, he did indeed sigh, but it was a sigh laden with balm; it did not tear his breast like those which had been wrung from him by the hard hand of calamity and insult. It was the soft breath of a hallowed love, which makes man dream of heaven, while he feels sinking to an early grave. Thaddeus felt it delightful to recollect how she had looked on him that day in Hyde Park, when she "bade him take care of his own life, while so devoted to that of his dying friend!" and how she "blessed him in his task," with a voice of tenderness so startlingly sacred to his soul in its accents, that in remembering her words now, when so near the moment of his again seeing and hearing her, his soul expanded towards her, agitated, indeed, but soothed and comforted. "Sweet Mary!" murmured he, "I shall behold thee once more; I shall again revive under thy kind smile! Oh, it is happiness to know that I owe my liberty to thee, though I may not dare to tell thee so! Yet my swelling heart may cherish the clear consciousness, and, bereaved though I am of all I formerly loved, be indeed blessed while on earth with the heaven-bestowed privilege of loving thee, even in silence and forever! Alas! alas! a man without kindred or a country dare not even wish thee to be his!" A sigh from the depths of his soul closed this soliloquy. The sight of Pembroke riding through the field towards the little inn, recalled the thoughts of Sobieski to that dear friend alone. He went out to meet him. Mr. Somerset saw him, and putting his horse to a brisk canter, was at his side in a few minutes. Thaddeus asked anxiously about the baronet's health. Pembroke answered with an incoherency devoid of all meaning. Thaddeus looked at him with surprise, but from increased anxiety forbore to repeat the question. They walked towards the inn; still Pembroke did not appear to recover himself, and his evident absence of mind and the wild rambling of his eyes were so striking, that Thaddeus could have no doubt of some dreadful accident. As soon as they had entered the little parlor, his friend cast himself into a chair, and throwing off his hat, wiped away the perspiration which, though a cold October evening, was streaming down his forehead. Thaddeus endured a suspense which was almost insupportable. "What is the direful matter, dear Pembroke? Is any we honor, and love, ill unto death?" His pale face showed that he apprehended it, and he thought it might be Mary. "No, no," returned Pembroke; "everybody is well, excepting myself and my father, who, I verily believe, has lost his senses; at any rate he will drive me mad." The manner in which this reply was uttered astonished Thaddeus so much, that he could only gaze with wonder on the convulsed feature of his friend. Pembroke observed his amazement, and laying his hand on his arm, said, "My dear, dear Sobieski! what do I not owe to you? Good Heaven! how humbled am I in your sight! But there is a Power above who knows how intimately you are woven with every artery of this heart." "I believe it, my kind Pembroke," cried Thaddeus, yet more alarmed than before; "tell me what it is that distresses you? If my counsel or my sympathy can offer anything to comfort or assist you, you know I am your own." Pembroke burst into tears, and covering his streaming eyes with his handkerchief, exclaimed, "I am indeed distressed--distressed even beyond your comfort. Oh! how can I speak it! You will despise my father! You will spurn me!" "Impossible!" cried Thaddeus with energy, though his flushed cheek and fainting heart immediately declared that he had anticipated what he must hear. "I see," cried Pembroke, regarding the altered features of his friend with a glance of agony--"I see that you think it is possible that my father can sink me below my own contempt." The benumbing touch of ingratitude ran through the veins of Thaddeus; his frame was chilled--was petrified; but his just affection and calmed countenance proclaimed how true a judgment he had passed on the whole. He took the burning hand of Mr. Somerset in his own, and, with a steady and consoling voice, said, "Assure yourself, dear Pembroke, whatever be the commands of your father, I shall adhere to them. I cannot understand by these generous emotions that he objects to receive me as your friend. Perhaps," added he,--a flash of suspicion gleaming through his mind,--"perhaps Miss Beaufort may have perceived the devotedness of my heart, and disdaining my--" "Hush, for Heaven's sake!" cried Pembroke, starting from his chair; "do not implicate my poor cousin! Do not add to her disappointment the misery that you suspect her! No, Thaddeus," continued he, in a calmer tone; "Mary Beaufort loves you: she confessed it in an agony of grief on my bosom, just before I came away; and only through her I dare ever expect to meet forgiveness from _you_. In spite of my father, you may marry her. She has no curse to dread; she need not sacrifice all that is most precious in her sight to the obstinate caprice of criminal resentment." "A curse!" reiterated Thaddeus. "How is this!--what have I done, to deserve such hatred from your father?" "Oh! nothing," cried Pembroke--"nothing. My father never saw you. My father thanks you for all that you have done for me; but it is your country that he hates. Some Polander, years back, injured him; and my father took a fatal oath against the whole nation. He declares that he cannot, he will not, break it, were he by so doing to save his own life, or even mine; for, (Heaven forgive me!) I was this morning wrought up to such frenzy, that I threatened to destroy myself rather than sacrifice my gratitude and honor to his cruel commands! Nay, to convince you that his is no personal enmity to yourself, he ordered me to give you writings which will put you in possession of an independence forever. I have them with me." All the pride of his princely house rose at once in the breast of Thaddeus. Though full of indignation at this insult of Sir Robert's, he regarded the averted face of his friend with compassion, whilst in a firm voice he rejected the degrading compromise. "Tell your father," added he, addressing Pembroke, in a tone which even his affection could not soften from a command, "that my absence is not to be bought with money, nor my friendship so rewarded." Pembroke covered his burning face with his hands. This sight at once brought down the haughty spirit of Sobieski, who continued in gentler accents, "Whatever be the sentiments of Sir Robert Somerset, they shall meet with clue attention from me. He is your father, therefore I respect him; but he has put it out of his power to oblige me; I cannot accept his bounty. Though your heart, my dearest Pembroke, is above all price, yet I will make it a sacrifice to your duty." And by so doing put the last seal on my misfortunes, was the meaning of the heavy sigh which accompanied his last words. Pembroke traversed the room in an agony. "Merciful Providence!" cried he, wringing his clasped hands, "direct me! Oh, Thaddeus, if you could read my tortured heart, you would pity me; you would see that this affair is tearing my soul from my body. What am I to do? I cannot, I will not, part with you forever." Thaddeus, with a calm sadness, drew him to a seat. "Be satisfied," said he, "that I am convinced of your affection. Whatever may happen, this assurance will be sufficient to give me comfort; therefore, by that affection, I entreat you, dear Pembroke, not to bring regret to me, and reproach on yourself, by disobeying in any way the will of your father in this matter! If we separate for life, remember, my beloved friend, that the span of our existence here is short; we shall meet again in a happier world--perhaps more blest, for having immolated our wishes to hard duty in this." "Cease, Sobieski, cease!" cried Pembroke; "I can draw no consolation from this reasoning. It is not duty to obey a hatred little short of distraction; and if we now separate, I feel that I never shall know peace again. Good Heaven! what comfort can I find when you are exposed to all the indignities which the world levels against the unfortunate? Can I indulge in the luxuries of my father's house when I know that you have neither a home nor subsistence? No, Thaddeus, I am not such a villain. I will not give you up, though my father should load me with curses. I trust there is a just Power above who would avert them." Perceiving that argument would not only be fruitless, but might probably incense his friend's irritated nature to the commission of some rash action, Thaddeus pretended to overlook the frantic gesture and voice which terminated this speech, and assuming a serene air, replied: "Let this be the subject of a future conversation. At present, I must conjure you, by the happiness of us both, to return to the Castle. You know my message to Sir Robert. Present my respects to your aunt; and," added he, after an agitated pause, "assure Miss Beaufort that whilst I have life, her goodness, her sometimes remembrance, will be--" Pembroke interrupted him. "Why these messages, dear Thaddeus? Do not suppose, though I fulfil my father's orders to return to Somerset to- night, that it is our separation. Gracious Heaven! Is it so easy to part forever?" "Not forever! Oh, no," replied Thaddeus, grasping his hand; "we shall see each other again; only, meanwhile, repeat those, alas! inadequate messages to your aunt and cousin. Go, my dear Pembroke, to your father; and may the Lord of Heaven bless you!" The last words were spoken in almost a stifled voice, as he opened his arms and strained his friend to his breast. "I shall see you to-morrow," cried Pembroke; "on no other condition will I leave you now." Thaddeus made no further answer to this demand (which he determined should never be granted) than a second embrace. Pembroke went out of the room to order his horse; then, returning, he stood at the door, and holding out his hand to the count, repeated, "Farewell till to- morrow." Thaddeus pressed it warmly, and he disappeared. The outward gate closed after his friend, but Sobieski remained on the seat into which he had thrown himself. He did not venture to move, lest he should by chance catch a second glance of Pembroke from the window. Now that he was gone, he acknowledged the full worth of what he had relinquished. He had resigned a man who loved him; one who had known and revered his ever-lamented grandfather, and his mother--the only one with whom he could have discoursed of their virtues! He had severed the link which had united his present state with his former fortunes! and throwing his arms along a table that stood near him, he leaned his aching head upon them, and in idea followed with a bleeding heart the progress and reception of his friend at the Castle. The racking misery which tortured the mind of Mr. Somerset was not borne with equal resignation. Conscious of his having inflicted fresh wounds on the breast of his truest friend, his spirits were so ill adapted to any conversation, that he was pleased rather than disappointed when he found the supper-room at the Castle quite vacant, and only one cover on the table awaiting his arrival. He asked a few questions of the servants, who informed him that it was past twelve o'clock, and that Sir Robert, who had become worse, had retired to bed early in the evening. "And where are my aunt and cousin?" demanded Pembroke. One of the men replied that, in consequence of Miss Beaufort having been taken suddenly indisposed, both the ladies left the saloon before eleven. Pembroke readily guessed the cause of her disorder; he too truly ascribed it to Mary's anxiety respecting the reception which the noble Sobieski would give to his disgraceful proposition. Sighing bitterly, he said no more but went to his chamber. The restless state of his mind awoke Mr. Somerset by times. Anxious for the success of an application which he intended to make to his beloved cousin, whose pure and virgin heart he believed did indeed here sympathize with his own, he traversed the terrace for an hour before he was summoned to breakfast. The baronet continuing too ill to leave his room, the ladies only were in the parlor when he entered. Miss Dorothy, who had learned the particulars of the late events from her niece, longed to ask Pembroke how his noble friend would act on her brother's so strange and lamentable conduct--conduct so unlike himself in any other circumstance of gratitude in his life. But every time she moved her lips to inquire, her nephew's inflamed eyes and wan countenance made her fear to venture on the subject. Mary sat in mute dejection, watching the agitation of his features; and when he rose to quit the room, still in silence, she looked wistfully towards him. Pembroke turned at the same moment, and holding out his hand to her, said, "Come, Mary: I want to say something to you. Will you walk with me on the terrace?" With a beating heart Miss Beaufort took his arm, and proceeded without a word until they ascended the stone steps and reached the terrace. A mutual deep-drawn sigh was the first opening to a conversation on which the souls of both hung. Pembroke was the first who spoke. "My dear Mary," cried he, "you are now my sole dependence. From what I told you yesterday of my father's inflexibility, we can have no hope of his relenting: indeed, after what has passed, I could not flatter myself that Thaddeus Sobieski would now submit to any obligation at his hands. Already he has refused, with all the indignation I expected, Sir Robert's offer of an annuity. My dear cousin, how can I exist and yet witness this my best friend in distress, and living without the succor of my friendship? Heaven knows, this cannot be the case, for I would sooner perish than venture to insult the man my father has treated so ill with any pecuniary offers from me! Therefore, dear girl, it is on you alone that I depend. With his whole soul, as our marriage service says, Thaddeus 'worships you;' you love him! In a few days you will become of age. You will be your own mistress. Marry him, my beloved cousin," cried Pembroke, pressing her hand to his lips, "and relieve my heart from a load of misery! Be generous, my sweet Mary," added he, supporting her now trembling frame against his breast; "act up to your noble nature, and offer him, by me, that hand which his calamities and disinterestedness preclude him from wooing himself." Miss Beaufort, hardly able to articulate, replied, "I would give him all that I possess could it purchase him one tranquil hour. I would serve him forever could I do it and be unknown? but--" "O, do not hesitate!--do not doubt!" interrupted Pembroke. "To serve your friends, I know you are capable of the most extraordinary exertions. I know there is nothing within the range of possibility that your generous disposition would not attempt; then, my beloved Mary, dare to be what you are, by having the magnanimity to act as you know you ought--by offering your hand to him. Show the noble Sobieski that you really deserve the devotion of a hero's heart-- deserves to be his consolation, who, in losing his mother, lost an angel like yourself." "Dear Pembroke," replied Miss Beaufort, wiping the gliding tears from her burning cheek, "after the confession which you drew from me yesterday, I will not deny that to be this to your friend would render me the happiest of created beings; but I cannot believe what your sanguine affection tells me. I cannot suppose, situated as I was at Lady Dundas's, surrounded by frivolous and contemptible society, that he could discover anything in me to warrant such a vanity. Every way embarrassed as I was, disliking my companions, afraid of my own interest in him, a veil was drawn over my mind, through which he could neither judge of my good nor bad qualities. How, then, can I flatter myself, or do the Count Sobieski so great an injury, as to imagine that he could conceive any preference for so insignificant a being as I must have appeared?" It was some time before Pembroke could shake this prepossession of a sincere humility from Miss Beaufort's mind. But after having set in every possible light the terms with which his friend had spoken of her, he at length convinced her of what her heart so earnestly wished to believe--that the love of Sobieski was indeed hers. Mr. Somerset's next achievement was to overcome her scruples against sanctioning him with the commission he was bent on communicating to Thaddeus. But from the continual recurrence of her apprehensions, that the warm affection of her cousin had too highly colored the first part of his representation, this latter task was not more easy to accomplish than the former. In vain she remonstrated, in vain she doubted, in vain demurred. Pembroke would not be denied. He saw her heart was with him; and when with faltering lips she assented to the permission, which he almost extorted, she threw her arms round his neck, and implored him, "by all he loved and honored, to be careful of her peace; to remember that she put into his charge all that was most precious to woman--the modesty of her sex and her own self-esteem !" Delighted at this consent, notwithstanding he received it through the medium of many tears, he fondly and gratefully pressed her to his bosom, uttering his own soul's fervent conviction of a future domestic happiness to them all. Having stood till he saw her re-enter the house from a door on the terrace, he mounted his horse and set off on the spur towards Harrow by Hill. CHAPTER XLIV. LETTERS OF FAREWELL. When Thaddeus recovered from the reverie into which he fell on the departure of Mr. Somerset, he considered how he might remove out of a country in which he had only met with and occasioned distress. The horrid price that Pembroke's father had set on the continuance of his son's friendship with a powerless exile was his curse. Whatever might have been the injury any individual of now annihilated Poland could, in its palmy days of independence, and sometimes pride, inflict on this implacable Englishman, of a nature that appeared to have blinded him to even human feeling, Thaddeus felt so true an indignation against such cruel injustice, and so much of a contrary sentiment towards the noble son of this hard parent, that he determined to at once relieve the warring mind of Pembroke of any further conflict on his account by immediately quitting England. Averse to a second interview with a friend so justly beloved, which could only produce them new pangs, he resolved on instant preparations--that another morn should not rise upon him in the neighborhood of Somerset Castle. Taking up a pen, with all the renewed loneliness of his fate brooding on his heart, he wrote two letters. One he addressed to Mr. Somerset, bidding him that farewell which he confessed he could never take. As he wrote, his hand trembled, his bosom swelled, and he hastily shut his eyelids, to withhold his tears from showing themselves on the paper. His emotion, his grief, were driven back, were concealed, but the tenderness of his soul flowed over the letter. He forgave Pembroke's father for Pembroke's sake; and in spite of their personal disunion, he vowed that no earthly power should restrain his love from following the steps of his friend, even into the regions of eternity. He closed his melancholy epistle with informing Mr. Somerset that, as he should quit not only England directly, but Europe, any search after him which his generous nature might dictate would be in vain. Though Thaddeus Sobieski would have disdained a life of dependence on the greatest potentate of the world; though he rejected with the same sincerity a similar proposal from his friend, and despised the degrading offer of Sir Robert, yet he did not disparage his dignity, not infringe on the disinterested nature of friendship, when he retained the money which Pembroke had conveyed to him in prison. Thaddeus never acted but from principle. His honorable and penetrating mind knew exactly at what point to draw the tender thread of delicacy--the cord of independence. But pride and independence were with him distinct terms. Receiving assistance from a friend and leaning on him wholly for support have different meanings. He accepted the first with gratitude; he would have thought it impossible to live and endure the last. Indeed Thaddeus would have considered himself unworthy to confer a benefit if he had not known how to receive one. But had not Pembroke told him "the whole gift was Mary Beaufort's?" And what were his emotions then? They were full of an ineffable sense of happiness inexplicable to himself. Mary Beaufort was the donor, and it was bliss to have it so, and to know it was so. With these impressions again throbbing at his heart, he began a short letter to her, which he felt must crush that heart forever. "To Miss Beaufort. "My faculties lose their power when I take up my pen to address, for the first and the last time, Miss Beaufort. I hardly know what I would say--what I ought to say; I dare not venture to write all that I feel. But have you not been my benefactress? Did you not assert my character and give me liberty when I was calumniated and in distress? Did you not ward from me the scorn of unpitying folly? Did you not console me with your own compassion? You have done all this; and surely you will not despise the gratitude of a heart which you have condescended to sooth and to comfort. At least I cannot leave England forever without imploring blessings on the head of Miss Beaufort, without thanking her on my knees, on which I am writing, for that gracious and benign spirit which discovered a breaking heart under the mask of serenity, which penetrated through the garb of poverty and dependence, and saw that the condemned Constantine was not what he seemed! Your smiles, Miss Beaufort, your voice speaking commiseration, were my sweetest consolations during those heavy months of bitterness which I endured at Dundas House. I contemplated you as a pitying angel, sent to reconcile me to a life which had already become a burden. These are the benefits which Miss Beaufort has bestowed on a friendless exile; these are the benefits which she has bestowed on me! and they are written on my soul. Not until I go down into the grave can they be forgotten. Ah! not even then, for when I rise again, I shall find them still registered there. "Farewell, most respected, most dear, most honored! My passing soul seems in those words. O, may the Father of heaven bless with his almighty care her whose name will ever be the first and the last in the prayer of the far distant "THADDEUS CONSTANTINE SOBIESKI. "HARROWBY VILLAGE, MIDNIGHT." When he had finished this epistle, with a tremulous hand he consigned it to the same cover that contained his letter to Somerset. Then writing a few lines to the worthy master of the inn, (the brother-in- law of the faithful servant of his late lamented maternal friend,) saying that a sudden occasion had required his immediate departure at that untimely hour, he enclosed a liberal compensation in gold for the attentive services of both the honest man and his warm-hearted wife. Having sealed each packet, he disposed them so on the table that they might be the first things seen on entering the room. He had fixed on deep night as the securest time for commencing unobserved his pedestrian tour. The moon was now full, and would be a sufficient guide, he thought, on his solitary way. He had determined to walk to London by the least public paths; meaning to see kind Mrs. Robson, and bid her a grateful farewell before he should embark, probably never to return, for America. He had prepared his slender baggage before he sat down to write the two letters which had cost him so many pangs; compressed within a light black leather travelling-bag, he fastened it over his shoulders by its buckled straps, in the manner of a soldier's knapsack. He then put the memorandum-book which contained his "world's wealth," now to be carefully husbanded, into a concealed pocket in the breast of his waistcoat, feeling, while he pressed it down upon his heart, that his mother's locket and Miss Beaufort's chain kept guard over it. "Ah!" cried he, as he gently closed the low window by which he leaped into the garden; "England, I leave thee forever, and within thee all that on this earth had been left to me to love. Driven from thee! Nay, driven as if I were another Cain, from the face of every spot of earth that ever had been or would be dear to me! Oh, woe to them who began the course. And thou, Austria, ungrateful leader in the destruction of the country which more than once was thy preserver!-- could there be any marvel that the last of the Sobieskis should perish with her? What accumulated sins must rest on thy head, thou seducer of other nations into the spoliation and dismemberment of the long-proved bulwark of Christendom? Assuredly, every hasty sigh that rebels in the breasts of Poland's outcast sons against the mystery of her doom will plead against thee at the judgment-seat of Heaven!" He went on at a rapid pace through several fields, his heart and soul full of those remembrances, and the direful echoes to them he had met in England. Stopping a moment at the boundary-gate of the Harrowby domains,--the property of a disgraceful owner of a name that might have been his, had not his nobler mother preserved to him that of Sobieski,--he stretched out his arms to the heavens, over which a bleak north-west wind was suddenly collecting dark and spreading clouds, and exclaimed, in earnest supplication, "Oh, righteous Power of Mercy! in thy chastening, grant me fortitude to bear with resignation to thy will the miseries I may yet have to encounter, Ah!" added he, his heart melting as the images presented themselves even as visions to his soul, "teach me to forget what I have been. Teach me to forget that on this dreadful October night twelve months ago I clasped the dying body of my revered grandfather in these arms!" He could not speak further. Leaning his pale face against the gate, he remained for a few minutes dissolved in all a son's sorrow; then, recovering himself by a sudden start, he proceeded with hurried steps through the further extending meadows until they conducted him by a short village-lane into the high road. It was on the 10th of October, 1795, that the Count Sobieski commenced this lonely and melancholy journey. It was the 10th of October in the preceding year that he found the veteran palatine bleeding to death in the midst of a heap of slain. The coincidence of his renewed banishment and present consequent mental sufferings with those of that fatal period powerfully affected him, recalling, in the vivid colors of an actual existence, scenes and griefs which the numerous successive events he had passed through had considerably toned down into dream-like shades. But now, when memory, by one unexpected stroke, had once conjured up the happy past of his early life and its as early blighting, true to her nature, she raised before his mind's eye every hope connected with it and his present doom, till, almost distracted, he quickened his speed. He then slackened it; he quickened it again; but nothing could rid him of those successive images which seem to glide around him like mournful apparitions of the long-lamented dead. When the dawn broke and the sun rose, he found himself advanced several miles on the south side of Ponton Hill. The spiry aisles of Harrowby Abbey were discernible through the mist, and the towers of Somerset Castle, from their height and situation, were as distinctly seen as if he had been at their base. Neither of these objects were calculated to raise the spirits of Thaddeus. The sorrows of the countess, whose eyes he so recently had closed, and the treatment which he afterwards received from the man to whom he owed his life, were recollections which made him turn from the Abbey with a renewed pang and fix his eyes on Somerset. He looked towards its ivied battlements with all the regret and all the tenderness which can overflow a human heart. Under that roof he believed the eyes of his almost, indeed, worshipped Mary were sealed in sleep; and in an instant his agitated soul addressed her as if she had been present. "Farewell, most lovely, most beloved! The conviction that it is to ensure the peace of my now only friend on earth, my faithful Pembroke, that I resign the hope of ever beholding thee again in this life, will bring me one comfort, at least, in my barren exile!" Thus communing with his troubled spirit, he walked the whole day on his way to London. Totally absorbed in meditation, he did not remark the gaze of curiosity which followed his elegant yet distressed figure as he passed through the different towns and villages. Musing on the past, the present, and the future, he neither felt hunger nor thirst, but, with a fixed eye and abstracted countenance, pursued his route until night and weariness overtook him near a cross-road, far away from any house. Thaddeus looked around and above. The sky was then clear and glittering with stars; the moon, shining on a branch of the Ouse which divides Leicestershire from Northamptonshire, lit the green heath which skirted its banks. He wished not for a more magnificent canopy; and placing his bag under his head, he laid himself down beneath a hillock of furze, and slept till morning. When he awoke from a heavy sleep, which fatigue and fasting had rendered more oppressive than refreshing, he found that the splendors of the night were succeeded by a heavy rain, and that he was wet through. He arose with stiffness in his limbs, pain in his head, and a dimness over his eyes, with a sense of weakness which almost disabled him from moving. He readily judged that he had caught cold; and every moment feeling himself grow worse, he thought it necessary to seek some house where he might procure rest and assistance. Leaning on his closed umbrella, which, in his precarious circumstances of travelling, he used in preference to a walking- stick, and no longer able to encumber himself with even the light load of his bag, he cast it amongst the brambles near him. Thinking, from the symptoms he felt, that he might not have many more hours to endure the ills of life, he staggered a few yards further. No habitation appeared; his eyes soon seemed totally obscured, and he sunk down on a bank. For a minute he attempted to struggle with the cold grasp of death, which he believed was fastening on his heart. "And are my days to be so short?--are they to end thus?" was the voice of his thoughts,--for he was speechless. "Oh! thou merciful Providence, pardon my repining, and those who have brought me to this! My only Father, hear me!" These were the last movements of his soundless lips, while his blood seemed freezing to insensibility. His eyelids were closed, and pale, and without sign of animation, he lay at the foot of a tree nigh which he had dropped. He remained a quarter of an hour in this dead-like state before he was observed; at length, a gentleman who was passing along that road, on his way to his country-seat in the neighborhood, thought he perceived a man lying amongst the high grass a little onward on the heath. He stopped his carriage instantly, though driven by four spirited horses, and ordering one of the outriders to alight, bade him examine whether the object in view were living or dead. The servant obeyed; and presently returning with an affrighted countenance, he informed his master that "it was the body of a young man, who, by his dress, appeared to be a gentleman; and being quite senseless, he supposed he had been waylaid and murdered by footpads." The features of the benevolent inquirer immediately reflected the alarm of his informant. Ordering the chariot door to be opened, he took in his hand a bottle of medicine, (which, from his own invalid states was his carriage companion,) and, stepping out, hastened to the side of the apparently lifeless Thaddeus. By this time all the servants were collected round the spot. The master himself, whilst he gazed with pity on the marble features of the stranger, observed with pleasure that he saw no marks of violence. Supposing that the present accident might have been occasioned by a fit, and thinking it possible to recall life, he desired that the unfortunate person's neck-cloth might be unloosened, and removing his hat, he contrived to pour some drops into his mouth. Their warmth renewed pulsation to the heart, for one of the men, who was stooping, declared that it beat under his hand. When the benevolent gentleman was satisfied of the truth of this report, he bade his servants place the poor traveller in his carriage; having only another mile or two to go, he said he hoped his charge might be restored at the end of so short a drive. Whilst the postilions drove rapidly towards the house, the cold face of Thaddeus rested on the bosom of his benefactor, who continued to chafe his temples with eau de Cologne until the chariot stopped before the gates. The men carried the count into the house, and leaving him with their master and a medical man, who resided near, other restoratives were applied which in a short time restored him to consciousness. When he was recalled to recollection, and able to distinguish objects, he saw that he was supported by two gentlemen, and in a spacious chamber. Gratitude was an active virtue in the soul of Thaddeus. At the moment of his awakening from that sleep which, when it fell upon him, he believed would last until time should be lost in eternity, he pressed the hands of those who held his own, not doubting but that they were the good Samaritans who had preserved him from perishing. The younger of the gentlemen, perceiving, by the animated lustre which spread over his patient's eyes, that he was going to speak, put his hand on his lips, and said, "Pardon me, sir! you must be mute! Your life at present hangs on a thread; the slightest exertion might snap it. As all you want is rest and resuscitation to supply some great loss which the vital powers have sustained, I must require that you neither speak nor be spoken to until I give permission. Meanwhile, be satisfied, sir, that you are in the kindest hands. This gentleman," added he, (pointing to his friend, who bore the noble presence of high rank,) "saw you on the heath, and brought you to his house, where you now are." Thaddeus bowed his head to them both in sign of obedience and gratitude, and the elder, with a kind bend of his mild eyes, in silence left the room. CHAPTER XLV. DEERHURST. Next morning, when the seal was taken off the lips of the object of their care, he expressed in grateful terms his deep sense of the humanity which had actuated both the gentleman to take so generous an interest in his fate. "You owe no thanks to me," replied the one who had enjoined and released him from silence, and who was now alone with him; "I am only the agent of another. Yet I do not deny that, in obeying the benevolent orders of Sir Robert Somerset, I have frequent opportunities of gratifying my own heart." Thaddeus was so confounded at this discovery that he could not speak, and the gentleman proceeded. "I am apothecary to Sir Robert's household, and as my excellent employer has been long afflicted with an ill state of health, I live in a small Lodge at the other end of the park. He is the boast of the county: the best landlord and the kindest neighbor. All ranks of people love him; and when he dies, (which his late apoplectic fits make it too probable may be soon,) both poor and rich will lose their friend. Ill as he was this morning, when I told him you were out of danger, he expressed a pleasure which did him more good than all my medicines." Not considering the wildness of the question, Thaddeus hastily demanded, "Does he know who I am?" The honest apothecary stared at the look and tone with which these words were delivered, and then replied, "No, sir; is there any reason to make you wish that he should not?" "Certainly none," replied Thaddeus, recollecting himself; "but I shall be impatient until I have an opportunity of telling him how grateful I am for the goodness he has shown to me as a stranger." Surprised at these hints, (which the count, not considering their tendency, allowed to escape him,) the apothecary gathered sufficient from them, united with the speaker's superior mien, to make him suppose that his patient was some emigrant of quality, whom Sir Robert would rejoice in having served. These surmises and conclusions having passed quickly through the worthy gentleman's brain, he bowed his head with that respect which the generous mind is proud to pay to nobility in ruins, and resumed: "Whoever you may be, sir, a peasant or a prince, you will meet with British hospitality from the noble owner of this mansion. The magnificence of his spirit is equalled by the goodness of his heart; and I am certain that Sir Robert will consider as fortunate the severe attack which, bringing him from Somerset for change of air, has afforded him an opportunity of serving you." Thaddeus blushed at the strain of this speech. Readily understanding what was passing in the mind of the apothecary, he hardly knew what to reply. He paused for a moment, and then said, "All you have declared, sir, in praise of Sir Robert Somerset I cannot doubt is deserving. I have already felt the effects of his humanity, and shall ever remember that my life was prolonged by his means; but I have no pretensions to the honor of his acquaintance. I only wish to see him, that I may thank him for what he has done; therefore, if you will permit me to rise this evening, instead of to-morrow morning, you will oblige me." To this request the apothecary gave a respectful yet firm denial, and went down stairs to communicate his observations to his patron. When he returned, he brought back a request for his patient from the baronet, even as a personal consideration for his host's solicitude concerning him, to remain quietly in the perfect repose of his closed chamber until next day; then it might be hoped Sir Robert would find him sufficiently recovered to receive his visit without risk. To this Sobieski could not but assent, in common courtesy, as well as in grateful feeling; yet he passed in anything but repose the rest of the day, and the anxiety which continued to agitate him while reflecting that he was receiving these obligations from his implacable enemy so occupied and disturbed him, that he spent a sleepless night. The dawn found his fever much augmented; but no corporeal sufferings could persuade him to defer seeing the baronet and immediately leaving his house. Believing, as he did, that all this kindness would have been withheld had his host known on whom he was pouring such benefits, he thought that every minute which passed over him while under Sir Robert's roof inflicted a new outrage on his own respect and honor. To this end, then, as soon as Mr. Middleton, the apothecary, retired to breakfast, Thaddeus rose from his bed, and was completely dressed before he returned. He had effected this without any assistance, for he was in possession of his travelling-bag. One of the outriders having discerned it amongst the herbage, while the others were busied in carrying its helpless owner to the carriage, he had picked it up, and on the arrival of the party at home, delivered it to the baronet's valet to convey to the invalid gentleman's chamber, justly considering that he would require its contents. When Mr. Middleton re-entered the apartment, and saw his patient not only risen from his bed, but so completely dressed, he expostulated on the rashness of what he had done, and augured no less than a dangerous relapse from the present increased state of his pulse. Thaddeus, for once in his life, was obstinate, though civilly so; and desiring a servant to request that Sir Robert would indulge him with an audience for a few minutes alone in his library, he soon convinced Mr. Middleton that his purpose was not to be shaken. The baronet returning his compliments, and saying that he should be happy to see his guest, the still anxious apothecary offered him his assistance down stairs. Thaddeus needed no help, and gratefully declined it. The exertion necessary to be summoned for this interview imparted as much momentary strength to his frame as to his mind, and though his color was heightened, he entered the library with a firm step. Sir Robert met him at the door, and, shaking him by the hand with a warm assurance of pleasure at so rapid a restoration, would have led him to a seat; but Thaddeus only supported himself against the back of it with his hand, whilst in a steady voice he expressed the most earnest thanks for the benefits he had received; then pausing, and casting the proud lustre of his eyes to the ground, lest their language should tell all that he thought, he continued, "I have only to regret, Sir Robert, that your benevolence has been lavished on a man whom you regard with abhorrence. I am the Count Sobieski, that Polander whom you commanded your son to see no more. Respecting even the prejudices of my friend's parent, I was hastening to London, meaning to set sail for America with the first ship, when I swooned on the road. I believe I was expiring. Your humanity saved me; and I now owe to gratitude, as well as to my own satisfaction, the fulfilment of my determination. I shall leave Deerhurst immediately, and England as soon as I am able to embark." Thaddeus with a second bow, and not quite so firm a step, without venturing a glance at what he supposed must be the abashed or the enraged looks of Pembroke's father, was preparing to quit the room, when Sir Robert, with a pale and ghastly countenance, exclaimed, "Stop!" Thaddeus looked round, and struck by the change in his preserver's appearance, paused in his movement. The baronet, incapable of saying more, pointed to a chair for him to sit down; then sinking into another himself, took out his handkerchief, and wiping away the large drops which stood on his forehead, panted for respiration. At last, with a desperate kind of haste, he said. "Was your mother indeed Therese Sobieski?" Thaddeus, still more astonished, replied in the affirmative. Sir Robert threw himself back on the chair with a deep groan. Hardly knowing what he did, the count rose from his seat and advanced towards him. On his approach, Sir Robert stretched out his hand, and, with a look and tone of agony, said, "Who was your father?" He then, without waiting for a reply, covered his convulsed features with his handkerchief. The baronet's agitation, which now shook him like an earthquake, became contagious. Thaddeus gazed at him with a palsying uncertainty in his heart; laying his hand on his bewildered brain, he answered, "I know not; yet I fear I must believe him to be the Earl of Tinemouth. But here is his picture." With an almost disabling tremor he unclasped it from his neck where his mother's last blessing had placed it, and touching the spring which held it in its little gold case in the manner of a watch, he gave it open to Sir Robert, who had started from his seat at the name of the earl. The moment the baronet's eyes rested on the miniature, he fell senseless upon the chair. Thaddeus, hardly more alive, sprinkled some water on his face, and with throbbing temples and a bleeding heart stood in wordless expectation over him. Such excessive emotion told him that something more than Sir Robert's hatred of the Polanders had stimulated his late conduct. Too earnest for an explanation to ring for assistance, he rejoiced to see, by the convulsion of the baronet's features and the heaving of his chest, that animation was returning. In a few minutes he opened his eyes, but when he met the anxious gaze of Thaddeus, he closed them as suddenly. Rising from his seat, he staggered against the chimney-piece, exclaiming, "Oh God, direct me!" Thaddeus, whose conjectures were now wrought almost to wildness, followed him, and whilst his exhausted frame was ready to sink to the earth, he implored him to speak. "Sir Robert," cried he, "if you know anything of my family, if you know anything of my father, I beseech you to answer me. Or only tell me: am I so wretched as to be the son of Lord Tinemouth?" The violence of the count's emotions during this agonizing address totally overcame him; before he finished speaking, his limbs withdrew their support, and he dropped breathless against the side of the chair. Sir Robert turned hastily round. He saw him sunk, like a beautiful flower, bruised and trampled on by the foot of him who had given it root. Unable to make any evasive reply to this last appeal of virtue and of nature, he threw himself with a burst of tears upon his neck, and exclaimed, "Wretch that I have been! Oh, Sobieski! I am thy father. Dear, injured son of the too faithful Therese!" The first words which carried this avowal to the heart of Thaddeus deprived it of motion, and when Sir Robert expected to receive the returning embrace of his son, he found him senseless in his arms. The cries of the baronet brought Mr. Middleton and the servants into the room. When the former saw the state of the count, and perceived the agonized position of his patron, (who was supporting and leaning over his son,) the honest man declared that he expected nothing less from the gentleman's disobedience of his orders. The presence of the servants having recalled Sir Robert's wandering faculties, he desired them to remove the invalid with the greatest care back to his chamber. Following them in silence, when they had laid their charge on the bed, he watched in extreme but concealed suspense till Mr. Middleton once more succeeded in restoring animation to his patient. The moment the count unclosed his eyes, they fixed themselves on his father. He drew the hand which held his to his lips. The tears of paternal love again bathed the cheeks of Sir Robert; he felt how warm at his heart was the affection of his deserted son. Making a sign for Mr. Middleton to leave the room, who obeyed, he bent his streaming eyes upon the other hand of Thaddeus, and, in a faltering voice, "Can you pardon me?" Thaddeus threw himself on his father's bosom, and wept profusely; then raising Sir Robert's clasped hands to his, whilst his eloquent eyes seemed to search the heavens, he said, "My dear, dear mother loved you to her latest hour; and I have all my mother's heart. Whatever may have been his errors, I love and honor my father." Sir Robert strained him to his breast. After a pause, whilst he shook the tears from his venerated cheeks, he resumed--"Certain, my dear son, that you require repose, and assured that you will not find it until I have offered some apology for my unnatural conduct, I will now explain the circumstances which impelled my actions, and drew distress upon that noble being, your mother." Sir Robert hesitated a moment to recover breath, and then, with the verity of a grateful penitence, commenced. "Keep your situation," added he, putting down Thaddeus, who at this opening was raising himself, "I shall tell my melancholy story with less pain if your eyes be not upon me. I will begin from the first." The baronet, with frequent agitated pauses, proceeded to relate what may be more succinctly expressed as follows: Very early in life he had attached himself to Miss Edith Beaufort, the only sister of the late Admiral Beaufort, who at that time was pursuing his chosen brave career as post-captain in the British navy. By the successive deaths of their parents, they had been left young to the guardianship of Sir Fulke Somerset and their maternal aunt, his then accomplished lady: she and their deceased mother, the Lady Grace Beaufort, having been sisters--the two celebrated beautiful daughters of Robert Earl Studeley of Warwick. Sir Fulke's family by the amiable twin of the Lady Grace were Robert (who afterwards succeeded him) and Dorothy his only daughter. But he had a son by a former marriage with the brilliantly-endowed widow of a long-resident governor in the East, who having died on his voyage home to England, on her landing she found herself the sole inheritrix of his immense wealth. She possessed charms of person as well as riches, and as soon as "her weeds" could be laid aside, she became the admired wife of the "gay and gallant" Sir Fulke Somerset. Within the twelve subsequent months she presented him with a son and heir, soon to be her own too; for though she lived three or four years after his birth, her health became so delicate that she never bore another child, but gradually declined, and ultimately expired while apparently in a gentle sleep. Sir Fulke mourned his due time "in the customary suit of solemn black;" but he was a man of a lofty and social spirit, by no means inclined to be disconsolate, and held "a fair help-mate" to be an indispensable appendage to his domestic state. In this temper, (just before the election of a new parliament, when contending interests were running very close,) he obtained the not less eagerly disputed hand of Lady Arabella Studeley, whose elder sister (as has been mentioned) had made a magnificent marriage, only a year or two before, with John of Beaufort, the lord of the noble domain of Beaufort in the Weald of Kent--a lineal endowment from his princely ancestor, John of Gaunt. This illustrious pair dwelt on the land, like its munificent owners in the olden times, revered and beloved; and they were the parents of their two equally-honored representatives-- Guy, afterwards Admiral Beaufort, and Edith, who subsequently became the adored wife of her also tenderly-beloved cousin, Robert Somerset. But before that fondly-anticipated event took place, the young lover had to pass through a path of thorns, some of which pierced him to the end. From his childhood to manhood, he saw little of Algernon, his elder brother, who always seemed to him more like an occasional brilliant phantom, alighting amongst them, than a dear member of the family coming delightedly to cheer and to share his paternal home. Algernon was either at Eaton school, or at one of the universities, or travelling somewhere on the continent; and at all these places, or from them all, he became the enchanted theme of every tongue. Meanwhile, Robert--though, perhaps, equally endowed by nature yet certainly of a milder radiance--was the object of so apprehensive a solicitude in his gentle mother's breast for the puritas well as the intellectual accomplishments of her son, that she obtained Sir Fulke's reluctant consent to his being brought up in what is called "a home education;" that is, under the especial personal care of the best private tutors, and which were found to the great credit of her judgment. He showed an ardent devotedness to his studies; and though, like his mother, he was one of the mildest of human beings in his dealings with those around him, yet his aspirations towards high attainments were as energetic as they were noiseless, and ever on steady wind soaring upward. Robert Somerset was then unconsciously forming himself for what he afterwards became--the boast of the country of his birth, the glory of England, to whose prosperity he dedicated all his noble talents, showing what it is to be a true English country gentleman. Being alike "the oak or laurel" of "Old England's fields and groves." "With sickle or with sword, Or bardic minstrelsy!" he was permitted to pass a term or two at Oxford, where he acquitted himself with honor, particularly in the classics, to the repeated admiration of their then celebrated professor, the late Thomas Warton. But the young student was also fond of rural pursuits and domestic occupations. He lived mostly at home, enjoying the gentle solace of elegant modern literature and the graces of music, with the ever blameless delights of an accomplished female society, at the head of which his revered mother had presided, accompanied by his lively sister Dorothy and the sweet Edith Beaufort, whom he had gradually learned to love like his own soul. His heart became yet more closely knit to her when his beloved parent died, which sad event occurred about a year after the death of Edith's own mother, who on her widowhood had continued to live more with her sister, Lady Arabella Somerset, than at her bereaved home. Edith's filial sorrow was renewed in the loss of her maternal aunt, and her tenderest sympathy reciprocated the tears of her son. Their hearts blended together in those tears, and both felt that "they were comforted." Time did not long pass on before the happy Robert communicated their mutual attachment to his father, petitioning for his consent to woo for the hand of her whose heart he had already gained. But the baronet, in some surprise at what he heard, refused to give his sanction to any such premature engagement, first, on account of the applicant's "extreme youth;" and second, being a younger scion of his house, it might not be deemed well of in the world should he, the guardian of his niece and her splendid fortune, show so much haste to bestow her on his comparatively portionless son. The baronet, with some of his parliamentary acumen, drew another comparison, which touched the disappointed lover with a feeling almost of despair. He compared what he denominated his romantic fancies for "woods and wilds," and book-worm pursuits in the old crypts of the castle or the college, with the distinguished consideration held by his travelled brother in courts and councils, whether abroad or at home, closing the parallel by telling him "to follow Algernon's example, and become more like a man of some account amongst men before he dared pretend to a hand of so much importance as that of the heiress of Beaufort." Robert was standing silent and dismayed, as one struck by a thunder- flash, when his brother (who had been only a month arrived from a long revisit to the two Sicilies) suddenly entered his father's library, as Sir Fulke had again resumed his discourse with even more severity. At sight of the animated object of his contrasting eulogy, he instantly described to his new auditor what had been mutually said, and referred the subject to him. "Romance, indeed! whether in merry Sherwood, with hound and horn, or with gentle dames in bower and hall, you have had enough of, my brother," replied the gay-spirited traveller. "Neither men nor women like philandering after deer or doe, or a lady's slipper, beyond the greenwood season. So I say, for the glory of your manhood up and away! Abroad, abroad! My father is right. That is the only ground for such a race and guerdon as you aspire to. I admire your taste, and not less your ambition, my brave boy. Do not thwart him, Sir Fulke," added he, to the baronet, who began to frown: "let him enter the lists with the boldest of us; faint heart never won fair lady! So, forward, Robert! and give me another sweet sister to love and to cherish as I do our blithe little Dora." At this far from unwelcome advice, Robert smiled and sighed; but the smile swallowed up the sigh, for his soul kindled with hope. His father smiled also; the cloud of a stern authority had passed from his brow, and before that now perfectly reconciled party rose, it was decided that Robert should make immediate preparations for commencing a regulated course of continental travels, the route to be drawn out by his brother and his expenses in the tour to be liberally supplied by his father. The length of the probation was not then thought on, at least not mentioned. Shortly afterwards, when Robert hastened from the library to communicate what had passed to the beloved object of the discussion, he left his father and his brother together to think and to plan all the rest for him. But Edith Beaufort wept when she heard of the separation; her heart failed within her. For since her first coming under the roof of her guardian uncle, she had never been without seeing her brother-like cousin beyond a few days or weeks at most. He was now going to be banished (and, it was asserted, for her sake too) into far distant countries, and for an indefinite period--months, perhaps years. And these saddening thoughts made her weep afresh, though silently; for her full-flowing tears were soft and noiseless, like the heart from whence they sprung. Robert, with all his now sanguine expectations, sought to cheer her, but in vain. She felt an impression, that should he go, they would never meet again. But she did not betray that feeling to him; yet the infection of her despondency, by its continuance, so wrought on his own consequent depressed spirits, that when his father announced to him that his absence must be for two or three years at least, he ventured to remonstrate, beseeching that it might be limited to the shorter term of two years. The baronet derided the proposal, with many words of contempt towards the urgent pleader. Robert withheld from disclosing to the too often hard mind of his father that the proposition he so scorned had originated in the tender bosom of Edith Beaufort, and Sir Fulke's sarcasm fell so thick on the bending head of his son, that at last the insulted feelings of the generous lover became so indignant at the little confidence placed in the real manliness of his character, which had hitherto been found ever present when actually called for, that his heart began to swell to an almost uncontrollable exasperation, and while struggling to master himself from uttering the disrespectful retort risen to his lips, his brother again accidentally entered the room, and by giving Robert the moment to pause, happily rescued his tottering duty from that regretful offence. As soon as Algernon appeared, the baronet resumed his sarcastic tone, in a rapid recapitulation of Robert's retrograde request. Algernon again took up the cause of his brother, and, with his usual tact, gained the victory, by the dexterous gayety with which he pleaded for the young noviciate in all the matters for which he was to be sent so far afield to learn. At last the conference ended by Sir Fulke agreeing to a proposition from his eldest son,--that the time for this foreign tutelage might possibly expire within the second year, should the results evoked by the ambitious passion of his youngest born be in any fair progress to fulfilment. In little more than a week after this final arrangement, every preparation was finished for the wildly-contemplated tour. Robert had taken a heart-plighting adieu from his beloved Edith. But by his father's positive injunction, there was no engagement for a hereafter actual plighting of hands made between them. Yet their eloquent eyes, transparent through their mutual tears, vowed it to each other, and with silent prayers for his indeed early return, they parted. When taking leave of his father, and receiving his directions relative to a correspondence with his family, permission was peremptorily denied him to hold any with his cousin Edith. He had learned enough lately to avoid all supplications to the paternal quarter, if he would not invite scorn as well as to receive disappointment. But Algernon whispered to him "that nobody should remain wholly _incognita_ to him in that house while he dipped pen in any one of the three hundred and sixty-five inkhorns under its awful towers!" Robert then bowed his farewell with a flushed cheek and grave respect to his father, but gratefully separated from his brother with a warm pressure of the hand. The old household servants blessed him as he passed through the hall, and in a few minutes he found himself seated in the family post-chaise and four that was to convey him from the home of his youth and happy innocence, and, alas! to return to it "an altered man." When he reached Dover to embark, he fell in with the present Earl of Tinemouth, then Mr. Stanhope, sent abroad on a similar errand with himself. But Stanhope's was to forget a mistress--Somerset's to merit the one he sought. The two young men were kinsfolk by birth, and they now felt themselves so in severing from their parents. Stanhope was in high wrath against his, and he soon rekindled the already excited mind of Somerset to a responsive demonstration of resentment. They determined to show that "they were not such boys as to submit any further in passive obedience to the stern authority dominating over them." Sir Fulke's particular charge against his son was a "womanish softness, unworthy his loftier sex!" "Show him," cried Stanhope, that "you have the hardihood of a true man by an immediate act of independence. Let us travel together, kinsmen as we are, change our names, and let no one in England know anything about us during our tour except the two dear women on whose accounts we are thus transported!" With these views they landed in France, gave themselves out to be brothers (which a certain resemblance in their persons corroborated), and called themselves Sackville. Agreeably amused with the novelties presented to them at almost every step of their tour from gay Paris to sentimental Italy, they proceeded pretty amicably until they reached Naples. There Mr. Stanhope involved himself in an intrigue with the only daughter of an old British officer, who had retired to that climate for his health. Somerset remonstrated on the villany of seducing an innocent girl, when he knew his heart and hand were pledged to another. Stanhope, enraged at finding a censor in a companion whom he had considered to be as headstrong as himself, ended the argument by drawing his sword, and if the servants of the hotel had not interfered, the affray would probably have terminated with one of their lives. Since that hour they never met. Mr. Stanhope fled from his shame and his bleeding friend, and, fearful of consequences, took temporary refuge in one of the Aonian Isles, not daring to proceed any further against the innocence of the poor officer's daughter, who had been thus rescued from becoming his victim! When recovered from his wound, Robert Somerset (by some strange infatuation still retaining the name of Sackville) proceeded to Florence, in which interesting city, for works of art, ancient and modern, and the graces of classic society, determining to stay some time, he rather sought than repelled the civilities of the inhabitants. Here he became acquainted with the palatine, and the lovely Countess Therese, his daughter. Her beauty pleased his taste; her gentle virtues and exquisite accomplishments affected both his heart and mind; and he often gazed on her with tenderness, when his fidelity to Edith Beaufort only meant him to convey a look of grateful admiration. The palatine honored England, and was prepared to esteem her sons wherever he might meet them; and very soon he became so attached to this apparently lonely young traveller, that he invited him to all the excursions he and his daughter made into the adjoining states, whether visiting them by the romantic scenery of the land-roads, or coasting the beautiful bays of the sublime shores on either side of those parts of the Mediterranean. In the midst of this intimacy, as if she were aware of a friendship so hostile to his cousin's love, he suddenly ceased to receive any remembrance-messages from her to him, in the two last letters from his brother,--for he had never allowed himself to so brave his father's parting commands as to write to her himself. Desperate with jealousy of some unknown object supplanting him, he was on the point of setting off for home, to judge with his own eyes, when a large packet from England was put into his hands. On opening it he found a letter from Edith, on which his surprised and eager gaze had immediately fixed. Without looking on any of the rest, he broke the seal, and read, astounded by the contents, "that having for some time been led to consider the probable consequences to him, both from his father's better judgment and the ultimate opinion of the world, should he and she continue their pertinacious adherence to their childish attachment, she had tried to wean both him and herself from so rebellious a folly towards her revered guardian, his honored father; and trusting that the gradual shortening of her cousin-like messages to him, through his brother's letters, must have had the effect intended, she now had permission to write one herself to him, to convince him at once of the unreasonableness and danger of all such premature entanglements. For," she added, "soon after his departure, a journey to town had taught her to know her own heart. She learned to feel that it was still at her disposal; and time did not long pass after she returned to the country before, having compared the object of her awakened taste with that of her former delusion, she persuaded her own better judgment to set a generous example to her ever-dear cousin Robert, by marrying where that judgment now pointed. And so, with the full consent of Sir Fulke (who she well knew had been totally averse to her marriage with his youngest son), she had yielded to the long love of his brother, which had been struggling in his manly bosom many agonizing months against his persistent fidelity to Robert, but whose sister she hoped to shortly become, as his affectionate Edith--then Somerset." Having read this extraordinary epistle to the end, so monstrous in the character of its sentiments and its language, when compared with all he had hitherto known of the pure and simple mind from which it came, a terrible revulsion seized on his own, and, almost maddened with horror at every name in that letter, he foreswore his family forever! Hastening, as for one drop of heaven's dew upon his burning brain, to seek Therese Sobieski, he found her alone, and though without such aim when he rushed so frenzied into her presence, he besought her "to heal a miserable and broken heart, which could only be saved to endure any continuance of life by an acknowledgment that she loved him!" Alas! the avowal was too soon wrung from that tender and noble spirit! and yielding to a paroxysm of a rash and blinding revenge, he hurried her to a neighboring convent and secretly married her. This most unrighteous act perpetrated, he in vain sought tranquillity. He was now stung within by a constant sense of increasing guilt. Before this act he was the injured party--injured by those in whom he had confided his dearest earthly happiness; and he could raise his head in conscious truth, though all his fondest hopes had been wrecked by their falsehood. But now he was the betrayer of a young and innocent heart, which had implicitly trusted in him. And he had insulted with a base and treacherous ingratitude, by that act of deceit, without excuse, the honor of her father, whose generous confidence had also been implicitly placed in him. But the effects of these scorpion reproaches in his bosom were not less destructive of her peace than of his own. He saw that his wedded Therese was unweariedly anxious to soothe the mysterious wanderings of his mind with her softest tenderness. But his thoughts were, indeed, far from her, ever hovering over the changed image of his so lately adored Edith--ever agonizing over the lightness of a conduct so unlike her former virgin delicacy, so unlike the clinging vows she breathed to him in their hour of boding separation!--ever execrating the perfidy of his brother, which had brought on him this distracting load of guilt and woe! In this temper of alienation from all the world, a second packet from England was put into his hand. Again he saw Edith's writing; but he dropped it unopened, in horror of the signature he anticipated would be appended to it. Roused by resentment towards him whose name he believed she then bore, he tore asunder the wax of a letter from his father, which was sealed with black. His eyes were speedily riveted to it. Sir Fulke, in the language of deep contrition, confessed a train of deception that petrified his son. He declared, with bitter invectives against himself, that all which had been communicated to that unhappy son relating to Edith and her intended marriage with Algernon had been devised by that unkind brother, and his no less unnatural father, for the treacherous purpose of that marriage. Devoted to ambition for his own sake, as well as for that of his favorite son, Sir Fulke owned that he had from the first of Edith Beaufort's becoming his ward resolved on her union in due time with Algernon, in order to endow him, in addition to his own rich inheritance, with all the political influence attendant on the vast estate to which she was heiress, and so build up the family, in the consideration of government, to any pitch of coroneted rank their high-reaching parent might choose to reclaim. With many prayers for pardon from Heaven and the cruelly-injured Robert, the wretched father acknowledged that this confession was wrung from him by the sudden death of his eldest son, who having been thrown off his horse on a heap of stones in the high-road, after three days of severe bodily and mental suffering, now lay a sadly- disfigured corpse, under the vainly mourning blazonry of his house, in the darkened hall of his ancestors. The disconsolate narrator then added, "that in contrite repentance his son had conjured him, with his dying breath, to confess the falsehood of all that had passed to the grossly-abused Robert;" amongst which, was Algernon turning to the account of his own designs every confidence imparted to him by his brother, in his _incognito_ movements, and awakened intimacy with the noble Sarmatian family at Florence. And from these unsuspected sources, this false friend and kinsman had contrived to throw out hints of his brother's reported sliding heart to the shrinking object of his own base and perfidious passion. At last, believing Robert to be unfaithful, she sunk into a depression of spirits which Sir Fulke thought would be easy to work to an assent, in mere reckless melancholy, to the union he sought. With that object, and to break the knot at once by a trenchant blow on Robert's side, Algernon forged that letter in Edith Beaufort's handwriting which had announced so unblushingly her preparations for an immediate marriage with the eldest son. "But," continued Sir Fulke, "death has put an end to this unnatural rivalry. And my poor girl, undeceived in her opinion of you, longs to see you, and to give you that hand which your ill-fated brother and infatuated father so unjustly detained from you. You are now my only son, the only prop of my house, the only comfort of my old age! My son, do not abandon to his remorse and sorrow your only parent." On receipt of this packet, in a consternation of amazement, and a soul divided between rekindled love in all its fires and pity and honor towards her he had betrayed before the altar of heaven, Robert Somerset sacrificed both to his imperious passion. He adored the woman on whose account he had left the country, and though every tie, sacred and just, bound him to the tender and faithful wife he must forsake to regain that idol, he at once consigned her to the full horrors of desertion and hastened to England. "Disgraceful to relate!" ejaculated Sir Robert, putting his hand over his face, "I married Edith Beaufort, while in our deepest mourning, but at Somerset, as the place farthest from general notice. My father, eager to efface as fast as possible from my mind and hers all recollection of his past conduct towards us, had prepared everything splendid, though private, for our union; and in her blissful, restored possession, I forgot for a while Therese and her agonies. But when my dear Pembroke first saw the light, when I pressed him to my heart, it seemed as if in the same instant a dagger pierced it. When I would have breathed a blessing over him, the conviction struck me that I durst not--that I had deluded the mother who gave him birth, and that at some future period he might have cause to curse the author of his existence. "Well," continued the baronet, wiping his forehead, "though the birth of this boy conjured up the image of your mother, to haunt me day and night, I never could summon moral courage to inquire of her destiny after I had left her. When the troubles of Poland commenced, what a dreadful terror seized me! The successes of their allied enemies, and the consequent distress and persecution of the chief nobility, overwhelmed me with apprehension. I knew not but that many, like the _noblesse_ of France, might be forced to abandon their country; and the bare idea of meeting your grandfather, or the injured Therese, in England, precipitated me into a nervous state that menaced my life. I became abstracted and seriously ill, was forbidden all excitements; hence easily avoided the sight of newspapers; and, on the plea you have heard, my family were withheld from speaking on any public subjects that manifestly gave me pain. But I could not prevent the tongues of our visitors from discoursing on a theme which at that period interested every thinking mind. I heard of the valiant Kosciusko, the good Stanislaus, and the palatine Sobieski, with his brave grandson, spoken of in the same breath. I durst not surmise who this grandson was; I dared not ask--I dreaded to know. "At length," added the agitated father, quickening his voice, "the idol of my heart--she for whom I had sacrificed my all of human probity, perhaps my soul's eternal peace--died in my arms. Where could a wretch like me turn for consolation? I had forfeited all right to it from Heaven or earth. But at last a benignant spirit seemed to breathe on me, and I bent beneath the stroke with humility; for I embraced it as the just chastisement of a crime which till then, even in the midst of my married felicity, had often pressed on my dearest feelings like the hand of death. I repeat, I bore this chastening trial with the resignation I have described. But when, two years afterwards, my eye fell by accident upon the name of Sobieski in one of the public papers, I could not withdraw it; my sight was fascinated as if by a rattle-snake. In one column I read how bravely the palatine fell, and in the next the dreadful fate of his daughter. She was revenged!" cried Sir Robert, eagerly grasping the hand of Thaddeus, who could not restrain the groan that burst from his breast. "For nearly three months I was deprived of that reason which had abused her noble nature. "When I recovered my senes," continued he, in a calmer tone, "and found I had so fatally suffered the time of any restitution to her to go by, I began to torture my remorseful heart because that I had not, immediately on the death of my too much loved Edith, hastened to Poland, and besought Therese's pardon from her ever-generous heart. But this vivid approach to a sincere repentance was soon obliterated by the consideration that, the Countess Sobieski having had a prior claim to my name, such restitution on my part must have illegitimatized my darling Pembroke, his dying mother's fondest bequeathment to a father's arms. "It was this fearful conviction," exclaimed Sir Robert, a sudden horror, indeed, distracting his before affectionate eye, "that caused all my barbarian cruelty. When my dear and long-believed only son described the danger from which you had rescued him, when he told me that Therese had fostered him with a parent's tenderness, I was probed to the heart. But when he added that the young Count Sobieski was now an alien from his country, and relying on my friendship for a home, my terror was too truly manifested. Horror drove all natural remorse from my soul. I thought an avenging power had sent my deserted child to discover his father, to claim his rights, and to publish me as a disgrace to the name I had stolen from him. And when I saw my innocent Pembroke, even to his knees, petitioning for the man who I believed had come to undo him, I became almost deranged. May the Lord of mercy pardon the fury of that derangement! For under that temper," added he, putting the trembling hand of Thaddeus to his streaming eyes, "I drove my first-born to be a wanderer on the face of the earth, not for his own crimes, but for those of his father; and Heaven justly punished in the crime the sin of my injustice. When I thought that evidence of my shame was divided from me by an insuperable barrier, when I believed that the ocean would soon separate me from my fears, a righteous Providence brought thee before me, forlorn and expiring. It was the son of Therese Sobieski I had exposed to such wretchedness. It was the cherished of her heart I had delivered to the raging elements! Oh, Thaddeus, my son," cried he, "can I be forgiven for all this, in this world or in the next?" "Oh, my father!" returned Thaddeus, with a modest, but a pathetic energy, "I am thy son! thy happy son, in such acknowledgment! Therefore no longer upbraid yourself. Did you not act, as by a sacred impulse, a father's part to me when you knew me not? You raised my dying head from the earth and laid it on your bosom. O, my father! He who brought us so together in his own appointed time, chasteneth every son whom he receiveth, and has thus proved his love and pardon to your contrite heart, both on earth and in heaven, by the nature of your chastisement and the healing balm at its close!" At the end of this interview, so interesting and vital to the happiness of both these newly-united parties, father and son, Sir Robert motioned his blessing to that son by laying his hand gently on his head, while the parental tears flowed on that now dear forehead-- for he could not then speak. He immediately withdrew, to leave Thaddeus to repose, and himself to retire to pour out his grateful spirit in private. * * * * * * * CHAPTER XLVI. THE SPIRIT OF PEACE. At dawn on the morning following the preceding eventful but happy conference, Sir Robert, painfully remembering the frantic grief of Pembroke on finding that Sobieski had not only withdrawn himself from Harrowby, but had adjured England forever, and still feeling the merited bitterness of the reproaches which his inexplicable commands, dishonoring to his son, had provoked from that only too-long- preferred offspring of his idolized Edith.--which reproaches, unknowingly so inflicted by the desperation of their utterer, had driven the guilty father to seek a temporary refuge from them, if not from his own accusing conscience, under the then solitary roof of one of his country seats in the adjacent county,--yet somewhat relieved, as by the immediate mercy of Heaven, from the load of his misery, he eagerly wrote by the auspicious beams of the rising sun a few short lines to Pembroke, telling him that "a providential circumstance had occurred since they parted, which he trusted would finally reconcile into a perfect peace all that had recently passed so distressingly between them; therefore he, his ever tenderly-affectioned father, requested him to join him alone, and without delay, at Deerhurst." This duty done to one beloved child, he then turned to anticipate a second converse to his comfort with the other. That sickness which is the consequence of mental suffering usually vanishes with its cause. Long before the dinner-hour of this happy day, Thaddeus, refreshed by the peaceful and lengthened sleep from which he awoke late in the morning, rose as if with a renewed principle of life. Quitting his room, he met his glad father in the passage-gallery, who instantly conducted him into a private room, where that now tranquillized parent soon brought him to relate, with every sentence a deepening interest, the rapid incidents of his brief but eventful career. The voice of fame had already blazoned him abroad as "the plume of war, with early laurels crowned;" but it was left to his own ingenuous tongue to prove, in all the modest simplicity of a perfect filial confidence, that the most difficult conflicts are not those which are sustained on the battle-field. Sir Robert listened to him with affection, admiration, and delight,-- ah, with what pride in such a son! He was answering the heartfelt detail with respondent gratefulness to that Almighty Power which had shed on his transgressing head such signal "signs of heavenly amnesty!" when the door opened, and a servant announced that Mr. Somerset was in the library. Thaddeus started up with joy in his countenance; but Sir Robert gently put him down again. "Remain here, my son," said he, "until I apprize your brother how nearly you are related to him. Yonder door leads into my study; I will call you when he is prepared." The moment Sir Robert joined Pembroke, he read in his pale and haggard features how much he needed the intelligence he was summoned to hear. Mr. Somerset bowed coldly but respectfully on his father's entrance, and begged to be honored with his commands. "They are what I expect will restore to you your usual looks and manner, my dear son," returned the baronet; "so attend to me." Pembroke listened to his father's narrative with mute and, as it proceeded, amazed attention. But when the name of Therese Sobieski was mentioned as that of the foreign lady whom he had married and deserted, the ready apprehension of his breathless auditor conceiving the remainder yet unuttered by the agitated narrator, Sir Robert had only to confirm, though in a hardly audible voice, the eager demand of his son, "Was Thaddeus Sobieski indeed his brother?" and while hearing the reply, unable to ask another question, he looked wildly from earth to heaven, as if seeking where he might yet be found. "O, my father!" cried he, "what have you done? Where is he? For what have you sacrificed him?" "Hear me to an end," rejoined the baronet. He then, in as few words as possible, repeated the subsequent events of the recent meeting. Pembroke's raptures were now as high as his despair had been profound. He threw himself on his father's breast; he asked for his friend, his brother, and begged to be conducted to him. Sir Robert did no more than open the intervening door, and in one instant the brothers were locked in each other's arms. The transports of the young men for a long while denied them words; but their eyes, their tears, and their united hands imparted to each breast a consciousness of mutual love unutterable, not even to be expressed by those looks which are indeed the heralds of the soul. Sir Robert wept like an infant whilst contemplating these two affectionate brothers; in a faltering voice he exclaimed, "How soon may these plighted hands be separated by inexorable law! Alas, Pembroke, you cannot be ignorant that I buy this son at a terrible price from you!" At this speech the blood rushed over the cheek of the ingenuous Pembroke; but Thaddeus, turning instantly to Sir Robert, said, with an eloquent smile. "On this head I trust that neither my father nor my brother will entertain one thought to trouble them. Had I even the inclination to act otherwise than right, my revered grandfather has put it out of my power to claim or to bear any other name than that of Sobieski. He made me swear never to change it; and, as I hope to meet him hereafter," added he, with solemnity, "I will obey him. Therefore, my beloved father, in secret only can I enjoy the conviction that I am your son, and Pembroke's brother. Yet the happiness I receive with the knowledge of being so will ever live here, will ever animate my heart with gratitude to Heaven and to you." "Noble son of the sainted Therese!" cried Sir Robert; "I do not deserve thee!" "How shall I merit your care of my honor, of my dearest feelings?" exclaimed Pembroke, grasping the hand of his brother. "I can do nothing, dearest Thaddeus; I am a bankrupt in the means of evincing what is passing in my soul. My mother's chaste spirit thanks you from my lips. Yet I will not abuse your generosity. Though I retain the name of Somerset, it shall only be the name; the inheritance entailed on my father's eldest son belongs to you." Whilst Thaddeus embraced his brother again, he calmly and affectionately replied that he would rather encounter all the probable evils from which his father's benevolence had saved him, than rob his brother of any part of that inheritance, "which," he earnestly added, "I sincerely believe, according to the Providence of Heaven, is your just due." Sir Robert, with abhorrence of himself and admiration of his sons, attempted to stop this noble contention by proposing that it should be determined by an equal division of the family property. "Not so, my father," returned Thaddeus, steadfastly, but with reverence; "I can never admit that the title of Somerset should sacrifice one jot of its inherited accustomed munificence by making any such alienation of its means." And then the ingenuous son of Therese Sobieski proceeded, in the same modest but firm tone, to remind his father that "though the laws of the national church wherein he had married her would have given their son every right over any inheritance from either parent which belonged to Poland, yet as no opportunity had subsequently occurred for repeating the sacred ceremony by the laws of his father's church, her son could make no legal claim whatever on a rood of the Somerset lands in England." Sir Robert, with unspeakable emotion, clasped the hand of his first- born when he had made, and with such tender delicacy, this conclusive remark, and which, indeed, had never presented itself to his often distractedly apprehensive mind, either before or after the death of Pembroke's mother; even had it done so, it would not have afforded any quiet to his soul from the internal worm gnawing there. His act had been guilt towards Therese Sobieski and her confiding innocence. And it was not the discovery of any omitted legislative ordinance that could have satisfied the accusing conscience in his own bosom, hourly calling out against him. But the heaven-consecrated son of that profaned marriage had found the reconciling point--had poured in the healing balm; and the spirit of his father was now at peace. In cordial harmony, therefore, with this generous opinion, so opportunely expressed by the sincere judgment of the last of the house of Sobieski, when so united to that of Somerset, and with a corresponding simplicity of purpose, interwoven by the sweet reciprocity of mutual confidence, the remainder of the evening passed pleasantly between the happy father and his no less happy sons. Sir Robert dispatched a letter next day to his sister, to invite her and his beloved Mary to join the home party at Deerhurst without delay. Pembroke rejoiced in this prospective relief to the minds of his aunt and cousin, being well aware that he had left them in a state of intense anxiety, not only on account of the baronet's strange conduct,--which had not been explicable in any way to their alarmed observations,--but on account of himself, whose mind had appeared from the time of his father's incensed departure in a state verging on derangement. On the instant of his return from the deserted hotel, while passing Mary, whom he accidently met in his bewildered way to Sir Robert's room, he had exclaimed to her, "I have not seen Sobieski! he is gone! and your message is not delivered." From the time of that harrowing intimation, he had constantly avoided even the sight of his cousin or his aunt. Yet before he quitted the Castle to obey his father's new commands, he had summoned courage to enter Mary's boudoir, where she sat alone. Not trusting himself to speak, he put the letter which Thaddeus had written to her into her hand, and disappeared, not daring to await her opening what he knew to be a last farewell. He had guessed aright; for from the moment in which her trembling hand had broken the seal and she had read it to the end, bathed in her tears, it lay on her mourning heart, whether she waked or slept, till her silent grief was roused to share her thoughts with a personal exertion, welcome to that despondent heart. It was Sir Robert's invitation for her own and her aunt's immediate removal to their always favorite Deerhurst! because far from the gay world, and ever devoted to quite domestic enjoyments. But before this summons had arrived, and early in the morning of the same day, Lady Albina Stanhope, more dead than alive in appearance, had reached Somerset Castle in a post-chaise, accompanied by her maid alone, to implore the protection of its revered owner against the most terrible evils that could be inflicted by an unnatural parent on a daughter's heart--that of being compelled to be a party in a double outrage on the memory of her mother, by witnessing the marriage of her father, by special license, to Lady Olivia Lovel, that very evening, in the Harwold great hall, and herself to commit the monstrous act of being married to a nephew of that profligate woman. To avoid such horrors, she had flown for refuge to the only persons she knew on earth likely to shield her from so great an infamy. Soon after this disclosure, to which the sister and niece of the beneficent Sir Robert Somerset--whom she had hoped to find at the Castle--had listened with the tenderest sympathy, his letter to Miss Dorothy was delivered to the venerable lady. Mary and their fatigued guest were seated together on the sofa; and the seal, without apology, from the receiver's anxious haste to learn what it might contain of her brother's health, was instantly broken. A glance removed every care. Reading it aloud to both her young auditors, at every welcome word the bosom of the amazed Miss Beaufort heaved with increasing astonishment, hope, and gratitude, while beneath the veil of her clustered ringlets her eyes shed the tribute of happy tears to heaven--to that heaven alone her virgin spirit breathed the emotions of her reviving heart. The good old lady was not backward in demonstrating her wonderings. Surprised at her brother's rencontre with Thaddeus, but more at his avowal of obligations to any of that nation about which he had always proclaimed an aversion, she was so wrapped in bewilderment yet delight at the discovery, that her ever cheerful tongue felt nothing loathe to impart to the attentively- listening Albina--who had recognized in the names of Constantine and Thaddeus those of her lamented mother's most faithful friend--all that she knew of his public as well as his private character since she had known him by that of Sobieski also. Sir Robert's letter informed his sister "that a providential circumstance had introduced Pembroke's friend, the Count Sobieski, to his presence, when, to his astonishment and unutterable satisfaction, he discovered that this celebrated young hero (though one of a nation against which he had so often declared his dislike, but which ungenerous prejudice he now abjured!) was the only remaining branch of a family from whom, about twenty-live years ago, while in a country far distant equally from England or Poland, he had received many kindnesses, he had contracted an immense debt, under peculiarly embarrassing circumstances to himself, when then an alien from his father's confidence. And his benefactor in this otherwise inextricable dilemma was the Palatine of Masovia, the world-revered grandfather of the young Count Sobieski. And," he added, "in some small compensation for the long-unredeemed pecuniary part of this latter obligation, (the fulfilment of which certain adverse events on the continent had continued to prevent), he had besought and obtained permission from the young count, now in England, to at once set at rest his past anxieties to settle an affair of so much importance, by signing over to him, as the palatine's heir and representative, the sole property of his (Sir Robert's) recently-purchased new domain-- the house and estates of Manor Court, nearly adjoining to those of Dcerhurst, on the Warwick side. The rent-roll might be about live thousand pounds per annum. And there, in immediate right of possession, the noble descendant of his munificent friend would resume his illustrious name, and embrace, with a generous esteem of this country's national, character, a lasting home and filiation in England!" Sir Robert closed this auspicious letter (which he had striven, however, to write in such a manner as not to betray the true nature of the parental feelings which dictated it) with a playful expression of his impatience to present to his sister and niece "their interesting _emigré_ in a character which reflected so much honor on their discernment." The impatience was indeed shared, though in different degrees and forms, by the whole little party--the soul of one in it totally absorbed. But owing to some insurmountable obstacles, occasioning delays, by the exhausted state of the overwrought Lady Albina; and notwithstanding the necessity of getting on as fast as possible, to be out of the reach of the enraged earl, should he have missed and traced his daughter to Somerset Castle, the fugitives could not start till late in the afternoon of that day, and it was an hour or more past midnight before they arrived at Deerhurst. The family, in no small disappointment, had given them up for the night, and had retired to their rooms. Miss Dorothy, who would not suffer her brother to be disturbed, sent the two young ladies to their chambers, and was crossing, on tiptoe, the long picture-gallery to her own apartment, when a door opening, Pembroke, in his dressing- gown and slippers, looked out on hearing the stealthy step. She put forth her hand to him with delight, and in a low voice congratulated him on the change in Sir Robert's mind, kissed his cheek, and told him to prepare for another pleasant surprise in the morning. Smiling with these words, she bade him good-night, and softly proceeded to her chamber. Pembroke had thought so little of his ever-merry aunt's lively promise, that she saw him one of the latest in entering the breakfast-parlor, he not having hastened from his usual breezy early walk over the neighboring downs, where Thaddeus had been his companion. Miss Dorothy gayly reproached her nephew for his undutiful lack of curiosity, while Mary, with a glowing cheek, received the glad embrace of her cousin, who gently whispered to her, "Now I shall see together the two beings I most dearly love! Oh! the happiness contained in that sight!" Mary's vivid blush had not subsided when the entrance of Thaddeus, and his agitated bow, overspread her neck and brow with crimson. A sudden dimness obscured her faculties, and she scarcely heard the animated words of Sir Robert, whilst presenting him to her as the Count Sobieski, the beloved grandson of one who had deserved the warmest place in his heart! Whatever he was, the lowly Constantine or the distinguished Sobieski, she was conscious that he was lord of hers; and withdrawing her hand confusedly from the timid and thrilling touch of him she would have willingly lingered near forever, she glided towards an open casement, where the fresh air helped to dispel the faintness which had seized her. After Miss Dorothy, with all the urbanity of her nature, had declared her welcome to the count, she put away the coffee that was handed to her by Pembroke, and said, with a smile, "Before I taste my breakfast, I must inform you, Sir Robert, that you have a guest in this house you little expect. I forbade Miss Beaufort's saying a word, because, as we are told, 'the first tellers of unwelcome news have but a losing office;' _vice versâ_, I hoped for a gaining one, therefore preserved such a profitable piece of intelligence for my own promulgation. Indeed, I doubt whether it will not win me a pair of gloves from some folks here," added she, glancing archly on Pembroke, who looked round at this whimsical declaration. "Suffice it to say, that yesterday morning Lady Albina Stanhope, looking like a ghost, and her poor maid, scared almost out of her wits, arrived in a hack-chaise at Somerset Castle, and besought our protection. Our dear Mary embraced the weeping young creature, who, amidst many tears, recapitulated the injuries she had suffered since she had been torn from her mother's remains at the Abbey. The latest outrage of her cruel father was his intended immediate marriage with the vile Lady Olivia Lovel, and his commands that Lady Albina should the same evening give her hand to that bad woman's nephew. Ill as she was when she received these disgraceful orders, she determined to prevent the horror of such double degradation by instantly quitting the house; 'and,' added she, 'whither could I go? Ah! I could think of none so likely to pity the unhappy victim of the wickedness I fled from as the father of the kind Mr. Somerset. He had told me we were relations; I beseech you, kind ladies, to be my friends!' Certain of your benevolence, my dear brother," continued Miss Dorothy, "I stopped this sweet girl's petition with my caresses, and promised her a gentler father in Sir Robert Somerset." "You did right, Dorothy," returned the baronet; "though the earl and I must ever be strangers, I have no enmity to his children. Where is this just-principled young lady?" Miss Dorothy informed him that, in consequence of her recent grief and ill treatment, she had found herself too unwell to rise with the family; but she hoped to join them at noon. Pembroke was indeed deeply interested in this intelligence. The simple graces of the lovely Albina had on the first interview touched his heart. Her sufferings at Harrowby, and the sensibility which her ingenuous nature exhibited without affectation or disguise, had left her image on his mind long after they parted. He now gave the reins to his eager imagination, and was the first in the saloon to greet her as his lovely kins-woman. Sir Robert Somerset welcomed her with the warmth of a parent, and the amiable girl wept in happy gratitude. During this scene, Miss Beaufort, no longer able to bear the restraint of company nor even the accidental encountering of his eyes whose presence, dear as it was, oppressed and disconcerted her, walked out into the park. Though it was the latter end of October, the weather continued fine. A bright sun tempered the air, and gilded the yellow leaves, which the fresh wind drove before her into a thousand glittering eddies. This was Mary's favorite season. She ever found its solemnity infuse a sacred tenderness into her soul. The rugged form of Care seemed to dissolve under the magic touch of sweet Nature. Forgetful of the world's anxieties, she felt the tranquillizing spirit of soothing melancholy that shades the heart of sorrow with a veil which might well be called the twilight of the mind; and the entranced soul, happy in its dream, half closes its bright eye, reluctant to perceive that such bland repose is pillowed on the shifting clouds. Such were the reflections of Miss Beaufort, after her disturbed thoughts had tossed themselves, in a sea of doubts, regarding any possible interest she might possess in the breast of Sobieski. She recalled the hours they had passed together; they agitated but did not satisfy her heart. She remembered Pembroke's vehement declaration that Thaddeus loved her; but then it was Pembroke's declaration, not his! and the circumstances in which it had been made were too likely to mislead the wishes of her cousin. And then Sobieski's farewell letter! It was noble--grateful; but where appeared the glowing, soul- pervading sentiment that consumed her life for him? Exhausted by the anguish of this suspense, she resolved to resign her future fate to Providence. Turning her gaze on the lovely objects around, she soon found the genius of the season absorb her wholly. Her cheeks glowed, her eyes became humid, and casting their mild radiance on the fading flowers beneath, she pursued her way through a cloud of fragrance. It was the last breath of the expiring year. Love is full of imagination. Mary easily glided from the earth's departing charms to her own she thought waning beauty; the chord once touched, every note vibrated, and hope and fear, joy and regret, again dispossessed her lately-acquired serenity. CHAPTER XLVII. AN AVOWAL. After some little time, Lady Albina, having missed Miss Beaufort, expressed a wish to walk out in search of her, and the two brothers offered their attendance. But before her ladyship had passed through the first park, she complained of fatigue. Pembroke urged her to enter a shepherd's hut close by, whilst the Count Sobieski would proceed alone in quest of his cousin. With a beating heart Thaddeus undertook this commission. Hastening along the nearest dell with the lightness of a young hunter, he mounted the heights, descended to the glades, traversed one woody nook and then another, but could see no trace of Miss Beaufort. Supposing she had returned to the house, he was slackening his pace to abandon the search, when he caught a glimpse of her figure as she turned the corner of a thicket leading to a terrace above. In an instant he was at her side, and with his hat in his hand, and a glowing cheek, he repeated his errand. Mary blushed, faltered, and became strangely alarmed at finding herself alone with him. Though he now stood before her in a quality which she ever believed was his right, the remembrance of what had passed between them in other circumstances confounded and overwhelmed her. When Constantine was poor and unfriended, it seemed a sacred privilege to pity and to love him. When the same Constantine appeared as a man of rank, invested with a splendid fortune and extensive fame, she felt lost--annihilated. The cloud which had obscured, not extinguished, his glory was dispersed. He was that Sobieski whom she had admired unseen; he was that Constantine whom she had loved unknown; he was that Sobieski, that Constantine, whom, seen and known, she now, alas! loved almost to adoration! Oppressed by the weight of these emotions, she only bowed to what he said, and gathering her cloak from the winds which blew it around her, was hurrying with downward eyes to the stairs of the terrace, when her foot slipped, and she must have fallen, had not Thaddeus caught her in his ready arm. She rose with a blushing face, and the color did not recede when she found that he had not relinquished her hand. Her heart beat violently, her head became giddy, her feet lost their power. Finding that, after a slight attempt to withdraw her hand, he still held it fast, though in a trembling grasp, and nearly overcome by inexplicable distress, she turned away her face to conceal its confusion. Thaddeus saw all this, and with a fluttering hope, instead of surrendering the hand he had retained, he made it a yet closer prisoner by clasping it in both his. Pressing it earnestly to his breast, he said in a hurried voice, whilst his earnest eyes poured all their beams upon her averted cheek, "Surely Miss Beaufort will not deny me the dearest happiness I possess--the privilege of being grateful to her?" He paused: his soul was too full for utterance; and raising Mary's hand from his heart to his lips, he kissed it fervently. Almost fainting, Miss Beaufort leaned her head against a tree of the thicket where they were standing. The thought of the confession which Pembroke had extorted from her, and dreading that its fullness might have been imparted to him, and that all this was rather the tribute of gratitude than of love, she waved her other hand in sign for him to leave her. Such extraordinary confusion in her manner palsied the warm and blissful emotions of the count. He, too, began to blame the sanguine representation of his friend; and fearing that he had offended her, that she might suppose he presumed on her kindness, he stood for a moment in silent astonishment; then dropping on his knee, (hardly conscious of the action,) declared in an agitated voice his sense of having given this offence; at the same time he ventured to repeat, with equally modest energy, the soul-devoted passion he had so long endeavored to seal up in his lonely breast. "But forgive me!" added he, with increased earnestness; "forgive me, in justice to your own virtues. In what has just passed, I feel I ought to have only expressed thanks for your goodness to an unfortunate exile; but if my words or manner have obeyed the more fervid impulse of my soul, and declared aloud what is its glory in secret, blame my nature, most respected Miss Beaufort, not my presumption. I have not dared to look steadily on any aim higher than your esteem." Mary knew not how to receive this address. The position in which he uttered it, his countenance when she turned to answer him, were both demonstrative of something less equivocal than his speech. He was still grasping the drapery of her cloak, and his eyes, from which the wind blew back his fine hair, were beaming upon her full of that piercing tenderness which at once dissolves and assures the soul. She passed her hand over her eyes. Her soul was in a tumult. She too fondly wished to believe that he loved her to trust the evidence of what she saw. His words were ambiguous, and that was sufficient to fill her with uncertainty. Jealous of that delicacy which is the parent of love, and its best preserver, she checked the over-flowings of her heart, and whilst her concealed face streamed with tears, conjured him to rise. Instinctively she held out her hand to assist him. He obeyed; and hardly conscious of what she said, she continued-- "You have done nothing, Count Sobieski, to offend me. I was fearful of my own conduct--that you might have supposed--I mean, unfortunate appearances might lead you to imagine that I was influenced--was so forgetful of myself--" "Cease, madam! Cease, for pity's sake!" cried Thaddeus starting back, and dropping her hand. Every motion which faltered on her tongue had met an answering pang in his breast. Fearing that he had set his heart on the possession of a treasure totally out of his reach, he knew not how high had been his hope until he felt the depth of his despair. Taking up his hat, which lay on the grass, with a countenance from which every gleam of joy was banished, he bowed respectfully, and in a lower tone continued: "The dependent situation in which I appeared at Lady Dundas's being ever before my eyes, I was not so absurd as to suppose that any lady could then notice me from any other sentiment than humanity. That I excited this humanity, where alone I was proud to awaken it, was, in these hours of dejection, my sole comfort. It consoled me for the friends I had lost; it repaid me for the honors which were no more. But that is past! Seeing no further cause for compassion, you deem the delusion no longer necessary. Since you will not allow me an individual distinction in having attracted your benevolence, though I am to ascribe it all to a charity as diffused as effective, yet I must ever acknowledge with the deepest gratitude that I owe my present home and happiness to Miss Beaufort. Further than this, I shall not--I dare not--presume." These words shifted all the count's anguish to Mary's breast. She perceived the offended delicacy which actuated each syllable as it fell; and fearful of having lost everything by her cold and what might appear haughty reply, she opened her lips to say what might better explain her meaning; but her heart failing her, she closed them again, and continued to walk in silence by his side. Having allowed the opportunity to escape, she believed that all hopes of exculpation were at an end. Not daring to look up, she cast a despairing glance at Sobieski's graceful figure, as he walked, equally silent, near her. His arms were folded, his hat pulled over his forehead, and his long dark eyelashes, shading his downward eyes, imparted a dejection to his whole air which wrapped her weeping heart round and round with regretful pangs. "Ah!" thought she, "though the offspring of but one moment, they will prey on my peace forever." At the turning of a little wooded knoll, the mute and pensive pair heard the sound of some one on the other side, approaching them through the dry leaves. In a minute after Sir Robert Somerset appeared. Whilst his father advanced smiling towards him, Thaddeus attempted to dispel the gloom of his countenance, but not succeeding, he bowed abruptly to the agitated Mary, and hastily said, "I will leave Miss Beaufort in your protection, sir, and go myself to see whether Lady Albina be recovered from her fatigue." "I thought to find you all together," returned Sir Robert; "where is her ladyship?" "I left her with Pembroke, in a hut by the river," said Thaddeus, and bowing again, he hurried away, whilst his father called after him to return in a few minutes, and accompany him in a walk. The departure of Sobieski, when he had come expressly to attend her to Lady Albina, nearly overwhelmed Miss Beaufort's before exhausted spirits. Hardly knowing whether to remain or retreat, she was attempting the latter, when her guardian caught her hand. "Stay, Mary!" cried he; "you surely would not leave me alone?" Miss Beaufort's tears had gushed over her eyes the moment her back was turned, and as Sir Robert drew her towards him, to his extreme amazement he saw that she was weeping. At a sight so unexpected, the smile of hilarity left his lips. Putting his arm tenderly round her waist, (for now that her distress had discovered itself, her emotion became so great that she could hardly stand,) he inquired in a kindly manner what had affected her. She answered by sobs only, until finding it impossible to break away from her uncle's arms, she hid her face in his bosom and gave vent to the full tide of her tears. Recollecting the strange haste in which Thaddeus had hurried from them, and remembering Miss Beaufort's generosity to him in town, followed by her succeeding melancholy, Sir Robert at once united these circumstances with her present confusion, and conceiving an instantaneous suspicion of the reality, pressed her with redoubled affection to his bosom. "I fear, my dearest girl," said he, "that something disagreeable has happened between you and the Count Sobieski. Perhaps he has offended you? perhaps he has found my sweet Mary too amiable?" Alarmed at this supposition, after a short struggle she answered, "O no, sir! It is I who have offended him. He thinks I pride myself on the insignificant services I rendered to him in London." This reply convinced the baronet that he had not been pre-mature in his judgment, and, with a new-born delight springing in his soul, he inquired why she thought so? Had she given him any reason to believe so? Mary trembled at saying more.--Dreading that every word she might utter would betray how highly she prized the count's esteem, she faltered, hesitated, stopped. Sir Robert put the question a second time, in different terms. "My loved Mary," said he, seating her by him on the trunk of a fallen tree, "I am sincerely anxious that you and this young nobleman should regard each other as friends. He is very dear to me; and you cannot doubt, my sweet girl, my affection for yourself. Tell me, therefore, the cause of this little misunderstanding." Miss Beaufort took courage at this speech. Drying her glowing eyes, though still concealing them with a handkerchief, she replied in a firmer voice, "I believe, sir, the fault lies totally on my side. The Count Sobieski met me on the terrace, and thanked me for what I had done for him. I acted very weakly; I was confused. Indeed I knew not what he said; but he fell upon his knees, and I became so disconcerted, so frightened at the idea of his having attributed my conduct to indelicacy, or forwardness, that I answered something which offended him, and I am sure he now thinks me unfeeling and proud." Sir Robert kissed her throbbing forehead, as she ended this rapid and hardly-articulated explanation. "Tell me candidly, my dearest Mary!" rejoined the baronet, "can you believe that a man of Sobieski's disposition would bend his knee to a woman whom he did not both respect and love? Simple gratitude, my dear girl, is not so earnest. You have said enough to convince me, whatever may be your sentiments, that you are the mistress of his fate; and if he should mention it to me, may I describe to him the scene which has now passed between us? May I tell him that its just inference would requite his tenderness with more than your thanks and best wishes?" Miss Beaufort, who believed that the count must now despise her, looked down to conceal the wretchedness which spoke through her eyes, and with a half-suppressed sigh, answered, "I will not deny that I deeply esteem the Count Sobieski. I admired his character before I saw him, and when I did see him, although ignorant that it was he, the impression seemed the same. Yet I never aspired to any place in his heart, or even his remembrance; I could not have the presumption. Therefore, my dear uncle," added she, laying her trembling hand on his arm, "I beseech you, as you value my feelings, my peace of mind, never to breathe a syllable of my weakness to him. I think," added she, clasping her hands with energy, and forgetting the force of her expression, "I would sooner suffer death than lose his respect." "And yet," inquired Sir Robert, "you will at some future period give your hand to another man?" Mary, who did not consider the extent of this insidious question, answered with fervor, "Never! I never can be happier than I am," added she, with breathless haste. Seeing, by the smile on Sir Robert's lips, that far more had been declared by her manner than her words intended, and fearful of betraying herself further, she begged permission to retire to the house. The baronet took her hand, and reseating her by him, continued, "No, my Mary; you shall not leave me unless you honestly avow what your sentiments are towards the Count Sobieski. You know, my sweet girl, that I have tried to make you regard me as a father--to induce you to receive from my love the treble affection of your deceased parents and my lamented wife. If her dear niece do not deny this, she cannot treat me with reserve." Miss Beaufort was unable to speak. Sir Robert proceeded: "I will not overwhelm your shrinking delicacy by repeating the inquiry whether I have mistaken the source of your recent and present emotion; only allow me to bestow some encouragement on the count's attachment, should he claim my services in its behalf." Mary drew her uncle's hand to her lips, and whilst her dropping tears fell upon it, she threw herself, like a confiding child, on her knees, and replied in a timid voice: "I should be a monster of ingratitude could I hide anything from you, my dearest sir, after this goodness! I confess that I do regard the Count Sobieski more than any being on earth. Who could see and know him and think it possible to become another's?" "And you shall be his, my darling Mary!" cried the baronet, mingling his own blissful tears with hers. "I once hoped to have contrived an attachment between you and Pembroke, but Heaven has decreed it better. When you and Thaddeus are united, I shall be happy; I may then die in peace." Miss Beaufort sighed heavily. She could not yet quite participate in her uncle's rapture. She thought that she had insulted and disgusted the count by her late behavior, beyond his excuse, and was opening her lips to urge it again, when the object of their conversation appeared at a short distance, coming towards them. Full of renewed trepidation, she burst from the baronet's hand, and taking to flight, left her uncle to meet Sobieski alone. Sir Robert's anxious question on the same subject received a more rapid reply from Thaddeus than had proceeded from the reluctant Miss Beaufort. The animated gratitude of Sobieski, the ardent yet respectful manner with which he avowed her eminence in his heart above all other women, convinced the baronet that Mary's retreating delicacy had misinformed her. A complete explanation was the consequence; and Thaddeus, who had not been more sanguine in his hopes than was his lovely mistress in hers, now allowed the clouds over his so lately darkened eyes to disappear. Impatient to see these two beings, so dear to his soul, repose confidently in each other's affection, the moment Sir Robert returned to the house, he asked his sister for Miss Beaufort. Miss Dorothy replied that she had seen her about half an hour ago retire to her own apartments; the baronet, therefore, sent a servant to beg that she would meet him in the library. This message found her in a paroxysm of distress. She reproached herself for her imprudence, her temerity, her unwomanly conduct, in having given away her heart to a man who she again began to torment herself by believing had never desired it. She remembered that her weakness, not her sincerity, had betrayed this humiliating secret to Sir Robert; and nearly distracted, she lay on the bed, almost hoping that she was in a miserable dream, when her maid entered with the baronet's commands. Disdaining herself, and determining to regain some portion of her own respect by steadily opposing all her uncle's deluding hopes, with an assumed serenity she arrived at the study-door. She laid her hand on the lock, but the moment it yielded to her touch, all her firmness vanished. Trembling, and pale as death, she appeared before him. Sir Robert, having supported her to a chair, with the most affectionate and tender expressions of paternal exultation repeated to her the sum of his conversation with the count. Mary was almost wild at this discourse. So inconsistent and erratic is the passion of love, when it reigns in woman's breast, she forgot in an instant the looks and voice of Thaddeus; she forgot her terror of having forfeited his affection by her affected coldness alone; and dreading that the first proposal of their union had proceeded from her uncle, she buried her agitated face in her hands, and exclaimed, "O sir! I fear that you have made me forever hateful in my own eyes and despicable in those of the Count Sobieski!" Sir Robert looked on her emotion with a smiling but a pitying gaze, reading in all the unaffected apprehensive modesty of that noble maiden's heart. "Well," cried he, in a gentle raillery of tone, "my own beloved one! if thy guardian uncle cannot prevail over this wayward fancifulness, so unlike his ingenuous Mary's usual fair dealing with the truth of others. I must call in even a better-accredited pleader, and shall then leave my object, the balance of justice and mercy, in equally beloved hands." While he spoke, he rose and opened a door that led to an adjoining room. Miss Beaufort would have flown through another had not Sir Robert suddenly stood in her way. He threw his arm about her, and turning round, she saw the count, who had entered, regarding her with an anxiety which covered her before pale features with blushes. His father bade him come near. Sobieski obeyed, though with a step that expressed how reluctant he was to oppress the woman he so truly loved. Mary's face was now hidden in her uncle's bosom. Sir Robert put her trembling hand into that of his son, who, dropping on his knee, said, in an agitated voice, "Honored, dearest Miss Beaufort! may I indulge myself in the idea that I am blessed with your regard?" She could not reply, but whispered to her uncle, "Pray, sir, desire him to rise! I am overwhelmed." "My sweet Mary!" returned the baronet, pressing her to his breast, "this is no time for deception on either side. I know both your hearts. Rise, Thaddeus," said he to the count, whilst he locked both their hands within his. "Take him, Mary! Receive from your guardian his most precious gift--my matchless and injured son." The abruptness of the first part of this speech might have shocked her exhausted spirits to insensibility, had not the extraordinary assertion at its end, and Sir Robert's audible sobs, aroused and surprised her. "Your son!" exclaimed she; "what do you mean, my uncle?" "Thaddeus will explain all to you," returned he. "May Heaven bless you both!" Mary was too much astonished to think of following her agitated uncle out of the room. She sunk on a seat, and turning her gaze full of amazement towards the count, seemed to ask an explanation. Thaddeus, who still retained her passive hand, pressed it warmly to his heart; and whilst his effulgent eyes were beaming on her with joyous love, he imparted to her a concise but impressive narrative of his relationship with Sir Robert. He touched with short yet deep enthusiasm, with more than one tearful pause, on the virtues of his mother; he acknowledged the unbounded gratitude which was due to that God who had so wonderfully conducted him to find a parent and a home in England, and with renewed pathos of look and manner ratified the proffer which Sir Robert had made of his heart and hand to her who alone on this earth had reminded him of that angelic parent. "I nave seen her beloved face, luminous in purity and tender pity, reflected in yours, ever-honored Miss Beaufort, when your noble heart, more than once, looked in compassion on her son. And I then felt, with a wondering bewilderment, a sacred response in my soul, though I could not explain it to myself. But since then that sister spirit of my mother has often whispered it as if direct from heaven." Mary had listened with uncontrollable emotion to this interesting detail. Her eyes overflowed: their ingenuous language, enforced by the warm blood which glowed on her cheek, did not require the medium of words to declare what was passing in her mind. Thaddeus gazed on her with a certainty of bliss which penetrated his soul until its raptures almost amounted to pain. The heart may ache with joy; neither sighs nor language could express what passed in his mind. He held her hand to his lips; his other arm fell unconsciously round her waist, and in a moment he found that he had pressed her to his breast. His heart beat violently. Miss Beaufort rose instantaneously from her chair; but her pure nature needed no disguise. She looked up to him, whilst her blushing eyes were shedding tears of delight, and said in a trembling voice: "Tell my dear uncle that Mary Beaufort glories in the means by which she becomes his daughter." She moved to the door. Thaddeus, whose full tide of transport denied him utterance, only clasped her hands again to his lips and bosom; then, relinquishing them, he suffered her to quit the room. CHAPTER XLVIII. A FAMILY PARTY. The magnificent establishment which this projected union offered to Sobieski seemed to heal the yet bleeding conscience of Sir Robert Somerset. Although he had acquiesced in the count's generous surrender of the family-inherited honors, his heart remained still ill at ease. Every dutiful expression from his long-neglected son at times had stung him with remorse. But Miss Beaufort's avowed and returned affection at once removed the lingering accuser from his bosom. Mistress of immense wealth, her hand would not only put the injured Thaddeus in possession of the pure delights which only a mutual sympathy can bestow, but would enable his munificent spirit to again exert itself in the worthy disposal of an almost princely fortune. Such meditations having followed the now tranquillized baronet to his pillow, they brought him into the breakfast-parlor next day full of that calm pleasure which promises a steady continuance. The happy family were assembled. Miss Dorothy saluted her brother, whose brightened eye declared that he had something pleasant to communicate; and he did not keep her in suspense. With the first cup of coffee the good lady poured out, his grateful heart unburdened itself of the delightful tidings that ere many months, perhaps weeks, he had reason to hope Miss Beaufort would give her hand to the Count Sobieski. Pembroke was the only hearer who did not evince surprise at this announcement. Every one else had been kept uninformed, on the especial injunction of Sir Robert, who desired its knowledge to be withheld till he had completed some necessary preliminaries in his mind. But Thaddeus, by the permission of the happy parent, during a long and interesting conversation in his library, which passed between the father and his new-found son, immediately after the latter's blissful parting with his then heart-affianced Mary, had hastened to his brother, and retiring with him to his little study, there communicated, in full and enraptured confidence, the whole events of the recent mutual explanations. During Sir Robert's animated disclosure, Mary's blushing yet grateful eyes sought a veil in a branch of geranium which she held in her trembling hand. Miss Dorothy rose from her chair; her smiling tears spoke more than her lips when she pressed first her niece and then the Count Sobieski in her venerable arms. "Heaven bless you both!" cried she. "This marriage will be the glory of my age." Miss Beaufort turned from the embrace of her aunt to meet the warm congratulations of Pembroke. Whilst he kissed her burning cheek, he whispered, loud enough for every one to hear, "And why may I not brighten in my good aunt's triumph? Attempt it, dear Mary! If you can persuade my father to allow me to make myself as happy with Lady Albina Stanhope as you will render Sobieski, I shall forever bless you!" Lady Albina colored and looked down. Sir Robert took her hand with pleased surprise, "Do you, my lovely guest--do yon sanction what this bold boy has just said?" Lady Albina made no answer; but, blushing deeper than before, cast a sidelong glance at Pembroke, as if to petition his support. He was at her side in an instant; then seriously and earnestly entreating his father's consent to an union with their gentle kinswoman (whose approbation he had obtained the preceding day in the shepherd's hut), he awaited with anxiety the sounds which seemed faltering on Sir Robert's lips. The baronet, quite overcome by his ever-beloved Pembroke having, like his brother, disposed of his heart so much to his own honor, found himself unable to say what he wished. Joining the hands of the two young people in silence, he hurried out of the room. He ascended to the library, where kneeling down, he returned devout thanks to that "all-gracious Being who had crowned one so unworthy with blessings so conspicuous." Thaddeus, no less than his father, remembered the hand which, having guided him through a sharply-beset wilderness of sorrow, had in so short a term conducted him to an Eden of bliss. Long afterwards, when years had passed over his happy head, and his days became dedicated to various important duties, public and private, attendant on his station in life and the landed power he held in his adopted country, never did he forget that he was "only a steward of the world's Benefactor!" The sense of whose deputy he was gave to his heart a grateful conviction that in whatever spot he might be so placed, he was to consider it as his country!--the Canaan of his commission. Before the lapse of a week, it became expedient that Sir Robert should hasten the marriage of Pembroke with Lady Albina, or be forced by law to yield her to the demands of her father. After much search, Lord Tinemouth had discovered that his daughter was under the protection of Sir Robert Somerset. Inflamed with rage and revenge, he sent to order her immediate return, under pain of an instantaneous appeal to the courts of judicature. Too well aware that her nonage laid her open to the realization of this threat, Lady Albina fell into the most alarming swoonings on the first communication of the message. Sir Robert urged that in her circumstances no authority could be opposed to the earl's excepting that of a husband's; and on this consideration she complied with his arguments and the prayers of her lover, to directly give that power into the hands of Pembroke. Accordingly, with as little delay as possible, accompanied by Miss Dorothy and the enraptured Mr. Somerset, the terrified Lady Albina commenced her journey to Scotland, that being the only place where, in her situation, the marriage could be legally solemnized. A clerical friend of the baronet's, who dwelt just over the borders, could perform the rite with every proper respect. Whilst these young runaways, chaperoned by an old maiden aunt, were pursuing their rapid flight across the Tweed, Sir Robert sent his steward to London to prepare a house near his own in Grosvenor Square for the reception of the bridal pair. During these necessary arrangements, a happy fortnight elapsed at Deerhurst--thrice happy to Mary, because its tranquil hours imparted to her long-doubting heart "a sober certainty of that awaking bliss" which had so often animated with hope the visions of her imagination, when contemplating the mystery of such a mind as that of Thaddeus having been destined to the humble lot in which she had found him. Morning, noon, and evening the loving companion of the Count Sobieski, she saw with deepened devotedness that the brave and princely virtues did not reign alone in his bosom. Their full lustre was rendered less intense by the softening shades of those gentler amenities which are the soothers and sweeteners of life. His breast seemed the residence of love--of a love that not only infused a warmer existence through her soul, but diffused such a light of benevolence over every being within its influence, that all appeared happy who caught a beam of his eye--all enchanted who shared the magic of his smile. Under what different aspects had she seen this man! Yet how consistent! At the first period of their acquaintance, she beheld him, like that glorious orb which her ardent fancy told her he resembled, struggling with the storm, or looking dimmed, yet unmoved, through the clouds which obscured his path; but now, like the radiant sun of summer amidst a splendid sky, he seemed to stand the source of light, and love, and joy. Thus did the warm fancy and warmer heart of Mary Beaufort paint the image of her lover; and when Sir Robert received intelligence that the Scottish party had arrived in town and were impatient for the company of the beloved inhabitants of Deerhurst, while preparing to revisit the proud and gay world, she confessed that some embers of human pride did sparkle in her own bosom at the anticipation of witnessing the homage which they who had despised the unfriended Constantine tine would pay to the declared and illustrious Sobieski. The news of Lady Albina's marriage infuriated the Earl of Tinemouth almost to frenzy. Well assured that his withholding her fortune would occasion no vexation to a family of Sir Robert Somerset's vast possessions, he gave way to still more vehement bursts of passion, and in a fit of impotent threatening embarked with all his household to spend the remainder of the season on his much-disregarded estates in Ireland. This abrupt departure of the earl caused Lady Albina little uneasiness. His unremitted cruelty, her brother's indifference and the barbed insults of Lady Olivia Lovel, now the earl's wife, rankled too deeply in the daughter's bosom to leave any filial regret behind. Considering their absence a suspension of pain rather than a punishment, she did not stain the kiss which she imprinted on the revered cheek of her new parent with one tear to the memory of her unnatural father. Whilst all was splendor and happiness in Grosvenor Square, Thaddeus did not forget the excellent Mrs. Robson. He hastened to St. Martin's Lane, where the good woman received him with open arms. Nanny hung, crying for joy, upon his hand, and sprung rapturously about his neck when he told her he was now a rich man, and that she and her grandmother should live with him forever. "I am going to be married, my dear Mrs. Robson," said he; "that ministering angel who visited you when I was in prison was sent to wipe away the tears from my eyes." Drying the cheek of his weeping landlady, while he spoke, with his own handkerchief, he continued:--"She commanded me not to leave you until you had assured me that you will brighten our happiness by taking possession of a pretty cottage close to her house in Kent. It is within Beaufort Park, and there my Mary and myself will visit you continually." "Blessed Mr. Constantine!" cried the worthy woman, pressing his hand; "myself, my Nanny, we are yours;--take us where you please, for wherever you go, there will the Almighty's hand lead us, and there will his right hand hold us." The count rose and turned to the window; his heart was full, and he was obliged to take time to recover himself before he could resume the conversation. He saw her twice after this; and on the day of her departure for Kent, to await in her own new home his and his Mary's arrival there, he put into her hand the first quarterly payment of an annuity which would henceforward afford her every comfort, and raise her to that easy rank in society which her gentle manners and rare virtues were so admirably fitted to adorn. Neither did he neglect Mr. Burket. It was not in his nature to allow any one who served him to pass unrewarded. He called on him on the last day he visited St. Martin's Lane, (when Mrs. Watts, too, shared his bounty,) and having repaid him with a generosity which astonished the good money-lender, he took back his sword, and the venerated old seals he had left with Mrs. Robson to get repaired by the same honest hand; also the other precious relics he had had refitted to their original settings, and pressing them mournfully yet gratefully to his breast, re-entered Sir Robert's carriage to drive home. What bliss to his heart was in that sword? Next day Thaddeus directed his steps to Dr. Cavendish's. He found his worthy friend at home, who received him with kindness. But how was that kindness increased to transport when Thaddeus told him, with a smiling countenance, that he was the very Sobieski about whose wayward fate he had asked so many ill-answered questions. The delighted doctor embraced him with an ardor which spoke better than language his admiration and esteem. His amazement, having subsided, he was discoursing with animated interest on events at once so fatal and so glorious to Sobieski, when a gentleman was announced by the name of Mr. Hopetown. He entered; and Dr. Cavendish at the same time introducing Thaddeus as the Count Sobieski, Mr. Hopetown fixed his eyes upon him with an expression which neither of the friends could comprehend. A little disconcerted at the merchant's seeming rudeness, the good doctor attempted to draw off the steadiness of his gaze by asking how long he had been in England. "I left Dantzic," replied he, "about three weeks ago; and I should have been in London five days since, but a favorite horse of mine, which I brought with me, fell sick at Harwick, and I waited until he was well enough to travel." Whilst he spoke he never withdrew his eyes from the face of Thaddeus, who at the words Dantzic and horse recollected his faithful Saladin; almost hoping that this Mr. Hopetown might prove to be the Briton to whom he had consigned the noble animal, he took a part in the conversation by inquiring of the merchant whether he were a resident of Dantzic. "No, your excellency," replied he; "I live within a mile of it. Several years ago I quitted the smoke and bustle of the town to enjoy fresh air and quiet." "Last year," rejoined Sobieski, "I passed through Dantzic on my way to England. I believe I saw your house, and remarked its situation. The park is beautiful." "And I am indebted, count," resumed the merchant, "to nobleman of your country for its finest ornament: I mean the very horse I spoke of just now. He was sent to me one morning, with a letter from his brave owner, requesting me to give him shelter in my park. He is the most beautiful animal ever beheld. Unwilling to leave behind so valuable a deposit when I came to England I brought him with me." "Poor Saladin!" cried Thaddeus, his heart overflowing with remembrance; "how glad I shall be to see thee!" "What! was the horse yours?" asked Dr. Cavendish, surprised at this apostrophe. "Yes," returned Thaddeus, "he was mine! and I owe to Mr. Hopetown a thousand thanks for his generous acquiescence with the prayers of an unfortunate stranger." "No thanks to me, Count Sobieski. The moment I entered this room, I recollected you to be the same Polish officer I had observed on the beach at Dantzic. When I described your figure to the man who brought the horse, he said it was the same who gave him the letter. I could not learn your excellency's name; but I hoped one day or other to have the pleasure of meeting you again, and of returning Saladin into your hands in as good condition as when he came to mine." Tears started into the eyes of Thaddeus. "That horse, Mr. Hopetown, has carried me through many a bloody field; he alone witnessed my last adieu to the bleeding corpse of my country! I shall receive him again as an old and dear friend; but to his kind protector, how can I ever demonstrate the whole of my gratitude?" [Footnote: The love of Thaddeus to his horse has had some resemblances in the author's knowledge in yet more recent times. It seems to belong to the brave heart of every country in our civilized Europe, as well as in that of the wild Arab of the desert, to companion itself with his war-steed as with a friend or brother. I knew more than one gallant man who wept over the doom of his old charger when shot in the lines near Corunna; and another, of the same and other fields, who can never mention without turning pale the name of his faithful and beloved horse Columbus, who had carried him through various dangers on the South American continent, and at last perished by his side during a tremendous storm at sea, when no exertions of his master could save him. These are pangs of which only those who have the generous sensibility to feel them can have any idea. But they are true to the noble nature of which the inspired page speaks when it says, "The just man is merciful to his beast."-- 1822. The benignant master of the regretted Columbian steed was the late Sir R. K. Porter, the lamented brother of the yet surviving writer of the preceding note.--1845.] "To have had it in my power to serve the Count Sobieski is a privilege of itself," returned Mr. Hopetown. "I am proud of that distinction, to be called the friend of a man who all the world honors will be a title which John Hopetown may be proud of." Before the worthy merchant took his leave, he promised Thaddeus to send Saladin to Grosvenor Square that evening, and accepted his invitation to meet him and Dr. Cavendish the following day at dinner at Mr. Somerset's. * * * * * * * CHAPTER XLIX. "If I forget thee, O Jerusalem, let my right hand forget her cunning." Lady Albina Somerset's arrival in London was greeted by the immediate visits of all the persons in town who had been esteemed by the late Countess of Tinemouth, or on intimate terms with the baronet's family. It was not the gay season for the metropolis. Amongst the earliest names that appeared at her door were those of Lord Berrington, the Hon. Captain and Mrs. Montresor, and the Rev. Dr. Blackmore. Under any circumstances, either in the country or in town, Mr. Somerset and his young bride did not propose opening their gates to more general acquaintances until Miss Beaufort and the count were married, and both bridal parties had been presented at court in the spring. To this little select group of friends who were to assemble round Mr. Somerset's table on the appointed day, Thaddeus informed him, with frank pleasure, that he had taken the liberty of adding Dr. Cavendish and Mr. Hopetown of Dantzic. Lady Albina received the two strangers with graceful hospitality. The affianced Mary, with an equally blushing grace, presented her hand to the generous protector of Saladin, accompanying the action with a modest acknowledgment of her interest in an animal so deservedly dear to the Count Sobieski. He had turned to meet Lord Berrington and the ever lively Sophia Egerton (now Mrs. Montresor), who both advanced to him at the same instant, to express their gratulations not only at seeing him again, but in a situation of happy promise, so consonant to his avowed rank and personal early fame. Thaddeus replied to their felicitations with a smiling dignity in that ingenuous manner peculiarly his own. He was not a little surprised when Dr. Blackmore soon after recognized him to be the noble foreigner whose appearance had so much excited his attention, about a twelvemonth ago, at the Hummuins, in Covent Garden. The count did not recollect the circumstance of having seen the good doctor there; but the venerable man recapitulated the scene in the coffee- room through which the count had passed, describing, with no little animation, "a pedantic mannered person, dressed in black, and wearing spectacles (whose name he afterwards learned was Loftus), an M.A. of one of the colleges, who took the liberty to make some not very liberal remarks on the number of noble strangers then confiding themselves to the honorable sanctuary and sympathy of our country." Pembroke could hardly hear the benevolent speaker to the end; stifling any audible expression of his re-awakened indignation, he whispered to the baronet, "My dear father! recent happy events have made us almost forget that villain's baseness; but I pray, let him not remain another week a blot upon our house's escutcheon." "All shall be done as you wish," returned his father, in the same subdued tone; "but let us remember how much of that recent happiness the goodness of Providence hath brought out of this wretched man's offence. Were I extreme to mark what is done amiss, how could I abide the sentence that might be justly pronounced against myself? To- morrow we will talk over this matter, and settle it, I trust, with satisfaction to all parties." Pembroke gratefully pressed his father's hand, and then, walking up the room, addressed Mrs. Montresor. In a few minutes her brave husband joined them. While talking of his late victorious and happily-completed homeward-bound voyage, he spoke with great regret of the threatened absence from England of his late colleague on the battle-field of the ocean, his old friend Captain Ross. "How--whither is he going?" asked his wife, in a tone of interest. Montresor replied, "The ill state of Lady Sara's health requires a milder air, and poor Ross means to take her without loss of time to Italy. I met him this morning, in despair about the suddenness of some alarming symptoms." Thaddeus too well divined that this increased indisposition owed its rise to his recent return to town, and inwardly petitioning Heaven that absence and her husband's devoted tenderness might complete her cure, he could not repress a sigh, wrung from his respectful pity towards her, in this deep bosom-struggle with herself. No one present except the future partner of his own heart marked the transient melancholy which passed over his countenance. She, who had suspected the unhappy Lady Sara's attachment, loved Thaddeus, if possible, still dearer for the compassion he bestowed on the meek penitence of the unhappy victim of a passion often as inscrutable as destructive. When the party descended to dinner, Miss Dorothy, who sat next to the Count Sobieski, rallied him upon the utter desertion of one of his most pertinacious allies or adversaries--she did not know which to call the fair delinquent. "For admiring or detesting seemed quite the same to some ladies, so they did but show their power of mischief over any poor mortal man they found in their way!" This strange attack, though uttered in perfect good humor by the lively old lady, following so closely the information relative to Lady Sara Ross, summoned a fervid color into the count's face; he looked surprised, and rather confused, at the revered speaker, who soon gayly related what she had been told that morning by her milliner, of "Miss Euphemia Dundas being on the point of marriage with a young Scotch nobleman in Berwickshire; and in proof, her elegant informant, Madame de Maradon, was making the bridal _trousseau._" "So much the better for all straight-going people, _ma chere tante_" cried Pembroke; "little Phemy was no contemptible assailant either way. Besides," added he, turning airily to his own gentle bride, "you, my young lady, may congratulate yourself on the same good hope. I hear that an old turf-comrade of mine is going to take her loving sister off my hands. Come, Lord Berrington, you must verify my report, for I learned it from you." His lordship smiled, and answered in the affirmative, adding that a friend of his in Lincolnshire, had written to him as most amusing news, "That the most worthy Orson, heir of all the lands, tenements, stables, and kennels of the doughty Sir Helerand Shafto, of that ilk, and twenty ilks besides north of the Humber, had been discovered by the wonderful occult penetration possessed by the exceedingly blue sorceress-lady Miss Diana Dundas (of as many ilks north of the Tweed), to be no Orson at all; but her very veritable Valentine, to whom she was now preparing to give her fair and golden-garnished hand in the course of the forthcoming month; that is, when the season of hunting and shooting is past and gone, and the chase-wearied pair may turn themselves, with their blown horses and hounds, to a little wholesome rustication in their homestead fields." "I would not be their companion for Nebuchadnezzar's crown!" reiterated Pembroke, laughing. Sobieski, not suppressing the smile that played on his lips at the whimsical description given by Lord Berrington's correspondent, wished the nuptials happy, as far as the parties could comprehend the feeling. The viscount in return protested that their Polish friend "was more generous than just in such a benediction." "I vow to heaven," cried his lordship, "that I never knew people the aim of whose lives seemed so bent on sly mischief as those two sisters. Euphemia, pretty as she is, is better known by her skill in tormenting than by her beauty. And as for the poor squire Diana has conjured into matrimony, I have little doubt of his future baited fate when she springs her dogs of war upon that petted deer!" "Ah, poor fool!" exclaimed Mrs. Montresor, "I warrant he will not escape the punishment he merits, for stepping between the goddess and her delectable Endymion, Lascelles." "Quarter for an old acquaintance!" whispered Miss Beaufort, in a beseeching voice. "She does not deserve it of you!" returned the lady, pursuing her ridiculous game, until both Miss Dorothy and Sir Robert petitioned for mercy from so fair a judge. Thaddeus, who possessed not the disposition to exult in the misconduct or mischances of any one who had injured him, felt this part of the conversation the least pleasant on that happy day, and to change its strain, he, in his turn, whispered to his father "to prevail on Lady Albina to indulge his friend Mr. Hopetown by singing a few passages from that beautiful ballad of the Scottish borders, 'Chevy Chase,' which had so delighted their own family party the preceding evening." He did not ask this "charmed resource" from his own betrothed, because it was only at the close of that very preceding evening he had for the first time heard her voice, "in sweetest melody," chanting forth the parting anthem for the night, "From the ends of the earth, I will call upon thee, O Lord," and with tones of a kindred pathos, too thrilling to a son's startled ear and memory, to be invoked again in a mixed company. Strange, indeed, it might be, but it was a sacred balm to his soul when these recurring remembrances discovered to his heart in the young and lovely future partner of his life a bond of union with that angelic mother who had given him being; and perhaps this devoted filial heart alone could appreciate the joy, the comfort, the bliss of such a similitude! But in after days he shared those feelings with his father, bringing to his regretful bosom a soothing perception of the likeness. Lady Albina instantly complied, casting a sweet glance at Sir Robert, who immediately led her to the piano-forte, followed by the Scottish merchant of the Baltic, whither the noble symphony of "The Douglas," "hound and horn," soon gathered the rest of the company. The remainder of the evening passed away delightfully in the awakened harmony. Mrs. Montresor joined Lady Albina in some touching Italian duets; Pembroke supported both ladies in a fine trio of Mozart's; Mr. Hopetown requested another favorite son of his country, "Auld Robin Gray," and himself repaid Lady Albina's kind assent by a magnificent voluntary on his part, "Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled." Mary accompanied that well known pibroch of "The Bruce" with a true responsive echo from her harp; but she declined singing herself, and when Thaddeus took the relinquished instrument from her hand, he pressed it with a silent tenderness, sweeter to her than could have been the plaudits of all the accomplished listeners around. That soft hand had stroked the branching neck of his recovered Saladin the same morning, and the happy master now marked his feeling of the gentle deed. In the course of a few days, Pembroke's wishes with regard to Mr. Loftus were put into a train of fulfilment, Dr. Blackmore having undertaken to find a fitting tutor for the young Lord Avon, and in the interim would receive him into his own classical instruction, whenever it should be deemed proper to terminate his present holiday visit in Bedfordshire. But whilst Sir Robert had thus adjudged the guilty, he was careful not to expose him to fresh temptations, nor to suffer his crimes to implicate the innocent in its punishment. Hence, in pity to age and helplessness, he determined to settle two hundred pounds per annum on the wretched man's mother and sisters, who dwelt together in Wales. Shortly after, in consequence of his contrite confessions, "that all Mr. Somerset's allegations against him were too true," the humane father and son appointed one hundred pounds more to be paid yearly to the culprit himself, so that at least he might not be induced to lighten his honest labors for a suitable subsistence by renewed villanies. With reference to the benefice of Somerset, which had been the ill-sought price of this base pretender to sanctity and truth, Sir Robert decided on presenting it to the exemplary Dr. Blackmore whenever it should become vacant. Meanwhile, the baronet's sojourn in town became indispensably prolonged, not only by the simple nature of the affairs that brought him thither, but by certain unlooked-for intricacies occurring in making a final adjustment of the various settlements and consequent conveyances to be effected on account of the two felicitous marriages in his family. During these lingering proceedings amongst the legal protectors of "soil and surety," Miss Beaufort remained the cherished and cheering guest of the already espoused pair, one of whom, indeed, still wore the garb of "a mourning bride," but all within was clad in the true white robe of nuptial purity and peace. Sobieski was the now no less privileged abiding inmate in the home and heart of Sir Robert Somerset. Increasing daily in favor with "good aunt Dorothy," the presiding mistress of his father's house, he soon became nearly as precious in her sight as had long been the pleasant society of her nephew Pembroke. And all this her ingenuous and affectionate nature avowed to Mary, in their frequent visits between the two houses, with a sort of delighted wonder at her heart's so prescient recognition of the new nephew her sweet niece was to bestow upon her. For it had not yet been revealed to her that Thaddeus did stand in that same tender relationship to her by a former marriage of her beloved brother with the lamented mother of the noble object of her cherished esteem. And what was the double joy of the blessed moment when that happy secret was confided to her bosom. The last busy month of autumn in London had not only laid down its wearied head under the dark canopy of a murky atmosphere, lit with dimmed street-lamps to its slumbers, but its expected refreshment in the country did not offer much more agreeable materials for repose and vernal renovation. There were blustering winds strewing the recently green earth with beds of withered leaves of every foliage, stripped and fallen from the shivering woods above. And there were drenching rains, laying the lately pleasant fields in trackless swamps, and swelling the clear and gentle brooks into brawling floods, rending asunder the long-remembered rustic bridges which had hitherto linked the villages together, in convenient passages for wholesome relaxation or useful toil. Such were the newspaper accounts from the country during the latter part of November; but there was seen a fairer prospect from the carriage windows of Sir Robert Somerset, when he and his gladdened party, one bright morning, on quitting the splashy environs of Hammersmith and Brentford, entered the broad expanse of Hounslow Heath, on their way into Warwickshire, and beheld its wide common covered with a fair carpet of spotless snow. Winter had then seriously, or, rather, smilingly, set in. It was the 10th of December; and the baronet, having signed and sealed all things necessary to transfer with perfect satisfaction himself and family (as was always his custom at this homeward season), now set forth to one or other of his ancient domains, to pass his Christmas in the bosom of an enlarged and a grateful domestic happiness. Thus, year after year, he diffused from each of those parental mansions that bounteous hospitality to high and low which he considered to be an especial duty in an English gentleman, whether in the character of "landlord" to noble guests and respected neighbors, or to wayfaring strangers passing by; or, while graciously mingling with his widely- established tenantry, or his equally regarded daily guests at this "holy festival," the virtuous, lowly peasantry, laborers on the land. Then smiled the cottager, with honest consciousness of yeoman worth, when seated in the great hall, under the eye of his munificent lord, who partook of the general feast. Then, too, did he smile when, at the head of his own little board, he sat with his children and humbler dependents, all furnished with ample Christmas fare by the baronet's still open hand. When Thaddeus shared these primeval scenes of old England by the side of his British parent, (which festivities are still honorably preserved by some of its most ancient and noblest families,) they brought back to his heart those similar assemblages at Villanow and in Cracovia, where his revered grandfather, the palatine, had reigned prince and father over every happy breast. [Footnote: The writer remembers a similar scene to the above when she had the honor of dining, along with her revered family, on a festival of harvest-home at Bushy Palace, when its royal owner, his late majesty, was Duke of Clarence. Himself moved through his rustic guests in the gracious manner described.] And happy were now the recollections of all who met at Deerhurst on this their first joyful Christmas season! Week after week glided along in the bland exercise of social duties aided by the more homefelt enjoyments of sweet domestic affections, which gave a living grace to all that was said or done and more intimately knit hearts together, never more to be divided. But winter's howling blasts and sheltering halls, "where fireside comforts, taste, and gentle love, with soft amenities mingled into bliss," swiftly and fairer, changed their pleasant song, proclaiming in every brightening hue the hymn of nature-- "These, as they change, Almighty Father! Are but the varied God! The rolling year Is full of Thee! Forth in the pleasing spring Thy beauty walks, thy tenderness and love;" and in the first month of that genial season, when the young grass covers the downy hills with verdure, and the glowing branches of the trees bud with an infant foliage, the sun smiles in the heavens, and the pellucid streams reflect his glorious rays, the day was fixed by Sir Robert Somerset, and approved by the beloved objects of his then peculiar solicitude, in which his paternal hand should plight theirs together before the altar of eternal truth. The solemnity was to be performed in the village church, which stood in the park of Deerhurst, and the Rev. Dr. Blackmore, who came over from his own private dwelling in Worcestershire, accompanied by his pupil, Lord Avon, vas to perform the holy rite. No adjunct of the Roman Catholic ceremony (then the national church of Poland) was needful fully to legalize it. Thaddeus from his infancy had been reared in the Protestant faith, the faith of his mother, whose own mother was a daughter of the staunch Hussite race of the princely Zamoiski, who still professed that ancient, simple creed of their country. It was also the national faith of him who had given Therese's son being; therefore, to the same pure doctrine of Christianity had she dedicated his deserted child; and should they ever meet again, she believed it must be before the throne of Divine Mercy; and there she trusted to present their solitary offspring with the sacred words--"Here I am, Lord, and the child thou didst give me." But to return to the marriage-day itself. The hour having arrived in which the soul-devoted Mary Beaufort was to resign herself and her earthly happiness into the power of the only man to whom, having once beheld and known him, she could ever have committed them, she pronounced her vows at the sacred altar with unsteadiness of tongue but with a fixed heart. And when, after embracing all the fond kindred so long dear to her, and now to him, and having received their parting blessings within the walls of her ever-cherished home, --sweet, while familiar Deerhurst,--she was driven rapidly through its gates, while a mixed and awed emotion agitated her breast. But immediately she felt the supporting arm of her husband gently pressing her trembling form; and so, with all that husband's tender sympathy, the hours glided away unperceived, till the august towers of her own native domain appeared on the evening horizon, and soon afterwards she alighted at the mansion itself, having passed along a central avenue of ancient oaks amid the congratulatory cheers of a large assemblage of her tenantry on horseback and on foot, planted on each side, to bid a glad welcome to their "liege lady and her lord." Within the great entrance of the baronial hall, winch opened to her by the immediate raising of a massive brazen portcullis, the ancient insignia of the Beaufort name, she received the joyful obeisance of the old domestics of her honored parents, hailing her, their beloved daughter, with a humble ardor of affection that bathed her enraptured face with filial tears. Thaddeus felt the scene in his own recollective heart. Next morning Mrs. Robson and the delighted Nanny (dressed in a white frock for the blissful occasion), on being brought into the countess's private saloon, threw themselves at the feet of their benefactors and sobbed forth their happiness. The still more happy Sobieski raised them in his arms, and, embracing both, accosted the old lady as he would have done a revered relative, and the affectionate little girl like an adopted child. The same day the vicar of Beaufort, whose large rural parish extended from the Castle to several miles around, rode to the gate, and was announced by name (the Rev. Mr. Tillotson), to pay his pastoral duty to his future noble neighbors and sacred charge, the owners of the land. "His is a good name," observed Mary, with a gracious smile; "it was borne by one of the brightest luminaries of our Protestant church, Archbishop Tillotson, whose works you will find in the family library, now your own. And his descendant, the revered late vicar, christened me in the dear old church of the adjacent village, to which we go to-morrow, Sunday. Oh, how much have I to bless Heaven for in that holy place!" she tenderly ejaculated. "You, kneeling by my side there--one faith, one heart, one death, one salvation. O, my husband, I am blessed indeed!" "My Mary, in earth and heaven!" was his soul's response, and with the words he pressed her fervently-clasped hands with a hallowed emotion to his lips. In a few minutes after this she led the way to the ancient library, tapestried with family portraits, and furnished with book-cases of every past generation. Thither the young vicar, a truly worthy successor to his pious father, had been conducted; and there, being introduced by the countess (who had seen him only once before) to her lord, they found him not merely a clergyman to be respected, but an accomplished general scholar and a polished man.[Footnote: Over the gate-like arch of the library door had been erected, by a recent order from the gentlest hand now within its walls, a simple but exquisitely-carved escutcheon, showing the armorial bearing of the ancient and royal house of Sobieski--a crowned buckler, with the family motto, "God is the shield that covers me."] Thus was Thaddeus, the long-cherished orphan of a broken paternal vow, by a wondrous providence established in his new British character--a husband, and an owner of large estates in the soil. And he soon became fully sensible to the double commission devolved upon himself. Whether as a son of Poland, in right of the life he had drawn from his mother's bosom, or as one equally claimed by England, in right of his paternal parent, he was well prepared to faithfully fulfil their relative duties, with a zeal to each respondent to the important privileges and blessings of so signal a lot. In two short preceding years he had indeed passed through a host of severe trials; but in all he had been supported by an Almighty hand, and under the same gracious trust he now looked forward to a long Sabbath of hallowed peace, and of grateful service to Him who bestowed it. He had met it at Deerhurst, when under his father's roof; he maintained it at Beaufort, the seat of his most continuous residence; nor did he neglect its duties at Manor Court, Sir Robert's parental gift, and his own near neighborhood. And when the time came round for the family to revisit London, his pleasures there were of a character to correspond with his pursuits in the country, the happiness of others being the source of his own enjoyments. CHAPTER L. "We are brethren!" After the termination of the Count Sobieski's first Easter passed with the beloved of his soul in the home of her ancestors, they proceeded together to join Sir Robert Somerset, and their kind aunt Miss Dorothy, in Grosvenor Square, to become again his welcome guests, and always thereafter when in town, while Heaven prolonged their lives to renew the cherished reunion at each succeeding season. Thus it was that, immediately subsequent to the holy festival, the now revered Lord of Beaufort cheerfully obeyed his father's summons to London, where he found Pembroke and Lady Albina already resettled in their former residence. Having ere long met the gratulatory calls of his metropolitan friends, he daily beheld his lovely bride--lovely in mind as in person--becoming more and more "the worshipped cynosure of neighboring eyes;" not only adorning the highest circles of society, but filling his home with all the ineffable charms of a wedded life, inspired by the gentle graces of domestic tenderness. One balmy evening in May, when he and his young countess were driving out alone together, which they sometimes did, that she might have the delight of showing to him the varied rural environs of the great and gay royal city of England, the carriage, by her direction, took its course towards Primrose Hill, then crowned by a grove of "fair elm- trees," and clothed with a vesture of green sward, enamelled with wild flowers. Thence the light vehicle threaded a maze of shady lanes and pleasant field-paths, into a rustic, newly-made road, leading a little to the north of Covent Garden. [Footnote: All this has since become Regent's Park and its dependencies, whether streets or squares.] Mary proposed stopping a few minutes in that magnificent general garden of the town, to purchase a bouquet of early roses, to present to Sir Robert on their return from their drive. When the carriage drew up at the entrance of the great parterre, she stepped out to select them. Having quickly combined their fragrant beauties, she put the nosegay into the hand of one of the servants to place on the seat. Being nigh the church porch, she suddenly expressed a wish to her husband, on whose arm she leaned, to walk through the church-yard, and that the carriage should meet them at the opposite gate. Thaddeus, not being aware that this porch belonged to the church where his veteran friend had been buried, gave instant assent; and before he had time to make more than a few remarks on the pure religious architecture of the building, which he thought had attracted his tasteful bride to take a nearer view, she had led him unconsciously to the general's grave. But it was no longer the same as when Sobieski last stood by its side. A simple white marble tomb now occupied the place of its former long grass and yarrow. Surprised, he bent forward, and read with brimming eyes the following inscription:-- 1795-6. Stop, Traveller! Thou treadest on a Hero. Here rest the mortal remains of LIEUTENANT-GENERAL BUTZOU, Late of the Kingdom of Poland. A faithful soldier to his Lord and to his country! He sleeps in Faith and Hope! Thaddeus for a moment felt as he did when he beheld those "mortal remains" laid there. But his own faith in that hope which consecrated this mortality to an immortal resurrection had then silently spread the balm of its full assurance overall those remembered pangs; and now, without speaking, he led his also pensive and tremulous companion to her carriage, where it awaited them, and seating her within it, clasped her to his breast. His tears, no longer restrained, poured those sweet pledges of a soul-felt approbation into her bosom that made it even ache with excess of happiness. But while the grateful voice of her husband was beginning to breathe its uttered thanks, he found the carriage stop again, in a street not far distant from the one they had just quitted. It drew up at the door of a handsome house, of an apparently contemporary structure with the church. It was the rectory of St. Paul's, Covent Garden and at its portal stood the reverend incumbent, evidently awaiting to receive his guests. Thaddeus perceived him, and also the welcome of his position; so did his gentle wife, who with a blushing smile explained all the alterations he had observed on the respected grave, avowing that they had been done at her devoted wish, and were effected by the kind agency of that venerable man, the rector of the church, the Honorable Bruce Fitz-James. She then timidly added, (and how beautiful in that timidity!) she had something more to confess; she had ventured, after obtaining permission of the rector for the erection of the monument, to see it once during its progress, and then to promise him that on its completion her honored husband, the Count Sobieski, whose parental friend that noble dead had been, would, when she revealed her secret to him, pay a personal visit along with herself to her beneficent coadjutor, and duly express their united gratitude. She had scarcely spoken her rapid information, when its courteous object descended the portal to approach the carriage. His hat was taken off, and the snow-white hair, blown suddenly by a gust of wind across his benign brow, a little obscured his face, while he conducted the lady from the carriage up the steps of his door. But Sobieski found no difficulty in recognizing the time-blanched locks, which had been wetted by the weeping heavens in that hour of his lonely sorrow, whilst committing to the dust the remains of him whose sacred memorial he had just contemplated, raised by a wife's clear hand. With these recollections had arisen the image of the pale, delicately-formed boy who had gazed so compassionately into his eyes while taking as he thought his last look at that humble grave; and with this bland recurrence came also the almost closing words of the solemn service, seeming again to proclaim to his heart, "I heard a voice from heaven, saying unto me, Write, From henceforth blessed are the dead who die in the Lord!" With calmed feelings and perfectly recovered self-possession, Thaddeus now followed his beloved wife (his solace and his joy), led by her delighted host, into the bright-panelled parlor of the rectory, where the mutual introduction instantly took place. The beneficent old man, with a polished sincerity, declared his high gratification at this visit from the Count Sobieski, brought to him by the gracious lady who so deservedly shared his illustrious name. Thaddeus, with his usual modest dignity, received the implied compliment, and expressed his just sense of the deep obligation conferred on him and his countess by the last consecrated rite to the memory of his most revered friend. Mary was then seated on an old-fashioned silk-embroidered settee, opposite to the flower-latticed bay-window of the apartment. The rector, with a courteous bow, which in his youth would have been called graceful, as if confident of a permitted privilege, placed himself beside her, while observing to her lord, in reply to these unfeigned thanks, that, "the reported name alone of the veteran patriot who lay there had not ceased from the day of his interment to attract, shrine-like, the pilgrim feet of many persons to the spot who respected and bewailed the fate of Poland." Sobieski's cheek flushed and his eye kindled at this testimony. To change a subject which he found wrought too powerfully on the recently-regained serenity of his mind, he affectionately inquired for the amiable boy he had seen take so touching an interest in the mournful errand to the church-yard on that ever-remembered day, and who, like a ministering seraph, had so guardingly watched the exposed head of his revered master, under the pitiless element then pouring down. "He is my nephew," returned the rector, in a tone of tenderness: "Lord Edward Fitz-James. He is in delicate health; the youngest son of my eldest brother, the Marquis Fitz-James, who married late in life. Edward is, indeed, what he appears, a spirit of innocent, happy love, or of condoling commiseration, wherever his gentle footsteps move. And when I rejoin him this autumn, at his father's house in Scotland, and shall tell him that the never-forgotten chief mourner at that simple bier, with whom his own young tears fell in spontaneous sympathy, was the Count Sobieski--a kinsman of his own, whose character was already known to him in its youthful fame and by its honored name--what will be that meek child's exulting ecstasy!" "A kinsman of that noble boy!" echoed Thaddeus, in surprise. "How may I flatter myself it can be so?" Mary simultaneously uttered an amazed ejaculation of pleasure at the idea of any real relationship between that venerable man and herself; and he, with an answering look of kindred respect on both the astonished husband and his bride, replied to the former with the unstudied brevity of truth. "A few sentences will explain it, for I consider it unnecessary to remind my present auditors of two great events in their respective countries. First, with regard to England; the change of royal succession in the Stuart line, from the branch of which James the Second was the head, to that of Brunswick-a backward step, originating in Elizabeth of Bohemia, the daughter of James the First, and therefore, the aunt of James the Second. At the height of these eventful circumstances, the offended sovereign retired with his exemplary queen and their infant son to the continent. There the royal boy continued to be styled, by his father's adherents, James Prince of Wales, but in the general world was usually known by the cognizance of the Chevalier St. George. "This is the first link in our bracelet, noble lady!" observed the narrator, with a smile, and then proceeded. "I now advance to my second part, the crisis of which took place in Poland, about the same period. At the death of the great John Sobieski, King of Poland, the father of his people, there arose a deep-rooted conspiracy in certain neighboring states, jealous of his late power and glorious name, determining to undermine the accession of his family to the throne; and they found an apt soil to work on in a corresponding feeling ready to break out amongst some of the most influential nobles of the realm. Foreign and domestic revolutionists soon understand each other; and the dynasty of Sobieski being speedily overturned by the double treason of pretended friends and false allies, his three princely sons withdrew from occasioning the dire conflict of a civil war, two into distant lands, the other to the ancestral patrimony, in provinces far from the intrigues of ambition or the temptation of its treacherous lures. "The two elder brothers, in a natural indignation against the popular ingratitude, took the expatriating destination. But Constantine, the youngest born, with the calm dignity of a son without other desired inheritance than the honor of such a parent, retired to the tranquil seclusion of the castled domain of Olesko, the ancient fortified palace of his progenitors, on the Polish border of Red Russia; and there, in philosophic quiet, he passed his blameless days with science and the arts, and in deeds of true Christian benevolence-the purport of his life. This respected seclusion was ultimately sweetly cheered when "woman smiled" upon it, in the form of a fair daughter of a neighboring magnate in the adjacent province, whose noble retirement, sharing the same patriotic principles with those of Constantine, yielded to the young philosopher a lovely helpmate for him. "Prince James, his eldest brother, had meanwhile married a sister of their early associate in arms, the brave Charles of Newburg, when under the royal banner of Sobieski, in the memorable field of Vienna. Alexander, the second son, also met with a distinguished bride in Germany. Both princes were accomplished and handsome men; but one of our countrymen, contemporary and family physician to the late king, familiarly describes them in his curious reminiscences, thus:--'His majesty possessed a fine figure; he was tall and graceful. The nobleness and elevation of his soul were deeply depicted in his countenance and air. Prince James is dark-complexioned, slender in person, and more like a Spaniard than a Pole; he is very social, courteous and liberal. Alexander is of more manly proportions, and of a true Sarmatian physiognomy. But Constantine is an exact likeness of the king, his father.'" [Footnote: The writer of this note has seen a magnificent picture of that glorious king, a full length, the stature of life. It was nobly painted by an artist of the period.] "And such was my ever-revered grandsire, his only son!" responded the heart of Thaddeus, but he did not utter the words. Meanwhile, the enthusiastic historiographer of a period he was so seldom called to touch on proceeded without a pause. "In process of time, one fair scion from this illustrious stock became engrafted on our former royal stem. I mean her highness the Lady Clementina, the daughter of Prince James of Poland, who, after his rejection of all foreign aid to re-establish him in his father's kingdom, had, like the abdicated monarch of England, gone about a resigned pilgrim, 'seeking a better country,' till the two families auspiciously met, to brighten each other's remainder of earthly sojourn at St. Germains, in France. Then came the 'sweet bindwith,' the royal maid, the Prince Sobieski's beauteous daughter, to give her nuptial hand to the only son of the exiled king; and so, most remarkably, was united the equally extraordinary destinies of the regal race of the heroic John Sobieski with that of our anointed warrior, Robert Bruce, in the person of his princely descendant, James Fitz-James, in diplomatic parlance styled the Chevalier de St. George; and from that blended blood, and by family connection, sprung from the same branching tree, I feel sanguinely confident that the claim I have set up for myself and gentle nephew, whose kindred spirit the warm heart of the Count Sobieski has already acknowledged, will not be deemed an old man's dream." A short silence ensued. Thaddeus had been riveted with an almost breathless attention to this part of the narrative, some of its public circumstances having found a dim recollection in his mind; but his apprehensive mother had always turned him aside from any line in his historical reading which might particularly engage his ever-wakeful interest to the chivalrous nation of his own never-avowed parentage, and from which a father's desertion had expatriated him even before his birth. But now, how ample had been the atonement, the restitution, to this forsaken son? Not being able to express any of the kindled feelings this narration had suggested, added to the daily increasing claims the blessing of such an atonement were hourly making on his best affections, he could only grasp the hand of the venerated speaker with a fervent pressure when he ceased. But Mary, irradiating smiles, the emanating light of her soul then at her Maker's feet, gently breathed her ardent felicitations at what she had just heard, which had indeed established her kindred with the venerated friend whose kindness had met her so unreservedly as a stranger. When the little party so signally brought together, to become mutually entwined, as if already known to each other for years instead of minutes,--when they became composed, after the excited emotions of the disclosure had subsided, the reverend host, now considering the count and countess rather as young cousins to be honored than as guests to be entertained, conversed awhile more particularly with regard to the marquis and his family, and finally accepted, with declared pleasure, the earnest invitation of his gladly responsive new relatives to accompany them the following day, when they would call for him in their carriage, to dine with their dearest guardian and parental friend, Sir Robert Somerset. "He is my Mary's maternal uncle," remarked Thaddeus, with a calm emphasis, "and has been to me as a father in this her adopted land. I found a brother, also, in his admirable son, Mr. Somerset, whom, with his young bride, you will meet to-morrow at Sir Robert's family table. Hence, my revered kinsman, you see what England still does in her kind bosom for a remnant of the race of Sobieski." The appointed hour next day arrived. The count called for his friend, who was ready at the door of the rectory mansion, and, after much interesting conversation during the drive, conducted him into the presence of the baronet. Sir Robert greeted his guest in perfect harmony with the filial eloquence of Sobieski, in describing his adopted father's ever-gracious heart, and consequent benignant manners. Thaddeus had repeated to Sir Robert the revealments of yesterday's visit to the honorable and reverend rector of St. Paul's, which had so stirringly mingled with his own most cherished memories. The cordial reception thus given to the revered narrator gratified him, as a full repayment for his imparted confidence of the day before, though he could not be aware of the real paternal fountain from which these warm welcomes flowed. But Thaddeus recognized it in every word, look, and act of his beloved father, and with his mother in his heart, he appreciated all. Dr. Cavendish and Dr. Blackmore had been added to the party. Sincere esteem, with an ever-grateful recollection of the past, always spread the board of Sobieski for the former, whenever he might have leisure to enrich it with his highly intellectual store. Dr. Blackmore had arrived the preceding evening with Lord Avon, grown a fine youth, to pass a few days with his patron and friend, Sir Robert Somerset, on his way to transfer his noble charge to the tutorage of the fully competent, though young, vicar of Beaufort, Mr. Tillotson. Lord Avon was to reside in the vicarage, but would also possess the constant personal care of his friends at the Castle, and a home invitation to visit there, with his accomplished tutor, whenever it should be agreeable to Mr. Tillotson to bring him. The rector of St. Paul's and the recently inducted rector of Somerset (whither he was proceeding after he should have deposited his young lordship at Beaufort) were respectively introduced to each other-- worthy brethren in the pure church they were equally qualified to support and to adorn. When dinner was announced, the Rev. Bruce Fitz-James received the hand of the cheerful Miss Dorothy to lead her down. She had given him a frank greeting of relationship on his being presented to her, as mistress of her brother's house, on his first entrance into the drawing room. During the social repast, much elegant and intellectual conversation took place, and promises were solicited, both then and after the banquet, by the members of the family group from their several guests for visits at the seasons most pleasant to themselves, to Deerhurst, to Somerset, and to Beaufort. The venerable Fitz-James and his young nephew were particularly besought by Thaddeus and his Mary, who anticipated a peculiar delight in becoming intimately acquainted with that interesting boy. Lord Avon they hoped might prove a companionable attraction to the latter. The invitations were cordially accepted, the paternal uncle of the young Lord Edward not doubting the ready approbation of his brother, the marquis. And it was arranged that both at Beaufort and at Deerhurst the whole of the baronet's family group should be assembled, including Mr. Somerset and his gentle lady, whose placid graces moved round his ever sparkling vivacity with a softly- tempering shade. Thus, day after day, week after week, while continuing in town, time passed on in the alternate interchanges of domestic tranquillity and the active exercises of those duties to society in general, and to the important demands of public claims on the present stations of the several individuals on whom such calls were made. Nor in the country, when returned to their separate dwelling-places, did the same happy and honorable routine cease its genial round. Pembroke's most stationary residence was Somerset Castle, his father's beneficent representative, whose favorite home was Deerhurst. And thus mutually endeared, and worthy of their Heaven- bestowed stewardship, we leave the family of Sir Robert Somerset. We leave Thaddeus Sobieski, now one of its most beloved members, blessed in the fruition of every earthly good. The virtues, the muses, and the charities were the chosen guests at his abundant table. Poverty could not veil genius from his penetration, nor misfortune obscure the inborn light of its integrity. Though exiled from his native land, where his birth gave him dominion over rich territories, now in the hands of strangers, and a numerous happy people, now no more, he had not yet relinquished the love of empire. But it was not over principalities and embattled hosts that he desired to prolong the sceptre of command. He wished to reign in the soul. His throne was sought in the hearts of the good, the kind, the men of honest industry, and the unfortunate, on whom prosperity had frowned. In fact, the unhappy of every degree and nation found consolation, refuge, and repose within the sheltering domains of Beaufort. No eye looked wistfully on him to turn away disappointed; his smiles cheered the disconsolate, and his protecting arms warded off, when possible, the approach of new sorrows. "Peace was within his walls, and plenteousness within his palaces." And when a few eventful months of the succeeding year had distinguished its course with the death of the imperious destroyer of Poland, and General Kosciusko (having been set at liberty by her generous successor, and honorably empowered to go whither he willed) had arrived in England on his way to the United States, he sought and found Thaddeus, his young comrade in the fields of Poland, and was hailed with the warmest welcome by that now indeed truly "comforted" brave and last representative of the noble race and name of the glory of his country, the more than once Gideon-shield of Christendom--John Sobieski. "Ah, my chief!" cried he, while he clasped the veteran to his breast, "I am indeed favored above mortals. I see thee again, on whom I believed the gates of a ruthless prison had closed forever! I have all that remains of my country now within my arms. Kosciusko, my friend, my father, bless your son!" Kosciusko did bless him, and embalmed the benediction with a shower of tears more precious than the richest unction that ever flowed on a royal head. They were drawn from a Christian soldier's heart--a true patriot and a hero. Sobieski presented his lovely wife to this illustrious friend, and while he gratefully acknowledged the rare felicity of his ultimate fate, he owned that the retrospection of the past calamity, like a shade in a picture, gives to our present bliss greater force and brightness. But that such felicity was his, he could only ascribe to the gracious providence of God, who "trieth the spirit of man," and can bring him to a joy on earth even like unto a resurrection from the dead. And the conclusion is not even then; "there remaineth yet a better life, and a better country for those who trust in the Lord of earth and heaven!" APPENDIX. NOTES CHIEFLY RELATING TO GENERAL KOSCIUSKO. NOTES The writer prefaces these notes with the following dedicatory tribute she inscribed to the memory of this illustrious chief in a former but subsequent edition, some years after the first publication of the work. It runs thus:-- THADDEUS OF WARSAW. THIS TENTH EDITION IS HUMBLY AND AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED TO THE MEMORY OF THE LATE JUSTLY REVERED AND RENOWNED General Thaddeus Kosciusko. "The spirit of war between nation and nation, and between man and man in those nations, for public supremacy on the one side and private aggrandizement on the other, being still as much the character of the times as in the days when the preceding biographical tale of Poland was written, the author continues to feel the probable consequences of such a crisis in forming the future principles of manly British youth--a feeling which was the origin of the work itself. "Its direct aim being to draw a distinguishing line between the spirit of true patriotism and that of ambitious public discontent,-- between real glory, which arises from benefits bestowed, and the false fame of acquired conquests, which a leader of banditti has as much right to arrogate as would the successful invader of kingdoms,-- the character of General Kosciusko, under these views, presented itself to the writer as the completest exemplar for such a picture. "Enthusiasm attempted to supply the pencil of genius, and though the portraiture be imperfectly sketched, yet its author has been gratified by the sympathy of readers, not only of her own people, but of those of distant nations; and that the principles of heroic virtue which she sought to inculcate in her narrative were pronounced by its great patriot subject, in a letter he addressed to herself, 'as worthy of his approbation and esteem,' seems, now that he is removed from all earthly influence, to sanction her paying that honest homage to his memory which delicacy forbade her doing while he lived. "The first publication of this work was inscribed to a British hero, 'a land commander and a tar,' whose noble nature well deserved the title bestowed upon it by his venerable sovereign, George III., ('Coeur-de-Lion.') He, a brother in spirit, fully appreciated the character of Thaddeus Kosciusko, and the writer of this devoted tribute feels that she deepens the tints of honor on each name by thus associating them together. But may the tomb of the British hero be long in finding its place! That of the Polish patriot has already received its sacred deposit, and with the sincere oblation of a not quite stranger's heart, this poor offering is laid on the grave of him who fought for 'his country's freedom, laws, and native king;' who, when riches and a crown were proffered to himself by the then dictator of almost all Europe, declined both, because no price could buy the independence of an honest man. "Such was General Kosciusko; such was the model of disinterestedness, of tempered valor, and of public virtue which his annalist sought to set forth in the foregoing pages; such was the man who honored their narrator with his approval and esteem! and in that last word she feels a privilege, but with due humility, to thus link some little memorial of herself to after times, by so uniting to the name of Thaddeus Kosciusko that of his humble but sincere aspirer to such themes, "JANE PORTER. "LONG-DITTON ON-THAMES, September, 1819." Since the above inscription was first written and inscribed in the former edition, the brave and benign "Christian knight," the Coeur- de-Lion of our own times, has also been gathered to the tears of his country, and his monumental statue, as if standing on the victorious mount of St. Jean d'Acre, is now preparing to be set up, with its appropriate sacred trophies, in the great Naval Hall at Greenwich. It is understood that his mortal remains will be removed from the Pere la Chaise in Paris, where they now lie, to finally rest in St. Paul's Cathedral, where Nelson sleeps. Kosciusko's tomb is at Cracow, the ancient capital of Poland; and in the manner of its most ancient style of sepulchre, it appears an immense earthen tumulus, piled over the simple-mounded grave, which accumulating portions were severally borne to their hallowed place in the arms alone of each silent mourner, in a certain number of successive days, till the whole was raised into a grand pyramidal mass. In looking back through the avenue of life to those periods the tale tells of, what events have occurred, public and private, to the countries and the individuals referred to in these memoranda! to persons of lofty names and excellence, both in our own and in other lands, mutually affected with admiration and regret for the virtues and the calamities described. It is an awful contemplation, and in sitting down in my now solitary chamber to its retrospection, I find that nearly half a century has passed since its transactions swept over Europe like a desolating blast. Then I wrote my little chronicle when the birthright independence of Poland was no more; when she lay in her ashes, and her mighty men were trodden into the dust; when the pall of death overspread the country, and her widows and her orphans wandered afar into the trackless wilderness of a barren world. During this wide expatriation, some distinguished captives, who had fallen in the field, and were counted among the slain, having been found by the victors alive in their stiffened blood, were conveyed to various prisons; and along with these was discovered the justly feared, and not less justly deplored, General Kosciusko, who, though long unheard of by the lone wanderers of his scattered host, had been thus preserved by the supreme Lord of all, to behold again a remnant of his own brightened in hope, and comforted by the honoring sympathy of the good and brave in many nations. Kosciusko was of noble birth, and early distinguished himself by his spirit and talents for the martial field. Indeed, owing to the belligerent position of Poland, situated in the midst of jealous and encroaching nations, arms was the natural profession of every gentleman in the kingdom, commerce and agriculture being the usual pursuits of the middle classes. But it happened, in the early manhood of Thaddeus Kosciusko, that the dangerous political Stromboli which surrounded his country, and often aroused an answering blaze in that since devoted land, slept in their fires; and Poland being at peace, her young military students, becoming desirous of practising their science in some actual campaign, resolved to try their strength across the Atlantic. Hearing of the war then just commenced between the British Colonies in America and the mother country, Kosciusko, as a deciding spirit amongst his ardent associates, brought them to this resolution. Losing no time, they embarked, passed over the wide ocean of the Western world, and landing safe and full of their object, offered their services to the army of independence. Having been readily accepted, and immediately applied to use, the extraordinary warrior talents of Kosciusko soon shone conspicuous, and were speedily honored by his being appointed special aide-de-camp to General Washington. His subsequent conduct in the camp and field was consonant to its beginning, and he became a distinguished general in rank and command long before his volunteered military services had terminated. When the war ended, in the peace of mutual concessions between the national parent and its children on a distant land, (a point that is the duty of all Christian states to consider, and to measure their ultimate conduct by,) the Poles returned to their own country, where they soon met circumstances which caused them to call forth their recently passed experience for her. But they had not departed from the newly-established American State without demonstrations of its warm gratitude; and Koscuisko, in particular, with his not less popular compatriot and friend, Niemcivitz, the soldier and the poet, bore away with them the pure esteem of the brave population, the sighs of private friendship, and the tears of an abiding regret from many fair eyes. To recapitulate the memorable events of the threatened royal freedom of Poland, by the three formidable foreign powers confederated for its annihilation, and in repelling which General Kosciusko took so gallant a lead, is not here necessary to connect our memoranda concerning his unreceding struggles to maintain her political existence. They have already been sketched in the preceding little record of the actual scenes in which he and his equally devoted compeers held their indomitable resistance till the fatal issue. "Sarmatia lay in blood!" and the portion of that once great bulwark of civilized Europe was adjudged by the paricidal victors to themselves: a sentence like unto that passed on the worst of criminals was thus denounced against Christendom's often best benefactor, while the rest of Europe stood silently by, paralyzed or appalled, during the immediate execution of the noble victim. But though dismembered and thrown out from the "map of nations" by the combination of usurping ambition and broken faith, and no longer to be regarded as one in its "proud cordon," Poland retained within herself (as has been well observed by a contemporary writer) "a mode of existence unknown till then in the history of the world--a domestic national vitality." Unknown, we may venture to say, except in one extraordinary yet easily and reverentially understood instance. We mean the sense of an integral national being, ever- living in the bosoms of the people of Israel, throughout all their different dispersions and captivities. And, perhaps, with respect to this principle of a moral, political, and filial life, still drawing its aliment from the inhumed heart of their mother-country, who, to them, "is not dead but sleepeth!" may be explained, in some degree, in reference to the above remark on the existing and individual feeling amongst the wanderers of Poland, by considering some of the best effects, latent in their "working together for good," in the deep experience of her ancient variously-constituted modes of civil government. Under that of her early monarchs, the Piasts and their senate, she sat beneath an almost patriarchal sceptre, they being native and truly parental princes. John Sobieski was one of this description by descent and just rule. Under the Jagellon dynasty, also sprung from the soil, she held a yet more generalizing constitutional code, after which she gradually adopted certain republican forms, with an elective king--a strange contradiction in the asserted object, a sound system for political freedom, but which, in fact, contained the whole alchemy of a nation's "anarchical life," and ultimately produced the entire destruction of the state. From the established date of the elective monarchy, the kingdom became an arena for every species of ambitious rivalry, and its sure consequences, the interference of foreign influences; and hence rapidly advanced the decline of the true independent spirit of the land, to stand in her laws, and in her own political strength; her own impartial laws, the palladium of the people and a native king the parental guardian of their just administration. But, in sad process of time, "strangers of Rome, of Gaul, and of other nations," in whose veins not a drop of Sclavonian blood flowed, found means to successively seat themselves on the throne of the Piasts, the Jagellons, and the Sobieskis, of ancient Sarmatia; and the revered fabric fell, as by an earthquake, to be registered no more amongst the kingdoms of the world. THE EARLY EDUCATION OF KOSCIUSKO AND HIS COMPATRIOTS, WITH ITS SUBSEQUENT EFFECTS ON THE PRINCIPLES OF THEIR LIVES. Though their country appeared thus lost to them, they felt its kingdom still in their minds--in the bosom of memory, in the consciousness of an ancestry of bravery and of virtue; and though the soil had passed away from the feet of those whose ancestors of "sword or share" had trod it as sons and owners, and it now holds no place for them but their fathers' graves, yet the root is deep in such planting, and the tree, though invisible to the world, is seen and nourished in the depths of their hearts by the dews of heaven. The pages of universal history, sacred and profane, ancient and modern, when opened with the conviction that He who made the world governs it also, will best explain the _why_ of these changes in the destiny of nations; and within half of the latter part of the last century, and the nearly half of the present, awful have been the pages to be read. Hence we may understand the vital influence of the objects of education with regard to the principles inculcated, whether with relation to individual interest or to the generalized consideration of a people as a commonwealth or a kingdom. A kingdom and a commonwealth may be considered the same thing, when the power of both people and king are limited by just laws, established by the long exercised wisdom of the nation, holding the whole powers of the state in equilibrium; and in this sense, meaning "a royal commonwealth," comprising, as in England, "kings, lords, and commons," it is generally believed is intended to be understood the term, "The republic of Poland, with its king." The Polish nation, however, under all their dominions of government, usually partook something of the policies and manners of the then existing times. Yet they were always distinguished by a particular chivalry of character, a brave freedom from all foreign and domestic vassalage, and a generous disposition to respect and to assist the neighboring nations to maintain the same independence they themselves enjoyed. Though actual schools, or colleges, or written lore, might not originally have had much to do with it, the continued practice of old, well-formed customs held them in "the ways their fathers walked in" and they found them those of "pleasantness" and true honor. But the time came when literary dictation was to take the place of oral tradition, and of habitual imitative reverence of the past. Schools and colleges were instituted, teaching for doctrines the prevailing sentiments of the endowers, or of the instructors employed. During the reigns of the later sovereigns of the Jagellon dynasty, Sigismund I. and II., and that of their predecessor, John Sobieski, the principles of these seminaries might be considered sound. But soon after the death of the last-named monarch, when the latent mischief contained in the Utopian idea of the perfection of an always elective monarchy began to shake the stability of even the monarchy itself, certain of the public teachers evinced correspondent signs of this destructive species of freemasonry; and about the same period the Voltaire venom of infidelity against all the laws of God and man being poured throughout the whole civilized world, the general effect had so banefully reached the seats of national instruction in Poland, that several of the most venerated personages, whose names have already been, commemorated in the preceding biographical story, congregated together to stem, by a counteracting current, the torrent where they saw it likely to overflow; to sap up its introduced sources, by obtaining the abolition of some of the most subtle and dangerous of the scholastic institutions, and the establishment of others in their room, on the sound foundation of moral and religious polity between men and nations. The sole remaining princely descendants of the three just referred to, true patriot-monarchs, were the earliest awakened to resist the spirit of evil spreading amongst all classes in the nation. The Czartoryski and the Zamoyski race, both of the Jagellon line, and near kinsmen to the then newly raised monarch to the Polish throne, Stanislaus Poniatowski, appeared like twin stars over the darkened field, and the whole aspect of the country seemed speedily changed. A contemporary writer bears record that one hundred and twenty-seven provincial colleges were founded, perfected, and supported by them and their patriotic colleagues; while the University of Vilna was judiciously and munificently organized by its prince palatine, Adam Czartoryski himself, and a statute drawn up which declared it "an open high-school from the supreme board of public education for all the Polish provinces." Herein was every science exalting to the faculties of man, and conducive to his sacred aspirations, seriously and diligently inculcated; and every principle of morality and religion, purifying to his mixed nature, and therefore calculated to establish him in the answering conduct, truth, justice, and loyal obedience to the hereditary revered laws of the nation, equally instilled, qualifying him to uphold them, and to defend their freedom from all offensive operations at home or abroad, intended to subvert the purity of their code or the integrity of their administration. Such was the import of the implied vow on entering the university. Amongst the gallant youths brought up in such a school of public virtue was Thaddeus Kosciusko and the young Timotheus Niemcivitz, his friend from youth to age. Kosciusko, as has already been said, was of noble parentage; and to be the son of a Polish nobleman was to be born a soldier, and its practical education, with sabre and lance, his daily pastime. But military studies were included in these various colleges, and the friends soon became as mutually expert in arms as they ever after continued severally distinguished in the fields of their country with sword or lyre. Besides, neither of the young cavaliers passed quite away from their _alma mater_ without having each received the completing accolade of "true knighthood" by the stroke of "fealty to honor!" from the inaugurating sunbeam of some lovely woman's eye. Such befell the youthful Kosciusko, one bright evening, in a large and splendid circle of "the beautiful and brave" at Vilna; and it never lessened its full rays in his chivalric heart, from that hour devoted to the angel-like unknown who had shed them on him, and who had seemed to doubly consecrate the ardors of his soul to his country--her country--the country of all he loved and honored upon earth. How he wrought out this silent vow is a story of deep interest--equally faithful to his patriotic loyalty and to his ever-cherished love; and in some subsequent reminiscences of the hero, should the writer live to touch a Polish theme again, they may be related with additional honor to his memory. Brief was the time after the preceding sealing scene of the young Kosciusko for his military vocation took place, before himself and his friend Niemcivitz--who had also received his "anointing spell," which he gayly declared came by more bright eyes than he would dare whisper to their possessors--made a joint arrangement to quit the study of arms, though thus cheered on by the Muses and the Graces, and at once enter the exercise in some actual field of rugged war. The newly-opened dispute between Great Britain and her colonies in North America seemed calculated for their honorable practice. Consulting some of their most respected friends, they speedily found means to cross the seas, and shared the first great campaign under Washington. The issue of that campaign, and those which followed it, need not be repeated here; suffice it to say, the hard-fought contest ended in a treaty of peace between the parent country and its contumacious offspring, in the year 1783, with England's acknowledgment of their independence, under the name of the United States of America. The two gallant Poles returned to Europe, and onward to their own country, by a route tracked by former brave deeds; through France, Germany, and other lands, marked by the Gustavuses, the Montecuculi, the Turennes, the Condes, the Marlboroughs, the Eugenes, champions alike of national peace and national glory on those widely-extended plains and bulwarked frontiers, till the belligerent clouds of a still more threatening hostility than any of those repelled invasions were seen hovering luridly over their own beloved country. Warned thus, during their pleasant travel, of the coming events whose shadows seemed to rise on every side of Poland, in forms appalling to the luxurious, the avaricious, the indolently selfish, of every description in the land, but which only roused and nerved the hearts and arms of her two sons, courageous in the simplicity of their purpose--Poland's preservation! they hastened in that moment to her bosom. The events of this her mortal struggle, in fast union with these faithful sons, and other filial hearts, commemorated in the foregoing narrative of Thaddeus Sobieski, need not be recapitulated here. It amply tells the fate of the great kingdom which had stood as with gates of brass, until the intestine rivalries of an elective monarchy--the worshipped idol alike of presumptuous private ambition and pretended patriotic liberality--the true masked priest of public anarchy--rent them asunder, and the watchful nations, ready for plunder and extended dominion, poured into them a flood like the rivers of Babylon, over all her walls and towers. We have read that part of her bravest sons were swept away into distant lands; some to die in homeless exile, others to meet the honorable compassion and the cheering hopes of sympathy from a people like themselves, who had formerly fought the good fight for England's laws, liberties, and royal name in Europe. And some were shut up from the light of day in the fettered captivity of foreign prisons, until "the iron entered their souls." Amongst these noble captives were General Kosciusko and his faithful Achates, Niemcivitz, to whom might be justly applied the words of our bard of "The Seasons," affixed to the young brow of Sir Philip Sidney-- "The plume of war, with early chaplets crown'd The hero's laurel with the poet's bays." But the Emperor Paul, on his accession to the throne of the Czars, as has before been noted, was too generous a captor to hold in cage so sweet a singing bird and so noble a lion; and he gave them liberty, appending to the act, dearest to a free-born heart, an imperial donation to Kosciusko that might have furnished him with a golden argosy all over the world. But the wounded son of Poland declined it in a manner worthy her name, and with an ingenuous gratitude towards the munificent sovereign who had offered it, not as a bribe for "golden opinions," but as a sincere tribute to high heroic virtue. The writer of this note was informed of this fact many years ago, by a celebrated English banker, at that time at St. Petersburg, and corresponding between that city and London, with whom the imperial present had been lodged, and through whom General Kosciusko respectfully but decidedly declined its acceptance. Then it was that, after halting a short time in England, he with his school and camp companion in so many changes, prepared a second crossing over the Atlantic, to revisit its victor President in his olive-grounds at Mount Vernon. But Niemcivitz had another errand. His roving Cupid had long settled its wing, and he eagerly sought to plight, before Heaven's altar in the church, the already sacred vow he had pledged to a fair daughter of that country while sharing the dangers of its battlefields. It was with great difficulty the portcullis of a friendship strong as death had been raised in old chivalric Kent, to allow departure to so dear and honored a guest as he, who their master had seen fall in his memorable wounds on the plain of Brzesc. But he promised to return again, should the same sweet cherub that sat up aloft on his first voyage to America steer back his little bark in safety; and then he trusted to be once more clasped to the bosom of Poland, in that of his most beloved friend, a dweller in England. [Footnote: The portcullis, the gate, and the armorial crest of Beaufort has descended from the royal founder of the family, John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster.] Besides this cherished heir of his earliest remembrances, there were other friends of olden days who had welcomed him with gladdening recollections. Amongst these was the family of Vanderhorst, originally of the Spanish Netherlands, who, from religious rather than political motives, had transferred themselves from certain persecutions in that land during times of papal tyranny to the shelter of the British colonies on the Transatlantic shore, and who, on the separation of those colonies into independent states from the mother country, had removed, in relative grateful duties, to the governing land of their early refuge, and were now dwelling here in prosperity and happy repose, when General Kosciusko set his honored foot on its sea-girt and virtue-bulwarked coast He was their former guest while at New York, and he readily accepted their eager invitation that he would revisit them in their new paternal country. At this period the head of the respected family resided at Bristol, in Queen's Square, (the Grosvenor Square of that opulent city,) and Mr. Vanderhorst inhabited one of the most superb mansions in it. General Kosciusko arrived at his worthy host's door on the 7th of June, 1797, and was greeted by the hearty embrace of his old friend and the blushingly-presented cheeks of his two daughters, young and lovely, in their teens. Their brother, a fine youth, pressed the hand of his father's gallant and revered guest to his lips. Niemcivitz, meanwhile, with dew-like tear-drops glittering over his joyous smiles, greeted every one with the affectionate recognition of a heart that seemed to know only to love. The writer, for one, shall never forget those tears and smiles on that venerable but ever kindly face; yet it was only in his old age that I first knew him. But sweet sisters, whom I began to know in your bright bloom, I can never forget those charming looks of reciprocating welcome that sprang alone from the fulness of a good and truthful virgin heart. They are now before me, though the eyes which then beamed so ingenuously on the honored countenance of the Polish hero are closed in death; or rather, shall I say, re-opened on him in a fairer and never-closing light. He spent a happy week in that bright circle, in which the present commemorator has often since moved, and heard members of it over and over again describe its happy scenes; sometimes, the younger sister, my own especial friend; at other times the animated brother. The revered father has long been in his respected grave; and the elder sister, after an early marriage with an officer of distinction in the British army, breathed her last sigh in the island of Antigua, leaving an only child, a daughter, Cordelia Duncombe Taylor, a beautiful memorial of the surpassingly lovely mother and aunt from whom she is descended. During the Bristol sojourn, brief as it was, numerous were the sincere votaries to simple-hearted public virtue who sought it to pay their homage to the modest hero within its hospitable walls. Rufus King, then diplomatic minister from the United States to Great Britain, and the accomplished Turnbull, by pen, pencil, and sword the celebrated compeer of General Washington in his fields of glory, was here also. On the Polish chief's approach to the city becoming known, the above gentlemen, with its sheriffs, Penry and Edgar, and Colonel Sir George Thomas, commanding a regiment of dragoons in the vicinity, went out in procession to meet him, to give him honoring welcome to the British shores. Crowds of the neighboring gentry, in carriages or on horseback, thronged the cavalcade; and on each succeeding day, while he remained at Bristol, similar throngs of enthusiastic visitants congregated in the square to catch a moment's sight of him. The military band of the cavalry regiment attended every evening in the hall of Mr. Vanderhorst, to regale the honor-oppressed invalid with martial airs, from every land wherever a soldier's banner had waved. But letters arrived from Mount Vernon. General Washington had become impatient for his expected guest, and the morning of his separation from his Bristol friends was fixed. The vessel in which he was to embark was inspected with scrupulous care; and from the state of some of his yet unhealed wounds, he was obliged to be conveyed from Queen's Square to the quay in a sedan-chair. Mr. Vanderhorst and his son preceded it on foot, and two military officers, Captains Whorwood and Ferguson, walked on each side, each with his helmet off and in his hand, resting them on the poles of the sedan as they moved along. The colonel and other personal friends of Mr. Vanderhorst, and admirers of his hero-guest, followed in the rear of the chair, and a respectful and self-organized rank and file of humbler station closed the procession to the waterside. There he embarked in a lightly-manned boat, with a sail and rudder, a more precious freight than Caesar and his fortunes; for the Roman general crossed a barrier-river to subvert his country--Thaddeus Kosciusko a stream of refuge, after having sacrificed his all, though in vain, to preserve the independence of his native land. And thus the welcomed coming speeded parting guest took a grateful leave of the party who escorted him. They had seen him comfortably placed in the boat, and when it had put off, he and Niemcivitz, uncapped, extended their handkerchiefs, fluttering in the breeze, to them and the other bystanders, as the little sail gave bosom to the wind, and the farewell of this salution was answered with the warm and brave- hearted cheers of old British custom, and the waving of hats, which propitious sounds echoed back from cliff to cliff of the superb St. Vincent rocks that rampart the keys of the Bristol Avon. All along the river, as the bark proceeded down, it was met, when within sight of any of the numerous merchant villas that adorned its banks, by pretty pleasure-skiffs, bringing votive presents of fruits and flowers to the brave voyagers on board. And then, while the wounded and fatigued veteran, as he lay on his pallet on the deck, was only able to bow his head with a gracious accepting smile to the respectful messengers, Niemcivitz stood at the prow, his then bright locks dallying with the sweet zephyrs from the gardened shores, and spoke the general's and his own heartfelt thanks, in a language of poetry that best accorded with his own glowing and his chiefs' gallant feelings, and the generous _benedicite_ of the fair donators. Onward the little vessel sped, until it reached the American ship afloat in King's Road, to convey its two noble passengers to the new republic, just established in the western hemisphere. That the well- remembered aid-de-camp of its boasted hero, Washington, was received with warrior honors, need not be here described. He rested that night under the variegated flag streaming from the topmast head, which his own volunteer arm had assisted to place there; and he thought of Poland and of England till he glided into a gentle sleep, and dreamed of both. By the following letter it may be seen that his eyes were visited next day by a sweet vision, in real personal existence, of the same kind beings whose recollections alone had so blandly soothed his pillow on the surge. "Letter from General Kosciusko, to----Vanderhorst, Esq., _&c., &c., &c._ From the United States of America, No. 36 Queen's Square, Bristol. "At sea," (but without further date; circumstances, however, establishing it to have been written on or about the 21st or 22d June, 1797.) "DEAR SIR: "IT is the subject for a drama only, where the actors can express with the action and words what may approach nearest to what was passed yesterday within us, that I try to write. We were highly pleased, it is true, and with uncommon satisfaction, to see the approach of your family in a boat to our ship. But how short was the duration of the pleasure! When separation took place, our hearts were melted in tears. And we were frightened at their return, with fears of what might happen to them upon a high sea in so small a boat. Every rising wave gave the greatest pain to our anxiety, and the extreme painfulness of our alarm even increased when we were so far off that we could not see them more. "I must beg of you to give them a good reprimand. Their kind and sensible hearts passed the limits of safety for themselves, and gave us the most distressful emotions of soul. The sea was so rough, I am sure they must all be very sick. However, we send them the warmest thanks, with everlasting friendship and remembrance. Be pleased, also, to take for yourself our tender respects. "Never shall I forget so kind reception of me in your house, nor the attentions of your friends. I am sensible that I gave to you and your amiable family a great trouble; but your goodness will not acknowledge it, and by so doing, it more impresses my mind with the obligation, and with a true answering affection for your whole family. "I am, dear sir, with friendship and esteem, your most thankful and most obedient servant, "T. KOSCIUSKO." "I can nothing add to the feelings of my worthy friend but that I wish to the respectable and beautiful family of Vanderhorst all the happiness that virtue and the most excellent qualities of the heart can deserve. "J. NIEMCIVITZ. "The fair deity--I mean Mister Cupid--desires his best compliments to you all." This tender yet playful postscript from the young soldier votary of Cupid and the muse is evidently appended in the gayety of an affectionate heart, speeding to the land of his own lady-love, shortly to become his bride after his arrival, and which was so consummated. Kosciusko never swerved from his soul's loyalty to the bright Polish Laura of his cherished devotedness; and his subsequent correspondence, one of pure, unselfish friendship, with the youngest daughter of his venerable Anglo-American friend, lovely as she was pure, confided to her how faithful had been his heart's allegiance to the woman of his first and last vows. They had met during his track of early military fame, and had exchanged these vows. But blighting circumstances interfered, and they lived, and loved, but never met again. The narrator of these little reminiscences might well, perhaps most agreeably, drop the curtain here; for strange and stirring incidents awaited the two friends on their return to Europe, after a rather prolonged sojourn amongst the animated hospitalities of a grateful people. The homeward side of that curtain was wrought in mingled fabric, gold, silver, and various threaded yarns; and many were the different hands that threw the shuttles--emperors, kings, princes, friends, traitors; but above all, in the depth of mischief, the spirit of suspicion had steeped the web. Such was the lurid appearance of the great drama of Europe when Kosciusko and Niemcivitz set foot again upon its shores. Death had thrown his pall over some in high places and others in low. But more cheering suns soon arose, to scare away the darkening shadows, and the patriot heroes' hopes ascended with them. How some were honored, some deceived in the observance, need not lengthen out our present pages; suffice it to say that there were stars then rising on the horizon which promised fairer elements. It may be recollected that at the signing of the partition of Poland by the benumbed Senate, on the fatal day of its political decease the young prince Adam Czartoryski, the eldest son of the justly-renowned and virtuous palatine of Vilna, who had been so signal a benefactor to his country by the endowment and reformation of its chief schools, was sent out a hostage to Russia, in seal of the then final resignation. His education had been noble, like the principles of those schools in the foundation of which the brave, illustrious and also erudite Lithuanian family of Krasinski had been eminent sharers. [Footnote: Count Valerian Krasinski, a distinguished son of this house, has long been an honored guest in England, and held in high literary respect for his veritable and admirable works, written in fine English: "The Times of Philip Augustus," and "The History of the Protestant Reformation in Poland." The writer of this note knows that he has in his possession some beautiful manuscript tales, descriptive of the manners of Poland; one called "Amoina," a most remarkable story; another, entitled, "My Grandmamma," full of interesting matter, written as a solace in occasional rests from severer literary occupations. And she laments that he has not yet allowed himself to be prevailed on to give any of these touching and elegant reminiscences to his English readers.] The young prince's manners were equally noble with his principles, and not long in attracting the most powerful eyes in the empire. During the remainder of the reign of the Empress Catharine, she caused him to be treated with protective kindness, and on her demise he was instantly removed by the Emperor Paul from whatever surveillance had been left over him, into the imperial palace of St. Petersburg, where this justly-admired princely student of Vilna was to be the constant inmate and companion of the youthful Alexander, the eldest son and heir of the empire. Their studies, their amusements, were shared together; and they soon became friends like brothers. About the same time, as has before been related, Paul had given freedom to General Kosciusko and his compatriot Niemcivitz. And still, after the death of that mysteriously-destined sovereign, a halcyon sky seemed to hold its bland aspects over Russia's Sclavonian sister people, ancient Sarmatia. But ere long the scene changed, and the "seething-pot" of a universal ambition, the crucible of nations, grasped by the hand of Napoleon, began again to darken the world's atmosphere. Kosciusko now looked on, sometimes with yet struggling hopes, then with well-founded convictions that "the doom was not yet spent;" and no more to be deluded one way or another, while such shifting grounds and sudden earthquakes were erupting the earth under his feet, like the prophet of old, boding worse things to come, he withdrew himself far into the solitudes of nature, into the wide yet noiseless temple of God, where the prayer of an honest man's heart might be heard and answered by that all-merciful and all-wise Being, who sometimes leaves proud men to themselves, to the lawless, headlong driving of their arrogant passions, to show them, in the due turn of events, what a vicious self-aggrandizing, abhorrent and despicable monster in human shape such a noble creature, when turned from the divine purpose of his creation, may become. To such contemplations, and to the repose of a mind and conscience at peace with itself, did the once, nay, ever-renowned hero of Poland, retire into the most sequestered mountains of Switzerland. A few friends, of the same closed accounts with the world, congregated around him; and there he dwelt several years, beloved and revered, as, indeed, he was wherever he planted his pilgrim staff. He died at Soleure, in the house of a friend, Mr. Zeltner, in consequence of a fall from his horse while taking a solitary ride. He was buried there with every demonstration of respect in the power of the simple inhabitants to bestow. But the Emperor Alexander, on hearing of the event, would not allow remains so honorable to be divided from the land of their birth; and such high and sincere homage to the undaunted heroism and universally acknowledged integrity of the lamented dead found no difficulty in obtaining the distinguishing object sought, that of transferring his virtue- consecrated relics to the shrine of ancient Christian Poland, the city of Cracow, and there reinterring them in the great royal cemetery of the most revered patriots of the kingdom. Years rolled on over the head and heart of the patriot and the bard, Niemcivitz, the ever "faithful Achates" of his friend and his country, even after, to his bereaved heart, he had survived both. He had also become a widower. His gentle and delicate wife went to revisit her native climate in the United States, but died there. On his return thence to Europe, the consolations of a fraternal friendship, in the bosoms of his noble countrymen, who had become adopted denizens of free and happy England, vainly sought to retain him with them. Sorrow in a breast of his temperament cannot find rest in any place. His shining locks, once likened to those of Hyperion, became frosted by an age of wandering as well as of sadness; and the till then joyous and ever-tender heart of the sweetest poet of Sclavonian birth breathed its last sigh in Paris, in the summer of 1841. It was on the first of June; and on the eighth of the month he was buried with military honors and all the distinguishing rites of the national church. The funeral service was performed by the Archbishop of Chalcidonia, with a large body of the clergy attending. A choir of fifty professors sung the mass, and more than a thousand persons thronged the procession--persons of all nations, of all creeds, religious or political, of every rank amongst men, of every mind, from the prince to the peasant, that understood the true value of genius when helmed by virtue, either on the land or on the wave; whether in the field or in the cabinet; in the student's closet, or in the duties of domestic home. Such a man was Niemcivitz. So was he wept; so will he be remembered, proving, indeed, most convincingly, that there is a standard set up in men's hearts, if they would but look to it, which, whatever be their minor clashing opinions, shows that the truly great and good in this earth are all of one family in the estimation of pure intellect, the spiritual organ of all just estimation, which is, in fact, that of the kingdom of heaven--that kingdom which, if its laws to man were properly preserved and obeyed, would spread the shepherds' promised "peace and good-will to all mankind." But men may listen, approve, and admire, and yet withhold obedience. But why will the heirs of such a covenant, with sight and hearing, die from its inheritance? Kosciusko and Niemcivitz were real appreciators of so rich a birthright in "the better country!" and now are gone to Him who purchased it by His most precious blood, to enter with Him forever into its peaceful and glorious rest. J. P. BRISTOL, SEPTEMBER 1845. 
37361	----	Transcriber's Note: 1. Page scan source: http://www.archive.org/details/panmichaelhistor00sienuoft WORKS OF Henryk Sienkiewicz * * * In Desert and Wilderness With Fire and Sword The Deluge. _2_ vols. Pan Michael Children of the Soil "Quo Vadis" Sielanka, a Forest Picture The Knights of the Cross Without Dogma Whirlpools On the Field of Glory Let Us Follow Him PAN MICHAEL. Since Saint Michael leads the whole host of heaven, and has gained so many victories over the banners of hell, I prefer him as a patron.--The Deluge, Vol. I, p. 120. PAN MICHAEL. An Historical Novel OF POLAND, THE UKRAINE, AND TURKEY. A SEQUEL TO "WITH FIRE AND SWORD" AND "THE DELUGE." BY HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ. _AUTHORIZED AND UNABRIDGED TRANSLATION FROM THE POLISH BY_ JEREMIAH CURTIN. BOSTON: LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY. 1917. _Copyright, 1893, 1898_, By Jeremiah Curtin. * * * _All rights reserved_. Printers S. J. Parkhill & Co., Boston, Mass., U.S.A. TO JOHN MURRAY BROWN, Esq. My Dear Brown,--You read "With Fire and Sword" in manuscript: you appreciated its character, and your House published it. What you did for the first, you did later on for the other two parts of the trilogy. Remembering your deep interest in all the translations, I beg to inscribe to you the concluding volume, "Pan Michael." JEREMIAH CURTIN. Valentia Island, West Coast of Ireland, August 15. 1893. INTRODUCTION. The great struggle begun by the Cossacks, and, after the victory at Korsun, continued by them and the Russian population of the Commonwealth, is described in "With Fire and Sword," from the ambush on the Omelnik[1] to the battle of Berestechko. In "The Deluge" the Swedish invasion is the argument, and a mere reference is made to the war in which Moscow and the Ukraine are on one side and the Commonwealth on the other. In "Pan Michael," the present volume and closing work of the trilogy, the invader is the Turk, whose forces, though victorious at Kamenyets, are defeated at Hotin. "With Fire and Sword" covers the war of 1648-49, which was ended at Zborovo, where a treaty most hateful to the Poles was concluded between the Cossacks and the Commonwealth. In the second war there was only one great action, that of Berestechko (1651), an action followed by the treaty of Belaya Tserkoff, oppressive to the Cossacks and impossible of execution. The main event in the interval between Berestechko and the war with Moscow was the siege and peace of Jvanyets, of which mention is made in the introduction to "With Fire and Sword." After Jvanyets the Cossacks turned to Moscow and swore allegiance to the Tsar in 1654; in that year the war was begun to which reference is made in "The Deluge." In addition to the Cossack cause Moscow had questions of her own, and invaded the Commonwealth with two separate armies; of these one moved on White Russia and Lithuania, the other joined the forces of Hmelnitski. Moscow had rapid and brilliant success in the north. Smolensk, Orsha, and Vityebsk were taken in the opening campaign, as were Vilno, Kovno, and Grodno in the following summer. In 1655 White Russia and nearly all Lithuania came under the hand of the Tsar. In view of Moscow's great victories, Karl Gustav made a sudden descent on the Commonwealth. The Swedish monarch became master of Great and Little Poland almost without a blow. Yan Kazimir fled to Silesia, and a majority of the nobles took the oath to Karl Gustav. Moving from the Ukraine, Hmelnitski and Buturlin, the Tsar's voevoda, carried all before them till they encamped outside Lvoff; there the Cossack hetman gave audience to an envoy from Yan Kazimir, and was persuaded to withdraw with his army, thus leaving the king one city in the Commonwealth, a great boon, as was evident soon after. When Swedish success was almost perfect, and the Commonwealth seemed lost, the Swedes laid siege to Chenstohova. The amazing defence of that sanctuary roused religious spirit in the Poles, who had tired of Swedish rigor; they resumed allegiance to Yan Kazimir, who returned and rallied his adherents at Lvoff, the city spared by Hmelnitski. In the attempt to strike his rival in that capital of Red Russia, Karl Gustav made the swift though calamitous march across Poland which Sienkiewicz has described in "The Deluge" so vividly. Soon after his return from Silesia, the Polish king sent an embassy to the Tsar. Austria sent another to strengthen it and arrange a treaty or a truce on some basis. Yan Kazimir was eager for peace with Moscow at any price, especially a price paid in promises. The Tsar desired peace on terms that would give the Russian part of the Commonwealth to Moscow, Poland proper to become a hereditary kingdom in which the Tsar himself or his heir would succeed Yan Kazimir, and thus give to both States the same sovereign, though different administrations. An agreement was effected: the sovereign or heir of Moscow was to succeed Yan Kazimir, details of boundaries and succession to be settled by the Diet, both sides to refrain from hostilities till the Swedes were expelled, and neither to make peace with Sweden separately. Austria forced the Swedish garrison out of Cracow, and then induced the Elector of Brandenburg to desert Sweden. She did this by bringing Poland to grant independence to Princely, that is, Eastern Prussia, where the elector was duke and a vassal of the Commonwealth. The elector, who at that time held the casting vote in the choice of Emperor, agreed in return for the weighty service which Austria had shown him to give his voice for Leopold, who had just come to the throne in Vienna. Austria, having secured the imperial election at Poland's expense, took no further step on behalf of the Commonwealth, but disposed troops in Southern Poland and secured her own interests. The Elector, to make his place certain in the final treaty, took active part against Sweden. Peace was concluded in 1657 and ratified in 1660 at Oliva, With the expulsion of the Swedes the historical part of "The Deluge" is ended, no further reference being made to the main war between the Commonwealth and Moscow. Since the Turkish invasion described in "Pan Michael" was caused by events in this main war, a short account of its subsequent course and its connection with Turkey is in order in this place. Bogdan Hmelnitski dreaded the truce between Moscow and Poland. He feared lest the Poles, outwitting the Tsar, might recover control of the Cossacks; hence he joined the alliance which Karl Gustav had made with Rakotsy in 1657 to dismember the Commonwealth. Rakotsy was defeated, and the alliance failed; both Moscow and Austria were opposed to it. In 1657 Hmelnitski died, and was succeeded as hetman by Vygovski, chancellor of the Cossack army, though Yuri, the old hetman's son, had been chosen during his father's last illness. Vygovski was a noble, with leanings toward Poland, though his career was firm proof that he loved himself better than any cause. In the following year the new hetman made a treaty at Gadyach with the Commonwealth, and in conjunction with a Polish army defeated Prince Trubetskoi in a battle at Konotop. The Polish Diet annulled now the terms of the treaty concluded with Moscow two years before. Various reasons were alleged for this action; the true reason was that in 1655 the succession to the Polish crown had been offered to Austria, and, though refused in public audience, had been accepted in private by the Emperor for his son Leopold. In the following year Austria advised the Poles unofficially to offer this crown (already disposed of) to the Tsar, and thus induce him to give the Commonwealth a respite, and turn his arms against Sweden. The Poles followed this advice; the Tsar accepted their offer. When the service required had been rendered the treaty was broken. In the same year, however, Vygovski was deposed by the Cossacks, the treaty of Gadyach rejected, and Yuri Hmelnitski made hetman. The Cossacks were again in agreement with Moscow; but the Poles spared no effort to bring Yuri to their side, and they succeeded through the deposed hetman, Vygovski, who adhered to the Commonwealth so far. Both sides were preparing their heaviest blows at this juncture, and 1660 brought victory to the Poles. In the beginning of that year Moscow had some success in Lithuania, but was forced back at last toward Smolensk. The best Polish armies, trained in the Swedish struggle, and leaders like Charnyetski, Sapyeha, and Kmita, turned the scale in White Russia. In the Ukraine the Poles, under Lyubomirski and Pototski, were strengthened by Tartars and met the forces of Moscow under Sheremetyeff, with the Cossacks under Yuri Hmelnitski. At the critical moment, and during action, Yuri deserted to the Poles, and secured the defeat of Sheremetyeff, who surrendered at Chudnovo and was sent a Tartar captive to the Crimea. In all the shifting scenes of the conflict begun by the resolute Bogdan, there was nothing more striking than the conduct and person of Yuri Hmelnitski, who renounced all the work of his father. Great, it is said, was the wonder of the Poles when they saw him enter their camp. Bogdan Hmelnitski, a man of iron will and striking presence, had filled the whole Commonwealth with terror; his son gave way at the very first test put upon him, and in person was, as the Poles said, a dark, puny stripling, more like a timid novice in a monastery than a Cossack. In the words of the captive voevoda, Sheremetyeff, he was better fitted to be a gooseherd than a hetman. The Polish generals thought now that the conflict was over, and that the garrisons of Moscow would evacuate the Ukraine; but they did not. At this juncture the Polish troops, unpaid for a long time, refused service, revolted, formed what they called a "sacred league," and lived on the country. The Polish army vanished from the field, and after it the Tartars. Young Hmelnitski turned again to Moscow, and writing to the Tsar, declared that, forced by Cossack colonels, he had joined the Polish king, but wished to return to his former allegiance. Whatever his wishes may have been, he did not escape the Commonwealth; stronger men than he, and among them Vygovski, kept him well in hand. The Ukraine was split into two camps: that west of the river, or at least the Cossacks under Yuri Hmelnitski, obeyed the Commonwealth; the Eastern bank adhered to Moscow. Two years later, Yuri, the helpless hetman, left his office and took refuge in a cloister. He was succeeded by Teterya, a partisan of Poland, which now made every promise to the leading Cossacks, not as in the old time when the single argument was sabres. East of the Dnieper another hetman ruled; but there the Poles could take no part in struggles for the office. The rivalry was limited to partisans of Moscow. Besides the two groups of Cossacks on the Dnieper, there remained the Zaporojians. Teterya strove to win these to the Commonwealth, and Yan Kazimir, the king, assembled all the forces he could rally and crossed the Dnieper toward the end of 1663. At first he had success in some degree, but in the following year led back a shattered, hungry army. Teterya had received a promise from the Zaporojians that they would follow the example of the Eastern Ukraine. The king having failed in his expedition, Teterya declared that peace must be concluded between the Commonwealth and Moscow to save the Ukraine; that the country was reduced to ruin by all parties, neither one of which could subjugate the other; and that to save themselves the Cossacks would be forced to seek protection of the Sultan. Doroshenko succeeded Teterya in the hetman's office, and began to carry out this Cossack project. In 1666 he sent a message to the Porte declaring that the Ukraine was at the will of the Sultan. The Sultan commanded the Khan to march to the Ukraine. Toward the end of that year the Tartars brought aid to the Cossacks, and the joint army swept the field of Polish forces. Meanwhile negotiations had been pending a long time between the Commonwealth and Moscow. An insurrection under Lyubomirski brought the Poles to terms touching boundaries in the north. In the south Moscow demanded, besides the line of the Dnieper, Kieff and a certain district around it on the west. This the Poles refused stubbornly till Doroshenko's union with Turkey induced them to yield Kieff to Moscow for two years. On this basis a peace of twenty years was concluded in 1667, at Andrussoff near Smolensk. This peace became permanent afterward, and Kieff remained with Moscow. In 1668 Yan Kazimir abdicated, hoping to secure the succession to a king in alliance with France, and avoid a conflict with Turkey through French intervention. No foreign candidate, however, found sufficient support, and Olshovski,[2] the crafty and ambitious vice-chancellor, proposed at an opportune moment Prince Michael Vishnyevetski, son of the renowned Yeremi, and he was elected in 1669. The new king, of whom a short sketch is given in "The Deluge" (Vol. II. page 253), was, like Yuri Hmelnitski, the imbecile son of a terrible father. Elected by the lesser nobility in a moment of spite against magnates, he found no support among the latter. Without merit or influence at home, he sought support in Austria, and married a sister of the Emperor Leopold. Powerless in dealing with the Cossacks, to whom his name was detestable, without friends, except among the petty nobles, whose support in that juncture was more damaging than useful, he made a Turkish war certain. It came three years later, when the Sultan marched to support Doroshenko, and began the siege of Kamenyets, described in "Pan Michael." After the fall of Kamenyets, the Turks pushed on to Lvoff, and dictated the peace of Buchach, which gave Podolia and the western bank of the Dnieper, except Kieff and its district, to the Sultan. The battle of Hotin, described in the epilogue, made Sobieski king in 1674. This election was considered a triumph for France, an enemy of Austria at that time; and during the earlier years of his reign Sobieski was on the French side, and had sound reasons for this policy. In 1674 the Elector of Brandenburg attacked Swedish Pomerania; France supported Sweden, and roused Poland to oppose the Elector, who had fought against Yan Kazimir, his own suzerain. Sobieski, supported by subsidies from France, made levies of troops, went to Dantzig in 1677, concluded with Sweden a secret agreement to make common cause with her and attack the Elector. But in spite of subsidies, preparations, and treaties, the Polish king took no action. Sweden, without an ally, was defeated; Poland lost the last chance of recovering Prussia, and holding thereby an independent position in Europe. The influence of Austria, the power of the church, and the intrigues of his own wife, bore away Sobieski. He deserted the alliance with France. To the end of his life he served Austria far better than Poland, though not wishing to do so, and died in 1696 complaining of this world, in which, as he said, "sin, malice, and treason are rampant." Jeremiah Curtin. Cahirciveen, County Kerry, Ireland, August 17, 1893. * * * Note.--The reign of Sobieski brought to an end that part of Polish history during which the Commonwealth was able to take the initiative in foreign politics. After Sobieski the Poles ceased to be a positive power in Europe. I have not been able to verify the saying said to have been uttered by Sobieski at Vienna. In the text (page 401) he is made to say that Pani Wojnina (War's wife) may give birth to people, but Wojna (War) only destroys them. Who the Pani Wojnina was that Sobieski had in view I am unable to say at this moment, unless she was _Peace_. PAN MICHAEL. CHAPTER I. After the close of the Hungarian war, when the marriage of Pan Andrei Kmita and Panna Aleksandra Billevich was celebrated, a cavalier, equally meritorious and famous in the Commonwealth, Pan Michael Volodyovski, colonel of the Lauda squadron, was to enter the bonds of marriage with Panna Anna Borzobogati Krasienski. But notable hindrances rose, which delayed and put back the affair. The lady was a foster-daughter of Princess Griselda Vishnyevetski, without whose permission Panna Anna would in no wise consent to the wedding. Pan Michael was forced therefore to leave his affianced in Vodokty, by reason of the troubled times, and go alone to Zamost for the consent and the blessing of the princess. But a favoring star did not guide him: he did not find the princess in Zamost; she had gone to the imperial court in Vienna for the education of her son. The persistent knight followed her even to Vienna, though that took much time. When he had arranged the affair there successfully, he turned homeward in confident hope. He found troubled times at home: the army was forming a confederacy; in the Ukraine uprisings continued; at the eastern boundary the conflagration had not ceased. New forces were assembled to defend the frontiers even in some fashion. Before Pan Michael had reached Warsaw, he received a commission issued by the voevoda of Rus. Thinking that the country should be preferred at all times to private affairs, he relinquished his plan of immediate marriage and moved to the Ukraine. He campaigned in those regions some years, living in battles, in unspeakable hardships and labor, having barely a chance on occasions to send letters to the expectant lady. Next he was envoy to the Crimea; then came the unfortunate civil war with Pan Lyubomirski, in which Volodyovski fought on the side of the king against that traitor and infamous man; then he went to the Ukraine a second time under Sobieski. From these achievements the glory of his name increased in such manner that he was considered on all sides as the first soldier of the Commonwealth, but the years were passing for him in anxiety, sighs, and yearning. At last 1668 came, when he was sent at command of the castellan to rest; at the beginning of the year he went for the cherished lady, and taking her from Vodokty, they set out for Cracow. They were journeying to Cracow, because Princess Griselda, who had returned from the dominions of the emperor, invited Pan Michael to have the marriage at that place, and offered herself to be mother to the bride. The Kmitas remained at home, not thinking to receive early news from Pan Michael, and altogether intent on a new guest that was coming to Vodokty. Providence had till that time withheld from them children; now a change was impending, happy and in accordance with their wishes. That year was surpassingly fruitful. Grain had given such a bountiful yield that the barns could not hold it, and the whole land, in the length and the breadth of it, was covered with stacks. In neighborhoods ravaged by war the young pine groves had grown in one spring more than in two years at other times. There was abundance of game and of mushrooms in the forests, as if the unusual fruitfulness of the earth had been extended to all things that lived on it. Hence the friends of Pan Michael drew happy omens for his marriage also, but the fates ordained otherwise. CHAPTER II. On a certain beautiful day of autumn Pan Andrei Kmita was sitting under the shady roof of a summer-house and drinking his after-dinner mead; he gazed at his wife from time to time through the lattice, which was grown over with wild hops. Pani Kmita was walking on a neatly swept path in front of the summer-house. The lady was unusually stately; bright-haired, with a face serene, almost angelic. She walked slowly and carefully, for there was in her a fulness of dignity and blessing. Pan Andrei gazed at her with intense love. When she moved, his look turned after her with such attachment as a dog shows his master with his eyes. At moments he smiled, for he was greatly rejoiced at sight of her, and he twirled his mustache upward. At such moments there appeared on his face a certain expression of glad frolicsomeness. It was clear that the soldier was fun-loving by nature, and in years of single life had played many a prank. Silence in the garden was broken only by the sound of over-ripe fruit dropping to the earth and the buzzing of insects. The weather had settled marvellously. It was the beginning of September. The sun burned no longer with excessive violence, but cast yet abundant golden rays. In these rays ruddy apples were shining among the gray leaves and hung in such numbers that they hid the branches. The limbs of plum-trees were bending under plums with bluish wax on them. The first movement of air was shown by the spider-threads fastened to the trees; these swayed with a breeze so slight that it did not stir even the leaves. Perhaps it was that calm in the world which had so filled Pan Kmita with joyfulness, for his face grew more radiant each moment. At last he took a draught of mead and said to his wife,-- "Olenka, but come here! I will tell you something." "It may be something that I should not like to hear." "As God is dear to me, it is not. Give me your ear." Saying this, he seized her by the waist, pressed his mustaches to her bright hair, and whispered, "If a boy, let him be Michael." She turned away with face somewhat flushed, and whispered, "But you promised not to object to Heraclius." "Do you not see that it is to honor Volodyovski?" "But should not the first remembrance be given to my grandfather?" "And my benefactor-- H'm! true--but the next will be Michael. It cannot be otherwise." Here Olenka, standing up, tried to free herself from the arms of Pan Andrei; but he, gathering her in with still greater force, began to kiss her on the lips and the eyes, repeating at the same time,-- "O thou my hundreds, my thousands, my dearest love!" Further conversation was interrupted by a lad who appeared at the end of the walk and ran quickly toward the summer-house. "What is wanted?" asked Kmita, freeing his wife. "Pan Kharlamp has come, and is waiting in the parlor," said the boy. "And there he is himself!" exclaimed Kmita, at sight of a man approaching the summer-house. "For God's sake, how gray his mustache is! Greetings to you, dear comrade! greetings, old friend!" With these words he rushed from the summer-house, and hurried with open arms toward Pan Kharlamp. But first Pan Kharlamp bowed low to Olenka, whom he had seen in old times at the court of Kyedani; then he pressed her hand to his enormous mustache, and casting himself into the embraces of Kmita, sobbed on his shoulder. "For God's sake, what is the matter?" cried the astonished host. "God has given happiness to one and taken it from another," said Kharlamp. "But the reasons of my sorrow I can tell only to you." Here he looked at Olenka; she, seeing that he was unwilling to speak in her presence, said to her husband, "I will send mead to you, gentlemen, and now I leave you." Kmita took Pan Kharlamp to the summer-house, and seating him on a bench, asked, "What is the matter? Are you in need of assistance? Count on me as on Zavisha!"[3] "Nothing is the matter with me," said the old soldier, "and I need no assistance while I can move this hand and this sabre; but our friend, the most worthy cavalier in the Commonwealth, is in cruel suffering. I know not whether he is breathing yet." "By Christ's wounds! Has anything happened to Volodyovski?" "Yes," said Kharlamp, giving way to a new outburst of tears. "Know that Panna Anna Borzobogati has left this vale--" "Is dead!" cried Kmita, seizing his head with both hands. "As a bird pierced by a shaft." A moment of silence followed,--no sound but that of apples dropping here and there to the ground heavily, and of Pan Kharlamp panting more loudly while restraining his weeping. But Kmita was wringing his hands, and repeated, nodding his head,-- "Dear God! dear God! dear God!" "Your grace will not wonder at my tears," said Kharlamp, at last; "for if your heart is pressed by unendurable pain at the mere tidings of what happened, what must it be to me, who was witness of her death and her pain, of her suffering, which surpassed every natural measure?" Here the servant appeared, bringing a tray with a decanter and a second glass on it; after him came Kmita's wife, who could not repress her curiosity. Looking at her husband's face and seeing in it deep suffering, she said straightway,-- "What tidings have you brought? Do not dismiss me. I will comfort you as far as possible, or I will weep with you, or will help you with counsel." "Help for this will not be found in your head," said Pan Andrei; "and I fear that your health will suffer from sorrow." "I can endure much. It is more grievous to live in uncertainty." "Anusia is dead," said Kmita. Olenka grew somewhat pale, and dropped on the bench heavily. Kmita thought that she would faint; but grief acted more quickly than the sudden announcement, and she began to weep. Both knights accompanied her immediately. "Olenka," said Kmita, at last, wishing to turn his wife's thoughts in another direction, "do you not think that she is in heaven?" "Not for her do I weep, but over the loss of her, and over the loneliness of Pan Michael. As to her eternal happiness, I should wish to have such hope for my own salvation as I have for hers. There was not a worthier maiden, or one of better heart, or more honest. O my Anulka![4] my Anulka, beloved!" "I saw her death," said Kharlamp; "may God grant us all to die with such piety!" Here silence followed, as if some of their sorrow had gone with their tears; then Kmita said, "Tell us how it was, and take some mead to support you." "Thank you," said Kharlamp; "I will drink from time to time if you will drink with me; for pain seizes not only the heart, but the throat, like a wolf, and when it seizes a man it might choke him unless he received some assistance. I was going from Chenstohova to my native place to settle there quietly in my old age. I have had war enough; as a stripling I began to practise, and now my mustache is gray. If I cannot stay at home altogether, I will go out under some banner; but these military confederations to the loss of the country and the profit of the enemy, and these civil wars, have disgusted me thoroughly with arms. Dear God! the pelican nourishes its children with its blood, it is true; but this country has no longer even blood in its breast. Sviderski[5] was a great soldier. May God judge him!" "My dearest Anulka!" interrupted Pani Kmita, with weeping, "without thee what would have happened to me and to all of us? Thou wert a refuge and a defence to me! O my beloved Anulka!" Hearing this, Kharlamp sobbed anew, but briefly, for Kmita interrupted him with a question, "But where did you meet Pan Michael?" "In Chenstohova, where he and she intended to rest, for they were visiting the shrine there after the journey. He told me at once how he was going from your place to Cracow, to Princess Griselda, without whose permission and blessing Anusia was unwilling to marry. The maiden was in good health at that time, and Pan Michael was as joyful as a bird. 'See,' said he, 'the Lord God has given me a reward for my labor!' He boasted also not a little,--God comfort him!--and joked with me because I, as you know, quarrelled with him on a time concerning the lady, and we were to fight a duel. Where is she now, poor woman?" Here Kharlamp broke out again, but briefly, for Kmita stopped him a second time: "You say that she was well? How came the attack, then, so suddenly?" "That it was sudden, is true. She was lodging with Pani Martsin Zamoyski, who, with her husband, was spending some time in Chenstohova. Pan Michael used to sit all the day with her; he complained of delay somewhat, and said they might be a whole year on the journey to Cracow, for every one on the way would detain him. And this is no wonder! Every man is glad to entertain such a soldier as Pan Michael, and whoever could catch him would keep him. He took me to the lady too, and threatened smilingly that he would cut me to pieces if I made love to her; but he was the whole world to her. At times, too, my heart sank, for my own sake, because a man in old age is like a nail in a wall. Never mind! But one night Pan Michael rushed in to me in dreadful distress: 'In God's name, can you find a doctor?' 'What has happened?' 'The sick woman knows no one!' 'When did she fall ill?' asked I. 'Pani Zamoyski has just given me word,' replied he. 'It is night now. Where can I look for a doctor, when there is nothing here but a cloister, and in the town more ruins than people?' I found a surgeon at last, and he was even unwilling to go; I had to drive him with weapons. But a priest was more needed then than a surgeon; we found at her bedside, in fact, a worthy Paulist, who, through prayer, had restored her to consciousness. She was able to receive the sacrament, and take an affecting farewell of Pan Michael. At noon of the following day it was all over with her. The surgeon said that some one must have given her something, though that is impossible, for witchcraft has no power in Chenstohova. But what happened to Pan Michael, what he said,--my hope is that the Lord Jesus will not account this to him, for a man does not reckon with words when pain is tearing him. You see," Pan Kharlamp lowered his voice, "he blasphemed in his forgetfulness." "For God's sake, did he blaspheme?" inquired Kmita, in a whisper. "He rushed out from her corpse to the ante-chamber, from the ante-chamber to the yard, and reeled about like a drunken man. He raised his hands then, and began to cry with a dreadful voice: 'Such is the reward for my wounds, for my toils, for my blood, for my love of country! I had one lamb,' said he, 'and that one, O Lord, Thou didst take from me. To hurl down an armed man,' said he, 'who walks the earth in pride, is a deed for God's hand; but a cat, a hawk, or a kite can kill a harmless dove, and--'" "By the wounds of God!" exclaimed Pani Kmita, "say no more, or you will draw misfortune on this house." Kharlamp made the sign of the cross and continued, "The poor soldier thought that he had done service, and still this was his reward. Ah, God knows better what He does, though that is not to be understood by man's reason, nor measured by human justice. Straightway after this blasphemy he grew rigid and fell on the ground; and the priest read an exorcism over him, so that foul spirits should not enter him, as they might, enticed by his blasphemy." "Did he come to himself quickly?" "He lay as if dead about an hour; then he recovered and went to his room; he would see no one. At the time of the burial I said to him, 'Pan Michael, have God in your heart.' He made me no answer. I stayed three days more in Chenstohova, for I was loath to leave him; but I knocked in vain at his door. He did not want me. I struggled with my thoughts: what was I to do,--try longer at the door, or go away? How was I to leave a man without comfort? But finding that I could do nothing, I resolved to go to Pan Yan Skshetuski. He is his best friend, and Pan Zagloba is his friend also; maybe they will touch his heart somehow, and especially Pan Zagloba, who is quick-witted, and knows how to talk over any man." "Did you go to Pan Yan?" "I did, but God gave no luck, for he and Zagloba had gone to Kalish to Pan Stanislav. No one could tell when they would return. Then I thought to myself, 'As my road is toward Jmud, I will go to Pan Kmita and tell what has happened.'" "I knew from of old that you were a worthy cavalier," said Kmita. "It is not a question of me in this case, but of Pan Michael," said Kharlamp; "and I confess that I fear for him greatly lest his mind be disturbed." "God preserve him from that!" said Pani Kmita. "If God preserves him, he will certainly take the habit, for I tell you that such sorrow I have never seen in my life. And it is a pity to lose such a soldier as he,--it is a pity!" "How a pity? The glory of God will increase thereby," said Pani Kmita. Kharlamp's mustache began to quiver, and he rubbed his forehead. "Well, gracious benefactress, either it will increase or it will not increase. Consider how many Pagans and heretics he has destroyed in his life, by which he has surely delighted our Saviour and His Mother more than any one priest could with sermons. H'm! it is a thing worthy of thought! Let every one serve the glory of God as he knows best. Among the Jesuits legions of men may be found wiser than Pan Michael, but another such sabre as his there is not in the Commonwealth." "True, as God is dear to me!" cried Kmita. "Do you know whether he stayed in Chenstohova?" "He was there when I left; what he did later, I know not. I know only this: God preserve him from losing his mind, God preserve him from sickness, which frequently comes with despair,--he will be alone, without aid, without a relative, without a friend, without consolation." "May the Most Holy Lady in that place of miracles save thee, faithful friend, who hast done so much for me that a brother could not have done more!" Pani Kmita fell into deep thought, and silence continued long; at last she raised her bright head, and said, "Yendrek, do you remember how much we owe him?" "If I forget, I will borrow eyes from a dog, for I shall not dare to look an honest man in the face with my own eyes." "Yendrek, you cannot leave him in that state." "How can I help him?" "Go to him." "There speaks a woman's honest heart; there is a noble woman," cried Kharlamp, seizing her hands and covering them with kisses. But the advice was not to Kmita's taste; hence he began to twist his head, and said, "I would go to the ends of the earth for him, but--you yourself know--if you were well--I do not say--but you know. God preserve you from any accident! I should wither away from anxiety-- A wife is above the best friend. I am sorry for Pan Michael but--you yourself know--" "I will remain under the protection of the Lauda fathers. It is peaceful here now, and I shall not be afraid of any small thing. Without God's will a hair will not fall from my head; and Pan Michael needs rescue, perhaps." "Oi, he needs it!" put in Kharlamp. "Yendrek, I am in good health. Harm will come to me from no one; I know that you are unwilling to go--" "I would rather go against cannon with an oven-stick!" interrupted Kmita. "If you stay, do you think it will not be bitter for you here when you think, 'I have abandoned my friend'? and besides, the Lord God may easily take away His blessing in His just wrath." "You beat a knot into my head. You say that He may take away His blessing? I fear that." "It is a sacred duty to save such a friend as Pan Michael." "I love Michael with my whole heart. The case is a hard one! If there is need, there is urgent need, for every hour in this matter is important. I will go at once to the stables. By the living God, is there no other way out of it? The Evil One inspired Pan Yan and Zagloba to go to Kalish. It is not a question with me of myself, but of you, dearest. I would rather lose all I have than be without you one day. Should any one say that I go from you not on public service, I would plant my sword-hilt in his mouth to the cross. Duty, you say? Let it be so. He is a fool who hesitates. If this were for any one else but Michael, I never should do it." Here Pan Andrei turned to Kharlamp. "Gracious sir, I beg you to come to the stable; we will choose horses. And you, Olenka, see that my trunk is ready. Let some of the Lauda men look to the threshing. Pan Kharlamp, you must stay with us even a fortnight; you will take care of my wife for me. Some land may be found for you here in the neighborhood. Take Lyubich! Come to the stable. I will start in an hour. If 'tis needful, 'tis needful!" CHAPTER III. Some time before sunset Pan Kmita set out, blessed by his tearful wife with a crucifix, in which splinters of the Holy Cross were set in gold; and since during long years the knight had been inured to sudden journeys, when he started, he rushed forth as if to seize Tartars escaping with plunder. When he reached Vilno, he held on through Grodno to Byalystok, and thence to Syedlets. In passing through Lukov, he learned that Pan Yan had returned the day previous from Kalish with his wife and children, Pan Zagloba accompanying. He determined, therefore, to go to them; for with whom could he take more efficient counsel touching the rescue of Pan Michael? They received him with surprise and delight, which were turned into weeping, however, when he told them the cause of his coming. Pan Zagloba was unable all day to calm himself, and shed so many tears at the pond that, as he said himself afterward, the pond rose, and they had to lift the flood-gate. But when he had wept himself out, he thought deeply; and this is what he said at the council,-- "Yan, you cannot go, for you are chosen to the Chapter; there will be a multitude of cases, as after so many wars the country is full of unquiet spirits. Prom what you relate. Pan Kmita, it is clear that the storks[6] will remain in Vodokty all winter, since they are on the work-list and must attend to their duties. It is no wonder that with such housekeeping you are in no haste for the journey, especially since 'tis unknown how long it may last. You have shown a great heart by coming; but if I am to give earnest advice, I will say: Go home; for in Michael's case a near confidant is called for,--one who will not be offended at a harsh answer, or because there is no wish to admit him. Patience is needful, and long experience; and your grace has only friendship for Michael, which in such a contingency is not enough. But be not offended, for you must confess that Yan and I are older friends, and have passed through more adventures with him than you have. Dear God! how many are the times in which I saved him, and he me, from disaster!" "I will resign my functions as a deputy," interrupted Pan Yan. "Yan, that is public service!" retorted Zagloba, with sternness. "God sees," said the afflicted Pan Yan, "that I love my cousin Stanislav with true brotherly affection; but Michael is nearer to me than a brother." "He is nearer to me than any blood relative, especially since I never had one. It is not the time now to discuss our affection. Do you see, Yan, if this misfortune had struck Michael recently, perhaps I would say to you, 'Give the Chapter to the Devil, and go!' But let us calculate how much time has passed since Kharlamp reached Jmud from Chenstohova, and while Pan Andrei was coming from Jmud here to us. Now, it is needful not only to go to Michael, but to remain with him; not only to weep with him, but to persuade him; not only to show him the Crucified as an example, but to cheer his heart and mind with pleasant jokes. So you know who ought to go,--I! and I will go, so help me God! If I find him in Chenstohova, I will bring him to this place; if I do not find him, I will follow him even to Moldavia, and I will not cease to seek for him while I am able to raise with my own strength a pinch of snuff to my nostrils." When they had heard this, the two knights fell to embracing Pan Zagloba; and he grew somewhat tender over the misfortune of Pan Michael and his own coming fatigues. Therefore he began to shed tears; and at last, when he had embraces enough, he said,-- "But do not thank me for Pan Michael; you are not nearer to him than I." "Not for Pan Michael do we thank you," said Kmita; "but that man must have a heart of iron, or rather one not at all human, who would be unmoved at sight of your readiness, which in the service of a friend makes no account of fatigue and has no thought for age. Other men in your years think only of a warm corner; but you speak of a long journey as if you were of my years or those of Pan Yan." Zagloba did not conceal his years, it is true; but, in general, he did not wish people to mention old age as an attendant of incapability. Hence, though his eyes were still red, he glanced quickly and with a certain dissatisfaction at Kmita, and answered,-- "My dear sir, when my seventy-seventh year was beginning, my heart felt a slight sinking, because two axes[7] were over my neck; but when the eighth ten of years passed me, such courage entered my body that a wife tripped into my brain. And had I married, we might see who would be first to have cause of boasting, you or I." "I am not given to boasting," said Kmita; "but I do not spare praises on your grace." "And I should have surely confused you as I did Revera Pototski, the hetman, in presence of the king, when he jested at my age. I challenged him to show who could make the greatest number of goat-springs one after the other. And what came of it? The hetman made three; the haiduks had to lift him, for he could not rise alone; and I went all around with nearly thirty-five springs. Ask Pan Yan, who saw it all with his own eyes." Pan Yan, knowing that Zagloba had had for some time the habit of referring to him as an eye-witness of everything, did not wink, but spoke again of Pan Michael. Zagloba sank into silence, and began to think of some subject deeply; at last he dropped into better humor and said after supper,-- "I will tell you a thing that not every mind could hit upon. I trust in God that our Michael will come out of this trouble more easily than we thought at first." "God grant! but whence did that come to your head?" inquired Kmita. "H'm! Besides an acquaintance with Michael, it is necessary to have quick wit from nature and long experience, and the latter is not possible at your years. Each man has his own special qualities. When misfortune strikes some men, it is, speaking figuratively, as if you were to throw a stone into a river. On the surface the water flows, as it were, quietly; but the stone lies at the bottom and hinders the natural current, and stops it and tears it terribly, and it will lie there and tear it till all the water of that river flows into the Styx. Yan, you may be counted with such men; but there is more suffering in the world for them, since the pain, and the memory of what caused it, do not leave them. But others receive misfortune as if some one had struck them with a fist on the shoulder. They lose their senses for the moment, revive later on, and when the black-and-blue spot is well, they forget it. Oi! such a nature is better in this world, which is full of misfortune." The knights listened with attention to the wise words of Zagloba; he was glad to see that they listened with such respect, and continued,-- "I know Michael through and through; and God is my witness that I have no wish to find fault with him now, but it seems to me that he grieves more for the loss of the marriage than of the maiden. It is nothing that terrible despair has come, though that too, especially for him, is a misfortune above misfortunes. You cannot even imagine what a wish that man had to marry. There is not in him greed or ambition of any kind, or selfishness: he has left what he had, he has as good as lost his own fortune, he has not asked, for his salary; but in return for all his labors and services he expected, from the Lord God and the Commonwealth, only a wife. And he reckoned in his soul that such bread as that belonged to him; and he was about to put it to his mouth, when right there, as it were, some one sneered at him, saying, 'You have it now! Eat it!' What wonder that despair seized him? I do not say that he did not grieve for the maiden; but as God is dear to me, he grieved more for the marriage, though he would himself swear to the opposite." "That may be true," said Pan Yan. "Wait! Only let those wounds of his soul close and heal; we shall see if his old wish will not come again. The danger is only in this, that now, under the weight of despair, he may do something or make some decision which he would regret later on. But what was to happen has happened, for in misfortune decision comes quickly. My attendant is packing my clothes. I am not speaking to dissuade you from going; I wished only to comfort you." "Again, father, you will be a plaster to Michael," said Pan Yan. "As I was to you, you remember? If I can only find him soon, for I fear that he may be hiding in some hermitage, or that he will disappear somewhere in the distant steppes to which he is accustomed from childhood. Pan Kmita, your grace criticises my age; but I tell you that if ever a courier rushed on with despatches as I shall rush, then command me when I return to unravel old silk, shell peas, or give me a distaff. Neither will hardships detain me, nor wonders of hospitality tempt me; eating, even drinking, will not stop me. You have not yet seen such a journey! I can now barely sit in my place, just as if some one were pricking me from under the bench with an awl. I have even ordered that my travelling-shirt be rubbed with goats' tallow, so as to resist the serpent." CHAPTER IV. Pan Zagloba did not drive forward so swiftly, however, as he had promised himself and his comrades. The nearer he was to Warsaw, the more, slowly he travelled. It was the time in which Yan Kazimir, king, statesman, and great leader, having extinguished foreign conflagration and brought the Commonwealth, as it were, from the depths of a deluge, had abdicated lordship. He had suffered everything, had endured everything, had exposed his breast to every blow which came from a foreign enemy; but when later on he aimed at internal reforms and instead of aid from the nation found only opposition and ingratitude, he removed from his anointed temples of his own will that crown which had become an unendurable burden to him. The district and general diets had been held already; and Prajmovski, the primate, summoned the Convocation for November 5. Great were the early efforts of various candidates, great the rivalry of various parties; and though it was the election alone which would decide, still, each one felt the uncommon importance of the Diet of Convocation. Therefore deputies were hastening to Warsaw, on wheels and on horseback, with attendants and servants; senators were moving to the capital, and with each one of them a magnificent escort. The roads were crowded; the inns were filled, and discovery of lodgings for a night was connected with great delay. Places were yielded, however, to Zagloba out of regard for his age; but at the same time his immense reputation exposed him more than once to loss of time. This was the way of it: He would come to some public house, and not another finger could be thrust into the place; the personage who with his escort had occupied the building would come out then, through curiosity to see who had arrived, and finding a man with mustaches and beard as white as milk, would say, in view of such dignity,-- "I beg your grace, my benefactor, to come with me for a chance bite." Zagloba was no boor, and refused not, knowing that acquaintance with him would be pleasing to every man. When the host conducted him over the threshold and asked, "Whom have I the honor?" he merely put his hands on his hips, and sure of the effect, answered in two words, "Zagloba sum! (I am Zagloba)." Indeed, it never happened that after those two words a great opening of arms did not follow, and exclamations, "I shall inscribe this among my most fortunate days!" And the cries of officers or nobles, "Look at him! that is the model, the _gloria et decus_ (glory and honor) of all the cavaliers of the Commonwealth." They hurried together then to wonder at Zagloba; the younger men came to kiss the skirts of his travelling-coat. After that they drew out of the wagons kegs and vessels, and a _gaudium_ (rejoicing) followed, continuing sometimes a number of days. It was thought universally that he was going as a deputy to the Diet; and when he declared that he was not, the astonishment was general. But he explained that he had yielded his mandate to Pan Domashevski, so that younger men might devote themselves to public affairs. To some he related the real reason why he was on the road; but when others inquired, he put them off with these words,-- "Accustomed to war from youthful years, I wanted in old age to have a last drive at Doroshenko." After these words they wondered still more at him, and to no one did he seem less important because he was not a deputy, for all knew that among the audience were men who had more power than the deputies themselves. Besides, every senator, even the most eminent, had in mind that, a couple of months later, the election would follow, and then every word of a man of such fame among the knighthood would have value beyond estimation. They carried, therefore, Zagloba in their arms, and stood before him with bared heads, even the greatest lords. Pan Podlyaski drank three days with him; the Patses, whom he met in Kalushyn, bore him on their hands. More than one man gave command to thrust into the old hero's hamper considerable gifts, from vodka and wine to richly ornamented caskets, sabres, and pistols. Zagloba's servants too had good profit from this; and he, despite resolutions and promises, travelled so slowly that only on the third week did he reach Minsk. But he did not halt for refreshments at Minsk. Driving to the square, he saw a retinue so conspicuous and splendid that he had not met such on the road hitherto: attendants in brilliant colors; half a regiment of infantry alone, for to the Diet of Convocation men did not go armed on horseback, but these troops were in such order that the King of Sweden had not a better guard; the place was filled with gilded carriages carrying tapestry and carpets to use in public houses on the way; wagons with provision chests and supplies of food; with them were servants, nearly all foreign, so that in that throng few spoke an intelligible tongue. Zagloba saw at last an attendant in Polish costume; hence he gave order to halt, and sure of good entertainment, had put forth one foot already from the wagon, asking at the same time, "But whose retinue is this, so splendid that the king can have no better?" "Whose should it be," replied the attendant, "but that of our lord, the Prince Marshal of Lithuania?" "Whose?" repeated Zagloba. "Are you deaf? Prince Boguslav Radzivill, who is going to the Convocation, but who, God grant, after the election will be elected." Zagloba hid his foot quickly in the wagon. "Drive on!" cried he. "There is nothing here for us!" And he went on, trembling from indignation. "O Great God!" said he, "inscrutable are Thy decrees; and if Thou dost not shatter this traitor with Thy thunderbolts. Thou hast in this some hidden designs which it is not permitted to reach by man's reason, though judging in human fashion, it would have been proper to give a good blow to such a bull-driver. But it is evident that evil is working in this most illustrious Commonwealth, if such traitors, without honor and conscience, not only receive no punishment, but ride in safety and power,--nay, exercise civil functions also. It must be that we shall perish, for in what other country, in what other State, could such a thing be brought to pass? Yan Kazimir was a good king, but he forgave too often, and accustomed the wickedest to trust in impunity and safety. Still, that is not his fault alone. It is clear that in the nation civil conscience and the feeling of public virtue has perished utterly. Tfu! tfu! he a deputy! In his infamous hands citizens place the integrity and safety of the country,--in those very hands with which he was rending it and fastening it in Swedish fetters. We shall be lost; it cannot be otherwise! Still more to make a king of him, the--But what! 'tis evident that everything is possible among such people. He a deputy! For God's sake! But the law declares clearly that a man who fills offices in a foreign country cannot be a deputy; and he is a governor-general in princely Prussia under his mangy uncle. Ah, ha! wait, I have thee. And verifications at the Diet, what are they for? If I do not go to the hall and raise this question, though I am only a spectator, may I be turned this minute into a fat sheep, and my driver into a butcher! I will find among deputies men to support me. I know not, traitor, whether I can overcome such a potentate and exclude thee; but what I shall do will not help thy election,--that is sure. And Michael, poor fellow, must wait for me, since this is an action of public importance." So thought Zagloba, promising himself to attend with care to that case of expulsion, and to bring over deputies in private; for this reason he hastened on more hurriedly to Warsaw from Minsk, fearing to be late for the opening of the Diet. But he came early enough. The concourse of deputies and other persons was so great that it was utterly impossible to find lodgings in Warsaw itself, or in Praga, or even outside the city; it was difficult too to find a place in a private house, for three or four persons were lodged in single rooms. Zagloba spent the first night in a shop, and it passed rather pleasantly; but in the morning, when he found himself in his wagon, he did not know well what to do. "My God! my God!" said he, falling into evil humor, and looking around on the Cracow suburbs, which he had just passed; "here are the Bernardines, and there is the ruin of the Kazanovski Palace! Thankless city! I had to wrest it from the enemy with my blood and toil, and now it grudges me a corner for my gray head." But the city did not by any means grudge Zagloba a corner for his gray head; it simply hadn't one. Meanwhile a lucky star was watching over him, for barely had he reached the palace of the Konyetspolskis when a voice called from one side to his driver, "Stop!" The man reined in the horses; then an unknown nobleman approached the wagon with gleaming face, and cried out, "Pan Zagloba! Does your grace not know me?" Zagloba saw before him a man of somewhat over thirty years, wearing a leopard-skin cap with a feather,--an unerring mark of military service,--a poppy-colored under-coat, and a dark-red kontush, girded with a gold brocade belt. The face of the unknown was of unusual beauty: his complexion was pale, but burned somewhat by wind in the fields to a yellowish tinge; his blue eyes were full of a certain melancholy and pensiveness; his features were unusually symmetrical, almost too beautiful for a man. Notwithstanding his Polish dress, he wore long hair and a beard cut in foreign fashion. Halting at the wagon, he opened his arms widely; and Zagloba, though he could not remember him at once, bent over and embraced him. They pressed each other heartily, and at moments one pushed the other back so as to have a better look. "Pardon me, your grace," said Zagloba, at last; "but I cannot call to mind yet." "Hassling-Ketling!" "For God's sake! The face seemed well known to me, but the dress has changed you entirely, for I saw you in old times in a Prussian uniform. Now you wear the Polish dress?" "Yes; for I have taken as my mother this Commonwealth, which received me when a wanderer, almost in years of boyhood, and gave me abundant bread and another mother I do not wish. You do not know that I received citizenship after the war." "But you bring me good news! So Fortune favored you in this?" "Both in this and in something else; for in Courland, on the very boundary of Jmud, I found a man of my own name, who adopted me, gave me his escutcheon, and bestowed on me property. He lives in Svyenta in Courland; but on this side he has an estate called Shkudy, which he gave me." "God favor you! Then you have given up war?" "Only let the chance come, and I'll take my place without fail. In view of that, I have rented my land, and am waiting here for an opening." "That is the courage that I like. Just as I was in youth, and I have strength yet in my bones. What are you doing now in Warsaw?" "I am a deputy at the Diet of Convocation." "God's wounds! But you are already a Pole to the bones!" The young knight smiled. "To my soul, which is better." "Are you married?" Ketling sighed. "No." "Only that is lacking. But I think--wait a minute! But has that old feeling for Panna Billevich gone out of your mind?" "Since you know of that which I thought my secret, be assured that no new one has come." "Oh, leave her in peace! She will soon give the world a young Kmita. Never mind! What sort of work is it to sigh when another is living with her in better confidence? To tell the truth, 'tis ridiculous." Ketling raised his pensive eyes. "I have said only that no new feeling has come." "It will come, never fear! we'll have you married. I know from experience that in love too great constancy brings merely suffering. In my time I was as constant as Troilus, and lost a world of pleasure and a world of good opportunities; and how much I suffered!" "God grant every one to retain such jovial humor as your grace!" "Because I lived in moderation always, therefore I have no aches in my bones. Where are you stopping? Have you found lodgings?" "I have a comfortable cottage, which I built after the war." "You are fortunate; but I have been travelling through the whole city in vain since yesterday." "For God's sake! my benefactor, you will not refuse, I hope, to stop with me. There is room enough; besides the house, there are wings and a commodious stable. You will find room for your servants and horses." "You have fallen from heaven, as God is dear to me!" Ketling took a seat in the wagon and they drove forward. On the way Zagloba told him of the misfortune that had met Pan Michael, and he wrung his hands, for hitherto he had not heard of it. "The dart is all the keener for me," said he, at last; "and perhaps your grace does not know what a friendship sprang up between us in recent times. Together we went through all the later wars with Prussia, at the besieging of fortresses, where there were only Swedish garrisons. We went to the Ukraine and against Pan Lyubomirski, and after the death of the voevoda of Rus, to the Ukraine a second time under Sobieski, the marshal of the kingdom. The same saddle served us as a pillow, and we ate from the same dish; we were called Castor and Pollux. And only when he went for his affianced, did the moment of separation come. Who could think that his best hopes would vanish like an arrow in the air?" "There is nothing fixed in this vale of tears," said Zagloba. "Except steady friendship. We must take counsel and learn where he is at this moment. We may hear something from the marshal of the kingdom, who loves Michael as the apple of his eye. If he can tell nothing, there are deputies here from all sides. It cannot be that no man has heard of such a knight. In what I have power, in that I will aid you, more quickly than if the question affected myself." Thus conversing, they came at last to Ketling's cottage, which turned out to be a mansion. Inside was every kind of order and no small number of costly utensils, either purchased, or obtained in campaigns. The collection of weapons especially was remarkable. Zagloba was delighted with what he saw, and said,-- "Oh, you could find lodgings here for twenty men. It was lucky for me that I met you. I might have occupied apartments with Pan Anton Hrapovitski, for he is an acquaintance and friend. The Patses also invited me,--they are seeking partisans against the Radzivills,--but I prefer to be with you." "I have heard among the Lithuanian deputies," said Ketling, "that since the turn comes now to Lithuania, they wish absolutely to choose Pan Hrapovitski as marshal of the Diet." "And justly. He is an honest man and a sensible one, but too good-natured. For him there is nothing more precious than harmony; he is only seeking to reconcile some man with some other, and that is useless. But tell me sincerely, what is Boguslav Radzivill to you?" "From the time that Pan Kmita's Tartars took me captive at Warsaw, he has been nothing; for although he is a great lord, he is a perverse and malicious man. I saw enough of him when he plotted in Taurogi against that being superior to earth." "How superior to earth? What are you talking of, man? She is of clay, and may be broken like any clay vessel. But that is no matter." Here Zagloba grew purple from rage, till the eyes were starting from his head. "Imagine to yourself, that ruffian is a deputy!" "Who?" asked in astonishment Ketling, whose mind was still on Olenka. "Boguslav Radzivill! But the verification of powers,--what is that for? Listen: you are a deputy; you can raise the question. I will roar to you from the gallery in support; have no fear on that point. The right is with us; and if they try to degrade the right, a tumult may be raised in the audience that will not pass without blood." "Do not do that, your grace, for God's sake! I will raise the question, for it is proper to do so; but God preserve us from stopping the Diet!" "I will go to Hrapovitski, though he is lukewarm; but no matter, much depends on him as the future marshal. I will rouse the Patses. At least I will mention in public all Boguslav's intrigues. Moreover, I have heard on the road that that ruffian thinks of seeking the crown for himself." "A nation would have come to its final decline and would not be worthy of life if such a man could become king," said Ketling. "But rest now, and on some later day we will go to the marshal of the kingdom and inquire about our friend." CHAPTER V. Some days later came the opening of the Diet, over which, as Ketling had foreseen. Pan Hrapovitski was chosen to preside; he was at that time chamberlain of Smolensk, and afterward voevoda of Vityebsk. Since the only question was to fix the time of election and appoint the supreme Chapter, and as intrigues of various parties could not find a field in such questions, the Diet was carried on calmly enough. The question of verification roused it merely a little in the very beginning. When the deputy Ketling challenged the election of the secretary of Belsk and his colleague. Prince Boguslav Radzivill, some powerful voice in the audience shouted "Traitor! foreign official!" After that voice followed others; some deputies joined them; and all at once the Diet was divided into two parties,--one striving to exclude the deputies of Belsk, the other to confirm their election. Finally a court was appointed to settle the question, and recognized the election. Still, the blow was a painful one to Prince Boguslav. This alone, that the Diet was considering whether the prince was qualified to sit in the chamber; this alone, that all his treasons and treacheries in time of the Swedish invasion were mentioned in public,--covered him with fresh disgrace in the eyes of the Commonwealth, and undermined fundamentally all his ambitious designs. For it was his calculation that when the partisans of Condé, Neuburgh, and Lorraine, not counting inferior candidates, had injured one another mutually, the choice might fall easily on a man of the country. Hence, pride and his sycophants told him that if that were to happen, the man of the country could be no other than a man endowed with the highest genius, and of the most powerful and famous family,--in other words, he himself. Keeping matters in secret till the hour came, the prince spread his nets in advance over Lithuania, and just then he was spreading them in Warsaw, when suddenly he saw that in the very beginning they were torn, and such a broad rent made that all the fish might escape through it easily. He gritted his teeth during the whole time of the court; and since he could not wreak his vengeance on Ketling, as he was a deputy, he announced among his attendants a reward to him who would indicate that spectator who had cried out just after Ketling's proposal, "Traitor! foreign official!" Zagloba's name was too famous to remain hidden long; moreover, he did not conceal himself in any way. The prince indeed raised a still greater uproar, but was disconcerted not a little when he heard that he was met by so popular a man and one whom it was dangerous to attack. Zagloba too knew his own power; for when threats had begun to fly about, he said once at a great meeting of nobles, "I do not know if there would be danger to any one should a hair of my head fall. The election is not distant; and when a hundred thousand sabres of brothers are collected, there may easily be some making of mince-meat." These words reached the prince, who only bit his lips and smiled sneeringly; but in his soul he thought that the old man was right. On the following day he changed his plans evidently with regard to the old knight, for when some one spoke of Zagloba at a feast given by the prince chamberlain, Boguslav said,-- "That noble is greatly opposed to me, as I hear; but I have such love for knightly people that even if he does not cease to injure me in future, I shall always love him." And a week later the prince repeated the same directly to Pan Zagloba, when they met at the house of the Grand Hetman Sobieski. Though Zagloba preserved a calm face, full of courage, the heart fluttered a little in his breast at sight of the prince; for Boguslav had far-reaching hands, and was a man-eater of whom all were in dread. The prince called out, however, across the whole table,-- "Gracious Pan Zagloba, the report has come to me that you, though not a deputy, wished to drive me, innocent man, from the Diet; but I forgive you in Christian fashion, and should you ever need advancement, I shall not be slow to serve you." "I merely stood by the Constitution," answered Zagloba, "as a noble is bound to do; as to assistance, at my age it is likely that the assistance of God is needed most, for I am near ninety." "A beautiful age if its virtue is as great as its length, and this I have not the least wish to doubt." "I served my country and my king without seeking strange gods." The prince frowned a little. "You served against me too; I know that. But let there be harmony between us. All is forgotten, and this too, that you aided the private hatred of another against me. With that enemy I have still some accounts; but I extend my hand to your grace, and offer my friendship." "I am only a poor man; the friendship is too high for me. I should have to stand on tiptoe, or spring to it; and that in old age is annoying. If your princely grace is speaking of accounts with Pan Kmita, my friend, then I should be glad from my heart to leave that arithmetic." "But why so, I pray?" asked the prince. "For there are four fundamental rules in arithmetic. Though Pan Kmita has a respectable fortune, it is a fly if compared with your princely wealth; therefore Pan Kmita will not consent to division. He is occupied with multiplication himself, and will let no man take aught from him, though he might give something to others, I do not think that your princely grace would be eager to take what he'd give you." Though Boguslav was trained in word-fencing, still, whether it was Zagloba's argument or his insolence that astonished him so much, he forgot the tongue in his own mouth. The breasts of those present began to shake from laughter. Pan Sobieski laughed with his whole soul, and said,-- "He is an old warrior of Zbaraj. He knows how to wield a sabre, but is no common player with the tongue. Better let him alone." In fact, Boguslav, seeing that he had hit upon an irreconcilable, did not try further to capture Zagloba; but beginning conversation with another man, he cast from time to time malign glances across the table at the old knight. But Sobieski was delighted, and continued, "You are a master, lord brother,--a genuine master. Have you ever found your equal in this Commonwealth?" "At the sabre," answered Zagloba, satisfied with the praise, "Volodyovski has come up to me; and Kmita too I have trained not badly." Saying this, he looked at Boguslav; but the prince feigned not to hear him, and spoke diligently with his neighbor. "Why!" said the hetman, "I have seen Pan Michael at work more than once, and would guarantee him even if the fate of all Christendom were at stake. It is a pity that a thunderbolt, as it were, has struck such a soldier." "But what has happened to him?" asked Sarbyevski, the sword-bearer of Tsehanov. "The maiden he loved died in Chenstohova," answered Zagloba; "and the worst is that I cannot learn from any source where he is." "But I saw him," cried Pan Varshytski, the castellan of Cracow. "While coming to Warsaw, I saw him on the road coming hither also; and he told me that being disgusted with the world and its vanities, he was going to Mons Regius to end his suffering life in prayer and meditation." Zagloba caught at the remnant of his hair. "He has become a monk of Camaldoli, as God is dear to me!" exclaimed he, in the greatest despair. Indeed, the statement of the castellan had made no small impression on all. Pan Sobieski, who loved soldiers, and knew himself best how the country needed them, was pained deeply, and said after a pause,-- "It is not proper to oppose the free-will of men and the glory of God, but it is a pity to lose him; and it is hard for me to hide from you, gentlemen, that I am grieved. From the school of Prince Yeremi that was an excellent soldier against every enemy, but against the horde and ruffiandom incomparable. There are only a few such partisans in the steppes, such as Pan Pivo among the Cossacks, and Pan Rushchyts in the cavalry; but even these are not equal to Pan Michael." "It is fortunate that the times are somewhat calmer," said the sword-bearer of Tsehanov, "and that Paganism observes faithfully the treaty of Podhaytse extorted by the invincible sword of my benefactor." Here the sword-bearer inclined before Sobieski, who rejoiced in his heart at the public praise, and answered, "That was due, in the first instance, to the goodness of God, who permitted me to stand at the threshold of the Commonwealth, and cut the enemy somewhat; and in the second, to the courage of good soldiers who are ready for everything. That the Khan would be glad to keep the treaties, I know; but in the Crimea itself there are tumults against the Khan, and the Belgrod horde does not obey him at all. I have just received tidings that on the Moldavian boundary clouds are collecting, and that raids may come in; I have given orders to watch the roads carefully, but I have not soldiers sufficient. If I send some to one place, an opening is left in another. I need men trained specially and knowing the ways of the horde; this is why I am so sorry for Volodyovski." In answer to this, Zagloba took from his temples the hands with which he was pressing his head, and cried, "But he will not remain a monk, even if I have to make an assault on Mons Regius and take him by force. For God's sake! I will go to him straightway to-morrow, and perhaps he will obey my persuasion; if not, I will go to the primate, to the prior. Even if I have to go to Rome, I will go. I have no wish to detract from the glory of God; but what sort of a monk would he be without a beard? He has as much hair on his face as I on my fist! As God is dear to me, he will never be able to sing Mass; or if he sings it, the rats will run out of the cloister, for they will think a tom-cat is wailing. Forgive me, gentlemen, for speaking what sorrow brings to my tongue. If I had a son, I could not love him as I do that man. God be with him! God be with him! Even if he were to become a Bernardine, but a monk of Camaldoli! As I sit here, a living man, nothing can come of this! I will go straightway to the primate to-morrow, for a letter to the prior." "He cannot have made vows yet," put in the marshal, "but let not your grace be too urgent, lest he grow stubborn; and it is needful to reckon with this too,--has not the will of God appeared in his intention?" "The will of God? The will of God does not come on a sudden; as the old proverb says, 'What is sudden is of the Devil.' If it were the will of God, I should have noted the wish long ago in him; and he was not a priest, but a dragoon. If he had made such a resolve while in full reason, in meditation and calmness, I should say nothing; but the will of God does not strike a despairing man as a falcon does a duck. I will not press him. Before I go I will meditate well with myself what to say, so that he may not play the fox to begin with; but in God is my hope. This little soldier has confided always more to my wit than his own, and will do the like this time, I trust, unless he has changed altogether." CHAPTER VI. Next day, Zagloba, armed with a letter from the primate, and having a complete plan made with Ketling, rang the bell at the gate of the monastery on Mons Regius. His heart was beating with violence at this thought, "How will Michael receive me?" and though he had prepared in advance what to say, he acknowledged himself that much depended on the reception. Thinking thus, he pulled the bell a second time; and when the key squeaked in the lock, and the door opened a little, he thrust himself into it straightway a trifle violently, and said to the confused young monk,-- "I know that to enter here a special permission is needed; but I have a letter from the archbishop, which you, _carissime frater_, will be pleased to give the reverend prior." "It will be done according to the wish of your grace," said the doorkeeper, inclining at sight of the primate's seal. Then he pulled a strap hanging at the tongue of a bell, and pulled twice to call some one, for he himself had no right to go from the door. Another monk appeared at that summons, and taking the letter, departed in silence. Zagloba placed on a bench a package which he had with him, then sat down and began to puff wonderfully. "Brother," said he, at last, "how long have you been in the cloister?" "Five years," answered the porter. "Is it possible? so young, and five years already! Then it is too late to leave, even if you wanted to do so. You must yearn sometimes for the world; the world smells of war for one man, of feasts for another, of fair heads for a third." "Avaunt!" said the monk, making the sign of the cross with devotion. "How is that? Has not the temptation to go out of the cloister come on you?" continued Zagloba. The monk looked with distrust at the envoy of the archbishop, speaking in such marvellous fashion, and answered, "When the door here closes on any man, he never goes out." "We'll see that yet! What is happening to Pan Volodyovski? Is he well?" "There is no one here named in that way." "Brother Michael?" said Zagloba, on trial. "Former colonel of dragoons, who came here not long since." "We call him Brother Yerzy; but he has not made his vows yet, and cannot make them till the end of the term." "And surely he will not make them; for you will not believe, brother, what a woman's man he is! You could not find another man so hostile to woman's virtue in all the clois-- I meant to say in all the cavalry." "It is not proper for me to hear this," said the monk, with increasing astonishment and confusion. "Listen, brother; I do not know where you receive visitors, but if it is in this place, I advise you to withdraw a little when Brother Yerzy comes,--as far as that gate, for instance,--for we shall talk here of very worldly matters." "I prefer to go away at once," said the monk. Meanwhile Pan Michael, or rather Brother Yerzy, appeared; but Zagloba did not recognize the approaching man, for Pan Michael had changed greatly. To begin with, he seemed taller in the long white habit than in the dragoon jacket; secondly, his mustaches, pointing upward toward his eyes formerly, were hanging down now, and he was trying to let out his beard, which formed two little yellow tresses not longer than half a finger; finally, he had grown very thin and meagre, and his eyes had lost their former glitter. He approached slowly, with his hands hidden on his bosom under his habit, and with drooping head. Zagloba, not recognizing him, thought that perhaps the prior himself was coming; therefore he rose from the bench and began, "Laudetur--" Suddenly he looked more closely, opened his arms, and cried, "Pan Michael! Pan Michael!" Brother Yerzy let himself be seized in the embrace; something like a sob shook his breast, but his eyes remained dry. Zagloba pressed him a long time; at last he began to speak,-- "You have not been alone in weeping over your misfortune. I wept; Yan and his family wept; the Kmitas wept. It is the will of God! be resigned to it, Michael. May the Merciful Father comfort and reward you! You have done well to shut yourself in for a time in these walls. There is nothing better than prayer and pious meditation in misfortune. Come, let me embrace you again! I can hardly see you through my tears." And Zagloba wept with sincerity, moved at the sight of Pan Michael. "Pardon me for disturbing your meditation," said he, at last; "but I could not act otherwise, and you will do me justice when I give you my reasons. Ai, Michael! you and I have gone through a world of evil and of good. Have you found consolation behind these bars?" "I have," replied Pan Michael,--"in those words which I hear in this place daily, and repeat, and which I desire to repeat till my death, _memento mori_. In death is consolation for me." "H'm! death is more easily found on the battlefield than in the cloister, where life passes as if some one were unwinding thread from a ball, slowly." "There is no life here, for there are no earthly questions; and before the soul leaves the body, it lives, as it were, in another world." "If that is true, I will not tell you that the Belgrod horde are mustering in great force against the Commonwealth; for what interest can that have for you?" Pan Michael's mustaches quivered on a sudden, and he stretched his right hand unwittingly to his left side; but not finding a sword there, he put both hands under his habit, dropped his head, and repeated, "Memento mori!" "Justly, justly!" answered Zagloba, blinking his sound eye with a certain impatience. "No longer ago than yesterday Pan Sobieski, the hetman, said: 'Only let Volodyovski serve even through this one storm, and then let him go to whatever cloister he likes. God would not be angry for the deed; on the contrary, such a monk would have all the greater merit.' But there is no reason to wonder that you put your own peace above the happiness of the country, for _prima charitas ab ego_ (the first love is of self)." A long interval of silence followed; only Pan Michael's mustaches stood out somewhat and began to move quickly, though lightly. "You have not taken your vows yet," asked Zagloba, at last, "and you can go out at any moment?" "I am not a monk yet, for I have been waiting for the favor of God, and waiting till all painful thoughts of earth should leave my soul. His favor is upon me now; peace is returning to me. I can go out; but I have no wish to go, since the time is drawing near in which I can make my vows with a clear conscience and free from earthly desires." "I have no wish to lead you away from this; on the contrary, I applaud your resolution, though I remember that when Yan in his time intended to become a monk, he waited till the country was free from the storm of the enemy. But do as you wish. In truth, it is not I who will lead you away; for I myself in my own time felt a vocation for monastic life. Fifty years ago I even began my novitiate; I am a rogue if I did not. Well, God gave me another direction. Only I tell you this, Michael, you must go out with me now even for two days." "Why must I go out? Leave me in peace!" said Volodyovski. Zagloba raised the skirt of his coat to his eyes and began to sob. "I do not beg rescue for myself," said he, in a broken voice, "though Prince Boguslav Radzivill is hunting me with vengeance; he puts his murderers in ambush against me, and there is no one to defend and protect me, old man. I was thinking that you-- But never mind! I will love you all my life, even if you are unwilling to know me. Only pray for my soul, for I shall not escape Boguslav's hands. Let that come upon me which has to come; but another friend of yours, who shared every morsel of bread with you, is now on his death-bed, and wishes to see you without fail. He is unwilling to die without you; for he has some confession to make on which his soul's peace depends." Pan Michael, who had heard of Zagloba's danger with great emotion, sprang forward now, and seizing him by the arms, inquired, "Is it Pan Yan?" "No, not Yan, but Ketling!" "For God's sake! what has happened to him?" "He was shot by Prince Boguslav's ruffians while defending me; I know not whether he will be alive in twenty-four hours. It is for you, Michael, that we have both fallen into these straits, for we came to Warsaw only to think out some consolation for you. Come for even two days, and console a dying man. You will return later; you will become a monk. I have brought the recommendation of the primate to the prior to raise no impediment against you. Only hasten, for every moment is precious." "For God's sake!" cried Pan Michael; "what do I hear? Impediments cannot keep me, for so far I am here only on meditation. As God lives, the prayer of a dying man is sacred! I cannot refuse that." "It would be a mortal sin!" cried Zagloba. "That is true! It is always that traitor, Boguslav--But if I do not avenge Ketling, may I never come back! I will find those ruffians, and I will split their skulls! O Great God! sinful thoughts are already attacking me! _Memento mori!_ Only wait here till I put on my old clothes, for it is not permitted to go out in the habit." "Here are clothes!" cried Zagloba, springing to the bundle, which was lying there on the bench near them. "I foresaw everything, prepared everything! Here are boots, a rapier, a good overcoat." "Come to the cell," said the little knight, with haste. They went to the cell; and when they came out again, near Zagloba walked, not a white monk, but an officer with yellow boots to the knees, with a rapier at his side, and a white pendant across his shoulder. Zagloba blinked and smiled under his mustaches at sight of the brother at the door, who, evidently scandalized, opened the gate to the two. Not far from the cloister and lower down, Zagloba's wagon was waiting, and with it two attendants. One was sitting on the seat, holding the reins of four well-attached horses; at these Pan Michael cast quickly the eye of an expert. The other stood near the wagon, with a mouldy, big-bellied bottle in one hand, and two goblets in the other. "It is a good stretch of road to Mokotov," said Zagloba; "and harsh sorrow is waiting for us at the bedside of Ketling. Drink something, Michael, to gain strength to endure all this, for you are greatly reduced." Saying this, Zagloba took the bottle from the hands of the man and filled both glasses with Hungarian so old that it was thick from age. "This is a goodly drink," said Zagloba, placing the bottle on the ground and taking the goblets. "To the health of Ketling!" "To his health!" repeated Pan Michael. "Let us hurry!" They emptied the glasses at a draught. "Let us hurry," repeated Zagloba. "Pour out, man!" said he, turning to the servant. "To the health of Pan Yan! Let us hurry!" They emptied the goblets again at a draught, for there was real urgency. "Let us take our seats!" cried Pan Michael. "But will you not drink my health?" asked Zagloba, with a complaining voice. "If quickly!" And they drank quickly. Zagloba emptied the goblet at a breath, though there was half a quart in it, then without wiping his mustaches, he cried, "I should be thankless not to drink your health. Pour out, man!" "With thanks!" answered Brother Yerzy. The bottom appeared in the bottle, which Zagloba seized by the neck and broke into small pieces, for he never could endure the sight of empty vessels. Then he took his seat quickly, and they rode on. The noble drink soon filled their veins with beneficent warmth, and their hearts with a certain consolation. The cheeks of Brother Yerzy were covered with a slight scarlet, and his glance regained its former vivacity. He stretched his hand unwittingly once, twice, to his mustaches, and turned them upward like awls, till at last they came near his eyes. He began meanwhile to gaze around with great curiosity, as if looking at the country for the first time. All at once Zagloba struck his palms on his knees and cried without evident reason,-- "Ho! ho! I hope that Ketling will return to health when he sees you! Ho! ho!" And clasping Pan Michael around the neck, he began to embrace him with all his power. Pan Michael did not wish to remain in debt to Zagloba; he pressed him with the utmost sincerity. They went on for some time in silence, but in a happy one. Meanwhile the small houses of the suburbs began to appear on both sides of the road. Before the houses there was a great movement. On this side and that, townspeople were strolling, servants in various liveries, soldiers and nobles, frequently very well-dressed. "Swarms of nobles have come to the Diet," said Zagloba; "for though not one of them is a deputy, they wish to be present, to hear and to see. The houses and inns are so filled everywhere that it is hard to find a room, and how many noble women are strolling along the streets! I tell you that you could not count them on the hairs of your beard. They are pretty too, the rogues, so that sometimes a man has the wish to slap his hands on his sides as a cock does his wings, and crow. But look! look at that brunette behind whom the haiduk is carrying the green shuba; isn't she splendid? Eh?" Here Zagloba nudged Pan Michael in the side with his fist, and Pan Michael looked, moved his mustaches; his eyes glittered, but in that moment he grew shamefaced, dropped his head, and said after a brief silence, "Memento mori!" But Zagloba clasped him again, and cried, "As you love me, _per amicitiam nostram_ (by our friendship), as you respect me, get married. There are so many worthy maidens, get married!" Brother Yerzy looked with astonishment on his friend. Zagloba could not be drunk, however, for many a time he had taken thrice as much wine without visible effect; therefore he spoke only from tenderness. But all thoughts of marriage were far away then from the head of Pan Michael, so that in the first instant astonishment overcame in him indignation; then he looked severely into the eyes of Zagloba and asked,-- "Are you tipsy?" "Prom my whole heart I say to you, get married!" Pan Michael looked still more severely. "Memento mori." But Zagloba was not easily disconcerted. "Michael, if you love me, do this for me, and kiss a dog on the snout with your 'memento.' I repeat, you will do as you please, but I think in this way: Let each man serve God with that for which he was created; and God created you for the sword: in this His will is evident, since He has permitted you to attain such perfection in the use of it. In case He wished you to be a priest, He would have adorned you with a wit altogether different, and inclined your heart more to books and to Latin. Consider, too, that soldier saints enjoy no less respect in heaven than saints with vows, and they go campaigning against the legions of hell, and receive rewards from God's hands when they return with captured banners. All this is true; you will not deny it?" "I do not deny it, and I know that it is hard to skirmish against your reasoning; but you also will not deny that for grief life is better in the cloister than in the world." "If it is better, bah! then all the more should cloisters be shunned. Dull is the man who feeds mourning instead of keeping it hungry, so that the beast may die of famine as quickly as possible." Pan Michael found no ready argument; therefore he was silent, and only after a while answered with a sad voice, "Do not mention marriage, for such mention only rouses fresh grief in me. My old desire will not revive, for it has passed away with tears; and my years are not suitable. My hair is beginning to whiten. Forty-two years, and twenty-five of them spent in military toil, are no jest, no jest!" "O God, do not punish him for blasphemy! Forty-two years! Tfu! I have more than twice as many on my shoulders, and still at times I must discipline myself to shake the heat out of my blood, as dust is shaken from clothing. Respect the memory of that dear dead one. You were good enough for her, I suppose? But for others are you too cheap, too old?" "Give me peace! give me peace!" said Pan Michael, with a voice of pain; and the tears began to flow to his mustaches. "I will not say another syllable," added Zagloba; "only give me the word of a cavalier that no matter what happens to Ketling you will stay a month with us. You must see Yan. If you wish afterward to return to the cloister, no one will raise an impediment." "I give my word," said Pan Michael. And they fell to talking of something else. Zagloba began to tell of the Diet, and how he had raised the question of excluding Prince Boguslav, and of the adventure with Ketling. Occasionally, however, he interrupted the narrative and buried himself in thoughts; they must have been cheerful, for from time to time he struck his knees with his palms, and repeated,-- "Ho! ho!" But as he approached Mokotov, a certain disquiet appeared on his face. He turned suddenly to Pan Michael and said, "Your word is given, you remember, that no matter what happens to Ketling, you will stay a month with us." "I gave it, and I will stay," said Pan Michael. "Here is Ketling's house," cried Zagloba,--"a respectable place." Then he shouted to the driver, "Fire out of your whip! There will be a festival in this house to-day." Loud cracks were heard from the whip. But the wagon had not entered the gate when a number of officers rushed from the ante-room, acquaintances of Pan Michael; among them also were old comrades from the days of Hmelnitski and young officers of recent times. Of the latter were Pan Vasilevski and Pan Novoveski,--youths yet, but fiery cavaliers who in years of boyhood had broken away from school and had been working at war for some years under Pan Michael. These the little knight loved beyond measure. Among the oldest was Pan Orlik of the shield Novin, with a skull stopped with gold, for a Swedish grenade had taken a piece of it on a time; and Pan Rushchyts, a half-wild knight of the steppes, an incomparable partisan, second in fame to Pan Michael alone; and a number of others. All, seeing the two men in the wagon, began to shout,-- "He is there! he is there! Zagloba has conquered! He is there!" And rushing to the wagon, they seized the little knight in their arms and bore him to the entrance, repeating, "Welcome! dearest comrade, live for us! We have you; we won't let you go! Vivat Volodyovski, the first cavalier, the ornament of the whole army! To the steppe with us, brother! To the wild fields! There the wind will blow your grief away." They let him out of their arms only at the entrance. He greeted them all, for he was greatly touched by that reception, and then he inquired at once, "How is Ketling? Is he alive yet?" "Alive! alive!" answered they, in a chorus, and the mustaches of the old soldiers began to move with a strange smile. "Go to him, for he cannot stay lying down; he is waiting for you impatiently." "I see that he is not so near death as Pan Zagloba said," answered the little knight. Meanwhile they entered the ante-room and passed thence to a large chamber, in the middle of which stood a table with a feast on it; in one corner was a plank bed covered with white horse-skin, on which Ketling was lying. "Oh, my friend!" said Pan Michael, hastening toward him. "Michael!" cried Ketling, and springing to his feet as if in the fulness of strength, he seized the little knight in his embrace. They pressed each other then so eagerly that Ketling raised Volodyovski, and Volodyovski Ketling. "They commanded me to simulate sickness," said the Scot, "to feign death: but when I saw you, I could not hold out. I am as well as a fish, and no misfortune has met me. But it was a question of getting you out of the cloister. Forgive, Michael. We invented this ambush out of love for you." "To the wild fields with us!" cried the knights, again; and they struck with their firm palms on their sabres till a terrible clatter was raised in the room. But Pan Michael was astounded. For a time he was silent, then he began to look at all, especially at Zagloba. "Oh, traitors!" exclaimed he, at last, "I thought that Ketling was wounded unto death." "How is that, Michael?" cried Zagloba. "You are angry because Ketling is well? You grudge him his health, and wish death to him? Has your heart become stone in such fashion that you would gladly see all of us ghosts, and Ketling, and Pan Orlik, and Pan Rushchyts, and these youths,--nay, even Pan Yan, even me, who love you as a son?" Here Zagloba closed his eyes and cried still more piteously, "We have nothing to live for, gracious gentlemen; there is no thankfulness left in this world; there is nothing but callousness." "For God's sake!" answered Pan Michael, "I do not wish you ill, but you have not respected my grief." "Have pity on our lives!" repeated Zagloba. "Give me peace!" "He says that we show no respect to his grief; but what fountains we have poured out over him, gracious gentlemen! We have, Michael. I take God to witness that we should be glad to bear apart your grief on our sabres, for comrades should always act thus. But since you have given your word to stay with us a month, then love us at least for that month." "I will love you till death," said Pan Michael. Further conversation was interrupted by the coming of a new guest. The soldiers, occupied with Volodyovski, had not heard the arrival of that guest, and saw him only when he was standing in the door. He was a man enormous in stature, of majestic form and bearing. He had the face of a Roman emperor; in it was power, and at the same time the true kindness and courtesy of a monarch. He differed entirely from all those soldiers around him; he grew notably greater in face of them, as if the eagle, king of birds, had appeared among hawks, falcons, and merlins. "The grand hetman!" cried Ketling, and sprang up, as the host, to greet him. "Pan Sobieski!" cried others. All heads were inclined in an obeisance of deep homage. All save Pan Michael knew that the hetman would come, for he had promised Ketling; still, his arrival had produced so profound an impression that for a time no one dared to speak first. That too was homage extraordinary. But Sobieski loved soldiers beyond all men, especially those with whom he had galloped over the necks of Tartar chambuls so often; he looked on them as his own family, and for this reason specially he had determined to greet Volodyovski, to comfort him, and finally, by showing such unusual favor and attention, to retain him in the ranks of the army. Therefore when he had greeted Ketling, he stretched out his hands at once to the little knight; and when the latter approached and seized him by the knees, Sobieski pressed the head of Pan Michael with his palms. "Old soldier," said he, "the hand of God has bent thee to the earth, but it will raise thee, and give comfort. God aid thee! Thou wilt stay with us now." Sobbing shook the breast of Pan Michael. "I will stay!" said he, with tears. "That is well; give me of such men as many as possible. And now, old comrade, let us recall those times which we passed in the Russian steppes, when we sat down to feast under tents. I am happy among you. Now, our host, now!" "Vivat Joannes dux!" shouted every voice. The feast began and lasted long. Next day the hetman sent a cream-colored steed of great price to Pan Michael. CHAPTER VII. Ketling and Pan Michael promised each other to ride stirrup to stirrup again should occasion offer, to sit at one fire, and to sleep with their heads on one saddle. But meanwhile an event separated them. Not later than a week after their first greeting, a messenger came from Courland with notice that that Hassling who had adopted the youthful Scot and given him his property had fallen suddenly ill, and wished greatly to see his adopted son. The young knight did not hesitate; he mounted his horse and rode away. Before his departure he begged Zagloba and Pan Michael to consider his house as their own, and to live there until they were tired of it. "Pan Yan may come," said he. "During the election he will come himself surely; even should he bring all his children, there will be room here for the whole family. I have no relatives; and even if I had brothers, they would not be nearer to me than you are." Zagloba especially was gratified by these invitations, for he was very comfortable in Ketling's house; but they were pleasant for Pan Michael also. Pan Yan did not come, but Pan Michael's sister announced her arrival. She was married to Pan Makovetski, stolnik of Latychov. His messenger came to the residence of the hetman to inquire if any of his attendants knew of the little knight. Evidently Ketling's house was indicated to him at once. Volodyovski was greatly delighted, for whole years had passed since he had seen his sister; and when he learned that, in absence of better lodgings, she had stopped at Rybaki in a poor little cottage, he flew off straightway to invite her to Ketling's house. It was dusk when he rushed into her presence; but he knew her at once, though two other women were with her in the room, for the lady was small of stature, like a ball of thread. She too recognized him; while the other women stood like two candles and looked at the greeting. Pani Makovetski found speech first, and began to cry out in a thin and rather squeaking voice, "So many years,--so many years! God give you aid, dearest brother! The moment the news of your misfortune came, I sprang up at once to come hither; and my husband did not detain me, for a storm is threatening us from the side of Budjyak. People are talking also of the Belgrod Tartars; and surely the roads are growing black, for tremendous flocks of birds are appearing, and before every invasion it is that way. God console you, beloved, dear, golden brother! My husband must come to the election himself, so this is what he said: 'Take the young ladies, and go on before me. You will comfort Michael,' said he, 'in his grief; and you must hide your head somewhere from the Tartars, for the country here will be in a blaze, therefore one thing fits with another. Go,' said he, 'to Warsaw, hire good lodgings in time, so there may be some place to live in.' He, with men of those parts, is listening on the roads. There are few troops in the country; it is always that way with us. You, Michael, my loved one, come to the window, let me look in your face; your lips have grown thin, but in grief it cannot be otherwise. It was easy for my husband to say in Russia, 'Find lodgings!' but here there is nothing anywhere. We are in this hovel; you see it. I have hardly been able to get three bundles of straw to sleep on." "Permit me, sister," said the little knight. But the sister would not permit, and spoke on, as if a mill were rattling: "We stopped here; there was no other place. My host looks out of his eyes like a wolf; maybe they are bad people in the house. It is true that we have four attendants,--trusty fellows,--and we ourselves are not timid, for in our parts a woman must have a cavalier's heart, or she could not live there. I have a pistol which I carry always, and Basia[8] has two of them; but Krysia[9] does not like fire-arms. This is a strange place, though, and we prefer safer lodgings." "Permit me, sister," repeated Volodyovski. "But where do you live, Michael? You must help me to find lodgings, for you have experience in Warsaw." "I have lodgings ready," interrupted Pan Michael, "and such good ones that a senator might occupy them with his retinue. I live with my friend, Captain Ketling, and will take you with me at once." "But remember that there are three of us, and two servants and four attendants. But for God's sake! I have not made you acquainted with the company." Here she turned to her companions. "You know, young ladies, who he is, but he does not know you; make acquaintance even in the dark. The host has not heated the stove for us yet. This is Panna Krystina Drohoyovski, and that Panna Barbara Yezorkovski. My husband is their guardian, and takes care of their property; they live with us, for they are orphans. To live alone does not beseem such young ladies." While his sister was speaking, Pan Michael bowed in soldier fashion; the young ladies, seizing their skirts with their fingers, courtesied, wherewith Panna Barbara nodded like a young colt. "Let us take our seats in the carriage, and drive on!" said the little knight. "Pan Zagloba lives with me. I asked him to have supper prepared for us." "That famous Pan Zagloba?" asked Panna Basia, all at once. "Basia, be quiet!" said the lady. "I am afraid that there will be annoyance." "Oh, if Pan Zagloba has his mind on supper," said the little knight, "there will be enough, even if twice as many were to come. And, young ladies, will you give command to carry out the trunks? I brought a wagon too for things, and Ketling's carriage is so wide that we four can sit in it easily. See what comes to my head; if your attendants are not drunken fellows, let them stay here till morning with the horses and larger effects. We'll take now only what things are required most." "We need leave nothing," said the lady, "for our wagons are still unpacked; just attach the horses, and they can move at once. Basia, go and give orders!" Basia sprang to the entrance; and a few "Our Fathers" later she returned with the announcement that all was ready. "It is time to go," said Pan Michael. After a while they took their seats in the carriage and moved on toward Mokotov. Pan Michael's sister and Panna Krysia occupied the rear seats; in front sat the little knight at the side of Basia. It was so dark already that they could not see one another's features. "Young ladies, do you know Warsaw?" asked Pan Michael, bending toward Panna Krysia, and raising his voice above the rattle of the carriage. "No," answered Krysia, in a low but resonant and agreeable voice. "We are real rustics, and up to this time have known neither famous cities nor famous men." Saying this, she inclined her head somewhat, as if giving to understand that she counted Pan Michael among the latter; he received the answer thankfully. "A polite sort of maiden!" thought he, and straightway began to rack his head over some kind of compliment to be made in return. "Even if the city were ten times greater than it is," said he at last, "still, ladies, you might be its most notable ornament." "But how do you know that in the dark?" inquired Panna Basia, on a sudden. "Ah, here is a kid for you!" thought Pan Michael. But he said nothing, and they rode on in silence for some time; Basia turned again to the little knight and asked, "Do you know whether there will be room enough in the stable? We have ten horses and two wagons." "Even if there were thirty, there would be room for them." "Hwew! hwew!" exclaimed the young lady. "Basia! Basia!" said Pani Makovetski, persuasively. "Ah, it is easy to say, 'Basia, Basia!' but in whose care were the horses during the whole journey?" Conversing thus, they arrived before Ketling's house. All the windows were brilliantly lighted to receive the lady. The servants ran out with Pan Zagloba at the head of them; he, springing to the wagon and seeing three women, inquired straightway,-- "In which lady have I the honor to greet my special benefactress, and at the same time the sister of my best friend, Michael?" "I am she!" answered the lady. Then Zagloba seized her hand, and fell to kissing it eagerly, exclaiming, "I beat with the forehead,--I beat with the forehead!" Then he helped her to descend from the carriage, and conducted her with great attention and clattering of feet to the ante-room. "Let me be permitted to give greeting once more inside the threshold," said he, on the way. Meanwhile Pan Michael was helping the young ladies to descend. Since the carriage was high, and it was difficult to find the steps in the darkness, he caught Panna Krysia by the waist, and bearing her through the air, placed her on the ground; and she, without resisting, inclined during the twinkle of an eye her breast on his, and said, "I thank you." Pan Michael turned then to Basia; but she had already jumped down on the other side of the carriage, therefore he gave his arm to Panna Krysia. In the room acquaintance with Zagloba followed. He, at sight of the two young ladies, fell into perfect good-humor, and invited them straightway to supper. The platters were steaming already on the table; and as Pan Michael had foreseen, there was such an abundance that it would have sufficed for twice as many persons. They sat down. Pan Michael's sister occupied the first place; next to her, on the right, sat Zagloba, and beyond him Panna Basia. Pan Michael sat on the left side near Panna Krysia. And now for the first time the little knight was able to have a good look at the ladies. Both were comely, but each in her own style. Krysia had hair as black as the wings of a raven, brows of the same color, deep-blue eyes; she was a pale brunette, but of complexion so delicate that the blue veins on her temples were visible. A barely discernible dark down covered her upper lip, showing a mouth sweet and attractive, as if put slightly forward for a kiss. She was in mourning, for she had lost her father not long before, and the color of her garments, with the delicacy of her complexion and her dark hair, lent her a certain appearance of pensiveness and severity. At the first glance she seemed older than her companion; but when he had looked at her more closely, Pan Michael saw that the blood of first youth was flowing under that transparent skin. The more he looked, the more he admired the distinction of her posture, the swanlike neck, and those proportions so full of maiden charms. "She is a great lady," thought he, "who must have a great soul; but the other is a regular tomboy." In fact, the comparison was just. Basia was much smaller than her companion, and generally minute, though not meagre; she was ruddy as a bunch of roses, and light-haired. Her hair had been cut, apparently after illness, and she wore it gathered in a golden net. But the hair would not sit quietly on her restless head; the ends of it were peeping out through every mesh of the net, and over her forehead formed an unordered yellow tuft which fell to her brows like the tuft of a Cossack, which, with her quick, restless eyes and challenging mien, made that rosy face like the face of a student who is only watching to embroil some one and go unpunished himself. Still, she was so shapely and fresh that it was difficult to take one's eyes from her; she had a slender nose, somewhat in the air, with nostrils dilating and active; she had dimples in her cheeks and a dimple in her chin, indicating a joyous disposition. But now she was sitting with dignity and eating heartily, only shooting glances every little while, now at Pan Zagloba, now at Volodyovski, and looking at them with almost childlike curiosity, as if at some special wonder. Pan Michael was silent; for though he felt it his duty to entertain Panna Krysia, he did not know how to begin. In general, the little knight was not happy in conversation with ladies; but now he was the more gloomy, since these maidens brought vividly to his mind the dear dead one. Pan Zagloba entertained Pani Makovetski, detailing to her the deeds of Pan Michael and himself. In the middle of the supper he fell to relating how once they had escaped with Princess Kurtsevich and Jendzian, four of them, through a whole chambul, and how, finally, to save the princess and stop the pursuit, they two had hurled themselves on the chambul. Basia stopped eating, and resting her chin on her hand, listened carefully, shaking her forelock, at moments blinking, and snapping her fingers in the most interesting places, and repeating, "Ah, ah! Well, what next?" But when they came to the place where Kushel's dragoons rushed up with aid unexpectedly, sat on the necks of the Tartars, and rode on, slashing them, for three miles, she could contain herself no longer, but clapping her hands with all her might, cried, "Ah, I should like to be there, God knows I should!" "Basia!" cried the plump little Pani Makovetski, with a strong Russian accent, "you have come among polite people; put away your 'God knows.' O Thou Great God! this alone is lacking, Basia, that you should cry, 'May the bullets strike me!'" The maiden burst out into fresh laughter, resonant as silver, and cried, "Well, then, auntie, may the bullets strike me!" "O my God, the ears are withering on me! Beg pardon of the whole company!" cried the lady. Then Basia, wishing to begin with her aunt, sprang up from her place, but at the same time dropped the knife and the spoons under the table, and then dived down after them herself. The plump little lady could restrain her laughter no longer; and she had a wonderful laugh, for first she began to shake and tremble, and then to squeak in a thin voice. All had grown joyous. Zagloba was in raptures. "You see what a time I have with this maiden," said Pani Makovetski. "She is a pure delight, as God is dear to me!" exclaimed Zagloba. Meanwhile Basia had crept out from under the table; she had found the spoons and the knife, but had lost her net, for her hair was falling into her eyes altogether. She straightened herself, and said, her nostrils quivering meanwhile, "Aha, lords and ladies, you are laughing at my confusion. Very well!" "No one is laughing," said Zagloba, in a tone of conviction, "no one is laughing,--no one is laughing! We are only rejoicing that the Lord God has given us delight in the person of your ladyship." After supper they passed into the drawing-room. There Panna Krysia, seeing a lute on the wall, took it down and began to run over the strings. Pan Michael begged her to sing. "I am ready, if I can drive sadness from your soul." "I thank you," answered the little knight, raising his eyes to her in gratitude. After a while this song was heard:-- "O knights, believe me, Useless is armor; Shields give no service; Cupid's keen arrows, Through steel and iron, Go to all hearts." "I do not indeed know how to thank you," said Zagloba, sitting at a distance with Pan Michael's sister, and kissing her hands, "for coming yourself and bringing with you such elegant maidens that the Graces themselves might heat stoves for them. Especially does that little haiduk please my heart, for such a rogue drives away sorrow in such fashion that a weasel could not hunt mice better. In truth, what is grief unless mice gnawing the grains of joyousness placed in our hearts? You, my benefactress, should know that our late king, Yan Kazimir, was so fond of my comparisons that he could not live a day without them. I had to arrange for him proverbs and wise maxims. He used to have these repeated to him before bed-time, and by them it was that he directed his policy. But that is another matter. I hope too that our Michael, in company with these delightful girls, will forget altogether his unhappy misfortune. You do not know that it is only a week since I dragged him out of the cloister, where he wished to make vows; but I won the intervention of the nuncio himself, who declared to the prior that he would make a dragoon of every monk in the cloister if he did not let Michael out straightway. There was no reason for him to be there. Praise be to God! Praise be to God! If not to-day, to-morrow some one of those two will strike such sparks out of him that his heart will be burning like punk." Meanwhile Krysia sang on:-- "If shields cannot save From darts a strong hero, How can a fair head Guard her own weakness? Where can she hide!" "The fair heads have as much fear of those shafts as a dog has of meat," whispered Zagloba to Pan Michael's sister. "But confess, my benefactress, that you did not bring these titmice here without secret designs. They are maidens in a hundred!--especially that little haiduk. Would that I were as blooming as she! Ah, Michael has a cunning sister." Pani Makovetski put on a very artful look, which did not, however, become her honest, simple face in the least, and said, "I thought of this and that, as is usual with us; shrewdness is not wanting to women. My husband had to come here to the election; and I brought the maidens beforehand, for with us there is no one to see unless Tartars. If anything lucky should happen to Michael from this, I would make a pilgrimage on foot to some wonder-working image." "It will come; it will come!" said Zagloba. "Both maidens are from great houses, and both have property; that, too, means something in these grievous times." "There is no need to repeat that to me. The war has consumed Michael's fortune, though I know that he has some money laid up with great lords. We took famous booty more than once, gracious lady; and though that was placed at the hetman's discretion, still, a part went to be divided 'according to sabres,' as the saying is in our soldier speech. So much came to Michael's share more than once that if he had saved all his own, he would have to-day a nice fortune. But a soldier has no thought for to-morrow; he only frolics to-day. And Michael would have frolicked away all he had, were it not that I restrained him on every occasion. You say, then, gracious lady, that these maidens are of high blood?" "Krysia is of senatorial blood. It is true that our castellans on the border are not castellans of Cracow, and there are some of whom few in the Commonwealth have heard; but still, whoso has sat once in a senator's chair bequeaths to posterity his splendor. As to relationship, Basia almost surpasses Krysia." "Indeed, indeed! I myself am descended from a certain king of the Massagetes, therefore I like to hear genealogies." "Basia does not come from such a lofty nest as that; but if you wish to listen,--for in our parts we can recount the relationship of every house on our fingers,--she is, in fact, related to the Pototskis and the Yazlovyetskis and the Lashches. You see, it was this way." Here Pan Michael's sister gathered in the folds of her dress and took a more convenient position, so that there might be no hindrance to any part of her favorite narrative; she spread out the fingers of one hand, and straightening the index finger of the other, made ready to enumerate the grandfathers and grandmothers. "The daughter of Pan Yakob Pototski, Elizabeth, from his second wife, a Yazlovyetski, married Pan Yan Smyotanko, banneret of Podolia." "I have caulked that into my memory," said Zagloba. "From that marriage was born Michael Smyotanko, also banneret of Podolia." "H'm! a good office," said Zagloba. "He was married the first time to a Dorohosto--no! to a Rojynski--no! to a Voronich! God guard me from forgetting!" "Eternal rest to her, whatever her name was," said Zagloba, with gravity. "And for his second wife he married Panna Lashch." "I was waiting for that! What was the result of the marriage?" "Their sons died." "Every joy crumbles in this world." "But of four daughters, the youngest, Anna, married Yezorkovski, of the shield Ravich, a commissioner for fixing the boundaries of Podolia; he was afterward, if I mistake not, sword-bearer of Podolia." "He was, I remember!" said Zagloba, with complete certainty. "From that marriage, you see, was born Basia." "I see, and also that at this moment she is aiming Ketling's musket." In fact, Krysia and the little knight were occupied in conversation, and Basia was aiming the musket at the window for her own amusement. Pani Makovetski began to shake and squeak at sight of that. "You cannot imagine what I pass through with that girl! She is a regular haydamak." "If all the haydamaks were like her, I would join them at once." "There is nothing in her head but arms, horses, and war. Once she broke out of the house to hunt ducks with a gun. She crept in somewhere among the rushes, was looking ahead of her, the reeds began to open--what did she see? The head of a Tartar stealing along through the reeds to the village. Another woman would have been terrified, and woe to her if she had not fired quickly; the Tartar dropped into the water. Just imagine, she laid him out on the spot; and with what? With duck-shot." Here the lady began to shake again and laugh at the mishap of the Tartar; then she added, "And to tell the truth, she saved us all, for a whole chambul was advancing; but as she came and gave the alarm, we had time to escape to the woods with the servants. With us it is always so!" Zagloba's face was covered with such delight that he half closed his eye for a moment; then he sprang up, hurried to the maiden, and before she saw him, he kissed her on the forehead. "This from an old soldier for that Tartar in the rushes," said he. The maiden gave a sweeping shake to her yellow forelock. "Didn't I give him beans?" cried she, with her fresh, childish voice, which sounded so strangely in view of what she meant with her words. "Oh, my darling little haydamak!" cried Zagloba, with emotion. "But what is one Tartar? You gentlemen have cut them down by the thousand, and Swedes, and Germans, and Rakotsi's Hungarians. What am I before you, gentlemen,--before knights who have not their equals in the Commonwealth? I know that perfectly! Oho!" "I will teach you to work with the sabre, since you have so much courage. I am rather heavy now, but Michael there, he too is a master." The maiden sprang up in the air at such a proposal; then she kissed Zagloba on the shoulder and courtesied to the little knight, saying, "I give thanks for the promise. I know a little already." But Pan Michael was wholly occupied talking with Krysia; therefore he answered inattentively, "Whatever you command." Zagloba, with radiant face, sat down again near Pani Makovetski. "My gracious benefactress," said he, "I know well which Turkish sweetmeats are best, for I passed long years in Stambul; but I know this too, that there is just a world of people hungry for them. How has it happened that no man has coveted that maiden to this time?" "As God lives, there was no lack of men who were courting them both. But Basia we call, in laughing, a widow of three husbands, for at one time three worthy cavaliers paid her addresses,--all nobles of our parts, and heirs, whose relationship I can explain in detail to you." Saying this, Pani Makovetski spread out the fingers of her left hand and straightened her right index finger; but Zagloba inquired quickly, "And what happened to them?" "All three died in war; therefore we call Basia a widow." "H'm! but how did she endure the loss?" "With us, you see, a case like that happens every day; and it is a rare thing for any man, after reaching ripe age, to pass away with his own death. Among us people even say that it is not befitting a nobleman to die otherwise than in the field. 'How did Basia endure it?' Oh, she whimpered a little, poor girl, but mostly in the stable; for when anything troubles her, she is off to the stable. I sent for her once and inquired, 'For whom are you crying?' 'For all three,' said she. I saw from the answer that no one of them pleased her specially. I think that as her head is stuffed with something else, she has not felt the will of God yet; Krysia has felt it somewhat, but Basia perhaps not at all." "She will feel it!" said Zagloba. "Gracious benefactress, we understand that perfectly. She will feel it! she will feel it!" "Such is our predestination," said Pani Makovetski. "That is just it. You took the words out of my mouth." Further conversation was interrupted by the approach of the younger society. The little knight had grown much emboldened with Krysia; and she, through evident goodness of heart, was occupied with him and his grief, like a physician with a patient. And perhaps for this very reason she showed him more kindness than their brief acquaintance permitted. But as Pan Michael was a brother of the stolnik's wife, and the young lady was related to the stolnik, no one was astonished. Basia remained, as it were, aside; and only Pan Zagloba turned to her unbroken attention. But however that might be, it was apparently all one to Basia whether some one was occupied with her or not. At first, she gazed with admiration on both knights; but with equal admiration did she examine Ketling's wonderful weapons distributed on the walls. Later she began to yawn somewhat; then her eyes grew heavier and heavier, and at last she said,-- "I am so sleepy that I may wake in the morning." After these words the company separated at once; for the ladies were very weary from the journey, and were only waiting to have beds prepared. When Zagloba found himself at last alone with Pan Michael, he began first of all to wink significantly, then he covered the little knight with a shower of light fists. "Michael! what, Michael, hei? like turnips! Will you become a monk, what? That bilberry Krysia is a sweet one. And that rosy little haiduk, uh! What will you say of her, Michael?" "What? Nothing!" answered the little knight. "That little haiduk pleased me principally. I tell you that when I sat near her during supper I was as warm from her as from a stove." "She is a kid yet; the other is ever so much more stately." "Panna Krysia is a real Hungarian plum; but this one is a little nut! As God lives, if I had teeth! I wanted to say if I had such a daughter, I'd give her to no man but you. An almond, I say, an almond!" Volodyovski grew sad on a sudden, for he remembered the nicknames which Zagloba used to give Anusia. She stood as if living before him there in his mind and memory,--her form, her small face, her dark tresses, her joyfulness, her chattering, and ways of looking. Both these were younger, but still she was a hundred times dearer than all who were younger. The little knight covered his face with his palms, and sorrow carried him away the more because it was unexpected. Zagloba was astonished; for some time he was silent and looked unquietly, then he asked, "Michael, what is the matter? Speak, for God's sake!" Volodyovski spoke, "So many are living, so many are walking through the world, but my lamb is no longer among them; never again shall I see her." Then pain stifled his voice; he rested his forehead on the arm of the sofa and began to whisper through his set lips, "O God! O God! O God!" CHAPTER VIII. Basia insisted that Volodyovski should give her instruction in "fencing;" he did not refuse, though he delayed for some days. He preferred Krysia; still, he liked Basia greatly, so difficult was it, in fact, not to like her. A certain morning the first lesson began, mainly because of Basia's boasting and her assurances that she knew that art by no means badly, and that no common person could stand before her. "An old soldier taught me," said she; "there is no lack of these among us; it is known too that there are no swordsmen superior to ours. It is a question if even you, gentlemen, would not find your equals." "Of what are you talking?" asked Zagloba. "We have no equals in the whole world." "I should wish it to come out that even I am your equal. I do not expect it, but I should like it." "If it were firing from pistols, I too would make a trial," said Pani Makovetski, laughing. "As God lives, it must be that the Amazons themselves dwell in Latychov," said Zagloba. Here he turned to Krysia: "And what weapon do you use best, your ladyship?" "None," answered Krysia. "Ah, ha! none!" exclaimed Basia. And here, mimicking Krysia's voice, she began to sing:-- "'O knights, believe me, Useless is armor, Shields give no service; Cupid's keen arrows, Through steel and iron, Go to all hearts.' "She wields arms of that kind; never fear," added Basia, turning to Pan Michael and Zagloba. "In that she is a warrior of no common skill." "Take your place, young lady!" said Pan Michael, wishing to conceal a slight confusion. "Oh, as God lives! if what I think should come true!" cried Basia, blushing with delight. And she stood at once in position with a light Polish sabre in her right hand; the left she put behind her, and with breast pushed forward, with raised head and dilated nostrils, she was so pretty and so rosy that Zagloba whispered to Pan Michael's sister, "No decanter, even if filled with Hungarian a hundred years old, would delight me so much with the sight of it." "Remember," said the little knight to Basia, "that I will only defend myself; I will not thrust once. You may attack as quickly as you choose." "Very well. If you wish me to stop, give the word." "The fencing could be stopped without a word, if I wished." "And how could that be done?" "I could take the sabre easily out of the hand of a fencer like you." "We shall see!" "We shall not, for I will not do so, through politeness." "There is no need of politeness in this case. Do it if you can. I know that I have less skill than you, but still I will not let that be done." "Then you permit it?" "I permit it." "Oh, do not permit, sweetest haiduk," said Zagloba. "He has disarmed the greatest masters." "We shall see!" repeated Basia. "Let us begin," said Pan Michael, made somewhat impatient by the boasting of the maiden. They began. Basia thrust terribly, skipping around like a pony in a field. Volodyovski stood in one place, making, according to his wont, the slightest movements of the sabre, paying but little respect to the attack. "You brush me off like a troublesome fly!" cried the irritated Basia. "I am not making a trial of you; I am teaching you," answered the little knight. "That is good! For a fair head, not bad at all! Steadier with the hand!" "'For a fair head?' You call me a fair head! you do! you do!" But Pan Michael, though Basia used her most celebrated thrusts, was untouched. Even he began to talk with Zagloba, of purpose to show how little he cared for Basia's thrusts: "Step away from the window, for you are in the lady's light; and though a sabre is larger than a needle, she has less experience with the sabre." Basia's nostrils dilated still more, and her forelock fell to her flashing eyes. "Do you hold me in contempt?" inquired she, panting quickly. "Not your person; God save me from that!" "I cannot endure Pan Michael!" "You learned fencing from a schoolmaster." Again he turned to Zagloba: "I think snow is beginning to fall." "Here is snow! snow for you!" repeated Basia, giving thrust after thrust. "Basia, that is enough! you are barely breathing," said Pani Makovetski. "Now hold to your sabre, for I will strike it from your hand." "We shall see!" "Here!" And the little sabre, hopping like a bird out of Basia's hands, fell with a rattle near the stove. "I let it go myself without thinking! It was not you who did that!" cried the young lady, with tears in her voice; and seizing the sabre, in a twinkle she thrust again: "Try it now." "There!" said Pan Michael. And again the sabre was at the stove. "That is enough for to-day," said the little knight. Pani Makovetski began to bustle about and talk louder than usual; but Basia stood in the middle of the room, confused, stunned, breathing heavily, biting her lips and repressing the tears which were crowding into her eyes in spite of her. She knew that they would laugh all the more if she burst out crying, and she wished absolutely to restrain herself; but seeing that she could not, she rushed from the room on a sudden. "For God's sake!" cried Pani Makovetski. "She has run to the stable, of course, and being so heated, will catch cold. Some one must go for her. Krysia, don't you go!" So saying, she went out, and seizing a warm shuba in the ante-room, hurried to the stable; and after her ran Zagloba, troubled about his little haiduk. Krysia wished to go also, but the little knight held her by the hand. "You heard the prohibition. I will not let this hand go till they come back." And, in fact, he did not let it go. But that hand was as soft as satin. It seemed to Pan Michael that a kind of warm current was flowing from those slender fingers into his bones, rousing in them an uncommon pleasantness; therefore he held them more firmly. A slight blush flew over Krysia's face. "I see that I am a prisoner taken captive." "Whoever should take such a prisoner would not have reason to envy the Sultan, for the Sultan would gladly give half his kingdom for her." "But you would not sell me to the Pagans?" "Just as I would not sell my soul to the Devil." Here Pan Michael remarked that momentary enthusiasm had carried him too far, and he corrected himself: "As I would not sell my sister." "That is the right word," said Krysia, seriously. "I am a sister in affection to your sister, and I will be the same to you." "I thank you from my heart!" said Pan Michael, kissing her hand; "for I have great need of consolation." "I know, I know," repeated the young lady; "I am an orphan myself." Here a small tear rolled down from her eyelid and stopped at the down on her lip. Pan Michael looked on that tear, on the mouth slightly shaded, and said, "You are as kind as a real angel; I feel comforted already." Krysia smiled sweetly: "May God reward you!" "As God is dear to me." The little knight felt meanwhile that if he should kiss her hand a second time, it would comfort him still more; but at that moment his sister appeared. "Basia took the shuba," said she, "but is in such confusion that she will not come in for anything. Pan Zagloba is chasing her through the whole stable." In fact, Zagloba, sparing neither jests nor persuasion, not only followed Basia through the stable, but drove her at last to the yard, in hopes that he would persuade her to the warm house. She ran before him, repeating, "I will not go! Let the cold catch me! I will not go! I will not go!" Seeing at last a pillar before the house with pegs, and on it a ladder, she sprang up the ladder like a squirrel, stopped, and leaned at last on the eave of the roof. Sitting there, she turned to Pan Zagloba and cried out half in laughter, "Well, I will go if you climb up here after me." "What sort of a cat am I, little haiduk, to creep along roofs after you? Is that the way you pay me for loving you?" "I love you too, but from the roof." "Grandfather wants his way; grandmother will have hers. Come down to me this minute!" "I will not go down!" "It is laughable, as God is dear to me, to take defeat to heart as you do. Not you alone, angry weasel, but Kmita, who passed for a master of masters, did Pan Michael treat in this way, and not in sport, but in a duel. The most famous swordsmen--Italians, Germans, and Swedes--could not stand before him longer than during one 'Our Father,' and here such a gadfly takes the affair to heart. Fie! be ashamed of yourself! Come down, come down! Besides, you are only beginning to learn." "But I cannot endure Pan Michael!" "God be good to you! Is it because he is _exquisitissimus_ in that which you yourself wish to know? You should love him all the more." Zagloba was not mistaken. The admiration of Basia for the little knight increased in spite of her defeat; but she answered, "Let Krysia love him." "Come down! come down!" "I will not come down." "Very well, stay there; but I will tell you one thing: it is not nice for a young lady to sit on a ladder, for she may give an amusing exhibition to the world." "But that's not true," answered Basia, gathering in her skirts with her hand. "I am an old fellow,--I won't look my eyes out; but I'll call everybody this minute, let others stare at you." "I'll come down!" cried Basia. With that, Zagloba turned toward the side of the house. "As God lives, somebody is coming!" said he. In fact, from behind the corner appeared young Adam Novoveski, who, coming on horseback, had tied his beast at the side-gate and passed around the house himself, wishing to enter through the main door. Basia, seeing him, was on the ground in two springs, but too late. Unfortunately Pan Adam had seen her springing from the ladder, and stood confused, astonished, and covered with blushes like a young girl. Basia stood before him in the same way, till at last she cried out,-- "A second confusion!" Zagloba, greatly amused, blinked some time with his sound eye; at length he said, "Pan Novoveski, a friend and subordinate of our Michael, and this is Panna Drabinovski (Ladder). Tfu! I wanted to say Yezorkovski." Pan Adam recovered readily; and because he was a soldier of quick wit, though young, he bowed, and raising his eyes to the wonderful vision, said, "As God lives! roses bloom on the snow in Ketling's garden." But Basia, courtesying, muttered to herself, "For some other nose than yours." Then she said very charmingly, "I beg you to come in." She went forward herself, and rushing into the room where Pan Michael was sitting with the rest of the company, cried, making reference to the red kontush of Pan Adam, "The red finch has come!" Then she sat at the table, put one hand into the other, and pursed her mouth in the style of a demure and strictly reared young lady. Pan Michael presented his young friend to his sister and Panna Krysia; and the friend, seeing another young lady of equal beauty, but of a different order, was confused a second time; he covered his confusion, however, with a bow, and to add to his courage reached his hand to his mustache, which had not grown much yet. Twisting his fingers above his lip, he turned to Pan Michael and told him the object of his coming. The grand hetman wished anxiously to see the little knight. As far as Pan Adam could conjecture, it was a question of some military function, for the hetman had received letters recently from Pan Vilchkovski, from Pan Silnitski, from Colonel Pivo, and other commandants stationed in the Ukraine and Podolia, with reports of Crimean events which were not of favorable promise. "The Khan himself and Sultan Galga, who made treaties with us at Podhaytse," continued Pan Adam, "wish to observe the treaties; but Budjyak is as noisy as a bee-hive at time of swarming. The Belgrod horde also are in an uproar; they do not wish to obey either the Khan or Galga." "Pan Sobieski has informed me already of that, and asked for advice," said Zagloba. "What do they say now about the coming spring?" "They say that with the first grass there will be surely a movement of those worms; that it will be necessary to stamp them out a second time," replied Pan Adam, assuming the face of a terrible Mars, and twisting his mustache till his upper lip reddened. Basia, who was quick-eyed, saw this at once; therefore she pushed back a little, so that Pan Adam might not see her, and then twisted, as it were, her mustache, imitating the youthful cavalier. Pan Michael's sister threatened with her eyes, but at the same time she began to quiver, restraining her laughter with difficulty. Volodyovski bit his lips; and Krysia dropped her eyes till the long lashes threw a shadow on her cheeks. "You are a young man," said Zagloba, "but a soldier of experience." "I am twenty-two years old, and I have served the country seven years without ceasing; for I escaped to the field from the lowest bench in my fifteenth year," answered the young man. "He knows the steppe, knows how to make his way through the grass, and to fall on the horde as a kite falls on grouse," said Pan Michael. "He is no common partisan! The Tartar will not hide from him in the steppe." Pan Adam blushed with delight that praise from such famous lips met him in presence of ladies. He was withal not merely a falcon of the steppes, but a handsome fellow, dark, embrowned by the winds. On his face he bore a scar from his ear to his nose, which from this cut was thinner on one side than the other. He had quick eyes, accustomed to look into the distance, above them very dark brows, joined at the nose and forming, as it were, a Tartar bow. His head, shaven at the sides, was surmounted by a black, bushy forelock. He pleased Basia both in speech and in bearing; but still she did not cease to mimic him. "As I live!" said Zagloba, "it is pleasant for old men like me to see that a new generation is rising up worthy of us." "Not worthy yet," answered Pan Adam. "I praise the modesty too. We shall see you soon receiving commands." "That has happened already!" cried Pan Michael. "He has been commandant, and gained victories by himself." Pan Adam began so to twist his mustache that he lacked little of pulling out his lip. And Basia, without taking her eyes from him, raised both hands also to her face, and mimicked him in everything. But the clever soldier saw quickly that the glances of the whole company were turning to one side, where, somewhat behind him, was sitting the young lady whom he had seen on the ladder, and he divined at once that something must be against him. He spoke on, as if paying no heed to the matter, and sought his mustache as before. At last he selected the moment, and wheeled around so quickly that Basia had no time either to turn her eyes from him, or to take her hands from her face. She blushed terribly, and not knowing herself what to do, rose from the chair. All were confused, and a moment of silence followed. Basia struck her sides suddenly with her hands: "A third confusion!" cried she, with her silvery voice. "My gracious lady," said Pan Adam, with animation, "I saw at once that something hostile was happening behind me. I confess that I am anxious for a mustache; but if I do not get it, it will be because I shall fall for the country, and in that event I hope I shall deserve tears rather than laughter from your ladyship." Basia stood with downcast eyes, and was the more put to shame by the sincere words of the cavalier. "You must forgive her," said Zagloba. "She is wild because she is young, but she has a golden heart." And Basia, as if confirming Zagloba's words, said at once in a low voice, "I beg your forgiveness most earnestly." Pan Adam caught her hands that moment and fell to kissing them. "For God's sake, do not take it to heart! I am not some kind of barbarian. It is for me to beg pardon for having dared to interrupt your amusement. We soldiers ourselves are fond of jokes. _Mea culpa!_ I will kiss those hands again, and if I have to kiss them till you forgive me, then, for God's sake, do not forgive me till evening!" "Oh, he is a polite cavalier. You see, Basia!" said Pani Makovetski. "I see!" answered Basia. "It is all over now," cried Pan Adam. When he said this he straightened himself, and with great resolution reached to his mustache from habit, but suddenly remembered himself and burst out in hearty laughter. Basia followed him; others followed Basia. Joy seized all. Zagloba gave command straightway to bring one and a second bottle from Ketling's cellar, and all felt well. Pan Adam, striking one spur against the other, passed his fingers through his forelock and looked more and more ardently at Basia. She pleased him greatly. He grew immensely eloquent; and since he had served with the hetman, he had lived in the great world, therefore had something to talk about. He told them of the Diet of Convocation, of its close, and how in the senate the stove had tumbled down under the inquisitive spectators, to the great amusement of all. He departed at last after dinner, with his eyes and his soul full of Basia. CHAPTER IX. That same day Pan Michael announced himself at the quarters of the hetman, who gave command to admit the little knight, and said to him, "I must send Rushchyts to the Crimea to see what is passing there, and to stir up the Khan to observe his treaties. Do you wish to enter service again and take the command after Rushchyts? You, Vilchkovski, Silnitski, and Pivo will have an eye on Doroshenko, and on the Tartars, whom it is impossible to trust altogether at any time." Pan Michael grew sad. He had served the flower of his life. For whole tens of years he had not known rest; he had lived in fire, in smoke, in toil, in sleeplessness, without a roof over his head, without a handful of straw to lie on. God knows what blood his sabre had not shed. He had not settled down; he had not married. Men who deserved a hundred times less were eating the bread of merit; had risen to honors, to offices, to starostaships. He was richer when he began to serve than he was then. But still it was intended to use him again, like an old broom. His soul was rent, because, when friendly and pleasant hands had been found to dress his wounds, the command was given to tear himself away and fly to the desert, to the distant boundaries of the Commonwealth, without a thought that he was so greatly wearied in soul. Had it not been for interruptions and service, he would have enjoyed at least a couple of years with Anusia. When he thought of all this, an immense bitterness rose in his soul; but since it did not seem to him worthy of a cavalier to mention his own services and dwell on them, he answered briefly,-- "I will go." "You are not in service," said the hetman; "you can refuse. You know better yourself if this is too soon for you." "It is not too soon for me to die," replied Pan Michael. Sobieski walked a number of times through the chamber, then he stopped before the little knight and put his hand on his shoulder confidentially. "If your tears are not dried yet, the wind of the steppe will dry them for you. You have toiled, cherished soldier, all your life; toil on still further! And should it come ever to your head that you are forgotten, unrewarded, that rest is not granted you, that you have received not buttered toast, but a crust, not a starostaship, but wounds, not rest, but suffering only, set your teeth and say, 'For thee, O Country!' Other consolation I cannot give, for I haven't it; but though not a priest, I can give you the assurance that serving in this way, you will go farther on a worn-out saddle than others in a carriage and six, and that gates will be opened for you which will be closed before them." "To thee, O Country!" said Pan Michael, in his soul, wondering at the same time that the hetman could penetrate his secret thoughts so quickly. Pan Sobieski sat down in front of him and continued: "I do not wish to speak with you as with a subordinate, but as with a friend,--nay! as a father with a son. When we were in the fire at Podhaytse, and before that in the Ukraine; when we were barely able to prevent the preponderance of the enemy,--here, in the heart of the country, evil men in security, behind our shoulders, were attaining in turbulence their own selfish ends. Even in those days it came more than once to my head that this Commonwealth must perish. License lords it too much over order; the public good yields too often to private ends. This has never happened elsewhere in such a degree. These thoughts were gnawing me in the day in the field, and in the night in the tent, for I thought to myself: 'Well, we soldiers are in a woful condition; but this is our duty and our portion. If we could only know that with this blood which is flowing from our wounds, salvation was issuing also.' No! even that consolation there was not. Oh, I passed heavy days in Podhaytse, though I showed a glad face to you officers, lest you might think that I had lost hope of victory in the field. 'There are no men,' thought I,--'there are no men who love this country really.' And it was to me as if some one had planted a knife in my breast, till a certain time--the last day at Podhaytse, when I sent you with two thousand to the attack against twenty-six thousand of the horde, and you all flew to apparent death, to certain slaughter, with such a shouting, with such willingness, as if you were going to a wedding--suddenly the thought came to me: 'Ah, these are my soldiers.' And God in one moment took the stone from my heart, and in my eyes it grew clear. 'These,' said I, 'are perishing from pure love of the mother; they will not go to confederacies, nor to traitors. Of these I will form a sacred brotherhood; of these I will form a school, in which the young generation will learn. Their example will have influence; through them this ill-fated people will be reborn, will become free of selfishness, forget license, and be as a lion feeling wonderful strength in his limbs, and will astonish the world. Such a brotherhood will I form of my soldiers!'" Here Sobieski flushed up, reared his head, which was like the head of a Roman Cæsar, and stretching forth his hands, exclaimed, "O Lord! inscribe not on our walls 'Mene, Tekel, Peres!' and permit me to regenerate my country!" A moment of silence followed. Pan Michael sat with drooping head and felt that trembling had seized his whole body. The hetman walked some time with quick steps through the room and then stopped before the little knight. "Examples are needed," said he,--"examples every day to strike the eye. Volodyovski, I have reckoned you in the first rank of the brotherhood. Do you wish to belong to it?" The little knight rose and embraced the hetman's knees. "See," said he, with a voice of emotion, "when I heard that I had to march again, I thought that a wrong had been done, and that leisure for my suffering belonged to me; but now I see that I sinned, and I repent of my thought and am unable to speak, for I am ashamed." The hetman pressed Pan Michael to his heart in silence. "There is a handful of us," said he; "but others will follow the example." "When am I to go?" asked the little knight. "I could go even to the Crimea, for I have been there." "No," answered the hetman; "to the Crimea I will send Pan Rushchyts. He has relations there, and even namesakes, likely cousins, who, seized in childhood by the horde, have become Mussulmans and obtained office among the Pagans. They will help him in everything. Besides, I need you in the field; there is no man your equal in dealing with Tartars." "When have I to go?" repeated the little knight. "In two weeks at furthest. I need to confer yet with the vice-chancellor of the kingdom and with the treasurer, to prepare letters for Rushchyts and give him instructions. But be ready, for I shall be urgent." "I shall be ready from to-morrow." "God reward you for the intention! but it is not needful to be ready so soon. Moreover, you will not go to stay long; for during the election, if only there is peace, I shall need you in Warsaw. You have heard of candidates. What is the talk among nobles?" "I came from the cloister not long since, and there they do not think of worldly matters. I know only what Pan Zagloba has told me." "True. I can obtain information from him; he is widely known among the nobles. But for whom do you think of voting?" "I know not myself yet; but I think that a military king is necessary for us." "Yes, yes! I have such a man too in mind, who by his name alone would terrify our neighbors. We need a military king, as was Stefan Batory. But farewell, cherished soldier! We need a military king. Do you repeat this to all. Farewell. God reward you for your readiness!" Pan Michael took farewell and went out. On the road he meditated. The soldier, however, was glad that he had before him a week or two, for that friendship and consolation which Krysia gave was dear to him. He was pleased also with the thought that he would return to the election, and in general he went home without suffering. The steppes too had for him a certain charm; he was pining for them without knowing it. He was so used to those spaces without end, in which the horseman feels himself more a bird than a man. "Well, I will go," said he, "to those measureless fields, to those stanitsas and mounds, to taste the old life again, make new campaigns with the soldiers, to guard those boundaries like a crane, to frolic in spring in the grass,--well, now, I will go, I will go!" Meanwhile he urged on the horse and went at a gallop, for he was yearning for the speed and the whistle of the wind in his ears. The day was clear, dry, frosty. Frozen snow covered the ground and squeaked under the feet of the horse. Compressed lumps of it flew with force from his hoofs. Pan Michael sped forward so that his attendant, sitting on an inferior horse remained far behind. It was near sunset; a little later twilight was in the heavens, casting a violet reflection on the snowy expanse. On the ruddy sky the first twinkling stars came out; the moon hung in the form of a silver sickle. The road was empty; the knight passed an odd wagon and flew on without interruption. Only when he saw Ketling's house in the distance did he rein in his horse and let his attendant come up. All at once he saw a slender figure coming toward him. It was Krysia. When he recognized her, Pan Michael sprang at once from his horse, which he gave to the attendant, and hurried up to the maiden, somewhat astonished, but still more delighted at sight of her. "Soldiers declare," said he, "that at twilight we may meet various supernatural beings, who are sometimes of evil, sometimes of good, omen; but for me there can be no better omen than to meet you." "Pan Adam has come," answered Krysia; "he is passing the time with Basia and Pani Makovetski. I slipped out purposely to meet you, for I was anxious about what the hetman had to say." The sincerity of these words touched the little knight to the heart. "Is it true that you are so concerned about me?" asked he, raising his eyes to her. "It is," answered Krysia, with a low voice. Pan Michael did not take his eyes from her; never before had she seemed to him so attractive. On her head was a satin hood; white swan's-down encircled her small, palish face, on which the moonlight was falling,--light which shone mildly on those noble brows, downcast eyes, long lids, and that dark, barely visible down above her mouth. There was a certain calm in that face and great goodness. Pan Michael felt at the moment that the face was a friendly and beloved one; therefore he said,-- "Were it not for the attendant who is riding behind, I should fall on the snow at your feet from thankfulness." "Do not say such things," answered Krysia, "for I am not worthy; but to reward me say that you will remain with us, and that I shall be able to comfort you longer." "I shall not remain," said Pan Michael. Krysia stopped suddenly. "Impossible!" "Usual soldier's service! I go to Russia and to the Wilderness." "Usual service?" repeated Krysia, And she began to hurry in silence toward the house. Pan Michael walked quickly at her side, a trifle confused. Somehow it was a little oppressive and dull in his mind. He wanted to say something; he wanted to begin conversation again; he did not succeed. But still it seemed to him that he had a thousand things to say to her, and that just then was the time, while they were alone and no one preventing. "If I begin," thought he, "it will go on;" therefore he inquired all at once, "But is it long since Pan Adam came?" "Not long," answered Krysia. And again their conversation stopped. "The road is not that way," thought Pan Michael. "While I begin in that fashion, I shall never say anything. But I see that sorrow has gnawed away what there was of my wit." And for a time he hurried on in silence; his mustaches merely quivered more and more vigorously. At last he halted before the house and said, "Think, if I deferred my happiness so many years to serve the country, with what face could I refuse now to put off my own comfort?" It seemed to the little knight that such a simple argument should convince Krysia at once; in fact, after a while she answered with sadness and mildness, "The more nearly one knows Pan Michael, the more one respects and honors him." Then she entered the house. Basia's exclamations of "Allah! Allah!" reached her in the entrance. And when they came to the reception-room, they saw Pan Adam in the middle of it, blindfolded, bent forward, and with outstretched arms trying to catch Basia, who was hiding in corners and giving notice of her presence by cries of "Allah!" Pani Makovetski was occupied near the window in conversation with Zagloba. The entrance of Krysia and the little knight interrupted the amusement. Pan Adam pulled off the handkerchief and ran to greet Volodyovski. Immediately after came Pani Makovetski, Zagloba, and the panting Basia. "What is it? what is it? What did the hetman say?" asked one, interrupting another. "Lady sister," answered Pan Michael, "if you wish to send a letter to your husband, you have a chance, for I am going to Russia." "Is he sending you? In God's name, do not volunteer yet, and do not go," cried his sister, with a pitiful voice. "Will they not give you this bit of time?" "Is your command fixed already?" asked Zagloba, gloomily. "Your sister says justly that they are threshing you as with flails." "Rushchyts is going to the Crimea, and I take the squadron after him; for as Pan Adam has mentioned already, the roads will surely be black (with the enemy) in spring." "Are we alone to guard this Commonwealth from thieves, as a dog guards a house?" cried Zagloba. "Other men do not know from which end of a musket to shoot, but for us there is no rest." "Never mind! I have nothing to say," answered Pan Michael. "Service is service! I gave the hetman my word that I would go, and earlier or later it is all the same." Here Pan Michael put his finger on his forehead and repeated the argument which he had used once with Krysia, "You see that if I put off my happiness so many years to serve the Commonwealth, with what face can I refuse to give up the pleasure which I find in your company?" No one made answer to this; only Basia came up, with lips pouting like those of a peevish child, and said, "I am sorry for Pan Michael." Pan Michael laughed joyously. "God grant you happy fortune! But only yesterday you said that you could no more endure me than a wild Tartar." "What Tartar? I did not say that at all. You will be working there against the Tartars, and we shall be lonely here without you." "Oh, little haiduk, comfort yourself; forgive me for the name, but it fits you most wonderfully. The hetman informed me that my command would not last long. I shall set out in a week or two, and must be in Warsaw at the election. The hetman himself wishes me to come, and I shall be here even if Rushchyts does not return from the Crimea in May." "Oh, that is splendid!" "I will go with the colonel; I will go surely," said Pan Adam, looking quickly at Basia; and she said in answer,-- "There will be not a few like you. It is a delight for men to serve under such a commander. Go; go! It will be pleasanter for Pan Michael." The young man only sighed and stroked his forelock with his broad palm; at last he said, stretching his hands, as if playing blind-man's-buff, "But first I will catch Panna Barbara! I will catch her most surely." "Allah! Allah!" exclaimed Basia, starting back. Meanwhile Krysia approached Pan Michael, with face radiant and full of quiet joy. "But you are not kind, not kind to me, Pan Michael; you are better to Basia than to me." "I not kind? I better to Basia?" asked the knight, with astonishment. "You told Basia that you were coming back to the election; if I had known that, I should not have taken your departure to heart." "My golden--" cried Pan Michael. But that instant he checked himself and said, "My dear friend, I told you little, for I had lost my head." CHAPTER X. Pan Michael began to prepare slowly for his departure; he did not cease, however, to give lessons to Basia, whom he liked more and more, nor to walk alone with Krysia and seek consolation in her society. It seemed to him also that he found it; for his good-humor increased daily, and in the evening he even took part in the games of Basia and Pan Adam. That young cavalier became an agreeable guest at Ketling's house. He came in the morning or at midday, and remained till evening; as all liked him, they were glad to see him, and very soon they began to hold him as one of the family. He took the ladies to Warsaw, gave their orders at the silk shops, and in the evening played blind-man's-buff and patience with them, repeating that he must absolutely catch the unattainable Basia before his departure. But Basia laughed and escaped always, though Zagloba said to her, "If this one does not catch you at last, another man will." It became clearer and clearer that just "this one" had resolved to catch her. This must have come even to the head of the haiduk herself, for she fell sometimes to thinking till the forelock dropped into her eyes altogether. Pan Zagloba had his reasons, according to which Pan Adam was not suitable. A certain evening, when all had retired, he knocked at Pan Michael's chamber. "I am so sorry that we must part," said he, "that I have come to get a good look at you. God knows when we shall see each other again." "I shall come in all certainty to the election," said the little knight, embracing his old friend, "and I will tell you why. The hetman wishes to have here the largest number possible of men beloved by the knighthood, so that they may capture nobles for his candidate; and because--thanks to God!--my name has some weight among our brethren, he wants me to come surely. He counts on you also." "Indeed, he is trying to catch me with a large net; yet I see something, and though I am rather bulky, still I can creep out through any hole in that net. I will not vote for a Frenchman." "Why?" "Because he would be for _absolutum dominium_ (absolute rule)." "Condé would have to swear to the _pacta conventa_ like any other man; and he must be a great leader,--he is renowned for warlike achievement." "With God's favor we have no need of seeking leaders in France. Pan Sobieski himself is surely no worse than Condé. Think of it, Michael; the French wear stockings like the Swedes; therefore, like them they of course keep no oaths. Carolus Gustavus was ready to take an oath every hour. For the Swedes to take an oath or crack a nut is all one. What does a pact mean when a man has no honesty?" "But the Commonwealth needs defence. Oh, if Prince Yeremi were alive! We would elect him king with one voice." "His son is alive, the same blood." "But not the same courage. It is God's pity to look at him, for he is more like a serving-man than a prince of such worthy blood. If it were a different time! But now the first virtue is regard for the good of the country. Pan Yan says the same thing. Whatever the hetman does, I will do, for I believe in his love of the Commonwealth as in the Gospel." "It is time to think of that. It is too bad that you are going now." "But what will you do?" "I will go to Pan Yan. The boys torment me at times; still, when I am away for a good while I feel lonely without them." "If war comes after the election, Pan Yan too will go to it. Who knows? You may take the field yourself; we may campaign yet together in Russia. How much good and evil have we gone through in those parts!" "True, as God is dear to me! there our best years flowed by. At times the wish comes to see all those places which witnessed our glory." "Then come with me now. We shall be cheerful together; in five months I will return to Ketling. He will be at home then, and Pan Yan will be here." "No, Michael, it is not the time for me now; but I promise that if you marry some lady with land in Russia, I will go with you and see your installation." Pan Michael was confused a little, but answered at once, "How should I have a wife in my head? The best proof that I have not is that I am going to the army." "It is that which torments me; for I used to think, if not one, then another woman. Michael, have God in your heart; stop; where will you find a better chance than just at this moment? Remember that years will come later in which you will say to yourself: 'Each has his wife and his children, but I am alone, like Matsek's pear-tree, sticking up in the field.' And sorrow will seize you and terrible yearning. If you had married that dear one; if she had left children,--I should not trouble you; I should have some object for my affection and ready hope for consolation; but as things now are, the time may come when you will look around in vain for a near soul, and you will ask yourself, 'Am I living in a foreign country?'" Pan Michael was silent; he meditated; therefore Zagloba began to speak again, looking quickly into the face of the little knight, "In my mind and my heart I chose first of all that rosy haiduk for you: to begin with, she is gold, not a maiden; and secondly, such venomous soldiers as you would give to the world have not been on earth yet." "She is a storm; besides, Pan Adam wants to strike fire with her." "That's it,--that's it! To-day she would prefer you to a certainty, for she is in love with your glory; but when you go, and he remains--I know he will remain, the rascal! for there is no war--who knows what will happen?" "Basia is a storm! Let Novoveski take her. I wish him well, because he is a brave man." "Michael!" said Zagloba, clasping his hands, "think what a posterity that would be!" To this the little knight answered with the greatest simplicity, "I knew two brothers Bal whose mother was a Drohoyovski,[10] and they were excellent soldiers." "Ah! I was waiting for that. You have turned in that direction?" cried Zagloba. Pan Michael was confused beyond measure; at last he replied, "What do you say? I am turning to no side; but when I thought of Basia's bravery, which is really manlike, Krysia came to my mind at once; in her there is more of woman's nature. When one of them is mentioned, the other comes to mind, for they are both together." "Well, well! God bless you with Krysia, though as God is dear to me, if I were young, I should fall in love with Basia to kill. You would not need to leave such a wife at home in time of war; you could take her to the field, and have her at your side. Such a woman would be good for you in the tent; and if it came to that, even in time of battle she would handle a musket. But she is honest and good. Oh, my haiduk, my little darling haiduk, they have not known you here, and have nourished you with thanklessness; but if I were something like sixty years younger, I should see what sort of a Pani Zagloba there would be in my house." "I do not detract from Basia." "It is not a question of detracting from her virtues, but of giving her a husband. But you prefer Krysia." "Krysia is my friend." "Your friend, not your friend_ess?_ That must be because she has a mustache. I am your friend; Pan Yan is; so is Ketling. You do not need a man for a friend, but a woman. Tell this to yourself clearly, and don't throw a cover over your eyes. Guard yourself, Michael, against a friend of the fair sex, even though that friend has a mustache; for either you will betray that friend, or you yourself will be betrayed. The Devil does not sleep, and he is glad to sit between such friends; as example of this, Adam and Eve began to be friends, till that friendship became a bone in Adam's throat." "Do not offend Krysia, for I will not endure it in any way." "God guard Krysia! There is no one above my little haiduk; but Krysia is a good maiden too. I do not attack her in any way, but I say this to you: When you sit near her, your cheeks are as flushed as if some one had pinched them, and your mustaches are quivering, your forelock rises, and you are panting and striking with your feet and stamping like a ring-dove; and all this is a sign of desires. Tell some one else about friendship; I am too old a sparrow for that talk." "So old that you see that which is not." "Would that I were mistaken! Would that my haiduk were in question! Michael, good-night to you. Take the haiduk; the haiduk is the comelier. Take the haiduk; take the haiduk!" Zagloba rose and went out of the room. Pan Michael tossed about the whole night; he could not sleep, for unquiet thoughts passed through his head all the time. He saw before him Krysia's face, her eyes with long lashes, and her lip with down. Dozing seized him at moments, but the vision did not vanish. On waking, he remembered the words of Zagloba, and called to mind how rarely the wit of that man was mistaken in anything. At times when half sleeping, half waking, the rosy face of Basia gleamed before him, and the sight calmed him; but again Krysia took her place quickly. The poor knight turns to the wall now, sees her eyes; turns to the darkness in the room, sees her eyes, and in them a certain languishing, a certain encouragement. At times those eyes are closing, as if to say, "Let thy will be done!" Pan Michael sat up in the bed and crossed himself. Toward morning the dream flew away altogether; then it became oppressive and bitter to him. Shame seized him, and he began to reproach himself harshly, because he did not see before him that beloved one who was dead; that he had his eyes, his heart, his soul, full not of her, but of the living. It seemed to him that he had sinned against the memory of Anusia, hence he shook himself once and a second time; then springing from the bed, though it was dark yet, he began to say his morning "Our Father." When Pan Michael had finished, he put his finger on his forehead and said, "I must go as soon as possible, and restrain this friendship at once, for perhaps Zagloba is right." Then, more cheerful and calm, he went down to breakfast. After breakfast he fenced with Basia, and noticed, beyond doubt, for the first time, that she drew one's eyes, she was so attractive with her dilated nostrils and panting breast. He seemed to avoid Krysia, who, noting this, followed him with her eyes, staring from astonishment; but he avoided even her glance. It was cutting his heart; but he held out. After dinner he went with Basia to the storehouse, where Ketling had another collection of arms. He showed her various weapons, and explained the use of them. Then they shot at a mark from Astrachan bows. The maiden was made happy with the amusement, and became giddier than ever, so that Pani Makovetski had to restrain her. Thus passed the second day. On the third Pan Michael went with Zagloba to Warsaw to the Danilovich Palace to learn something concerning the time of his departure. In the evening the little knight told the ladies that he would go surely in a week. While saying this, he tried to speak carelessly and joyfully. He did not even look at Krysia. The young lady was alarmed, tried to ask him touching various things; he answered politely, with friendliness, but talked more with Basia. Zagloba, thinking this to be the fruit of his counsel, rubbed his hands with delight; but since nothing could escape his eye, he saw Krysia's sadness. "She has changed," thought he; "she has changed noticeably. Well, that is nothing,--the ordinary nature of fair heads. But Michael has turned away sooner than I hoped. He is a man in a hundred, but a whirlwind in love, and a whirlwind he will remain." Zagloba had, in truth, a good heart, and was sorry at once for Panna Krysia. "I will say nothing to the maiden directly," thought he, "but I must think out some consolation for her." Then, using the privilege of age and a white head, he went to her after supper and began to stroke her black, silky hair. She sat quietly, raising toward him her mild eyes, somewhat astonished at his tenderness, but grateful. In the evening Zagloba nudged Pan Michael in the side at the door of the little knight's room, "Well, what?" said he. "No one can beat the haiduk?" "A charming kid," answered Pan Michael. "She will make as much uproar as four soldiers in the house,--a regular drummer." "A drummer? God grant her to go with your drum as quickly as possible!" "Good-night!" "Good-night! Wonderful creatures, those fair heads! Since you approached Basia a little, have you noted the change in Krysia?" "No, I have not," answered the little knight. "As if some one had tripped her." "Good-night," repeated Pan Michael, and went quickly to his room. Zagloba, in counting on the little knight's instability, over-reckoned somewhat, and in general acted awkwardly in mentioning the change in Krysia; for Pan Michael was so affected that something seemed to seize him by the throat. "And this is how I pay her for kindness, for comforting me in grief, like a sister," said he to himself. "Well, what evil have I done to her?" thought he, after a moment of meditation. "What have I done? I have slighted her for three days, which was rude, to say the least. I have slighted the cherished girl, the dear one. Because she wished to cure my wounds, I have nourished her with ingratitude. If I only knew," continued he, "how to preserve measure and restrain dangerous friendship, and not offend her; but evidently my wit is too dull for such management." Pan Michael was angry at himself; but at the same time great pity rose in his breast. Involuntarily he began to think of Krysia as of a beloved and injured person. Anger against himself grew in him every moment. "I am a barbarian, a barbarian!" repeated he. And Krysia overwhelmed Basia completely in his mind. "Let him who pleases take that kid, that wind-mill, that rattler," said he to himself,--"Pan Adam or the Devil, it is all one to me!" Anger rose in him against Basia, who was indebted to God for her disposition; but it never came to his head once that he might wrong her more with this anger than Krysia with his pretended indifference. Krysia, with a woman's instinct, divined straightway that some change was taking place in Pan Michael. It was at once both bitter and sad for the maiden that the little knight seemed to avoid her; but she understood instantly that something must be decided between them, and that their friendship could not continue unmodified, but must become either far greater than it had been or cease altogether. Hence she was seized by alarm, which increased at the thought of Pan Michael's speedy departure. Love was not in Krysia's heart yet. The maiden had not come to self-consciousness on that point; but in her heart and in her blood there was a great readiness for love. Perhaps too she felt a light turning of the head. Pan Michael was surrounded with the glory of the first soldier in the Commonwealth. All knights were repeating his name with respect. His sister exalted his honor to the sky; the charm of misfortune covered him; and in addition, the young lady, living under the same roof with him, grew accustomed to his attraction. Krysia had this in her nature, she was fond of being loved; therefore when Pan Michael began in those recent days to treat her with indifference, her self-esteem suffered greatly; but having a good heart, she resolved not to show an angry face or vexation, and to win him by kindness. That came to her all the more easily, since on the following day Pan Michael had a penitent mien, and not only did not avoid Krysia's glance, but looked into her eyes, as if wishing to say, "Yesterday I offended you; to-day I implore your forgiveness." He said so much to her with his eyes that under their influence the blood flowed to the young lady's face, and her disquiet was increased, as if with a presentiment that very soon something important would happen. In fact, it did happen. In the afternoon Pani Makovetski went with Basia to Basia's relative, the wife of the chamberlain of Lvoff, who was stopping in Warsaw; Krysia feigned purposely a headache, for curiosity seized her to know what she and Pan Michael would do if left to themselves. Zagloba did not go, it is true, to the chamberlain's wife, but he had the habit of sleeping a couple of hours after dinner, for he said that it saved him from fatness, and gave him clear wit in the evening; therefore, after he had chatted an hour or so, he began to prepare for his room. Krysia's heart beat at once more unquietly. But what a disillusion was awaiting her! Pan Michael sprang up, and went out with Zagloba. "He will come back soon," thought Krysia. And taking a little drum, she began to embroider on it a gold top for a cap to give Pan Michael at his departure. Her eyes rose, however, every little while, and went to the Dantzig clock, which stood in the corner of Ketling's room, and ticked with importance. But one hour and a second passed; Pan Michael was not to be seen. Krysia placed the drum on her knees, and crossing her hands on it, said in an undertone, "But before he decides, they may come, and we shall not say anything, or Pan Zagloba may wake." It seemed to her in that moment that they had in truth to speak of some important affair, which might be deferred through the fault of Pan Michael. At last, however, his steps were heard in the next room. "He is wandering around," thought she, and began to embroider diligently again. Volodyovski was, in fact, wandering; he was walking through the room, and did not dare to come in. Meanwhile the sun was growing red and approaching its setting. "Pan Michael!" called Krysia, suddenly. He came in and found her sewing. "Did you call me?" "I wished to know if some stranger was walking in the house; I have been here alone for two hours." Pan Michael drew up a chair and sat on the edge of it. A long time elapsed; he was silent; his feet clattered somewhat as he pushed them under the table, and his mustache quivered. Krysia stopped sewing and raised her eyes to him; their glances met, and then both dropped their eyes suddenly. When Pan Michael raised his eyes again, the last rays of the sun were falling on Krysia's face, and it was beautiful in the light; her hair gleamed in its folds like gold. "In a couple of days you are going?" asked she, so quietly that Pan Michael barely heard her. "It cannot be otherwise." Again a moment of silence, after which Krysia said, "I thought these last days that you were angry with me." "As I live," cried Pan Michael, "I would not be worthy of your regard if I had been, but I was not." "What was the matter?" asked Krysia, raising her eyes to him. "I wish to speak sincerely, for I think that sincerity is always better than dissimulation; but I cannot tell how much solace you have poured into my heart, and how grateful I feel." "God grant it to be always so!" said Krysia, crossing her hands on the drum. To this Pan Michael answered with great sadness, "God grant! God grant--But Pan Zagloba told me--I speak before you as before a priest--Pan Zagloba told me that friendship with fair heads is not a safe thing, for a more ardent feeling may be hidden beneath it, as fire under ashes. I thought that perhaps Pan Zagloba was right. Forgive me, a simple soldier; another would have brought out the idea more cleverly, but my heart is bleeding because I have offended you these recent days, and life is not pleasant to me." When he had said this. Pan Michael began to move his mustaches more quickly than any beetle. Krysia dropped her head, and after a while two tears rolled down her cheeks. "If it will be easier for you, I will conceal my sisterly affection." A second pair of tears, and then a third, appeared on her cheeks. At sight of this, Pan Michael's heart was rent completely; he sprang toward Krysia, and seized her hands. The drum rolled from her knees to the middle of the room; the knight, however, did not care for that; he only pressed those warm, soft, velvety hands to his mouth, repeating,-- "Do not weep. For God's sake, do not weep!" Pan Michael did not cease to kiss the hands even when Krysia put them on her head, as people do usually when embarrassed; but he kissed them the more ardently, till the warmth coming from her hair and forehead intoxicated him as wine does, and his ideas grew confused. Then not knowing himself how and when, his lips came to her forehead and kissed that still more eagerly; and then he pushed down to her tearful eyes, and the world went around with him altogether. Next he felt that most delicate down on her lip; and after that their mouths met and were pressed together with all their power. Silence fell on the room; only the clock ticked with importance. Suddenly Basia's steps were heard in the ante-room, and her childlike voice repeating, "Frost! frost! frost!" Pan Michael sprang away from Krysia like a frightened panther from his victim; and at that moment Basia rushed in with an uproar, repeating incessantly, "Frost! frost! frost!" Suddenly she stumbled against the drum lying in the middle of the room. Then she stopped, and looking with astonishment, now on the drum, now on Krysia, now on the little knight, said, "What is this? You struck each other, as with a dart?" "But where is auntie?" asked Krysia, striving to bring out of her heaving breast a quiet, natural voice. "Auntie is climbing out of the sleigh by degrees," answered Basia, with an equally changed voice. Her nostrils moved a number of times. She looked once more at Krysia and Pan Michael, who by that time had raised the drum, then she left the room suddenly. Pani Makovetski rolled into the room; Pan Zagloba came downstairs, and a conversation set in about the wife of the chamberlain of Lvoff. "I did not know that she was Pan Adam's godmother," said Pani Makovetski; "he must have made her his confidante, for she is persecuting Basia with him terribly." "But what did Basia say?" asked Zagloba. "'A halter for a dog!' She said to the chamberlain's lady: 'He has no mustache, and I have no sense; and it is not known which one will get what is lacking first.'" "I knew that she would not lose her tongue; but who knows what her real thought is? Ah, woman's wiles!" "With Basia, what is on her heart is on her lips. Besides, I have told you already that she does not feel the will of God yet; Krysia does, in a higher degree." "Auntie!" said Krysia, suddenly. Further conversation was interrupted by the servant, who announced that supper was on the table. All went then to the dining-room; but Basia was not there. "Where is the young lady?" asked Pani Makovetski of the servant. "The young lady is in the stable. I told the young lady that supper was ready; the young lady said, 'Well,' and went to the stable." "Has something unpleasant happened to her? She was so gay," said Pani Makovetski, turning to Zagloba. Then the little knight, who had an unquiet conscience, said, "I will go and bring her." And he hurried out. He found her just inside the stable-door, sitting on a bundle of hay. She was so sunk in thought that she did not see him as he entered. "Panna Basia," said the little knight, bending over her. Basia trembled as if roused from sleep, and raised her eyes, in which Pan Michael saw, to his utter astonishment, two tears as large as pearls. "For God's sake! What is the matter? You are weeping." "I do not dream of it," cried Basia, springing up; "I do not dream of it! That is from frost." She laughed joyously, but the laughter was rather forced. Then, wishing to turn attention from herself, she pointed to the stall in which was the steed given Pan Michael by the hetman, and said with animation, "You say it is impossible to go to that horse? Now let us see!" And before Pan Michael could restrain her, she had sprung into the stall. The fierce beast began to rear, to paw, and to put back his ears. "For God's sake! he will kill you!" cried Pan Michael, springing after her. But Basia had begun already to stroke with her palm the shoulder of the horse, repeating, "Let him kill! let him kill!" But the horse turned to her his steaming nostrils and gave a low neigh, as if rejoiced at the fondling. CHAPTER XI. All the nights that Pan Michael had spent were nothing in comparison with the night after that adventure with Krysia. For, behold, he had betrayed the memory of his dead one, and he loved that memory. He had deceived the confidence of the living woman, had abused friendship, had contracted certain obligations, had acted like a man without conscience. Another soldier would have made nothing of such a kiss, or, what is more, would have twisted his mustache at thought of it; but Pan Michael was squeamish, especially since the death of Anusia, as is every man who has a soul in pain and a torn heart. What was left for him to do, then? How was he to act? Only a few days remained until his departure; that departure would cut short everything. But was it proper to go without a word to Krysia, and leave her as he would leave any chamber-maid from whom he might steal a kiss? The brave heart of Pan Michael trembled at the thought. Even in the struggle in which he was then, the thought of Krysia filled him with pleasure, and the remembrance of that kiss passed through him with a quiver of delight. Rage against his own head seized him; still he could not refrain from a feeling of sweetness. And he took the whole blame on himself. "I brought Krysia to that," repeated he, with bitterness and pain; "I brought her to it, therefore it is not just for me to go away without a word. What, then? Make a proposal, and go away Krysia's betrothed?" Here the form of Anusia stood before the knight, dressed in white, and pale herself as wax, just as he had laid her in the coffin. "This much is due me," said the figure, "that you mourn and grieve for me. You wished at first to become a monk, to bewail me all your life; but now you are taking another before my poor soul could fly to the gates of heaven. Ah! wait, let me reach heaven first; let me cease looking at the earth." And it seemed to the knight that he was a species of perjurer before that bright soul whose memory he should honor and hold as sacred. Sorrow and immeasurable shame seized him, and self-contempt. He desired death. "Anulya,"[11] repeated he, on his knees, "I shall not cease to bewail thee till death; but what am I to do now?" The white form gave no answer to that as it vanished like a light mist; and instead of it appeared in the imagination of the knight Krysia's eyes and her lip covered with down, and with it temptations from which the knight wished to free himself. So his heart was wavering in uncertainty, suffering, and torment. At moments it came to his head to go and confess all to Zagloba, and take counsel of that man whose reason could settle all difficulties. And he had foreseen everything; he had told beforehand what it was to enter into "friendship" with fair heads. But just that view restrained the little knight. He recollected how sharply he had called to Pan Zagloba, "Do not offend Panna Krysia, sir!" And now, who had offended Panna Krysia? Who was the man who had thought, "Is it not best to leave her like a chamber-maid and go away?" "If it were not for that dear one up there, I would not hesitate a moment," thought the knight, "I should not be tormented at all; on the contrary, I should be glad in soul that I had tasted such delight." After a while he muttered, "I would take it willingly a hundred times." Seeing, however, that temptations were flocking around him, he shook them off again powerfully, and began to reason in this way: "It is all over. Since I have acted like one who is not desirous of friendship, but who is looking for satisfaction from Cupid, I must go by that road, and tell Krysia tomorrow that I wish to marry her." Here he stopped awhile, then thought further thuswise: "Through which declaration the confidence of to-day will become quite proper, and to-morrow I can permit myself--" But at this moment he struck his mouth with his palm. "Tfu!" said he; "is a whole chambul of devils sitting behind my collar?" But still he did not set aside his plan of making the declaration, thinking to himself simply: "If I offend the dear dead one, I can conciliate her with Masses and prayer; by this I shall show also that I remember her always, and will not cease in devotion. If people wonder and laugh at me because two weeks ago I wanted from sorrow to be a monk, and now have made a declaration of love to another, the shame will be on my side alone. If I make no declaration, the innocent Krysia will have to share my shame and my fault. I will propose to her to-morrow; it cannot be otherwise," said he, at last. He calmed himself then considerably; and when he had repeated "Our Father," and prayed earnestly for Anusia, he fell asleep. In the morning, when he woke, he repeated, "I will propose to-day." But it was not so easy to propose, for Pan Michael did not wish to inform others, but to talk with Krysia first, and then act as was proper. Meanwhile Pan Adam arrived in the early morning, and filled the whole house with his presence. Krysia went about as if poisoned; the whole day she was pale, worried, sometimes dropped her eyes, sometimes blushed so that the color went to her neck; at times her lips quivered as if she were going to cry; then again she was as if dreamy and languid. It was difficult for the knight to approach her, and especially to remain long alone with her. It is true he might have taken her to walk, for the weather was wonderful, and some time before he would have done so without any scruple; but now he dared not, for it seemed to him that all would divine on the spot what his object was,--all would think he was going to propose. Pan Adam saved him. He took Pani Makovetski aside, conversed with her a good while touching something, then both returned to the room in which the little knight was sitting with the two young ladies and Pan Zagloba, and said, "You young people might have a ride in two sleighs, for the snow is sparkling." At this Pan Michael inclined quickly to Krysia's ear and said, "I beg you to sit with me. I have a world of things to say." "Very well," answered Krysia. Then the two men hastened to the stables, followed by Basia; and in the space of a few "Our Fathers," the two sleighs were driven up before the house. Pan Michael and Krysia took their places in one. Pan Adam and the little haiduk in the other, and moved on without drivers. When they had gone, Pani Makovetski turned to Zagloba and said, "Pan Adam has proposed for Basia." "How is that?" asked Zagloba, alarmed. "His godmother, the wife of the chamberlain of Lvoff, is to come here to-morrow to talk with me; Pan Adam himself has begged of me permission to talk with Basia, even hintingly, for he understands himself that if Basia is not his friend, the trouble and pains will be useless." "It was for this that you, my benefactress, sent them sleigh-riding?" "For this. My husband is very scrupulous. More than once he has said to me, 'I will guard their property, but let each choose a husband for herself; if he is honorable, I will not oppose, even in case of inequality of property.' Moreover, they are of mature years and can give advice to themselves." "But what answer do you think of giving Pan Adam's godmother?" "My husband will come in May. I will turn the affair over to him; but I think this way,--as Basia wishes, so will it be." "Pan Adam is a stripling!" "But Michael himself says that he is a famous soldier, noted already for deeds of valor. He has a respectable property, and his godmother has recounted to me all his relations. You see, it is this way: his great-grandfather was born of Princess Senyut; he was married the first time to--" "But what do I care for his relations?" interrupted Zagloba, not hiding his ill-humor; "he is neither brother nor godfather to me, and I tell your ladyship that I have predestined the little haiduk to Michael; for if among maidens who walk the world on two feet there is one better or more honest than she, may I from this moment begin to walk on all-four like a bear!" "Michael is thinking of nothing yet; and even if he were, Krysia has struck his eye more. Ah! God, whose ways are inscrutable, will decide this." "But if that bare-lipped youngster goes away with a water-melon,[12] I shall be drunk with delight," added Zagloba. Meanwhile in the two sleighs the fates of both knights were in the balance. Pan Michael was unable to utter a word for a long time; at last he said to Krysia, "Do not think that I am a frivolous man, or some kind of fop, for not such are my years." Krysia made no answer. "Forgive me for what I did yesterday, for it was from the good feeling which I have for you, which is so great that I was altogether unable to restrain it. My gracious lady, my beloved Krysia, consider who I am; I am a simple soldier, whose life has been passed in wars. Another would have prepared an oration beforehand, and then come to confidence; I have begun with confidence. Remember this also, that if a horse, though trained, takes the bit in his teeth and runs away with a man, why should not love, whose force is greater, run away with him? Love carried me away, simply because you are dear to me. My beloved Krysia, you are worthy, of castellans and senators; but if you do not disdain a soldier, who, though in simple rank, has served the country not without some glory, I fall at your feet, I kiss your feet, and I ask, do you wish me? Can you think of me without repulsion?" "Pan Michael!" answered Krysia. And her hand, drawn from her muff, hid itself in the hand of the knight. "Do you consent?" asked Volodyovski. "I do!" answered Krysia; "and I know that I could not find a more honorable man in all Poland." "God reward you! God reward you, Krysia!" said the knight, covering the hand with kisses. "A greater happiness could not meet me. Only tell me that you are not angry at yesterday's confidence, so that I may find relief of conscience." "I am not angry." "Oh that I could kiss your feet!" cried Pan Michael. They remained some time in silence; the runners were whistling on the snow, and snowballs were flying from under the horse's feet. Then Pan Michael said, "I marvel that you regard me." "It is more wonderful," answered Krysia, "that you came to love me so quickly." At this Pan Michael's face grew very serious, and he said, "It may seem ill to you that before I shook off sorrow for one, I fell in love with another. I own to you also, as if I were at confession, that in my time I have been giddy; but now it is different. I have not forgotten that dear one, and shall never forget her; I love her yet, and if you knew how much I weep for her, you would weep over me yourself." Here voice failed the little knight, for he was greatly moved, and perhaps for that reason he did not notice that these words did not seem to make a very deep impression on Krysia. Silence followed again, interrupted this time by the lady: "I will try to comfort you, as far as my strength permits." "I loved you so soon," said Pan Michael, "because you began from the first day to cure my wounds. What was I to you? Nothing! But you began at once, because you had pity in your heart for an unfortunate. Ah! I am thankful to you, greatly thankful! Who does not know this will perhaps reproach me, since I wished to be a monk in November, and am preparing for marriage in December. First, Pan Zagloba will be ready to jeer, for he is glad to do that when occasion offers; but let the man jeer who is able! I do not care about that, especially since the reproach will not fall on you, but on me." Krysia began to look at the sky thoughtfully, and said at last, "Must we absolutely tell people of our engagement?" "What is your meaning?" "You are going away, it seems, in a couple of days?" "Even against my will, I must go." "I am wearing mourning for my father. Why should we exhibit ourselves to the gaze of people? Let our engagement remain between ourselves, and people need not know of it till you return from Russia. Are you satisfied?" "Then I am to say nothing to my sister?" "I will tell her myself, but after you have gone." "And to Pan Zagloba?" "Pan Zagloba would sharpen his wit on me. Ei, better say nothing! Basia too would tease me; and she these last days is so whimsical and has such changing humor as never before. Better say nothing." Here Krysia raised her dark-blue eyes to the heavens: "God is the witness above us; let people remain uninformed." "I see that your wit is equal to your beauty. I agree. Then God is our witness. Amen! Now rest your shoulder on me; for as soon as our contract is made, modesty is not opposed to that. Have no fear! Even if I wished to repeat yesterday's act, I cannot, for I must take care of the horse." Krysia gratified the knight, and he said, "As often as we are alone, call me by name only." "Somehow it does not fit," said she, with a smile. "I never shall dare to do that." "But I have dared." "For Pan Michael is a knight, Pan Michael is daring, Pan Michael is a soldier." "Krysia, you are my love!" "Mich--" But Krysia had not courage to finish, and covered her face with her muff. After a while Pan Michael returned to the house; they did not converse much on the road, but at the gate the little knight asked again, "But after yesterday's--you understand--were you very sad?" "Oh, I was ashamed and sad, but had a wonderful feeling," added she, in a lower voice. All at once they put on a look of indifference, so that no one might see what had passed between them. But that was a needless precaution, for no one paid heed to them. It is true that Zagloba and Pan Michael's sister ran out to meet the two couples, but their eyes were turned only on Basia and Pan Adam. Basia was red, certainly, but it was unknown whether from cold or emotion; and Pan Adam was as if poisoned. Immediately after, too, he took farewell of the lady of the house. In vain did she try to detain him; in vain Pan Michael himself tried to persuade him to remain to supper: he excused himself with service and went away. That moment Pan Michael's sister, without saying a word, kissed Basia on the forehead; the young lady flew to her own chamber and did not return to supper. Only on the next day did Zagloba make a direct attack on her and inquire, "Well, little haiduk, a thunderbolt, as it were, struck Pan Adam?" "Aha!" answered she, nodding affirmatively and blinking. "Tell me what you said to him." "The question was quick, for he is daring; but so was the answer, for I too am daring. Is it not true?" "You acted splendidly! Let me embrace you! What did he say? Did he let himself be beaten off easily?" "He asked if with time he could not effect something. I was sorry for him, but no, no; nothing can come of that!" Here Basia, distending her nostrils, began to shake her forelock somewhat sadly, as if in thought. "Tell me your reasons," said Zagloba. "He too wanted them, but it was of no use; I did not tell him, and I will tell no man." "But perhaps," said Zagloba, looking quickly into her eyes, "you bear some hidden love in your heart. Hei?" "A fig for love!" cried Basia. And springing from the place, she began to repeat quickly, as if wishing to cover her confusion, "I do not want Pan Adam! I do not want Pan Adam! I do not want any one! Why do you plague me? Why do you plague me, all of you?" And on a sudden she burst into tears. Zagloba comforted her as best he could, but during the whole day she was gloomy and peevish. "Michael," said he at dinner, "you are going, and Ketling will come soon; he is a beauty above beauties. I know not how these young ladies will defend themselves, but I think this, when you come back, you will find them both dead in love." "Profit for us!" said Volodyovski. "We'll give him Panna Basia at once." Basia fixed on him the look of a wild-cat and said, "But why are you less concerned about Krysia?" The little knight was confused beyond measure at these words, and said, "You do not know Ketling's power, but you will discover it." "But why should not Krysia discover it? Besides, it is not I who sing,-- 'The fair head grows faint; Where will she hide herself? How will the poor thing defend herself?'" Now Krysia was confused in her turn, and the little wasp continued, "In extremities I will ask Pan Adam to lend me his shield; but when you go away, I know not with what Krysia will defend herself, if peril comes on her." Pan Michael had now recovered, and answered somewhat severely, "Perhaps she will find wherewith to defend herself better than you." "How so?" "For she is less giddy, and has more sedateness and dignity." Pan Zagloba and the little knight's sister thought that the keen haiduk would come to battle at once; but to their great amazement, she dropped her head toward the plate, and after a while said, in a low voice, "If you are angry, I ask pardon of you and of Krysia." CHAPTER XII. As Pan Michael had permission to set out whenever he wished, he went to Anusia's grave at Chenstohova. After he had shed the last of his tears there, he journeyed on farther; and under the influence of fresh reminiscences it occurred to him that the secret engagement with Krysia was in some way too early. He felt that in sorrow and mourning there is something sacred and inviolable, which should not be touched, but permitted to rise heavenward like a cloud, and vanish in measureless space. Other men, it is true, after losing their wives, had married in a month or in two months; but they had not begun with the cloister, nor had misfortune met them at the threshold of happiness after whole years of waiting. But even if men of common mould do not respect the sacredness of sorrow, is it proper to follow their example? Pan Michael journeyed forward then toward Russia, and reproaches went with him. But he was so just that he took all the blame on himself, and did not put any on Krysia; and to the many alarms which seized him was added this also, would not Krysia in the depth of her soul take that haste ill of him? "Surely she would not act thus in my place," said Pan Michael to himself; "and having a lofty soul herself, beyond doubt, she seeks loftiness in others." Fear seized the little knight lest he might seem to her petty; but that was vain fear. Krysia cared nothing for Pan Michael's mourning; and when he spoke to her too much concerning it, not only did it not excite sympathy in the lady, but it roused her self-love. Was not she, the living woman, equal to the dead one? Or, in general, was she of such small worth that the dead Anusia could be her rival? If Zagloba had been in the secret, he would have pacified Pan Michael certainly, by saying that women have not over-much mercy for one another. After Volodyovski's departure, Panna Krysia was astonished not a little at what had happened, and at this, that the latch had fallen. In going from the Ukraine to Warsaw, where she had never been before, she had imagined that it would be different altogether. At the Diet of Convocation the escorts of bishops and dignitaries would meet; a brilliant knighthood would assemble from all sides of the Commonwealth. How many amusements and reviews would there be, how much bustle! and in all that whirl, in the concourse of knights, would appear some unknown "he," some knight such as maidens see only in dreams. This knight would flush up with love, appear under her windows with a lute; he would form cavalcades, love and sigh a long time, wear on his armor the knot of his loved one, suffer and overcome obstacles before he would fall at her feet and win mutual love. But nothing of all that had come to pass. The haze, changing and colored, like a rainbow, vanished; a knight appeared, it is true,--a knight not at all common, heralded as the first soldier of the Commonwealth, a great cavalier, but not much, or indeed, not at all, like that "he." There were no cavalcades either, nor playing of lutes, nor tournaments, nor the knot on the armor, nor bustle, nor games, nor any of all that which rouses curiosity like a May dream, or a wonderful tale in the evening, which intoxicates like the odor of flowers, which allures as bait does a bird; from which the face flushes, the heart throbs, the body trembles. There was nothing but a small house outside the city; in the house Pan Michael; then intimacy grew up, and the rest of the vision disappeared as the moon disappears in the sky when clouds come and hide it. If that Pan Michael had appeared at the end of the story, he would be the desired one. More than once, when thinking of his fame, of his worth, of his valor, which made him the glory of the Commonwealth and the terror of its enemies, Krysia felt that, in spite of all, she loved him greatly; only it seemed to her that something had missed her, that a certain injustice had met her, a little through him, or rather through haste. That haste, therefore, had fallen into the hearts of both like a grain of sand; and since both were farther and farther from each other, that grain began to pain them somewhat. It happens frequently that something insignificant as a little thorn pricks the feelings of people, and in time either heals or festers more and more, and brings bitterness and pain, even to the greatest love. But in this case it was still far to pain and bitterness. For Pan Michael, the thought of Krysia was especially agreeable and soothing; and the thought of her followed him as his shadow follows a man. He thought too that the farther he went, the dearer she would become to him, and the more he would sigh and yearn for her. The time passed more heavily for her; for no one visited Ketling's house since the departure of the little knight, and day followed day in monotony and weariness. Pani Makovetski counted the days before the election, waited for her husband, and talked only of him; Basia had put on a very long face. Zagloba reproached her, saying that she had rejected Pan Adam and was then wishing for him. In fact, she would have been glad if even he had come; but Novoveski said to himself, "There is nothing for me there," and soon he followed Pan Michael. Zagloba too was preparing to return to Pan Yan's, saying that he wished to see his boys. Still, being heavy, he put off his journey day after day; he explained to Basia that she was the cause of his delay, that he was in love with her and intended to seek her hand. Meanwhile he kept company with Krysia when Pan Michael's sister went with Basia to visit the wife of the chamberlain of Lvoff. Krysia never accompanied them in those visits; for the lady, notwithstanding her worthiness, could not endure Krysia. Frequently and often too Zagloba went to Warsaw, where he met pleasant company and returned more than once tipsy on the following day; and then Krysia was entirely alone, passing the dreary hours in thinking a little of Pan Michael, a little of what might happen if that latch had not fallen once and forever, and often, what did that unknown rival of Pan Michael look like,--the King's son in the fairy tale? Once Krysia was sitting by the window and looking in thoughtfulness at the door of the room, on which a very bright gleam of the setting sun was falling, when suddenly a sleigh-bell was heard on the other side of the house. It ran through Krysia's head that Pani Makovetski and Basia must have returned; but that did not bring her out of meditation, and she did not even withdraw her eyes from the door. Meanwhile the door opened; and on the background of the dark depth beyond appeared to the eyes of the maiden some unknown man. At the first moment it seemed to Krysia that she saw a picture, or that she had fallen asleep and was dreaming, such a wonderful vision stood before her. The unknown was young, dressed in black foreign costume, with a white lace collar coming to his shoulders. Once in childhood Krysia had seen Pan Artsishevski, general of the artillery of the kingdom, dressed in such a costume; by reason of the dress, as well as of his unusual beauty, the general had remained long in her memory. Now, that young man before her was dressed in like fashion; but in beauty he surpassed Pan Artsishevski and all men walking the earth. His hair, cut evenly over his forehead, fell in bright curls on both sides of his face, just marvellously. He had dark brows, definitely outlined on a forehead white as marble; eyes mild and melancholy; a yellow mustache and a yellow, pointed beard. It was an incomparable head, in which nobility was united to manfulness,--the head at once of an angel and a warrior. Krysia's breath was stopped in her breast, for looking, she did not believe her own eyes, nor could she decide whether she had before her an illusion or a real man. He stood awhile motionless, astonished, or through politeness feigning astonishment at Krysia; at last he moved from the door, and waving his hat downward began to sweep the floor with its plumes. Krysia rose, but her feet trembled under her; and now blushing, now growing pale, she closed her eyes. Meanwhile his voice sounded low and soft, "I am Ketling of Elgin,--the friend and companion-at-arms of Pan Volodyovski. The servant has told me already that I have the unspeakable happiness and honor to receive as guests under my roof the sister and relatives of my Pallas; but pardon, worthy lady, my confusion, for the servant told me nothing of what my eyes see, and my eyes are overcome by the brightness of your presence." With such a compliment did the knightly Ketling greet Krysia; but she did not repay him in like manner, for she could not find a single word. She thought only that when he had finished, he would incline surely a second time, for in the silence she heard again the rustle of plumes on the floor. She felt also that there was need, urgent need, to make some answer and return compliment for compliment, otherwise she might be held a simple woman; but meanwhile her breath fails her, the pulse is throbbing in her hands and her temples, her breast rises and falls as if she were suffering greatly. She opens her eyelids; he stands before her with head inclined somewhat, with admiration and respect in his wonderful face. With trembling hand Krysia seizes her robe to make even a courtesy before the cavalier; fortunately, at that moment cries of "Ketling! Ketling!" are heard behind the door, and into the room rushes, with open arms, the panting Zagloba. The two men embraced each other then; and during that time the young lady tried to recover, and to look two or three times at the knight. He embraced Zagloba heartily, but with that unusual elegance in every movement which he had either inherited from his ancestors or acquired at the refined courts of kings and magnates. "How are you?" cried Zagloba. "I am as glad to see you in your house as in my own. Let me look at you. Ah, you have grown thin! Is it not some love-affair? As God lives, you have grown thin. Do you know, Michael has gone to the squadron? Oh, you have done splendidly to come! Michael thinks no more of the cloister. His sister is living here with two young ladies,--maidens like turnips! Oh, for God's sake, Panna Krysia is here! I beg pardon for my words, but let that man's eyes crawl out who denies beauty to either of you; this cavalier has seen it already in your case." Ketling inclined his head a third time, and said with a smile, "I left the house a barrack and find it Olympus; for I see a goddess at the entrance." "Ketling! how are you?" cried a second time Zagloba, for whom one greeting was too little, and he seized him again in his arms. "Never mind," said he, "you haven't seen the haiduk yet. One is a beauty, but the other is honey! How are you, Ketling? God give you health! I will talk to you. It is you; very good. That is a delight to this old man. You are glad of your guests. Pani Makovetski has come here, for it was difficult to find lodgings in the time of the Diet; but now it is easier, and she will go out, of course, for it is not well for young ladies to lodge in a single man's house, lest people might look awry, and some gossip might come of the matter." "For God's sake! I will never permit that! I am to Volodyovski not a friend, but a brother; and I may receive Pani Makovetski as a sister under my roof. To you, young lady, I shall turn for assistance, and if necessary will beg it here on my knees." Saying this, Ketling knelt before Krysia, and seizing her hand, pressed it to his lips and looked into her eyes imploringly, joyously, and at the same time pensively; she began to blush, especially as Zagloba cried out straightway, "He has barely come when he is on his knees before her. As God lives! I'll tell Pani Makovetski that I found you in that posture. Sharp, Ketling! See what court customs are!" "I am not skilled in court customs," whispered the lady, in great confusion. "Can I reckon on your aid?" asked Ketling. "Rise, sir!" "May I reckon on your aid? I am Pan Michael's brother. An injury will be done him if this house is abandoned." "My wishes are nothing here," answered Krysia, with more presence of mind, "though I must be grateful for yours." "I thank you!" answered Ketling, pressing her hand to his mouth. "Ah! frost out of doors, and Cupid is naked; but he would not freeze in this house," said Zagloba. "And I see that from sighs alone there will be a thaw,--from nothing but sighs." "Spare us," said Krysia. "I thank God that you have not lost your jovial humor," said Ketling, "for joyousness is a sign of health." "And a clear conscience," added Zagloba. "'He grieves who is troubled,' declares the Seer in Holy Writ. Nothing troubles me, therefore I am joyous. Oh, a hundred Turks! What do I behold? For I saw you in Polish costume with a lynx-skin cap and a sabre, and now you have changed again into some kind of Englishman, and are going around on slim legs like a stork." "For I have been in Courland, where the Polish dress is not worn, and have just passed two days with the English resident in Warsaw." "Then you are returning from Courland?" "I am. The relative who adopted me has died, and left me another estate there." "Eternal repose to him! He was a Catholic, of course?" "He was." "You have this consolation at least. But you will not leave us for this property in Courland?" "I will live and die here," answered Ketling, looking at Krysia; and at once she dropped her long lashes on her eyes. Pani Makovetski arrived when it was quite dark; and Ketling went outside the gate to meet her. He conducted the lady to his house with as much homage as if she had been a reigning princess. She wished on the following day to seek other quarters in the city itself; but her resolve was ineffective. The young knight implored, dwelt on his brotherhood with Pan Michael, and knelt until she agreed to stay with him longer. It was merely stipulated that Pan Zagloba should remain some time yet, to shield the ladies with his age and dignity from evil tongues. He agreed willingly, for he had become attached beyond measure to the haiduk; and besides, he had begun to arrange in his head certain plans which demanded his presence absolutely. The maidens were both glad, and Basia came out at once openly on Ketling's side. "We will not move out to-day, anyhow," said she to Pan Michael's hesitating sister; "and if not, it is all the same whether we stay one day or twelve." Ketling pleased her as well as Krysia, for he pleased all women; besides, Basia had never seen a foreign cavalier, except officers of foreign infantry,--men of small rank and rather common persons. Therefore she walked around him, shaking her forelock, dilating her nostrils, and looking at him with a childlike curiosity; so importunate was she that at last she heard the censure of Pani Makovetski. But in spite of the censure, she did not cease to investigate him with her eyes, as if wishing to fix his military value, and at last she turned to Pan Zagloba. "Is he a great soldier?" asked she of the old man in a whisper. "Yes; so that he cannot be more celebrated. You see he has immense experience, for, remaining in the true faith, he served against the English rebels from his fourteenth year. He is a noble also of high birth, which is easily seen from his manners." "Have you seen him under fire?" "A thousand times! He would halt for you in it without a frown, pat his horse on the shoulder, and be ready to talk of love." "Is it the fashion to talk of love at such a time? Hei?" "It is the fashion to do everything by which contempt for bullets is shown." "But hand to hand, in a duel, is he equally great?" "Yes, yes! a wasp; it is not to be denied." "But could he stand before Pan Michael?" "Before Michael he could not!" "Ha!" exclaimed Basia, with joyous pride, "I knew that he could not. I thought at once that he could not." And she began to clap her hands. "So, then, do you take Pan Michael's side?" asked Zagloba. Basia shook her forelock and was silent; after a while a quiet sigh raised her breast. "Ei! what of that? I am glad, for he is ours." "But think of this, and beat it into yourself, little haiduk," said Zagloba, "that if on the field of battle it is hard to find a better man than Ketling, he is most dangerous for maidens, who love him madly for his beauty. He is trained famously in love-making too." "Tell that to Krysia, for love is not in my head," answered Basia, and turning to Krysia, she began to call, "Krysia! Krysia! Come here just for a word." "I am here," said Krysia. "Pan Zagloba says that no lady looks on Ketling without falling in love straightway. I have looked at him from every side, and somehow nothing has happened; but do you feel anything?" "Basia, Basia!" said Krysia, in a tone of persuasion. "Has he pleased you, eh?" "Spare us! be sedate. My Basia, do not talk nonsense, for Ketling is coming." In fact, Krysia had not taken her seat when Ketling approached and inquired, "Is it permitted to join the company?" "We request you earnestly," answered Krysia. "Then I am bold to ask, of what was your conversation?" "Of love," cried Basia, without hesitation. Ketling sat down near Krysia. They were silent for a time; for Krysia, usually self-possessed and with presence of mind, had in some wonderful way become timid in presence of the cavalier; hence he was first to ask,-- "Is it true that the conversation was of such a pleasant subject?" "It was," answered Krysia, in an undertone. "I shall be delighted to hear your opinion." "Pardon me, for I lack courage and wit, so I think that I should rather hear something new from you." "Krysia is right," said Zagloba. "Let us listen." "Ask a question," said Ketling. And raising his eyes somewhat, he meditated a little, then, although no one had questioned him, he began to speak, as if to himself: "Loving is a grievous misfortune; for by loving, a free man becomes a captive. Just as a bird, shot by an arrow, falls it the feet of the hunter, so the man struck by love has no power to escape from the feet of the loved one. To love is to be maimed; for a man, like one blind, does not see the world beyond his love. To love is to mourn; for when do more tears flow, when do more sighs swell the breast? When a man loves, there are neither dresses nor hunts in his head; he is ready to sit embracing his knees with his arms, sighing as plaintively as if he had lost some one near to him. Love is an illness; for in it, as in illness, the face becomes pale, the eyes sink, the hands tremble, the fingers grow thin, and the man thinks of death, or goes around in derangement, with dishevelled hair, talks with the moon, writes gladly the cherished name on the sand, and if the wind blows it away, he says, 'misfortune,' and is ready to sob." Here Ketling was silent for a while; one would have said that he was sunk in musing. Krysia listened to his words with her whole soul, as if they were a song. Her lips were parted, and her eyes did not leave the pale face of the knight. Basia's forelock fell to her eyes, hence it could not be known what she was thinking of; but she sat in silence also. Then Zagloba yawned loudly, drew a deep breath, stretched his legs, and said, "Give command to make boots for dogs of such love!" "But yet," began the knight, anew, "if it is grievous to love, it is more grievous still not to love; for who without love is satisfied with pleasure, glory, riches, perfumes, or jewels? Who will not say to the loved one, 'I choose thee rather than a kingdom, than a sceptre, than health or long life'? And since each would give life for love willingly, love has more value than life." Ketling finished. The young ladies sat nestling closely to each other, wondering at the tenderness of his speech and those conclusions of love foreign to Polish cavaliers, till Zagloba, who was napping at the end, woke and began to blink, looking now at one, now at another, now at the third; at last gaining presence of mind, he inquired in a loud voice, "What do you say?" "We say good-night to you," said Basia. "Ah! I know now we were talking of love. What was the conclusion?" "The lining was better than the cloak." "There is no use in denying that I was drowsy; but this loving, weeping, sighing--Ah, I have found another rhyme for it,--namely, sleeping,--and at this time the best, for the hour is advanced. Good-night to the whole company, and give us peace with your love. O my God, my God, while the cat is miauwing, she will not eat the cheese; but until she eats, her mouth is watering. In my day I resembled Ketling as one cup does another; and I was in love so madly that a ram might have pounded my back for an hour before I should have known it. But in old age I prefer to rest well, especially when a polite host not only conducts me to bed, but gives me a drink on the pillow." "I am at the service of your grace," said Ketling. "Let us go; let us go! See how high the moon is already. It will be fine to-morrow; it is glittering and clear as in the day. Ketling is ready to talk about love with you all night; but remember, kids, that he is road-weary." "Not road-weary, for I have rested two days in the city. I am only afraid that the ladies are not used to night-watching." "The night would pass quickly in listening to you," said Krysia. Then they parted, for it was really late. The young ladies slept in the same room and usually talked long before sleeping; but this evening Basia could not understand Krysia, for as much as the first had a wish to speak, so much was the second silent and answered in half-words. A number of times too, when Basia, in speaking of Ketling, caught at an idea, laughing somewhat at him and mimicking him a little, Krysia embraced her with great tenderness, begging her to leave off that nonsense. "He is host here, Basia," said she; "we are living under his roof; and I saw that he fell in love with you at once." "Whence do you know that?" inquired Basia. "Who does not love you? All love you, and I very much." Thus speaking, she put her beautiful face to Basia's face, nestled up to her, and kissed her eyes. They went at last to their beds, but Krysia could not sleep for a long time. Disquiet had seized her. At times her heart beat with such force that she brought both hands to her satin bosom to restrain the throbbing. At times too, especially when she tried to close her eyes, it seemed to her that some head, beautiful as a dream, bent over her, and a low voice whispered into her ear,-- "I would rather have thee than a kingdom, than a sceptre, than health, than long life!" CHAPTER XIII. A few days later Zagloba wrote a letter to Pan Yan with the following conclusion, "If I do not go home before election, be not astonished. This will not happen through my lack of good wishes for you; but as the Devil does not sleep, I do not wish that instead of a bird something useless should remain in my hand. It will come out badly if when Michael returns, I shall not be able to say to him, 'That one is engaged, and the haiduk is free.' Everything is in the power of God; but this is my thought, that it will not be necessary then to urge Michael, nor to make long preparations, and that you will come when the engagement is made. Meanwhile, remembering Ulysses, I shall be forced to use stratagems and exaggerate more than once, which for me is not easy, since all my life I have preferred truth to every delight, and was glad to be nourished by it. Still, for Michael and the haiduk I will take this on my head, for they are pure gold. Now I embrace you both with the boys, and press you to my heart, commending you to the Most High God." When he had finished writing, Zagloba sprinkled sand on the paper; then he struck it with his hand, read it once more, holding it at a distance from his eyes; then he folded it, took his seal ring from his finger, moistened it, and prepared to seal the letter, at which occupation Ketling found him. "A good day to your grace!" "Good-day, good-day!" said Zagloba. "The weather, thanks be to God, is excellent, and I am just sending a messenger to Pan Yan." "Send an obeisance from me." "I have done so already. I said at once to myself, 'It is necessary to send a greeting from Ketling. Both of them will be glad to receive good news.' It is evident that I have sent a greeting from you, since I have written a whole epistle touching you and the young ladies." "How is that?" inquired Ketling. Zagloba placed his palms on his knees, which he began to tap with his fingers; then he bent his head, and looking from under his brows at Ketling, said, "My Ketling, it is not necessary to be a prophet to know that where flint and steel are, sparks will flash sooner or later. You are a beauty above beauties, and even you would not find fault with the young ladies." Ketling was really confused, "I should have to be wall-eyed or be a wild barbarian altogether," said he, "if I did not see their beauty, and do homage to it." "But, you see," continued Zagloba, looking with a smile on the blushing face of Ketling, "if you are not a barbarian, it is not right for you to have both in view, for only Turks act like that." "How can you suppose--" "I do not suppose; I only say it to myself. Ha! traitor! you have so talked to them of love that pallor is on Krysia's lips this third day. It is no wonder; you are a beauty. When I was young myself, I used to stand in the frost under the window of a certain black brow; she was like Panna Krysia; and I remember how I used to sing,-- 'You are sleeping there after the day; And I am here thrumming my lute, Höts! Höts!' If you wish, I will give you a song, or compose an entirely new one, for I have no lack of genius. Have you observed that Panna Krysia reminds one somewhat of Panna Billevich, except that Panna Billevich had hair like flax and had no down on her lip? But there are men who find superior beauty in that, and think it a charm. She looks with great pleasure on you. I have just written so to Pan Yan. Is it not true that she is like the former Panna Billevich?" "I have not noticed the likeness, but it may be. In figure and stature she recalls her." "Now listen to what I say. I am telling family secrets directly; but as you are a friend, you ought to know them. Be on your guard not to feed Volodyovski with ingratitude, for I and Pani Makovetski have predestined one of those maidens to him." Here Zagloba looked quickly and persistently into Ketling's eyes, and he grew pale and inquired, "Which one?" "Panna Krysia," answered Zagloba, slowly. And pushing out his lower lip, he began to blink from under his frowning brow with his one seeing eye. Ketling was silent, and silent so long that at last Zagloba inquired, "What do you say to this?" And Ketling answered with changed voice, but with emphasis, "You may be sure that I shall not indulge my heart to Michael's harm." "Are you certain?" "I have suffered much in life; my word of a knight that I will not indulge it." Then Zagloba opened his arms to him: "Ketling, indulge your heart; indulge it, poor man, as much as you like, for I only wanted to try you. Not Panna Krysia, but the haiduk, have we predestined to Michael." Ketling's face grew bright with a sincere and deep joy, and seizing Zagloba in his embrace, he held him long, then inquired, "Is it certain already that they are in love?" "But who would not be in love with my haiduk,--who?" asked Zagloba. "Then has the betrothal taken place?" "There has been no betrothal, for Michael has barely freed himself from mourning; but there will be,--put that on my head. The maiden, though she evades like a weasel, is very much inclined to him, for with her the sabre is the main thing." "I have noticed that, as God is dear to me!" interrupted Ketling, radiant. "Ha! you noticed it? Michael is weeping yet for the other; but if any one pleases his spirit, it is certainly the haiduk, for she is most like the dead one, though she cuts less with her eyes, for she is younger. Everything is arranging itself well. I am the guarantee that these two weddings will be at election-time." Ketling, saying nothing, embraced Zagloba again, and placed his beautiful face against his red cheeks, so that the old man panted and asked, "Has Panna Krysia sewed herself into your skin like that already?" "I know not,--I know not," answered Ketling; "but I know this, that barely had the heavenly vision of her delighted my eyes when I said at once to myself that she was the one woman whom my suffering heart might love yet; and that same night I drove sleep away with sighs, and yielded myself to pleasant yearnings. Thenceforth she took possession of my being, as a queen does of an obedient and loyal country. Whether this is love or something else, I know not." "But you know that it is neither a cap nor three yards of cloth for trousers, nor a saddle-girth, nor a crouper, nor sausage and eggs, nor a decanter of gorailka. If you are certain of this, then ask Krysia about the rest; or if you wish, I will ask her." "Do not do that," said Ketling, smiling. "If I am to drown, let it seem to me, even a couple of days yet, that I am swimming." "I see that the Scots are fine men in battle; but in love they are useless. Against women, as against the enemy, impetus is needful. 'I came, I saw, I conquered!' that was my maxim." "In time, if my most ardent desires are to be accomplished, perhaps I shall ask you for friendly assistance; though I am naturalized, and of noble blood, still my name is unknown here, and I am not sure that Pani Makovetski--" "Pani Makovetski?" interrupted Zagloba. "Have no fear about her. Pani Makovetski is a regular music-box. As I wind her, so will she play. I will go at her immediately; I must forewarn her, you know, so that she may not look awry at your approaches to the young lady. To such a degree is your Scottish method one, and ours another, I will not make a declaration straightway in your name, of course; I will say only that the maiden has taken your eye, and that it would be well if from that flour there should be bread. As God is dear to me, I will go at once; have no fear, for in every case I am at liberty to say what I like." And though Ketling detained him, Zagloba rose and went out. On the way he met Basia, rushing along as usual, and said to her, "Do you know that Krysia has captured Ketling completely?" "He is not the first man!" answered Basia. "And you are not angry about it?" "Ketling is a doll!--a pleasant cavalier, but a doll! I have struck my knee against the wagon-tongue; that is what troubles me." Here Basia, bending forward, began to rub her knee, looking meanwhile at Zagloba, and he said, "For God's sake, be careful! Whither are you flying now?" "To Krysia." "But what is she doing?" "She? For some time past she keeps kissing me, and rubs up to me like a cat." "Do not tell her that she has captured Ketling." "Ah! but can I hold out?" Zagloba knew well that Basia would not hold out, and it was for that very reason that he forbade her. He went on, therefore, greatly delighted with his own cunning, and Basia fell like a bomb into Krysia's chamber. "I have smashed my knee; and Ketling is dead in love with you!" cried she, right on the threshold. "I did not see the pole sticking out at the carriage-house--and such a blow! There were flashes in my eyes, but that is nothing. Pan Zagloba begged me to say nothing to you about Ketling. I did not say that I would not; I have told you at once. And you were pretending to give him to me! Never fear; I know you-- My knee pains me a little yet. I was not giving Pan Adam to you, but Ketling. Oho! He is walking through the whole house now, holding his head and talking to himself. Well done, Krysia; well done! Scot, Scot! kot, kot!"[13] Here Basia began to push her finger toward the eye of her friend. "Basia!" exclaimed Panna Krysia. "Scot, Scot! kot, kot!" "How unfortunate I am!" cried Krysia, on a sudden, and burst into tears. After a while Basia began to console her; but it availed nothing, and the maiden sobbed as never before in her life. In fact, no one in all that house knew how unhappy she was. For some days she had been in a fever; her face had grown pale; her eyes had sunk; her breast was moving with short, broken breath. Something wonderful had taken place in her; she had dropped, as it were, into extreme weakness, and the change had come not gradually, slowly, but on a sudden. Like a whirlwind, like a storm, it had swept her away; like a flame, it had heated her blood; like lightning, it had flashed on her imagination. She could not, even for a moment, resist that power which was so mercilessly sudden. Calmness had left her. Her will was like a bird with broken wings. Krysia herself knew not whether she loved Ketling or hated him; and a measureless fear seized her in view of that question. But she felt that her heart beat so quickly only through him; that her head was thinking thus helplessly only through him; that in her and above her it was full of him,--and no means of defence. Not to love him was easier than not to think of him, for her eyes were delighted with the sight of him, her ears were lost in listening to his voice, her whole soul was absorbed by him. Sleep did not free her from that importunate man, for barely had she closed her eyes when his head bent above her, whispering, "I would rather have thee than a kingdom, than a sceptre, than fame, than wealth." And that head was near, so near that even in the darkness blood-red blushes covered the face of the maiden. She was a Russian with hot blood; certain fires rose in her breast,--fires of which she had not known till that time that they could exist, and from the ardor of which she was seized with fear and shame, and a great weakness and a certain faintness at once painful and pleasant. Night brought her no rest. A weariness continually increasing gained control of her, as if after great toil. "Krysia! Krysia! what is happening to thee?" cried she to herself. But she was as if in a daze and in unceasing distraction. Nothing had happened yet; nothing had taken place. So far she had not exchanged two words with Ketling alone; still, the thought of him had taken hold of her thoroughly; still, a certain instinct whispered unceasingly, "Guard thyself! Avoid him." And she avoided him. Krysia had not thought yet of her agreement with Pan Michael, and that was her luck; she had not thought specially, because so far nothing had taken place, and because she thought of no one,--thought neither of herself nor of others, but only of Ketling. She concealed this too in her deepest soul; and the thought that no one suspected what was taking place in her, that no one was occupied with her and Ketling at the same time, brought her no small consolation. All at once the words of Basia convinced her that it was otherwise,--that people were looking at them already, connecting them in thought, divining the position. Hence the disturbance, the shame and pain, taken together, overcame her will, and she wept like a little child. But Basia's words were only the beginning of those various hints, significant glances, blinking of eyes, shaking of heads, finally, of those double meaning phrases which Krysia must endure. This began during dinner. Pan Michael's sister turned her gaze from Krysia to Ketling, and from Ketling to Krysia, which she had not done hitherto. Pan Zagloba coughed significantly. At times the conversation was interrupted,--it was unknown wherefore; silence followed, and once during such an interval Basia, with dishevelled hair, cried out to the whole table,-- "I know something, but I won't tell!" Krysia blushed instantly, and then grew pale at once, as if some terrible danger had passed near her; Ketling too bent his head. Both felt perfectly that that related to them, and though they avoided conversation with each other, so that people might not look at them, still it was clear to both that something was rising between them; that some undefined community of confusion was in process of creation; that it would unite them and at the same time keep them apart, for by it they lost freedom completely, and could be no longer ordinary friends to each other. Happily for them, no one gave attention to Basia's words. Pan Zagloba was preparing to go to the city and return with a numerous company of knights; all were intent on that event. In fact, Ketling's house was gleaming with light in the evening; between ten and twenty officers came with music, which the hospitable host provided for the amusement of the ladies. Dancing of course there could not be, for it was Lent, and Ketling's mourning was in the way; but they listened to the music, and were entertained with conversation. The ladies were dressed splendidly. Pani Makovetski appeared in Oriental silk. The haiduk was arrayed in various colors, and attracted the eyes of the military with her rosy face and bright hair, which dropped at times over her eyes; she roused laughter with the decision of her speech, and astonished with her manners, in which Cossack daring was combined with unaffectedness. Krysia, whose mourning for her father was at an end, wore a white robe trimmed with silver. The knights compared her, some to Juno, others to Diana; but none came too near her; no man twirled his mustache, struck his heels, or cast glances; no one looked at her with flashing eyes or began a conversation about love. But soon she noticed that those who looked at her with admiration and homage looked afterward at Ketling; that some, on approaching him, pressed his hand, as if congratulating him and giving him good wishes; that he shrugged his shoulders and spread out his hands, as if in denial. Krysia, who by nature was watchful and keen, was nearly certain that they were talking to him of her, that they considered her as almost his affianced; and since she could not see that Pan Zagloba whispered in the ear of each man, she was at a loss to know whence these suppositions came. "Have I something written on my forehead?" thought she, with alarm. She was ashamed and anxious. And then even words began to fly to her through the air, as if not to her, but still aloud. "Fortunate Ketling!" "He was born in a caul." "No wonder, for he is a beauty!" and similar words. Other polite cavaliers, wishing to entertain her and say something pleasant, spoke of Ketling, praising him beyond measure, exalting his bravery, his kindness, his elegant manners, and ancient lineage. Krysia, whether willing or unwilling, had to listen, and involuntarily her eyes sought him of whom men were talking to her, and at times they met his eyes. Then the charm seized her with new force, and without knowing it, she was delighted at the sight of him; for how different was Ketling from all those rugged soldier-forms! "A king's son among his attendants," thought Krysia, looking at that noble, aristocratic head and at those ambitious eyes, full of a certain inborn melancholy, and on that forehead, shaded by rich golden hair. Her heart began to sink and languish, as if that head was the dearest on earth to her. Ketling saw this, and not wishing to increase her confusion, did not approach, as if another were sitting by her side. If she had been a queen, he could not have surrounded her with greater honor and higher attention. In speaking to her, he inclined his head and pushed back one foot, as if in sign that he was ready to kneel at any moment; he spoke with dignity, never jestingly, though with Basia, for example, he was glad to jest. In intercourse with Krysia, besides the greatest respect there was rather a certain shade of melancholy full of tenderness. Thanks to that respect, no other man permitted himself either a word too explicit, or a jest too bold, as if the conviction had been fixed upon every one that in dignity and birth she was higher than all others,--a lady with whom there was never politeness enough. Krysia was heartily grateful to him for this. In general, the evening passed anxiously for her, but sweetly. When midnight approached, the musicians stopped playing, the ladies took farewell of the company, and among the knights goblets began to make the round frequently, and there followed a noisier entertainment, in which Zagloba assumed the dignity of hetman. Basia went upstairs joyous as a bird, for she had amused herself greatly. Before she knelt down to pray she began to play tricks and imitate various guests; at last she said to Krysia, clapping her hands,-- "It is perfect that your Ketling has come! At least, there will be no lack of soldiers. Oho! only let Lent pass, and I will dance to kill. We'll have fun. And at your betrothal to Ketling, and at your wedding, well, if I don't turn the house over, let the Tartars take me captive! What if they should take us really! To begin with, there would be-- Ha! Ketling is good! He will bring musicians for you; but with you I shall enjoy them. He will bring you new wonders, one after another, until he does this--" Then Basia threw herself on her knees suddenly before Krysia, and encircling her waist with her arms, began to speak, imitating the low voice of Ketling: "Your ladyship! I so love you that I cannot breathe. I love you on foot and on horseback. I love you fasting and after breakfast. I love you for the ages and as the Scots love. Will you be mine?" "Basia, I shall be angry!" cried Krysia. But instead of growing angry, she caught Basia in her arras, and while trying, as it were, to lift her, she began to kiss her eyes. CHAPTER XIV. Pan Zagloba knew perfectly that the little knight was more inclined toward Krysia than Basia; but for that very reason he resolved to set Krysia aside. Knowing Pan Michael through and through, he was convinced that if he had no choice, he would turn infallibly to Basia, with whom the old noble himself was so blindly in love that he could not get it into his head how any man could prefer another to her. He understood also that he could not render Pan Michael a greater service than to get him his haiduk, and he was enchanted at thought of that match. He was angry at Pan Michael, at Krysia also; it was true he would prefer that Pan Michael should marry Krysia rather than no one, but he determined to do everything to make him marry the haiduk. And precisely because the little knight's inclination toward Krysia was known to him, he determined to make a Ketling of her as quickly as possible. Still, the answer which Zagloba received a few days later from Pan Yan staggered him somewhat in his resolution. Pan Yan advised him to interfere in nothing, for he feared that in the opposite case great troubles might rise easily between the friends. Zagloba himself did not wish this, therefore certain reproaches made themselves heard in him; these he stilled in the following manner:-- "If Michael and Krysia were betrothed, and I had thrust Ketling between them like a wedge, then I say nothing. Solomon says, 'Do not poke your nose into another man's purse,' and he is right. But every one is free to wish. Besides, taking things exactly, what have I done? Let any one tell me what." When he had said this, Zagloba put his hands on his hips, pouted his lips, and looked challengingly on the walls of his chamber, as if expecting reproaches from them; but since the walls made no answer, he spoke on: "I told Ketling that I had predestined the haiduk to Michael. But is this not permitted me? Maybe it is not true that I have predestined her! If I wish any other woman for Michael, may the gout bite me!" The walls recognized the justice of Zagloba in perfect silence; and he continued further: "I told the haiduk that Ketling was brought down by Krysia; maybe that is not true? Has he not confessed; has he not sighed, sitting near the fire, so that the ashes were flying through the room! And what I saw, I have told others. Pan Yan has sound sense; but no one will throw my wit to the dogs. I know myself what may be told, and what would be better left in silence. H'm! he writes not to interfere in anything. That may be done also. Hereafter I will interfere in nothing. When I am a third party in presence of Krysia and Ketling, I will go out and leave them alone. Let them help themselves without me. In fact, I think they will be able. They need no help, for now they are so pushed toward each other that their eyes are growing white; and besides, the spring is coming, at which time not only the sun, but desires begin to grow warm. Well! I will leave them alone; but I shall see what the result will be." And, in truth, the result was soon to appear. During Holy Week the entire company at Ketling's house went to Warsaw and took lodgings in the hotel on Dluga Street, to be near the churches and perform their devotions at pleasure, and at the same time to sate their eyes with the holiday bustle of the city. Ketling performed here the honors of host, for though a foreigner by origin, he knew the capital thoroughly and had many acquaintances in every quarter, through whom he was able to make everything easy. He surpassed himself in politeness, and almost divined the thoughts of the ladies he was escorting, especially Krysia. Besides, all had taken to loving him sincerely. Pan Michael's sister, forewarned by Zagloba, looked on him and Krysia with a more and more favorable eye; and if she had said nothing to the maiden so far, it was only because he was silent. But it seemed to the worthy "auntie" a natural thing and proper that the cavalier should win the lady, especially as he was a cavalier really distinguished, who was met at every step by marks of respect and friendship, not only from the lower but from the higher people; he was so capable of winning all to his side by his truly wonderful beauty, bearing, dignity, liberality, mildness in time of peace, and manfulness in war. "What God will give, and my husband decide, will come to pass," said Pani Makovetski to herself; "but I will not cross these two." Thanks to this decision, Ketling found himself oftener with Krysia and stayed with her longer than when in his own house. Besides, the whole company always went out together. Zagloba generally gave his arm to Pan Michael's sister, Ketling to Krysia, and Basia, as the youngest, went alone, sometimes hurrying on far ahead, then halting in front of shops to look at goods and various wonders from beyond the sea, such as she had never seen before. Krysia grew accustomed gradually to Ketling; and now when she was leaning on his arm, when she listened to his conversation or looked at his noble face, her heart did not beat in her breast with the former disquiet, presence of mind did not leave her, and she was seized not by confusion, but by an immense and intoxicating delight. They were continually by themselves; they knelt near each other in the churches; their voices were mingled in prayer and in pious hymns. Ketling knew well the condition of his heart. Krysia, either from lack of decision or because she wished to tempt herself, did not say mentally, "I love him;" but they loved each other greatly. A friendship had sprung up between them; and besides love, they had immense regard for each other. Of love itself they had not spoken yet; time passed for them as a dream, and a serene sky was above them. Clouds of reproaches were soon to hide it from Krysia; but the present was a time of repose. Specially through intimacy with Ketling, through becoming accustomed to him, through that friendship which with love bloomed up between them, Krysia's alarms were ended, her impressions were not so violent, the conflicts of her blood and imagination ceased. They were near each other; it was pleasant for them in the company of each other; and Krysia, yielding herself with her whole soul to that agreeable present, was unwilling to think that it would ever end, and that to scatter those illusions it needed only one word[14] from Ketling, "I love." That word was soon uttered. Once, when Pan Michael's sister and Basia were at the house of a sick relative, Ketling persuaded Krysia and Pan Zagloba to visit the king's castle, which Krysia had not seen hitherto, and concerning whose curiosities wonders were related throughout the whole country. They went, then, three in company. Ketling's liberality had opened all doors, and Krysia was greeted by obeisances from the doorkeepers as profound as if she were a queen entering her own residence. Ketling, knowing the castle perfectly, conducted her through lordly halls and chambers. They examined the theatre, the royal baths; they halted before pictures representing the battles and victories gained by Sigismund and Vladislav over the savagery of the East; they went out on the terraces, from which the eye took in an immense stretch of country. Krysia could not free herself from wonder; he explained everything to her, but was silent from moment to moment, and looking into her dark-blue eyes, he seemed to say with his glance, "What are all these wonders in comparison with thee, thou wonder? What are all these treasures in comparison with thee, thou treasure?" The young lady understood that silent speech. He conducted her to one of the royal chambers, and stood before a door concealed in the wall. "One may go to the cathedral through this door. There is a long corridor, which ends with a balcony not far from the high altar. From this balcony the king and queen hear Mass usually." "I know that way well," put in Zagloba, "for I was a confidant of Yan Kazimir. Marya Ludovika loved me passionately; therefore both invited me often to Mass, so that they might take pleasure in my company and edify themselves with piety." "Do you wish to enter?" asked Ketling, giving a sign to the doorkeeper. "Let us go in," said Krysia. "Go alone," said Zagloba; "you are young and have good feet; I have trotted around enough already. Go on, go on; I will stay here with the doorkeeper. And even if you should say a couple of 'Our Fathers,' I shall not be angry at the delay, for during that time I can rest myself." They entered. Ketling took Krysia's hand and led her through a long corridor. He did not press her hand to his heart; he walked calmly and collectedly. At intervals the side windows threw light on their forms, then they sank again in the darkness. Her heart beat somewhat, because they were alone for the first time; but his calmness and mildness made her calm also. They came out at last to the balcony on the right side of the church, not far from the high altar. They knelt and began to pray. The church was silent and empty. Two candles were burning before the high altar, but all the deeper part of the nave was buried in impressive twilight. Only from the rainbow-colored panes of the windows various gleams entered and fell on the two wonderful faces, sunk in prayer, calm, like the faces of cherubim. Ketling rose first and began to whisper, for he dared not raise his voice in the church, "Look," said he, "at this velvet-covered railing; on it are traces where the heads of the royal couple rested. The queen sat at that side, nearer the altar. Rest in her place." "Is it true that she was unhappy all her life?" whispered Krysia, sitting down. "I heard her history when I was still a child, for it is related in all knightly castles. Perhaps she was unhappy because she could not marry him whom her heart loved." Krysia rested her head on the place where the depression was made by the head of Marya Ludovika, and closed her eyes. A kind of painful feeling straitened her breast; a certain coldness was blown suddenly from the empty nave and chilled that calm which a moment before filled her whole being. Ketling looked at Krysia in silence; and a stillness really churchlike set in. Then he sank slowly to her feet, and began to speak thus with a voice that was full of emotion, but calm:-- "It is not a sin to kneel before you in this holy place; for where does true love come for a blessing if not to the church? I love you more than life; I love you beyond every earthly good; I love you with my soul, with my heart; and here before this altar I confess that love to you." Krysia's face grew pale as linen. Resting her head on the velvet back of the prayer-stool, the unhappy lady stirred not, but he spoke on:-- "I embrace your feet and implore your decision. Am I to go from this place in heavenly delight, or in grief which I am unable to bear, and which I can in no way survive?" He waited awhile for an answer; but since it did not come, he bowed his head till he almost touched Krysia's feet, and evident emotion mastered him more and more, for his voice trembled, as if breath were failing his breast,-- "Into your hands I give my happiness and life. I expect mercy, for my burden is great." "Let us pray for God's mercy!" exclaimed Krysia, suddenly, dropping on her knees. Ketling did not understand her; but he did not dare to oppose that intention, therefore he knelt near her in hope and fear. They began to pray again. From moment to moment their voices were audible in the empty church, and the echo gave forth wonderful and complaining sounds. "God be merciful!" said Krysia. "God be merciful!" repeated Ketling. "Have mercy on us!" "Have mercy on us!" She prayed then in silence; but Ketling saw that weeping shook her whole form. For a long time she could not calm herself; and then, growing quiet, she continued to kneel without motion. At last she rose and said, "Let us go." They went out again into that long corridor. Ketling hoped that on the way he would receive some answer, and he looked into her eyes, but in vain. She walked hurriedly, as if wishing to find herself as soon as possible in that chamber in which Zagloba was waiting for them. But when the door was some tens of steps distant, the knight seized the edge of her robe. "Panna Krysia!" exclaimed he, "by all that is holy--" Then Krysia turned away, and grasping his hand so quickly that he had not time to show the least resistance, she pressed it in the twinkle of an eye to her lips. "I love you with my whole soul; but I shall never be yours!" and before the astonished Ketling could utter a word, she added, "Forget all that has happened." A moment later they were both in the chamber. The doorkeeper was sleeping in one armchair, and Zagloba in the other. The entrance of the young people roused them. Zagloba, however, opened his eye and began to blink with it half consciously; but gradually memory of the place and the persons returned to him. "Ah, that is you!" said he, drawing down his girdle, "I dreamed that the new king was elected, but that he was a Pole. Were you at the balcony?" "We were." "Did the spirit of Marya Ludovika appear to you, perchance?" "It did!" answered Krysia, gloomily. CHAPTER XV. After they had left the castle, Ketling needed to collect his thoughts and shake himself free from the astonishment into which Krysia's action had brought him. He took farewell of her and Zagloba in front of the gate, and they went to their lodgings. Basia and Pani Makovetski had returned already from the sick lady; and Pan Michael's sister greeted Zagloba with the following words,-- "I have a letter from my husband, who remains yet with Michael at the stanitsa. They are both well, and promise to be here soon. There is a letter to you from Michael, and to me only a postscript in my husband's letter. My husband writes also that the dispute with the Jubris about one of Basia's estates has ended happily. Now the time of provincial diets is approaching. They say that in those parts Pan Sobieski's name has immense weight, and that the local diet will vote as he wishes. Every man living is preparing for the election; but our people will all be with the hetman. It is warm there already, and rains are falling. With us in Verhutka the buildings were burned. A servant dropped fire; and because there was wind--" "Where is Michael's letter to me?" inquired Zagloba, interrupting the torrent of news given out at one breath by the worthy lady. "Here it is," said she, giving him a letter. "Because there was wind, and the people were at the fair--" "How were the letters brought here?" asked Zagloba, again. "They were taken to Ketling's house, and a servant brought them here. Because, as I say, there was wind--" "Do you wish to listen, my benefactress?" "Of course, I beg earnestly." Zagloba broke the seal and began to read, first in an undertone, for himself, then aloud for all,-- "I send this first letter to you; but God grant that there will not be another, for posts are uncertain in this region, and I shall soon present myself personally among you. It is pleasant here in the field, but still my heart draws me tremendously toward you, and there is no end to thoughts and memories, wherefore solitude is dearer to me in this place than company. The promised work has passed, for the hordes sit quietly, only smaller bands are rioting in the fields; these also we fell upon twice with such fortune that not a witness of their defeat got away." "Oh, they warmed them!" cried Basia, with delight. "There is nothing higher than the calling of a soldier!" "Doroshenko's rabble" (continued Zagloba) "would like to have an uproar with us, but they cannot in any way without the horde. The prisoners confess that a larger chambul will not move from any quarter, which I believe, for if there was to be anything like this it would have taken place already, since the grass has been green for a week past, and there is something with which to feed horses. In ravines bits of snow are still hiding here and there; but the open steppes are green, and a warm wind is blowing, from which the horses begin to shed their hair, and this is the surest sign of spring. I have sent already for leave, which may come any day, and then I shall start at once. Pan Adam succeeds me in keeping guard, at which there is so little labor that Makovetski and I have been fox-hunting whole days,--for simple amusement, as the fur is useless when spring is near. There are many bustards, and my servant shot a pelican. I embrace you with my whole heart; I kiss the hands of my sister, and those of Panna Krysia, to whose good-will I commit myself most earnestly, imploring God specially to let me find her unchanged, and to receive the same consolation. Give an obeisance from me to Panna Basia. Pan Adam has vented the anger roused by his rejection at Mokotov on the backs of ruffians, but there is still some in his mind, it is evident. He is not wholly relieved. I commit you to God and His most holy love. "P. S. I bought a lot of very elegant ermine from passing Armenians; I shall bring this as a gift to Panna Krysia, and for your haiduk there will be Turkish sweetmeats." "Let Pan Michael eat them himself; I am not a child," said Basia, whose cheeks flushed as if from sudden pain. "Then you will not be glad to see him? Are you angry at him?" asked Zagloba. But Basia merely muttered something in low tones, and really settled down in anger, thinking some of how lightly Pan Michael was treating her, and a little about the bustard and that pelican, which roused her curiosity specially. Krysia sat there during the reading with closed eyes, turned from the light; in truth, it was lucky that those present could not see her face, for they would have known at once that something uncommon was happening. That which took place in the church, and the letter of Pan Volodyovski, were for her like two blows of a club. The wonderful dream had fled; and from that moment the maiden stood face to face with a reality as crushing as misfortune. She could not collect her thoughts to wait, and indefinite, hazy feelings were storming in her heart. Pan Michael, with his letter, with the promise of his coming, and with a bundle of ermine, seemed to her so flat that he was almost repulsive. On the other hand, Ketling had never been so dear. Dear to her was the very thought of him, dear his words, dear his face, dear his melancholy. And now she must go from love, from homage, from him toward whom her heart is struggling, her hands stretching forth, in endless sorrow and suffering, to give her soul and her body to another, who for this alone, that he is another, becomes wellnigh hateful to her. "I cannot, I cannot!" cried Krysia, in her soul. And she felt that which a captive feels whose hands men are binding; but she herself had bound her own hands, for in her time she might have told Pan Michael that she would be his sister, nothing more. Now the kiss came to her memory,--that kiss received and returned,--and shame, with contempt for her own self, seized her. Was she in love with Pan Michael that day? No! In her heart there was no love, and except sympathy there was nothing in her heart at that time but curiosity and giddiness, masked with the show of sisterly affection. Now she has discovered for the first time that between kissing from great love and kissing from impulse of blood, there is as much difference as between an angel and a devil. Anger as well as contempt was rising in Krysia; then pride began to storm in her and against Pan Michael. He too was at fault; why should all the penance, contrition, and disappointment fall upon her? Why should he too not taste the bitter bread? Has she not the right to say when he returns, "I was mistaken; I mistook pity for love. You also were mistaken; now leave me, as I have left you." Suddenly fear seized her by the hair,--fear before the vengeance of the terrible man; fear not for herself, but for the head of the loved one, whom vengeance would strike without fail. In imagination she saw Ketling standing up to the struggle with that ominous swordsman beyond swordsmen, and then falling as a flower falls cut by a scythe; she sees his blood, his pale face, his eyes closed for the ages, and her suffering goes beyond every measure. She rose with all speed and went to her chamber to vanish from the eyes of people, so as not to hear conversation concerning Pan Michael and his approaching return. In her heart rose greater and greater animosity against the little knight. But Remorse and Regret pursued her, and did not leave her in time of prayer; they sat on her bed when, overcome with weakness, she lay in it, and began to speak to her. "Where is he?" asked Regret. "He has not returned yet; he is walking through the night and wringing his hands. Thou wouldst incline the heavens for him, thou wouldst give him thy life's blood; but thou hast given him poison to drink, thou hast thrust a knife through his heart." "Had it not been for thy giddiness, had it not been for thy wish to lure every man whom thou meetest," said Remorse, "all might be different; but now despair alone remains to thee. It is thy fault,--thy great fault! There is no help for thee; there is no rescue for thee now,--nothing but shame and pain and weeping." "How he knelt at thy feet in the church!" said Regret, again. "It is a wonder that thy heart did not burst when he looked into thy eyes and begged of thee pity. It was just of thee to give pity to a stranger, but to the loved one, the dearest, what? God bless him! God solace him!" "Were it not for thy giddiness, that dearest one might depart in joy," repeated Remorse; "thou mightest walk at his side, as his chosen one, his wife--" "And be with him forever," added Regret. "It is thy fault," said Remorse. "Weep, O Krysia," cried Regret. "Thou canst not wipe away that fault!" said Remorse, again. "Do what thou pleasest, but console him," repeated Regret. "Volodyovski will slay him!" answered Remorse, at once. Cold sweat covered Krysia, and she sat on the bed. Bright moonlight fell into the room, which seemed somehow weird and terrible in those white rays. "What is that?" thought Krysia. "There Basia is sleeping. I see her, for the moon is shining in her face; and I know not when she came, when she undressed and lay down. And I have not slept one moment; but my poor head is of no use, that is clear." Thus meditating, she lay down again; but Regret and Remorse sat on the edge of her bed, exactly like two goddesses, who were diving in at will through the rays of moonlight, or sweeping out again through its silvery abysses. "I shall not sleep to-night," said Krysia to herself, and she began to think about Ketling, and to suffer more and more. Suddenly the sorrowful voice of Basia was heard in the stillness of the night, "Krysia!" "Are you not sleeping?" "No for I dreamed that some Turk pierced Pan Michael with an arrow. O Jesus! a deceiving dream. But a fever is just shaking me. Let us say the Litany together, that God may avert misfortune." The thought flew through Krysia's head like lightning, "God grant some one to shoot him!" But she was astonished immediately at her own wickedness; therefore, though it was necessary for her to get superhuman power to pray at that particular moment for the return of Pan Michael, still she answered,-- "Very well, Basia." Then both rose from their beds, and kneeling on their naked knees on the floor, began to say the Litany. Their voices responded to each other, now rising and now falling; you would have said that the chamber was changed into the cell of a cloister in which two white nuns were repeating their nightly prayers. CHAPTER XVI. Next morning Krysia was calmer; for among intricate and tangled paths she had chosen for herself an immensely difficult, but not a false one. Entering upon it, she saw at least whither she was going. But, first of all, she determined to have an interview with Ketling and speak with him for the last time, so as to guard him from every mishap. This did not come to her easily, for Ketling did not show himself for a number of consecutive days, and did not return at night. Krysia began to rise before daylight and walk to the neighboring church of the Dominicans, with the hope that she would meet him some morning and speak to him without witnesses. In fact, she met him a few days later at the very door. When he saw her, he removed his cap and bent his head in silence. He stood motionless; his face was wearied by sleeplessness and suffering, his eyes sunk; on his temples there were yellowish spots; the delicate color of his face had become waxlike; he looked like a flower that is withering. Krysia's heart was rent at sight of him; and though every decisive step cost her very much, for she was not bold by nature, she was the first to extend the hand, and said,-- "May God comfort you and send you forgetfulness!" Ketling took her hand, raised it to his forehead, then to his lips, to which he pressed it long and with all his force; then he said with a voice full of mortal sadness and of resignation, "There is for me neither solace nor forgetfulness." There was a moment when Krysia needed all her self-control to restrain herself from throwing her arms around his neck and exclaiming, "I love thee above everything! take me," She felt that if weeping were to seize her she would do so; therefore she stood a long time before him in silence, struggling with her tears. At last she conquered herself and began to speak calmly, though very quickly, for breath failed her:-- "It may bring you some relief if I say that I shall belong to no one, I go behind the grating. Do not judge me harshly at any time, for as it is I am unhappy. Promise me, give me your word, that you will not mention your love for me to any one: that you will not acknowledge it; that you will not disclose to friend or relative what has happened. This is my last prayer. The time will come when you will know why I do this; then at least you will have the explanation. To-day I will tell you no more, for my sorrow is such that I cannot. Promise me this,--it will comfort me; if you do not, I may die." "I promise, and give my word," answered Ketling. "God reward you, and I thank you from my whole heart! Besides, show a calm face in presence of people, so that no one may have a suspicion. It is time for me to go. Your kindness is such that words fail to describe it. Henceforth we shall not see each other alone, only before people. Tell me further that you have no feeling of offence against me; for to suffer is one thing and to be offended another. You yield me to God, to no one else; keep this in mind." Ketling wished to say something; but since he was suffering beyond measure, only indefinite sounds like groans came from his mouth; then he touched Krysia's temples with his fingers and held them for a while as a sign that he forgave her and blessed her. They parted then; she went to the church, and he to the street again, so as not to meet in the inn an acquaintance. Krysia returned only in the afternoon; and when she came she found a notable guest, Bishop Olshovski, the vice-chancellor. He had come unexpectedly on a visit to Pan Zagloba, wishing, as he said himself, to become acquainted with such a great cavalier, "whose military pre-eminence was an example, and whose reason was a guide to the knights of that whole lordly Commonwealth." Zagloba was, in truth, much astonished, but not less gratified, that such a great honor had met him in presence of the ladies; he plumed himself greatly, was flushed, perspired, and at the same time endeavored to show Pani Makovetski that he was accustomed to such visits from the greatest dignitaries in the country, and that he made nothing of them. Krysia was presented to the prelate, and kissing his hands with humility, sat near Basia, glad that no one could see the traces of recent emotion on her face. Meanwhile the vice-chancellor covered Zagloba so bountifully and so easily with praises that he seemed to be drawing new supplies of them continually from his violet sleeves embroidered with lace. "Think not, your grace," said he, "that I was drawn hither by curiosity alone to know the first man in the knighthood; for though admiration is a just homage to heroes, still men make pilgrimages for their own profit also to the place where experience and quick reason have taken their seats at the side of manfulness." "Experience," said Zagloba, modestly, "especially in the military art, comes only with age; and for that cause perhaps the late Pan Konyetspolski, father of the banneret, asked me frequently for counsel, after him Pan Nikolai Pototski, Prince Yeremi Vishnyevetski, Pan Sapyeha, and Pan Charnyetski; but as to the title 'Ulysses,' I have always protested against that from considerations of modesty." "Still, it is so connected with your grace that at times no one mentions your real name, but says, 'Our Ulysses,' and all divine at once whom the orator means. Therefore, in these difficult and eventful times, when more than one wavers in his thoughts and does not know whither to turn, whom to uphold, I said to myself, 'I will go and hear convictions, free myself from doubt, enlighten my mind with clear counsel.' You will divine, your grace, that I wish to speak of the coming election, in view of which every estimate of candidates may lead to some good; but what must one be which flows from the mouth of your grace? I have heard it repeated with the greatest applause among the knighthood that you are opposed to those foreigners who are pushing themselves on to our lordly throne. In the veins of the Vazas, as you explained, there flowed Yagellon blood,--hence they could not be considered as strangers; but those foreigners, as you said, neither know our ancient Polish customs nor will they respect our liberties, and hence absolute rule may arise easily. I acknowledge to your grace that these are deep words; but pardon me if I inquire whether you really uttered them, or is it public opinion that from custom ascribes all profound sentences to you in the first instance?" "These ladies are witness," answered Zagloba; "and though this subject is not suited to their judgment, let them speak, since Providence in its inscrutable decrees has given them the gift of speech equally with us." The vice-chancellor looked involuntarily on Pani Makovetski, and then on the two young ladies nestled up to each other. A moment of silence followed. Suddenly the silvery voice of Basia was heard,-- "I did not hear anything!" Then she was confused terribly and blushed to her very ears, especially when Zagloba said at once, "Pardon her, your dignity. She is young, therefore giddy. But as to candidates, I have said more than once that our Polish liberty will weep by reason of these foreigners." "I fear that myself," said the prelate; "but even if we wished some Pole, blood of our blood and bone of our bone, tell me, your grace, to what side should we turn our hearts? Your grace's very thought of a Pole is great, and is spreading through the country like a flame; for I hear that everywhere in the diets which are not fettered by corruption one voice is to be heard, 'A Pole, a Pole!'" "Justly, justly!" interrupted Zagloba. "Still," continued the vice-chancellor, "it is easier to call for a Pole than to find a fit person; therefore let your grace be not astonished if I ask whom you had in mind." "Whom had I in mind?" repeated Zagloba, somewhat puzzled; and pouting his lips, he wrinkled his brows. It was difficult for him to give a sudden answer, for hitherto not only had he no one in mind, but in general he had not those ideas at all which the keen prelate had attributed to him. Besides, he knew this himself, and understood that the vice-chancellor was inclining him to some side; but he let himself be inclined purposely, for it flattered him greatly. "I have insisted only in principle that we need a Pole," said he at last; "but to tell the truth, I have not named any man thus far." "I have heard of the ambitious designs of Prince Boguslav Radzivill," muttered the prelate, as if to himself. "While there is breath in my nostrils, while the last drop of blood is in my breast," cried Zagloba, with the force of deep conviction, "nothing will come of that! I should not wish to live in a nation so disgraced as to make a traitor and a Judas its king." "That is the voice not only of reason, but of civic virtue," muttered the vice-chancellor, again. "Ha!" thought Zagloba, "if you wish to draw me, I will draw you." Then the vice-chancellor began anew: "When wilt thou sail in, O battered ship of my country? What storms, what rocks are in wait for thee? In truth, it will be evil if a foreigner becomes thy steersman; but it must be so evidently, if among thy sons there is no one better." Here he stretched out his white hands, ornamented with glittering rings, and inclining his head, said with resignation, "Then Condé, or he of Lorraine, or the Prince of Neuberg? There is no other outcome!" "That is impossible! A Pole!" answered Zagloba. "Who?" inquired the prelate. Silence followed. Then the prelate began to speak again: "If there were even one on whom all could agree! Where is there a man who would touch the heart of the knighthood at once, so that no one would dare to murmur against his election? There was one such, the greatest, who had rendered most service,--your worthy friend, O knight, who walked in glory as in sunlight. There was such a--" "Prince Yeremi Vishnyevetski!" interrupted Zagloba. "That is true. But he is in the grave." "His son lives," replied Zagloba. The vice-chancellor half closed his eyes, and sat some time in silence; all at once he raised his head, looked at Zagloba, and began to speak slowly: "I thank God for having inspired me with the idea of knowing your grace. That is it! the son of the great Yeremi is alive,--a prince young and full of hope, to whom the Commonwealth has a debt to pay. Of his gigantic fortune nothing remains but glory,--that is his only inheritance. Therefore in the present times of corruption, when every man turns his eyes only to where gold is attracting, who will mention his name, who will have the courage to make him a candidate? You? True! But will there be many like you? It is not wonderful that he whose life has been passed in heroic struggles on all fields will not fear to give homage to merit with his vote on the field of election; but will others follow his example?" Here the vice-chancellor fell to thinking, then raised his eyes and spoke on: "God is mightier than all. Who knows His decisions, who knows? When I think how all the knighthood believe and trust you, I see indeed with wonderment that a certain hope enters my heart. Tell me sincerely, has the impossible ever existed for you?" "Never!" answered Zagloba, with conviction. "Still, it is not proper to advance that candidacy too decidedly at first. Let the name strike people's ears, but let it not seem too formidable to opponents; let them rather laugh at it, and sneer, so that they may not raise too serious impediments. Perhaps, too, God will grant it to succeed quickly, when the intrigues of parties bring them to mutual destruction. Smooth the road for it gradually, your grace, and grow not weary in labor; for this is your candidate, worthy of your reason and experience. God bless you in these plans!" "Am I to suppose," inquired Zagloba, "that your dignity has been thinking also of Prince Michael?" The vice-chancellor took from his sleeve a small book on which the title "Censura Candidatorum" stood in large black letters, and said, "Read, your grace; let this letter answer for me." Then the vice-chancellor began preparations for going; but Zagloba detained him and said, "Permit me, your dignity, to say something more. First of all, I thank God that the lesser seal is in hands which can bend men like wax." "How is that?" asked the vice-chancellor, astonished. "Secondly, I will tell your dignity in advance that the candidacy of Prince Michael is greatly to my heart, for I knew his father, and loved him and fought under him with my friends; they too will be delighted in soul at the thought that they can show the son that love which they had for the father. Therefore I seize at this candidacy with both hands, and this day I will speak with Pan Krytski,--a man of great family and my acquaintance, who is in high consideration among the nobles, for it is difficult not to love him. We will both do what is in our power; and God grant that we shall effect something!" "May the angels attend you!" said the prelate; "if you do that, we have nothing more to say." "With the permission of your dignity I have to speak of one thing more; namely, that your dignity should not think to yourself thuswise: 'I have put my own wishes into his mouth; I have talked into him this idea that he has found out of his own wit the candidacy of Prince Michael,--speaking briefly, I have twisted the fool in my hand as if he were wax.' Your dignity, I will advance the cause of Prince Michael, because it is to my heart,--that is what the case is; because, as I see, it is to the heart also of your dignity,--that is what the case is! I will advance it for the sake of his mother, for the sake of my friends; I will advance it because of the confidence which I have in the head" (here Zagloba inclined) "from which that Minerva sprang forth, but not because I let myself be persuaded, like a little boy, that the invention is mine; and in fine, not because I am a fool, but for the reason that when a wise man tells me a wise thing, old Zagloba says, 'Agreed!'" Here the noble inclined once more. The vice-chancellor was confused considerably at first; but seeing the good-humor of the noble and that the affair was taking the turn so much desired, he laughed from his whole soul, then seizing his head with both hands, he began to repeat,-- "Ulysses! as God is dear to me, a genuine Ulysses! Lord brother, whoso wishes to do a good thing must deal with men variously; but with you I see it is requisite to strike the quick straightway. You have pleased my heart immensely." "As Prince Michael has mine." "May God give you health! Ha! I am beaten, but I am glad. You must have eaten many a starling in your youth. And this signet ring,--if it will serve to commemorate our _colloquium_--" "Let that ring remain in its own place," said Zagloba. "You will do this for me--" "I cannot by any means. Perhaps another time--later on--after the election." The vice-chancellor understood, and insisted no more; he went out, however, with a radiant face. Zagloba conducted him to the gate, and returning, muttered, "Ha! I gave him a lesson! One rogue met another. But it is an honor. Dignitaries will outrun one another in coming to these gates. I am curious to know what the ladies think of this!" The ladies were indeed full of admiration; and Zagloba grew to the ceiling, especially in the eyes of Pan Michael's sister, so that he had barely shown himself when she exclaimed with great enthusiasm, "You have surpassed Solomon in wisdom." And Zagloba was very glad. "Whom have I surpassed, do you say? Wait, you will see hetmans, bishops, and senators here; I shall have to escape from them or hide behind the curtains." Further conversation was interrupted by the entrance of Ketling. "Ketling, do you want promotion?" cried Zagloba, still charmed with his own significance. "No!" answered the knight, in sadness; "for I must leave you again, and for a long time." Zagloba looked at him more attentively. "How is it that you are so cut down?" "Just for this, that I am going away." "Whither?" "I have received letters from Scotland, from old friends of my father and myself. My affairs demand me there absolutely; perhaps for a long time. I am grieved to part with all here--but I must." Zagloba, going into the middle of the room, looked at Pan Michael's sister, then at the young ladies, and asked, "Have you heard? In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost!" CHAPTER XVII. Though Zagloba received the news of Ketling's departure with astonishment, still no suspicion came into his head; for it was easy to admit that Charles II. had remembered the services which the Ketlings had rendered the throne in time of disturbance, and that he wished to show his gratitude to the last descendant of the family. It would seem even most wonderful were he to act otherwise. Besides, Ketling showed Zagloba certain letters from beyond the sea, and convinced him decisively. In its way that journey endangered all the old noble's plans, and he was thinking with alarm of the future. Judging by his letter, Volodyovski might return any day. "The winds have blown away in the steppes the remnant of his grief," thought Zagloba. "He will come back more daring than when he departed; and because some devil is drawing him more powerfully to Krysia, he is ready to propose to her straightway. And then,--then Krysia will say yes (for how could she say no to such a cavalier, and, besides, the brother of Pani Makovetski?), and my poor, dearest haiduk will be on the ice." But Zagloba, with the persistence special to old people, determined at all costs to marry Basia to the little knight. Neither the arguments of Pan Yan, nor those which at intervals he used on himself, had serious effect. At times he promised mentally, it is true, not to interfere again in anything; but he returned afterward involuntarily with greater persistence to the thought of uniting this pair. He meditated for whole days how to effect this; he formed plans, he framed stratagems. And he went so far that when it seemed to him that he had hit upon the means, he cried out straightway, as if the affair were over, "May God bless you!" But now Zagloba saw before him almost the ruin of his wishes. There remained nothing more to him but to abandon all his efforts and leave the future to God's will; for the shadow of hope that before his departure Ketling would take some decisive step with reference to Krysia could not remain long in Zagloba's head. It was only from sorrow and curiosity, therefore, that he determined to inquire of the young knight touching the time of his going, as well as what he intended to do before leaving the Commonwealth. Having invited Ketling to a conversation, Zagloba said with a greatly grieved face, "A difficult case! Each man knows best what he ought to do, and I will not ask you to stay; but I should like to know at least something about your return." "Can I tell what is waiting for me there, where I am going?" answered Ketling,--"what questions and what adventures? I will return sometime, if I can. I will stay there for good if I must." "You will find that your heart will draw you back to us." "God grant that my grave will be nowhere else but in the land which gave me all that it could give!" "Ah, you see in other countries a foreigner is a stepchild all his life; but our mother opens her arms to you at once, and cherishes you as her own son." "Truth, a great truth. Ei! if only I could-- For everything in the old country may come to me, but happiness will not come." "Ah! I said to you, 'Settle down; get married.' You would not listen to me. If you were married, even if you went away, you would have to return, unless you wished to take your wife through the raging waves; and I do not suppose that. I gave you advice. Well, you wouldn't take it; you wouldn't take it." Here Zagloba looked attentively at Ketling's face, wishing some definite explanation from him, but Ketling was silent; he merely hung his head and fixed his eyes on the floor. "What is your answer to this?" asked Zagloba, after a while. "I had no chance whatever of taking it," answered the young knight, slowly. Zagloba began to walk through the room, then he stopped in front of Ketling, joined his hands behind his back, and said, "But I tell you that you had. If you had not, may I never from this day forward bind this body of mine with this belt here! Krysia is a friend of yours." "God grant that she remain one, though seas be between us!" "What does that mean?" "Nothing more; nothing more." "Have you asked her?" "Spare me. As it is, I am so sad because I am going." "Ketling, do you wish me to speak to her while there is time?" Ketling considered that if Krysia wished so earnestly that their feelings should remain secret, perhaps she might be glad if an opportunity were offered of denying them openly, therefore he answered, "I assure you that that is vain, and I am so far convinced that I have done everything to drive that feeling from my head; but if you are looking for a miracle, ask." "Ah, if you have driven her out of your head," said Zagloba, with a certain bitterness, "there is nothing indeed to be done. Only permit me to remark that I looked on you as a man of more constancy." Ketling rose, and stretching upward his two hands feverishly, said with violence unusual to him, "What will it help me to wish for one of those stars? I cannot fly up to it, neither can it come down to me. Woe to people who sigh after the silver moon!" Zagloba grew angry, and began to puff. For a time he could not even speak, and only when he had mastered his anger did he answer with a broken voice, "My dear, do not hold me a fool; if you have reasons to give, give them to me, as to a man who lives on bread and meat, not as to one who is mad,--for if I should now frame a fiction, and tell you that this cap of mine here is the moon, and that I cannot reach it with my hand, I should go around the city with a bare, bald head, and the frost would bite my ears like a dog. I will not wrestle with statements like that. But I know this: the maiden lives three rooms distant from here; she eats; she drinks; when she walks, she must put one foot before the other; in the frost her nose grows red, and she feels hot in the heat; when a mosquito bites her, she feels it; and as to the moon, she may resemble it in this, that she has no beard. But in the way that you talk, it may be said that a turnip is an astrologer. As to Krysia, if you have not tried, if you have not asked her, it is your own fault; but if you have ceased to love the girl, and now you are going away, saying to yourself 'moon,' then you may nourish any weed with your honesty as well as your wit,--that is the point of the question." To this Ketling answered, "It is not sweet, but bitter in my mouth from the food which you are giving me. I go, for I must; I do not ask, because I have nothing to ask about. But you judge me unjustly,--God knows how unjustly!" "Ketling! I know, of course, that you are a man of honor; but I cannot understand those ways of yours. In my time a man went to a maiden and spoke into her eyes with this rhyme, 'If you wish me, we will live together; if not, I will not buy you.'[15] Each one knew what he had to do; whoever was halting, and not bold in speech, sent a better man to talk than himself. I offered you my services, and offer them yet. I will go; I will talk; I will bring back an answer, and according to that, you will go or stay." "I must go! it cannot be otherwise, and will not." "You will return." "No! Do me a kindness, and speak no more of this. If you wish to inquire for your own satisfaction, very well, but not in my name." "For God's sake, have you asked her already?" "Let us not speak of this. Do me the favor." "Well, let us talk of the weather. May the thunderbolt strike you, and your ways! So you must go, and I must curse." "I take farewell of you." "Wait, wait! Anger will leave me this moment. My Ketling, wait, for I had something to say to you. When do you go?" "As soon as I can settle my affairs. I should like to wait in Courland for the quarter's rent; and the house in which we have been living I would sell willingly if any one would buy it." "Let Makovetski buy it, or Michael. In God's name! but you will not go away without seeing Michael?" "I should be glad in my soul to see him." "He may be here any moment. He may incline you to Krysia." Here Zagloba stopped, for a certain alarm seized him suddenly. "I was serving Michael in good intent," thought he, "but terribly against his will; if discord is to rise between him and Ketling, better let Ketling go away." Here Zagloba rubbed his bald head with his hand; at last he added, "One thing and another was said out of pure goodwill. I have so fallen in love with you that I would be glad to detain you by all means; therefore I put Krysia before you, like a bit of bacon. But that was only through good-will. What is it to me, old man? In truth, that was only good-will,--nothing more. I am not match-making; if I were, I would have made a match for myself. Ketling, give me your face,[16] and be not angry." Ketling embraced Zagloba, who became really tender, and straightway gave command to bring the decanter, saying, "We will drink one like this every day on the occasion of your departure." And they drank. Then Ketling bade him good-by and went out. Immediately the wine roused fancy in Zagloba; he began to meditate about Basia, Krysia, Pan Michael, and Ketling, began to unite them in couples, to bless them; at last he wished to see the young ladies, and said, "Well, I will go and see those kids." The young ladies were sitting in the room beyond the entrance, and sewing. Zagloba, after he had greeted them, walked through the room, dragging his feet a little; for they did not serve him as formerly, especially after wine. While walking, he looked at the maidens, who were sitting closely, one near the other, so that the bright head of Basia almost touched the dark one of Krysia. Basia followed him with her eyes; but Krysia was sewing so diligently that it was barely possible to catch the glitter of her needle with the eye. "H'm!" said Zagloba. "H'm!" repeated Basia. "Don't mock me, for I am angry." "He'll be sure to cut my head off!" cried Basia, feigning terror. "Strike! strike! I'll cut your tongue out,--that's what I'll do!" Saying this, Zagloba approached the young ladies, and putting his hands on his hips, asked without any preliminary, "Do you want Ketling as husband?" "Yes; five like him!" said Basia, quickly. "Be quiet, fly! I am not talking to you. Krysia, the speech is to you. Do you want Ketling as husband?" Krysia had grown pale somewhat, though at first she thought that Zagloba was asking Basia, not her; then she raised on the old noble her beautiful dark-blue eyes. "No," answered she, calmly. "Well, 'pon my word! No! At least it is short. 'Pon my word!--'pon my word! And why do you not want him?" "I want no one." "Krysia, tell that to some one else," put in Basia. "What brought the married state into such contempt with you?" continued Zagloba. "Not contempt; I have a vocation for the convent," answered Krysia. There was in her voice so much seriousness and such sadness that Basia and Zagloba did not admit even for a moment that she was jesting; but such great astonishment seized both that they began to look as if dazed, now on each other, now on Krysia. "Well!" said Zagloba, breaking the silence first. "I wish to enter a convent," repeated Krysia, with sweetness. Basia looked at her once and a second time, suddenly threw her arms around her neck, pressed her rosy lips to her cheek, and began to say quickly, "Oh, Krysia, I shall sob! Say quickly that you are only talking to the wind; I shall sob, as God is in heaven, I shall!" CHAPTER XVIII. After his interview with Zagloba, Ketling went to Pan Michael's sister, whom he informed that because of urgent affairs he must remain in the city, and perhaps too before his final journey he would go for some weeks to Courland; therefore he would not be able in person to entertain her in his suburban house longer. But he implored her to consider that house as her residence in the same way as hitherto, and to occupy it with her husband and Pan Michael during the coming election. Pani Makovetski consented, for in the opposite event the house would become empty, and bring profit to no one. After that conversation Ketling vanished, and showed himself no more either in the inn, or later in the neighborhood of Mokotov, when Pan Michael's sister returned to the suburbs with the young ladies. Krysia alone felt that absence; Zagloba was occupied wholly with the coming election; while Basia and Pani Makovetski had taken the sudden decision of Krysia to heart so much that they could think of nothing else. Still, Pani Makovetski did not even try to dissuade Krysia; for in those times opposition to such undertakings seemed to people an injury and an offence to God. Zagloba alone, in spite of all his piety, would have had the courage to protest, had it concerned him in any way; but since it did not, he sat quietly, and he was content in spirit that affairs had arranged themselves so that Krysia retired from between Pan Michael and the haiduk. Now Zagloba was convinced of the successful accomplishment of his most secret desires, and gave himself with all freedom to the labors of the election; he visited the nobles who had come to the capital, or he spent the time in conversations with the vice-chancellor, with whom he fell in love at last, becoming his trusted assistant. After each such conversation he returned home a more zealous partisan of the "Pole," and a more determined enemy of foreigners. Accommodating himself to the instructions of the vice-chancellor, he remained quietly in that condition so far, but not a day passed that he did not win some one for the secret candidate, and that happened which usually happens in such cases,--he pushed himself forward so far that that candidacy became the second object in his life, at the side of the union of Basia and Pan Michael. Meanwhile they were nearer and nearer the election. Spring had already freed the waters from ice; breezes warm and strong had begun to blow; under the breath of these breezes the trees were sprinkled with buds, and flocks of swallows were hovering around, to spring out at any moment, as simple people think, from the ocean of winter into the bright sunlight. Guests began to come to the election, with the swallows and other birds of passage. First of all came merchants, to whom a rich harvest of profit was indicated, in a place where more than half a million of people were to assemble, counting magnates with their forces, nobles, servants, and the army. Englishmen, Hollanders, Germans, Russians, Tartars, Turks, Armenians, and even Persians came, bringing stuffs, linen, damask, brocades, furs, jewels, perfumes, and sweetmeats. Booths were erected on the streets and outside the city, and in them was every kind of merchandise. Some "bazaars" were placed even in suburban villages; for it was known that the inns of the capital could not receive one tenth of the electors, and that an enormous majority of them would be encamped outside the walls, as was the case always during time of election. Finally, the nobles began to assemble so numerously, in such throngs, that if they had come in like numbers to the threatened boundaries of the Commonwealth, the foot of any enemy would never have crossed them. Reports went around that the election would be a stormy one, for the whole country was divided between three chief candidates,--Condé, the Princes of Neuberg and of Lorraine. It was said that each party would endeavor to seat its own candidate, even by force. Alarm seized hearts; spirits were inflamed with partisan rancor. Some prophesied civil war; and these forebodings found faith, in view of the gigantic military legions with which the magnates had surrounded themselves. They arrived early, so as to have time for intrigues of all kinds. When the Commonwealth was in peril, when the enemy was putting the keen edge to its throat, neither king nor hetman could bring more than a wretched handful of troops against him; but now in spite of laws and enactments, the Radzivills alone came with an army numbering between ten and twenty thousand men. The Patses had behind them an almost equivalent force; the powerful Pototskis were coming with no smaller strength; other "kinglets" of Poland, Lithuania, and Russia were coming with forces but slightly inferior. "When wilt thou sail in, O battered ship of my country?" repeated the vice-chancellor, more and more frequently; but he himself had selfish objects in his heart. The magnates, with few exceptions, corrupted to the marrow of their bones, were thinking only of themselves and the greatness of their houses, and were ready at any moment to rouse the tempest of civil war. The throng of nobles increased daily; and it was evident that when, after the Diet, the election itself would begin, they would surpass even the greatest force of the magnates. But these throngs were incompetent to bring the ship of the Commonwealth into calm waters successfully, for their heads were sunk in darkness and ignorance, and their hearts were for the greater part corrupted. The election therefore gave promise of being prodigious, and no one foresaw that it would end only shabbily, for except Zagloba, even those who worked for the "Pole" could not foresee to what a degree the stupidity of the nobles and the intrigues of the magnates would aid them; not many had hope to carry through such a candidate as Prince Michael. But Zagloba swam in that sea like a fish in water. From the beginning of the Diet he dwelt in the city continually, and was at Ketling's house only when he yearned for his haiduk; but as Basia had lost much joyfulness by reason of Krysia's resolve, Zagloba took her sometimes to the city to let her amuse herself and rejoice her eyes with the sight of the shops. They went out usually in the morning; and Zagloba brought her back not infrequently late in the evening. On the road and in the city itself the heart of the maiden was rejoiced at sight of the merchandise, the strange people, the many-colored crowds, the splendid troops. Then her eyes would gleam like two coals, her head turn as if on a pivot; she could not gaze sufficiently, nor look around enough, and overwhelmed the old man with questions by the thousand. He answered gladly, for in this way he showed his experience and learning. More than once a gallant company of military surrounded the equipage in which they were riding; the knighthood admired Basia's beauty greatly, her quick wit and resolution, and Zagloba always told them the story of the Tartar, slain with duck-shot, so as to sink them completely in amazement and delight. A certain time Zagloba and Basia were coming home very late; for the review of Pan Felix Pototski's troops had detained them all day. The night was clear and warm; white mists were hanging over the fields. Zagloba, though always watchful, since in such a concourse of serving-men and soldiers it was necessary to pay careful attention not to strike upon outlaws, had fallen soundly asleep; the driver was dozing also; Basia alone was not sleeping, for through her head were moving thousands of thoughts and pictures. Suddenly the tramp of a number of horses came to her ears. Pulling Zagloba by the sleeve, she said,-- "Horsemen of some kind are pushing on after us." "What? How? Who?" asked the drowsy Zagloba. "Horsemen of some kind are coming." "Oh! they will come up directly. The tramp of horses is to be heard; perhaps some one is going in the same direction--" "They are robbers, I am sure!" Basia was sure, for the reason that in her soul she was eager for adventures,--robbers and opportunities for her daring,--so that when Zagloba, puffing and muttering, began to draw out from the seat pistols, which he took with him always for "an occasion," she claimed one for herself. "I shall not miss the first robber who approaches. Auntie shoots wonderfully with a musket, but she cannot see in the night. I could swear that those men are robbers! Oh, if they would only attack us! Give me the pistol quickly!" "Well," answered Zagloba, "but you must promise not to fire before I do, and till I say fire. If I give you a weapon, you will be ready to shoot the noble that you see first, without asking, 'Who goes there?' and then a trial will follow." "I will ask first, 'Who goes there?'" "But if drinking-men are passing, and hearing a woman's voice, say something impolite?" "I will thunder at them out of the pistol! Isn't that right?" "Oh, man, to take such a water-burner to the city! I tell you that you are not to fire without command." "I will inquire, 'Who goes there?' but so roughly that they will not know me." "Let it be so, then. Ha! I hear them approaching already. You may be sure that they are solid people, for scoundrels would attack us unawares from the ditch." Since ruffians, however, really did infest the roads, and adventures were heard of not infrequently, Zagloba commanded the driver not to go among the trees which stood in darkness at the turn of the road, but to halt in a well-lighted place. Meanwhile the four horsemen had approached a number of yards. Then Basia, assuming a bass voice, which to her seemed worthy of a dragoon, inquired threateningly,-- "Who goes there?" "Why have you stopped on the road?" asked one of the horsemen, who thought evidently that they must have broken some part of the carriage or the harness. At this voice Basia dropped her pistol and said hurriedly to Zagloba, "Indeed, that is uncle. Oh, for God's sake!" "What uncle?" "Makovetski." "Hei there!" cried Zagloba; "and are you not Pan Makovetski with Pan Volodyovski?" "Pan Zagloba!" cried the little knight. "Michael!" Here Zagloba began to put his legs over the edge of the carriage with great haste; but before he could get one of them over, Volodyovski had sprung from his horse and was at the side of the equipage. Recognizing Basia by the light of the moon, he seized her by both hands and cried,-- "I greet you with all my heart! And where is Panna Krysia, and sister? Are all in good health?" "In good health, thank God! So you have come at last!" said Basia, with a beating heart. "Is uncle here too? Oh, uncle!" When she had said this, she seized by the neck Pan Makovetski, who had just come to the carriage; and Zagloba opened his arms meanwhile to Pan Michael. After long greetings came the presentation of Pan Makovetski to Zagloba; then the two travellers gave their horses to attendants and took their places in the carriage. Makovetski and Zagloba occupied the seat of honor; Basia and Pan Michael sat in front. Brief questions and brief answers followed, as happens usually when people meet after a long absence. Pan Makovetski inquired about his wife; Pan Michael once more about the health of Panna Krysia; then he wondered at Ketling's approaching departure, but he had not time to dwell on that, for he was forced at once to tell of what he had done in the border stanitsa, how he had attacked the ravagers of the horde, how he was homesick, but how wholesome it was to taste his old life. "It seemed to me," said the little knight, "that the Lubni times had not passed; that we were still together with Pan Yan and Kushel and Vyershul; only when they brought me a pail of water for washing, and gray-haired temples were seen in it, could a man remember that he was not the same as in old times, though, on the other hand, it came to my mind that while the will was the same the man was the same." "You have struck the point!" replied Zagloba; "it is clear that your wit has recovered on fresh grass, for hitherto you were not so quick. Will is the main thing, and there is no better drug for melancholy." "That is true,--is true," added Pan Makovetski. "There is a legion of well-sweeps in Michael's stanitsa, for there is a lack of spring water in the neighborhood. I tell you, sir, that when the soldiers begin to make those sweeps squeak at daybreak, your grace would wake up with such a will that you would thank God at once for this alone, that you were living." "Ah, if I could only be there for even one day!" cried Basia. "There is one way to go there," said Zagloba,--"marry the captain of the guard." "Pan Adam will be captain sooner or later," put in the little knight. "Indeed!" cried Basia, in anger; "I have not asked you to bring me Pan Adam instead of a present." "I have brought something else, nice sweetmeats. They will be sweet for Panna Basia, and it is bitter there for that poor fellow." "Then you should have given him the sweets; let him eat them while his mustaches are coming out." "Imagine to yourself," said Zagloba to Pan Makovetski, "these two are always in that way. Luckily the proverb says, 'Those who wrangle, end in love.'" Basia made no reply; but Pan Michael, as if waiting for an answer, looked at her small face shone upon by the bright light. It seemed to him so shapely that he thought in spite of himself, "But that rogue is so pretty that she might destroy one's eyes." Evidently something else must have come to his mind at once, for he turned to the driver and said, "Touch up the horses there with a whip, and drive faster." The carriage rolled on quickly after those words, so quickly that the travellers sat in silence for some time; and only when they came upon the sand did Pan Michael speak again: "But the departure of Ketling surprises me. And that it should happen to him, too, just before my coming and before the election." "The English think as much of our election as they do of your coming," answered Zagloba. "Ketling himself is cut from his feet because he must leave us." Basia had just on her tongue, "Especially Krysia," but something reminded her not to mention this matter nor the recent resolution of Krysia. With the instinct of a woman she divined that the one and the other might touch Pan Michael at the outset; as to pain, something pained her, therefore in spite of all her impulsiveness she held silence. "Of Krysia's intentions he will know anyhow," thought she; "but evidently it is better not to speak of them now, since Pan Zagloba has not mentioned them with a word." Pan Michael turned again to the driver, "But drive faster!" "We left our horses and things at Praga," said Pan Makovetski to Zagloba, "and set out with two men, though it was nightfall, for Michael and I were in a terrible hurry." "I believe it," answered Zagloba. "Do you see what throngs have come to the capital? Outside the gates are camps and markets, so that it is difficult to pass. People tell also wonderful things of the coming election, which I will repeat at a proper time in the house to you." Here they began to converse about politics. Zagloba was trying to discover adroitly Makovetski's opinions; at last he turned to Pan Michael and asked without ceremony, "And for whom will you give your vote, Michael?" But Pan Michael, instead of an answer, started as if roused from sleep, and said, "I am curious to know if they are sleeping, and if we shall see them to-day?" "They are surely sleeping," answered Basia, with a sweet and as it were drowsy voice. "But they will wake and come surely to greet you and uncle." "Do you think so?" asked the little knight, with joy; and again he looked at Basia, and again thought involuntarily, "But that rogue is charming in this moonlight." They were near Ketling's house now, and arrived in a short time. Pani Makovetski and Krysia were asleep; a few of the servants were up, waiting with supper for Basia and Pan Zagloba. All at once there was no small movement in the house; Zagloba gave command to wake more servants to prepare warm food for the guests. Pan Makovetski wished to go straightway to his wife; but she had heard the unusual noise, and guessing who had come, ran down a moment later with her robe thrown around her, panting, with tears of joy in her eyes, and lips full of smiles; greetings began, embraces and conversation, interrupted by exclamations. Pan Michael was looking continually at the door, through which Basia had vanished, and in which he hoped any moment to see Krysia, the beloved, radiant with quiet joy, bright, with gleaming eyes, and hair twisted up in a hurry; meanwhile, the Dantzig clock standing in the dining-room ticked and ticked, an hour passed, supper was brought, and the maiden beloved and dear to Pan Michael did not appear in the room. At last Basia came in, but alone, serious somehow, and gloomy; she approached the table, and taking a light in her hand, turned to Pan Makovetski: "Krysia is somewhat unwell, and will not come; but she begs uncle to come, even near the door, so that she may greet him." Pan Makovetski rose at once and went out, followed by Basia. The little knight became terribly gloomy and said, "I did not think that I should fail to see Panna Krysia to-night. Is she really ill?" "Ei! she is well," answered his sister; "but people are nothing to her now." "Why is that?" "Then has his grace, Pan Zagloba, not spoken of her intention?" "Of what intention, by the wounds of God?" "She is going to a convent." Pan Michael began to blink like a man who has not heard all that is said to him; then he changed in the face, stood up, sat down again. In one moment sweat covered his face with drops; then he began to wipe it with his palms. In the room there was deep silence. "Michael!" said his sister. But he looked confusedly now on her, now on Zagloba, and said at last in a terrible voice, "Is there some curse hanging over me?" "Have God in your heart!" cried Zagloba. CHAPTER XIX. Zagloba and Pani Makovetski divined by that exclamation the secret of the little knight's heart; and when he sprang up suddenly and left the room, they looked at each other with amazement and disquiet, till at last the lady said, "For God's sake go after him! persuade him; comfort him; if not, I will go myself." "Do not do that," said Zagloba. "There is no need of us there, but Krysia is needed; if he cannot see her, it is better to leave him alone, for untimely comforting leads people to still greater despair." "I see now, as on my palm, that he was inclined to Krysia. See, I knew that he liked her greatly and sought her company; but that he was so lost in her never came to my head." "It must be that he returned with a proposition ready, in which he saw his own happiness; meanwhile a thunderbolt, as it were, fell." "Why did he speak of this to no one, neither to me, nor to you, nor to Krysia herself? Maybe the girl would not have made her vow." "It is a wonderful thing," said Zagloba; "besides, he confides in me, and trusts my head more than his own; and not merely has he not acknowledged this affection to me, but even said once that it was friendship, nothing more." "He was always secretive." "Then though you are his sister, you don't know him. His heart is like the eyes of a sole, on top. I have never met a more outspoken man; but I admit that he has acted differently this time. Are you sure that he said nothing to Krysia?" "God of power! Krysia is mistress of her own will, for my husband as guardian has said to her, 'If the man is worthy and of honorable blood, you may overlook his property.' If Michael had spoken to her before his departure, she would have answered yes or no, and he would have known what to look for." "True, because this has struck him unexpectedly. Now give your woman's wit to this business." "What is wit here? Help is needed." "Let him take Basia." "But if, as is evident, he prefers that one--Ha! if this had only come into my head." "It is a pity that it did not." "How could it when it did not enter the head of such a Solomon as you?" "And how do you know that?" "You advised Ketling." "I? God is my witness, I advised no man. I said that he was inclined to her, and it was true; I said that he was a worthy cavalier, for that was and is true; but I leave match-making to women. My lady, as things are, half the Commonwealth is resting on my head. Have I even time to think of anything but public affairs? Often I have not a minute to put a spoonful of food in my mouth." "Advise us this time, for God's mercy! All around I hear only this, that there is no head beyond yours." "People are talking of this head of mine without ceasing; they might rest awhile. As to counsels, there are two: either let Michael take Basia, or let Krysia change her intention; an intention is not a vow." Now Pan Makovetski came in; his wife told him everything straightway. The noble was greatly grieved, for he loved Pan Michael uncommonly and valued him; but for the time he could think out nothing. "If Krysia will be obstinate," said he, rubbing his forehead, "how can you use even arguments in such an affair?" "Krysia will be obstinate!" said Pani Makovetski. "Krysia has always been that way." "What was in Michael's head that he did not make sure before departing?" asked Pan Makovetski. "As he left matters, something worse might have happened; another might have won the girl's heart in his absence." "In that case, she would not have chosen the cloister at once," said Pani Makovetski. "However, she is free." "True!" answered Makovetski. But already it was dawning in Zagloba's head. If the secret of Krysia and Pan Michael had been known to him, all would have been clear to him at once; but without that knowledge it was really hard to understand anything. Still, the quick wit of the man began to break through the mist, and to divine the real reason and intention of Krysia and the despair of Pan Michael. After a while he felt sure that Ketling was involved in what had happened. His supposition lacked only certainty; he determined, therefore, to go to Michael and examine him more closely. On the road alarm seized him, for he thought thus to himself,-- "There is much of my work in this. I wanted to quaff mead at the wedding of Basia and Michael; but I am not sure that instead of mead, I have not provided sour beer, for now Michael will return to his former decision, and imitating Krysia, will put on the habit." Here a chill came on Zagloba; so he hastened his steps, and in a moment was in Pan Michael's room. The little knight was pacing up and down like a wild beast in a cage. His forehead was terribly wrinkled, his eyes glassy; he was suffering dreadfully. Seeing Zagloba, he stopped on a sudden before him, and placing his hands on his breast, cried,-- "Tell me the meaning of all this!" "Michael!" said Zagloba, "consider how many girls enter convents each year; it is a common thing. Some go in spite of their parents, trusting that the Lord Jesus will be on their side; but what wonder in this case, when the girl is free?" "There is no longer any secret!" cried Pan Michael. "She is not free, for she promised me her love and hand before I left here." "Ha!" said Zagloba; "I did not know that." "It is true," repeated the little knight. "Maybe she will listen to persuasion." "She cares for me no longer; she would not see me," cried Pan Michael, with deep sorrow. "I hastened hither day and night, and she does not even want to see me. What have I done? What sins are weighing on me that the anger of God pursues me; that the wind drives me like a withered leaf? One is dead; another is going to the cloister. God Himself took both from me; it is clear that I am accursed. There is mercy for every man, there is love for every man, except me alone." Zagloba trembled in his soul, lest the little knight, carried away by sorrow, might begin to blaspheme again, as once he blasphemed after the death of Anusia; therefore, to turn his mind in another direction, he called out, "Michael, do not doubt that there is mercy upon you also; and besides, you cannot know what is waiting for you to-morrow. Perhaps that same Krysia, remembering your loneliness, will change her intention and keep her word to you. Secondly, listen to me, Michael. Is not this a consolation that God Himself, our Merciful Father, takes those doves from you, and not a man walking upon the earth? Tell me yourself if this is not better?" In answer the little knight's mustaches began to tremble terribly; the noise of gritting came from his teeth, and he cried with a suppressed and broken voice, "If it were a living man! Ha! Should such a man be found, I would-- Vengeance would remain." "But as it is, prayer remains," said Zagloba. "Hear me, old friend; no man will give you better counsel. Maybe God Himself will change everything yet for the better. I myself--you know--wished another for you; but seeing your pain, I suffer together with you, and together with you will pray to God to comfort you, and incline the heart of that harsh lady to you again." When he had said this, Zagloba began to wipe away tears; they were tears of sincere friendship and sorrow. Had it been in the power of the old man, he would have undone at that moment everything that he had done to set Krysia aside, and would have been the first to cast her into Pan Michael's arms. "Listen," said he, after a while; "speak once more with Krysia; take your lament to her, your unendurable pain, and may God bless you! The heart in her must be of stone if she does not take pity on you; but I hope that she will. The habit is a praiseworthy thing, but not when made of injustice to others. Tell her that. You will see-- Ei, Michael, to-day you are weeping, and to-morrow perhaps we shall be drinking at the betrothal. I am sure that will be the outcome. The young lady grew lonely, and therefore the habit came to her head. She will go to a cloister, but to one in which you will be ringing for the christening. Perhaps too she is affected a little with hypochondria, and mentioned the habit only to throw dust in our eyes. In every case, you have not heard of the cloister from her own lips, and if God grants, you will not. Ha, I have it! You agreed on a secret; she did not wish to betray it, and is throwing a blind in our eyes. As true as life, nothing else but woman's cunning." Zagloba's words acted like balsam on the suffering heart of Pan Michael: hope entered him again; his eyes were filled with tears. For a long time he could not speak; but when he had restrained his tears he threw himself into the arms of his friend and said, "But will it be as you say?" "I would bend the heavens for you. It will be as I say! Do you remember that I have ever been a false prophet? Do you not trust in my experience and wit?" "You cannot even imagine how I love that lady. Not that I have forgotten the beloved dead one; I pray for her every day. But to this one my heart has grown fixed like fungus to a tree; she is my love. What have I thought of her away off there in the grasses, morning and evening and midday! At last I began to talk to myself, since I had no confidant. As God is dear to me, when I had to chase after the horde in the reeds, I was thinking of her when rushing at full speed." "I believe it. From weeping for a certain maiden in my youth one of my eyes flowed out, and what of it did not flow out was covered with a cataract." "Do not wonder; I came here, the breath barely in my body; the first word I hear,--the cloister. But still I have trust in persuasion and in her heart and her word. How did you state it? 'A habit is good'--but made of what?" "But not when made of injustice to others." "Splendidly said! How is it that I have never been able to make maxims? In the stanitsa it would have been a ready amusement. Alarm sits in me continually, but you have given me consolation. I agreed with her, it is true, that the affair should remain a secret; therefore it is likely that the maiden might speak of the habit only for appearance' sake. You brought forward another splendid argument, but I cannot remember it. You have given me great consolation." "Then come to me, or give command to bring the decanter to this place. It is good after the journey." They went, and sat drinking till late at night. Next day Pan Michael arrayed his body in fine garments and his face in seriousness, armed himself with all the arguments which came to his own head, and with those which Zagloba had given him; thus equipped, he went to the dining-room, where all met usually at meal-time. Of the whole company only Krysia was absent, but she did not let people wait for her long; barely had the little knight swallowed two spoonfuls of soup when through the open door the rustle of a robe was heard, and the maiden came in. She entered very quickly, rather rushed in. Her cheeks were burning; her lids were dropped; in her face were mingled fear and constraint. Approaching Pan Michael, she gave him both hands, but did not raise her eyes at all, and when he began to kiss those hands with eagerness, she grew very pale; besides, she did not find one word for greeting. But his heart filled with love, alarm, and rapture at sight of her face, delicate and changeful as a wonder-working image, at sight of that form shapely and beautiful, from which the warmth of recent sleep was still beating; he was moved even by that confusion and that fear depicted in her face. "Dearest flower!" thought he, in his soul, "why do you fear? I would give even my life and blood for you." But he did not say this aloud, he only pressed his pointed mustaches so long to her hands that red traces were left on them. Basia, looking at all this, gathered over her forehead her yellow forelock of purpose, so that no one might notice her emotion; but no one gave attention to her at that time; all were looking at the pair, and a vexatious silence followed. Pan Michael interrupted it first. "The night passed for me in grief and disquiet," said he; "for yesterday I saw all except you, and such terrible tidings were told of you that I was nearer to weeping than to sleep." Krysia, hearing such outspoken words, grew still paler, so that for a while Pan Michael thought that she would faint, and said hurriedly, "We must talk of this matter; but now I will ask no more, so that you may grow calm and recover. I am no barbarian, nor am I a wolf, and God sees that I have good-will toward you." "Thank you!" whispered Krysia. Zagloba, Pan Makovetski, and his wife began to exchange glances, as if urging one another to begin the usual conversation; but for a long time no one was able to venture a word; at last Zagloba began. "We must go to the city to-day," said he, turning to the newly arrived. "It is boiling there before the election, as in a pot, for every man is urging his own candidate. On the road, I will tell you to whom, in my opinion, we should give our votes." No one answered, therefore Zagloba cast around an owlish eye; at last he turned to Basia, "Well, Maybug, will you go with us?" "I will go even to Russia!" answered Basia, abruptly. And silence followed again. The whole meal passed in similar attempts to begin a conversation that would not begin. At last the company rose. Then Pan Michael approached Krysia at once and said,-- "I must speak with you alone." He gave her his arm and conducted her to the adjoining room, to that same apartment which was the witness of their first kiss. Seating Krysia on the sofa, he took his place near her, and began to stroke her hair as he would have stroked the hair of a child. "Krysia!" said he, at last, with a mild voice. "Has your confusion passed? Can you answer me calmly and with presence of mind?" Her confusion had passed, and besides, she was moved by his kindness; therefore she raised for a moment her eyes on him for the first time since his return. "I can," said she, in a low voice. "Is it true that you have devoted yourself to the cloister?" Krysia put her hands together and began to whisper imploringly, "Do not take this ill of me, do not curse me; but it is true." "Krysia!" said the knight, "is it right to trample on the happiness of people, as you are trampling? Where is your word, where is our agreement? I cannot war with God, but I will tell you, to begin with, what Pan Zagloba told me yesterday,--that the habit should not be made of injustice to others. You will not increase the glory of God by injustice to me. God reigns over the whole world; His are all nations, His the lands and the sea and the rivers, the birds of the air and the beasts of the forests, the sun and the stars. He has all, whatsoever may come to the mind of man, and still more; but I have only you, beloved and dear; you are my happiness, my every possession. And can you suppose that the Lord God needs that possession? He, with such wealth, to tear away his only treasure from a poor soldier? Can you suppose that He will be rejoiced, and not offended? See what you are giving Him,--yourself. But you are mine, for you promised yourself to me; therefore you are giving Him that which belongs to another, that which is not your own: you are giving Him my weeping, my pain, my death. Have you a right to do so? Weigh this in your heart and in your mind; finally ask your own conscience. If I had offended you, if I had contemned you in love, if I had forgotten you, if I had committed crimes or offences--ah, I will not speak; I will not speak. But I went to the horde, to watch, to attack ravagers, to serve the country with my blood, with my health, with my time; and I loved you, I thought of you whole days and nights, and as a deer longs for waters, as a bird for the air, as a child for its mother, as a parent for its child, was I longing for you. And for all this what is the greeting, what the reward, that you have prepared for me? Krysia dearest, my friend, my chosen love, tell me whence is all this? Give me your reasons as sincerely, as openly, as I bring before you my reasons and my rights; keep faith with me; do not leave me alone with misfortune. You gave me this right yourself; do not make me an outlaw." The unfortunate Pan Michael did not know that there is a right higher and older than all other human rights, in virtue of which the heart must and does follow love only; but the heart which ceases to love commits thereby the deepest perfidy, though often with as much innocence as the lamp quenches in which fire has burned out the oil. Not knowing this. Pan Michael embraced Krysia's knees, implored, and begged; but she answered him with floods of tears only because she could not answer with her heart. "Krysia," said the knight, at last, while rising, "in your tears my happiness may drown; and I do not implore you for that, but for rescue." "Do not ask me for a reason," answered Krysia, sobbing; "do not ask for a cause, since it must be this way, and cannot be otherwise. I am not worthy of such a man as you, and I have never been worthy. I know that I am doing you an injustice, and that pains me so terribly that, see! I cannot help myself. I know that this is an injustice. O God of greatness, my heart is breaking! Forgive me; do not leave me in anger! Pardon me; do not curse me!" When she had said this, Krysia threw herself on her knees before Pan Michael. "I know that I am doing you a wrong, but I implore of you condescension and pardon." Here the dark head of Krysia bent to the floor. Pan Michael raised in one moment the poor weeping maiden, and placed her again on the sofa; but he began himself to pace up and down in the room, like one dazed. At times he stopped suddenly and pressed his fists to his temples; then again he walked; at last he stood before Krysia. "Leave yourself time, and me some hope," said he. "Think that I too am not of stone. Why press red-hot iron against me without the least pity? Even though I knew not my own endurance, still when the skin hisses, pain pierces me. I cannot tell you how I suffer,--as God lives, I cannot. I am a simple man; my years have passed in war. Oh, for God's sake! O dear Jesus! In this same room our love began. Krysia, Krysia! I thought that you would be mine for life; and now there is nothing, nothing! What has taken place in you? Who has changed your heart? Krysia, I am just the same. And do you not know that for me this is a worse blow than for another, for I have already lost one love? O Jesus, what shall I tell her to move her heart? A man only torments himself, that is all. But leave me even hope! Do not take everything away at one time." Krysia made no answer; but sobbing shook her more and more; the little knight stood before her, restraining at first his sorrow, and terrible anger. And only when he had broken that in himself, he said,-- "Leave me even hope! Do you hear me?" "I cannot! I cannot!" answered Krysia. Pan Michael went to the window and pressed his head against the cold glass. He stood a long time without motion; at last he turned, and advancing a couple of steps toward Krysia, he said in a very low voice,-- "Farewell! There is nothing for me here. Oh that it may be as pleasant for you as it is grievous for me! Know this, that I forgive you with my lips, and as God will grant, I will forgive you with my heart as well. But have more mercy on people's suffering, and a second time promise not. It cannot be said that I take happiness with me from these thresholds! Farewell!" When Pan Michael had said this, his mustaches quivered; he bowed, and went out. In the next room were Makovetski and his wife and Zagloba; they sprang up at once as if to inquire, but he only waved his hand. "All to no use!" said he. "Leave me in peace!" From that room a narrow corridor led to his own chamber; in that corridor, at the staircase leading to the young ladies' rooms, Basia stopped the way to the little knight. "May God console you and change Krysia's heart!" cried she, with a voice trembling from tears. He went past without even looking at her, or saying a word. Suddenly wild anger bore him away; bitterness rose in his breast; he turned, therefore, and stood before the innocent Basia with a face changed and full of derision. "Promise your hand to Ketling," said he, hoarsely, "then cease to love him, trample on his heart, rend it, and go to the cloister!" "Pan Michael!" cried Basia, in amazement. "Enjoy yourself, taste kisses, and then go to repent! Would to God that you both were killed!" That was too much for Basia. God alone knew how much she had wrestled with herself for this wish which she had given Pan Michael,--that God might change Krysia's heart,--and in return an unjust condemnation had met her, derision, insult, just at the moment in which she would have given her blood to comfort the thankless man. Therefore her soul stormed up in her as quickly as a flame; her cheeks burned; her nostrils dilated; and without an instant's thought, she cried, shaking her yellow hair,-- "Know, sir, that _I_ am not the one who is going to the cloister for Ketling!" When she had said this, she sprang on the stairs and vanished from before the eyes of the knight. He stood there like a stone pillar; after a while he began to rub his eyes like a man who is waking from sleep. Then he was thirsting for blood; he seized his sabre, and cried with a terrible voice, "Woe to the traitor!" A quarter of an hour later Pan Michael was rushing toward Warsaw so swiftly that the wind was howling in his ears, and lumps of earth were flying in a shower from the hoofs of his horse. CHAPTER XX. Pan Makovetski, with his wife and Zagloba, saw Pan Michael riding away, and alarm seized all hearts; therefore they asked one another with their eyes, "What has happened; where is he going?" "Great God!" cried Pani Makovetski; "he will go to the Wilderness, and we shall never see him again in life!" "Or to the cloister, like that crazy woman," said Zagloba, in despair. "Counsel is necessary here," said Makovetski. With that the door opened and Basia burst into the room like a whirlwind, excited, pale, with fingers in both her eyes; stamping in the middle of the floor, like a little child, she began to scream, "Rescue! save! Pan Michael has gone to kill Ketling! Whoso believes in God, let him fly to stop him! Rescue! rescue!" "What is the matter, girl?" cried Zagloba, seizing her hands. "Rescue! Pan Michael will kill Ketling! Through me blood will be shed, and Krysia will die, all through me!" "Speak!" cried Zagloba, shaking her. "How do you know? Why is it through you?" "Because I told him in anger that they love each other; that Krysia is going behind the grating for Ketling's sake. Whoso believes in God, stop them! Go quickly; go all of you! Let us all go!" Zagloba, not wont to lose time in such cases, rushed to the yard and gave command to bring the carriage out at once. Pani Makovetski wished to ask Basia about the astonishing news, for up to that moment she had not suspected the love between Krysia and Ketling; but Basia rushed after Zagloba to look to the harnessing of the horses. She helped to lead out the beasts and attach them to the carriage; at last, though bareheaded, she mounted the driver's seat before the entrance, where two men were waiting and already dressed for the road. "Come down!" said Zagloba to her. "I will not come down! Take your seats; you must take your seats; if not, I will go alone!" So saying, she took the reins, and they, seeing that the stubbornness of the girl might cause a considerable delay, ceased to ask her to come down. Meanwhile the servant ran up with a whip: and Pani Makovetski succeeded in bringing out a shuba and cap to Basia, for the day was cold. Then they moved on. Basia remained on the driver's seat. Zagloba, wishing to speak with her, asked her to sit on the front seat; but she was unwilling, it may be through fear of being scolded. Zagloba therefore had to inquire from a distance, and she answered without turning her head. "How do you know," asked he, "that which you told your uncle about those two?" "I know all." "Did Krysia tell you?" "Krysia told me nothing." "Then maybe the Scot did?" "No, but I know; and that is why he is going to England. He fooled everybody but me." "A wonderful thing!" said Zagloba. "This is your work," said Basia; "you should not have pushed them against each other." "Sit there in quiet, and do not thrust yourself into what does not belong to you," answered Zagloba, who was struck to the quick because this reproach was made in presence of Makovetski. Therefore he added after a while, "I push anybody! I advise! Look at that! I like such suppositions." "Ah, ha! do you think you did not?" retorted the maiden. They went forward in silence. Still, Zagloba could not free himself from the thought that Basia was right, and that he was in great part the cause of all that had happened. That thought grieved him not a little; and since the carriage jolted unmercifully, the old noble fell into the worst humor and did not spare himself reproaches. "It would be the proper thing," thought he, "for Michael and Ketling to cut off my ears in company. To make a man marry against his will is the same as to command him to ride with his face to a horse's tail. That fly is right! If those men have a duel, Ketling's blood will be on me. What kind of business have I begun in my old age! Tfu, to the Devil! Besides, they almost fooled me, for I barely guessed why Ketling was going beyond the sea--and that daw to the cloister; meanwhile the haiduk had long before found out everything, as it seems." Here Zagloba meditated a little, and after a while muttered, "A rogue, not a maiden! Michael borrowed eyes from a crawfish to put aside such as she for that doll!" Meanwhile they had arrived at the city; but there their troubles began really. None of them knew where Ketling was lodging, or where Pan Michael might go; to look for either was like looking for a particular poppy-seed in a bushel of poppy-seeds. They went first to the grand hetman's. People told them there that Ketling was to start that morning on a journey beyond the sea. Pan Michael had come, inquired about the Scot, but whither the little knight had gone, no one knew. It was supposed that he might have gone to the squadron stationed in the field behind the city. Zagloba commanded to return to the camp; but there it was impossible to find an informant. They went to every inn on Dluga Street; they went to Praga; all was in vain. Meanwhile night fell; and since an inn was not to be thought of, they were forced to go home. They went back in tribulation. Basia cried some; the pious Makovetski repeated a prayer; Zagloba was really alarmed. He tried, however, to cheer himself and the company. "Ha!" said he, "we are distressed, and perhaps Michael is already at home." "Or killed!" said Basia. And she began to wail there in the carriage, repeating, "Cut out my tongue! It was my fault, my fault! Oh, I shall go mad!" "Quiet there, girl! the fault is not yours," said Zagloba; "and know this,--if any man is killed, it is not Michael." "But I am sorry for the other. We have paid him handsomely for his hospitality; there is nothing to be said on that point. O God, O God!" "That is the truth!" added Pan Makovetski. "Let that rest, for God's sake! Ketling is surely nearer to Prussia than to Warsaw by this time. You heard that he is going away; I have hope in God too, that should he meet Volodyovski they will remember old friendship, service rendered together. They rode stirrup to stirrup; they slept on one saddle; they went together on scouting expeditions; they dipped their hands in one blood. In the whole army their friendship was so famous that Ketling, by reason of his beauty, was called Volodyovski's wife. It is impossible that this should not come to their minds when they see each other." "Still, it is this way sometimes," said the discreet Makovetski, "that just the warmest friendship turns to the fiercest animosity. So it was in our place when Pan Deyma killed Pan Ubysh, with whom he had lived twenty years in the greatest agreement. I can describe to you that unhappy event in detail." "If my mind were more at ease, I would listen to you as gladly as I do to her grace, my benefactress, your grace's spouse, who has the habit also of giving details, not excepting genealogies; but what you say of friendship and animosity has stuck in my head. God forbid! God forbid that it should come true this time!" "One was Pan Deyma, the other Pan Ubysh. Both worthy men and fellow-soldiers--" "Oi, oi, oi!" said Zagloba, gloomily. "We trust in the mercy of God that it will not come true this time; but if it does, Ketling will be the corpse." "Misfortune!" said Makovetski, after a moment of silence. "Yes, yes! Deyma and Ubysh. I remember it as if to-day. And it was a question also of a woman." "Eternally those women! The first daw that comes will brew such beer for you that whoever drinks will not digest it," muttered Zagloba. "Don't attack Krysia, sir!" cried Basia, suddenly. "Oh, if Pan Michael had only fallen in love with you, none of this would have happened!" Thus conversing, they reached the house. Their hearts beat on seeing lights in the windows, for they thought that Pan Michael had returned, perhaps. But Pani Makovetski alone received them; she was alarmed and greatly concerned. On learning that all their searching had resulted in nothing, she covered herself with bitter tears and began to complain that she should never see her brother again. Basia seconded her at once in these lamentations. Zagloba too was unable to master his grief. "I will go again to-morrow before daylight, but alone," said he; "I may be able to learn something." "We can search better in company," put in Makovetski. "No; let your grace remain with the ladies. If Ketling is alive, I will let you know." "For God's sake! We are living in the house of that man!" said Makovetski. "We must find an inn somehow to-morrow, or even pitch tents in the field, only not to live longer here." "Wait for news from me, or we shall lose each other," said Zagloba. "If Ketling is killed--" "Speak more quietly, by Christ's wounds!" said Pani Makovetski, "for the servants will hear and tell Krysia; she is barely alive as it is." "I will go to her," said Basia. And she sprang upstairs. Those below remained in anxiety and fear. No one slept in the whole house. The thought that maybe Ketling was already a corpse filled their hearts with terror. In addition, the night became close, dark; thunder began to roar and roll through the heavens; and later bright lightning rent the sky each moment. About midnight the first storm of the spring began to rage over the earth. Even the servants woke. Krysia and Basia went from their chamber to the dining-room. There the whole company prayed and sat in silence, repeating in chorus, after each clap of thunder, "And the Word was made flesh!" In the whistling of the whirlwind was heard at times, as it were, a certain horse-tramp, and then fear and terror raised the hair on the heads of Basia, Pani Makovetski, and the two men; for it seemed to them that at any moment the door might open, and Pan Michael enter, stained with Ketling's blood. The usually mild Pan Michael, for the first time in his life, oppressed people's hearts like a stone, so that the very thought of him filled them with dread. However, the night passed without news of the little knight. At daylight, when the storm had abated in a measure, Zagloba set out a second time for the city. That whole day was a day of still greater alarm. Basia sat till evening in the window in front of the gate, looking at the road along which Pan Zagloba might return. Meanwhile the servants, at command of Pan Makovetski, were packing the trunks slowly for the road. Krysia was occupied in directing this work, for thus she was able to hold herself at a distance from the others. For though Pani Makovetski did not mention Pan Michael in the young lady's presence even by one word, still that very silence convinced Krysia that Pan Michael's love for her, their former secret engagement, and her recent refusal had been discovered; and in view of this, it was difficult to suppose that those people, the nearest to Pan Michael, were not offended and grieved. Poor Krysia felt that it must be so, that it was so,--that those hearts, hitherto loving, had withdrawn from her; therefore she wished to suffer by herself. Toward evening the trunks were ready, so that it was possible to move that very day; but Pan Makovetski was waiting yet for news from Zagloba. Supper was brought; no one cared to eat it; and the evening began to drag along heavily, insupportably, and as silent as if all were listening to what the clock was whispering. "Let us go to the drawing-room," said Pan Makovetski, at last. "It is impossible to stay here." They went and sat down; but before any one had been able to speak the first word, the dogs were heard under the window. "Some one is coming!" cried Basia. "The dogs are barking as if at people of the house," said Pani Makovetski. "Quiet!" said her husband. "There is a rattling of wheels!" "Quiet!" repeated Basia. "Yes; it comes nearer every moment. That is Pan Zagloba." Basia and Pan Makovetski sprang up and ran out. Pani Makovetski's heart began to throb; but she remained with Krysia, so as not to show by great haste that Pan Zagloba was bringing news of exceeding importance. Meanwhile the sound of wheels was heard right under the window, and then stopped on a sudden. Voices were heard at the entrance, and after a while Basia rushed into the room like a hurricane, and with a face as changed as if she had seen an apparition. "Basia, who is that? Who is that?" asked Pani Makovetski, with astonishment. But before Basia could regain her breath and give answer, the door opened; through it entered first Pan Makovetski, then Pan Michael, and last Ketling. CHAPTER XXI. Ketling was so changed that he was barely able to make a low obeisance to the ladies; then he stood motionless, with his hat at his breast, with his eyes closed, like a wonder-working image. Pan Michael embraced his sister on the way, and approached Krysia. The maiden's face was as white as linen, so that the light down on her lip seemed darker than usual; her breast rose and fell violently. But Pan Michael took her hand mildly and pressed it to his lips; then his mustaches quivered for a time, as if he were collecting his thoughts; at last he spoke with great sadness, but with great calmness,-- "My gracious lady, or better, my beloved Krysia! Hear me without alarm, for I am not some Scythian or Tartar, or a wild beast, but a friend, who, though not very happy himself, still desires your happiness. It has come out that you and Ketling love each other; Panna Basia in just anger threw it in my eyes. I do not deny that I rushed out of this house in a rage and flew to seek vengeance on Ketling. Whoso loses his all is more easily borne away by vengeance; and I, as God is dear to me, loved you terribly and not merely as a man never married loves a maiden. For if I had been married and the Lord God had given me an only son or a daughter, and had taken them afterward, I should not have mourned over them, I think, as I mourned over you." Here Pan Michael's voice failed for a moment, but he recovered quickly; and after his mustache had quivered a number of times, he continued, "Sorrow is sorrow; but there is no help. That Ketling fell in love with you is not a wonder. Who would not fall in love with you? And that you fell in love with him, that is my fate; there is no reason either to wonder at that, for what comparison is there between Ketling and me? In the field he will say himself that I am not the worse man; but that is another matter. The Lord God gave beauty to one, withheld it from the other, but rewarded him with reflection. So when the wind on the road blew around me, and my first rage had passed, conscience said straightway, Why punish them? Why shed the blood of a friend? They fell in love, that was God's will. The oldest people say that against the heart the command of a hetman is nothing. It was the will of God that they fell in love; but that they did not betray, is their honesty. If Ketling even had known of your promise to me, maybe I should have called to him, 'Quench!' but he did not know of it. What was his fault? Nothing. And your fault? Nothing. He wished to depart; you wished to go to God. My fate is to blame, my fate only; for the finger of God is to be seen now in this, that I remain in loneliness. But I have conquered myself; I have conquered!" Pan Michael stopped again and began to breathe quickly, like a man who, after long diving in water, has come out to the air; then he took Krysia's hand. "So to love," said he, "as to wish all for one's self, is not an exploit. 'The hearts are breaking in all three of us,' thought I; 'better let one suffer and give relief to the other two.' Krysia, God give you happiness with Ketling! Amen. God give you, Krysia, happiness with Ketling! It pains me a little, but that is nothing--God give you--that is nothing--I have conquered myself!" The soldier said, "that is nothing," but his teeth gritted, and his breath began to hiss through them. From the other end of the room, the sobbing of Basia was heard. "Ketling, come here, brother!" cried Volodyovski. Ketling approached, knelt down, opened his arms, and in silence, with the greatest respect and love, embraced Krysia's knees. But Pan Michael continued in a broken voice, "Press his head. He has had his suffering too, poor fellow. God bless you and him! You will not go to the cloister. I prefer that you should bless me rather than have reason to curse me. The Lord God is above me, though it is hard for me now." Basia, not able to endure longer, rushed out of the room, seeing which, Pan Michael turned to Makovetski and his sister. "Go to the other chamber," said he, "and leave them; I too will go somewhere, for I will kneel down and commend myself to the Lord Jesus." And he went out. Halfway down the corridor he met Basia, at the staircase, on the very same place where, borne away by anger, she had divulged the secret of Krysia and Ketling, But this time Basia stood leaning against the wall, choking from sobs. At sight of this Pan Michael was touched at his own fate; he had restrained himself up to that moment as best he was able, but then the bonds of sorrow gave way, and tears burst from his eyes in a torrent. "Why do you weep?" cried he, pitifully. Basia raised her head, thrusting, like a child, now one and now the other fist into her eyes, choking and gulping at the air with open mouth, and answered with sobbing, "I am so sorry! Oh, for God's sake! O Jesus! Pan Michael is so honest, so worthy! Oh, for God's sake!" Pan Michael seized her hands and began kissing them from gratitude. "God reward you! God reward you for your heart!" said he. "Quiet; do not weep." But Basia sobbed the more, almost to choking. Every vein in her was quivering from sorrow; she began to gulp for air more and more quickly; at last, stamping from excitement, she cried so loudly that it was heard through the whole corridor, "Krysia is a fool! I would rather have one Pan Michael than ten Ketlings! I love Pan Michael with all my strength,--better than auntie, better than uncle, better than Krysia!" "For God's sake! Basia!" cried the knight. And wishing to restrain her emotion, he seized her in his embrace, and she nestled up to his breast with all her strength, so that he felt her heart throbbing like a wearied bird; then he embraced her still more firmly, and they remained so. Silence followed. "Basia, do you wish me?" asked the little knight. "I do, I do, I do!" answered Basia. At this answer transport seized him in turn; he pressed his lips to her rosy lips, and again they remained so. Meanwhile a carriage rattled up to the house, and Zagloba rushed into the ante-room, then to the dining-room, in which Pan Makovetski was sitting with his wife. "There is no sign of Michael!" cried he, in one breath; "I looked everywhere. Pan Krytski said that he saw him with Ketling. Surely they have fought!" "Michael is here," answered Pani Makovetski; "he brought Ketling and gave him Krysia." The pillar of salt into which Lot's wife was turned had surely a less astonished face than Zagloba at that moment. Silence continued for a while; then the old noble rubbed his eyes and asked, "What?" "Krysia and Ketling are sitting in there together, and Michael has gone to pray," said Makovetski. Zagloba entered the next room without a moment's hesitation; and though he knew of all, he was astonished a second time, seeing Ketling and Krysia sitting forehead to forehead. They sprang up, greatly confused, and had not a word to say, especially as the Makovetskis came in after Zagloba. "A lifetime would not suffice to thank Michael," said Ketling, at last. "Our happiness is his work." "God give you happiness!" said Makovetski. "We will not oppose Michael." Krysia dropped into the embraces of Pani Makovetski, and the two began to cry. Zagloba was as if stunned. Ketling bowed to Makovetski's knees as to those of a father; and either from the onrush of thoughts, or from confusion, Makovetski said, "But Pan Deyma killed Pan Ubysh. Thank Michael, not me!" After a while he asked, "Wife, what was the name of that lady?" But she had no time for an answer, for at that moment Basia rushed in, panting more than usual, more rosy than usual, with her forelock falling down over her eyes more than usual; she ran up to Ketling and Krysia, and thrusting her finger now into the eye of one, and now into the eye of the other, said, "Oh, sigh, love, marry! You think that Pan Michael will be alone in the world? Not a bit of it; I shall be with him, for I love him, and I have told him so. I was the first to tell him, and he asked if I wanted him, and I told him that I would rather have him than ten others; for I love him, and I'll be the best wife, and I will never leave him! I'll go to the war with him! I've loved him this long time, though I did not tell him, for he is the best and the worthiest, the beloved-- And now marry for yourselves, and I will take Pan Michael, to-morrow, if need be--for--" Here breath failed Basia. All looked at her, not understanding whether she had gone mad or was telling the truth; then they looked at one another, and with that Pan Michael appeared in the door behind Basia. "Michael," asked Makovetski, when presence of mind had restored his voice to him, "is what we hear true?" "God has wrought a miracle," answered the little knight, with great seriousness, "and here is my comfort, my love, my greatest treasure." After these words Basia sprang to him again like a deer. Now the mask of astonishment fell from Zagloba's face, and his white beard began to quiver; he opened his arms widely and said, "God knows I shall sob! Haiduk and Michael, come hither!" CHAPTER XXII. He loved her immensely; and she loved him in the same way. They were happy together, but had no children, though it was the fourth year of their marriage. Their lands were managed with great diligence. Pan Michael bought with his own and Basia's money a number of villages near Kamenyets; for these he paid a small price, since timid people in terror of Turkish invasion were glad to sell land in those regions. On his estates he introduced order and military discipline; he took the restless population in hand, rebuilt burned villages, established "fortalices,"--that is, fortified houses,--in which he placed temporary garrisons; in one word, as formerly he had defended the country with success, so now he worked his lands with good profit, never letting the sword out of his hand. The glory of his name was the best defence of his property. With some of the murzas he poured water on his sword and concluded brotherhood; others he subdued. Bands of disorderly Cossacks, scattered detachments of the horde, robbers from the steppes, highwaymen from the plains of Bessarabia, trembled at thought of the "Little Falcon;" therefore his herds of horses and flocks of sheep, his buffaloes and camels, lived without danger on the steppes. The enemy even respected his neighbors. His substance increased through the aid of his active wife. He was surrounded by the honor and affection of people. His native land had adorned him with office; the hetman loved him; the Pasha of Hotin clicked with his tongue in wonder at him; in the distant Crimea, in Bagchesarai, his name was repeated with honor. His land, war, and love were the three elements of his life. The hot summer of 1671 found Pan Michael in Sokol, in Basia's paternal villages. That Sokol was the pearl of their estates. They entertained there ceremoniously and merrily Pan Zagloba, who, disregarding the toils of a journey unusual at his age, came to visit them, fulfilling his solemn promise given at their wedding. But the noisy feasts and the joy of the hosts at seeing a dear guest was soon interrupted by an order from the hetman directing Pan Michael to take command at Hreptyoff, to watch the Moldavian boundary, to listen to voices from the side of the desert, protect the place, intercept Tartar parties, and clear the region of robbers. The little knight, as a soldier ever willing in the service of the Commonwealth, gave orders at once to his servants to drive the herds from the meadows, lade the camels, and be ready themselves in arms. Still, his heart was rent at thought of parting with his wife, for he loved her with the love of a husband and a father, and was hardly able to breathe without her; but he had no wish to take her to the wild and lonely deserts of Ushytsa and expose her to various perils. She, however, insisted on going with him. "Think," said she, "whether it will be more dangerous for me to stay here than to live with you under the protection of troops. I do not wish another roof than your tent, since I married you to share fatigue, toil, and danger with you. Here alarm would gnaw me to death; but there, with such a soldier, I shall feel safer than the queen in Warsaw. Should it be needful to take the field with you, I shall take it. If you go alone, I shall not know sleep in this place; I shall not put food to my mouth; and finally, I shall not hold out, but fly as I am to Hreptyoff; and if you will not let me in, I will spend the night at the gate, and beg and cry till you take pity." Pan Michael, seeing such affection, seized his wife by the arms and began to cover her rosy face with kisses, and she gave like for like. "I should not hesitate," said he, at last, "were it a question of standing on guard simply and attacking detachments of the horde. Really, there will be men enough, because one of the squadrons of the starosta of Podolia will go with me, and one of the chamberlain's squadrons; besides these, Motovidlo will come with Cossacks and the dragoons of Linkhauz. There will be about six hundred soldiers, and with camp-followers up to a thousand. But I fear this, which the braggarts at the Diet in Warsaw will not believe, but which we on the borders expect every hour,--namely, a great war with the whole power of Turkey. This Pan Myslishevski has confirmed, and the Pasha of Hotin repeats it every day; the hetman believes that the Sultan will not leave Doroshenko without succor, but will declare war against the Commonwealth; and then what should I do with you, my dearest flower, my reward from God's hand?" "What happens to you will happen to me, I wish no other fate than the fate which comes to you." Here Zagloba broke his silence, and turning to Basia, said, "If the Turks capture you, whether you wish it or not, your fate will be different from Michael's. Ha! After the Cossacks, the Swedes, the Northerners, and the Brandenburg kennel--the Turk! I said to Olshovski, the vice-chancellor, 'Do not bring Doroshenko to despair, for only from necessity did he turn to the Turk.' Well, and what? They would not listen to me. They sent Hanenko against Doroshenko, and now Doroshenko, willing or unwilling, must crawl into the throat of the Turk, and, besides, lead him against us. You remember, Michael, that I forewarned Olshovski in your presence." "You must have forewarned him some other time, for I do not remember that it was in my presence," said the little knight, "But what you say of Doroshenko is holy truth, for the hetman holds the same views; they say even that he has letters from Doroshenko written in that sense precisely. But as matters are, so they are; it is enough that it is too late now to negotiate. You have quick wit, however, and I should like to hear your opinion. Am I to take Basia to Hreptyoff, or is it better to leave her here? I must add too that the place is a terrible desert. It was always a wretched spot, but during twenty years so many Cossack parties and so many chambuls have passed through it, that I know not whether I shall find two beams fastened together. There is a world of ravines there, grown over with thickets, hiding-places, deep caves, and every kind of secret den in which robbers hide themselves by hundreds, not to mention those who come from Wallachia." "Robbers, in view of such a force, are a trifle," said Zagloba. "Chambuls too are a trifle; for if strong ones march up, there will be a noise about them; and if they are small, you will rub them out." "Well, now!" cried Basia; "is not the whole matter a trifle? Robbers are a trifle; chambuls are a trifle. With such a force Michael will defend me from all the power of the Crimea." "Do not interrupt me in deliberation," said Zagloba; "if you do, I'll decide against you." Basia put both palms on her mouth quickly, and dropped her head on her shoulder, feigning to fear Zagloba terribly, and though he knew that the dear woman was jesting, still her action pleased him; therefore he put his old hand on her bright head and said, "Have no fear; I will comfort you in this matter." Basia kissed his hand straightway, for in truth much depended on his advice, which was so infallible that no one was ever led astray by it; he thrust both hands behind his belt, and glancing quickly with his seeing eye now on one, now on the other, said suddenly, "But there is no posterity here, none at all; how is that?" Here he thrust out his under-lip. "The will of God, nothing more," said Pan Michael, dropping his eyes. "The will of God, nothing more," said Basia, dropping her eyes. "And do you wish for posterity?" To this the little knight answered: "I will tell you sincerely, I do not know what I would give for children, but sometimes I think the wish vain. As it is, the Lord Jesus has sent happiness, giving me this kitten,--or as you call her, this haiduk,--and besides has blessed me with fame and with substance. I do not dare to trouble Him for greater blessings. You see it has come to my head more than once that if all people had their wishes accomplished, there would be no difference between this earthly Commonwealth and the heavenly one, which alone can give perfect happiness. So I think to myself that if I do not wait here for one or two sons, they will not miss me up there, and will serve and win glory in the old fashion under the heavenly hetman, the holy archangel Michael, in expeditions against the foulness of hell, and will attain to high office." Here, moved at his own words and at that thought, the pious Christian knight raised his eyes to heaven; but Zagloba listened to him with indifference, and did not cease to mutter sternly. At last he said,-- "See that you do not blaspheme. Your boast that you divine the intentions of Providence so well may be a sin for which you will hop around as peas do on a hot pan. The Lord God has a wider sleeve than the bishop of Cracow, but He does not like to have any one look in to see what He has prepared there for small people, and He does what He likes; but do you see to that which concerns you, and if you wish for posterity, keep your wife with you, instead of leaving her." When Basia heard this, she sprang with delight to the middle of the room, and clapping her hands, began to repeat, "Well, now! we'll keep together. I guessed at once that your grace would come to my side; I guessed it at once. We'll go to Hreptyoff, Michael. Even once you'll take me against the Tartars,--one little time, my dear, my golden!" "There she is for you! Now she wants to go to an attack!" cried the little knight. "For with you I should not fear the whole horde." "_Silentium!_" said Zagloba, turning his delighted eyes, or rather his delighted eye, on Basia, whom he loved immensely. "I hope too that Hreptyoff, which, by the way, is not so far from here, is not the last stanitsa before the Wilderness." "No; there will be commands farther on, in Mohiloff and Yampol; and the last is to be in Rashkoff," answered Pan Michael. "In Rashkoff? We know Rashkoff. It was from that place that we brought Helena, Pan Yan's wife; and you remember that ravine in Valadynka, Michael. You remember how I cut down that monster, or devil, Cheremis, who was guarding her. But since the last garrison will be in Rashkoff, if the Crimea moves, or the whole Turkish power, they will know quickly in Rashkoff, and will give timely notice to Hreptyoff; there is no great danger then, for the place cannot be surprised. I say this seriously; and you know, besides, that I would rather lay down my old head than expose her to any risk. Take her. It will be better for you both. But Basia must promise that in case of a great war she will let herself be taken even to Warsaw, for there would be terrible campaigns and fierce battles, besieging of camps, perhaps hunger, as at Zbaraj; in such straits it is hard for a man to save his life, but what could a woman do?" "I should be glad to fall at Michael's side," said Basia; "but still I have reason, and know that when a thing is not possible, it is not possible. Finally, it is Michael's will, and not mine. This year he went on an expedition under Pan Sobieski. Did I insist on going with him? No. Well, if I am not prevented now from going to Hreptyoff with Michael, in case a great war comes, send me wherever you like." "His grace, Pan Zagloba, will take you to Podlyasye to Pan Yan's wife," said the little knight; "there indeed the Turk will not reach you." "Pan Zagloba! Pan Zagloba!" answered the old noble, mocking him. "Am I a captain of home guards? Do not intrust your wives to Pan Zagloba, thinking that he is old, for he may turn out altogether different. Secondly, do you think that in case of war with the Turk, I shall go behind the stove in Podlyasye, and watch the roast meat lest it burn? I may be good for something else. I mount my horse from a bench, I confess; but when once in the saddle, I will gallop on the enemy as well as any young man. Neither sand nor sawdust is sprinkling out of me yet, glory be to God! I shall not go on a raid against Tartars, nor watch in the Wilderness, for I am not a scout; but in a general attack keep near me, if you can, and you will see splendid things." "Do you wish to take the field again?" "Do you not think that I wish to seal a famous life with a glorious death, after so many years of service? And what better could happen to me? Did you know Pan Dzevyantkevich? He, it is true, did not seem more than a hundred and forty years old, but he was a hundred and forty-two, and was still in service." "He was not so old." "He was. May I never move from this bench if he wasn't! I am going to a great war, and that's the end of it! But now I am going with you to Hreptyoff, for I love Basia." Basia sprang up with radiant face and began to hug Zagloba, and he raised his head higher and higher, repeating, "Tighter, tighter!" Pan Michael pondered over everything for a time yet and said at last: "It is impossible for us all to go together, since the place is a pure wilderness, and we should not find a bit of roof over our heads. I will go first, choose a place for a square, build a good enclosure with houses for the soldiers, and sheds for the officers' horses, which, being of finer stock, might suffer from change of climate; I will dig wells, open the roads, and clear the ravines from robber ruffians. That done, I'll send you a proper escort, and you will come. You will wait, perhaps, three weeks here." Basia wished to protest; but Zagloba, seeing the justice of Pan Michael's words, said, "What is wise, is wise! Basia, we will stay here together and keep house, and our affair will not be a bad one. We must also make ready good supplies in some fashion, for, of course, you do not know that meads and wines never keep so well as in caves." CHAPTER XXIII. Volodyovski kept his word; in three weeks he finished the buildings and sent a notable escort,--one hundred Lithuanian Tartars from the squadron of Pan Lantskoronski and one hundred of Linkhauz's dragoons, who were led by Pan Snitko, of the escutcheon Hidden Moon. The Tartars were led by Capt. Azya Mellehovich, who was descended from Lithuanian Tartars,--a very young man, for he had barely reached twenty and some years. He brought a letter which the little knight had written, as follows, to his wife:-- "Baska, beloved of my heart! You may come now, for without you it is as if without bread; and if I do not wither away before you are here, I shall kiss your rosy face off. I am not stingy in sending men and experienced officers; but give priority in all to Pan Snitko, and admit him to our society, for he is _bene natus_ (well-born), an inheritor of land, and an officer. As to Mellehovich, he is a good soldier, but God knows who he is. He could not become an officer in any squadron but the Tartar, for it would be easier elsewhere for any man to fling low birth at him. I embrace you with all my strength; I kiss your hands and feet. I have built a fortalice with one hundred circular openings. We have immense chimneys. For you and me there are several rooms in a house apart. There is an odor of rosin everywhere, and such legions of crickets that when they begin to chirp in the evening the dogs start up from sleep. If we had a little pea-straw, they might be got rid of quickly; perhaps you will have some placed in the wagons. There was no glass to be had, so we put membrane in the windows; but Pan Byaloglovski has a glazier in his command among the dragoons. You can get glass in Kamenyets from the Armenians; but, for God's sake! let it be handled with care to avoid breaking. I have had your room fitted with rugs, and it has a respectable look. I have had the robbers whom we caught in the ravines hanged, nineteen of them; and before you come, the number will reach half three-score. Pan Snitko will tell you how we live. I commend you to God and the Most Holy Lady, my dear soul." Basia, after reading the letter, gave it to Zagloba, who, when he had glanced over it, began at once to show more consideration to Pan Snitko,--not so great, however, that the other should not feel that he was speaking to a most renowned warrior and a great personage, who admitted him to confidence only through kindness. Moreover, Pan Snitko was a good-natured soldier, joyous and most accurate in service, for his life had passed in the ranks. He honored Volodyovski greatly, and in view of Zagloba's fame he felt small, and had no thought of exalting himself. Mellehovich was not present at the reading of the letter, for when he had delivered it, he went out at once, as if to look after his men, but really from fear that they might command him to go to the servants' quarters. Zagloba, however, had time to examine him; and having the words of Pan Michael fresh in his head, he said to Snitko, "We are glad to see you. I pray you. Pan Snitko, I know the escutcheon Hidden Moon,--a worthy escutcheon. But this Tartar, what is his name?" "Mellehovich." "But this Mellehovich looks somehow like a wolf. Michael writes that he is a man of uncertain origin, which is a wonder, for all our Tartars are nobles, though Mohammedans. In Lithuania I saw whole villages inhabited by them. There people call them Lipki; but those here are known as Cheremis. They have long served the Commonwealth faithfully in return for their bread; but during the time of the peasant incursion many of them went over to Hmelnitski, and now I hear that they are beginning to communicate with the horde. That Mellehovich looks like a wolf. Has Pan Volodyovski known him long?" "Since the last expedition," said Pan Snitko, putting his feet under the table, "when we were acting with Pan Sobieski against Doroshenko and the horde; they went through the Ukraine." "Since the last expedition! I could not take part in that, for Sobieski confided other functions to me, though later on he was lonely without me. But your escutcheon is the Hidden Moon! From what place is Mellehovich?" "He says that he is a Lithuanian Tartar; but it is a wonder to me that none of the Lithuanian Tartars knew him before, though he serves in their squadron. From this come stories of his uncertain origin, which his lofty manners have not been able to prevent. But he is a good soldier, though sullen. At Bratslav and Kalnik he rendered great service, for which the hetman made him captain, though he was the youngest man in the squadron. The Tartars love him greatly, but he has no consideration among us, and why? Because he is very sullen, and, as you say, has the look of a wolf." "If he is a great soldier and has shed blood," said Basia, "it is proper to admit him to our society, which my husband in his letter does not forbid." Here she turned to Pan Snitko: "Does your grace permit it?" "I am the servant of my benefactress," said Snitko. Basia vanished through the door; and Zagloba, drawing a deep breath, asked Pan Snitko, "Well, and how does the colonel's wife please you?" The old soldier, instead of an answer, put his fists to his eyes, and bending in the chair, repeated, "Ai! ai! ai!" Then he stared, covered his mouth with his broad palm, and was silent, as if ashamed of his own enthusiasm. "Sweet cakes, isn't she?" asked Zagloba. Meanwhile "sweet cakes" appeared in the door, conducting Mellehovich, who was as frightened as a wild bird, and saying to him, "From my husband's letter and from Pan Snitko we have heard so much of your manful deeds that we are glad to know you more intimately. We ask you to our society, and the table will be laid presently." "I pray you to come nearer," said Zagloba. The sullen but handsome face of the young Tartar did not brighten altogether, but it was evident that he was thankful for the good reception, and because he was not commanded to remain in the servants' quarters. Basia endeavored of purpose to be kind to him, for with a woman's heart she guessed easily that he was suspicious and proud, that the chagrin which beyond doubt he had to bear often by reason of his uncertain descent pained him acutely. Not making, therefore, between him and Snitko any difference save that enjoined by Snitko's riper age, she inquired of the young captain touching those services owing to which he had received promotion at Kalnik. Zagloba, divining Basia's wish, spoke to him also frequently enough; and he, though at first rather distant in bearing, gave fitting answers, and his manners not only did not betray a vulgar man, but were even astonishing through a certain courtliness. "That cannot be peasant blood, for not such would the spirit be," thought Zagloba to himself. Then he inquired aloud, "In what parts does your father live?" "In Lithuania," replied Mellehovich, blushing. "Lithuania is a large country. That is the same as if you had said in the Commonwealth." "It is not in the Commonwealth now, for those regions have fallen away. My father has an estate near Smolensk." "I had considerable possessions there too, which came to me from childless relatives; but I chose to leave them and side with the Commonwealth." "I act in the same way," said Mellehovich. "You act honorably," put in Basia. But Snitko, listening to the conversation, shrugged his shoulders slightly, as if to say, "God knows who you are, and whence you came." Zagloba, noticing this, turned again to Mellehovich, "Do you confess Christ, or do you live,--and I speak without offence,--live in vileness?" "I have received the Christian faith, for which reason I had to leave my father." "If you have left him for that reason, the Lord God will not leave you; and the first proof of His kindness is that you can drink wine, which you could not do if you had remained in error." Snitko smiled; but questions touching his person and descent were clearly not to the taste of Mellehovich, for he grew reserved again. Zagloba, however, paid little attention to this, especially since the young Tartar did not please him much, for at times he reminded him, not by his face, it is true, but by his movements and glance, of Bogun, the famed Cossack leader. Meanwhile dinner was served. The rest of the day was occupied in final preparations for the road. They started at daybreak, or rather when it was still night, so as to arrive at Hreptyoff in one day. Nearly twenty wagons were collected, for Basia had determined to supply the larders of Hreptyoff bountifully; and behind the wagons followed camels and horses heavily laden, bending under the weight of meal and dried meat; behind the caravan moved a number of tens of oxen of the steppe and a flock of sheep. The march was opened by Mellehovich with his Tartars; the dragoons rode near a covered carriage in which sat Basia with Pan Zagloba. She wished greatly to ride a trained palfrey; but the old noble begged her not to do so, at least during the beginning and end of the journey. "If you were to sit quietly," said he, "I should not object; but you would begin right away to make your horse prance and show himself, and that is not proper to the dignity of the commander's wife." Basia was happy and joyous as a bird. From the time of her marriage she had two great desires in life: one was to give Michael a son; the other to live with the little knight, even for one year, at some stanitsa near the Wilderness, and there, on the edge of the desert, to lead a soldier's life, to pass through war and adventures, to take part in expeditions, to see with her own eyes those steppes, to pass through those dangers of which she had heard so much from her youngest years. She dreamed of this when still a girl; and behold, those dreams were now to become reality, and moreover, at the side of a man whom she loved and who was the most famous partisan in the Commonwealth, of whom it was said that he could dig an enemy from under the earth. Hence the young woman felt wings on her shoulders, and such a great joy in her breast that at moments the desire seized her to shout and jump; but the thought of decorum restrained her, for she had promised herself to be dignified and to win intense love from the soldiers. She confided these thoughts to Zagloba, who smiled approvingly and said,-- "You will be an eye in his head, and a great wonder, that is certain. A woman in a stanitsa is a marvel." "And in need I will give them an example." "Of what?" "Of daring. I fear only one thing,--that beyond Hreptyoff there will be other commands in Mohiloff and Rashkoff, on to Yampol, and that we shall not see Tartars even for medicine." "And I fear only this,--of course not for myself, but for you,--that we shall see them too often. Do you think that the chambuls are bound strictly to come through Rashkoff and Mohiloff? They can come directly from the East, from the steppes, or by the Moldavian side of the Dniester, and enter the boundaries of the Commonwealth wherever they wish, even in the hills beyond Hreptyoff, unless it is reported widely that I am living in Hreptyoff; then they will keep aside, for they know me of old." "But don't they know Michael, or won't they avoid him?" "They will avoid him unless they come with great power, which may happen. But he will go to look for them himself." "I am sure of that. But is it a real desert in Hreptyoff? The place is not so far away!" "It could not be more real. That region was never thickly settled, even in time of my youth. I went from farm to farm, from village to village, from town to town. I knew everything, was everywhere. I remember when Ushytsa was what is called a fortified town. Pan Konyetspolski, the father, made me starosta there; but after that came the invasion of the ruffians, and all went to ruin. When we went there for Princess Helena, it was a desert; and after that chambuls passed through it twenty times. Pan Sobieski has snatched it again from the Cossacks and the Tartars, as a morsel from the mouth of a dog. There are only a few people there now, but robbers are living in the ravines." Here Zagloba began to look at the neighborhood and nod his head, remembering old times. "My God!" said he, "when we were going for Helena, it seemed to me that old age was behind my girdle; and now I think that I was young then, for nearly twenty-four years have passed. Michael was a milksop at that time, and had not many more hairs on his lip than I have on my fist. And this region stands in my memory as if the time were yesterday. Only these groves and pine woods have grown in places deserted by tillers of the land." In fact, just beyond Kitaigrod they entered dense pine woods with which at that time the region was covered for the greater part. Here and there, however, especially around Studyenitsa, were open fields; and then they saw the Dniester and a country stretching forward from that side of the river to the heights, touching the horizon on the Moldavian side. Deep ravines, the abodes of wild beasts and wild men, intercepted their road; these ravines were at times narrow and precipitous, at times wider, with sides gently sloping and covered with thick brush. Mellehovich's Tartars sank into them carefully; and when the rear of the convoy was on the lofty brink, the van was already, as it were, under the earth. It came frequently to Basia and Zagloba to leave the carriage; for though Pan Michael had cleared the road in some sort, these passages were dangerous. At the bottom of the ravine springs were flowing, or swift rivulets were rushing, which in spring were swollen with water from the snow of the steppes. Though the sun still warmed the pine woods and steppes powerfully, a harsh cold was hidden in those stone gorges, and seized travellers on a sudden. Pine-trees covered the rocky sides and towered on the banks, gloomy and dark, as if desiring to screen that sunken interior from the golden rays of the sun; but in places the edges were broken, trees thrown in wild disorder upon one another, branches twisted and broken into heaps, entirely dried or covered with red leaves and spines. "What has happened to this forest?" asked Basia of Zagloba. "In places there may be old fellings made by the former inhabitants against the horde, or by the ruffians against our troops; again in places the Moldavian whirlwinds rush through the woods; in these whirlwinds, as old people say, vampires, or real devils, fight battles." "But has your grace ever seen devils fighting?" "As to seeing, I have not seen them; but I have heard how devils cry to each other for amusement, 'U-ha! U-ha!' Ask Michael; he has heard them." Basia, though daring, feared evil spirits somewhat, therefore she began to make the sign of the cross at once. "A terrible place!" said she. And really in some ravines it was terrible; for it was not only dark, but forbidding. The wind was not blowing; the leaves and branches of trees made no rustle; there was heard only the tramp and snorting of horses, the squeak of wagons, and cries uttered by drivers in the most dangerous places. At times too, the Tartars or dragoons began to sing; but the desert itself was not enlivened with one sound of man or beast. If the ravines made a gloomy impression, the upper country, even where the pine woods extended, was unfolded joyously before the eyes of the caravan. The weather was autumnal, calm. The sun moved along the plain of heaven, unspotted by a cloud, pouring bountiful rays on the rocks, on the fields and the forest. In that gleam the pine-trees seemed ruddy and golden; and the spider-webs attached to the branches of trees, to the reeds and the grass, shone brightly, as if they were woven from sunbeams. October had come to the middle of its days; therefore, many birds, especially those sensitive to cold, had begun to pass from the Commonwealth to the Black Sea; in the heavens were to be seen rows of storks flying with piercing cries, geese, and flocks of teal. Here and there floated high in the blue, on outspread wings, eagles, terrible to inhabitants of the air; here and there falcons, eager for prey, were describing circles slowly. But there were not lacking, especially in the open fields, those birds also which keep to the earth, and hide gladly in tall grass. Every little while flocks of rust-colored partridges flew noisily from under the steeds of the Tartars; a number of times also Basia saw, though from a distance, bustards standing on watch, at sight of which her cheeks flushed, and her eyes began to glitter. "I will go coursing with Michael!" cried she, clapping her hands. "If your husband were a sitter at home," said Zagloba, "his beard would be gray soon from such a wife; but I knew to whom I gave you. Another woman would be thankful at least, wouldn't she?" Basia kissed Zagloba straightway on both cheeks, so that he was moved and said, "Loving hearts are as dear to a man in old age as a warm place behind the stove." Then he was thoughtful for a while and added, "It is a wonder how I have loved the fair sex all my life; and if I had to say why, I know not myself, for often they are bad and deceitful and giddy. But because they are as helpless as children, if an injustice strikes one of them, a man's heart pipes from pity. Embrace me again, or not!" Basia would have been glad to embrace the whole world; therefore she satisfied Zagloba's wish at once, and they drove on in excellent humor. They went slowly, for the oxen, going behind, could not travel faster, and it was dangerous to leave them in the midst of those forests with a small number of men. As they drew near Ushytsa, the country became more uneven, the desert more lonely, and the ravines deeper. Every little while something was injured in the wagons, and sometimes the horses were stubborn; considerable delays took place through this cause. The old road, which led once to Mohiloff, was grown over with forests during twenty years, so that traces of it could barely be seen here and there; consequently they had to keep to the trails beaten by earlier and later passages of troops, hence frequently misleading, and also very difficult. The journey did not pass either without accident. On the slope of a ravine the horse stumbled under Mellehovich, riding at the head of the Tartars, and fell to the stony bottom, not without injury to the rider, who cut the crown of his head so severely that consciousness left him for a time. Basia and Zagloba mounted led palfreys; and Basia gave command to put the Tartar in the carriage and drive carefully. Afterward she stopped the march at every spring, and with her own hands bound his head with cloths wet with cold spring-water. He lay for a time with closed eyes, but opened them at last; and when Basia bent over him and asked how he felt, instead of an answer he seized her hand and pressed it to his white lips. Only after a pause, as if collecting his thoughts and presence of mind, did he say in Russian,-- "Oh, I am well, as I have not been for a long time." The whole day passed in a march of this kind. The sun, growing red at last and seeming immense, was descending on the Moldavian side; the Dnieper was gleaming like a fiery ribbon, and from the east, from the Wilderness, darkness was moving on slowly. Hreptyoff was not far away, but it was necessary to give rest to the horses, therefore they stopped for a considerable halt. This and that dragoon began to chant prayers; the Tartars dismounted, spread sheep-skins on the ground, and fell to praying on their knees, with faces turned eastward. At times "Allah! Allah!" sounded through all the ranks; then again they were quiet; holding their palms turned upward near their faces, they continued in attentive prayer, repeating only from time to time drowsily and as if with a sigh, "Lohichmen ah lohichmen!" The rays of the sun fell on them redder and redder; a breeze came from the west, and with it a great rustling in the trees, as if they wished to honor before night Him who brings out on the dark heavens thousands of glittering stars. Basia looked with great curiosity at the praying of the Tartars; but at the thought that so many good men, after lives full of toil, would go straightway after death to hell's fire, her heart was oppressed, especially since they, though they met people daily who professed the true faith, remained of their own will in hardness of heart. Zagloba, more accustomed to those things, only shrugged his shoulders at the pious considerations of Basia, and said, "These sons of goats are not admitted to heaven, lest they might take with them vile insects." Then, with the assistance of his attendant, he put on a coat lined with hanging threads,--an excellent defence against evening cold,--and gave command to move on; but barely had the march begun when on the opposite heights five horsemen appeared. The Tartars opened ranks at once. "Michael!" cried Basia, seeing the man riding in front. It was indeed Volodyovski, who had come out with a few horsemen to meet his wife. Springing forward, they greeted each other with great joy, and then began to tell what had happened to each. Basia related how the journey had passed, and how Pan Mellehovich had "sprained his reason[17] against a stone." The little knight made a report of his activity in Hreptyoff, in which, as he stated, everything was ready and waiting to receive her, for five hundred axes had been working for three weeks on buildings. During this conversation Pan Michael bent from the saddle every little while, and seized his young wife in his arms; she, it was clear, was not very angry at that, for she rode at his side there so closely that the horses were nearly rubbing against each other. The end of the journey was not distant; meanwhile a beautiful night came down, illuminated by a great golden moon. But the moon grew paler as it rose from the steppes to the sky, and at last its shining was darkened by a conflagration which blazed up brightly in front of the caravan. "What is that?" inquired Basia. "You will see," said Volodyovski, "as soon as you have passed that forest which divides us from Hreptyoff." "Is that Hreptyoff already?" "You would see it as a thing on your palm, but the trees hide it." They rode into a small forest; but they had not ridden halfway through it when a swarm of lights appeared on the other edge like a swarm of fireflies, or glittering stars. Those stars began to approach with amazing rapidity; and suddenly the whole forest was quivering with shouts,-- "Vivat the lady! Vivat her great mightiness! vivat our commandress! vivat, vivat!" These were soldiers who had hastened to greet Basia. Hundreds of them mingled in one moment with the Tartars. Each held on a long pole a burning taper, fixed in a split at the end of the pole. Some had iron candlesticks on pikes, from which burning rosin was falling in the form of long fiery tears. Basia was surrounded quickly with throngs of mustached faces, threatening, somewhat wild, but radiant with joy. The greater number of them had never seen Basia in their lives; many expected to meet an imposing person; hence their delight was all the greater at sight of that lady, almost a child in appearance, who was riding on a white palfrey and bent in thanks to every side her wonderful, rosy face, small and joyous, but at the same time greatly excited by the unlooked-for reception. "I thank you, gentlemen," said she; "I know that this is not for me." But her silvery voice was lost in the _vivats_, and the forest was trembling from shouts. The officers from the squadron of the starosta of Podolia and the chamberlain of Premysl, Motovidlo's Cossacks and the Tartars, mingled together. Each wished to see the lady commandress, to approach her; some of the most urgent kissed the edge of her skirt or her foot in the stirrup. For these half-wild partisans, inured to raids and man-hunting, to bloodshed and slaughter, that was a sight so unusual, so new, that in presence of it their hard hearts were moved, and some kind of feeling, new and unknown to them, was roused in their breasts. They came to meet her out of love for Pan Michael, wishing to give him pleasure, and perhaps to flatter him; and behold! sudden tenderness seizes them. That smiling, sweet, and innocent face, with gleaming eyes and distended nostrils, became dear to them in one moment. "That is our child!" cried old Cossacks, real wolves of the steppe. "A cherub, Pan Commander." "She is a morning dawn! a dear flower!" shouted the officers. "We will fall, one after another, for her!" And the Tartars, clicking with their tongues, put their palms to their broad breasts and cried, "Allah! Allah!" Volodyovski was greatly touched, but glad; he put his hands on his hips and was proud of his Basia. Shouts were heard continually. At last the caravan came out of the forest, and before the eyes of the newly arrived appeared firm wooden buildings, erected in a circle on high ground. That was the stanitsa of Hreptyoff, as clearly seen then as in daylight, for inside the stockade enormous piles were burning, on which whole logs had been thrown. The square was full of fires, but smaller, so as not to burn up the place. The soldiers quenched their torches; then each drew from his shoulder, one a musket, another a gun, a third a pistol, and thundered in greeting to the lady. Musicians came too in front of the stockade: the starosta's band with crooked horns, the Cossacks with trumpets, drums, and various stringed instruments, and at last the Tartars, pre-eminent for squeaking pipes. The barking of the garrison dogs and the bellowing of terrified cattle added still to the uproar. The convoy remained now in the rear, and in front rode Basia, having on one side her husband, and on the other Zagloba. Over the gate, beautifully ornamented with birch boughs, stood black, on membranes of bladder smeared with tallow and lighted from the inside, the inscription:-- "May Cupid give you many happy moments! Dear guests, _crescite, multiplicamini!_" "Vivant, floreant!" cried the soldiers, when the little knight and Basia halted to read the inscription. "For God's sake!" said Zagloba, "I'm a guest too; but if that wish for multiplication concerns me, may the crows pluck me if I know what to do with it." But Pan Zagloba found a special transparency intended for himself, and with no small pleasure he read on it,-- "Long live our great mighty Onufry Zagloba, The highest ornament of the whole knighthood!" Pan Michael was very joyful; the officers were invited to sup with him; and for the soldiers he gave command to roll out one and another keg of spirits. A number of bullocks fell also; these the men began at once to roast at the fires. They sufficed for all abundantly. Long into the night the stanitsa was thundering with shouts and musket-shots, so that fear seized the bands of robbers hidden in the ravines of Ushytsa. CHAPTER XXIV. Pan Michael was not idle in his stanitsa, and his men lived in perpetual toil. One hundred, sometimes a smaller number, remained as a garrison in Hreptyoff; the rest were on expeditions continually. The more considerable detachments were sent to clear out the ravines of Ushytsa; and they lived, as it were, in endless warfare, for bands of robbers, frequently very numerous, offered powerful resistance, and more than once it was needful to fight with them regular battles. Such expeditions lasted days, and at times tens of days. Pan Michael sent smaller parties as far as Bratslav for news of the horde and Doroshenko. The task of these parties was to bring in informants, and therefore to capture them on the steppes. Some went down the Dniester to Mohiloff and Yampol, to maintain connection with commandants in those places; some watched on the Moldavian side; some built bridges and repaired the old road. The country in which such a considerable activity reigned became pacified gradually; those of the inhabitants who were more peaceful, and less enamoured of robbery, returned by degrees to their deserted habitations, at first stealthily, then with more confidence. A few Jewish handicraftsmen came up to Hreptyoff itself; sometimes a more considerable Armenian merchant looked in; shopkeepers visited the place more frequently: Volodyovski had therefore a not barren hope that if God and the hetman would permit him to remain a longer time in command, that country which had grown wild would assume another aspect. That work was merely the beginning; there was a world of things yet to be done: the roads were still dangerous; the demoralized people entered into friendship more readily with robbers than with troops, and for any cause hid themselves again in the rocky gorges; the fords of the Dnieper were often passed stealthily by bands made up of Wallachians, Cossacks, Hungarians, Tartars, and God knows what people. These sent raids through the country, attacking in Tartar fashion villages and towns, gathering up everything which let itself be gathered; for a time yet it was impossible to drop a sabre from the hand in those regions, or to hang a musket on a nail; still a beginning was made, and the future promised to be favorable. It was necessary to keep the most sensitive ear toward the eastern side. From Doroshenko's forces and his allied chambuls were detached at short intervals parties larger or smaller; and while attacking the Polish commands, they spread devastation and fire in the region about. But since these parties were independent, or at least seemed so, the little knight crushed them without fear of bringing a greater storm on the country; and without ceasing in his resistance, he sought them himself in the steppe so effectually that in time he made attack disgusting to the boldest. Meanwhile Basia managed affairs in Hreptyoff. She was delighted immensely with that soldier-life which she had never seen before so closely,--the movement, marches, returns of expeditions, the prisoners. She told the little knight that she must take part in one expedition at least; but for the time she was forced to be satisfied with this, that she sat on her pony occasionally, and visited with her husband and Zagloba the environs of Hreptyoff. On such expeditions she hunted foxes and bustards; sometimes the fox stole out of the grass and shot along through the valleys. Then they chased him; but Basia kept in front to the best of her power, right after the dogs, so as to fall on the wearied beast first and thunder into his red eyes from her pistol. Pan Zagloba liked best to hunt with falcons, of which the officers had a number of pairs very well trained. Basia accompanied him too; but after Basia Pan Michael sent secretly a number of tens of men to give aid in emergency, for though it was known always in Hreptyoff what men were doing in the desert for twenty miles around, Pan Michael preferred to be cautious. The soldiers loved Basia more every day, for she took pains with their food and drink; she nursed the sick and wounded. Even the sullen Mellehovich, whose head pained him continually, and who had a harder and a wilder heart than others, grew bright at the sight of her. Old soldiers were in raptures over her knightly daring and close knowledge of military affairs. "If the Little Falcon were gone," said they, "she might take command, and it would not be grievous to fall under such a leader." At times it happened too that when some disorder arose in the service during Pan Michael's absence, Basia reprimanded the soldiers, and obedience to her was great; old warriors were more grieved by reproval from her mouth than by punishment, which the veteran Pan Michael inflicted unsparingly for dereliction of duty. Great discipline reigned always in the command, for Volodyovski, reared in the school of Prince Yeremi, knew how to hold soldiers with an iron hand; and, moreover, the presence of Basia softened wild manners somewhat. Every man tried to please her; every man thought of her rest and comfort; hence they avoided whatever might annoy her. In the light squadron of Pan Nikolai Pototski there were many officers, experienced and polite, who, though they had grown rough in continual wars and adventures, still formed a pleasant company. These, with the officers from other squadrons, often spent an evening with the colonel, telling of events and wars in which they had taken part personally. Among these Pan Zagloba held the first place. He was the oldest, had seen most and done much; but when, after one and the second goblet, he was dozing in a comfortable stuffed chair, which was brought for him purposely, others began. And they had something to tell, for there were some who had visited Sweden and Moscow; there were some who had passed their years of youth at the Saitch before the days of Hmelnitski; there were some who as captives had herded sheep in the Crimea; who in slavery had dug wells in Bagchesarai; who had visited Asia Minor; who had rowed through the Archipelago in Turkish galleys; who had beaten with their foreheads on the grave of Christ in Jerusalem; who had experienced every adventure and every mishap, and still had appeared again under the flag to defend to the end of their lives, to the last breath, those border regions steeped in blood. When in November the evenings became longer and there was peace on the side of the broad steppe, for the grass had withered, they used to assemble in the colonel's house daily. Hither came Pan Motovidlo, the leader of the Cossacks,--a Russian by blood, a man lean as pincers and tall as a lance, no longer young; he had not left the field for twenty years and more. Pan Deyma came too, the brother of that one who had killed Pan Ubysh; and with them Pan Mushalski, a man formerly wealthy, but who, taken captive in early years, had rowed in a Turkish galley, and escaping from bondage, had left his property to others, and with sabre in hand was avenging his wrongs on the race of Mohammed. He was an incomparable bowman, who, when he chose, pierced with an arrow a heron in its lofty flight. There came also the two partisans. Pan Vilga and Pan Nyenashinyets, great soldiers, and Pan Hromyka and Pan Bavdynovich, and many others. When these began to tell tales and to throw forth words quickly, the whole Oriental world was seen in their narratives,--Bagchesarai and Stambul, the minarets and sanctuaries of the false prophet, the blue waters of the Bosphorus, the fountains, and the palace of the Sultan, the swarms of men in the stone city, the troops, the janissaries, the dervishes, and that whole terrible locust-swarm, brilliant as a rainbow, against which the Commonwealth with bleeding breast was defending the Russian cross, and after it all the crosses and churches in Europe. The old soldiers sat in a circle in the broad room, like a flock of storks which, wearied with flying, had settled on some grave-mound of the steppe and were making themselves heard with great uproar. In the fireplace logs of pitch-pine were burning, casting out sharp gleams through the whole room. Moldavian wine was heated at the fire by the order of Basia; and attendants dipped it with tin dippers and gave it to the knights. From outside the walls came the calls of the sentries; the crickets, of which Pan Michael had complained, were chirping in the room and whistling sometimes in the chinks stuffed with moss; the November wind, blowing from the north, grew more and more chilly. During such cold it was most agreeable to sit in a comfortable, well-lighted room, and listen to the adventures of the knights. On such an evening Pan Mushalski spoke as follows:-- "May the Most High have in His protection the whole sacred Commonwealth, us all, and among us especially her grace, the lady here present, the worthy wife of our commander, on whose beauty our eyes are scarcely worthy to gaze. I have no wish to rival Pan Zagloba, whose adventures would have roused the greatest wonder in Dido herself and her charming attendants; but if you, gentlemen, will give time to hear my adventures, I will not delay, lest I offend the honorable company. "In youth I inherited in the Ukraine a considerable estate near Tarashcha. I had two villages from my mother in a peaceable region near Yaslo; but I chose to live in my father's place, since it was nearer the horde and more open to adventure. Knightly daring drew me toward the Saitch, but for us there was nothing there at that time; I went to the Wilderness in company with restless spirits, and experienced delight. It was pleasant for me on my lands; one thing alone pained me keenly,--I had a bad neighbor. He was a mere peasant, from Byalotserkov, who had been in his youth at the Saitch, where he rose to the office of kuren ataman, and was an envoy from the Cossacks to Warsaw, where he became a noble. His name was Didyuk. And you, gentlemen, must know that the Mushalskis derive their descent from a certain chief of the Samnites, called Musca, which in our tongue means _mucha_ (fly). That Musca, after fruitless attacks on the Romans, came to the court of Zyemovit, the son of Piast, who renamed him, for greater convenience, Muscalski, which later on his posterity changed to Mushalski. Feeling that I was of such noble blood, I looked with great abomination on that Didyuk. If the scoundrel had known how to respect the honor which met him, and to recognize the supreme perfection of the rank of noble above all others, perhaps I might have said nothing. But he, while holding land like a noble, mocked at the dignity, and said frequently: 'Is my shadow taller now? I was a Cossack, and a Cossack I'll remain; but nobility and all you devils of Poles are that for me--' I cannot in this place relate to you, gentlemen, what foul gesture he made, for the presence of her grace, the lady, will not in any way permit me to do so. But a wild rage seized me, and I began to persecute him. He was not afraid; he was a resolute man, and paid me with interest. I would have attacked him with a sabre; but I did not like to do so, in view of his insignificant origin. I hated him as the plague, and he pursued me with venom. Once, on the square in Tarashcha, he fired at me, and came within one hair of killing me; in return, I opened his head with a hatchet. Twice I invaded his house with my servants, and twice he fell upon mine with his ruffians. He could not master me, neither could I overcome him. I wished to use law against him; bah! what kind of law is there in the Ukraine, when ruins of towns are still smoking? Whoever can summon ruffians in the Ukraine may jeer at the Commonwealth. So did he do, blaspheming besides this common mother of ours, not remembering for a moment that she, by raising him to the rank of noble, had pressed him to her bosom, given him privileges in virtue of which he owned land and that boundless liberty which he could not have had under any other rule. If we could have met in neighbor fashion, arguments would not have failed me; but we did not see each other except with a musket in one hand and a firebrand in the other. Hatred increased in me daily, until I had grown yellow. I was thinking always of one thing,--how to seize him. I felt, however, that hatred was a sin; and I only wished, in return for his insults to nobility, to tear his skin with sticks, and then, forgiving him all his sins, as beseemed me, a true Christian, to give command to shoot him down simply. But the Lord God ordained otherwise. "Beyond the village I had a nice bee farm, and went one day to look at it. The time was near evening. I was there barely the length of ten 'Our Fathers,' when some clamor struck my ears. I looked around. Smoke like a cloud was over the village. In a moment men were rushing toward me. The horde! the horde! And right there behind the men a legion, I tell you. Arrows were flying as thickly as drops in a rain shower; and wherever I looked, sheep-skin coats and the devilish snouts of the horde. I sprang to horse! But before I could touch the stirrup with my foot, five or six lariats were on me. I tore away, for I was strong then. _Nec Hercules!_ Three months afterward I found myself with another captive in a Crimean village beyond Bagchesarai. Salma Bey was the name of my master. He was a rich Tartar, but a sullen man and cruel to captives. We had to work under clubs, to dig wells, and toil in the fields. I wished to ransom myself; I had the means to do so. Through a certain Armenian I wrote letters to Yaslo. I know not whether the letters were delivered, or the ransom intercepted; it is enough that nothing came. They took me to Tsargrad[18] and sold me to be a galley-slave. "There is much to tell of that city, for I know not whether there is a greater and a more beautiful one in the world. People are there as numerous as grass on the steppe, or as stones in the Dniester; strong battlemented walls; tower after tower. Dogs wander through the city together with the people; the Turks do not harm them, because they feel their relationship, being dog brothers themselves. There are no other ranks with them but lords and slaves, and there is nothing more grievous than Pagan captivity. God knows whether it is true, but I heard in the galleys that the waters in Tsargrad, such as the Bosphorus, and the Golden Horn too, which enters the heart of the city, have come from tears shed by captives. Not a few of mine were shed there. "Terrible is the Turkish power, and to no potentate are so many kings subject as to the Sultan. The Turks themselves say that were it not for Lehistan,--thus they name our mother,--they would have been lords of the earth long ago. 'Behind the shoulders of the Pole,' say they, 'the rest of the world live in injustice; for the Pole,' say they, 'lies like a dog in front of the cross, and bites our hands.' And they are right, for it is that way, and it will be that way. And we here in Hreptyoff and the commands farther on in Mohiloff, in Yampol, in Rashkoff,--what else are we doing? There is a world of wickedness in our Commonwealth; but still I think that God will account to us for this service sometime, and perhaps men too will account to us. "But now I will return to what happened to me. The captives who live on land, in towns and villages, groan in less suffering than those who row in galleys. For the galley-slaves when once riveted on the bench near the oars are never unriveted, day or night, or festival; they must live there in chains till they die; and if the vessel goes down in a battle, they must go with it. They are all naked; the cold freezes them; the rain wets them; hunger pinches them; and for that there is no help but tears and terrible toil, for the oars are so heavy and large that two men are needed at one of them. "They brought me in the night and riveted my chains, having put me in front of some comrade in misery whom in the darkness I could not distinguish. When I heard that beating of the hammer and the sound of the fetters, dear God! it seemed to me that they were driving the nails of my coffin; I would have preferred even that. I prayed, but hope in my heart was as if the wind had blown it away. A kavadji stifled my groans with blows; I sat there in silence all night, till day began to break. I looked then on him who was to work the same oar with me. O dear Jesus Christ! can you guess who was in front of me, gentlemen? Didyuk! "I knew him at once, though he was naked, had grown thin, and the beard had come down to his waist,--for he had been sold long before to the galleys. I gazed on him, and he on me; he recognized me. We said not a word to each other. See what had come to us! Still, there was such rancor in both that not only did we not greet each other, but hatred burst up like a flame in us, and delight seized the heart of each that his enemy had to suffer the same things as he. That very day the galley moved on its voyage. It was strange to hold one oar with your bitterest enemy, to eat from one dish with him food which at home with us dogs would not eat, to endure the same tyranny, to breathe the same air, to suffer together, to weep face to face. We sailed through the Hellespont, and then the Archipelago. Island after island is there, and all in the power of the Turk. Both shores also,--a whole world! Oh, how we suffered! In the day, heat indescribable. The sun burned with such force that the waters seemed to flame from it; and when those flames began to quiver and dance on the waves, you would have said that a fiery rain was falling. Sweat poured from us, and our tongues cleaved to the roofs of our mouths. At night the cold bit us like a dog. Solace from no place; nothing but suffering, sorrow for lost happiness, torment and pain. Words cannot tell it. At one station in the Grecian land we saw from the galley famous ruins of a temple which the Greeks reared in old times. Column stands there by column; as if gold, that marble is yellow from age. All was seen clearly, for it was on a steep height, and the sky is like turquoise in Greece. Then we sailed on around the Morea. Day followed day, week followed week; Didyuk and I had not exchanged a word, for pride and rancor dwelt still in our hearts. But we began to break slowly under God's hand. From toil and change of air the sinful flesh was falling from our bones; wounds, given by the lash, were festering in the sun. In the night we prayed for death. When I dozed a little, I heard Didyuk say, 'O Christ, have mercy! Holy Most Pure, have mercy! Let me die.' He also heard and saw how I stretched forth my hands to the Mother of God and her Child. And here it was as if the sea had blown hatred from the heart. There was less of it, and then less. At last, when I had wept over myself, I wept over him. We looked on each other then differently. Nay! we began to help each other. When sweating and deathly weariness came on me, he rowed alone; when he was in a similar state, I did the same for him. When they brought a plate of food, each one considered that the other ought to have it. But, gentlemen, see what the nature of man is! Speaking plainly, we loved each other already, but neither wished to say the word first. The rogue was in him, the Ukraine spirit! We changed only when it had become terribly hard for us and grievous, and we said to-day, 'to-morrow we shall meet the Venetian fleet--' Provisions too were scarce, and they spared everything on us but the lash. Night came; we were groaning in quiet, and he in his way, I in mine, were praying still more earnestly. I looked by the light of the moon; tears were flowing down his beard in a torrent. My heart rose, and I said, 'Didyuk, we are from the same parts; let us forgive each other our offences.' When he heard this, dear God! didn't the man sob, and pull till his chains rattled! We fell into each other's arms over the oar, kissing each other and weeping. I cannot tell you how long we held each other, for we forgot ourselves, but we were trembling from sobs." Here Pan Mushalski stopped, and began to remove something from around his eyes with his fingers. A moment of silence followed; but the cold north wind whistled from between the beams, and in the room the fire hissed and the crickets chirped. Then Pan Mushalski panted, drew a deep breath, and continued:-- "The Lord God, as will appear, blessed us and showed us His favor; but at the time we paid bitterly for our brotherly feeling. While we were embracing, we entangled the chains so that we could not untangle them. The overseers came and extricated us, but the lash whistled above us for more than an hour. They beat us without looking where. Blood flowed from me, flowed also from Didyuk; the two bloods mingled and went in one stream to the sea. But that is nothing! it is an old story--to the glory of God! "From that time it did not come to my head that I was descended from the Samnites, and Didyuk a peasant from Byalotserkov, recently ennobled. I could not have loved my own brother more than I loved him. Even if he had not been ennobled, it would have been one to me,--though I preferred that he should be a noble. And he, in old fashion, as once he had returned hatred with interest, now returned love. Such was his nature. "There was a battle on the following day. The Venetians scattered to the four winds the Turkish fleet. Our galley, shattered terribly by a culverin, took refuge at some small desert island, simply a rock sticking out of the sea. It was necessary to repair it; and since the soldiers had perished, and hands were lacking, the officers were forced to unchain us and give us axes. The moment we landed I glanced at Didyuk; but the same thing was in his head that was in mine. 'Shall it be at once?' inquired he of me. 'At once!' said I; and without thinking further, I struck the chubachy on the head; and Didyuk struck the captain. After us others rose like a flame! In an hour we had finished the Turks; then we repaired the galley somehow, took our seats in it without chains, and the Merciful God commanded the winds to blow us to Venice. "We reached the Commonwealth on begged bread. I divided my estate at Yaslo with Didyuk, and we both took the field again to pay for our tears and our blood. At the time of Podhaytse Didyuk went through the Saitch to join Sirka, and with him to the Crimea. What they did there and what a diversion they made, you, gentlemen, know. "On his way home Didyuk, sated with vengeance, was killed by an arrow. I was left; and as often as I stretch a bow, I do it for him, and there are not wanting in this honorable company witnesses to testify that I have delighted his soul in that way more than once." Here Pan Mushalski was silent, and again nothing was to be heard but the whistling of the north wind and the crackling of the fire. The old warrior fixed his glance on the flaming logs, and after a long silence concluded as follows:-- "Nalevaiko and Loboda have been; Hmelnitski has been; and now Doroshenko has come. The earth is not dried of blood; we are wrangling and fighting, and still God has sown in our hearts some seeds of love, and they lie in barren ground, as it were, till under the oppression and under the chain of the Pagan, till from Tartar captivity, they give fruit unexpectedly." "Trash is trash!" said Zagloba, waking up suddenly. CHAPTER XXV. Mellehovich was regaining health slowly; but because he had taken no part in expeditions and was sitting confined to his room, no one was thinking of the man. All at once an incident turned the attention of all to him. Pan Motovidlo's Cossacks seized a Tartar lurking near the stanitsa in a certain strange manner, and brought him to Hreptyoff. After a strict examination it came out that he was a Lithuanian Tartar, but of those who, deserting their service and residence in the Commonwealth, had gone under the power of the Sultan. He came from beyond the Dniester, and had a letter from Krychinski to Mellehovich. Pan Michael was greatly disturbed at this, and called the officers to council immediately. "Gracious gentlemen," said he, "you know well how many Tartars, even of those who have lived for years immemorial in Lithuania and here in Russia, have gone over recently to the horde, repaying the Commonwealth for its kindness with treason. Therefore we should not trust any one of them too much, and should follow their acts with watchful eye. We have here too a small Tartar squadron, numbering one hundred and fifty good horse, led by Mellehovich. I do not know this Mellehovich from of old; I know only this, that the hetman has made him captain for eminent services, and sent him here with his men. It was a wonder to me, too, that no one of you gentlemen knew him before his entrance into service, or heard of him. This fact, that our Tartars love him greatly and obey him blindly, I explained by his bravery and famous deeds; but even they do not know whence he is, nor who he is. Relying on the recommendation of the hetman, I have not suspected him of anything hitherto, nor have I examined him, though he shrouds himself in a certain secrecy. People have various fancies; and this is nothing to me, if each man performs his own duty. But, you see, Pan Motovidlo's men have captured a Tartar who was bringing a letter from Krychinski to Mellehovich; and I do not know whether you are aware, gentlemen, who Krychinski is?" "Of course!" said Pan Nyenashinyets. "I know Krychinski personally, and all know him now from his evil fame." "We were at school together--" began Pan Zagloba; but he stopped suddenly, remembering that in such an event Krychinski must be ninety years old, and at that age men were not usually fighting. "Speaking briefly," continued the little knight, "Krychinski is a Polish Tartar. He was a colonel of one of our Tartar squadrons; then he betrayed his country and went over to the Dobrudja horde, where he has, as I hear, great significance, for there they hope evidently that he will bring over the rest of the Tartars to the Pagan side. With such a man Mellehovich has entered into relations, the best proof of which is this letter, the tenor of which is as follows." Here the little knight unfolded the letter, struck the top of it with his hand, and began to read:-- Brother Greatly Beloved of my Soul,--Your messenger came to us and delivered-- "He writes Polish?" interrupted Zagloba. "Krychinski, like all our Tartars, knows only Russian and Polish," said the little knight; "and Mellehovich also will surely not gnaw in Tartar. Listen, gentlemen, without interruption." --and delivered your letter. May God bring about that all will be well, and that you will accomplish what you desire! We take counsel here often with Moravski, Aleksandrovich, Tarasovski, and Groholski, and write to other brothers, taking their advice too, touching the means through which that which you desire may come to pass most quickly. News came to us of how you suffered loss of health; therefore I send a man to see you with his eyes and bring us consolation. Maintain the secret carefully, for God forbid that it should be known prematurely! May God make your race as numerous as stars in the sky! Krychinski. Volodyovski finished, and began to cast his eyes around on those present; and since they kept unbroken silence, evidently weighing the gist of the letter with care, he said: "Tarasovski, Moravski, Groholski, and Aleksandrovich are all former Tartar captains, and traitors." "So are Poturzynski, Tvorovski, and Adurovich," added Pan Snitko. "Gentlemen, what do you say of this letter?" "Open treason! there is nothing here upon which to deliberate," said Pan Mushalski. "He is simply conspiring with Mellehovich to take our Tartars over to their side." "For God's sake! what a danger to our command!" cried a number of voices. "Our Tartars too would give their souls for Mellehovich; and if he orders them, they will attack us in the night." "The blackest treason under the sun!" cried Pan Deyma. "And the hetman himself made that Mellehovich a captain!" said Pan Mushalski. "Pan Snitko," said Zagloba, "what did I say when I looked at Mellehovich? Did I not tell you that a renegade and a traitor were looking with the eyes of that man? Ha! it was enough for me to glance at him. He might deceive all others, but not me. Repeat my words. Pan Snitko, but do not change them. Did I not say that he was a traitor?" Pan Snitko thrust his feet back under the bench and bent his head forward, "In truth, the penetration of your grace is to be wondered at; but what is true, is true. I do not remember that your grace called him a traitor. Your grace said only that he looked out of his eyes like a wolf." "Ha! then you maintain that a dog is a traitor, and a wolf is not a traitor; that a wolf does not bite the hand which fondles him and gives him to eat? Then a dog is a traitor? Perhaps you will defend Mellehovich yet, and make traitors of all the rest of us?" Confused in this manner, Pan Snitko opened his eyes and mouth widely, and was so astonished that he could not utter a word for some time. Meanwhile Pan Mushalski, who formed opinions quickly, said at once, "First of all, we should thank the Lord God for discovering such infamous intrigues, and then send six dragoons with Mellehovich to put a bullet in his head." "And appoint another captain," added Nyenashinyets. "The reason is so evident that there can be no mistake." To which Pan Michael added: "First, it is necessary to examine Mellehovich, and then to inform the hetman of these intrigues, for as Pan Bogush from Zyembitse told me, the Lithuanian Tartars are very dear to the marshal of the kingdom." "But, your grace," said Pan Motovidlo, "a general inquiry will be a favor to Mellehovich, since he has never before been an officer." "I know my authority," said Volodyovski, "and you need not remind me of it." Then the others began to exclaim, "Let such a son stand before our eyes, that traitor, that betrayer!" The loud calls roused Zagloba, who had been dozing somewhat; this happened to him now continually. He recalled quickly the subject of the conversation and said: "No, Pan Snitko; the moon is hidden in your escutcheon, but your wit is hidden still better, for no one could find it with a candle. To say that a dog, a faithful dog, is a traitor, and a wolf is not a traitor! Permit me, you have used up your wit altogether." Pan Snitko raised his eyes to heaven to show how he was suffering innocently, but he did not wish to offend the old man by contradiction; besides, Volodyovski commanded him to go for Mellehovich; he went out, therefore, in haste, glad to escape in that way. He returned soon, conducting the young Tartar, who evidently knew nothing yet of the seizure of Krychinski's messenger. His dark and handsome face had become very pale, but he was in health and did not even bind his head with a kerchief; he merely covered it with a Crimean cap of red velvet. The eyes of all were as intent on him as on a rainbow; he inclined to the little knight rather profoundly, and then to the company rather haughtily. "Mellehovich!" said Volodyovski, fixing on the Tartar his quick glance, "do you know Colonel Krychinski?" A sudden and threatening shadow flew over the face of Mellehovich. "I know him!" "Read," said the little knight, giving him the letter found on the messenger. Mellehovich began to read; but before he had finished, calmness returned to his face. "I await your order," said he, returning the letter. "How long have you been plotting treason, and what confederates have you?" "Am I accused, then, of treason?" "Answer; do not inquire," said the little knight, threateningly. "Then I will give this answer: I have plotted no treason; I have no confederates; or if I have, gentlemen, they are men whom you will not judge." Hearing this, the officers gritted their teeth, and straightway a number of threatening voices called, "More submissively, dog's son, more submissively! You are standing before your betters!" Thereupon Mellehovich surveyed them with a glance in which cold hatred was glittering. "I am aware of what I owe to the commandant, as my chief," said he, bowing a second time to Volodyovski. "I know that I am held inferior by you, gentlemen, and I do not seek your society. Your grace" (here he turned to the little knight) "has asked me of confederates; I have two in my work: one is Pan Bogush, under-stolnik of Novgrod, and the other is the grand hetman of the kingdom." When they heard these words, all were astonished greatly, and for a time there was silence; at last Pan Michael inquired, "In what way?" "In this way," answered Mellehovich; "Krychinski, Moravski, Tvorovski, Aleksandrovich, and all the others went to the horde and have done much harm to the country; but they did not find fortune in their new service. Perhaps too their consciences are moved; it is enough that the title of traitor is bitter to them. The hetman is well aware of this, and has commissioned Pan Bogush, and also Pan Myslishevski, to bring them back to the banner of the Commonwealth. Pan Bogush has employed me in this mission, and commanded me to come to an agreement with Krychinski. I have at my quarters letters from Pan Bogush which your grace will believe more quickly than my words." "Go with Pan Snitko for those letters and bring them at once." Mellehovich went out. "Gracious gentlemen," said the little knight, quickly, "we have offended this soldier greatly through over-hasty judgment; for if he has those letters, he tells the truth, and I begin to think that he has them. Then he is not only a cavalier famous through military exploits, but a man sensitive to the good of the country, and reward, not unjust judgments, should meet him for that. As God lives! this must be corrected at once." The others were sunk in silence, not knowing what to say; but Zagloba closed his eyes, feigning sleep this time. Meanwhile Mellehovich returned and gave the little knight Bogush's letter. Volodyovski read as follows:-- "I hear from all sides that there is no one more fitted than you for such a service, and this by reason of the wonderful love which those men bear to you. The hetman is ready to forgive them, and promises forgiveness from the Commonwealth. Communicate with Krychinski as frequently as possible through reliable people, and promise him a reward. Guard the secret carefully, for if not, as God lives, you would destroy them all. You may divulge the affair to Pan Volodyovski, for your chief can aid you greatly. Do not spare toil and effort, seeing that the end crowns the work, and be certain that our mother will reward your good-will with love equal to it." "Behold my reward!" muttered the young Tartar, gloomily. "By the dear God! why did you not mention a word of this to any one?" cried Pan Michael. "I wished to tell all to your grace, but I had no opportunity, for I was ill after that accident. Before their graces" (here Mellehovich turned to the officers) "I had a secret which I was prohibited from telling; this prohibition your grace will certainly enjoin on them now, so as not to ruin those other men." "The proofs of your virtue are so evident that a blind man could not deny them," said the little knight. "Continue the affair with Krychinski. You will have no hindrance in this, but aid, in proof of which I give you my hand as to an honorable cavalier. Come to sup with me this evening." Mellehovich pressed the hand extended to him, and inclined for the third time. From the corners of the room other officers moved toward him, saying, "We did not know you; but whoso loves virtue will not withdraw his hand from you to-day." But the young Tartar straightened himself suddenly, pushed his head back like a bird of prey ready to strike, and said, "I am standing before my betters." Then he went out of the room. It was noisy after his exit. "It is not to be wondered at," said the officers among themselves; "his heart is indignant yet at the injustice, but that will pass. We must treat him differently. He has real knightly mettle in him. The hetman knew what he was doing. Miracles are happening; well, well!" Pan Snitko was triumphing in silence; at last he could not restrain himself and said, "Permit me, your grace, but that wolf was not a traitor." "Not a traitor?" retorted Zagloba. "He was a traitor, but a virtuous one, for he betrayed not us, but the horde. Do not lose hope, Pan Snitko; I will pray to-day for your wit, and perhaps the Holy Ghost will have mercy." Basia was greatly comforted when Zagloba related the whole affair to her, for she had good-will and compassion for Mellehovich. "Michael and I must go," said she, "on the first dangerous expedition with him, for in this way we shall show our confidence most thoroughly." But the little knight began to stroke Basia's rosy face and said, "O suffering fly, I know you! With you it is not a question of Mellehovich, but you would like to buzz off to the steppe and engage in a battle. Nothing will come of that!" "Mulier insidiosa est (woman is insidious)!" said Zagloba, with gravity. At this time Mellehovich was sitting in his own room with the Tartar messenger and speaking in a whisper. The two sat so near each other that they were almost forehead to forehead. A taper of mutton-tallow was burning on the table, casting yellow light on the face of Mellehovich, which, in spite of its beauty, was simply terrible; there were depicted on it hatred, cruelty, and a savage delight. "Halim, listen!" whispered Mellehovich. "Effendi," answered the messenger. "Tell Krychinski that he is wise, for in the letter there was nothing that could harm me; tell him that he is wise. Let him never write more clearly. They will trust me now still more, all of them, the hetman himself, Bogush, Myslishevski, the command here,--all! Do you hear? May the plague stifle them!" "I hear, Effendi." "But I must be in Rashkoff first, and then I will return to this place." "Effendi, young Novoveski will recognize you." "He will not. He saw me at Kalnik, at Bratslav, and did not know me. He will look at me, wrinkle his brows, but will not recognize me. He was fifteen years old when I ran away from the house. Eight times has winter covered the steppes since that hour. I have changed. The old man would know me, but the young one will not know me. I will notify you from Rashkoff. Let Krychinski be ready, and hold himself in the neighborhood. You must have an understanding with the perkulabs. In Yampol, also, is our squadron. I will persuade Bogush to get an order from the hetman for me, that it will be easier for me to act on Krychinski from that place. But I must return hither,--I must! I do not know what will happen, how I shall manage. Fire burns me; in the night sleep flies from me. Had it not been for her, I should have died." Mellehovich's lips began to quiver; and bending still again to the messenger, he whispered, as if in a fever, "Halim, blessed be her hands, blessed her head, blessed the earth on which she walks! Do you hear, Halim? Tell them there that through her I am well." CHAPTER XXVI. Father Kaminski had been a soldier in his youthful years and a cavalier of great courage; he was now stationed at Ushytsa and was reorganizing a parish. But as the church was in ruins, and parishioners were lacking, this pastor without a flock visited Hreptyoff, and remained there whole weeks, edifying the knights with pious instruction. He listened with attention to the narrative of Pan Mushalski, and spoke to the assembly a few evenings later as follows:-- "I have always loved to hear narratives in which sad adventures find a happy ending, for from them it is evident that whomever God's hand guides, it can free from the toils of the pursuer and lead even from the Crimea to a peaceful roof. Therefore let each one of you fix this in his mind: For the Lord there is nothing impossible, and let no one of you even in direst necessity lose trust in God's mercy. This is the truth! "It was praiseworthy in Pan Mushalski to love a common man with brotherly affection. The Saviour Himself gave us an example when He, though of royal blood, loved common people and made many of them apostles and helped them to promotion, so that now they have seats in the heavenly senate. "But personal love is one thing, and general love--that of one nation to another--is something different. The love which is general, our Lord, the Redeemer, observed no less earnestly than the other. And where do we find this love? When, O man, you look through the world, there is such hatred in hearts everywhere, as if people were obeying the commands of the Devil and not of the Lord." "It will be hard, your grace," said Zagloba, "to persuade us to love Turks, Tartars, or other barbarians whom the Lord God Himself must despise thoroughly." "I am not persuading you to that, but I maintain this: that children of the same mother should have love for one another; but what do we see? From the days of Hmelnitski, or for thirty years, no part of these regions is dried from blood." "But whose fault is it?" "Whoso will confess his fault first, him will God pardon." "Your grace is wearing the robes of a priest to-day; but in youth you slew rebels, as we have heard, not at all worse than others." "I slew them, for it was my duty as a soldier to do so; that was not my sin, but this, that I hated them as a pestilence. I had private reasons which I will not mention, for those are old times and the wounds are healed now. I repent that I acted beyond my duty. I had under my command one hundred men from the squadron of Pan Nyevodovski; and going often independently with my men, I burned, slaughtered, and hanged. You, gentlemen, know what times those were. The Tartars, called in by Hmelnitski, burned and slew; we burned and slew; the Cossacks left only land and water behind them in all places, committing atrocities worse than ours and the Tartars. There is nothing more terrible than civil war! What times those were no man will ever describe; enough that we and they fought more like mad dogs than men. "Once news was sent to our command that ruffians had besieged Pan Rushitski in his fortalice. I was sent with my troops to the rescue. I came too late; the place was level with the ground. But I fell upon the drunken peasants and cut them down notably; only a part hid in the grain. I gave command to take these alive, to hang them for an example. But where? It was easier to plan than to execute; in the whole village there was not one tree remaining; even the pear-trees standing on the boundaries between fields were cut down. I had no time to make gibbets; a forest too, as that was a steppe-land, was nowhere in view. What could I do? I took my prisoners and marched on. 'I shall find a forked oak somewhere,' thought I. I went a mile, two miles,--steppe and steppe; you might roll a ball over it. At last we found traces of a village; that was toward evening. I gazed around; here and there a pile of coals, and besides gray ashes, nothing more. On a small hillside there was a cross, a firm oak one, evidently not long made, for the wood was not dark yet and glittered in the twilight as if it were afire. Christ was on it, cut out of tin plate and painted in such a way that only when you came from one side and saw the thinness of the plate could you know that not a real statue was hanging there; but in front the face was as if living, somewhat pale from pain; on the head a crown of thorns; the eyes were turned upward with wonderful sadness and pity. When I saw that cross, the thought flashed into my mind, 'There is a tree for you; there is no other,' but straightway I was afraid. In the name of the Father and the Son! I will not hang them on the cross. But I thought that I should comfort the eyes of Christ if I gave command in His presence to kill those who had spilled so much innocent blood, and I spoke thus: 'O dear Lord, let it seem to Thee that these men are those Jews who nailed Thee to the cross, for these are not better than those.' Then I commanded my men to drag the prisoners one by one to the mound under the cross. There were among them old men, gray-haired peasants, and youths. The first whom they brought said, 'By the Passion of the Lord, by that Christ, have mercy on me!' And I said in answer, 'Off with his head!' A dragoon slashed and cut off his head. They brought another; the same thing happened: 'By that Merciful Christ, have pity on me!' And I said again, 'Off with his head!' the same with the third, the fourth, the fifth; there were fourteen of them, and each implored me by Christ. Twilight was ended when we finished. I gave command to place them in a circle around the foot of the cross. Fool! I thought to delight the Only Son with this spectacle. They quivered awhile yet,--one with his hands, another with his feet, again one floundered like a fish pulled out of water, but that was short; strength soon left their bodies, and they lay quiet in a circle. "Since complete darkness had come, I determined to stay in that spot for the night, though there was nothing to make a fire. God gave a warm night, and my men lay down on horse-blankets; but I went again under the cross to repeat the usual 'Our Father' at the feet of Christ and commit myself to His mercy. I thought that my prayer would be the more thankfully accepted, because the day had passed in toil and in deeds of a kind that I accounted to myself as a service. "It happens frequently to a wearied soldier to fall asleep at his evening prayers. It happened so to me. The dragoons, seeing how I was kneeling with head resting on the cross, understood that I was sunk in pious meditation, and no one wished to interrupt me; my eyes closed at once, and a wonderful dream came down to me from that cross. I do not say that I had a vision, for I was not and am not worthy of that; but sleeping soundly, I saw as if I had been awake the whole Passion of the Lord. At sight of the suffering of the Innocent Lamb the heart was crushed in me, tears dropped from my eyes, and measureless pity took hold of me. 'O Lord,' said I, 'I have a handful of good men. Dost Thou wish to see what our cavalry can do? Only beckon with Thy head, and I will bear apart on sabres in one twinkle those such sons, Thy executioners.' I had barely said this when all vanished from the eye; there remained only the cross, and on it Christ, weeping tears of blood. I embraced the foot of the holy tree then, and sobbed. How long this lasted, I know not; but afterward, when I had grown calm somewhat, I said again, 'O Lord, O Lord! why didst Thou announce Thy holy teaching among hardened Jews? Hadst Thou come from Palestine to our Commonwealth, surely we should not have nailed Thee to the cross, but would have received Thee splendidly, given Thee all manner of gifts, and made Thee a noble for the greater increase of Thy divine glory. Why didst Thou not do this, O Lord?' "I raise my eyes,--this was all in a dream, you remember, gentlemen,--and what do I see? Behold, our Lord looks on me severely; He frowns, and suddenly speaks in a loud voice: 'Cheap is your nobility at this time; during war every low fellow may buy it, but no more of this! You are worthy of each other, both you and the ruffians; and each and the other of you are worse than the Jews, for you nail me here to the cross every day. Have I not enjoined love, even for enemies, and forgiveness of sins? But you tear each other's entrails like mad beasts. Wherefore I, seeing this, suffer unendurable torment. You yourself, who wish to rescue me, and invite me to the Commonwealth, what have you done? See, corpses are lying here around my cross, and you have bespattered the foot of it with blood; and still there were among them innocent persons,--young boys, or blinded men, who, having care from no one, followed others like foolish sheep. Had you mercy on them; did you judge them before death? No! You gave command to slay them all for my sake, and still thought that you were giving comfort to me. In truth, it is one thing to punish and reprove as a father punishes a son, or as an elder brother reproves a younger brother, and another to seek revenge without judgment, without measure, in punishing and without recognizing cruelty. It has gone so far in this land that wolves are more merciful than men; that the grass is sweating bloody dew; that the winds do not blow, but howl; that the rivers flow in tears, and people stretch forth their hands to death, saying, "Oh, our refuge!"' "'O Lord,' cried I, 'are they better than we? Who has committed the greatest cruelty? Who brought in the Pagan?' "'Love them while chastising,' said the Lord, 'and then the beam will fall from their eyes, hardness will leave their hearts, and my mercy will be upon you. Otherwise the onrush of Tartars will come, and they will lay bonds upon you and upon them, and you will be forced to serve the enemy in suffering, in contempt, in tears, till the day in which you love one another. But if you exceed the measure in hatred, then there will not be mercy for one or the other, and the Pagan will possess this land for the ages of ages.' "I grew terrified hearing such commands, and long I was unable to speak till, throwing myself on my face, I asked, 'O Lord, what have I to do to wash away my sins?' To this the Lord said, 'Go, repeat my words; proclaim love.' After that my dream ended. "As night in summer is short, I woke up about dawn, all covered with dew. I looked; the heads were lying in a circle about the cross, but already they were blue. A wonderful thing,--yesterday that sight delighted me; to-day terror took hold of me, especially at sight of one youth, perhaps seventeen years of age, who was exceedingly beautiful. I ordered the soldiers to bury the bodies decently under that cross; from that day forth I was not the same man. "At first I thought to myself, the dream is an illusion; but still it was thrust into my memory, and, as it were, took possession of my whole existence. I did not dare to suppose that the Lord Himself talked with me, for, as I have said, I did not feel myself worthy of that; but it might be that conscience, hidden in my soul in time of war, like a Tartar in the grass, spoke up suddenly, announcing God's will. I went to confession; the priest confirmed that supposition. 'It is,' said he, 'the evident will and forewarning of God; obey, or it will be ill with thee.' "Thenceforth I began to proclaim love. But the officers laughed at me to my eyes. 'What!' said they, 'is this a priest to give us instruction? Is it little insult that these dog brothers have worked upon God? Are the churches that they have burned few in number; are the crosses that they have insulted not many? Are we to love them for this?' In one word, no one would listen to me. "After Berestechko I put on these priestly robes so as to announce with greater weight the word and the will of God. For more than twenty years I have done this without rest. God is merciful; He will not punish me, because thus far my voice is a voice crying in the wilderness. "Gracious gentlemen, love your enemies, punish them as a father, reprimand them as an elder brother, otherwise woe to them, but woe to you also, woe to the whole Commonwealth! "Look around; what is the result of this war and the animosity of brother against brother? This land has become a desert; I have graves in Ushytsa instead of parishioners; churches, towns, and villages are in ruins; the Pagan power is rising and growing over us like a sea, which is ready to swallow even thee, O rock of Kamenyets." Pan Nyenashinyets listened with great emotion to the speech of the priest, so that the sweat came out on his forehead; then he spoke thus, amid general silence:-- "That among Cossacks there are worthy cavaliers, a proof is here present in Pan Motovidlo, whom we all love and respect. But when it comes to the general love, of which Father Kaminski has spoken so eloquently, I confess that I have lived in grievous sin hitherto, for that love was not in me, and I have not striven to gain it. Now his grace has opened my eyes somewhat. Without special favor from God I shall not find such love in my heart, because I bear there the memory of a cruel injustice, which I will relate to you briefly." "Let us drink something warm," said Zagloba. "Throw horn-beam on the fire," said Basia to the attendants. And soon after the broad room was bright again with light, and before each of the knights an attendant placed a quart of heated beer. All moistened their mustaches in it willingly; and when they had taken one and a second draught. Pan Nyenashinyets collected his voice again, and spoke as if a wagon were rumbling,-- "My mother when dying committed to my care a sister; Halshka was her name. I had no wife nor children, therefore I loved that girl as the apple of my eye. She was twenty years younger than I, and I had carried her in my arms, I looked on her simply as my own child. Later I went on a campaign, and the horde took her captive. When I came home I beat my head against the wall. My property had vanished in time of the invasion; but I sold what I had, put my last saddle on a horse, and went with Armenians to ransom my sister. I found her in Bagchesarai. She was attached to the harem, not in the harem, for she was only twelve years of age then. I shall never forget the hour when I found thee, O Halshka. How thou didst embrace my neck! how thou didst kiss me in the eyes! But what! It turned out that the money I had brought was too little. The girl was beautiful. Yehu Aga, who carried her away, asked three times as much for her. I offered to give myself in addition, but that did not help. She was bought in the market before my eyes by Tugai Bey, that famous enemy of ours, who wished to keep her three years in his harem and then make her his wife. I returned, tearing my hair. On the road home I discovered that in a Tartar village by the sea one of Tugai Bey's wives was dwelling with his favorite son Azya. Tugai Bey had wives in all the towns and in many villages, so as to have everywhere a resting-place under his own roof. Hearing of this son, I thought that God would show me the last means of salvation for Halshka. At once I determined to bear away that son, and then exchange him for my sister; but I could not do this alone. It was necessary to assemble a band in the Ukraine, or the Wilderness, which was not easy,--first, because the name of Tugai Bey was terrible in all Russia, and secondly, he was helping the Cossacks against us. But not a few heroes were wandering through the steppes,--men looking to their own profit only and ready to go anywhere for plunder. I collected a notable party of those. What we passed through before our boats came out on the sea tongue cannot tell, for we had to hide before the Cossack commanders. But God blessed us. I stole Azya, and with him splendid booty. We returned to the Wilderness in safety. I wished to go thence to Kamenyets and commence negotiations with merchants of that place. "I divided all the booty among my heroes, reserving for myself Tugai Bey's whelp alone; and since I had acted with such liberality, since I had suffered so many dangers with those men, had endured hunger with them, and risked my life for them, I thought that each one would spring into the fire for me, that I had won their hearts for the ages. "I had reason to repent of that bitterly and soon. It had not come to my head that they tear their own ataman to pieces, to divide his plunder between themselves afterward; I forgot that among them there are no men of faith, virtue, gratitude, or conscience. Near Kamenyets the hope of a rich ransom for Azya tempted my followers. They fell on me in the night-time like wolves, throttled me with a rope, cut my body with knives, and at last, thinking me dead, threw me aside in the desert and fled with the boy. "God sent me rescue and gave back my health; but my Halshka is gone forever. Maybe she is living there yet somewhere; maybe after the death of Tugai Bey another Pagan took her; maybe she has received the faith of Mohammed; maybe she has forgotten her brother; maybe her son will shed my blood sometime. That is my history." Here Pan Nyenashinyets stopped speaking and looked on the ground gloomily. "What streams of our blood and tears have flowed for these regions!" said Pan Mushalski. "Thou shalt love thine enemies," put in Father Kaminski. "And when you came to health did you not look for that whelp?" asked Zagloba. "As I learned afterward," answered Pan Nyenashinyets, "another band fell on my robbers and cut them to pieces; they must have taken the child with the booty. I searched everywhere, but he vanished as a stone dropped into water." "Maybe you met him afterward, but could not recognize him," said Basia. "I do not know whether the child was as old as three years. I barely learned that his name was Azya. But I should have recognized him, for he had tattooed over each breast a fish in blue." All at once Mellehovich, who had sat in silence hitherto, spoke with a strange voice from the corner of the room, "You would not have known him by the fish, for many Tartars bear the same sign, especially those who live near the water." "Not true," answered the hoary Pan Hromyka; "after Berestechko we examined the carrion of Tugai Bey,--for it remained on the field; and I know that he had fish on his breast, and all the other slain Tartars had different marks." "But I tell you that many wear fish." "True; but they are of the devilish Tugai Bey stock." Further conversation was stopped by the entrance of Pan Lelchyts, whom Pan Michael had sent on a reconnoissance that morning, and who had returned just then. "Pan Commandant," said he in the door, "at Sirotski Brod, on the Moldavian side, there is some sort of band moving toward us." "What kind of people are they?" asked Pan Michael. "Robbers. There are a few Wallachians, a few Hungarians; most of them are men detached from the horde, altogether about two hundred in number." "Those are the same of whom I have tidings that they are plundering on the Moldavian side," said Volodyovski, "The perkulab must have made it hot for them there, hence they are escaping toward us; but of the horde alone there will be about two hundred. They will cross in the night, and at daylight we shall intercept them. Pan Motovidlo and Mellehovich will be ready at midnight. Drive forward a small herd of bullocks to entice them, and now to your quarters." The soldiers began to separate, but not all had left the room yet when Basia ran up to her husband, threw her arms around his neck, and began to whisper in his ear. He laughed, and shook his head repeatedly; evidently she was insisting, while pressing her arms around his neck with more vigor. Seeing this, Zagloba said,-- "Give her this pleasure once; if you do, I, old man, will clatter on with you." CHAPTER XXVII. Independent detachments, occupied in robbery on both banks of the Dniester, were made up of men of all nationalities inhabiting the neighboring countries. Runaway Tartars from the Dobrudja and Belgrod hordes, wilder still and braver than their Crimean brethren, always preponderated in them; but there were not lacking either Wallachians, Cossacks, Hungarians, Polish domestics escaped from stanitsas on the banks of the Dniester. They ravaged now on the Polish, now on the Moldavian side, crossing and recrossing the boundary river, as they were hunted by the perkulab's forces or by the commandants of the Commonwealth. They had their almost inaccessible hiding-places in ravines, forests, and caves. The main object of their attacks was the herds of cattle and horses belonging to the stanitsas; these herds did not leave the steppes even in winter, seeking sustenance for themselves under the snow. But, besides, the robbers attacked villages, hamlets, settlements, smaller commands, Polish and even Turkish merchants, intermediaries going with ransom to the Crimea. These bands had their own order and their leaders, but they joined forces rarely. It happened often even that larger bands cut down smaller ones. They had increased greatly everywhere in the Russian regions, especially since the time of the Cossack wars, when safety of every kind vanished in those parts. The bands on the Dniester, reinforced by fugitives from the horde, were peculiarly terrible. Some appeared numbering five hundred. Their leaders took the title of "bey." They ravaged the country in a manner thoroughly Tartar, and more than once the commandants themselves did not know whether they had to do with bandits or with advance chambuls of the whole horde. Against mounted troops, especially the cavalry of the Commonwealth, these bands could not stand in the open field; but, caught in a trap, they fought desperately, knowing well that if taken captive the halter was waiting for them. Their arms were various. Bows and guns were lacking them, which, however, were of little use in night attacks. The greater part were armed with daggers and Turkish yataghans, sling-shots, Tartar sabres, and with horse-skulls fastened to oak clubs with cords. This last weapon, in strong hands, did terrible service, for it smashed every sabre. Some had very long forks pointed with iron, some spears; these in sudden emergencies they used against cavalry. The band which had halted at Sirotski Brod must have been numerous or must have been in extreme peril on the Moldavian side, since it had ventured to approach the command at Hreptyoff, in spite of the terror which the name alone of Pan Volodyovski roused in the robbers on both sides of the boundary. In fact, another party brought intelligence that it was composed of more than four hundred men, under the leadership of Azba Bey, a famous ravager, who for a number of years had filled the Polish and Moldavian banks with terror. Pan Volodyovski was delighted when he knew with whom he had to do, and issued proper orders at once. Besides Mellehovich and Pan Motovidlo, the squadron of the starosta of Podolia went, and that of the under-stolnik of Premysl. They set out in the night, and, as it were, in different directions; for as fishermen who cast their nets widely, in order afterward to meet at one opening, so those squadrons, marching in a broad circle, were to meet at Sirotski Brod about dawn. Basia assisted with beating heart at the departure of the troops, since this was to be her first expedition; and the heart rose in her at sight of those old wolves of the steppe. They went so quietly that in the fortalice itself it was possible not to hear them: the bridle-bits did not rattle; stirrup did not strike against stirrup, sabre against sabre; not a horse neighed. The night was calm and unusually bright. The full moon lighted clearly the heights of the stanitsa and the steppe, which was somewhat inclined toward every side; still, barely had a squadron left the stockade, barely had it glittered with silver sparks, which the moon marked on the sabres, when it had vanished from the eye like a flock of partridges into waves of grass. It seemed to Basia that they were sportsmen setting out on some hunt, which was to begin at daybreak, and were going therefore quietly and carefully, so as not to rouse the game too early. Hence great desire entered her heart to take part in that hunt. Pan Michael did not oppose this, for Zagloba had inclined him to consent. He knew besides that it was necessary to gratify Basia's wish sometime; he preferred therefore to do it at once, especially since the ravagers were not accustomed to bows and muskets. But they moved only three hours after the departure of the first squadrons, for Pan Michael had thus planned the whole affair. Pan Mushalski, with twenty of Linkhauz's dragoons and a sergeant, went with them,--all Mazovians, choice men, behind whose sabres the charming wife of the commandant was as safe as in her husband's room. Basia herself, having to ride on a man's saddle, was dressed accordingly; she wore pearl-colored velvet trousers, very wide, looking like a petticoat, and thrust into yellow morocco boots; a gray overcoat lined with white Crimean sheep-skin and embroidered ornamentally at the seams; she carried a silver cartridge-box, of excellent work, a light Turkish sabre on a silk pendant, and pistols in her holsters. Her head was covered with a cap, having a crown of Venetian velvet, adorned with a heron-feather, and bound with a rim of lynx-skin; from under the cap looked forth a bright rosy face, almost childlike, and two eyes curious and gleaming like coals. Thus equipped, and sitting on a chestnut pony, swift and gentle as a deer, she seemed a hetman's child, who, under guard of old warriors, was going to take the first lesson. They were astonished too at her figure. Pan Zagloba and Pan Mushalski nudged each other with their elbows, each kissing his hand from time to time, in sign of unusual homage for Basia; both of them, together with Pan Michael, allayed her fear as to their late departure. "You do not know war," said the little knight, "and therefore reproach us with wishing to take you to the place when the battle is over. Some squadrons go directly; others must make a detour, so as to cut off the roads, and then they will join the others in silence, taking the enemy in a trap. We shall be there in time, and without us nothing will begin, for every hour is reckoned." "But if the enemy takes alarm and escapes between the squadrons?" "He is cunning and watchful, but such a war is no novelty to us." "Trust in Michael," cried Zagloba; "for there is not a man of more practice than he. Their evil fate sent those bullock-drivers hither." "In Lubni I was a youth," said Pan Michael; "and even then they committed such duties to me. Now, wishing to show you this spectacle, I have disposed everything with still greater care. The squadrons will appear before the enemy together, will shout together, and gallop against the robbers together, as if some one had cracked a whip." "I! I!" piped Basia, with delight; and standing in the stirrups, she caught the little knight by the neck. "But may I gallop, too? What, Michael, what?" asked she, with sparkling eyes. "Into the throng I will not let you go, for in the throng an accident is easy, not to mention this,--that your horse might stumble; but I have ordered to give rein to our horses immediately the band driven against us is scattered, and then you may cut down two or three men, and attack always on the left side, for in that way it will be awkward for the fugitive to strike across his horse at you, while you will have him under your hand." "Ho! ho! never fear. You said yourself that I work with the sabre far better than Uncle Makovetski; let no one give me advice!" "Remember to hold the bridle firmly," put in Zagloba. "They have their methods; and it may be that when you are chasing, the fugitive will turn his horse suddenly and stop, then before you can pass, he may strike you. A veteran never lets his horse out too much, but reins him in as he wishes." "And never raise your sabre too high, lest you be exposed to a thrust," said Pan Mushalski. "I shall be near her to guard against accident," said the little knight. "You see, in battle the whole difficulty is in this, that you must think of all things at once,--of your horse, of the enemy, of your bridle, the sabre, the blow, and the thrust, all at one time. For him who is trained this comes of itself; but at first even renowned fencers are frequently awkward, and any common fellow, if in practice, will unhorse a new man more skilled than himself. Therefore I will be at your side." "But do not rescue me, and give command to the men that no one is to rescue me without need." "Well, well! we shall see yet what your courage will be when it comes to a trial," answered the little knight, laughing. "Or if you will not seize one of us by the skirts," finished Zagloba. "We shall see!" said Basia, with indignation. Thus conversing, they entered a place covered here and there with thicket. The hour was not far from daybreak, but it had become darker, for the moon had gone down. A light fog had begun to rise from the ground and conceal distant objects. In that light fog and gloom, the indistinct thickets at a distance took the forms of living creatures in the excited imagination of Basia. More than once it seemed to her that she saw men and horses clearly. "Michael, what is that?" asked she, whispering, and pointing with her finger. "Nothing; bushes." "I thought it was horsemen. Shall we be there soon?" "The affair will begin in something like an hour and a half." "Ha!" "Are you afraid?" "No; but my heart beats with great desire. I, fear! Nothing and nothing! See, what hoar-frost lies there! It is visible in the dark." In fact, they were riding along a strip of country on which the long dry stems of steppe-grass were covered with hoarfrost. Pan Michael looked and said,-- "Motovidlo has passed this way. He must be hidden not more than a couple of miles distant. It is dawning already!" In fact, day was breaking. The gloom was decreasing. The sky and earth were becoming gray; the air was growing pale; the tops of the trees and the bushes were becoming covered, as it were, with silver. The farther clumps began to disclose themselves, as if some one were raising a curtain from before them one after another. Meanwhile from the next clump a horseman came out suddenly. "From Pan Motovidlo?" asked Volodyovski, when the Cossack stopped right before them. "Yes, your grace." "What is to be heard?" "They crossed Sirotski Brod, turned toward the bellowing of the bullocks, and went in the direction of Kalusik. They took the cattle, and are at Yurgove Polye." "And where is Pan Motovidlo?" "He has stopped near the hill, and Pan Mellehovich neat Kalusik. Where the other squadrons are I know not." "Well," said Volodyovski, "I know. Hurry to Pan Motovidlo and carry the command to close in, and dispose men singly as far as halfway from Pan Mellehovich. Hurry!" The Cossack bent in the saddle and shot forward, so that the flanks of his horse quivered at once, and soon he was out of sight. They rode on still more quietly, still more cautiously. Meanwhile it had become clear day. The haze which had risen from the earth about dawn fell away altogether, and on the eastern side of the sky appeared a long streak, bright and rosy, the rosiness and light of which began to color the air on high land, the edges of distant ravines, and the hill-tops. Then there came to the ears of the horsemen a mingled croaking from the direction of the Dniester; and high in the air before them appeared, flying eastward, an immense flock of ravens. Single birds separated every moment from the others, and instead of flying forward directly began to describe circles, as kites and falcons do when seeking for prey. Pan Zagloba raised his sabre, pointing the tip of it to the ravens, and said to Basia,-- "Admire the sense of these birds. Only let it come to a battle in any place, straightway they will fly in from every side, as if some one had shaken them from a bag. But let the same army march alone, or go out to meet friends, the birds will not come; thus are these creatures able to divine the intentions of men, though no one assists them. The wisdom of nostrils is not sufficient in this case, and so we have reason to wonder." Meanwhile the birds, croaking louder and louder, approached considerably; therefore Pan Mushalski turned to the little knight and said, striking his palm on the bow, "Pan Commandant, will it be forbidden to bring down one, to please the lady? It will make no noise." "Bring down even two," said Volodyovski, seeing how the old soldier had the weakness of showing the certainty of his arrows. Thereupon the incomparable bowman, reaching behind his shoulder, took out a feathered arrow, put it on the string, and raising the bow and his head, waited. The flock was drawing nearer and nearer. All reined in their horses and looked with curiosity toward the sky. All at once the plaintive wheeze of the string was heard, like the twitter of a sparrow; and the arrow, rushing forth, vanished near the flock. For a while it might be thought that Mushalski had missed, but, behold, a bird reeled head downward, and was dropping straight toward the ground over their heads, then tumbling continually, approached nearer and nearer; at last it began to fall with outspread wings, like a leaf opposing the air. Soon it fell a few steps in front of Basia's pony. The arrow had gone through the raven, so that the point was gleaming above the bird's back. "As a lucky omen," said Mushalski, bowing to Basia, "I will have an eye from a distance on the lady commandress and my great benefactress; and if there is a sudden emergency, God grant me again to send out a fortunate arrow. Though it may buzz near by, I assure you that it will not wound." "I should not like to be the Tartar under your aim," answered Basia. Further conversation was interrupted by Volodyovski, who said, pointing to a considerable eminence some furlongs away, "We will halt there." After these words they moved forward at a trot. Halfway up, the little knight commanded them to lessen their pace, and at last, not far from the top, he held in his horse. "We will not go to the very top," said he, "for on such a bright morning the eye might catch us from a distance; but dismounting, we will approach the summit, so that a few heads may look over." When he had said this, he sprang from his horse, and after him Basia, Pan Mushalski, and a number of others. The dragoons remained below the summit, holding their horses; but the others pushed on to where the height descended in wall form, almost perpendicularly, to the valley. At the foot of this wall, which was a number of tens of yards in height, grew a somewhat dense, narrow strip of brushwood, and farther on extended a low level steppe; of this they were able to take in an enormous expanse with their eyes from the height. This plain, cut through by a small stream running in the direction of Kalusik, was covered with clumps of thicket in the same way that it was near the cliff. In the thickest clumps slender columns of smoke were rising to the sky. "Yon see," said Pan Michael to Basia, "that the enemy is hidden there." "I see smoke, but I see neither men nor horses," said Basia, with a beating heart. "No; for they are concealed by the thickets, though a trained eye can see them. Look there: two, three, four, a whole group of horses are to be seen,--one pied, another all white, and from here one seems blue." "Shall we go to them soon?" "They will be driven to us; but we have time enough, for to that thicket it is a mile and a quarter." "Where are our men?" "Do you see the edge of the wood yonder? The chamberlain's squadron must be touching that edge just now. Mellehovich will come out of the other side in a moment. The accompanying squadron will attack the robbers from that cliff. Seeing people, they will move toward us, for here it is possible to go to the river under the slope; but on the other side there is a ravine, terribly steep, through which no one can go." "Then they are in a trap?" "As you see." "For God's sake! I am barely able to stand still!" cried Basia; but after a while she inquired, "Michael, if they were wise, what would they do?" "They would rush, as if into smoke, at the men of the chamberlain's squadron and go over their bellies. Then they would be free. But they will not do that, for, first, they do not like to rush into the eyes of regular cavalry; secondly, they will be afraid that more troops are waiting in the forest; therefore they will rush to us." "Bah! But we cannot resist them; we have only twenty men." "But Motovidlo?" "True! Ha! but where is he?" Pan Michael, instead of an answer, cried suddenly, imitating a hawk. Straightway numerous calls answered him from the foot of the cliff. These were Motovidlo's Cossacks, who were secreted so well in the thicket that Basia, though standing right above their heads, had not seen them at all. She looked for a while with astonishment, now downward, now at the little knight; suddenly her eyes flashed with fire, and she seized her husband by the neck. "Michael, you are the first leader on earth." "I have a little training, that is all," answered Volodyovski, smiling. "But do not pat me here with delight, and remember that a good soldier must be calm." But the warning was useless; Basia was as if in a fever. She wished to sit straightway on her horse and ride down from the height to join Motovidlo's detachment; but Volodyovski delayed, for he wished her to see the beginning clearly. Meanwhile the morning sun had risen over the steppe and covered with a cold, pale yellow light the whole plain. The nearer clumps of trees were brightening cheerfully; the more distant and less distinct became more distinct; the hoar-frost, lying in the low places in spots, was disappearing every moment; the air had grown quite transparent, and the glance could extend to a distance almost without limit. "The chamberlain's squadron is coming out of the grove," said Volodyovski; "I see men and horses." In fact, horses began to emerge from the edge of the wood, and seemed black in a long line on the meadow, which was thickly covered with hoar-frost near the wood. The white space between them and the wood began to widen gradually. It was evident that they were not hurrying too much, wishing to give time to the other squadrons. Pan Michael turned then to the left side. "Mellehovich is here too," said he. And after a while he said again, "And the men of the under-stolnik of Premysl are coming. No one is behind time two 'Our Fathers.' Not a foot should escape! Now to horse!" They turned quickly to the dragoons, and springing into the saddles rode down along the flank of the height to the thicket below, where they found themselves among Motovidlo's Cossacks. Then they moved in a mass to the edge of the thicket, and halted, looking forward. It was evident that the enemy had seen the squadron of the chamberlain, for at that moment crowds of horsemen rushed out of the grove growing in the middle of the plain, as deer rush when some one has roused them. Every moment more of them came out. Forming a line, they moved at first over the steppe by the edge of the grove; the horsemen bent to the backs of the horses, so that from a distance it might be supposed that that was merely a herd moving of itself along the grove. Clearly, they were not certain yet whether the squadron was moving against them, or even saw them, or whether it was a detachment examining the neighborhood. In the last event they might hope that the grove would hide them from the eyes of the on-coming party. From the place where Pan Michael stood, at the head of Motovidlo's men, the uncertain and hesitating movements of the chambul could be seen perfectly, and were just like the movements of wild beasts sniffing danger. When they had ridden half the width of the grove, they began to go at a light gallop. When the first ranks reached the open plain, they held in their beasts suddenly, and then the whole party did the same. They saw approaching from that side Mellehovich's detachment. Then they described a half-circle in the direction opposite the grove, and before their eyes appeared the whole Premysl squadron, moving at a trot. Now it was clear to the robbers that all the squadrons knew of their presence and were marching against them. Wild cries were heard in the midst of the party, and disorder began. The squadrons, shouting also, advanced on a gallop, so that the plain was thundering from the tramp of their horses. Seeing this, the robber chambul extended in the form of a bench in the twinkle of an eye, and chased with what breath was in the breasts of their horses toward the elevation near which the little knight stood with Motovidlo and his men. The space between them began to decrease with astonishing rapidity. Basia grew somewhat pale from emotion at first, and her heart thumped more powerfully in her breast; but knowing that people were looking at her, and not noticing the least alarm on any face, she controlled herself quickly. Then the crowd, approaching like a whirlwind, occupied all her attention. She tightened the rein, grasped her sabre more firmly, and the blood again flowed with great impulse from her heart to her face. "Good!" said the little knight. She looked only at him; her nostrils quivered, and she whispered, "Shall we move soon?" "There is time yet," answered Pan Michael. But the others are chasing on, like a gray wolf who feels dogs behind him. Now not more than half a furlong divides them from the thicket; the outstretched heads of the horses are to be seen, with ears lying down, and over them Tartar faces, as if grown to the mane. They are nearer and nearer. Basia hears the snorting of the horses; and they, with bared teeth and staring eyes, show that they are going at such speed that their breath is stopping. Volodyovski gives a sign, and the Cossack muskets, standing hedge-like, incline toward the onrushing robbers. "Fire!" A roar, smoke: it was as if a whirlwind had struck a pile of chaff. In one twinkle of an eye the party flew apart in every direction, howling and shouting. With that the little knight pushed out of the thicket, and at the same time Mellehovich's squadron, and that of the chamberlain, closing the circle, forced the scattered enemy to the centre again in one group. The horde seek in vain to escape singly; in vain they circle around; they rush to the right, to the left, to the front, to the rear; the circle is closed up completely; the robbers come therefore more closely together in spite of themselves. Meanwhile the squadrons hurry up, and a horrible smashing begins. The ravagers understood that only he would escape with his life who could batter his way through; hence they fell to defending themselves with rage and despair, though without order and each for himself independently. In the very beginning they covered the field thickly, so great was the fury of the shock. The soldiers, pressing them and urging their horses on in spite of the throng, hewed and thrust with that merciless and terrible skill which only a soldier by profession can have. The noise of pounding was heard above that circle of men, like the thumping of flails wielded by a multitude quickly on a threshing-space. The horde were slashed and cut through their heads, shoulders, necks, and through the hands with which they covered their heads; they were beaten on every side unceasingly, without quarter or pity. They too struck, each with what he had, with daggers, with sabres, with sling-shots, with horse-skulls. Their horses, pushed to the centre, rose on their haunches, or fell on their backs. Others, biting and whining, kicked at the throng, causing confusion unspeakable. After a short struggle in silence, a howl was torn from the breasts of the robbers; superior numbers were bending them, better weapons, greater skill. They understood that there was no rescue for them; that no man would leave there, not only with plunder, but with life. The soldiers, warming up gradually, pounded them with growing force. Some of the robbers sprang from their saddles, wishing to slip away between the legs of the horses. These were trampled with hoofs, and sometimes the soldiers turned from the fight and pierced the fugitives from above; some fell on the ground, hoping that when the squadrons pushed toward the centre, they, left beyond the circle, might escape by flight. In fact, the party decreased more and more, for every moment horses and men fell away. Seeing this, Azba Bey collected, as far as he was able, horses and men in a wedge, and threw himself with all his might on Motovidlo's Cossacks, wishing to break the ring at any cost. But they hurled him back, and then began a terrible slaughter. At that same time Mellehovich, raging like a flame, split the party, and leaving the halves to two other squadrons, sprang himself on the shoulders of those who were fighting with the Cossacks. It is true that a part of the robbers escaped from the ring to the field through this movement and rushed apart over the plain, like a flock of leaves; but soldiers in the rear ranks who could not find access to the battle, through the narrowness of the combat, rushed after them straightway in twos and threes or singly. Those who were unable to break out went under the sword in spite of their passionate defence and fell near each other, like grain which harvesters are reaping from opposite sides. Basia moved on with the Cossacks, piping with a thin voice to give herself courage, for at the first moment it grew a little dark in her eyes, both from the speed and the mighty excitement. When she rushed up to the enemy, she saw before her at first only a dark, moving, surging mass. An overpowering desire to close her eyes altogether was bearing her away. She resisted the desire, it is true; still she struck with her sabre somewhat at random. Soon her daring overcame her confusion; she had clear vision at once. In front she saw heads of horses, behind them inflamed and wild faces; one of these gleamed right there before her; Basia gave a sweeping cut, and the face vanished as quickly as if it had been a phantom. That moment the calm voice of her husband came to her ears. "Good!" That voice gave her uncommon pleasure; she piped again more thinly, and began to extend disaster, and now with perfect presence of mind. Behold, again some terrible head, with flat nose and projecting cheek-bones, is gnashing its teeth before her. Basia gives a blow at that one. Again a hand raises a sling-shot. Basia strikes at that. She sees some face in a sheepskin; she thrusts at that. Then she strikes to the right, to the left, straight ahead; and whenever she cuts, a man flies to the ground, tearing the bridle from his horse. Basia wonders that it is so easy; but it is easy because on one side rides, stirrup to her stirrup, the little knight, and on the other Pan Motovidlo. The first looks carefully after her, and quenches a man as he would a candle; then with his keen blade he cuts off an arm together with its weapon; at times he thrusts his sword between Basia and the enemy, and the hostile sabre flies upward as suddenly as would a winged bird. Pan Motovidlo, a phlegmatic soldier, guarded the other side of the mettlesome lady; and as an industrious gardener, going among trees, trims or breaks off dry branches, so he time after time brings down men to the bloody earth, fighting as coolly and calmly as if his mind were in another place. Both knew when to let Basia go forward alone, and when to anticipate or intercept her. There was watching over her from a distance still a third man,--the incomparable archer, who, standing purposely at a distance, put every little while the butt of an arrow on the string, and sent an unerring messenger of death to the densest throng. But the pressure became so savage that Pan Michael commanded Basia to withdraw from the whirl with some men, especially as the half-wild horses of the horde began to bite and kick. Basia obeyed quickly; for although eagerness was bearing her away, and her valiant heart urged her to continue the struggle, her woman's nature was gaining the upper hand of her ardor; and in presence of that slaughter and blood, in the midst of howls, groans, and the agonies of the dying, in an atmosphere filled with the odor of flesh and sweat, she began to shudder. Withdrawing her horse slowly, she soon found herself behind the circle of combatants; hence Pan Michael and Pan Motovidlo, relieved from guarding her, were able to give perfect freedom at last to their soldierly wishes. Pan Mushalski, standing hitherto at a distance, approached Basia. "Your ladyship, my benefactress, fought really like a cavalier," said he. "A man not knowing that you were there might have thought that the Archangel Michael had come down to help our Cossacks, and was smiting the dog brothers. What an honor for them to perish under such a hand, which on this occasion let it not be forbidden me to kiss." So saying, Pan Mushalski seized Basia's hand and pressed it to his mustache. "Did you see? Did I do well, really?" inquired Basia, catching the air in her distended nostrils and her mouth. "A cat could not do better against rats. The heart rose in me at sight of you, as I love the Lord God. But you did well to withdraw from the fight, for toward the end there is more chance for an accident." "My husband commanded me; and when leaving home, I promised to obey him at once." "May my bow remain? No! it is of no use now; besides, I will rush forward with the sabre. I see three men riding up; of course the colonel has sent them to guard your worthy person. Otherwise I would send; but I will go to the foot of the cliff, for the end will come soon, and I must hurry." Three dragoons really came to guard Basia; seeing this, Pan Mushalski spurred his horse and galloped away. For a while Basia hesitated whether to remain in that place or ride around the steep cliff, and go to the eminence from which they had looked on the plain before the battle. But feeling great weariness, she resolved to remain. The feminine nature rose in her more and more powerfully. About two hundred yards distant they were cutting down the remnant of the ravagers without mercy, and a black mass of strugglers was whirling with growing violence on the bloody place of conflict. Despairing cries rent the air; and Basia, so full of eagerness shortly before, had grown weak now in some way. Great fear seized her, so that she came near fainting, and only shame in presence of the dragoons kept her in the saddle; she turned her face from them to hide her pallor. The fresh air brought back her strength slowly and her courage, but not to that degree that she had the wish to spring in anew among the combatants. She would have done so to implore mercy for the rest of the horde. But knowing that that would be useless, she waited anxiously for the end of the struggle. And there they were cutting and cutting. The sound of the hacking and the cries did not cease for a moment. Half an hour perhaps had passed; the squadrons were closing in with greater force. All at once a party of ravagers, numbering about twenty, tore themselves free of the murderous circle, and rushed like a whirlwind toward the eminence. Escaping along the cliff, they might in fact reach a place where the eminence was lost by degrees in the plain, and find on the high steppe their salvation; but in their way stood Basia with the dragoons. The sight of danger gave strength to Basia's heart at this moment, and self-control to her mind. She understood that to stay where she was was destruction; for the robbers with impetus alone could overturn and trample her and her guards, not to mention that they would bear them apart on sabres. The old sergeant of dragoons was clearly of this view, for he seized the bridle of Basia's pony, turned the beast, and cried with voice almost despairing,-- "On, on! serene lady!" Basia shot away like the wind; but the three faithful soldiers stood like a wall on the spot, to hold back the enemy even one moment, and give the beloved lady time to put herself at a distance. Meanwhile soldiers galloped after that band in immediate pursuit; but the circle hitherto enclosing the ravagers hermetically was thereby broken; they began to escape in twos, in threes, and then more numerously. The enormous majority were lying on the field, but some tens of them, together with Azba Bey, were able to flee. All these rushed on in a body as fast as their horses could gallop toward the eminence. Three dragoons could not detain all the fugitives,--in fact, after a short struggle they fell from their saddles; but the cloud, running on behind Basia, turned to the slope of the eminence and reached the high steppe. The Polish squadrons in the front ranks and the nearer Lithuanian Tartars rushed with all speed some tens of steps behind them. On the high steppe, which was cut across thickly by treacherous clefts and ravines, was formed a gigantic serpent of those on horseback, the head of which was Basia, the neck the ravagers, and the continuation of the body Mellehovich with the Lithuanian Tartars and dragoons, at the head of which rushed Volodyovski, with his spurs in the side of his horse, and terror in his soul. At the moment when the handful of robbers had torn themselves free of the ring, Volodyovski was engaged on the opposite side of it; therefore Mellehovich preceded him in the pursuit. The hair was standing on his head at the thought that Basia might be seized by the fugitives; that she might lose presence of mind, and rush straight toward the Dniester; that any one of the robbers might reach her with a sabre, a dagger, or a sling-shot,--and the heart was sinking in him from fear for her life. Lying almost on the neck of the horse, he was pale, with set teeth, a whirlwind of ghastly thoughts in his head; he pricked his steed with armed heels, struck him with the side of his sword, and flew like a bustard before he rises to soar. "God grant Mellehovich to come up! He is on a good horse. God grant him!" repeated he, in despair. But his fears were ill founded, and the danger was not so great as it seemed to the loving knight. The question of their own skins was too near to the robbers; they felt the Lithuanian Tartars too close to their shoulders to pursue a single rider, even were that rider the most beautiful houri in the Mohammedan paradise, escaping in a robe set with jewels. Basia needed only to turn toward Hreptyoff to escape from pursuit; for surely the fugitives would not return to the jaws of the lion for her, while they had before them a river, with its reeds in which they could hide. The Lithuanian Tartars had better horses, and Basia was sitting on a pony incomparably swifter than the ordinary shaggy beasts of the horde, which were enduring in flight, but not so swift as horses of high blood. Besides, she not only did not lose presence of mind, but her daring nature asserted itself with all force, and knightly blood played again in her veins. The pony stretched out like a deer; the wind whistled in Basia's ears, and instead of fear, a certain feeling of delight seized her. "They might hunt a whole year, and not catch me," thought she. "I'll rush on yet, and then turn, and either let them pass, or if they have not stopped pursuing, I will put them under the sabre." It came to her mind that if the ravagers behind her were scattered greatly over the steppe, she might, on turning, meet one of them and have a hand-to-hand combat. "Well, what is that?" said she to her valiant soul. "Michael has taught me so that I may venture boldly; if I do not, they will think that I am fleeing through fear, and will not take me on another expedition; and besides, Pan Zagloba will make sport of me." Saying this to herself, she looked around at the robbers, but they were fleeing in a crowd. There was no possibility of single combat; but Basia wished to give proof before the eyes of the whole army that she was not fleeing at random and in frenzy. Remembering that she had in the holsters two excellent pistols carefully loaded by Michael himself before they set out, she began to rein in her pony, or rather to turn him toward Hreptyoff, while slacking his speed. But, oh, wonder! at sight of this the whole party of ravagers changed the direction of their flight somewhat, going more to the left, toward the edge of the eminence. Basia, letting them come within a few tens of steps, fired twice at the nearest horses; then, turning, urged on at full gallop toward Hreptyoff. But the pony had run barely some yards with the speed of a sparrow, when suddenly there darkened in front a cleft in the steppe. Basia pressed the pony with her spurs without hesitation, and the noble beast did not refuse, but sprang forward; only his fore feet caught somewhat the bank opposite. For a moment he strove violently to find support on the steep wall with his hind feet; but the earth, not sufficiently frozen yet, fell away, and the horse went down through the opening, with Basia. Fortunately the horse did not fall on her; she succeeded in freeing her feet from the stirrups, and, leaning to one side with all force, struck on a thick layer of moss, which covered the bottom of the chasm as if with a lining; but the shock was so violent that she fainted. Pan Michael did not see the fall, for the horizon was concealed by the Lithuanian Tartars; but Mellehovich shouted with a terrible voice at his men to pursue the ravagers without stopping, and running himself to the cleft, disappeared in it. In a twinkle he was down from the saddle, and seized Basia in his arms. His falcon eyes saw her all in one moment, looking to see if there was blood anywhere; then they fell on the moss, and he understood that this had saved her and the pony from death. A stifled cry of joy was rent from the mouth of the young Tartar. But Basia was hanging in his arms; he pressed her with all his strength to his breast; then with pale lips he kissed her eyes time after time, as if wishing to drink them out of her head. The whole world whirled with him in a mad vortex; the passion concealed hitherto in the bottom of his breast, as a dragon lies concealed in a cave, carried him away like a storm. But at that moment the tramp of many horses was heard in an echo from the lofty steppe, and approached more and more swiftly. Numerous voices were crying, "Here! in this cleft! Here!" Mellehovich placed Basia on the moss, and called to those riding up,-- "This way, this way!" A moment later, Pan Michael was at the bottom of the cleft; after him Pan Zagloba, Mushalski, and a number of other officers. "Nothing is the matter," cried the Tartar. "The moss saved her." Pan Michael grasped his insensible wife by the hands; others ran for water, which was not near. Zagloba, seizing the temples of the unconscious woman, began to cry,-- "Basia, Basia, dearest! Basia!" "Nothing is the matter with her," said Mellehovich, pale as a corpse. Meanwhile Zagloba clapped his side, took a flask, poured gorailka on his palm, and began to rub her temples. Then he put the flask to her lips; this acted evidently, for before the men returned with water, she had opened her eyes and began to catch for air, coughing meanwhile, for the gorailka had burned the roof of her mouth and her throat. In a few moments she had recovered completely. Pan Michael, not regarding the presence of officers and soldiers, pressed her to his bosom, and covered her hands with kisses, saying, "Oh, my love, the soul came near leaving me! Has nothing hurt? Does nothing pain you?" "Nothing is the matter," said Basia. "Aha! I remember now that it grew dark in my eyes, for my horse slipped. But is the battle over?" "It is. Azba Bey is killed. We will go home at once, for I am afraid that fatigue may overcome you." "I feel no fatigue whatever." Then, looking quickly at those present, she distended her nostrils, and said, "But do not think, gentlemen, that I fled through fear. Oho! I did not even dream of it. As I love Michael, I galloped ahead of them only for sport, and then I fired my pistols." "A horse was struck by those shots, and we took one robber alive," put in Mellehovich. "And what?" asked Basia. "Such an accident may happen any one in galloping, is it not true? No experience will save one from that, for a horse will slip sometimes. Ha! it is well that you watched me, gentlemen, for I might have lain here a long time." "Pan Mellehovich saw you first, and first saved you; for we were galloping behind him," said Volodyovski. Basia, hearing this, turned to Mellehovich and reached her hand to him. "I thank you for good offices." He made no answer, only pressed the hand to his mouth, and then embraced with submission her feet, like a peasant. Meanwhile more of the squadron assembled at the edge of the cleft; Pan Michael simply gave orders to Mellehovich to form a circle around the few robbers who had hidden from pursuit, and then started for Hreptyoff. On the road Basia saw the field of battle once more from the height. The bodies of men and horses lay in places in piles, in places singly. Through the blue sky flocks of ravens were approaching more and more numerously, with great cawing, and coming down at a distance, waited till the soldiers, still going about on the plain, should depart. "Here are the soldiers' gravediggers!" said Zagloba, pointing at the birds with his sabre; "let us only go away, and wolves will come too, with their orchestra, and will ring with their teeth over these dead men. This is a notable victory, though gained over such a vile enemy; for that Azba has ravaged here and there for a number of years. Commandants have hunted him like a wolf, always in vain, till at last he met Michael, and the black hour came on him." "Is Azba Bey killed?" "Mellehovich overtook him first; and I tell you if he did not cut him over the ear! The sabre went to his teeth." "Mellehovich is a good soldier," said Basia. Here she turned to Zagloba, "And have you done much?" "I did not chirp like a cricket, nor jump like a flea, for I leave such amusement to insects. But if I did not, men did not look for me among moss, like mushrooms; no one pulled my nose, and no one touched my face." "I do not like you!" said Basia, pouting, and reaching involuntarily to her nose, which was red. And he looked at her, smiled, and muttered, without ceasing to joke, "You fought valiantly, you fled valiantly, you went valiantly heels over head; and now, from pain in your bones, you will put away kasha so valiantly that we shall be forced to take care of you, lest the sparrows eat you up with your valor, for they are very fond of kasha." "You are talking in that way so that Michael may not take me on another expedition. I know you perfectly!" "But, but I will ask him to take you nutting always, for you are skilful, and do not break branches under you. My God, that is gratitude to me! And who persuaded Michael to let you go? I. I reproach myself now severely, especially since you pay me so for my devotion. Wait! you will cut stalks now on the square at Hreptyoff with a wooden sword! Here is an expedition for you! Another woman would hug the old man; but this scolding Satan frightens me first, and threatens me afterward." Basia, without hesitating long, embraced Zagloba. He was greatly delighted, and said, "Well, well! I must confess that you helped somewhat to the victory of to-day; for the soldiers, since each wished to exhibit himself, fought with terrible fury." "As true as I live," cried Pan Mushalski, "a man is not sorry to die when such eyes are upon him." "Vivat our lady!" cried Pan Nyenashinyets. "Vivat!" cried a hundred voices. "God give her health!" Here Zagloba inclined toward her and muttered, "After faintness!" And they rode forward joyously, shouting, certain of a feast in the evening. The weather became wonderful. The trumpeters played in the squadrons, the drummers beat their drums, and all entered Hreptyoff with an uproar. CHAPTER XXVIII. Beyond every expectation, the Volodyovskis found guests at the fortalice. Pan Bogush had come; he had determined to fix his residence at Hreptyoff for some months, so as to treat through Mellehovich with the Tartar captains Aleksandrovich, Moravski, Tvorovski, Krychinski, and others, either of the Lithuanian or Ukraine Tartars, who had gone to the service of the Sultan. Pan Bogush was accompanied also by old Pan Novoveski and his daughter Eva, and by Pani Boski, a sedate person, with her daughter, Panna Zosia, who was young yet, and very beautiful. The sight of ladies in the Wilderness and in wild Hreptyoff delighted, but still more astonished, the soldiers. The guests, too, were surprised at sight of the commandant and his wife; for the first, judging from his extended and terrible fame, they imagined to be some kind of giant, who by his very look would terrify people, his wife as a giantess with brows ever frowning and a rude voice. Meanwhile they saw before them a little soldier, with a kindly and friendly face, and also a tiny woman, rosy as a doll, who, in her broad trousers and with her sabre, seemed more like a beautiful boy than a grown person. None the less did the hosts receive their visitors with open arms. Basia kissed heartily, before presentation, the three women; when they told who they were, and whence they had come, she said,-- "I should rejoice to bend the heavens for you, ladies, and for you, gentlemen. I am awfully glad to see you! It is well that no misfortune has met you on the road, for in our desert, you see, such a thing is not difficult; but this very day we have cut the ravagers to pieces." Seeing then that Pani Boski was looking at her with increasing astonishment, she struck her sabre, and added with great boastfulness, "Ah, but I was in the fight! Of course I was. That's the way with us! For God's sake, permit me, ladies, to go out and put on clothing proper to my sex, and wash my hands from blood a little; for I am coming from a terrible battle. Oh, if we hadn't cut down Azba today, perhaps you ladies would not have arrived without accident at Hreptyoff. I will return in a moment, and Michael will be at your service meanwhile." She vanished through the door; and then the little knight, who had greeted Pan Novoveski already, pushed up to Pani Boski. "God has given me such a wife," said he to her, "that she is not only a loving companion in the house, but can be a valiant comrade in the field. Now, at her command I offer my services to your ladyship." "May God bless her in everything," answered Pani Boski, "as He has blessed her in beauty! I am Antonia Boski; I have not come to exact services from your grace, but to beg on my knees for aid and rescue in misfortune. Zosia, kneel down here too before the knight; for if he cannot help us, no man can." Pani Boski fell on her knees then, and the comely Zosia followed her example; both, shedding ardent tears, began to cry, "Save us, knight! Have pity on orphans!" A crowd of officers, made curious, drew near on seeing the kneeling women, and especially because the sight of the comely Zosia attracted them; the little knight, greatly confused, raised Pani Boski, and seated her on a bench. "In God's name," asked he, "what are you doing? I should kneel first before a worthy woman. Tell, your ladyship, in what I can render assistance, and as God is in heaven, I will not delay." "He will do what he promises; I, on my part, offer myself! Zagloba _sum!_ it is enough for you to know that!" said the old warrior, moved by the tears of the women. Then Pani Boski beckoned to Zosia; she took quickly from her bosom a letter, which she gave to the little knight. He looked at the letter and said, "From the hetman!" Then he broke the seal and began to read:-- Very Dear and Beloved Volodyovski!--I send from the road to you, through Pan Bogush, my sincere love and instructions, which Pan Bogush will communicate to you personally. I have barely recovered from fatigues in Yavorov, when immediately another affair comes up. This affair is very near my heart, because of the affection which I bear soldiers, whom if I forgot, the Lord God would forget me. Pan Boski, a cavalier of great honor and a dear comrade, was taken by the horde some years since, near Kamenyets. I have given shelter to his wife and daughter in Yavorov; but their hearts are weeping,--one for a husband, the other for a father. I wrote through Pyotrovich to Pan Zlotnitski, our Resident in the Crimea, to look for Pan Boski everywhere. They found him, it seems; but the Tartars hid him afterward, therefore he could not be given up with other prisoners, and doubtless is rowing in a galley to this time. The women, despairing and hopeless, have ceased to importune me; but I, on returning recently, and seeing their unappeased sorrow, could not refrain from attempting some rescue. You are near the place, and have concluded, as I know, brotherhood with many murzas. I send the ladies to you, therefore, and do you give them aid. Pyotrovich will go soon to the Crimea. Give him letters to those murzas with whom you are in brotherhood. I cannot write to the vizir or the Khan, for they are not friendly to me; and besides, I fear that if I should write, they would consider Boski a very eminent person, and increase the ransom beyond measure. Commend the affair urgently to Pyotrovich, and command him not to return without Boski. Stir up all your brothers; though Pagans, they observe plighted faith always, and must have great respect for you. Finally, do what you please; go to Rashkoff; promise three of the most considerable Tartars in exchange, if they return Boski alive. No one knows better than you all their methods, for, as I hear, you have ransomed relatives already. God bless you, and I will love you still more, for my heart will cease to bleed. I have heard of your management in Hreptyoff, that it is quiet there. I expected this. Only keep watch on Azba. Pan Bogush will tell you all about public affairs. For God's sake, listen carefully in the direction of Moldavia, for a great invasion will not miss us. Committing Pani Boski to your heart and efforts, I subscribe myself, etc. Pani Boski wept without ceasing during the reading of the letter; and Zosia accompanied her, raising her blue eyes to heaven. Meanwhile, and before Pan Michael had finished, Basia ran in, dressed in woman's garments; and seeing tears in the eyes of the ladies, began to inquire with sympathy what the matter was. Therefore Pan Michael read the hetman's letter for her; and when she had listened to it carefully, she supported at once and with eagerness the prayers of the hetman and Pani Boski. "The hetman has a golden heart," cried Basia, embracing her husband; "but we shall not show a worse one, Michael. Pani Boski will stay with us till her husband's return, and you will bring him in three months from the Crimea. In three or in two, is it not true?" "Or to-morrow, or in an hour!" said Pan Michael, bantering. Here he turned to Pani Boski, "Decisions, as you see, are quick with my wife." "May God bless her for that!" said Pani Boski. "Zosia, kiss the hand of the lady commandress." But the lady commandress did not think of giving her hands to be kissed; she embraced Zosia again, for in some way they pleased each other at once. "Help us, gracious gentlemen," cried she. "Help us, and quickly!" "Quickly, for her head is burning!" muttered Zagloba. But Basia, shaking her yellow forelock, said, "Not my head, but the hearts of those gentlemen are burning from sorrow." "No one will oppose your honest intention," said Pan Michael; "but first we must hear Pani Boski's story in detail." "Zosia, tell everything as it was, for I cannot, from tears," said the matron. Zosia dropped her eyes toward the floor, covering them entirely with the lids; then she became as red as a cherry, not knowing how to begin, and was greatly abashed at having to speak in such a numerous assembly. But Basia came to her aid. "Zosia, and when did they take Pan Boski captive?" "Five years ago, in 1667," said Zosia, with a thin voice, without raising the long lashes from her eyes. And she began in one breath to tell the story: "There were no raids to be heard of at that time, and papa's squadron was near Panyovtsi. Papa, with Pan Bulayovski, was looking after men who were herding cattle in the meadows, and the Tartars came then on the Wallachian road, and took papa, with Pan Bulayovski; but Pan Bulayovski returned two years ago, and papa has not returned." Here two tears began to flow down Zosia's cheeks, so that Zagloba was moved at sight of them, and said, "Poor girl! Do not fear, child; papa will return, and will dance yet at your wedding." "But did the hetman write to Pan Zlotnitski through Pyotrovich?" inquired Volodyovski. "The hetman wrote about papa to the sword-bearer of Poznan," recited Zosia; "and the sword-bearer and Pan Pyotrovich found papa with Aga Murza Bey." "In God's name! I know that Murza Bey. I was in brotherhood with his brother," said Volodyovski. "Would he not give up Pan Boski?" "There was a command of the Khan to give up papa; but Murza Bey is severe, cruel. He hid papa, and told Pan Pyotrovich that he had sold him long before into Asia. But other captives told Pan Pyotrovich that that was not true, and that the murza only said that purposely, so that he might abuse papa longer; for he is the cruellest of all the Tartars toward prisoners. Perhaps papa was not in the Crimea then; for the murza has his own galleys, and needs men for rowing. But papa was not sold; all the prisoners said that the murza would rather kill a prisoner than sell him." "Holy truth!" said Pan Mushalski. "They know that Murza Bey in the whole Crimea. He is a very rich Tartar, but wonderfully venomous against our people, for four brothers of his fell in campaigns against us." "But has he never formed brotherhood among our people?" asked Pan Michael. "It is doubtful!" answered the officers from every side. "Tell me once what that brotherhood is," said Basia. "You see," said Zagloba, "when negotiations are begun at the end of war, men from both armies visit one another and enter into friendship. It happens then that an officer inclines to himself a murza, and a murza an officer; then they vow to each other life-friendship, which they call brotherhood. The more famous a man is, as Michael, for instance, or I, or Pan Rushchyts, who holds command in Rashkoff now, the more is his brotherhood sought. It is clear that such a man will not conclude brotherhood with some common fellow, but will seek it only among the most renowned murzas. The custom is this,--they pour water on their sabres and swear mutual friendship; do you understand?" "And how if it comes to war afterward?" "They can fight in a general war; but if they meet alone, if they are attacking as skirmishers, they will greet each other, and depart in friendship. Also if one of them falls into captivity, the other is bound to alleviate it, and in the worst case to ransom him; indeed, there have been some who shared their property with brothers. When it is a question of friends or acquaintances, or of finding some one, brothers go to brothers; and justice commands us to acknowledge that no people observe such oaths better than the Tartars. The word is the main thing with them, and, such a friend you can trust certainly." "But has Michael many such?" "I have three powerful murzas," answered Volodyovski; "and one of them is from Lubni times. Once I begged him of Prince Yeremi. Aga Bey is his name; and even now, if he had to lay his head down for me, he would lay it down. The other two are equally reliable." "Ah," said Basia, "I should like to conclude brotherhood with the Khan himself, and free all the prisoners." "He would not be averse to that," said Zagloba; "but it is not known what reward he would ask of you." "Permit me, gentlemen," said Pan Michael; "let us consider what we ought to do. Now listen; we have news from Kamenyets that in two weeks at the furthest Pyotrovich will be here with a numerous escort. He will go to the Crimea with ransom for a number of Armenian merchants from Kamenyets, who at the change of the Khan were plundered and taken captive. That happened to Seferovich, the brother of Pretor. All those people are very wealthy; they will not spare money, and Pyotrovich will go well provided. No danger threatens him; for, first, winter is near, and it is not the time for chambuls, and, secondly, with him are going Naviragh, the delegate of the Patriarch of Echmiadzin, and the two Anardrats from Kaffa, who have a safe-conduct from the young Khan. I will give letters to Pyotrovich to the residents of the Commonwealth and to my brothers. Besides, it is known to you, gentlemen, that Pan Rushchyts, the commandant at Rashkoff, has relatives in the horde, who, taken captive in childhood, have become thoroughly Tartar, and have risen to dignities. All these will move earth and heaven, will try negotiations; in case of stubbornness on the part of the murza, they will rouse the Khan himself against him, or perhaps they will twist the murza's head somewhere in secret. I hope, therefore, that if, which God grant, Pan Boski is alive, I shall get him in a couple of months without fail, as the hetman commands, and my immediate superior here present" (at this Pan Michael bowed to his wife). His immediate superior sprang to embrace the little knight the second time. Pani and Panna Boski clasped their hands, thanking God, who had permitted them to meet such kindly people. Both became notably cheerful, therefore. "If the old Khan were alive," said Pan Nyenashinyets, "all would go more smoothly; for he was greatly devoted to us, and of the young one they say the opposite. In fact, those Armenian merchants for whom Pan Pyotrovich is to go, were imprisoned in Bagchesarai itself during the time of the young Khan, and probably at his command." "There will be a change in the young, as there was in the old Khan, who, before he convinced himself of our honesty, was the most inveterate enemy of the Polish name," said Zagloba. "I know this best, for I was seven years under him in captivity. Let the sight of me give comfort to your ladyship," continued he, taking a seat near Pani Boski. "Seven years is no joke; and still I returned and crushed so many of those dog brothers that for each day of my captivity I sent at least two of them to hell; and for Sundays and holidays who knows if there will not be three or four? Ha!" "Seven years!" repeated Pani Boski, with a sigh. "May I die if I add a day! Seven years in the very palace of the Khan," confirmed Zagloba, blinking mysteriously. "And you must know that that young Khan is my--" Here he whispered something in the ear of Pani Boski, burst into a loud "Ha, ha, ha!" and began to stroke his knees with his palms; finally he slapped Pani Boski's knees, and said, "They were good times, were they not? In youth every man you met was an enemy, and every day a new prank, ha!" The sedate matron became greatly confused, and pushed back somewhat from the jovial knight; the younger women dropped their eyes, divining easily that the pranks of which Pan Zagloba was talking must be something opposed to their native modesty, especially since the soldiers burst into loud laughter. "It will be needful to send to Pan Rushchyts at once," said Basia, "so that Pan Pyotrovich may find the letters ready in Rashkoff." "Hasten with the whole affair," added Pan Bogush, "while it is winter: for, first, no chambuls come out, and roads are safe; secondly, in the spring God knows what may happen." "Has the hetman news from Tsargrad?" inquired Volodyovski. "He has; and of this we must talk apart. It is necessary to finish quickly with those captains. When will Mellehovich come back?--for much depends on him." "He has only to destroy the rest of the ravagers, and afterward bury the dead. He ought to return to-day or to-morrow morning. I commanded him to bury only our men, not Azba's; for winter is at hand, and there is no danger of infection. Besides, the wolves will clear them away." "The hetman asks," said Pan Bogush, "that Mellehovich should have no hindrance in his work; as often as he wishes to go to Rashkoff, let him go. The hetman asks, too, to trust him in everything, for he is certain of his devotion. He is a great soldier, and may do us much good." "Let him go to Rashkoff and whithersoever he pleases," said the little knight. "Since we have destroyed Azba, I have no urgent need of him. No large band will appear now till the first grass." "Is Azba cut to pieces then?" inquired Novoveski. "So cut up that I do not know if twenty-five men escaped; and even those will be caught one by one, if Mellehovich has not caught them already." "I am terribly glad of this," said Novoveski, "for now it will be possible to go to Rashkoff in safety." Here he turned to Basia: "We can take to Pan Rushchyts the letters which her grace, our benefactress, has mentioned." "Thank you," answered Basia; "there are occasions here continually, for men are sent expressly." "All the commands must maintain communication," said Pan Michael. "But are you going to Rashkoff, indeed, with this young beauty?" "Oh, this is an ordinary puss, not a beauty, gracious benefactor," said Novoveski; "and I am going to Rashkoff, for my son, the rascal, is serving there under the banner of Pan Rushchyts. It is nearly ten years since he ran away from home, and knocks at my fatherly clemency only with letters." "I guessed at once that you were Pan Adam's father, and I was about to inquire; but we were so taken up with sorrow for Pani Boski. I guessed it at once, for there is a resemblance in features. Well, then, he is your son?" "So his late mother declared; and as she was a virtuous woman, I have no reason for doubt." "I am doubly glad to have such a guest as you. For God's sake, but do not call your son a rascal; for he is a famous soldier, and a worthy cavalier, who brings the highest honor to your grace. Do you not know that, after Pan Rushchyts, he is the best partisan in the squadron? Do you not know that he is an eye in the head of the hetman? Independent commands are intrusted to him, and he has fulfilled every function with incomparable credit." Pan Novoveski flushed from delight. "Gracious Colonel," said he, "more than once a father blames his child only to let some one deny what he says; and I think that 'tis impossible to please a parent's heart more than by such a denial. Reports have reached me already of Adam's good service; but I am really comforted now for the first time, when I hear these reports confirmed by such renowned lips. They say that he is not only a manful soldier, but steady,--which is even a wonder to me, for he was always a whirlwind. The rogue had a love for war from youth upward; and the best proof of this is that he ran away from home as a boy. If I could have caught him at that time, I would not have spared him. But now I must spare him; if not, he would hide for ten other years, and it is dreary for me, an old man, without him." "And has he not been home during so many years?" "He has not; I forbade him. But I have had enough of it, and now I go to him, since he, being in service, cannot come to me. I intended to ask of you and my benefactress a refuge for this maiden while I went to Rashkoff alone; but since you say that it is safe everywhere, I will take her. She is curious, the magpie, to see the world. Let her look at it." "And let people look at her," put in Zagloba. "Ah, they would have nothing to see," said the young lady, out of whose dark eyes and mouth, fixed as if for a kiss, something quite different was speaking. "An ordinary puss,--nothing more than a puss!" said Pan Novoveski. "But if she sees a handsome officer, something may happen; therefore I chose to bring her with me rather than leave her, especially as it is dangerous for a girl at home alone. But if I go without her to Rashkoff, then let her grace give command to tie her with a cord, or she will play pranks." "I was no better myself," said Basia. "They gave her a distaff to spin," said Zagloba; "but she danced with it, since she had no one better to dance with. But you are a jovial man. Basia, I should like to have an encounter with Pan Novoveski, for I also am fond of amusement at times." Meanwhile, before supper was served, the door opened, and Mellehovich entered. Pan Novoveski did not notice him at once, for he was talking with Zagloba; but Eva saw him, and a flame struck her face; then she grew pale suddenly. "Pan Commandant," said Mellehovich to Pan Michael, "according to order, those men were caught." "Well, where are they?" "According to order, I had them hanged." "Well done! And have your men returned?" "A part remained to bury the bodies; the rest are with me." At this moment Pan Novoveski raised his head, and great astonishment was reflected on his face. "In God's name, what do I see?" cried he. Then he rose, went straight to Mellehovich, and said, "Azya! And what art thou doing here, ruffian?" He raised his hand to seize the Tartar by the collar; but in Mellehovich there was such an outburst in one moment as there is when a man throws a handful of powder into fire; he grew pale as a corpse, and seizing with iron grasp the hand of Novoveski, he said, "I do not know you! Who are you?" and pushed him so violently that Novoveski staggered to the middle of the room. For some time he could not utter a word from rage; but regaining breath, began to cry,--. "Gracious Commandant, this is my man, and besides that, a runaway. He was in my house from childhood. The ruffian denies! He is my man! Eva, who is he? Tell." "Azya," said Eva, trembling in all her body. Mellehovich did not even look at her. With eyes fixed on Novoveski, and with quivering nostril, he looked at the old noble with unspeakable hatred, pressing with his hand the handle of his knife. At the same time his mustaches began to quiver from the movement of his nostrils, and from under those mustaches white teeth were gleaming, like those of an angry wild beast. The officers stood in a circle; Basia sprang in between Mellehovich and Novoveski. "What does this mean?" asked she, frowning. "Pan Commandant," said Novoveski, "this is my man, Azya by name, and a runaway. Serving in youthful years in the Crimea, I found him half-alive on the steppe, and I took him. He is a Tartar. He remained twelve years in my house, and was taught together with my son. When my son ran away, this one helped me in management until he wished to make love to Eva; seeing this, I had him flogged: he ran away after that. What is his name here?" "Mellehovich." "He has assumed that name. He is called Azya,--nothing more. He says that he does not know me; but I know him, and so does Eva." "Your grace's son has seen him many times," said Basia. "Why did not he know him?" "My son might not know him; for when he ran away from home, both were fifteen years old, and this one remained six years with me afterward, during which time he changed considerably, grew, and got mustaches. But Eva knew him at once. Gracious hosts, you will lend belief more quickly to a citizen than to this accident from the Crimea!" "Pan Mellehovich is an officer of the hetman," said Basia; "we have nothing to do with him." "Permit me; I will ask him. Let the other side be heard," said the little knight. But Pan Novoveski was furious. "_Pan_ Mellehovich! What sort of a _Pan_ is he?--My serving-lad, who has hidden himself under a strange name. To-morrow I'll make my dog keeper of that _Pan_; the day after to-morrow I'll give command to beat that _Pan_ with clubs. And the hetman himself cannot hinder me; for I am a noble, and I know my rights." To this Pan Michael answered more sharply, and his mustaches quivered. "I am not only a noble, but a colonel, and I know my rights too. You can demand your man, by law, and have recourse to the jurisdiction of the hetman; but I command here, and no one else does." Pan Novoveski moderated at once, remembering that he was talking, not only to a commandant, but to his own son's superior, and besides the most noted knight in the Commonwealth. "Pan Colonel," said he, in a milder tone, "I will not take him against the will of your grace; but I bring forward my rights, and I beg you to believe me." "Mellehovich, what do you say to this?" asked Volodyovski. The Tartar fixed his eyes on the floor, and was silent. "That your name is Azya we all know," added Pan Michael. "There are other proofs to seek," said Novoveski. "If he is my man, he has fish tattooed in blue on his breast." Hearing this, Pan Nyenashinyets opened his eyes widely and his mouth; then he seized himself by the head, and cried, "Azya, Tugai Beyovich!" All eyes were turned on him; he trembled throughout his whole body, as if all his wounds were reopened, and he repeated, "That is my captive! That is Tugai Bey's son. As God lives, it is he." But the young Tartar raised his head proudly, cast his wild-cat glance on the assembly, and pulling open suddenly the clothes on his bosom, said, "Here are the fish tattooed in blue. I am the son of Tugai Bey!" CHAPTER XXIX. All were silent, so great was the impression which the name of the terrible warrior had made. Tugai Bey was the man who, in company with the dreadful Hmelnitski, had shaken the entire Commonwealth; he had shed a whole sea of Polish blood; he had trampled the Ukraine, Volynia, Podolia, and the lands of Galicia with the hoofs of horses; had destroyed castles and towns, had visited villages with fire, had taken tens of thousands of people captive. The son of such a man was now there before the assembly in the stanitsa of Hreptyoff, and said to the eyes of people: "I have blue fish on my breast; I am Azya, bone of the bone of Tugai Bey." But such was the honor among people of that time for famous blood that in spite of the terror which the name of the celebrated murza must have called forth in the soul of each soldier, Mellehovich increased in their eyes as if he had taken on himself the whole greatness of his father. They looked on him with wonderment, especially the women, for whom every mystery becomes the highest charm; he too, as if he had increased in his own eyes through his confession, grew haughty: he did not drop his head a whit, but said in conclusion,-- "That noble"--here he pointed at Novoveski--"says I am his man; but this is my reply to him: 'My father mounted his steed from the backs of men better than you.' He says truly also that I was with him, for I was, and under his rods my back streamed with blood, which I shall not forget, so help me God! I took the name of Mellehovich to escape his pursuit. But now, though I might have gone to the Crimea, I am serving this fatherland with my blood and health, and I am under no one but the hetman. My father was a relative of the Khan, and in the Crimea wealth and luxury were waiting for me; but I remained here in contempt, for I love this fatherland, I love the hetman, and I love those who have never disdained me." When he had said this, he bowed to Volodyovski, bowed so low before Basia that his head almost touched her knees; then, without looking on any one again, he took his sabre under his arm, and walked out. For a time yet silence continued. Zagloba spoke first. "Ha! Where is Pan Snitko! But I said that a wolf was looking out of the eyes of that Azya; and he is the son of a wolf!" "The son of a lion!" said Volodyovski; "and who knows if he hasn't taken after his father?" "As God lives, gentlemen, did you notice how his teeth glittered, just like those of old Tugai when he was in anger?" said Pan Mushalski. "By that alone I should have known him, for I saw old Tugai often." "Not so often as I," said Zagloba. "Now I understand," put in Bogush, "why he is so much esteemed among the Tartars of Lithuania and the South. And they remember Tugai's name as sacred. By the living God, if that man had the wish, he might take every Tartar to the Sultan's service, and cause us a world of trouble." "He will not do that," answered Pan Michael, "for what he has said--that he loves the country and the hetman--is true; otherwise he would not be serving among us, being able to go to the Crimea and swim there in everything. He has not known luxury with us." "He will not go to the Crimea," said Pan Bogush, "for if he had had the wish, he could have done so already; he met no hindrance." "On the contrary," added Nyenashinyets, "I believe now that he will entice back all those traitorous captains to the Commonwealth again." "Pan Novoveski," said Zagloba, suddenly, "if you had known that he was the son of Tugai Bey, perhaps then--perhaps so--what?" "I should have commanded to give him, instead of three hundred, three thousand blows. May the thunderbolts shatter me if I would not have done so! Gracious gentlemen, it is a wonder to me that he, being Tugai Bey's whelp, did not run off to the Crimea, It must be that he discovered this only recently; for when with me he knew nothing about it. This is a wonder to me, I tell you it is; but for God's sake, do not trust him. I know him, gentlemen, longer than you do; and I will tell you only this much: the devil is not so slippery, a mad dog is not so irritable, a wolf is less malignant and cruel, than that man. He will pour tallow under the skins of you all yet." "What are you talking about?" asked Mushalski. "We have seen him in action at Kalnik, at Uman, at Bratslav, and in a hundred other emergencies." "He will not forget his own; he will have vengeance," said Novoveski. "But to-day he slew Azba's ravagers. What are you telling us?" Meanwhile Basia was all on fire, that history of Mellehovich occupied her so much; but she was anxious that the end should be worthy of the beginning; therefore, shaking Eva Novoveski, she whispered in her ear, "But you loved him, Eva? Own up; don't deny! You loved him. You love him yet, do you not? I am sure you do. Be outspoken with me. In whom can you confide, if not in me, a woman? There is almost royal blood in him. The hetman will get him, not one, but ten naturalizations. Pan Novoveski will not oppose. Undoubtedly Azya himself loves you yet. I know already; I know, I know. Never fear. He has confidence in me. I will put the question to him at once. He will, tell me without torture. You loved him terribly; you love him yet, do you not?" Eva was as if dazed. When Azya showed his inclination to her the first time, she was almost a child; after that she did not see him for a number of years, and had ceased to think of him. There remained with her the remembrance of him as a passionate stripling, who was half comrade to her brother, and half serving-lad. But now she saw him again; he stood before her a handsome hero and fierce as a falcon, a famous warrior, and, besides, the son of a foreign, it is true, but princely, stock. Therefore young Azya seemed to her altogether different; therefore the sight of him stunned her, and at the time dazzled and charmed her. Memories of him appeared before her as in a dream. Her heart could not love the young man in one moment, but in one moment she felt in it an agreeable readiness to love him. Basia, unable to question her to the end, took her, with Zosia Boski, to an alcove, and began again to insist, "Eva, tell me quickly, awfully quickly, do you love him?" A flame beat into the face of Eva. She was a dark-haired and dark-eyed maiden, with hot blood; and that blood flew to her cheeks at any mention of love. "Eva," repeated Basia, for the tenth time, "do you love him?" "I do not know," answered Eva, after a moment's hesitation. "But you don't deny? Oho! I know. Do not hesitate. I told Michael first that I loved him,--no harm! and it was well. You must have loved each other terribly this long time. Ha! I understand now. It is from yearning for you that he has always been so gloomy; he went around like a wolf. The poor soldier withered away almost. What passed between you? Tell me." "He told me in the storehouse that he loved me," whispered Eva. "In the storehouse! What then?" "Then he caught me and began to kiss me," continued she, in a still lower voice. "Maybe I don't know him, that Mellehovich! And what did you do?" "I was afraid to scream." "Afraid to scream! Zosia, do you hear that? When was your loving found out?" "Father came in, and struck him on the spot with a hatchet; then he whipped me, and gave orders to flog him so severely that he was a fortnight in bed." Here Eva began to cry, partly from sorrow, and partly from confusion. At sight of this, the dark-blue eyes of the sensitive Zosia filled with tears, then Basia began to comfort Eva, "All will be well, my head on that! And I will harness Michael into the work, and Pan Zagloba. I will persuade them, never fear. Against the wit of Pan Zagloba nothing can stand; you do not know him. Don't cry, Eva dear, it is time for supper." Mellehovich was not at supper. He was sitting in his own room, warming at the fire gorailka and mead, which he poured into a smaller cup afterward and drank, eating at the same time dry biscuits. Pan Bogush came to him late in the evening to talk over news. The Tartar seated him at once on a chair lined with sheepskin, and placing before him a pitcher of hot drink, inquired, "But does Pan Novoveski still wish to make me his slave?" "There is no longer any talk of that," answered the under-stolnik of Novgrod, "Pan Nyenashinyets might claim you first; but he cares nothing for you, since his sister is already either dead, or does not wish any change in her fate. Pan Novoveski did not know who you were when he punished you for intimacy with his daughter. Now he is going around like one stunned, for though your father brought a world of evil on this country, he was a renowned warrior, and blood is always blood. As God lives, no one will raise a finger here while you serve the country faithfully, especially as you have friends on all sides." "Why should I not serve faithfully?" answered Azya. "My father fought against you; but he was a Pagan, while I profess Christ." "That's it,--that's it! You cannot return to the Crimea, unless with loss of faith, and that would be followed by loss of salvation; therefore no earthly wealth, dignity, or office could recompense you. In truth, you owe gratitude both to Pan Nyenashinyets and Pan Novoveski, for the first brought you from among Pagans, and the second reared you in the true faith." "I know," said Azya, "that I owe them gratitude, and I will try to repay them. Your grace has remarked truly that I have found here a multitude of benefactors." "You speak as if it were bitter in your mouth when you say that; but count yourself your well-wishers." "His grace the hetman and you in the first rank,--that I will repeat until death. What others there are, I know not." "But the commandant here? Do you think that he would yield you into any one's hands, even though you were not Tugai Bey's son? And Pani Volodyovski, I heard what she said about you during supper. Even before, when Novoveski recognized you, she took your part. Pan Volodyovski would do everything for her, for he does not see the world beyond her; a sister could not have more affection for a brother than she has for you. During the whole time of supper your name was on her lips." The young Tartar bent his head suddenly, and began to blow into the cup of hot drink; when he put out his somewhat blue lips to blow, his face became so Tartar-like that Pan Bogush said,-- "As God is true, how entirely like Tugai Bey you were this moment passes imagination. I knew him perfectly. I saw him in the palace of the Khan and on the field; I went to his encampment it is small to say twenty times." "May God bless the just, and the plague choke evildoers!" said Azya. "To the health of the hetman!" Pan Bogush drank, and said, "Health and long years! It is true those of us who stand with him are a handful, but true soldiers. God grant that we shall not give up to those bread-skinners, who know only how to intrigue at petty diets, and accuse the hetman of treason to the king. The rascals! We stand night and day with our faces to the enemy, and they draw around kneading-troughs full of hashed meat and cabbage with millet, and are drumming on them with spoons,--that is their labor. The hetman sends envoy after envoy, implores reinforcements for Kamenyets. Cassandra-like, he predicts the destruction of Ilion and the people of Priam; but they have no thought in their heads, and are simply looking for an offender against the king." "Of what is your grace speaking?" "Nothing! I made a comparison of Kamenyets with Troy; but you, of course, have not heard of Troy. Wait a little; the hetman will obtain naturalization for you. The times are such that the occasion will not be wanting, if you wish really to cover yourself with glory." "Either I shall cover myself with glory, or earth will cover me. You will hear of me, as God is in heaven!" "But those men? What is Krychinski doing? Will they return, or not? What are they doing now?" "They are in encampment,--some in Urzyisk, others farther on. It is hard to come to an agreement at present, for they are far from one another. They have an order to move in spring to Adrianople, and to take with them all the provisions they can carry." "In God's name, that is important, for if there is to be a great gathering of forces in Adrianople, war with us is certain. It is necessary to inform the hetman of this at once. He thinks also that war will come, but this would be an infallible sign." "Halim told me that it is said there among them that the Sultan himself is to be at Adrianople." "Praised be the name of the Lord! And here with us hardly a handful of troops. Our whole hope in the rock of Kamenyets! Does Krychinski bring forward new conditions?" "He presents complaints rather than conditions. A general amnesty, a return to the rights and privileges of nobles which they had formerly, commands for the captains,--is what they wish; but as the Sultan has offered them more, they are hesitating." "What do you tell me? How could the Sultan give them more than the Commonwealth? In Turkey there is absolute rule, and all rights depend on the fancy of the Sultan alone. Even if he who is living and reigning at present were to keep all his promises, his successor might break them or trample on them at will; while with us privileges are sacred, and whoso becomes a noble, from him even the king can take nothing." "They say that they were nobles, and still they were treated on a level with dragoons; that the starostas commanded them more than once to perform various duties, from which not only a noble is free, but even an attendant." "But if the hetman promises them." "No one doubts the high mind of the hetman, and all love him in their hearts secretly; but they think thus to themselves: 'The crowd of nobles will shout down the hetman as a traitor; at the king's court they hate him; a confederacy threatens him with impeachment. How can he do anything?'" Pan Bogush began to stroke his forelock. "Well, what?" "They know not themselves what to do." "And will they remain with the Sultan?" "No." "But who will command them to return to the Commonwealth?" "I." "How is that?" "I am the son of Tugai Bey." "My Azya," said Pan Bogush, after a while, "I do not deny that they may be in love with your blood and the glory of Tugai Bey, though they are our Tartars, and Tugai Bey was our enemy. I understand such things, for even with us there are nobles who say with a certain pride that Hmelnitski was a noble, and descended, not from the Cossacks, but from our people,--from the Mazovians. Well, though such a rascal that in hell a worse is not to be found, they are glad to recognize him, because he was a renowned warrior. Such is the nature of man! But that your blood of Tugai Bey should give you the right to command all Tartars, for this I see no sufficient reason." Azya was silent for a time; then he rested his palms on his thighs, and said, "Then I will tell you; Krychinski and other Tartars obey me. For besides this, that they are simple Tartars and I a prince, there are resources and power in me. But neither you know them, nor does the hetman himself know them." "What resources, what power?" "I do not know how to tell you," answered Azya, in Russian. "But why am I ready to do things that another would not dare? Why have I thought of that of which another would not have thought?" "What do you say? Of what have you thought?" "I have thought of this,--that if the hetman would give me the will and the right, I would bring back, not merely the captains, but would put half the horde in the service of the hetman. Is there little vacant land in the Ukraine and the Wilderness? Let the hetman only announce that if a Tartar comes to the Commonwealth he will be a noble, will not be oppressed in his faith, and will serve in a squadron of his own people, that all will have their own hetman, as the Cossacks have, and my head for it, the whole Ukraine will be swarming soon. The Lithuanian Tartars will come; they will come from the South; they will come from Dobrudja and Belgrod; they will come from the Crimea; they will drive their flocks, and bring their wives and children in wagons. Do not shake your head, your grace; they will come!--as those came long ago who served the Commonwealth faithfully for generations. In the Crimea and everywhere the Khan and the murzas oppress the people; but in the Ukraine they will have their sabres, and take the field under their own hetman. I swear to you that they will come, for they suffer from hunger there from time to time. Now, if it is announced among the villages that I, by the authority of the hetman, call them,--that Tugai Bey's son calls,--thousands will come here." Pan Bogush seized his own head: "By the wounds of God, Azya, whence did such thoughts come to you? What would there be?" "There would be in the Ukraine a Tartar nation, as there is a Cossack. You have granted privileges to the Cossacks, and a hetman. Why should you not grant them to us? You ask what there would be. There would not be what there is now,--a second Hmelnitski,--for we should have put foot at once on the throat of the Cossack; there would not be an uprising of peasants, slaughter and ruin; there would be no Doroshenko, for let him but rise, and I should be the first to bring him on a halter to the feet of the hetman. And should the Turkish power think to move against us, we would beat the Sultan; were the Khan to threaten raids, we would beat the Khan. Is it so long since the Lithuanian Tartars, and those of Podolia, did the like, though remaining in the Mohammedan faith? Why should we do otherwise? We are of the Commonwealth, we are noble. Now, calculate. The Ukraine in peace, the Cossacks in check, protection against Turkey, a number of tens of thousands of additional troops,--this is what I have been thinking; this is what came to my head; this is why Krychinski, Adurovich, Moravski, Tarasovski, obey me; this is why one half the Crimea will roll to those steppes when I raise the call." Pan Bogush was as much astonished and weighed down by the words of Azya as if the walls of that room in which they were sitting had opened on a sudden, and new, unknown regions had appeared to his eyes. For a long time he could not utter a word, and merely gazed on the young Tartar; but Azya began to walk with great strides up and down in the room. At last he said,-- "Without me this cannot be done, for I am the son of Tugai Bey; and from the Dnieper to the Danube there is no greater name among the Tartars." After a while he added: "What are Krychinski, Tarasovski, and others to me? It is not a question of them alone, or of some thousands of Lithuanian or Podolian Tartars, but of the whole Commonwealth. They say that in spring a great war will rise with the power of the Sultan; but only give me permission, and I will cause such a seething among the Tartars that the Sultan himself will scald his hands." "In God's name, who are you, Azya?" cried Pan Bogush. The young man raised his head: "The coming hetman of the Tartars!" A gleam of the fire fell at that moment on Azya, lighting his face, which was at once cruel and beautiful. And it seemed to Pan Bogush that some new man was standing before him, such was the greatness and pride beating from the person of the young Tartar. Pan Bogush felt also that Azya was speaking the truth. If such a proclamation of the hetman were published, all the Lithuanian and Podolian Tartars would return without fail, and very many of the wild Tartars would follow them. The old noble knew passing well the Crimea, in which he had been twice as a captive, and, ransomed by the hetman, had been afterward an envoy; he knew the court of Bagchesarai; he knew the hordes living from the Don to the Dobrudja; he knew that in winter many villages were depopulated by hunger; he knew that the despotism and rapacity of the Khan's baskaks were disgusting to the murzas; that in the Crimea itself it came often to rebellion; he understood at once, then, that rich lands and privileges would entice without fail all those for whom it was evil, narrow, or dangerous in their old homesteads. They would be enticed most surely if the son of Tugai Bey raised the call. He alone could do this,--no other. He, through the renown of his father, might rouse villages, involve one half of the Crimea against the other half, bring in the wild horde of Belgrod, and shake the whole power of the Khan,--nay, even that of the Sultan. Should the hetman desire to take advantage of the occasion, he might consider Tugai Bey's son as a man sent by Providence itself. Pan Bogush began then to look with another eye on Azya, and to wonder more and more how such thoughts could be hatched in his head. And the sweat was in drops like pearl on the forehead of the knight, so immense did those thoughts seem to him. Still, doubt remained yet in his soul; therefore he said, after a while,-- "And do you know that there would have to be war with Turkey over such a question?" "There will be war as it is. Why did they command the horde to march to Adrianople? There will be war unless dissensions rise in the Sultan's dominions; and if it comes to taking the field, half the horde will be on our side." "For every point the rogue has an argument," thought Pan Bogush. "It turns one's head," said he, after a while, "You see, Azya, in every case it is not an easy thing. What would the king say, what the chancellor, the estates, and all the nobles, for the greater part hostile to the hetman?" "I need only the permission of the hetman on paper; and when we are once here, let them drive us out! Who will drive us out, and with what? You would be glad to squeeze the Zaporojians out of the Saitch, but you cannot in any way." "The hetman will dread the responsibility." "Behind the hetman will be fifty thousand sabres of the horde, besides the troops which he has in hand." "But the Cossacks? Do you forget the Cossacks? They will begin opposition at once." "We are needed here specially to keep a sword hanging over the Cossack neck. Through whom has Doroshenko support? Through the Tartars! Let me take the Tartars in hand, Doroshenko must beat with his forehead to the hetman." Here Azya stretched out his palm and opened his fingers like the talons of an eagle; then he grasped after the hilt of his sabre. "This is the way we will show the Cossacks law! They will become serfs, and we will hold the Ukraine. Do you hear, Pan Bogush? You think that I am a small man; but I am not so small as it seems to Novoveski, the commandant of this place, and you, Pan Bogush. Behold, I have been thinking over this day and night, till I have grown thin, till my face is sunken. Look at it, your grace; it has grown black. But what I have thought out, I have thought out well; and therefore I tell you that in me there are resources and power. You see yourself that these are great things. Go to the hetman, but go quickly. Lay the question before him; let him give me a letter touching this matter, and I shall not care about the estates. The hetman has a great soul; the hetman will know that this is power and resource. Tell the hetman that I am Tugai Bey's son; that I alone can do this. Lay it before him, let him consent to it; but in God's name, let it be done in time, while there is snow on the steppe, before spring, for in spring there will be war! Go at once and return at once, so that I may know quickly what I am to do." Pan Bogush did not observe even that Azya spoke in a tone of command, as if he were a hetman giving instructions to his officer. "To-morrow I will rest," said he; "and after to-morrow I will set out. God grant me to find the hetman in Yavorov! Decision is quick with him, and soon you will have an answer." "What does your grace think,--will the hetman consent?" "Perhaps he will command you to come to him; do not go to Rashkoff, then, at present,--you can go more quickly to Yavorov from this place. Whether he will agree, I know not; but he will take the matter under prompt consideration, for you present powerful reasons. By the living God, I did not expect this of you; but I see now that you are an uncommon man, and that the Lord God predestined you to greatness. Well, Azya, Azya! Lieutenant in a Tartar squadron, nothing more, and such things are in his head that fear seizes a man! Now I shall not wonder even if I see a heron-feather in your cap, and a bunchuk above you. I believe now what you tell me,--that these thoughts have been burning you in the nighttime. I will go at once, the day after to-morrow; but I will rest a little. Now I will leave you, for it is late, and my head is as noisy as a saw-mill. Be with God, Azya! My temples are aching as if I had been drunk. Be with God, Azya, son of Tugai Bey!" Here Pan Bogush pressed the thin hand of the Tartar, and turned toward the door; but on the threshold he stopped again, and said, "How is this? New troops for the Commonwealth; a sword ready above the neck of the Cossack; Doroshenko conquered; dissension in the Crimea; the Turkish power weakened; an end to the raids against Russia,--for God's sake!" When he had said this. Pan Bogush went out. Azya looked after him a while, and whispered, "But for me a bunchuk, a baton, and, with consent or without, she. Otherwise woe to you!" Then he finished the gorailka, and threw himself on to the bed, covered with skins. The fire had gone down in the chimney; but through the window came in the clear rays of the moon, which had risen high in the cold wintry sky. Azya lay for some time quietly, but evidently was unable to sleep. At last he rose, approached the window, and looked at the moon, sailing like a ship through the infinite solitudes of heaven. The young Tartar looked at it long; at last he placed his fists on his breast, pointed both thumbs upward, and from the mouth of him who barely an hour before had confessed Christ, came, in a half-chant, a half-drawl, in a melancholy key,-- "La Allah illa Allah! Mahomet Rossul Allah!" CHAPTER XXX. Meanwhile Basia was holding counsel from early morning with her husband and Pan Zagloba how to unite two loving and straitened hearts. The two men laughed at her enthusiasm, and did not cease to banter her; still, yielding to her usually in everything, as to a spoiled child, they promised at last to assist her. "The best thing," said Zagloba, "is to persuade old Novoveski not to take the girl with him to Rashkoff; tell him that the frosts have come, and that the road is not perfectly safe. Here the young people will see each other often, and fall in love with all their might." "That is a splendid idea," cried Basia. "Splendid or not," said Zagloba, "do not let them out of your sight. You are a woman, and I think this way,--you will solder them at last, for a woman carries her point always; but see to it that the Devil does not carry his point in the mean while. That would be a shame for you, since the affair is on your responsibility." Basia began first of all to spit at Pan Zagloba, like a cat; then she said, "You boast that you were a Turk in your youth, and you think that every one is a Turk. Azya is not that kind." "Not a Turk, only a Tartar. Pretty image! She would vouch for Tartar love." "They are both thinking more of weeping, and that from harsh sorrow. Eva, besides, is a most honest maiden." "Still, she has a face as if some one had written on her forehead, 'Here are lips for you!' Ho! she is a daw. Yesterday I fixed it in my mind that when she sits opposite a nice fellow, her sighs are such that they drive her plate forward time after time, and she must push it back again. A real daw, I tell you." "Do you wish me to go to my own room?" asked Basia. "You will not go when it is a question of match-making. I know you,--you'll not go! But still 'tis too early for you to make matches; for that is the business of women with gray hair. Pani Boski told me yesterday that when she saw you returning from the battle in trousers, she thought that she was looking at Pani Volodyovski's son, who had gone to the woods on an expedition. You do not love dignity; but dignity, too, does not love you, which appears at once from your slender form. You are a regular student, as God is dear to me! There is another style of women in the world now. In my time, when a woman sat down, the chair squeaked in such fashion that you might think some one had sat on the tail of a dog; but as to you, you might ride bareback on a tom-cat without great harm to the beast. They say, too, that women who begin to make matches will have no posterity." "Do they really say that?" asked the little knight, alarmed. But Zagloba began to laugh; and Basia, putting her rosy face to the face of her husband, said, in an undertone, "Ah, Michael, at a convenient time we will make a pilgrimage to Chenstohova; then maybe the Most Holy Lady will change matters." "That is the best way indeed," said Zagloba. Then they embraced at once, and Basia said, "But now let us talk of Azya and poor Eva, of how we are to help them. We are happy; let them be happy." "When Novoveski goes away, it will be easier for them," said the little knight; "for in his presence they could not see each other, especially as Azya hates the old man. But if the old man were to give him Eva, maybe, forgetting former offences, they would begin to love each other as son-in-law and father-in-law. According to my head, it is not a question of bringing the young people together, for they love each other already, but of bringing over the old man." "He is a misanthrope!" said Basia. "Baska," said Zagloba, "imagine to yourself that you had a daughter, and that you had to give her to some Tartar--" "Azya is a prince." "I do not deny that Tugai Bey comes of high blood. Ketling was a noble; still Krysia would not have married him if he had not been naturalized." "Then try to obtain naturalization for Azya." "Is that an easy thing? Though some one were to admit him to his escutcheon, the Diet would have to confirm the choice; and for that, time and protection are necessary." "I do not like this,--that time is needed,--for we could find protection. Surely the hetman would not refuse it to Azya, for he loves soldiers. Michael, write to the hetman. Do you want ink, pen, paper? Write at once! I'll bring you everything, and a taper and the seal; and you will sit down and write without delay." "O Almighty God!" cried he, "I asked a sedate, sober wife of Thee, and Thou didst give me a whirlwind!" "Talk that way, talk; then I'll die." "Ah, your impatience!" cried the little knight, with animation,--"your impatience, tfu! tfu! a charm for a dog!" Here he turned to Zagloba: "Do you not know the words of a charm?" "I know them, and I've told them," said Zagloba. "Write!" cried Basia, "or I shall jump out of my skin." "I would write twelve letters, to please you, though I know not what good that would be, for in this case the hetman himself can do nothing; even with protection, Azya can appear only at the right time. My Basia, Panna Novoveski has revealed her secret to you,--very well! But you have not spoken to Azya, and you do not know to this moment whether he is burning with love for Eva or not." "He not burning! Why shouldn't he be burning, when he kissed her in the storehouse? Aha!" "Golden soul!" said Zagloba, smiling. "That is like the talk of a newly born infant, except that you turn your tongue better. My love, if Michael and I had to marry all the women whom we happened to kiss, we should have to join the Mohammedan faith at once, and I should be Sultan of Turkey, and he Khan of the Crimea. How is that, Michael, hei?" "I suspected Michael before I was his," said Basia; and thrusting her finger up to his eye, she began to tease him. "Move your mustaches; move them! Do not deny! I know, I know, and you know--at Ketling's." The little knight really moved his mustaches to give himself courage, and at the same time to cover his confusion; at last, wishing to change the conversation, he said, "And so you do not know whether Azya is in love with Panna Eva?" "Wait; I will talk to him alone and ask him. But he is in love, he must be in love! Otherwise I don't want to know him." "In God's name! she is ready to talk him into it," said Zagloba. "And I will persuade him, even if I had to shut myself in with him daily." "Inquire of him, to begin with," said the little knight. "Maybe at first he will not confess, for he is shy; that is nothing. You will gain his confidence gradually; you'll know him better; you'll understand him, and then only can you decide what to do." Here the little knight turned to Zagloba: "She seems giddy, but she is quick." "Kids are quick," said Zagloba, seriously. Further conversation was interrupted by Pan Bogush, who rushed in like a bomb, and had barely kissed Basia's hands when he exclaimed, "May the bullets strike that Azya! I could not close my eyes the whole night. May the woods cover him!" "What did Pan Azya bring against your grace?" asked Basia. "Do you know what we were making yesterday?" And Pan Bogush, staring, began to look around on those present. "What?" "History! As God is dear to me, I do not lie." "What history?" "The history of the Commonwealth; that is, simply a great man. Pan Sobieski himself will be astonished when I lay Azya's ideas before him. A great man, I repeat to you; and I regret that I cannot tell you more, for I am sure that you would be as much astonished as I. I can only say that if what he has in view succeeds, God knows what he will be." "For example," asked Zagloba, "will he be hetman?" Pan Bogush put his hands on his hips: "That is it,--he will be hetman. I am sorry that I cannot tell you more. He will be hetman, and that's enough." "Perhaps a dog hetman, or he will go with bullocks. Chabans have their hetmans also. Tfu! what is this that your grace is saying. Pan Under-Stolnik? That he is the son of Tugai Bey is true; but if he is to become hetman, what am I to become, or what will Pan Michael become, or your grace? Shall we become three kings at the birth of Christ, waiting for the abdication of Caspar, Melchior, and Baltazar? The nobles at least created me commander; I resigned the office, however, out of friendship for Pavel,[19] but, as God lives, I don't understand your prediction." "But I tell you that Azya is a great man." "I said so," exclaimed Basia, turning toward the door, through which other guests at the stanitsa began to enter. First came Pani Boski with the blue-eyed Zosia, and Pan Novoveski with Eva, who, after a night of bad sleep, looked more charming than usual. She had slept badly, for strange dreams had disturbed her; she dreamed of Azya, only he was more beautiful and insistent than of old. The blood rushed to her face at thought of this dream, for she imagined that every one would guess it in her eyes. But no one noticed her, since all had begun to say "good-day" to Pani Volodyovski. Then Pan Bogush resumed his narrative touching Azya's greatness and destiny; and Basia was glad that Eva and Pan Novoveski must listen to it. In fact, the old noble had blown off his anger since his first meeting with the Tartar, and was notably calmer. He spoke of him no longer as his man. To tell the truth, the discovery that he was a Tartar prince and a son of Tugai Bey imposed upon him beyond measure. He heard with wonder of Azya's uncommon bravery, and how the hetman had intrusted such an important function to him as that of bringing back to the service of the Commonwealth all the Lithuanian and Podolian Tartars. At times it seemed even to Pan Novoveski that they were talking of some one else besides Azya, to such a degree had the young Tartar become uncommon. But Pan Bogush repeated every little while, with a very mysterious mien, "This is nothing in comparison with what is waiting for him; but I am not free to speak of it." And when the others shook their heads with doubt, he cried, "There are two great men in the Commonwealth,--Pan Sobieski and that Azya, son of Tugai Bey." "By the dear God," said Pan Novoveski, made impatient at last, "prince or not prince, what can he be in this Commonwealth, unless he is a noble? He is not naturalized yet." "The hetman will get him ten naturalizations!" cried Basia. Eva listened to these praises with closed eyes and a beating heart. It is difficult to say whether it would have beaten so feverishly for a poor and unknown Azya as for Azya the knight and man of great future. But that glitter captivated her; and the old remembrance of the kisses and the fresh dream went through her with a quiver of delight. "So great and so celebrated," said Eva. "What wonder if he is as quick as fire!" CHAPTER XXXI. Basia took the Tartar that very day to "an examination," following the advice of her husband; and fearing the shyness of Azya, she resolved not to insist too much at once. Still, he had barely appeared before her when she said, straight from the bridge,-- "Pan Bogush says that you are a great man; but I think that the greatest man cannot avoid love." Azya closed his eyes, inclined his head, and said, "Your grace is right." "I see that you are a man with a heart." When she had said this, Basia began to shake her yellow forelock and blink, as if to say that she knew affairs of this kind well, and also hoped that she was not speaking to a man without knowledge. Azya raised his head and embraced with his glance her charming figure. She had never seemed so wonderful to him as on that day, when her eyes, gleaming from curiosity and animation, and the blushing child-like face, full of smiles, were raised toward his face. But the more innocent the face, the more charm did Azya see in it; the more did desire rise in his soul; the more powerfully did love seize and intoxicate him as with wine, and drive out all other desires, save this one alone,--to take her from her husband, bear her away, hold her forever at his breast, press her lips to his lips, feel her arms twined around his neck: to love, to love even to forget himself, even to perish alone, or perish with her. At thought of this the whole world whirled around with him; new desires crept up every moment from the den of his soul, like serpents from crevices in a cliff. But he was a man who possessed also great self-control; therefore he said in spirit, "It is impossible yet!" and he held his wild heart at check when he chose, as a furious horse is held on a lariat. He stood before her apparently cold, though he had a flame in his mouth and eyes, and his deep pupils told all that his compressed lips refused to confess. But Basia, having a soul as pure as water in a spring, and besides a mind occupied entirely with something else, did not understand that speech; she was thinking in the moment what further to tell the Tartar; and at last, raising her finger, she said: "More than one bears in his heart hidden love, and does not dare to speak of it to any one; but if he would confess his love sincerely, perhaps he might learn something good." Azya's face grew dark for a moment; a wild hope flashed through his head like lightning; but he recollected himself, and inquired, "Of what does your grace wish to speak?" "Another would be hasty with you," said Basia, "since women are impatient, and not deliberate; but I am not of that kind. As to helping, I would help you willingly, but I do not ask your confidence in a moment; I only say this to you: Do not hide; come to me even daily. I have spoken of this matter with my husband already; gradually you will come to know and see my good-will, and you will know that I do not ask through mere curiosity, but from sympathy, and because if I am to assist, I must be certain that you are in love. Besides, it is proper that you show it first; when you acknowledge it to me, perhaps I can tell you something." Tugai Bey's son understood now in an instant how vain was that hope which had gleamed in his head a moment before; he divined at once that it was a question of Eva Novoveski, and all the curses on the whole family which time had collected in his vengeful soul came to his mouth. Hatred burst out in him like a flame; the greater, the more different were the feelings which had shaken him a moment earlier. But he recollected himself. He possessed not merely self-control, but the adroitness of Orientals. In one moment he understood that if he burst out against the Novoveskis venomously, he would lose the favor of Basia and the possibility of seeing her daily; but, on the other hand, he felt that he could not conquer himself--at least then--to such a degree as to lie to that desired one in the face of his own soul by saying that he loved another. Therefore, from a real internal conflict and undissembled suffering, he threw himself suddenly before Basia, and kissing her feet, began to speak thus:-- "I give my soul into the hands of your grace; I give my faith into the hands of your grace. I do not wish to do anything except what you command me; I do not wish to know any other will. Do with me what you like. I live in torment and suffering; I am unhappy. Have compassion on me; if not, I shall perish and be lost." And he began to groan, for he felt immense pain, and unacknowledged desires burned him with a living flame. But Basia considered these words as an outburst of love for Eva,--love long and painfully hidden; therefore pity for the young man seized her, and two tears gleamed in her eyes. "Rise, Azya!" said she to the kneeling Tartar. "I have always wished you well, and I wish sincerely to help you; you come of high blood, and they will surely not withhold naturalization in return for your services. Pan Novoveski will let himself be appeased, for now he looks with different eyes on you; and Eva--" Here Basia rose, raised her rosy, smiling face, and putting her hand at the side of her mouth, whispered in Azya's ear,--"Eva loves you." His face wrinkled, as if from rage; he seized his hips with his hands, and without thinking of the astonishment which his exclamation might cause, he repeated a number of times in a hoarse voice, "Allah! Allah! Allah!" Then he rushed out of the room. Basia looked after him for a moment. The cry did not astonish her greatly, for the Polish soldiers used it often; but seeing the violence of the young Tartar, she said to herself, "Real fire! He is wild after her." Then she shot out like a whirlwind to make a report to her husband, Pan Zagloba, and Eva. She found Pan Michael in the chancery, occupied with the registry of the squadron stationed in Hreptyoff. He was sitting and writing, but she ran up to him and cried, "Do you know? I spoke to him. He fell at my feet; he is wild after her." The little knight put down his pen and began to look at his wife. She was so animated and pretty that his eyes gleamed; and, smiling, he stretched his arms toward her. She, defending herself, repeated again,-- "Azya is wild after Eva!" "As I am after you," said the little knight, embracing her. That same day Zagloba and Eva knew most minutely all her conversation with Azya. The young lady's heart yielded itself now completely to the sweet feeling, and was beating like a hammer at the thought of the first meeting, and still more at thought of what would happen when they should be alone. And she saw already the face of Azya at her knees, and felt his kisses on her hands, and her own faintness at the time when the head of a maiden bends toward the arms of the loved one, and her lips whisper, "I love." Meanwhile, from emotion and disquiet she kissed Basia's hands violently, and looked every moment at the door to see if she could behold in it the gloomy but shapely form of young Tugai Bey. But Azya did not show himself, for Halim had come to him,--Halim, the old servant of his father, and at present a considerable murza in the Dobrudja. He had come quite openly, since it was known in Hreptyoff that he was the intermediary between Azya and those captains who had accepted service with the Sultan. They shut themselves up at once in Azya's quarters, where Halim, after he had given the requisite obeisances to Tugai Bey's son, crossed his hands on his breast, and with bowed head waited for questions. "Have you any letters?" asked Azya. "I have none, Effendi. They commanded me to give everything in words." "Well, speak." "War is certain. In the spring we must all go to Adrianople. Commands are issued to the Bulgarians to take hay and barley there." "And where will the Khan be?" "He will go straight by the Wilderness, through the Ukraine, to Doroshenko." "What do you hear concerning the encampments?" "They are glad of the war, and are sighing for spring; there is suffering in the encampments, though the winter is only beginning." "Is the suffering great?" "Many horses have died. In Belgrod men have sold themselves into slavery, only to live till spring. Many horses have died, Effendi; for in the fall there was little grass on the steppes. The sun burned it up." "But have they heard of Tugai Bey's son?" "I have spoken as much as you permitted. The report went out from the Lithuanian and Podolian Tartars; but no one knows the truth clearly. They are talking too of this,--that the Commonwealth wishes to give them freedom and land, and call them to service under Tugai Bey's son. At the mere report all the villages that are poorer were roused. They are willing, Effendi, they are willing; but some explain to them that this is all untrue, that the Commonwealth will send troops against them, and that there is no son of Tugai Bey at all. There were merchants of ours in the Crimea; they said that some there were giving out, 'There is a son of Tugai Bey,' and the people were roused; others said, 'There is not,' and the people were restrained. But if it should go out that your grace calls them to freedom, land, and service, swarms would move. Only let it be free for me to speak." Azya's face grew bright from satisfaction, and he began to walk with great strides up and down in the room; then he said, "Be in good health, Halim, under my roof. Sit down and eat." "I am your servant and dog, Effendi," said the old Tartar. Azya clapped his hands, whereupon a Tartar orderly came in, and, hearing the command, brought refreshments after a time,--gorailka, dried meat, bread, sweetmeats, and some handfuls of dried water-melon seeds, which, with sunflower seeds, are a tidbit greatly relished by Tartars. "You are a friend, not a servant," said Azya, when the orderly retired. "Be well, for you bring good news; sit and eat." Halim began to eat, and until he had finished, they said nothing; but he refreshed himself quickly, and began to glance at Azya, waiting till he should speak. "They know here now who I am," said Azya, at length. "And what, Effendi?" "Nothing. They respect me still more. When it came to work, I had to tell them anyhow. But I delayed, for I was waiting for news from the horde, and I wished the hetman to know first; but Novoveski came, and he recognized me." "The young one?" asked Halim, with fear. "The old, not the young one. Allah has sent them all to me here, for the maiden is here. The Evil Spirit must have entered them. Only let me become hetman, I will play with them. They are giving me the maiden; very well, slaves are needed in the harem." "Is the old man giving her?" "No. _She_--she thinks that I love, not her, but the other." "Effendi," said Halim, bowing, "I am the slave of your house, and I have not the right to speak before your face; but I recognized you among the Lithuanian Tartars; I told you at Bratslav who you are; and from that time I serve you faithfully. I tell others that they are to look on you as master; but though they love you, no one loves you as I do: is it free for me to speak?" "Speak." "Be on your guard against the little knight. He is famous in the Crimea and the Dobrudja." "And, Halim, have you heard of Hmelnitski?" "I have, and I served Tugai Bey, who warred with Hmelnitski against the Poles, ruined castles, and took property." "And do you know that Hmelnitski took Chaplinski's wife from him, married her himself, and had children by her? What then? There was war; and all the troops of the hetmans and the king and the Commonwealth did not take her from Hmelnitski. He beat the hetmans and the king and the Commonwealth; and besides that, he was hetman of the Cossacks. And I,--what shall I be? Hetman of the Tartars. They must give me plenty of land, and some town as capital; around the town villages will rise on rich land, and in the villages good men with sabres, many bows and many sabres. And when I carry her away to my town, and have her for wife, the beauty, with whom will the power be? With me. Who will demand her? The little knight,--if he be alive. Even should he be alive, and howl like a wolf and beat with his forehead to the king with complaint, do you think that they would raise war with me for one bright tress? They have had such a war already, and half the Commonwealth was flaming with fire. Who will take her? Is it the hetman? Then I will join the Cossacks, will conclude brotherhood with Doroshenko, and give the country over to the Sultan. I am a second Hmelnitski; I am better than Hmelnitski: in me a lion is dwelling. Let them permit me to take her, I will serve them, beat the Cossacks, beat the Khan, and beat the Sultan; but if not, I will trample all Lehistan[20] with hoofs, take hetmans captive, scatter armies, burn towns, slay people. I am Tugai Bey's son; I am a lion." Here Azya's eyes blazed with a red light; his white teeth glittered like those of old Tugai; he raised his hand and shook his threatening fist toward the north, and he was great and terrible and splendid, so that Halim bowed to him repeatedly, and said hurriedly, in a low voice,-- "Allah kerim! Allah kerim!"[21] Then silence continued for a long time. Azya grew calm by degrees; at last he said, "Bogush came here. I revealed to him my strength and resource; namely, to have in the Ukraine, at the side of the Cossack nation, a Tartar nation, and besides the Cossack hetman a Tartar hetman." "Did he approve it?" "He seized himself by the head, and almost beat with the forehead; next day he galloped off to the hetman with the happy news." "Effendi," said Halim, timidly, "but if the Great Lion should not approve it?" "Sobieski?" "Yes." A ruddy light began to gleam again in Azya's eyes; but it remained only during one twinkle. His face grew calm immediately; then he sat on a bench, and resting his head on his hands, fell into deep thought. "I have weighed in my mind," said he, at last, "what the grand hetman may answer when Bogush gives him the happy news. The hetman is wise, and will consent. The hetman knows that in spring there will be war with the Sultan, for which there are neither men nor money in the Commonwealth; and when Doroshenko and the Cossacks are on the side of the Sultan, final destruction may come on Lehistan,--and all the more that neither the king nor the estates believe that there will be war, and are not hurrying to prepare for it. I have an attentive ear here on everything; I know all, and Bogush makes no secret before me of what they say at the hetman's headquarters. Pan Sobieski is a great man; he will consent, for he knows that if the Tartars come here for freedom and land, a civil war may spring up in the Crimea and the steppes of the Dobrudja, that the strength of the horde will decrease, and that the Sultan himself must see to quieting those outbreaks. Meanwhile, the hetman will have time to prepare himself better; the Cossacks and Doroshenko will waver in loyalty to the Sultan. This is the only salvation for the Commonwealth, which is so weak that even the return of a few thousand Lithuanian Tartars means much for it. The hetman knows this; he is wise, he will consent." "I bow before your reason," answered Halim; "but what will happen if Allah takes from the Great Lion his light, or if Satan so blinds him with pride that he will reject your plans?" Azya pushed his wild face up to Halim's ear, and whispered, "You remain here now until the answer comes from the hetman; and till then I will not go to Rashkoff. If they reject my plans, I will send you to Krychinski and the others. You will give them the order to advance to this side of the river almost up to Hreptyoff, and to be in readiness; and I with my men here will fall on the command the first night I choose, and do this for them--" Here Azya drew his finger across his neck, and after a while added, "Fate, fate, fate!" Halim thrust his head down between his shoulders, and on his beast-like face an ominous smile appeared. "Allah! And that to the Little Falcon?" "That to him first." "And then to the Sultan's dominions?" "To the Sultan's dominions,--with her." CHAPTER XXXII. A fierce winter covered the forests with heavy snow-clusters and icicles, and filled ravines to their edges with drifts, so that the whole land seemed a single white plain. Great, sudden storms came, in which men and herds were lost under the pall of snow; roads grew misleading and perilous: still, Pan Bogush hastened with all his power to Yavorov to communicate Azya's great plans to the hetman as quickly as possible. A noble of the border, reared in continual danger of Cossacks and Tartars, penetrated with the thought of perils which threatened the country from insurrections, from raids, from the whole power of the Turks, he saw in those plans almost the salvation of the country; he believed sacredly that the hetman, held in homage by him, and by all men of the frontier, would not hesitate a moment when it was a question of the power of the Commonwealth: hence he rode forward with joy in his heart, in spite of snow-drifts, wrong roads, and tempests. He dropped in at last on a Sunday, together with snow, at Yavorov, and having the good fortune to find Pan Sobieski at home, announced himself straightway, though attendants informed him that the hetman, busied night and day with expeditions and the writing of despatches, had barely time to take food. But beyond expectation, the hetman gave command to call him at once. Therefore, after he had waited only a short time, the old soldier bowed to the knees of his leader. He found Pan Sobieski changed greatly, and with a face full of care; for those were well-nigh the most grievous years of his life. His name had not thundered yet through every corner of Christendom; but the fame of a great leader and a terrible crusher of the Mussulman encircled him already in the Commonwealth. Owing to that fame, the grand baton was confided to him in time, and the defence of the eastern boundary; but with the dignity of hetman they had given him neither money nor men. Still, victory had followed his steps hitherto as faithfully as his shadow follows a man. With a handful of troops he had won victory at Podhaytse; with a handful of troops he had passed like a flame through the length and the breadth of the Ukraine, rubbing into dust chambuls of many thousands, capturing insurgent cities, spreading dread and terror of the Polish name. But now there hung over the Commonwealth a war with the most terrible of the powers of that period, for it was a war with the whole Mussulman world. It was no longer a secret for Sobieski that since Doroshenko had given up the Ukraine and the Cossacks to the Sultan, the latter had promised to move Turkey, Asia Minor, Arabia, and Egypt as far as the interior of Africa, to proclaim a sacred war, and go in his own person to demand the new "pashalik"[22] from the Commonwealth. Destruction, like a bird of prey, was floating over all Southern Russia, and meanwhile there was disorder in the Commonwealth; the nobles were uproarious in defence of their incompetent king, and, assembled in armed camps, were ready for civil war, if for any. The country, exhausted by recent conflicts and military confederations, had become impoverished; envy was storming in it; mutual distrust was rankling in men's hearts. No one wished to believe that war with the Mussulman power was imminent; and they condemned the great leader for spreading news about it purposely to turn men's minds from home questions. He was condemned greatly for this also,--that he was ready himself to call in the Turks, if only to secure victory to his adherents. They made him simply a traitor; and had it not been for the army, they would not have hesitated to impeach him. In view of the approaching war, to which thousands of legions of wild people would march from the East, he was without an army,--he had merely a handful, so small that the Sultan's court counted more servants; he was without money, without means of repairing the ruined fortresses, without hope of victory, without possibility of defence, without the conviction that his death, as formerly the death of Jolkyevski, would rouse the torpid country and give birth to an avenger. That was the reason that care had settled on his forehead; and the lordly countenance, like that of a Roman conqueror with a forehead in laurels, bore traces of hidden pain and sleepless nights. But at sight of Bogush a kindly smile brightened the face of the hetman; he placed his hands on the shoulders of the man inclining before him, and said,-- "I greet you, soldier, I greet you! I had not hoped to see you so soon; but you are the dearer to me in Yavorov. Whence do you come,--from Kamenyets?" "No, serene, great, mighty lord hetman, I have not even been at Kamenyets. I come straightway from Hreptyoff." "What is my little soldier doing there? Is he well, and has he cleared the wilds of Ushytsa even somewhat?" "The wilds are so peaceful that a child might pass through them in safety. The robbers are hanged, and in these last days Azba Bey with his whole party was cut to pieces, so that even a witness of the slaughter was not left. I arrived there on the very day of their destruction." "I recognize Volodyovski: Rushchyts in Rashkoff is the only man who may compare with him. But what do they say in the steppes? Are there fresh tidings from the Danube?" "There are, but of evil. There is to be a great muster of troops at Adrianople in the last days of winter." "I know that already. There are no tidings now save of evil,--evil from the Commonwealth, evil from the Crimea and from Stambul." "But not altogether, for I myself bring such good tidings that if I were a Turk or a Tartar I should surely mention a present." "Well, then, you have fallen from heaven to me. Come, speak quickly, dispel my anxiety!" "But if I am so frozen, your great mightiness, that the wit has stiffened in my head?" The hetman clapped his hands, and commanded an attendant to bring mead. After a while they brought in a mouldy decanter, and candlesticks with burning tapers, for though the hour was still early, snowy clouds had made the air so gloomy that outside, as well as in the house, it was like nightfall. The hetman poured out and drank to his guest; the latter, bowing low, emptied his glass, and said: "The first news is this, that Azya, who was to bring back to our service the captains of the Lithuanian Tartars and the Cheremis, is not called Mellehovich, he is a son of Tugai Bey." "Of Tugai Bey?" asked Pan Sobieski, with amazement. "Thus it is, your great mightiness. It has come out that Pan Nyenashinyets carried him away from the Crimea while a child, but lost him on the road home; and Azya, falling into possession of the Novoveskis, was reared at their house without knowing that he was descended from such a father." "It was a wonder to me that he, though so young, was held in such esteem among the Tartars. But now I understand; and the Cossacks too, even those who have remained faithful to the mother,[23] consider Hmelnitski as a kind of saint, and are proud of him." "That is just it, just it; I told Azya the same thing," said Pan Bogush. "Wonderful are the ways of God," said the hetman, after a while; "old Tugai shed rivers of blood in our country, and his son is serving it,--at least he serves it faithfully so far; but now I do not know whether he will not wish to taste Crimean greatness." "Now? Now he is still more faithful; and here my second tidings begin, in which it may be that strength and resource and salvation for the suffering Commonwealth are contained. So help me God, I forgot fatigue and danger in view of these tidings, so as to let them out of my lips at the earliest moment, and console your troubled heart." "I am listening eagerly," said Pan Sobieski. Bogush began to explain Azya's plans, and presented them with such enthusiasm that he grew really eloquent. From time to time his hand, trembling from emotion, poured out a glass of mead, spilling the noble drink over the rim; and he spoke and spoke on. Before the astonished eyes of the grand hetman passed as it were clear pictures of the future; therefore thousands and tens of thousands of Tartars came for land and freedom, bringing their wives and children and their herds; therefore the astonished Cossacks, seeing the new power of the Commonwealth, bowed down to it obediently, bowed down to the king and the hetman; hence there was rebellion in the Ukraine no longer; hence raids, destructive as fire or flood, were advancing no longer on the old roads against Russia,--but at the side of the Polish and the Cossack armies moved over the measureless steppes, with the playing of trumpets and the rattle of drums, chambuls of Tartars, nobles of the Ukraine. And for whole years carts after carts were advancing, and in them, in spite of the commands of Khan and Sultan, were multitudes who preferred the black land of the Ukraine and bread to their former hungry settlements. And the power, hostile aforetime, was moving to the service of the Commonwealth. The Crimea became depopulated; their former power slipped out of the hands of the Khan and the Sultan, and dread seized them; for from the steppes, from the Ukraine, the new hetman of a new Tartar nobility looked threateningly into their eyes,--a guardian and faithful defender of the Commonwealth, the renowned son of a terrible father, young Tugai Bey. A flush came out on the countenance of Bogush; it seemed that his own words bore him away, for at the end he raised both hands and cried,-- "This is what I bring! This is what that dragon's whelp has brooded out in the wild woods of Hreptyoff! All that is needed now is to give him a letter and permission from your great mightiness to spread a report in the Crimea and on the Danube. Your great mightiness, if Tugai Bey's son were to do nothing except to make an uproar in the Crimea and on the Danube, to cause misunderstandings, to rouse the hydra of civil war among the Tartars, to embroil some camps against others, and that on the eve of conflict, I repeat, he would render a great and undying service to the Commonwealth." But Pan Sobieski walked back and forth with long strides through the room, without speaking. His lordly face was gloomy, almost terrible; he strode, and it was to be seen that he was conversing in his soul,--unknown whether with himself or with God. At last thou didst open some page in thy soul, grand hetman, for thou gavest answer in these words to the speaker:-- "Bogush, even if I had the right to give such a letter and such permission, while I live I should not give them." These words fell as heavily as if they had been of molten lead or iron, and weighed so on Bogush that for a time he was dumb, hung his head, and only after a long interval did he groan out,-- "Why, your great mightiness, why?" "First, I will tell you, as a statesman, that the name of Tugai Bey's son might attract, it is true, a certain number of Tartars, if land, liberty, and the rights of nobility were offered them; but not so many would come as he and you have imagined. And, besides, it would be an act of madness to call Tartars to the Ukraine, and settle new people there, when we cannot manage the Cossacks alone. You say that disputes and war will rise among them at once, that there will be a sword ready for the Cossack neck; but who will assure you that that sword would not be stained with Polish blood also? I have not known this Azya, hitherto; but now I perceive that the dragon of pride and ambition inhabits his breast, therefore I ask again, who will guarantee that there is not in him a second Hmelnitski? He will beat the Cossacks; but if the Commonwealth shall fail to satisfy him in something, and threaten him with justice and punishment for some act of violence, he will join the Cossacks, summon new hordes from the East, as Hmelnitski summoned Tugai Bey, give himself to the Sultan, as Doroshenko has done, and, instead of a new growth of power, new bloodshed and defeats will come on us." "Your great mightiness, the Tartars, when they have become nobles, will hold faithfully to the Commonwealth." "Were there few of the Lithuanian Tartars and Cheremis? They were nobles a long time, and went over to the Sultan." "Their privileges were withheld from the Lithuanian Tartars." "But what will happen if, to begin with, the Polish nobles, as is certain, oppose such an extension of their rights to others? With what face, with what conscience, will you give to wild and predatory hordes, who have been destroying our country continually, the power and the right to determine the fate of that country, to choose kings, and send deputies to the diets? Why give them such a reward? What madness has come to the head of this Tartar, and what evil spirit seized you, my old soldier, to let yourself be so beguiled and seduced as to believe in such dishonor and such an impossibility?" Bogush dropped his eyes, and said with an uncertain voice:-- "I knew beforehand that the estates would oppose; but Azya said that if the Tartars were to settle with permission of your great mightiness, they would not let themselves be driven out." "Man! Why, he threatened, he shook his sword over the Commonwealth, and you did not see it!" "Your great mightiness," said Bogush, in despair, "it might be arranged not to make all the Tartars nobles, only the most considerable, and proclaim the rest free men. Even in that situation they would answer the summons of Tugai Bey's son." "But why is it not better to proclaim all the Cossacks free men? Cease, old soldier! I tell you that an evil spirit has taken possession of you." "Your great mightiness--" "And I say farther," here Pan Sobieski wrinkled his lionlike forehead and his eyes gleamed, "even if everything were to happen as you say, even if our power were to increase through this action, even if war with Turkey were to be averted, even if the nobles themselves were to call for it, still, while this hand of mine wields a sabre and can make the sign of the cross, never and never will I permit such a thing! So help me God!" "Why, your great mightiness?" repeated Bogush, wringing his hands. "Because I am not only a Polish hetman, but a Christian hetman, for I stand in defence of the Cross. And even if those Cossacks were to tear the entrails of the Commonwealth more cruelly than ever, I will not cut the necks of a blinded but still Christian people with the swords of Pagans. For by doing so I should say 'raca' to our fathers and grandfathers, to my own ancestors, to their ashes, to the blood and tears of the whole past Commonwealth. As God is true! if destruction is waiting for us, if our name is to be the name of a dead and not of a living people, let our glory remain behind and a memory of that service which God pointed out to us; let people who come in after time say, when looking at those crosses and tombs: 'Here is Christianity; here they defended the Cross against Mohammedan foulness, while there was breath in their breasts, while the blood was in their veins; and they died for other nations.' This is our service, Bogush. Behold, we are the fortress on which Christ fixed His crucifix, and you tell me, a soldier of God, nay, the commander of the fortress, to be the first to open the gate and let in Pagans, like wolves to a sheep-fold, and give the sheep, the flock of Jesus, to slaughter. Better for us to suffer from chambuls; better for us to endure rebellions; better for us to go to this terrible war; better for me and you to fall, and for the whole Commonwealth to perish,--than to put disgrace on our name, to lose our fame, and betray that guardianship and that service of God." When he had said this, Pan Sobieski stood erect in all his grandeur; on his face there was a radiance such as must have been on that of Godfrey de Bouillon when he burst in over the walls of Jerusalem, shouting, "God wills it!" Pan Bogush seemed to himself dust before those words, and Azya seemed to him dust before Pan Sobieski, and the fiery plans of the young Tartar grew black and became suddenly in the eyes of Bogush something dishonest and altogether infamous. For what could he say after the statement of the hetman that it was better to fall than to betray the service of God? What argument could he bring? Therefore he did not know, poor knight, whether to fall at the knees of the hetman, or to beat his own breast, repeating, "_Mea culpa, mea maxima culpa_." But at that moment the sound of bells was given out from the neighboring Dominican monastery. Hearing this, Pan Sobieski said,-- "They are sounding for vespers, Bogush; let us go and commit ourselves to God." CHAPTER XXXIII. As much as Pan Bogush hastened when going from Hreptyoff to the hetman, so much did he loiter on the way back. He halted a week or two in each more considerable place; he spent Christmas in Lvoff, and the New Year came on him there. He carried, it is true, the hetman's instructions for the son of Tugai Bey; but they contained merely injunctions to finish the affair of the captains promptly, and a dry and even threatening command to leave his great plans. Pan Bogush had no reason to push on, for Azya could do nothing among the Tartars without a document from the hetman. He loitered, therefore, visiting churches along the road, and doing penance because he had joined Azya's plans. Meanwhile guests had swarmed into Hreptyoff immediately after the New Year. From Kamenyets came Naviragh, a delegate from the patriarch of Echmiadzin, with him the two Anardrats, skilful theologians from Kaffa, and a numerous retinue. The soldiers wondered greatly at the strange garments of these men, at the violet and red Crimean caps, long shawls, velvet and silk, at their dark faces, and the great gravity with which they strode, like bustards or cranes, through the Hreptyoff stanitsa. Pan Zaharyash Pyotrovich, famed for his continual journeys to the Crimea, nay, to Tsargrad itself, and still more for the eagerness with which he sought out and ransomed captives in the markets of the East, accompanied, as interpreter, Naviragh and the Anardrats. Pan Volodyovski counted out to him at once the sum needful to ransom Pan Boski; and since the wife had not money sufficient, he gave from his own; Basia added her ear-rings with pearls, so as to aid more efficiently the suffering lady and her charming daughter. Pan Seferovich, pretor of Kamenyets, came also,--a rich Armenian whose brother was groaning in Tartar bonds,--and two women, still young and of beauty far from inconsiderable, though somewhat dark, Pani Neresevich and Pani Kyeremovich. Both were concerned for their captive husbands. The guests were for the greater part in trouble, but there were joyous ones also. Father Kaminski had sent, to remain for the carnival at Hreptyoff, under Basia's protection, his niece Panna Kaminski; and on a certain day Pan Novoveski the younger--that is, Pan Adam--burst in like a thunderbolt. When he had heard of the arrival of his father at Hreptyoff he obtained leave at once from Pan Rushchyts, and hastened to meet him. Pan Adam had changed greatly during the last few years; first of all, his upper lip was shaded thickly by a short mustache, which did not cover his teeth, white as a wolf's teeth, but was handsome and twisted. Secondly, the young man, always stalwart, had now become almost a giant. It seemed that such a dense and bushy forelock could grow only on such an enormous head, and such an enormous head could find needful support only on fabulous shoulders. His face, always dark, was swarthy from the winds; his eyes were gleaming like coals; defiance was as if written on his features. When he seized a large apple he hid it so easily in his powerful palm that he could play "guess which one;" and when he put a handful of nuts on his knee and pressed them with his hand he made snuff of them. Everything in him went to strength; still he was lean,--his stomach was receding, but the chest above it was as roomy as a chapel. He broke horseshoes with ease, he tied iron rods around the necks of soldiers, he seemed even larger than he was in reality; when he walked, planks creaked under him; and when he stumbled against a bench, he knocked splinters from it. In a word, he was a man in a hundred, in whom life, daring, and strength were boiling, as water in a caldron. Not being able to find room, in even such an enormous body, it seemed that he had a flame in his breast and his head, and involuntarily one looked to see if his forelock were not steaming. In fact, it steamed sometimes, for he was good at the goblet. To battle he went with a laugh which recalled the neighing of a charger; and he hewed in such fashion that when each engagement was over soldiers went to examine the bodies left by him, and wonder at his astonishing blows. Accustomed, moreover, from childhood to the steppe, to watchfulness and war, he was careful and foreseeing in spite of all his vehemence; he knew every Tartar stratagem, and, after Volodyovski and Rushchyts, was deemed the best partisan leader. In spite of threats and promises, old Novoveski did not receive his son very harshly; for he feared lest he might go away again if offended, and not show himself for another eleven years. Besides, the selfish noble was satisfied at heart with that son who had taken no money from home, who had helped himself thoroughly in the world, won glory among his comrades, the favor of the hetman, and the rank of an officer, which no one else could have struggled to without protection. The father considered that this young man, grown wild in the steppes, might not bend before the importance of his father, and in such a case it was not best to expose it to the test. Therefore the son fell at his feet, as was proper; still he looked into his eyes, and at the first reproach he answered without ceremony,-- "Father, you have blame in your mouth, but at heart you are glad, and with reason, I have incurred no disgrace,--I ran away to the squadron; besides, I am a noble." "But you may be a Mussulman," said the father, "since you did not show yourself at home for eleven years." "I did not show myself through fear of punishment, which would be repugnant to my rank and dignity of officer. I waited for a letter of pardon; I saw nothing of the letter, you saw nothing of me." "But are you not afraid at present?" The young man showed his white teeth with a smile. "This place is governed by military power, to which even the power of a father must yield. Why should you not, my benefactor, embrace me, for you have a hearty desire to do so?" Saying this, he opened his arms, and Pan Novoveski did not know himself what to do. Indeed, he could not quarrel with that son who went out of the house a lad, and returned now a mature man and an officer surrounded with military renown. And this and that flattered greatly the fatherly pride of Pan Novoveski; he hesitated only out of regard for his personal dignity. But the son seized him; the bones of the old noble cracked in the bear-like embrace, and this touched him completely. "What is to be done?" cried he, panting. "He feels, the rascal, that he is sitting on his own horse, and is not afraid. 'Pon my word! if I were at home, indeed I should not be so tender; but here, what can I do? Well, come on again." And they embraced a second time, after which the young man began to inquire hurriedly for his sister. "I gave command to keep her aside till I called her," said the father; "the girl will jump almost out of her skin." "For God's sake, where is she?" cried the son, and opening the door he began to call so loudly that an echo answered, "Eva! Eva!" from the walls. Eva, who was waiting in the next chamber, rushed in at once; but she was barely able to cry "Adam!" when strong arms seized her and raised her from the floor. The brother had loved her greatly always; in old times, while protecting her from the tyranny of their father, he took her faults on himself frequently, and received the floggings due her. In general the father was a despot at home, really cruel; therefore the maiden greeted now in that strong brother, not a brother merely, but her future refuge and protection. He kissed her on the head, on the eyes and hands; at times he held her at arms' length, looked into her face, and cried out with delight,-- "A splendid girl, as God is dear to me!" Then again, "See how she has grown! A stove,[24] not a maiden!" Her eyes were laughing at him. They began to talk then very rapidly, of their long separation, of home and the wars. Old Pan Novoveski walked around them and muttered. The son made a great impression on him; but at times disquiet touching his own future authority seemed to seize him. Those were the days of great parental power, which grew to boundless preponderance afterward; but this son was that partisan, that soldier from the wild stanitsas, who, as Pan Novoveski understood at once, was riding on his own special horse. Pan Novoveski guarded his parental authority jealously. He was certain, however, that his son would always respect him, would give him his due; but would he yield always like wax, would he endure everything as he had endured when a stripling? "Bah!" thought the old man, "if I make up my mind to it, I'll treat him like a stripling. He is daring, a lieutenant; he imposes on me, as I love God." To finish all, Pan Novoveski felt that his fatherly affection was growing each minute, and that he would have a weakness for that giant of a son. Meanwhile Eva was twittering like a bird, overwhelming her brother with questions. "When would he come home; and wouldn't he settle down, wouldn't he marry?" She in truth does not know clearly, and is not certain; but as she loves her father, she has heard that soldiers are given to falling in love. But now she remembers that it was Paul Volodyovski who said so. How beautiful and kind she is, that Pani Volodyovski! A more beautiful and better is not to be found in all Poland with a candle. Zosia Boski alone might, perhaps, be compared with her. "Who is Zosia Boski?" asked Pan Adam. "She who with her mother is stopping here, whose father was carried off by the Tartars. If you see her yourself you will fall in love with her." "Give us Zosia Boski!" cried the young officer. The father and Eva laughed at such readiness. "Love is like death," said Pan Adam: "it misses no one. I was still smooth-faced, and Pani Volodyovski was a young lady, when I fell terribly in love with her. Oi! dear God! how I loved that Basia! But what of it! 'I will tell her so,' thought I. I told her, and the answer was as if some one had given me a slap in the face. Shu, cat away from the milk! She was in love with Pan Volodyovski, it seems, already; but what is the use in talking?--she was right." "Why?" asked old Pan Novoveski. "Why? This is why: because I, without boasting, could meet every one else with the sabre; but he would not amuse himself with me while you could say 'Our Father' twice. And besides he is a partisan beyond compare, before whom Rushchyts himself would take off his cap. What, Pan Rushchyts? Even the Tartars love him. He is the greatest soldier in the Commonwealth." "And how he and his wife love each other! Ai, ai! enough to make your eyes ache to look at them," put in Eva. "Ai, your mouth waters! Your mouth waters, for your time has come too," exclaimed Pan Adam. And putting his hands on his hips he began to nod his head, as a horse does; but she answered modestly,-- "I have no thought of it." "Well, there is no lack of officers and pleasant company here." "But," said Eva, "I do not know whether father has told you that Azya is here." "Azya Mellehovich, the Lithuanian Tartar? I know him; he is a good soldier." "But you do not know," said old Pan Novoveski, "that he is not Mellehovich, but that Azya who grew up with you." "In God's name, what do I hear? Just think! Sometimes that came to my head too; but they told me that his name was Mellehovich, therefore I thought, 'Well, he is not the man,' Azya with the Tartars is a universal name. I had not seen him for so many years that I was not certain. Our Azya was rather ugly and short, and this one is a beauty." "He is ours, ours!" said old Novoveski, "or rather not ours, for do you know what has come out, whose son he is?" "How should I know?" "He is the son of the great Tugai Bey." The young man struck his powerful palms on his knees till the sound was heard through the house. "I cannot believe my ears! Of the great Tugai Bey? If that is true, he is a prince and a relative of the Khan. There is no higher blood in the Crimea than Tugai Bey's." "It is the blood of an enemy!" "It was that in the father, but the son serves us; I have seen him myself twenty times in action. Ha! I understand now whence comes that devilish daring in him. Pan Sobieski distinguished him before the whole army, and made him a captain. I am glad from my soul to greet him,--a strong soldier; from my whole heart I will greet him." "But be not too familiar with him." "Why? Is he my servant, or ours? I am a soldier, he is a soldier; I am an officer, he is an officer. If he were some fellow of the infantry who commands his regiment with a reed, I shouldn't have a word to say; but if he is the son of Tugai Bey, then no common blood flows in him. He is a prince, and that is the end of it; the hetman himself will provide naturalization for him. How should I thrust my nose above him, when I am in brotherhood with Kulak Murza, with Bakchy Aga and Sukyman? None of these would be ashamed to herd sheep for Tugai Bey." Eva felt a sudden wish to kiss her brother again; then she sat so near him that she began to stroke his bushy forelock with her shapely hand. The entrance of Pan Michael interrupted this tenderness. Pan Adam sprang up to greet the commanding officer, and began at once to explain that he had not paid his respects first of all to the commandant, because he had not come on service, but as a private person. Pan Michael embraced him cordially and said,-- "And who would blame you, dear comrade, if after so many years of absence you fell at your father's knees first of all? It would be something different were it a question of service; but have you no commission from Pan Rushchyts?" "Only obeisances. Pan Rushchyts went down to Yagorlik, for they informed him that there were multitudes of horse-tracks on the snow. My commandant received your letter and sent it to the horde to his relatives and brothers, instructing them to search and make inquiries there; but he will not write himself. 'My hand is too heavy,' he says, 'and I have no experience in that art.'" "He does not like writing, I know," said Pan Michael. "The sabre with him is always the basis." Here the mustaches of the little knight quivered, and he added, not without a certain boastfulness, "And still you were chasing Azba Bey two months for nothing." "But your grace gulped him as a pike does a whiting," cried Pan Adam, with enthusiasm. "Well, God must have disturbed his mind, that when he had escaped from Pan Rushchyts, he came under your hand. He caught it!" These words tickled the little knight agreeably, and wishing to return politeness for politeness, he turned to Pan Novoveski and said,-- "The Lord Jesus has not given me a son so far; but if ever He does, I should wish him to be like this cavalier." "There is nothing in him!" answered the old noble,--"nothing, and that is the end of it." But in spite of these words he began to puff from delight. "Here is another great treat for me!" Meanwhile the little knight stroked Eva's face, and said to her: "You see that I am no stripling; but my Basia is almost of your age; therefore I am thinking that at times she should have some pleasant amusement, proper for youthful years. It is true that all here love her beyond description, and you, I trust, see some reason for it." "Beloved God!" said Eva, "there is not in the world another such woman! I have said that just now." The little knight was rejoiced beyond measure, so that his face shone, and he asked, "Did you say that really?" "As I live she did!" cried father and son together. "Well, then, array yourself in the best, for, without Basia's knowledge, I have brought an orchestra from Kamenyets. I ordered the men to hide the instruments in straw, and I told her that they were Gypsies who had come to shoe horses. This evening I'll have tremendous dancing. She loves it, she loves it, though she likes to play the dignified matron." When he had said this. Pan Michael began to rub his hands, and was greatly pleased with himself. CHAPTER XXXIV. The snow fell so thickly that it filled the stanitsa trench altogether, and settled on the stockade wall like a mound. Outside were night and a storm; but the chief room in Hreptyoff was blazing with light. There were two violins, a bass-viol, a flageolet, a French horn, and two bugles. The fiddlers worked away till they were turning in their seats. The cheeks of the flageolet player and the buglers were puffed out, and their eyes were bloodshot. The oldest officers sat on benches at the wall, one near another,--as gray doves sit before their cotes in a roof,--and while drinking mead and wine looked at the dancers. Basia opened the ball with Pan Mushalski, who, despite advanced years, was as great a dancer as a bowman. Basia wore a robe of silver brocade edged with ermine, and resembled a newly blown rose in fresh snow. Young and old marvelled at her beauty, and the cry "Save us!" came involuntarily from the breasts of many; for though Panna Eva and Panna Zosia were somewhat younger, and beautiful beyond common measure, still Basia surpassed all. In her eyes delight and pleasure were flashing. As she swept past the little knight she thanked him for the entertainment with a smile; through her open rosy mouth gleamed white teeth, and she shone in her silver robe, glittering like a sun-ray or a star, and enchanted the eye and the heart with the beauty of a child, a woman, and a flower. The split sleeves of her robe fluttered after her like the wings of a great butterfly; and when, raising her skirt, she made an obeisance before her partner, you would think that she was floating on the earth like a vision, or one of those sprites which on bright nights in summer skip along the edges of ravines. Outside, the soldiers pressed their stern mustached-faces against the lighted window-panes, and flattening their noses against the glass peered into the room. It pleased them greatly that their adored lady surpassed all others in beauty, for they held furiously to her side; they did not spare jests, therefore, and allusions to Panna Eva, or Panna Zosia, and greeted with loud hurrahs every approach that Basia made to the window. Pan Michael increased like bread-rising, and nodded his head, keeping time with Basia's movements; Pan Zagloba, standing near, held a tankard in his hand, tapped with his foot and dropped liquor on the floor; but at times he and the little knight turned and looked at each other with uncommon rapture and puffing. But Basia glittered and glittered through the whole room, ever more joyous, ever more charming. Such for her was the Wilderness. Now a battle, now a hunt, now amusements, dancing and music, and a crowd of soldiers,--her husband the greatest among them, and he loving and beloved; Basia felt that all liked and admired her, gave her homage,--that the little knight was happy through that; and she herself felt as happy as birds feel when spring has come, and they rejoice and sing lustily and joyously in the air of May. The second couple were Azya and Eva Novoveski, who wore a crimson jacket. The young Tartar, completely intoxicated with the white vision glittering before him, spoke not one word to Eva; but she, thinking that emotion had stopped the voice in his breast, tried to give him courage by pressure of her hand, light at the beginning, and afterward stronger. Azya, on his part, pressed her hand so powerfully that hardly could she repress a cry of pain; but he did this involuntarily, for he thought only of Basia, he saw only Basia, and in his soul he repeated a terrible vow, that if he had to burn half Russia she should be his. At times, when consciousness came to him somewhat, he felt a desire to seize Eva by the throat, stifle her, and gloat over her, because she pressed his hand, and because she stood between him and Basia. At times he pierced the poor girl with his cruel, falcon glance, and her heart began to beat with more power; she thought that it was through love that he looked at her so rapaciously. Pan Adam and Zosia formed the third couple. She looked like a forget-me-not, and tripped along at his side with downcast eyes; he looked like a wild horse, and jumped like one. From under his shod heels splinters were flying; his forelock was soaring upward; his face was covered with ruddiness; he opened his nostrils wide like a Turkish charger, and sweeping Zosia around, as a whirlwind does a leaf, carried her through the air. The soul grew glad in him beyond measure, since he lived on the edge of the Wilderness whole months without seeing a woman. Zosia pleased him so much at first glance, that in a moment he was in love with her to kill. From time to time he looked at her downcast eyes, at her blooming cheeks, and just snorted at the pleasant sight; then all the more mightily did he strike fire with his heels; with greater strength did he hold her, at the turn of the dance, to his broad breast, and burst into a mighty laugh from excess of delight, and boiled and loved with more power every moment. But Zosia had fear in her dear little heart; still, that fear was not disagreeable, for she was pleased with that whirlwind of a man who bore her along and carried her with him,--a real dragon! She had seen various cavaliers in Yavorov, but such a fiery one she had not met till that hour; and none danced like him, none swept her on so. In truth, a real dragon! What was to be done with him, since it was impossible to resist? In the next couple, Panna Kaminski danced with a polite cavalier, and after her came the Armenians,--Pani Kyeremovich and Pani Neresevich, who, though wives of merchants, were still invited to the company, for both were persons of courtly manners, and very wealthy. The dignified Naviragh and the two Anardrats looked with growing wonder at the Polish dances; the old men at their mead cups made an increasing noise, like grasshoppers on stubble land. But the music drowned every voice, and in the middle of the room delight grew in all hearts. Meanwhile Basia left her partner, ran panting to her husband, and clasped her hands before him. "Michael," said she, "it is so cold outside the windows for the soldiers, give command to let them have a keg of gorailka." He, being unusually jovial, fell to kissing her hands, and cried,-- "I would not spare blood to please you!" Then he hurried out himself to tell the soldiers at whose instance they were to have the keg; for he wished them to thank Basia, and love her the more. In answer, they raised such a shout that the snow began to fall from the roof; the little knight cried in addition, "Let the muskets roar there as a vivat to the Pani!" Upon his return to the room he found Basia dancing with Azya. When the Tartar embraced, that sweet figure with his arm, when he felt the warmth coming from her and her breath on his face, his pupils went up almost into his skull, and the whole world turned before his eyes; in his soul he gave up paradise, eternity, and for all the houris he wanted only this one. Then Basia, when she noticed in passing the crimson jacket of Eva, curious to know if Azya had proposed yet, inquired,-- "Have you told her?" "No." "Why?" "It is not time yet," said he, with a strange expression. "But are you greatly in love?" "To the death, to the death!" answered the Tartar, with a low but hoarse voice, like the croaking of a raven. And they danced on, immediately after Pan Adam, who had pushed to the front. Others had changed partners, but Pan Adam did not let Zosia go; only at times he seated her on a bench to rest and recover breath, then he revelled again. At last he stopped before the orchestra, and holding Zosia with one arm, cried to the musicians,-- "Play the krakoviak! on with it!" Obedient to command, they played at once. Pan Adam kept time with his foot, and sang with an immense voice,-- "Lost are crystal torrents, In the Dniester River; Lost in thee, my heart is, Lost in thee, O maiden! U-há!" And that "U-há" he roared out in such Cossack fashion that Zosia was drooping from fear. The dignified Naviragh, standing near, was frightened, the two learned Anardrats were frightened; but Pan Adam led the dance farther. Twice he made the circle of the room, and stopping before the musicians, sang of his heart again,-- "Lost, but not to perish, Though the current snatch it; In the depth 'twill seek out And bear back a gold ring. U-há!" "Very pretty rhymes," cried Zagloba; "I am skilled in the matter, for I have made many such. Bark away, cavalier, bark away; and when you find the ring I will continue in this sense,-- "Flint are all the maidens, Steel are all the young men; You'll have sparks in plenty If you strike with will. U-há!" "Vivat! vivat Pan Zagloba!" cried the officers, with a mighty voice, so that the dignified Naviragh was frightened, and the two learned Anardrats were frightened, and began to look at one another with exceeding amazement. But Pan Adam went around twice more, and seated his partner at last on the bench, panting, and astonished at the boldness of her cavalier. He was very agreeable to her, so valiant and honest, a regular conflagration; but just because she had not met such a man hitherto, great confusion seized her,--therefore, dropping her eyes still lower, she sat in silence, like a little innocent. "Why are you silent; are you grieving for something?" asked Pan Adam. "I am; my father is in captivity," answered Zosia, with a thin voice. "Never mind that," said the young man; "it is proper to dance! Look at this room; here are some tens of officers, and most likely no one of them will die his own death, but from arrows of Pagans or in bonds,--this one to-day, that to-morrow. Each man on these frontiers has lost some one, and we make merry lest God might think that we murmur at our service. That is it. It is proper to dance. Laugh, young lady! show your eyes, for I think that you hate me!" Zosia did not raise her eyes, it is true; but she began to raise the corners of her mouth, and two dimples were formed in her rosy cheeks. "Do you love me a little bit?" asked he. And Zosia, in a still lower voice, said, "Yes; but--" When he heard this. Pan Adam started up, and seizing Zosia's hands, began to cover them with kisses, and cry,-- "Lost! No use in talking; I love you to death! I don't want any one but you, my dearest beauty! Oh, save me, how I love you! In the morning I'll fall at your mother's feet. What?--in the morning! I'll fall to-night, so as to be sure that you are mine!" A tremendous roar of musketry outside the window drowned Zosia's answer. The delighted soldiers were firing, as a vivat for Basia; the window-panes rattled, the walls trembled. The dignified Naviragh was frightened a third time; the two learned Anardrats were frightened; but Zagloba, standing near, began to pacify them. "With the Poles," said he to them, "there is never rejoicing without outcry and clamor." In truth, it came out that all were just waiting for that firing from muskets to revel in the highest degree. The usual ceremony of nobles began now to give way to the wildness of the steppe. Music thundered again; dances burst out anew, like a storm; eyes were flashing and fiery; mist rose from the forelocks. Even the oldest went into the dance; loud shouts were heard every moment; and they drank and frolicked,--drank healths from Basia's slipper; fired from pistols at Eva's boot-heels. Hreptyoff shouted and roared and sang till daybreak, so that the beasts in the neighboring wilds hid from fear in the deepest thickets. Since that was almost on the eve of a terrible war with the Turkish power, and over all these people terror and destruction were hanging, the dignified Naviragh wondered beyond measure at those Polish soldiers, and the two learned Anardrats wondered no less. CHAPTER XXXV. All slept late next morning, except the soldiers on guard and the little knight, who never neglected service for pleasure. Pan Adam was on his feet early enough, for Panna Zosia seemed still more charming to him after his rest. Arraying himself handsomely, he went to the room in which they had danced the previous evening to listen whether there was not some movement or bustle in the adjoining chambers where the ladies were. In the chamber occupied by Pani Boski movement was to be heard; but the impatient young man was so anxious to see Zosia that he seized his dagger and fell to picking out the moss and clay between the logs, so that, God willing, he might look through the chink with one eye at Zosia. Zagloba, who was just passing with his beads in his hand, found him at this work, and knowing at once what the matter was, came up on tiptoe and began to belabor with the sandalwood beads the shoulders of the knight. Pan Adam slipped aside and squirmed as if laughing; but he was greatly confused, and the old man pursued him and struck him continually. "Oh, such a Turk! oh, Tartar! here it is for you; here it is for you! I exorcise you! Where are your morals? You want to see a woman? Here it is for you; here it is for you!" "My benefactor," cried Pan Adam, "it is not right to make a whip out of holy beads. Let me go, for I had no sinful intention." "You say it is not right to strike with a rosary? Not true! The palm on Palm Sunday is holy, and still people strike with it. Ha! these were Pagan beads once and belonged to Suban Kazi; but I took them from him at Zbaraj, and afterward the apostolic nuncio blessed them. See, they are genuine sandalwood!" "If they are real sandalwood, they have an odor." "Beads have an odor for me, and a girl for you. I must dress your shoulders well yet, for there is nothing to drive out the Devil like a chaplet." "I had no sinful intention; upon my health I had not!" "Was it only through piety that you were opening a chink?" "Not through piety, but through love, which is so wonderful that I'm not sure that I shall not burst from it, as a bomb bursts. What is the use in pretending, when it is true? Flies do not trouble a horse in autumn as this affection troubles me." "See that this is not sinful desire; for when I came in here you could not stand still, but were striking heel against heel as if you were standing on a firebrand." "I saw nothing, as I love God sincerely, for I had only just begun to pick at the chink." "Ah, youth! blood is not water! I, too, must at times even yet repress myself, for in me there is a lion seeking whom he may devour. If you have honorable intentions, you are thinking of marriage." "Thinking of marriage? God of might! of what should I be thinking? Not only am I thinking, but 'tis as if some one were pricking me with an awl. Is it not known to your grace that I made a proposal to Panna Boski last evening, and I have the consent of my father?" "The boy is of sulphur and powder! Hangman take thee! If that is the case, then the affair is quite different; but tell me, how was it?" "Last evening Pani Boski went to her room to bring a handkerchief for Zosia, I after her. She turns around: 'Who is there?' And I, with a rush to her feet: 'Beat me, mother, but give me Zosia,--my happiness, my love!' But Pani Boski, when she recovered herself, said: 'All people praise you and think you a worthy cavalier; still, I will not give an answer to-day, nor to-morrow, but later; and you need the permission of your father.' She went out then, thinking that I was under the influence of wine. In truth, I had a little in my head." "That is nothing; all had some in their heads. Did you not see the pointed caps sidewise on the heads of Naviragh and the Anardrats toward the end?" "I did not notice them, for I was settling in my mind how to get my father's consent in the easiest way." "Well, did it come hard?" "Toward morning we both went to our room; and because it is well to hammer iron while it is hot, I thought to myself at once that it was necessary to feel, even from afar, how my father would look at the matter. 'Listen, father: I want Zosia terribly, and I want your consent; and if you don't give it, then, as God lives, I'll go to the Venetians to serve, and that's all you'll hear of me.' Then did not he fall on me with great rage: 'Oh, such a son!' said he; 'you can do without permission! Go to the Venetians, or take the girl,--only I tell you this, that I will not give you a copper, not only of my own, but of your mother's money, for it is all mine.'" Zagloba thrust out his under-lip. "Oh, that is bad!" "But wait. When I heard that, I said: 'But am I asking for money, or do I need it? I want your blessing, nothing more; for the property of Pagans that came to my sabre is enough to rent a good estate or purchase a village. What belongs to mother, let that be a dower for Eva; I will add one or two handfuls of turquoise and some silk and brocade, and if a bad year comes, I'll help my father with ready money.' My father became dreadfully curious then. 'Have you such wealth?' asked he. 'In God's name, where did you get it? Was it from plunder, for you went away as poor as a Turkish saint?' "'Fear God, father,' answered I. 'It is eleven years since I began to bring down this fist, and, as they say, it is not of the worst, and shouldn't it collect something? I was at the storming of rebel towns in which ruffiandom and the Tartars had piled up the finest plunder; I fought against murzas and robber bands: booty came and came. I took only what was recognized as mine without injustice to any; but it increased, and if a man didn't frolic, I should have had twice as much property as you got from your father.'" "What did the old man say to that?" asked Zagloba, rejoicing. "My father was amazed, for he had not expected this, and began straightway to complain of my wastefulness. 'There would be,' said he, 'an increase, but that this scatterer, this haughty fellow who loves only to plume himself and puts on the magnate, squanders all, saves nothing.' Then curiosity conquered him, and he began to ask particularly what I have; and seeing that I could travel quickly by smearing with that tar, I not only concealed nothing, but lied a little, though usually I will not over-color, for I think thus to myself: 'Truth is oats, and lying chopped straw.' My father bethought himself, and now for plans: 'This or that [land] might have been bought,' said he; 'this or that lawsuit might have been kept up,' said he; 'we might have lived at each side of the same boundary, and when you were away I could have looked after everything.' And my worthy father began to cry. 'Adam,' said he, 'that girl has pleased me terribly; she is under the protection of the hetman,--there may be some profit out of that, too; but do you respect this my second daughter, and do not squander what she has, for I should not forgive you at my death-hour.' And I, my gracious benefactor, just roared at the very suspicion of injustice to Zosia. My father and I fell into each other's embraces, and wept till the first cockcrow, precisely." "The old rogue!" muttered Zagloba, then he added aloud: "Ah, there may be a wedding soon, and new amusements in Hreptyoff, especially since it is carnival time." "There would be one to-morrow if it depended on me," cried Pan Adam, abruptly; "but this is what: My leave will end soon, and service is service, so I must return to Rashkoff. Well, Pan Rushchyts will give me another leave, I know. But I am not certain that there will not be delays on the part of the ladies. For when I push up to the old one, she says, 'My husband is in captivity.' When I speak to the daughter, she says, 'Papa is in captivity.' What of that? I do not keep that papa in bonds, do I? I'm terribly afraid of these obstacles; if it were not for that, I would take Father Kaminski by the soutane and wouldn't let him go till he had tied Zosia and me. But when women get a thing into their heads you can't draw it out with nippers. I'd give my last copper, I'd go in person for 'papa,' but I've no way of doing it. Besides, no one knows where he is; maybe he is dead, and there is the work for you! If they ask me to wait for him, I might have to wait till the Day of Judgment!" "Pyotrovich, Naviragh, and the Anardrats will take the road to-morrow; there will be tidings soon." "Jesus save us! Am I to wait for tidings? There can be nothing before spring; meanwhile I shall wither away, as God is dear to me! My benefactor, all have faith in your wit and experience; knock this waiting out of the heads of these women. My benefactor, in the spring there will be war. God knows what will happen. Besides, I want to marry Zosia, not 'papa;' why must I sigh to him?" "Persuade the women to go to Rashkoff and settle. There it will be easier to get tidings, and if Pyotrovich finds Boski, he will be near you. I will do what I can, I repeat; but do you ask Pani Basia to take your part." "I will not neglect that, I will not neglect, for devil--" With that the door squeaked, and Pani Boski entered. But before Zagloba could look around, Pan Adam had already thundered down with his whole length at her feet, and occupying an enormous extent of the floor with his gigantic body, began to cry:-- "I have my father's consent. Give me Zosia, mother! Give me Zosia, give me Zosia, mother!" "Give Zosia, mother," repeated Zagloba, in a bass voice. The uproar drew people from the adjacent chambers; Basia came in, Pan Michael came from his office, and soon after came Zosia herself. It did not become the girl to seem to surmise what the matter was; but her face grew purple at once, and putting one hand in the other quickly she dropped them before her, pursed her mouth, and stood at the wall with downcast eyes. Pan Michael ran for old Novoveski. When he came he was deeply offended that his son had not committed the function to him, and had not left the affair to his eloquence, still he upheld the entreaty. Pani Boski, who lacked, indeed, every near guardianship in the world, burst into tears at last, and agreed to Pan Adam's request to go to Rashkoff and wait there for her husband. Then, covered with tears, she turned to her daughter. "Zosia," asked she, "are the plans of Pan Adam to your heart?" All eyes were turned to Zosia. She was standing at the wall, her eyes fixed on the floor as usual, and only after some silence did she say, in a voice barely audible,-- "I will go to Rashkoff." "My beauty!" roared Pan Adam, and springing to the maiden he caught her in his arms. Then he cried till the walls trembled, "Zosia is mine! She is mine, she is mine!" CHAPTER XXXVI. Pan Adam started for Rashkoff immediately after his betrothal, to find and furnish quarters for Pani and Panna Boski; two weeks after his departure a whole caravan of Hreptyoff guests left the fortalice. It was composed of Naviragh, the two Anardrats, the Armenian women (Kyeremovich and Neresevich), Seferevich, Pani and Panna Boski, the two Pyotroviches, and old Pan Novoveski, without counting a number of Armenians from Kamenyets, and numerous servants, as well as armed attendants to guard wagons, draft horses, and pack animals. The Pyotroviches and the delegation of the patriarch of Echmiadzin were to rest simply at Rashkoff, receive news there concerning their journey, and move on toward the Crimea. The remainder of the company determined to settle in Rashkoff for a time, and wait, at least till the first thaws, for the return of the prisoners; namely, Boski, the younger Seferevich, and the two merchants whose wives were long waiting in sorrow. That was a difficult road, for it lay through silent wastes and steep ravines. Fortunately abundant but dry snow formed excellent sleighing; the presence of commands in Mohiloff, Yampol, and Rashkoff insured safety. Azba Bey was cut to pieces, the robbers either hanged or dispersed; and the Tartars in winter, through lack of grass, did not go out on the usual roads. Finally, Pan Adam had promised to meet them with a few tens of horses, if he should receive permission from Pan Rushchyts. They went, therefore, briskly and willingly; Zosia was ready to go to the end of the world for Pan Adam. Pani Boski and the two Armenian women were hoping for the speedy return of their husbands. Rashkoff lay, it is true, in terrible wilds on the border of Christendom; but still they were not going there for a lifetime, nor for a long stay. In spring war would come; war was mentioned on the borders everywhere. When their loved ones were found, they must return with the first warm breeze to save their heads from destruction. Eva remained at Hreptyoff, detained by Pani Basia. Pan Novoveski did not insist greatly on taking his daughter, especially as he was leaving her in the house of such worthy people. "I will send her most safely, or I will take her myself," said Basia, "rather I will take her myself, for I should like to see once in my life that whole terrible boundary of which I have heard so much from childhood. In spring, when the roads will be black from chambuls, my husband would not let me go; but now, if Eva stays here, I shall have a fair pretext. In a couple of weeks I shall begin to insist, and in three I shall have permission surely." "Your husband, I hope, will not let you go in winter unless with a good escort." "If he can go, he will go with me; if not, Azya will escort us with a couple of hundred or more horses, for I hear that he is to be sent to Rashkoff in every case." The conversation ended with this, and Eva remained in Hreptyoff. Basia, however, had other calculations besides the reasons given to Pan Novoveski. She wished to lighten for Azya an approach to Eva, for the young Tartar was beginning to disquiet her. As often as he met Basia he answered her queries, it is true, by saying that he loved Eva, that his former feeling had not died; but when he was with Eva he was silent. Meanwhile the girl had fallen in love with him to desperation in that Hreptyoff desert. His wild but splendid beauty, his childhood passed under the strong hand of Novoveski, his princely descent, and that prolonged mystery which had weighed upon him, finally his military fame, had enchanted her thoroughly. She was waiting merely for the moment to open to him her heart, burning as a flame, and to say to him, "Azya, I have loved thee from childhood," to fall into his arms and vow love to him till death. Meanwhile he closed his teeth and was silent. Eva herself thought at first that the presence of her father and brother restrained Azya from a confession. Later, disquiet seized her too, for if obstacles arose unavoidably on the part of her father and brother, especially before Azya had received naturalization, still he might open his heart to her, and he was bound to do so the more speedily and sincerely the more obstacles were rising on their road. But he was silent. Doubt crept at last into the maiden's heart, and she began to complain of her misfortune to Basia, who pacified her, saying:-- "I do not deny that he is a strange man, and wonderfully secretive; but I am certain that he loves you, for he has told me so frequently, and besides he looks on you not as on others." To this Eva, shaking her head, answered gloomily: "Differently, that is certain; but I know not whether there is love or hatred in that gaze." "Dear Eva, do not talk folly; why should he hate you?" "But why should he love me?" Here Basia began to pass her small hands over the maiden's face. "But why does Michael love me? And why did your brother, when he had barely seen Zosia, fall in love with her?" "Adam has always been hasty." "Azya is haughty, and dreads refusal, especially from your father; your brother, having been in love himself, would understand more quickly the torture of that feeling. This is how it is. Be not foolish, Eva; have no fear. I will stir up Azya well, and you'll see how courageous he'll be." In fact, Basia had an interview with Azya that very day, after which she rushed in great haste to Eva. "It is all over!" cried she on the threshold. "What?" asked Eva, flushing. "Said I to him, 'What are you thinking of, to feed me with ingratitude? I have detained Eva purposely that you might take advantage of the occasion; but if you do not, know that in two, or at furthest three weeks, I will send her to Rashkoff. I may go myself with her, and you'll be left in the lurch.' His face changed when he heard of the journey to Rashkoff, and he began to beat with his forehead to my feet. I asked him then what he had on his mind, and he answered: 'On the road I will confess what I have in my breast. On the road,' said he, 'will be the best occasion; on the road will happen what is to happen, what is predestined. I will confess all, I will disclose all, for I cannot live longer in this torment.' His lips began to quiver, so anxious was he before, for he has received some unfavorable letters from Kamenyets. He told me that he must go to Rashkoff in every event, that there is an old command of the hetman to my husband touching that matter; but the period is not mentioned in the command, for it depends on negotiations which he is carrying on there with the captains. 'But now,' said he, 'the time is approaching, and I must go to them beyond Rashkoff, so that at the same time I can conduct your grace and Panna Eva.' I told him in answer that it was unknown whether I should go or not, for it would depend on Michael's permission. When he heard this he was frightened greatly. Ai, you are a fool, Eva! You say that he doesn't love you, but he fell at my feet; and when he implored me to go, I tell you he just whined, so that I had a mind to shed tears over him. Do you know why he did that? He told me at once. 'I,' said he, 'will confess what I have in my heart; but without the prayers of your grace I shall do nothing with the Novoveskis, I shall only rouse anger and hatred in them against myself. My fate is in the hands of your grace, my suffering, my salvation; for if your grace will not go, then better that the earth swallowed me, or that living fire burned me.' That is how he loves you. Simply terrible to think of! And if you had seen how he looked at that moment you would have been frightened." "No, I am not afraid of him," answered Eva, and she began to kiss Basia's hands. "Go with us; go with us!" repeated she, with emotion; "go with us! You alone can save us; you alone will not fear to tell my father; you alone can effect something. Go with us! I will fall at the feet of Pan Volodyovski to get leave for you. Without you, father and Azya will spring at each other with knives. Go with us; go with us!" And saying this, she dropped to Basia's knees and began to embrace them with tears. "God grant that I go!" said Basia. "I will lay all before Michael, and will not cease to torment him. It is safe now to go even alone, and what will it be with such a numerous retinue! Maybe Michael himself will go; if not, he has a heart, and will give me permission. At first he will cry out against it; but just let me grow gloomy, he will begin to walk around me at once, look into my eyes, and give way. I should prefer to have him go too, for I shall be terribly lonely without him; but what is to be done? I will go anyhow to give you some solace. In this case it is not a question of my wishes, but of the fate of you and Azya. Michael loves you both,--he will consent." After that interview with Basia, Azya flew to his own room, as full of delight and consolation as if he had gained health after a sore illness. A while before wild despair had been tearing his soul; that very morning he had received a dry and brief letter from Pan Bogush of the following contents:-- My beloved Azya,--I have halted in Kamenyets, and to Hreptyoff I will not go this time; first, because fatigue has overcome me, and secondly, because I have no reason to go. I have been in Yavorov. The hetman not only refuses to grant you permission by letter to cover your mad designs with his dignity, but he commands you sternly, and under pain of losing his favor, to drop them at once. I, too, have decided that what you have told me is worthless. It would be a sin for a refined, Christian people to enter into such intrigues with Pagans; and it would be a disgrace before the whole world to grant the privileges of nobility to malefactors, robbers, and shedders of innocent blood. Moderate yourself in this matter, and do not think of the office of hetman, since it is not for you, though you are Tugai Bey's son. But if you wish to re-establish promptly the favor of the hetman, be content with your office, and hasten especially that work with Krychinski, Adurovich, Tarasovski, and others, for thus you will render best service. The hetman's statement of what you are to do, I send with this letter, and an official command to Pan Volodyovski, that there be no hindrance to you in going and coming with your men. You'll have to go on a sudden to meet those captains, of course; only hurry, and report to me carefully at Kamenyets, what you hear on the other bank. Commending you herewith to the favor of God, I remain, with unchanging good wishes, Martsin Bogush of Zyemblyts, Under-Carver of Novgrod. When the young Tartar received this letter, he fell into a terrible fury. First he crushed the letter in his hand into bits; then he stabbed the table time after time with his dagger; next he threatened his own life and that of the faithful Halim, who on his knees begged him to undertake nothing till he had recovered from rage and despair. That letter was a cruel blow to him. The edifices which his pride and ambition had reared, were as if blown up with powder; his plans were destroyed. He might have become the third hetman in the Commonwealth, and held its fate in his hand; and now he sees that he must remain an obscure officer, for whom the summit of ambition would be naturalization. In his fiery imagination he had seen crowds bowing down daily before him; and now it will come to him to bow down before others. It is no good for him either that he is the son of Tugai Bey, that the blood of reigning warriors flows in his veins, that great thoughts are born in his soul--nothing--all nothing! He will live unrecognized and die in some distant little fortalice forgotten. One word broke his wing; one "no" brought it about, that, henceforward, he will not be free to soar like an eagle to the firmament, but must crawl like a worm on the ground. But all this is nothing yet, in comparison with the happiness which he has lost. She for the possession of whom he would have given blood and eternity; she for whom he was flaming like fire; she whom he loved with eyes, hearty soul, blood,--would never be his. That letter took from him her, as well as the baton of a hetman. Hmelnitski might carry off Chaplinski's wife; Azya, a hetman, might carry off another man's wife, and defend himself even against the whole Commonwealth, but how could that Azya take her,--Azya, a lieutenant of Lithuanian Tartars, serving under command of her husband? When he thought of this, the world grew black before his eyes,--empty, gloomy; and the son of Tugai Bey was not sure but he would better die, than live without a reason to live, without happiness, without hope, without the woman he loved. This pressed him down the more terribly since he had not looked for such a blow; nay, considering the condition of the Commonwealth, he had become more convinced every day that the hetman would confirm those plans. Now his hopes were blown apart like mist before a whirlwind. What remained to him? To renounce glory, greatness, happiness; but he was not the man to do that. At the first moment the madness of anger and despair carried him away. Fire was passing through his bones and burning him fiercely; hence he howled and gnashed his teeth, and thoughts equally fiery and vengeful were flying through his head. He wanted revenge on the Commonwealth, on the hetman, on Pan Michael, even on Basia. He wanted to rouse his Tartars, cut down the garrison, all the officers, all Hreptyoff, kill Pan Michael, carry off Basia, go with her beyond the Moldavian boundary, and then down to the Dobrudja, and farther on, even to Tsargrad itself, even to the deserts of Asia. But the faithful Halim watched over him, and he himself, when he had recovered from his first fury and despair, recognized all the impossibility of those plans. Azya in this too resembled Hmelnitski; as in Hmelnitski, so in him, a lion and a serpent dwelt in company. Should he attack Hreptyoff with his faithful Tartars, what would come of that? Would Pan Michael, who is as watchful as a stork, let himself be surprised; and even if he should, would that famous partisan let himself be slaughtered, especially as he had at hand more and better soldiers? Finally, suppose that Azya should finish Volodyovski, what would he do then? If he moves along the river toward Yagorlik, he must rub out the commands at Mohiloff, Yampol, and Rashkoff; if he crosses to the Moldavian bank, the perkulabs are there, friends of Volodyovski, and Habareskul of Hotin himself, his sworn friend. If he goes to Doroshenko, there are Polish commands at Bratslav; and the steppe, even in winter, is full of scouts. In view of all this, Tugai Bey's son felt his helplessness, and his malign soul belched forth flames first, and then buried itself in deep despair, as a wounded wild beast buries itself in a dark den of a cliff, and remained quiet. And as uncommon pain kills itself and ends in torpidity, so he became torpid at last. Just then it was announced to him that the wife of the commandant wished to speak to him. Halim did not recognize Azya when he returned from that conversation. Torpor had vanished from the Tartar's face, his eyes danced like those of a wild-cat, his face was gleaming, and his white teeth glittered from under his mustaches; in his wild beauty he was like the terrible Tugai Bey. "My lord," inquired Halim, "in what way has God comforted thy soul?" "Halim," said Azya, "God forms bright day after dark night, and commands the sun to rise out of the sea." Here he seized the old Tartar by the shoulders. "In a month she will be mine for the ages!" And such a gleam issued from his dark face that he was beautiful, and Halim began to make obeisances. "Oh, son of Tugai Bey, thou art great, mighty, and the malice of the unbeliever cannot overcome thee!" "Listen!" said Azya. "I am listening, son of Tugai Bey." "I will go beyond the blue sea, where the snows lie only on the mountains, and if I return again to these regions it will be at the head of chambuls like the sands of the sea, as innumerable as the leaves in those wildernesses, and I will bring fire and sword. But thou, Halim, son of Kurdluk, wilt take the road to-day, wilt find Krychinski, and tell him to hasten with his men to the opposite bank over against Rashkoff. And let Adurovich, Moravski, Aleksandrovich, Groholski, Tarasovski, with every man living of the Lithuanian Tartars and Cheremis, threaten the troops. Let them notify the chambuls that are in winter quarters with Doroshenko to cause great alarm from the side of Uman, so that the Polish commands may go far into the steppe from Mohiloff, Yampol, and Rashkoff. Let there be no troops on that road over which I go, so that when I leave Rashkoff there will remain behind me only ashes and burned ruins." "God aid thee, my lord!" answered Halim. And he began to make obeisances, and Tugai Bey's son bent over him and repeated a number of times yet,-- "Hasten the messengers, hasten the messengers, for only a month's time is left!" He dismissed Halim then, and remaining alone began to pray, for he had a breast filled with happiness and gratitude to God. And while praying he looked involuntarily through the window at his men, who were leading out their horses just then to water them at the wells; the square was black there was such a crowd. The Tartars, while singing their monotonous songs in a low voice, began to draw the squeaking well-sweeps and to pour water into the trough. Steam rose in two pillars from the nostrils of each horse and concealed his face. All at once Pan Michael, in a sheepskin coat and cowhide boots, came out of the main building, and, approaching the men, began to say something. They listened to him, straightening themselves and removing their caps in contradiction to Eastern custom. At sight of him Azya ceased praying, and muttered,-- "You are a falcon, but you will not fly whither I fly; you will remain in Hreptyoff in grief and in sorrow." After Pan Michael had spoken to the soldiers, he returned to the building, and on the square was heard again the songs of Tartars, the snorting of horses, and the plaintive and shrill sound of well-sweeps. CHAPTER XXXVII. The little knight, as Basia had foreseen, cried out against her plans at once when he learned them, said he never would agree to them, for he could not go himself and he would not let her go without him; but on all sides began then prayers and insistence which were soon to bend his decision. Basia insisted less, indeed, than he expected, for she wished greatly to go with her husband, and without him the journey lost a part of its charm; but Eva knelt before the little knight, and kissing his hands implored him by his love for Basia to permit her to go. "No other will dare approach my father," said she, "and mention such an affair,--neither I, nor Azya, nor even my brother. Basia alone can do it, for he refuses her nothing." "Basia is no matchmaker," said Pan Michael, "and, besides, you must come back here; let her do this at your return." "God knows what will happen before the return," answered Eva, with weeping,--"it is certain only that I shall die of suffering; but for such an orphan for whom no one has pity, death is best of all." The little knight had a heart tender beyond measure, hence he began to walk up and down in the room. He wished above all not to part with his Basia, even for a day, and what must it be for two weeks! Still, it was clear that the prayers moved him deeply, for in a couple of days after those attacks he said one evening,-- "If I could only go with you! But that cannot be, for service detains me." Basia sprang to him, and putting her rosy mouth to his cheek began to cry,-- "Go, Michael, go, go!" "It is not possible by any means," answered Pan Michael, with decision. And again two days passed. During this time the little knight asked advice of Zagloba as to what he ought to do; but Zagloba refused to give advice. "If there are no other obstacles but your feelings," said he, "what have I to say? Decide yourself. The house will be empty here without the haiduk. Were it not for my age and the hard road, I would go myself, for there is no life without her." "But you see there is really no hindrance: the weather is a little frosty, that is all; for the rest, it is quiet, there are commands along the road everywhere." "In that case decide for yourself." After that conversation Pan Michael began to hesitate again, and to weigh two things. He was sorry for Eva. He paused also over this,--is it proper to send the girl alone with Azya on such a long road? and still more over another point,--is it proper to withhold help from devoted people when the opportunity to give it is so easy? For what was the real difficulty? Basia's absence for two or three weeks. Even if it were only a question of pleasing Basia, by letting her see Mohiloff, Yampol, and Rashkoff, why not please her? Azya, in one event or another, must go with his squadron to Rashkoff; hence there would be a strong and even a superfluous guard in view of the destruction of the robbers, and the quiet during winter from the horde. The little knight yielded more and more, seeing which the ladies renewed their insistence,--one representing the affair as a good deed and a duty, the other weeping and lamenting. Finally Azya bowed down before the commandant. He knew, he said, that he was unworthy of such a favor, but still he had shown so much devotion and attachment to the Volodyovskis that he made bold to beg for it. He owed much gratitude to both, since they did not permit men to insult him, even when he was not known as the son of Tugai Bey. He would never forget that the wife of the commandant had dressed his wounds, and had been to him not only a gracious lady, but as it were a mother. He had given proofs of his gratitude recently in the battle with Azba Bey, and with God's help in future he would lay down his head and shed the last drop of his blood for the life of the lady, if need be. Then he began to tell of his old and unfortunate love for Eva. He could not live without that maiden; he had loved her through whole years of separation, though without hope, and he would never cease to love her. But between him and old Pan Novoveski there was an ancient hatred, and the previous relation of servant and master separated them, as it were, by a broad ravine. The lady alone could reconcile them to each other; and if she could not do that, she could at least shelter the dear girl from her father's tyranny, from confinement and the lash. Pan Michael would have preferred, perhaps, that Basia had not interfered in the matter; but as he himself loved to do good to people, he did not wonder at his wife's heart. Still, he did not answer Azya affirmatively yet; he resisted even additional tears from Eva; but he locked himself up in the chancery and fell to thinking. At last he came out to supper on a certain evening with an agreeable expression of face, and after supper he asked Azya suddenly, "Azya, when is it time for you to go?" "In a week, your great mightiness," answered the Tartar, unquietly. "Halim, it must be, will have concluded negotiations with Krychinski by that time." "Give orders to repair the great sleigh, for you must take two ladies to Rashkoff." When she heard this, Basia began to clap her hands, and rushed headlong to her husband. After her hurried Eva; after Eva, Azya bowed down to the little knight's knees with a wild outburst of delight, so that Pan Michael had to free himself. "Give me peace!" said he; "what is there wonderful? When it's possible to help people, it is hard not to help them, unless one is altogether heartless; and I am no tyrant. But do you, Basia, return quickly, my love; and do you, Azya, guard her faithfully; in this way you will thank me best. Well, well, give me peace!" Here his mustaches began to quiver, and then he said more joyously, to give himself courage,-- "The worst are those tears of women; when I see tears there is nothing left of me. But you, Azya, must thank not only me and my wife, but this young lady, who has followed me like a shadow, exhibiting her sorrow continually before my eyes. You must pay her for such affection." "I will pay her; I will pay her!" said Azya, with a strange voice; and seizing Eva's hands, he kissed them so violently that it might be thought he wished rather to bite them. "Michael!" cried Zagloba, suddenly, pointing to Basia, "what shall we do here without her?" "Indeed it will be grievous," said the little knight, "God knows it will!" Then he added more quietly: "But the Lord God may bless my good action later. Do you understand?" Meanwhile Basia pushed in between them her bright head full of curiosity. "What are you saying?" "Nothing," replied Zagloba; "we said that in spring the storks would come surely." Basia began to rub her face to her husband's like a real cat. "Michael dear! I shall not stay long," said she, in a low voice. After this conversation new councils were held during several days touching the journey. Pan Michael looked after everything himself, gave orders to arrange the sleigh in his presence, and line it with skins of foxes killed in autumn. Zagloba brought his own lap-robe, so that she might have wherewith to cover her feet on the road. Sleighs were to go with a bed and provisions; and Basia's pony was to go, so that she might leave her sleigh in dangerous places; for Pan Michael had a particular fear of the entrance to Mohiloff, which was really a breakneck descent. Though there was not the slightest likelihood of an attack, the little knight commanded Azya to take every precaution: to send men always a couple of furlongs in advance, and never pass the night on the road but in places where there were commands; to start at daylight, and not to loiter on the way. To such a degree did the little knight think of everything, that with his own hand he loaded the pistols for the holsters in Basia's saddle. The moment of departure came at last. It was still dark when two hundred horse of the Lithuanian Tartars were standing ready on the square. In the chief room of the commandant's house movement reigned also. In the chimneys pitchy sticks were shooting up bright flames. The little knight, Pan Zagloba, Pan Mushalski, Pan Nyenashinyets. Pan Hromyka, and Pan Motovidlo, and with them officers from the light squadrons, had come to say farewell. Basia and Eva, warm yet and ruddy from sleep, were drinking heated wine for the road. Pan Michael, sitting by his wife, had his arm around her waist; Zagloba poured out to her, repeating at each addition, "Take more, for the weather is frosty." Basia and Eva were dressed in male costume, for women travelled generally in that guise on the frontiers. Basia had a sabre; a wild-cat skin shuba bound with weasel-skin; an ermine cap with earlaps; very wide trousers looking like a skirt; and boots to her knees, soft and lined. To all this were to be added warm cloaks and shubas with hoods to cover the faces. Basia's face was uncovered yet, and astonished people as usual with its beauty. Some, however, looked appreciatively at Eva, who had a mouth formed as it were for kisses; and others did not know which to prefer, so charming seemed both to the soldiers, who whispered in one another's ears,-- "It is hard for a man to live in such a desert! Happy commandant, happy Azya! Uh!" The fire crackled joyfully in the chimneys; the crowing of cocks began; day approached gradually, rather frosty and clear; the roofs of the sheds and the quarters of the soldiers, covered with deep snow, took on a bright rose color. From the square was heard the snorting of horses and the squeaking steps of soldiers and dragoons who had assembled from the sheds and lodgings to take farewell of Basia and the Tartars. "It is time!" said Pan Michael at last. Hearing this, Basia sprang from her place and fell into her husband's arms. He pressed his lips to hers, then held her with all his strength to his breast, kissed her eyes and forehead, and again her mouth. That moment was long, for they loved each other immensely. After the little knight the turn came to Zagloba; then the other officers approached to kiss her hand, and she repeated with her childish voice, resonant as silver,-- "Be in good health, gentlemen; be in good health!" She and Eva put on cloaks with openings instead of sleeves, and then shubas with hoods, and the two vanished altogether under these robes. The broad door was thrown open, a frosty steam rushed in, then the whole assembly found itself on the square. Outside everything was becoming more and more visible from the snow and daylight. Hoar-frost had settled on the hair of the horses and the sheepskin coats of the men; it seemed as though the whole squadron were dressed in white, and were sitting on white horses. Basia and Eva took their seats in the fur-lined sleigh. The dragoons and the soldiers shouted for a happy journey to the departing. At that sound a numerous flock of crows and ravens, which a severe winter had driven in near the dwellings of people, flew from the roofs, and with low croaking began to circle in the rosy air. The little knight bent over the sleigh and hid his face in the hood covering the face of his wife. Long was that moment; at last he tore himself away from Basia, and, making the sign of the cross, exclaimed,-- "In the name of God!" Now Azya rose in the stirrups; his wild face was gleaming from delight and the dawn. He waved his whirlbat, so that his burka rose like the wings of a bird of prey, and he cried with a piercing voice:-- "Move on!" The hoofs squeaked on the snow; abundant steam came from the nostrils of the horses. The first rank moved slowly; after that the second, the third, and the fourth, then the sleigh, then the ranks of the whole detachment began to move across the sloping square to the gate. The little knight blessed them with the Holy Cross; at last, when the sleigh had passed the gate, he put his hands around his mouth, and called, "Be well, Basia!" But only the voices of muskets and the loud cawing of the dark birds gave him answer. CHAPTER XXXVIII. A detachment of Cheremis, some twenty in number, marched five miles in advance to examine the road and notify commandants of Pani Volodyovski's journey, so that quarters might be ready for her in each place. After this detachment came the main force of the Lithuanian Tartars, the sleigh with Basia and Eva, and another sleigh with servant-women; a small detachment closed the march. The road was heavy enough because of snowdrifts. Pine woods, which in winter do not lose their needle-like leaves, permit less snow to fall to the earth; but that forest along the bank of the Dniester, formed for the most part of oaks and other deciduous trees, stripped now of their natural covering, was packed halfway to the lower branches with snow. Snow had filled also the narrowest ravines; in places it had been lifted into waves whose curling summits seemed as if ready to tumble in an instant and be lost in the general white expanse. During the passage of difficult ravines and declivities the Tartars held the sleighs back with ropes; only on the lofty plains, where the wind had smoothed the snow surface, did they drive quickly in the track of the caravan, which with Naviragh and the two learned Anardrats had started earlier from Hreptyoff. Travelling was difficult; not so difficult, however, as sometimes in those wild regions full of chasms, rivers, streams, and gullies. The ladies were rejoiced, therefore, that before deep night came they would be able to reach the precipitous ravine in the bottom of which stood Mohiloff; besides, there was promise of continued fair weather. After a ruddy dawn the sun rose, and all at once the plains, the ravines, and the forests were gleaming in its rays; the branches of the trees seemed coated with sparks; sparks glittered on the snow till the eyes ached from the brightness. From high points one could see out through open spaces, as through windows in that wilderness, the gaze reaching down to Moldavia was lost on a horizon white and blue, but flooded with sunlight. The air was dry and sharp. In such an atmosphere men as well as beasts feel strength and health; in the ranks the horses snorted greatly, throwing rolls of steam from their nostrils; and the Tartars, though the frost so pinched their legs that they drew them under their skirts continually, sang joyful songs. At last the sun rose to the very summit of the pavilion of the sky, and warmed the world somewhat. It was too hot for Basia and Eva under the fur in the sleigh. They loosened the covering on their heads, pushed back their hoods, showed their rosy faces to the light, and began to look around,--Basia on the country, and Eva searching for Azya. He was not near the sleigh; he was riding in advance with that detachment of Cheremis who were examining the road, and clearing away snow when necessary. Eva frowned because of this; but Basia, knowing military service through and through, said to console her:-- "They are all that way; when there is service, it is service. My Michael will not even look at me when military duty comes; and it would be ill were it otherwise, for if you are to love a soldier, let him be a good one." "But will he be with us at the resting-place?" asked Eva. "See lest you have too much of him. Did you not notice how joyful he was when we started? Light was beaming from him." "I saw that he was very glad." "But what will he be when he receives permission from your father?" "Oi, what is in waiting for me? The will of God be done! though the heart dies in me when I think of father. If he shouts, if he becomes wilful and refuses permission, I shall have a fine life when I go home." "Do you know, Eva, what I think?" "What is it?" "There is no trifling with Azya. Your brother might oppose with his force; but your father has no command. I think that if your father resists, Azya will take you anyhow." "How is that?" "Why, carry you off simply. There is no trifling with him, people say,--Tugai Bey's blood. You will be married by the first priest on the road. In another place it would be necessary to have banns, certificates, license; but here it is a wild country, all things are a little in Tartar fashion." Eva's face brightened. "This is what I dread. Azya is ready for anything; this is what I dread," said she. But Basia, turning her head, looked at her quickly, and burst out suddenly with her resonant, child-like laugh. "You dread that just as a mouse dreads bacon. Oh, I know you!" Eva, flushed already from the cold air, flushed still more, and said:-- "I should fear my father's curse, and I know that Azya is ready to disregard everything." "Be of good courage," answered Basia, "besides me, you have your brother to help you. True love always comes to its own. Pan Zagloba told me that when Michael wasn't even dreaming of me." Conversation once begun, they vied with each other in talking,--one about Azya, the other about Michael. Thus a couple of hours passed, till the caravan halted for the first refreshment at Yaryshoff. Of a hamlet, wretched enough at all times, there remained, after the peasant incursion, only one public house, which was restored from the time that the frequent passage of soldiers began to promise certain profit. Basia and Eva found in it a passing Armenian merchant of Mohiloff origin, who was taking morocco to Kamenyets. Azya wished to hurl him out of doors with the Wallachians and Tartars who were with him; but the women permitted him to remain, only his guard had to withdraw. When the merchant learned that the travelling lady was Pani Volodyovski, he began to bow down before her and praise her husband to the skies. Basia listened to the man with great delight. At last he went to his packs, and when he returned offered her a package of special sweetmeats and a little box full of odorous Turkish herbs good for various ailments. "I bring this through gratitude," said he. "Till now we have not dared to thrust our heads out of Mohiloff, because Azba Bey ravaged so terribly, and so many robbers infested on this side all the ravines and on the Moldavian bank the meadows; but now the road is safe, and trading secure. Now we travel again. May God increase the days of the commandant of Hreptyoff, and make each day long enough for a journey from Mohiloff to Kamenyets, and let every hour be extended so as to seem a day! Our commandant, the field secretary, prefers to sit in Warsaw; but the commandant of Hreptyoff watched, and swept out the robbers, so that death is dearer to them now than the Dniester." "Then is Pan Revuski not in Mohiloff?" asked Basia. "He only brought the troops; I do not know if he remained three days. Permit, your great mightiness, here are raisins in this packet, and at this edge of it fruit such as is not found even in Turkey; it comes from distant Asia, and grows there on palms. The secretary is not in the town; but now there is no cavalry at all, for yesterday they went on a sudden toward Bratslav. But here are dates; may they be to the health of your great mightiness! Only Pan Gorzenski has remained with infantry." "It is a wonder to me that all the cavalry have gone," said Basia, with an inquiring glance at Azya. "They moved so the horses might not get out of training," answered Azya, calmly. "In the town, people say that Doroshenko advanced unexpectedly," said the merchant. Azya laughed. "But with what will he feed his horses, with snow?" said he to Basia. "Pan Gorzenski will explain best to your great mightiness," added the merchant. "I do not believe that it is anything," said Basia, after a moment's thought; "for if it were, my husband would be the first to know." "Without doubt the news would be first in Hreptyoff," said Azya; "let your grace have no fear." Basia raised her bright face to the Tartar, and her nostrils quivered. "I have fear! That is excellent; what is in your head? Do you hear, Eva?--I have fear!" Eva could not answer; for being by nature fond of dainties, and loving sweets beyond measure, she had her mouth full of dates, which did not prevent her, however, from looking eagerly at Azya; but when she had swallowed the fruit, she said,-- "Neither have I any fear with such an officer." Then she looked tenderly and significantly into the eyes of young Tugai Bey; but from the time that she had begun to be an obstacle, he felt for her only secret repulsion and anger. He stood motionless, therefore, and said with downcast eyes,-- "In Rashkoff it will be seen if I deserve confidence." And there was in his voice something almost terrible; but as the two women knew so well that the young Tartar was thoroughly different in word and deed from other men, this did not rouse their attention. Besides, Azya insisted at once on continuing the journey, because the mountains before Mohiloff were abrupt, difficult of passage, and should be crossed during daylight. They started without delay, and advanced very quickly till they reached those mountains. Basia wished then to sit on her horse; but at Azya's persuasion she stayed with Eva in the sleigh, which was steadied with lariats, and let down from the height with the greatest precaution. All this time Azya walked near the sleigh; but occupied altogether with their safety, and in general with the command, he spoke scarcely a word either to Basia or Eva. The sun went down, however, before they succeeded in passing the mountains; but the detachment of Cheremis, marching in advance, made fires of dry branches. They went down then among the ruddy fires and the wild figures standing near them. Beyond those figures were, in the gloom of the night and in the half-light of the flames, the threatening declivities in uncertain, terrible outlines. All this was new, curious; all had the appearance of some kind of dangerous and mysterious expedition,--wherefore Basia's soul was in the seventh heaven, and her heart rose in gratitude to her husband for letting her go on this journey to unknown regions, and to Azya because he had been able to manage the journey so well. Basia understood now, for the first time, the meaning of those military marches of which she had heard so much from soldiers, and what precipitous and winding roads were. A mad joyousness took possession of her. She would have mounted her pony assuredly, were it not that, sitting near Eva, she could talk with her and terrify her. Therefore when moving in a narrow, short turn the detachment in advance vanished from the eye and began to shout with wild voices, the stifled echo of which resounded among overhanging cliffs, Basia turned to Eva, and seizing her hands, cried,-- "Oh, ho! robbers from the meadows, or the horde!" But Eva, when she remembered Azya, the son of Tugai Bey, was calm in a moment. "The robbers in the horde respect and fear Azya," answered she. And later, bending to Basia's ear, she said, "Even to Belgrod, even to the Crimea, if with him!" The moon had risen high in heaven when they were issuing from the mountains. Then they beheld far down, and, as it were, at the bottom of a precipice, a collection of lights. "Mohiloff is under our feet," said a voice behind Basia and Eva. They looked around; it was Azya standing behind the sleigh. "But does the town lie like that at the bottom of the ravine?" asked Basia. "It does. The mountains shield it completely from winter winds," answered Azya, pushing his head between their heads. "Notice, your grace, that there is another climate here; it is warmer and calmer. Spring comes here ten days earlier than on the other side of the mountains, and the trees put forth their leaves sooner. That gray on the slopes is a vineyard; but the ground is under snow yet." Snow was lying everywhere, but really the air was warmer and calmer. In proportion as they descended slowly toward the valley, lights showed themselves one after another, and increased in number every moment. "A respectable place, and rather large," said Eva. "It is because the Tartars did not burn it at the time of the peasant incursion. The Cossack troops wintered here, and Poles have scarcely ever visited the place." "Who live here?" "Tartars, who have their wooden mosque; for in the Commonwealth every man is free to profess his own faith. Wallachians live here, also Armenians and Greeks." "I have seen Greeks once in Kamenyets," said Basia; "for though they live far away, they go everywhere for commerce." "This town is composed differently from all others," said Azya; "many people of various nations come here to trade. That settlement which we see at a distance on one side is called Serby." "We are entering already," said Basia. They were, in fact, entering. A strange odor of skins and acid met their nostrils at once. That was the odor of morocco, at the manufacture of which all the inhabitants of Mohiloff worked somewhat, but especially the Armenians. As Azya had said, the place was different altogether from others. The houses were built in Asiatic fashion; they had windows covered with thick wooden lattice; in many houses there were no windows on the street, and only in the yards was seen the glitter of fires. The streets were not paved, though there was no lack of stone in the neighborhood. Here and there were buildings of strange form with latticed, transparent walls; those were drying-houses, in which fresh grapes were turned into raisins. The odor of morocco filled the whole place. Pan Gorzenski, who commanded the infantry, had been informed by the Cheremis of the arrival of the wife of the commandant of Hreptyoff, and rode out on horseback to meet her. He was not young, and he stuttered; he lisped also, for his face had been pierced by a bullet from a long-barrelled janissary gun; therefore when he began to speak (stuttering every moment) of the star "which had risen in the heavens of Mohiloff," Basia came near bursting into laughter. But he received her in the most hospitable manner known to him. In the "fortalice" a supper was waiting for her, and a supremely comfortable bed on fresh and clean down, which he had taken by a forced loan from the wealthiest Armenians. Pan Gorzenski stuttered, it is true, but during the evening he related at the supper things so curious that it was worth while to listen. According to him a certain disquieting breeze had begun to blow suddenly and unexpectedly from the steppes. Reports came that a strong chambul of the Crimean horde, stationed with Doroshenko, had moved all at once toward Haysyn and the country above that point; with the chambuls went some thousands of Cossacks. Besides, a number of other alarming reports had come from indefinite places. Pan Gorzenski did not attach great faith to these rumors, however. "For it is winter," said he; "and since the Lord God has created this earthly circle the Tartars move only in spring; then they form no camp, carry no baggage, take no food for their horses in any place. We all know that war with the Turkish power is held in the leash by frost alone, and that we shall have guests at the first grass; but that there is anything at present I shall never believe." Basia waited patiently and long till Pan Gorzenski should finish. He stuttered, meanwhile, and moved his lips continually, as if eating. "What do you think yourself of the movement of the horde toward Haysyn?" asked she at last. "I think that their horses have pawed out all the grass from under the snow, and that they wish to make a camp in another place. Besides, it may be that the horde; living near Doroshenko's men, are quarrelling with them; it has always been so. Though they are allies and are fighting together, only let encampments stand side by side, and they fall to quarrelling at once in the pastures and at the bazaars." "That is the case surely," said Azya. "And there is another point," continued Pan Gorzenski; "the reports did not come directly through partisans, but peasants brought them; the Tartars here began to talk without evident reason. Three days ago Pan Yakubovich brought in from the steppes the first informants who confirmed the reports, and all the cavalry marched out immediately." "Then you are here with infantry only?" inquired Azya. "God pity us!--forty men! There is hardly any one to guard the fortalice; and if the Tartars living here in Mohiloff were to rise, I know not how I could defend myself." "But why do they not rise against you?" inquired Basia. "They do not, because they cannot in any way. Many of them live permanently in the Commonwealth with their wives and children, and they are on our side. As to strangers, they are here for commerce, not for war; they are good people." "I will leave your grace fifty horse from my force," said Azya. "God reward! You will oblige me greatly by this, for I shall have some one to send out to get intelligence. But can you leave them?" "I can. We shall have in Rashkoff the parties of those captains who in their time went over to the Sultan, but now wish to resume obedience to the Commonwealth. Krychinski will bring three hundred horse certainly; and perhaps Adurovich, too, will come; others will arrive later. I am to take command over all by order of the hetman, and before spring a whole division will be assembled." Pan Gorzenski inclined before Azya. He had known him for a long time, but had had small esteem for him, as being a man of doubtful origin. But knowing now that he was the son of Tugai Bey, for an account of this had been brought by the recent caravan in which Naviragh was travelling, Gorzenski honored in the young Tartar the blood of a great though hostile warrior; he honored in him, besides, an officer to whom the hetman had confided such significant functions. Azya went out to give orders, and calling the sotnik David, said,-- "David, son of Skander, thou wilt remain in Mohiloff with fifty horse. Thou wilt see with thy eyes and hear with thy ears what is happening around thee. If the Little Falcon in Hreptyoff sends letters to me, thou wilt stop his messenger, take the letters from him, and send them with thy own man. Thou wilt remain here till I send an order to withdraw. If my messenger says, 'It is night,' thou wilt go out in peace; but if he says, 'Day is near,' thou wilt burn the place, cross to the Moldavian bank, and go whither I command thee." "Thou hast spoken," answered David; "I will see with my eyes and hear with my ears; I will stop messengers from the Little Falcon, and when I have taken letters from them I will send those letters through our man to thee. I will remain till I receive an order; and if the messenger says to me, 'It is night,' I will go out quietly; if he says, 'Day is near,' I will burn the place, cross to the Moldavian bank, and go whither the command directs." Next morning the caravan, less by fifty horse, continued the journey. Pan Gorzenski escorted Basia beyond the ravine of Mohiloff. There, after he had stuttered forth a farewell oration, he returned to Mohiloff, and they went on toward Yampol very hurriedly. Azya was unusually joyful, and urged his men to a degree that astonished Basia. "Why are you in such haste?" inquired she. "Every man hastens to happiness," answered Azya, "and mine will begin in Rashkoff." Eva, taking these words to herself, smiled tenderly, and collecting courage, answered, "But my father?" "Pan Novoveski will obstruct me in nothing," answered the Tartar, and gloomy lightning flashed through his face. In Yampol they found almost no troops. There had never been any infantry there, and nearly all the cavalry had gone; barely a few men remained in the castle, or rather in the ruins of it. Lodgings were prepared, but Basia slept badly, for those rumors had begun to disturb her. She pondered over this especially,--how alarmed the little knight would be should it turn out that one of Doroshenko's chambuls had advanced really; but she strengthened herself with the thought that it might be untrue. It occurred to her whether it would not be better to return, taking for safety a part of Azya's soldiers; but various obstacles presented themselves. First, Azya, having to increase the garrison at Rashkoff, could give only a small guard, hence, in case of real danger, that guard might prove insufficient; secondly, two thirds of the road was passed already; in Rashkoff there was an officer known to her, and a strong garrison, which, increased by Azya's detachment and by the companies of those captains, might grow to a power quite important. Taking all this into consideration, Basia determined to journey farther. But she could not sleep. For the first time during that journey alarm seized her, as if unknown danger were hanging over her head. Perhaps lodging in Yampol had its share in those alarms, for that was a bloody and a terrible place; Basia knew it from the narratives of her husband and Pan Zagloba. Here had been stationed in Hmelnitski's time the main forces of the Podolian cut-throats under Burlai; hither captives had been brought and sold for the markets of the East, or killed by a cruel death; finally, in the spring of 1651, during the time of a crowded fair, Pan Stanislav Lantskoronski, the voevoda of Bratslav, had burst in and made a dreadful slaughter, the memory of which was fresh throughout the whole borderland of the Dniester. Hence, there hung everywhere over the whole settlement bloody memories; hence, here and there were blackened ruins, and from the walls of the half-destroyed castle seemed to gaze white faces of slaughtered Poles and Cossacks. Basia was daring, but she feared ghosts; it was said that in Yampol itself, at the mouth of the Shumilovka, and on the neighboring cataracts of the Dniester, great wailing was heard at midnight and groans, and that the water became red in the moonlight as if colored with blood. The thought of this filled Basia's heart with bitter alarm. She listened, in spite of herself, to hear in the still night, in the sounds of the cataract, weeping and groans. She heard only the prolonged "watch call" of the sentries. Then she remembered the quiet room in Hreptyoff, her husband, Pan Zagloba, the friendly faces of Pan Nyenashinyets, Mushalski, Motovidlo, Snitko, and others, and for the first time she felt that she was far from them, very far, in a strange region; and such a homesickness for Hreptyoff seized her that she wanted to weep. It was near morning when she fell asleep, but she had wonderful dreams. Burlai, the cut-throats, the Tartars, bloody pictures of massacre, passed through her sleeping head; and in those pictures she saw continually the face of Azya,--not the same Azya, however, but as it were a Cossack, or a wild Tartar, or Tugai Bey himself. She rose early, glad that night and the disagreeable visions had ended. She had determined to make the rest of the journey on horseback,--first, to enjoy the movement; second, to give an opportunity for free speech to Azya and Eva, who, in view of the nearness of Rashkoff, needed, of course, to settle the way of declaring everything to old Pan Novoveski, and to receive his consent. Azya held the stirrup with his own hand; he did not sit, however, in the sleigh with Eva, but went without delay to the head of the detachment, and remained near Basia. She noticed at once that again the cavalry were fewer in number than when they came to Yampol; she turned therefore to the young Tartar and said, "I see that you have left some men in Yampol?" "Fifty horse, the same as in Mohiloff," answered Azya. "Why was that?" He laughed peculiarly; his lips rose as those of a wicked dog do when he shows his teeth, and he answered only after a while. "I wished to have those places in my power, and to secure the homeward road for your grace." "If the troops return from the steppes, there will be forces there then." "The troops will not come back so soon." "Whence do you know that?" "They cannot, because first they must learn clearly what Doroshenko is doing; that will occupy about three or four weeks." "If that is the case you did well to leave those men." They rode a while in silence. Azya looked from time to time at the rosy face of Basia, half concealed by the raised collar of her mantle and her cap, and after every glance he closed his eyes, as if wishing to fix that charming picture more firmly in his mind. "You ought to talk with Eva," said Basia, renewing the conversation. "You talk altogether too little with her; she knows not what to think. You will stand before the face of Pan Novoveski soon; alarm even seizes me. You and she should take counsel together, and settle how you are to begin." "I should like to speak first with your grace," said Azya, with a strange voice. "Then why not speak at once?" "I am waiting for a messenger from Rashkoff; I thought to find him in Yampol. I expect him every moment." "But what," said Basia, "has the messenger to do with our conversation?" "I think that he is coming now," said the Tartar, avoiding an answer. And he galloped forward, but returned after a while. "No; that is not he." In his whole posture, in his speech, in his look, in his voice, there was something so excited and feverish that unquietude was communicated to Basia; still the least suspicion had not risen in her head yet. Azya's unrest could be explained perfectly by the nearness of Rashkoff and of Eva's terrible father; still, something oppressed Basia, as if her own fate were in question. Approaching the sleigh, she rode near Eva for a number of hours, speaking with her of Rashkoff, of old Pan Novoveski, of Pan Adam, of Zosia Boski, finally of the region about them, which was becoming a wilder and more terrible wilderness. It was, in truth, a wilderness immediately beyond Hreptyoff; but there at least a column of smoke rose from time to time on the horizon, indicating some habitation. Here there were no traces of man; and if Basia had not known that she was going to Rashkoff, where people were living, and a Polish garrison was stationed, she might have thought that they were taking her somewhere into an unknown desert, into strange lands at the end of the world. Looking around at the country, she restrained her horse involuntarily, and was soon left in the rear of the sleighs and horsemen. Azya joined her after a while; and since he knew the region well, he began to show her various places, mentioning their names. This did not last very long, however, for the earth began to be smoky; evidently the winter had not such power in that southern region as in woody Hreptyoff. Snow was lying somewhat, it is true, in the valleys, on the cliffs, on the edges of the rocks, and also on the hillsides turned northward; but in general the earth was not covered, and looked dark with groves, or gleamed with damp withered grass. From that grass rose a light whitish fog, which, extending near the earth, formed in the distance the counterfeit of great waters, filling the valleys and spreading widely over the plains; then that fog rose higher and higher, till at last it hid the sunshine, and turned a clear day into a foggy and gloomy one. "There will be rain to-morrow," said Azya. "If not to-day. How far is it to Rashkoff?" Azya looked at the nearest place, barely visibly through the fog, and said,-- "From that point it is nearer to Rashkoff than to Yampol." And he breathed deeply, as if a great weight had fallen from his breast. At that moment the tramp of a horse was heard from the direction of the cavalry, and some horseman was seen indistinctly in the fog. "Halim! I know him," cried Azya. Indeed, it was Halim, who, when he had rushed up to Azya and Basia, sprang from his horse and began to beat with his forehead toward the stirrup of the young Tartar. "From Rashkoff?" inquired Azya. "From Rashkoff, my lord," answered Halim. "What is to be heard there?" The old man raised toward Basia his ugly head, emaciated from unheard-of toils, as if wishing to inquire whether he might speak in her presence; but Tugai Bey's son said at once,-- "Speak boldly. Have the troops gone out?" "They have. A handful remained." "Who led them?" "Pan Novoveski." "Have the Pyotroviches gone to the Crimea?" "Long ago. Only two women remained, and old Pan Novoveski with them." "Where is Krychinski?" "On the other bank of the river; he is waiting." "Who is with him?" "Adurovich with his company; both beat with the forehead to thy stirrup, O son of Tugai Bey, and give themselves under thy hand,--they, and all those who have not come yet." "'Tis well!" said Azya, with fire in his eyes. "Fly to Krychinski at once, and give the command to occupy Rashkoff." "Thy will, lord." Halim sprang on his horse in a moment, and vanished like a phantom in the fog. A terrible, ominous gleam issued from the face of Azya. The decisive moment had come,--the moment waited for, the moment of greatest happiness for him; but his heart was beating as if breath were failing him. He rode for a time in silence near Basia; and only when he felt that his voice would not deceive him did he turn toward her his eyes, inscrutable but bright, and say,-- "Now I will speak to your grace with sincerity." "I listen," said Basia, scanning him carefully, as if she wished to read his changed countenance. CHAPTER XXXIX. Azya urged his horse up so closely to Basia's pony that his stirrup almost touched hers. He rode forward a few steps in silence; during this time he strove to calm himself finally, and wondered why calmness came to him with such effort, since he had Basia in his hands, and there was no human power which could take her from him. But he did not know that in his soul, despite every probability, despite every evidence, there glimmered a certain spark of hope that the woman whom he desired would answer with a feeling like his own. If that hope was weak, the desire for its object was so strong that it shook him as a fever. The woman would not open her arms, would not cast herself into his embrace, would not say those words over which he had dreamed whole nights: "Azya, I am thine;" she would not hang with her lips on his lips,--he knew this. But how would she receive his words? What would she say? Would she lose all feeling, like a dove in the claws of a bird of prey, and let him take her, just as the hapless dove yields itself to the hawk? Would she beg for mercy tearfully, or would she fill that wilderness with a cry of terror? Would there be something more, or something less, of all this? Such questions were storming in the head of the Tartar. But in every case the hour had come to cast aside feigning, pretences, and show her a truthful, a terrible face. Here was his fear, here his alarm. One moment more, and all would be accomplished. Finally this mental alarm became in the Tartar that which alarm becomes most frequently in a wild beast,--rage; and he began to rouse himself with that rage. "Whatever happens," thought he, "she is mine, she is mine altogether; she will be mine to-morrow, and then will not return to her husband, but will follow me." At this thought wild delight seized him by the hair, and he said all at once in a voice which seemed strange to himself, "Your grace has not known me till now." "In this fog your voice has so changed," answered Basia, somewhat alarmed, "that it seems to me really as if another were speaking." "In Mohiloff there are no troops, in Yampol none, in Rashkoff none. I alone am lord here,--Krychinski, Adurovich, and those others are my slaves; for I am a prince, I am the son of a ruler. I am their vizir, I am their highest murza; I am their leader, as Tugai Bey was; I am their khan; I alone have authority; all here is in my power." "Why do you say this to me?" "Your grace has not known me hitherto. Rashkoff is not far away. I wished to become hetman of the Tartars and serve the Commonwealth; but Sobieski would not permit it. I am not to be a Lithuanian Tartar any longer; I am not to serve under any man's command, but to lead great chambuls myself, against Doroshenko, or the Commonwealth, as your grace wishes, as your grace commands." "How as I command? Azya, what is the matter with you?" "This, that here all are my slaves, and I am yours. What is the hetman to me? I care not whether he has permitted or not. Say a word, your grace, and I will put Akkerman at your feet; and the Dobrudja, and those hordes which have villages there, and those which wander in the Wilderness, and those who are everywhere in winter quarters will be your slaves, as I am your slave. Command, and I will not obey the Khan of the Crimea, I will not obey the Sultan; I will make war on them with the sword, and aid the Commonwealth. I will form new hordes in these regions, and be khan over them, and you will be alone over me; to you alone will I bow down, beg for your favor and love." When he had said this, he bent in the saddle, and, seizing the woman, half terrified, and, as it were, stunned by his words, he continued to speak in a hurried, hoarse voice; "Have you not seen that I love only you? Ah, but I have suffered my share! I will take you now! You are mine, and you will be mine! No one will tear you from my hands in this place--you are mine, mine, mine!" "Jesus, Mary!" cried Basia. But he pressed her in his arms as if wishing to smother her. Hurried breathing struggled from his lips, his eyes grew misty; at last he drew her out of the stirrups, off the saddle, put her in front of him, pressed her breast to his own, and his bluish lips, opening greedily, like the mouth of a fish, began to seek her mouth. She uttered no cry, but began to resist with unexpected strength; between them rose a struggle in which only the panting of their breaths was to be heard. His violent movements and the nearness of his face restored her presence of mind. An instant of such clear vision came to Basia as comes to the drowning; she felt everything at once with the greatest vividness. Hence she felt first of all that the earth was vanishing from under her feet, and a bottomless ravine opening, to which he was dragging her; she saw his desire, his treason, her own dreadful fate, her weakness and helplessness; she felt alarm, and a ghastly pain and sorrow, and at the same time there burst forth in her a flame of immense indignation, rage, and revenge. Such was the courage and spirit of that daughter of a knight, that chosen wife of the most gallant soldier of the Commonwealth, that in that awful moment she thought first of all, "I will have revenge," then "I will save myself." All the faculties of her mind were strained, as hair is straightened with terror on the head; and that clearness of vision as in drowning became in her almost miraculous. While struggling her hands began to seek for weapons, and found at last the ivory butt of an Eastern pistol; but at the same time she had presence of mind to think of this also,--that even if the pistol were loaded, even if she should cock it, before she could bend her hand, before she could point the barrel at his head, he would seize her hand without fail, and take from her the last means of salvation. Hence she resolved to strike in another way. All this lasted one twinkle of an eye. He indeed foresaw the attack, and put out his hand with the speed of a lightning flash; but he did not succeed in calculating her movement. The hands passed each other, and Basia, with all the despairing strength of her young and vigorous arm, struck him with the ivory butt of the pistol between the eyes. The blow was so terrible that Azya was not able even to cry, and he fell backward, drawing her after him in his fall. Basia raised herself in a moment, and, springing on her horse, shot off like a whirlwind in the direction opposite the Dnieper, toward the broad steppes. The curtain of fog closed behind her. The horse, dropping his ears, rushed on at random among the rocks, clefts, ravines, and breaches. Any moment he might run into some cleft, any moment he might crush himself and his rider against a rocky corner; but Basia looked at nothing; for her the most terrible danger was Azya and the Tartars. A wonderful thing it was, that now, when she had freed herself from the hands of the robber, and when he was lying apparently dead among the rocks, dread mastered all her feelings. Lying with her face to the mane of the horse, shooting on in the fog, like a deer chased by wolves, she began to fear Azya more than when she was in his arms; and she felt terror and weakness and that which a helpless child feels, which, wandering where it wished, has gone astray, and is alone and deserted. Certain weeping voices rose in her heart, and began, with groaning, with timidity, with complaint, and with pity, to call for protection: "Michael, save me! Michael, save me!" The horse rushed on and on; led by a wonderful instinct, he sprang over breaches, avoided with quick movement prominent cliff corners, until at last the stony ground ceased to sound under his feet; evidently he had come to one of those open "meadows" which stretched here and there among the ravines. Sweat covered the horse, his nostrils were rattling loudly, but he ran and ran. "Whither can I go?" thought Basia. And that moment she answered herself: "To Hreptyoff." But new alarm pressed her heart at thought of that long road lying through terrible wildernesses. Quickly too she remembered that Azya had left detachments of his men in Mohiloff and Yampol. Doubtless these were all in the conspiracy; all served Azya, and would seize her surely, and take her to Rashkoff; she ought, therefore, to ride far into the steppe, and only then turn northward, thus avoiding the settlements on the Dniester. She ought to do this all the more for the reason that if men were sent to pursue her, beyond doubt they would go near the river; and meanwhile it might be possible to meet some of the Polish commands in the wide steppes, on their way to the fortresses. The speed of the horse decreased gradually. Basia, being an experienced rider, understood at once that it was necessary to give him time to recover breath, otherwise he would fall; she felt also that without a horse in those deserts she was lost. She restrained, therefore, his speed, and went some time at a walk. The fog was growing thin, but a cloud of hot steam rose from the poor beast. Basia began to pray. Suddenly she heard the neighing of a horse amid the fog a few hundred yards behind. Then the hair rose on her head. "Mine will fall dead, but so will that one!" said she, aloud; and again she shot on. For some time her horse rushed forward with the speed of a dove pursued by a falcon, and he ran long, almost to the last of his strength; but the neighing was heard continually behind in the distance. There was in that neighing which came out of the fog something at once of immeasurable yearning and threatening; still, after the first alarm had passed, it came to Basia's mind that if some one were sitting on that horse he would not neigh, for the rider, not wishing to betray the pursuit, would stop the neighing. "Can it be that that is only Azya's horse following mine?" thought Basia. For the sake of precaution she drew both pistols out of the holsters; but the caution was needless. After a while something seemed black in the thinning mist, and Azya's horse ran up with flowing mane and distended nostrils. Seeing the pony, he began to approach him, giving out short and sudden neighs; and the pony answered immediately. "Horse, horse!" cried Basia. The animal, accustomed to the human hand, drew near and let itself be taken by the bridle. Basia raised her eyes to Heaven, and said:-- "The protection of God!" In fact, the seizure of Azya's horse was a circumstance for her in every way favorable. To begin with, she had the two best horses in the whole detachment; secondly, she had a horse to change; and thirdly, the presence of the beast assured her that pursuit would not start soon. If the horse had run to the detachment, the Tartars, disturbed at sight of him, would have turned surely and at once to seek their leader; now it will not come to their heads that anything could befall him, and they will go back to look for Azya only when they are alarmed at his too prolonged absence. "By that time I shall be far away," concluded Basia in her mind. Here she remembered for the second time that Azya's detachments were stationed in Yampol and Mohiloff. "It is necessary to go past through the broad steppe, and not approach the Dniester until in the neighborhood of Hreptyoff. That terrible man has disposed his troops cunningly, but God will save me."' Thus thinking, she collected her spirits and prepared to continue her journey. At the pommel of Azya's saddle she found a musket, a horn with powder, a box of bullets, a box of hemp-seed which the Tartar had the habit of chewing continually. Basia, shortening the stirrups of Azya's saddle to her own feet, thought to herself that during the whole way she would live, like a bird, on those seeds, and she kept them carefully near her. She determined to avoid people and farms; for in those wildernesses more evil than good was to be looked for from every man. Fear oppressed her heart when she asked herself, "How shall I feed the horses?" They would dig grass out from under the snow, and pluck moss from the crevices of rocks, but might they not die from bad food and excessive-travelling? Still, she could not spare them. There was another fear: Would she not go astray in the desert? It was easy to avoid that by travelling along the Dniester, but she could not take that road. What would happen were she to enter gloomy wildernesses, immense and roadless? How would she know whether she was going northward, or in some other direction, if foggy days were to come, days without sunshine, and nights without stars? The forests were swarming with wild beasts; she cared less for that, having courage in her brave heart and having weapons. Wolves, going in packs, might be dangerous, it is true, but in general she feared men more than beasts, and she feared to go astray most of all. "Ah, God will show me the way, and will let me return to Michael," said she, aloud. Then she made the sign of the cross, wiped with her sleeve her face free from the moisture which made her pale cheeks cold, looked with quick eyes around the country, and urged her horse on to a gallop. CHAPTER XL. No one thought of searching for Tugai Bey's son; therefore he lay on the ground until he recovered consciousness. When he had come to his senses, he sat upright, and wishing to know what was happening to him, began to look around. But he saw the place as if in darkness; then he discovered that he was looking with only one eye, and badly with that one. The other was either knocked out, or filled with blood. Azya raised his hands to his face. His fingers found icicles of blood stiff on his mustaches; his mouth too was full of blood which was suffocating him so that he had to cough and spit it out a number of times; a terrible pain pierced his face at this spitting; he put his fingers above his mustaches, but snatched them away with a groan of suffering. Basia's blow had crushed the upper part of his nose, and injured his cheek-bone. He sat for a time without motion; then he began to look around with that eye in which some sight remained, and seeing a streak of snow in a cleft he crept up to it, seized a handful and applied it to his broken face. This brought great relief straightway; and while the melting snow flowed down in red streaks over his mustaches, he collected another handful and applied it again. Besides, he began to eat snow eagerly, and that also brought relief to him. After a time the immense weight which he felt on his head became so much lighter that he called to mind all that had happened. But at the first moment he felt neither rage, anger, nor despair; bodily pain had deadened all other feelings, and left but one wish,--the wish to save himself quickly. Azya, when he had eaten a number of handfuls more of snow, began to look for his horse; the horse was not there; then he understood that if he did not wish to wait till his men came to look for him, he must go on foot. Supporting himself on the ground with his hands, he tried to rise, but howled from pain and sat down again. He sat perhaps an hour, and again began to make efforts. This time he succeeded in so far that he rose, and, resting his shoulders against the cliff, was able to remain on his feet; but when he remembered that he must leave the support and make one step, then a second and a third in the empty expanse, a feeling of weakness and fear seized him so firmly that he almost sat down again. Still he mastered himself, drew his sabre, leaned on it, and pushed forward; he succeeded. After some steps he felt that his body and feet were strong, that he had perfect command of them, only his head was, as it were, not his own, and like an enormous weight was swaying now to the right, now to the left, now to the front. He had a feeling also as if he were carrying that head, shaky and too heavy, with extraordinary care, and with extraordinary fear that he would drop it on the stones and break it. At times, too, the head turned him around, as if it wished him to go in a circle. At times it became dark in his one eye; then he supported himself with both hands on the sabre. The dizziness of his head passed away gradually; but the pain increased always, and bored, as it were, into his forehead, into his eyes, into his whole head, till whining was forced from his breast. The echoes of the rocks repeated his groans, and he went forward in that desert, bloody, terrible, more like a vampire than a man. It was growing dark when he heard the tramp of a horse in front. It was the orderly coming for commands. That evening Azya had strength to order pursuit; but immediately after he lay down on skins, and for three days could see no one except the Greek barber[25] who dressed his wounds, and Halim, who assisted the barber. Only on the fourth day did he regain his speech, and with it consciousness of what had happened. Straightway his feverish thoughts followed Basia. He saw her fleeing among rocks and in wild places; she seemed to him a bird that was flying away forever; he saw her nearing Hreptyoff, saw her in the arms of her husband, and at that sight a pain carried him away which was more savage than his wound, and with the pain sorrow, and with the sorrow shame for the defeat which he had suffered. "She has fled, she has fled!" repeated he, continually; and rage stifled him so that at times presence of mind seemed to be leaving him again. "Woe!" answered he, when Halim tried to pacify him, and give assurance that Basia could not escape pursuit; and he kicked the skins with which the old Tartar had covered him, and with his knife threatened him and the Greek. He howled like a wild beast, and tried to spring up, wishing to fly himself to overtake her, to seize her, and then from anger and wild love stifle her with his own hands. At times he was wandering in delirium, and summoned Halim to bring the head of the little knight quickly, and to confine the commandant's wife, bound, there in that chamber. At times he talked to her, begged, threatened; then he stretched out his hands to draw her to him. At last he fell into a deep sleep, and slept for twenty-four hours; when he woke the fever had left him entirely, and he was able to see Krychinski and Adurovich. They were anxious, for they knew not what to do. The troops which had gone out under young Novoveski were not to return, it is true, before two weeks; but some unexpected event might hasten their coming, and then it was necessary to know what position to take. It is true that Krychinski and Adurovich were simply feigning a return to the service of the Commonwealth; but Azya was managing the whole affair: he alone could give them directions what to do in emergency; he alone could explain on which side was the greatest profit, whether to return to the dominions of the Sultan or to pretend, or how long to pretend, that they were serving the Commonwealth. They both knew well that in the end of ends Azya intended to betray the Commonwealth; but they supposed that he might command them to wait for the war before disclosing their treason, so as to betray most effectively. His indications were to be a command for them; for he had put himself on them as a leader, as the head of the whole affair, the most crafty, the most influential, and, besides, renowned among all the hordes as the son of Tugai Bey. They came hurriedly, therefore, to his bed, and bowed before him. With a bandaged face and only one eye, he was still weak, but his health was restored. "I am sick," began he, at once. "The woman that I wished to take with me tore herself out of my hands, after wounding me with the butt of a pistol. She was the wife of Volodyovski, the commandant; may pestilence fall on him and all his race!" "May it be as thou hast said!" answered the two captains. "May God grant you, faithful men, happiness and success!" "And to thee also, oh, lord!" answered the captains. Then they began to speak of what they ought to do. "It is impossible to delay, or to defer the Sultan's service till war begins," said Azya; "after what has happened with this woman they will not trust us, and will attack us with sabres. But before they attack, we will fall upon this place and burn it, for the glory of God. The handful of soldiers we will seize; the towns-people, who are subjects of the Commonwealth, we will take captive, divide the goods of the Wallachians, Armenians, and Greeks, and go beyond the Dniester to the land of the Sultan." Krychinski and Adurovich had lived as nomads among the wildest hordes for a long time, had robbed with them, and grown wild altogether; their eyes lighted up therefore. "Thanks to you," said Krychinski, "we were admitted to this place, which God now gives to us." "Did Novoveski make no opposition?" asked Azya. "Novoveski knew that we were passing over to the Commonwealth, and knew that you were coming to meet us; he looks on us as his men, because he looked on you as his man." "We remained on the Moldavian bank," put in Adurovich; "but Krychinski and I went as guests to him. He received us as nobles, for he said: 'By your present acts you extinguish former offence; and since the hetman forgives you on Azya's security, 'tis not proper for me to look askance at you.' He even wished us to enter the town; but we said: 'We will not till Azya, Tugai Bey's son, brings the hetman's permission.' But when he was going away he gave us another feast, and begged us to watch over the town." "At that feast," added Krychinski, "we saw his father, and the old woman who is searching for her captive husband, and that young lady whom Novoveski intends to marry." "Ah!" said Azya, "I did not think that they were all here, and I brought Panna Novoveski." He clapped his hands; Halim appeared at once, and Azya said to him: "When my men see the flames in the place, let them fall on those soldiers in the fortalice, and cut their throats; let them bind the women and the old noble, and guard them till I give the order." He turned to Krychinski and Adurovich,-- "I will not assist myself, for I am weak; still, I will mount my horse and look on. But, dear comrades, begin, begin!" Krychinski and Adurovich rushed through the doorway at once. Azya went out after them, and gave command to lead a horse to him; then he rode to the stockade to look from the gate of the high fortalice on what would happen in the town. Many of his men had begun to climb the wall to look through the stockade and sate their eyes with the sight of the slaughter. Those of Novoveski's soldiers who had not gone to the steppe, seeing the Lithuanian Tartars assembling, and thinking there was something to look at in the town, mixed with them without a shadow of fear or suspicion. Moreover, there were barely twenty of those soldiers; the rest were dispersed in the dram-shops. Meanwhile the bands of Krychinski and Adurovich scattered through the place in the twinkle of an eye. The men in those bands were almost exclusively Lithuanian Tartars and Cheremis, therefore former inhabitants of the Commonwealth, for the greater part nobles; but since they had left its borders long before, during that time of wandering they had become much like wild Tartars. Their former clothing had gone to pieces, and they were dressed in sheepskin coats with the wool outside. These coats they wore next to their bodies, which were embrowned from the winds of the steppe and from the smoke of fires; but their weapons were better than those of wild Tartars,--all had sabres, all had bows seasoned in fire, and many had muskets. Their faces expressed the same cruelty and thirst for blood as those of their Dobrudja, Belgrod, or Crimean brethren. Now scattering through the town, they began to run about in various directions, shouting shrilly, as if wishing by those shouts to encourage one another, and excite one another to slaughter and plunder. But though many of them had put knives in their mouths in Tartar fashion, the people of the place, composed as in Yampol of Wallachians, Armenians, Greeks, and partly of Tartar merchants, looked on them without any distrust. The shops were open; the merchants, sitting in front of their shops in Turkish fashion on benches, slipped their beads through their fingers. The cries of the Lithuanian Tartars merely caused men to look at them with curiosity, thinking that they were playing some game. But all at once smoke rose from the corners of the market square, and from the mouth of all the Tartars came a howling so terrible that pale fear seized the Wallachians, Armenians, and Greeks, and all their wives and children. Straightway a shower of arrows rained on the peaceful inhabitants. Their cries, the noise of doors and windows closed in a hurry, were mingled with the tramp of horses and the howling of the plunderers. The market was covered with smoke. Cries of "Woe, woe!" were raised. At the same time the Tartars fell to breaking open shops and houses, dragging out terrified women by the hair; hurling into the street furniture, morocco, merchandise, beds from which feathers went up in a cloud; the groans of slaughtered men were heard, lamentation, the howling of dogs, the bellowing of cattle caught by fire in rear buildings; red tongues of flame, visible even in the daytime on the black rolls of smoke, were shooting higher and higher toward the sky. In the fortalice Azya's cavalry-men hurled themselves at the very beginning on the infantry, who were defenceless for the greater part. There was no struggle whatever; a number of knives were buried in each Polish breast without warning; then the heads of the unfortunates were cut off and borne to the hoofs of Azya's horse. Tugai Bey's son permitted most of his men to join their brethren in the bloody work; but he himself stood and looked on. Smoke hid the work of Krychinski and Adurovich; the odor of burnt flesh rose to the fortalice. The town was burning like a great pile, and smoke covered the view; only at times in the smoke was heard the report of a musket, like thunder in a cloud, or a fleeing man was seen, or a crowd of Tartars pursuing. Azya stood still and looked on with delight in his heart; a stern smile parted his lips, under which the white teeth were gleaming: this smile was the more savage because it was mingled with pain from the drying wounds. Besides delight, pride, too, rose in the heart of Azya. He had cast from his breast that burden of feigning, and for the first time he gave rein to his hatred, concealed for long years; now he felt that he was himself, felt that he was the real Azya, the son of Tugai Bey. But at the same time there rose in him a savage regret that Basia was not looking at that fire, at that slaughter; that she could not see him in his new occupation. He loved her, but a wild desire for revenge on her was tearing him. "She ought to be standing right here by my horse," thought he, "and I would hold her by the hair; she would grasp at my feet, and then I would seize her and kiss her on the mouth, and she would be mine, mine!--my slave!" Only the hope that perhaps that detachment sent in pursuit, or those which he left on the road, would bring her back, restrained him from despair. He clung to that hope as a drowning man to a plank, and that gave him strength; he could not think of losing her, for he was thinking too much of the moment in which he would find her and take her. He remained at the gate till the slaughtered town had grown still. Stillness came soon, for the bands of Krychinski and Adurovich numbered almost as many heads as the town; therefore the burning outlasted the groans of men and roared on till evening. Azya dismounted and went with slow steps to a spacious room in the middle of which sheepskins were spread; on these he sat and awaited the coming of the two captains. They came soon, and with them the sotniks. Delight was on the faces of all, for the booty had surpassed expectation; the town had grown much since the time of the peasant incursion, and was wealthy. They had taken about a hundred young women, and a crowd of children of ten years old and upward; these could be sold with profit in the markets of the East. Old women, and children too small and unfit for the road, were slaughtered. The hands of the Tartars were streaming with human blood, and their sheepskin coats had the odor of burning flesh. All took their seats around Azya. "Only a pile of glowing embers behind us," said Krychinski. "Before the command returns we might go to Yampol; there is as much wealth of every kind there as in Rashkoff,--perhaps more." "No," answered Azya, "men of mine are in Yampol who will burn the place; but it is time for us to go to the lands of the Khan and the Sultan." "At thy command! We will return with glory and booty," said the captains and the sergeants. "There are still women here in the fortalice, and that noble who reared me," said Azya. "A just reward belongs to them." He clapped his hands and gave command to bring the prisoners. They were brought without delay,--Pani Boski in tears; Zosia, pale as a kerchief; Eva and her father. Old Pan Novoveski's hands and feet were bound with ropes. All were terrified, but still more astonished at what had taken place. Eva was lost in conjectures as to what had become of Pani Volodyovski, and wondered why Azya had not shown himself. She, not knowing why there was slaughter in the town, nor why she and her friends were bound as captives, concluded that it was a question of carrying her away; that Azya, not wishing in his pride to beg her hand of her father, had fallen into a rage simply out of love for her, and had determined to take her by violence. This was all terrible in itself; but Eva, at least, was not trembling for her own life. The prisoners did not recognize Azya, for his face was nearly concealed; but all the more did terror seize the knees of the women at the first moment, for they judged that wild Tartars had in some incomprehensible manner destroyed the Lithuanian Tartars and gained possession of Rashkoff. But the sight of Krychinski and Adurovich convinced them that they were still in the hands of Lithuanian Tartars. They looked at one another some time in silence; at last old Pan Novoveski asked, with an uncertain but powerful voice,-- "In whose hands are we?" Azya began to unwind the bandages from his head, and from beneath them his face soon appeared, beautiful on a time, though wild, deformed now forever, with a broken nose and a black and blue spot instead of an eye,--a face dreadful, collected in cold vengeance and with a smile like convulsive contortions. He was silent for a moment, then fixed his burning eye on the old man and said,-- "In mine,--in the hands of Tugai Bey's son." But old Novoveski knew him before he spoke; and Eva also knew him, though the heart was straitened in her from terror and disgust at sight of that ghastly visage. The maiden covered her eyes with her unbound hands; and the noble, opening his mouth, began to blink with astonishment and repeat,-- "Azya! Azya!" "Whom your lordship reared, to whom you were a father, and whose back streamed with blood under your parental hand." Blood rushed to the noble's head. "Traitor," said he, "you shall answer for your deeds before a judge. Serpent! I have a son yet." "And you have a daughter," answered Azya, "for whose sake you gave command to flog me to death; and this daughter I will give now to the last of the horde, so that he may have service and pleasure from her." "Leader, give her to me!" cried Adurovich, on a sudden. "Azya! Azya!" cried Eva, throwing herself at his feet, "I have always--" But he kicked her away with one foot, and Adurovich seized her by the arms and began to drag her along the floor. Pan Novoveski from purple became blue; the ropes squeaked on his arms, as he twisted them, and from his mouth came unintelligible words. Azya rose from the skins and went toward him, at first slowly, then more quickly, like a wild beast preparing to bound on its prey. At last he came near, seized with the contorted fingers of one hand the mustaches of old Novoveski, and with the other fell to beating him without mercy on face and head. A hoarse bellow was rent from his throat when the noble fell to the floor; Azya knelt on Novoveski's breast, and suddenly the bright gleam of a knife shone in the room. "Mercy! rescue!" screamed Eva. But Adurovich struck her on the head, and then put his broad hand on her mouth; meanwhile Azya was cutting the throat of Pan Novoveski. The spectacle was so ghastly that it chilled even the breasts of the Tartars; for Azya, with calculated cruelty, drew his knife slowly across the neck of the ill-fated noble, who gasped and choked awfully. From his open veins the blood spurted more and more violently on the hands of the murderer and flowed in a stream along the floor. Then the rattling and gurgling ceased by degrees; finally air was wheezing in the severed throat, and the feet of the dying man dug the floor in convulsive quivers. Azya rose; his eyes fell now on the pale and sweet face of Zosia Boski, who seemed dead, for she was hanging senseless on the arm of a Tartar who was holding her, and he said,-- "I will keep this girl for myself, till I give her away or sell her." Then he turned to the Tartars: "Now only let the pursuit return, and we will go to the lands of the Sultan." The pursuit returned two days later, but with empty hands. Tugai Bey's son went, therefore, to the land of the Sultan with despair and rage in his heart, leaving behind him a gray and bluish pile of ruins. CHAPTER XLI. The towns through which Basia passed in going from Hreptyoff to Rashkoff were separated from each other by ten or twelve Ukraine miles,[26] and that road by the Dniester was about thirty miles long. It is true that they started each morning in the dark, and did not stop till late in the evening; still, they made the whole journey, including time for refreshment, and in spite of difficult crossings and passages, in three days. People of that time and troops did not make such quick journeys usually; but whoso had the will, or was put to it, could make them. In view of this, Basia calculated that the journey back to Hreptyoff ought to take less time, especially as she was making it on horseback, and as it was a flight in which salvation depended on swiftness. But she noted her error the first day, for unable to escape on the road by the Dniester, she went through the steppes and had to make broad circuits. Besides she might go astray, and it was probable that she would; she might meet with thawed rivers, impassable, dense forests, swamps not freezing even in winter; she might come to harm from people or beasts,--therefore, though she intended to push on continually, even at night, she was confirmed in the conviction in spite of herself that, even if all went well with her, God knew when she would be in Hreptyoff. She had succeeded in tearing herself from the arms of Azya; but what would happen farther on? Doubtless anything was better than those infamous arms; still, at thought of what was awaiting her the blood became icy in her veins. It occurred at once to her that if she spared the horses she might be overtaken by Azya's men, who knew those steppes thoroughly; and to hide from discovery, from pursuit, was almost impossible. They pursued Tartars whole days even in spring and summer when horses' hoofs left no trace on the snow or in soft earth; they read the steppe as an open book; they gazed over those plains like eagles; they knew how to sniff a trail in them like hunting dogs; their whole life was passed in pursuing. Vainly had Tartars gone time and again in the water of streams so as not to leave traces; Cossacks, Lithuanian Tartars, and Cheremis, as well as Polish raiders of the steppe, knew how to find them, to answer their "methods" with "methods," and to attack as suddenly as if they had sprung up through the earth. How was she to escape from such people unless to leave them so far in the rear that distance itself would make pursuit impossible? But in such an event her horses would fall. "They will fall dead without fail, if they continue to go as they have gone so far," thought Basia, with terror, looking at their wet, steaming sides, and at the foam which was falling in flakes to the ground. Therefore she slackened their speed from time to time and listened; but in every breath of wind, in the rustling of leaves on the edge of ravines, in the dry rubbing of the withered steppe reeds against one another, in the noise made by the wings of a passing bird, even in the silence of the wilderness, which was sounding in her ears, she heard voices of pursuit, and terrified urged on her horses again, and ran with wild impetus till their snorting declared that they could not continue at that speed. The burden of loneliness and weakness pressed her down more and more. Ah! what an orphan she felt herself; what regret, as immense as unreasoning, rose in her heart for all people, the nearest and dearest, who had so forsaken her! Then she thought that surely it was God punishing her for her passion for adventures, for her hurrying to every hunt, to expeditions, frequently against the will of her husband; for her giddiness and lack of sedateness. When she thought of this she wept, and raising her head began to repeat, sobbing,-- "Chastise, but do not desert me! Do not punish Michael! Michael is innocent." Meanwhile night was approaching, and with it cold, darkness, uncertainty of the road, and alarm. Objects had begun to efface themselves, grow dim, lose definite forms, and also to become, as it were, mysteriously alive and expectant. Protuberances on lofty rocks looked like heads in pointed and round caps,--heads peering out from behind gigantic walls of some kind, and gazing in silence and malignity to see who was passing below. Tree branches, stirred by the breeze, made motions like people: some of these beckoned to Basia as if wishing to call her and confide to her some terrible secret; others seemed to speak and give warning: "Do not come near!" The trunks of uprooted trees seemed like monstrous creatures crouching for a spring. Basia was daring, very daring, but, like all people of that period, she was superstitious. When darkness came down completely, the hair rose on her head, and shivers passed through her body at thought of the unclean powers that might dwell in those regions. She feared vampires especially; belief in them was spread particularly in the Dniester country by reason of nearness to Moldavia, and just the places around Yampol and Rashkoff were ill-famed in that regard. How many people there left the world day by day through sudden death, without confession or absolution! Basia remembered all the tales which the knights had told at Hreptyoff, on evenings at the fireside,--stories of deep valleys in which, when the wind howled, sudden groans were heard of "Jesus, Jesus!" of pale lights in which something was snorting; of laughing cliffs; of pale children, suckling infants with green eyes and monstrous heads,--infants which implored to be taken on horseback, and when taken began to suck blood; finally, of heads without bodies, walking on spider legs; and most terrible of all those ghastlinesses, vampires of full size, or brukolaki, so called in Wallachia, who hurled themselves on people directly. Then she began to make the sign of the cross, and she did not stop till her hand had grown weak; but even then she repeated the litany, for no other weapons were effective against unclean powers. The horses gave her consolation, for they showed no fear, snorting briskly. At times she patted her pony, as if wishing in that way to convince herself that she was in a real world. The night, very dark at first, became clearer by degrees, and at last the stars began to glimmer through the thin mist. For Basia this was an uncommonly favorable circumstance,--first, because her fear decreased; and secondly, because by observing the Great Bear, she could turn to the north, or in the direction of Hreptyoff. Looking on the region about, she calculated that she had gone a considerable distance from the Dniester; for there were fewer rocks, more open country, more hills covered with oak groves, and frequently broad plains. Time after time, however, she was forced to cross ravines, and she went down into them with fear in her heart, for in the depths of those places it was always dark, and a harsh, piercing cold was there. Some were so steep that she was forced to go around them; from this came great loss of time and an addition to the journey. It was worse, however, with streams and rivers, and a whole system of these flowed from the East to the Dniester. All were thawed, and the horses snorted with fear when they went at night into strange water of unknown depth. Basia crossed only in places where the sloping bank allowed the supposition that the water, widely spread there, was shallow. In fact, it was so in most cases; at some crossings, however, the water reached halfway to the backs of her horses: Basia then knelt, in soldier fashion, on the saddle, and, holding to the pommel, tried not to wet her feet. But she did not succeed always in this, and soon a piercing cold seized her from feet to knees. "God give me daylight, I will go more quickly," repeated she, from time to time. At last she rode out onto a broad plain with a sparse forest, and seeing that the horses were barely dragging their legs, she halted for rest. Both stretched their necks to the ground at the same time, and putting forward one foot, began to pluck moss and withered grass eagerly. In the forest there was perfect silence, unbroken save by the sharp breathing of the horses and the crunching of the grass in their powerful jaws. When they had satisfied, or rather deceived, their first hunger, both horses wished evidently to roll, but Basia might not indulge them in that. She dared not loosen the girths and come to the ground herself, for she wished to be ready at every moment for further flight. She sat on Azya's horse, however, for her own had carried her from the last resting-place, and though strong, and with noble blood in his veins, he was more delicate than the other. When she had changed horses, she felt a hunger after the thirst which she had quenched a number of times while crossing the rivers; she began therefore to eat the seeds which she had found in the bag at Azya's saddle-bow. They seemed to her very good, though a little bitter; she ate, thanking God for the unlooked-for refreshment. But she ate sparingly, so that they might last to Hreptyoff. Soon sleep began to close her eyelids with irresistible power; and when the movement of the horse ceased to give warmth, a sharp cold pierced her. Her feet were perfectly stiff; she felt also an immeasurable weariness in her whole body, especially in her back and shoulders, strained with struggling against Azya. A great weakness seized her, and her eyes closed. But after a while she opened them with effort. "No! In the daytime, in time of journeying, I will sleep," thought she; "but if I sleep now I shall freeze." But her thoughts grew more confused, or came helter-skelter, presenting disordered images,--in which the forest, flight and pursuit, Azya, the little knight, Eva, and the last event were mingled together half in a dream, half in clear vision. All this was rushing on somewhere as waves rush driven by the wind; and she, Basia, runs with them, without fear, without joy, as if she were travelling by contract. Azya, as it were, was pursuing her, but at the same time was talking to her, and anxious about the horse; Pan Zagloba was angry because supper would get cold; Michael was showing the road; and Eva was coming behind in the sleigh, eating dates. Then those persons became more and more effaced, as if a foggy curtain or darkness had begun to conceal them, and they vanished by degrees; there remained only a certain strange darkness, which, though the eye did not pierce it, seemed still to be empty, and to extend an immeasurable distance. This darkness penetrated every place, penetrated Basia's head, and quenched in it all visions, all thoughts, as a blast of wind quenches torches at night in the open air. Basia fell asleep; but fortunately for her, before the cold could stiffen the blood in her veins, an unusual noise roused her. The horses started on a sudden; evidently something uncommon was happening in the forest. Basia, regaining consciousness in one moment, grasped Azya's musket, and bending on the horse, with collected attention and distended nostrils, began to listen. Hers was a nature of such kind that every peril roused wariness at the first twinkle of an eye, daring and readiness for defence. The noise which roused her was the grunting of wild pigs. Whether beasts were stealing up to the young pigs, or the old boars were going to fight, it is enough that the whole forest resounded immediately. That uproar took place beyond doubt at a distance; but in the stillness of night, and the general drowsiness, it seemed so near that Basia heard not only grunting and squeals, but the loud whistle of nostrils breathing heavily. Suddenly a breaking and tramp, the crash of broken twigs, and a whole herd, though invisible to Basia, rushed past in the neighborhood, and sank in the depth of the forest. But in that incorrigible Basia, notwithstanding her terrible position, the feeling of a hunter was roused in a twinkle, and she was sorry that she had not seen the herd rushing by. "One would like to see a little," said she, in her mind; "but no matter! Riding in this way through forests, surely I shall see something yet." And only after that thought did she push on, remembering that it was better to see nothing and flee with all speed. It was impossible to halt longer, because the cold seized her more acutely, and the movement of the horse warmed her a good deal, while wearying her comparatively little. But the horses, having snatched merely some moss and frozen grass, moved very reluctantly, and with drooping heads. The hoar-frost in time of halting had covered their sides, and it seemed that they barely dragged their legs forward. They had gone, moreover, since the afternoon rest almost without drawing breath. When she had crossed the plain, with her eyes fixed on the Great Bear in the heavens, Basia disappeared in the forest, which was not very dense, but in a hilly region intersected with narrow ravines. It became darker too; not only because of the shade cast by spreading trees, but also because a fog rose from the earth and hid the stars. She was forced to go at random. The ravines alone gave some indication that she was taking the right course, for she knew that they all extended from the east toward the Dniester, and that by crossing new ones, she was going continually toward the north. But in spite of this indication, she thought, "I am ever in danger of approaching the Dniester too nearly, or of going too far from it. To do either is perilous; in the first case, I should make an enormous journey; in the second, I might come out at Yampol, and fall into the hands of my enemies." Whether she was yet before Yampol, or just on the heights above it, or had left that place behind, of this she had not the faintest idea. "There is more chance to know when I pass Mohiloff," said she; "for it lies in a great ravine, which extends far; perhaps I shall recognize it." Then she looked at the sky and thought: "God grant me only to go beyond Mohiloff; for there Michael's dominion begins; there nothing will frighten me." Now the night became darker. Fortunately snow was lying in the forest, and on the white ground she could distinguish the dark trunks of trees, see the lower limbs and avoid them. But Basia had to ride more slowly; therefore that terror of unclean powers fell on her soul again,--that terror which in the beginning of the night had chilled her blood as if with ice. "But if I see gleaming eyes low down," said she to her frightened soul, "that's nothing! it will be a wolf; but if at the height of a man--" At that moment, she cried aloud, "In the name of the Father, Son--" Was that, perhaps, a wild-cat sitting on a limb? It is sufficient that Basia saw clearly a pair of gleaming eyes, at the height of a man. From fear, her eyes were covered with a mist; but when she looked again there was nothing to be seen, and nothing heard beyond a rustle among the branches, but her heart beat as loudly as if it would burst open her bosom. And she rode farther; long, long, she rode, sighing for the light of day; but the night stretched out beyond measure. Soon after, a river barred her road again. Basia was already far enough beyond Yampol, on the bank of the Rosava; but without knowledge of where she was, she thought merely that if she continued to push forward to the north, she would soon meet a new river. She thought too that the night must be near its end; for the cold increased sensibly, the fog fell away, and stars appeared again, but dimmer, beaming with uncertain light. At length darkness began to pale. Trunks of trees, branches, twigs, grew more visible. Perfect silence reigned in the forest,--the dawn had come. After a certain time Basia could distinguish the color of the horses. At last in the east, among the branches of the trees, a bright streak appeared,--the day was there, a clear day. Basia felt weariness immeasurable. Her mouth opened in continual yawning, and her eyes closed soon after; she slept soundly but a short time, for a branch, against which her head came, roused her. Happily the horses were going very slowly, nipping moss by the way; hence the blow was so slight that it caused her no harm. The sun had risen, and was pale; its beautiful rays broke through leafless branches. At sight of this, consolation entered Basia's heart; she had left between her and pursuit so many steppes, mountains, ravines, and a whole night. "If those from Yampol, or Mohiloff, do not seize me, others will not come up," said she to herself. She reckoned on this too,--that in the beginning of her flight she had gone by a rocky road, therefore hoofs could leave no traces. But doubt began to seize her again. The Lithuanian Tartars will find tracks even on stones, and will pursue stubbornly, unless their horses fall dead; this last supposition was most likely. It was sufficient for Basia to look at her own beasts; their sides had fallen in, their heads were drooping, their eyes dim. While moving along, they dropped their heads to the ground time after time, to seize moss, or nip in passing red leaves withering here and there on the low oak bushes. It must be too that fever was tormenting Basia, for at all crossings she drank eagerly. Nevertheless, when she came out on an open plain between two forests, she urged the wearied horses forward at a gallop, and went at that pace to the next forest. After she had passed that forest she came to a second plain, still wider and more broken; behind hills at a distance of a mile or more smoke was rising, as straight as a pine-tree, toward the sky. That was the first inhabited place that Basia had met; for that country, excepting the river-bank itself, was a desert, or rather had been turned into a desert, not only in consequence of Tartar attacks, but by reason of continuous Polish-Cossack wars. After the last campaign of Pan Charnetski, to whom Busha fell a victim, the small towns came to be wretched settlements, the villages were overgrown with young forests; but after Charnetski, there were so many expeditions, so many battles, so many slaughters, down to the most recent times, in which the great Sobieski had wrested those regions from the enemy. Life had begun to increase; but that one tract through which Basia was fleeing was specially empty,--only robbers had taken refuge there, but even they had been well-nigh exterminated by the commands at Rashkoff, Yampol, and Hreptyoff. Basia's first thought at sight of this smoke was to ride toward it, find a house or even a hut, or if nothing more, a simple fire, warm herself and gain strength. But soon it occurred to her that in those regions it was safer to meet a pack of wolves than to meet men; men there were more merciless and savage than wild beasts. Nay, it behooved her to urge forward her horses, and pass that forest haunt of men with all speed, for only death could await her in that place. At the very edge of the opposite forest Basia saw a small stack of hay; so, paying no attention to anything, she stopped at it to feed her horses. They ate greedily, thrusting their heads at once to their ears in the hay, and drawing out great bunches of it. Unfortunately their bits hindered them greatly; but Basia could not unbridle them, reasoning correctly in this way:-- "Where smoke is there must be a house; as there is a stack here, they must have horses there on which they could follow me,--therefore I must be ready." She spent, however, about an hour at the stack, so that the horses ate fairly well; and she herself ate some seeds. She then moved on, and when she had travelled a number of furlongs, all at once she saw before her two persons carrying bundles of twigs on their backs. One was a man not old, but not in his first youth, with a face pitted with small-pox, and with crooked eyes, ugly, repulsive, with a cruel, ferocious expression of face; the other, a stripling, was idiotic. This was to be seen at the first glance, by his stupid smile and wandering look. Both threw down their bundles of twigs at sight of the armed horseman, and seemed to be greatly alarmed. But the meeting was so sudden, and they were so near, that they could not flee. "Glory be to God!" said Basia. "For the ages of ages." "What is the name of this farm?" "What should its name be? There is the cabin." "Is it far to Mohiloff?" "We know not." Here the man began to scrutinize Basia's face carefully. Since she wore man's apparel he took her for a youth; insolence and cruelty came at once to his face instead of the recent timidity. "But why are you so young, Pan Knight?" "What is that to you?" "And are you travelling alone?" asked the peasant, advancing a step. "Troops are following me." He halted, looked over the immense plain, and answered,-- "Not true. There is no one." He advanced two steps; his crooked eyes gave out a sullen gleam, and arranging his mouth he began to imitate the call of a quail, evidently wishing to summon some one in that way. All this seemed to Basia very hostile, and she aimed a pistol at his breast without hesitation,-- "Silence, or thou'lt die!" The man stopped, and, what is more, threw himself flat on the ground. The idiot did the same, but began to howl like a wolf from terror; perhaps he had lost his mind on a time from the same feeling, for now his howling recalled the most ghastly terror. Basia urged forward her horses, and shot on like an arrow. Fortunately there was no undergrowth in the forest, and trees were far apart. Soon a new plain appeared, narrow, but very long. The horses had gained fresh strength from eating at the stack, and rushed like the wind. "They will run home, mount their horses, and pursue me," thought Basia. Her only solace was that the horses travelled well, and that the place where she met the men was rather far from the house. "Before they can reach the house and bring out the horses, I, riding in this way, shall be five miles or more ahead." That was the case; but when some hours had passed, and Basia, convinced that she was not followed, slackened speed, great fear, great depression, seized her heart, and tears came perforce to her eyes. This meeting showed her what people in those regions were, and what might be looked for from them. It is true that this knowledge was not unexpected. From her own experience, and from the narratives at Hreptyoff, she knew that the former peaceful settlers had gone from those wilds, or that war had devoured them; those who remained were living in continual alarm, amid terrible civil disturbance and Tartar attacks, in conditions in which one man is a wolf toward another; they were living without churches or faith, without other principles than those of bloodshed and burning, without knowing any right but that of the strong hand; they had lost all human feelings, and grown wild, like the beasts of the forest. Basia knew this well; still, a human being, astray in the wilderness, harassed by cold and hunger, turns involuntarily for aid first of all to kindred beings. So did Basia when she saw that smoke indicating a habitation of people; following involuntarily the first impulse of her heart, she wished to rush to it, greet the inhabitants with God's name, and rest her wearied head under their roof. But cruel reality bared its teeth at her quickly, like a fierce dog. Hence her heart was filled with bitterness; tears of sorrow and disappointment came to her eyes. "Help from no one but God," thought she; "may I meet no person again." Then she fell to thinking why that man had begun to imitate a quail. "There must be others there surely, and he wanted to call them." It came to her head that there were robbers in that tract, who, driven out of the ravines near the river, had betaken themselves to the wilds farther off in the country, where the nearness of broad steppes gave them more safety and easier escape in case of need. "But what will happen," inquired Basia, "if I meet a number of men, or more than a dozen? The musket,--that is one; two pistols,--two; a sabre,--let us suppose two more; but if the number is greater than this, I shall die a dreadful death." And as in the previous night with its alarms she had wished day to come as quickly as possible, so now she looked with yearning for darkness to hide her more easily from evil eyes. Twice more, during persistent riding, did it seem to her that she was passing near people. Once she saw on the edge of a high plain a number of cabins. Maybe robbers by vocation were not living in them, but she preferred to pass at a gallop, knowing that even villagers are not much better than robbers; another time she heard the sound of axes cutting wood. The wished-for night covered the earth at last. Basia was so wearied that when she came to a naked steppe, free from forest, she said to herself,-- "Here I shall not be crushed against a tree; I will sleep right away, even if I freeze." When she was closing her eyes it seemed to her that far off in the distance, in the white snow, she saw a number of black points which were moving in various directions. For a while longer she overcame her sleep. "Those are surely wolves," muttered she, quietly. Before she had gone many yards, those points disappeared; then she fell asleep so soundly that she woke only when Azya's horse, on which she was sitting, neighed under her. She looked around; she was on the edge of a forest, and woke in time, for if she had not waked she might have been crushed against a tree. Suddenly she saw that the other horse was not near her. "What has happened?" cried she, in great alarm. But a very simple thing had happened. Basia had tied, it is true, the reins of her horse's bridle to the pommel of the saddle on which she was sitting; but her stiffened hands served her badly, and she was not able to knot the straps firmly; afterward the reins fell off, and the wearied horse stopped to seek food under the snow or lie down. Fortunately Basia had her pistol at her girdle, and not in the holsters; the powder-horn and the bag with the rest of the seeds were also with her. Finally the misfortune was not too appalling; for Azya's horse, though he yielded to hers in speed, surpassed him undoubtedly in endurance of cold and labor. Still, Basia was grieved for her favorite horse, and at the first moment determined to search for him. She was astonished, however, when she looked around the steppe and saw nothing of the beast, though the night was unusually clear. "He has stopped behind," thought she,--"surely not gone ahead; but he must have lain down in some hollow, and that is why I cannot see him." Azya's horse neighed a second time, shaking himself somewhat and putting back his ears; but from the steppe he was answered by silence. "I will go and find him," said Basia. And she turned, when a sudden alarm seized her, and a voice precisely as if human called,-- "Basia, do not go back!" That moment the silence was broken by other and ill-omened voices near, and coming, as it were, from under the earth, howling, coughing, whining, groaning, and finally a ghastly squeal, short, interrupted. This was all the more terrible since there was nothing to be seen on the steppe. Cold sweat covered Basia from head to foot; and from her blue lips was wrested the cry,-- "What is that? What has happened?" She divined at once, it is true, that wolves had killed her horse; but she could not understand why she did not see him, since, judging by the sounds, he was not more than five hundred yards behind. There was no time to fly to the rescue, for the horse must be torn to pieces already; besides, she needed to think of her own life. Basia fired the pistol to frighten the wolves, and moved forward. While going she pondered over what had happened, and after a while it shot through her head that perhaps it was not wolves that had taken her horse, since those voices seemed to come from under the ground. At this thought a cold shiver went along her back; but dwelling on the matter more carefully, she remembered that in her sleep it had seemed to her that she was going down and then going up again. "It must be so," said she; "I must have crossed in my sleep some ravine, not very steep. There my horse remained; and there the wolves found him." The rest of the night passed without accident. Having eaten hay the morning before, the horse went with great endurance, so that Basia herself was amazed at his strength. That was a Tartar horse,--a "wolf hunter" of great stock, and of endurance almost without limit. During the short halts which Basia made, he ate everything without distinction,--moss, leaves; he gnawed even the bark of trees, and went on and on. Basia urged him to a gallop on the plains. Then he began to groan somewhat, and to breathe loudly when reined in; he panted, trembled, and dropped his head low from weariness, but did not fall. Her horse, even had he not perished under the teeth of the wolves, could not have endured such a journey. Next morning Basia, after her prayers, began to calculate the time. "I broke away from Azya on Tuesday in the afternoon," said she to herself, "I galloped till night; then one night passed on the road; after that a whole day; then again a whole night, and now the third day has begun. A pursuit, even had there been one, must have returned already, and Hreptyoff ought to be near, for I have not spared the horses." After a while she added, "It is time; it is time! God pity me!" At moments a desire seized her to approach the Dniester, for at the bank it would be easier to learn where she was; but when she remembered that fifty of Azya's men had remained with Pan Gorzenski in Mohiloff, she was afraid. It occurred to her that because she had made such a circuit she might not have passed Mohiloff yet. On the road, in so far as sleep had not closed her eyes, she tried, it is true, to note carefully whether she did not come on a very wide ravine, like that in which Mohiloff was situated; but she did not see such a place. However, the ravine in the interior might be narrow and altogether different from what it was at Mohiloff; might have come to an end or contracted at some furlongs beyond the town; in a word, Basia had not the least idea of where Mohiloff was. Only she implored God without ceasing that it might be near, for she felt that she could not endure toil, hunger, sleeplessness, and cold much longer. During three days she had lived on seeds alone, and though she had spared them most carefully, still she had eaten the last kernel that morning, and there was nothing in the bag. Now she could only nourish and warm herself with the hope that Hreptyoff was near. In addition to hope, fever was warming her. Basia felt perfectly that she had a fever; for though the air was growing colder, and it was even freezing, her hands and feet were as hot then as they had been cold at the beginning of the journey; thirst too tormented her greatly. "If only I do not lose my presence of mind," said she to herself; "if I reach Hreptyoff, even with my last breath, see Michael, and then let the will of God be done." Again she had to pass numerous streams or rivers, but these were either shallow or frozen; on some water was flowing, and there was ice underneath, firm and strong. But she dreaded these crossings most of all because the horse, though courageous, feared them evidently. Going into the water or onto the ice he snorted, put forward his ears, sometimes resisted, but when urged went warily, putting foot before foot slowly, and sniffing with distended nostrils. It was well on in the afternoon when Basia, riding through a thick pine-wood, halted before some river larger than others, and above all much wider. According to her supposition this might be the Ladava or the Kalusik. At sight of this her heart beat with gladness. In every case Hreptyoff must be near; had she passed it even, she might consider herself saved, for the country there was more inhabited and the people less to be feared. The river, as far as her eye could reach, had steep banks; only in one place was there a depression, and the water, dammed by ice, had gone over the bank as if poured into a flat and wide vessel. The banks were frozen thoroughly; in the middle a broad streak of water was flowing, but Basia hoped to find the usual ice under it. The horse went in, resisting somewhat, as at every crossing, with head inclined, and smelling the snow before him. When she came to running water Basia knelt on the saddle, according to her custom, and held the saddle-bow with both hands. The water plashed under his hoofs. The ice was really firm; his hoof struck it as stone. But evidently the shoes had grown blunt on the long road, which was rocky in places, for the horse began to slip; his feet went apart, as if flying from under him. All at once he fell forward, and his nostrils sank in the water; then he rose, fell on his rump, rose again, but being terrified, began to struggle and strike desperately with his feet. Basia grasped the bridle, and with that a dull crack was heard; both hind legs of the horse sank through the ice as far as the haunches. "Jesus, Jesus!" cried Basia. The beast, with fore legs still on firm ice, made desperate efforts; but evidently the pieces on which he was resting began to move from under his feet, for he fell deeper, and began to groan hoarsely. Basia had still time sufficient and presence of mind to seize the mane of the horse and reach the unbroken ice in front of him. She fell and was wet in the water; but rising and feeling firm ground under foot, she knew that she was saved. She wished to save the horse, and bending forward caught the bridle; and going toward the bank she pulled it with all her might. But the horse sank deeper, could not free even his fore legs to grapple the ice, which was still unmoved. The reins were pulled harder every instant; but he sank more and more. He began to groan with a voice almost human, baring his teeth the while; his eyes looked at Basia with indescribable sadness, as if wishing to say to her: "There is no rescue for me; drop the reins ere I drag thee in!" There was, in truth, no rescue for him, and Basia had to drop the reins. When the horse disappeared beneath the ice she went to the bank, sat down under a bush without leaves, and sobbed like a child. Her energy was thoroughly broken for the moment. And besides that, the bitterness and pain which, after meeting with people, had filled her heart, overflowed it now with still greater force. Everything was against her,--uncertain roads, darkness, the elements, men, beasts; the hand of God alone had seemed to watch over her. In that kind, fatherly care she had put all her childlike trust; but now even that hand had failed her. This was a feeling to which Basia had not given such clear expression; but if she had not, she felt it all the more strongly in her heart. What remained to her? Complaint and tears! And still she had shown all the valor, all the courage, all the endurance which such a poor, weak creature could show. Now, see, her horse is drowned,--the last hope of rescue, the last plank of salvation, the only thing living that was with her! Without that horse she felt powerless against the unknown expanse which separated her from Hreptyoff, against the pine-woods, ravines, and steppes; not only defenceless against the pursuit of men and beasts, but she felt far more lonely and deserted than before. She wept till tears failed her. Then came exhaustion, weariness, and a feeling of helplessness so great that it was almost equal to rest. Sighing deeply once and a second time, she said to herself,-- "Against the will of God I am powerless. I will die where I am." And she closed her eyes, aforetime so bright and joyous, but now hollow and sunken. In its own way, though her body was becoming more helpless every moment, thought was still throbbing in her head like a frightened bird, and her heart was throbbing also. If no one in the world loved her, she would have less regret to die; but all loved her so much. And she pictured to herself what would happen when Azya's treason and his flight would become known: how they would search for her; how they would find her at last,--blue, frozen, sleeping the eternal sleep under a bush at the river. And all at once she called out,-- "Oh, but poor Michael will be in despair! Ei, ei!" Then she implored him, saying that it was not her fault. "Michael," said she, putting her arms around his neck, mentally, "I did all in my power; but, my dear, it was difficult. The Lord God did not will it." And that moment such a heartfelt love for Michael possessed her, such a wish even to die near that dear head, that, summoning every force she had, she rose from the bank and walked on. At first it was immensely difficult. Her feet had become unaccustomed to walking during the long ride; she felt as if she were going on stilts. Happily she was not cold; she was even warm enough, for the fever had not left her for a moment. Sinking in the forest, she went forward persistently, remembering to keep the sun on her left hand. It had gone, in fact, to the Moldavian side; for it was the second half of the day,--perhaps four o'clock. Basia cared less now for approaching the Dniester, for it seemed to her always that she was beyond Mohiloff. "If only I were sure of that; if I knew it!" repeated she, raising her blue, and at the same time inflamed, face to the sky. "If some beast or some tree would speak and say, 'It is a mile to Hreptyoff, two miles,'--I might go there perhaps." But the trees were silent; nay more, they seemed to her unfriendly, and obstructed the road with their roots. Basia stumbled frequently against the knots and curls of those roots covered with snow. After a time she was burdened unendurably; she threw the warm mantle from her shoulders and remained in her single coat. Relieving herself in this way, she walked and walked still more hurriedly,--now stumbling, now falling at times in deeper snow. Her fur-lined morocco boots without soles, excellent for riding in a sleigh or on horseback, did not protect her feet well against clumps or stones; besides, soaked through repeatedly at crossings, and kept damp by the warmth of her feet now inflamed from fever, these boots were torn easily in the forest. "I will go barefoot to Hreptyoff or to death!" thought Basia. And a sad smile lighted her face, for she found comfort in this, that she went so enduringly; and that if she should be frozen on the road, Michael would have nothing to cast at her memory. Therefore she talked now continually with her husband, and said once,-- "Ai, Michael dear! another would not have done so much; for example, Eva." Of Eva she had thought more than once in that time of flight; more than once had she prayed for Eva. It was clear to her now, seeing that Azya did not love the girl, that her fate, and the fate of all the other prisoners left in Rashkoff, would be dreadful. "It is worse for them than for me," repeated she, from moment to moment, and that thought gave fresh strength to her. But when one, two, and three hours had passed, this strength decreased at every step. Gradually the sun sank behind the Dniester, and flooding the sky with a ruddy twilight, was quenched; the snow took on a violet reflection. Then that gold and purple abyss of twilight began to grow dark, and became narrower every moment, from a sea covering half the heavens it was changed to a lake, from a lake to a river, from a river to a stream, and finally gleaming as a thread of light stretched on the west, yielded to darkness. Night came. An hour passed. The pine-wood became black and mysterious; but, unmoved by any breath, it was as silent as if it had collected itself, and were meditating what to do with that poor, wandering creature. But there was nothing good in that torpor and silence; nay, there was insensibility and callousness. Basia went on continually, catching the air more quickly with her parched lips; she fell, too, more frequently, because of darkness and her lack of strength. She had her head turned upward; but not to look for the directing Great Bear, for she had lost altogether the sense of position. She went so as to go; she went because very clear and sweet visions before death had begun to fly over her. For example, the four sides of the wood begin to run together quickly, to join and form a room,--the room at Hreptyoff. Basia is in it; she sees everything clearly. In the chimney a great fire is burning, and on the benches officers are sitting as usual: Pan Zagloba is chaffing Pan Snitko; Pan Motovidlo is sitting in silence looking into the flames, and when something hisses in the fire he says, in his drawling voice, "Oh, soul in purgatory, what needst thou?" Pan Mushalski and Pan Hromyka are playing dice with Michael. Basia comes up to them and says: "Michael, I will sit on the bench and nestle up to you a little, for I am not myself." Michael puts his arm around her. "What is the matter, kitten? But maybe--" And he inclines to her ear and whispers something. But she answers, "Ai, how I am not myself!" What a bright and peaceful room that is, and how beloved is that Michael! But somehow Basia is not herself, so that she is alarmed. Basia is not herself to such a degree that the fever has left her suddenly, for the weakness before death has overcome it. The visions disappear; presence of mind returns, and with it memory. "I am fleeing before Azya," said Basia to herself; "I am in the forest at night. I cannot go to Hreptyoff. I am dying." After the fever, cold seizes her quickly, and goes through her body to the bones. The legs bend under her, and she kneels at last on the snow before a tree. Not the least cloud darkens her mind now. She is terribly sorry to lose life, but she knows perfectly that she is dying; and wishing to commend her soul to God, she begins to say, in a broken voice,-- "In the name of the Father and the Son--" Suddenly certain strange, sharp, shrill, squeaking voices interrupt further prayer; they are disagreeable and piercing in the stillness of the night. Basia opens her mouth. The question, "What is that?" is dying on her lips. For a moment she places her trembling fingers to her face, as if not wishing to lend belief, and from her mouth a sudden cry is wrested,-- "O Jesus, O Jesus! Those are the well-sweeps; that is Hreptyoff! O Jesus!" Then that being who was dying a little before springs up, and panting, trembling, with eyes full of tears, and with swelling bosom runs through the forest, falls, rises again, repeating,-- "They are watering the horses! That is Hreptyoff! Those are our well-sweeps! Even to the gate, even to the gate! O Jesus! Hreptyoff--Hreptyoff!" But here the forest grows thin, the snow-fields open, and with them the slope, from which a number of glittering eyes are looking on the running Basia. But those were not wolves' eyes,--ah, those were Hreptyoff windows looking with sweet, bright, and saving light! That is the "fortalice" there on the eminence, just that eastern side turned to the forest! There was still a distance to go, but Basia did not know when she passed it. The soldiers standing at the gate on the village side did not know her in the darkness; but they admitted her, thinking her a boy sent on some message, and returning to the commandant. She rushed in with her last breath, ran across the square near the wells where the dragoons, returning just before from a reconnoissance, had watered their horses for the night, and stood at the door of the main building. The little knight and Zagloba were sitting just then astride a bench before the fire, and drinking krupnik.[27] They were talking of Basia, thinking that she was down there somewhere, managing in Rashkoff. Both were sad, for it was terribly dreary without her, and every day they were discussing about her return. "God ward off sudden thaws and rains. Should they come. He alone knows when she would return," said Zagloba, gloomily. "The winter will hold out yet," said the little knight; "and in eight or ten days I shall be looking toward Mohiloff for her every hour." "I wish she had not gone. There is nothing for me here without her in Hreptyoff." "But why did you advise the journey?" "Don't invent, Michael! That took place with your head." "If only she comes back in health." Here the little knight sighed, and added,-- "In health, and as soon as possible." With that the door squeaked, and a small, pitiful, torn creature, covered with snow, began to pipe plaintively at the threshold:-- "Michael, Michael!" The little knight sprang up, but he was so astonished at the first moment that he stopped where he stood, as if turned to stone; he opened his arms, began to blink, and stood still. "Michael!--Azya betrayed--he wanted to carry me away; but I fled, and--save--rescue!" When she had said this, she tottered and fell as if dead, on the floor; Pan Michael sprang forward, raised her in his arms as if she had been a feather, and cried shrilly,-- "Merciful Christ!" But her poor head hung without life on his shoulder. Thinking that he held only a corpse in his arms, he began to cry with a ghastly voice,-- "Basia is dead!--dead! Rescue!" CHAPTER XLII. News of Basia's arrival flew like a thunderbolt through Hreptyoff; but no one except the little knight, Pan Zagloba, and the serving-women saw her that evening, or the following evenings. After that swoon on the threshold she recovered presence of mind sufficiently to tell in a few words at least what had happened, and how it had happened; but suddenly a new fit of fainting set in, and an hour later, though they used all means to revive her, though they warmed her, gave her wine, tried to give her food, she did not know even her husband, and there was no doubt that for her a long and grievous illness was beginning. Meanwhile excitement rose in all Hreptyoff. The soldiers, learning that "the lady" had come home half alive, rushed out to the square like a swarm of bees; all the officers assembled, and whispering in low voices were waiting impatiently for news from the bedroom where Basia was lying. For a long time, however, it was impossible to learn anything. It is true that at times waiting-women hurried past, one to the kitchen for hot water, another to the dispensary for plasters, ointments, and herbs; but they let no one detain them. Uncertainty was weighing like lead on all hearts. Increasing crowds, even from the village, collected on the square; inquiries passed from mouth to mouth; men described Azya's treason, and said that "the lady" had saved herself by flight, had fled a whole week without food or sleep. At these tidings the breasts of all swelled with rage. At last a wonderful and terrible frenzy seized the assembly of soldiers; but they repressed it through fear of injuring the sick woman by an outburst. At last, after long waiting, Pan Zagloba went out to the officers, his eyes red, and the remnant of the hair on his head standing up; they sprang to him in a crowd, and covered him at once with anxious questions in low tones. "Is she alive; is she alive?" "She is alive," said the old man; "but God knows whether she will live an hour." Here the voice stuck in his throat; his lower lip quivered. Seizing his head with both hands, he dropped heavily on the bench, and suppressed sobbing heaved his breast. At sight of this, Pan Mushalski caught in his embrace Pan Nyenashinyets, though he cared not much for him ordinarily, and began to moan quietly; Pan Nyenashinyets seconded him at once. Pan Motovidlo stared as if he were trying to swallow something, but could not; Pan Snitko fell to unbuttoning his coat with quivering fingers; Pan Hromyka raised his hands, and walked through the room. The soldiers, seeing through the windows these signs of despair, and judging that the lady had died already, began an outcry and lamentation. Hearing this, Zagloba fell into a sudden fury, and shot out like a stone from a sling to the square. "Silence, you scoundrels! may the thunderbolts split you!" cried he, in a suppressed voice. They were silent at once, understanding that the time for lamentation had not come yet; but they did not leave the square. Zagloba returned to the room, quieted somewhat, and sat again on the bench. At that moment a waiting-woman appeared again at the door of the room. Zagloba sprang toward her. "How is it there?" "She is sleeping." "Is she sleeping? Praise be to God!" "Maybe the Lord will grant--" "What is the Pan Commandant doing?" "The Pan Commandant is at her bedside." "That is well. Go now for what you were sent." Zagloba turned to the officers and said, repeating the words of the woman,-- "May the Most High God have mercy! She is sleeping! Some hope is entering me--Uf!" And they sighed deeply in like manner. Then they gathered around Zagloba in a close circle and began to inquire,-- "For God's sake, how did it happen? What happened? How did she escape on foot?" "At first she did not escape on foot," whispered Zagloba, "but with two horses, for she threw that dog from his saddle,--may the plague slay him!" "I cannot believe my ears!" "She struck him with the butt of a pistol between the eyes; and as they were some distance behind no one saw them, and no one pursued. The wolves ate one horse, and the other was drowned under the ice. O Merciful Christ! She went, the poor thing, alone through forests, without eating, without drinking." Here Pan Zagloba burst out crying again, and stopped his narrative for a time; the officers too sat down on benches, filled with wonder and horror and pity for the woman who was loved by all. "When she came near Hreptyoff," continued Zagloba, after a while, "she did not know the place, and was preparing to die; just then she heard the squeak of the well-sweeps, knew that she was near us, and dragged herself home with her last breath." "God guarded her in such straits," said Pan Motovidlo, wiping his moist mustaches. "He will guard her further." "It will be so! You have touched the point," whispered a number of voices. With that a louder noise came in from the square; Zagloba sprang up again in a rage, and rushed out through the doorway. Head was thrust up to head on the square; but at sight of Zagloba and two other officers the soldiers pushed back into a half-circle. "Be quiet, you dog souls!" began Zagloba, "or I'll command--" But out of the half-circle stepped Zydor Lusnia,--a sergeant of dragoons, a real Mazovian, and one of Pan Michael's favorite soldiers. This man advanced a couple of steps, straightened himself out like a string, and said with a voice of decision,-- "Your grace, since such a son has injured our lady, as I live, we cannot but move on him and take vengeance; all beg to do this. And if the colonel cannot go, we will go under another command, even to the Crimea itself, to capture that man; and remembering our lady, we will not spare him." A stubborn, cold, peasant threat sounded in the voice of the sergeant; other dragoons and attendants in the accompanying squadrons began to grit their teeth, shake their sabres, puff, and murmur. This deep grumbling, like the grumbling of a bear in the night, had in it something simply terrible. The sergeant stood erect waiting for an answer; behind him whole ranks were waiting, and in them was evident such obstinacy and rage that in presence of it even the ordinary obedience of soldiers disappeared. Silence continued for a while; all at once some voice in a remoter line called out,-- "The blood of that one is the best medicine for 'the lady.'" Zagloba's anger fell away, for that attachment of the soldiers to Basia touched him; and at that mention of medicine another plan flashed up in his head,--namely, to bring a doctor to Basia. At the first moment in that wild Hreptyoff no one had thought of a doctor; but nevertheless there were many of them in Kamenyets,--among others a certain Greek, a famous man, wealthy, the owner of a number of stone houses, and so learned that he passed everywhere as almost skilled in the black art. But there was a doubt whether he, being wealthy, would be willing to come at any price to such a desert,--he to whom even magnates spoke with respect. Zagloba meditated for a short time, and then said,-- "A fitting vengeance will not miss that arch hound, I promise you that; and he would surely prefer to have his grace, the king, swear vengeance against him than to have Zagloba do it. But it is not known whether he is alive yet; for the lady, in tearing herself out of his hands, struck him with the butt of her pistol right in the brain. But this is not the time to think of him, for first we must save the lady." "We should be glad to do it, even with our own lives," answered Lusnia. And the crowd muttered again in support of the sergeant. "Listen to me," said Zagloba. "In Kamenyets lives a doctor named Rodopul. You will go to him; you will tell him that the starosta of Podolia has sprained his leg at this place and is waiting for rescue. And if he is outside the wall, seize him, put him on a horse, or into a bag, and bring him to Hreptyoff without stopping. I will give command to have horses disposed at short distances apart, and you will go at a gallop. Only be careful to bring him alive, for we have no business with dead doctors." A mutter of satisfaction was heard on every side; Lusnia moved his stern mustaches and said,-- "I will bring him surely, and I will not lose him till we come to Hreptyoff." "Move on!" "I pray your grace--" "What more?" "But if he should die of fright?" "He will not. Take six men and move." Lusnia shot away. The others were glad to do something for the lady; they ran to saddle the horses, and in a few "Our Fathers" six men were racing to Kamenyets. After them others took additional horses, to be disposed along the road. Zagloba, satisfied with himself, returned to the house. After a while Pan Michael came out of the bedroom, changed, half conscious, indifferent to words of sympathy and consolation. When he had informed Zagloba that Basia was sleeping continually, he dropped on the bench, and gazed with wandering look on the door beyond which she was lying. It seemed to the officers that he was listening; therefore all restrained their breathing, and a perfect stillness settled down in the room. After a certain time Zagloba went on tiptoe to the little knight. "Michael," said he, "I have sent to Kamenyets for a doctor; but maybe it is well to send for some one else?" Volodyovski was collecting his thoughts, and apparently did not understand. "For a priest," said Zagloba. "Father Kaminski might come by morning." The little knight closed his eyes, turned toward the fire, his face as pale as a kerchief, and said in a hurried voice,-- "Jesus, Jesus, Jesus!" Zagloba inquired no further, but went out and made arrangements. When he returned, Pan Michael was no longer in the room. The officers told Zagloba that the sick woman had called her husband, it was unknown whether in a fever or in her senses. The old noble convinced himself soon, by inspection, that it was in a fever. Basia's cheeks were bright red; her eyes, though glittering, were dull, as if the pupils had mingled with the white; her pale hands were searching for something before her, with a monotonous motion, on the coverlet. Pan Michael was lying half alive at her feet. From time to time the sick woman muttered something in a low voice, or uttered uncertain phrases more loudly; among them "Hreptyoff" was repeated most frequently: evidently it seemed to her at times that she was still on the road. That movement of her hands on the coverlet disturbed Zagloba especially, for in its unconscious monotony he saw signs of coming death. He was a man of experience, and many people had died in his presence; but never had his heart been cut with such sorrow as at sight of that flower withering so early. Understanding that God alone could save that quenching life, he knelt at the bed and began to pray, and to pray earnestly. Meanwhile Basia's breath grew heavier, and changed by degrees to a rattling. Volodyovski sprang up from her feet; Zagloba rose from his knees. Neither said a word to the other; they merely looked into each other's eyes, and in that look there was terror. It seemed to them that she was dying, but it seemed so only for some moments; soon her breathing was easier and even slower. Thenceforth they were between fear and hope. The night dragged on slowly. Neither did the officers go to rest; they sat in the room, now looking at the door of the bedroom, now whispering among themselves, now dozing. At intervals a boy came in to throw wood on the fire; and at each movement of the latch they sprang from the bench, thinking that Volodyovski or Zagloba was coming, and they would hear the terrible words, "She is living no longer!" At last the cocks crowed, and she was still struggling with the fever. Toward morning a fierce rain-storm burst forth; it roared among the beams, howled on the roof; at times the flames quivered in the chimney, casting into the room puffs of smoke and sparks. About daylight Pan Motovidlo stepped out quietly, for he had to go on a reconnoissance. At last day came pale and cloudy, and lighted weary faces. On the square the usual movement began. In the whistling of the storm were heard the tramp of horses on the planking of the stable, the squeak of the well-sweeps, and the voices of soldiers; but soon a bell sounded,--Father Kaminski had come. When he entered, wearing his white surplice, the officers fell on their knees. It seemed to all that the solemn moment had come, after which death must follow undoubtedly. The sick woman had not regained consciousness; therefore the priest could not hear her confession. He only gave her extreme unction; then he began to console the little knight, and to persuade him to yield to the will of God. But there was no effect in that consolation, for no words could reach his pain. For a whole day death hovered over Basia. Like a spider, which secreted in some gloomy corner of the ceiling crawls out at times to the light, and lets itself down on an unseen web, death seemed at times to come down right there over Basia's head; and more than once it seemed to those present that his shadow was falling on her forehead, that that bright soul was just opening its wings to fly away out of Hreptyoff, somewhere into endless space, to the other side of life. Then again death, like a spider, hid away under the ceiling, and hope filled their hearts. But that was merely a partial and temporary hope, for no one dared to think that Basia would survive the attack. Pan Michael himself had no hope of her recovery; and this pain of his became so great that Zagloba, though suffering severely himself, began to be afraid, and to commend him to the care of the officers. "For God's sake, look after him!" said the old man; "he may plunge a knife into his body." This did not come, indeed, to Pan Michael's head; but in that rending sorrow and pain he asked himself continually,-- "How am I to stay behind when she goes? How can I let that dearest love go alone? What will she say when she looks around and does not find me near her?" Thinking thus, he wished with all the powers of his soul to die with her; for as he could not imagine life for himself on earth without her, in like manner he did not understand that she could be happy in that life without him, and not yearn for him. In the afternoon the ill-omened spider hid again in the ceiling. The flush in Basia's cheeks was quenched, and the fever decreased to a degree that some consciousness came back to her. She lay for a time with closed eyes, then, opening them, looked into the face of the little knight, and asked,-- "Michael, am I in Hreptyoff?" "Yes, my love," answered Volodyovski, closing his teeth. "And are you really near me?" "Yes; how do you feel?" "Ai, well." It was clear that she herself was not certain that the fever had not brought before her eyes deceptive visions; but from that moment she regained consciousness more and more. In the evening Lusnia and his men came and shook out of a bag before the fort the doctor of Kamenyets, together with his medicines; he was barely alive. But when he learned that he was not in robber hands, as he thought, but was brought in that fashion to a patient, after a passing faintness he went to the rescue at once, especially as Zagloba held before him in one hand a purse filled with coin, in the other a loaded pistol, and said,-- "Here is the fee for life, and there is the fee for death." That same night, about daybreak, the spider of ill-omen hid away somewhere for good; thereupon the decision of the doctor, "She will be sick a long time, but she will recover," sounded with joyful echo through Hreptyoff. When Pan Michael heard it first, he fell on the floor and broke into such violent sobbing that it seemed as though his bosom would burst. Zagloba grew weak altogether from joy, so that his face was covered with sweat, and he was barely able to exclaim, "A drink!" The officers embraced one another. On the square the dragoons assembled again, with the escort and the Cossacks of Pan Motovidlo; it was hardly possible to restrain them from shouting. They wanted absolutely to show their delight in some fashion, and they began to beg for a number of robbers imprisoned in the cellars of Hreptyoff, so as to hang them for the benefit of the lady. But the little knight refused. CHAPTER XLIII. Basia suffered so violently for a week yet, that had it not been for the assurance of the doctor both Pan Michael and Zagloba would have admitted that the flame of her life might expire at any moment. Only at the end of that time did she become notably better; her consciousness returned fully, and though the doctor foresaw that she would lie in bed a month, or a month and a half, still it was certain that she would return to perfect health, and gain her former strength. Pan Michael during her illness went hardly one step from her pillow; he loved her after these perils still more, if possible, and did not see the world beyond her. At times when he sat near her, when he looked on that face, still thin and emaciated but joyous, and those eyes, into which the old fire was returning each day, he was beset by the wish to laugh, to cry, and to shout from delight:-- "My only Basia is recovering; she is recovering!" And he rushed at her hands, and sometimes he kissed those poor little feet which had waded so valiantly through the deep snows to Hreptyoff; in a word, he loved her and honored her beyond estimation. He felt wonderfully indebted to Providence, and on a certain time he said in presence of Zagloba and the officers:-- "I am a poor man, but even were I to work off my arms to the elbows, I will find money for a little church, even a wooden one. And as often as they ring the bells in it, I will remember the mercy of God, and the soul will be melting within me from gratitude." "God grant us first to pass through this Turkish war with success," said Zagloba. "The Lord knows best what pleases Him most," replied the little knight: "if He wishes for a church He will preserve me; and if He prefers my blood, I shall not spare it, as God is dear to me." Basia with health regained her humor. Two weeks later she gave command to open the door of her chamber a little one evening; and when the officers had assembled in the room, she called out with her silvery voice:-- "Good-evening, gentlemen! I shall not die this time, aha!" "Thanks to the Most High God!" answered the officers, in chorus. "Glory be to God, dear child!" exclaimed Pan Motovidlo, who loved Basia particularly with a fatherly affection, and who in moments of great emotion spoke always in Russian.[28] "See, gentlemen," continued Basia, "what has happened! Who could have hoped for this? Lucky that it ended so." "God watched over innocence," called the chorus again through the door. "But Pan Zagloba laughed at me more than once, because I have more love for the sabre than the distaff. Well, a distaff or a needle would have helped me greatly! But didn't I act like a cavalier, didn't I?" "An angel could not have done better!" Zagloba interrupted the conversation by closing the door of the chamber, for he feared too much excitement for Basia. But she was angry as a cat at the old man, for she had a wish for further conversation, and especially to hear more praises of her bravery and valor. When danger had passed, and was merely a reminiscence, she was very proud of her action against Azya, and demanded praise absolutely. More than once she turned to the little knight, and pushing his breast with her finger said, with the mien of a spoiled child,-- "Praise for the bravery!" And he, the obedient, praised her and fondled her, and kissed her on the eyes and on the hands, till Zagloba, though he was greatly affected himself in reality, pretended to be scandalized, and muttered,-- "Ah, everything will be as lax as grandfather's whip." The general rejoicing in Hreptyoff over Basia's recovery was troubled only by the remembrance of the injury which Azya's treason had wrought in the Commonwealth, and the terrible fate of old Pan Novoveski, of Pani and Panna Boski, and of Eva. Basia was troubled no little by this, and with her every one; for the events at Rashkoff were known in detail, not only in Hreptyoff, but in Kamenyets and farther on. A few days before, Pan Myslishevski had stopped in Hreptyoff; notwithstanding the treason of Azya, Krychinski, and Adurovich, he did not lose hope of attracting to the Polish side the other captains. After Pan Myslishevski came Pan Bogush, and later, news directly from Mohiloff, Yampol, and Rashkoff itself. In Mohiloff, Pan Gorzenski, evidently a better soldier than orator, did not let himself be deceived. Intercepting Azya's orders to the Tartars whom he left behind, Pan Gorzenski fell upon them, with a handful of Mazovian infantry, and cut them down or took them prisoners; besides, he sent a warning to Yampol, through which that place was saved. The troops returned soon after. So Rashkoff was the only victim. Pan Michael received a letter from Pan Byaloglovski himself, giving a report of events there and other affairs relating to the whole Commonwealth. "It is well that I returned," wrote Pan Byaloglovski, among other things, "for Novoveski, my second, is not in a state now to do duty. He is more like a skeleton than a man, and we shall be sure to lose a great cavalier, for suffering has crushed him beyond the measure of his strength. His father is slain; his sister, in the last degree of shame, given to Adurovich by Azya, who took Panna Boski for himself. Nothing can be done for them, even should there be success in rescuing them from captivity. We know this from a Tartar who sprained his shoulder in crossing the river; taken prisoner by our men, he was put on the fire, and divulged everything. Azya, Krychinski, and Adurovich have gone to Adrianople. Novoveski is struggling to follow without fail, saying that he must take Azya, even from the centre of the Sultan's camp, and have vengeance. He was always obstinate and daring, and there is no reason now to wonder at him, since it is a question of Panna Boski, whose evil fate we all bewail with tears, for she was a sweet maiden, and I do not know the man whose heart she did not win. But I restrain Novoveski, and tell him that Azya himself will come to him; for war is certain, and this also, that the hordes will move in the vanguard. We have news from Moldavia from the perkulabs, and from Turkish merchants as well, that troops are assembling already near Adrianople,--a great many of the horde. The Turkish cavalry, which they call 'spahis,' are mustering too; and the Sultan himself is to come with the janissaries. My benefactor, there will be untold myriads of them; for the whole Orient is in movement, and we have only a handful of troops. Our whole hope is in the rock of Kamenyets, which, God grant, is provisioned properly. In Adrianople it is spring; and with us almost spring, for tremendous rains are falling and grass is appearing. I am going to Yampol; for Rashkoff is only a heap of ashes, and there is no place to incline one's head, or anything to put into the mouth. Besides, I think that we shall be withdrawn from all the forts." The little knight had information of equal and even greater certainty, since it came from Hotin. He had sent it too a short time before to the hetman. Still, Byaloglovski's letter, coming from the remotest boundary, made a powerful impression on him, precisely because it confirmed that intelligence. But the little knight had no fears touching war, his fears were for Basia. "The order of the hetman to withdraw the garrisons may come any day," said he to Zagloba; "and service is service. It will be necessary to move without delay; but Basia is in bed yet, and the weather is bad." "If ten orders were to come," said Zagloba, "Basia is the main question; we will stay here until she recovers completely. Besides, the war will not begin before the end of the thaws, much less before the end of winter, especially as they will bring heavy artillery against Kamenyets." "That old volunteer is always sitting within you," replied the little knight, with impatience; "you think an order may be delayed for private matters." "Well, if an order is dearer to you than Basia, pack her into a wagon and march. I know, I know, you are ready at command to put her in with forks, if it appears that she is unable to sit in the wagon with her own strength. May the hangman take you with such discipline! In old times a man did what he could, and what he couldn't he didn't do. You have kindness on your lips, but just let them cry, 'Haida on the Turk!' then you'll spit out your kindness as you would a peachstone, and you will take that unfortunate woman on horseback with a lariat." "I without pity for Basia! Fear the wounds of the Crucified!" cried the little knight. Zagloba puffed angrily for a time, then looking at the suffering face of Pan Michael, he said,-- "Michael, you know that I say what I say out of love really parental for Basia. Otherwise would I be sitting here under the Turkish axe, instead of enjoying leisure in a safe place, which at my years no man could take ill of me? But who got Basia for you? If it shall be seen that it was not I, then command me to drink a vat of water without a thing to give taste to it." "I could not repay you in a lifetime for Basia!" cried the little knight. Then they took each other by the shoulders, and the best harmony began between them. "I have planned," said the little knight, "that when war comes, you will take Basia to Pan Yan's place. Chambuls do not go that far." "I will do so for you, though it would delight me to go against the Turk; for nothing disgusts me like that swinish nation which does not drink wine." "I fear only one thing: Basia will try to be at Kamenyets, so as to be near me. My skin creeps at thought of this; but as God is God she will try." "Do not let her try. Has little evil come already, because you indulge her in everything, and let her go on that expedition to Rashkoff, though I cried out against it immediately?" "But that is not true! You said that you would not advise." "When I say that I will not advise a thing, that is worse than if I had spoken against it." "Basia ought to be wise now, but she will not. When she sees the sword over my head she will resist." "Do not let her resist, I repeat. For God's sake, what sort of a straw husband are you?" "I confess that when she puts her fists in her eyes and begins to cry, or just let her pretend to cry, the heart in me is like butter on a frying-pan. It must be that she has given me some herb. As to sending her, I will send her, for her safety is dearer to me than my own life; but when I think that I must torture her so the breath stops in me from pity." "Michael, have God in your heart! Don't be led by the nose!" "Bah! don't be led yourself. Who, if not you, said that I have no pity for her?" "What's that?" asked Zagloba. "You do not lack ingenuity, but now you are scratching behind your ear yourself." "Because I'm thinking what better argument to use." "But if she puts her fists in her eyes at once?" "She will, as God is dear to me!" said Zagloba, with evident alarm. And they were perplexed, for, to tell the truth, Basia had measured both perfectly. They had petted her to the last degree in her sickness, and loved her so much that the necessity of opposing her wish and desire filled them with fear. That Basia would not resist, and would yield with submission to the decree, both knew well; but not to mention Pan Michael, it would have been pleasanter for Zagloba to rush himself the third man on a whole regiment of janissaries, than to see her putting her little fists into her eyes. CHAPTER XLIV. On that same day there came to them aid infallible, as they thought, in the persons of guests unexpected and dear above all. The Ketlings came toward evening, without any previous intimation. The delight and astonishment at seeing them in Hreptyoff was indescribable; and they, learning on the first inquiry that Basia was returning to health, were comforted in an equal degree. Krysia rushed at once to the bedroom, and at the same moment exclamations and cries from there announced Basia's happiness to the little knight. Ketling and Pan Michael embraced each other a long time; now they put each other out at arm's length, now they embraced again. "For God's sake!" said the little knight. "I should be less pleased to receive the baton than to see you; but what are you doing in these parts?" "The hetman has made me commander of the artillery at Kamenyets," said Ketling; "therefore I went with my wife to that place. Hearing there of the trials that had met you, I set out without delay for Hreptyoff. Praise be to God, Michael, that all has ended well! We travelled in great suffering and uncertainty, for we knew not whether we were coming here to rejoice or to mourn." "To rejoice, to rejoice!" broke in Zagloba. "How did it happen?" asked Ketling. The little knight and Zagloba vied with each other in narrating; and Ketling listened, raising his eyes and his hands to heaven in wonderment at Basia's bravery. When they had talked all they wished, the little knight fell to inquiring of Ketling what had happened to him, and he made a report in detail. After their marriage they had lived on the boundary of Courland; they were so happy with each other that it could not be better in heaven. Ketling in taking Krysia knew perfectly that he was taking "a being above earth," and he had not changed his opinion so far. Zagloba and Pan Michael, remembering by this expression the former Ketling who expressed himself always in a courtly and elevated style, began to embrace him again; and when all three had satisfied their friendship, the old noble asked,-- "Has there come to that being above earth any earthly case which kicks with its feet and looks for teeth in its mouth with its finger?" "God gave us a son," said Ketling; "and now again--" "I have noticed," interrupted Zagloba. "But here everything is on the old footing." Then he fixed his seeing eye on the little knight, whose mustaches quivered repeatedly. Further conversation was interrupted by the coming of Krysia, who pointed to the door and said,-- "Basia invites you." All went to the chamber together, and there new greetings began. Ketling kissed Basia's hand, and Pan Michael kissed Krysia's again; then all looked at one another with curiosity, as people do who have not met for a long time. Ketling had changed in almost nothing, except that he had his hair cut closely, and that made him seem younger; but Krysia had changed greatly, at least considering the time. She was not so slender and willowy as before, and her face was paler, for which reason the down on her lip seemed darker; but she had the former beautiful eyes with unusually long lashes, and the former calmness of countenance. Her features, once so wonderful, had lost, however, their previous delicacy. The loss might be, it is true, only temporary; still, Pan Michael, looking at her and comparing her with his Basia, could not but think,-- "For God's sake, how could I fall in love with her when both were together? Where were my eyes?" On the other hand, Basia seemed beautiful to Ketling; for she was really beautiful, with her golden, wayward forelock dropping toward her brows, with her complexion which, losing some of its ruddiness, had become after her illness like the leaf of a white rose. But now her face was enlivened somewhat by delight, and her delicate nostrils moved quickly. She seemed as youthful as if she had not yet reached maturity; and at the first glance it might be thought that she was some ten years younger than Ketling's wife. But her beauty acted on the sensitive Ketling only in this way, that he began to think with more tenderness of his wife, for he felt guilty with regard to her. Both women related to each other all that could be told in a short space of time; and the whole company, sitting around Basia's bed, began to recall former days. But that conversation did not move somehow, for there were in those former days delicate subjects,--the confidences of Pan Michael with Krysia; and the indifference of the little knight for Basia, loved later, and various promises and various despairs. Life in Ketling's house had a charm for all, and left an agreeable memory behind; but to speak of it was awkward. Ketling changed the subject soon after:-- "I have not told you yet that on the road we stopped with Pan Yan, who would not let us go for two weeks, and entertained us so that in heaven it could not be better." "By the dear God, how are they?" cried Zagloba. "Then you found them at home?" "We did; for Pan Yan had returned for a time from the hetman's with his three elder sons, who serve in the cavalry." "I have not seen Pan Yan nor his family since the time of your wedding," said the little knight. "He was here in the Wilderness, and his sons were with him; but I did not happen to meet them." "They are all very anxious to see you," said Ketling, turning to Zagloba. "And I to see them," replied the old man. "But this is how it is: if I am here, I am sad without them; if I go there, I shall be sad without this weasel. Such is human life; if the wind doesn't blow into one ear it will into the other. But it is worse for the lone man, for if I had children I should not be loving a stranger." "You would not love your own children more than us," said Basia. When he heard this Zagloba was greatly delighted, and casting off sad thoughts, he fell at once into jovial humor; when he had puffed somewhat he said,-- "Ha, I was a fool there at Ketling's; I got Krysia and Basia for you two, and I did not think of myself. There was still time then." Here he turned to the women,-- "Confess that you would have fallen in love with me, both of you, and either one would have preferred me to Michael or Ketling." "Of course we should!" exclaimed Basia. "Helena, Pan Yan's wife, too in her day would have preferred me. Ha! it might have been. I should then have a sedate woman, none of your tramps, knocking teeth out of Tartars. But is she well?" "She is well, but a little anxious, for their two middle boys ran away to the army from school at Lukoff," said Ketling. "Pan Yan himself is glad that there is such mettle in the boys; but a mother is a mother almost always." "Have they many children?" inquired Basia, with a sigh. "Twelve boys, and now the fair sex has begun," answered Ketling. "Ha!" cried Zagloba, "the special blessing of God is on that house. I have reared them all at my own breast, like a pelican. I must pull the ears of those middle boys, for if they had to run away why didn't they come here to Michael? But wait, it must be Michael and Yasek who ran away. There was such a flock of them that their own father confounded their names; and you couldn't see a crow for three miles around, for the rogues had killed every crow with their muskets. Bah, bah! you would have to look through the world for another such woman. 'Halska,' I used to say to her, 'the boys are getting too big for me, I must have new sport.' Then she would, as it were, frown at me; but the time came as if written down. Imagine to yourself, it went so far that if any woman in the country about could not get consolation, she borrowed a dress from Halska; and it helped her, as God is dear to me, it did." All wondered greatly, and a moment of silence followed; then the voice of the little knight was heard on a sudden,-- "Basia, do you hear?" "Michael, will you be quiet?" answered Basia. But Michael would not be quiet, for various cunning thoughts were coming to his head. It seemed to him above all that with that affair another equally important might be accomplished; hence he began to talk, as it were to himself, carelessly, as about the commonest thing in the world,-- "As God lives, it would be well to visit Pan Yan and his wife; but he will not be at home now, for he is going to the hetman; but she has sense, and is not accustomed to tempt the Lord God, therefore she will stay at home." Here he turned to Krysia. "The spring is coming, and the weather will be fine. Now it is too early for Basia, but a little later I might not be opposed, for it is a friendly obligation. Pan Zagloba would take you both there; in the fall, when all would be quiet, I would go after you." "That is a splendid idea," exclaimed Zagloba; "I must go anyhow, for I have fed them with ingratitude. Indeed, I have forgotten that they are in the world, until I am ashamed." "What do you say to this?" inquired Pan Michael, looking carefully into Krysia's eyes. But she answered most unexpectedly, with her usual calmness,-- "I should be glad, but I cannot; for I will remain with my husband in Kamenyets, and will not leave him for any cause." "In God's name, what do I hear?" cried Pan Michael. "You will remain in the fortress, which will be invested surely, and that by an enemy knowing no moderation? I should not talk if the war were with some civilized enemy, but this is an affair with barbarians. But do you know what a captured city means,--what Turkish or Tartar captivity is? I do not believe my ears!" "Still, it cannot be otherwise," replied Krysia. "Ketling," cried the little knight, in despair, "is this the way you let yourself be mastered? O man, have God in your heart!" "We deliberated long," answered Ketling, "and this was the end of it." "And our son is in Kamenyets, under the care of a lady, a relative of mine. Is it certain that Kamenyets must be captured?" Here Krysia raised her calm eyes: "God is mightier than the Turk,--He will not betray our confidence; and because I have sworn to my husband not to leave him till death, my place is with him." The little knight was terribly confused, for from Krysia he had expected something different altogether. Basia, who from the very beginning of the conversation saw whither Michael was tending, laughed cunningly. She fixed her quick eyes on him, and said,-- "Michael, do you hear?" "Basia, be quiet!" exclaimed the little knight, in the greatest embarrassment. Then he began to cast despairing glances at Zagloba, as if expecting salvation from him; but that traitor rose suddenly, and said,-- "We must think of refreshment, for it is not by word alone that man liveth." And he went out of the chamber. Pan Michael followed quickly, and stopped him. "Well, and what now?" asked Zagloba. "Well, and what?" "But may the bullets strike that Ketling woman! For God's sake, how is this Commonwealth not to perish when women are managing it?" "Cannot you think out something?" "Since you fear your wife, what can I think out for you? Get the blacksmith to shoe you,--that's what!" CHAPTER XLV. The Ketlings stayed about three weeks. At the expiration of that time Basia tried to leave her bed; but it appeared that she could not stand on her feet yet. Health had returned to her sooner than strength; and the doctor commanded her to lie till all her vigor came back to her. Meanwhile spring came. First a strong and warm wind, rising from the side of the Wilderness and the Black Sea, rent and swept away that veil of clouds as if it were a robe which had rotted from age, and then began to gather and scatter those clouds through the sky, as a shepherd dog gathers and scatters flocks of sheep. The clouds, fleeing before it, covered the earth frequently with abundant rain, which fell in drops as large as berries. The melting remnant of snow and ice formed lakes on the flat steppe; from the cliffs ribbons of water were falling; along the beds of ravines streams rose,--and all those waters were flying with a noise and an outbreak and uproar to the Dniester, just as children fly with delight to their mother. Through the rifts between the clouds the sun shone every few moments,--bright, refreshed, and as it were wet from bathing in that endless abyss. Then bright-green blades of grass began to rise through the softened ground; the slender twigs of trees put forth buds abundantly, and the sun gave heat with growing power. In the sky flocks of birds appeared, hence rows of cranes, wild geese, and storks; then the wind began to bring crowds of swallows; the frogs croaked in a great chorus in the warmed water; the small birds were singing madly; and through pine-woods and forests and steppes and ravines went one great outcry, as if all Nature were shouting with delight and enthusiasm,-- "Spring! U-há! Spring!" But for those hapless regions spring brought mourning, not rejoicing; death, not life. In a few days after the departure of the Ketlings the little knight received the following intelligence from Pan Myslishevski,-- "On the plain of Kuchunkaury the conflux of troops increases daily. The Sultan has sent considerable sums to the Crimea. The Khan is going with fifty thousand of the horde to assist Doroshenko. As soon as the floods dry, the multitude will advance by the Black Trail and the trail of Kuchman. God pity the Commonwealth!" Volodyovski sent Pyentka, his attendant, to the hetman at once with these tidings. But he himself did not hasten from Hreptyoff. First, as a soldier, he could not leave that stanitsa without command of the hetman; second, he had spent too many years at "tricks" with the Tartars not to know that chambuls would not move so early. The waters had not fallen yet; grass had not grown sufficiently; and the Cossacks were still in winter quarters. The little knight expected the Turks in summer at the earliest; for though they were assembling already at Adrianople, such a gigantic tabor, such throngs of troops, of camp servants, such burdens, so many horses, camels, and buffaloes, advanced very slowly. The Tartar cavalry might be looked for earlier,--at the end of April or the beginning of May. It is true that before the main body, which counted tens of thousands of warriors, there fell always on the country detached chambuls and more or less numerous bands, as single drops of rain come before the great downpour; but the little knight did not fear these. Even picked Tartar horsemen could not withstand the cavalry of the Commonwealth in the open field; and what could bands do which at the mere report that troops were coming scattered like dust before a whirlwind? In every event there was time enough; and even if there were not, Pan Michael would not have been greatly averse to rubbing against some chambuls in a way which for them would be equally painful and memorable. He was a soldier, blood and bone,--a soldier by profession; hence the approach of a war roused in him thirst for the blood of his enemy, and brought to him calmness as well. Pan Zagloba was less calm, though inured beyond most men to great dangers in the course of his long life. In sudden emergencies he found courage; he had developed it besides by long though often involuntary practice, and had gained in his time famous victories; still, the first news of coming war always affected him deeply. But now when the little knight explained his own view, Zagloba gained more consolation, and even began to challenge the whole Orient, and to threaten it. "When Christian nations war with one another," said he, "the Lord Jesus Himself is sad, and all the saints scratch their heads, for when the Master is anxious the household is anxious; but whoso beats the Turk gives Heaven the greatest delight. I have it from a certain spiritual personage that the saints simply grow sick at sight of those dog brothers; and thus heavenly food and drink does not go to their profit, and even their eternal happiness is marred." "That must be really so," answered the little knight. "But the Turkish power is immense, and our troops might be put on the palm of your hand." "Still, they will not conquer the whole Commonwealth. Had Carolus Gustavus little power? In those times there were wars with the Northerners and the Cossacks and Rakotsi and the Elector; but where are they to-day? Besides, we took fire and sword to their hearths." "That is true. Personally I should not fear this war, because, as I said, I must do something notable to pay the Lord Jesus and the Most Holy Lady for their mercy to Basia; only God grant me opportunity! But the question for me is this country, which with Kamenyets may fall into Pagan hands easily, even for a time. Imagine what a desecration of God's churches there would be, and what oppression of Christian people!" "But don't talk to me of the Cossacks! The ruffians! They raised their hands against the mother; let that meet them which they wished for. The most important thing is that Kamenyets should hold out. What do you think, Michael, will it hold out?" "I think that the starosta of Podolia has not supplied it sufficiently, and also that the inhabitants, secure in their position, have not done what behooved them. Ketling said that the regiments of Bishop Trebitski came in very scant numbers. But as God lives, we held out at Zbaraj behind a mere wretched trench, against great power; we ought to hold out this time as well, for that Kamenyets is an eagle's nest." "An eagle's nest truly; but it is unknown if an eagle is in it, such as was Prince Yeremi, or merely a crow. Do you know the starosta of Podolia?" "He is a rich man and a good soldier, but rather careless." "I know him; I know him! More than once have I reproached him with that; the Pototskis wished at one time that I should go abroad with him for his education, so that he might learn fine manners from me. But I said: 'I will not go because of his carelessness, for never has he two straps to his boot; he was presented at court in my boots, and morocco is dear.' Later, in the time of Mary a Ludovika, he wore the French costume; but his stockings were always down, and he showed his bare calves. He will never reach as high as Prince Yeremi's girdle." "Another thing, the shopkeepers of Kamenyets fear a siege greatly; for trade is stopped in time of it. They would rather belong even to the Turks, if they could only keep their shops open." "The scoundrels!" said Zagloba. And he and the little knight were sorely concerned, over the coming fate of Kamenyets; it was a personal question concerning Basia, who in case of surrender would have to share the fate of all the inhabitants. After a while Zagloba struck his forehead: "For God's sake!" cried he, "why are we disturbed? Why should we go to that mangy Kamenyets, and shut ourselves up there? Isn't it better for you to stay with the hetman, and act in the field against the enemy? And in such an event Basia would not go with you to the squadron, and would have to go somewhere besides Kamenyets,--somewhere far off, even to Pan Yan's house. Michael, God looks into my heart and sees what a desire I have to go against the Pagans; but I will do this for you and Basia,--I will take her away." "I thank you," said the little knight. "The whole case is this: if I had not to be in Kamenyets, Basia would not insist; but what's to be done when the hetman's command comes?" "What's to be done when the command comes? May the hangman tear all the commands! What's to be done? Wait! I am beginning to think quickly. Here it is: we must anticipate the command." "How is that?" "Write on the spot to Pan Sobieski, as if reporting news to him, and at the end say that in the face of the coming war you wish, because of the love which you bear him, to be near his person and act in the field. By God's wounds, this is a splendid thought! For, first of all, it is impossible that they will shut up such a partisan as you behind a wall, instead of using him in the field; and secondly, for such a letter the hetman will love you still more, and will wish to have you near him. He too will need trusty soldiers. Only listen: if Kamenyets holds out, the glory will fall to the starosta of Podolia; but what you accomplish in the field will go to the praise of the hetman. Never fear! the hetman will not yield you to the starosta. He would rather give some one else; but he will not give either you or me. Write the letter; remind him of yourself. Ha! my wit is still worth something, too good to let hens pick it up on the dust-heap! Michael, let us drink something on the occasion--or what! write the letter first." Volodyovski rejoiced greatly indeed; he embraced Zagloba, and thinking a while said,-- "And I shall not tempt hereby the Lord God, nor the country, nor the hetman; for surely I shall accomplish much in the field. I thank you from my heart! I think too that the hetman will wish to have me at hand, especially after the letter. But not to abandon Kamenyets, do you know what I'll do? I'll fit up a handful of soldiers at my own cost, and send them to Kamenyets. I'll write at once to the hetman of this." "Still better! But, Michael, where will you find the men?" "I have about forty robbers in the cellars, and I'll take those. As often as I gave command to hang some one, Basia tormented me to spare his life; more than once she advised me to make soldiers of those robbers. I was unwilling, for an example was needed; but now war is on our shoulders, and everything is possible. Those are terrible fellows, who have smelt powder. I will proclaim, too, that whoso from the ravines or the thickets elects to join the regiment, will receive forgiveness for past robberies. There will be about a hundred men; Basia too will be glad. You have taken a great weight from my heart." That same day the little knight despatched a new messenger to the hetman, and proclaimed life and pardon to the robbers if they would join the infantry. They joined gladly, and promised to bring in others. Basia's delight was unbounded. Tailors were brought from Ushytsa, from Kamenyets, and from whence ever possible, to make uniforms. The former robbers were mustered on the square of Hreptyoff. Pan Michael was rejoiced in heart at the thought that he would act himself in the field against the enemy, would not expose his wife to the danger of a siege, and besides would render Kamenyets and the country noteworthy service. This work had been going on a number of weeks when one evening the messenger returned with a letter from Pan Sobieski. The hetman wrote as follows:-- Beloved and Very Dear Volodyovski,--Because you send all news so diligently I cherish gratitude to you, and the country owes you thanks. War is certain. I have news also from elsewhere that there is a tremendous force in Kuchunkaury; counting the horde, there will be three hundred thousand. The horde may march any moment. The Sultan values nothing so much as Kamenyets. The Tartar traitors will show the Turks every road, and inform them about Kamenyets. I hope that God will give that serpent, Tugai Bey's son, into your hands, or into Novoveski's, over whose wrong I grieve sincerely. As to this, that you be near me, God knows how glad I should be, but it is impossible. The starosta of Podolia has shown me, it is true, various kindnesses since the election; I wish, therefore, to send him the best soldiers, for the rock of Kamenyets is to me as my own eyesight. There will be many there who have seen war once or twice in their lives, and are like a man who on a time has eaten some peculiar food which he remembers all his life afterward; a man, however, who has used it as his daily bread, and might serve with experienced counsel, will be lacking, or if there shall be such he will be without sufficient weight. Therefore I will send you. Ketling, though a good soldier, is less known; the inhabitants will have their eyes turned to you, and though the command will remain with another, I think that men will obey you with readiness. That service in Kamenyets may be dangerous, but with us it is a habit to be drenched in that rain from which others hide. There is reward enough for us in glory, and a grateful remembrance; but the main thing is the country, to the salvation of which I need not excite you. This letter, read in the assembly of officers, made a great impression; for all wished to serve in the field rather than in a fortress. Volodyovski bent his head. "What do you think now, Michael?" asked Zagloba. He raised his face, already collected, and answered with a voice as calm as if he had met no disappointment in his hopes,-- "I will go to Kamenyets. What have I to think?" And it might have seemed that nothing else had ever been in his head. After a while his mustaches quivered, and he said,-- "Hei! dear comrades, we will go to Kamenyets, but we will not yield it." "Unless we fall there," said the officers. "One death to a man." Zagloba was silent for some time; casting his eyes on those present, and seeing that all were waiting for what he would say, he puffed all at once, and said,-- "I will go with you. Devil take it!" CHAPTER XLVI. When the earth had grown dry, and grass was flourishing, the Khan moved in person, with fifty thousand of the Crimean and Astrachan hordes, to help Doroshenko and the insurgents. The Khan himself, and his relatives, the petty sultans, and all the more important murzas and beys, wore kaftans as gifts from the Padishah, and went against the Commonwealth, not as they went usually, for booty and captives, but for a holy war with "fate," and the "destruction" of Lehistan (Poland) and Christianity. Another and still greater storm was gathering at Adrianople, and against this deluge only the rock of Kamenyets was standing erect; for the rest of the Commonwealth lay like an open steppe, or like a sick man, powerless not only to defend himself, but even to rise to his feet. The previous Swedish, Prussian, Moscow, Cossack, and Hungarian wars, though victorious finally, had exhausted the Commonwealth. The army confederations and the insurrections of Lyubomirski of infamous memory had exhausted it, and now it was weakened to the last degree by court quarrels, the incapacity of the king, the feuds of magistrates, the blindness of a frivolous nobility, and the danger of civil war. In vain did the great Sobieski forewarn them of ruin,--no one would believe in war. They neglected means of defence; the treasury had no money, the hetman no troops. To a power against which alliances of all the Christian nations were hardly able to stand, the hetman could oppose barely a few thousand men. Meanwhile in the Orient, where everything was done at the will of the Padishah, and nations were as a sword in the hand of one man, it was different altogether. From the moment that the great standard of the Prophet was unfurled, and the horse-tail standard planted on the gate of the seraglio and the tower of the seraskierat, and the ulema began to proclaim a holy war, half Asia and all Northern Africa had moved. The Padishah himself had taken his place in spring on the plain of Kuchunkaury, and was assembling forces greater than any seen for a long time on earth. A hundred thousand spahis and janissaries, the pick of the Turkish army, were stationed near his sacred person; and then troops began to gather from all the remotest countries and possessions. Those who inhabited Europe came earliest. The legions of the mounted beys of Bosnia came with colors like the dawn, and fury like lightning; the wild warriors of Albania came, fighting on foot with daggers; bands of Mohammedanized Serbs came; people came who lived on the banks of the Danube, and farther to the south beyond the Balkans, as far as the mountains of Greece. Each pasha led a whole army, which alone would have sufficed to overrun the defenceless Commonwealth. Moldavians and Wallachians came; the Dobrudja and Belgrod Tartars came in force; some thousands of Lithuanian Tartars and Cheremis came, led by the terrible Azya, son of Tugai Bey, and these last were to be guides through the unfortunate country, which was well known to them. After these the general militia from Asia began to flow in. The pashas of Sivas, Brussa, Aleppo, Damascus, and Bagdad, besides regular troops, led armed throngs, beginning with men from the cedar-covered mountains of Asia Minor, and ending with the swarthy dwellers on the Euphrates and the Tigris. Arabians too rose at the summons of the Caliph; their burnooses covered as with snow the plains of Kuchunkaury; among them were also nomads from the sandy deserts, and inhabitants of cities from Medina to Mecca. The tributary power of Egypt did not remain at its domestic hearths. Those who dwelt in populous Cairo, those who in the evening gazed on the flaming twilight of the pyramids, who wandered through Theban ruins, who dwelt in those murky regions whence the sacred Nile issues forth, men whom the sun had burned to the color of soot,--all these planted their arms on the field of Adrianople, praying now to give victory to Islam, and destruction to that land which alone had shielded for ages the rest of the world against the adherents of the Prophet. There were legions of armed men; hundreds of thousands of horses were neighing on the field; hundreds of thousands of buffaloes, of sheep and of camels, fed near the herds of horses. It might be thought that at God's command an angel had turned people out of Asia, as once he had turned Adam out of paradise, and commanded them to go to countries in which the sun was paler and the plains were covered in winter with snow. They went then with their herds, an innumerable swarm of white, dark, and black warriors. How many languages were heard there, how many different costumes glittered in the sun of spring! Nations wondered at nations; the customs of some were foreign to others, their arms unknown, their methods of warfare different, and faith alone joined those travelling generations; only when the muezzins called to prayer did those many-tongued hosts turn their faces to the East, calling on Allah with one voice. There were more servants at the court of the Sultan than troops in the Commonwealth. After the army and the armed bands of volunteers marched throngs of shop-keepers, selling goods of all kinds; their wagons, together with those of the troops, flowed on like a river. Two pashas of three tails, at the head of two armies, had no other work but to furnish food for those myriads; and there was abundance of everything. The sandjak of Sangrytan watched over the whole supply of powder. With the army went two hundred cannon, and of these ten were "stormers," so large that no Christian king had the like. The Beglerbeys of Asia were on the right wing, the Europeans on the left. The tents occupied so wide an expanse that in presence of them Adrianople seemed no very great city. The Sultan's tents, gleaming in purple silk, satin, and gold embroidery, formed, as it were, a city apart. Around them swarmed armed guards, black eunuchs from Abyssinia, in yellow and blue kaftans; gigantic porters from the tribes of Kurdistan, intended for bearing burdens; young boys of the Uzbeks, with faces of uncommon beauty, shaded by silk fringes; and many other servants, varied in color as flowers of the steppe. Some of these were equerries, some served at the tables, some bore lamps, and some served the most important officials. On the broad square around the Sultan's court, which in luxury and wealth reminded the faithful of paradise, stood courts less splendid, but equal to those of kings,--those of the vizir, the ulema, the pasha of Anatolia, and of Kara Mustafa, the young kaimakan, on whom the eyes of the Sultan and all were turned as upon the coming "sun of war." Before the tents of the Padishah were to be seen the sacred guard of infantry, with turbans so lofty that the men wearing them seemed giants, They were armed with javelins fixed on long staffs, and short crooked swords. Their linen dwellings touched the dwellings of the Sultan. Farther on were the camps of the formidable janissaries armed with muskets and lances, forming the kernel of the Turkish power. Neither the German emperor nor the French king could boast of infantry equal in number and military accuracy. In wars with the Commonwealth the nations of the Sultan, more enervated in general, could not measure strength with cavalry in equal numbers, and only through an immense numerical preponderance did they crush and conquer. But the janissaries dared to meet even regular squadrons of cavalry. They roused terror in the whole Christian world, and even in Tsargrad itself. Frequently the Sultan trembled before such pretorians, and the chief aga of those "lambs" was one of the most important dignitaries in the Divan. After the janissaries came the spahis; after them the regular troops of the pashas, and farther on the common throng. All this camp had been for a number of months near Constantinople, waiting till its power should be completed by legions coming from the remotest parts of the Turkish dominions until the sun of spring should lighten the march to Lehistan by sucking out dampness from the earth. The sun, as if subject to the will of the Sultan, had shone brightly. From the beginning of April until May barely a few warm rains had moistened the meadows of Kuchunkaury; for the rest, the blue tent of God hung without a cloud over the tent of the Sultan. The gleams of day played on the white linen, on the turbans, on the many-colored caps, on the points of the helmets and banners and javelins, on the camp and the tents and the people and the herds, drowning all in a sea of bright light. In the evening on a clear sky shone the moon, unhidden by fog, and guarded quietly those thousands who under its emblem were marching to win more and more new lands; then it rose higher in the heaven, and grew pale before the light of the fires. But when the fires were gleaming in the whole immeasurable expanse, when the Arab infantry from Damascus and Aleppo, called "massala djilari," lighted green, red, yellow, and blue lamps at the tents of the Sultan and the vizir, it might seem that a tract of heaven had fallen to the earth, and that those were stars glittering and twinkling on the plain. Exemplary order and discipline reigned among those legions. The pashas bent to the will of the Sultan, like a reed in a storm; the army bent before them. Food was not wanting for men and herds. Everything was furnished in superabundance, everything in season. In exemplary order also were passed the hours of military exercise, of refreshment, of devotion. When the muezzins called to prayer from wooden towers, built in haste, the whole army turned to the East, each man stretched before himself a skin or a mat, and the entire army fell on its knees, like one man. At sight of that order and those restraints the hearts rose in the throngs, and their souls were filled with sure hope of victory. The Sultan, coming to the camp at the end of April, did not move at once on the march. He waited more than a month, so that the waters might dry; during that time he trained the army to camp life, exercised it, arranged it, received envoys, and dispensed justice under a purple canopy. The kasseka, his chief wife, accompanied him on this expedition, and with her too went a court resembling a dream of paradise. A gilded chariot bore the lady under a covering of purple silk; after it came other wagons and white Syrian camels, also covered with purple, bearing packs; houris and bayaderes sang songs to her on the road. When, wearied with the road, she was closing the silky lashes of her eyes, the sweet tones of soft instruments were heard at once, and they lulled her to sleep. During the heat of the day fans of peacock and ostrich feathers waved above her; priceless perfumes of the East burned before her tents in bowls from Hindostan. She was accompanied by all the treasures, wonders, and wealth that the Orient and the power of the Sultan could furnish,--houris, bayaderes, black eunuchs, pages beautiful as angels, Syrian camels, horses from the desert of Arabia; in a word, a whole retinue was glittering with brocade, cloth of silver and gold; it was gleaming like a rainbow from diamonds, rubies, emeralds, and sapphires. Nations fell prostrate before it, not daring to look at that face, which the Padishah alone had the right to see; and that retinue seemed to be either a supernatural vision or a reality, transferred by Allah himself from the world of visions and dream-illusions to the earth. But the sun warmed the world more and more, and at last days of heat came. On a certain evening, therefore, the banner was raised on a lofty pole before the Sultan's tent, and a cannon-shot informed the army and the people of the march to Lehistan. The great sacred drum sounded; all the others sounded; the shrill voices of pipes were heard; the pious, half-naked dervishes began to howl, and the river of people moved on in the night, to avoid the heat of the sun during daylight. But the army itself was to march only in a number of hours after the earliest signal. First of all went the tabor, then those pashas who provided food for the troops, then whole legions of handicraftsmen, who had to pitch tents, then herds of pack animals, then herds destined for slaughter. The march was to last six hours of that night and the following nights, and to be made in such order that when soldiers came to a halt they should always find food and a resting-place ready. When the time came at last for the army to move, the Sultan rode out on an eminence, so as to embrace with his eyes his whole power, and rejoice at the sight. With him were his vizir, the ulema, the young kaimakan, Kara Mustafa, the "rising sun of war," and a company of the infantry guard. The night was calm and clear; the moon shone brightly; and the Sultan might embrace with the eye all his legions, were it not that no eye of man could take them all in at once,--for on the march, though going closely together, they occupied many miles. Still he rejoiced in heart, and passing the beads of odorous sandal-wood through his fingers, raised his eyes to Heaven in thanks to Allah, who had made him lord of so many armies and so many nations. All at once, when the front of the tabor had pushed almost out of sight, he interrupted his prayer, and turning to the young kaimakan, Kara Mustafa, said,-- "I have forgotten who marches in the vanguard?" "Light of paradise!" answered Kara Mustafa, "in the vanguard are the Lithuanian Tartars and the Cheremis; and thy dog Azya, son of Tugai Bey, is leading them." CHAPTER XLVII. Azya, the son of Tugai Bey, after a long halt on the plain of Kuchunkaury, was really marching with his men at the head of all the Turkish forces toward the boundary of the Commonwealth. After the grievous blow which his plans and his person had received from the valiant hand of Basia, a fortunate star seemed to shine on him anew. First of all, he had recovered. His beauty, it is true, was destroyed forever: one eye had trickled out altogether, his nose was mashed, and his face, once like the face of a falcon, had become monstrous and terrible. But just that terror with which it filled people gave him still more consideration among the wild Tartars of the Dobrudja. His arrival made a great noise in the whole camp; his deeds grew in the narratives of men, and became gigantic. It was said that he had brought all the Lithuanian Tartars and Cheremis into the service of the Sultan; that he had outwitted the Poles, as no one had ever outwitted them; that he had burned whole towns along the Dniester, had cut off their garrisons, and had taken great booty. Those who were to march now for the first time to Lehistan; those who, coming from distant corners of the East, had not tried Polish arms hitherto; those whose hearts were alarmed at the thought that they would soon stand eye to eye with the terrible cavalry of the unbeliever,--saw in the young Azya a warrior who had conquered them, and made a fortunate beginning of war. The sight of the "hero" filled their hearts straightway with comfort; besides, as Azya was son of the terrible Tugai Bey, whose name had thundered through the Orient, all eyes were turned on him the more. "The Poles reared him," said they; "but he is the son of a lion; he bit them and returned to the Padishah's service." The vizir himself wished to see him; and the "rising sun of war," the young kaimakan, Kara Mustafa, enamoured of military glory and wild warriors, fell in love with him. Both inquired diligently of him concerning the Commonwealth, the hetman, the armies, and Kamenyets; they rejoiced at his answers, seeing from them that war would be easy; that to the Sultan it must bring victory, to the Poles defeat, and to them the title of Ghazi (conqueror). Hence Azya had frequent opportunities later to fall on his face to the vizir, to sit at the threshold of the kaimakan's tent, and received from both numerous gifts in camels, horses, and weapons. The grand vizir gave him a kaftan of silver brocade, the possession of which raised him in the eyes of all Lithuanian Tartars and Cheremis. Krychinski, Adurovich, Moravski, Groholski, Tarasovski, Aleksandrovich,--in a word, all those captains who had once dwelt in the Commonwealth and served it, but now returned to the Sultan,--placed themselves without a question under the command of Tugai Bey's son, honoring in him both the prince by descent and the warrior who had received a kaftan. He became, therefore, a notable murza; and more than two thousand warriors, incomparably better than the usual Tartars, obeyed his nod. The approaching war, in which it was easier for the young murza to distinguish himself than for any one else, might carry him high; he might find in it dignities, renown, power. But still Azya bore poison in his soul. To begin with, it pricked his pride that the Tartars, in comparison with the Turks themselves, especially the janissaries and spahis, had little more significance than dogs compared with hunters. He had significance himself, but the Tartars in general were considered worthless cavalry. The Turk used them, at times he feared them, but in the camp he despised them, Azya, noticing this, kept his men apart from the general Tartar mass, as if they formed a separate, a better kind of army; but with this he brought on himself straightway the indignation of the Dobrudja and Belgrod murzas, and was not able to convince various Turkish officers that the Lithuanian Tartars were really better in any way than chambuls of the horde. On the other hand, reared in a Christian country, among nobles and knights, he could not inure himself to the manners of the East. In the Commonwealth he was only an ordinary officer and of the last arm of the service; but still, when meeting superiors or even the hetman, he was not obliged to humble himself as here, where he was a murza and the leader of all the companies of Lithuanian Tartars. Here he had to fall on his face before the vizir; he had to touch the ground with his forehead in the friendly tent of the kaimakan; he had to prostrate himself before the pashas, before the ulema, before the chief aga of the janissaries. Azya was not accustomed to this. He remembered that he was the son of a hero; he had a wild soul full of pride, aiming high, as eagles aim; hence he suffered sorely. But the recollection of Basia burned him with fire most of all. He cared not that one weak hand had hurled from his horse him who at Bratslav, at Kalnik, and a hundred other places had challenged to combat and stretched in death the most terrible skirmishers of the Zaporojia; he cared not for the shame, the disgrace! But he loved that woman beyond measure and thought; he wanted her in his tent, to look at her, to beat her, to kiss her. If it were in his choice to be Padishah and rule half the world, or to take her in his arms, feel with his heart the warmth of her blood, the breath of her face, her lips with his lips, he would prefer her to Tsargrad, to the Bosphorus, to the title of Khalif. He wanted her because he loved her; he wanted her because he hated her. The more she was foreign to him, the more he wanted her; the more she was pure, faithful, untainted, the more he wanted her. More than once when he remembered in his tent that he had kissed those eyes one time in his life, in the ravine after the battle with Azba Bey, and that at Rashkoff he had felt her breast on his, the madness of desire carried him away. He knew not what had become of her, whether she had perished on the road or not. At times he found solace in the thought that she had died. At times he thought, "It had been better not to carry her away, not to burn Rashkoff, not to come to the service of the Sultan, but to stay in Hreptyoff, and even look at her." But the unfortunate Zosia Boski was in his tent. Her life passed in low service, in shame and continual terror, for in Azya's heart there was not a drop of pity for her. He simply tormented her because she was not Basia. She had, however, the sweetness and charm of a field flower; she had youth and beauty: therefore he sated himself with that beauty; but he kicked her for any cause, or flogged her white body with rods. In a worse hell she could not be, for she lived without hope. Her life had begun to bloom in Rashkoff, to bloom like spring with the flower of love for Pan Adam. She loved him with her whole soul; she loved that knightly, noble, and honest nature with all her faculties; and now she was the plaything and the captive of that one-eyed monster. She had to crawl at his feet and tremble like a beaten dog, look into his face, look at his hands to see if they were not about to seize a club or a whip; she had to hold back her breath and her tears. She knew well that there was not and could not be mercy for her; for though a miracle were to wrest her from those terrible hands, she was no longer that former Zosia, white as the first snows, and able to repay love with a clean heart. All that had passed beyond recovery. But since the dreadful disgrace in which she was living was not due to the least fault of hers,--on the contrary, she had been hitherto a maiden stainless as a lamb, innocent as a dove, trusting as a child, simple, loving,--she did not understand why this fearful injustice was wrought on her, an injustice which could not be recompensed; why such inexorable anger of God was weighing upon her; and this mental discord increased her pain, her despair. And so days, weeks, and months passed. Azya came to the plain of Kuchunkaury in winter, and the march to the boundary of the Commonwealth began only in June. All this time passed for Zosia in shame, in torment, in toil. For Azya, in spite of her beauty and sweetness, and though he kept her in his tent, not only did not love her, but rather he hated her because she was not Basia. He looked on her as a common captive; therefore she had to work like a captive. She watered his horses and camels from the river; she carried water for his ablutions, wood for the fire; she spread the skins for his bed; she cooked his food. In other divisions of the Turkish armies women did not go out of the tents through fear of the janissaries, or through custom; but the camp of the Lithuanian Tartars stood apart, and the custom of hiding women was not common among them, for having lived formerly in the Commonwealth, they had grown used to something different. The captives of common soldiers, in so far as soldiers had captives, did not even cover their faces with veils. It is true that women were not free to go beyond the boundaries of the square, for beyond those boundaries they would have been carried off surely; but on the square itself they could go everywhere safely, and occupy themselves with camp housekeeping. Notwithstanding the heavy toil, there was for Zosia even a certain solace in going for wood, or to the river to water the horses and camels; for she feared to cry in the tent, and on the road she could give vent to her tears with impunity. Once, while going with arms full of wood, she met her mother, whom Azya had given to Halim. They fell into each other's arms, and it was necessary to pull them apart; and though Azya flogged Zosia afterward, not sparing even blows of rods on her head, still the meeting was dear to her. Another time, while washing handkerchiefs and foot-cloths for Azya at the ford, Zosia saw Eva at a distance going with pails of water. Eva was groaning under the weight of the pails; her form had changed greatly and grown heavier, but her features, though shaded with a veil, reminded Zosia of Adam, and such pain seized her heart that consciousness left her for the moment. Still, they did not speak to each other from fear. That fear stifled and mastered gradually all Zosia's feelings, till at last it stood alone in place of her desires, hopes, and memory. Not to be beaten had become for her an object. Basia in her place would have killed Azya with his own knife on the first day, without thinking of what might come afterwards; but the timid Zosia, half a child yet, had not Basia's daring. And it came at last to this, that she considered it fondness if the terrible Azya, under the influence of momentary desire, put his deformed face near her lips. Sitting in the tent, she did not take her eyes from him, wishing to learn whether he was angry or not, following his movements, striving to divine his wishes. When she foresaw evil, and when from under his mustaches, as in the case of Tugai Bey, the teeth began to glitter, she crept to his feet almost senseless from terror, pressed her pale lips to them, embracing convulsively his knees and crying like an afflicted child,-- "Do not beat me, Azya! forgive me; do not beat!" He forgave her almost never; he gloated over her, not only because she was not Basia, but because she had been the betrothed of Novoveski. Azya had a fearless soul; yet so awful were the accounts between him and Pan Adam that at thought of that giant, with vengeance hardened in his heart, a certain disquiet seized the young Tartar. There was to be war; they might meet, and it was likely that they would meet. Azya was not able to avoid thinking of this; and because these thoughts came to him at sight of Zosia, he took vengeance on her, as if he wished to drive away his own alarm with blows of rods. At last the time came when the Sultan gave command to march. Azya's men were to move in the vanguard, and after them the whole legion of Dobrudja and Belgrod Tartars. That was arranged between the Sultan, the vizir, and the kaimakan. But in the beginning all went to the Balkans together. The march was comfortable, for by reason of the heat which was setting in, they marched only in the night, six hours from one resting-place to the other. Tar-barrels were burning along their road, and the massala djirali lighted the way for the Sultan with colored lights. The swarms of people flowed on like a river, through boundless plains; filled the depressions of valleys like locusts, covered the mountains. After the armed men went the tabors, in them the harems; after the tabors herds without number. But in the swamps at the foot of the Balkans the gilded and purple chariot of the kasseka was mired so that twelve buffaloes were unable to draw it from the mud. "That is an evil omen, lord, for thee and for the whole army," said the chief mufti to the Sultan. "An evil omen," repeated the half-mad dervishes in the camp. The Sultan was alarmed, and decided to send all women out of the camp with the marvellous kasseka. The command was announced to the armies. Those of the soldiers who had no place to which they might send captives, and from love did not wish to sell them to strangers, preferred to kill them. Merchants of the caravanserai bought others by the thousand, to sell them afterward in the markets of Stambul and all the places of nearer Asia. A great fair, as it were, lasted for three days. Azya offered Zosia for sale without hesitation; an old Stambul merchant, a rich person, bought her for his son. He was a kindly man, for at Zosia's entreaties and tears he bought her mother from Halim; it is true that he got her for a trifle. The next day both wandered on toward Stambul, in a line with other women. In Stambul Zosia's lot was improved, without ceasing to be shameful. Her new owner loved her, and after a few months he raised her to the dignity of wife. Her mother did not part from her. Many people, among them many women, even after a long time of captivity, returned to their country. There was also some person, who by all means, through Armenians, Greek merchants, and servants of envoys from the Commonwealth, sought Zosia too, but without result. Then these searches were interrupted on a sudden; and Zosia never saw her native land, nor the faces of those who were dear to her. She lived till her death in a harem. CHAPTER XLVIII. Even before the Turks marched from Adrianople, a great movement had begun in all the stanitsas on the Dniester. To Hreptyoff, the stanitsa nearest to Kamenyets, couriers of the hetman were hastening continually, bringing various orders; these the little knight executed himself, or if they did not relate to him, he forwarded them through trusty people. In consequence of these orders the garrison of Hreptyoff was reduced notably. Pan Motovidlo went with his Cossacks to Uman to aid Hanenko, who, with a handful of Cossacks faithful to the Commonwealth, struggled as best he could with Doroshenko and the Crimean horde which had joined him. Pan Mushalski, the incomparable bowman, Pan Snitko of the escutcheon Hidden Moon, Pan Nyenashinyets, and Pan Hromyka, led a squadron and Linkhauz's dragoons to Batog of unhappy memory, where was stationed Pan Lujetski, who, aided by Hanenko, was to watch Doroshenko's movements; Pan Bogush received an order to remain in Mohiloff till he could see chambuls with the naked eye. The instructions of the hetman were seeking eagerly the famous Pan Rushchyts, whom Volodyovski alone surpassed as a partisan; but Pan Rushchyts had gone to the steppes at the head of a few tens of men, and vanished as if in water. They heard of him only later, when wonderful tidings were spread, that around Doroshenko's tabor and the companies of the horde an evil spirit, as it were, was hovering, which carried away daily single warriors and smaller companies. It was suspected that this must be Pan Rushchyts, for no other except the little knight could attack in that manner. In fact, it was Pan Rushchyts. As decided before. Pan Michael had to go to Kamenyets; the hetman needed him there, for he knew him to be a soldier whose coming would comfort the hearts, while it roused the courage, of the inhabitants and the garrison. The hetman was convinced that Kamenyets would not hold out; with him the question was simply that it should hold out as long as possible,--that is, till the Commonwealth could assemble some forces for defence. In this conviction he sent to evident death, as it were, his favorite soldier, the most renowned cavalier of the Commonwealth. He sent the most renowned warrior to death, and he did not grieve for him. The hetman thought always, what he said later on at Vienna, that Pani Wojnina[29] might give birth to people, but that Wojna (war) only killed them. He was ready himself to die; he thought that to die was the most direct duty of a soldier, and that when a soldier could render famous service by dying, death was to him a great reward and favor. The hetman knew also that the little knight was of one conviction with himself. Besides, he had no time to think of sparing single soldiers when destruction was advancing on churches, towns, the country, the whole Commonwealth; when, with forces unheard of, the Orient was rising against Europe to conquer all Christendom, which, shielded by the breast of the Commonwealth, had no thought of helping that Commonwealth. The only question possible for the hetman was that Kamenyets should cover the Commonwealth, and then the Commonwealth the remainder of Christendom. This might have happened had the Commonwealth been strong, had disorder not exhausted it. But the hetman had not troops enough even for reconnoissances, not to mention war. If he hurried some tens of soldiers to one place, there was an opening made in another, through which an invading wave might pour in without obstacle. The detachments of sentries posted by the Sultan at night in his camp outnumbered the squadrons of the hetman. The invasion moved from two directions,--from the Dnieper and the Danube. Because Doroshenko, with the whole horde of the Crimea, was nearer, and had inundated the country already, burning and slaying, the chief squadrons had gone against him; on the other hand, people were lacking for simple reconnoissances. While in such dire straits the hetman wrote the following few words to Pan Michael,-- "I did think to send you to Rashkoff near the enemy, but grew afraid, because the horde, crossing by seven fords from the Moldavian bank, will occupy the country, and you could not reach Kamenyets, where there is absolute need of you. Only yesterday I remembered Novoveski, who is a trained soldier and daring, and because a man in despair is ready for everything, I think that he will serve me effectively. Send him whatever light cavalry you can spare; let him go as far as possible, show himself everywhere, and give out reports of our great forces, when before the eyes of the enemy; let him appear here and there suddenly, and not let himself be captured. It is known how they will come; but if he sees anything new, he is to inform you at once, and you will hurry off without delay an informant to me, and to Kamenyets. Let Novoveski move quickly, and be you ready to go to Kamenyets, but wait where you are till news comes from Novoveski in Moldavia." Since Pan Adam was living at Mohiloff for the time, and, as report ran, was to come to Hreptyoff in any case, the little knight merely sent word to him to hasten, because a commission from the hetman was waiting for him. Pan Adam came three days later. His acquaintances hardly knew him, and thought that Pan Byaloglovski had good reason to call him a skeleton. He was no longer that splendid fellow, high-spirited, joyous, who on a time used to rush at the enemy with outbursts of laughter, like the neighing of a horse, and gave blows with just such a sweep as is given by the arm of a windmill. He had grown lean, sallow, dark, but in that leanness he seemed a still greater giant. While looking at people, he blinked as if not recognizing his nearest acquaintances; it was needful also to repeat the same thing two or three times to him, for he seemed not to understand at first. Apparently grief was flowing in his veins instead of blood; evidently he strove not to think of certain things, preferring to forget them, so as not to run mad. It is true that in those regions there was not a man, not a family, not an officer of the army, who had not suffered evil from Pagan hands, who was not bewailing some acquaintance, friend, near and dear one; but on Pan Adam there had burst simply a whole cloud of misfortunes. In one day he had lost father and sister, and besides, his betrothed, whom he loved with all the power of his exuberant spirit. He would rather that his sister and that dearly beloved girl had both died; he would rather they had perished from the knife or in flames. But their fate was such that in comparison with the thought of them the greatest torment was nothing for Pan Adam. He strove not to think of their fate, for he felt that thinking of it bordered on insanity; he strove, but he failed. In truth, his calmness was only apparent. There was no resignation whatever in his soul, and at the first glance it was evident to any man that under the torpor there was something ominous and terrible, and, should it break forth, that giant would do something awful, just as a wild element would. That was as if written on his forehead explicitly, so that even his friends approached him with a certain timidity; in talking with him, they avoided reference to the past. The sight of Basia in Hreptyoff opened closed wounds in him, for while kissing her hands in greeting, he began to groan like an aurochs that is mortally wounded, his eyes became bloodshot, and the veins in his neck swelled to the size of cords. When Basia, in tears and affectionate as a mother, pressed his head with her hands, he fell at her feet, and could not rise for a long time. But when he heard what kind of office the hetman had given him, he became greatly enlivened; a gleam of ominous joy flashed up in his face, and he said,-- "I will do that, I will do more!" "And if you meet that mad dog, give him a skinning!" put in Zagloba. Pan Adam did not answer at once; he only looked at Zagloba; sudden bewilderment shone in his eyes; he rose and began to go toward the old noble, as if he wished to rush at him. "Do you believe," said he, "that I have never done evil to that man, and that I have always been kind to him?" "I believe, I believe!" said Zagloba, pushing behind the little knight hurriedly. "I would go myself with you, but the gout bites my feet." "Novoveski," asked the little knight, "when do you wish to start?" "To-night." "I will give you a hundred dragoons. I will remain here myself with another hundred and the infantry. Go to the square!" They went out to give orders. Zydor Lusnia was waiting at the threshold, straightened out like a string. News of the expedition had spread already through the square; the sergeant therefore, in his own name and the name of his company, began to beg the little colonel to let him go with Pan Adam. "How is this? Do you want to leave me?" asked the astonished Volodyovski. "Pan Commandant, we made a vow against that son of a such a one; and perhaps he may come into our hands." "True! Pan Zagloba has told me of that," answered the little knight. Lusnia turned to Novoveski,-- "Pan Commandant!" "What is your wish?" "If we get him, may I take care of him?" Such a tierce, beastly venom was depicted on the face of the Mazovian that Novoveski inclined at once to Volodyovski, and said entreatingly,-- "Your grace, let me have this man!" Pan Michael did not think of refusing; and that same evening, about dusk, a hundred horsemen, with Novoveski at their head, set out on the journey. They marched by the usual road through Mohiloff and Yampol. In Yampol they met the former garrison of Rashkoff, from which two hundred men joined Novoveski by order of the hetman; the rest, under command of Pan Byaloglovski, were to go to Mohiloff, where Pan Bogush was stationed. Pan Adam marched to Rashkoff. The environs of Rashkoff were a thorough waste; the town itself had been turned into a pile of ashes, which the winds had blown to the four sides of the world; its scant number of inhabitants had fled before the expected storm. It was already the beginning of May, and the Dobrudja horde might show itself at any time; therefore it was unsafe to remain in those regions. In fact, the hordes were with the Turks, on the plain of Kuchunkaury; but men around Rashkoff had no knowledge of that, therefore every one of the former inhabitants, who had escaped the last slaughter, carried off his head in good season whithersoever seemed best to him. Along the road Lusnia was framing plans and stratagems, which in his opinion Pan Adam should adopt if he wished to outwit the enemy in fact and successfully. He detailed these ideas to the soldiers with graciousness. "You know nothing of this matter, horse-skulls," said he; "but I am old, I know. We will go to Rashkoff; we will hide there and wait. The horde will come to the crossing; small parties will cross first, as is their custom, because the chambul stops and waits till they tell if 'tis safe; then we will slip out and drive them before us to Kamenyets." "But in this way we may not get that dog brother," remarked one of the men in the ranks. "Shut your mouth!" said Lusnia. "Who will go in the vanguard if not the Lithuanian Tartars?" In fact, the previsions of the sergeant seemed to be coming true. "When he reached Rashkoff Pan Adam gave the soldiers rest. All felt certain that they would go next to the caves, of which there were many in the neighborhood, and hide there till the first parties of the enemy appeared. But the second day of their stay the commandant brought the squadron to its feet, and led it beyond Rashkoff. "Are we going to Yagorlik, or what?" asked the sergeant in his mind. Meanwhile they approached the river just beyond Rashkoff, and a few "Our Fathers" later they halted at the so-called "Bloody Ford." Pan Adam, without saying a word, urged his horse into the water and began to cross to the opposite bank. The soldiers looked at one another with astonishment. "How is this,--are we going to the Turks?" asked one of another. But these were not "gracious gentlemen" of the general militia, ready to summon a meeting and protest, they were simple soldiers inured to the iron discipline of stanitsas; hence the men of the first rank urged their horses into the water after the commandant, and then those in the second and third did the same. There was not the least hesitation. They were astonished that, with three hundred horse, they were marching against the Turkish power, which the whole world could not conquer; but they went. Soon the water was plashing around the horses' sides; the men ceased to wonder then, and were thinking simply of this, that the sacks of food for themselves and the horses should not get wet. Only on the other bank did they begin to look at one another again. "For God's sake, we are in Moldavia already!" said they, in quiet whispers. And one or another looked behind, beyond the Dniester, which glittered in the setting sun like a red and golden ribbon. The river cliffs, full of caves, were bathed also in the bright gleams. They rose like a wall, which at that moment divided that handful of men from their country. For many of them it was indeed the last parting. The thought went through Lusnia's head that maybe the commandant had gone mad; but it was the commandant's affair to command, his to obey. Meanwhile the horses, issuing from the water, began to snort terribly in the ranks. "Good health! good health!" was heard from the soldiers. They considered the snorting of good omen, and a certain consolation entered their hearts. "Move on!" commanded Pan Adam. The ranks moved, and they went toward the setting sun and toward those thousands, to that swarm of people, to those nations gathered at Kuchunkaury. CHAPTER XLIX. Pan Adam's passage of the Dniester, and his march with three hundred sabres against the power of the Sultan, which numbered hundreds of thousands of warriors, were deeds which a man unacquainted with war might consider pure madness; but they were only bold, daring deeds of war, having chances of success. To begin with, raiders of those days went frequently against chambuls a hundred times superior in numbers; they stood before the eyes of the enemy, and then vanished, cutting down pursuers savagely. Just as a wolf entices dogs after him at times, to turn at the right moment and kill the dog pushing forward most daringly, so did they. In the twinkle of an eye the beast became the hunter, started, hid, waited, but though pursued, hunted too, attacked unexpectedly, and bit to death. That was the so-called "method with Tartars," in which each side vied with the other in stratagems, tricks, and ambushes. The most famous man in this method was Pan Michael, next to him Pan Rushchyts, then Pan Pivo, then Pan Motovidlo; but Novoveski, practising from boyhood in the steppes, belonged to those who were mentioned among the most famous, hence it was very likely that when he stood before the horde he would not let himself be taken. The expedition had chances of success too, for the reason that beyond the Dniester there were wild regions in which it was easy to hide. Only here and there, along the rivers, did settlements show themselves, and in general the country was little inhabited; nearer the Dniester it was rocky and hilly; farther on there were steppes, or the land was covered with forests, in which numerous herds of beasts wandered, from buffaloes, run wild, to deer and wild boars. Since the Sultan wished before the expedition "to feel his power and calculate his forces," the hordes dwelling on the lower Dniester, those of Belgrod, and still farther those of Dobrudja, marched at command of the Padishah to the south of the Balkans, and after them followed the Karalash of Moldavia, so that the country had become still more deserted, and it was possible to travel whole weeks without being seen by any person. Pan Adam knew Tartar customs too well not to know that when the chambuls had once passed the boundary of the Commonwealth they would move more warily, keeping diligent watch on all sides; but there in their own country they would go in broad columns without any precaution. And they did so, in fact; there seemed to the Tartars a greater chance to meet death than to meet in the heart of Bessarabia, on the very Tartar boundary, the troops of that Commonwealth which had not men enough to defend its own borders. Pan Adam was confident that his expedition would astonish the enemy first of all, and hence do more good than the hetman had hoped; secondly, that it might be destructive to Azya and his men. It was easy for the young lieutenant to divine that they, since they knew the Commonwealth thoroughly, would march in the vanguard, and he placed his main hope in that certainty. To fall unexpectedly on Azya and seize him, to rescue perhaps his sister and Zosia, to snatch them from captivity, accomplish his vengeance, and then perish in war, was all that the distracted soul of Novoveski wished for. Under the influence of these thoughts and hopes. Pan Adam freed himself from torpor, and revived. His march along unknown ways, arduous labor, the sweeping wind of the steppes, and the dangers of the bold undertaking increased his health, and brought back his former strength. The warrior began to overcome in him the man of misfortune. Before that, there had been no place in him for anything except memories and suffering; now he had to think whole days of how he was to deceive and attack. After they had passed the Dniester the Poles went on a diagonal, and down toward the Pruth. In the day they hid frequently in forests and reeds; in the night they made secret and hurried marches. So far the country was not much inhabited, and, occupied mainly by nomads, was empty for the greater part. Very rarely did they come upon fields of maize, and near them houses. Marching secretly, they strove to avoid larger settlements, but often they stopped at smaller ones composed of one, two, three, or even a number of cottages; these they entered boldly, knowing that none of the inhabitants would think of fleeing before them to Budjyak, and forewarning the Tartars. Lusnia, however, took care that this should not happen; but soon he omitted the precaution, for he convinced himself that those few settlements, though subject, as it were, to the Sultan, were looking for his troops with dread; and secondly, that they had no idea what kind of people had come to them, and took the whole detachment for Karalash parties, who were marching after others at command of the Sultan. The inhabitants furnished without opposition corn, bread, and dried buffalo-meat. Every cottager had his flock of sheep, his buffaloes and horses, secreted near the rivers, From time to time appeared also very large herds of buffaloes, half wild, and followed by a number of herdsmen. These herdsmen lived in tents on the steppe, and remained in one place only while they found grass in abundance. Frequently they were old Tartars. Pan Adam surrounded them with as much care as if they were a chambul; he did not spare them, lest they might send down toward Budjyak a report of his march. Tartars, especially after he had inquired of them concerning the roads, or rather the roadless country, he slew without mercy, so that not a foot escaped. He took then from the herds as many cattle as he needed, and moved on. The detachment went southward; they met now more frequently herds guarded by Tartars almost exclusively, and in rather large parties. During a march of two weeks Pan Adam surrounded and cut down three bands of shepherds, numbering some tens of men. The dragoons always took the sheepskin coats of these men, and cleaning them over fires, put them on, so as to resemble wild herdsmen and shepherds. In another week they were all dressed like Tartars, and looked exactly like a chambul. There remained to them only the uniform weapons of regular cavalry; but they kept their jackets in the saddle-straps, so as to put them on when returning. They might be recognized near at hand by their yellow Mazovian mustaches and blue eyes; but from a distance a man of the greatest experience might be deceived at sight of them, all the more since they drove before them the cattle which they needed as food. Approaching the Pruth, they marched along its left bank. Since the trail of Kuchman was in a region too much stripped, it was easy to foresee that the legions of the Sultan and the horde in the vanguard would march through Falezi, Hush, Kotimore, and only then by the Wallachian trail, and either turn toward the Dniester, or go straight as the east of a sickle through all Bessarabia, to come out on the boundary of the Commonwealth near Ushytsa. Pan Adam was so certain of this that, caring nothing for time, he went more and more slowly, and with increasing care, so as not to come too suddenly on chambuls. Arriving at last at the river forks formed by the Sarata and the Tekich, he stopped there for a long time, first, to give rest to his horses and men, and second, to wait in a well-sheltered place for the vanguard of the horde. The place was well sheltered and carefully chosen, for all the inner and outer banks of the two rivers were covered partly with the common cornel-bush, and partly with dog-wood. This thicket extended as far as the eye could reach, covering the ground in places with dense brushwood, in places forming groups of bushes, between which were empty spaces, commodious for camping. At that season the trees and bushes had cast their blossoms, but in the early spring there must have been a sea of white and yellow flowers. The place was uninhabited, but swarming with beasts, such as deer and rabbits, and with birds. Here and there, at the edge of a spring, they found also bear tracks. One man at the arrival of the detachment killed a couple of sheep. In view of this, Lusnia promised himself a sheep hunt; but Pan Adam, wishing to lie concealed, did not permit the use of muskets,--the soldiers went out to plunder with spears and axes. Later on they found near the water traces of fires, but old ones, probably of the past year. It was evident that nomads looked in there from time to time with their herds, or perhaps Tartars came to cut cornel-wood for slung staffs. But the most careful search did not discover a living soul. Pan Adam decided not to go farther, but to remain there till the coming of the Turkish troops. They laid out a square, built huts, and waited. At the edges of the wood sentries were posted; some of these looked day and night toward Budjyak, others toward the Pruth in the direction of Falezi. Pan Adam knew that he would divine the approach of the Sultan's armies by certain signs; besides, he sent out small detachments, led by himself most frequently. The weather favored excellently the halt in that dry region. The days were warm, but it was easy to avoid heat in the shade of the thicket; the nights were clear, calm, moonlight, and then the groves were quivering from the singing of nightingales. During such nights Pan Adam suffered most, for he could not sleep; he was thinking of his former happiness, and pondering on the present days of disaster. He lived only in the thought that when his heart was sated with vengeance he would be happier and calmer. Meanwhile the time was approaching in which he was to accomplish that vengeance or perish. Week followed week spent in finding food in wild places, and in watching. During that time they studied all the trails, ravines, meadows, rivers, and streams, gathered in again a number of herds, cut down some small bands of nomads, and watched continually in that thicket, like a wild beast waiting for prey. At last the expected moment came. A certain morning they saw flocks of birds covering the earth and the sky. Bustards, ptarmigans, blue-legged quails, hurried through the grass to the thicket; through the sky flew ravens, crows, and even water-birds, evidently frightened on the banks of the Danube or the swamps of the Dobrudja. At sight of this the dragoons looked at one another; and the phrase, "They are coming! they are coming!" flew from mouth to mouth. Faces grew animated at once, mustaches began to quiver, eyes to gleam, but in that animation there was not the slightest alarm. Those were all men for whom life had passed in "methods;" they only felt what a hunting dog feels when he sniffs game. Fires were quenched in a moment, so that smoke might not betray the presence of people in the thicket; the horses were saddled; and the whole detachment stood ready for action. It was necessary so to measure time as to fall on the enemy during a halt. Pan Adam understood well that the Sultan's troops would not march in dense masses, especially in their own country, where danger was altogether unlikely. He knew, too, that it was the custom of vanguards to march five or ten miles before the main army. He hoped, with good reason, that the Lithuanian Tartars would be first in the vanguard. For a certain time he hesitated whether to advance to meet them by secret roads, well known to him, or to wait in the woods for their coming. He chose the latter, because it was easier to attack from the woods unexpectedly. Another day passed, then a night, during which not only birds came in swarms, but beasts came in droves to the woods. Next morning the enemy was in sight. South of the wood stretched a broad though hilly meadow, which was lost in the distant horizon. On that meadow appeared the enemy, and approached the wood rather quickly. The dragoons looked from the trees at that dark mass, which vanished at times, when hidden by hills, and then appeared again in all its extent. Lusnia, who had uncommonly sharp eyesight, looked some time with effort at those crowds approaching; then he went to Novoveski, and said,-- "Pan Commandant, there are not many men; they are only driving herds out to pasture." Pan Adam convinced himself soon that Lusnia was right, and his face shone with gladness. "That means that their halting-place is five or six miles from this grove," said he. "It does," answered Lusnia. "They march in the night, evidently to gain shelter from heat, and rest in the day; they are sending the horses now to pasture till evening." "Is there a large guard with the horses?" Lusnia pushed out again to the edge of the wood, and did not return for a longer time. At last he came back and said,-- "There are about fifteen hundred horses and twenty-five men with them. They are in their own country; they fear nothing, and do not put out strong watches." "Could you recognize the men?" "They are far away yet, but they are Lithuanian Tartars. They are in our hands already." "They are," said Pan Adam. In fact, he was convinced that not a living foot of those men would escape. For such a leader as he, and such soldiers as he led, that was a very light task. Meanwhile the herdsmen had driven the beasts nearer and nearer to the forest. Lusnia thrust himself out once again to the border, and returned a second time. His face was shining with cruelty and gladness. "Lithuanian Tartars," whispered he. Hearing this, Pan Adam made a noise like a falcon, and straightway a division of dragoons pushed into the depth of the wood. There they separated into two parties, one of which disappeared in a defile, so as to come out behind the herd and the Tartars; the other formed a half-circle, and waited. All this was done so quietly that the most trained ear could not have caught a sound; neither sabre nor spur rattled; no horse neighed; the thick grass on the ground dulled the tramp of hoofs; besides, even the horses seemed to understand that the success of the attack depended on silence, for they were performing such service not for the first time. Nothing was heard from the defile and the brushwood but the call of the falcon, lower every little while and less frequent. The herd of Tartar horses stopped before the wood, and scattered in greater or smaller groups on the meadow. Pan Adam himself was then near the edge, and followed all the movements of the herdsmen. The day was clear, and the time before noon, but the sun was already high, and cast heat on the earth. The horses rolled; later on, they approached the wood. The herdsmen rode to the edge of the grove, slipped down from their horses, and let them out on lariats; then seeking the shade and cool places, they entered the thicket, and lay down under the largest bushes to rest. Soon a fire burst up in a flame; when the dry sticks had turned into coals and were coated with ashes, the herdsmen put half a colt on the coals, and sat at a distance themselves to avoid the heat. Some stretched on the grass; others talked, sitting in groups, Turkish fashion; one began to play on a horn. In the wood perfect silence reigned; the falcon called only at times. The odor of singed flesh announced at last that the roast was ready. Two men drew it out of the ashes, and dragged it to a shady tree; there they sat in a circle cutting the meat with their knives, and eating with beastly greed. From the half-raw strips came blood, which settled on their fingers, and flowed down their beards. When they had finished eating, and had drunk sour mare's milk out of skins, they felt satisfied. They talked awhile yet; then their heads and limbs became heavy. Afternoon came. The heat flew down from heaven more and more. The forest was varied with quivering streaks of light made by the rays of the sun penetrating dense places. Everything was silent; even the falcons ceased to call. A number of Tartars stood up and went to look at the horses; others stretched themselves like corpses on a battlefield, and soon sleep overpowered them. But their sleep after meat and drink was rather heavy and uneasy, for at times one groaned deeply, another opened his lids for a moment, and repeated, "Allah, Bismillah!" All at once on the edge of the wood was heard some low but terrible sound, like the short rattle of a stifled man who had no time to cry. Whether the ears of the herdsmen were so keen, or some animal instinct had warned them of danger, or finally, whether Death had blown with cold breath on them, it is enough that they sprang up from sleep in one moment. "What is that? Where are the men at the horses?" they began to inquire of one another. Then from a thicket some voice said in Polish,-- "They will not return." That moment a hundred and fifty men rushed in a circle at the herdsmen, who were frightened so terribly that the cry died in their breasts. An odd one barely succeeded in grasping his dagger. The circle of attackers covered and hid them completely. The bush quivered from the pressure of human bodies, which struggled in a disorderly group. The whistle of blades, panting, and at times groaning or wheezing were heard, but that lasted one twinkle of an eye; and all was silent. "How many are alive?" asked a voice among the attackers. "Five, Pan Commandant." "Examine the bodies; lest any escape, give each man a knife in the throat, and bring the prisoners to the fire." The command was obeyed in one moment. The corpses were pinned to the turf with their own knives; the prisoners, after their feet had been bound to sticks, were brought around the fire, which Lusnia had raked so that coals, hidden under ashes, would be on the top. The prisoners looked at this preparation and at Lusnia with wild eyes. Among them were three Tartars of Hreptyoff who knew the sergeant perfectly. He knew them too, and said,-- "Well, comrades, you must sing now; if not, you will go to the other world on roasted soles. For old acquaintance' sake I will not spare fire on you." When he had said this he threw dry limbs on the fire, which burst out at once in a tall blaze. Pan Adam came now, and began the examination. From confessions of the prisoners it appeared that what the young lieutenant had divined earlier was true. The Lithuanian Tartars and Cheremis were marching in the vanguard before the horde, and before all the troops of the Sultan. They were led by Azya, son of Tugai Bey, to whom was given command over all the parties. They, as well as the whole army, marched at night because of the heat; in the day they sent their herds out to pasture. They threw out no pickets, for no one supposed that troops could attack them even near the Dniester, much less at the Pruth, right at the dwellings of the horde; they marched comfortably, therefore, with their herds and with camels, which carried the tents of the officers. The tent of Murza Azya was easily known, for it had a bunchuk fixed on its summit, and the banners of the companies were fastened near it in time of halt. The camp was four or five miles distant; there were about two thousand men in it, but some of them had remained with the Belgrod horde, which was marching about five miles behind. Pan Adam inquired further touching the road which would lead to the camp best, then how the tents were arranged, and last, of that which concerned him most deeply. "Are there women in the tent?" The Tartars trembled for their lives. Those of them who had served in Hreptyoff knew perfectly that Pan Adam was the brother of one of those women, and was betrothed to the other; they understood, therefore, what rage would seize him when he knew the whole truth. That rage might fall first on them; they hesitated, therefore, but Lusnia said at once,-- "Pan Commandant, we'll warm their soles for the dog brothers; then they will speak." "Thrust their feet in the fire!" said Pan Adam. "Have mercy!" cried Eliashevich, an old Tartar from Hreptyoff. "I will tell all that my eyes have seen." Lusnia looked at the commandant to learn if he was to carry out the threat notwithstanding this answer; but Pan Adam shook his head, and said to Eliashevich,-- "Tell what thou hast seen." "We are innocent, lord," answered Eliashevich; "we went at command. The murza gave your gracious sister to Pan Adurovich, who had her in his tent. I saw her in Kuchunkaury when she was going for water with pails; and I helped her to carry them, for she was heavy--" "Woe!" muttered Pan Adam. "But the other lady our murza himself had in his tent. We did not see her so often; but we heard more than once how she screamed, for the murza, though he kept her for his pleasure, beat her with rods, and kicked her." Pan Adam's lips began to quiver. Eliashevich barely heard the question. "Where are they now?" "Sold in Stambul." "To whom?" "The murza himself does not know certainly. A command came from the Padishah to keep no women in camp. All sold their women in the bazaar; the murza sold his." The explanation was finished, and at the fire silence set in; but for some time a sultry afternoon wind shook the limbs of the trees, which sounded more and more deeply. The air became stifling; on the edge of the horizon, black clouds appeared, dark in the centre, and shining with a copper-color on the edges. Pan Adam walked away from the fire, and moved like one demented, without giving an account to himself of where he was going. At last he dropped with his face to the ground, and began to tear the earth with his nails, then to gnaw his own hands, and then to gasp as if dying. A convulsion twisted his gigantic body, and he lay thus for hours. The dragoons looked at him from a distance; but even Lusnia dared not approach him. Concluding that the commandant would not be angry at him for not sparing the Tartars, the terrible sergeant, impelled by pure inborn cruelty, stuffed their mouths with grass, so as to avoid noise, and slaughtered them like bullocks. He spared Eliashevich alone, supposing that he would be needed to guide them. When he had finished this work, he dragged away from the fire the bodies, still quivering, and put them in a row; he went then to look at the commandant. "Even if he has gone mad," muttered Lusnia, "we must get that one." Midday had passed, the afternoon hours as well, and the day was inclining toward evening. But those clouds, small at first, occupied now almost the whole heavens, and were growing ever thicker and darker without losing that copper-colored gleam along the edges. Their gigantic rolls turned heavily, like millstones on their own axes; then they fell on one another, crowded one another, and pushing one another from the height, rolled in a dense mass lower and lower toward the earth. The wind struck at times, like a bird of prey with its wings, bent the cornel-trees and the dogwood to the earth, tore away a cloud of leaves, and bore it apart with rage; at times it stopped as if it had fallen into the ground. During such intervals of silence there was heard in the gathering clouds a certain ominous rattling, wheezing, rumbling; you would have said that legions of thunders were gathering within them and ranging for battle, grumbling in deep voices while rousing rage and fury in themselves, before they would burst out and strike madly on the terrified earth. "A storm, a storm is coming!" whispered the dragoons to one another. The storm was coming. The air grew darker each instant. Then on the east, from the side of the Dniester, thunder rose and rolled with an awful outbreak along the heavens, till it went far away, beyond the Pruth; there it was silent for a moment, but springing up afresh, rushed toward the steppes of Budjyak, and rolled along the whole horizon. First, great drops of rain fell on the parched grass. At that moment Pan Adam stood before the dragoons. "To horse!" cried he, with a mighty voice. And at the expiration of as much time as is needed to say a hurried "Our Father," he was moving at the head of a hundred and fifty horsemen. When he had ridden out of the woods, he joined, near the herd of horses, the other half of his men, who had been standing guard at the field-side, to prevent any herdsmen from escaping by stealth to the camp. The dragoons rushed around the herd in the twinkle of an eye, and giving out wild shouts, peculiar to Tartars, moved on, urging before them the panic-stricken horses. The sergeant held Eliashevich on a lariat, and shouted in his ear, trying to outsound the roar of the thunder,-- "Lead us on dog blood, and straight, or a knife in thy throat!" Now the clouds rolled so low that they almost touched the earth. On a sudden they burst, like an explosion in a furnace, and a raging hurricane was let loose; soon a blinding light rent the darkness, a thunder-clap came, and after it a second, a third; the smell of sulphur spread in the air, and again there was darkness. Terror seized the herd of horses. The beasts, driven from behind by the wild shouts of the dragoons, ran with distended nostrils and flowing mane, scarcely touching the earth in their onrush; the thunder did not cease for a moment; the wind roared, and the horses raced on madly in that wind, in that darkness, amid explosions in which the earth seemed to be breaking. Driven by the tempest and by vengeance, they were like a terrible company of vampires or evil spirits in that wild steppe. Space fled before them. No guide was needed, for the herd ran straight to the camp of the Tartars, which was nearer and nearer. But before they had reached it, the storm was unchained, as if the sky and the earth had gone mad. The whole horizon blazed with living fire, by the gleam of which were seen the tents standing on the steppe; the world was quivering from the roar of thunders; it seemed that the clouds might burst any moment and tumble to the earth. In fact, their sluices were opened, and floods of rain began to deluge the steppe. The downfall was so dense that a few paces distant nothing could be seen, and from the earth, inflamed by the heat of the sun, a thick mist was soon rising. Yet a little while, and herd and dragoons will be in the camp. But right before the tents the herd split, and ran to both sides in wild panic; three hundred breasts gave out a fearful shriek; three hundred sabres glittered in the flame of the lightning, and the dragoons fell on the tents. Before the outburst of the torrent, the Tartars saw in the lightning-flashes the on-coming herd; but none of them knew what terrible herdsmen were driving. Astonishment and alarm seized them; they wondered why the herd should rush straight at the tents; then they began to shout to frighten them away. Azya himself pushed aside the canvas door, and in spite of the rain, went out with anger on his threatening face. But that instant the herd split in two, and, amid torrents of rain and in the fog, certain fierce forms looked black and many times greater in number than the horse-herds; then the terrible cry, "Slay, kill!" was heard. There was no time for anything, not even to guess what had happened, not even to be frightened. The hurricane of men, more dreadful and furious by far than the tempest, whirled on to the camp. Before Tugai Bey's son could retreat one step toward his tent, some power more than human, as you would have said, raised him from the earth. Suddenly he felt that a dreadful embrace was squeezing him, that from its pressure his bones were bending and his ribs breaking; soon he saw, as if in mist, a face rather than which he would have seen Satan's, and fainted. By that time the battle had begun, or rather the ghastly slaughter. The storm, the darkness, the unknown number of the assailants, the suddenness of the attack, and the scattering of the horses were the cause that the Tartars scarcely defended themselves. The madness of terror simply took possession of them. No one knew whither to escape, where to hide himself. Many had no weapons at hand; the attack found many asleep. Therefore, stunned, bewildered, and terrified, they gathered into dense groups, crowding, overturning, and trampling one another. The breasts of horses pushed them down, threw them to the ground; sabres cut them, hoofs crushed them. A storm does not so break, destroy, and lay waste a young forest, wolves do not eat into a flock of bewildered sheep, as the dragoons trampled and cut down those Tartars. On the one hand, bewilderment, on the other, rage and vengeance, completed the measure of their misfortune. Torrents of blood were mingled with the rain. It seemed to the Tartars that the sky was falling on them, that the earth was opening under their feet. The flash of lightning, the roar of thunder, the noise of rain, the darkness, the terror of the storm, answered to the dreadful outcries of the slaughtered. The horses of the dragoons, seized also with fear, rushed, as if maddened, into the throng, breaking it and stretching the men on the ground. At length the smaller groups began to flee, but they had lost knowledge of the place to such a degree that they fled around on the scene of struggle, instead of fleeing straight forward; and frequently they knocked against one another, like two opposing waves, struck one another, overturned one another, and went under the sword. At last the dragoons scattered the remnant of them completely, and slew them in the flight, taking no prisoners, and pursuing without mercy till the trumpets called them back from pursuit. Never had an attack been more unexpected, and never a defeat more terrible. Three hundred men had scattered to the four winds of the world nearly two thousand cavalry, surpassing incomparably in training the ordinary chambuls. The greater part of them were lying flat in red pools of blood and rain. The rest dispersed, hid their heads, thanks to the darkness, and escaped on foot, at random, not certain that they would not run under the knife a second time. The storm and the darkness assisted the victors, as if the anger of God were fighting on their side against traitors. Night had fallen completely when Pan Adam moved out at the head of his dragoons, to return to the boundaries of the Commonwealth. Between the young lieutenant and Lusnia, the sergeant, went a horse from the herd. On the back of this horse lay, bound with cords, the leader of all the Lithuanian Tartars,--Azya, the son of Tugai Bey, with broken ribs. He was alive, but in a swoon. Both looked at him from time to time as carefully and anxiously as if they were carrying a treasure, and were fearful of losing it. The storm began to pass. On the heavens, legions of clouds were still moving, but in intervals between them, stars were beginning to shine, and to be reflected in lakes of water, formed on the steppe by the dense rain. In the distance, in the direction of the Commonwealth, thunder was still roaring from time to time. CHAPTER L. The fugitive Tartars carried news to the Belgrod horde of the disaster. Couriers from them took the news to the Ordu i Humayun,--that is, to the Sultan's camp,--where it made an uncommon impression. Pan Adam had no need, it is true, to flee too hurriedly with his booty to the Commonwealth, for not only did no one pursue him at the first moment, but not even for the two succeeding days. The Sultan was so astonished that he knew not what to think. He sent Belgrod and Dobrudja chambuls at once to discover what troops were in the vicinity. They went unwillingly, for with them it was a question of their own skins. Meanwhile the tidings, given from mouth to mouth, grew to be the account of a considerable overthrow. Men inhabiting the depth of Asia or Africa, who had not gone hitherto with war to Lehistan, and who heard from narratives of the terrible cavalry of the unbelievers, were seized with fright at the thought that they were already in presence of that enemy who did not wait for them within his own boundaries, but sought them in the very dominions of the Padishah; the grand vizir himself, and the "future sun of war," the kaimakan, Kara Mustafa, did not know either what to think of the attack. How that Commonwealth, of whose weakness they had the minutest accounts, could assume all at once the offensive, no Turkish head could explain. It is enough that henceforth the march seemed less secure, and less like a triumph. At the council of war the Sultan received the vizir and the kaimakan with a terrible countenance. "You have deceived me," said he. "The Poles cannot be so weak, since they seek us even here. You told me that Sobieski would not defend Kamenyets, and now he is surely in front of us, with his whole army." The vizir and kaimakan tried to explain to their lord that this might be some detached band of robbers; but in view of the muskets and of straps, in which there were dragoon jackets, they did not believe that themselves. The recent expedition of Sobieski to the Ukraine, daring beyond every measure, but for all that victorious, permitted the supposition that the terrible leader intended to anticipate the enemy this time as well as the other. "He has no troops," said the grand vizir to the kaimakan, while coming out from the council; "but there is a lion in him which knows nothing of fear. If he has collected even a few thousand, and is here, we shall march in blood to Hotin." "I should like to measure strength with him," said young Kara Mustafa. "May God avert from you misfortune!" answered the grand vizir. By degrees, however, the Belgrod and Dobrudja chambuls convinced themselves that there were not only no large bodies of troops, but no troops at all in the neighborhood. They discovered the trail of a detachment numbering about three hundred horse, which moved hurriedly toward the Dniester. The Tartars, remembering the fate of Azya's men, made no pursuit, out of fear of an ambush. The attack remained as something astonishing and unexplained; but quiet came back by degrees to the Ordu i Humayun, and the armies of the Padishah began again to advance like an inundation. Meanwhile, Pan Adam was returning safely with his living booty to Rashkoff. He went hurriedly, but as experienced scouts learned on the second day that there was no pursuit, he advanced, notwithstanding his haste, at a gait not to weary the horses over-much. Azya, fastened with cords to the back of the horse, was always between Pan Adam and Lusnia. He had two ribs broken, and had become wonderfully weak, for even the wound given him by Basia in the face opened from his struggle with Pan Adam and from riding with head hanging down. The terrible sergeant was careful that he should not die before reaching Rashkoff, and thus baffle revenge. The young Tartar wanted to die. Knowing what awaited him, he determined first of all to kill himself with hunger, and would not take food; but Lusnia opened his set teeth with a knife, and forced into his mouth gorailka and Moldavian wine, in which biscuits, rubbed to dust, had been mixed. At the places of halting, they threw water on his face, lest the wounds of his eye and his nose, on which flies and gnats had settled thickly during the journey, should mortify, and bring premature death to the ill-fated man. Pan Adam did not speak to him on the road. Once only, at the beginning of the journey, when Azya, at the price of his freedom and life, offered to return Zosia and Eva, did the lieutenant say to him,-- "Thou liest, dog! Both were sold by thee to a merchant of Stambul, who will sell them again in the bazaar." And straightway they brought Eliashevich, who said in presence of all,-- "It is so, Effendi. You sold her without knowing to whom; and Adurovich sold the bagadyr's[30] sister, though she was with child by him." After these words, it seemed for a while to Azya that Novoveski would crush him at once in his terrible grasp. Afterwards, when he had lost all hope, he resolved to bring the young giant to kill him in a transport of rage, and in that way spare himself future torment; since Novoveski, unwilling to let his captive out of sight, rode always near him, Azya began to boast beyond measure and shamelessly of all that he had done. He told how he had killed old Novoveski, how he had kept Zosia Boski in the tent, how he gloated over her innocence, how he had torn her body with rods, and kicked her. The sweat rolled off the pale face of Pan Adam in thick drops. He listened; he had not the power, he had not the wish to go away. He listened eagerly, his hands quivered, his body shook convulsively; still he mastered himself, and did not kill. But Azya, while tormenting his enemy, tormented himself, for his narratives brought to his mind his present misfortune. Not long before, he was commanding men, living in luxury, a murza, a favorite of the young kaimakan; now, lashed to the back of a horse, and eaten alive by flies, he was travelling on to a terrible death. Relief came to him when, from the pain of his wounds, and from suffering, he fainted. This happened with growing frequency, so that Lusnia began to fear that he might not bring him alive. But they travelled night and day, giving only as much rest to the horses as was absolutely needful, and Rashkoff was ever nearer and nearer. Still the horned soul of the Tartar would not leave the afflicted body. But during the last days he was in a continual fever, and at times he fell into an oppressive sleep. More than once in that fever or sleep he dreamed that he was still in Hreptyoff, that he had to go with Volodyovski to a great war; again that he was conducting Basia to Rashkoff; again that he had borne her away, and hidden her in his tent; at times in the fever he saw battles and slaughter, in which, as hetman of the Polish Tartars, he was giving orders from under his bunchuk. But awakening came, and with it consciousness. Opening his eyes, he saw the face of Novoveski, the face of Lusnia, the helmets of the dragoons, who had thrown aside the sheepskin caps of the horseherds; and all that reality was so dreadful that it seemed to him a genuine nightmare. Every movement of the horse tortured him; his wounds burned him increasingly; and again he fainted. Pierced with pain, he recovered consciousness, to fall into a fever, and with it into a dream, to wake up again. There were moments in which it seemed to him impossible that he, such a wretched man, could be Azya, the son of Tugai Bey; that his life, which was full of uncommon events, and which seemed to promise a great destiny, was to end with such suddenness, and so terribly. At times too it came to his head that after torments and death he would go straightway to paradise; but because once he had professed Christianity, and had lived long among Christians, fear seized him at the thought of Christ. Christ would have no pity on him; if the Prophet had been mightier than Christ, he would not have given him into the hands of Pan Adam. Perhaps, however, the Prophet would show pity yet, and take the soul out of him before Pan Adam would kill him with torture. Meanwhile, Rashkoff was at hand. They entered a country of cliffs, which indicated the vicinity of the Dniester. Azya in the evening fell into a condition half feverish, half conscious, in which illusions were mingled with reality. It seemed to him that they had arrived, that they had stopped, that he heard around him the words "Rashkoff! Rashkoff!" Next it seemed to him that he heard the noise of axes cutting wood. Then he felt that men were dashing cold water on his head, and then for a long time they were pouring gorailka into his mouth. After that he recovered entirely. Above him was a starry night, and around him many torches were gleaming. To his ears came the words,-- "Is he conscious?" "Conscious. He seems in his mind." And that moment he saw above him the face of Lusnia. "Well, brother," said the sergeant, in a calm voice, "the hour is on thee!" Azya was lying on his back and breathing freely, for his arms were stretched upward at both sides of his head, by reason of which his expanded breast moved more freely and received more air than when he was lying lashed to the back of the horse. But he could not move his hands, for they were tied above his head to an oak staff which was placed at right angles to his shoulders, and were bound with straw steeped in tar. Azya divined in a moment why this was done; but at that moment he saw other preparations also, which announced that his torture would be long and ghastly. He was undressed from his waist to his feet; and raising his head somewhat, he saw between his naked knees a freshly trimmed, pointed stake, the larger end of which was placed against the butt of a tree. From each of his feet there went a rope ending with a whiffletree, to which a horse was attached. By the light of the torches Azya could see only the rumps of the horses and two men, standing somewhat farther on, who evidently were holding the horses by the head. The hapless man took in these preparations at a glance; then, looking at the heavens, it is unknown why, he saw stars and the gleaming crescent of the moon. "They will draw me on," thought he. And at once he closed his teeth so firmly that a spasm seized his jaws. Sweat came out on his forehead, and at the same time his face became cold, for the blood rushed away from it. Then it seemed to him that the earth was fleeing from under his shoulders, that his body was flying and flying into some fathomless abyss. For a while he lost consciousness of time, of place, and of what they were doing to him. The sergeant opened Azya's mouth with a knife, and poured in more gorailka. He coughed and spat out the burning liquor, but was forced to swallow some of it. Then he fell into a wonderful condition: he was not drunk; on the contrary, his mind had never been clearer, nor his thought quicker. He saw what they were doing, he understood everything; but an uncommon excitement seized him, as it were,--impatience that all was lasting so long, and that nothing was beginning yet. Next heavy steps were heard near by, and before him stood Pan Adam. At sight of him all the veins in the Tartar quivered. Lusnia he did not fear; he despised him too much. But Pan Adam he did not despise; indeed, he had no reason to despise him; on the contrary, every look of his face filled Azya's soul with a certain superstitious dread and repulsion. He thought to himself at that moment, "I am in his power; I fear him!" and that was such a terrible feeling that under its influence the hair stiffened on the head of Tugai Bey's son. "For what thou hast done, thou wilt perish in torment," said Pan Adam. The Tartar gave no answer, but began to pant audibly. Novoveski withdrew, and then followed a silence which was broken by Lusnia. "Thou didst raise thy hand on the lady," said he, with a hoarse voice; "but now the lady is at home with her husband, and thou art in our hands. Thy hour has come!" With those words the act of torture began for Azya. That terrible man learned at the hour of his death that his treason and cruelty had profited nothing. If even Basia had died on the road, he would have had the consolation that though not in his, she would not be in any man's, possession; and that solace was taken from him just then, when the point of the stake was at an ell's length from his body. All had been in vain. So many treasons, so much blood, so much impending punishment for nothing,--for nothing whatever! Lusnia did not know how grievous those words had made death to Azya; had he known, he would have repeated them during the whole journey. But there was no time for regrets then; everything must give way before the execution. Lusnia stooped down, and taking Azya's hips in both his hands to give them direction, called to the men holding the horses,-- "Move! but slowly and together!" The horses moved; the straightened ropes pulled Azya's legs. In a twinkle his body was drawn along the earth and met the point of the stake. Then the point commenced to sink in him, and something dreadful began,--something repugnant to nature and the feelings of man. The bones of the unfortunate moved apart from one another; his body gave way in two directions; pain indescribable, so awful that it almost bounds on some monstrous delight, penetrated his being. The stake sank more and more deeply. Azya fixed his jaws, but he could not endure; his teeth were bared in a ghastly grin, and out of his throat came the cry, "A! a! a!" like the croaking of a raven. "Slowly!" commanded the sergeant. Azya repeated his terrible cry more and more quickly. "Art croaking?" inquired the sergeant. Then he called to the men,-- "Stop! together! There, it is done," said he, turning to Azya, who had grown silent at once, and in whose throat only a deep rattling was heard. The horses were taken out quickly; then men raised the stake, planted the large end of it in a hole prepared purposely, and packed earth around it. The son of Tugai Bey looked from above on that work. He was conscious. That hideous species of punishment is in this the more dreadful, that victims drawn on to the stake live sometimes three days. Azya's head was hanging on his breast; his lips were moving, smacking, as if he were chewing something and tasting it. He felt then a great faintness, and saw before him, as it were, a boundless, whitish mist, which, it is unknown wherefore, seemed to him terrible; but in that mist he recognized the faces of the sergeant and the dragoons, he saw that he was on the stake, that the weight of his body was sinking him deeper and deeper. Then he began to grow numb from the feet, and began to be less and less sensitive to pain. At times darkness hid from him that whitish mist; then he blinked with his one seeing eye, wishing to see and behold everything till death. His gaze passed with particular persistence from torch to torch, for it seemed to him that around each flame there was a rainbow circle. But his torture was not ended; after a while the sergeant approached the stake with an auger in his hand, and cried to those standing near,-- "Lift me up." Two strong men raised him aloft. Azya began to look at him closely, blinking, as if he wished to know what kind of man was climbing up to his height. Then the sergeant said,-- "The lady knocked out one eye, and I promised myself to bore out the other." When he had said this, he put the point into the pupil, twisted once and a second time, and when the lid and delicate skin surrounding the eye were wound around the spiral of the auger, he jerked. Then from the two eye-sockets of Azya two streams of blood flowed, and they flowed like two streams of tears down his face. His face itself grew pale and still paler. The dragoons extinguished the torches in silence, as if in shame that light had shone on a deed of such ghastliness; and from the crescent of the moon alone fell silvery though not very bright rays on the body of Azya. His head fell entirely on his breast; but his hands, bound to the oak staff, and enveloped in straw steeped in tar, were pointing toward the sky, as if that son of the Orient were calling the vengeance of the Turkish crescent on his executioners. "To horse!" was heard from Pan Adam. Before mounting the sergeant ignited, with the last torch, those uplifted hands of the Tartar; and the detachment moved toward Yampol. Amid the ruins of Rashkoff, in the night and the desert, Azya, the son of Tugai Bey, remained on the lofty stake, and he gleamed there a long time. CHAPTER LI. Three weeks later, at midday, Pan Adam was in Hreptyoff. He had made the journey from Rashkoff so slowly because he had crossed to the other side of the Dnieper many times, while attacking chambuls and the perkulab's people along the river, at various stanitsas. These informed the Sultan's troops afterward that they had seen Polish detachments everywhere, and had heard of great armies, which surely would not wait for the coming of the Turks at Kamenyets, but would intercept their march, and meet them in a general battle. The Sultan, who had been assured of the helplessness of the Commonwealth, was greatly astonished; and sending Tartars, Wallachians, and the hordes of the Danube in advance, he pushed forward slowly, for in spite of his measureless strength, he had great fear of a battle with the armies of the Commonwealth. Pan Adam did not find Volodyovski in Hreptyoff, for the little knight had followed Motovidlo to assist the starosta of Podlyasye against the Crimean horde and Doroshenko. There he gained great victories, adding new glory to his former renown. He defeated the stern Korpan, and left his body as food to beasts on the open plain; he crushed the terrible Drozd, and the manful Malyshka, and the two brothers Siny, celebrated Cossack raiders, also a number of inferior bands and chambuls. But when Pan Adam arrived, Pani Volodyovski was just preparing to go with the rest of the people and the tabor to Kamenyets, for it was necessary to leave Hreptyoff, in view of the invasion. Basia was grieved to leave that wooden fortalice, in which she had experienced many evils, it is true, but in which the happiest part of her life had been passed, with her husband, among loving hearts, famous soldiers. She was going now, at her own request, to Kamenyets, to unknown fortunes and dangers involved in the siege. But since she had a brave heart, she did not yield to sorrow, but watched the preparations carefully, guarding the soldiers and the tabor. In this she was aided by Zagloba, who in every necessity surpassed all in understanding, together with Pan Mushalski, the incomparable bowman, who was besides a soldier of valiant hand and uncommon experience. All were delighted at the arrival of Pan Adam, though they knew at once, from the face of the knight, that he had not freed Eva or the sweet Zosia from Pagan captivity. Basia bewailed the fate of the two ladies with bitter tears, for they were to be looked on as lost. Sold, it was unknown to whom, they might be taken from the markets of Stambul to Asia Minor, to islands under Turkish rule, or to Egypt, and be confined there in harems; hence it was not only impossible to ransom them, but even to learn where they were. Basia wept; the wise Pan Zagloba wept; so did Pan Mushalski, the incomparable bowman. Pan Adam alone had dry eyes, for tears had failed him already. But when he told how he had gone down to Tykich near the Danube, had cut to pieces the Lithuanian Tartars almost at the side of the horde and the Sultan, and had seized Azya, the evil enemy, the two old men rattled their sabres, and said,-- "Give him hither! Here, in Hreptyoff, should he die." "Not in Hreptyoff," said Pan Adam. "Rashkoff is the place of his punishment, that is the place where he should die; and the sergeant here found a torment for him which was not easy." He described then the death which Azya had died, and they listened with terror, but without pity. "That the Lord God pursues crime is known," said Zagloba at last; "but it is a wonder that the Devil protects his servants so poorly." Basia sighed piously, raised her eyes, and after a short meditation answered,-- "He does, for he lacks strength to stand against the might of God." "Oh, you have said it," remarked Pan Mushalski, "for if, which God forfend, the Devil were mightier than the Lord, all justice, and with it the Commonwealth, would vanish." "I am not afraid of the Turks,--first, because they are such sons, and secondly, they are children of Belial," answered Zagloba. All were silent for a while. Pan Adam sat on the bench with his palms on his knees, looking at the floor with glassy eyes. "It must have been some consolation," said Pan Mushalski, turning to him; "it is a great solace to accomplish a proper vengeance." "Tell us, has it consoled you really? Do you feel better now?" asked Basia, with a voice full of pity. The giant was silent for a time, as if struggling with his own thoughts; at last he said, as if in great wonderment, and so quietly that he was almost whispering,-- "Imagine to yourself, as God is dear to me, I thought that I should feel better if I were to destroy him. I saw him on the stake, I saw him when his eye was bored out, I said to myself that I felt better; but it is not true, not true." Here Pan Adam embraced his hapless head with his hands, and said through his set teeth,-- "It was better for him on the stake, better with the auger in his eye, better with fire on his hands, than for me with that which is sitting within me, which is thinking and remembering within me. Death is my one consolation; death, death, that is the truth." Hearing this, Basia's valiant and soldier heart rose quickly, and putting her hands on the head of the unfortunate man, she said,-- "God grant it to you at Kamenyets; for you say truly, it is the one consolation." He closed his eyes then, and began to repeat,-- "Oh, that is true, that is true; God repay you!" That same afternoon they all started for Kamenyets. Basia, after she had passed the gate, looked around long and long at that fortalice, gleaming in the light of the evening; at last, signing herself with the holy cross, she said,-- "God grant that it come to us to return to thee, dear Hreptyoff, with Michael! God grant that nothing worse be waiting for us!" And two tears rolled down her rosy face. A peculiar strange grief pressed all hearts; and they moved forward in silence. Meanwhile darkness came. They went slowly toward Kamenyets, for the tabor advanced slowly. In it went wagons, herds of horses, bullocks, buffaloes, camels; army servants watched over the herds. Some of the servants and soldiers had married in Hreptyoff, hence there was not a lack of women in the tabor. There were as many troops as under Pan Adam, and besides, two hundred Hungarian infantry, which body the little knight had equipped at his own cost, and had trained. Basia was their patron; and Kalushevski, a good officer, led them. There were no real Hungarians in that infantry, which was called Hungarian only because it had a Hungarian uniform. The non-commissioned officers were "veterans," soldiers of the dragoons; but the ranks were composed of robber bands which had been sentenced to the rope. Life was granted the men on condition that they would serve in the infantry, and with loyalty and bravery efface their past sins. There were not wanting among them also volunteers who had left their ravines, meadows, and similar robber haunts, preferring to join the service of the "Little Falcon" of Hreptyoff rather than feel his sword hanging over their heads. These men were not over-tractable, and not sufficiently trained yet; but they were brave, accustomed to hardships, dangers, and bloodshed. Basia had an uncommon love for this infantry, as for Michael's child; and in the wild hearts of those warriors was soon born an attachment for the wonderful and kind lady. Now they marched around, her carriage with muskets on their shoulders and sabres at their sides, proud to guard the lady, ready to defend her madly in case any chambul should bar their way. But the road was still free, for Pan Michael had more foresight than others, and, besides, he had too much love for his wife to expose her to danger through delay. The journey was made, therefore, quietly. Leaving Hreptyoff in the afternoon, they journeyed till evening, then all night; the next day in the afternoon they saw the high cliffs of Kamenyets. At sight of them, and at sight of the bastions of the fort adorning the summits of the cliffs, great consolation entered their hearts at once; for it seemed to them impossible that any hand but God's own could break that eagle's nest on the summit of projecting cliffs surrounded by the loop of the river. It was a summer day and wonderful. The towers of the churches looking out from behind the cliffs were gleaming like gigantic lights; peace, calm, and gladness were on that serene region. "Basia," said Zagloba, "more than once the Pagans have gnawed those walls, and they have always broken their teeth on them. Ha! how many times have I myself seen how they fled, holding themselves by the snout, for they were in pain. God grant it to be the same this time!" "Surely it will," said the radiant Basia. "One of their sultans, Osman, was here. It was--I remember the case as if to-day--in the year 1621. He came, the pig's blood, just over there from that side of the Smotrych, from Hotin, stared, opened his mouth, looked and looked; at last he asked, 'But who fortified that place so?' 'The Lord God,' answered the vizir. 'Then let the Lord God take it, for I am not a fool!' And he turned back on the spot." "Indeed, they turned back quickly!" put in Pan Mushalski. "They turned back quickly," said Zagloba; "for we touched them up in the flanks with spears, and afterward the knighthood bore me on their hands to Pan Lubomirski." "Then were you at Hotin?" asked the incomparable bowman. "Belief fails me, when I think where have you not been, and what have you not done." Zagloba was offended somewhat and said: "Not only was I there, but I received a wound, which I can show to your eyes, if you are so curious; I can show it directly, but at one side, for it does not become me to boast of it in the presence of Pani Volodyovski." The famous bowman knew at once that Zagloba was making sport of him; and as he did not feel himself competent to overcome the old noble by wit, he inquired no further, and turned the conversation. "What you say is true," said he: "when a man is far away, and hears people saying, 'Kamenyets is not supplied, Kamenyets will fall,' terror seizes him; but when he sees Kamenyets, consolation comes to him." "And besides, Michael will be in Kamenyets," cried Basia. "And maybe Pan Sobieski will send succor." "Praise be to God! it is not so ill with us, not so ill. It has been worse, and we did not yield." "Though it were worse, the point is in this, not to lose courage. They have not devoured us, and they will not while our courage holds out," said Zagloba. Under the influence of these cheering thoughts they grew silent. But Pan Adam rode up suddenly to Basia; his countenance, usually threatening and gloomy, was now smiling and calm. He had fixed his gazing eyes with devotion on Kamenyets bathed in sunbeams, and smiled without ceasing. The two knights and Basia looked at him with wonder, for they could not understand how the sight of that fortress had taken every weight from his soul with such suddenness; but he said,-- "Praise be to the name of the Lord! there was a world of suffering, but now gladness is near me!" Here he turned to Basia. "They are both with the mayor, Tomashevich; and it is well that they have hidden there, for in such a fortress that robber can do nothing to them." "Of whom are you speaking?" asked Basia, in terror. "Of Zosia and Eva." "God give you aid!" cried Zagloba; "do not give way to the Devil." But Pan Adam continued, "And what they say of my father, that Azya killed him, is not true either." "His mind is disturbed," whispered Pan Mushalski. "Permit me," said Pan Adam again; "I will hurry on in advance. I am so long without seeing them that I yearn for them." When he had said this he began to nod his gigantic head toward both sides; then he pressed his horse with his heels, and moved on. Pan Mushalski, beckoning to a number of dragoons, followed him, so as to keep an eye on the madman. Basia hid her rosy face in her hands, and soon hot tears began to flow through her fingers. "He was as good as gold, but such misfortunes surpass human power. Besides, the soul is not revived by mere vengeance." Kamenyets was seething with preparations for defence. On the walls, in the old castle and at the gates, especially at the Roman gates, "nations" inhabiting the town were laboring under their mayors, among whom the Pole Tomashevich took the first place, and that because of his great daring and his rare skill in handling cannon. At the same time Poles, Russians, Armenians, Jews, and Gypsies, working with spades and pickaxes, vied with one another. Officers of various regiments were overseers of the work; sergeants and soldiers assisted the citizens; even nobles went to work, forgetting that God had created their hands for the sabre alone, giving all other work to people of insignificant estate. Pan Humyetski, the banneret of Podolia, gave an example himself which roused tears, for he brought stones with his own hands in a wheelbarrow. The work was seething in the town and in the castle. Among the crowds the Dominicans, the Jesuits, the brethren of Saint Francis, and the Carmelites circled about among the crowds, blessing the efforts of people. Women brought food and drink to those laboring; beautiful Armenian women, the wives and daughters of rich merchants, and Jewesses from Karvaseri, Jvanyets, Zinkovtsi, Dunaigrod, attracted the eyes of the soldiers. But the entrance of Basia arrested the attention of the throngs more than all. There were surely many women of more distinction in Kamenyets, but none whose husband was covered with more military glory. They had heard also in Kamenyets of Pani Volodyovski herself, as of a valiant lady who feared not to dwell on a watch-tower in the Wilderness among wild people, who went on expeditions with her husband, and who, when carried away by a Tartar, had been able to overcome him and escape safely from his robber hands. Her fame, therefore, was immense. But those who did not know her, and had not seen her hitherto, imagined that she must be some giantess, breaking horseshoes and crushing armor. What was their astonishment when they saw a small, rosy, half childlike face! "Is that Pani Volodyovski herself, or only her little daughter?" asked people in the crowds. "Herself," answered those who knew her. Then admiration seized citizens, women, priests, the army. They looked with no less wonder on the invincible garrison of Hreptyoff, on the dragoons, among whom Pan Adam rode calmly, smiling with wandering eyes, and on the terrible faces of the bandits turned into Hungarian infantry. But there marched with Basia a few hundred men who were worthy of praise, soldiers by trade; courage came therefore to the townspeople. "That is no common power; they will look boldly into the eyes of the Turks," cried the people in the crowd. Some of the citizens, and even of the soldiers, especially in the regiment of Bishop Trebitski, which regiment had come recently to Kamenyets, thought that Pan Michael himself was in the retinue, therefore they raised cries,-- "Long live Pan Volodyovski!" "Long live our defender! The most famous cavalier!" "Vivat Volodyovski! vivat!" Basia listened, and her heart rose; for nothing can be dearer to a woman than the fame of her husband, especially when it is sounding in the mouths of people in a great city. "There are so many knights here," thought Basia, "and still they do not shout to any but my Michael." And she wanted to shout herself in the chorus, "Vivat Volodyovski!" but Zagloba told her that she should bear herself like a person of distinction, and bow on both sides, as queens do when they are entering a capital. And he, too, saluted, now with his cap, now with his hand; and when acquaintances began to cry "vivat" in his honor, he answered to the crowds,-- "Gracious gentlemen, he who endured Zbaraj will hold out in Kamenyets!" According to Pan Michael's instructions, the retinue went to the newly built cloister of the Dominican nuns. The little knight had his own house in Kamenyets; but since the cloister was in a retired place which cannon-balls could hardly reach, he preferred to place his dear Basia there, all the more since he expected a good reception as a benefactor of the cloister. In fact, the abbess, Mother Victoria, the daughter of Stefan Pototski, voevoda of Bratslav, received Basia with open arms. From the embraces of the abbess she went at once to others, and greatly beloved ones,--to those of her aunt, Pani Makovetski, whom she had not seen for some years. Both women wept; and Pan Makovetski, whose favorite Basia had always been, wept too. Barely had they dried these tears of tenderness when in rushed Krysia Ketling, and new greetings began; then Basia was surrounded by the nuns and noble women, known and unknown,--Pani Bogush, Pani Stanislavski, Pani Kalinovski, Pani Hotsimirski, Pani Humyetski, the wife of the banneret of Podolia, a great cavalier. Some, like Pani Bogush, inquired about their husbands; others asked what Basia thought of the Turkish invasion, and whether, in her opinion, Kamenyets would hold out. Basia saw with great delight that they looked on her as having some military authority, and expected consolation from her lips. Therefore she was not niggardly in giving. "No one says," replied she, "that we cannot hold out against the Turks. Michael will be here to-day or tomorrow, at furthest in a couple of days; and when he occupies himself with the defences, you ladies may sleep quietly. Besides, the fortress is tremendously strong; in this matter, thank God, I have some knowledge." The confidence of Basia poured consolation into the hearts of the women; they were reassured specially by the promise of Pan Michael's arrival. Indeed, his name was so respected that, though it was evening, officers of the place began to come at once with greetings to Basia. After the first salutations, each inquired when the little knight would come, and if really he intended to shut himself up in Kamenyets. Basia received only Major Kvasibrotski, who led the infantry of the Bishop of Cracow; the secretary, Revuski, who succeeded Pan Lanchynski, or rather, occupied his place, was at the head of the regiment, and Ketling. The doors were not open to others that day, for the lady was road-weary, and, besides, she had to occupy herself with Pan Adam. That unfortunate young man had fallen from his horse before the very cloister, and was carried to a cell in unconsciousness. They sent at once for the doctor, the same who had cured Basia at Hreptyoff. The doctor declared that there was a serious disease of the brain, and gave little hope of Pan Adam's recovery. Basia, Pan Mushalski, and Zagloba talked till late in the evening about that event, and pondered over the unhappy lot of the knight. "The doctor told me," said Zagloba, "that if he recovers and is bled copiously, his mind will not be disturbed, and he will bear misfortune with a lighter heart." "There is no consolation for him now," said Basia. "Often it would be better for a man not to have memory," remarked Pan Mushalski; "but even animals are not free from it." Here the old man called the famous bowman to account for that remark. "If you had no memory you couldn't go to confession," said he; "and you would be the same as a Lutheran, deserving hell-fire. Father Kaminski has warned you already against blasphemy; but say the Lord's prayer to a wolf, and the wolf would rather be eating a sheep." "What sort of wolf am I?" asked the famous bowman, "There was Azya; he was a wolf." "Didn't I say that?" asked Zagloba. "Who was the first to say, that's a wolf?" "Pan Adam told me," said Basia, "that day and night he hears Eva and Zosia calling to him 'save;' and how can he save? It had to end in sickness, for no man can endure such pain. He could survive their death; he cannot survive their shame." "He is lying now like a block of wood; he knows nothing of God's world," said Pan Mushalski; "and it is a pity, for in battle he was splendid." Further conversation was interrupted by a servant, who announced that there was a great noise in the town, for the people were assembling to look at the starosta of Podolia, who was just making his entrance with a considerable escort and some tens of infantry. "The command belongs to him," said Zagloba. "It is valiant on the part of Pan Pototski to prefer this to another place, but as of old I would that he were not here. He is opposed to the hetman; he did not believe in the war; and now who knows whether it will not come to him to lay down his head." "Perhaps other Pototskis will march in after him," said Pan Mushalski. "It is evident that the Turks are not distant," answered Zagloba. "In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, God grant the starosta of Podolia to be a second Yeremi, and Kamenyets a second Zbaraj!" "It must be; if not, we shall die first," said a voice at the threshold. Basia sprang up at the sound of that voice, and crying "Michael!" threw herself into the little knight's arms. Pan Michael brought from the field much important news, which he related to his wife in the quiet cell before he communicated it to the military council. He had destroyed utterly a number of smaller chambuls, and had whirled around the Crimean camp and that of Doroshenko with great glory to himself. He had brought also some tens of prisoners, from whom they might select informants as to the power of the Khan and Doroshenko. But other men had less success. The starosta of Podlyasye, at the head of considerable forces, was destroyed in a murderous battle; Motovidlo was beaten by Krychinski, who pursued him to the Wallachian trail, with the aid of the Belgrod horde and those Tartars who survived Pan Adam's victory at Tykich. Before coming to Kamenyets, Pan Michael turned aside to Hreptyoff, wishing, as he said, to look again on that scene of his happiness. "I was there," said he, "right after your departure; the place had not grown cold yet, and I might have come up with you easily, but I crossed over to the Moldavian bank at Ushytsa, to put my ear toward the steppe. Some chambuls have crossed already, but are afraid that if they come out at Pokuta, they will strike on people unexpectedly. Others are moving in front of the Turkish army, and will be here soon. There will be a siege, my dove,--there is no help for it; but we will not surrender, for here every one is defending not only the country, but his own private property." When he had said this, he took his wife by the shoulders, and kissed her on the cheeks; that day they talked no more with each other. Next morning Pan Michael repeated his news at Bishop Lantskoronski's before the council of war, which, besides the bishop, was formed of Pan Mikolai Pototski, starosta of Podolia, Pan Lantskoronski, chamberlain of Podolia, Pan Revuski, secretary of Podolia, Pan Humyetski, Ketling, Makovetski, Major Kvasibrotski, and a number of other officers. To begin with, Volodyovski was not pleased with the declaration of Pan Pototski, that he would not take the command on himself, but confide it to a council. "In sudden emergencies, there must be one head and one will," said the little knight. "At Zbaraj there were three men to whom command belonged by office, still they gave it to Prince Yeremi, judging rightly that in danger it is better to obey one." These words were without effect. In vain did the learned Ketling cite, as an example, the Romans, who, being the greatest warriors in the world, invented dictatorship. Bishop Lantskoronski, who did not like Ketling,--for he had fixed in his mind, it is unknown why, that, being a Scot by origin, Ketling must be a heretic at the bottom of his soul,--retorted that the Poles did not need to learn history from immigrants; they had their own mind too, and did not need to imitate the Romans, to whom they were not inferior in bravery and eloquence, or if they were, it was very little. "As there is more blaze," said the bishop, "from an armful of wood than from one stick, so there is more watchfulness in many heads than in one." Herewith he praised the "modesty" of Pan Pototski, though others understood it to be rather fear of responsibility, and from himself he advised negotiations. When this word was uttered, the soldiers sprang from their seats as if scalded. Pan Michael, Ketling, Makovetski, Kvasibrotski, set their teeth and touched their sabres. "But I believe," said voices, "that we did not come here for negotiations!" "His robe protects the negotiator!" cried Kvasibrotski; "the church is your place, not this council!" and there was an uproar. Thereupon the bishop rose and said in a loud voice: "I should be the first to give my life for the church and my flock; but if I have mentioned negotiations and wish to temporize, God be my judge, it is not because I wish to surrender the fortress, but to win time for the hetman to collect reinforcements. The name of Pan Sobieski is terrible to the Pagans; and though he has not forces sufficient, still let the report go abroad that he is advancing, and the Mussulman will leave Kamenyets soon enough." And since he spoke so powerfully, all were silent; some were even rejoiced, seeing that the bishop had not surrender in his mind. Pan Michael spoke next: "The enemy, before he besieges Kamenyets, must crush Jvanyets, for he cannot leave a defensive castle behind his shoulders. Therefore, with permission of the starosta, I will undertake to enclose myself in Jvanyets, and hold it during the time which the bishop wishes to gain through negotiations. I will take trusty men with me; and Jvanyets will last while my life lasts." Whereupon all cried out: "Impossible! You are needed here! Without you the citizens will lose courage, and the soldiers will not fight with such willingness. In no way is it possible! Who has more experience? Who passed through Zbaraj? And when it comes to sorties, who will lead the men? You would be destroyed in Jvanyets, and we should be destroyed here without you." "The command has disposal of me," answered Pan Michael. "Send to Jvanyets some daring young man, who would be my assistant," said the chamberlain of Podolia. "Let Novoveski go!" said a number of voices. "Novoveski cannot go, for his head is burning," answered Pan Michael; "he is lying on his bed, and knows nothing of God's world." "Meanwhile, let us decide," said the bishop, "where each is to have his place, and what gate he is to defend." All eyes were turned to the starosta, who said: "Before I issue the commands, I am glad to hear the opinions of experienced soldiers; since Pan Volodyovski here is superior in military experience, I call on him first." Pan Michael advised, first of all, to put good garrisons in the castles before the town, for he thought that the main force of the enemy would be turned specially on them. Others followed his opinion. There were sixteen hundred men of infantry, and these were disposed in such manner that Pan Myslishevski occupied the right side of the castle; the left, Pan Humyetski, famous for his exploits at Hotin. Pan Michael took the most dangerous position on the side toward Hotin; lower down was placed Serdyuk's division. Major Kvasibrotski covered the side toward Zinkovtsi; the south was held by Pan Vansovich; and the side next the court by Captain Bukar, with Pan Krasinski's men. These were not volunteers indifferent in quality, but soldiers by profession, excellent, and in battle so firm that artillery fire was no more to them than the sun's heat to other men. Serving in the armies of the Commonwealth, which were always small in number, they were accustomed from youthful years to resist an enemy of ten times their force, and considered this as something natural. The general management of the artillery of the castle was under Ketling, who surpassed all in the art of aiming cannon. Chief command in the castle was to be with the little knight, with whom the starosta left the freedom of making sorties as often as there should be need and possibility. These men, knowing now where each would stand, were rejoiced heartily, and raised a considerable shout, shaking their sabres at the same time. Thus they showed their willingness. Hearing this, the starosta said to his own soul,-- "I did not believe that we could defend ourselves, and I came here without faith, listening only to my conscience; who knows, however, but we may repulse the enemy with such soldiers? The glory will fall on me, and they will herald me as a second Yeremi; in such an event it may be that a fortunate star has brought me to this place." And as before he had doubted of the defence, so now he doubted of the capture of Kamenyets; hence his courage increased, and he began to advise more readily the strengthening of the town. It was decided to station Pan Makovetski at the Russian gate, in the town itself, with a handful of nobles, Polish towns-people, more enduring in battle than others, and with them a few tens of Armenians and Jews. The Lutsk gate was confided to Pan Grodetski, with whom Pan Juk and Pan Matchynski took command of artillery. The guard of the square before the town-house was commanded by Lukash Dzevanovski; Pan Hotsimirski had command of the noisy Gypsies at the Russian gate. From the bridge to the house of Pan Sinitski, the guards were commanded by Pan Kazimir Humyetski. And farther on were to have their quarters Pan Stanishevski, and at the Polish gate Pan Martsin Bogush, and at the Spij bastion Pan Skarzinski, and Pan Yatskovski there at the side of the Byaloblotski embrasures; Pan Dubravski and Pan Pyetrashevski occupied the butcher's bastion. The grand intrenchment of the town was given to Tomashevich, the Polish mayor, the smaller to Pan Yatskovski; there was an order to dig a third one, from which later a certain Jew, a skilful gunner, annoyed the Turks greatly. These arrangements made, all the council went to sup with the starosta, who at that entertainment honored Pan Michael particularly with place, wine, food, and conversation, foreseeing that for his action in the siege posterity would add to the title of "Little Knight" that of "Hector of Kamenyets." Volodyovski declared that he wished to serve earnestly, and in view of that intended to make a certain vow in the cathedral; hence he prayed the bishop to let him make it on the morrow. The bishop, seeing that public profit might come from the vow, promised willingly. Next morning there was a solemn service in the cathedral. Knights, nobles, soldiers, and common people heard it with devotion and elevation of spirit. Pan Michael and Ketling lay each in the form of a cross before the altar; Krysia and Basia were kneeling near by beyond the railing, weeping, for they knew that that vow might bring danger to the lives of their husbands. At the end of Mass, the bishop turned to the people with the monstrance; then the little knight rose, and kneeling on the steps of the altar, said with a moved but calm voice,-- "Feeling deep gratitude for the special benefactions and particular protection which I have received from the Lord God the Most High, and from His only Son, I vow and take oath that as He and His Son have aided me, so will I to my last breath defend the Holy Cross. And since command of the old castle is confided to me, while I am alive and can move hands and feet, I will not admit to the castle the Pagan enemy, who live in vileness, nor will I leave the wall, nor will I raise a white rag, even should it come to me to be buried there under ruins. So help me God and the Holy Cross! Amen!" A solemn silence reigned in the church; then the voice of Ketling was heard. "I promise," said he, "for the particular benefactions which I have experienced in this fatherland, to defend the castle to the last drop of my blood, and to bury myself under its ruins, rather than let a foot of the enemy enter its walls. And as I take this oath with a clean heart and out of pure gratitude, so help me God and the Holy Cross! Amen!" Here the bishop held down the monstrance, and gave it to Volodyovski to kiss, then to Ketling. At sight of this the numerous knights in the church raised a buzz. Voices were heard: "We will all swear!" "We will lie one upon another!" "This fortress will not fall!" "We will swear!" "Amen, amen, amen!" Sabres and rapiers came out with a gritting from the scabbard, and the church became bright from the steel. That gleam shone on threatening faces and glittering eyes; a great, indescribable enthusiasm seized the nobles, soldiers, and people. Then all the bells were sounded; the organ roared; the bishop intoned, "Sub Tuum præsidium;" a hundred voices thundered in answer; and thus they prayed for that fortress which was the watchtower of Christendom and the key of the Commonwealth. At the conclusion of the service Ketling and Pan Michael went out of the church hand in hand. Blessings and praise were given them on the way, for no one doubted that they would die rather than surrender the castle. Not death, however, but victory and glory seemed to float over them; and it is likely that among all those people they alone knew how terrible the oath was with which they had bound themselves. Perhaps also two loving hearts had a presentiment of the destruction which was hanging over their heads, for neither Basia nor Krysia could gain self-composure; and when at last Pan Michael found himself in the cloister with his wife, she, choking from tears, and sobbing like a little child, nestled up to his breast, and said in a broken voice,-- "Remember--Michael--God keep misfortune from you--I--I--know not what--will become of me!" And she began to tremble from emotion; the little knight was moved greatly too. After a time he said,-- "But, Basia, it was necessary." "I would rather die!" said Basia. Hearing this, the little knight's mustaches quivered more and more quickly, and he repeated a number of times,-- "Quiet, Basia, quiet." Then at last he said, to calm the woman loved above all,-- "And do you remember that when the Lord God brought you back to me, I said thus, 'Whatever return is proper, O Lord God, I promise Thee. After the war, if I am alive, I will build a chapel; but during the war I must do something noteworthy, so as not to feed Thee with ingratitude'? What is a castle? It is little for such a benefaction. The time has come. Is it proper that the Saviour should say to Himself, 'His promise is a plaything'? May the stones of the castle crush me before I break my word of a cavalier, given to God. It is necessary, Basia; and that is the whole thing. Let us trust in God, Basia." CHAPTER LII. That day Pan Michael went out with squadrons to assist Pan Vasilkovski, who had hastened on toward Hrynchuk, for news came that the Tartars had made an attack there, binding people, taking cattle, but not burning villages, so as not to rouse attention. Pan Vasilkovski soon scattered them, rescued the captives, and took prisoners. Pan Michael led these prisoners to Jvanyets, commissioning Pan Makovetski to torture them, and write down in order their confessions, so as to forward them to the hetman and the king. The Tartars confessed that, at command of the perkulab, they had crossed the boundary with Captain Styngan and Wallachians; but though burnt, they could not tell how far away the Sultan was at that time with all his forces, for, advancing in irregular bands, they did not maintain connection with the main army. All, however, were at one in the statement that the Sultan had moved in force, that he was marching to the Commonwealth, and would be at Kamenyets soon. For the future defenders of Kamenyets there was nothing new in these confessions; but since in the king's palace they did not believe that there would be war, the chamberlain determined to send these prisoners, together with their statements, to Warsaw. The scouting parties returned in good spirits from their first expedition. In the evening came the secretary of Habareskul, Pan Michael's Tartar brother, and the senior perkulab of Hotin. He brought no letters, for the perkulab was afraid to write; but he gave command to tell his brother Volodyovski, "the sight of his eye and the love of his heart," to be on his guard, and if Kamenyets had not troops enough for defence, to leave the town under some pretext, for the Sultan had been expected for two days with his whole force in Hotin. Pan Michael sent his thanks to the perkulab, and rewarding the secretary, sent him home; he informed the commandants immediately of the approaching danger. Activity on works in the town was redoubled; Pan Hieronim Lantskoronski moved without a moment's delay to his Jvanyets, to have an eye on Hotin. Some time passed in waiting; at last, on the second day of August, the Sultan halted at Hotin. His regiments spread out like a sea without shores; and at sight of the last town lying within the Padishah's dominions, Allah! Allah! was wrested from hundreds of thousands of throats. On the other side of the Dniester lay the defenceless Commonwealth, which those countless armies were to cover like a deluge, or devour like a flame. Throngs of warriors, unable to find places in the town, disposed themselves on the fields,--on those same fields, where some tens of years earlier, Polish sabres had scattered an equally numerous army of the Prophet. It seemed now that the hour of revenge had come; and no one in those wild legions, from the Sultan to the camp servant, had a feeling that for the Crescent those fields would be ill-omened a second time. Hope, nay, even certainty of victory rejoiced every heart. Janissaries and spahis, crowds of general militia from the Balkans, from the mountains of Rhodope, from Rumelia, from Pelion and Ossa, from Carmel and Lebanon, from the deserts of Arabia, from the banks of the Tigris, from the plains of the Nile, and the burning sands of Africa, giving out wild shouts, prayed to be led at once to the "infidel bank." But muezzins began to call from the minarets of Hotin to prayer; therefore all were silent. A sea of heads in turbans, caps, fezes, burnooses, kefis, and steel helmets inclined toward the earth; and through the fields went the deep murmur of prayer, like the sound of countless swarms of bees, and borne by the wind, it flew forward over the Dniester toward the Commonwealth. Then drums, trumpets, and pipes were heard, giving notice of rest. Though the armies had marched slowly and comfortably, the Padishah wished to give them, after the long journey from Adrianople, a rest at the river. He performed ablutions himself in a clear spring flowing not far from the town, and rode thence to the konak of Hotin; but on the fields they began to pitch tents which soon covered, as with snow, the immeasurable extent of the country about. The day was beautiful, and ended serenely. After the last evening prayers, the camp went to rest. Thousands and hundreds of thousands of fires were gleaming. From the small castle opposite, in Jvanyets, men looked on the light of these fires with alarm, for they were so wide-spread that the soldiers who went to reconnoitre said in their account, "It seemed to us that all Moldavia was under the fires." But as the bright moon rose higher in the starry sky, all died out save the watch-fires, the camp became quiet, and amid the silence of the night were heard only the neighing of horses and the bellowing of buffaloes, feeding on the meadows of Taraban. But next morning, at daybreak, the Sultan commanded the janissaries and Tartars to cross the Dniester, and occupy Jvanyets, the town as well as the castle. The manful Pan Hieronim Lantskoronski did not wait behind the walls for them, but having at his side forty Tartars, eighty men of Kieff, and one squadron of his own, struck on the janissaries at the crossing; and in spite of a rattling fire from their muskets, he broke that splendid infantry, and they began to withdraw toward the river in disorder. But meanwhile, the chambul, reinforced by Lithuanian Tartars, who had crossed at the flank, broke into the town. Smoke and cries warned the brave chamberlain that the place was in the hands of the enemy. He gave command, therefore, to withdraw from the crossing, and succor the hapless inhabitants. The janissaries, being infantry, could not pursue, and he went at full speed to the rescue. He was just coming up, when, on a sudden, his own Tartars threw down their flag, and went over to the enemy. A moment of great peril followed. The chambul, aided by the traitors, and thinking that treason would bring confusion, struck hand to hand, with great force, on the chamberlain. Fortunately, the men of Kieff, roused by the example of their leader, gave violent resistance. The squadron broke the enemy, who were not in condition to meet regular Polish cavalry. The ground before the bridge was soon covered with corpses, especially of Lithuanian Tartars, who, more enduring than ordinary men of the horde, kept the field. Many of them were cut down in the streets later on. Lantskoronski, seeing that the janissaries were approaching from the water, sent to Kamenyets for succor, and withdrew behind the walls. The Sultan had not thought of taking the castle of Jvanyets that day, thinking justly that he could crush it in the twinkle of an eye, at the general crossing of the armies. He wished only to occupy that point; and supposing the detachments which he sent to be amply sufficient, he sent no more, either of the janissaries or the horde. Those who were on the other bank of the river occupied the place a second time after the squadron had withdrawn behind the walls. They did not burn the town, so that it might serve in future as a refuge for their own, or for other detachments, and began to work in it with sabres and daggers. The janissaries seized young women in soldier fashion; the husbands and children they cut down with axes; the Tartars were occupied in taking plunder. At that time the Poles saw from the bastion of the castle that cavalry was approaching from the direction of Kamenyets. Hearing this, Lantskoronski went out on the bastion himself, with a field-glass, and looked long and carefully. At last he said,-- "That is light cavalry from the Hreptyoff garrison; the same cavalry with which Vasilkovski went to Hrynchuk. Clearly they have sent him out this time. I see volunteers. It must be Humyetski! "Praise be to God!" cried he, after a while. "Volodyovski himself is there, for I see dragoons. Gracious gentlemen, let us rush out again from behind the walls, and with God's help, we will drive the enemy, not only from the town, but from this side of the river." Then he ran down with what breath he had, to draw up his men of Kieff and the squadron. Meanwhile the Tartars first in the town saw the approaching squadron, and shouting shrilly, "Allah!" began to gather in a chambul. Drums and whistles were heard in all the streets. The janissaries stood in order with that quickness in which few infantry on earth could compare with them. The chambul flew out of the place as if blown by a whirlwind, and struck the light squadron. The chambul itself, not counting the Lithuanian Tartars, whom Lantskoronski had injured considerably, was three times more numerous than the garrison of Jvanyets and the approaching squadrons of reinforcement, hence it did not hesitate to spring on Pan Vasilkovski; but Pan Vasilkovski, a young, irrepressible man, who hurled himself against every danger with as much eagerness as blindness, commanded his soldiers to go at the highest speed, and flew on like a column of wind, not even observing the number of the enemy. Such daring troubled the Tartars, who had no liking whatever for hand-to-hand combat. Notwithstanding the shouting of murzas riding in the rear, the shrill whistle of pipes, and the roaring sound of drums calling to "kesim,"--that is, to hewing heads from unbelievers,--they began to rein in, and hold back their horses. Evidently the hearts grew faint in them every moment, as did also their eagerness. Finally, at the distance of a bow-shot from the squadron, they opened on two sides, and sent a shower of arrows at the on-rushing cavalry. Pan Vasilkovski, knowing nothing of the janissaries, who had formed beyond the houses toward the river, rushed with undiminished speed behind the Tartars, or rather behind one half the chambul. He came up, closed, and fell to slashing down those who, having inferior horses, could not flee quickly. The second half of the chambul turned then, wishing to surround him; but at that moment the volunteers rushed up, and the chamberlain came with his men of Kieff. The Tartars, pressed on so many sides, scattered like sand, and then began a rushing about,--that is, the pursuit of a group by a group, of a man by a man,--in which many of the horde fell, especially by the hand of Pan Vasilkovski, who struck blindly at whole crowds, just as a lark-falcon strikes sparrows or bunting. But Pan Michael, a cool and keen soldier, did not let the dragoons out of his hand. Like a hunter who holds trained, eager dogs in strong leashes, not letting them go at a common beast, but only when he sees the flashing eyes and white teeth of a savage old boar, so the little knight, despising the fickle horde, was watching to see if spahis, janissaries, or some other chosen cavalry were not behind them. Pan Lantskoronski rushed to him with his men of Kieff. "My benefactor," cried he, "the janissaries are moving toward the river; let us press them!" Pan Michael drew his rapier and commanded, "Forward!" Each dragoon drew in his reins, so as to have his horse in hand; then the rank bent a little, and moved forward as regularly as if on parade. They went first at a trot, then at a gallop, but did not let their horses go yet at highest speed. Only when they had passed the houses built toward the water, east of the castle, did they see the white felt caps of the janissaries, and know that they had to do not with volunteer, but with regular janissaries. "Strike!" cried Volodyovski. The horses stretched themselves, almost rubbing the ground with their bellies, and hurled back lumps of hard earth with their hoofs. The janissaries, not knowing what power was approaching to the succor of Jvanyets, were really withdrawing toward the river. One detachment, numbering two hundred and some tens of men, was already at the bank, and its first ranks were stepping onto scows; another detachment of equal force was going quickly, but in perfect order. When they saw the approaching cavalry they halted, and in one instant turned their faces to the enemy. Their muskets were lowered in a line, and a salvo thundered as at a review. What is more, these hardened warriors, considering that their comrades at the shore would support them with musketry, not only did not retreat after the volley, but shouted, and following their own smoke, struck in fury with their sabres on the cavalry. That was daring of which the janissaries alone were capable, but for which they paid dearly, because the riders, unable to restrain the horses, even had they the wish, struck them as a hammer strikes, and breaking them in a moment, scattered destruction and terror. The first rank fell under the force of the blow, as grain under a whirlwind. It is true that many fell only from the impetus, and these, springing up, ran in disorder to the river, from which the second detachment gave fire repeatedly, aiming high, so as to strike the dragoons over the heads of their comrades. After a while there was evident hesitation among the janissaries at the scows, and also uncertainty whether to embark or follow the example of the other detachment, and engage hand to hand with the cavalry. But they were restrained from the last step by the sight of fleeing groups, which the cavalry pushed with the breasts of horses, and slashed so terribly that its fury could only be compared with its skill. At times such a group, when too much pressed, turned in desperation and began to bite, as a beast at bay bites when it sees that there is no escape for it. But just then those who were standing at the bank could see as on their palms that it was impossible to meet that cavalry with cold weapons, so far superior were they in the use of them. The defenders were cut with such regularity and swiftness that the eye could not follow the motion of the sabres. As when men of a good household, shelling peas well dried, strike industriously and quickly on the threshing-floor, so that the whole barn is thundering with the noise of the blows and the kernels are jumping toward every side, so did the whole river-bank thunder with sabre-blows, and the groups of janissaries, slashed without mercy, sprang hither and thither in every direction. Pan Vasilkovski hurled himself forward at the head of this cavalry, caring nothing for his own life. But as a trained reaper surpasses a young fellow much stronger than he, but less skilled at the sickle,--for when the young man is toiling, and streams of sweat cover him, the other goes forward constantly, cutting down the grain evenly before him,--so did Pan Michael surpass the wild youth Vasilkovski. Before striking the janissaries he let the dragoons go ahead, and remained himself in the rear somewhat, to watch the whole battle. Standing thus at a distance, he looked carefully, but every little while he rushed into the conflict, struck, directed, then again let the battle push away from him; again he looked, again he struck. As usual in a battle with infantry, so it happened then, that the cavalry in rushing on passed the fugitives. A number of these, not having before them a road to the river, returned in flight to the town, so as to hide in the sunflowers growing in front of the houses; but Pan Michael saw them. He came up with the first two, and distributed two light blows between them; they fell at once, and digging the earth with their heels, sent forth their souls with their blood through the open wounds. Seeing this, a third fired at the little knight from a janissary musket, and missed; but the little knight struck him with his sword-edge between nose and mouth, and this deprived him of precious life. Then, without loitering. Pan Michael sprang after the others; and not so quickly does a village youth gather mushrooms growing in a bunch, as he gathered those men before they ran to the sunflowers. Only the last two did soldiers of Jvanyets seize; the little knight gave command to keep these two alive. When he had warmed himself a little, and saw that the janissaries were hotly pressed at the river, he sprang into the thick of the battle, and coming up with the dragoons, began real labor. Now he struck in front, now he turned to the right or the left, gave a thrust with his blade and looked no farther; each time a white cap fell to the ground. The janissaries began to crowd from before him with an outcry; he redoubled the swiftness of his blows; and though he remained calm himself, no eye could follow the movements of his sabre, and know when he would strike or when he would thrust, for his sabre described one bright circle around him. Pan Lantskoronski, who had long heard of him as a master above masters, but had not seen him hitherto in action, stopped fighting and looked on with amazement; unable to believe his own eyes, he could not think that one man, though a master, and famous, could accomplish so much. He seized his head, therefore, and his comrades around only heard him repeating continually, "As God lives, they have told little of him yet!" And others cried, "Look at him, for you will not see that again in this world!" But Pan Michael worked on. The janissaries, pushed to the river, began now to crowd in disorder to the scows. Since there were scows enough, and fewer men were returning than had come, they took their places quickly and easily. Then the heavy oars moved, and between the janissaries and the bank was formed an interval of water which widened every instant. But from the scows guns began to thunder, whereupon the dragoons thundered in answer from their muskets; smoke rose over the water in cloudlets, then stretched out in long strips. The scows, and with them the janissaries, receded every moment. The dragoons, who held the field, raised a fierce shout, and threatening with their fists, called,-- "Ah, thou dog, off with thee! off with thee!" Pan Lantskoronski, though the balls were plashing still, seized Pan Michael by the shoulders right at the bank. "I did not believe my eyes," said he, "those, my benefactor, are wonders which deserve a golden pen!" "Native ability and training," answered Pan Michael, "that's the whole matter! How many wars have I passed through?" Then returning Lantskoronski's pressure, he freed himself, and looking at the bank, cried,-- "Look, your grace; you will see another power." The chamberlain turned, and saw an officer drawing a bow on the bank. It was Pan Mushalski. Hitherto the famous bowman had been struggling with others in hand-to-hand conflicts with the enemy; but now, when the janissaries had withdrawn to such a distance that bullets and pistol-balls could not reach them, he drew his bow, and standing on the bank at its highest point he tried the string first with his finger, when it twanged sharply; he placed on it the feathered arrow--and aimed. At that moment Pan Michael and Lantskoronski looked at him. It was a beautiful picture. The bowman was sitting on his horse; he held his left hand out straight before him, in it the bow, as if in a vice. The right hand he drew with increasing force to the nipple of his breast, till the veins were swelling on his forehead, and he aimed carefully. In the distance were visible, under a cloud of smoke, a number of scows moving on the river, which was very high, from snow melting on the mountains, and was so transparent that the scows and the janissaries sitting on them were reflected in the water. Pistols on the bank were silent; eyes were turned on Pan Mushalski, or looked in the direction in which his murderous arrow was to go. Now the string sounded loudly, and the feathered arrow left the bow. No eye could catch its flight; but all saw perfectly how a sturdy janissary, standing at an oar, threw out his arms on a sudden, and turning on the spot, dropped into the river. The transparent surface spurted up from his weight; and Pan Mushalski said,-- "For thee, Didyuk." Then he sought another arrow. "In honor of the hetman," said he to his comrades. They held their breath; after a while the air whistled again, and a second janissary fell on the scow. On all the scows the oars began to move more quickly; they struck the clear river vigorously; but the famous bowman turned with a smile to the little knight,--"In honor of the worthy wife of your grace!" A third time the bow was stretched; a third time he sent out a bitter arrow; and a third time it sank half its shaft's length in the body of a man. A shout of triumph thundered on the bank, a shout of rage from the scows. Then Pan Mushalski withdrew; and after him followed other victors of the day, and went to the town. While returning, they looked with pleasure on the harvest of that day. Few of the horde had perished, for they had not fought well even once; and put to flight, they recrossed the river quickly. But the janissaries lay to the number of some tens of men, like bundles of firmly bound grain. A few were struggling yet, but all had been stripped by the servants of the chamberlain. Looking at them, Pan Michael said,-- "Brave infantry! the men move to the conflict like wild boars; but they do not know beyond half what the Swedes do." "They fired as a man would crack nuts," said the chamberlain. "That came of itself, not through training, for they have no general training. They were of the Sultan's guard, and they are disciplined in some fashion; besides these there are irregular janissaries, considerably inferior." "We have given them a keepsake! God is gracious, that we begin the war with such a noteworthy victory." But the experienced Pan Michael had another opinion. "This is a small victory, insignificant," said he. "It is good to raise courage in men without training and in townspeople, but will have no result." "But do you think courage will not break in the Pagans?" "In the Pagans courage will not break," said Pan Michael. Thus conversing, they reached Jvanyets, where the people gave them the two captured janissaries who had tried to hide from Pan Michael in the sunflowers. One was wounded somewhat, the other perfectly well and full of wild courage. When he reached the castle, the little knight, who understood Turkish well, though he did not speak it fluently, asked Pan Makovetski to question the man. Pan Makovetski asked if the Sultan was in Hotin himself, and if he would come soon to Kamenyets. The Turk answered clearly, but insolently,-- "The Padishah is present himself. They said in the camp that to-morrow Halil Pasha and Murad Pasha would cross, taking engineers with them. To-morrow, or after to-morrow, the hour of destruction will come on you." Here the prisoner put his hands on his hips, and, confident in the terror of the Sultan's name, continued,-- "Mad Poles! how did you dare at the side of the Sultan to fall on his people and strike them? Do you think that hard punishment will miss you? Can that little castle protect you? What will you be in a few days but captives? What are you this day but dogs springing in the face of your master?" Pan Makovetski wrote down everything carefully; but Pan Michael, wishing to temper the insolence of the prisoner, struck him on the face at the last words. The Turk was confused, and gained respect for the little knight straightway, and in general began to express himself more decently. When the examination was over, and they brought him to the hall, Pan Michael said,-- "It is necessary to send these prisoners and their confession on a gallop to Warsaw, for at the king's court they do not believe yet that there will be war." "And what do you think, gentlemen, did that prisoner tell the truth, or did he lie altogether?" "If it please you, gentlemen," said Volodyovski, "it is possible to scorch his heels. I have a sergeant who executed Azya, the son of Tugai Bey, and who in these matters is _exquisitissimus_; but, to my thinking, the janissary has told the truth in everything. The crossing will begin soon; we cannot stop it,--no! even if there were a hundred times as many of us. Therefore nothing is left but to assemble, and go to Kamenyets with the news." "I have done so well at Jvanyets that I would shut myself up in the castle with pleasure," said the chamberlain, "were I sure that you would come from time to time with succor from Kamenyets. After that, let happen what would!" "They have two hundred cannon," said Pan Michael; "and if they bring over two heavy guns, this castle will not hold out one day. I too wished to shut myself up in it, but now I know that to be useless." Others agreed with the little knight. Pan Lantskoronski, as if to show courage, insisted for a time yet on staying in Jvanyets; but he was too experienced a soldier not to see that Volodyovski was right. At last he was interrupted by Pan Vasilkovski, who, coming from the field, rushed in quickly. "Gracious gentlemen," said he, "the river is not to be seen; the whole Dneister is covered with rafts." "Are they crossing?" inquired all at once. "They are, as true as life! The Turks are on the rafts, and the chambuls in the ford, the men holding the horses' tails." Pan Lantskoronski hesitated no longer; he gave orders at once to sink the old howitzer, and either to hide the other things, or take them to Kamenyets. Pan Michael sprang to his horse, and went with his men to a distant height to look at the crossing. Halil Pasha and Murad Pasha were crossing indeed. As far as the eye reached, it saw scows and rafts, pushed forward by oars, with measured movement, in the clear water. Janissaries and spahis were moving together in great numbers; vessels for crossing had been prepared at Hotin a long time. Besides, great masses of troops were standing on the shore at a distance. Pan Michael supposed that they would build a bridge; but the Sultan had not moved his main force yet. Meanwhile Pan Lantskoronski came up with his men, and they marched toward Kamenyets with the little knight. Pan Pototski was waiting in the town for them. His quarters were filled with higher officers; and before his quarters both sexes were assembled, unquiet, careworn, curious. "The enemy is crossing, and Jvanyets is occupied!" said the little knight. "The works are finished, and we are waiting," answered Pan Pototski. The news went to the crowd, who began to roar like a river. "To the gates! to the gates!" was heard through the town. "The enemy is in Jvanyets!" Men and women ran to the bastions, expecting to see the enemy; but the soldiers would not let them go to the places appointed for service. "Go to your houses!" cried they to the crowds; "you will hinder the defence. Soon will your wives see the Turks near at hand." Moreover, there was no alarm in the town, for already news had gone around of the victory of that day, and news naturally exaggerated. The soldiers told wonders of the meeting. "Pan Volodyovski defeated the janissaries, the Sultan's own guard," repeated all mouths. "It is not for Pagans to measure strength with Pan Volodyovski. He cut down the pasha himself. The Devil is not so terrible as he is painted! And they did not withstand our troops. Good for you, dog-brothers! Destruction to you and your Sultan!" The women showed themselves again at the intrenchments and bastions, but laden with flasks of gorailka, wine, and mead. This time they were received willingly; and gladness began among the soldiers. Pan Pototski did not oppose this; wishing to sustain courage in the men and cheerfulness, because there was an inexhaustible abundance of ammunition in the town and the castle, he permitted them to fire salvos, hoping that these sounds of joy would confuse the enemy not a little, should they hear them. Pan Michael remained at the quarters of the starosta till nightfall, when he mounted his horse and was escaping in secret with his servant to the cloister, wishing to be with his wife as soon as possible. But his attempts came to nothing, for he was recognized, and dense crowds surrounded his horse. Shouts and vivats began. Mothers raised their children to him. "There he is! look at him, remember him!" repeated many voices. They admired him immensely; but people unacquainted with war were astonished at his diminutive stature. It could not find place in the heads of the towns-people that a man so small, and with such a pleasant face, could be the most terrible soldier of the Commonwealth,--a soldier whom none could resist. But he rode among the crowds, and smiled from time to time, for he was pleased. When he came to the cloister, he fell into the open arms of Basia. She knew already of his deeds done that day and all his masterly blows; the chamberlain of Podolia had just left the cloister, and, as an eye-witness, had given her a detailed report. Basia, at the beginning of the narrative, called the women present in the cloister hence,--the abbess and the wives of Makovetski, Humyetski, Ketling, Hotsimirski; and as the chamberlain went on, she began to plume herself immensely before them. Pan Michael came just after the women had gone. When greetings were finished, the wearied knight sat down to supper. Basia sat at his side, placed food on his plate, and poured mead into his goblet. He ate and drank willingly, for he had put almost nothing in his mouth the whole day. In the intervals he related something too; and Basia, listening with gleaming eyes, shook her head, according to custom, asking,-- "Ah, ha! Well? and what?" "There are strong men among them, and very fierce; but it is hard to find a Turk who's a swordsman," said the little knight. "Then I could meet any of them?" "You might, only you will not, for I will not take you." "Even once in my life! You know, Michael, when you go outside the walls, I am not even alarmed; I know that no one can reach you." "But can't they shoot me?" "Be quiet! Isn't there a Lord God? You will not let them cut you down,--that is the main thing." "I will not let one or two slay me." "Nor three, Michael, nor four." "Nor four thousand," said Zagloba, mimicking her. "If you knew, Michael, what she did when the chamberlain was telling his story. I thought I should burst from laughter. As God is dear to me! she snorted just like a goat, and looked into the face of each woman in turn to see if she was delighted in a fitting manner. In the end I was afraid that the goat would go to butting,--no very polite spectacle." The little knight stretched himself after eating, for he was considerably tired; then suddenly he drew Basia to him and said,-- "My quarters in the castle are ready, but I do not wish to return. I might stay here to-night, I suppose." "As you like, Michael," said she, dropping her eyes. "Ha!" said Zagloba, "they look on me here as a mushroom, not a man, for the abbess invites me to live in the nunnery. But I'll pay her, my head on that point! Have you seen how Pani Hotsimirski is ogling me? She is a widow--very well--I won't tell you any more." "I think I shall stay," said the little knight. "If you will only rest well," said Basia. "Why shouldn't he rest?" asked Zagloba. "Because we shall talk, and talk, and talk." Zagloba wishing to go to his own room, turned to look for his cap; at last, when he had found it, he put it on his head and said, "You will not talk, and talk, and talk." Then he went out. CHAPTER LIII. Next morning, at daybreak, the little knight went to Knyahin and captured Buluk Pasha,--a notable warrior among the Turks. The whole day passed for him in labor on the field, a part of the night in counsel with Pan Pototski, and only at first cock-crow did he lay down his wearied head to sleep a little. But he was barely slumbering sweetly and deeply when the thunder of cannon roused him. The man Pyentka, from Jmud, a faithful servant of Pan Michael, almost a friend, came into the room. "Your grace," said he, "the enemy is before the town." "What guns are those?" asked the little knight. "Our guns, frightening the Pagans. There is a considerable party driving off cattle from the field." "Janissaries or cavalry?" "Cavalry. Very black. Our side is frightening them with the Holy Cross; for who knows but they are devils?" "Devils or no devils, we must be at them," said the little knight. "Go to the lady, and tell her that I am in the field. If she wishes to come to the castle to look out, she may, if she comes with Pan Zagloba, for I count most on his discretion." Half an hour later Pan Michael rushed into the field at the head of dragoons and volunteer nobles, who calculated that it would be possible to exhibit themselves in skirmishing. From the old castle the cavalry were to be seen perfectly, in number about two thousand, composed in part of spahis, but mainly of the Egyptian guard of the Sultan. In this last served wealthy and generous mamelukes from the Nile. Their mail in gleaming scales, their bright kefis, woven with gold, on their heads, their white burnooses and their weapons set with diamonds, made them the most brilliant cavalry in the world. They were armed with darts, set on jointed staffs, and with swords and knives greatly curved. Sitting on horses as swift as the wind, they swept over the field like a rainbow-colored cloud, shouting, whirling, and winding between their fingers the deadly darts. The Poles in the castle could not look at them long enough. Pan Michael pushed toward them with his cavalry. It was difficult, however, for both sides to meet with cold weapons, since the cannon of the castle restrained the Turks, and they were too numerous for the little knight to go to them, and have a trial beyond the reach of Polish cannon. For a time, however, both sides circled around at a distance, shaking their weapons and shouting loudly. But at last this empty threatening became clearly disagreeable to the fiery sons of the desert, for all at once single horsemen began to separate from the mass and advance, calling loudly on their opponents. Soon they scattered over the field, and glittered on it like flowers which the wind drives in various directions. Pan Michael looked at his own men. "Gracious gentlemen," said he, "they are inviting us. Who will go to the skirmish?" The fiery cavalier, Pan Vasilkovski, sprang out first; after him Pan Mushalski, the infallible bowman, but also in hand-to-hand conflict an excellent skirmisher; after these went Pan Myazga of the escutcheon Prus, who during the full speed of his horse could carry off a finger-ring on his lance; after Pan Myazga galloped Pan Teodor Paderevski, Pan Ozevich, Pan Shmlud-Plotski, Prince Ovsyani, and Pan Murkos-Sheluta, with a number of good cavaliers; and of the dragoons there went also a group, for the hope of rich plunder incited them, but more than all the peerless horses of the Arabs. At the head of the dragoons went the stern Lusnia; and gnawing his yellow mustache, he was choosing at a distance the wealthiest enemy. The day was beautiful. They were perfectly visible; the cannon on the walls became silent one after another, till at last all firing had ceased, for the gunners were fearful of injuring some of their own men; they preferred also to look at the battle rather than fire at scattered skirmishers. The two sides rode toward each other at a walk, without hastening, then at a trot, not in a line, but irregularly, as suited each man. At length, when they had ridden near to each other, they reined in their horses, and fell to abusing each other, so as to rouse anger and daring. "You'll not grow fat with us, Pagan dogs!" cried the Poles. "Your vile Prophet will not protect you!" The others cried in Turkish and Arabic. Many Poles knew both languages, for, like the celebrated bowman, many had gone through grievous captivity; therefore when Pagans blasphemed the Most Holy Lady with special insolence, anger raised the hair on the servants of Mary, and they urged on their horses, wishing to take revenge for the insult to her name. Who struck the first blow and deprived a man of dear life? Pan Mushalski pierced first with an arrow a young bey, with a purple kefi on his head, and dressed in a silver scaled armor, clear as moonlight. The painful shaft went under his left eye, and entered his head half the length of its shaft; he, throwing back his beautiful face and spreading his arms, flew from the saddle. The archer, putting his bow under his thigh, sprang forward and cut him yet with the sabre; then taking the bey's excellent weapons, and driving his horse with the flat of his sword toward the castle, he called loudly in Arabic,-- "I would that he were the Sultan's own son. He would rot here before you would play the last kindya." When the Turks and Egyptians heard this they were terribly grieved, and two beys sprang at once toward Mushalski; but from one side Lusnia, who was wolf-like in fierceness, intercepted their way, and in the twinkle of an eye bit to death one of them. First he cut him in the hand; and when the bey stooped for his sabre, which had fallen, Lusnia almost severed his head with a terrible blow on the neck. Seeing which, the other turned his horse swift as wind to escape, but that moment Pan Mushalski took the bow again from under his thigh, and sent after the fugitive an arrow; it reached him in his flight, and sank almost to the feathers between his shoulders. Pan Shmlud-Plotski was the third to finish his enemy, striking him with a sharp hammer on the helmet. He drove in with the blow the silver and velvet lining of the steel; and the bent point of the hammer stuck so tightly in the skull that Pan Plotski could not draw it forth for a time. Others fought with varied fortune; still, victory was mainly with the nobles, who were more skilled in fencing. But two dragoons fell from the powerful hand of Hamdi Bey, who slashed then Prince Ovsyani with a curved sword through the face, and stretched him on the field. Ovsyani moistened his native earth with his princely blood. Hamdi turned then to Pan Sheluta, whose horse had thrust his foot into the burrow of a hamster. Sheluta, seeing death inevitable, chose to meet the terrible horseman on foot, and sprang to the ground. But Hamdi, with the breast of his horse, overturned the Pole, and reached the arm of the falling man with the very end of his blade. The arm dropped; that instant Hamdi rushed farther through the field in search of opponents. But in many there was not courage to measure with him, so greatly and evidently did he surpass all in strength. The wind raised his white burnoose on his shoulders, and bore it apart like the wings of a bird of prey; his gilt worked armor threw an ominous gleam on his almost black face, with its wild and Hashing eyes; a curved sabre glittered above his head, like the sickle of the moon on a clear night. The famed archer let out two arrows at him; but both merely sounded on his armor with a groaning, and fell without effect on the grass. Pan Mushalski began to hesitate whether to send forth a third shaft against the neck of the steed, or rush on the bey with his sabre. But while he was thinking of this on the way, the bey saw him and urged on his black stallion. Both met in the middle of the field. Pan Mushalski, wishing to show his great strength and take Hamdi alive, struck up his sword with a powerful blow and closed with him; he seized the bey's throat with one hand, with the other his pointed helmet, and drew him from his horse. But the girth of his own saddle broke; the incomparable bowman turned with it, and dropped to the ground. Hamdi struck the falling man with the hilt of his sword on the head and stunned him. The spahis and mamelukes, who had feared for Hamdi, shouted with joy; the Poles were grieved greatly. Then the opposing sides sprang toward one another in dense groups,--one side to seize the bowman, the other to defend even his body. So far the little knight had taken no part in the skirmish, for his dignity of colonel did not permit that; but seeing the fall of Mushalski and the preponderance of Hamdi, he resolved to avenge the archer and give courage to his own men. Inspired with this thought, he put spurs to his horse, and swept across the field as swiftly as a sparrow-hawk goes to a flock of plover, circling over stubble. Basia, looking through a glass, saw him from the battlements, and cried at once to Zagloba, who was near her,-- "Michael is flying! Michael is flying!" "You see him," cried the old warrior. "Look carefully; see where he strikes the first blow. Have no fear!" The glass shook in Basia's hand. Though, as there was no discharge in the field yet from bows or janissary guns, she was not alarmed over-much for the life of her husband, still, enthusiasm, curiosity, and disquiet seized her. Her soul and heart had gone out of her body that moment, and were flying after him. Her breast was heaving quickly; a bright flush covered her face. At one moment she had bent over the battlement so far that Zagloba seized her by the waist, lest she might fall to the fosse. "Two are flying at Michael!" cried she. "There will be two less!" said Zagloba. Indeed, two spahis came out against the little knight. Judging from his uniform, they knew that he was a man of note, and seeing the small stature of the horseman they thought to win glory cheaply. The fools! they flew to sure death; for when they had drawn near he did not even rein in his horse, but gave them two blows, apparently as light as when a mother in passing gives a push apiece to two children. Both fell on the ground, and clawing it with their fingers, quivered like two lynxes which death-dealing arrows have struck simultaneously. The little knight flew farther toward horsemen racing through the field, and began to spread dreadful disaster. As when after Mass a boy comes in with a pewter extinguisher fixed to a staff, and quenches one after another the candles on the altar, and the altar is buried in shadow, so Pan Michael quenched right and left brilliant horsemen, Egyptian and Turkish, and they sank in the darkness of death. The Pagans recognized a master above masters, and their hearts sank within them. One and another withdrew his horse, so as not to meet with the terrible leader; the little knight rushed after the fugitives like a venomous wasp, and pierced one after another with his sting. The men at the castle artillery began to shout joyously at sight of this. Some ran up to Basia, and borne away with enthusiasm, kissed the hem of her robe; others abused the Turks. "Basia, restrain yourself!" cried Zagloba, every little while, holding her continually by the waist; but Basia wanted to laugh and cry, and clap her hands, and shout and look, and fly to her husband in the field. He continued to carry off spahis and Egyptian beys till at last cries of "Hamdi! Hamdi!" were heard throughout the whole field. The adherents of the Prophet called loudly for their greatest warrior to measure himself with that terrible little horseman, who seemed to be death incarnate. Hamdi had seen the little knight for some time; but noting his deeds, he was simply afraid of him. It was a terror to risk at once his great fame and young life against such an ominous enemy; therefore he feigned not to see him, and began to circle around at the other end of the field. He had just finished Pan Yalbryk and Pan Kos when despairing cries of "Hamdi! Hamdi!" smote his ear. He saw then that he could hide himself no longer, that he must win immeasurable glory or lay down his life; at that moment he gave forth a shout so shrill that all the rocks answered with an echo, and he urged on toward the little knight a horse as swift as a whirlwind. Pan Michael saw him from a distance, and pressed also with his heels his Wallachian bay. Others ceased the armed argument. At the castle Basia, who had seen just before all the deeds of the terrible Hamdi, grew somewhat pale, in spite of her blind faith in the little knight, the unconquerable swordsman; but Zagloba was thoroughly at rest. "I would rather be the heir of that Pagan than that Pagan himself," said he to Basia, sententiously. Pyentka, the slow Lithuanian, was so certain of his lord that not the least anxiety darkened his face; but seeing Hamdi rushing on, he began to hum a popular song,-- "O thou foolish, foolish house-dog, That's a gray wolf from the forest. Why dost thou rush forward to him If thou canst not overcome him!" The men closed in the middle of the field between two ranks, looking on from a distance. The hearts of all died in them for a moment. Then serpentine lightning flashed in the bright sun above the heads of the combatants; but the curved blade flew from the hand of Hamdi like an arrow urged by a bowstring; he bent toward the saddle, as if pierced with a blade-point, and closed his eyes. Pan Michael seized him by the neck with his left hand, and placing the point of his sabre at the armpit of the Egyptian, turned toward his own men. Hamdi gave no resistance; he even urged his horse forward with his heel, for he felt the point between his armpit and the armor. He went as if stunned, his hands hanging powerless, and from his eyes tears began to fall. Pan Michael gave him to the cruel Lusnia, and returned himself to the field. But in the Turkish companies trumpets and pipes were sounded,--a signal of retreat to the skirmishers. They began to withdraw toward their own forces, taking with them shame, vexation, and the memory of the terrible horseman. "That was Satan!" said the spahis and mamelukes to one another. "Whoso meets that man, to him death is predestined! Satan, no other!" The Polish skirmishers remained awhile to show that they held the field; then, giving forth three shouts of victory, they withdrew under cover of their guns, from which Pan Pototski gave command to renew fire. But the Turks began to retreat altogether. For a time yet their burnooses gleamed in the sun, and their colored kefis and glittering head-pieces; then the blue sky hid them. On the field of battle there remained only the Turks and Poles slain with swords. Servants came out from the castle to collect and bury the Poles. Then ravens came to labor at the burial of the Pagans, but their stay was not long, for that evening new legions of the Prophet frightened them away. CHAPTER LIV. On the following day, the vizir himself arrived before Kamenyets at the head of a numerous army of spahis, janissaries, and the general militia from Asia. It was supposed at once, from the great number of his forces, that he would storm the place; but he wished merely to examine the walls. Engineers came with him to inspect the fortress and earthworks. Pan Myslishevski went out this time against the vizir with infantry and a division of mounted volunteers. They began to skirmish again; the action was favorable for the besieged, though not so brilliant as on the first day. Finally, the vizir commanded the janissaries to move to the walls for a trial. The thunder of cannon shook at once the town and the castle. When the janissaries were near the quarters of Pan Podchaski, all fired at once with a great outburst; but as Pan Podchaski answered from above with very well-directed shots, and there was danger that cavalry might flank the janissaries, they retreated on the Jvanyets road, and returned to the main camp. In the evening, a certain Cheh (Bohemian) stole into the town; he had been a groom with the aga of the janissaries, and being bastinadoed, had deserted. From him the Poles learned that the Turks had fortified themselves in Jvanyets, and occupied broad fields on this side of Dlujek. They asked the fugitive carefully what the general opinion among the Turks was,--did they think to capture Kamenyets or not? He answered that there was good courage in the army, and the omens were favorable. A couple of days before, there had risen on a sudden from the earth in front of the Sultan's pavilion, as it were a pillar of smoke, slender below, and widening above in the form of a mighty bush. The muftis explained that that portent signified that the glory of the Padishah would reach the heavens, and that he would be the ruler to crush Kamenyets,--an obstacle hitherto invincible. That strengthened hearts greatly in the army. "The Turks," continued the fugitive, "fear Pan Sobieski, and succor; from time past they bear in mind the peril of meeting the troops of the Commonwealth in the open field, though they are willing to meet Venetians, Hungarians, or any other people. But since they have information that there are no troops in the Commonwealth, they think generally that they will take Kamenyets, though not without trouble. Kara Mustafa, the kaimakan, has advised to storm the walls straightway; but the more prudent vizir prefers to invest the town with regular works, and cover it with cannon-balls. The Sultan, after the first skirmishes, has inclined to the opinion of the vizir; therefore it is proper to look for a regular siege." Thus spoke the deserter. Hearing this news. Pan Pototski and the bishop, the chamberlain, Pan Volodyovski, and all the other chief officers were greatly concerned. They had counted on storms, and hoped with the defensiveness of the place to repulse them with great loss to the enemy. They knew from experience that during storms assailants suffer great losses; that every attack which is repulsed shakes their courage, and adds boldness to the besieged. As the knights at Zbaraj grew enamoured at last of resistance, of battles and sorties, so the inhabitants of Kamenyets might acquire love for battle, especially if every attack ended in defeat for the Turks and victory for the town. But a regular siege, in which the digging of approaches and mines, the planting of guns in position, mean everything, might only weary the besieged, weaken their courage, and make them inclined to negotiation. It was difficult also to count on sorties, for it was not proper to strip the walls of soldiers, and the servants or townspeople, led beyond the walls, could hardly stand before janissaries. Weighing this, all the superior officers were greatly concerned, and to them a happy result of the defence seemed less likely. In fact, it had small chance of success, not only in view of the Turkish power, but in view of themselves. Pan Volodyovski was an incomparable soldier and very famous, but he had not the majesty of greatness. Whoso bears the sun in himself is able to warm all everywhere; but whoso is a flame, even the most ardent, warms only those who are nearest. So it was with the little knight. He did not know how to pour his spirit into others, and could not, just as he could not give his own skill with the sword. Pan Pototski, the supreme chief, was not a warrior, besides, he lacked faith in himself, in others, in the Commonwealth. The bishop counted on negotiations mainly; his brother had a heavy hand, but also a mind not much lighter. Relief was impossible, for the hetman, Pan Sobieski, though great, was then without power. Without power was the king, without power the whole Commonwealth. On the 16th of August came the Khan with the horde, and Doroshenko with his Cossacks, and occupied an enormous area on the fields, beginning with Ronen. Sufan Kazi Aga invited Pan Myslishevski that day to an interview, and advised him to surrender the place, for if he did he would receive such favorable conditions as had never been heard of in the history of sieges. The bishop was curious to know what those favors were; but he was shouted down in the council, and a refusal was sent back in answer. On August 18, the Turks began to advance, and with them the Sultan. They came on like a measureless sea,--infantry, janissaries, spahis. Each pasha led the troops of his own pashalik, therefore inhabitants of Europe, Asia, and Africa. Behind them came an enormous camp with loaded wagons drawn by mules and buffaloes. That hundred-colored swarm, in various dresses and arms, moved without end. From dawn till night those leaders marched without stopping, moved from one place to another, stationed troops, circled about in the fields, pitched tents, which occupied such a space that from the towers and highest points of Kamenyets it was possible in no wise to see fields free from canvas. It seemed to people that snow had fallen and filled the whole region about them. The camp was laid out during salvos of musketry, for the janissaries shielding that work did not cease to fire at the walls of the fortress; from the walls an unbroken cannonade answered. Echoes were thundering from the cliffs; smoke rose and covered the blue of the sky. Toward evening Kamenyets was enclosed in such fashion that nothing save pigeons could leave it. Firing ceased only when the first stars began to twinkle. For a number of succeeding days firing from the walls and at the walls continued without interruption. The result was great damage to the besiegers; the moment a considerable group of janissaries collected within range, white smoke bloomed out on the walls, balls fell among the janissaries, and they scattered as a flock of sparrows when some one sends fine shot at them from a musket. Meanwhile the Turks, not knowing evidently that in both castles and in the town there were guns of long range, pitched their tents too near. This was permitted, by the advice of Pan Michael; and only when time of rest came, and troops, escaping from heat, had crowded into those tents, did the walls roar with continuous thunder. Then rose a panic; balls tore tents, broke poles, struck soldiers, hurled around sharp fragments of rocks. The janissaries withdrew in dismay and disorder, crying with loud voices; in their retreat they overturned other tents, and carried alarm with them everywhere. On the men disordered in this way Pan Michael fell with cavalry, and cut them till strong bodies of horsemen came to their aid. Ketling directed this fire mainly; besides him, the Polish mayor made the greatest havoc among the Pagans. He bent over every gun, applied the match himself, and covering his eyes with his hand, looked at the result of the shot, and rejoiced in his heart that he was working so effectively. The Turks were digging approaches, however, making intrenchments and fixing heavy guns in them. But before they began to fire from these guns, an envoy of the Turks came under the walls, and fastening to a dart a letter from the Sultan, showed it to the besieged. Dragoons were sent out; these brought the envoy at once to the castle. The Sultan, summoning the town to surrender, exalted his own might and clemency to the skies. "My army" (wrote he) "may be compared to the leaves of the forest and the sands of the sea. Look at the heavens; and when you see the countless stars, rouse fear in your hearts, and say one to another, 'Behold, such is the power of the believers!' But because I am a sovereign, gracious above other sovereigns, and a grandson of the God of Justice, I receive my right from above. Know that I hate stubborn men; do not oppose, then, my will; surrender your town. If you resist, you will all perish under the sword, and no voice of man will rise against me." They considered long what response to give to that letter, and rejected the impolitic counsel of Zagloba to cut off a dog's tail and send it in answer. They despatched a clever man skilled in Turkish; Yuritsa was his name. He bore a letter which read as follows:-- "We do not wish to anger the Sultan, but we do not hold it our duty to obey him, for we have not taken oath to him, but to our own lord. Kamenyets we will not surrender, for an oath binds us to defend the fortresses and churches while our lives last." After this answer the officers went to their places on the walls. Bishop Lantskoronski and the starosta took advantage of this, and sent a new letter to the Sultan, asking of him an armistice for four weeks. When news of this went along the gates, an uproar and clatter of sabres began. "But I believe," repeated this man and that, "that we are here burning at the guns, and behind our shoulders they are sending letters without our knowledge, though we are members of the council." At the evening kindya the officers went in a body to the starosta, with the little knight and Pan Makovetski at their head, both greatly afflicted at what had happened. "How is this?" asked Makovetski. "Are you thinking already of surrender, that you have sent a new envoy? Why has this happened without our knowledge?" "In truth," added the little knight, "since we are called to a council, it is not right to send letters without our knowledge. Neither will we permit any one to mention surrender; if any one wishes to mention it, let him withdraw from authority." While speaking he was terribly roused; being a soldier of rare obedience, it caused him the utmost pain to speak thus against his superiors. But since he had sworn to defend the castle till his death he thought, "It behooves me to speak thus." The starosta was confused and answered, "I thought this was done with general consent." "There is no consent. We will die here!" cried a number of voices. "I am glad to hear that," said the starosta; "for in me faith is dearer than life, and cowardice has never come near me, and will not. Remain, gracious gentlemen, to supper; we will come to agreement more easily." But they would not remain. "Our place is at the gates, not at the table," said the little knight. At this time the bishop arrived, and learning what the question was, turned at once to Pan Makovetski and Volodyovski. "Worthy men!" said he, "each has the same thing at heart as you, and no one has mentioned surrender. I sent to ask for an armistice of four weeks; I wrote as follows; 'During that time we will send to our king for succor, and await his instructions, and further that will be which God gives.'" When the little knight heard this he was excited anew, but this time because rage carried him away, and scorn at such a conception of military matters. He, a soldier since childhood, could not believe his ears, could not believe that any man would propose a truce to an enemy, so as to have time himself to send for succor. The little knight looked at Makovetski and then at other officers; they looked at him. "Is this a jest?" asked a number of voices. Then all were silent. "I fought through the Tartar, Cossack, Moscow, and Swedish wars," said Pan Michael, at last, "and I have never heard of such reasons. The Sultan has not come hither to please us, but himself. How will he consent to an armistice, when we write to him that at the end of that time we expect aid?" "If he does not agree, there will be nothing different from what there is now," said the bishop. "Whoso begs for an armistice exhibits fear and weakness, and whoso looks for succor mistrusts his own power. The Pagan dog believes this of us from that letter, and thereby irreparable harm has been done." "I might be somewhere else," said the bishop; "and because I did not desert my flock in time of need, I endure reprimand." The little knight was sorry at once for the worthy prelate; therefore he took him by the knees, kissed his hands, and said,-- "God keep me from giving any reprimand here; but since there is a council, I utter what experience dictates to me." "What is to be done, then? Let the fault be mine; but what is to be done? How repair the evil?" asked the bishop. "How repair the evil?" repeated Volodyovski. And thinking a moment, he raised his head joyously,-- "Well, it is possible. Gracious gentlemen, I pray you to follow me." He went out, and after him the officers. A quarter of an hour later all Kamenyets was trembling from the thunder of cannon. Volodyovski rushed out with volunteers; and falling upon sleeping janissaries in the approaches, ha slashed them till he scattered and drove the whole force to the tabor. Then he returned to the starosta, with whom he found the bishop. "Here," said he, joyously,--"here is help for you." CHAPTER LV. After that sortie the night was passed in desultory firing; at daylight it was announced that a number of Turks were standing near the castle, waiting till men were sent out to negotiate. Happen what might, it was needful to know what they wanted; therefore Pan Makovetski and Pan Myslishevski were appointed at the council to go out to the Pagans. A little later Pan Kazimir Humyetski joined them, and they went forth. There were three Turks,--Muhtar Bey, Salomi, the pasha of Rushchuk, and the third Kozra, an interpreter. The meeting took place under the open sky outside the gate of the castle. The Turks, at sight of the envoys, began to bow, putting their finger-tips to their hearts, mouths, and foreheads; the Poles greeted them politely, asking why they had come. To this Salomi answered,-- "Dear men! a great wrong has been done to our lord, over which all who love justice must weep; and for which He who was before the ages will punish you, if you do not correct it straightway. Behold, you sent out of your own will Yuritsa, who beat with the forehead to our vizir and begged him for a cessation of arms. When we, trusting in your virtue, went out of the trenches, you began to fire at us from cannon, and rushing out from behind walls, covered the road with corpses as far as the tents of the Padishah; which proceeding cannot remain without punishment, unless you surrender at once the castles and the town, and show great regret and repentance." To this Makovetski gave answer,-- "Yuritsa is a dog, who exceeded his instructions, for he ordered his attendant to hang out a white flag, for which he will be judged. The bishop on his own behalf inquired privately if an armistice might be arranged; but you did not cease to fire in time of sending those letters. I myself am a witness of that, for broken stones wounded me in the mouth; wherefore you have not the right to ask us to cease firing. If you come now with an armistice ready, it is well; if not, tell your lord, dear men, that we will defend the walls and the town as before, until we perish, or what is more certain, till you perish, in these rocks. We have nothing further to give you, except wishes that God may increase your days, and permit you to live to old age." After this conversation the envoys separated straightway. The Turks returned to the vizir; Makovetski, Humyetski, and Myslishevski to the castle. They were covered with questions as to how they had sent off the envoys. They related the Turkish declaration. "Do not receive it, dear brothers," said Kazimir Humyetski. "In brief, these dogs wish that we should give up the keys of the town before evening." To this many voices gave answer, repeating the favorite expression,-- "That Pagan dog will not grow fat with us. We will not surrender; we will drive him away in confusion. We do not want him." After such a decision, all separated; and firing began at once. The Turks had succeeded already in putting many heavy guns in position; and their balls, passing the "breastworks," began to fall into the town. Cannoneers in the town and the castles worked in the sweat of their foreheads the rest of the day and all night. When any one fell, there was no man to take his place, there was a lack also of men to carry balls and powder. Only before daybreak did the uproar cease somewhat. But barely was the day growing gray in the east, and the rosy gold-edged belt of dawn appearing, when in both castles the alarm was sounded. Whoso was sleeping sprang to his feet; drowsy throngs came out on the streets, listening carefully. "They are preparing for an assault," said some to others, pointing to the side of the castle. "But is Pan Volodyovski there?" asked alarmed voices. "He is, he is!" answered others. In the castles they rang the chapel bells, and rattling of drums was beard on all sides. In the half-light, half-darkness of morning, when the town was comparatively quiet, those voices seemed mysterious and solemn. At that moment the Turks played the "kindya;" one band gave the sounds to another, and they ran in that way, like an echo, through the whole immense tabor. The Pagan swarms began to move around the tents. At the rising day the towering intrenchments, ditches, and approaches came out of the darkness, stretching in a long line at the side of the castle. The heavy Turkish guns roared at once along its whole length; the cliffs of the Smotrych roared back in thundering echo; and the noise was as awful and terrible as if all the thunders in the storehouse of heaven had flashed and shot down together, bringing with them the dome of clouds to the earth. That was a battle of artillery. The town and the castles gave mighty answers. Soon smoke veiled the sun and the light; the Turkish works were invisible. Kamenyets was hidden; only one gray enormous cloud was to be seen, filled in the interior with lightning, with thunder and roaring. But the Turkish guns carried farther than those of the town. Soon death began to cut people down in Kamenyets. A number of cannon were dismounted. In service at the arquebuses, two or three men fell at a time. A Franciscan Father, who was blessing the guns, had his nose and part of his lip carried off by a wedge from under a cannon; two very brave Jews who assisted in working that cannon were killed. But the Turkish guns struck mainly at the intrenchment of the town. Pan Kazimir Humyetski sat there like a salamander, in the greatest fire and smoke: one half of his company had fallen; nearly all of those who remained were wounded. He himself lost speech and hearing; but with the aid of the Polish mayor he forced the enemy's battery to silence, at least until new guns were brought to replace the old ones. A day passed, a second, a third; and that dreadful "colloquium" of cannon did not cease for an instant. The Turks changed gunners four times a day; but in the town the very same men had to work all the time without sleep, almost without food, stifled from smoke; many were wounded from broken stones and fragments of cannon carriages. The soldiers endured; but the hearts began to weaken in the inhabitants. It was necessary at last to drive them with clubs to the cannon, where they fell thickly. Happily, in the evening of the third day and through the night following, from Thursday till Friday, the main cannonading was turned on the castles. They were both covered, but especially the old one, with bombs from great mortars, which, however, "harmed little, since in darkness each bomb was discernible, and a man could avoid it." But toward evening, when such weariness seized men that they fell off their feet from drowsiness, they perished often enough. The little knight, Ketling, Myslishevski, and Kvasibrotski answered the Turkish fire from the castles. The starosta looked in at them repeatedly, and advanced amid a hail of bullets, anxious, but regardless of danger. Toward evening, however, when the fire had increased still more, Pan Pototski approached Pan Michael. "Gracious Colonel," said he, "we shall not hold out." "While they confine themselves to firing we shall hold out," answered the little knight; "but they will blow us out of here with mines, for they are making them." "Are they really mining?" asked the starosta, in alarm. "Seventy cannon are playing, and their thunder is almost unceasing; still, there are moments of quiet. When such a moment comes, put down your ear carefully and listen." At that time it was not needful to wait long, especially as an accident came to their aid. One of the Turkish siege-guns burst; that caused a certain disorder. They sent from other intrenchments to inquire what had happened, and there was a lull in cannonading. Pan Michael and the starosta approached the very end of one of the projections of the castle, and began to listen. After a certain time their ears caught clearly enough the resonant sound of hammers in the cliff. "They are pounding," said the starosta. "They are pounding," said the little knight. Then they were silent. Great alarm appeared on the face of the starosta; he raised his hands and pressed his temples. Seeing this, Pan Michael said,-- "This is a usual thing in all sieges. At Zbaraj they were digging under us night and day." The starosta raised his hand: "What did Prince Yeremi do?" "He withdrew from intrenchments of wide circuit into narrower ones." "But what should we do?" "We should take the guns, and with them all that is movable, and transfer them to the old castle; for the old one is founded on rocks that the Turks cannot blow up with mines. I have thought always that the new castle would serve merely for the first resistance; after that we must blow it up with powder, and the real defence will begin in the old one." A moment of silence followed; and the starosta bent his anxious head again. "But if we heave to withdraw from the old castle, where shall we go?" asked he, with a broken voice. At that, the little knight straightened himself, and pointed with his finger to the earth: "I shall go there." At that moment the guns roared again, and a whole flock of bombs began to fly to the castle; but as darkness was in the world, they could be seen perfectly. Pan Michael took leave of the general, and went along the walls. Going from one battery to another, he encouraged men everywhere, gave advice; at last, meeting with Ketling, he said,-- "Well, how is it?" Ketling smiled pleasantly. "It is clear as day from the bombs," said he, pressing the little knight's hand. "They do not spare fire on us." "A good gun of theirs burst. Did you burst it?" "I did." "I am terribly sleepy." "And I too, but there is no time." "Ai," said Pan Michael; "and the little wives must be frightened; at thought of that, sleep goes away." "They are praying for us," said Ketling, raising his eyes toward the flying bombs. "God give them health!" said Pan Michael. "Among earthly women," began Ketling, "there are none--" But he did not finish, for the little knight, turning at that moment toward the interior of the castle, cried suddenly, in a loud voice,-- "For God's sake! Save us! What do I see?" And he sprang forward. Ketling looked around with astonishment. At a few paces distant, in the court of the castle, he saw Basia, with Zagloba and the Lithuanian, Pyentka. "To the wall! to the wall!" cried the little knight, dragging them as quickly as possible to the cover of the battlements. "For God's sake!" "Ha!" said Zagloba, with a broken voice, and panting; "help yourself here with such a woman, if you please. I remonstrate with her, saying, 'You will destroy yourself and me.' I kneel down,--no use. Was I to let her go alone? Uh! No help, no help! 'I will go; I will go,' said I. Here she is for you!" Basia had fear in her face, and her brow was quivering as if before weeping. But it was not bombs that she feared, nor the whizzing of balls, nor fragments of stones, but the anger of her husband. Therefore she clasped her hands like a child fearing punishment, and exclaimed, with sobbing voice,-- "I could not, Michael dear; as I love you, I could not. Be not angry, Michael. I cannot stay there when you are perishing here. I cannot; I cannot!" He had begun to be angry indeed, and had cried, "Basia, you have no fear of God!" but sudden tenderness seized him, his voice stuck in his throat; and only when that dearest bright head was resting on his breast, did he say,-- "You are my faithful friend until death;" and he embraced her. But Zagloba, pressing up to the wall, said to Ketling: "And yours wished to come, but we deceived her, saying that we were not coming. How could she come in such a condition? A general of artillery will be born to you. I'm a rogue if it will not be a general. Well, on the bridge from the town to the castle, the bombs are falling like peas. I thought I should burst,--from anger, not from fear. I slipped on sharp pieces of shell, and cut my skin. I shall not be able to sit down without pain for a week. The nuns will have to rub me, without minding modesty. Uf! But those rascals are shooting. May the thunderbolts shoot them away! Pan Pototski wants to yield the command to me. Give the soldiers a drink, or they will not hold out. See that bomb! It will fall somewhere near us. Hide yourself, Basia! As God lives, it will fall near!" But the bomb fell far away, not near, for it fell on the roof of the Lutheran church in the old castle. Since the dome was very strong, ammunition had been carried in there; but this missile broke the dome, and set fire to the powder. A mighty explosion, louder than the thunder of cannon, shook the foundations of both castles. From the battlement, voices of terror were heard. Polish and Turkish cannon were silent. Ketling left Zagloba, and Volodyovski left Basia. Both sprang to the walls with all the strength in their limbs. For a time it was heard how both gave commands with panting breasts; but the rattle of drums in the Turkish trenches drowned their commands. "They will make an assault!" whispered Zagloba. In fact, the Turks, hearing the explosion, imagined apparently that both castles were destroyed, the defenders partly buried in the ruins, and partly seized with fear. With that thought, they prepared for the storm. Fools! they knew not that only the Lutheran church had gone into the air. The explosion had produced no other effect than the shock; not even a gun had fallen from its carriage in the new castle. But in the intrenchments the rattle of drums grew more and more hurried. Crowds of janissaries pushed out of the intrenchments, and ran with quick steps toward the castle. Fires in the castle and in the Turkish trenches were quenched, it is true; but the night was clear, and in the light of the moon a dense mass of white caps were visible, sinking and rising in the rush, like waves stirred by wind. A number of thousands of janissaries and several hundred volunteers were running forward with rage and the hope of certain victory in their hearts; but many of them were never again to see the minarets of Stambul, the bright waters of the Bosphorus, and the dark cypresses of the cemeteries. Pan Michael ran, like a spirit, along the walls. "Don't fire! Wait for the word!" cried he, at every gun. The dragoons were lying flat at the battlements, panting with rage. Silence followed; there was no sound but that of the quick tread of the janissaries, like low thunder. The nearer they came, the more certain they felt of taking both castles at a blow. Many thought that the remnant of the defenders had withdrawn to the town, and that the battlements were empty. When they had run to the fosse, they began to fill it with fascines and bundles of straw, and filled it in a twinkle. On the walls, the stillness was unbroken. But when the first ranks stood on the stuff with which the fosse had been filled, in one of the battlement openings a pistol-shot was heard; then a shrill voice shouted,-- "Fire!" At the same time both bulwarks, and the prolongation joining them, gleamed with a long flash of flame. The thunder of cannon, the rattle of musketry, and the shouts of the assailants were mingled. When a dart, hurled by the hand of a strong beater, sinks half its length in the belly of a bear, he rolls himself into a bundle, roars, struggles, flounders, straightens, and again rolls himself; thus precisely did the throng of janissaries and volunteers. Not one shot of the defenders was wasted. Cannon loaded with grape laid men flat as a pavement, just as a fierce wind levels standing grain with one breath. Those who attacked the extension, joining the bulwarks, found themselves under three fires, and seized with terror, became a disordered mass in the centre, falling so thickly that they formed a quivering mound. Ketling poured grape-shot from two cannon into that group; at last, when they began to flee, he closed, with a rain of lead and iron, the narrow exit between the bulwarks. The attack was repulsed on the whole line, when the janissaries, deserting the fosse, ran, like madmen, with a howl of terror. They began in the Turkish intrenchments to hurl flaming tar buckets and torches, and burn artificial fires, making day of night, so as to illuminate the road for the fugitives, and to make pursuit difficult for a sortie. Meanwhile Pan Michael, seeing that crowd enclosed between the bulwarks, shouted for his dragoons, and went out against them. The unfortunate Turks tried once more to escape through the exit; but Ketling covered them so terribly that he soon blocked the place with a pile of bodies as high as a wall. It remained to the living to perish; for the besieged would not take prisoners, hence they began to defend themselves desperately. Strong men collected in little groups (two, three, five), and supporting one another with their shoulders, armed with darts, battle-axes, daggers, and sabres, cut madly. Fear, terror, certainty of death, despair, was changed in them into one feeling of rage. The fever of battle seized them. Some rushed in fury single-handed on the dragoons. These were borne apart on sabres in a twinkle. That was a struggle of two furies; for the dragoons, from toil, sleeplessness, and hunger, were possessed by the anger of beasts against an enemy that they surpassed in skill in using cold weapons; hence they spread terrible disaster. Ketling, wishing on his part to make the scene of struggle more visible, gave command to ignite tar buckets, and in the light of them could be seen irrestrainable Mazovians fighting against janissaries with sabres, dragging them by the heads and beards. The savage Lusnia raged specially, like a wild bull. At the other wing Pan Michael himself was fighting; seeing that Basia was looking at him from the walls, he surpassed himself. As when a venomous weasel breaks into grain where a swarm of mice are living, and makes terrible slaughter among them, so did the little knight rush like a spirit of destruction among the janissaries. His name was known to the besiegers already, both from previous encounters and from the narratives of Turks in Hotin. There was a general opinion that no man who met him could save himself from death; hence many a janissary of those enclosed between the bulwarks, seeing Pan Michael suddenly in front, did not even defend himself, but closing his eyes, died under the thrust of the little knight's rapier, with the word "kismet" on his lips. Finally resistance grew weak; the remnant of the Turks rushed to that wall of bodies which barred the exit, and there they were finished. The dragoons returned now through the filled fosse with singing, shouting, and panting, with the odor of blood on them; a number of cannon-shots were fired from the Turkish intrenchments and the castle; then silence followed. Thus ended that artillery battle which lasted some days, and was crowned by the storm of the janissaries. "Praise be to God," said the little knight, "there will be rest till the morning kindya at least, and in justice it belongs to us." But that was an apparent rest only, for when night was still deeper they heard in the silence the sound of hammers beating the cliff. "That is worse than artillery," said Ketling, listening. "Now would be the time to make a sortie," said the little knight; "but 'tis impossible; the men are too weary. They have not slept and they have not eaten, though they had food, for there was no time to take it. Besides, there are always some thousands on guard with the miners, so that there may be no opposition from our side. There is no help but to blow up the new castle ourselves, and withdraw to the old one." "That is not for to-day," answered Ketling. "See, the men have fallen like sheaves of grain, and are sleeping a stone sleep. The dragoons have not even wiped their swords." "Basia, it is time to go home and sleep," said the little knight. "I will, Michael," answered Basia, obediently; "I will go as you command. But the cloister is closed now; I should prefer to remain and watch over your sleep." "It is a wonder to me," said the little knight, "that after such toil sleep has left me, and I have no wish whatever to rest my head." "Because you have roused your blood among the janissaries," said Zagloba. "It was always so with me; after a battle I could never sleep in any way. But as to Basia, why should she drag herself to a closed gate? Let her remain here till morning." Basia pressed Zagloba with delight; and the little knight, seeing how much she wished to stay, said,-- "Let us go to the chambers." They went in; but the place was full of lime-dust, which the cannon-balls had raised by shaking the walls. It was impossible to stay there, so they went out again, and took their places in a niche made when the old gate had been walled in. Pan Michael sat there, leaning against the masonry. Basia nestled up to him, like a child to its mother. The night was in August, warm and fragrant. The moon illuminated the niche with a silver light; the faces of the little knight and Basia were bathed in its rays. Lower down, in the court of the castle, were groups of sleeping soldiers and the bodies of those slain during the cannonade, for there had been no time yet for their burial. The calm light of the moon crept over those bodies, as if that hermit of the sky wished to know who was sleeping from weariness merely, and who had fallen into the eternal slumber. Farther on was outlined the wall of the main castle, from which fell a black shadow on one half of the courtyard. Outside the walls, from between the bulwarks, where the janissaries lay cut down with sabres, came the voices of men. They were camp followers and those of the dragoons to whom booty was dearer than slumber; they were stripping the bodies of the slain. Their lanterns were gleaming on the place of combat like fireflies. Some of them called to one another; and one was singing in an undertone a sweet song not beseeming the work to which he was given at the moment:-- "Nothing is silver, nothing is gold to me now, Nothing is fortune. Let me die at the fence, then, of hunger, If only near thee." But after a certain time that movement began to decrease, and at last stopped completely. A silence set in which was broken only by the distant sound of the hammers breaking the cliffs, and the calls of the sentries on the walls. That silence, the moonlight, and the night full of beauty delighted Pan Michael and Basia. A yearning came upon them, it is unknown why, and a certain sadness, though pleasant. Basia raised her eyes to her husband; and seeing that his eyes were open, she said,-- "Michael, you are not sleeping." "It is a wonder, but I cannot sleep." "It is pleasant for you here?" "Pleasant. But for you?" Basia nodded her bright head. "Oh, Michael, so pleasant! ai, ai! Did you not hear what that man was singing?" Here she repeated the last words of the little song,-- "Let me die at the fence, then, of hunger, If only near thee." A moment of silence followed, which the little knight interrupted,-- "But listen, Basia." "What, Michael?" "To tell the truth, we are wonderfully happy with each other; and I think if one of us were to fall, the other would grieve beyond measure." Basia understood perfectly that when the little knight said "if one of us were to fall," instead of _die_, he had himself only in mind. It came to her head that maybe he did not expect to come out of that siege alive, that he wished to accustom her to that termination; therefore a dreadful presentiment pressed her heart, and clasping her hands, she said,-- "Michael, have pity on yourself and on me!" The voice of the little knight was moved somewhat, though calm. "But see, Basia, you are not right," said he; "for if you only reason the matter out, what is this temporal existence? Why break one's neck over it? Who would be satisfied with tasting happiness and love here when all breaks like a dry twig,--who?" But Basia began to tremble from weeping, and to repeat,-- "I will not hear this! I will not! I will not!" "As God is dear to me, you are not right," repeated the little knight. "Look, think of it: there above, beyond that quiet moon, is a country of bliss without end. Of such a one speak to me. Whoever reaches that meadow will draw breath for the first time, as if after a long journey, and will feed in peace. When my time comes,--and that is a soldier's affair,--it is your simple duty to say to yourself: 'That is nothing! Michael is gone. True, he is gone far, farther than from here to Lithuania; but that is nothing, for I shall follow him.' Basia, be quiet; do not weep. The one who goes first will prepare quarters for the other; that is the whole matter." Here there came on him, as it were, a vision of coming events; for he raised his eyes to the moonlight, and continued,-- "What is this mortal life? Grant that I am there first, waiting till some one knocks at the heavenly gate. Saint Peter opens it. I look; who is that? My Basia! Save us! Oh, I shall jump then! Oh, I shall cry then! Dear God, words fail me. And there will be no tears, only endless rejoicing; and there will be no Pagans, nor cannon, nor mines under walls, only peace and happiness. Ai, Basia, remember, this life is nothing!" "Michael, Michael!" repeated Basia. And again came silence, broken only by the distant, monotonous sound of the hammers. "Basia, let us pray together," said Pan Michael, at last. And those two souls began to pray. As they prayed, peace came on both; and then sleep overcame them, and they slumbered till the first dawn. Pan Michael conducted Basia away before the morning kindya to the bridge joining the old castle with the town. In parting, he said,-- "This life is nothing! remember that, Basia." CHAPTER LVI. The thunder of cannon shook the castles and the town immediately after the kindya. The Turks had dug a fosse at the side of the castle, five hundred yards long; in one place, at the very wall, they were digging deeply. From that fosse there went against the walls an unceasing fire from janissary muskets. The besieged made screens of leather bags filled with wool; but as long balls and bombs were hurled continually from the intrenchments, bodies fell thickly around the cannon. At one gun a bomb killed six men of Volodyovski's infantry at once; at other guns men were falling continually. Before evening the leaders saw that they could hold out no longer, especially as the mines might be exploded any moment. In the night, therefore, the captains led out their companies, and before morning they had transferred, amid unbroken firing, all the guns, powder, and supplies of provisions to the old castle. That, being built on a rock, could hold out longer, and there was special difficulty in digging under it. Pan Michael, when consulted on this matter at the council, declared that if no one would negotiate, he was ready to defend it a year. His words went to the town, and poured great consolation into hearts, for people knew that the little knight would keep his word even at the cost of his life. At the evacuation of the new castle, strong mines were put under both bulwarks and the front. These exploded with great noise about noon, but caused no serious loss to the Turks; for, remembering the lesson of the day before, they had not dared yet to occupy the abandoned place. But both bulwarks, the front and the main body of the new castle, formed one gigantic pile of ruins. These ruins rendered difficult, it is true, approach to the old castle; but they gave perfect protection to sharpshooters, and, what is worse, to the miners, who, unterrified at sight of the mighty cliff, began to bore a new mine. Skilful Italian and Hungarian engineers, in the service of the Sultan, were overseers of this work, which advanced rapidly. The besieged could not strike the enemy either from cannon or musket, for they could not see them. Pan Michael was thinking of a sortie, but he could not undertake it immediately; the soldiers were too tired. Blue lumps as large as biscuits had formed on the right shoulders of the dragoons, from bringing gunstocks against them continually. Some could hardly move their arms. It became evident that if boring were continued some time without interruption, the chief gate of the castle would be blown into the air beyond doubt. Foreseeing this, Pan Michael gave command to make a high wall behind the gate, and said, without losing courage,-- "But what do I care? If the gate is blown up, we will defend ourselves behind the wall; if the wall is blown up, we'll have a second one made previously, and so on, as long as we feel an ell of ground under our feet." "But when the ell is gone, what then?" asked the starosta. "Then we shall be gone too," said the little knight. Meanwhile he gave command to hurl hand-grenades at the enemy; these caused much damage. Most effective in this work was Lieutenant Dembinski, who killed Turks without number, until a grenade ignited too soon, burst in his hand, and tore it off. In this manner perished Captain Schmit. Many fell from the Turkish artillery, many from musket-shots fired by janissaries hidden in the ruins of the new castle. During that time they fired rarely from the guns of the castle; this troubled the council not a little. "They are not firing; hence it is evident that Volodyovski himself has doubts of the defence." Such was the general opinion. Of the officers no man dared to say first that it remained only to seek the best conditions, but the bishop, free of military ambition, said this openly; but previously Pan Vasilkovski was sent to the starosta for news from the castle. He answered, "In my opinion the castle cannot hold out till evening, but here they think otherwise." After reading this answer, even the officers began to say, "We have done what we could. No one has spared himself, but what is impossible cannot be done; it is necessary to think of conditions." These words reached the town, and brought together a great crowd of people. This multitude stood before the town-hall, alarmed, silent, rather hostile than inclined to negotiations. Some rich Armenian merchants were glad in their hearts that the siege would be ended and trading begin; but other Armenians, long settled in the Commonwealth and greatly inclined to it, as well as Poles and Russians, wished to defend themselves. "Had we wished to surrender, we should have surrendered at first," was whispered here and there; "we could have received much, but now conditions will not be favorable, and it is better to bury ourselves under ruins." The murmur of discontent became ever louder, till all at once it turned into shouts of enthusiasm and vivats. What had happened? On the square Pan Michael appeared in company with Pan Humyetski, for the starosta had sent them of purpose to make a report of what had happened in the castle. Enthusiasm seized the crowd. Some shouted as if the Turks had already broken into the town; tears came to the eyes of others at sight of the idolized knight, on whom uncommon exertions were evident. His face was black from powder-smoke, and emaciated, his eyes were red and sunken; but he had a joyous look. When he and Humyetski had made their way at last through the crowd, and entered the council, they were greeted joyously. The bishop spoke at once. "Beloved brothers," said he, "_Nec Hercules contra plures!_ The starosta has written us already that you must surrender." To this Humyetski, who was very quick to action and of great family, not caring for people, said sharply: "The starosta has lost his head; but he has this virtue, that he exposes it to danger. As to the defence, let Pan Volodyovski describe it; he is better able to do so." All eyes were turned to the little knight, who was greatly moved, and said,-- "For God's sake, who speaks of surrender? Have we not sworn to the living God to fall one upon another?" "We have sworn to do what is in our power, and we have done it," answered the bishop. "Let each man answer for what he has promised! Ketling and I have sworn not to surrender the castle till death, and we will not surrender; for if I am bound to keep the word of a cavalier to every man, what must I do to God, who surpasses all in majesty?" "But how is it with the castle? We have heard that there is a mine under the gate. Will you hold out long?" asked numerous voices. "There is a mine under the gate, or there will be; but there is a good wall behind the gate, and I have given command to put falconets on it. Dear brothers, fear God's wounds; remember that in surrendering you will be forced to surrender churches into the hands of Pagans, who will turn them into mosques, to celebrate foulness in them. How can you speak of surrender with such a light heart? With what conscience do you think of opening before the enemy a gate to the heart of the country? I am in the castle and fear no mines; and you here in the town, far away, are afraid! By the dear God! we will not surrender while we are alive. Let the memory of this defence remain among those who come after us, like the memory of Zbaraj." "The Turks will turn the castle into a pile of ruins," said some voice. "Let them turn it. We can defend ourselves from a pile of ruins." Here patience failed the little knight somewhat. "And I will defend myself from a pile of ruins, so help me God! Finally, I tell you that I will not surrender the castle. Do you hear?" "'But will you destroy the town?" asked the bishop. "If to go against the Turks is to destroy it, I prefer to destroy it. I have taken my oath; I will not waste more words; I will go back among cannon, for they defend the Commonwealth instead of betraying it." Then he went out, and after him Humyetski, who slammed the door. Both hastened greatly, for they felt really better among ruins, corpses, and balls than among men of little faith. Pan Makovetski came up with them on the way. "Michael," said he, "tell the truth, did you speak of resistance only to increase courage, or will you be able really to hold out in the castle?" The little knight shrugged his shoulders. "As God is dear to me! Let the town not surrender, and I will defend the castle a year." "Why do you not fire? People are alarmed on that account, and talk of surrender." "We do not fire, because we are busy with hand-grenades, which have caused considerable harm in the mines." "Listen, Michael, have you in the castle such defence that you could strike at the Russian gate in the rear?--for if, which God prevent, the Turks break through, they will come to the gate. I am watching with all my force; but with towns-people only, without soldiers, I cannot succeed." To which the little knight answered: "Fear not, dear brother; I have fifteen cannon turned to that side. Be at rest too concerning the castle. Not only shall we defend ourselves, but when necessary we will give you reinforcement at the gates." When he heard this, Makovetski was delighted greatly, and wished to go away, when the little knight detained him, and asked further,-- "Tell me, you are oftener at these councils, do they only wish to try us, or do they intend really to give Kamenyets into the hands of the Sultan?" Makovetski dropped his head. "Michael," said he, "answer truly now, must it not end in that? We shall resist awhile yet, a week, two weeks, a month, two months, but the end will be the same." Volodyovski looked at him gloomily, then raising his hands cried,-- "And thou too, Brutus, against me? Well, in that case swallow your shame alone; I am not used to such diet." And they parted with bitterness in their hearts. The mine under the main gate of the old castle exploded soon after Pan Michael's return. Bricks and stones flew; dust and smoke rose. Terror dominated the hearts of the gunners. For a while the Turks rushed into the breach, as rush sheep through the open gate of a sheepfold, when the shepherd and his assistants urge them in with whips. But Ketling breathed on that crowd with cartridges from six cannon, prepared previously on the wall; he breathed once, a second, a third time, and swept them out of the court. Pan Michael, Humyetski, and Myslishevski hurried up with infantry and dragoons, who covered the walls as quickly as flies on a hot day cover the carcass of a horse or an ox. A struggle began then between muskets and janissary guns. Balls fell on the wall as thickly as falls rain, or kernels of wheat which a strong peasant hurls from his shovel. The Turks were swarming in the ruins of the new castle; in every depression, behind every fragment, behind every stone, in every opening of the ruin, they sat in twos, threes, fives, and tens, and fired without a moment's intermission. From the direction of Hotin came new reinforcements continually. Regiment followed regiment, and crouching down among the ruins began fire immediately. The new castle was as if paved with turbans. At times those masses of turbans sprang up suddenly with a terrible outcry, and ran to the breach; but then Ketling raised his voice, the bass of the cannon drowned the rattle of musketry, and a storm of grapeshot with whistling and terrible rattling confused the crowd, laid them on the ground, and closed up the breach with a quivering mass of human flesh. Four times the janissaries rushed forward; four times Ketling hurled them back and scattered them, as a storm scatters a cloud of leaves. Alone amid fire, smoke, showers of earth-clods, and bursting grenades, he was like an angel of war. His eyes were fixed on the breach, and on his serene forehead not the slightest anxiety was evident. At times he seized the match from the gunner and touched the priming; at times he covered his eyes with his hand and observed the effect of the shot; at times he turned with a smile to the Polish officers and said,-- "They will not enter." Never was rage of attack repulsed with such fury of defence. Officers and soldiers vied with one another. It seemed that the attention of those men was turned to everything save death; and death cut down thickly. Pan Humyetski fell, and Pan Mokoshytski, commander of the men of Kieff. At last the white-haired Pan Kalushovski seized his own breast with a groan; he was an old friend of Pan Michael, as mild as a lamb, but a soldier as terrible as a lion. Pan Michael caught the falling man, who said, "Give your hand, give your hand quickly!" then he added, "Praise be to God!" and his face grew as white as his beard. That was before the fourth attack. A party of janissaries had come inside the breach, or rather they could not go out by reason of the too thickly flying missiles. Pan Michael sprang on them at the head of his infantry, and they were beaten down in a moment with the butts of muskets. Hour followed hour; the fire did not weaken. But meanwhile news of the heroic defence was borne through the town, exciting enthusiasm and warlike desire. The Polish inhabitants, especially the young men, began to call on one another, to look at one another, and give mutual encouragement. "Let us go to the castle with assistance! Let us go; let us go! We will not let our brothers perish! Come, boys!" Such voices were heard on the square and at the gates; soon a few hundred men, armed in any fashion, but with daring in their hearts, moved toward the bridge. The Turks turned on the young men a terrible fire, which stretched many dead; but a part passed, and they began to work on the wall against the Turks with great zeal. This fourth attack was repulsed with fearful loss to the Turks, and it seemed that a moment of rest must come. Vain hope! The rattle of janissary musketry did not cease till evening. Only when the evening kindya was played, did the cannon grow silent, and the Turks leave the ruins of the new castle. The remaining officers went then from the wall to the other side. The little knight, without losing a moment, gave command to close up the breach with whatever materials they could find,--hence with blocks of timber, with fascines, with rubbish, with earth. Infantry, cavalry, dragoons, common soldiers, and officers vied with one another, regardless of rank. It was thought that Turkish guns might renew fire at any moment; but that was a day of great victory for the besieged over the besiegers. The faces of all the besieged were bright; their souls were flaming with hope and desire of further victories. Ketling and Pan Michael, taking each other by the hands after their labor, went around the square and the walls, bent out through the battlements, to look at the courtyard of the new castle and rejoice at the bountiful harvest. "Body lies there near body," said the little knight, pointing to the ruins; "and at the breach there are such piles that you would need a ladder to cross them. That is the work of your cannon, Ketling." "The best thing," answered Ketling, "is that we have repaired that breach; the approach is closed to the Turks, and they must make a new mine. Their power is boundless as the sea, but such a siege for a month or two must become bitter to them." "By that time the hetman will help us. But come what may, you and I are bound by oath," said the little knight. At that moment they looked into each other's eyes, and Pan Michael asked in a lower voice, "And have you done what I told you?" "All is ready," whispered Ketling, in answer; "but I think it will not come to that, for we may hold out very long here, and have many such days as the present." "God grant us such a morrow!" "Amen!" answered Ketling, raising his eyes to heaven. The thunder of cannon interrupted further conversation. Bombs began to fly against the castle again. Many of them burst in the air, however, and went out like summer lightning. Ketling looked with the eye of a judge. "At that trench over there from which they are firing," said he, "the matches have too much sulphur." "It is beginning to smoke on other trenches," said Volodyovski. And, in fact, it was. As, when one dog barks in the middle of a still night, others begin to accompany, and at last the whole village is filled with barking, so one cannon in the Turkish trenches roused all the neighboring guns, and a crown of bombs encircled the besieged place. This time, however, the enemy fired at the town, not the castle; but from three sides was heard the piercing of mines. Though the mighty rock had almost baffled the efforts of miners, it was clear that the Turks had determined at all cost to blow that rocky nest into the air. At the command of Ketling and Pan Michael, the defenders began to hurl hand-grenades again, guided by the noise of the hammers. But at night it was impossible to know whether that means of defence caused any damage. Besides, all turned their eyes and attention to the town, against which were flying whole flocks of flaming birds. Some missiles burst in the air; but others, describing a fiery circle in the sky, fell on the roofs of houses. At once a reddish conflagration broke the darkness in a number of places. The Church of St. Catherine was burning, also the Church of St. George in the Russian quarter, and soon the Armenian Cathedral was burning; this, however, had been set on fire during the day; it was merely ignited again by the bombs. The fire increased every moment and lighted up all the neighborhood. The outcry from the town reached the old castle. One might suppose that the whole town was burning. "That is bad," said Ketling, "for courage will fail in the inhabitants." "Let everything burn," said the little knight; "if only the rock is not crushed from which we may defend ourselves." Now the outcry increased. From the cathedral the fire spread to the Armenian storehouses of costly merchandise. These were built on the square belonging to that nationality; great wealth was burning there in gold, silver, divans, furs, and rich stuffs. After a while, tongues of fire appeared here and there over the houses. Pan Michael was disturbed greatly. "Ketling," said he, "look to the hurling of grenades, and injure work in the mines as much as possible. I will hurry to the town, for my heart is suffering for the Dominican nuns. Praise be to God that the Turks leave the castle in quiet, and that I can be absent!" In the castle there was not, in truth, at that moment much to do; hence the little knight sat on his horse and rode away. He returned only after two hours in company with Pan Mushalski, who after that injury sustained at the hands of Hamdi Bey, recovered, and came now to the fortress, thinking that during storms he might cause notable loss to the Pagans, and gain glory immeasurable. "Be welcome!" said Ketling. "I was alarmed. How is it with the nuns?" "All is well," answered the little knight. "Not one bomb has burst there. The place is very quiet and safe." "Thank God for that! But Krysia is not alarmed?" "She is as quiet as if at home. She and Basia are in one cell, and Pan Zagloba is with them. Pan Adam, to whom consciousness has returned, is here too. He begged to come with me to the castle; but he is not able to stand long on his feet yet. Ketling, go there now, and I will take your place here." Ketling embraced Pan Michael, for his heart drew him greatly to Krysia, and gave command to bring his horse at once. But before they brought the horse, he inquired of the little knight what was to be heard in the town. "The inhabitants are quenching the fire very bravely," answered the little knight; "but when the wealthier Armenian merchants saw their goods burning, they sent deputations to the bishop and insisted on surrender. Hearing of this, I went to the council, though I had promised myself not to go there again. I struck in the face the man who insisted most on surrender: for this the bishop rose in anger against me. The situation is bad, brother; cowardice is seizing people more and more, and our readiness for defence is for them cheaper and cheaper. They give blame and not praise, for they say that we are exposing the place in vain. I heard too that they attacked Makovetski because he opposed negotiations. The bishop himself said to him, 'We are not deserting faith or king; but what can further resistance effect? See,' said he, 'what will be after it,--desecrated shrines, honorable ladies insulted, and innocent children dragged captive. With a treaty,' said he, 'we can assure their fate and obtain free escape.' So spoke the bishop. The starosta nodded and said, 'I would rather perish, but this is true.'" "The will of God be done!" said Ketling. But Pan Michael wrung his hands. "And if that were even true," cried he, "but God is witness that we can defend ourselves yet." Now they brought Ketling's horse. He mounted quickly. "Carefully through the bridge," said Pan Michael at parting, "for the bombs fall there thickly." "I will return in an hour," said Ketling; and he rode away. Pan Michael started to go around the walls with Mushalski. In three places hammering was heard; hence the besieged were throwing hand-grenades from three places. On the left side of the castle Lusnia was directing that work. "Well, how is it going with you?" inquired Volodyovski. "Badly, Pan Commandant," said the sergeant: "the pig-bloods are sitting in the cliff, and only sometimes at the entrance does a piece of shell hurt a man. We haven't done much." In other places the case was still worse, especially as the sky had grown gloomy and rain was falling, from which the wicks in the grenades were growing damp. Darkness too hindered the work. Pan Michael drew Mushalski aside somewhat, and halting, said on a sudden, "But listen! If we should try to smother those moles in their burrows?" "That seems to me certain death, for whole regiments of janissaries are guarding them. But let us try!" "Regiments are guarding them, it is true; but the night is very dark, and confusion seizes them quickly. Just think, they are talking of surrender in the town. Why? Because, they say to us, 'There are mines under you; you are not defending yourselves.' We should close their lips if to-night we could send the news, 'There is no longer a mine!' For such a cause is it worth while to lay down one's head or not?" Pan Mushalski thought a moment, and cried, "It is worth while! As God lives, it is!" "In one place they began to hammer not long ago," said Pan Michael; "we will leave those undisturbed, but here and on that side they have dug in very deeply. Take fifty dragoons; I will take the same number; and we will try to smother them. Have you the wish?" "I have, and it is increasing. I will take spikes in my belt to spike cannon; perhaps on the road I may find some." "As to finding, I doubt that, though there are some falconets standing near; but take the spikes. We will only wait for Ketling; he knows better than others how to succor in a sudden emergency." Ketling came as he had promised; he was not behind time one moment. Half an hour later two detachments of dragoons, of fifty men each, went to the breach, slipped out quickly, and vanished in the darkness. Ketling gave command to throw grenades for a short time yet; then he ceased work and waited. His heart was beating unquietly, for he understood well how desperate the undertaking was. A quarter of an hour passed, half an hour, an hour: it seemed that they ought to be there already and to begin; meanwhile, putting his ear to the ground, he heard the quiet hammering perfectly. Suddenly at the foot of the castle, on the left side, there was a pistol-shot, which in the damp air, in view of the firing from the trenches, did not make a loud report, and might have passed without rousing the attention of the garrison had not a terrible uproar succeeded it. "They are there," thought Ketling; "but will they return?" And then sounded the shouts of men, the roar of drums, the whistle of pipes,--finally the rattle of musketry, hurried and very irregular. The Turks fired from all sides and in throngs; evidently whole divisions had run up to succor the miners. As Pan Michael had foreseen, confusion seized the janissaries, who, fearing to strike one another, shouted loudly, fired at random, and often in the air. The uproar and firing increased every moment. When martens, eager for blood, break into a sleeping hen-house at night, a mighty uproar and cackling rise in the quiet building: confusion like that set in all at once round the castle. The Turks began to hurl bombs at the walls, so as to clear up the darkness. Ketling pointed guns in the direction of the Turkish troops on guard, and answered with grape-shot. The Turkish approaches blazed; the walls blazed. In the town the alarm was beaten, for the people believed universally that the Turks had burst into the fortress. In the trenches the Turks thought that a powerful sortie was attacking all their works simultaneously; and a general alarm spread among them. Night favored the desperate enterprise of Pan Michael and Mushalski, for it had grown very dark. Discharges of cannon and grenades rent only for instants the darkness, which was afterward blacker. Finally, the sluices of heaven opened suddenly, and down rushed torrents of rain. Thunder outsounded the firing, rolled, grumbled, howled, and roused terrible echoes in the cliffs. Ketling sprang from the wall, ran at the head of fifteen or twenty men to the breach, and waited. But he did not wait long. Soon dark figures swarmed in between the timbers with which the opening was barred. "Who goes there?" cried Ketling. "Volodyovski," was the answer. And the two knights fell into each other's embrace. "What! How is it there?" asked the officers, rushing out to the breach. "Praise be to God! the miners are cut down to the last man; their tools are broken and scattered. Their work is for nothing." "Praise be to God! Praise be to God!" "But is Mushalski with his men?" "He is not here yet." "We might go to help him. Gracious gentlemen, who is willing?" But that moment the breach was filled again. Mushalski's men were returning in haste, and decreased in number considerably, for many of them had fallen from bullets. But they returned joyously, for with an equally favorable result. Some of the soldiers had brought back hammers, drills, and pickaxes as a proof that they had been in the mine itself. "But where is Mushalski?" asked Pan Michael. "True; where is Pan Mushalski?" repeated a number of voices. The men under command of the celebrated bowman stared at one another; then a dragoon, who was wounded severely, said, with a weak voice,-- "Pan Mushalski has fallen. I saw him when he fell. I fell at his side; but I rose, and he remained." The knights were grieved greatly on hearing of the bowman's death, for he was one of the first cavaliers in the armies of the Commonwealth. They asked the dragoon again how it had happened; but he was unable to answer, for blood was flowing from him in a stream, and he fell to the ground like a grain-sheaf. The knights began to lament for Pan Mushalski. "His memory will remain in the army," said Pan Kvasibrotski, "and whoever survives the siege will celebrate his name." "There will not be born another such bowman," said a voice. "He was stronger in the arm than any man in Hreptyoff," said the little knight. "He could push a thaler with his fingers into a new board. Pan Podbipienta, a Lithuanian, alone surpassed him in strength; but Podbipienta was killed in Zbaraj, and of living men none was so strong in the hands, unless perhaps Pan Adam." "A great, great loss," said others. "Only in old times were such cavaliers born." Thus honoring the memory of the bowman, they mounted the wall. Pan Michael sent a courier at once with news to the starosta and the bishop that the mines were destroyed, and the miners cut down by a sortie. This news was received with great astonishment in the town, but--who could expect it?--with secret dislike. The starosta and the bishop were of opinion that those passing triumphs would not save Kamenyets, but only rouse the savage lion still more. They could be useful only in case surrender were agreed on in spite of them; therefore the two leaders determined to continue further negotiations. But neither Pan Michael nor Ketling admitted even for a moment that the happy news could have such an effect. Nay, they felt certain now that courage would enter the weakest hearts, and that all would be inflamed with desire for a passionate resistance. It was impossible to take the town without taking the castle first; therefore if the castle not merely resisted, but conquered, the besieged had not the least need to negotiate. There was plenty of provisions, also of powder; in view of this it was only needful to watch the gates and quench fires in the town. During the whole siege this was the night of most joy for Pan Michael and Ketling. Never had they had such great hope that they would come out alive from those Turkish toils, and also bring out those dearest heads in safety. "A couple of storms more," said the little knight, "and as God is in heaven the Turks will be sick of them, and will prefer to force us with famine. And we have supplies enough here. September is at hand; in two months rains and cold will begin. Those troops are not over-enduring; let them get well chilled once, and they will withdraw." "Many of them are from Ethiopian countries," said Ketling, "or from various places where pepper grows; and any frost will nip them. We can hold out two months in the worst case, even with storms. It is impossible too to suppose that no succor will come to us. The Commonwealth will return to its senses at last; and even if the hetman should not collect a great force, he will annoy the Turk with attacks." "Ketling! as it seems to me, our hour has not struck yet." "It is in the power of God, but it seems to me also that it will not come to that." "Even if some one has fallen, such as Pan Mushalski. Well, there is no help for it! I am terribly sorry for Mushalski, though he died a hero's death." "May God grant us no worse one, if only not soon! for I confess to you, Michael, I should be sorry for--Krysia." "Yes, and I too for Basia; we will work earnestly, and maybe there is mercy above us. I am very glad in soul for some reason. We must do a notable deed to-morrow as well." "The Turks have made protections of plank. I have thought of a method used in burning ships; the rags are now steeping in tar, so that to-morrow before noon we will burn all those works." "Ah!" said the little knight, "then I will lead a sortie. During the fire there will be confusion in every case, and it will not enter their heads that there can be a sortie in daylight. To-morrow may be better than to-day, Ketling." Thus did they converse with swelling hearts, and then went to rest, for they were greatly wearied. But the little knight had not slept three hours when Lusnia roused him. "Pan Commandant," said the sergeant, "we have news." "What is it?" cried the watchful soldier, springing up in one moment. "Pan Mushalski is here." "For God's sake! what do you tell me?" "He is here. I was standing at the breach, and heard some one calling from the other side in Polish, 'Do not fire; it is I.' I looked; there was Pan Mushalski coming back dressed as a janissary." "Praise be to God!" said the little knight; and he sprang up to greet the bowman. It was dawning already. Pan Mushalski was standing outside the wall in a white cap and armor, so much like a real janissary that one's eyes were slow in belief. Seeing the little knight, he hurried to him, and began to greet him joyously. "We have mourned over you already!" cried Volodyovski. With that a number of other officers ran up, among them Ketling. All were amazed beyond description, and interrupted one another asking how he came to be in Turkish disguise. "I stumbled," said he, "over the body of a janissary when I was returning, and struck my head against a cannon-ball; though I had a cap bound with wire, I lost consciousness at once. My head was tender after that blow which I got from Hamdi Bey. When I came to myself I was lying on a dead janissary, as on a bed. I felt my head; it was a trifle sore, but there was not even a lump on it. I took off my cap; the rain cooled my head, and I thought: 'This is well for us. It would be a good plan to take that janissary's uniform, and stroll among the Turks. I speak their tongue as well as Polish, and no one could discover me by my speech; my face is not different from that of a janissary. I will go and listen to their talk.' Fear seized me at times, for I remembered my former captivity; but I went. The night was dark; there was barely a light here and there. I tell you, gentlemen, I went among them as if they had been my own people. Many of them were lying in trenches under cover; I went to them. This and that one asked, 'Why are you strolling about?' 'Because I cannot sleep,' answered I. Others were talking in crowds about the siege. There is great consternation. I heard with my own ears how they complained of our Hreptyoff commandant here present," at this Pan Mushalski bowed to Volodyovski. "I repeat their _ipsissima verba_" (very words), "because an enemy's blame is the highest praise. 'While that little dog,' said they, thus did the dog brothers call your grace,--'while that little dog defends the castle, we shall not capture it.' Others said, 'Bullets and iron do not harm him; but death blows from him as from a pestilence.' Then all in the crowd began to complain: 'We alone fight,' said they, 'and other troops are doing nothing; the volunteers are lying with their bellies to the sky. The Tartars are plundering; the spahis are strolling about the bazaars. The Padishah says to us, "My dear lambs;" but it is clear that we are not over-dear to him, since he sends us here to the shambles. We will hold out,' said they, 'but not long; then we will go back to Hotin, and if they do not let us go, some lofty heads may fall.'" "Do you hear, gracious gentlemen?" cried Volodyovski. "When the janissaries mutiny, the Sultan will be frightened, and raise the siege." "As God is dear to me, I tell the pure truth," said Mushalski. "Rebellion is easy among the janissaries, and they are very much dissatisfied. I think that they will try one or two storms more, and then will gnash their teeth at their aga, the kaimakan, or even the Sultan himself." "So it will be," cried the officers. "Let them try twelve storms; we are ready," said others. They rattled their sabres and looked with bloodshot eyes at the trenches, while drawing deep breaths; hearing this, the little knight whispered with enthusiasm to Ketling, "A new Zbaraj! a new Zbaraj!" But Pan Mushalski began again: "I have told you what I heard. I was sorry to leave them, for I might have heard more; but I was afraid that daylight might catch me. I went then to those trenches from which they were not firing; I did this so as to slip by in the dark. I look; I see no regular sentries, only groups of janissaries strolling, as everywhere. I go to a frowning gun; no one says anything. You know that I took spikes for the cannon. I push a spike into the priming quickly; it won't go in,--it needs a blow from a hammer. But since the Lord God gave some strength to my hand (you have seen my experiments more than once), I pressed the spike; it squeaked a little, but went in to the head. I was terribly glad." "As God lives! did you do that? Did you spike the great cannon?" asked men on every side. "I spiked that and another, for the work went so easily that I was sorry to leave it; and I went to another gun. My hand is a little sore, but the spike went in." "Gracious gentlemen," cried Pan Michael, "no one here has done greater things; no one has covered himself with such glory. Vivat Pan Mushalski!" "Vivat! vivat!" repeated the officers. After the officers the soldiers began to shout. The Turks in their trenches heard those shouts, and were alarmed; their courage fell the more. But the bowman, full of joy, bowed to the officers, and showed his mighty palm, which was like a shovel; on it were two blue spots. "True, as God lives! you have the witness here," said he. "We believe!" cried all. "Praise be to God that you came back in safety!" "I passed through the planking," continued the bowman. "I wanted to burn that work; but I had nothing to do it with." "Do you know, Michael," cried Ketling, "my rags are ready. I am beginning to think of that planking. Let them know that we attack first." "Begin! begin!" cried Pan Michael. He rushed himself to the arsenal, and sent fresh news to the town: "Pan Mushalski was not killed in the sortie, for he has returned, after spiking two heavy guns. He was among the janissaries, who think of rebelling. In an hour we shall burn their woodworks; and if it be possible to make at the same time a sortie, I will make it." The messenger had not crossed the bridge when the walls were trembling from the roar of cannon. This time the castle began the thundering dialogue. In the pale light of the morning the flaming rags flew like blazing banners, and fell on the woodwork. The moisture with which the night rain had covered the wood helped nothing. Soon the timbers caught fire, and were burning. After the rags Ketling hurled bombs. The wearied crowds of janissaries left the trenches in the first moments. They did not play the kindya. The vizir himself appeared at the head of new legions; but evidently doubt had crept even into his heart, for the pashas heard how he muttered,-- "Battle is sweeter to those men than sleep. What kind of people live in that castle?" In the army were heard on all sides alarmed voices repeating, "The little dog is beginning to bite! The little dog is beginning to bite!" CHAPTER LVII. That happy night, full of omens of victory, was followed by August 26,--the day most important in the history of that war. In the castle they expected some great effort on the part of the Turks. In fact, about sunrise there was heard such a loud and mighty hammering along the left side of the castle as never before. Evidently the Turks were hurrying with a new mine, the largest of all. Strong detachments of troops were guarding that work from a distance. Swarms began to move in the trenches. From the multitude of colored banners with which the field on the side of Dlujek had bloomed as with flowers, it was known that the vizir was coming to direct the storm in person. New cannon were brought to the intrenchments by janissaries, countless throngs of whom covered the new castle, taking refuge in its fosses and ruins, so as to be in readiness for a hand-to-hand struggle. As has been said, the castle was the first to begin the converse with cannon, and so effectually that a momentary panic rose in the trenches. But the bimbashes rallied the janissaries in the twinkle of an eye; at the same time all the Turkish cannon raised their voices. Bombs, balls, and grapeshot were flying; at the heads of the besieged flew rubbish, bricks, plaster; smoke was mingled with dust, the heat of fire with the heat of the sun. Breath was failing in men's breasts; sight left their eyes. The roar of guns, the bursting of bombs, the biting of cannon-balls on the rocks, the uproar of the Turks, the cries of the defenders, formed one terrible concert which was accompanied by the echoes of the cliffs. The castle was covered with missiles; the town, the gates, all the bastions, were covered. But the castle defended itself with rage; it answered thunders with thunders, shook, flashed, smoked, roared, vomited fire, death, and destruction, as if Jove's anger had borne it away,--as if it had forgotten itself amid flames; as if it wished to drown the Turkish thunders and sink in the earth, or else triumph. In the castle, among flying balls, fire, dust, and smoke, the little knight rushed from cannon to cannon, from one wall to another, from corner to corner; he was like a destroying flame. He seemed to double and treble himself: he was everywhere. He encouraged; he shouted. When a gunner fell he took his place, and rousing confidence in men, ran again to some other spot. His fire was communicated to the soldiers. They believed that this was the last storm, after which would come peace and glory; faith in victory filled their breasts. Their hearts grew firm and resolute; the madness of battle seized their minds. Shouts and challenges issued every moment from their throats. Such rage seized some that they went over the wall to close outside with the janissaries hand to hand. The janissaries, under cover of smoke, went twice to the breach in dense masses; and twice they fell back in disorder after they had covered the ground with their bodies. About midday the volunteer and irregular janissaries were sent to aid them; but the less trained crowds, though pushed from behind with darts, only howled with dreadful voices, and did not wish to go against the castle. The kaimakan came; that did no good. Every moment threatened disorder, bordering on panic. At last the men were withdrawn; and the guns alone worked unceasingly as before, hurling thunder after thunder, lightning after lightning. Whole hours were spent in this manner. The sun had passed the zenith, and rayless, red, and smoky, as if veiled by haze, looked at that struggle. About three o'clock in the afternoon the roar of guns gained such force that in the castle the loudest words shouted in the ear were not audible. The air in the castle became as hot as in a stove. The water which they poured on the cannon turned into steam, mixing with the smoke and hiding the light; but the guns thundered on. Just after three o'clock, the largest Turkish culverines were broken. Some "Our Fathers" later, the mortar standing near them burst, struck by a long shot. Gunners perished like flies. Every moment it became more evident that that irrepressible castle was gaining in the struggle, that it would roar down the Turkish thunder, and utter the last word of victory. The Turkish fire began to weaken gradually. "The end will come!" shouted Volodyovski, with all his might, in Ketling's ear. He wished his friend to hear those words amid the roar. "So I think," answered Ketling. "To last till to-morrow, or longer?" "Perhaps longer. Victory is with us to-day." "And through us. We must think of that new mine." The Turkish fire was weakening still more. "Keep up the cannonade!" cried Volodyovski. And he sprang among the gunners, "Fire, men!" cried he, "till the last Turkish gun is silent! To the glory of God and the Most Holy Lady! To the glory of the Commonwealth!" The soldiers, seeing that the storm was nearing its end, gave forth a loud shout, and with the greater enthusiasm fired at the Turkish trenches. "We'll play an evening kindya for you, dog brothers," cried many voices. Suddenly something wonderful took place. All the Turkish guns ceased at once, as if some one had cut them off with a knife. At the same time, the musketry fire of the janissaries ceased in the new castle. The old castle thundered for a time yet; but at last the officers began to look at one another, and inquire,-- "What is this? What has happened?" Ketling, alarmed somewhat, ceased firing also. "Maybe there is a mine under us which will be exploded right away," said one of the officers. Volodyovski pierced the man with a threatening glance, and said, "The mine is not ready; and even if it were, only the left side of the castle could be blown up by it, and we will defend ourselves in the ruins while there is breath in our nostrils. Do you understand?" Silence followed, unbroken by a shot from the trenches or the town. After thunders from which the walls and the earth had been quivering, there was something solemn in that silence, but something ominous also. The eyes of each were intent on the trenches; but through the clouds of smoke nothing was visible. Suddenly the measured blows of hammers were heard on the left side. "I told you that they are only making the mine," said Pan Michael. "Sergeant, take twenty men and examine for me the new castle," commanded he, turning to Lusnia. Lusnia obeyed quickly, took twenty men, and vanished in a moment beyond the breach. Silence followed again, broken only by groans here and there, or the gasp of the dying, and the pounding of hammers. They waited rather long. At last the sergeant returned. "Pan Commandant," said he, "there is not a living soul in the new castle." Volodyovski looked with astonishment at Ketling. "Have they raised the siege already, or what? Nothing can be seen through the smoke." But the smoke, blown by the wind, became thin, and at last its veil was broken above the town. At the same moment a voice, shrill and terrible, began to shout from the bastion,-- "Over the gates are white flags! We are surrendering!" Hearing this, the soldiers and officers turned toward the town. Terrible amazement was reflected on their faces; the words died on the lips of all; and through the strips of smoke they were gazing toward the town. But in the town, on the Russian and Polish gates, white flags were really waving. Farther on, they saw one on the bastion of Batory. The face of the little knight became as white as those flags waving in the wind. "Ketling, do you see?" whispered he, turning to his friend. Ketling's face was pale also. "I see," replied he. And they looked into each other's eyes for some time, uttering with them everything which two soldiers like them, without fear or reproach, had to say,--soldiers who never in life had broken their word, and who had sworn before the altar to die rather than surrender the castle. And now, after such a defence, after a struggle which recalled the days of Zbaraj, after a storm which had been repulsed, and after a victory, they were commanded to break their oath, to surrender the castle, and live. As, not long before, hostile balls were flying over the castle, so now hostile thoughts were flying in a throng through their heads. And sorrow simply measureless pressed their hearts,--sorrow for two loved ones, sorrow for life and happiness; hence they looked at each other as if demented, as if dead, and at times they turned glances full of despair toward the town, as if wishing to be sure that their eyes were not deceiving them,--to be sure that the last hour had struck. At that time horses' hoofs sounded from the direction of the town; and after a while Horaim, the attendant of the starosta, rushed up to them. "An order to the commandant!" cried he, reining in his horse. Volodyovski took the order, read it in silence, and after a time, amid silence as of the grave, said to the officers,-- "Gracious gentlemen, commissioners have crossed the river in a boat, and have gone to Dlujek to sign conditions. After a time they will come here. Before evening we must withdraw the troops from the castle, and raise a white flag without delay." No one answered a word. Nothing was heard but quick breathing. At last Kvasibrotski said, "We must raise the white flag. I will muster the men." Here and there the words of command were heard. The soldiers began to take their places in ranks, and shoulder arms. The clatter of muskets and the measured tread roused echoes in the silent castle. Ketling pushed up to Pan Michael. "Is it time?" inquired he. "Wait for the commissioners; let us hear the conditions! Besides, I will go down myself." "No, I will go! I know the places better; I know the position of everything." "The commissioners are returning! The commissioners are returning!" The three unhappy envoys appeared in the castle after a certain time. They were Grushetski, judge of Podolia, the chamberlain Revuski, and Pan Myslishevski, banneret of Chernigoff. They came gloomily, with drooping heads; on their shoulders were gleaming kaftans of gold brocade, which they had received as gifts from the vizir. Volodyovski was waiting for them, resting against a gun turned toward Dlujek. The gun was hot yet, and steaming. All three greeted him in silence. "What are the conditions?" asked he. "The town will not be plundered; life and property are assured to the inhabitants. Whoever does not choose to remain has the right to withdraw and betake himself to whatever place may please him." "And Kamenyets?" The commissioners dropped their heads: "Goes to the Sultan forever." The commissioners took their way, not toward the bridge, for throngs of people had blocked the road, but toward the southern gate at the side. When they had descended, they sat in the boat which was to go to the Polish gate. In the low place lying along the river between the cliffs, the janissaries began to appear. Greater and greater streams of people flowed from the town, and occupied the place opposite the old bridge. Many wished to run to the castle; but the outgoing regiments restrained them, at command of the little knight. When Volodyovski had mustered the troops, he called Pan Mushalski and said to him,-- "Old friend, do me one more service. Go this moment to my wife, and tell her from me--" Here the voice stuck in the throat of the little knight for a while. "And say to her from me--" He halted again, and then added quickly, "This life is nothing!" The bowman departed. After him the troops went out gradually. Pan Michael mounted his horse and watched over the march. The castle was evacuated slowly, because of the rubbish and fragments which blocked the way. Ketling approached the little knight. "I will go down," said he, fixing his teeth. "Go! but delay till the troops have marched out. Go!" Here they seized each other in an embrace which lasted some time. The eyes of both were gleaming with an uncommon radiance. Ketling rushed away at last toward the vaults. Pan Michael took the helmet from his head. He looked awhile yet on the ruin, on that field of his glory, on the rubbish, the corpses, the fragments of walls, on the breastwork, on the guns; then raising his eyes, he began to pray. His last words were, "Grant her, O Lord, to endure this patiently; give her peace!" Ah! Ketling hastened, not waiting even till the troops had marched out; for at that moment the bastions quivered, an awful roar rent the air; bastions, towers, walls, horses, guns, living men, corpses, masses of earth, all torn upward with a flame, and mixed, pounded together, as it were, into one dreadful cartridge, flew toward the sky. Thus died Volodyovski, the Hector of Kamenyets, the first soldier of the Commonwealth. In the monastery of St. Stanislav stood a lofty catafalque in the centre of the church; it was surrounded with gleaming tapers, and on it lay Pan Volodyovski in two coffins, one of lead and one of wood. The lids had been fastened, and the funeral service was just ending. It was the heartfelt wish of the widow that the body should rest in Hreptyoff; but since all Podolia was in the hands of the enemy, it was decided to bury it temporarily in Stanislav, for to that place the "exiles" of Kamenyets had been sent under a Turkish convoy, and there delivered to the troops of the hetman. All the bells in the monastery were ringing. The church was filled with a throng of nobles and soldiers, who wished to look for the last time at the coffin of the Hector of Kamenyets, and the first cavalier of the Commonwealth. It was whispered that the hetman himself was to come to the funeral; but as he had not appeared so far, and as at any moment the Tartars might come in a chambul, it was determined not to defer the ceremony. Old soldiers, friends or subordinates of the deceased, stood in a circle around the catafalque. Among others were present Pan Mushalski, the bowman. Pan Motovidlo, Pan Snitko, Pan Hromyka, Pan Nyenashinyets, Pan Novoveski, and many others, former officers of the stanitsa. By a marvellous fortune, no man was lacking of those who had sat on the evening benches around the hearth at Hreptyoff; all had brought their heads safely out of that war, except the man who was their leader and model. That good and just knight, terrible to the enemy, loving to his own; that swordsman above swordsmen, with the heart of a dove,--lay there high among the tapers, in glory immeasurable, but in the silence of death. Hearts hardened through war were crushed with sorrow at that sight; yellow gleams from the tapers shone on the stern, suffering faces of warriors, and were reflected in glittering points in the tears dropping down from their eyelids. Within the circle of soldiers lay Basia, in the form of a cross, on the floor, and near her Zagloba, old, broken, decrepit, and trembling. She had followed on foot from Kamenyets the hearse bearing that most precious coffin, and now the moment had come when it was necessary to, give that coffin to the earth. Walking the whole way, insensible, as if not belonging to this world, and now at the catafalque, she repeated with unconscious lips, "This life is nothing!" She repeated it because that beloved one had commanded her, for that was the last message which he had sent her; but in that repetition and in those expressions were mere sounds, without substance, without truth, without meaning and solace. No; "This life is nothing" meant merely regret, darkness, despair, torpor, merely misfortune incurable, life beaten and broken,--an erroneous announcement that there was nothing above her, neither mercy nor hope; that there was merely a desert, and it will be a desert which God alone can fill when He sends death. They rang the bells; at the great altar Mass was at its end. At last thundered the deep voice of the priest, as if calling from the abyss: "_Requiescat in pace!_" A feverish quiver shook Basia, and in her unconscious head rose one thought alone, "Now, now, they will take him from me!" But that was not yet the end of the ceremony. The knights had prepared many speeches to be spoken at the lowering of the coffin; meanwhile Father Kaminski ascended the pulpit,--the same who had been in Hreptyoff frequently, and who in time of Basia's illness had prepared her for death. People in the church began to spit and cough, as is usual before preaching; then they were quiet, and all eyes were turned to the pulpit. The rattling of a drum was heard on the pulpit. The hearers were astonished. Father Kaminski beat the drum as if for alarm; he stopped suddenly, and a deathlike silence followed. Then the drum was heard a second and a third time; suddenly the priest threw the drumsticks to the floor of the church, and called,-- "Pan Colonel Volodyovski!" A spasmodic scream from Basia answered him. It became simply terrible in the church. Pan Zagloba rose, and aided by Mushalski bore out the fainting woman. Meanwhile the priest continued: "In God's name, Pan Volodyovski, they are beating the alarm! there is war, the enemy is in the land!--and do you not spring up, seize your sabre, mount your horse? Have you forgotten your former virtue? Do you leave us alone with sorrow, with alarm?" The breasts of the knights rose; and a universal weeping broke out in the church, and broke out several times again, when the priest lauded the virtue, the love of country, and the bravery of the dead man. His own words carried the preacher away. His face became pale; his forehead was covered with sweat; his voice trembled. Sorrow for the little knight carried him away, sorrow for Kamenyets, sorrow for the Commonwealth, ruined by the hands of the followers of the Crescent; and finally he finished his eulogy with this prayer:-- "O Lord, they will turn churches into mosques, and chant the Koran in places where till this time the Gospel has been chanted. Thou hast cast us down, O Lord; Thou hast turned Thy face from us, and given us into the power of the foul Turk. Inscrutable are Thy decrees; but who, O Lord, will resist the Turk now? What armies will war with him on the boundaries? Thou, from whom nothing in the world is concealed,--Thou knowest best that there is nothing superior to our cavalry! What cavalry can move for Thee, O Lord, as ours can? Wilt Thou set aside defenders behind whose shoulders all Christendom might glorify Thy name? O kind Father, do not desert us! show us Thy mercy! Send us a defender! Send a crusher of the foul Mohammedan! Let him come hither; let him stand among us; let him raise our fallen hearts! Send him, O Lord!" At that moment the people gave way at the door; and into the church walked the hetman, Pan Sobieski. The eyes of all were turned to him; a quiver shook the people; and he went with clatter of spurs to the catafalque, lordly, mighty, with the face of a Caesar. An escort of iron cavalry followed him. "Salvator!" cried the priest, in prophetic ecstasy. Sobieski knelt at the catafalque, and prayed for the soul of Volodyovski. EPILOGUE. More than a year after the fall of Kamenyets, when the dissensions of parties had ceased in some fashion, the Commonwealth came forth at last in defence of its eastern boundaries; and it came forth offensively. The grand hetman, Sobieski, marched with thirty-one thousand cavalry and infantry to Hotin, in the Sultan's territory, to strike on the incomparably more powerful legions of Hussein Pasha, stationed at that fortress. The name of Sobieski had become terrible to the enemy. During the year succeeding the capture of Kamenyets the hetman accomplished so much, injured, the countless army of the Padishah to such a degree, crushed out so many chambuls, rescued such throngs of captives, that old Hussein, though stronger in the number of his men, though standing at the head, of chosen cavalry, though aided by Kaplan Pasha, did not dare to meet the hetman in the open field, and decided to defend himself in a fortified camp. The hetman surrounded that camp with his army; and it was known universally that he intended to take it in an offensive battle. Some thought surely that it was an undertaking unheard of in the history of war to attack a superior with an inferior army when the enemy was protected by walls and trenches. Hussein had a hundred and twenty guns, while in the whole Polish camp there were only fifty. The Turkish infantry was threefold greater in number than the power of the hetman; of janissaries alone, so terrible in hand-to-hand conflict, there were eighty thousand. But the hetman believed in his star, in the magic of his name,--and finally in the men whom he led. Under him marched regiments trained and tempered in fire,--men who had grown up from years of childhood in the bustle of war, who had passed through an uncounted number of expeditions, campaigns, sieges, battles. Many of them remembered the terrible days of Hmelnitski, of Zbaraj and Berestechko; many had gone through all the wars, Swedish, Prussian, Moscovite, civil, Danish, and Hungarian. With him were the escorts of magnates, formed of veterans only; there were soldiers from the stanitsas, for whom war had become what peace is for other men,--the ordinary condition and course of life. Under the voevoda of Rus were fifteen squadrons of hussars,--cavalry considered, even by foreigners, as invincible; there were light squadrons, the very same at the head of which the hetman had inflicted such disasters on detached Tartar chambuls after the fall of Kamenyets; there were finally the land infantry, who rushed on janissaries with the butts of their muskets, without firing a shot. War had reared those veterans, for it had reared whole generations in the Commonwealth; but hitherto they had been scattered, or in the service of opposing parties. Now, when internal agreement had summoned them to one camp and one command, the hetman hoped to crush with such soldiers the stronger Hussein and the equally strong Kaplan. These old soldiers were led by trained men whose names were written more than once in the history of recent wars, in the changing wheel of defeats and victories. The hetman himself stood at the head of them all like a sun, and directed thousands with his will; but who were the other leaders who at this camp in Hotin were to cover themselves with immortal glory? There were the two Lithuanian hetmans,--the grand hetman, Pats, and the field hetman, Michael Kazimir Radzivill. These two joined the armies of the kingdom a few days before the battle, and now, at command of Sobieski, they took position on the heights which connected Hotin with Jvanyets. Twelve thousand warriors obeyed their commands; among these were two thousand chosen infantry. From the Dniester toward the south stood the allied regiments of Wallachia, who left the Turkish camp on the eve of the battle to join their strength with Christians. At the flank of the Wallachians stood with his artillery Pan Kantski, incomparable in the capture of fortified places, in the making of intrenchments, and the handling of cannon. He had trained himself in foreign countries, but soon excelled even foreigners. Behind Kantski stood Korytski's Russian and Mazovian infantry; farther on, the field hetman of the kingdom, Dmitri Vishnyevetski, cousin of the sickly king. He had under him the light cavalry. Next to him, with his own squadron of infantry and cavalry, stood Pan Yendrei Pototski, once an opponent of the hetman, now an admirer of his greatness. Behind him and behind Korytski stood, under Pan Yablonovski, voevoda of Rus, fifteen squadrons of hussars in glittering armor, with helmets casting a threatening shade on their faces, and with wings at their shoulders. A forest of lances reared their points above these squadrons; but the men were calm. They were confident in their invincible force, and sure that it would come to them to decide the victory. There were warriors inferior to these, not in bravery, but in prominence. There was Pan Lujetski, whose brother the Turks had slain in Bodzanoff; for this deed he had sworn undying vengeance. There was Pan Stefan Charnyetski, nephew of the great Stefan, and field secretary of the kingdom. He, in time of the siege of Kamenyets, had been at the head of a whole band of nobles at Golemb, as a partisan of the king, and had almost roused civil war; now he desired to distinguish himself with bravery. There was Gabriel Silnitski, who had passed all his life in war, and age had already whitened his head; there were other voevodas and castellans, less acquainted with previous wars, less famous, but therefore more greedy of glory. Among the knighthood not clothed with senatorial dignity, illustrious above others, was Pan Yan, the famous hero of Zbaraj, a soldier held up as a model to the knighthood. He had taken part in every war fought by the Commonwealth during thirty years. His hair was gray; but six sons surrounded him, in strength like six wild boars. Of these, four knew war already, but the two younger had to pass their novitiate; hence they were burning with such eagerness for battle that their father was forced to restrain them with words of advice. The officers looked with great respect on this father and his sons; but still greater admiration was roused by Pan Yarotski, who, blind of both eyes, like the Bohemian king[31] Yan, joined the campaign. He had neither children nor relatives; attendants led him by the arms; he hoped for no more than to lay down his life in battle, benefit his country, and win glory. There too was Pan Rechytski, whose father and brother fell during that year. There also was Pan Motovidlo, who had escaped not long before from Tartar bondage, and gone to the field with Pan Myslishevski. The first wished to avenge his captivity; the second, the injustice which he had suffered at Kamenyets, where, in spite of the treaty and his dignity of noble, he had been beaten with sticks by the janissaries. There were knights of long experience from the stanitsas of the Dniester,--the wild Pan Rushchyts and the incomparable bowman, Mushalski, who had brought a sound head out of Kamenyets, because the little knight had sent him to Basia with a message; there was Pan Snitko and Pan Nyenashinyets and Pan Hromyka, and the most unhappy of all, young Pan Adam. Even his friends and relatives wished death to this man, for there remained no consolation for him. When he had regained his health, Pan Adam exterminated chambuls for a whole year, pursuing Lithuanian Tartars with special animosity. After the defeat of Pan Motovidlo by Krychinski, he hunted Krychinski through all Podolia, gave him no rest, and troubled him beyond measure. During those expeditions he caught Adurovich and flayed him alive; he spared no prisoners, but found no relief for his suffering. A month before the battle he joined Yablonovski's hussars. This was the knighthood with which Pan Sobieski took his position at Hotin. Those soldiers were eager to wreak vengeance for the wrongs of the Commonwealth in the first instance, but also for their own. In continual battles with the Pagans in that land soaked in blood, almost every man had lost some dear one, and bore within him the memory of some terrible misfortune. The grand hetman hastened to battle then, for he saw that rage in the hearts of his soldiers might be compared to the rage of a lioness whose whelps reckless hunters have stolen from the thicket. On Nov. 9, 1674, the affair was begun by skirmishes. Crowds of Turks issued from behind the walls in the morning; crowds of Polish knights hastened to meet them with eagerness. Men fell on both sides, but with greater loss to the Turks. Only a few Turks of note or Poles fell, however. Pan May, in the very beginning of the skirmish, was pierced by the curved sabre of a gigantic spahi; but the youngest son of Pan Yan with one blow almost severed the head from that spahi. By this deed he earned the praise of his prudent father, and notable glory. They fought in groups or singly. Those who were looking at the struggle gained courage; greater eagerness rose in them each moment. Meanwhile, detachments of the army were disposed around the Turkish camp, each in the place pointed out by the hetman. Pan Sobieski, taking his position on the old Yassy road, behind the infantry of Korytski, embraced with his eyes the whole camp of Hussein; and on his face he had the serene calmness which a master certain of his art has before he commences his labor. From time to time he sent adjutants with commands; then with thoughtful glance he looked at the struggle of the skirmishers. Toward evening Pan Yablonovski, voevoda of Rus, came to him. "The intrenchments are so extensive," said he, "that it is impossible to attack from all sides simultaneously." "To-morrow we shall be in the intrenchments; and after to-morrow we shall cut down those men in three quarters of an hour," said Sobieski, calmly. Night came in the mean while. Skirmishers left the field. The hetman commanded all divisions to approach the intrenchments in the darkness; this Hussein hindered as much as he could with guns of large calibre, but without result. Toward morning the Polish divisions moved forward again somewhat. The infantry began to throw up breastworks. Some regiments had pushed on to within a good musket-shot. The janissaries opened a brisk fire from muskets. At command of the hetman almost no answer was given to these volleys, but the infantry prepared for an attack hand to hand. The soldiers were waiting only for the signal to rush forward passionately. Over their extended line flew grapeshot with whistling and noise like flocks of birds. Pan Kantski's artillery, beginning the conflict at daybreak, did not cease for one moment. Only when the battle was over did it appear what great destruction its missiles had wrought falling in places covered most thickly with the tents of janissaries and spahis. Thus passed the time until mid-day; but since the day was short, as the month was November, there was need of haste. On a sudden all the trumpets were heard, and drums, great and small. Tens of thousands of throats shouted in one voice; the infantry, supported by light cavalry advancing near them, rushed in a dense throng to the onset. They attacked the Turks at five points simultaneously. Yan Dennemark and Christopher de Bohan, warriors of experience, led the foreign regiments. The first, fiery by nature, hurried forward so eagerly that he reached the intrenchment before others, and came near destroying his regiment, for he had to meet a salvo from several thousand muskets. He fell himself. His soldiers began to waver; but at that moment De Bohan came to the rescue and prevented a panic. With a step as steady as if on parade, and keeping time to the music, he passed the whole distance to the Turkish intrenchment, answered salvo with salvo, and when the fosse was filled with fascines passed it first, under a storm of bullets, inclined his cap to the janissaries, and pierced the first banneret with a sabre. The soldiers, carried away by the example of such a colonel, sprang forward, and then began dreadful struggles in which discipline and training vied with the wild valor of the janissaries. But dragoons were led quickly from the direction of Taraban by Tetwin and Doenhoff; another regiment was led by Aswer Greben and Haydepol, all distinguished soldiers who, except Haydepol, had covered themselves with great glory under Charnyetski in Denmark. The troops of their command were large and sturdy, selected from men on the royal domains, well trained to fighting on foot and on horseback. The gate was defended against them by irregular janissaries, who, though their number was great, were thrown into confusion quickly and began to retreat; when they came to hand-to-hand conflict they defended themselves only when they could not find a place of escape. That gate was captured first, and through it cavalry went first to the interior of the camp. At the head of the Polish land infantry Kobyletski, Jebrovski, Pyotrkovchyk, and Galetski struck the intrenchments in three other places. The most tremendous struggle raged at the main gate, on the Yassy road, where the Mazovians closed with the guard of Hussein Pasha. The vizir was concerned mainly with that gate, for through it the Polish cavalry might rush to the camp; hence he resolved to defend it most stubbornly, and urged forward unceasingly detachments of janissaries. The land infantry took the gate at a blow, and then strained all their strength to retain it. Cannon-balls and a storm of bullets from small arms pushed them back; from clouds of smoke new bands of Turkish warriors sprang forth to the attack every moment. Pan Kobyletski, not waiting till they came, rushed at them like a raging bear; and two walls of men pressed each other, swaying backward and forward in close quarters, in confusion, in a whirl, in torrents of blood, and on piles of human bodies. They fought with every manner of weapon,--with sabres, with knives, with gunstocks, with shovels, with clubs, with stones; the crush became at moments so great, so terrible, that men grappled and fought with fists and with teeth. Hussein tried twice to break the infantry with the impact of cavalry; but the infantry fell upon him each time with such "extraordinary resolution" that the cavalry had to withdraw in disorder. Pan Sobieski took pity at last on his men, and sent all the camp servants to help them. At the head of these was Pan Motovidlo. This rabble, not employed usually in battle and armed with weapons of any kind, rushed forward with such desire that they roused admiration even in the hetman. It may be that greed of plunder inspired them; perhaps the fire seized them which enlivened the whole army that day. It is enough that they struck the janissaries as if they had been smoke, and overpowered them so savagely that in the first onset they forced them back a musket-shot's length from the gate. Hussein threw new regiments into the whirl of battle; and the struggle, renewed in the twinkle of an eye, lasted whole hours. At last Korytski, at the head of chosen regiments, beset the gate in force; the hussars from a distance moved like a great bird raising itself lazily to flight, and pushed toward the gate also. At this time an adjutant rushed to the hetman from the Eastern side of the camp. "The voevoda of Belsk is on the ramparts!" cried he, with panting breast. After him came a second,-- "The hetmans of Lithuania are on the ramparts!" After him came others, always with similar news. It had grown dark in the world, but light was beaming from the face of the hetman. He turned to Pan Bidzinski, who at that moment was near him, and said,-- "Next comes the turn of the cavalry; but that will be in the morning." No one in the Polish or the Turkish army knew or imagined that the hetman intended to defer the general attack till the following morning. Nay, adjutants sprang to the captains with the command to be ready at any instant. The infantry stood in closed ranks; sabres and lances were burning the hands of the cavalry. All were awaiting the order impatiently, for the men were chilled and hungry. But no order came; meanwhile hours passed. The night became as black as mourning. Drizzling rain had set in at one o'clock in the day; but about midnight a strong wind with frozen rain and snow followed. Gusts of it froze the marrow in men's bones; the horses were barely able to stand in their places; men were benumbed. The sharpest frost, if dry, could not be so bitter as that wind and snow, which cut like a scourge. In constant expectation of the signal, it was not possible to think of eating and drinking or of kindling fires. The weather became more terrible each hour. That was a memorable night,--"a night of torture and gnashing of teeth." The voices of the captains--"Stand! stand!"--were heard every moment; and the soldiers, trained to obedience, stood in the greatest readiness without movement, and patiently. But in front of them, in rain, storm, and darkness, stood in equal readiness the stiffened regiments of the Turks. Among them, too, no one kindled a fire, no one ate, no one drank. The attack of all the Polish forces might come at any moment, therefore the spahis could not drop their sabres from their hands; the janissaries stood like a wall, with their muskets ready to fire. The hardy Polish soldiers, accustomed to the sternness of winter, could pass such a night; but those men reared in the mild climate of Rumelia, or amid the palms of Asia Minor, were suffering more than their powers could endure. At last Hussein discovered why Sobieski did not begin the attack. It was because that frozen rain was the best ally of the Poles. Clearly, if the spahis and janissaries were to stand through twelve hours like those, the cold would lay them down on the morrow as grain sheaves are laid. They would not even try to defend themselves,--at least till the heat of the battle should warm them. Both Poles and Tartars understood this. About four o'clock in the morning two pashas came to Hussein,--Yanish Pasha and Kiaya Pasha, the leader of the janissaries, an old warrior of renown and experience. The faces of both were full of anxiety and care. "Lord!" said Kiaya, first, "if my 'lambs' stand in this way till daylight, neither bullets nor swords will be needed against them." "Lord!" said Yanish Pasha, "my spahis will freeze, and will not fight in the morning." Hussein twisted his beard, foreseeing defeat for his army and destruction to himself. But what was he to do? Were he to let his men break ranks for even a minute, or let them kindle fires to warm themselves with hot food, the attack would begin immediately. As it was, the trumpets were sounded at intervals near the ramparts, as if the cavalry were just ready to move. Kiaya and Yanish Pasha saw only one escape from disaster,--that was, not to wait for the attack, but to strike with all force on the enemy. It was nothing that he was in readiness; for though ready to attack, he did not expect attack himself. Perhaps they might drive him out of the intrenchments; in the worst event defeat was likely in a night battle, in the battle of the morrow it was certain. But Hussein did not venture to follow the advice of the old warriors. "How!" said he; "you have furrowed the camp-ground with ditches, seeing in them the one safeguard against that hellish cavalry,--that was your advice and your precaution; now you say something different." He did not give that order. He merely gave an order to fire from cannon, to which Pan Kantski answered with great effect instantly. The rain became colder and colder, and cut more and more cruelly; the wind roared, howled, went through clothing and skin, and froze the blood in men's veins. So passed that long November night, in which the strength of the warriors of Islam was failing, and despair, with a foreboding of defeat, seized hold of their hearts. At the very dawn Yanish Pasha went once more to Hussein with advice to withdraw in order of battle to the bridge on the Dniester and begin there the game of war cautiously. "For," said he, "if the troops do not withstand the onrush of the cavalry, they will withdraw to the opposite bank, and the river will give them protection." Kiaya, the leader of the janissaries, was of another opinion, however. He thought it too late for Yanish's advice, and moreover he feared lest a panic might seize the whole army immediately, if the order were given to withdraw. "The spahis with the aid of the irregular janissaries must sustain the first shock of the enemy's cavalry, even if all are to perish in doing so. By that time the janissaries will come to their aid, and when the first impetus of the unbelievers is stopped, perhaps God may send victory." Thus advised, Kiaya and Hussein followed. Mounted multitudes of Turks pushed forward; the janissaries, regular and irregular, were disposed behind them, around the tents of Hussein. Their deep ranks presented a splendid and fear-inspiring spectacle. The white-bearded Kiaya, "Lion of God," who till that time had led only to victory, flew past their close ranks, strengthening them, raising their courage, reminding them of past battles and their own unbroken preponderance. To them also, battle was sweeter than that idle waiting in storm and in rain, in wind which was piercing them to the bone; hence, though they could barely grasp the muskets and spears in their stiffened hands, they were still cheered by the thought that they would warm them in battle. With far less desire did the spahis await the attack, because on them was to fall its first fury, because among them were many inhabitants of Asia Minor and of Egypt, who, exceedingly sensitive to cold, were only half living after that night. The horses also suffered not a little, and though covered with splendid caparisons, they stood with heads toward the earth, puffing rolls of steam from their nostrils. The men with blue faces and dull eyes did not even think of victory. They were thinking only that death would be better than torment like that in which the last night had been passed by them, but best of all would be flight to their distant homes, beneath the hot rays of the sun. Among the Polish troops a number of men without sufficient clothing had died before day on the ramparts; in general, however, they endured the cold far better than the Turks, for the hope of victory strengthened them, and a faith, almost blind, that since the hetman had decided that they were to stiffen in the rain, the torment must come out infallibly for their good, and for the evil and destruction of the Turks. Still, even they greeted the first gleams of that morning with gladness. At this same time Sobieski appeared at the battlements. There was no brightness in the sky, but there was brightness on his face; for when he saw that the enemy intended to give battle in the camp he was certain that that day would bring dreadful defeat to Mohammed. Hence he went from regiment to regiment, repeating: "For the desecration of churches! for blasphemy against the Most Holy Lady in Kamenyets! for injury to Christendom and the Commonwealth! for Kamenyets!" The soldiers had a terrible look on their faces, as if wishing to say: "We can barely restrain ourselves! Let us go, grand hetman, and you will see!" The gray light of morning grew clearer and clearer; out of the fog rows of horses' heads, forms of men, lances, banners, finally regiments of infantry, emerged more distinctly each moment. First they began to move and advance in the fog toward the enemy, like two rivers, at the flanks of the cavalry; then the light horse moved, leaving only a broad road in the middle, over which the hussars were to rush when the right moment came. Every leader of a regiment in the infantry, every captain, had instructions and knew what to do. Pan Kantski's artillery began to speak more profoundly, calling out from the Turkish side also strong answers. Then musketry fire thundered, a mighty shout was heard throughout the whole camp,--the attack had begun. The misty air veiled the view, but sounds of the struggle reached the place where the hussars were in waiting. The rattle of arms could be heard, and the shouting of men. The hetman, who till then had remained with the hussars, and was conversing with Pan Yablonovski, stopped on a sudden and listened. "The infantry are fighting with the irregular janissaries; those in the front trenches are scattered," said he to the voevoda. After a time, when the sound of musketry was failing, one mighty salvo roared up on a sudden; after it another very quickly. It was evident that the light squadrons had pushed back the spahis and were in presence of the janissaries. The grand hetman, putting spurs to his horse, rushed like lightning at the head of some tens of men to the battle; the voevoda of Rus remained with the fifteen squadrons of hussars, who, standing in order, were waiting only for the signal to spring forward and decide the fate of the struggle. They waited long enough after that; but meanwhile in the depth of the camp it was seething and roaring more and more terribly. The battle seemed at times to roll on to the right, then to the left, now toward the Lithuanian armies, now toward the voevoda of Belsk, precisely as when in time of storm thunders roll over the sky. The artillery-fire of the Turks was becoming irregular, while Pan Kantski's batteries played with redoubled vigor. After the course of an hour it seemed to the voevoda of Rus that the weight of the battle was transferred to the centre, directly in front of his cavalry. At that moment the grand hetman rushed up at the head of his escort. Flame was shooting from his eyes. He reined in his horse near the voevoda of Rus, and exclaimed,-- "At them, now, with God's aid!" "At them!" shouted the voevoda of Rus. And after him the captains repeated the commands. With a terrible noise that forest of lances dropped with one movement toward the heads of the horses, and fifteen squadrons of that cavalry accustomed to crush everything before it moved forward like a giant cloud. From the time when, in the three days' battle at Warsaw, the Lithuanian hussars, under Prince Polubinski, split the whole Swedish army like a wedge, and went through it, no one remembered an attack made with such power. Those squadrons started at a trot, but at a distance of two hundred paces the captains commanded: "At a gallop!" The men answering, with a shout, "Strike! Crush!" bent in the saddles, and the horses went at the highest speed. Then that column, moving like a whirlwind, and formed of horses, iron men, and straightened lances, had in it something like the might of an element let loose. And it went like a storm, or a raging river, with roar and outburst. The earth groaned under the weight of it; and if no man had levelled a lance or drawn a sabre, it was evident that the hussars with their very weight and impact would hurl down, trample, and break everything before them, just as a column of wind breaks and crushes a forest. They swept on in this way to the bloody field, covered with bodies, on which the battle was raging. The light squadrons were still struggling on the wings with the Turkish cavalry, which they had succeeded in pushing to the rear considerably, but in the centre the deep ranks of the janissaries stood like an indestructible wall. A number of times the light squadrons had broken themselves against that wall, as a wave rolling on breaks itself against a rocky shore. To crush and destroy it was now the task of the hussars. A number of thousand of muskets thundered, "as if one man had fired." A moment more the janissaries fix themselves more firmly on their feet; some blink at sight of the terrible onrush; the hands of some are trembling while holding their spears; the hearts of all are beating like hammers, their teeth are set, their breasts are breathing convulsively. The hussars are just on them; the thundering breath of the horses is heard. Destruction, annihilation, death, are flying at them. "Allah!" "Jesus, Mary!"--these two shouts meet and mingle as terribly as if they had never burst from men's breasts till that moment. The living wall trembles, bends, breaks. The dry crash of broken lances drowns for a time every other sound; after that, is heard the bite of iron, the sound, as it were, of thousands of hammers beating with full force on anvils, as of thousands of flails on a floor, and cries singly and collectively, groans, shouts, reports of pistols and guns, the howling of terror. Attackers and attacked mingle together, rolling in an unimaginable whirl. A slaughter follows; from under the chaos blood flows, warm, steaming, filling the air with raw odor. The first, second, third, and tenth rank of the janissaries are lying like a pavement, trampled with hoofs, pierced with spears, cut with swords. But the white-bearded Kiaya, "Lion of God," hurls all his men into the boiling of the battle. It is nothing that they are put down like grain before a storm. They fight! Rage seizes them; they breathe death; they desire death. The column of horses' breasts pushes them, bends, overturns them. They open the bellies of horses with their knives; thousands of sabres cut them without rest; blades rise like lightning and fall on their heads, shoulders, and hands. They cut a horseman on the legs, on the knees; they wind around, and bite like venomous worms; they perish and avenge themselves. Kiaya, "Lion of God," hurls new ranks again and again into the jaws of death. He encourages them to battle with a cry, and with curved sabre erect he rushes into the chaos himself. With that a gigantic hussar, destroying like a flame everything before him, falls on the white-bearded old man, and standing in his stirrups to hew the more terribly, brings down with an awful sweep a two-handed sword on the gray head. Neither the sabre nor the headpiece forged in Damascus are proof against the blow; and Kiaya, cleft almost to the shoulders, falls to the ground, as if struck by lightning. Pan Adam, for it was he, had already spread dreadful destruction, for no one could withstand the strength and sullen rage of the man; but now he had given the greatest service by hewing down the old hero, who alone had supported the stubborn battle. The janissaries shouted in a terrible voice on seeing the death of their leader, and more than ten of them aimed muskets at the breast of the cavalier. He turned toward them like dark night; and before other hussars could strike them, the shots roared, Pan Adam reined in his horse and bent in the saddle. Two comrades seized him by the shoulders; but a smile, a guest long unknown, lighted his gloomy face, his eyeballs turned in his head, and his white lips whispered words which in the din of battle no man could distinguish. Meanwhile the last ranks of the janissaries wavered. The valiant Yanish Pasha tried to renew the battle, but the terror of panic had seized on his men; efforts were useless. The ranks were broken and shivered, pushed back, beaten, trampled, slashed; they could not come to order. At last they burst, as an overstrained chain bursts, and like single links men flew from one another in every direction, howling, shouting, throwing down their weapons, and covering their heads with their hands. The cavalry pursue them; and they, not finding space sufficient for flight singly, gather at times into a dense mass, on whose shoulders ride the cavalry, swimming in blood. Pan Mushalski, the bowman, struck the valiant Yanish Pasha such a sabre-blow on the neck that his spinal marrow gushed forth and stained his silk shirt and the silver scales on his armor. The irregular janissaries, beaten by the Polish infantry, and a part of the cavalry which was scattered in the very beginning of the battle, in fact, a whole Turkish throng, fled now to the opposite side of the camp, where there was a rugged ravine some tens of feet deep. Terror drove the mad men to that place. Many rushed over the precipice, "not to escape death, but death at the hands of the Poles." Pan Bidzinski blocked the road to this despairing throng; but the avalanche of fugitives tore him away with it, and threw him to the bottom of the precipice, which after a time was filled almost to the top with piles of slain, wounded, and suffocated men. From this place rose terrible groans; bodies were quivering, kicking one another, or clawing with their fingers in the spasms of death. Those groans were heard until evening; until evening those bodies were moving, but more and more slowly, less and less noticeably, till at dark there was silence. Awful were the results of the blow of the hussars. Eight thousand janissaries, slain with swords, lay near the ditch surrounding the tents of Hussein Pasha, not counting those who perished in the flight, or at the foot of the precipice. The Polish cavalry were in the tents; Pan Sobieski had triumphed. The trumpets were raising the hoarse sounds of victory, when the battle raged up again on a sudden. After the breaking of the janissaries the vizir, Hussein Pasha, at the head of his mounted guards and of all that were left of the cavalry, fled through the gate leading to Yassy; but when the squadrons of Dmitri Vishnyevetski, the field hetman, caught him outside and began to hew without mercy, he turned back to the camp to seek escape elsewhere, just as a wild beast surrounded in a forest looks for some outlet. He turned with such speed that he scattered in a moment the light squadron of Cossacks, put to disorder the infantry, occupied partly in plundering the camp, and came within "half a pistol-shot" of the hetman himself. "In the very camp," wrote Pan Sobieski, afterward, "we were near defeat, the avoidance of which should be ascribed to the extraordinary resolution of the hussars." In fact, the pressure of the Turks was tremendous, produced as it was under the influence of utter despair, and the more terrible that it was entirely unexpected; but the hussars, not cooled yet after the heat of battle, rushed at them on the spot, with the greatest vigor. Prusinovski's squadron moved first, and that brought the attackers to a stand; after it rushed Pan Yan with his men, then the whole army,--cavalry, infantry, camp-followers,--every one as he was, every one where he was,--all rushed with the greatest rage on the enemy, and there was a battle, somewhat disordered, but not yielding in fury to the attack of the hussars on the janissaries. When the struggle was over the knights remembered with wonder the bravery of the Turks, who, attacked by Vishnyevetski and the hetmans of Lithuania, surrounded on all sides, defended themselves so madly that though Sobieski permitted the Poles to take prisoners then, they were able to seize barely a handful of captives. When the heavy squadrons scattered them at last, after half an hour's battle, single groups and later single horsemen fought to the last breath, shouting, "Allah!" Many glorious deeds were done, the memory of which has not perished among men. The field hetman of Lithuania cut down a powerful pasha who had slain Pan Rudomina, Pan Kimbar, and Pan Rdultovski; but the hetman, coming to him unobserved, cut off his head at a blow. Pan Sobieski slew in presence of the army a spahi who had fired a pistol at him. Pan Bidzinski, escaping from the ravine by some miracle, though bruised and wounded, threw himself at once into the whirl of battle, and fought till he fainted from exhaustion. He was sick long, but after some months recovered his health, and went again to the field, with great glory to himself. Of men less known Pan Rushchyts raged most, taking off horsemen as a wolf seizes sheep from a flock. Pan Yan on his part worked wonders; around him his sons fought like young lions. With sadness and gloom did these knights think afterward of what that swordsman above swordsmen, Pan Michael, would have done on such a day, were it not that for a year he had been in the earth resting in God and in glory. But others, taught in his school, gained sufficient renown for him and themselves on that bloody field. Two of the old knights of Hreptyoff fell in that renewed battle, Pan Motovidlo and the terrible bowman, Mushalski. A number of balls pierced the breast of Motovidlo simultaneously, and he fell as an oak falls, which has come to its time. Eye-witnesses said that he fell by the hand of those Cossack brothers who under the lead of Hohol had struggled to the last against their mother (Poland) and Christendom. Pan Mushalski, wonderful to relate, perished by an arrow, which some fleeing Turk had sent after him. It passed through his throat just in the moment when, at the perfect defeat of the Pagans, he was reaching his hand to the quiver, to send fresh, unerring messengers of death in pursuit of the fugitives. But his soul had to join the soul of Didyuk, so that the friendship begun on the Turkish galley might endure with the bonds of eternity. The old comrades of Hreptyoff found the three bodies after the battle and took farewell tearfully, though they envied them the glorious death. Pan Adam had a smile on his lips, and calm serenity on his face; Pan Motovidlo seemed to be sleeping quietly; and Pan Mushalski had his eyes raised, as if in prayer. They were buried together on that glorious field of Hotin under the cliff on which, to the eternal memory of the day, their three names were cut out beneath a cross. The leader of the whole Turkish army, Hussein Pasha, escaped on a swift Anatolian steed, but only to receive in Stambul a silk string from the hands of the Sultan. Of the splendid Turkish army merely small bands were able to bear away sound heads from defeat. The last legions of Hussein Pasha's cavalry gave themselves into the hands of the armies of the Commonwealth. In this way the field hetman drove them to the grand hetman, and he drove them to the Lithuanian hetmans, they again to the field hetman; so the turn went till nearly all of them had perished. Of the janissaries almost no man escaped. The whole immense camp was streaming with blood, mixed with snow and rain. So many bodies were lying there that only frost, ravens, and wolves prevented a pestilence, which comes usually from bodies decaying. The Polish troops fell into such ardor of battle that without drawing breath well after the victory, they captured Hotin. In the camp itself immense booty was taken. One hundred and twenty guns and with them three hundred flags and banners did Pan Sobieski take from that field, on which for the second time in the course of a century the Polish sabre celebrated a grand triumph. Pan Sobieski himself stood in the tent of Hussein Pasha, which was sparkling with rubies and gold, and from it he sent news of the fortunate victory to every side by swift couriers. Then cavalry and infantry assembled; all the squadrons,--Polish, Lithuanian, and Cossack,--the whole army, stood in order of battle. A Thanksgiving Mass was celebrated, and on that same square where the day previous muezzins had cried: "La Allah illa Allah!" was sounded "Te Deum laudamus!" The hetman, lying in the form of a cross, heard Mass and the hymn; and when he rose, tears of joy were flowing down his worthy face. At sight of that the legions of knights, the blood not yet wiped from them, and while still trembling from their efforts in battle, gave out three times the loud thundering shout:-- "Vivat Joannes victor!" Ten years later, when the Majesty of King Yan III. (Sobieski) hurled to the dust the Turkish power at Vienna, that shout was repeated from sea to sea, from mountain to mountain, throughout the world, wherever bells called the faithful to prayer. Here ends this series of books, written in the course of a number of years and with no little toil, for the strengthening of hearts. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 1: "With Fire and Sword," page 4.] [Footnote 2: The bishop who visited Zagloba at Ketling's house, see pages 121-126.] [Footnote 3: A celebrated bishop of Cracow, famous for ambition and success.] [Footnote 4: A diminutive of endearment for Anna. Anusia is another form.] [Footnote 5: One of the chiefs of a confederacy formed against the king, Yan Kazimir, by soldiers who had not received their pay.] [Footnote 6: The story in Poland is that storks bring all the infants to the country.] [Footnote 7: This refers to the axelike form of the numeral 7.] [Footnote 8: Diminutive of Barbara.] [Footnote 9: Diminutive of Krystina, or Christiana.] [Footnote 10: Drohoyovski is Parma Krysia's family name.] [Footnote 11: A diminutive of Anna, expressing endearment.] [Footnote 12: To place a water-melon in the carriage of a suitor was one way of refusing him.] [Footnote 13: "Kot" means "cat," hence Basia's exclamations are, "Scot, Scot! cat, cat!"] [Footnote 14: In Polish, "I love" is one word, "Kocham."] [Footnote 15: In the original this forms a rhymed couplet.] [Footnote 16: That is let me kiss you.] [Footnote 17: Injured his head.] [Footnote 18: The Tsar's city,--Constantinople.] [Footnote 19: Zagloba refers here to Pavel Sapyeha, voevoda of Vilna, and grand hetman of Lithuania.] [Footnote 20: Poland.] [Footnote 21: God is merciful! God is merciful.] [Footnote 22: The territory governed by a pasha, in this case the lands of the Cossacks.] [Footnote 23: The Commonwealth.] [Footnote 24: That means as tall as a stove. The tile or porcelain stores of eastern Europe are very high.] [Footnote 25: A barber in that age and in those regions took the place of a surgeon usually.] [Footnote 26: Each nearly equal to five English miles.] [Footnote 27: A hot drink made of gorailka, honey, and spices.] [Footnote 28: Motovidlo's words are Russian in the original.] [Footnote 29: See note after introduction.] [Footnote 30: Hero.] [Footnote 31: More likely Yan Zisca, the great leader of the Hussites.] THE END. 
9473	----	THE KNIGHTS OF THE CROSS or, KRZYZACY Historical Romance By HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ Author Of "Quo Vadis," "The Deluge," "With Fire And Sword," "Pan Michael," Etc., Etc. Translated From The Original Polish By Samuel A. Binion Author Of "Ancient Egypt," Etc. Translator Of "Quo Vadis," Etc. [Illustration: BUST OF HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ] HON. WILLIAM T. HARRIS, LL.D. Commissioner of Education My Dear Doctor:-- This translation, of one of the greatest novels of Poland's foremost modern writer, Henryk Sienkiewicz, I beg to dedicate to you. Apart for my high personal regard for you, my reason for selecting you among all my literary friends, is: that you are a historian and philosopher, and can therefore best appreciate works of this kind. SAMUEL A. BINION, New York City. To the Reader. Here you have, gentle reader--old writers always called you gentle--something very much more than a novel to amuse an idle hour. To read it will be enjoyable pastime, no doubt; but the brilliant romance of the brilliant author calls upon you for some exercise of the finest sympathy and intelligence; sympathy for a glorious nation which, with only one exception, has suffered beyond all other nations; intelligence, of the sources of that unspeakable and immeasurable love and of the great things that may yet befall before those woes are atoned for and due punishment for them meted out to their guilty authors. Poland! Poland! The very name carries with it sighings and groanings, nation-murder, brilliance, beauty, patriotism, splendors, self-sacrifice through generations of gallant men and exquisite women; indomitable endurance of bands of noble people carrying through world-wide exile the sacred fire of wrath against the oppressor, and uttering in every clime a cry of appeal to Humanity to rescue Poland. It was indeed a terrible moment in history, when the three military monarchies of Europe, Russia, Austria and Prussia, swooped down upon the glorious but unhappy country, torn by internal trouble, and determined to kill it and divide up its dominions. All were alike guilty, as far as motive went. But Holy Russia--Holy!--since that horrible time has taken upon herself by far the greatest burden of political crime in her dealings with that noble nation. Every evil passion bred of despotism, of theological hatred, of rancorous ancient enmities, and the ghastliest official corruption, have combined in Russian action for more than one hundred and fifty years, to turn Poland into a hell on earth. Her very language was proscribed. This is not the place to give details of that unhappy country's woes. But suffice it to say, that Poland, in spite of fatuous prohibitions, has had a great literature since the loss of her independence, and that literature has so kept alive the soul of the nation, that with justice Poland sings her great patriotic song: "Poland is not yet lost As long as we live...." The nation is still alive in its writers and their works, their splendid poetry and prose. It is a pity that so few of these great writers are widely known. But most people have heard of Jan Kochanowski, of Mikolaj Rey, of Rubinski, of Szymanowicz, of Poland's great genius in this century, one of the supreme poets of the world, Adam Mickiewicz, of Joseph Ignac, of Kraszewski, who is as prolific in literary and scientific works as Alexander von Humboldt, and of hundreds of others in all branches of science and art, too numerous to mention here. And it is remarkable that the author of this book, Henryk Sienkiewicz, should of late have attained such prominence in the public eye and found a place in the heart of mankind. It is of good omen. Thus, Poland, in spite of her fetters, is keeping step in the very van of the most progressive nations. The romance of Sienkiewicz in this volume is perhaps the most interesting and fascinating he has yet produced. It is in the very first rank of imaginative and historical romance. The time and scene of the noble story are laid in the middle ages during the conquest of Pagan Lithuania by the military and priestly order of the "Krzyzacy" Knights of the Cross. And the story exhibits with splendid force the collision of race passions and fierce, violent individualities which accompanied that struggle. Those who read it will, in addition to their thrilling interest in the tragical and varied incidents, gain no little insight into the origin and working of the inextinguishable race hatred between Teuton and Slav. It was an unfortunate thing surely, that the conversion of the heathen Lithuanians and Zmudzians was committed so largely to that curious variety of the missionary, the armed knight, banded in brotherhood, sacred and military. To say the least, his sword was a weapon dangerous to his evangelizing purpose. He was always in doubt whether to present to the heathen the one end of it, as a cross for adoration, or the other, as a point _to kill with_. And so, if Poland _was_ made a Catholic nation, she was also made an undying and unalterable hater of the German, the Teutonic name and person. And so this noble, historical tale, surpassed perhaps by none in literature, is commended to the thoughtful attention and appreciation of the reader. SAMUEL A. BINION. NEW YORK, May 9, 1899. KNIGHTS OF THE CROSS. PART FIRST CHAPTER I. In Tyniec,[1] in the inn under "Dreadful Urus," which belonged to the abbey, a few people were sitting, listening to the talk of a military man who had come from afar, and was telling them of the adventures which he had experienced during the war and his journey. He had a large beard but he was not yet old, and he was almost gigantic but thin, with broad shoulders; he wore his hair in a net ornamented with beads; he was dressed in a leather jacket, which was marked by the cuirass, and he wore a belt composed of brass buckles; in the belt he had a knife in a horn scabbard, and at his side a short traveling sword. Near by him at the table, was sitting a youth with long hair and joyful look, evidently his comrade, or perhaps a shield-bearer, because he also was dressed as for a journey in a similar leather jacket. The rest of the company was composed of two noblemen from the vicinity of Krakow and of three townsmen with red folding caps, the thin tops of which were hanging down their sides to their elbows. The host, a German, dressed in a faded cowl with large, white collar, was pouring beer for them from a bucket into earthen mugs, and in the meanwhile he was listening with great curiosity to the military adventures. The burghers were listening with still greater curiosity. In these times, the hatred, which during the time of King Lokietek had separated the city and the knighthood, had been very much quenched, and the burghers were prouder than in the following centuries. They called them still _des allerdurchluchtigsten Kuniges und Herren_ and they appreciated their readiness _ad concessionem pecuniarum_; therefore one would very often see in the inns, the merchants drinking with the noblemen like brothers. They were even welcome, because having plenty of money, usually they paid for those who had coats of arms. Therefore they were sitting there and talking, from time to time winking at the host to fill up the mugs. "Noble knight, you have seen a good piece of the world!" said one of the merchants. "Not many of those who are now coming to Krakow from all parts, have seen as much," answered the knight. "There will be plenty of them," said the merchant. "There is to be a great feast and great pleasure for the king and the queen! The king has ordered the queen's chamber to be upholstered with golden brocade, embroidered with pearls, and a canopy of the same material over her. There will be such entertainments and tournaments, as the world has never seen before." "Uncle Gamroth, don't interrupt the knight," said the second merchant. "Friend Eyertreter, I am not interrupting; only I think that he also will be glad to know about what they are talking, because I am sure he is going to Krakow. We cannot return to the city to-day at any rate, because they will shut the gates." "And you speak twenty words, in reply to one. You are growing old, Uncle Gamroth!" "But I can carry a whole piece of wet broadcloth just the same." "Great thing! the cloth through which one can see, as through a sieve." But further dispute was stopped by the knight, who said: "Yes, I will stay in Krakow because I have heard about the tournaments and I will be glad to try my strength in the lists during the combats; and this youth, my nephew, who although young and smooth faced, has already seen many cuirasses on the ground, will also enter the lists." The guests glanced at the youth who laughed mirthfully, and putting his long hair behind his ears, placed the mug of beer to his mouth. The older knight added: "Even if we would like to return, we have no place to go." "How is that?" asked one of the nobles. "Where are you from, and what do they call you?" "I am Macko of Bogdaniec, and this lad, the son of my brother, calls himself Zbyszko. Our coat of arms is Tempa Podkowa, and our war-cry is Grady!" "Where is Bogdaniec?" "Bah! better ask, lord brother, where it was, because it is no more. During the war between Grzymalczyks and Nalenczs,[2] Bogdaniec was burned, and we were robbed of everything; the servants ran away. Only the bare soil remained, because even the farmers who were in the neighborhood, fled into the forests. The father of this lad, rebuilt; but the next year, a flood took everything. Then my brother died, and after his death I remained with the orphan. Then I thought: 'I can't stay!' I heard about the war for which Jasko of Olesnica, whom the king, Wladyslaw, sent to Wilno after he sent Mikolaj of Moskorzowo, was collecting soldiers. I knew a worthy abbot, Janko of Tulcza, to whom I gave my land as security for the money I needed to buy armor and horses, necessary for a war expedition. The boy, twelve years old, I put on a young horse and we went to Jasko of Olesnica." "With the youth?" "He was not even a youth then, but he has been strong since childhood. When he was twelve, he used to rest a crossbow on the ground, press it against his chest and turn the crank. None of the Englishmen, whom I have seen in Wilno, could do better." "Was he so strong?" "He used to carry my helmet, and when he passed thirteen winters, he could carry my spear also." "You had plenty of fighting there!" "Because of Witold. The prince was with the Knights of the Cross, and every year they used to make an expedition against Lithuania, as far as Wilno. Different people went with them: Germans, Frenchmen, Englishmen, who are the best bowmen, Czechs, Swiss and Burgundians. They cut down the forests, burned the castles on their way and finally they devastated Lithuania with fire and sword so badly, that the people who were living in that country, wanted to leave it and search for another land, even to the end of the world, even among Belial's children, only far from the Germans." "We heard here, that the Lithuanians wanted to go away with their wives and children, but we did not believe it." "And I looked at it. Hej! If not for Mikolaj of Moskorzowo, for Jasko of Olesnica, and without any boasting, if not for us, there would be no Wilno now." "We know. You did not surrender the castle." "We did not. And now notice what I am going to say, because I have experience in military matters. The old people used to say: 'furious Litwa'[3]--and it's true! They fight well, but they cannot withstand the knights in the field. When the horses of the Germans are sunk in the marshes, or when there is a thick forest--that's different." "The Germans are good soldiers!" exclaimed the burghers. "They stay like a wall, man beside man, in their iron armor. They advance in one compact body. They strike, and the Litwa are scattered like sand, or throw themselves flat on the ground and are trampled down. There are not only Germans among them, because men of all nations serve with the Knights of the Cross. And they are brave! Often before a battle a knight stoops, stretches his lance, and rushes alone against the whole army." "Christ!" exclaimed Gamroth. "And who among them are the best soldiers?" "It depends. With the crossbow, the best is the Englishman, who can pierce a suit of armor through and through, and at a hundred steps he will not miss a dove. Czechowie (Bohemians) cut dreadfully with axes. For the big two-handed sword the German is the best. The Swiss is glad to strike the helmets with an iron flail, but the greatest knights are those who come from France. These will fight on horseback and on foot, and in the meanwhile they will speak very brave words, which however you will not understand, because it is such a strange language. They are pious people. They criticise us through the Germans. They say we are defending the heathen and the Turks against the cross, and they want to prove it by a knightly duel. And such God's judgment is going to be held between four knights from their side, and four from our side, and they are going to fight at the the court of Waclaw, the Roman and Bohemian king."[4] Here the curiosity so increased among the noblemen and merchants, that they stretched their necks in the direction of Macko of Bogdaniec and they asked: "And who are the knights from our side? Speak quickly!" Macko raised the mug to his mouth, drank and then answered: "Ej, don't be afraid about them. There is Jan of Wloszczowa, castellan of Dobrzyn; there's Mikolaj of Waszmuntow; there are Jasko of Zdakow and Jarosz of Czechow: all glorious knights and sturdy fellows. No matter which weapons they choose,--swords or axes--nothing new to them! It will be worth while for human eyes to see it and for human ears to hear it--because, as I said, even if you press the throat of a Frenchman with your foot, he will still reply with knightly words. Therefore so help me God and Holy Cross they will outtalk us, but our knights will defeat them." "That will be glory, if God will bless us," said one of the nobles. "And Saint Stanislaw!" added another. Then turning toward Macko, he asked him further: "Well! tell us some more! You praised the Germans and other knights because they are valiant and have conquered Litwa easily. Did they not have harder work with you? Did they go against you readily? How did it happen? Praise our knights." But evidently Macko of Bogdaniec was not a braggart, because he answered modestly: "Those who had just returned from foreign lands, attacked us readily; but after they tried once or twice, they attacked us with less assurance, because our people are hardened and they reproached us for that hardness: 'You despise,' they used to say,'death, but you help the Saracens, and you will be damned for it.' And with us the deadly grudge increased, because their taunt is not true! The king and the queen have christened Litwa and everyone there tries to worship the Lord Christ although not everyone knows how. And it is known also, that our gracious lord, when in the cathedral of Plock they threw down the devil, ordered them to put a candle before him--and the priests were obliged to tell him that he ought not to do it. No wonder then about an ordinary man! Therefore many of them say to themselves: "'The _kniaz_[5] ordered us to be baptized, therefore I was baptized; he ordered us to bow before the Christ, and I bowed; but why should I grudge a little piece of cheese to the old heathen devils, or why should I not throw them some turnips; why should I not pour the foam off of the beer? If I do not do it, then my horses will die; or my cows will be sick, or their milk will turn into blood--or there will be some trouble with the harvest.' And many of them do this, and they are suspected. But they are doing it because of their ignorance and their fear of the devils. Those devils were better off in times of yore. They used to have their own groves and they used to take the horses which they rode for their tithe. But to-day, the groves are cut down and they have nothing to eat--in the cities the bells ring, therefore the devils are hiding in the thickest forest, and they howl there from loneliness. If a Litwin[6] goes to the forest, then they pull him by his sheep-skin overcoat and they say: 'Give!' Some of them give, but there are also courageous boys, who will not give and then the devils catch them. One of the boys put some beans in an ox bladder and immediately three hundred devils entered there. And he stuffed the bladder with a service-tree peg, brought them to Wilno and sold them to the Franciscan priests, who gave him twenty _skojcow_[7] he did this to destroy the enemies of Christ's name. I have seen that bladder with my own eyes; a dreadful stench came from it, because in that way those dirty spirits manifested their fear before holy water." "And who counted them, that you know there were three hundred devils," asked the merchant Gamroth, intelligently. "The Litwin counted them, when he saw them entering the bladder. It was evident that they were there, because one would know it from the stench, and nobody wished to take out the peg to count them." "What wonders, what wonders!" exclaimed one of the nobles. "I have seen many great wonders, because everything is peculiar among them. They are shaggy and hardly any _kniaz_ combs his hair; they live on baked turnips, which they prefer to any other food, because they say that bravery comes from eating them. They live in the forests with their cattle and snakes; they are not abstinent in eating nor drinking. They despise the married women, but greatly respect the girls to whom they attribute great power. They say that if a girl rubs a man with dried leaves, it will stop colic." "It's worth while to have colic, if the women are beautiful!" exclaimed Uncle Eyertreter. "Ask Zbyszko about it," answered Macko of Bogdaniec. Zbyszko laughed so heartily that the bench began to shake beneath him. "There are some beautiful ones," he said. "Ryngalla was charming." "Who is Ryngalla? Quick!" "What? you haven't heard about Ryngalla?" asked Macko. "We have not heard a word." "She was Witold's sister, and the wife of Henryk, Prince Mazowiecki." "You don't say! Which Prince Henryk? There was only one Prince Mazowiecki, elect[8] of Plock, but he died." "The same one. He expected a dispensation from Rome, but death gave him his dispensation, because evidently he had not pleased God by his action. Jasko of Olesnica sent me with a letter to Prince Witold, when Prince Henryk, elect of Plock, was sent by the king to Ryterswerder. At that time, Witold was tired of the war, because he could not capture Wilno, and our king was tired of his own brothers and their dissipation. The king having noticed that Witold was shrewder and more intelligent than his own brothers, sent the bishop to him, to persuade him to leave the Knights of the Cross, and return to his allegiance, for which he promised to make him ruler over Litwa. Witold, always fond of changing, listened with pleasure to the embassy. There were also a feast and tournaments. The elect mounted a horse, although the other bishops did not approve of it, and in the lists he showed his knightly strength. All the princes of Mazowsze are very strong; it is well known, that even the girls of that blood can easily break horseshoes. In the beginning the prince threw three knights from their saddles; the second time he threw five of them. He threw me from my saddle, and in the beginning of the encounter, Zbyszko's horse reared and he was thrown. The prince took all the prizes from the hands of the beautiful Ryngalla, before whom he kneeled in full armor. They fell so much in love with each other, that dining the feasts, the _clerici_[9] pulled him from her by his sleeves and her brother, Witold, restrained her. The prince said: 'I will give myself a dispensation, and the pope, if not the one in Home, then the one in Avignon, will confirm it, but I must marry her immediately--otherwise I will burn up!' It was a great offence against God, but Witold did not dare to oppose him, because he did not want to displease the embassador--and so there was a wedding. Then they went to Suraz, and afterward to Sluck, to the great sorrow of this youth, Zbyszko, who, according to the German custom, had selected the Princess Ryngalla to be the lady of his heart and had promised her eternal fidelity." "Bah!" suddenly interrupted Zbyszko, "it's true. But afterward the people said that Ryngalla regretted being the wife of the elect (because he, although married, did not want to renounce his spiritual dignity) and feeling that God's blessing could not be over such a marriage, poisoned her husband. When I heard that, I asked a pious hermit, living not far from Lublin, to absolve me from that vow." "He was a hermit," answered Macko, laughing, "but was he pious? I don't know; we went to him on Friday, and he was splitting bear's bones with an axe, and sucking the marrow so hard, that there was music in his throat." "But he said that the marrow was not meat, and besides he had received permission to do it, because after sucking marrow, he used to have marvelous visions during his sleep and the next day he could prophesy until noontime." "Well, well!" answered Macko. "And the beautiful Ryngalla is a widow and she may call you to her service." "It would be in vain, because I am going to choose another lady, whom I will serve till death, and then I will find a wife." "You must first find the girdle of a knight." "_Owa!_[10] There will be plenty of tournaments. And before that the king will not dub a single knight. I can measure myself against any. The prince could not have thrown me down, if my horse had not reared." "There will be knights here better than you are." Here the noblemen began to shout: "For heaven's sake! Here, in the presence of the queen, will fight not such as you, but only the most famous knights in the world. Here will fight Zawisza of Garbow and Farurej, Dobko of Olesnica, Powala of Taczew, Paszko Zlodzie of Biskupice, Jasko Naszan and Abdank of Gora. Andrzej of Brochocice, Krystyn of Ostrow, and Jakob of Kobylany! Can you measure your sword against the swords of those, with whom neither the knights here, nor of the Bohemian court, nor of the Hungarian court can compete? What are you talking about? Are you better then they? How old are you?" "Eighteen," answered Zbyszko. "Everyone of them could crush you between his fingers." "We will see." But Macko said: "I have heard that the king rewarded those knights munificently who returned from the Lithuanian war. Speak, you belong here; is it true?" "Yes, it is true!" answered one of the nobles. "The king's munificence is known to the world; but it will be difficult to get near him now, because the guests are swarming to Krakow; they are coming to be in time for the queen's confinement and for the christening, wishing to show reverence to our lord and to render him homage. The king of Hungary is coming; they say the Roman emperor will be here also, and plenty of princes, counts and knights, will come because not one of them expects to return with empty hands. They even say that Pope Boniface, himself will arrive, because he also needs favor and help from our lord against his adversary in Avignon. Therefore in such a crowd, it will be difficult to approach the king; but if one would be able to see him and bow at his feet, then he will liberally reward him who deserves it." "Then I will bow before him, because I have served enough, and if there is another war, I shall go again. We have taken some booty, and we are not poor; but I am getting old, and when one is old, and the strength has left his bones, one is pleased to have a quiet corner." "The king was glad to see those who returned from Litwa with Jasko of Olesnica; and they feast well now." "You see I did not return at that time; I was still at the war. You know that the Germans have suffered because of that reconciliation between the king and _Kniaz_ Witold. The prince cunningly got the hostages back, and then rushed against the Germans! He ruined and burned the castle and slaughtered the knights and a great many of the people. The Germans wanted revenge, as did also Swidrygello, who went to them. There was again a great expedition started. The grand master Kondrat himself went with a great army; they besieged Wilno, and tried from their towers to ruin the castles; they also tried to capture the city by treachery--but they did not succeed! While retreating there were so many killed, that even half of them did not escape. Then we attacked Ulrich von Jungingen, the grand master's brother, who is bailiff in Swabja. But the bailiff was afraid of the _kniaz_ and ran away. On account of this flight there is peace, and they are rebuilding the city. One pious monk, who could walk with bare feet on hot iron, has prophesied since that time, that as long as the world exists, no German soldier will be seen under the walls of Wilno. And if that be so, then whose hands have done it?" Having said this, Macko of Bogdaniec, extended his palms, broad and enormous; the others began to nod and to approve: "Yes, yes! It's true what he says! Yes!" But further conversation was interrupted by a noise entering through the windows from which the bladders had been taken out, because the night was warm and clear. From afar thrumming, singing, laughing and the snorting of horses were heard. They were surprised because it was quite late. The host rushed to the yard of the inn, but before the guests were able to drink their beer to the last drop, he returned shouting: "Some court is coming!" A moment afterward, in the door appeared a footman dressed in a blue jacket and wearing a red folding cap. He stopped, glanced at the guests, and then having perceived the host, he said: "Wipe the tables and prepare lights; the princess, Anna Danuta, will stop here to-night." Having said this, he withdrew. In the inn a great commotion began; the host called his servants, and the guests looked at one another with great surprise. "Princess Anna Danuta," said one of the townsmen, "she is Kiejstutowna,[11] Janusz Mazowiecki's wife. She was in Krakow two weeks, but she went to Zator to visit Prince Waclaw, and now she is coming back." "Uncle Gamroth," said the other townsman, "let us go to the barn and sleep on the hay; the company is too high for us." "I don't wonder they are traveling during the night," said Macko, "because the days are very warm; but why do they come to the inn when the monastery is so near?" Here he turned toward Zbyszko: "The beautiful Ryngalla's own sister; do you understand?" And Zbyszko answered: "There must be many Mazovian ladies with her, hej!" CHAPTER II. At that moment the princess entered. She was a middle-aged lady with a smiling face, dressed in a red mantle and light green dress with a golden girdle around her hips. The princess was followed by the ladies of the court; some not yet grown up, some of them older; they had pink and lilac wreaths on their heads, and the majority of them had lutes in their hands. Some of them carried large bunches of fresh, flowers, evidently plucked by the roadside. The room was soon filled, because the ladies were followed by some courtiers and young pages. All were lively, with mirth on their faces, talking loudly or humming as if they were intoxicated with the beauty of the night. Among the courtiers, there were two _rybalts_;[12] one had a lute and the other had a _gensla_[13] at his girdle. One of the girls who was very young, perhaps twelve years old, carried behind the princess a very small lute ornamented with brass nails. "May Jesus Christ be praised!" said the princess, standing in the centre of the room. "For ages and ages, amen!" answered those present, in the meanwhile saluting very profoundly. "Where is the host?" The German having heard the call, advanced to the front and kneeled, in the German fashion, on one knee. "We are going to stop here and rest," said the lady. "Only be quick, because we are hungry." The townsmen had already gone; now the two noblemen, and with them Macko of Bogdaniec and young Zbyszko, bowed again, intending to leave the room, as they did not wish to interfere with the court. But the princess detained them. "You are noblemen; you do not intrude, you are acquainted with courtiers. From where has God conducted you?" Then they mentioned their names,[14] their coats of arms, their nicknames and the estates from which they received their names. The lady having heard from _wlodyka_[15] Macko that he had been to Wilno, clapped her hands, and said: "How well it has happened! Tell us about Wilno and about my brother and sister. Is Prince Witold coming for the queen's confinement and for the christening?" "He would like to, but does not know whether he will be able to do so; therefore he sent a silver cradle to the queen for a present. My nephew and I brought that cradle." "Then the cradle is here? I would like to see it! All silver?" "All silver; but it is not here. The Basilians took it to Krakow." "And what are you doing in Tyniec?" "We returned here to see the procurator of the monastery who is our relative, in order to deposit with the worthy monks, that with which the war has blessed us and that which the prince gave us for a present." "Then God gave you good luck and valuable booty? But tell me why my brother is uncertain whether he will come?" "Because he is preparing an expedition against the Tartars." "I know it; but I am grieved that the queen did not prophesy a happy result for that expedition, and everything she predicts is always fulfilled." Macko smiled. "Ej, our lady is a prophetess, I cannot deny; but with Prince Witold, the might of our knighthood will go, splendid men, against whom nobody is able to contend." "Are you not going?" "No, I was sent with the cradle, and for five years I have not taken off my armor," answered Macko, showing the furrows made by the cuirass on his reindeer jacket; "but let me rest, then I will go, or if I do not go myself then I will send this youth, my nephew, Zbyszko, to Pan[16] Spytko of Melsztyn, under whose command all our knights will go." Princess Danuta glanced at Zbyszko's beautiful figure; but further conversation was interrupted by the arrival of a monk from the monastery, who having greeted the princess, began to humbly reproach her, because she had not sent a courier with the news that she was coming, and because she had not stopped at the monastery, but in an ordinary inn which was not worthy of her majesty. There are plenty of houses and buildings in the monastery where even an ordinary man will find hospitality, and royalty is still more welcome, especially the wife of that prince from whose ancestors and relatives, the abbey had experienced so many benefits. But the princess answered mirthfully: "We came here only to stretch our limbs; in the morning we must be in Krakow. We sleep during the day and we travel during the night, because it is cooler. As the roosters were crowing, I did not wish to awaken the pious monks, especially with such a company which thinks more about singing and dancing than about repose." But when the monk still insisted, she added: "No. We will stay here. We will spend the time well in singing lay songs, but we will come to the church for matins in order to begin the day with God." "There will be a mass for the welfare of the gracious prince and the gracious princess," said the monk. "The prince, my husband, will not come for four or five days." "The Lord God will be able to grant happiness even from afar, and in the meanwhile let us poor monks at least bring some wine from the monastery." "We will gladly repay," said the princess. When the monk went out, she called: "Hej, Danusia! Danusia! Mount the bench and make our hearts merry with the same song you sang in Zator." Having heard this, the courtiers put a bench in the centre of the room. The _rybalts_ sat on the ends, and between them stood that young girl who had carried behind the princess the lute ornamented with brass nails. On her head she had a small garland, her hair falling on her shoulders, and she wore a blue dress and red shoes with long points. On the bench she looked like a child, but at the same time, a beautiful child, like some figure from a church. It was evident that she was not singing for the first time before the princess, because she was not embarrassed. "Sing, Danusia, sing!" the young court girls shouted. She seized the lute, raised her head like a bird which begins to sing, and having closed her eyes, she began with a silvery voice: "If I only could get The wings like a birdie, I would fly quickly To my dearest Jasiek!" The _rybalts_ accompanied her, one on the _gensliks_, the other on a big lute; the princess, who loved the lay songs better than anything else in the world, began to move her head back and forth, and the young girl sang further with a thin, sweet childish voice, like a bird singing in the forest: "I would then be seated On the high enclosure: Look, my dear Jasiulku, Look on me, poor orphan." And then the _rybalts_ played. The young Zbyszko of Bogdaniec, who being accustomed from childhood to war and its dreadful sights, had never in his life heard anything like it; he touched a Mazur[17] standing beside him and asked: "Who is she?" "She is a girl from the princess' court. We do not lack _rybalts_ who cheer up the court, but she is the sweetest little _rybalt_ of them all, and to the songs of no one else will the princess listen so gladly." "I don't wonder. I thought she was an angel from heaven and I can't look at her enough. What do they call her?" "Have you not heard? Danusia. Her father is Jurand of Spychow, a _comes_[18] mighty and gallant." "Hej! Such a girl human eyes never saw before!" "Everybody loves her for her singing and her beauty." "And who is her knight?" "She is only a child yet!" Further conversation was stopped by Danusia's singing. Zbyszko looked at her fair hair, her uplifted head, her half-closed eyes, and at her whole figure lighted by the glare of the wax candles and by the glare of the moonbeams entering through the windows; and he wondered more and more. It seemed to him now, that he had seen her before; but he could not remember whether it was in a dream, or somewhere in Krakow on the pane of a church window. And again he touched the courtier and asked in a low voice: "Then she is from your court?" "Her mother came from Litwa with the princess, Anna Danuta, who married her to Count Jurand of Spychow. She was pretty and belonged to a powerful family; the princess liked her better than any of the other young girls and she loved the princess. That is the reason she gave the same name to her daughter--Anna Danuta. But five years ago, when near Zlotorja, the Germans attacked the court,--she died from fear. Then the princess took the girl, and she has taken care of her since. Her father often comes to the court; he is glad that the princess is bringing his child up healthy and in happiness. But every time he looks at her, he cries, remembering his wife; then he returns to avenge on the Germans his awful wrong. He loved his wife more dearly than any one in the whole Mazowsze till now has loved; but he has killed in revenge a great many Germans." In a moment Zbyszko's eyes were shining and the veins on his forehead swelled. "Then the Germans killed her mother?" he asked. "Killed and not killed. She died from fear. Five years ago there was peace; nobody was thinking about war and everybody felt safe. The prince went without any soldiers, only with the court, as usual during peace, to build a tower in Zlotorja. Those traitors, the Germans, fell upon them without any declaration of war, without any reason. They seized the prince himself, and remembering neither God's anger, nor that from the prince's ancestor, they had received great benefits, they bound him to a horse and slaughtered his people. The prince was a prisoner a long time, and only when King Wladyslaw threatened them with war, did they release him. During this attack Danusia's mother died." "And you, sir, were you there? What do they call you? I have forgotten!" "My name is Mikolaj of Dlugolas and they call me Obuch.[19] I was there. I saw a German with peacock feathers on his helmet, bind her to his saddle; and then she died from fear. They cut me with a halberd from which I have a scar." Having said this he showed a deep scar on his head coming from beneath his hair to his eyebrows. There was a moment of silence. Zbyszko was again looking at Danusia. Then he asked: "And you said, sir, that she has no knight?" But he did not receive any answer, because at that moment the singing stopped. One of the _rybalts_, a fat and heavy man, suddenly rose, and the bench tilted to one side. Danusia tottered and stretched out her little hands, but before she could fall or jump, Zbyszko rushed up like a wild-cat and seized her in his arms. The princess, who at first screamed from fear, laughed immediately and began to shout: "Here is Danusia's knight! Come, little knight and give us back our dear little girl!" "He grasped her boldly," some among the courtiers were heard to say. Zbyszko walked toward the princess, holding Danusia to his breast, who having encircled his neck with one arm, held the lute with the other, being afraid it would be broken. Her face was smiling and pleased, although a little bit frightened. In the meanwhile the youth came near the princess, put Danusia before her, kneeled, raised his head and said with remarkable boldness for his age: "Let it be then according to your word, my gracious lady! It is time for this gentle young girl to have her knight, and it is time for me to have my lady, whose beauty and virtues I shall extol. With your permission, I wish to make a vow and I will remain faithful to her under all circumstances until death." The princess was surprised, not on account of Zbyszko's words, but because everything had happened so suddenly. It is true that the custom of making vows was not Polish; but Mazowsze, being situated on the German frontier, and often being visited by the knights from remote countries, was more familiar with that custom than the other provinces, and imitated it very often. The princess had also heard about it in her father's court, where all eastern customs were considered as the law and the example for the noble warriors. Therefore she did not see in Zbyszko's action anything which could offend either herself or Danusia. She was even glad that her dear girl had attracted the heart and the eyes of a knight. Therefore she turned her joyful face toward the girl. "Danusia! Danusia! Do you wish to have your own knight?" The fair-haired Danusia after jumping three times in her red shoes, seized the princess by the neck and began to scream with joy, as though they were promising her some pleasure permitted to the older people only. "I wish, I wish----!" The princess' eyes were filled with tears from laughing and the whole court laughed with her; then the lady said to Zbyszko: "Well, make your vow! Make your vow! What will you promise her?" But Zbyszko, who preserved his seriousness undisturbed amidst the laughter, said with dignity, while still kneeling: "I promise that as soon as I reach Krakow, I will hang my spear on the door of the inn, and on it I will put a card, which a student in writing will write for me. On the card I will proclaim that Panna Danuta Jurandowna is the prettiest and most virtuous girl among all living in this or any other kingdom. Anyone who wishes to contradict this declaration, I will fight until one of us dies or is taken into captivity." "Very well! I see you know the knightly custom. And what more?" "I have learned from Pan Mikolaj of Dlugolas that the death of Panna Jurandowna's mother was caused by the brutality of a German who wore the crest of a peacock. Therefore I vow to gird my naked sides with a hempen rope, and even though it eat me to the bone, I will wear it until I tear three such tufts of feathers from the heads of German warriors whom I kill." Here the princess became serious. "Don't make any joke of your vows!" And Zbyszko added: "So help me God and holy cross, this vow I will repeat in church before a priest." "It is a praiseworthy thing to fight against the enemy of our people; but I pity you, because you are young, and you can easily perish." At that moment Macko of Bogdanice approached, thinking it proper to reassure the princess. "Gracious lady, do not be frightened about that. Everybody must risk being killed in a fight, and it is a laudable end for a _wlodyka_, old or young. But war is not new nor strange to this man, because although he is only a youth, he has fought on horseback and on foot, with spear and with axe, with short sword and with long sword, with lance and without. It is a new custom, for a knight to vow to a girl whom he sees for the first time; but I do not blame Zbyszko for his promise. He has fought the Germans before. Let him fight them again, and if during that fight a few heads are broken, his glory will increase." "I see that we have to do with a gallant knight," said the princess. Then to Danusia, she said: "Take my place as the first person to-day; only do not laugh because it is not dignified." Danusia sat in the place of the lady; she wanted to be dignified, but her blue eyes were laughing at the kneeling Zbyszko, and she could not help moving her feet from joy. "Give him your gloves," said the princess. Danusia pulled off her gloves and handed them to Zbyszko who pressed them with great respect to his lips, and said: "I will fix them on my helmet and woe to the one who stretches his hands for them!" Then he kissed Danusia's hands and feet and arose. Then his dignity left him, and great joy filled his heart because from that time the whole court would consider him a mature man. Therefore shaking Danusia's gloves, he began to shout, half mirthfully, half angrily: "Come, you dog-brothers with peacock's crests, come!" But at that moment the same monk who had been there before entered the inn, and with him two superior ones. The servants of the monastery carried willow baskets which contained bottles of wine and some tidbits. The monks greeted the princess and again reproached her because she had not gone directly to the abbey. She explained to them again, that having slept during the day, she was traveling at night for coolness; therefore she did not need any sleep; and as she did not wish to awaken the worthy abbot nor the respectable monks, she preferred to stop in an inn to stretch her limbs. After many courteous words, it was finally agreed, that after matins and mass in the morning, the princess with her court would breakfast and rest in the monastery. The affable monks also invited the Mazurs, the two noblemen and Macko of Bogdaniec who intended to go to the abbey to deposit his wealth acquired in the war and increased by Witold's munificent gift. This treasure was destined to redeem Bogdaniec from his pledge. But the young Zbyszko did not hear the invitation, because he had rushed to his wagon which was guarded by his servants, to procure better apparel for himself. He ordered his chests carried to a room in the inn and there he began to dress. At first he hastily combed his hair and put it in a silk net ornamented with amber beads, and in the front with real pearls. Then he put on a "_jaka_" of white silk embroidered with golden griffins; he girded himself with a golden belt from which was hanging a small sword in an ivory scabbard ornamented with gold. Everything was new, shining and unspotted with blood, although it had been taken as booty from a Fryzjan knight who served with the Knights of the Cross. Then Zbyszko put on beautiful trousers, one part having red and green stripes, the other part, yellow and purple, and both ended at the top like a checkered chessboard. After that he put on red shoes with long points. Fresh and handsome he went into the room. In fact, as he stood in the door, his appearance made a great impression. The princess seeing now what a handsome knight had vowed to Danusia, was still more pleased. Danusia jumped toward him like a gazelle. But either the beauty of the young man or the sounds of admiration from the courtiers, caused her to pause before she reached him, drop her eyes suddenly and blushing and confused, begin to wring her fingers. After her, came the others; the princess herself, the courtiers, the ladies-in-waiting, the _rybalts_ and the monks all wanted to see him. The young Mazovian girls were looking at him as at a rainbow, each regretting that he had not chosen her; the older ones admired the costly dress; and thus, a circle of curious ones was formed around him. Zbyszko stood in the centre with a boastful smile on his youthful face, and turned himself slightly, so that they could see him better. "Who is he?" asked one of the monks. "He is a knight, nephew of that _wlodyka_" answered the princess, pointing to Macko; "he has made a vow to Danusia." The monks did not show any surprise, because such a vow did not bind him to anything. Often vows were made to married women, and among the powerful families where the eastern custom was known, almost every woman had a knight. If a knight made a vow to a young girl, he did not thus become her fiancé; on the contrary he usually married another; he was constant to his vow, but did not hope to be wedded to her, but to marry another. The monks were more astonished at Danusia's youth, and even not much at that, because in those times sixteen year old youths used to be castellans. The great Queen Jadwiga herself, when she came from Hungary, was only fifteen years old, and thirteen year old girls used to marry. At any rate, at that moment they were more occupied looking at Zbyszko than at Danusia; they also listened to Macko's words, who, proud of his nephew, was telling how the youth came in possession of such beautiful clothes. "One year and nine weeks ago," said he, "we were invited by the Saxon knights. There was another guest, a certain knight, from a far Fryzjan nation, who lived there on the shores of a sea. With him was his son who was three years older than Zbyszko. Once at a banquet, that son began to taunt Zbyszko because he has neither moustache nor beard. Zbyszko being quick tempered, was very angry, and immediately seized him by his moustache, and pulled out all the hair. On account of that I afterward fought until death or slavery." "What do you mean?" asked the Pan of Dlugolas. "Because the father took his son's part and I took Zbyszko's part; therefore we fought, in the presence of the guests, on level ground. The agreement was, that the one who conquered, should take the wagons, horses, servants and everything that belonged to the vanquished one. God helped us. We killed those Fryzes, although with great labor, because they were brave and strong. We took much valuable booty; there were four wagons, each one drawn by two horses, four enormous stallions, ten servants, and two excellent suits of armor which are difficult to find. It is true we broke the helmets in the fight, but the Lord Jesus rewarded us with something else; there was a large chest of costly clothing; those in which Zbyszko is now dressed, we found there also." Now the two noblemen from the vicinity of Krakow, and all the Mazurs began to look with more respect on both the uncle and the nephew, and the Pan of Dlugolas, called Obuch, said: "I see you are terrible fellows, and not lazy." "We now believe that this youngster will capture three peacocks' crests." Macko laughed, and in his face there really appeared an expression similar to that on the face of a beast of prey. But in the meanwhile, the servants of the monastery had taken the wine and the dainties from the willow baskets, and the servant girls were bringing large dishes full of steaming boiled eggs, surrounded by sausage, from which a strong and savory smell filled the whole room. This sight excited everybody's appetite, and they rushed to the tables. But nobody sat down until the princess was seated at the head of the table; she told Zbyszko and Danusia to sit opposite her and then she said to Zbyszko: "It is right for you both to eat from one dish; but do not step on her feet under the table, nor touch her with your knees, as the other knights do to their ladies, because she is too young." To this he answered: "I shall not do it, gracious lady, for two or three years yet, until the Lord Jesus permits me to accomplish my vow, and then this little berry will be ripe; as for stepping on her feet, even if I would like to do it I can not, because they do not touch the floor." "True," answered the princess; "but it is pleasant to see that you have good manners." Then there was silence because everybody was busy eating. Zbyszko picked the best pieces of sausage, which he handed to Danusia or put directly into her mouth; she was glad that such a famous knight served her. After they had emptied the dishes, the servants of the monastery began to pour out the sweet-smelling wine--abundantly for the men, but not much for the ladies. Zbyszko's gallantry was particularly shown when they brought in the nuts which had been sent from the monastery. There were hazel nuts and some very rare nuts imported from afar, called Italians; they all feasted so willingly, that after awhile there was heard no sound in the whole room but the cracking of shells, crushed between the jaws. But Zbyszko did not think only about himself; he preferred to show to the princess and Danusia his knightly strength and abstinence. Therefore he did not put the nuts between his jaws, as the others did, but he crushed them between his fingers, and handed to Danusia the kernels picked from the shells. He even invented for her an amusement; after having picked out the kernel, he placed his hand near his mouth and, with his powerful blowing, he blew the shells to the ceiling. Danusia laughed so much, that the princess fearing that the young girl would choke, was obliged to ask him to stop the amusement; but perceiving how merry the girl was, she asked her: "Well, Danusia, is it good to have your own knight?" "Oj! Very!" answered the girl. And then she touched Zbyszko's white silk "_jaka_" with her pink finger, and asked: "And will he be mine to-morrow?" "To-morrow, and Sunday, and until death," answered Zbyszko. Supper lasted a long time, because after the nuts, sweet cakes with raisins were served. Some of the courtiers wished to dance; others wished to listen to the _rybalts_ or to Danusia's singing; but she was tired, and having with great confidence put her little head on the knight's shoulder, she fell asleep. "Does she sleep?" asked the princess. "There you have your 'lady.'" "She is dearer to me while she sleeps than the others are while they dance," answered Zbyszko, sitting motionless so as not to awaken the girl. But she was awakened neither by the _rybalts_' music nor by the singing. Some of the courtiers stamped, others rattled the dishes in time to the music; but the greater the noise, the better she slept. She awoke only when the roosters, beginning to crow, and the church bell to ring, the company all rushed from the benches, shouting: "To matins! To matins!" "Let us go on foot for God's glory," said the princess. She took the awakened Danusia by the hand and went out first, followed by the whole court. The night was beginning to whiten. In the east one could see a light glare, green at the top, then pink below, and under all a golden red, which extended while one looked at it. It seemed as though the moon was retreating before that glare. The light grew pinker and brighter. Moist with dew, the rested and joyous world was awakening. "God has given us fair weather, but there will be great heat," said the courtiers. "No matter," answered the Pan of Dlugolas; "we will sleep in the abbey, and will reach Krakow toward evening." "Sure of a feast." "There is a feast every day now, and after the confinement and tournaments, there will be still greater ones." "We shall see how Danusia's brave knight will acquit himself." "Ej! They are of oak, those fellows! Did you hear what they said about that fight for four knights on each side?" "Perhaps they will join our court; they are consulting with each other now." In fact, they were talking earnestly with each other; old Macko was not very much pleased with what had happened; therefore while walking in the rear of the retinue, he said to his nephew: "In truth, you don't need it. In some way I will reach the king and it may be he will give us something. I would be very glad to get to some castle or _grodek_[20]---- Well we shall see. We will redeem Bogdaniec from our pledge anyhow, because we must hold that which our forefathers held. But how can we get some peasants to work? The land is worth nothing without peasants. Therefore listen to what I am going to tell you: if you make vows or not to anyone you please, still you must go with the Pan of Mielsztyn to Prince Witold against the Tartars. If they proclaim the expedition by the sound of trumpets before the queen's confinement, then do not wait either for the lying-in, or for the tournaments; only go, because there will be found some profit. Prince Witold is munificent, as you know; and he knows you. If you acquit yourself well, he will reward you liberally. Above all, if God help you, you will secure many slaves. The Tartars swarm in the world. In case of victory, every knight will capture three-score of them." At this, Macko being covetous for land and serfs, began to fancy: "If I could only catch fifty peasants and settle them in Bogdaniec! One would be able to clear up quite a piece of forest. You know that nowhere can you get as many as there." But Zbyszko began to twist his head. "Owa! I will bring hostlers from the stables living on horse carrion and not accustomed to working on the land! What use will they be in Bogdaniec? Then I vowed to capture three German crests. Where will I find them among the Tartars?" "You made a vow because you were stupid; but your vow is not worth anything." "But my honor of _wlodyka_ and knight? What about that?" "How was it with Ryngalla?" "Ryngalla poisoned the prince, and the hermit gave me absolution." "Then in Tyniec, the abbot will absolve you from this vow also. The abbot is greater than a hermit." "I don't want absolution!" Macko stopped and asked with evident anger: "Then how will it be?" "Go to Witold yourself, because I shall not go." "You knave! And who will bow to the king? Don't you pity my bones?" "Even if a tree should fall on your bones, it would not crush them; and even if I pity you, I will not go to Witold." "What will you do then? Will you turn _rybalt_ or falconer at the Mazowiecki court?" "It's not a bad thing to be a falconer. But if you would rather grumble than to listen to me, then grumble." "Where will you go? Don't you care for Bogdaniec? Will you plow with your nails without peasants?" "Not true! You calculated cleverly about the Tartars! You have forgotten what the Rusini[21] told us, that it is difficult to catch any prisoners among the Tartars, because you cannot reach a Tartar on the steppes. On what will I chase them? On those heavy stallions that we captured from the Germans? Do you see? And what booty can I take? Scabby sheep-skin coats but nothing else! How rich then I shall return to Bogdaniec! Then they will call me _comes_!" Macko was silent because there was a great deal of truth in Zbyszko's words; but after a while he said: "But Prince Witold will reward you." "Bah, you know; to one he gives too much, to another nothing." "Then tell me, where will you go?" "To Jurand of Spychow." Macko angrily twisted the belt of his leather jacket, and said: "May you become a blind man!" "Listen," answered Zbyszko quietly. "I had a talk with Mikolaj of Dlugolas and he said that Jurand is seeking revenge on the Germans for the death of his wife. I will go and help him. In the first place, you said yourself that it was nothing strange for us to fight the Germans because we know them and their ways so well. _Secundo_, I will thus more easily capture those peacock's crests; and _tercio_, you know that peacock's crests are not worn by knaves; therefore if the Lord Jesus will help me to secure the crests, it will also bring booty. Finally: the slaves from those parts are not like the Tartars. If you settle such slaves in a forest, then you will accomplish something." "Man, are you crazy? There is no war at present and God knows when there will be!" "How clever you are! The bears make peace with the bee-keepers and they neither spoil the beehives, nor eat the honey! Ha! ha! ha! Then it is news to you, that although the great armies are not fighting and although the king and the grand master stamped the parchment with their seals, still there is always great disturbance on the frontiers? If some cattle are seized, they burn several villages for one cow's head and besiege the castles. How about capturing peasants and their girls? About merchants on the highways? Remember former times, about which you told me yourself. That Nalencz, who captured forty knights going to join the Knights of the Cross, and kept them in prison until the grand master sent him a cart full of _grzywien_;[22] did he not do a good business? Jurand of Spychow is doing the same and on the frontier the work is always ready." For a while they walked along silently; in the meanwhile, it was broad daylight and the bright rays of the sun lighted up the rocks on which the abbey was built. "God can give good luck in any place," Macko said, finally, with a calm voice; "pray that he may bless you." "Sure; all depends on his favor!" "And think about Bogdaniec, because you cannot persuade me that you go to Jurand of Spychow for the sake of Bogdaniec and not for that duck's beak." "Don't speak that way, because it makes me angry. I will see her gladly and I do not deny it. Have you ever met a prettier girl?" "What do I care for her beauty! Better marry her, when she is grown up; she is the daughter of a mighty _comes_." Zbyszko's face brightened with a pleasant smile. "It must be. No other lady, no other wife! When your bones are old, you shall play with the grandchildren born to her and myself." Now Macko smiled also and said: "Grady! Grady![23]---- May they be as numerous as hail. When one is old, they are his joy; and after death, his salvation. Jesus, grant us this!" CHAPTER III. Princess Danuta, Macko and Zbyszko had been in Tyniec before; but in the train of attendants there were some courtiers who now saw it for the first time; these greatly admired the magnificent abbey which was surrounded by high walls built over the rocks and precipices, and stood on a lofty mountain now shining in the golden rays of the rising sun. The stately walls and the buildings devoted to various purposes, the gardens situated at the foot of the mountain and the carefully cultivated fields, showed immediately the great wealth of the abbey. The people from poor Mazowsze were amazed. It is true there were other mighty Benedictine abbeys in other parts of the country; as for instance in Lubusz on Odra, in Plock, in Wielkopolska, in Mogila and in several other places: but none of them could compare with the abbey in Tyniec, which was richer than many principalities, and had an income greater than even the kings of those times possessed. Therefore the astonishment increased among the courtiers and some of them could scarcely believe their own eyes. In the meanwhile, the princess wishing to make the journey pleasant, and to interest the young ladies, begged one of the monks to relate the awful story about Walgierz Wdaly which had been told to her in Krakow, although not very correctly. Hearing this, the ladies surrounded the princess and walked slowly, looking in the rays of the sun like moving flowers. "Let Brother Hidulf tell about Walgierz, who appeared to him on a certain night," said one of the monks, looking at one of the other monks who was an old man. "Pious father, have you seen him with your own eyes?" asked the princess. "I have seen him," answered the monk gloomily; "there are certain moments during which, by God's will, he is permitted to leave the underground regions of hell and show himself to the world." "When does it happen?" The old monk looked at the other monks and became silent. There was a tradition that the ghost of Walgierz appeared when the morals of the monastic lives became corrupted, and when the monks thought more about worldly riches and pleasures than was right. None of them, however, wished to tell this; but it was also said that the ghost's appearance portended war or some other calamity. Brother Hidulf, after a short silence, said: "His appearance does not foretell any good fortune." "I would not care to see him," said the princess, making the sign of the cross; "but why is he in hell, if it is true as I heard, that he only avenged a wrong?" "Had he been virtuous during his whole life," said the monk sternly, "he would be damned just the same because he was a heathen, and original sin was not washed out by baptism." After those words the princess' brows contracted painfully because she recollected that her father whom she loved dearly, had died in the heathen's errors also. "We are listening," said she, after a short silence. Brother Hidulf began thus: During the time of heathenism, there was a mighty _grabia_[24] whose name was Walgierz, whom on account of his great beauty, they called Wdaly.[25] This whole country, as far as one can see, belonged to him, and he lead all the expeditions, the people on foot and a hundred spearmen who were all _wlodykas_; the men to the east as far as Opole, and to the west as far as Sandomierz, were his vassals. Nobody was able to count his herds, and in Tyniec he had a towerful of money the same as the Knights of the Cross have now in Marienburg." "Yes, they have, I know it!" interrupted the princess. "He was a giant," continued the monk. "He was so strong he could dig up an oak tree by the roots, and nobody in the whole world could compare with him for beauty, playing on the lute or singing. One time when he was at the court of a French king, the king's daughter, Helgunda, fell in love with him, and ran away with him to Tyniec, where they lived together in sin. No priest would marry them with Christian rites, because Helgunda's father had promised her to the cloister for the glory of God. At the same time, there lived in Wislica, Wislaw Piekny,[26] who belonged to King Popiel's family. He, while Walgierz Wdaly was absent, devastated the county around Tyniec. Walgierz when he returned overpowered Wislaw and imprisoned him in Tyniec. He did not take into consideration this fact: that every woman as soon as she saw Wislaw, was ready immediately to leave father, mother and even husband, if she could only satisfy her passion. This happened to Helgunda. She immediately devised such fetters for Walgierz, that that giant, although he could pluck an oak up by its roots, was unable to break them. She gave him to Wislaw, who took and imprisoned him in Wislica. There Rynga, Wislaw's sister, having heard Walgierz singing in his underground cell, soon fell in love with him and set him at liberty. He then killed Wislaw and Helgunda with the sword, left their bodies for the crows, and returned to Tyniec with Rynga." "Was it not right, what he did?" asked the princess. Brother Hidulf answered: "Had he received baptism and given Tyniec to the Benedictines, perhaps God would have forgiven his sins; but he did not do this, therefore the earth has devoured him." "Were the Benedictines in this kingdom at that time?" "No, the Benedictines were not here; only the heathen lived here then." "How then could he receive baptism, or give up Tyniec?" "He could not; and that is exactly why he was sent to hell to endure eternal torture," answered the monk with authority. "Sure! He speaks rightly!" several voices were heard to say. In the meanwhile they approached the principal gate of the monastery, where the abbot with numerous monks and noblemen, was awaiting the princess. There were always many lay people in the cloister: land stewards, barristers and procurators. Many noblemen, even powerful _wlodykas_, held in fief from the monastery numerous estates; and these, as "vassals," were glad to pass their time at the court of their "suzerain," where near the main altar it was easy to obtain some gift and many benefits. Therefore the "_abbas centum villarum_"[27] could greet the princess with a numerous retinue. He was a man of great stature, with a thin, intelligent face; his head was shaved on the top with a fringe of grey hair beneath. He had a deep scar on his forehead, which he had evidently received during his youth when he performed knightly deeds. His eyes looked penetratingly from beneath dark eyebrows. He wore a monk's dress similar to that worn by the other monks, but over it he wore a black mantle, lined with purple; around his neck was a gold chain from which was hanging a gold cross set with precious stones. His whole figure betrayed a proud man, accustomed to command and one who had confidence in himself. But he greeted the princess affably and even humbly, because he remembered that her husband belonged to the family of the princes of Mazowsze, from which came the kings, Wladyslaw and Kazimierz; and that her mother was the reigning queen of one of the most powerful kingdoms in the world. Therefore he passed the threshold of the gate, bowed low, and then having made the sign of the cross over Anna Danuta and over her court, he said; "Welcome, gracious lady, to the threshold of this poor monastery. May Saint Benedictus of Nursja, Saint Maurus, Saint Bonifacius, Saint Benedictus of Aniane and also Jean of Tolomeia--our patrons living in eternal glory,--give you health and happiness, and bless you seven times a day during the remainder of your life." "They would be deaf, if they did not hear the words of such a great abbot," said the princess affably; "we came here to hear mass, during which we will place ourselves under their protection." Having said this she stretched her hand toward him, which he falling upon one knee, kissed in knightly manner. Then they passed through the gate. The monks were waiting to celebrate mass, because immediately the bells were rung; the trumpeters blew near the church door in honor of the princess. Every church used to make a great impression on the princess who had not been born in a Christian country. The church in Tyniec impressed her greatly, because there were very few churches that could rival it in magnificence. Darkness filled the church except at the main altar where many lights were shining, brightening the carvings and gildings. A monk, dressed in a chasuble, came from the vestry, bowed to the princess and commenced mass. Then the smoke from the fragrant incense arose, veiled the priest and the altar, and mounted in quiet clouds to the vaulted ceiling, increasing the solemn beauty of the church. Anna Danuta bent her head and prayed fervently. But when an organ, rare in those times, began to shake the nave with majestic thunderings, filling it with angelic voices, then the princess raised her eyes, and her face expressed, beside devotion and fear, a boundless delight; and one looking at her would take her for some saint, who sees in a marvelous vision, the open heaven. Thus prayed Kiejstut's daughter, who born in heathenism, in everyday life mentioned God's name just as everybody else did in those times, familiarly; but in the Lord's house she used to raise her eyes with fear and humility, toward his secret and unmeasurable power. The whole court, although with less humility, prayed devoutly. Zbyszko knelt among the Mazurs, and committed himself to God's protection. From time to time he glanced at Danusia who was sitting beside the princess; he considered it an honor to be the knight of such a girl, and that his vow was not a trifle. He had already girded his sides with a hempen rope, but this was only half of his vow; now it was necessary to fulfill the other half which was more difficult. Consequently now, when he was more serious than when in the inn drinking beer, he was anxious to discover how he could fulfill it. There was no war. But amidst the disturbances on the frontier, it was possible to meet some Germans, and either kill them or lay down his own life. He had told this to Macko. But he thought: "Not every German wears peacock or ostrich feathers on his helmet. Only a few among the guests of the Knights of the Cross are counts, and the Knights of the Cross themselves are only _comthurs_; and not every one of them is a _comthur_ either. If there be no war, then years may pass before I shall get those three crests; I have not been knighted yet and can challenge only those who are not knights like myself. It is true I expect to receive the girdle of a knight from the king's hands during the tournaments, which have been announced to take place during the christening, but what will happen then? I will go to Jurand of Spychow; he will help me kill as many _knechts_[28] as possible; but that will benefit me little. The _knechts_ are not knights, with peacock feathers on their heads." Therefore in his uncertainty, seeing that without God's special favor, he could do nothing, he began to pray: "Jesus, grant a war between the Knights of the Cross and the Germans who are the foes of this kingdom and of all other nations confessing Your Holy Name. Bless us; but crush them who would rather serve the _starosta_[29] of hell, than serve you; they have hatred in their hearts against us, being angry because our king and queen, having baptized the Lithuanians, forbade them cut your Christian servants with the sword. For which anger punish them!" "And I, Zbyszko a sinner, repent before you and from your five wounds beseech for help, that in your mercy you permit me to kill as soon as possible three Germans having peacock feathers on their morions. These crests I promised upon my knightly honor to Panna Anna Danuta, Jurand's daughter, and your servant." "If I shall find any booty on those defeated Germans, I shall faithfully pay to holy church the tithe, in order that you also, sweet Jesus, may have some benefit and glory through me; and also that you may know, that I promise to you with a sincere heart. As this is true, so help me, amen!" But as he prayed, his heart softened under the influence of his devotions and he made another promise, which was that after having redeemed Bogdaniec from its pledge, he would give to the church all the wax which the bees could make during the whole year. He hoped that his Uncle Macko would not make any opposition to this, and that the Lord Jesus would be especially pleased with the wax for the candles, and wishing to get it, would help him sooner. This thought seemed to him so right, that joy filled his soul; and he was almost sure that his prayer would be heard and that the war would soon come, so that he could accomplish his vow. He felt such might in his legs and in his arms, that at that moment he would have attacked a whole army. He even thought that having increased his promises to God, he would also add for Danusia, a couple of Germans! His youthful anger urged him to do it, but this time prudence prevailed, as he was afraid to exhaust God's patience by asking too much. His confidence increased, however, when after mass and a long rest, he heard the conversation between the abbot and Anna Danuta. The wives of the reigning kings and princes, both on account of devotion as well as on account of the magnificent presents, sent them by the Master of the Order, were very kindly disposed toward the Knights of the Cross. Even the pious Jadwiga, as long as she lived, restrained her husband's anger against them. Anna Danuta alone, having experienced dreadful wrongs from the knights hated them with her whole soul. Therefore when the abbot asked her about Mazowsze and its affairs, she began to complain bitterly against the Order: "Our affairs are in a bad condition and it cannot be otherwise with such neighbors! Apparently it is the time of peace; they exchange ambassadors and letters, but notwithstanding all that nobody can be sure of anything. The one who lives on the borders of the kingdom, never knows when he goes to bed in the evening, whether he will awaken in fetters, or with the blade of a sword in his throat, or with a burning ceiling over his head. Neither oaths, nor seals, nor parchment will protect from treachery. Thus it happened at Zlotorja where during the time of peace, they seized the prince and imprisoned him. The Knights of the Cross said that our castle was a menace to them; but the castles are repaired for defence not for an onset; and what prince has not the right to build and repair in his own land? Neither the weak nor the powerful can agree with the Order, because the knights despise the weak and try to ruin the mighty. Good deeds they repay with evil ones. Is there anywhere in the world another order which has received as many benefits from other kingdoms as the knights have received from Polish princes? And how have they repaid? With threats, with devastation of our lands, with war and with treachery. And it is useless to complain, even to our apostolic capital, because they do not listen to the Roman pope himself. Apparently they have sent an embassy now for the queen's confinement and the expected christening, but only because they wish to appease the anger of this mighty king for the evil deeds they performed in Litwa. But in their hearts they are always plotting means to annihilate this kingdom and the whole Polish nation." The abbot listened attentively with approval and then said: "I know that Comthur Lichtenstein came to Krakow at the head of the embassy; he is very much respected in the Order for his bravery and intelligence. Perhaps you will see him here soon, gracious lady, because he sent me a message yesterday, saying that as he wished to pray to our holy relics, he would pay a visit to Tyniec." Having heard this, the princess began to complain again: "The people say--and I am sure rightly--that there will soon be a great war, in which on one side will be the kingdom of Poland and all the nations speaking a language similar to the Polish tongue, and on the other side will be all the Germans and the Order. There is a prophecy about this war by some saint." "Bridget," interrupted the scholarly abbot; "eight years ago she was canonized. The pious Peter from Alvastra and Matthew from Linköping have written her revelations, in which a great war has been predicted." Zbyszko shuddered at these words, and not being able to restrain himself, asked: "How soon will it be?" But the abbot being occupied with the princess, did not hear, or probably did not wish to hear, the question. The princess spoke further: "Our young knights are glad that this war is coming, but the older and prudent ones speak thus: 'We are not afraid of the Germans, although their pride and power are great, but we are afraid of their relics, because against those all human might is powerless.'" Here Anna Danuta looked at the abbot with fear and added in a softer voice: "They say they have a true piece of the holy cross; how then can one fight against them?" "The French king sent it to them," answered the abbot. There was a moment of silence, then Mikolaj of Dlugolas, called Obuch, a man of great experience, said: "I was in captivity among the Knights of the Cross; I saw a procession in which they carried this great relic. But beside this, there are many other relics in the monastery in Oliva without which the order would not have acquired such power." The Benedictines stretched their necks toward the speaker, and began to ask with great curiosity: "Tell us, what are they?" "There is a piece of the dress of the Most Holy Virgin," answered the _wlodyka_ of Dlugolas; "there is a molar tooth of Marya from Magdala and branches from the bush in which God the Father revealed himself to Moses; there is a hand of Saint Liberjus, and as for the bones of other saints, I cannot count them on the fingers of both hands and the toes of both feet." "How can one fight them?" repeated the princess, sighing. The abbot frowned, and having thought for awhile, said: "It is difficult to fight them, for this reason; they are monks and they wear the cross on their mantles; but if they have exceeded the measure of their sins, then even those relics will refuse to remain with them; in that case they will not strengthen the knights, but will take their strength away, so that the relics can pass into more pious hands. May God spare Christian blood; but, if a great war should come, there are some relics in our kingdom also which will succor us." "May God help us!" exclaimed Zbyszko. The abbot turned toward the princess and said: "Therefore have confidence in God, gracious lady, because their days are numbered rather than yours. In the meanwhile, accept with grateful heart this box, in which there is a finger of Saint Ptolomeus, one of our patrons." The princess extended her hand and kneeling, accepted the box, which she immediately pressed to her lips. The courtiers shared the joy of the lady. Zbyszko was happy because it seemed to him that war would come immediately after the Krakowian festivals. CHAPTER IV. It was in the afternoon that the princess left hospitable Tyniec and went toward Krakow. Often the knights of those times, coming into larger cities or castles to visit some eminent person, used to put on their entire battle armor. It is true it was customary to take it off immediately after they arrived at the gates; in fact it was the custom for the host himself to invite them to remove it in these words: "Take off your armor, noble lord; you have come to friends!" This entrance was considered to be more dignified and to increase the importance of the knight. To conform with this ostentatious custom Macko and Zbyszko took with them those excellent suits of armor and shoulder-bands--won from the conquered Fryzjan knights,--bright, shining and ornamented on the edges with a gold band. Mikolaj of Dlugolas, who had seen the world and many knights, and was very expert in judging war things, immediately recognized that the suits of armor had been made by a most famous armorer of Milan; armor which only the richest knights could afford; each of them being worth quite a fortune. He concluded that those Fryzes were mighty lords among their own people, and he looked with more respect on Macko and Zbyszko. Their helmets, although not common ones, were not so rich; but their gigantic stallions, beautifully caparisoned, excited envy and admiration among the courtiers. Macko and Zbyszko, sitting on very high saddles, could look down proudly at the whole court. Each held in his hand a long spear; each had a sword at at his side and an axe at the saddlebow. For the sake of comfort they had left their shields in the wagons, but even without them, both men looked as though they were going to battle and not to the city. Both were riding near the carriage, in which was seated the princess, accompanied by Danusia, and in front of them a dignified court lady, Ofka, the widow of Krystyn of Jarzombkow and the old Mikolaj of Dlugolas. Danusia looked with great interest at the two iron knights, and the princess, pulling from time to time the box with the relics of Saint Ptolomeus from her bosom, raised it to her lips. "I am very anxious to see what bones are inside," said she, "but I will not open it myself, for I do not want to offend the saint; the bishop in Krakow will open it." To this the cautious Mikolaj of Dlugolas answered: "Ej, it will be better not to let this go out of your hands; it is too precious a thing." "May be you are right," said the princess, after a moment of reflection; then she added: "For a long time nobody has given me such pleasure, as this worthy abbot has by this present; and he also calmed my fears about the relics of the Knights of the Cross." "He spoke wisely and well," said Macko of Bogdaniec. "At Wilno they also had different relics, and they wanted to persuade the guests that they were at war with the heathen. And what? Our knights noticed that if they could only make a blow with an axe, immediately the helmet gave way and the head fell down. The saints help--it would be a sin to say differently--but they only help the righteous, who go to war justly in God's name. Therefore, gracious lady, I think that if there be another war, even if all Germans help the Knights of the Cross, we will overcome them, because our nation is greater and the Lord Jesus will give us more strength in our bones. As for the relics,--have we not a true particle of the holy cross in the monastery of Holy Cross?" "It is true, as God is dear to me," said the princess. "But ours will remain in the monastery, while if necessary they carry theirs." "No matter! There is no limit to God's power." "Is that true? Tell me; how is it?" asked the princess, turning to the wise Mikolaj of Dlugolas; and he said: "Every bishop will affirm it. Rome is distant too, and yet the pope rules over the whole world; cannot God do more!" These words soothed the princess so completely that she began to converse about Tyniec and its magnificence. The Mazurs were astonished not only at the riches of the abbey, but also at the wealth and beauty of the whole country through which they were now riding. All around were many flourishing villages; near them were orchards full of trees, linden groves, storks' nests on the linden trees, and beneath the trees were beehives with straw roofs. Along the highway on both sides, there were fields of all kinds of grain. From time to time, the wind bent the still greenish sea of grain, amidst which shone like the stars in the sky, the blue heads of the flowers of the bachelor button, and the light red wild poppies. Far beyond the fields appeared the woods, black in the distance but bathed in sunlight; here and there appeared moist meadows, full of grass and birds flying round the bushes; then appeared hills with houses; again fields; and as far as one could see, the country appeared to flow not only with milk and honey but also with quiet and happiness. "That is King Kazimierz' rural economy," said the princess; "it must be a pleasure to live here." "Lord Jesus rejoices to see such a country," answered Mikolaj of Dlugolas; "and God's blessing is over it; but how can it be different; when they ring the bells here, there is no corner where they cannot be heard! And it is known that no evil spirit can endure the ringing of the bells, and they are obliged to escape to the forests on the Hungarian frontier." "I wonder," said Pani Ofka, the widow of Krystyn of Jarzombkow, "how Walgierz Wdaly, about whom the monk was talking, can appear in Tyniec, where they ring the bells seven times a day." This remark embarrassed Mikolaj for a moment, who after thinking, quietly said: "In the first place, God's decrees are not well known; and then you must remember that every time he appears he has had special permission." "At any rate, I am glad that we shall not pass the night in the monastery. I would die from fear if I saw such an infernal giant." "Hej! I doubt it, because they say, he is very handsome." "If he were very beautiful, I would not want a kiss from such a man, from whose mouth one could smell sulphur." "I see that when the conversation is even about devils, you are still thinking about kisses." At these words the princess, Pan Mikolaj and both _wlodykas_ of Bogdaniec began to laugh. Danusia laughed also, following the example of the others. But Ofka of Jarzombkow turned her angry face toward Mikolaj of Dlugolas, and said: "I should prefer him to you." "Ej! Don't call the wolf out of the forest;" answered the merry Mazur; "the ghost often wanders on the high road, between Krakow and Tyniec, especially toward night; suppose he should hear you and appear to you in the form of a giant!" "Let the enchantment go on the dog!" answered Ofka. But at that moment Macko of Bogdaniec, who being seated on a high stallion, could see further than those who were in the carriage, reined in his horse, and said: "O, as God is dear to me, what is it?" "What?" "Some giant of the forest is coming!" "And the word became flesh!" exclaimed the princess. "Don't say that!" But Zbyszko arose in his stirrups and said: "It is true; the giant Walgierz; nobody else!" At this the coachman reined in the horses, but not dropping the reins, began to make the sign of the cross, because he also perceived on an opposite hill the gigantic figure of a horsemen. The princess had risen; but now she sat down, her face changed with fear. Danusia hid her face in the folds of the princess' dress. The courtiers, ladies and _rybalts_, who were on horseback behind the carriage, having heard the ill-omened name, began to surround the carriage. The men tried to laugh, but there was fear in their eyes; the young girls were pale; only Mikolaj of Dlugolas maintained his composure and wishing to tranquilize the princess, said: "Don't be frightened, gracious lady. The sun has not yet set; and even if it were night, Saint Ptolomeus will manage Walgierz." In the meanwhile, the unknown horseman, having mounted the top of the hill, stopped his horse and stood motionless. In the rays of the setting sun, one could see him very distinctly; his stature seemed greater than ordinary human dimensions. The space separating him from the princess' retinue was not more than three hundred steps. "Why is he stopping?" asked one of the _rybalts_. "Because we stopped," answered Macko. "He is looking toward us as if he would like to choose somebody," said another _rybalt_; "if I were sure he was a man and not an evil spirit, I would go and give him a blow on the head with the lute." The women began to pray aloud, but Zbyszko wishing to show his courage to the princess and Danusia, said: "I will go just the same. I am not afraid of Walgierz!" Danusia began to scream: "Zbyszko! Zbyszko!" But he went forward and rode swiftly, confident that even if he did meet the true Walgierz, he could pierce him through and through with his spear. Macko who had sharp sight, said: "He appears like a giant because he is on the hill. It is some big man, but an ordinary one, nothing else! Owa! I am going also, to see that he does not quarrel with Zbyszko." Zbyszko, while riding was debating whether he should immediately attack with the spear, or whether first take a close view of the man standing on the hill. He decided to view him first, and immediately persuaded himself that it was the better thought, because as he approached, the stranger began to lose his extraordinary size. He was a large man and was mounted on a large horse, which was bigger than Zbyszko's stallion; yet he did not exceed human size. Besides that he was without armor, with a velvet cap shaped like a bell on his head; he wore a white linen dust cloak, from beneath which a green dress could be seen. While standing on the hill he was praying. Evidently he had stopped his horse to finish his evening devotions. "It is not Walgierz," thought the boy. He had approached so close that he could touch the unknown man with his spear. The man who evidently was a knight, smiled at him benevolently, and said: "May Jesus Christ be praised!" "For ages and ages." "Is that the court of the Princess of Mazowsze below?" "Yes, it is!" "Then you come from Tyniec?" But he did not receive any answer, because Zbyszko was so much surprised that he did not even hear the question. For a moment he stood like a statue, scarcely believing his own eyes, for, behold! about half a furlong behind the unknown man, he perceived several soldiers on horseback, at the head of whom was riding a knight clad in full armor, with a white cloth mantle with a red cross on it, and with a steel helmet having a magnificent peacock tuft in the crest. "A Knight of the Cross!" whispered Zbyszko. Now he thought that God had heard his prayers; that he had sent him the German knight for whom he had asked in Tyniec. Surely he must take advantage of God's kindness; therefore without any hesitation,--before all these thoughts had hardly passed through his head, before his astonishment had diminished,--he bent low on the saddle, let down his spear and having uttered his family shout: "Grady! Grady!" he rushed with the whole speed of his horse against the Knight of the Cross. That knight was astonished also; he stopped his horse, and without lowering his spear, looked in front of him, uncertain whether the attack was against him or not. "Lower your spear!" shouted Zbyszko, pricking his horse with the iron points of the stirrups. "Grady! Grady!" The distance separating them began to diminish. The Knight of the Cross seeing that the attack was really against him, reined in his horse and poised his spear. At the moment that Zbyszko's lance was nearly touching his chest, a powerful hand broke it like a reed; then the same hand reined in Zbyszko's horse with such force, that the charger stopped as though rooted to the ground. "You crazy man, what are you doing?" said a deep, threatening voice; "you are attacking an envoy, you are insulting the king!" Zbyszko glanced around and recognized the same gigantic man, whom he had taken for Walgierz, and who had frightened the princess and her court. "Let me go against the German! Who are you?" he cried, seizing his axe. "Away with the axe! for God's sake! Away with the axe, I say! I will throw you from your horse!" shouted the stranger more threateningly. "You have offended the majesty of the king and you will be punished." Then he turned toward the soldiers who were riding behind the Knight of the Cross. "Come here!" "At this time Macko appeared and his face looked threatening. He understood that Zbyszko had acted like a madman and that the consequences of this affair might be very serious; but he was ready to defend him just the same. The whole retinue of the stranger and of the Knight of the Cross contained only fifteen men, armed with spears and crossbows; therefore two knights in full armors could fight them with some hope of being victorious. Macko also thought that as they were threatened with punishment, it would be better perhaps to avoid it, by overcoming these men, and then hiding somewhere until the storm had passed over. Therefore his face immediately contracted, like the jaws of a wolf ready to bite, and having pushed his horse between Zbyszko and the stranger's horse, he began to ask, meanwhile handling his sword: "Who are you? What right have you to interfere?" "My right is this," said the stranger, "that the king has intrusted to me the safety of the environs of Krakow, and they call me Powala of Taczew." At these words, Macko and Zbyszko glanced at the knight, then returned to their scabbards the half drawn swords and dropped their heads, not because they were frightened but in respect for this famous and very well-known name. Powala of Taczew, a nobleman of a powerful family and a mighty lord, possessor of large estates round Radom, was at the same time one of the most famous knights in the kingdom. _Rybalts_ sang about him in their songs, citing him as an example of honor and gallantry, praising his name as much as the names of Zawisza of Garbow and Farurej, Skarbek of Gora, Dobek of Olesnica, Janko Nanszan, Mikolaj of Moskorzowo, and Zandram of Maszkowic. At this moment he was the representative of the king, therefore to attack him was to put one's head under the executioner's axe. Macko becoming cooler, said with deep respect: "Honor and respect to you, sir, to your fame and to your gallantry." "Honor to you also, sir," answered Powala; "but I would prefer to make your acquaintance under less serious circumstances." "Why?" asked Macko. Powala turned toward Zbyszko. "What have you done, you youngster? You attacked an envoy on the public highway in the king's presence! Do you know the consequences of such an act?" "He attacked the envoy because he was young and stupid; therefore action was easier for him than reflection," said Macko. "But you will not judge him so severely, after I tell you the whole story." "It is not I who will judge him. My business is only to put him in fetters." "How is that?" said Macko, looking gloomy again. "According to the king's command." Silence followed these words. "He is a nobleman," said Macko finally. "Let him swear then upon his knightly honor, that he will appear at the court." "I swear!" exclaimed Zbyszko. "Very well. What do they call you?" Macko mentioned the name and the coat of arms of his nephew. "If you belong to Princess Janusz' court, beg her to intercede for you with the king." "We are not with her court. We are returning from Litwa, from Prince Witold. Better for us if we had never met any court! This misfortune has come from that." Here Macko began to tell about what had happened in the inn; he spoke about the meeting with the princess and about Zbyszko's vow. Then suddenly he was filled with anger against Zbyszko, whose imprudence had caused their present dreadful plight; therefore, turning toward him, he exclaimed: "I would have preferred to see you dead at Wilno! What have you done, you young of a wild boar!" "Well," said Zbyszko, "after the vow, I prayed to the Lord Jesus to give me some Germans; I promised him a present; therefore when I perceived the peacock feathers, and also a mantle embroidered with a cross, immediately some voice cried within me: 'Strike the German! It is a miracle!' Well I rushed forward then; who would not have done it?" "Listen," interrupted Powala, "I do not wish you any evil. I see clearly that this youngster sinned rather from youthful giddiness than from malice. I will be only too glad to ignore his deed and go forward as if nothing had happened. But I cannot do this unless that _comthur_ will promise that he will not complain to the king. Beseech him; perhaps he also will pity the lad." "I prefer to go before the courts, than to bow to a _Krzyzak_!"[30] exclaimed Zbyszko. "It would not be befitting my dignity as a _wlodyka_." Powala of Taczew looked at him severely and said: "You do not act wisely. Old people know better than you, what is right and what is befitting a knight's dignity. People have heard about me; but I tell you, that if I had acted as you have, I would not be ashamed to ask forgiveness for such an offence." Zbyszko felt ashamed; but having glanced around, answered: "The ground is level here. Instead of asking him for forgiveness, I would prefer to fight him on horseback or on foot, till death or slavery." "You are stupid!" interrupted Macko. "You wish then to fight the envoy?" Here he turned to Powala: "You must excuse him, noble lord. He became wild during the war. It will be better if he does not speak to the German, because he may insult him. I will do it. I will entreat him to forgive. If this _comthur_ be willing to settle it by combat, after his mission is over, I will meet him." "He is a knight of a great family; he will not encounter everybody," answered Powala. "What? Do I not wear a girdle and spurs? Even a prince may meet me." "That is true; but do not tell him that, unless he mentions it himself; I am afraid he will become angry if you do. Well, may God help you!" "I am going to humiliate myself for your sake," said Macko to Zbyszko; "wait awhile!" He approached the Knight of the Cross who had remained motionless on his enormous stallion, looking like an iron statue, and had listened with the greatest indifference to the preceding conversation. Macko having learned German during the long wars, began to explain to the _comthur_ in his own language what had happened; he excused the boy on account of his youth and violent temper, and said that it had seemed to the boy as though God himself had sent the knight wearing a peacock tuft, and finally he begged forgiveness for the offence. The _comthur's_ face did not move. Calm and haughty he looked at Macko with his steely eyes with great indifference, but also with great contempt. The _wlodyka_ of Bogdaniec noticed this. His words continued to be courteous but his soul began to rebel. He talked with increasing constraint and his swarthy face flushed. It was evident that in the presence of this haughty pride, Macko was endeavoring to restrain his anger. Powala having noticed this, and having a kind heart, determined to help Macko. He had learned to speak German while seeking knightly adventures at the Hungarian, Burgundian and Bohemian courts, when he was young. Therefore he now said in that language in a conciliatory but jesting tone: "You see, sir, the noble _comthur_ thinks that the whole affair is unimportant. Not only in our kingdom but in every country the youths are slightly crazy; but such a noble knight does not fight children, neither by sword nor by law." Lichtenstein touched his yellow moustache and moved on without a word, passing Macko and Zbyszko. A dreadful wrath began to raise the hair under their helmets, and their hands grasped their swords. "Wait, you scoundrel!" said the elder _wlodyka_ through his set teeth; "now I will make a vow to you. I will seek you as soon as you have finished your mission." But Powala, whose heart began to bleed also, said: "Wait! Now the princess must speak in favor of the boy; otherwise, woe to him!" Having said this, he followed the Knight of the Cross, stopped him and for a while they talked with great animation. Macko and Zbyszko noticed that the German knight did not look at Powala so proudly as he had at them; this made them still more angry. After a while, Powala returned and said to them: "I tried to intercede for you, but he is a hard man. He said that he would not complain to the king if you would do what he requires." "What?" "He said thus: 'I will stop to greet the Princess of Mazowsze; let them come, dismount, take off their helmets, and standing on the ground with uncovered heads, ask my forgiveness.'" Here Powala looked sharply at Zbyszko, and added: "I know it will be hard for people of noble birth to do this; but I must warn you, that if you refuse no one knows what you may expect,--perhaps the executioner's sword." The faces of Macko and Zbyszko became like stone. There was silence. "What then?" asked Powala. Zbyszko answered quietly and with great dignity as though during this conversation he had grown twenty years older: "Well, God's might is over all!" "What do you mean?" "I mean, that even if I had two heads and the executioner was going to cut off both, still I have only one honor which I will not stain." Powala became grave and turning toward Macko, asked: "And what do you say?" "I say," answered Macko gloomily, "that I reared this youth from childhood. On him depends our family, because I am old; but he cannot do what the German asks, even if he must perish." Here his grim face began to quiver and finally his love for his nephew burst forth with such strength, that he seized the boy in his arms, and began to shout: "Zbyszku! Zbyszku!"[31] The young knight was surprised and having returned his uncle's embrace, said: "Aj! I did not know that you loved me so much." "I see that you are both true knights," said Powala; "and as the young man has promised me upon his knightly honor, that he will appear at the court, I will not imprison him; one can trust such people as you. No more gloomy thoughts! The German intends to stay in Tyniec a day or two; therefore I will have an opportunity to see the king first, and I will try to tell him about this affair in such a way that his anger will not be aroused. I am glad I succeeded in breaking the spear in time,--great luck, I tell you!" But Zbyszko said: "Even if I had to lay down my life, I would like at least to have the satisfaction of breaking his bones." "It surprises me that you who know how to defend your own honor, do not understand that you would thus disgrace our whole nation!" impatiently answered Powala. "I understand it very well," said Zbyszko; "but I regret my disability just the same." Powala turned toward Macko: "Do you know, sir, that if this lad succeeds in escaping the penalty for his offence, then you ought to put a cowl like a hawk's on his head! Otherwise he will not die a natural death." "He will escape if you, sir, will not say anything to the king about the occurrence." "And what shall we do with the German? We cannot tie his tongue." "That is true! That is true!" Talking thus, they went back toward the princess' retinue. Powala's servants followed them. From afar one could see amidst the Mazovian caps, the quivering peacock feathers of the Knight of the Cross and his bright helmet shining in the sun. "Strange is the nature of a _Krzyzak_," said the knight of Taczew. "When a _Krzyzak_ is in a tight place, he will be as forbearing as a Franciscan monk, as humble as a lamb and as sweet as honey; in fact, it would be difficult to find a better man. But let him feel power behind him; then nobody will be more arrogant and merciless. It is evident that God gave them stones for hearts. I have seen many different nations and I have often witnessed a true knight spare another who was weaker, saying to himself; 'My fame will not increase if I trample this fallen foe.' But at such a time a _Krzyzak_ is implacable. Hold him by the throat, otherwise woe to you! Such a man is that envoy! He wanted not only an apology, but also your humiliation. But I am glad he failed." "He can wait!" exclaimed Zbyszko. "Be careful not to show him that you are troubled, because then he would rejoice." After these words they approached the retinue and joined the princess' court. The envoy of the _Krzyzaks_, having noticed them, immediately assumed an expression of pride and disdain; but they ignored him. Zbyszko stood at Danusia's side and began to tell her that from the hill one could see Krakow; at the same time Macko was telling one of the _rybalts_ about the extraordinary strength of the Pan of Taczew, who had broken the spear in Zbyszko's hand, as though it were a dry stem. "And why did he break it?" asked the _rybalt_. "Because the boy in fun attacked the German." The _rybalt_, being a nobleman, did not consider such an attack a joke; but seeing that Macko spoke about it lightly, did not take it seriously either. The German was annoyed by such conduct. He glanced at Macko and Zbyszko. Finally be realized that they did not intend to dismount and that they did not propose to pay any attention to him. Then something like steel shone in his eyes, and he immediately began to bid the princess adieu. The Lord of Taczew could not abstain from deriding him and at the moment of departure he said to him: "Go without fear, brave knight. The country is quiet and nobody will attack you, except some careless child." "Although the customs of this country are strange, I was seeking your company and not your protection," answered Lichtenstein; "I expect to meet you again at the court and elsewhere." In the last words a hidden menace rang; therefore Powala answered gravely: "If God will permit." Having said this, he saluted and turned away; then he shrugged his shoulders and said in an undertone, but loud enough to be heard by those who were near: "Gaunt! I could lift you from the saddle with the point of my spear, and hold you in the air during three _pater-nosters_."[32] Then he began to talk with the princess with whom he was very well acquainted. Anna Danuta asked him what he was doing on the highway. He told her that the king had commanded him to keep order in the environs while there were so many wealthy guests going to Krakow. Then he told her about Zbyszko's foolish conduct. But having concluded that there would be plenty of time to ask the princess to protect Zbyszko, he did not put any stress on the incident, not wishing to spoil the gaiety. The princess laughed at the boy, because he was so anxious to obtain the peacock tuft; the others, having learned about the breaking of the spear, admired the Lord of Taczew very much, especially as he did it with one hand only. And he, being a little vain, was pleased because they praised him. Finally he began to tell about some of the exploits which made his name famous; especially those he performed in Burgundia, at the court of Philip the Courageous. There one time, during a tournament, he seized an Ardenian knight, pulled him out of the saddle and threw him in the air, notwithstanding that the knight was in full armor. For that exploit, Philip the Courageous presented him with a gold chain and the queen gave him a velvet slipper, which he wore on his helmet. Upon hearing this, all were very much amazed, except Mikolaj of Dlugolas, who said: "In these effeminate times, there are not such strong men as there were when I was young. If a nobleman now happens to shatter a cuirass, to bend a crossbow without the aid of the crank, or to bend a cutlass between his fingers, he immediately considers himself a very strong man. But in times of yore, girls could do such deeds." "I don't deny that formerly there were stronger people," answered Powala; "but even now there are some strong men. God did not stint me in strength, but I do not consider myself the strongest in this kingdom. Have you ever seen Zawisza of Garbow? He can surpass me." "I have seen him. He has shoulders broad like a rampart." "And Dobko of Olesnica? Once at the tournament given in Torun by the Knights of the Cross, he defeated twelve knights for his own and our nation's glory." "But our Mazur, Staszko Ciolek, was stronger, sir, than you or your Zawisza and Dobko. They say that he took a peg made from green wood in his hand and pressed the sap out of it."[33] "I can press the sap out myself," said Zbyszko. And before anyone could ask him to prove it, he broke a branch which he pressed so strongly, that really the sap began to ooze from it. "Aj, Jesus!" exclaimed Ofka of Jarzombkow; "don't go to the war; it would be a pity if such an one should perish before his marriage." "It would indeed be a pity!" replied Macko, suddenly becoming sorrowful. But Mikolaj of Dlugolas laughed as did also the princess. The others, however, praised Zbyszko's strength, and as in those times might was appreciated more than any other quality, the young girls cried to Danusia: "Be glad!" She was glad although she could not then understand what benefit she would receive from that piece of compressed wood. Zbyszko having forgotten all about the _Krzyzak_ now looked so proud, that Mikolaj of Dlugolas wishing to curb his pride, said: "There are better men than you; therefore do not be so proud of your strength. I did not see it, but my father was a witness of something more difficult which happened at the court of Charles, the Roman emperor. King Kazimierz went to pay him a visit and with him went many courtiers. Among these courtiers was Staszko Ciolek, son of _Wojewoda_[34] Andrzej, who was noted for his strength. The emperor began to boast that he had a Czech who could strangle a bear. They had an exhibition and the Czech strangled two bears in succession. Our king not wishing to be outdone, said: 'But he cannot overcome my Ciolek.' They agreed that they should fight in three days' time. Many ladies and famous knights came, and the Czech and Ciolek grappled in the yard of the castle; but the contest did not last long; hardly had they come together before Ciolek broke the backbone of the Czech, crushed all his ribs, and left him dead to the great glory of the king.[35] They have called him since then Lomignat.[36] Once he placed without help, a bell which twelve men could not move from its place."[37] "How old was he?" asked Zbyszko. "He was young!" In the meantime, Powala of Taczew, while riding at the princess' right hand, bent toward her and told her the truth about the importance of Zbyszko's adventure, and asked her to speak to the king in Zbyszko's behalf. The princess being fond of Zbyszko, received this news with sadness and became very uneasy. "The Bishop of Krakow is a friend of mine," said Powala; "I will ask him and also the queen to intercede; but the more protectors he has, the better it will be for the lad." "If the queen will promise to say one word in his favor, not a hair will fall from his head," said Anna Danuta; "the king worships her for her piety and for her dowry, and especially now, when the shame of sterility has been taken from her. But the king's beloved sister, Princess Ziemowit lives in Krakow; you must go to her. For my part I will do anything I can; but the princess is his own sister, and I am only his first cousin." "The king loves you also, gracious lady." "Ej, but not as much," she answered with a certain sadness; "for me a link, for her a whole chain; for me a fox skin, for her a sable. He loves none of his relations as dearly as he loves Alexandra." Thus talking, they approached Krakow. The highway which was crowded on the road from Tyniec, was still more crowded here. They met countrymen going with their servants to the city, sometimes armed and sometimes in summer clothing and straw hats. Some of them were on horseback; some traveled in carriages, with their wives and daughters, who wished to see the long looked for tournaments. In some places the whole road was crowded with merchants' wagons which could not pass Krakow until the toll was paid. They carried in these wagons wax, grain, salt, fish, skins, hemp and wood. Others came from the city loaded with cloth, barrels of beer and different merchandise. One could now see Krakow very well; the king's gardens, lords' and burghers' houses surrounded the city; beyond them were the walls and the towers of the churches. The nearer they came to the city the greater was the traffic and at the gates it was almost impossible to pass. "What a city! There is no other like it in the world," said Macko. "It is always like a fair," answered one of the _rybalts_; "how long since you were here, sir?" "A very long time ago. I wonder at it just as much as if I saw it now for the first time, because we are returning from a wild country." "They say that Krakow has grown very much since the time of King Jagiello." This was true; after the grand duke of Litwa ascended the throne, enormous Lithuanian and Russian countries were opened for commerce; because of this the city had increased in population, richness and buildings, and had become one of the most important cities in the world. "The cities of the Knights of the Cross are very beautiful also," said the larger _rybalt_. "If only we could capture one of them," said Macko. "Worthy booty we could get!" But Powala of Taczew was thinking about something else; namely, of Zbyszko, who was in peril because of his stupid blind fury. The Pan of Taczew, fierce and implacable in the time of war, had in his powerful breast, however, the heart of a dove; he realized better than the others what punishment awaited the offender; therefore he pitied him. "I ponder and ponder," said he again to the princess, "whether to tell the king of the incident or not. If the _Krzyzak_ does not complain, there will be no case; but if he should complain, perhaps it would be better to tell the king everything beforehand, so that he will not become angry." "If the _Krzyzak_ has an opportunity to ruin somebody, he will do it," answered the princess; "but I will tell that young man to join our court. Perhaps the king will be more lenient to one of our courtiers." She called Zbyszko, who having had his position explained to him, jumped from his horse, kissed her hands and became with the greatest pleasure one of her courtiers, not so much for greater safety, as because he could now remain nearer Danusia. Powala asked Macko: "Where will you stay?" "In an inn." "There is no room in any inn now." "Then we will go to merchant Amylej, he is an acquaintance of mine, perhaps he will let us pass the night in his house." "Accept hospitality in my house. Your nephew can stay with the princess' courtiers in the castle; but it will be better for him not to be near the king. What one does in the first paroxysm of anger, one would not do afterward. You will be more comfortable and safe with me." Macko had become uneasy because Powala thought so much about their safety; he thanked Powala with gratitude and they entered the city. But here they both as well as Zbyszko forgot for a while about danger in the presence of the wonders they saw before them. In Lithuania and on the frontier, they had only seen single castles, and the only city of any importance which they knew was Wilno, a badly built and ruined town; but here many of the merchants' houses were more magnificent than the grand duke's palace in Lithuania. It is true that there were many wooden houses; but even these astonished them by the loftiness of their walls and roofs; also by the windows, made of glass balls, set in lead which so reflected the rays of the setting sun, that one would imagine that there was fire in the houses. In the streets near the market place, there were many highly ornamented houses of red brick, or of stone. They stood side by side like soldiers; some of them, broad; others, narrow; but all lofty with vaulted halls, very often having the sign of the Passion of our Lord Jesus Christ or an image of the Most Holy Virgin over the door. There were some streets, on which one could see two rows of houses, over them a stripe of blue sky, between them, a road paved with stones; and on both sides as far as one could see stores and stores. These were full of the best foreign goods, at which being accustomed to war and the capture of booty, Macko looked with a longing eye. But both were still more astonished at the sight of the public buildings; the church of Panna Maryia on the square; the _sukiennice_;[38] the city hall with its gigantic cellar, in which they were selling beer from Swidnica; other churches, depots of broadcloth, the enormous "_mercatorium_," devoted to the use of foreign merchants; then a building in which were the public scales, bath houses, cooper works, wax works, silver works, gold works, breweries, the mountains of barrels round the so-called Schrotamto,--in a word, riches which a man not familiar with the city, even though a well-to-do possessor of a _grodek_, could not even imagine. Powala conducted Macko and Zbyszko to his house situated on Saint Anna Street, assigned a large room to them, recommended them to his shield-bearers, and then went to the castle, from which he returned for supper quite late at night. A few friends accompanied him, and they enjoyed the plentiful repast of wine and meat. The host alone was sorrowful. When finally the guests departed, he said to Macko: "I spoke to a canon, able in writing and in the law, who says, that an insult to an envoy is a capital offence. Therefore pray God, that the _Krzyzak_ may not complain." Hearing this, both knights, who, during the feast had exceeded the other guests in mirth, retired with sorrowful hearts. Macko could not even sleep and after a while when they were in bed, he said to his nephew: "Zbyszku?" "What?" "I have considered everything and I do not think they will execute you." "You do not think so?" asked Zbyszko, in a sleepy voice. Having turned toward the wall, he fell sound asleep, because he was very weary. The next day, both _wlodykas_ of Bogdaniec, went with Powala to morning mass in the cathedral, for devotion and also to see the court and the guests who had arrived at the castle. In fact, on the way Powala met many acquaintances, and among them several knights famous at home and abroad. At these Zbyszko looked with admiration, promising himself that if he escaped death for the insult to Lichtenstein, he would try to rival them in gallantry and in all knightly virtues. One of these knights, Toporczyk, a relative of the castellan of Krakow, told them that Wojciech Jastrzembiec had returned from Rome, where he had been sent to Pope Bonifacius IX. with the king's invitation to the christening at Krakow. Bonifacius accepted the invitation; and although it was doubtful whether he would be able to come personally, he authorized the envoy to stand godfather for the coming child in his name; and he asked that the name Bonifacius or Bonifacia be given to the child as a proof of his particular love for the king and the queen. They also spoke of the arrival of the Hungarian king, Sigismundus; they expected him positively, because he always came, invited or not, whenever there was an opportunity for feasts and tournaments. Of these he was very fond, because he desired to be famous the world over as a ruler, a singer and the first among knights. Powala, Zawisza of Garbow, Dobko of Olesnica, Naszan and others of the same rank, recollected with a smile that during Sigismundus' first visit, King Wladyslaw requested them privately not to attack him very fiercely, but to spare "the Hungarian guest," whose vanity, known throughout the world, used to make him cry in case of defeat. But the most interest was excited among the knights by Witold's affairs. They told marvelous tales about the magnificence of that cradle, made of sterling silver, which the Lithuanian princes and _bojars_[39] had brought as a present from Witold and his wife, Anna. Macko told about the proposed enormous expedition against the Tartars. The expedition was almost ready, and a great army had already gone eastward toward Rus'. If it were successful, it would extend the king's supremacy over almost half the world, to the unknown Asiatic countries, to the frontier of Persia and to the shores of the Aral. Macko, who formerly served under Witold and knew his plans, could tell about them so accurately and even so eloquently, that before the bells were rung for mass, a large circle of curious people had formed around him. He said that the question was simply about a crusade. "Witold himself," he said, "although they call him a grand duke, rules over Litwa by Jagiello's authority; he is only viceroy, therefore the renown will be the king's. What fame it will be for the newly baptized Lithuanians and for the might of Poland, when the united armies carry the cross to those countries where, if they mention the Saviour's name at all, it is only to blaspheme! When the Polish and Lithuanian armies restore Tochtamysh to the throne of Kapchak, he will acknowledge himself "the son" of King Wladyslaw, and he has promised to bow to the cross with the whole Zlota Orda." The people listened to Macko with great attention; but many did not thoroughly understand what people Witold intended to help nor against whom he intended to fight; therefore some one asked: "Tell exactly with whom is the war to be?" "With whom? With Tymur the Lame!" replied Macko. There was a moment of silence. It is true the eastern knights often heard the names of Golden, of Blue, of Azovian and of other Ords; but they were not familiar with the civil wars of the Tartars. Nevertheless there was not one man in Europe, who had not heard about the terrible Tymur the Lame, or Tamerlan. This name was heard with no less fear than of old was the name of Attila. He was "lord of the world" and "lord of ages;" the ruler over twenty-seven conquered states: the ruler of Moskiewskoy Russia; ruler of Siberia and of China as far as the Indies; of Bagdad, of Ispahan, of Alep, of Damascus--whose shadow was falling over the sands of Arabia, on Egypt, and on Bosphorus in the Greek empire; he was the exterminator of mankind; the terrible builder of pyramids composed of human skulls; he was the conqueror in all battles, never conquered in any, "lord of souls and of bodies." Tochtamysh had been placed by him on the throne of the Golden and the Blue Ords,[40] and acknowledged as "the son." But when his sovereign authority extended from Aral to Crimea, over more lands than were in the rest of Europe, "the son" wanted to be an independent ruler. For this he was deposed from his throne with "one finger" of the terrible father; he escaped to the Lithuanian governor and asked him for help. Witold decided to restore him to his throne; but to do this it was necessary to vie with the world-ruling Tymur the Lame. For these reasons his name made a great impression on the audience, and after a short silence, one of the oldest knights, Kazko of Jaglow, said: "A difficult business!" "And for a trifle," said the prudent Mikolaj of Dlugolas. "What difference will it make to us, whether Tochtamysh or some Kutluk rules over the sons of Belial who dwell beyond the tenth-land?" "Tochtamysh will turn to the Christian faith," answered Macko. "He will or he will not! Can you trust dog-brothers, who do not confess Christ?" "But we are ready to lay down our lives for Christ's name," answered Powala. "And for knightly honor," added Toporczyk, the relative of the castellan; "there are some among us however who will not go. The Lord _Wojewoda, Spytko of Melsztyn_ has a young and beloved wife, but he has already joined _Kniaz_ Witold." "No wonder," added Jasko Naszan; "no matter how hideous a sin you have on your soul, pardon and salvation are sure for those who fight in such a war." "And fame for ages and ages," said Powala of Taczew. "Let us then have a war, and it will be better if it be a great war. Tymur has conquered the world and has twenty-seven states under him. It will be an honor for our nation if we defeat him." "Why not?" answered Toporczyk, "even if he possesses a hundred kingdoms, let others be afraid of him--not us! You speak wisely! Let us gather together ten thousand good spearmen, and we will pass round the world." "And what nation should conquer The Lame, if not ours?" Thus the knights conversed. Zbyszko was sorry now because he did not go with Witold to the wild steppes. But when he was in Wilno, he wanted to see Krakow and its court and take part in the tournaments; but now he fears that he will find disgrace here at the court, while there on the steppes even at the worst, he would have found a glorious death. But the aged Kazko of Jaglow, who was a hundred years old, and whose common sense corresponded to his age, discouraged the zealous knights. "You are stupid!" said he. "Is it possible that none of you have beard that Christ's image spoke to the queen? If the Saviour himself condescend to such familiarity, then why will the Holy Ghost, who is the third person of the Trinity, be less kind to her. Therefore she sees future events, as if they were passing before her, and she has thus spoken:" Here he stopped for a while, shook his head, and then said: "I have forgotten what she prophesied, but I will soon recollect." He began to think, and they waited silently, because the popular belief was that the queen could see the future. "Aha!" said he, finally, "I remember now! The queen said, that if every knight went with Witold against The Lame-Man, then heathenish power would be destroyed. But all cannot go because of the dishonesty of Christian lords. We are obliged to guard the boundaries from the attacks of the Czechs and the Hungarians and also from the attacks of the Order, because we cannot trust any of them. Therefore if Witold go with only a handful of Polish warriors, then Tymur the Lame, or his _wojewodas_, coming with innumerable hosts, will defeat him." "But we are at peace now," said Toporczyk, "and the Order will give some assistance to Witold. The Knights of the Cross cannot act otherwise, if only for the sake of appearances, and to show to the holy father that they are ready to fight the pagans. The courtiers say that Kuno von Lichtenstein came not entirely for the christening, but also to consult with the king." "Here he is!" exclaimed the astonished Macko. "True!" said Powala, turning his head. "So help me God, it is he! He did not stay long with the abbot." "He is in a hurry," answered Macko, gloomily. Kuno von Lichtenstein passed them. Macko and Zbyszko recognized him by the cross embroidered on his mantle; but he did not recognize either of them because he had seen them before with their helmets on. Passing by, he nodded to Powala of Taczew, and to Toporczyk; then with his shield-bearers, he ascended the stairs of the cathedral, in a majestic and stately manner. At that moment the bells resounded, frightening flocks of doves and jackdaws, and announcing that mass would soon begin. Macko and Zbyszko entered the church with the others, feeling troubled about Lichtenstein's quick return. The older _wlodyka_ was very uneasy, but the young one's attention was attracted by the king's court. He was surrounded by noted men, famous in war and in counsel. Many of those by whose wisdom the marriage of the grand duke of Lithuania with the young and beautiful queen of Poland, had been planned and accomplished, were now dead; but a few of them were still living, and at these, all looked with the greatest respect. The young knight could not admire enough the magnificent figure of Jasko of Tenczyn, castellan of Krakow, in which sternness was united with dignity and honesty; he admired the wise countenances of the counsellors and the powerful faces of the knights whose hair was cut evenly on their foreheads, and fell in long curls on their sides and backs. Some of them wore nets, others wore bands to keep the hair in order. The foreign guests, Hungarian and Austrian, and their attendants, were amazed at the great elegance of the costumes; the Lithuanian princes and _bojars_, notwithstanding the summer heat, were dressed for the sake of pompous display in costly furs; the Russian princes wore large stiff dresses, and in the background they looked like Byzantine pictures. With the greatest curiosity Zbyszko awaited the appearance of the king and the queen. He advanced toward the stalls behind which he could see the red velvet cushions near the altar, on which the king and the queen kneeled during mass. He did not wait long; the king entered first, through the vestry door, and before he reached the altar one could have a good look at him. He had long, dark, disheveled hair; his face was thin and clean shaven; he had a large pointed nose and some wrinkles around his mouth. His eyes were small, dark, and shining. His face had a kind but cautious look, like that of a man who having risen by good luck to a position far beyond his expectations, is obliged to think continually whether his actions correspond to his dignity and who is afraid of malicious criticism. This also was the reason why in his face and in his movements there was a certain impatience. It was very easy to understand that his anger would be sudden and dreadful. He was that prince, who being angered at the frauds of the Knights of the Cross, shouted after their envoy: "Thou comest to me with a parchment, but I will come to thee with a spear!" But now this natural vehemence was restrained by great and sincere piety. He set a good example, not only to the recently converted Lithuanian princes, but even to the Polish lords, pious for generations. Often the king kneeled, for the greater mortification of the flesh, on bare stones; often having raised his hands, he held them uplifted until they dropped with fatigue. He attended at least three masses every day. After mass he left the church as if just awakened from slumber, soothed and gentle. The courtiers knew that it was the best time to ask him either for pardon, or for a gift. Jadwiga entered through the vestry door also. Seeing her enter, the knights standing near the stalls, immediately kneeled, although mass had not begun, voluntarily paying her homage as to a saint. Zbyszko did the same; nobody in this assembly doubted that he really saw a saint, whose image would some time adorn the church altars. Besides the respect due to a queen, they almost worshipped her on account of her religious and holy life. It was reported that the queen could perform miracles. They said that she could cure the sick by touching them with her hand; that people who could not move their legs nor their arms, were able to do it, after they put on a dress which the queen had worn. Trustworthy witnesses affirmed that they had heard with their own ears, Christ speak to her from the altar. Foreign monarchs worshipped her on their knees and even the Order of the Knights of the Cross respected her and feared to offend her. Pope Bonifacius IX. called her the pious and chosen daughter of the church. The world looked at her deeds and remembered that this child of the Andegavian[41] house and Polish Piasts[42], this daughter of the powerful Louis, a pupil of the most fastidious of courts, and also one of the most beautiful women on earth, renounced happiness, renounced her first love and being a queen married a "wild" prince of Lithuania, in order to bring to the cross, by his help, the last pagan nation in Europe. That which could not be accomplished by the forces of all the Germans, by a sea of poured out blood, was done with one word from her. Never did the glory of an apostle shine over a younger and more charming forehead; never was the apostleship united with equal self-denial; never was the beauty of a woman lighted with such angelic kindness and such quiet sadness. Therefore minstrels sang about her in all the European courts; knights from the remotest countries came to Krakow to see this "Queen of Poland;" her own people loved her, as the pupil of the eye and their power and glory had increased by her marriage with Jagiello. Only one great sorrow hung over her and the nation; for long years this child of God had had no issue. But now this sorrow had passed away and the joyful news of God's blessing on the queen sped like lightning from the Baltic to the Black Sea, also to Karpaty[43] and filled with joy all peoples of this powerful kingdom. In all foreign courts, except in the capital of the Knights of the Cross, the news was received with pleasure. In Rome "Te Deum" was sung. In the provinces of Poland the belief was firmly established, that anything the "Saint lady" asked of God, would be granted. Therefore there came to her people to beseech her, that she ask health for them; there came envoys from the provinces and from other countries, to ask that she pray according to their need, either for rain, or for fair weather for harvesting; for lucky moving time; for abundant fishing in the lakes or for game in the forests. Those knights, living in castles and _grodeks_ on the frontier, who according to the custom learned from the Germans, had become robbers or waged war among themselves, at the command of the queen, put their swords in their scabbards, released their prisoners without ransom, restored stolen herds and clasped hands in friendship. All kinds of misery, all kinds of poverty crowded the gates of her castle in Krakow. Her pure spirit penetrated human hearts, softened the hard lot of the serfs, the great pride of the lords, the unjust severity of the judges, and hovered like a dove of happiness, like an angel of justice and peace, over the whole country. No wonder then that all were awaiting with anxious hearts for the day of blessing. The knights looked closely at the figure of the queen, to see if they could ascertain how long they would be obliged to wait for the future heir to the throne. The _ksiondz_[44] bishop of Krakow, Wysz, who was also the ablest physician in the country, and famous even abroad, had not announced when the delivery would occur. They were making some preparation; but it was the custom at that time to begin all festivals as early as possible, and to prolong them for weeks. In fact the figure of the lady, although a little rounded, had retained until now its former grandeur. She was dressed with excessive simplicity. Formerly, having been brought up at a brilliant court, and being more beautiful than any of the contemporary princesses, she was fond of costly fabrics, of chains, pearls, gold bracelets and rings; but now and even for several years past, she not only wore the dress of a nun, but she even covered her face, fearing that the thoughts of her beauty might arouse in her worldly vanity. In vain Jagiello, having learned of her condition, in a rapture of joy ordered her sleeping apartment to be decorated with brocade and jewels. Having renounced all luxury, and remembering that the time of confinement is often the time of death, she decided that not among jewels, but in quiet humility she ought to receive the blessing which God had promised to send her. Meanwhile the gold and jewels went to establish a college and to send the newly converted Lithuanian youths to foreign universities. The queen agreed only to change her monastical dress, and from the time that the hope of maternity was changed to positive certainty, she did not veil her face, thinking that the dress of a penitent was no longer proper. Consequently everybody was now looking with love at that beautiful face, to which neither gold, nor precious stones could add any charm. The queen walked slowly from the vestry door toward the altar, with uplifted eyes, holding in one hand a book, in the other a rosary. Zbyszko saw the lily-like face, the blue eyes, and the angelic features full of peace, kindness and mercy, and his heart began to throb with emotion. He knew that according to God's command he ought to love the king and the queen, and he did in his way; but now his heart overflowed with a great love, which did not come by command, but burst forth like a flame; his heart was also filled with the greatest worship, humility and desire for sacrifice. The young _wlodyka_ Zbyszko was impetuous; therefore a desire immediately seized him, to show in some way that love and the faithfulness of a knight; to accomplish some deed for her; to rush somewhere, to conquer some one and to risk his own life for it all. "I had better go with _Kniaz_ Witold," he said to himself, "because how can I serve the holy lady, if there is no war here." He did not stop to think that one can serve in other ways as well as with sword or spear or axe; he was ready to attack alone the whole power of Tymur the Lame. He wanted to jump on his charger immediately after mass and begin something. What? He did not know himself. He only knew, that he could not hold anything, that his hands were burning and his whole soul was on fire. He forgot all about the danger which threatened him. He even forgot about Danusia, and when he remembered her, having heard the children singing in the church, he felt that this love was something different. He had promised Danusia fidelity; he had promised her three Germans and he would keep his promise. But the queen is above all women. While he was thinking how many people he would like to kill for the queen, he perceived regiments of armors, helmets, ostrich feathers, peacocks' crests, and he felt that even that would be small in proportion to his desire. He looked at her constantly, pondering with overflowing heart, how he could honor her by prayer, because he thought that one could not make an ordinary prayer for a queen. He could say: _Pater noster, qui es in coelis, sanctificetur nomen Tuum_, because a certain Franciscan monk taught him this in Wilno; but it may be that the Franciscan himself did not know more; it may be that Zbyszko had forgotten; but it is certain that he could not recite the whole "Our Father." But now he began to repeat these few words which in his soul had the following meaning: "Give our beloved lady good health, long life and great happiness; care for her more than for anyone else." As this was repeated by a man over whose head punishment was suspended, therefore there was no more sincere prayer in the whole church. CHAPTER V. After mass Zbyszko thought that if he could only fall upon his knees before the queen and kiss her feet, then he did not care what happened afterward. But after the first mass, the queen went to her apartments. Usually she did not take any nourishment until noontime, and was not present at the merry breakfast, during which jugglers and fools appeared for the amusement of the king. The old _wlodyka_ of Dlugolas came and summoned Zbyszko to the princess. "You will serve Danusia and me at the table as my courtier," said the princess. "It may happen that you will please the king by some facetious word or deed, and the Krzyzak if he recognize you, will not complain to the king, seeing that you serve me at the king's table." Zbyszko kissed the princess' hand. Then he turned to Danusia; and although he was more accustomed to battles than to the manners of the court, still he evidently knew what was befitting a knight, when he sees the lady of his thoughts in the morning; he retreated, and assuming an expression of surprise, and making the sign of the cross, exclaimed: "In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost!" Danusia, looking at him with her blue eyes, asked: "Why do you make the sign of the cross, Zbyszko, after mass is ended?" "Because your beauty increased so much, during last night, that I am astonished!" Mikolaj of Dlugolas, who did not like the new, foreign customs of chivalry, shrugged his shoulders and said: "Don't lose time talking to her about her beauty! She is only a bush hardly grown up from the soil." At this Zbyszko looked at him with rancor. "You must be careful about calling her a 'bush,'" said he, turning pale with anger; "if you were younger, I would challenge you immediately and would fight until either you or I were dead!" "Keep quiet, you beardless boy! I can manage you even to-day!" "Be quiet!" said the princess. "Instead of thinking about your own danger, you are seeking a quarrel! I would prefer to find a more steady knight for Danusia. If you wish to foam, go where you please; but we do not need you here." Zbyszko felt abashed at the princess' words and began to apologize. But he thought to himself that if Pan Mikolaj of Dlugolas had a grown-up son, then sometime he would challenge the son and would not forgive Mikolaj for calling her "bush." Now he determined to be quiet while in the king's castle and not to provoke anybody, only in case of absolute necessity. The blowing of horns announced that breakfast was ready; therefore the Princess Anna taking Danusia by the hand, went to the king's apartments, where the lay-dignitaries and the knights, stood awaiting her arrival. Princess Ziemowita entered first, because being the king's sister, she occupied a higher seat at the table. Soon the hall was filled with guests, dignitaries and knights. The king was seated at the upper end of the table, having near him Wojciech Jastrzembiec, bishop of Krakow, the bishop, although inferior in rank to the other priests wearing mitres, was seated at the right hand of the king because he was the pope's envoy. The two princesses took the next places. Near Anna Danuta, the former archbishop of Gniezno, Jan, was comfortably seated in a large chair. He was a descendant of the Piasts of Szlonsk and the son of Bolko, Prince of Opole. Zbyszko had heard of him at the court of Witold; and now while standing behind the princess and Danusia, he recognized the archbishop by his abundant hair which being curled, made his head look like a _kropidlo_.[45] At the courts of the Polish princes, they called him "Kropidlo," for this reason; and the Knights of the Cross gave him the name of "Grapidla." He was noted for his gaiety and giddy manners. Having received the nomination for the archbishopric of Gniezno, against the king's wish, he took possession of it by military force; for this act he was deprived of his rank. He then joined the Knights of the Cross who gave him the poor bishopric of Kamieniec in Pomorze. Then he concluded that it was better to be friendly with the mighty king; he craved his pardon, returned to the country and was now waiting for a vacancy to occur, hoping that the good hearted lord would let him fill it. He was not mistaken as the future proved. In the meantime he was trying to win the king's heart by merry frolics. But he still liked the Knights of the Cross. Even now, at the court of Jagiello where he was not greatly welcomed by the dignitaries and knights, he sought Lichtenstein's company and gladly sat beside him at the table. Zbyszko, standing behind the princess' chair, was so near to the Krzyzak, Lichtenstein, that he could have touched him with his hand. In fact, his fingers began to twitch, but he overcame his impetuosity and did not permit himself any evil thoughts. But he could not refrain from looking eagerly at Lichtenstein's head and shoulders, trying to decide whether he would have a hard fight with him, if they met either during the war, or in single combat. He concluded that it would not be difficult to conquer the German. The Krzyzak's shoulder bones appeared quite large under his dress of grey broadcloth; but he was only a weakling compared with Powala or with Paszko Zlodziej of Biskupice, or with both of the most famous Sulimczyks, or with Krzon of Kozieglowy or with many of the other knights, sitting at the king's table. At these knights Zbyszko looked with admiration and envy; but his attention was also attracted by the actions of the king, who at this moment gathered his hair with his fingers and pushed it behind his ears, as if he was impatient because breakfast was not served. His eyes rested for a moment on Zbyszko, and at that the young knight felt afraid, fearing that perhaps he would be obliged to face the angry king. This was the first time he had thought seriously about the consequences of his rash action. Until now it had seemed to him to be something remote, therefore not worthy of sorrow. The German did not know that that youth who dad attacked him so boldly on the highway, was so near. The breakfast began. They brought in caudle, seasoned so strongly with eggs, cinnamon, cloves, ginger and saffron, that the fragrance filled the whole room. In the meanwhile the fool Ciaruszek, sitting on a chair in the doorway, began to imitate the singing of a nightingale, of which the king was very fond. Then another jester went around the table, stopped behind the guests and imitated the buzzing of a bee so well, that some of them began to defend their heads. Seeing this, the others burst with laughter. Zbyszko had served the princess and Danusia diligently; but when Lichtenstein began to clap his baldhead, he again forgot about his danger and began to laugh. The young Lithuanian _kniaz_, Jamut, who was standing beside him, also laughed at this very heartily. The Krzyzak having finally noticed his mistake, put his hand in his pocket, and turning to the bishop, Kropidlo, said a few words to him in German; the bishop immediately repeated them in Polish. "The noble lord says to you," said he, turning toward the fool, "that you will receive two _skojce_; but do not buzz too near, because the bee is driven away, but the drones are killed." The fool took the two _skojce_ given to him by the Krzyzak, and taking advantage of the license granted at all courts to the fools, answered: "There is plenty of honey in the province of Dobrzyn;[46] that is why it is beset with the drones. Drive them, King Wladyslaw!" "Here is a penny from me, because you have said a clever thing," said Kropidlo, "but remember that if the rope break, the beehive keeper break his neck.[47] Those drones from Malborg, by whom Dobrzyn is beset, have stings, and it is dangerous to climb to the beehives." "Owa!" exclaimed Zyndram of Maszkow, the sword bearer of Krakow, "one can smoke them out!" "With what?" "With powder." "Or cut the beehive with an axe," added the gigantic Paszko Zlodziej of Biskupice. Zbyszko's heart was ready to leap with joy, because he thought that such words betokened war. Kuno von Lichtenstein understood what was said, because during his long sojourn in Torun and Chelmno, he learned the Polish language; but he would not use it on account of pride. But now, being irritated by the words of Zyndram of Maszkow, he looked at him sharply with his grey eyes and said: "We shall see." "Our fathers saw at Plowce[48] and at Wilno," answered Zyndram. "_Pax vobiscum!_" exclaimed Kropidlo. "_Pax, pax!_ If only the _ksiondz_[49] Mikolaj of Kurow, will give up his Kujawian bishopric, and the gracious king appoint me in his place, I will preach you such a beautiful sermon about the love between Christian nations, that you will sincerely repent. Hatred is nothing but _ignis_ and _ignis infernalis_ at that; such a dreadful fire that one cannot extinguish it with water, but is obliged to pour wine on it. Give us some wine! We will go on _ops_,[50] as the late Bishop Zawisza of Kurozwenki used to say!" "And from _ops_ to hell, the devil says," added the fool Ciaruszek. "Let him take you!" "It would be more amusing for him to take you. They have not yet seen the devil with Kropidlo, but I think we shall all have that pleasure." "I will sprinkle you first. Give us some wine and may love blossom among the Christians!" "Among true Christians!" added Kuno von Lichtenstein, emphatically. "What?" exclaimed the Krakowian bishop Wysz, raising his head; "are you not in an old Christian kingdom? Are not our churches older than yours in Malborg?"[51] "I don't know," answered the Krzyzak. The king was especially sensitive where any question about Christianity arose. It seemed to him that the Krzyzak wished to make an allusion to him; therefore his cheeks flamed immediately and his eyes began to shine. "What!" said he, in a deep voice, "am I not a Christian king?" "The kingdom calls itself a Christian one," coolly answered the Krzyzak; "but its customs are pagan." At this many angry knights arose; Marcin of Wrocimowice, whose coat of arms was Polkoza, Florian of Korytnica, Bartosz of Wodzinek, Domarat of Kobylany, Zyndram of Maszkow, Powala of Taczew, Paszko Zlodziej of Biskupice, Jaxa of Targowisko, Krzon of Kozieglowy, Zygmunt of Bobowa and Staszko of Charbimowice, powerful and famous knights, victorious in many battles and in many tournaments. Alternately blushing and turning pale from anger, gnashing their teeth, they began to shout: "Woe to us! He is a guest and we cannot challenge him!" Zawisza Czarny, Sulimczyk, the most famous among the famous, "the model of knighthood," turned to Lichtenstein with a frown on his forehead and said: "I do not recognize you, Kuno. How can you, a knight, insult a mighty nation, when you know that, being an envoy, you cannot be punished for it." But Kuno quietly sustained the threatening look, and answered slowly and precisely: "Our Order, before it came to Prussia, fought in Palestine; even there the Saracens respected the envoys. But you do not respect them; that is the reason I called your customs pagan." At these words the uproar increased. Round the table again were heard shouts: "Woe! Woe!" But they subsided when the king, who was furious, clasped his hands in the Lithuanian fashion. Then the old Jasko Topor of Tenczyn, castellan of Krakow, venerable, grave and dreaded on account of the importance of his office, arose and said: "Noble Knight of Lichtenstein, if you, an envoy, have been insulted, speak, and severe punishment will be given quickly." "It would not have happened to me in any other Christian country," answered Kuno. "Yesterday on the road to Tyniec I was attacked by one of your knights, and although he could very easily recognize by the cross on my mantle who I was, he attempted my life." Zbyszko, having heard these words, became very pale and involuntarily glanced at the king, whose anger was terrible. Jasko of Tenczyn was surprised, and said: "Can it be possible?" "Ask the Pan of Taczew, who was a witness of the incident." "All eyes turned toward Powala, who stood for a while gloomy, and with lowered eyelids; then he said: "Yes, it is so!" Hearing this the knights began to shout: "Shame! Shame! The earth will devour such a man!" Because of this disgrace some of them began to strike their chests with their hands, and others to rap the silver dishes, not knowing what to do. "Why did you not kill him?" shouted the king. "Because his head belongs to the court," answered Powala. "Have you put him in prison?" asked the castellan, Topor of Tenczyn. "No. He is a _wlodyka_, who swore on his knightly honor, that he would appear." "But he will not appear!" ironically exclaimed Kuno, raising his head. At that moment a young voice resounded behind the Krzyzak: "I did it; I, Zbyszko of Bogdaniec!" After these words the knights rushed toward the unhappy Zbyszko; but they were stopped by a threatening nod from the king who began to shout in an angry voice, similar to the rattling of a carriage rolling over the stones: "Cut his head off! Cut his head off! Let the Krzyzak send it to Malborg to the grand master!" Then he cried to the young Lithuanian prince standing near. "Hold him, Jamont!" The frightened Jamont put his trembling hands on Zbyszko's shoulders. But the white-bearded castellan of Krakow, Topor of Tenczyn, raised his hand as a sign that he wished to speak; when everybody was quiet, he said: "Gracious king! Let this _comthur_ be convinced that not only your impetuous anger, but our laws will punish with death any who insult an envoy. Otherwise he will think that there are no Christian laws in this country. To-morrow I will judge the offender." The last words he said quietly and as though no one could change his decision. Then he said to Jamont: "Shut him in the tower. As for you, Pan of Taczew, you will be a witness." "I will tell about the offence of this lad," answered Powala, looking at Lichtenstein. "He is right!" immediately said some knights. "He is only a lad! Why should the shame be put on us all!" There was a moment of silence, and angry looks were cast at the Krzyzak. In the meanwhile Jamont conducted Zbyszko to the court-yard of the castle and intrusted him to the archers. In his young heart he pitied the prisoner, and this pity was increased by his natural hatred of the Germans. But he was a Lithuanian, accustomed to fulfill blindly the orders of the grand duke; being himself afraid of the king's wrath, he began to whisper to the young knight, with kindly persuasion: "Do you know, what I would do if in your place? Hang myself! It will be the best! The _korol_[52] is angry; they will cut off your head. Why should you not make him joyful? Hang yourself, _druh_.[53] Such is the custom in my country." Zbyszko, half dazed with shame and fear, at first did not seem to understand the words of the _kniazik_;[54] but finally he understood them and then he was amazed: "What do you say?" "Hang yourself! Why should they judge you. You will only afford pleasure for the king!" repeated Jamont. "Hang your own self!" exclaimed the young _wlodyka_. "They have baptized you but your heathen skin remains on you. Do you not know that it is a sin for a Christian to kill himself?" The _kniaz_ shrugged his shoulders: "It will not be according to your will. They will cut off your head just the same." These words angered Zbyszko, and he wondered if it would be proper to challenge the _bojarzynek_[55] for a fight either on horseback or on foot, with swords or with axes; but he stifled this desire. He dropped his head sadly and surrounded by the archers, went silently to the tower. In the meanwhile everybody's attention in the dining hall was turned to Danusia, who became pale with fright. She stood motionless like a wax figure in a church. But when she heard that they were going to execute Zbyszko, then she was seized with great fear; her mouth quivered and at once she began to cry so loudly and so pitifully, that all faces turned toward her and the king himself asked her: "What is the matter with thee?" "Gracious king!" said the Princess Anna, "she is the daughter of Jurand of Spychow and this unhappy knight made a vow to her. He promised her to tear three peacock tufts from the helmets of the Germans, and having noticed such a tuft on the helmet of this _comthur_, he thought that God himself had sent the Krzyzak. He did not attack him, lord, through malice, but through stupidity; therefore be merciful and do not punish him, we beseech you on our knees!" Having said this she arose, seized Danusia by the hand, and rushed with her toward the king, who seeing this began to retire. But both kneeled before him and Danusia began to cry; "Forgive Zbyszko, king, forgive Zbyszko!" Because she was afraid, she hid her fair head between the folds of the king's dress, kissed his knees and trembled like a leaf. Anna Ziemowitowa kneeled on the other side and having clasped her hands, looked at the king on whose face there was visible great perplexity. He retired toward the chair, but did not push Danusia back, only waved his hands. "Do not trouble me!" he cried. "The youth is guilty; he has brought disgrace on the country! They must execute him!" But the little hands clung closer and closer to his knees and the child cried more and more pitifully: "Forgive Zbyszko, king, forgive Zbyszko!" Now the voices of some knights were heard to exclaim: "Jurand of Spychow is a famous knight, and the cause of awe to the Germans." "And that youth fought bravely at Wilno!" added Powala. But the king excused himself further, although he pitied Danusia. "He is not guilty toward me and it is not I who can forgive him. Let the envoy of the Order pardon him, then I will pardon him also; but if the envoy will not, then he must die." "Forgive him, sir!" exclaimed both of the princesses. "Forgive, forgive!" repeated the voices of the knights. Kuno closed his eyes and sat with uplifted forehead, as if he was delighted to see both princesses and such famous knights entreating him. Then his appearance changed; he dropped his head, crossed his hands on his breast and from a proud man became a humble one, and said with a soft, mild voice: "Christ, our Saviour, forgave his enemies and even the malefactor on the cross." "He is a true knight!" said Bishop Wysz. "He is, he is!" "How can I refuse to forgive," continued Kuno, "being not only a Christian, but also a monk? Therefore I forgive him with all my heart, as Christ's servant and friar!" "Honor to him!" shouted Powala of Taczew. "Honor!" repeated the others. "But," said the Krzyzak, "I am here among you as an envoy and I carry in me the majesty of the whole Order which is Christ's Order. Whosoever offends me, therefore, offends the Order; and whosoever offends the Order, offends Christ himself; and such an offence, I, in the presence of God and the people, cannot forgive; and if your law does not punish it, let all Christian lords know." After these words, there was a profound silence. Then after a while there could be heard here and there the gnashing of teeth, the heavy breathing of suppressed wrath and Danusia's sobbings. By evening all hearts were in sympathy with Zbyszko. The same knights who in the morning were ready to cut him into pieces, were now considering how they could help him. The princesses determined to see the queen, and beseech her to prevail upon Lichtenstein to withdraw his complaint; or if necessary to write to the grand master of the Order, and ask him to command Kuno to give up the case. This plan seemed to be the best because Jadwiga was regarded with such unusual respect that if the grand master refused her request, it would make the pope angry and also all Christian lords. It was not likely that he would refuse because Konrad von Jungingen was a peaceable man. Unfortunately Bishop Wysz of Krakow, who was also the queen's physician, forbade them to mention even a word about this affair to the queen. "She never likes to hear about death sentences," he said, "and she takes even the question of a simple robber's death too seriously; she will worry much more if she hear about this young man who hopes to obtain mercy from her. But such anxiety will make her seriously ill, and her health is worth more to the whole kingdom than ten knightly heads." He finally said that if anyone should dare, notwithstanding what he had said, to disturb the queen, on that one he would cause the king's anger to rest and then he threatened such an one with excommunication. Both princesses were frightened at such menace and determined to be silent before the queen; but instead to beseech the king until he showed some mercy. The whole court and all the knights sympathized with Zbyszko. Powala of Taczew declared that he would tell the whole truth; but that he would also speak in favor of the young man, because the whole affair was only an instance of childish impetuousness. But notwithstanding all this, everybody could see, and the castellan, Jasko of Tenczyn made it known, that if the Krzyzak was unrelenting, then the severe law must be fulfilled. Therefore the knights were still more indignant against Lichtenstein and they all thought and even said frankly: "He is an envoy and cannot be called to the lists; but when he returns to Malborg, God will not permit that he die a natural death." They were not talking in vain, because a knight who wore the girdle was not permitted to say even one word without meaning it, and the knight who vowed anything, was obliged to accomplish his vow or perish. Powala was the most implacably angry because he had a beloved daughter of Danusia's age in Taczew, and Danusia's tears made his heart tender. Consequently, that same day, he went to see Zbyszko, in his underground cell, commanded him to have hope, and told him about the princesses' prayers and about Danusia's tears. Zbyszko having learned that the girl threw herself at the king's feet for his sake, was moved to tears, and wishing to express his gratitude, said, wiping his tears with his hand: "Hej! may God bless her, and permit me as soon as possible to engage in a combat, either on horseback or on foot, for her sake! I did not promise Germans enough to her! To such a lady, I ought to vow as many as she has years. If the Lord Jesus will only release me from this tower, I will not be niggardly with her!" He raised his eyes, full of gratitude. "First promise something to some church," advised the _Pan_ of Taczew; "if your promise is pleasing, you will surely soon be free. Now listen; your uncle went to see Lichtenstein, and I will go see him also. It will be no shame for you to ask his pardon, because you are guilty; and then you do not ask for pardon of Lichtenstein, but an envoy. Are you ready?" "As soon as such a knight as your grace tells me it is proper, I will do it. But if he require me to ask him for pardon in the same way he asked us to do it, on the road from Tyniec, then let them cut off my head. My uncle will remain and he will avenge me when the envoy's mission is ended." "We shall hear first what he says to Macko," answered Powala. And Macko really went to see the German; but he returned as gloomy as the night and went directly to the king, to whom he was presented by the castellan, himself. The king received Macko kindly because he had been appeased; when Macko kneeled, he immediately told him to arise, asking what he wished. "Gracious lord," said Macko, "there was an offence, there must be a punishment; otherwise, there would be no law in the world. But I am also guilty because I did not try to restrain the natural impetuosity of that youth; I even praised him for it. It is my fault, gracious king, because I often told him: 'First cut, and then look to see whom you have hurt.' That was right in war, but wrong at the court! But he is a man, pure as gold, the last of our family!" "He has brought shame upon me and upon my kingdom," said the king; "shall I be gracious to him for that?" Macko was silent, because when he thought about Zbyszko, grief overpowered him; after a long silence, he began to talk in a broken voice: "I did not know that I loved him so well; I only know it now when misfortune has come. I am old and he is last of the family. If he perish--we perish! Merciful king and lord, have pity on our family!" Here Macko kneeled again and having stretched out his arms wasted by war, he spoke with tears: "We defended Wilno; God gave us honest booty; to whom shall I leave it? If the Krzyzak requires punishment, let punishment come; but permit me to suffer it. What do I care for life without Zbyszko! He is young; let him redeem the land and beget children, as God ordered man to do. The Krzyzak will not ask whose head was cut off, if there is one cut. There will be no shame on the family. It is difficult for a man to die; but it is better that one man perish than that a family should be destroyed." Speaking thus he clasped the king's legs; the king began to wink his eyes, which was a sign of emotion with him; finally he said: "It can not be! I cannot condemn to death a belted knight! It cannot be! It cannot be!" "And there would be no justice in it," added the castellan. "The law will crush the guilty one; but it is not a monster, which does not look to see whose blood is being shed. And you must consider what shame would fall on your family, if your nephew agreed to your proposal. It would be considered a disgrace, not only to him, but to his children also." To this Macko replied: "He would not agree. But if it were done without his knowledge, he would avenge me, even as I also will avenge him." "Ha!" said Tenczynski, "persuade the Krzyzak to withdraw the complaint." "I have asked him." "And what?" asked the king, stretching his neck; "what did he say?" "He answered me thus: 'You ought to have asked me for pardon on the road to Tyniec; you would not then; now I will not.'" "And why didn't you do it?" "Because he required us to dismount and apologize on foot." The king having put his hair behind his ears, commenced to say something when a courtier entered to announce that the Knight of Lichtenstein was asking for an audience. Having heard this, Jagiello looked at Jasko of Tenczyn, then at Macko. He ordered them to remain, perhaps with the hope that he would be able to take advantage of this opportunity and using his kingly authority, bring the affair to an end. Meanwhile the Krzyzak entered, bowed to the king, and said: "Gracious lord! Here is the written complaint about the insult which I suffered in your kingdom." "Complain to him," answered the king, pointing to Jasko of Tenczyn. The Krzyzak, looking directly into the king's face, said: "I know neither your laws nor your courts; I only know, that an envoy of the Order can complain only to the king." Jagiello's small eyes flashed with impatience; he stretched out his hand however, and accepted the complaint which he handed to Tenczynski. The castellan unfolded it and began to read; but the further he read, the more sorrowful and sad his face became. "Sir," said he, finally, "you are seeking the life of that lad, as though he were dangerous to the whole Order. Is it possible that the Knights of the Cross are afraid even of the children?" "The Knights of the Cross are not afraid of anyone," answered the _comthur_, proudly. And the old castellan added: "And especially of God." The next day Powala of Taczew testified to everything he could before the court of the castellan, that would lessen the enormity of Zbyszko's offence. But in vain did he attribute the deed to childishness and lack of experience; in vain he said that even some one older, if he had made the same vow, prayed for its fulfillment and then had suddenly perceived in front of him such a crest, would also have believed that it was God's providence. But one thing, the worthy knight could not deny; had it not been for him, Zbyszko's spear would have pierced the Krzyzak's chest. Kuno had brought to the court the armor which he wore that day; it appeared that it was so thin that Zbyszko with his great strength, would have pierced it and killed the envoy, if Powala of Taczew had not prevented him. Then they asked Zbyszko if he intended to kill the Krzyzak, and he could not deny it. "I warned him from afar," said he, "to point his lance, and had he shouted in reply that he was an envoy, I would not have attacked him." These words pleased the knights who, on account of their sympathy for the lad, were present in great numbers, and immediately numerous voices were heard to say: "True! Why did he not reply!" But the castellan's face remained gloomy and severe. Having ordered those present to be silent, he meditated for a while, then looked sharply at Zbyszko, and asked: "Can you swear by the Passion of our Lord that you saw neither the mantle nor the cross?" "No!" answered Zbyszko. "Had I not seen the cross, I would have thought he was one of our knights, and I would not have attacked one of ours." "And how was it possible to find any Krzyzak near Krakow, except an envoy, or some one from his retinue?" To this Zbyszko did not reply, because there was nothing to be said. To everybody it was clear, that if the _Pan_ of Taczanow had not interposed, at the present moment there would lie before them not the armor of the envoy, but the envoy himself, with pierced breast--an eternal disgrace to the Polish nation;--therefore even those who sympathized with Zbyszko, with their whole souls, understood that he could not expect a mild sentence. In fact, after a while the castellan said: "As you did not stop to think whom you were attacking, and you did it without anger, therefore our Saviour will forgive you; but you had better commit yourself to the care of the Most Holy Lady, because the law cannot condone your offence." Having heard this, Zbyszko, although he expected such words, became somewhat pale; but he soon shook his long hair, made the sign of the cross, and said: "God's will! I cannot help it!" Then he turned to Macko and looked expressively at Lichtenstein, as if to recommend him to Macko's memory; his uncle nodded in return that he understood and would remember. Lichtenstein also understood the look and the nod, and although he was as courageous as implacable, a cold shiver ran through him--so dreadful and ill-omened was the face of the old warrior. The Krzyzak knew that between him and that knight it would be a question of life or death. That even if he wanted to avoid the combat, he could not do it; that when his mission was ended, they must meet, even at Malborg.[56] Meanwhile the castellan went to the adjoining room to dictate the sentence to a secretary. Some of the knights during the interruption came near the Krzyzak, saying: "May they give you a more merciful sentence in the great day of judgment!" But Lichtenstein cared only for the opinion of Zawisza, because he was noted all over the world for his knightly deeds, his knowledge of the laws of chivalry and his great exactness in keeping them. In the most entangled affairs in which there was any question about knightly honor, they used to go to him even from distant lands. Nobody contradicted his decisions, not only because there was no chance of victory in a contest with him, but because they considered him "the mirror of honor." One word of blame or praise from his mouth was quickly known by the knighthood of Poland, Hungary, Bohemia (Czech) and Germany; and he could decide between the good and evil actions of a knight. Therefore Lichtenstein approached him as if he would like to justify his deadly grudge, and said: "The grand master himself, with the chapter, could show him clemency; but I cannot." "Your grand master has nothing to do with our laws; our king can show clemency to our people, not he," answered Zawisza. "I as the envoy was obliged to insist upon punishment." "Lichtenstein, you were first a knight, afterward an envoy!" "Do you think that I acted against honor?" "You know our books of chivalry, and you know that they order us to imitate two animals, the lamb and the lion. Which of the two have you, imitated in this case?" "You are not my judge!" "You asked me if you had committed an offence, and I answered as I thought." "You give me a hard answer, which I cannot swallow." "You will be choked by your own malice, not by mine." "But Christ will put to my account, the fact that I cared more about the dignity of the Order, than about your praise." "He will judge all of us." Further conversation was interrupted by the reappearance of the castellan and the secretary. They knew that the sentence would be a severe one, and everyone waited silently. The castellan sat at the table, and, having taken a crucifix in his hand, ordered Zbyszko to kneel. The secretary began to read the sentence in Latin. It was a sentence of death. When the reading was over, Zbyszko struck himself several times on the chest, repeating; "God be merciful to me, a sinner!" Then he arose and threw himself in Macko's arms, who began to kiss his head and eyes. In the evening of the same day, a herald announced at the four corners of the market place with the sound of trumpets, to the knights, guests and burghers assembled, that the noble Zbyszko of Bogdaniec was sentenced by the castellan's court to be decapitated by the sword. But Macko obtained a delay of the execution; this was readily granted, because in those days they used to allow prisoners plenty of time to dispose of their property, as well as to be reconciled to God. Lichtenstein himself did not wish to insist upon an early execution of the sentence, because he understood, that as long as he obtained satisfaction for the offended majesty of the Order, it would be bad policy to estrange the powerful monarch, to whom he was sent not only to take part in the solemnity of the christening, but also to attend to the negotiations about the province of Dobrzyn. But the chief reason for the delay was the queen's health. Bishop Wysz did not wish even to hear about the execution before her delivery, rightly thinking, that it would be difficult to conceal such an affair from the lady. She would feel such sorrow and distress that it would be very injurious to her health. For these reasons, they granted Zbyszko several weeks, and perhaps more, of life, to make his final arrangements and to bid his friends farewell. Macko visited him every day and tried to console him. They spoke sorrowfully about Zbyszko's inevitable death, and still more sorrowfully about the fact that the family would become extinct. "It cannot be otherwise, unless you marry," Zbyszko said once. "I would prefer to find some distant relative," answered the sorrowful Macko. "How can I think about women, when they are going to behead you. And even if I am obliged to marry, I will not do it, until I send a knightly challenge to Lichtenstein, and seek to avenge your death. Do not fear!" "God will reward you. I have at least that joy! But I know that you will not forgive him. How will you avenge me?" "When his duty as an envoy has ended, there may be a war! If there be war, I will send him a challenge for single combat before the battle." "On the leveled ground?" "On the leveled ground, on horseback or on foot, but only for death, not for captivity. If there be peace, then I will go to Malborg and will strike the door of the castle gates with my spear, and will order the trumpeter to proclaim that I challenge Kuno to fight until death. He cannot avoid the contest!" "Surely he will not refuse. And you will defeat him." "Defeat? I could not defeat Zawisza, Paszko, nor Powala; but without boasting, I can take care of two like him. That scoundrel Krzyzak shall see! That Fryzjan knight, was he not stronger? And how I cut him through the helmet, until the axe stopped! Did I not?" Zbyszko breathed with relief and said: "I will perish with some consolation." They both began to sigh, and the old nobleman spoke with emotion: "You mustn't break down with sorrow. Your bones will not search for one another at the day of judgment. I have ordered an honest coffin of oak planks for you. Even the canons of the church of Panna Marya could not have any better. You will not perish like a peasant. I will not permit them to decapitate you on the same cloth on which they behead burghers. I have made an agreement with Amylej, that he furnish a new cloth, so handsome that it would be good enough to cover king's fur. I will not be miserly with prayers, either; don't be afraid!" Zbyszko's heart rejoiced, and bending toward his uncle's hand, he repeated: "God will reward you!" Sometimes, however, notwithstanding all this consolation he was seized with a feeling of dreadful loneliness; therefore, another time when Macko came to see him, as soon as he had welcomed him, he asked him, looking through the grate in the wall: "How is it outside?" "Beautiful weather, like gold, and the sun warms so that all the world is pleased." Hearing this, Zbyszko put both his hands on his neck, and raising his head, said: "Hej, Mighty God! To have a horse and to ride on fields, on large ones! It is dreadful for a young man to perish! It is dreadful!" "People perish on horseback!" answered Macko. "Bah! But how many they kill before!" And he began to ask about the knights whom he had seen at the king's court; about Zawisza, Farurej, Powala of Taczew, about Lis of Targowisko and about all the others; what they were doing; how they amused themselves; in what honest exercises they passed the time? And he listened with avidity to Macko who told him that in the morning, the knights dressed in their armor, jumped over horses, broke ropes, tried one another's skill with swords and with axes having sharp ends made of lead; finally, he told how they feasted and what songs they sang. Zbyszko longed with heart and soul to be with them, and when he learned that Zawisza, immediately after the christening, intended to go somewhere beyond Hungary, against the Turks, he could not refrain from exclaiming: "If they would only let me go! It would be better to perish among the pagans!" But this could not be done. In the meanwhile something else happened. Both princesses of Mazowsze had not ceased to think about Zbyszko, who had captivated them by his youth and beauty. Finally the Princess Alexandra Ziemowitowna decided to send a letter to the grand master. It was true that the grand master could not alter the sentence, pronounced by the castellan; but he could intercede with the king in favor of the youth. It was not right for Jagiello to show any clemency, because the offence was an attempt on the life of the envoy; but if the grand master besought the king, then the king would pardon the lad. Therefore hope entered the hearts of both princesses. Princess Alexandra being fond of the polished monk-knights, was a great favorite with them also. Very often they sent her from Marienburg, rich presents and letters in which the master called her venerable, pious benefactress and the particular protectress of the Order. Her words could do much; it was probable that her wishes would not be denied. The question now was to find a messenger, who would be zealous enough to carry the letter as soon as possible and return immediately with the answer. Having heard this, the old Macko determined without any hesitation to do it. The castellan promised to delay the execution. Full of hope, Macko set himself to work the same day to prepare for the journey. Then he went to see Zbyszko, to tell him the good news. At first Zbyszko was filled with as great joy, as if they had already opened the door of the tower for him. But afterward he became thoughtful and gloomy, and said: "Who can expect anything from the Germans! Lichtenstein also could ask the king for clemency; and he could get some benefit from it because he would thus avoid your vengeance; but he will not do anything." "He is angry because we would not apologize on the road to Tyniec. The people speak well about the master, Konrad. At any rate you will not lose anything by it." "Sure," said Zbyszko, "but do not bow too low to him." "I shall not. I am going with the letter from Princess Alexandra; that is all." "Well, as you are so kind, may God help you!" Suddenly he looked sharply at his uncle and said: "But If the king pardon me, Lichtenstein shall be mine, not yours. Remember!" "You are not yet sure about your neck, therefore don't make any promises. You have enough of those stupid vows!" said the angry old man. Then they threw themselves into each other's arms. Zbyszko remained alone. Hope and uncertainty tossed his soul by turns; but when night came, and with it a storm, when the uncovered window was lighted by ill-omened lightnings and the walls shook with the thunder, when finally the whistling wind rushed into the tower, Zbyszko plunged, into darkness, again lost confidence; all night he could not close his eyes. "I shall not escape death," he thought; "nothing can help me!" But the next day, the worthy Princess Anna Januszowna came to see him, and brought Danusia who wore her little lute at her belt. Zbyszko fell at their feet; then, although he was in great distress, after a sleepless night, in woe and uncertainty, he did not forget his duty as a knight and expressed his surprise about Danusia's beauty. But the princess looked at him sadly and said: "You must not wonder at her; if Macko does not bring a favorable answer, or if he does not return at all, you will wonder at better things in heaven!" Then she began to weep as she thought of the uncertain future of the little knight. Danusia wept also. Zbyszko kneeled again at their feet, because his heart became soft like heated wax in the presence of such grief. He did not love Danusia as a man loves a woman; but he felt that he loved her dearly. The sight of her had such an effect on him that he became like another man, less severe, less impetuous, less warlike. Finally great grief filled him because he must leave her before he could accomplish the vow which he had made to her. "Poor child, I cannot put at your feet those peacock crests," said he. "But when I stand in the presence of God, I will say: 'Lord, forgive me my sins, and give _Panna_ Jurandowna of Spychow all riches on earth.'" "You met only a short time ago," said the princess. "God will not grant it!" Zbyszko began to recollect the incident which occurred in Tyniec and his heart was melted. Finally he asked Danusia to sing for him the same song which she was singing when he seized her from the falling bench and carried her to the princess. Therefore Danusia, although she did not feel like singing, raised her closed eyes toward the vault and began: "If I only could get The wings like a birdie, I would fly quickly To my dearest Jasiek! I would then be seated On the high enclosure: Look my dear Jasiulku----" But suddenly the tears began to flow down her face, and she was unable to sing any more. Zbyszko seized her in his arms, as he had done in the inn at Tyniec and began to walk with her around the room, repeating in ecstasy: "If God release me from this prison, when you grow up, if your father give his consent, I will take you for my wife! Hej!" Danusia embraced him and hid her face on his shoulder. His grief which became greater and greater, flowed from a rustic Slavonic nature, and changed in that simple soul almost to a rustic song: "I will take you, girl! I will take you!" CHAPTER VI. An event now happened, compared with which all other affairs lost their importance. Toward evening of the twenty-first of June, the news of the queen's sudden illness spread throughout the castle. Bishop Wysz and the other doctors remained in her room the whole night. It was known that the queen was threatened with premature confinement. The castellan of Krakow, Jasko Topor of Tenczyn, sent a messenger to the absent king that same night. The next day the news spread throughout the entire city and its environs. It was Sunday, therefore the churches were crowded. All doubt ceased. After mass the guests and the knights, who had come to be present at the festivals, the nobles and the burghers, went to the castle; the guilds and the fraternities came out with their banners. From noontide numberless crowds of people surrounded Wawel, but order was kept by the king's archers. The city was almost deserted; crowds of peasants moved toward the castle to learn some news about the health of their beloved queen. Finally there appeared in the principal gate, the bishops and the castellan, and with them other canons, king's counselors and knights. They mingled with the people telling them the news, but forbidding any loud manifestation of joy, because it would be injurious to the sick queen. They announced to all, that the queen was delivered of a daughter. This news filled the hearts of all with joy, especially when they learned, that, although the confinement was premature, there was now no danger, neither for the mother nor for the child. The people began to disperse because it was forbidden to shout near the castle and everybody wished to manifest his joy. Therefore, the streets of the city were filled immediately, and exulting songs and exclamations resounded in every corner. They were not disappointed because a girl had been born. "Was it unfortunate that King Louis had no sons and that Jadwiga became our queen? By her marriage with Jagiello, the strength of the kingdom was doubled. The same will happen again. Where can one find a richer heiress than our queen. Neither the Roman emperor nor any king possesses such dominion, nor so numerous a knighthood! There will be great competition among the monarchs for her hand; the most powerful of them will bow to our king and queen; they will come to Krakow, and we merchants will profit by it; perhaps some new domains, Bohemian or Hungarian, will be added to our kingdom." Thus spoke the merchants among themselves, and their joy increased every moment. They feasted in the private houses and in the inns. The market place was filled with lanterns and torches. Almost till daybreak, there was great life and animation throughout the city. During the morning, they heard more news from the castle. They heard that the _ksiondz_ Bishop Peter, had baptized the child during the night. On account of this, they feared that the little girl was not very strong. But the experienced townswomen quoted some similar cases, in which the infants had grown stronger immediately after baptism. Therefore they comforted themselves with this hope; their confidence was greatly increased by the name given to the princess. "Neither Bonifacius nor Bonifacia can die immediately after baptism; the child so named is destined to accomplish something great," they said. "During the first years, especially during the first weeks, the child cannot do anything good or bad." The next day, however, there came bad news from the castle concerning the infant and the mother, and the city was excited. During the whole day, the churches were as crowded as they were during the time of absolution. Votive offerings were very numerous for the queen's and princess' health. One could see poor peasants offering some grain, lambs, chickens, ropes of dried mushrooms or baskets of nuts. There came rich offerings from the knights, from the merchants and from the artisans. They sent messengers to the places where miracles were performed. Astrologers consulted the stars. In Krakow itself, they ordered numerous processions. All guilds and fraternities took part in them. There was also a children's procession because the people thought that these innocent beings would be more apt to obtain God's favor. Through the gates new crowds were coming. Thus day after day passed, with continual ringing of bells, with the noise of the crowds in the churches, with processions and with prayers. But when at the end of a week, the beloved queen and the child were still living, hope began to enter the hearts of the people. It seemed to them impossible, that God would take from the kingdom the queen who, having done so much for it, would thus be obliged to leave so much unfinished. The scholars told how much she had done for the schools; the clergy, how much for God's glory; the statesmen, how much for peace among Christian monarchs; the jurisconsults, how much for justice; the poor people, how much for poverty. None of them could believe that the life so necessary to the kingdom and to the whole world, would be ended prematurely. In the meanwhile on July thirteenth, the tolling bells announced the death of the child. The people again swarmed through the streets of the city, and uneasiness seized them. The crowd surrounded Wawel again, inquiring about the queen's health. But now nobody came out with good news. On the contrary, the faces of the lords entering the castle, or returning to the city, were gloomy, and every day became sadder. They said that the _ksiondz_ Stanislaw of Skarbimierz, the master of liberal sciences in Krakow, did not leave the queen, who every day received holy communion. They said also, that after every communion, her room was filled with celestial light. Some had seen it through the windows; but such a sight frightened the hearts devoted to the lady; they feared that it was a sign that celestial life had already begun for her. But everybody did not believe that such a dreadful thing could happen; they reassured themselves with the hope that the justice of heaven would be satisfied with one victim. But on Friday morning, July seventeenth, the news spread among the people that the queen was in agony. Everybody rushed toward Wawel. The city was deserted; even mothers with their infants rushed toward the gates of the castle. The stores were closed; they did not cook any food. All business was suspended; but around Wawel, there was a sea of uneasy, frightened but silent people. At last at the thirteenth hour from noontime, the bell on the tower of the cathedral resounded. They did not immediately understand what it meant; but the people became uneasy. All heads and all eyes turned toward the tower in which was hung the tolling bell; its mournful tones were soon repeated by other bells in the city: by those at Franciscans, at Trinity, and at Panna Marya. Finally the people understood; then their souls were filled with dread and with great grief. At last a large black flag embroidered with a death's head, appeared on the tower. Then all doubt vanished: the queen had rendered her soul to God. Beneath the castle walls resounded the roar and the cries of a hundred thousand people and mingled with the gloomy voices of the bells. Some of the people threw themselves on the ground; others tore their clothing or lacerated their faces; while others looked at the walls with silent stupefaction. Some of them were moaning; some, stretching their hands toward the church and toward the queen's room, asked for a miracle and God's mercy. But there were also heard some angry voices, which on account of despair were verging toward blasphemy: "Why have they taken our dear queen? For what then were our processions, our prayers and our entreaties? Our gold and silver offerings were accepted and we have nothing in return for them! They took but they gave us nothing in return!" Many others weeping, repeated: "Jesus! Jesus! Jesus!" The crowds wanted to enter the castle, to look once more on the face of their queen. This they were not permitted to do; but were promised that the body would soon be placed in the church where everyone would be allowed to view it and to pray beside it. Consequently toward evening, the sorrowing people began to return to the city, talking about the queen's last moments, about the future funeral and the miracles, which would be performed near her body and around her tomb. Some also said that immediately after her burial, the queen would be canonized, and when others said that they doubted if it could be done, many began to be angry and to threaten to go to the pope in Avignon. A gloomy sorrow fell upon the city, and upon the whole country, not only on the common people, but on everybody; the lucky star of the kingdom was extinguished. Even to many among the lords, everything looked black. They began to ask themselves and others, what would happen now? whether the king had the right to remain after the queen's death and rule over the country; or whether he would return to Lithuania and be satisfied with the throne of the viceroy? Some of them supposed--and the future proved that they thought correctly--that the king himself would be willing to withdraw; and that, in such an event the large provinces would separate from the crown, and the Lithuanians would again begin their attacks against the inhabitants of the kingdom. The Knights of the Cross would become stronger; mightier would become the Roman emperor and the Hungarian king; and the Polish kingdom, one of the mightiest until yesterday, would be ruined and disgraced. The merchants, for whom waste territories in Lithuania and in Russia had been opened, forseeing great losses, made pious vows, hoping that Jagiello might remain on the throne. But in that event, they predicted a war with the Order. It was known that the queen only could restrain his anger. The people recollected a previous occasion, when being indignant at the avidity and rapacity of the Knights of the Cross, she spoke to them in a prophetic vision: "As long as I live, I will restrain my husband's hand and his righteous anger; but remember that after my death, there will fall upon you the punishment for your sins." In their pride and folly, they were not afraid of a war, calculating, that after the queen's death, the charm of her piety would no longer restrain the wish for affluence of volunteers from eastern countries, and that then thousands of warriors from Germany, Burgundia, France and other countries, would join the Knights of the Cross. The death of Jadwiga was an event of such importance, that the envoy Lichtenstein, could wait no longer for the answer of the absent king; but started immediately for Marienburg, in order to communicate as soon as possible to the grand master and to the chapter the important, and in some ways, threatening news. The Hungarian, the Austrian and the Bohemian envoys followed him or sent messengers to their monarchs. Jagiello returned to Krakow in great despair. At first he declared to the lords, that he did not wish to rule without the queen and that he would return to Litwa. Afterward, on account of his grief, he fell into such a stupor, that he could not attend to any affairs of state, and could not answer any questions. Sometimes he was very angry with himself, because he had gone away, and had not been present at the queen's death to bid her farewell and to hear her last words and wishes. In vain Stanislaw of Skarbimierz and Bishop Wysz explained to him that the queen's illness came suddenly, and that according to human calculations he would have had plenty of time to go and return if the confinement had occurred at the expected time. These words did not bring him any consolation; did not assuage his grief. "I am no king without her," he answered the bishop; "only a repentant sinner, who can receive no consolation!" After that he looked at the ground and no one could induce him to speak even one word. Meanwhile preparations for the queen's funeral occupied all minds. From all over the country, great crowds of lords, nobles and peasants were going to Krakow. The body of the queen was placed in the cathedral on an elevation, so arranged that the end of the coffin in which the queen's head rested, was much higher than the other end. It was so arranged purposely, to enable the people to see the queen's face. In the cathedral continual prayers were offered; around the catafalque thousands of wax candles were burning. In the glare of the candles and among the flowers, she lay quiet and smiling, looking like a mystic rose. The people saw in her a saint; they brought to her those possessed with devils, the crippled and the sick children. From time to time there was heard in the church, the exclamation of some mother who perceived the color return to the face of her sick child; or the joyful voice of some paralytic man who at once was cured. Then human hearts trembled and the news spread throughout the church, the castle, and the city, and attracted more and more of such human wretchedness as only from a miracle could expect help. CHAPTER VII. During this time Zbyszko was entirely forgotten. Who in the time of such sorrow and misfortune, could remember about the noble lad or about his imprisonment in the tower of the castle? Zbyszko had heard, however, from the guards, about the queen's illness. He had heard the noise of the people around the castle; when he heard their weeping and the tolling of the bells, he threw himself on his knees, and having forgotten about his own lot, began to mourn the death of the worshipped lady. It seemed to him, that with her, something died within him and that after her death, there was nothing worth living for in this world. The echo of the funeral--the church bells, the processional songs and the lamenting of the crowd,--was heard for several weeks. During that time, he grew gloomier, lost his appetite, could not sleep and walked in his underground cell like a wild beast in a cage. He suffered in solitude; there were often days during which the jailer did not bring him food nor water. So much was everybody engaged with the queen's funeral, that after her death nobody came to see him: neither the princess, nor Danusia, nor Powala of Taczew, nor the merchant Amylej. Zbyszko thought with bitterness, that as soon as Macko left the city, everybody forgot about him. Sometimes he thought that perhaps the law would forget about him also, and that he would putrefy in the prison till death. Then he prayed for death. Finally, when after the queen's funeral one month passed, and the second commenced, he began to doubt if Macko would ever return. Macko had promised to ride quickly and not to spare his horse. Marienburg was not at the other end of the world. One could reach it and return in twelve weeks, especially if one were in haste. "But perhaps he has not hurried!" thought Zbyszko, bitterly; "perhaps he has found some woman whom he will gladly conduct to Bogdaniec, and beget his own progeny while I must wait here centuries for God's mercy." Finally he lost all trace of time, and ceased altogether to talk with the jailer. Only by the spider web thickly covering the iron grating of the window, did he know that fall was near at hand. Whole hours he sat on his bed, his elbows resting on his knees, his fingers in his long hair. Half dreaming and stiff, he did not raise his head even when the warden bringing him food, spoke to him. But at last one day the bolts of the door creaked, and a familiar voice called him from the threshold; "Zbyszku!" "Uncle!" exclaimed Zbyszko, rushing from the bed. Macko seized him in his arms, and began to kiss his fair head. Grief, bitterness and loneliness had so filled the heart of the youth, that he began to cry on his uncle's breast like a little child. "I thought you would never come back," said he, sobbing. "That came near being true," answered Macko. Now Zbyszko raised his head and having looked at him, exclaimed: "What was the matter with you?" He looked with amazement at the emaciated and pallid face of the old warrior, at his bent figure and his gray hair. "What was the matter with you?" he repeated. Macko sat on the bed and for a while breathed heavily. "What was the matter?" said he, finally. "Hardly had I passed the frontier, before the Germans whom I met in the forest, wounded me with a crossbow. _Raubritters!_ You know! I cannot breathe! God sent me help, otherwise you would not see me here." "Who rescued you?" "Jurand of Spychow," answered Macko. There was a moment of silence. "They attacked me; but half a day later he attacked them and hardly half of them escaped. He took me with him to the _grodek_ and then to Spychow. I fought with death for three weeks. God did not let me die and although I am not well yet, I have returned." "Then you have not been in Malborg?" "On what would I ride? They robbed me of everything and they took the letter with the other things. I returned to ask Princess Ziemowitowa for another; but I have not met her yet, and whether I will see her or not, I do not know. I must prepare for the other world!" Having said this, he spit on the palm of his hand and stretching it toward Zbyszko, showed him blood on it, saying: "Do you see?" After a while he added: "It must be God's will." They were both silent for a time under the burden of their gloomy thoughts; then Zbyszko said: "Then you spit blood continually?" "How can I help it; there is a spear head half a span long between my ribs. You would spit also! I was a little better before I left Jurand of Spychow; but now I am very tired, because the way was long and I hastened." "He; I why did you hasten?" "Because I wished to see Princess Alexandra and get another letter from her. Jurand of Spychow said 'Go and bring the letter to Spychow. I have a few Germans imprisoned here. I will free one of them if he promise upon his knightly word to carry the letter to the gland master.' For vengeance for his wife's death, he always keeps several German captives and listens joyfully when they moan and their chains rattle. He is a man full of hatred. Understand?" "I understand. But I wonder that you did not recover the lost letter, if Jurand captured those who attacked you." "He did not capture all of them. Five or six escaped. Such is our lot!" "How did they attack you? From ambush?" "From behind such thick bushes that one could see nothing. I was riding without armor, because the merchants told me that the country was safe, and it was warm." "Who was at the head of the robbers? A Krzyzak?" "Not a friar, but a German. Chelminczyk of Lentz, famous for his robberies on the highway." "What became of him?" "Jurand chained him. But he has in his dungeons two noblemen, Mazurs, whom he wishes to exchange for himself." There was a moment of silence. "Dear Jesus," Zbyszko said, finally; "Lichtenstein is alive, and also that robber from Lentz; but we must perish without vengeance. They will behead me and you will not be able to live through the winter." "Bah! I will not live even until winter. If I could only help you in some way to escape." "Have you seen anybody here?" "I went to see the castellan of Krakow. When I learned that Lichtenstein had departed, I thought perhaps the castellan would be less severe." "Then Lichtenstein went away?" "Immediately after the queen's death, he went to Marienburg. I went to see the castellan; but he answered me thus: 'They will execute your nephew, not to please Lichtenstein, but because that is his sentence. It will make no difference whether Lichtenstein be here or not. Even if he die, nothing will be changed; the law is according to justice and not like a jacket, which you can turn inside out. The king can show clemency; but no one else.'" "And where is the king?" "After the funeral he went to Rus'." "Well, then there is no hope at all." "No." The castellan said still further: "I pity him, because the Princess Anna begs for his pardon, but I cannot, I cannot!" "Then Princess Anna is still here?" "May God reward her! She is a good lady. She is still here, because Jurandowna is sick, and the princess loves her as her own child." "For God's sake! Then Danusia is sick! What is the matter with her?" "I don't know! The princess says that somebody has thrown a spell over her." "I am sure it is Lichtenstein! Nobody else,--only Lichtenstein--a dog-brother!" "It may be he. But what can you do to him? Nothing!" "That is why they all seemed to have forgotten me here; she was sick." Having said this, Zbyszko began to walk up and down the room; finally he seized Macko's hand, kissed it, and said: "May God reward you for everything! If you die, I will be the cause of your death. Before you get any worse, you must do one thing more. Go to the castellan and beg him to release me, on my knightly word, for twelve weeks. After that time I will return, and they may behead me. But it must not be that we both die without vengeance. You know! I will go to Marienburg, and immediately send a challenge to Lichtenstein. It cannot be otherwise. One of us must die!" Macko began to rub his forehead. "I will go; but will the castellan permit?" "I will give my knightly word. For twelve weeks--I do not need more." "No use to talk; twelve weeks! And if you are wounded, you cannot return; what will they think then?" "I will return if I have to crawl. But don't be afraid! In the meanwhile the king may return and one will be able to beseech him for clemency." "That is true," answered Macko. But after awhile he added: "The castellan also told me this: 'On account of the queen's death, we forgot about your nephew; but now his sentence must be executed.'" "Ej, he will permit," answered Zbyszko, hopefully. "He knows that a nobleman will keep his word, and it is just the same to him, whether they behead me now, or after St. Michael's day." "Ha! I will go to-day." "You better go to Amylej to-day, and rest awhile. He will bandage your wound, and to-morrow you can go to the castellan." "Well, with God then!" "With God!" They hugged each other and Macko turned toward the door; but he stopped on the threshold and frowned as if he remembered something unpleasant. "Bah, but you do not yet wear the girdle of a knight; Lichtenstein will tell you that he will not fight with you; what can you do then?" Zbyszko was filled with sorrow, but only for a moment, then he said: "How is it during war? Is it necessary that a knight choose only knights?" "War is war; a single combat is quite different." "True, but wait. You must find some way. Well, there is a way! Prince Janusz will dub me a knight. If the princess and Danusia ask him, he will do it. In the meantime I will fight in Mazowsze with the son of Mikolaj of Dlugolas." "What for?" "Because Mikolaj, the same who is with the princess and whom they call Obuch, called Danusia, 'bush.'" Macko looked at him in amazement. Zbyszko, wishing to explain better about what had occurred, said further: "I cannot forgive that, but I cannot fight with Mikolaj, because he must be nearly eighty years old." To this Macko said: "Listen! It is a pity that you should lose your head; but there will not be a great loss of brains, because you are stupid like a goat." "Why are you angry?" Macko did not answer, but started to leave. Zbyszko sprang toward him and said: "How is Danusia? Is she well yet? Don't be angry for a trifle. You have been absent so long!" Again he bent toward the old man who shrugged his shoulders and said mildly: "Jurandowna is well, only they will not let her go out of her room yet. Good-bye!" Zbyszko remained alone, but he felt as if he had been regenerated. He rejoiced to think that he might be allowed to live three months more. He could go to remote lands; he could find Lichtenstein, and engage in deadly combat with him. Even the thought about that filled him with joy. He would be fortunate, to be able to ride a horse, even for twelve weeks; to be able to fight and not perish without vengeance. And then--let happen what would happen--it would be a long time anyhow! The king might return and forgive him. War might break out, and the castellan himself when he saw the victor of the proud Lichtenstein, might say: "Go now into the woods and the fields!" Therefore a great hope entered his heart. He did not think that they would refuse to grant him those three months. He thought that perhaps they would grant hem more. The old _Pan_ of Tenczyn would never admit that a nobleman could not keep his word. Therefore when Macko came to the prison, the next day toward evening, Zbyszko, who could hardly sit quiet, sprang toward him and asked: "Granted?" Macko sat on the truckle-bed, because he could not stand on account of his feebleness; for a while he breathed heavily and finally said: "The castellan said: 'If you wish to divide your land, or attend to your household, then I will release your nephew for a week or two on his knightly word, but for no longer.'" Zbyszko was so much surprised, that for a while he could not say a word. "For two weeks?" asked he, finally. "But I could not even reach the frontier in two weeks! How is it? You did not tell the castellan why I wished to go to Marienburg?" "Not only I, but the Princess Anna begged for you." "And what then?" "What? The old man told her that he did not want your head, and that he pitied you. 'If I could find,' said he, 'some law in his favor, or only a pretext, I would release him altogether; but I cannot. There would be no order in a country in which the people shut their eyes to the law, and acted according to friendship; I will not do it; even if it were Toporczyk, who is a relative of mine, or even my own brother, I would not. Such hard people are here!' And he said still further; 'We do not care about the Knights of the Cross; but we cannot bring reproach on ourselves. What would they think of us, and all our guests, coming from all parts of the world, if I release a nobleman sentenced to death, in order to give him a chance to fight? Would they believe that he will be punished, and that there is some law in our country? I prefer to order one head cut off, than to bring contempt on the king and the kingdom.' The princess told him that that was strange justice, from which even a king's relative could not obtain anything by her prayer; but the old man answered: 'The king may use clemency; but he will not tolerate lawlessness.' Then they began to quarrel because the princess grew very angry: 'Then,' said she, 'don't keep him in the prison!' And the castellan replied to this: 'Very well! To-morrow I will order a scaffold built on the market square.' Then they departed. Only the Lord Jesus can help you." There was a long moment of silence. "What?" he said, gloomily. "Then it will be immediately?" "In two or three days. There is no help. I have done what I could. I fell at the castellan's knees; I implored him for mercy, but he repeated: 'Find a law, or a pretext.' But what can I find? I went to see the _ksiondz_ Stanislaw of Skarbimierz, and I begged him to come to you. At least you will have this honor, that the same priest who heard the queen's confession will hear yours. But I did not find him home; he had gone to Princess Anna." "Perhaps for Danusia!" "Not at all. The girl is better. I will go see him to-morrow early in the morning. They say that if he bears one's confession, salvation is as sure as if you had it in your pocket." Zbyszko put his elbows on his knees and dropped his head so that his hair covered his face entirely. The old man looked at him a long time and finally began to call him softly: "Zbyszku! Zbyszku!" The boy raised his head. His face had an expression of anger and of cold hatred, but not of weakness. "What?" "Listen carefully; perhaps I have found a way of escape." Having said this, he approached and began to whisper: "Have your heard about Prince Witold, who at one time, being imprisoned by our king in Krewo, went out from the prison disguised in a woman's dress. There is no woman who will remain here instead of you, but take my _kubrak_.[57] Take my cowl and go--understand? They will not notice. It is dark behind the door. They will not flash a light into your eyes. They saw me yesterday going out; but they did not look at me closely. Be quiet and listen. They will find me here to-morrow--and what then? Will they cut my head off? That will be no satisfaction, because I will die anyhow in three or four weeks. And you, as soon as you are out of here, to horse, and go straight to Prince Witold. You will present yourself to him; you will bow before him; he will receive you and you will be as safe with him as if you were sitting at God's right hand. They say here that the _kniaz_'s armies have been defeated by the Tartars, because the late queen prophesied defeat. If it be true, the _kniaz_ will need soldiers and he will welcome you. You must remain with him, because there is no better service in the world. If our king were defeated in a war, it would be his end; but there is such an amount of shrewdness in _Kniaz_ Witold, that after a defeat he grows still more powerful. And he is liberal also, and he loves our family. Tell him everything that happened. Tell him that you wanted to go with him against the Tartars; but you could not because you were imprisoned in the tower. If God permit, he will give you some land and peasants; he will dub you a knight and he will intercede for you with the king. He is a good protector--you will see!--What?" Zbyszko listened silently, and Macko, as if he was excited by his own words, spoke further: "You must not perish young, but return to Bogdaniec. And when you return, you must immediately take a wife so that our family does not perish. Only when you have children, may you challenge Lichtenstein to fight until death; but before that, you must abstain from seeking vengeance. Take my _kubrak_ now, take my cowl and go, in God's name." Having said this, Macko stood up and began to undress; but Zbyszko arose also, stopped him and said: "I will not do it, so help me God and Holy Cross." "Why?" asked Macko, astonished. "Because I will not!" Macko became pale with anger. "I wish you had never been born!" "You told the castellan," said Zbyszko, "that you would give your head in exchange for mine." "How do you know that?" "The _Pan_ of Taczew told me." "What of it?" "What of it? The castellan told you that disgrace would fall on me and on all my family Would it not be a still greater disgrace, if I escaped from here, and left you to the vengeance of the law?" "What vengeance? What can the law do to me, when I must die just the same? Have common sense, for God's mercy!" "May God punish me if I abandon you now when you are old and sick. Tfu! shame!" There was silence; one could only hear the heavy, hoarse breathing of Macko, and the archers' calls. "Listen," Macko said, finally, in broken tones, "it was not shameful for _Kniaz_ Witold to escape from Krewo; it would not be for you, either." "Hej!"' answered Zbyszko, with sadness "You know! _Kniaz_ Witold is a great _kniaz_; he received a crown from the king's hand, also riches and dominion; but I, a poor nobleman, have only my honor." After a while he exclaimed in a sudden burst of anger: "Then you do not understand that I love you, and that I will not give your head instead of mine?" At this, Macko stood on his trembling feet, stretched out his hands, and although the nature of the people of those days, was hard, as if forged of iron, he cried suddenly in a heartbroken voice: "Zbyszku!" CHAPTER VIII. The next day, the court servants began to make preparations in the market square, to build the scaffold which was to be erected opposite the principal gate of the city hall. The princess, however, was still consulting with Wojciech Jastrzembiec, Stanislaw of Skarbimierz and other learned canons, who were familiar with the written laws and also with the laws sanctioned by custom. She was encouraged in these efforts by the castellan's words, when he said, that if they showed him "law or pretext," he would free Zbyszko. Therefore they consulted earnestly, to ascertain if there were any law or custom that would do. Although the _ksiondz_ Stanislaw, had prepared Zbyszko for death and administered the last sacraments, he went directly from the prison to the consultation, which lasted almost till daybreak. The day of execution arrived. From early morning, crowds of people had begun to gather on the market square, because the decapitation of a nobleman excited more curiosity than that of a common criminal. The weather was beautiful. News of the youth and great beauty of the sentenced man, spread among the women. Therefore the whole road leading to the castle, was filled with crowds of townswomen, dressed in their best; in the windows on the market square, and on the balconies, could be seen velvet bonnets, or the fair heads of young girls, ornamented only with wreaths of lilies and roses. The city councilors, although the affair did not belong in their jurisdiction, all appeared, in order to show their importance and placed themselves near the scaffold. The knights, wishing to show their sympathy for the young man, gathered in great numbers around the elevation. Behind them swarmed the gayly dressed crowd, composed of small merchants and artisans dressed in their guild costumes. Over this compact mass of human heads, one could see the scaffold which was covered with new broadcloth. On the elevation stood the executioner, a German, with broad shoulders, dressed in a red _kubrak_ and on his head a cowl of the same color; he carried a heavy two-edged sword; with him were two of his assistants with naked arms and ropes at their girdles. There were also a block and a coffin covered with broadcloth. In Panna Maryia's tower, the bells were ringing, filling the town with metallic sounds and scaring the flocks of doves and jackdaws. The people looked at the scaffold, and at the executioner's sword protruding from it and shining in the sun. They also looked at the knights, on whom the burghers always gazed with respect and eagerness. This time it was worth while looking at them. The most famous knights were standing round the elevation. They admired the broad shoulders and dark hair, falling in abundant curls of Zawisza Czarny; they admired the short square figure of Zyndram of Maszkow as well as the gigantic stature of Paszko Zlodziej of Biskupice; the threatening face of Wojciech of Wodzinek and the great beauty of Dobko of Olesnica, who at the tournament in Torun had defeated twelve knights; they looked admiringly at Zygmunt of Bobowa, who became equally famous in Koszyce in a fight with the Hungarians, at Krzon of Kozieglowy, at Lis of Targowisko, who was victorious in duels, and at Staszko of Charbimowice who was able to catch a running horse. General attention was also attracted by the pale face of Macko of Bogdanice; he was supported by Floryan of Korytnica and Marcin of Wrocimowice. It was generally thought that he was the sentenced man's father. But the greatest curiosity was aroused by Powala of Taczew who, standing in front, was holding Danusia, dressed in white, with a wreath of green rue resting on her fair hair. The people did not understand what it meant, nor why this young girl was present to look at the execution. Some of them thought she was a sister; others, that she was the knight's lady; but none were able to explain the meaning of her dress or of her presence at the scaffold. The sight of her fair face covered with tears, aroused commiseration and emotion. The people began to criticise the castellan's stubbornness, and the severity of the laws. Those criticisms gradually changed to threats. Finally, here and there, some voices were heard to say, that if the scaffold were destroyed, then the execution would be postponed. The crowd became eager and excited. They said that if the king were present, he would surely pardon the youth. But all became quiet when distant shoutings announced the approach of the king's archers, escorting the prisoner. The procession soon appeared in the market square. It was preceded by a funeral fraternity, the members of which were dressed in long black cloaks, and were covered with veils of the same color, which had openings cut for the eyes. The people were afraid of these gloomy figures and became silent. They were followed by a detachment of soldiers, armed with crossbows, and dressed in elk-skin jerkins; these were the king's Lithuanian guards. Behind them one could see the halberds of another detachment of soldiers. In the centre, between the clerk of the court, who was going to read the sentence, and the _ksiondz_ Stanislaw of Skarbimierz who was carrying a crucifix, walked Zbyszko. All eyes now turned toward him, and at all the windows and from all the balconies, women's heads protruded. Zbyszko was dressed in his white "_jaka_," embroidered with golden griffins and ornamented with gold galoon; in these magnificent clothes he looked like a young prince, or the page of a wealthy court. His broad shoulders and chest and his powerful haunches indicated that he was already a full-grown man; but above that strong figure of a man, appeared a childish face with down on the upper lip. It was a beautiful face like that of a king's page, with golden hair cut evenly over the eyebrows and falling on the shoulders. He walked erect, but was very pale. From time to time he looked at the crowd as if he was dreaming; he looked at the church towers, toward the flocks of jackdaws, and at the bells, ringing his last hour; then his face expressed amazement when he realized that the sobbing of the women, and all this solemnity was for him. Finally, he perceived the scaffold and the executioner's red figure standing on it. Then he shivered and made the sign of the Cross; the priest gave him the crucifix to kiss. A few steps further, a bouquet of roses thrown by a young girl, fell at his feet. Zbyszko stooped, picked up the bouquet and smiled at the girl who began to cry. But evidently he thought that, amidst these crowds and in the presence of these women, waving their kerchiefs from the windows, he must die courageously and at least leave behind him the reputation of "a brave man;" therefore he strained his courage and will to the utmost. With a sudden movement, he threw his hair back, raised his head still higher and walked proudly, almost like a conqueror, whom, according to knightly custom, they conduct to get the prize. The procession advanced slowly, because the crowd was dense and unwillingly made way. In vain the Lithuanian guard, marching in front, shouted: "_Eyk szalin! Eyk szalin!_ go away!" The people did not wish to understand these words, and surrounded the soldiers more closely. Although about one-third of the burghers of Krakow were Germans, still there were heard on all sides, threats against the Knights of the Cross: "Shame! Shame! May they perish, those wolves! Must they cut off children's heads for them! Shame on the king and on the kingdom!" The Lithuanians seeing the resistance, took their crossbows from their shoulders, and menaced the crowd; but they did not dare to attack without orders. The captain sent some men to open the way with their halberds and in that manner they reached the knights standing around the scaffold. They stepped aside without any resistance. The men with halberds entered first, and were followed by Zbyszko, accompanied by the priest and the clerk of the court. At that moment something happened which nobody had expected. From among the knights, Powala stepped forward with Danusia in his arms and shouted: "Stop!" with such a powerful voice, that the retinue stopped at once, as if rooted to the ground. Neither the captain, nor any of the soldiers dared to oppose the lord and knight, whom they were accustomed to see every day in the castle and often in confidential conversation with the king. Finally, other knights, equally distinguished, also began to shout with commanding voices: "Stop! Stop!" In the meantime, the _Pan_ of Taczew approached Zbyszko and handed Danusia to him. Zbyszko caught her in his arms and pressed her to his chest, bidding her farewell; but Danusia instead of nestling to him and embracing him, immediately took her white veil from her head and wrapped it around Zbyszko's head, and began to cry in her tearful, childish voice: "He is mine! He is mine!" "He is hers!" shouted the powerful voices of the knights. "To the castellan!" A shout, like the roar of thunder, answered: "To the castellan! To the castellan!" The priest raised his eyes, the clerk looked confused, the captain and his soldiers dropped their arms; everybody understood what had happened. There was an old Polish and Slavonic custom, as strong as the law, known in Podhale, around Krakow, and even further. If a young girl threw her veil on a man conducted to death, as a sign that she wished to marry him, by so doing she saved his life. The knights, farmers, villagers and townsmen all knew this custom; and the Germans living in the old cities and towns, had heard about it. The old man, Macko, almost fainted with emotion; the knights having pushed away the guards, surrounded Zbyszko and Danusia; the joyful people shouted again and again: "To the castellan! To the castellan!" The crowd moved suddenly, like the waves of the sea. The executioner and his assistants rushed down from the scaffold. Everybody understood that if Jasko of Tenczyn resisted the custom, there would be a riot in the city. In fact the people now rushed to the scaffold. In the twinkling of an eye, they pulled off the cloth and tore it into pieces; then the beams and planks, pulled by strong arms, or cut with axes, began to crack, then a crash, and a few moments later there was not a trace left of the scaffold. Zbyszko, holding Danusia in his arms, was going to the castle, but this time like a true victor,--triumphant. With him were marching joyfully the most noted knights in the kingdom; thousands of men, women and children were shouting and singing, stretching their arms toward Danusia and praising the beauty and courage of both. At the windows the townswomen were clasping their hands, and everywhere one could see faces covered with tears of joy. A shower of roses, lilies, ribbons and even gold rings were thrown to the lucky youth; he, beaming like the sun, with his heart full of gratitude, embraced his sweet lady from time to time and sometimes kissed her hands. This sight made the townswomen feel so tender, that some of them threw themselves into the arms of their lovers, telling them that if they encountered death, they also would be freed. Zbyszko and Danusia became the beloved children of the knights, burghers and common people. Macko, whom Floryan of Korytnica and Marcin of Wrocimowice were assisting to walk, was almost beside himself with joy. He wondered why he had not even thought about this means of assistance. Amidst the general bustle, Powala of Taczew told the knights that this remedy had been discovered by Wojciech Jastrzembiec and Stanislaw of Skarbimierz, both experts in the written laws and customs. The knights were all amazed at its simplicity, saying among themselves, that nobody else would have thought about that custom, because the city was inhabited by Germans, and it had not been used for a long time. Everything, however, still depended on the castellan. The knights and the people went to the castle, which was occupied by _Pan_ Krakowski during the king's absence. The clerk of the court, the _ksiondz_ Stanislaw of Skarbimierz, Zawisza, Farurej, Zyndram of Maszkow and Powala of Taczew explained to him the power of the custom and reminded him of what he had said himself, that if he found "law or pretext," then he would release the prisoner immediately. And could there be any better law, than the old custom which had never been abolished? The _Pan_ of Tenczyn answered that this custom applied more to the common people and to robbers, than to the nobles; but he knew the law very well, and could not deny its validity. Meanwhile he covered his silvery beard with his hand and smiled, because he was very much pleased. Finally he went to the low portico, accompanied by Princess Anna Danuta, a few priests and the knights. Zbyszko having perceived him, lifted Danusia again; the old castellan placed his hand on her golden hair, and gravely and benevolently inclined his hoary head. The assembled people understood this sign and shouted so that the walls of the castle were shaken: "May God preserve you! Long life, just lord! Live and judge us!" Then the people cheered Zbyszko and Danusia when a moment later, they both went to the portico, fell at the feet of the good Princess Anna Danuta, who had saved Zbyszko's life, because she, together with the scholars, had found the remedy and had taught Danusia how to act. "Long life to the young couple!" shouted Powala of Taczew. "Long life!" repeated the others. The castellan, hoary with age, turned toward the princess and said: "Gracious princess, the betrothal must be performed immediately, because the custom requires it!" "The betrothal will take place immediately," answered the good lady, whose face was irradiated with joy; "but for the wedding, they must have the consent of Jurand of Spychow." END OF PART FIRST. PART SECOND. CHAPTER I. In merchant Amylej's house, Macko and Zbyszko were deliberating what to do. The old knight expected to die soon, and Father Cybek, a Franciscan friar who had experience in treating wounds, predicted the same; therefore he wanted to return to Bogdaniec to die and be buried beside his forefathers in the cemetery in Ostrow. But not all of his forefathers were buried there. In days of yore it had been a numerous family of _wlodykas_. During the war their cry was: "Grady!" On their shields, because they claimed to be better _wlodykas_ than the others who had no right to a coat of arms, they had emblazoned a Tempa Podkowa. In 1331, in the battle of Plowce, seventy warriors from Bogdaniec were killed in the marshes by German archers. Only one Wojciech, called Tur, escaped. After this defeat by the Germans, the king, Wladyslaw Lokietek, granted him a coat of arms and the estate of Bogdaniec as a special privilege. Wojciech returned home, only to discover the complete annihilation of his family. While the men of Bogdaniec were perishing from German arrows, the _Raubritters_ of Szlonsk fell upon their homes, burned their buildings, and slaughtered or took into slavery the peasants. Wojciech remained alone, the heir of a large but devastated tract of land, which formerly belonged to the whole family of _wlodykas_. Five years afterward he married and he begot two sons, Jasko and Macko. Afterward he was killed in a forest by an urus.[58] The sons grew up under the mother's care. Her maiden name was Kachna of Spalenica. She was so brave that she conducted two successful expeditions against the Germans of Szlonsk to avenge former wrongs; but in the third expedition she was killed. Before that, however, she built with the help of the slaves, a _grodek_[59] in Bogdaniec; on account of that, Jasko and Macko, although from their former estates of _wlodykas_ were called _wlodykas_, now became men of importance. When Jasko became of age, he married Jagienka of Mocarzew, and begot Zbyszko; Macko remained unmarried. He took care of his nephew's property as far as his war expeditions permitted. But when during the civil war between Grzymalits and Nalenczs, Bogdaniec was again burned and the peasants scattered, Macko could not restore it, although he toiled for several years. Finally he pledged the land to his relative, the abbot, and with Zbyszko who was small, he went to Lithuania to fight against the Germans. But he had never forgotten about Bogdaniec. He went to Litwa hoping to become rich from booty so as to return to Bogdaniec, redeem the land from his pledge, colonize it with slaves, rebuild the _grodek_ and settle Zbyszko on it. Therefore now, after Zbyszko's lucky deliverance, they were discussing this matter at the house of the merchant, Amylej. They had money enough to redeem the land they possessed quite a fortune gathered from the booty, from the ransoms paid by the knights captured by them, and from Witold's presents. They had received great benefit from that fight with the two Fryzjan knights. The suits of armor alone, were worth what was considered in those times quite a fortune; beside the armor, they had captured wagons, people, clothes, money and rich implements of war. The merchant Amylej had just purchased many of these things, and among them two pieces of beautiful Flemish broadcloth. Macko sold the splendid armor, because he thought that he would have no use for it. The merchant sold it the next day to Marcin of Wrocimowice, whose coat of arms was Polkoza. He sold it for a large sum, because in those times the suits of armor made in Milan were considered the best in the world and were expensive. Zbyszko regretted very much that they sold it. "If God give you back your health," said he, to his uncle, "where will you find another like it?" "There, where I found this one; on some German," answered Macko. "But I shall not escape death. The head of the spear will not come out from my body. When I tried to pull it out with my hands, I pushed it in further. And now there is no help." "You must drink two or three pots of bear's grease." "Bah! Father Cybek also said that would be a good thing. But where can I get it here? In Bogdaniec one could very easily kill a bear!" "Then we must go to Bogdaniec! Only you must not die on the road." Old Macko looked at his nephew with tenderness. "I know where you would like to go; to the Prince Janusz's court, or to Jurand of Spychow, and fight the Germans of Chelminsko." "I will not deny it. I would be glad to go to Warszawa with the princess' court, or to go to Ciechanow; and I would remain as long as possible with Danusia, because now she is not only my lady, but my love also. I tremble when I think of her! I shall follow her even to the end of the world; but now you are first. You did not desert me, therefore I will never abandon you. We must go to Bogdaniec." "You are a good man," said Macko. "God would punish me, if I were not mindful of you. Look, they are getting ready! I ordered one wagon to be filled with hay. Amylejowna has made us a present of a feather bed, but I am afraid it will be too warm for you. We will travel slowly, in company with the princess' court, so that you may have good care. When they turn toward Mazowsze, we will turn toward home; may God help us!" "If I can only live long enough to rebuild the _grodek_!" exclaimed Macko. "I know that after my death, you will not think anything more about Bogdaniec." "Why will I not?" "Because your head will be filled with thoughts of battles and of love." "Did you not think yourself about war? I have planned what I must do; in the first place, I will rebuild the _grodek_." "Do you mean to do that?" asked Macko, "Well, and when the _grodek_ is finished?" "When the _grodek_ is rebuilt, then I will go to Warszawa to the prince's court, or to Ciechanow." "After my death?" "If you die soon, then after your death; but before I go, I will bury you properly; if the Lord Jesus restore your health, then you will remain in Bogdaniec. The princess promised me that I should receive my knightly girdle from the prince. Otherwise Lichtenstein will not fight with me." "Then afterward you will go to Marienburg?" "To Marienburg, or even to the end of the world to reach Lichtenstein." "I do not blame you for it! Either he or you must die!" "I will bring his girdle and his gloves to Bogdaniec; do not be frightened!" "You must look out for treachery. There is plenty among them." "I will bow to Prince Janusz and ask him to send to the grand master for a safe conduct. There is peace now. I will go to Marienburg, where there are always many knights. Then you know? In the first place, Lichtenstein; then I will look for those who wear peacock's tufts, and I will challenge them in turn. If the Lord Jesus grant me victory, then I will fulfill my vow." Speaking thus, Zbyszko smiled at his own thoughts; his face was like that of a lad who tells what knightly deeds he will perform when he is a man. "Hej!" said Macko; "if you defeat three knights belonging to great families, then you will not only fulfill your vow, but you will bring some booty!" "Three!" exclaimed Zbyszko. "In the prison I promised myself, that I would not be selfish with Danusia. As many knights as I have fingers on both hands!" Macko shrugged his shoulders. "Are you surprised?" said Zbyszko. "From Marienburg I shall go to Jurand of Spychow. Why should I not bow to him, he is Danusia's father? With him I shall attack the Germans of Chelminsko. You told me yourself that in the whole of Mazowsze there was no greater ware-wolf against the Germans." "And if he will not give you Danusia?" "Why not? He is seeking his vengeance. I am searching for mine. Can he find a better man? And then, the princess has given her consent for the betrothal; he will not refuse." "I see one thing," said Macko, "you will take all the people from Bogdaniec in order to have a retinue, as is proper for a knight, and the land will remain without hands to till it. As long as I live, I will not let you do it; but after my death, I see, you will take them." "The Lord God will help me to get a retinue; Janko of Tulcza is a relation of ours and he will help me also." At that moment the door opened, and as though to prove that the Lord God would help Zbyszko get a retinue, two men entered. They were dark-complexioned, short, dressed in Jewish-like yellow caftans, red caps and very wide trousers. They stopped in the doorway and touched their fingers to their foreheads, to their mouths, and then to their chests; then they bowed to the ground. "Who are these devils?" asked Macko. "Who are you?" "Your slaves," answered the newcomers in broken Polish. "For what reason? Where from? Who sent you here?" "_Pan_ Zawisza sent us here as a present to the young knight, to be his slaves." "O for God's sake! two men more!" exclaimed Macko, joyfully. "Of what nationality are you?" "We are Turks!" "Turks?" repeated Zbyszko. "I shall have two Turks in my retinue. Have you ever seen Turks?" And having jumped toward them, he began to turn them around and to look at them curiously. Macko said: "I have never seen them; but I have heard, that the _Pan_ of Garbow has Turks in his service whom he captured while fighting on the Danube with the Roman emperor, Zygmunt. How is it? Are you heathens, your dog-brothers?" "The lord ordered us to be baptized," said one of the slaves. "Did you have no money for ransom?" "We are from far lands, from Asiatic shores, from Brussa." Zbyszko, who always listened gladly to war stories, and especially when there was anything told about the deeds of the famous Zawisza of Garbow, began to inquire how they were captured. But there was nothing extraordinary in their narration; Zawisza attacked them in a ravine, part of them perished and part were captured; and he sent the prisoners as presents to his different friends. Zbyszko and Macko's hearts were throbing at the sight of such a noble gift, especially as it was difficult to get men in those days and the possession of them constituted true wealth. In the meanwhile, Zawisza himself accompanied by Powala and Paszko Zlodzie; of Biskupice arrived. As they had all worked hard to free Zbyszko, they were pleased when they succeeded; therefore everyone of them gave him some present as a souvenir. The liberal _Pan_ of Taczew gave him a beautiful large caparison embroidered with gold; Paszko, a Hungarian sword and ten _grzywiens_.[60] Then came Lis of Targowisko, Farurej and Krzon of Kozieglowy, with Marcin of Wrocimowice and finally Zyndram of Maszkow; everyone brought rich presents. Zbyszko welcomed them with a joyful heart, feeling very happy on account of the presents and because the most famous knights in the kingdom were showing him their friendship. They asked him about his departure and Macko's health, recommending to the latter, different remedies which would miraculously heal wounds. But Macko recommended Zbyszko to their care, being ready himself for the other world. He said that it was impossible to live with an iron spear head between the ribs. He complained also that he spit blood and could not eat. A quart of shelled nuts, a sausage two spans long and a dish of boiled eggs were all he could eat at once. Father Cybek had bled him several times, hoping in that way to draw out the fever from around his heart, and restore his appetite; but it had not helped him any. But he was so pleased with the presents given to his nephew, that at that moment he was feeling better, and when the merchant, Amylej, ordered a barrel of wine brought in honor of such famous guests, Macko drank with them. They began to talk about Zbyszko's deliverance and about his betrothal with Danusia. The knights did not doubt that Jurand of Spychow would give his consent, especially if Zbyszko avenged the death of Danusia's mother and captured the peacock tufts. "But as for Lichtenstein," said Zawisza, "I do not think he will accept your challenge, because he is a friar, and also one of the officers in the Order. Bah! The people of his retinue told me that perhaps he would be elected grand master!" "If he refuse to fight, he will lose his honor," said Lis of Targowisko. "No," answered Zawisza, "because he is not a lay knight; and a friar is not permitted to fight in single combat." "But it often happens that they do fight." "Because the Order has become corrupt. The knights make different vows; but they often break them, thus setting a bad example to the whole Christian world. But a Krzyzak, especially a _comthur_, is not obliged to accept a challenge." "Ha! Then only in war can you reach him." "But they say, that there will be no war," said Zbyszko, "because the Knights of the Cross are afraid of our nation." To this Zyndram of Maszkow said: "This peace will not last long. There cannot be a good understanding with the wolf, because he must live on the goods of others." "In the meantime, perhaps we will be obliged to fight with Tymur the Lame," said Powala. "Prince Witold was defeated by Edyga; that is certain." "Certain. _Wojewoda_ Spytko will not return," said Paszko Zlodziej of Biskupice. "The late queen prophesied it would be so," said the _Pan_ of Taczew. "Ha! Then perhaps we will be obliged to go against Tymur." Here the conversation was tunned to the Lithuanian expedition against the Tartars. There was no doubt that Prince Witold, that able commander being rather impetuous, had been badly defeated at Worskla, where a great number of the Lithuanian _bojars_ and also a few Polish knights were killed. The knights now gathered in Amylej's house, pitied especially Spytek of Melsztyn, the greatest lord in the kingdom, who went with the expedition as a volunteer; and after the battle he was lost--nobody knew where. They praised his chivalrous deed, and told how he, having received from the commander of the enemy a protective _kolpak_,[61] would not wear it during the battle, preferring honorable death to life granted him by the ruler of a heathen nation. But it was not certain yet, whether he had perished, or was in captivity. If he were a prisoner, he could pay his ransom himself, because his riches were enormous, and he also held in fief the whole Podole from King Wladyslaw. But the defeat of Witold's army might prove ruinous to the whole of Jagiello's empire. Nobody knew when the Tartars, encouraged by the victory over Witold, might now invade the lands and cities belonging to the grand dukedom. In that case the kingdom of Poland would be involved in a war. Therefore many knights, who like Zawisza, Farurej, Dobko and even Powala, were accustomed to seek adventures and fights in foreign countries, remained in Krakow not knowing what might soon happen. In case Tamerlan, who was the ruler of twenty-seven states, moved the whole Mongolian world, then the peril to the kingdom would be great. "If it be necessary, then we will measure our swords with the Lame. With us it will not be such an easy matter as it was with those other nations, which he conquered and exterminated. Then the other Christian princes will help us." To this Zyndram of Maszkow, who especially hated the Order, said bitterly: "I do not know about the princes; but the Knights of the Cross are ready to become friends even with the Tartars and attack us from the other side." "Then we shall have a war!" exclaimed Zbyszko. "I am against the Krzyzaks!" But the other knights began to contradict Zyndram. "The Knights of the Cross have no fear of God, and they seek only their own advantage; but they will not help the pagans against Christian people. And then Tymur is at war somewhere in Asia, and the commander of the Tartars, Edyga, lost so heavily in the battle, that he is afraid even of victory. Prince Witold is a man full of expedients, and you may be sure he took precautions; and even if this time the Lithuanians were not successful, at any rate it is not a new thing for them to overcome the Tartars." "We have to fight for life and death; not with the Tartars but with the Germans," said Zyndram of Maszkow, "and if we do not crush them, our peril will come from them." Then he turned toward Zbyszko: "And in the first place Mazowsze will perish. You will always find plenty to do there; be not afraid!" "Hej! if my uncle were well, I would go there immediately." "God help you!" said Powala, raising a glass. "Yours and Danusia's health!" "To the destruction of the Germans!" added Zyndram of Maszkow. Then they began to say farewell. At that moment one of the princess' courtiers entered with a falcon on his arm; and having bowed to the knights who were present, he turned with a peculiar smile to Zbyszko: "The lady princess wished me to tell you," said he, "that she will stay in Krakow over night, and will start on the journey to-morrow." "That is well," said Zbyszko; "but why? Is anybody sick?" "No. But the princess has a visitor from Mazowsze." "The prince himself?" "Not the prince, but Jurand of Spychow," answered the courtier. Having heard this, Zbyszko became very much confused, and his heart began to throb as it did when they read the sentence of death to him. CHAPTER II. Princess Anna was not much surprised at the arrival of Jurand of Spychow. It used to happen, that during the continual attacks and fights with neighboring German knights, a sudden longing for Danusia seized him. Then he would appear unexpectedly in Warszawa, in Ciechanow, or wherever Prince Janusz's court was situated for the time being. Every time he saw the child, his grief burst forth anew because Danusia looked like her mother. The people thought that his iron heart filled with feelings of vengeance, would become softer through such grief. The princess often tried to persuade him to abandon his bloody Spychow, and remain at the court near Danusia. The prince himself, appreciating his bravery and importance, and at the same time wishing to spare him the fatigue inevitable in the quarrels on the frontier, offered him the office of sword bearer. It was always in vain. The sight of Danusia opened the old wounds in his heart. After a few days he always lost his appetite, could not sleep, and became silent. Evidently his heart began to bleed, and finally he would disappear from the court and returned to the marshes of Spychow, in order to drown in blood his grief and anger. Then the people used to say: "Woe to the Germans! It is true they are not sheep; but they are sheep to Jurand, because he is a wolf to them." In fact, after a time, the news would spread about the volunteers who, going to join the Knights of the Cross, were captured on their journey; about burned towns, and captured peasants; or about deadly fights from which the terrible Jurand always emerged victorious. On account of the rapacious disposition of the Mazurs and of the German knights who were holding the land and the strongholds from the Order, even during the greatest peace between the prince of Mazowsze and the Order, continual fighting was going on near the frontier. Even when cutting wood in the forests or harvesting in the fields, the inhabitants used to carry their arms. The people living there felt no certainty for the morrow; were in continual readiness for war, and were hard-hearted. Nobody was satisfied with defence only; but for pillage repaid with pillage; for conflagration, with conflagration; for invasion, with invasion. It often happened that while the Germans were stealing through the forest, to attack some stronghold and to seize the peasants or the cattle, at the same time, the Mazurs were doing the same. Sometimes they met, then they fought; but often only the leaders challenged each other for a deadly fight, after which the conqueror took the retinue of his defeated adversary. Therefore, when complaints were received at the Warsavian court about Jurand, the prince used to reply with complaints about the attacks made by the Germans. Thus both sides asked for justice, but neither was willing to grant it; all robberies, conflagrations and invasions went unpunished. But Jurand dwelling in Spychow, surrounded by marshes overgrown with rushes, and being filled with an unquenchable desire for vengeance, was so dreaded by his German neighbors, that finally their fear became greater than their courage. The lands bordering upon Spychow, were lying fallow; the forests were overgrown with wild hops and the meadows with reeds. Several German knights tried to settle in the neighborhood of Spychow; but everyone of them after a time, preferred to abandon his estate held in fief, his herds and his peasants, rather than live near this implacable man. Very often the knights planned a common expedition against Spychow; but everyone ended in defeat. They tried different means. One time they brought from the province of Mein, a knight noted for his strength and cruelty, and who had always been victorious in all fights. He challenged Jurand. But as soon as they entered the lists, the German was so frightened at the sight of the dreadful Mazur, that he wheeled his horse intending to flee; Jurand pierced his defenceless back with a spear, and in that way dishonored him forever. After that still greater fear filled the neighbors, and if a German perceived even from afar Spychowian smoke, he immediately crossed himself and began to pray to his patron in heaven. It was generally believed that Jurand had sold his soul to the evil one for the sake of vengeance. The people told dreadful tales about Spychow: they said that the path leading to it through the quaggy marshes which were overgrown with duck weed and had bottomless depths, was so narrow that two men on horseback could not ride abreast; that on each side there were many Germans' bones, and that during the night, the heads of drowned men were seen walking on spiders' legs, howling and drawing travelers on horses into the depths. They also said that the gate in the _grodek_ was ornamented with skeletons. These stories were not true. But in the barred pits dug under the house in Spychow, there were always many groaning prisoners; and Jurand's name was more dreadful than those tales about the skeletons and drowned people. Zbyszko having learned of Jurand's arrival, hastened to him, but with a certain uneasiness in his heart because he was Danusia's father. Nobody could forbid him choose Danusia for the lady of his thoughts; but afterward the princess had betrothed them. What will Jurand say to that? Will he consent? What will happen if he refuse his consent? These questions filled his heart with fear, because he now cared for Danusia more than for anything else in the world. He was only encouraged by the thought that perhaps Jurand would praise him for having attacked Lichtenstein, because he had done it to avenge Danusia's mother; and in consequence had nearly lost his own head. In the meantime he began to question the courtier, who had come to Amylej's for him: "Where are you conducting me?" asked he; "to the castle?" "Yes, to the castle. Jurand is with the princess' court." "Tell me, what kind of a man he is, so that I may know how to talk with him!" "What can I tell you! He is a man entirely different from other men. They say that he was mirthful before his blood became seared in his heart!" "Is he clever?" "He is cunning; he robs others but he does not let others rob him. Hej! He has only one eye, because the other was destroyed by the thrust of a German crossbow; but with that one, he can look a man through and through. He loves no one except the princess, our lady; and he loves her because his wife was a lady from her court, and now his daughter is with her." Zbyszko breathed. "Then you think that he will not oppose the princess' will?" "I know what you would like to learn, and therefore I will tell you what I heard. The princess spoke to him about your betrothment, because it would not be proper to conceal it from him; but it is not known what he said in reply." While thus speaking, they arrived at the gate. The captain of the archers, the same who had conducted Zbyszko to the scaffold, now saluted them. After having passed the guards, they entered the court-yard and turned to the left toward the part of the castle occupied by the princess. The courtier meeting a servant in the doorway, asked: "Where is Jurand of Spychow?" "In the '_krzywy_[62] room' with his daughter." "It is there," said the courtier, pointing at the door. Zbyszko crossed himself, raised the curtain in the doorway, and entered with throbbing heart. But he did not perceive Jurand and Danusia at once, because the room was not only "crooked" but dark also. But after a while he saw the fair head of the girl, who was sitting on her father's lap. They did not hear him when he entered; therefore e stopped near the door, and finally he said: "May He be blessed!" "For ages and ages," answered Jurand, rising. At that moment Danusia sprang toward the young knight and having seized him with both hands, began to scream: "Zbyszku! _Tatus_[63] is here!" Zbyszko kissed her hands; then he approached Jurand, and said: "I came to bow to you; you know who I am." And he bent slightly, making a movement with his hands as if he wished to seize Jurand by his knees. But Jurand grasped his hand, turned him toward the light and began to look at him. Zbyszko had already regained his self-possession; therefore he looked with curiosity at Jurand. He beheld before him a gigantic man with fallow hair and moustache, with a face pitted with smallpox and one eye of iron-like color. It seemed to him as if this eye would pierce him, and he again became confused. Finally, not knowing what to say, but wishing to say something to break the embarrassing silence, he asked: "Then you are Jurand of Spychow, Danusia's father?" But the other only pointed to an oaken bench, standing beside the chair on which he sat himself and continued to look at Zbyszko, who finally became impatient, and said: "It is not pleasant for me to sit as though I were in a court." Then Jurand said: "You wanted to fight with Lichtenstein?" "Yes!" answered Zbyszko. In the eye of the Lord of Spychow shone a strange light and his stern face began to brighten. After awhile he looked at Danusia and asked; "And was it for her?" "For no other! My uncle told you that I made a vow to her to tear the peacock tufts from German heads. But now there shall be not only three of them, but at least as many as I have fingers on both hands. In that way I will help you to avenge the death of Danusia's mother." "Woe to them!" answered Jurand. Then there was silence again. But Zbyszko, having noticed that by showing his hatred of the Germans, he would capture Jurand's heart, said: "I will not forgive them! They nearly caused my death." Here he turned to Danusia and added: "She saved me." "I know," said Jurand. "Are you angry?" "Since you made a vow to her, you must serve her, because such is the knightly custom." Zbyszko hesitated; but after awhile, he began to say with evident uneasiness: "Do you know that she covered my head with her veil? All the knights and also the Franciscan who was with me holding the cross, heard her say: 'He is mine!' Therefore I will be loyal to her until death, so help me God!" Having said this, he kneeled, and wishing to show that he was familiar with the customs of chivalry, he kissed both of Danusia's shoes with great reverence. Then he arose and having turned to Jurand, asked him: "Have you ever seen another as fair as she?" Jurand suddenly put his hands behind his head, and having closed his eyes, he said loudly: "I have seen one other; but the Germans killed her." "Then listen," said Zbyszko, enthusiastically; "we have the same wrong and the same vengeance. Those dog-brothers also killed my people from Bogdaniec. You cannot find a better man for your work. It is no new thing for me! Ask my uncle. I can fight either with spear or axe, short sword or long sword! Did my uncle tell you about those Fryzjans? I will slaughter the Germans for you like sheep; and as for the girl, I vow to you on my knees that I will fight for her even with the _starosta_ of hell himself, and that I will give her up neither for lands nor for herds, nor for any other thing! Even if some one offered me a castle with glass windows in it but without her, I would refuse the castle and follow her to the end of the world." Jurand sat for awhile with his head between his hands; but finally he awakened as from a dream, and said with sadness and grief: "I like you, young man, but I cannot give her to you; she is not destined for you, my poor boy." Zbyszko hearing this, grew dumb and began to look at Jurand with wondering eyes. But Danusia came to his help. Zbyszko was dear to her, and she was pleased to be considered not "a bush" but "a grown-up girl." She also liked the betrothal and the dainties which the knight used to bring her every day; therefore when she understood that she was likely to lose all this, she slipped down from the arm chair and having put her head on her father's lap, she began to cry: "_Tatulu, Tatulu!_"[64] He evidently loved her better than anything else, for he put his hand softly on her head, while from his face disappeared all trace of deadly grudge and anger; only sadness remained. In the meantime Zbyszko recovered his composure, and now said: "How is it? Do you wish to oppose God's will?" To this Jurand replied: "If it be God's will, then you will get her; but I cannot give you my consent. Bah! I would be glad to do it, but I cannot." Having said this, he arose, took Danusia in his arms, and went toward the door. When Zbyszko tried to detain him, he stopped for a moment and said: "I will not be angry with you if you render her knightly services; but do not ask me any questions, because I cannot tell you anything." And he went out. CHAPTER III. The next day Jurand did not avoid Zbyszko at all; and he did not prevent him from performing for Danusia, during the journey, those different services which, being her knight, he was obliged to render her. On the contrary, Zbyszko noticed that the gloomy _Pan_ of Spychow looked at him kindly, as if he were regretting that he had been obliged to refuse his request. The young _wlodyka_ tried several times to have some conversation with him. After they started from Krakow, there were plenty of opportunities during the journey, because both accompanied the princess on horseback; but as soon as Zbyszko endeavored to learn something about the secret difficulties separating him from Danusia, the conversation was suddenly ended. Jurand's face became gloomy, and he looked at Zbyszko uneasily as if he were afraid he would betray himself. Zbyszko thought that perhaps the princess knew what the obstacle was; so having an opportunity to speak to her privately, he inquired; but she could not tell him anything. "Certainly there is some secret," she said. "Jurand himself told me that; but he begged me not to question him further, because he not only did not wish to tell what it was, but he could not. Surely he must be bound by some oath, as so often happens among the knights. But God will help us and everything will turn out well." "Without Danusia I will be as unhappy as a chained dog or a bear in a ditch," answered Zbyszko. "There will be neither joy nor pleasure, nothing but sorrow and sighing; I will go against the Tartars with Prince Witold and may they kill me there. But first I must accompany uncle to Bogdaniec, and then tear from German heads the peacock's tufts as I promised. Perhaps the Germans will kill me; and I prefer such a death rather than to live and see some one else take Danusia." The princess looked at him with her kind blue eyes, and asked him, with a certain degree of astonishment: "Then you would permit it?" "I? As long I have breath in my nostrils, it will not happen, unless my hand be paralyzed, and I be unable to hold my axe!" "Then you see!" "Bah! But how can I take her against her father's will?" To this the princess said, as to herself: "Does it not happen that way sometimes?" Then to Zbyszko: "God's will is stronger than a father's will. What did Jurand say to you? He said to me 'If it be God's will, then he will get her.'" "He said the same to me!" exclaimed Zbyszko. "Do you not see?" "It is my only consolation, gracious lady." "I will help you, and you can be sure of Danusia's constancy. Only yesterday I said to her: 'Danusia, will you always love Zbyszko?' And she answered: 'I will be Zbyszko's and no one else's.' She is still a green berry, but when she promises anything, she keeps her word, because she is the daughter of a knight. Her mother was like her." "Thank God!" said Zbyszko. "Only remember to be faithful to her also; man is inconstant; he promises to love one faithfully, and afterward he promises another." "May Lord Jesus punish me if I prove such!" exclaimed Zbyszko energetically. "Well, remember then. And after you have conveyed your uncle to Bogdaniec, come to our court; there will be some opportunity then for you to win your spurs; then we will see what can be done. In the meanwhile Danusia will mature, and she will feel God's will; although she loves you very much even now, it is not the same love a woman feels. Perhaps Jurand will give his consent, because I see he likes you. You can go to Spychow and from there can go with Jurand against the Germans; it may happen that you will render him some great service and thus gain his affection." "Gracious princess, I have thought the same; but with your sanction it will be easier." This conversation cheered Zbyszko. Meanwhile at the first baiting place, old Macko became worse, and it was necessary to remain until he became better. The good princess, Anna Danuta, left him all the medicine she had with her; but she was obliged to continue her journey; therefore both _wlodykas_ of Bogdaniec bid those belonging to the Mazovian court farewell. Zbyszko prostrated himself at the princess' feet, then at Danusia's; he promised her once more to be faithful and to meet her soon at Ciechanow or at Warszawa; finally he seized her in his strong arms, and having lifted her, he repeated with a voice full of emotion: "Remember me, my sweetest flower! Remember me, my little golden fish!" Danusia embraced him as though he were a beloved brother, put her little cheek to his face and wept copiously. "I do not want to go to Ciechanow without Zbyszko; I do not want to go to Ciechanow!" Jurand saw her grief, but he was not angry. On the contrary, he bid the young man good-bye kindly; and after he had mounted, he turned toward him once more, and said: "God be with you; do not bear ill will toward me." "How can I feel ill will toward you; you are Danusia's father!" answered Zbyszko cordially; then he bent to his stirrup, and the old man shook hands with him, and said: "May God help you in everything! Understand?" Then he rode away. But Zbyszko understood that in his last words, he wished him success; and when he went back to the wagon on which Macko was lying, he said: "Do you know I believe he is willing; but something hinders him from giving his consent. You were in Spychow and you have good common sense, try to guess what it is." But Macko was too ill. The fever increased so much toward evening, that he became delirious. Therefore instead of answering Zbyszko, he looked at him as if he were astonished; then he asked: "Why do they ring the bells?" Zbyszko was frightened. He feared that if the sick man heard the sound of bells, it was a sign that death would soon come. He feared also that the old man might die without a priest and without confession, and therefore go, if not to hell, then at least for long centuries to purgatory; therefore he determined to resume their journey, in order to reach, as soon as possible, some parish in which Macko could receive the last sacraments. Consequently they started and traveled during the night. Zbyszko sat in the wagon on the hay, beside the sick man and watched him till day-break. From time to time he gave him wine to drink. Macko drank it eagerly, because it relieved him greatly. After the second quart he recovered from his delirium; and after the third, he fell asleep; he slept so well that Zbyszko bent toward him from time to time, to ascertain if he was still alive. Until the time of his imprisonment in Krakow, he did not realize how dearly he loved this uncle who replaced, for him, father and mother. But now he realized it very well; and he felt that after his uncle's death, life would be very lonesome for him, alone, without relatives, except the abbot who held Bogdaniec in pledge, without friends and without anyone to help him. The thought came to him that if Macko died, it would be one more reason for vengeance on the Germans, by whose means he had nearly lost his head, by whom all his forefathers had been killed, also Danusia's mother and many other innocent people, whom he knew or about whom he had heard from his acquaintances--and he began to say to himself: "In this whole kingdom, there is no man who has not suffered some wrong from them, and who would not like to avenge those wrongs." Here he remembered the Germans with whom he fought at Wilno, and he knew that even the Tartars were less cruel. The coming dawn interrupted his thoughts. The day was bright but cold. Evidently Macko felt better, because he was breathing more regularly and more quietly. He did not awaken until the sun was quite warm; then he opened his eyes and said: "I am better. Where are we?" "We are approaching Olkusk. You know, where they dig silver." "If one could get that which is in the earth, then one could rebuild Bogdaniec!" "I see you are better," answered Zbyszko laughing. "Hej! it would be enough even for a stone castle! We will go to the _fara_,[65] because there the priests will offer us hospitality and you will be able to make your confession. Everything is in God's hands; but it is better to have one's conscience clear." "I am a sinner and will willingly repent," answered Macko. "I dreamed last night that the devils were taking my skin off. They were talking German. Thanks be to God that I am better. Have you slept any?" "How could I sleep, when I was watching you?" "Then lie down for a while. When we arrive, I will awaken you." "I cannot sleep!" "What prevents you?" Zbyszko looked at his uncle and said: "What else can it be, if not love? I have pain in my heart; but I will ride on horseback for a while, that will help me." He got down from the wagon, and mounted the horse, which his servant brought for him; meanwhile, Macko touched his sore side; but he was evidently thinking about something else and not about his illness, because he tossed his head, smacked his lips and finally said: "I wonder and wonder, and I cannot wonder enough, why you are so eager for love, because your father was not that way, and neither am I." But Zbyszko, instead of answering, stretched himself on the saddle, put his hands on his hips, gave his head a toss and sang: "I cried the whole night, cried in the morning, Where have you been, my sweet girl, my darling! It will not help me, if I mourn for thee, Because I am quite sure, you will not see me." "Hej!" This "hej" resounded in the forest, reverberated against the trunks of the trees, finally reëchoed in the far distance and then was lost in the thickets. Again Macko felt his side, in which the German spearhead had lodged and said, moaning a little: "Formerly the people were wiser!" Then he became thoughtful, as if recollecting the old times; and he added: "Although even then some of them were stupid also." But, in the meantime, they emerged from the forest, behind which they perceived the miners' sheds, and further walls, built by King Kazimierz, and the tower of the _fara_ erected by Wladyslaw Lokietek. The canon of the _fara_ beard Macko's confession and offered them hospitality; they remained there over night, and started the next morning. Beyond Olkusk, they turned toward Szlonsk,[66] and on its boundaries, they proposed to ride toward Wielkopolska. The road was laid out through a large forest, in which there was heard toward sunset, the roaring of the urus and of the bison, and during the night the eyes of wolves were seen shining behind the thick hazelnut trees. But the greatest danger which threatened the traveler on this road, was from the German and Germanized knights of Szlonsk, whose castles were erected here and there near the boundaries. It is true, that because of the war with the Opolczyk, Naderspraw, whom the Silesians were helping against King Wladyslaw, the majority of these castles had been destroyed by Polish hands; it was necessary, however, to be watchful, and especially after sunset, and to have one's weapons ready. They were riding so quietly, however, that Zbyszko found the journey tedious; when they were about one day's journey from Bogdaniec, they heard the snorting and trampling of horses behind them. "Some people are following us," said Zbyszko. Macko, who was awake, looked at the stars and answered like an experienced traveler: "Day-break is near. Robbers do not attack toward the end of the night." Zbyszko stopped the wagon; however, placed the men across the road, facing the advancing horses, and waited. In fact, after a certain time he perceived in the dusk, several horsemen. One of them was riding ahead, and it was evident that he did not wish to hide, because he was singing. Zbyszko could not hear the words of the song; but the gay "hoc! hoc!" with which the stranger ended each refrain, reached his ears. "Our people!" he said to himself. After a while he shouted, however: "Stop!" "And you sit down!" answered a joyous voice. "Who are you?" "And you?" "Why do you follow us?" "And why do you obstruct the road?" "Answer, our crossbows are bent." "And ours,--thrust out,--aimed!" "Answer like a man, otherwise woe to you!" To this a merry song was given, as an answer to Zbyszko. "One misery with another They are dancing on the crossway. Hoc! Hoc! Hoc! What use have they of dancing? It's a good thing, anyhow. Hoc! Hoc! Hoc!" Zbyszko was amazed at hearing such an answer; meantime, the song stopped and the same voice asked: "And how is the old man Macko? Does he still breathe?" Macko rose in the wagon and said: "For God's sake, they are some of our people!" Zbyszko rushed forward. "Who asks about Macko?" "A neighbor. Zych of Zgorzelice. I have looked for you for a week and inquired about you from all on the road." "_Rety!_[67] Uncle! Zych of Zgorzelice is here!" shouted Zbyszko. They began to greet each other joyfully because Zych was really their neighbor, and also a good man of whom everybody was very fond on account of his mirth. "Well, how are you?" asked he, shaking hands with Macko. "Still _hoc_, or no more _hoc_!"[68] "Hej, no more _hoc_!" answered Macko. "But I see you gladly. Gracious God, it is as if I were already in Bogdaniec." "What is the matter with you; I heard that the Germans had wounded you?" "They did, dog-brothers! I A head of a spear stuck between my ribs." "You see!" said Zbyszko, "everybody advises the grease of a bear. As soon as we reach Bogdaniec, I will go with an axe to the _barcie_."[69] "Perhaps Jagienka has some." "What Jagienka? Your wife's name was Malgochna," said Macko. "O! Malgochna is no more! It will be three years on St. Michael's day since Malgochna was buried in the priests' field. She was a sturdy woman; may the Lord make his face shine upon her soul! Jagienka is exactly like her, only younger." "Behind a ravine, there is a mount, As was mother, such is daughter. Hoc! Hoc!" "I told Malgochna not to climb the pine tree because she was no longer young. But she would climb it. The branch broke; she fell and was badly hurt; within three days, she died." "Lord, make your face shine upon her soul!" said Macko. "I remember, I remember! When she was angry, the farm boys used to hide in the hay. But she was clever. So she fell from a pine tree!" "She fell down like a cone. Do you know, after the funeral I was so stupefied with grief, that for three days they could not arouse me. They thought I was dead. Afterward, I wept for a long time. But Jagienka is also clever. She takes care of everything." "I can scarcely remember her. She was not as large as the helve of an axe when I went away. She could pass under a horse without touching its body. Bah! that is a long time ago, and she must have grown." "She was fifteen the day of St. Agnes; but I have not seen her for more than a year." "Why have you not seen her? Where have you been?" "To the war. I do not need to stay home; Jagienka takes care of everything." Macko, although ill, began to listen attentively when the war was mentioned, and asked: "Perhaps you were with _Kniaz_ Witold at Worskla?" "Yes, I was there," answered Zych of Zgorzelice gaily. "Well, the Lord God did not send him good luck; we were dreadfully defeated by Edyga. First they killed our horses. A Tartar will not attack you openly like a Christian knight, but throws his arrows from afar. You attack him and he flees, and then again throws his arrows. What can you do with such a man? In our army the knights boasted and said: 'We do not need to lower our spears, nor draw our swords; we will crush the vermin under our horses' feet.' So they boasted; but when the arrows began to twange, it grew dark they were so numerous, and the battle was soon over. Hardly one out of ten survived. Will you believe it? More than half of the army were slain; seventy Lithuanian and Russian princes lay dead on the battlefield; and one could not count in two weeks' time, the _bojars_ and other courtiers, whom they call _otroks_, that were killed." "I heard about it," interrupted Macko. "Many of our knights perished also." "Bah! even ten Knights of the Cross were killed, because they were obliged to serve in Witold's army. Many of our people perished, because they, you know, never run away. _Kniaz_ Witold had the greatest confidence in our knights and he wanted a guard of them round him during the battle, exclusively Poles. Hi! Hi! Great havoc was made among them; but he was not touched! _Pan_ Spytko of Mielsztyn was killed, also the sword bearer, Bernat, Judge Mikolaj, Prokop, Przeclaw, Dobrogost, Jasko of Lazewice, Pilik Mazur, Warsz of Michow, _Wojewoda_ Socha, Jasko of Dombrowa, Pietrko of Miloslaw, Szczepiecki, Oderski and Tomko Lagoda. Who can enumerate all of them! Some of them had been hit with so many arrows, that after death they looked like porcupines; it was awful to look at them!" Here he laughed as if he were telling a most amusing story, and at once he began to sing: "You have learned what is a Tartar, When he beat you and flew afar!" "Well, and what then?" asked Zbyszko. "Then the grand duke escaped; but he was as courageous as he usually is. The more you press him, the farther he jumps, like a hazelnut stick. We rushed to the Tavanian ford to defend those crossing over. There were with us a few knights from Poland. The second day, Edyga came with a swarm of Tartars; but he could not do a thing. Hej! When he wanted to pass the ford, we fought him so hard he could not do it. We killed and caught many of them. I myself caught five Tartars, and I sent them to Zgorzelice. You will see what dogheads they have." "In Krakow, they say that the war may reach Poland also." "Do they think Edyga is a fool! He knows well what kind of knights we have; and he also knows that the greatest knights remained home, because the queen was not pleased when Witold began the war on his own authority. Ej, he is cunning, that old Edyga! He understood at Tavania that the prince's army had increased and had gone far beyond the tenth-land!" "But you returned?" "Yes, I returned. There is nothing to do there. In Krakow I heard about you, and that you had started a little ahead of me." Here he turned to Zbyszko: "Hej! my lord, the last time I saw you, you were a small boy; and now, although there is no light, I suppose you are large like an urus. And you had your crossbows ready! One can see you have been in the war." "War has nurtured me since childhood. Let my uncle tell you if I am lacking in experience." "It is not necessary for your uncle to tell me anything; in Krakow, I saw the _Pan_ of Taczew who told me about you. But I understand that the Mazur does not want to give you his daughter. I have nothing against you; but I like you. You will forget about that one when you see my Jagienka. She is a wonder!" "I shall not forget, even if I see ten such as your Jagna." "She will get the estate of Moczydoly for her dowry. Many will ask me for Jagna, do not fear?" Zbyszko wanted to answer: "But not I!" But Zych of Zgorzelice began to sing: "I will bend to your knees And you for that, will give me the girl, Give me the girl!" "You are always happy and singing," said Macko. "Well, and what do the blessed do in heaven." "They sing." "Well, then! And the damned cry. I prefer to go to those who sing rather than to those who cry; and St. Peter will say thus: 'We must let him into paradise; otherwise he will sing in hell, and that will not be right.' Look, the day breaks!" In fact, daylight was coming. After awhile they arrived at a large glade. By the lake covering the greater part of the glade, some people were fishing; but seeing the armed men, they left their nets and immediately seized their picks and staffs and stood ready for battle. "They thought we were robbers," said Zych, laughing. "Hej, fishermen! To whom do you belong?" They stood for a while silently, looking distrustfully; but finally one of them having recognized that they were knights, answered: "To the _ksiondz_, the abbot of Tulcza." "Our relative," said Macko, "the same who holds Bogdaniec in pledge. These must be his forests; but he must have purchased them a short time ago." "He did not buy them," answered Zych. "He was fighting about them with Wilk of Brzozowa and it seems that the abbot defeated Wilk. A year ago they were going to fight on horseback with spears and long swords for this part of the forest; but I do not know how it ended because I went away." "Well, we are relatives," said Macko, "he will not quarrel with us." "Perhaps; he is a chivalrous abbot who knows how to wear a helmet; but he is pious and he sings the mass beautifully. Don't you remember? When he shouts at mass, the swallows nested under the ceiling, fall from their nests. In that way God's glory increases." "Certainly I remember! At ten steps he could blow the candles at the altar out. Has he been in Bogdaniec?" "Yes, he was there. He settled five peasants on the land. He has also been at my house at Zgorzelice, because, as you know, he baptized Jagienka, of whom he is very fond and calls her little daughter." "God will bless him if he be willing to leave me the peasants," said Macko. "_Owa!_ what will five peasants amount to! Then Jagienka will ask him and he will not refuse her." Here the conversation stopped for a while, because over the dark forest and from the pink down, the bright sun had risen and lighted the environs. The knights greeted it with the customary: "May it be blessed!" and then having made the sign of the cross, they began their morning prayers. Zych finished first and said to his companions: "I hope to see you well soon. Hej! you have both changed. You, Macko, must regain your health. Jagienka will take care of you, because there is no woman in your house. One can see that you have a piece of iron between your ribs." Here he turned toward Zbyszko: "Show yourself also. Well, mighty God! I remember you when you were small and used to climb on the colts by the help of their tails; and now, what a knight! The face looks like that of a little lord; but the body like that of a sturdy man. Such can wrestle even with a bear." "A bear is nothing for him!" said Macko. "He was younger than he is to-day, when that Fryzjan called him a beardless youth; and he resenting it, immediately pulled out the Fryzjan's mustaches." "I know," interrupted Zych, "and you fought afterward, and captured their retinue. _Pan_ of Taczew told me all about it:" "There came a German very proud, He was buried with sore snout; Hoc! Hoc!" Zbyszko wondered at Zych's long thin figure, at his thin face with its enormous nose and at his laughing round eyes. "O!" said he, "with such a neighbor there will be no sadness, if God only restore my uncle's health." "It is good to have a joyful neighbor, because with a jolly fellow there will be no quarrel," answered Zych. "Now listen to what I tell you. You have been away from home a long time, and you will not find much comfort in Bogdaniec. I do not say in the farming, because the abbot has taken care of that; he dug up a large piece of the forest and settled new peasants. But as he went there very often, you will find the larder empty; even in the house, there is hardly a bench or a bunch of straw to sleep on; and a sick man needs some comforts. You had better come with me to Zgorzelice. I will be glad to have you stay a month or two. During that time, Jagienka will take care of Bogdaniec. Rely on her and do not bother yourselves with anything. Zbyszko can go there, from time to time, to inspect the farming; I will bring the abbot to Zgorzelice, and you can settle your account with him. The girl will take good care of you, as of a father, and during illness, a woman's care is the best. Well, my dear friends, will you do as I ask you?" "We know that you are a good man and you always were," answered Macko with emotion; "but don't you see, if I must die on account of this wound, I prefer to die in my own home. Then when one is home, although he is old, he can inquire about different things, can inspect and do many other things. If God order me to go to the other world, well, then I cannot help it! I cannot escape it even with better care. As for inconvenience, we are accustomed to that at the war. Even a bunch of straw is pleasant to that one who, during several years, has slept on the bare ground. But I thank you for your kind heart and if I be not able to show you my gratitude, God will permit Zbyszko to do it." Zych of Zgorzelice, who was noted for his kind heart and readiness to oblige, began to insist: but Macko was firm: "If I must die, it will be better to die in my own courtyard!" He had longed to see Bogdaniec for several years, therefore now, when he was so near it, he must go there, even if it were his last night. God was merciful, having permitted him who was so ill, to reach here. He brushed away the tears gathered under his eyelids, with his hand, looked around and said: "If these are the woods of Wilk of Bizozowa we will be home this afternoon." "They do not belong to Wilk of Bizozowa any longer; but to the abbot," said Zych. Macko smiled and said after awhile: "If they belong to the abbot, then sometime, they may belong to us." "Bah! awhile ago you were talking about death," said Zych joyfully, "and now you wish to outlive the abbot." "No, I will not outlive him; but Zbyszko may." Further conversation was interrupted by the sound of horns in the forest. Zych stopped his horse and began to listen. "Somebody is hunting," said he. "Wait." "Perhaps it is the abbot. It would be pleasant to meet him here." "Keep quiet!" Here he turned to his retinue. "Stop!" They halted. The horns resounded nearer, and soon afterward the baying of dogs was heard. "Stop!" repeated Zych. "They are coming toward us." Zbyszko jumped from his horse and began to shout: "Give me the crossbow! The beast may attack us! Hasten! Hasten!" Having seized the crossbow from the servant's hands, he rested it against the ground, pressed it against his abdomen, bent, stretched his back like a bow, and having seized the string with the fingers of both hands, he pulled it on to the iron hook; then placed an arrow and sprang into the woods. "He stretched it without a crank!" whispered Zych, astonished at such great strength. "Ho, he is a strong boy!" answered Macko, proudly. Meanwhile, the sound of horns and the barking of dogs stole nearer; all at once, at the right side of the forest, a heavy trampling resounded, accompanied by the crackling of broken branches and bushes--then out of the thicket rushed an old bearded urus, with his gigantic head lowered, with bloody eyes and panting tongue, breathless and terrible. Coming to a small ravine, he leaped it, but fell on his forelegs; but immediately he arose, and a few seconds later he would have disappeared in the thicket on the other side of the road, when the string of the crossbow twanged, the whistling of the arrow resounded, the beast reared, turned, roared dreadfully and fell on the ground as if he were struck by a thunderbolt. Zbyszko leaped from behind a tree, again stretched the crossbow, and approached the bull who was pawing the ground with his hind feet. But having glanced at it, he turned quietly toward the retinue, and began to shout from afar: "I hit him so hard that he is severely wounded!" "You are a strong boy!" said Zych, riding toward him, "with one arrow only!" "Bah, it was near, and the speed was great. Come and see; not only the iron, but even the shaft has disappeared under the left shoulder bone." "The huntsmen must be near; they will claim the beast." "I will not give it to them!" answered Zbyszko. "It was killed on the road, and the road is not private property." "But if it belong to the abbot?" "Well, then he may have it." Meanwhile, several dogs came out of the forest. Having perceived the animal, they rushed on him. "Soon the huntsmen will appear," said Zych. "Look! There they are, but they do not see the beast yet. Stop! Stop! Here, here! Killed! Killed!" Then he became silent, and sheltered his eyes with one hand; after a while, he said: "For God's sake! what has happened? Have I become blind, or does it only seem so to me?" "There is some one on a piebald horse in the front," said Zbyszko. Then Zych exclaimed at once: "Dear Jesus! It must be Jagienka!" And he began to shout: "Jagna! Jagna!" Then he rushed forward; but before he could make his horse gallop, Zbyszko perceived a most wonderful spectacle; he beheld a girl sitting like a man, on a swift piebald horse, rushing toward them; she had a crossbow in one hand and a boar-spear on her shoulders. Her floating hair was full of hop strobiles; her face was bright like the dawn. Her shirt was opened on the bosom, and she wore a _serdak_.[70] Having reached them, she reined in her horse; for a while, her face expressed surprise, hesitation, joy; finally, being scarcely able to believe her own eyes, she began to cry in a childish voice: "_Tatulo_,[71] _tatus_[71] dearest!" In the twinkling of an eye, she jumped from her horse, and Zych dismounted also to welcome her; she threw her arms around his neck. Fora long time, Zbyszko heard only the sounds of kisses and these two words: "_Tatulo!_ Jagula! _Tatulo!_ Jagula!" repeated in a joyful outburst. Both retinues now approached, and Macko arrived also; they continued to repeat: "_Tatulo!_ Jagula!" and still kissed each other. Finally Jagienka asked: "Then you decided to return from the war? Are you well?" "From the war. Why should I not be well? And you? And the boys? Are they well also? Yes, otherwise you would not run in the forest. But, my girl, what are you doing here?" "Don't you see that I am hunting?" answered Jagienka, laughing. "In somebody else's woods?" "The abbot gave me permission. He even sent me experienced huntsmen and a pack of hounds." Here she turned to the servants: "Chase the dogs away, they will tear the skin!" Then to Zych: "Oj, how glad I am to see you!" And they again kissed each other. When they were through, Jagna said: "We are far from home; we followed the beast. I am sure it must be more than ten miles; the horses are exhausted. What a large urus! Did you notice? He must have at least three of my arrows in him; the last one killed him." "He was killed by the last, but it was not yours; this knight killed him." Jagienka threw her hair back and looked at Zbyszko sharply, but not very friendly. "Do you know who he is?" asked Zych. "I do not know." "No wonder you do not recognize him, because he has grown. Perhaps you will recognize old Macko of Bogdaniec?" "For God's sake! is that Macko of Bogdaniec?" exclaimed Jagienka. Having approached the wagon, she kissed Macko's hand. "It is you?" "Yes, it is I; but I am obliged to ride in the wagon, because the Germans wounded me." "What Germans? The war was with the Tartars?" "There was a war with the Tartars, but we were not in that war; we fought in the war in Lithuania, Zbyszko and I." "Where is Zbyszko?" "Then you did not recognize Zbyszko?" said Macko smiling. "Is that man Zbyszko?" exclaimed the girl, looking again at the young knight. "Yes, it is he." "You must give him a kiss, because he is an old acquaintance of yours," said Zych, mirthfully. Jagienka turned gaily toward Zbyszko; but suddenly she retreated, and having covered her eyes with her hand, she said: "I am bashful." "But we have known each other since we were children," said Zbyszko. "Aha! we know each other well. I remember when you made us a visit with Macko about eight years ago, and my _matula_[72] gave us some nuts with honey; you being the elder, struck me with your fist and then ate all the nuts yourself." "He will not act like that now!" said Macko. "He has been with _Kniaz_ Witold, and with the court in Krakow, and he has learned courtly manners." But Jagienka was now thinking about something else; turning toward Zbyszko, she asked: "Then you killed the urus?" "Yes." "We must see where the arrow is." "You cannot see it; it disappeared under the shoulder bone." "Be quiet; do not dispute," said Zych. "We all saw him shoot the urus, and we saw something still better; he bent the bow without a crank." Jagienka looked at Zbyszko for the third time, but now with astonishment. "You bent the crossbow without a crank?" Zbyszko, detecting some doubt in her voice, rested the crossbow on the ground, and bent it in the twinkling of an eye; then wishing to show that he was familiar with knightly manners, he kneeled on one knee and handed the bow to Jagienka. But the girl, instead of taking it from him, suddenly blushed--she did not know why herself, and began to fasten the shirt, which, during the swift riding, had become opened on her bosom. CHAPTER IV. The next day after their arrival at Bogdaniec, Macko and Zbyszko began to look around their old home; they soon realized that Zych of Zgorzelice was right when he told them that at first they would be uncomfortable. With the farming they could get along quite well. There were several fields cultivated by the peasants whom the abbot had settled there. Formerly there had been much cultivated land in Bogdaniec; but after the battle at Plowce[73] where the family Grady perished, there was a scarcity of working hands; and after the invasion of the Germans from Szlonsk and after the war of Nalenczs with Grzymalits, the formerly rich fields became overgrown with trees. Macko could not help it. In vain he tried for several years to bring farmers from Krzesnia and rent the land to them; they refused to come, preferring to remain on their own strips of land rather than to cultivate some one else's. His offer however attracted some shelterless men; in the different wars, he captured several slaves whom he married and settled in the houses; and in that way he populated the village. But it was hard work for him; therefore as soon as he had an opportunity, Macko pledged the whole of Bogdaniec, thinking that it would be easier for the powerful abbot to settle the land with peasants, and that the war would bring to him and to Zbyszko some people and money. In fact, the abbot was energetic. He had increased the working force of Bogdaniec with five peasant families; he increased the stock of cattle and horses; then he built a barn, a stable and a cow house. But as he did not live in Bogdaniec, he did not repair the house. Macko, who had hoped to find the _grodek_ surrounded with a ditch and hedge when he returned, found everything just as he had left it, with this difference only, that the walls were more crooked and seemed to be lower, because they had settled deeper in the earth. The house contained an enormous hall, two large rooms with alcoves, and a kitchen. In the rooms there were windows made of bladders; and in the centre of each room, there was a fireplace made of lime, and the smoke escaped through a hole in the ceiling. From the ceilings now blackened from smoke, during former times used to hang the hams of boars, bears and deer, rumps of roes, sides of beef and rolls of sausages. But now the hooks were empty as well as the shelves fastened to the walls, on which they used to put the tin and earthen dishes. The walls beneath the shelves were no longer empty, however, because Zbyszko had ordered his servants to hang helmets, cuirasses, long swords and short swords on them; and further along boar-spears and forks, caparisons and saddles. The smoke blackened the weapons, and it was necessary to clean them very often. But Macko, who was careful, ordered the servants to put the costly clothes in the alcove in which his bed stood. In the front rooms there stood near the windows, pine tables and benches of the same, on which the lords used to sit during the meals, with all their servants. People accustomed to war were easily satisfied; but in Bogdaniec there was neither bread nor flour and no dishes. The peasants brought what they could; Macko expected that the neighbors, as was then customary, would help him; and he was not mistaken, at least as far as Zych of Zgorzelice was concerned. The second day, when the old _wlodyka_ was sitting on a log in front of the house, delighted with the bright autumn day, Jagienka came, riding a black horse; she dismounted and approached Macko, out of breath on account of fast riding, and rosy as an apple; she said: "May you be blessed! _Tatulo_ sent me to inquire about your health." "I am no worse," answered Macko; "and at least I have slept in my own house." "But you cannot be comfortable at all, and a sick person needs some care." "We are hardened people. It is true that at first there was no comfort; but we were not hungry. We ordered an ox and two sheep killed, so there is plenty of meat. The women brought some flour and eggs; the worst is that we have no dishes." "Well, I ordered my servants to load two wagons. On one there are two beds and dishes, and on the other different provisions. There are some cakes and flour, some salt pork and dried mushrooms; there is a barrel of beer and one of mead; in fact a little of everything we had in the house." Macko, who was grateful for this kindness, caressed Jagienka's head, and said: "May God reward your father and you. When our housekeeping improves, we will return the provisions." "How clever you are! We are not like the Germans, who take back what they give." "Well, so much more may God reward you. Your father told us what a good housekeeper you are, and that you had taken care of Zgorzelice the whole year?" "Yes! If you need anything else, send somebody; but send some one who will know what is needed, because a stupid servant never knows what he has been sent for." Here Jagienka began to look round, and Macko having noticed it, smiled and asked: "For whom are you looking?" "I am looking for no one!" "I will send Zbyszko to thank you and your father. Do you like Zbyszko?" "I have not looked at him." "Then look at him now, because he is just coming." In fact Zbyszko was coming from the stable. He was dressed in a reindeer jacket and round felt cap like those worn under the helmets; his hair was without a net, cut evenly over his eyebrows and hung in golden curls on his shoulders; he walked swiftly, having noticed the girl; he was tall and graceful, looking like the shield-bearer of a rich nobleman. Jagienka turned toward Macko as if to show that she came only to see him; but Zbyszko welcomed her joyfully, and having taken hold of her hand, raised it to his mouth, notwithstanding her resistance. "Why do you kiss my hand?" asked she. "Am I a priest?" "Such is the custom; you must not resist." "Even if he had kissed both your hands," said Macko, "it would not be enough for all that you have brought us." "What have you brought?" asked Zbyszko, looking around the court-yard; but he did not see anything except the black horse tied to the post. "The wagons have not come yet; but they will soon be here," answered Jagienka. Macko began to enumerate what she had brought; but when he mentioned the two beds, Zbyszko said: "I am satisfied to sleep on the urus' skin; but I thank you because you thought about me also." "It was not I; it was _Tatulo_," answered the girl, blushing. "If you prefer to sleep on the skin, you can do it." "I prefer to sleep on what I can. Sometimes after a battle, I slept with a dead Krzyzak instead of a pillow under my head." "You do not mean to tell me that you have ever killed a Krzyzak? I am sure you have not." Zbyszko, instead of answering, began to laugh. But Macko exclaimed: "For heaven's sake, girl, you do not know him yet! He has never done anything else, but kill the Germans. He can fight with an axe, a spear or with any weapon; and when he sees a German from afar, one must tie him with a rope, or else he will rush against him. In Krakow he wanted to kill the envoy, Lichtenstein, and for that he barely escaped execution. Such a man! I will tell you also about the two Fryzes, from whom we took their retinues and so much rich booty, that one could redeem Bogdaniec with half of it." Here Macko began to tell about his duel with the Fryzjans; also about other adventures which had happened to them, and about the deeds they had performed. How they had fought from behind the walls and in the open fields, with the greatest knights living in foreign lands; how they had fought Germans, Frenchmen, Englishmen and Burgundians. He also told her what they had seen! They had seen German castles of red brick, Lithuanian wooden _grodzce_[74] and churches, more beautiful than one could see around Bogdaniec; also large cities and the dreadful wilderness in which during the nights Lithuanian gods cried, and many different, marvelous things; and everywhere, in any fight, Zbyszko was victorious, so that even the greatest knights were astonished at him. Jagienka, who was sitting on the log beside Macko, listened with open mouth to that narrative, tossing her head and looking at the young knight with increasing admiration and amazement. Finally when Macko was through, she sighed and said: "I am sorry I was not born a boy!" But Zbyszko, who during the narration had been looking at her attentively, evidently was thinking about something else, because he suddenly said: "What a beautiful girl you are now!" Jagienka answered, half in displeasure and half in sadness: "You have seen many more beautiful than I am." But Zbyszko could truly answer her that he had not seen many as pretty as she, because Jagienka was beaming with health, youth and strength. The old abbot used to say that she looked like a pine tree. Everything was beautiful in her; a slender figure, a broad bosom that looked as if it were cut out of marble, a red mouth, and intelligent blue eyes. She was also dressed with more care than when in the forest with the hunting party. Around her neck she had a necklace of red beads; she wore a fur jacket opened in front and covered with green cloth, a homespun skirt and new boots. Even old Macko noticed this beautiful attire, and having looked at her for a moment, asked: "Why are you dressed as if you were going to church?" But instead of answering, she exclaimed: "The wagons are coming!" In fact the wagons now appeared and she sprang toward them, followed by Zbyszko. The unloading lasted quite a long time to the great satisfaction of Macko who looked at everything, and praised Jagienka all the time. It was dusk when the girl started home. While she was getting ready to mount her horse, Zbyszko suddenly caught her, and before she was able to say a word, lifted her into the saddle. Then she blushed like the dawn and turning her head toward him, said with emotion in her voice: "What a strong boy you are!" But he, not having noticed her confusion nor her blushes because it was dark, laughed and said: "Are you not afraid of wild beasts? It is night!" "There is a boar-spear in the wagon. Give it to me." Zbyszko went to the wagon, took the boar-spear and handed it to Jagienka; then he said: "Be in good health!" "Be in good health!" she answered. "May God reward you! To-morrow, or the day after, I will be in Zgorzelice to thank Zych and you for your kindness." "Come! You will be welcome!" Having touched her horse, she disappeared among the bushes growing on the sides of the road. Zbyszko returned to his uncle. "You must go inside." But Macko answered, without moving from the log: "Hej! I what a girl! I She made the court-yard brighter!" "That is true!" There was a moment of silence. Macko seemed to be thinking about something while looking at the stars; then he said, as if he were speaking to himself: "She is pretty and a good housekeeper, although she is not more than fifteen years old." "Yes!" answered Zbyszko. "Therefore old Zych loves her dearly." "And he said that the estate of Moczydoly will be her dowry; and there on the pastures is a herd of mares with many colts." "Are there not a great many marshes in the Moczydlowski estate?" "Yes; but in those marshes there are plenty of beavers." There was silence again. Macko looked intently at Zbyszko for a while, and finally he asked, "About what are you thinking?" "Seeing Jagienka reminded me of Danusia, and something pricked me in the heart." "Let us go into the house," answered the old _wlodyka_. "It is getting late." Having risen with difficulty, he leaned on Zbyszko, who conducted him to the alcove. The next day Zbyszko went to Zgorzelice, because Macko urged him. He also insisted that he take two servants with him for ostentation, and that he dress in his best clothes, to show respect and gratitude to Zych. Zbyszko did as he was asked and went attired as if for a wedding, in his _jaka_ made of white satin, bordered with gold fringe and embroidered with gold griffins. Zych received him with open arms, with joy and with singing; as for Jagienka, when she entered, she stopped as if she were rooted to the ground and almost dropped the bucket of wine which she was carrying; she thought that a son of some king had arrived. She became timid and sat silently, rubbing her eyes from time to time as if she would like to awaken from a dream. The inexperienced Zbyszko thought that, for some reason unknown to him, she did not wish to talk to him; therefore he conversed only with Zych, praising his munificence and admiring the house at Zgorzelice, which in fact was quite different from that in Bogdaniec. Everywhere comfort and wealth were evident. In the rooms there were windows with panes made of horn, cut in thin slices and polished so that it was as transparent as glass. Instead of fireplaces in the centre, there were large chimneys in the corners. The floors were made of larch tree planks, while on the walls were hung suits of armor and many polished dishes, also silver spoons. Here and there were costly rugs brought from the wars. Under the tables there were enormous urus' skins. Zych showed his riches willingly, saying that it was Jagienka's household. He conducted Zbyszko to the alcove, fragrant with rosin and peppermint, in which were hanging from the ceiling, large bunches of wolf skins, fox skins, beaver skins and marten skins. He showed to him the provisions of cheese, honey, wax, barrels of flour, pails of dried bread, hemp and dried mushrooms. Then he went with him to the granaries, barns, stables, cow houses, and to the sheds filled with plenty of hunting implements and nets. Zbyszko was so dazzled by all this wealth that during supper, he could not refrain from admiration. "What a pleasure to live in Zgorzelice!" exclaimed he. "In Moczydoly, there is almost the same wealth," answered Zych. "Do you remember Moczydoly? It is not far from Bogdaniec. Formerly our forefathers quarreled about the boundaries and challenged each other; but I shall not quarrel." Here he filled Zbyszko's goblet with mead and said: "Perhaps you would like to sing?" "No," answered Zbyszko; "but I shall listen to you with pleasure." "Zgorzelice will belong to the young bears." "What do you mean by 'young bears?'" "Why, Jagienka's brothers." "Hej! they will not have to suck their paws during the winter." "No; but Jagienka will also have plenty in Moczydoly." "That is true!" "Why don't you eat and drink? Jagienka, pour for him and for me." "I am drinking and eating as much as I can." "Ungird your belt; then you will be able to eat and drink more. What a beautiful girdle you have! Yon must have taken rich booty in Lithuania!" "We cannot complain," answered Zbyszko, gladly seizing the opportunity to explain that the heirs of Bogdaniec were no longer _wlodykas_. "A part of our booty, we sold in Krakow and received forty silver _grzywiens_ for it." "You don't say so! Why, one can buy an estate for that." "Yes. There was one Milanese armor which my uncle, expecting to die, sold for a good price." "I know! Well, it is worth while to go to Lithuania. I wanted to go there also; but I was afraid." "Of what? Of the Knights of the Cross?" "Ej, who would be afraid of Germans? I was afraid of those heathenish gods or devils. It seems there are plenty of them in the woods." "They do not have any other place for shelter, because their temples have been burned. Formerly they were well-to-do; but now they live on mushrooms and ants." "Did you see them?" "No, I did not see any myself; but I heard of people who had seen them. Sometimes one of them sticks out a hairy paw from behind a tree and shakes it, begging for something." "Macko told me the same," answered Jagienka. "Yes! He told me about it on the road," said Zych. "Well, no wonder! In our country also, although it has been a Christian country for a long time, one can hear laughter in the marshes; and although the priests scold about it in the churches, it is always good policy to put a dish filled with something to eat, for the little devils; otherwise they will scratch on the walls so much that one can hardly sleep. Jagienka, my dearest! put a dish at the threshold." Jagienka took an earthen porringer full of noodles and cheese, and placed it at the threshold. Zych said: "The priests scold! But the Lord Jesus will not be angry about a dish of noodles; and a god, as soon as his hunger is satisfied, will protect one from fire and from thieves." Then he turned to Zbyszko: "But will you not ungird yourself and sing a little?" "You had better sing, or perhaps _Panna_[75] Jagienka will sing." "We will sing by turns," exclaimed Zych. "We have a servant who will accompany us on a wooden fife. Call the boy!" They called the servant who sat down on the bench and put the fife to his mouth, waiting to learn whom he was to accompany. None of them wanted to be first. Finally Zych told Jagienka to begin; therefore Jagienka, although bashful because Zbyszko was present, rose from the bench and having put her hands under her apron, began: "If I only could get The wings like a birdie, I would fly quickly To my dearest Jasiek." Zbyszko opened his eyes wide; then he jumped up and shouted: "Where did you learn that song?" Jagienka looked at him astonished. "Everybody sings that. What is the matter with you?" Zych thinking that Zbyszko was a little intoxicated, turned his jovial face toward him and said: "Ungird! It will relieve you!" But Zbyszko stood for a while with astonishment on his face; then, having recovered from his emotion, said to Jagienka: "Excuse me, I suddenly remembered something. Sing further." "Perhaps it makes you sad?" "Ej, not at all!" he answered, with a quivering voice. "I could listen to it the whole night." Then he sat down, covered his face with his hand, and listened. Jagienka sang another couplet; but when she finished, she noticed a big tear rolling down Zbyszko's fingers. Then she sat down beside him, and began to touch him with her elbow. "What is the matter with you? I do not want to make you cry. Tell me what is the matter with you?" "Nothing! Nothing!" answered Zbyszko, sighing. "I could tell you much. But it is over. I feel merry now." "Perhaps you would like to have some sweet wine?" "Good girl!" exclaimed Zych. "Call him 'Zbyszko,' and you call her 'Jagienka.' You have known each other since you were children." Then he turned toward his daughter: "Do not mind because he struck you when you were children. He will not do it now." "I will not!" answered Zbyszko, mirthfully. "If she wishes, she may beat me now for it." Then Jagienka, wishing to cheer him up, began to play that she was striking him with her little fist. "Give us some wine!" shouted the merry _Pan_ of Zgorzelice. Jagienka sprang to the closet and brought out a jug of wine, two beautiful silver goblets, engraved by a silversmith of Wroclaw[76] and a couple of cheese. Zych, being a little intoxicated, began to hug the jug and said to it as if he were talking to his daughter: "Oj, my dear girl! What shall I do, poor man, when they take you from Zgorzelice; what shall I do?" "And you must give her up soon!" said Zbyszko. Zych began to laugh. "Chy! Chy! The girl is only fifteen; but she is already fond of boys! When she sees one of them, she begins immediately to rub knee with knee!" "_Tatusiu_[77] if you don't stop, I will leave you," said Jagienka. "Don't go! It's better with you here." Then he continued to say to Zbyszko: "Two of them visit us. One of them is young Wilk, the son of old Wilk of Bizozowa; the other is Cztan[78] of Rogow. If they meet you here, they will gnash their teeth, as they do at each other." "Owa!" said Zbyszko. Then he turned to Jagienka and asked: "Which do you prefer?" "Neither of them." "Wilk is a great boy," said Zych. "Let him go in another direction!" "And Cztan?" Jagienka began to laugh: "Cztan," said she, turning toward Zbyszko, "he has hair on his face like a goat; one can hardly see his eyes; and he has as much grease on him as a bear." Zbyszko now touched his head with his hand as if he had just remembered something important, and said: "I must ask you for one thing more; have you any bear's grease? I want to use it for medicine for my uncle; and I could not find any in Bogdaniec." "We used to have some," answered Jagienka; "but the boys have used some to grease their bows, and the dogs have eaten the rest." "Is there none left?" "Not a bit!" "Well, then, I must find some in the forest." "Have a hunting party for bears; there are plenty of them; and if you want some hunting implements, we will lend you some." "I cannot wait. I will go some night to a _barcie_." "Take a few men with you." "No, I shall not do that, for they will frighten the beast." "But you will take a crossbow!" "What can I do with a crossbow during the night? There is no moon now! I will take a fork and a strong axe, and I will go alone to-morrow." Jagienka was silent for awhile; but great uneasiness was reflected on her face. "Last year," said she, "the huntsman, Bezduch, was killed by a bear. It is dangerous, because as soon as the bear sees a man near the _barcie_, he immediately stands up on his hind feet." "If he ran away, I could not get him," answered Zbyszko. At that moment Zych who had been dozing, suddenly awakened and began to sing: "Thou Kuba, of toil I Maciek of pleasure, Go then in the morning with the yoke in the field, While I amuse myself with Kasia." Then he said to Zbyszko: "You know? There are two of them, Wilk of Brzozowa and Cztan of Rogow; and you?" But Jagienka being afraid that Zych would say too much, swiftly approached Zbyszko, and began to inquire: "When are you going? To-morrow?" "To-morrow after sunset." "And to which _barcie_?" "To ours in Bogdaniec, not far from your boundaries, near the marshes of Radzikow. They tell me it is very easy to get a bear there." CHAPTER V. Zbyszko went for the bear as he proposed, because Macko became worse. At first when he reached Bogdaniec, he was sustained by joy and the first cares about the house; but on the third day, the fever returned, and the pain was so great that he was obliged to go to bed. Zbyszko went to the _barcie_ during the day, and while there he perceived that there were the footprints of a bear in the mud. He spoke to the beehive keeper, Wawrek, who slept in a shed not far away, with his two faithful Podhalan[79] dogs; but he intended to return to the village on account of the cold. They destroyed the shed, and Wawrek took the dogs with him. But first they smeared the trees here and there with honey, so that the smell of it would attract the animal. Zbyszko returned home and began to prepare for the expedition. He dressed himself in a warm reindeer jacket without sleeves; on the top of his head, he put a bonnet made of iron wire; finally he took a strong fork and a steel axe. Before sunset he had taken his position; and having made the sign of the cross, he sat down and waited. The red beams of the setting sun were still shining between the branches of the gigantic pines. In the tops of the trees, the crows were flying, croaking and beating the air with their wings; here and there the hares were leaping toward the water, making a noise on the dried leaves; some times a swift marten passed by. In the thickets, the chirping of the birds was at first heard--but gradually ceased. After sunset the noises of the forest began. Immediately a pack of boars passed near Zbyszko with a great bustle and snorting; then elks galloped in a long row, each holding his head on the tail of the one in front of him. The dried branches crackled under their feet and the forest resounded; but on they rushed toward the marshes where during the night, they were cool and safe. Finally the twilight was reflected on the sky, and the tops of the pine trees illuminated by it seemed to burn, as if on fire; then little by little everything began to be quieted. The forest was still. Dusk was rising from earth toward the gleaming twilight, which began finally to grow fainter, then gloomy, blacker and then was quenched. "Now, everything will be quiet, until the wolves begin to howl," thought Zbyszko. He regretted that he had not taken his crossbow, because he could easily have killed a boar or an elk. In the meanwhile, from the marshes came muffled sounds similar to heavy panting and whistling. Zbyszko looked toward that marsh with some apprehension, because the peasant, Radzik, who used to live here in an earth-hut, disappeared with his whole family, as if devoured by the earth. Some people said they were seized by robbers; but there were others who saw some strange footprints, neither human nor of beasts, round the cabin. The people shook their heads very much about that, and they even spoke about bringing a priest from Krzesnia, to bless the hut. But they did not do it because nobody was willing to live in that hut, which from that time, had an evil reputation. It is true that the beehive keeper, Wawrek, did not pay any attention to these reports. Zbyszko being armed with the fork and axe, was not afraid of the wild beasts; but he thought with some uneasiness about the evil forces, and he was glad when that noise stopped. The last reverberation ceased, and there was complete silence. The wind stopped blowing and there was not even the usual whispering in the tops of the pine trees. From time to time, a pine cone fell, making quite a noise amidst the deep silence; but in general, everything was so quiet that Zbyszko heard his own respirations. Thus he sat quietly for a long time, thinking first about the bear, and then about Danusia. He recollected how he seized her in his arms when bidding the princess farewell, and how she cried; he remembered her fair head and bright face, her wreaths of bachelor buttons, her singing, her red shoes with long tips, and finally everything that happened from the moment he first saw her. Such a longing to see her, filled his heart, that he forgot that he was in the forest waiting for the bear; instead of that he began to talk to himself: "I will go to see you, because I cannot live without you." He felt that he must go to Mazowsze; that if he remained in Bogdaniec, he would become good for nothing. He recollected Jurand and his strange opposition; then he thought that it was even more necessary he should go, and learn what that obstacle was, and if a challenge to combat could not remove it. Finally it seemed to him that Danusia stretched her bands toward him and cried: "Come, Zbyszku! Come!" How could he refuse? He was not sleeping, but he saw her as distinctly as in a dream. There she was, riding beside the princess, thrumming on her little lute, humming and thinking of him. Thinking that she would soon see him, and perhaps looking back. Hero Zbyszko aroused himself and listened, because he heard a rustling behind him. Then he grasped the fork in his hand more tightly, stretched his neck and listened again. The rustling approached and then it became very distinct. Under some careful foot, the dried branches were crackling, the fallen leaves were rustling. Something was coming. From time to time the rustling ceased, as if the beast halted beneath the trees; then there was such quietude that Zbyszko's ears began to ring; then again slow, careful steps were heard. That approach was so cautious that Zbyszko was surprised. "I am sure 'the old'[80] must be afraid of the dogs which were here in the shed," said he to himself; "but it may be a wolf that has scented me." Now the footsteps were no longer heard. Zbyszko, however, was sure that something had stopped twenty or thirty feet behind him. He turned around once or twice; but although he could see the trunks of the trees quite well, he could not perceive anything else. He was obliged to wait. He waited so long, that he was surprised a second time. "A bear would not come here to stop under the _barcie_; and a wolf would not wait until morning." Suddenly a shiver ran through his body as he thought: "Suppose it is something dreadful that comes from the marshes and is trying to surprise me from the rear! Suppose the slippery arms of a drowned man seize me, or the green eyes of a ghost look into my face; suppose a blue head on spider's legs comes out from behind the tree and begins to laugh!" He felt his hair begin to rise under his iron bonnet. But after a while, a rustling sounded in front of him, more distinct this time than formerly. Zbyszko breathed more freely; he thought that the same "wonder" had gone around him, and now approached from the front; but he preferred that. He seized his fork firmly, arose quietly and waited. Now he noticed over his head the rustling of the pine trees, and he felt the wind blow in his face, coming from the marsh, and he smelt the bear. There was not the slightest doubt that a _mys_[81] was coming! Zbyszko was afraid no longer, and having bent his head, he strained to the utmost his hearing and his sight. Heavy, distinct steps were coming; the smell grew stronger; soon the snore and groaning were heard. "I hope there are not two of them!" thought Zbyszko. But at that moment, he perceived in front of him the large, dark form of the animal, which was walking in the same direction from which the wind was blowing, and could not get the scent of him; its attention was also attracted by the smell of the honey on the trees. "Come, uncle!" exclaimed Zbyszko, coming out from beneath the pine tree. The bear roared shortly as if frightened by an unexpected apparition; but he was too near to seek safety in flight; therefore, in a moment he reared and separated his forelegs as if for a hug. This was exactly what Zbyszko was waiting for; he gathered himself together, jumped like lightning and with all the strength of his powerful arms and of his weight, he drove the fork into the animal's chest. The whole forest resounded now with the fearful roaring. The bear seized the fork with his paws, and tried to pull it out, but the incisions made by the points were too deep; therefore, feeling the pain, he roared still more fearfully. Wishing to reach Zbyszko, he leaned on the fork and thus drove it into his body still further. Zbyszko, not knowing that the points had entered so deeply, held on to the handle. The man and the animal began to struggle. The forest again resounded with the roaring in which wrath and despair were mingled. Zbyszko could not use his axe until after he could drive the sharpened end of the fork into the ground. The bear having seized the handle, was shaking it as well as Zbyszko, and notwithstanding the pain caused by every movement of the points imbedded in his breast, he would not let it be "underpropped." In this way the terrible struggle continued, and Zbyszko finally felt that his strength would soon be exhausted. If he fell, then he would be lost; therefore, he gathered all his strength, strained his arms to the utmost, set his feet firmly and bent his back like a bow, so as not to be thrown backward; and in his enthusiasm he repeated through set teeth: "You or I will die!" Such anger filled him that he really preferred at that moment to die, rather than to let the beast go. Finally his foot caught in the root of a tree; he tottered and would have fallen, if at that moment a dark figure had not appeared before him, and another fork "underpropped" the beast; and in the meanwhile, a voice shouted near his ear: "Use your axe!" Zbyszko, being excited by the fight, did not wonder even for a moment from whence came the unexpected help; but he seized the axe and cut with all his might. The fork cracked, broken by the weight and by the last convulsion of the beast, as it fell. There was a long silence broken only by Zbyszko's loud respirations. But after a while, he lifted his head, looked at the form standing beside him and was afraid, thinking that it might not be a man. "Who are you?" asked he, with uneasiness. "Jagienka!" answered a thin, womanly voice. Zbyszko became dumb from astonishment; he could not believe his own eyes. But his doubts did not last long, because Jagienka's voice again resounded: "I will build a fire." Immediately the clatter of a fire steel against a flint sounded and the sparks began to fall; by their glittering light, Zbyszko beheld the white forehead, the dark eyebrows and the red lips of the girl who was blowing on the tinder which began to burn. Not until then did he realize that she had come to the forest to help him, and that without her aid, he would have perished. He felt such gratitude toward her, that he impulsively seized her around the waist and kissed her on both cheeks. The tinder and the steel fell to the ground. "Let me be!" she began to repeat in a muffled voice; but she allowed him to kiss her and even, as if by accident, touched Zbyszko's lips with her mouth. He released her and said: "May God reward you. I do not know what would have happened without your help." Then Jagienka, while searching for the tinder and fire steel, began to excuse herself: "I was worried about you, because Bezduch also went with a fork and an axe, but the bear tore him to pieces. If you met with such a misfortune, Macko would be very desolate, and he hardly breathes now. So I took a fork and came." "Then it was you whom I heard there behind the pines?" "Yes." "And I thought it was an evil spirit." "I was very much frightened, because it is dangerous to be without fire here around the Radzikowski marshes." "Then why did you not speak to me?" "Because I was afraid you would send me away." Having said this, she again began to strike sparks from the steel, and put on the tinder a bundle of hemp which began to burn. "I have two resinous pieces of wood," said she; "you bring some dried branches quickly, and we will soon have a fire." In fact, after a while a bright fire was burning, and lighted the enormous, brown body of the bear which was lying in a pool of blood. "Hej, a dreadful beast!" said Zbyszko, boastfully. "You split his head entirely open! O, Jesus!" Then she leaned over and felt of the bear's body, to ascertain whether the beast was fat; then she arose with a bright face, and said: "There will be plenty of grease for two years." "But the fork is broken, look!" "That is too bad; what shall I tell them at home?" "About what?" "_Tatus_ would not let me come into the forest, therefore I was obliged to wait until everybody had retired." After a moment she added: "You must not tell that I was here, because they will laugh at me." "But I will go with you to your house, because I am afraid the wolves will attack you, and you have no fork." "Very well!" Thus they sat talking for a while beside the bright fire, looking like two young forest creatures. Zbyszko looked at the girl's pretty face, lighted by the flames, and said with involuntary admiration: "There is not another girl in this world as brave as you are. You ought to go to the war!" She looked into his face and then she answered, almost sadly: "I know; but you must not laugh at me." CHAPTER VI. Jagienka herself melted a large pot of bear's grease. Macko drank the first quart willingly, because it was fresh, and smelt good. Jagienka put the rest of it in a pot. Macko's hope increased; he was sure he would be cured. "That is what I needed," said he. "When all parts inside of me become greasy, then that dog's splinter will slip out." But the next quarts did not taste as well as the first; but he continued to drink it and Jagienka encouraged him, saying: "You will get well. Zbilud of Ostrog had the links of a coat of mail driven into his neck; but they slipped out because he drank grease. But when your wound opens, you must put some grease of a beaver on it." "Have you some?" "Yes, we have. But if it be necessary to have it fresh, we will go with Zbyszko and get a beaver. Meanwhile it would not do any harm, if you promised something to some saint, who is the patron for wounds." "I was thinking about that, but I do not know to whom I should make the promise. Saint George is the patron of knights; he protects the warrior from any accident and always gives him victory, and it is said that sometimes he fights personally for the one who is right. But a saint who fights willingly, does not heal willingly; and for that, there must be another saint with whom he would not want to interfere. It is known that every saint has his specialty. But they will not interfere with one another; because that would cause quarrels, and it is not proper to fight in heaven. There are Kosma and Damian to whom all doctors pray, that illness may exist; otherwise the doctors would not have anything to eat. There is Saint Apolonia for the teeth and Saint Liborius for stone; but they will not do for me. The abbot, when he comes, will tell me whom I must ask. Every _clericus_ does not know all celestial secrets and everyone of them is not familiar with such things, but the abbot is." "Suppose you make a vow to the Lord Jesus himself?" "Of course he is over all of them. But suppose your father had injured my servant, and I went to Krakow to complain to the king; what would the king tell me? He would say thus: 'I am monarch over all the country, and you complain to me about one of your peasants! Do you not have my officials in your part of the country; why did you not go to the castellan?' So the Lord Jesus is the ruler over the whole universe; but for smaller affairs, he employs the saints." "Then I will tell you what to do," said Zbyszko, who entered just now; "make a vow to our late queen, that if she intercede for you, you will make a pilgrimage to Krakow. Why should you search after strange saints, when we have our own lady, who is better than they?" "Bah! if I only knew that she would intercede for wounds!" "No matter! There is no saint who would dare to show her an angry face; or if he dared, Lord God would punish him for it, because she was not an ordinary woman, but a Polish queen." "Who converted the last heathen country to the Christian faith! That is right," said Macko. "She must have a high place in God's council and surely none would dare to oppose her. Therefore I will do as you say." This advice pleased Jagienka, who admired Zbyszko's common sense very much. That same evening, Macko made a vow and drank with still greater hope, the bear's grease. But after a week, he began to lose hope. He said that the grease was fermenting in his stomach, and that a lump was growing on his side near the last rib. At the end of ten days Macko was worse, and the lump grew larger and became inflamed. The sick man again had fever and began to make preparations for death. But one night he awakened Zbyszko, and said: "Light a piece of resinous wood; there is something the matter with me, but I do not know what." Zbyszko jumped up and lighted a piece of pine wood. "What is it?" "What is it! Something has pierced the lump on my side. It must be the head of the spear! I had hold of it, but I cannot pull it out." "It must be the spearhead! Nothing else. Grasp it well and pull." Macko began to turn and to twist with pain; but he pushed his fingers deeper and deeper, until he seized a hard substance which finally he pulled out. "O, Jesus!" "Have you pulled it out?" asked Zbyszko. "Yes. I am in a cold perspiration all over; but I have it; look!" Having said this, he showed to Zbyszko a long splinter, which had separated from the spear and remained in his body for several months. "Glory be to God and to Queen Jadwiga! Now you will get well." "Perhaps; I am better, but it pains me greatly," said Macko, pressing the wound from which blood and pus began to flow. "Jagienka said that now I ought to dress the wound with the grease of a beaver." "We will go to-morrow and get a beaver." Macko felt considerably better the next day. He slept till morning, and when he awoke, immediately asked for something to eat. He would not even look at the bear's grease; but they cooked twenty eggs for him. He ate them voraciously, also a big loaf of bread, and drank about four quarts of beer; then he demanded that they call Zych, because he felt jovial. Zbyszko sent one of the Turks, given to him by Zawisza, after Zych who mounted a horse and came in the afternoon when the young people were ready to go to the Odstajny lake to catch a beaver. At first there was plenty of laughter and singing, while they drank mead; but afterward the old _wlodykas_ began to talk about the children, each praising his own. "What a man Zbyszko is!" said Macko; "there is no other like him in the world. He is brave and as agile as a wild-cat. Do you know that when they conducted him to the scaffold in Krakow, all the girls standing at the windows were crying, and such girls;--daughters of knights and of castellans, and also the beautiful townswomen." "They may be beautiful and the daughters of castellans, but they are not better than my Jagienka!" answered Zych of Zgorzelice. "Did I say they were better? It will be difficult to find a better girl than Jagienka." "I do not say anything against Zbyszko either; he can stretch a crossbow without a crank." "He can underprop a bear also. Did you see how he cut the bear? He cut the head and one paw off." "He cut the head off, but he did not underprop it alone. Jagienka helped him." "Did she? He did not tell me about that." "Because he promised her not to tell anyone. The girl was ashamed because she went into the forest alone at night. She told me all about it; she never hides the truth. Frankly speaking, I was not pleased because who knows what might have happened. I wanted to scold her, but she said, 'If I be not able to preserve my wreath myself, how can you preserve it, you _tatulu_; but do not fear, Zbyszko knows what knightly honor is.'" "That is true. They have gone alone to-day also." "They will be back in the evening. But during the night, the devil is worse and the girl does not feel ashamed because of the darkness." Macko thought for a while; then he said as if to himself: "But they are fond of each other." "Bah! it is a pity he made a vow to another!" "That is, as you know, a knightly custom. They consider the one who has no lady, a churl. He also made a vow to capture some peacocks' tufts, and those he must get because he swore by his knightly honor; he must also challenge Lichtenstein; but from the other vows, the abbot can release him." "The abbot is coming soon." "Do you expect him?" asked Macko; then he said again: "And what does such a vow amount to; Jurand told him positively that he could not give the girl to him! I do not know whether he had promised her to some one else, or whether he had destined her for God." "Have I told you that the abbot loves Jagienka as much as if she were his own? The last time I saw him he said: 'I have no relations except those from my mother's side; and they will receive nothing from me.'" Here Macko looked at Zych suspiciously and after awhile he answered: "Would you wrong us?" "Jagienka will get Moczydoly," said Zych evasively. "Immediately?" "Immediately. I would not give it to another; but I will do it for her." "Half of Bogdaniec belongs to Zbyszko, and if God restore my health, I will improve the estate. Do you love Zbyszko?" Zych began to wink and said: "When anybody mentions Zbyszko's name in the presence of Jagienka, she immediately turns away." "And when you mention another?" "When I mention another, she only laughs and says: 'What then?'" "Well, do you not see. God will help us and Zbyszko will forget about the other girl. I am old and I will forget also. Will you have some more mead?" "Yes, I will." "Well, the abbot is a wise man! You know that some of the abbots are laymen; but this abbot, although he does not sit among the friars, is a priest just the same; and a priest can always give better advice than an ordinary man, because he knows how to read, and he communes with the Holy Ghost. I am glad that Jagienka is going to have the estate of Moczydoly. As for me, as soon as the Lord Jesus restores my health, I will try to induce some of the peasants living on the estate of Wilk of Brzozowa, to settle on my land. I will offer them more land, I have plenty of it in Bogdaniec. They can come if they wish to, for they are free. In time, I will build a _grodek_ in Bogdaniec, a worthy castle of oaks with a ditch around it. Let Zbyszko and Jagienka hunt together. I think we shall soon have snow. They will become accustomed to each other, and the boy will forget that other girl. Let them be together. Speak frankly; would you give Jagienka to him or not?" "I would. Did we not decide a long time ago that they should marry, and that Moczydoly and Bogdaniec would be our grandchildren's?" "_Grady!_" exclaimed Macko, joyfully. "God will bless us and their children will be as numerous as hail. The abbot shall baptize them." "If he will only be quick enough!" exclaimed Zych. "I have not seen you so jolly as you are to-day for a long time." "Because I am glad in my heart. Do not fear about Zbyszko. Yesterday when Jagienka mounted her horse, the wind blew. I asked Zbyszko then: 'Did you see?' and his eyes shone. I have also noticed that although at first they did not speak much to each other, now when they go together, they are continually turning their heads toward each other, and they talk--talk! Have some more mead?" "Yes, I will." "To Zbyszko and Jagienka's health!" CHAPTER VII. The old _wlodyka_ was not mistaken when he said that Zbyszko and Jagienka were fond of each other, and even that they longed for each other. Jagienka pretending that she wanted to visit the sick Macko, went very often to Bogdaniec, either alone or with her father. Zbyszko also went often to Zgorzelice. In that way, after a few days a familiarity and friendship originated between them. They grew fond of each other and talked about everything that interested them. There was much mutual admiration in that friendship also. The young and handsome Zbyszko, who had already distinguished himself in the war, had participated in tournaments and had been in the presence of kings, was considered by the girl, when she compared him with Cztan of Rogow or Wilk of Brzozowa, a true courtly knight and almost a prince; as for him, he was astonished at the great beauty of the girl. He was loyal to Danusia; but very often when he looked suddenly at Jagienka, either in the forest or at home, he said involuntarily to himself: "Hej! what a girl!" When, helping her to mount her horse, he felt her elastic flesh under his hands, disquietude filled him and he shivered, and a torpor began to steal over him. Jagienka, although naturally proud, inclined to raillery, and even aggressive, grew more and more gentle with him, often looking in his eyes to discover how she could please him; he understood her affection; he was grateful for it and he liked to be with her more and more. Finally, especially after Macko began to drink the bear's grease, they saw each other almost every day; when the splinter came out of the wound, they went together to get some fresh beaver's grease, necessary for the healing of the wound. They took their crossbows, mounted their horses and went first to Moczydoly, destined for Jagienka's dowry, then to the edge of the forest, where they entrusted the horses to a servant and went on foot, because it was impossible to pass through the thicket on horseback. While walking, Jagienka pointed to the large meadow covered with reeds and to the blue ribbon of forest and said: "Those woods belong to Cztan of Rogow." "The same man who would like to take you?" She began to laugh: "He would if he could!" "You can defend yourself very easily, having for your defence the Wilk[82] who, as I understand, gnashes his teeth at Cztan. I wonder that they have not challenged each other to fight until death." "They have not because _tatulo_ before he went to the war said to them: 'If you fight about Jagienka I do not want to see you any more.' How could they fight then? When they are in Zgorzelice they scowl at each other; but afterward they drink together in an inn in Krzesnia until they are drunk." "Stupid boys!" "Why?" "Because while Zych was away one of them should have taken you by force. What could Zych do, if when he returned he had found you with a baby on your lap?" At this Jagienka's blue eyes flashed immediately. "Do you think I would let them take me? Have we not people in Zgorzelice, and do I not know how to manage a crossbow or a boar-spear? Let them try! I would chase them back home and even attack them in Rogow or Brzozowa. Father knew very well that he could go to the war and leave me home alone." Speaking thus, she frowned, and shook the crossbow threateningly, so that Zbyszko began to laugh, and said: "You ought to have been a knight and not a girl." She becoming calmer, answered: "Cztan guarded me from Wilk and Wilk from Cztan. Then I was also under the abbot's tutelage, and it is well for everyone to let the abbot alone." "Owa!" answered Zbyszko. "They are all afraid of the abbot! But I, may Saint George help me to speak the truth to you, I would neither be afraid of the abbot, nor of your peasants, nor of yourself; I would take you!" At this Jagienka stopped on the spot, and fixing her eyes on Zbyszko, asked in a strange, soft, low voice: "You would take me?" Then her lips parted and blushing like the dawn, she waited for his answer. But he evidently was only thinking what he would do, were he in Cztan or Wilk's position; because after a while, he shook his golden hair and said further: "A girl must marry and not fight with the boys. Unless you have a third one, you must choose one of these two." "You must not tell me that," answered the girl, sadly. "Why not? I have been away from home for a long time, therefore I do not know whether there is somebody around Zgorzelice, of whom you are fond or not." "Hej!" answered Jagienka. "Let it be!" They walked along silently, trying to make their way through the thicket which was now much denser because the bushes and the trees were covered with wild hop vines. Zbyszko walked first, tearing down the green vines, and breaking the branches here and there; Jagienka followed him with a crossbow on her shoulder, looking like a hunting goddess. "Beyond that thicket," said she, "there is a deep brook; but I know where the ford is." "I have long boots on, reaching above my knees; we can cross it," answered Zbyszko. Shortly afterward, they reached the brook. Jagienka being familiar with the Moczydlowski forests, very easily found the ford; but the water was deeper than usual, the little brook being swollen by the rains. Then Zbyszko without asking her permission, seized the girl in his arms. "I can cross by myself," said Jagienka. "Put your arms around my neck!" answered Zbyszko. He walked slowly through the water, while the girl nestled to him. Finally when they were near the other shore, she said: "Zbyszku!" "What?" "I care neither for Cztan, nor for Wilk." As he placed her on the shore, he answered excitedly: "May God give you the best I He will not be wronged." The Odstajny lake was not far away now. Jagienka walking in front, turned from time to time, and putting a finger on her lips, ordered Zbyszko to be silent. They were walking amidst the osiers and gray willows, on low, damp ground. From the left side, were heard the voices of birds, and Zbyszko was surprised at that, because it was time for the birds to migrate. "We are near a morass which is never frozen," whispered Jagienka; "the ducks pass the winter there; even in the lake the water freezes only near the shores. See how it is steaming." Zbyszko looked through the willows and noticed in front of him, something like a bank of fog; it was the Odstajny lake. Jagienka again put a finger to her lips, and after a while they reached the lake. The girl climbed on an old willow and bent over the water. Zbyszko followed her example; and for a long time they remained quiet, seeing nothing in front of them, on account of the fog; hearing nothing but the mournful puling of lapwings. Finally the wind blew, rustled the osiers and the yellow leaves of the willows, and disclosed the waters of the lake which were slightly ruffled by the wind. "Do you see anything?" whispered Zbyszko. "No. Keep quiet!" After a while, the wind ceased and complete silence followed. Then on the surface of the lake appeared one head, then another; finally near them a big beaver entered the water from the shore, carrying in his mouth a newly cut branch, and began to swim amidst the duck-weed and marigold holding his mouth out of the water and pushing the branch before him. Zbyszko lying on the trunk beneath Jagienka, noticed that her elbow moved quietly and that her head was bent forward; evidently she had aimed at the animal which, not suspecting any danger, was swimming close by, toward the clear water. Finally the string of the crossbow twanged and at the same moment Jagienka cried: "I hit him! I hit him!" Zbyszko instantly climbed higher and looked through the thicket toward the water; the beaver plunged into the water, then reappeared on the surface, turning somersets. "I hit him hard! He will soon be quiet!" said Jagienka. The movements of the animal grew slower, and then before one had time sufficient to recite one "_Ave Maria_," he was floating on his back on the surface of the water. "I will go and get him," said Zbyszko. "No, do not go. Here, near the shore, there is, deep slime. Anyone who does not know how to manage, will surely drown." "Then how will we get him?" "He will be in Bogdaniec this evening, do not worry about that; now we must go home." "You hit him hard!" "Bah! It is not the first one!" "Other girls are afraid to even look at a crossbow; but with you, one can go to the forest all his life." Jagienka smiled at such praise, but she did not answer; they returned the same way they came. Zbyszko asked her about the beavers and she told him how many of them there were in Moczydoly, and how many in Zgorzelice. Suddenly she struck her hip with her hand and exclaimed: "Well, I left my arrows on the willow. Wait!" Before he could say that he would return for them, she jumped back like a roe and disappeared. Zbyszko waited and waited; at last he began to wonder what detained her so long. "She must have lost the arrows and is searching for them," he said to himself; "but I will go and see whether anything has happened to her." He had hardly started to return before the girl appeared with her bow in her hand, her face smiling and blushing, and with the beaver on her shoulders. "For God's sake!" cried Zbyszko, "how did you get him?" "How? I went into the water, that is all! It is nothing new for me; but I did not want you to go, because the mud drags anyone down who does not know how to swim in it." "And I waited here like a fool! You are a sly girl." "Well, could I undress before you?" "Bah! If I had followed you, then I would have seen a wonder!" "Be silent!" "I was just starting, so help me God!" "Be silent!" After a while, wishing to turn the conversation, she said: "Wring my tress; it makes my back wet." Zbyszko caught the tress in one hand and began to wring with the other, saying: "The best way will be to unbraid it, then the wind will soon dry it." But she did not wish to do that on account of the thicket through which they were obliged to make their way. Zbyszko now put the beaver on his shoulders. Jagienka walking in front of him, said: "Now Macko will soon be well, because there is no better medicine for a wound than the grease of a bear inside, and the grease of a beaver outside. In about two weeks, he will be able to ride a horse." "May God grant that!" answered Zbyszko. "I am waiting for it as for salvation, because I cannot leave the sick man, and it is hard for me to stay here." "Why is it hard for you to stay here?" she asked him. "Has Zych told you nothing about Danusia?" "He did tell me something. I know that she covered you with her veil. I know that! He told me also that every knight makes some vow, to serve his lady. But he said that such a vow did not amount to anything; that some of the knights were married, but they served their ladies just the same. But Danusia, Zbyszko; tell me about her!" Having come very close to him, she began to look at his face with great anxiety; he did not pay any attention to her frightened voice and looks, but said: "She is my lady, and at the same time she is my sweetest love. I have not spoken about her to anybody; but I am going to tell you, because we have been acquainted since we were children. I will follow her beyond the tenth river and beyond the tenth sea, to the Germans and to the Tartars, because there is no other girl like her. Let my uncle remain in Bogdaniec, and I will go to her. What do I care about Bogdaniec, the household, the herds, or the abbot's wealth, without her! I will mount my horse and I will go, so help me God; I will fulfill that which I promised her, or I will die." "I did not know," answered Jagienka, in a hollow voice. Zbyszko began to tell her about all that had happened; how he had met Danusia in Tyniec; how he had made a vow to her; about everything that happened afterward; about his imprisonment, and how Danusia rescued him; about Jurand's refusal, their farewell and his loneliness; finally about his joy, because as soon as Macko became well, he would go to his beloved girl. His story was interrupted at last by the sight of the servant with the horses, waiting on the edge of the forest. Jagienka immediately mounted her horse and began to bid Zbyszko good-bye. "Let the servant follow you with the beaver; I am going to Zgorzelice." "Then you will not go to Bogdaniec? Zych is there." "No. _Tatulo_ said he would return and told me to go home." "Well, may God reward you for the beaver." "With God." Then Jagienka was alone. Going home through the heaths, she looked back for a while after Zbyszko; when he disappeared beyond the trees, she covered her eyes with her hands as if sheltering them from the sunlight. But soon large tears began to flow down her cheeks and drop one after another on the horse's mane. CHAPTER VIII. After the conversation with Zbyszko, Jagienka did not appear in Bogdaniec for three days; but on the third day she hurried in with the news that the abbot had arrived at Zgorzelice. Macko received the news with emotion. It is true he had money enough to pay the amount for which the estate was pledged, and he calculated that he would have enough to induce settlers to come, to buy herds and to make other improvements; but in the whole transaction, much depended on the disposition of the rich relation, who, for instance, could take or leave the peasants settled by him on the land, and in that way increase or diminish the value of the estate. Therefore Macko asked Jagienka about the abbot; how he was; if he was in a good humor or gloomy; what he had said about them; when he was coming to Bogdaniec? She gave him sensible answers, trying to encourage and tranquillize him in every respect. She said that the abbot was in good health and gay; that he was accompanied by a considerable retinue in which, besides the armed servants, there were several seminarists and _rybalts_; that he sang with Zych and that he listened gladly not only to the spiritual but to the worldly songs also. She had noticed also that he asked carefully about Macko, and that he listened eagerly to Zych's narration of Zbyszko's adventure in Krakow. "You know best what you ought to do," finally the clever girl said; "but I think that Zbyszko ought to go immediately and greet his elder relative, and not wait until the abbot comes to Bogdaniec." Macko liked the advice; therefore he called Zbyszko and said to him: "Dress yourself beautifully; then go and bow to the abbot, and pay him respect; perhaps he will take a fancy to you." Then he turned to Jagienka: "I would not be surprised if you were stupid, because you are a woman; but I am astonished to find that you have such good sense. Tell me then, the best way to receive the abbot when he comes here." "As for food, he will tell you himself what he wishes to have; he likes to feast well, but if there be a great deal of saffron in the food, he will eat anything." Macko hearing this, said: "How can I get saffron for him!" "I brought some," said Jagienka. "Give us more such girls!" exclaimed the overjoyed Macko. "She is pretty, a good housekeeper, intelligent and good-hearted! Hej! if I were only younger I would take her immediately!" Here Jagienka glanced at Zbyszko, and having sighed slightly, she said further: "I brought also the dice, the goblet and the cloth, because after his meal, the abbot likes to play dice." "He had the same habit formerly, and he used to get very angry." "He gets angry sometimes now; then he throws the goblet on the ground and rushes from the room into the fields. Then he comes back smiling, and laughs at his anger. You know him! If one does not contradict him, you cannot find a better man in the world." "And who would contradict him; is he not wiser and mightier than others?" Thus they talked while Zbyszko was dressing in the alcove. Finally he came out, looking so beautiful that he dazzled Jagienka, as much as he did the first time he went to Zgorzelice in his white _jaka_. She regretted that this handsome knight was not hers, and that he was in love with another girl. Macko was pleased because he thought that the abbot could not help liking Zbyszko and would be more lenient during their business transaction. He was so much pleased with this idea, that he determined to go also. "Order the servants to prepare a wagon," said he to Zbyszko. "If I could travel from Krakow to Bogdaniec with an iron in my side, surely I can go now to Zgorzelice." "If you only will not faint," said Jagienka. "Ej! I will be all right, because I feel stronger already. And even if I faint, the abbot will see that I hastened to meet him, and will be more generous." "I prefer your health to his generosity!" said Zbyszko. But Macko was persistent and started for Zgorzelice. On the road he moaned a little, but he continued to give Zbyszko advice; he told him how to act in Zgorzelice, and especially recommended him to be obedient and humble in the presence of their mighty relative, who never would suffer the slightest opposition. When they came to Zgorzelice, they found Zych and the abbot sitting in front of the house, looking at the beautiful country, and drinking wine. Behind them, near the wall, sat six men of the abbot's retinue; two of them were _rybalts_; one was a pilgrim, who could easily be distinguished by his curved stick and dark mantle; the others looked like seminarists because their heads were shaved, but they wore lay clothing, girdles of ox leather, and swords. When Zych perceived Macko coming in the wagon, he rushed toward him; but the abbot, evidently remembering his spiritual dignity, remained seated, and began to say something to his seminarists. Zbyszko and Zych conducted the sick Macko toward the house. "I am not well yet," said Macko, kissing the abbot's hand, "but I came to bow to you, my benefactor; to thank you for your care of Bogdaniec, and to beg you for a benediction, which is most necessary for a sinful man." "I heard you were better," said the abbot, placing his hand on Macko's head; "and that you had promised to go to the grave of our late queen." "Not knowing which saint's protection to ask for, I made a vow to her." "You did well!" said the abbot, enthusiastically; "she is better than all the others, if one only dare beseech her!" In a moment his face became flushed with anger, his cheeks filled with blood, his eyes began to sparkle. They were so used to his impetuosity, that Zych began to laugh and exclaimed: "Strike, who believes in God!" As for the abbot, he puffed loudly, and looked at those present; then laughed suddenly, and having looked at Zbyszko, he asked: "Is that your nephew and my relation?" Zbyszko bent and kissed his hand. "I saw him when he was a small boy; I did not recognize him," said the abbot. "Show yourself!" And he began to look at him from head to foot, and finally said: "He is too handsome! It is a girl, not a knight!" "To this Macko replied: "That girl used to go to dancing parties with the Germans; but those who took her, fell down and did not rise again." "And he can stretch a crossbow without a crank!" exclaimed Jagienka. The abbot turned toward her: "Ah! Are you here?" She blushed so much that her neck and ears became red, and answered: "I saw him do it." "Look out then, that he does not shoot you, because you will be obliged to nurse yourself for a long time." At this the _rybalts_, the pilgrim and the seminarists broke out with great laughter, which confused Jagienka still more; the abbot took pity on her, and having raised his arm, he showed her his enormous sleeve, and said: "Hide here, my dear girl!" Meanwhile Zych assisted Macko to the bench and ordered some wine for him. Jagienka went to get it. The abbot turned to Zbyszko and began to talk thus: "Enough of joking! I compared you to a girl, not to humiliate you, but to praise your beauty, of which many girls would be proud. But I know that you are a man! I have heard about your deeds at Wilno, about the Fryzes, and about Krakow. Zych has told me all about it, understand!" Here he began to look intently into Zbyszko's eyes, and after a while he said: "If you have promised three peacocks' tufts, then search for them! It is praiseworthy and pleasing to God to persecute the foes of our nation. But, if you have promised something else, I will release you from the vow." "Hej!" said Zbyszko; "when a man promises something in his soul to the Lord Jesus, who has the power to release him?" Macko looked with fear at the abbot; but evidently he was in an excellent humor, because instead of becoming angry, he threatened Zbyszko with his finger and said: "How clever you are! But you must be careful that you do not meet the same fate that the German, Beyhard, did." "What happened to him?" asked Zych. "They burned him on a pile." "What for?" "Because he used to say that a layman could understand God's secrets as well as the clergy." "They punished him severely!" "But righteously!" shouted the abbot, "because he had blasphemed against the Holy Ghost. What do you think? Is a layman able to interpret any of God's secrets?" "He cannot by any means!" exclaimed the wandering seminarists, together. "Keep quiet, you _shpilmen_!" said the abbot; "you are not ecclesiastics, although your heads are shaved." "We are not '_shpilmen_,' but courtiers of Your Grace," answered one of them, looking toward a large bucket from which the smell of hops and malt was filling the air. "Look! He is talking from a barrel!" exclaimed the abbot. "Hej, you shaggy one! Why do you look at the bucket? You will not find any Latin at the bottom of that." "I am not looking for Latin, but for beer; but I cannot find any." The abbot turned toward Zbyszko, who was looking with astonishment at such courtiers as these, and said: "They are _clerici scholares_;[83] but every one of them prefers to throw his books aside, and taking his lute, wander through the world. I shelter and nourish them; what else can I do? They are good for nothing, but they know how to sing and they are familiar with God's service; therefore I have some benefit out of them in my church, and in case of need, they will defend me, because some of them are fierce fellows! This pilgrim says that he was in the Holy Land; but I have asked him in vain about some of the seas and countries; he does not know even the name of the Greek emperor nor in what city he lives." "I did know," said the pilgrim, in a hoarse voice; "but the fever I caught at the Danube, shook everything out of me." "What surprises me most is, that they wear swords, being wandering seminarists," said Zbyszko. "They are allowed to wear them," said the abbot, "because they have not received orders yet; and there is no occasion for anyone to wonder because I wear a sword even though I am an abbot. A year ago I challenged Wilk of Brzozowa to fight for the forests which you passed; but he did not appear." "How could he fight with one of the clergy?" interrupted Zych. At this the abbot became angry, struck the table with his fist, and exclaimed: "When I wear armor, then I am not a priest, but a nobleman! He did not come because he preferred to have his servants attack me in Tulcza. That is why I wear a sword: _Omnes leges, omniaque iura vim vi repellere cunctisque sese defensare permittunt!_ That is why I gave them their swords." Hearing the Latin, Zych, Macko and Zbyszko became silent and bent their heads before the abbot's wisdom, because they did not understand a word of it; as for the abbot, he looked very angry for a while, and then he said: "Who knows but what he will attack me even here?" "Owa! Let him come!" exclaimed the wandering seminarists, seizing the hilts of their swords. "I would like to have him attack me! I am longing for a fight." "He will not do that," said Zych. "It is more likely that he will come to bow to you. He gave up the forests, and now he is anxious about his son. You know! But he can wait a long time!" Meanwhile the abbot became quieted and said: "I saw young Wilk drinking with Cztan of Rogow in an inn in Krzesnia. They did not recognize us at once, because it was dark; they were talking about Jagienka." Here he turned to Zbyszko: "And about you, too." "What do they want from me?" "They do not want anything from you; but they do not like it that there is a third young man near Zgorzelice. Cztan said to Wilk: 'After I tan his skin, he will not be so smooth.' And Wilk said: 'Perhaps he will be afraid of us; if not, I will break his bones!' Then they assured each other that you would be afraid of them." Hearing this Macko looked at Zych, and Zych looked at him; their faces expressed great cunning and joy. Neither of them was sure whether the abbot had really heard such a conversation, or whether he was only saying this to excite Zbyszko; but they both knew, and Macko especially, that there was no better way to incite Zbyszko to try to win Jagienka. The abbot added deliberately: "It is true, they are fierce fellows!" Zbyszko did not show any excitement; but he asked in a strange tone that did not sound like his voice: "To-morrow is Sunday?" "Yes, Sunday." "You will go to church?" "Yes!" "Where? to Krzesnia?" "That is the nearest!" "Well, all right then!" CHAPTER IX. Zybszko, having joined Zych and Jagienka, who were accompanying the abbot and his retinue to Krzesnia, rode with them, because he wanted to show the abbot that he was afraid neither of Wilk of Brzozowa, nor of Cztan of Rogow. He was again surprised at Jagienka's beauty. He had often seen her in Zgorzelice and Bogdaniec, dressed beautifully; but never had she looked as she did now when going to church. Her cloak was made of red broadcloth, lined with ermine; she wore red gloves, and on her head was a little hood embroidered with gold, from beneath which two braids fell down on her shoulders. She was not sitting on the horse astride, but on a high saddle which had an arm and a little bench for her feet, which scarcely showed from beneath her long skirt. Zych permitted the girl to dress in a sheepskin overcoat and high-legged boots when at home, but required that for church she should be dressed not like the daughter of a poor _wlodyczka_,[84] but like the _panna_ of a mighty nobleman. Two boys, dressed like pages, conducted her horse. Four servants were riding behind with the abbot's seminarists, who were armed with swords and carried their lutes. Zbyszko admired all the retinue, but especially Jagienka, who looked like a picture. The abbot, who was dressed in a red cloak, having enormous sleeves, resembled a traveling prince. The most modest dress was worn by Zych, who requiring magnificent display for the others, for himself cared only for singing and joy. Zych, Zbyszko, Jagienka and the abbot rode together. At first the abbot ordered his _shpilmen_ to sing some church songs; afterward, when he was tired of their songs, he began to talk with Zbyszko, who smiled at his enormous sword, which was as large as a two-handed German sword. "I see," said he gravely, "that you wonder at my sword; the synod permits a clergyman to wear a sword during a journey, and I am traveling. When the holy father forbade the ecclesiastics to wear swords and red dresses, most assuredly he meant the men of low birth, because God intended that noblemen should wear arms; and he who would dare to take this right from a nobleman, would oppose His eternal will." "I saw the Mazovian Prince Henryk, when he fought in the lists," said Zbyszko. "We do not censure him, because he fought," answered the abbot, raising his finger, "but because he married and married unhappily; _fornicarium_ and _bibulam_ had taken _mulierem_, whom _Bachum_ since she was young _adorabat_, and besides that she was _adultera_, from whom no one could expect any good." He stopped his horse and began to expound with still greater gravity: "Whoever wishes to marry, or to choose _uxorem_ must ascertain if she is pious, moral, a good housekeeper and cleanly. This is recommended not only by the fathers of the church, but also by a certain pagan sage, called Seneca. And how can you know whether you have chosen well, if you do not know the nest from which you take your life companion? Because another sage has said: _Pomus nam cadit absque arbore._ As is the ox, so is the skin; as is the mother, so is the girl. Prom which you, a sinner, must draw this moral,--that you must look for your wife not far away, but near; because if you get a bad one, you will cry as did the philosopher, when his quarrelsome wife poured _aquam sordidam_ on his head." "_In saecula saeculorum_, amen!" exclaimed in unison the wandering seminarists, who when responding to the abbot, did not always answer properly. They were all listening very attentively to the abbot's words, admiring his eloquence and his knowledge of the Scriptures; he apparently did not speak directly to Zbyszko; but on the contrary, he turned more toward Zych and Jagienka, as if he wished to edify them. But evidently Jagienka understood what he was trying to do, because from beneath her long eyelashes, she looked at Zbyszko, who frowned and dropped his head as if he were seriously thinking about what the abbot had said. After this the retinue moved on silently; but when they came near Krzesnia, the abbot touched his girdle and then turned it so that he could seize the hilt of his sword more easily, and said: "I am sure that old Wilk of Brzozowa will come with a good retinue." "Perhaps," replied Zych, "but I heard that he was not well." "One of my seminarists heard that he intends to attack us in front of the inn after the service is over." "He will not do that without a challenge, and especially after holy mass." "May God, bring him to reason. I do not seek a quarrel with anybody and I bear my wrongs patiently." Here he looked at the _shpilmen_, and said: "Do not draw your swords, and remember that you are spiritual servants; but if they attack us first, then strike them!" Zbyszko, while riding beside Jagienka, said to her: "I am sure that in Krzesnia we will meet young Wilk and Cztan. Show me them from afar, so that I may know them." "Very well, Zbyszku," answered Jagienka. "Do they not meet you before the service and after the service? What do they do then?" "They serve me." "They will not serve you now, understand?" And she answered again, almost with humility: "Very well, Zbyszku." Further conversation was interrupted by the sound of the wooden knockers, there being no bells in Krzesnia. After a few moments they arrived at the church. From the crowd in front, waiting for mass, young Wilk and Cztan of Rogow came forward immediately; but Zbyszko jumped from his horse, and before they could reach her, seized Jagienka and lifted her down from her horse; then he took her by the hand, and looking at them threateningly, conducted her to the church. In the vestibule of the church, they were again disappointed. Both rushed to the font of holy water, plunged their hands in, and then stretched them toward the girl. But Zbyszko did the same, and she touched his fingers; then having made the sign of the cross, she entered the church with him. Then not only young Wilk, but Cztan of Rogow also, notwithstanding his stupidity, understood that this had been done purposely, and both were very angry. Wilk rushed out of the vestibule and ran like a madman, not knowing where he was going. Cztan rushed after him, although not knowing why. They stopped at the corner of the inclosure where there were some large stones ready for the foundation of the tower which was to be built in Krzesnia. Then, Wilk wishing to assuage the wrath which raged in his breast, seized one of these stones, and began to shake it; Cztan seeing him do this, seized it also, and both began to roll it toward the church gate. The people looked at them with amazement, thinking that they had made some vow, and that in this way they wished to contribute to the building of the tower. This effort gave them relief and they came to their senses; then they stood, pale from their exertion, puffing and looking at each other. Cztan of Rogow was the first to break the silence. "What now?" asked he. "What?" answered Wilk. "Shall we attack him immediately?" "How can we do that in the church?" "Not in the church, but after mass." "He is with Zych and the abbot. And have you forgotten that Zych said that if there were a fight, he would refuse to let either of us visit at Zgorzelice. But for that, I would have broken your ribs long ago." "Or I, yours!" answered Cztan, clinching his powerful fists. And their eyes began to sparkle threateningly; but soon they both realized that now, more than ever, they needed to have a good understanding. They often fought together; but after each fight, they always became reconciled, because although they were divided by their love for Jagienka, they could not live without each other. Now they had a common foe and they understood that the enemy was a dangerous one. After a while Cztan asked: "What shall we do? Shall we send him a challenge?" Wilk, although he was wiser, did not know what to do. Fortunately the knockers resounded to notify the people that mass would begin. When he heard them he said: "What shall we do? Go to church now and after that, we will do whatever pleases God." Cztan of Rogow was pleased with this answer. "Perhaps the Lord Jesus will send us an inspiration," said he. "And will bless us," added Wilk. "According to justice." They went to church, and having listened devoutly to the mass, they grew more hopeful. They did not lose their temper after mass, when Jagienka again accepted holy water from Zbyszko. In the church-yard they bowed to Zych, to Jagienka and even to the abbot, although he was an enemy of Wilk of Brzozowa. They scowled at Zbyszko, but did not attempt to touch him, although their hearts were throbbing with grief, anger and jealousy; never before had Jagienka seemed to them to be as beautiful as she was then. When the brilliant retinue moved on and when from afar they heard the merry song of the ambulant seminarists, Cztan began to wipe the perspiration from his hairy cheeks and to snort like a horse; as for Wilk, he said, gnashing his teeth: "To the inn! To the inn! Woe to me!" Afterward remembering what had relieved them before, they again seized the stone and rolled it back to its former place. Zbyszko rode beside Jagienka, listening to the abbot's _shpilmen_ singing merry songs; but when they had traveled five or six furlongs, he suddenly reined in his horse, and said: "Oh! I intended to pay for a mass to be said for uncle's health and I forgot it; I must return." "Do not go back!" exclaimed Jagienka; "we will send from Zgorzelice." "No, I will return, and you must not wait for me. With God!" "With God," said the abbot. "Go!" And his face brightened; when Zbyszko disappeared, he touched Zych with his elbow and said: "Do you understand?" "What?" "He will surely fight in Krzesnia with Wilk and Cztan; but I wished for it and I am glad." "They are dreadful boys! If they wound him, then what of it?" "What of it? If he fight for Jagienka, then how can he afterward think about that other girl, Jurandowna? From this time, Jagienka will be his lady, not the other girl; and I wish it because he is my relative and I like him." "Bah! What about his vow?" "I will give him absolution in the twinkling of an eye! Have you not heard that I promised to absolve him?" "Your head is wise about everything," answered Zych. The abbot was pleased with this praise; then he approached nearer Jagienka and asked: "Why are you so sad?" She leaned on the saddle, seized the abbot's hand and lifted it to her mouth: "Godfather, could you not send your _shpilmen_ to Krzesnia?" "What for? They will get drunk in the inn--that's all." "But they may prevent a quarrel." The abbot looked into her eyes and then said sharply: "Let them even kill him." "Then they must kill me also!" exclaimed Jagienka. The bitterness which had accumulated in her bosom since that conversation about Danusia with Zbyszko, mingled with grief, now gushed forth in a stream of tears. Seeing this, the abbot encircled her with his arm, almost covering her with his enormous sleeve, and began to talk: "Do not be afraid, my dear little girl. They may quarrel, but the other boys are noblemen; they will attack him only in a chivalrous manner; they will call him up on the field, and then he can manage for himself, even if he be obliged to fight with both of them at once. As for Jurandowna, about whom you have heard, I will tell you this: there is no wood growing for a bed for the other girl." "If he prefers the other girl, then I do not care about him," answered Jagienka, through her tears. "Then why do you, weep?" "Because I am afraid for him." "Woman's sense!" said the abbot, laughing. Then having bent toward Jagienka's ear, he said: "You must remember, dear girl, that even if he take you, he will be obliged to fight just the same; a nobleman must be a knight." Here he bent still closer and added: "And he will take you, and before long, as God is in heaven!" "I do not know about that!" answered Jagienka. But she began to smile through her tears, and to look at the abbot as if she wished to ask him how he knew it. Meanwhile, Zbyszko having returned to Krzesnia, went directly to the priest, because he really wished to have a mass read for Macko's health; after having settled about that, he went to the inn, where he expected to find young Wilk of Brzozowa, and Cztan of Rogow. He found both of them there, and also many other people, noblemen, farmers and a few "madcap fellows" showing different German tricks. At first he could not recognize anybody, because the windows of the inn being made of ox bladders, did not let in a good light; but when the servant put some resinous wood on the fire, he noticed in the corner behind the beer buckets, Cztan's hairy cheeks, and Wilk's furious face. Then he walked slowly toward them, pushing aside the people; when he reached them, he struck the table so heavily with his fist that the noise resounded throughout the whole inn. They arose immediately and began to turn their girdles; but before they could grasp the hilts of their swords, Zbyszko threw down a glove, and speaking through his nose, as the knights used to speak while challenging, he said these words which were unexpected by everybody: "If either of you, or any other knightly person here present, deny that the most beautiful and most virtuous girl in the world is _Panna_ Danuta Jurandowna of Spychow, that one I will challenge to combat, on horseback or on foot, until the first kneeling, or until the last breath." Wilk and Cztan were astonished as much as the abbot would have been, had he heard Zbyszko's words; and for a while they could not say a word. Who was this _panna_? They cared about Jagienka and not about her; and if this youth did not care for Jagienka, then what did he wish? Why had he made them angry in the church-yard? What did he return for, and why did he wish to quarrel with them? These questions produced such confusion in their minds, that they opened their mouths widely and stared at Zbyszko as if he were not a man, but some German wonder. But the more intelligent Wilk, who was a little familiar with chivalrous customs and knew that often a knight served one lady, but married another, thought that this must be a similar case, and that he must seize the opportunity, to defend Jagienka. Therefore he came out from behind the table, and coming close to Zbyszko, asked threateningly: "Then, you dog-brother, you mean to say that Jagienka Zychowna is not the most beautiful girl in the world?" Cztan followed him; and the people surrounded them, because they understood that it would not end in words. CHAPTER X. When Jagienka reached home, she immediately sent a servant to Krzesnia to learn whether there had been a fight in the inn, or whether there had been a challenge. But the servant having received a _skojec_,[85] began to drink with the priest's servants, and did not hasten. Another servant who had been sent to Bogdaniec to inform Macko that the abbot was going to pay him a visit, returned, having fulfilled the commission and reported that he had seen Zbyszko playing dice with the old man. This partly soothed Jagienka, because knowing by experience how dexterous Zbyszko was, she was not so much afraid about a regular duel, as she was about some unexpected accident in the inn. She wanted to accompany the abbot to Bogdaniec, but he was not willing. He wished to talk with Macko about the pledge and about some other important business; and then he wanted to go there toward night. Having learned that Zbyszko had returned home safe, he became very jovial and ordered his wandering seminarists to sing and shout. They obeyed him so well that the forest resounded with the noise, and in Bogdaniec, the farmers came out from their houses, and looked to see whether there was a fire or an invasion of the enemy. The pilgrim riding ahead, quieted them by telling them that a high ecclesiastical dignitary was coming; therefore when they saw the abbot, they bowed to him, and some of them even made the sign of the cross on their chests; he seeing how they respected him, rode along with joyful pride, pleased with the world and full of kindness toward the people. Macko and Zbyszko having heard the singing, came to the gate to meet him. Some of the seminarists had been in Bogdaniec before with the abbot; but others of them having joined the retinue lately, had never seen it until now. They were disappointed when they saw the miserable house which could not be compared with the large mansion in Zgorzelice. But they were reassured when they saw the smoke coming out from the thatched roof of the house; and they were greatly pleased when upon entering the room, they smelt saffron and different kinds of meats, and noticed two tables full of tin dishes, empty as yet, but enormous. On the smaller table which was prepared for the abbot, shone a silver dish and also a beautifully engraved silver cup, both taken with the other treasures from the Fryzes. Macko and Zbyszko invited them to the table immediately; but the abbot who had eaten plentifully in Zgorzelice, refused because he had something else on his mind. Since his arrival he had looked at Zbyszko attentively and uneasily, as if he desired to see on him some traces of the fight; but seeing the quiet face of the youth, he began to be impatient; finally he was unable to restrain his curiosity any longer. "Let us go into the chamber," said he, "to speak about the pledge. Do not refuse me; that will make me angry!" Here he turned to the seminarists and shouted: "You keep quiet and do not listen at the door!" Having said this, he opened the door to the chamber and entered, followed by Zbyszko and Macko. As soon as they were seated on the chests, the abbot turned toward the young knight: "Did you go back to Krzesnia?" asked he. "Yes, I was there." "And what?" "Well, I paid for a mass for my uncle's health, that's all." The abbot moved on the chest impatiently. "Ha!" thought he, "he did not meet Cztan and Wilk; perhaps they were not there, and perhaps he did not look for them. I was mistaken." But he was angry because he was mistaken, and because his plans had not been realized; therefore immediately his face grew red and he began to breathe loudly. "Let us speak about the pledge!" said he. "Have you the money? If not, then the estate is mine!" Macko, who knew how to act with him, rose silently, opened the chest on which he was sitting, and took out of it a bag of _grzywien_, evidently prepared for this occasion, and said: "We are poor people, but we have the money; we will pay what is right, as it is written in the 'letter' which I signed with the mark of the holy cross. If you want to be paid for the improvements, we will not quarrel about that either; we will pay the amount you say, and we will bow to you, our benefactor." Having said this, he kneeled at the abbot's knee and Zbyszko did the same. The abbot, who expected some quarrels and arguing, was very much surprised at such a proceeding, and not very much pleased with it; he wanted to dictate some conditions and he saw that he would have no opportunity to do so. Therefore returning the "letter" or rather the mortgage which Macko had signed with a cross, he said: "Why are you talking to me about an additional payment?" "Because we do not want to receive any presents," answered Macko cunningly, knowing well that the more he quarreled in that matter the more he would get. At this the abbot reddened with anger: "Did you ever see such people? They do not wish to accept anything from a relative! You have too much bread! I did not take waste land and I do not return it waste; and if I want to give you this bag, I will do it!" "You would not do that!" exclaimed Macko. "I will not do it! Here is your pledge! Here is your money! I give it because I want to, and had I even thrown it into the road, it would be none of your affairs. You shall see if I will not do as I wish!" Having said this, he seized the bag and threw it on the floor so hard that it burst, and the money was scattered. "May God reward you! May God reward you, father and benefactor!" exclaimed Macko, who had been waiting for this; "I would not accept it from anyone else, but from a relation and a spiritual father, I will accept it." The abbot looked threateningly at both of them, and finally he said: "Although I am angry, I know what I am doing; therefore hold what you have, because I assure you that you shall not have one _skojeo_ more." "We did not expect even this." "You know that Jagienka will inherit everything I have." "The land also?" asked Macko, simply. "The land also!" shouted the abbot. At this Macko's face grew long, but he recovered himself and said: "Ej, why should you think about death! May the Lord Jesus grant you a hundred years or more of life, and an important bishopric soon." "Certainly! Am I worse than others?" said the abbot. "Not worse, but better!" These words appeased the abbot, for his anger never lasted long. "Well," said he, "you are my relations, and she is only my goddaughter; but I love her, and Zych also. There is no better man in the world than Zych and no better girl than Jagienka, also! Who can say anything against them?" He began to look angry, but Macko did not contradict; he quickly affirmed that there was no worthier neighbor in the whole kingdom. "And as for the girl," said he, "I could not love my own daughter any more than I love her. With her help, I recovered my health and I shall never forget it until my death." "You will both be punished if you forget it," said the abbot, "and I will curse you. But I do not wish to wrong you, therefore I have found a way by which, what I will leave after my death, can belong to you and to Jagienka; do you understand?" "May God help us to realize that!" answered Macko. "Sweet Jesus! I would go on foot to the grave of the queen in Krakow or to Lysa Gora[86] to bow to the Holy Cross." The abbot was very much pleased with such sincerity; he smiled and said: "The girl is perfectly right to be particular in her choice, because she is pretty, rich and of good family! Of what account are Cztan or Wilk, when the son of a _wojewoda_ would not be too good for her! But if somebody, as myself for instance, spoke in favor of any particular one, then she would marry him, because she loves me and knows that I will advise her well." "The one whom you advise her to marry, will be very lucky," said Macko. But the abbot turned to Zbyszko: "What do you say to this?" "Well, I think the same as my uncle does." The face of the abbot became still more serene; he struck Zbyszko's shoulder with his hand so hard that the blow resounded in the chamber, and asked: "Why did you not let Cztan or Wilk approach Jagienka at church?" "Because I did not want them to think that I was afraid of them, and I did not want you to think so." "But you gave the holy water to her." "Yes, I did." The abbot gave him another blow. "Then, take her!" "Take her!" exclaimed Macko, like an echo. At this Zbyszko gathered up his hair, put it in the net, and answered quietly: "How can I take her, when before the altar in Tyniec, I made a vow to Danusia Jurandowna?" "You made a vow about the peacock's tufts, and you must get them, but take Jagienka immediately." "No," answered Zbyszko; "afterward when Danusia covered me with her veil, I promised that I would marry her." The blood began to rush to the abbot's face; his ears turned blue, and his eyes bulged; he approached Zbyszko and said, in a voice muffled with anger: "Your vows are the chaff and I am the wind; understand! Ot!" And he blew on Zbyszko's head so powerfully, that the net fell off and the hair was scattered on his shoulders. Then Zbyszko frowned, and looking into the abbot's eyes, he said: "In my vows is my honor, and over my honor, I alone am the guardian!" At this, the abbot not being accustomed to opposition, lost his breath to such a degree, that for a time he could not speak. There was an ill-omened silence, which finally was broken by Macko: "Zbyszku!" exclaimed he, "come to your wits again! What is the matter with you?" Meanwhile the abbot raised his hand and pointing toward the youth, began to shout: "What is the matter with him? I know what is the matter; he has not the heart of a nobleman, nor of a knight, but of a hare! That is the matter with him; he is afraid of Cztan and Wilk!" But Zbyszko, who had remained cool and calm, carelessly shrugged his shoulders and answered: "Owa! I broke their heads when I was in Krzesnia." "For heaven's sake!" exclaimed Macko. The abbot stared for a while at Zbyszko. Anger was struggling with admiration in him, and his reason told him that from that fight, he might derive some benefit for his plans. Therefore having become cooler, he shouted to Zbyszko: "Why didn't you tell us that before?" "Because I was ashamed. I thought they would challenge me, as it is customary for knights to do, to fight on horseback or on foot; but they are bandits, not knights. Wilk first took a board from the table, Cztan seized another and they both rushed against me! What could I do? I seized a bench; well--you know!" "Are they still alive?" asked Macko. "Yes, they are alive, but they were hurt. They breathed when I left." The abbot, rubbing his forehead, listened; then he suddenly jumped from the chest, on which he had seated himself to be more comfortable and to think the matter over, and exclaimed: "Wait! I want to tell you something!" "What?" asked Zbyszko. "If you fought for Jagienka and injured them for her sake, then you are really her knight, not Danusia's; and you must take Jagienka." Having said this, he put his hands on his hips and looked at Zbyszko triumphantly; but Zbyszko smiled and said: "Hej! I knew very well why you wanted me to fight with them; but you have not succeeded in your plans." "Why? Speak!" "Because I challenged them to deny that Danusia Jurandowna is the prettiest and the most virtuous girl in the world; they took Jagienka's part, and that is why there was a fight." Having heard this, the abbot stood amazed, and only the frequent movement of his eyes indicated that he was still alive. Finally he turned, opened the door with his foot, and rushed into the other room; there he seized the curved stick from the pilgrim's hands and began to strike the _shpilmen_ with it, roaring like a wounded urus. "To horse, you rascals! To horse, you dog-faiths! I will not put my foot in this house again! To horse, he who believes in God, to horse!" Then he opened the outer door and went into the court-yard, followed by the frightened seminarists. They rushed to the stable and began to saddle the horses. In vain Macko followed the abbot, and entreated him to remain; swore that it was not his fault. The abbot cursed the house, the people and the fields; when they brought him a horse, he jumped in the saddle without touching the stirrups and galloped away looking, with his large sleeves filled by the wind, like an enormous red bird. The seminarists rushed after him, like a herd following its leader. Macko stood looking after them for some time; but when they disappeared in the forest, he returned slowly to the room and said to Zbyszko, shaking his head sadly: "See what you have done?" "It would not have happened if I had gone away; and it is your fault that I did not." "Why?" "Because I did not wish to leave you when you were sick." "And what will you do now?" "Now I shall go." "Where?" "To Mazowsze to see Danusia; and after that to search for peacock's tufts among the Germans." Macko was silent for a moment, then he said: "He returned the 'letter,' but the mortgage is recorded in the mortgage-book at the court. Now the abbot will not give us even a _skojec_." "I do not care. You have money, and I do not need anything for my journey. I will be received everywhere and my horses will be fed; if I only had a suit of armor on my back and a sword in my hand, I would need nothing else." Macko began to think about everything that had happened. All his plans and wishes had been frustrated. He had wished with his whole heart that Zbyszko would marry Jagienka; but he now realized that this wish would never be fulfilled; and considering the abbot's anger, the behavior of Zbyszko toward Jagienka and finally the fight with Cztan and Wilk, he concluded it would be better to allow Zbyszko to go. "Ha!" said he, finally, "if you must seek for the peacock's feathers on the heads of the Knights of the Cross, go then. Let the Lord Jesus' will be accomplished. But I must go immediately to Zgorzelice; perhaps I will succeed in appeasing their wrath if I implore pardon of the abbot and of Zych; I care especially for the friendship of Zych." Here he looked into Zbyszko's eyes and asked: "Do you not regret Jagienka?" "May God give her health and the best of everything!" answered Zbyszko. END OF PART SECOND. PART THIRD. CHAPTER I. Macko waited patiently for several days, hoping to receive some news from Zgorzelice, or to hear that the abbot's anger had been appeased; finally he became impatient and determined to go personally to see Zych. Everything had happened contrary to his wishes, and now he was anxious to know whether Zych was angry with him. He was afraid that the abbot would never be reconciled with Zbyszko and him. He wanted, however, to do everything he could, to soften that anger; therefore while riding, he was thinking what he would say in Zgorzelice, to palliate the offence and preserve the old friendship with his neighbor. His thoughts, however, were not clear, therefore he was glad to find Jagienka alone; the girl received him as usual with a bow and kissed his hand,--in a word, she was friendly, but a little sad. "Is your father home?" asked he. "He went out hunting with the abbot. They may be back at any moment." Having said this, she conducted him into the house, where they both sat in silence for a long time; the girl spoke first, and said: "Are you lonely now in Bogdaniec?" "Very lonely," answered Macko. "Then you knew that Zbyszko had gone away?" Jagienka sighed softly: "Yes, I knew it the very same day; I thought he would come here to bid me good-bye, but he did not." "How could he come!" said Macko. "The abbot would have torn him to pieces; neither would your father have welcomed him." She shook her head and said: "Ej! I would not allow anybody to injure him." Upon this Macko hugged the girl and said: "God be with you, girl! You are sad, but I also am sad. Let me tell you that neither the abbot nor your own father loves you more than I do. I wish that Zbyszko had chosen you, and not another." There came upon Jagienka such a moment of grief and longing, that she could not conceal her feelings, but said: "I shall never see him again, or if I see him, it will be with Jurandowna, and then I will cry my eyes out." She raised her apron and covered her eyes, which were filled with tears. Macko said: "Stop crying! He has gone, but with God's grace, he will not come back with Jurandowna." "Why not?" said Jagienka, from behind her apron. "Because Jurand does not want to give him the girl." Then Jagienka suddenly uncovered her face, and having turned toward Macko, said to him: "Zbyszko told me that; but is it true?" "As true as that God is in heaven." "But why?" "Who knows why. Some vow, or something like that, and there is no remission for vows! He liked Zbyszko, because the boy promised to help him in his vengeance; but even that was useless. Jurand would listen neither to persuasion, nor to command, nor to prayers. He said he could not. Well, there must be some reason why he could not do it, and he will not change his mind, because he is stern and unyielding. Don't lose hope but cheer up. Rightly speaking, the boy was obliged to go, because he had sworn in the church to secure three peacocks' crests. Then, also, the girl covered him with her veil, which was a sign that she would take him for her husband; otherwise they would have beheaded him; for that, he must be grateful to her--one cannot deny it. With God's help, she will not be his; but according to the law, he is hers. Zych is angry with him; the abbot has sent a plague upon him, so that his skin shivers; I am angry also, but if one thinks carefully, what else could he do? Since he belonged to the other girl, he was obliged to go. He is a nobleman. But I tell you this; if the Germans do not kill him, then he will come back; and he will come back not only to me an old man, not only to Bogdaniec, but to you, because he was very fond of you." "I don't believe he was!" said Jagienka. But she drew near Macko, and having touched him with her elbow, she asked: "How do you know it? I am sure that is not true." "How do I know?" answered Macko. "I saw how difficult it was for him to go away. When it was decided that he must go, I asked him: 'Do you not regret Jagienka?' and he said: 'May God give her health and the best of everything.' Then immediately he began to sigh." "I am sure that it is not true!" said Jagienka, softly; "but tell me again." "As God is dear to me, it is true! After seeing you, he will not care for the other girl, because you know yourself that there is no girl more beautiful than you in the whole world. He has felt God's will toward you--do not fear--perhaps even more than you have felt it toward him." "Not at all!" exclaimed Jagienka. Then she again covered her face, which was as rosy as an apple, with her sleeve; Macko smiled, passed his hand over his moustache and said: "Hej! if I were only younger; but you must comfort yourself, because I see how it will be. He will get his spurs at the Mazowiecki court, because that is near the boundary and it is not difficult to kill a Krzyzak there. I know that there are good knights among the Germans; but I think that it will take a very good one to defeat Zbyszko. See how he routed Cztan of Rogow and Wilk of Brzozowa, although they are said to be dreadful boys and as strong as bears. He will bring his crests, but he will not bring Jurandowna." "But when will he return?" "Bah I if you are not willing to wait, then you will not be wronged. Repeat what I have told you to the abbot and to Zych; perhaps they will not be so angry with Zbyszko." "How can I tell them anything? _Tatus_ is more sorrowful than angry; but it is dangerous even to mention Zbyszko's name to the abbot. He scolded me because I sent Zbyszko a servant." "What servant?" "We had a Czech, whom _tatus_ captured at Boleslawiec, a good, faithful boy. His name was Hlawa. _Tatus_ gave him to my service, because he was a _wlodyka_; I gave him a worthy armor and sent him to Zbyszko, to serve and protect him. I also gave him a bag of money for the journey. He promised me that he would serve Zbyszko faithfully until death." "My dear girl! may God reward you! Was Zych opposed to your doing it?" "Yes, at first _tatus_ did not want to let me do it; but when I began to coax him, then he consented. When the abbot heard about it from his seminarists, he immediately rushed out of the room swearing; there was such a disturbance, that _tatus_ escaped to the barn. Toward evening, the abbot took pity on my tears and even made me a present of some beads." "As God is dear to me, I do not know whether I love Zbyszko any better than I love you; but he had a worthy retinue. I also gave him money, although he did not want to take it. Well, the Mazurs are not beyond the seas." The conversation was interrupted by the barking of dogs, by shouting and by the sounds of brass trumpets in front of the house. Having heard this, Jagienka said: "_Tatus_ and the abbot have returned from hunting. Let us go outside; it will be better for the abbot to see you there, and not to meet you unexpectedly in the house." Having said this, she conducted Macko out-of-doors; in the courtyard, on the snow they perceived a throng of men, horses and dogs, also elks and wolves pierced with spears or shot with crossbows. The abbot saw Macko before he dismounted, and hurled a spear toward him, not to strike him, but to show in that way, his great anger against the inhabitants of Bogdaniec. But Macko uncovered and bowed to him as if he noticed nothing unusual; Jagienka, however, had not noticed the abbot's action, because she was very much surprised to see her two wooers in the retinue. "Cztan and Wilk are here!" she exclaimed; "I presume they met _tatus_ in the forest." Immediately the thought ran through Macko's mind, that perhaps one of them would get Jagienka, and with her Moczydoly, the abbot's lands, forests and money. Then grief and anger filled his heart, especially when he perceived what occurred. Behold, Wilk of Brzozowa, although only a short time before the abbot wanted to fight with his father, sprang to the abbot's stirrups, and helped him to dismount; and the abbot leaned in a friendly manner on the young nobleman's shoulder. "In that way, the abbot will become reconciled with old Wilk," thought Macko, "and he will give the forests and the lands with the girl." His sad thoughts were interrupted by Jagienka who said: "They are soon cured after Zbyszko's beating; but even if they come here every day, it will not benefit them!" Macko looked and saw that the girl's face was red with anger, and that her blue eyes sparkled with indignation, although she knew very well that Cztan and Wilk had taken her part in the inn, and had been beaten on her account. Therefore Macko said: "Bah! you will do as the abbot commands." She immediately retorted: "The abbot will do what I wish." "Gracious Lord!" thought Macko, "and that stupid Zbyszko left such a girl!" CHAPTER II. Zbyszko had left Bogdaniec with a sad heart indeed. In the first place he felt strange without his uncle, from whom he had never been separated before, and to whom he was so accustomed, that he did not know how he would get along without him during the journey, as well as in the war. Then he regretted Jagienka. Although he was going to Danusia whom he loved dearly, still he had been so comfortable and happy with Jagienka, that now he felt sad without her. He was surprised himself at his grief, and even somewhat alarmed about it. He would not have minded if he longed for Jagienka only as a brother longs for a sister; but he noticed that he longed to embrace her, to put her on horseback, to carry her over the brooks, to wring the water from her tress, to wander with her in the forest, to gaze at her, and to converse with her. He was so accustomed to doing all this and it was so pleasant, that when he began to think about it, he forgot that he was going on a long journey to Mazury; instead of that, he remembered the moment when Jagienka helped him in the forest, when he was struggling with the bear. It seemed to him as though it happened only yesterday; also as though it were only yesterday when they went to the Odstajny lake for beavers. Then he recalled how beautifully she was dressed when going to church in Krzesnia, and how surprised he was that such a simple girl should appear like the daughter of a mighty lord. All these thoughts filled his heart with uneasiness, sweetness, and sadness. "Had I only bid her good-bye," he said to himself, "perhaps I would feel easier now." Finally he became afraid of these reminiscences, and he shook them from his mind like dry snow from his mantle. "I am going to Danusia, to my dearest," he said to himself. He noticed that this was a more holy love. Gradually his feet grew colder in the stirrups, and the cold wind cooled his blood. All his thoughts now turned to Danusia Jurandowna. He belonged to her without any doubt; but for her, he would have been beheaded on the Krakowski square. When she said in the presence of the knights and burghers: "He is mine!" she rescued him from the hands of the executioners; from that time, he belonged to her, as a slave to his master. Jurand's opposition was useless. She alone could drive him away; and even then he would not go far, because he was bound by his vow. He imagined, however, that she would not drive him away; but rather that she would follow him from the Mazowiecki court, even to the end of the world. Then he began to praise her to himself to Jagienka's disadvantage, as if it were her fault, that temptations assailed him and his heart was divided. Now he forgot that Jagienka cured old Macko; he forgot that without her help, the bear would have torn him to pieces; and he became enraged with her, hoping in this way to please Danusia and to justify himself in his own eyes. At this moment the Czech, Hlawa, sent by Jagienka, arrived, leading a horse. "Be blessed!" said he, with a low bow. Zbyszko had seen him once or twice in Zgorzelice, but he did not recognize him; therefore he said: "Be blessed for ages and ages! Who are you?" "Your servant, famous lord." "What do you mean? These are my servants," said Zbyszko, pointing to the two Turks, given to him by Sulimczyk Zawisza, and to two sturdy men who sitting on horseback, were leading the knight's stallions; "these are mine; who sent you?" "_Panna_ Jagienka Zychowna of Zgorzelice." "_Panna_ Jagienka?" A while ago, Zbyszko had been angry with her and his heart was still full of wrath; therefore he said: "Return home and thank the _panna_ for the favor; I do not want you." But the Czech shook his head. "I cannot return. They have given me to you; besides that, I have sworn to serve you until death." "If they gave you to me, then you are my servant." "Yours, sir." "Then I command you to return." "I have sworn; although I am a prisoner from Boleslawiec and a poor boy, still I am a _wlodyczka_."[87] Zbyszko became angry: "Go away! What; are you going to serve me against my will? Go away, before I order my servants to bend their crossbows." But the Czech quietly untied a broadcloth mantle, lined with wolf-skins, handed it to Zbyszko and said: "_Panna_ Jagienka sent you this, also, sir." "Do you wish me to break your bones?" asked Zbyszko, taking a spear from an attendant. "Here is also a bag of money for your disposal," answered the Czech. Zbyszko was ready to strike him with the lance, but he recollected that the boy, although a prisoner, was by birth a _wlodyka_, who had remained with Zych only because he did not have money to pay his ransom; consequently Zbyszko dropped the spear. Then the Czech bent to his stirrups and said: "Be not angry, sir. If you do not wish me to accompany you, I will follow you at a distance of one or two furlongs; but I must go, because I have sworn to do so upon the salvation of my soul." "If I order my servants to kill you or to bind you?" "If you order them to kill me, that will not be my sin; and if you order them to bind me, then I will remain until some good people untie me, or until the wolves devour me." Zbyszko did not reply; he urged his horse forward and his attendants followed him. The Czech with a crossbow and an axe on his shoulder, followed them, shielding himself with a shaggy bison skin, because a sharp wind carrying flakes of snow, began to blow. The storm grew worse and worse. The Turks, although dressed in sheepskin coats, were chilled with cold; Zbyszko himself, not being dressed very warmly, glanced several times at the mantle lined with wolf-fur, which Hlawa had brought him; after a while, he told one of the Turks to give it to him. Having wrapped himself with it carefully, he felt a warmth spreading all over his body. He covered his eyes and the greater part of his face with the hood of the mantle, so that the wind did not annoy him any more. Then, involuntarily, he thought how good Jagienka had been to him. He reined in his horse, called the Czech, and asked him about her, and about everything that had happened in Zgorzelice. "Does Zych know that the _panna_ sent you to me?" he said. "He knows it," answered Hlawa. "Was he not opposed to it?" "He was." "Tell me then all about it." "The _pan_ was walking in the room and the _panna_ followed him. He shouted, but the _panienka_ said nothing; but when he turned toward her, she kneeled but did not utter one word. Finally the _panisko_[88] said: 'Have you become deaf, that you do not answer my questions? Speak then; perhaps I will consent.' Then the _panna_ understood that she could do as she wished and began to thank him. The _pan_ reproached her, because she had persuaded him, and complained that he must always do as she wished; finally he said: 'Promise me that you will not go secretly to bid him good-bye; then I will consent, but not otherwise.' Then the _panienka_ became very sorrowful, but she promised; the _pan_ was satisfied, because the abbot and he were both afraid that she would see you. Well, that was not the end of it; afterward the _panna_ wanted to send two horses, but the _pan_ would not consent; the _panna_ wanted to send a wolf-skin and a bag of money, but the _pan_ refused. His refusal did not amount to anything, however! If she wanted to set the house on fire, the _panisko_ would finally consent. Therefore I brought two horses, a wolf-skin and a bag of money." "Good girl!" thought Zbyszko. After a while he asked: "Was there no trouble with the abbot?" The Czech, an intelligent attendant, who understood what happened around him, smiled and answered: "They were both careful to keep everything secret from the abbot; I do not know what happened when he learned about it, after I left Zgorzelice. Sometimes he shouts at the _panienka_; but afterward he watches her to see if he did not wrong her. I saw him myself one time after he had scolded her, go to his chest and bring out such a beautiful chain that one could not get a better one even in Krakow, and give it to her. She will manage the abbot also, because her own father does not love her any more than he does." "That is certainly true." "As God is in heaven!" Then they became silent and rode along amidst wind and snow. Suddenly Zbyszko reined in his horse; from the forest beside the road, there was heard a plaintive voice, half stifled by the roar of the wind: "Christians, help God's servant in his misfortune!" Thereupon a man who was dressed partly in clerical clothing, rushed to the road and began to cry to Zbyszko: "Whoever you are, sir, help a fellow-creature who has met with a dreadful accident!" "What has happened to you, and who are you?" asked the young knight. "I am God's servant, although not yet ordained; this morning the horse which was carrying my chests containing holy things, ran away. I remained alone, without weapons; evening is approaching, and soon the wild beasts will begin to roar in the forest. I shall perish, unless you succor me." "If I let you perish," answered Zbyszko, "I will be accountable for your sins; but how can I believe that you are speaking the truth. You may be a highway robber, like many others wandering on the roads!" "You may believe me, sir, for I will show you the chests. Many a man would give a purse full of gold for what is in them; but I will give you some of it for nothing, if you take me and the chests with you." "You told me that you were God's servant, and yet you do not know that one must give help, not for earthly recompense, but for spiritual reward. But how is it that you have the chests now if the horse carried them away?" "The wolves devoured the horse in the forest, but the chests remained; I brought them to the road, and then waited for mercy and help." Wishing to prove that he was speaking the truth, he pointed to two chests made of leather, lying under a pine tree. Zbyszko still looked at him suspiciously, because the man did not look honest, and his speech indicated that he came from a distant part of the country. He did not refuse to help him, however, but permitted him to ride the horse led by the Czech and take the chests, which proved to be very light. "May God multiply your victories, valiant knight!" said the stranger. Then, seeing Zbyszko's youthful face, he added softly: "And the hairs of your beard, also." He rode beside the Czech. For a time they could not talk, because a strong wind was blowing, and roaring in the forest; but when it decreased, Zbyszko heard the following conversation behind him. "I don't deny that you were in Rome; but you look like a beer drunkard," said the Czech. "Look out for eternal damnation," answered the stranger; "you are talking to a man who last Easter ate hard boiled eggs with the holy father. Don't speak to me in such cold weather about beer; but if you have a flask of wine with you, then give me two or three swallows of it, and I will pardon you a month of purgatory." "You have not been ordained; I heard you say you had not. How then can you grant me pardon for a month of purgatory?" "I have not received ordination, but I have my head shaved, because I received permission for that; beside, I am carrying indulgences and relics." "In the chests?" asked the Czech. "Yes, in the chests. If you saw all I have there, you would fall on your face, not only you, but all the pines in the forest and all the wild beasts." But the Czech, being an intelligent and experienced attendant, looked suspiciously at this peddler of indulgences, and said: "The wolves devoured your horse?" "Yes, they devoured him, because they are the devil's relatives. If you have any wine, give me some; although the wind has ceased, yet I am frozen, having sat by the road so long." The Czech would not give him any wine; and they rode along silently, until the stranger began to ask: "Where are you going?" "Far. At first to Sieradz. Are you going with us?" "I must. I will sleep in the stable, and perhaps to-morrow this pious knight will give me a present of a horse; then I will go further." "Where are you from?" "From under Prussian lords, not far from Marienburg." Having heard this, Zbyszko turned and motioned to the stranger to come nearer to him. "Did you come from Marienburg?" said he "Yes, sir." "But are you a German? You speak our language very well. What is your name?" "I am a German, and they call me Sanderus; I speak your language well, because I was born in Torun, where everybody speaks that language; then I lived in Marienburg, and there it is the same. Bah! even the brothers of the Order understand your language." "How long since you left Marienburg?" "I was in the Holy Land, then in Constantinople, and in Rome; thence through France I came to Marienburg and from there I was going to Mazowsze, carrying the holy relics which pious Christians buy willingly, for the salvation of their souls." "Have you been in Plock or in Warszawa?" "I was in both cities. May God give good health to both of the princesses! Princess Alexandra is greatly esteemed even by the Prussian lords, because she is a pious lady; the princess Anna Januszowna is also pious." "Did you see the court in Warszawa?" "I did not see it in Warszawa but in Ciechanow, where both the princesses received me hospitably, and gave me munificent presents, as God's servant deserves to receive. I left them relics, which will bring them God's blessing." Zbyszko wanted to ask about Danusia; but he understood that it would be unwise to make a confidant of this stranger, a man of low origin. Therefore, after a short silence, he asked: "What kind of relics are you carrying?" "I carry indulgences and relics; the indulgences are different kinds; there are total indulgences, some for five hundred years, some for three hundred, some for two hundred and some for less time, which are cheaper, so that even poor people can buy them and shorten the torments of purgatory. I have indulgences for future and for past sins; but don't think, sir, that I keep the money I receive for them. I am satisfied with a piece of black bread and a glass of water--that is all for me; the rest I carry to Rome, to accumulate enough for a new crusade. It is true, there are many swindlers who carry false indulgences, false relics, false seals and false testimonials; and they are righteously pursued by the holy father's letters; but I was wronged by the prior of Sieradz, because my seals are authentic. Look, sir, at the wax and tell me what you think of them." "What about the prior of Sieradz?" "Ah, sir! I fear that he is infected with Wiklef's heresy. If, as your shield-bearer told me, you are going to Sieradz, it will be better for me not to show myself to him, because I do not want to lead him into the sin of blasphemy against holy things." "This means, speaking frankly, that he thinks that you are a swindler." "If the question were about myself, I would pardon him for the sake of brotherly love; but he has blasphemed against my holy wares, for which, I am very much afraid, he will be eternally damned." "What kind of holy wares have you?" "It is not right to talk about them with covered head; but this time, having many indulgences ready, I give you, sir, permission to keep your cowl on, because the wind is blowing again. For that you will buy an indulgence and the sin will not be counted against you. What have I not? I have a hoof of the ass on which the Holy Family rode during the flight into Egypt; it was found near the pyramids. The king of Aragon offered me fifty ducats for it. I have a feather from the wings of the archangel Gabriel, which he dropped during the annunciation; I have the heads of two quails, sent to the Israelites in the desert; I have the oil in which the heathen wanted to fry St. John; a step of the ladder about which Jacob dreamed; the tears of St. Mary of Egypt and some rust of St. Peter's keys. But I cannot mention any more. I am very cold and your shield-bearer would not give me any wine." "Those are great relics, if they are authentic!" said Zbyszko. "If they are authentic? Take the spear from your attendant and aim it, because the devil is near and brings such thoughts to you. Hold him, sir, at the length of the spear. If you do not wish to bring some misfortune on yourself, then buy an indulgence from me; otherwise within three weeks somebody whom you love, will die." Zbyszko was frightened at this threat, because he thought about Danusia, and said: "It is not I, but the prior of the Dominicans in Sieradz who does not believe." "Look, sir, for yourself, at the wax on the seals; as for the prior, I do not know whether he is still living, because God's justice is quick." But when they came to Sieradz they found the prior alive. Zbyszko went to see him, and purchased two masses; one of which was to be read to insure success for Macko's vow, and the other to insure success for his vow to obtain three peacocks' crests. The prior was a foreigner, having been born in Cylia; but during his forty years' residence in Sieradz, he had learned the Polish language very well, and was a great enemy of the Knights of the Cross. Therefore, having learned about Zbyszko's enterprise, he said: "A still greater punishment will fall upon them; but I shall not dissuade you, because you promised it upon your knightly honor; neither can there be punishment enough administered by Polish hands for the wrongs they hare perpetrated in this land." "What have they done?" asked Zbyszko, who was anxious to hear about the iniquities of the Knights of the Cross. CHAPTER III. The old prior crossed his hands and began to recite aloud "The eternal rest;"[89] then he sat down on a bench and kept his eyes closed for a while as if to collect his thoughts; finally he began to talk: "Wincenty of Szamotul brought them here. I was twenty years old then, and I had just come from Cylia with my uncle Petzoldt. The Krzyzaks attacked the town and set it on fire. We could see from the walls, how in the market square they cut men and women's heads off, and how they threw little children into the fire. They even killed the priests, because in their fury they spared nobody. The prior Mikolaj, having been born in Elblong, was acquainted with _Comthur_ Herman, the chief of their army. Therefore he went accompanied by the senior brothers, to that dreadful knight, and having kneeled before him, entreated him in German, to have pity on Christian blood. _Comthur_ Herman replied: "I do not understand," and ordered his soldiers to continue killing the people. They slaughtered the monks also, among them my uncle Petzoldt; the prior Mikolaj was tied to a horse's tail. The next morning there was no man alive in this town except the Krzyzaks and myself. I hid on a beam in the belfry. God punished them at Plowce;[90] but they still want to destroy this Christian kingdom, and nothing will deter them unless God's arm crush them." "At Plowce," said Zbyszko, "almost all the men of my family perished; but I do not regret it, for God granted a great victory to the king Lokietek,[91] and twenty thousand Germans were destroyed. "You will see a still greater war and a greater victory," said the prior. "Amen!" answered Zbyszko. Then they began to talk about other matters. The young knight asked about the peddler of relics whom he met on the road. He learned that many similar swindlers were wandering on the roads, cheating credulous people. The prior also told him that there were papal bulls ordering the bishops to examine such peddlers and immediately punish those who did not have authentic letters and seals. The testimonials of the stranger seemed spurious to the prior; therefore he wanted to deliver him to the bishop's jurisdiction. If he proved that he was sent by the pope, then no harm would be done him. He escaped, however. Perhaps he was afraid of the delay in his journey; but on account of this flight, he had drawn on himself still greater suspicion. The prior invited Zbyszko to remain and pass the night in the monastery; but he would not, because he wanted to hang in front of the inn an inscription challenging all knights who denied that _Panna_ Danuta Jurandowna was the most beautiful and the most virtuous girl in the kingdom, to a combat on horseback or on foot. It was not proper to hang such a challenge over the gate of the monastery. When he arrived at the inn, he asked for Sanderus. "The prior thinks you are a scoundrel," said Zbyszko, "because he said: 'Why should he be afraid of the bishop's judgment, if he had good testimonials?'" "I am not afraid of the bishop," answered Sanderus; "I am afraid of the monks, who do not know anything about seals. I wanted to go to Krakow, but I have no horse; therefore I must wait until somebody makes me a present of one. Meanwhile, I will send a letter, and I will put my own seal on it." "If you show that you know how to write, that will prove that you are not a churl; but how will you send the letter?" "By some pilgrim, or wandering monk. There are many people going on a pilgrimage to the queen's tomb." "Can you write a card for me?" "I will write, sir, even on a board, anything you wish." "I think it will be better on a board," said Zbyszko, "because it will not tear and I can use it again later on." In fact, after awhile the attendants brought a new board and Sanderus wrote on it. Zbyszko could not read what was written on the board; but he ordered it fastened with nails on the door of the inn, under it to be hung a shield, which was watched by the Turks alternately. Whoever struck the shield would declare that he wished to fight. But neither that day nor the following day, did the shield resound from a blow; and in the afternoon the sorrowful knight was ready to pursue his journey. Before that, however, Sanderus came to Zbyszko and said to him: "Sir, if you hang your shield in the land of the Prussian lords, I am sure your shield-bearer will buckle your armor." "What do you mean! Don't you know that a Krzyzak, being a monk, cannot have a lady nor be in love with one, because it is forbidden him." "I do not know whether it is forbidden them or not; but I know that they have them. It is true that a Krzyzak cannot fight a duel without bringing reproach on himself, because he swore that he would fight only for the faith; but besides the monks, there are many secular knights from distant countries, who came to help the Prussian lords. They are looking for some one to fight with, and especially the French knights." "_Owa!_ I saw them at Wilno, and with God's permission I shall see them in Marienburg. I need the peacocks' crests from their helmets, because I made a vow--do you understand?" "Sir, I will sell you two or three drops of the perspiration, which St. George shed while fighting with the dragon. There is no relic, which could be more useful to a knight. Give me the horse for it, on which you permitted me to ride; then I will also give you an indulgence for the Christian blood which you will shed in the fight." "Let me be, or I shall become angry. I shall not buy your wares until I know they are genuine." "You are going, sir, so you have said, to the Mazowiecki court. Ask there how many relics they bought from me, the princess herself, the knights and the girls for their weddings, at which I was present." "For what weddings?" asked Zbyszko. "As is customary before advent, the knights were marrying as soon as they could, because the people are expecting that there will be a war between the Polish king and the Prussian lords about the province of Dobrzyn. Therefore some of them say: 'God knows whether I shall return.'" Zbyszko was very anxious to hear about the war, but still more anxious to hear about the weddings, of which Sanderus was talking; therefore he asked: "Which girls were married there?" "The princess' ladies-in-waiting. I do not know whether even one remained, because I heard the princess say that she would be obliged to look for other attendants." Having heard this, Zbyszko was silent for awhile; then he asked in an altered voice: "Was _Panna_ Danuta Jurandówna, whose name is on the board, married also?" Sanderus hesitated before he answered. He did not know anything correctly himself; then he thought that if he kept the knight anxious and perplexed, he would have more influence over him. He wanted to retain his power over this knight who had a goodly retinue, and was well provided with everything. Zbyszko's youth led him to suppose that he would be a generous lord, without forethought and careless of money. He had noticed already the costly armor made in Milan, and the enormous stallions, which everybody could not possess; then he assured himself that if he traveled with such a knight, he would receive hospitality in noblemen's houses, and a good opportunity to sell his indulgences; he would be safe during the journey, and have abundance of food and drink, about which he cared greatly. Therefore having heard Zbyszko's question, he frowned, lifted his eyes as if he were trying to recollect, and answered: "_Panna_ Danuta Jurandowna? Where is she from?" "Jurandowna Danuta of Spychow." "I saw all of them, but I cannot remember their names." "She is very young; she plays the lute, and amuses the princess with her singing." "Aha--young--plays the lute--there were some young ones married also. Is she dark like an agate?" Zbyszko breathed more freely. "No, that was not she! Danusia is as white as snow, but has pink cheeks." To this Sanderus replied: "One of them, dark as an agate, remained with the princess; the others were almost all married." "You say 'almost all,' therefore not all. For God's sake, if you wish to get anything from me, then try to recollect." "In two or three days I could recollect; the best way will be to give me a horse, on which I can carry my holy wares." "You will get it if you only tell me the truth." At that moment the Czech, who was listening to the conversation, smiled and said: "The truth will be known at the Mazowiecki court." Sanderus looked at him for a while; then he said: "Do you think that I am afraid of the Mazowiecki court?" "I do not say you are afraid of the Mazowiecki court; but neither now, nor after three days will you go away with the horse. If it prove that you were lying, then you will not be able to go on your feet either, because my lord will order me to break them." "Be sure of that!" answered Zbyszko. Sanderus now thought that it would be wiser to be more careful, and said: "If I wanted to lie, I would have said immediately whether she was married or not; but I said: 'I don't remember.' If you had common sense, you would recognize my virtue by that answer." "My common sense is not a brother of your virtue, because that is the sister of a dog." "My virtue does not bark, as your common sense does; and the one who barks when alive, may howl after death." "That is sure! Your virtue will not howl after your death; it will gnash its teeth, provided it does not lose its teeth in the service of the devil while living." Thus they quarreled; the Czech's tongue was ready, and for every word of the German, he answered two. Zbyszko having asked about the road to Lenczyca, ordered the retinue to move forward. Beyond Sieradz, they entered thick forests which covered the greater part of the country; but the highways through these forests, had been paved with logs and ditches dug along the sides, by the order of King Kazimierz. It is true that after his death, during the disturbances of the war aroused by Nalenczs and Grzymalits, the roads were neglected; but during Jadwiga's reign, when peace was restored to the kingdom, shovels were again busy in the marshes, and axes in the forests; soon everywhere between the important cities, merchants could conduct their loaded wagons in safety. The only danger was from wild beasts and robbers; but against the beasts, they had lanterns for night, and crossbows for defence during the day; then there were fewer highway robbers than in other countries, and one who traveled with an armed retinue, need fear nothing. Zbyszko was not afraid of robbers nor of armed knights; he did not even think about them. But he was filled with great anxiety, and longed with his whole soul to be at the Mazowiecki court. Would he find Danusia still a lady-in-waiting of the princess, or the wife of some Mazowiecki knight? Sometimes it seemed to him impossible that she should forget him; then sometimes he thought that perhaps Jurand went to the court from Spychow and married the girl to some neighbor or friend. Jurand had told him in Krakow, that he could not give Danusia to him; therefore it was evident that he had promised her to somebody else; evidently he was bound by an oath, and now he had fulfilled his promise. Zbyszko called Sanderus and questioned him again; but the German prevaricated more and more. Therefore, Zbyszko was riding along, sad and unhappy. He did not think about Bogdaniec, nor about Zgorzelice, but only how he should act. First, it was necessary to ascertain the truth at the Mazowiecki court; therefore, he rode hastily, only stopping for a short time at the houses of noblemen, in the inns and in the cities to rest the horses. He had never ceased to love Danusia; but while in Bogdaniec and Zgorzelice, chatting almost every day with Jagienka and admiring her beauty, he had not thought about Danusia often. Now she was constantly in his thoughts, day and night. Even in his sleep, he saw her standing before him, with a lute in her hands and a garland on her head. She stretched her hands toward him, and Jurand drew her away. In the morning, when the dreams disappeared, a greater longing came, and he loved this girl more than ever now, when he was uncertain whether they had taken her from him or not. Sometimes he feared that they had married her against her will; therefore, he was not angry with her, as she was only a child and could not have her own will. But he was angry with Jurand and with Princess Januszowna. He determined that he would not cease to serve her; even if he found her somebody else's wife, he would deposit the peacocks' crests at her feet. Sometimes he was consoled by the thought of a great war. He felt that during the war, he would forget about everything and that he would escape all sorrows and griefs. The great war seemed suspended in the air. It was not known whence the news came, because there was peace between the king and the Order; nevertheless, wherever Zbyszko went, nothing else was talked about. The people had a presentiment that it would come, and some of them said openly: "Why were we united with Litwa, if not against those wolves, the Knights of the Cross? Therefore we must finish with them once for all, or they will destroy us." Others said: "Crazy monks! They are not satisfied with Plowce! Death is over them, and still they have taken the land of Dobrzyn." In all parts of the kingdom, they were making preparations, gravely, without boasting, as was customary for a fight for life or death; but with the silent, deadly grudge of a mighty nation, which had suffered wrongs for a long time, and finally was ready to administer a terrible punishment. In all the houses of the nobility, Zbyszko met people who were convinced that at any moment one might be obliged to mount his horse. Zbyszko was pleased to see these hasty preparations which he met at every step. Everywhere other cares gave way to thoughts about horses and armor. Everywhere the people were gravely inspecting spears, swords, axes, helmets and javelins. The blacksmiths were busy day and night, hammering iron sheets and making heavy armor, which could hardly be lifted by the refined western knights, but which the strong noblemen of Wielko and Malopolska could wear very easily. The old people were pulling out musty bags full of _grzywns_[92] from their chests, for the war expedition of their children. Once Zbyszko passed the night in the house of a wealthy nobleman, Bartosz of Bielaw, who having twenty-two sturdy sons, pledged his numerous estates to the monastery in Lowicz, to purchase twenty-two suits of armor, the same number of helmets and weapons of war. Zbyszko now realized that it would be necessary to go to Prussia, and he thanked God that he was so well provided. Many thought that he was the son of a _wojewoda_; and when he told the people that he was a simple nobleman, and that armor such as he wore, could be bought from the Germans by paying for it with a good blow of an axe, their hearts were filled with enthusiasm for war. Many a knight seeing that armor, and desiring to possess it, followed Zbyszko, and said: "Will you not fight for it?" In Mazowsze, the people did not talk so much about the war. They also believed that it would come, but they did not know when. In Warszawa there was peace. The court was in Ciechanow, which Prince Janusz rebuilt after the Lithuanian invasion; nothing of the old town remained, only the castle. In the city of Warszawa, Zbyszko was received by Jasko Socha, the _starosta_[93] of the castle, and the son of the _wojewoda_ Abraham, who was killed at Worskla. Jasko knew Zbyszko, because he was with the princess in Krakow; therefore he received him hospitably and with joy; but the young man, before he began to eat or drink, asked Jasko about Danusia. But he did not know anything about her, because the prince and the princess had been in Ciechanow since fall. In Warszawa there were only a few archers and himself, to guard the castle. He had heard that there had been feasts and weddings in Ciechanow; but he did not know which girls were married. "But I think," said he, "that Jurandowna is not married; it could not be done without Jurand, and I have not heard of his arrival. There are two brothers of the Order, _comthurs_, with the prince; one from Jansbork and the other from Szczytno, and also some foreign guests; on such occasions, Jurand never goes to the court, because the sight of a white mantle enrages him. If Jurand were not there, there would be no wedding! If you wish, I will send a messenger to ascertain and tell him to return, immediately; but I firmly believe that you will find Jurandowna still a girl." "I am going there to-morrow myself; but may God reward you for your kindness. As soon as the horses are rested, I will go, because I shall have no peace, until I know the truth." But Socha was not satisfied with that, and inquired among the nobles and the soldiers if they had heard about Jurandowna's wedding. But nobody had heard anything, although there were several among them who had been in Ciechanow. Meanwhile Zbyszko retired greatly relieved. While lying in bed he decided to get rid of Sanderus; but afterward he thought that the scoundrel might be useful to him because he could speak German. Sanderus had not told him a falsehood; and although he was a costly acquisition, because he ate and drank as much as four men would in the inns, still he was serviceable, and showed some attachment for the young knight. Then he possessed the art of writing, and that gave him a superiority over the shield-bearer, the Czech, and even over Zbyszko himself. Consequently Zbyszko permitted him to accompany his retinue to Ciechanow. Sanderus was glad of this, because he noticed that being in respectable company, he won confidence and found purchasers for his wares more easily. After stopping one night in Nasielsk, riding neither too swiftly nor too slowly, they perceived next day toward evening, the walls of the castle of Ciechanow. Zbyszko stopped in an inn to don his armor, so as to enter the castle according to knightly custom, with his helmet on his head and his spear in his hand; then he mounted his enormous stallion, and having made the sign of the cross in the air, he rushed forward. He had gone only a short distance, when the Czech who was riding behind him, drew near and said: "Your Grace, some knights are coming behind us; they must be Krzyzaks." Zbyszko turned and saw about half a furlong behind him, a splendid retinue at the head of which there were riding two knights on fine Pomeranian horses, both in full armor, each of them wearing a white mantle with a black cross, and a helmet having a high crest of peacock's feathers. "For God's sake, Krzyzacy!" said Zbyszko. Involuntarily he leaned forward in his saddle and aimed his spear; seeing this the Czech seized his axe. The other attendants being experienced in war, were also ready, not for a fight, because the servants did not participate in single combat, but to measure the space for the fight on horseback, or to level the ground for the fight on foot. The Czech alone, being a nobleman, was ready to fight; but he expected that Zbyszko would challenge before he attacked, and he was surprised to see the young knight aim his spear before the challenge. But Zbyszko came to his senses in time. He remembered how he attacked Lichtenstein near Krakow, and all the misfortunes which followed; therefore he raised the spear and handed it to the Czech. Without drawing his sword, he galloped toward the Krzyzaks. When he came near them, he noticed that there was a third knight, also with a peacock's crest on his helmet, and a fourth, without armor, but having long hair, who seemed to be a Mazur. Seeing them, he concluded that they must be some envoys to the prince of Mazowiecki; therefore he said aloud: "May Jesus Christ be praised!" "For ages and ages!" answered the long-haired knight. "May God speed you!" "And you also, sir!" "Glory be to St. George!" "He is our patron. You are welcome, sir." Then they began to bow; Zbyszko told his name, who he was, what his coat of arms was, what his war-cry was and whence he was going to the Mazowiecki court. The long-haired knight said that his name was Jendrek of Kropiwnica and that he was conducting some guests to the prince; Brother Godfried, Brother Rotgier, also Sir Fulko de Lorche of Lotaringen, who being with the Knights of the Cross, wished to see the prince and especially the princess, the daughter of the famous "Kiejstut." While they were conversing, the foreign knights sat erect on their horses, occasionally bending their heads which were covered with iron helmets ornamented with peacocks' tufts. Judging from Zbyszko's splendid armor, they thought that the prince had sent some important personage, perhaps his own son, to meet them. Jendrek of Kropiwnica said further: "The _comthur_, or as we would say the _starosta_ from Jansbork is at our prince's castle; he told the prince about these knights; that they desired to visit him, but that they did not dare, especially this knight from Lotaringen, who being from a far country, thought that the Saracens lived right beyond the frontier of the Knights of the Cross, and that there was continual war with them. The prince immediately sent me to the boundary, to conduct them safely to his castle." "Could they not come without your help!" "Our nation is very angry with the Krzyzaks, because of their great treacherousness; a Krzyzak will hug and kiss you, but he is ready in the same moment to stab you with a knife from behind; and such conduct is odious to us Mazurs. Nevertheless anyone will receive even a German in his house, and will not wrong his guest; but he would stop him on the road. There are many who do this for vengeance, or for glory." "Who among you is the most famous?" "There is one whom all Germans fear to meet; his name is Jurand of Spychow." The heart of the young knight throbbed when he heard that name; immediately he determined to question Jendrek of Kropiwnica. "I know!" said he; "I heard about him; his daughter Danuta was girl-in-waiting with the princess; afterward she was married." Having said this, he looked sharply into the eyes of the Mazowiecki knight, who answered with great astonishment: "Who told you that? She is very young yet. It is true that it sometimes happens that very young girls are married, but Jurandowna is not married. I left Ciechanow six days ago and I saw her then with the princess. How could she marry during advent?" Zbyszko having heard this, wanted to seize the knight by the neck and shout: "May God reward you for the news!" but he controlled himself, and said: "I heard that Jurand gave her to some one." "It was the princess who wished to give her, but she could not do it against Jurand's will. She wanted to give her to a knight in Krakow, who made a vow to the girl, and whom she loves." "Does she love him?" exclaimed Zbyszko. At this Jendrek looked sharply at him, smiled and said: "Do you know, you are too inquisitive about that girl." "I am asking about my friend to whom I am going." One could hardly see Zbyszko's face under the helmet; but his nose and cheeks were so red that the Mazur, who was fond of joking, said: "I am afraid that the cold makes your face red!" Then the young man grew still more confused, and answered: "It must be that." They moved forward and rode silently for some time; but after a while Jendrek of Kropiwnica asked: "What do they call you? I did not hear distinctly?" "Zbyszko of Bogdaniec." "For heaven's sake! The knight who made a vow to Jurandowna, had the same name." "Do you think that I shall deny that I am he?" answered Zbyszko, proudly. "There is no reason for doing so. Gracious Lord, then you are that Zbyszko whom the girl covered with her veil! After the retinue returned from Krakow, the women of the court talked about nothing else, and many of them cried while listening to the story. Then you are he! Hej! how happy they will be to see you at the court; even the princess is very fond of you." "May the Lord bless her, and you also for the good news. I suffered greatly when I heard that Danusia was married." "She is not married! Although she will inherit Spychow, and there are many handsome youths at the court, yet not one of them looks into her eyes, because all respect your vow; then the princess would not permit it. Hej! there will be great joy. Sometimes they teased the girl! Some one would tell her: 'Your knight will not come back!' Then she would reply: 'He will be back! He will be back!' Sometimes they told her that you had married another; then she cried." These words made Zbyszko feel very tender; he also felt angry because Danusia had been vexed; therefore he said: "I shall challenge those who said such things about me!" Jendrek of Kropiwnica began to laugh and said: "The women teased her! Will you challenge a woman? You cannot do anything with a sword against a distaff." Zbyszko was pleased that he had met such a cheerful companion; he began to ask Jendrek about Danusia. He also inquired about the customs of the Mazowiecki court, about Prince Janusz, and about the princess. Finally he told what he had heard about the war during his journey, and how the people were making preparations for it, and were expecting it every day. He asked whether the people in the principalities of Mazowsze, thought it would soon come. The heir of Kropiwnica did not think that the war was near. The people said that it could not be avoided; but he had heard the prince himself say to Mikolaj of Dlugolas, that the Knights of the Cross were very peaceable now, and if the king only insisted, they would restore the province of Dobrzyn to Poland; or they would try to delay the whole affair, until they were well prepared, "The prince went to Malborg a short time ago," said he, "where during the absence of the grand master, the grand marshal received him and entertained him with great hospitality; now there are some _comthurs_ here, and other guests are coming." Here he stopped for a while, and then added: "The people say that the Krzyzaks have a purpose in coming here and in going to Plock to the court of Prince Ziemowit. They would like to have the princes pledge themselves not to help the king but to aid them; or if they do not agree to help the Krzyzaks, that at least they will remain neutral; but the princes will not do that." "God will not permit it. Would you stay home? Your princes belong to the kingdom of Poland!" "No, we would not stay home," answered Jendrek of Kropiwnica. Zbyszko again glanced at the foreign knights, and at their peacocks' tufts, and asked: "Are these knights going for that purpose?" "They are brothers of the Order and perhaps that is their motive. Who understands them?" "And that third one?" "He is going because he is inquisitive." "He must be some famous knight." "Bah! three heavily laden wagons follow him, and he has nine men in his escort. I would like to fight with such a man!" "Can you not do it?" "Of course not! The prince commanded me to guard them. Not one hair shall fall from their heads until they reach Ciechanow." "Suppose I challenge them? Perhaps they would desire to fight with me?" "Then you would be obliged to fight with me first, because I will not permit you to fight with them while I live." Zbyszko looked at the young nobleman in a friendly way, and said: "You understand what knightly honor is. I shall not fight with you, because I am your friend; but in Ciechanow, God will help me to find some pretext for a challenge to the Germans." "In Ciechanow you can do what you please. I am sure there will be tournaments; then you can fight, if the prince and the _comthurs_ give permission." "I have a board on which is written a challenge for anyone who will not affirm that _Panna_ Danuta Jurandowna is the most virtuous and the most beautiful girl in the world; but everywhere the people shrugged their shoulders and laughed." "Because it is a foreign custom; and speaking frankly, a stupid one which is not known in our country, except near the boundaries. That Lotaringer tried to pick a quarrel with some noblemen, asking them to praise some lady of his; but nobody could understand him, and I would not let them fight." "What? He wanted to praise his lady? For God's sake!" He looked closely at the foreign knight, and saw that his young face was full of sadness, he also perceived with astonishment that the knight had a rope made of hairs round his neck. "Why does he wear that rope?" asked Zbyszko. "I could not find out, because they do not understand our language, Brother Rotgier can say a few words, but not very well either. But I think that this young knight has made a vow to wear that rope until he has accomplished some knightly deed. During the day, he wears it outside of his armor, but during the night, on the bare flesh." "Sanderus!" called Zbyszko, suddenly "At your service," answered the German, approaching "Ask this knight, who is the most virtuous and the most beautiful girl in the world." Sanderus repeated the question in German. "Ulryka von Elner!" answered Fulko de Lorche. Then he raised his eyes and began to sigh. Zbyszko hearing this answer, was indignant, and reined in his stallion; but before he could reply, Jendrek of Kropiwnica, pushed his horse between him and the foreigner, and said: "You shall not quarrel here!" Zbyszko turned to Sanderus and said: "Tell him that I say that he is in love with an owl." "Noble knight, my master says that you are in love with an owl!" repeated Sanderus, like an echo. At this Sir de Lorche dropped his reins, drew the iron gauntlet from his right hand and threw it in the snow in front of Zbyszko, who motioned to the Czech to lift it with the point of his spear. Jendrek of Kropiwnica, turned toward Zbyszko with a threatening face, and said: "You shall not fight; I shall permit neither of you." "I did not challenge him; he challenged me." "But you called his lady an owl. Enough of this! I also know how to use a sword." "But I do not wish to fight with you." "You will be obliged to, because I have sworn to defend the other knight." "Then what shall I do?" asked Zbyszko. "Wait; we are near Ciechanow." "But what will the German think?" "Your servant must explain to him that he cannot fight here; that first you must receive the prince's permission, and he, the _comthur's_." "Bah! suppose they will not give permission." "Then you will find each other. Enough of this talk." Zbyszko, seeing that he could not do otherwise, because Jendrek of Kropiwnica would not permit them to fight, called Sanderus, and told him to explain to the Lotaringer knight, that they could fight only in Ciechanow. De Lorche having listened, nodded to signify that he understood; then having stretched his hand toward Zbyszko, he pressed the palm three times, which according to the knightly custom, meant that they must fight, no matter when or where. Then in an apparent good understanding, they moved on toward the castle of Ciechanow, whose towers one could see reflected on the pink sky. It was daylight when they arrived; but after they announced themselves at the gate, it was dark before the bridge was lowered. They were received by Zbyszko's former acquaintance, Mikolaj of Dlugolas, who commanded the garrison consisting of a few knights and three hundred of the famous archers of Kurpie.[94] To his great sorrow, Zbyszko learned that the court was absent. The prince wishing to honor the _comthurs_ of Szczytno and Jansbork, arranged for them a great hunting party in the Krupiecka wilderness; the princess, with her ladies-in-waiting went also, to give more importance to the occasion. Ofka, the widow of Krzych[95] of Jarzombkow, was key-keeper, and the only woman in the castle whom Zbyszko knew. She was very glad to see him. Since her return from Krakow, she had told everybody about his love for Danusia, and the incident about Lichtenstein. These stories made her very popular among the younger ladies and girls of the court; therefore she was fond of Zbyszko. She now tried to console the young man in his sorrow, caused by Danusia's absence. "You will not recognize her," she said. "She is growing older, and is a little girl no longer; she loves you differently, also. You say your uncle is well? Why did he not come with you?" "I will let my horses rest for a while and then I will go to Danusia. I will go during the night," answered Zbyszko. "Do so, but take a guide from the castle, or you will be lost in the wilderness." In fact after supper, which Mikolaj of Dlugolas ordered to be served to the guests, Zbyszko expressed his desire to go after the prince, and he asked for a guide. The brothers of the Order, wearied by the journey, approached the enormous fireplaces in which were burning the entire trunks of pine trees, and said that they would go the next day. But de Lorche expressed his desire to go with Zbyszko, saying that otherwise he might miss the hunting party, and he wished to see them very much. Then he approached Zbyszko, and having extended his hand, he again pressed his fingers three times. CHAPTER IV. Mikolaj of Dlugolas having learned from Jendrek of Kropiwnica about the challenge, required both Zbyszko and the other knight to give him their knightly word that they would not fight without the prince and the _comthur's_ permission; if they refused, he said he would shut the gates and not permit them to leave the castle. Zbyszko wished to see Danusia as soon as possible, consequently he did not resist; de Lorche, although willing to fight when necessary, was not a bloodthirsty man, therefore he swore upon his knightly honor, to wait for the prince's consent. He did it willingly, because having heard so many songs about tournaments and being fond of pompous feasts, he preferred to fight in the presence of the court, the dignitaries and the ladies; he believed that such a victory would bring greater renown, and he would win the golden spurs more easily. Then he was also anxious to become acquainted with the country and the people, therefore he preferred a delay. Mikolaj of Dlugolas, who had been in captivity among the Germans a long time, and could speak the language easily, began to tell him marvelous tales about the prince's hunting parties for different kinds of beasts not known in the western countries. Therefore Zbyszko and he left the castle about midnight, and went toward Przasnysz, having with them their armed retinues, and men with lanterns to protect them against the wolves, which gathering during the winter in innumerable packs, it was dangerous even for several well armed cavaliers to meet. On this side of Ciechanow there were deep forests, which a short distance beyond Przasnysz were merged into the enormous Kurpiecka wilderness, which on the west joined the impassable forest of Podlasie, and further on Lithuania. Through these forests the Lithuanian barbarians came to Mazowsze, and in 1337 reached Ciechanow, which they burned. De Lorche listened with the greatest interest to the stories, told him by the old guide, Macko of Turoboje. He desired to fight with the Lithuanians, whom as many other western knights did, he had thought were Saracens. In fact he had come on a crusade, wishing to gain fame and salvation. He thought that a war with the Mazurs, half heathenish people, would secure for him entire pardon. Therefore he could scarcely believe his own eyes, when having reached Mazowsze, he saw churches in the towns, crosses on the towers, priests, knights with holy signs on their armor and the people, very daring indeed, and ready for a fight, but Christian and not more rapacious than the Germans, among whom the young knight had traveled. Therefore, when he was told that these people had confessed Christ for centuries, he did not know what to think about the Knights of the Cross; and when he learned that Lithuania was baptized by the command of the late queen, his surprise and sorrow were boundless. He began to inquire from Macko of Turoboje, if in the forest toward which they were riding, there were any dragons to whom the people were obliged to sacrifice young girls, and with whom one could fight. But Macko's answer greatly disappointed him. "In the forest, there are many beasts, wolves, bisons and bears with which there is plenty of work," answered the Mazur. "Perhaps in the swamps there are some unclean spirits; but I never heard about dragons, and even if they were there, we would not give them girls, but we would destroy them. Bah! had there been any, the Kurpie would have worn belts of their skins long ago." "What kind of people are they; is it possible to fight with them?" asked de Lorche. "One can fight with them, but it is not desirable," answered Macko; "and then it is not proper for a knight, because they are peasants." "The Swiss are peasants also. Do they confess Christ?" "There are no such people in Mazowsze. They are our people. Did you see the archers in the castles? They are all the Kurpie, because there are no better archers than they are." "They cannot be better than the Englishmen and the Scotch, whom I saw at the Burgundian court." "I have seen them also in Malborg," interrupted the Mazur. "They are strong, but they cannot compare with the Kurpie, among whom a boy seven years old, will not be allowed to eat, until he has knocked the food with an arrow from the summit of a pine." "About what are you talking?" suddenly asked Zbyszko, who had heard the word "Kurpie" several times. "About the English and the Kurpiecki archers. This knight says that the English and the Scotch are the best." "I saw them at Wilno. Owa! I heard their darts passing my ears. There were knights there from all countries, and they announced that they would eat us up without salt; but after they tried once or twice, they lost their appetite." Macko laughed and repeated Zbyszko's words to Sir de Lorche. "I have heard about that at different courts," answered the Lotaringer; "they praised your knights' bravery, but they blamed them because they helped the heathen against the Knights of the Cross." "We defended the nation which wished to be baptized, against invasion and wrong. The Germans wished to keep them in idolatry, so as to have a pretext for war." "God shall judge them," answered de Lorche. "Perhaps He will judge them soon," answered Macko of Turoboje. But the Lotaringer having heard that Zbyszko had been at Wilno, began to question Macko, because the fame of the knightly combats fought there, had spread widely throughout the world. That duel, fought by four Polish and four French knights, especially excited the imagination of western warriors. The consequence was that de Lorche began to look at Zbyszko with more respect, as upon a man who had participated in such a famous battle; he also rejoiced that he was going to fight with such a knight. Therefore they rode along apparently good friends, rendering each other small services during the time for refreshment on the journey and treating each other with wine. But when it appeared from the conversation between de Lorche and Macko of Turoboje, that Ulryka von Elner was not a young girl, but a married woman forty years old and having six children, Zbyszko became indignant, because this foreigner dared not only to compare an old woman with Danusia, but even asked him to acknowledge her to be the first among women. "Do you not think," said he to Macko, "that an evil spirit has turned his brain? Perhaps the devil is sitting in his head like a worm in a nut and is ready to jump on one of us during the night. We must be on our guard." Macko of Turoboje began to look at the Lotaringer with a certain uneasiness and finally said: "Sometimes it happens that there are hundreds of devils in a possessed man, and if they are crowded, they are glad to go in other people. The worst devil is the one sent by a woman." Then he turned suddenly to the knight: "May Jesus Christ be praised!" "I praise him also," answered de Lorche, with some astonishment. Macko was completely reassured. "No, don't you see," said he, "if the devil were dwelling in him, he would have foamed immediately, or he would have been thrown to the earth, because I asked him suddenly. We can go." In fact, they proceeded quietly. The distance between Ciechanow and Przasnysz is not great, and during the summer a cavalier riding a good horse can travel from one city to the other in two hours; but they were riding very slowly on account of the darkness and the drifts of snow. They started after midnight and did not arrive at the prince's hunting house, situated near the woods, beyond Przasnysz, until daybreak. The wooden mansion was large and the panes of the windows were made of glass balls. In front of the house were the well-sweeps and two barns for horses, and round the mansion were many tents made of skins and booths hastily built of the branches of pine trees. The fires shone brightly in front of the tents, and round them were standing the huntsmen who were dressed in coats made of sheepskins, foxskins, wolfskins and bearskins, and having the hair turned outside. It seemed to Sir de Lorche that he saw some wild beasts standing on two legs, because the majority of these men had caps made of the heads of animals. Some of them were standing, leaning on their spears or crossbows; others were busy winding enormous nets made of ropes; others were turning large pieces of urus and elk meat which was hanging over the fire, evidently preparing for breakfast. Behind them were the trunks of enormous pines and more people; the great number of people astonished the Lotaringer who was not accustomed to see such large hunting parties. "Your princes," said he, "go to a hunt as if to a war." "To be sure," answered Macko of Turoboje; "they lack neither hunting implements nor people." "What are we going to do?" interrupted Zbyszko; "they are still asleep in the mansion." "Well, we must wait until they get up," answered Macko; "we cannot knock at the door and awaken the prince, our lord." Having said this, he conducted them to a fire, near which the Kurpie threw some wolfskins and urusskins, and then offered them some roasted meat. Hearing a foreign speech, the people began to gather round to see the German. Soon the news was spread by Zbyszko's attendants that there was a knight "from beyond the seas," and the crowd became so great that the lord of Turoboje was obliged to use his authority to shield the foreigner from their curiosity. De Lorche noticed some women in the crowd also dressed in skins, but very beautiful; he inquired whether they also participated in the hunt. Macko explained to him that they did not take part in the hunting, but only came to satisfy their womanly curiosity, or to purchase the products of the towns and to sell the riches of the forest. The court of the prince was like a fireplace, round which were concentrated two elements--rural and civic. The Kurpie disliked to leave their wilderness, because they felt uneasy without the rustling of the trees above their heads; therefore the inhabitants of Przasnysz brought their famous beer, their flour ground in wind mills or water mills built on the river Wengierka, salt which was very rare in the wilderness, iron, leather and other fruits of human industry, taking in exchange skins, costly furs, dried mushrooms, nuts, herbs, good in case of sickness, or clods of amber which were plentiful among the Kurpie. Therefore round the prince's court there was the noise of a continual market, increased during the hunting parties, because duty and curiosity attracted the inhabitants from the depths of the forests. De Lorche listened to Macko, looking with curiosity at the people, who, living in the healthy resinous air and eating much meat as was the custom with the majority of the peasants in those days, astonished the foreign travelers by their strength and size. Zbyszko was continually looking at the doors and windows of the mansion, hardly able to remain quiet. There was light in one window only, evidently in the kitchen, because steam was coming out through the gapes between the panes. In the small doors, situated in the side of the house, servants in the prince's livery appeared from time to time, hurrying to the wells for water. These men being asked if everybody was still sleeping, answered that the court, wearied by the previous day's hunting, was still resting, but that breakfast was being prepared. In fact through the window of the kitchen, there now issued the smell of roasted meat and saffron, spreading far among the fires. Finally the principal door was opened, showing the interior of a brightly lighted hall, and on the piazza appeared a man whom Zbyszko immediately recognized as one of the _rybalts_, whom he had seen with the princess in Krakow. Having perceived him, and waiting neither for Macko of Turoboje, nor for de Lorche, Zbyszko rushed with such an impetus toward the mansion, that the astonished Lotaringer asked: "What is the matter with the young knight?" "There is nothing the matter with him," answered Macko of Turoboje; "he is in love with a girl of the princess' court and he wants to see her as soon as possible." "Ah!" answered de Lorche, putting both of his hands on his heart. He began to sigh so deeply that Macko shrugged his shoulders and said to himself: "Is it possible that he is sighing for that old woman? It may be that his senses are impaired!" In the meanwhile he conducted de Lorche into the large hall of the mansion which was ornamented with the horns of bisons, elks and deer, and was lighted by the large logs burning in the fireplace. In the middle of the hall stood a table covered with _kilimek_[96] and dishes for breakfast; there were only a few courtiers present, with whom Zbyszko was talking. Macko of Turoboje introduced Sir de Lorche to them. More courtiers were coming at every moment; the majority of them were fine looking men, with broad shoulders and fallow hair; all were dressed for hunting. Those who were acquainted with Zbyszko and were familiar with his adventure in Krakow, greeted him as an old friend--it was evident that they liked him. One of them said to him: "The princess is here and Jurandowna also; you will see her soon, my dear boy; then you will go with us to the hunting party." At this moment the two guests of the prince, the Knights of the Cross, entered: brother Hugo von Danveld, _starosta_ of Ortelsburg,[97] and Zygfried von Löve, bailiff of Jansbork. The first was quite a young man, but stout, having a face like a beer drunkard, with thick, moist lips; the other was tall with stern but noble features. It seemed to Zbyszko that he had seen Danveld before at the court of Prince Witold and that Henryk, bishop of Plock, had thrown him from his horse during the combat in the lists. These reminiscences were disturbed by the entrance of Prince Janusz, whom the Knights of the Cross and the courtiers saluted. De Lorche, the _comthurs_ and Zbyszko also approached him, and he welcomed them cordially but with dignity. Immediately the trumpets resounded, announcing that the prince was going to breakfast; they resounded three times; and the third time, a large door to the right was opened and Princess Anna appeared, accompanied by the beautiful blonde girl who had a lute hanging on her shoulder. Zbyszko immediately stepped forward and kneeled on both knees in a position full of worship and admiration. Seeing this, those present began to whisper, because Zbyszko's action surprised the Mazurs and some of them were even scandalized. Some of the older ones said: "Surely he learned such customs from some knights living beyond the sea, or perhaps even from the heathen themselves, because there is no custom like it even among the Germans." But the younger ones said: "No wonder, she saved his life." But the princess and Jurandowna did not recognize Zbyszko at once, because he kneeled with his back toward the fire and his face was in the shadow. The princess thought that it was some courtier, who, having been guilty of some offence, besought her intervention with the prince; but Danusia having keener sight, advanced one step, and having bent her fair head, cried suddenly: "Zbyszko!" Then forgetting that the whole court and the foreign guests were looking at her, she sprang like a roe toward the young knight and encircling his neck with her arms, began to kiss his mouth and his cheeks, nestling to him and caressing him so long that the Mazurs laughed and the princess drew her back. Then Zbyszko embraced the feet of the princess; she welcomed him, and asked about Macko, whether he was alive or not, and if alive whether he had accompanied Zbyszko. Finally when the servants brought in warm dishes, she said to Zbyszko: "Serve us, dear little knight, and perhaps not only now at the table, but forever." Danusia was blushing and confused, but was so beautiful, that not only Zbyszko but all the knights present were filled with pleasure; the _starosta_ of Szczytno, put the palm of his hands to his thick, moist lips; de Lorche was amazed, and asked: "By Saint Jacob of Compostella, who is that girl?" To this the _starosta_ of Szczytno, who was short, stood on his toes and whispered in the ear of the Lotaringer: "The devil's daughter." De Lorche looked at him; then he frowned and began to say through his nose: "A knight who talks against beauty is not gallant." "I wear golden spurs, and I am a monk," answered Hugo von Danveld, proudly. The Lotaringer dropped his head; but after awhile he said: "I am a relative of the princess of Brabant." "_Pax! Pax!_" answered the Knight of the Cross. "Honor to the mighty knights and friends of the Order from whom, sir, you shall soon receive your golden spurs. I do not disparage the beauty of that girl; but listen, I will tell you who is her father." But he did not have time to tell him, because at that moment, Prince Janusz seated himself at the table; and having learned before from the bailiff of Jansbork about the mighty relatives of Sir de Lorche, he invited him to sit beside him. The princess and Danusia were seated opposite. Zbyszko stood as he did in Krakow, behind their chairs, to serve them. Danusia held her head as low as possible over the plate, because she was ashamed. Zbyszko looked with ecstasy at her little head and pink cheeks; and he felt his love, like a river, overflowing his whole breast. He could also feel her sweet kisses on his face, his eyes and his mouth. Formerly she used to kiss him as a sister kisses a brother, and he received the kisses as from a child. Now Danusia seemed to him older and more mature--in fact she had grown and blossomed. Love was so much talked about in her presence, that as a flower bud warmed by the sun, takes color and expands, so her eyes were opened to love; consequently there was a certain charm in her now, which formerly she lacked, and a strong intoxicating attraction beamed from her like the warm beams from the sun, or the fragrance from the rose. Zbyszko felt it, but he could not explain it to himself. He even forgot that at the table one must serve. He did not see that the courtiers were laughing at him and Danusia. Neither did he notice Sir de Lorche's face, which expressed great astonishment, nor the covetous eyes of the _starosta_ from Szczytno, who was gazing constantly at Danusia. He awakened only when the trumpets again sounded giving notice that it was time to go into the wilderness, and when the princess Anna Danuta, turning toward him said: "You will accompany us; you will then have an opportunity to speak to Danusia about your love." Having said this, she went out with Danusia to dress for the ride on horseback. Zbyszko rushed to the court-yard, where the horses covered with frost were standing. There was no longer a great crowd, because the men whose duty it was to hem in the beasts, had already gone forward into the wilderness with the nets. The fires were quenched; the day was bright but cold. Soon the prince appeared and mounted his horse; behind him was an attendant with a crossbow and a spear so long and heavy, that very few could handle it; but the prince used it very easily, because like the other Mazovian Piasts, he was very strong. There were even women in that family so strong that they could roll iron axes,[98] between their fingers. The prince was also attended by two men, who were prepared to help him in any emergency: they had been chosen from among the landowners of the provinces of Warszawa and Ciechanow; they had shoulders like the trunks of oak trees. Sir de Lorche gazed at them with amazement. In the meanwhile, the princess and Danusia came out; both wore hoods made of the skins of white weasels. This worthy daughter of Kiejstut could _stitch_ with a bow better than with a needle; therefore her attendants carried a crossbow behind her. Zbyszko having kneeled on the snow, extended the palm of his hand, on which the princess rested her foot while mounting her horse; then he lifted Danusia into her saddle and they all started. The retinue stretched in a long column, turned to the right from the mansion, and then began slowly to enter the forest. Then the princess turned to Zbyszko and said: "Why don't you talk? Speak to her." Zbyszko, although thus encouraged, was still silent for a moment; but, after quite a long silence, he said: "Danuska!" "What, Zbyszku?" "I love you!" Here he again stopped, searching for words which he could not find; although he kneeled before the girl like a foreign knight, and showed her his respect in every way, still he could not express his love in words. Therefore he said: "My love for you is so great that it stops my breathing." "I also love you, Zbyszku!" said she, hastily. "Hej, my dearest! hej, my sweet girl" exclaimed Zbyszko. "Hej!" Then he was silent, full of blissful emotion; but the good-hearted and curious princess helped them again. "Tell her," said she, "how lonesome you were without her, and when we come to a thicket, you may kiss her; that will be the best proof of your love." Therefore he began to tell how lonesome he was without her in Bogdaniec, while taking care of Macko and visiting among the neighbors. But the cunning fellow did not say a word about Jagienka. When the first thicket separated them from the courtiers and the guests, he bent toward her and kissed her. During the winter there are no leaves on the hazel bushes, therefore Hugo von Danveld and Sir de Lorche saw him kiss the girl; some of the courtiers also saw him and they began to say among themselves: "He kissed her in the presence of the princess! The lady will surely prepare the wedding for them soon." "He is a daring boy, but Jurand's blood is warm also!" "They are flint-stone and fire-steel, although the girl looks so quiet. Do not be afraid, there will be some sparks from them!" Thus they talked and laughed; but the _starosta_ of Szczytno turned his evil face toward Sir de Lorche and asked: "Sir, would you like some Merlin to change you by his magic power into that knight?"[99] "Would you, sir?" asked de Lorche. To this the Knight of the Cross, who evidently was filled with jealousy, drew the reins of his horse impatiently, and exclaimed: "Upon my soul!" But at that moment he recovered his composure, and having bent his head, he said: "I am a monk and have made a vow of chastity." He glanced quickly at the Lotaringer, fearing he would perceive a smile on his face, because in that respect the Order had a bad reputation among the people; and of all among the monks, Hugo von Danveld had the worst. A few years previous he had been vice-bailiff of Sambia. There were so many complaints against him there that, notwithstanding the tolerance with which the Order looked upon similar cases in Marienburg, the grand master was obliged to remove him and appoint him _starosta_ of the garrison in Szczytno. Afterward he was sent to the prince's court on some secret mission, and having perceived the beautiful Jurandowna, he conceived a violent passion for her, to which even Danusia's extreme youth was no check. But Danveld also knew to what family the girl belonged, and Jurand's name was united in his memory with a painful reminiscence. De Lorche began to question him: "Sir, you called that beautiful girl the devil's daughter; why did you call her that?" Danveld began to relate the story of Zlotorja: how during the restoration of the castle, they captured the prince with the court, and how during that fight Jurandowna's mother died; how since that time Jurand avenged himself on all the Knights of the Cross. Danveld's hatred was apparent during the narration, because he also had some personal reasons for hating Jurand. Two years before, during an encounter, he met Jurand; but the mere sight of that dreadful "Boar of Spychow" so terrified him for the first time in his life that he deserted two of his relatives and his retinue, and fled to Szczytno. For this cowardly act the grand marshal of the Order brought a knightly suit against him; he swore that his horse had become unmanageable and had carried him away from the battlefield; but that incident shut his way to all higher positions in the Order. Of course Danveld did not say anything to Sir de Lorche about that occurrence, but instead he complained so bitterly about Jurand's atrocities and the audacity of the whole Polish nation, that the Lotaringer could not comprehend all he was saying, and said: "But we are in the country of the Mazurs and not of the Polaks." "It is an independent principality but the same nation," answered the _starosta_; "they feel the same hatred against the Order. May God permit the German swords to exterminate all this race!" "You are right, sir; I never heard even among the heathen of such an unlawful deed, as the building of a castle on somebody else's land, as this prince tried to do," said de Lorche. "He built the castle against us, but Zlotorja is situated on his land, not on ours." "Then glory be to Christ that he granted you the victory! What was the result of the war?" "There was no war then?" "What was the meaning of your victory at Zlotorja?" "God favored us; the prince had no army with him, only his court and the women." Here de Lorche looked at the Knight of the Cross with amazement. "What? During the time of peace you attacked the women and the prince, who was building a castle on his own land?" "For the glory of the Order and of Christendom." "And that dreadful knight is seeking vengeance only for the death of his young wife, killed by you during the time of peace?" "Whosoever raises his hand against a Knight of the Cross, is a son of darkness." Hearing this, Sir de Lorche became thoughtful; but he did not have time to answer Danveld, because they arrived at a large, snow-covered glade in the woods, on which the prince and his courtiers dismounted. CHAPTER V. The foresters under the direction of the head huntsman, placed the hunters in a long row at the edge of the forest, in such a way that being hidden themselves, they faced the glade. Nets were fastened along two sides of the glade, and behind these were the men whose duty it was to turn the beasts toward the hunters, or to kill them with spears if they became entangled in the nets. Many of the Kurpie were sent to drive every living thing from the depths of the forest into the glade. Behind the hunters there was another net stretched; if an animal passed the row of hunters, he would be entangled in it and easily killed. The prince was standing in the middle in a small ravine, which extended through the entire width of the glade. The head huntsman, Mrokota of Mocarzew, had chosen that position for the prince because he knew that the largest beasts would pass through this ravine. The prince had a crossbow, and leaning on a tree beside him was a heavy spear; a little behind him stood two gigantic "defenders" with axes on their shoulders, and holding crossbows ready to be handed to the prince. The princess and Jurandowna did not dismount, because the prince would not allow them to do so, on account of the peril from urus and bisons; it was easier to escape the fury of these fierce beasts on horseback than on foot. De Lorche, although invited by the prince to take a position at his right hand, asked permission to remain with the ladies for their defence. Zbyszko drove his spear into the snow, put his crossbow on his back and stood by Danusia's horse, whispering to her and sometimes kissing her. He became quiet only when Mrokota of Mocarzew, who in the forest scolded even the prince himself, ordered him to be silent. In the meanwhile, far in the depths of the wilderness, the horns of the Kurpie were heard, and the noisy sound of a _krzywula_[100] answered from the glade; then perfect silence followed. From time to time the chatter of the squirrels was heard in the tops of the pines. The hunters looked at the snow-covered glade, where only the wind moved the bushes, and asked themselves what kind of animals would first appear. They expected abundant game, because the wilderness was swarming with urus, bisons and boars. The Kurpie had smoked out a few bears which were wandering in the thickets, angry, hungry and watchful. But the hunters were obliged to wait a long time, because the men who were driving the animals toward the glade, had taken a very large space of the forest, and therefore they were so far away that the hunters did not even hear the baying of the dogs, that had been freed from the leashes immediately after the horns resounded. After a while some wolves appeared on the edge of the forest, but having noticed the people, they again plunged into the forest, evidently searching for another pass. Then some boars having emerged from the wilderness, began to run in a long black line through the snowy space, looking from afar like domestic swine. They stopped and listened--turned and listened again: turned toward the nets, but having smelt the men, went in the direction of the hunters, snorting and approaching more and more carefully; finally there resounded the clatter of the iron cranks of the crossbows, the snarl of the bolts and then the first blood spotted the white snow. Then a dreadful squealing resounded and the whole pack dispersed as if struck by a thunderbolt; some of them rushed blindly straight ahead, others ran toward the nets, while still others ran among the other animals, with which the glade was soon covered. The sounds of the horns were heard distinctly, mingled with the howling of the dogs and the bustle of the people coming from the depths of the forest. The wild beasts of the forest driven by the huntsmen soon filled the glade. It was impossible to see anything like it in foreign countries or even in the other Polish provinces; nowhere else was there such a wilderness as there was in Mazowsze. The Knights of the Cross, although they had visited Lithuania, where bisons attacked[101] and brought confusion to the army, were very much astonished at the great number of beasts, and Sir de Lorche was more astonished than they. He beheld in front of him herds of yellow deer and elks with heavy antlers, mingled together and running on the glade, blinded by fear and searching in vain for a safe passage. The princess, in whom Kiejstut's blood began to play, seeing this, shot arrow after arrow, shouting with joy when a deer or an elk which was struck, reared and then fell heavily plowing the snow with his feet. Some of the ladies-in-waiting were also shooting, because all were filled with enthusiasm for the sport. Zbyszko alone did not think about hunting; but having leaned his elbows on Danusia's knees and his head on the palms of his hands, he looked into her eyes, and she smiling and blushing, tried to close his eyelids with her fingers, as if she could not stand such looks. Sir de Lorche's attention was attracted by an enormous bear, gray on the back and shoulders, which jumped out unexpectedly from the thicket near the huntsmen. The prince shot at it with his crossbow, and then rushed forward with his boar-spear; when the animal roaring frightfully, reared, he pierced it with his spear in the presence of the whole court so deftly and so quickly, that neither of the "defenders" needed to use his axe. The young Lotaringer doubted that few of the other lords, at whose courts he had visited during his travels, would dare to amuse themselves in such a way, and believed that the Order would have hard work to conquer such princes and such people. Later on he saw the other hunters pierce in the same way, many boars much larger and fiercer than any that could be found in the forest of Lower Lotaringen or in the German wilderness. Such expert hunters and those so sure of their strength, Sir de Lorche had never before seen; he concluded, being a man of some experience, that these people living in the boundless forests, had been accustomed from childhood to use the crossbow and the spear; consequently they were very dexterous in using them. The glade of the wood was finally covered with the dead bodies of many different kinds of animals; but the hunt was not finished. In fact, the most interesting and also the most perilous moment was coming, because the huntsmen had met a herd of urus and bisons. The bearded bulls marching in advance of the herd, holding their heads near the ground, often stopped, as if calculating where to attack. From their enormous lungs came a muffled bellowing, similar to the rolling of thunder, and perspiration steamed from their nostrils; while pawing the snow with their forefeet, they seemed to watch the enemy with their bloody eyes hidden beneath their manes. Then the huntsmen shouted, and their cries were followed by similar shoutings from all sides; the horns and fifes resounded; the wilderness reverberated from its remotest parts; meantime the dogs of the Kurpie rushed to the glade with tremendous noise. The appearance of the dogs enraged the females of the herd who were accompanied by their young. The herd which had been walking up to this moment, now scattered in a mad rush all over the glade. One of the bisons, an enormous old yellow bull, rushed toward the huntsmen standing at one side, then seeing horses in the bushes, stopped, and bellowing, began to plow the earth with his horns, as if inciting himself to fight. Seeing this, the men began to shout still more, but among the hunters there were heard frightened voices exclaiming: "The princess! The princess! Save the princess!" Zbyszko seized his spear which had been driven into the ground behind him and rushed to the edge of the forest; he was followed by a few Litwins who were ready to die in defence of Kiejstut's daughter; but all at once the crossbow creaked in the hands of the lady, the bolt whistled and, having passed over the animal's head, struck him in his neck. "He is hit!" exclaimed the princess; "he will not escape." But suddenly, with such a dreadful bellowing that the frightened horses reared, the bison rushed directly toward the lady; at the same moment with no less impetus, Sir de Lorche rushed from beneath the trees and leaning on his horse, with his spear extended as in a knightly tournament, attacked the animal. Those near by perceived during one moment, the spear plunged into the animal's neck, immediately bend like a bow, and break into small pieces; then the enormous horned head disappeared entirely under the belly of Sir de Lorche's horse, and the charger and his rider were tossed into the air. From the forest the huntsmen rushed to help the foreign knight. Zbyszko who cared most about the princess and Danusia's safety, arrived first and drove his spear under the bison's shoulder blade. He gave the blow with such force, that the spear by a sudden turn of the bison, broke in his hands, and he himself fell with his face on the ground. "He is dead! He is dead!" cried the Mazurs who were rushing to help him. The bull's head covered Zbyszko and pressed him to the ground. The two powerful "defenders" of the prince arrived; but they were too late; fortunately the Czech Hlawa, given to Zbyszko by Jagienka, outstripped them, and having seized his broad-axe with both hands he cut the bison's bent neck, near the horns. The blow was so powerful that the animal fell, as though struck by a thunderbolt, with his head almost severed from his neck; this enormous body fell on top of Zbyszko. Both "defenders" pulled it away quickly. The princess and Danusia having dismounted, arrived at the side of the wounded youth. Zbyszko, pale and covered with his own and the animal's blood, tried to rise; but he staggered, fell on his knees and leaning on his hands, could only pronounce one word: "Danuska." Then the blood gushed from his mouth. Danusia grasped him by his shoulders, but being unable to hold him, began to cry for help. The huntsmen rubbed him with snow and poured wine in his mouth; finally the head huntsman, Mrokota of Mocarzew ordered them to put him on a mantle and to stop the blood with soft spunk from the trees. "He will live if his ribs and his backbone are not broken," said he, turning toward the princess. In the meanwhile some ladies of the court with the help of other huntsmen, were attending to Sir de Lorche. They turned him over, searching in his armor for holes or dents made by the horns of the bull; but besides traces of the snow, which had entered between the joints of the iron plates, they could find nothing. The urus had avenged himself especially on the horse, which was lying dead beside the knight; as for Sir de Lorche, he was not seriously injured. He had fainted and his right hand was sprained. When they took off his helmet and poured some wine in his mouth, he opened his eyes, and seeing the sorrowful faces of two pretty young ladies bent over him, said in German: "I am sure I am in paradise already and the angels are over me." The ladies did not understand what he said; but being glad to see him open his eyes and speak, they smiled, and with the huntsmen's help raised him from the ground; feeling the pain in his right hand, he moaned and leaned with the left on the shoulder of one of the "angels"; for a while he stood motionless, fearing to make a step, because he felt weak. Then he glanced around and perceived the yellow body of the urus, he also saw Danusia wringing her hands and Zbyszko lying on a mantle. "Is that the knight who rushed to help me?" he asked. "Is he alive?" "He is very severely injured," answered a courtier who could speak German. "From this time, I am going to fight not with him, but for him!" said the Lotaringer. At this time, the prince who was near Zbyszko, approached Sir de Lorche and began to praise him because he had defended the princess and the other ladies, and perhaps saved their lives by his bold deed; for which, besides the knightly reward, he would be renowned not only then but in all future generations. "In these effeminate times," said he, "there are few true knights traveling through the world; therefore pray be my guest as long as possible or if you can, remain forever in Mazowsze, where you have already won my favor, and by honest deeds will easily win the love of the people." Sir de Lorche's heart was filled with joy when he heard the prince's words and realized that he had accomplished such a famous knightly deed and deserved such praise in these remote Polish lands, about which so many strange things were told in the East. He knew that a knight who could tell at the Burgundian court or at the court of Brabant, that when on a hunting party, he had saved the life of the Mazowiecka princess, would be forever famous. Zbyszko became conscious and smiled at Danusia; then he fainted again. The huntsmen seeing how his hands closed and his mouth remained open, said to one another that he would not live; but the more experienced Kurpie, among whom many an one had on him the traces of a bear's paws, a boar's tusks or an urus' horns, affirmed that the urus' horn had slipped between the knight's ribs, that perhaps one or two of his ribs were broken, but that the backbone was not, because if it were, he could not rise. They pointed out also, that Zbyszko had fallen in a snow-drift and that had saved him, because on account of the softness the animal when pressing him with his horns, could not entirely crush his chest, nor his backbone. Unfortunately the prince's physician, the _ksiondz_ Wyszoniek of Dziewanna, was not with the hunting party, being busy in the chateau making wafers.[102] The Czech rushed to bring him immediately, and meanwhile the Kurpie carried Zbyszko to the prince's mansion. The Knight of the Cross, Hugo von Danveld, helped Danusia mount her horse and then, riding beside her and closely following the men who were carrying Zbyszko, said in Polish in a muffled voice, so that she alone could hear him: "In Szczytno I have a marvelous balm, which I received from a hermit living in the Hercynski forest; I can bring it for you in three days." "God will reward you," answered Danusia. "God records every charitable deed; but will you reward me also?" "What reward can I give you?" The Krzyzak approached and evidently wished to say something else but hesitated; after a while he said: "In the Order, besides the brothers there are also sisters. One of them will bring the healing balm, and then I will speak about the reward." CHAPTER VI. The _ksiondz_ Wyszoniek dressed Zbyszko's wounds and he stated that only one rib was broken; but the first day he could not affirm that the sick man would live, because he could not ascertain whether the heart had been injured or not. Sir de Lorche was so ill toward morning that he was obliged to go to bed, and on the following day he could not move his hand nor his foot, without great pain in all the bones. The princess Danusia and some other ladies of the court nursed the sick men and prepared for them, according to the prescriptions of the _ksiondz_ Wyszoniek, different ointments and potions. But Zbyszko was very severely injured, and from time to time blood gushed from his mouth, and this alarmed the _ksiondz_ Wyszoniek very much. He was conscious however, and on the second day, although very weak, having learned from Danusia to whom he owed his life, called Hlawa to thank and reward him. He remembered that he had received the Czech from Jagienka and that had it not been for her kind heart, he would have perished. He feared that he never would be able to repay the good-hearted girl for her kindness, but that he would only be the cause of her sorrow. "I swore to my _panienka_," said Hlawa, "on my honor of a _wlodyka_, that I would protect you; therefore I will do it without any reward. You are indebted to her for your life." Zbyszko did not answer, but began to breathe heavily; the Czech was silent for a while, then he said: "If you wish me to hasten to Bogdaniec, I will go. Perhaps you will be glad to see the old lord, because God only knows whether you will recover." "What does the _ksiondz_ Wyszoniek say?" asked Zbyszko. "The _ksiondz_ Wyszoniek says that he will know when the new moon comes. There are four days before the new moon." "Hej! then you need not go to Bogdaniec, because I will either die, or I will be well before my uncle could come." "Could you not send a letter to Bogdaniec? Sanderus will write one. Then they will know about you, and will engage a mass for you." "Let me rest now, because I am very ill. If I die, you will return to Zgorzelice and tell how everything happened; then they can engage a mass. I suppose they will bury me here or in Ciechanow." "I think they will bury you in Ciechanow or in Przasnysz, because only the Kurpie are buried in the forest, and the wolves howl over their graves. I heard that the prince intends to return with the court to Ciechanow in two days' time, and then to Warszawa." "They would not leave me here alone," answered Zbyszko. He guessed correctly, because that same day the princess asked the prince's permission to remain in the house in the wilderness, with Danusia and the ladies-in-waiting, and also with the _ksiondz_ Wyszoniek, who was opposed to carrying Zbyszko to Przasnysz. Sir de Lorche at the end of two days felt better, and he was able to leave his bed; but having learned that the ladies intended to remain, he stayed also, in order to accompany them on their journey and defend them in case the "Saracens" attacked them. Whence the "Saracens" could come, the Lotaringer did not know. It is true that the people in the East used thus to call the Litwins; but from them no danger could threaten Kiejstut's daughter, Witold's sister and the first cousin of the mighty "Krakowski king," Jagiello. But Sir de Lorche had been among the Knights of the Cross for so long a time, that notwithstanding all he had heard in Mazowsze about the baptism of the Litwa, and about the union of the two crowns on the head of one ruler, he could not believe that any one could expect any good from the Litwins. Thus the Knights of the Cross had made him believe, and he had not yet entirely lost all faith in their words. In the meantime an incident occurred which cast a shadow between Prince Janusz and his guests. One day, before the departure of the court, Brother Godfried and Brother Rotgier, who had remained in Ciechanow, came accompanied by Sir de Fourcy, who was a messenger of bad news to the Knights of the Cross. There were some foreign guests at the court of the Krzyzacki _starosta_ in Lubowa; they were Sir de Fourcy and also Herr von Bergow and Herr Meineger, both belonging to families which had rendered great services to the Order. They having heard many stories about Jurand of Spychow, determined, to draw the famous warrior into an open field, and ascertain for themselves whether he really was as dreadful as represented. The _starosta_ opposed the plan, giving as a reason that there was peace between the Order and the Mazowiecki princes; but finally, perhaps hoping thus to get rid of his terrible neighbor, not only connived at the expedition but even furnished the armed _knechts_. The knights sent a challenge to Jurand, who immediately accepted it under the condition that they would send away the soldiers and that three of them would fight with him and two of his companions on the boundaries of Szlonsk and Spychow. But when they refused to send away the _knechts_ or to retire from the land belonging to Spychow, he suddenly fell upon them, exterminated the _knechts_, pierced Herr Meineger dreadfully with a spear, took Herr von Bergow into captivity and put him into the Spychowski dungeon. De Fourcy alone escaped and after three days' wandering in the Mazowiecki forests, having learned from some pitch-burners that there were some brothers of the Order in Ciechanow, he succeeded in reaching them. He and the brothers of the Order made a complaint to the prince, and asked for the punishment of Jurand, and for an order for the deliverance of Herr von Bergow. This news disturbed the good understanding between the prince and his guests, because not only the two newly arrived brothers but also Hugo von Danveld and Zygfried von Löve, began to beseech the prince to render justice to the Order, to free the boundaries from the plunderer and to punish him once for all his offences. Hugo von Danveld, having his own grievance against Jurand, the remembrance of which burned him with shame and grief, asked for vengeance almost threateningly. "The complaint will go to the grand master," he said; "and if we be not able to get justice from Your Grace, he will obtain it himself, even if the whole Mazowsze help that robber." But the prince, although naturally good-tempered, became angry and said. "What kind of justice do you ask for? If Jurand had attacked you first, then I would surely punish him. But your people were the first to commence hostilities. Your _starosta_ gave the _knechts_, permission to go on that expedition. Jurand only accepted the challenge and asked that the soldiers be sent away. Shall I punish him for that? You attacked that dreadful man, of whom everybody is afraid, and voluntarily brought calamity upon yourselves--what do you want then? Shall I order him not to defend himself, when it pleases you to attack him?" "It was not the Order that attacked him, but its guests, foreign knights," answered Hugo. "The Order is responsible for its guests, and then the _knechts_, from the Lubowski garrison were there." "Could the _starosta_ allow his guests to be slaughtered?" Here the prince turned to Zygfried and said. "You must take heed lest your wiles offend God." But the stern Zygfried answered: "Heir von Bergow must be released from captivity, because the men of his family were high dignitaries in the Order and they rendered important services to the Cross." "And Meineger's death must be avenged," added Hugo von Danveld. Thereupon the prince arose and walked threateningly toward the Germans; but after a while, evidently having remembered that they were his guests, he restrained his anger, put his hand on Zygfried's shoulder, and said: "Listen: you wear a cross on your mantle, therefore answer according to your conscience--upon that cross! Was Jurand right or was he not?" "Herr von Bergow must be released from prison," answered Zygfried von Löve. There was as a moment of silence; then the prince said: "God grant me patience!" Zygfried continued sharply, his words cutting like a sword: "The wrong which was done to us in the persons of our guests, is only one more occasion for complaint. From the time the Order was founded, neither in Palestine, nor in Siedmiogrod,[103] nor among the heathenish Litwa, has any man wronged us so much as that robber from Spychow. Your Highness! we ask for justice and vengeance not for one wrong, but for thousands; not for the blood shed once, but for years of such deeds, for which fire from heaven ought to burn that nest of wickedness and cruelty. Whose moanings entreat God for vengeance? Ours! Whose tears? Ours! We have complained in vain. Justice has never been given us!" Having heard this, Prince Janusz began to nod his head and said: "Hej! formerly the Krzyzaks were received hospitably in Spychow, and Jurand was not your foe, until after his dear wife died on your rope; and how many times have you attacked him first, wishing to kill him, as in this last case, because he challenged and defeated your knights? How many times have you sent assassins after him, or shot at him with a crossbow from the forest? He attacked you, it is true, because vengeance burns within him; but have you not attacked peaceful people in Mazowsze? Have you not taken their herds, burned their houses and murdered the men, women and children? And when I complained to the grand master, he sent me this reply from Marienburg: 'Customary frolic of the boundaries' Let me be in peace! Was it not you who captured me when I was without arms, during the time of peace, on my own land? Had it not been for your fear of the mighty Krakowski king, probably I would have had to moan until now in captivity. Who ought to complain? With such gratitude you repaid me, who belonged to the family of your benefactors. Let me be in peace; it is not you who have the right to talk about justice!" Having heard this, the Knights of the Cross looked at each other impatiently, angry because the prince mentioned the occurrence at Zlotorja, in the presence of Sir de Fourcy; therefore Hugo von Danveld, wishing to finish the conversation about it, said: "That was a mistake, Your Highness, and we made amends for it, not on account of fear of the Krakowski king, but for the sake of justice; and with regard to the frolics on the boundaries, the grand master cannot be held responsible, because on every frontier there are some restless spirits." "Then you say this yourself, and still you ask for the punishment of Jurand. What do you wish then?" "Justice and punishment!" The prince clenched his bony fists and repeated: "God grant me patience!" "Your Princely Majesty must also remember," said Danveld, further, "that our wantons only wrong lay people who do not belong to the German race, but your men raise their hand against the German Order, and for this reason they offend our Saviour Himself." "Listen!" said the prince. "Do not talk about God; you cannot deceive Him!" Then having placed his hands on the Krzyzak's shoulders, he shook him so strongly, that he frightened him. He relented immediately and said, mildly: "If it be true that our guests attacked Jurand first and did not send away the soldiers, I will not blame him; but had Jurand really accepted the challenge?" Having said this, he looked at Sir de Fourcy, winking at him, to deny it; but the latter, not wishing to lie, answered: "He asked us to send our soldiers away, and to fight three against three." "Are you sure of that?" "Upon my honor! Herr von Bergow and I agreed, but Meineger did not consent." Here the prince interrupted: "_Starosta_ from Szczytno! you know better than anybody else that Jurand would not miss a challenge." Then he turned to all present and said: "If one of you will challenge Jurand to a fight on horseback or on foot, I give my permission. If he be taken prisoner or killed, then Herr von Bergow will be released without paying any ransom. Do not ask me for anything else, because I will not grant it." After these words, there was a profound silence. Hugo von Danveld, Zygfried von Löve, Brother Rotgier and Brother Godfried, although brave, knew the dreadful lord of Spychow too well to dare to challenge him for life or death. Only a foreigner from a far distant country, like de Lorche or de Fourcy, would do it; but de Lorche was not present during the conversation, and Sir de Fourcy was still too frightened. "I have seen him once," he muttered, "and I do not wish to see him any more." Zygfried von Löve said: "It is forbidden the monks to fight in single combat, except by special permission from the grand master and the grand marshal; but I do not ask for permission for a combat, but for the release of von Bergow and the punishment by death of Jurand." "You do not make the laws in this country." "Our grand master will know how to administer justice." "Your grand master has nothing to do with Mazowsze!" "The emperor and the whole German nation will help him." "The king of Poland will help me, and he is more powerful than the German emperor." "Does Your Highness wish for a war with the Order?" "If I wanted a war, I would not wait for you to come to Mazowsze, but would go toward you; you need not threaten me, because I am not afraid of you." "What shall I say to the grand master?" "He has not asked you anything. Tell him what you please." "Then we will avenge ourselves." Thereupon the prince stretched forth his arm and began to shake his finger close to the Krzyzak's face. "Keep quiet!" said he, angrily; "keep quiet! I gave you permission to challenge Jurand; but if you dare to invade this country with the army of the Order, then I will attack you, and you will stay here not as a guest but as a prisoner." Evidently his patience was entirely exhausted, because he threw a cap violently on the table and left the room, slamming the door. The Knights of the Cross became pale and Sir de Fourcy looked at them askance. "What will happen now?" asked Brother Rotgier, who was the first to break the silence. Hugo von Danveld turned to Sir de Fourcy and menacing him with his fists, said: "Why did you tell him that you attacked Jurand?" "Because it is true!" "You should have lied." "I came here to fight and not to lie." "Well, you fought well, indeed!" "And you! did you not run away from Jurand of Spychow?" "_Pax!_" said von Löve. "This knight is a guest of the Order." "It is immaterial what he said," added Brother Godfried. "They would not punish Jurand without a trial, and in the court, the truth would come out." "What will be done now?" repeated Brother Rotgier. There was a moment of silence; then the sturdy and virulent Zygfried von Löve spoke: "We must finish once for all with that bloody dog!" said he. "Herr von Bergow must be released from his fetters. We will gather the garrisons from Szczytno, Insburk and Lubowa; we will summon the Chelminsk nobility and attack Jurand. It is time to settle with him!" "We cannot do it without permission from the grand master." "If we succeed, the grand master will be pleased!" said Brother Godfried. "But if we do not succeed? If the prince go against us?" "He will not do that if there is peace between him and the Order." "There is peace, but we are going to violate it. Our garrisons will not be sufficient to fight against the Mazurs." "Then the grand master will help us and there will be a war." Danveld frowned again and became thoughtful. "No! no!" said he after a while. "If we be successful, the grand master will be pleased. Envoys will be sent to the prince, there will be negotiations and we will go scot-free. But in case of defeat, the Order will not intercede for us and will not declare war. Another grand master is necessary for that. The Polski king is behind the prince, and the grand master will not quarrel with him." "But we have taken the Dobrzynska province; it is evident that we are not afraid of Krakow." "There was some pretext--Opolczyk. We took it apparently in pledge, and then----" Here he looked around and said quietly: "I heard in Marienburg, that if they threaten us with war, we will return the province." "Ah!" said Brother Rotgier, "if we had Markward Salzbach with us, or Shomberg who killed Witold's whelps, he would find some remedy against Jurand. Witold was the king's viceroy and a grand duke! Notwithstanding that, Shomberg was not punished. He killed Witold's children, and went scot-free! Verily, there is great lack among us of people who can find a remedy for everything." Having heard this, Hugo von Danveld put his elbows on the table, leaned his head on his hands and plunged into deep thought. Then his eyes became bright, he wiped, according to his custom, his moist, thick lips with the upper part of his hand and said: "May the moment in which you mentioned, pious brother, the name of the valiant Shomberg be blessed." "Why? Have you found a remedy?" asked Zygfried von Löve. "Speak quickly!" exclaimed Brother Godfried. "Listen," said Hugo. "Jurand has a daughter here, his only child, whom he loves dearly." "Yes, so he has. We know her. The princess Anna Danuta loves her also." "Yes. Listen then: if you capture this girl, Jurand will give as a ransom for her, not only, Bergow, but all his prisoners, himself and Spychow!" "By Saint Bonifacius' blood shed in Duchum!" exclaimed Brother Godfried; "it would be as you say!" Then they were silent, as if frightened by the boldness and the difficulties of the enterprise. But after a while Brother Rotgier turned toward Zygfried von Löve, and said: "Your judgment and experience are equal to your bravery: what do you think about this plan?" "I think that the matter is worthy of consideration." "Because," said Rotgier further, "the girl is a lady-in-waiting with the princess--the princess loves her as if she were her own daughter. Think, pious brother, what an uproar will arise." But Hugo von Danveld began to laugh: "You said yourself, that Shomberg poisoned or strangled Witold's whelps, and what happened to him? They will raise an uproar about anything we do; but if we sent Jurand in chains to the grand master, then it is certain that we could expect reward rather than punishment." "Yes," said von Löve, "there is a good opportunity for an attack. The prince is going away and Anna Danuta will remain here alone with her court. However it is a serious matter to invade the prince's house during the time of peace. The prince's house is not Spychow. It will be the same thing that happened in Zlotorja! Again complaints against the Order will go to all kings and to the pope; again that cursed Jagiello will threaten us, and the grand master; you know him: he is glad to take hold of anything he can, but he does not wish for war with Jagiello. Yes! there will be a great uproar in all the provinces of Mazowsze and of Polska." "In the meanwhile Jurand's bones will whiten on a hook," answered Brother Hugo. "Then we do not need to take his daughter from the prince's mansion." "But we cannot do it from Ciechanow either, because there, besides the noblemen, there are three hundred archers." "No. But Jurand can become ill and send for his daughter. Then the princess would not prevent her going, and if the girl be lost on the road, who will accuse you or me and say to us: 'You captured her!'" "Bah!" answered von Löve, impatiently. "You must first make Jurand sick and then make him summon the girl." At this Hugo smiled triumphantly and answered: "I have a goldsmith, who having been driven from Marienburg for theft, settled in Szczytno and who is able to make a seal; I also have people, who although our bondmen, came from the Mazurski country. Do you understand me yet?" "I understand," shouted Brother Godfried. And Rotgier raised his hands and said: "May God bless you, pious brother, because neither Markward Salzbach, nor Shomberg could find better means." Then he half closed his eyes, as if he saw something afar. "I see Jurand," said he, "with a rope around his neck, standing at the Gdansk gate in Marienburg and our _knechts_ are kicking him." "And the girl will become a servant of the Order," said Hugo. Having heard this, von Löve turned his severe eyes on Danveld; but the latter again rubbed his lips with the upper part of his hand and said: "And now to Szczytno as soon as we can!" Before starting on the journey to Szczytno, the four brothers of the Order and de Fourcy went to bid the prince and the princess adieu. It was not a very friendly farewell; but the prince, not wishing to act contrary to the old Polish custom which did not permit the guests to depart with empty hands, made each brother a present of some beautiful marten-fur and of one _grzywna_ of silver; they received the presents with great pleasure, assuring the prince that being brothers of an order, and having made a solemn promise to live in poverty, they would not retain the money for themselves, but would distribute it among the poor, whom they would recommend to pray for the prince's health, fame and future salvation. The Mazurs laughed in their sleeves at such an assurance, because they knew very well how rapacious the Order was, and still better what liars the Knights of the Cross were. It was a popular saying in Mazowsze: "As the skunk smells, so the Krzyzak lies." The prince waved his hand to such thanks, and after they went out he said that by the intervention of the Knights of the Cross, one would go to heaven as swiftly as the craw-fish walks. But before that, while taking leave of the princess, at the moment that Zygfried von Löve kissed her hand, Hugo von Danveld approached Danusia, put his hand on her head and caressing her, said: "Our commandment is to return good for evil, and even to love our enemy; therefore I will send a sister of the Order here, and she will bring you the healing balm." "How can I thank you for it?" answered Danusia. "Be a friend of the Order and of the monks." De Fourcy noticed this conversation, and in the meantime he was struck by the beauty of the young girl; therefore as they traveled toward Szczytno, he asked: "Who is that beautiful lady of the court with whom you were talking while taking leave of the princess?" "Jurand's daughter!" answered the Krzyzak. Sir de Fourcy was surprised. "The same whom you propose to capture?" "Yes. And when we capture her, Jurand is ours." "Evidently everything is not bad that comes from Jurand. It will be worth while to guard such a prisoner." "Do you think it will be easier to fight with her than with Jurand?" "I mean that I think the same as you do. The father is a foe of the Order; but you spoke words as sweet as honey to the daughter, and besides you promised to send her the balm." Evidently Hugo von Danveld felt the need of justification before Zygfried von Löve who, although not better than the others, observed the austere laws of the Order, and very often scolded the other brothers. "I promised her the balm," said Hugo, "for that young knight, who was injured by the bison and to whom she is betrothed. If they make an outcry when the girl is captured, then we will tell them that we did not wish to harm her any, and the best proof of it will be that on account of Christian mercy we sent her some medicine." "Very well," said von Löve. "Only we must send somebody whom we can trust." "I will send a pious woman, entirely faithful to the Order. I will command her to look and to listen. When our people, apparently sent by Jurand, arrive, they will find the road already prepared." "It will be difficult to get such people." "No! In our province the people speak the same language. There are in our city, bah! even among the _knechts_ of the garrison, some men who left Mazowsze because they were pursued by the law; it is true they are thieves and robbers; but they do not fear anybody and they are ready to do anything. To those men, I will promise, in case they succeed, a large reward; if they fail, a rope." "Bah! Suppose they betray us?" "They will not betray us, because in Mazowsze every one of them deserves to be hanged. Only we must give them decent clothes so that they will be taken for Jurand's servants; and we must get the principal thing: a letter with Jurand's seal." "We must foresee everything," said Brother Rotgier. "It is probable that Jurand will go to see the prince, and justify himself on account of the last war. If he is in Ciechanow, he will go to see his daughter. It may happen that our men when they go to capture Jurandowna, will come in contact with Jurand himself." "The men whom I am going to choose are sharp. They will know that they will be hanged if they come in contact with Jurand. It will be to their own interest not to meet him." "But they may be captured." "Then we will deny them and the letter. Who can prove that we sent them? And then if there be no outrage, there will be no outcry, and it will not harm the Order, if Mazury cut several scoundrels into pieces." Brother Godfried, the youngest of the monks, said: "I do not understand your policy, nor your fear that it may be known that the girl was carried off by our command. Because if we have her in our possession, we will be obliged to send some one to Jurand to tell him: 'Your daughter is with us; if you wish her to be set at liberty, give von Bergow and yourself in exchange for her.' You cannot do otherwise, and then it will be known that we ordered the girl to be carried off." "That is true!" said Sir de Fourcy, who did not like the whole affair. "Why should we hide that which must come out?" But Hugo von Danveld began to laugh, and turning to Brother Godfried, asked: "How long have you worn the white mantle?" "It will be six years the first week after the day of the Holy Trinity." "When you have worn it six years longer, you will understand the affairs of the Order better. Jurand knows us better than you do. We will tell him: 'Your daughter is watched by Brother Shomberg; if you say a word, remember what happened to Witold's children!'" "And then?" "Then von Bergow will be free and the Order also will be free from Jurand." "No!" exclaimed Brother Rotgier; "everything is planned so cleverly that God ought to bless our enterprise." "God blesses all deeds whose purpose is the good of the Order," said the gloomy Zygfried von Löve. Then they rode silently, and before them went their retinue, to open the way, because the road was covered with a heavy snow, which had fallen during the night. The day was cloudy, but warm; therefore the horses were steaming. From the forest flocks of crows were flying toward the villages, filling the air with their gloomy cawing. Sir de Fourcy remained a little bit behind the Knights of the Cross and rode along in deep thought. He had been the guest of the Order for several years, and had participated in the expeditions against the Zmudz, where he distinguished himself by great bravery. Everywhere he had been received as the Knights of the Cross knew how to receive the knights from remote countries; he became attached to them very strongly, and not being rich, he planned to join their ranks. In the meanwhile he either lived in Marienburg, or visited the commanderies, searching in his travels for distractions and adventures. Having just arrived at Lubowa with the rich von Bergow, and having heard about Jnrand, he desired very much to fight with the man who was regarded with general dread. The arrival of Meineger, who was always victorious, precipitated the expedition. The _comthur_ of Lubowa furnished the men for it, but in the meanwhile he told them so much not only about Jurand's cruelty, but also about his cunning and treachery, that when Juvand asked them to send away the soldiers, they refused to do it, fearing that if they did, he would surround and exterminate them or else capture and put them into the Spychowski dungeons. Then Jurand thinking that they cared less about a knightly fight than about plunder, attacked them and defeated them. De Fourcy saw von Bergow overthrown with his horse; he saw Meineger with a piece of a spear in his body, and he saw the men asking in vain for mercy. He escaped with great difficulty, and wandered for several days in the forests, where he would have died of hunger or been destroyed by wild beasts, if by chance he had not reached Ciechanow, where he found Brothers Godfried and Rotgier. From the expedition he emerged with a feeling of humiliation and shame, and with a desire for vengeance and a longing after Bergow, who was his dear friend. Therefore he joined with his whole soul in the complaint of the Knights of the Cross, when they asked for the punishment of the Polish knight and the freedom of his unhappy companion. When their complaint had no effect whatever, in the first moment he was ready to approve of any plan for vengeance against Jurand. But now some scruples were aroused in him. Listening to the conversation of the monks, and especially to what Hugo von Danveld said, he could not refrain from astonishment. It is true, that having become well acquainted during the past few years with the Knights of the Cross, he knew that they were not what they were represented to be in Germany and in the West. In Marienburg, he knew, however, a few honest and upright knights who often complained of the corruption of the brothers, of their lasciviousness and lack of discipline; de Fourcy felt that they were right, but being himself dissolute and lacking in discipline, he did not criticise them for those faults, especially because all knights of the Order redeemed them with bravery. He had seen them at Wilno, fighting breast to breast with the Polish knights; at the taking of castles, defended with superhuman stubbornness by Polish garrisons; he had seen them perishing under the blows of axes and swords, in general assaults or in single combats. They were merciless and cruel toward the Litwa, but at the same time, they were as brave as lions. But now it seemed to Sir de Fourcy, that Hugo von Danveld advised such actions from which every knight's soul should recoil; and the other brothers not only were not angry with him, but approved of his words. Therefore astonishment seized him more and more; finally he became deeply thoughtful, pondering whether it was proper to join in the performance of such deeds. If it were only a question of carrying off the girl and then exchanging her for Bergow, he would perhaps consent to that, although his heart had been moved by Danusia's beauty. But evidently the Knights of the Cross wished for something else. Through her they wished to capture Jurand, and then murder him, and together with him,--in order to hide the fraud and the crime--must assuredly murder the girl also. They had threatened her already with the same fate that Witold's children met, in case Jurand should dare to complain. "They do not intend to keep any promise, but to cheat both and kill both," said de Fourcy, to himself, "although they wear the cross, and ought to guard their honor more than anybody else." He became more and more indignant at such effrontery, and he determined to verify his suspicions; therefore he rode near Danveld and asked: "If Jurand give himself up to you, will you set the girl at liberty?" "If we let her go free, the whole world would immediately say that we had captured both of them," answered Danveld. "Then, what do you propose to do with her?" At this Danveld bent toward the knight, and laughing, showed his rotten teeth from beneath his thick lips. "Do you mean what will be done with her, before or after?" But Fourcy, surmising already that which he wished to know, became silent; for a while he seemed to struggle with himself; then he raised himself in his stirrups and said so loudly that he could be heard by all four of the monks: "The pious brother, Ulrych von Jungingen, who is an example and an ornament of knighthood, said to me: 'Among the old knights in Marienburg, one can still find worthy Knights of the Cross; but those who control the commanderies near the frontier, only bring shame upon the Order.'" "We are all sinful, but we serve the Saviour," answered Hugo. "Where is your knightly honor? One cannot serve the Saviour by shameful deeds. You must know that I will not put my hand to anything like that, and that I also will prevent you." "What will you prevent?" "The artifice, the treachery, the shame!" "How can you do it? In the fight with Jurand, you lost your retinue and wagons. You are obliged to live on the generosity of the Order, and you will die from hunger if we do not throw you a piece of bread; and then, you are alone, we are four--how could you prevent us?" "How can I prevent you?" repeated de Fourcy. "I can return to the mansion and warn the prince; I can divulge your plans to the whole world." Here the brothers of the Order looked at one another, and their faces changed in the twinkling of an eye. Hugo von Danveld, especially, looked questioningly into Zygfried von Löve's eyes; then he turned to Sir de Fourcy: "Your ancestors," said he, "used to serve in the Order, and you wished to join it also; but we do not receive traitors." "And I do not wish to serve with traitors." "Ej! you shall not fulfill your threat. The Order knows how to punish not only the monks----" Sir de Fourcy being excited by these words, drew his sword, and seized the blade with his left hand; his right hand he put on the hilt and said: "On this hilt which is in the form of the cross, on St. Denis, my patron's head, and on my knightly honor, I swear that I will warn the Mazowiecki prince and the grand master." Hugo von Danveld again looked inquiringly at Zygfried von Löve, who closed his eyelids, as if consenting to something. Then Danveld said in a strangely muffled and changed voice: "St. Denis could carry his head after he was beheaded, but when yours once falls down----" "Are you threatening me?" interrupted de Fourcy. "No, but I kill!" answered Danveld. And he thrust his knife into de Fourcy's side with such strength, that the blade disappeared up to the hilt. De Fourcy screamed dreadfully; for a while he tried to seize his sword which he held in his left hand, with his right, but he dropped it; at the same time, the other three brothers began to pierce him mercilessly with their knives, in the neck, in the back, and in the stomach, until he fell from his horse. Then there was silence. De Fourcy bleeding dreadfully from several wounds, quivered on the snow. From beneath the leaden sky, there came only the cawing of the crows, which were flying from the silent wilderness, toward human habitations. Then there began a hurried conversation between the murderers: "Our servants did not see anything!" said Danveld, panting. "No. The retinues are in front; we cannot see them," answered von Löve. "Listen: we will have cause for a new complaint. We will publish the statement that the Mazowiecki knights fell upon us and killed our companion. We will shout aloud--they will hear us in Marienburg--that the prince sent murderers even after his guests. Listen! we must say that Janusz did not wish to listen to our complaints against Jurand, but that he ordered the accuser to be murdered." In the meanwhile, de Fourcy turned in the last convulsion on his back and then remained motionless, with a bloody froth on his lips and with dread pictured in his widely-opened dead eyes. Brother Rotgier looked at him and said: "Notice, pious brothers, how God punishes even the thought of treachery." "What we have done, was done for the good of the Order," answered Godfried. "Glory to those----" But he stopped, because at that moment, behind them, at the turn of the snowy road, there appeared a horseman, who rushed forward as fast as his horse could go. Having perceived him, Hugo von Danveld quickly exclaimed: "Whoever this man is--he must die." And von Löve, who although the oldest among the brothers, had very keen eyesight, said: "I recognize him; it is that shield-bearer who killed the bison with an axe. Yes; it is he!" "Hide your knives, so that he may not become frightened," said Danveld. "I will attack him first, you shall follow me." In the meanwhile, the Bohemian arrived and reined in his horse at a distance of eight or ten steps. He noticed the corpse lying in the pool of blood, the horse without a rider, and astonishment appeared on his face; but it lasted only for the twinkling of an eye. After a while, he turned to the brothers as if nothing had happened and said: "I bow to you, brave knights!" "We recognize you," answered Danveld, approaching slowly. "Have you anything for us?" "The knight Zbyszko of Bogdaniec, after whom I carry the spear, sent me, because being injured by the bison, he could not come himself." "What does your master wish from us?" "My master commanded me to tell you that because you unrighteously accused Jurand of Spychow, to the detriment of his knightly honor, you did not act like honest knights, but howled like dogs; and if any one of you feels insulted by these words, he challenges him to a combat on horseback or on foot, to the last breath; he will be ready for the duel as soon as with God's help and mercy he is released from his present indisposition." "Tell your master, that the Knights of the Order bear insults patiently for the Saviour's sake, and they cannot fight, without special permission from the grand master or from the grand marshal; for which permission they will write to Malborg." The Czech again looked at de Fourcy's corpse, because he had been sent especially to that knight. Zbyszko knew that the monks could not fight in single combat: but having heard that there was a secular knight with them, he wanted to challenge him especially, thinking that by doing so he would win Jurand's favor. But that knight was lying slaughtered like an ox, by the four Knights of the Cross. It is true that the Czech did not understand what had happened; but being accustomed from childhood to different kinds of danger, he suspected some treachery. He was also surprised to see Danveld, while talking with him, approach him closer and closer; the others began to ride to his sides, as if to surround him. Consequently he was upon the alert, especially as he did not have any weapons; he had not brought any, being in great haste. In the meanwhile Danveld who was near him, said: "I promised your master some healing balm; he repays me badly for my good deed. But no wonder, that is the usual thing among the Polaks. But as he is severely injured and may soon be called to God, tell him then----" Here he leaned his left hand on the Czech's shoulder. "Tell him then, that I--well--I answer this way!----" And at the same moment, his knife gleamed near the throat of the shield-bearer; but before he could thrust, the Czech who had been watching his movements closely, seized Danveld's right hand, with his iron-like hands, bent and twisted it so that the bones cracked; then hearing a dreadful roaring of pain, he pricked his horse and rushed away like an arrow, before the others could stop him. Brothers Rotgier and Godfried pursued him, but they soon returned, frightened by a dreadful cry from Danveld. Von Löve supported him with his shoulders, while he cried so loudly that the retinue, riding with the wagons in front at quite a distance, stopped their horses. "What is the matter with you?" asked the brothers. But von Löve ordered them to ride forward as fast as they could, and bring a wagon, because Danveld could not remain in his saddle. After a moment, a cold perspiration covered his forehead and he fainted. When they brought the wagon, they put him on some straw in the bottom and hurried toward the frontier. Von Löve urged them forward because he realized that after what had happened, they could not lose time in nursing Danveld. Having seated himself beside him in the wagon, he rubbed his face with snow from time to time; but he could not resuscitate him. At last when near the frontier, Danveld opened his eyes and began to look around. "How do you feel?" asked Löve. "I do not feel any pain, but neither can I feel my hand," answered Danveld. "Because it has grown stiff already; that is why you do not feel any pain. It will come back in a warm room. In the meanwhile, thank God even for a moment of relief." Rotgier and Godfried approached the wagon. "What a misfortune!" said the first. "What shall we do now?" "We will declare," said Danveld in a feeble voice, "that the shield-bearer murdered de Fourcy." "It is their latest crime and the culprit is known!" added Rotgier. CHAPTER VII In the meanwhile, the Czech rushed as fast as he could to the prince's hunting residence, and finding the prince still there, he told him first, what had happened. Happily there were some courtiers who had seen the shield-bearer go without any arms. One of them had even shouted after him, half in jest, to take some old iron, because otherwise the Germans would get the best of him; but he, fearing that the knights would pass the frontier, jumped on horseback as he stood, in a sheepskin overcoat only and hurried after them. These testimonies dispelled all possible doubts from the prince's mind as to the fact who had murdered de Fourcy; but they filled him with uneasiness and with such anger, that at first he wanted to pursue the Knights of the Cross, capture them and send them to the grand master in chains. After a while, however, he came to the conclusion, that it was impossible to reach them on this side of the boundary and he said: "I will send, instead, a letter to the grand master, so that he may know what they are doing here. God will punish them for it!" Then he became thoughtful and after a while he began to say to the courtiers: "I cannot understand why they killed their guest; I would suspect the shield-bearer if I did not know that he went there without weapons." "Bah!" said the _ksiondz_ Wyszoniek, "why should the boy kill him? He had not seen him before. Then suppose he had had arms, how could he attack five of them and their armed retinues?" "That is true," said the prince. "That guest must have opposed them in something, or perhaps he did not wish to lie as was necessary for them. I saw them wink at him, to induce him to say that Jurand was the first to begin the fight." Then Mrokota of Mocarzew said: "He is a strong boy, if he could crush the arm of that dog Danveld." "He said that he heard the bones of the German crack," answered the prince; "and taking into consideration what he did in the forest, one must admit it is true! The master and the servant are both strong boys. But for Zbyszko, the bison would have rushed against the horses. Both the Lotaringer and he contributed very much to the rescue of the princess." "To be sure they are great boys," affirmed the _ksiondz_ Wyszoniek. "Even now when he can hardly breathe, he has taken Jurand's part and challenged those knights. Jurand needs exactly such a son-in-law." "In Krakow, Jurand said differently; but now, I think he will not oppose it," said the prince. "The Lord Jesus will help," said the princess, who entered just now and heard the end of the conversation. "Jurand cannot oppose it now, if only God will restore Zbyszko's health; but we must reward him also." "The best reward for him will be Danusia, and I think he will get her, for when the women resolve to accomplish some object, then even Jurand himself could not prevent them." "Am I not right, to wish for that marriage?" asked the princess. "I would not say a word if Zbyszko were not constant; but I think there is no other in the world as faithful as he. And the girl also. She does not leave him now for a moment; she caresses him and he smiles at her, although he is very ill. I cry myself when I see this! I am speaking righteously! It is worth while to help such a love, because the Holy Mother looks gladly on human happiness." "If it be God's will," said the prince, "the happiness will come. But it is true that he nearly lost his head for that girl and now the bison has injured him." "Do not say it was for that girl," said the princess, quickly, "because in Krakow Danusia saved him." "True! But for her sake he attacked Lichtenstein, in order to tear from his head the feathers, and he would not have risked his life for de Lorche. As for the reward, I said before that they both deserve one, and I will think about it in Ciechanow." "Nothing will please Zbyszko more than to receive the knightly girdle and the golden spurs." The prince smiled benevolently and answered: "Let the girl carry them to him; and when the illness leaves him, then we will see that everything is accomplished according to the custom. Let her carry them to him immediately, because quick joy is the best!" The princess having heard that, hugged her lord in the presence of the courtiers, and kissed his hands; he smiled continually and said: "You see--A good idea! I see that the Holy Ghost has granted the woman some sense also! Now call the girl." "Danuska! Danuska!" called the princess. And in a moment in the side door Danusia appeared; her eyes were red on account of sleepless nights; and she held a pot of steaming gruel, which the _ksiondz_ Wyszoniek had ordered to be put on Zbyszko's fractured bones. "Come to me, my dear girl!" said Prince Janusz. "Put aside the pot and come." When she approached with some timidity, because "the lord" always excited some fear in her, he embraced her kindly and began to caress her face, saying: "Well, the poor child is unhappy--_hein_?" "Yes!" answered Danusia. And having sadness in her heart, she began to cry but very quietly, in order not to hurt the prince; he asked again: "Why do you cry?" "Because Zbyszko is ill," answered she, putting her little hands to her eyes. "Do not be afraid, there is no danger for him. Is that not true, Father Wyszoniek?" "Hej! by God's will, he is nearer to the wedding than to the coffin," answered the good-hearted _ksiondz_ Wyszoniek. The prince said: "Wait! In the meanwhile, I will give you a medicine for him, and I trust it will relieve him or cure him entirely." "Have the Krzyzaks sent the balm?" asked Danusia quickly, taking her little hands from her eyes. "With that balm which the Krzyzaks will send, you had better smear a dog than a knight whom you love. I will give you something else." Then he turned to the courtiers and said: "Hurry and bring the spurs and the girdle." After a while, when they had brought them to him, he said to Danusia: "Take these to Zbyszko--and tell him that from this time he is a belted knight. If he die, then he will appear before God as _miles cinctus_; if he live, then the rest will be accomplished in Ciechanow or in Warszawa." Having heard this, Danusia seized "the lord" by his knees; then caught the knightly insignia with one hand and the pot of porridge with the other, and rushed to the room where Zbyszko was lying. The princess, not wishing to lose the sight of their joy, followed her. Zbyszko was very ill, but having perceived Danusia, he turned his pale face toward her and asked: "Has the Czech returned?" "No matter about the Czech!" answered the girl. "I bring you better news than that. The lord has made you a knight and has sent you this by me." Having said this, she put beside him the girdle and the spurs. Zbyszko's pale cheeks flushed with joy and astonishment, he glanced at Danusia and then at the spurs; then he closed his eyes and began to repeat: "How could he dub me a knight?" At that moment the princess entered, and he raised himself a little and began to thank her, because he guessed that her intervention had brought such a great favor and bliss to him. But she ordered him to be quiet and helped Danusia to put his head on the pillows again. In the meanwhile, the prince, the _ksiondz_ Wyszoniek, Mrokota and several other courtiers entered. Prince Janusz waved his hand to signify that Zbyszko must not move; then having seated himself beside the bed, he said: "You know! The people must not wonder that there is reward for good deeds, because if virtue remained without any reward, human iniquities would walk without punishment. You did not spare your life, but with peril to yourself defended us from dreadful mourning; therefore we permit you to don the knightly girdle, and from this moment to walk in glory and fame." "Gracious lord," answered Zbyszko. "I would not spare even ten lives----" But he could not say anything more, on account of his emotion; and the princess put her hand on his mouth because the _ksiondz_ Wyszoniek did not permit him to talk. The prince continued further: "I think that you know the knightly duties and that you will wear the insignia with honor. You must serve our Saviour, and fight with the _starosta_ of hell. You must be faithful to the anointed lord, avoid unrighteous war and defend innocence against oppression; may God and His Holy Passion help you!" "Amen!" answered the _ksiondz_ Wyszoniek. The prince arose, made the sign of the cross over Zbyszko and added: "And when you recover, go immediately to Ciechanow, where I will summon Jurand." CHAPTER VIII. Three days afterward, a woman arrived with the Hercynski balm and with her came the captain of the archers from Szczytno, with a letter, signed by the brothers and sealed with Danveld's seal; in that letter the Knights of the Cross called on heaven and earth as witnesses of the wrongs committed against them in Mazowsze, and with a threat of God's vengeance, they asked for punishment for the murder of their "beloved comrade and guest." Danveld added to the letter his personal complaint, asking humbly but also threateningly for remuneration for his crippled hand and a sentence of death against the Czech. The prince tore the letter into pieces in the presence of the captain, threw it under his feet and said: "The grand master sent those scoundrels of Krzyzaks to win me over, but they have incited me to wrath. Tell them from me that they killed their guest themselves and they wanted to murder the Czech. I will write to the grand master about that and I will request him to send different envoys, if he wishes me to be neutral in case of a war between the Order and the Krakowski king." "Gracious lord," answered the captain, "must I carry such an answer to the mighty and pious brothers?" "If it is not enough, tell them then, that I consider them dog-brothers and not honest knights." This was the end of the audience. The captain went away, because the prince departed the same day for Ciechanow. Only the "sister" remained with the balm, but the mistrustful _ksiondz_ Wyszoniek did not wish to use it, especially as the sick man had slept well the preceding night and had awakened without any fever, although still very weak. After the prince's departure, the sister immediately sent a servant for a new medicine apparently--for the "egg of a basilisk"--which she affirmed had the power to restore strength even to people in agony; as for herself, she wandered about the mansion; she was humble and was dressed in a lay dress, but similar to that worn by members of the Order; she carried a rosary and a small pilgrim's gourd at her belt. She could not move one of her hands. As she could speak Polish well, she inquired from the servants about Zbyszko and Danusia, to whom she made a present of a rose of Jericho; on the second day during Zbyszko's slumber, while Danusia was sitting in the dining-room, she approached her and said: "May God-bless you, _panienko_. Last night after my prayers I dreamed that there were two knights walking during the fall of the snow; one of them came first and wrapped you in a white mantle, and the other said: 'I see only the snow, and she is not here,' and he returned." Danusia who was sleepy, immediately opened her blue eyes curiously, and asked: "What does it mean?" "It means that the one who loves you the best, will get you." "That is Zbyszko!" said the girl. "I do not know, because I did not see his face; I only saw the white mantle and then I awakened; the Lord Jesus sends me pain every night in my feet and I cannot move my hand." "It is strange that the balm has not helped you any!" "It cannot help me, _panienko_, because the pain is a punishment for a sin; if you wish to know what the sin was, I will tell you." Danusia nodded her little head in sign that she wished to know; therefore the "sister" continued: "There are also servants, women, in the Order, who, although they do not make any vows, and are allowed to marry, are obliged to perform certain duties for the Order, according to the brothers' commands. The one who meets such favor and honor, receives a pious kiss from a brother-knight as a sign that from that moment she is to serve the Order with words and deeds. Ah! _panienko_!--I was going to receive that great favor, but in sinful obduracy instead of receiving it with gratitude, I committed a great sin and was punished for it." "What did you do?" "Brother Danveld came to me and gave me the kiss of the Order; but I, thinking that he was doing it from pure license, raised my wicked hand against him----" Here she began to strike her breast and repeated several times: "God, be merciful to me, a sinner!" "What happened then?" asked Danusia. "Immediately my hand became motionless, and from that moment I have been crippled. I was young and stupid--I did not know! But I was punished. If a woman fears that a brother of the Order wishes to do something wicked, she must leave the judgment to God, but she must not resist herself, because whosoever contradicts the Order or a brother of the Order, that one will feel God's anger!" Danusia listened to these words with fright and uneasiness; the sister began to sigh and to complain. "I am not old yet," said she; "I am only thirty years old, but besides the hand, God has taken from me my youth and beauty." "If it were not for the hand," said Danusia, "you need not complain." Then there was silence. Suddenly the sister, as if she had just remembered something, said: "I dreamed that some knight wrapped you with a white mantle on the snow. Perhaps it was a Krzyzak! They wear white mantles." "I want neither Krzyzaks nor their mantles," answered the girl. But further conversation was interrupted by the _ksiondz_ Wyszoniek, who entering the room, nodded to Danusia and said: "Praise God and come to Zbyszko! He has awakened and has asked for something to eat. He is much better." In fact it was so. Zbyszko was a great deal better, and the _ksiondz_ Wyszoniek was almost sure that he would recover, when an unexpected accident upset all his expectations. There came envoys from Jurand with a letter to the princess, containing dreadful news. In Spychow, half of Jurand's _grodek_ had been burned, and he himself during the rescue was struck by a beam. It is true that the _ksiondz_ Kaleb, who wrote the letter, said that Jurand, would recover, but that the sparks had burned his remaining eye so badly that there was very little sight left in it, and he was likely to become blind. For that reason, Jurand asked his daughter to come to Spychow as soon as possible, because he wished to see her once more, before he was entirely encompassed by darkness. He also said that she was to remain with him, because even the blind, begging on the roads, had some one to lead them by the hand and show them the way; why should he be deprived of that pleasure and die among strangers? There were also humble thanks for the princess, who had taken care of the girl like a mother, and finally Jurand promised that, although blind, he would go to Warszawa once more, in order to fall at the lady's feet and beg her for further favor for Danusia. The princess, when the _ksiondz_ Wyszoniek had finished reading the letter, could not say a word for some time. She had hoped that when Jurand came to see his daughter and her, she would be able by the prince's and her own influence to obtain his consent for the wedding of the young couple. But this letter, not only destroyed her plans, but in the meanwhile deprived her of Danusia whom she loved as well as she did her own children. She feared that Jurand would marry the girl to some neighbor of his, so as to spend the rest of his life among his own people. It was no use to think about Zbyszko--he could not go to Spychow, and then who knew how he would be received there. The lady knew that Jurand had refused to give him Danusia; and he had said to the princess herself that on account of some secret reason, he would never consent to their marriage. Therefore in great grief she ordered the principal messenger to be brought to her, as she desired to ask him about the Spychowski misfortune, and also to learn something about Jurand's plans. She was very much surprised when a stranger came instead of the old Tolima, who used to bear the shield after Jurand and usually carried his messages; but the stranger told her that Tolima had been seriously injured in the last fight with the Germans and that he was dying in Spychow; Jurand being very ill himself, asked her to send his daughter immediately, because every day he saw less and less, and perhaps in a few days he would become blind. The messenger begged the princess to permit him to take the girl immediately after the horses were rested, but as it was already dusk she refused; especially as she did not wish to distress Zbyszko and Danusia by such a sudden separation. Zbyszko already knew all about it, and he was lying like one stricken by a heavy blow; when the princess entered, and wringing her hands, said from the threshold: "We cannot help it; he is her father!" he repeated after her like an echo: "We cannot help it----" then closed his eyes, like a man who expects death immediately. But death did not come; but in his breast there gathered a still greater grief and through his head ran sad thoughts, like the clouds which driven by the wind, obstruct the sun and quench all joy in the world. Zbyszko understood as well as the princess did, that if Danusia were once in Spychow, she would be lost to him forever. Here everybody was his friend; there Jurand might even refuse to receive him, or listen to him, especially if he were bound by a vow, or some other unknown reason as strong as a religious vow. Then how could he go to Spychow, when he was sick and hardly able to move in bed. A few days ago, when the prince rewarded him with the golden spurs, he had thought that his joy would conquer his illness, and he had prayed fervently to God to be permitted to soon rise and fight with the Krzyzaks; but now he had again lost all hope, because he felt that if Danusia were not at his bedside, then with her would go his desire for life and the strength to fight with death. What a pleasure and joy it had been to ask her several times a day: "Do you love me?" and to see how she covered her smiling and bashful eyes, or bent and answered: "Yes, Zbyszko." But now only illness, loneliness and grief would remain, and the happiness would depart and not return. Tears shone in Zbyszko's eyes and rolled slowly down on his cheeks; then he turned to the princess and said: "Gracious lady, I fear that I shall never see Danusia again." And the lady being sorrowful herself, answered: "I would not be surprised if you died from grief; but the Lord Jesus is merciful." After a while, however, wishing to comfort him, she added: "But if Jurand die first, then the tutelage will be the prince's and mine, and we will give you the girl immediately." "He will not die!" answered Zbyszko. But at once, evidently some new thought came to his mind, because he arose, sat on the bed and said in a changed voice: "Gracious lady----" At that moment Danusia interrupted him; she came crying and said from the threshold: "Zbyszku! Do you know about it already! I pity _tatus_, but I pity you also, poor boy!" When she approached, Zbyszko encircled his love with his well arm, and began to speak: "How can I live without you, my dearest? I did not travel through rivers and forest, I did not make the vow to serve you, that I might lose you. Hej! sorrow will not help, crying will not help, bah! even death itself, because even if the grass grow over me, my soul will not forget you, even if I am in the presence of the Lord Jesus or of God the Father--I say, there must be a remedy! I feel a terrible pain in my bones, but you must fall at the lady's feet, I cannot--and ask her to have mercy upon us." Danusia hearing this, ran quickly to the princess' feet, and having seized them in her arms, she hid her face in the folds of the heavy dress; the lady turned her compassionate but also astonished eyes to Zbyszko, and said: "How can I show you mercy? If I do not let the child go to her sick father, I will draw God's anger on myself." Zbyszko who had been sitting on the bed, slipped down on the pillows and did not answer for a time because he was exhausted. Slowly, however, he began to move one hand toward the other on his breast until he joined them as in prayer. "Rest," said the princess; "then you may tell me what you wish; and you, Danusia, arise and release my knees." "Relax, but do not rise; beg with me," said Zbyszko. Then he began to speak in a feeble and broken voice: "Gracious lady--Jurand was against me in Krakow--he will be here also, but if the _ksiondz_ Wyszoniek married me to Danusia, then--afterward she may go to Spychow because there is no human power that could take her away from me----" These words were so unexpected to the princess, that she jumped from the bench; then she sat down again and as if she had not thoroughly understood about what he was talking, she said: "For heaven's sake! the _ksiondz_ Wyszoniek." "Gracious lady! Gracious lady!" begged Zbyszko. "Gracious lady!" repeated Danusia, embracing the princess' knees. "How could it be done without her father's permission?" "God's law is the stronger!" answered Zbyszko. "For heaven's sake!" "Who is the father, if not the prince? Who is the mother, if not you, gracious lady?" And Danusia added: "Dearest _matuchna_!"[104] "It is true, that I have been and am still like a mother to her," said the princess, "and Jurand received his wife from my hand. It is true! And if you are once married--everything is ended. Perhaps Jurand will be angry, but he must be obedient to the commands of the prince, his lord. Then, no one need tell him immediately, only if he wanted to give the girl to another, or to make her a nun; and if he has made some vow, it will not be his fault that he cannot fulfill it. Nobody can act against God's will--perhaps it is God's will!" "It cannot be otherwise!" exclaimed Zbyszko. But the princess, still very much excited, said: "Wait, I must collect my thoughts. If the prince were here, I would go to him immediately and would ask him: 'May I give Danusia to Zbyszko or not?' But I am afraid without him, and there is not much time to spare, because the girl must go to-morrow! Oh, sweet Jesus, let her go married--then there will be peace. But I cannot recover my senses again--and then I am afraid of something. And you Danusia, are you not afraid?--Speak!" "I will die without that!" interrupted Zbyszko. Danusia arose from the princess' knees; she was not only really on confidential terms with the good lady, but also much spoiled by her; therefore she seized her around the neck, and began to hug her. But the princess said: "I will not promise you anything without Father Wyszoniek. Run for him immediately!" Danusia went after Father Wyszoniek; Zbyszko turned his pale face toward the princess, and said: "What the Lord Jesus has destined for me will happen; but for this consolation, may God reward you, gracious lady." "Do not bless me yet," answered the princess, "because we do not know what will happen. You must swear to me upon you honor, that if you are married, you will not prevent the girl from going to her father, or else you will draw his curse upon her and yourself. "Upon my honor!" said Zbyszko. "Remember then! And the girl must not tell Jurand immediately. We will send for him from Ciechanow, and make him come with Danusia, and then I will tell him myself, or I will ask the prince to do it. When he sees that there is no remedy, he will consent. He did not dislike you?" "No," said Zbyszko, "he did not dislike me; perhaps he will be pleased when Danusia is mine. If he made a vow, it will not be his fault that he could not keep it." The conversation was interrupted by the entrance of Danusia and the _ksiondz_ Wyszoniek. The princess immediately asked his advice and began to tell him with great enthusiasm about Zbyszko's plan; but as soon as he heard about it, he made the sign of the cross from astonishment and said: "In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost! How can I do it? It is advent!" "For God's sake! That is true!" exclaimed the princess. Then there was silence; only their sorrowful faces showed what a blow those words of the _ksiondz_ Wyszoniek were to all of them. Then he said after a while: "If you had a dispensation, then I would not oppose it, because I pity you. I would not ask for Jurand's permission, because our gracious lady consents and, vouches for the prince's consent--well! they are the mother and the father for the whole of Mazowsze. But without a bishop's dispensation, I cannot. Bah! if the _ksiondz_ bishop of Kurdwanow were with us, he would not refuse a dispensation, although he is a severe priest, not like his predecessor, Bishop Mamphiolus, who used always to answer: _Bene! Bene!_" "Bishop Jacob of Kurdwanow loves the prince and myself very much," said the lady. "Therefore I say he would not refuse a dispensation, more so because there are some reasons for one: the girl must go to her father and that young man is ill and may die--Hm! _in articulo mortis!_ But without a dispensation I cannot." "I could obtain it afterward from Bishop Jacob; no matter how severe he may be, he will not refuse me this favor. I guarantee, he will not refuse," said the princess. To this the _ksiondz_ Wjszoniek who was a good and easy man, replied: "A word of the Lord's anointed is a great word. I am afraid of the _ksiondz_ bishop, but that great word! Then the youth could promise something to the cathedral in Plock. Well, as long as the dispensation will not come, there will be a sin--and nobody's but mine. Hm! It is true that the Lord Jesus is merciful and if any one sin not for his own benefit, but on account of mercy for human misery, he forgives more easily! But there will be a sin, and suppose the bishop should refuse, who will grant me pardon?" "The bishop will not refuse!" exclaimed Princess Anna. And Zbyszko said: "That man Sanderus, who came with me, has pardons ready for everything." The _ksiondz_ Wyszoniek probably did not believe entirely in Sanderus' pardons; but he was glad to have even a pretext so that he could help Danusia and Zbyszko, because he loved the girl, whom he had known from childhood. Then he remembered that at the worst, he would be punished with church penitence, therefore turning toward the princess he said: "It is true, I am a priest, but I am also the prince's servant. What do you command, gracious lady?" "I do not wish to command but to beg," answered the lady. "If that Sanderus has pardons----" "Sanderus has. But there is the question about the bishop. He is very severe with the canons in Plock." "Do not be afraid of the bishop. I have heard that he has forbidden the priest to carry swords and crossbows and has forbidden different licenses, but he has not forbidden them to do good." The _ksiondz_ Wyszoniek raised his eyes and his hands, and said: "Let it be according to your wish!" At this word, joy filled their hearts. Zbyszko again sat on the bed and the princess, Danusia and Father Wyszoniek sat round it and began to plan how they should act. They decided to keep it secret so that not a soul in the house should know anything about it; they also decided that Jurand must not know until the princess herself told him in Ciechanow about everything. In the meanwhile, the _ksiondz_ Wyszoniek was to write a letter from the princess to Jurand and ask him to come to Ciechanow, where he could find better medicine and where he will not weary. Finally, they decided, that Zbyszko and Danusia will go to confession, that the wedding ceremony will be performed during the night, when everybody will retire. The thought came to Zbyszko to have his shield-bearer, the Czech, as a witness of the wedding; but he gave up the idea when he remembered that he had received him from Jagienka. For a moment she stood in his memory as though present, so that it seemed to him that he saw her blushing face and her eyes full of tears, and heard her pleading voice say: "Do not do that! Do not repay me with evil for good, nor with misery for love!" Then at once great compassion for her seized him, because he felt that a great wrong would be done her, after which she would find no consolation under the roof of Zgorzelice, nor in the depths of the forest, nor in the fields, nor in the abbot's gifts, nor in Cztan and Wilk's courtship. Therefore he said inwardly: "Girl, may God give you the best of everything, for although I am willing to bend the sky for you, I cannot." In fact, the thought that he could not help it, immediately brought him relief, and tranquillity returned, so that immediately he began to think only about Danusia and the wedding. But he was obliged to call the Czech to help him; therefore although he determined not to say a word to him about what was going to happen, he summoned him and said: "To-day I am going to confession as well as to the Lord's table; therefore you must dress me in my best clothing as if I were going to the king's palace." The Czech was a little afraid and began to look into his face; Zbyszko having noticed this, said: "Do not be alarmed, people do not go to confession only when they expect to die; the holy days are coming, Father Wyszoniek and the princess are going to Ciechanow, and then there will be no priest nearer than in Przasnysz." "And are you not going?" asked the shield-bearer. "If I recover my health, then I will go; but that is in God's hands." Therefore the Czech was quieted; he hurried to the chests, and brought that white _jaka_ embroidered with gold, in which the knight used to dress for great occasions, and also a beautiful rug to cover the bed; then having lifted Zbyszko, with the help of the two Turks, he washed him, and combed his long hair on which he put a scarlet zone; finally he placed him on red cushions, and satisfied with his own work, said: "If Your Grace were able to dance, you could celebrate even a wedding!" "It will be necessary to celebrate it without dancing," answered Zbyszko, smiling. In the meanwhile the princess was also thinking how to dress Danusia, because for her womanly nature it was a question of great importance, and under no consideration would she consent to have her beloved foster child married in her everyday dress. The servants who were also told that the girl must dress in the color of innocence for confession, very easily found a white dress, but there was great trouble about the wreath for the head. While thinking of it, the lady became so sad that she began to complain: "My poor orphan, where shall I find a wreath of rue for you in this wilderness? There is none here, neither a flower, nor a leaf; only some green moss under the snow." And Danusia, standing with loosened hair, also became sorrowful, because she wanted a wreath; after awhile, however, she pointed to the garlands of immortelles, hanging on the walls of the room, and said: "We must weave a wreath of those flowers, because we will not find anything else, and Zbyszko will take me even with such a wreath." The princess would not consent at first, being afraid of a bad omen; but as in this mansion, to which they came only for hunting, there were no flowers, finally the immortelles were taken. In the meanwhile, Father Wyszoniek came, and received Zbyszko's confession; afterwards he listened to the girl's confession and then the gloomy night fell. The servants retired after supper, according to the princess' order. Some of Jurand's men lay down in the servants' room, and others slept in the stables with the horses. Soon the fires in the servants' room became covered with ashes and were quenched; finally everything became absolutely quiet in the forest house, only from time to time the dogs were heard howling at the wolves in the direction of the wilderness. But in the princess', Father Wyszoniek's and Zbyszko's rooms, the windows were shining, throwing red lights on the snow which covered the court-yard. They were waiting in silence, listening to the throbbing of their own hearts--uneasy and affected by the solemnity of the moment which was coming. In fact, after midnight, the princess took Danusia by the hand and conducted her to Zbyszko's room, where Father Wyszoniek was waiting for them. In the room there was a great blaze in the fireplace, and by its abundant but unsteady light, Zbyszko perceived Danusia; she looked a little pale on account of sleepless nights; she was dressed in a long, stiff, white dress, with a wreath of immortelles on her brow. On account of emotion, she closed her eyes; her little hands were hanging against the dress, and thus she appeared like some painting on a church window; there was something spiritual about her; Zbyszko was surprised when he saw her, and thought that he was going to marry not an earthly, but a heavenly being. He still thought this when she kneeled with crossed hands to receive the communion, and having bent her head, closed her eyes entirely. In that moment she even seemed to him as if dead, and fear seized his heart. But it did not last long because, having heard the priest's voice repeat: "_Ecce Agnus Dei_," his thoughts went toward God. In the room there were heard only the solemn voice of Father Wyszoniek: "_Domine, non sum dignus_," and with it the crackling of the logs in the fireplace and the sound of crickets playing obstinately, but sadly, in the chinks of the chimney. Outdoors the wind arose and rustled in the snowy forest, but soon stopped. Zbyszko and Danusia remained sometime in silence; the _ksiondz_ Wyszoniek took the chalice and carried it to the chapel of the mansion. After a while he returned accompanied by Sir de Lorche, and seeing astonishment on the faces of those present, he placed his finger on his mouth, as if to stop the cry of surprise, then he said: "I understand; it will be better to have two witnesses of the marriage; I warned this knight who swore to me on his honor and on the relics of Aguisgranum to keep the secret as long as necessary." Then Sir de Lorche first kneeled before the princess, then before Danusia; then he arose and stood silently, clad in his armor, on which the red light of the fire was playing. He stood motionless, as if plunged in ecstasy, because for him also, that white girl with a wreath of immortelles on her brow seemed like the picture of an angel, seen on the window of a Gothic cathedral. The priest put her near Zbyszko's bed and having put the stole round their hands, began the customary rite. On the princess' honest face the tears were dropping one after another; but she was not uneasy within, because she believed she was doing well, uniting these two lovely and innocent children. Sir de Lorche kneeled again, and leaning with both hands on the hilt of his sword, looked like a knight who beholds a vision. The young people repeated the priest's words: "I ... take you ..." and those sweet quiet words were accompanied again by the singing of the crickets in the chimney and the crackling in the fireplace. When the ceremony was finished, Danusia fell at the feet of the princess who blessed them both, and finally intrusted them to the tutelage of heavenly might; she said to Zbyszko: "Now be merry, because she is yours, and you are hers." Then Zbyszko extended his well arm to Danusia, and she put her little arms round his neck; for a while one could hear them repeat to each other: "Danuska, you are mine!" "Zbyszku, you are mine!" But soon Zbyszko became weak, because there were too many emotions for his strength, and having slipped on the pillow, he began to breathe heavily. But he did not faint, nor did he cease to smile at Danusia, who was wiping his face which was covered with a cold perspiration, and he did not stop repeating: "Danuska, you are mine!" to which every time she nodded her fair head in assent. This sight greatly moved Sir de Lorche, who declared that in no other country had he seen such loving and tender hearts; therefore he solemnly swore that he was ready to fight on foot or on horseback with any knight, magician or dragon, who would try to prevent their happiness. The princess and Father Wyszoniek were witnesses of his oath. But the lady, being unable to conceive of a marriage without some merriment, brought some wine which they drank. The hours of night were passing on. Zbyszko having overcome his weakness, drew Danusia to him and said: "Since the Lord Jesus has given you to me, nobody can take you from me; but I am sorry that you must leave me, my sweetest berry." "We will come with _tatulo_ to Ciechanow," answered Danusia. "If only you do not become sick--or--God may preserve you from some bad accident.--You must go to Spychow--I know! Hej! I must be thankful to God and to our gracious lady, that you are already mine--because we are married and no human force can break our marriage." But as this marriage was performed secretly during the night and separation was necessary immediately afterward, therefore from time to time, not only Zbyszko, but everybody was filled with sadness. The conversation was broken. From time to time, also the fire was quenched and plunged all heads in obscurity. Then the _ksiondz_ Wyszoniek threw fresh logs on the charcoal and when something whined in the wood, as happens very often when the wood is fresh, he said: "Penitent soul, what do you wish?" The crickets answered him and the increasing flames which brought out from the shadow the sleepless faces, were reflected in Sir de Lorche's armor, lighting in the meanwhile Danusia's white dress and the immortelles on her head. The dogs outside again began to howl in the direction of the forest, as they usually do, when they scent wolves. As the hours of the night flew on, oftener there was silence; finally the princess said: "Sweet Jesus! We had better go to bed if we are going to sit like this after a wedding, but as it was determined to watch until morning, then play for us, my little flower, for the last time before your departure, on the little lute--for me and for Zbyszko." "What shall I play?" asked she. "What?" said the princess. "What else if not the same song which you sang in Tyniec, when Zbyszko saw you for the first time." "Hej! I remember--and shall never forget it," said Zbyszko. "When I heard that song somewhere else--I cried." "Then I will sing it!" said Danusia. And immediately she began to thrum on the lute; then, having raised her little head, she sang: "If I only could get The wings like a birdie, I would fly quickly To my dearest Jasiek! I would then be seated On the high enclosure; Look, my dear Jasiulku, Look on me, poor orphan." But at once her voice broke, her mouth began to tremble and from beneath the closed eyelids the tears began to flow down her cheeks. For a moment she tried not to let them pass the eyelashes, but she could not keep them back and finally she began to cry, exactly as she did the last time she sang that song to Zbyszko in the prison in Krakow. "Danuska! what is the matter, Danuska?" asked Zbyszko. "Why are you crying? Such a wedding!" exclaimed the princess. "Why?" "I do not know," answered Danusia, sobbing. "I am so sad! I regret Zbyszko and you so much." Then all became very sorrowful; they began to console her, and to explain to her that she was not going to remain in Spychow a long time, but that they would surely be with Jurand in Ciechanow for the holy days. Zbyszko again encircled her with his arm, drew her to his breast and kissed the tears from her eyes; but the oppression remained in all hearts, and thus the hours of night passed. Finally from the court-yard there resounded such a sudden and dreadful noise, that all shivered. The princess, having rushed from the bench, exclaimed: "For God's sake. The sweeps of the wells! They are watering the horses!" And the _ksiondz_ Wyszoniek looked through the window, in which the glass balls were growing gray and said: "The night grows white and the day is coming. _Ave Maria, gratia plena_----" Then he left the room but having returned after a while, he said: "The day breaks, but the day will be dark. Jurand's people are watering their horses. Poor girl, you must be ready!" The princess and Danusia began to cry very loudly and both, together with Zbyszko, began to lament, as simple people do when they have to separate; it was half lamenting and half singing, which flowed from full souls, in a natural way, as the tears flow from the eyes. "Hej! there is no use of lamenting, We must separate, my darling, Farewell--hej!" Zbyszko nestled Danusia for the last time on his breast and kept her for a long time, as long as he could breathe and until the princess drew her from him, in order to dress her for the journey. In the meanwhile it was broad daylight. In the mansion everybody was up and moving round. The Czech came to Zbyszko to ask about his health and to ascertain what were his orders. "Draw the bed to the window," said the knight to him. The Czech drew the bed to the window, very easily; but he was surprised when Zbyszko told him to open it. He obeyed, however, only he covered his master with his own fur coat, because it was cold outside, although cloudy, and snow was falling. Zbyszko began to look; in the court-yard, through the flakes of the falling snow, one could see lights, and round them, on steaming horses, Jurand's people were standing. All were armed. The forest was entirely covered with the snow; one could hardly see the enclosures and the gate. Danusia, all wrapped up in furs, rushed once more into Zbyszko's room; once more she put her arms around his neck and bade him farewell: "Although I am going, still I am yours." He kissed her hands, her cheeks and her eyes, and said: "May God protect you! May God lead you! You are mine, mine until death!" When they again separated them, he raised himself as much as he could, leaned his head on the window and looked out; consequently, through the flakes of the snow, as through a veil, he saw Danusia sitting in the sleigh, the princess holding her a long time in her arms, the ladies of the court kissing her and the _ksiondz_ Wyszoniek making the sign of the cross for the journey. Before the departure, she turned once more toward him, stretched out her arms and exclaimed: "Zbyszku, remain with God!" "May God permit me to see you in Ciechanow!" But the snow was falling abundantly, as though to deaden every sound, and to cover everything; therefore those last words came muffled to their ears, so that it seemed to each of them that they were already calling to each other from afar. END OF PART THIRD. PART FOURTH. CHAPTER I. After abundant snowfalls, heavy frost and dry, clear days set in. By day the wood sparkled in the rays of the sun, the ice fettered the rivers and hardened the marshes; serene nights followed in which the frost was intensified to such a degree that the wood in the forest cracked loudly. The birds approached the dwelling-places. Wolves rendered the roads unsafe, gathering in packs and attacking not only solitary people, but also villages. The people however enjoyed themselves at the firesides in their smoky shanties, presaging from the intensely cold winter an abundant year, and they waited gladly for the approaching holidays. The princely Forest Court was deserted. The princess with the court and priest Wyszoniek left for Ciechanow. Zbyszko, who, though considerably improved, was not yet strong enough to ride on horseback, remained in the Forest Court together with Sanderus, his Bohemian armor-bearer and the servants of the place, who were under the superintendence of a noble-woman fulfilling the household duties. But the knight greatly yearned after his young wife. It is true, it was an immensely consoling thought to him that Danusia was already his, and that no human power could take her from him; but, on the other hand, that same thought intensified his longing. For whole days he hoped for that moment when he should be able to leave the court, and pondered on what he should then do, where to go, and how to appease Jurand. He had, likewise, bad and restless moments. But on the whole the future appeared joyful to him. To love Danusia and pluck peacock plumes from helmets--such a life would he lead. Many a time he desired to speak of it to his Bohemian whom he loved, but he reflected, since the Bohemian, he thought, was with his whole soul Jagienka's, it would be imprudent to speak to him about Danusia, but he, bound to secrecy, could not tell everything that happened. However, his health improved daily. A week before Vigil (Christmas Eve) he mounted his horse for the first time, and although he felt that he could not do this in his armor, nevertheless he gathered confidence. Besides, he did not expect soon to be obliged to put on the coat of mail and helmet. At the worst he hoped soon to be strong enough to do that too. Indoors, in order to kill time, he attempted to lift up the sword, which he accomplished well, but the wielding of the axe seemed to him yet a difficult task. Nevertheless, he believed that if he grasped the axe with both hands he would be able to wield it effectively. Finally, two days before the Vigil, he gave orders to repair the carriage, saddle the horses, and notified the Bohemian that they were going to Ciechanow. The faithful armor-bearer was somewhat anxious, the more so on account of the intense frost out-of-doors. But Zbyszko said to him: "Glowacz,[105] it concerns not your head, there is nothing for us in this court, and even should I happen to be sick, I would not miss seeing the old gentleman in Ciechanow. Moreover, I shall not ride on horseback, but in a sleigh, up to the neck in hay and under furs, and only when quite near Ciechanow shall I mount my horse." And so it happened. The Bohemian knew his young master and was aware that it was not good to oppose him, and still worse not to attend scrupulously to his orders. Therefore they started at an early hour. At the moment of departure, Zbyszko seeing Sanderus placing himself and his boxes in the sleigh, said to him: "Why are you sticking to me like burs to sheep's wool?... You told me you wished to go to Prussia." "Yes, I said so," Sanderus replied. "But can I get there alone in such snows? The wolves would devour me before the first star made its appearance, and I have nothing to stay here for. I prefer the town, to edify the people in godliness, and bestow upon them my holy wares and rescue them from the devil's grasp, as I have sworn to the father of all Christendom in Rome. Besides this, I am exceedingly attached to your grace, whom I shall not leave before my return to Rome, for it may happen that I may be enabled to render you some service." "He is always for you, sir! He is ready to eat and drink for you," said the Bohemian. "Such service he would be too glad to render, but if a pack of wolves should happen to attack us in the forests near Przasnysz then I shall feed the wolves with him, for he is unfit for anything else." "Better take care that the sinful words don't freeze to your moustache," replied Sanderus, "for such icicles can only melt in hellfire." "Owa!" replied Glowacz, reaching with his gauntlet to his incipient moustache, "I shall first try to warm some beer for refreshment, but I'll give none to you." "But it is forbidden there to give drink to the thirsty,--another sin." "I shall give you a pail full of water, but meanwhile take what I have in my hand!" Thus saying he gathered as much snow as he could hold with both gauntlets and threw it at Sanderus' beard, but the latter bent aside and said: "There is nothing for _you_ in Ciechanow, for there is already a grown-up bear that plays with snow." Thus they loved to tease each other. But Zbyszko did not forbid Sanderus to ride with him because that strange man amused him, and at the same time it seemed to him that the man was really attached to him. They moved from the Forest Court in the bright morning. The frost was so intense that they had to cover the horses. The whole landscape was under snow. The roofs of the cottages were covered and hardly visible. Smoke seemed to issue directly from white hills, shooting up skyward, red-hued in the morning, widening out on the roof like a brush, and looking like the plumes on helmets. Zbyszko sat in the sleigh, first to gather strength, secondly on account of the severe cold, against which it was easy to protect oneself; he commanded Glowacz to sit down beside him so as to be ready with the crossbow against an attack of wolves, meanwhile he chatted with him merrily. "In Przasnysz, we shall only feed the horses and warm ourselves a little and then immediately continue our journey." "To Ciechanow?" "First to Ciechanow, to pay homage to the court and attend worship." "After that?" inquired Glowacz. Zbyszko smiled and replied, "Afterward, who knows, may be to Bogdaniec." The Bohemian looked at him with astonishment, the thought crossed his mind: Maybe he has quarrelled with Jurandowna, and this seemed to him most likely, because she had gone away. The Bohemian had also heard in the Forest Court that the lord of Spychow was opposed to the young knight, therefore the honest armor-bearer was glad although he loved Jagienka, but he looked upon her as upon a star in heaven for whose happiness he was willing even to shed his blood. He therefore loved Zbyszko, and from his very soul he longed to serve both of them even unto death. "Then your grace thinks to settle down on the estate," he exultingly said. "How can I settle down on my estate," replied Zbyszko, "when I challenged those Knights of the Cross, and even before that, I challenged Lichtenstein. De Lorche said that the Master would invite the king to visit Torun. I shall attach myself to the king's retinue, and I think that at Torun, either _Pan_ Zawisza of Garbow or Powala of Taczew will ask permission from our lord to allow me to fight those monks. They will certainly come to fight accompanied by their armor-bearers; in that case you will also have to meet them." "If I were to kill any one, I should like him to be a monk," said the Bohemian. Zbyszko looked at him with satisfaction. "Well, he will not fare well who happens to feel your steel. God has given you great strength, but you would act badly if you were to push it to excess, because humility is becoming in the worthy armor-bearer." The Bohemian shook his head as a sign that he would not waste his strength, but would not spare it against the Germans. Zbyszko smiled, not on account of what the armor bearer had said, but at his own thoughts. "The old gentleman will be glad when we return, and in Zgorzelice there will also be joy." Jagienka stood before Zbyszko's eyes as though she were sitting with him in the sleigh. That always happened, whenever he thought of her he saw her very distinctly. "Well," he said to himself, "she will not be glad, for when I shall return to Bogdaniec it will be with Danusia. Let her take somebody else...." Here, the figures of Wills of Brzozowa, and young Cztan of Rogow passed through his mind, and suddenly a disagreeable feeling crept over him, because the girl might fall into the hands of one of them, and he said to himself: "I wish I could find some better man, for those fellows are beer-gulpers and gourmands, and the girl is upright." And he thought of this and of that; of his uncle when he should learn what had happened, it would be irksome, no matter how it turned out; but he immediately consoled himself with the thought that with his uncle, matters concerning kinship and wealth were always paramount, and these could advance the interest of the family. Jagienka was indeed nearer, but Jurand was a greater land owner than Zych of Zgorzelice. Moreover the former could easily foresee that Macko could not be long opposed to such a liaison, the more so when he should behold his nephew's love for Danusia and her requital. He would grumble for a while, then he would be glad and begin to love Danuska as his own daughter. Suddenly his heart was moved with tenderness and yearning toward that uncle who although a severe man, loved him like the pupil of his own eye; that uncle cared for him on the battlefield more than for himself, he took booty for him, and for his sake he was driven out from his estate. Both of them were lonely in the world without near relatives, with only distant ones like the abbot. Moreover, when the time arrived to separate from each other, neither of them knew what to do, particularly the older one, who no more desired anything for himself. "Hej! he will be glad, he will be glad!" repeated Zbyszko to himself. "Only one thing I should like,--that he should receive Jurand and me as well as he would receive me by myself." Then he attempted to imagine what Jurand would say and do when he learned of the marriage. There was some alarm in this thought, but not too much of it, for the simple reason that it was an accomplished fact. It would not do for Jurand to challenge him to fight, and even should Jurand oppose, Zbyszko could answer him thus: "Forbear, I ask you; your right to Danuska is human, but mine is divine; she is therefore no more yours, but mine." He once heard from a certain clergyman who was versed in the Scriptures that the woman must leave her father and mother and go with her husband. He felt therefore that the greater part of strength was in his favor; nevertheless he did not expect that intense strife and passion would arise between Jurand and himself, for he counted upon Danusia's petition which would be granted, and quite as much, if not more, upon that which would be obtained by the intercession of the prince under whom Jurand was serving and that of the princess whom Jurand loved as the protectress of his child. Owing to the severe frosts, wolves appeared in such great packs, that they even attacked people traveling together. Zbyszko was advised to remain over night at Przasnysz, but he took no notice of it, because it happened that, at the inn, they met some Mazovian knights with their trains who were also on their way to meet the prince at Ciechanow, and some armed merchants from that very place convoying loaded wagons from Prussia. There was no danger to travel with such a great crowd; they therefore started toward evening, although a sudden wind arose after nightfall which chased the clouds, and snow began to fall. They traveled keeping close to one another, but they advanced so slowly that it occurred to Zbyszko that they would not arrive in time for the Vigil. They were obliged to dig through the drift in some places where it was impossible for the horses to pass through. Fortunately the road in the woods was not obliterated. It was already dusk when they saw Ciechanow. Were it not for the fire on the heights where the new castle stood, they would not have known that they were so close to town, and would have strayed much longer in the midst of the blinding snowstorm and gust of wind. They were not sure whether fire was burning there in honor of the guests at Christmas Eve, or whether it was put there according to some ancient custom. But none of Zbyszko's companions thought about it, for all were anxious to find a place of shelter in town as quickly as possible. Meanwhile the snowstorm constantly increased, the keen, freezing wind carried immense snowclouds; it dragged at the trees, it howled, maddened, it tore whole snowdrifts, carrying them upward, it shifted, heaved up, and almost covered the sleighs and horses and struck the faces of the occupants like sharp gravel; it stifled their breath and speech. The sound of the bells fastened to the poles of the sleighs could not be heard at all, but instead of it there were audible, in the midst of the howling and whistling of the whirlwind, plaintive voices like the howling of wolves, like distant neighing of horses, and at times like human voices in great distress, calling for help. The exhausted horses began to pant, and gradually slacken their pace. "Hej! what a blizzard! what a blizzard!" said the Bohemian in a choking voice. "It is fortunate, sir, that we are already near the town, and that yonder fires are burning; if it were not for that we should fare badly." "There is death for those who are in the field," answered Zbyszko, "but even the fire I don't see there any more. The gloom is so thick that even the fire is invisible; perhaps the wood and coal were swept away by the wind." The merchants and knights in the other wagons were saying: that should the snowstorm carry off anybody from the seat, that one would never hear the morning bell. But Zbyszko became suddenly alarmed and said: "God forbid that Jurand should be anywhere on the road!" The Bohemian, although entirely occupied in looking toward the fire, on hearing the words of Zbyszko, turned his head and asked: "Is the knight of Spychow expected?" "Yes." "With the young lady?" "And the fire is really gone," answered Zbyszko. And indeed the fire was extinguished, but, instead, several horsemen appeared immediately in front of the horses and sleighs. "Why dost thou follow?" cried the watchful Bohemian, grasping his crossbow; "Who are you?" "The prince's people, sent to assist the travelers." "Jesus Christ be praised!" "Forever and ever." "Lead us to town," said Zbyszko. "Is there nobody left behind?" "Nobody." "Whence do you come?" "From Przasnysz." "Did you not meet other travelers on the road?" "We met nobody, but they may be on other roads." "People are searching on all roads, come with us, you lost your route! To the right." They turned the horses, and for some time nothing was perceptible but the blast of the storm. "Are there many guests in the castle?" asked Zbyszko, after a while. The nearest horseman, who did not hear the question bent toward him. "What did you say, sir?" "I asked whether there were many guests at the prince's?" "As customary: there are enough." "But is the lord of Spychow there?" "He is not there, but they expect him. People ware dispatched to meet him too." "With torches?" "If the weather permits." They were unable to continue their conversation, for the boisterous snowstorm was increasing in force. "Quite a devil's marriage," said the Bohemian. Zbyszko, however, told him to keep quiet, and not to conjure up the evil name. "Dost thou not know," he said, "that on such a Holy Day, the devil's power is subdued, and the devils hide themselves in the ice-holes? Once the fishermen near Sandomierz on Christmas Eve found him in their net, he had a pike in his mouth, but when the sound of the bells reached his ears, he immediately fainted; they pounded him with their clubs till the evening. The tempest is certainly vehement, but it is with the permission of the Lord Jesus, who desires that the morrow shall be the more joyful." "Bah! we were quite near the city," said Glowacz. "Yet if it were not for these people, we should have strayed till midnight, since we had deviated from the right path." "Because the fire was extinguished." Meanwhile they arrived in town. The snowdrifts in the streets were larger, so big that in some places they even covered the windows, so much so that the wayfarers could not see the light from within. But the storm was not so much felt here. The streets were deserted. The inhabitants were already celebrating the Christmas Eve festival. In front of some houses, boys with small cribs and goats, in spite of the snowstorm, were singing Christmas hymns. In the market-place there were seen men wrapped up in pease straw imitating bears; otherwise the streets were deserted. The merchants who accompanied Zbyszko and the noblemen on the road, remained in town, but they continued their journey toward the prince's residence in the old castle, and, as the windows of the castle were made of glass, the bright light, notwithstanding the blizzard, cast its rays upon the advancing party. The drawbridge over the moat was lowered, because the Lithuanian incursions of old had diminished, and the Knights of the Cross, who carried on war against the King of Poland, were now themselves seeking the friendship of the Prince of Mazowsze. One of the prince's men blew the horn and immediately the gate was opened. There were in it several archers, but upon the walls and palisades there was not a living soul when the prince permitted the guard to go out. Old Mrokota, who had arrived two days before, went out to meet the guests, and greeted them in the name of the prince and brought them into the house where they could prepare themselves properly for table. Zbyszko immediately asked him for news of Jurand of Spychow, but he replied that he had not arrived, but was expected because he promised to come, and that if he were very ill he would send word. Nevertheless several horsemen were sent out to meet him, for even the oldest men did not remember such a blizzard. "Then he may soon be here." "I believe he will soon be here. The princess ordered dishes for them near the common table." But Zbyszko, although he was somewhat anxious about Jurand, was nevertheless glad in his heart, and said to himself: "Though I do not know what to do, yet one thing is certain, my wife is coming, my woman, my most beloved Danuska." When he repeated those words to himself, he could hardly believe his own happiness. Why, he reflected, it may be that she has already confessed all to her father, she may have moved him to pity and begged him to give her up at once. "In truth, what else could he do? Jurand is a clever fellow, he knows, that although he keeps her from me, I shall nevertheless take her away, for my right is stronger." Whilst he was dressing himself he conversed with Mrokota, inquiring after the prince's health and specially that of the princess, whom he loved like his mother since that time when he sojourned in Krakow. He was glad to learn that everybody in the castle was well and cheerful, although the princess greatly yearned after her beloved songstress. Jagienka now played the lute for her and the princess loved her much, but not as much as the songstress. "Which Jagienka?" inquired Zbyszko with astonishment. "Jagienka of Wielgolasu, the granddaughter of the old lord of Wielgolasu. She is a fine girl. The Lotarynczyk[106] fell in love with her." "Then is Sir de Lorche here?" "Where then should he be? He has been here since he arrived from the Forest Court, for it is well to be here. Our prince never lacks guests." "I shall be glad to see him, he is a knight with whom none can find fault." "And he also loves you. But let us go, their Highnesses will soon be at the table." They went into the dining hall where big fires burned in the two fireplaces and they were taken care of by the servants. The room was already filled with guests and courtiers. The prince entered first accompanied by the Voyevode and several life guards. Zbyszko knelt and kissed his hands. The prince pressed Zbyszko's head, then he took him aside and said: "I know it all already, I was displeased at first, because it was done without my permission, but there was no time, for I was then in Warsaw where I intended to spend the holidays. It is a well-known fact that, if a woman desires anything, opposition is useless, and you gain nothing by it. The princess wishes you well like a mother, and I always desire to please rather than to oppose her wishes, in order to spare her trouble and tears." Zbyszko bowed again to the prince's knees. "God grant that I may requite your princely love." "Praise His name that you are already well. Tell the princess how I received you with good wishes, so that she may be pleased. As I fear God, her joy is my joy! I shall also say a good word in your behalf to Jurand, and I think that he will consent, for he too loves the princess." "Even if he refused to give her to me, my right stands first." "Your right stands first and must be acknowledged, but a blessing might fail you. Nobody can forcibly wrest her from you, but without a father's blessing God's is also lacking." Zbyszko felt uneasy on hearing these words, for he had never before thought about it; but at that moment the princess entered, accompanied by Jagienka of Wielgolasu and other court ladies; he hastened to bow before her, but she greeted him even more graciously than the prince had done, and at once began to tell him of the expectation of Jurand's arrival. "Here are the covers ready for him, and people have been dispatched to guide them through the snowdrifts. We shall not wait any longer for them with the Christmas Eve supper, for the prince does not approve of it, but they will be here before supper is over." "As far as Jurand is concerned," continued the princess, "he will be here in God's good time. But I shall tell him all to-day or to-morrow after the shepherd service (pasterce), and the prince also promised to say a word in your behalf. Jurand is obstinate but not with those whom he loves, nor those to whom he owes obedience." Then she began to instruct Zbyszko how he should act with his father-in-law, and that God forbid he should anger him or rouse his obstinacy. It was apparently good advice, but an experienced eye looking at Zbyszko and then at her could discern in her words and looks a certain alarm. It may be because the lord of Spychow was not an accommodating man, and it may also be that the princess was somewhat uneasy at his non-appearance. The storm increased in strength, and all declared that if any one were caught in the open country he would not survive. The princess, however, concluded that Danuska had confessed to her father her marriage to Zbyszko, and he being offended, was resolved not to proceed to Ciechanow. The princess however, did not desire to reveal her thoughts to Zbyszko; there was not even time to do so, for the servants brought in the viands and placed them on the table. Nevertheless Zbyszko endeavored to follow her up and make further inquiries. "And if they arrive, what will happen then, beloved lady? Mrokota told me that there are special quarters set apart for Jurand; there will be hay enough for bedding for the chilled horses. How then will it be?" The princess laughed and tapped him lightly on the face with her glove and said: "Be quiet, do you see him?" And she went toward the prince and was assisted to a chair. One of the attendants placed before the prince a flat dish with thin slices of cake, and wafers, which he was to distribute among the guests, courtiers and servants. Another attendant held before the prince a beautiful boy, the son of the castellan of Sokhochova. On the other side of the table stood Father Wyszoniek who was to pronounce a benediction upon the fragrant supper. At this moment, a man covered with snow entered and cried: "Most Gracious Prince!" "What is it?" said the prince. "Is there no reverence; they have interrupted him in his religious ceremonies." "Some travelers are snowbound on the road to Radzanow, we need people to help us to dig them out." On hearing this all were seized with fear--the prince was alarmed, and turning toward the castellan of Sokhochova, he commanded: "Horses and spades! Hasten!" Then he said to the man who brought the news: "Are there many under the snow?" "I could not tell, it blew terribly; there are a considerable number of horses and wagons." "Do you not know who they are?" "People say that they belong to Jurand of Spychow." CHAPTER II. When Zbyszko heard the ill tidings, he did not even ask the prince's permission, but hastened to the stable and ordered his horse to be saddled. The Bohemian, being a noble-born armor-bearer, met Zbyszko in the hall before he returned to the house, and brought him a warm fur coat, yet he did not attempt to detain his young master, for he possessed strong natural sense; he knew that detention would be of no avail, and only loss of time, he therefore mounted the second horse and seized some torches from the guard at the gate, and started at once together with the prince's men who were under the management of the old castellan. Impenetrable darkness enveloped them beyond the gate, but the storm seemed to them to have moderated; were it not for the man who notified them of the accident, they would have lost their way at once; but he had a trained dog with him which being acquainted with the road, enabled him to proceed safely and quickly. In the open field the storm again increased and began to cut their faces. It may be because they galloped. The road was filled with snow, so much so that in some places they were obliged to slacken their speed, for the horses sank up to their bellies in snow. The prince's people lighted their torches and fire-pots and moved on amid smoke and flames; the wind blew with such force as though it endeavored to tear the flames from the torches and carry them over the field and forest. It was a long journey. They passed the settlement near Ciechanow, then they passed Niedzborz, then they turned toward Radzanow. The storm began really to subside beyond Niedzborz; the gusts of wind were less frequent and no longer carried immense snowclouds. The sky cleared. Some snow yet drifted from the hills, but it soon ceased. The stars appeared here and there between the broken clouds. The horses began to snort, the horsemen breathed freely. The stars came out by degrees and it began to freeze. In a short time the storm subsided entirely. Sir de Lorche who rode beside Zbyszko began to comfort him, saying, that Jurand undoubtedly in moments of peril thought of his daughter's safety above everything, and although all those buried in the snow should be found dead, she undoubtedly would be discovered alive, probably sleeping in her fur robes. But Zbyszko understood him not, in fact he had no time to listen to him. When, after a little while, the guide who was riding in front of them turned from the road, the young knight moved in front and inquired: "Why do we deviate from the road?" "Because they are not covered up on the road, but yonder! Do you observe that clump of alders?" And he pointed with his hand to the darkening in the distant thicket which could be seen plainly on the white snow-covered expanse, when the clouds unveiled the moon's disk and the night became clear. "They have apparently wandered from the road; they turned aside and moved in a small circle along the river; in the wind and drifting snow, it is quite easy to go astray. They moved on and on as long as the horses did not give out." "How did you find them?" "The dog led us." "Are there any huts near here?" "Yes, but they are on the other side of the river. Close here is Wkra." "Whip up the horses," commanded Zbyszko. But the command was easier than the execution of the order. The piled up snow upon the meadow was not yet frozen firm, and the horses sank knee-deep in the drifts; they were therefore obliged to move slowly. Suddenly they heard the barking of a dog; directly in front of them there was the deformed thick stump of a willow-tree upon which glistened in the light of the moon a crown of leafless twigs. "They are farther off," said the guide, "they are near the alder clump, but it seems that here also there might be something." "There is much drift under the willow-tree. Bring a light." Several attendants dismounted and lit up the place with their torches. One of them soon exclaimed: "There is a man under the snow, his head is visible. Here!" "There is also a horse," said another. "Dig them out!" They began to remove the snow with their spades and throw it aside. In a moment they observed a human being under the tree, his head upon his chest, and his cap pulled down over his face. One hand held the reins of the horse that lay beside him with its nostrils buried in the snow. It was obvious that the man must have left the company, probably with the object of reaching a human habitation as quickly as possible in order to secure help, and when the horse fell he had then taken refuge under the lee of the willow-tree. "Light!" shouted Zbyszko. The attendant brought the torch near the face of the frozen man, but his features could not be distinguished. Only when a second attendant lifted the head from the chest, they all exclaimed with one accord: "It is the lord of Spychow!" Zbyszko ordered two of his men to carry him to the nearest hut and try to resuscitate him, but himself lost no time but hastened with the rest of the attendants and the guide to rescue the rest of the retinue. On the way it crossed Zbyszko's mind that perhaps he might find his wife Danuska dead, and he urged on his horse who waded up to his breast in snow, to his last breath. Fortunately it was not distant, a few furlongs at most. In the darkness voices were heard exclaiming: "_Byway_."[107] They were those who had been left with the snow-covered people. Zbyszko rushed in and jumped from his horse and shouted: "To the spades!" Two sleighs were dug out before they reached those in the rear. The horses and the people in the sleighs were frozen to death, and past all hope of reviving. The place where the other teams were could be recognized by the heaps of snow, though not all the sleighs were entirely covered with snow; in front of some of the sleighs were the horses up to their bellies, in the posture of their last effort to run. In front of one team there stood a man up to his belt in snow, holding a lance and motionless as a post; in front of the others were dead attendants holding the horses by their muzzles. Death had apparently overtaken them at the moment when they attempted to extricate the horses from the drifts. One team, at the very end of the train, was not at all in the drift. The driver sat in front bent, his hands protecting his ears, but in the rear lay two people, who, owing to the continuous, long snow-fall, were completely covered. On their breasts, to escape the drift, they lay closely side by side, and the snow covered them like a blanket. They seemed to be sleeping peacefully. But others perished, struggling hard with the snow-drift to the last moment, their benumbed position demonstrated the fact. A few sleighs were upset, others had their poles broken. The spades now and then uncovered horses' backs, bent like bows, and jaws biting the snow. People were within and beside the sleighs. But there was no woman in any of the sleighs. At times even Zbyszko labored with the spade till his brow was covered with perspiration, and at others he looked with palpitating heart into the eyes of the corpses, perchance to discover the face of his beloved. But all in vain. The faces which the torchlight revealed were those of whiskered soldiers of Spychow. Neither Danusia nor any other woman was there. "What does it mean?" the young knight asked himself with astonishment. He hailed those working at a distance and inquired whether they had come across anything else, but they too only found the corpses of men. At last the work was finished. The servants hitched their own horses to the sleighs, placed the corpses in them and drove to Niedzborz, to make an attempt there in the warm mansion, to restore some of the dead to life. Zbyszko, the Bohemian and two attendants remained. It crossed his mind that the sleigh containing Danusia might have separated from the train, or that Jurand's sleigh, as might be supposed, was drawn by his best horses and had been ordered to drive in front; and it might also be that Jurand had left her somewhere in one of the huts along the road. Zbyszko did not know what to do. In any case he desired to examine closely the drifts and grove, and then return and search along the road. But nothing was found in the drifts. In the grove he only saw several glistening wolves' eyes, but nowhere discovered any traces of people or horses. The meadow between the woods and road now sparkled in the shiny light of the moon, and upon its white mournful cover he really espied dark spots, but those were only wolves that quickly vanished at the approach of people. "Your grace!" finally said the Bohemian. "Our search is in vain, for the young lady of Spychow was not in the train." "To the road!" replied Zbyszko. "We shall not find her there either. I looked well in the sleighs for any baskets containing ladies' finery, but I discovered none. The young lady remained in Spychow." This supposition struck Zbyszko as correct, he therefore said: "God grant it to be as you say!" But the Bohemian penetrated further into his thoughts, and proceeded with his reasoning. "If she were in one of the sleighs the old gentleman would not have separated from her, or when he left the train he would have taken her with him on horseback, and we should have found her with him." "Come, let us go there once more," said Zbyszko, in a restless voice. It struck him that the Bohemian might be right, perhaps they had not searched enough where the old man was discovered, perhaps Jurand had taken Danusia with him on horseback, and when the horse fell, she had left her father in search of assistance, in that case she might be somewhere under the snow in the neighborhood. But Glowacz as though divining his thoughts, said: "In such a case ladies' apparel would have been found in the sleighs, because she would not have left for the court with only her traveling dress." In spite of these reasonable suppositions they returned to the willow-tree, but neither there nor for a furlong around did they discover anything. The prince's people had already taken Jurand to Niedzborz, and the whole neighborhood was a complete desolation. The Bohemian observed further, that the dog that ran ahead of the guide and found Jurand would also have discovered the young lady. Then Zbyszko breathed freely, for he was almost sure that Danusia had remained at home. He was even able to explain why she did so. Danusia had confessed all to her father, and he was not satisfied with the marriage, and so purposely left her at home, and went by himself to see the prince and bring an action, and ask for his intercession with the bishop. At this thought Zbyszko could not help feeling a certain sense of relief, and even gladness, when he comprehended that by reason of Jurand's death all hindrances had vanished. "Jurand was unwilling, but the Lord Jesus wants it," said the young knight to himself, "and God's will is always the strongest." Now, he had only to go to Spychow and fetch Danuska as his own and then complete the nuptials. It is even easier to marry her on the frontier than there in the distant Bogdaniec. "God's will! God's will!" he repeated in his soul. But suddenly he felt ashamed of this premature joy and turned to the Bohemian and said: "Certainly I am sorry for him and I proclaim it aloud." "They say that the Germans feared him like death," replied the Bohemian. Presently he inquired: "Shall we now return to the castle?" "By way of Niedzborz," answered Zbyszko. When they called at Niedzborz and then left for the court, where the old proprietor Zelech received them, they did not find Jurand, but Zelech told them good news. "They first rubbed him with snow almost to the bones, then poured wine into his mouth and then put him in a scalding bath where he began to breathe." "Is he alive?" joyfully asked Zbyszko, who on hearing the news forgot his own interests. "He lives, but as to his continuing to live God only knows, for the soul that has arrived half way is unwilling to return." "Why did they remove him?" "The prince sent for him, and they have wrapped him up in as many feather blankets as they could find in the house and carried him away." "Did he say anything about his daughter?" "He only began to breathe but did not recover speech." "And the others?" "They are already with God, and the poor fellows will no more be able to attend the _pasterce_ (Christmas Eve feast) unless at that which the Lord Jesus Himself will prepare in heaven." "None else survived?" "None. Come into the entrance hall, the place to converse, and if you wish to see them, they lie along the fireside in the servants' room. Come inside." But they were in a hurry and did not wish to enter, although old Zelech insisted, for he was glad to get hold of people in order to chat with them. There was yet, quite a considerable distance from Niedzborz to Ciechanow, and Zbyszko was burning like fire to see Jurand as soon as possible and learn something from him. They therefore rode as fast as they could along the snow-covered road. When they arrived it was already after midnight, and the Christmas feast (lit-Shepherd ceremony) was just ended in the castle chapel. Zbyszko heard the lowing of oxen and the bleating of goats, which voices were produced in accordance with the ancient religious custom, in remembrance that the nativity took place in a stable. After the mass, the princess came to Zbyszko. She looked distressed and frightened, and began to question him: "And Danuska?" "Is she not here, has Jurand said nothing, for according to what I gathered she lives?" "Merciful Jesus!... God's punishment and woe to us! Jurand has not spoken and he lies like a log." "Fear not, gracious lady. Danuska remained in Spychow." "How do you know?" "Because there is no trace of ladies' apparel found in any of the sleighs; she could not have left with only her traveling dress." "True, as God is dear to me!" Her eyes immediately were lit up with joy and after a while she exclaimed: "Hej! It seems that Christ the Infant, who was born to-day is not angry with you, but has a blessing upon us!" The only thing which surprised her was the presence of Jurand without his daughter. Then she continued questioning him: "What caused him to leave her at home?" Zbyszko explained to her his own reason, which seemed to her just, but she did not comprehend it sufficiently. "Jurand will now be thankful to us for his life," she said, "and forsooth he owes it to you because you went to dig him out. His heart would be of stone if he were still to continue his opposition to you. In this there is also God's warning to him not to oppose the holy sacrament. I shall tell him so as soon as he comes to his senses and is able to speak." "It is necessary for him first to recover consciousness, because we do not yet know why he has not brought Danuska with him. Perhaps she is sick?" "Do not say that something has happened I I feel so much troubled that she is not here. If she were sick he would not have left her." "True!" said Zbyszko. They went to Jurand. The heat in the room was intense, as in a bath. It was light, because there were big pine logs in the fireplace. Father Wyszoniek kept watch over the patient, who lay in bed, covered with a bear-skin; his face was pale, his hair matted with perspiration, and his eyes closed. His mouth was open, and his chest laboring with difficulty, but with such force that his breathing moved the bear-skin covering up and down. "How is he doing?" inquired the princess. "I poured a mug of hot wine into his mouth," replied the priest, "and perspiration ensued." "Is he asleep, or not?" "Probably not, for he labors heavily." "Did you try to speak to him?" "We tried, but he did not answer, and I believe that he will not speak before dawn." "We will wait till the dawn," said the princess. The priest insisted that she should retire but she paid no attention, for she always in everything wished not to fall short of the late Queen Jadwiga, in Christian virtues, in caring for the sick and to redeem with her merits her father's soul; she therefore did not omit any opportunity to make the old Christian country appear no worse than others, and by this means to obliterate the remembrance that she was born in a heathen land. Besides that, she was burning with desire to hear from Jurand's own lips about Danusia, for she was much concerned about her. She therefore sat by his bedside and began to tell her beads, and then dozed. Zbyszko who had not yet entirely recovered and was moreover greatly fatigued by the night journey, followed her example; and as the hours passed on, both fell asleep, so soundly that they might have slept on till daylight, if they had not awakened by the ringing of the bell of the castle chapel. But the same sound also awoke Jurand, who opened his eyes and suddenly sat up in bed and began to stare about him with blinking eyes. "Praised be Jesus Christ!... How do you feel?" said the princess. But he apparently had not yet regained consciousness, for he looked at her as though he knew her not, and after awhile he exclaimed: "Hurry! Be quick! Dig open the snowdrift." "In the name of God, you are already in Ciechanow!" again replied the princess. Jurand wrinkled his brow like one who with difficulty tries to collect his thoughts, and replied: "In Ciechanow?... The child is waiting ... and ... principality ... Danuska! Danuska!" Suddenly, he closed his eyes and again fell back on the pillow. Zbyszko and the princess feared lest he was dead, but at the same moment his breast began to heave and he breathed deeply like one who is fast asleep. Father Wyszoniek put his finger to his lips and motioned not to awake him, then he whispered: "He may sleep thus a whole day." "So, but what did he say?" asked the princess. "He said that the child waits in Ciechanow," Zbyszko replied. "Because he does not remember," explained the priest. CHAPTER III. Father Wyszoniek feared that even at Jurand's next awakening, he might be stupefied and might not recover consciousness for a long time. Meanwhile he promised the princess and Zbyszko to let them know when the old knight could speak, and himself retired after they left. In fact Jurand first awoke on the second Holy Day just before noon, but fully conscious. The princess and Zbyszko were present. Therefore, sitting on the bed, he looked at and recognized her and said: "Your Highness ... for God's sake, am I in Ciechanow?" "And you overslept the Holy Day," replied the lady. "The snows covered me. Who saved me?" "This knight: Zbyszko of Bogdaniec. You remember him in Krakow...." And Jurand gazed with his sound eye at the youth for a moment and said: "I remember ... but where is Danusia?" "She did not ride with you?" anxiously inquired the princess. "How could she ride with me, when I did not go to her?" Zbyszko and the princess looked at each other, believing him to be still speaking under the influence of the fever. Then the lady said: "Wake up, for God's sake! There was no girl with, you?" "Girl? With me?" inquired Jurand in amazement. "Because your people perished, but she could not be found among them." "Why did you leave her in Spychow?" He then again repeated, but now with alarm in his voice: "In Spychow? Why, she is with you, Your Highness, not with me!" "However you sent a letter for her to the Forest Court." "In the name of the Father and Son!" replied Jurand. "I did not send for her at all." Then the princess suddenly became pale: "What is that?" she said, "are you positive that you are speaking in your right senses?" "For God's mercy, where is the child?" exclaimed Jurand, starting up. Father Wyszoniek, on hearing this, quickly left the room, while the princess continued: "Listen: There arrived an armed retinue and a letter from you to the Forest Court, for Danusia. The letter stated that you were knocked down in a conflagration by a falling beam ... that you were half blinded and that you wished to see the child.... They took Danusia and rode away...." "My head swims!" exclaimed Jurand. "As there is a God in Heaven, there was no fire in Spychow, nor did I send for her!" At that moment Father Wyszoniek returned with the letter, which he handed to Jurand and inquired: "Is not this your clerkly writing?" "I do not know." "And the seal?" "It is mine." "What does the letter say?" Father Wyszoniek read the letter while Jurand listened, tearing his hair and finally saying: "The writing is counterfeited! ... the seal is false!... my soul! They have captured my child and will destroy her!" "Who are they?" "The Teutons!" "For God's sake! The prince must be informed! He shall send messengers to the master!" exclaimed the princess. "Merciful Jesus, save her and help!" ... and she left the room screaming. Jurand jumped out of bed and began hurriedly to clothe his gigantic frame. Zbyszko sat as if petrified, but in a few moments his tightly set teeth began to gnash with rage. "How do you know that the Teutons captured her?" asked Father Wyszoniek. "By the Passion of our Lord, I'll swear!" "Wait! ... It may be so. They came to complain about you to the Forest Court." "They wanted to take revenge on you..." "And they captured her!" suddenly exclaimed Zbyszko. Then he hurried out of the room, and running to the stables he ordered horses to be saddled and harnessed to wagons, not knowing well himself why he did so. He only knew that it was necessary to go to Danusia's assistance--at once--and as far as Prussia--and there to tear her out of the foe's hands or perish. He then returned to the room to tell Jurand that the weapons and horses would soon be ready. He was sure that Jurand would accompany him. His heart was burning with rage, pain and sorrow,--but at the same time he did not lose hope; it seemed to him that he and the formidable knight of Spychow together would be able to accomplish everything--and that they were equal to attacking the whole Teutonic force. In the room, besides Jurand, he met Father Wyszoniek and the princess, also the prince and de Lorche, as well as the old knight of Dlugolas, whom the prince, having heard of the affair, summoned also to council on account of his wisdom and extensive knowledge of the Teutons, who had kept him for a number of years in slavery. "It is necessary to set about it prudently, so as not to commit a sin in blind fury and so lose the girl," said the knight of Dlugolas. "A complaint must be instantly filed with the master and I will ride thither, if His Highness will give me a letter to him." "I will give the letter, and go with it," said the prince. "We will not allow the child to be lost, so help me God and Holy Cross! The master dreads war with the Polish king, and he is anxious to win over Semka, my brother and myself.... They did not capture her at his command--and he will order her return." "And if it was by his orders?" inquired Father Wyszoniek. "Although he is a Teuton, there is more honesty in him than in the others," replied the prince; "and, as I told you, he would rather accommodate me than make me angry now. The Jagiellonian power is no laughter. Hej! They poured hog's grease under our skin as long as they could, but they did not perceive that if also we Mazurs should assist Jagiello, then it would be bad...." But the knight of Dlugolas said, "That is true. The Teutons do nothing foolishly; therefore, I think that if they have captured the girl, it is either to disarm Jurand, or to demand a ransom, or to exchange her." Here he turned to the knight of Spychow: "Whom have you now among your prisoners of war?" "Herr von Bergow," replied Jurand. "Is he important?" "It seems so." De Lorche, hearing the name von Bergow, began to inquire about him, and, having found out, said: "He is a relative of the Duke of Geldryi, a great benefactor of the Order, and devoted to the Order from his birth." "Yes," said the knight of Dlugolas, translating his words to those present. "Von Bergow held high rank in the Order." "Danveld and von Löve strongly demanded him," remarked the prince. "Whenever they opened their mouths, they said that von Bergow must be free. As God is in Heaven they undoubtedly captured the girl, in order to liberate von Bergow." "Hence they will return her," said the prince. "But it would be better to know where she is," replied the knight of Dlugolas. "But suppose the master asks: 'Whom shall I order to return her?' what shall we say then?" "Where is she?" said Jurand, in a hollow voice. "They certainly are not keeping her on the border, for fear that I might recover her, but they have taken her somewhere to a far secret hold or to the sea." But Zbyszko said: "I will find and recover her." The prince now suddenly burst out with suppressed anger: "Villains carried her off from my court, disgracing me as well, and this shall not be forgiven as long as I live. I have had enough of their treacheries! enough of their assaults! I would rather have wolves for neighbors! But now the master must punish these lords and return the girl, and send messengers with apologies to me, otherwise I will send out a call to arms!" Here he struck the table with his fist and added: "Owa! The lord of Plock will follow me, and Witold and King Jagiello's forces! Following enough! Even a saint would snort away his patience. I have had enough!" All were silent, waiting until his anger had quieted down; but Anna Danuta rejoiced that the prince took Danusia's affair so to heart; she knew that he was long-suffering, but stubborn also, and when he once undertook anything he never relinquished it until he attained his object. Then Father Wyszoniek rose to speak. "There was of old a rule in the Order," he said, "that no lord was permitted to do anything on his own responsibility without the permission of the assembly or the master. Therefore God gave them such extensive territories that they almost exceed all other earthly powers. But now they know neither obedience, truth, honesty, nor belief. Nothing but greed and such ravage as if they were wolves and not human beings. How can they obey the master's commands or those of the assembly, if they do not even obey God's commandments? Each one resides in his castle like an independent prince--and one assists another in doing evil. I shall complain to the master--but they will deny it. The master will order them to restore the girl, but they will refuse to do so, or they will say: 'She is not here, because we have not captured her.' He will command them to take oath and they will do so. What shall we do then?" "What to do?" rejoined the knight of Dlugolas. "Let Jurand go to Spychow. If they did carry her off for ransom, or to exchange her for von Bergow, then they must and will inform no one but Jurand." "Those who used to visit the Forest Court captured her," said the priest. "Then the master will submit them to trial, or order them to give Jurand the field." "They must give me the field," exclaimed Zbyszko, "because I challenged them first!" And Jurand removed his hands from his face and inquired: "Which of them were in the Forest Court?" "There were Danveld, old von Löve, and two brethren, Godfried and Rotgier," replied the priest. "They made complaint and wished the prince to order you to release von Bergow from imprisonment. But the prince, being informed by de Fourcy that the Germans were the first to attack you, rebuked and dismissed them without satisfaction." "Go to Spychow," said the prince, "because they will apply to you there. They failed to do it till now, because this young knight's follower crushed Danveld's arm when bearing the challenge to them. Go to Spychow, and if they apply, inform me. They will send your daughter back in exchange for von Bergow, but I shall nevertheless take vengeance, because they disgraced me also by carrying her off from my court." Here the prince began to get angry again, for the Teutons had entirely exhausted his patience, and after a moment he added: "Hej! They blew and blew the fire, but they will end by burning their mouths." "They will deny it," repeated the priest Wyszoniek. "If they once inform Jurand that the girl is with them, then they will not be able to deny it," somewhat impatiently replied Mikolaj of Dlugolas. "He believes that they are not keeping her on the border, and that, as Jurand has justly pointed out, they have carried her to some distant castle or to the seashore, but if there be proof that they are the perpetrators, then they will not disclaim it before the master." But Jurand said in a strange and, at the same time, terrible tone: "Danveld, von Löve, Godfried and Rotgier." Mikolaj of Dlugolas also recommended that experienced and shrewd people be sent to Prussia, to find out whether Jurand's daughter was there, and if not, whither she had been taken; then the prince took the staff in his hand and went out to give the necessary orders; the princess again turned to Jurand to speak encouraging words: "How are you?" she inquired. He did not reply for a moment, as if he had not heard the question, but then he suddenly said: "As if one had struck me in an old wound." "But trust in God's mercy; Danusia will come back as soon as you return von Bergow to them. I would willingly sacrifice my own blood." The princess hesitated whether to say anything about the marriage now, but, considering a little, she did not wish to add new worries to Jurand's already great misfortunes, and at the same time she was seized with a certain fear. "They will look for her with Zbyszko; may he find an occasion to tell him," she said to herself, "otherwise he may entirely lose his mind." She therefore preferred to discuss other matters. "Do not blame us," she said. "People wearing your livery arrived with a writing under your seal, informing us that you were ill, that your eyes were closing, and that you wished to look once more upon your child. How could we oppose it and not obey a father's command?" But Jurand embraced her feet. "I do not blame anybody, gracious lady." "And know also that God will return her to you, because His eye is upon her. He will send her succor, as He did at the last hunt, when a fierce wild bull attacked us--and Jesus inspired Zbyszko to defend us. He almost lost his own life, and was ill for a long time afterward, but he saved Danusia and me, for which he received a girdle and spurs from the prince. You see!... God's hand is over her. Surely, the child is to be pitied! I, myself, am greatly grieved. I thought she would arrive with you, and that I should see the dear child, but meanwhile" ... and her voice trembled, tears fell from her eyes, and Jurand's long repressed despair burst out for a moment, sudden and terrible as a tempest. He took hold of his long hair, and began to beat his head against the wall, groaning and repeating in husky tones: "Jesus! Jesus! Jesus!" But Zbyszko sprang to his side, and shaking him by the shoulders with all his might, exclaimed: "We must go! To Spychow!" CHAPTER IV. "Whose retinue is this?" inquired Jurand, suddenly starting from musing, as if from sleep, beyond Radzanow. "Mine," replied Zbyszko. "And did all my people perish?" "I saw them dead in Niedzborz." "Have you no old comrades?" Zbyszko made no reply, and they traveled on in silence, but hurriedly, because they wanted to get to Spychow as quickly as possible, hoping possibly to meet some Teutonic messengers there. To their good fortune the frosts set in again, and the highways were firm, so that they could make haste. Toward evening Jurand spoke again, and began to inquire about those brethren of the Order who were at the Forest Court, and Zbyszko narrated everything--their complaints, their departure, the death of de Fourcy, his follower's action in crushing Danveld's arm so terribly, and, as he spoke, one circumstance recurred strikingly to his mind, namely the presence in the Forest Court of that woman who brought the healing balsams from Danveld. During the bait, he commenced therefore to inquire of the Bohemian and Sanderus about her, but neither knew exactly what had become of her. It seemed to them, that she had left either in company with those people, who came for Danusia, or soon after them. It now occurred to Zbyszko's mind, that this might have been some one sent for the purpose of warning the people in case Jurand should happen to be at the court in person. In that case they would not claim to have come from Spychow, but could have prepared another missive to give to the princess instead of Jurand's fictitious letter. All this had been arranged with hellish dexterity, and the young knight, who so far had known the Teutons only from the battlefield, thought for the first time, that the fist was not sufficient for them, but that they must be overcome with the head as well. This was a sullen thought for him, because his great sorrow and pain had become concentrated into a desire for fight and blood. Even help for Danusia in his mind took the form of a series of battles either in troops or singly; and now he perceived that it might be necessary to restrain his desire for revenge and splitting of heads, like a bear on a chain, and seek new means of saving and recovering Danusia. While thinking of this, he felt sorry that Macko was not with him. Macko was as cunning as he was brave. He secretly determined to send Sanderus from Spychow to Szczytno, in order to find that woman and to try to learn from her what had happened to Danusia. He said to himself that, even if Sanderus wished to betray him, he could do little harm in the matter, and on the contrary might render great service, because his trade gained admittance for him everywhere. However, he wished to consult Jurand first, but postponed it until their arrival in Spychow, the more so because night came on, and it seemed to him, that Jurand, sitting on a knight's high saddle, had fallen asleep from fatigue, exhaustion and great anxiety. But Jurand rode with a bowed head only because misfortune weighed it down. And it was apparent that he was constantly thinking of it, with a heart full of terrible dread, because he finally said: "I would rather be frozen under Niedzborz! It was you that dug me out?" "I, with others." "And at the hunt, you saved my child?" "What should I have done?" "Will you help me now, too?" And there burst forth in Zbyszko at the same time such love for Danusia and such great hatred toward the Teuton wrongdoers, that he rose in his saddle and began to speak through tightly set teeth, as though with difficulty: "Listen to what I say: even if I have to bite the Prussian castles with my teeth, I will do it and get her." Then followed a moment's silence. The vengeful and uncontrollable nature of Jurand also seemed to awake in full force under the influence of Zbyszko's words, because he began to gnash his teeth in the darkness and after a while to repeat again the names: Danveld, von Löve, Rotgier and Godfried! And he thought in his soul that if they wanted him to restore von Bergow, he would do so; if they demanded an additional payment he would give it, even if he had to throw into the price Spychow entire; but then, woe to those who had raised their hands against this his only child! Throughout the whole night, sleep did not close their eyelids for a moment. At dawn, they scarcely recognized each other, to such an extent had their faces changed during this single night. At length Jurand was struck by that pain and inveterate hatred on Zbyszko's face and therefore said: "She saved you and snatched you from death--I know. But you also love her?" Zbyszko looked directly into his eyes with an almost defiant expression and replied: "She is my wife." Upon that, Jurand stopped his horse and looked at Zbyszko, blinking his eyes with astonishment. "What do you say?" he inquired. "I say that she is my wife and I am her husband." The knight of Spychow brushed his eyes with his sleeve, as if he were dazed by a sudden thunder-stroke, and after awhile, without a word of reply, he urged his horse forward to the head of the troop and rode on silently. CHAPTER V. But Zbyszko, riding behind him, could not stand it very long, and said to himself: "I would rather have him burst forth in anger, than become embittered." He therefore rode up to him and jogging his stirrup against his, he commenced to speak: "Listen how it happened. You know what Danusia did for me in Krakow, but you do not know that they proposed to me Jagienka of Bogdaniec, the daughter of Zych of Zgorzelice. My uncle, Macko, was in favor of it, also her parents and Zych; a relative, an abbot, a wealthy man as well.... What is the use of many words?--an honest girl and a beautiful woman and the dowry respectable also. But it could not be. I felt sorry for Jagienka, but still more so for Danusia--and I set out to her to Mazowsze, because, I tell you frankly, I could not live any longer without her. Recollect the time when you yourself loved--recollect it! and it will not seem strange to you." Here Zbyszko broke off, waiting for a word from Jurand, but as the latter remained silent, he continued: "God gave me an opportunity at the Forest Court to save the princess and Danusia from a wild bull while hunting. And the princess immediately said: 'Now Jurand will not object any more, because how could he refuse to reward such a deed?' But I did not wish to take her even then without your parental consent. Yet! I was weak,... because the terrible animal injured me so much, that it almost killed me. But then, as you know, those people came for Danusia, in order to take her, as it seemed, to Spychow, and I was still unable to leave my bed. I thought I should never see her again. I thought that you would take her to Spychow and give her to some one else. You objected to me at Krakow ... and I already thought that I should die. Ah! great God, what a night I passed. Nothing but worry; nothing but grief! I thought that if she also left me, the sun would rise no more. Consider human love and human grief!" And, for a moment, tears almost choked Zbyszko's voice, but, having a courageous heart, he controlled himself and said: "The people arrived for her in the evening and wanted to take her immediately, but the princess ordered them to wait until morning. Just then Jesus inspired me with the idea of presenting the princess with my compliments and asking her for Danusia. I thought that if I died I should have that consolation at least. Remember that the girl had to leave, while I remained ill and nearly dying. There was also no time to ask for your permission. The prince was no longer in the Forest Court, the princess therefore weighed both sides because she had nobody to take counsel with. But they, together with Father Wyszoniek at last took pity upon me, and Father Wyszoniek performed the ceremony.... God's power, God's right!..." But Jurand interrupted, gloomily: "And God's punishment!" "Why should there be punishment?" inquired Zbyszko. "Consider only, they had sent for her before the ceremony, and whether it had been performed or not, they would have carried her off nevertheless." But Jurand again replied nothing, and rode on alone, gloomy, and with such a stony face, that though Zbyszko at first felt the relief that confession of a long concealed thing always produces, at length he was seized with fear and said to himself, with constantly increasing fear, that the old knight was bitterly angered, and that thenceforth they would be strangers and foes to each other. And there came upon him a moment of great depression. He had never felt so badly since his departure from Bogdaniec. It seemed to him now that there was no hope of reconciliation with Jurand, nor, what was far worse, of saving Danusia, that all was of no avail, and that in the future still greater misfortunes and miseries would befall him. But this depression of spirits lasted a short while only, and, in accordance with his nature, it soon changed into anger, and a desire for quarreling and fight. "He does not want peace," he said to himself, thinking of Jurand, "then let there be discord, let come what will!" And he was ready to fly at Jurand's face. He also longed for a fight with anybody for anything, merely to do something, merely to give vent to his grief, bitterness and anger, and so find some relief. Meanwhile they arrived at an inn at a ford called Swietlik, where Jurand, on his return from the prince's court, usually allowed his people and horses to rest. He did so now also involuntarily. After a while he and Zbyszko found themselves alone in a separate chamber. Suddenly Jurand stopped before the young knight and, fixing his eyes upon him, inquired: "Did you wander about for her sake?" The other almost harshly retorted: "Do you suppose that I shall deny it?" And he looked straight into Jurand's eyes, ready to meet anger with anger. But there was no indignation in the old warrior's face; there was only almost boundless grief. "And you saved my child?" he inquired, after a moment, "and dug me out?" But Zbyszko looked at him in astonishment and fear that his mind was wandering, because Jurand repeated exactly the same questions that he had already asked. "Be seated," he said, "because it seems to me that you are still weak." But Jurand raised his hands, placed them on Zbyszko's shoulders, and so drew him suddenly with all his strength to his breast; the other, recovering from a momentary amazement, clasped him round the waist and they embraced each other for a long time, because mutual anxiety and mutual woe united them. After relaxing their hold, Zbyszko again embraced the older knight's knees, and began to kiss his hands with tears in his eyes. "Will you not object to me?" he asked. To that Jurand replied: "I did oppose you, because in my soul I consecrated her to God." "You devoted her to God, and God to me. His will!" "His will!" repeated Jurand. "But now we need mercy also." "Whom will God help, if not a father who seeks his daughter; if not a husband who seeks his wife? He will certainly not assist robbers." "But they captured her nevertheless," answered Jurand. "Then you will return von Bergow to them." "I shall return all they wish." But at the thought of the Teutons, the old passion soon awoke in him and enfolded him like a flame, because he added after a moment through his clenched teeth: "I shall also add to it what they do not want." "I also swore their ruin," replied Zbyszko, "but now we must make haste to Spychow." And he commenced to hasten the saddling of the horses. Accordingly, after they had eaten their oats, and the men had warmed themselves in the rooms, they started out, although it was growing dark outside. As the way was long, and a severe frost had set in for the night, Jurand and Zbyszko, who had not yet regained their strength, traveled in sledges. Zbyszko told about Uncle Macko, for whom his heart yearned, and regretted that he was not present, because his courage as well as craft might be of use, the latter qualification being more necessary against such foes than courage. At last he turned to Jurand and inquired: "And are you cunning?... Because I am not." "Neither am I," retorted Jurand. "I did not fight them with craft, but with this hand and that which remained in me." "I understand that," said the young knight. "I understand it because I love Danusia and because they carried her off. If, God forbid...." And he did not finish, because the mere thought made him feel not a human but a wolfs heart in his breast. For some time they rode silently over a white, moonlight-flooded road; then Jurand commenced to speak as if to himself: "If they only had any reason to take revenge on me--I would not say! But gracious God! they had none.... I waged war with them in the field, when sent on an embassy by our prince to Witold, but here I was like a neighbor to neighbors.... Bartosz Natecz captured, chained and imprisoned under ground in Kozmin forty knights who attacked him. The Teutons were compelled to pay half a wagonful of money for them. While I, when a German guest happened to come on his way to the Teutons, received and rewarded him like one knight another. Frequently also, the Teutons came against me across the swamps. I was not hard on them then, and they did to me what I would not do even to-day to my greatest foe...." And terrible recollections began to tear him with increasing force, his voice died away for an instant in his breast, then he said, half groaning: "I had only one, like a ewe lamb, like the heart in my breast, and they captured her like a dog on a rope, and she died there.... Now again, the child ... Jesus, Jesus!" And again there was silence. Zbyszko raised his youthful, perplexed face toward the moon, then again looked at Jurand and inquired: "Father!... It would be far better for them to earn men's esteem than their vengeance. Why do they commit so much wrong on all nations and all people?" But Jurand spread his hands apart as if in despair, and replied with a choked voice: "I do not know...." Zbyszko meditated for a time over his own question, presently however his thoughts turned to Jurand. "People say that you wreaked a worthy vengeance," he said. Jurand meanwhile controlled his anguish, bethought himself and said: "But I swore their ruin ... and I also swore to God that if He would permit me to glut my vengeance I would surrender to Him the child that was left to me. This is the reason why I objected to you. But now I do not know: was it His will, or did you awaken His anger by your action?" "No," said Zbyszko. "I told you once before that even if the ceremony had not been performed, yet the scoundrels would have carried her off. God accepted your vow, and presented me with Danusia, because without His will we could accomplish nothing." "Every sin is against God's will." "A sin is, but not the sacrament. Because the sacrament is God's matter." "Therefore there is no help." "And God be blessed there is not! Therefore do not complain, because nobody would help you against the robbers so well as I will. You will see! In any case I shall pay them for Danusia, but even if one of those who captured your deceased be still alive, leave him to me and you shall see!" But Jurand shook his head. "No," he answered, gloomily, "none of those will be alive...." For a time only the snorting of horses and the smothered echo of the hoofs striking against the beaten road was audible. "Once at night," continued Jurand, "I heard a voice, as if coming from a wall, saying to me: 'Enough vengeance!' but I did not obey, because it was not the voice of the deceased." "And whose voice could that be?" inquired Zbyszko, anxiously. "I do not know. In Spychow frequently something talks in the walls, and sometimes moans, because many have died there in chains underground." "And what does the priest tell you?" "The priest sanctified the castle and also ordered me to relinquish vengeance, but that could not be. I became too hard on them, and then they themselves sought revenge. They lay in ambush and challenged me in the field.... And so it was this time. Meineger and von Bergow were the first to challenge me." "Did you ever accept ransom?" "Never! Of those I have captured, von Bergow will be the first to come out alive." The conversation ceased, because they now turned from the broad highway into a narrower road, on which they traveled for a long time in silence on account of its tortuous course, and because in some places the snow formed drifts difficult to traverse. In the spring or summer, on rainy days, this road must have been almost impassable. "Are we approaching Spychow already?" asked Zbyszko. "Yes," answered Jurand. "There is a good deal of forest yet, and then begin the morasses, in the centre of which is the castle.... Beyond the morasses are the marshes and dry fields, while the castle can be approached only by the dike. The Germans wished to capture me repeatedly, but they could not, and their bones rot among the forest weeds." "And it is hard to find," said Zbyszko. "If the Teutons send messengers with letters, how will they find us?" "They have sent out several times already, and they have people who know the way." "If we could only meet them at Spychow," said Zbyszko. This wish was realized sooner than the young knight thought, for issuing from the forest into the open country, where lay Spychow among the swamps, they perceived before them two riders and a low sledge, in which were sitting three dark figures. The night was very bright, therefore the whole group was perfectly visible against the white background of snow. Jurand's and Zbyszko's heart began to beat faster at this sight, because who else would be riding to Spychow in the middle of the night, but the messengers from the Teutons? Zbyszko ordered the driver to go faster, and so they soon came so near each other, that they could be heard, and two riders, who apparently watched over the safety of the sledge, turned to them, and, unslinging their crossbows, cried: "Who is there?" "Germans!" whispered Jurand to Zbyszko. Then he raised his voice and said: "It is my right to ask, and yours to reply!" "Who are you?" "Travelers." "What sort of travelers?" "Pilgrims." "Where from?" "From Szczytno." "It is they!" again whispered Jurand. Meanwhile the sledges had come together, and at the same time six horsemen appeared before them. This was the guard of Spychow, which watched the dike leading to the castle day and night. With the horses were very large and savage dogs, exactly resembling wolves. The guardsmen, having recognized Jurand, began to utter cries of welcome mingled with astonishment that the master had returned so soon and unexpectedly; but he was entirely engaged with the messengers, and therefore turned to them again: "Where are you traveling to?" he asked. "To Spychow." "What do you want there?" "We can tell that only to the lord himself." Jurand was about to say: "I am the lord of Spychow;" but he restrained himself, feeling that conversation could not be carried on in the presence of others. He asked them instead, whether they had any letters, and, when they replied that they were ordered to communicate verbally, he gave orders to drive as fast as the horses could go. Zbyszko was equally anxious to hear news of Danusia, and could not turn his attention to anything else. He became impatient when the guards on the dike stopped them twice; and when the bridge was lowered over the moat, behind which rose on the mound a gigantic palisade, and although he had previously often desired to see that castle of ominous fame, at the mention of which the Germans made the sign of a cross, now he saw nothing but the Teuton messengers, from whom he might hear where Danusia was and when she would be set at liberty. He did not foresee though, that a great disappointment was awaiting him. Besides the horsemen, who were given for defence, and the driver, the embassy from Szczytno was composed of two persons: one of these was the same woman who had once brought the healing balsam to the Forest Court; the other was a young _pontnik_.[108] Zbyszko did not recognize the woman, because he had not seen her at the Forest Court; the _pontnik_ at once seemed to him to be a disguised warrior. Jurand soon led both into the neighboring room, and halted before them, huge, and almost terrible in the glow of the fire, which fell upon him from the logs burning in the chimney. "Where is the child?" he asked. But they were frightened, standing face to face with a menacing man. Although the _pontnik_ had an insolent face, he simply trembled like a leaf, and the woman's legs trembled also. She glanced from Jurand to Zbyszko, and then at the shining bald head of the priest Kaleb, and then again at Jurand, as if inquiring what the other two were doing there. "Sir," she said, finally, "we do not know what you are asking, but we were sent to you on important matters. Yet, the one who sent us ordered us explicitly, that the conversation should be held without witnesses." "I have no secrets from these!" said Jurand. "But we have, noble lord," replied the woman, "and if you order them to remain, then we shall ask for nothing but that you allow us to leave to-morrow." Anger appeared in Jurand's face as he was not used to opposition. For a moment his tawny moustache worked ominously, but he reflected, "For Danusia's sake!" and restrained himself. Moreover, Zbyszko, who wanted above all things that the conversation might be concluded as soon as possible, and felt sure that Jurand would repeat it to him, said: "If it must be so, then remain alone." And he left, together with the priest Kaleb; but he scarcely found himself in the main hall, in which were hanging targets and weapons, captured by Jurand, when Glowacz approached him. "Sir," he said, "that is the same woman!" "What woman?" "From the Teutons, who brought the balsam. I recognized her at once, and so did Sanderus. She came, at it seems, to spy, and she certainly knows now where the lady is." "And we shall know," said Zbyszko. "Do you also know that _pontnik_?" "No," replied Sanderus; "but do not buy, sir, any remissions from him, because he is a false _pontnik_," "If you put him to the torture, you might obtain a lot of information." "Wait!" said Zbyszko. Meanwhile, in the next room hardly had the doors closed behind Zbyszko and the priest Kaleb, when the sister of the Order quickly approached Jurand and whispered: "Robbers captured your daughter." "With crosses on their robes?" "No. But God blessed the pious brethren, so that they recovered her, and now she is with them." "Where is she, I ask." "Under the care of the religious Brother Shomberg," she answered, crossing her hands on her breast and bowing humbly. But Jurand, hearing the dreadful name of the hangman of Witold's children, turned as pale as linen; after a moment he sat on a bench, shut his eyes, and began to wipe away the cold perspiration, which collected in beads on his forehead. Seeing this, the _pontnik_, although he had not hitherto been able to restrain his fear, now put his hands on his hips, lounged on the bench, stretched out his legs and looked at Jurand, with eyes full of pride and scorn. A long silence followed. "Brother Markward also assists Brother Shomberg in guarding her," again said the woman; "it is a vigilant watch and no harm will happen to the lady." "What am I to do in order to get her back?" inquired Jurand. "To humble yourself before the Order!" proudly said the _pontnik_. At this Jurand arose, went up to him, and bending down over him, said in concentrated, terrible tones: "Be silent!" And the _pontnik_ was again terror-stricken. He knew, that he could threaten and say what would tame and overwhelm Jurand, but he was terrified lest, before saying a word, something dreadful would happen to him; he therefore remained silent, with dilated eyes, as if petrified with fear, fixed on the threatening face of the lord of Spychow, and sat motionless, only his beard began to quiver with agitation. Jurand again turned to the sister of the Order: "Have you a letter?" "No, sir. We have no letter. What we have to say, we were ordered to say verbally." "Then speak!" And she repeated again, as if wishing that Jurand should impress it well in his memory: "Brother Shomberg and Brother Markward watch over the lady; therefore, you sir, restrain your anger.... But no evil will happen to her, because although you have gravely injured the Order for many years, nevertheless the brethren wish to repay you good for evil if you comply with their just demands." "What do they wish?" "They wish you to release Herr von Bergow." Jurand breathed heavily. "I will return von Bergow to them," he said. "And the other prisoners that you have in Spychow." "There are two retainers of Meineger and von Bergow, besides their boys." "You must release them, sir, and make amends for the imprisonment." "God forbid that I should bargain for my child." "The religious friars expected that from you," said the woman, "but this is not all that I was ordered to say. Your daughter, sir, was captured by some men, undoubtedly robbers, and certainly for the purpose of demanding a rich ransom. God permitted the brethren to recapture her, and now they demand nothing but the return of their brother and associate. But the brethren know, and you, too, sir, what hatred there is in this country against them, and how unfairly even their most righteous actions are judged. For this reason the brethren are sure that, if the people here found out that your daughter was with them, they would at once begin to suspect that they had captured her, and would consequently utter only slander and complaints.... O yes, evil and malicious people here have frequently repaid them so, and the reputation of the holy Order has suffered greatly by it, and the brethren are greatly concerned about it, and therefore they add this sole condition that you alone assure the prince of this country and all the mighty knights that it is true, that not the Teutonic knights, but robbers carried off your daughter, and that you had to ransom her from robbers." "It is true," said Jurand, "that bandits have captured my child, and that I have to buy her back from bandits...." "You shall tell nobody otherwise, because if only one person should find out that you come to terms with the brethren, if only one living soul or only one complaint were sent to the master, or the assembly, great complications would ensue." Jurand's face exhibited great alarm. At the first moment it seemed to him quite natural that the knights required secrecy, fearing responsibility and disgrace, but now a suspicion arose in his mind that there might be another reason, but, not being able to account for it, he was seized with such terror as sometimes happens to the most courageous when danger does not threaten them alone, but also their relatives and loved ones. He determined however to find out more from the Order's servant. "The knights wish secrecy," he said, "but how can it be kept, when I release von Bergow and the others in return for my child?" "You will say that you accepted ransom for von Bergow in order to be able to pay the robbers." "People will not believe it, because I never accepted ransom," gloomily replied Jurand. "But your child was never in question," hissed the messenger in reply. And again silence followed, after which the _pontnik_, who, in the meanwhile had gained courage, and judged that Jurand must now restrain himself more, said: "Such is the will of the brethren Shomberg and Markward." The messenger continued: "You will say, that this _pontnik_ who came with me, brought you the ransom, we also will leave here with the noble von Bergow and the prisoners." "How so?" said Jurand, frowning, "do you think that I will give up the prisoners before you return my child?" "You can act, sir, still differently. You can call personally for your daughter at Szczytno, whither the brethren will bring her to you." "I? at Szczytno?" "Because, should the bandits capture her again on the way, your and your people's suspicion would again fall upon the pious knights, and therefore they prefer to give her into your own hands." "And who will pledge himself for my return, if I walk alone into a wolf's throat?" "The virtue of the brethren, their justice and godliness!" Jurand began to walk up and down the room. He began to suspect treason and feared it, but he felt at the same time that the Teutons could impose any conditions they pleased upon him, and that he was powerless before them. However, an idea struck him, and suddenly halting before the _pontnik_, he gazed at him with a piercing look, and then turned to the messenger and said; "Well, I will go to Szczytno. You and this man, who is wearing _pontnik_ garb, will remain here until my return, after which you will leave with von Bergow and the prisoners." "Do you refuse, sir, to believe friars." said the _pontnik_; "how then can they trust you to liberate us and von Bergow on your return?" Jurand's face turned pale with fury, and a critical moment followed, in which it almost seemed that he would catch the _pontnik_ by the throat and dash him to the floor; but he suppressed his anger, drew a deep breath and commenced to speak slowly but emphatically. "Whoever you are, do not strain my patience to the breaking point!" But the _pontnik_ turned to the sister: "Speak! what you were ordered." "Lord," she said: "we would not dare distrust your oath upon your sword and knightly honor, but it is not proper for you to swear before people of low rank. And we were not sent for your oath." "What were you sent for?" "The brethren told us that, without saying anything to anybody, you must appear at Szczytno with von Bergow and the prisoners." At that, Jurand's shoulders began to draw together, and his fingers to extend like the claws of a bird of prey; at last, stopping before the woman, he bent down, as if to speak into her ear, and said: "Did they not tell you that I should order you and von Bergow to be broken on the wheel in Spychow?" "Your daughter is in the power of the brethren, and under the care of Shomberg and Markward," replied the sister, meaningly. "Robbers, poisoners, hangmen!" burst forth Jurand. "Who are able to avenge us and who said at our departure: 'Should he not comply with all our orders, it would be far better that the girl should die, as Witold's children died.' Choose!" "And understand that you are in the power of the knights," remarked the _pontnik_. "They do not wish to do you any harm, and the _starosta_ of Szczytno sends you his word by us that you shall go free from his castle; but they want you, for the wrong done to them, to present your respects to the Teuton, and beg for the victor's mercy. They want to forgive you, but they first wish to bend your stubborn neck. You denounced them as traitors and perjurers.--therefore they want you to acknowledge their good faith. They will restore you and your daughter to liberty--but you must beg for it. You trampled upon them--now you must swear that your hand will never, be raised against the white robe." "The knights wish it so," added the woman, "and Markward and Shomberg with them." A moment of deathlike silence followed. It seemed only that somewhere among the beams of the ceiling some smothered echo repeated as if in terror: "Markward ... Shomberg." Outside the windows could be heard the voices of Jurand's archers keeping watch on the mounds near the palisade of the castle. The _pontnik_ and the servant of the Order looked for a long time at each other and Jurand, who sat leaning against the wall, motionless, and with a face deeply shadowed by furs suspended by the window. His brain contained only one thought, that, if he did not do what the Teutons demanded, they would destroy his child; again, if he should do it, he might perhaps even then not save Danusia nor himself. And he saw no help, no way of escape. He felt a pitiless superior force over him which was crushing him. He saw in his soul already the iron hands of a Teuton on Danusia's throat; knowing them thoroughly, he did not doubt for a moment that they would kill her, bury her in the castle yard, and then deny it,--and who would then be able to prove that they had captured her? It was true that Jurand had the messengers in his power; he could bring them to the prince and get a confession by means of torture, but the Teutons had Danusia, and they might not care about their agents' torture. And for a moment he seemed to see his child stretching out her hands from afar, asking for assistance.... If he at least knew that she was really at Szczytno, then he could go that very night to the border, attack the unsuspecting Germans, capture the castle, destroy the garrison and liberate the child--but she might not be and positively was not in Szczytno. It flashed like lightning through his head, that if he were to seize the woman and the _pontnik_, and take them directly to the grand master, then perhaps the master could draw confessions from them and might order the return of his daughter; but that gleam was extinguished almost as quickly as it took fire. These people could tell the master that they came to ransom von Bergow and that they knew nothing about a girl. No! that way led to nothing, but what did? He thought, that should he go to Szczytno they would chain him and cast him under ground, while Danusia would not be released, lest it should transpire that they had captured her, if for no other reason. And meanwhile death hung over his only child, death over the last dear head!... And finally his thoughts grew confused, and the pain became so great, that it overpowered itself and became numbness. He sat motionless, for his body became as dead as if cut out of stone. If he wanted to rise now, he would not be able to do so. Meanwhile the others grew tired of the long waiting, therefore the servant of the Order arose and said: "It will be soon daylight, therefore permit us, sir, to retire, because we need a rest." "And refreshment after the long journey," added the _pontnik_. Then they both bowed to Jurand and went out. But he continued to sit motionless, as if seized by sleep or death. Presently, however, the door opened and Zbyszko appeared, followed by the priest Kaleb. "Who are the messengers? What do they want?" inquired the young knight, approaching Jurand. Jurand quivered, but at first answered nothing; he only began to blink like a man awakened from a sound sleep. "Sir, are you not ill?" said the priest Kaleb, who, knowing Jurand better, noticed that something curious was taking place within him. "No!" replied Jurand. "And Danusia?" further inquired Zbyszko; "where is she and what did they say to you?" "What did they bring?" "The ransom," slowly replied Jurand. "The ransom for von Bergow?" "For von Bergow...." "How so, for von Bergow? what is the matter with you?" "Nothing." But in his voice there was something so strange and listless that a sudden fear seized those two, especially because Jurand spoke of the ransom and not the exchange of von Bergow for Danusia. "Gracious God!" exclaimed Zbyszko: "where is Danusia?" "She is not with the Teutons,--no!" replied Jurand, in a sleepy tone; and suddenly he fell from the bench upon the floor as if dead. CHAPTER VI. The following day at noon the messengers saw Jurand, and soon afterward they rode away taking with them von Bergow, two esquires and a number of other prisoners. Jurand then summoned Father Kaleb and dictated a letter to the prince, stating that Danusia had not been carried off by the Knights of the Order, but that he had succeeded in discovering her refuge, and hoped to recover her in a few days. He repeated the same to Zbyszko, who had been wild with astonishment, dread and perplexity since the night before. The old knight refused to answer any of his questions, telling him instead to wait patiently and not to undertake anything for the liberation of Danusia, because it was unnecessary. Toward evening he shut himself in again with Father Kaleb, whom he had ordered to write down his last will; then he confessed himself, and after receiving the sacrament, he summoned Zbyszko, and the old taciturn Tolima, who used to accompany him in all his expeditions and fights, and in times of peace administered the affairs of Spychow. "Here," he said, turning to the old warrior and raising his voice, as if he was speaking to a man who could not hear well, "is the husband of my daughter whom he married at the prince's court, for which he had my entire consent. Therefore, after my death, he will be the master and owner of the castle, the soil, forests, waters, people and all the craft in Spychow...." Hearing this, Tolima was greatly surprised and began to turn his square head to Jurand and to Zbyszko alternately, he said nothing, however, because he scarcely ever did say anything, he only bowed to Zbyszko and lightly embraced his knees. And Jurand continued: "This is my will, written by Father Kaleb, and below is my seal in wax; you must testify that you have heard this from me, and that I ordered that the young knight should be obeyed here even as I am. Furthermore, what is in the treasury in booty and money, you will show him, and you will serve him faithfully in peace as well as in war till death. Did you hear?" Tolima raised his hands to his ears and nodded his head, then, at a sign from Jurand, he bowed and went out; the knight again turned to Zbyszko and said impressively: "There is enough in the treasury to satisfy the greatest greed and to ransom not one but a hundred captives. Remember!" But Zbyszko inquired: "And why are you giving me Spychow already?" "I give you more than Spychow, in the child." "And we know not the hour of death," said Father Kaleb. "Yes, unknown," repeated Jurand, sadly, "a short time ago, the snow covered me up, and, although God saved me, I have no more my old strength...." "Gracious God!" exclaimed Zbyszko, "something his changed within you since yesterday, and you prefer to speak of death than of Danusia. Gracious God!" "Danusia will return, she will," replied Jurand; "she is under God's protection. But if she returns ... listen ... take her to Bogdaniec and leave Spychow with Tolima.... He is a faithful man, and this is a wild neighborhood.... There they cannot capture her with a rope ... there she is safer...." "Hej!" cried Zbyszko, "and you talk already as if from the other world. What is that?" "Because I went half-way to the other world, and now I seem to be ill. And I also care for my child ... because I have only her. And, you too, although I know that you love her...." Here he interrupted, and drawing a short weapon from its sheath, called the _misericordia_, he held the handle toward Zbyszko. "Swear to me now upon this little cross that you will never harm her and that you will love her constantly...." And tears suddenly started in Zbyszko's eyes; in a moment he fell upon his knees and, putting a finger on the hilt, exclaimed: "Upon the Holy Passion, I will never harm, and will love her constantly!" "Amen," said Father Kaleb. Jurand again put the "dagger of mercy" back into the sheath and extended his arms: "Then you are my child too!..." They separated then, because it was late, and they had had no good rest for several days. However, Zbyszko got up the following morning at daybreak, because the previous day he had been frightened, lest Jurand were really falling ill, and he wished to learn how the older knight had spent the night. Before the door to Jurand's room he met Tolima, who had just left it. "How is the lord? well?" he inquired. The other again bowed, and then, putting his hand to his ear, said: "What orders, your grace?" "I am asking how the lord is?" repeated Zbyszko, louder. "The lord has departed." "Where to?" "I do not know.... In arms!" CHAPTER VII. The dawn was just beginning to whiten the trees, bushes and boulders scattered in the fields, when the hired guide, walking beside Jurand's horse, stopped and said: "Permit me to rest, knight, for I am out of breath. It is thawing and foggy, but it is not far now." "You will conduct me to the road, and then return," replied Jurand. "The road will be to the right behind the forest, and you will soon see the castle from the hill." Then the peasant commenced to strike his hands against his armpits, because he was chilled with the morning dampness; he then sat on a stone, because this exercise made him still more breathless. "Do you know whether the count is in the castle?" inquired Jurand. "Where else could he be, since he is ill?" "What ails him?" "People say that the Polish knights gave him a beating," replied the old peasant. And there was a feeling of satisfaction in his voice. He was a Teuton subject, but his Mazovian heart rejoiced over the superiority of the Polish knights. He presently added: "Hej! our lords are strong, but they have a hard task with them." But immediately after saying this, he looked sharply at the knight, as if to convince himself that nothing bad would happen to him for the words which he had heedlessly let slip and said: "You, lord, speak our language; you are no German?" "No," replied Jurand; "but lead on." The peasant arose, and again began to walk beside the horse. On the way, he now and then put his hand into a leathern pouch, pulled out a handful of unground corn, and put it into his mouth, and when he had thus satisfied his first hunger, he began to explain why he ate raw grains, although Jurand was too much occupied with his own misfortune and his own thoughts, to heed him. "God be blessed for that," he said. "A hard life under our German lords! They lay such taxes upon grist, that a poor man must eat the grain with the chaff, like an ox. And when they find a hand-mill in a cottage, they execute the peasant, take whatever he has, bah! they do not pardon even women and children.... They fear neither God nor the priests. They even put the priest in chains for blaming them for it. Oh, it is hard under the Germans! If a man does grind some grains between two stones, then he keeps that handful of flour for the holy Sunday, and must eat like birds on Friday. But God be blessed for even that, because two or three months before the harvest there will not be even that much. It is not permitted to catch fish ... nor kill animals ... It is not as it is in Mazowsze." The Teutonic peasant complained, speaking partly to himself, and partly to Jurand, and meanwhile they passed through a waste country, covered with limestone boulders, heaped with snow, and entered a forest, which looked grey in the morning light, and from which came a sharp, damp coolness. It became broad daylight; otherwise it would have been difficult for Jurand to travel along the forest road, which ran somewhat up hill, and was so narrow that his gigantic battle-horse could, in some places, hardly pass between the trunks. But the forest soon ended, and in a few "_Paters_," they reached the summit of a white hill, across the middle of which ran a beaten road. "This is the road, lord," said the peasant; "you will find the way alone, now." "I shall," replied Jurand. "Return home, man." And putting his hand into a leather bag, fastened in front of the saddle, he took from it a silver coin and handed it to the guide. The peasant, accustomed more to blows than to gifts from the local Teutonic knights, could scarcely believe his eyes, and catching the money, dropped his head to Jurand's stirrup and embraced it. "O Jesus, Mary!" he exclaimed: "God reward your honor!" "God be with you!" "God's grace be with you! Szczytno is before you." Then he once more bent down to the stirrup and disappeared. Jurand remained on the hill alone and looked in the direction indicated by the peasant, at a grey, moist veil of fog, which concealed the world before him. Behind this fog was hidden that ominous castle, to which he was driven by superior force and misery. It is already near, then, and what must happen, must happen.... As that thought came into Jurand's heart, in addition to his fear and anxiety about Danusia, and his readiness to redeem her from a foe's hands even with his own blood, he experienced a new, exceedingly bitter, and hitherto unknown feeling of humiliation. And now Jurand, at the mere mention of whose name the neighboring counts trembled, was riding to their command with a bowed head. He who had defeated and trampled under foot so many of them, now felt himself defeated and trampled upon. It is true, they had not overcome him in the field with courage and knightly strength, nevertheless he felt himself subdued. And it was to him something so unusual, that it seemed as if the entire order of the world were subverted. He was going to submit himself to the Teutons, he, who would rather meet single-handed the entire Teuton force, if it were not for Danusia's sake. Had it not happened already, that a single knight, having to choose between disgrace and death had attacked whole armies? But he felt that he might meet disgrace, and, at that thought, his heart groaned with agony as a wolf howls when it feels the dart within it. But he was a man with not only a body, but also a soul, of iron. He knew how to subdue others, he knew also how to subdue himself. "I will not move," he said to himself, "until I have overcome this anger with which I should rather lose than deliver my child." And he wrestled with his hard heart, his inveterate hatred and his desire to fight. Whoever had seen him on that hill, in armor, on a gigantic horse, would have said that he was some giant, wrought out of iron, and would not have recognized that that motionless knight at that moment was waging the hottest of all the battles of his life. But he fought with himself until he had entirely overcome and felt that his will would not fail him. Meanwhile the mist thinned, although it did not disappear entirely, but finally something darker loomed through it. Jurand guessed that these were the walls of the castle of Szczytno. At the sight of it he still did not move from the place, but began to pray so fervidly and ardently as a man prays, when nothing is left for him in the world but God's mercy. And when his horse did finally move, he felt that some sort of confidence was beginning to enter his heart. He was now prepared to suffer everything that could befall him. There came back to his memory Saint George, a descendant of the greatest race in Cappadocia, who suffered various shameful tortures, and nevertheless not only did not lose any honor, but is placed on the right hand of God and appointed patron of all knighthood. Jurand had sometimes heard tales of his exploits from the abbots, who came from distant countries, and now he strengthened his heart with these recollections. Slowly even, hope began to awaken in him. The Teutons were indeed famous for their desire of revenge, therefore he did not doubt that they would take vengeance on him for all the defeats which he had inflicted upon them, for the disgrace which had fallen upon them after each encounter, and for the dread in which they had lived for so many years. But that very consideration increased his courage. He thought that they had captured Danusia only in order to get him; therefore of what use would she be to them, after they had gotten him? Yes! They would undoubtedly seize him, and, not daring to keep him near Mazowsze, they would send him to some distant castle, where perhaps he would have to groan until his life's end under ground, but they would liberate Danusia. Even if it should prove that they had got him insidiously and by oppression, neither the grand master nor the assembly would blame them very much for that, because Jurand was actually very hard on the Teutons, and shed more of their blood than did any other knight in the world. But that same grand master would perhaps punish them for the imprisonment of the innocent girl, who was moreover a foster-daughter of the prince, whose favor he was seeking on account of the threatening war with the Polish king. And his hope constantly increased. At times it seemed to him almost certain that Danusia would return to Spychow, under Zbyszko's powerful protection.... "He is a strong man," he thought; "he will not permit anybody to injure her." And he began to recall with affection all he knew of Zbyszko: "He defeated the Germans at Wilno, fought single-handed against the Fryzjans whom he challenged with his uncle and quartered, he also beat Lichtenstein, saved the child from the wild bull, and he challenged those four, whom he will surely not pardon." Here Jurand raised his eyes toward heaven and said: "I gave her to you, O Lord, and you to Zbyszko!" And he gained still more confidence, judging that if God had given her to the youth, then He would certainly not allow the Germans to mock him but snatch her out of their hands, even if the entire Teuton power should oppose it. But then he commenced to think again about Zbyszko: "Bah! he is not only a mighty man but also as true as gold. He will guard her, love her, and Jesus! be good to her; but it seems to me, that, by his side she will neither miss the princely court nor paternal love...." At that thought his eyelids became suddenly moist, and a great yearning filled us heart. He would like to see his child once more at least in his life, and at some future time die in Spychow near those two, and not in the dark Teuton cells. "But God's will be done!" Szczytno was already visible. The walls became more distinct in the mist, the hour of sacrifice was approaching; he therefore began to comfort himself, and said to himself: "Surely, it is God's will! but the end of life is near. A few years more or less, the result will be the same. Hej! I would like to see both children yet, but, justly speaking, I have lived long enough. Whatever I had to experience, I did; whomever to revenge, I revenged. And what now? Rather to God, than to the world; and since it is necessary to suffer, then it is necessary. Danusia with Zbyszko, even when most prosperous, will not forget. Surely, they will sometimes recollect and ask: where is he? is he alive yet, or already in God's court of justice? They will inquire and perhaps find out. The Teutons are very revengeful, but also very greedy for ransom. Zbyszko would not grudge ransoming the bones at least. And they will surely order more than one mass. The hearts of both are honest and loving, for which may God and the Most Holy Mother bless them!" The road became not only broader but also more frequented. Wagons laden with lumber and straw were on the way to the town. Herders were driving cattle. Frozen fish were carried on sledges from the lakes. In one place four archers led a peasant on a chain to court for some offence, for he had his hands tied behind him, and on his feet were fetters which, dragging in the snow, hardly enabled him to move. From his panting nostrils and mouth escaped breath in the shape of wreaths of vapor, while they sang as they urged him on. Or seeing Jurand, they began to look at him inquisitively, apparently marvelling at the huge proportions of the rider and horse; but, at the sight of the golden spurs and knightly belt, they lowered then crossbows as a sign of welcome and respect. The town was still more populous and noisy, but everybody hastily got out of the armed man's way, while he, traversing the main street, turned toward the castle which, wrapped in clouds, seemed to sleep yet. Not everything around slept, at least not the crows and ravens, whole flights of which were stirring on the elevation, which constituted the entrance to the castle, flapping their wings and crowing. On coming nearer, Jurand understood the cause of their gathering. Beside the road leading to the gate of the castle, stood wide gallows, on which were hanging the bodies of four Mazovian peasants. There was not the least breath of wind, therefore the corpses, which seemed to be looking at their own feet, did not sway at all, except when the black buds perched upon their shoulders and heads, jostling one another, striking the ropes and pecking the bowed heads. Some of the hanged men must have been there for a long time, because their skulls were entirely naked, and their legs very much lengthened. At Jurand's approach, the flock arose with a great noise, but they soon turned in the air and began to settle on the crossbeam of the gallows. Jurand passed them, crossing himself, approached the moat, and, stopping at the place where the drawbridge was raised before the gate, sounded the horn. He sounded it a second and a third time and waited. There was no living soul upon the walls, nor could a voice be heard within the gates. After a while though, a heavy flap, visible behind a grate built in stone near the castle gate, was raised with a crash, and in the opening appeared the bearded head of a German servant. "_Wer da?_" inquired a harsh voice. "Jurand of Spychow!" replied the knight. Immediately the flap was closed again and deep silence followed. Time passed. No movement was heard behind the gate, only the cawing of birds reached his ear from the direction of the gallows. Jurand stood yet a long time before he raised the horn and sounded it again. But silence again was the sole response. Now he understood that he was kept before the gate by Teuton pride, which knew no bounds before the defeated, in order to humiliate him like a beggar. He also guessed that he would have to wait thus until evening, or even longer. Consequently his blood began to boil in the first moments; he was suddenly seized with the desire to dismount, pick up one of the rocks which lay near the moat, and cast it at the grate. He and every other Mazovian or Polish knight would have done so, under other circumstances, and let them come then from behind the gate and fight him. But recollecting for what purpose he had come, he bethought himself and desisted. "Have I not sacrificed myself for my child?" he said in his soul. And he waited. Meanwhile something black appeared in the loopholes of the wall. There appeared heads covered with fur, dark hoods and even iron bars, from behind which curious eyes gazed at the knight. More came every moment, because the terrible Jurand, waiting solitarily before the Teuton gate, was an unusual sight for the garrison. Whoever had seen him hitherto, had seen death, but now he could be looked at in safety. The heads constantly multiplied till at last all the loopholes near the gate were occupied by servants. Jurand thought that also the superiors must be looking at him through the grates of the windows in the adjacent tower, and he turned his eyes in that direction, but there the windows were cut in deep walls, and it was impossible to see through them. But in the apertures, the group of people who at first looked at him silently, began to talk. One after another repeated his name, here and there laughter was heard, gruff voices shouted as if at a wolf, louder and more insolently, and when, apparently, nobody among them interfered, they finally began to throw snow at the standing knight. He moved his horse as if involuntarily and then for a moment the throwing of snow ceased, voices quieted down, and even some heads disappeared behind the walls. Surely, Jurand's name must have been very menacing! Soon, however, even the most cowardly bethought themselves that a moat and a wall separated them from that terrible Mazovian, therefore the rough soldiery again commenced to throw not only small lumps of snow, but also ice, and even shards and stones, which rebounded with a clang from the armor which covered the horse. "I have sacrificed myself for the child," repeated Jurand to himself. And he waited. Noontime arrived, the walls were deserted, because the retainers were called to dinner. A few, those that had to be on guard, ate their meal on the wall, and, after having eaten, entertained themselves with throwing the picked bones at the hungry knight. They also began to tease and question each other who would dare to descend and strike him with the fist in the neck, or with the handle of the lance. Others, returning from their meal, called to him that if he disliked waiting he could hang himself, because there was a vacant hook on the gallows with a ready rope. And amidst such mockery, cries, bursts of laughter and cursing, the afternoon hours passed. The short wintry day gradually drew toward evening, and the drawbridge was still up and the gate remained closed. But toward evening a wind arose, dispersed the mist, cleared the sky and revealed the sunset glow. The snow became dark-blue, and then violet. There was no frost, but the night promised to be fair. The walls were again deserted by all but the guard; the rooks and crows departed from the gallows to the forests. Finally the sky darkened and complete silence followed. "They will not open the gate before nightfall," thought Jurand. And for a moment he thought to return to the city, but he soon gave up that idea. "They want me to stand here," he said to himself. "If I return, they will certainly not let me go home, but surround and capture me, and then they will say that they owe me nothing, because they took me by force, and if I should ride over them, even then I must return...." The great endurance of the Polish knights for cold, hunger and hardships, so admired by foreign chroniclers, frequently enabled them to perform deeds which the less hardy people from the west could not undertake. Jurand possessed that endurance to a still greater degree than others; therefore, although hunger had long since began to gripe him, and the evening frost penetrated his fur, which was covered with iron plates, he determined to wait, even if he had to die before this gate. But suddenly, before it became entirely dark, he heard behind him the sound of footsteps in the snow. He looked back: there were coming toward him, from the direction of the city, six men, armed with lances and halberds; in their midst walked a seventh man supporting himself on a weapon. "They will perhaps open the gate for them and then I shall ride in with them," thought Jurand. "They will not try to take me by force, nor kill me, because there are too few; should they attack me, however, it will prove that they do not mean to keep their promise, and then--woe to them!" Thus thinking, he raised the steel axe hanging at his saddle, so heavy, that its weight was too great for the two hands of an ordinary man, and moved toward them. But they did not think of attacking him. On the contrary, the servants planted their lances and halberds in the snow, and as the night was not entirely dark yet, Jurand saw that the handles somewhat trembled in their hands. The seventh, who appeared to be the superior, put out his left arm quickly, and turning his hand upward, said: "Are you the knight Jurand of Spychow?" "Yes." "Do you wish to hear my message?" "I listen." "The powerful and religious Count von Danveld ordered me to tell you, lord, that until you dismount, the gate will not be opened for you." Jurand remained motionless for a while, then he dismounted, the horse being instantly taken away by one of the archers. "The arms must be surrendered to us," again said the man with the weapon. The lord of Spychow hesitated. Perhaps they would attack him unarmed, and kill him like a beast; or capture and cast him under ground? But after a moment he thought that if it were to be so, they would have sent more men. But should they throw themselves on him, they would not destroy his armor at once, and then he could wrench a weapon from the nearest and kill them all before assistance could arrive. They knew him well. "And even if they should wish to shed my blood," he said to himself, "I came for no other purpose than that." Thus thinking, he threw down first the axe, then the sword, and finally the _misericordia_, and waited. They took everything, and then the man who had addressed him previously, withdrawing several steps, stopped and began to speak in an insolent, loud voice: "For all the wrongs you have done to the Order, you must, by the count's orders, put on this sack cloth which I leave here, tie around your neck the scabbard of your sword with a rope, and wait humbly at the gate until the count's grace orders it to be opened for you." And the next moment Jurand remained alone in the darkness and silence. In the snow before him the penitential robe and rope showed black while he stood long, feeling something in his soul dissolving, breaking, agonizing, dying, and that shortly he would be a knight no more, Jurand of Spychow no more, but a beggar, a slave without a name, without fame, without respect. Therefore, a long time passed before he approached the penitential robe, and said: "How can I do otherwise? Christ, Thou knowest they will kill the innocent child, if I do not do all they order. And Thou also knowest that I would not do that for the sake of my own life! Disgrace is a distasteful thing!... distasteful!--but Thou also wast disgraced of old. Well then, in the name of the Father and of the Son...." He then bent down, put on the robe in which were cut the openings for the head and hands, then he tied around his neck the scabbard of his sword, and dragged himself to the gate. He did not find it open; but now it was immaterial to him whether they opened it sooner or later. The castle sank into nocturnal silence, only the guards called now and then to each other on the bastions. In the tower near the gate there was light in one window high up; the others were dark. The night hours flew one after another, on the sky appeared the crescent moon and threw light upon the gloomy walls of the castle. It became so quiet that Jurand was able to hear his own heart-beats. But he stiffened and became entirely petrified, as if his soul were taken from him, and took no account of anything. One thought remained with him, that he had ceased to be a knight, Jurand of Spychow, but what he was he did not know.... Sometimes it also seemed to him that in the middle of the night death was coming to him across the snow from those hanged men that he had seen in the morning.... Suddenly he quivered and awoke entirely. "O gracious Christ! what is that?" From the high window in the adjacent tower, the sounds of a lute, hardly heard at first, reached his ear. Jurand, while on the way to Szczytno, was sure that Danusia was not in the castle, and yet this sound of the lute at night aroused his heart in an instant. It seemed to him that he knew those sounds, and that nobody else was playing but she--his child! his darling.... He therefore fell upon his knees, clasped his hands to pray, and listened shivering, as in a fever. Just then a half-childish and as if ardently longing voice began to sing: "Had I the dear little wings Of a gosling, I would fly To Jasiek at Szlonsk." Jurand wished to reply, to utter the dear name, but his words were imprisoned in his throat, as if an iron band squeezed them. A sudden wave of pain, tears, longing, suffering, collected in his breast; he therefore cast himself down with his face in the snow and began in ecstasy to call upon heaven in his soul, as if in thankful prayer: "O Jesus! I hear my child once again! O Jesus!" ... And weeping began to tear his gigantic body. Above, the longing voice continued to sing amid the undisturbed silence of the night: "Would that I might sit In the little Szlonsk garden To gaze upon little Jasiek The poor orphan!" In the morning a stout, bearded German retainer began to prod the ribs of the knight lying at the gate. "Upon your feet, dog!... The gate is open, and the count orders you to appear before him." Jurand awoke, as if from sleep. He did not catch the man by the throat, he did not crush him in his iron hands, he had a quiet and almost humble face; he arose, and, without saying a word, followed the soldier through the gate. He had hardly crossed, when a clang of chains was heard, and the bridge began to be drawn up again, while in the gateway itself fell a heavy iron grating. END OF PART FOURTH. PART FIFTH. CHAPTER I. Jurand, finding himself in the castleyard, did not know at first where to go, because the servant, who had led him through the gate, had left him and gone toward the stables. It is true, the soldiers stood near the palisades, either singly or in groups, but their faces were so insolent, and their looks so derisive, that the knight could easily guess that they would not show him the way, and even if they were to make a reply to his question, it would be a brutal or an indignant one. Some laughed, pointing at him with their fingers, others commenced to throw snow at him, like yesterday. But he, noticing a door larger than the others, over which was cut out in stone Christ on a cross, turned to it, thinking that if the count and the elders were in another part of the castle or in other rooms, somebody must set him right. And so it happened. The instant Jurand approached that particular door, both halves of it opened suddenly, and there stood before it a youth with a head shaven like the clericals, but dressed in a worldly dress, who inquired: "Are you Sir Jurand of Spychow?" "I am." "The pious count ordered me to guide you. Follow me." And he commenced to lead him through a great vaulted vestibule toward a staircase. At the stairs though he halted, and casting a glance at Jurand, again inquired: "But have you no weapon with you? I was ordered to search you." Jurand threw up his arms, so that his guide might be able to view his whole figure, and replied: "Yesterday I gave up everything." Then the guide lowered his voice and said almost in a whisper: "Be careful then not to break out into anger, because you are under might and superior force." "But also under God's will," returned Jurand. Then he looked more carefully at his guide, and observing in his face something in the nature of mercy and sympathy, said: "Honesty looks through your eyes, young man! Will you answer sincerely to what I question?" "Make haste, sir," said the guide. "Will they return the child to me?" And the youth raised his brows wonderingly. "Is your child here?" "My daughter." "That lady in the tower near the gate?" "Yes. They promised to send her away if I surrendered to them." The guide waved his hand to signify that he knew nothing, but his face expressed trouble and doubt. Then Jurand further asked: "Is it true, that Shomberg and Markward are watching her?" "Those brethren are not in the castle. Take her away though, sir, ere the nobleman Danveld regains his health." Hearing that, Jurand shivered, but there was no time to ask any more questions, because they had arrived at the hall on the upper floor in which Jurand was to face the chief Shchycienski. The youth, after having opened the door, retreated toward the stairs. The knight of Spychow entered and found himself in a roomy apartment, very dark, because the lead-framed, oval-shaped panes transmitted very little light; furthermore the day was wintry and cloudy. There was, it is true, a fire burning in a large chimney at the other end of the apartment, but the green logs produced little flame. Only after a time, when Jurand's eyes became used to the darkness, he distinguished a table behind which were knights sitting, and behind them a whole group of armed warriors and servants also armed, among whom the castle fool held a tame bear by a chain. Jurand had frequently met Danveld some time before, and afterward had seen him twice at the court of the prince of Mazowsze, as delegate, but several years had passed since that time; yet, notwithstanding the darkness, he recognized him instantly, because of his obesity, his face, and finally because he sat in the centre behind the table in an armchair, his hand being circled by wooden splints and resting upon the arm of the chair. To his right sat the old Zygfried von Löve of Insburk, an inexorable foe of the Polish race in general, and particularly of Jurand of Spychow; to his left were the younger brethren, Godfried and Rotgier. Danveld had invited them purposely, to witness his triumph over a threatening foe, and at the same time to enjoy the fruits of the treason which they had plotted together, and in the accomplishment of which they had assisted. They sat now comfortably dressed in soft dark cloth, with light swords at their sides. They were joyous and self-confident, and looking upon Jurand with that pride and extreme contempt which they always bore in their hearts toward the weaker and vanquished. The silence lasted a long while, because they wished to satiate themselves with the sight of the man whom they had previously dreaded, and who stood before them now with his head bowed upon his breast, and dressed like a penitent in sackcloth, and with a rope around his neck, upon which was suspended the scabbard of his sword. They also apparently wanted as great a number of people as possible to witness his humiliation, for through a side door, leading into other rooms, whoever pleased entered, and the hall was nearly half filled with armed men. They all looked with extreme eagerness at Jurand, conversing loudly and making remarks about him. But he gained confidence, at the sight of them, because he thought to himself: "If Danveld did not wish to keep his promise, he would not have ordered so many witnesses." Meanwhile Danveld raised his hand, and stopped the conversation; he then made a sign to one of the warriors, who approached Jurand, and catching the rope which encircled his neck, dragged him a few steps nearer the table. And Danveld looked triumphantly at those present and said: "Look, how the power of religion defeats anger and pride." "May God always grant it so!" answered those present. Then again followed a moment of silence, after which Danveld turned to the prisoner: "You were biting the faith like a mad dog, therefore God has caused you to stand before us, with a rope around your neck, looking for charity and mercy." "Do not compare me with a dog, count," replied Jurand, "because you thus lower the honor of those who met me and fell under my hand." At these words the armed Germans commenced to murmur: it was not known whether the daring answer aroused their anger or whether they were struck by its justice. But the count, dissatisfied at such a turn of the conversation, said: "Look, even now he spits into our eyes with arrogance and pride!" Jurand then raised his hands, like a man who calls heaven to witness, and shaking his head, answered: "God sees that my arrogance remained outside your gate; God sees and will judge, whether in dishonoring my knighthood, you did not dishonor yourself. There is the honor of a nobleman, which every one who has a belt around him, should respect." Danveld wrinkled his brows, but at that moment the castle fool started to rattle the chain to which he had fastened the bear, and called out: "Sermon! sermon! the preacher from Mazowsze has arrived! Listen! to the sermon!" Then turning to Danveld, he said: "Sir! Duke Rosenheim ordered his sexton to eat the bell-rope from knot to knot whenever the latter awakened him too early for the sermon. This preacher has also a rope around his neck--make him also eat it up before he finishes his sermon." And, having said this, he gazed at the count in some alarm, being uncertain whether the count would laugh or whether his inappropriate remark would result in an order for a flogging for him. But the religious brethren, gentle, well-behaved, and even humble, whenever they felt they were not in power, did not know any limits before the defeated; therefore, Danveld not only nodded his head at the bear-leader as a sign that he permitted the mockery, but he himself burst out with such unheard-of roughness that the faces of the younger warriors expressed astonishment. "Don't complain that you were put to shame," he said, "because even if I had made you a dogcatcher, a religious dogcatcher is better than you, knight!" And the encouraged fool commenced to shout: "Bring the currycomb, comb the bear, and he in turn will comb your shags with his paws." At that, laughter was heard here and there, and a voice exclaimed from behind the religious brethren: "You will cut reeds on the lake in the summer!" "And catch crabs with your carcass!" exclaimed another. A third added: "And now begin to drive away the crows from the hanging thief! There will always be plenty of work for you." Thus they made fun of the once terrible Jurand. The assembly gradually became joyous. Some, leaving the table, began to approach the prisoner and look at him closely, saying: "This is the wild boar of Spychow, whose tusks our count has knocked out; his snout is surely foaming; he would gladly tear somebody, but he cannot!" Danveld and others of the religious brethren, who at first had wished to give the hearing the solemn appearance of a court, seeing that the affair had turned out differently, also arose from their benches and mingled with those who approached Jurand. The old Zygfried of Insburk was dissatisfied at that, but the count himself said: "Be cheerful, there will be a greater joy yet!" And they also commenced to look at Jurand, for this was a rare opportunity, because when any of the knights or servants had seen him before from so near, they had usually closed their eyes forever. Some of them also remarked: "He is broad shouldered, although he has a fur beneath his sack; he could be wrapped up with pease straw, and exhibited in country fairs." Others again commenced to ask for beer in order to make the day a still pleasanter one. And so in a few moments flowing pitchers began to clink and the dark hall became covered with the foam escaping from under the covers. The good-humored count said: "That is just right, let him not think that his disgrace is of great importance!" So they again approached him, and touching his chin with their pewters, said: "You would like to drink, Mazovian snout!" and others, pouring the beer into their palms, cast it into his eyes, while he stood among them stunned and abused, until at last he moved toward the old Zygfried, and apparently feeling that he could not stand it any longer, he began to cry so loudly as to deafen the noise in the hall: "By the torture of the Saviour and the salvation of the soul, restore to me my child, as you promised!" And he attempted to seize the right hand of the old count who quickly withdrew and said: "Avaunt, prisoner! what dost thou want?" "I released Bergow from prison, and came myself, because in return you promised to restore my child who is here." "Who promised you that?" inquired Danveld. "By the soul and faith, you, count!" "You will not find any witnesses, but they amount to nothing, if honor and word are in question." "Upon your honor, upon that of the Order," exclaimed Jurand. "Then your daughter will be returned to you!" replied Danveld, and, turning to the others, remarked: "All that has happened to him here is an innocent trifle in comparison with his violence and crimes. But since we promised to return his daughter if he should appear and submit himself to us, then know, that the word of a Knight of the Cross is, like God's word, irreproachable, and that that girl, whom we saved from the hands of robbers, shall now be given her liberty, and after an exemplary penance for his sins against the Order, he also shall be allowed to go back to his home." Such a speech astounded some, because, knowing Danveld and his old hatred for Jurand, they did not expect such honesty from him. Therefore old Zygfried, together with Rotgier and Brother Godfried, looked at him, raising and wrinkling their brows with astonishment, but he pretended not to observe their inquiring looks and said: "I'll send your daughter back under guard, but you must remain here until our guard returns safely and until you have paid your ransom." Jurand himself was somewhat astonished, because he had ceased to hope that his sacrifice would be of any use to Danusia; he therefore looked at Danveld, almost with thankfulness and replied: "May God reward you, count!" "Recognize the Knights of the Cross," said Danveld. "All mercy from Him!" replied Jurand; "but, since it is long since I saw my child, permit me to see and bless my girl." "Bah, and not otherwise than before all of us, so that there may be witnesses of our good faith and mercy." Then he ordered the warriors standing near to bring Danusia, while he himself approached von Löve, Rotgier and Godfried, who surrounded him and commenced a quick and animated conversation. "I do not oppose you, although this was not your object," said old Zygfried. And the hot Rotgier, famous for his courage and cruelties, said: "How is this? not only the girl but also that devilish dog is going to be liberated, that he may bite again?" "He will bite not that way only!" exclaimed Godfried. "Bah! he will pay ransom!" lazily replied Danveld. "Even if he should return everything, in a year he will have robbed twice as much." "I shall not object as to the girl," repeated Zygfried; "but this wolf will yet make the sheep of the Order weep more than once." "And our word?" queried Danveld, laughingly. "You spoke differently...." Danveld shrugged his shoulders. "Did you not have enough pleasure?" he inquired. "Do you wish more?" Others surrounded Jurand again and commenced to brag before him, praising the upright conduct of Danveld, and the impression it made upon the members of the Order. "And what bone breaker!" said the captain of the castle-archers. "Your heathen brethren would not have treated our Christian knights so!" "You drank our blood?" "And we give you bread for stones." But Jurand paid no attention either to the pride or to the contempt which their words contained: his heart swelled and his eyelashes were moist. He thought that he would see Danusia in a moment, and that he would see her actually by their favor; he therefore gazed at the speakers almost with humility, and finally said: "True! true! I used to be hard on you but ... not treacherous." That instant a voice at the other end of the hall suddenly cried: "They are bringing the girl;" and immediately silence reigned throughout the hall. The soldiers scattered to both sides, because none of them had ever seen Jurand's daughter, and the majority of them did not even know of her presence in the castle on account of the secrecy with which Danveld surrounded his actions; but those who knew, whispered to one another about her admirable grace. All eyes turned with extreme curiosity toward the door through which she was to appear. Meanwhile a warrior appeared in front followed by the well-known servant of the Order, the same woman that rode to the court in the forest. After her entered a girl dressed in white, with loose hair tied with a ribbon on the forehead. And suddenly one great outburst of laughter, like the roaring of thunder, rang through the entire hall. Jurand, who at the first moment had sprung toward his daughter, suddenly recoiled and stood as pale as linen, looking with surprise at the ill-shaped head, the bluish lips, and the expressionless eyes of the wench who was restored to him as Danusia. "This is not my daughter!" he said, in a terrifying voice. "Not your daughter?" exclaimed Danveld. "By the holy Liboryusz of Paderborn! Then either we did not rescue your daughter from the murderers or some wizard has changed her, because there is no other in Szczytno." Old Zygfried, Rotgier and Godfried exchanged quick glances with each other, full of admiration at the shrewdness of Danveld, but none of them had time enough to speak, because Jurand began to shout with a terrible voice: "She is, she is in Szczytno! I heard her sing, I heard the voice of dear Danusia!" Upon that Danveld turned to those assembled and said quietly but pointedly: "I take you all present as witnesses and especially you, Zygfried of Insburk, and you pious brothers, Rotgier and Godfried, that, according to my word and given promise, I restore that girl, who was said by the robbers whom we defeated, to be the daughter of Jurand of Spychow. If she is not--it is not our fault, but rather the will of our Lord, who in that manner wished to deliver Jurand into our hands." Zygfried and the two younger brethren bowed to signify that they heard and would testify in case of necessity. Then again they glanced quickly at each other, because it was more than they ever could have expected to capture Jurand, not to restore his daughter, and still ostensibly to keep a promise; who else could do that? But Jurand threw himself upon his knees and commenced to conjure Danveld by all the relics in Malborg, then by the ashes and heads of his parents, to restore to him his true child and not proceed like a swindler and traitor, breaking oaths and promises. His voice contained so much despair and truth, that some began to suspect treason; others again thought that some wizard had actually changed the appearance of the girl. "God looks upon your treason!" exclaimed Jurand. "By the Saviour's wounds, by the hour of your death, return my child!" And arising, he went bent double toward Danveld, as if he wished to embrace his knees; and his eyes glittered with madness, and his voice broke alternately with pain, fear, and dread. Danveld, hearing the accusations of treason and deceit in presence of all, commenced to snort, and at length his features worked with rage; so that like a flame in his desire utterly to crush the unfortunate, he advanced and bending down to his ear, whispered through his set teeth: "If I ever give her up, it will be with my bastard...." But at that very moment Jurand roared like a bull, and with both hands he caught Danveld and raised him high in the air. The hall still resounded with the terrible cry: "Save me!" when the body of the count struck the stone floor with such terrible force that the brains from the shattered skull bespattered Zygfried and Rotgier who stood by. Jurand sprang to the wall, near which stood the arms, and snatching a large two-handed weapon, ran like a storm at the Germans, who were petrified with terror. The people were used to battles, butchery and blood, and yet their hearts sank to such an extent that even after the panic had passed, they commenced to retreat and escape like a flock of sheep before a wolf who kills with one stroke of his claws. The hall resounded with the cry of terror, with the sound of human footsteps, the clang of the overturned vessels, the howling of the servants, the growling of the bear, who, tearing himself out of the hands of the trainer, started to climb on a high window, and a terror-stricken cry for arms and targets, weapons and crossbows. Finally weapons gleamed, and a number of sharp points were directed toward Jurand, but he, not caring for anything, half crazed, sprang toward them, and there commenced an unheard-of wild fight, resembling a butchery more than a contest of arms. The young and fiery Brother Godfried was the first to intercept Jurand's way, but he severed his head, hand and shoulder-blade with a lightning swing of his weapon; after him fell by Jurand's hand the captain of the archers, and the castle administrator, von Bracht and the Englishman Hugues, who, although he did not very well understand the cause, pitied Jurand and his sufferings, and only drew his weapon when Danveld was killed. Others, seeing the terrible force and the fury of the man, gathered closely together, so as to offer combined resistance, but this plan brought about a still greater defeat, because he, with his hair standing upright on his head, with maddened eyes, covered all over with blood, panting, raging and furious, broke, tore and cut with terrible strokes of his sword that battered group, casting men to the floor, splashed all over with clotted blood, as a storm overturns bushes and trees. Then followed a moment of terrific fright, in which it seemed that this terrible Mazovian, all by himself, would hew and slay all these people. Like a pack of barking hounds that cannot overpower a fierce boar without the assistance of the hunters, so were those armed Germans; they could not match his might and fierceness in that fight which resulted only in their death and discomfiture. "Scatter! surround him! strike from behind!" shrieked old Zygfried von Löve. They consequently dispersed through the hall like a flock of starlings in the field upon which a hawk with crooked beak swoops from a height, but they could not surround him, because, in the heat of the fight, instead of looking for a place of defence, he commenced to chase them around the walls and whoever was overtaken died as if thunderstruck. Humiliation, despair, disappointed hope, changed into one thirst for blood, seemed to multiply tenfold his terrific natural strength. A weapon, for which the most powerful of the Knights of the Cross needed both hands, he managed to wield with one as if it were a feather. He did not care for his life, nor look for escape; he did not even crave for victory; he sought revenge, and like a fire, or like a river, which breaking a dam, blindly destroys everything obstructing its flow, so he, a terrible, blindfolded destroyer, tore, broke, trampled, killed and extinguished human beings. They could not hurt him in his back, because, in the beginning they were unable to overtake him; moreover the common soldiers feared to come near him even from behind; they knew that if he happened to turn no human power could save them from death. Others were simply terror-stricken at the thought, that an ordinary man could cause so much havoc, and that they were dealing with a man who was aided by some superhuman power. But old Zygfried, and with him Brother Rotgier, rushed to the gallery which extended above the large windows of the hall, and commenced to call others to take shelter after them; these did so in haste, so that, on the narrow stairs, they pushed each other in their desire to get up as quickly as possible and thence to strike the strong knight, with whom any hand to hand struggle appeared to them impossible. Finally, the last one banged the door leading to the gallery and Jurand remained alone below. From the gallery the sounds of joy and triumph reached him, and soon heavy oak benches and iron collars of torches began to fall upon the nobleman. One of the missiles struck him on the forehead and bathed his face with blood. At the same time the large entrance door opened, and through the upper windows the summoned servants rushed into the hall in a body, armed with pikes, halberds, axes, crossbows, palisades, poles, ropes and all varieties of weapons, which they could hurriedly get hold of. And with his left hand the mad Jurand wiped the blood from his face, so as not to obstruct his sight, gathered himself together, and threw himself at the entire throng. In the hall again resounded groans, the clash of iron, the gnashing of teeth and the piercing voices of the slain men. In the same hall, behind the table that evening, sat old Zygfried von Löve, who, after the bailiff Danveld, temporarily took command of Szczytno, and near him were Brother Rotgier, and the knight von Bergow, a former prisoner of Jurand's and two noble youths, novices, who were soon to put on white mantles. The wintry storm was howling outside the windows, shaking the leaden window-frames; the torchlights, which were burning in iron frames, wavered, and now and then the wind drove clouds of smoke from the chimney into the hall. Silence reigned among the brethren, although they were assembled for a consultation, because they were waiting for the word from Zygfried, who, again resting his elbows on the table and running his hands over his grey and bowed head, sat gloomy with his face in the shadow and with sullen thoughts in his soul. "About what are we to deliberate?" finally asked Brother Rotgier. Zygfried raised his head, looked at the speaker, and, awakening from thought, said: "About the defeat, about what the master and the assembly will say, and about this, that our actions may not cause any loss to the Order." He was silent again, but after a while he looked around and moved his nostrils: "There is still a smell of blood here." "No, count," replied Rotgier; "I ordered the floor to be scrubbed and the place to be fumigated with sulphur. It is the odor of sulphur." And Zygfried looked at those present with a strange glance, and said: "God have mercy upon the soul of our brothers Danveld and Godfried!" They again understood that he implored God's mercy upon their souls, because, at the mention of sulphur, he thought of hell; therefore a chill ran through their bones and all at once replied: "Amen! amen! amen!" After a moment the howling of the wind and the rattling of the window-frames were heard again. "Where are the bodies of the count and Brother Godfried?" inquired the old man. "In the chapel: the priests are chanting the litany over them." "Are they already in coffins?" "In coffins, only the count's head is covered, because his skull and face are crushed." "Where are the other corpses, and where are the wounded?" "The corpses are in the snow so as to stiffen whilst the coffins are being made, and the wounded are being attended to in the hospital." Zygfried again ran his hands over his head. "And one man did that!... God, have the Order under Thy care, when it comes to a great war with this wolfish race!" Upon that Rotgier turned up his eyes, as if recollecting something, and said: "I heard in Wilno, how the bailiff of Samboz spoke to his brother the master: 'If you do not make a great war and get rid of them, so that even their name shall not remain, then woe to us and our nation.'" "May God give such a war and a meeting with them!" said one of the noble novices. Zygfried looked at him for some time, as if he wanted to say: "You could have met one of them to-day," but seeing the small and youthful figure of the novice, and perhaps remembering that he himself, although famous for his courage, did not care to expose himself to a sure destruction, refrained and inquired: "Who saw Jurand?" "I," replied von Bergow. "Is he alive?" "Yes, he lies in the same net in which we entrapped him. When he awoke the servants wanted to kill him, but the chaplain would not allow it." "He cannot be executed. He is too great a man among his people, and there would be a terrible clamor," replied Zygfried. "It will be also impossible to hide what has happened, because there were too many witnesses." "What then are we to say and do?" inquired Rotgier. Zygfried meditated, and finally said: "You, noble Count von Bergow go to Malborg to the master. You were groaning in Jurand's slavery, and are now a guest of the Order; therefore as such, and because you need not necessarily speak in favor of the monks, they will rather believe you. Tell, then, what you saw, that Danveld, having recovered from a band of rogues a certain girl and thinking her to be Jurand's daughter, informed the latter, who also came to Szczytno, and what happened further you know yourself." "Pardon me, pious count," said von Bergow. "I suffered great hardships as a slave in Spychow, and as your guest, I would gladly testify for you; but tell me, for the sake of quieting my soul, whether there was not a real daughter of Jurand's in Szczytno, and whether it was not Danveld's treason that drove her father to madness?" Zygfried von Löve hesitated for a moment with his answer; in his nature lay deep hatred toward the Polish nation, and barbarity in which he exceeded even Danveld, and rapacity, and, when the Order was in question, pride and avarice, but there was no falsehood. It was the greatest bitterness and grief of his life, that lately, through insubordination and riot, the affairs of the Order had turned in such a manner that falsehood had become one of the most general and unavoidable factors of the life of the Order. Therefore von Bergow's inquiry touched the most painful string of his soul, and, after a long silence, he said: "Danveld stands before God, and God will judge him, while you, duke, should they ask you for conjectures, answer what you please; should they again ask you about what you saw, then say that before we coiled a wild man in a net you saw nine corpses, besides the wounded, on this floor, and among them the bodies of Danveld, Brother Godfried, von Bracht and Hugues, and two noble youths.... God, give them eternal peace. Amen!" "Amen! Amen!" again repeated the novices. "And say also," added Zygfried, "that although Danveld wished to subdue the foe of the Order, yet nobody here raised the first weapon against Jurand." "I shall say only what my eyes saw," replied von Bergow. "Be in the chapel before midnight; we shall also go there to pray for the souls of the dead," answered Zygfried. He then extended his hand to him as a sign of gratitude and farewell; he wished to remain for a further consultation alone with Brother Rotgier, whom he loved and had great confidence in. After the withdrawal of von Bergow, he also dismissed the two novices, under the pretence that they might watch the work of the coffins for the common servants killed by Jurand, and after the doors had closed behind them he turned with animation to Rotgier, and said: "Listen to what I am going to say: there is only one remedy: that no living soul should ever find out that the real daughter of Jurand was with us." "It will not be difficult," replied Rotgier, "because nobody knew that she was here except Danveld, Godfried, we two, and those servants of the Order who watched her. Danveld ordered the people who brought her here to be made intoxicated and hanged. There were some among the garrison who suspected something, but that affair confused them, and they do not know now themselves whether an error happened on our part, or whether some wizard really exchanged Jurand's daughter." "This is good," said Zygfried. "I have been thinking again, noble count, whether, since Danveld lives no longer, we should not cast all the guilt upon him...." "And so admit before the whole world that we, in a time of peace and concord with the prince of Mazowsze, ravished from his court the pupil of the princess and her beloved courtlady? No, for God's sake! this cannot be!... We were seen at the court together with Danveld; and the grand master, his relative, knows that we always undertook everything together.... If we accuse Danveld, he may desire to avenge his memory...." "Let us consult on that," said Rotgier. "Let us consult and find good advice, because otherwise woe to us! If we return Jurand's daughter, then she will say herself that we did not capture her from robbers, but that the people who caught her carried her directly to Szczytno." "That is so." "And God is witness that I do not care for the responsibility alone. The prince will complain to the Polish king, and their delegates will not fail to clamor at all courts against our outrages, our treason, and our crime. God alone knows how much loss the Order may suffer from it. The master himself, if he knew the truth, ought to order that girl to be hidden." "And even if so, when that girl is lost, will they not accuse us?" inquired Rotgier. "No! Brother Danveld was a shrewd man. Do you remember, that he imposed the condition on Jurand, that he should not only appear in Szczytno personally, but also previously proclaim and write to the prince, that he is going to ransom his daughter from the robbers, and that he knows that she is not with us." "True! but in that case how shall we justify what happened in Szczytno?" "We shall say that knowing that Jurand was looking for his child, and having captured some girl from the robbers and not being able to tell who she was, we informed Jurand, thinking that this might possibly be his daughter; on his arrival he fell into a fit at the sight of her, and, being possessed with the devil, shed so much innocent blood that more than one battle does not cost so much." "That is true," replied Rotgier, "wisdom and the experience of age speak through you. The bad deeds of Danveld, even if we should throw the guilt on him, would always go to the account of the Order, therefore, to the account of all of us, the assembly and the master himself; so again our innocence will become apparent, and all will fall upon Jurand, the iniquity of the Poles and their connection with infernal powers...." "And then whoever wishes may judge us; the Pope, or the Roman Emperor!" "Yes!" Then followed a moment of silence, after which Brother Rotgier questioned: "What shall we do then with Jurand's daughter?" "Let us consult." "Give her to me." And Zygfried looked at him and replied: "No I Listen, young brother! When the Order is in question, do not trust a man, woman nor even your own self. Danveld was reached by God's hand, because he not only wished to revenge the wrongs of the Order, but also to satisfy his own desires." "You misjudge me!" said Rotgier. "Do not trust yourself," interrupted Zygfried, "because your body and soul will become effeminate, and the knee of that hard race will some day bear heavily upon your breast, so that you will not be able to arise any more." And he the third time rested his gloomy head on his hand, but he apparently conversed with his own conscience only, and thought of himself only, because he said after a while: "Much human blood, much pain, many tears weigh heavily on me also ... moreover I did not hesitate to seek other means, when the Order was in question, and when I saw I should not succeed by mere force; but when I stand before the Almighty, I shall tell Him: 'I did that for the Order, and for myself--what I chose.'" And having said this, he put his hands to his breast and opened a dark cloth garment, beneath which appealed a sackcloth. He then pressed his temples with his hands, raised his head and eyes, and exclaimed: "Give up pleasures and profligacy, harden your bodies and hearts, because even now I see the whiteness of the eagle's feathers in the air and its claws reddened with Teutonic blood!..." Further speech was interrupted by such a terrible knock of the gate that one window above the gallery opened with a crash, and the entire hall was filled with a howling and whistling of the storm and with snowflakes. "In the name of God, His Son and the Holy Ghost! this is a bad night," remarked the old Teuton. "A night of unclean powers," answered Rotgier. "Are there priests with Danveld's body?" "Yes.... He departed without absolution.... God have mercy upon him!" And both ceased speaking. Rotgier presently called some boys, and ordered them to shut the window and light the torches, and after they had gone away, he again inquired: "What will you do with Jurand's daughter? Will you take her away from here to Insburk?" "I shall take her to Insburk and do with her what the good of the Order demands." "What am I to do then?" "Have you courage in your heart?" "What have I done to make you doubt it?" "I doubt not because I know you and love you as my own son for your courage. Go then to the court of the prince of Mazowsze and narrate everything that has happened here, according to our arrangement." "Can I expose myself to certain destruction?" "You ought, if your destruction will bring glory to the Cross and Order. But no! Destruction does not await you. They do no harm to a guest: unless somebody should challenge you, as that young knight did who challenged us all ... he, or somebody else, but that is not terrible...." "May God grant it! they can seize me though and cast me under ground." "They will not do that. Remember that there is Jurand's letter to the prince, and besides that you will go to accuse Jurand. Narrate faithfully what he did in Szczytno, and they must believe you.... We were even the first to inform him that there was a certain girl; we were the first to invite him to come to see her, and he came, went mad, killed the count and slew our people. Thus you will speak, and what can they say to you? Danveld's death will certainly resound throughout the whole Mazowsze. On that account they will fail to bring charges. They will actually look for Jurand's daughter, but, since Jurand himself wrote that she is not here, no suspicion will fall upon us. It is necessary to face them boldly and close their mouths, because they will also think that if we were guilty, none of us would dare to go there." "True! I will set out on the journey immediately after Danveld's funeral." "May God bless you, my dear son! If you do all properly, they not only will not detain you, but they will have to disavow Jurand, so that we may not be able to say: 'Look how they treat us!'" "And so we must sue at all courts." "The grand master will attend to that for the benefit of the Order, besides being Danveld's relative." "But if that devil of Spychow should survive and regain his liberty!..." A dark look came into Zygfried's eyes and he replied slowly and emphatically: "Even if he should regain his liberty, he will never utter a word of accusation against the Order." He then commenced again to instruct Rotgier, what to say and demand at the court in Mazowsze. CHAPTER II. The rumor of the occurrence in Szczytno arrived in Warsaw however before Brother Rotgier, and there excited amazement and concern. Neither the king himself, nor anybody else at the court, could understand what had happened. Shortly before, just when Mikolaj of Dlugolas was starting for Malborg with the prince's letter, in which he bitterly complained of the capture of Danusia by turbulent border counts and almost threateningly demanded her instant restoration, a letter had arrived from the owner of Spychow stating that his daughter was not captured by the Teutons, but by ordinary border bandits, and that she would be soon released for a ransom. On that account the messenger did not leave; nobody ever dreamed of the Teutons extorting such a letter from Jurand by the threat of his daughter's death. It was difficult to understand what had happened, because the border chiefs, who were subjects of the prince as well as of the Order, attacked one another in the summer, but not in the winter when the snows betrayed their trail. They also usually attacked merchants, or perpetrated robberies in the villages, capturing people and seizing their herds, but to dare to attack the prince himself and to capture his protégée, who was at the same time the daughter of a powerful and universally feared knight, this seemed entirely to exceed human belief. This, as well as other doubts, was answered by Jurand's letter under his own seal, brought this time by a man who was known to come from Spychow; under such circumstances all suspicions became impossible; the prince only became more enraged than he had ever been seen before, and he ordered a pursuit of the ravishers throughout the border of his principality, at the same time ordering the prince of Plock to do the same and not fail to punish the insolent fellows. Just then arrived the news of what had happened at Szczytno. And as it passed from mouth to mouth, it was multiplied tenfold. It was said that Jurand, having arrived all alone in the castle, ran in through the open gate and there committed such slaughter that the garrison was so terrified that it had to send for help to the neighboring castles, to summon the superior knighthood and armed foot-soldiers, who only after a two days' siege succeeded in reentering the castle and there slaying Jurand as well as his associates. It was also said that those forces would probably cross the border, and that a great war would undoubtedly begin. The prince, who knew of how great consequence it was to the grand master in case of war with the Polish king for the powers of both principalities of Mazowsze to remain neutral, did not believe these stories, because it was no secret to him, that should the Teutons declare war on him or the principality of Plock, no human power could keep the Poles back; the master therefore dreaded that war. He knew that it must come, but he wished to postpone it, firstly, because he was of a peaceful disposition, and secondly, because, in order to meet Jagiello's power, it was necessary to gather a strength which the Order until now had never yet possessed, and at the same time to secure the assistance of the princes and knighthood, not only in Germany, but also in the entire West. The prince, therefore, did not fear the war, but he wished to know what had happened, what he really was to think of the occurrence in Szczytno, of the disappearance of Danusia, and all those stories which arrived from the border; he was also glad, although he hated the Teutons, when on a certain evening the captain of the archers informed him that a knight of the Order had arrived and begged for an audience. He received him proudly, nevertheless, and although he recognized him instantly as one of the brethren who were in the Forest Court, he pretended not to recollect him and inquired who he was, whence he came, and what caused his arrival in Warsaw. "I am Brother Rotgier," replied the Teuton, "and a short time ago I had the honor to bow before your Highness." "Why then, being a brother, do you not wear the insignia of the Order?" The knight commenced to explain that he did not wear a white cloak, because by so doing he would be undoubtedly captured or killed by the knighthood of Mazowsze: throughout the whole world, in all kingdoms and principalities, the sign of the cross on the cloak is a protection and gains human good-will and hospitality, and only in the principality of Mazowsze does the cross expose the man who wears it to certain death. But the prince interrupted him angrily: "Not the cross," he said, "because we also kiss it, but your vices and if they receive you better elsewhere it is, because they do not know you so well." Then, seeing that the knight was greatly troubled at these words, he inquired: "Were you in Szczytno, do you know what happened there?" "I was in Szczytno and know what happened there," replied Rotgier, "and I came here not as any one's messenger, but only because the experienced and pious count of Insburk told me: 'Our master loves the pious prince and trusts in his justice, therefore while I hasten to Malborg, you go to Mazowsze and state our grievance, our disgrace, our misery. The just lord will surely not praise a violator of peace and a cruel aggressor, who has shed so much Christian blood, as though he were not Christ's servant but Satan's.'" And then he commenced to narrate everything that had occurred in Szczytno: How Jurand, who had been summoned by them to see whether the girl whom they had taken away from the robbers was not his daughter, instead of repaying that with thankfulness, had fallen into a fit; how he had killed Danveld, Brother Godfried, the Englishmen Hugues, von Bracht and two noble warriors, not counting the servants; how they, remembering God's commandment and not wishing to kill, had finally been compelled to coil the terrible man in a net, who had then turned his sword against himself and wounded himself terribly; how lastly, not only in the castle but also in the tower, there were people, who, in the midst of a wintry gale during the night after the fight, had heard terrible laughter and voices in the air calling: "Our Jurand! Wrongdoer of the cross! Shedder of innocent blood! Our Jurand!" And the whole story, especially the last words of the Teuton, made a great impression upon all present. Terror fell upon them all. They were simply overwhelmed with fear lest Jurand had actually summoned unclean powers to his assistance, and deep silence followed. But the princess, who was present at the audience, and who, loving Danusia, had a heart full of inconsolable sorrow for her, turned with an unexpected question to Rotgier: "You say, knight," she remarked, "that, after capturing the girl, you thought her to be Jurand's daughter, and therefore summoned him to Szczytno?" "Yes, beloved lady," replied Rotgier. "How could you have thought so, since you saw the real daughter of Jurand with me in the Forest Court?" At that Brother Rotgier became embarrassed, because he was not prepared for such a question. The prince arose and fixed a severe look on the Teuton, while Mikolaj of Dlugolas, Mrokota of Mocarzew, Jasko of Jagielnica and other knights of Mazowsze instantly sprang toward the brother, inquiring alternately with threatening voices: "How could you have thought so? Speak, German I How could that be?" And Brother Rotgier recovered himself and said: "We brethren do not raise our eyes to women. In the Forest Court with the beloved princess there were many court ladies, but which among them was Jurand's daughter, none of us knew." "Danveld knew," said Mikolaj of Dlugolas. "He even talked to her during the hunt." "Danveld stands before God," replied Rotgier, "and of him I shall only say that the following morning blooming roses were found on his coffin, which, in this wintry weather, could not come there by human hands." Then again followed silence. "How did you know of the capture of Jurand's daughter?" inquired the prince. "Only the wickedness and audacity of the deed made it known to us. Therefore on hearing about it, we ordered thanksgiving masses because only a plain court lady, and not one of the children born of your Highness, was captured from the Forest Court." "But I still wonder, how you could mistake a wench for Jurand's daughter." "Danveld said: 'Often Satan betrayed his servants, so perhaps he changed Jurand's daughter.'" "The robbers though, as vulgar men, could not counterfeit Kaleb's writing and Jurand's seal. Who could have done it?" "The Evil Spirit." And again nobody could find an answer. Rotgier glanced searchingly into the prince's eyes and said: "Indeed, these questions are like weapons in my breast, because they contain doubt and suspicion. But I trust in God's justice and the power of truth. I ask of your majesty: even Jurand himself suspected us of that action, and when suspecting, before we summoned him to Szczytno, why did he search for robbers through the whole border in order to buy his daughter back from them?" "It is true!" said the prince. "Even if you were hiding something from men, you cannot hide it from God. He suspected you in the first moment but then ... then he thought differently." "Behold how the brightness of truth conquers the darkness," said Rotgier, and he glanced triumphantly around the hall; he thought that Teutonic heads had more adroitness and sense than the Polish, and that the latter race would always be the prey and food of the Order, as a fly is the prey and food of the spider. Therefore, throwing off his previous disguise, he approached the prince and commenced to speak in loud and impetuous tones: "Requite us, lord, our losses, our grievances, our tears, and our blood! That hell-hound was your subject; therefore, in the name of God from whom the power of kings and princes is derived, in the name of justice and the cross, requite us for our grievances and blood!" But the prince looked at him in astonishment. "For God's sake!" he said, "what do you want? if Jurand shed your blood in madness, am I to answer for his frenzy?" "He was your subject, lord," said the Teuton, "in your principality lie his possessions, his villages and his castle, in which he imprisoned the servants of the Order; at least let these possessions, this domain and that wicked castle, become henceforth the property of the Order. Truly this will not be an adequate payment for the noble blood shed! truly it will not revive the dead, but perhaps it will partly appease God's anger and wipe away the disgrace, which will otherwise fall upon this entire principality. O, lord! The Order possesses grounds and castles everywhere, which were given to it by the favor and piety of the Christian princes, and only here in your territory have we no particle of land. Let our grievance, which calls to God for vengeance, be at least so rewarded that we may say that here also live people, who have the fear of God in their hearts!" Hearing this, the prince was still more amazed, and then, after a long silence, replied: "For God's sake! And through whose clemency, if not through that of my ancestors, does your Order even exist here? The lands, estates and towers, which once upon a time belonged to us and our nation, and which now are your property, do these not suffice for you yet? Jurand's girl is yet alive because nobody has informed you of her death, while you already want to seize the orphan's dower, and requite your grievances with an orphan's bread?" "Lord, you admit the wrong," said Rotgier, "consequently right it according to what your princely conscience and your honest soul dictates." And he was again glad in his heart, because he thought: "Now, they not only will not sue but they will even consider how to wash their hands and to evade the whole matter. Nobody will blame us for anything, and our fame will be as spotless as the white cloak of the Order." Just then the voice of old Mikolaj of Dlugolas was heard: "They suspect you of being avaricious and God knows whether justly or no, because even in this matter, you care more for the profits than the honor of the Order." "True!" cried the Mazovian knights in chorus. Then the Teuton advanced a few steps, proudly raised his head, and measuring them with a haughty look, said: "I do not come here as a messenger, but merely as a witness of the affair and a knight of the Order who is ready to defend the honor of the Order with his own blood to the last gasp! Who, then, in contradiction to Jurand's own words, dares to suspect the Order of having captured his daughter--let him raise this knightly pledge and submit to God's judgment!" Having said this, he cast before them his knightly glove, which fell upon the floor; they again stood in deep silence, because, although more than one of them would have liked to break his weapon on the Teuton's back, they all feared God's judgment. Every one knew that Jurand had expressly stated that the knights of the Order had not captured his child; so they all thought to themselves, "It is a just cause; consequently Rotgier will be victorious." He again became so much the more insolent, and leaning upon his loins, inquired: "If it is so, who will raise that glove?" Just then, a knight, whose entrance nobody had yet observed, and who for some time had listened at the door to the conversation, advanced to the centre, raised the gauntlet and said: "I will!" and so saying, he stared directly into Rotgier's face, and then began to speak with a voice which in that universal silence resounded like thunder through the hall: "Before God, before the august prince and all the honorable knighthood of this land, I tell you, Teuton, that you bark like a dog against justice and truth--and I challenge you to a combat on foot, or horseback, with lance or axe, short or long weapons, and not unto imprisonment but unto the last gasp, unto death!" A fly could be heard in the hall. All eyes were turned upon Rotgier and the challenging knight, whom nobody recognized, because he had a helmet covering his head, although without a steel cap, but with a circular visor descending below the ear entirely covering the upper part of the face, and casting a deep shadow over the lower part. The Teuton was no less astonished than the rest. Confusion, pallor and raging anger chased each other over his face, as lightning flashes across a mighty heaven. He caught the gauntlet and attached it to the hook of his armlet, and said: "Who are you that challenge God's justice?" The other then unbuckled his gorget, removed the helmet, beneath which appeared a fair, youthful head, and said: "Zbyszko of Bogdaniec, the husband of Jurand's daughter." They were all amazed, and Rotgier, with the others, because none of them, except the prince and his wife, Father Wyszoniek and de Lorche, knew of Danusia's marriage; the Teutons moreover were confident that Jurand's daughter had no other natural defender besides her father; but at that moment de Lorche stood up and said: "Upon my knightly honor I vouch for the truthfulness of his words; should anybody dare to doubt it, here is my guage." Rotgier, who did not know what fear meant, and whose heart swelled with anger at this moment, would have perhaps accepted even this challenge, but remembering that the man who cast it was powerful, and moreover a relative of Duke Geldryi, he refrained, and the more readily, because the prince himself arose and, wrinkling his brows, said: "It is forbidden to accept this challenge, because I also declare that this knight has told the truth." The Teuton, on hearing this, bowed, and then said to Zbyszko: "If you wish it, then on foot, in closed lists with axes." "I have already challenged you in all ways," replied Zbyszko. "May God give the victory to justice!" exclaimed the Mazovian knights. CHAPTER III. There was anxiety about Zbyszko in the whole court, among the knights as well as among the ladies, because he was universally liked; but, according to Jurand's letter, nobody doubted that the right was on the side of the Teuton. On the other hand it was known that Rotgier was one of the more famous brethren of the Order. The squire van Krist narrated among the Mazovian nobility, perhaps on purpose, that his lord before becoming an armed monk, once sat at the Honor-Table of the Teutons, to which table only world-famous knights were admitted, those who had accomplished an expedition to the Holy Land, or fought victoriously against giants, dragons, or mighty magicians. Hearing van Krist tell such tales, and, at the same time, boast that his lord had repeatedly met five opponents single-handed with his "dagger of mercy" in one hand and an axe or sword in the other, the Mazurs were disquieted, and some said: "Oh, if only Jurand were here, he could give an account of himself with even two; no German ever escaped him yet, but the youth--bah!--for the other exceeds him in strength, years and experience." Therefore others regretted that they had not accepted the challenge, asserting that they would undoubtedly have done so, if it had not been for the news from Jurand. "But fear of the judgment of God...." On this occasion, and for mutual entertainment, they recalled the names of Mazovian and more often of Polish knights, who, either in courtly jousts or hunting, had gained numerous victories over the western knights; above all they mentioned Zawisza of Garbow, with whom no knight of the Christian kingdom could cope. But there were also those who cherished great hopes of Zbyszko: "He is not to be despised!" they said "and according to common report he once admirably broke the heads of Germans in fair field." But their hearts were particularly strengthened by the action of Zbyszko's follower, the Bohemian Hlawa, who, on the eve of the combat, hearing how van Krist was talking about Rotgier's unheard-of victories, and being a hasty youth, caught van Krist by the beard, pulled his head up, and said: "If it is no shame to lie before men, then look up, so that God also may hear you!" And he kept him long enough to say a "Pater"; while the other, when at length liberated, began to ask him about his lineage, and, having heard that he sprang from the _wlodykas_, challenged him also to fight with axes. The Mazovians were delighted at such conduct, and again several said: "Indeed these fellows will not hobble on the barn-floor; even if truth and God be on their side these Teutonic women will not carry away sound bones with them!" But Rotgier succeeded in throwing dust in the eyes of all, so that many were disquieted as to which had the truth on his side, and the prince himself partook of that fear. Therefore, on the evening before the combat, he summoned Zbyszko to a consultation at which was present the princess only, and asked: "Are you positive that God will be with you? How do you know that they captured Danusia? Did Jurand perchance tell you any thing? Because, you see, here is Jurand's letter, by the hand of the priest Kaleb, and his seal, and in this letter Jurand says that he knows that it was not the Teutons. What did he tell you?" "He said that it was not the Teutons." "How then can you risk your life and appeal to the judgment of God?" Then Zbyszko was silent, and only his jaws worked for some time and tears gathered in his eyes. "I know nothing, gracious lord," he said. "We left here together with Jurand, and on the way I admitted our marriage. He then began to lament that this might be a sin against God, but when I told him it was God's will, he quieted down and forgave me. Along the whole way he said that nobody captured Danusia but the Teutons, and what happened afterward I do not know myself! That woman who brought certain medicines for me to the Forest Court, came to Spychow, accompanied by another messenger. They shut themselves up with Jurand and deliberated. Neither do I know what they said, only after the interview his own servants could not recognize Jurand, because he looked as if he had risen from the grave. He told us: 'Not the Teutons,' but he released von Bergow and all the prisoners he had underground, God knows why! he himself again rode away without any warrior or servant.... He said that he was riding after robbers to ransom Danusia, and ordered me to wait. And I waited until the news from Szczytno arrived, that Jurand had slain Germans and fallen himself. Oh! gracious lord! The soil in Spychow almost scorched me and I nearly ran mad. I made people mount horses in order to revenge Jurand's death, and then the priest Kaleb said: 'You will not be able to take the castle, and do not commence war. Go to the prince, perhaps they know something about Danusia there.' Hlawa and I arrived, and just heard how that dog was barking about Teutonic grievances and Jurand's frenzy.... My lord, I accepted his challenge, because I had challenged him before, and although I know nothing, this much I know, that they are hellish liars--without shame, without honor and without belief! Look, gracious lord, they stabbed de Fourcy to death and tried to cast the guilt upon my follower! By God! they stabbed him like an ox, and then they came to you, lord, for vengeance and retribution! Who will swear then, that they did not lie to Jurand before, and now do the same to you, lord?... I know not, I know not where Danusia is but I challenged him, because, even if I were to lose my life, I prefer death to life without my love, without the one who is clearest to me in the whole world." Saying this in rapture, he tore off a band from his head, so that his hair fell about his shoulders, and clutching it, he began to weep bitterly, until the princess Anna Danuta was moved to the bottom of her soul for the loss of Danusia, and, pitying him for his sufferings, laid her hands upon his head, and said: "May God help you, console and bless you!" CHAPTER IV. The prince did not object to the duel, because, according to the customs of that time, he had no power to do so. He only prevailed upon Rotgier to write a letter to the master and to Zygfried von Löve, stating that he was the first to throw down the gauntlet to the Mazovian knights, in consequence of which he appeared at a combat with the husband of Jurand's daughter, who had already challenged him once before. The Teuton also explained to the grand master, that if he appeared at the duel without permission, he did it for the sake of the honor of the Order, and to avert ugly suspicions, which might entail disgrace, and which he, Rotgier, was always prepared to redeem with his own blood. This letter was sent instantly to the border by one of the knight's footmen, to be sent thence to Malborg by mail, which the Teutons, some years before others, invented and introduced into their possessions. Meanwhile the snow in the courtyard was leveled and strewn with ashes, so that the feet of the fighters should neither clog nor slip upon the smooth surface. There was unusual excitement in the whole castle. The knights and court ladies were so agitated that on the night preceding the fight nobody slept. They said, that a fight on horseback with spears, and even with swords, frequently terminates in wounds; on foot on the contrary, and particularly with terrible axes, it always terminates in death. All hearts were with Zbyszko, but the very ones who felt most friendly toward him or Danusia recollected with so much more fear the stories about the fame and dexterity of the Teuton. Many ladies spent the night in church, where also Zbyszko confessed to the priest Wyszoniek, They said one to another as they looked at his almost boyish face: "Why, he is a child yet! how can he expose his head to the German axe?" And they prayed the more fervently for aid for him. But when he arose at daybreak and walked through the chapel, in order to put on his arms in the hall, they again gained courage, because, although Zbyszko's features were indeed boyish, his body was of an extraordinary size, and strong, so that he seemed to them to be a picked man, who could take care of himself against even the most powerful. The fight was to take place in the castle yard, which was surrounded by a porch. When it was broad daylight, the prince and princess arrived together with their children and took their seats in the centre between the pillars, from where the whole yard could best be overlooked. Next to them were the principal courtiers, noble ladies, and the knighthood. All the corners of the vestibule were filled: the domestics gathered behind the wall which was made from the swept snow, some clung to the posts, and even to the roof. There the vulgar muttered among themselves: "God grant that our champion may not be subdued!" The day was cold, moist, but clear; the sky swarmed with daws, which inhabited the roofs and summits of the bastions, and which, scared by the unusual bustle, moved in circles, with great clapping of wings, over the castle. Notwithstanding the cold, the people perspired with excitement, and when the first horn sounded to announce the entrance of the combatants, all hearts began to beat like hammers. They entered from opposite sides of the arena and halted at the barriers. Every one of the onlookers then held his breath, every one thought, that very soon two souls would escape to the threshold of the Divine Court and two dead bodies remain on the snow, and the lips, as well as the cheeks of the women turned pale and livid at that thought; the eyes of the men again gazed steadfastly at the opponents as at a rainbow, because every one was trying to forecast, from their postures and armament alone, which side would be victorious. The Teuton was dressed in an enameled blue cuirass, with similar armor for the thighs, as also the helmet with raised visor, and with a magnificent bunch of peacock feathers on the crest. Zbyszko's breast, sides and back were encased in splendid Milanese mail, which he had once captured from the Fryzjans. He had on his head a helmet with an open visor, and without feathers; on his legs was bull's hide. On their left shoulders, they carried shields with coat of arms; on the Teuton's at the top was a chessboard, at the bottom, three lions rampant; on Zbyszko's, a blunt horseshoe. In the right hand they carried broad, huge, terrible axes, set in oaken, blackened helves, longer than the arm of a grown man. The warriors who seconded them were: Hlawa, called by Zbyszko, Glowacz, and van Krist, both dressed in dark iron mail, both equally with axes and shields: van Krist had on his shield a St. John's wort; the shield of the Bohemian resembled that of the _Pomian_, with this difference, that instead of an axe stuck in a bull's head, it had a short weapon half sunk in the eye. The horn sounded the second time, and, at the third, the opponents, according to agreement, were to advance against each other. A small space strewn with grey ashes now only separated them; over that space hovered in the air like an ominous bird--death. But before the third signal was given, Rotgier approached the pillars between which sat the prince's family, raised his steel-encased head, and began to speak in such a loud voice that he was heard in all corners of the vestibule: "I take God, you, worthy lord, and the whole knighthood of this soil, as witness that I am not guilty of the blood that is about to be shed." At these words their hearts were again ready to break with grief, seeing that the Teuton was so confident of himself and his victory. But Zbyszko, having a simple soul, turned to his Bohemian, and said: "That Teutonic boasting stinks; it would be more appropriate after my death than while I am alive. That boaster moreover has a peacock's plume on his helmet, and at the very outset I made a vow to obtain three of them and afterward as many fingers of the hand. God grant it!" "Lord ..." said the Bohemian, bending down and picking up in his hands some ashes from the snow, to prevent the axe-handle from slipping in his hand; "perhaps Christ will permit me quickly to despatch that vile Prussian, and then perhaps, if not to defeat this Teuton, at least put the handle of the axe between his knees and upset him." "God save you!" hastily exclaimed Zbyszko; "you would cover me and yourself with disgrace." But at that moment the horn sounded the third time. On hearing it, the seconds sprang quickly and furiously at each other, while the knights moved slowly and deliberately, as their dignity and gravity demanded, for the first bout. Very few paid attention to the seconds, but those of the experienced men and of the domestics who looked at them understood at once how great were the odds on Hlawa's side. The German wielded the heavier axe and his shield was cumbersome. Below the shield were visible his legs which were longer, though not so strong nor active as the sturdy and tightly covered legs of the Bohemian. Hlawa moreover pressed so vigorously that van Krist, almost from the first moment, was compelled to retreat. It was instantly understood that one of the adversaries would fall upon the other like a tempest; that he would attack and strike like lightning, while the other, under the conviction that death was already upon him, would merely defend himself so as to postpone the terrible moment as long as possible. And so it actually was. That boaster, who generally stood up to fight only when he could not do otherwise, now recognized that his insolent and heedless words had led him into a fight with a terrible giant whom he ought to have avoided like a perdition; and so, when he now felt that every one of these blows could kill an ox, his heart began to fail entirely. He almost forgot that it is not sufficient to catch the blows on the shield, but that it was also necessary to return them. He saw above him the lightning of the axe and thought that every gleam was the last. Holding up the shield, he involuntarily half closed his eyes with a feeling of terror and doubt whether he would ever open them again. Very rarely he gave a blow himself, but without any hope of reaching his opponent, and raised the shield constantly higher over his head, so as to save it yet for a little. Finally he began to tire, but the Bohemian struck on constantly more powerfully. Just as from a tall pine-tree great chips fly under the peasant's axe, so under the Bohemian's strokes fragments began to scale off and fly from the German warrior's armor. The upper edge of the shield was bent and shattered, the mail from the right shoulder rolled to the ground, together with the cut and already bloody strap of leather. This made van Krist's hair stand on end--and a deadly fear seized him. He struck with all the force of his arm once and again at the Bohemian's shield; finally, seeing that he had no chance against his adversary's terrible strength and that only some extraordinary exertion could save him, he threw himself suddenly with all the weight of his armor and body against Hlawa's legs. Both fell to the ground and tried to overcome each other, rolling and struggling in the snow. But the Bohemian soon appeared on top; for a moment he still checked the desperate efforts of his opponent; finally he pressed his knee upon the chain-armor covering his belly, and took from the back of his belt a short three-edged "dagger of mercy."[109] "Spare me!" faintly gasped van Krist, raising his eyes toward those of the Bohemian. But the latter, instead of answering, stretched himself upon him the easier to reach his neck, and, cutting through the leather fastening of the helmet under the chin, stabbed the unfortunate man twice in the throat, directing the sharp edge downward toward the centre of the breast. Then van Krist's pupils sank in their sockets, his hands and legs began to beat the snow, as if trying to clean it of the ashes, but after a moment he stiffened out and lay motionless, breathing only with red, foam-covered lips, and bleeding profusely. But the Bohemian arose, wiped the "dagger of mercy" on the German's clothing, then raised the axe, and, leaning against it, he began to look at the harder and more stubborn fight between his knight and Brother Rotgier. The western knights were already accustomed to comforts and luxuries, while the landowners in Little Poland and Great Poland, as also in Mazowsze, led a rigorous and hardy life, wherefore they awoke admiration by their bodily strength and endurance of all hardships, whether constant or occasional, even among strangers and foes. Now also it was demonstrated that Zbyszko was as superior to the Teuton in bodily strength as his squire was superior to van Krist, but it was also proven that his youth rendered him the inferior in knightly training. It was in some measure favorable for Zbyszko that he had chosen a combat with axes, because fencing with that kind of weapon was impossible. With long and short swords, with which it was necessary to know the strokes, thrusts, and how to ward off blows, the German would have had a considerable superiority. But even so, Zbyszko, as well as the spectators, recognized from his motions and management of the shield, that they had before them an experienced and formidable man, who apparently was not entering a combat of this kind for the first time. To each of Zbyszko's blows Rotgier offered his shield, slightly withdrawing it at the concussion, by which means even the most powerful swing lost its force, and could neither cleave nor crush the smooth surface. He at times retreated and at times became aggressive, doing it quietly, though so quickly that the eyes could hardly follow his motions. The prince was seized with fear for Zbyszko, and the faces of the men looked gloomy; it seemed that the German was purposely trifling with his opponent. Sometimes he did not even interpose the shield, but at the moment when Zbyszko struck, he turned half aside, so that the sharp edge of the axe cut the empty air. This was the most terrifying thing, because Zbyszko might thereby lose his balance and fall, and then his destruction would be inevitable. Seeing this, the Bohemian, standing over the slain van Krist, also became alarmed, and said to himself: "My God! if my master falls, I will strike him with the hook of my axe between the shoulder-blades, and overthrow him also." However, Zbyszko did not fall, because, being very strong upon his legs and separating them widely, he was able to support the entire weight of his body on either as he swung. Rotgier observed that instantly, and the onlookers were mistaken in supposing that he underestimated his opponent. On the contrary, after the first strokes, when, in spite of his utmost skill in withdrawing the shield, his hand almost stiffened under it, he understood that he would have a hard time with this youth, and that, if he did not knock him down by some clever manoeuvre, the combat would prove long and dangerous. He expected Zbyszko to fall upon the snow after a vain stroke in the air, and as that did not happen, he immediately became uneasy. He saw, beneath the steel visor, the closely-drawn nostrils and mouth of his opponent, and occasionally his gleaming eyes, and he said to himself that the other would fly into a blind rage and forget himself, lose his head, and madly think more of striking than of defending himself. But he was mistaken in this also. Zbyszko did not know how to avoid a stroke by a half-turn, but he did not forget his shield, and, while raising the axe, did not expose himself more than was necessary. His attention was apparently redoubled, and having recognized the experience and skill of his opponent, instead of forgetting himself he collected his thoughts and became more cautious; and there was that premeditation in his blows which not hot but cool anger only can conquer. Rotgier, who had fought in many wars and battles, either in troop or singly, knew by experience that there are some people, like birds of prey, who are born to fight, being specially gifted by Nature, who bestows all things, with what others only attain after years of training, and he at the same time observed that he was now dealing with one of those. He understood from the very first strokes that there was in this youth something as in a hawk, who sees in his opponent only his prey, and thinks of nothing but getting him in his claws. Notwithstanding his own strength, he also noticed that it was not equal to Zbyszko's, and should he get exhausted before succeeding in giving a final stroke, the combat with this formidable, although less experienced, stripling, might result in his ruin. Thus reflecting, he determined to fight with the least possible effort, drew the shield closer to him, did not move much either forward or backward, restricted his motions, and gathered all the power of his soul and arm for one decisive stroke, and awaited his opportunity. The terrible fight lasted longer than usual. A deathlike silence reigned in the porches. The only sounds heard were the sometimes ringing and sometimes hollow blows of the sharp points and edges of the axes against the shields. Such sights were not strange to the princes, knights and courtiers; and nevertheless a feeling, resembling terror, seemed to clutch all hearts as if with tongs. It was understood that this was not a mere exhibition of strength, skill and courage, but that in this fight there was a greater fury and despair, a greater and more inexorable stubbornness, a deeper vengeance. On one side terrible wrongs, love and fathomless sorrow; on the other, the honor of the entire Order and deep hatred, met on this field of battle for the Judgment of God. Meanwhile the wintry, pale morning brightened, the grey fog cleared away, and the sunrays shone upon the blue cuirass of the Teuton and the silver Milanese armor of Zbyszko. The bell rang in the chapel for early mass, and at the sounds of the bell flights of crows again flew from the castle roofs, flapping their wings and crowing noisily, as if in joy at the sight of blood and the corpse lying motionless in the snow. Rotgier looked at it once and again during the fight, and suddenly began to feel very lonesome. All the eyes that were turned upon him were those of enemies. All the prayers, wishes and silent vows which the women were offering were in Zbyszko's favor. Moreover, although the Teuton was fully convinced that the squire would not cast himself upon him from behind, nor strike him treacherously, nevertheless, the presence and nearness of that terrifying figure involuntarily inspired him with such fear as people are subject to at the sight of a wolf, a bear or a buffalo, from which they are not separated by bars. And he could not shake off this feeling, especially as the Bohemian, in his desire to follow closely the course of the battle, constantly changed his place, stepping in between the fighters from the side, from behind, from the front--bending his head at the same time, and looking at him fiercely through the visor of the helmet, and sometimes slightly raising his bloody weapon, as if involuntarily. At last the Teuton began to tire. One after another, he gave two blows, short but terrible, directing them at Zbyszko's right arm, but they were met by the shield with such force that the axe trembled in Rotgier's hand, and he himself was compelled to retreat suddenly to save himself from falling; and from that moment, he retreated steadily. Finally, not only his strength but also his coolness and patience began to be exhausted. At the sight of his retreating, a few triumphant shouts escaped from the breasts of the spectators, awakening in him anger and despair. The strokes of the axes became more frequent. Perspiration flowed from the brows of both fighters, and panting breath escaped from their breasts through their clenched teeth. The spectators ceased keeping silence, and now every moment voices, male or female, cried: "Strike! At him!... God's judgment! God's punishment! God help you!" The prince motioned with his hand several times to silence them, but he could not restrain them! Every moment the noise increased, because children here and there began to cry on the porches, and finally, at the very side of the princess, a youthful, sobbing, female voice called out: "For Danusia, Zbyszko! for Danusia!" Zbyszko knew well that it was for Danusia's sake. He was sure that this Teuton had assisted in her capture, and in fighting him, he fought for her wrongs. But being young and eager for battles, during the combat he had thought of that only. But suddenly, that cry brought back to his mind her loss and her sufferings. Love, sorrow and vengeance poured fire into his veins. His heart began to call out with suddenly awakened pain, and he was plainly seized with a fighting frenzy. The Teuton could not any longer catch nor avoid the terrible strokes, resembling thunderbolts. Zbyszko struck his shield against his with such superhuman force, that the German's arm stiffened suddenly and fell.... He retreated in terror and half crouched, but that instant there flashed in his eyes the gleam of the axe, and the sharp edge fell like a thunderbolt upon his right shoulder. Only a rending cry reached the ears of the onlookers: "Jesus!"--then Rotgier retreated one more step and fell upon his back on the ground. Immediately there was a noise and buzz on the porches, as in a bee-garden in which the bees, warmed by the sun, commence to move and swarm. The knights ran down the stairs in whole throngs, the servants jumped over the snow-walls, to take a look at the corpses. Everywhere resounded the shouts: "This is God's judgment ... Jurand has an heir! Glory to him and thanksgiving! This is a man for the axe!" Others again cried: "Look and marvel! Jurand himself could not strike more nobly." A whole group of curious ones stood around Rotgier's corpse, and he lay on his back with a face as white as snow, with gaping mouth and with a bloody arm so terribly shorn from the neck down to the armpit, that it scarcely held by a few shreds. Therefore, others again said: "He was alive just now and walked upon the earth with arrogance, but now he cannot even move a finger." And thus speaking, some admired his stature, because he took up a large space on the battlefield, and appeared even larger in death; others again admired his peacock plume, changing colors beautifully in the snow; others again his armor, which was valued at a good village. But the Bohemian, Hlawa, now approached with two of Zbyszko's retainers in order to take it off from the deceased, therefore the curious surrounded Zbyszko, praising and extolling him to the skies, because they justly thought that his fame would redound to the credit of the whole Mazovian and Polish knighthood. Meanwhile the shield and axe were taken from him, to lighten his burden, and Mrokota of Mocarzew unbuckled his helmet and covered his hair, wet with perspiration, with a cap of scarlet cloth. Zbyszko stood, as if petrified, breathing heavily, with the fire not fully extinguished yet in his eyes, and a face pale with exhaustion and determination and trembling somewhat with excitement and fatigue. But he was taken by the hand and led to the princely family, who were waiting for him in a warm room, by the fireside. There Zbyszko kneeled down before them and when Father Wyszoniek gave him a blessing and said a prayer for the eternal rest of the souls of the dead, the prince embraced the young knight and said: "God Almighty decided between you two and guided your hand, for which His name be blessed. Amen!" Then turning to the knight de Lorche and others, he added: "You, foreign knight and all present I take as witnesses to what I testify myself, that they met according to law and custom, and as the 'Judgment of God' is everywhere performed, this also was conducted in a knightly and devout manner." The local warriors cried out affirmatively in chorus; when again the prince's words were translated to de Lorche, he arose and announced that he not only testified that all was conducted in knightly and devout style, but should anybody in Malborg or any other princely court dare to question it, he, de Lorche, would challenge him instantly to fight either on foot or horseback, even if he should not merely be a common knight, but a giant or wizard, exceeding even Merlin's magical power. Meanwhile, the princess Anna Danuta, at the moment when Zbyszko embraced her knees, said as she bent down to him: "Why do you not feel happy? Be happy and thank God, because if He in His mercy has granted you this suit, then He will not leave you in the future, and will lead you to happiness." But Zbyszko replied: "How can I be happy, gracious lady? God gave me victory and vengeance over that Teuton, but Danusia was not and still is not here, and I am no nearer to her now than I was before." "The most stubborn foes, Danveld, Godfried and Rotgier live no longer," replied the princess, "and they say that Zygfried is more just than they, although cruel. Praise God's mercy at least for that. Also de Lorche said that if the Teuton fell he would carry his body away, and go instantly to Malborg and demand Danusia from the grand master himself. They will certainly not dare to disobey the grand master." "May God give health to de Lorche," said Zbyszko, "and I will go with him to Malborg." But these words frightened the princess, who felt it was as if Zbyszko said he would go unarmed among the wolves that assembled in the winter in packs in the deep Mazovian forests. "What for?" she exclaimed. "For sure destruction? On your arrival, neither de Lorche nor those letters, written by Rotgier before the fight, will help you. You will save nobody and only ruin yourself." But he arose, crossed his hands and said: "So may God help me, that I shall go to Malborg and even across oceans. So may Christ bless me, that I shall look for her until the last breath of my nostrils, and that I shall not cease until I perish. It is easier for me to fight the Germans, and meet them in arms, than for this orphan to moan under ground. Oh, easier! easier!" And he said that, as always when he mentioned Danusia, with such rapture, with such pain, that his words broke off as if some one had clutched him by the throat. The princess recognized that it would be useless to turn him aside, and that if anybody wanted to detain him it must be by chaining him and casting him under ground. But Zbyszko could not leave at once. Knights of that day were not allowed to heed any obstacles, but he was not permitted to break the knightly custom that required the winner in a duel to spend a whole day on the field of combat, until the following midnight, and this in order to show that he remained master of the field of battle and to show his readiness for another fight, should any of the relatives or friends of the defeated wish to challenge him to such. This custom was even observed by whole armies, which thus sometimes lost advantages which might accrue from haste after the victory. Zbyszko did not even attempt to evade that inexorable law, and refreshing himself, and afterward putting on his armor, he lingered until midnight in the castle yard, under the clouded wintry sky, awaiting the foe that could not come from anywhere. At midnight, when the heralds finally announced his victory by sound of trumpet, Mikolaj of Dlugolas invited him to supper and at the same time to a council with the prince. CHAPTER V. The prince was the first to take the floor at the consultation and spoke as follows: "It is bad that we have no writing nor testimony against the counts. Although our suspicions may be justified, and I myself think that they and nobody else captured Jurand's daughter, still what of it? They will deny it. And if the grand master asks for proofs, what shall I show him? Bah! even Jurand's letter speaks in their favor." Here he turned to Zbyszko: "You say that they forced this letter from him with threats. It is possible, and undoubtedly it is so, because if justice were on their side, God would not have helped you against Rotgier. But since they extorted one, then they could extort also two. And perhaps they have evidence from Jurand, that they are not guilty of the capture of this unfortunate girl. And if so, they will show it to the master and what will happen then?" "Why, they admitted themselves, gracious lord, that they recaptured her from bandits and that she is with them now." "I know that. But they say now that they were mistaken, and that this is another girl, and the best proof is that Jurand himself disclaimed her." "He disclaimed her because they showed him another girl, and that is what exasperated him." "Surely it was so, but they can say that these are only our ideas." "Their lies," said Mikolaj of Dlugolas, "are like a pine forest. From the edge a little way is visible, but the deeper one goes the greater is the density, so that a man goes astray and loses his way entirely." He then repeated his words in German to de Lorche, who said: "The grand master himself is better than they are, also his brother, although he has a daring soul, but it guards knightly honor." "Yes," replied Mikolaj. "The master is humane. He cannot restrain the counts, nor the assembly, and it is not his fault that everything in the Order is based upon human wrongs, but he cannot help it. Go, go, Sir de Lorche, and tell him what has happened here. They are more ashamed before strangers than before us, lest they should tell of their outrages and dishonest actions at foreign courts. And should the master ask for proofs, then tell him this: 'To know the truth is divine, to seek it is human, therefore if you wish proofs, lord, then seek them.' Order the castles to be summoned and the people to be questioned, allow us to search, because it is foolishness and a lie that this orphan was stolen by bandits of the woods." "Folly and lies!" repeated de Lorche. "Because bandits would not dare to attack the princely court, nor Jurand's child. And even if they should have captured her, it would be only for ransom, and they alone would inform us that they had her." "I shall narrate all that," said the Lotaringen, "and also find von Bergow. We are from the same country, and although I don't know him, they say that he is a relative of Duke Geldryi's. He was at Szczytno and should tell the master what he saw." Zbyszko understood a few of his words, and whatever he did not, Mikolaj explained to him; he then embraced de Lorche so tightly that the knight almost groaned. The prince again said to Zbyszko: "And are you also absolutely determined to go?" "Absolutely, gracious lord. What else am I to do? I vowed to seize Szczytno, even if I had to bite the walls with my teeth, but how can I declare war without permission?" "Whoever began war without permission, would rue it under the executioner's sword," said the prince. "It is certainly the law of laws," replied Zbyszko. "Bah! I wished then to challenge all who were in Szczytno, but people said that Jurand slaughtered them like cattle, and I did not know who was alive and who dead.... Because, may God and the Holy Cross help me, I will not desert Jurand till the last moment!" "You speak nobly and worthily," said Mikolaj of Dlugolas. "And it proves that you were sensible not to go alone to Szczytno, because even a fool would have known that they would keep neither Jurand nor his daughter there, but undoubtedly would carry them away to some other castle. God rewarded your arrival here with Rotgier." "And now!" said the prince, "as we heard from Rotgier, of those four only old Zygfried is alive, and the others God has punished already either by your hand or Jurand's. As for Zygfried, he is less of a rascal than the others, but perhaps the more ruthless tyrant. It is bad that Jurand and Danusia are in his power, and they must be saved quickly. In order that no accident may happen to you, I will give you a letter to the grand master. Listen and understand me well, that you do not go as a messenger, but as a delegate, and write to the master as follows: Since they had once made an attempt upon our person, in carrying off a descendant of their benefactors, it is most likely now, that they have also carried off Jurand's daughter, especially having a grudge against Jurand. I ask therefore of the master to order a diligent search, and if he is anxious to have my friendship, to restore her instantly to your hands." Zbyszko, hearing this, fell at the prince's feet, and, embracing them, said: "But Jurand, gracious lord, Jurand? Will you intercede also in his behalf! If he has mortal wounds, let him at least die in his own home and with his children." "There is also mention made of Jurand," said the prince, kindly. "He is to appoint two judges and I two also to investigate the counts' and Jurand's actions, according to the rules of knightly honor. And they again will select a fifth to preside over them, and it will be as they decide." With this, the council terminated, after which Zbyszko took leave of the prince, because they were soon to start on their journey. But before their departure, Mikolaj of Dlugolas, who had experience and knew the Teutons well, called Zbyszko aside and inquired: "And will you take that Bohemian fellow along with you to the Germans?" "Surely, he will not leave me. But why?" "Because I feel sorry for him. He is a worthy fellow, but mark what I say: you will return from Malborg safe and sound, unless you meet a better man in combat, but his destruction is sure." "But why?" "Because the dog-brothers accused him of having stabbed de Fourcy to death. They must have informed the master of his death, and they doubtless said that the Bohemian shed his blood. They will not forgive that in Malborg. A trial and vengeance await him because, how can his innocence be proven to the master. Why, he even crushed Danveld's arm, who is a relative of the grand master. I am sorry for him, I repeat, if he goes it is to his death." "He will not go to his death, because I shall leave him in Spychow." But it happened otherwise, as reasons arose whereby the Bohemian did not remain in Spychow. Zbyszko and de Lorche started with their suites the following morning. De Lorche, whose marriage to Ulryka von Elner, Father Wyszoniek dissolved, rode away happy and, with his mind entirely occupied with the comeliness of Jagienka of Dlugolas, was silent. Zbyszko, not being able to talk with him about Danusia also, because they could not understand each other very well, conversed with Hlawa, who until now had known nothing about the intended expedition into the Teutonic regions. "I am going to Malborg," he said, "but God knows when I shall return.... Perhaps soon, in the spring, in a year, and perhaps not at all, do you understand?" "I do. Your honor also is surely going to challenge the knights there. And God grant that with every knight there is a shield-bearer!" "No," replied Zbyszko. "I am not going for the purpose of challenging them, unless it comes of itself; but you will not go with me at all, but remain at home in Spychow." Hearing this, the Bohemian at first fretted and began to complain sorrowfully, and then he begged his young lord not to leave him behind. "I swore that I would not leave you. I swore upon the cross and my honor. And if your honor should meet with an accident, how could I appear before the lady in Zgorzelice! I swore to her, lord! Therefore have mercy upon me, and not disgrace me before her." "And did you not swear to her to obey me?" asked Zbyszko. "Certainly! In everything, but not that I should leave you. If your honor drives me away, I shall go ahead, so as to be at hand in case of necessity." "I do not, nor will I drive you away," replied Zbyszko; "but it would be a bondage to me if I could not send you anywhere, even the least way, nor separate from you for even one day. You would not stand constantly over me, like a hangman over a good soul! And as to the combat, how will you help me? I do not speak of war, because these people fight in troops, and, in a single combat, you certainly will not fight for me. If Rotgier were stronger than I, his armor would not lie on my wagon, but mine on his. And besides, know that I should have greater difficulties there if with you, and that you might expose me to dangers." "How so, your honor?" Then Zbyszko began to tell him what he had heard from Mikolaj of Dlugolas, that the counts, not being able to account for de Fourcy's murder, would accuse him and prosecute him revengefully. "And if they catch you," he said, finally, "then I certainly cannot leave you with them as in dogs' jaws, and may lose my head." The Bohemian became gloomy when he heard these words, because he felt the truth in them; he nevertheless endeavored to alter the arrangement according to his desire. "But those who saw me are not alive any more, because some, as they say, were killed by the old lord, while you slew Rotgier." "The footmen who followed at a distance saw you, and the old Teuton is alive, and is surely now in Malborg, and if he is not there yet he will arrive, because the master, with God's permission, will summon him." He could not reply to that, they therefore rode on in silence to Spychow. They found there complete readiness for war, because old Tolima expected that either the Teutons would attack the small castle, or that Zbyszko, on his return, would lead them to the succor of the old lord. Guards were on watch everywhere, on the paths through the marshes and in the castle itself. The peasants were armed, and, as war was nothing new to them, they awaited the Germans with eagerness, promising themselves excellent booty. Father Kaleb received Zbyszko and de Lorche in the castle, and, immediately after supper, showed them the parchment with Jurand's seal, in which he had written with his own hand the last will of the knight of Spychow. "He dictated it to me," he said, "the night he went to Szczytno". And--he did not expect to return." "But why did you say nothing?" "I said nothing, because he admitted his intentions to me under the seal of confession." "May God give him eternal peace, and may the light of glory shine upon him...." "Do not say prayers for him. He is still alive. I know it from the Teuton Rotgier, with whom I had a combat at the prince's court. There was God's judgment between us and I killed him." "Then Jurand will undoubtedly not return ... unless with God's help!..." "I go with this knight to tear him from their hands." "Then you know not, it seems, Teutonic hands, but I know them, because, before Jurand took me to Spychow, I was priest for fifteen years in their country. God alone can save Jurand." "And He can help us too." "Amen!" He then unfolded the document and began to read. Jurand bequeathed all his estates and his entire possessions to Danusia and her offspring, but, in case of her death without issue, to her husband Zbyszko of Bogdaniec. He finally recommended his will to the prince's care; so that, in case it contained anything unlawful, the prince's grace might make it lawful. This clause was added because Father Kaleb knew only the canon law, and Jurand himself, engaged exclusively in war, only knew the knightly. After having read the document to Zbyszko, the priest read it to the officers of the Spychow garrison, who at once recognized the young knight as their lord, and promised obedience. They also thought that Zbyszko would soon lead them to the assistance of the old lord, and they were glad, because their hearts were fierce and anxious for war, and attached to Jurand. They were seized with grief when they heard that they would remain at home, and that the lord with a small following was going to Malborg, not to fight, but to formulate complaints. The Bohemian Glowacz, shared their grief, although on the other hand, he was glad on account of such a large increase of Zbyszko's wealth. "Hej! who would be delighted," he said, "if not the old lord of Bogdaniec! And he could govern here! What is Bogdaniec in comparison with such a possession!" But Zbyszko was suddenly seized with yearning for his uncle, as it frequently happened to him, especially in hard and difficult questions in life; therefore, turning to the warrior, he said on the impulse: "Why should you sit here in idleness! Go to Bogdaniec, you shall carry a letter for me." "If I am not to go with your honor, then I would rather go there!" replied the delighted squire. "Call Father Kaleb to write in a proper manner all that has happened here, and the letter will be read to my uncle by the priest of Krzesnia, or the abbot, if he is in Zgorzelice." But as he said this, he struck his moustache with his hand and added, as if to himself: "Bah! the abbot!..." And instantly Jagienka arose before his eyes, blue-eyed, dark-haired, tall and beautiful, with tears on her eyelashes! He became embarrassed and rubbed his forehead for a time, but finally he said: "You will feel sad, girl, but not worse than I." Meanwhile Father Kaleb arrived and immediately began to write. Zbyszko dictated to him at length everything that had happened from the moment he had arrived at the Forest Court. He did not conceal anything, because he knew that old Macko, when he had a clear view of the matter, would be glad in the end. Bogdaniec could not be compared with Spychow, which was a large and rich estate, and Zbyszko knew that Macko cared a great deal for such things. But when the letter, after great toil, was written and sealed, Zbyszko again called his squire, and handed him the letter, saying: "You will perhaps return with my uncle, which would delight me very much." But the Bohemian seemed to be embarrassed; he tarried, shifted from one foot to another, and did not depart, until the young knight remarked: "Have you anything to say yet, then do so." "I should like, your honor ..." replied the Bohemian, "I should like to inquire yet, what to tell the people?" "Which people?" "Not those in Bogdaniec, but in the neighborhood.... Because they will surely like to find out!" At that Zbyszko, who determined not to conceal anything, looked at him sharply and said: "You do not care for the people, but for Jagienka of Zgorzelice." And the Bohemian flushed, and then turned somewhat pale and replied: "For her, lord!" "And how do you know that she has not got married to Cztan of Rogow, or to Wilk of Brzozowa?" "The lady has not got married at all," firmly answered the warrior. "The abbot may have ordered her." "The abbot obeys the lady, not she him." "What do you wish then? Tell the truth to her as well as to all." The Bohemian bowed and left somewhat angry. "May God grant," he said to himself, thinking of Zbyszko, "that she may forget you. May God give her a better man than you are. But if she has not forgotten you, then I shall tell her that you are married, but without a wife, and that you may become a widower before you have entered the bedchamber." But the warrior was attached to Zbyszko and pitied Danusia, though he loved Jagienka above all in this world, and from the time before the last battle in Ciechanow, when he had heard of Zbyszko's marriage, he bore pain and bitterness in his heart. "That you may first become a widower!" he repeated. But then other, and apparently gentler, thoughts began to enter his head, because, while going down to the horses, he said: "God be blessed that I shall at least embrace her feet!" Meanwhile Zbyszko was impatient to start, because feverishness consumed him,--and the affairs of necessity that occupied his attention increased his tortures, thinking constantly of Danusia and Jurand. It was necessary, however, to remain in Spychow for one night at least, for the sake of de Lorche, and the preparations which such a long journey required. He was finally utterly worn out from the fight, watch, journey, sleeplessness and worry. Late in the evening, therefore, he threw himself upon Jurand's hard bed, in the hope of falling into a short sleep at least. But before he fell asleep, Sanderus knocked at his door, entered, and bowing, said: "Lord, you saved me from death, and I was well off with you, as scarcely ever before. God has given you now a large estate, so that you are wealthier than before, and moreover the Spychow treasury is not empty. Give me, lord, some kind of a moneybag, and I will go to Prussia, from castle to castle, and although it may not be very safe there, I may possibly do you some service." Zbyszko, who at the first moment had wished to throw him out of the room, reflected upon his words, and after a moment, pulled from his traveling bag near his bed, a fair-sized bag, threw it to him and said: "Take it, and go! If you are a rogue you will cheat, if honest--you will serve." "I shall cheat as a rogue, sir," said Sanderus, "but not you, and I will honestly serve you." Zygfried von Löve was just about to depart for Malborg when the postman unexpectedly brought him a letter from Rotgier with news from the Mazovian court. This news moved the old Knight of the Cross to the quick. First of all, it was obvious from the letter that Rotgier had perfectly conducted and represented the Jurand affair before Prince Janusz. Zygfried smiled on reading that Rotgier had further requested the prince to deliver up Spychow to the Order as a recompense for the wrong done. But the other part of the letter contained unexpected and less advantageous tidings. Rotgier further informed him that in order better to demonstrate the guiltlessness of the Order in the abduction of the Jurands, the gauntlet was thrown down to the Mazovian knights, challenging everybody who doubted, to God's judgment, i.e., to fight in the presence of the whole court. "None has taken it up," Rotgier continued, "because all saw that in his letter Jurand himself bears testimony for us, moreover they feared God's judgment, but a youth, the same we saw in the forest court, came forward and picked up the gauntlet. Do not wonder then, O pious and wise brother, for that is the cause of my delay in returning. Since I have challenged, I am obliged to stand. And since I have done it for the glory of the Order, I trust that neither the grand master nor you whom I honor and heartily love with filial affection will count it ill. The adversary is quite a child, and as you know, I am not a novice in fighting, it will then be an easy matter for me to shed his blood for the glory of the Order, especially with the help of Christ, who cares more for those who bear His cross than for a certain Jurand or for the wrong done to a Mazovian girl!" Zygfried was most surprised at the news that Jurand's daughter was a married woman. The thought that there was a possibility of a fresh menacing and revengeful enemy settling at Spychow inspired even the old count with alarm. "It is clear," he said to himself, "that he will not neglect to avenge himself, and much more so when he shall have received his wife and she tells him that we carried her off from the forest court! Yes, it would be at once evident that we brought Jurand here for the purpose of destroying him, and that nobody ever thought of restoring his daughter to him." At this thought it struck Zygfried that owing to the prince's letters, the grand master would most likely institute an investigation in Szczytno so that he might at least clear himself in the eyes of the prince, since it was important for the grand master and the chapter to have the Mazovian prince on their side in case of war with the powerful king of Poland. To disregard the strength of the prince in face of the multitude of the Mazovian nobility was not to be lightly undertaken. To be at peace with them fully insured the knights' frontiers and permitted them better to concentrate their strength. They had often spoken about it in the presence of Zygfried at Malborg, and often entertained the hope, that after having subdued the king, a pretext would be found later against the Mazovians and then no power could wrest that land from their hands. That was a great and sure calculation. It was therefore certain that the master would at present do everything to avoid irritating Prince Janusz, because that prince who was married to Kiejstut's daughter was more difficult to reconcile than Ziemowit of Plock, whose wife, for some unknown reason, was entirely devoted to the Order. In the face of these thoughts, old Zygfried, who was ready to commit all kinds of crimes, treachery and cruelty, only for the sake of the Order and its fame, began to calculate conscientiously: "Would it not be better to let Jurand and his daughter go? The crime and infamy weigh heavily on Danveld's name, and he is dead; even if the master should punish Rotgier and myself severely because we were the accomplices in Danveld's deeds, would it not be better for the Order?" But here his revengeful and cruel heart began to rebel at the thought of Jurand. To let him go, this oppressor and executioner of members of the Order, this conqueror in so many encounters, the cause of so many infamies, calamities and defeats, then the murderer of Danveld, the conqueror of von Bergow, the murderer of Meineger, Godfried and Hugue, he who even in Szczytno itself shed more German blood than one good fight in war. "No, I cannot! I cannot!" Zygfried repeated vehemently, and at this thought his rapacious fingers closed spasmodically, and the old lean breast heaved heavily. Still, if it were for the great benefit and glory of the Order? If the punishment should fall in that case upon the still living perpetrators of the crimes, Prince Janusz ought to be by this time reconciled with the foe and remove the difficulty by an arrangement, or even an alliance. "They are furious," further thought the old count; "but he ought to show them some kindness, it is easy to forget a grievance. Why, the prince himself in his own country was an abductor; then there is fear of revenge...." Then he began to pace in the hall in mental distraction, and then stopped in front of the Crucifix, opposite the entrance, which occupied almost the whole height of wall between the two windows, and kneeling at its feet he said: "Enlighten me, O Lord, teach me, for I know not! If I give up Jurand and his daughter then all our actions will be truly revealed, and the world will not say Danveld or Zygfried have done it but they will lay the blame upon the Knights of the Cross, and disgrace will fall upon the whole Order, and the hatred of that prince will be greater than ever. If I do not give them up but keep them or suppress the matter, then the Order will be suspected and I shall be obliged to pollute my mouth with lying before the grand master. Which is better, Lord? Teach and enlighten me. If I must endure vengeance, then ordain it according to Thy justice; but teach me now, enlighten me, for Thy religion is concerned, and whatever Thou commandest I will do, even if it should result in my imprisonment and even if I were awaiting death and deliverance in fetters." And resting his brow upon the wooden cross he prayed for a long time; it did not even for a moment cross his mind that it was a crooked and blasphemous prayer. Then he got up, calmed, thinking that the grace of the wooden cross sent him a righteous and enlightened thought, and that a voice from on high said to him: "Arise and wait for the return of Rotgier." "So! I must wait. Rotgier will undoubtedly kill the young man; it will then be necessary to hide Jurand and his daughter, or give them up. In the first instance, it is true, the prince will not forget them, but not being sure who abducted the girl he will search for her, he will send letters to the grand master, not accusing him but inquiring, and the affair will be greatly prolonged. In the second instance, the joy at the return of Jurand's daughter will be greater than the desire to avenge her abduction. Surely we can always say that we have found her after Jurand's outrage." The last thought entirely calmed Zygfried. As to Jurand himself there was no fear; for he and Rotgier had long before come to an understanding that in case Jurand were to be set free, he could neither avenge himself nor harm them. Zygfried was glad in his terrible heart. He rejoiced also at the thought of God's judgment which was to take place in the castle at Ciechanow. And as to the result of the mortal combat he was not in the least alarmed. He recollected a certain tournament in Königsberg when Rotgier overcame two powerful knights, who passed in their Andecave country as unconquerable fighters. He also remembered the combat near Wilno, with a certain Polish knight, the courtier Spytko of Melsztyn, whom Rotgier killed. And his face brightened, and his heart exulted, for when Rotgier to a certain extent was already a celebrated knight, he first had led an expedition to Lithuania and had taught him the best way to carry on a war with that tribe; for this reason he loved him like a son, with such deep love, that only those who must have strong affections locked up in their hearts are able to do. Now that "little son" will once more shed hated Polish blood, and return covered with glory. Well, it is God's judgment, and the Order will at the same time be cleared of suspicion. "God's judgment...." In the twinkling of an eye, a feeling akin to alarm oppressed his old heart. Behold, Rotgier must engage in mortal combat in defence of the innocence of the Order of the Knights of the Cross. Yet, they are guilty; he will therefore fight for that falsehood.... What then if misfortune happen? But in a moment it occurred to him again that this was impossible. Yes! Rotgier justly writes: "That by the help of Christ who cares more for those who bear the cross than for a certain Jurand or the wrong done to one Mazovian girl." Yes, Rotgier will return in three days, and return a conqueror. Thus the old Knight of the Cross calmed himself, but at the same time he wondered whether it would not be advisable to send Danusia to some out of the way, distant castle, from which in no possible manner the stratagems of the Mazovians could rescue her. But after hesitating for a moment he gave up that idea. To take overt action and accuse the Order, only Jurandowna's husband could do that. But he will perish by Rotgier's hand. After that, there will only be investigations, inquiries, correspondence, and accusations from the prince. But this very procedure will greatly retard the affair, and it will be confused and obscured, and it goes without saying, it will be infinitely delayed. "Before it comes to anything," said Zygfried to himself, "I shall die, and it may also be that Jurandowna will grow old in the prison of the Knights of the Cross. Nevertheless, I shall order that everything in the castle be prepared for defence, and at the same time to make ready for the road, because I do not exactly know what will be the result of the meeting with Rotgier: Therefore I shall wait." Meanwhile two of the three days, in which Rotgier had promised to return, passed by; then three and four, yet no retinue made its appearance at the gates of Szczytno. Only on the fifth day, well-nigh toward dark, the blast of the horn resounded in front of the bastion at the gate of the fortress. Zygfried, who was just finishing his vesper prayer, immediately dispatched a page to see who had arrived. After a while the page returned with a troubled face. This Zygfried did not observe on account of the darkness, for the fire in the stove was too far back to illuminate the room sufficiently. "Have they returned?" inquired the old Knight of the Cross. "Yes!" replied the page. But there was something in his voice which alarmed the old knight, and he said: "And Brother Rotgier?" "They have brought Brother Rotgier." Then Zygfried got up and for a long while he held on to the arm of the chair to prevent himself from falling, then in a stifled voice he said: "Give me the cloak." The page placed the cloak on his shoulders. He had apparently regained his strength, for he put on the cowl himself without assistance, then he went out. In a moment he found himself in the courtyard of the castle, where it was already quite dark; he walked slowly upon the cracking snow toward the retinue which was coming through the gate. He stopped near it where a crowd had already gathered, and several torches, which the soldiers of the guard brought, illuminated the scene. At the sight of the old knight the servants opened a way for him. By the light of the torches could be seen the terrified faces, and the whispering of the people could be heard in the dark background: "Brother Rotgier...." "Brother Rotgier has been killed...." Zygfried drew near the sleigh, upon which the corpse was stretched on straw and covered with a cloak; he lifted one end of it. "Bring a light," he said, whilst drawing aside the cowl. One of the servants brought a torch which he held toward the corpse and by its light the old knight observed the head of Rotgier; the face was white as if frozen and bandaged with a black kerchief fastened under the beard, evidently for the purpose of keeping the mouth closed. The whole face was drawn and so much altered that it might be mistaken for somebody else's. The eyes were closed, and around them and near the temples were blue patches, and the cheeks were scaly with frost. The old knight gazed at it for a long while amid complete silence. Others looked at him, for it was known that he was like a father to Rotgier, and that he loved him. But he did not shed even a single tear, only his face looked more severe than usual, but there was depicted in it a kind of torpid calm. "They sent him back thus!" he said at last. But he immediately turned toward the steward of the castle and said: "Let a coffin be prepared by midnight, and place the body in the chapel." "There is one coffin left of those which were made for those Jurand killed; it wants only to be covered with cloth, which I shall order to be done." "And cover him with a cloak," said Zygfried, whilst covering the face of Rotgier, "not with one like this but with one of the Order." After a while he added: "Do not close the lid." The people approached the sleigh. Zygfried again pulled the cowl over his head, but he recollected something before leaving, and he asked: "Where is van Krist?" "He also was killed," replied one of the servants, "but they were obliged to bury him in Ciechanow because putrefaction set in." "Very well." Then he left, walking slowly, entered the room and sat down upon the same chair where he was when the tidings reached him; his face was as if petrified and motionless and he sat there so long that the page began to be alarmed; he put his head halfway in the door now and then. Hour after hour passed by. The customary stir ceased within the castle, but from the direction of the chapel came a dull indistinct hammering; then nothing disturbed the silence but the calls of the watchmen. It was already about midnight when the old knight awoke as from sleep, and called the servant. "Where is Brother Rotgier?" he asked. But the servant, unnerved by the silence, events and sleeplessness, apparently did not understand him, but looked at him with fear and replied in a trembling voice: "I do not know, sir...." The old man burst out into laughter and said mildly: "Child, I asked whether he is already in the chapel." "Yes, sir." "Very well then. Tell Diedrich to come here with a lantern and wait until my return; let him also have a small kettle of coals. Is there already a light in the chapel?" "There are candles burning about the coffin." Zygfried put on his cloak and left. When he entered the chapel, he looked around to see whether anybody else was present; then he closed the door carefully, approached the coffin, put aside two of the six candles burning in large brazen candlesticks in front of him, and knelt down before it. As his lips did not move, it showed that he was not praying. For some time he only looked at the drawn yet still handsome face of Rotgier as though he were trying to discover in it traces of life. Then amid the dead silence in the chapel he began to call in suppressed tones: "Dear little son! Dear little son!" Then he remained silent; it seemed as though he were expecting an answer. Then he stretched out his hand and pushed his emaciated talon-like fingers under the cloak, uncovered Rotgier's breast and began to feel about it, looking everywhere at the middle and sides below the ribs and along the shoulder-blades: at last he touched the rent in the clothing which extended from the top of the right shoulder down to the armpit, his fingers penetrated and felt along the whole length of the wound, then he cried with a loud voice which sounded like a complaint: "Oh!... What merciless thing is this!... Yet thou saidst that fellow was quite a child!... The whole arm! The whole arm? So many times thou hast raised it against the Pagans in defence of the Order.... In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost. Thou foughtest falsely, and so succumbed in a false cause; be absolved and may thy soul...." The words were cut short on his lips which began to tremble, and deep silence reigned once more in the chapel. "Dear little son! Dear little son!" Now there was something like a petition in Zygfried's voice, and at the same time it seemed as he lowered his voice as though his petition contained some important and terrible secret. "Merciful Christ!... If thou art not condemned, give a sign, move thy hand, or give one twitch of the eye, for my old heart is groaning within my breast.... Give a sign, I loved thee, say one word!..." And supporting himself with his hands upon the edge of the coffin, he fastened his vulture-like eyes upon the closed eyelids of Rotgier and waited. "Bah! How couldst thou speak?" said he, at last, "when frost and evil odor emanate from thee. But as thou art silent, then I will tell thee something, and let thy soul, flying about here among the flaming candles, listen!" Then he bent down to the face of the corpse. "Dost thou remember how the chaplain would not permit us to kill Jurand and how we took an oath. Well, I will keep that oath, but I will cause thee to rejoice wherever thou art, even at the cost of my own damnation." Then he retreated from the coffin, replaced the candlesticks, covered the corpse with the cloak, and left the chapel. At the door of the room, overpowered with deep sleep, slept the servant, and according to Zygfried's orders Diedrich was already waiting inside. He was of low stature thickly set, with bowed legs and a square face which was concealed by a dark cowl falling to his arm. He was dressed in an untanned buffalo jacket, also a buffalo belt upon his hips from which was hanging a bunch of keys and a short knife. In his right hand he held a membrane-covered lantern; in the other, a small kettle and a torch. "Are you ready?" inquired Zygfried. Diedrich bowed silently. "I gave orders for you to bring with you a kettle with coal in it." The short fellow was still silent; he only pointed to the burning wood in the fireplace and took the iron shovel standing at the fireside, and filled the kettle with the burning coal, then he lit the lantern and waited. "Now listen, dog," said Zygfried; "you have never revealed what Count Danveld commanded you to do; the count also ordered the cutting out of your tongue. But you can still motion to the chaplain with your fingers. I therefore forewarn you, if you show him even with the slightest motion of your hand what you are to do now by my command, I shall order you to be hanged." Diedrich again bowed in silence, but his face was drawn on account of the terrible, ominous recollection; for his tongue was torn out for quite another reason than what Zygfried said. "Now proceed, and lead to the underground cell where Jurand is." The executioner grasped the handle of the kettle with his gigantic hand, picked up the lantern and then left. At the door they passed by the guard who was asleep, descended the stairs, and turned, not toward the principal entrance, but directed their steps to the small corridor in the rear of the stairs, extending through the whole width of the edifice, and terminating in a heavy iron door which was concealed in a niche in the wall. Diedrich opened it and they found themselves again in the open air in a small courtyard surrounded on its four sides by high walled granaries where they kept their stores in case the castle should be besieged. Underneath one of these stores, on the right, was an underground prison. There was not a single guard standing there, because even if a prisoner should succeed in breaking through from the underground prison, he would then find himself in the courtyard which only gave exit through the door in the niche. "Wait," said Zygfried, and leaning against the wall, he rested, for he felt that something was the matter with him; he was short of breath, as though his breast was too much tightened under the straight coat of mail. In plain terms, considering what had happened, he felt his old age, and his brow under the cowl was covered with drops of perspiration; he therefore stopped for a moment to recover breath. The night following the gloomy day became extraordinarily clear and the little courtyard was brightly illuminated by the rays of the moon which caused the snow to glisten with a yellowish tint. Zygfried inhaled with pleasure the cool invigorating air, but he forgot that on a similar bright night Rotgier left for Ciechanow whence he did not return alive. "And now thou liest in the chapel," he murmured to himself. Diedrich thought that the count was talking to him; he therefore lifted up his lantern and threw its light upon his face which had a terrible and cadaverous appearance, but at the same time it looked like the head of an old vulture. "Lead on," said Zygfried. Diedrich lowered the lantern again which cast upon the snow a yellow circle of light and they proceeded. In the thick wall of the storehouse there was a recess in which several steps led to a large iron door. Diedrich opened it and went down the stairs in the deep dark aperture, raising the lantern so as to show the way to the count. At the end of the stairs there was a corridor in which, to the right and left, were exceedingly low doors leading to the cells of the prisoners. "To Jurand!" said Zygfried. And in a moment the bars creaked and they entered, but there was perfect darkness in the cell. But Zygfried, who could not see well in the dim light from the lantern, ordered the torch to be lighted, and in a moment he was enabled by its bright light to see Jurand lying on the straw. The prisoner's feet were fettered, but the chains on the hands were somewhat longer so as to enable him to carry food to his mouth. Upon his body was the same coarse sackcloth which he had on when he was arraigned before the court, but now it was covered with dark blood-stains, because, that day when the fight ended, only when maddened with pain the frantic knight was entangled in the net, the soldiers then tried to kill him, struck him with their halberds and inflicted upon him numerous wounds. The chaplain interfered and Jurand was not killed outright, but he lost so much blood that he was carried to prison half dead. In the castle they expected his death hourly. But owing to his immense strength he prevailed over death, although they did not attend to his wounds, and he was cast into the terrible subterranean prison, in which during the daytime when it thawed drops fell from the roof, but when there was frost the walls were thickly covered with snow and icicles. On the ground on the straw lay the powerless man in chains, but he looked like a piece of flint shaped in human form. Zygfried commanded Diedrich to throw the light directly upon Jurand's face, then he gazed at it for a while in silence. Then he turned to Diedrich and said: "Observe, he has only one eye--destroy it." There was something in his voice like sickness and decrepitude, and for that very reason, the horrible order sounded more terrible, so that the torch began somewhat to tremble in the hand of the executioner. Yet he inclined it toward Jurand's face, and in a moment big drops of burning tar began to fall upon the eye of Jurand, covering it entirely from the brow down to the projecting cheek bone. Jurand's face twitched, his grey mustachios moved, but he did not utter a single word of complaint. Whether it was from exhaustion, or the grand fortitude of his terrible nature, he did not even groan. Zygfried said: "It has been promised that you shall be freed, and you shall be, but you shall not be able to accuse the Order, for your tongue, which you might use against it, shall be torn out." Then he again signaled to the executioner who replied with a strange guttural sound and showed by signs that for this he roust employ both hands, and therefore wanted the count to hold the light. Then the old count took the torch and held it in his outstretched, trembling hand, but when Diedrich pressed Jurand's chest with his knees Zygfried turned his head and looked at the hoarfrost covered wall. For a while resounded the clank of the chains, followed by the suppressed panting of a human breast which sounded like one dull, deep groan--and then all was still. Finally Zygfried said: "Jurand, the punishment which you have suffered you have deserved; but I have promised to Brother Rotgier, whom your son-in-law has killed, to place your right hand in his coffin." Diedrich, who had just got up from his last deed, bent again upon the prostrate form of Jurand, when he heard Zygfried's words. After a little while, the old count and Diedrich found themselves again in that open courtyard which was illuminated by the bright moon. When they reëntered the corridor, Zygfried took the lantern from Diedrich, also a dark object wrapped up in a rag, and said to himself in a loud voice, "Now to the chapel and then to the tower." Diedrich looked keenly at the count, but the count commanded him to go to sleep; he covered himself, hanging the lantern near the lighted window of the chapel and left. On his way he meditated upon what had just taken place. He was almost sure that his own end had also arrived and that these were his last deeds in this world, and that he would have to account for them before God. But his soul, the soul of a "Knight of the Cross," although naturally more cruel than mendacious, had in the course of inexorable necessity got accustomed to fraud, assassination and concealing the sanguinary deeds of the Order, he now involuntarily sought to cast off the ignominy and responsibility for Jurand's tortures, from both himself and the Order. Diedrich was dumb and could not confess, and, although he could make himself understood with the chaplain, he would be afraid to do so. What then? Nobody would know. Jurand might well have received all his wounds during the fight. He might have easily lost his tongue by the thrust of a lance between his teeth. An axe or a sword might have easily cut off his right hand. He had only one eye; would it be strange therefore that the other eye was lost in the fracas, for he threw himself madly upon the whole garrison of Szczytno. Alas! Jurand! His last joy in life trembled for a moment in the heart of the old Knight of the Cross. So, should Jurand survive, he ought to be set free. At this, Zygfried remembered a conversation he had had once with Rotgier about this, when that young brother laughingly remarked: "Then let him go where _his eyes will carry him_, and if he does not happen to strike Spychow, then let him _make inquiries_ on the road." For that which had now happened was a part of the prearranged programme between them. But now Zygfried reentered the chapel and, kneeling in front of the coffin, he laid at Rotgier's feet Jurand's bleeding hand; that last joy which startled him was only for a moment and quickly disappeared, for the last time, from his face. "You see," he said, "I have done more than we agreed to do. For King John of Luxemburg, although he was blind, kept on fighting and perished gloriously. But Jurand can stand no more and will perish like a dog behind the fence." At this he again felt that shortness of breath that had seized him on his way to Jurand, also a weight on his head as of a heavy iron helmet, but this only lasted a second. Then he drew a deep breath and said: "Ah! My time has also come. You were the only one I had; but now I have none. But if I lived longer, I vow to you, O little son, that I would also place upon your grave that hand which killed you, or perish myself. The murderer who killed you is still alive...." Here his teeth clinched and such an intense cramp seized him that he could not speak for some time. Then he began again, but in a broken voice: "Yes, your murderer still lives, but I will cut him to pieces ... and others with him, and I will inflict upon them tortures even worse than death itself...." Then he ceased. In a moment he rose again and approaching the coffin, he began to speak in quiet tones, "Now I take leave of you ... and look into your face for the last time; perhaps I shall be able to see in your face whether you are pleased with my promises.... The last time." Then he uncovered Rotgier's face, but suddenly he retreated. "You are smiling, ..." he said, "but you are smiling terribly...." In fact, the frozen corpse, which was covered with the mantle, had thawed. It may be from the heat of the burning candles, it had begun to decompose with extraordinary rapidity, and the face of the young count looked indeed terrible. The enormously swollen, and livid mouth looked something monstrous, the blue and swollen curled lips had the appearance of a grinning smile. Zygfried covered that terrible human mask as quickly as possible. Then he took the lantern and left the chapel. Here again, for the third time, he felt shortness of breath; he entered the house and threw himself upon his hard bed of the Order and lay for a time motionless. He thought he would fall asleep, when suddenly a strange feeling overpowered him; it seemed to him that he would never again be able to sleep, and that if he remained in that house death would soon follow. Zygfried, in his extreme weariness, and without hope of sleep, was not afraid of death; on the contrary he regarded it as an exceedingly great relief. But he had no wish to submit himself to it that evening. So he sat up in his bed and cried: "Give me time till to-morrow." Then he distinctly heard a voice whispering in his ear: "Leave this house. It will be too late to-morrow and you will not be able to accomplish your promise. Leave this house!" The count got up with difficulty and went out. The guards were calling to one another from the bastions upon the palisades. The light emanating from the windows of the chapel illuminated the snow in front with a yellow gleam. In the middle of the court near the stone wall were two black dogs playing and tugging at a black rag. Beyond this the courtyard was empty and silent. "It is yet necessary this night!" said Zygfried. "I am exceedingly tired, but I must go.... All are asleep. Jurand, overcome by torture, might also be asleep. I only am unable to sleep. I will go. I will go, for there is death within, and I have promised you.... Let death come afterward; sleep will not come. You are smiling there, but my strength is failing me. You are smiling, you are apparently glad. But you see that my fingers are benumbed, my hands have lost their strength, and I cannot accomplish it by myself ... the servant with whom she sleeps will accomplish it...." Then he moved on with heavy steps toward the tower situated near the gate. Meanwhile the dogs which were playing near the stone wall came running up and began to fawn upon him. In one of them Zygfried recognized the bulldog which was so much attached to Diedrich that it was said in the castle that it served him as a pillow at night. The dog greeted the count, it barked low once or twice; and then returned toward the gate acting as though it had divined his thoughts. After a while Zygfried found himself in front of the narrow little doors of the tower, which at night were barred on the outside. Removing the bars, he felt for the balustrade of the stairs which commenced quite near the doors and began to ascend. In his absentmindedness he forgot the lantern; he therefore went up gropingly, stepping carefully and feeling with his feet for the steps. Having advanced a few steps, he suddenly halted, when below quite near him he heard something like the breathing of a man, or beast. "Who is there?" But there was no answer, only the breathing grew quicker. Zygfried was not a timid man; he was not afraid of death. But the preceding terrible night had quite exhausted his courage and self-control. It crossed his mind that Rotgier or the evil spirit was barring his way, and his hair stood up on his head and his brow was covered with cold sweat. He retreated to the very entrance. "Who is there?" he asked, with a choked voice. But at that moment something struck him a powerful blow on his chest, so terrible that the old man fell through the door upon his back and swooned. He did not even groan. Silence followed, after which there could be seen a dark form, stealthily issuing from the tower and making off toward the stable which was situated on the left side of the courtyard near the arsenal. Diedrich's big bulldog followed that figure silently. The other dog also ran after him and disappeared in the shadow of the wall, but shortly appeared again with its head to the ground, scenting as it were the trail of the other dog. In this manner the dog approached the prostrate and lifeless body of Zygfried, which it smelled carefully, then crouched near the head of the prostrate man and began to howl. The howling continued for a long while, filling the air of that sombre night with a new kind of dolefulness and horror. Finally the small door concealed in the middle of the gate creaked and a guard armed with a halberd appeared in the courtyard. "Death upon that dog," he said, "I'll teach you to howl during the night." And he aimed the sharp end of the halberd so as to hit the animal with it, but at that moment he observed something lying near the little open door of the bastion. "Lord Jesus! what is that?..." He bent his head so as to look in the face of the prostrate man, and began to shout: "Help! Help! Help!" Then he rushed to the gate and pulled with all his strength at the bell-rope. END OF PART FIFTH. PART SIXTH. CHAPTER I. Although Glowacz was somewhat anxious to hasten to Zgorzelice, he could not make the progress he wished, because the road was exceedingly bad. A general thaw had followed the severe winter, keen frost, and immense snowdrifts which covered whole villages. Luty (February), in spite of its name,[110] by no means showed itself formidable. First there were thick, continuous fogs, succeeded by torrential rains, which melted the white snowdrifts before one's eyes; and in the intervals there were very high winds as is usual in the month of March; then the tempestuous clouds were suddenly torn asunder by the wind which now drove them together, and now scattered them, whilst on the earth the wind howled in the thickets, whistled in the forests and dispersed the snow beneath which only a short time before the boughs and trunks had slept their silent, wintry sleep. The woods assumed a dark color. The meadows were inundated with broad sheets of water. The rivers and streams overflowed. Only the fishermen were glad at the abundance of the watery element, but the rest of humanity were confined as within a prison, sheltering themselves within their houses and huts. In many places communication between village and village could only be effected by means of boats. There was no lack of dams, dykes and roads through the forests and swamps, constructed of trunks, of trees and logs, but now the dykes became soft and the stumps in the low, wet places endangered travel, or the roads were rendered altogether impracticable. The most difficult part for the Bohemian to traverse was the lake-land region of Wielkopolska, where every spring the thaw was greater than in any other part of Poland. Consequently the road was specially difficult for horses. He was therefore obliged to wait whole weeks, sometimes in small towns, sometimes in villages and farms, where he and his men were hospitably received, according to custom, by the people, who were willing listeners to the tale of the "Knights of the Cross," and paid for it with bread and salt. For this reason spring was already far advanced, and the greater part of March had already passed before he found himself in the neighborhood of Zgorzelice and Bogdaniec. He longed to see his mistress as soon as possible, although he knew that he could never gain her, even as he could not gain the stars of heaven; nevertheless he adored and loved her with his whole soul. Yet he resolved first to go and see Macko; first, because he was sent to him; secondly, because he was bringing men with him who were to be left at Bogdanice. Zbyszko, having killed Rotgier, according to established rules, became the owner of his following, which consisted of ten men and as many horses. Two of them had been sent back with the body of Rotgier to Szczytno. Knowing how anxious his uncle was to obtain colonists, he sent the remaining eight men by Glowacz as a present to old Macko. The Bohemian, on his arrival at Bogdaniec, did not find Macko at home; he was informed that Macko had gone with his dogs and crossbow to the forest; but he returned the same day, and having heard that an important retinue was waiting for him, he hastened to salute the guests and offer them hospitality. He did not recognize Glowacz at first, but when he gave his name, Macko was greatly agitated, and throwing down his hat and crossbow he cried: "For God's sake! tell me, have they killed him? Tell what you know." "They have not killed him," replied the Bohemian. "He is enjoying good health." On hearing this, Macko was somewhat ashamed of himself, and began to puff; at last he drew a deep breath. "Praised be the Lord Christ," he said. "Where is he now?" "He left for Malborg and sent me here with news." "And why did he go to Malborg?" "To fetch his wife." "Be careful, boy, in the name of God what wife did he go for?" "For Jurand's daughter. There is much to be told about it, enough for a whole night, but, honored sir, allow me to rest a little, for I have been constantly traveling since midnight." Macko ceased questioning for a little while, for his great surprise deprived him of speech. When he had somewhat recovered, he shouted to the servant to throw some wood on the fire and bring food for the Bohemian; then he began to pace up and down, gesticulating and talking to himself: "I cannot believe mine own ears.... Jurand's daughter.... Zbyszko married...." "He is married and not married," said the Bohemian. Then he began slowly to relate what had happened, while Macko listened eagerly, only interrupting with questions when what the Bohemian related was not quite clear to him. For instance, Glowacz could not give the exact time when Zbyszko had got married, as there had been no public marriage. Nevertheless he affirmed that that marriage had surely taken place, and that it had come to pass owing to the instigation of Princess Anna Danuta, and had been made public only after the arrival of the Knight of the Cross, Rotgier, when Zbyszko had challenged him to the judgment of God, in the presence of the entire Mazovian court. "Ah! He fought?" Macko exclaimed, his eyes sparkling with intense curiosity. "What followed?" "He cut the German in two, and God also made me happy by delivering the armor-bearer into my hands." Macko again began to puff, but this time with an air of satisfaction. "Well!" he said. "He is a fellow not to be trifled with. He is the last of the Gradys, but so help me God, not the least. He was that already in the fight with the Fryzjans ... when he was a mere stripling...." Here he glanced sharply once and again at the Bohemian, then he continued: "And so you tried to imitate him, and it seems you tell the truth. I doubted your words, but, as you yourself say, you had little work with the armor-bearer. But if he chopped off the arm of that dog-brother after killing the Aurochs, those are valiant deeds." Then he suddenly asked: "Is there rich spoil?" "We have taken the arms, horses and ten men, eight of whom, the young lord sends you." "What has he done with the other two?" "He sent them back with the corpse." "Why did not the prince send two of his own servants? Those two will not return." The Bohemian smiled at Macko's greed which often betrayed him. "The young lord need not consider such trifles now," he said, "Spychow is a large estate." "It is a large estate; what of it, it is not yet his." "Then whose is it?" Macko rose from his seat. "Speak! and Jurand?" "Jurand is a prisoner, and dying, in the hands of the Knights of the Cross. God knows whether he will survive, and even if he survives and returns, what of it? Did not Father Caleb read Jurand's testament, announcing to all that the young lord is to be their master?" The last words obviously made a great impression upon Macko; because he was too much amazed to thoroughly grasp the news. That Zbyszko had got married was painful to him at the first moment, for he loved Jagienka with a fatherly love, and heartily wished to see Zbyszko united to her. But, on the other hand, he had already grown accustomed to regard the affair as lost; moreover Jurandowna brought with her so much that Jagienka could never bring; the prince's favor, and being an only daughter her dower was many times greater. Macko already saw Zbyszko, as the prince's friend, the master of Bogdaniec and of Spychow; nay, in the near future, a castellan. That was not at all unlikely. For it was told in those days of a certain poor nobleman who had twelve sons, six fell in battle and the other six became castellans and were advancing toward greatness; only a reputation could assist Zbyszko in this career, so that Macko's ambition and greed for a pedigree might be realized according to his wishes. The old man, however, had much cause for alarm. He, himself, had once gone to the Knights of the Cross, to save Zbyszko and brought back with him an iron splinter between the ribs; now Zbyszko had gone to Malborg, into the very throat of the wolf. Was it to get his wife there or death? They would not look upon him there with a favorable eye, thought Macko. He had just destroyed one of their famous knights and before that he had killed Lichtenstein. Those dog-blooded men loved vengeance. That thought made the old knight very uneasy. It also occurred to him that Zbyszko, being quick tempered, would engage in a fight with some German; or what he most feared was that they would kidnap him as they had old Jurand and his daughter. At Zlotorja they did not scruple to kidnap even the prince himself. Why then should they be scrupulous with Zbyszko? Then he asked himself what would happen if the youngster should escape the knights, but not find his wife? This thought pleased him, because even if Zbyszko should not recover her, he would still be the owner of Spychow, but that pleasure only lasted for a moment. For while the old man was much concerned about the property, yet Zbyszko's offspring interested him quite as much. If Danusia were to be lost, like a stone in the water and nobody knew whether she were alive or dead, Zbyszko could not marry another, and then there would be no heir to the Gradys of Bogdaniec. Ah! It would be quite another thing if he were married to Jagienka!... Moczydoly was not to be scorned; it was spacious and well stocked. Such a girl, like an apple-tree in the orchard, would bring forth every year without fail. Thus Macko's regret was greater than his joy at the prospect of the possession of the new estate. His regret and agitation caused him to renew his questions, and he again inquired of the Bohemian how and when the marriage had taken place. But the Bohemian replied: "I have told you already, honored sir, that I do not know when it happened, and what I conjecture I cannot confirm with an oath." "What do you conjecture?" "I have never left my young master and we slept together. On one evening only, he ordered me to leave him when I saw them all visit him: the princess accompanied by the lady Jurandowna, (Danusia,) Lord de Lorche and Father Wyszoniek. I was even surprised to see the young lady with a wreath on her head; but I thought they had come to administer the sacrament to my master.... It may be that the marriage took place then.... I recollect that the master commanded me to attire myself as for a wedding ceremony, but then I also thought that that was to receive the eucharist." "And after that, did they remain by themselves?" "They did not remain alone; and even if they had remained by themselves the master was then so feeble that he could not even eat without assistance. And there were already people sent by Jurand waiting for the young lady, and she left the following morning...." "Then Zbyszko has not seen her since?" "No human eye has seen her." Then silence reigned for a while. "What do you think?" asked Macko, presently. "Will the Knights of the Cross give her up, or not?" The Bohemian shook his head, then he waved his hand discouragingly. "I think," he said, slowly, "she is lost forever." "Why?" asked Macko in terror. "Because, when they said they had her there was yet hope, one could yet contend with them, either to ransom her, or take her from them by force. 'But,' they said, 'we had a girl retaken from robbers and we notified Jurand; he did not recognize her, and he killed of our people, in our very presence, more than fall in one good fight in war.'" "Then they showed Jurand some other girl." "So it is said. God knows the truth. It may not be true, and it may be that they showed him some other girl. But it is a fact that he killed people, and the Knights of the Cross are ready to swear that they never abducted Panna Jurandowna, and that is an exceedingly difficult affair. Even should the grand master order an investigation, they would reply that she was not in their hands; especially since the courtiers of Ciechanow spoke of Jurand's letter in which he said that she was not with the Knights of the Cross." "It may be she is not with them." "I beg your pardon, sir!... If they had recaptured her from the robbers, it would have been for no other motive than for ransom. The robbers, before that happened could neither write a letter nor imitate the signature of the lord of Spychow, nor send an honorable messenger." "That is true; but what do the Knights of the Cross want her for?" "Revenge on Jurand's race. They prefer vengeance to mead and wine; and if they want a pretext, they have one. The lord of Spychow was terrible to them, and his last deed completely finished them.... My master, I also heard, had lifted up his hand against Lichtenstein; he killed Rotgier.... God helped me, too, to shatter that dog-brother's arm. Wait, I pray, let us consider. There were four of them to be exterminated; now hardly one is alive, and that one is an old man, and your grace must bear in mind that we yet have our teeth." There was again silence for a moment. "You are a discreet armor-bearer," said Macko, at last; "but what do you think they are going to do with her?" "Prince Witold, they say, is a powerful prince, even the German emperor bows to him; and what did they do to his children? Have they but few castles? Few underground prisons? Few wells? Few ropes and halters for the neck?" "For the living God's sake!" exclaimed Macko. "God grant that they may not also detain the young lord, although he went there with a letter from the prince, and accompanied by de Lorche who is a powerful lord and related to the prince. Ah, I did not want to set out for this place. But he commanded me to go. I heard him once say to the old lord of Spychow: 'It is to be regretted that you are not cunning, for I shall get nothing by craft, and with them that is a necessary thing. O Uncle Macko! he would be useful here;' and for that reason he dispatched me. But as for Jurandowna, even you, sir, will not find her, for probably she is already in the other world, and where death is concerned, even the greatest cunning cannot prevail." Macko was absorbed in thought for a long while, after which he said: "Ha! Then there is no counsel. Cunning cannot prevail against death. But if I were to go there and only get assurance that she has been removed, then in that case Spychow as well as Zbyszko remain. He will be able to return here and marry another maiden." Here Macko breathed freely, as though a burden were removed from his heart, and Glowacz asked in a bashful, subdued voice: "Do you mean the young lady of Zgorzelice?" "Well!" replied Macko, "especially as she is an orphan, and Cztan of Rogow and Wilk of Brzozowa continually press their court to her." At that the Bohemian straightened himself up. "Is the young lady an orphan?... The knight Zych?..." "Then you do not know." "For the love of God! What has happened?" "Well you are right. How could you know, since you have just arrived; and our only conversation has been about Zbyszko. She is an orphan. Unless he had guests, Zych of Zgorzelice never remained at home; otherwise he avoided Zgorzelice. He wrote about you to his abbot that he was going to visit Prince Przemka of Oswiecemia and ask him to give you to him. Zych did it because he was well acquainted with the prince and they have often frolicked together. Consequently Zych called upon me and said as follows: 'I am going to Oswiecemia, then to Glewic; keep your eye on Zgorzelice.' I at once suspected something wrong and said: 'Don't go! I will keep good watch over Jagienka and the estate,' for I know that Cztan and Wilk intend to do you some wrong, and you ought to know that the abbot out of spite against Zbyszko, preferred Cztan or Wilk for the girl. But he subsequently learned to know them better and rejected both of them, and turned them out of Zgorzelice; but not effectually, for they obstinately persisted. Now they have quieted down for a while, for they have wounded each other and are laid up, but before that occurred there was not a moment of security. Everything is upon my head, protection and guardianship. Now Zbyszko wishes me to come.... What will happen here to Jagienka--I don't know, but now I will tell you about Zych; he did not follow my advice--he went. Well, they feasted and frolicked together. From Glewic they went to see old Nosak, Prince Przemka's father, who rules in Cieszyn; till Jasko, the prince of Racibor, out of hatred for Prince Przemka, set upon them the robber band under the leadership of the Bohemian Chrzan; Prince Przemka and Zych of Zgorzelice perished in the affray. The robbers stunned the abbot with an iron flail, so that even now his head shakes and he knows nothing of what is going on in the world and has lost his speech, God help him, forever! Now old Prince Nosak bought Chrzan from the owner of Zampach, and tortured him so much that even the oldest inhabitants never heard of such cruelty,--but the cruelty did not lessen the sorrow of the old man for his son; neither did it resuscitate Zych, nor wipe away the tears of Jagienka. This is the result of the frolic.... Six weeks ago they brought Zych here and buried him." "Such a hard master!..." sorrowfully said the Bohemian. "Under Boleslaw I was comfortably situated when he took me into captivity. But such was the captivity that I would not have exchanged it for freedom.... He was a good and worthy master! May God grant him eternal glory. Ah, I am very sorry! But I must grieve for the helpless young lady." "Because the poor thing is a good girl, she loved her father more than a man loves his mother. Then too she is not safe in Zgorzelice. After the funeral, scarcely had the snow covered Zych's grave, when Cztan and Wilk stepped into the mansion of Zgorzelice. My people were informed of it beforehand. Then I, with the farm hands went to the rescue; we arrived in good time and with God's help we gave them a good thrashing. Immediately after the fight, the girl fell on her knees and begged me to save her. 'If I cannot belong to Zbyszko,' she said, 'I will belong to nobody else; only save me from those torturers, I prefer death to them....' I tell you that I made a real castle out of Zgorzelice. After that, they appeared twice on the premises, but believe me, they could not succeed. Now there will be peace for some time, for as I told you: they hurt each other badly, so much so, that neither is able to move head or foot." Glowacz made no observation upon this, but when he heard of the conduct of Cztan and Wilk, he began to gnash his teeth so loudly, that it sounded like the creaking caused by the opening and closing of a door, then he began to rub his strong hands upon his thighs as though they were itching. Finally, he uttered with difficulty only one word: "Villains!" But at that moment, a voice was heard in the entrance-hall, the door suddenly opened and Jagienka rushed into the house, and with her was Jasko, her oldest brother, who was fourteen years old and looked as like her, as though they were twins. She had heard from some peasants at Zgorzelice, that they had seen the Bohemian Hlawa, at the head of some people, journeying to Bogdaniec, and like Macko, she also was terrified, and when they informed her that Zbyszko was not among them she was almost sure that some misfortune had happened. She therefore lost no time and hastened to Bogdaniec to ascertain the truth. "What has happened?... For God's sake tell me," she shouted, when yet upon the threshold. "What should happen?" replied Macko. "Zbyszko is alive and well." The Bohemian hastened toward the young lady, knelt upon one knee and kissed the hem of her dress, but she paid no attention to it; only when she heard the reply of the old knight she turned her head from the fireplace to the darker side of the room, and only after a while, as if having forgotten that it was necessary to salute the Bohemian, she said: "The name of Jesus Christ be praised!" "Forever and ever," replied Macko. Then she observed the kneeling Bohemian at her feet and bent toward him. "From my soul I am glad to see you, Hlawa, but why did you leave your master behind?" "He sent me away, most gracious lady." "What were his orders?" "He ordered me to go to Bogdaniec." "To Bogdaniec?... What else?" "He sent me to get counsel.... He also sends his compliments and good wishes." "To Bogdaniec? Very well, then. But where is he himself?" "He left for Malborg, and is now among the Knights of the Cross." Jagienka's face again assumed an expression of alarm. "Why, is he tired of life?" "He is in quest, gracious lady, of that which he will not be able to find." "I believe he will not find it," interrupted Macko. "Just as one cannot drive a nail without a hammer, so are man's wishes without the will of God." "What are you talking about?" cried Jagienka. But Macko replied with another query. "Did he say to you that Zbyszko went for Jurandowna? It seems to me that he did." Jagienka at first did not reply, and only after awhile, catching her breath, she replied: "Ay! He said! But what hindered him telling?" "Well, then, now I can talk freely." And he began to tell to her all that he had heard from the Bohemian. He wondered at himself why his words came haltingly and with difficulty, but being a clever man, he tried to avoid any expression that might irritate Jagienka, and he dwelt strongly upon what he himself believed, that Zbyszko was never the husband of Danusia in reality and that she was already lost to him forever. The Bohemian confirmed Macko's words now and then, sometimes by nodding his head in approval, sometimes repeating "By God, true, as I live," or: "It is so, not otherwise!" The young lady listened, with eyelashes lowered till they touched her cheeks; she asked no more questions, and was so quiet that her silence alarmed Macko. "Now, what do you say to that?" he enquired when he had ended. But she did not reply, only two tears glistened between her eyelids and rolled down her cheeks. After a while she approached Macko, and kissing his hand, said: "The Lord be praised." "Forever and ever," replied Macko. "Are you so much needed at home? Better stay with us." But she refused to remain, giving as a reason that she had not given out the provisions for supper. But Macko, although he knew that there was the old lady, Sieciechowa, at Zgorzelice, who could easily fulfil Jagienka's duties, did not persuade her to remain, for he knew that sorrow does not like the light on human tears, and that a man is like a fish, when it feels the penetrating harpoon in its body it sinks to the depths. Then he only regarded her as a girl, so he led her and the Bohemian into the courtyard. But the Bohemian brought the horse from the stable, harnessed him, and departed with the young lady. But Macko returned to the house, shook his head, and murmured: "What a fool that Zbyszko is?... Why, her presence seems to have filled the whole house with perfume." The old man lamented to himself. "Had Zbyszko taken her immediately after he returned, by this time there might have been joy and delight! But what of it now? If they should speak of him her eyes would immediately be filled with tears of longing, and the fellow is roaming about the world and may break the head of some of the knights at Malborg, provided they do not break his; and now the house is empty, only the arms on the wall glitter. There is some benefit in husbandry. Running about is nothing, Spychow and Bogdaniec are nothing. Very soon none will remain to whom they might be left." Here Macko became angry. "Wait, you tramp," he exclaimed, "I will not go with you, you may do as you like!" But at that very moment he was seized with an exceeding yearning after Zbyszko. "Bah! shall I not go," he thought. "Shall I remain at home? God forbid!... I wish to see that rascal once more. It must be so. He will again fight one of those dog-brothers--and take spoil. Others grow old before they receive the belt of knighthood, but he already has received the belt from the prince.... And rightly so. There are many valorous youths among the nobility; but not another like him." His tender feelings entirely subdued him. First he began to look at the arms, swords and axes which had become blackened by the smoke, as though considering which to take with him, and which to leave behind; then he left the house; first, because he could not stay there; secondly, to give orders to prepare the carriage and give the horses double provender. In the courtyard where it was already beginning to grow dark, he remembered Jagienka, who only a moment ago sat here on horseback, and he again became uneasy. "I must go," he said to himself, "but who is going to protect the girl against Cztan and Wilk. May thunder strike them." But Jagienka was on the road with her little brother, Jasko, crossing the woods leading to Zgorzelice, and the Bohemian accompanied them in silence, with love and grief in his heart. A moment since he saw her tears, now he looked at her dark form, scarcely visible in the darkness of the forest, and he guessed her sorrow and pain. It also seemed to him that at any moment Wilk or Cztan's rapacious hands might dart from the dark thicket and grasp her, and at that thought, he was carried away by wild anger and longed for a fight. At times the desire for fight was so intense that he wanted to grasp his axe or sword and cut down a pine tree on the road. He felt that a good fight would comfort him. Lastly he would be glad, even if he could let the horse go at a gallop. But he could not do it, they rode silently in front of him, and at a very slow gait, foot by foot, and little Jasko, who was of a talkative disposition, after several attempts to engage his sister in conversation, seeing that she was unwilling to speak, desisted, and also sank into deep silence. But when they were approaching Zgorzelice, the sorrow in the Bohemian's heart turned to anger against Cztan and Wilk: "I would not spare even my blood in your behalf," he said to himself, "provided it comforted you. But what can I, unfortunate, do? What can I tell you? Unless I tell you that he ordered me to kneel before you. And, God grant that that might be of some comfort to you." Thinking thus, he urged his horse close to Jagienka's. "Gracious lady...." "Are you riding with us?" enquired Jagienka, as though awaking from sleep. "What do you say?" "I forgot to tell you what my master commanded me to say to you. When I was about to depart from Spychow, he called me and said 'I bow at the feet of the young lady of Zgorzelice, for whether in good or bad fortune, I shall never forget her; and for what she did for my uncle and myself, may God recompense her, and keep her in good health.'" "May God also recompense him for his good words," replied Jagienka. Then she added, in such a wonderful tone, that it caused the Bohemian's heart to melt: "And you, Hlawa." The conversation ceased for a while. But the armor-bearer was glad for himself and for her words. For he said to himself: "At least it shall not be said that she has been fed with ingratitude." He also began to rack his brains for something more of the same nature to tell her; and after a moment he said: "Lady." "What?" "This ... as it were ... I want to say, as the old _pan_ of Bogdaniec also said: 'That the lady there is lost forever, and that he will never find her, even if the grand master himself assist him.'" "Then she is his wife...." The Bohemian nodded his head. "Yes, she is his wife." Jagienka made no reply to this, but at home, after supper, when Jasko and the younger brother were put to bed, she ordered a pitcher of mead. Then she turned to the Bohemian and asked: "Perhaps you want to retire. I wish to continue our conversation." The Bohemian, although tired, was ready to chatter even till morning. So they began to talk, and he again related in general terms all that had happened to Zbyszko, Jurand, Danusia and himself. CHAPTER II. Macko prepared for his journey, and Jagienka did not show herself at Bogdaniec for two days after her consultation with the Bohemian. It was only on the third day that the old knight met her on his way to church. She was riding with her brother Jasiek to church at Krzesnia, and with her was a considerable number of armed servants in order to protect her from Cztan and Wilk, because she was not sure whether Cztan and Wilk were still sick or were planning to harm her. "Any way, I intended to call upon our own people at Bogdaniec," she said, greeting Macko, "because I have to consult you about a very important affair, but since you are here we can talk about it now." Then she advanced in front of the retinue, obviously to prevent the servants overhearing their conversation. When Macko was near her she inquired: "Are you surely going?" "If God will, not later than to-morrow." "Are you going to Malborg?" "To Malborg, or any other place, according to circumstances." "Now then listen to me. I have thought a long time about what I ought to do. I want to ask your advice, too. You well know that as long as papa was alive, and the abbot was powerful, it was quite different. Cztan and Wilk also thought that I should choose one of them, so they kept their temper. But now I stand alone without a protector; then either I shall remain at Zgorzelice in a fortress, like a prisoner, or they will do us some harm without fail. Is it not so?" "Yes," said Macko, "I thought of it myself." "And what did you devise?" "I devised nothing, but I must tell you one thing, that we are in Poland and the law of this country punishes severely those who are guilty of acts of violence." "Very well, but the transgressors have no difficulty in crossing the frontier. Indeed, I know that Szlonsk is also in Poland, yet there the princes themselves quarrel and attack each other. If it were not so, my beloved father would still be alive. There are already Germans there and the times are stormy; they are mischievous, so that if any one of them wishes to conceal himself, he does. It would be easy for me to avoid Cztan and Wilk, but it concerns my little brother. If I should be absent there would be peace, but if I remained in Zgorzelice, God only knows what ill luck might happen. There would be outrages and fights; and Jasiek is already fourteen years old, and nobody, not even myself, can detain him. Upon the last occasion when you came to our assistance he flew to the front, and when Cztan used his club upon the crowd he nearly hit him on the head. 'O,' Jasko said to the servants, 'those two I will prosecute to the very end.' I tell you that there will not be a single peaceful day and some evil might befall the youngster." "Faith. Cztan and Wilk are dog-brothers," said Macko, "although they would not dare lift up their hands against children. Bah! only a Knight of the Cross would do that." "They will not lift up their hands against children, but in case of tumult, or, God forbid, in an incendiary fire, there will be no lack of accidents. Why talk! I love the brother of old Sieciechowa as my own parents, and protection for them from the dear old woman is not wanting, yet, without me ... would they be safer without me?" "May be," replied Macko. Then he looked slyly at the girl. "Then, what do you want?" And she replied in a low tone: "Take me with you." Then Macko, although he easily understood the drift of the conversation, was much surprised. He checked his horse, and exclaimed: "Fear God, Jagienka." But she dropped her head and replied bashfully and sadly: "You may think so, but as far as myself is concerned, I would rather speak out than be silent. Hlawa and yourself said that Zbyszko will never find Danusia, and the Bohemian's hope of finding her is even less. God is my witness that I do not wish her evil in the least. Let the mother of God watch over that poor girl and keep her. Zbyszko loved her more than myself. Well, I cannot help it. Such is my lot. But observe this, so long as Zbyszko does not find her, or as you believe, he will never find her, then, then ..." "What then?" asked Macko, seeing that the girl was getting more and more confused and stammering. "Then I do not wish to be Madame Cztan, nor Madame Wilk, nor madame anybody." Macko breathed freely. "I thought that you had already forgiven him." But she, still in a sad tone, replied: "Ah!..." "Then what are your wishes? How can we take you among the Knights of the Cross?" "Not exactly among the Knights of the Cross, I should like to be now with the abbot who is confined in the hospital at Sieradz. He has not a single friendly soul with him. The servants care more for the pitcher than they do for him. Moreover, he is my godfather and benefactor. If he were well I would have sought his protection all the same because the people fear him." "I shall not dispute that," said Macko, who as a matter of fact, would be glad that Jagienka should not go with him, for he well knew the Knights of the Cross, and he was thoroughly convinced that Danuska would never come out alive from their hands. "But only this I tell you, that to travel with a girl is very troublesome." "May be with others, but not with me. Nothing has occurred to me so far, but I am accustomed to go about with the bow and can endure hardship in the chase. When it is necessary, it is necessary. Don't be afraid. I shall take Jasiek's clothing and a net for my hair and I shall go. Jasiek, although younger than I am, with the exception of his hair looks exactly like myself, so much so that when we disguised ourselves last carnival our departed father could not tell one from the other. Observe, neither the abbot nor anybody else recognized me." "Neither Zbyszko?" "If I shall see him...." Macko thought for a moment, then suddenly smiled and said: "But Wilk of Brzozowa and Cztan of Rogow would be furious." "Let them! It might be worse if they came after us." "Well! Fear not. I am an old man, but let them beware of my fist. All the Gradys are of the same mettle!... However, they have already tested Zbyszko...." Meanwhile they arrived at Krzesnia. Old Wilk of Brzozowa, who also happened to be at church, from time to time cast gloomy glances at Macko, but he did not mind it, and with a light heart he returned with Jagienka immediately after mass.... Then they took leave of each other and parted. When Macko was by himself at Bogdaniec, less happy thoughts passed through his mind. He understood that neither the people at Zgorzelice nor the relatives of Jagienka would really object to her departure. "But as to the girl's admirers," he said to himself, "that is quite another affair, but against the orphans and their property they would not dare to lift up their hand, because they would cover themselves with excessive infamy. Everybody would be against them as one is against a wolf. But Bogdaniec is left to God's favor!... The quarries will be filled up, the flocks will be seized, the peasants will be enticed away!... If God permit me to return, then I will fight them. I shall send out bans, and fight them not with the fist but with the law!... Only let me return, and if I do?... They will combine against me, because I have spoiled their love affair, and if she goes with me they will yet be more rancorous." He was much grieved about his estate at Bogdaniec which he had improved. Now he felt sure that on his return he would find it desolate and in ruins. "Now then, it is necessary to take counsel," he thought. Accordingly, after dinner, he ordered his horse to be saddled and left directly for Brzozowa. It was already dark when he arrived. Old Wilk was sitting in the front room drinking mead from a pitcher. Young Wilk, who was wounded by Cztan, was lying on a skin-covered bench, and was also drinking mead. Macko entered unexpectedly and remained standing upon the threshold with a stern look on his face; tall, bony, armed only with a big sabre at his side. They recognized him at once, because his face was lit up by the bright flame of the fireplace, and at the first moment, both the father and son jumped up, lightning-like, and running toward the wall seized the first arms that were at hand. But the old experienced Macko, well knowing the people and their customs, did not interfere in the least, he did not even reach his hand to his sword. He only put his hands on his hips, and said quietly in a somewhat sarcastic voice: "How is it? Is this the kind of hospitality which the nobles in Brzozowa practice?" These words had the desired effect; their hands fell, and in a moment the old man let fall the sword with a clash, the young man dropped his pike, and they stood with their necks craned toward Macko, their faces still expressing hatred, but already amazed and ashamed of themselves. Macko smiled and said: "May the name of Christ be praised!" "Forever and ever." "And Saint Jerzy." "We serve him." "I come to visit my neighbors with good will." "With good will we greet you, the guest of his holy person." Then old Wilk rushed toward Macko, and with his son, both of them pressed his right hand, they made him sit at a comfortable place at the table; in a second they threw another log on the fireplace, spread the table and put upon it a dish full of food, a jug of beer, a pitcher of mead, and began to eat and drink. Young Wilk glanced now and then at Macko, which, happily for the guest, contributed to lessen his hatred against him. But he served him, however, so diligently that he became pale from fatigue, because he was wounded and deprived of his wonted strength. The father and son burned with curiosity to know the object of Macko's call. None, however, asked him why, but waited for him to speak. But Macko, as a man of manners, praised the meat, drink and hospitality. Only when he had filled himself well, he looked up and spoke with dignity: "People often quarrel. But neighborly peace above all." "There is not a better thing than peace," replied old Wilk, with equal composure. "It also often happens," said Macko, "when one wants to undertake a long journey, he wants to make up and bid good-bye even to his adversaries." "God reward you for your candid words." "Not mere words, but deeds, for I actually came to wish you good-bye." "From our soul we wish you might visit us daily." "I wish I could feast you in Bogdaniec in a manner suitable to people who are acquainted with knightly honor. But I am in a hurry to go." "Is it to war, or to some holy place?" "I should like to go to one of the two, but the place I am going to is worse, for I am going among the Knights of the Cross." "Among the Knights of the Cross," exclaimed both father and son. "Yes!" replied Macko. "And one who is their enemy is going to them. It is well for him to be reconciled with God and men, so that he may not forfeit, not only his life, but everlasting salvation." "It is wonderful," said old Wilk. "I have never yet seen any man who has not suffered from their wrongs and oppression." "So it is in the whole fatherland," added Macko. "Neither Lithuania before its conversion to Christianity, nor even the Tartars were such a burden to the Polish kingdom as those devilish monks." "Quite true, but this you also know, they gathered and gathered. It is time now to finish with them." Then the old man spat in his hands, and young Wilk added: "It cannot be otherwise now." "It will come to pass, surely, but when? We cannot do it, it is the king's affair. It may be soon or not ... God only knows. But meanwhile I must go to them." "Is it not with ransom for Zbyszko?" As his father mentioned Zbyszko's name young Wilk's face became pale with hatred. But Macko replied quietly: "May be with ransom but not for Zbyszko." These words intensified the curiosity of both lords of Brzozowa. Old Wilk, who could no more contain himself, said: "Can you tell us, or not, the reason for your going there?" "I will tell you! I will!" he said, nodding assent, "but first let me tell you something else. Take notice then. After my departure Bogdaniec will be under God's care.... When Zbyszko and myself were fighting under Prince Witold, the abbot, also Zych of Zgorzelice, looked somewhat after our small property. Now we shall miss even that little. It pains me terribly to think that my endeavor and labor will be in vain.... You can well form an idea how much this troubles me. They will entice away my people, plough up the boundaries; they will take away my herds. Even should God permit me to return, I shall find my property ruined.... There is only one remedy, only one help ... good neighbor. For this reason I came to ask you as a neighbor that you would take Bogdaniec under your protection and see that no harm is done." Listening to Macko's request, old Wilk and his son exchanged looks; both of them were amazed beyond measure. They were silent for a moment, and neither could muster courage enough to reply. But Macko lifted another cup of mead to his mouth, drank it, then continued his conversation in as quiet and confiding a manner as though the two had been his most intimate friends for years. "I have told you candidly from whom most damage is expected. It is from no other quarter but from Cztan of Rogow. Although we were hostile to each other, I fear nothing from you because you are noble people who would face your adversaries, yet would not revenge yourselves by acting meanly. You are quite different. A knight is always a knight. But Cztan is a _prestak_ (churl). From such a fellow anything might be expected, as you know. He is very bitter against me because I spoiled his game with Jagienka." "Whom you reserve for your nephew," burst out young Wilk. Macko looked at him and held him under his cold gaze for a moment, then he turned to the old man and said quietly: "You know, my nephew married a rich Mazovian proprietress and took considerable dower." Silence more profound than before again reigned for a while. Both father and son gazed at Macko with their mouths wide open, for some time. Finally the old man said: "O! how is that? Tell us...." Macko appeared not to notice the question and continued: "This is the very reason why I must go, and why I also ask you, as worthy and upright neighbors, to take care of Bogdaniec when I go, and see to it that nobody damages my property. Have your eye especially upon Cztan and protect me against him." During that time young Wilk, who was quick to understand, reflected that since Zbyszko had got married it would be better to be in friendship with Macko, because Jagienka confided in him, and did nothing without asking his advice. Thus new prospects suddenly presented themselves before his eyes. "It is not enough, we must not only not oppose Macko, but endeavor to be reconciled with him," he said to himself. Therefore, although he was somewhat under the influence of drink, he quickly stretched his hand under the table and grasped his father's knee and pressed it vigorously as a sign for his father to be careful in his speech, but said himself: "Ay! we do not fear Cztan! Let him only try. He wounded me with the platter, true, but I too have given him such a sound drubbing that his own mother could not recognize him. Fear nothing! Be at your ease. Not even one crow shall be lost at Bogdaniec!" "I see you are upright people. Do you promise me?" "We promise!" both exclaimed. "Upon your knightly honor?" "Upon knightly honor." "And upon your escutcheon?" "Upon the escutcheon; yea, upon the cross too. So help us God!" Macko smiled with satisfaction, and said: "Well, this is now with you, and I am confident you will do it. If so, let me tell you something more. Zych, as you know, appointed me guardian of his children. I have, therefore, spoiled both Cztan's incursions and your young man at Zgorzelice. But now when I arrive at Malborg, or, God knows where, what then will become of my guardianship?... It is true, that God is a father of the fatherless; and woe to him who shall attempt to harm her; not only will I chop off his head with an axe, but also proclaim him an infamous scoundrel. Nevertheless I feel very sorry to part, sorry indeed. Then promise me I pray, that you will not only yourself not do any harm to Zych's orphans, but see too that others do not harm them." "We swear! We swear!" "Upon your knightly honor and your escutcheon?" "Upon knightly honor and escutcheon." "Also upon the cross?" "Upon the cross too." "God hears it. Amen," concluded Macko, and he breathed deeply, because he was sure that they would not break such an oath. Even if they were provoked they would rather gnaw their fists with anger than perjure themselves. Then he began to take leave, but they insisted upon his remaining. He was obliged to drink and fraternize with old Wilk. But young Wilk, contrary to his custom to look for quarrels when drunk, this time limited his anger to threats against Cztan, and ran around Macko so assiduously as though he were to obtain Jagienka from Macko the following morning. Toward midnight he fainted from over-exertion, and after they revived him, he fell asleep like a log. Old Wilk followed the example of his son, so that when Macko left them they were lying under the table like corpses. Yet Macko himself had an extraordinary head and was not so much affected by the drink, but was cheerful. When he returned home he reflected with joy upon what he had accomplished. "Well!" he said to himself, "Bogdaniec is safe and so is Zgorzelice. They will be raging when they hear of Jagienka's departure. But she and my property are safe. The Lord Jesus has endowed men with skill, so that when one cannot make use of his fist, he uses his mind. The old man will surely challenge me when I return home, but it is not worth while to think about it.... Would to God that I might entrap the Knights of the Cross in such manner.... But it will be a difficult task with them. With us, even when one has an affair with a 'dog brother,' nevertheless if he takes an oath on his knightly honor and escutcheon he will keep it. But with them an oath has no value; it is like spitting upon the water. But may the mother of Jesus assist me, that I may be as serviceable to Zbyszko as I have been to Zychow's children, and Bogdaniec...." Here, it crossed his mind, that perhaps it might be advisable not to take Jagienka, because the two Wilks would care for her as the apple of their eye. But the next moment he rejected that plan. "The Wilks might care for her, true, but Cztan will persist in his attempts, and God knows who will prevail. But it is a sure thing that there will be a succession of fights and outrages from which Zgorzelice, Zych's orphans, and even the girl might suffer. It will be an easy matter for Wilk to guard Bogdaniec. But by all means it will be better for the girl to be as far away from the two murderers as possible, and at the same time to be as near the rich abbot as possible. Macko firmly believed that Danusia would never be rescued from the Knights of the Cross, alive. And the hope that Zbyszko would return home as a widower and most likely take to Jagienka, never left him." "Ah! Mighty God!" he said to himself. "In such a case he will be the owner of Spychow, then he will get Jagienka and Moczydoly, and in addition to it he will acquire that which the abbot will bequeath. I would not even spare him wax for candles." Occupied with such thoughts, the road from Brzozowa seemed to be shortened, yet he arrived at Bogdaniec after nightfall, and was surprised to see his windows brightly illuminated. The servants, too, were awake, for he had scarcely entered the courtyard when the stable boy came rushing to him. "Are there some guests?" asked Macko, dismounting. "There is the young gentleman of Zgorzelice with the Bohemian," replied the stable boy. This information astonished Macko, for Jagienka had promised to arrive next day, very early, when they were to start immediately. Then, why had Jasko come and that so late? It struck the old knight that something must have occurred at Zgorzelice, and he entered his house with a certain amount of anxiety. But within he found a bright fire burning in the large clay oven in the centre of the room. And upon the table were two iron cradles and two torches in them, by which light Macko observed Jasko, the Bohemian, Hlawa, and another young servant with a face as red as an apple. "How are you, Jasko? and what is the matter with Jagienka?" asked the old nobleman. "Jagienka ordered me to tell you," he said, whilst kissing Macko's hand, "that she has reconsidered the matter and she prefers to stay at home." "For God's sake! What do you say? How? What has happened to her?" But the boy looked at him with his beautiful blue eyes and smiled. "What are you prating about?" But at this moment, the Bohemian and the other boy also burst out laughing. "You see!" exclaimed the disguised boy. "Who could recognize me. You even have failed to recognize me!" Then Macko looked at the lovely figure carefully and exclaimed: "In the name of the Father and Son! It is a true carnival! You also here, croaking thing. Why?" "Yes! Why? Those who are on the road have no time to lose." "Is it not to-morrow at dawn, that you were to leave?" "Certainly! to-morrow at dawn, so that all may know. To-morrow they will think at Zgorzelice that I am your guest, and they will not notice it till the day after to-morrow. Sieciechowa and Jasiek know it. But Jasko promised, upon knightly honor, that he will tell only then, when the people begin to be restless. How is it you did not recognize me?" Now it was Macko's turn to laugh. "Let me have a good look at you; you are an excessively fine boy!... and singularly so. From such one might expect to raise a good breed.... I justly declare, if this fellow were, (pointing at himself) were not old,--well! But, even thus I tell you, keep off, girl, from creeping under my eyes, stand back!..." And he began to threaten her with his finger, but looked at her with much pleasure. Because such a girl he never saw before. Upon her head she had a silken red net, and a yellow jacket upon her body and the breeches ample round her hips and tighter above them, of which one little leg was of the same color as the cap (net) upon her head, the other had longwise stripes, with a richly covered little sword at her side, smiling and bright like the dawn. Her face was so exquisite that he could not take his eyes off her. "My God!" said the overjoyed Macko. "She looks like some marvelous young lady or like a flower, or something else!" "And this one here--I am sure it must also be somebody in disguise?" "This is Sieciechowa," answered Jagienka. "It would be improper for me to be alone among you. How could I? Therefore I have taken Anulka[111] with me so that two courageous women will be of help and service. Her also, nobody can recognize." "There, old woman, you have a marriage feast. One is bad enough, now there will be two." "Don't tease." "I am not teasing, but everybody will recognize you and her, in the daytime." "Pray, and why?" "In order to go on their knees to you and to her also." "O, give us peace!..." "You shall have it, I am not in a hurry. But will Cztan or Wilk let you have peace? God knows. Do you know, birdie, where I have just been? Why, at Brzozowa." "For God's sake! What are you saying?" "It is true as truth itself that the Wilks protect Bogdaniec and Zgorzelice against Cztan. Well, it is an easy matter to challenge an enemy and fight him. But to make your enemy into a protector of your own property is a very difficult task." Then Macko related his adventures with the Wilks, how they had become reconciled to each other. How he had got advantage over them; to this she listened with the greatest wonder, and when he concluded she said: "The Lord Jesus did not stint you in craftiness, and I observe that you will always be successful in your undertakings." But Macko shook his head, as though he felt sorry. "Ay, daughter! If that were so, you would have long ago become the lady of Bogdaniec!" Upon hearing that, Jagienka looked at him with her lovely blue eyes for a moment, then she approached him, and kissed his hand. "Why do you kiss me?" inquired the old knight. "Nothing.... I only wish to bid you goodnight, because it is getting late and to-morrow we must get up early for our journey." She then embraced Sieciechowa and left, and Macko led the Bohemian to his room, where they stretched themselves upon aurochs' skins and both fell sound asleep. CHAPTER III. After the destruction, conflagration and slaughter which the Knights of the Cross had committed in 1331, at Sieradz, Casimir the Great rebuilt the razed town. The place, however, was not exceedingly splendid and could not keep pace with the other towns of the realm. But Jagienka, who hitherto had spent her time among the people of Zgorzelice and Krzesnia, was beside herself with admiration and astonishment at the sight of the houses, towers, town hall, and especially the churches; the wooden structure at Krzesnia could not be compared with them. At first she lost her wonted resolution, so much so that she dared not talk aloud, and only inquired of Macko in a whisper about those wonderful things which dazzled her eyes. But when the old knight assured her that there was as much difference between Sieradz and Krakow as there is between a firebrand and the sun, she would not believe her own ears, because it appeared to her an impossibility that another city could be found in the world which could be equal to Sieradz. They were received in the cloister by the same shriveled old prior, who still remembered in his childhood the butchery by the Knights of the Cross, and who had previously received Zbyszko. The news of the abbot occasioned them sorrow and trouble; he lived in the cloister for a long while, but he left a fortnight before their arrival to visit his friend, the bishop of Plock. He was constantly ill. He was generally conscious in the morning; but toward the evening he lost his head, he stormed and he asked to put on a coat of mail, and challenged Prince John of Racibor. The clergy were obliged to apply force to keep him in bed; that was not accomplished without considerable trouble and even much risk. About a fortnight ago he had entirely lost his reason, and in spite of his serious illness, he had given orders to be taken to Plock immediately. "He said that he confided in nobody so much as in the bishop of Plock, and that he wished to receive the sacrament from him alone and leave his testament with him. We opposed his journey as much as we could, for he was very faint, and we feared that he would not survive even one mile's journey. But to oppose him was not an easy task. So the attendants prepared a wagon and carried him away. May God direct it to a happy issue." "If he had died somewhere near Sieradz you would have heard of it," said Macko. "We would have surely heard of it," replied the little old prior. "We therefore are of opinion that he did not die, and we think that he had not yet when he reached Lenczyca. What may have happened beyond that place, we are unable to tell. You will get information on the road if you go after him." Macko felt uneasy when he received the tidings, and he went to take counsel with Jagienka, who had already got information from the Bohemian whither the abbot had gone. "What is to be done?" he asked her; "and what are you going to do with yourself?" "Come to Plock, and I will go with you." "To Plock!" repeated Sieciechowa, in a piping voice. "Look how things go! Is it as easy for you to go to Flock as to handle the sickle?" "How can I and Sieciechowa return by ourselves? If I cannot continue my journey with you, it would have been preferable to have remained at home. Do you not think that Wilk and Cztan will be more obstinate in their intrigues against me?" "Wilk will protect you against Cztan." "I fear Wilk's protection as much as Cztan's open violence. I see that you too are opposing me; if it were only simple opposition I should not mind it, but not when it is in earnest." Indeed Macko's opposition was not in earnest; on the contrary he preferred that Jagienka should accompany him, than return, so when he heard her words, he smiled and said: "She has got rid of her petticoats, and now she wants reason too." "Reason is only to be found in the head." "But Plock is out of the way." "The Bohemian said that it is not out of the way, but it is nearer to Malborg." "Then you have already consulted the Bohemian?" "Surely; moreover, he said: 'If the young lord got into trouble at Malborg, then we could get much help from Princess Alexandra, for she is a relative of the king; besides that, being a personal friend of the Knights of the Cross, she has great influence among them.'" "It is true, as God is dear to me!" exclaimed Macko. "It is a fact well known to all, that if she wished to give us a letter to the master we could travel with perfect safety in all lands of the Knights of the Cross. They love her because she loves them. That Bohemian boy is not a fool, his advice is good." "And how much so!" Sieciechowa exclaimed with warmth, lifting up her little eyes. Macko suddenly turned toward her and said: "What do you want here?" The girl became much confused, lowered her eyelashes and blushed like a rose. However, Macko saw that there was no other remedy but to continue his journey and take both girls with him. This he much desired. The following morning he took leave of the little old prior and then they continued their journey. Owing to the thawing of the snow and inundations they progressed with greater difficulty than before. On the road they inquired after the abbot, and they found many courts, and parsonages, where there were none of the former, even inns, where he had remained for a night's lodging. It was quite easy to follow in his track, because he had lavishly distributed alms, bought missals, contributed to church bells and subscribed to funds for the repair of churches. Therefore every beggar, sexton, yea even every priest they met remembered him with gratitude. They generally said: "He traveled like an angel," and prayed for his recovery, although here and there were heard more expressions of apprehension that his everlasting rest was drawing nigh, than hopes of temporary recovery. In some places he had taken supplies enough for two or three days. It seemed to Macko that most likely he would be able to overtake him. Yet Macko was mistaken in his calculations. The overflow of the rivers Ner and Bzur prevented them from arriving at Lenczyca. They were obliged to take up their quarters for four days at a deserted inn, whose owner apparently had fled on account of the threatening floods. The road leading from the inn to the town which to a certain extent was repaired with stumps of trees was submerged for a considerable stretch in the muddy flood. Macko's servant, Wit, a native of that locality, had some knowledge of the road leading through the woods, but he refused to act as guide, because he knew that the marshes of Lenczyca were the rendezvous of unclean spirits, especially the powerful Borut who delighted in leading people to bottomless swamps, whence escape was only possible by forfeiture of the soul. Even the inn itself was held in bad repute, so that travelers used to provision themselves with victuals to avoid hunger. Even old Macko was scared of this place. During the night they heard skirmishing upon the roof of the inn; at times there were also rappings at the door. Jagienka and Sieciechowa, who slept in the alcove near the large room, also heard the sound of little footsteps upon the ceiling and walls during the night-time. They were apparently not afraid of it, because at Zgorzelice they were accustomed to croaking birds. Old Zych, in his time, fed them, according to the then prevailing custom there were not wanting those who would provide them with crusts, and they were not mischievous. But on a certain night, from the neighboring thickets resounded a dull ominous bellowing, and the following morning they discovered huge cloven-foot traces upon the mud. They might have been of aurochs or bison, but Wit was of opinion that the traces were those of Borut, and although his outward appearance is that of a man, even of a nobleman, he has cloven instead of human feet. But owing to parsimony he takes off his boots when crossing the swamps. Macko was informed that one could appease him with drink; he considered during the whole day whether it would be sinful to gain the friendship of the evil spirit. He even took counsel with Jagienka on the same subject. "I should like to suspend upon the fence a bull's bladder full of wine or mead," he said, "and if it were found that something of the drink were missing, then it would be conclusive proof that the evil spirit was present." "But that might displease the heavenly powers," replied Jagienka, "of whose blessing we stand in need to assist us in succoring Zbyszko successfully." "I, too, am afraid, but I think that a little mead is not the soul. I shall not give him my soul. One bladder full of wine or mead, I think, is of little significance in the eyes of the heavenly powers!" Then he lowered his voice and added: "One nobleman entertains another even if he is a useless fellow, and they say he is a nobleman." "Who?" asked Jagienka. "I do not want to mention the name of the unclean spirit." Nevertheless, Macko, with his own hands suspended the same evening a large bull's bladder in which drink is usually carried, and it was found empty the following morning. When that was related to the Bohemian, he laughed heartily, but nobody paid attention to it. Macko, however, was filled with joy, because he expected that when he should attempt to cross the swamp no mishap would occur on that account. "Unless they told an untruth when they said that he knows honor," he said to himself. Above all things it was necessary to investigate if there was a passage through the woods. It might have been so, because where the soil was made firm by the roots of the trees and other growths, it did not easily soften by the rains; although Wit, who belonged in the locality, could best perform that service, he refused to go, and when his name was suggested, he shouted: "Better kill me. I shall not go." Then they explained to him that the unclean spirits are powerless during the daytime. Macko himself was willing to go, but it was finally arranged that Hlawa should venture, because he was a bold fellow, agreeable to all, specially to the ladies. He put an axe in his belt, and in his hand a scythe, and left. He left early in the morning and was expected to return about noon, but he did not, and they began to be alarmed. Later on, the servants were watching at the edge of the forest, and in the afternoon Wit waved his hand as a sign that Hlawa had not returned, and should he return the danger is greater for us, for God knows whether, owing to a wolf's bite, he is not transformed into a werewolf. Hearing this, all were frightened; even Macko was not himself. Jagienka turned toward the forest and made the sign of the cross. But Anulka searched in vain in her skirt and apron for something with which to cover her eyes, but finding nothing she covered them with her fingers, from between which tears began to trickle in big drops. However, toward evening time, just at the spot where the sun was about to set, the Bohemian appeared, and that, not by himself, but accompanied by a human figure whom he drove in front of him on a rope. All rushed out toward him with shouts of joy. But at the sight of the figure they became silent; it was dwarfed, monkey-like, hairy, black and dressed in wolf skin. "In the name of the Father and Son tell me; what is this figure you have brought," shouted Macko. "How do I know?" replied the Bohemian. "He said that he was a man and a pitch-burner, but I don't know whether he told me the truth." "Oh, he is not a man, no," said Wit. But Macko ordered him to be quiet; then he looked carefully around him and suddenly said: "Cross yourself. We are accustomed to cross ourselves when with the spirits...." "Praised be Jesus Christ!" exclaimed the prisoner, and crossed himself as fast as he could. He breathed deeply, looked with great confidence at the group and said: "Praised be Jesus Christ. I too, O Jesus, was uncertain whether I was in Christian or in the devil's power." "Fear not, you are among Christians, who attend the holy Mass. What are you then?" "I am a pitch-burner, sir, dwelling in a tent. There are seven of us who dwell in tents with our families." "How far are you from here?" "Not quite ten furlongs." "How do you get to town?" "We have our private road along the 'Devil's Hollow.'" "Along what? The Devil's?... then cross yourself again." "In the name of the Father, Son, and the Holy Ghost. Amen." "Very well. Is that road practicable for vehicles?" "Now there is quagmire everywhere, although there is less near the Hollow than upon the regular road; owing to the access of the wind the mud is quickly dried up. But farther on to Buda the road is bad. But those who know the track push through it slowly." "Will you lead us for a florin or two?" The pitch-burner accepted the offer willingly, but begged for half a loaf of bread, which he said is very scarce in the woods and he had seen none for some time past. It was arranged that they should start very early the next morning, because it was "not good to travel in the evening," he said. "There at Boruca ghosts storm terribly, but they do no harm. But being jealous for the Lenczyca principality they chase away other devils into the bushes. It is only bad to meet them during the night, especially when a man is drunk, but the sober need not be afraid." "You were afraid nevertheless," said Macko. "Because that knight unexpectedly grasped me with such strength that I took him for another being." Then Jagienka smiled that all of them took the pitch-burner to be the devil, and he thought them to be the same. Anulka and Sieciechowa laughed at Macko's words, when he said: "Your eyes are not yet dry from weeping for Hlawa; now you are laughing?" The Bohemian looked at the girl, he observed her eyelids which were still moist, then he asked: "Did you cry for me?" "Of course not," replied the girl. "I was only scared." "You ought to be ashamed. Are you not a noblewoman, and a noblewoman like your mistress is not afraid. Nothing evil could happen to you in the middle of the day, and among people." "Nothing to me, but to you." "Yet you said that you did not cry for me." "I insist, not for you." "Then why did you cry?" "From fear." "You are not afraid now?" "No." "Why?" "Because you have returned." Then the Bohemian looked at her with gratitude, smiled, and said: "Bah! If we kept on talking in that manner we might have continued till morning. What a smart woman you are!" "Make no fun of me," quietly replied Sieciechowa. In fact she was as smart as any woman; and Hlawa who was himself a cunning fellow understood it well. He knew that the girl's attachment to him was daily increasing. He loved Jagienka, but the love was that of a subject for his king's daughter, and with great humility and reverence, and without any other motive. Meanwhile the journey brought him in closer contact with Sieciechowa. When on the march old Macko and Jagienka usually rode side by side in front, while Hlawa and Sieciechowa were together in the rear. He was as strong as a urus and hot-blooded, so that when looking straight into her lovely bright eyes, at her flaxen locks which escaped from under her bonnet, upon her whole slender and well-shaped figure, especially at her admirably shaped limbs gripping the black pony, his whole frame trembled. He could restrain himself no longer. The more he looked upon those charms the more intense and longing his gaze became. He involuntarily thought that if the devil were to assume the form of that girl he would have no difficulty in leading one into temptation. She was moreover of a sweet temperament, very obedient, and lively, like a sparrow upon the roof. Sometimes strange thoughts crossed the Bohemian's mind; once when he and Anulka remained somewhat in the rear near the packhorses, he suddenly turned toward her and said: "Do you know I shall devour you here as a wolf devours a lamb." She heartily laughed, and showed her pretty little white teeth. "Do you want to eat me?" she asked. "Yes I even with the little bones." And he cast such a look at her that she melted under his glances. Then they lapsed into silence, only their hearts were beating intensely, his with desire, and hers with pleasurable intoxication tinged with fear. But the Bohemian's passion at first entirely prevailed over his tenderness, and when he said that he looked at Anulka like a wolf at a lamb, he told the truth. Only on that evening when he observed her eyelids and cheeks moistened with tears, his heart became softened She seemed to him as good, as though near to him and as though she were already his own, and as he himself was upright by nature, and at the same time a knight, he not only was elated with pride, and not hardened at the sight of the sweet tears, but he courageously continued gazing at her. His wonted gaiety of conversation left him, and although he continued to jest in the evening with the timid girl, yet it was of a different nature. He treated her as a knightly armor-bearer ought to treat a noblewoman. Old Macko was chiefly occupied in thinking of the journey, and the crossing of the swamps, and he only praised him for his noble manners which, as he observed, he must have learned when he was with Zbyszko at the Mazovian court. Then he turned to Jagienka and added: "Hey! Zbyszko!... His deportment befits even a king's presence." But his work was over in the evening, when it was time to retire. Hlawa, after having kissed the hand of Jagienka, lifted in turn the hand of Sieciechowa to his lips and said: "Not only need you not fear me, but whilst you are with me you need fear nothing, for I shall not give you to anybody." Then the men went into the front room whilst Jagienka and Anulka retired to the alcove and slept together in a wide and comfortable bed. Neither fell asleep readily, especially Sieciechowa, who was restless and turned from side to side. At length Jagienka moved her head toward Anulka and whispered: "Anulka?" "What is it?" "It seems to me that you are much taken with that Bohemian.... Is it so?" Her question remained unanswered. But Jagienka whispered again: "I understand it all.... Tell me." Sieciechowa did not reply, but instead, pressed her lips to the cheeks of her mistress and showered kisses upon them. At Anulka's kisses, poor Jagienka's breast heaved. "Oh, I understand, I understand," she whispered, so low that Anulka's ear scarcely caught her words. CHAPTER IV. After a mild and foggy night, a windy and gloomy day came. At times the sky was bright, at others it was covered with broken clouds which were driven before the wind like flocks of sheep. Macko ordered the train to move by daybreak. The pitch-burner, who was hired as guide to Buda, affirmed that the horses could pass everywhere, but as to the wagons, provisions and baggage, it would be necessary in some places to take them apart and carry them piecemeal, and that could not be done without tedious work. But people accustomed to hard labor preferred hardship to lounging in the deserted inn. Therefore they moved on willingly. Even the timid Wit was not scared by the words and presence of the pitch-burner. They left the inn and entered at once between high-trunked forest trees, free from undergrowth. They led their horses, and could pass along without taking the wagons to pieces. Occasionally a storm arose, and at times it increased to such extraordinary force that it struck the branches of the bending pines as with gigantic wings, bending, twisting and shaking and breaking them as it were with the fans of a windmill. The forest bent under the unchained elements. Even in the intervals between the gusts it did not cease to howl and thunder, as if angry with their rest at the inn, and the forced march they had undertaken. Now and then the clouds entirely obscured the daylight. Drenching rain mingled with hail came down in torrents, and it became as dark as nightfall. Wit was short of breath, and shouted that "evil was bent to do harm and is doing it." But nobody paid attention to it, even the timid Anulka did not take his words to heart because the Bohemian was so near that her stirrup touched his, and he looked ahead with such a brave air that he seemed to want to challenge the very devil. Behind the tall pine trees where the undergrowth began, the thickets were impassable. There they were obliged to take the wagons in sections; they did it dexterously and quickly. The strong servants transported the wheels, axle-tree, front of the wagon, packages and stores, upon their shoulders. The bad road continued about three furlongs. However they arrived at Buda about nightfall; there the pitch-burner received them as his guests, and they were assured by him that along the Devil's Hollow, correctly speaking, they could reach the town. These people, inhabitants of the pathless forest seldom saw bread or flour, yet they were not starving. Because all kinds of smoked meat, especially eels, which abounded in all swamps and mud holes, they had in plenty. They treated them liberally, in exchange, holding out greedy hands for the biscuits. There were among them women and children, all blackened from the smoke. There was also a peasant, more than one hundred years old, who remembered the massacre of Lenczyca, which happened in 1331, and the complete destruction of the town by the "Knights of the Cross." Although Macko, the Bohemian, and the two girls, had already heard the narrative from the prior of Sieradz, nevertheless they listened with much interest to the tale of the old man who was sitting at the fireside scraping in the cinders. It seemed as if he discovered among them the events of his earlier days. At Lenczyca, as well as at Sieradz, they spared not even the churches and clergy, and the knives of the conquerors were covered with the blood of old men, women and children. Always the Knights of the Cross, the everlasting Knights of the Cross! The thoughts of Macko and Jagienka were constantly directed toward Zbyszko, who was living in the very jaws of the wolves, in the midst of a hardened clan who knew neither pity nor the laws of hospitality. Sieciechowa was faint at heart, because she feared that their hunt after the abbot might lead them among those terrible Knights of the Cross. But the old man, to counteract the unfavorable impression which the stories made upon the women, told them of the battle near Plowce, which put an end to the incursions of the Knights of the Cross, and in which he took part as a soldier in the infantry raised by the peasants, and armed with an iron flail. In that battle perished almost the whole clan of the Gradys; Macko knew all the particulars of it, nevertheless he listened now as though it were a recital of a new terrible calamity caused by the Germans, when like cornfields before the storm they were mowed down by the sword in the hands of the Polish knighthood and the forces of King Lokietek.... "Ha! I just recollect," said the old man, "when they invaded this country, they burned the town and castles. Yes, they even massacred the infants in the cradles, but their terrible end came. Hey! It was a fine fight. I can see the battle now with my eyes closed...." He closed his eyes and was silent, gently moving the ashes until Jagienka, who could wait no longer, asked: "How was it?" "How was it?..." repeated the old man. "I remember the battlefield, it seems that I am now looking at it; there were bushes, and patches of stubble to the right. But after the battle nothing was visible but swords, axes, pikes and fine armor, one upon another, as though the whole blessed land was covered with them.... I have never seen so many slain in one heap, and so much human blood shed...." Macko's heart was strengthened anew by the recollection of these events, then he said: "True. Merciful Lord Jesus! They had then encompassed the kingdom like a conflagration or like a plague. Not only Sieradz and Lenczyca, but they destroyed many other towns. What now? Are not our people mighty and indestructible? And although those dog-brothers, the Knights of the Cross, were severely chastised, yet if you cannot crush them they will attack you and break your teeth.... Only see, King Kazimierz rebuilt Sieradz and Lenczyca so that they are better now than ever before, yet the incursions occur there as of old, and the Knights of the Cross are laid low and rot there as they were at the battle of Plowce. May God always grant them such an end!" When the old peasant heard these words he nodded assent; finally he said: "Perhaps they don't lie and rot. We of the infantry were ordered by the king, after the battle was over, to dig ditches; the peasants from the neighborhood came to assist us in our labor. We worked industriously, so that the spades groaned. Then we laid the Germans in trenches and covered them well, to avoid pestilence. But they did not remain there." "What happened? Why did they not remain there?" "I did not see it, but the people said afterward that after the battle there came a fierce storm which lasted about twelve weeks, but only at night-time. The sun shone during the daytime, but at night the wind was so fierce that it almost tore the hair from off the head. The devils, like thick clouds, came down in great numbers, whirling like a hurricane; every one of them held a pitchfork, and as soon as one of them reached the earth he thrust the pitchfork into the ground and carried off one Knight of the Cross to hell. At Plowce they heard a hurly-burly of human voices which sounded like the howling of whole packs of dogs, but they did not know what it all meant, whether it were the noise of the Germans, who were howling with terror and pain, or the devils with joy. That continued as long as the trenches were not consecrated by the priest, and the ground was not frozen, so that there was no need even for pitchforks." Silence followed for a moment, then the old man added: "But God grant, Sir Knight, such an end to them as you said, and although I shall not live to see it, but such young lasses as these two will live, but they shall not see what mine eyes have seen." Then he turned his head, now looking at Jagienka, now at Sieciechowa, wondering at their marvelous faces and shaking his head. "Like poppies in corn," he said. "Such beautiful faces I have never seen." Thus they chattered during a part of the night. Then they went to sleep in the shanties and lay down upon mosses as soft as down and covered themselves with warm fur; then after a refreshing sleep, they arose early in the morning and continued their journey. The road along the hollow was not an easy passage, but it was not a very bad road. So that before sunset they descried the castle of Lenczyca. The city had arisen from its ashes, it was rebuilt; part of it was built of brick and part of stone, its walls were high, the towers armed. The churches were even larger than those of Sieradz. There they had no difficulty in getting information from the Dominican friars concerning the abbot. He was there, he said that he felt better, and he hoped to recover his health entirely; and only a few days ago he left for his onward journey. Macko was not bent on overtaking him on the road, so he had already procured conveyance for both girls to Plock, where the abbot himself would have taken them. But Macko was much concerned about Zbyszko, and other news distressed him. The rivers had arisen after the departure of the abbot, and it was impossible to continue the journey. Seeing that the knight was accompanied by a considerable retinue and was proceeding to the court of Prince Ziemowit, the Dominicans offered him their hospitality; they had even provided him with an olive-wood tablet upon which there was inscribed a Latin prayer to the angel Raphael, the patron of travelers. Their compulsory sojourn at Lenczyca lasted a fortnight, during which time a servant of the castle discovered that the two young pages accompanying the knight were females in disguise, and at once fell deeply in love with Jagienka. The Bohemian was about to challenge him at once, but as it happened on the eve of their departure Macko dissuaded him from taking such a step. When they moved on toward Plock, the wind had already somewhat dried the road, and although it rained often, yet the rainfall, as is usual in the spring, consisted of larger drops, but warm, and of short duration. The furrows upon the fields glistened with water. The moist, sweet smell from the cultivated fields was wafted by the strong wind. The marshes were covered with buttercups and the violets blossomed in the woods, and the grasshoppers joyfully chirped among the branches. The hearts of the travelers were also filled with new hope and longing, especially as they were now progressing well. After sixteen days' travel they were at the gates of Plock. But they arrived at night, when the gates of the city were closed. They were obliged to pass the night with a weaver outside the wall. The girls retired late, and after the fatigue of the long journey they fell sound asleep, but Macko, who was not troubled by fatigue, got up early; he did not wish to wake them and he entered the town by himself at the opening of the gates. He found the cathedral and the bishop's residence without difficulty. There he was informed that the abbot had died a week ago, but according to the prevailing custom they had celebrated mass before the coffin from the sixth day, and the funeral was to take place on the day of Macko's arrival, after which would be obsequies and last honors in memory of the defunct. Owing to intense grief, Macko did not even look about the town, but he knew something already from that time when he had passed through that city with a letter from the princess Alexandra to the grand master. He returned to the weaver's place as fast as he could, and on his way home he said to himself: "Ha! He is dead. Eternal repose to him. There is nothing in the world to remedy it. But now what shall I do with the girls?" Then he reflected whether it were not better to leave them with the princess Alexandra, or with the princess Anna Danuta, or to take them to Spychow. It struck him more than once, that if Danuska were dead, it would be advisable to have Jagienka close to Zbyszko at Spychow, since Zbyszko, who loved Danuska above all other things would greatly mourn after his beloved. He was also sure that Jagienka's presence at Zbyszko's side would have the desired effect. He also remembered that Zbyszko in his boyhood, although his heart was after the woods in Mazowsze, was constantly longing for Jagienka. For these reasons, and fully believing that Danusia was lost, he often thought that in case of the abbot's demise, he would not send Jagienka to any other place; but as he was greedy to acquire landed property, he was therefore concerned about the property of the abbot. Surely, the abbot was displeased with them and promised to bequeath nothing to them; but after that he must have felt sorry and, before he died left something for Jagienka. He was sure that the abbot had bequeathed something to her, because he frequently spoke about it at Zgorzelice, and he would not overlook Zbyszko on account of Jagienka. Macko was also thinking of remaining for sometime at Plock, so as to investigate the will and attend to the matter, but other thoughts crossed his mind, and he said: "Should I longer be here looking after property, whilst my boy yonder is stretching out his hand and waiting for my help from some Knight of the Cross dungeon?" In truth, there was only one course, and that was: to leave Jagienka under the care of the princess and the bishop, and beg them to look after her interest. But that plan did not please Macko. The girl has already considerable property of her own, and when her estate is increased by that which the abbot has bequeathed her, then as sure as there is a God some Mazur will take her, for she cannot hold out any longer. Zych, her defunct father, used to say of her, that she was in danger[112] even then. In such case, the old knight thought that both Danusia and Jagienka might fail Zbyszko. That of course was not to be thought of. He will take one of the two, whichever God had decreed. Finally that plan to rescue Zbyszko he preferred to the others; and as to Jagienka, he resolved either to leave her in the care of Princess Danuta, or at Spychow, but not at the court at Plock where there was much glitter, and which was filled with handsome knights. Overwhelmed with these thoughts, he proceeded quickly to the dwelling of the weaver, to inform Jagienka of the abbot's death. He was determined not to break the news to her suddenly, as it might greatly endanger her health. When he reached home both ladies were properly dressed and appeared as gay as birds; he sat down and ordered the servants to bring him a jug of brown beer; then he assumed a doleful air, and said: "Do you hear the bells ringing in town? Guess, why are they ringing, since to-day is not Sunday, and you slept during matins. Would you like to see the abbot?" "Surely! What a question?" answered Jagienka. "Well, you shall see him as the king sees Cwiék."[113] "Has he left the city?" "He has left, but do you not hear the bells ringing?" "Is he dead?" exclaimed Jagienka. "Yes! say 'God rest his soul.' ..." Both ladies knelt down and began to chant: "God rest his soul," in a bell-like voice. Then tears streamed down Jagienka's cheeks, for she was very fond of the abbot, who, though of a violent temper, never harmed anybody, but did much good; he specially loved Jagienka, for he was her godfather, he loved her as one loves his own daughter. Macko remembered that the abbot was related to him and Zbyszko; he was also moved to tears and even cried. After his grief had subsided a little, he took the ladies and the Bohemian with him and went to the funeral services in the church. It was a magnificent funeral. The bishop himself, Jacob of Kurdwanow, conducted it. There were present all the priests and monks of the diocese of Plock, all the bells were ringing, and prayers were said which none else but the clergy understood, for they were said in the Latin. Then the clergy and the laity went to the banquet at the bishop's palace. Macko and his two girls (disguised as boys) also went to the banquet; he, as a relative of the deceased, and known to the bishop, was fully entitled to be present. The bishop also willingly received him as such, but immediately after the invitation he said to Macko: "There is here a bequest of some forests for the Gradys of Bogdaniec. The rest he did not bequeath to the abbey and the cloister, but to his goddaughter, a certain Jagienka of Zgorzelice." Macko, who did not expect much, was glad for the woodlands. The bishop did not observe that one of the youths accompanying the old knight at the mentioning of the name of Jagienka of Zgorzelice lifted up her tearful eyes, and said: "May God recompense him, but I wish he were alive." Macko turned and said angrily: "Be silent, otherwise you will shame yourself." But he suddenly stopped, his eyes glistened with amazement, then his face assumed wolfish fierceness, when at a distance from him opposite the door, through which the princess Alexandra had just entered, he observed the figure, dressed in court uniform, of Kuno of Lichtenstein, the very man by whom Zbyszko had nearly lost his life in Krakow. Jagienka had never seen Macko in such a condition. His face was contracted like the jaws of a fierce dog, his teeth glistened beneath his moustache, and in a moment he tightened his belt and moved toward the hateful Knight of the Cross. But when about midway he checked himself and began to pass his broad hands through his hair; he reflected in time, that Lichtenstein might only be a guest in the court of Plock, or an envoy, therefore, if he were to strike him without apparent reason, the very thing which happened to Zbyszko on his way from Tyniec to Krakow might be repeated here. Thus possessing more reason than Zbyszko, he restrained himself, adjusted the belt to its previous place, relaxed the muscles of his face and waited, and when the princess, after greeting Lichtenstein, entered into a conversation with the bishop, Macko approached her and bowed deeply. He reminded her who he was, and that he had been once engaged in the service of his benefactress as the carrier of letters. The princess did not recognize him at first, but she remembered the letters and the whole affair. She also was acquainted with the occurrences in the neighboring Mazovian court. She had heard of Jurand, of the imprisonment of his daughter, of Zbyszko's marriage, and of his deadly fight with Rotgier. These things interested her greatly, so much so that it seemed to her one of those knight-errant stories or one of the minstrel songs in Germany, and the _rybalt_ songs in Mazowsze. Indeed, the Knights of the Cross were not inimical to her, as they were to princess Anna Danuta, the wife of Prince Janusz, more especially because they wished to get her on their side, they strove to outvie each other in rendering her homage and adulation, and overwhelmed her with munificent gifts, but in the present case her heart beat for her favorite, whom she was ready to help; above all, she was glad that she had before her a man who could give her an accurate account of the events. But Macko, who had already resolved to obtain, by whatever means possible, the protection and the princely influence, seeing that she was listening attentively, told her Zbyszko's and Danusia's ill luck. The narrative brought tears to her eyes, specially when she felt more than anybody the misfortune of her niece, and from her very soul she pitied her. "I have never heard a more woeful story," said the princess, at last, "the greatest sorrow to my mind is, that he has married her, that she was already his, yet he knew no happiness. However, are you sure that he knew her not." "Hey! Almighty God!" exclaimed Macko. "If he only knew her, he was bed-ridden when he married her in the evening, and the following morning she was carried off." "And, do you think that the Knights of the Cross did it? It was said here, that those who actually did it were robbers, and the Knights of the Cross recaptured her, but it turned out to be another girl. They also spoke of a letter which Jurand had written...." "Human justice did not decide it, but divine. That was a great thing, that knight Rotgier, who conquered the strongest, fell by the hand of a comparative child." "Well, a fine child he is," said the princess, with a smile, "his valor is a safeguard in his travels. It is a grievance, true, and your complaints are just, but three out of those four opponents are dead, and the remaining old one has also, according to the information I have received, been nearly killed." "And Danuska? And Jurand?" replied Macko. "Where are they? God only knows whether something ill has happened to Zbyszko, who was on the road to Malborg." "I know, but the Knights of the Cross are not such out-and-out dog-brothers as you think them to be. In Malborg nothing evil can happen to your nephew, whilst he is at the side of the grand master and his brother Ulrych, who is an honorable knight. Your nephew undoubtedly is provided with letters from Prince Janusz. Unless whilst there he challenged one of the knights and succumbed. At Malborg there are always present a great number of the most valorous knights from all parts of the world." "Ay! My nephew does not fear them much," said the old knight. "If they only did not cast him in prison, or kill him treacherously, as long as he has an iron weapon in his hand he is not afraid of them. Only once he found himself facing one stronger than himself, but he stretched him in the lists, and that was the Mazovian Prince Henryk who was bishop here and who was enamored of the handsome Ryngalla. But Zbyszko was then a mere youth. For this reason he would be the only one, as sure as amen in prayer, to challenge this one whom I also have vowed to challenge and who is present here." Saying this, he glanced in the direction of Lichtenstein, who was conversing with the governor (Waywode) of Plock. But the princess wrinkled her brow and said in stern and dry tones, as she always did when in an angry mood: "Whether you vowed or not, you must remember that he is our guest and whosoever wishes to be our guest must observe decorum." "I know, most gracious lady," replied Macko. "For that reason when I adjusted my belt and went to meet him, I restrained myself and thought of obedience." "He will obey. He is important among his own people, even the master builds upon his counsel and nothing is denied to him. May God grant that your nephew does not meet him at Malborg, especially as Lichtenstein is a determined and revengeful person." "He could not well recognize me because he did not see me often. We had helmets on when we were at Tyniec, after that I went only once to see him in the Zbyszko affair and that was in the evening. I observed just now that he looked at me, but seeing that I was engaged in a lengthy conversation with Your Grace, he turned his eyes in an opposite direction. He would have recognized Zbyszko, but he only looked at me and very likely he did not hear of my vow, and has to think of more important challenges." "How so?" "Because it may be that other powerful knights challenged him, such as Zawisza of Garbow, Powala of Taczew, Marcin of Wrocimowice, Paszko Zlodziej, and Lis of Targowisko. Every one of those, gracious lady, and ten like them. So much the more so if they are numerous. It would be better for him not to have been born, than to have one of those swords over his head. I shall not only try to forget the challenge, but I have resolved to endeavor to go with him." "Why?" Macko's face assumed a cunning expression like that of a fox. "That he might give me a safe conduct to travel through the country belonging to the Knights of the Cross, that will enable me to render assistance to Zbyszko in case of need." "Does such proceeding deserve praise?" inquired the princess with a smile. "Yes! It does," replied Macko. "If for instance in time of war I were to attack him from the rear without warning him to face me I should disgrace myself; but in time of peace if one hangs the enemy upon a hook no knight need be reproached for such an act." "Then I will introduce you," replied the princess. She beckoned to Lichtenstein and introduced Macko; she was of opinion that even if Lichtenstein should recognize Macko nothing serious would result. But Lichtenstein did not recognize him, because when he had seen him at Tyniec he had his helmet on, and after that he had spoken to Macko only once, and that in the evening, when Macko had begged him to forgive Zbyszko. However he bowed proudly, the more so because when he saw the two exquisitely dressed youths, he thought that they were not Macko's, his face brightened up a little and he assumed a haughty demeanor as he always did when he spoke to inferiors. Then the princess pointing at Macko, said: "This knight is going to Malborg. I have given him a recommendation to the grand master, but he heard of your great influence in the Order; he would also like to have a note from you." Then she went to the bishop, but Lichtenstein fixed his cold, steely eyes upon Macko, and asked: "What motive induces you, sir, to visit our religious and sober capital?" "An upright and pious motive," replied Macko, looking at Lichtenstein. "If it were otherwise the gracious princess would not have vouched for me. But apart from pious vows, I wish also to know your grand master, who causes peace in the land and who is the most celebrated knight in the world." "Those whom your gracious and beneficent princess recommends will not complain of our poor hospitality. Nevertheless, as far as your wishes to know the master is concerned, it is not an easy matter. About a mouth ago, he left for Danzig, thence he was to go to Königsberg, and from that place proceed to the frontier, where, although a lover of peace, he is obliged to defend the property of the Order against the violence of the treacherous Witold." Hearing this, Macko was apparently so much grieved, that Lichtenstein, who noticed it, said: "I see that you were quite as anxious to see the grand master as to fulfil your religious vows." "Yes! I am, I am," replied Macko. "Is war against Witold a sure thing?" "He, himself, began it; he has sworn to help the rebels." There was silence for a moment. "Ha! May God help the Order as it deserves!" said Macko. "I see I cannot make the grand master's acquaintance; let me at least fulfil my vow." But in spite of these words, he did not know what to do, and with deep grief he asked himself: "Where shall I look for Zbyszko, and where shall I find him?" It was easy to foresee that if the grand master had left Malborg and gone to war, it was useless to look for Zbyszko there. In any case it was necessary to get the most accurate information of his whereabouts. Old Macko was very anxious about it, but he was a man of ready resource, and he resolved to lose no time, but continue his march next morning. Having obtained a letter from Lichtenstein with the aid of Princess Alexandra in whom the _comthur_ had boundless confidence, it was not a difficult task to obtain. He therefore received a recommendation to the _starosta_ of Brodnic, and to the Grand Szpitalnik of Malborg, for which he presented a silver goblet to Lichtenstein, a treasure procured in Breslau, like that which the knights were accustomed to have near their beds filled with wine, so that in case of sleeplessness they might have at hand a remedy for sleep and at the same time pleasure. This act of Macko's liberality somewhat astonished the Bohemian, who knew that the old knight was not too eager to lavish presents on anybody, especially on Germans, but Macko said: "I did it because I have vowed, and must fight him, and by no means could I do it to one who has done me some service. To recompense good with evil is not our custom." "But such a magnificent goblet! It is a pity," replied the Bohemian, apparently vexed. "Don't fear. I do nothing without premeditation," said Macko; "for if the Lord enables me to overthrow (kill) that German, I shall get back not only the goblet, but a great many good things I shall acquire with it." Then they, including Jagienka, began to take counsel among themselves concerning further action. Macko thought of leaving Jagienka and Sieciechowa with Princess Alexandra at Plock, owing to the abbot's will, which was in the possession of the bishop. But Jagienka was entirely opposed to it; she was even determined to travel by herself; there was no necessity to have a separate room for night quarters, neither to observe politeness, nor safety, and various other causes. "Surely I did not leave Zgorzelice to rusticate at Plock. The will is at the bishop's and cannot be lost, and as far as they are concerned, when it will be shown that there is need to remain on the road, it will be of greater advantage to be left in the care of Princess Anna, than with Princess Alexandra, because at the former court the Knights of the Cross are not frequent visitors, and Zbyszko is more appreciated there." Upon that Macko truly observed that reason does not belong to women, and that it is unbecoming for a girl "to command" as though she possessed reason. Nevertheless he did not persist in his opposition, and relented entirely when Jagienka had taken him aside and, with tears in her eyes, said: "You know!... God sees my heart, that every morning and evening I pray for that young lady, Danuska, and for Zbyszko's welfare. God in heaven knows it best. But you and Hlawa said that she had perished already, that she would never escape the hands of the Knights of the Cross alive. Therefore if this has to be so, then I...." Here she somewhat hesitated and tears streamed down her cheeks and she became silent. "Then I want to be near Zbyszko...." Macko was moved by the tears and words, yet he replied: "If Danusia is lost, Zbyszko will be so much grieved, that he will care for none else." "I don't wish that he should care for me, but I would like to be near him." "You know well that I should like to be myself near him as well as you do, but he would in the first instance be unmindful of you." "Let him be unmindful. But he will not be," she replied, with a smile, "for he will not know that it was myself." "He will recognize you." "He will not know me. You did not recognize me. You will tell him too that it was not I but Jasko, and Jasko is exactly like myself. You will tell him that I have grown up and it will never occur to him that it is anybody else but Jasko...." Then the old knight remembered somebody upon his knees before him and that kneeling one had the appearance of a boy; then there was no harm in it, specially that Jasko really had exactly the same face, and his hair after the last cutting had again grown up and he carried it in a net just as other noble young knights. For this reason Macko gave way, and the conversation turned to matters concerning the journey. They were to start on the following day. Macko decided to enter into the country of the Knights of the Cross, to draw near to Brodnic to get information there, and if the grand master was still, in spite of Lichtenstein's opinion, at Malborg, to proceed there, and if not there, to push on along the frontiers of the country of the Knights of the Cross in the direction of Spychow, inquiring along the road about the Polish knight and his suit. The old knight even expected that he would easily get more information of Zbyszko at Spychow, or at the court of Prince Janusz of Warsaw, than elsewhere. Accordingly, they moved on the following day. Spring was fully ushered in, so that the floods of the Skrwy and Drwency obstructed the way, so much so that it took them ten days to travel from Plock to Brodnic. The little town was orderly and clean. But one could see at a glance the German barbarity by the enormously constructed gallows,[114] which was erected out of town on the road to Gorczenice, and which was occupied by the hanging corpses of the executed, one of which was the body of a woman. Upon the watch-tower and upon the castle floated the flag with the red hand on a white field. The travelers did not find the count at home, because he was at the head of the garrison which was drafted of the neighboring noblemen, at Malborg. That information Macko got from a blind old Knight of the Cross, who was formerly the count of Brodnic, but later on he attached himself to the place and castle, and he was the last of his line. When the chaplain of the place read Lichtenstein's letter to the count, he invited Macko as his guest; he was very familiar with the Polish language, because he lived in the midst of a Polish population, and they easily carried on their conversation in that language. In the course of their conversation Macko was informed that the count had left for Malborg six weeks before, being summoned as an experienced knight to a council of war. Moreover he knew what happened in the capital. When he was asked about the young Polish knight, he had heard of such a one, he said, who at first had roused admiration because, in spite of his youthful appearance, he already appeared as a belted knight. Then he was successful at a tourney which, according to custom, the grand master ordained, for foreign guests, before his departure for the war. Little by little he even remembered that the manly and noble, yet violent brother of the master, Ulrych von Jungingen, had become very fond of the young knight and had taken him under his care, provided him with "iron letters," after which the young knight apparently departed toward the east. Macko was overjoyed at the news, because he had not the slightest doubt that the young knight was Zbyszko. It was therefore useless to go to Malborg, for although the grand master, as well as other officials of the Order, and knights who remained at Malborg might furnish more accurate information, they could by no means tell where Zbyszko actually was. On the other hand Macko himself knew better where Zbyszko might be found, and it was not difficult to suppose that he was at that moment somewhere in the neighborhood of Szczytno; or in case he had not found Danusia there, he was making research in distant eastern castles and county seats. Without losing any more time, they also moved toward the east and Szczytno. They progressed well on the road, the towns and villages were connected by highways which the Knights of the Cross, or rather the merchants of the towns, kept in good condition, and which were as good as the Polish roads, which were under the care of the thrifty and energetic King Kazimierz. The weather was excellent, the nights were serene, the days bright, and about noon a dry and warm zephyr-like wind blew which filled the human breast with health-giving air. The cornfields assumed a green hue, the meadows were covered with abundant flowers, and the pine forests began to emit a smell of rosin. Throughout the whole journey to Lidzbark, thence to Dzialdowa, and further on to Niedzborz, they did not see a single cloud. But at Niedzborz they encountered a thunderstorm at night, which was the first one of the spring, but it lasted only a short time, and in the morning it cleared up and the horizon was brightened with rosy golden hues. It was so brilliant that the land, as far as the eye could reach, appeared like one carpet brocaded with jewels. It seemed as though the whole country smiled back to the sky and rejoiced because of abundant life. In such a pleasant morning they wended their course from Niedzborz to Szczytno. It was not far from the Mazovian frontier. It was an easy matter to return to Spychow. There was a moment when Macko wanted to do it, but considering the whole matter he desired to push onward toward the terrible nest of the Knights of the Cross, in which Zbyszko's loss was terribly guarded. He then engaged a guide and ordered him to lead them directly to Szczytno; although there was no need of a guide, because the road from Niedzborz was a straight one, marked with white milestones. The guide was a few steps in advance. Behind him were Macko and Jagienka on horseback; some distance behind them were the Bohemian and Sieciechowa, and farther back were the wagons surrounded by armed men. It was an exquisite morning. The rosy glow had not yet disappeared from the horizon, although the sun had already risen and changed into opals the dewdrops upon the trees and grasses. "Are you not afraid to go to Szczytno?" asked Macko. "I am not afraid," replied Jagienka, "God is with me, because I am an orphan." "There is no faith there. The worst dog was Danveld whom Jurand killed together with Godfried.... The Bohemian told me so. The second after Danveld, was Rotgier, who succumbed by Zbyszko's axe, but the old man is a ruthless tyrant, and is sold to the devil.... They know not kindness. However, I am of opinion that if Danuska has perished she did so by his own hands. They also say that something happened to her. But the princess said in Plock that she extricated herself. It is with him that we shall have to contend at Szczytno.... It is well that we have a letter from Lichtenstein, and as it appears they, the dog-brothers, are afraid of him more than they are of the master himself.... They say that he has great authority and is particularly strict, and is very revengeful, he never forgives even the slightest offence.... Without this safe conduct I would not travel so peacefully to Szczytno...." "What is his name?" "Zygfried von Löve." "God grant that we may manage him too." "God grant it!" Macko smiled for a moment and then said: "The princess also told me in Plock: 'Ye grieve and complain like lambs against wolves, but in this instance three of the wolves are dead, because the innocent lambs strangled them.' She spoke the truth; it is actually so." "What about Danuska and her father?" "I told the princess the very same thing. But I am really glad, since it is demonstrated that it is not safe to harm us. We know already how to handle the helve of an axe, and fight with it. As to Danuska and Jurand, it is true, I think, and so does the Bohemian, that they are no more in this world, but in reality nobody can tell. I am very sorry for Jurand, for he grieved very much for his daughter, and if he perished, it was a hard death." "If such a thing is mentioned to me," said Jagienka, "I always think of papa, who also is no more." Then she lifted up her eyes and Macko nodded his head and said: "He rests with God in everlasting bliss, for there is not a better man than he was in our whole kingdom...." "Oh there was none like him, none!" sighed Jagienka. Further conversation was interrupted by the guide, who suddenly checked his stallion, turned and galloped toward Macko and shouted in a strange and frightened voice: "O, for God's sake! Look there, Sir Knight; who is there on the hillside advancing toward us?" "Who? Where?" asked Macko. "Look there! A giant or something of that kind...." Macko and Jagienka reined in their horses, looked in the direction indicated by the guide, and they indeed descried, about the middle of the hill, a figure, which appeared to be of more than human proportions. "To tell the truth the man seems to be huge," murmured Macko. Then he frowned, and suddenly spat and said: "Let the evil charm be upon the dog." "Why are you conjuring?" asked Jagienka. "Because I remember that it was on just such a fine morning when Zbyszko and I were on the road from Tyniec to Krakow we saw such a giant. They said then that it was Walgierz Wdaly. Bah! It was shown afterward that it was the lord of Taczew. Still, nothing good resulted from it. Let the evil charm be upon the dog." "This one is not a knight, because he is not on horseback," said Jagienka, straining her eyes. "I even see that he is not armed, but holds a staff in his left hand...." "And he is groping in front of him, as though it were night." "And can hardly move; surely he must be blind?" "As sure as I live, he is blind--blind!" They urged their horses forward, and in a little while they halted in front of the beggar who was slowly coming down the hill and feeling his way with his staff. He was indeed an immense old man, and appeared to them, even when they were near him, a giant. They were convinced that he was stone blind. Instead of eyes he had two red hollows. His right hand was wanting; instead of it he carried a bandage of dirty rags. His hair was white and falling down upon his shoulders, and his beard reached his belt. "He has neither food, nor companion, not even a dog, but is feeling the way by himself," exclaimed Jagienka. "For God's sake, we cannot leave him here without assistance. I do not know whether he will understand me, but I shall try to talk to him in Polish." Then she jumped from her horse and approached the beggar, and began to look for some money in her leather pouch which was suspended from her belt. The beggar, when he heard the noise and tramping of the horses, stretched his staff in front of him and lifted up his head as blind men do. "Praised be Jesus Christ," said the girl. "Do you understand, little grandfather, in the Christian fashion?" But on hearing her sweet, young voice, he trembled; a strange flush appeared on his face as though from tender emotion; he covered his hollow orbits with his eyebrows, and suddenly threw down his staff and fell on his knees, with outstretched arms, in front of her. "Get up! I will assist you. What ails you?" asked Jagienka in astonishment. But he did not reply, but tears rolled down his cheeks, and he groaned: "A!--a!--a!..." "For the love of God--Can you not say something?" "A!--a!" Then he lifted up his hand, with which he made first the sign of the cross, then passed his left hand over his mouth. Jagienka understood it not, and she looked at Macko, who said: "He seems to indicate that his tongue has been torn out." "Did they tear out your tongue?" asked the girl. "A! a! a! a!" repeated the beggar several times, nodding his head. Then he pointed with his fingers to his eyes; then he moved his left hand across his maimed right, showing that it was cut off. Then both understood him. "Who did it?" inquired Jagienka. The beggar again made signs of the cross repeatedly in the air. "The Knights of the Cross," shouted Macko. As a sign of affirmation the old man let his head drop upon his chest again. There was silence for a moment. Macko and Jagienka looked at each other with alarm, because they had now before them sufficient proof of their cruelty and the lack of means to chastise those knights who style themselves "the Knights of the Cross." "Cruel justice!" said Macko, finally. "They punished him grievously, and God knows whether deservedly. If I only knew where he belongs, I would lead him there, for surely he must be from this neighborhood. He understands our language, for the common people here are the same as in Mazowsze." "Did you understand what we said?" asked Jagienka. The beggar nodded his head. "Are you of this neighborhood?" "No!" The beggar shook his head. "Perhaps he comes from Mazowsze?" "Yes!" he nodded. "Under Prince Janusz?" "Yes!" "But what were you doing among the Knights of the Cross?" The old man could give no answer, but his face assumed an air of intense suffering, so much so that Jagienka's heart beat with greater force out of sympathy. Even Macko who was not subject to emotion, said: "I am sure the dog-brothers have wronged him. May be he is innocent." Jagienka meanwhile put some small change in the beggar's hand. "Listen," she said, "we will not abandon you. Come with us to Mazowsze, and in every village we will ask you whether it is yours. May be we shall guess it. Meanwhile, get up, for we are no saints." But he did not get up, nay, he even bowed lower and embraced her feet as much as to place himself under her protection and show his gratitude. Yet there were marks of certain astonishment, yea even disappointment on his face. May be that from the voice he thought he was in the presence of a young woman; but his hand happened to touch the cowskin gaiters which the knights and armor-bearers were accustomed to wear. But she said: "It shall be so; our wagons will soon be here, then you will rest and refresh yourself. But we are not going to take you now to Mazowsze because we must first go to Szczytno." When the old man heard this, he jumped straight up, terror and amazement were depicted on his face. He opened his arms as though desiring to obstruct their way, and strange, wild ejaculations proceeded from his throat, full of terror and dismay. "What is the matter with you?" exclaimed Jagienka, much frightened. But the Bohemian, who had already arrived with Sieciechowa, and for some time had his eyes riveted upon the old beggar, suddenly turned to Macko, and with a countenance changed, and in a strange voice, said: "For God's sake, permit me, sir, to speak to him, for you do not know who he may be." After this he begged for no further permission, but rushed toward the old man, placed his hands upon his shoulders, and asked him: "Do you come from Szczytno?" The old man appeared to be struck by the sound of his voice, quieted himself and nodded affirmatively. "Did you not look there for your child? ..." A deep groan was the only reply to this question. Then the Bohemian's face paled a little, he looked sharply for a moment at the outlines of the old man's face, then he said slowly and composedly: "Then you are Jurand of Spychow." "Jurand!" shouted Macko. But Jurand was overcome at that moment and fainted. Protracted torture, want of nourishment, fatigue of the road, swept him from his feet. The tenth day had now passed since he left, groping his way, erring and feeling his way with his stick, hungry, fatigued and not knowing where he was going, unable to ask the way, during the daytime he turned toward the warm rays of the sun, the night he passed in the ditches along the road. When he happened to pass through a village, or hamlet, or accidentally encountered people on the road, he only could beg with his hand and voice, but seldom a compassionate hand helped him, because as a rule he was taken for a criminal whom law and justice had chastised. For two days he had lived on bark and leaves of trees; he was already giving up all hope of reaching Mazowsze, when suddenly compassionate voices and hearts of his own countrymen surrounded him; one of whom reminded him of the sweet voice of his own daughter; and, when at last his own name was mentioned, he was greatly agitated and unable to bear it any longer; his heart broke. His thoughts whirled through his head; and, were it not for the strong arms of the Bohemian which supported him, he would have fallen with his face in the dust of the road. Macko dismounted, then both took hold of him, and carried him to the wagons and laid him upon the soft hay. There, Jagienka and Sieciechowa nursed him. Jagienka observed that he could not carry the cup of wine to his lips by himself so she helped him. Immediately after this he fell into a profound sleep, from which he did not awake till the third day. Meanwhile they sat down to deliberate. "To be brief," said Jagienka, "we must go now to Spychow instead of Szczytno, so that by all means we place him in security among his own people." "Look, how can that be carried out," replied Macko. "It is true that we must send him to Spychow, but there is no necessity for all of us to accompany him, one wagon is enough to carry him there." "I do not order it, I only think so, because there we might get much information from him about Zbyszko, and Danusia." "But how can you procure information from one who has no tongue?" "But the very information that he has no tongue, we got from himself. Do you not see that even without speech we got all that information necessary. How much more shall we derive when we communicate with him by motions of the head and hands? Ask him, for instance, whether Zbyszko has returned from Malborg to Szczytno. You will then see that he will either nod assent, or deny it." "It is true," said the Bohemian. "I too do not dispute it," said Macko. "I know it myself, but I am accustomed to think first and then talk." Then he ordered the train to return to the Mazovian frontier. On the way Jagienka visited now and then the wagon where Jurand slept, fearing that death might ensue. "I did not recognize him," said Macko, "but it is no wonder. He was as strong as an auroch! They said of him that he was among those who could fight with Zawisza, and now he is reduced to a skeleton." "We are accustomed to hear all sorts of things," said the Bohemian, "but nobody would believe it if they were told that Christians had acted thus with a belted knight, whose patron is also Saint Jerzy." "God grant that Zbyszko may at least avenge part of his wrongs. Now, look what a difference there is between them and us. It is true, that three out of those four dog-brothers are dead, but they died in fight, and none of them had his tongue or his eyes plucked out in captivity." "God will punish them," said Jagienka. But Macko turned to the Bohemian and said: "How did you recognize him?" "I did not recognize him at first, although I saw him later than you did. But it struck me, and the more I looked at him the more so.... Though when I first saw him he had neither beard nor white hair; he was then a very powerful lord. How then could I recognize him in the old beggar. But when the young lady said that we were going to Szczytno, and he began to howl my eyes were opened at once." Macko was absorbed in thought, then he said: "From Spychow, it is necessary to take him to the prince, who will not leave the wrong perpetrated on such an important person, unpunished." "They will excuse themselves. They treacherously abducted his child and they defended themselves. And as to the lord of Spychow they will say that he lost his tongue, eyes and hand in the fight." "You are right," said Macko. "They once carried off the prince himself. He cannot fight them, because he is no match for them; perhaps our king will assist him. The people talk and talk of a great war, but here we don't even have a little one." "He is with Prince Witold." "Thank God, that at least he thinks that they are worthless. Hey! Prince Witold is my prince! In craftiness he is unsurpassable. He is more crafty than all of them together. Those dog-brothers had him cornered once, the sword was over his head and he was about to perish, but, like a serpent, he slipped from their hands and bit them.... Be on your guard when he strikes, but be exceedingly careful when he is patting you." "Is he so with everybody?" "He is only so with the Knights of the Cross, but he is a kind and liberal prince with everybody else." At this Macko pondered, as though making an effort to recall Prince Witold. "He is an entirely different man to the prince here," he said, suddenly. "Zbyszko ought to have joined him, for under him and through him, one might achieve the most against the Knights of the Cross." Then he added: "Both of us might be found there. Who can tell? For it is there where we can revenge ourselves most properly." Then he spoke of Jurand, of his misfortunes and of the unheard of injuries, inflicted upon him by the Knights of the Cross, who first, without any cause, murdered his beloved wife, then, revenge for revenge, they carried off his child, and then mangled him in such a cruel manner, that even the Tartars could not invent worse torture. Macko and the Bohemian gnashed their teeth at the thought that even when they set him free it was with malicious intent of inflicting additional cruelty in order to frustrate the old knight's intention, who most likely promised himself that when he was free he would take proper steps to make an inquest and get information of the whole affair, and then pay them out with interest. On the journey to Spychow they passed their time in such dialogues and thoughts. The clear fine day was succeeded by a quiet starry night; they therefore did not halt for night quarters, but stopped thrice to feed the horses. It was yet dark when they passed the frontier, and in the morning, led by the hired guide, they arrived upon the land of Spychow. There Tolima apparently held everything with an iron hand, for no sooner did they enter the forest of Spychow, than two armed men advanced against them. These, seeing that the newcomers were not soldiers, but a simple train, not only let them pass without questioning, but placed themselves in front to show the way, which was inaccessible to those unacquainted with the moats and marshes. Tolima and the priest Kaleb received the guests when they arrived in town. The news that the lord had arrived, and was brought back by pious people spread like lightning through the garrison. But when they saw him in the condition as he looked when he left the Knights of the Cross, there was such an outburst of raging and wild threatening that if there had yet been any Knights of the Cross confined in the prison of Spychow, no human power would have been able to save them from a terrible death. The retainers wished to mount their horses at once and start to the frontier to capture any Germans and cut off their heads and throw them under the feet of the master. But Macko restrained them because he knew that the Germans lived in the towns and cities, whilst the country people were of the same blood, but lived against their own will under foreign superior force. But neither the din and noise nor the creaking of the well-sweeps could awake Jurand, who was carried upon a bearskin into his own house and put to bed. Father Kaleb was Jurand's intimate friend; they grew up together and loved each other like brothers; he remained with him, and prayed that the Redeemer of the world might restore to the unfortunate Jurand, his eyes, tongue, and hand. The fatigued travelers went to bed also. Macko who awoke about noon, ordered Tolima to be called. He knew from the Bohemian that Jurand, before his departure, had ordered all his servants to obey their young master, Zbyszko, and that the priest had informed him of his ownership of Spychow. Macko therefore spoke to the old man with the voice of a superior: "I am the uncle of your young master, and as long as he is away, I am the commander here." Tolima bowed his grey head, which had something wolfish, and surrounding his ear with his hand, asked: "Then you are, sir, the noble knight from Bogdaniec?" "Yes!" replied Macko. "How do you know it?" "Because the young master Zbyszko expected and inquired after you here." Hearing this, Macko stood up straight, and forgetting his dignified manner, he exclaimed: "What, Zbyszko in Spychow?" "Yes, he was here, sir; only two days ago since he left." "For the love of God! Whence did he come and where did he go?" "He came from Malborg, and on the road he was at Szczytno. He did not say where he was going." "He did not say, eh?" "May be he told the priest Kaleb." "Hey! Mighty God, then we crossed each other on the road," he said, putting his hands on his ribs. But Tolima put his hand to the other ear: "What did you say, sir?" "Where is Father Kaleb?" "He is at the bedside of the old master." "Call him, but stop ... I will go myself to see him." "I will call him," said Tolima, and he left. But before he brought the priest, Jagienka entered. "Come here," said Macko. "Do you know the news? Zbyszko was here only two days ago." Her face changed in a moment and she almost tottered. "He was, and left?" she asked, with quickly beating heart. "Where to?" "It is only two days since he left, but where to I do not know. May be the priest knows." "We must go after him," she said, peremptorily. After a while Father Kaleb entered. Thinking that Macko wanted him for information concerning Jurand, he anticipated his question by saying: "He is still asleep." "I heard that Zbyszko was here?" said Macko. "He was, but he left two days ago." "Where to?" "He did not know himself.... Searching.... He left for the frontier of Zmudz, where there is war now." "For the love of God, tell us, father, what you know about him!" "I only know what I heard from himself. He was at Malborg. May be he obtained protection there. Because with the order of the master's brother, who is the first among the knights, Zbyszko could search in all castles." "For Jurand and Danuska?" "Yes; but he does not search for Jurand, because he was told that he was dead." "Tell us from the beginning." "Immediately, but let me first catch breath and regain presence of mind, for I come from another world." "How so?" "From that world which cannot be reached on horseback, but through prayer.... I prayed at the feet of the Lord Jesus that He may have mercy upon Jurand." "You have asked for a miracle. Have you that power?" asked Macko, with great curiosity. "I have no power whatever, but I have a Saviour, who, if He wished, could restore to Jurand his eyes, tongue and hand...." "If He only wanted to do so He could," replied Macko. "Nevertheless you asked for an impossible thing." Father Kaleb did not reply; possibly because he did not hear it; his eyes were still closed, as if absent-minded, and in reality it was obvious that he was meditating on his prayer. Then he covered his eyes with his hands and remained so for a while in silence. Finally he shook himself, rubbed his eyes with his hands, and said: "Now, ask." "In what manner did Zbyszko attack the Justice of Sambinsk?" "He is no more the Justice of Sambinsk...." "Never mind that.... You understand what I am asking; tell me what you know about it." "He fought at a tourney. Ulrych liked to fight in the arena. There were many knights, guests at Malborg, and the master ordered public games. Whilst Ulrych was on horseback the strap of the saddle broke and it would have been an easy matter for Zbyszko to throw him from his horse; but he lowered his spear to the ground and even assisted him." "Hey! You see!" exclaimed Macko, turning toward Jagienka. "Is this why Ulrych likes him?" "This is the reason of his love for Zbyszko. He refused to tilt against him with sharp weapons, neither with the lance, and has taken a liking to him. Zbyszko related his trouble to him, and he, being zealous of his knightly honor, fell into a great passion and led Zbyszko to his brother, the master, to lodge a complaint. May God grant him redemption for this deed, for there are not many among them who love justice. Zbyszko also told me that de Lorche, owing to his position and wealth, was of much help to him, and testified for him in everything." "What was the result of that testimony?" "It resulted in the vigorous order of the grand master to the _comthur_ of Szczytno, to send at once to Malborg all the prisoners who were confined in Szczytno, including even Jurand. Concerning Jurand, the _comthur_ replied that he had died from his wounds and was buried there in the church-yard. He sent the other prisoners, including a milkmaid, but our Danusia was not among them." "I know from the armor-bearer Hlawa," said Macko, "that Rotgier, whom Zbyszko killed whilst at the court of Prince Janusz, also spoke in the same manner about a certain milkmaid whom they captured whom they took for Jurand's daughter, but when the princess asked: 'How could they mistake Danusia for a common girl, since they knew and had seen the true one, Danusia?'" "You are right," he replied, "but I thought they had forgotten the real Danusia." "This same thing the _comthur_ had written to the master that that girl was not a prisoner but she was under their care, that they had at first rescued her from the robbers, who had sworn that she was Jurand's daughter, but transformed." "Did the master believe it?" "He did not know whether to believe or not, but Ulrych was more incensed than ever, and influenced his brother to send an official of the Order with Zbyszko to Szczytno, which was done. When they arrived at Szczytno, they did not find the old _comthur_, because he had departed to the eastern strongholds against Witold, to the war; but a subordinate, whom the magistrate ordered to open all prisons and underground dungeons. They searched and searched, but found nothing. They even detained people for information. One of them told Zbyszko that he could get much information from the chaplain, because the chaplain understood the dumb executioner. But the old _comthur_ had taken the executioner with him, and the chaplain left for Königsberg to attend a religious gathering.... They met there often in order to lodge complaints against the Knights of the Cross to the pope, because even the poor priests were oppressed by them...." "I am only surprised that they did not find Jurand," observed Macko. "It is obvious that the old _comthur_ let him go. There was more wickedness in that than if they had cut his throat. They wished that he should suffer excruciatingly more than a man of his standing could endure.--Blind, dumb and maimed.--For God's sake!... He could neither find his home, nor the road, not even ask for a morsel of bread.... They thought that he would die somewhere behind a fence from hunger, or be drowned in some river.... What did they leave him? Nothing, but the means of discerning the different degrees of misery. And this meant torture upon torture.... He might have been sitting somewhere near the church, or along the road, and Zbyszko passed by without recognizing him. May be he even heard Zbyszko's voice, but he could not hail him.... Hey!... I cannot keep myself from weeping!... God wrought a miracle, and that is the reason why I think that He will do a great deal more, although this prayer proceeds from my sinful lips." "What else did Zbyszko say? Where did he go to?" asked Macko. "He said: 'I know that Danuska was at Szczytno, but they have carried her off, or starved her. Old von Löve did it, and so help me God, I will not rest until I get him.'" "Did he say so? Then it is sure that the _comthur_ left for the east, but now there is war." "He knew that there was a war, and that is the cause why he left for the camp of Prince Witold. He also said, he would succeed sooner in scoring a point against the Knights of the Cross through him, than through the king." "So, to Prince Witold!" exclaimed Macko. Then he turned to Jagienka. "Did I not tell you the very same thing. As I live, I said: 'that we should also have to go to Witold.' ..." "Zbyszko hoped," said Father Kaleb, "that Prince Witold would make an inroad into Prussia and take some of the castles there." "If time were given to him, he would not delay," replied Macko. "Praise God now, we know at least where to look for Zbyszko." "We must press on at once," said Jagienka. "Silence!" said Macko. "It is not becoming for a boy to interrupt the council." Then he stared at her, as though to remind her that she was a boy; she remembered and was silent. Macko thought for awhile, and said: "Now we shall surely find Zbyszko, for he is not moving aimlessly; he is at the side of Prince Witold. But it is necessary to know whether he is still searching for something in this world, besides the heads of the Knights of the Cross which he vowed to get." "How can that be ascertained?" asked Father Kaleb. "If we knew that the priest of Szczytno had already returned from the synod. I should like to see him," said Macko. "I have letters from Lichtenstein to Szczytno and I can go there without fear." "It was not a synod gathering, but a congress," replied Father Kaleb, "and the chaplain must have returned long ago." "Very well. Everything is upon my own shoulders. I shall take Hlawa with me, and two servants, with proper horses and go." "Then to Zbyszko?" asked Jagienka. "Then to Zbyszko," replied Macko. "But you must wait for me here until I return. I also think that I shall not be detained there for more than three or four days. I am accustomed to mosquitoes and fatigue. Therefore, I ask you, Father Kaleb, to give me a letter to the chaplain of Szczytno. He will believe me without hesitation if I show your letter, for there is always great confidence among the clergy." "The people speak well of that priest," said Father Kaleb, "and if there is one who knows something, it is he." He prepared a letter in the evening, and in the morning, before sunrise, old Macko left Spychow. CHAPTER V. Jurand awoke from his long sleep in the presence of the priest; he forgot what had happened to him and where he was; he began to feel around in bed and at the wall. The priest caught him in his arms and wept, tenderly kissing him, and said: "It is I! You are at Spychow! Brother Jurand!... God tried you.... But you are now among your own.... Good people brought you here. Brother, dear brother, Jurand." Then he repeatedly pressed him to his breast, kissed his brow and his hollow eyes; but Jurand appeared to be stupefied and unconscious. At last he moved his left hand toward his head and brow as though wishing to dispel the cloud of sleep and stupor from his mind. "Do you hear and understand me?" asked Father Kaleb. Jurand moved his head affirmatively. Then he stretched his hand toward the silver crucifix on the wall which he had once taken from the neck of a powerful German knight, pressed it to his lips and heart and then gave it to Father Kaleb. "I understand you, brother!" said the priest. "He remained with you. He is able to restore to you all you lost, just as He delivered you from captivity." Jurand pointed with his hand heavenward, a sign that all will there be returned to him. Then his hollow eyes were filled with tears, and an indescribable pain was depicted upon his tortured face. Father Kaleb having observed his painful emotion concluded that Danuska was dead. He therefore knelt at the bedside and said: "O Lord! Grant her eternal rest in peace, and everlasting bliss be hers. Amen." Then Jurand lifted himself up and began to twist his head and move his hand as though wishing to check the priest, but the priest did not understand. At that moment old Tolima entered, and with him were the garrison of the town, the former and present elders of the peasants of Spychow, foresters, fishermen, etc., because the news of Jurand's return had rapidly spread throughout Spychow. They embraced his feet, kissed his hand and bitterly wept when they saw the old and maimed cripple who looked like another being, not in the least the once invincible knight, the terror of the Knights of the Cross. But some of them, especially those who used to accompany him on his expeditions, were enraged; their faces grew pale and determined. After a while they crowded together and whispered, pulled, and pushed each other. Finally, a certain Sucharz, a member of the garrison and village blacksmith, approached Jurand, clasped his feet and said: "We intended to go to Szczytno, as soon as they brought you here, but that knight, who brought you, hindered us. Permit us, sir, now. We cannot leave them unpunished. Let it be now as it was long ago. They shall not disgrace us and remain scathless. We used to fight them under your command. Now we will march under Tolima, or without him. We must conquer Szczytno and shed the dog-blood. So help us God!" "So help us God!" repeated several voices. "To Szczytno!" "We must have blood!" Forthwith a burning fire took hold of the inflammable Mazur hearts, their brows began to wrinkle, their eyes to glisten. Here and there was heard the sound of gnashing teeth. But in a moment the noise ceased, and all eyes were turned toward Jurand, whose cheeks reddened and he assumed his wonted warlike appearance. He rose and again felt for the crucifix upon the wall. The people thought that he was looking for a sword. He found it and took it down. His face paled, he turned toward the people, lifted his hollow eyes heavenward and moved the crucifix in front of him. Silence reigned. It was beginning to get dark; the twittering of birds retiring upon the roofs and trees of the village, penetrated through the open windows. The last red rays of the setting sun penetrated into the room and fell upon the raised cross and upon Jurand's white hair. Sucharz, the blacksmith, looked at Jurand, glanced at his comrades and looked again at Jurand. Finally, he bid them good-bye and left the room on tiptoe. The others followed suit. When they reached the courtyard they halted, and the following whispered conversation ensued: "What now?" "We are not going. How then?" "He did not permit." "Leave vengeance with God. It is obvious that even his soul has undergone a change." It was so indeed. Those who remained were Father Kaleb and old Tolima. Jagienka with Sieciechowa, who were attracted by the armed crowd in the courtyard, came to learn what was the matter. Jagienka, who was more daring and sure of herself than her companion, approached Jurand. "God help you, Knight Jurand," she said. "We are those who brought you here from Prussia." His face brightened at the sound of her young voice. It was obvious that it brought back to his mind in proper order all the events which had happened upon the road from Szczytno, because he showed his thankfulness by inclining his head and placing his hand upon his chest several times. Then she related to him how they first met him, how Hlawa, the Bohemian, who was Zbyszko's armor-bearer, recognized him, and finally how they brought him to Spychow. She also told him about herself, that she and her companion bore a sword, helmet and shield for the knight Macko of Bogdaniec, the uncle of Zbyszko, who left Bogdaniec to find his nephew, and now he had left for Szczytno and would return to Spychow within three or four days. At the mention of Szczytno, Jurand did not fall down nor was he overcome as he was when upon the road to that place, but great trouble was depicted upon his face. But Jagienka assured him that Macko was as clever as he was manly, and would not let himself be fooled by anybody. Besides that, he possessed letters from Lichtenstein, which enabled him to travel in safety everywhere. These words quieted him considerably. It was obvious that he wished to get information about many other things. But as he was unable to do it, he suffered in his soul. This the clever girl at once observed and said; "We shall often, talk about things. Then everything will be told." Then he smiled and stretched out his hand and placed it upon her head for a while; it seemed he was blessing her. He thanked her indeed very much, but as a matter of fact he was touched by the youthful voice like the warbling of a bird. When he was not engaged in prayer, as he was almost all day, or asleep, he wished to have her near him, and when she was not there, he yearned to hear her speak, and endeavored by all means in his power to call the attention of the priest and Tolima that he wished to have that delightful boy near him. She came often, because her tender heart sincerely pitied him. Besides that, she passed the time in waiting for Macko, whose stay at Szcytno seemed to her uncommonly long. He was to return within three days, and now the fourth and fifth have passed by and it is already the evening of the sixth, and he has not yet returned. The alarmed girl was ready to ask Tolima to send a searching party, when suddenly the guard upon the watch-oak signalled the approach of some horsemen, and in a few moments was heard the tramp of the horses upon the drawbridge, and Hlawa accompanied by a courier appeared in the courtyard. Jagienka who had left her room, to watch in the courtyard before their arrival, rushed toward Hlawa before he dismounted. "Where is Macko?" she asked, with beating heart and alarmed. "He went to Prince Witold, and he ordered you to stay here." CHAPTER VI. When Jagienka realized the import of Macko's message, that she was to remain at Spychow, she was almost stunned. Grief and anger rendered her speechless for a while, and with wide opened eyes she stared at the Bohemian, which told him how unwelcome was the information he brought her. He therefore said: "I should also like to inform you, what we heard at Szczytno. There is much and important news." "Is it from Zbyszko?" "No, from Szczytno. You know...." "Let the servant unsaddle the horses, and you come with me." The order was executed and they went into her room. "Why does Macko leave us here? Why must we remain at Spychow, and why did you return here?" she asked in one breath. "I returned," replied Hlawa, "because the knight Macko ordered me. I wished to go to the war, but an order is an order. Knight Macko told me thus: 'Return, take care of the lady of Zgorzelice, and wait for news from me. You may have to escort her to Zgorzelice, since she cannot go there by herself.'" "For the love of God, tell me what happened! Did they find Jurand's daughter? Has Macko gone there to search for Zbyszko? Did you see her? Have you spoken to her? Why have you not brought her with you? Where is she now?" Hearing such an avalanche of questions, the Bohemian bowed to the girl's feet and said: "Let it not displease your grace if I do not reply to all questions at once, for it is impossible for me to do so, but, I shall if nothing hinders, endeavor to answer them one by one in the order according as they were put." "Well, did they find her?" "No, but there is sure information that she was at Szczytno, and that she was probably removed to a distant castle in the east." "But why must we remain at Spychow?" "Bah! If she were found?... It is true, as your grace is aware.... There would be no reason for remaining here...." Jagienka was silent, only her cheeks reddened. But the Bohemian said; "I thought and am still of the opinion, that we shall not be able to rescue her alive from the talons of those dog-brothers. But everything is in God's hands. I must relate to you from the beginning. We arrived at Szczytno. Well. Knight Macko showed Lichtenstein's letter to the bailiff, who kissed the seal in our presence, and received us as guests. He did not suspect us in the least and had full confidence in us, so that if we had had a few of our men in the neighborhood we could easily have taken possession of the castle. There was no hindrance to our interview with the priest. We conversed for two nights; we informed ourselves of strange things which the priest got from the executioner." "But the executioner is dumb." "He is, but the priest speaks to him by signs, and he understands him perfectly well. They are strange things. It must have been the finger of God. That executioner cut off Jurand's hand, tore out his tongue, and put out his eyes. That executioner is such that where men are concerned he would not shrink from inflicting any torture, even if he were ordered to pull the teeth of the victim; but, where girls are concerned, he would not lift up his hand to kill them, or to assist in torturing them. The reason for this determination is, because he too had an only daughter whom he loved dearly, and whom the Knights of the Cross have...." Here Hlawa stopped; he knew not how to continue his narrative. This Jagienka observed, and she said: "What do I care about the executioner?" "Because this is in order," he replied. "When our young master quartered the knight Rotgier the old _comthur_ Zygfried almost raved. They said at Szczytno that Rotgier was the _comthur's_ son. The priest confirmed the story, that no father ever loved his son as much as Zygfried loved Rotgier; for his thirst for vengeance he sold his soul to the devil. All this the executioner saw. The _comthur_ talked with the slain Rotgier, as I am talking to you, and the corpse smiled; then he gnashed his teeth, and for joy he licked his livid lips with his black tongue when the old _comthur_ promised him Zbyszko's head. But as he could not then get Zbyszko, he ordered Jurand to be tortured in the meanwhile and then placed Jurand's tongue and hand in Rotgier's coffin, who began to devour it...." "It is terrible to hear. In the name of the Father, Son and Holy Ghost, amen," said Jagienka. Then she got up and threw a log of wood on the fire because it was night already. "How," continued Hlawa, "how will it be in the day of judgment? Because then everything belonging to Jurand must be restored to him. But that surpasses human understanding. The executioner then saw everything. Gorged with human flesh, the old _comthur_ went to take Jurand's daughter, because the other, it seems, whispered to him that he wanted to drink innocent human blood, after his meal. But the executioner, as I have already told you, who did everything, but would not hurt or kill a girl, placed himself upon the staircase.... The priest said that otherwise the executioner is stupid and half a brute, but in that matter he was wide awake, and when necessary he has no equal in cunning. He sat on the stairs and waited, until the _comthur_ arrived and heard the breathing of the executioner. He saw something shining and started back for he thought it was the devil. The executioner struck him in the neck with his fist, so that he thought the bones were completely shattered. He did not die, but fainted, and became sick with fright. When he recovered, he was afraid to repeat this attempt upon Jurandowna." "But they have carried her off." They have, but they have taken the executioner with her. The _comthur_ did not know that it was he who defended Jurandowna. He thought that some supernatural power, good or evil, did it. He had taken the executioner with him and would not leave him at Szczytno. He was afraid of his testimony, for although dumb, he could in case of a trial testify by signs that which he told the priest. Moreover, the priest finally told Macko that old Zygfried no more threatens Jurandowna, because he is afraid; and although he ordered somebody else to harm her, nothing will happen to her as long as Diedrich lives; he will not permit it, especially as he has already protected her once." "But does the priest know where they have taken her?" "Not exactly, but he heard them talk of a certain place called Ragniec, which castle is situated not far from the Lithuanian or Zmudz frontiers." "What did Macko say concerning that?" "Pan Macko told me the following day: 'If it is so, then I can and will find her, but I must hasten to Zbyszko, to see that he is not entrapped by them through Jurandowna as they did with Jurand. They have only to tell him that if he comes by himself they will give her up to him and he would not hesitate to go; then old Zygfried would wreak his vengeance upon him, for the death of Rotgier, in unheard-of tortures.'" "True! It is true!" exclaimed Jagienka, alarmed. "If that is the reason of his hurried departure, then he is right." But after a moment she turned to Hlawa and said: "Nevertheless he made a mistake in sending you here. There is no need to guard us here. Old Tolima can do it as well. You, being strong and intrepid, could be of much help to Zbyszko there." "But who would guard you in case you were to go to Zgorzelice?" "In such a case they would have to convey the news by somebody; they will do it through you. You will precede them and take us home." The Bohemian kissed her hand, and asked, with emotion: "But during the time of your sojourn here?" "God watches over orphans! I shall remain here." "Will you not find it tedious? What will you do here?" "I shall ask the Lord Jesus to restore happiness to Zbyszko and keep all of you in good health." Then she burst out weeping, and the armor-bearer bowed again at her feet, and said: "You are indeed like an angel in heaven." CHAPTER VII. But she wiped away her tears, took the armor-bearer with her and went to Jurand to tell him the news. She found him in a bright room, the tame she-wolf at his feet, sitting with Father Kaleb, old Tolima and Sieciechowa. Supporting their heads with their hands, absorbed in thought, and sorrowful, they were listening to a poem which the village beadle, who was also the _rybalt_, accompanied by his lute, sang of Jurand's former exploits against the "abominable Knights of the Cross." The room was lit up by the moon. A very warm and quiet night followed a scorching day. The windows were open, and beetles from the linden in the courtyard, were seen crawling upon the floor. In front of the fireplace, where there were yet glimmering a few embers, sat the servant sipping a mixture of hot mead, wine and spices. The _rybalt_, or beadle, and servant of Father Kaleb, was about to begin another song, entitled "The Happy Encounter." "Jurand is riding, riding, upon a chestnut-colored horse," when Jagienka entered and said: "The Lord Jesus be praised!" "Forever and ever," replied Father Kaleb. Jurand sat in an armchair, with his elbows upon the arms, but when he heard her voice he immediately turned toward her, and began to greet her, nodding his milk white head. "Zbyszko's armor-bearer has arrived from Szczytno," said the girl, "and has brought news from the priest. Macko will not return to this place. He went to Prince Witold." "Why will he not return here?" asked Father Kaleb. Then she told all she had heard from the Bohemian. She related how Zygfried avenged himself for Rotgier's death; how the old _comthur_ intended to destroy Danusia for Rotgier to drink her innocent blood; and how the executioner defended her. She even told them of Macko's hopes to find Danusia, with Zbyszko's assistance, rescue her, bring her to Spychow; and for that very reason he had gone to Zbyszko and ordered her to remain here. Be it from grief or sorrow her voice trembled at the end. When she finished, silence prevailed for a while in the room and only the chirping of the crickets, from the linden in the courtyard, penetrated through the open windows and sounded like a heavy rainfall. All eyes were directed toward Jurand, who with closed eyelids and head bent backward, showed no sign of life. "Do you hear?" finally asked the priest. But Jurand kept on bending his head, lifted up his left hand and pointed toward the sky. The light of the moon fell directly upon his face, upon the white hair, upon the blind eyes; and there was depicted in that face such indescribable suffering, together with complete hope and resignation in God's will, that it appeared to all present that he only saw with his soul which was freed from the fetters of the body, and had renounced once for all earthly life, in which nothing was left for him. Silence again reigned and the noise of the crickets was still audible. But almost with filial love, Jagienka was suddenly overcome with great pity for the unhappy old man. At the first impulse she rushed to his side, grasped his hand and covered it with kisses and tears. "And I too am an orphan!" she exclaimed, with swelling heart. "I am not a boy, but am Jagienka of Zgorzelice. Macko took me in order to protect me from bad people. Now I shall remain with you until God restores Danusia to you." Jurand was not at all surprised; he seemed to know it already; he only took hold of her and pressed her to his breast, and she continued to kiss his hand and spoke in a broken and sobbing voice: "I will remain with you. Danuska will return.... Then I shall return to Zgorzelice. God protects the orphans! The Germans have also killed my father. But your beloved one is alive and will return. Grant this, O most merciful God! Grant this, O most holy and compassionate Mother!..." Then Father Kaleb suddenly knelt and with a solemn voice began to pray: "Lord have mercy upon us!" "Christ have mercy upon us!" immediately responded the Bohemian and Tolima. Then all knelt down, because it was the Litany, which is not only said at the moment of death, but also for the delivery of dear and near persons from the danger of death. Jagienka knelt; Jurand slipped down from his seat and knelt, and all began to pray in chorus: "Lord have mercy upon us!" "Christ have mercy upon us!" "O God the Father in Heaven, have mercy upon us!" "Son of God, Redeemer of the world, have mercy upon us!" Their praying voices, "Have mercy upon us!" were mingled with the chirping of the crickets. The tame she-wolf suddenly got up from the bearskin upon which she was crouching, in front of Jurand, approached the open window, supported herself upon the sill, turned her triangular jaws toward the moon and howled in a low and plaintive voice. END OF PART SIXTH. PART SEVENTH CHAPTER I. To a certain extent the Bohemian adored Jagienka, but his love for the charming Sieciechowna was on the increase, nevertheless his young and brave heart caused him to be eager above all for war. He returned to Spychow with Macko's message, in obedience to his master, and therefore he felt a certain satisfaction that he would be protected by both masters, but when Jagienka herself told him what was the truth, that there was none to oppose him in Spychow and that his duty was to be with Zbyszko, he gladly assented. Macko was not his immediate authority. It was therefore an easy matter to justify himself before him, that he had left Spychow at the command of his mistress to go to Zbyszko. But Jagienka did it purposely, that the valiant and clever armor-bearer might always be of assistance to Zbyszko and save him in many dangerous situations. He had already shown his ability at the prince's hunting party in which Zbyszko nearly perished from the attack of a urus; much more so would he be useful in war, specially such as the present one on the Zmudz frontier. Glowacz was so eager for the field, that when he left Jurand with Jagienka he embraced her feet and said: "I desire to kneel before you at once and beg you for a good word for my journey." "How is that?" asked Jagienka. "Do you want to go to-day?" "Early to-morrow, so that the horses may rest during the night, for the expedition to Zmudz is very far." "Then go so that you may easily overtake Macko." "It will be a hard task. The old gentleman is hardy in all kinds of toil, and he is several days ahead of me. In order to shorten my way I shall have to travel through Prussia, through pathless forests. Pan Macko has letters from Lichtenstein which he can show when necessary; but I have nothing to show, I shall therefore be obliged to make a free road for myself." Then he placed his hand upon his sword. At that Jagienka exclaimed: "Be careful! It is necessary to travel as fast as possible, but on the other hand you must be careful to avoid being caught and imprisoned by the Knights of the Cross. Also be careful whilst you are in the wild forests, for there are just now all kinds of gods whom the people of that land who have not been converted to Christianity worship. I remember what Macko and Zbyszko said about them in Zgorzelice." "I too remember what they said about those gods, but I am not afraid of them; they are puny things and no gods, and they have no power whatever. I shall manage them as well as the Germans whom I shall meet in the field and make it hot for them." "But you can't kill gods! Tell me, what did you hear of them among the Germans?" Then the discreet Bohemian wrinkled his brow, stopped for a moment, and said: "Killing or no killing, we informed ourselves of everything, specially Pan Macko, who is cunning and able to circumvent every German. He asks for one thing or another, or pretends to salute, and says nothing that might betray him, and whatever he says is to the point and draws his information as the angler draws out the fish. If your grace will listen patiently I will tell you: Some years ago, Prince Witold planned an expedition against the Tartars, but wished to be at peace with the Germans; he therefore ceded to them the province of Zmudz. Then there was great friendship and peace. He allowed them to build castles. Bah, he even assisted them. They, including the master, met at an island, where they ate, drank and showed each other much friendship. They were even permitted to hunt in those wild forests. When the poor people of Zmudz rose in arms against the rule of the Order, Prince Witold helped the Germans with his own soldiers. The people throughout Lithuania murmured that the prince was against his own blood. All this the under-bailiff of Szczytno related to us; he praised the courts of the Knights of the Cross in Zmudz because they sent priests to that country to convert the people to Christianity and feed them in time of dearth. Something of that kind was done, for the grand master, who fears God more than the others, ordered it. But instead of it, they gathered together the children and sent them to Prussia, and they outraged the women in the presence of their husbands and brothers; whoever dared to oppose it was hanged. This, lady, is the cause of the present war." "And Prince Witold?" "The prince had his eyes shut for a long time to the wrongs of the oppressed people of Zmudz, and he loved the Knights of the Cross. It is not long since the princess, his wife, went to Prussia to visit Malborg. They received her with great pomp, as though she were the queen of Poland. That happened quite recently! They showered gifts upon her, and gave numerous tourneys, feasts, and all kinds of fètes wherever she went. The people thought that it would result in everlasting friendship between the Knights of the Cross and Prince Witold. But suddenly his heart was changed...." "This confirms what I heard from my lamented father and Macko more than once, that the prince often changed his heart." "Not often toward the upright, but frequently toward the Knights of the Cross, owing to the very reason that they themselves keep no faith, and are unreliable in everything. They asked him to give up deserters to them. His reply was that he would give up only those of ill repute, but free men he would not, because, as such, they were entitled to live wherever they chose. Just now they are soured and engaged in writing letters, complaining against each other. The people of Zmudz, now in Germany, heard of it; they left the garrisons, stirred up the people in the small castles, and now they make raids in Prussia itself and Prince Witold not only does not hinder them any longer, but he also laughs at the German trouble, and assists the Zmudzians secretly." "I understand," said Jagienka. "But if he assists them secretly, open war is not yet declared." "There is open war with the Zmudz people, but as a matter of fact there is also war against Prince Witold. Germans are coming from all parts of the country to defend their strongholds on the frontier and are contemplating a great expedition to invade Zmudz. But they cannot execute it before the winter season arrives, because it is a swampy country and impossible for them to fight in, and where a Zmudz warrior could pass, a German knight would stick fast. Winter, therefore, would be favorable to the Germans. As soon as it begins to freeze, the whole German forces will move, but Prince Witold will come to the aid of the Zmudz people. He will come with the permission of the king of Poland, since the king is the head of all great princes and, above all, Lithuania." "Then there will be war against the king?" "The people here, as well as in Germany, say that there will be war. The Knights of the Cross are probably now collecting forces in all courts, with cowls upon their heads like thieves. For every Knight of the Cross knows that the king's army is no joke, and, most likely, the Polish knights would easily vanquish them." Jagienka sighed, and said: "A boy is always more happy than a girl is. Here is proof of what I say. You will go to the war, as Zbyszko and Macko went, and we shall remain here, in Spychow." "How can it be otherwise, lady? It is true that you remain here, but perfectly secure. The name of Jurand I have learned in Szczytno, is still a terror to the Germans, and if they learn that he is now at Spychow they will be terrified at once." "We know that they will not dare to come here, because the swamps and old Tolima defend this place, but it will be hard to sit here without news." "I will let you know if anything occurs. Even before we departed for Szczytno, two good young noblemen volunteered to start for the war. Tolima was unable to prevent it, because they are noblemen and come from Lenkawice. We shall now depart together and if anything occurs, one of them will be sent to you with the news." "May God reward you. I have always known that you are wise in any adventure, but for your willingness and good heart toward me I shall thank you as long as I live." Then the Bohemian knelt upon one knee and said: "I have had nothing but kindness from you. Pan Zych captured me near Boleslawce, when I was a mere boy, and set me free without any ransom. But I preferred captivity under you to freedom. God grant that I might shed my blood for you, my lady." "God lead you and bring you back!" replied Jagienka, holding out her hand to him. But he preferred to bow to her knees and kiss her feet to honor her the more. Then he lifted up his head and said submissively and humbly: "I am a simple boy, but I am a nobleman and your faithful servant. Give me therefore some token of remembrance for my journey. Do not refuse me this request; war time is approaching and I take Saint Jerzy to witness that I shall always try to be one of those in front, but never in the rear." "What kind of souvenir do you ask for?" "Girdle me with a strip of cloth for the road, so that if I fall in the field my pain may be lessened in having, when dying, the belt you fastened round my body." Then he bowed again at her feet, folded his arms and gazed into her eyes imploringly. But Jagienka's face assumed a troubled look, and after a while she replied as if with involuntary bitterness: "O, my dear! Ask me not for that, my girdling will be of no use to you. Whoever is happy can impart happiness to you. Only such an one can bring you fortune. But I, surely, have nothing but sorrow! Alas! I can give happiness neither to you nor others; for that which I do not possess myself I cannot impart to others. I feel so, Hlawa. There is nothing, now, for me in the world, so, so that...." Then she suddenly ceased, because she knew that if she said another word it would cause her to burst into tears, even so her eyes became clouded. But the Bohemian was greatly moved, because he understood that it would be equally bad for her, in case she had to return to Zgorzelice and be in the neighborhood of the rapacious villains Cztan and Wilk: or to remain in Spychow, where sooner or later Zbyszko might come with Danusia. Hlawa seemed to understand Jagienka's troubles, but he had no remedy for them. He therefore embraced her knees again and repeated. "Oh! I will die for you! I will die!" "Get up!" she said. "Let Sieciechowna gird you for the war, or let her give you some other keepsake, because you have been friends for some time past." Then she began to call her, and Sieciechowna entered from the neighboring room immediately. She had heard before she entered, but she dared not enter although she burned with desire to take leave of the handsome armor-bearer. She therefore was frightened and confused, and her heart was beating violently when she entered; her eyes were glistening with tears, and with lowered eyelashes she stood before him; she looked like an apple blossom, and could not utter a single word. Hlawa worshipped Jagienka, but with deepest respect, and he dared not reach her even in mind. He often thought familiarly about Sieciechowna because the blood in his veins coursed rapidly at the very sight of her and he could not withstand the presence of her charms. But now his heart was taken by her beauty, especially when he beheld her confusion and tears, through which he saw affection as one sees the golden bed of a crystal stream. He therefore turned toward her and said: "Do you know that I am going to war. Perchance I shall perish. Will you be sorry for me?" "I shall feel very sorry for you!" replied the girl, in soft tones. Then she shed copious tears as she was always ready to do. The Bohemian was moved and began to kiss her hands, smothering his desire for more familiar kisses in the presence of Jagienka. "Gird him or give him something else as a memento for the road, so that he may fight under your colors and in your name." But Sieciechowna had nothing to give him, because she was attired in boy's clothes. She searched for something but found neither ribbon, nor anything that could be fastened, because her women's dresses were still packed up in the baskets, which had not been touched since they left Zgorzelice. She was therefore greatly perplexed until Jagienka came to her rescue by advising her to give him the little net upon her head. "My God!" Hlawa joyously exclaimed, "let it be the net, attach it to the helmet, and woe betide that German who attempts to reach it." Then Sieciechowna took it down with both hands and immediately her bright golden hair fell upon her shoulders and arms. At the sight of her beautiful disheveled hair, Hlawa's face changed, his cheeks flamed and then paled. He took the net, kissed it, and hid it in his breast. Then he embraced Jagienka's feet once more, and did the same, though a little more strongly than was necessary, to Sieciechowna. Then with the words: "Let it be so," he left the house without another word. Although he was about to travel and in want of rest, he did not go to sleep. With his two companions who were to accompany him to Zmudz, he drank throughout the whole night. But he was not intoxicated, and at the first ray of light he was already in the courtyard where the horses were ready for the journey. From the membrane window above the carriage house two blue eyes were looking upon the courtyard. When the Bohemian observed them, he wished to approach and show the net which he had attached to his helmet, then wish her good-bye once more, but Father Kaleb and old Tolima, who came to give him advice for his journey, interrupted him. "Go first to the court of Prince Janusz," said the priest. "Perhaps Pan Macko stopped there. At all events, you will get there proper information; you will find there numerous acquaintances. Also the road there to Lithuania is known, and it is not difficult there to procure guides for the wilderness. If you are indeed bent on seeing Pan Zbyszko, then do not go directly to Zmudz, for there is the Prussian reservation, but go via Lithuania. Remember that the Zmudzians themselves might kill you even before you could shout to them who you were. But it is quite a different matter in Lithuania in the direction where Prince Witold is. Finally, may God bless you, and those two knights. May you return in good health and bring the child with you. I shall daily lie prostrate before the cross from vespers to the rising of the first star in prayer for this cause." "I thank you, father, for your blessing," replied Hlawa. "It is not an easy task to rescue one alive from their devilish hands. But since everything is in God's hands, it is better to hope than to sorrow." "It is better to hope, for this reason I do not despair. Hope lives, although the heart is full of anxiety.... The worst is, that Jurand himself, when his daughter's name is mentioned, immediately points with his finger toward heaven as though he already sees her there." "How could he see her without eyes?" The priest then replied, partly to himself and partly to Hlawa: "Perchance he who has lost his bodily vision sees more with his spiritual eyes.... It may be so. It may be! But this, that God should permit so much wrong to be done to such an innocent lamb I do not understand clearly. Why should she suffer so much, even if she had offended the Knights of the Cross. But there was nothing against her and she was as pure as the divine lily, loving to others and lovely as yonder little free singing bird. God loves children, and is compassionate. Bah! If they were to kill her, He is able to resuscitate her as He did Piotrowina, who after having risen from the grave lived for many long years.... Depart in peace, and may God's hand protect you all!" Then he returned to the chapel to say early Mass. The Bohemian mounted his horse, for it was already broad daylight, and bowed once more toward the window and departed. CHAPTER II. Prince and Princess Janusz had left with part of the court for the spring fishing at Czerska, of which sport he was extremely fond, and loved it above all others. The Bohemian got much important information from Mikolaj of Dlugolas, treating of private affairs as well as of the war. First he learned that Macko had apparently given up his intended route to Zmudz, the "Prussian enclosure," that a few days ago he had left for Warsaw where he found the princely pair. As to the war, old Mikolaj informed him all that he had already heard in Szczytno. All Zmudz, as one man, had risen in arms against the Germans, and Prince Witold not only had refused to help the Order against the unhappy Zmudzians, but had not yet declared war against them, and was negotiating with them; but meanwhile he supplied the Zmudzians with money, men, horses and corn. Meanwhile, he, as well as the Knights of the Cross, sent ambassadors to the pope, to the emperor, and to other Christian lords, accusing each other of breach of faith, and treachery. The ambassador carrying the letters of the prince was the clever Mikolaj of Rzeniewa, a man of great ability who could unravel the thread which was woven by the artifice of the Knights of the Cross, convincingly demonstrating the great wrongs done to the lands of Lithuania and Zmudz. Meantime when at the diet in Wilno the ties between the Poles and Lithuanians were strengthened, it acted like poison in the hearts of the Knights of the Cross. It was easy to foresee that Jagiello as the supreme lord of all the lands under the command of Prince Witold, would stand at his side in time of war. Count Jan Sayn, the _comthur_ of Grudzia, and Count Schwartzburg of Danzig, went, at the request of the grand master, to see the king and asked him what might be expected from him. Although they brought him falcons and costly presents, he told them nothing. Then they threatened him with war, without really intending it, because they well knew that the grand master and the chapter were terribly afraid of Jagiello's forces, and were anxious to avert the day of wrath and calamity. All their schemes were broken like cobwebs, especially with Prince Witold. The evening after Hlawa's arrival, fresh news reached Warsaw. Bronisz of Ciasnoc, courtier of Prince Janusz, whom the prince had previously sent for information from Lithuania, arrived, and with him were two important Lithuanian princes. They brought letters from Witold and the Zmudzians. It was terrible news. The Order was preparing for war. The fortresses were being strengthened, ammunition manufactured, soldiers, (knechts) and knights were gathering at the frontier, and the lighter bodies of cavalry and infantry had already crossed the frontier near Ragnety, Gotteswerder and other border strongholds. The din of war was already heard in the forests, fields and villages, and during the night the woods were seen on fire along the dark sea. Witold finally received Zmudz under his overt protection. He sent his governors, and wagons with armed people he placed under the most famous warrior Skirwoillo. He broke into Prussia, burned, destroyed and devastated. The prince himself approached with his army toward Zmudz. Some fortresses he provisioned; others, Kowno, for instance, he destroyed, so that the Knights of the Cross might find no support. It was no more a secret, that at the advent of winter, when the swamps should be frozen, or even earlier than that, if the season was dry, a great war would break out, which would embrace all the lands of Lithuania, Zmudz, and Prussia. But should the king rush to the assistance of Witold then a day must follow in which the flood would inundate the German or the other half of the world, or would be forced back for long ages into its original river-bed. But that was not to happen yet. Meanwhile, the sighs of the Zmudzians, their despairing complaints of the wrongs done to them, and their appeals for justice were heard everywhere. They also read letters concerning the unfortunate people in Krakow, Prague, in the pope's court and in other western countries. The nobleman brought an open letter to Prince Janusz, from Bronisz of Ciasnoc. Many a Mazovian involuntarily laid his hand on his sword at his side and considered seriously whether voluntarily to enroll under the standard of Witold. It was known that the great prince would be glad to have with him the valiant Polish nobles, who were as valorous in battle as the Lithuanian and Zmudzian nobility, and better disciplined and equipped than they. Others were also impelled by their hatred toward the old enemies of the Polish race, whilst others wanted to go out of compassion. "Listen! Oh listen!" They appealed to the kings, princes and to the whole Zmudzian nation. "We are people of noble blood and free, but the Order wants to enslave us! They do not care for our souls, but they covet our lands and wealth. Our need is already such that nothing remains for us but to gather together, or kill ourselves! How can they wash us with Christian water when they themselves have unclean hands. We wish to be baptized, but not with blood and the sword. We want religion, but only such as upright monarchs shall teach,--Jagiello and Witold. "Listen to us and help us, for we perish! The Order does not wish to christen us for our enlightenment. They do not send us priests, but executioners. Our beehives, our flocks, and all the products of our land they have already carried away. We are not even allowed to fish or hunt in the wilds. "We pray you: Listen to us! They are just bending our necks under the yoke and force us to work during the night in the castles. They have carried off our children as hostages; our wives and daughters they ravish in our presence. It behooves us to groan, but not to speak. Our fathers they have burned at the stake; our lords have been carried off to Prussia. Our great men, Korkucia, Wasigina, Swolka and Songajle, they have destroyed." "Oh listen! for we are not wild beasts but human beings. We earnestly call upon the Holy Father to send us Polish bishops to baptize us, for we thirst for baptism from the very depth of our heart. But baptism is performed with water and not with shedding of human living blood." This was the kind of complaint the Zmudzians made against the Knights of the Cross, so that when they were heard by the Mazovian court, several knights and courtiers immediately presented themselves ready to go and help them; they understood that it was not even necessary to ask for permission from Prince Janusz, even if only for the reason that the princess was the sister of Prince Witold. They were specially enraged when they learned from Bronisz and the noblemen, that many noble Zmudzian young ladies, who were hostages in Prussia, but could not endure dishonor and cruelty, had taken their own lives when the Knights of the Cross were about to attack their honor. Hlawa was very glad to learn of the desire of the Mazovian knights, because he thought that the more men from Poland that joined Prince Witold, the more intense would be the war, and the affair against the Knights of the Cross would be more potent. He was also glad of his chances of meeting Zbyszko, and the old knight Macko, to whom he was much attached and whom, he believed, he was worthy to meet, and together see new wild countries, hitherto unknown cities, and see knights and soldiers never seen before, and, finally, that Prince Witold whose great fame resounded then throughout the world. Those thoughts decided him to undertake the long and hurried journey--not stopping upon the road more than was necessary for the horses to rest. The noblemen who arrived with Bronisz of Ciasnoc and other Lithuanians who were present at the prince's court, and who were acquainted with the roads and all passes, were to guide him and the Mazovian knights, from hamlet to hamlet, from city to city and through the silent, immense, deep wilderness which covered the greater part of Mazovia, Lithuania and Zmudz. CHAPTER III. In the woods, about a mile to the east of Kowno, which Witold had destroyed, were stationed the principal forces of Skirwoillo, extending in time of need from point to point in the neighborhood. They made quick expeditions sometimes to the Prussian frontier, and at others against the castles and smaller fortified places which were still in the hands of the Knights of the Cross, and filled the country with flame of war. There the faithful armor-bearer found Zbyszko and Macko only two days after the latter arrived. After greetings, the Bohemian slept like a rock the whole night, only on the following evening he went out to greet the old knight who looked fatigued and ill-humored and received him angrily, and asked him why he had not remained at Spychow as ordered. Hlawa restrained himself till Zbyszko had left the tent, when he justified his conduct, which was owing to Jagienka's command. He also said that apart from her order, and his natural inclination for war, he was urged by the desire, in case of emergency, to carry the news to Spychow at once. "The young lady," he said, "who has a soul like an angel, is praying against her own interest for Jurandowna. But there must be an end to everything. If Danusia is not alive, then let God give her eternal glory, because she was an innocent lamb. But should she be found, then it will be necessary to let Jagienka know it immediately, so that she may at once leave Spychow, and not wait until the actual return of Jurandowna, which would seem as though she were driven away in shame and dishonor." Macko listened unwillingly, repeating from time to time: "It is not your business." But Hlawa had resolved to speak openly; he did not entirely agree in this with Macko; at last he said: "It would have been better if the young lady had been left at Zgorzelice. This journey is in vain. We told the poor lady that Jurandowna was dead and that something else might turn up." "Nobody but you said that she was dead," exclaimed the knight, with anger. "You ought to have held your tongue. I took her with me because I was afraid of Cztan and Wilk." "That was only a pretext," replied the armor-bearer. "She might have safely remained at Zgorzelice, and those fellows would have hurt each other. But, you feared, sir, that, in case of Jurandowna's death Jagienka might escape Zbyszko. That is the reason why you took her with you." "How dare you speak so? Are you a belted knight and not a servant?" "I am a servant, but I serve my lady; that is the reason why I am watching that no evil betide her." Macko reflected gloomily, because he was not satisfied with himself. More than once he had blamed himself for taking Jagienka with him, because he felt that in any case, under such circumstances, it would be, to a certain extent, to her disadvantage. He also felt that there was truth in the Bohemian's bold words, that he had taken the girl with him in order to preserve her for Zbyszko. "It never entered my head," he said, nevertheless, to deceive the Bohemian. "She was anxious to go herself." "She persisted because we said that the other was no more in this world, and that her brother would be safer without than with her; it was then that she left." "You persuaded her," shouted Macko. "I did, and I confess my guilt. But now, sir, it is necessary to do something; otherwise we shall perish." "What can one do here?" said Macko, impatiently, "with such soldiers, in such a war?... It will be somewhat better, but that cannot be before July, because the Germans have two favorable seasons for war, viz: winter when everything is frozen, and the dry season. Now it is only smouldering, but does not burn. It seems that Prince Witold went to Krakow to interview the king and ask his permission and help." "But in the neighborhood are the fortresses of the Knights of the Cross. If only two could be taken, we might find there Jurandowna, or hear of her death." "Or nothing." "But Zygfried brought her to this part of the country. They told us so at Szczytno, and everywhere, and we ourselves were of the same opinion." "But did you observe these soldiers; go into the tents and look for yourself. Some of them are armed with clubs, whilst others with antiquated swords made of copper." "Bah! As far as I have heard they are good fighters." "But they cannot conquer castles with naked bodies, especially those of the Knights of the Cross." Further conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Zbyszko and Skirwoillo, who was the leader of the Zmudzians. He was a small man and looked like a boy, but broad shouldered and strong, his chest protuded so much that it looked like a deformity, his hands were long, they almost reached his knees. In general he resembled Zyndram of Maszkow, a famous knight, whom Macko and Zbyszko had formerly known in Krakow, because he also had a tremendous head and bowed legs. They said that he too understood the art of war very well. He had spent a lifetime in fighting the Tartars in Russia, and the Germans, whom he hated like the plague. In those wars he had learned the Russian language, and later on, at the court of Witold, he had learned some Polish. He knew German, at least he repeated only the three words: "Fire, blood and death." His big head was always filled with ideas and stratagems of war, which the Knights of the Cross could neither foresee nor prevent. He was therefore banished from the lands on the other side of the frontier. "We were talking of an expedition," said Zbyszko to Macko, with unusual animation, "and that is the reason why we came here so that we too might learn your opinion." Macko sat down with Skirwoilla upon a pine stump covered with a bear skin. Then he ordered the servants to bring little tubs full of mead from which the knights drew with tin cups and drank. Then after they had taken refreshment, Macko asked: "Do you want to undertake an expedition?" "Burn the German castles...." "Which?" "Ragnety, or Nowe (new) Kowno." "Ragnety," said Zbyszko. "We were three days in the neighborhood of Nowe Kowno, and they beat us." "Just so," said Skirwoilla. "How so?" "Well." "Wait," said Macko, "I am a stranger here, and do not know where Nowe Kowno and Ragnety are." "From this place to Old Kowno is less then a mile,"[115] replied Zbyszko, "and from that place to Nowe Kowno, is the same distance. The castle is situated upon an island. We wanted to cross over yesterday, but we were beaten in the attempt; they pursued us half the day, then we hid ourselves in the woods. The soldiers scattered and only this morning some of them returned." "And Ragnety?" Skirwoilla stretched his long arms, pointed toward the north, and said: "Far! Far...." "Just for the reason that it is distant," replied Zbyszko, "there is quiet in the neighborhood, because all the soldiers were withdrawn from there and sent to this place. The Germans there expect no attack; we shall therefore fall upon those who think themselves secure." "He speaks reasonably," said Skirwoilla. Then Macko asked: "Do you think that it will also be possible to storm the castle?" Skirwoillo shook his head and Zbyszko replied: "The castle is strong, therefore it can only be taken by storm. But we shall devastate the country, burn the towns and villages, destroy provisions, and above all take prisoners, among whom we may find important personages, for whom the Knights of the Cross will eagerly give ransom or exchange...." Then he turned toward Skirwoillo and said: "You yourself, prince, acknowledged that I am right, but now consider that Nowe Kowno is upon an island, there we shall neither stir up the people in the villages, drive off the herds of cattle, nor take prisoners, the more so because they have repulsed us here. Ay! Let us rather go where they do not expect us." "Conquerors are those who least expect an attack," murmured Skirwoillo. Here Macko interrupted and began to support Zbyszko's plans, because he understood that the young man had more hope to hear something near Ragnety than near Old Kowno, and that there were more chances to take important hostages at Ragnety who might serve for exchange. He also thought that it was better to go yonder at all events and attack an unguarded land, than an island, which was a natural stronghold and in addition was guarded by a strong castle and the customary garrison. He spoke as a man experienced in war, he spoke in a clear manner, he adduced such excellent reasons that convinced everybody. They listened to him attentively. Skirwoillo raised his brows now and then as an affirmative sign; at times he murmured: "Well spoken." Finally he moved his big head between his broad shoulders so that he looked like a hunchback, and was absorbed in thought. Then he rose, said nothing, and began to take leave. "How then will it be, prince?" inquired Macko. "Whither shall we move?" But he replied briefly: "To Nowe Kowno." Then he left the tent. Macko and the Bohemian looked at each other for some time in surprise; then the old knight placed his hands upon his thighs and exclaimed: "Phew! What a hard stump!... He listens, listens and yet keeps his mouth shut." "I heard before that he is such a man," replied Zbyszko. "To tell the truth all people here are obstinate; like the little fellow, they listen to the reasoning of others, then ... it is like blowing in the air." "Then why does he consult us?" "Because we are belted knights and he wants to hear the thing argued on both sides. But he is not a fool." "Also near Nowe Kowno we are least expected," observed the Bohemian, "for the very reason that they have beaten you. In that he is right." "Come, let us see the people whom I lead," said Zbyszko, "because the air in the tent is too close. I want to tell them to be ready." They went out. A cloudy and dark night had set in, the scene was only lit up by the fire around which the Zmudzians were sitting. CHAPTER IV. Macko and Zbyszko had seen enough of Lithuanian and Zmudz warriors when serving under Prince Witold. The sights of the encampment were nothing new to them. But the Bohemian looked at them with curiosity. He pondered both upon the possibility of their fighting qualities and compared them with the Polish and German knights. The camp was situated on a plain surrounded by forests and swamps, which rendered it impregnable, because none could wade through that treacherous marsh land. Even the place where the booths were situated was quaggy and muddy, but the soldiers had covered it with a thick layer of chips and branches of fir and pine-trees, which enabled them to camp upon it as upon perfectly dry ground. For Prince Skirwoillo they had hastily constructed a Lithuanian _numy_, constructed of earth and logs, and for the most important personages scores of booths of twisted branches. But the common soldiers were squatting in the open around the camp-fires, and for shelter against bad weather they only had goatskin coats, and skins upon their naked bodies. None had gone to sleep yet; they had nothing to do, after yesterday's defeat, and had thrown up earthworks during the day. Some of them were sitting or lying around the bright fire which they fed with dry juniper branches. Others were scraping in the ashes and cinders from which proceeded a smell of baked turnips, which form the ordinary food of the Lithuanians, and the strong odor of burned meat. Between the camp-fires were piles of arms; they were close at hand so that in case of need it would be an easy matter for everybody to reach his own weapon. Hlawa looked with curiosity upon the lances with narrow and long heads made of tempered iron, and the handles of oak saplings, studded with flint or nails, hatchets with short handles like the Polish axes used by travelers, and others with handles almost as long as those of the battle-axes used by the foot-soldiers. There were also among them some bronze weapons from ancient times when iron was not yet employed in that low country. Some swords were entirely made of bronze, but most of them were of good steel of Novgorod. The Bohemian handled the spears, swords, hatchets, axes and tarred bows, examining them closely by the light of the camp-fires. There were a few horses near the fires, whilst the cattle grazed at a distance in the forests and meadows, under the care of vigilant ostlers; but the great nobles liked to have their chargers close at hand, hence there were about twoscore horses within the camp, fed by hand by the slaves of the noblemen in a space enclosed by stacked arms. Hlawa was amazed at the sight of the extraordinarily small shaggy chargers, with powerful necks, such strange brutes that the western knights took them to be quite another species of wild beast, more like a unicorn than a horse. "Big battle horses are of no use here," said the experienced Macko, recollecting his former service under Witold, "because large horses would at once stick in the mire, but the native nag goes everywhere, like the men." "But in the field," replied the Bohemian, "the native horse could not withstand that of the German." "True, he may not be able to withstand, but, on the other hand, the German could not run away from the Zmudzian, neither could he catch him; they are very swift, swifter than those of the Tartars." "Nevertheless I wonder; because when I saw the Tartar captives whom Lord Zych brought to Zgorzelice, they were small and matched their horses; but these are big men." The men were tall indeed; their broad chests and strong arms could be seen under their goatskin coats; they were not stout, but bony and sinewy, and as a rule they excelled the inhabitants of other parts of Lithuania, because they lived in better and more productive lands, and were seldom subject to the dearth which often afflicted Lithuania. On the other hand they were wilder than the other Lithuanians. The court of the chief prince was at Wilno, whither the princes from the east and west, and ambassadors and foreign merchants came, and that contributed somewhat to lessen the roughness of the inhabitants of the city and neighborhood. There the stranger only appeared in the form of a Knight of the Cross or a sworded cavalier, carrying to the settlements in the deep forests fire, slavery and baptism of blood. That was the reason that the people in that part of the country were very coarse and rude, more like those of ancient times, and very much opposed to everything new, the oldest custom and the oldest warrior clan were theirs, and the reason that paganism was supported was that the worship of the cross did not bring the announcement of good tidings with apostolic love, but armed German monks instead, possessing souls of executioners. Skirwoilla and the most notable princes and nobles were already Christians, because they followed the example of Jagiello and Witold. Others even among the common and uncivilized warriors felt in their hearts that the death-knell of the old world and religion had sounded. They were ready to bend their heads to the cross, but not to that cross which the Germans carried, not to the hand of the enemy. "We ask baptism," they proclaimed to all princes and nations, "but bear in mind that we are human beings, not beasts, that can be given away, bought or sold." Meanwhile, when their old faith was extinguished, as a fire goes out for lack of fuel, their hearts were again turned away simply because the religion was forced upon them by the Germans, and there was a general sense of deep sorrow for the future. The Bohemian, who had been accustomed from his infancy to hear the jovial noise of the soldiers, and had grown up among songs and music, observed for the first time the unusual quiet and gloom in the Lithuanian camp. Here and there, far away from the camp-fires of Skirwoilla, the sound of a whistle or fife was heard, or the suppressed notes of the song of the _burtenikas_, to which the soldiers listened with bent heads and eyes fixed on the glowing fire. Some crouched around the fire with their elbows upon their knees and their faces hidden in their hands, and covered with skins, which made them look like wild beasts of the forest. But when they turned their heads toward the approaching knights, one saw from their mild expression and blue pupils that they were not at all savage or austere, but looked more like sorrowful and wronged children. At the outskirts of the camp the wounded of the last battle lay upon moss. _Labdarysi_ and _Sextonowi,_ conjurers and soothsayers, muttered exorcisms over them or attended to their wounds, to which they applied certain healing herbs; the wounded lay quietly, patiently suffering pain and torture. From the depth of the forest, across the marshes and lakes, came the whistling of the ostlers; now and then the wind arose, driving the smoke of the camp-fires and making the dark forest resound. The night was already far advanced and the camp-fires began to burn down and extinguish, which increased the dominating silence and intensified the impression of sadness, almost to a crushing extent. Zbyszko gave orders to the people he led, who easily understood him because there were a few Poles among them. Then he turned to his armor-bearer and said: "You have seen enough, now it is time to return to the tent." "I have seen," replied Hlawa, "but I am not satisfied with what I have observed, for it is obvious that they are a defeated people." "Twice,--four days in front of the castle, and the day before yesterday at the crossing. Now Skirwoilla wants to go a third time to experience another rout." "How is it that he does not see that he cannot fight the Germans with such soldiers? Pan Macko told me the same thing, and now I observe myself that they are a poor lot, and that they must be boys in battle." "You are mistaken in that, because they are a brave people and have few equals, but they fight in disordered crowds, whilst the Germans fight in battle array. If the Zmudzians succeed in breaking the German ranks, then the Germans suffer more than themselves. Bah, but the latter know this and close their ranks in such a manner that they stand like a wall." "We must not even think about capturing the castles," said Hlawa. "Because there are no engines of war whatever to attempt it," replied Zbyszko. "Prince Witold has them, but as long as he does not arrive I am unable to capture them, unless by accident or treachery." Then they reached the tent, in front of which burned a huge fire, and within they found smoking dishes of meat, which the servants had prepared for them. It was cold and damp in the tent, therefore the knights and Hlawa lay down upon skins in front of the fire. When they had fortified themselves, they tried to sleep, but they could not; Macko turned from side to side, and when he observed Zbyszko sitting near the fire covering his knees with twigs, he asked: "Listen! Why did you give advice to go as far as Ragnety against Gotteswerder, and not near here? What do you profit by it?" "Because there is a voice within me which tells me that Danuska is at Ragnety, and they are guarded less than they are here." "There was no time to continue the conversation then, for I too was fatigued and the people after the defeat gathered in the woods. But now, tell me, how is it? Do you mean to search for the girl forever?" "I say that she is not a girl, but my wife," replied Zbyszko. There was silence, for Macko well understood that there was no answer to that. If Danuska were still Jurandowna (Miss Jurand) Macko might have advised his nephew to abandon her: but in the presence of the Holy Sacrament, his search for her was his simple duty. Macko would not have put the question to him if he had been present. Not having been there he always spoke of her at the betrothal or marriage as a girl. "Very well," he said, after a while. "But to all my questions during the last two days, you replied that you knew nothing." "Because I do know nothing, except that the wrath of God is probably upon me." Then Hlawa lifted up his head from the bearskin, sat up and listened with curiosity and attention. And Macko said: "As long as sleep does not overpower you, tell me what have you seen, what have you done, and what success have you had at Malborg?" Zbyszko stroked his long, untrimmed hair from his brow, remained silent for a moment, and then said: "Would to God that I knew as much of Danuska as I do of Malborg. You ask me what I have seen there? I have seen the immense power of the Knights of the Cross; it is supported by all kings and nations, and I do not know any one who could measure himself with it. I have seen their castles, which even Caesar of Rome does not possess. I have seen inexhaustible treasures, I have seen arms, I have seen swarms of armed monks, knights, and common soldiers,--and as many relics as one sees with the Holy Father in Rome, and I tell you that my soul trembled within me at the thought of the possibility of fighting them. Who can prevail against them? Who can oppose them and break their power?" "We must destroy them," exclaimed the Bohemian, who could restrain himself no longer. Zbyszko's words appeared strange also to Macko, and although he was anxious to hear all the adventures of the young man, nevertheless, he interrupted him and said: "Have you forgotten Wilno? How many times we threw ourselves against them, shield against shield, head against head! You have also seen that, how slow they were against us; and, at our hardiness, they exclaimed that it was not enough to let the horses sweat and break the lances, but it was necessary to take the strangers by the throat or offer their own. Surely there were also guests who challenged us. But all of them went away with shame. What has caused you to change?" "I am not changed, for I fought at Malborg where also they tilted with sharp weapons. But you don't know their whole strength." But the old knight got angry and said: "Do you know the whole strength of Poland? Did you see all the regiments together? Well, you did not. But their strength consists in the people's wrongs and treachery; there, they do not even possess one span of land. They received our princes there in the same manner as a beggar receives in his house, and they presented gifts, but they have grown powerful, they have bitten the hand which fed them, like abominable mad dogs. They seized the lands and treacherously captured the city; that is their strength. The day of judgment and vengeance is at hand." "You requested me to tell you what I have seen, and now you get angry; I prefer to tell no more," said Zbyszko. But Macko breathed angrily for a while, then he quieted down and said: "But this time, thus it will be: You see a tremendous tower-like pine-tree in the forest; it seems as it will stand there forever; but strike it fairly with your axe and it will reveal hollowness and punk will come out. So is it with the strength of the Knights of the Cross. But I commanded you to tell me what you have done and what you have accomplished there. Let me see, you said you fought there with weapons, did you not?" "I did. They received me at first in an ungrateful and arrogant manner; they knew of my fight with Rotgier. Perhaps they had planned some evil against me. But I came provided with letters from the prince; and de Lorche, whom they honor, protected me from their evil designs. Then came feasts and tourneys in which the Lord Jesus helped me. You have already heard how Ulrych, the brother of the grand master, loved me, and obtained an order from the master himself to surrender Danuska to me." "We were told," said Macko, "that when his saddle-girdle broke, you would not attack him." "I helped him up with my lance, and from that moment he became fond of me. Hey! Good God! They furnished me with such strong letters, that enabled me to travel from castle to castle and search. I thought then that my sufferings were at an end, but now I am sitting here, in a wild country, without any help, in sorrow and perplexity, and it is getting worse daily." He remained silent for a moment, then he forcibly threw a chip into the fire which scattered sparks among the burning brands, and said: "If that poor child is suffering in a castle, somewhere in this neighborhood, and thinks that I don't care for her, then let sudden death overtake me!" His heart was evidently so full of pain and impatience that he began again to throw chips into the fire, as though carried away by a sudden and blind pain; but they were greatly astonished because they had not realized that he loved Danusia so much. "Restrain yourself," exclaimed Macko. "How did you fare with those letters of safe conduct. Did the _comthurs_ pay no attention to the master's command?" "Restrain yourself, sir," said Hlawa. "God will comfort you; perhaps very soon." Tears glistened in Zbyszko's eyes, but he controlled himself, and said: "They opened different castles and prisons. I have been everywhere; I searched up to the breaking out of this war. At Gierdaw I was told by the magistrate, von Heideck, that the laws of war differ from those in time of peace, and that my safe conduct was of no avail. I challenged him at once, but he did not accept, and he ordered me to quit the castle." "What happened in other places?" inquired Macko. "It was the same everywhere. The Count Könizsberg, who is the chief magistrate of Gierdaw, even refused to read the letter of the master, saying that 'war is war,' and told me to carry my head--while it was intact--out of the place. It was everywhere the same." "Now I understand," said the old knight, "seeing that you got nothing, you came here at least to avenge yourself." "Exactly so," replied Zbyszko. "I also thought that we should take prisoners, and also invest some castles. But those fellows could not conquer castles." "Hey! It will be otherwise when Prince Witold himself comes." "May God grant it!" "He will come; I heard at the Mazovian court that he will come, and perhaps the king and all the forces of Poland will come with him." Further conversation was interrupted by the appearance of Skirwoilla who unexpectedly appeared from the shadow, and said: "We must be on the march." Hearing that, the knights got up with alacrity. Skirwoilla approached his tremendous head to their faces, and said in low tones: "There is news: A relief train is moving toward New Kowno. Two knights are at the head of the soldiers, cattle and provisions. Let us capture them." "Shall we cross the Niemen," inquired Zbyszko. "Yes! I know a ford." "Do they know at the castle of the relief train?" "They know and will come to meet them, but we shall pounce upon them too." Then he instructed them where they were to lie in ambush, so as to attack, unexpectedly, those hurrying from the castle. His intentions were to engage the enemy in two battles at the same time, and avenge himself for the last defeat, which could easily be effected, considering that owing to their last victory the enemy considered himself perfectly safe from an attack. Therefore Skirwoilla appointed the place and time where they should meet; as for the rest, he left it with them, for he relied upon their courage and resource. They were very glad at heart because they appreciated the fact that an experienced and skilful warrior was speaking to them. Then he ordered them to start, and he went to his _numy_ where the princes and captains were already waiting. There he repeated his orders, gave new ones, and finally put to his lips a pipe, carved out of a wolf's bone, and whistled shrilly, which was heard from one end of the camp to the other. At the sound of the whistle they gathered around the extinguished camp-fires; here and there sparks shot up, then little flames which increased momentarily, and wild figures of warriors were visible gathering around the stands of arms. The forest throbbed and moved. In a moment there were heard the voices of the ostlers chasing the herd toward the camp. CHAPTER V. They arrived very early at Niewiazy where they crossed the river, some on horseback, some upon bundles of osier. Everything went with such dispatch that Macko, Zbyszko, Hlawa and the Mazovian volunteers were astonished at the skilfulness of the people; only then they understood why neither woods, nor swamps, nor rivers could prevent Lithuanian expeditions. When they emerged from the river none had taken off his wet clothing, not even the sheep and wolfskin coats, but exposed themselves to the rays of the sun until they steamed like pitch-burners, and after a short rest they marched hastily toward the north. At nightfall they arrived at the Niemen. The crossing of the great river at that place, swollen in the spring, was not an easy matter. The ford, which was known to Skuwoilla, changed in places into deep water, so that the horses had to swim more than a quarter of a furlong. Two men were carried away quite near Zbyszko, and Hlawa tried to rescue them, but in vain; owing to the darkness and the rushing water they lost sight of them. The drowning men did not dare to shout for help, because the leader had previously ordered that the crossing should be effected in the most quiet manner possible. Nevertheless all the others fortunately succeeded in reaching the other side of the river, where they remained without fires till the morning. At dawn, the whole army was divided into two divisions. Skirwoilla at the head of one went toward the interior to encounter the knights at the head of the relief train for Gotteswerder. The second division was led back by Zbyszko, toward the island, in order to attack the people coming from the castle to meet the expedition, upon the elevated ground. It was a mild and bright morning, but down in the woods the marshes and bushes were covered with a thick white steam which entirely obscured the distance. That was just a desirable condition for Zbyszko, because the Germans coming from the castle would not be able to see them in time to retreat. The young knight was exceedingly glad of it, and said to Macko: "Let us get to our position instead of contemplating the mist yonder. God grant that it is not dissipated before noon." Then he hurried to the front to give orders to the _setniks_,[116] and immediately returned and said: "We shall soon meet them upon the road coming from the ferry of the island toward the interior. There we shall hide ourselves in the thicket and watch for them." "How do you know about that road?" asked Macko. "We got the information from the local peasants, of whom we have quite a number among our people who will guide us everywhere." "At what distance from the castle do you intend to attack?" "About one mile from it." "Very well; because if it were nearer, the soldiers from the castle might hurry to the rescue, but now they will not only not be able to arrive in time, but will be beyond hearing distance." "You see I thought about that." "You thought about one thing, think also about another: if they are reliable peasants, send two or three of them in front, so as to signal when they descry the Germans coming." "Bah! That also has been attended to." "Then, I have yet something else to tell you; order one or two hundred men, as soon as the battle begins, not to take part in the fight, but hasten to the rear and cut off their retreat to the island." "That is the first thing," replied Zbyszko. "Those orders have been given. The Germans will fall into a trap and be snared." Hearing this, Macko looked approvingly at his nephew; he was pleased that in spite of his youth, he understood much of warfare; therefore he smiled and murmured: "Our true blood!" But Hlawa, the shield-bearer, was more glad than Macko, because there was nothing he loved more than war. "I don't know the fighting capacity of our people," he said, "but they march quietly, they are dexterous, and they seem to be eager. And if Skirwoilla yonder has well devised his plans, then not a single foot shall escape." "God grant that only a few may escape," replied Zbyszko. "But I have given orders to capture as many prisoners as possible; and if there should happen to be a knight or a religious brother among them, he must absolutely not be killed." "Why not, sir?" inquired the Bohemian. "You also take care," Zbyszko replied, "that it be so. If there be a knight among them, he must possess much information, owing to his wanderings in many cities and castles, seeing, and hearing much; much more so if he is a religious member of the Order. Therefore I owe to God my coming to this place so that I might learn something about Danusia, and exchange prisoners. If there be any, this is the only measure left for me." Then he urged his horse and galloped again to the front to give his final orders and at the same time to get rid of his sad thoughts; there was no time to be lost, because the spot where they were to lie in ambush was very near. "Why does the young lord think that his little wife is alive, and that she is somewhere in this neighborhood?" asked the Bohemian. "Because if Zygfried, at the first impulse, did not kill her at Szczytno," replied Macko, "then one may rightly conclude that she is still alive. The priest of Szczytno would not have told us what he did, in the presence of Zbyszko, if she had been killed. It is a very difficult matter; even the most cruel man would not lift up his hand against a defenceless woman. Bah! Against an innocent child." "It is a hard thing, but not with the Knights of the Cross. And the children of Prince Witold?" "It is quite true, they have wolfish hearts. Nevertheless, it is true that they did not kill her at Szczytno, and Zygfried himself left for this part of the country; it is therefore possible that he had hid her in some castle." "Hey! If it turns out so, then I shall take this island and the castle." "Only look at this people," said Macko. "Surely, surely; but I have an idea that I will communicate to the young lord." "Even if you have ten ideas, I do not care. You cannot overthrow the walls with pikes." Macko pointed toward the lines of pikes, with which most of the warriors were provided; then he asked: "Did you ever see such soldiers?" As a matter of fact, the Bohemian had never seen the like. There was a dense crowd in front of them marching irregularly. Cavalry and infantry were mixed up and could not keep proper steps while marching through the undergrowth in the woods. In order to keep pace with the cavalry the infantry held on to the horses' manes, saddles and tails. The warriors' shoulders were covered with wolf, lynx and bearskins; some had attached to their heads boars' tusks, others antlers of deer, and others still had shaggy ears attached, so that, were it not for the protruding weapons above their heads, and the dingy bows and arrows at their backs, they would have looked from the rear and specially in the mist like a moving body of wild beasts proceeding from the depths of the forest, driven by the desire for blood or hunger, in search of prey. There was something terrible and at the same time extraordinary in it: it had the appearance of that wonder called _gnomon_, when, according to popular belief, wild beasts and even stones and bushes were moving in front of them. It was at that sight that one of the young nobles from Lenkawice, who accompanied the Bohemian, approached him, crossed himself, and said: "In the name of the Father and Son! I say I am marching with a pack of wolves, and not with men." But Hlawa, although he had never before seen such a sight, replied like an experienced man who knows all about it and is not surprised at anything. "Wolves roam in packs during the winter season, but the dog-blood of the Knights of the Cross they also taste in the spring." It was spring indeed, the month of May; the hazel-trees which filled the woods were covered with a bright green. Among the moss, upon which the soldiers stepped noiselessly, appeared white and blue anemones as well as young berries and dentillated ferns. Softened by abundant rains, the bark of the trees produced an agreeable odor, and from the forest under foot, consisting of pine-needles and punk, proceeded a pungent smell. The sun displayed a rainbow in the drops upon the leaves and branches of the trees, and above it the birds sang joyfully. They accelerated their pace, because Zbyszko urged them on. At times Zbyszko rode again in the rear of the division with Macko, the Bohemian and the Mazovian volunteers. The prospect of a good battle apparently elated him considerably, for his customary sad expression had disappeared, and his eyes had regained their wonted brightness. "Cheer up!" he exclaimed. "We must now place ourselves in the front--not behind the line." He led them to the front of the division. "Listen," he added. "It may be that we shall catch the Germans unexpectedly, but should they make a stand and succeed in falling in line, then we must be the first to attack them, because our armor is superior, and our swords are better." "Let it be so," said Macko. The others settled themselves in their saddles, as if they were to attack at once. They took a long breath, and felt for their swords to see whether they could be unsheathed with ease. Zbyszko repeated his orders once more, that if they found among the infantry any knights with white mantles over the armor, they were not to kill but capture them alive; then he galloped to the guides, and halted the division for a while. They arrived at the highway which from the landing opposite the island extended to the interior. Strictly speaking, there was no proper road yet, but in reality the edge of the wood had been recently sawed through and leveled only at the rear so much as to enable soldiers or wagons to pass over them. On both sides of the road rose the high trunked trees, and the old pines cut for the widening of the road. The hazelnut growths were so thick in some places that they overran the whole forest. Zbyszko had therefore chosen a place at the turning, so that the advancing party would neither be able to see far, nor retreat, nor have time enough to form themselves in battle array. It was there that he occupied both sides of the lane and gave commands to await the enemy. Accustomed to forest life and war, the Zmudzians took advantage of the logs, cuts and clumps of young hazelnut growths, and fir saplings--so that it seemed as if the earth had swallowed them up. No one spoke, neither did the horses snort. Now and then, big and little forest animals passed those lying in wait and came upon them before seeing them and were frightened and rushed wildly away. At times the wind arose and filled the forest with a solemn, rushing sound, and then again silence fell and only the distant notes of the cuckoo and the woodpecker were audible. The Zmudzians were glad to hear those sounds, because the woodpecker was a special harbinger of good fortune. There were many of those birds in that forest, and the pecking sound was heard on all sides persistent and rapid, like human labor. One would be inclined to say, that each of those birds had its own blacksmith's forge where it went to active labor very early. It appeared to Macko and the Mazovians that they heard the noise of carpenters fixing roofs upon new houses, and it reminded them of home. But the time passed and grew tedious; nothing was heard but the noise of the trees and the voice of birds. The mist hovering upon the plain was lifting. The sun was quite high and it was getting hot, but they still lay in wait. Finally Hlawa who was impatient at the silence and delay, bent toward Zbyszko's ear and whispered: "Sir, if God will grant, none of the dog-brothers shall escape alive. May we not be able to reach the castle and capture it by surprise?" "Do you suppose that the boats there are not watching, and have no watchwords?" "They have watchmen," replied the Bohemian, in a whisper, "but prisoners when threatened with the knife will give up the watchword. Bah! they will even reply in the German language. If we reach the island, then the castle itself...." Here he stopped, because Zbyszko put his hand upon his mouth, because from the roadside came the croak of a raven. "Hush!" he said. "That is a signal." About two "paters" later, there appeared at the border a Zmudzian, riding upon a little shaggy pony, whose hoofs were enveloped in sheepskin to avoid the clatter and traces of horses' hoofs in the mud. The rider looked sharply from side to side and, suddenly hearing from the thicket an answer to the croaking, dived into the forest, and in a moment he was near Zbyszko. "They are coming!" ... he said. CHAPTER VI. Zbyszko inquired hurriedly, how many horsemen and infantry were among them, in what manner they were advancing, and above all the exact distance; and he learned from the Zmudzian that their number did not exceed one hundred and fifty warriors and that about fifty of that number were horsemen led by a Knight of the Cross, who appears to be of the secular knights; that they were marching in ranks and had empty wagons with a supply of wheels upon them; and that at a distance in front of the detachment were bodies of archers composed of eight men who frequently left the road and searched the woods and thickets, and finally that the detachment was about one quarter of a mile distant. Zbyszko was not particularly pleased with the information of the manner of their advancing in battle array. He knew by experience how difficult it was to break the ordered German ranks, and how such a crowd could retreat and fight in the same manner as a wild-boar that defends itself when brought to bay by dogs. On the other hand, he was glad of the news that they were only a quarter of a mile distant, because he calculated that the people who were detached to cut off their retreat had already done so,--and, in case of the Germans being routed, not a single soul could escape. As to the outpost at the head of the detachment he did not care much, because he knew from the first that such would be the case and was prepared for them; he had given orders to his men to allow them to advance, and if they were engaged in searching the thickets to capture them quietly one by one. But the last order seemed unnecessary; the scouts advanced without delay. The Zmudzians who were hidden in the growths near the highway had a perfect view of the advancing party when they halted at the turning and took counsel. The chief, a powerful red-bearded German, who signalled to them to keep silence, began to listen. It was visible for a moment that he hesitated whether to penetrate the forest or not. At last, as there was only audible the hammering of the woodpeckers, and he apparently thought that the birds would not be working so freely if people were hidden among the trees. Therefore he waved his hand for the detachment to go forward. Zbyszko waited until they were near the second turning, then he approached the road, at the head of his well-armed men, including Macko, the Bohemian, and the two noble volunteers from Lenkawice, and three young knights from Ciechanow, and a dozen of the better armed Zmudzian nobles. Further concealment was not necessary. Nothing remained for Zbyszko but to station himself in the middle of the road and, as soon as the Germans appeared, to fall upon them, and break their ranks. If that might be accomplished, he was sure that his Zmudzians would take care of the Germans. There was silence for a little while, which was only disturbed by the usual forest noises, but soon there were heard the voices of people proceeding from the east side; they were yet a considerable distance away but the voices grew little by little more distinct as they approached. Without losing a moment's time, Zbyszko and his men placed themselves in the form of a wedge in the middle of the road. Zbyszko himself formed the sharp end and directly behind him were Macko and the Bohemian, in the row behind them were three men, behind those were four; all of them were well armed. Nothing was wanting but the "wooden" lances of the knights which could greatly impede the advance of the enemy in forest marches, instead of those long handled lances; theirs were shorter and lighter. Zmudzian weapons were well adapted for the first attack, and the swords and axes at their saddles were handy for combat at close quarters. Hlawa was wide awake and listening; then he whispered to Macko: "They are singing, they shall be destroyed." "But what surprises me is that the woods obscure them from our sight," replied Macko. Then Zbyszko, who considered further hiding and silence unnecessary, replied: "Because the road leads along the stream; that is the reason for its frequent windings." "But how merrily they are singing!" repeated the Bohemian. One could judge from the melody that the Germans were singing profane songs indeed. It could also be distinguished that the singers were not more than about a dozen, and that they all repeated only one burden which resounded far and wide in the forest, like a thunderstorm. Thus they went to death, rejoicing and lusty. "We shall soon see them," said Macko. Then his face suddenly darkened and assumed a wolf-like and savage expression. He had a grudge against the knights for the shots which he had received at the time when he went to Zbyszko's rescue, on that occasion when he was the carrier of letters from Prince Witold's sister to the grand master. Therefore his blood began to boil, and a desire for vengeance overflowed his soul. The fellow who first attacks will not fare well, thought Hlawa, as he looked at the old knight. Meanwhile the wind carried the sound of the phrase which the singers repeated: "Tandaradei! Tandaradei!" The Bohemian at once recognized the song known to him: "Bi den rôsen er wol mac Tandaradei! Merken wa mir'z houlet lac...." Then the song was interrupted, because upon both sides of the road was heard such a croaking noise that it seemed as if the crows were holding parliament in that corner of the forest. The Germans were wondering whence so many crows came, and why they proceeded from the ground and not from the tops of the trees. In fact the first line of the soldiers appeared at the turning and halted as though nailed to the spot, when they observed unknown horsemen facing them. At the same moment Zbyszko sat down in his saddle, spurred his horse, and rushed forward, crying: "At them!" The others galloped with him. The terrible shouting of the Zmudzian warriors was heard from the woods. Only a space of about two hundred feet separated Zbyszko from the enemy, who, in the twinkling of an eye, lowered a forest of lances toward Zbyszko's horsemen; the remaining lines placed themselves with the utmost dispatch on both sides to protect themselves against an attack from the direction of the forest. The Polish knights might have admired the dexterity of the German tactics, but there was no time for contemplation, owing to the great speed and impetus of their horses in their charge upon the close phalanx of the Germans. Happily for Zbyszko, the German cavalry were in the rear of the division near the wagon train; in fact, they hastened at once to their assistance, but they could neither reach them in time nor pass beyond them so as to be of any assistance at the first attack. The Zmudzians, pouring from the thickets, surrounded them like a swarm of poisonous wasps upon whose nest a careless traveler had trod. Meanwhile Zbyszko and his men threw themselves upon the infantry. The attack was without effect. The Germans planted the ends of their heavy lances and battle-axes in the ground, held them fast and even so that the Zmudzian light horses could not break the wall. Macko's horse, which received a blow from a battle-axe in the shin, reared and stood up on his hind legs, then fell forward burying his nostrils in the ground. For a while death was hovering above the old knight; but he was experienced and had seen many battles, and was full of resources in accidents. So he freed his legs from the stirrups, and grasped with his powerful hand the sharp end of the pike which was ready to strike him, and instead of penetrating his chest it served him as a support. Then he freed himself, and, springing among the horsemen, he obtained a sword and fell upon the pikes and battle-axes with such fury as an eagle swoops upon a flock of long-beaked cranes. At the moment of attack Zbyszko sat back on his horse, charged with his spear--and broke it; then he also got a sword. The Bohemian, who, above all, believed in the efficacy of an axe, threw it in the midst of the Germans. For a while he remained without arms. One of two _wlodykas_ who accompanied him was slain in the onset; at the sight of that, the other lost his reason and raved so that he began to howl like a wolf, stood up upon his blood-covered horse and charged blindly into the midst of the throng. The Zmudzian noblemen cut with their sharp blades the spearheads and wooden handles, behind which they observed the faces of the _knechts_ (common soldiers) upon which was depicted alarm, and at the same time they were frowning with determination and stubbornness. But the ranks remained unbroken. Also the Zmudzians, who made a flank attack, quickly retreated from before the Germans, as one runs away from a venomous snake. Indeed they returned immediately with yet greater impetuosity, but they did not succeed. Some of them climbed up the trees in the twinkling of an eye and directed their arrows into the midst of the _knechts_, but when their leader saw this he ordered the soldiers to retreat toward the cavalry. The German ranks also began to shoot, and from time to time a Zmudzian would fall down and tear the moss in agony, or wriggle like a fish drawn from the water. The Germans, indeed, could not count upon a victory, but they knew the efficacy of defending themselves, so that, if possible, a small number, at least, might manage to escape disaster and reach the shore. Nobody thought of surrendering, because they did not spare prisoners, they knew that they could not count upon mercy from people who were driven to despair and rebellion. They therefore retreated in silence, in close rank, shoulder to shoulder, now raising, now lowering their javelins and broad axes, hewing, shooting with their crossbows as much as the confusion of the fighting permitted them, and continuing to retreat slowly toward their horsemen, who were engaged in life and death battle with another section of the enemy. Meanwhile something strange occurred which decided the fortune of the stubborn fight. It was caused by the young _wlodyka_ of Lenkawice, who became mad at the death of his companion; he did not dismount, but bent down and lifted up the body of his companion with the object of depositing it in a safe place to save it from mutilation, and so that he might find it after the battle was over. But at that very moment a fresh wave of madness came over him and he entirely lost his mind, so that instead of leaving the road, he rushed toward the German soldiers and threw the body upon the points of their pikes, which penetrated the corpse in various parts, and the weight caused them to bend, and before the Germans were able to withdraw their weapons, the raving man fell in, breaking the ranks and overturning the men like a tempest. In the twinkling of an eye, half a score of hands were extended toward him and as many pikes penetrated the flanks of his horse, but the ranks were thrown into disorder, and one Zmudz noble who was near, rushed through and immediately after him came Zbyszko, then the Bohemian, and the terrible confusion increased every moment. Other _bojars_ followed the example, seized corpses and thrust them against the enemies' arms, whilst the Zmudzians again attacked the flanks. The order which had hitherto reigned in the German ranks wavered; it began to shake like a house whose walls are cracked; it was cleft like a log by a wedge, and finally it burst open. In a moment the fighting turned to slaughter, the long German pikes and broad axes were of no use at close quarters. Instead of it the swords of the horsemen fell upon helmet and neck. The horses pressed into the midst of the throng, upsetting and trampling the unfortunate Germans. It was easy for the horsemen to strike from above and they took advantage of the opportunity and ceaselessly cut the enemy. From the woods on both sides continually arrived wild warriors, clothed in wolves' skins, and with a wolfish desire for blood in their hearts. Their howling drowned the voices praying for mercy and those of the dying. The conquered threw away their arms; some tried to escape into the forest, others feigned death and fell to the earth, others stood erect, their faces white as snow, and bloodshot eyes, whilst others prayed. One of them, apparently demented, began to play the pipe, then looked upward and smiled, until a Zmudzian crushed his head with a club. The forest ceased to rustle and death dominated it. Finally the small army of the Knights of the Cross melted away; only at times there were heard voices of small bands fighting in the woods, or a terrible cry of despair. Zbyszko, Macko and all their horsemen now galloped toward the cavalry. They were still defending themselves, placing themselves in the form of a wedge. The Germans were always accustomed to adopt that manoeuvre when surrounded by an overwhelming force of the enemy. The cavalry were mounted upon good horses and were better armed than the infantry; they fought manfully and obstinately and deserved admiration. There was none with a white mantle among them, but they were of the middle classes and small nobility of the Germans who were obliged to go to war when called upon by the Order. Most of their horses were also armed, some had body armor; but all had iron head covers with a spike of steel protruding from the centre. Their leader was a tall, sturdy knight; he wore a dark blue coat of mail and a helmet of the same color, with a lowered steel visor. A rain of arrows was showered upon them from the depths of the forest. But they did but little harm. The Zmudzian infantry and cavalry came nearer and surrounded them like a wall, but they defended themselves, cutting and thrusting with their long swords so furiously that in front of the horses' hoofs lay a ring of corpses. The first lines of the attackers wanted to retire, but they were unable to do so. There was a press and confusion all around. The eyes became dazzled by the glint of the spears and the flash of the swords. The horses began to neigh, bite, rear and kick. Then the Zmudz noblemen charged down; Zbyszko, Hlawa and the Mazovians fell upon them. By dint of the press, the German throng began to waver, and swayed like trees before a storm, but they hewed like choppers of firewood in the forest thickets, and advanced slowly amidst fatigue and excessive heat. But Macko ordered his men to gather together the long-handled German battle-axes from the battlefield, and armed with them thirty of his wild warriors pressed on eagerly toward the Germans. "Strike the horses' legs!" he shouted. A terrible effect was soon apparent. The German knights were unable to reach the Zmudzians with their swords, at the same time the battle-axes were crushing the horses' legs. It was then that the blue knight recognized that the end of the battle was at hand, and that he had only two resources left--either to fight his way through the army and retreat, or to remain and perish. He chose the first plan, and in a moment his knights turned their faces in the direction whence they came. The Zmudzians fell upon their rear. Nevertheless the Germans threw their shields upon their shoulders and cut in front and to the sides, and broke through the ranks of the attacking party, and hurricane-like, fled toward the east. But that division which had been despatched for that purpose, rushed to meet them; but by dint of superior fighting and the greater weight of the horses, they fell in a moment like flax before a storm. The road to the castle was open, but escape thither was insecure and too far away, because the Zmudzian horses were fleeter than those of the Germans. The blue knight was quite aware of it. "Woe!" he said to himself. "Here none will escape; perhaps I may purchase their salvation with my own blood." Then he shouted to his men to halt, and himself turned around toward the foe, not caring whether any one overheard his command. Zbyszko galloped up to him first, the German struck him upon the visor, but without breaking it or harming Zbyszko. At the same time, Zbyszko, instead of giving stroke for stroke, grasped the knight by the middle, but, in the attempt to take him alive, engaged in a close struggle, during which the girth of his horse gave way from the intense strain of the contest, and both fell to the ground. For a while they wrestled; but the extraordinary strength of the young man soon prevailed against his antagonist; he pressed his knees against his stomach, holding him down as a wolf does a dog who dares to oppose him in the woods. But there was no need to hold him, because the German fainted. Meanwhile Macko and the Bohemian arrived at a gallop. Zbyszko shouted: "Quick, here! A rope!" The Bohemian dismounted, but seeing the helplessness of the German, he did not bind him, but disarmed him and unbuckled his armlets and his belt, and with the attached "_misericordia_," (dagger of mercy) cut the gorget, and lastly he unscrewed the helmet. But he had scarcely glanced in the face of the knight, when he started back and exclaimed: "Master! master! please only look here!" "De Lorche!" shouted Zbyszko. And there lay de Lorche pale and motionless as a corpse, with closed eyes and face covered with perspiration. CHAPTER VII. Zbyszko gave orders for him to be laid upon one of the captured wagons which were laden with spare wheels and axles for the expedition coming to relieve the castle. He mounted another horse, and with Macko they continued the pursuit of the fleeing Germans. It was not a difficult pursuit, because the German horses were not speedy enough, particularly upon the ground softened by the spring rains, more especially for Macko, who had with him a light and fleet mare which belonged to the deceased _wlodyka_ of Lenkawice. After a distance of several furlongs he passed almost all the Zmudzians. He soon reached the first German trooper, whom he at once challenged according to the then prevailing custom among the knights, to surrender or fight. But the German feigned deafness. He even threw away his shield to relieve the horse, and bent in the saddle and spurred his horse. The old knight struck him with his broad axe between the shoulder-blades, and he fell to the ground. Thus Macko avenged himself upon the fleeing Germans for the treacherous shot he had once received. They ran before him like a herd of frightened deer. They had no thought of continuing the fight or defending themselves, but of fleeing before that terrible man. Some dashed into the forest, but one stuck fast near the stream: him the Zmudzians strangled with a halter. Then a hunt as if after wild beasts began after the crowd of fugitives which sprang into the woods. The depths of the forests rang with the shouts of the hunters and the shrieks of the hunted until the latter were exterminated. Then the old knight, accompanied by Zbyszko and the Bohemian, returned to the battlefield upon which lay the hacked bodies of the German infantry. They were already stripped naked. Some were mutilated by the revengeful Zmudzians. It was an important victory, and the soldiers were drunk with joy. After the last defeat suffered by Skirwoilla near Gotteswerder, a sort of apathy had seized the Zmudzians, more especially because the promised relief from Prince Witold had not yet arrived as quickly as expected. However, now hope revived and the fire was kindled anew as when wood is thrown upon glowing embers. The number of slain Germans, as well as Zmudzians to be buried, was very great, but Zbyszko ordered a special grave to be dug for the _wlodykas_ of Lenkawice, who contributed so much toward the victory. They were buried there among the pine-trees, and Zbyszko cut a cross with his sword upon the bark. Then he ordered the Bohemian to keep watch over de Lorche who was still unconscious; he stirred up the people and hurried on along the road toward Skirwoilla to lend him affective assistance in case of emergency. But after a long march he came across a deserted battlefield that resembled the former, being covered with German and Zmudzian corpses. It was easy for Zbyszko to conclude that the terrible Skirwoilla had also gained an equally important victory over the enemy, because if he had been defeated, Zbyszko would have met the victorious Germans marching to the castle. But the victory must have been a bloody one, because for some distance a great number of dead were met with. The experienced Macko was able to deduce from this that some Germans had even succeeded in retreating from the defeat. It was difficult to tell whether Skirwoilla was pursuing them or not, because the tracks were mingled and confused. He also concluded that the battle had taken place quite early, perhaps earlier than Zbyszko's fight, for the corpses were livid and swollen, and some of them torn by wolves, that scattered in the thickets at the approach of armed men. In face of these circumstances Zbyszko resolved not to wait for Skirwoilla, but to return to the original safe camp. He arrived there late at night and found the leader of the Zmudzians who had arrived somewhat early. His face, which usually wore a sullen expression, was now lighted with fiendish joy. He asked at once about the result of the fight, and when he was told of the victory he said in tones that sounded like the croaking of a crow: "I am glad of your victory, and I am glad of mine. They will send no more relief expeditions for some time, and when the great prince arrives there will be more joy, for the castle will be ours." "Have you taken any prisoners?" inquired Zbyszko. "Only small fry, no pike. There was one, there were two but they got away. They were pikes with sharp teeth! They cut the people and escaped." "God granted me one." replied the young knight. "He is a powerful and renowned knight, although a Swede--a guest!" The terrible Zmudzian raised his hands to his neck and with the right hand made a gesture like the up-jerk of a halter: "This shall happen to him," he said, "to him as well as to the other prisoners ... this!" Then Zbyszko's brow furrowed. "Listen, Skirwoilla," he said. "Nothing will happen to him, neither _this_ nor _that_ because he is my prisoner and my friend. Prince Janusz knighted both of us. I will not even permit you to cut off one finger from his hand." "You will not permit?" "No, I will not." Then they glared fiercely into each other's eyes. Skirwoilla's face was so much wrinkled that it had the appearance of a bird of prey. It appeared as if both were about to burst out. But Zbyszko did not want any trouble with the old leader, whom he prized and respected; moreover his heart was greatly agitated with the events of the day. He fell suddenly upon his neck, pressed him to his breast and exclaimed: "Do you really desire to tear him from me, and with him my last hope? Why do you wrong me?" Skirwoilla did not repel the embrace. Finally, withdrawing his head from Zbyszko's arm, he looked at him benignantly, breathing heavily. "Well," he said, after a moment's silence. "Well, to-morrow I will give orders for the prisoners to be hanged, but if you want any one of them, I will give him to you." Then they embraced each other again and parted on good terms--to the great satisfaction of Macko, who said: "It is obvious that you will never be able to do anything with him by anger, but with kindness you can knead him like wax." "Such is the whole nation," replied Zbyszko; "but the Germans do not know it." Then he gave orders for de Lorche, who had taken rest in the booth, to be brought to the camp-fire. A moment later the Bohemian brought him in; he was unarmed and without a helmet, having only his leather jacket upon which the marks of the coat of mail were visible. He had a red cap on his head. De Lorche had already been informed by Hlawa that he was a prisoner and therefore he came in looking cool and haughty, and the light of the flames revealed defiance and contempt in his countenance. "Thank God," Zbyszko said, "that He delivered you in my hands, because nothing evil shall happen to you by me." Then he extended a friendly hand; but de Lorche did not even move. "I decline to give my hand to knights who outrage knightly honor, by joining pagans in fighting Christian knights." One of the Mazovians present, who could not restrain himself, owing to Zbyszko's importance, on hearing this became excited and his blood boiled. "Fool!" he shouted and involuntarily grasped the handle of his "_misericordia_." But de Lorche lifted up his head. "Kill me," he said. "I know that you do not spare prisoners." "But, do you spare prisoners?" the Mazur who could not restrain himself, exclaimed: "Did you not hang on the shore of the island all the prisoners you took in the last fight? That is the reason why Skirwoilla will hang all his prisoners." "Yes! they did hang them, but they were pagans." There was a certain sense of shame in his reply; it could easily be seen that he did not entirely approve of such deeds. Meanwhile, Zbyszko controlled himself, and in a quiet and dignified manner said: "De Lorche, you and I received our belts and spurs from the same hand, you also know well that knightly honor is dearer to me than life and fortune. Listen, therefore, to my words which I say under oath to Saint Jerzy: There are many among this people whose Christianity does not date from yesterday, and those who have not yet been converted stretch out their hands toward the Cross for salvation. But, do you know who hinder them and prevent their salvation and baptism?" The Mazur translated all Zbyszko's words to de Lorche, who looked into the young knight's face questioningly. "The Germans!" said Zbyszko. "Impossible," shouted de Lorche. "By the spear and spurs of Saint Jerzy, the Germans! Because if the religion of the Cross were to be propagated here, they would lose a pretext for incursions, and domination and oppression of this unhappy people. You are well acquainted with these facts, de Lorche! You are best informed whether their dealings are upright or not." "But I think that in fighting with the pagans they are only banishing them to prepare them for baptism." "They are baptizing them with the sword and blood, not with water that saves. Read this letter, I pray, and you will be convinced that you yourself are the wrongdoer, plunderer and the hell-_starosta_ of those who fight religion and Christian love." Then he handed him the letter which the Zmudzians had written to the kings and princes, which was distributed everywhere; de Lorche took it and perused it rapidly by the light of the fire. He was greatly surprised, and said; "Can all that be true?" "May God, who sees best, so help you and me that I am not only speaking the truth but I also serve justice." De Lorche was silent for a moment and then said: "I am your prisoner." "Give me your hand," replied Zbyszko. "You are my brother, not my prisoner." Then they clasped hands and sat down in company to supper, which the Bohemian ordered the servant to prepare. De Lorche was greatly surprised when he was informed on the road that Zbyszko, in spite of his letters, had not got Danusia, and that the _comthurs_ had refused important and safe conduct on account of the outbreak of the war. "Now I understand why you are here," he said to Zbyszko, "and I thank God that He delivered me into your hands, because I think that through me the Knights of the Order will surrender to you what you wish. Otherwise there will be a great outcry in the West, because I am a knight of importance and come from a powerful family...." Then he suddenly threw down his cap and exclaimed: "By all the relics of Akwizgran! Then those who were at the head of the relief train to Gotteswerder, were Arnold von Baden and old Zygfried von Löve. That we learned from the letters which were sent to the castle. Were they taken prisoners?" "No!" said Zbyszko, excitedly. "None of the most important! But, by God! The news you tell me is important. For God's sake, tell me, are there other prisoners from whom I can learn whether there were any women with Zygfried?" Then he called the men to bring him lit resinous chips and he hastened to where the prisoners were gathered by order of Skirwoilla. De Lorche, Macko and the Bohemian ran with him. "Listen," said de Lorche to Zbyszko, on the way. "If you will let me free on parole I will run and seek her throughout the whole of Prussia, and when I find her, I will return to you and you will exchange me for her." "If she lives! If she lives!" replied Zbyszko. Meanwhile they reached the place where Skirwoilla's prisoners were. Some were lying upon their backs, others stood near the stumps of trees to which they were cruelly fastened with fibre. The bright flame of the chips illuminated Zbyszko's face. Therefore all the prisoners' looks were directed toward him. Then from the depths of the road there was heard a loud and terrible voice: "My lord and protector! Oh, save me!" Zbyszko snatched from the hands of the servant a couple of burning chips and ran into the forest toward the direction whence the voice proceeded, holding aloft the burning chips, and cried: "Sanderus!" "Sanderus!" repeated the Bohemian, in astonishment. But Sanderus, whose hands were bound to the tree, stretched his neck and began to shout again. "Mercy!... I know where Jurand's daughter is!... Save me." CHAPTER VIII. The soldiers unbound him at once, but his limbs were benumbed and he fell; when they lifted him up he was seized with successive fainting fits. In spite of Zbyszko's orders for him to be taken to the fire and given food and drink, and rubbed over with fat and then covered with warmed skins, Sanderus did not recover consciousness, but lapsed into a very deep sleep, which continued until noon of the following day when the Bohemian succeeded in awakening him. Zbyszko, who was burning with fiery impatience, immediately went to him, but at first he could get no information from him, because either from his terrible experiences or from the relaxation which usually overpowers weak natures when the threatening danger has passed, Sanderus burst into long and uncontrollable weeping, so that for some time he could give no answer to the questions put to him. He was choked with sobs, his lips trembled, and tears flowed down his cheeks so copiously that it seemed as though his very life was flowing out with them. Finally he succeeded to some extent in controlling himself, and he strengthened himself a little with mares' milk, which mode of refreshing themselves the Lithunians learned from the Tartars. He began to complain that the "sons of Belial" had thrust him with their pikes against a wild apple-tree; that they had taken away his horse which was laden with relics of priceless virtue; and finally when they had bound him to the tree, the ants had attacked his feet and body so that he expected to die from it, if not to-day, to-morrow. Zbyszko's anger overcame him and he could restrain himself no longer, and he interrupted Sanderus and said: "You vagabond, answer the questions I am going to put to you and take care that you tell the truth, or you will fare worse." "There are red ants yonder," said the Bohemian, "order them to be pat upon him, and he will soon find a tongue in his mouth." Hlawa did not say this seriously; he even smiled as he spoke, for his heart was well inclined toward Sanderus. The latter, however, was terror-stricken, and shouted. "Mercy! Mercy! Give me some more of that pagan drink and I will tell you all that I have and that I have not seen." "If you tell lies, even one word that is not true, I will drive a wedge between your teeth," said the Bohemian. They brought him another skin full of mares' milk; he grasped it and fastened his lips to it with the avidity that a child does to its mother's breast, and began to gulp it down, alternatively opening and closing his eyes. When he had drank from it about half a gallon or more, he shook himself, placed the skin upon his knees, and as if submitting himself to the inevitable, he said: "Vile stuff!..." Then he turned toward Zbyszko. "Now, deliverer! ask." "Was my wife in that division with you?" Sanderus' face assumed a certain air of surprise. In fact he had heard that Danusia was Zbyszko's wife, but it had been a secret marriage, and immediately afterward she had been abducted, and he had always thought of her as Jurandowna, (Miss Jurand). He replied quickly: "Yes, _voyevode!_ She was! But Zygfried von Löve and Arnold von Baden broke through the enemy's ranks and escaped." "Did you see her?" asked Zbyszko, with beating heart. "I did not see her face, sir, but I saw a closed litter made of brushwood, suspended between two horses, in which there was somebody, led by that very lizard, the same servant of the Order who came from Danveld to the Forest Court. I also heard sad singing proceeding from the litter...." Zbyszko grew pale with emotion; he sat down on the stump and was unable to ask another question for a while. Macko and the Bohemian were also much moved at this great and important news. The latter, probably, thought about his beloved lady who remained at Spychow, and upon whom this news would fall like a doom. There was silence for a moment. Finally, the shrewd Macko who did not know Sanderus, and who had scarcely heard of him previously, looked at him with suspicion, and asked: "Who are you and what were you doing among the Knights of the Cross?" "Who am I, powerful knight?" replied Sanderus. "Let this valiant prince answer for me," (here he pointed toward Zbyszko), "and this manly Bohemian noble who has known me long." The effect of the kumys (mares' milk) upon Sanderus apparently began to show itself, for he grew lively, and turning to Zbyszko he spoke in a loud voice and showed no trace of his previous feeble condition. "Sir, you have saved my life twice. If it were not for you, the wolves would have devoured me, or the punishment of the bishops who were misguided by my enemies. (Oh, what a wicked world this is!) They issued an order to hunt me for selling relics which they thought were not genuine, simply because they took me for one of your people. But you, O lord, protected me, and thanks to you I was not destroyed by the wolves, nor shall their persecution harm me. Food and drink was never lacking whilst I was with you--better than the mares' milk here which makes me sick, but I drink it in order to show how a poor but pious pilgrim can stand all kinds of privations." "Speak, you bear-trainer; tell us quickly what you know, and do not play the fool," exclaimed Macko. But he lifted the skin to his mouth again and entirely emptied it; apparently not hearing Macko's words, he turned again to Zbyszko: "This is another reason why I love you. The saints, as it is written in the Scriptures, sinned nine times an hour, consequently, sometimes also Sanderus transgresses, but Sanderus never was nor shall be ungrateful. Therefore, when misfortune came upon you, you remember, sir, what I told you; I said, 'I will go from castle to castle, and, instructing the people along the road, I will search for your lost one.' Whom did I not ask? Where did I not go?--It would take me a long time to tell you.--But, suffice it to say, I found her; and from that moment on, burrs do not cling as tenaciously to the cloak as I attached myself to old Zygfried. I became his servant, and from castle to castle, from one _comthur_ to another, from town to town I went with him without intermission until this last battle." Zybszko meanwhile mastered his emotion and said: "I am very thankful to you and I shall surely reward you. But now, answer my questions. Will you swear, by the salvation of your soul, that she is alive?" "I swear by the salvation of my soul that she is alive," replied Sanderus, with a serious air. "Why did Zygfried leave Szczytno?" "I do not know, sir. But I surmise that as he was never the _starosta_ of Szczytno, he left it; perhaps he feared the grand master's orders, which were, they say, to give up the little lamb to the Mazovian court. Perhaps that very letter was the cause of his flight, because his soul burned within him with pain and vengeance for Rotgier who, they say now, was Zygfried's own son. I cannot tell what happened there, but this I do know, that something turned his head and he raved, and determined not to surrender Jurand's daughter--I meant to say, the young lady--as long as he lives." "All this seems to me very strange," suddenly interrupted Macko. "If that old dog thirsts so much for the blood of all who belong to Jurand, he would have killed Danuska." "He wanted to do so," replied Sanderus, "but something happened to him and he became very sick, and was at the point of death. His people whisper much over that affair. Some say that upon a certain night when he went to the tower intending to kill the young lady he met the Evil Spirit--some say it was an angel whom he met--well--they found him lying upon the snow in front of the tower wholly lifeless. Now, when he thinks about it, his hair stands up upon his head like oak-trees; this is the reason why he does not himself dare to lift up his hand against her, he even fears to order others to do it. He has with him the dumb executioner of Szczytno, but it is not known why, because the executioner as well as others, are equally afraid to harm her." These words made a great impression. Zbyszko, Macko and the Bohemian came near Sanderus, who crossed himself and then continued: "It was not well to be among them. More than once I heard and saw things that made my flesh creep. I have told your lordship already that something was wrong with the old _comthur's_ head. Bah! How could it be otherwise, when spirits from the other world visit him. He would have remained there, but some presence is always near him which sounds like one who is breathless. And that is that very Danveld, whom the terrible lord of Spychow killed. Then Zygfried says to him: 'What shall I do? I cannot avenge you on anything; what profit will you get?' But the other (the ghost) gnashes his teeth and then pants again. Very often Rotgier appears, and the odor of sulphur is noticeable, and the _comthur_ has a lengthy conversation with him. 'I cannot,' he says to him. 'I cannot. When I come myself then I will do it, but now I cannot.' I also heard the old man asking: 'Will that comfort you, dear son,' and other expressions of the same character. When this happens, the old _comthur_ speaks to nobody for two or three days in succession, and his face seems as if he is suffering intense pain. He and the woman servant of the Order watch the litter carefully, so that the young lady is always unable to see anybody." "Do they not torture her?" asked Zbyszko, in hollow tones. "I will tell your lordship the candid truth, that I did not hear any beating or crying; the only thing I heard proceeding from the litter was sad melodies; sometimes it seemed to me like sweet, sad warblings of a bird...." "That is terrible," exclaimed Zbyszko, his voice hissing between his set teeth. But Macko interrupted further questioning. "That is enough," he said. "Speak now of the battle. Did you see how they departed and what became of them?" "I saw and will give a faithful account. At first they fought terribly. But when they saw that they were surrounded on all sides, then only they thought of escape. Sir Arnold, who is quite a giant, was the first to break the ring, and opened such a road, that he, the old _comthur_ and some people with the horse-litter succeeded in passing through it." "How is it that they were not pursued?" "They were pursued, but nothing could be done, because when they came too near them, then Sir Arnold faced the pursuers and fought them all. God protect those who meet him, because he possesses such extraordinary strength; he considers it a trifle to fight against a hundred. Thrice he thus turned, thrice he kept the pursuers in check. All the people who were with him perished. It seems to me that he too was wounded, and so was his horse, but he escaped, and meanwhile the old _comthur_ succeeded in making good his escape." When Macko heard the story he thought that Sanderus was telling the truth, for he recollected that when he entered the field where Skirwoilla had given battle, the whole stretch of the road on the line of the Germans' retreat, was covered with dead Zmudzians, so terribly hacked as though it had been done by giant hands. "Nevertheless, how could you observe all that?" he asked Sanderus. "I saw it," replied the vagabond, "because I grasped the tail of one of the horses which carried the litter, and held on until I received a kick in my stomach. Then I fainted, and that was the reason that you captured me." "That might happen," said Hlawa, "but take care, if anything you say turns out to be false; in such case you shall fare badly." "There is another proof," replied Sanderus; "let one who wishes take a note of it; yet it is better to believe a man's word than to condemn him as one who does not tell the truth." "Although you sometimes unwillingly tell the truth, you will howl for simony." And they began to tease each other as they formerly did, but Zbyszko interrupted their chatter. "You have passed through that region, then you must be acquainted with the localities in the neighborhood of the castles; where do you suppose Zygfried and Arnold hide themselves?" "There are no strongholds whatever in that neighborhood; all is one wilderness, through which a road was recently cut. There are neither villages nor farms. The Germans burned those that were there, for the reason that the inhabitants of those places who are also Zmudzians, had also risen in arms against the Knights of the Cross with their brethren here. I think, sir, that Zygfried and Arnold are now wandering about the woods; either they are trying to return to the place whence they came, or attempting furtively to reach that fortress whither we were going to before that unfortunate battle." "I am sure that it is so," said Zbyszko. He became absorbed in thought so that he contracted his brows; he was obviously trying to find some plan, but it did not last long. After a while he lifted up his head and said: "Hlawa! See that the horses and men get ready; we must move at once." The Bohemian, whose custom was never to ask for reasons when commanded, without saying a single word, got up and ran toward the horses; then Macko opened wide his eyes at his nephew and said with surprise: "And ... Zbyszko? Hey! Where are you going? What?... How?..." But he answered his questions with another: "And what do you think? Is it not my duty?" The old knight had nothing to say. His looks of astonishment disappeared little by little from his face; he shook his head once or twice and finally drew a deep breath and said as though replying to himself: "Well! there you are.... There is no other remedy!" And he also went to the horses, but Zbyszko returned to de Lorche, and by means of a Mazovian interpreter spoke to him thus: "I cannot ask you to go with me against the people with whom you served. You are therefore free and you may go wherever you please." "I cannot serve you now with my sword against my knightly honor," replied de Lorche; "but as to your granting me my freedom, I cannot accept that either. I remain your prisoner on parole and shall be at your command whithersoever you send me. And in case you want to exchange prisoners, remember that the Order will exchange for me any prisoner, because I am not only a powerful knight, but I am a descendant of a line of Knights of the Cross of great merit." Then they embraced each other according to custom, placing their hands on each other's arms and kissing each other on the cheeks, and de Lorche said: "I will go to Malborg or to the Mazovian court, so that you may know if I am not in one place you can find me in the other. Thy messenger need only tell me the two words, '_Lotaryngia-Geldria_'" "Well," said Zbyszko, "still I will go to Skirwoilla to obtain a pass for you which the Zmudzians will respect." Then he called upon Skirwoilla; the old leader gave the pass for his departure without any difficulty, for he knew all about the affair and loved Zbyszko; he was grateful to him for his bravery in the last battle, and for this very reason he made no objection whatever to the departure of the knight who belonged to another country and came on his own account. Then, thanking Zbyszko for the great services which he had rendered, he looked at him in surprise at his courage in undertaking a journey in the wild lands; he bid him good-bye, expressing his wishes to meet him again in some greater and more conclusive affair against the Knights of the Cross. But Zbyszko was in a great hurry, for he was consumed as with a fever. When he arrived at the post he found everybody ready, and his uncle, Macko, on horseback, among them; he was armed and had on his coat of mail and his helmet upon his head. Zbyszko approached him and said: "Then you too go with me!" "But what else could I do?" replied Macko, a little testily. Zbyszko did not reply, but kissed the right hand of his uncle, then mounted his horse and proceeded. Sanderus went with them. They knew the road as far as the battlefield very well, but beyond that he was to guide them. They also counted upon the local inhabitants whom they might meet in the woods; who, out of hatred of their masters, the Knights of the Cross, would aid them in tracking the old _comthur_ and the knight, Arnold von Baden, to whom Sanderus attributed such superhuman strength and bravery. CHAPTER IX. The road to the battlefield where Skirwoilla had routed the Germans was easy, because they knew it, and so they soon reached it. Owing to the insufferable stench arising from the unburied dead, they crossed it in a hurry. As they did so, they drove away wolves, and large flights of crows, ravens and jackdaws. Then they began to look for traces along the road. Although a whole division had passed over it on the previous day, nevertheless, the experienced Macko found upon the trampled road without trouble, the imprint of gigantic hoofs leading in an opposite direction. Then he explained to the younger and less experienced companions-in-arms: "It is fortunate that there has been no rainfall since the battle. Only look here. Arnold's horse carrying an unusually big man must also be exceedingly large; this too is easily observed, that the imprint of the horse's feet on this side of the road is much deeper, owing to the galloping in his flight; whilst the tracks marking the previous march on the other side of the road are not so deep, because the horse walked slowly. Let those who have eyes look how the marks of the horseshoes are visible. God grant that we may track those dog-brothers successfully, provided they have not already found shelter somewhere behind walls!" "Sanderus said," replied Zbyszko, "that there are no forts in this neighborhood, and it is actually so; because the Knights of the Cross have only recently taken possession of this region and have not had enough time to build in it. Then where can they hide themselves? All the peasants who dwelt in these lands joined Skirwoilla, because they belong to the same stock as the Zmudzians.... The villages, Sanderus said, these same Germans destroyed by fire and the women and children are hidden in the thick forest. Provided we do not spare our horses we shall yet overtake them." "We must spare the horses, for even if we overtake them our safety afterward depends upon our horses," said Macko. "Sir Arnold," interrupted Sanderus, "received a blow between his shoulder-blades in battle. He took no notice of it at first, but kept on fighting and slaying, but they were obliged to dress it afterward; as is always the case, at first one does not feel the blows but they pain later on. For this reason he cannot exert himself too much to run fast and it may be that he is even obliged to rest himself." "You said that there are no other people with them?" inquired Macko. "There are two who lead the litter, the _comthur_ and Sir Arnold. There were quite a number of men with them, but the Zmudzians killed them." "Let our men lay hold of the two fellows who are with the litter," said Zbyszko. "You, uncle, manage old Zygfried, and I will pounce upon Arnold." "Well," replied Macko, "I shall be able to manage Zygfried, because, thank God, there is still strength in these bones. But as far as your task is concerned, I should say, do not be so self-confident, for that knight seems to be a giant." "O well! We shall see," replied Zbyszko. "You are strong, that I don't dispute, but there are stronger men than you are. Did you observe our own knights whom we met at Krakow? Could you conquer Pan Powala of Taczew, Paszko Zlodziej of Biskupice, and Zawisza Czarny, eh? Don't be too rash, but consider the facts." "Rotgier also was a strong man," murmured Zbyszko. "Will there be any work for myself?" asked the Bohemian. But he received no reply, because Macko was thinking about something else. "If God blesses us we shall be able to reach the Mazowiecki wilderness. We shall be safe there, and all trouble will be at an end." But after a while he sighed when he reflected that even there affairs would not be entirely ended, there would yet be something to attend to for the unfortunate Jagienka. "Hey!" he murmured, "God's decrees are wonderful. I had often thought about it. Why did it not occur to you to get married quietly, and let me live with you peacefully. That would have been the most happy course. But now we are the only ones among the noblemen of the kingdom, who are wandering in various regions and wilds, instead of attending to our homes as God commands." "Well, that is true, but it is God's will," replied Zbyszko. Then they proceeded on their journey for a while in silence. The old knight turned again to his nephew: "Do you rely on that vagabond? Who is he?" "He is a fickle man and perhaps he is a rogue, but he wishes me well, and I am not afraid of treachery from him." "If so let him ride in front, for if he overtakes them he will not be scared. Let him tell them that he is fleeing from captivity, and they will easily believe him. This is the best way, because if they chanced to see us they might evade us and hide themselves, or have time enough to prepare for defence." "He is afraid and will not travel by himself at night," replied Zbyszko. "But during the daytime I am sure that that plan is the best one to adopt. I will tell him to stop and wait for us three times during the day. If we do not find him at the appointed places then it will be a sign that he is already with them, and following up his tracks we will fall upon them unexpectedly." "But will he not warn them?" "No. He is more friendly to me than to them. I will also tell him that when we surprise them we will also bind him, so that he may escape their revenge later on. Let him not recognize us at all...." "Do you intend to preserve those fellows alive?" "How else should it be?" replied Zbyszko, somewhat anxiously. "You see.... If it were in our country, at home in Mazowsze, we would challenge them, as I challenged Rotgier, to mortal combat; but this cannot be here in their own country.... What concerns us here is Danuska and speed. In order to avoid trouble all must be done quietly afterward we will do as you said and push on as fast as our horses can go, to the wilds of Mazowsze. But attacking them unexpectedly we might find them unarmed, yes, even without their swords. Then how could we kill them? I am afraid of reproach. We are now both of us, belted knights, so are they...." "It is so," said Macko. "Yet it may lead to an encounter." But Zbyszko contracted his brow and in his face was depicted that determination so characteristic of the looks of the men of Bogdaniec, for at that moment he looked as if he were Macko's own son. "What I should also like," he said, in low tones, "is to have that bloody dog Zygfried crushed under Jurand's feet! May God grant it!" "Grant it, God! grant it!" immediately repeated Macko. Whilst conversing, they covered a considerable stretch of the road until nightfall. It was a starry night, but there was no moon. They were obliged to halt the horses, breathe, and refresh the men with food and sleep. Zbyszko informed Sanderus before resting that he was to proceed in front in the morning. Sanderus willingly assented; but reserved to himself, in case of an attack by wolves or people, the right to run back to Zbyszko. He also asked him for permission to make four stations instead of three, because in solitude fear always took hold of him, even in pious countries. How much more so in such an abominable wilderness as the one where they found themselves now? When they had refreshed themselves with food, they lay down to sleep upon skins near a small camp-fire, which they built about half a furlong from the road. The servants alternately guarded the horses, which, after they were fed, rolled upon the ground and then slept, resting their heads upon each other's necks. But no sooner did the first ray illuminate the woods with a silvery hue, than Zbyszko arose and awoke the others, and at dawn they continued their march. The tracks of the hoofs of Arnold's immense stallion were easily recovered, because the usual muddy ground had dried up from drought. Sanderus went on ahead and soon disappeared. Nevertheless, they found him about half way between sunrise and noon, at the waiting place. He told them that he had not seen any living soul, only one large aurochs, but was not scared and did not run away, because the animal got out of his way. But he declared that shortly before, he had seen a peasant bee-keeper, but had not detained him, for fear that in the depths of the forest there might be more of them. He had attempted to question him, but they had not been able to make themselves understood. As time went by, Zbyszko became somewhat troubled. "What will happen," he said, "if I arrive in the higher and drier region, where, owing to the hard, dry road, the traces of the fugitives will be lost? or, if the pursuit shall last too long and lead to an inhabited region where the people have long since accustomed themselves to the servitude of the Knights of the Cross; an attack and capture of Danusia by them is more than probable, because, although Arnold and Zygfried did not erect forts, or fortify their towns, the inhabitants would surely take their part." Happily that fear turned out to be groundless, because they did not find Sanderus at the appointed second post, but found instead an incision in the form of a cross, apparently newly cut into the bark of an adjacent pine tree. They looked at each other and their hearts began to beat faster. Macko and Zbyszko immediately dismounted, in order to discover the tracks upon the ground; they examined carefully, but it did not last long, because they were plainly discernible. Sanderus had apparently deviated from the road into the forest, and followed the prints of the huge horse-hoofs, which, owing to the dry condition of the turfy soil, were not so deeply impressed, but sufficiently visible. The heavy horse disturbed at every step the pine needles which were blackened at the margins of the impressions. Other marks did not escape Zbyszko's keen sight. Then he and Macko mounted their horses, and, together with the Bohemian, silently began taking counsel as though the enemy were quite near them. The Bohemian's advice was that they should advance on foot at once, but they did not agree to that, because they did not know the distance they would have to traverse in the woods. The footmen, however, had to proceed carefully in advance, and signal in case something occurred, so that they might be in readiness. They moved onward among the woods in some trepidation, and another incision upon a pine tree assured them that they had not lost Sanderus' tracks. Very soon they also discovered a path, showing that people frequently passed that way, and they were convinced that they were in the neighborhood of some forest habitation, and within it was the object of their search. The sun was getting low, and shed a golden hue upon the trees of the forest. The evening promised to be serene; silence reigned in the woods because beast and birds had retired to rest, only here and there, among the little top branches of the trees, squirrels moved to and fro looking quite red in the last beams of the sun. Zbyszko, Macko, the Bohemian and the attendants, closely followed each other, knowing that their men were considerably in advance and would warn them in proper time; the old knight spoke to his nephew in not very subdued tones. "Let us calculate from the sun," he said. "From the last station to the place where we found the first incision, we covered a great distance. According to Krakow time it would be about three hours.... Then Sanderus must be by this time among them, and has had time enough to tell them his adventure, provided he has not betrayed us." "He has not betrayed us," replied Zbyszko. "Provided they believe him," continued Macko; "if they do not, then it will be bad for him." "But why should they not believe him? Do they know of us? Him they know. It often happens that prisoners escape from captivity." "But what concerns me is this: if he told them that he ran away they might fear he would be pursued, and they would move on at once." "No, he will succeed in casting dust in their eyes by telling them that such a long pursuit would not be undertaken." They were silent for a while, then it seemed to Macko that Zbyszko was whispering to him; he turned and asked: "What do you say?" But Zbyszko had said nothing to Macko, but looking upward, said: "Only if God would favor Danuska and the courageous enterprise in her behalf." Macko also began to cross himself; but he had scarcely made the first sign of the cross, when from the hazelnut thickets one of the scouts approached him suddenly and said: "A pitch-burning cabin! They are there!" "Stop!" whispered Zbyszko, and dismounted at once. Macko, the Bohemian, and the attendants, also dismounted; three of the latter received orders to hold the horses in readiness and take care that they, God forbid, did not neigh. "I left five men," said Macko. "There will be the two attendants and Sanderus, whom we shall bind in a moment, and, should any one show fight, then, at his head!" Then they advanced, and, as they moved on, Zbyszko said to his uncle: "You take the old man, Zygfried; and I, Arnold." "Only take care!" replied Macko. Then he beckoned to the Bohemian, reminding him to be ready at a moment's notice to be on hand to assist his master. The Bohemian nodded assent. Then he breathed deeply and felt for his sword to see whether it could be easily unsheathed. But Zbyszko observed it and said: "No! I command you to hasten at once to the litter and not move from it for a single moment whilst the fight is going on." They went quickly but silently through the hazelnut thickets. But they had not gone far, when at a distance of not quite two furlongs, the growth ceased suddenly, revealing a small field upon which were extinguished pitch-burning heaps, and two earthen shanties, or huts, where the pitch-burners had dwelt before the war. The setting sun brightly illuminated the lawn, the pitch-burning heaps, and the two detached shanties--in front of one of which the two knights were sitting upon the ground; and in front of the other were Sanderus and a bearded, red-headed fellow. These two were occupied in polishing the coats of mail with rags. Besides this, the two swords were lying at Sanderus' feet ready to be cleaned afterward. "Look," said Macko, forcibly grasping Zbyszko's arm to detain him if possible for another moment, "he has taken the coats of mail and swords purposely. Well, that one with the grey head must be...." "Forward!" suddenly shouted Zbyszko. And like a whirlwind he rushed into the clearing; the others did the same, but they only succeeded in reaching Sanderus. The terrible Macko caught hold of old Zygfried by the breast, bent him backward and in a moment held him under him. Zbyszko and Arnold grasped each other like two hawks, with their arms intertwined and began to struggle fiercely with each other. The bearded German, who was with Sanderus, sprang toward the sword, but he did not use it. Wit, Macko's servant, struck him with the back of his axe, and stretched him upon the ground. Then they began to bind Sanderus, according to Macko's order, but he, although he well knew that it was so arranged beforehand, began to bellow as terribly as a yearling calf whose throat is being cut by the butcher's knife. But Zbyszko, though so strong that he could squeeze a branch of a tree and cause the sap to run out, felt that he was not grasped by human hands, but was in the hug of a bear. He also felt that if it were not for the cost of mail which he had on, in case of having to fight with the sword, the German giant would have crushed his ribs and perhaps the spinal column too. The young knight lifted him a little from the ground, but Arnold lifted him up higher still, and gathering all his strength he tried to throw him to the ground so that he might not be able to rise again. But Zbyszko also clutched him with such terrible force that blood issued from the German's eyes. Then he crooked his leg between Arnold's knees, bent him sideways and struck him in the hollow of the knee, which threw him to the ground. In reality both fell to the ground, the young knight underneath; but at the same moment, Macko, who was observing all this, threw the half doubled-up Zygfried into the hands of an attendant, and rushed toward the prostrate fighters, and in the twinkling of an eye he had bound the feet of Arnold with a belt; then he jumped, and sat down upon him as upon a wild boar, took the _misericordia_ from his side, and plunged it deep into his throat. Arnold screamed horribly, and his hands involuntarily withdrew from Zbyszko's sides. Then he began to moan not only with the pain of the wound, but he also felt an indescribable pain in his back: where he had received a blow from a club in his previous fight with Skirwoilla. Macko grasped him with both hands and dragged him off Zbyszko, and Zbyszko got up from the ground and sat down; he tried to stand up but could not; he sat thus without being able to rise, for some time. His face was pale and covered with perspiration. His eyes were bloodshot and his lips were blue; and he looked in front of him as though half dazed. "What is the matter?" asked Macko, in alarm. "Nothing, but I am very tired. Help me to get up." Macko put his hands under Zbyszko's arms and lifted him up at once. "Can you stand?" "I can." "Do you feel pain?" "Nothing, but I am short of breath." Meanwhile the Bohemian, seeing apparently that the struggle in the farm yard was all over, appeared in front of the hut, dragging the woman servant of the Order by the neck. At that sight, Zbyszko forgot his fatigue, his strength returned to him at once, and he rushed to the hut as though he had never struggled with the terrible Arnold. "Danuska! Danuska!" cried Zbyszko; but no answer came. "Danuska! Danuska!" he repeated; then he remained silent. It was dark within, for that reason he could see nothing at first. But instead, he heard, proceeding from behind the stones which were heaped up behind the fireplace, a quick and audible panting, like that of a little animal hiding. "Danuska! For God's sake. It is I! Zbyszko!" Then he observed in the darkness, her eyes, wide open, terrified and bewildered. He rushed toward her and pressed her in his arms, but she did not entirely recognize him, and tore herself away from his embrace, and began to repeat in a subdued whisper: "I am afraid! I am afraid! I am afraid!" END OF PART SEVENTH. PART EIGHTH. CHAPTER I. Neither loving words nor tender persuasion availed. Danusia recognized nobody and did not regain consciousness. The only feeling which pervaded her whole being was fear, a kind of fear shown by captured birds. When food was brought to her she refused to eat it in the presence of others. In the glances of rejection which she cast upon the food one could detect habitual hunger. Left alone, she sprang upon the eatables like a ravenous little wild beast. But when Zbyszko entered she rushed into the corner and hid herself under a bundle of dry hops. Zbyszko opened his arms in vain, he stretched out his hands in vain, with tears he begged her, but unavailingly. She refused to issue from her hiding-place even when the light was so arranged that she could recognize the outlines of Zbyszko's face. It seemed as though she had lost her memory along with her senses. He therefore gazed upon her emaciated pale face in which was depicted an expression of dismay, her hollow eyes, her tattered dress, and his heart cried out within him from pain at the thought in whose hands she had been and how she had been treated. He was finally seized with such a terrible rage that he grasped his sword and rushed toward Zygfried, and he would have certainly killed him, had not Macko grasped him by the arm. Then like enemies they struggled with each other. But the young man was so much fatigued from his previous fight with the gigantic Arnold, that the old knight prevailed. Twisting Zbyszko's wrist, he exclaimed: "Are you mad?" "Let me go!" he begged, gnashing his teeth, "for my heart bursts within me." "Let it burst! I will not let you go. It is better to dash your head to pieces than disgrace yourself and the whole family." And, clutching Zbyszko's hand, as with iron tongs, he said threateningly: "See, revenge will not escape you; and you are a belted knight. How then dare you kill a prisoner in bonds? You cannot help Danusia. What will be the result? Nothing but disgrace. You say that kings and princes think it proper to destroy their prisoners. Bah! That is not the case with us; and what is feasible with them is not so with you. They have a kingdom, cities, castles. But what have you? Knightly honor. Those who find no fault with them will spit in your face. Consider, for God's sake!" There was silence for a moment. "Let me go!" Zbyszko repeated gloomily. "I will not kill him." "Come to the fire, let us consult." Macko led him by the hand to the fire which the servant stirred up near the tar-ovens. There they sat down and Macko reflected for a moment, and then said: "You must also remember that you have promised this old dog to Jurand, who will avenge his own and his daughter's tortures. He is the one who will pay him, and do not you fear! In this you must please Jurand. It is his affair and not yours. Jurand may do it, but you must not; he did not capture him but will receive him as a present from you; he can even flay him alive and none will blame him for it. Do you understand me?" "I understand," replied Zbyszko. "You are right." "You are evidently coming to your senses again. Should you again be tempted by the devil, bear this also in your mind, that you have also challenged Lichtenstein and other Knights of the Cross, and if you should kill a defenceless captive and the men should publish your action, no knight would accept your challenge, and he would be justified. God forbid! We have enough misfortunes, but spare us shame. Let us rather talk about what concerns our present doings and movements." "Give your advice," said the young man. "My advice is this: that serpent who was with Danusia ought to be killed; but it does not become a knight to kill a woman. We shall therefore deliver her into the hands of Prince Janusz. She plotted treason whilst at the forest court of the prince and princess. Let the Mazovian courts judge her. If they do not crush her upon the wheel for her crimes, then they will offend God's justice. As long as we find no other woman to wait upon Danusia, as long as she is wanted to serve her we must keep her until some other old woman be found; then we will tie her to a horse's tail. But now we must push on toward the Mazovian wilderness as soon as possible. "It cannot be done at once, it is dark already. By to-morrow, if God will, Danusia may come to her senses." "Let the horses rest well, and at daybreak we will start." Further conversation was interrupted by Arnold von Baden, who was stretched on his back at a distance, trussed by his own sword; he said something in German. Old Macko got up and went to him, but as he did not understand him he called the Bohemian. But Hlawa could not come at once because he was busy about something else. During the conversation, near the fire, he went directly to the servant of the Order, put his hands around her neck, shook her like a pear-tree, and said: "Listen, you slut! Go into the shanty and prepare the fur bedding for the young lady. But before you do that, dress her in your good apparel, whilst you put upon your carcass the tattered rags which you have given her.... May your mother suffer perdition!" He was so angry that he could not control himself, and shook her so savagely that her eyes bulged out. He would have twisted her neck, but he thought better of it since she was still of some use; finally he let her go, saying: "After that I will hang you to a branch." She embraced his knees in terror, but he kicked her. She rushed into the shanty, threw herself at Danusia's feet and began to scream: "Protect me. Do not permit!" But Danusia closed her eyes, and uttered her customary suppressed whisper: "I am afraid, I am afraid, I am afraid." Then she lapsed into perfect silence, because that was the effect whenever the woman approached her. She permitted the woman to undress, wash and dress her in the new clothes. The woman prepared the bedding and laid upon it Danusia, who had the appearance of a wooden or wax figure; after which she sat down near the fireplace fearing to go out. But the Bohemian entered after awhile. First he turned toward Danusia and said: "You are among friends, lady, so in the name of the Father, Son and Holy Ghost, sleep peacefully!" Then he made the sign of the cross. Then not wishing to disturb her he said to the servant in a low voice: "You shall lie bound at the threshold; you must keep quiet and do not frighten her; if not, I will break your neck. Get up, and come." He led her out and bound her tightly, then he went to Zbyszko. "I have ordered that lizard to dress the lady in her own garments, to make her a soft bed, and the lady is asleep; better leave her alone because she is scared. God grant that by to-morrow, after repose, she may regain her presence of mind. You too must think of refreshment and rest." "I shall sleep at her threshold," replied Zbyszko. "Then I shall withdraw the slut from the threshold and place her near that corpse with curled locks. But you must take refreshment now, because there is a long road and no little fatigue before you." Then he went and got some smoked meat and dried turnips which they had procured in the Lithuanian camp; but he had scarcely put the meal in front of Zbyszko when Macko called him to come to Arnold. "Notice carefully, what this mass wishes, although I know a few German words, I am unable to understand him." "Bring him to the fire, sir, and have your conversation there," replied the Bohemian. Then he unbelted himself and placed the belt under Arnold's arms and lifted him upon his shoulders; he bent much under the heavy weight of the giant, but as the Bohemian was a powerful man, he carried him near the fireplace and threw him down, as one throws a sack of peas, at the side of Zbyszko. "Take off the fetters from me," said Arnold. "That might be done if you swore on knightly honor, that you would consider yourself a prisoner. Nevertheless, I will order the sword to be taken from under your knees, the bonds of your hands to be loosened, so as to enable you to sit with us, but the rope binding your feet shall remain until we have discussed the affair." And he nodded to the Bohemian, who cut the bonds away from Arnold's hands and assisted him to sit down. Arnold looked haughtily at Macko and Zbyszko and asked: "Who are you?" "How do you dare to ask? It is not your business. Go and inform yourself." "It concerns me, because to swear upon the honor of a knight can only be done to knights." "Then look!" And Macko opened his cloak and showed his knightly belt upon his loins. Seeing that, the Knight of the Cross was greatly amazed, and after awhile said: "How is it? and you prowl in the wilderness for prey and assist the pagans against the Christians?" "You lie!" exclaimed Macko. Then the conversation began in an unfriendly and arrogant manner, which seemed like quarreling. But when Macko vehemently shouted that the very Order prevented Lithuania from embracing Christianity, and when all proofs were adduced, Arnold was again amazed and became silent, because the truth was so obvious that it was impossible not to see it, or to dispute it. What specially struck him was Macko's words which he uttered whilst making the sign of the cross: "Who knows whom ye actually serve, if not all at least some among you." It specially struck him because there were certain _comthurs_ in the very Order who were suspected of having given themselves over to Satan. Steps were not taken against them for fear of public reproach of the whole Order. But Arnold knew it well because these things were whispered among the brethren of the Order and happenings of such a character reached his ears. Therefore, Macko's narrative which he had heard from Sanderus, concerning the inconceivable conduct of Zygfried, greatly disturbed the mind of the candid giant. "Oh, that very Zygfried, with whom you marched to war," he said. "Does he serve Christ? Have you never heard how he communicates with evil spirits, how he whispers to them, smiles and gnashes his teeth at them?" "It is true!" murmured Arnold. But Zbyszko, whose heart was filled with new waves of grief and anger, suddenly exclaimed: "And you, who speak of knightly honor? Shame upon you, because you help a hangman, a devilish man. Shame upon you, because you quietly looked upon the torture of a defenceless woman, and a knight's daughter. Maybe you also outraged her. Shame upon you!" Arnold closed his eyes, and making the sign of the cross, said: "In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.... How is that?... That fettered girl in whose head dwell twenty-seven devils? I?..." "Oh, horrible! horrible!" interrupted Zbyszko, groaning. And, grasping the handle of his _misericordia_ he again looked savagely toward the dark corner where Zygfried lay on his back. Macko placed his hand quietly upon Zbyszko's arm, which he pressed with his whole strength, so as to bring him back to his senses; whilst he himself, turning toward Arnold, said: "That woman is the daughter of Jurand of Spychow, and wife of this young knight. Do you understand now, why we followed you up, and why we have captured you?" "For God's sake!" said Arnold. "Whence? How? she is insane...." "Because the Knights of the Cross kidnapped that innocent lamb and subjected her to torture." When Zbyszko heard these words: "Innocent lamb," he put his fist to his mouth, gnashed his teeth, and was not able to restrain his tears. Arnold sat absorbed in thought; but the Bohemian told him in a few words of Danveld's treachery, the kidnapping of Danusia, the torture of Jurand, and the duel with Rotgier. Silence reigned when he concluded. It was only disturbed by the rustling of the trees of the forest and the crackling of the brands in the fireplace. In that manner they sat for a while. Finally Arnold lifted up his head and said: "I swear to you not only upon my knightly honor, but also upon the crucifix, that I have not seen that woman, that I did not know who she was, and that I have not taken the least part in her tortures and never laid my hand upon her." "Then swear also that you will go with us willingly and that you will make no attempt to escape, then I will order your bonds to be entirely unloosed," said Macko. "Let it be as you say. I swear! Whither are you going to take me?" "To Mazovia, to Jurand of Spychow." Then Macko himself cut the rope from Arnold's feet, and ordered meat and turnips to be brought. After a while Zbyszko went out and sat upon the threshold of the hut to rest, where he no longer found the servant, for the hostler boys had carried her off and put her among the horses. Zbyszko lay down upon the fur which Hlawa brought. He resolved to keep awake and wait until daybreak; peradventure then some happy change might take place in Danusia! But the Bohemian returned to the fireplace where he wished to converse with the old knight of Bogdaniec about a certain affair and take off the burden which pressed so heavily upon his heart. He found him also absorbed in troubled thought, and not noticing the snoring of Arnold who, after having consumed an immense quantity of baked turnips and meat, was much fatigued and slept the sleep of a stone. "And why do you not take a rest?" inquired the Bohemian. "Sleep has fled from my eyelids," replied Macko. "May God grant a good morning." Then he looked at the stars and said: "The Wagoner is already visible in the sky, and I am continually thinking about how all these things shall be arranged. And I shall not go to sleep either because the young lady of Zgorzelice occupies my mind." "Ah! that is true. More trouble. But she, at least, is at Spychow." "But we brought her to Spychow from Zgorzelice, not knowing why." "It was at her own request," replied Macko, impatiently, because he knew in his heart that he was wrong and he hated to talk about it. "Yes! But what now?" "Ha! Well? I shall carry her back to her home; then let God's will be done!" But after a moment he added: "Yes! God's will be done, that at least Danuska be restored to health, one might then know what to do. But as it is now, the deuce knows! What will it be if she neither recovers nor dies? The Devil knows." But the Bohemian was thinking all the time of Jagienka. "Your honor should understand that when I left Spychow and bade her good-bye, she told me this: 'If anything should happen, come and inform me before Zbyszko and Macko arrive. And as they will be obliged to send information by somebody, let them send it by you, then you will take me to Zgorzelice.'" "Hey!" replied Macko. "Surely, it would be improper for her to stay at Spychow when Danusia arrives. Surely she ought now to be taken back to Zgorzelice. I pity the little orphan, I sincerely regret it. But God's will must be done. But now how shall I arrange the matter? Let me see. Did you say that she commanded you to come ahead of us with the news, and then take her to Zgorzelice?" "She did. I repeated to you her words exactly." "Now, you may move ahead of us. Old Jurand must also be informed that his daughter has been found, but it must be done carefully so that the sudden joy may not kill him. As I love God, I declare that it is the most practical thing to do." "Return! Tell them that we have rescued Danusia, and that we shall bring her home without delay. Then take that other poor girl to Zgorzelice!" Then the old knight sighed, because he was really sorry for Jagienka, whom he had fostered. After a while he asked again: "I know that you are a valiant and powerful man, but see that you keep her out of harm's way or accident. Things of that character are often met with on the road." "I shall do my best, even if I lose my head! I shall take with me a few good men, whom the lord of Spychow will not grudge, and I shall bring her safely even to the end of the world." "Well, do not have too much confidence in yourself. Bear also in mind that even there, at Zgorzelice, it will be necessary to watch Wilk of Brzozowa and Cztan of Rogow. But, I confess, in speaking of Wilk and Cztan, I am out of order; for, it was necessary to watch them when there was nothing else to think of. But now, things have changed and there is no more hope, and that which is going to happen must happen." "Nevertheless, I shall protect the young lady from those knights, seeing Danusia is very weak and consumptive. What if she should die?" "As God is dear to me you are right. The emaciated lady is scarcely alive. If she should die?" "We must leave that with God. But we must now think only of the young lady of Zgorzelice." "By rights, I ought to convey her myself to her fatherland. But it is a difficult task. I cannot now leave Zbyszko for many potent reasons. You saw how he gnashed his teeth, how he strove to get at the old _comthur_ to kill him, and my wrangling with him. Should that girl die on the road, even I should be unable to restrain him. And if I shall not be able to prevent him, nobody else could, and everlasting shame would fall upon him and upon our clan, which God forbid. Amen!" Then the Bohemian replied: "Bah! There is, I am sure, a simple means. Give me the hangman and I will keep him and bring him to Jurand at Spychow and shake him out of the sack." "How clever you are! May God grant you health," exclaimed Macko, joyfully. "It is a very simple thing, quite simple. Should you succeed in bringing him to Spychow alive then do with him as you please." "Then let me also have that Szczytno bitch, and if she is not troublesome on the road, I will bring her too to Spychow, if she is, then I shall hang her on a tree." "The removal of the pair, whose presence causes much fear to Danusia, may contribute to her speedy recovery. But if you take the female servant with you, who is going to nurse Danusia?" "You may find some old woman in the wilderness, or one of the fugitive peasant women; take hold of the first one you meet, for any one will be better than this. Meanwhile, you must take care of lady Zbyszko." "You speak to-day somewhat more prudently than usually. Seeing that Zbyszko is constantly with her, he will also succeed in filling the double position, that of father and mother, for her. Very well, then. When do you intend to start?" "I shall not wait for the dawn; now I must lie down for a while, it is scarcely midnight yet." "The Wagoner[117] is already in the sky, but the chickens[117] had not yet made their appearance." "Thank God that we have taken some counsel together, for I was very much troubled." Then the Bohemian stretched himself near the expiring fire, covered himself over with the long furred robe and in a moment he fell asleep. However, the sky had not yet paled and it was still deep, dark night when he awoke, crept from under the skin, looked at the stars, and stretching his somewhat benumbed limbs, he awoke Macko. "It is time for me to move," he said. "Whither?" asked the semi-conscious Macko, rubbing his eyes with his fists. "To Spychow." "True, I quite forgot. Who is there snoring so loud as to awake the dead?" "The knight Arnold. Let me throw a few branches upon the embers, then I will go to the men." Then he left, and hastily returned in a little while, and from a distance he called in a low voice: "Sir, there is news, bad news!" "What has happened?" Macko exclaimed, jumping to his feet. "The servant has escaped. The men took her among the horses. May thunder strike them, and when they fell asleep, she sneaked like a serpent from among them and escaped. Come, sir!" Macko, in alarm, moved quickly with the Bohemian toward the horses, where they found only one man, the others had scattered in pursuit of the fugitive. But, considering the darkness of the night and the thickets of the forest, the search was a foolish undertaking, and after a while they returned with hanging heads. Macko began to belabor them quietly with his fists. Then he returned to the fireplace, for there was nothing to be done. Zbyszko, who was watching in the hut and did not sleep, came in, hearing the movements, to ascertain the reason. Macko told him all about his consultation with the Bohemian, then he also informed him of the woman's escape. "It is not a great misfortune," he said. "Because she will either die of starvation, or fall into the hands of the peasants who will flay her; that is, if she succeeds first in escaping the wolves. It is only to be regretted that she escaped the punishment at Spychow." Zbyszko also regretted her escaping punishment at Spychow; otherwise he received the news quietly. He did not oppose the departure of the Bohemian with Zygfried, because he was indifferent to anything which did not directly concern Danusia. He began to talk about her at once. "I shall take her in front of me on horseback to-morrow, then we shall proceed." "How is it there? Is she asleep?" inquired Macko. "At times she moans, but I do not know whether she does it in sleep or whilst she is awake, but I don't want to disturb her, lest I frighten her." Further conversation was interrupted by the Bohemian, who observing Zbyszko, exclaimed: "O! your honor, also here! It is now time for me to start. The horses are ready and the old devil is fastened to the saddle. It will soon begin to dawn because now the nights are short. Good-bye, your grace!" "God be with you, and health!" But Hlawa pulled Macko aside again and said: "I wish also to ask you kindly, that in case anything should happen.... You know, sir ... some misfortune or another ... you would dispatch a courier posthaste to Spychow. If we have left Spychow, let him overtake us." "Well," said Macko, "I have also forgotten to tell you to take Jagienka to Plock. Do you understand? Go there to the bishop, and tell him who she is, that she is the goddaughter of the abbot, for whom there is a will in the bishop's possession; then ask his guardianship for her, as that is also mentioned in the abbot's will." "But if the bishop orders us to remain in Plock?" "Then obey him in everything and follow his counsel." "It shall be so, sir! Good-bye!" "Good-bye!" CHAPTER II. Sir Arnold was informed in the morning of the flight of the servant of the Order; he chuckled at the news, on the other hand he held the same opinion as Macko, viz, that she might fall a prey to the wolves, or be slain by the Lithuanians. The latter was not at all improbable, since the inhabitants of that locality who were descendants of the Lithuanians abhorred the Order and all those who came in contact with it. Some of the male population had joined Skirwoillo, others had risen in arms and slaughtered the Germans here and there; they, their families and their cattle hid themselves in the inaccessible fastnesses of the forest. They searched the following day for the servant, but without success, because Macko and Zbyszko were occupied with more important matters; hence the lack of indispensable ardor in the searchers. They were obliged to push on toward Mazowsze; they wished to start at once, at the rising of the sun, but they were unable to do so because Danuska was in a profound sleep, and Zbyszko would not permit her to be disturbed. He listened to her moanings during the night-time and thought that she was not asleep. He, therefore, promised himself good results. Twice he stealthily went into the hut; twice he saw by the light falling through crevices of the logs her closed eyes, open mouth and glowing face, as little children are wont to have when asleep. His tears melted his heart at that sight, and he said to her: "May God grant you health my most beloved little flower." Then he continued: "Your troubles are ended, your tears are ended. May the most merciful Lord Jesus grant that your happiness may be as inexhaustible as the flowing river." Then, lifting up his simple and upright heart heavenward, he asked himself: "With what can I thank Thee? What shall I render to Thee for Thy favors? Shall I offer to the Church some of my wealth, grain, herds, wax, or something of the same nature acceptable to God?" He was even about to vow and name accurately his offerings, but he wished to wait and see the result when Danusia awoke, whether she had recovered her senses so that there might be reason for thanksgiving. Although Macko knew well that there would be perfect safety when once in the domains of Prince Janusz, nevertheless he was also of the opinion that it was better not to disturb Danusia's rest. He therefore kept his horses and servants in readiness but waited. Nevertheless when it was past noon and Danusia continued to sleep, they were somewhat alarmed. Zbyszko, who was incessantly watching, looking through the crevices and door, entered suddenly for the third time into the hut and sat down upon the block where the servant had dressed Danusia yesterday. He sat and gazed at her, but she had her eyes closed. But after the lapse of a short time, not more than it takes to say one "Pater" and "Ave Maria," her lips began to twitch a little, and she whispered as though she saw through her closed eyelids: "Zbyszko...." In an instant be threw himself upon his knees in front of her, grasped her emaciated hands, which he kissed in ecstasy. Then he addressed her in a broken voice: "Thank God! Danuska! You recognize me." His voice awoke her completely. Then she sat up in the bed and with open eyes she repeated: "Zbyszko!" Then she began to blink and look around her in amazement. "You are no more in captivity," said Zbyszko. "I have rescued you from their hands and I am taking you to Spychow." But she withdrew her hands from Zbyszko's and said: "All this came to pass because there was no permission from dear papa. Where is the princess?" "Awake, then, dear little berry! The princess is far away and we have rescued you from the Germans." Then she appeared not to notice his words but seemed to try to recollect something. "They have also taken away my little lute and have broken it against the wall. Hey!" "O God!" exclaimed Zbyszko. He then observed that she was absent-minded and her eyes were glassy and her cheeks were glowing, and it struck him that she must be very ill, and the mention of his name twice was due to feverish hallucinations. This caused his heart to tremble within him with despair and a cold sweat covered his brow. "Danuska!" he said. "Do you see and understand me?" But she replied in a low voice: "Drink! Water!" "Gracious Lord!" And he rushed out, and at the door encountered Macko, who was coming to ascertain her condition. Zbyszko could only tell him hurriedly, "Water;" and then hastened to the stream which ran among neighboring bushes. He returned after a moment with a full pitcher of water and handed it to Danusia who drank it with much avidity. Macko entered the hut before Zbyszko and seeing the patient he became gloomy. "She is feverish?" he said. "Yes!" groaned Zbyszko. "Does she understand what you say?" "No." The old knight furrowed his brow, then he began to rub his neck and nape with his hands. "What is to be done?" "I do not know." "There is only one thing to be done," said Macko. But Danusia, who finished drinking, interrupted him at that moment; she fixed her dilated pupils on him, and said: "You too I have not offended, have mercy upon me!" "We have pitied you already, child. We only desire your welfare," replied the old knight, somewhat agitated. Then he turned to Zbyszko: "Listen, there is no use to leave her here. The wafting of the wind and the rays of the sun will probably benefit her. Do not lose your head, boy, but take her to the same cradle wherein she was when they brought her here--or upon the saddle and let us move on! Do you understand?" Then he left the hut to give the last orders, but he had scarcely looked in front of him, when he suddenly stood still--as if nailed to the spot. A numerous host of infantry armed with pikes and spears was surrounding the huts, ovens and clearing, on all sides like a wall. "Germans!" thought Macko. He was greatly terrified, but in a moment he grasped the hilt of his sword, clenched his teeth, and had the appearance of a wild beast at bay, ready to defend himself desperately. Then the giant-like Arnold, and another knight, advanced toward them from the shanty, and when he approached Macko, Arnold said: "Fortune's wheel turns rapidly. I was your prisoner yesterday; you are mine to-day." Then he looked haughtily at the old knight as one looks upon an inferior person. He was neither a very bad man, nor a very cruel one, but he had the defect common to all Knights of the Cross, who in spite of their being well-bred and even humane, looked with contempt upon those whom they conquered, neither could they suppress their great pride when they felt themselves the stronger. "You are prisoners," he repeated, haughtily. The old knight looked around gloomily; he was very serious but audacious in his heart. Were he armored, upon his charger, and with Zbyszko at his side;--if both had swords in their hands and were armed with axes, or the terrible "woods," which the Polish noblemen knew how to wield dexterously, he would then have probably attempted to break through, that wall of lances and spears. Not without reason did the foreign knights, quoting it as an objection, exclaim to the Polish in the fight near Wilno: "You scorn death too much." But Macko was on foot facing Arnold, alone, without his coat of mail. He therefore looked around and observed that his men had already thrown down their arms, and he thought that Zbyszko too was with Danusia in the hut, entirely unarmed. As an experienced man, and much accustomed to war, he knew that there was no chance whatever. Therefore he slowly drew the short sword from its sheath and threw it at the feet of the knight who stood at Arnold's side, who without the least of Arnold's haughtiness, but at the same time with benevolence, replied in excellent Polish: "Your name, sir? I shall not put you in bonds but shall parole you, because I see you are a belted knight, and you treated my brother well." "My word!" replied Macko. Having informed him who he was, Macko inquired whether he would be permitted to go to the hut and warn his nephew against any mad action. His request was granted. He entered and remained there for a while and emerged with the _misericordia_ in his hands. "My nephew is even without a sword, and he begs you to permit him to remain with his wife as long as you intend to stay here." "Let him remain," said Arnold's brother. "I shall send him food and drink; we shall not move soon, because the people are tired out and we too are in need of refreshment and rest. Sir, we also invite you to accompany us." Then they turned and went to the same fireplace near which Macko had spent the night. But either from pride, or from ignorance they permitted him to walk behind them. But he, being a great warrior, knowing how it ought to be, and adhering strictly to custom, inquired: "Pray, sir, am I your guest or a prisoner?" Arnold's brother was shamed at first; he halted and said: "Proceed, sir." The old knight went in front, not wishing to hurt the self-respect of the very man from whom he expected much. "It is evident, sir, that you are not only acquainted with courteous speech, but your behavior is also courtly." Then, Arnold, who only understood a few words, asked: "Wolfgang, what are you talking about?" "I am doing the right thing," said Wolfgang, who was evidently flattered by Macko's words. They sat down at the fireside, and began to eat and drink. The lesson which Macko had given to the German was not in vain. Wolfgang regaled Macko first at the repast. The old knight learned, from the conversation which followed, how they were caught in the trap. Wolfgang, the younger brother of Arnold, led also the Czluch infantry to Gotteswerder, against the rebellious Zmudzians. Those, however, proceeding from distant counties could not arrive in time to assist Arnold. The latter did not think it necessary to wait for them because he expected to meet on the road other bodies of infantry proceeding from the towns and castles situated on the adjacent Lithuanian frontier. This was the reason that his younger brother delayed his march several days, and thus it happened that he found himself on the road in the neighborhood of the tar-burners, where the fugitive woman-servant of the Order informed him of the ill-luck which had happened to his older brother. Arnold, whilst listening to the narrative which was told him in German, smiled with satisfaction; finally he affirmed that he expected such a result. But the crafty Macko, who, in whatever situation he was, always tried to find some remedy, thought that it would be of advantage to him to make friends with the Germans, therefore he said after a while: "It is always hard to fall into captivity. Nevertheless, thank God, I am fortunate to have been delivered into nobody else's hands but yours, because, I believe, that you are real knights and mindful of its honor." Then Wolfgang closed his eyes and nodded his head somewhat stiffly but evidently with a feeling of satisfaction. The old knight continued: "That you speak our language well. God has given you understanding in everything." "I know your language, because the Czluchs speak Polish, and my brother and I served for seven years in those counties." "You will in time take office after him. It cannot be otherwise, because your brother does not speak our language." "He understands it a little, but cannot speak it. My brother is more powerful, although I am not a weakling either, but of duller wit." "Hey! He does not seem to me dull." "Wolfgang, what does he say?" asked Arnold again. "He praises you," replied Wolfgang. "True, I praised him," added Macko, "because he is a true knight, and that is the reason. I tell you frankly that I intended to let him go entirely free to-day on parole, so that he might go wherever he wished to, even if he were to present himself in a year's time. Such treatment is customary among belted knights." Then he looked attentively into Wolfgang's face, but it was wrinkled, and he said: "Were it not for the assistance you have given to the pagan dogs against us, I also might have let you go on parole." "This is not true," replied Macko. Then the same asperity of discussion as in yesterday's dispute between Arnold and himself was repeated. However, although right was on the old knight's side, it went on with more difficulty, because Wolfgang was of a more severe disposition than his older brother. Nevertheless, one good thing resulted from the dispute, that Wolfgang learned of all the abominable practices of the Order at Szczytno, their crooked actions and treachery--at the same time he learned of Danusia's misfortunes and tortures. To those very iniquities which Macko had thrown in his teeth he had no reply. He was obliged to acknowledge that the revenge was justifiable, and that the Polish knights were right in their acts, and finally said: "Upon the glorified bones of St. Liborus! I swear, that I also will not pity Danveld. They said of him that he practiced black magic, but God's power and justice is mightier than black magic. As to Zygfried, I am not sure whether he also served the devil or not. But I shall not hunt for him, because first, I have no horses, and on the other hand, if what you said is true that he outraged that girl, then let him also never return from Hades!" Here he stretched himself and continued: "God! Help me till the hour of my death." "But how will it be with that unfortunate martyr?" inquired Macko. "Are you not going to permit us to take her home? Has she to suffer agony in your underground prisons? Remember, I beseech you, God's wrath!..." "I have nothing against the woman," replied Wolfgang, roughly. "Let one of you take her home to her father, on condition that he present himself afterward, but the other must remain here." "Bah! But what if he swears upon his knightly honor and upon the lance of St. Jerzey?" Wolfgang hesitated a little because it was a great oath; but at that moment Arnold asked a third time: "What does he say?" When he informed himself of the matter he opposed it vehemently and rudely. He had his private reasons for it. First, he was conquered by Skirwoillo, then in single combat, by the Polish knight. He also knew that owing to the destruction of the army at the previous engagement it would be impossible for his brother to advance with his infantry to Gotteswerder and he would be obliged to return to Malborg. Moreover he knew that he would be obliged to give an account to the Master and marshal for the defeat, and that it would be to his advantage if he were able to show even one important prisoner. To produce one knight alive is of more value than to explain that two such were captured.... When Macko heard the loud protestations and oaths of Arnold, he resolved, since nothing else could be obtained, to take what was previously offered. Turning to Wolfgang he said: "Then, I beg one more favor--permit me to acquaint my nephew; I am sure he will see the wisdom of remaining with his wife, while I go with you. At all events, permit me to let him know that he has nothing to say against it, for it is your will." "Well, it is all the same to me," replied Wolfgang. "But let us talk about the ransom which your nephew must bring for himself and you. Because all depends on that." "About ransom?" inquired Macko, who would have preferred to postpone that conversation to a later period. "Have we not time enough to talk about it? Where a belted knight is concerned his word is of equal value with ready money, and as to the sum it can be left to conscience. There, near Gotteswerder, we captured one of your important knights, a certain de Lorche. And my nephew (it was he who captured him) paroled him. No allusion whatever was made to the amount of ransom." "Have you captured de Lorche?" inquired Wolfgang, sharply. "I know him. He is a powerful knight. But why did we not meet him on the road?" "He, evidently, did not go this way, but went to Gotteswerder, or to Ragniec," replied Macko. "That knight comes from a powerful and renowned family," repeated Wolfgang. "You have made a splendid capture! It is well then, that you mentioned it. But I cannot let you go for nothing." Macko chewed his mustache; nevertheless he lifted up his head haughtily, and said: "Apart from that, we know our value." "So much the better," said the younger von Baden, and immediately added: "So much the better. It is not for us, for we are humble monks, who have vowed poverty, but for the Order that will enjoy your money, to God's praise." Macko did not reply to that but only looked at Wolfgang, with such an expression as to say: "Tell that to somebody else." After awhile they began to bargain. It was a difficult and irritable task for the old knight. On the one hand he was very sensitive to any loss, and on the other hand, he understood that he would not succeed in naming a too small sum for Zbyszko and himself. He therefore wriggled like an eel, especially when Wolfgang, in spite of his polished words and manners, had shown himself excessively grasping and as hard hearted as a stone. Only one thought comforted Macko and that was, that de Lorche would have pay for all, but even that, the loss of de Lorche's ransom, worried him. Zygfried's ransom he did not count in the affair because he thought that Jurand, and even Zbyszko, would not renounce his head for any price. After long haggling they finally compromised upon the sum in _grzywiens_ and the time of payment, and stipulated upon the number of horses and men Zbyszko should take with him. Macko went to inform Zbyszko, and advised him not to tarry but depart at once, for something else might meanwhile come into the German's head. "So it is with knightly conditions," said Macko, sighing. "Yesterday you held them by the head, to-day they hold you. Well, it is a hard lot. God grant that our turn may come. But now, it is necessary not to lose time. If you hasten on, you may yet overtake Hlawa and you will be safer together, and once out of the wilderness and in the inhabited region of Mazowsze you will find hospitality and assistance in every nobleman's or _wlodyka's_ house. In our country they do not refuse those things even to a foreigner, how much more to one of their own people! The condition of the poor woman might also be improved thereby." Then he looked at Danusia, who was in feverish half-sleep, breathing quickly and loudly, with her transparent hands stretched upon the black bearskin, trembling with fever. Macko made the sign of the cross at her and said: "Hey, take her and go! May God restore her, for it appears to me that her thread of life is being spun very thin." "Do not say that!" exclaimed Zbyszko, in a distressed tone. "God's power! I will order your horses to be brought here--and you must leave at once!" He went out and arranged everything for the journey. The Turks, whom Zawisza had presented to them, led the horses and the litter, filled with mosses and fur, and they were headed by Zbyszko's man, Wit. Zbyszko left the hut in a moment, carrying Danusia in his arms. There was something touching in that, so that even the brothers von Baden, whose curiosity had drawn them to the hut, looked curiously into the childlike face of Danuska. Her face was like that of the holy images in the churches of Our Lady, and her sickness was so great that she could not hold up her head which lay heavily on the young knight's arm. They looked at each other with astonishment, and in their hearts arose a feeling against the authors of her woes. "Zygfried has the heart of a hangman, and not that of a knight," whispered Wolfgang to Arnold, "and that serpent, although she is the cause of your liberty, I will order to be beaten with rods." They were also touched when they saw Zbyszko carrying her in his arms, as a mother is wont to carry her child. They comprehended how great was his love for her, for youthful blood coursed in the veins of them both. He hesitated for awhile whether to keep the patient on horseback near his breast on the road or to lay her in the litter. Finally he resolved upon the latter course, thinking that she might feel more comfortable in a recumbent posture. Then he approached his uncle and bowed to kiss his hand and bid him good-bye. But Macko, who, as a matter of fact, loved Zbyszko as the apple of his eye, was somewhat disinclined to show his agitation in the presence of the Germans; nevertheless he could not restrain himself, and embracing him strongly, pressed his lips to his abundant golden hair. "May God guide you," he said. "But remember the old man, for it is always a hardship to be in captivity." "I shall not forget," replied Zbyszko. "May the most Holy Mother comfort you." "God will recompense you for this and for all your kindness." Zbyszko mounted his horse immediately, but Macko recollected something and hastened to his side, and placing his hand upon Zbyszko's knee, he said: "Listen, if you should overtake Hlawa, remember not to molest Zygfried, otherwise you will bring down reproach upon yourself and upon my gray head. Leave him to Jurand, but do nothing to him yourself. Swear to me upon your sword and honor." "As long as you do not return," replied Zbyszko, "I shall even prevent Jurand from harming him in order to prevent the Germans from injuring you on Zygfried's account." "So, and you seem to care for me?" And the young knight smiled sadly. "You well know that, I am sure." "Move on and good-bye." The horses moved on, and in a little while disappeared in the hazelnut thickets. Macko felt suddenly very much troubled and lonely and his heart was torn for that beloved boy in whom rested the entire hope of the family. But he soon got rid of his sorrow, for he was a man of valor and could master his emotions. "Thank God that I am a prisoner and not he." Then he turned toward the Germans and said: "And you, gentlemen, when will you start and whither are you going?" "When it is agreeable to us," replied Wolfgang, "but we go to Malborg, where, sir, you must first appear before the Master." "Hey! I shall yet have to forfeit my head there, for the help I have given to the Zmudzians," said Macko to himself. Nevertheless his mind was at rest when he thought that de Lorche was in reserve; the Baden knights themselves would protect his head even if it were only for the ransom. "Otherwise," he said to himself, "Zbyszko will neither be obliged to present himself nor lessen his fortune." That thought caused him a certain relief. CHAPTER III. Zbyszko was unable to overtake Hlawa, because the latter traveled day and night, and only rested as much as was absolutely necessary to avoid the breaking down of the horses, which only subsisted on grass, and were consequently faint and unable to withstand such long marches as they could in regions where oats could be easily procured. Hlawa neither spared himself, nor took into consideration the advanced age and weakness of Zygfried. The old knight suffered terribly, especially because the sinewy Macko had previously wrenched his bones. But still worse were the mosquitoes which swarmed in the humid wilderness, and as his hands were bound and his legs fastened beneath the horse's belly, he was unable to drive them away. Hlawa did not directly torture him in the least, but he had no compassion for him, and only unfastened his right hand to enable him to eat when he stopped for refreshment. "Eat, ravening wolf, so that I may bring you alive to the lord of Spychow." Such were the words of inducement to stimulate Zygfried's appetite. At first Zygfried resolved to starve himself to death; but when he heard the announcement that in such case Hlawa would forcibly open his teeth with a knife and stuff the food down his throat, he gave up his intention in order to avoid such a degradation of the Order and knightly honor. But the Bohemian was particularly anxious to arrive at Spychow before his master, so that he might spare his adored young lady from shame. Simple, but courageous and fearless, he was not void of knightly noble sentiment, and he well understood that Jagienka would be humiliated if she were at Spychow together with Danusia. "It will be possible to tell the bishop, in Plock (he thought) that the old knight of Bogdaniec, owing to his guardianship, thought it necessary to take her with him, and then, as soon as it was known that she was the bishop's ward, and besides Zgorzelice she was also entitled to the abbot's estate, then even the _wojewoda's_ son would not be too great for her." That thought contributed to soothe his troubled mind. The very reason of his conveying good news to Spychow troubled his mind, as it would be the source of misfortune to Jagienka. The beautiful face of Sieciechowna, as red as an apple, often appeared before his eyes. On such occasions, he would, if the road permitted, tickle the horse's sides with his spurs, because he wanted to reach Spychow as soon as possible. They traveled along intricate roads, or rather no roads at all, through the woods, going straight ahead as the reaper does. The Bohemian knew that by pushing on a little toward the west and constantly in a southerly direction, he would reach Mazowsze and then all would go well. During the daytime he followed the sun, and at night he marched by the stars. The wilderness in front of him appeared endless. Days and nights passed by. More than once he thought that Zbyszko would not succeed in bringing the woman through the terrible wilderness alive, where there was no food to be procured, and where the horses must be guarded by night from wolves and bears. During the daytime they had to get out of the way of herds of bison and aurochs; where the terrible wild-boar sharpens his crooked tusks against the roots of the pine-trees, and very often it happened that those who made no use of the crossbow, or did not strike with the pike into the sides of a deer or young boar, such passed whole days without food. "How will it be here," thought Hlawa, "with a maiden who is already almost tortured to death!" Now and then, it happened that they had to cross swamps and deep ravines, which continuous spring rains filled for days with rushing streams. Lakes, too, were not wanting in the wilderness, in which they saw at sunset whole flocks of deer and elk disporting in the red transparent waters. Often they also perceived smoke which showed the presence of people. On several occasions Hlawa approached such forest settlements, whence wild people would issue, clothed with skins upon their naked bodies, armed with clubs and bows, and looking from under their shaggy-tangled hair; the men took them to be werewolves. It was necessary to take advantage of their first astonishment whilst they were looking at the knights, and leave them in the greatest haste. Arrows whistled twice near the Bohemian's ears, and he heard the shouts of "Wokili" (Germans!) But he preferred to run away rather than to make himself known. Finally, after a few days he began to think that perhaps he had already crossed the frontier, but there was nobody from whom he could ascertain. Only when he met some colonists who spoke the Polish language did he get the information, that he finally stood upon Mazowszian soil. There it was better, although the whole eastern part of Mazowsze was also one wilderness. But it did not terminate uninhabitated as the other did. When the Bohemian arrived at a colony they were less shy--perhaps because they were not so much brought up in constant hatred, or that the Bohemian could converse with them in Polish. The only trouble with them was the boundless curiosity of the people who surrounded the travelers, and overwhelmed them with questions. When they were informed that he carried a prisoner, a Knight of the Cross, they said: "Give him to us, sir, we will take care of him!" They importuned the Bohemian so much, that he often became very angry with them, but at the same time, he explained, that he could not grant their request because the prisoner belonged to the prince. Then only they relented. Later on when he arrived in the inhabited places among the nobles and land-owners, he did not get off so easily. The hatred against the Order was raging, because everywhere they still remembered vividly the wrongs which the prince had suffered at its hands when, in time of peace, the Knights of the Cross had kidnapped the prince near Zlotorja and imprisoned him. They did not wish to dispatch Zygfried at once. But here and there, one of the doughty Polish nobles would say: "Unbind him and we will give him arms, and then challenge him to deadly combat." To such the Bohemian would give a potent reason: that the right to vengeance belonged to the unfortunate lord of Spychow, and one must not deprive him of that privilege. The journey through the inhabited region was easy; because there were good roads and there was plenty of provender for the horses. The Bohemian continued his uninterrupted march until after ten days' travel he arrived before Corpus Christi day at Spychow. He arrived in the evening, at the same time as when he had brought the news from Macko, that he had left Szczytno for the Zmudz country. It also happened now as before, that Jagienka, observing him through the window, rushed toward him, and he fell at her feet. He was speechless for a while. But she soon lifted him up and took him aside, as she did not wish to interrogate him in the presence of others. "What news?" she asked, trembling with impatience, and scarcely able to catch her breath. "Is she alive? Well?" "Alive! Well!" "Has she been found?" "She has. They rescued her." "Praised be Jesus Christ!" But whilst she spoke these words her face assumed a deathly pallor, because all her hopes crumbled into dust. However, her strength did not forsake her, neither did she lose consciousness. After a moment she mastered herself entirely and enquired again: "When will she be here?" "Within a few days! She is sick and the road is very bad." "Is she sick?" "Martyred. Her reason is confused with her tortures." "Merciful Jesus!" Silence reigned for a moment. Jagienka's lips became pale and they moved as though in prayer. "Did she recognize Zbyszko?" she asked again. "She may have done so, but I am not sure, because I left at once, in order to inform you, lady, of the news. That is the reason why I am standing here." "God reward you. Tell me how it happened!" The Bohemian related briefly how they rescued Danusia, how they captured the giant Arnold together with Zygfried. He also informed them that he had brought Zygfried with him, because the young knight wished to present him to Jurand so that the latter might avenge himself. "I must now go to Jurand," said Jagienka, when he had finished. Then she left, but Hlawa had not been long alone when Sieciechowna rushed toward him from the next apartment; but either because not entirely conscious, owing to the fatigue and exceeding great troubles he had passed through, or owing to his yearning for her, he entirely forgot himself when he saw her; suffice it to say he caught her by the waist, pressed her to his breast and kissed her eyes, cheeks and mouth in such a manner as though he had previously informed her of everything that was necessary for her to know before the kissing began. Perhaps he had already told her everything in spirit, when upon the road, therefore he kissed her and kept on kissing endlessly. He embraced her so strongly that she lost her breath. Yet she did not defend herself, at first from surprise and then, from faintness, so that were it not for Hlawa's powerful grasp she would have fallen to the ground. Fortunately this did not last too long because distant steps were heard on the stairs, and after a moment, Father Kaleb rushed into the room. They then quickly separated, and the priest began to overwhelm him with questions. But Hlawa was unable to catch his breath and replied with difficulty. The priest thought that his condition was owing to fatigue. But when the news of the finding of Danusia, her rescue and the presence of her torturer in Spychow was confirmed by Hlawa, he fell upon his knees to thank God for it. Meanwhile Hlawa quieted down a little, and when the priest got up, he was able to repeat his story in a more intelligent and quiet manner in what way Danusia had been found and how they had rescued her. "God did not deliver her," the priest said, whilst listening to his narrative, "in order that her reason and soul should be restored whilst she was in the darkness and in the power of the unclean. Let Jurand only lay his saintly hand upon her, and offer only one of his prayers, and he will restore her reason and health." "Knight Jurand?" asked the Bohemian, with astonishment. "Does he possess so much power? Can he become a saint whilst he is alive?" "Before God he is considered a saint even whilst he is alive. But when he dies the people will have one more patron saint in heaven;--a martyr." "But you said, reverend father,'that if he were only to lay his saintly hands upon the head of his daughter.' Has his right hand grown again? for I know you prayed for it." "I said: 'the hands,' as it is customary to say," replied the priest. "But one hand is enough, if God will." "Surely," answered Hlawa. But in his voice there was something discouraging when he thought that it appeared like a miracle. Jagienka's entrance interrupted further conversation. "Now I have informed him carefully of the news," she said. "To avoid the death, which sudden joy might cause, but he fell with the cross in his hands and prayed." "I am sure that he will be in such a condition till morning, as he is accustomed to lie prostrate in prayer whole nights," said Father Kaleb. And so it happened; they called to see him several times and each time they found him stretched on the ground, not asleep but in such a fervent prayer that it bordered on perfect ecstasy. Now the watchman, whose duty it was to watch according to custom over Spychow from the top of the tower, said afterward that he observed that night an extraordinary brightness in the house of the "Old lord." Very early on the following morning when Jagienka called again to see him, he showed his desire to see Hlawa and the prisoner. The prisoner was brought before him immediately from the dungeon. He was tightly bound with his hands crossed upon his chest. All, including Tolima, advanced toward the old man. But owing to a dark, cloudy day and the insufficient light of a threatening tempest, which penetrated the bladder panes, the Bohemian was unable to see Jurand well. But as soon as his keen eyes grew accustomed to the darkness and looked upon him, he scarcely recognized him. The gigantic man had dwindled to a giant skeleton. His face was so white that it did not much differ from his snow-white hair, and when he bowed on the arm of his chair, with his eyelids closed, he appeared to Hlawa like a real corpse. In front of the chair stood a table; upon it were a crucifix, a pitcher of water, and a loaf of black bread in which stuck the _misericordia_, that terrible knife which the knights made use of in dispatching the wounded. Besides bread and water, Jurand enjoyed no other nourishment. His only garment consisted of coarse sackcloth upon his naked body fastened with a straw girdle. Such was the manner of living of that once powerful and terrible knight of Spychow, since his return from his captivity in Szczytno. Now, when he heard them arrive, he kicked aside the tame she-wolf which gnawed at his bare feet, It was then that Jurand appeared to the Bohemian like a real corpse. There was suspense for a moment, because they expected some sign from him ordering them to talk: but he sat motionless, pale, and peaceful; his mouth, a little opened, had the real appearance of one who is plunged in the everlasting sleep of death. Jagienka finally announced that Hlawa was there, and gently enquired: "Do you wish to hear him?" Old Jurand nodded his head affirmatively, and the Bohemian began, for the third time, to narrate briefly the story of the battles with the Germans near Gotteswerder. He told him of the fight with Arnold von Baden and how they had rescued Danusia. Not wishing to add new pains to the sufferings of the old martyr and destroy the effect produced by the good news of Danusia's rescue, he purposely avoided relating that her mind suffered for a long time on account of terrible distress. But, on the other hand, as his heart was filled with rancor against the Knights of the Cross, and thirsting to see Zygfried receive his deserved terrible chastisement, he purposely mentioned the fact that when they found her she was terrified, emaciated and sick, and it was evident that they must have treated her as executioners do, and had she remained longer in their terrible hands she would have withered and perished as a little flower withers and perishes when trodden under foot. Whilst Hlawa recited the news, the sky was overcast and the clouds grew darker, which showed the approach of a storm. The copper-colored masses of clouds which hung over Spychow rolled more heavily upon one another. Jurand was motionless and listened to the recital without any trembling, so that he appeared to be in deep sleep. Nevertheless, he heard and understood everything, for when Hlawa told the story of Danusia's woes, two large drops of tears rolled down his cheeks from the hollows of his eyes. Only one earthly feeling still remained in his breast, and that was love for his child. Then his blue lips began to move in prayer. The first distant thunderclaps were heard outside. Now and then lightning illuminated the windows. He prayed long, and again the tears trickled down upon his white beard. When he finally ceased to pray, long silence reigned, which was so much prolonged as to cause uneasiness to those present because they did not know what to do. Finally, old Tolima, who was Jurand's right hand, his companion in all battles, and the chief guard of Spychow, said: "That man of Hades, that werewolf Knight of the Cross who tortured you and your child stands now before you. Give a sign what shall be done to him, and in what manner we shall chastise him!" Upon hearing these words, rays of light crossed Jurand's face and he nodded to them to bring the prisoner near him. And in the twinkling of an eye, two men grasped him by the shoulders and placed him in front of the old man, who stretched out his hand to Zygfried's face, which he touched as though to feel the outlines and recognize it for the last time. Then he lowered his hand to Zygfried's chest upon which he felt his bound hands, touched the fastening ropes, again closed his eyelids and bowed his head. They thought that he was absorbed in thought, but whether that was so or not, it was not of long duration, because after a while he started out of his reverie and pointed with his hand in the direction of the loaf of bread, in which the ill-omened _misericordia_ stuck. Then, Jagienka, the Bohemian, even old Tolima and all present held their breath. It was a hundredfold well-deserved punishment, a righteous revenge. Yet their hearts palpitated at the thought that the half-alive old man should be groping to slash the bound prisoner. But Jurand, seizing the knife in the middle, ran his finger along its sharp edge, so that he might feel the thing he was cutting, and began to sever the bonds upon Zygfried's arms. At that sight, all were seized with amazement, because they understood his desire and could scarcely believe it. However, that was too much for them. Hlawa was the first to murmur; he was followed by Tolima and the other men. Only the priest Kaleb began to ask, in a voice broken with unrestrained weeping: "Brother Jurand, what are your wishes? Do you intend to give the prisoner his liberty?" "It is so!" replied Jurand, nodding his head affirmatively. "No punishment for him, nor vengeance? Is that your desire?" "It is!" and he nodded again. Open discontent was shown in the murmurs and anger of the men, but the priest did not wish to belittle such an unheard-of deed of mercy. He turned to the murmurers and exclaimed: "Now who dares to oppose the saint? Down upon your knees!" Then he knelt down himself and began to say: "Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name. Thy kingdom come...." And he repeated the Lord's Prayer to the end. At the words: "And forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us," he directed his eyes involuntarily toward Jurand, whose face actually assumed an unearthly radiance. That sight, and that expressive prayer crushed the hearts of all present; even old Tolima, the confirmed, hardened warrior, made the sign of the Holy Cross, and immediately embraced Jurand's feet and said: "Lord, if you want your wishes to be accomplished, then the prisoner should be led to the frontier." "Yes!" nodded Jurand. The storm approached nearer and nearer and the lightning more frequently illuminated the windows. CHAPTER IV. Two horsemen, in the midst of the storm and pouring rain, reached the frontier of Spychow. They were Zygfried and Tolima. The last mentioned accompanied the German to protect him from the waylaying peasants and the servants of Spychow, who burned with hatred and revenge toward him. Zygfried was unarmed, but he was not fettered. The rainstorm, driven by the tempest, had already overtaken them. Now and then, when it suddenly thundered, the horses reared. They traveled in deep silence in a ravine. Owing to the narrowness of the road, they were at times so near that they struck each other's stirrups. Tolima, who had been accustomed to guard prisoners for many years, frequently looked at Zygfried watchfully, as though he were guarding against his escaping suddenly, and an involuntary shudder seized him every time he looked at Zygfried, because his eyes appeared to him to be shining in the darkness like the eyes of an evil spirit, or of a vampire. It struck Tolima that it would be advisable to make the sign of the cross over Zygfried, but he refrained from doing so, because, he thought, that under the sign of the cross, he would hear unearthly voices, and Zygfried would be transformed into a hideous being. His teeth chattered and his fear increased. The old soldier who could fight singly against a whole band of Germans and fall fearlessly upon them, as a hawk swoops upon a flock of partridges, was nevertheless afraid of unclean spirits, and wanted to have nothing to do with them. He would have preferred simply to point out to the German the road and return; but he was ashamed of himself, therefore he led him as far as the frontier. It was then, when they had drawn near the border of the Spychow forest, that the rain ceased, and the clouds were lit up with a strange yellowish light, that Zygfried's eyes lost that above-mentioned unnatural glare. But Tolima was seized with another temptation: "They ordered me," he said to himself, "to lead this mad dog safely as far as the frontier. I have done that; but must the torturer of my master and his daughter leave without revenge and punishment? Would it not be a proper and God-pleasing deed to kill him? Ay! I should like to challenge him to deadly combat, but he is not armed. Very soon at _Pan_ Warcimow's farm, about a mile from here, they will supply him with some weapon, and then I will challenge him. With God's help I shall overthrow him, then kill him, and fitly, cut off his head and bury it in the dung!" These were the words which Tolima said to himself. Then looking greedily at the German he began to dilate his nostrils as if he already smelt fresh blood. He fought hard in his mind with that desire; it was hard wrestling with himself, until he reflected that Jurand had not only granted to the prisoner his life and freedom as far as the frontier, but also beyond it, otherwise Jurand's holy deed would have no merit and the heavenly reward for him would thereby be lessened. He finally prevailed over himself, and reining in his horse, said; "Here is our border; your side is not far from here; proceed, you are free; and if the qualms of conscience do not take you off, or God's thunder does not strike you, then you need not fear man." Then Tolima returned; and Zygfried proceeded. His face looked as if petrified and a savage expression was depicted upon it. He did not reply a single word, as though he heard nothing that was said to him. He continued his journey now upon a wider road and had the appearance of one who is fast asleep. The break in the storm and the brightening of the sky only lasted a short time. It darkened again; so much so that it looked like the darkness of night. The clouds traveled so low that they quite enveloped the forest and from the hills came down an ill-boding obscurity, a kind of hissing and growling of impatient vampires, who were kept back by the angel of the storm. Blinding lightning illuminated the threatening sky every moment and terrified the land. Then one could see the broad highway extending between the two black walls of forest, and upon it a lonely horseman. Zygfried moved on in a semi-conscious condition, consumed by fever. Despair had lacerated his heart since Rotgier's death and filled it with crimes of revenge. Remorse, awful visions, soul stirrings had already tortured his mind in the past to such a degree that with great effort he had to fight madness; there were even moments when he could fight no longer and he surrendered. But the new troubles, fatigue upon the road under the strong hand of the Bohemian, the night he had passed in the dungeon of Spychow, the uncertainty of his fate, and above all, that unheard-of and almost superhuman deed, had quite terrified him. All this had brought him to a climax. There were moments when his mind became so stupefied that he entirely lost his judgment and he did not know what he was doing. Then the fever awoke him and, at the same time awoke within him a certain dull feeling of despair, destruction, and perdition,--a feeling that all hope was already gone, extinguished and ended. He felt that about him was only night, night and darkness, a horrible abyss into which he must plunge. Suddenly a voice whispered in his ear: "Go! Go!" And he looked around him and saw the very image of death, a skeleton mounted upon a skeleton horse, pressing closely beside him, with his white rattling bones. "Is it you?" asked Zygfried. "Yes it is. Go! Go!" But at that moment he glanced to the other side and observed that he had another companion there. Stirrup to stirrup rode a form, appearing somewhat like a human being but for his face and head. It had the head of an animal, with raised long pointed ears, covered with black shaggy hair. "Who are you?" asked Zygfried. But the being, instead of replying, showed its teeth and growled. Zygfried closed his eyes, but in a moment he heard a louder clattering of bones and the voice speaking to him in the same ear: "Time! Time! Hurry on, go!" "I go!" he replied. But that last reply came from his breast and seemed to have been uttered by somebody else. Then, impelled as it were by an external unconquerable power, he dismounted and took off his high knight's saddle, and then the bridle. His companions also dismounted, and did not leave him for a moment. They left the middle of the road and went toward the margin of the wood. There, the black being bent down a branch of a tree and assisted him in fastening to it the strap of the bridle. "Hurry!" whispered Death. "Hurry!" whistled some voices from the tops of the trees. Zygfried, who was like one plunged in deep sleep, drew through the buckle the other end of the strap so as to form a noose. Then he stepped upon the saddle which he had placed in front of the tree, and adjusted the noose upon his neck. "Push back the saddle! ... Already! Ah!" The saddle, which he pushed with his feet, rolled away several paces and the body of the unfortunate Knight of the Cross hung heavily. It seemed to him, only for a short moment, that he heard a kind of smothering, snorting and roaring, and that abominable vampire threw itself upon him, shook him and then began to tear his breast with its teeth to rend his heart. Then, as the light of his eyes was about extinguished he yet saw something else; for lo, death dissolved into a whitish cloud, which slowly approached him, embraced him, and finally surrounded and covered all with a dismal and impenetrable veil. At that moment the storm broke with great fury. Thunder roared in the middle of the road with such a terrible crash that it seemed as though the earth was shaken to its very foundations. The whole forest bent under the tempest. The noise of whistling, hissing, howling, creaking of the trunks, and cracking of the broken branches, filled the depths of the woods. The tempest-driven sheets of rain hid the world from sight. Only at short intervals, when lit up by blood-colored lightning, could be seen the wild dangling body of Zygfried by the roadside. * * * * * The following morning, advancing upon the same road, a numerous train might be seen. In front was Jagienkna, with Sieciechowna and the Bohemian. Behind them moved the wagons, surrounded by four servants, armed with bows and swords. Every driver had also a spear and an axe near him, not counting forged hayforks and other cutting arms suitable upon the road. Those arms were necessary for protection against wild beasts, as well as robbers, who always swarmed upon the border of the Knights of the Cross. This caused Jagiello to complain in his letters to the Grand Master of the Order, and when they met at Racionza. But being provided with skilful men and good arms, the retinue traveled without fear. The stormy day was succeeded by a wonderful one; cheerful, silent and so bright that the eyes of the travelers were blinded when not in the shade. Not a single leaf stirred; from each of them hung large drops of rain which the sun changed into a rainbow. Among the pine-needles they had the appearance of large glistening diamonds. The rainfall produced small streams upon the road, which ran with glad sound toward the lower places, where they formed shallow little lakes. The whole neighborhood was wet and bedewed, but smiling in the morning brightness. On such mornings, also, the human heart is filled with gladness. Therefore the ostlers and servants began to sing; they marveled at the silence which reigned among those riding in front of them. But they were quiet because a heavy burden oppressed Jagienka's heart. There was something which had ended in her life, something broken. Although she was not experienced in meditation and could not determine distinctly the cause and what was going on in her mind, yet she felt that all that had lived hitherto had vanished, that all her hopes had dissipated as the morning mist upon the fields is dissipated. She felt that she must now renounce and give up everything and forget, and begin almost a new life. She also thought that although, with God's will, her present position was not of the worst, yet it could not be otherwise than sad, and in no way could the new life turn out to be as good as that which had just terminated. And an immense sorrow had taken hold of her heart, so that, at the thought that every past hope was gone forever, tears came to her eyes. But not wishing to add shame to her other troubles, she restrained herself from weeping. She wished that she had never left Zgorzelice; in that case she would not now have to return thither. Then, she thought, it was not only to remove the cause for attacks upon Zgorzelice by Cztan and Wilk that Macko brought her to Spychow. That she could not believe. "No," she said, "Macko also knew that that was not the only cause for taking me away. Perhaps Zbyszko will also know it." At that thought, her cheeks became crimson and bitterness filled her heart. "I was too daring," she said to herself, "and now I have what I deserved. Trouble and uncertainty to-morrow, suffering and deep sorrow in the future and with it humiliation." But the train of oppressing thoughts was interrupted by a man coming hastily from the opposite direction. The Bohemian, whose eyes nothing escaped, rushed toward the man, who with crossbow upon his shoulder and badger-skin pouch at his side, and with a feather of a black woodcock in his cap, was recognized as a forester. "Hey! Who are you? Stop!" exclaimed the Bohemian. The man approached quickly, his face was agitated, and had the expression of those who have something extraordinary to communicate. He cried: "There upon the road ahead of you is a man hanging on a tree!" The Bohemian was alarmed, thinking that it might be a murder, and he asked the man quickly: "How far from here is it?" "A bowshot distance, and upon this road." "Is there nobody with him?" "Nobody; I frightened away a wolf that was smelling around him." The mention of a wolf quieted Hlawa, for it told him that there were neither people nor farms in the neighborhood. Then Jagienka said: "Look there, what is that?" Hlawa rushed ahead, and soon returned hurriedly. "Zygfried is hanging there!" he exclaimed while reining in his horse in front of Jagienka. "In the name of the Father, Son and Holy Ghost! You do not mean Zygfried, the Knight of the Cross?" "Yes, it is he. He hung himself with the bridle." "Did you say by himself?" "It seems so, because the saddle lies alongside him, and if there were robbers they would have killed him outright and made off with the saddle, because it is valuable." "Shall we proceed?" "Let us not go that way! No!" cried Anula Sieciechowna, afraid. "Something evil might happen to us!" Jagienka was also somewhat afraid, because she believed that the body of a suicide is surrounded by crowds of evil spirits. But Hlawa, who was fearless and bold, said: "Bah! I was near him, and even pushed him with the lance, and do not feel any devil upon my neck." "Do not blaspheme!" cried Jagienka. "I am not blaspheming," replied the Bohemian, "I only trust in God's power. Nevertheless, if you are afraid we will go around it." Sieciechowna begged him to do so; but Jagienka, having reflected for a moment, said: "It is not proper to leave the dead unburied. It is a Christian act commanded by the Lord. Anyhow it is the body of a man." "Yes, but it is the body of a Knight of the Cross, a hangman and executioner! Let the crows and wolves occupy themselves with his body." "It was not specified. God will judge for his sins, but we must do our duty; and if we fulfil God's commandment nothing evil will befall us." "Well, then, let it be done according to your wishes," replied the Bohemian. Accordingly he gave the order to the servants, who were reluctant. But they feared Hlawa, to oppose whom was a dangerous thing. Not having the necessary spades to dig a hole in the ground, they therefore gathered pitchforks and axes for that purpose and left. The Bohemian also went with them and to give them an example, he crossed himself and cut with his own hands the leather strap upon which the body was hanging. Zygfried's face had become blue whilst hanging; he had an awful appearance, because his eyes were open and terror-stricken, his mouth was also open as though in the act of trying to catch his last breath. They quickly dug a pit near by and pushed therein the corpse of Zygfried with the handles of their pitchforks; they laid him with his face downward and covered it first with dust, then they gathered stones and placed them upon it, because it was an immemorial custom to cover the graves of suicides with stones; otherwise they would come out during the night and frighten the passers-by. As there were many stones upon the road and under the mosses, the grave was soon covered with a considerable mound. Then Hlawa cut a cross with his axe upon the trunk of the pine-tree near. He did that, not for Zygfried, but to prevent evil spirits from gathering at that place. Then he returned to the retinue. "His soul is in hell and his body is already in the ground," he said to Jagienka. "We can travel now." They started; but Jagienka, whilst passing along, took a small branch of pine-tree and pressed it upon the stones. Then everybody of the train followed the example of the lady. That, too, had been an old custom. They traveled for a long while absorbed in thought, thinking of that wicked monk and knight. Finally Jagienka said: "God's justice cannot be escaped. It does not even permit the prayer, 'Everlasting rest'[118] to be offered up because there is no mercy for him." "You have shown by your order to bury him that you possess a compassionate soul," replied the Bohemian. Then he spoke hesitatingly: "People talk. Bah! maybe they are not people, but witches and wizards--that a halter or a strap taken from the hanging body secures to the possessor certain luck in everything. But I did not take the strap from Zygfried, because I wish that your luck should proceed from the Lord Jesus and not from necromancers." Jagienka did not reply to that at once, but after awhile she sighed several times and said as it were to herself: "Hey! My happiness is behind, not in front of me." CHAPTER V. It was not until the end of the ninth day after Jagienka's departure that Zbyszko reached the frontier of Spychow, but Danusia was already so near death that he entirely lost all hope of bringing her alive to her father. On the following day, when she began to be incoherent in her replies, he observed that not only her mind was out of order, but that she was also suffering from a certain malady against which that childlike frame, exhausted by so much suffering, prison, torture and continuous fright, could not fight. Perhaps the noise of the fight of Macko and Zbyszko with the Germans contributed to fill her cup of terror, and it was just about that time that she was taken ill with that malady. Suffice it to say that the fever never left her from that moment until they reached the end of the journey. So far it was successfully accomplished, because throughout the terrible wilderness, in the midst of great troubles, Zbyszko carried her as though she were dead. When they left the wilderness and reached inhabited regions, among farmers and nobles, trouble and danger ceased. When the people were informed that he carried one of their own daughters whom he had rescued from the Knights of the Cross, especially when they knew that she was the daughter of the famous Jurand, of whose exploits the minstrels sang in the villages, hamlets, and huts, they vied with each other in rendering help and service. They procured proper horses and supplies. All doors stood open for them. It was no more necessary for Zbyszko to carry her in a cradle when the strong young men carried her from one village to another in a litter. They carried her as carefully as though she were a saint. The women surrounded her with the most tender care. The men, upon hearing the account of her wrongs, gnashed their teeth, and not a few put on the steel cuirass, grasped the sword, axe, or lance and went along with Zbyszko, in order to take revenge with interest. Because, the valiant race considered even retribution, wrong for wrong, insufficient. But revenge did not then occupy Zbyszko's mind; his only thought was for Danusia. He lived between flashes of hope when there were momentary signs of improvement, and gloomy despair when she got worse, and as far as her latter condition was concerned, he could not deceive himself. A superstitious thought struck him more than once at the beginning of the journey, that there was, somewhere in the pathless regions they were passing, death, riding along with them, step by step, lying in wait for the moment when he might fall upon Danusia and wring from her the last breath of life. That vision or feeling became especially pronounced at dark midnight, so much so, that more than once he was seized with a despairing desire to return and challenge death to a combat to a finish, in the same fashion as knights are wont to do toward each other. But at the end of the journey it became worse, because he felt that death was not following them, but was in the very midst of the retinue; invisible truly, but so near that its cold breath could be felt. Then he understood that against such an enemy, courage, strength and arms are counted as nothing and that he would be obliged to surrender the most precious head as a prey without even a struggle. And that was a most terrible feeling, because it roused within him a tempestuous, irresistible sorrow, a sorrow, bottomless as the sea. Could therefore Zbyszko restrain himself from groaning, could his heart remain unbroken by pain, when he looked at his most beloved? He spoke to her as in terms of involuntary reproach: "Was it for this that I loved you? Was it for this that I searched and rescued you in order that you should be put under ground to-morrow and I should never see you again?" Then he would look at her cheeks which glowed with fever, at her expressionless and dull eyes, and ask her again: "Are you going to leave me? Are you not sorry for it? You prefer going to staying with me." Then he thought that something was happening in his own head, and his breast swelled with immense sadness which seared it, but he could not give vent to his feeling with tears, because of a certain feeling of anger and hatred against that compassionless power which was consuming the innocent, blind, and cold child. If that wicked enemy, the Knight of the Cross, were present, he would have fallen upon him and torn him to pieces like a wild beast. When they arrived at the forest court, he wished to halt, but as it was the spring season the court was deserted. There he was informed by the keepers that the princely pair had gone to their brother, Prince Ziemowita, at Plock. He therefore resolved, instead of going to Warsaw where the court physician might have given her some relief, to go to Spychow. That plan was terrible, because it seemed to him that all was over with her and that he would not be able to bring her alive to Jurand. But just as they were only a few hours distant from Spychow the brightest ray of hope shone again in his heart. Danuska's cheeks became paler, her eyes were less troubled, her breathing not so loud and quick. Zbyszko had observed it immediately, and had given orders to stop, so that she might rest and breathe undisturbed. It was only about three miles from the inhabited part of Spychow, upon a narrow road winding between fields and meadows. They stopped near a wild pear-tree whose branches served to the sick as a protection from the rays of the sun. The men dismounted and unbridled their horses so as to facilitate their grazing. Two women, who were hired to attend Danusia and the youths who carried her, fatigued with the road and heat, lay down in the shade and slept. Only Zbyszko remained watching near the litter and sat close by upon the roots of the pear-tree, not taking his eyes off her even for a moment. She lay in the midst of the afternoon silence, her eyelids closed. It seemed to Zbyszko that she was not asleep,--when at the other end of the meadow a man who was mowing hay stopped and began to sharpen his scythe loudly upon the hone. Then she trembled a little and opened her eyelids for a moment, but immediately closed them again. Her breast heaved as though she was deeply inspiring, and in a hardly audible voice she whispered: "Flowers smell sweetly...." These were the first words, clear and free from fever, spoken since they had left, because the breeze really wafted from the sun-warmed meadow a strong, redolent hay and honey perfume, fragrant with the scent of herbs. This caused Zbyszko to think that reason had returned to her. His heart trembled within him for joy. He wished to throw himself at her feet at the first impulse. But fearing lest that might frighten her, he desisted. He only knelt in front of the litter, and bending over her, said in a whisper: "Dear Danusia! Danusia!" She opened her eyes again, and looked at him for a while. Then a smile brightened up her face, the same as when she was in the tar-burner's shanty, but far from consciousness, but she pronounced his name: "Zbyszko!..." She attempted to stretch her hands toward him, but owing to her great weakness she was unable to do it. But he embraced her, his heart was so full that it seemed as if he were thanking her for some great favor he had received. "I praise the Lord," he said, "you have awoke ... O God...." Now his voice failed him, and they looked at each other for some time in silence. That silence was only interrupted by the gentle wind which moved the leaves of the pear-tree, the chirping of the grasshoppers among the grass and the distant indistinct song of the mower. It seemed as though her consciousness was gradually increasing, for she continued to smile and had the appearance of a sleeping child seeing angels in its dream. Little by little her face assumed an air of astonishment. "Oh! where am I?" she cried. He was so much overcome with joy that he uttered numerous short and abrupt questions. "Near Spychow. You are with me, and we are going to see dear papa. Your sorrow is ended. Oh! my darling Danusia, I searched for you and rescued you. You are no more in the power of the Germans. Be not afraid. We shall soon be at Spychow. You were ill, but the Lord Jesus had mercy upon you. There was so much sorrow, so many tears! Dear Danusia. Now, everything is well. There is nothing but happiness for you. Ah I how much did I search for you!... How far did I wander!... Oh! Mighty God!... Oh!..." He sighed deeply and groaned as though he had thrown off the last heavy burden of suffering from his breast. Danusia lay quiet trying to recall something to her mind and reflecting upon something. Then finally she asked: "So, you cared for me?" Two tears which were gathering in her eyes slowly rolled down her cheeks upon the pillow. "I, not care for you?" cried Zbyszko. There was something more powerful in that smothered exclamation than in the most vehement protestations and oaths, because he had always loved her with his whole soul. And from the moment when he had recovered her she had become more dear to him than the whole world. Silence reigned again. The distant singing of the mowing peasant ceased and he began to whet his scythe again. Danusia's lips moved again, but with such a low whisper that Zbyszko could not hear it. He therefore bent over her and asked: "What do you say, darling?" But she repeated: "Sweet smelling blossoms." "Because we are near the meadows," he replied. "But we shall soon proceed and go to dear papa, whom we have also rescued from captivity, and you shall be mine even unto death. Do you hear me well? Do you understand me?" Then he suddenly became alarmed, for he observed that her face was gradually paling and was thickly covered with perspiration. "What ails you?" he asked in great alarm. And he felt his hair bristling and frost creeping through his bones. "What ails you, tell me," he repeated. "It darkens," she whispered. "It darkens? Why, the sun shines and you say: 'it darkens'?" he said with a suppressed voice. "Up to this time you have spoken rationally. In God's name I beseech you, speak, even if it is only one word." She still moved her lips, but she was unable even to whisper. Zbyszko guessed that she tried to pronounce his name and that she called him. Immediately afterward, her emaciated hands began to twitch and flutter upon the rug covering her. That lasted only for a moment. No doubt was left now that she had expired. Horrified and in despair, Zbyszko began to beg her, as though his entreaties could avail: "Danuska! Oh, merciful Jesus!... Only wait till we come to Spychow! Wait! Wait, I beseech you! Oh, Jesus! Jesus! Jesus!" The appeal awoke the sleeping women, and the men who were stretched with the horses upon the lawn came running. They guessed at a glance what had happened; they knelt down and began loudly to recite the litany. The breeze ceased, even the leaves upon the pear-tree did not rustle. Only the voices reciting the litany sounded throughout that profound silence. Danusia opened her eyes once more at the very end of the litany, as though she wished to look upon Zbyszko and upon the sunlit world for the last time. Then she lapsed into an everlasting sleep. * * * * * The women closed her eyelids; then they went to the meadow to gather flowers. The men followed them in file. Thus they walked in the sunshine among the luxuriant grass and had the appearance of field spirits bowing now and then, and weeping, for their hearts were filled with pity and sorrow. Zbyszko was kneeling in the shade beside the litter, with his head upon Danusia's knees, speechless and motionless, as if he too were dead. But the gatherers kept on plucking here and there, marigolds, buttercups, bellflowers and plenty of red and white sweet-smelling little blossoms. They also found in the small moist hollows in the meadow, lilies of the valley, and upon the margin near the fallow ground, they got St. John's wort until they had gathered their arms full. Then they sadly surrounded the litter and began to adorn it, until they had covered the dead with flowers and herbs; they only left the face uncovered, which in the midst of the bellflowers and lilies looked white, peaceful, calm, as in eternal sleep, serene, and quite angelic. The distance to Spychow was less than three miles. Then, when they had shed copious tears of sorrow and pain, they carried the litter toward the forest where Jurand's domains began. The men led the horses in front of the retinue. Zbyszko himself carried the litter upon his head, and the women loaded with the surplus of the bunches of flowers and herbs, sang hymns. They moved very slowly along the herb-covered meadows and the grey fallow fields and had the appearance of a funeral procession. Not a cloudlet marred the blue clear sky, and the region warmed itself in the golden rays of the sun. The further adventures of Zbyszko will be found in a subsequent volume. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 1: The Benedictine Abbey at Tyniec was in Poland as important and rich, relatively, as the Abbey of Saint-Germain des Près in France. In those times the order organized by Saint Benoit (Benedictus) was the most important factor in the civilization and material prosperity of the country. The older contained 17,000 abbeys. From it came 24 Popes; 200 Cardinals; 1,600 Archbishops; 4,000 Bishops; 15,000 Writers; 1,500 Saints; 5,000 Beatified; 43 Emperors, and 44 Kings. These figures are material facts showing the importance of the order. About its influence on art, literature and culture one could write a volume.] [Footnote 2: Two powerful families.] [Footnote 3: Lithuania.] [Footnote 4: Historical fact.] [Footnote 5: Prince.] [Footnote 6: Lithuanian.] [Footnote 7: Money--it is difficult to tell the value exactly.] [Footnote 8: Bishop.] [Footnote 9: Priests.] [Footnote 10: An exclamation of trifling.] [Footnote 11: Prince Kiejstut's daughter.] [Footnote 12: Slave minstrels.] [Footnote 13: A kind of guitar.] [Footnote 14: The names of the noblemen of every country are derived from the estates which they possess--hence the particles before the name of a true nobleman: _de_ in France, for instance, de Nevers, means that the name comes from the place called Nevers; _of_ in England, for instance, Duke of Manchester; _von_ in Germany has the same signification; in Poland z, for instance Macko z Bogdanca--means that the estate Bogdaniec belonged to his family and to him;--in the following centuries the z was changed to _ski_, put on the end of the name and instead of writing z Bogdanca, a man of the same family was called Bogdanski; but it does not follow that every Pole, whose name ends in _ski_ is a nobleman. Therefore the translation of that particular z into English _of_ is only strictly correct, although in other cases z should be translated into English _from_: to write: Baron de Rothschild is absurd and ridiculous, because the sign "red shield" was not an estate, and one cannot put _de_ before it.] [Footnote 15: A wealthy possessor of land--they were freemen and had serfs working for them--some of them were noblemen, and had the right to use coats of arms.] [Footnote 16: Pan--Lord] [Footnote 17: A man coming from Mazowsze--the part of Poland round Warsaw.] [Footnote 18: Count.] [Footnote 19: Back side of the axe.] [Footnote 20: A town surrounded with walls and having a peculiar jurisdiction or a kind of a castle.] [Footnote 21: Inhabitants of Rus'--part of Poland round Lwow--Leopol (Latin), Lemberg (German).] [Footnote 22: Money;--marks.] [Footnote 23: Hail--the war-cry of the family, either because it was numerous like hail or struck sharply like hail.] [Footnote 24: Count.] [Footnote 25: Wdaly--in old Polish--handsome.] [Footnote 26: Beautiful.] [Footnote 27: Abbot of a hundred villages.] [Footnote 28: Ordinary German soldiers.] [Footnote 29: A nobleman holding an estate of the Crown, with or without jurisdiction.] [Footnote 30: Knight of the Cross in Polish.] [Footnote 31: Vocative from Zbyszko.] [Footnote 32: Pater-noster--the Lord's prayer.] [Footnote 33: Historical fact.] [Footnote 34: A military title with jurisdiction--corresponding to general.] [Footnote 35: Historical fact.] [Footnote 36: Bonebreaker.] [Footnote 37: Historical fact.] [Footnote 38: A large building which served for different purposes, but especially, as a depot of broadcloth; in Polish _sukno_, hence its name: _sukiennice_.] [Footnote 39: Noblemen in Lithuania and Russia.] [Footnote 40: The Tartars were divided into Ords--it was a fancy division, without any precise number.] [Footnote 41: Anjou in French.] [Footnote 42: Piasts is family name--the first kings of Poland were Piasts.] [Footnote 43: Mountains in Poland--sometimes improperly called Carpathian Mountains.] [Footnote 44: Priest--or prince in the old Slav language.] [Footnote 45: In Poland they use in the churches a sprinkling brush made of thin shavings of a certain wood--such a brush is called, "kropidlo."] [Footnote 46: The Province of Dobrzyn was seized by the Knights of the Cross on the ground of an unlawful agreement with Wladyslaw Opolczyk.] [Footnote 47: Allusion to beehives on the trees; to take honey from them, the keeper was obliged to climb a rope.] [Footnote 48: Famous battle in which the Germans were defeated by King Wladyslaw Lokietek.] [Footnote 49: Ksiondz--priest.] [Footnote 50: We will go to dissipate.] [Footnote 51: Marienburg in German.] [Footnote 52: King.] [Footnote 53: Friend.] [Footnote 54: Diminutive of _kniaz_--prince.] [Footnote 55: Diminutive from _bojar_--Lord.] [Footnote 56: Marienburg in German.] [Footnote 57: A sort of coat.] [Footnote 58: The bison of Pliny; the urus of Caesar. The bison, destroyed in all other countries of Europe, is only to be found in Poland in the forest of Bialowieza, where a special body of guards takes care of this rare animal.] [Footnote 59: It means here a fort, a stronghold, a castle.] [Footnote 60: Grzywna or mark was equal to half pound of silver.] [Footnote 61: High sharp pointed hat.] [Footnote 62: Crooked.] [Footnote 63: Polish _tata_ = papa; hence the diminutive and endearing terms _tatus, tatutu_ and _tatulku_ = "dear papa," "dear little papa," etc.] [Footnote 64: Another form of diminutive from _tata_--father.] [Footnote 65: Church with certain special privileges. It is a popular expression for the church called _collegiata_, in Latin.] [Footnote 66: Silesia.] [Footnote 67: A popular exclamation of joy--sometimes of distress if it is put with another word.] [Footnote 68: An exclamation of mirth, especially in songs; and while dancing, they exclaim in Poland: hoc! hoc!] [Footnote 69: Wooden beehive excavated in a tree.] [Footnote 70: Kind of fur jacket--bolero.] [Footnote 71: Both words are diminutives of _tata_--father.] [Footnote 72: Diminutive of mother.] [Footnote 73: In 1331.] [Footnote 74: Stronghold--castle.] [Footnote 75: Miss.] [Footnote 76: Breslau in German.] [Footnote 77: Diminutive of _tata_ father.] [Footnote 78: Abbreviation of Przeclaw.] [Footnote 79: Podhale is part of the mountains of Karpaty.] [Footnote 80: Nickname given to bears.] [Footnote 81: Popular name for bear.] [Footnote 82: Wolf.] [Footnote 83: Seminarists students.] [Footnote 84: Diminutive of _wlodyka_.] [Footnote 85: Piece of money; it is twenty-fourth part of _grzywna_ or mark, which was worth half pound of silver; one _skojeg_ was worth about one-third of an ounce.] [Footnote 86: "Bold Mountain"--a place in Poland, where one of the first three Benedictine monasteries was built by the king, Boleslaw Chrobry (the Valiant) 1125. In this monastery is a part of our Saviour's cross--hence pilgrimages to that place.] [Footnote 87: Diminutive of _wlodyka_.] [Footnote 88: Another form of _pan_--lord; when one speaks in commiseration or in sympathy, any noun can take this form.] [Footnote 89: A short prayer for the dead.] [Footnote 90: The famous victory over the Knights of the Cross by the king Wladyslaw Lokietek.] [Footnote 91: Lokiec means an ell in Polish. King Wladyslaw was of the family Piasts, but he was called Lokietek on account of his short stature.] [Footnote 92: Marks.] [Footnote 93: Here it means a commandant.] [Footnote 94: A part of Poland. The people were called Kurpie, on account of their shoes made of the bark of trees. They were all famous marksmen.] [Footnote 95: Krystyn.] [Footnote 96: A woolen material, made by Polish peasants. In some provinces _kilimeks_ are very artistic on account of the odd designs and the harmony of the colors.] [Footnote 97: Szczytno in Polish.] [Footnote 98: Cymbaska who married Ernest Iron Habsburg.] [Footnote 99: The knight Uter, being in love with the virtuous Igerna, wife of Prince Gorlas, with Merlin's help assumed the form of Gorlas, and with Igerna begot the king Arthur.] [Footnote 100: Kind of horn.] [Footnote 101: Wigand of Marburg mentions such cases.] [Footnote 102: There is a custom in Poland, Hungary, Bohemia and some other countries, to break wafers at receptions and parties, on Christmas eve and the following two days, expressing in the meantime good wishes for all manner of prosperity and happiness. The wafers are distributed by the parish that is to say by the priest or sexton. The author refers to that custom.] [Footnote 103: Siebenkirchen in German, a province which now belongs to Hungary, it was then an independent principality.] [Footnote 104: Diminutive of mother; it is a charming expression. The Polish language, like the Italian, has a great variety of diminutives.] [Footnote 105: _Glowacz_ the Polish for the Bohemian _Hlawa_, the latter means "head," but the former means also "big" or "thick head."--(S.A.B.)] [Footnote 106: Lotarynczyk means the man from Lotaringen.] [Footnote 107: _Byway_ means, in this instance, "here we are".] [Footnote 108: _Pontnik_, "Pardoner," one who dispenses indulgences.--(S.A.B.)] [Footnote 109: Called: _Misericordia_.] [Footnote 110: February is called in Polish "Luty," meaning also dreadful, awful, etc.] [Footnote 111: The diminutive of Anna.] [Footnote 112: Lit., She was walking on live coals.] [Footnote 113: Meaning never.] [Footnote 114: Relics of the gallows were preserved down to the year 1818.] [Footnote 115: One Polish mile is about three American miles.] [Footnote 116: _Setnik_, captain over one hundred.] [Footnote 117: The Greater Bear, or Charleswain ... other names are hen and chickens, dipper, etc. Arabic, _Dhiba_.] [Footnote 118: _Wieczny odpoczynek racz mu daj Panie_. "God rest his soul."] 
37308	----	Transcriber's Notes: 1. Page scan source: http://www.archive.org/details/delugeanhistori05siengoog 2. The diphthong oe is represented by [oe]. THE DELUGE. Vol. II. THE DELUGE. An Historical Novel OF POLAND, SWEDEN, AND RUSSIA. A SEQUEL TO "WITH FIRE AND SWORD." BY HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ. _AUTHORIZED AND UNABRIDGED TRANSLATION FROM THE POLISH BY_ JEREMIAH CURTIN. IN TWO VOLUMES. Vol. II. BOSTON: LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY 1915. _Copyright, 1891_, by Jeremiah Curtin. * * * * * Printers S. J. Parkhill & Co., Boston, U.S.A. THE DELUGE CHAPTER I. The war with cannon was no bar to negotiations, which the fathers determined to use at every opportunity. They wished to delude the enemy and procrastinate till aid came, or at least severe winter. But Miller did not cease to believe that the monks wished merely to extort the best terms. In the evening, therefore, after that cannonading, he sent Colonel Kuklinovski again with a summons to surrender. The prior showed Kuklinovski the safeguard of the king, which closed his mouth at once. But Miller had a later command of the king to occupy Boleslav, Vyelunie, Kjepits, and Chenstohova. "Take this order to them," said he to Kuklinovski; "for I think that they will lack means of evasion when it is shown them." But he was deceived. The prior answered: "If the command includes Chenstohova, let the general occupy the place with good fortune. He may be sure that the cloister will make no opposition; but Chenstohova is not Yasna Gora, of which no mention is made in the order." When Miller heard this answer he saw that he had to deal with diplomats more adroit than himself; reasons were just what he lacked,--and there remained only cannon. A truce lasted through the night. The Swedes worked with vigor at making better trenches; and on Yasna Gora they looked for the damages of the previous day, and saw with astonishment that there were none. Here and there roofs and rafters were broken, here and there plaster had dropped from the walls,--that was all. Of the men, none had fallen, no one was even maimed. The prior, going around on the walls, said with a smile to the soldiers,-- "But see, this enemy with his bombarding is not so terrible as reported. After a festival there is often more harm done. God's care is guarding you; God's hand protects you; only let us endure, and we shall see greater wonders." Sunday came, the festival of the offering of the Holy Lady. There was no hindrance to services, since Miller was waiting for the final answer, which the monks had promised to send after midday. Mindful meanwhile of the words of Scripture, how Israel bore the ark of God around the camp to terrify the Philistines, they went again in procession with the monstrance. The letter was sent about one o'clock, not to surrender; but to repeat the answer given Kuklinovski, that the church and the cloister are called Yasna Gora, and that the town Chenstohova does not belong to the cloister at all. "Therefore we implore earnestly his worthiness," wrote the prior Kordetski, "to be pleased to leave in peace our Congregation and the church consecrated to God and His Most Holy Mother, so that God may be honored therein during future times. In this church also we shall implore the Majesty of God for the health and success of the Most Serene King of Sweden. Meanwhile we, unworthy men, while preferring our request, commend ourselves most earnestly to the kindly consideration of your worthiness, confiding in your goodness, from which we promise much to ourselves in the future." There were present at the reading of the letter, Sadovski; Count Veyhard; Horn, governor of Kjepitsi; De Fossis, a famous engineer; and the Prince of Hesse, a man young and very haughty, who though subordinate to Miller, was willing to show his own importance. He laughed therefore maliciously, and repeated the conclusion of the letter with emphasis,-- "They promise much to themselves from your kindness; General, that is a hint for a contribution. I put one question, gentlemen: Are the monks better beggars or better gunners?" "True," said Horn, "during these first days we have lost so many men that a good battle would not have taken more." "As for me," continued the Prince of Hesse, "I do not want money; I am not seeking for glory, and I shall freeze off my feet in these huts. What a pity that we did not go to Prussia, a rich country, pleasant, one town excelling another." Miller, who acted quickly but thought slowly, now first understood the sense of the letter; he grew purple and said,-- "The monks are jeering at us, gracious gentlemen." "They had not the intention of doing so, but it comes out all the same," answered Horn. "To the trenches, then! Yesterday the fire was weak, the balls few." The orders given flew swiftly from end to end of the Swedish line. The trenches were covered with blue clouds; the cloister answered quickly with all its energy. But this time the Swedish guns were better planted, and began to cause greater damage. Bombs, loaded with powder, were scattered, each drawing behind it a curl of flame. Lighted torches were hurled too, and rolls of hemp steeped in rosin. As sometimes flocks of passing cranes, tired from long flying, besiege a high cliff, so swarms of these fiery messengers fell on the summit of the church and on the wooden roofs of the buildings. Whoso was not taking part in the struggle, was near a cannon, was sitting on a roof. Some dipped water from wells, others drew up the buckets with ropes, while third parties put out fire with wet cloths. Balls crashing rafters and beams fell into garrets, and soon smoke and the odor of burning filled all the interior of buildings. But in garrets, too, defenders were watching with buckets of water. The heaviest bombs burst even through ceilings. In spite of efforts more than human, in spite of wakefulness, it seemed that, early or late, flames would embrace the whole cloister. Torches and bundles of hemp pushed with hooks from the roofs formed burning piles at the foot of the walls. Windows were bursting from heat, and women and children confined in rooms were stifling from smoke and exhalations. Hardly were some missiles extinguished, hardly was the water flowing in broken places, when there came new flocks of burning balls, flaming cloths, sparks, living fire. The whole cloister was seized with it. You would have said that heaven had opened on the place, and that a shower of thunders was falling; still it burned, but was not consumed; it was flaming, but did not fall into fragments; what was more, the besieged began to sing like those youths in the fiery furnace; for, as the day previous, a song was now heard from the tower, accompanied by trumpets. To the men standing on the walls and working at the guns, who at each moment might think that all was blazing and falling to ruins behind their shoulders, that song was like healing balsam, announcing continually that the church was standing, that the cloister was standing, that so far flames had not vanquished the efforts of men. Hence it became a custom to sweeten with such harmony the suffering of the siege, and to keep removed from the ears of women the terrible shouts of raging soldiery. But in the Swedish camp that singing and music made no small impression. The soldiers in the trenches heard it at first with wonder, then with superstitious dread. "How is it," said they to one another, "we have cast so much fire and iron at that hen-house that more than one powerful fortress would have flown away in smoke and ashes, but they are playing joyously? What does this mean?" "Enchantment!" said others. "Balls do not harm those walls. Bombs roll down from the roofs as if they were empty kegs! Enchantment, enchantment!" repeated they. "Nothing good will meet us in this place." The officers in fact were ready to ascribe some mysterious meaning to those sounds. But others interpreted differently, and Sadovski said aloud, so that Miller might hear: "They must feel well there, since they rejoice; or are they glad because we have spent so much powder for nothing?" "Of which we have not too much," added the Prince of Hesse. "But we have as leader Poliorcetes," said Sadovski, in such a tone that it could not be understood whether he was ridiculing or flattering Miller. But the latter evidently took it as ridicule, for he bit his mustache. "We shall see whether they will be playing an hour later," said he, turning to his staff. Miller gave orders to double the fire, but these orders were carried out over-zealously. In their hurry, the gunners pointed the cannons too high, and the result was they carried too far. Some of the balls, soaring above the church and the cloister, went to the Swedish trenches on the opposite side, smashing timber works, scattering baskets, killing men. An hour passed; then a second. From the church tower came solemn music unbroken. Miller stood with his glass turned on Chenstohova. He looked a long time. Those present noticed that the hand with which he held the glass to his eyes trembled more and more; at last he turned and cried,-- "The shots do not injure the church one whit!" And anger, unrestrained, mad, seized the old warrior. He hurled the glass to the earth, and it broke into pieces. "I shall go wild from this music!" roared he. At that moment De Fossis, the engineer, galloped up. "General," said he, "it is impossible to make a mine. Under a layer of earth lies rock. There miners are needed." Miller used an oath. But he had not finished the imprecation when another officer came with a rush from the Chenstohova entrenchment, and saluting, said,-- "Our largest gun has burst. Shall we bring others from Lgota?" Fire had slackened somewhat; the music was heard with more and more solemnity. Miller rode off to his quarters without saying a word. But he gave no orders to slacken the struggle; he determined to worry the besieged. They had in the fortress barely two hundred men as garrison; he had continual relays of fresh soldiers. Night came, the guns thundered unceasingly; but the cloister guns answered actively,--more actively indeed than during the day, for the Swedish camp-fires showed them ready work. More than once it happened that soldiers had barely sat around the fire and the kettle hanging over it, when a ball from the cloister flew to them out of the darkness, like an angel of death. The fire was scattered to splinters and sparks, the soldiers ran apart with unearthly cries, and either sought refuge with other comrades, or wandered through the night, chilled, hungry, and frightened. About midnight the fire from the cloister increased to such force that within reach of a cannon not a stick could be kindled. The besieged seemed to speak in the language of cannons the following words: "You wish to wear us out,--try it! We challenge you!" One o'clock struck, and two. A fine rain began to fall in the form of cold mist, but piercing, and in places thickened as if into pillars, columns and bridges seeming red from the light of the fire. Through these fantastic arcades and pillars were seen at times the threatening outlines of the cloister, which changed before the eye; at one time it seemed higher than usual, then again it fell away as if in an abyss. From the trenches to its walls stretched as it were ill-omened arches and corridors formed of darkness and mist, and through those corridors flew balls bearing death; at times all the air above the cloister seemed clear as if illumined by a lightning flash; the walls, the lofty works, and the towers were all outlined in brightness, then again they were quenched. The soldiers looked before them with superstitious and gloomy dread. Time after time one pushed another and whispered,-- "Hast seen it? This cloister appears and vanishes in turn. That is a power not human." "I saw something better than that," answered the other. "We were aiming with that gun that burst, when in a moment the whole fortress began to jump and quiver, as if some one were raising and lowering it. Fire at such a fortress; hit it!" The soldier then threw aside the cannon brush, and after a while added,-- "We can win nothing here! We shall never smell their treasures. Brr, it is cold! Have you the tar-bucket there? Set fire to it; we can even warm our hands." One of the soldiers started to light the tar by means of a sulphured thread. He ignited the sulphur first, then began to let it down slowly. "Put out that light!" sounded the voice of an officer. But almost the same instant was heard the noise of a ball; then a short cry, and the light was put out. The night brought the Swedes heavy losses. A multitude of men perished at the camp-fires; in places regiments fell into such disorder that they could not form line before morning. The besieged, as if wishing to show that they needed no sleep, fired with increasing rapidity. The dawn lighted tired faces on the walls, pale, sleepless, but enlivened by feverishness. Kordetski had lain in the form of a cross in the church all night; with daylight he appeared on the walls, and his pleasant voice was heard at the cannon, in the curtains, and near the gates. "God is forming the day, my children," said he. "Blessed be His light. There is no damage in the church, none in the buildings. The fire is put out, no one has lost his life. Pan Mosinski, a fiery ball fell under the cradle of your little child, and was quenched, causing no harm. Give thanks to the Most Holy Lady; repay her." "May Her name be blessed," said Mosinski; "I serve as I can." The prior went farther. It had become bright day when he stood near Charnyetski and Kmita. He did not see Kmita; for he had crawled to the other side to examine the woodwork, which a Swedish ball had harmed somewhat. The prior asked straightway,-- "But where is Babinich? Is he not sleeping?" "I, sleep in such a night as this!" answered Pan Andrei, climbing up on the wall. "I should have no conscience. Better watch as an orderly of the Most Holy Lady." "Better, better, faithful servant!" answered Kordetski. Pan Andrei saw at that moment a faint Swedish light gleaming, and immediately he cried,-- "Fire, there, fire! Aim! higher! at the dog-brothers!" Kordetski smiled, seeing such zeal, and returned to the cloister to send to the wearied men a drink made of beer with pieces of cheese broken in it. Half an hour later appeared women, priests, and old men of the church, bringing steaming pots and jugs. The soldiers seized these with alacrity, and soon was heard along all the walls eager drinking. They praised the drink, saying,-- "We are not forgotten in the service of the Most Holy Lady. We have good food." "It is worse for the Swedes," added others. "It was hard for them to cook food the past night; it will be worse the night coming." "They have enough, the dog-faiths. They will surely give themselves and us rest during the day. Their poor guns must be hoarse by this time from roaring continually." But the soldiers were mistaken, for the day was not to bring rest When, in the morning, officers coming with the reports informed Miller that the result of the night's cannonading was nothing, that in fact the night had brought the Swedes a considerable loss in men, the general was stubborn and gave command to continue cannonading. "They will grow tired at last," said he to the Prince of Hesse. "This is an immense outlay of powder," answered that officer. "But they burn powder too?" "They must have endless supplies of saltpetre and sulphur, and we shall give them charcoal ourselves, if we are able to burn even one booth. In the night I went near the walls, and in spite of the thunder, I heard a mill clearly, that must be a powder-mill." "I will give orders to cannonade as fiercely as yesterday, till sunset. We will rest for the night. We shall see if an embassy does not come out." "Your worthiness knows that they have sent one to Wittemberg?" "I know; I will send too for the largest cannons. If it is impossible to frighten the monks or to raise a fire inside the fortress, we must make a breach." "I hope, your worthiness, that the field-marshal will approve the siege." "The field-marshal knows of my intention, and he has said nothing," replied Miller, dryly. "If failure pursues me still farther, the field-marshal will give censure instead of approval, and will not fail to lay all the blame at my door. The king will say he is right,--I know that. I have suffered not a little from the field-marshal's sullen humor, just as if 'tis my fault that he, as the Italians state, is consumed by _mal francese_." "That they will throw the blame on you I doubt not, especially when it appears that Sadovich is right." "How right? Sadovich speaks for those monks as if he were hired by them. What does he say?" "He says that these shots will be heard through the whole country, from the Carpathians to the Baltic." "Let the king command in such case to tear the skin from Count Veyhard and send it as an offering to the cloister; for he it is who instigated to this siege." Here Miller seized his head. "But it is necessary to finish at a blow. It seems to me, something tells me, that in the night they will send some one to negotiate; meanwhile fire after fire!" The day passed then as the day previous, full of thunder, smoke, and flames. Many such were to pass yet over Yasna Gora. But the defenders quenched the conflagrations and cannonaded no less bravely. One half the soldiers went to rest, the other half were on the walls at the guns. The people began to grow accustomed to the unbroken roar, especially when convinced that no great damage was done. Faith strengthened the less experienced; but among them were old soldiers, acquainted with war, who performed their service as a trade. These gave comfort to the villagers. Soroka acquired much consideration among them; for, having spent a great part of his life in war, he was as indifferent to its uproar as an old innkeeper to the shouts of carousers. In the evening when the guns had grown silent he told his comrades of the siege of Zbaraj. He had not been there in person, but he knew of it minutely from soldiers who had gone through that siege and had told him. "There rolled on Cossacks, Tartars, and Turks, so many that there were more under-cooks there than all the Swedes that are here. And still our people did not yield to them. Besides, evil spirits have no power here; but there it was only Friday, Saturday, and Sunday that the devils did not help the ruffians; the rest of the time they terrified our people whole nights. They sent Death to the breastworks to appear to the soldiers and take from them courage for battle. I know this from a man who saw Death himself." "Did he see her?" asked with curiosity peasants gathering around the sergeant. "With his own eyes. He was going from digging a well; for water was lacking, and what was in the ponds smelt badly. He was going, going, till he saw walking in front of him some kind of figure in a black mantle." "In a black, not in a white one?" "In black; in war Death dresses in black. It was growing dark, the soldier came up. 'Who is here?' inquired he--no answer. Then he pulled the mantle, looked, and saw a skeleton. 'But what art thou here for?' asked the soldier. 'I am Death,' was the answer; 'and I am coming for thee in a week.' The soldier thought that was bad. 'Why,' asked he, 'in a week, and not sooner? Art thou not free to come sooner?' The other said: 'I can do nothing before a week, for such is the order.'" "The soldier thought to himself: 'That is hard; but if she can do nothing to me now, I'll pay her what I owe.' Winding Death up in the mantle, he began to beat her bones on the pebbles; but she cried and begged: 'I'll come in two weeks!' 'Impossible.' 'In three, four, ten, when the siege is over; a year, two, fifteen--' 'Impossible.' 'I'll come in fifty years.' The soldier was pleased, for he was then fifty, and thought: 'A hundred years is enough; I'll let her go.' The man is living this minute, and well; he goes to a battle as to a dance, for what does he care?" "But if he had been frightened, it would have been all over with him?" "The worst is to fear Death," said Soroka, with importance. "This soldier did good to others too; for after he had beaten Death, he hurt her so that she was fainting for three days, and during that time no one fell in camp, though sorties were made." "But we never go out at night against the Swedes." "We haven't the head for it," answered Soroka. The last question and answer were heard by Kmita, who was standing not far away, and he struck his head. Then he looked at the Swedish trenches. It was already night. At the trenches for an hour past deep silence had reigned. The wearied soldiers were seemingly sleeping at the guns. At two cannon-shots' distance gleamed a number of fires; but at the trenches themselves was thick darkness. "That will not enter their heads, nor the suspicion of it, and they cannot suppose it," whispered Kmita to himself. He went straight to Charnyetski, who, sitting at the gun-carriage, was reading his rosary, and striking one foot against the other, for both feet were cold. "Cold," said he, seeing Kmita; "and my head is heavy from the thunder of two days and one night. In my ears there is continual ringing." "In whose head would it not ring from such uproars? But to-day we shall rest. They have gone to sleep for good. It would be possible to surprise them like a bear in a den; I know not whether guns would rouse them." "Oh," said Charnyetski, raising his head, "of what are you thinking?" "I am thinking of Zbaraj, how the besieged inflicted with sorties more than one great defeat on the ruffians." "You are thinking of blood, like a wolf in the night." "By the living God and his wounds, let us make a sortie! We will cut down men, spike guns! They expect no attack." Charnyetski sprang to his feet. "And in the morning they will go wild. They imagine, perhaps, that they have frightened us enough and we are thinking of surrender; they will get their answer. As I love God, 'tis a splendid idea, a real knightly deed! That should have come to my head too. But it is needful to tell all to Kordetski, for he is commander." They went. Kordetski was taking counsel in the chamber with Zamoyski. When he heard steps, he raised his voice and pushing a candle to one side, inquired,-- "Who is coming? Is there anything new?" "It is I, Charnyetski," replied Pan Pyotr, "with me is Babinich; neither of us can sleep. We have a terrible odor of the Swedes. This Babinich, father, has a restless head and cannot stay in one place. He is boring me, boring; for he wants terribly to go to the Swedes beyond the walls to ask them if they will fire to-morrow also, or give us and themselves time to breathe." "How is that?" inquired the prior, not concealing his astonishment "Babinich wants to make a sortie from the fortress?" "In company, in company," answered Charnyetski, hurriedly, "with me and some others. They, it seems, are sleeping like dead men at the trenches; there is no fire visible, no sentries to be seen. They trust over much in our weakness." "We will spike the guns," said Kmita. "Give that Babinich this way!" exclaimed Zamoyski; "let me embrace him! The sting is itching, O hornet! thou wouldst gladly sting even at night. This is a great undertaking, which may have the finest results. God gave us only one Lithuanian, but that one an enraged and biting beast. I applaud the design; no one here will find fault with it. I am ready to go myself." Kordetski at first was alarmed, for he feared bloodshed, especially when his own life was not exposed; after he had examined the idea more closely, he recognized it as worthy of the defenders. "Let me pray," said he. And kneeling before the image of the Mother of God, he prayed a while, with outspread arms, and then rose with serene face. "Pray you as well," said he; "and then go." A quarter of an hour later the four went out and repaired to the walls. The trenches in the distance were sleeping. The night was very dark. "How many men will you take?" asked Kordetski of Kmita. "I?" answered Pan Andrei, in surprise. "I am not leader, and I do not know the place so well as Pan Charnyetski. I will go with my sabre, but let Charnyetski lead the men, and me with the others; I only wish to have my Soroka go, for he can hew terribly." This answer pleased both Charnyetski and the prior, for they saw in it clear proof of submission. They set about the affair briskly. Men were selected, the greatest silence was enjoined, and they began to remove the beams, stones, and brick from the passage in the wall. This labor lasted about an hour. At length the opening was ready, and the men began to dive into the narrow jaws. They had sabres, pistols, guns, and some, namely peasants, had scythes with points downward,--a weapon with which they were best acquainted. When outside the wall they organized; Charnyetski stood at the head of the party, Kmita at the flank; and they moved along the ditch silently, restraining the breath in their breasts, like wolves stealing up to a sheepfold. Still, at times a scythe struck a scythe, at times a stone gritted under a foot, and by those noises it was possible to know that they were pushing forward unceasingly. When they had come down to the plain, Charnyetski halted, and, not far from the enemy's trenches, left some of his men, under command of Yanich, a Hungarian, an old, experienced soldier; these men he commanded to lie on the ground. Charnyetski himself advanced somewhat to the right, and having now under foot soft earth which gave out no echo, began to lead forward his party more swiftly. His plan was to pass around the intrenchment, strike on the sleeping Swedes from the rear, and push them toward the cloister against Yanich's men. This idea was suggested by Kmita, who now marching near him with sabre in hand, whispered,-- "The intrenchment is extended in such fashion that between it and the main camp there is open ground. Sentries, if there are any, are before the trenches and not on this side of it, so that we can go behind freely, and attack them on the side from which they least expect attack." "That is well," said Charnyetski; "not a foot of those men should escape." "If any one speaks when we enter," continued Pan Andrei, "let me answer; I can speak German as well as Polish; they will think that some one is coming from Miller, from the camp." "If only there are no sentries behind the intrenchments." "Even if there are, we shall spring on in a moment; before they can understand who and what, we shall have them down." "It is time to turn, the end of the trench can be seen," said Charnyetski; and turning he called softly, "To the right, to the right!" The silent line began to bend. That moment the moon lighted a bank of clouds somewhat, and it grew clearer. The advancing men saw an empty space in the rear of the trench. As Kmita had foreseen, there were no sentries whatever on that space; for why should the Swedes station sentries between their trenches and their own army, stationed in the rear of the trenches. The most sharp-sighted leader could not suspect danger from that side. At that moment Charnyetski said in the lowest whisper; "Tents are now visible. And in two of them are lights. People are still awake there,--surely officers. Entrance from the rear must be easy." "Evidently," answered Kmita. "Over that road they draw cannon, and by it troops enter. The bank is already at hand. Have a care now that arms do not clatter." They had reached the elevation raised carefully with earth dug from so many trenches. A whole line of wagons was standing there, in which powder and balls had been brought. But at the wagons, no man was watching; passing them, therefore, they began to climb the embankment without trouble, as they had justly foreseen, for it was gradual and well raised. In this manner they went right to the tents, and with drawn weapons stood straight in front of them. In two of the tents lights were actually burning; therefore Kmita said to Charnyetski,-- "I will go in advance to those who are not sleeping. Wait for my pistol, and then on the enemy!" When he had said this, he went forward. The success of the sortie was already assured; therefore he did not try to go in very great silence. He passed a few tents buried in darkness; no one woke, no one inquired, "Who is there?" The soldiers of Yasna Gora heard the squeak of his daring steps and the beating of their own hearts. He reached the lighted tent, raised the curtain and entered, halted at the entrance with pistol in hand and sabre down on its strap. He halted because the light dazzled him somewhat, for on the camp table stood a candlestick with six arms, in which bright lights were burning. At the table were sitting three officers, bent over plans. One of them, sitting in the middle, was poring over these plans so intently that his long hair lay on the white paper. Seeing some one enter, he raised his head, and asked in a calm voice,-- "Who is there?" "A soldier," answered Kmita. That moment the two other officers turned their eyes toward the entrance. "What soldier, where from?" asked the first, who was De Fossis, the officer who chiefly directed the siege. "From the cloister," answered Kmita. But there was something terrible in his voice. De Fossis rose quickly and shaded his eyes with his hand. Kmita was standing erect and motionless as an apparition; only the threatening face, like the head of a predatory bird, announced sudden danger. Still the thought, quick as lightning, rushed through the head of De Fossis, that he might be a deserter from Yasna Gora; therefore he asked again, but excitedly,-- "What do you want?" "I want this!" cried Kmita; and he fired from a pistol into the very breast of De Fossis. With that a terrible shout and a salvo of shots was heard on the trench. De Fossis fell as falls a pine-tree struck by lightning; another officer rushed at Kmita with his sword, but the latter slashed him between the eyes with his sabre, which gritted on the bone; the third officer threw himself on the ground, wishing to slip out under the side of the tent, but Kmita sprang at him, put his foot on his shoulder, and nailed him to the earth with a thrust. By this time the silence of night had turned into the day of judgment. Wild shouts: "Slay, kill!" were mingled with howls and shrill calls of Swedish soldiers for aid. Men bewildered from terror rushed out of the tents, not knowing whither to turn, in what direction to flee. Some, without noting at once whence the attack came, ran straight to the enemy, and perished under sabres, scythes, and axes, before they had time to cry "Quarter!" Some in the darkness stabbed their own comrades; others unarmed, half-dressed, without caps, with hands raised upward, stood motionless on one spot; some at last dropped on the earth among the overturned tents. A small handful wished to defend themselves; but a blinded throng bore them away, threw them down, and trampled them. Groans of the dying and heart-rending prayers for quarter increased the confusion. When at last it grew clear from the cries that the attack had come, not from the side of the cloister, but from the rear, just from the direction of the Swedish army, then real desperation seized the attacked. They judged evidently that some squadrons, allies of the cloister, had struck on them suddenly. Crowds of infantry began to spring out of the intrenchment and run toward the cloister, as if they wished to find refuge within its walls. But soon new shouts showed that they had come upon the party of the Hungarian, Yanich, who finished them under the very fortress. Meanwhile the cloister-men, slashing, thrusting, trampling, advanced toward the cannons. Men with spikes ready, rushed at them immediately; but others continued the work of death. Peasants, who would not have stood before trained soldiers in the open field, rushed now a handful at a crowd. Valiant Colonel Horn, governor of Kjepitsi, endeavored to rally the fleeing soldiers; springing into a corner of the trench, he shouted in the darkness and waved his sword. The Swedes recognized him and began at once to assemble; but in their tracks and with them rushed the attackers, whom it was difficult to distinguish in the darkness. At once was heard a terrible whistle of scythes, and the voice of Horn ceased in a moment. The crowd of soldiers scattered as if driven apart by a bomb. Kmita and Charnyetski rushed after them with a few people, and cut them to pieces. The trench was taken. In the main camp of the Swedes trumpets sounded the alarm. Straightway the guns of Yasna Gora gave answer, and fiery balls began to fly from the cloister to light up the way for the home-coming men. They came panting, bloody, like wolves who had made a slaughter in a sheepfold; they were retreating before the approaching sound of musketeers. Charnyetski led the van, Kmita brought up the rear. In half an hour they reached the party left with Yanich; but he did not answer their call; he alone had paid for the sortie with his life, for when he rushed after some officer, his own soldiers shot him. The party entered the cloister amid the thunder of cannon and the gleam of flames. At the entrance the prior was waiting, and he counted them in order as the heads were pushed in through the opening. No one was missing save Yanich. Two men went out for him at once, and half an hour later they brought his body; for Kordetski wished to honor him with a fitting burial. But the quiet of night, once broken, did not return till white day. From the walls cannon were playing; in the Swedish positions the greatest confusion continued. The enemy not knowing well their own losses, not knowing whence the aggressor might come, fled from the trenches nearest the cloister. Whole regiments wandered in despairing disorder till morning, mistaking frequently their own for the enemy, and firing at one another. Even in the main camp were soldiers and officers who abandoned their tents and remained under the open sky, awaiting the end of that ghastly night. Alarming news flew from mouth to mouth. Some said that succor had come to the fortress, others asserted that all the nearer intrenchments were captured. Miller, Sadovski, the Prince of Hesse, Count Veyhard, and other superior officers, made superhuman exertions to bring the terrified regiments to order. At the same time the cannonade of the cloister was answered by balls of fire, to scatter the darkness and enable fugitives to assemble. One of the balls struck the roof of the chapel, but striking only the edge of it, returned with rattling and crackling toward the camp, casting a flood of flame through the air. At last the night of tumult was ended. The cloister and the Swedish camp became still. Morning had begun to whiten the summits of the church, the roofs took on gradually a ruddy light, and day came. In that hour Miller, at the head of his staff, rode to the captured trench. They could, it is true, see him from the cloister and open fire; but the old general cared not for that. He wished to see with his own eyes all the injury, and count the slain. The staff followed him; all were disturbed,--they had sorrow and seriousness in their faces. When they reached the intrenchment, they dismounted and began to ascend. Traces of the struggle were visible everywhere; lower down than the guns were the overthrown tents; some were still open, empty, silent. There were piles of bodies, especially among the tents; half-naked corpses, mangled, with staring eyes, and with terror stiffened in their dead eyeballs, presented a dreadful sight. Evidently all these men had been surprised in deep sleep; some of them were barefoot; it was a rare one who grasped his rapier in his dead hand; almost no one wore a helmet or a cap. Some were lying in tents, especially at the side of the entrance; these, it was apparent, had barely succeeded in waking; others, at the sides of tents, were caught by death at the moment when they were seeking safety in flight. Everywhere there were many bodies, and in places such piles that it might be thought some cataclysm of nature had killed those soldiers; but the deep wounds in their faces and breasts, some faces blackened by shots, so near that all the powder had not been burned, testified but too plainly that the hand of man had caused the destruction. Miller went higher, to the guns; they were standing dumb, spiked, no more terrible now than logs of wood; across one of them lay hanging on both sides the body of a gunner, almost cut in two by the terrible sweep of a scythe. Blood had flowed over the carriage and formed a broad pool beneath it. Miller observed everything minutely, in silence and with frowning brow. No officer dared break that silence. For how could they bring consolation to that aged general, who had been beaten like a novice through his own want of care? That was not only defeat, but shame; for the general himself had called that fortress a hen-house, and promised to crush it between his fingers, for he had nine thousand soldiers, and there were two hundred men in the garrison; finally, that general was a soldier, blood and bone, and against him were monks. That day had a grievous beginning for Miller. Now the infantry came up and began to carry out bodies. Four of them, bearing on a stretcher a corpse, stopped before the general without being ordered. Miller looked at the stretcher and closed his eyes. "De Fossis," said he, in a hollow voice. Scarcely had they gone aside when others came, this time Sadovski moved toward them and called from a distance, turning to the staff,-- "They are carrying Horn!" But Horn was alive yet, and had before him long days of atrocious suffering. A peasant had cut him with the very point of a scythe; but the blow was so fearful that it opened the whole framework of his breast. Still the wounded man retained his presence of mind. Seeing Miller and the staff, he smiled, wished to say something, but instead of a sound there came through his lips merely rose-colored froth; then he began to blink, and fainted. "Carry him to my tent," said Miller, "and let my doctor attend to him immediately." Then the officers heard him say to himself,-- "Horn, Horn,--I saw him last night in a dream,--just in the evening. A terrible thing, beyond comprehension!" And fixing his eyes on the ground, he dropped into deep thought; all at once he was roused from his revery by the voice of Sadovski, who cried: "General! look there, there--the cloister!" Miller looked and was astonished. It was broad day and clear, only fogs were hanging over the earth; but the sky was clear and blushing from the light of the morning. A white fog hid the summit itself of Yasna Gora, and according to the usual order of things ought to hide the church, but by a peculiar phenomenon the church, with the tower, was raised, not only above the cliff, but above the fog, high, high,--precisely as if it had separated from its foundations and was hanging in the blue under the dome of the sky. The cries of the soldiers announced that they too saw the phenomenon. "That fog deceives the eye!" said Miller. "The fog is lying under the church," answered Sadovski. "It is a wonderful thing; but that church is ten times higher than it was yesterday, and hangs in the air," said the Prince of Hesse. "It is going yet! higher, higher!" cried the soldiers. "It will vanish from the eye!" In fact the fog hanging on the cliff began to rise toward the sky in the form of an immense pillar of smoke; the church planted, as it were, on the summit of that pillar, seemed to rise higher each instant; at the same time when it was far up, as high as the clouds themselves, it was veiled more and more with vapor; you would have said that it was melting, liquefying; it became more indistinct, and at last vanished altogether. Miller turned to the officers, and in his eyes were depicted astonishment and a superstitious dread. "I acknowledge, gentlemen," said he, "that I have never seen such a thing in my life, altogether opposed to nature: it must be the enchantment of papists." "I have heard," said Sadovski, "soldiers crying out, 'How can you fire at such a fortress?' In truth I know not how." "But what is there now?" cried the Prince of Hesse. "Is that church in the fog, or is it gone?" "Though this were an ordinary phenomenon of nature, in any event it forebodes us no good. See, gentlemen, from the time that we came here we have not advanced one step." "If," answered Sadovski, "we had only not advanced; but to tell the truth, we have suffered defeat after defeat, and last night was the worst. The soldiers losing willingness lose courage, and will begin to be negligent. You have no idea of what they say in the regiments. Besides, wonderful things take place; for instance, for a certain time no man can go alone, or even two men, out of the camp; whoever does so is as if he had fallen through the earth, as if wolves were prowling around Chenstohova. I sent myself, not long since, a banneret and three men to Vyelunie for warm clothing, and from that day, no tidings of them." "It will be worse when winter comes; even now the nights are unendurable," added the Prince of Hesse. "The mist is growing thinner!" said Miller, on a sudden. In fact a breeze rose and began to blow away the vapors. In the bundles of fog something began to quiver; finally the sun rose and the air grew transparent. The walls of the cloister were outlined faintly, then out came the church and the cloister. Everything was in its old place. The fortress was quiet and still, as if people were not living in it. "General," said the Prince of Hesse, with energy, "try negotiations again, it is needful to finish at once." "But if negotiations lead to nothing, do you, gentlemen, advise to give up the siege?" asked Miller, gloomily. The officers were silent. After a while Sadovski said,-- "Your worthiness knows best that it will come to that." "I know," answered Miller, haughtily, "and I say this only to you, that I curse the day and the hour in which I came hither, as well as the counsellor who persuaded me to this siege [here he pierced Count Veyhard with his glance]. You know, however, after what has happened, that I shall not withdraw until I turn this cursed fortress into a heap of ruins, or fall myself." Displeasure was reflected in the face of the Prince of Hesse. He had never respected Miller over-much; hence he considered this mere military braggadocio ill-timed, in view of the captured trenches, the corpses, and the spiked cannon. He turned to him then and answered with evident sarcasm,-- "General, you are not able to promise that; for you would withdraw in view of the first command of the king, or of Marshal Wittemberg. Sometimes also circumstances are able to command not worse than kings and marshals." Miller wrinkled his heavy brows, seeing which Count Veyhard said hurriedly,-- "Meanwhile we will try negotiations. They will yield; it cannot be otherwise." The rest of his words were drowned by the rejoicing sound of bells, summoning to early Mass in the church of Yasna Gora. The general with his staff rode away slowly toward Chenstohova; but had not reached headquarters when an officer rushed up on a foaming horse. "He is from Marshal Wittemberg!" said Miller. The officer handed him a letter. The general broke the seal hurriedly, and running over the letter quickly with his eyes, said with confusion in his countenance,-- "No! This is from Poznan. Evil tidings. In Great Poland the nobles are rising, the people are joining them. At the head of the movement is Krishtof Jegotski, who wants to march to the aid of Chenstohova." "I foretold that these shots would be heard from the Carpathians to the Baltic," muttered Sadovski. "With this people change is sudden. You do not know the Poles yet; you will discover them later." "Well! we shall know them," answered Miller. "I prefer an open enemy to a false ally. They yielded of their own accord, and now they are taking arms. Well! they will know our weapons." "And we theirs," blurted out Sadovski. "General, let us finish negotiations with Chenstohova; let us agree to any capitulation. It is not a question of the fortress, but of the rule of his Royal Grace in this country." "The monks will capitulate," said Count Veyhard. "Today or to-morrow they will yield." So they conversed with one another; but in the cloister after early Mass the joy was unbounded. Those who had not gone out in the sortie asked those who had how everything had happened. Those who had taken part boasted greatly, glorifying their own bravery and the defeat they had given the enemy. Among the priests and women curiosity became paramount. White habits and women's robes covered the wall. It was a beautiful and gladsome day. The women gathered around Charnyetski, crying "Our deliverer! our guardian!" He defended himself particularly when they wanted to kiss his hands, and pointing to Kmita, said,-- "Thank him too. He is Babinich,[1] but no old woman. He will not let his hands be Kissed, for there is blood on them yet; but if any of the younger would like to kiss him on the lips, I think that he would not flinch." The younger women did in fact cast modest and at the same time enticing glances at Pan Andrei, admiring his splendid beauty; but he did not answer with his eyes to those dumb questions, for the sight of these maidens reminded him of Olenka. "Oh, my poor girl!" thought he, "if you only knew that in the service of the Most Holy Lady I am opposing those enemies whom formerly I served to my sorrow!" And he promised himself that the moment the siege was over he would write to her in Kyedani, and hurry off Soroka with the letter. "And I shall send her not empty words and promises; for now deeds are behind me, which without empty boasting, but accurately, I shall describe in the letter. Let her know that she has done this, let her be comforted." And he consoled himself with this thought so much that he did not even notice how the maidens said to one another, in departing,-- "He is a good warrior; but it is clear that he looks only to battle, and is an unsocial grumbler." CHAPTER II. According to the wish of his officers, Miller began negotiations again. There came to the cloister from the Swedish camp a well-known Polish noble, respected for his age and his eloquence. They received him graciously on Yasna Gora, judging that only in seeming and through constraint would he argue for surrender, but in reality would add to their courage and confirm the news, which had broken through the besieged wall, of the rising in Great Poland; of the dislike of the quarter troops to Sweden; of the negotiations of Yan Kazimir with the Cossacks, who, as it were, seemed willing to return to obedience; finally, of the tremendous declaration of the Khan of the Tartars, that he was marching with aid to the vanquished king, all of whose enemies he would pursue with fire and sword. But how the monks were mistaken! The personage brought indeed a large bundle of news,--but news that was appalling, news to cool the most fervent zeal, to crush the most invincible resolution, stagger the most ardent faith. The priests and the nobles gathered around him in the council chamber, in the midst of silence and attention; from his lips sincerity itself seemed to flow, and pain for the fate of the country. He placed his hand frequently on his white head as if wishing to restrain an outburst of despair; he gazed on the crucifix; he had tears in his eyes, and in slow, broken accents, he uttered the following words:-- "Ah, what times the suffering country has lived to! All help is past: it is incumbent to yield to the King of the Swedes. For whom in reality have you, revered fathers, and you lords brothers, the nobles, seized your swords? For whom are you sparing neither watching nor toil, nor suffering nor blood? For whom, through resistance,--unfortunately vain,--are you exposing yourselves and holy places to the terrible vengeance of the invincible legions of Sweden? Is it for Yan Kazimir? But he has already disregarded our kingdom. Do you not know that he has already made his choice, and preferring wealth, joyous feasts; and peaceful delights to a troublesome throne, has abdicated in favor of Karl Gustav? You are not willing to leave him, but he has left you, you are unwilling to break your oath, he has broken it; you are ready to die for him, but he cares not for you nor for any of us. Our lawful king now is Karl Gustav! Be careful, then, lest you draw on your heads, not merely anger, vengeance, and ruin, but sin before heaven, the cross, and the Most Holy Lady; for you are raising insolent hands, not against invaders, but against your own king." These words were received in silence, as though death were flying through that chamber. What could be more terrible than news of the abdication of Yan Kazimir? It was in truth news monstrously improbable; but that old noble gave it there in presence of the cross, in presence of the image of Mary, and with tears in his eyes. But if it were true, further resistance was in fact madness. The nobles covered their eyes with their hands, the monks pulled their cowls over their heads, and silence, as of the grave, continued unbroken; but Kordetski, the prior, began to whisper earnest prayer with his pallid lips, and his eyes, calm, deep, clear, and piercing, were fixed on the speaker immovably. The noble felt that inquiring glance, was ill at ease and oppressed by it; he wished to preserve the marks of importance, benignity, compassionate virtue, good wishes, but could not; he began to cast restless glances on the other fathers, and after a while he spoke further:-- "It is the worst thing to inflame stubbornness by a long abuse of patience. The result of your resistance will be the destruction of this holy church, and the infliction on you--God avert it!--of a terrible and cruel rule, which you will be forced to obey. Aversion to the world and avoidance of its questions are the weapons of monks. What have you to do with the uproar of war,--you, whom the precepts of your order call to retirement and silence? My brothers, revered and most beloved fathers! do not take on your hearts, do not take on your consciences, such a terrible responsibility. It was not you who built this sacred retreat, not for you alone must it serve! Permit that it flourish, and that it bless this land for long ages, so that our sons and grandsons may rejoice in it." Here the traitor opened his arms and fell into tears. The nobles were silent, the fathers were silent; doubt had seized all. Their hearts were tortured, and despair was at hand; the memory of baffled and useless endeavors weighed on their minds like lead. "I am waiting for your answer, fathers," said the venerable traitor, dropping his head on his breast. Kordetski now rose, and with a voice in which there was not the least hesitation or doubt, spoke as if with the vision of a prophet,-- "Your statement that Yan Kazimir has abandoned us, has abdicated and transferred his rights to Karl Gustav, is a calumny. Hope has entered the heart of our banished king, and never has he toiled more zealously than he is toiling at this moment to secure the salvation of the country, to secure his throne, and bring us aid in oppression." The mask fell in an instant from the face of the traitor; malignity and deceit were reflected in it as clearly as if dragons had crept out at once from the dens of his soul, in which till that moment they had held themselves hidden. "Whence this intelligence, whence this certainty?" inquired he. "Whence?" answered the prior, pointing to a great crucifix hanging on the wall. "Go! place your finger on the pierced feet of Christ, and repeat what you have told us." The traitor began to bend as if under the crushing of an iron hand, and a new dragon, terror, crawled forth to his face. Kordetski, the prior, stood lordly, terrible as Moses; rays seemed to shoot from his temples. "Go, repeat!" said he, without lowering his hand, in a voice so powerful that the shaken arches of the council chamber trembled and echoed as if in fear,--"Go, repeat!" A moment of silence followed; at last the stifled voice of the visitor was heard,-- "I wash my hands--" "Like Pilate!" finished Kordetski. The traitor rose and walked out of the room. He hurried through the yard of the cloister, and when he found himself outside the gate, he began to run, almost as if something were hunting him from the cloister to the Swedes. Zamoyski went to Charnyetski and Kmita, who had not been in the hall, to tell them what had happened. "Did that envoy bring any good?" asked Charnyetski; "he had an honest face." "God guard us from such honest men!" answered Zamoyski; "he brought doubt and temptation." "What did he say?" asked Kmita, raising a little the lighted match which he was holding in his hand. "He spoke like a hired traitor." "That is why he hastens so now, I suppose," said Charnyetski. "See! he is running with almost full speed to the Swedish camp. Oh, I would send a ball after him!" "A good thing!" said Kmita, and he put the match to the cannon. The thunder of the gun was heard before Zamoyski and Charnyetski could see what had happened. Zamoyski caught his head. "In God's name!" cried he, "what have you done?--he was an envoy." "I have done ill!" answered Kmita; "for I missed. He is on his feet again and hastens farther. Oh! why did it go over him?" Here he turned to Zamoyski. "Though I had hit him in the loins, they could not have proved that we fired at him purposely, and God knows I could not hold the match in my fingers; it came down of itself. Never should I have fired at an envoy who was a Swede, but at sight of Polish traitors my entrails revolt." "Oh, curb yourself; for there would be trouble, and they would be ready to injure our envoys." But Charnyetski was content in his soul; for Kmita heard him mutter, "At least that traitor will be sure not to come on an embassy again." This did not escape the ear of Zamoyski, for he answered: "If not this one, others will be found; and do you, gentlemen, make no opposition to their negotiations, do not interrupt them of your own will; for the more they drag on, the more it results to our profit. Succor, if God sends it, will have time to assemble, and a hard winter is coming, making the siege more and more difficult. Delay is loss for the enemy, but brings profit to us." Zamoyski then went to the chamber, where, after the envoy's departure, consultation was still going on. The words of the traitor had startled men; minds and souls were excited. They did not believe, it is true, in the abdication of Yan Kazimir; but the envoy had held up to their vision the power of the Swedes, which previous days of success had permitted them to forget. Now it confronted their minds with all that terror before which towns and fortresses not such as theirs had been frightened,--Poznan, Warsaw, Cracow, not counting the multitude of castles which had opened their gates to the conqueror; how could Yasna Gora defend itself in a general deluge of defeats? "We shall defend ourselves a week longer, two, three," thought to themselves some of the nobles and some of the monks; "but what farther, what end will there be to these efforts?" The whole country was like a ship already deep in the abyss, and that cloister was peering up like the top of a mast through the waves. Could those wrecked ones, clinging to the mast, think not merely of saving themselves, but of raising that vessel from under the ocean? According to man's calculations they could not, and still, at the moment when Zamoyski re-entered the hall, Kordetski was saying,-- "My brothers! if you sleep not, neither do I sleep. When you are imploring our Patroness for rescue, I too am praying. Weariness, toil, weakness, cling to my bones as well as to yours; responsibility in like manner weighs upon me--nay, more perhaps, than upon you. Why have I faith while you seem in doubt? Enter into yourselves; or is it that your eyes, blinded by earthly power, see not a power greater than the Swedes? Or think you that no defence will suffice, that no hand can overcome that preponderance? If that is the case your thoughts are sinful, and you blaspheme against the mercy of God, against the all-might of our Lord, against the power of that Patroness whose servants you call yourselves. Who of you will dare to say that that Most Holy Queen cannot shield us and send victory? Therefore let us beseech her, let us implore night and day, till by our endurance, our humility, our tears, our sacrifice of body and health, we soften her heart, and pray away our previous sins." "Father," said one of the nobles, "it is not a question for us of our lives or of our wives and children; but we tremble at the thought of the insults which may be put on the image, should the enemy capture the fortress by storm." "And we do not wish to take on ourselves the responsibility," added another. "For no one has a right to take it, not even the prior," added a third. And the opposition increased, and gained boldness, all the more since many monks maintained silence. The prior, instead of answering directly, began to pray. "O Mother of Thy only Son!" said he, raising his hands and his eyes toward heaven, "if Thou hast visited us so that in Thy capital we should give an example to others of endurance, of bravery, of faithfulness to Thee, to the country, to the king,--if Thou hast chosen this place in order to rouse by it the consciences of men and save the whole country, have mercy on those who desire to restrain, to stop the fountain of Thy grace, to hinder Thy miracles, and resist Thy holy will." Here he remained a moment in ecstasy, and then turned to the monks and nobles: "What man will take on his shoulders this responsibility,--the responsibility of stopping the miracles of Mary Her grace. Her salvation for this kingdom and the Catholic faith?" "In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost!" answered a number of voices, "God preserve us from that!" "Such a man will not be found!" cried Zamoyski. And those of the monks in whose hearts doubt had been plunging began to beat their breasts, for no small fear had now seized them; and none of the councillors thought of surrender that evening. But though the hearts of the older men were strengthened, the destructive planting of that hireling had given forth fruits of poison. News of the abdication of Yan Kazimir and the improbability of succor went from the nobles to the women, from the women to the servants; the servants spread it among the soldiers, on whom it made the very worst impression. The peasants were astonished least of all; but experienced soldiers, accustomed to calculate the turns of war in soldier fashion only, began to assemble and explain to one another the impossibility of further defence, complaining of the stubbornness of monks, who did not understand the position; and, finally, to conspire and talk in secret. A certain gunner, a German of suspected fidelity, proposed that the soldiers themselves take the matter in hand, and come to an understanding with the Swedes touching the surrender of the fortress. Others caught at this idea; but there were those who not only opposed the treason resolutely, but informed Kordetski of it without delay. Kordetski, who knew how to join with the firmest trust in the powers of heaven the greatest earthly adroitness and caution, destroyed the secretly spreading treason in its inception. First of all he expelled from the fortress the leaders of the treason, and at the head of them that gunner, having no fear whatever of what they could inform the Swedes regarding the state of the fortress and its weak sides; then, doubling the monthly wages of the garrison, he took from them an oath to defend the cloister to the last drop of their blood. But he redoubled also his watchfulness, resolving to look with more care to the paid soldiers, as well as the nobles, and even his own monks. The older fathers were detailed to the night choirs; the younger, besides the service of God, were obliged to render service on the walls. Next day a review of the infantry was held. To each bastion one noble with his servants, ten monks and two reliable gunners were detailed. All these were bound to watch, night and day, the places confided to them. Pan Mosinski took his place at the northeastern bastion; he was a good soldier, the man whose little child had survived in a miraculous manner, though a bomb fell near its cradle. With him Father Hilary Slavoshevski kept guard. On the western bastion was Father Myeletski, of the nobles Pan Mikolai Kryshtoporski, a man surly and abrupt in speech, but of unterrified valor. The southeastern bastion was occupied by Charnyetski and Kmita, and with them was Father Adam Stypulski, who had formerly been a hussar. He, when the need came, tucked up his habit, aimed cannon, and took no more heed of the balls flying over his head than did the old sergeant Soroka. Finally, to the southwestern bastion were appointed Pan Skorjevski and Father Daniel Ryhtalski, who were distinguished by this, that both could abstain from sleep two and three nights in succession without harm to their health or their strength. Fathers Dobrosh and Malahovski were appointed over the sentries. Persons unfitted for fighting were appointed to the roofs. The armory and all military implements Father Lyassota took under his care; after Father Dobrosh, he took also the office of master of the fires. In the night he had to illuminate the walls so that infantry of the enemy might not approach them. He arranged sockets and iron-holders on the towers, on which flamed at night torches and lights. In fact, the whole tower looked every night like one gigantic torch. It is true that this lightened cannonading for the Swedes; but it might serve as a sign that the fortress was holding out yet, if, perchance, some army should march to relieve the besieged. So then not only had designs of surrender crept apart into nothing, but the besieged turned with still greater zeal to defence. Next morning the prior walked along the walls, like a shepherd through a sheepfold, saw that everything was right, smiled kindly, praised the chiefs and the soldiers, and coming to Charnyetski, said with radiant face,-- "Our beloved leader, Pan Zamoyski, rejoices equally with me, for he says that we are now twice as strong as at first. A new spirit has entered men's hearts, the grace of the Most Holy Lady will do the rest; but meanwhile I will take to negotiations again. We will delay and put off, for by such means the blood of people will be spared." "Oh, revered father!" said Kmita, "what good are negotiations? Loss of time! Better another sortie to-night, and we will cut up those dogs." Kordetski (for he was in good humor) smiled as a mother smiles at a wayward child; then he raised a band of straw lying near the gun, and pretended to strike Pan Andrei with it on the shoulders: "And you will interfere here, you Lithuanian plague; you will lap blood as a wolf, and give an example of disobedience; here it is for you, here it is for you!" Kmita, delighted as a schoolboy, dodged to the right and to the left, and as if teasing purposely, repeated: "Kill the Swedes! kill, kill, kill!" And so they gave comfort to one another, having ardent souls devoted to the country. But Kordetski did not omit negotiations, seeing that Miller desired them earnestly and caught after every pretext. This desire pleased Kordetski, for he divined, without trouble, that it could not be going well with the enemy if he was so anxious to finish. Days passed then, one after another, in which guns and muskets were not indeed silent, but pens were working mainly. In this way the siege was prolonged, and winter was coming harsher and harsher. On the Carpathian summits clouds hatched in their precipitous nests storms, frost, and snows, and then came forth on the country, leading their icy descendants. At night the Swedes cowered around fires, choosing to die from the balls of the cloister rather than freeze. A hard winter had rendered difficult the digging of trenches and the making of mines. There was no progress in the siege. In the mouths not merely of officers, but of the whole army, there was only one word,--"negociations." The priests feigned at first a desire to surrender. Father Dobrosh and the learned priest Sebastyan Stavitski came to Miller as envoys. They gave him some hope of agreement. He had barely heard this when he opened his arms and was ready to seize them with joy to his embraces. It was no longer a question of Chenstohova, but of the whole country. The surrender of Yasna Gora would have removed the last hope of the patriots, and pushed the Commonwealth finally into the arms of the King of Sweden; while, on the contrary, resistance, and that a victorious resistance, might change hearts and call out a terrible new war. Signs were not wanting. Miller knew this, felt what he had undertaken, what a terrible responsibility was weighing on him; he knew that either the favor of the king, with the baton of a marshal, honors, a title, were waiting for him, or final fall. Since he had begun to convince himself that he could not crack this "nut," he received the priests with unheard-of honor, as if they were embassadors from the Emperor of Germany or the Sultan. He invited them to a feast, he drank to their honor, and also to the health of the prior and Pan Zamoyski; he gave them fish for the cloister; finally, he offered conditions of surrender so gracious that he did not doubt for a moment that they would be accepted in haste. The fathers thanked him humbly, as beseemed monks; they took the paper and went their way. Miller promised the opening of the gates at eight of the following morning. Joy indescribable reigned in the camp of the Swedes. The soldiers left the trenches, approached the walls, and began to address the besieged. But it was announced from the cloister that in an affair of such weight the prior must consult the whole Congregation; the monks therefore begged for one day's delay. Miller consented without hesitation. Meanwhile they were counselling in the chamber till late at night. Though Miller was an old and trained warrior, though there was not, perhaps, in the whole Swedish army a general who had conducted more negotiations with various places than that Poliorcetes, still his heart beat unquietly when next morning he saw two white habits approaching his quarters. They were not the same fathers. First walked Father Bleshynski, a reader of philosophy, bearing a sealed letter; after him came Father Malahovski, with hands crossed on his breast, with drooping head and a face slightly pale. The general received them surrounded by his staff and all his noted colonels; and when he had answered politely the submissive bow of Father Bleshynski, he took the letter from his hand hastily and began to read. But all at once his face changed terribly: a wave of blood flew to his head; his eyes were bursting forth, his neck grew thick, and terrible anger raised the hair under his wig. For a while speech was taken from him; he only indicated with his hand the letter to the Prince of Hesse, who ran over it with his eyes, and turning to the colonels, said calmly,-- "The monks declare only this much, that they cannot renounce Yan Kazimir before the primate proclaims a new king; or speaking in other words, they will not recognize Karl Gustav." Here the Prince of Hesse laughed. Sadovski fixed a jeering glance on Miller, and Count Veyhard began to pluck his own beard from rage. A terrible murmur of excitement rose among those present. Then Miller struck his palms on his knees and cried,-- "Guards, guards!" The mustached faces of four musketeers showed themselves quickly in the door. "Take those shaven sticks," cried the general, "and confine them! And Pan Sadovski, do you trumpet for me under the cloister, that if they open fire from one cannon on the walls, I will hang these two monks the next moment." The two priests were led out amid ridicule and the scoffing of soldiers. The musketeers put their own caps on the priests' heads, or rather on their faces to cover their eyes, and led them of purpose to various obstacles. When either of the priests stumbled or fell, an outburst of laughter was heard in the crowds; but the fallen man they raised with the butts of muskets, and pretending to support, they pushed him by the loins and the shoulders. Some threw horse-dung at the priests; others took snow and rubbed it on their shaven crowns, or let it roll down on their habits. The soldiers tore strings from trumpets, and tying one end to the neck of each priest, held the other, and imitating men taking cattle to a fair, called out the prices. Both fathers walked on in silence, with hands crossed on their breasts and prayers on their lips. Finally, trembling from cold and insulted, they were enclosed in a barn; around the place guards armed with muskets were stationed. Miller's command, or rather his threat, was trumpeted under the cloister walls. The fathers were frightened, and the troops were benumbed from the threat. The cannon were silent; a council was assembled, they knew not what to do. To leave the fathers in cruel hands was impossible; and if they sent others, Miller would detain them as well. A few hours later he himself sent a messenger, asking what the monks thought of doing. They answered that until the fathers were freed no negotiations could take place; for how could the monks believe that the general would observe conditions with them if, despite the chief law of nations, he imprisoned envoys whose sacredness even barbarians respect? To this declaration there was no ready answer; hence terrible uncertainty weighed on the cloister and froze the zeal of its defenders. The Swedish army dug new trenches in haste, filled baskets with earth, planted cannon; insolent soldiers pushed forward to within half a musket-shot of the walls. They threatened the church, the defenders; half-drunken soldiers shouted, raising their hands toward the walls, "Surrender the cloister, or you will see your monks hanging!" Others blasphemed terribly against the Mother of God and the Catholic faith. The besieged, out of respect to the life of the fathers, had to listen with patience. Rage stopped the breath in Kmita's breast. He tore the hair on his head, the clothing on his breast, and wringing his hands, said to Charnyetski,-- "I asked, 'Of what use is negotiation with criminals?' Now stand and suffer, while they are crawling into our eyes and blaspheming! Mother of God, have mercy on me, and give me patience! By the living God, they will begin soon to climb the walls! Hold me, chain me like a murderer, for I shall not contain myself." But the Swedes came ever nearer, blaspheming more boldly. Meanwhile a fresh event brought the besieged to despair. Stefan Charnyetski in surrendering Cracow had obtained the condition of going out with all his troops, and remaining with them in Silesia till the end of the war. Seven hundred infantry of those troops of the royal guard, under command of Colonel Wolf, were near the boundary, and trusting in stipulations, were not on their guard. Count Veyhard persuaded Miller to capture those men. Miller sent Count Veyhard himself, with two thousand cavalry, who crossing the boundary at night attacked those troops during sleep, and captured them to the last man. When they were brought to the Swedish camp, Miller commanded to lead them around the wall, so as to show the priests that that army from which they had hoped succor would serve specially for the capture of Chenstohova. The sight of that brilliant guard of the king dragged along the walls was crushing to the besieged, for no one doubted that Miller would force them first to the storm. Panic spread again among the troops of the cloister; some of the soldiers began to break their weapons and exclaim that there was help no longer, that it was necessary to surrender at the earliest. Even the hearts of the nobles had fallen; some of them appeared before Kordetski again with entreaties to take pity on their children, on the sacred place, on the image, and on the Congregation of monks. The courage of the prior and Pan Zamoyski was barely enough to put down this movement. But Kordetski had the liberation of the imprisoned fathers on his mind first of all, and he took the best method; for he wrote to Miller that he would sacrifice those brothers willingly for the good of the church. Let the general condemn them to death; all would know in future what to expect from him, and what faith to give his promises. Miller was joyful, for he thought the affair was approaching its end. But he did not trust the words of Kordetski at once, nor his readiness to sacrifice the monks. He sent therefore one of them, Father Bleshynski, to the cloister, binding him first with an oath to explain the power of the Swedes and the impossibility of resistance. The monk repeated everything faithfully, but his eyes spoke something else, and concluding he said,-- "But prizing life less than the good of the Congregation, I am waiting for the will of the council; and whatsoever you decide I will lay before the enemy most faithfully." They directed him to say: "The monks are anxious to treat, but cannot believe a general who imprisons envoys." Next day the other envoy of the fathers came to the cloister, and returned with a similar answer. After this both heard the sentence of death. The sentence was read at Miller's quarters in presence of the staff and distinguished officers. All observed carefully the faces of the monks, curious to learn what impression the sentence would make; and with the greatest amazement they saw in both a joy as great, as unearthly, as if the highest fortune had been announced to them. The pale faces of the monks flushed suddenly, their eyes were filled with light, and Father Malahovski said with a voice trembling from emotion,-- "Ah! why should we not die to-day, since we are predestined to fall a sacrifice for our Lord and the king?" Miller commanded to lead them forth straightway. The officers looked at one another. At last one remarked; "A struggle with such fanaticism is difficult." The Prince of Hesse added: "Only the first Christians had such faith. Is that what you wish to say?" Then he turned to Count Veyhard. "Pan Veyhard," said he, "I should be glad to know what you think of these monks?" "I have no need to trouble my head over them," answered he, insolently; "the general has already taken care of them." Then Sadovski stepped forward to the middle of the room, stood before Miller, and said with decision: "Your worthiness, do not command to execute these monks." "But why not?" "Because there will be no talk of negotiations after that; for the garrison of the fortress will be flaming with vengeance, and those men will rather fall one upon the other than surrender." "Wittemberg will send me heavy guns." "Your worthiness, do not do this deed," continued Sadovski, with force; "they are envoys who have come here with confidence." "I shall not have them hanged on confidence, but on gibbets." "The echo of this deed will spread through the whole country, will enrage all hearts, and turn them away from us." "Give me peace with your echoes; I have heard of them already a hundred times." "Your worthiness will not do this without the knowledge of his Royal Grace?" "You have no right to remind me of my duties to the king." "But I have the right to ask for permission to resign from service, and to present my reasons to his Royal Grace. I wish to be a soldier, not an executioner." The Prince of Hesse issued from the circle in the middle of the room, and said ostentatiously,-- "Give me your hand. Pan Sadovski; you are a gentleman, a noble, and an honest man." "What does this mean?" roared Miller, springing from his seat. "General," answered the Prince of Hesse, "I permit myself to remark that Pan Sadovski is an honorable man, and I judge that there is nothing in this against discipline." Miller did not like the Prince of Hesse; but that cool, polite, and also contemptuous manner of speaking, special to men of high rank, imposed on him, as it does on many persons of low birth. Miller made great efforts to acquire this manner, but had no success. He restrained his outburst, however, and said calmly,-- "The monks will be hanged to-morrow." "That is not my affair," answered the Prince of Hesse; "but in that event let your worthiness order an attack on those two thousand Poles who are in our camp, for if you do not they will attack us. Even now it is less dangerous for a Swedish soldier to go among a pack of wolves than among their tents. This is all I have to say, and now I permit myself to wish you success." When he had said this he left the quarters. Miller saw that he had gone too far. But he did not withdraw his orders, and that same day gibbets wore erected in view of the whole cloister. At the same time the soldiers, taking advantage of the truce, pushed still nearer the walls, not ceasing to jeer, insult, blaspheme, and challenge. Whole throngs of them climbed the mountain, stood as closely together as if they intended to make an assault. That time Kmita, whom they had not chained as he had requested, did not in fact restrain himself, and thundered from a cannon into the thickest group, with such effect that he laid down in a row all those who stood in front of the shot. That was like a watchword; for at once, without orders, and even in spite of orders, all the cannons began to play, muskets and guns thundered. The Swedes, exposed to fire from every side, fled from the fortress with howling and screaming, many falling dead on the road. Charnyetski sprang to Kmita: "Do you know that for that the reward is a bullet in the head?" "I know, all one to me. Let me be--" "In that case aim surely," Kmita aimed surely; soon, however, he missed. A great movement rose meanwhile in the Swedish camp, but it was so evident that the Swedes were the first to violate the truce, that Miller himself recognized in his soul that the besieged were in the right. What is more, Kmita did not even suspect that with his shots he had perhaps saved the lives of the fathers; but Miller, because of these shots, became convinced that the monks in the last extremity were really ready to sacrifice their two brethren for the good of the church and the cloister. The shots beat into his head this idea also, that if a hair were to fall from the heads of the envoys, he would not hear from the cloister anything save similar thunders; so next day he invited the two imprisoned monks to dinner, and the day after he sent them to the cloister. Kordetski wept when he saw them, all took them in their arms and were astonished at hearing from their mouths that it was specially owing to those shots that they were saved. The prior, who had been angry at Kmita, called him at once and said,-- "I was angry because I thought that you had destroyed the two fathers; but the Most Holy Lady evidently inspired you. This is a sign of Her favor, be rejoiced." "Dearest, beloved father, there will be no more negotiations, will there?" asked Kmita, kissing Kordetski's hands. But barely had he finished speaking, when a trumpet was heard at the gates, and an envoy from Miller entered the cloister. This was Pan Kuklinovski, colonel of the volunteer squadron attached to the Swedes. The greatest ruffians without honor or faith served in that squadron, in part dissidents such as Lutherans, Arians, Calvinists,--whereby was explained their friendship for Sweden; but a thirst for robbery and plunder attracted them mainly to Miller's army. That band, made up of nobles, outlaws, fugitives from prison and from the hands of a master, of attendants, and of gallows-birds snatched from the rope, was somewhat like Kmita's old party, save in this, that Kmita's men fought as do lions, and those preferred to plunder, offer violence to noble women, break open stables and treasure chests. But Kuklinovski himself had less resemblance to Kmita. Age had mixed gray with his hair. He had a face dried, insolent, and shameless. His eyes, which were unusually prominent and greedy, indicated violence of character. He was one of those soldiers in whom, because of a turbulent life and continuous wars, conscience had been burned out to the bottom. A multitude of such men strolled about in that time, after the Thirty Years' War, through all Germany and Poland. They were ready to serve any man, and more than once a mere simple incident determined the side on which they were to stand. Country and faith, in a word all things sacred, were thoroughly indifferent to them. They recognized nothing but war, and sought in it pleasure, dissipation, profit, and oblivion of life. But still when they had chosen some side they served it loyally enough, and that through a certain soldier-robber honor, so as not to close the career to themselves and to others. Such a man was Kuklinovski. Stern daring and immeasurable stubbornness had won for him consideration among the disorderly. It was easy for him to find men. He had served in various arms and services. He had been ataman in the Saitch; he had led regiments in Wallachia; in Germany he had enlisted volunteers in the Thirty Years' War, and had won a certain fame as a leader of cavalry. His crooked legs, bent in bow fashion, showed that he had spent the greater part of his life on horseback. He was as thin as a splinter, and somewhat bent from profligacy. Much blood, shed not in war only, weighed upon him. And still he was not a man wholly wicked by nature; he felt at times nobler influences. But he was spoiled to the marrow of his bones, and insolent to the last degree. Frequently had he said in intimate company, in drink; "More than one deed was done for which the thunderbolt should have fallen, but it fell not." The effect of this impunity was that he did not believe in the justice of God, and punishment, not only during life, but after death. In other words, he did not believe in God; still, he believed in the devil, in witches, in astrologers, and in alchemy. He wore the Polish dress, for he thought it most fitting for cavalry; but his mustache, still black, he trimmed in Swedish fashion, and spread at the ends turned upward. In speaking he made every word diminutive, like a child; this produced a strange impression when heard from the mouth of such a devil incarnate and such a cruel ruffian, who was ever gulping human blood. He talked much and boastingly; clearly he thought himself a celebrated personage, and one of the first cavalry colonels on earth. Miller, who, though on a broader pattern, belonged himself to a similar class, valued him greatly, and loved specially to seat him at his own table. At that juncture Kuklinovski forced himself on the general as an assistant, guaranteeing that he would with his eloquence bring the priests to their senses at once. Earlier, when, after the arrest of the priests, Pan Zamoyski was preparing to visit Miller's camp and asked for a hostage, Miller sent Kuklinovski; but Zamoyski and the prior would not accept him, as not being of requisite rank. From that moment, touched in his self-love, Kuklinovski conceived a mortal hatred for the defenders of Yasna Gora, and determined to injure them with all his power. Therefore he chose himself as an embassy,--first for the embassy itself, and second so as to survey everything and cast evil seed here and there. Since he was long known to Charnyetski he approached the gate guarded by him; but Charnyetski was sleeping at the time,--Kmita, taking his place, conducted the guest to the council hall. Kuklinovski looked at Pan Andrei with the eye of a specialist, and at once he was pleased not only with the form but the bearing of the young hero, which might serve as a model. "A soldier," said he, raising his hand to his cap, "knows at once a real soldier. I did not think that the priests had such men in their service. What is your rank, I pray?" Id Kmita, who had the zeal of a new convert, the soul revolted at sight of Poles who served Swedes; still, he remembered the recent anger of Kordetski at his disregard of negotiations; therefore he answered coldly, but calmly,-- "I am Babinich, former colonel in the Lithuanian army, but now a volunteer in the service of the Most Holy Lady." "And I am Kuklinovski, also colonel, of whom you must have heard; for during more than one little war men mentioned frequently that name and this sabre [here he struck at his side], not only here in the Commonwealth, but in foreign countries." "With the forehead," said Kmita, "I have heard." "Well, so you are from Lithuania, and in that land are famous soldiers. We know of each other, for the trumpet of fame is to be heard from one end of the world to the other. Do you know there, worthy sir, a certain Kmita?" The question fell so suddenly that Pan Andrei was as if fixed to the spot. "But why do you ask of him?" "Because I love him, though I know him not, for we are alike as two boots of one pair; and I always repeat this, with your permission, 'There are two genuine soldiers in the Commonwealth,--I in the kingdom, and Kmita in Lithuania,'--a pair of dear doves, is not that true? Did you know him personally?" "Would to God that you were killed!" thought Kmita; but, remembering Kuklinovski's character of envoy, he answered aloud: "I did not know him personally. But now come in, for the council is waiting." When he had said this, he indicated the door through which a priest came out to receive the guest. Kuklinovski entered the chamber with him at once, but first he turned to Kmita: "It would please me," said he, "if at my return you and none other were to conduct me out." "I will wait here," answered Kmita. And he was left alone. After a while he began to walk back and forth with quick steps; his whole soul was roused within him, and his heart was filled with blood, black from anger. "Pitch does not stick to a garment like evil fame to a man," muttered he. "This scoundrel, this wretch, this traitor calls me boldly his brother, and thinks he has me as a comrade. See to what I have come! All gallows-birds proclaim me their own, and no decent man calls me to mind without horror. I have done little yet, little! If I could only give a lesson to this rascal! It cannot be but that I shall put my score on him." The council lasted long in the chamber. It had grown dark. Kmita was waiting yet. At last Kuklinovski appeared. Pan Andrei could not see the colonel's face, but he inferred from his quick panting, that the mission had failed, and had been also displeasing, for the envoy had lost desire for talk. They walked on then for some time in silence. Kmita determined meanwhile to get at the truth, and said with feigned sympathy,-- "Surely, you are coming with nothing.--Our priests are stubborn; and, between you and me, they act ill, for we cannot defend ourselves forever." Kuklinovski halted and pulled him by the sleeve. "And do you think that they act ill? You have your senses; these priests will be ground into bran,--I guarantee that! They are unwilling to obey Kuklinovski; they will obey his sword." "You see, it is not a question of the priests with me," said Kmita, "but of this place, which is holy, that is not to be denied, but which the later it is surrendered the more severe must the conditions be. Is what men say true, that through the country tumults are rising, that here and there they are slashing the Swedes, and that the Khan is marching with aid? If that is true, Miller must retreat." "I tell you in confidence, a wish for Swedish broth is rising in the country, and likely in the army as well; that is true. They are talking of the Khan also. But Miller will not retreat; in a couple of days heavy artillery will come. We'll dig these foxes out of their hole, and then what will be will be!--But you have sense." "Here is the gate!" said Kmita; "here I must leave you, unless you wish me to attend you down the slope?" "Attend me, attend me! A couple of days ago you fired after an envoy." "Indeed! What do you mean?" "Maybe unwillingly. But better attend me; I have a few words to say to you." "And I to you." "That is well." They went outside the gate and sank in the darkness. Here Kuklinovski stopped, and taking Kmita again by the sleeve, began to speak,-- "You, Sir Cavalier, seem to me adroit and foreseeing, and besides I feel in you a soldier, blood and bone. What the devil do you stick to priests for, and not to soldiers? Why be a serving lad for priests? There is a better and a pleasanter company with us,--with cups, dice, and women. Do you understand?" Here he pressed Kmita's arm with his fingers. "This house," continued he, pointing with his finger to the fortress, "is on fire, and a fool is he who flees not from a house when 'tis burning. Maybe you fear the name of traitor? Spit on those who would call you that! Come to our company; I, Kuklinovski, propose this. Obey, if you like; if you don't like, obey not--there will be no offence. General Miller will receive you well, I guarantee that; you have touched my heart, and I speak thus from good wishes. Ours is a joyous company, joyous! A soldier's freedom is in this,--to serve whom he likes. Monks are nothing to you! If a bit of virtue hinders you, then cough it out. Remember this also, that honest men serve with us. How many nobles, magnates, hetmans! What can be better? Who takes the part of our little Kazimir? No man save Sapyeha alone, who is bending Radzivill." Kmita grew curious; "Did you say that Sapyeha is bending Radzivill?" "I did. He is troubling him terribly there in Podlyasye, and is besieging him now in Tykotsin. But we do not disturb him." "Why is that?" "Because the King of Sweden wants them to devour one another. Radzivill was never reliable; he was thinking of himself. Besides, he is barely breathing. Whoever lets himself be besieged is in a fix, he is finished." "Will not the Swedes go to succor him?" "Who is to go? The king himself is in Prussia, for there lies the great question. The elector has wriggled out hitherto; he will not wriggle out this time. In Great Poland is war, Wittemberg is needed in Cracow, Douglas has work with the hill-men; so they have left Radzivill to himself. Let Sapyeha devour him. Sapyeha has grown, that is true, but his turn will come also. Our Karl, when he finishes with Prussia, will twist the horns of Sapyeha. Now there is no power against him, for all Lithuania stands at his side." "But Jmud?" "Pontus de la Gardie holds that in his paws, and heavy are the paws, I know him." "How is it that Radzivill has fallen, he whose power was equal to that of kings?" "It is quenching already, quenching--" "Wonderful are the ordinances of God!" "The wheel of war changes. But no more of this. Well, what? Do you make up your mind to my proposition? You'll not be sorry! Come to us. If it is too hurried to-day, think till to-morrow, till the day after, before the heavy artillery comes. These people here trust you evidently, since you pass through the gate as you do now. Or come with letters and go back no more." "You attract others to the Swedish side, for you are an envoy of Sweden," said Kmita; "it does not beseem you to act otherwise, though in your soul who knows what you think? There are those who serve the Swedes, but wish them ill in their hearts." "Word of a cavalier!" answered Kuklinovski, "that I speak sincerely, and not because I am filling the function of an envoy. Outside the gate I am no longer an envoy; and if you wish I will remove the office of envoy of my own will, and speak to you as a private man. Throw that vile fortress to the devil!" "Do you say this as a private man?" "Yes," "And may I give answer to you as to a private man?" "As true as life I propose it myself." "Then listen, Pan Kuklinovski," Here Kmita inclined and looked into the very eyes of the ruffian. "You are a rascal, a traitor, a scoundrel, a crab-monger, an arch-cur! Have you enough, or shall I spit in your eyes yet?" Kuklinovski was astounded to such a degree that for a time there was silence. "What is this? How is this? Do I hear correctly?" "Have you enough, you cur? or do you wish me to spit in your eyes?" Kuklinovski drew his sabre; but Kmita caught him with his iron hand by the wrist, twisted his arm, wrested the sabre from him, then slapped him on the cheek so that the sound went out in the darkness; seized him by the other side, turned him in his hand like a top, and kicking him with all his strength, cried,-- "To a private man, not to an envoy!" Kuklinovski rolled down like a stone thrown from a ballista. Pan Andrei went quietly to the gate. The two men parted on the slope of the eminence; hence it was difficult to see them from the walls. But Kmita found waiting for him at the gate Kordetski, who took him aside at once, and asked,-- "What were you doing so long with Kuklinovski." "I was entering into confidence with him," answered Pan Andrei. "What did he say?" "He said that it was true concerning the Khan." "Praise be to God, who can change the hearts of pagans and make friends out of enemies." "He told me that Great Poland is moving." "Praise be to God!" "That the quarter soldiers are more and more unwilling to remain with the Swedes; that in Podlyasye, the voevoda of Vityebsk, Sapyeha, has beaten the traitor Radzivill, and that he has all honest people with him. As all Lithuania stands by him, except Jmud, which De la Gardie has taken." "Praise be to God! Have you had no other talk with each other?" "Yes; Kuklinovski tried afterward to persuade me to go over to the Swedes." "I expected that," said the prior; "he is a bad man. And what did you answer?" "You see he told me, revered father, as follows: 'I put aside my office of envoy, which without that is finished beyond the gates, and I persuade you as a private man.' And I to make sure asked, 'May I answer as to a private man?' He said, 'Yes'--then--" "What then?" "Then I gave it to him in the snout, and he rolled down hill." "In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost!" "Be not angry, father; I acted very carefully, and that he will not say a word about the matter to any man is certain." The priest was silent for a time, then said; "That you acted honestly, I know. I am only troubled at this, that you have gained a new enemy. He is a terrible man." "One more, one less!" said Kmita. Then he bent to the ear of the priest. "But Prince Boguslav, he at least is an enemy! What is such a Kuklinovski? I don't even look back at him." CHAPTER III. Now the terrible Arwid Wittemberg made himself heard. A famous officer brought his stern letter to the cloister, commanding the fathers to surrender the fortress to Miller. "In the opposite event," wrote Wittemberg, "if you do not abandon resistance, and do not yield to the said general, you may be sure that a punishment awaits you which will serve others as an example. The blame for your suffering lay to yourselves." The fathers after receiving this letter determined in old fashion to procrastinate, and present new difficulties daily. Again days passed during which the thunder of artillery interrupted negotiations, and the contrary. Miller declared that he wished to introduce his garrison only to insure the cloister against bands of freebooters. The fathers answered that since their garrison appeared sufficient against such a powerful leader as the general himself, all the more would it suffice against bands of freebooters. They implored Miller, therefore, by all that was sacred, by the respect which the people had for the place, by God and by Mary, to go to Vyelunie, or wherever it might please him. But the patience of the Swedes was exhausted. That humility of the besieged, who implored for mercy while they were firing more and more quickly from cannons, brought the chief and the army to desperation. At first Miller could not get it into his head why, when the whole country had surrendered, that one place was defending itself; what power was upholding them; in the name of what hopes did these monks refuse to yield, for what were they striving, for what were they hoping? But flowing time brought more clearly the answer to that question. The resistance which had begun there was spreading like a conflagration. In spite of a rather dull brain, the general saw at last what the question with Kordetski was; and besides, Sadovski had explained incontrovertibly that it was not a question of that rocky nest, nor of Yasna Gora, nor of the treasures gathered in the cloister, nor of the safety of the Congregation, but of the fate of the whole Commonwealth. Miller discovered that that silent priest knew what he was doing, that he had knowledge of his mission, that he had risen as a prophet to enlighten the land by example,--to call with a mighty voice to the east and the west, to the north and the south, _Sursum corda!_ (Raise your hearts) in order to rouse, either by his victory or his death and sacrifice, the sleeping from their slumber, to purify the sinful, to bring light into darkness. When he had discovered this, that old warrior was simply terrified at that defender and at his own task. All at once that "hen-house" of Chenstohova seemed to him a giant mountain defended by a Titan, and the general seemed small to himself; and on his own army he looked, for the first time in his life, as on a handful of wretched worms. Was it for them to raise hands against that mysterious and heaven-touching power? Therefore Miller was terrified, and doubt began to steal into his heart. Seeing that the fault would be placed upon him, he began himself to seek the guilty, and his anger fell first on Count Veyhard. Disputes rose in the camp, and dissensions began to inflame hearts against one another; the works of the siege had to suffer therefrom. Miller had been too long accustomed to estimate men and events by the common measure of a soldier, not to console himself still at times with the thought that at last the fortress would surrender. And taking things in human fashion, it could not be otherwise. Besides, Wittemberg was sending him six siege guns of the heaviest calibre, which had shown their force at Cracow. "Devil take it!" thought Miller; "such walls will not stand against guns like these, and if that nest of terrors, of superstitions, of enchantment, winds up in smoke, then things will take another turn, and the whole country will be pacified." While waiting for the heavier guns, he commanded to fire from the smaller. The days of conflict returned. But in vain did balls of fire fall on the roofs, in vain did the best gunners exert superhuman power. As often as the wind blew away the sea of smoke, the cloister appeared untouched, imposing as ever, lofty, with towers piercing calmly the blue of the sky. At the same time things happened which spread superstitious terror among the besiegers. Now balls flew over the whole mountain and struck soldiers on the other side; now a gunner, occupied in aiming a gun, fell on a sudden; now smoke disposed itself in terrible and strange forms; now powder in the boxes exploded all at once, as if fired by some invisible hand. Besides, soldiers were perishing continually who alone, in twos or in threes, went out of the camp. Suspicion fell on the Polish auxiliary squadrons, which, with the exception of Kuklinovski's regiment, refused out and out every cooperation in the siege, and showed daily more menacing looks. Miller threatened Colonel Zbrojek with a court-martial, but he answered in presence of all the officers: "Try it, General." Officers from the Polish squadrons strolled purposely through the Swedish camp, exhibiting contempt and disregard for the soldiers, and raising quarrels with the officers. Thence it came to duels, in which the Swedes, as less trained in fencing, fell victims more frequently. Miller issued a severe order against duels, and finally forbade the Poles entrance to the camp. From this it came that at last both armies were side by side like enemies, merely awaiting an opportunity for battle. But the cloister defended itself ever better. It turned out that the guns sent by Pan Myaskovski were in no wise inferior to those which Miller had, and the gunners through constant practice arrived at such accuracy that each shot threw down an enemy. The Swedes attributed this to enchantment. The gunners answered the officers that with that power which defended the cloister it was no business of theirs to do battle. A certain morning a panic began in the southwestern trench, for the soldiers had seen distinctly a woman in a blue robe shielding the church and the cloister. At sight of this they threw themselves down on their faces. In vain did Miller ride up, in vain did he explain that mist and smoke had disposed themselves in that form, in vain besides was his threat of court-martial and punishment. At the first moment no one would hear him, especially as the general himself was unable to hide his amazement. Soon after this the opinion was spread through the whole army that no one taking part in the siege would die his own death. Many officers shared this belief, and Miller was not free from fears; for he brought in Lutheran ministers and enjoined on them to undo the enchantment. They walked through the camp whispering, and singing psalms; fear, however, had so spread that more than once they heard from the mouths of the soldiers: "Beyond your power, beyond your strength!" In the midst of discharges of cannon a new envoy from Miller entered the cloister, and stood before the face of Kordetski and the council. This was Pan Sladkovski, chamberlain of Rava, whom Swedish parties had seized as he was returning from Prussia. They received him coldly and harshly, though he had an honest face and his look was as mild as the sky; but the monks had grown accustomed to see honest faces on traitors. He was not confused a whit by such a reception; combing briskly his yellow forelock with his fingers, he began:-- "Praised be Jesus Christ!" "For the ages of ages!" answered the Congregation, in a chorus. And Kordetski added at once; "Blessed be those who serve him." "I serve him," answered Sladkovski, "and that I serve him more sincerely than I do Miller will be shown soon. H'm! permit me, worthy and beloved fathers, to cough, for I must first spit out foulness. Miller then--tfu! sent me, my good lords, to you to persuade you--tfu!--to surrender. But I accepted the office so as to say to you: Defend yourselves, think not of surrender, for the Swedes are spinning thin, and the Devil is taking them by the eye." The monks and the laity were astonished at sight of such an envoy. Pan Zamoyski exclaimed at once: "As God is dear to me, this is an honest man!" and springing to him began to shake his hand; but Sladkovski, gathering his forelock into one bunch, said,-- "That I am no knave will be shown straightway. I have become Miller's envoy so as to tell you news so favorable that I could wish, my good lords, to tell it all in one breath. Give thanks to God and His Most Holy Mother who chose you as instruments for changing men's hearts. The country, taught by your example and by your defence, is beginning to throw off the yoke of the Swedes. What's the use in talking? In Great Poland and Mazovia the people are beating the Swedes, destroying smaller parties, blocking roads and passages. In some places they have given the enemy terrible punishment already. The nobles are mounting their horses, the peasants are gathering in crowds, and when they seize a Swede they tear straps out of him. Chips are flying, tow is flying! This is what it has come to. And whose work is this?--yours." "An angel, an angel is speaking!" cried monks and nobles, raising their hands toward heaven. "Not an angel, but Sladkovski, at your service. This is nothing!--Listen on. The Khan, remembering the kindness of the brother of our rightful king, Yan Kazimir, to whom may God give many years! is marching with aid, and has already passed the boundary of the Commonwealth. The Cossacks who were opposed he has cut to pieces, and is moving on with a horde of a hundred thousand toward Lvoff, and Hmelnitski _nolens volens_ is coming with him." "For God's sake, for God's sake!" repeated people, overcome as it were by happiness. But Pan Sladkovski, sweating and waving his hand, with still more vigor cried,-- "That is nothing yet! Pan Stefan Charnyetski, with whom the Swedes violated faith, for they carried captive his infantry under Wolf, feels free of his word and is mounting. Yan Kazimir is collecting troops, and may return any day to the country and the hetmans. Listen further, the hetmans, Pototski and Lantskoronski, and with them all the troops, are waiting only for the coming of the king to desert the Swedes and raise sabres against them. Meanwhile they are coming to an understanding with Sapyeha and the Khan. The Swedes are in terror; there is fire in the whole country, war in the whole country--whosoever is living is going to the field!" What took place in the hearts of the monks and the nobles is difficult of description. Some wept, some fell on their knees, other repeated, "It cannot be, it cannot be!" Hearing this, Sladkovski approached the great crucifix hanging on the wall and said,-- "I place my hands on these feet of Christ pierced with a nail, and swear that I declare the pure and clean truth. I repeat only: Defend yourselves, fail not; trust not the Swedes; think not that by submission and surrender you could insure any safety for yourselves. They keep no promises, no treaties. You who are closed in here know not what is passing in the whole country, what oppression has come, what deeds of violent are done,--murdering of priests, profanation of sanctuaries, contempt of all law. They promise you everything, they observe nothing. The whole kingdom is given up as plunder to a dissolute soldiery. Even those who still adhere to the Swedes are unable to escape injustice. Such is the punishment of God on traitors, on those who break faith with the king. Delay!--I, as you see me here, if only I survive, if I succeed in slipping away from Miller, will move straightway to Silesia, to our king. I will fall at his feet and say: Gracious King, save Chenstohova and your most faithful servants! But, most beloved fathers, stand firm, for the salvation of the whole Commonwealth is depending upon you." Here Sladkovski's voice trembled, tears appeared on his eyelids, but he spoke further. "You will have grievous times yet: siege guns are coming from Cracow, which two hundred infantry are bringing. One is a particularly dreadful cannon. Terrible assaults will follow. But these will be the last efforts. Endure yet these, for salvation is coming already. By these red wounds of God, the king, the hetmans, the army, the whole Commonwealth will come to rescue its Patroness. This is what I tell you: rescue, salvation, glory is right here--not distant." The worthy noble now burst into tears, and sobbing became universal. Ah! still better news was due to that wearied handful of defenders, to that handful of faithful servants, and a sure consolation from the country. The prior rose, approached Sladkovski, and opened wide his arms. Sladkovski rushed into them, and they embraced each other long; others following their example began to fall into one another's arms, embrace, kiss, and congratulate one another as if the Swedes had already retreated. At last the prior said,-- "To the chapel, my brethren, to the chapel!" He went in advance, and after him the others. All the candles were lighted, for it was growing dark outside; and the curtains were drawn aside from the wonder-working image, from which sweet abundant rays were scattered at once round about. Kordetski knelt on the steps, farther away the monks, the nobles, and common people; women with children were present also. Pale and wearied faces and eyes which had wept were raised toward the image; but from behind the tears was shining on each face a smile of happiness. Silence continued for a time; at last Kordetski began,-- "Under thy protection we take refuge, Holy Mother of God--" Further words stopped on his lips, weariness, long suffering, hidden alarms, together with the gladsome hope of rescue, rose in him like a mighty wave; therefore sobbing shook his breast, and that man, who bore on his shoulders the fate of the whole country, bent like a weak child, fell on his face, and with weeping immeasurable had strength only to cry: "O Mary, Mary, Mary!" All wept with him, but the image from above cast brightest rays. It was late at night when the monks and the nobles went each his own way to the walls; but Kordetski remained all night lying in the chapel in the form of a cross. There were fears in the cloister that weariness might overpower him; but next morning he appeared on the bastions, went among the soldiers and the garrison, glad and refreshed, and here and there he repeated,-- "Children, the Most Holy Lady will show again that she is mightier than siege guns, and then will come the end of your sorrows and torments." That morning Yatsek Bjuhanski, an inhabitant of Chenstohova, disguised as a Swede, approached the walls to confirm the news that great guns were coming from Cracow, but also that the Khan with the horde was approaching. He delivered a letter from Father Anton Pashkovski, of the monastery at Cracow, who, describing the terrible cruelty and robbery of the Swedes, incited and implored the fathers of Yasna Gora to put no trust in the promises of the enemy, but to defend the sacred place patiently against the insolence of the godless. "There is no faith in the Swedes," wrote Father Pashkovski, "no religion. Nothing divine or human is sacred and inviolate for them. It is not their custom to respect anything, though guarded by treaties or public declarations." That was the day of the Immaculate Conception. Some tens of officers and soldiers of the allied Polish squadrons besought with most urgent requests Miller's permission to go to the fortress for divine service. Perhaps Miller thought that they would become friendly with the garrison, carry news of the siege guns and spread alarm; perhaps he did not wish by refusing to cast sparks on inflammable elements, which without that made relations between the Poles and the Swedes more and more dangerous: 'tis enough that he gave the permission. With these quarter soldiers went a certain Tartar of the Polish Mohammedan Tartars. He, amid universal astonishment, encouraged the monks not to yield their holy place to vile enemies, considering with certainty that the Swedes would soon go away with shame and defeat. The quarter soldiers repeated the same, confirming completely the news brought by Sladkovski. All this taken together raised the courage of the besieged to such a degree that they had no fear of those gigantic cannons, and the soldiers made sport of them among themselves. After services firing began on both sides. There was a certain Swedish soldier who had come many times to the wall, and with a trumpet-like voice had blasphemed against the Mother of God. Many a time had the besieged fired at him, but always without result. Kmita aimed at him once, but his bow-string broke; the soldier became more and more insolent, and roused others by his daring. It was said that he had seven devils in his service who guarded and shielded him. He came this day again to blaspheme; but the besieged, trusting that on the day of the Immaculate Conception enchantments would have less effect, determined to punish him without fail. They fired a good while in vain; at last a cannon ball, rebounding from an ice wall, and tripping along the snow like a bird, struck him straight in the breast and tore him in two. The defenders comforted themselves with this and cried out: "Who will blaspheme against Her another time?" Meanwhile the revilers had rushed down to the trenches, in panic. The Swedes fired at the walls and the roofs; but the balls brought no terror to the besieged. The old beggarwoman, Konstantsia, who dwelt in a cranny of the cliff, used to go, as if in ridicule of the Swedes, along the whole slope, gathering bullets in her apron, and threatening from time to time the soldiers with her staff. They, thinking her a witch, were afraid she would injure them, especially when they saw that bullets did not touch her. Two whole days passed in vain firing. They hurled on the roof ship ropes very thickly steeped in pitch; these flew like fiery serpents; but the guards, trained in a masterly manner, met the danger in time. A night came with such darkness that, in spite of the fires, tar barrels, and the fireworks of Father Lyassota, the besieged could see nothing. Meanwhile some uncommon movement reigned among the Swedes. The squeak of wheels was heard, men's voices, at times the neighing of horses, and various other kinds of uproar. The soldiers on the walls guessed the cause easily. "The guns have come surely," said some. The officers were deliberating on a sortie which Charnyetski advised; but Zamoyski opposed, insisting, with reason, that at such important works the enemy must have secured themselves sufficiently, and must surely hold infantry in readiness. They resolved merely to fire toward the north and south, whence the greatest noise came. It was impossible to see the result in the darkness. Day broke at last, and its first rays exposed the works of the Swedes. North and south of the fortress were intrenchments, on which some thousands of men were employed. These intrenchments stood so high that to the besieged the summits of them seemed on a line with the walls of the fortress. In the openings at the top were seen great jaws of guns, and the soldiers standing behind them looked at a distance like swarms of yellow wasps. The morning Mass was not over in the church when unusual thunder shook the air; the window-panes rattled; some of them dropped out of the frames from shaking alone, and were broken with a sharp shiver on the stone floor; and the whole church was filled with dust which rose from fallen plaster. The great siege guns had spoken. A terrible fire began, such as the besieged had not experienced. At the end of Mass all rushed out on the walls and roofs. The preceding storms seemed innocent play in comparison with this terrible letting loose of fire and iron. The smaller pieces thundered in support of the siege guns. Great bombs, pieces of cloth steeped in pitch, torches, and fiery ropes were flying. Balls twenty-six pounds in weight tore out battlements, struck the walls of buildings; some settled in them, others made great holes, tearing off plaster and bricks. The walls surrounding the cloister began to shake here and there and lose pieces, and struck incessantly by new balls threatened to fall. The buildings of the cloister were covered with fire. The trumpeters on the tower felt it totter under them. The church quaked from continuous pounding, and candles fell out of the sockets at some of the altars. Water was poured in immense quantities on the fires that had begun, on the blazing torches, on the walls, on the fire balls; and formed, together with the smoke and the dust, rolls of steam so thick that light could not be seen through them. Damage was done to the walls and buildings. The cry, "It is burning, it is burning!" was heard oftener amid the thunder of cannon and the whistle of bullets. At the northern bastion the two wheels of a cannon were broken, and one injured cannon was silent. A ball had fallen into a stable, killed three horses, and set fire to the building. Not only balls, but bits of grenades, were falling as thickly as rain on the roofs, the bastions, and the walls. In a short time the groans of the wounded were heard. By a strange chance three young men fell, all named Yan. This amazed other defenders bearing the same name; but in general the defence was worthy of the storm. Even women, children, and old men came out on the walls. Soldiers stood there with unterrified heart, in smoke and fire, amid a rain of missiles, and answered with determination to the fire of the enemy. Some seized the wheels and rolled the cannon to the most exposed places; others thrust into breaches in the walls stones, beams, dung, and earth. Women with dishevelled hair and inflamed faces gave an example of daring, and some were seen running with buckets of water after bombs which were still springing and ready to burst right there, that moment. Ardor rose every instant, as if that smell of powder, smoke, and steam, that thunder, those streams of fire and iron, had the property of rousing it. All acted without command, for words died amid the awful noise. Only the supplications which were sung in the chapel rose above the voices of cannon. About noon firing ceased. All drew breath; but before the gate a drum was sounded, and the drummer sent by Miller, approaching the gate, inquired if the fathers had had enough, and if they wished to surrender at once. Kordetski answered that they would deliberate over the question till morning. The answer had barely reached Miller when the attack began anew, and the artillery fire was redoubled. From time to time deep ranks of infantry pushed forward under fire toward the mountain, as if wishing to try an assault; but decimated by cannon and muskets, they returned each time quickly and in disorder under their own batteries. As a wave of the sea covers the shore and when it retreats leaves on the sand weeds, mussels, and various fragments broken in the deep, so each one of those Swedish waves when it sank back left behind bodies thrown here and there on the slope. Miller did not give orders to fire at the bastions, but at the wall between them, where resistance was least. Indeed, here and there considerable rents were made, but not large enough for the infantry to rush through. Suddenly a certain event checked the storm. It was well toward evening when a Swedish gunner about to apply a lighted match to one of the largest guns was struck in the very breast by a ball from the cloister. The ball came not with the first force, but after a third bound from the ice piled up at the intrenchment; it merely hurled the gunner a number of yards. He fell on an open box partly filled with powder. A terrible explosion was heard that instant, and masses of smoke covered the trench. When the smoke fell away it appeared that five gunners had lost their lives; the wheels of the cannon were injured, and terror seized the soldiers. It was necessary to cease fire for the time from that intrenchment, since a heavy fog had filled the darkness; they also stopped firing in other places. The next day was Sunday. Lutheran ministers held services in the trenches, and the guns were silent. Miller again inquired if the fathers had had enough. They answered that they could endure more. Meanwhile the damage in the cloister was examined and found to be considerable. People were killed and the wall was shaken here and there. The most formidable gun was a gigantic culverin standing on the north. It had broken the wall to such a degree, torn out so many stones and bricks, that the besieged could foresee that should the fire continue two days longer a considerable part of the wall would give away. A breach such as the culverin would make could not be filled with beams or earth. The prior foresaw with an eye full of sorrow the ruin which he could not prevent. Monday the attack was begun anew, and the gigantic gun widened the breach. Various mishaps met the Swedes, however. About dusk that day a Swedish gunner killed on the spot Miller's sister's son, whom the general loved as though he had been his own, and intended to leave him all that he had,--beginning with his name and military reputation and ending with his fortune. But the heart of the old warrior blazed up with hatred all the more from this loss. The wall at the northern bastion was so broken that preparations were made in the night for a hand-to-hand assault. That the infantry might approach the fortress with less danger, Miller commanded to throw up in the darkness a whole series of small redoubts, reaching the very slope. But the night was clear, and white light from the snow betrayed the movements of the enemy. The cannons of Yasna Gora scattered the men occupied in making those parapets formed of fascines, fences, baskets, and timbers. At daybreak Charnyetski saw a siege machine which they had already rolled toward the walls. But the besieged broke it with cannon fire without difficulty; so many men were killed on that occasion that the day might have been called a day of victory for the besieged, had it not been for that great gun which shook the wall incessantly with irrestrainable power. A thaw came on the following days, and such dense mists settled down that the fathers attributed them to the action of evil spirits. It was impossible to see either the machines of war, the erection of parapets, or the work of the siege. The Swedes came near the very walls of the cloister. In the evening Charnyetski, when the prior was making his usual round of the walls, took him by the side and said in a low voice,-- "Bad, revered father! Our wall will not hold out beyond a day." "Perhaps these fogs will prevent them from firing," answered Kordetski; "and we meanwhile will repair the rents somehow." "The fogs will not prevent the Swedes, for that gun once aimed may continue even in darkness the work of destruction; but here the ruins are falling and falling." "In God and in the Most Holy Lady is our hope." "True! But if we make a sortie? Even were we to lose men, if they could only spike that dragon of hell." Just then some form looked dark in the fog, and Babinich appeared near the speakers. "I saw that some one was speaking; but faces cannot be distinguished three yards away," said he. "Good evening, revered father! But of what is the conversation?" "We are talking of that gun. Pan Charnyetski advises a sortie. These fogs are spread by Satan; I have commanded an exorcism." "Dear father," said Pan Andrei, "since that gun has begun to shake the wall, I am thinking of it, and something keeps coming to my head. A sortie is of no use. But let us go to some room; there I will tell you my plans." "Well," said the prior, "come to my cell." Soon after they were sitting at a pine table in Kordetski's modest cell. Charnyetski and the priest were looking carefully into the youthful face of Babinich, who said,-- "A sortie is of no use in this case. They will see it and repulse it. Here one man must do the work." "How is that?" asked Charnyetski. "One man must go and burst that cannon with powder; and he can do it during such fogs. It is best that he go in disguise. There are jackets here like those worn by the enemy. As it will not be possible to do otherwise, he will slip in among the Swedes; but if at this side of the trench from which the gun is projecting there are no soldiers, that will be better still." "For God's sake! what will the man do?" "It is only necessary to put a box of powder into the mouth of the gun, with a hanging fuse and a thread to be ignited. When the powder explodes, the gun--devil I wanted to say--will burst." "Oh, my son! what do you say? Is it little powder that they thrust into it every day, and it does not burst?" Kmita laughed, and kissed the priest on the sleeve of his habit. "Beloved father, there is a great heart in you, heroic and holy--" "Give peace now!" answered the prior. "And holy," repeated Kmita; "but you do not understand cannon. It is one thing when powder bursts in the butt of the cannon, for then it casts forth the ball and the force flies out forward, but another if you stop the mouth of a gun with powder and ignite it,--no cannon can stand such a trial. Ask Pan Charnyetski. The same thing will take place if you fill the mouth of a cannon with snow and fire it; the piece will burst. Such is the villanous power of powder. What will it be when a whole box of it explodes at the mouth? Ask Pan Charnyetski." "That is true. These are no secrets for soldiers," answered Charnyetski. "You see if this gun is burst," continued Kmita, "all the rest are a joke." "This seems impossible to me," said Kordetski; "for, first, who will undertake to do it?" "A certain poor fellow," said Kmita; "but he is resolute, his name is Babinich." "You!" cried the priest and Charnyetski together. "Ai, father, benefactor! I was with you at confession, and acknowledged all my deeds in sincerity; among them were deeds not worse than the one I am now planning; how can you doubt that I will undertake it? Do you not know me?" "He is a hero, a knight above knights," cried Charnyetski. And seizing Kmita by the neck, he continued: "Let me kiss you for the wish alone; give me your mouth." "Show me another remedy, and I will not go," said Kmita; "but it seems to me that I shall manage this matter somehow. Remember that I speak German as if I had been dealing in staves, wainscots, and wall plank in Dantzig. That means much, for if I am disguised they will not easily discover that I am not of their camp. But I think that no one is standing before the mouth of the cannon; for it is not safe there, and I think that I shall do the work before they can see me." "Pan Charnyetski, what do you think of this?" asked the prior, quickly. "Out of one hundred men one might return from such an undertaking; but _audaces fortuna juvat_ [fortune favors the bold]." "I have been in hotter places than this," said Kmita: "nothing will happen to me, for such is my fortune. Ai, beloved father, and what a difference! Ere now to exhibit myself, and for vainglory, I crawled into danger; but this undertaking is for the Most Holy Lady. Even should I have to lay down my head, which I do not foresee, say yourself could a more praiseworthy death be wished to any man than down there in this cause?" The priest was long silent, and then said at last,-- "I should try to restrain you with persuasion, with prayers and imploring, if you wished to go for mere glory; but you are right: this is a question affecting the honor of the Most Holy Lady, this sacred place, the whole country! And you, my son, whether you return safely or win the palm of glory, you will gain the supreme happiness,--salvation. Against my heart then I say, Go; I do not detain you. Our prayers, the protection of God, will go with you." "In such company I shall go boldly and perish with joy." "But return, soldier of God, return safely; for you are loved with sincerity here. May Saint Raphael attend you and bring you back, cherished son, my dear child!" "Then I will begin preparations at once," said Pan Andrei, joyfully pressing the priest. "I will dress in Swedish fashion with a jacket and wide-legged boots. I will fill in the powder, and do you, father, stop the exorcisms for this night; fog is needful to the Swedes, but also to me." "And do you not wish to confess before starting?" "Of course, without that I should not go; for the devil would have approach to me." "Then begin with confession." Charnyetski went out of the cell, and Kmita knell down near the priest and purged himself of his sins. Then, gladsome as a bird, he began to make preparations. An hour or two later, in the deep night, he knocked again at the prior's cell, where Pan Charnyetski also was waiting. The two scarcely knew Pan Andrei, so good a Swede had he made himself. He had twirled his mustaches to his eyes and brushed them out at the ends; he had put his hat on one side of his head, and looked precisely like some cavalry officer of noted family. "As God lives, one would draw a sabre at sight of him," said Charnyetski. "Put the light at a distance," said Kmita; "I will show you something." When Father Kordetski had put the light aside quickly, Pan Andrei placed on a table a roll, a foot and a half long and as thick as the arm of a sturdy man, sewn up in pitched linen and filled firmly with powder. From one end of it was hanging a long string made of tow steeped in sulphur. "Well," said he, "when I put this flea-bane in the mouth of the cannon and ignite the string, then its belly will burst." "Lucifer would burst!" cried Pan Charnyetski. But he remembered that it was better not to mention the name of the foul one, and he slapped his own mouth. "But how will you set fire to the string?" asked Kordetski. "In that lies the whole danger, for I must strike fire. I have good flint, dry tinder, and steel of the best; but there will be a noise, and they may notice something. The string I hope will not quench, for it will hang at the beard of the gun, and it will be hard to see it, especially as it will hide itself quickly in burning; but they may pursue me, and I cannot flee straight toward the cloister." "Why not?" asked the priest. "For the explosion would kill me. The moment I see the spark on the string I must jump aside with all the strength in my legs, and when I have run about fifty yards, must fall to the ground under the intrenchment. After the explosion I shall rush toward the cloister." "My God, my God, how many dangers!" said the prior, raising his eyes to heaven. "Beloved father, so sure am I of returning that even emotion does not touch me, which on an occasion like this ought to seize me. This is nothing! Farewell, and pray the Lord God to give me luck. Only conduct me to the gate." "How is that? Do you want to go now?" asked Charnyetski. "Am I to wait till daylight, or till the fog rises? Is not my head dear to me?" But Pan Andrei did not go that night, for just as they came to the gate, darkness, as if out of spite, began to grow light. Some movement too was heard around the great siege gun. Next morning the besieged were convinced that the gun was transferred to another place. The Swedes had received apparently some report of a great weakness in the wall a little beyond the bend near the southern bastion, and they determined to direct missiles to that spot. Maybe too the prior was not a stranger to the affair, for the day before they had seen old Kostuha (Konstantsia) going out of the cloister. She was employed chiefly when there was need of giving false reports to the Swedes. Be that as it may, it was a mistake on their part; for the besieged could now repair in the old place the wall so greatly shaken, and to make a new breach a number of days would be needed. The nights were clear in succession, the days full of uproar. The Swedes fired with terrible energy. The spirit of doubt began again to fly over the fortress. Among the besieged were nobles who wished to surrender; some of the monks too had lost heart. The opposition gained strength and importance. The prior made head against it with unrestrained energy, but his health began to give way. Meanwhile came reinforcements to the Swedes and supplies from Cracow, especially terrible explosive missiles in the form of iron cylinders filled with powder and lead. These caused more terror than damage to the besieged. Kmita, from the time that he had conceived the plan of bursting the siege gun, secreted himself in the fortress. He looked every day at the roll, with heart-sickness. On reflection he made it still larger, so that it was almost an ell long and as thick as a boot-leg. In the evening he cast greedy looks toward the gun, then examined the sky like an astrologer. But the bright moon, shining on the snow continually, baffled his plan. All at once a thaw came; clouds covered the horizon, and the night was dark,--so dark that even strain your eyes you could see nothing. Pan Andrei fell into such humor as if some one had given him the steed of the Sultan; and midnight had barely sounded when he stood before Charnyetski in his cavalry dress, the roll under his arm. "I am going!" said he. "Wait, I will speak to the prior." "That is well. Kiss me. Pan Pyotr, and go for the prior." Charnyetski kissed him with feeling, and turned away. He had hardly gone thirty steps when Kordetski stood before him in white. He had guessed that Kmita was going, and had come there to bless him. "Babinich is ready; he is only waiting for your reverence." "I hurry, I hurry!" answered the priest. "O Mother of God, save him and aid him!" After a while both were standing at the opening where Charnyetski left Kmita, but there was no trace of him. "He has gone!" said the prior, in amazement. "He has gone!" repeated Charnyetski. "But, the traitor!" said the prior, with emotion, "I intended to put this little scapular on his neck." Both ceased to speak; there was silence around, and as the darkness was dense there was firing from neither side. On a sudden Charnyetski whispered eagerly,-- "As God is dear to me, he is not even trying to go in silence! Do you hear steps crushing the snow?" "Most Holy Lady, guard thy servant!" said the prior. Both listened carefully for a time, till the brisk steps and the noise on the snow had ceased. "Do you know, your reverence, at moments I think that he will succeed, and I fear nothing for him. The strange man went as if he were going to an inn to drink a glass of liquor. What courage he has in him! Either he will lay down his head untimely, or he will be hetman. H'm! if I did not know him as a servant of Mary, I should think that he has--God give him success, God grant it to him! for such another cavalier there is not in the Commonwealth." "It is so dark, so dark!" said Kordetski; "but they are on their guard since the night of your sortie. He might come upon a whole rank before he could see it." "I do not think so. The infantry are watching, that I know, and watch carefully; but they are in the intrenchment, not before the muzzles of their own cannon. If they do not hear the steps, he can easily push under the intrenchment, and then the height of it alone will cover him--Uf!" Here Charnyetski puffed and ceased speaking; for his heart began to beat like a hammer from expectation and alarm, and breath failed him. Kordetski made the sign of the cross in the darkness. A third person stood near the two. This was Zamoyski. "What is the matter?" asked he. "Babinich has gone to blow up the siege gun." "How is that? What is that?" "He took a roll of powder, cord, and flint, and went." Zamoyski pressed his head between his hands. "Jesus, Mary! Jesus, Mary! All alone?" "All alone." "Who let him go? That's an impossible deed!" "I. For the might of God all things are possible, even his safe return," said Kordetski. Zamoyski was silent. Charnyetski began to pant from emotion. "Let us pray," said the prior. The three knelt down and began to pray. But anxiety raised the hair on the heads of both knights. A quarter of an hour passed, half an hour, an hour as long as a lifetime. "There will be nothing now!" said Charnyetski, sighing deeply. All at once in the distance a gigantic column of flame burst forth, and a roar as if all the thunders of heaven had been hurled to the earth; it shook the walls, the church, and the cloister. "He has burst it, he has burst it!" shouted Charnyetski. New explosions interrupted further speech of his. Kordetski threw himself on his knees, and raising his hands, cried to heaven, "Most Holy Mother, Guardian, Patroness, bring him back safely!" A noise was made on the walls. The garrison, not knowing what had happened, seized their arms. The monks rushed from their cells. No one was sleeping. Even women sprang forth. Questions and answers crossed one another like lightnings. "What has happened?" "An assault!" "The Swedish gun has burst!" cried one of the cannoneers. "A miracle, a miracle!" "The largest gun is burst!" "That great one!" "Where is the prior?" "On the wall. He is praying; he did this." "Babinich burst the gun!" cried Charnyetski. "Babinich, Babinich! Praise to the Most Holy Lady! They will harm us no longer." At the same time sounds of confusion rose from the Swedish camp. In all the trenches fires began to shine. An increasing uproar was heard. By the light of the fires masses of soldiers were seen moving in various directions without order, trumpets sounded, drums rolled continually; to the walls came shouts in which alarm and amazement were heard. Kordetski continued kneeling on the wall. At last the night began to grow pale, but Babinich came not to the fortress. CHAPTER IV. What had happened to Pan Andrei, and in what way had he been able to carry out his plan? After leaving the fortress he advanced some time with a sure and wary step. At the very end of the slope he halted and listened. It was silent around,--so silent in fact that his steps were heard clearly on the snow. In proportion as he receded from the walls, he stepped more carefully. He halted again, and again listened. He was somewhat afraid of slipping and falling, and thus dampening his precious roll; he drew out his rapier therefore and leaned on it. That helped him greatly. Thus feeling his way, after the course of half an hour he heard a slight sound directly in front. "Ah! they are watching. The sortie has taught them wariness," thought he. And he went farther now very slowly. He was glad that he had not gone astray, for the darkness was such that he could not see the end of the rapier. "Those trenches are considerably farther: I am advancing well then!" whispered he to himself. He hoped also not to find men before the intrenchment; for, properly speaking, they had nothing to do there, especially at night. It might be that at something like a hundred or fewer yards apart single sentries were stationed; but he hoped to pass them in such darkness. It was joyous in his soul. Kmita was not only daring but audacious. The thought of bursting the gigantic gun delighted him to the bottom of his soul,--not only as heroism, not only as an immortal service to the besieged, but as a terrible damage to the Swedes. He imagined how Miller would be astounded, how he would gnash his teeth, how he would gaze in helplessness on those walls; and at moments pure laughter seized him. And as he had himself said, he felt no emotion, no fear, no unquiet. It did not even enter his head to what an awful danger he was exposing himself. He went on as a school-boy goes to an orchard to make havoc among apples. He recalled other times when he harried Hovanski, stole up at night to a camp of thirty thousand with two hundred such fighters as himself. His comrades stood before his mind: Kokosinski, the gigantic Kulvyets-Hippocentaurus, the spotted Ranitski, of senatorial stock, and others; then for a moment he sighed after them. "If they were here now," thought he, "we might blow up six guns." Then the feeling of loneliness oppressed him somewhat, but only for a short while; soon memory brought before his eyes Olenka. Love spoke in him with immeasurable power. He was moved to tenderness. If she could see him, the heart would rejoice in her this time. Perhaps she thinks yet that he is serving the Swedes. He is serving them nicely! And soon he will oblige them! What will happen when she learns of all these perils? What will she think? She will think surely, "He is a whirlwind, but when it comes to a deed which no other can do, he will do it; where another dares not go, he will go. Such a man is that Kmita!" "Another such deed I shall never accomplish," said Pan Andrei; and boastfulness seized him completely. Still, in spite of these thoughts he did not forget where he was, whither he was going, what he intended to do; and he began to advance like a wolf on a night pasture. He looked behind once and a second time. No church, no cloister! All was covered with thick, impenetrable gloom. He noted, however, by the time, that he must have advanced far already, and that the trench might be right there. "I am curious to know if there are sentries," thought he. But he had not advanced two steps after giving himself this question, when, in front of him, was heard the tramp of measured steps and a number of voices inquired at various distances,-- "Who goes?" Pan Andrei stood as if fixed to the earth. He felt hot. "Ours," answered a number of voices. "The watchword!" "Upsala." "The counter-sign!" "The crown." Kmita saw at this moment that there was a change of sentries. "I'll give you Upsala and a crown!" And he rejoiced. This was really for him a very favorable circumstance, for he might pass the line of guards at the moment of changing sentries, when the tramp of the soldiers drowned his own steps. In fact, he did so without the least difficulty, and went after the returning soldiers rather boldly up to the trench itself. There they made a turn to go around it; but he pushed quickly into the ditch and hid in it. Meanwhile objects had become somewhat more visible; Pan Andrei thanked Heaven, for in the previous darkness he could not by feeling have found the gun sought for. Now, by throwing back his head and straining his vision, he saw above him a black line, indicating the edge of the trench, and also the black outlines of the baskets between which stood the guns. He could indeed see their jaws thrust out a little above the trench. Advancing slowly in the ditch, he discovered the great gun at last. He halted and began to listen. From the intrenchment a noise came,--a murmur; evidently the infantry were near the guns, in readiness. But the height of the intrenchment concealed Kmita; they might hear him, they could not see him. Now he had only to rise from below to the mouth of the gun, which was high above his head. Fortunately the sides of the ditch were not too steep; and besides the embankment freshly made, or moist with water, had not frozen, since for some time there had been a thaw. Taking note of all this, Kmita began to sink holes quietly in the slope of the intrenchment and to climb slowly to the gun. After fifteen minutes' work he was able to seize the opening of the culverin. Soon he was hanging in the air, but his uncommon strength permitted him to hold himself thus till he pushed the roll into the jaws of the cannon. "Here's dog sausage for thee!" muttered he, "only don't choke with it!" Then he slipped down and began to look for the string, which, fastened to the inner side of the roll, was hanging to the ditch. After a while he felt it with his hand. But then came the greatest difficulty, for he had to strike fire and ignite the string. Kmita waited for a moment, thinking that the noise would increase somewhat among the soldiers in the breastworks. At last he began to strike the flint lightly with the steel. But that moment above his head was heard in German the question,-- "Who is there in the ditch?" "It is I, Hans!" answered Kmita, without hesitation; "the devils have taken my ramrod into the ditch, and I am striking fire to find it." "All right, all right," said the gunner. "It is your luck there is no firing, for the wind would have taken your head off." "Ah!" thought Kmita, "the gun besides my charge has still its own,--so much the better." At that moment the sulphur-string caught, and delicate little sparks began to run upward along its dry exterior. It was time to disappear. Kmita hurried along the ditch with all the strength in his legs, not losing an instant, not thinking overmuch of the noise he was making. But when he had run twenty yards, curiosity overcame in him the feeling of his terrible danger. "The string has gone out, there is moisture in the air!" thought he; and he stopped. Casting a look behind, he saw a little spark yet, but much higher than he had left it. "Eh, am I not too near?" thought he; and fear hurried him forward. He pushed on at full speed; all at once he struck a stone and fell. At that moment a terrible roar rent the air; the earth trembled, pieces of wood, iron, stones, lumps of ice and earth, whistled about his ears, and here his sensations ended. After that were heard new explosions in turn. These were powder-boxes standing near the cannon which exploded from the shock. But Kmita did not hear these; he lay as if dead in the ditch. He did not hear also how, after a time of deep silence, the groans of men were heard, cries and shouts for help; how nearly half the army, Swedish and allied, assembled. The confusion and uproar lasted long, till from the chaos of testimony the Swedish general reached the fact that the siege-gun had been blown up of purpose by some one. Search was ordered immediately. In the morning the searching soldiers found Kmita lying in the ditch. It appeared that he was merely stunned from the explosion. He had lost, to begin with, control of his hands and feet. His powerlessness lasted the whole ensuing day. They nursed him with the utmost care. In the evening he had recovered his power almost completely. He was brought then by command before Miller, who occupied the middle place at the table in his quarters; around him sat the Prince of Hesse, Count Veyhard, Sadovski, all the noted officers of the Swedes, of the Poles, Zbrojek, Kalinski, and Kuklinovski. The last at sight of Kmita became blue, his eyes burned like two coals, and his mustaches began to quiver. Without awaiting the question of the general, he said,-- "I know this bird. He is from the Chenstohova garrison. His name is Babinich." Kmita was silent; pallor and weariness were evident on his face, but his glance was bold and his countenance calm. "Did you blow up the siege-gun?" asked Miller. "I did." "How did you do it?" Kmita stated all briefly, concealed nothing. The officers looked at one another in amazement. "A hero!" whispered the Prince of Hesse to Sadovski. But Sadovski inclined to Count Veyhard. "Count Veyhard," asked he, "how are we to take a fortress with such defenders? What do you think, will they surrender?" "There are more of us in the fortress ready for such deeds," said Kmita. "You know not the day nor the hour." "I too have more than one halter in the camp," said Miller. "We know that. But you will not take Yasna Gora while there is one man alive there." A moment of silence followed. Then Miller inquired,-- "Is your name Babinich?" Pan Andrei thought that after what he had done, and in presence of death, the time had come in which he had no need to conceal his name. Let people forget the faults and transgressions bound up with it; let glory and devotion shine over them. "My name is not Babinich," said he, with a certain pride, "my name is Andrei Kmita; I was colonel of my own personal squadron in the Lithuanian contingent." Hardly had Kuklinovski heard this when he sprang up as if possessed, stuck out his eyes, opened his mouth, and began to strike his sides with his hands. At last he cried,-- "General, I beg for a word without delay, without delay." A murmur rose at the same time among the Polish officers, which the Swedes heard with wonder, since for them the name Kmita meant nothing. They noted at once that this must be no common soldier, for Zbrojek rose, and approaching the prisoner said,-- "Worthy colonel, in the straits in which you are I cannot help you; but give me your hand, I pray." Kmita raised his head and began to snort. "I will not give a hand to traitors who serve against their country!" Zbrojek's face flushed. Kalinski, who stood right behind him, withdrew. The Swedish officers surrounded them at once, asking what man this Kmita was whose name had made such an impression. During this time Kuklinovski had squeezed Miller up to the window, and said,-- "For your worthiness the name Kmita is nothing; but he is the first soldier, the first colonel, in the whole Commonwealth. All know of him, all know that name; once he served Radzivill and the Swedes; now it is clear that he has gone over to Yan Kazimir. There is not his equal among soldiers, save me. He was the only man who could go alone and blow up that gun. From this one deed you may know him. He fought Hovanski, so that a reward was put on his head. He with two or three hundred men kept up the whole war after the defeat at Shklov, until others were found who, imitating him, began to tear at the enemy. He is the most dangerous man in all the country--" "Why do you sing his praises to me?" inquired Miller. "That he is dangerous I know to my own irreparable loss." "What does your worthiness think of doing with him?" "I should give orders to hang him; but being a soldier myself, I know how to value daring and bravery. Besides, he is a noble of high birth,--I will order him shot, and that to-day." "Your worthiness, it is not for me to instruct the most celebrated soldier and statesman of modern times; but I permit myself to say that that man is too famous. If you shoot him, Zbrojek's squadron and Kalinski's will withdraw at the latest this very day, and go over to Yan Kazimir." "If that is true, I'll have them cut to pieces before they go!" cried Miller. "Your worthiness, a terrible responsibility! for if that becomes known,--and the cutting down of two squadrons is hard to hide,--the whole Polish army will leave Karl Gustav; at present their loyalty is tottering, as you know. The hetmans are not reliable. Pan Konyetspolski with six thousand of the best cavalry is at the side of our king. That force is no trifle. God defend us if these too should turn against us, against the person of his Royal Grace! Besides, this fortress defends itself; and to cut down the squadrons of Zbrojek and Kalinski is no easy matter, for Wolf is here too with his infantry. They might come to an agreement with the garrison of the fortress." "A hundred horned devils!" cried Miller; "what do you want, Kuklinovski? do you want me to give Kmita his life? That cannot be." "I want," answered Kuklinovski, "you to give him to me." "What will you do with him?" "Ah, I--will tear him alive from his skin." "You did not know even his real name, you do not know him. What have you against him?" "I made his acquaintance first in the fortress, where I have been twice as an envoy to the monks." "Have you reasons for vengeance?" "Your worthiness, I wished privately to bring him to our camp. He, taking advantage of the fact that I laid aside my office of envoy, insulted me, Kuklinovski, as no man in life has insulted me." "What did he do to you?" Kuklinovski trembled and gnashed his teeth. "Better not speak of it. Only give him to me. He is doomed to death anyhow, and I would like before his end to have a little amusement with him,--all the more because he is the Kmita whom formerly I venerated, and who repaid me in such fashion. Give him to me; it will be better for you. If I rub him out, Zbrojek and Kalinski and with them all the Polish knighthood will fall not upon you, but upon me, and I'll help myself. There will not be anger, wry faces, and mutiny. It will be my private matter about Kmita's skin, of which I shall have a drum made." Miller fell to thinking; a sudden suspicion flashed over his face. "Kuklinovski," said he, "maybe you wish to save him?" Kuklinovski smiled quietly, but that smile was so terrible and sincere that Miller ceased to doubt. "Perhaps you give sound advice," said he. "For all my services I beg this reward only." "Take him, then." Now both returned to the room where the rest of the officers were assembled. Miller turned to them and said,-- "In view of the services of Pan Kuklinovski I place at his absolute disposal this prisoner." A moment of silence followed; then Pan Zbrojek put his hands on his sides, and asked with a certain accent of contempt,-- "And what does Pan Kuklinovski think to do with the prisoner?" Kuklinovski bent, straightened himself quickly, his lips opened with an ill-omened smile, and his eyes began to quiver. "Whoso is not pleased with what I do to the prisoner, knows where to find me." And he shook his sabre. "Your promise, Pan Kuklinovski," said Zbrojek. "Promise, promise!" When he had said this he approached Kmita. "Follow me, little worm; come after me, famous soldier. Thou'rt a trifle weak; thou needst swathing,--I'll swathe thee." "Ruffian!" said Kmita. "Very good, very good, daring soul! Meanwhile step along." The officers remained in the room; Kuklinovski mounted his horse before the quarters. Having with him three soldiers, he commanded one of them to lead Kmita by a lariat; and all went together toward Lgota, where Kuklinovski's regiment was quartered. On the way Kmita prayed ardently. He saw that death was approaching, and he committed himself with his whole soul to God. He was so sunk in prayer and in his own doom that he did not hear what Kuklinovski said to him; he did not know even how long the road was. They stopped at last before an empty, half-ruined barn, standing in the open field, at some distance from the quarters of Kuklinovski's regiment. The colonel ordered them to lead Kmita in, and turning himself to one of the soldiers, said,-- "Hurry for me to the camp, bring ropes and a tar bucket!" The soldier galloped with all the breath in his horse, and in quarter of an hour returned at the same pace, with a comrade. They had brought the requisite articles. "Strip this spark naked!" ordered Kuklinovski; "tie his hands and feet behind him with a rope, and then fasten him to a beam." "Ruffian!" said Kmita. "Good, good! we can talk yet, we have time!" Meanwhile one of the soldiers climbed up on the beam, and the others fell to dragging the clothes from Kmita. When he was naked the three executioners placed Pan Andrei with his face to the ground, bound his hands and feet with a long rope, then passing it still around his waist they threw the other end to the soldier sitting on the beam. "Now raise him, and let the man on the beam pull the rope and tie it!" said Kuklinovski. In a moment the order was obeyed. "Let him go!" The rope squeaked. Pan Andrei was hanging parallel with the earth, a few ells above the threshing-floor. Then Kuklinovski dipped tow in the burning tar-bucket, walked up to him, and said,-- "Well, Pan Kmita, did not I say that there are two colonels in the Commonwealth?--only two, I and thou! And thou didst not wish to join company with Kuklinovski, and kicked him! Well, little worm, thou art right! Not for thee is the company of Kuklinovski, for Kuklinovski is better. Hei! a famous colonel is Pan Kmita, and Kuklinovski has him in his hand, and Kuklinovski is roasting his sides!" "Ruffian!" repeated Kmita, for the third time. "This is how he will roast his sides!" finished Kuklinovski, and he touched Kmita's side with the burning tow; then he said,-- "Not too much at first; we have time." Just then the tramp of horses was heard near the barn-door. "Whom are the devils bringing?" asked Kuklinovski. The door squeaked and a soldier entered. "General Miller wishes to see your grace at once!" "Ah! that is thou, old man?" asked Kuklinovski. "What business? What devil?" "The general asks your grace to come to him straightway." "Who came from the general?" "There was a Swedish officer; he has ridden off already. He had almost driven the breath out of his horse." "I'll go," said Kuklinovski. Then he turned to Kmita: "It was hot for thee; cool off now, little worm. I'll come again soon, we'll have another talk." "What shall be done with the prisoner?" asked one of the soldiers. "Leave him as he is. I shall return directly. Let one go with me." The colonel went out, and with him that soldier who had sat on the beam at first. There remained only three, but soon three new ones entered the barn. "You may go to sleep," said he who had reported Miller's order to Kuklinovski, "the colonel has left the guard to us." "We prefer to remain," replied one of the first three soldiers, "to see the wonder; for such a--" Suddenly he stopped. A certain unearthly sound was wrested from his throat like the call of a strangled cock. He threw out his arms and fell as if struck by lightning. At the same moment the cry of "Pound" was heard through the barn, and two of the newly arrived rushed like leopards on the two remaining soldiers. A terrible, short struggle surged up, lighted by the gleams of the burning tar-bucket. After a moment two bodies fell in the straw, for a moment longer were heard the gasps of the dying, then that voice rose which at first seemed familiar to Kmita. "Your grace, it is I, Kyemlich, and my sons. We have been waiting since morning for a chance, we have been watching since morning." Then he turned to his sons: "Now out, rogues, free the colonel in a breath,--quickly!" And before Kmita was able to understand what was taking place there appeared near him the two bushy forelocks of Kosma and Damian, like two gigantic distaffs. The ropes were soon cut, and Kmita stood on his feet. He tottered at first; his stiffened lips were barely able to say,-- "That is you?--I am thankful." "It is I!" answered the terrible old man. "Mother of God! Oh--let his grace dress quickly. You rogues--" And he began to give Kmita his clothes. "The horses are standing at the door," said he. "From here the way is open. There are guards; maybe they would let no one in, but as to letting out, they will let out. We know the password. How does your grace feel?" "He burned my side, but only a little. My feet are weak--" "Drink some gorailka." Kmita seized with eagerness the flask the old man gave him, and emptying half of it said,-- "I was stiff from the cold. I shall be better at once." "Your grace will grow warm on the saddle. The horses are waiting." "In a moment I shall be better," repeated Kmita. "My side is smarting a little--that's nothing!--I am quite well." And he sat on the edge of a grain-bin. After a while he recovered his strength really, and looked with perfect presence of mind on the ill-omened faces of the three Kyemliches, lighted by the yellowish flame of the burning pitch. The old man stood before him. "Your grace, there is need of haste. The horses are waiting." But in Pan Andrei the Kmita of old times was roused altogether. "Oh, impossible!" cried he, suddenly; "now I am waiting for that traitor." The Kyemliches looked amazed, but uttered not a word,--so accustomed were they from former times to listen blindly to this leader. The veins came out on his forehead; his eyes were burning in the dark, like two stars, such was the hate and the desire of vengeance that gleamed in them. That which he did then was madness, he might pay for it with his life; but his life was made up of a series of such madnesses. His side pained him fiercely, so that every moment he seized it unwittingly with his hand; but he was thinking only of Kuklinovski, and he was ready to wait for him even till morning. "Listen!" said he; "did Miller really call him?" "No," answered the old man. "I invented that to manage the others here more easily. It would have been hard for us three against five, for some one might have raised a cry." "That was well. He will return alone or in company. If there are any people with him, then strike at once on them. Leave him to me. Then to horse! Has any one pistols?" "I have," said Kosma. "Give them here! Are they loaded, is there powder in the pan?" "Yes." "Very well. If he comes back alone, when he enters spring on him and shut his mouth. You can stuff his own cap into it." "According to command," said the old man. "Your grace permits us now to search these? We are poor men." He pointed to the corpses lying on the straw. "No! Be on the watch. What you find on Kuklinovski will be yours." "If he returns alone," said the old man, "I fear nothing. I shall stand behind the door; and even if some one from the quarters should come, I shall say that the colonel gave orders not to admit." "That will do. Watch!" The tramp of a horse was heard behind the barn. Kmita sprang up and stood in the shadow at the wall. Kosma and Damian took their places near the door, like two cats waiting for a mouse. "He is alone," said the old man. "Alone," repeated Kosma and Damian. The tramp approached, was right there and halted suddenly. "Come out here, some one,--hold the horse!" The old man jumped out quickly. A moment of silence followed, then to those waiting in the barn came the following conversation,-- "Is that you, Kyemlich? What the thunder! art mad, or an idiot? It is night, Miller is asleep. The guard will not give admission; they say that no officer went away. How is that?" "The officer is waiting here in the barn for your grace. He came right away after you rode off; he says that he missed your grace." "What does all this mean? But the prisoner?" "Is hanging." The door squeaked, and Kuklinovski pushed into the barn; but before he had gone a step two iron hands caught him by the throat, and smothered his cry of terror. Kosma and Damian, with the adroitness of genuine murderers, hurled him to the ground, put their knees on his breast, pressed him so that his ribs began to crack, and gagged him in the twinkle of an eye. Kmita came forward, and holding the pitch light to his eyes, said,-- "Ah! this is Pan Kuklinovski! Now I have something to say to you!" Kuklinovski's face was blue, the veins were so swollen that it seemed they might burst any moment; but in his eyes, which were coming out of his head and bloodshot, there was quite as much wonder as terror. "Strip him and put him on the beam!" cried Kmita. Kosma and Damian fell to stripping him as zealously as if they wished to take the skin from him together with his clothing. In a quarter of an hour Kuklinovski was hanging by his hands and feet, like a half goose, on the beam. Then Kmita put his hands on his hips and began to brag terribly. "Well, Pan Kuklinovski," said he, "who is better, Kmita or Kuklinovski?" Then he seized the burning tow and took a step nearer. "Thy camp is distant one shot from a bow, thy thousand ruffians are within call, there is thy Swedish general a little beyond, and thou art hanging here from this same beam from which 'twas thy thought to roast me.--Learn to know Kmita! Thou hadst the thought to be equal to Kmita, to belong to his company, to be compared with him? Thou cut-purse, thou low ruffian, terror of old women, thou offscouring of man. Lord Scoundrel of Scoundrelton! Wry-mouth, trash, slave! I might have thee cut up like a kid, like a capon; but I choose to roast thee alive as thou didst think to roast me." Saying this, he raised the tow and applied it to the side of the hanging, hapless man; but he held it longer, until the odor of the burned flesh began to spread through the barn. Kuklinovski writhed till the rope was swinging with him. His eyes, fastened on Kmita, expressed terrible pain and a dumb imploring for pity; from his gagged lips came woful groans; but war had hardened the heart of Pan Andrei, and there was no pity in him, above all, none for traitors. Removing at last the tow from Kuklinovski's side, he put it for a while under his nose, rubbed with it his mustaches, his eyelashes, and his brows; then he said,-- "I give thee thy life to meditate on Kmita. Thou wilt hang here till morning, and now pray to God that people find thee before thou art frozen." Then he turned to Kosma and Damian. "To horse!" cried he, and went out of the barn. Half an hour later around the four riders were quiet hills, silent and empty fields. The fresh breeze, not filled with smoke of powder, entered their lungs. Kmita rode ahead, the Kyemliches after him. They spoke in low voices. Pan Andrei was silent, or rather he was repeating in silence the morning "Our Father," for it was not long before dawn. From time to time a hiss or even a low groan was rent from his lips, when his burned side pained him greatly. But at the same time he felt on horseback and free; and the thought that he had blown up the greatest siege gun, and besides that had torn himself from the hands of Kuklinovski and had wrought vengeance on him, filled Pan Andrei with such consolation that in view of it the pain was nothing. Meanwhile a quiet dialogue between the father and the sons turned into a loud dispute. "The money belt is good," said the greedy old man; "but where are the rings? He had rings on his fingers; in one was a stone worth twenty ducats." "I forgot to take it," answered Kosma. "I wish you were killed! Let the old man think of everything, and these rascals haven't wit for a copper! You forgot the rings, you thieves? You lie like dogs!" "Then turn back, father, and look," muttered Damian. "You lie, you thieves! You hide things. You wrong your old father,--such sons! I wish that I had not begotten you. You will die without a blessing." Kmita reined in his horse somewhat. "Come this way!" called he. The dispute ceased, the Kyemliches hurried up, and they rode farther four abreast. "And do you know the road to the Silesian boundary?" asked Pan Andrei. "O Mother of God! we know, we know," answered the old man. "There are no Swedish parties on the road?" "No, for all are at Chenstohova, unless we might meet a single man; but God give us one!" A moment of silence followed. "Then you served with Kuklinovski?" asked Kmita. "We did, for we thought that being near we might serve the holy monks and your grace, and so it has happened. We did not serve against the fortress,--God save us from that! we took no pay unless we found something on Swedes." "How on Swedes?" "For we wanted to serve the Most Holy Lady even outside the walls; therefore we rode around the camp at night or in the daytime, as the Lord God gave us; and when any of the Swedes happened alone, then we--that is--O Refuge of sinners!--we--" "Pounded him!" finished Kosma and Damian. Kmita laughed. "Kuklinovski had good servants in you. But did he know about this?" "He received a share, an income. He knew, and the scoundrel commanded us to give a thaler a head. Otherwise he threatened to betray us. Such a robber,--he wronged poor men! And we have kept faith with your grace, for not such is service with you. Your grace adds besides of your own; but he, a thaler a head, for our toil, for our labor. On him may God--" "I will reward you abundantly for what you have done," said Kmita. "I did not expect this of you." The distant sound of guns interrupted further words. Evidently the Swedes had begun to fire with the first dawn. After a while the roar increased. Kmita stopped his horse; it seemed to him that he distinguished the sound of the fortress cannon from the cannon of the Swedes, therefore he clinched his fist, and threatening with it in the direction of the enemies' camp said,-- "Fire away, fire away! Where is your greatest gun now?" CHAPTER V. The bursting of the gigantic culverin had really a crushing effect upon Miller, for all his hopes had rested hitherto on that gun. Infantry were ready for the assault, ladders and piles of fascines were collected; but now it was necessary to abandon all thought of a storm. The plan of blowing up the cloister by means of mines came also to nothing. Miners brought in previously from Olkush split, it is true, the rock, and approached on a diagonal to the cloister; but work progressed slowly. The workmen, in spite of every precaution, fell frequently from the guns of the church, and labored unwillingly. Many of them preferred to die rather than aid in the destruction of a sacred place. Miller felt a daily increasing opposition. The frost took away the remnant of courage from his unwilling troops, among whom terror was spreading from day to day with a belief that the capture of the cloister did not lie within human power. Finally Miller himself began to lose hope, and after the bursting of the gun he was simply in despair; a feeling of helplessness and impotence took possession of him. Next morning he called a council, but he called it with the secret wish to hear from officers encouragement to abandon the fortress. They began to assemble, all wearied and gloomy. In silence they took their places around a table in an enormous and cold room, in which the steam from their breaths stood before their faces, and they looked from behind it as from behind a cloud. Each one felt in his soul exhaustion and weariness; each one said to himself: "There is no counsel to give save one, which it is better for no man to be the first to give." All waited for what Miller would say. He ordered first of all to bring plenty of heated wine, hoping that under the influence of warm drink it would be easier to obtain a real thought from those silent figures, and encouragement to retreat from the fortress. At last, when he supposed that the wine had produced its effect, he spoke in the following words-- "Have you noticed, gentlemen, that none of the Polish colonels have come to this council, though I summoned them all?" "It is known of course to your worthiness that servants of the Polish squadron have, while fishing, found silver belonging to the cloister, and that they fought for it with our soldiers. More than ten men have been cut down." "I know; I succeeded in snatching a part of that silver from their hands, indeed the greater part. It is here now, and I am thinking what to do with it." "This is surely the cause of the anger of the Polish colonels. They say that if the Poles found the silver, it belongs to the Poles." "That's a reason!" cried Count Veyhard. "For my mind, it is a strong reason," said Sadovski; "and I think that if you had found the silver you would not feel bound to divide it, not only with the Poles, but even with me, a Cheh." "First of all, my dear sir, I do not share your good will for the enemies of our king," answered the count, with a frown. "But we, thanks to you, must share with you shame and disgrace, not being able to succeed against a fortress to which you have brought us." "Then have you lost all hope?" "But have you any yourself to give away?" "Just as if you knew; and I think that these gentlemen share more willingly with me in my hope, than with you in your fear." "Do you make me a coward, Count Veyhard?" "I do not ascribe to you more courage than you show." "And I ascribe to you less." "But I," said Miller, who for some time had looked on the count with dislike as the instigator of the ill-starred undertaking, "shall have the silver sent to the cloister. Perhaps kindness and graciousness will do more with these surly monks than balls and cannon. Let them understand that we wish to possess the fortress, not their treasures." The officers looked on Miller with wonder, so little accustomed were they to magnanimity from him. At last Sadovski said,-- "Nothing better could be done, for it will close at once the mouths of the Polish colonels who lay claim to the silver. In the fortress it will surely make a good impression." "The death of that Kmita will make the best impression," answered Count Veyhard. "I hope that Kuklinovski has already torn him out of his skin." "I think that he is no longer alive," said Miller. "But that name reminds me of our loss, which nothing can make good. That was the greatest gun in the whole artillery of his grace. I do not hide from you, gentlemen, that all my hopes were placed on it. The breach was already made, terror was spreading in the fortress. A couple of days longer and we should have moved to a storm. Now all our labor is useless, all our exertions vain. They will repair the wall in one day. And the guns which we have now are no better than those of the fortress, and can be easily dismounted. No larger ones can be had anywhere, for even Marshal Wittemberg hasn't them. The more I ponder over it, the more the disaster seems dreadful. And to think that one man did this,--one dog! one Satan! I shall go mad! To all the horned devils!" Here Miller struck the table with his fist, for unrestrained anger had seized him, the more desperately because he was powerless. After a while he cried,-- "But what will the king say when he hears of this loss?" After a while he added: "And what shall we do? We cannot gnaw away that cliff with our teeth. Would that the plague might strike those who persuaded me to come to this fortress!" Having said this, he took a crystal goblet, and in his excitement hurled it to the floor so that the crystal was broken into small bits. This unbecoming frenzy, more befitting a peasant than a warrior holding such a high office, turned all hearts from him, and soured good-humor completely. "Give counsel, gentlemen!" cried Miller. "It is possible to counsel, but only in calmness," answered the Prince of Hesse. Miller began to puff and blow out his anger through his nostrils. After a time he grew calm, and passing his eyes over those present as if encouraging them with a glance, he said,-- "I ask your pardon, gentlemen, but my anger is not strange. I will not mention those places which, when I had taken command after Torstenson, I captured, for I do not wish, in view of the present disaster, to boast of past fortune. All that is done at this fortress simply passes reason. But still it is necessary to take counsel. For that purpose I have summoned you. Deliberate, then, and what the majority of us determine at this council will be done." "Let your worthiness give us the subject for deliberation," said the Prince of Hesse. "Have we to deliberate only concerning the capture of the fortress, or also concerning this, whether it is better to withdraw?" Miller did not wish to put the question so clearly, or at least he did not wish the "either--or," to come first from his mouth; therefore he said,-- "Let each speak clearly what he thinks. It should be a question for us of the profit and praise of the king." But none of the officers wished more than Miller to appear first with the proposition to retreat, therefore there was silence again. "Pan Sadovski," said Miller after a while, in a voice which he tried to make agreeable and kind, "you say what you think more sincerely than others, for your reputation insures you against all suspicion." "I think, General," answered the colonel, "that Kmita was one of the greatest soldiers of this age, and that our position is desperate." "But you were in favor of withdrawing from the fortress?" "With permission of your worthiness, I was only in favor of not beginning the siege. That is a thing quite different." "Then what do you advise now?" "Now I give the floor to Count Veyhard." Miller swore like a pagan. "Count Veyhard will answer for this unfortunate affair," said he. "My counsels have not all been carried out," answered the count, insolently. "I can boldly cast responsibility from myself. There were men who with a wonderful, in truth an inexplicable, good-will for the priests, dissuaded his worthiness from all severe measures. My advice was to hang those envoy priests, and I am convinced that if this had been done terror would have opened to us before this time the gates of that hen-house." Here the count looked at Sadovski; but before the latter had answered, the Prince of Hesse interfered: "Count, do not call that fortress a hen-house, for the more you decrease its importance the more you increase our shame." "Nevertheless I advised to hang the envoys. Terror and always terror, that is what I repeated from morning till night; but Pan Sadovski threatened resignation, and the priests went unharmed." "Go, Count, to-day to the fortress," answered Sadovski, "blow up with powder their greatest gun as Kmita did ours, and I guarantee that, that will spread more terror than a murderous execution of envoys." The count turned directly to Miller: "Your worthiness I thought we had come here for counsel and not for amusement." "Have you an answer to baseless reproaches?" asked Miller. "I have, in spite of the joyousness of these gentlemen, who might save their humor for better times." "Oh, son of Laertes, famous for stratagems!" exclaimed the Prince of Hesse. "Gentlemen," answered the count, "it is universally known that not Minerva but Mars is your guardian deity; but since Mars has not favored you, and you have renounced your right of speech, let me speak." "The mountain is beginning to groan, and soon we shall see the small tail of a mouse," said Sadovski. "I ask for silence!" said Miller, severely. "Speak, Count, but keep in mind that up to this moment your counsels have given bitter fruit." "Which, though it is winter, we must eat like mouldy biscuits," put in the Prince of Hesse. "This explains why your princely highness drinks so much wine," said Count Veyhard; "and though it does not take the place of native wit, it helps you to a happy digestion of even disgrace. But no matter! I know well that there is a party in the fortress which is long desirous of surrender, and that only our weakness on one side and the superhuman stubbornness of the prior on the other keep it in check. New terror will give this party new power; for this purpose we should show that we make no account of the loss of the gun, and storm the more vigorously." "Is that all?" "Even if it were all, I think that such counsel is more in accordance with the honor of Swedish soldiers than barren jests at cups, or than sleeping after drinking-bouts. But that is not all. We should spread the report among our soldiers, and especially among the Poles, that the men at work now making a mine have discovered the old underground passage leading to the cloister and the church." "That is good counsel," said Miller. "When this report is spread among the soldiers and the Poles, the Poles themselves will persuade the monks to surrender, for it is a question with them as with the monks, that that nest of superstitions should remain intact." "For a Catholic that is not bad!" muttered Sadovski. "If he served the Turks he would call Rome a nest of superstitions," said the Prince of Hesse. "Then, beyond doubt, the Poles will send envoys to the priests," continued Count Veyhard,--"that party in the cloister, which is long anxious for surrender will renew its efforts under the influence of fear; and who knows but its members will force the prior and the stubborn to open the gates?" "The city of Priam will perish through the cunning of the divine son of Laertes," declaimed the Prince of Hesse. "As God lives, a real Trojan history, and he thinks he has invented something new!" said Sadovski. But the advice pleased Miller, for in very truth it was not bad. The party which the count spoke of existed really in the cloister. Even some priests of weaker soul belonged to it. Besides, fear might extend among the garrison, including even those who so far were ready to defend it to the last drop of blood. "Let us try, let us try!" said Miller, who like a drowning man seized every plank, and from despair passed easily to hope. "But will Kuklinovski or Zbrojek agree to go again as envoys to the cloister, or will they believe in that passage, and will they inform the priests of it?" "In every case Kuklinovski will agree," answered the count; "but it is better that he should believe really in the existence of the passage." At that moment they heard the tramp of a horse in front of the quarters. "There, Pan Zbrojek has come!" said the Prince of Hesse, looking through the window. A moment later spurs rattled, and Zbrojek entered, or rather rushed into the room. His face was pale, excited, and before the officers could ask the cause of his excitement the colonel cried,-- "Kuklinovski is no longer living!" "How? What do you say? What has happened?" exclaimed Miller. "Let me catch breath," said Zbrojek, "for what I have seen passes imagination." "Talk more quickly. Has he been murdered?" cried all. "By Kmita," answered Zbrojek. The officers all sprang from their seats, and began to look at Zbrojek as at a madman; and he, while blowing in quick succession bunches of steam from his nostrils, said,-- "If I had not seen I should not have believed, for that is not a human power. Kuklinovski is not living, three soldiers are killed, and of Kmita not a trace. I know that he was a terrible man. His reputation is known in the whole country. But for him, a prisoner and bound, not only to free himself, but to kill the soldiers and torture Kuklinovski to death,--that a man could not do, only a devil!" "Nothing like that has ever happened; that's impossible of belief!" whispered Sadovski. "That Kmita has shown what he can do," said the Prince of Hesse. "We did not believe the Poles yesterday when they told us what kind of bird he was; we thought they were telling big stories, as is usual with them." "Enough to drive a man mad," said the count. Miller seized his head with his hands, and said nothing. When at last he raised his eyes, flashes of wrath were crossing in them with flashes of suspicion. "Pan Zbrojek," said he, "though he were Satan and not a man, he could not do this without some treason, without assistance. Kmita had his admirers here; Kuklinovski his enemies, and you belong to the number." Zbrojek was in the full sense of the word an insolent soldier; therefore when he heard an accusation directed against himself, he grew still paler, sprang from his place, approached Miller, and halting in front of him looked him straight in the eyes. "Does your worthiness suspect me?" inquired he. A very oppressive moment followed. The officers present had not the slightest doubt were Miller to give an affirmative answer something would follow terrible and unparalled in the history of camps. All hands rested on their rapier hilts. Sadovski even drew his weapon altogether. But at that moment the officers saw before the window a yard filled with Polish horsemen. Probably they also had come with news of Kuklinovski, but in case of collision they would stand beyond doubt on Zbrojek's side. Miller too saw them, and though the paleness of rage had come on his face, still he restrained himself, and feigning to see no challenge in Zbrojek's action, he answered in a voice which he strove to make natural,-- "Tell in detail how it happened." Zbrojek stood for a time yet with nostrils distended, but he too remembered himself; and then his thoughts turned in another direction, for his comrades, who had just ridden up, entered the room. "Kuklinovski is murdered!" repeated they, one after another. "Kuklinovski is killed! His regiment will scatter! His soldiers are going wild!" "Gentlemen, permit Pan Zbrojek to speak; he brought the news first," cried Miller. After a while there was silence, and Zbrojek spoke as follows,-- "It is known to you, gentlemen, that at the last council I challenged Kuklinovski on the word of a cavalier. I was an admirer of Kmita, it is true; but even you, though his enemies, must acknowledge that no common man could have done such a deed as bursting that cannon. It behooves us to esteem daring even in an enemy; therefore I offered him my hand, but he refused his, and called me a traitor. Then I thought to myself, 'Let Kuklinovski do what he likes with him.' My only other thought was this: 'If Kuklinovski acts against knightly honor in dealing with Kmita, the disgrace of his deed must not fall on all Poles, and among others on me.' For that very reason I wished surely to fight with Kuklinovski, and this morning taking two comrades, I set out for his camp. We come to his quarters; they say there, 'He is not at home.' I send to this place,--he is not here. At his quarters they tell us, 'He has not returned the whole night.' But they are not alarmed, for they think that he has remained with your worthiness. At last one soldier says, 'Last evening he went to that little barn in the field with Kmita, whom he was going to burn there.' I ride to the barn; the doors are wide open. I enter; I see inside a naked body hanging from a beam. 'That is Kmita,' thought I; but when my eyes have grown used to the darkness, I see that the body is some thin and bony one, and Kmita looked like a Hercules. It is a wonder to me that he could shrink so much in one night. I draw near--Kuklinovski!" "Hanging from the beam?" asked Miller. "Exactly! I make the sign of the cross,--I think, 'Is it witchcraft, an omen, deception, or what?' But when I saw three corpses of soldiers, the truth stood as if living before me. That terrible man had killed these, hung Kuklinovski, burned him like an executioner, and then escaped." "It is not far to the Silesian boundary," said Sadovski. A moment of silence followed. Every suspicion of Zbrojek's participation in the affair was extinguished in Miller's soul. But the event itself astonished and filled him with a certain undefined fear. He saw dangers rising around, or rather their terrible shadows, against which he knew not how to struggle; he felt that some kind of chain of failures surrounded him. The first links were before his eyes, but farther the gloom of the future was lying. Just such a feeling mastered him as if he were in a cracked house which might fall on his head any moment. Uncertainty crushed him with an insupportable weight, and he asked himself what he had to lay hands on. Meanwhile Count Veyhard struck himself on the forehead. "As God lives," said he, "when I saw this Kmita yesterday it seemed as if I had known him somewhere. Now again I see before me that face. I remember the sound of his voice. I must have met him for a short time and in the dark, in the evening; but he is going through my head,--going--" Here he began to rub his forehead with his hand. "What is that to us?" asked Miller; "you will not mend the gun, even should you remember; you will not bring Kuklinovski to life." Here he turned to the officers. "Gentlemen, come with me, whoso wishes, to the scene of this deed." All wished to go, for curiosity was exciting them. Horses were brought, and they moved on at a trot, the general at the head. When they came to the little barn they saw a number of tens of Polish horsemen scattered around that building, on the road, and along the field. "What men are they?" asked Miller of Zbrojek. "They must be Kuklinovski's; I tell your worthiness that those ragamuffins have simply gone wild." Zbrojek then beckoned to one of the horsemen,-- "Come this way, come this way. Quickly!" The soldier rode up. "Are you Kuklinovski's men?" "Yes." "Where is the rest of the regiment?" "They have run away. They refused to serve longer against Yasna Gora." "What does he say?" asked Miller. Zbrojek interpreted the words. "Ask him where they went to." Zbrojek repeated the question. "It is unknown," said the soldier. "Some have gone to Silesia. Others said that they would serve with Kmita, for there is not another such colonel either among the Poles or the Swedes." When Zbrojek interpreted these words to Miller, he grew serious. In truth, such men as Kuklinovski had were ready to pass over to the command of Kmita without hesitation. But then they might become terrible, if not for Miller's army, at least for his supplies and communication. A river of perils was rising higher and higher around the enchanted fortress. Zbrojek, into whose head this idea must have come, said, as if in answer to these thoughts of Miller: "It is certain that everything is in a storm now in our Commonwealth. Let only such a Kmita shout, hundreds and thousands will surround him, especially after what he has done." "But what can he effect?" asked Miller. "Remember, your worthiness, that that man brought Hovanski to desperation, and Hovanski had, counting the Cossacks, six times as many men as we. Not a transport will come to us without his permission, the country houses are destroyed, and we are beginning to feel hunger. Besides, this Kmita may join with Jegotski and Kulesha; then he will have several thousand sabres at his call. He is a grievous man, and may become most harmful." "Are you sure of your soldiers?" "Surer than of myself," answered Zbrojek, with brutal frankness. "How surer?" "For, to tell the truth, we have all of us enough of this siege." "I trust that it will soon come to an end." "Only the question is: How? But for that matter to capture this fortress is at present as great a calamity as to retire from it." Meanwhile they had reached the little barn. Miller dismounted, after him the officers, and all entered. The soldiers had removed Kuklinovski from the beam, and covering him with a rug laid him on his back on remnants of straw. The bodies of three soldiers lay at one side, placed evenly one by the other. "These were killed with knives." "But Kuklinovski?" "There are no wounds on Kuklinovski, but his side is roasted and his mustaches daubed with pitch. He must have perished of cold or suffocation, for he holds his own cap in his teeth to this moment." "Uncover him." The soldier raised a corner of the rug, and a terrible face was uncovered, swollen, with eyes bursting out. On the remnants of his pitched mustaches were icicles formed from his frozen breath and mixed with soot, making as it were tusks sticking out of his mouth. That face was so revolting that Miller, though accustomed to all kinds of ghastliness, shuddered and said,-- "Cover it quickly. Terrible, terrible!" Silence reigned in the barn. "Why have we come here?" asked the Prince of Hesse, spitting. "I shall not touch food for a whole day." All at once some kind of uncommon exasperation closely bordering on frenzy took possession of Miller. His face became blue, his eyes expanded, he began to gnash his teeth, a wild thirst for the blood of some one had seized him; then turning to Zbrojek, he screamed,-- "Where is that soldier who saw that Kuklinovski was in the barn? He must be a confederate!" "I know not whether that soldier is here yet," answered Zbrojek. "All Kuklinovski's men have scattered like oxen let out from the yoke." "Then catch him!" bellowed Miller, in fury. "Catch him yourself!" cried Zbrojek, in similar fury. And again a terrible outburst hung as it were on a spider-web over the heads of the Swedes and the Poles. The latter began to gather around Zbrojek, moving their mustaches threateningly and rattling their sabres. During this noise the echoes of shots and the tramp of horses were heard, and into the barn rushed a Swedish officer of cavalry. "General!" cried he. "A sortie from the cloister! The men working at the mine have been cut to pieces! A party of infantry is scattered!" "I shall go wild!" roared Miller, seizing the hair of his wig. "To horse!" In a moment they were all rushing like a whirlwind toward the cloister, so that lumps of snow fell like hail from the hoofs of their horses. A hundred of Sadovski's cavalry, under command of his brother, joined Miller and ran to assist. On the way they saw parties of terrified infantry fleeing in disorder and panic, so fallen were the hearts of the Swedish infantry, elsewhere unrivalled. They had left even trenches which were not threatened by any danger. The oncoming officers and cavalry trampled a few, and rode finally to within a furlong of the fortress, but only to see on the height as clearly as on the palm of the hand, the attacking party returning safely to the cloister; songs, shouts of joy, and laughter came from them to Miller's ears. Single persons stood forth and threatened with bloody sabres in the direction of the staff. The Poles present at the side of the Swedish general recognized Zamoyski himself, who had led the sortie in person, and who, when he saw the staff, stopped and saluted it solemnly with his cap. No wonder he felt safe under cover of the fortress cannon. And, in fact, it began to smoke on the walls, and iron flocks of cannon balls were flying with terrible whistling among the officers. Troopers tottered in their saddles, and groans answered whistles. "We are under fire. Retreat!" commanded Sadovski. Zbrojek seized the reins of Miller's horse. "General, withdraw! It is death here!" Miller, as if he had become torpid, said not a word, and let himself be led out of range of the missiles. Returning to his quarters, he locked himself in, and for a whole day would see no man. He was meditating surely over his fame of Poliorcetes. Count Veyhard now took all power in hand, and began with immense energy to make preparations for a storm. New breastworks were thrown up; the soldiers succeeding the miners broke the cliff unweariedly to prepare a mine. A feverish movement continued in the whole Swedish camp. It seemed that a new spirit had entered the besiegers, or that reinforcements had come. A few days later the news thundered through the Swedish and allied Polish camps that the miners had found a passage going under the church and the cloister, and that it depended now only on the good-will of the general to blow up the whole fortress. Delight seized the soldiers worn out with cold, hunger, and fruitless toil. Shouts of: "We have Chenstohova! We'll blow up that hen-house!" ran from mouth to mouth. Feasting and drinking began. The count was present everywhere; he encouraged the soldiers, kept them in that belief, repeated a hundred times daily the news of finding the passage, incited to feasting and frolics. The echo of this gladness reached the cloister at last. News of the mines dug and ready to explode ran with the speed of lightning from rampart to rampart. Even the most daring were frightened. Weeping women began to besiege the prior's dwelling, to hold out to him their children when he appeared for a while, and cry,-- "Destroy not the innocent! Their blood will fall on thy head!" The greater coward a man had been, the greater his daring now in urging Kordetski not to expose to destruction the sacred place, the capital of the Most Holy Lady. Such grievous, painful times followed, for the unbending soul of our hero in a habit, as had not been till that hour. It was fortunate that the Swedes ceased their assaults, so as to prove more convincingly that they needed no longer either balls or cannon, that it was enough for them to ignite one little powder fuse. But for this very reason terror increased in the cloister. In the hour of deep night it seemed to some, the most timid, that they heard under the earth certain sounds, certain movements; that the Swedes were already under the cloister. Finally, a considerable number of the monks fell in spirit. Those, with Father Stradomski at the head of them, went to the prior and urged him to begin negotiations at once for surrender. The greater part of the soldiers went with them, and some of the nobles. Kordetski appeared in the courtyard, and when the throng gathered around him in a close circle, he said,-- "Have we not sworn to one another to defend this holy place to the last drop of our blood? In truth, I tell you that if powder hurls us forth, only our wretched bodies, only the temporary covering, will fall away and return to the earth, but the souls will not return,--heaven will open above them, and they will enter into rejoicing and happiness, as into a sea without bounds. There Jesus Christ will receive them, and that Most Holy Mother will meet them, and they like golden bees will sit on her robe, and will sink in light and gaze on the face of the Lord." Here the reflection of that brightness was gleaming on his face. He raised his inspired eyes upward, and spoke on with a dignity and a calm not of earth:-- "O Lord, the Ruler of worlds, Thou art looking into my heart, and Thou knowest that I am not deceiving this people when I say that if I desired only my own happiness I would stretch out my hands to Thee and cry from the depth of my soul: O Lord! let powder be there, let it explode, for in such a death is redemption of sins and faults, for it is eternal rest, and Thy servant is weary and toil worn over-much. And who would not wish a reward of such kind, for a death without pain and as short as the twinkle of an eye, as a flash in the heavens, after which is eternity unbroken, happiness inexhaustible, joy without end. But Thou hast commanded me to guard Thy retreat, therefore it is not permitted me to go. Thou hast placed me on guard, therefore Thou hast poured into me Thy strength, and I know, O Lord, I see and feel that although the malice of the enemy were to force itself under this church, though all the powder and destructive saltpetre were placed there, it would be enough for me to make the sign of the cross above them and they would never explode." Here he turned to the assembly and continued: "God has given me this power, but do you take fear out of your hearts. My spirit pierces the earth and tells you; Your enemies lie, there are no powder dragons under the church. You, people of timid hearts, you in whom fear has stifled faith, deserve not to enter the kingdom of grace and repose to-day. There is no powder under your feet then! God wishes to preserve this retreat, so that, like Noah's ark, it may be borne above the deluge of disasters and mishap; therefore, in the name of God, for the third time I tell you, there is no powder under the church. And when I speak in His name, who will make bold to oppose me, who will dare still to doubt?" When he had said this he was silent and looked at the throng of monks, nobles, and soldiers. But such was the unshaken faith, the conviction and power in his voice that they were silent also, and no man came forward. On the contrary, solace began to enter their hearts, till at last one of the soldiers, a simple peasant, said,-- "Praise to the name of the Lord! For three days they say they are able to blow up the fortress; why do they not blow it up?" "Praise to the Most Holy Lady! Why do they not blow it up?" repeated a number of voices. Then a wonderful sign was made manifest. Behold all about them on a sudden was heard the sound of wings, and whole flocks of small winter birds appeared in the court of the fortress, and every moment new ones flew in from the starved country-places around. Birds such as gray larks, ortolans, buntings with yellow breasts, poor sparrows, green titmice, red bulfinches, sat on the slopes of the roofs, on the corners over the doors, on the church; others flew around in a many-colored crown above the head of the prior, flapping their wings, chirping sadly as if begging for alms, and having no fear whatever of man. People present were amazed at the sight; and Kordetski, after he had prayed for a while, said at last,-- "See these little birds of the forest. They come to the protection of the Mother of God, but you doubt Her power." Consolation and hope had entered their hearts; the monks, beating their breasts, went to the church, and the soldiers mounted the walls. Women scattered grain to the birds, which began to pick it up eagerly. All interpreted the visit of these tiny forest-dwellers as a sign of success to themselves, and of evil to the enemy. "Fierce snows must be lying, when these little birds, caring neither for shots nor the thunder of cannon, flock to our buildings," said the soldiers. "But why do they fly from the Swedes to us?" "Because the meanest creature has the wit to distinguish an enemy from a friend." "That cannot be," said another soldier, "for in the Swedish camp are Poles too; but it means that there must be hunger there, and a lack of oats for the horses." "It means still better," said a third, "that what they say of the powder is downright falsehood." "How is that?" asked all, in one voice. "Old people say," replied the soldier, "that if a house is to fall, the sparrows and swallows having nests in spring under the roof, go away two or three days in advance; every creature has sense to feel danger beforehand. Now if powder were under the cloister, these little birds would not fly to us." "Is that true?" "As true as Amen to 'Our Father!'" "Praise to the Most Holy Lady! it will be bad for the Swedes." At this moment the sound of a trumpet was heard at the northwestern gate; all ran to see who was coming. It was a Swedish trumpeter with a letter from the camp. The monks assembled at once in the council hall. The letter was from Count Veyhard, and announced that if the fortress were not surrendered before the following day it would be hurled into the air. But those who before had fallen under the weight of fear had no faith now in this threat. "Those are vain threats!" said the priests and the nobles together. "Let us write to them not to spare us; let them blow us up!" And in fact they answered in that sense. Meanwhile the soldiers who had gathered around the trumpeter answered his warnings with ridicule. "Good!" said they to him. "Why do you spare us? We will go the sooner to heaven." But the man who delivered the answering letter to the messenger said,-- "Do not lose words and time for nothing. Want is gnawing you, but we lack nothing, praise be to God! Even the birds fly away from you." And in this way Count Veyhard's last trick came to nothing. And when another day had passed it was shown with perfect proof how vain were the fears of the besieged, and peace returned to the cloister. The following day a worthy man from Chenstohova, Yatsek Bjuhanski, left a letter again giving warning of a storm; also news of the return of Yan Kazimir from Silesia, and the uprising of the whole Commonwealth against the Swedes. But according to reports circulating outside the walls, this was to be the last storm. Bjuhanski brought the letter with a bag of fish to the priests for Christmas Eve, and approached the walls disguised as a Swedish soldier. Poor man!-the Swedes saw him and seized him. Miller gave command to stretch him on the rack; but the old man had heavenly visions in the time of his torture, and smiled as sweetly as a child, and instead of pain unspeakable joy was depicted on his face. The general was present at the torture, but he gained no confession from the martyr; he merely acquired the despairing conviction that nothing could bend those people, nothing could break them. Now came the old beggarwoman Kostuha, with a letter from Kordetski begging most humbly that the storm be delayed during service on the day of Christ's birth. The guards and the officers received the beggarwoman with insults and jeers at such an envoy, but she answered them straight in the face,-- "No other would come, for to envoys you are as murderers, and I took the office for bread,--a crust. I shall not be long in this world; I have no fear of you: if you do not believe, you have me in your hands." But no harm was done her. What is more, Miller, eager to try conciliation again, agreed to the prior's request, even accepted a ransom for Bjuhanski, not yet tortured quite out of his life; he sent also that part of the silver found with the Swedish soldiers. He did this last out of malice to Count Veyhard, who after the failure of the mine had fallen into disfavor again. At last Christmas Eve came. With the first star, lights great and small began to shine all around in the fortress. The night was still, frosty, but clear. The Swedish soldiers, stiffened with cold in the intrenchments, gazed from below on the dark walls of the unapproachable fortress, and to their minds came the warm Scandinavian cottages stuffed with moss, their wives and children, the fir-tree gleaming with lights; and more than one iron breast swelled with a sigh, with regret, with homesickness, with despair. But in the fortress, at tables covered with hay, the besieged were breaking wafers. A quiet joy was shining in all faces, for each one had the foreboding, almost the certainty, that the hours of suffering would be soon at an end. "Another storm to-morrow, but that will be the last," repeated the priests and the soldiers. "Let him to whom God will send death give thanks that the Lord lets him be present at Mass, and thus opens more surely heaven's gates, for whoso dies for the faith on the day of Christ's birth must be received into glory." They wished one another success, long years, or a heavenly crown; and so relief dropped into every heart, as if suffering were over already. But there stood one empty chair near the prior; before it a plate on which was a package of white wafers bound with a blue ribbon. When all had sat down, no one occupied that place. Zamoyski said,-- "I see, revered father, that according to ancient custom there are places for men outside the cloister." "Not for men outside," said Father Agustine, "but as a remembrance of that young man whom we loved as a son, and whose soul is looking with pleasure upon us because we keep him in eternal memory." "As God lives," replied Zamoyski, "he is happier now than we. We owe him due thanks." Kordetski had tears in his eyes, and Charnyetski said,-- "They write of smaller men in the chronicles. If God gives me life, and any one asks me hereafter, who was there among us the equal of ancient heroes, I shall say Babinich." "Babinich was not his name," said Kordetski. "How not Babinich?" "I long knew his real name under the seal of confession; but when going out against that cannon, he said to me: 'If I perish, let men know who I am, so that honorable repute may rest with my name, and destroy my former misdeeds.' He went, he perished; now I can tell you that he was Kmita!" "That renowned Lithuanian Kmita?" cried Charnyetski, seizing his forelock. "The same. How the grace of God changes hearts!" "For God's sake. Now I understand why he undertook that work; now I understand where he got that daring, that boldness, in which he surpassed all men. Kmita, Kmita, that terrible Kmita whom Lithuania celebrates." "Henceforth not only Lithuania, but the whole Commonwealth will glorify him in a different manner." "He was the first to warn us against Count Veyhard." "Through his advice we closed the gates in good season, and made preparations." "He killed the first Swede with a shot from a bow." "And how many of their cannon did he spoil! Who brought down De Fossis?" "And that siege gun! If we are not terrified at the storm of to-morrow, who is the cause?" "Let each remember him with honor, and celebrate his name wherever possible, so that justice be done," said Kordetski; "and now may God give him eternal rest." "And may everlasting light shine on him," answered one chorus of voices. But Pan Charnyetski was unable for a long time to calm himself, and his thoughts were continually turning to Kmita. "I tell you, gentlemen, that there was something of such kind in that man that though he served as a simple soldier, the command of itself crawled at once to his hand, so that it was a wonder to me how people obeyed such a young man unwittingly. In fact, he was commander on the bastion, and I obeyed him myself. Oh, had I known him then to be Kmita!" "Still it is a wonder to me," said Zamoyski, "that the Swedes have not boasted of his death." Kordetski sighed. "The powder must have killed him on the spot." "I would let a hand be cut from me could he be alive again," cried Charnyetski. "But that such a Kmita let himself be blown up by powder!" "He gave his life for ours," said Kordetski. "It is true," added Zamoyski, "that if that cannon were lying in the intrenchment, I should not think so pleasantly of to-morrow." "To-morrow God will give us a new victory," said the prior, "for the ark of Noah cannot be lost in the deluge." Thus they conversed with one another on Christmas Eve, and then separated; the monks going to the church, the soldiers, some to quiet rest, and others to keep watch on the walls and at the gates. But great care was superfluous, for in the Swedish camp there reigned unbroken calm. They had given themselves to rest and meditation, for to them too was approaching a most serious day. The night was solemn. Legions of stars twinkled in the sky, changing into blue and rosy colors. The light of the moon changed to green the shrouds of snow stretching between the fortress and the hostile camp. The wind did not howl, and it was calm, as from the beginning of the siege it had not been near the cloister. At midnight the Swedish soldiers heard the flow of the mild and grand tones of the organ; then the voices of men were joined with them; then the sounds of bells, large and small. Joy, consolation, and great calm were in those sounds; and the greater was the doubt, the greater the feeling of helplessness which weighed down the hearts of the Swedes. The Polish soldiers from the commands of Zbrojek and Kalinski, without seeking permission, went up to the very walls. They were not permitted to enter through fear of some snare; but they were permitted to stand near the walls. They also collected together. Some knelt on the snow, others shook their heads pitifully, sighing over their own lot, or beat their breasts, promising repentance; and all heard with delight and with tears in their eyes the music and the hymns sung according to ancient usage. At the same time the sentries on the walls who could not be in the church, wishing to make up for their loss, began also to sing, and soon was heard throughout the whole circuit of the walls the Christmas hymn:-- "He is lying in the manger; Who will run To greet the little stranger?" In the afternoon of the following day the thunder of guns drowned again every other sound. All the intrenchments began to smoke simultaneously, the earth trembled in its foundations; as of old there flew on the roof of the church heavy balls, bombs, grenades, and torches fixed in cylinders, pouring a rain of melted lead, and naked torches, knots and ropes. Never had the thunder been so unceasing, never till then had such a river of fire and iron fallen on the cloister; but among the Swedish guns was not that great gun, which alone could crush the wall and make a breach necessary for assault. But the besieged were so accustomed to fire that each man knew what he had to do, and the defence went in its ordinary course without command. Fire was answered with fire, missile with missile, but better aimed, for with more calmness. Toward evening Miller went out to see by the last rays of the setting sun the results; and his glance fell on the tower outlined calmly on the background of the sky. "That cloister will stand for the ages of ages!" cried he, beside himself. "Amen!" answered Zbrojek, quietly. In the evening a council was assembled again at headquarters, still more gloomy than usual. Miller opened it himself. "The storm of to-day," said he, "has brought no result. Our powder is nearly consumed; half of our men are lost, the rest discouraged: they look for disasters, not victory. We have no supplies; we cannot expect reinforcements." "But the cloister stands unmoved as on the first day of the siege," added Sadovski. "What remains for us?" "Disgrace." "I have received orders," said the general, "to finish quickly or retreat to Prussia." "What remains to us?" repeated the Prince of Hesse. All eyes were turned to Count Veyhard, who said: "To save our honor!" A short broken laugh, more like the gnashing of teeth, came from Miller, who was called Poliorcetes. "The Count wishes to teach us how to raise the dead," said he. Count Veyhard acted as though he had not heard this. "Only the slain have saved their honor," said Sadovski. Miller began to lose his cool blood. "And that cloister stands there yet, that Yasna Gora, that hen-house! I have not taken it! And we withdraw. Is this a dream, or am I speaking in my senses?" "That cloister stands there yet, that Yasna Gora!" repeated word for word the Prince of Hesse, "and we shall withdraw,--defeated!" A moment of silence followed; it seemed as though the leader and his subordinates found a certain wild pleasure in bringing to mind their shame and defeat. Now Count Veyhard said slowly and emphatically: "It has happened more than once in every war that a besieged fortress has ransomed itself from the besiegers, who then went away as victors; for whoso pays a ransom, by this same recognizes himself as defeated." The officers, who at first listened to the words of the speaker with scorn and contempt, now began to listen more attentively. "Let that cloister pay us any kind of ransom," continued the count; "then no one will say that we could not take it, but that we did not wish to take it." "Will they agree?" asked the Prince of Hesse. "I will lay down my head," answered Count Veyhard, "and more than that, my honor as a soldier." "Can that be!" asked Sadovski. "We have enough of this siege, but have they enough? What does your worthiness think of this?" Miller turned to Veyhard "Many grievous moments, the most grievous of my life, have I passed because of your counsels, Sir Count; but for this last advice I thank you, and will be grateful." All breasts breathed more freely. There could be no real question but that of retreating with honor. On the morrow, the day of Saint Stephen, the officers assembled to the last man to hear Kordetski's answer to Miller's letter, which proposed a ransom, and was sent in the morning. They had to wait long. Miller feigned joyousness, but constraint was evident on his face. No one of the officers could keep his place. All hearts beat unquietly. The Prince of Hesse and Sadovski stood under the window conversing in a low voice. "What do you think?" asked the first; "will they agree?" "Everything indicates that they will agree. Who would not wish to be rid of such terrible danger come what may, at the price of a few tens of thousands of thalers, especially since monks have not worldly ambition and military honor, or at least should not have? I only fear that the general has asked too much." "How much has he asked?" "Forty thousand from the monks, and twenty thousand from the nobles, but in the worst event they will try to reduce the sum." "Let us yield, in God's name, let us yield. If they have not the money, I would prefer to lend them my own, if they will let us go away with even the semblance of honor. But I tell your princely highness that though I recognize the count's advice this time as good, and I believe that they will ransom themselves, such a fever is gnawing me that I would prefer ten storms to this waiting." "Uf! you are right But still this Count Veyhard may go high." "Even as high as the gibbet," said the other. But the speakers did not foresee that a worse fate than even the gibbet was awaiting Count Veyhard. That moment the thunder of cannon interrupted further conversation. "What is that? firing from the fortress!" cried Miller. And springing up like a man possessed, he ran out of the room. All ran after him and listened. The sound of regular salvos came indeed from the fortress. "Are they fighting inside, or what?" cried Miller; "I don't understand." "I will explain to your worthiness," said Zbrojek, "this is Saint Stephen's Day, and the name's day of the Zamoyskis, father and son; the firing is in their honor." With that shouts of applause were heard from the fortress, and after them new salvos. "They have powder enough," said Miller, gloomily. "That is for us a new indication." But fate did not spare him another very painful lesson. The Swedish soldiers were so discouraged and fallen in spirit that at the sound of firing from the fortress the detachments guarding the nearest intrenchments deserted them in panic. Miller saw one whole regiment, the musketeers of Smaland, taking refuge in disorder at his own quarters; he heard too how the officers repeated among themselves at this sight,-- "It is time, it is time, it is time to retreat!" But by degrees everything grew calm; one crushing impression remained. The leader, and after him the subordinates, entered the room and waited, waited impatiently; even the face of Count Veyhard, till then motionless, betrayed disquiet. At last the clatter of spurs was heard in the antechamber, and the trumpeter entered, all red from cold, his mustaches covered with his frozen breath. "An answer from the cloister!" said he, giving a large packet wound up in a colored handkerchief bound with a string. Miller's hands trembled somewhat, and he chose to cut the string with a dagger rather than to open it slowly. A number of pairs of eyes were fixed on the packet; the officers were breathless. The general unwound one roll of the cloth, a second, and a third, unwound with increasing haste till at last a package of wafers fell out on the table. Then he grew pale, and though no one asked what was in the package, he said, "Wafers!" "Nothing more?" asked some one in the crowd. "Nothing more!" answered the general, like an echo. A moment of silence followed, broken only by panting; at times too was heard the gritting of teeth, at times the rattling of rapiers. "Count Veyhard!" said Miller, at last, with a terrible and ill-omened voice. "He is no longer here!" answered one of the officers. Again silence followed. That night movement reigned in the whole camp. Scarcely was the light of day quenched when voices of command were heard, the hurrying of considerable divisions of cavalry, the sound of measured steps of infantry, the neighing of horses, the squeaking of wagons, the dull thump of cannon, with the biting of iron, the rattle of chains, noise, bustle, and turmoil. "Will there be a new storm in the morning?" asked the guards at the gates. But they were unable to see, for since twilight the sky was covered with clouds, and abundant snow had begun to fall. Its frequent flakes excluded the light. About five o'clock in the morning all sounds had ceased, but the snow was falling still more densely. On the walls and battlements it had created new walls and battlements. It covered the whole cloister and church, as if wishing to hide them from the glance of the enemy, to shelter and cover them from iron missiles. At last the air began to grow gray, and the bell commenced tolling for morning service, when the soldiers standing guard at the southern gate heard the snorting of a horse. Before the gate stood a peasant, all covered with snow; behind him was a low, small wooden sleigh, drawn by a thin, shaggy horse. The peasant fell to striking his body with his arms, to jumping from one foot to the other, and to crying,-- "People, but open here!" "Who is alive?" they asked from the walls. "Your own, from Dzbov. I have brought game for the benefactors." "And how did the Swedes let you come?" "What Swedes?" "Those who are besieging the church." "Oho, there are no Swedes now!" "Praise God, every soul! Have they gone?" "The tracks behind them are covered." With that, crowds of villagers and peasants blackened the road, some riding, others on foot, there were women too, and all began to cry from afar,-- "There are no Swedes! there are none! They have gone to Vyelunie. Open the gates! There is not a man in the camp!" "The Swedes have gone, the Swedes have gone!" cried men on the walls; and the news ran around like lightning. Soldiers rushed to the bells, and rang them all as if for an alarm. Every living soul rushed out of the cells, the dwellings, and the church. The news thundered all the time. The court was swarming with monks, nobles, soldiers, women, and children. Joyful shouts were heard around. Some ran out on the walls to examine the empty camp; others burst into laughter or into sobs. Some would not believe yet, but new crowds came continually, peasants and villagers. They came from Chenstohova, from the surrounding villages, and from the forests near by, noisily, joyously, and with singing. New tidings crossed one another each moment. All had seen the retreating Swedes, and told in what direction they were going. A few hours later the slope and the plain below the mountain were filled with people. The gates of the cloister were open wide, as they had been before the siege; and all the bells were ringing, ringing, ringing,--and those voices of triumph flew to the distance, and then the whole Commonwealth heard them. The snow was covering and covering the tracks of the Swedes. About noon of that day the church was so filled with people that head was as near head as on a paved street in a city one stone is near another. Father Kordetski himself celebrated a thanksgiving Mass, and to the throng of people it seemed that a white angel was celebrating it. And it seemed to them also that he was singing out his soul in that Mass, or that it was borne heavenward in the smoke of the incense, and was expanding in praise to the Lord. The thunder of cannon shook not the walls, nor the glass in the windows, nor covered the people with dust, nor interrupted prayer, nor that thanksgiving hymn which amid universal ecstasy and weeping, the holy prior was intoning-- "Te Deum laudamus." CHAPTER VI. The horses bore Kmita and the Kyemliches swiftly to ward the Silesian boundary. They advanced with caution to avoid meeting Swedish scouts, for though the cunning Kyemliches had "passes," given by Kuklinovski and signed by Miller, still soldiers, though furnished with such documents, were usually subjected to examination, and examination might have an evil issue for Pan Andrei and his comrades. They rode, therefore, swiftly, so as to pass the boundary in all haste and push into the depth of the Emperor's territory. The boundaries themselves were not free from Swedish ravagers, and frequently whole parties of horsemen rode into Silesia to seize those who were going to Yan Kazimir. But the Kyemliches, during their stay at Chenstohova, occupied continually with hunting individual Swedes, had learned through and through the whole region, all the boundary roads, passages, and paths where the chase was most abundant, and were as if in their own land. Along the road old Kyemlich told Pan Andrei what was to be heard in the Commonwealth; and Pan Andrei, having been confined so long in the fortress, forgetting his own pain, listened to the news eagerly, for it was very unfavorable to the Swedes, and heralded a near end to their domination in Poland. "The army is sick of Swedish fortune and Swedish company," said old Kyemlich; "and as some time ago the soldiers threatened the hetmans with their lives if they would not join the Swedes, so now the same men entreat Pototski and send deputations asking him to save the Commonwealth from oppression, swearing to stand by him to the death. Some colonels also have begun to attack the Swedes on their own responsibility." "Who began first?" "Jegotski, the starosta of Babimost, and Pan Kulesha. These began in Great Poland, and annoy the Swedes notably. There are many small divisions in the whole country, but it is difficult to learn the names of the leaders, for they conceal them to save their own families and property from Swedish vengeance. Of the army that regiment rose first which is commanded by Pan Voynillovich." "Gabryel? He is my relative, though I do not know him." "A genuine soldier. He is the man who rubbed out Pratski's party, which was serving the Swedes, and shot Pratski himself; but now he has gone to the rough mountains beyond Cracow; there he cut up a Swedish division, and secured the mountaineers from oppression." "Are the mountaineers fighting with the Swedes already?" "They were the first to rise; but as they are stupid peasants, they wanted to rescue Cracow straightway with axes. General Douglas scattered them, for they knew nothing of the level country; but of the parties sent to pursue them in the mountains, not a man has returned. Pan Voynillovich has helped those peasants, and now has gone himself to the marshal at Lyubovlya, and joined his forces." "Is Pan Lyubomirski, the marshal, opposed to the Swedes?" "Reports disagreed. They said that he favored this side and that; but when men began to mount their horses throughout the whole country he went against the Swedes. He is a powerful man, and can do them a great deal of harm. He alone might war with the King of Sweden. People say too that before spring there will not be one Swede in the Commonwealth." "God grant that!" "How can it be otherwise, your grace, since for the siege of Chenstohova all are enraged against them? The army is rising, the nobles are fighting already wherever they can, the peasants are collecting in crowds, and besides, the Tartars are marching; the Khan, who defeated Hmelnitski and the Cossacks, and promised to destroy them completely unless they would march against the Swedes, is coming in person." "But the Swedes have still much support among magnates and nobles?" "Only those take their part who must, and even they are merely waiting for a chance. The prince voevoda of Vilna is the only man who has joined them sincerely, and that act has turned out ill for him." Kmita stopped his horse, and at the same time caught his side, for terrible pain had shot through him. "In God's name!" cried he, suppressing a groan, "tell me what is taking place with Radzivill. Is he all the time in Kyedani?" "O Ivory Gate!" said the old man; "I know as much as people say, and God knows what they do not say. Some report that the prince voevoda is living no longer; others that he is still defending himself against Pan Sapyeha, but is barely breathing. It is likely that they are struggling with each other in Podlyasye, and that Pan Sapyeha has the upper hand, for the Swedes could not save the prince voevoda. Now they say that, besieged in Tykotsin by Sapyeha, it is all over with him." "Praise be to God! The honest are conquering traitors! Praise be to God! Praise be to God!" Kyemlich looked from under his brows at Kmita, and knew not himself what to think, for it was known in the whole Commonwealth that if Radzivill had triumphed in the beginning over his own troops and the nobles who did not wish Swedish rule, it happened, mainly, thanks to Kmita and his men. But old Kyemlich did not let that thought be known to his colonel, and rode farther in silence. "But what has happened to Prince Boguslav?" asked Pan Andrei, at last. "I have heard nothing of him, your grace," answered Kyemlich. "Maybe he is in Tykotsin, and maybe with the elector. War is there at present, and the King of Sweden has gone to Prussia; but we meanwhile are waiting for our own king. God give him! for let him only show himself, all to a man will rise, and the troops will leave the Swedes straightway." "Is that certain?" "Your grace, I know only what those soldiers said who had to be with the Swedes at Chenstohova. They are very fine cavalry, some thousands strong, under Zbrojek, Kalinski, and other colonels. I may tell your grace that no man serves there of his own will, except Kuklinovski's ravagers; they wanted to get the treasures of Yasna Gora. But all honorable soldiers did nothing but lament, and one quicker than another complained: 'We have enough of this Jew's service! Only let our king put a foot over the boundary, we will turn our sabres at once on the Swedes; but while he is not here, how can we begin, whither can we go?' So they complain; and in the other regiments which are under the hetmans it is still worse. This I know certainly, for deputations came from them to Pan Zbrojek with arguments, and they had secret talks there at night; this Miller did not know, though he felt that there was evil about him." "But is the prince voevoda of Vilna besieged in Tykotsin?" asked Pan Andrei. Kyemlich looked again unquietly on Kmita, for he thought that surely a fever was seizing him if he asked to have the same information repeated; still he answered,-- "Besieged by Pan Sapyeha." "Just are Thy judgments, God!" said Kmita. "He who might compare in power with kings! Has no one remained with him?" "In Tykotsin there is a Swedish garrison. But with the prince only some of his trustiest attendants have remained." Kmita's breast was filled with delight. He had feared the vengeance of the terrible magnate on Olenka, and though it seemed to him that he had prevented that vengeance with his threats, still he was tormented by the thought that it would be better and safer for Olenka and all the Billeviches to live in a lion's den than in Kyedani, under the hand of the prince, who never forgave any man. But now when he had fallen his opponents must triumph by the event; now when he was deprived of power and significance, when he was lord of only one poor castle, in which he defended his own life and freedom, he could not think of vengeance; his hand had ceased to weigh on his enemies. "Praise be to God! praise be to God!" repeated Kmita. He had his head so filled with the change in Radzivill's fortunes, so occupied with that which had happened during his stay in Chenstohova, and with the question where was she whom his heart loved, and what had become of her, that a third time he asked Kyemlich: "You say that the prince is broken?" "Broken completely," answered the old man. "But are you not sick?" "My side is burned. That is nothing!" answered Kmita. Again they rode on in silence. The tired horses lessened their speed by degrees, till at last they were going at a walk. That monotonous movement lulled to sleep Pan Andrei, who was mortally wearied, and he slept long, nodding in the saddle. He was roused only by the white light of day. He looked around with amazement, for in the first moment it seemed to him that everything through which he had passed in that night was merely a dream; at last he inquired,-- "Is that you, Kyemlich? Are we riding from Chenstohova?" "Of course, your grace." "But where are we?" "Oho, in Silesia already. Here the Swedes will not get us." "That is well!" said Kmita, coming to his senses completely. "But where is our gracious king living?" "At Glogov." "We will go there then to bow down to our lord, and offer him service. But listen, old man, to me." "I am listening, your grace." Kmita fell to thinking, however, and did not speak at once. He was evidently combining something in his head; he hesitated, considered, and at last said: "It cannot be otherwise!" "I am listening, your grace," repeated Kyemlich. "Neither to the king nor to any man at the court must you mutter who I am. I call myself Babinich, I am faring from Chenstohova. Of the great gun and of Kuklinovski you may talk, so that my intentions be not misconstrued, and I be considered a traitor, for in my blindness I aided and served Prince Radzivill; of this they may have heard at the court." "I may speak of what your grace did at Chenstohova--" "But who will show that 'tis true till the siege is over?" "I will act at your command." "The day will come for truth to appear at the top," added Kmita, as it were to himself, "but first our gracious lord must convince himself. Later he also will give me his witness." Here the conversation was broken. By this time it had become perfect day. Old Kyemlich began to sing matins, and Kosma and Damian accompanied him with bass voices. The road was difficult, for the frost was cutting, and besides, the travellers were stopped continually and asked for news, especially if Chenstohova was resisting yet. Kmita answered that it was resisting, and would take care of itself; but there was no end to questions. The roads were swarming with travellers, the inns everywhere filled. Some people were seeking refuge in the depth of the country from the neighboring parts of the Commonwealth before Swedish oppression; others were pushing toward the boundary for news. From time to time appeared nobles, who, having had enough of the Swedes, were going, like Kmita, to offer their services to the fugitive king. There were seen, also, attendants of private persons; at times smaller or larger parties of soldiers, from armies, which either voluntarily or in virtue of treaties with the Swedes had passed the boundaries,--such, for instance, as the troops of Stefan Charnyetski. News from the Commonwealth had roused the hope of those "exiles," and many of them were making ready to come home in arms. In all Silesia, and particularly in the provinces of Ratibor and Opol, it was boiling as in a pot; messengers were flying with letters to the king and from the king; they were flying with letters to Charnyetski, to the primate, to Pan Korytsinski, the chancellor; to Pan Varshytski, the castellan of Cracow, the first senator of the Commonwealth, who had not deserted the cause of Yan Kazimir for an instant. These lords, in agreement with the great queen, who was unshaken in misfortune, were coming to an understanding with one another, with the country, and with the foremost men in it, of whom it was known that they would gladly resume allegiance to their legal lord. Messengers were sent independently by the marshal of the kingdom, the hetmans, the army, and the nobles, who were making ready to take up arms. It was the eve of a general war, which in some places had broken out already. The Swedes put down these local outbursts either with arms or with the executioner's axe, but the fire quenched in one place flamed up at once in another. An awful storm was hanging over the heads of the Scandinavian invaders; the ground itself, though covered with snow, began to burn their feet; threats and vengeance surrounded them on all sides; their own shadows alarmed them. They went around like men astray. The recent songs of triumph died on their lips, and they asked one another in the greatest amazement, "Are these the same people who yesterday left their own king, and gave up without fighting a battle?" Yes, lords, nobles, army,--an example unheard of in history,--passed over to the conqueror; towns and castles threw open their gates; the country was occupied. Never had a conquest cost fewer exertions, less blood. The Swedes themselves, wondering at the ease with which they had occupied a mighty Commonwealth, could not conceal their contempt for the conquered, who at the first gleam of a Swedish sword rejected their own king, their country, provided that they could enjoy life and goods in peace, or acquire new goods in the confusion. What in his time Count Veyhard had told the emperor's envoy, Lisola, the king himself, and all the Swedish generals repeated: "There is no manhood in this nation, there is no stability, there is no order, no faith, no patriotism! It must perish." They forgot that that nation had still one feeling, specially that one whose earthly expression was Yasna Gora. And in that feeling was rebirth. Therefore the thunder of cannon which was heard under the sacred retreat found an echo at once in the hearts of all magnates, nobles, town-dwellers, and peasants. An outcry of awe was heard from the Carpathians to the Baltic, and the giant was roused from his torpor. "That is another people!" said the amazed Swedish generals. And all, from Arwid Wittemberg to the commandants of single castles, sent to Karl Gustav in Prussia tidings filled with terror. The earth was pushing from under their feet; instead of recent friends, they met enemies on all sides; instead of submission, hostility; instead of fear, a wild daring ready for everything; instead of mildness, ferocity; instead of long-suffering, vengeance. Meanwhile from hand to hand were flying in thousands throughout the whole Commonwealth the manifestoes of Yan Kazimir, which, issued at first in Silesia, had found no immediate echo. Now, on the contrary, they were seen in castles still free of the enemy. Wherever the Swedish hand was not weighing, the nobles assembled in crowds large and small, and beat their breasts, listening to the lofty words of the fugitive king, who, recounting faults and sins, urged them not to lose hope, but hasten to the rescue of the fallen Commonwealth. "Though the enemy have already advanced far, it is not too late," wrote Yan Kazimir, "for us to recover the lost provinces and towns, give due praise to God, satisfy the profaned churches with the blood of the enemy, and restore the former liberties, laws, and ancient enactments of Poland to their usual circuit; if only there is a return of that ancient Polish virtue, and that devotion and love of God peculiar to your ancestors, virtues for which our great-grandfather, Sigismund I., honored them before many nations. A return to virtue has already diminished these recent transgressions. Let those of you to whom God and His holy faith are dearer than aught else rise against the Swedish enemy. Do not wait for leaders or voevodas, or for such an order of things as is described in public law. At present the enemy have brought all these things to confusion among you; but do you join, the first man to a second, a third to these two, a fourth to the three, a fifth to the four, and thus farther, so that each one with his own subjects may come, and when it is possible try resistance. Afterward you will select a leader. Join yourselves one party to another, and you will form an army. When the army is formed and you have chosen a known chief over it, wait for our person, not neglecting an occasion wherever it comes to defeat the enemy. If we hear of the occasion, and your readiness and inclination, we will come at once and lay down our life wherever the defence of the country requires it." This manifesto was read even in the camp of Karl Gustav, in castles having Swedish garrisons, in all places wherever Polish squadrons were found. The nobles shed tears at every word of the king their kind lord, and took an oath on crosses, on pictures of the Most Holy Lady, and on scapulars to please him. To give a proof of their readiness, while ardor was in their hearts and their tears were not dry, they mounted here and there without hesitation, and moved on while hot against the Swedes. In this way the smaller Swedish parties began to melt and to vanish. This was done in Lithuania, Mazovia, Great and Little Poland. More than once nobles who had assembled at a neighbor's house for a christening, a name's day, a wedding or a dance, without any thought of war, finished the entertainment with this, that after they had taken a good share of drink they struck like a thunderbolt and cut to pieces the nearest Swedish command. Then, amid songs and shouts, they assembled for the road. Those who wished to "hunt" rode farther, changed into a crowd greedy for blood, from a crowd into a "party" which began steady war. Subject peasants and house-servants joined the amusement in throngs; others gave information about single Swedes or small squads disposed incautiously through the villages. And the number of "balls" and "masquerades" increased with each day. Joyousness and daring personal to the people were bound up with these bloody amusements. They disguised themselves gladly as Tartars, the very name of which filled the Swedes with alarm; for among them were current marvellous accounts and fables touching the ferocity, the terrible and savage bravery of those sons of the Crimean steppes, with whom the Scandinavians had never met hitherto. Besides, it was known universally that the Khan with about a hundred thousand of the horde was marching to succor Yan Kazimir; and the nobles made a great uproar while attacking Swedish commands, from which wonderful disorder resulted. The Swedish colonels and commandants in many places were really convinced that Tartars were present, and retreated in haste to larger fortresses and camps, spreading everywhere erroneous reports and alarm. Meanwhile the neighborhoods which were freed in this manner from the enemy were able to defend themselves, and change an unruly rabble into the most disciplined of armies. But more terrible for the Swedes than "masquerades" of nobles, or than the Tartars themselves, were the movements of the peasants. Excitement among the people began with the first day of the siege of Chenstohova; and ploughmen hitherto silent and patient began here and there to offer resistance, here and there to take scythes and flails and help nobles. The most brilliant Swedish generals looked with the greatest alarm at these crowds, which might at any moment turn into a genuine deluge and overwhelm beyond rescue the invaders. Terror seemed to them the most appropriate means by which to crush in the beginning this dreadful danger. Karl Gustav cajoled still, and retained with words of kindness those Polish squadrons which had followed him to Prussia. He had not spared flattery on Konyetspolski, the celebrated commander from Zbaraj. This commander stood at his side with six thousand cavalry, which at the first hostile meeting with the elector spread such terror and destruction among the Prussians that the elector abandoning the fight agreed as quickly as possible to the conditions. The King of Sweden sent letters also to the hetmans, the magnates, and the nobles, full of graciousness, promises, and encouragement to preserve loyalty to him. But at the same time he issued commands to his generals and commandants to destroy with fire and sword every opposition within the country, and especially to cut to pieces peasant parties. Then began a period of iron military rule. The Swedes cast aside the semblance of friendship. The sword, fire, pillage, oppression, took the place of the former pretended good will. From the castles they sent strong detachments of cavalry and infantry in pursuit of the "masqueraders." Whole villages, with churches and priests' dwellings, were levelled to the earth. Nobles taken prisoners, were delivered to the executioner; the right hands were cut from captured peasants, then they were sent home. These Swedish detachments were specially savage in Great Poland, which, as it was the first to surrender, was also the first to rise against foreign dominion. Commandant Stein gave orders on a certain occasion to cut the hands from more than three hundred peasants. In towns they built permanent gibbets, which every day were adorned with new victims. Pontus de la Gardie did the same in Lithuania and Jmud, where the noble villages took up arms first, and after them the peasants. Because in general it was difficult for the Swedes in the disturbance to distinguish their friends from their enemies, no one was spared. But the fire put down in blood, instead of dying, grew without ceasing, and a war began which was not on either side a question merely of victory, castles, towns, or provinces, but of life or death. Cruelty increased hatred, and they began not to struggle, but to exterminate each the other without mercy. CHAPTER VII. This war of extermination was just beginning when Kmita, with the three Kyemliches, reached Glogov, after a journey which was difficult in view of Pan Andrei's shaken health. They arrived in the night. The town was crowded with troops, lords, nobles, servants of the king and of magnates. The inns were so occupied that old Kyemlich with the greatest trouble found lodgings for his colonel outside the town at the house of a rope-maker. Pan Andrei spent the whole first day in bed in pain and fever from the burn. At times he thought that he should be seriously and grievously ill; but his iron constitution gained the victory. The following night brought him ease, and at daybreak he dressed and went to the parish church to thank God for his miraculous escape. The gray and snowy winter morning had barely dissipated the darkness. The town was still sleeping, but through the church door lights could be seen on the altar, and the sounds of the organ came forth. Kmita went to the centre of the church. The priest was celebrating Mass before the altar; there were few worshippers so far. At benches some persons were kneeling with their faces hidden in their hands; but besides those Pan Andrei saw, when his eyes had grown used to the darkness, a certain figure lying in the form of a cross in front of the pews on a carpet. Behind him were kneeling two youths with ruddy and almost angelic childish faces. This man was motionless, and only from his breast moving continually with deep sighs could it be known that he was not sleeping, but praying earnestly and with his whole soul. Kmita himself became absorbed in a thanksgiving prayer; but when he had finished his eyes turned involuntarily to the man lying as a cross, and could not leave him; something fastened them to him. Sighs deep as groans, audible in the silence of the church, shook that figure continually. The yellow rays of the candles burning before the altar, together with the light of day, whitening in the windows, brought it out of the gloom, and made it more and more visible. Pan Andrei conjectured at once from the dress that he must be some noted person, besides all present, not excepting the priest celebrating Mass, looked on him with honor and respect. The unknown was dressed entirely in black velvet bound with sable, but on his shoulders he had, turned down, a white lace collar, from under which peeped the golden links of a chain; a black hat with feathers of like color lay at his side; one of the pages kneeling beyond the carpet held gloves and a sword enamelled in blue. Kmita could not see the face of the unknown, for it was hidden by the folds of the carpet, and besides, the locks of an unusually thick wig scattered around his head concealed it completely. Pan Andrei pressed up to the front pew to see the face of the unknown when he rose. Mass was then drawing to an end. The priest was singing _Pater noster_. The people who wished to be at the following Mass were coming in through the main entrance. The church was filled gradually with figures with heads shaven at the sides, dressed in cloaks with long sleeves, in military burkas, in fur cloaks, and in brocade coats. It became somewhat crowded. Kmita then pushed with his elbow a noble standing at his side, and whispered,-- "Pardon, your grace, that I trouble you during service, but my curiosity is most powerful. Who is that?" He indicated with his eyes the man lying in the form of a cross. "Have you come from a distance, that you know not?" asked the noble. "Certainly I come from a distance, and therefore I ask in hope that if I find some polite man he will not begrudge an answer." "That is the king." "As God lives!" cried Kmita. But at that moment the king rose, for the priest had begun to read the Gospel. Pan Andrei saw an emaciated face, yellow and transparent, like church wax. The eyes of the king were moist, and his lids red. You would have said that all the fate of the country was reflected in that noble face, so much was there in it of pain, suffering, care. Sleepless nights divided between prayer and grief, terrible deceptions, wandering, desertion, the humiliated majesty of that son, grandson, and great-grandson of powerful kings, the gall which his own subjects had given him to drink so bountifully, the ingratitude of that country for which he was ready to devote his blood and life,--all this could be read in that face as in a book, and still it expressed not only resignation, obtained through faith and prayer, not only the majesty of a king and an anointed of God, but such great, inexhaustible kindness that evidently it would be enough for the greatest renegade, the most guilty man, only to stretch out his hands to that father, and that father would receive him, forgive him, and forget his offences. It seemed to Kmita at sight of him that some one had squeezed his heart with an iron hand. Compassion rose in the ardent soul of the young hero. Compunction, sorrow, and homage straitened the breath in his throat, a feeling of immeasurable guilt cut his knees under him so that he began to tremble through his whole body, and at once a new feeling rose in his breast. In one moment he had conceived such a love for that suffering king that to him there was nothing dearer on earth than that father and lord, for whom he was ready to sacrifice blood and life, bear torture and everything else in the world. He wished to throw himself at those feet, to embrace those knees, and implore forgiveness for his crimes. The noble, the insolent disturber, had died in him in one moment, and the royalist was born, devoted with his whole soul to his king. "That is our lord, our unhappy king," repeated he to himself, as if he wished with his lips to give witness to what his eyes saw and what his heart felt. After the Gospel, Yan Kazimir knelt again, stretched out his arms, raised his eyes to heaven, and was sunk in prayer. The priest went out at last, there was a movement in the church, the king remained kneeling. Then that noble whom Kmita had addressed pushed Pan Andrei in the side. "But who are you?" asked he. Kmita did not understand the question at once, and did not answer it directly, so greatly were his heart and mind occupied by the person of the king. "And who are you?" repeated that personage. "A noble like yourself," answered Pan Andrei, waking as if from a dream. "What is your name?" "What is my name? Babinich; I am from Lithuania, from near Vityebsk." "And I am Pan Lugovski, of the king's household. Have you just come from Lithuania, from Vityebsk?" "No; I come from Chenstohova." Pan Lugovski was dumb for a moment from wonder. "But if that is true, then come and tell us the news. The king is almost dead from anxiety because he has had no certain tidings these three days. How is it? You are perhaps from the squadron of Zbrojek, Kalinski, or Kuklinovski, from near Chenstohova." "Not from near Chenstohova, but directly from the cloister itself." "Are you not jesting? What is going on there, what is to be heard? Does Yasna Gora defend itself yet?" "It does, and will defend itself. The Swedes are about to retreat." "For God's sake! The king will cover you with gold. From the very cloister do you say that you have come? How did the Swedes let you pass?" "I did not ask their permission; but pardon me, I cannot give a more extended account in the church." "Right, right!" said Pan Lugovski. "God is merciful! You have fallen from heaven to us! It is not proper in the church,--right! Wait a moment. The king will rise directly; he will go to breakfast before high Mass. To-day is Sunday. Come stand with me at the door, and when the king is going out I will present you. Come, come, there is no time to spare." He pushed ahead, and Kmita followed. They had barely taken their places at the door when the two pages appeared, and after them came Yan Kazimir slowly. "Gracious King!" cried Pan Lugovski, "there are tidings from Chenstohova." The wax-like face of Yan Kazimir became animated in an instant. "What tidings? Where is the man?" inquired he. "This noble; he says that he has come from the very cloister." "Is the cloister captured?" cried the king. That moment Pan Andrei fell his whole length at the feet of the king. Yan Kazimir inclined and began to raise him by the arms. "Oh, ceremony another time, another time!" cried he. "Rise, in God's name, rise! Speak quickly! Is the cloister taken?" Kmita sprang up with tears in his eyes, and cried with animation,-- "It is not, and will not be taken, Gracious Lord. The Swedes are beaten. The great gun is blown up. There is fear among them, hunger, misery. They are thinking of retreat." "Praise, praise to Thee, Queen of the Angels and of us!" said the king. Then he turned to the church door, removed his hat, and without entering knelt on the snow at the door. He supported his head on a stone pillar, and sank into silence. After a while sobbing began to shake him. Emotion seized all, and Pan Andrei wept loudly. The king, after he had prayed and shed tears, rose quieted, with a face much clearer. He inquired his name of Kmita, and when the latter had told his assumed one, said,-- "Let Pan Lugovski conduct you at once to our quarters. We shall not take our morning food without hearing of the defence." A quarter of an hour later Kmita was standing in the king's chamber before a distinguished assembly. The king was only waiting for the queen, to sit down to breakfast. Marya Ludvika appeared soon. Yan Kazimir barely saw her when he exclaimed,-- "Chenstohova has held out! The Swedes will retreat! Here is Pan Babinich, who has just come, and he brings the news." The black eyes of the queen rested inquiringly on the youthful face of the hero, and seeing its sincerity, they grew bright with joy; and he, when he had made a profound obeisance, looked also at her boldly, as truth and honesty know how to look. "The power of God!" said the queen. "You have taken a terrible weight from our hearts, and God grant this is the beginning of a change of fortune. Do you come straight from near Chenstohova?" "Not from near Chenstohova, he says, but from the cloister itself,--one of the defenders!" exclaimed the king. "A golden guest! God grant such to come daily; but let him begin. Tell, brother, tell how you defended yourselves, and how the hand of God guarded you." "It is sure, Gracious King and Queen, that nothing saved us but the guardianship of God and the miracles of the Most Holy Lady, which I saw every day with my eyes." Here Kmita was preparing for his narrative, when new dignitaries appeared. First came the nuncio of the Pope; then the primate, Leshchynski; after him Vydjga, a golden-mouthed preacher, who was the queen's chancellor, later bishop of Varmia, and finally primate. With him came the chancellor of the kingdom, Pan Korytsinski, and the Frenchman De Noyers, a relative of the queen, and other dignitaries who had not deserted the king in misfortune, but chose to share with him the bitter bread of exile rather than break plighted faith. The king was eager to hear; therefore he ceased eating, every moment, and repeated, "Listen, gentlemen, listen; a guest from Chenstohova! Good news; hear it! From Yasna Gora itself!" Then the dignitaries looked with curiosity on Kmita, who was standing as it were before a court; but he, bold by nature and accustomed to intercourse with great people, was not a whit alarmed at sight of so many celebrated persons; and when all had taken their places, he began to describe the whole siege. Truth was evident in his words; for he spoke with clearness and strength, like a soldier who had seen everything, touched everything, passed through everything. He praised to the skies Pan Zamoyski and Pan Charnyetski; spoke of Kordetski, the prior, as of a holy prophet; exalted other fathers; missed no one save himself; but he ascribed the whole success of the defence, without deviation, to the Most Holy Lady, to Her favor and miracles. The king and the dignitaries listened to him in amazement. The archbishop raised his tearful eyes to heaven. Father Vydjga interpreted everything hurriedly to the nuncio; other great personages caught their heads; some prayed, or beat their breasts. At last, when Kmita came to the recent storms,--when he began to relate how Miller had brought heavy guns from Cracow, and among them one against which not only the walls of Chenstohova, but no walls in the world could stand,--such silence began as though some one were sowing poppy seeds, and all eyes rested on Pan Andrei's lips. But he stopped suddenly, and began to breathe quickly; a clear flush came out on his face; he frowned, raised his head, and spoke boldly: "Now I must speak of myself, though I should prefer to be silent. And if I say aught which seems praise, God is my witness that I do so not for rewards, for I do not need them, since the greatest reward for me is to shed my blood for majesty." "Speak boldly, I believe you," said the king. "But that great gun?" "That great gun--I, stealing out in the night from the fortress, blew into fragments with powder." "O loving God!" cried the king. But after this cry was silence, such astonishment had seized each person. All looked as at a rainbow at the young hero, who stood with flashing eyes, with a flush on his face, and with head proudly erect. And so much was there in him at that moment of a certain terribleness and wild courage that the thought came to each one unwittingly, such a man might dare such a deed. After silence of a moment the primate said,-- "This man looks like that!" "How did you do it?" asked the king. Kmita explained how he did it. "I cannot believe my ears," said Pan Korytsinski, the chancellor. "Worthy gentlemen," answered the king, with dignity, "you do not know whom we have before us. There is yet hope that the Commonwealth has not perished while it gives such cavaliers and citizens." "This man might say of himself, '_Si fractus illabatur orbis, impavidum ferient ruinæ_ (If the broken firmament should fall the ruins would strike him unterrified)!'" said Father Vydjga, who loved to quote authors at every opportunity. "These are almost impossible things," said the chancellor again. "Tell, Cavalier, how you brought away your life, and how you passed through the Swedes." "The explosion stunned me," said Kmita, "and next day the Swedes found me in the ditch lying as if lifeless. They judged me at once, and Miller condemned me to death." "Then did you escape?" "A certain Kuklinovski begged me of Miller, so that he might put me to death, for he had a fierce animosity against me." "He is a well-known disturber and murderer; we have heard of him," said the castellan of Kjyvinsk. "His regiment is with Miller at Chenstohova. That is true!" "Previously Kuklinovski was an envoy from Miller to the cloister, and once tried to persuade me in secret to treason when I was conducting him to the gate. I struck him in the face and kicked him. For that insult he was enraged against me." "Ah, this I see is a noble of fire and sulphur!" cried the king, amused. "Do not go into such a man's road. Did Miller then give you to Kuklinovski?" "He did, Gracious Gentlemen. Kuklinovski shut me with himself and some men in an empty little barn. There he had me tied to a beam with ropes, then he began to torture me and to burn my sides with fire." "By the living God!" "While doing this he was called away to Miller; when he was gone three nobles came, certain Kyemliches, his soldiers, who had served with me previously. They killed the guards, and unbound me from the beam--" "And you fled! Now I understand," said the king. "No, your Royal Grace. We waited for the return of Kuklinovski. Then I gave command to tie him to that same beam, and I burned him better with fire." When he had said this, Kmita, roused by remembrance, became red again, and his eyes gleamed like those of a wolf. But the king, who passed easily from grief to joy, from seriousness to sport, began to strike the table with his hand, and exclaim with laughter,-- "That was good for him! that was good for him! Such a traitor deserved nothing better!" "I left him alive," continued Kmita, "but he must have perished from cold before morning." "That's a deed; he does not give away his own. We need more of such!" cried the king, now completely delighted. "Did you come hither with those soldiers? What are their names?" "They are Kyemlich, a father and two sons." "My mother is from the house of Kyemlich," said Father Vydjga. "It is evident that there are great and small Kyemliches," answered Kmita, smiling; "these are not only small persons, but robbers; they are fierce soldiers, however, and faithful to me." Meanwhile the chancellor, who had been whispering for a time in the ear of the Archbishop of Gnyezno, said at last,-- "Many come here who for their own praise or for an expected reward are glad to raise dust. They bring false and disturbing news, and are frequently sent by the enemy." This remark chilled all present. Kmita's face became purple. "I do not know the office of your grace," said he, "which, I think, must be considerable, therefore I do not wish to offend you; but there is no office, as I think, which would empower any one to give the lie to a noble, without reason." "Man! you are speaking to the grand chancellor of the kingdom," said Lugovski. "Whoso gives me the lie, even if he is chancellor, I answer him, it is easier to give the lie than to give your life, it is easier to seal with wax than with blood!" Pan Korytsinski was not angry; he only said: "I do not give you the lie, Cavalier; but if what you say is true, you must have a burned side." "Come to another place, your great mightiness, to another room, and I will show it to you!" roared Kmita. "It is not needful," said the king; "I believe you without that." "It cannot be, your Royal Grace," exclaimed Pan Andrei; "I wish it myself, I beg it as a favor, so that here no one, even though I know not how worthy, should make me an exaggerator. My torment would be an ill reward; I wish belief." "I believe you," answered the king. "Truth itself was in his words," added Marya Ludvika. "I am not deceived in men." "Gracious King and Queen, permit. Let some man go aside with me, for it would be grievous for me to live here in suspicion." "I will go," said Pan Tyzenhauz, a young attendant of the king. So saying, he conducted Kmita to another room, and on the way said to him, "I do not go because I do not believe you, for I believe; but to speak with you. Have we met somewhere in Lithuania? I cannot remember your name, for it may be that I saw you when a youth, and I myself was a youth then?" Kmita turned away his face somewhat to hide his sudden confusion. "Perhaps at some provincial diet. My late father took me with him frequently to see public business." "Perhaps. Your face is surely not strange to me, though at that time it had not those scars. Still see how _memoria fragilis est_ (weak memory is); also it seems to me you had a different name." "Years dull the memory," answered Pan Andrei. They went to another room. After a while Tyzenhauz returned to the royal pair. "He is roasted, Gracious King, as on a spit," said he; "his whole side is burned." When Kmita in his turn came back, the king rose, pressed his head, and said,-- "We have never doubted that you speak the truth, and neither your pain nor your services will pass unrewarded." "We are your debtors," added the queen, extending her hand to him. Pan Andrei dropped on one knee and kissed with reverence the hand of the queen, who stroked him on the head like a mother. "Be not angry with the chancellor," said the king. "In this place there are really not a few traitors, or, if not traitors, men who are unwise, that wind three after three, and it belongs to the chancellor's office to discover truth touching public affairs." "What does my poor anger mean for such a great man?" answered Pan Andrei. "And I should not dare to murmur against a worthy senator, who gives an example of loyalty and love of country to all." The chancellor smiled kindly and extended his hand. "Well, let there be peace! You spoke ill to me of wax; but know this, that the Korytsinskis have sealed often with blood, not with wax only." The king was rejoiced. "This Babinich has pleased us," said he to the senators, "has touched our heart as few have. We will not let you go from our side, and God grant that we shall return together soon to our beloved country." "Oh, Most Serene King," cried Kmita, with ecstasy; "though confined in the fortress of Yasna Gora, I know from the nobles, from the army, and even from those who, serving under Zbrojek and Kalinski, besieged Chenstohova, that all are waiting for the day and the hour of your return. Only show yourself. Gracious Lord, and that day all Lithuania, Poland, and Russia will stand by you as one man! The nobles will join; even insignificant peasants will go with their lord to resist. The army under the hetmans is barely breathing from eagerness to move against the Swedes. I know this, too, that at Chenstohova deputies came from the hetmans' troops to arouse Zbrojek, Kalinski, and Kuklinovski, against the Swedes. Appear on the boundary to-day, and in a week there will not be a Swede; only appear, only show yourself, for we are there like sheep without a shepherd." Sparks came from Kmita's eyes while he was speaking, and such great ardor seized him that he knelt in the middle of the hall. His enthusiasm was communicated even to the queen herself, who, being of fearless courage, had long been persuading the king to return. Therefore, turning to Yan Kazimir, she said with energy and determination: "I hear the voice of the whole people through the mouth of this noble." "That is true, that is true, Gracious Lady, our Mother!" exclaimed Kmita. But certain words in what Kmita had said struck the chancellor and the king. "We have always been ready," said the king, "to sacrifice our health and life, and hitherto we have been waiting for nothing else but a change in our subjects." "That change has taken place already," said Marya Ludvika. "_Majestas infracta malis_ (Majesty unbroken by misfortune)!" said Father Vydjga, looking at her with homage. "It is important," said the archbishop, "if, really, deputations from the hetmans went to Chenstohova." "I know this from my men, those Kyemliches," answered Pan Andrei. "In the squadrons of Zbrojek and Kalinski all spoke openly of this, paying no attention to Miller and the Swedes. These Kyemliches were not enclosed in the fortress; they had relations with the world, with soldiers and nobles,--I can bring them before your Royal Grace and your worthinesses; let them tell how it is seething in the whole country as in a pot. The hetmans joined the Swedes from constraint only; the troops wish to return to duty. The Swedes beat nobles and priests, plunder, violate ancient liberties; it is no wonder then that each man balls his fist and looks anxiously at his sabre." "We, too, have had news from the troops," said the king; "there were here, also, secret envoys who told us of the general wish to return to former loyalty and honor." "And that agrees with what this cavalier tells," said the chancellor. "But if deputations are passing among the regiments it is important, for it means that the fruit is already ripe, that our efforts were not vain, that our work is accomplished, that the time is at hand." "But Konyetspolski," said the king, "and so many others who are still at the side of the invader, who look into his eyes and give assurances of their devotion?" Then all grew silent, the king became gloomy on a sudden, and as when the sun goes behind a cloud a shadow covers at once the whole world, so did his face grow dark. After a time he said,-- "God sees in our heart that even to-day we are ready to move, and that not the power of Sweden detains us, but the unhappy fickleness of our people, who, like Proteus, take on a new form every moment. Can we believe that this change is sincere, this desire not imagined, this readiness not deceitful? Can we believe that people who so recently deserted us, and with such light hearts joined the invader against their own king, against their own country, against their own liberties? Pain straitens our heart, and we are ashamed of our own subjects! Where does history show such examples? What king has met so many treasons, so much ill-will? Who has been so deserted? Call to mind, your kindnesses, that we in the midst of our army, in the midst of those who were bound to shed their blood for us,--it is a danger and a terror to tell it,--we were not sure of our life. And if we left the country and had to seek an asylum, it is not from fear of the Swedish enemy, but of our own subjects, to save our own children from the terrible crime of king murder and parricide." "Gracious Lord!" exclaimed Kmita; "our people have sinned grievously; they are guilty, and the hand of God is punishing them justly; but still, by the wounds of Christ, there has not been found among that people, and God grant that there will never be found, a man who would raise his hand on the sacred person of the anointed of God." "You do not believe, because you are honest," said the king, "but we have letters and proofs. The Radzivills have paid us badly for the kindness with which we have covered them; but still Boguslav, though a traitor, was moved by conscience, and not only did he not wish to lend a hand to such a deed, but he was the first to warn us of it." "What deed?" asked the astonished Kmita. "He informed us," said the king, "that there was a man who offered for one hundred gold ducats to seize us and deliver us, living or dead, to the Swedes." A shiver passed through the whole assembly at these words of the king, and Kmita was barely able to groan out the question, "Who was that man?--who was he?" "A certain Kmita," answered the king. A wave of blood suddenly struck Pan Andrei in the head, it grew dark in his eyes, he seized his forelock, and with a terribly wandering voice said: "That is a lie! Prince Boguslav lies like a dog! Gracious King, believe not that traitor; he did that of purpose to bring infamy on an enemy, and to frighten you, my king. He is a traitor! Kmita would not have done such a deed." Here Pan Andrei turned suddenly where he was standing. His strength, exhausted by the siege, undermined by the explosion of powder in the great gun, and through the torture given by Kuklinovski, left him altogether, and he fell without consciousness at the feet of the king. They bore him into the adjoining room, where the king's physician examined him. But in the assembly of dignitaries they knew not how to explain why the words of the king had produced such a terrible impression on the young man. "Either he is so honest that horror alone has thrown him off his feet, or he is some relative of that Kmita," said the castellan of Cracow. "We must ask him," replied the chancellor. "In Lithuania nobles are all related one to another, as in fact they are with us." "Gracious Lord," said Tyzenhauz, "God preserve me from wishing to speak evil of this young man; but we should not trust him at present too much. That he served in Chenstohova is certain,--his side is burned; this the monks would not have done in any event, for they as servants of God must have every clemency, even for prisoners and traitors; but one thing is coming continually to my head and destroying trust in him, that is, I met him somewhere in Lithuania,--still a youth, at a diet or a carnival,--I don't remember--" "And what of that?" asked the king. "And it seems to me always that his name was not Babinich." "Do not tell every little thing," said the king; "you are young and inattentive, and a thing might easily enter your head. Whether he is Babinich or not, why should I not trust him? Sincerity and truth are written on his lips, and evidently he has a golden heart. I should not trust myself, if I could not trust a soldier who has shed his blood for us and the country." "He deserves more confidence than the letter of Prince Boguslav," said the queen, suddenly, "and I recommend this to the consideration of your worthinesses, there may not be a word of truth in that letter. It might have been very important for the Radzivills of Birji that we should lose courage completely, and it is easy to admit that Prince Boguslav wished also to ruin some enemy of his, and leave a door open to himself in case of changed fortune." "If I were not accustomed," said the primate, "to hear wisdom itself coming from the mouth of the gracious queen, I should be astonished at the quickness of these words, worthy of the ablest statesman--" "_Comasque gerens, animosque viriles_ (Though wearing tresses, she has the courage of a man)," interrupted Father Vydjga, in a low voice. Encouraged by these words, the queen rose from her chair and began to speak: "I care not for the Radzivills of Birji, for they, as heretics, listen easily to the whispers of the enemy of the human race; nor of the letter of Prince Boguslav, which may touch private affairs. But I am most pained by the despairing words of my lord and husband, the king, spoken against this people. For who will spare them if their own king condemns them? And still, when I look through the world, I ask in vain, where is there another such people in which the praise of God endures with the manner of ancient sincerity and increases continually? In vain do I look for another people in which such open candor exists. Where is there another State in which no one has heard of those hellish blasphemies, subtle crimes, and never ending feuds with which foreign chronicles are filled. Let people skilled in the history of the world show me another kingdom where all the kings died their own quiet deaths. You have no knives or poisons here; you have no protectors, as among the English. It is true that this nation has grown grievously guilty, has sinned through frivolity and license. But where is the nation that never errs, and where is the one which, as soon as it has recognized its offence, begins penance and reformation? Behold they have already taken thought, they are now coming, beating their breasts to your majesty, ready to spill their blood, to yield their lives, to sacrifice their fortune for you. And will you reject them; will you not forgive the penitent; will you not trust those who have reformed, those who are doing penance; will you not return the affection of a father to children who have erred? Trust them, since they are yearning for their Yagyellon blood, and for your government, which is of their fathers. Go among them; I, a woman, fear no treason, for I see love, I see sorrow for sins and restoration of this kingdom to which they called you after your father and your brother. It does not seem to me likely that God will destroy such a great commonwealth, in which the light of the true faith is burning. For a short period God's justice has stretched forth the rod to chastise, not to ruin its children, and soon will the fatherly love of that heavenly Lord receive them and cherish them. But do not contemn them, O king, and fear not to confide in their sonly discretion, for in this way alone can you turn evil into good, suffering into comfort, defeat into triumph." When she had said this, the queen sat down, with fire still in her eyes, and heaving breast; all looked at her with veneration, and her chancellor, Vydjga, began to speak with a resonant voice,-- "Nulla sors longa est, dolor et voluptas, Invicens cedunt. Ima permutat brevis hora summis." (No fortune is long, pain and pleasure Yield in turn. A short hour changes the lowest with the highest.) But no one heard what he said, for the ardor of the heroic lady was communicated to every heart. The king himself sprang up, with a flush on his sallow face, and said,-- "I have not lost the kingdom yet, since I have such a queen. Let her will be done, for she spoke with prophetic inspiration. The sooner I move and appear in my realms the better." To this the primate answered with seriousness: "I do not wish to oppose the will of my gracious king and queen, nor to turn them from an undertaking in which there is hazard, but in which there may be also salvation. Still I should consider it a wise thing to assemble in Opol, where a majority of the senators are tarrying, and there listen to the ideas of all; these may develop and explain the affair more clearly and broadly." "Then to Opol!" exclaimed the king, "and afterward to the road, and what God will give!" "God will give a happy return and victory!" said the queen. "Amen!" said the primate. CHAPTER VIII. Pan Andrei fretted in his lodgings like a wounded wildcat. The hellish revenge of Boguslav Radzivill brought him almost to madness. Not enough that that prince had sprung out of his hands, killed his men, almost deprived him of life; he had put upon him besides shame such as no one, not merely of his name, but no Pole from the beginning of the world, had ever groaned under. There were moments when Kmita wished to leave everything--the glory which was opening before him, the service of the king--and fly away to avenge himself on that magnate whom he wanted to eat up alive. But on the other hand, in spite of all his rage and the whirlwind in his head, he remembered that while the prince lived revenge would not vanish; and the best means, the only way to hurl back his calumny and lay bare all the infamy of his accusation, was precisely the service of the king; for in it he could show the world that not only had he not thought of raising his hand against the sacred person of Yan Kazimir, but that among all the nobles of Lithuania and Poland no person more loyal than Kmita could be found. But he gnashed his teeth and was boiling like a stew; he tore his clothing, and long, long was it before he could calm himself. He gloated over the thought of revenge. He saw this Radzivill again in his hands; he swore by the memory of his father, that he must reach Boguslav even if death and torments were awaiting him therefor. And though the prince was a mighty lord whom not only the revenge of a common noble, but even the revenge of a king, could not easily touch; still, whoso knew that unrestrained soul better, would not have slept calmly, and more than once would have trembled before his vows. And still Pan Andrei did not know yet that the prince had not merely covered him with shame and robbed him of repute. Meanwhile the king, who from the first had conceived a great love for the young hero, sent Pan Lugovski to him that same day, and on the morrow commanded Kmita to accompany his majesty to Opol, where at a general assembly of the senators it was intended to deliberate on the return of the king to the country. Indeed there was something over which to deliberate. Lyubomirski, the marshal of the kingdom, had sent a new letter, announcing that everything in the country was ready for a general war, and urging earnestly the return. Besides this, news was spread of a certain league of nobles and soldiers formed for the defence of the king and the country, concerning which men had really been thinking for some time, but which, as appeared afterward, was concluded a little later, under the name of the Confederation of Tishovtsi. All minds were greatly occupied by the news, and immediately after a thanksgiving Mass they assembled in a secret council, to which, at the instance of the king, Kmita too was admitted, since he had brought news from Chenstohova. They began then to discuss whether the return was to take place at once, or whether it were better to defer it till the army, not only by wish, but by deed, should abandon the Swedes. Yan Kazimir put an end to these discussions by saying: "Do not discuss, your worthinesses, the return, or whether it is better to defer it awhile, for I have taken counsel already concerning that with God and the Most Holy Lady. Therefore I communicate to you that whatever may happen we shall move in person these days. Express your ideas therefore, your worthinesses, and be not sparing of counsel as to how our return may be best and most safely accomplished." Opinions were various. Some advised not to trust too greatly to the marshal of the kingdom, who had once shown hesitation and disobedience, when, instead of giving the crown to the emperor for safe keeping, according to the order of the king, he had carried it to Lyubovlya. "Great," said they, "is the pride and ambition of that lord, and if he should have the person of the king in his castle, who knows what he might do, or what he would ask for his services; who knows that he would not try, or wish to seize the whole government in his own hands, and become the protector, not only of the entire country, but of the king?" These advised the king therefore to wait for the retreat of the Swedes and repair to Chenstohova, as to the place from which grace and rebirth had spread over the Commonwealth. But others gave different opinions,-- "The Swedes are yet at Chenstohova, and though by the grace of God they will not capture the place, still there are no unoccupied roads. All the districts about there are in Swedish hands. The enemy are at Kjepitsi, Vyelunie, Cracow; along the boundary also considerable forces are disposed. In the mountains near the Hungarian border, where Lyubovlya is situated, there are no troops save those of the marshal; the Swedes have never gone to that distance, not having men enough nor daring sufficient. From Lyubovlya it is nearer to Russia, which is free of hostile occupation, and to Lvoff, which has not ceased to be loyal, and to the Tartars, who, according to information, are coming with succor; all these are waiting specially for the decision of the king." "As to Pan Lyubomirski," said the Bishop of Cracow, "his ambition will be satisfied with this, that he will receive the king first in his starostaship of Spij, and will surround him with protection. The government will remain with the king, but the hope itself of great services will satisfy the marshal. If he wishes to tower above all others through his loyalty, then, whether his loyalty flows from ambition or from love to the king and the country, his majesty will always receive notable profit." This opinion of a worthy and experienced bishop seemed the most proper; therefore it was decided that the king should go through the mountains to Lyubovlya, and thence to Lvoff, or whithersoever circumstances might indicate. They discussed also the day of returning; but the voevoda of Lenchytsk, who had just come from his mission to the emperor for aid, said that it was better not to fix the date, but to leave the decision to the king, so that the news might not be spread and the enemy forewarned. They decided only this, that the king would move on with three hundred dragoons, under command of Tyzenhauz, who, though young, enjoyed already the reputation of a great soldier. But still more important was the second part of the deliberations, in which it was voted unanimously that on his arrival in the country, government and the direction of the war should pass into the hands of the king, whom nobles, troops, and hetmans were to obey in all things. They spoke besides of the future, and touched upon the causes of those sudden misfortunes which, as a deluge, had covered the whole land in such a brief period. And the primate himself gave no other cause for this than the disorder, want of obedience, and excessive contempt for the office and majesty of the king. He was heard in silence, for each man understood that it was a question here of the fate of the Commonwealth, and of great, hitherto unexampled changes in it, which might bring back the ancient power of the State, and which was long desired by the wise queen who loved her adopted country. From the mouth of the worthy prince of the church there came words like thunderbolts, and the souls of the hearers opened to the truth, almost as flowers open to the sun. "Not against ancient liberties do I rise," said the primate, "but against that license which with its own hands is murdering the country. In very truth men have forgotten in this Commonwealth the distinction between freedom and license; and as excessive pleasure ends in pain, so freedom unchecked has ended in slavery. You have descended to such error, citizens of this illustrious Commonwealth, that only he among you passes for a defender of liberty who raises an uproar, who breaks diets and opposes the king, not when it is needful, but when for the king it is a question of saving the country. In our treasury the bottom of the chest can be seen; the soldier unpaid seeks pay of the enemy; the diets, the only foundation of this Commonwealth, are dissolved after having done nothing, for one disorderly man, one evil citizen, for his own private purpose may prevent deliberation. What manner of liberty is that which permits one man to stand against all? If that is freedom for one man, then it is bondage for all others. And where have we gone with the use of this freedom which seemed such sweet fruit? Behold one weak enemy, against whom our ancestors gained so many splendid victories, now _sicut fulgur exit ab occidente et poret usque ad orientem_ (flashes like lightning from the west, and goes as far as the east). No one opposes him, traitorous heretics aided him, and he seized possession of all things; he persecutes the faith, he desecrates churches, and when you speak of your liberties he shows you the sword. Behold what your provincial diets have come to, what your veto has come to, what your license has come to, your degradation of the king at every step. Your king, the natural defender of the country, you have rendered, first of all, powerless, and then you complain that he does not defend you. You did not want your own government, and now the enemy is governing. And who, I ask, can save us in this fall, who can bring back ancient glory to this Commonwealth, if not he who has spent so much of his life and time for it; when the unhappy domestic war with the Cossacks tore it, who exposed his consecrated person to dangers such as no monarch in our time has passed through; who at Zborovo, at Berestechko, and at Jvanyets fought like a common soldier, bearing toils and hardships beyond his station of king? To him now we will confide ourselves; to him, with the example of the ancient Romans, we will give the dictatorship, and take counsel ourselves how to save in time coming this fatherland from domestic enemies, from vice, license, disorder, disobedience, and restore due dignity to the government and the king." So spoke the primate; and misfortune with the experience of recent times had changed his hearers in such a degree that no man protested, for all saw clearly that either the power of the king must be strengthened, or the Commonwealth must perish without fail. They began therefore to consider in various ways how to bring the counsels of the primate into practice. The king and queen listened to them eagerly and with joy, especially the queen, who had labored long and earnestly at the introduction of order into the Commonwealth. The king returned then to Glogov glad and satisfied, and summoning a number of confidential officers, among whom was Kmita, he said,-- "I am impatient, my stay in this country is burning me, I could wish to start even to-morrow; therefore I have called you, as men of arms and experience, to provide ready methods. It is a pity that we should lose time, when our presence may hasten considerably a general war." "In truth," said Lugovski, "if such is the will of your Royal Grace, why delay? The sooner the better." "While the affair is not noised about and the enemy do not double their watchfulness," added Colonel Wolf. "The enemy are already on their guard, and have taken possession of the roads so far as they are able," said Kmita. "How is that?" asked the king. "Gracious Lord, your intended return is no news for the Swedes. Almost every day a report travels over the whole Commonwealth, that your Royal Grace is already on the road, or even now in your realms, _inter regna_. Therefore it is necessary to observe the greatest care, and to hurry by through narrow places stealthily, for Douglas's scouts are waiting on the roads." "The best carefulness," said Tyzenhauz, looking at Kmita, "is three hundred faithful sabres; and if my gracious lord gives me command over them, I will conduct him in safety, even over the breasts of Douglas's scouts." "You will conduct if there are just three hundred, but suppose that you meet six hundred or a thousand, or come upon a superior force waiting in ambush, what then?" "I said three hundred," answered Tyzenhauz, "for three hundred were mentioned. If however that is too small a party, we can provide five hundred and even more." "God save us from that. The larger the party, the more noise will it make," said Kmita. "I think that the marshal of the kingdom will come out to meet us with his squadrons," put in the king. "The marshal will not come out," answered Kmita, "for he will not know the day and the hour, and even if he did know some delay might happen on the road, as is usual; it is difficult to foresee everything." "A soldier says that, a genuine soldier!" said the king. "It is clear that you are not a stranger to war." Kmita laughed, for he remembered his attacks on Hovanski. Who was more skilled than he in such actions? To whom could the escort of the king be entrusted with more judgment? But Tyzenhauz was evidently of a different opinion from the king, for he frowned and said with sarcasm against Kmita, "We wait then for your enlightened counsel." Kmita felt ill will in the words; therefore he fixed his glance on Tyzenhauz and answered,-- "My opinion is that the smaller the party the easier it will pass." "How is that?" "The will of your Royal Grace is unfettered," said Kmita, "and can do what it likes, but my reason teaches me this: Let Pan Tyzenhauz go ahead with the dragoons, giving out purposely that he is conducting the king; this he will do to attract the enemy to himself. His affair is to wind out, to escape from the trap safely. And we with a small band in a day or two will move after him with your Royal Grace; and when the enemy's attention is turned in another direction it will be easy for us to reach Lyubovlya." The king clapped his hands with delight. "God sent us this soldier!" cried he. "Solomon could not judge better. I give my vote for this plan, and there must not be another. They will hunt for the king among the dragoons, and the king will pass by under their noses. It could not be better!" "Gracious King," cried Tyzenhauz, "that is pastime." "Soldier's pastime!" said the king. "But no matter, I will not recede from that plan." Kmita's eyes shone from delight because his opinion had prevailed, but Tyzenhauz sprang from his seat. "Gracious Lord!" said he, "I resign my command from the dragoons. Let some one else lead them." "And why is that?" "For if your Royal Grace will go without defence, exposed to the play of fortune, to every destructive chance which may happen, I wish to be near your person to expose my breast for you and to die should the need be." "I thank you for your sincere intention," answered Yan Kazimir; "but calm yourself, for in just such a way as Babinich advises shall I be least exposed." "Let Pan Babinich, or whatever his name may be, take what he advises on his own responsibility! It may concern him that your Royal Grace be lost in the mountains. I take as witness God and my companions here present that I advised against it from my soul." Scarcely had he finished speaking when Kmita sprang up, and standing face to face with Tyzenhauz asked, "What do you mean by these words?" Tyzenhauz measured him haughtily with his eyes from head to foot, and said, "Do not strain your head, little man, toward mine, the place is too high for you." To which Kmita with lightning in his eyes replied, "It is not known for whom it would be too high if--" "If what?" asked Tyzenhauz, looking at him quickly. "If I should reach higher people, than you." Tyzenhauz laughed. "But where would you seek them?" "Silence!" said the king suddenly, with a frown. "Do not begin a quarrel in my presence." Yan Kazimir made an impression of such dignity on all surrounding him, that both young men were silent and confused, remembering that in the presence of the king unseemly words had escaped them. But the king added,-- "No one has the right to exalt himself above that cavalier who burst the siege gun and escaped from Swedish hands, even though his father lived in a village, which, as I see, was not the case, for a bird from his feathers, and blood from deeds are easily known. Drop your offences." Here the king turned to Tyzenhauz. "You wish it; then remain with our person. We may not refuse that. Wolf or Denhoff will lead the dragoons. But Babinich too will remain, and we will go according to his counsel, for he has pleased our heart." "I wash my hands!" said Tyzenhauz. "Only preserve the secret, gentlemen. Let the dragoons go to Ratibor to-day, and spread as widely as possible the report that I am with them. And then be on the watch, for you know not the day nor the hour--Go, Tyzenhauz, give the order to the captain of the dragoons." Tyzenhauz went out wringing his hands from anger and sorrow; after him went other officers. That same day the news thundered through all Glogov that the king had already gone to the boundaries of the Commonwealth. Even many distinguished senators thought that the departure had really taken place. Couriers, sent purposely, took the report to Opol and to the roads on the boundary. Tyzenhauz, though he had declared that he washed his hands, did not give up the affair as lost; as attendant of the king, he had access to the person of the monarch every moment made easy. That very day therefore, after the dragoons had gone, he stood before the face of Yan Kazimir, or rather before both royal persons, for Marya Ludvika was present. "I have come for the order," said he; "when do we start?" "The day after to-morrow, before dawn." "Are many people to go?" "You will go; Lugovski with the soldiers. The castellan of Sandomir goes also with me. I begged him to take as few men as possible; but we cannot dispense with a few trusty and tried sabres. Besides, his holiness the nuncio wishes to accompany me; his presence will add importance, and will touch all who are faithful to the true church. He does not hesitate therefore to expose his sacred person to hazard. Do you have a care that there are not more than forty horses, for that is Babinich's counsel." "Gracious Lord!" said Tyzenhauz. "And what do you wish yet?" "On my knees I implore one favor. The question is settled, the dragoons have gone,--we shall travel without defence, and the first scouting party of a few tens of horses may capture us. Listen, your Royal Grace, to the prayer of your servant, on whose faithfulness God is looking, and do not trust in everything to that noble. He is an adroit man, since he has been able in so short a time to steal into your heart and favor; but--" "Do you envy him?" interrupted the king. "I do not envy him, Gracious Lord; I do not wish even to suspect him of treason positively; but I would swear that his name is not Babinich. Why does he hide his real name? Why is it somehow inconvenient to tell what he did before the siege of Chenstohova? Why specially has he insisted upon dragoons going out first, and that your Royal Grace should go without an escort?" The king thought awhile, and began, according to his custom, to pout his lips repeatedly. "If it were a question of collusion with the Swedes," said he at last, "what could three hundred dragoons do? What power would they be, and what protection? Babinich would need merely to notify the Swedes to dispose a few hundred infantry along the roads, and they could take us as in a net. But only think if there can be a question of treason here. He would have had to know beforehand the date of our journey, and to inform the Swedes in Cracow; and how could he do so, since we move the day after to-morrow? He could not even guess that we would choose his plan; we might have gone according to your suggestion or that of others. It was at first decided to go with the dragoons; then if he wished to talk with the Swedes this special party would have confused his arrangements, for he would have to send out new messengers and give fresh notice. All these are irrefragable reasons. And besides he did not insist at all on his opinion, as you say; he only offered, as did others, what seemed to him best. No, no! Sincerity is looking forth from the eyes of that noble, and his burned side bears witness that he is ready to disregard even torture." "His Royal Grace is right," said the queen, on a sudden; "these points are irrefragable, and the advice was and is good." Tyzenhauz knew from experience that when the queen gave her opinion it would be vain for him to appeal to the king, Yan Kazimir had such confidence in her wit and penetration. And it was a question now with the young man only that the king should observe needful caution. "It is not my duty," answered he, "to oppose my king and queen. But if we are to go the day after to-morrow, let this Babinich not know of it till the hour of departure." "That may be," said the king. "And on the road I will have an eye on him, and should anything happen he will not go alive from my hands." "You will not have to act," said the queen. "Listen; not you will preserve the king from evil happenings on the road, from treason, and snares of the enemy; not you, not Babinich, not the dragoons, not the powers of earth, but the Providence of God, whose eye is turned continually on the shepherds of nations and the anointed of the Lord. It will guard him. It will protect him and bring him safely; and in case of need, send him assistance, of which you do not even think, you who believe in earthly power only." "Most Serene Lady!" answered Tyzenhauz, "I believe, too, that without the will of God not a hair will fall from the head of any man; but to guard the king's person through fear of traitors is no sin for me." Marya Ludvika smiled graciously. "But you suspect too hastily, and thus cast shame on a whole nation, in which, as this same Babinich has said, there has not yet been found one to raise his hand against his own king. Let it not astonish you that after such desertion, after such a breaking of oaths and faith as the king and I have experienced, I say still that no one has dared such a terrible crime, not even those who to-day serve the Swedes." "Prince Boguslav's letter, Gracious Lady?" "That letter utters untruth," said the queen, with decision. "If there is a man in the Commonwealth ready to betray even the king, that man is Prince Boguslav, for he in name only belongs to this people." "Speaking briefly, do not put suspicion on Babinich," said the king. "As to his name, it must be doubled in your head. Besides, we may ask him; but how can we say to him here, how inquire, 'If you are not Babinich, then what is your name?' Such a question might pain an honest man terribly, and I'll risk my head that he is an honest man." "At such a price, Gracious Lord, I would not convince myself of his honesty." "Well, well, we are thankful for your care. To-morrow for prayer and penance, and the day after to the road, to the road!" Tyzenhauz withdrew with a sigh, and in the greatest secrecy began preparations that very day for the journey. Even dignitaries who were to accompany the king were not all informed of the time. But the servants were ordered to have horses in readiness, for they might start any day for Ratibor. The king did not show himself the entire following day, even in the church; but he lay in the form of a cross in his own room till night, fasting and imploring the King of kings for aid, not for himself, but for the Commonwealth. Marya Ludvika, together with her ladies-in-waiting, was also in prayer. Then the following night freshened the strength of the wearied ones; and when in darkness the Glogov church-bell sounded to matins, the hour had struck for the journey. CHAPTER IX. They rode through Ratibor, merely stopping to feed the horses. No one recognized the king, no one paid much attention to the party, for all were occupied with the recent passage of the dragoons, among whom, as all thought, was the King of Poland. The retinue was about fifty in number, for several dignitaries accompanied the king; five bishops alone, and among others the nuncio, ventured to share with him the toils of a journey not without peril. The road within the boundary of the empire, however, presented no danger. At Oderberg, not far from the junction of the Olsha with the Odra, they entered Moravia. The day was cloudy, and snow fell so thickly that it was not possible to see the road a few steps ahead. But the king was joyous and full of courage, for a sign had been manifested which all considered most favorable, and which contemporary historians did not neglect to insert in their chronicles. Behold, just as the king was departing from Glogov, a little bird, entirely white, appeared before his horse and began to circle round, rising at times in the air, at times coming down to the head of the king, chirping and twittering joyously meanwhile. They remembered that a similar bird, but black, had circled over the king when he was retreating from Warsaw before the Swedes. But this was white, exactly of the size and form of a swallow; which fact roused the greater wonder, because it was deep winter, and swallows were not thinking yet of return. But all were rejoiced, and the king for the first few days spoke of nothing else, and promised himself the most successful future. It appeared from the beginning, too, how sound was Kmita's advice to travel apart. Everywhere in Moravia people were telling of the recent passage of the King of Poland. Some stated that they had seen him with their own eyes, all in armor, with a sword in his hand and a crown on his head. Various stories, also, were current of the forces which he had with him, and in general the number of his dragoons was exaggerated to the fabulous. There were some who had seen ten thousand, and who could not wait till the last horses, men, gunners, and flags had passed. "Surely," said they, "the Swedes will spring before them, but what they will do with such a force is unknown." "Well," asked the king of Tyzenhauz, "was not Babinich right?" "We are not in Lyubovlya yet, Gracious Lord," replied the young magnate. Babinich was satisfied with himself and with the journey. Generally he went ahead of the king's party with the three Kyemliches, examining the road; sometimes he rode with the rest, entertaining the king with narratives of single incidents in the siege of Chenstohova, of which the king never had enough. And almost every hour that young hero, cheerful, mettlesome, eagle-like, drew nearer the heart of the king. Time passed for the monarch now in prayer, now in pious meditation on eternal life, now in discussing the coming war and the aid hoped from the emperor, and finally in looking at knightly amusements with which the attendant soldiers endeavored to shorten the time of the journey. For Yan Kazimir had this in his nature, that his mind passed easily from seriousness almost to frivolity, from hard labor to amusements, to which, when there was leisure, he gave himself with his whole soul, as if no care, no grief had pressed him at any time. The soldiers then exhibited themselves, each with what he could do; the Kyemliches, Kosma, and Damian, immense and awkward figures, amused the king by breaking horseshoes, which they broke like canes; he paid them a thaler apiece, though his wallet was empty enough, for all his money, and even the diamonds and "parafanaly" (paraphernalia) of the queen, had been spent on the army. Pan Andrei exhibited himself by throwing a heavy hatchet, which he hurled upward with such force that it was barely visible, and then he sprang under the instrument with his horse and caught it by the handle as it fell. At sight of this the king clapped his hands. "I saw that done," said he, "by Pan Slushka, brother of the vice-chancellor's wife, but he threw not so high by half." "This is customary with us in Lithuania," said Pan Andrei; "and when a man practises it from childhood he becomes skilful." "Whence have you those scars across the lip?" asked the king of him once, pointing to Kmita's scars. "Some one went through you well with a sabre." "That is not from a sabre, Gracious Lord, but from a bullet. I was fired at by a man who put the pistol to my mouth." "An enemy or one of ours?" "One of ours; but an enemy whom I shall yet call to account, and till that happens it is not proper for me to speak of it." "Have you such animosity as that?" "I have no animosity. Gracious Lord, for on my head I bear a still deeper scar from a sabre, through which cut my soul almost left me; but since an honorable man did it I harbor no offence against him." Kmita removed his cap and showed the king a deep furrow, the white edges of which were perfectly visible. "I am not ashamed of this wound," said he, "for it was given me by such a master that there is not another like him in the Commonwealth." "Who is such a master?" "Pan Volodyovski." "For God's sake! I know him. He did wonders at Zbaraj. And I was at the wedding of his comrade, Skshetuski, who was the first to bring me news of the besieged. Those are great cavaliers! And with them was a third, him the whole army glorified as the greatest of all. A fat noble, and so amusing that we almost burst our sides from laughter." "That is Pan Zagloba, I think!" said Kmita; "he is a man not only brave, but full of wonderful stratagems." "Do you know what they are doing now?" "Volodyovski used to lead dragoons with the voevoda of Vilna." The king frowned. "And is he serving the Swedes now with the prince voevoda?" "He! The Swedes? He is with Pan Sapyeha. I saw myself how, after the treason of the prince, he threw his baton at his feet." "Oh, he is a worthy soldier!" answered the king. "From Pan Sapyeha we have had news from Tykotsin, where he is besieging the voevoda. God give him luck! If all were like him, the Swedish enemy would regret their undertaking." Here Tyzenhauz, who had been listening to the conversation, asked suddenly, "Then were you with Radzivill at Kyedani?" Kmita was somewhat confused, and began to throw up his hatchet. "I was," answered he. "Give peace to your hatchet," said Tyzenhauz. "And what were you doing at the prince's house?" "I was a guest," answered Kmita, impatiently, "and I ate his bread, until I was disgusted with his treason." "And why did you not go with other honorable soldiers to Pan Sapyeha?" "Because I had made a vow to go to Chenstohova, which you will more easily understand when I tell you that our Ostra Brama was occupied by the Northerners." Tyzenhauz began to shake his head and smack his lips; this attracted the attention of the king, so that he looked inquiringly at Kmita. The latter, made impatient, turned to Tyzenhauz and said,-- "My worthy sir! Why do I not inquire of you where you have been, and what you have been doing?" "Ask me," replied Tyzenhauz; "I have nothing to conceal." "Neither am I before a court; and if I shall ever be, you will not be my judge. Leave me, then, that I lose not my patience." When he had said this, he hurled the hatchet so sharply that it grew small in the height; the king raised his eyes after it, and at that moment he was thinking of nothing save this, would Babinich catch it in its fall, or would he not catch it? Babinich put spurs to his horse, sprang forward, and caught it. That same evening Tyzenhauz said to the king,-- "Gracious Lord, this noble pleases me less and less." "But me more and more," answered the king, pursing his lips. "I heard to-day one of his people call him colonel; he only looked threateningly, and straightway confused the man. There is something in that." "And it seems to me sometimes that he does not wish to tell everything," added the king; "but that is his affair." "No, Gracious Lord," exclaimed Tyzenhauz, forcibly, "it is not his affair, it is our affair, and that of the whole Commonwealth. For if he is some traitor who is planning the death or captivity of your Royal Grace, then with your person will perish all those who at this moment have taken arms; the whole Commonwealth will perish, which you alone are competent to save." "I will ask him myself to-morrow." "God grant that I be a false prophet, but nothing good looks out of his eyes. He is too smart, too bold, too daring; and such people are ready for anything." The king looked troubled. Next morning, when they moved on their journey, he beckoned Kmita to approach him. "Where were you, Colonel?" asked the king, suddenly. A moment of silence followed. Kmita struggled with himself; the wish was burning him to spring from his horse, fall at the feet of the king, and throw off the burden he was bearing,--tell the whole truth at once. But he thought of the fearful impression which the name Kmita would make, especially after the letter of Prince Boguslav Radzivill. How could he, who had been the right hand of Radzivill, who had maintained the preponderance of Prince Yanush, who had aided him in scattering his disobedient squadrons, who supported him in treason; how could he, accused and suspected of the most terrible crime,--an attack on the person of the king,--succeed in convincing the king, the bishops, and senators, that he had corrected himself, that he was transformed? With what could he show the sincerity of his intentions? What proofs could he bring save naked words? His former offences pursue him unceasingly, unsparingly, as furious dogs a wild beast in the forest. He determined on silence. But he felt also unspeakable disgust and hatred of subterfuge. Must he throw dust in the eyes of the king, whom he loved with all the power of his soul, and deceive him with fictitious tales? He felt that strength failed him for this; therefore he said, after a while: "Gracious King, the time will come, perhaps soon, in which I shall open my whole soul to your Royal Grace as in confession to a priest. But I wish deeds to vouch for me, for my sincere intention, for my loyalty and my love of majesty, not words simply. I have offended against you, my Gracious Lord, and the country, and I have repented too little yet; therefore I am seeking service in which I can find reparation more easily. Besides, who has not offended? Who in the whole Commonwealth does not need to beat his breast? It may be that I have offended more grievously than others, but I was the first also to bethink myself. Do not inquire, Gracious Lord, about anything until the present service will convince you concerning me; do not ask, for I cannot answer without closing the road of salvation to myself, for God is the witness, and the Most Holy Lady, our Queen, that I had no evil intent, that I am ready to give the last drop of my blood for you." Here Pan Andrei's eyes grew moist, and such sincerity and sorrow appeared on his face that his countenance defended him with greater power than his words. "God is looking at my intentions," said he, "and will account them to me at judgment, but, Gracious Lord, if you do not trust me, dismiss me, remove me from your person. I will follow at a distance, so as to come in time of difficulty, even without being called, and lay down my life for you. And then, Gracious Lord, you will believe that I am not a traitor, but one of that kind of servants of whom you have not many, even among those who cast suspicion on others." "I believe you to-day," said the king. "Remain near our person as before, for treason does not speak in such fashion." "I thank your Royal Grace," answered Kmita; and reining in his horse somewhat, he pushed back among the last ranks of the party. But Tyzenhauz did not limit himself to conveying suspicions to the king. The result was that all began to look askance at Kmita. Audible conversation ceased at his approach, and whispers began. Every movement of his was followed, every word considered. Kmita noticed this, and was ill at ease among these men. Even the king, though he did not remove confidence from him, had not for Pan Andrei such a joyful countenance as before. Therefore the young hero lost his daring, grew gloomy, sadness and bitterness took possession of his heart. Formerly in front, among the first, he used to make his horse prance; now he dragged on many yards behind the cavalcade, with hanging head and gloomy thoughts. At last the Carpathians stood white before the travellers. Snow lay on their slopes, clouds spread their unwieldy bodies on the summits; and when an evening came clear at sunset, those mountains put on flaming garments from which marvellously bright gleams went forth till quenched in the darkness embracing the whole world. Kmita gazed on those wonders of nature which to that time he had never seen; and though greatly grieved, he forgot his cares from admiration and wonder. Each day those giants grew greater, more mighty, till at last the retinue of the king came to them and entered a pass which opened on a sudden, like a gate. "The boundary must be near," said the king, with emotion. Then they saw a small wagon, drawn by one horse, and in the wagon a peasant. The king's men stopped him at once. "Man," said Tyzenhauz, "are we in Poland?" "Beyond that cliff and that little river is the emperor's boundary, but you are standing on the king's land." "Which way is it then to Jivyets?" "Go straight ahead; you will come to the road." And the mountaineer whipped his horse. Tyzenhauz galloped to the retinue standing at a distance. "Gracious Lord," cried he, with emotion, "you are now _inter regna_, for at that little river your kingdom begins." The king said nothing, only made a sign to hold his horse, dismounted, and throwing himself on his knees, raised his eyes and his hands upward. At sight of this, all dismounted and followed his example. That king, then a wanderer, fell after a moment in the form of a cross on the snow, and began to kiss that land, so beloved and so thankless, which in time of disaster had refused refuge to his head. Silence followed, and only sighs interrupted it. The evening was frosty, clear; the mountains and the summits of the neighboring fir-trees were in purple, farther off in the shadow they had begun to put on violet; but the road on which the king was lying turned as it were into a ruddy and golden ribbon, and rays fell on the king, bishops, and dignitaries. Then a breeze began from the summits, and bearing on its wings sparks of snow, flew to the valley. Therefore the nearer fir-trees began to bend their snow-covered heads, bow to their lord, and to make a joyous and rustling sound, as if they were singing that old song, "Be welcome to us, thou dear master!" Darkness had already filled the air when the king's retinue moved forward. Beyond the defile was spread out a rather roomy plain, the other end of which was lost in the distance. Light was dying all around; only in one place the sky was still bright with red. The king began to repeat _Ave Maria_; after him the others with concentration of spirit repeated the pious words. Their native land, unvisited by them for a long time; the mountains which night was now covering; the dying twilight, the prayer,--all these caused a solemnity of heart and mind; hence after the prayer the king, the dignitaries, and the knights rode on in silence. Night fell, but in the east the sky was shining still more redly. "Let us go toward that twilight," said the king, at last; "it is a wonder that it is shining yet." Then Kmita galloped up. "Gracious Lord, that is a fire!" cried he. All halted. "How is that?" asked the king; "it seems to me that 'tis the twilight." "A fire, a fire! I am not mistaken!" cried Kmita. And indeed, of all of the attendants of the king he knew most in that matter. At last it was no longer possible to doubt, since above that supposed twilight were rising as it were red clouds, rolling now brighter, now darker in turn. "It is as if Jivyets were burning!" cried the king; "maybe the enemy is ravaging it." He had not finished speaking when to their ears flew the noise of men, the snorting of horses, and a number of dark figures appeared before the retinue. "Halt, halt!" cried Tyzenhauz. These figures halted, as if uncertain what to do farther. "Who are you?" was asked from the retinue. "Ours!" said a number of voices. "Ours! We are escaping with our lives from Jivyets. The Swedes are burning Jivyets, and murdering people." "Stop, in God's name! What do you say? Whence have they come?" "They were waiting for our king. There is a power of them, a power! May the Mother of God have the king in Her keeping!" Tyzenhauz lost his head for a moment. "See what it is to go with a small party!" cried he to Kmita; "Would that you were killed for such counsel!" Yan Kazimir began to inquire himself of the fugitives. "But where is the king?" "The king has gone to the mountains with a great army. Two days ago he passed through Jivyets; they pursued him, and were fighting somewhere near Suha. We have not heard whether they took him or not; but to-day they returned to Jivyets, and are burning and murdering." "Go with God!" said Yan Kazimir. The fugitives shot past quickly. "See what would have met us had we gone with the dragoons!" exclaimed Kmita. "Gracious King!" said Father Gembitski, "the enemy is before us. What are we to do?" All surrounded the monarch, as if wishing to protect him with their persons from sudden danger. The king gazed on that fire which was reflected in his eyes, and he was silent; no one advanced an opinion, so difficult was it to give good advice. "When I was going out of the country a fire lighted me," said Yan Kazimir, at last; "and when I enter, another gives light." Again silence, only still longer than before. "Who has any advice?" inquired Father Gembitski, at last. Then the voice of Tyzenhauz was heard, full of bitterness, and insult: "He who did not hesitate to expose the king's person to danger, who said that the king should go without a guard, let him now give advice." At this moment a horseman pushed out of the circle. It was Kmita. "Very well!" said he. And rising in the stirrups he shouted, turning to his attendants standing at some distance, "Kyemliches, after me!" Then he urged his horse to a gallop, and after him shot the three horsemen with all the breath that was in the breasts of their horses. A cry of despair came from Tyzenhauz: "That is a conspiracy!" said he. "These traitors will give us up surely. Gracious King, save yourself while there is time, for the enemy will soon close the pass! Gracious King, save yourself! Back! back!" "Let us return, let us return!" cried the bishops and dignitaries, in one voice. Yan Kazimir became impatient, lightnings flashed from his eyes; suddenly he drew his sword from its sheath and cried,-- "May God not grant me to leave my country a second time. Come what may, I have had enough of that!" And he put spurs to his horse to move forward; but the nuncio himself seized the reins. "Your Royal Grace," said he, seriously, "you bear on your shoulders the fate of the Catholic Church and the country, therefore you are not free to expose your person." "Not free," repeated the bishops. "I will not return to Silesia, so help me the Holy Cross!" answered Yan Kazimir. "Gracious Lord! listen to the prayers of your subjects," said the castellan of Sandomir. "If you do not wish to return to the emperor's territory, let us go at least from this place and turn toward the Hungarian boundary, or let us go back through this pass, so that our return be not intercepted. There we will wait. In case of an attack by the enemy, escape on horses will remain to us; but at least let them not enclose us as in a trap." "Let it be even so," said the king. "I do not reject prudent counsel, but I will not go wandering a second time. If we cannot appear by this road, we will by another. But I think that you are alarmed in vain. Since the Swedes looked for us among the dragoons, as the people from Jivyets said, it is clear proof that they know nothing of us, and that there is no treason or conspiracy. Just consider; you are men of experience. The Swedes would not have attacked the dragoons, they would not have fired a gun at them if they know that we were following them. Be calm, gentlemen! Babinich has gone with his men for news, and he will return soon of a certainty." When he had said this the king turned his horse toward the pass; after him his attendants. They halted on the spot where the first mountaineer had shown them the boundary. A quarter of an hour passed, then a half-hour and an hour. "Have you noticed, gentlemen," asked the voevoda of Lenchytsk on a sudden, "that the fire is decreasing?" "It is going out, going out; you can almost see it die," said a number of voices. "That is a good sign," said the king. "I will go ahead with a few men," said Tyzenhauz. "We will halt about a furlong from here, and if the Swedes come we will detain them till we die. In every case there will be time to think of the safety of the king's person." "Remain with the party; I forbid you to go!" said the king. To which Tyzenhauz answered,-- "Gracious Lord, give command later to shoot me for disobedience, but now I will go, for now it is a question of you." And calling upon a number of soldiers in whom it was possible to trust in every emergency, he moved forward. They halted at the other end of the defile which opened into the valley, and stood in silence, with muskets ready, holding their ears toward every sound. The silence lasted long; finally the sound of snow trampled by horses' feet came to them. "They are coming!" whispered one of the soldiers. "That is no party; only a few horses are to be heard," answered the other. "Pan Babinich is returning." Meanwhile those approaching came in the darkness within a few tens of yards. "Who is there?" cried Tyzenhauz. "Ours! Do not fire there!" sounded the voice of Kmita. At that moment he appeared before Tyzenhauz, and not knowing him in the darkness, inquired,-- "But where is the king?" "At the end of the pass." "Who is speaking, for I cannot see?" "Tyzenhauz. But what is that great bundle which you have before you?" And he pointed to some dark form hanging before Kmita, on the front of the saddle. Pan Andrei made no answer, but rode on. When he had reached the king's escort, he recognized the person of the king, for it was much clearer beyond the pass, and cried,-- "Gracious Lord, the road is open!" "Are there no Swedes in Jivyets?" "They have gone to Vadovitsi. That was a party of German mercenaries. But here is one of them, Gracious Lord; ask him yourself." And Pan Andrei pushed to the ground that form which he held before him, so that a groan was heard in the still night. "Who is that?" asked the astonished king. "A horseman!" "As God is dear to me! And you have brought an informant! How is that? Tell me." "Gracious Lord; when a wolf prowls in the night around a flock of sheep it is easy for him to seize one; and besides, to tell the truth, this is not the first time with me." The king raised his hands. "But this Babinich is a soldier, may the bullets strike him! I see that with such servants I can go even in the midst of Swedes." Meanwhile all gathered around the horseman, who did not rise from the ground however. "Ask him, Gracious Lord," said Kmita, not without a certain boastfulness in his voice; "though I do not know whether he will answer, for he is throttled a little and there is nothing here to burn him with." "Pour some gorailka into his throat," said the king. And indeed that medicine helped more than burning, for the horseman soon recovered strength and voice. Then Kmita, putting a sword-point to his throat, commanded him to tell the whole truth. The prisoner confessed that he belonged to the regiment of Colonel Irlehorn, that they had intelligence of the passage of the king with dragoons, therefore they fell upon them near Suha, but meeting firm resistance they had to withdraw to Jivyets, whence they marched on to Vadovitsi and Cracow, for such were their orders. "Are there other divisions of the Swedes in the mountains?" asked Kmita in German, while squeezing the throat of the horseman somewhat more vigorously. "Maybe there are some," answered he in a broken voice. "General Douglas sent scouting-parties around, but they are all withdrawing, for the peasants are attacking them in passes." "Were you the only ones in the neighborhood of Jivyets?" "The only ones." "Do you know that the King of Poland has passed?" "He passed with those dragoons who fought with us at Suha. Many saw him." "Why did you not pursue him?" "We were afraid of the mountaineers." Here Kmita began again in Polish: "Gracious Lord, the road is open and you will find a night's lodging in Jivyets, for only a part of the place is burned." But unconfiding Tyzenhauz was speaking at this time with the castellan of Voinik, and said: "Either that is a great warrior and true as gold, or a finished traitor. Consider, your worthiness, that all this may be simulated, from the taking of this horseman to his confederates. And if this is a trick,--if the Swedes are in ambush in Jivyets,--if the king goes and falls as into a net?" "It is safer to convince one's self," answered the castellan of Voinik. Then Tyzenhauz turned to the king and said aloud: "Gracious Lord, permit me to go ahead to Jivyets and convince myself that what this cavalier says and what this trooper declares is true." "Let it be so! Permit them to go, Gracious Lord," said Kmita. "Go," said the king; "but we will move forward a little, for it is cold." Tyzenhauz rushed on at all speed, and the escort of the king began to move after him slowly. The king regained his good humor and cheerfulness, and after a while said to Kmita,-- "But with you it is possible to hunt Swedes as birds with a falcon, for you strike from above." "That is my fashion," said Kmita. "Whenever your Royal Grace wishes to hunt, the falcon will always be ready." "Tell how you caught him." "That is not difficult. When a regiment marches there are always a few men who lag in the rear, and I got this one about half a furlong behind. I rode up to him; he thought that I was one of his own people, he was not on his guard, and before he could think I had seized and gagged him so that he could not shout." "You said that this was not your first time. Have you then practised somewhere before?" Kmita laughed. "Oh, Gracious Lord, I have, and that of the best. Let your Royal Grace but give the order and I will go again, overtake them, for their horses are road-weary, take another man, and order my Kyemliches to take also." They advanced some time in silence; then the tramp of a horse was heard, and Tyzenhauz flew up. "Gracious King," said he, "the road is free, and lodgings are ready." "But did not I say so?" cried Yan Kazimir. "You, gentlemen, had no need to be anxious. Let us ride on now, let us ride, for we have earned our rest." All advanced at a trot, briskly, joyously; and an hour later the wearied king was sleeping a sleep without care on his own territory. That evening Tyzenhauz approached Kmita. "Forgive me," said he; "out of love for the king I brought you under suspicion." Kmita refused his hand and said: "Oh, that cannot be! You made me a traitor and a betrayer." "I would have done more, for I would have shot you in the head; but since I have convinced myself that you are an honest man and love the king, I stretch out my hand to you. If you wish, take it; if not, take it not. I would prefer to have no rivalry with you save that of attachment to the king; but I am not afraid of other rivalry." "Is that your thought? H'm! perhaps you are right, but I am angry with you." "Well, stop being angry. You are a strong soldier. But give us your lips, so that we may not lie down to sleep in hatred." "Let it be so!" said Kmita. And they fell into each other's arms. CHAPTER X. The king's party arrived at Jivyets late in the evening, and paid almost no attention to the place, which was terrified by the recent attack of the Swedish detachment. The king did not go to the castle, which had been ravaged by the enemy and burned in part, but stopped at the priest's house. Kmita spread the news that the party was escorting the ambassador of the emperor, who was going from Silesia to Cracow. Next morning they held on toward Vadovitsi, and then turned considerably to one side toward Suha. From this place they were to pass through Kjechoni to Yordanovo, thence to Novy Targ, and if it appeared that there were no Swedish parties near Chorshtyn to go to Chorshtyn; if there were, they were to turn toward Hungary and advance on Hungarian soil to Lyubovlya. The king hoped, too, that the marshal of the kingdom, who disposed of forces so considerable that no reigning prince had so many, would make the road safe and hasten forth to meet his sovereign. Only this could prevent, that the marshal knew not which road the king would take; but among the mountaineers there was no lack of trusty men ready to bear word to the marshal. There was no need even of confiding the secret to them, for they went willingly when told that it was a question of serving the king. These people, though poor and half wild, tilling little or not at all an ungrateful soil, living by their herds, pious, and hating heretics, were, in truth, given heart and soul to the sovereign. They were the first to seize their axes and move from the mountains when news of the taking of Cracow spread through the country, and especially when news came of the siege of Chenstohova, to which pious women were accustomed to go on pilgrimages. General Douglas, a well-known warrior, furnished with cannon and muskets, scattered them, it is true, on the plains, to which they were not accustomed; but the Swedes only with the greatest caution entered their special districts, in which it was not easy to reach them, and easy to suffer disaster,--so that some smaller divisions, having needlessly entered this labyrinth of mountains, were lost. And now news of the king's passage with an army had already done its own, for all had sprung up as one man to defend him and accompany him with their axes, even to the end of the world. Yan Kazimir might, if he had only disclosed who he was, have surrounded himself in a short time with thousands of half-wild "householders;" but he thought justly that in such an event the news would be carried about everywhere by all the whirlwinds through the whole region, and that the Swedes might send out numerous troops to meet him, therefore he chose to travel unknown even to the mountaineers. But in all places trusty guides were found, to whom it was enough to say that they were conducting bishops and lords who desired to preserve themselves from Swedish hands. They were led, therefore, among snows, cliffs, and whirlwinds, and over places so inaccessible that you would have said: "A bird cannot fly through them." More than once the king and the dignitaries had clouds below them, and when there were not clouds their glances passed over a shoreless expanse, covered with white snows, an expanse seemingly as wide as the whole country was wide; more than once they entered mountain throats, almost dark, covered with snow, in which perhaps only a wild beast might have its lair. But they avoided places accessible to the enemy, shortening the road; and it happened that a settlement, at which they expected to arrive in half a day, appeared suddenly under their feet, and in it they awaited rest and hospitality, though in a smoky hut and a sooty room. The king was in continual good humor; he gave courage to others to endure the excessive toil, and he guaranteed that by such roads they would surely reach Lyubovlya as safely as unexpectedly. "The marshal does not expect that we shall fall on his shoulders!" repeated the king, frequently. "What was the return of Xenophon to our journey among the clouds?" asked the nuncio. "The higher we rise, the lower will Swedish fortune fall," answered the king. They arrived at Novy Targ. It seemed that all danger was passed; still the mountaineers declared that Swedish troops were moving about near Chorshtyn and in the neighborhood. The king supposed that they might be the marshal's German cavalry, of which he had two regiments, or they might be his own dragoons sent in advance and mistaken for the enemy's scouts. Since in Chorshtyn the bishop of Cracow had a garrison, opinions were divided in the royal party. Some wished to go by the road to Chorshtyn, and then pass along the boundary to Spij; others advised to turn straight to Hungary, which came up in wedge-form to Novy Targ, and go over heights and through passes, taking guides everywhere who knew the most dangerous places. This last opinion prevailed, for in that way meeting with the Swedes became almost impossible; and besides this "eagle" road over the precipices and through the clouds gave pleasure to the king. They passed then from Novy Targ somewhat to the south and west, on the right hand of the Byaly Dunayets. The road at first lay through a region rather open and spacious, but as they advanced the mountains began to run together and the valleys to contract. They went along roads over which horses could barely advance. At times the riders had to dismount and lead; and more than once the beasts resisted, pointing their ears and stretching their distended and steaming nostrils forward toward precipices, from the depths of which death seemed to gaze upward. The mountaineers, accustomed to precipices, frequently considered roads good on which the heads of unaccustomed men turned and their ears rang. At last they entered a kind of rocky chasm long, straight, and so narrow that three men could barely ride abreast in it. Two cliffs bounded it on the right side and the left. At places however the edges inclined, forming slopes less steep, covered with piles of snow bordered on the edges with dark pine-trees. Winds blew away the snow immediately from the bottom of the pass, and the hoofs of horses gritted everywhere on a stony road. But at that moment the wind was not blowing, and such silence reigned that there was a ringing in the ears. Above where between the woody edges a blue belt of sky was visible, black flocks of birds flew past from time to time, shaking their wings and screaming. The king's party halted for rest. Clouds of steam rose from the horses, and the men too were tired. "Is this Poland or Hungary?" inquired, after a time, the king of a guide. "This is Poland." "But why do we not turn directly to Hungary?" "Because it is impossible. At some distance this pass turns, beyond the turn is a cliff, beyond that we come out on the high-road, turn, then go through one more pass, and there the Hungarian country begins." "Then I see it would have been better to go by the highway at first," said the king. "Quiet!" cried the mountaineer, quickly. And springing to the cliff he put his ear to it. All fixed their eyes on him; his face changed in a moment, and he said: "Beyond the turn troops are coming from the water-fall! For God's sake! Are they not Swedes?" "Where? How? What?" men began to ask on every side. "We hear nothing." "No, for snow is lying on the sides. By God's wounds, they are near! they will be here straightway!" "Maybe they are the marshal's troops," said the king. In one moment Kmita urged his horse forward. "I will go and see!" said he. The Kyemliches moved that instant after him, like hunting-dogs in a chase; but barely had they stirred from their places when the turn of the pass, about a hundred yards distant, was made black by men and horses. Kmita looked at them, and the soul quivered within him from terror. Swedes were advancing. They were so near that it was impossible to retreat, especially since the king's party had wearied horses. It only remained to break through, to perish, or to go into captivity. The unterrified king understood this in a flash; therefore he seized the hilt of his sword. "Cover the king and retreat!" cried Kmita. Tyzenhauz with twenty men pushed forward in the twinkle of an eye; but Kmita instead of joining them moved on at a sharp trot against the Swedes. He wore the Swedish dress, the same in which he disguised himself when going out from the cloister. Seeing a horseman coming toward them in such a dress, the Swedes thought perhaps this was some party of their own belonging to the King of Sweden; they did not hasten their pace, but the captain commanding pushed out beyond the first three. "What people are you?" asked he in Swedish, looking at the threatening and pale face of the young man approaching. Kmita rode up to him so closely that their knees almost touched, and without speaking a word fired from a pistol directly into his ear. A shout of terror was rent from the breasts of the Swedish cavalry; but still louder thundered the voice of Pan Andrei, "Strike!" And like a rock torn from a cliff rolling down, crushing everything in its course, so did he fall on the first rank, bearing death and destruction. The two young Kyemliches, like two bears, sprang after him into the whirl. The clatter of sabres on mail and helmets was heard, like the sound of hammers, and was followed straightway by outcries and groans. It seemed at the first moment to the astonished Swedes that three giants had fallen upon them in that wild mountain pass. The first three pushed back confused in the presence of the terrible man, and when the succeeding ones had extricated themselves from behind the bend of the pass, those in the rear were thrown back and confused. The horses fell to biting and kicking. The soldiers in the remoter ranks were not able to shoot, nor come to the assistance of those in front, who perished without aid under the blows of the three giants. In vain did they fall, in vain did they present their weapon points; here sabres were breaking, there men and horses fell. Kmita urged his horse till his hoofs were hanging above the heads of the steeds of his opponents, he was raging himself, cutting and thrusting. The blood rushed to his face, and from his eyes fire flashed. All thoughts were quenched in him save one,--he might perish, but he must detain the Swedes. That thought turned in him to a species of wild ecstasy; therefore his powers were trebled, his movements became like those of a leopard, mad, and swift as lightning. With blows of his sabre, which were blows beyond human, he crushed men as a thunderbolt crushes young trees; the twin Kyemliches followed, and the old man, standing a trifle in the rear, thrust his rapier out every moment between his sons, as a serpent thrusts out its bloody tongue. Meanwhile around the king there rose confusion. The nuncio, as at Jivyets, seized the reins of his horse, and on the other side the bishop of Cracow pulled back the steed with all his force; but the king spurred him till he stood on his hind legs. "Let me go!" cried the king. "As God lives! We shall pass through the enemy!" "My Lord, think of the country!" cried the bishop of Cracow. The king was unable to tear himself from their hands, especially since young Tyzenhauz with all his men closed the road. Tyzenhauz did not go to help Kmita; he sacrificed him, he wanted only to save the king. "By the passion of our Lord!" cried he, in despair, "those men will perish immediately! Gracious Lord, save yourself while there is time! I will hold them here yet awhile!" But the stubbornness of the king when once roused reckoned with nothing and no man. Yan Kazimir spurred his horse still more violently, and instead of retreating pushed forward. But time passed, and each moment might bring with it final destruction. "I will die on my own soil! Let me go!" cried the king. Fortunately, against Kmita and the Kyemliches, by reason of the narrowness of the pass, only a small number of men could act at once, consequently they were able to hold out long. But gradually even their powers began to be exhausted. A number of times the rapiers of the Swedes had struck Kmita's body, and his blood began to flow. His eyes were veiled as it were by a mist. The breath halted in his breast. He felt the approach of death; therefore he wanted only to sell his life dearly. "Even one more!" repeated he to himself, and he sent down his steel blade on the head or the shoulder of the nearest horseman, and again he turned to another; but evidently the Swedes felt ashamed, after the first moment of confusion and fear, that four men were able to detain them so long, and they crowded forward with fury; soon the very weight of men and horses drove back the four men, and each moment more swiftly and strongly. With that Kmita's horse fell, and the torrent covered the rider. The Kyemliches struggled still for a time, like swimmers who seeing that they are drowning make efforts to keep their heads above the whirl of the sea, but soon they also fell. Then the Swedes moved on like a whirlwind toward the party of the king. Tyzenhauz with his men sprang against them, and struck them in such fashion that the sound was heard through the mountains. But what could that handful of men, led by Tyzenhauz, do against a detachment of nearly three hundred strong? There was no doubt that for the king and his party the fatal hour of death or captivity must come. Yan Kazimir, preferring evidently the first to the second, freed finally the reins from the hands of the bishops, and pushed forward quickly toward Tyzenhauz. In an instant he halted as if fixed to the earth. Something uncommon had happened. To spectators it seemed as though the mountains themselves were coming to the aid of the rightful king. Behold on a sudden the edges of the pass quivered as if the earth were moving from its foundations, as if the pines on the mountain desired to take part in the battle; and logs of wood, blocks of snow and ice, stones, fragments of cliff's, began to roll down with a terrible crash and roar on the ranks of the Swedes crowded in the pass. At the same time an unearthly howl was heard on each side of the narrow place. Below in the ranks began seething which passed human belief. It seemed to the Swedes that the mountains were falling and covering them. Shouts rose, the lamentations of crushed men, despairing cries for assistance, the whining of horses, the bite and terrible sound of fragments of cliffs on armor. At last men and horses formed one mass quivering convulsively, crushed, groaning, despairing, and dreadful. But the stones and pieces of cliff's ground them continually, rolling without mercy on the now formless masses, the bodies of horses and men. "The mountaineers! the mountaineers!" shouted men in the retinue of the king. "With axes at the dog-brothers!" called voices from the mountain. And that very moment from both rocky edges appeared long-haired heads, covered with round fur caps, and after them came out bodies, and several hundred strange forms began to let themselves down on the slopes of the snow. Dark and white rags floating above their shoulders gave them the appearance of some kind of awful birds of prey. They pushed down in the twinkle of an eye; the sound of their axes emphasized their wild ominous shouting and the groans of the Swedes. The king himself tried to restrain the slaughter; some horsemen, still living, threw themselves on their knees, and raising their defenceless hands, begged for their lives. Nothing availed, nothing could stay the vengeful axes. A quarter of an hour later there was not one man living among the Swedes in the pass. After that the bloody mountaineers began to hurry toward the escort of the king. The nuncio looked with astonishment on those people, strange to him, large, sturdy, covered partly with sheepskin, sprinkled with blood, and shaking their still steaming axes. But at sight of the bishops they uncovered their heads. Many of them fell on their knees in the snow. The bishop of Cracow raising his tearful face toward heaven said, "Behold the assistance of God, behold Providence, which watches over the majesty of the king." Then turning to the mountaineers, he asked, "Men, who are you?" "We are of this place," answered voices from the crowd. "Do you know whom you have come to assist? This is your king and your lord, whom you have saved." At these words a shout rose in the crowd. "The king! the king! Jesus, Mary! the king!" And the joyful mountaineers began to throng and crowd around Yan Kazimir. With weeping they fell to him from every side; with weeping, they kissed his feet, his stirrups, even the hoofs of his horse. Such excitement reigned, such shouting, such weeping that the bishops from fear for the king's person were forced to restrain the excessive enthusiasm. And the king was in the midst of a faithful people, like a shepherd among sheep, and great tears were flowing down his face. Then his countenance became bright, as if some sudden change had taken place in his soul, as if a new, great thought from heaven by birth had flashed into his mind, and he indicated with his hand that he wished to speak; and when there was silence he said with a voice so loud that the whole multitude heard him,-- "O God, Thou who hast saved me by the hands of simple people, I swear by the suffering and death of Thy Son to be a father to them from this moment forward." "Amen!" responded the bishops. For a certain time a solemn silence reigned, then a new burst of joy. They inquired of the mountaineers whence they had come into the passes, and in what way they had appeared to rescue the king. It turned out that considerable parties of Swedes had been wandering about Chorshtyn, and, not capturing the castle itself, they seemed to seek some one and to wait. The mountaineers too had heard of a battle which those parties had delivered against troops among whom it was said that the king himself was advancing. Then they determined to push the Swedes into an ambush, and sending to them deceitful guides, they lured them into the pass. "We saw," said the mountaineers, "how those four horsemen attacked those dogs; we wanted to assist the four horsemen, but were afraid to fall upon the dog-brothers too soon!" Here the king seized his head. "Mother of Thy only Son!" cried he, "find Babinich for me! Let us give him at least a funeral! And he is the man who was considered a traitor, the one who first shed his own blood for us." "It was I who accused him. Gracious Lord!" said Tyzenhauz. "Find him, find him!" cried the king. "I will not leave here till I look upon his face and put my blessing on him." The soldiers and the mountaineers sprang to the place of the first struggle, and soon they removed from the pile of dead horses and men Pan Andrei. His face was pale, all bespattered with blood, which was hanging in large stiffened drops on his mustaches; his eyes were closed; his armor was bent from the blows of swords and horses' hoofs. But that armor had saved him from being crushed, and to the soldier who raised him it seemed as though he heard a low groan. "As God is true, he is alive!" cried he. "Remove his armor," called others. They cut the straps quickly. Kmita breathed more deeply. "He is breathing, he is breathing! He is alive!" repeated a number of voices. But he lay a certain time motionless; then he opened his eyes. At that time one of the soldiers poured a little gorailka into his mouth; others raised him by the armpits. Now the king, to whose hearing the cry repeated by several voices had come, rode up in haste. The soldiers drew into his presence Pan Andrei, who was hanging on them and slipping from their hands to the ground. Still, at sight of the king consciousness returned to him for a moment, a smile almost childlike lighted his face, and his pale lips whispered clearly,-- "My lord, my king, is alive--is free." And tears shone on his eyelashes. "Babinich, Babinich! with what can I reward you?" cried the king. "I am not Babinich; I am Kmita!" whispered the knight. When he had said this he hung like a corpse in the arms of the soldiers. CHAPTER XI. Since the mountaineers gave sure information that on the road to Chorshtyn there was nothing to be heard of other Swedish parties, the retinue of the king turned toward the castle, and soon found themselves on the highway, along which the journey was easiest and least tiresome. They rode on amid songs of the mountaineers and shouts, "The king is coming! The king is coming!" and along the road new crowds of men joined them, armed with flails, scythes, forks, and guns, so that Yan Kazimir was soon at the head of a considerable division of men, not trained, it is true, but ready at any moment to go with him even to Cracow and spill their blood for their sovereign. Near Chorshtyn more than a thousand "householders" and half-wild shepherds surrounded the king. Then nobles from Novy Sanch and Stary Sanch began to come in. They said that a Polish regiment, under command of Voynillovich, had defeated, that morning, just before the town of Novy Sanch, a considerable detachment of Swedes, of which almost all the men were either slain, or drowned in the Kamyenna or Dunayets. This turned out to be really the fact, when soon after on the road banners began to gleam, and Voynillovich himself came up with the regiment of the voevoda of Bratslav. The king greeted with joy a celebrated and to him well-known knight, and amidst the universal enthusiasm of the people and the army, he rode on toward Spij. Meanwhile men on horseback rushed with all breath to forewarn the marshal that the king was approaching, and to be ready to receive him. Joyous and noisy was the continuation of the journey. New crowds were added continually. The nuncio, who had left Silesia filled with fear for the king's fate and his own, and for whom the beginning of the journey had increased this fear, was beside himself now with delight, for he was certain that the future would surely bring victory to the king, and besides to the church over heretics. The bishops shared his joy; the lay dignitaries asserted that the whole people, from the Carpathians to the Baltic, would grasp their weapons as these crowds had done. Voynillovich stated that for the greater part this had taken place already. And he told what was to be heard in the country, what a terror had fallen upon the Swedes, how they dared go no longer outside fortifications in small numbers, how they were leaving the smaller castles, which they burned, and taking refuge in the strongest. "The Polish troops are beating their breasts with one hand, and are beginning to beat the Swedes with the other," said he. "Vilchkovski, who commands the hussar regiment of your Royal Grace, has already thanked the Swedes for their service, and that in such fashion that he fell upon them at Zakjevo, under the command of Colonel Altenberg, and slew a large number,--destroyed almost all. I, with the assistance of God, drove them out of Novy Sanch, and God gave a noted victory. I do not know whether one escaped alive. Pan Felitsyan Kohovski with the infantry of Navoi helped me greatly, and so they received pay for those dragoons at least whom they attacked two or three days ago." "What dragoons?" asked the king. "Those whom your Royal Grace sent ahead from Silesia. The Swedes fell on these suddenly, and though not able to disperse them, for they defended themselves desperately, they inflicted considerable loss. And we were almost dying of despair, for we thought that your Royal Grace was among those men in your own person, and we feared lest some evil might happen to majesty. God inspired your Royal Grace to send the dragoons ahead. The Swedes heard of it at once, and occupied the roads everywhere." "Do you hear, Tyzenhauz?" asked the king. "An experienced soldier is talking." "I hear, Gracious Lord," answered the young magnate. "And what further, what further? Tell on!" said the king, turning to Voynillovich. "What I know I shall surely not hide. Jegotski and Kulesha are active in Great Poland; Varshytski has driven Lindorm from the castle of Pilets; Dankoff is defending itself; Lantskoron is in our hands; and in Podlyasye, Sapyeha is gaining every day at Tykotsin. The Swedes are in greater straits in the castle, and with them is failing the prince voevoda of Vilna. As to the hetmans, they have moved already from Sandomir to Lyubelsk, showing clearly that they are breaking with the enemy. The voevoda of Chernigov is with them, and from the region about is marching to them every living man who can hold a sabre in his hand. They say, too, that there is some kind of federation to be formed there against the Swedes, in which is the hand of Sapyeha as well as that of Stefan Charnyetski." "Is Charnyetski now in Lyubelsk?" "He is, your Royal Grace. But he is here to-day and there to-morrow. I have to join him, but where to find him I know not." "There will be noise around him," said the king; "you will not need to inquire." "So I think too," answered Voynillovich. In such conversation was the road passed. Meanwhile the sky had grown perfectly clear, so that the azure was unspotted by even a small cloud. The snow was glittering in the sunlight. The mountains of Spij were extended gloriously and joyously before the travellers, and Nature itself seemed to smile on the king. "Dear country!" said Yan Kazimir, "God grant me strength to bring thee peace before my bones rest in thy earth." They rode out on a lofty eminence, from which the view was open and wide, for beyond, at the foot of it, was spread a broad plain. There they saw below, and at a great distance as it were, the movement of a human ant-hill. "The troops of the marshal!" cried Voynillovich. "Unless they are Swedes," said the king. "No, Gracious Lord! The Swedes could not march from Hungary, from the south. I see now the hussar flag." In fact a forest of spears soon pushed out in the blue distance, and colored streamers were quivering like flowers moved by the wind; above these flags spear-points were glittering like little flames. The sun played on the armor and helmets. The throngs of people accompanying the king gave forth a joyous shout, which was heard at a distance, for the mass of horses, riders, flags, horse-tail standards, and ensigns began to move more quickly. Evidently they were moving with all speed, for the regiments became each moment more definite, and increased in the eye with incomprehensible rapidity. "Let us stay on this height. We will await the marshal here," said the king. The retinue halted; the men coming toward them moved still more rapidly. At moments they were concealed from the eye by turns of the road, or small hills and cliffs, scattered along the plain; but soon they appeared again, like a serpent with a skin of splendid colors playing most beautifully. At last they came within a quarter of a mile of the height, and slackened their speed. The eye could take them in perfectly, and gain pleasure from them. First advanced the hussar squadron of the marshal himself, well armored, and so imposing that any king might be proud of such troops. Only nobles of the mountains served in this squadron, chosen men of equal size; their armor was of bright squares inlaid with bronze, gorgets with the image of the Most Holy Lady of Chenstohova, round helmets with steel rims, crests on the top, and at the side wings of eagles and vultures, on their shoulders tiger and leopard skins, but on the officers wolf skins, according to custom. A forest of green and black streamers waved above them. In front rode Lieutenant Victor; after him a janissary band with bells, trumpets, drums, and pipes; then a wall of the breasts of horses and men clothed in iron. The king's heart opened at that lordly sight. Next to the hussars came a light regiment still more numerous, with drawn sabres in their hands and bows at their shoulders; then three companies of Cossacks, in colors like blooming poppies, armed with spears and muskets; next two hundred dragoons in red jackets; then escorts belonging to different personages visiting at Lyubovlya, attendants dressed as if for a wedding, guards, haiduks, grooms, Hungarians, and janissaries, attached to the service of great lords. And all that changed in colors like a rainbow, and came on tumultuously, noisily, amid the neighing of horses, the clatter of armor, the thunder of kettle-drums, the roll of other drums, the blare of trumpets, and cries so loud that it seemed as though the snows would rush down from the mountains because of them. In the rear of the troops were to be seen closed and open carriages, in which evidently were riding dignitaries of the church and the world. The troops took position in two lines along the road, and between them appeared, on a horse white as milk, the marshal of the kingdom, Pan Yerzy Lyubomirski. He flew on like a whirlwind over that road, and behind him raced two equerries, glittering in gold. When he had ridden to the foot of the eminence, he sprang from his horse, and throwing the reins to one of the equerries, went on foot to the king standing above. He removed his cap, and placing it on the hilt of his sabre, advanced with uncovered head, leaning on a staff all set with pearls. He was dressed in Polish fashion, in military costume; on his breast was armor of silver plates thickly inlaid at the edges with precious stones, and so polished that he seemed to be bearing the sun on his bosom; over his left shoulder was hanging a cloak of Venetian velvet of dark color, passing into violet purple; it was fastened at the throat by a cord with a buckle of diamonds, and the whole cloak was embroidered with diamonds; in like manner a diamond was trembling in his cap, and these stones glittered like many-colored sparks around his whole person, and dazzled the eyes, such was the brightness which came from them. He was a man in the vigor of life, of splendid form. His head was shaven around the temples; his forelock was rather thin, growing gray, and lay on his forehead in a shaggy tuft; his mustache, as black as the wing of a crow, drooped in fine points at both sides. His lofty forehead and Roman nose added to the beauty of his face, but the face was marred somewhat by cheeks that were too plump, and small eyes encircled with red lids. Great dignity, but also unparalleled pride and vanity were depicted on that face. You might easily divine that that magnate wished to turn to himself eternally the eyes of the whole Commonwealth, nay, of all Europe; and such was the case in reality. Where Yerzy Lyubomirski could not hold the first place, where he could only share glory and merit with others, his wounded pride was ready to bar the way and corrupt and crush every endeavor, even when it was a question of saving the country. He was an adroit and fortunate leader, but even in this respect others surpassed him immeasurably; and in general his abilities, though uncommon, were not equal to his ambition and desire of distinction. Endless unrest therefore was boiling in his soul, whence was born that suspiciousness, that envy, which later on carried him so far that he became more destructive to the Commonwealth than the terrible Yanush Radzivill. The black soul which dwelt in Prince Yanush was great also; it stopped before no man and no thing. Yanush wanted a crown, and he went toward it consciously over graves and the ruin of his country. Lyubomirski would have taken a crown if the hands of the nobles had placed it on his head; but having a smaller soul, he dared not desire the crown openly and expressly. Radzivill was one of those men whom failure casts down to the level of criminals, and success elevates to the greatness of demigods; Lyubomirski was a mighty disturber who was always ready to ruin work for the salvation of the country, in the name of his own offended pride, and to build up nothing in place of it. He did not even dare to raise himself, he did not know how. Radzivill died the more guilty, Lyubomirski the more harmful man. But at that hour, when in gold, velvet, and precious stones he stood in front of the king, his pride was sufficiently satisfied. For he was the first magnate to receive his own king on his own land; he first took him under a species of guardianship, he had to conduct him to a throne which had been overturned, and to drive out the enemy; from him the king and the country expected everything; on him all eyes were turned. Therefore to show loyalty and service coincided with his self-love, in fact flattered it, he was ready in truth for sacrifices and devotion, he was ready to exceed the measure even with expressions of respect and loyalty. When therefore he had ascended one half of that eminence on which the king was standing, he took his cap from the sword-hilt and began, while bowing, to sweep the snow with its diamond plume. The king urged his horse somewhat toward the descent, then halted to dismount, for the greeting. Seeing this, the marshal sprang forward to hold the stirrup with his worthy hands, and at that moment grasping after his cloak, he drew it from his shoulders, and following the example of a certain English courtier, threw it under the feet of the monarch. The king, touched to the heart, opened his arms to the marshal, and seized him like a brother in his embrace. For a while neither was able to speak; but at that exalted spectacle the army, the nobles, the people, roared in one voice, and thousands of caps flew into the air, all the guns, muskets, and blunderbusses sounded, cannon from Lyubovlya answered in a distant bass, till the mountains trembled; all the echoes were roused and began to course around, striking the dark walls of pine woods, the cliffs and rocks, and flew with the news to remoter mountains and cliffs. "Lord Marshal," said the king, "we will thank you for the restoration of the kingdom!" "Gracious Lord!" answered Lyubomirski, "my fortune, my life, my blood, all I have I place at the feet of your Royal Grace." "Vivat! vivat Yoannes Casimirus Rex!" thundered the shouts. "May the king live! our father!" cried the mountaineers. Meanwhile the gentlemen who were riding with the king surrounded the marshal; but he did not leave the royal person. After the first greetings the king mounted his horse again; but the marshal, not wishing to recognize bounds to his hospitality and honor to his guest, seized the bridle, and going himself on foot, led the king through the lines of the army amid deafening shouts, till they came to a gilded carriage drawn by eight dapple-gray horses; in this carriage Yan Kazimir took his seat, together with Vidon, the nuncio of the Pope. The bishops and dignitaries took seats in succeeding carriages, then they moved on slowly to Lyubovlya. The marshal rode at the window of the king's carriage, splendid, self-satisfied, as if he were already proclaimed father of the country. At both sides went a dense army, singing songs, thundering out in the following words:-- "Cut the Swedes, cut, With sharpened swords. "Beat the Swedes, beat, With strong sticks. "Roll the Swedes, roll, Empale them on stakes. "Torment the Swedes, torment, And torture them as you can. "Pound the Swedes, pound, Pull them out of their skins. "Cut the Swedes, cut, Then there will be fewer. "Drown the Swedes, drown, If you are a good man!" Unfortunately amidst the universal rejoicing and enthusiasm no one foresaw that later the same troops of Lyubomirski, after they had rebelled against their legal lord and king, would sing the same song, putting the French in place of the Swedes. But now it was far from such a state. In Lyubovlya the cannon were thundering in greeting till the towers and battlements were covered with smoke, the bells were tolling as at a fire. At the part of the courtyard in which the king descended from the carriage, the porch and the steps were covered with scarlet cloth. In vases brought from Italy were burning perfumes of the East. The greater part of the treasures of the Lyubomirskis,--cabinets of gold and silver, carpets, mats, gobelin tapestry, woven wonderfully by Flemish hands, statues, clocks, cupboards, ornamented with precious stones, cabinets inlaid with mother-of-pearl and amber brought previously to Lyubovlya to preserve them from Swedish rapacity, were now arranged and hung up in display; they dazzled the eye and changed that castle into a kind of fairy residence. And the marshal had arranged all this luxury, worthy of a Sultan, in this fashion of purpose to show the king that though he was returning as an exile, without money, without troops, having scarcely a change of clothing, still he was a mighty lord, since he had servants so powerful, and as faithful as powerful. The king understood this intention, and his heart rose in gratitude; every moment therefore he took the marshal by the shoulder, pressed his head and thanked him. The nuncio, though accustomed to luxury, expressed his astonishment at what he beheld, and they heard him say to Count Apotyngen that hitherto he had had no idea of the power of the King of Poland, and now saw that the previous defeats were merely a temporary reverse of fortune, which soon must be changed. At the feast, which followed a rest, the king sat on an elevation, and the marshal himself served him, permitting no one to take his place. At the right of the king sat the nuncio, at his left the prince primate, Leshchynski, farther on both sides dignitaries, lay and clerical, such as the bishops of Cracow, Poznan, Lvoff, Lutsk, Premysl, Helm; the archdeacon of Cracow; farther on keepers of the royal seal and voevodas, of whom eight had assembled, and castellans and referendaries; of officers, there were sitting at the feast Voynillovich, Viktor, Stabkovski, and Baldwin Shurski. In another hall a table was set for inferior nobles, and there were large barracks for peasants, for all had to be joyful on the day of the king's coming. At the tables there was no other conversation but touching the royal return, and the terrible adventures which had met them on the road, in which the hand of God had preserved the king. Yan Kazimir himself described the battle in the pass, and praised the cavalier who had held back the first Swedish onset. "And how is he?" asked he of the marshal. "The physician does not leave him, and guarantees his life; and besides, maidens and ladies in waiting have taken him in care, and surely they will not let the soul go from the body, for the body is shapely and young!" answered the marshal, joyously. "Praise be to God!" cried the king. "I heard from his lips something which I shall not repeat to you, for it seems to me that I heard incorrectly, or that he said it in delirium; but should it come true you will be astonished." "If he has said nothing which might make your Royal Grace gloomy." "Nothing whatever of that nature," said the king; "it has comforted us beyond measure, for it seems that even those whom we had reason to hold our greatest enemies are ready to spill their blood for us if need be." "Gracious Lord!" cried the marshal, "the time of reform has come; but under this roof your Royal Grace is among persons who have never sinned even in thought against majesty." "True, true!" answered the king, "and you, Lord Marshal, are in the first rank." "I am a poor servant of your Royal Grace." At table the noise grew greater. Gradually they began to speak of political combinations; of aid from the emperor, hitherto looked for in vain; of Tartar assistance, and of the coming war with the Swedes. Fresh rejoicing set in when the marshal stated that the envoy sent by him to the Khan had returned just a couple of days before, and reported that forty thousand of the horde were in readiness, and perhaps even a hundred thousand, as soon as the king would reach Lvoff and conclude a treaty with the Khan. The same envoy had reported that the Cossacks through fear of the Tartars had returned to obedience. "You have thought of everything," said the king, "in such fashion that we could not have thought it out better ourselves." Then he seized his glass and said: "To the health of our host and friend, the marshal of the kingdom!" "Impossible, Gracious Lord!" cried the marshal; "no man's health can be drunk here before the health of your Royal Grace." All restrained their half-raised goblets; but Lyubomirski, filled with delight, perspiring, beckoned to his chief butler. At this sign the servants who were swarming through the hall rushed to pour out Malvoisie again, taken with gilded dippers from kegs of pure silver. Pleasure increased still more, and all were waiting for the toast of the marshal. The chief butler brought now two goblets of Venetian crystal of such marvellous work that they might pass for the eighth wonder of the world. The crystal, bored and polished to thinness during whole years, perhaps, cast real diamond light. On the setting great artists of Italy had labored. The base of each goblet was gold, carved in small figures representing the entrance of a conqueror to the Capitol. The conqueror rode in a chariot of gold on a street paved with pearls. Behind him followed captives with bound hands; with them a king, in a turban formed of one emerald; farther followed legionaries with eagles and ensigns. More than fifty small figures found room on each base,--figures as high as a hazel-nut, but made so marvellously that the features of the faces and the feelings of each one could be distinguished, the pride of the victors, the grief of the vanquished. The base was bound to the goblet with golden filigree, fine as hair bent with wondrous art into grape leaves, clusters, and various flowers. Those filigree were wound around the crystal, and joining at the top in one ring formed the edge of the goblet, which was set with stones in seven colors. The head butler gave one such goblet to the king and the other to the marshal, both filled with Malvoisie. All rose from their seats; the marshal raised the goblet, and cried with all the voice in his breast,-- "Vivat Yoannes Casimirus Rex!" "Vivat! vivat! vivat!" At that moment the guns thundered again so that the walls of the castle were trembling. The nobles feasting in the second hall came with their goblets; the marshal wished to make an oration, but could not, for his words were lost in the endless shouts: "Vivat! vivat! vivat!" Such joy seized the marshal, such ecstasy, that wildness was gleaming in his eyes, and emptying his goblet he shouted so, that he was heard even in the universal tumult,-- "_Ego ultimus_ (I am the last)!" Then he struck the priceless goblet on his own head with such force that the crystal sprang into a hundred fragments, which fell with a rattle on the floor, and the head of the magnate was covered with blood. All were astonished, and the king said,-- "Lord Marshal, we regret not the goblet, but the head which we value so greatly." "Treasures and jewels are nothing to me," cried the marshal, "when I have the honor of receiving your Royal Grace in my house. Vivat Yoannes Casimirus Rex!" Here the butler gave him another goblet. "Vivat! vivat!" shouted the guests without ceasing. The sound of broken glass was mingled with the shout. Only the bishops did not follow the example of the marshal, for their spiritual dignity forbade them. The nuncio, who did not know of that custom of breaking glasses on the head, bent to the bishop of Poznan, sitting near him, and said,-- "As God lives, astonishment seizes me! Your treasury is empty, and for one such goblet two good regiments of men might be equipped and maintained." "It is always so with us," answered the bishop; "when desire rises in the heart there is no measure in anything." And in fact the desire grew greater each moment. Toward the end of the feast a bright light struck the windows of the castle. "What is that?" asked the king. "Gracious Lord, I beg you to the spectacle," answered the marshal. And tottering slightly, he conducted the king to the window. There a wonderful sight struck their eyes. It was as clear in the court as when there is daylight. A number of tens of pitch-barrels cast a bright yellow gleam on the pavement, cleared of snow and strewn with leaves of mountain-fern. Here and there were burning tubs of brandy which cast blue light; salt was sprinkled into some to make them burn red. The spectacle began. First knights cut off Turkish heads, tilted at a ring and at one another; then the dogs of Liptovo fought with a bear; later, a man from the hills, a kind of mountain Samson, threw a millstone and caught it in the air. Midnight put an end to these amusements. Thus did the marshal declare himself, though the Swedes were still in the land. CHAPTER XII. In the midst of feasting and the throng of new dignitaries, nobles, and knights who were coming continually, the kindly king forgot not his faithful servant who in the mountain-pass had exposed his breast to the Swedish sword with such daring; and on the day following his arrival in Lyubovlya he visited the wounded Pan Andrei. He found him conscious and almost joyful, though pale as death; by a lucky fortune the young hero had received no grievous wound, only blood had left him in large quantities. At sight of the king, Kmita even rose in the bed to a sitting position, and though the king insisted that he should lie down again, he was unwilling to do so. "Gracious Lord," said he, "in a couple of days I shall be on horseback, and with your gracious permission will go farther, for I feel that nothing is the matter with me." "Still they must have cut you terribly. It is an unheard of thing for one to withstand such a number." "That has happened to me more than once, for I think that in an evil juncture the sabre and courage are best. Ei, Gracious Lord, the number of cuts that have healed on my skin you could not count on an ox-hide. Such is my fortune." "Complain not of fortune, for it is evident that you go headlong to places where not only blows but deaths are distributed. But how long do you practise such tactics? Where have you fought before now?" A passing blush covered the youthful face of Kmita. "Gracious Lord, I attacked Hovanski when all dropped their hands, and a price was set on my head." "But listen," said the king, suddenly; "you told me a wonderful word in that pass. I thought that delirium had seized you and unsettled your reason. Now you say that you attacked Hovanski. Who are you? Are you not really Babinich? We know who attacked Hovanski!" A moment of silence followed; at last the young knight raised his pale face, and said,-- "Not delirium spoke through me, but truth; it was I who battered Hovanski, from which war my name was heard throughout the whole Commonwealth. I am Andrei Kmita, the banneret of Orsha." Here Kmita closed his eyes and grew still paler; but when the astonished king was silent, he began to speak farther,-- "I am, Gracious Lord, that outlaw, condemned by God and the judgments of men for killing and violence. I served Radzivill, and together with him I betrayed you and the country; but now, thrust with rapiers and trampled with horses' hoofs, unable to rise, I beat my breast, repeating, _Mea culpa, mea culpa!_ (My fault, my fault!) and I implore your fatherly mercy. Forgive me, for I have cursed my previous acts, and have long since turned from that road which lies toward hell." Tears dropped from the eyes of the knight, and with trembling he began to seek the hand of the king. Yan Kazimir, it is true, did not withdraw his hand; but he grew gloomy, and said,-- "Whoso in this land wears a crown should be unceasingly ready to pardon; therefore we are willing to forgive your offence, since on Yasna Gora and on the road you have served us with faithfulness, exposing your breast." "Then forgive them, Gracious Lord! Shorten my torment" "But one thing we cannot forget,--that in spite of the virtue of this people you offered Prince Boguslav to raise hands on majesty, hitherto inviolable, and bear us away living or dead, and deliver us into Swedish hands." Kmita, though a moment before he had said himself that he was unable to rise, sprang from the bed, seized the crucifix hanging above him, and with the cuts on his face and fever in his flashing eyes, and breathing quickly, began to speak thus,-- "By the salvation of my father and mother, by the wounds of the Crucified, it is untrue! If I am guilty of that sin, may God punish me at once with sudden death and with eternal fires. If you do not believe me, I will tear these bandages, let out the remnant of the blood which the Swedes did not shed. I never made the offer. Never was such a thought in my head. For the kingdom of this world, I would not have done such a deed. Amen! on this cross, amen, amen!" And he trembled from feverish excitement. "Then did the prince invent it?" asked the astonished king. "Why? for what reason?" "He did invent it. It was his hellish revenge on me for what I did to him." "What did you do to him?" "I carried him off from the middle of his court and of his whole army. I wanted to cast him bound at the feet of your Royal Grace." "It's a wonder, it's a wonder! I believe you, but I do not understand. How was it? You were serving Yanush, and carried off Boguslav, who was less guilty, and you wanted to bring him bound to me?" Kmita wished to answer; but the king saw at that moment his pallor and suffering, therefore he said,-- "Rest, and later tell me all from the beginning. I believe you; here is our hand." Kmita pressed the king's hand to his lips, and for some time was silent, for breath failed him; he merely looked at the king's face with immeasurable affection; at last he collected his strength, and said,-- "I will tell all from the beginning. I warred against Hovanski, but I was hard with my own people. In part I was forced to wrong them, and to take what I needed; I did this partly from violence, for the blood was storming within me. I had companions, good nobles, but no better than I. Here and there a man was cut down, here and there a house was burned, here and there some one was chased over the snow with sticks. An outcry was raised. Where an enemy could not touch me, complaint was made before a court. I lost cases by default. Sentences came one after another, but I paid no heed; besides, the devil flattered me, and whispered to surpass Pan Lashch, who had his cloak lined with judgments; and still he was famous, and is famous till now." "For he did penance, and died piously," remarked the king. When he had rested somewhat, Kmita continued: "Meanwhile Colonel Billevich--the Billeviches are a great family in Jmud--put off his transitory form, and was taken to a better world; but he left me a village and his granddaughter. I do not care for the village, for in continual attacks on the enemy I have gathered no little property, and not only have made good the fortune taken from me by the Northerners, but have increased it. I have still in Chenstohova enough to buy two such villages, and I need ask no one for bread. But when my party separated I went to winter quarters in the Lauda region. There the maiden, Billevich's granddaughter, came so near my heart that I forgot God's world. The virtue and honesty in this lady were such that I grew shamefaced in presence of my former deeds. She too, having an inborn hatred of transgression, pressed me to leave my previous manner of life, put an end to disturbances, repair wrongs, and live honestly." "Did you follow her advice?" "How could I, Gracious Lord! I wished to do so, it is true,--God sees that I wished; but old sins follow a man. First, my soldiers were attacked in Upita, for which I burned some of the place." "In God's name! that is a crime," said the king. "That is nothing yet. Later on, the nobles of Lauda slaughtered my comrades, worthy cavaliers though violent. I was forced to avenge them. I fell upon the village of the Butryms that very night, and took vengeance, with fire and sword, for the murder. But they defeated me, for a crowd of homespuns live in that neighborhood. I had to hide. The maiden would not look at me, for those homespuns were made fathers and guardians to her by the will. But my heart was so drawn to her that I could not help myself. Unable to live without her, I collected a new party and seized her with armed hand." "Why, the Tartars do not make love differently." "I own that it was a deed of violence. But God punished me through the hands of Pan Volodyovski, and he cut me so that I barely escaped with my life. It would have been a hundred times better for me if I had not escaped, for I should not have joined the Radzivills to the injury of the king and the country. But how could it be otherwise? A new suit was begun against me for a capital offence; it was a question of life. I knew not what to do, when suddenly the voevoda of Vilna came to me with assistance." "Did he protect you?" "He sent me a commission through this same Pan Volodyovski, and thereby I went under the jurisdiction of the hetman, and was not afraid of the courts. I clung to Radzivill as to a plank of salvation. Soon I put on foot a squadron of men known as the greatest fighters in all Lithuania. There were none better in the army. I led them to Kyedani. Radzivill received me as a son, referred to our kinship through the Kishkis, and promised to protect me. He had his object. He needed daring men ready for all things, and I, simpleton, crawled as it were into bird-lime. Before his plans had come to the surface, he commanded me to swear on a crucifix that I would not abandon him in any straits. Thinking it a question of war with the Swedes or the Northerners, I took the oath willingly. Then came that terrible feast at which the Kyedani treaty was read. The treason was published. Other colonels threw their batons at the feet of the hetman, but the oath held me as a chain holds a dog, and I could not leave him." "But did not all those who deserted us later swear loyalty?" asked the king, sadly. "I, too, though I did not throw down my baton, had no wish to steep my hands in treason. What I suffered, Gracious Lord, God alone knows. I was writhing from pain, as if men were burning me alive with fire; and my maiden, though even after the seizure the agreement between us remained still unbroken, now proclaimed me a traitor, and despised me as a vile reptile. But I had taken oath not to abandon Radzivill. She, though a woman, would shame a man with her wit, and lets no one surpass her in loyalty to your Royal Grace." "God bless her!" said the king. "I respect her for that." "She thought to reform me into a partisan of the king and the country; and when that came to naught, she grew so steadfast against me that her hatred became as great as her love had been once. At that juncture Radzivill called me before him, and began to convince me. He explained, as two and two form four, that in this way alone could he save the falling country. I cannot, indeed, repeat his arguments, they were so great, and promised such happiness to the land. He would have convinced a man a hundred times wiser, much less me, a simple soldier, he such a statesman! Then, I say, your Royal Grace, that I held to him with both hands and my heart, for I thought that all others were blind; only he saw the truth, all others were sinning, only he was the just man. And I would have sprung into fire for him, as now I would for your Royal Grace, for I know not how to serve or to love with half a heart." "I see that, this is true!" said Yan Kazimir. "I rendered him signal service," continued Kmita, gloomily, "and I can say that had it not been for me his treason could not have yielded any poisonous fruits, for his own troops would have cut him to pieces with sabres. They were all ready for that. The dragoons, the Hungarian infantry and the light squadrons were already slaying his Scots, when I sprang in with my men and rubbed them out in one twinkle. But there were other squadrons at various quarters; these I dispersed. Pan Volodyovski alone, who had come out from prison, led his Lauda men to Podlyasye by a wonder and by superhuman resolve, so as to join with Sapyeha. Those who escaped me assembled in Podlyasye in considerable numbers, but before they could do that many good soldiers perished through me. God alone can count them. I acknowledge the truth as if at confession. Pan Volodyovski, on his way to Podlyasye, seized me, and did not wish to let me live; but I escaped because of letters which they found on my person, and from which it transpired that when Volodyovski was in prison and Radzivill was going to shoot him, I interceded persistently and saved him. He let me go free then; I returned to Radzivill and served longer. But the service was bitter for me, the soul began to revolt within me at certain deeds of the prince, for there is not in him either faith, honesty, or conscience, and from his own words it comes out that he works as much for himself as for the King of Sweden. I began then to spring at his eyes. He grew enraged at my boldness, and at last sent me off with letters." "It is wonderful what important things you tell," said the king. "At least we know from an eyewitness who _pars magna fuit_ (took a great part) in affairs, how things happened there." "It is true that _pars magna fui_ (I took a great part)," answered Kmita. "I set out with the letters willingly, for I could not remain in that place. In Pilvishki I met Prince Boguslav. May God give him into my hands, to which end I shall use all my power, so that my vengeance may not miss him for that slander. Not only did I not promise him anything, Gracious Lord, not only is that a shameless lie, but it was just there in Pilvishki that I became converted when I saw all the naked deceit of those heretics." "Tell quickly how it was, for we were told that Boguslav aided his cousin only through constraint." "He? He is worse than Prince Yanush, and in his head was the treason first hatched. Did he not tempt the hetman first, pointing out a crown to him? God will decide at the judgment. Yanush at least simulated and shielded himself with _bono publico_ (public good); but Boguslav, taking me for an arch scoundrel, revealed his whole soul to me. It is a terror to repeat what he said. 'The devils,' said he, 'must take your Commonwealth, it is a piece of red cloth, and we not only will not raise a hand to save it, but will pull besides, so that the largest piece may come to us. Lithuania,' said he, 'must remain to us, and after Yanush I will put on the cap of Grand Prince, and marry his daughter.'" The king covered his eyes with his hands. "O passion of our Lord!" said he. "The Radzivills, Radzeyovski, Opalinski--how could that which happened not happen!--they must have crowns, even through rending what the Lord had united." "I grew numb, Gracious Lord, I had water poured on my head so as not to go mad. The soul changed in me in one moment, as if a thunderbolt had shaken it. I was terrified at my own work. I knew not what to do, whether to thrust a knife into Boguslav or into myself. I bellowed like a wild beast, they had driven me into such a trap. I wanted service no longer with the Radzivills, but vengeance. God gave me a sudden thought: I went with a few men to the quarters of Prince Boguslav, I brought him out beyond the town, I carried him off and wanted to bring him to the confederates so as to buy myself into their company and into the service of your Royal Grace at the price of his head." "I forgive you all!" cried the king, "for they led you astray; but you have repaid them! Kmita alone could have done that, no man besides. I overlook all and forgive you from my heart! But tell me quickly, for curiosity is burning me, did he escape?" "At the first station he snatched the pistol from my belt and shot me in the mouth,--here is the scar. He killed my men and escaped. He is a famous knight, it would be hard to deny that; but we shall meet again, though that were to be my last hour." Here Kmita began to tear at the blanket with which he was covered, but the king interrupted him quickly,-- "And through revenge he invented that letter against you?" "And through revenge he sent that letter. I recovered from the wound, in the forest, but my soul was suffering more and more. To Volodyovski, to the confederates I could not go, for the Lauda men would have cut me to pieces with their sabres. Still, knowing that the hetman was about to march against them, I forewarned them to collect in a body. And that was my first good deed, for without that Radzivill would have crushed them out, squadron after squadron; but now they have overcome him and, as I hear, are besieging him. May God aid them and send punishment to Radzivill, amen!" "That may have happened already; and if not it will happen surely," said the king. "What did you do further?" "I made up my mind that, not being able to serve with the confederate troops of your Royal Grace, I would go to your person and there atone for my former offences with loyalty. But how was I to go? Who would receive Kmita, who would believe him, who would not proclaim him a traitor? Therefore I assumed the name Babinich, and passing through the whole Commonwealth, I reached Chenstohova. Whether I have rendered any services there, let Father Kordetski give witness. Day and night I was thinking only how to repair the injuries to the country, how to spill my blood for it, how to restore myself to repute and to honesty. The rest, Gracious Lord, you know already, for you have seen it. And if a fatherly kind heart incline you, if this new service has outweighed my old sins, or even equalled them, then receive me to your favor and your heart, for all have deserted me, no one comforts me save you. You alone see my sorrow and tears,--I am an outcast, a traitor, an oath-breaker, and still I love this country and your Royal Grace. God sees that I wish to serve both." Here hot tears dropped from the eyes of the young man till he was carried away with weeping; but the king, like a loving father, seizing him by the head began to kiss his forehead and comfort him. "Yendrek! you are as dear to me as if you were my own son. What have I said to you? That you sinned through blindness; and how many sin from calculation? From my heart I forgive you all, for you have wiped away your faults. More than one would be glad to boast of such services as yours. I forgive you and the country forgives; and besides, we are indebted to you. Put an end to your grieving." "God give your Royal Grace everything good for this sympathy," said the knight, with tears. "But as it is I must do penance yet in the world for that oath to Radzivill; for though I knew not to what I was swearing, still an oath is an oath." "God will not condemn you for that," said the king. "He would have to send half this Commonwealth to hell; namely, all those who broke faith with us." "I think myself, Gracious King, that I shall not go to hell, for Kordetski assured me of that, though he was not certain that purgatory would miss me. It is a hard thing to roast for a hundred of years. But it is well even to go there! A man can endure much when the hope of salvation is lighting him; and besides prayers can help somewhat and shorten the torment." "Do not grieve," said Yan Kazimir, "I will prevail on the nuncio himself to say Mass for your intention. With such assistance you will not suffer great harm. Trust in the mercy of God." Kmita smiled through his tears. "Besides," said he, "God give me to return to strength, then I will shell the soul out of more than one Swede, and through that there will be not only merit in heaven, but it will repair my earthly repute." "Be of good cheer and do not be troubled about earthly glory. I guarantee that what belongs to you will not miss you. More peaceful times will come; I myself will declare your services, which are not small, and surely they will be greater; and at the Diet, with God's help, I will have this question raised, and you will be restored soon to honor." "Let that, Gracious Lord, give some comfort; but before then the courts will attack me, from which even the influence of your Royal Grace cannot shield me. But never mind! I will not yield while there is breath in my nostrils, and a sabre in my hand. I am anxious concerning the maiden. Olenka is her name. Gracious Lord; I have not seen her this long time, and I have suffered, oh, I have suffered a world without her and because of her; and though at times I might wish to drive her out of my heart and wrestle with love as with a bear, it's of no use, for such a fellow as he will not let a man go." Yan Kazimir smiled good-naturedly and kindly: "How can I help you here, my poor man?" "Who can help me if not your grace? That maiden is an inveterate royalist, and she will never forgive me my deeds at Kyedani, unless your Royal Grace will make intercession, and give witness how I changed and returned to the service of the king and my country, not from constraint, not for profit, but through my own will and repentance." "If that is the question I will make the intercession; and if she is such a royalist as you say, the intercession should be effectual,--if the girl is only free, and if some mishap has not met her such as are frequent in war-time." "May angels protect her!" "She deserves it. So that the courts may not trouble you, act thus wise: Levies will be made now in haste. Since, as you say, outlawry weighs on you, I cannot give you a commission as Kmita, but I will give you one as Babinich; you will make a levy which will be for the good of the country, for you are clearly a mettlesome soldier with experience. You will take the field under Stefan Charnyetski; under him death is easiest, but the chances of glory are easiest. And if need comes you will attack the Swedes of yourself as you did Hovanski. Your conversion and good deeds commenced with the day when you called yourself Babinich; call yourself Babinich still further, and the courts will leave you at rest. When you will be as bright as the sun, when the report of your services will be heard through the Commonwealth, let men discover who this great cavalier is. This and that kind of man will be ashamed to summon such a knight to a court. At that time some will have died, you will satisfy others. Not a few decisions will be lost, and I promise to exalt your services to the skies, and will present them to the Diet for reward, for in my eyes they deserve it." "Gracious Lord! how have I earned such favors?" "Better than many who think they have a right to them. Well, well! be not grieved, dear royalist, for I trust that the royalist maiden will not be lost to you, and God grant you to assemble for me more royalists soon." Kmita, though sick, sprang quickly from the bed and fell his whole length at the feet of the king. "In God's name! what are you doing?" cried the king. "The blood will leave you! Yendrek! Hither, some one!" In came the marshal himself, who had long been looking for the king through the castle. "Holy Yerzy! my patron, what do I see?" cried he, when he saw the king raising Kmita with his own hands. "This is Babinich, my most beloved soldier and most faithful servant, who saved my life yesterday," said the king. "Help, Lord Marshal, to raise him to the couch." CHAPTER XIII. From Lyubovlya the king advanced to Dukla, Krosno, Lantsut, and Lvoff, having at his side the marshal of the kingdom, many dignitaries and senators, with the court squadrons and escorts. And as a great river flowing through a country gathers to itself all the smaller waters, so did new legions gather to the retinue of the king. Lords and armed nobles thronged forward, and soldiers, now singly, now in groups, and crowds of armed peasants burning with special hatred against the Swedes. The movement was becoming universal, and the military order of things had begun to lead to it. Threatening manifestoes had appeared dated from Sanch: one by Constantine Lyubomirski, the marshal of the Circle of Knights; the other by Yan Vyelopolski, the castellan of Voinik, both calling on the nobles in the province of Cracow to join the general militia; those failing to appear were threatened with the punishments of public law. The manifesto of the king completed these, and brought the most slothful to their feet. But there was no need of threats, for an immense enthusiasm had seized all ranks. Old men and children mounted their horses. Women gave up their jewels, their dresses; some rushed off to the conflict themselves. In the forges gypsies were pounding whole nights and days with their hammers, turning the innocent tools of the ploughman into weapons. Villages and towns were empty, for the men had marched to the field. From the heaven-touching mountains night and day crowds of wild people were pouring down. The forces of the king increased with each moment. The clergy came forth with crosses and banners to meet the king; Jewish societies came with their rabbis; his advance was like a mighty triumph. From every side flew in the best tidings, as if borne by the wind. Not only in that part of the country which the invasion of the enemy had not included did people rush to arms. Everywhere in the remotest lands and provinces, in towns, villages, settlements, and unapproachable wildernesses, the awful war of revenge and retaliation raised its flaming head. The lower the people had fallen before, the higher they raised their heads now; they had been reborn, changed in spirit, and in their exaltation did not even hesitate to tear open their own half-healed wounds, to free their blood of poisoned juices. They had begun already to speak, and with increasing loudness, of the powerful union of the nobles and the army, at the head of which were to be the old grand hetman Revera Pototski and the full hetman Lantskoronski, Stefan Charnyetski and Sapyeha, Michael Radzivill, a powerful magnate anxious to remove the ill-fame which Yanush had brought on the house, and Pan Kryshtof Tyshkyevich, with many other senators, provincial and military officials and nobles. Letters were flying every day between these men and the marshal of the kingdom, who did not wish that so noted a union should be formed without him. Tidings more and more certain arrived, till at last it was announced with authority that the hetmans and with them the army had abandoned the Swedes, and formed for the defence of the king and the country the confederation of Tyshovtsi. The king knew of this first, for he and the queen, though far apart, had labored no little through letters and messengers at the formation of it; still, not being able to take personal part in the affair, he waited for the tenor of it with impatience. But before he came to Lvoff, Pan Slujevski with Pan Domashevski, judge of Lukoff, came to him bringing assurances of service and loyalty from the confederates and the act of union for confirmation. The king then read that act at a general council of bishops and senators. The hearts of all were filled with delight, their spirits rose in thankfulness to God; for that memorable confederacy announced not merely that the people had come to their senses, but that they had changed; that people of whom not long before the foreign invader might say that they had no loyalty, no love of country, no conscience, no order, no endurance, nor any of those virtues through which nations and States do endure. The testimony of all these virtues lay now before the king in the act of a confederation and its manifesto. In it was summed up the perfidy of Karl Gustav, his violation of oaths and promises, the cruelty of his generals and his soldiers, such as are not practised by even the wildest of people, desecration of churches, oppression, rapacity, robbery, shedding of innocent blood, and they declared against the Scandinavian invasion a war of life or death. A manifesto terrible as the trumpet of the archangel, summoned not only knights but all ranks and all people in the Commonwealth. Even _infames_ (the infamous), _banniti_ (outlaws), and _proscripti_ (the proscribed) should go to this war, said the manifesto. The knights were to mount their horses and expose their own breasts, and the land was to furnish infantry,--wealthy holders more, the poorer less, according to their wealth and means. "Since in this state good and evil belong equally to all, it is proper that all should share danger. Whoso calls himself a noble, with hind or without it, and if one noble has a number of sons, they should all go to the war against the enemies of the Commonwealth. Since we all, whether of higher or lower birth, being nobles, are eligible to all the prerogatives of office, dignity, and profit in the country, so we are equal in this, that we should go in like manner with our own persons to the defence of these liberties and benefits." Thus did that manifesto explain the equality of nobles. The king, the bishops, and the senators, who for a long time had carried in their hearts the thought of reforming the Commonwealth, convinced themselves with joyful wonder that the people had become ripe for that reform, that they were ready to enter upon now paths, rub the rust and mould from themselves, and begin a new, glorious life. "With this," explained the manifesto, "we open to each deserving man of plebeian condition a place, we indicate and offer by this our confederation an opportunity to reach and acquire the honors, prerogatives, and benefits which the noble estate enjoys--" When this introduction was read at the royal council, a deep silence followed. Those who with the king desired most earnestly that access to rights of nobility should be open to people of lower station thought that they would have to overcome, endure, and break no small opposition; that whole years would pass before it would be safe to give utterance to anything similar; meanwhile that same nobility which hitherto had been so jealous of its prerogatives, so stubborn in appearance, opened wide the gate to the gray crowds of peasants. The primate rose, encircled as it were by the spirit of prophecy, and said,-- "Since you have inserted that _punctum_ (paragraph), posterity will glorify this confederation from age to age, and when any one shall wish to consider these times as times of the fall of ancient Polish virtue, in contradicting him men will point to you." Father Gembitski was ill; therefore he could not speak, but with hand trembling from emotion he blessed the act and the envoys. "I see the enemy already departing in shame from this land!" said the king. "God grant it most quickly!" cried both envoys. "Gentlemen, you will go with us to Lvoff," said the king, "where we will confirm this confederation at once, and besides shall conclude another which the powers of hell itself will not overcome." The envoys and senators looked at one another as if asking what power was in question; the king was silent, but his countenance grew brighter and brighter; he took the act again in his hand and read it a second time, smiled, and asked,-- "Were there many opponents?" "Gracious Lord," answered Pan Domashevski, "this confederacy arose with unanimity through the efforts of the hetmans, of Sapyeha, of Pan Charnyetski; and among nobles not a voice was raised in opposition, so angry are they all at the Swedes, and so have they flamed up with love for the country and your majesty." "We decided, moreover, in advance," added Pan Slujevski, "that this was not to be a diet, but that _pluralitas_ (plurality) alone was to decide; therefore no man's _veto_ could injure the cause; we should have cut an opponent to pieces with our sabres. All said too that it was necessary to finish with the _liberum veto_, since it is freedom for one, but slavery for many." "Golden words of yours!" said the primate. "Only let a reform of the Commonwealth come, and no enemy will frighten us." "But where is the voevoda of Vityebsk?" asked the king. "He went in the night, after the signing of the manifesto, to his own troops at Tykotsin, in which he holds the voevoda of Vilna, the traitor, besieged. Before this time he must have taken him, living or dead." "Was he so sure of capturing him?" "He was as sure as that night follows day. All, even his most faithful servants, have deserted the traitor. Only a handful of Swedes are defending themselves there, and reinforcements cannot come from any side. Pan Sapyeha said in Tyshovtsi, 'I wanted to wait one day, for I should have finished with Radzivill before evening! but this is more important than Radzivill, for they can take him without me; one squadron is enough.'" "Praise be to God!" said the king. "But where is Charnyetski?" "So many of the best cavaliers have hurried to him that in one day he was at the head of an excellent squadron. He moved at once on the Swedes, and where he is at this moment we know not." "But the hetmans?" "They are waiting anxiously for the commands of your Royal Grace. They are both laying plans for the coming war, and are in communication with Pan Yan Zamoyski in Zamost; meanwhile regiments are rolling to them every day with the snow." "Have all left the Swedes then?" "Yes, Gracious King. There were deputies also to the hetmans from the troops of Konyetspolski, who is with the person of Karl Gustav. And they too would be glad to return to their lawful service, though Karl does not spare on them promises or flattery. They said too that though they could not _recedere_ (withdraw) at once, they would do so as soon as a convenient time came, for they have grown tired of his feasts and his flattery, his eye-winking and clapping of hands. They can barely hold out." "Everywhere people are coming to their senses, everywhere good news," said the king. "Praise to the Most Holy Lady! This is the happiest day of my life, and a second such will come only when the last soldier of the enemy leaves the boundary of the Commonwealth." At this Pan Domashevski struck his sword. "May God not grant that to happen!" said he. "How is that?" asked the king, with astonishment. "That the last wide-breeches should leave the boundaries of the Commonwealth on his own feet? Impossible, Gracious Lord! What have we sabres at our sides for?" "Oh!" said the king, made glad, "that is bravery." But Pan Slujevski, not wishing to remain behind Domashevski, said: "As true as life we will not agree to that, and first I will place a veto on it. We shall not be content with their retreat; we will follow them!" The primate shook his head, and smiled kindly. "Oh, the nobles are on horseback, and they will ride on and on! But not too fast, not too fast! The enemy are still within the boundaries." "Their time is short!" cried both confederates. "The spirit has changed, and fortune will change," said Father Gembitski, in a weak voice. "Wine!" cried the king. "Let me drink to the change, with the confederates." They brought wine; but with the servants who brought the wine entered an old attendant of the king, who said,-- "Gracious Lord, Pan Kryshtoporski has come from Chenstohova, and wishes to do homage to your Royal Grace." "Bring him here quickly!" cried the king. In a moment a tall, thin noble entered, with a frowning look. He bowed before the king to his feet, then rather haughtily to the dignitaries, and said,-- "May the Lord Jesus Christ be praised!" "For the ages of ages!" answered the king. "What is to be heard from the monastery?" "Terrible frost. Gracious Lord, so that the eyelids are frozen to the eyeballs." "But for God's sake! tell us of the Swedes and not of the frost!" cried the king. "But what can I say of them, Gracious Lord, when there are none at Chenstohova?" asked he, humorously. "Those tidings have come to us," replied the king, "but only from the talk of people, and you have come from the cloister itself. Are you an eyewitness?" "I am. Gracious Lord, a partner in the defence and an eyewitness of the miracles of the Most Holy Lady." "That was not the end of Her grace," said the king, raising his eyes to heaven, "but let us earn them further." "I have seen much in my life," continued the noble; "but such evident miracles I have not seen, touching which the prior Kordetski writes in detail in this letter." Yan Kazimir seized hastily the letter handed him by the noble, and began to read. At times he interrupted the reading to pray, then again turned to the letter. His face changed with joyful feelings; at last he raised his eyes to the noble. "Father Kordetski writes me," said he, "that you have lost a great cavalier, a certain Babinich, who blew up the Swedish siege gun with powder?" "He sacrificed himself for all. But some say he is alive, and God knows what they have said; not being certain, we have not ceased to mourn him, for without his gallant deed it would have been hard for us to defend ourselves." "If that is true, then cease to mourn him. Pan Babinich is alive, and here with us. He was the first to inform us that the Swedes, not being able to do anything against the power of God, were thinking of retreat. And later he rendered such famous service that we know not ourselves how to pay him." "Oh, that will comfort the prior!" cried the noble, with gladness; "but if Pan Babinich is alive, it is only because he has the special favor of the Most Holy Lady. How that will comfort Father Kordetski! A father could not love a son as he loved him. And your Royal Grace will permit me to greet Pan Babinich, for there is not a second man of such daring in the Commonwealth." But the king began again to read, and after a while cried,-- "What do I hear? After retreating they tried once again to steal on the cloister?" "When Miller went away, he did not show himself again; but Count Veyhard appeared unexpectedly at the walls, trusting, it seems, to find the gates open. He did, but the peasants fell on him with such rage that he retreated shamefully. While the world is a world, simple peasants have never fought so in the open field against cavalry. Then Pan Pyotr Charnyetski and Pan Kulesha came up and cut him to pieces." The king turned to the senators. "See how poor ploughmen stand up in defence of this country and the holy faith." "That they stand up, Gracious King, is true," cried the noble. "Whole villages near Chenstohova are empty, for the peasants are in the field with their scythes. There is a fierce war everywhere; the Swedes are forced to keep together in numbers, and if the peasants catch one of them they treat him so that it would be better for him to go straight to hell. Who is not taking up arms now in the Commonwealth? It was not for the dog-brothers to attack Chenstohova. From that hour they could not remain in this country." "From this hour no man will suffer oppression in this land who resists now with his blood," said the king, with solemnity; "so help me God and the holy cross!" "Amen!" added the primate. Now the noble struck his forehead with his hand. "The frost has disturbed my mind, Gracious Lord, for I forgot to tell one thing, that such a son, the voevoda of Poznan, is dead. He died, they say, suddenly." Here the noble was somewhat ashamed, seeing that he had called a great senator "that such a son" in presence of the king and dignitaries; therefore he added, confused,-- "I did not wish to belittle an honorable station, but a traitor." But no one had noticed that clearly, for all looked at the king, who said,-- "We have long predestined Pan Yan Leshchynski to be voevoda of Poznan, even during the life of Pan Opalinski. Let him fill that office more worthily. The judgment of God, I see, has begun upon those who brought this country to its decline, for at this moment, perhaps, the voevoda of Vilna is giving an account of his deeds before the Supreme Judge." Here he turned to the bishops and senators,-- "But it is time for us to think of a general war, and I wish to have the opinion of all of you, gentlemen, on this question." CHAPTER XIV. At the moment when the king was saying that the voevoda of Vilna was standing, perhaps, before the judgment of God, he spoke as it were with a prophetic spirit, for at that hour the affair of Tykotsin was decided. On December 25 Sapyeha was so sure of capturing Tykotsin that he went himself to Tyshovtsi, leaving the further conduct of the siege to Pan Oskyerko. He gave command to wait for the final storm till his return, which was to follow quickly; assembling, therefore, his more prominent officers, he said,-- "Reports have come to me that among the officers there is a plan to bear apart on sabres the voevoda of Vilna immediately after capturing the castle. Now if the castle, as may happen, should surrender during my absence, I inform you, gentlemen, that I prohibit most strictly an attack on Radzivill's life. I receive letters, it is true, from persons of whom you gentlemen do not even dream, not to let him live when I take him. But I do not choose to obey these commands; and this I do not from any compassion, for the traitor is not worthy of that, but because I have no right over his life, and I prefer to bring him before the Diet, so that posterity may have in this case an example that no greatness of family, no office can cover such offence, nor protect him from public punishment." In this sense spoke the voevoda of Vityebsk, but more minutely, for his honesty was equalled by this weakness: he esteemed himself an orator, and loved on every occasion to speak copiously, and listened with delight to his own words, adding to them the most beautiful sentences from the ancients. "Then I must steep my right hand well in water," answered Zagloba, "for it itches terribly. But I only say this, that if Radzivill had me in his hands, surely he would not spare my head till sunset. He knows well who in great part made his troops leave him; he knows well who embroiled him with the Swedes. But even if he does, I know not why I should be more indulgent to Radzivill than Radzivill to me." "Because the command is not in your hands and you must obey," said Sapyeha, with dignity. "That I must obey is true, but it is well at times also to obey Zagloba. I say this boldly, because if Radzivill had listened to me when I urged him to defend the country, he would not be in Tykotsin to-day, but in the field at the head of all the troops of Lithuania." "Does it seem to you that the baton is in bad hands?" "It would not become me to say that, for I placed it in those hands. Our gracious lord, Yan Kazimir, has only to confirm my choice, nothing more." The voevoda smiled at this, for he loved Zagloba and his jokes. "Lord brother," said he, "you crushed Radzivill, you made me hetman, and all this is your merit. Permit me now to go in peace to Tyshovtsi, so that Sapyeha too may serve the country in something." Zagloba put his hands on his hips, thought awhile as if he were considering whether he ought to permit or not; at last his eye gleamed, he nodded, and said with importance,-- "Go, your grace, in peace." "God reward you for the permission!" answered the voevoda, with a laugh. Other officers seconded the voevoda's laugh. He was preparing to start, for the carriage was under the window; he took farewell of all, therefore, giving each instructions what to do during his absence; then approaching Volodyovski, he said,-- "If the castle surrenders you will answer to me for the life of the voevoda." "According to order! a hair will not fall from his head," said the little knight. "Pan Michael," said Zagloba to him, after the departure of the voevoda, "I am curious to know what persons are urging our Sapyo[2] not to let Radzivill live when he captures him." "How should I know?" answered the little knight. "If you say that what another mouth does not whisper to your ear your own will not suggest, you tell the truth! But they must be some considerable persons, since they are able to command the voevoda." "Maybe it is the king himself." "The king? If a dog bit the king he would forgive him that minute, and give him cheese in addition. Such is his heart." "I will not dispute about that; but still, do they not say that he is greatly incensed at Radzivill?" "First, any man will succeed in being angry,--for example, my anger at Radzivill; secondly, how could he be incensed at Radzeyovski when he took his sons in guardianship, because the father was not better? That is a golden heart, and I think it is the queen who is making requests against the life of Radzivill. She is a worthy lady, not a word against that, but she has a woman's mind; and know that if a woman is enraged at you, even should you hide in a crack of the floor, she will pick you out with a pin." Volodyovski sighed at this, and said,-- "Why should any woman be angry with me, since I have never made trouble for one in my life?" "Ah, but you would have been glad to do so. Therefore, though you serve in the cavalry, you rush on so wildly against the walls of Tykotsin with infantry, for you think not only is Radzivill there, but Panna Billevich. I know you, you rogue! Is it not true? You have not driven her out of your head yet." "There was a time when I had put her thoroughly out of my head; and Kmita himself, if now here, would be forced to confess that my action was knightly, not wishing to act against people in love. I chose to forget my rebuff, but I will not hide this: if Panna Billevich is now in Tykotsin, and if God permits me a second time to save her from trouble, I shall see in that the expressed will of Providence. I need take no thought of Kmita, I owe him nothing; and the hope is alive in me that if he left her of his own will she must have forgotten him, and such a thing will not happen now as happened to me the first time." Conversing in this way, they reached their quarters, where they found Pan Yan and Pan Stanislav, Roh Kovalski and the lord tenant of Vansosh, Jendzian. The cause of Sapyeha's trip to Tyshovtsi was no secret, hence all the knights were pleased that so honorable a confederacy would rise in defence of the faith and the country. "Another wind is blowing now in the whole Commonwealth," said Pan Stanislav, "and, thanks be to God, in the eyes of the Swedes." "It began from Chenstohova," answered Pan Yan. "There was news yesterday that the cloister holds out yet, and repulses more and more powerful assaults. Permit not, Most Holy Mother, the enemy to put Thy dwelling-place to shame." Here Jendzian sighed and said: "Besides the holy images how much precious treasure would go into enemies' hands; when a man thinks of that, food refuses to pass his throat!" "The troops are just tearing away to the assault; we can hardly hold them back," said Pan Michael. "Yesterday Stankyevich's squadron moved without orders and without ladders, for they said, 'When we finish this traitor, we will go to relieve Chenstohova;' and when any man mentions Chenstohova all grit their teeth and shake their sabres." "Why have we so many squadrons here when one half would be enough for Tykotsin?" asked Zagloba. "It is the stubbornness of Sapyeha, nothing more. He does not wish to obey me; he wants to show that without my counsel he can do something. As you see yourselves, how are so many men to invest one paltry castle? They merely hinder one another, for there is not room for them all." "Military experience speaks through you,--it is impossible!" answered Pan Stanislav. "Well, I have a head on my shoulders." "Uncle has a head on his shoulders!" cried Pan Roh, suddenly; and straightening his mustaches, he began to look around on all present as if seeking some one to contradict him. "But the voevoda too has a head," answered Pan Yan; "and if so many squadrons are here, there is danger that Prince Boguslav might come to the relief of his cousin." "Then send a couple of light squadrons to ravage Electoral Prussia," said Zagloba; "and summon volunteers there from among common people. I myself would be the first man to go to try Prussian beer." "Beer is not good in winter, unless warmed," remarked Pan Michael. "Then give us wine, or gorailka, or mead," said Zagloba. Others also exhibited a willingness to drink; therefore the lord tenant of Vansosh occupied himself with that business, and soon a number of decanters were on the table. Hearts were glad at this sight, and the knights began to drink to one another, raising their goblets each time for a new health. "Destruction to the Swedes, may they not skin our bread very long!" said Zagloba. "Let them devour their pine cones in Sweden." "To the health of his Royal Grace and the Queen!" said Pan Yan. "And to loyal men!" said Volodyovski. "Then to our own healths!" "To the health of Uncle!" thundered Kovalski. "God reward! Into your hands! and empty though your lips to the bottom. Zagloba is not yet entirely old! Worthy gentlemen! may we smoke this badger out of his hole with all haste, and move then to Chenstohova." "To Chenstohova!" shouted Kovalski. "To the rescue of the Most Holy Lady." "To Chenstohova!" cried all. "To defend the treasures of Yasna Gora from the Pagans!" added Jendzian. "Who pretend that they believe in the Lord Jesus, wishing to hide their wickedness; but in fact they only howl at the moon like dogs, and in this is all their religion." "And such as these raise their hands against the splendors of Yasna Gora!" "You have touched the spot in speaking of their faith," said Volodyovski to Zagloba, "for I myself have heard how they howl at the moon. They said afterward that they were singing Lutheran psalms; but it is certain that the dogs sing such psalms." "How is that?" asked Kovalski. "Are there such people among them?" "There is no other kind," answered Zagloba, with deep conviction. "And is their king no better?" "Their king is the worst of all. He began this war of purpose to blaspheme the true faith in the churches." Here Kovalski, who had drunk much, rose and said: "If that is true, then as sure as you are looking at me, and as I am Kovalski, I'll spring straight at the Swedish king in the first battle, and though he stood in the densest throng, that is nothing! My death or his! I'll reach him with my lance,--hold me a fool, gentlemen, if I do not!" When he had said this he clinched his fist and was going to thunder on the table. He would have smashed the glasses and decanters, and broken the table; but Zagloba caught him hastily by the arm and said,-- "Sit down, Roh, and give us peace. We will not think you a fool if you do not do this, but know that we will not stop thinking you a fool until you have done it. I do not understand, though, how you can raise a lance on the King of Sweden, when you are not in the hussars." "I will join the escort and be enrolled in the squadron of Prince Polubinski; and my father will help me." "Father Roh?" "Of course." "Let him help you, but break not these glasses, or I'll be the first man to break your head. Of what was I speaking, gentlemen? Ah! of Chenstohova. _Luctus_ (grief) will devour me, if we do not come in time to save the holy place. _Luctus_ will devour me, I tell you all! And all through that traitor Radzivill and the philosophical reasoning of Sapyeha." "Say nothing against the voevoda. He is an honorable man," said the little knight. "Why cover Radzivill with two halves when one is sufficient? Nearly ten thousand men are around this little booth of a castle, the best cavalry and infantry. Soon they will lick the soot out of all the chimneys in this region, for what was on the hearths they have eaten already." "It is not for us to argue over the reasons of superiors, but to obey!" "It is not for you to argue, Pan Michael, but for me; half of the troops who abandoned Radzivill chose me as leader, and I would have driven Karl Gustav beyond the tenth boundary ere now, but for that luckless modesty which commanded me to place the baton in the hands of Sapyeha. Let him put an end to his delay, lest I take back what I gave." "You are only so daring after drink," said Volodyovski. "Do you say that? Well, you will see! This very day I will go among the squadrons and call out, 'Gracious gentlemen, whoso chooses come with me to Chenstohova; it is not for you to wear out your elbows and knifes against the mortar of Tykotsin! I beg you to come with me! Whoso made me commander, whoso gave me power, whoso had confidence that I would do what was useful for the country and the faith, let him stand at my side. It is a beautiful thing to punish traitors, but a hundred times more beautiful to save the Holy Lady, our Mother and the Patroness of this kingdom from oppression and the yoke of the heretic.'" Here Zagloba, from whose forelock the steam had for some time been rising, started up from his place, sprang to a bench, and began to shout as if he were before an assembly,-- "Worthy gentlemen! whoso is a Catholic, whoso a Pole, whoso has pity on the Most Holy Lady, let him follow me! To the relief of Chenstohova!" "I go!" shouted Roh Kovalski. Zagloba looked for a while on those present, and seeing astonishment and silent faces, he came down from the bench and said,-- "I'll teach Sapyeha reason! I am a rascal if by tomorrow I do not take half the army from Tykotsin and lead it to Chenstohova." "For God's sake, restrain yourself, father!" said Pan Yan. "I'm a rascal, I tell you!" repeated Zagloba. They were frightened lest he should carry out his threat, for he was able to do so. In many squadrons there was murmuring at the delay in Tykotsin; men really gnashed their teeth thinking of Chenstohova. It was enough to cast a spark on that powder; and what if a man so stubborn, of such immense knightly importance as Zagloba, should cast it? To begin with, the greater part of Sapyeha's army was composed of new recruits, and therefore of men unused to discipline, and ready for action on their own account, and they would have gone as one man without doubt after Zagloba to Chenstohova. Therefore both Skshetuskis were frightened at this undertaking, and Volodyovski cried,-- "Barely has a small army been formed by the greatest labor of the voevoda, barely is there a little power for the defence of the Commonwealth, and you wish with disorder to break up the squadrons, bring them to disobedience. Radzivill would pay much for such counsel, for it is water to his mill. Is it not a shame for you to speak of such a deed?" "I'm a scoundrel if I don't do it!" said Zagloba. "Uncle will do it!" said Kovalski. "Silence, you horseskull!" roared out Pan Michael. Pan Roh stared, shut his mouth, and straightened himself at once. Then Volodyovski turned to Zagloba: "And I am a scoundrel if one man of my squadron goes with you; you wish to ruin the army, and I tell you that I will fall first upon your volunteers." "O Pagan, faithless Turk!" said Zagloba. "How is that? you would attack knights of the Most Holy Lady? Are you ready? Well, I know you! Do you think, gentlemen, that it is a question with him of an army or discipline? No! he sniffs Panna Billevich behind the walls of Tykotsin. For a private question, for your own wishes you would not hesitate to desert the best cause. You would be glad to flutter around a maiden, to stand on one foot, then the other, and display yourself. But nothing will come of this! My head for it, that better than you are running after her, even that same Kmita, for even he is no worse than you." Volodyovski looked at those present, taking them to witness what injustice was done him; then he frowned. They thought he would burst out in anger, but because he had been drinking, he fell all at once into tenderness. "This is my reward," said he. "From the years of a stripling I have served the country; I have not put the sabre out of my hand! I have neither cottage, wife, nor children; my head is as lone as a lance-point. The most honorable think of themselves, but I have no rewards save wounds in the flesh; nay, I am accused of selfishness, almost held a traitor." Tears began to drop on his yellow mustaches. Zagloba softened in a moment, and throwing open his arms, cried,-- "Pan Michael, I have done you cruel injustice! I should be given to the hangman for having belittled such a tried friend!" Then falling into mutual embraces, they began to kiss each other; they drank more to good understanding, and when sorrow had gone considerably out of his heart, Volodyovski said,-- "But you will not ruin the army, bring disobedience, and give an evil example?" "I will not, Pan Michael, I will not for your sake." "God grant us to take Tykotsin; whose affair is it what I seek behind the walls of the fortress? Why should any man jeer at me?" Struck by that question, Zagloba began to put the ends of his mustaches in his mouth and gnaw them; at last he said: "Pan Michael, I love you as the apple of my eye, but drive that Panna Billevich out of your head." "Why?" asked Pan Michael, with astonishment. "She is beautiful, _assentior_ (I agree)," answered Zagloba, "but she is distinguished in person, and there is no proportion whatever between you. You might sit on her shoulder, like a canary-bird, and peck sugar out of her mouth. She might carry you like a falcon on her glove, and let you off against every enemy, for though you are little you are venomous like a hornet." "Well, have you begun?" asked Volodyovski. "If I have begun, then let me finish. There is one woman as if created for you, and she is precisely that kernel-- What is her name? That one whom Podbipienta was to marry?" "Anusia Borzobogati!" cried Pan Yan. "She is indeed an old love of Michael's." "A regular grain of buckwheat, but a pretty little rogue; just like a doll," said Zagloba, smacking his lips. Volodyovski began to sigh, and to repeat time after time what he always repeated when mention was made of Anusia: "What is happening to the poor girl? Oh, if she could only be found!" "You would not let her out of your hands, for, God bless me, I have not seen in my life any man so given to falling in love. You ought to have been born a rooster, scratch the sweepings in a house-yard, and cry, 'Co, co, co,' at the top-knots." "Anusia! Anusia!" repeated Pan Michael. "If God would send her to me--But perhaps she is not in the world, or perhaps she is married--" "How could she be? She was a green turnip when I saw her, and afterward, even if she ripened, she may still be in the maiden state. After such a man as Podbipienta she could not take any common fellow. Besides, in these times of war few are thinking of marriage." "You did not know her well," answered Pan Michael. "She was wonderfully honest; but she had such a nature that she let no man pass without piercing his heart. The Lord God created her thus. She did not miss even men of lower station; for example, Princess Griselda's physician, that Italian, who was desperately in love with her. Maybe she has married him and he has taken her beyond the sea." "Don't talk such nonsense, Michael!" cried Zagloba, with indignation. "A doctor, a doctor,--that the daughter of a noble of honorable blood should marry a man of such low estate! I have already said that that is impossible." "I was angry with her myself, for I thought, 'This is without limit; soon she will be turning the heads of attorneys.'" "I prophesy that you will see her yet," said Zagloba. Further conversation was interrupted by the entrance of Pan Tokarzevich, who had served formerly with Radzivill, but after the treason of the hetman, left him, in company with others, and was now standard-bearer in Oskyerko's regiment. "Colonel," said he to Volodyovski, "we are to explode a petard." "Is Pan Oskyerko ready?" "He was ready at midday, and he is not willing to wait, for the night promises to be dark." "That is well; we will go to see. I will order the men to be ready with muskets, so that the besieged may not make a sortie. Will Pan Oskyerko himself explode the petard?" "He will--in his own person. A crowd of volunteers go with him." "And I will go!" said Volodyovski. "And we!" cried Pan Yan and Pan Stanislav. "Oh, 'tis a pity that old eyes cannot see in the dark," said Zagloba, "for of a surety I should not let you go alone. But what is to be done? When dusk comes I cannot draw my sword. In the daytime, in the daytime, in the sunlight, then the old man likes to move to the field. Give me the strongest of the Swedes, if at midday." "But I will go," said, after some thought, the tenant of Vansosh. "When they blow up the gate the troops will spring to the storm in a crowd, and in the castle there may be great wealth in plate and in jewels." All went out, for it was now growing dark; in the quarters Zagloba alone remained. He listened for a while to the snow squeaking under the steps of the departing men, then began to raise one after another the decanters, and look through them at the light burning in the chimney to see if there was something yet in any of them. The others marched toward the castle in darkness and wind, which rose from the north and blew with increasing force, howling, storming, bringing with it clouds of snow broken fine. "A good night to explode a petard!" said Volodyovski. "But also for a sortie," answered Pan Yan. "We must keep a watchful eye and ready muskets." "God grant," said Pan Tokarzevich, "that at Chenstohova there is a still greater storm. It is always warmer for our men behind the walls. But may the Swedes freeze there on guard, may they freeze!" "A terrible night!" said Pan Stanislav; "do you hear, gentlemen, how it howls, as if Tartars were rushing through the air to attack?" "Or as if devils were singing a requiem for Radzivill!" said Volodyovski. CHAPTER XV. But a few days subsequent the great traitor in the castle was looking at the darkness coming down on the snowy shrouds and listening to the howling of the wind. The lamp of his life was burning out slowly. At noon of that day he was still walking around and looking through the battlements, at the tents and the wooden huts of Sapyeha's troops; but two hours later he grew so ill that they had to carry him to his chambers. From those times at Kyedani in which he had striven for a crown, he had changed beyond recognition. The hair on his head had grown white, around his eyes red rings had formed, his face was swollen and flabby, therefore it seemed still more enormous, but it was the face of a half corpse, marked with blue spots and terrible through its expression of hellish suffering. And still, though his life could be measured by hours, he had lived too long, for not only had he outlived faith in himself and his fortunate star, faith in his own hopes and plans, but his fall was so deep that when he looked at the bottom of that precipice to which he was rolling, he would not believe himself. Everything had deceived him: events, calculations, allies. He, for whom it was not enough to be the mightiest lord in Poland, a prince of the Roman Empire, grand hetman, and voevoda of Vilna; he, for whom all Lithuania was less than what he desired and was lusting after, was confined in one narrow, small castle in which either Death or Captivity was waiting for him. And he watched the door every day to see which of these two terrible goddesses would enter first to take his soul or his more than half-ruined body. Of his lands, of his estates and starostaships, it was possible not long before to mark out a vassal kingdom; now he is not master even of the walls of Tykotsin. Barely a few months before he was treating with neighboring kings; to-day one Swedish captain obeys his commands with impatience and contempt, and dares to bend him to his will. When his troops left him, when from a lord and a magnate who made the whole country tremble, he became a powerless pauper who needed rescue and assistance himself, Karl Gustav despised him. He would have raised to the skies a mighty ally, but he turned with haughtiness from the supplicant. Like Kostka Napyerski, the foot-pad, besieged on a time in Chorshtyn, is he, Radzivill, besieged now in Tykotsin. And who is besieging him? Sapyeha, his greatest personal enemy. When they capture him they will drag him to justice in worse fashion than a robber, as a traitor. His kinsmen have deserted him, his friends, his connections. Armies have plundered his property, his treasures and riches are blown into mist, and that lord, that prince, who once upon a time astonished the court of France and dazzled it with his luxury, he who at feasts received thousands of nobles, who maintained tens of thousands of his own troops, whom he fed and supported, had not now wherewith to nourish his own failing strength; and terrible to relate, he, Radzivill, in the last moments of his life, almost at the hour of his death, was hungry! In the castle there had long been a lack of provisions; from the scant remaining supplies the Swedish commander dealt stingy rations, and the prince would not beg of him. If only the fever which was devouring his strength had deprived him of consciousness; but it had not. His breast rose with increasing heaviness, his breath turned into a rattle, his swollen feet and hands were freezing, but his mind, omitting moments of delirium, omitting the terrible visions and nightmares which passed before his eyes, remained for the greater part of the time clear. And that prince saw his whole fall, all his want, all his misery and humiliation; that former warrior-victor saw all his defeat, and his sufferings were so immense that they could be equalled only by his sins. Besides, as the Furies tormented Orestes, so was he tormented by reproaches of conscience, and in no part of the world was there a sanctuary to which he could flee from them. They tormented him in the day, they tormented him at night, in the field, under the roof; pride could not withstand them nor repulse them. The deeper his fall, the more fiercely they lashed him. And there were moments in which he tore his own breast. When enemies came against his country from every side, when foreign nations grieved over its hapless condition, its sufferings and bloodshed, he, the grand hetman, instead of moving to the field, instead of sacrificing the last drop of his blood, instead of astonishing the world like Leonidas or Themistocles, instead of pawning his last coat like Sapyeha, made a treaty with enemies against the mother, raised a sacrilegious hand against his own king, and imbrued it in blood near and dear to him. He had done all this, and now he is at the limit not only of infamy, but of life, close to his reckoning, there beyond. What is awaiting him? The hair rose on his head when he thought of that. For he had raised his hand against his country, he had appeared to himself great in relation to that country, and now all had changed. Now he had become small, and the Commonwealth, rising from dust and blood, appeared to him something great and continually greater, invested with a mysterious terror, full of a sacred majesty, awful. And she grew, increased continually in his eyes, and became more and more gigantic. In presence of her he felt himself dust as prince and as hetman, as Radzivill. He could not understand what that was. Some unknown waves were rising around him, flowing toward him, with roaring, with thunder, flowing ever nearer, rising more terribly, and he understood that he must be drowned in that immensity, hundreds such as he would be drowned. But why had he not seen this awfulness and this mysterious power at first; why had he, mad man, rushed against it? When these ideas roared in his head, fear seized him in presence of that mother, in presence of that Commonwealth; for he did not recognize her features, which formerly were so kind and so mild. The spirit was breaking within him, and terror dwelt in his breast. At moments he thought that another country altogether, another people, were around him. Through the besieged walls came news of everything that men were doing in the invaded Commonwealth, and marvellous and astonishing things were they doing. A war of life or death against the Swedes and traitors had begun, all the more terrible in that it had not been foreseen by any man. The Commonwealth had begun to punish. There was something in this of the anger of God for the insult to majesty. When through the walls of Tykotsin came news of the siege of Chenstohova, Radzivill, a Calvinist, was frightened; and fright did not leave his soul from that day, for then he perceived for the first time those mysterious waves which, after they had risen, were to swallow the Swedes and him; then the invasion of the Swedes seemed not an invasion, but a sacrilege, and the punishment of it inevitable. Then for the first time the veil dropped from his eyes, and he saw the changed face of the Commonwealth, no longer a mother, but a punishing queen. All who had remained true to her and served with heart and soul, rose and grew greater and greater; whoso sinned against her went down. "And therefore it is not free to any one to think," said the prince to himself, "of his own elevation, or that of his family, but he must sacrifice life, strength, and love to her." But for him it was now too late; he had nothing to sacrifice; he had no future before him save that beyond the grave, at sight of which he shuddered. From the time of besieging Chenstohova, when one terrible cry was torn from the breast of an immense country, when as if by a miracle there was found in it a certain wonderful, hitherto unknown and not understood power, when you would have said that a mysterious hand from beyond this world rose in its defence, a new doubt gnawed into the soul of the prince, and he could not free himself from the terrible thought that God stood with that cause and that faith. And when such thoughts roared in his head he doubted his own faith, and then his despair passed even the measure of his sins. Temporal fall, spiritual fall, darkness, nothingness,--behold to what he had come, what he had gained by serving self. And still at the beginning of the expedition from Kyedani against Podlyasye he was full of hope. It is true that Sapyeha, a leader inferior to him beyond comparison, had defeated him in the field, and the rest of the squadrons left him, but he strengthened himself with the thought that any day Boguslav might come with assistance. That young eagle of the Radzivills would fly to him at the head of Prussian Lutheran legions, who would not pass over to the papists like the Lithuanian squadrons; and at once he would bend Sapyeha in two, scatter his forces, scatter the confederates, and putting themselves on the corpse of Lithuania, like two lions on the carcass of a deer, with roaring alone would terrify all who might wish to tear it away from them. But time passed; the forces of Prince Yanush melted; even the foreign regiments went over to the terrible Sapyeha; days passed, weeks, months, but Boguslav came not. At last the siege of Tykotsin began. The Swedes, a handful of whom remained with Yanush, defended themselves heroically; for, stained already with terrible cruelty, they saw that even surrender would not guard them from the vengeful hands of the Lithuanians. The prince in the beginning of the siege had still the hope that at the last moment, perhaps, the King of Sweden himself would move to his aid, and perhaps Pan Konyetspolski, who at the head of six thousand cavalry was with Karl Gustav. But his hope was vain. No one gave him a thought, no one came with assistance. "Oh, Boguslav! Boguslav!" repeated the prince, walking through the chambers of Tykotsin; "if you will not save a cousin, save at least a Radzivill!" At last in his final despair Prince Yanush resolved on taking a step at which his pride revolted fearfully; that was to implore Prince Michael Radzivill of Nyesvyej for rescue. This letter, however, was intercepted on the road by Sapyeha's men; but the voevoda of Vityebsk sent to Yanush in answer a letter which he had himself received from Prince Michael a week before. Prince Yanush found in it the following passage:-- "If news has come to you, gracious lord, that I intend to go with succor to my relative, the voevoda of Vilna, believe it not, for I hold only with those who endure in loyalty to the country and our king, and who desire to restore the former liberties of this most illustrious Commonwealth. This course will not, as I think, bring me to protect traitors from just and proper punishment. Boguslav too will not come, for, as I hear, the elector prefers to think of himself, and does not wish to divide his forces; and _quod attinet_ (as to) Konyetspolski, since he will pay court to Prince Yanush's widow, should she become one, it is to his profit that the prince voevoda be destroyed with all speed." This letter, addressed to Sapyeha, stripped the unfortunate Yanush of the remnant of his hope, and nothing was left him but to wait for the accomplishment of his destiny. The siege was hastening to its close. News of the departure of Sapyeha passed through the wall almost that moment; but the hope that in consequence of his departure hostile steps would be abandoned were of short duration, for in the infantry regiments an unusual movement was observable. Still some days passed quietly enough, since the plan of blowing up the gate with a petard resulted in nothing; but December 31 came, on which only the approaching night might incommode the besiegers, for evidently they were preparing something against the castle, at least a new attack of cannon on the weakened walls. The day was drawing to a close. The prince was lying in the so-called "Corner" hall situated in the western part of the castle. In an enormous fireplace were burning whole logs of pine wood which cast a lively light on the white and rather empty walls. The prince was lying on his back on a Turkish sofa, pushed out purposely into the middle of the room, so that the warmth of the blaze might reach it. Nearer to the fireplace, a little in the shade, slept a page, on a carpet; near the prince were sitting, slumbering in arm-chairs, Pani Yakimovich, formerly chief lady-in-waiting at Kyedani, another page, a physician, also the prince's astrologer, and Kharlamp. Kharlamp had not left the prince, though he was almost the only one of his former officers who had remained. That was a bitter service, for the heart and soul of the officer were outside the walls of Tykotsin, in the camp of Sapyeha; still he remained faithful at the side of his old leader. From hunger and watching the poor fellow had grown as thin as a skeleton. Of his face there remained but the nose, which now seemed still greater, and mustaches like bushes. He was clothed in complete armor, breastplate, shoulder-pieces, and morion, with a wire cape which came down to his shoulders. His cuirass was battered, for he had just returned from the walls, to which he had gone to make observations a little while before, and on which he sought death every day. He was slumbering at the moment from weariness, though there was a terrible rattling in the prince's breast as if he had begun to die, and though the wind howled and whistled outside. Suddenly short quivering began to shake the gigantic body of Radzivill, and the rattling ceased. Those who were around him woke at once and looked quickly, first at him and then at one another. But he said,-- "It is as if something had gone out of my breast; I feel easier." He turned his head a little, looked carefully toward the door, at last he said, "Kharlamp!" "At the service of your highness!" "What does Stahovich want here?" The legs began to tremble under poor Kharlamp, for unterrified as he was in battle he was superstitious in the same degree; therefore he looked around quickly, and said in a stifled voice,-- "Stahovich is not here; your highness gave orders to shoot him at Kyedani." The prince closed his eyes and answered not a word. For a time there was nothing to be heard save the doleful and continuous howling of the wind. "The weeping of people is heard in that wind," said the prince, again opening his eyes in perfect consciousness. "But I did not bring in the Swedes; it was Radzeyovski." When no one gave answer, he said after a short time,-- "He is most to blame, he is most to blame, he is most to blame." And a species of consolation entered his breast, as if the remembrance rejoiced him that there was some one more guilty than he. Soon, however, more grievous thoughts must have come to his head, for his face grew dark, and he repeated a number of times,-- "Jesus! Jesus! Jesus!" And again choking attacked him; a rattling began in his throat more terrible than before. Meanwhile from without came the sound of musketry, at first infrequent, then more frequent; but amidst the drifting of the snow and the howling of the whirlwind they did not sound too loudly, and it might have been thought that that was some continual knocking at the gate. "They are fighting!" said the prince's physician. "As usual!" answered Kharlamp. "People are freezing in the snow-drifts, and they wish to fight to grow warm." "This is the sixth day of the whirlwind and the snow," answered the doctor. "Great changes will come in the kingdom, for this is an unheard of thing." "God grant it!" said Kharlamp. "It cannot be worse." Further conversation was interrupted by the prince, to whom a new relief had come. "Kharlamp!" "At the service of your highness!" "Does it seem to me so from weakness, or did Oskyerko try to blow up the gate with a petard two days since?" "He tried, your highness; but the Swedes seized the petards and wounded him slightly, and Sapyeha's men were repulsed." "If wounded slightly, then he will try again. But what day is it?" "The last day of December, your highness." "God be merciful to my soul! I shall not live to the New Year. Long ago it was foretold me that every fifth year death is near me." "God is kind, your highness." "God is with Sapyeha," said the prince, gloomily. All at once he looked around and said: "Cold comes to me from it. I do not see it, but I feel that it is here." "What is that, your highness?" "Death!" "In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost!" A moment of silence followed; nothing was heard but the whispered "Our Father," repeated by Pani Yakimovich. "Tell me," said the prince, with a broken voice, "do you believe that outside of your faith no one can be saved?" "Even in the moment of death it is possible to renounce errors," said Kharlamp. The sound of shots had become at that moment more frequent. The thunder of cannon began to shake the windowpanes, which answered each report with a plaintive sound. The prince listened a certain time calmly, then rose slightly on the pillow; his eyes began slowly to widen, his pupils to glitter. He sat up; for a moment he held his head with his hand, then cried suddenly, as if in bewilderment,-- "Boguslav! Boguslav! Boguslav!" Kharlamp ran out of the room like a madman. The whole castle trembled and quivered from the thunder of cannon. All at once there was heard the cry of several thousand voices; then something was torn with a ghastly smashing of walls, so that brands and coals from the chimney were scattered on the floor. At the same time Kharlamp rushed into the chamber. "Sapyeha's men have blown up the gate!" cried he. "The Swedes have fled to the tower! The enemy is here! Your highness--" Further words died on his lips. Radzivill was sitting on the sofa with eyes starting out; with open lips he was gulping the air, his teeth bared like those of a dog when he snarls; he tore with his hands the sofa on which he was sitting, and gazing with terror into the depth of the chamber, cried, or rather gave out hoarse rattles between one breath and another,-- "It was Radzeyovski--Not I--Save me!--What do you want? Take the crown!--It was Radzeyovski--Save me, people! Jesus! Jesus! Mary!" These were the last words of Radzivill. Then a terrible coughing seized him; his eyes came out in still more ghastly fashion from their sockets; he stretched himself out, fell on his back, and remained motionless. "He is dead!" said the doctor. "He cried Mary, though a Calvinist, you have heard!" said Pani Yakimovich. "Throw wood on the fire!" said Kharlamp to the terrified pages. He drew near to the corpse, closed the eyelids; then he took from his own armor a gilded image of the Mother of God which he wore on a chain, and placing the hands of Radzivill together on his breast, he put the image between the dead fingers. The light of the fire was reflected from the golden ground of the image, and that reflection fell upon the face of the voevoda and made it cheerful so that never had it seemed so calm. Kharlamp sat at the side of the body, and resting his elbows on his knees, hid his face in his hands. The silence was broken only by the sound of shots. All at once something terrible took place. First of all was a flash of awful brightness; the whole world seemed turned into fire, and at the same time there was given forth such a sound as if the earth had fallen from under the castle. The walls tottered; the ceilings cracked with a terrible noise; all the windows tumbled in on the floor, and the panes were broken into hundreds of fragments. Through the empty openings of the windows that moment clouds of snow drifted in, and the whirlwind began to howl gloomily in the corners of the chamber. All the people present fell to the floor on their faces, speechless from terror. Kharlamp rose first, and looked directly on the corpse of the voevoda; the corpse was lying in calmness, but the gilded image had slipped a little in the hands. Kharlamp recovered his breath. At first he felt certain that that was an army of Satans who had broken into the chamber for the body of the prince. "The word has become flesh!" said he. "The Swedes must have blown up the tower and themselves." But from without there came no sound. Evidently the troops of Sapyeha were standing in dumb wonder, or perhaps in fear that the whole castle was mined, and that there would be explosion after explosion. "Put wood on the fire!" said Kharlamp to the pages. Again the room was gleaming with a bright, quivering light. Round about a deathlike stillness continued; but the fire hissed, the whirlwind howled, and the snow rolled each moment more densely through the window openings. At last confused voices were heard, then the clatter of spurs and the tramp of many feet; the door of the chamber was opened wide, and soldiers rushed in. It was bright from the naked sabres, and more and more figures of knights in helmets, caps, and kolpaks crowded through the door. Many were bearing lanterns in their hands, and they held them to the light, advancing carefully, though it was light in the room from the fire as well. At last there sprang forth from the crowd a little knight all in enamelled armor, and cried,-- "Where is the voevoda of Vilna?" "Here!" said Kharlamp, pointing to the body lying on the sofa. Volodyovski looked at him, and said,-- "He is not living!" "He is not living, he is not living!" went from mouth to mouth. "The traitor, the betrayer is not living!" "So it is," said Kharlamp, gloomily. "But if you dishonor his body and bear it apart with sabres, you will do ill, for before his end he called on the Most Holy Lady, and he holds Her image in his hand." These words made a deep impression. The shouts were hushed. Then the soldiers began to approach, to go around the sofa, and look at the dead man. Those who had lanterns turned the light of them on his eyes; and he lay there, gigantic, gloomy, on his face the majesty of a hetman and the cold dignity of death. The soldiers came one after another, and among them the officers; therefore Stankyevich approached, the two Skshetuskis, Horotkyevich, Yakub Kmita, Oskyerko, and Pan Zagloba. "It is true!" said Zagloba, in a low voice, as if he feared to rouse the prince. "He holds in his hands the Most Holy Lady, and the shining from Her falls on his face." When he said this he removed his cap. That instant all the others bared their heads. A moment of silence filled with reverence followed, which was broken at last by Volodyovski. "Ah!" said he, "he is before the judgment of God, and people have nothing to do with him." Here he turned to Kharlamp: "But you, unfortunate, why did you for his sake leave your country and king?" "Give him this way!" called a number of voices at once. Then Kharlamp rose, and taking off his sabre threw it with a clatter on the floor, and said,-- "Here I am, cut me to pieces! I did not leave him with you, when he was powerful as a king, and afterward it was not proper to leave him when he was in misery and no one stayed with him. I have not grown fat in his service; for three days I have had nothing in my mouth, and the legs are bending under me. But here I am, cut me to pieces! for I confess furthermore [here Kharlamp's voice trembled] that I loved him." When he had said this he tottered and would have fallen; but Zagloba opened his arms to him, caught him, supported him, and cried,-- "By the living God! Give the man food and drink!" That touched all to the heart; therefore they took Kharlamp by the arms and led him out of the chamber at once. Then the soldiers began to leave it one after another, making the sign of the cross with devotion. On the road to their quarters Zagloba was meditating over something. He stopped, coughed, then pulled Volodyovski by the skirt. "Pan Michael," said he. "Well, what?" "My anger against Radzivill is passed; a dead man is a dead man! I forgive him from my heart for having made an attempt on my life." "He is before the tribunal of heaven," said Volodyovski. "That's it, that's it! H'm, if it would help him I would even give for a Mass, since it seems to me that he has an awfully small chance up there." "God is merciful!" "As to being merciful, he is merciful; still the Lord cannot look without abhorrence on heretics. And Radzivill was not only a heretic, but a traitor. There is where the trouble is!" Here Zagloba shook his head and began to look upward. "I am afraid," said he, after a while, "that some of those Swedes who blew themselves up will fall on my head; that they will not be received there in heaven is certain." "They were good men," said Pan Michael, with recognition; "they preferred death to surrender, there are few such soldiers in the world." All at once Volodyovski halted: "Panna Billevich was not in the castle," said he. "But how do you know?" "I asked those pages. Boguslav took her to Taurogi." "El!" said Zagloba, "that was as if to confide a kid to a wolf. But it is not your affair; your predestined is that kernel!" CHAPTER XVI. Lvoff from the moment of the king's arrival was turned into a real capital of the Commonwealth. Together with the king came the greater part of the bishops from the whole country and all those lay senators who had not served the enemy. The calls already issued summoned also to arms the nobles of Rus and of the remoter adjoining provinces, they came in numbers and armed with the greater ease because the Swedes had not been in those regions. Eyes were opened and hearts rose at sight of this general militia, for it reminded one in nothing of that of Great Poland, which at Uistsie offered such weak opposition to the enemy. On the contrary, in this case marched a warlike and terrible nobility, reared from childhood on horseback and in the field, amidst continual attacks of wild Tartars, accustomed to bloodshed and burning, better masters of the sabre than of Latin. These nobles were in fresh training yet from Hmelnitski's uprising, which lasted seven years without interval, so that there was not a man among them who was not as many times in fire as he had years of life. New swarms of these were arriving continually in Lvoff: some had marched from the Byeshchadi full of precipices, others from the Pruth, the Dniester, and the Seret; some lived on the steep banks of the Dniester, some on the wide-spreading Bug; some on the Sinyuha had not been destroyed from the face of the earth by peasant incursions; some had been left on the Tartar boundaries;--all these hurried at the call of the king to the city of the Lion,[3] some to march thence against an enemy as yet unknown. The nobles came in from Volynia and from more distant provinces, such hatred was kindled in all souls by the terrible tidings that the enemy had raised sacrilegious hands on the Patroness of the Commonwealth in Chenstohova. And the Cossacks dared not raise obstacles, for the hearts were moved in the most hardened, and besides, they were forced by the Tartars to beat with the forehead to the king, and to renew for the hundredth time their oath of loyalty. A Tartar embassy, dangerous to the enemies of the king, was in Lvoff under the leadership of Suba Gazi Bey, offering, in the name of the Khan, a horde a hundred thousand strong to assist the Commonwealth; of these forty thousand from near Kamenyets could take the field at once. Besides the Tartar embassy a legation had come from Transylvania to carry through negotiations begun with Rakotsy concerning succession to the throne. The ambassador of the emperor was present; so was the papal nuncio, who had come with the king. Every day deputations arrived from the armies of the kingdom and Lithuania, from provinces and lands, with declarations of loyalty, and a wish to defend to the death the invaded country. The fortunes of the king increased; the Commonwealth, crushed altogether so recently, was rising before the eyes of all to the wonder of ages and nations. The souls of men were inflamed with thirst for war and retaliation, and at the same time they grew strong. And as in spring-time a warm generous rain melts the snow, so mighty hope melted doubt. Not only did they wish for victory, but they believed in it. New and favorable tidings came in continually; though often untrue, they passed from mouth to mouth. Time after time men told now of castles recovered, now of battles in which unknown regiments under leaders hitherto unknown had crushed the Swedes, now of terrible clouds of peasants sweeping along, like locusts, against the enemy. The name of Stefan Charnyetski was more and more frequent on every lip. The details in these tidings were often untrue, but taken together they reflected as a mirror what was being done in the whole country. But in Lvoff reigned as it were a continual holiday. When the king came the city greeted him solemnly, the clergy of the three rites, the councillors of the city, the merchants, the guilds. On the squares and streets, wherever an eye was cast, banners, white, sapphire, purple, and gilded, were waving. The Lvoff people raised proudly their golden lion on a blue field, recalling with self-praise the scarcely passed Cossack and Tartar attacks. At every appearance of the king a shout was raised among the crowds, and crowds were never lacking. The population doubled in recent days. Besides senators and bishops, besides nobles, flowed in throngs of peasants also, for the news had spread that the king intended to improve their condition. Therefore rustic coats and horse-blankets were mingled with the yellow coats of the townspeople. The mercantile Armenians with their swarthy faces put up booths for merchandise and arms which the assembled nobles bought willingly. There were many Tartars also with the embassy; there were Hungarians, Wallachians, and Austrians,--a multitude of people, a multitude of troops, a multitude of different kinds of faces, many strange garments in colors brilliant and varied, troops of court servants, hence gigantic grooms, haiduks, janissaries, red Cossacks, messengers in foreign costume. The streets were filled from morning till evening with the noise of men, now passing squadrons of a quota, now divisions of mounted nobles, the cries of command, the shining of armor and naked sabres, the neighing of horses, the rumble of cannon, and songs full of threatening and curses for the Swedes. The bells in the churches, Polish, Russian, and Armenian, were tolling continually, announcing to all that the king was in the city, and that Lvoff, to its eternal praise, was the first of the capitals that had received the king, the exile. They beat to him with the forehead; wherever he appeared caps flew upward, and shouts of "Vivat!" shook the air. They beat with the forehead also before the carriages of bishops, who through the windows blessed the assembled throngs; they bowed to and applauded senators, honoring in them loyalty to the king and country. So the whole city was seething. At night they even burned on the square piles of wood, at which in spite of cold and frost those men were encamped who could not find lodgings because of the excessive multitude. The king spent whole days in consultation with senators. Audience was given to foreign embassies, to deputations from provinces and troops; methods of filling the empty treasury with money were considered; all means were used to rouse war wherever it had not flamed up already. Couriers were flying to the most important towns in every part of the Commonwealth, to distant Prussia, to sacred Jmud, to Tyshovtsi, to the hetmans, to Sapyeha, who after the storming of Tykotsin took his army to the south with forced marches; couriers went also to Konyetspolski, who was still with the Swedes. Where it was needful money was sent; the slothful were roused with manifestoes. The king recognized, consecrated, and confirmed the confederation of Tyshovtsi and joined it himself; taking the direction of all affairs into his untiring hands, he labored from morning till night, esteeming the Commonwealth more than his own rest, his own health. But this was not the limit of his efforts; for he had determined to conclude in his own name and the name of the estates a league such that no earthly power, could overcome,--a league which in future might serve to reform the Commonwealth. The moment for this had come at last. The secret must have escaped from the senators to the nobles, and from the nobles to the peasants, for since morning it had been said that at the hour of services something important would happen,--that the king would make some solemn vow, concerning, as was said, the condition of the peasants and a confederation with heaven. There were persons, however, who asserted that these were incredible things, without an example in history; but curiosity was excited, and everywhere something was looked for. The day was frosty, clear; tiny flakes of snow were flying through the air, glittering like sparks. The land infantry of Lvoff and the district of Jidache, in blue half shubas, hemmed with gold, and half a Hungarian regiment were drawn out in a long line before the cathedral, holding their muskets at their feet in front of them; officers passed up and down with staffs in their hands. Between these two lines a many-colored throng flowed into the church, like a river. In front nobles and knights, after them the senate of the city, with gilded chains on their necks, and tapers in their hands. They were led by the mayor, a physician noted throughout the whole province; he was dressed in a black velvet toga, and wore a calotte. After the senate went merchants, and among them many Armenians with green and gold skull-caps on their heads, and wearing roomy Eastern gowns. These, though belonging to a special rite, went with the others to represent the estate. After the merchants came, with their banners, the guilds, such as butchers, bakers, tailors, goldsmiths, confectioners, embroiderers, linen-drapers, tanners, mead-boilers, and a number of others yet; from each company representatives went with their own banner, which was borne by a man the most distinguished of all for beauty. Then came various brotherhoods and the common throng in coats, in sheepskins, in horse-blankets, in homespun; dwellers in the suburbs, peasants. Admittance was barred to no one till the church was packed closely with people of all ranks and both sexes. At last carriages began to arrive; but they avoided the main door, for the king, the bishops, and the dignitaries had a special entrance nearer the high altar. Every moment the troops presented arms; at last the soldiers dropped their muskets to their feet, and blew on their chilled hands, throwing out clouds of steam from their breasts. The king came with the nuncio, Vidon; then arrived the archbishop of Gnyezno and the bishop, Prince Chartoryski; next appeared the bishop of Cracow, the archbishop of Lvoff, the grand chancellor of the kingdom, many voevodas and castellans. All these vanished through the side door; and their carriages, retinues, equerries, and attendants of every description formed as it were a new army, standing at the side of the cathedral. Mass was celebrated by the apostolic nuncio, Vidon, arrayed in purple, in a white chasuble embroidered with pearls and gold. For the king a kneeling-stool was placed between the great altar and the pews; before the kneeling-stool was a Turkish sofa. The church arm-chairs were occupied by bishops and lay senators. Many colored rays, passing through the windows, joined with the gleam of candles, with which the altar seemed burning, and fell upon the faces of senators in the church chairs, on the white beards, on the imposing forms, on golden chains, on violet velvet. You would have said, "A Roman senate!" such was the majesty and dignity of these old men. Here and there among gray heads was to be seen the face of a warrior senator; here and there gleamed the blond head of a youthful lord. All eyes were fixed on the altar, all were praying; the flames of the candles were glittering and quivering; the smoke from the censers was playing and curling in the bright air. The body of the church was packed with heads, and over the heads a rainbow of banners was playing, like a rainbow of flowers. The majesty of the king, Yan Kazimir, prostrated itself, according to his custom, in the form of a cross, and humiliated itself before the majesty of God. At last the nuncio brought from the tabernacle a chalice, and bearing it before him approached the kneeling-stool, then the king raised himself with a brighter face, the voice of the nuncio was heard: "_Ecce Agnus Dei_ (Behold the Lamb of God)," and the king received communion. For a time he remained kneeling, with inclined head; at last he rose, turned his eyes toward heaven, and stretched out both hands. There was sudden silence in the church, so that breathing was not audible. All divined that the moment had come, and that the king would make some vow; all listened with collected spirit. But he stood with outstretched arms; at last, with a voice filled with emotion, but as far reaching as a bell, he began to speak,-- "O Great Mother of Divine humanity, and Virgin! I, Yan Kazimir, king by the favor of Thy Son, King of kings and my Lord, and by Thy favor approaching Thy Most Holy feet, form this, the following pact. I to-day choose Thee my Patroness and Queen of my dominions. I commit to Thy special guardianship and protection myself, my Polish kingdom, the Grand Principality of Lithuania, Russia, Prussia, Mazovia, Jmud, Livland, and Chernigov, the armies of both nations and all common people. I beg obediently Thy aid and favor against enemies in the present affliction of my kingdom." Here the king fell on his knees and was silent for a time. In the church a deathlike stillness continued unbroken; then rising he spoke on,-- "And constrained by Thy great benefactions, I, with the Polish people, am drawn to a new and ardent bond of service to Thee. I promise Thee in my own name and in the names of my ministers, senators, nobles, and people, to extend honor and glory to Thy Son, Jesus Christ, Our Saviour, through all regions of the Polish kingdom; to make a promise that when, with the mercy of Thy Son, I obtain victory over the Swedes, I will endeavor that an anniversary be celebrated solemnly in my kingdom to the end of the world, in memory of the favor of God, and of Thee, O Most Holy Virgin." Here he ceased again and knelt. In the church there was a murmur; but the voice of the king stopped it quickly, and though he trembled this time with penitence and emotion, he continued still more distinctly,-- "And since, with great sorrow of heart, I confess that I endure from God just punishment, which is afflicting us all in my kingdom with various plagues for seven years, because poor, simple tillers of the soil groan in suffering, oppressed by the soldiery, I bind myself on the conclusion of peace to use earnest efforts, together with the estates of the Commonwealth, to free suffering peasants from every cruelty, in which, O Mother of Mercy, Queen, and my Lady, since Thou hast inspired me to make this vow, obtain for me, by grace of Thy mercy, aid from Thy Son to accomplish what I here promise." These words of the king were heard by the clergy, the senators, the nobles, and the common people. A great wail was raised in the church, which came first from hearts of the peasants; it burst forth from them, and then became universal. All raised their hands to heaven; weeping voices repeated, "Amen, amen, amen!" in testimony that they had joined their feelings and vows with the promise of the king. Enthusiasm seized their hearts, and at that moment made them brothers in love for the Commonwealth and its Patroness. Indescribable joy shone on their faces like a clear flame, and in all that church there was no one who doubted that God would overwhelm the Swedes. After that service the king, amid the thunder of musketry and cannon and mighty shouts of "Victory! victory! may he live!" went to the castle, and there he confirmed the heavenly confederation together with that of Tyshovtsi. CHAPTER XVII. After these solemnities various tidings flew into Lvoff like winged birds. There were older and fresh tidings more or less favorable, but all increased courage. First the confederation of Tyshovtsi grew like a conflagration; every one living joined it, nobles as well as peasants. Towns furnished wagons, firearms, and infantry; the Jews money. No one dared to oppose the manifestoes; the most indolent mounted. There came also a terrible manifesto from Wittemberg, turned against the confederation. Fire and sword were to punish those who joined it. This manifesto produced the same effect as if a man tried to quench flames with powder. The manifesto, with the knowledge assuredly of the king, and to rouse hatred more thoroughly against the Swedes, was scattered through Lvoff in great numbers, and it is not becoming to state what common people did with the copies; it suffices to say that the wind bore them terribly dishonored through the streets of the city, and the students showed, to the delight of crowds, "Wittemberg's Confusion," singing at the same time the song beginning with these words,-- "O Wittemberg, poor man, Race across over the sea, Like a hare! But when thy buttons are lost Thou wilt drop down thy trousers, While racing away!" And Wittemberg, as if making the words of the song true, gave up his command in Cracow to the valiant Wirtz, and betook himself hurriedly to Elblang, where the King of Sweden was sojourning with the queen, spending his time at feasts, and rejoicing in his heart that he had become the lord of such an illustrious kingdom. Accounts came also to Lvoff of the fall of Tykotsin, and minds were gladdened. It was strange that men had begun to speak of that event before a courier had come; only they did not say whether Radzivill had died or was in captivity. It was asserted, however, that Sapyeha, at the head of a considerable force, had gone from Podlyasye to Lyubelsk to join the hetmans; that on the road he was beating the Swedes and growing in power every day. At last envoys came from Sapyeha himself in a considerable number, for the voevoda had sent neither less nor more than one whole squadron to be at the disposal of the king, desiring in this way to show honor to the sovereign, to secure his person from every possible accident, and perhaps specially to increase his significance. The squadron was brought by Volodyovski, well known to the king; so Yan Kazimir gave command that he should stand at once in his presence, and taking Pan Michael's head between his hands, he said,-- "I greet thee, famous soldier! Much water has flowed down since we lost sight of thee. I think that we saw thee last at Berestechko, all covered with blood." Pan Michael bent to the knees of the king, and said,-- "It was later, in Warsaw, Gracious Lord; also in the castle with the present castellan of Kieff, Pan Charnyetski." "But are you serving all the time? Had you no desire to enjoy leisure at home?" "No; for the Commonwealth was in need, and besides, in these public commotions my property has been lost. I have no place in which to put my head, Gracious Lord; but I am not sorry for myself, thinking that the first duty of a soldier is to the king and the country." "Ah, would there were more such! The enemy would not be so rich. God grant the time for rewards will come; but now tell me what you have done with the voevoda of Vilna?" "The voevoda of Vilna is before the judgment of God. The soul went out of him just as we were going to the final storm." "How was that?" "Here is Pan Sapyeha's report," said Volodyovski. The king took Sapyeha's letter and began to read; he had barely begun when he stopped. "Pan Sapyeha is mistaken," said he, "when he writes that the grand baton of Lithuania is unoccupied; it is not, for I give it to him." "There is no one more worthy," said Pan Michael, "and to your Royal Grace the whole army will be grateful till death for this deed." The king smiled at the simple soldierly confidence, and read on. After a while he sighed, and said,-- "Radzivill might have been the first pearl in this glorious kingdom, if pride and the errors which he committed had not withered his soul. It is accomplished! Inscrutable are the decisions of God! Radzivill and Opalinski--almost in the same hour! Judge them, O Lord, not according to their sins, but according to Thy mercy." Silence followed; then the king again began to read. "We are thankful to the voevoda," said he, when he had finished, "for sending a whole squadron and under the greatest cavalier, as he writes. But I am safe here; and cavaliers, especially such as you, are more needed in the field. Rest a little, and then I will send you to assist Charnyetski, for on him evidently the greatest pressure will be turned." "We have rested enough already at Tykotsin, Gracious Lord," said the little knight, with enthusiasm; "if our horses were fed a little, we might move to-day, for with Charnyetski there will be unspeakable delights. It is a great happiness to look on the face of our gracious lord, but we are anxious to see the Swedes." The king grew radiant. A fatherly kindness appeared on his face, and he said, looking with pleasure on the sulphurous figure of the little knight,-- "You were the first little soldier to throw the baton of a colonel at the feet of the late prince voevoda." "Not the first, your Royal Grace; but it was the first, and God grant the last, time for me to act against military discipline." Pan Michael stopped, and after a while added, "It was impossible to do otherwise." "Certainly," said the king. "That was a grievous hour for those who understood military duty; but obedience must have its limits, beyond which guilt begins. Did many officers remain in with Radzivill?" "In Tykotsin we found only one officer, Pan Kharlamp, who did not leave the prince at once, and who did not wish afterward to desert him in misery. Compassion alone kept Kharlamp with Radzivill, for natural affection drew him to us. We were barely able to restore him to health, such hunger had there been in Tykotsin, and he took the food from his own mouth to nourish the prince. He has come here to Lvoff to implore pardon of your Royal Grace, and I too fall at your feet for him; he is a tried and good soldier." "Let him come hither," said the king. "He has also something important to tell, which he heard in Kyedani from the mouth of Prince Boguslav, and which relates to the person of your Royal Grace, which is sacred to us." "Is this about Kmita?" "Yes, Gracious Lord." "Did you know Kmita?" "I knew him and fought with him; but where he is now, I know not." "What do you think of him?" "Gracious Lord, since he undertook such a deed there are no torments of which he is not worthy, for he is an abortion of hell." "That story is untrue," said the king; "it is all an invention of Prince Boguslav. But putting that affair aside, what do you know of Kmita in times previous?" "He was always a great soldier, and in military affairs incomparable. He used to steal up to Hovanski so that with a few hundred people he brought the whole force of the enemy to misery; no other man could have done that. It is a miracle that the skin was not torn from him and stretched over a drum. If at that time some one had placed Prince Radzivill himself in the hands of Hovanski, he would not have given him so much pleasure as he would had he made him a present of Kmita. Why! it went so far that Kmita ate out of Hovanski's camp-chests, slept on his rugs, rode in his sleighs and on his horse. But he was an infliction on his own people too, terribly self-willed; like Pan Lashch, he might have lined his cloak with sentences, and in Kyedani he was lost altogether." Here Volodyovski related in detail all that had happened in Kyedani. Yan Kazimir listened eagerly, and when at last Pan Michael told how Zagloba had freed first himself and then all his comrades from Radzivill's captivity, the king held his sides from laughter. "_Vir incomparabilis! vir incomparabilis_ (an incomparable man)!" he repeated. "But is he here with you?" "At the command of your Royal Grace!" answered Volodyovski. "That noble surpasses Ulysses! Bring him to me to dinner for a pleasant hour, and also the Skshetuskis; and now toll me what you know more of Kmita." "From letters found on Roh Kovalski we learned that we were sent to Birji to die. The prince pursued us afterward and tried to surround us, but he did not take us. We escaped luckily. And that was not all, for not far from Kyedani we caught Kmita, whom I sent at once to be shot." "Oh!" said the king, "I see that you had sharp work there in Lithuania." "But first Pan Zagloba had him searched to find letters on his person. In fact, a letter from the hetman was found, in which we learned that had it not been for Kmita we should not have been taken to Birji, but would have been shot without delay in Kyedani." "But you see!" said the king. "In view of that we could not take his life. We let him go. What he did further I know not, but he did not leave Radzivill at that time. God knows what kind of man he is. It is easier to form an opinion of any one else than of such a whirlwind. He remained with Radzivill and then went somewhere. Later he warned us that the prince was marching from Kyedani. It is hard to belittle the notable service he did us, for had it not been for that warning Radzivill would have fallen on unprepared troops, and destroyed the squadrons one after the other. I know not myself, Gracious Lord, what to think,--whether that was a calumny which Prince Boguslav uttered." "That will appear at once," said the king; and he clapped his hands. "Call hither Pan Babinich!" said he to a page who appeared on the threshold. The page vanished, and soon the door of the king's chamber opened, and in it stood Pan Andrei. Volodyovski did not know him at once, for he had changed greatly and grown pale, as he had not recovered from the struggle in the pass. Pan Michael therefore looked at him without recognition. "It is a wonder," said he at last; "were it not for the thinness of lips and because your Royal Grace gives another name, I should say this is Pan Kmita." The king smiled and said,-- "This little knight has just told me of a terrible disturber of that name, but I explained as on my palm that he was deceived in his judgment, and I am sure that Pan Babinich will confirm what I say." "Gracious Lord," answered Babinich, quickly, "one word from your grace will clear that disturber more than my greatest oath." "And the voice is the same," said Pan Michael, with growing astonishment; "but that wound across the mouth was not there." "Worthy sir," answered Kmita, "the head of a noble is a register on which sometimes a man's hand writes with a sabre. And here is your note; recognize it." He bowed his head, shaven at the sides, and pointed at the long whitish scar. "My hand!" cried Volodyovski. "But I say that you do not know Kmita," put in the king. "How is that, Gracious Lord?" "For you know a great soldier, but a self-willed one, an associate in the treason of Radzivill. But here stands the Hector of Chenstohova, to whom, next to Kordetski, Yasna Gora owes most; here stands the defender of the country and my faithful servant, who covered me with his own breast and saved my life when in the pass I had fallen among the Swedes as among wolves. Such is this new Kmita. Know him and love him, for he deserves it." Volodyovski began to move his yellow mustaches, not knowing what to say; and the king added,-- "And know that not only did he promise Prince Boguslav nothing, but he began on him the punishment for Radzivill intrigues, for he seized him and intended to give him into your hands." "And he warned us against Prince Yanush!" cried Volodyovski. "What angel converted you?" "Embrace each other!" said the king. "I loved you at once!" said Kmita to Volodyovski. Then they fell into each other's embraces, and the king looked on them and pursed out his lips with delight, time after time, as was his habit. But Kmita embraced the little knight with such feeling that he raised him as he would a cat, and not soon did he place him back on his feet. Then the king went to the daily council, for the two hetmans of the kingdom had come to Lvoff, they were to form the army there, and lead it later to the aid of Charnyetski, and the confederate divisions marching, under various leaders, throughout the country. The knights were alone. "Come to my quarters," said Volodyovski; "you will find there Pan Yan, Pan Stanislav, and Zagloba, who will be glad to hear what the king has told me. There too is Kharlamp." But Kmita approached the little knight with great disquiet on his face. "Did you find many people with Radzivill?" asked he. "Of officers, Kharlamp alone was there." "I do not ask about the military, but about women." "I know what you mean," answered Pan Michael, flushing somewhat. "Prince Boguslav took Panna Billevich to Taurogi." Kmita's face changed at once; first it was pale as a parchment, then purple, and again whiter than before. He did not find words at once; but his nostrils quivered while he was catching breath, which apparently failed in his breast. Then he seized his temples with both hands, and running through the room like a madman, began to repeat,-- "Woe to me, woe, woe!" "Come! Kharlamp will tell you better, for he was present," said Volodyovski. CHAPTER XVIII. When they had left the king's chamber the two knights walked on in silence. Volodyovski did not wish to speak; Kmita was unable to utter a word, for pain and rage were gnawing him. They broke through the crowds of people who had collected in great numbers on the streets in consequence of tidings that the first detachment of the Tartars promised by the Khan had arrived, and was to enter the city to be presented to the king. The little knight led on; Kmita hastened after him like one beside himself, with his cap pulled over his eyes and stumbling against men on the way. When they had come to a more spacious place Pan Michael seized Kmita by the wrist and said,-- "Control yourself! Despair will do nothing." "I am not in despair," answered Kmita, "but I want his blood." "You may be sure to find him among the enemies of the country." "So much the better," answered Kmita, feverishly; "but even should I find him in a church--" "In God's name, do not commit sacrilege!" interrupted the little colonel, quickly. "That traitor will bring me to sin." They were silent for a time. Then Kmita asked, "Where is he now?" "Maybe in Taurogi, and maybe not. Kharlamp will know better." "Let us go." "It is not far. The squadron is outside the town, but we are here; and Kharlamp is with us." Then Kmita began to breathe heavily like a man going up a steep mountain. "I am fearfully weak yet," said he. "You need moderation all the more, since you will have to deal with such a knight." "I had him once, and here is what remained." Kmita pointed to the scar on his face. "Tell me how it was, for the king barely mentioned it." Kmita began to tell; and though he gritted his teeth, and even threw his cap on the ground, still his mind escaped from misfortune, and he calmed himself somewhat. "I knew that you were daring," said Volodyovski; "but to carry off Radzivill from the middle of his own squadron, I did not expect that, even of you." Meanwhile they arrived at the quarters. Pan Yan and Pan Stanislav, Zagloba, Jendzian, and Kharlamp were looking at Crimean coats made of sheepskin, which a trading Tartar had brought. Kharlamp, who knew Kmita better, recognized him at one glance of the eye, and dropping the coat exclaimed,-- "Jesus, Mary!" "May the name of the Lord be praised!" cried Jendzian. But before all had recovered breath after the wonder, Volodyovski said,-- "I present to you, gentlemen, the Hector of Chenstohova, the faithful servant of the king, who has shed his blood for the faith, the country, and the sovereign." When astonishment had grown still greater, the worthy Pan Michael began to relate with enthusiasm what he had heard from the king of Kmita's services, and from Pan Andrei himself of the seizure of Prince Boguslav; at last he finished thus,-- "Not only is what Prince Boguslav told of this knight not true, but the prince has no greater enemy than Pan Kmita, and therefore he has taken Panna Billevich from Kyedani, so as to pour out on him in some way his vengeance." "And this cavalier has saved our lives and warned the confederates against Prince Yanush," cried Zagloba. "In view of such services, previous offences are nothing. As God lives, it is well that he came to us with you. Pan Michael, and not alone; it is well also that our squadron is outside the city, for there is a terrible hatred against him among the Lauda men, and before he could have uttered a syllable they would have cut him to pieces." "We greet you with full hearts as a brother and future comrade," said Pan Yan. Kharlamp seized his head. "Such men never sink," said he; "they swim out on every side, and besides bring glory to the shore." "Did I not tell you that?" cried Zagloba. "The minute I saw him in Kyedani I thought at once, 'That is a soldier, a man of courage.' And you remember that we fell to kissing each other straightway. It is true that Radzivill was ruined through me, but also through him. God inspired me in Billeviche not to let him be shot. Worthy gentlemen, it is not becoming to give a dry reception to a cavalier like him; he may think that we are hypocrites." When he heard this Jendzian packed off the Tartar with his coats, and bustled around with the servant to get drinks. But Kmita was thinking only how to hear most quickly from Kharlamp about the removal of Olenka. "Where were you then?" asked he. "I scarcely ever left Kyedani," answered Great Nose. "Prince Boguslav came to our prince voevoda. He so dressed himself for supper that one's eyes ached in looking at him; it was clear that Panna Billevich had pleased him mightily, for he was almost purring from pleasure, like a cat rubbed on the back. It is said that a cat repeats prayers, but if Boguslav prayed he was praising the devil. Oh, but he was agreeable, and sweet and pleasant spoken." "Let that go!" said Pan Michael, "you cause too great pain to the knight." "On the contrary. Speak! speak!" cried Kmita. "He said then at table," continued Kharlamp, "that it was no derogation even to a Radzivill to marry the daughter of a common noble, and that he himself would prefer such a lady to one of those princesses whom the King and Queen of France wished to give him, and whose names I cannot remember, for they sounded as when a man is calling hounds in the forest." "Less of that!" said Zagloba. "He said it evidently to captivate the lady; we, knowing that, began one after another to look and mutter, thinking truly that he was setting traps for the innocent." "But she? but she?" asked Kmita, feverishly. "She, like a maiden of high blood and lofty bearing, showed no satisfaction, did not look at him; but when Boguslav began to talk about you, she fixed her eyes on him quickly. It is terrible what happened when he said that you offered for so many ducats to seize the king and deliver him dead or alive to the Swedes. We thought the soul would go out of her; but her anger against you was so great that it overcame her woman's weakness. When he told with what disgust he had rejected your offer, she began to respect him, and look at him thankfully; afterward she did not withdraw her hand from him when he wished to escort her from the table." Kmita covered his eyes with his hands. "Strike, strike, whoso believes in God!" said he. Suddenly he sprang from his place. "Farewell, gentlemen!" "How is this? Whither?" asked Zagloba, stopping the way. "The king will give me permission; I will go and find him," said Kmita. "By God's wounds, wait! You have not yet learned all, and to find him there is time. With whom will you go? Where will you find him?" Kmita perhaps might not have obeyed, but strength failed him; he was exhausted from wounds, therefore he dropped on the bench, and resting his shoulders against the wall, closed his eyes. Zagloba gave him a glass of wine; he seized it with trembling bands, and spilling some on his beard and breast, drained it to the bottom. "There is nothing lost," said Pan Yan; "but the greatest prudence is needed, for you have an affair with a celebrated man. Through hurried action and sudden impulse you may ruin Panna Billevich and yourself." "Hear Kharlamp to the end," said Zagloba. Kmita gritted his teeth. "I am listening with patience." "Whether the lady went willingly I know not," said Kharlamp, "for I was not present at her departure. I know that the sword-bearer of Rossyeni protested when they urged him previously; then they shut him up in the barracks, and finally he was allowed to go to Billeviche without hindrance. The lady is in evil hands; this cannot be concealed, for according to what they say of the young prince no Mussulman has such greed of the fair sex. If any fair head strikes his eye, though she be married, he is ready to disregard even that." "Woe! woe!" repeated Kmita. "The scoundrel!" cried Zagloba. "But it is a wonder to me that the prince voevoda gave her to Boguslav," said Pan Yan. "I am not a statesman, therefore I repeat only what the officers said, and namely Ganhoff, who knew all the secrets of the prince; I heard with my own ears how some one cried out in his presence, 'Kmita will have nothing after our young prince!' and Ganhoff answered, 'There is more of politics in this removal than love. Prince Boguslav,' said he, 'lets no one off; but if the lady resists he will not be able to treat her like others, in Taurogi, for a noise would be made. Yanush's princess is living there with her daughter; therefore Boguslav must be very careful, for he seeks the hand of his cousin. It will be hard for him to simulate virtue,' said he, 'but he must in Taurogi.'" "A stone has of course fallen from your heart," cried Zagloba, "for from this it is clear that nothing threatens the lady." "But why did they take her away?" cried Kmita. "It is well that you turn to me," said Zagloba, "for I reason out quickly more than one thing over which another would break his head for a whole year in vain. Why did he take her away? I do not deny that she must have struck his eye; but he took her away to restrain through her all the Billeviches, who are numerous and powerful, from rising against the Radzivills." "That may be!" said Kharlamp. "It is certain that in Taurogi he must curb himself greatly; there he cannot go to extremes." "Where is he now?" "The prince voevoda supposed in Tykotsin that he must be at Elblang with the King of Sweden, to whom he had to go for reinforcements. It is certain that he is not in Taurogi at present, for envoys did not find him there." Here Kharlamp turned to Kmita. "If you wish to listen to a simple soldier I will tell you what I think. If any misadventure has happened to Panna Billevich in Taurogi, or if the prince has been able to arouse in her affection, you have no reason to go; but if not, if she is with Yanush's widow and will go with her to Courland, it will be safer there than elsewhere, and a better place could not be found for her in this whole Commonwealth, covered with the flame of war." "If you are a man of such courage as they say, and as I myself think," added Pan Yan, "you have first to get Boguslav, and when you have him in your hands, you have all." "Where is he now?" repeated Kmita, turning to Kharlamp. "I have told you already," answered Great Nose, "but you are forgetful from sorrow; I suppose that he is in Elblang, and certainly will take the field with Karl Gustav against Charnyetski." "You will do best if you go with us to Charnyetski, for in this way you will soon meet Boguslav," said Volodyovski. "I thank you, gentlemen, for kindly advice," cried Kmita. And he began to take hasty farewell of all, and they did not detain him, knowing that a suffering man is not good for the cup or for converse; but Pan Michael said,-- "I will attend you to the archbishop's palace, for you are so reduced that you may fall somewhere on the street." "And I!" said Pan Yan. "Then we will all go!" put in Zagloba. They girded on their sabres, put on warm burkas, and went out. On the streets there were still more people than before. Every moment the knights met groups of armed nobles, soldiers, servants of magnates and nobles, Armenians, Jews, Wallachians, Russian peasants from the suburbs burned during the two attacks of Hmelnitski. Merchants were standing before their shops; the windows of the houses were filled with heads of curious people. All were repeating that the chambul had come, and would soon march through the city to be presented to the king. Every living person wished to see that chambul, for it was a great rarity to look on Tartars marching in peace through the streets of a city. In other temper had Lvoff seen these guests hitherto; the city had seen them only beyond the walls, in the form of impenetrable clouds on the background of flaming suburbs and neighboring villages. Now they were to march in as allies against Sweden. Our knights were barely able to open a way for themselves through the throng. Every moment there were cries; "They are coming, they are coming!" People ran from street to street, and were packed in such masses that not a step forward was possible. "Ha!" said Zagloba, "let us stop a little, Pan Michael. They will remind us of the near past, for we did not look sidewise but straight into the eyes of these bull-drivers. And I too have been in captivity among them. They say that the future Khan is as much like me as one cup is like another. But why talk of past follies?" "They are coming, they are coming!" cried the people again. "God has changed the hearts of the dog-brothers," continued Zagloba, "so that instead of ravaging the Russian borders they come to aid us. This is a clear miracle! For I tell you that if for every pagan whom this old hand has sent to hell, one of my sins had been forgiven, I should be canonized now, and people would have to fast on the eve of my festival, or I should have been swept up living to heaven in a chariot of fire." "And do you remember," asked Volodyovski, "how it was with them when they were returning from the Valadynka from Rashkoff to Zbaraj?" "Of course I do, Pan Michael; but somehow you fell into a hole, and I chased through the thick wood to the high-road. And when we came back to find you, the knights could not restrain their astonishment, for at each bush lay a dead beast of a Tartar." Pan Volodyovski remembered that at the time in question it was just the opposite; but he said nothing, for he was wonderfully astonished, and before he could recover breath voices were shouting for the tenth time; "They are coming, they are coming!" The shout became general; then there was silence, and all heads were turned in the direction from which the chambul was to come. Now piercing music was heard in the distance, the crowds began to open from the middle of the street toward the walls of the houses, and from the end appeared the first Tartar horsemen. "See! they have a band even; that is uncommon with Tartars!" "They wish to make the best impression," said Pan Yan; "but still some chambuls after they have lived long in camp, have their own musicians. That must be a choice body." Meanwhile the horsemen had come up and begun to ride past. In front on a pied horse sat a Tartar holding two pipes in his mouth, and as tawny as if he had been dried and smoked. Bending his head backward and closing his eyes, he ran his fingers over those pipes, obtaining from them notes squeaking, sharp, and so quick that the ear could barely catch them. After him rode two others holding staffs furnished at the ends with brass rattles, and they were shaking these rattles as if in frenzy; farther back some were making shrill sounds with brass plates, some were beating drums, while others were playing in Cossack fashion on teorbans; and all, with the exception of the pipers were singing, or rather howling, from moment to moment, a wild song, at the same time showing their teeth and rolling their eyes. After that chaotic music, which went like a brawl past the dwellers in Lvoff, clattered horses four abreast; the whole party was made up of about four hundred men. This was in fact a chosen body, as a specimen, and to do honor to the King of Poland, for his own use, and as an earnest sent by the Khan. They were led by Akbah Ulan, of the Dobrudja, therefore of the sturdiest Tartars in battle, an old and experienced warrior, greatly respected in the Uluses (Tartar villages), because of his bravery and severity. He rode between the music and the rest of the party, dressed in a shuba of rose-colored velvet, but greatly faded, and too narrow for his powerful person; it was lined with tattered marten-skin, he held in front of him a baton, like those used by Cossack colonels. His red face had become blue from the cold wind, and he swayed somewhat on his lofty saddle; from one moment to another he looked from side to side, or turned his face around to his Tartars, as if not perfectly sure that they could restrain themselves at sight of the crowds, the women, the children, the open shops, the rich goods, and that they would not rush with a shout at those wonders. But they rode on quietly, like dogs led by chains and fearing the lash, and only from their gloomy and greedy glances might it be inferred what was passing in the souls of those barbarians. The crowds gazed on them with curiosity, though almost with hostility, so great in those parts of the Commonwealth was hatred of the Pagan. From time to time cries were heard: "Ahu! ahu!" as if at wolves. Still there were some who expected much from them. "The Swedes have a terrible fear of the Tartars, and the soldiers tell wonders of them, from which their fear increases," said some, looking at the Tartars. "And justly," answered others. "It is not for the cavalry of Karl to war with the Tartars, who, especially those of the Dobrudja, are equal sometimes to our cavalry. Before a Swedish horseman can look around, the Tartar will have him on a lariat." "It is a sin to call sons of Pagans to aid us," said some voice. "Sin or no sin, they will serve us." "A very decent chambul!" said Zagloba. Really the Tartars were well dressed in white, black, and party-colored sheepskin coats, the wool on the outside; black bows, and quivers full of arrows were shaking on their shoulders; each had besides a sabre, which was not always the case in large chambuls, for the poorest were not able to obtain such a luxury, using in hand-to-hand conflict a horse-skull fastened to a club. But these were men, as was said, to be exhibited; therefore some of them had even muskets in felt cases, and all were sitting on good horses, small, it is true, rather lean and short, with long forelocks on their faces, but of incomparable swiftness. In the centre of the party went also four camels: the crowd concluded that in their packs were presents from the Khan to the king; but in that they were mistaken, for the Khan chose to take gifts, not give them; he promised, it is true, reinforcements, but not for nothing. When they had passed, Zagloba said: "That aid will cost dear. Though allies, they will ruin the country. After the Swedes and them, there will not be one sound roof in the Commonwealth." "It is sure that they are terribly grievous allies," said Pan Yan. "I have heard on the road," said Pan Michael, "that the king has made a treaty, that to every five hundred of the horde is to be given one of our officers, who is to have command and the right of punishment. Otherwise these friends would leave only heaven and earth behind them." "But this is a small chambul; what will the king do with it?" "The Khan sent them to be placed at the disposal of the king almost as a gift; and though he will make account of them, still the king can do what he likes with them, and undoubtedly he will send them with us to Charnyetski." "Well, Charnyetski will be able to keep them in bounds." "Not unless he is among them, otherwise they will plunder. It cannot be, but they will give them an officer at once." "And will he lead them? But what will that big Agá do?" "If he does not meet a fool, he will carry out orders." "Farewell, gentlemen!" cried Kmita, on a sudden. "Whither in such haste?" "To fall at the king's feet, and ask him to give me command of these people." CHAPTER XIX. That same day Akbah Ulan beat with his forehead to the king, and delivered to him letters of the Khan in which the latter repeated his promise of moving with one hundred thousand of the horde against the Swedes, when forty thousand thalers were paid him in advance, and when the first grass was on the fields, without which, in a country so ruined by war, it would be difficult to maintain such a great number of horses. As to that small chambul, the Khan had sent it to his "dearest brother" as a proof of his favor, so that the Cossacks, who were still thinking of disobedience, might have an evident sign that this favor endures steadily, and let but the first sound of rebellion reach the ears of the Khan, his vengeful anger will fall on all Cossacks. The king received Akbah Ulan affably, and presenting him with a beautiful steed, said that he would send him soon to Pan Charnyetski in the field, for he wished to convince the Swedes by facts, that the Khan was giving aid to the Commonwealth. The eyes of the Tartar glittered when he heard of service under Charnyetski; for knowing him from the time of former wars in the Ukraine, he, in common with all the Agás, admired him. But he was less pleased with the part of the Khan's letter which asked the king to attach to the chambul an officer, who knew the country well, who would lead the party and restrain the men, and also Akbah Ulan himself from plunder and excesses. Akbah Ulan would have preferred certainly not to have such a patron over him; but since the will of the Khan and the king were explicit, he merely beat with his forehead once more, hiding carefully his vexation, and perhaps promising in his soul that not he would bow down before that patron, but the patron before him. Barely had the Tartar gone out, and the senators withdrawn, when Kmita, who had an audience at once, fell at the feet of the king, and said,-- "Gracious Lord! I am not worthy of the favor for which I ask, but I set as much by it as by life itself. Permit me to take command over these Tartars and move to the field with them at once." "I do not refuse," answered the astonished Yan Kazimir, "for a better leader it would be difficult to find. A cavalier of great daring and resolve is needed to hold them in check, or they will begin straightway to burn and murder our people. To this only am I firmly opposed, that you go tomorrow, before your flesh has healed from the wounds made by Swedish rapiers." "I feel that as soon as the wind blows around me in the field, my weakness will pass, and strength will enter me again; as to the Tartars, I will manage them and bend them into soft wax." "But why in such haste? Whither are you going?" "Against the Swedes, Gracious Lord; I have nothing to wait for here, since what I wanted I have, that is your favor and pardon for my former offences. I will go to Charnyetski with Volodyovski, or I will attack the enemy separately, as I did once Hovanski, and I trust in God that I shall have success." "It must be that something else is drawing you to the field." "I will confess as to a father, and open my whole soul. Prince Boguslav, not content with the calumny which he cast on me, has taken that maiden from Kyedani and confined her in Taurogi, or worse, for he is attacking her honesty, her virtue, her honor as a woman. Gracious Lord! the reason is confused in my head, when I think in what hands the poor girl is at present. By the passion of the Lord! these wounds pain less. That maiden thinks to this moment that I offered that damned soul, that arch-cur to raise hands on your Royal Grace--and she holds me the lowest of all the degenerate. I cannot endure, I am not able to endure, till I find her, till I free her. Give me those Tartars and I swear that I will not do my own work alone, but I will crush so many Swedes that the court of this castle might be paved with their skulls." "Calm yourself," said the king. "If I had to leave service and the defence of majesty and the Commonwealth for my own cause, it would be a shame for me to ask, but here one unites with the other. The time has come to beat the Swedes, I will do nothing else. The time has come to hunt a traitor; I will hunt him to Livland, to Courland, and even as far as the Northerners, or beyond the sea to Sweden, should he hide there." "We have information that Boguslav will move very soon with Karl, from Elblang." "Then I will go to meet them." "With such a small chambul? They will cover you with a cap." "Hovanski, with eighty thousand, was covering me, but he did not succeed." "All the loyal army is under Charnyetski. They will strike Charnyetski first of all." "I will go to Charnyetski. It is needful to give him aid the more quickly." "You will go to Charnyetski, but to Taurogi with such a small number you cannot go. Radzivill delivered all the castles in Jmud to the enemy, and Swedish garrisons are stationed everywhere; but Taurogi, it seems to me, is somewhere on the boundary of Prussia?" "On the very boundary of Electoral Prussia, but on our side, and twenty miles from Tyltsa. Wherever I have to go, I will go, and not only will I not lose men, but crowds of daring soldiers will gather to me on the road. And consider this, Gracious Lord, that wherever I show myself the whole neighborhood will mount against the Swedes. First, I will rouse Jmud, if no one else does it. What place may not be reached now, when the whole country is boiling like water in a pot? I am accustomed to be in a boil." "But you do not think of this,--perhaps the Tartars will not like to go so far with you." "Only let them not like! only let them try not to like," said Kmita, gritting his teeth at the very thought, "as there are four hundred, or whatever number there is of them, I'll have all four hundred hanged--there will be no lack of trees! Just let them try to rebel against me." "Yandrek!" cried the king, falling into good humor and pursing his lips, "as God is dear to me, I cannot find a better shepherd for those lambs! Take them and lead them wherever it pleases thee most." "I give thanks, Gracious Lord!" said the knight, pressing the knees of the king. "When do you wish to start?" asked Yan Kazimir. "God willing, to-morrow." "Maybe Akbah Ulan will not be ready, because his horses are road-weary." "Then I will have him lashed to a saddle with a lariat, and he will go on foot if he spares his horse." "I see that you will get on with him. Still use mild measures while possible. But now, Yendrek, it is late; to-morrow I wish to see you again. Meanwhile take this ring, tell your royalist lady that you have it from the king, and tell her that the king commands her to love firmly his faithful servant and defender." "God grant me," said the young hero, with tears in his eyes, "not to die save in defence of your Royal Grace!" Here the king withdrew, for it was already late; and Kmita went to his own quarters to prepare for the road, and think what to begin, and whither he ought to go first. He remembered the words of Kharlamp, that should it appear that Boguslav was not in Taurogi it would really be better to leave the maiden there, for from Taurogi being near the boundary, it was easy to take refuge in Tyltsa, under care of the elector. Moreover, though the Swedes had abandoned in his last need the voevoda of Vilna, it was reasonable to expect that they would have regard for his widow; hence, if Olenka was under her care, no evil could meet her. If they had gone to Courland, that was still better. "And to Courland I cannot go with my Tartars," said Kmita to himself, "for that is another State." He walked then, and worked with his head. Hour followed hour, but he did not think yet of rest; and the thought of his new expedition so cheered him, that though that day he was weak in the morning, he felt now that his strength was returning, and he was ready to mount in a moment. The servants at last had finished tying the saddle-straps and were preparing to sleep, when all at once some one began to scratch at the door of the room. "Who is there?" asked Kmita. Then to his attendant, "Go and see!" He went, and after he had spoken to some one outside the door, he returned. "Some soldier wants to see your grace greatly. He says that his name is Soroka." "By the dear God! let him in," called Kmita. And without waiting for the attendant to carry out the order, he sprang to the door. "Come in, dear Soroka! come hither!" The soldier entered the room, and with his first movement wished to fall at the feet of his colonel, for he was a friend and a servant as faithful as he was attached; but soldierly subordination carried the day, therefore he stood erect and said,-- "At the orders of your grace!" "Be greeted, dear comrade, be greeted!" said Kmita, with emotion. "I thought they had cut you to pieces in Chenstohova." And he pressed Soroka's head, then began to shake him, which he could do without lowering himself too much, for Soroka was descended from village nobility. Then the old sergeant fell to embracing Kmita's knees. "Whence do you come?" asked Kmita. "From Chenstohova." "And you were looking for me?" "Yes." "And from whom did you learn that I was alive?" "From Kuklinovski's men. The prior, Kordetski, celebrated High Mass from delight, in thanksgiving to God. Then there was a report that Pan Babinich had conducted the king through the mountains; so I knew that that was your grace, no one else." "And Father Kordetski is well?" "Well; only it is unknown whether the angels will not take him alive to heaven any day, for he is a saint." "Surely he is nothing else. Where did you discover that I came with the king to Lvoff?" "I thought, since you conducted the king you must be near him; but I was afraid that your grace might move to the field and that I should be late." "To-morrow I go with the Tartars." "Then it has happened well, for I bring your grace two full belts, one which I wore and the other you carried, and besides, those precious stones which we took from the caps of boyars, and those which your grace took when we seized the treasury of Hovanski." "Those were good times when we gathered in wealth; but there cannot be much of it now, for I left a good bit with Father Kordetski." "I do not know how much, but the prior himself said that two good villages might be bought with it." Then Soroka drew near the table, and began to remove the belts from his body. "And the stones are in this canteen," added he, putting the canteen near the belts. Kmita made no reply, but shook in his hand some gold ducats without counting them, and said to the sergeant,-- "Take these!" "I fall at the feet of your grace. Ei, if I had had on the road one such ducat!" "How is that?" "Because I am terribly weak. There are few places now where they will give one morsel of bread to a man, for all are afraid; and at last I barely dragged my feet forward from hunger." "By the dear God! but you had all this with you!" "I dared not use it without leave." "Take this!" said Kmita, giving him another handful. Then he cried to the servants,-- "Now, scoundrels, give him to eat in less time than a man might say 'Our Father,' or I'll take your heads!" They sprang one in front of another, and in little while there was an enormous dish of smoked sausage before Soroka, and a flask of vodka. The soldier fastened his eyes greedily on the food, and his lips and mustaches were quivering; but he dared not sit in presence of the colonel. "Sit down, eat!" commanded Kmita. Kmita had barely spoken when a dry sausage was crunching between the powerful jaws of Soroka. The two attendants looked on him with protruding eyes. "Be off!" cried Kmita. They sprang out with all breath through the door; out the knight walked with hasty steps up and down the room, not wishing to interrupt his faithful servant. But he, as often as he poured out a glass of vodka, looked sidewise at the colonel, fearing to find a frown; then he emptied the glass and turned toward the wall. Kmita walked, walked; at last he began to speak to himself. "It cannot be otherwise!" muttered he; "it is needful to send him. I will give orders to tell her--No use, she will not believe! She will not read a letter, for she holds me a traitor and a dog. Let him not come in her way, but let him see and tell me what is taking place there." Then he said on a sudden; "Soroka!" The soldier sprang up so quickly that he came near overturning the table, and straightened as straight as a string. "According to order!" "You are an honest man, and in need you are cunning. You will go on a long road, but not on a hungry one." "According to order!" "To Tyltsa, on the Prussian border. There Panna Billevich is living in the castle of Boguslav Radzivill. You will learn if the prince is there, and have an eye on everything. Do not try to see Panna Billevich, but should a meeting happen of itself, tell her, and swear that I brought the king through the mountains, and that I am near his person. She will surely not give you credit; for the prince has defamed me, saying that I wished to attempt the life of the king,--which is a lie befitting a dog." "According to order!" "Do not try to see her, as I have said, for she will not believe you. But if you meet by chance, tell her what you know. Look at every thing, and listen! But take care of yourself, for if the prince is there and recognizes you, or if any one from his court recognizes you, you will be impaled on a stake. I would send old Kyemlich, but he is in the other world, slain in the pass, and his sons are too dull. They will go with me. Have you been in Tyltsa?" "I have not, your grace." "You will go to Shchuchyn, thence along the Prussian boundary to Tyltsa. Taurogi is twenty miles distant from Tyltsa and opposite, on our side. Stay in Taurogi till you have seen everything, then come to me. You will find me where I shall be. Ask for the Tartars and Pan Babinich. And now go to sleep with the Kyemliches. To-morrow for the road." After these words, Soroka went out. Kmita did not lie down to sleep for a long time, but at last weariness overcame him; then he threw himself on the bed, and slept a stone sleep. Next morning he rose greatly refreshed and stronger than the day before. The whole court was already on foot, and the usual activity had begun. Kmita went first to the chancellery, for his commission and safe-conduct; he visited Suba Gazi Bey, chief of the Khan's embassy in Lvoff, and had a long conversation with him. During that conversation Pan Andrei put his hand twice in his purse; so that when he was going out Suba Gazi Bey changed caps with him, gave him a baton of green feathers and some yards of an equally green cord of silk. Armed in this fashion, Pan Andrei returned to the king, who had just come from Mass; then the young man fell once more at the knees of the sovereign; after that he went, together with the Kyemliches and his attendants, directly to the place where Akbah Ulan was quartered with his chambul. At sight of him the old Tartar put his hand to his forehead, his mouth, and his breast; but learning who Kmita was and why he had come, he grew severe at once; his face became gloomy, and was veiled with haughtiness. "And the king has sent you to me as a guide," said he to Kmita, in broken Russian; "you will show me the road, though I should be able to go myself wherever it is needed, and you are young and inexperienced." "He indicates in advance what I am to be," thought Kmita, "but I will be polite to him as long as I can." Then he said aloud: "Akbah Ulan, the king has sent me here as a chief, not as a guide. And I tell you this, that you will do better not to oppose the will of his grace." "The Khan makes appointments over the Tartars, not the king," answered Akbah Ulan. "Akbah Ulan," repeated Kmita, with emphasis, "the Khan has made a present of thee to the king, as he would a dog or a falcon; therefore show no disrespect to him, lest thou be tied like a dog with a rope." "Allah!" cried the astonished Tartar. "Hei! have a care that thou anger me not!" said Kmita. Akbah Ulan's eyes became bloodshot. For a time he could not utter a word; the veins on his neck were swollen, his hands sought his dagger. "I'll bite, I'll bite!" said he, with stifled voice. But Pan Andrei, though he had promised to be polite, had had enough, for by nature he was very excitable. In one moment therefore something struck him as if a serpent had stung; he seized the Tartar by the thin beard with his whole hand, and pushing back his head as if he wished to show him something on the ceiling, he began to talk through his set teeth. "Hear me, son of a goat! Thou wouldst like to have no one above thee, so as to burn, rob, and slaughter! Thou wouldst have me as guide! Here is thy guide! thou hast a guide!" And thrusting him to the wall, he began to pound his head against a corner of it. He let him go at last, completely stunned, but not looking for his knife now. Kmita, following the impulse of his hot blood, discovered the best method of convincing Oriental people accustomed to slavery; for in the pounded head of the Tartar, in spite of all the rage which was stifling him, the thought gleamed at once how powerful and commanding must that knight be who could act in this manner with him, Akbah Ulan; and with his bloody lips he repeated three times,-- "Bagadyr (hero), Bagadyr, Bagadyr!" Kmita meanwhile placed on his own head the cap of Suba Grazi, drew forth the green baton, which he had kept behind his belt of purpose till that moment, and said,-- "Look at these, slave! and these!" "Allah!" exclaimed the astonished Ulan. "And here!" added Kmita, taking the cord from his pocket. But Akbah Ulan was already lying at his feet, and striking the floor with his forehead. An hour later the Tartars were marching out in a long line over the road from Lvoff to Vyelki Ochi; and Kmita, sitting on a valiant chestnut steed which the king had given him, drove along the chambul as a shepherd dog drives sheep. Akbah Ulan looked at the young hero with wonder and fear. The Tartars, who were judges of warriors, divined at the first glance that under that leader there would be no lack of blood and plunder, and went willingly with singing and music. And Kmita's heart swelled within him when he looked at those forms, resembling beasts of the wilderness; for they were dressed in sheepskin and camel-skin coats with the wool outside. The wave of wild heads shook with the movements of the horses; he counted them, and was thinking how much he could undertake with that force. "It is a peculiar body," thought he, "and it seems to me as if I were leading a pack of wolves; and with such men precisely would it be possible to run through the whole Commonwealth, and trample all Prussia. Wait awhile, Prince Boguslav!" Here boastful thoughts began to flow into his head, for he was inclined greatly to boastfulness. "God has given man adroitness," said he to himself; "yesterday I had only the two Kyemliches, but to-day four hundred horses are clattering behind me. Only let the dance begin; I shall have a thousand or two of such roisterers as my old comrades would not be ashamed of. Wait a while, Boguslav!" But after a moment he added, to quiet his own conscience: "And I shall serve also the king and the country." He fell into excellent humor. This too pleased him greatly, that nobles, Jews, peasants, even large crowds of general militia, could not guard themselves from fear in the first moment at sight of his Tartars. And there was a fog, for the thaw had filled the air with a vapor. It happened then every little while that some one rode up near, and seeing all at once whom they had before them, cried out,-- "The word is made flesh!" "Jesus! Mary! Joseph!" "The Tartars! the horde!" But the Tartars passed peacefully the equipages, loaded wagons, herds of horses and travellers. It would have been different had the leader permitted, but they dared not undertake anything of their own will, for they had seen how at starting Akbah Ulan had held the stirrup of that leader. Now Lvoff had vanished in the distance beyond the mist. The Tartars had ceased to sing, and the chambul moved slowly amid the clouds of steam rising from the horses. All at once the tramp of a horse was heard behind. In a moment two horsemen appeared. One of them was Pan Michael, the other was the tenant of Vansosh; both, passing the chambul, pushed straight to Kmita. "Stop! stop!" cried the little knight. Kmita held in his horse. "Is that you?" Pan Michael reined in his horse. "With the forehead!" said he, "letters from the king: one to you, the other to the voevoda of Vityebsk." "I am going to Pan Charnyetski, not to Sapyeha." "But read the letter." Kmita broke the seal and read as follows:-- We learn through a courier just arrived from the voevoda of Vityebsk that he cannot march hither to Little Poland, and is turning back again to Podlyasye, because Prince Boguslav, who is not with the King of Sweden, has planned to fall upon Tykotsin and Pan Sapyeha. And since he must leave a great part of his troops in garrisons, we order you to go to his assistance with that Tartar chambul. And since your own wish is thus gratified, we need not urge you to hasten. The other letter you will give to the voevoda; in it we commend Pan Babinich, our faithful servant, to the good will of the voevoda, and above all to the protection of God. YAN KAZIMIR, _King_. "By the dear God! by the dear God! This is happy news for me!" cried Kmita. "I know not how to thank the king and you for it." "I offered myself to come," said the little knight, "out of compassion, for I saw your pain; I came so that the letters might reach you surely." "When did the courier arrive?" "We were with the king at dinner,--I, Pan Yan, Pan Stanislav, Kharlamp, and Zagloba. You cannot imagine what Zagloba told there about the carelessness of Sapyeha, and his own services. It is enough that the king cried from continual laughter, and both hetmans were holding their sides all the time. At last the chamber servant came with a letter; when the king burst out, 'Go to the hangman, maybe evil news will spoil my fun!' When he learned that it was from Pan Sapyeha, he began to read it. Indeed he read evil news, for that was confirmed which had long been discussed; the elector had broken all his oaths, and against his own rightful sovereign had joined the King of Sweden at last." "Another enemy, as if there were few of them hitherto!" cried Kmita; and he folded his hands. "Great God! only let Pan Sapyeha send me for a week to Prussia, and God the Merciful grant that ten generations will remember me and my Tartars." "Perhaps you will go there," said Pan Michael; "but first you must defeat Boguslav, for as a result of that treason of the elector is he furnished with men and permitted to go to Podlyasye." "Then we shall meet, as to-day is to-day; as God is in heaven, so shall we meet," cried Kmita, with flashing eyes. "If you had brought me the appointment of voevoda of Vilna, it would not have given me more pleasure." "The king too cried at once; 'There is an expedition ready for Yendrek, from which the soul will rejoice in him.' He wanted to send his servant after you, but I said I will go myself, I will take farewell of him once more." Kmita bent on his horse, and seized the little knight in his embrace. "A brother would not have done for me what you have done! God grant me to thank you in some way." "Tfu! Did not I want to shoot you?" "I deserved nothing better. Never mind! May I be slain in the first battle if in all knighthood I love a man more than I love you." Then they began to embrace again at parting, and Volodyovski said,-- "Be careful with Boguslav, be careful, for it is no easy matter with him." "For one of us death is written. Ei! if you who are a genius at the sabre could discover your secrets to me. But there is no time. As it is, may the angels help me; and I will see his blood, or my eyes will close forever on the light of day." "God aid you! A lucky journey, and give angelica to those traitors of Prussians!" said Volodyovski. "Be sure on that point. The disgusting Lutherans!" Here Volodyovski nodded to Jendzian, who during this time was talking to Akbah Ulan, explaining the former successes of Kmita over Hovanski. And both rode back to Lvoff. Then Kmita turned his chambul on the spot, as a driver turns his wagon, and went straight toward the north. CHAPTER XX. Though the Tartars, and especially those of the Dobrudja, knew how to stand breast to breast against armed men in the field, their most cherished warfare was the slaughter of defenceless people, the seizing of women and peasants captive, and above all, plunder. The road was very bitter therefore to that chambul which Kmita led, for under his iron hand these wild warriors had to become lambs, keep their knives in the sheaths, and the quenched tinder and coiled ropes in their saddle-bags. They murmured at first. Near Tarnogrod a few remained behind of purpose to let free the "red birds" in Hmyelevsk and to frolic with the women. But Kmita, who had pushed on toward Tomashov, returned at sight of the first gleam of fire, and commanded the guilty to hang the guilty. And he had gained such control of Akbah Ulan, that the old Tartar not only did not resist, but he urged the condemned to hang quickly, or the "bogadyr" would be angry. Thenceforth "the lambs" marched quietly, crowding more closely together through the villages and towns, lest suspicion might fall on them. And the execution, though Kmita carried it out so severely, did not rouse even ill will or hatred against him; such fortune had that fighter that his subordinates felt just as much love for him as they did fear. It is true that Pan Andrei permitted no one to wrong them. The country had been terribly ravaged by the recent attack of Hmelnitski and Sheremetyeff; therefore it was as difficult to find provisions and pasture as before harvest, and besides, everything had to be in time and in plenty; in Krinitsi, where the townspeople offered resistance and would not furnish supplies, Pan Andrei ordered that some of them be beaten with sticks, and the under-starosta he stretched out with the blow of a whirlbat. This delighted the horde immensely, and hearing with pleasure the uproar of the beaten people, they said among themselves,-- "Ei! our Babinich is a falcon; he lets no man offend his lambs." It is enough that not only did they not grow thin, but the men and horses improved in condition. Old Ulan, whose stomach had expanded, looked with growing wonder on the young hero and clicked with his tongue. "If Allah were to give me a son, I should like such a one. I should not die of hunger in my old age in the Ulus," repeated he. But Kmita from time to time struck him on the stomach and said,-- "Here listen, wild boar! If the Swedes do not open your paunch, you will hide the contents of all cupboards inside it." "Where are the Swedes? Our ropes will rot, our bows will be mildewed," answered Ulan, who was homesick for war. They were advancing indeed through a country to which a Swedish foot had not been able to come, but farther they would pass through one in which there had been garrisons afterward driven out by confederates. They met everywhere smaller and larger bands of armed nobles, marching in various directions, and not smaller bands of peasants, who more than once stopped the road to them threateningly, and to whom it was often difficult to explain that they had to do with friends and servants of the King of Poland. They came at last to Zamost. The Tartars were amazed at sight of this mighty fortress; but what did they think when told that not long before it had stopped the whole power of Hmelnitski? Pan Zamoyski, the owner by inheritance, permitted them as a mark of great affection and favor to enter the town. They were admitted through a brick gate, while the other two were stone. Kmita himself did not expect to see anything similar, and he could not recover from astonishment at sight of the broad streets, built in straight lines, Italian fashion; at sight of the splendid college, and the academy, the castle, walls, the great cannon and every kind of provision. As few among magnates could be compared with the grandson of the great chancellor, so there were few fortresses that could be compared with Zamost. But the greatest ecstasy seized the Tartars, when they saw the Armenian part of the town. Their nostrils drew in greedily the odor of morocco, a great manufacture of which was carried on by industrial immigrants from Kaffa; and their eyes laughed at sight of the dried fruits and confectionery, Eastern carpets, girdles, inlaid sabres, daggers, bows, Turkish lamps, and every kind of costly article. The cup-bearer of the kingdom himself pleased Kmita's heart greatly, he was a genuine kinglet in that Zamost of his; a man in the strength of his years, of fine presence though lacking somewhat robustness, for he had not restrained sufficiently the ardors of nature in early years. He had always loved the fair sex, but his health had not been shaken to that degree that joyousness had vanished from his face. So far he had not married, and though the most renowned houses in the Commonwealth had opened wide their doors, he asserted that he could not find in them a sufficiently beautiful maiden. He found her somewhat later, in the person of a young French lady, who though in love with another gave him her hand without hesitation, not foreseeing that the first one, disregarded, would adorn in the future his own and her head with a kingly crown. The lord of Zamost was not distinguished for quick wit, though he had enough for his own use. He did not strive for dignities and offices, though they came to him of themselves; and when his friends reproached him with a lack of native ambition, he answered,--"It is not true that I lack it, for I have more than those who bow down. Why should I wear out the thresholds of the court? In Zamost I am not only Yan Zamoyski, but Sobiepan Zamoyski,"[4] with which name he was very well pleased. He was glad to affect simple manners, though he had received a refined education and had passed his youth in journeys through foreign lands. He spoke of himself as a common noble, and spoke emphatically of the moderateness of his station, perhaps so that others might contradict him, and perhaps so that they might not notice his medium wit. On the whole he was an honorable man, and a better son of the Commonwealth than many others. And as he came near Kmita's heart, so did Kmita please him; therefore he invited Pan Andrei to the chambers of the castle and entertained him, for he loved this also, that men should exalt his hospitality. Pan Andrei came to know in the castle many noted persons; above all, Princess Griselda Vishnyevetski, sister of Pan Zamoyski and widow of the great Yeremi,--a man who in his time was well-nigh the greatest in the Commonwealth, who nevertheless had lost his whole immense fortune in the time of the Cossack incursion, so that the princess was now living at Zamost, on the bounty of her brother Yan. But that lady was so full of grandeur, of majesty and virtue, that her brother was the first to blow away the dust from before her; and moreover he feared her like fire. There was no case in which he did not gratify her wishes, nor an affair the most important concerning which he did not advise with her. The people of the castle said that the princess ruled Zamost, the army, the treasury, and her brother; but she did not wish to take advantage of her preponderance, being given with her whole soul to grief for her husband and to the education of her son. That son had recently returned for a short time from the court of Vienna and was living with her. He was a youth in the springtime of life; but in vain did Kmita seek in him those marks which the son of the great Yeremi should bear in his features. The figure of the young prince was graceful; but he had a large, full face, and protruding eyes with a timid look; he had coarse lips, moist, as with people inclined to pleasures of the table; an immense growth of hair, black as a raven's wing, fell to his shoulders. He inherited from his father only that raven hair and dark complexion. Pan Andrei was assured by those who were more intimate with the prince that he had a noble soul, unusual understanding, and a remarkable memory, thanks to which he was able to speak almost all languages; and that a certain heaviness of body and temperament with a native greed for food were the only defects of that otherwise remarkable young man. In fact, after he had entered into conversation with him Pan Andrei became convinced that the prince not only had an understanding mind and a striking judgment touching everything, but the gift of attracting people. Kmita loved him after the first conversation with that feeling in which compassion is the greatest element. He felt that he would give much to bring back to that orphan the brilliant future which belonged to him by right of birth. Pan Andrei convinced himself at the first dinner that what was said of the gluttony of Michael Vishnyevetski was true. The young prince seemed to think of nothing save eating. His prominent eyes followed each dish uneasily, and when they brought him the platter he took an enormous quantity on his plate and ate ravenously, smacking his lips as only gluttons do. The marble face of the princess grew clouded with still greater sorrow at that sight. It became awkward for Kmita, so that he turned away his eyes and looked at Sobiepan. But Zamoyski was not looking either at Prince Michael or his own guest. Kmita followed his glance, and behind the shoulders of Princess Griselda he saw a wonderful sight indeed, which he had not hitherto noticed. It was the small pretty head of a maiden, who was as fair as milk, as red as a rose, and beautiful as an image. Short wavy locks ornamented her forehead; her quick eyes were directed to the officers sitting near Zamoyski, not omitting Sobiepan himself. At last those eyes rested on Kmita, and looked at him fixedly, as full of coquetry as if they intended to gaze into the depth of his heart. But Kmita was not easily confused; therefore he began to look at once into those eyes with perfect insolence, and then he punched in the side Pan Shurski, lieutenant of the armored castle squadron at Zamost, who was sitting near him, and asked in an undertone,-- "But who is that tailed farthing?" "Worthy sir," answered Shurski, aloud, "do not speak slightingly when you do not know of whom you are speaking. That is Panna Anusia Borzobogati. And you will not call her otherwise unless you wish to regret your rudeness." "You do not know, sir, that a farthing is a kind of bird and very beautiful, therefore there is no contempt in the name," answered Kmita, laughing; "but noticing your anger you must be terribly in love." "But who is not in love?" muttered the testy Shurski. "Pan Zamoyski himself has almost looked his eyes out, and is as if sitting on an awl." "I see that, I see that!" "What do you see? He, I, Grabovski, Stolangyevich, Konoyadzki, Rubetski of the dragoons, Pyechynga,--she has sunk us all. And with you it will be the same, if you stay here. With her twenty-four hours are sufficient." "Lord brother! with me she could do nothing in twenty-four months." "How is that?" asked Shurski, with indignation; "are you made of metal, or what?" "No! But if some one had stolen the last dollar from your pocket you would not be afraid of a thief." "Is that it?" answered Shurski. Kmita grew gloomy at once, for his trouble came to his mind, and he noticed no longer that the black eyes were looking still more stubbornly at him, as if asking, "What is thy name, whence dost thou come, youthful knight?" But Shurski muttered: "Bore, bore away! She bored that way into me till she bored to my heart. Now she does not even care." Kmita shook himself out of his seriousness. "Why the hangman does not some one of you marry her?" "Each one prevents every other." "The girl will be left in the lurch," said Kmita, "though in truth there must be white seeds in that pear yet." Shurski opened his eyes, and bending to Kmita's ear said very mysteriously,-- "They say that she is twenty-five, as I love God. She was with Princess Griselda before the incursion of the rabble?" "Wonder of wonders, I should not give her more than sixteen or eighteen at the most." This time the devil (the girl) guessed apparently that they were talking of her, for she covered her gleaming eyes with the lids, and only shot sidelong glances at Kmita, inquiring continually: "Who art thou, so handsome? Whence dost thou come?" And he began involuntarily to twirl his mustache. After dinner Zamoyski, who from respect to the courtly manners of Kmita treated him as an unusual guest, took him by the arm. "Pan Babinich," said he, "you have told me that you are from Lithuania?" "That is true, Pan Zamoyski." "Tell me, did you know the Podbipientas?" "As to knowing I know them not, for they are no longer in the world, at least those who had the arms Tear-Cowl. The last one fell at Zbaraj. He was the greatest knight that Lithuania had. Who of us does not know of Podbipienta?" "I have heard also of him; but I ask for this reason: There is in attendance on my sister a lady of honorable family. She was the betrothed of this Podbipienta who was killed at Zbaraj. She is an orphan, without father or mother; and though my sister loves her greatly, still, being the natural guardian of my sister, I have in this way the maiden in guardianship." "A pleasant guardianship!" put in Kmita. Zamoyski smiled, winked, and smacked his tongue. "Sweetcakes! isn't she?" But suddenly he saw that he was betraying himself, and assumed a serious air. "Oh, you traitor!" said he, half jestingly, half seriously, "you want to hang me on a hook, and I almost let it out!" "What?" asked Kmita, looking him quickly in the eyes. Here Zamoyski saw clearly that in quickness of wit he was not the equal of his guest, and turned the conversation at once. "That Podbipienta," said he, "bequeathed her some estates there in your region. I don't remember the names of them, for they are strange,--Baltupie, Syrutsiani, Myshykishki,--in a word, all that he had. Would I could remember them! Five or six estates." "They are adjoining estates, not separate. Podbipienta was a very wealthy man, and if that lady should come to his fortune she might have her own ladies-in-waiting, and seek for a husband among senators." "Do you tell me that? Do you know those places?" "I know only Lyubovich and Sheputy, for they are near my land. The forest boundary alone is ten miles long, and the fields and meadows are as much more." "Where are they?" "In Vityebsk." "Oh, far away! the affair is not worth the trouble, and the country is under the enemy." "When we drive out the enemy we shall come to the property. But the Podbipientas have property in other places,--in Jmud very considerable, I know, for I have a piece of land there myself." "I see that your substance is not a bag of chopped straw." "It brings in nothing now. But I need nothing from others." "Advise me how to put that maiden on her feet." Kmita laughed. "I prefer to talk over this matter rather than others. It would be better for her to go to Pan Sapyeha. If he would take the affair in hand, he could do a great deal as voevoda of Vityebsk and the most noted man in Lithuania. He could send notices to the tribunals that the will was made to Panna Borzobogati, so that Podbipienta's more distant relatives should not seize the property." "That is true; but now there are no tribunals, and Sapyeha has something else in his head." "The lady might be placed in his hands and under his guardianship. Having her before his eyes, he would give aid more speedily." Kmita looked with astonishment at Zamoyski. "What object has he in wishing to remove her from this place?" thought he. Zamoyski continued: "It would be difficult for her to live in camp, in the tent of the voevoda of Vityebsk; but she might stay with his daughters." "I do not understand this," thought Kmita; "would he consent to be only her guardian?" "But here is the difficulty: how can I send her to those parts in the present time of disturbance? Several hundred men would be needed, and I cannot strip Zamost. If I could only find some one to conduct her. Now, you might take her; you are going to Sapyeha. I would give you letters, and you would give me your word of honor to take her in safety." "I conduct her to Sapyeha?" asked Kmita, in amazement. "Is the office unpleasant? Even if it should come to love on the road--" "Ah," said Kmita, "another one is managing my affections; and though the tenant pays nothing, still I do not think of making a change." "So much the better; with all the greater satisfaction can I confide her to you." A moment of silence followed. "Well, will you undertake it?" asked the starosta, "I am marching with Tartars." "People tell me that the Tartars fear you worse than fire. Well, what? Will you undertake it?" "H'm! why not, if thereby I can oblige your grace? But--" "Ah, you think that the princess must give permission; she will, as God is dear to me! For she,--fancy to yourself,--she suspects me." Here the starosta whispered in Kmita's ear; at last he said aloud,-- "She was very angry with me for that, and I put my ears aside; for to war with women,--behold you! I would rather have the Swedes outside Zamost. But she will have the best proof that I am planning no evil, when I wish to send the girl away. She will be terribly amazed, it is true; but at the first opportunity I'll talk with her touching this matter." When he had said this, Zamoyski turned and went away. Kmita looked at him, and muttered,-- "You are setting some snare, Pan Sobiepan; and though I do not understand the object, I see the snare quickly, for you are a terribly awkward trapper." Zamoyski was pleased with himself, though he understood well that the work was only half done; and another remained so difficult that at thought of it despair seized him, and even terror. He had to get permission of Princess Griselda, whose severity and penetrating mind Pan Sobiepan feared from his whole soul. But having begun, he wished to bring the work to completion as early as possible; therefore next morning, after Mass, and breakfast, and after he had reviewed the hired German infantry, he went to the chambers of the princess. He found the lady embroidering a cope for the college. Behind her was Anusia winding silk hung upon two armchairs; a second skein of rose color she had placed around her neck, and moving her hands quickly, she ran around the chairs in pursuit of the unwinding thread. Zamoyski's eyes grew bright at sight of her; but he assumed quickly a serious look, and greeting the princess, began as if unwillingly,-- "That Pan Babinich who has come here with the Tartars is a Lithuanian,--a man of importance, a very elegant fellow, a born knight in appearance. Have you noticed him?" "You brought him to me yourself," answered the princess, indifferently, "he has an honest face." "I asked him concerning that property left Panna Borzobogati. He says it is a fortune almost equal to that of the Radzivills." "God grant it to Anusia; her orphanhood will be the lighter, and her old age as well," said the lady. "But there is a danger lest distant relatives tear it apart. Babinich says that Sapyeha might occupy himself with it, if he wished. He is an honest man, and very friendly to us: I would confide my own daughter to him. It would be enough for him to send notices to the tribunals, and proclaim the guardianship. But Babinich says it is needful that Panna Anusia should go to those places in person." "Where,--to Pan Sapyeha?" "Or to his daughters, so as to be there, that the formal installation might take place." The starosta invented at that moment "formal installation," thinking justly that the princess would accept this counterfeit money instead of true coin. She thought a moment, and asked,-- "How could she go now, when Swedes are on the road?" "I have news that the Swedes have left Lublin. All this side of the Vistula is free." "And who would take Anusia to Pan Sapyeha?" "Suppose this same Babinich." "With Tartars? Lord Brother, fear God; those are wild, chaotic people!" "I am not afraid," put in Anusia, curtesying. But Princess Griselda had noted already that her brother came with some plan all prepared; therefore she sent Anusia out of the room, and began to look at Pan Sobiepan with an inquiring gaze. But he said as if to himself,-- "These Tartars are down in the dust before Babinich; he hangs them for any insubordination." "I cannot permit this journey," answered the princess. "The girl is honest but giddy, and rouses enthusiasm quickly. You know that best yourself. I would never confide her to a young, unknown man." "Unknown here he is not, for who has not heard of the Babiniches as men of high family and steady people? [Zamoyski had never heard of the Babiniches in his life.] Besides," continued he, "you might give her some sedate woman as companion, and then decorum would be observed. Babinich I guarantee. I tell you this, too, Lady Sister, that he has in those places a betrothed with whom he is, as he tells me himself, in love; and whoso is in love has something else in his head. The foundation of the matter is this, that another such chance may not come for a long time,--the fortune may be lost to the girl, and in ripe years she may be without a roof above her." The princess ceased embroidering, raised her head, and fixing her penetrating eyes on her brother, asked,-- "What reason have you to send her from here?" "What reason have I?" repeated he, dropping his glance; "what can I have?--none!" "Yan, you have conspired with Babinich against her virtue!" "There it is! As God is dear to me, only that was wanting! You will read the letter which I shall send to Sapyeha, and give your own. I will merely say this to you, that I shall not leave Zamost. Finally examine Babinich himself, and ask him whether he will undertake the office. "The moment you suspect me I step aside." "Why do you insist so that she shall leave Zamost?" "For I wish her good, and it is the question of an immense fortune. Besides, I confess it concerns me much that she should leave Zamost. Your suspicions have grown disagreeable; it is not to my taste that you should be frowning at me forever and looking stern. I thought that in consenting to the departure of the young lady I should find the best argument against suspicions. God knows I have enough of this, for I am no student who steals under windows at night. I tell you more: my officers are enraged one against the other, and shaking their sabres at one another. There is neither harmony, nor order, nor service as there should be. I have enough of this. But since you are boring me with your eyes, then do as you wish; but look after Michael yourself, for that is your affair, not mine." "Michael!" exclaimed the astonished princess. "I say nothing against the girl. She does not disturb him more than others; but if you do not see his arrowy glances and ardent affection, then I tell you this, that Cupid has not such power to blind as a mother's love." Princess Griselda's brows contracted, and her face grew pale. Pan Sobiepan, seeing that he had struck home at last, slapped his knees with his hands and continued,-- "Lady Sister, thus it is, thus it is! What is the affair to me? Let Michael give her silk to unwind, let his nostrils quiver when he looks at her, let him blush, let him look at her through keyholes! What is that to me? Still, I know--she has a good fortune--her family--well, she is of nobles, and I do not raise myself above nobles. If you want it yourself, all right. Their years are not the same, but again it is not my affair." Zamoyski rose, and bowing to his sister very politely, started to go out. The blood rushed to her face. The proud lady did not see in the whole Commonwealth a match worthy of Vishnyevetski, and abroad, perhaps among the archduchesses of Austria; therefore these words of her brother burned her like iron red hot. "Yan!" said she, "wait!" "Lady Sister," said Zamoyski, "I wished first to give you proof that you suspect me unjustly; second, that you should watch some one besides me. Now you will do as you please; I have nothing more to say." Then Pan Zamoyski bowed and went out. CHAPTER XXI. Pan Zamoyski had not uttered pure calumny to his sister when he spoke of Michael's love for Anusia, for the young prince had fallen in love with her, as had all, not excepting the pages of the castle. But that love was not over-violent, and by no means aggressive; it was rather an agreeable intoxication of the head and mind, than an impulse of the heart, which, when it loves, impels to permanent possession of the object beloved. For such action Michael had not the energy. Nevertheless, Princess Griselda, dreaming of a brilliant future for her son, was greatly terrified at that feeling. In the first moment the sudden consent of her brother to Anusia's departure astonished her; now she ceased thinking of that, so far had the threatening danger seized her whole soul. A conversation with her son, who grew pale and trembled, and who before he had confessed anything shed tears, confirmed her in the supposition that the danger was terrible. Still she did not conquer her scruples of conscience at once, and it was only when Anusia, who wanted to see a new world, new people, and perhaps also turn the head of the handsome cavalier, fell at her feet with a request for permission, that the princess did not find strength sufficient to refuse. Anusia, it is true, covered herself with tears at the thought of parting with her mistress and mother; but for the clever girl it was perfectly evident that by asking for the separation she had cleared herself from every suspicion of having with preconceived purpose turned the head of Prince Michael, or even Zamoyski himself. Princess Griselda, from desire to know surely if there was a conspiracy between her brother and Kmita, directed the latter to come to her presence. Her brother's promise not to leave Zamost had calmed her considerably, it is true; she wished, however, to know more intimately the man who was to conduct the young lady. The conversation with Kmita set her at rest thoroughly. There looked from the blue eyes of the young noble such sincerity and truth that it was impossible to doubt him. He confessed at once that he was in love with another, and besides he had neither the wish nor the head for folly. Finally he gave his word as a cavalier that he would guard the lady from every misfortune, even if he had to lay down his head. "I will take her safely to Pan Sapyeha, for Pan Zamoyski says that the enemy has left Lublin. But I can do no more; not because I hesitate in willing service for your highness, since I am always willing to shed my blood for the widow of the greatest warrior and the glory of the whole Commonwealth, but because I have my own grievous troubles, out of which I know not whether I shall bring my life." "It is a question of nothing more," answered the princess, "than that you give her into the hands of Pan Sapyeha, and he will not refuse my request to be her guardian." Here she gave Kmita her hand, which he kissed with the greatest reverence, and she said in parting,-- "Be watchful, Cavalier, be watchful, and do not place safety in this, that the country is free of the enemy." These last words arrested Kmita; but he had no time to think over them, for Zamoyski soon caught him. "Gracious Knight," said he, gayly, "you are taking the greatest ornament of Zamost away from me." "But at your wish," answered Kmita. "Take good care of her. She is a toothsome dainty. Some one may be ready to take her from you." "Let him try! Oh, ho! I have given the word of a cavalier to the princess, and with me my word is sacred." "Oh, I only say this as a jest. Fear not, neither take unusual caution." "Still I will ask of your serene great mightiness a carriage with windows." "I will give you two. But you are not going at once, are you?" "I am in a hurry. As it is, I am here too long." "Then send your Tartars in advance to Krasnystav. I will hurry off a courier to have oats ready for them there, and will give you an escort of my own to that place. No evil can happen to you here, for this is my country. I will give you good men of the German dragoons, bold fellows and acquainted with the road. Besides, to Krasnystav the road is as if cut out with a sickle." "But why am I to stay here?" "To remain longer with us; you are a dear guest. I should be glad to detain you a year. Meanwhile I shall send to the herds at Perespa; perhaps some horse will be found which will not fail you in need." Kmita looked quickly into the eyes of his host; then, as if making a sudden decision, said,-- "I thank you, I will remain, and will send on the Tartars." He went straight to give them orders, and taking Akbah Ulan to one side he said,-- "Akbah Ulan, you are to go to Krasnystav by the road, straight as if cut with a sickle. I stay here, and a day later will move after you with Zamoyski's escort. Listen now to what I say! You will not go to Krasnystav, but strike into the first forest, not far from Zamost, so that a living soul may not know of you; and when you hear a shot on the highroad, hurry to me, for they are preparing some trick against me in this place." "Your will," said Akbah Ulan, placing his hand on his forehead, his mouth, and his breast. "I have seen through you, Pan Zamoyski," said Kmita to himself. "In Zamost you are afraid of your sister therefore you wish to seize the young lady, and secret her somewhere in the neighborhood, and make of me the instrument of your desires, and who knows if not to take my life. But wait! You found a man keener than yourself; you will fall into your own trap!" In the evening Lieutenant Shurski knocked at Kmita's door. This officer, too, knew something, and had his suspicions; and because he loved Anusia he preferred that she should depart, rather than fall into the power of Zamoyski. Still he did not dare to speak openly, and perhaps because he was not sure; but he wondered that Kmita had consented to send the Tartars on in advance; he declared that the roads were not so safe as was said, that everywhere armed bands were wandering,--hands swift to deeds of violence. Pan Andrei decided to feign that he divined nothing "What can happen to me?" asked he; "besides, Zamoyski gives me his own escort." "Bah! Germans!" "Are they not reliable men?" "Is it possible to depend upon those dog-brothers ever? It has happened that after conspiring on the road they went over to the enemy." "But there are no Swedes on this side of the Vistula." "They are in Lublin, the dogs! It is not true that they have left. I advise you honestly not to send the Tartars in advance, for it is always safer in a large company." "It is a pity that you did not inform me before. I have one tongue in my mouth, and an order given I never withdraw." Next morning the Tartars moved on. Kmita was to follow toward evening, so as to pass the first night at Krasnystav. Two letters to Pan Sapyeha were given him,--one from the princess, the other from her brother. Kmita had a great desire to open the second, but he dared not; he looked at it, however, before the light, and saw that inside was blank paper. This discovery was proof to him that both the maiden and the letters were to be taken from him on the road. Meanwhile the horses came from Perespa, and Zamoyski presented the knight with a steed beautiful beyond admiration; the steed he received with thankfulness, thinking in his soul that he would ride farther on him than Zamoyski expected. He thought also of his Tartars, who must now be in the forest, and wild laughter seized him. At times again he was indignant in soul, and promised to give the master of Zamost a lesson. Finally the hour of dinner came, which passed in great gloom. Anusia had red eyes; the officers were in deep silence. Pan Zamoyski alone was cheerful, and gave orders to fill the goblets; Kmita emptied his, one after another. But when the hour of parting came, not many persons took leave of the travellers, for Zamoyski had sent the officers to their service. Anusia fell at the feet of the princess, and for a long time could not be removed from her; the princess herself had evident disquiet in her face. Perhaps she reproached herself in secret for permitting the departure of a faithful servant at a period when mishap might come easily. But the loud weeping of Michael, who held his fists to his eyes, crying like a school-boy, confirmed the proud lady in her conviction that it was needful to stifle the further growth of this boyish affection. Besides, she was quieted by the hope that in the family of Sapyeha the young lady would find protection, safety, and also the great fortune which was to settle her fate for the rest of her life. "I commit her to your virtue, bravery, and honor," said the princess once more to Kmita; "and remember that you have sworn to me to conduct her to Pan Sapyeha without fail." "I will take her as I would a glass, and in need will wind oakum around her, because I have given my word; death alone will prevent me from keeping it," answered the knight. He gave his arm to Anusia, but she was angry and did not look at him; he had treated her rather slightingly, therefore she gave him her hand very haughtily, turning her face and head in another direction. She was sorry to depart, and fear seized her; but it was too late then to draw back. The moment came; they took their seats,--she in the carriage with her old servant, Panna Suvalski, he on his horse,--and they started. Twelve German horsemen surrounded the carriage and the wagon with Anusia's effects. When at last the doors in the Warsaw gate squeaked and the rattle of wheels was heard on the drop-bridge, Anusia burst into loud weeping. Kmita bent toward the carriage. "Fear not, my lady, I will not eat you!" "Clown!" thought Anusia. They rode some time along the houses outside the walls, straight toward Old Zamost; then they entered fields and a pine-wood, which in those days stretched along a hilly country to the Bug on one side; on the other it extended, interrupted by villages, to Zavihost. Night had fallen, but very calm and clear; the road was marked by a silver line; only the rolling of the carriage and the tramp of the horses broke the silence. "My Tartars must be lurking here like wolves in a thicket," thought Kmita. Then he bent his ear. "What is that?" asked he of the officer who was leading the escort. "A tramp! Some horseman is galloping after us!" answered the officer. He had barely finished speaking when a Cossack hurried up on a foaming horse, crying,-- "Pan Babinich! Pan Babinich! A letter from Pan Zamoyski." The retinue halted. The Cossack gave the letter to Kmita. Kmita broke the seal, and by the light of a lantern read as follows:-- "Gracious and dearest Pan Babinich! Soon after the departure of Panna Borzobogati tidings came to us that the Swedes not only have not left Lublin, but that they intend to attack my Zamost. In view of this, further journeying and peregrination become inconvenient. Considering therefore the dangers to which a fair head might be exposed, we wish to have Panna Borzobogati in Zamost. Those same knights will bring her back; but you, who must be in haste to continue your journey, we do not wish to trouble uselessly. Announcing which will of ours to your grace, we beg you to give orders to the horseman according to our wishes." "Still he is honest enough not to attack my life; he only wishes to make a fool of me," thought Kmita. "But we shall soon see if there is a trap here or not." Now Anusia put her head out of the window. "What is the matter?" asked she. "Nothing! Pan Zamoyski commends you once more to my bravery. Nothing more." Here he turned to the driver,-- "Forward!" The officer leading the horsemen reined in his horse. "Stop!" cried he to the driver. Then to Kmita, "Why move on?" "But why halt longer in the forest?" asked Kmita, with the face of a stupid rogue. "For you have received some order." "And what is that to you? I have received, and that is why I command to move on." "Stop!" repeated the officer. "Move on!" repeated Kmita. "What is this?" inquired Anusia again. "We will not go a step farther till I see the order!" said the officer, with decision. "You will not see the order, for it is not sent to you." "Since you will not obey it, I will carry it out. You move on to Krasnystav, and have a care lest we give you something for the road, but we will go home with the lady." Kmita only wished the officer to acknowledge that he knew the contents of the order; this proved with perfect certainty that the whole affair was a trick arranged in advance. "Move on with God!" repeated the officer now, with a threat. At that moment the horsemen began one after another to take out their sabres. "Oh, such sons! not to Zamost did you wish to take the maiden, but aside somewhere, so that Pan Zamoyski might give free reign to his wishes; but you have met with a more cunning man!" When Babinich had said this, he fired upward from a pistol. At this sound there was such an uproar in the forest, as if the shot had roused whole legions of wolves sleeping near by. The howl was heard in front, behind, from the sides. At once the tramp of horses sounded with the cracking of limbs breaking under their hoofs, and on the road were seen black groups of horsemen, who approached with unearthly howling. "Jesus! Mary! Joseph!" cried the terrified women in the carriage. Now the Tartars rushed up like a cloud; but Kmita restrained them with a triple cry, and turning to the astonished officer, began to boast,-- "Know whom you have met! Pan Zamoyski wished to make a fool of me, a blind instrument. To you he intrusted the functions of a pander, which you undertook, Sir Officer for the favor of a master. How down to Zamoyski from Babinich, and tell him that the maiden will go safely to Pan Sapyeha." The officer looked around with frightened glance, and saw the wild faces gazing with terrible eagerness on him and his men. It was evident that they were waiting only for a word to hurl themselves on the twelve horsemen and tear them in pieces. "Your grace, you will do what you wish, for we cannot manage superior power," said he, with trembling voice "but Pan Zamoyski is able to avenge himself." Kmita laughed. "Let him avenge himself on you; for had it not come out that you knew the contents of the order and had you not opposed the advance, I should not have been sure of the trick, and should have given you the maiden straightway. Tell the starosta to appoint a keener pander than you." The calm tone with which Kmita said this assured the officer somewhat, at least on this point,--that death did not threaten either him or his troopers; therefore he breathed easily, and said,-- "And must we return with nothing to Zamost?" "You will return with my letter, which will be written on the skin of each one of you." "Your grace--" "Take them!" cried Kmita; and he seized the officer himself by the shoulder. An uproar and struggle began around the carriage. The shouts of the Tartars deadened the cries for assistance and the screams of terror coming from the breasts of the women. But the struggle did not last long, for a few minutes later the horsemen were lying on the road tied, one at the side of the other. Kmita gave command to flog them with bullock-skin whips, but not beyond measure, so that they might retain strength to walk back to Zamost. The common soldiers received one hundred, and the officer a hundred and fifty lashes, in spite of the prayers and entreaties of Anusia, who not knowing what was passing around her, and thinking that she had fallen into terrible hands, began to implore with joined palms and tearful eyes for her life. "Spare my life, knight! In what am I guilty before you? Spare me, spare me!" "Be quiet, young lady!" roared Kmita. "In what have I offended?" "Maybe you are in the plot yourself?" "In what plot? O God, be merciful to me, a sinner!" "Then you did not know that Pan Zamoyski only permitted your departure apparently, so as to separate you from the princess and carry you off on the road, to make an attempt on your honor in some empty castle?" "O Jesus of Nazareth!" screamed Anusia. And there was so much truth and sincerity in that cry that Kmita said more mildly,-- "How is that? Then you were not in the plot? That may be!" Anusia covered her face with her hands, but she could say nothing; she merely repeated, time after time,-- "Jesus, Mary! Jesus, Mary!" "Calm yourself," said Kmita, still more mildly. "You will go in safety to Pan Sapyeha, for Pan Zamoyski did not know with whom he had to deal. See, those men whom they are flogging were to carry you off. I give them their lives, so that they may tell Pan Zamoyski how smoothly it went with them." "Then have you defended me from shame?" "I have, though I did not know whether you would be glad." Anusia, instead of making answer or contradiction, seized Pan Andrei's hand and pressed it to her pale lips; and sparks went from his feet to his head. "Give peace, for God's sake!" cried he. "Sit in the carriage, for you will wet your feet--and be not afraid! You would not be better cared for with your mother." "I will go now with you even to the end of the world." "Do not say such things." "God will reward you for defending honor." "It is the first time that I have had the opportunity," said Kmita. And then he muttered in an undertone to himself: "So far I have defended her as much as a cat sheds tears." Meanwhile the Tartars had ceased to beat the horsemen and Pan Andrei gave command to drive them naked and bloody along the road toward Zamost. They went, weeping bitterly. Their horses, weapons, and clothing Kmita gave his Tartars; and then moved on quickly, for it was unsafe to loiter. On the road the young knight could not restrain himself from looking into the carriage to gaze at the flashing eyes and wonderful face of the maiden. He asked each time if she did not need something, if the carriage was convenient, or the quick travelling did not tire her too much. She answered, with thankfulness, that it was pleasant to her as it had never been. She had recovered from her terror completely. Her heart rose in gratitude to her defender, and she thought: "He is not so rude and surly as I held at first." "Ai, Olenka, what do I suffer for you!" said Kmita to himself; "do you not feed me with ingratitude? Had this been in old times, u-ha!" Then he remembered his comrades and the various deeds of violence which he had committed in company with them; then he began to drive away temptation, began to repeat for their unhappy souls, "Eternal rest." When they had reached Krasnystav, Kmita considered it better not to wait for news from Zamost, and went on farther. But at parting he wrote and sent to Zamoyski the following letter:-- SERENE GREAT MIGHTY LORD STAROSTA,[5] and to me very Gracious Favorer and Benefactor! Whomsoever God has made great in the world, to him He deals out wit in more bountiful measure. I knew at once that you, Serene Great Mighty Lord, only wished to put me on trial, when you sent the order to give up Panna Borzobogati. I knew this all the better when the horsemen betrayed that they knew the substance of the order, though I did not show them the letter, and though you wrote to me that the idea came to you only after my departure. As on the one hand I admire all the more your penetration, so on the other, to put the careful guardian more completely at rest, I promise anew that nothing will suffice to lead me away from fulfilling the function imposed on me. But since those soldiers, evidently misunderstanding your intention, turned out to be great ruffians, and even threatened my life, I think that I should have hit upon your thought if I had commanded to hang them. Because I did not do so, I beg your forgiveness; still I gave orders to flog them properly with bullock-skin whips, which punishment, if your Great Mighty Lordship considers it too small, you can increase according to your will. With this, hoping that I have earned the increased confidence and gratitude of your Serene Great Mighty Lordship, I subscribe myself the faithful and well-wishing servant of your Serene Great Mighty Lordship. BABINICH. The dragoons, when they had dragged themselves to Zamost late at night, did not dare to appear before the eyes of their master; therefore he learned of the whole matter from this letter which the Krasnystav Cossack brought next day. After he had read Kmita's letter, Zamoyski shut himself up in his rooms for three days, admitting no attendant save the chamber servants, who brought him his food. They heard, also, how he swore in French, which he did only when he was in the greatest fury. By degrees, however, the storm was allayed. On the fourth day and fifth Zamoyski was still very silent; he was ruminating over something and pulling at his mustache; in a week, when he was very pleasant and had drunk a little at table, he began to twirl his mustache, not to pull it, and said to Princess Griselda,-- "Lady Sister, you know that there is no lack of penetration in me; a couple of days ago I tested of purpose that noble who took Anusia, and I can assure you that he will take her faithfully to Pan Sapyeha." About a month later, as it seems, Pan Sobiepan turned his heart in another direction; and besides he became altogether convinced that what had happened, happened with his will and knowledge. CHAPTER XXII. The province of Lyubelsk and the greater part of Podlyasye were almost completely in the hands of Poles, that is, of the confederates and Sapyeha's men. Since the King of Sweden remained in Prussia, where he was treating with the elector, the Swedes, not feeling very powerful in presence of the general uprising, which increased every day, dared not come out of the towns and castles, and still less to cross to the eastern side of the Vistula, where the Polish forces were greatest. In those two provinces, therefore, the Poles were laboring to form a considerable and well-ordered army, able to meet the regular soldiers of Sweden. In the provincial towns they were training infantry, and since the peasants in general had risen, there was no lack of volunteers; it was only necessary to organize in bodies and regular commands those chaotic masses of men frequently dangerous to their own country. The district captains betook themselves to this labor. Besides, the king had issued a number of commissions to old and tried soldiers; troops were enrolled in all provinces, and since there was no lack of military people in those regions, squadrons of perfect cavalry were formed. Some went west of the Vistula, others to Charnyetski, still others to Sapyeha. Such multitudes had taken arms that Yan Kazimir's forces were already more numerous than those of the Swedes. A country over whose weakness all Europe had recently wondered, gave now an example of power unsuspected, not only by its enemies, but by its own king, and even by those whose faithful hearts, a few months before, had been rent by pain and despair. Money was found, as well as enthusiasm and bravery; the most despairing souls were convinced that there is no position, no fall, no weakness from which there may not be a deliverance, and that when children are born consolation cannot die. Kmita went on without hindrance, gathering on his road unquiet spirits, who joined the chambul with readiness, hoping to find most blood and plunder in company with the Tartars. These he changed easily into good and prompt soldiers, for he had the gift to make his subordinates fear and obey. He was greeted joyously on the road, and that by reason of the Tartars; for the sight of them convinced men that the Khan was indeed coming with succor to the Commonwealth. It was declaimed openly that forty thousand chosen Tartar cavalry were marching to strengthen Sapyeha. Wonders were told of the "modesty" of these allies,--how they committed no violence or murder on the road. They were shown as an example to the soldiers of the country. Pan Sapyeha was quartered temporarily at Byala. His forces were composed of about ten thousand regular troops, cavalry and infantry. They were the remnants of the Lithuanian armies, increased by new men. The cavalry, especially some of the squadrons, surpassed in valor and training the Swedish horsemen; but the infantry were badly trained, and lacked firearms, powder, and cannon. Sapyeha had thought to find these in Tykotsin; but the Swedes, by blowing themselves up with the powder, destroyed at the same time all the cannons of the castle. Besides these forces there were in the neighborhood of Byala twelve thousand general militia from all Lithuania, Mazovia, and Podlyasye; but from few of these did the voevoda promise himself service, especially since having an immense number of wagons they hindered movement and turned the army into a clumsy, unwieldy multitude. Kmita thought of one thing in entering Byala. There were under Sapyeha so many nobles from Lithuania and so many of Radzivill's officers, his former acquaintances, that he feared they would recognize him and cut him to pieces before he could cry, "Jesus! Mary!" His name was detested in Sapyeha's camp and in all Lithuania; for men still preserved in vivid remembrance the fact that while serving Prince Yanush, he had cut down those squadrons which, opposing the hetman, had declared for the country. Pan Andrei had changed much, and this gave him comfort. First, he had become thin; second, he had the scar on his face from Boguslav's bullet; finally, he wore a beard, rather long, pointed in Swedish fashion, and his mustache he combed upward, so that he was more like some Erickson than a Polish noble. "If there is not a tumult against me at once, men will judge me differently after the first battle," thought Kmita, when entering Byala. He arrived in the evening, announced who he was, whence he had come, that he was bearing letters from the king, and asked a special audience of the voevoda. The voevoda received him graciously because of the warm recommendation of the king, who wrote,-- "We send to you our most faithful servant, who is called the Hector of Chenstohova, from the time of the siege of that glorious place; and he has saved our freedom and life at the risk of his own during our passage through the mountains. Have him in special care, so that no injustice come to him from the soldiers. We know his real name, and the reasons for which he serves under an assumed one; no man is to hold him in suspicion because of this change, or suspect him of intrigues." "But is it not possible to know why you bear an assumed name?" asked the voevoda. "I am under sentence, and cannot make levies in my own name. The king gave me a commission, and I can make levies as Babinich." "Why do you want levies if you have Tartars?" "For a greater force would not be in the way." "And why are you under sentence?" "Under the command and protection of whomsoever I go, him I ought to tell all as to a father. My real name is Kmita." The voevoda pushed back a couple of steps,-- "He who promised Boguslav to carry off our king, living or dead?" Kmita related with all his energy how and what had happened,--how, befogged by Prince Yanush, he had served the Radzivills; how he had learned their real purposes from the mouth of Boguslav, and then carried off the latter and thus incurred his implacable vengeance. The voevoda believed, for he could not refuse belief, especially since the king's letter confirmed the truth of Kmita's words. Besides, his soul was so delighted in the voevoda that he would at that moment have pressed his worst enemy to his heart and forgiven his greatest offence. This delight was caused by the following passage in the king's letter:-- "Though the grand baton of Lithuania, unused now after the death of the voevoda of Vilna, can by usual procedure be given to a successor only at the Diet, still in the present extraordinary circumstances, disregarding the usual course, We give this baton to you, greatly cherished by us, for the good of the Commonwealth and your memorable services, thinking justly that, God giving peace, no voice at the coming Diet will be raised against this our choice, and that our act will find general approval." Pan Sapyeha, as was said then in the Commonwealth, "had pawned his coat and sold his last silver spoon;" he had not served his country for profit, nor for honors. But even the most disinterested man is glad to see that his services are appreciated, that they are rewarded with gratitude, that his virtue is recognized. Therefore Sapyeha's serious face was uncommonly radiant. This act of the king adorned the house of Sapyeha with new splendor; and to this no "kinglet" of that time was indifferent,--it were well had there been none to strive for elevation _per nefas_ (through injustice). Therefore Pan Sapyeha was ready to do for the king what was in his power and what was out of his power. "Since I am hetman," said he to Kmita, "you come under my jurisdiction and are under my guardianship. There is a multitude here of the general militia, hence tumult is near; therefore do not show yourself over-much till I warn the soldiers, and remove that calumny which Boguslav cast on you." Kmita thanked him from his heart, and then spoke of Anusia, whom he had brought to Byala. In answer the hetman fell to scolding, but being in excellent humor he scolded joyously. "You made a fool of Sobiepan, as God is dear to me! He sits there with his sister inside the walls of Zamost, as with the Lord God, behind the stove, and thinks that every one can do as he does,--raise the skirts of his coat, turn to the fire, and warm his back. I know the Podbipientas, for they are related to the Bjostovskis, and the Bjostovskis to me. The fortune is a lordly one, that is not to be denied; but though war with the Northerners has weakened it for a time, still people are alive yet in those regions. Where can anything be found, where any courts, any officers? Who will take the property and put the young lady in possession? They have gone stark mad! Boguslav is sitting on my shoulders; I have my duties in the army, but they would have me fill my head with women." "She is not a woman, but a cherry," said Kmita. "She is nothing however to me. They asked me to bring her here; I have brought her. They asked me to give her to you; I give her." The hetman then took Kmita by the ear and said: "But who knows, protector, in what form you have brought her? God preserve us, people may say that from the guardianship of Sapyeha she has suffered; and I, old man, shall have to keep my eyes open. What did you do at the stopping-places? Tell me right away, Pagan, did you not learn from your Tartars some heathen customs?" "At the stopping-places," answered Kmita, jestingly, "I commanded my attendants to plough my skin with discipline, so as to drive out the less worthy motives, which have their seat under the skin, and which I confess were plaguing me worse than horseflies." "Ah, you see-- Is she a worthy maiden?" "Really so; and terribly pretty." "And the Turk was at hand?" "But she is as honest as a nun; that I must say for her. And as to suffering I think that would come sooner from the Zamoyski guardianship than from you." Here Kmita told what had taken place and how. Then the hetman fell to clapping him on the shoulder and laughing,-- "Well, you are a crafty fellow! Not in vain do they tell so much of Kmita. Have no fear! Pan Zamoyski is not a stubborn man, and he is my friend. His first anger will pass, and he will even laugh at it himself and reward you." "I need no reward!" interrupted Kmita. "It is well that you have ambition and are not looking for favor. Only serve me against Boguslav, and you will not need to think of past outlawry." Sapyeha was astonished when he looked at the soldier's face, which a moment before was so open and joyous. Kmita at mention of Boguslav grew pale in an instant, and his face took on wrinkles like the face of a dog, when preparing to bite. "Would that the traitor were poisoned with his own spittle, if he could only fall into my hands before his death!" said he, gloomily. "I do not wonder at your venom. Have a care, though, that your anger does not choke your adroitness, for you have to deal with no common man. It is well that the king sent you hither. You will attack Boguslav for me, as you once did Hovanski." "I will attack him better!" said Kmita, with the same gloom. With this the conversation ended. Kmita went away to sleep in his quarters, for he was wearied from the road. Meanwhile the news spread through the army that the king had sent the baton to their beloved chief. Joy burst out like a flame among thousands of men. The officers of various squadrons hurried to the quarters of the hetman. The sleeping town sprang up from its slumber. Bonfires were kindled. Standard-bearers came with their standards. Trumpets sounded and kettle-drums thundered; discharges from muskets and cannon roared. Pan Sapyeha ordered a lordly feast, and they applauded the whole night through, drinking to the health of the king, the hetman, and to the coming victory over Boguslav. Pan Andrei, as was agreed, was not present at the feast. The hetman at the table began a conversation about Boguslav, and not telling who that officer was who had come with the Tartars and brought the baton, he spoke in general of the perversity of Boguslav. "Both Radzivills," said he, "were fond of intrigues, but Prince Boguslav goes beyond his dead cousin. You remember, gentlemen, Kmita, or at least you have heard of him. Now imagine to yourselves, what Boguslav reported--that Kmita offered to raise his hand on the king our lord--was not true." "Still Kmita helped Yanush to cut down good cavaliers." "It Is true that he helped Yanush; but at last he saw what he was doing, and then not only did he leave the service, but as you know, being a man of daring, he attacked Boguslav. It was close work there for the young prince, and he barely escaped with his life from Kmita's hands." "Kmita was a great soldier!" answered many voices. "The prince through revenge invented against him a calumny at which the soul shudders." "The devil could not have invented a keener!" "Do you know that I have in my hands proofs in black and white that that was revenge for the change in Kmita?" "To put infamy in such a way on any one's name! Only Boguslav could do that! To sink such a soldier!" "I have heard this," continued the hetman: "Kmita, seeing that nothing remained for him to do in this region, hurried off to Chenstohova, rendered there famous services, and then defended the king with his own breast." Hearing this, the same soldiers who would have cut Kmita to pieces with their sabres began to speak of him more and more kindly. "Kmita will not forgive the calumny, he is not such a man; he will fall on Boguslav." "Boguslav has insulted all soldiers, by casting such infamy on one of them." "Kmita was cruel and violent, but he was not a parricide." "He will have vengeance!" "We will be first to take vengeance for him!" "If you, serene great mighty hetman, guarantee this with your office, it must have been so." "It was so!" said the hetman. And they lacked little of drinking Kmita's health. But in truth there were very violent voices against this, especially among the former officers of Radzivill. Hearing these, the hetman said,-- "And do you know, gentlemen, how this Kmita comes to my mind? Babinich, the king's courier, resembles him much. At the first moment I was mistaken myself." Here Sapyeha began to look around with more severity and to speak with greater seriousness,-- "Though Kmita were to come here himself, since he has changed, since he has defended a holy place with immense bravery, I should defend him with my office of hetman. I ask you therefore, gentlemen, to raise no disturbance here by reason of this newly arrived. I ask you to remember that he has come here by appointment of the king and the Khan. But especially do I recommend this to you who are captains in the general militia, for with you it is harder to preserve discipline." Whenever Sapyeha spoke thus, Zagloba alone dared to murmur, all others would sit in obedience, and so they sat now; but when the hetman's face grew gladsome again, all rejoiced. The goblets moving swiftly filled the measure of rejoicing, and the whole town was thundering till morning, so that the walls of houses were shaking on their foundation, and the smoke of salutes veiled them, as in time of battle. Next morning Sapyeha sent Anusia to Grodno with Pan Kotchyts. In Grodno, from which Hovanski had long since withdrawn, the voevoda's family was living. Poor Anusia, whose head the handsome Babinich had turned somewhat, took farewell of him very tenderly; but he was on his guard, and only at the very parting did he say to her,-- "Were it not for one devil which sits in my heart like a thorn, I should surely have fallen in love with you to kill." Anusia thought to herself that there is no splinter which may not be picked out with patience and a needle; but she feared somewhat this Babinich, therefore she said nothing, sighed quietly, and departed. CHAPTER XXIII. A week after the departure of Anusia with Kotchyts, Sapyeha's camp was still at Byala. Kmita, with the Tartars, was ordered to the neighborhood of Rokitno; he was resting too, for the horses needed food and rest after the long road. Prince Michael Kazimir Radzivill, the owner of the place by inheritance, came also to Byala; he was a powerful magnate of the Nyesvyej branch of Radzivills, of whom it was said that they had inherited from the Kishkis alone seventy towns and four hundred villages. This Radzivill resembled in nothing his kinsmen of Birji. Not less ambitious perhaps than they, but differing in faith, an ardent patriot, and an adherent of the lawful king, he joined with his whole soul the confederacy of Tyshovtsi, and strengthened it as best he could. His immense possessions were, it is true, greatly ravaged by the last war, but still he stood at the head of considerable forces and brought the hetman no small aid. Not so much, however, did the number of his soldiers weigh in the balance as the fact that Radzivill stood against Radzivill; in this way the last seeming of justice was taken from Boguslav, and his acts were covered with the open character of invasion and treason. Therefore Sapyeha saw Prince Michael in his camp with delight. He was certain now that he would overcome Boguslav, for he surpassed him much in power; but according to his custom he weighed his plans slowly, stopped, considered, and summoned councils of officers. Kmita also was at these councils. He so hated the name Radzivill that at first sight of Prince Michael he trembled from anger and rage; but Michael knew how to win people by his countenance alone, on which beauty was united with kindness. The great qualities of this Radzivill, the grievous times which he had recently passed while defending the country from Zolotarenko and Serobryani, his genuine love for the king, made him one of the most honorable cavaliers of his time. His very presence in the camp of Sapyeha, the rival of the house of Radzivill, testified how far the young prince knew how to sacrifice private to public affairs. Whoso knew him was forced to love him. This feeling could not be resisted even by the passionate Kmita, despite his first opposition. Finally the prince captivated the heart of Pan Andrei by his advice. This advice was not merely to move against Boguslav, but to move without negotiations, to dash upon him at once: "Do not let him take castles; give him neither rest nor chance to draw breath; make war upon him with his own method." In such decision the prince saw speedy and certain victory. "It cannot be that Karl Gustav has not moved also; we must have our hands free, therefore, as soon as possible, and hasten to succor Charnyetski." Of the same opinion was Kmita, who had been fighting three days with his old evil habit of self-will so as to restrain himself from advancing without orders. But Sapyeha liked to act with certainty, he feared every inconsiderate step; therefore he determined to wait for surer intelligence. And the hetman had his reasons. The reported expedition of Boguslav against Podlyasye might be only a snare, a trick of war. Perhaps it was a feigned expedition with small forces, to prevent the junction of Sapyeha with the king. That done, Boguslav would escape from before Sapyeha, receiving battle nowhere, or delaying; but meanwhile Karl Gustav with the elector would strike Charnyetski, crush him with superior forces, move against the king himself, and smother the work in its inception,--the work of defence created by the glorious example of Chenstohova. Sapyeha was not only a leader, but a statesman. He explained his reasons with power at the councils, so that even Kmita was forced in his soul to agree with him. First of all, it was incumbent to know what course to take. If Boguslav's invasion proved to be merely a trick, it was sufficient to send a number of squadrons against him, and move with all speed to Charnyetski against the chief power of the enemy. The hetman might leave boldly a few or even more squadrons, for his forces were not all around Byala. Young Pan Krishtof, or the so-called Kryshtofek Sapyeha, was posted with two light squadrons and a regiment of infantry at Yavorov; Horotkyevich was moving around Tykotsin, having under him half a dragoon regiment very well trained, and five hundred volunteers, besides a light horse squadron named for Sapyeha; and in Byalystok were land infantry. These forces would more than suffice to stand against Boguslav, if he had only a few hundred horses. But the clear-sighted hetman sent couriers in every direction and waited for tidings. At last tidings came; but like thunderbolts, and all the more so that by a peculiar concurrence of circumstances all came in one evening. They were just at council in the castle of Byala when an officer of orderlies entered and gave a letter to the hetman. Barely had the hetman cast eyes on it when he changed in the face and said,-- "My relative is cut to pieces at Yavorov by Boguslav himself; hardly has he escaped with his life." A moment of silence followed. "The letter is written in Bransk, in fright and confusion," said he; "therefore it contains not a word touching Boguslav's power, which must, I think, be considerable, since, as I read, two squadrons and a regiment of infantry are cut to pieces. It must be, however, that Boguslav fell on them unawares. The letter gives nothing positive." "I am certain now," said Prince Michael, "that Boguslav wants to seize all Podlyasye, so as to make of it a separate or feudal possession in the treaties. Therefore he has surely come with as much power as he could possibly get. I have no other proofs save a knowledge of Boguslav. He cares neither for the Swedes nor the Brandenburgers, only for himself. He is an uncommon warrior, who trusts in his fortunate star. He wants to win a province, to avenge Yanush, to cover himself with glory; and to do this he must have a corresponding power, and has it, otherwise he would not march on us." "For everything the blessing of God is indispensable," said Oskyerko; "and the blessing is with us!" "Serene great mighty hetman," said Kmita, "information is needed. Let me loose from the leash with my Tartars, and I will bring you information." Oskyerko, who had been admitted to the secret and knew who Babinich was, supported the proposal at once and with vigor. "As God is good to me, that is the best idea in the world! Such a man is needed there, and such troops. If only the horses are rested." Here Oskyerko was stopped, for the officer of orderlies entered the room again. "Serene great mighty hetman!" said he. Sapyeha slapped his knees and exclaimed. "They have news! Admit them." After a while two light-horsemen entered, tattered and muddy. "From Horotkyevich?" asked Sapyeha. "Yes." "Where is he now?" "Killed, or if not killed, we know not where he is." The hetman rose, but sat down again and inquired calmly,-- "Where is the squadron?" "Swept away by Prince Boguslav." "Were many lost?" "We were cut to pieces; maybe a few were left who were taken captive like us. Some say that the colonel escaped; but that he is wounded I saw myself. We escaped from captivity." "Where were you attacked?" "At Tykotsin." "Why did you not go inside the walls, not being in force?" "Tykotsin is taken." The hetman covered his eyes for a moment with his hand, then he began to pass his hand over his forehead. "Is there a large force with Boguslav?" "Four thousand cavalry, besides infantry and cannon; the infantry very well trained. The cavalry moved forward, taking us with them; but luckily we escaped." "Whence did you escape?" "From Drohichyn." Sapyeha opened wide his eyes. "You are drunk. How could Boguslav come to Drohichyn? When did he defeat you?" "Two weeks ago." "And is he in Drohichyn?" "His scouting-parties are. He remained in the rear himself, for some convoy is captured which Pan Kotchyts was conducting." "He was conducting Panna Borzobogati!" cried Kmita. A silence followed. Boguslav's success, and so sudden, had confused the officers beyond measure. All thought in their hearts that the hetman was to blame for delay, but no one dared say so aloud. Sapyeha, however, felt that he had done what was proper, and had acted wisely. Therefore he recovered first from the surprise, sent out the men with a wave of his hand, and said,-- "These are ordinary incidents of war, which should confuse no one. Do not think, gentlemen, that we have suffered any defeat. Those regiments are a loss surely; but the loss might have been a hundred times greater if Boguslav had enticed us to a distant province. He is coming to us. We will go out to meet him like hospitable hosts." Here he turned to the colonels: "According to my orders all must be ready to move?" "They are ready," said Oskyerko. "Only saddle the horses and sound the trumpet." "Sound it to-day. We move in the morning at dawn, without fail. Pan Babinich will gallop ahead with his Tartars, and seize with all haste informants." Kmita had barely heard this when he was outside the door, and a moment later hurrying on as his horse could gallop to Rokitno. And Sapyeha also did not delay long. It was still night when the trumpets gave out their prolonged sounds; then cavalry and infantry poured forth into the field; after them stretched a long train of squeaking wagons. The first gleams of day were reflected on musket-barrels and spear-points. And they marched, regiment after regiment, squadron after squadron, in great regularity. The cavalry sang their matins, and the horses snorted sharply in the morning coolness, from which the soldiers predicted sure victory for themselves. Their hearts were full of consolation; for the knighthood knew from experience that Sapyeha weighed everything, that he labored with his head, that he considered every undertaking from both sides, that when he began a thing he would finish it, and when he moved he would strike. At Rokitno the lairs of the Tartars were cold; they had gone the night before, hence must have pushed far in advance. It surprised Sapyeha that along the road it was difficult to learn anything of them, though the division, numbering, with volunteers, several hundred, could not pass without being seen. The most experienced officers wondered greatly at this march, and at Pan Babinich for being able to lead in such fashion. "Like a wolf he goes through the willows, and like a wolf he will bite," said they; "he is as if born for the work." But Oskyerko, who, as has been said, knew who Babinich was, said to Sapyeha,-- "It was not for nothing that Hovanski put a price on his head. God will give victory to whom he chooses; but this is sure, that war with us will soon be bitter for Boguslav." "But it is a pity that Babinich has vanished as if he had fallen into water," answered the hetman. Three days passed without tidings. Sapyeha's main forces had reached Drohichyn, had crossed the Bug, and found no enemy in front. The hetman began to be disturbed. According to the statements of the light horse, Boguslav's scouts had reached Drohichyn; it was evident therefore that Boguslav had determined to withdraw. But what was the meaning of this withdrawal? Had Boguslav learned that Sapyeha's forces were superior, and was he afraid to measure strength with him, or did he wish to entice the hetman far toward the north, to lighten for the King of Sweden his attack on Charnyetski and the hetmans of the kingdom? Babinich was to find an informant and let the hetman know. The reports of the light horse as to the number of Boguslav's troops might be erroneous; hence the need of precise information at the earliest. Meanwhile five days more passed, and Babinich gave no account of himself. Spring was coming; the days were growing warmer; the snow was melting. The neighborhoods were being covered with water, under which were sleeping morasses which hindered the march in an unheard of degree. The greater part of the cannons and wagons the hetman had to leave in Drohichyn, and go farther on horseback. Hence great inconvenience and murmuring, especially among the general militia. In Bransk they came upon such mud that even the infantry could not march farther. The hetman collected on the road horses from peasants and small nobles, and seated musketeers on them. The light cavalry took others; but they had gone too far already, and the hetman understood that only one thing remained,--to advance with all speed. Boguslav retreated unceasingly. Along the road they found continual traces of him in villages burned here and there, in corpses of men hanging on trees. The small local nobles came every little while with information to Sapyeha; but the truth was lost, as is usual in contradictory statements. One saw a single squadron, and swore that the prince had no more troops; another saw two; a third three, a fourth an army five miles long. In a word they were fables such as men tell who know nothing of armies or war. They had seen Tartars, too, here and there; but the stories concerning them seemed most improbable, for it was said that they were seen not behind the prince's army, but in front, marching ahead. Sapyeha panted angrily when any one mentioned Babinich in his presence, and he said to Oskyerko,-- "You overrated him. In an evil hour I sent away Volodyovski, for if he were here I should have had long ago as many informants as I need; but Babinich is a whirlwind, or even worse. Who knows, he may in truth have joined Boguslav and be marching in the vanguard." Oskyerko himself did not know what to think. Meanwhile another week passed; the army had come to Byalystok. It was midday. Two hours later the vanguard gave notice that some detachment was approaching. "It may be Babinich!" cried the hetman. "I'll give him _Pater Noster!_" It was not Babinich himself. But in the camp there rose such commotion over the arrival of this detachment that Sapyeha went out to see what was taking place. Meanwhile officers from different squadrons flew in, crying,-- "From Babinich! Prisoners! A whole band! He seized a crowd of men!" Indeed the hetman saw a number of tens of men on poor, ragged horses. Babinich's Tartars drove nearly three hundred men with bound hands, beating them with bullock-skin whips. The prisoners presented a terrible sight. They were rather shadows than men. With torn clothing, half naked, so poor that the bones were pushing through their skin, bloody, they marched half alive, indifferent to all things, even to the whistle of the whips which cut them, and to the wild shouts of the Tartars. "What kind of men are they?" asked the hetman. "Boguslav's troops!" answered one of Kmita's volunteers who had brought the prisoners together with the Tartars. "But where did you get so many?" "Nearly half as many more fell on the road, from exhaustion." With this an old Tartar, a sergeant in the horde, approached, and beating with the forehead, gave a letter from Kmita to Sapyeha. The hetman, without delay, broke the seal and began to read aloud:-- "Serene great mighty hetman! If I have sent neither news nor informants with news hitherto, it is because I went in front, and not in the rear of Prince Boguslav's army, and I wished to learn the most possible." The hetman stopped reading. "That is a devil!" said he. "Instead of following the prince, he went ahead of him." "May the bullets strike him!" added Oskyerko, in an undertone. The hetman read on. "It was dangerous work, as Boguslav's scouts marched in a wide front; but after I had cut down two parties and spared none. I worked to the van of the army, from which movement great confusion came upon the prince, for he fell to thinking at once that he was surrounded, and as it were was crawling into a trap." "That is the reason of this unexpected withdrawal!" cried the hetman. "A devil, a genuine devil!" He read on with still more curiosity,-- "The prince, not understanding what had happened, began to lose his head, and sent out party after party, which we cut up notably, so that none of them returned in the same number. Marching in advance, we seized provisions, cut dams, destroyed bridges, so that Boguslav's men advanced with great trouble, neither sleeping nor eating, having rest neither day nor night. They could not stir from the camp, for the Tartars seized the unwary; and when the camp was sleeping, the Tartars howled terribly in the willows; so the enemy, thinking that a great army was moving on them, had to stand under arms all night. The prince was brought to great despair, not knowing what to begin, where to go, how to turn,--for this reason it is needful to march on him quickly, before his fear passes. He had six thousand troops, but has lost nearly a thousand. His horses are dying. His cavalry is good; his infantry is passable; God, however, has granted that from day to day it decreases, and if our army comes up it will fly apart. I seized in Byalystok the prince's carriages, some of his provision chests and things of value, with two cannons; but I was forced to throw most of these into the river. The traitor from continual rage has grown seriously ill, and is barely able to sit on his horse; fever leaves him neither night nor day. Panna Borzobogati is taken, but being ill the prince can make no attack on her honor. These reports, with the account of Boguslav's desperation, I got from the prisoners whom my Tartars touched up with fire, and who if they are touched again will repeat the truth. Now I commend my obedient services to you, serene great mighty hetman, begging for forgiveness if I have erred, the Tartars are good fellows, and seeing a world of plunder, serve marvellously." "Serene great mighty lord," said Oskyerko, "now you surely regret less that Volodyovski is away, for he could not equal this devil incarnate. Oh, he is an ambitious piece; he even hurled the truth into the eyes of Prince Yanush, not caring whether it was pleasant or unpleasant for that hetman to hear it. This was his style with Hovanski, but Hovanski had fifteen times more troops." "If that is true, we need to advance at the greatest speed," said Sapyeha. "Before the prince can collect his wits." "Let us move on, by the dear God! Babinich will cut the dams, and we will overtake Boguslav!" Meanwhile the prisoners, whom the Tartars had kept in a group in front of Sapyeha, seeing the hetman, fell to groaning and weeping, showing their misery and calling for mercy in various tongues; for there were among them Swedes, Germans, and the Scottish guards of Prince Boguslav. Sapyeha took them from the Tartars, and gave command to feed them and take their testimony without torture. Their statements confirmed the truth of Kmita's words; therefore the rest of Sapyeha's army advanced at great speed. CHAPTER XXIV. Kmita's next report came from Sokolka, and was brief: "The prince, to mislead our troops, has feigned a march toward Shchuchyn, whither he has sent a party. He has gone himself with his main force to Yanov, and has received there a reinforcement of infantry, led by Captain Kyritz, eight hundred good men. From the place where we are the prince's fires are visible. In Yanov he intends to rest one week. The prisoners say that he is ready for battle. The fever is shaking him continually." On receipt of this statement Sapyeha, leaving the remainder of his cannon and wagons, moved on with cavalry to Sokolka; and at last the two armies stood eye to eye. It was foreseen too that a battle was unavoidable; for on one side they could flee no longer, the others pursuing. Meanwhile, like wrestlers who after a long chase are to seize each other by the bodies, they lay opposite each other, catching breath in their panting throats, and resting. When the hetman saw Kmita he seized him by the shoulders, and said,-- "I was angry with you for not giving an account of yourself for so long, but I see that you have accomplished more than I could hope for; and if God gives victory, not mine but yours will be the merit. You went like an angel guardian after Boguslav." An ill-omened light gleamed in Kmita's eyes. "If I am his angel guardian, I must be present at his death." "God will order that," said the hetman, seriously; "but if you wish the Lord to bless you, then pursue the enemy of the country, not your own." Kmita bowed in silence; but it could not be learned whether the beautiful words of the hetman made any impression on him. His face expressed implacable hatred, and was the more threatening that the toil of pursuit after Boguslav had emaciated it still more. Formerly in that countenance was depicted only daring and insolent wildness; now it had become also stern and inexorable. You could easily see that he against whom that man had recorded vengeance in his soul ought to guard himself, even if he were Radzivill. He had, in truth, avenged himself terribly. The services he had rendered in that campaign were immense. By pushing himself in front of Boguslav he had beaten him from the road, had made his reckoning false, had fixed in him the conviction that he was surrounded, and had forced him to retreat. Further he went before him night and day. He destroyed scouting-parties; he was without mercy for prisoners. In Syemyatiche, in Botski, in Orel and Byelsk he had fallen in the dark night on the whole camp. In Voishki, not far from Zabludovo, in a purely Radzivill country, he had fallen like a blind hurricane on the quarters of the prince himself, so that Boguslav, who had just sat down to dinner, almost fell into his hands; and thanks to Sakovich alone, did he take out his head alive. At Byalystok Kmita seized the carriages and camp-chests of Boguslav. He wearied, weakened, and inflicted hunger on Boguslav's troops. The choice German infantry and Swedish cavalry which the prince had brought with him were like walking skeletons, from wandering, from surprises, from sleeplessness. The mad howling of the Tartars and Kmita's volunteers was heard in front of them, at the flanks, and in the rear. Scarcely had a wearied soldier closed his eyes when he had to seize his weapons. The farther on, the worse the condition. The small nobility inhabiting those neighborhoods joined with the Tartars, partly through hatred of the Radzivills of Birji, partly through fear of Kmita; for he punished beyond measure those who resisted. His forces increased therefore; those of Boguslav melted. Besides, Boguslav himself was really ill; and though in the heart of that man care never had its nest long, and though the astrologers, whom he believed blindly, had foretold him in Prussia that his person would meet no harm in that expedition, his ambition suffered harshly more than once. He, whose name had been repeated with admiration in the Netherlands, on the Rhine, and in France, was beaten every day in those deep forests by an unseen enemy, and overcome without a battle. There was, besides, in that pursuit such uncommon stubbornness and impetuosity passing the usual measure of war, that Boguslav with his native quickness divined after a few days that some inexorable personal enemy was following him. He learned the name Babinich easily, for the whole neighborhood repeated it; but that name was strange to him. Not less glad would he be to know the person; and on the road in times of pursuit he arranged tens and hundreds of ambushes,--always in vain. Babinich was able to avoid traps, and inflicted defeats where they were least expected. At last both armies came to the neighborhood of Sokolka. Boguslav found there the reinforcement under Kyritz, who, not knowing hitherto where the prince was, went to Yanov, where the fate of Boguslav's expedition was to be decided. Kmita closed hermetically all the roads leading from Yanov to Sokolka, Korychyn, Kuznitsa, and Suhovola. The neighboring forests, willow woods, and thickets were occupied by the Tartars. Not a letter could pass; no wagon with provisions could be brought in. Boguslav himself was in a hurry for battle before his last biscuit in Yanov should be eaten. But as a man of quick wit, trained in every intrigue, he determined to try negotiations first. He did not know yet that Sapyeha in this kind of intrigue surpassed him greatly in reasoning and quickness. From Sokolka then in Boguslav's name came Pan Sakovich, under-chamberlain and starosta of Oshmiana, the attendant and personal friend of Prince Boguslav, with a letter and authority to conclude peace. This Pan Sakovich was a wealthy man, who reached senatorial dignity later in life, for he became voevoda of Smolensk and treasurer of the Grand Principality; he was at that time one of the most noted cavaliers in Lithuania, famed equally for bravery and beauty. Pan Sakovich was of medium stature; the hair of his head and brows was black as a raven's wing, but he had pale blue eyes which gazed with marvellous and unspeakable insolence, so that Boguslav said of him that he stunned with his eyes as with the back of an axe. He wore foreign garments which he brought from journeys made with Boguslav; he spoke nearly all languages; in battle he rushed into the greatest whirl so madly that among his enemies he was called "the doomed man." But, thanks to his uncommon strength and presence of mind, he always came out unharmed. It was said that he had strength to stop a carriage in its course by seizing the hind wheel; he could drink beyond measure, could toss off a quart of cream in vodka, and be as sober as if he had taken nothing in his mouth. With men he was morose, haughty, offensive; in Boguslav's hand he was as soft as wax. His manners were polished, and though in the king's chambers he knew how to bear himself, he had a certain wildness in his spirit which burst forth at times like a flame. Pan Sakovich was rather a companion than a servant of Boguslav. Boguslav, who in truth had never loved any one in his life, had an unconquerable weakness for this man. By nature exceedingly sordid, he was generous to Sakovich alone. By his influence he raised him to be under-chamberlain, and had him endowed with the starostaship of Oshmiana. After every battle Boguslav's first question was: "Where is Sakovich? has he met with no harm?" The prince depended greatly on the starosta's counsels, and employed him in war and in negotiations in which the courage and impudence of Sakovich were very effective. This time he sent him to Sapyeha. But the mission was difficult,--first, because the suspicion might easily fall on the starosta that he had come only to spy out and discover Sapyeha's strength; second, because the envoy had much to ask and nothing to offer. Happily, Pan Sakovich did not trouble himself with anything. He entered as a victor who comes to dictate terms to the vanquished, and struck Sapyeha with his pale eyes. Sapyeha smiled when he saw that pride, but half of his smile was compassion. Every man may impose much with daring and impudence, but on people of a certain measure; the hetman was above the measure of Sakovich. "My master, prince in Birji and Dubinki, commander-in-chief of the armies of his princely highness the elector," said Sakovich, "has sent me with a greeting, and to ask about the health of your worthiness." "Thank the prince, and say that you saw me well." Sapyeha took the letter, opened it carelessly enough, read it, and said,-- "Too bad to lose time. I cannot see what the prince wants. Do you surrender, or do you wish to try your fortune?" Sakovich feigned astonishment. "Whether we surrender? I think that the prince proposes specially in this letter that you surrender; at least my instructions--" "Of your instructions we will speak later, my dear Pan Sakovich. We have chased you nearly a hundred and fifty miles, as a hound does a hare. Have you ever heard of a hare proposing to a hound to surrender?" "We have received reinforcements." "Von Kyritz, with eight hundred men, and so tired that they will lay down their arms before battle. I will give you Hmelnitski's saying 'There is no time to talk!'" "The elector with all his power is with us." "That is well,--I shall not have far to seek him; for I wish to ask him by what right he sends troops into the Commonwealth, of which he is a vassal, and to which he is bound in loyalty." "The right of the strongest." "Maybe in Prussia such a right exists, but not with us. But if you are the stronger, take the field." "The prince would long since have attacked you, were it not for kindred blood." "I wonder if that is the only hindrance!" "The prince wonders at the animosity of the Sapyehas against the house of Radzivill, and that your worthiness for private revenge hesitates not to spill the blood of the country." "Tfu!" cried Kmita, listening behind the hetman's armchair to the conversation. Pan Sakovich rose, went to Kmita, and struck him with his eyes. But he met his own, or better; and in the eyes of Pan Andrei the starosta found such an answer that he dropped his glance to the floor. The hetman frowned. "Take your seat, Pan Sakovich. And do you preserve calm" (turning to Kmita). Then he said to Sakovich,-- "Conscience speaks only the truth, but mouths chew it and spit it into the world as calumny. He who with foreign troops attacks a country, inflicts wrong on him who defends it. God hears this, and the heavenly chronicler will inscribe." "Through hatred of the Sapyehas to the Radzivills was the prince voevoda of Vilna consumed." "I hate traitors, not the Radzivills; and the best proof of this is that Prince Michael Radzivill is in my camp now. Tell me what is your wish?" "Your worthiness, I will tell what I have in my heart; he hates who sends secret assassins." Pan Sapyeha was astonished in his turn. "I send assassins against Prince Boguslav?" "That is the case!" "You have gone mad!" "The other day they caught, beyond Yanov, a murderer who once made an attack on the life of the prince. Tortures brought him to tell who sent him." A moment of silence followed; but in that silence Pan Sapyeha heard how Kmita, standing behind him, repeated twice through his set lips, "Woe, woe!" "God is my judge," answered the hetman, with real senatorial dignity, "that neither to you nor your prince shall I ever justify myself; for you were not made to be my judges. But do you, instead of loitering, tell directly what you have come for, and what conditions your prince offers." "The prince, my lord, has destroyed Horotkyevich, has defeated Pan Krishtof Sapyeha, taken Tykotsin; therefore he can justly call himself victor, and ask for considerable advantages. But regretting the loss of Christian blood, he desires to return in quiet to Prussia, requiring nothing more than the freedom of leaving his garrisons in the castles. We have also taken prisoners not a few, among whom are distinguished officers, not counting Panna Anusia Borzobogati, who has been sent already to Taurogi. These may be exchanged on equal terms." "Do not boast of your victories, for my advance guard, led by Pan Babinich here present, pressed you for a hundred and fifty miles; you retreated before it, lost twice as many prisoners as you took previously; you lost wagons, cannon, camp-chests. Your army is fatigued, dropping from hunger, has nothing to eat; you know not whither to turn. You have seen my army; I did not ask to have your eyes bound purposely, that you might know whether you are able to measure forces with us. As to that young lady, she is not under my guardianship, but that of Pan Zamoyski and Princess Griselda Vishnyevetski. The prince will reckon with them if he does her any injustice. But speak with wisdom; otherwise I shall order Pan Babinich to march at once." Sakovich, instead of answering, turned to Kmita: "Then you are the man who made such onsets on the road? You must have learned your murderous trade under Kmita--" "Learn on your own skin whether I practised well!" The hetman again frowned. "You have nothing to do here," said he to Sakovich; "you may go." "Your worthiness, give me at least a letter." "Let it be so. Wait at Pan Oskyerko's quarters for a letter." Hearing this, Pan Oskyerko conducted Sakovich at once to his quarters. The hetman waved his hand as a parting; then he turned to Pan Andrei. "Why did you say 'Woe,' when he spoke of that man whom they seized?" asked he, looking quickly and severely into the eyes of the knight. "Has hatred so deadened your conscience that you really sent a murderer to the prince?" "By the Most Holy Lady whom I defended, no!" answered Kmita; "not through strange hands did I wish to reach his throat." "Why did you say 'Woe'? Do you know that man?" "I know him," answered Kmita, growing pale from emotion and rage. "I sent him from Lvoff to Taurogi--Prince Boguslav took Panna Billevich to Taurogi--I love that lady. We were to marry--I sent that man to get me news of her. She was in such hands--" "Calm yourself!" said the hetman. "Have you given him any letters?" "No; she would not read them." "Why?" "Boguslav told her that I offered to carry away the king." "Great are your reasons for hating him." "True, your worthiness, true." "Does the prince know that man?" "He knows him. That is the sergeant Soroka. He helped me to carry off Boguslav." "I understand," said the hetman; "the vengeance of the prince is awaiting him." A moment of silence followed. "The prince is in a trap," said the hetman, after a while; "maybe he will consent to give him up." "Let your worthiness," said Kmita, "detain Sakovich, and send me to the prince. Perhaps I may rescue Soroka." "Is his fate such a great question for you?" "An old soldier, an old servant; he carried me in his arms. A multitude of times he has saved my life. God would punish me were I to abandon him in such straits." And Kmita began to tremble from pity and anxiety. But the hetman said: "It is no wonder to me that the soldiers love you, for you love them. I will do what I can. I will write to the prince that I will free for him whomsoever he wishes for that soldier, who besides at your command has acted as an innocent agent." Kmita seized his head: "What does he care for prisoners? he will not let him go for thirty of them." "Then he will not give him to you; he will even attempt your life." "He would give him for one,--for Sakovich." "I cannot imprison Sakovich; he is an envoy." "Detain him, and I will go with a letter to the prince. Perhaps I shall succeed--God be with him! I will abandon my revenge, if he will give me that soldier." "Wait," said the hetman; "I can detain Sakovich. Besides that I will write to the prince to send me a safe-conduct without a name." The hetman began to write at once. An hour later a Cossack was galloping with a letter to Yanov, and toward evening he returned with Boguslav's answer:-- "I send according to request the safe-conduct with which every envoy may return unharmed, though it is a wonder to me that your worthiness should ask for a conduct while you have such a hostage as my servant and friend Pan Sakovich, for whom I have so much love that I would give all the officers in my army for him. It is known also that envoys are not killed, but are usually respected even by wild Tartars with whom your worthiness is making war against my Christian army. Now, guaranteeing the safety of your envoy by my personal princely word, I subscribe myself, etc." That same evening Kmita took the safe-conduct and went with the two Kyemliches. Pan Sakovich remained in Sokolka as a hostage. CHAPTER XXV. It was near midnight when Pan Andrei announced himself to the advanced pickets of the prince, but no one was sleeping in the whole camp. The battle might begin at any moment, therefore they had prepared for it carefully. Boguslav's troops had occupied Yanov itself; they commanded the road from Sokolka, which was held by artillery, managed by the elector's trained men. There were only three cannons, but abundance of powder and balls. On both sides of Yanov, among the birch groves, Boguslav gave orders to make intrenchments and to occupy them with double-barrelled guns and infantry. The cavalry occupied Yanov itself, the road behind the cannons, and the intervals between the trenches. The position was defensible enough, and with fresh men defence in it might be long and bloody; but of fresh soldiers there were only eight hundred under Kyritz; the rest were so wearied that they could barely stand on their feet. Besides, the howling of the Tartars was heard in Suhovola at midnight, and later in the rear of Boguslav's ranks; hence a certain fear was spread among the soldiers. Boguslav was forced to send in that direction all his light cavalry, which after it had gone three miles dared neither return nor advance, for fear of ambushes in the forest. Boguslav, though fever together with violent chills was tormenting him more than ever, commanded everything in person; but since he rode with difficulty he had himself carried by four soldiers in an open litter. In this way he had examined the road as well as the birch groves, and was entering Yanov when he was informed that an envoy from Sapyeha was approaching. They were already on the street. Boguslav was unable to recognize Kmita because of the darkness, and because Pan Andrei, through excess of caution on the part of officers in the advance guard, had his head covered with a bag in which there was an opening only for his mouth. The prince noticed the bag when Kmita, after dismounting, stood near him; he gave command to remove it at once. "This is Yanov," said he, "and there is no reason for secrecy." Then he turned in the darkness to Pan Andrei: "Are you from Pan Sapyeha?" "I am." "And what is Pan Sakovich doing there?" "Pan Oskyerko is entertaining him." "Why did you ask for a safe conduct when you have Sakovich? Pan Sapyeha is too careful, and let him see to it that he is not too clever." "That is not my affair," answered Kmita. "I see that the envoy is not over-given to speech." "I have brought a letter, and in the quarters I will speak of my own affair." "Is there a private question?" "There will be a request to your highness." "I shall be glad not to refuse it. Now I beg you to follow. Mount your horse; I should ask you to the litter, but it is too small." They moved on. The prince in the litter and Kmita at one side on horseback. They looked in the darkness without being able to distinguish the faces of each other. After a while the prince, in spite of furs, began to shake so that his teeth chattered. At last he said,-- "It has come on me grievously; if it were--brr!--not for this, I would give other conditions." Kmita said nothing, and only wished to pierce with his eyes the darkness, in the middle of which the head and face of the prince were outlined in indefinite gray and white features. At the sound of Boguslav's voice and at sight of his figure all the former insults, the old hatred, and the burning desire for revenge so rose in Kmita's heart that they turned almost to madness. His hand of itself sought the sword, which had been taken from him; but at his girdle he had the baton with an iron head, the ensign of his rank of colonel; the devil then began to whirl in his brain at once, and to whisper: "Cry in his ear who you are, and smash his head into bits. The night is dark, you will escape. The Kyemliches are with you. You will rub out a traitor and pay for injustice. You will rescue Olenka, Soroka-- Strike! strike!" Kmita came still nearer the litter, and with trembling hand began to draw forth the baton. "Strike!" whispered the devil; "you will serve the country." Kmita had now drawn out the baton, and he squeezed the handle as if wishing to crush it in his hand. "One, two, three!" whispered the devil. But at that moment Kmita's horse, whether because he had hit the helmet of the soldier with his nose, or had shied, it is enough that he stumbled violently. Kmita pulled the reins. During this time the litter had moved on several steps. The hair stood on the head of the young man. "O Most Holy Mother, restrain my hand!" whispered he, through his set teeth. "O Most Holy Mother, save me! I am here an envoy; I came from the hetman, and I want to murder like a night assassin. I am a noble; I am a servant of Thine. Lead me not into temptation!" "But why are you loitering?" asked Boguslav, in a voice broken by fever. "I am here!" "Do you hear the cocks crowing beyond the fences? It is needful to hurry, for I am sick and want rest." Kmita put the baton behind his belt and rode farther, near the litter. Still he could not find peace. He understood that only with cool blood and self-command could he free Soroka; therefore he stipulated with himself in advance what words to use with the prince so as to incline and convince him. He vowed to have only Soroka in view, to mention nothing else, and especially not Olenka. And he felt how in the darkness a burning blush covered his face at the thought that perhaps the prince himself would mention her, and maybe mention something that Pan Andrei would not be able to endure or listen to. "Let him not mention her," said he to himself; "let him not allude to her, for in that is his death and mine. Let him have mercy upon himself, if he lacks shame." Pan Andrei suffered terribly; his breath failed him, and his throat was so straitened that he feared lest he might not be able to bring forth the words when he came to speak. In this stifling oppression he began the Litany. After a time relief came; he was quieted considerably, and that grasp as it were of an iron hand squeezing his throat was relaxed. They had now arrived at the prince's quarters. The soldiers put down the litter; two attendants took the prince by the armpits; he turned to Kmita, and with his teeth chattering continually, said,-- "I beg you to follow. The chill will soon pass; then we can speak." After a while they found themselves in a separate apartment in which heaps of coals were glowing in a fireplace, and in which was unendurable heat. His servants placed Prince Boguslav on a long campaign arm-chair covered with furs, and brought a light. Then the attendants withdrew. The prince threw his head back, closed his eyes, and remained in that position motionless for a time; at last he said,-- "Directly,--let me rest." Kmita looked at him. The prince had not changed much, but the fever had pinched his face. He was painted as usual, and his cheeks touched with color; but just for that reason, when he lay there with closed eyes and head thrown back, he was somewhat like a corpse or a wax figure. Pan Andrei stood before him in the bright light. The prince began to open his lids lazily; suddenly he opened them completely, and a flame, as it were, flew over his face. But it remained only an instant; then again he closed his eyes. "If thou art a spirit, I fear thee not," said he; "but vanish." "I have come with a letter from the hetman," answered Kmita. Boguslav shuddered a little, as if he wished to shake off visions; then he looked at Kmita and asked,-- "Have I been deceived in you?" "Not at all," answered Pan Andrei, pointing with his finger to the scar. "That is the second!" muttered the prince to himself; and he added aloud, "Where is the letter?" "Here it is," said Kmita, giving the letter. Boguslav began to read, and when he had finished a marvellous light flashed in his eyes. "It is well," said he; "there is loitering enough! Tomorrow the battle--and I am glad, for I shall not have a fever." "And we, too, are glad," answered Kmita. A moment of silence followed, during which these two inexorable enemies measured each other with a certain terrible curiosity. The prince first resumed the conversation. "I divine that it was you who attacked me with the Tartars?" "It was T." "And did you not fear to come here?" Kmita did not answer. "Did you count on our relationship through the Kishkis? For you and I have our reckonings. I can tear you out of your skin, Sir Cavalier." "You can, your highness." "You came with a safe-conduct, it is true. I understand now why Pan Sapyeha asked for it. But you have attempted my life. Sakovich is detained there; but Sapyeha has no right to Sakovich, while I have a right to you, cousin." "I have come with a prayer to your highness." "I beg you to mention it. You can calculate that for you everything will be done. What is the prayer?" "You have here a captive soldier, one of those men who aided me in carrying you off. I gave orders, he acted as a blind instrument. Be pleased to set that man at liberty." Boguslav thought awhile. "I am thinking," said he, "which is greater,--your daring as a soldier, or your insolence as a petitioner." "I do not ask this man from you for nothing." "And what will you give me for him?" "Myself." "Is it possible that he is such a precious soldier? You pay bountifully, but see that that is sufficient; for surely you would like to ransom something else from me." Kmita came a step nearer to the prince, and grew so awfully pale that Boguslav, in spite of himself, looked at the door, and notwithstanding all his daring he changed the subject of conversation. "Pan Sapyeha will not entertain such an agreement. I should be glad to hold you; but I have guaranteed with my word of a prince your safety." "I will write by that soldier to the hetman that I remain of my own will." "And he will declare that, in spite of your will, I must send you. You have given him services too great. He will not set Sakovich free, and Sakovich I prize higher than you." "Then, your highness, free that soldier, and I will go on my word where you command." "I may fall to-morrow; I care nothing for treaties touching the day after." "I implore your highness for that man. I--" "What will you do?" "I will drop my revenge." "You see, Pan Kmita, many a time have I gone against a bear with a spear, not because I had to do so, but from desire. I am glad when some danger threatens, for life is less dull for me. In this case I reserve your revenge as a pleasure; for you are, I must confess, of that breed of bears which seek the hunter themselves." "Your highness," said Kmita, "for small mercies God often forgives great sins. Neither of us knows when it will come to him to stand before the judgment of Christ." "Enough!" said the prince. "I compose psalms for myself in spite of the fever, so as to have some merit before the Lord; should I need a preacher I should summon my own. You do not know how to beg with sufficient humility, and you go in round-about ways. I will show you the method myself: strike to-morrow in the battle on Sapyeha, and after to-morrow I will let out the soldier and forgive you your sins. You betrayed Radzivill; betray now Sapyeha." "Is this the last word of your highness? By all the saints, I implore you!" "No! Devil take you! And you change in the face--But don't come too near, for, though I am ashamed to call attendants--look here! You are too bold!" Boguslav pointed at a pistol-barrel peeping from under the fur with which it was covered, and looked with sparkling eyes into Kmita's eyes. "Your highness!" cried Kmita, almost joining his hands in prayer, but with a face changed by wrath. "You beg, but you threaten," said Boguslav; "you bend your neck, but the devil is gnashing his teeth at me from behind your collar. Pride is gleaming in your eyes, and in your mouth it sounds as in a cloud. With your forehead to the Radzivill feet when you beg, my little man! Beat with your forehead on the floor, then I will answer." Pan Andrei's face was as pale as a piece of linen; he drew his hand over his moist forehead, his eyes, his face; and he spoke with such a broken voice, as if the fever from which the prince suffered had suddenly sprung upon him. "If your highness will free for me that old soldier, I am ready to fall at your feet." Satisfaction gleamed in Boguslav's eyes. He had brought down his enemy, bent his proud neck. Better food he could not give to his revenge and hatred. Kmita stood before him with hair erect in his forelock, trembling in his whole body. His face, resembling even in rest the head of a hawk, recalled all the more an enraged bird of prey. You could not tell whether at the next moment he would throw himself at the feet, or hurl himself at the breast of the prince. But Boguslav not taking his eyes from him, said,-- "Before witnesses! before people!" And he turned to the door. "Hither!" A number of attendants, Poles and foreigners, came in; after them officers entered. "Gracious gentlemen!" said the prince, "behold Pan Kmita, the banneret of Orsha and envoy of Pan Sapyeha, who has come to beg a favor of me, and he wishes to have all you gentlemen as witnesses." Kmita tottered like a drunken man, groaned, and fell at Boguslav's feet. The prince stretched his feet purposely so that the end of his riding-boot touched the forehead of the knight. All looked in silence, astonished at the famous name, as well as at this,--that he who bore it was now an envoy from Pan Sapyeha. All understood, too, that something uncommon was taking place. The prince rose, and without saying a word passed into the adjoining chamber, beckoning to two attendants to follow him. Kmita rose. His face showed no longer either anger or rapacity, merely indifference and insensibility. He appeared unconscious of what was happening to him, and his energy seemed broken completely. Half an hour passed; an hour. Outside the windows was heard the tramp of horses' feet and the measured tread of soldiers; he sat continually as if of stone. Suddenly the door opened. An officer entered, an old acquaintance of Kmita's from Birji, and eight soldiers,--four with muskets, four without firearms,--with sabres. "Gracious Colonel, rise!" said the officer, politely. Kmita looked on him wanderingly. "Glovbich!" said he, recognizing the officer. "I have an order," answered Glovbich, "to bind your hands and conduct you beyond Yanov. The binding is for a time, then you will go free; therefore I beg you not to resist." "Bind!" answered Kmita. And he permitted them to tie him. But they did not tie his feet. The officer led him out of the room and on foot through Yanov. Then they advanced for about an hour. On the road some horsemen joined them. Kmita heard them speaking in Polish; the Poles, who served with Boguslav, all knew the name of Kmita, and therefore were most curious to know what would happen to him. The party passed the birch grove and came to an open field, on which Pan Andrei saw a detachment of the light Polish squadron of Boguslav. The soldiers stood in rank, forming a square; in the middle was a space in which were two foot-soldiers holding horses harnessed to draw, and some men with torches. By the light of the torches Pan Andrei saw a freshly sharpened stake lying on the ground with the large end fastened in a great log. A shiver passed through Kmita involuntarily. "That is for me," thought he; "Boguslav has ordered them to draw me on the stake with horses. He sacrifices Sakovich to his vengeance." But he was mistaken; the stake was intended first for Soroka. By the quivering flames Pan Andrei saw Soroka himself; the old soldier was sitting there at the side of the log on a stool, without a cap and with bound hands, guarded by four soldiers. A man dressed in a short shuba without sleeves was at that moment giving him in a shallow cup gorailka, which Soroka drank eagerly enough. When he had drunk, he spat; and since at that very moment Kmita was placed between two horsemen in the first rank, Soroka saw him, sprang from the stool and straightened himself as if on military parade. For a while they looked the one at the other. Soroka's face was calm and resigned; he only moved his jaws as if chewing. "Soroka!" groaned Kmita, at last. "At command!" answered the soldier. And again silence followed. What had they to say at such a moment? Then the executioner, who had given Soroka the vodka, approached him. "Well, old man,"' said he, "it is time for you!" "And you will draw me on straight?" "Never fear." Soroka feared not; but when he felt on his shoulder the hand of the executioner, he began to pant quickly and loudly. At last he said,-- "More gorailka!" "There is none!" Suddenly one of the soldiers pushed out of the rank and gave a canteen,-- "Here is some; give it to him." "To the rank!" commanded Glovbich. Still the man in the short shuba held the canteen to Soroka's mouth; he drank abundantly, and after he had drunk breathed deeply. "See!" said he, "the lot of a soldier after thirty years' service. Well, if it is time, it is time!" Another executioner approached and they began to undress him. A moment of silence. The torches trembled in the hands of those holding them; it became terrible for all. Meanwhile from the ranks surrounding the square was wrested a murmur of dissatisfaction, which became louder each instant: "A soldier is not an executioner; he gives death himself, but does not wish to see torture." "Silence!" cried Glovbich. The murmur became a loud bustle, in which were heard single words: "Devils!" "Thunders!" "Pagan service!" Suddenly Kmita shouted as if they had been drawing him on to the stake,-- "Stop!" The executioner halted involuntarily. All eyes were turned to Kmita. "Soldiers!" shouted Pan Andrei, "Prince Boguslav is a traitor to the king and the Commonwealth! You are surrounded, and to-morrow you will be cut to pieces. You are serving a traitor; you are serving against the country! But whoso leaves this service leaves the traitor; to him forgiveness of the king, forgiveness of the hetman! Choose! Death and disgrace, or a reward to-morrow! I will pay wages, and a ducat a man,--two ducats a man! Choose! It is not for you, worthy soldiers, to serve a traitor! Long life to the king! Long life to the grand hetman of Lithuania!" The disturbance was turned into thunder; the ranks were broken. A number of voices shouted,-- "Long life to the king!" "We have had enough of this service!" "Destruction to traitors!" "Stop! stop!" shouted other voices. "To-morrow you will die in disgrace!" bellowed Kmita. "The Tartars are in Suhovola!" "The prince is a traitor!" "We are fighting against the king!" "Strike!" "To the prince!" "Halt!" In the disturbance some sabre had cut the ropes tying Kmita's hands. He sprang that moment on one of the horses which were to draw Soroka on the stake, and cried from the horse,-- "Follow me to the hetman!" "I go!" shouted Glovbich. "Long life to the king!" "May he live!" answered fifty voices, and fifty sabres glittered at once. "To horse, Soroka!" commanded Kmita. There were some who wished to resist, but at sight of the naked sabres they grew silent. One, however, turned his horse and vanished from the eye in a moment. The torches went out. Darkness embraced all. "After me!" shouted Kmita. An orderless mass of men moved from the place, and then stretched out in a long line. When they had gone two or three furlongs they met the infantry pickets who occupied in large parties the birch grove on the left side. "Who goes?" "Glovbich with a party!" "The word?" "Trumpets!" "Pass!" They rode forward, not hurrying over-much; then they went on a trot. "Soroka!" said Kmita. "At command!" answered the voice of the sergeant at his side. Kmita said nothing more, but stretching out his hand, put his palm on Soroka's head, as if wishing to convince himself that he was riding there. The soldier pressed Pan Andrei's hand to his lips in silence. Then Glovbich called from the other side,-- "Your grace! I wanted long to do what I have done to-day." "You will not regret it!" "I shall be thankful all my life to you." "Tell me, Glovbich, why did the prince send you, and not a foreign regiment, to the execution?" "Because he wanted to disgrace you before the Poles. The foreign soldiers do not know you." "And was nothing to happen to me?" "I had the order to cut your bonds; but if you tried to defend Soroka we were to bring you for punishment to the prince." "Then he was willing to sacrifice Sakovich," muttered Kmita. Meanwhile Prince Boguslav in Yanov, wearied with the fever and the toil of the day, had gone to sleep. He was roused from slumber by an uproar in front of his quarters and a knocking at the door. "Your highness, your highness!" cried a number of voices. "He is asleep, do not rouse him!" answered the pages. But the prince sat up in bed and cried,-- "A light!" They brought in a light, and at the same time the officer on duty entered. "Your highness," said he, "Sapyeha's envoy has brought Glovbich's squadron to mutiny and taken it to the hetman." Silence followed. "Sound the kettle-drums and other drums!" said Boguslav at last; "let the troops form in rank!" The officer went out; the prince remained alone. "That is a terrible man!" said he to himself; and he felt that a new paroxysm of fever was seizing him. CHAPTER XXVI. It is easy to imagine Sapyeha's amazement when Kmita not only returned safely himself, but brought with him a number of tens of horsemen and his old servant. Kmita had to tell the hetman and Oskyerko twice what had happened, and how it had happened; they listened with curiosity, clapping their hands frequently and seizing their heads. "Learn from this," said the hetman, "that whoso carries vengeance too far, from him it often slips away like a bird through the fingers. Prince Boguslav wanted to have Pole's as witnesses of your shame and suffering so as to disgrace you the more, and he carried the matter too far. But do not boast of this, for it was the ordinance of God which gave you victory, though, in my way, I will tell you one thing,--he is a devil; but you too are a devil! The prince did ill to insult you." "I will not leave him behind in vengeance, and God grant that I shall not overdo it." "Leave vengeance altogether, as Christ did; though with one word he might have destroyed the Jews." Kmita said nothing, and there was no time for discussion; there was not even time for rest. He was mortally wearied, and still he had determined to go that night to his Tartars, who were posted in the forests and on the roads in the rear of Boguslav's army. But people of that period slept soundly on horseback. Pan Andrei simply gave command then to saddle a fresh horse, promising himself to slumber sweetly on the road. When he was mounting Soroka came to him and stood straight as in service. "Your grace!" said he. "What have you to say, old man?" "I have come to ask when I am to start?" "For what place?" "For Taurogi." Kmita laughed: "You will not go to Taurogi, you will go with me." "At command!" answered the sergeant, striving not to show his delight They rode on together. The road was long, for they had to go around by forests, so as not to fall into Boguslav's hands; but Kmita and Soroka slept a hundred fold, and came to the Tartars without any accident. Akbah Ulan presented himself at once before Babinich, and gave him a report of his activity. Pan Andrei was satisfied. Every bridge had been burned, the dams were cut; that was not all, the water of springtime had overflowed, changing the fields, meadows, and roads in the lower places into muddy quagmires. Boguslav had no choice but to fight, to conquer or perish; it was impossible for him to think of retreat. "Very well," said Kmita; "he has good cavalry, but heavy. He will not have use for it in the mud of to-day." Then he turned to Akbah Ulan. "You have grown poor," said he, striking him on the stomach with his fist; "but after the battle you will fill your paunch with the prince's ducats." "God has created the enemy, so that men of battle might have some one to plunder," said the Tartar, with seriousness. "But Boguslav's cavalry stands in front of you." "There are some hundreds of good horses, and yesterday a regiment of infantry came and intrenched itself." "But could they not be enticed to the field?" "They will not come out." "But turn them, leave them in the rear, and go to Yanov." "They occupy the road." "Then we must think of something!" Kmita began to stroke his forelock with his hand: "Have you tried to steal up to them? How far will they follow you out?" "A furlong, two,--not farther." "Then we must think of something!" repeated Kmita. But that night they thought of nothing. Next morning, however, Kmita went with the Tartars toward the camp lying between Suhovol and Yanov, and discovered that Akbah Ulan had exaggerated, saying that the infantry was intrenched on that side; for they had little ditches, nothing more. It was possible to make a protracted defence from them, especially against Tartars, who did not go readily to the attack of such places; but it was impossible for men in them to think of enduring any kind of siege. "If I had infantry," thought Kmita, "I would go into fire." But it was difficult even to dream of bringing infantry; for, first, Sapyeha himself had not very many; second, there was no time to bring them. Kmita approached so closely that Boguslav's infantry opened fire on him; but he did not care. He rode among the bullets and examined, looked around; and the Tartars, though less enduring of fire, had to keep pace with him. Then cavalry rushed out and undertook to flank him. He retreated about three thousand yards and turned again. But they had ridden back toward the trenches. In vain did the Tartars let off a cloud of arrows after them. Only one man fell from his horse, and that one his comrades saved, carried in. Kmita on returning, instead of riding straight to Suhovola, rushed toward the west and came to the Kamyonka. This swampy river had overflowed widely, for that year the springtime was wonderfully abundant in water. Kmita looked at the river, threw a number of broken branches into it so as to measure the speed of the current, and said to Ulan,-- "We will go around their flank and strike them in the rear." "Horses cannot swim against the current." "It goes slowly. They will swim! The water is almost standing." "The horses will be chilled, and the men cannot endure it. It is cold yet." "Oh, the men will swim holding to the horses' tails! That is your Tartar way." "The men will grow stiff." "They will get warm under fire." "Kismet (fate)!" Before it had grown dark in the world, Kmita had ordered them to cut bunches of willows, dry reeds, and rushes, and tie them to the sides of the horses. When the first star appeared, he sent about eight hundred horses into the water, and they began to swim. He swam himself at the head of them; but soon he saw that they were advancing so slowly that in two days they would not swim past the trenches. Then he ordered them to swim to the other bank. That was a dangerous undertaking. The other bank was steep and swampy. The horses, though light, sank in it to their bellies. But Kmita's men pushed forward, though slowly and saving one another, while advancing a couple of furlongs. The stars indicated midnight. Then from the south came to them echoes of distant fighting. "The battle has begun!" shouted Kmita. "We shall drown!" answered Akbah Ulan. "After me!" The Tartars knew not what to do, when on a sudden they saw that Kmita's horse issued from the mud, evidently finding firm footing. In fact, a bench of sand had begun. On the top of it there was water to the horses' breasts, but under foot was solid ground. They went therefore more swiftly. On the left distant fires were gleaming. "Those are the trenches!" said Kmita, quietly. "Let us avoid them, go around!" After a while they had really passed the trenches. Then they turned to the left, and put their horses into the river again, so as to land beyond the trenches. More than a hundred horses were swamped at the shore; but almost all the men came out. Kmita ordered those who had lost their beasts to sit behind other horsemen, and they moved toward the trenches. First he left volunteers with the order not to disturb the trenches till he should have gone around them to the rear. When he was approaching he heard shots, at first few, then more frequent. "It is well!" said he; "Sapyeha is attacking!" And he moved on. In the darkness was visible only a multitude of heads jumping with the movement of the horses; sabres did not rattle, armor did not sound; the Tartars and volunteers knew how to move in silence, like wolves. From the side of Yanov the firing became more and more vigorous; it was evident that Sapyeha was moving along the whole line. But on the trenches toward which Kmita was advancing shouts were heard also. A number of piles of wood were burning near them, casting around a strong light. By this light Pan Andrei saw infantry firing rarely, more occupied in looking in front at the field, where cavalry was fighting with volunteers. They saw him too from the trenches, but instead of firing they greeted the advancing body with a loud shout. The soldiers thought that Boguslav had sent them reinforcements. But when barely a hundred yards separated the approaching body from the trenches, the infantry began to move about unquietly; an increasing number of soldiers, shading their eyes with their hands, were looking to see what kind of people were coming. When fifty yards distant a fearful howl tore the air, and Kmita's force rushed like a storm, took in the infantry, surrounded them like a ring, and that whole mass of men began to move convulsively. You would have said that a gigantic serpent was stifling a chosen victim. In this crowd piercing shouts were heard. "Allah!" "Herr Jesus!" "Mein Gott!" Behind the trenches new shouts went up; for the volunteers, though in weaker numbers, recognizing that Pan Babinich was in the trenches, pressed on the cavalry with fury. Meanwhile the sky, which had been cloudy for some time, as is common in spring, poured down a heavy, unexpected rain. The blazing fires were put out, and the battle went on in the darkness. But the battle did not last long. Attacked on a sudden, Boguslav's infantry went under the knife. The cavalry, in which were many Poles, laid down their arms. The foreigners, namely, one hundred dragoons, were cut to pieces. When the moon came out again from behind the clouds, it lighted only crowds of Tartars finishing the wounded and taking plunder. But neither did that last long. The piercing sound of a pipe was heard; Tartars and volunteers as one man sprang to their horses. "After me!" cried Kmita. And he led them like a whirlwind to Yanov. A quarter of an hour later the ill-fated place was set on fire at four corners, and in an hour one sea of flame was spread as widely as Yanov extended. Above the conflagration pillars of fiery sparks were flying toward the ruddy sky. Thus did Kmita let the hetman know that he had taken the rear of Boguslav's army. He himself like an executioner, red from the blood of men, marshalled his Tartars amid the fire, so as to lead them on farther. They were already in line and extending into column, when suddenly, on a field as bright as in day, from the fire, he saw before him a division of the elector's gigantic cavalry. A knight led them, distinguishable from afar, for he wore silver-plate armor, and sat on a white horse. "Boguslav!" bellowed Kmita, with an unearthly voice, and rushed forward with his whole Tartar column. They approached one another, like two waves driven by two winds. A considerable space divided them; the horses on both sides reached their greatest speed, and went with ears down like hounds, almost sweeping the earth with their bellies. On one side large men with shining breastplates, and sabres held erect in their right hands; on the other, a black swarm of Tartars. At last they struck in a long line on the clear field; but then something terrible took place. The Tartar swarm fell as grain bent by a whirlwind; the gigantic men rode over it and flew farther, as if the men and the horses had the power of thunderbolts and the wings of a storm. Some of the Tartars sprang up and began to pursue. It was possible to ride over the wild men, but impossible to kill them at once; so more and more of them hastened after the fleeing cavalry. Lariats began to whistle in the air. But at the head of the retreating cavalry the rider on the white horse ran ever in the first rank, and among the pursuers was not Kmita. Only in the gray of dawn did the Tartars begin to return, and almost every man had a horseman on his lariat. Soon they found Kmita, and carried him in unconsciousness to Pan Sapyeha. The hetman himself took a seat at Kmita's bedside. About midday Pan Andrei opened his eyes. "Where is Boguslav?" were his first words. "Cut to pieces. God gave him fortune at first; then he came out of the birch groves and in the open field fell on the infantry of Pan Oskyerko; there he lost men and victory. I do not know whether he led away even five hundred men, for your Tartars caught a good number of them." "But he himself?" "Escaped!" Kmita was silent awhile; then said;-- "I cannot measure with him yet. He struck me with a double-handed sword on the head, and knocked me down with my horse. My morion was of trusty steel, and did not let the sword through; but I fainted." "You should hang up that morion in a church." "I will pursue him, even to the end of the world!" said Kmita. To this the hetman answered: "See what news I have received to-day after the battle!" Kmita read aloud the following words,-- The King of Sweden has moved from Elblang; he is marching on Zamost, thence to Lvoff against Yan Kazimir. Come, your worthiness, with all your forces, to save king and country, for I cannot hold out alone. Charnyetski. A moment of silence. "Will you go with us, or will you go with the Tartars to Taurogi?" Kmita closed his eyes. He remembered the words of Father Kordetski, and what Volodyovski had told him of Pan Yan, and said,-- "Let private affairs wait! I will meet the enemy at the side of the country!" The hetman pressed Pan Andrei's head. "You are a brother to me!" said he; "and because I am old, receive my blessing." CHAPTER XXVII. At a time when all living men in the Commonwealth were mounting their horses Karl Gustav stayed continually in Prussia, busied in capturing the towns of that province and in negotiating with the elector. After an easy and unexpected conquest, the quick soldier soon saw that the Swedish lion had swallowed more than his stomach could carry. After the return of Yan Kazimir he lost hope of retaining the Commonwealth; but while making a mental abdication of the whole, he wished at least to retain the greater part of his conquest, and above all Royal Prussia,--a province fruitful, dotted with large towns, wealthy, and adjoining his own Pomerania. But as that province was first to defend itself, so did it continue faithful to its lord and the Commonwealth. The return of Yan Kazimir, and the war begun by the confederation of Tyshovtsi might revive the courage of Prussia, confirm it in loyalty, give it will for endurance; therefore Karl Gustav determined to crush the uprising, and to wipe out Kazimir's forces so as to take from Prussians the hope of resistance. He had to do this for the sake of the elector, who was ever ready to side with the stronger. The King of Sweden knew him thoroughly, and doubted not for a moment that if the fortune of Yan Kazimir should preponderate, the elector would be on his side again. When, therefore, the siege of Marienburg advanced slowly,--for the more it was attacked the more stubbornly did Pan Weiher defend it,--Karl Gustav marched to the Commonwealth, so as to reach Yan Kazimir again, even in the remotest corner of the land. And since with him deed followed decision as swiftly as thunder follows lightning, he raised his army disposed in towns; and before any one in the Commonwealth had looked around, before the news of his march had spread, he had passed Warsaw and had rushed into the greatest blaze of conflagration. Driven by anger, revenge, and bitterness, he moved on like a storm. Behind him ten thousand horse trampled the fields, which were still covered with snow; and taking the infantry from the garrisons, he went on, like a whirlwind, toward the far south of the Commonwealth. On the road he burned and pursued. He was not now that recent Karl Gustav, the kindly, affable, and joyous lord, clapping his hands at Polish cavalry, winking at feasts, and praising the soldiers. Now, wherever he showed himself the blood of peasants and nobles flowed in a torrent. On the road he annihilated "parties," hanged prisoners, spared no man. But as when, in the thick of the pine-woods, a mighty bear rushes forward with heavy body crushing branches and brush on the way, while wolves follow after, and not daring to block his path, pursue, press nearer and nearer behind, so did those "parties" pursuing the armies of Karl join in throngs denser and denser, and follow the Swedes as a shadow a man, and still more enduringly than a shadow, for they followed in the day and the night, in fair and foul weather; before him too bridges were ruined, provisions destroyed, so that he had to march as in a desert, without a place for his head or anything with which to give strength to his body when hungry. Karl Gustav noted quickly how terrible his task was. The war spread around him as widely as the sea spreads around a ship lost in the waters. Prussia was on fire; on fire was Great Poland, which had first accepted his sovereignty, and first wished to throw off the Swedish yoke; Little Poland was on fire, and so were Russia, Lithuania, and Jmud. In the castles and large towns the Swedes maintained themselves yet, as if on islands; but the villages, the forests, the fields, the rivers, were already in Polish hands. Not merely a single man, or small detachments, but a whole regiment might not leave the main Swedish army for two hours; for if it did the regiment vanished without tidings, and prisoners who fell into the hands of peasants died in terrible tortures. In vain had Karl Gustav given orders to proclaim in villages and towns that whoso of peasants should bring an armed noble, living or dead, would receive freedom forever and land as a reward; for peasants, as well as nobles and townsmen, marched off to the woods. Men from the mountains, men from deep forests, men from meadows and fields, hid in the woods, formed ambushes on the roads against the Swedes, fell upon the smaller garrisons, and cut scouting-parties to pieces. Flails, forks, and scythes, no less than the sabres of nobles, were streaming with Swedish blood. All the more did wrath rise in the heart of Karl, that a few months before he had gathered in that country so easily; hence he could hardly understand what had happened, whence these forces, whence that resistance, whence that awful war for life or death, the end of which he saw not and could not divine. Frequent councils were held in the Swedish camp. With the king marched his brother Adolph, prince of Bipont, who had command over the army; Robert Douglas; Henry Horn, relative of that Horn who had been slain by the scythe of a peasant at Chenstohova; Waldemar, Prince of Denmark, and that Miller who had left his military glory at the foot of Yasna Gora; Aschemberg, the ablest cavalry leader among the Swedes; Hammerskiold, who commanded the artillery; and the old robber Marshal Arwid Wittemberg, famed for rapacity, living on the last of his health, for he was eaten by the Gallic disease; Forgell, and many others, all leaders skilled in the capture of cities, and in the field yielding in genius to the king only. These men were terrified in their hearts lest the whole army with the king should perish through toil, lack of food, and the fury of the Poles. Old Wittemberg advised the king directly against the campaign: "How will you go, O King," said he, "to the Russian regions after an enemy who destroys everything on the way, but is unseen himself? What will you do if horses lack not only hay, but even straw from the roofs of cottages, and men fall from exhaustion? Where are the armies to come to our aid, where are the castles in which to draw breath and rest our weary limbs? My fame is not equal to yours; but were I Karl Gustav, I would not expose that glory acquired by so many victories to the fickle fortune of war." To which Karl Gustav answered: "And neither would I, were I Wittemberg." Then he mentioned Alexander of Macedon, with whom he liked to be compared, and marched forward, pursuing Charnyetski. Charnyetski, not having forces so great nor so well trained, retreated before him, but retreated like a wolf ever ready to turn on his enemy. Sometimes he went in advance of the Swedes, sometimes at their flanks, and sometimes in deep forests he let them go in advance; so that while they thought themselves the pursuers, he, in fact, was the hunter. He cut off the unwary; here and there he hunted down a whole party, destroyed foot-regiments marching slowly, attacked provision-trains. The Swedes never knew where he was. More than once in the darkness of night they began to fire from muskets and cannons into thickets, thinking that they had an enemy before them. They were mortally wearied; they marched in cold, in hunger, in affliction, and that _vir molestissimus_ (most harmful man) hung about them continually, as a hail-cloud hangs over a grain-field. At last they attacked him at Golamb, not far from the junction of the Vyepr and the Vistula. Some Polish squadrons being ready for battle charged the enemy, spreading disorder and dismay. In front sprang Volodyovski with his Lauda squadron, and bore down Waldemar, prince of Denmark; but the two Kavetskis, Samuel and Yan, urged from the hill the armored squadron against English mercenaries under Wilkinson, and devoured them in a moment, as a pike gulps a whiting; and Pan Malavski engaged so closely with the Prince of Bipont that men and horses were confounded like dust which two whirlwinds sweeping from opposite quarters bring together and turn into one circling column. In the twinkle of an eye the Swedes were pushed to the Vistula, seeing which Douglas hastened to the rescue with chosen horsemen. But even these reinforcements could not check the onset; the Swedes began to spring from the high bank to the ice, falling dead so thickly that they lay black on the snow-field, like letters on white paper. Waldemar, Prince of Denmark, fell; Wilkinson fell; and the Prince of Bipont, thrown from his horse, broke his leg. But of Poles both Kavetskis fell; killed also were Malavski, Rudavski, Rogovski, Tyminski, Hoinski, and Porvanyetski. Volodyovski alone, though he dived among the Swedish ranks like a seamew in water, came out without having suffered the slightest wound. Now Karl Gustav himself came up with his main force and with artillery. Straightway the form of the battle changed. Charnyetski's other regiments, undisciplined and untrained, could not take position in season; some had not their horses in readiness, others had been in distant villages, and in spite of orders to be always ready, were taking their leisure in cottages. When the enemy pressed suddenly on these men, they scattered quickly and began to retreat to the Vyepr. Therefore Charnyetski gave orders to sound the retreat so as to spare those regiments that had opened the battle. Some of the fleeing went beyond the Vistula; others to Konskovoli, leaving the field and the glory of the victory to Karl; for specially those who had crossed the Vyepr were long pursued by the squadrons of Zbrojek and Kalinski, who remained yet with the Swedes. There was delight beyond measure in the Swedish camp. No great trophies fell to the king, it is true,--sacks of oats, and a few empty wagons; but it was not at that time a question of plunder for Karl. He comforted himself with this,--that victory followed his steps as before; that barely had he shown himself when he inflicted defeat on that very Charnyetski on whom the highest hopes of Yan Kazimir and the Commonwealth were founded. He could trust that the news would run through the whole country; that every mouth would repeat, "Charnyetski is crushed;" that the timid would exaggerate the proportions of the defeat, and thus weaken hearts and take courage from those who had grasped their weapons at the call of the confederation of Tyshovtsi. So when they brought in and placed at his feet those bags of oats, and with them the bodies of Wilkinson and Prince Waldemar, he turned to his fretful generals and said,-- "Unwrinkle your foreheads, gentlemen, for this is the greatest victory which I have had for a year, and may end the whole war." "Your Royal Grace," answered Wittemberg, who, weaker than usual, saw things in a gloomier light, "let us thank God even for this,--that we shall have a farther march in peace, though Charnyetski's troops scatter quickly and rally easily." "Marshal," answered the king, "I do not think you a worse leader than Charnyetski; but if I had beaten you in this fashion, I think you would not be able to assemble your troops in two months." Wittemberg only bowed in silence, and Karl spoke on: "Yes, we shall have a quiet march, for Charnyetski alone could really hamper it. If Charnyetski's troops are not before us, there is no hindrance." The generals rejoiced at these words. Intoxicated with victory, the troops marched past the king with shouts and with songs. Charnyetski ceased to threaten them like a cloud. Charnyetski's troops were scattered; he had ceased to exist. In view of this thought their past sufferings were forgotten and their future toils were sweet. The king's words, heard by many officers, were borne through the camp; and all believed that the victory had uncommon significance, that the dragon of war was slain once more, and that only days of revenge and dominion would come. The king gave the army some hours of repose; meanwhile from Kozyenitsi came trains with provisions. The troops were disposed in Golamb, in Krovyeniki, and in Jyrzynie. The cavalry burned some deserted houses, hanged a few peasants seized with arms in their hands, and a few camp-servants mistaken for peasants; then there was a feast in the Swedish camp, after which the soldiers slept a sound sleep, since for a long time it was the first quiet one. Next day they woke in briskness, and the first words which came to the mouths of all were: "There is no Charnyetski!" One repeated this to another, as if to give mutual assurance of the good news. The march began joyously. The day was dry, cold, clear. The hair of the horses and their nostrils were covered with frost. The cold wind froze soft places on the Lyubelsk highroad, and made marching easy. The troops stretched out in a line almost five miles long, which they had never done previously. Two dragoon regiments, under command of Dubois, a Frenchman, went through Markushev and Grabov, five miles from the main force. Had they marched thus three days before they would have gone to sure death, but now fear and the glory of victory went before them. "Charnyetski is gone," repeated the officers and soldiers to one another. In fact, the march was made in quiet. From the forest depths came no shouts; from thickets fell no darts, hurled by invisible hands. Toward evening Karl Gustav arrived at Grabov, joyous and in good humor. He was just preparing for sleep when Aschemberg announced through the officer of the day that he wished greatly to see the king. After a while he entered the royal quarters, not alone, but with a captain of dragoons. The king, who had a quick eye and a memory so enormous that he remembered nearly every soldier's name, recognized the captain at once. "What is the news, Freed?" asked he. "Has Dubois returned?" "Dubois is killed." The king was confused; only now did he notice that the captain looked as if he had been taken from the grave; and his clothes were torn. "But the dragoons?" inquired he, "those two regiments?" "All cut to pieces. I alone was let off alive." The dark face of the king became still darker; with his hands he placed his locks behind his ears. "Who did this?" "Charnyetski." Karl Gustav was silent, and looked with amazement at Aschemberg; but he only nodded as if wishing to repeat: "Charnyetski, Charnyetski, Charnyetski!" "All this is incredible," said the king, after a while. "Have you seen him with your own eyes?" "As I see your Royal Grace. He commanded me to bow to you, and to declare that now he will recross the Vistula, but will soon be on our track again. I know not whether he told the truth." "Well," said the king, "had he many men with him?" "I could not estimate exactly, but I saw about four thousand, and beyond the forest was cavalry of some kind. We were surrounded near Krasichyn, to which Colonel Dubois went purposely from the highroad, for he was told that there were some men there. Now, I think that Charnyetski sent an informant to lead us into ambush, since no one save me came out alive. The peasants killed the wounded. I escaped by a miracle." "That man must have made a compact with hell," said the king, putting his hand to his forehead; "for to rally troops after such a defeat, and be on our neck again, is not human power." "It has happened as Marshal Wittemberg foresaw," put in Aschemberg. "You all know how to foresee," burst out the king, "but how to advise you do not know." Aschemberg grew pale and was silent. Karl Gustav, when joyous, seemed goodness itself; but when once he frowned he roused indescribable fear in those nearest him, and birds do not hide so before an eagle as the oldest and most meritorious generals hid before him. But this time he moderated quickly, and asked Captain Freed again,-- "Has Charnyetski good troops?" "I saw some unrivalled squadrons, such cavalry as the Poles have." "They are the same that attacked with such fury in Golamb; they must be old regiments. But Charnyetski himself,--was he cheerful, confident?" "He was as confident as if he had beaten us at Golamb. Now his heart must rise the more, for they have forgotten Golembo and boast of Krasichyn. Your Royal Grace, what Charnyetski told me to repeat I have repeated; but when I was on the point of departing some one of the high officers approached me, an old man, and told me that he was the person who had stretched out Gustavus Adolphus in a hand-to-hand conflict, and he poured much abuse on your Royal Grace; others supported him. So do they boast. I left amid insults and abuse." "Never mind," said Karl Gustav, "Charnyetski is not broken, and has rallied his army; that is the main point. All the more speedily must we march so as to reach the Polish Darius at the earliest. You are free to go, gentlemen. Announce to the army that those regiments perished at the hands of peasants in unfrozen morasses. We advance!" The officers went out; Karl Gustav remained alone. For something like an hour he was in gloomy thought. Was the victory at Golamb to bring no fruit, no change to the position, but to rouse still greater rage in that entire country? Karl, in presence of the army and of his generals, always showed confidence and faith in himself; but when he was alone he began to think of that war,--how easy it had been at first, and then increased always in difficulty. More than once doubt embraced him. All the events seemed to him in some fashion marvellous. Often he could see no outcome, could not divine the end. At times it seemed to him that he was like a man who, going from the shore of the sea into the water, feels at every step that he is going deeper and deeper and soon will lose the ground under his feet. But he believed in his star. And now he went to the window to look at the chosen star,--that one which in the Wain or Great Bear occupies the highest place and shines brightest. The sky was clear, and therefore at that moment the star shone brightly, twinkled blue and red; but from afar, lower down on the dark blue of the sky, a lone cloud was blackening serpent-shaped, from which extended as it were arms, as it were branches, as it were the feelers of a monster of the sea, and it seemed to approach the king's star continually. CHAPTER XXVIII. Next morning the king marched farther and reached Lublin. There he received information that Sapyeha had repulsed Boguslav's invasion, and was advancing with a considerable army; he left Lublin the same day, merely strengthening the garrison of that place. The next object of his expedition was Zamost; for if he could occupy that strong fortress he would acquire a fixed base for further war, and such a notable preponderance that he might look for a successful end with all hope. There were various opinions touching Zamost. Those Poles still remaining with Karl contended that it was the strongest fortress in the Commonwealth, and brought as proof that it had withstood all the forces of Hmelnitski. But since Karl saw that the Poles were in no wise skilled in fortification, and considered places strong which in other lands would scarcely be held in the third rank; since he knew also that in Poland no fortress was properly mounted,--that is, there were neither walls kept as they should be, not earthworks, nor suitable arms,--he felt well touching Zamost. He counted also on the spell of his name, on the fame of an invincible leader, and finally on treaties. With treaties, which every magnate in the Commonwealth was authorized to make, or at least permitted himself to make, Karl had so far effected more than with arms. As an adroit man, and one wishing to know with whom he had to deal, he collected carefully all information touching the owner of Zamost. He inquired about his ways, his inclinations, his wit and fancy. Yan Sapyeha, who at that time by his treason still spotted the name, to the great affliction of Sapyeha the hetman, gave the fullest explanations to the king concerning Zamoyski. They spent whole hours in council. But Yan Sapyeha did not consider that it would be easy for the king to captivate the master of Zamost. "He cannot be tempted with money," said Yan, "for he is terribly rich. He cares not for dignities, and never wished them, even when they sought him themselves. As to titles, I have heard him at the court reprimand Des Noyers, the queen's secretary, because in addressing him he said, 'Mon prince.' 'I am not a prince,' answered he, 'but I have had archdukes as prisoners in my Zamost.' The truth is, however, that not he had them, but his grandfather, who among our people is surnamed the Great." "If he will open the gates of Zamost, I will offer him something which no Polish king could offer." It did not become Yan Sapyeha to ask what that might be; he merely looked with curiosity at Karl Gustav. But the king understood the look, and answered, gathering, as was his wont, his hair behind his ears,-- "I will offer him the province of Lyubelsk as an independent principality; a crown will tempt him. No one of you could resist such a temptation, not even the present voevoda of Vilna." "Endless is the bounty of your Royal Grace," replied Sapyeha, not without a certain irony in his voice. But Karl answered with a cynicism peculiar to himself: "I give it, for it is not mine." Sapyeha shook his head: "He is an unmarried man and has no sons. A crown is dear to him who can leave it to his posterity." "What means do you advise me to take?" "I think that flattery would effect most. The man is not too quick-witted, and may be easily over-reached. It is necessary to represent that on him alone depends the pacification of the Commonwealth; it is necessary to tell him that he alone may save it from war, from all defeats and future misfortunes; and that especially by opening the gates. If the fish will swallow that little hook, we shall be in Zamost; otherwise not." "Cannon remain as the ultimate argument." "H'm! To that argument there is something in Zamost with which to give answer. There is no lack of heavy guns there; we have none, and when thaws come it will be impossible to bring them." "I have heard that the infantry in the fortress is good; but there is a lack of cavalry." "Cavalry are needed only in the open field, and besides, since Charnyetski's army, as is shown, is not crushed, he can throw in one or two squadrons for the use of the fortress." "You see nothing save difficulties." "But I trust ever in the lucky star of your Royal Grace." Yan Sapyeha was right in foreseeing that Charnyetski would furnish Zamost with cavalry needful for scouting and seizing informants. In fact, Zamoyski had enough of his own, and needed no assistance whatever; but Charnyetski sent the two squadrons which had suffered most at Golamb--that is, the Shemberk and Lauda--to the fortress to rest, recruit themselves and change their horses, which were fearfully cut up. Sobiepan received them hospitably, and when he learned what famous soldiers were in them he exalted these men to the skies, covered them with gifts, and seated them every day at his table. But who shall describe the joy and emotion of Princess Griselda at sight of Pan Yan and Pan Michael, the most valiant colonels of her great husband? Both fell at her feet shedding warm tears at sight of the beloved lady; and she could not restrain her weeping. How many reminiscences of those old Lubni days were connected with them; when her husband, the glory and love of the people, full of the strength of life, ruled with power a wild region, rousing terror amid barbarism with one frown of his brow, like Jove. Such were those times not long past; but where are they now? To-day the lord is in his grave, barbarians have taken the land, and she, the widow, sits on the ashes of happiness, of greatness, living only with her sorrow and with prayer. Still in those reminiscences sweetness was so mingled with bitterness that the thoughts of those three flew gladly to times that were gone. They spoke then of their past lives, of those places which their eyes were never to see, of the past wars, finally of the present times of defeat and God's anger. "If our prince were alive," said Pan Yan, "there would be another career for the Commonwealth. The Cossacks would be rubbed out, the Trans-Dnieper would be with the Commonwealth, and the Swede would find his conqueror. God has ordained as He willed of purpose to punish us for sins." "Would that God might raise up a defender in Pan Charnyetski!" said Princess Griselda. "He will!" cried Pan Michael. "As our prince was a head above other lords, so Charnyetski is not at all like other leaders. I know the two hetmans of the kingdom, and Sapyeha of Lithuania. They are great soldiers; but there is something uncommon in Charnyetski; you would say, he is an eagle, not a man. Though kindly, still all fear him; even Pan Zagloba in his presence forgets his jokes frequently. And how he leads his troops and moves them, passes imagination. It cannot be otherwise than that a great warrior will rise in the Commonwealth." "My husband, who knew Charnyetski as a colonel, prophesied greatness for him," said the princess. "It was said indeed that he was to seek a wife in our court," put in Pan Michael. "I do not remember that there was talk about that," answered the princess. In truth she could not remember, for there had never been anything of the kind; but Pan Michael, cunning at times, invented this, wishing to turn the conversation to her ladies and learn something of Anusia; for to ask directly he considered improper, and in view of the majesty of the princess, too confidential. But the stratagem failed. The princess turned her mind again to her husband and the Cossack wars; then the little knight thought: "Anusia has not been here, perhaps, for God knows how many years." And he asked no more about her. He might have asked the officers, but his thoughts and occupations were elsewhere. Every day scouts gave notice that the Swedes were nearer; hence preparations were made for defence. Pan Yan and Pan Michael received places on the walls, as officers knowing the Swedes and warfare against them. Zagloba roused courage in the men, and told tales of the enemy to those who had no knowledge of them yet; and among warriors in the fortress there were many such, for so far the Swedes had not come to Zamost. Zagloba saw through Pan Zamoyski at once; the latter conceived an immense love for the bulky noble, and turned to him on all questions, especially since he heard from Princess Griselda how Prince Yeremi had venerated Zagloba and called him _vir incomparabilis_ (the incomparable man). Every day then at table all kept their ears open; and Zagloba discoursed of ancient and modern times, told of the wars with the Cossacks, of the treason of Radzivill, and how he himself had brought Pan Sapyeha into prominence among men. "I advised him," said he, "to carry hempseed in his pocket, and use a little now and then. He has grown so accustomed to this that he takes a grain every little while, puts it in his mouth, bites it, breaks it, eats it, spits out the husk. At night when he wakes he does the same. His wit is so sharp now from hempseed that his greatest intimates do not recognize him." "How is that?" asked Zamoyski. "There is an oil in hempseed through which the man who eats it increases in wit." "God bless you," said one of the colonels; "but oil goes to the stomach, not to the head." "Oh, there is a method in things!" answered Zagloba. "It is needful in this case to drink as much wine as possible; oil, being the lighter, is always on top; wine, which goes to the head of itself, carries with it every noble substance. I have this secret from Lupul the Hospodar, after whom, as is known to you, gentlemen, the Wallachians wished to create me hospodar; but the Sultan, whose wish is that the hospodar should not have posterity, placed before me conditions to which I could not agree." "You must use a power of hempseed yourself," said Sobiepan. "I do not need it at all, your worthiness; but from my whole heart I advise you to take it." Hearing these bold words, some were frightened lest the starosta might take them to heart; but whether he failed to notice them or did not wish to do so, it is enough that he merely laughed and asked,-- "But would not sunflower seeds take the place of hemp?" "They might," answered Zagloba; "but since sunflower oil is heavier, it would be necessary to drink stronger wine than that which we are drinking at present." The starosta understood the hint, was amused, and gave immediate order to bring the best wines. Then all rejoiced in their hearts, and the rejoicing became universal. They drank and gave vivats to the health of the king, the host, and Pan Charnyetski. Zagloba fell into good humor and let no one speak. He described at great length the affair at Golamb, in which he had really fought well, for, serving in the Lauda squadron, he could not do otherwise. But because he had learned from Swedish prisoners taken from the regiments of Dubois of the death of Prince Waldemar, Zagloba took responsibility for that death on himself. "The battle," said he, "would have gone altogether differently were it not that the day before I went to Baranov to the canon of that place, and Charnyetski, not knowing where I was, could not advise with me. Maybe the Swedes too had heard of that canon, for he has splendid mead, and they went at once to Golamb. When I returned it was too late; the king had attacked, and it was necessary to strike at once. We went straight into the fire; but what is to be done when the general militia choose to show their contempt for the enemy by turning their backs? I don't know how Charnyetski will manage at present without me." "He will manage, have no fear on that point," said Volodyovski. "I know why. The King of Sweden chooses to pursue me to Zamost rather than seek Charnyetski beyond the Vistula. I do not deny that Charnyetski is a good soldier; but when he begins to twist his beard and look with his wildcat glance, it seems to an officer of the lightest squadron that he is a dragoon. He pays no attention to a man's office; and this you yourselves saw when he gave orders to drag over the square with horses an honorable man, Pan Jyrski, only because he did not reach with his detachment the place to which he was ordered. With a noble, gracious gentlemen, it is necessary to act like a father, not like a dragoon. Say to him, 'Lord brother,' be kind, rouse his feelings,--he will call to mind the country and glory, will go farther for you than a dragoon who serves for a salary." "A noble is a noble, and war is war," remarked Zamoyski. "You have brought that out in a very masterly manner," answered Zagloba. "Pan Charnyetski will turn the plans of Karl into folly," said Volodyovski. "I have been in more than one war, and I can speak on this point." "First, we will make a fool of him at Zamost," said Sobiepan, pouting his lips, puffing, and showing great spirit, staring, and putting his hands on his hips. "Bah! Tfu! What do I care? When I invite a man I open the door to him. Well!" Here Zamoyski began to puff still more mightily, to strike the table with his knees, bend forward, shake his head, look stern, flash his eyes, and speak, as was his habit, with a certain coarse carelessness. "What do I care? He is lord in Sweden; but Zamoyski is lord for himself in Zamost. _Eques polonus sum_ (I am a Polish nobleman), nothing more. But I am in my own house; I am Zamoyski, and he is King of Sweden; but Maximilian was Austrian, was he not? Is he coming? Let him come. We shall see! Sweden is small for him, but Zamost is enough for me. I will not yield it." "It is a delight, gracious gentlemen, to hear not only such eloquence, but such honest sentiments," cried Zagloba. "Zamoyski is Zamoyski!" continued Pan Sobiepan, delighted with the praise. "We have not bowed down, and we will not. I will not give up Zamost, and that is the end of it." "To the health of the host!" thundered the officers. "Vivat! vivat!" "Pan Zagloba," cried Zamoyski, "I will not let the King of Sweden into Zamost, and I will not let you out." "I thank you for the favor; but, your worthiness, do not do that, for as much as you torment Karl with the first decision, so much will you delight him with the second." "Give me your word that you will come to me after the war is over." "I give it." Long yet did they feast, then sleep began to overcome the knights; therefore they went to rest, especially as sleepless nights were soon to begin for them, since the Swedes were already near, and the advance guards were looked for at any hour. "So in truth he will not give up Zamost," said Zagloba, returning to his quarters with Pan Yan and Volodyovski. "Have you seen how we have fallen in love with each other? It will be pleasant here in Zamost for me and you. The host and I have become so attached to each other that no cabinet-maker could join inlaid work better. He is a good fellow--h'm! If he were my knife and I carried him at my belt, I would whet him on a stone pretty often, for he is a trifle dull. But he is a good man, and he will not betray like those bull-drivers of Birji. Have you noticed how the magnates cling to old Zagloba? I cannot keep them off. I'm scarcely away from Sapyeha when there is another at hand. But I will tune this one as a bass-viol, and play such an aria on him for the Swedes that they will dance to death at Zamost. I will wind him up like a Dantzig clock with chimes." Noise coming from the town interrupted further conversation. After a time an officer whom they knew passed quickly near them. "Stop!" cried Volodyovski; "what is the matter?" "There is a fire to be seen from the walls. Shchebjeshyn is burning! The Swedes are there!" "Let us go on the walls," said Pan Yan. "Go; but I will sleep, since I need my strength for to-morrow," answered Zagloba. CHAPTER XXIX. That night Volodyovski went on a scouting expedition, and about morning returned with a number of informants. These men asserted that the King of Sweden was at Shchebjeshyn in person, and would soon be at Zamost. Zamoyski was rejoiced at the news, for he hurried around greatly, and had a genuine desire to try his walls and guns on the Swedes. He considered, and very justly, that even if he had to yield in the end he would detain the power of Sweden for whole months; and during that time Yan Kazimir would collect troops, bring the entire Tartar force to his aid, and organize in the whole country a powerful and victorious resistance. "Since the opportunity is given me," said he, with great spirit, at the military council, "to render the country and the king notable service, I declare to you, gentlemen, that I will blow myself into the air before a Swedish foot shall stand here. They want to take Zamoyski by force. Let them take him! We shall see who is better. You, gentlemen, will, I trust, aid me most heartily." "We are ready to perish with your grace," said the officers, in chorus. "If they will only besiege us," said Zagloba, "I will lead the first sortie." "I will follow, Uncle!" cried Roh Kovalski; "I will spring at the king himself!" "Now to the walls!" commanded Zamoyski. All went out. The walls were ornamented with soldiers as with flowers. Regiments of infantry, so splendid that they were unequalled in the whole Commonwealth, stood in readiness, one at the side of the other, with musket in hand, and eyes turned to the field. Not many foreigners served in these regiments, merely a few Prussians and French; they were mainly peasants from Zamoyski's inherited lands. Sturdy, well-grown men, who, wearing colored jackets and trained in foreign fashion, fought as well as the best Cromwellians of England. They were specially powerful when after firing it came to rush on the enemy in hand-to-hand conflict. And now, remembering their former triumphs over Hmelnitski, they were looking for the Swedes with impatience. At the cannons, which stretched out through the embrasures their long necks to the fields as if in curiosity, served mainly Flemings, the first of gunners. Outside the fortress, beyond the moat, were squadrons of light cavalry, safe themselves, for they were under cover of cannon, certain of refuge, and able at any moment to spring out whithersoever it might be needed. Zamoyski, wearing inlaid armor and carrying a gilded baton in his hand, rode around the walls, and inquired every moment,-- "Well, what--not in sight yet?" And he muttered oaths when he received negative answers on all sides. After a while he went to another side, and again he asked,-- "Well, what--not in sight yet?" It was difficult to see the Swedes, for there was a mist in the air; and only about ten o'clock in the forenoon did it begin to disappear. The heaven shining blue above the horizon became clear, and immediately on the western side of the walls they began to cry,-- "They are coming, they are coming, they are coming!" Zamoyski, with three adjutants and Zagloba, entered quickly an angle of the walls from which there was a distant view, and the four men began to look through field-glasses. The mist was lying a little on the ground yet, and the Swedish hosts, marching from Vyelanchy, seemed to be wading to the knees in that mist, as if they were coming out of wide waters. The nearer regiments had become very distinct, so that the naked eye could distinguish the infantry; they seemed like clouds of dark dust rolling on toward the town. Gradually more regiments, artillery, and cavalry appeared. The sight was beautiful. From each quadrangle of infantry rose an admirably regular quadrangle of spears; between them waved banners of various colors, but mostly blue with white crosses, and blue with golden lions. They came very near. On the walls there was silence; therefore the breath of the air brought from the advancing army the squeaking of wheels, the clatter of armor, the tramp of horses, and the dull sound of human voices. When they had come within twice the distance of a shot from a culverin, they began to dispose themselves before the fortress. Some quadrangles of infantry broke ranks; others prepared to pitch tents and dig trenches. "They are here!" said Zamoyski. "They are the dog-brothers!" answered Zagloba. "They could be counted, man for man, on the fingers. Persons of my long experience, however, do not need to count, but simply to cast an eye on them. There are ten thousand cavalry, and eight thousand infantry with artillery. If I am mistaken in one common soldier or one horse, I am ready to redeem the mistake with my whole fortune." "Is it possible to estimate in that way?" "Ten thousand cavalry and eight thousand infantry. I have hope in God that they will go away in much smaller numbers; only let me lead one sortie." "Do you hear? They are playing an aria." In fact, trumpeters and drummers stepped out before the regiments, and military music began. At the sound of it the more distant regiments approached, and encompassed the town from a distance. At last from the dense throngs a few horsemen rode forth. When half-way, they put white kerchiefs on their swords, and began to wave them. "An embassy!" cried Zagloba; "I saw how the scoundrels came to Kyedani with the same boldness, and it is known what came of that." "Zamost is not Kyedani, and I am not the voevoda of Vilna," answered Zamoyski. Meanwhile the horsemen were approaching the gate. After a short time an officer of the day hurried to Zamoyski with a report that Pan Yan Sapyeha desired, in the name of the King of Sweden, to see him and speak with him. Zamoyski put his hands on his hips at once, began to step from one foot to the other, to puff, to pout, and said at last, with great animation,-- "Tell Pan Sapyeha that Zamoyski does not speak with traitors. If the King of Sweden wishes to speak with me, let him send me a Swede by race, not a Pole,--for Poles who serve the Swedes may go as embassadors to my dogs; I have the same regard for both." "As God is dear to me, that is an answer!" cried Zagloba, with unfeigned enthusiasm. "But devil take them!" said the starosta, roused by his own words and by praise. "Well, shall I stand on ceremony with them?" "Permit me, your worthiness, to take him that answer," said Zagloba. And without waiting, he hastened away with the officer, went to Yan Sapyeha, and, apparently, not only repeated the starosta's words, but added something very bad from himself; for Sapyeha turned from the town as if a thunderbolt had burst in front of his horse, and rode away with his cap thrust over his ears. From the walls and from the squadrons of the cavalry which were standing before the gate they began to hoot at the men riding off,-- "To the kennel with traitors, the betrayers! Jew servants! Huz, huz!" Sapyeha stood before the king, pale, with compressed lips. The king too was confused, for Zamost had deceived his hopes, in spite of what had been said, he expected to find a town of such power of resistance as Cracow, Poznan, and other places, so many of which he had captured; meanwhile he found a fortress powerful, calling to mind those of Denmark and the Netherlands, which he could not even think of taking without guns of heavy calibre. "What is the result?" asked the king, when he saw Sapyeha. "Nothing! Zamoyski will not speak with Poles who serve your Royal Grace. He sent out his jester, who reviled me and your Royal Grace so shamefully that it is not proper to repeat what he said." "It is all one to me with whom he wants to speak, if he will only speak. In default of other arguments, I have iron arguments; but meanwhile I will send Forgell." Half an hour later Forgell, with a purely Swedish suite, announced himself at the gate. The drawbridge was let down slowly over the moat, and the general entered the fortress amid silence and seriousness. Neither the eyes of the envoy nor those of any man in his suite were bound; evidently Zamoyski wished him to see everything, and be able to report to the king touching everything. The master of Zamost received Forgell with as much splendor as an independent prince would have done, and arranged all, in truth, admirably, for Swedish lords had not one twelfth as much wealth as the Poles had; and Zamoyski among Poles was well-nigh the most powerful. The clever Swede began at once to treat him as if the king had sent the embassy to a monarch equal to himself; to begin with, he called him "Princeps," and continued to address him thus, though Pan Sobiepan interrupted him promptly in the beginning,-- "Not princeps, _eques polonus_ (a Polish nobleman), but for that very reason the equal of princes." "Your princely grace," said Forgell, not permitting himself to be diverted, "the Most Serene King of Sweden and Lord," here he enumerated his titles, "has not come here as an enemy in any sense; but, speaking simply, has come on a visit, and through me announces himself, having, as I believe, a well-founded hope that your princely grace will desire to open your gates to him and his army." "It is not a custom with us," answered Zamoyski, "to refuse hospitality to any man, even should he come uninvited. There will always be a place at my table for a guest; but for such a worthy person as the Swedish monarch the first place. Inform then the Most Serene King of Sweden that I invite him, and all the more gladly since the Most Serene Carolus Gustavus is lord in Sweden, as I am in Zamost. But as your worthiness has seen, there is no lack of servants in my house; therefore his Swedish Serenity need not bring his servants with him. Should he bring them I might think that he counts me a poor man, and wishes to show me contempt." "Well done!" whispered Zagloba, standing behind the shoulders of Pan Sobiepan. When Zamoyski had finished his speech he began to pout his lips, to puff and repeat,-- "Ah, here it is, this is the position!" Forgell bit his mustache, was silent awhile, and said,-- "It would be the greatest proof of distrust toward the king if your princely grace were not pleased to admit his garrison to the fortress. I am the king's confidant. I know his innermost thoughts, and besides this I have the order to announce to your worthiness, and to give assurance by word in the name of the king, that he does not think of occupying the possessions of Zamost or this fortress permanently. But since war has broken out anew in this unhappy land, since rebellion has raised its head, and Yan Kazimir, unmindful of the miseries which may fall on the Commonwealth, and seeking only his own fortune, has returned within the boundaries, and, together with pagans, comes forth against our Christian troops, the invincible king, my lord, has determined to pursue him, even to the wild steppes of the Tartars and the Turks, with the sole purpose of restoring peace to the country, the reign of justice, prosperity, and freedom to the inhabitants of this illustrious Commonwealth." Zamoyski struck his knee with his hand without saying a word; but Zagloba whispered,-- "The Devil has dressed himself in vestments, and is ringing for Mass with his tail." "Many benefits have accrued to this land already from the protection of the king," continued Forgell; "but thinking in his fatherly heart that he has not done enough, he has left his Prussian province again to go once more to the rescue of the Commonwealth, which depends on finishing Yan Kazimir. But that this new war should have a speedy and victorious conclusion, it is needful that the king occupy for a time this fortress. It is to be for his troops a point from which pursuit may begin against rebels. But hearing that he who is the lord of Zamost surpasses all, not only in wealth, antiquity of stock, wit, high-mindedness, but also in love for the country, the king, my master, said at once: 'He will understand me, he will be able to appreciate my intentions respecting this country, he will not deceive my confidence, he will surpass my hopes, he will be the first to put his hand to the prosperity and peace of this country.' This is the truth! So on you depends the future fate of this country. You may save it and become the father of it; therefore I have no doubt of what you will do. Whoever inherits from his ancestors such fame should not avoid an opportunity to increase that fame and make it immortal. In truth, you will do more good by opening the gates of this fortress than if you had added a whole province to the Commonwealth. The king is confident that your uncommon wisdom, together with your heart, will incline you to this; therefore he will not command, he prefers to request, he throws aside threats, he offers friendship; not as a ruler with a subject, but as powerful with powerful does he wish to deal." Here General Forgell bowed before Zamoyski with as much respect as before an independent monarch. In the hall it grew silent. All eyes were fixed on Zamoyski. He began to twist, according to his custom, in his gilded armchair, to pout his lips, and exhibit stern resolve; at last he thrust out his elbows, placed his palms on his knees, and shaking his head like a restive horse, began,-- "This is what I have to say! I am greatly thankful to his Swedish Serenity for the lofty opinion which he has of my wit and my love for the Commonwealth. Nothing is dearer to me than the friendship of such a potentate. But I think that we might love each other all the same if his Swedish Serenity remained in Stockholm and I in Zamost; that is what it is. For Stockholm belongs to his Swedish Serenity, and Zamost to me. As to love for the Commonwealth, this is what I think. The Commonwealth will not improve by the coming in of the Swedes, but by their departure. That is my argument! I believe that Zamost might help his Swedish Serenity to victory over Yan Kazimir; but your worthiness should know that I have not given oath to his Swedish Grace, but to Yan Kazimir; therefore I wish victory to Yan Kazimir, and I will not give Zamost to the King of Sweden. That is my position!" "That policy suits me!" said Zagloba. A joyous murmur rose in the hall; but Zamoyski slapped his knees with his hands, and the sounds were hushed. Forgell was confused, and was silent for a time; then he began to argue anew, insisted a little, threatened, begged, flattered. Latin flowed from his mouth like a stream, till drops of sweat were on his forehead; but all was in vain, for after his best arguments, so strong that they might move walls, he heard always one answer,-- "But still I will not yield Zamost; that is my position!" The audience continued beyond measure; at last it became awkward and difficult for Forgell, since mirth was seizing those present. More and more frequently some word fell, some sneer,--now from Zagloba, now from others,--after which smothered laughter was heard in the hall. Forgell saw finally that it was necessary to use the last means; therefore he unrolled a parchment with seals, which he held in his hand, and to which no one had turned attention hitherto, and rising said with a solemn, emphatic voice,-- "For opening the gates of the fortress his Royal Grace," here again he enumerated the titles, "gives your princely grace the province of Lubelsk in perpetual possession." All were astonished when they heard this, and Zamoyski himself was astonished for a moment. Forgell had begun to turn a triumphant look on the people around him, when suddenly and in deep silence Zagloba, standing behind Zamoyski, said in Polish,-- "Your worthiness, offer the King of Sweden the Netherlands in exchange." Zamoyski, without thinking long, put his hands on his hips and fired through the whole hall in Latin,-- "And I offer to his Swedish Serenity the Netherlands!" That moment the hall resounded with one immense burst of laughter. The breasts of all were shaking, and the girdles on their bodies were shaking; some clapped their hands, others tottered as drunken men, some leaned on their neighbors, but the laughter sounded continuously. Forgell was pale; he frowned terribly, but he waited with fire in his eyes and his head raised haughtily. At last, when the paroxysm of laughter had passed, he asked in a short, broken voice,-- "Is that the final answer of your worthiness?" Zamoyski twirled his mustache. "No!" said he, raising his head still more proudly, "for I have cannon on the walls." The embassy was at an end. Two hours later cannons were thundering from the trenches of the Swedes, but Zamoyski's guns answered them with equal power. All Zamost was covered with smoke, as with an immense cloud; moment after moment there were flashes in that cloud, and thunder roared unceasingly. But fire from the heavy fortress guns was preponderant. The Swedish balls fell in the moat or bounded without effect from the strong angles; toward evening the enemy were forced to draw back from the nearer trenches, for the fortress was covering them with such a rain of missiles that nothing living could endure it. The Swedish king, carried away by anger, commanded to burn all the villages and hamlets, so that the neighborhood seemed in the night one sea of fire; but Zamoyski cared not for that. "All right!" said he, "let them burn. We have a roof over our heads, but soon it will be pouring down their backs." And he was so satisfied with himself and rejoiced that he made a great feast that day and remained till late at the cups. A resounding orchestra played at the feast so loudly that, in spite of the thunder of artillery, it could be heard in the remotest trenches of the Swedes. But the Swedes cannonaded continually, so constantly indeed that the firing lasted the whole night. Next day a number of guns were brought to the king, which as soon as they were placed in the trenches began to work against the fortress. The king did not expect, it is true, to make a breach in the walls; he merely wished to instil into Zamoyski the conviction that he had determined to storm furiously and mercilessly. He wished to bring terror on them; but that was bringing terror on Poles.[6] Zamoyski paid no attention to it for a moment, and often while on the walls he said, in time of the heaviest cannonading,-- "Why do they waste powder?" Volodyovski and the others offered to make a sortie, but Zamoyski would not permit it; he did not wish to waste blood. He knew besides that it would be necessary to deliver open battle; for such a careful warrior as the king and such a trained army would not let themselves be surprised. Zagloba, seeing this fixed determination, insisted all the more, and guaranteed that he would lead the sortie. "You are too bloodthirsty!" answered Zamoyski. "It is pleasant for us and unpleasant for the Swedes; why should we go to them? You might fall, and I need you as a councillor; for it was by your wit that I confounded Forgell so by mentioning the Netherlands." Zagloba answered that he could not restrain himself within the walls, he wanted so much to get at the Swedes; but he was forced to obey. In default of other occupation he spent his time on the walls among the soldiers, dealing out to them precautions and counsel with importance, which all heard with no little respect, holding him a greatly experienced warrior, one of the foremost in the Commonwealth; and he was rejoiced in soul, looking at the defence and the spirit of the knighthood. "Pan Michael," said he to Volodyovski, "there is another spirit in the Commonwealth and in the nobles. No one thinks now of treason or surrender; and every one out of good-will for the Commonwealth and the king is ready to give his life sooner than yield a step to the enemy. You remember how a year ago from every side was heard, 'This one has betrayed, that one has betrayed, a third has accepted protection;' and now the Swedes need protection more than we. If the Devil does not protect them, he will soon take them. We have our stomachs so full here that drummers might beat on them, but their entrails are twisted into whips from hunger." Zagloba was right. The Swedish army had no supplies; and for eighteen thousand men, not to mention horses, there was no place from which to get supplies. Zamoyski, before the arrival of the enemy, had brought in from all his estates for many miles around food for man and horse. In the more remote neighborhoods of the country swarmed parties of confederates and bands of armed peasants, so that foraging detachments could not go out, since just beyond the camp certain death was in waiting. In addition to this, Pan Charnyetski had not gone to the west bank of the Vistula, but was circling about the Swedish army like a wild beast around a sheepfold. Again nightly alarms had begun, and the loss of smaller parties without tidings. Near Krasnik appeared certain Polish troops, which had cut communication with the Vistula. Finally, news came that Pavel Sapyeha, the hetman, was marching from the north with a powerful Lithuanian army; that in passing he had destroyed the garrison at Lublin, had taken Lublin, and was coming with cavalry to Zamost. Old Wittemberg, the most experienced of the Swedish leaders, saw the whole ghastliness of the position, and laid it plainly before the king. "I know," said he, "that the genius of your Royal Grace can do wonders; but judging things in human fashion, hunger will overcome us, and when the enemy fall upon our emaciated army not a living foot of us will escape." "If I had this fortress," answered the king, "I could finish the war in two months." "For such a fortress a year's siege is short." The king in his soul recognized that the old warrior was right, but he did not acknowledge that he saw no means himself, that his genius was strained. He counted yet on some unexpected event; hence he gave orders to fire night and day. "I will bend the spirit in them," said he; "they will be more inclined to treaties." After some days of cannonading so furious that the light could not be seen behind the smoke, the king sent Forgell again to the fortress. "The king, my master," said Forgell, appearing before Zamoyski, "considers that the damage which Zamost must have suffered from our cannonading will soften the lofty mind of your princely grace and incline it to negotiations." To which Zamoyski said: "Of course there is damage! Why should there not be? You killed on the market square a pig, which was struck in the belly by the fragment of a bomb. If you cannonade another week, perhaps you'll kill another pig." Forgell took that answer to the king. In the evening a new council was held in the king's quarters; next day the Swedes began to pack their tents in wagons and draw their cannon out of the trenches, and in the night the whole army moved onward. Zamost thundered after them from all its artillery, and when they had vanished from the eye two squadrons, the Shemberk and the Lauda, passed out through the southern gate and followed in their track. The Swedes marched southward. Wittemberg advised, it is true, a return to Warsaw, and with all his power he tried to convince the king that that was the only road of salvation; but the Swedish Alexander had determined absolutely to pursue the Polish Darius to the remotest boundaries of the kingdom. CHAPTER XXX. The spring of that year approached with wonderful roads; for while in the north of the Commonwealth snow was already thawing, the stiffened rivers were set free, and the whole country was filled with March water, in the south the icy breath of winter was still descending from the mountains to the fields, woods, and forests. In the forests lay snow-drifts, in the open country frozen roads sounded under the hoofs of horses; the days were dry, the sunsets red, the nights starry and frosty. The people living on the rich clay, on the black soil, and in the woods of Little Poland comforted themselves with the continuance of the cold, stating that the field-mice and the Swedes would perish from it. But inasmuch as the spring came late, it came as swiftly as an armored squadron advancing to the attack of an enemy. The sun shot down living fire from heaven, and at once the crust of winter burst; from the Hungarian steppes flew a strong warm wind, and began to blow on the fields and wild places. Straightway in the midst of shining ponds arable ground became dark, a green fleece shot up on the low river-lands, and the forests began to shed tears from bursting buds on their branches. In the heavens continually fair were seen, daily, rows of cranes, wild ducks, teal, and geese. Storks flew to their places of the past year, and the roofs were swarming with swallows; the twitter of birds was heard in the villages, their noise in the woods and ponds, and in the evening the whole country was ringing with the croaking and singing of frogs, which swam with delight in the waters. Then came great rains, which were as if they had been warmed; they fell in the daytime, they fell in the night, without interruption. The fields were turned into lakes, the rivers overflowed, the fords became impassable; then followed the "stickiness and the impossible of muddy roads." Amid all this water, mud, and swamp the Swedish legions dragged onward continually toward the south. But how little was that throng, advancing as it were to destruction, like that brilliant army which in its time marched under Wittemberg to Great Poland! Hunger had stamped itself on the faces of the old soldiers; they went on more like spectres than men, in suffering, in toil, in sleeplessness, knowing that at the end of the road not food was awaiting, but hunger; not sleep, but a battle; and if rest, then the rest of the dead. Arrayed in iron these skeletons of horsemen sat on skeletons of horses. The infantry hardly drew their legs along; barely could they hold spears and muskets with trembling hands. Day followed day; they went onward continually. Wagons were broken, cannons were fastened in sloughs; they went on so slowly that sometimes they were able to advance hardly five miles in one day. Diseases fell on the soldiers, like ravens on corpses; the teeth of some were chattering from fever; others lay down on the ground simply from weakness, choosing rather to die than advance. But the Swedish Alexander hastened toward the Polish Darius unceasingly. At the same time he was pursued himself. As in the night-time jackals follow a sick buffalo waiting to see if he will soon fall, and he knows that he will fall and he hears the howl of the hungry pack, so after the Swedes went "parties," nobles and peasants, approaching ever nearer, attacking ever more insolently, and snatching away. At last came Charnyetski, the most terrible of all the pursuers, and followed closely. The rearguards of the Swedes as often as they looked behind saw horsemen, at one time far off on the edge of the horizon, at another a furlong away, at another twice the distance of a musket-shot, at another time, when attacking, on their very shoulders. The enemy wanted battle; with despair did the Swedes pray to the Lord of Hosts for battle. But Charnyetski did not receive battle, he bided his time; meanwhile he preferred to punish the Swedes, or let go from his hand against them single parties as one would falcons against water birds. And so they marched one after the other. There were times, however, when Charnyetski passed the Swedes, pushed on, and blocked the road before them, pretending to prepare for a general battle. Then the trumpet sounded joyously from one end of the Swedish camp to the other, and, oh miracle! new strength, a new spirit seemed to vivify on a sudden the wearied ranks of the Scandinavians. Sick, wet, weak, like Lazaruses, they stood in rank promptly for battle, with flaming faces, with fire in their eyes. Spears and muskets moved with as much accuracy as if iron hands held them; the shouts of battle were heard as loudly as if they came from the healthiest bosoms, and they marched forward to strike breast against breast. Then Charnyetski struck once, twice; but when the artillery began to thunder he withdrew his troops, leaving to the Swedes as profit, vain labor and the greater disappointment and disgust. When, however, the artillery could not come up, and spears and sabres had to decide in the open field, he struck like a thunderbolt, knowing that in a hand-to-hand conflict the Swedish cavalry could not stand, even against volunteers. And again Wittemberg implored the king to retreat and thus avoid ruin to himself and the army; but Karl Gustav in answer compressed his lips, fire flashed from his eyes, and he pointed to the south, where in the Russian regions he hoped to find Yan Kazimir, and also fields open to conquest, rest, provisions, pastures for horses, and rich plunder. Meanwhile, to complete the misfortune, those Polish regiments which had served him hitherto, and which in one way or another were now alone able to meet Charnyetski, began to leave the Swedes. Pan Zbrojek resigned first; he had held to Karl hitherto not from desire of gain, but from blind attachment to the squadron, and soldierly faithfulness to Karl. He resigned in this fashion, that he engaged in conflict with a regiment of Miller's dragoons, cut down half the men, and departed. After him resigned Pan Kalinski, who rode over the Swedish infantry. Yan Sapyeha grew gloomier each day; he was meditating something in his soul, plotting something. He had not gone hitherto himself, but his men were deserting him daily. Karl Gustav was marching then through Narol, Tsyeshanov, and Oleshytse, to reach the San. He was upheld by the hope that Yan Kazimir would bar his road and give him battle. A victory might yet repair the fate of Sweden and bring a change of fortune. In fact, rumors were current that Yan Kazimir had set out from Lvoff with the quarter soldiers and the Tartars. But Karl's reckonings deceived him. Yan Kazimir preferred to await the junction of the armies and the arrival of the Lithuanians under Sapyeha. Delay was his best ally; for he was growing daily in strength, while Karl was becoming weaker. "That is not the march of troops nor of an army, but a funeral procession!" said old warriors in Yan Kazimir's suite. Many Swedish officers shared this opinion. Karl Gustav however repeated still that he was going to Lvoff; but he was deceiving himself and his army. It was not for him to go to Lvoff, but to think of his own safety. Besides, it was not certain that he would find Yan Kazimir in Lvoff; in every event the "Polish Darius" might withdraw far into Podolia, and draw after him the enemy into distant steppes where the Swedes must perish without rescue. Douglas went to Premysl to try if that fortress would yield, and returned, not merely with nothing, but plucked. The catastrophe was coming slowly, but inevitably. All tidings brought to the Swedish camp were simply the announcement of it. Each day fresh tidings and ever more terrible. "Sapyeha is marching; he is already in Tomashov!" was repeated one day. "Lyubomirski is marching with troops and mountaineers!" was announced the day following. And again: "The king is leading the quarter soldiers and the horde one hundred thousand strong! He has joined Sapyeha!" Among these tidings were "tidings of disaster and death," untrue and exaggerated, but they always spread fear. The courage of the army fell. Formerly whenever Karl appeared in person before his regiments, they greeted him with shouts in which rang the hope of victory; now the regiments stood before him dull and dumb. And at the fires the soldiers, famished and wearied to death, whispered more of Charnyetski than of their own king. They saw him everywhere. And, a strange thing! when for a couple of days no party had perished, when a few nights passed without alarms or cries of "Allah!" and "Strike, kill!" their disquiet became still greater. "Charnyetski has fled; God knows what he is preparing!" repeated the soldiers. Karl halted a few days in Yaroslav, pondering what to do. During that time the Swedes placed on flat-bottomed boats sick soldiers, of whom there were many in camp, and sent them by the river to Sandomir, the nearest fortified town still in Swedish hands. After this work had been finished, and just when the news of Yan Kazimir's march from Lvoff had come in, the King of Sweden determined to discover where Yan Kazimir was, and with that object Colonel Kanneberg with one thousand cavalry passed the San and moved to the east. "It may be that you have in your hands the fate of the war and us all," said the king to him at parting. And in truth much depended on that party, for in the worst case Kanneberg was to furnish the camp with provisions; and if he could learn certainly where Yan Kazimir was, the Swedish King was to move at once with all his forces against the "Polish Darius," whose army he was to scatter and whose person he was to seize if he could. The first soldiers and the best horses were assigned, therefore, to Kanneberg. Choice was made the more carefully as the colonel could not take artillery or infantry; hence he must have with him men who with sabres could stand against Polish cavalry in the field. March 20, the party set out. A number of officers and soldiers took farewell of them, saying: "God conduct you! God give victory! God give a fortunate return!" They marched in a long line, being one thousand in number, and went two abreast over the newly built bridge which had one square still unfinished, but was in some fashion covered with planks so that they might pass. Good hope shone in their faces, for they were exceptionally well fed. Food had been taken from others and given to them; gorailka was poured into their flasks. When they were riding away they shouted joyfully and said to their comrades,-- "We will bring you Charnyetski himself on a rope." Fools! They knew not that they were going as go bullocks to slaughter at the shambles! Everything combined for their ruin. Barely had they crossed the river when the Swedish sappers removed the temporary covering of the bridge, so as to lay stronger planks over which cannon might pass. The thousand turned toward Vyelki Ochi, singing in low voices to themselves; their helmets glittered in the sun on the turn once and a second time; then they began to sink in the dense pine-wood. They rode forward two miles and a half,--emptiness, silence around them; the forest depths seemed vacant altogether. They halted to give breath to the horses; after that they moved slowly forward. At last they reached Vyelki Oehi, in which they found not a living soul. That emptiness astonished Kanneberg. "Evidently they have been waiting for us here," said he to Major Sweno; "but Charnyetski must be in some other place, since he has not prepared ambushes." "Does your worthiness order a return?" asked Sweno. "We will go on even to Lvoff itself, which is not very far. I must find an informant, and give the king sure information touching Yan Kazimir." "But if we meet superior forces?" "Even if we meet several thousand of those brawlers whom the Poles call general militia, we will not let ourselves be torn apart by such soldiers." "But we may meet regular troops. We have no artillery, and against them cannons are the main thing." "Then we will draw back in season and inform the king of the enemy, and those who try to cut off our retreat we will disperse." "I am afraid of the night!" replied Sweno. "We will take every precaution. We have food for men and horses for two days; we need not hurry." When they entered the pine-wood beyond Vyelki Ochi, they acted with vastly more caution. Fifty horsemen rode in advance musket in hand, each man with his gunstock on his thigh. They looked carefully on every side; examined the thickets, the undergrowth; frequently they halted, listened; sometimes they went from the road to one side to examine the depths of the forest, but neither on the roads nor at the sides was there a man. But one hour later, after they had passed a rather sudden turn, two troopers riding in advance saw a man on horseback about four hundred yards ahead. The day was clear and the sun shone brightly; hence the man could be seen as something on the hand. He was a soldier, not large, dressed very decently in foreign fashion. He seemed especially small because he sat on a large cream-colored steed, evidently of high breed. The horseman was riding at leisure, as if not seeing that troops were rolling on after him. The spring floods had dug deep ditches in the road, in which muddy water was sweeping along. The horseman spurred his steed in front of the ditches, and the beast sprang across with the nimbleness of a deer, and again went on at a trot, throwing his head and snorting vivaciously from time to time. The two troopers reined in their horses and began to look around for the sergeant. He clattered up in a moment, looked, and said: "That is some hound from the Polish kennel." "Shall I shout at him?" "Shout not; there may be more of them. Go to the colonel." Meanwhile the rest of the advance guard rode up, and all halted; the small horseman halted too, and turned the face of his steed to the Swedes as if wishing to block the road to them. For a certain time they looked at him and he at them. "There is another! a second! a third! a fourth! a whole party!" were the sudden cries in the Swedish ranks. In fact, horsemen began to pour out from both sides of the road; at first singly, then by twos, by threes. All took their places in line with him who had appeared first. But the second Swedish guard with Sweno, and then the whole detachment with Kanneberg, came up. Kanneberg and Sweno rode to the front at once. "I know those men!" cried Sweno, when he had barely seen them; "their squadron was the first to strike on Prince Waldemar at Golamb; those are Charnyetski's men. He must be here himself!" These words produced an impression; deep silence followed in the ranks, only the horses shook their bridle-bits. "I sniff some ambush," continued Sweno. "There are too few of them to meet us, but there must be others hidden in the woods." He turned here to Kanneberg: "Your worthiness, let us return." "You give good counsel," answered the colonel, frowning. "It was not worth while to set out if we must return at sight of a few ragged fellows. Why did we not return at sight of one? Forward!" The first Swedish rank moved at that moment with the greatest regularity; after it the second, the third, the fourth. The distance between the two detachments was becoming less. "Cock your muskets!" commanded Kanneberg. The Swedish muskets moved like one; their iron necks were stretched toward the Polish horsemen. But before the muskets thundered, the Polish horsemen turned their horses and began to flee in a disorderly group. "Forward!" cried Kanneberg. The division moved forward on a gallop, so that the ground trembled under the heavy hoofs of the horses. The forest was filled with the shouts of pursuers and pursued. After half an hour of chasing, either because the Swedish horses were better, or those of the Poles were wearied by some journey, the distance between the two bodies was decreasing. But at once something wonderful happened. The Polish band, at first disorderly, did not scatter more and more as the flight continued, but on the contrary, they fled in ever better order, in ranks growing more even, as if the very speed of the horses brought the riders into line. Sweno saw this, urged on his horse, reached Kanneberg, and called out,-- "Your worthiness, that is an uncommon party; those are regular soldiers, fleeing designedly and leading us to an ambush." "Will there be devils in the ambush, or men?" asked Kanneberg. The road rose somewhat and became ever wider, the forest thinner, and at the end of the road was to be seen an unoccupied field, or rather a great open space, surrounded on all sides by a dense, deep gray pine-wood. The Polish horsemen increased their pace in turn, and it transpired that hitherto they had gone slowly of purpose; for now in a short time they pushed forward so rapidly that the Swedish leader knew that he could never overtake them. But when he had come to the middle of the open plain and saw that the enemy were almost touching the other end of it, he began to restrain his men and slacken speed. But, oh marvel! the Poles, instead of sinking in the opposite forest, wheeled around at the very edge of the half-circle and returned on a gallop toward the Swedes, putting themselves at once in such splendid battle order that they roused wonder even in their opponents. "It is true!" cried Kanneberg, "those are regular soldiers. They turned as if on parade. What do they want for the hundredth time?" "They are attacking us!" cried Sweno. In fact, the squadron was moving forward at a trot. The little knight on the cream-colored steed shouted something to his men, pushed forward, again reined in his horse, gave signs with his sabre; evidently he was the leader. "They are attacking really!" said Kanneberg, with astonishment. And now the horses, with ears dropped back, were coming at the greatest speed, stretched out so that their bellies almost touched the ground. Their riders bent forward to their shoulders, and were hidden behind the horse manes. The Swedes standing in the first rank saw only hundreds of distended horse-nostrils and burning eyes. A whirlwind does not move as that squadron tore on. "God with us! Sweden! Fire!" commanded Kanneberg, raising his sword. All the muskets thundered; but at that very moment the Polish squadron fell into the smoke with such impetus that it hurled to the right and the left the first Swedish ranks, and drove itself into the density of men and horses, as a wedge is driven into a cleft log. A terrible whirl was made, breastplate struck breast-plate, sabre struck rapier; and the rattle, the whining of horses, the groan of dying men roused every echo, so that the whole pine-wood began to give back the sounds of the battle, as the steep cliffs of mountains give back the thunder. The Swedes were confused for a time, especially since a considerable number of them fell from the first blow; but soon recovering, they went powerfully against the enemy. Their flanks came together; and since the Polish squadron was pushing ahead anyhow, for it wished to pass through with a thrust, it was soon surrounded. The Swedish centre yielded before the squadron, but the flanks pressed on it with the greater power, unable to break it; for it defended itself with rage and with all that incomparable adroitness which made the Polish cavalry so terrible in hand-to-hand conflict. Sabres toiled then against rapiers, bodies fell thickly; but the victory was just turning to the Swedish side when suddenly from under the dark wall of the pinewood rolled out another squadron, and moved forward at once with a shout. The whole right wing of the Swedes, under the lead of Sweno, faced the new enemy in which the trained Swedish soldiers recognized hussars. They were led by a man on a valiant dapple gray; he wore a burka, and a wild-cat skin cap with a heron feather. He was perfectly visible to the eye, for he was riding at one side some yards from the soldiers. "Charnyetski! Charnyetski!" was the cry in the Swedish ranks. Sweno looked in despair at the sky, then pressed his horse with his knees and rushed forward with his men. But Charnyetski led his hussars a few yards farther, and when they were moving with the swiftest rush, he turned back alone. With that a third squadron issued from the forest, he galloped to that and led it forward; a fourth came out, he led that on; pointing to each with his baton, where it must strike. You would have said that he was a man leading harvesters to his field and distributing work among them. At last, when the fifth squadron had come forth from the forest, he put himself at the head of that, and with it rushed to the fight. But the hussars had already forced the right wing to the rear, and after a while had broken it completely; the three other squadrons, racing around the Swedes in Tartar fashion and raising an uproar, had thrown them into disorder; then they fell to cutting them with steel, to thrusting them with lances, scattering, trampling, and finally pursuing them amid shrieks and slaughter. Kanneberg saw that he had fallen into an ambush, and had led his detachment as it were under the knife. For him there was no thought of victory now; but he wished to save as many men as possible, hence he ordered to sound the retreat. The Swedes, therefore, turned with all speed to that same road by which they had come to Vyelki Ochi; but Charnyetski's men so followed them that the breaths of the Polish horses warmed the shoulders of the Swedes. In these conditions and in view of the terror which had seized the Swedish cavalry, that return could not take place in order; and soon Kanneberg's brilliant division was turned into a crowd fleeing in disorder and slaughtered almost without resistance. The longer the pursuit lasted, the more irregular it became; for the Poles did not pursue in order, each of them drove his horse according to the breath in the beast's nostrils, and attacked and slew whom he wished. Both sides were mingled and confused in one mass. Some Polish soldiers passed the last Swedish ranks; and it happened that when a Pole stood in his stirrups to strike with more power the man fleeing in front of him, he fell himself thrust with a rapier from behind. The road to Vyelki Ochi was strewn with Swedish corpses; but the end of the chase was not there. Both sides rushed with the same force along the road through the next forest; there however the Swedish horses, wearied first, began to go more slowly, and the slaughter became still more bloody. Some of the Swedes sprang from their beasts and vanished in the forest; but only a few did so, for the Swedes knew from experience that peasants were watching in the forest, and they preferred to die from sabres rather than from terrible tortures, of which the infuriated people were not sparing. Some asked quarter, but for the most part in vain; for each Pole chose to slay an enemy, and chase on rather than take him prisoner, guard him, and leave further pursuit. They cut then without mercy, so that no one might return with news of the defeat. Volodyovski was in the van of pursuit with the Lauda squadron. He was that horseman who had appeared first to the Swedes as a decoy; he had struck first, and now, sitting on a horse which was as if impelled by a whirlwind, he enjoyed himself with his whole soul, wishing to be sated with blood, and avenge the defeat of Golamb. Every little while he overtook a horseman, and when he had overtaken him he quenched him as quickly as he would a candle; sometimes he came on the shoulders of two, three, or four, but soon, only in a moment, that same number of horses ran riderless before him. More than one hapless Swede caught his own rapier by the point, and turning the hilt to the knight for quarter implored with voice and with eyes. Volodyovski did not stop, but thrusting his sabre into the man where the neck joins the breast, he gave him a light, small push, and the man dropped his hands, gave forth one and a second word with pale lips, then sank in the darkness of death. Volodyovski, not looking around, rushed on and pushed new victims to the earth. The valiant Sweno took note of this terrible harvester, and summoning a few of the best horsemen he determined with the sacrifice of his own life to restrain even a little of the pursuit in order to save others. They turned therefore their horses, and pointing their rapiers waited with the points toward the pursuers. Volodyovski, seeing this, hesitated not a moment, spurred on his horse, and fell into the midst of them. And before any one could have winked, two helmets had fallen. More than ten rapiers were directed at once to the single breast of Volodyovski; but at that instant rushed in Pan Yan and Pan Stanislav, Yuzva Butrym, Zagloba and Roh Kovalski, of whom Zagloba related, that even when going to the attack he had his eyes closed in sleep, and woke only when his breast struck the breast of an enemy. Volodyovski put himself under the saddle so quickly that the rapiers passed through empty air. He learned this method from the Tartars of Bailgorod; but being small and at the same time adroit beyond human belief, he brought it to such perfection that he vanished from the eye when he wished, either behind the shoulder or under the belly of the horse. So he vanished this time, and before the astonished Swedes could understand what had become of him he was erect on the saddle again, terrible as a wild-cat which springs down from lofty branches among frightened dogs. Meanwhile his comrades gave him aid, and bore around death and confusion. One of the Swedes held a pistol to the very breast of Zagloba. Roh Kovalski, having that enemy on his left side, was unable to strike him with a sabre; but he balled his fist, struck the Swede's head in passing, and that man dropped under the horse as if a thunderbolt had met him, and Zagloba, giving forth a shout of delight, slashed in the temple Sweno himself, who dropped his hands and fell with his forehead to the horse's shoulder. At sight of this the other Swedes scattered. Volodyovski, Yuzva Footless, Pan Yan, and Pan Stanislav followed and cut them down before they had gone a hundred yards. And the pursuit lasted longer. The Swedish horses had less and less breath in their bodies, and ran more and more slowly. At last from a thousand of the best horsemen, which had gone out under Kanneberg, there remained barely a hundred and some tens; the rest had fallen in a long belt over the forest road. And this last group was decreasing, for Polish hands ceased not to toil over them. At last they came out of the forest. The towers of Yaroslav were outlined clearly in the azure sky. Now hope entered the hearts of the fleeing, for they knew that in Yaroslav was the king with all his forces, and at any moment he might come to their aid. They had forgotten that immediately after their passage the top had been taken from the last square of the bridge, so as to put stronger planks for the passage of cannon. Whether Charnyetski knew of this through his spies, or wished to show himself of purpose to the Swedish king and cut down before his eyes the last of those unfortunate men, it is enough that not only did he not restrain the pursuit, but he sprang forward himself with the Shemberk squadron, slashed, cut with his own hand, pursuing the crowd in such fashion as if he wished with that same speed to strike Yaroslav. At last they ran to within a furlong of the bridge; shouts from the field came to the Swedish camp. A multitude of soldiers and officers ran out from the town to see what was taking place beyond the river; they had barely looked when they saw and recognized the horsemen who had gone out of camp in the morning. "Kanneberg's detachment! Kanneberg's detachment!" cried thousands of voices. "Almost cut to pieces! Scarcely a hundred men are running!" At that moment the king himself galloped up; with him Wittemberg, Forgell, Miller, and other generals. The king grew pale. "Kanneberg!" said he. "By Christ and his wounds! the bridge is not finished," cried Wittemberg; "the enemy will cut them down to the last man." The king looked at the river, which had risen with spring waters, roaring with its yellow waves; to give aid by swimming was not to be thought of. The few men still left were coming nearer. Now there was a new cry: "The king's train and the guard are coming! They too will perish!" In fact, it had happened that a part of the king's provision-chests with a hundred men of the infantry guard had come out at that moment by another road from adjoining forests. When they saw what had happened, the men of the escort, in the conviction that the bridge was ready, hastened with all speed toward the town. But they were seen from the field by the Poles. Immediately about three hundred horsemen rushed toward them at full speed; in front of all, with sabre above his head and fire in his eyes, flew the tenant of Vansosh, Jendzian. Not many proofs had he given hitherto of his bravery; but at sight of the wagons in which there might be rich plunder, daring so rose in his heart that he went some tens of yards in advance of the others. The infantry at the wagons, seeing that they could not escape, formed themselves into a quadrangle, and a hundred muskets were directed at once at the breast of Jendzian. A roar shook the air, a line of smoke flew along the wall of the quadrangle; but before the smoke had cleared away the rider had urged on his horse so that the forefeet of the beast were above the heads of the men, and the lord tenant fell into the midst of them like a thunderbolt. An avalanche of horsemen rushed after him. And as when wolves overcome a horse, and he, lying yet on his back, defends himself desperately with his hoofs, and they cover him completely and tear from him lumps of living flesh, so those wagons and the infantry were covered completely with a whirling mass of horses and riders. But terrible shouts rose from that whirl, and reached the ears of the Swedes standing on the other bank. Meanwhile still nearer the bank the Poles were finishing the remnant of Kanneberg's cavalry. The whole Swedish army had come out like one man to the lofty bank of the San. Infantry, cavalry, artillery were mingled together; and all looked as if in an ancient circus in Rome at the spectacle; but they looked with set lips, with despair in their hearts, with terror and a feeling of helplessness. At moments from the breasts of those unwilling spectators was wrested a terrible cry. At moments a general weeping was heard; then again silence, and only the panting of the excited soldiers was audible. For that thousand men whom Kanneberg had led out were the front and the pride of the whole Swedish army; they were veterans, covered with glory in God knows how many lands, and God knows how many battles. But now they are running, like a lost flock of sheep, over the broad fields in front of the Swedish army, dying like sheep under the knife of the butcher. For that was no longer a battle, but a hunt. The terrible Polish horsemen circled about, like a storm, over the field of struggle, crying in various voices and running ahead of the Swedes. Sometimes a number less than ten, sometimes a group more than ten fell on one man. Sometimes one met one, sometimes the hunted Swede bowed down on the saddle as if to lighten the blow for the enemy, sometimes he withstood the brunt: but oftener he perished, for with edged weapons the Swedish soldiers were not equal to Polish nobles trained in all kinds of fencing. But among the Poles the little knight was the most terrible of all, sitting on his cream-colored steed, which was as nimble and as swift as a falcon. The whole army noted him; for whomsoever he pursued he killed, whoever met him perished it was unknown how and when, with such small and insignificant movements of his sword did he hurl the sturdiest horsemen to the earth. At last he saw Kanneberg himself, whom more than ten men were chasing; the little knight shouted at them, stopped the pursuit by command, and attacked the Swede himself. The Swedes on the other bank held the breath in their breasts. The king had pushed to the edge of the river and looked with throbbing heart, moved at once with alarm and hope; for Kanneberg, as a great lord and a relative of the king, was trained from childhood in every species of sword exercise by Italian masters; in fighting with edged weapons he had not his equal in the Swedish army. All eyes therefore were fixed on him now, barely did they dare to breathe; but he, seeing that the pursuit of the crowd had ceased, and wishing after the loss of his troops to save his own glory in the eyes of the king, said to his gloomy soul,-- "Woe to me if having first lost my men, I do not seal with my own blood the shame, or if I do not purchase my life by having overturned this terrible man. In another event, though the hand of God might bear me to that bank, I should not dare to look in the eyes of any Swede." When he had said this he turned his horse and rushed toward the yellow knight. Since those Poles who had cut him off from the river had withdrawn, Kanneberg had the hope that if he should finish his opponent, he might spring into the water, and then what would be would be; if he could not swim the stormy stream, its current would bear him far with the horse, and his brothers would provide him some rescue. He sprang therefore like a thunderbolt at the little knight, and the little knight at him. The Swede wished during the rush to thrust the rapier up to the hilt under the arm of his opponent; but he learned in an instant that though a master himself he must meet a master as well, for his sword merely slipped along the edge of the Polish sabre, only quivered somehow wonderfully in his hand, as if his arm had suddenly grown numb; barely was he able to defend himself from the blow which the knight then gave him; luckily at that moment their horses bore them away in opposite directions. Both wheeled in a circle and returned simultaneously; but they rode now more slowly against each other, wishing to have more time for the meeting and even to cross weapons repeatedly. Kanneberg withdrew into himself so that he became like a bird which presents to view only a powerful beak from the midst of upraised feathers. He knew one infallible thrust in which a certain Florentine had trained him,--infallible because deceitful and almost impossible to be warded off,--consisting in this: that the point of the sword was directed apparently at the breast, but by avoiding obstacles at the side it passed through the throat till the hilt reached the back of the neck. This thrust he determined to make now. And, sure of himself, he approached, restraining his horse more and more; but Volodyovski rode toward him with short springs. For a moment he thought to disappear suddenly under the horse like a Tartar, but since he had to meet with only one man, and that before the eyes of both armies, though he understood that some unexpected thrust was waiting for him, he was ashamed to defend himself in Tartar and not in knightly fashion. "He wishes to take me as a heron does a falcon with a thrust," thought Pan Michael to himself; "but I will use that windmill which I invented in Lubni." And this idea seemed to him best for the moment; therefore it surrounded him like a glittering shield of light, and he struck his steed with his spurs and rushed on Kanneberg. Kanneberg drew himself in still more, and almost grew to the horse; in the twinkle of an eye the rapier caught the sabre, and quickly he stuck out his head like a snake and made a ghastly thrust. But in that instant a terrible whirling began to sound, the rapier turned in the hands of the Swede; the point struck empty space, but the curved end of the sabre fell with the speed of lightning; on the face of Kanneberg, cut through a part of his nose, his mouth and beard, struck his shoulder-blade, shattered that, and stopped only at the sword-belt which crossed his shoulder. The rapier dropped from the hands of the unfortunate man, and night embraced his head; but before he fell from his horse, Volodyovski dropped his own weapon and seized him by the shoulder. The Swedes from the other bank roared with one out burst, but Zagloba sprang to the little knight. "Pan Michael, I knew it would be so, but I was ready to avenge you!" "He was a master," answered Volodyovski. "You take the horse, for he is a good one." "Ha! if it were not for the river we could rush over and frolic with those fellows. I would be the first--" The whistle of balls interrupted further words of Zagloba; therefore he did not finish the expression of his thoughts, but cried,-- "Let us go, Pan Michael; those traitors are ready to fire." "Their bullets have no force, for the range is too great." Meanwhile other Polish horsemen came up congratulating Volodyovski and looking at him with admiration; but he only moved his mustaches, for he was a cause of gladness to himself as well as to them. But on the other bank among the Swedes, it was seething as in a beehive. Artillerists on that side drew out their cannons in haste; and in the nearer Polish ranks trumpets were sounded for withdrawal. At this sound each man sprang to his squadron, and in a moment all were in order. They withdrew then to the forest, and halted again, as if offering a place to the enemy and inviting them across the river. At last, in front of the ranks of men and horses, rode out on his dapple gray the man wearing a burka and a cap with a heron's feather, and bearing a gilded baton in his hand. He was perfectly visible, for the reddish rays of the setting sun fell on him, and besides he rode before the regiments as if reviewing them. All the Swedes knew him at once, and began to shout,-- "Charnyetski! Charnyetski!" He said something to the colonels. It was seen how he stopped longer with the knight who had slain Kanneberg, and placed his hand on his shoulder; then he raised his baton, and the squadrons began to turn slowly one after another to the pine-woods. Just then the sun went down. In Yaroslav the bells sounded in the church; then all the regiments began to sing in one voice as they were riding away, "The Angel of the Lord announced to the Most Holy Virgin Mary;" and with that song they vanished from the eyes of the Swedes. CHAPTER XXXI. That evening the Swedes lay down to sleep without putting food into their mouths, and without hope that they would have anything to strengthen themselves with on the morrow. They were not able to sleep from the torment of hunger. Before the second cock-crow the suffering soldiers began to slip out of the camp singly and in crowds to plunder villages adjoining Yaroslav. They went like night-thieves to Radzymno, to Kanchuya, to Tychyno, where they hoped to find food of some kind. Their confidence was increased by the fact that Charnyetski was on the other side of the river; but even had he been able to cross, they preferred death to hunger. There was evidently a great relaxation in the camp, for despite the strictest orders of the king about fifteen hundred men went out in this way. They fell to ravaging the neighborhood, burning, plundering, killing; but scarcely a man of them was to return. Charnyetski was on the other side of the San, it is true, but on the left bank were various "parties" of nobles and peasants; of these the strongest, that of Stjalkovski, formed of daring nobles of the mountains, had come that very night to Prohnik, as if led by the evil fate of the Swedes. When he saw the fire and heard the shots, Stjalkovski went straight to the uproar and fell upon the plunderers. They defended themselves fiercely behind fences; but Stjalkovski broke them up, cut them to pieces, spared no man. In other villages other parties did work of the same kind. Fugitives were followed to the very camp, and the pursuers spread alarm and confusion, shouting in Tartar, in Wallachian, in Hungarian, and in Polish; so that the Swedes thought that some powerful auxiliary of the Poles was attacking them, maybe the Khan with the whole horde. Confusion began, and--a thing without example hitherto--panic, which the officers put down with the greatest effort. The king, who remained on horseback till daylight, saw what was taking place; he understood what might come of that, and called a council of war at once in the morning. That gloomy council did not last long, for there were not two roads to choose from. Courage had fallen in the army, the soldiers had nothing to eat, the enemy had grown in power. The Swedish Alexander, who had promised the whole world to pursue the Polish Darius even to the steppes of the Tartars, was forced to think no longer of pursuit, but of his own safety. "We can return by the San to Sandomir, thence by the Vistula to Warsaw and to Prussia," said Wittemberg; "in that way we shall escape destruction." Douglas seized his own head: "So many victories, so many toils, such a great country conquered, and we must return." To which Wittemberg said: "Has your worthiness any advice?" "I have not," answered Douglas. The king, who had said nothing hitherto, rose, as a sign that the session was ended, and said, "I command the retreat!" Not a word further was heard from his mouth that day. Drums began to rattle, and trumpets to sound. News that the retreat was ordered ran in a moment from one end of the camp to the other. It was received with shouts of delight. Fortresses and castles were still in the hands of the Swedes; and in them rest, food, and safety were waiting. The generals and soldiers betook themselves so zealously to preparing for retreat that that zeal, as Douglas remarked, bordered on disgrace. The king sent Douglas with the vanguard to repair the difficult crossings and clear the forests. Soon after him moved the whole army in order of battle; the front was covered by artillery, the rear by wagons, at the flanks marched infantry. Military supplies and tents sailed down the river on boats. All these precautions were not superfluous; barely had the march begun, when the rearguard of the Swedes saw Polish cavalry behind, and thenceforth they lost it almost never from sight. Charnyetski assembled his own squadrons, collected all the "parties" of that region, sent to Yan Kazimir for reinforcements, and pursued. The first stopping-place, Pjevorsk, was at the same time the first place of alarm. The Polish divisions pushed up so closely that several thousand infantry with artillery had to turn against them. For a time the king himself thought that Charnyetski was really attacking; but according to his wont he only sent detachment after detachment. These attacked with an uproar and retreated immediately. All the night passed in these encounters,--a troublesome and sleepless night for the Swedes. The whole march, all the following nights and days were to be like this one. Meanwhile Yan Kazimir sent two squadrons of very well trained cavalry, and with them a letter stating that the hetmans would soon march with cavalry, and that he himself with the rest of the infantry and with the horde would hasten after them. In fact, he was detained only by negotiations with the Khan, with Rakotsy, and with the court of Vienna. Charnyetski was rejoiced beyond measure by this news; and when the day after the Swedes advanced in the wedge between the Vistula and the San, he said to Colonel Polyanovski,-- "The net is spread, the fish are going in." "And we will do like that fisherman," said Zagloba, "who played on the flute to the fish so that they might dance, and when they would not, he pulled them on shore; then they began to jump around, and he fell to striking them with a stick, crying: 'Oh, such daughters! you ought to have danced when I begged you to do so.'" "They will dance," answered Charnyetski; "only let the marshal, Pan Lyubomirski, come with his army, which numbers five thousand." "He may come any time," remarked Volodyovski. "Some nobles from the foot-hills arrived to-day," said Zagloba; "they say that he is marching in haste; but whether he will join us instead of fighting on his own account is another thing." "How is that?" asked Charnyetski, glancing quickly at Zagloba. "He is a man of uncommon ambition and envious of glory. I have known him many years; I was his confidant and made his acquaintance when he was still a lad, at the court of Pan Krakovski. He was learning fencing at that time from Frenchmen and Italians. He fell into terrible anger one day when I told him that they were fools, not one of whom could stand before me. We had a duel, and I laid out seven of them one following the other. After that Lyubomirski learned from me, not only fencing, but the military art. By nature his wit is a little dull; but whatever he knows he knows from me." "Are you then such a master of the sword?" asked Polyanovski. "As a specimen of my teaching, take Pan Volodyovski; he is my second pupil. From that man I have real comfort." "True, it was you who killed Sweno." "Sweno? If some one of you, gentlemen, had done that deed, he would have had something to talk about all his life, and besides would invite his neighbors often to dinner to repeat the story at wine; but I do not mind it, for if I wished to take in all I have done, I could pave the road from this place to Sandomir with such Swenos. Could I not? Tell me, any of you who know me." "Uncle could do it," said Roh Kovalski. Charnyetski did not hear the continuation of this dialogue, for he had fallen to thinking deeply over Zagloba's words. He too knew of Lyubomirski's ambition, and doubted not that the marshal would either impose his own will on him, or would act on his own account, even though that should bring harm to the Commonwealth. Therefore his stern face became gloomy, and he began to twist his beard. "Oho!" whispered Zagloba to Pan Yan, "Charnyetski is chewing something bitter, for his face is like the face of an eagle; he will snap up somebody soon." Then Charnyetski said: "Some one of you, gentlemen, should go with a letter from me to Lyubomirski." "I am known to him, and I will go," said Pan Yan. "That is well," answered Charnyetski; "the more noted the messenger, the better." Zagloba turned to Volodyovski and whispered: "He is speaking now through the nose; that is a sign of great change." In fact, Charnyetski had a silver palate, for a musket-ball had carried away his own years before at Busha. Therefore whenever he was roused, angry, and unquiet, he always began to speak with a sharp and clinking voice. Suddenly he turned to Zagloba: "And perhaps you would go with Pan Skshetuski?" "Willingly," answered Zagloba. "If I cannot do anything, no man can. Besides, to a man of such great birth it will be more proper to send two." Charnyetski compressed his lips, twisted his beard, and repeated as if to himself: "Great birth, great birth--" "No one can deprive Lyubomirski of that," remarked Zagloba. Charnyetski frowned. "The Commonwealth alone is great, and in comparison with it no family is great, all of them are small; and I would the earth swallowed those who make mention of their greatness." All were silent, for he had spoken with much vehemence; and only after some time did Zagloba say,-- "In comparison with the whole Commonwealth, certainly." "I did not grow up out of salt, nor out of the soil, but out of that which pains me," said Charnyetski; "and the Cossacks who shot this lip through pained me, and now the Swedes pain me; and either I shall cut away this sore with the sabre, or die of it myself, so help me God!" "And we will help you with our blood!" said Polyanovski. Charnyetski ruminated some time yet over the bitterness which rose in his heart, over the thought that the marshal's ambition might hinder him in saving the country; at last he grew calm and said,-- "Now it is necessary to write a letter. I ask you, gentlemen, to come with me." Pan Yan and Zagloba followed him, and half an hour later they were on horseback and riding back toward Radymno; for there was news that the marshal had halted there with his army. "Yan," said Zagloba, feeling of the bag in which he carried Charnyetski's letter, "do me a favor; let me be the only one to talk to the marshal." "But, father, have you really known him, and taught him fencing?" "Hei! that came out of itself, so that the breath should not grow hot in my mouth, and my tongue become soft, which might easily happen from too long silence. I neither knew him nor taught him. Just as if I had nothing better to do than be a bear-keeper, and teach the marshal how to walk on hind legs! But that is all one; I have learned him through and through from what people tell of him, and I shall be able to bend him as a cook bends pastry. Only one thing I beg of you: do not say that we have a letter from Charnyetski, and make no mention of it till I give the letter myself." "How is that? Should I not do the work for which I was sent? In my life such a thing has not happened, and it will not happen! Even if Charnyetski should forgive me, I would not do that for ready treasure." "Then I will draw my sabre and hamstring your horse so that you cannot follow me. Have you ever seen anything miscarry that I invented with my own head? Tell me, have you ever come into evil plight yourself with Zagloba's stratagems? Did Pan Michael come out badly, or your Helena, or any of you, when I freed you all from Radzivill's hands? I tell you that more harm than good may come of that letter; for Charnyetski wrote it in such agitation that he broke three pens. Finally, you can speak of it when my plans fail. I promise to give it then, but not before." "If I can only deliver the letter, it is all one when." "I ask for no more. Now on, for there is a terrible road before us." They urged the horses, and went at a gallop. But they did not need to ride long, for the marshal's vanguard had not only passed Radymno, but Yaroslav; and Lyubomirski himself was at Yaroslav, and occupied the former quarters of the King of Sweden. They found him at dinner, with the most important officers. But when the envoys were announced, Lyubomirski gave orders to receive them at once; for he knew the names, since they were mentioned at that time in the whole Commonwealth. All eyes were turned on the envoys as they entered; the officers looked with especial admiration and curiosity at Pan Yan. When the marshal had greeted them courteously, he asked at once,-- "Have I that famous knight before me who brought the letters from besieged Zbaraj to the king?" "I crept through," said Pan Yan. "God grant me as many such officers as possible! I envy Pan Charnyetski nothing so much; as to the rest, I know that even my small services will not perish from the memory of men." "And I am Zagloba," said the old knight, pushing himself forward. Here he passed his eye around the assembly; and the marshal, as he wished to attract every one to himself, exclaimed,-- "Who does not know of the man who slew Burlai, the leader of the barbarians; of the man who raised Radzivill's army in rebellion--" "And I led Sapyeha's army, who, if the truth is told, chose me, not him for leader," added Zagloba. "And why did you wish, being able to have such a high office, to leave it and serve under Pan Charnyetski?" Here Zagloba's eye gleamed at Skshetuski, and he said: "Serene great mighty marshal, from your worthiness I as well as the whole country take example how to resign ambition and self-interest for the good of the Commonwealth." Lyubomirski blushed from satisfaction, and Zagloba, putting his hands on his hips, continued,-- "Pan Charnyetski has sent us to bow to your worthiness in his name and that of the whole army, and at the same time to inform you of the considerable victory which God has permitted us to gain over Kanneberg." "I have heard of it already," said the marshal, dryly enough, in whom envy had now begun to move, "but gladly do I hear it again from an eyewitness." Zagloba began at once to relate, but with certain changes, for the forces of Kanneberg grew in his mouth to two thousand men. He did not forget either to mention Sweno or himself, and how before the eyes of the king the remnant of the cavalry were cut to pieces near the river; how the wagons and three hundred men of the guards fell into the hands of the fortunate conquerors; in a word, the victory increased in his narrative to the dimensions of an unspeakable misfortune for the Swedes. All listened with attention, and so did the marshal; but he grew gloomier and gloomier, his face was chilled as if by ice, and at last he said,-- "I do not deny that Charnyetski is a celebrated warrior, but still he cannot devour all the Swedes himself; something will remain for others to gulp." "Serene great mighty lord," answered Zagloba, "it is not Pan Charnyetski who gained the victory." "But who?" "But Lyubomirski!" A moment of universal astonishment followed. The marshal opened his mouth, began to wink, and looked at Zagloba with such an astonished gaze, as if he wished to ask: "Is there not a stave lacking in your barrel?" Zagloba did not let himself be beaten from the track, but pouting his lips with great importance (he borrowed this gesture from Zamoyski), said,-- "I heard Charnyetski say before the whole army: 'It is not our sabres that slay them; 'tis the name of Lyubomirski that cuts them down. Since they have heard that he is right here marching on, their courage has so gone out of them that they see in every one of our soldiers the army of the marshal, and they put their heads under the knife like sheep.'" If all the rays of the sun had fallen at once on the face of the marshal, that face could not have been more radiant. "How is that?" asked he; "did Charnyetski himself say that?" "He did, and many other things; but I do not know that 'tis proper for me to repeat them, for he told them only to intimates." "Tell! Every word of Pan Charnyetski deserves to be repeated a hundred times. He is an uncommon man, and I said so long ago." Zagloba looked at the marshal, half closing his one eye, and muttered: "You have swallowed the hook; I'll land you this minute." "What do you say?" asked the marshal. "I say that the army cheered your worthiness in such fashion that they could not have cheered the king better; and in Pjevorsk, where we fought all night with the Swedes, wherever a squadron sprang out the men cried: 'Lyubomirski! Lyubomirski!' and that had a better effect than 'Allah!' and 'Slay, kill!' There is a witness here too,--Pan Skshetuski, no common soldier, and a man who has never told a lie in his life." The marshal looked involuntarily at Pan Yan, who blushed to his ears, and muttered something through his nose. Meanwhile the officers of the marshal began to praise the envoys aloud,-- "See, Pan Charnyetski has acted courteously, sending such polished cavaliers; both are famous knights, and honey simply flows from the mouth of one of them." "I have always understood that Pan Charnyetski was a well-wisher of mine, but now there is nothing that I would not do for him," cried the marshal, whose eyes were veiled with a mist from delight. At this Zagloba broke into enthusiasm: "Serene great mighty lord, who would not render homage to you, who would not honor you, the model of all civic virtues, who recall Aristides in justice, the Scipios in bravery! I have read many books in my time, have seen much, have meditated much, and my soul has been rent from pain; for what have I seen in this Commonwealth? The Opalinskis, the Radzeyovskis, the Radzivills, who by their personal pride, setting their own ambition above all things, were ready at every moment to desert the country for their own private gain. I thought further, this Commonwealth is lost through the viciousness of its own sons. But who has comforted me, who has consoled me in my suffering? Pan Charnyetski, for he said: 'The Commonwealth has not perished, since Lyubomirski has risen up in it. These others,' said he, 'think of themselves alone; he is only looking, only seeking how to make an offering of his own interests on the common altar. These are pushing themselves forward; he is pushing himself back, for he wants to illustrate by his example. Now,' said he, 'he is marching with a powerful conquering army, and I have heard,' said he, 'that he wishes to give me the command over it, in order to teach others how they should sacrifice their ambition, though even just, for the country. Go, then,' said he, 'to Pan Lyubomirski, declare to him that I do not want the sacrifice, I do not desire it, since he is a better leader than I am; since, moreover, not only as leader, but--God grant our Kazimir a long life!--as king are we ready to choose him, and--we will choose him!'" Here Zagloba was somewhat frightened lest he had passed the measure, and really after the exclamation, "We will choose him!" followed silence; but before the magnate heaven opened; he grew somewhat pale at first, then red, then pale again, and laboring heavily with his breast, said, after the silence of a moment,-- "The Commonwealth is and will ever remain in control of its own will, for on that ancient foundation do our liberties rest. But I am only a servant of its servants, and God is my witness that I do not raise my eyes to those heights at which a citizen should not gaze. As to command over the army, Pan Charnyetski must accept it. I demand it especially for this, to give an example to those who, having continually the greatness of their family in mind, are unwilling to recognize any authority whenever it is necessary to forget the greatness of their family for the good of the country. Therefore, though perhaps I am not such a bad leader, still I, Lyubomirski, enter willingly under the command of Charnyetski, praying to God only to send us victory over the enemy!" "Roman! Father of the country!" exclaimed Zagloba, seizing the marshal's hand and pressing it to his lips. But at the same moment the old rogue turned his eye on Pan Yan, and began to wink time after time. Thundering shouts were heard from the officers. The throng in the quarters increased with each moment. "Wine!" cried the marshal. And when they brought in goblets he raised at once a toast to the king, then to Charnyetski, whom he called his leader, and finally to the envoys. Zagloba did not remain behind with the toasts, and he so caught the hearts of all that the marshal himself conducted them to the threshold, and the knights to the gates of Yaroslav. At last Pan Yan and Zagloba were alone; then Zagloba stopped the road in front of Pan Yan, reined in his horse, and putting his hands on his hips, said,-- "Well, Yan, what do you think?" "God knows," answered Pan Yan, "that if I had not seen it with my own eyes and heard it with my own ears, I would not believe, even if an angel had told me." "Ha! do you know? I will swear to you that Charnyetski himself at the most asked and begged Lyubomirski to go in company with him. And do you know what he would have done? Lyubomirski would have gone alone; for if Charnyetski has adjured in the letter by the love of country, or if he mentioned private interests, and I am sure that he has, the marshal would have been offended at once, and would have said: 'Does he want to be my preceptor, and teach me how to serve the country?' I know those men! Happily old Zagloba took the matter in hand, and hardly had he opened his mouth when Lyubomirski not only wanted to go with Charnyetski, but to go under his command. Charnyetski is killing himself with anxiety, but I will comfort him. Well, Yan, does Zagloba know how to manage the magnates?" "I tell you that I am not able to let the breath go from my lips from astonishment." "I know them! Show one of them a crown and a corner of the ermine robe, and you may rub him against the grain like a hound pup, and besides, he will bend up to you and present his back himself. No cat will so lick his chops, even if you hold before him a dinner of pure cheese. The eyes of the most honest of them will be bursting out from desire; and if a scoundrel happens, such as the voevoda of Vilna, he is ready to betray the country. Oh, the vanity of man! Lord Jesus! if Thou hadst given me as many thousands of ducats as Thou hast created candidates for this crown, I should be a candidate myself. For if any of them imagines that I hold myself inferior to him, then may his stomach burst from his own pride. Zagloba is as good as Lyubomirski; in fortune alone is the difference. This is true, Yan. Do you think that I really kissed him on the hand? I kissed my own thumb, and shoved his hand up to my nose. Certain it is that since he is alive no one has so fooled him. I have spread him like butter on toast for Charnyetski. God grant our king as long a life as possible; but in case of election, I would rather give a vote to myself than to Lyubomirski. Roh Kovalski would give me another, and Pan Michael would strike down my opponents. As God lives! I would make you grand hetman of the kingdom straightway, and Pan Michael, after Sapyeha, grand hetman of Lithuania,--but Jendzian, treasurer. He would punish the Jews with taxes! But enough; the main thing is that I have caught Lyubomirski on a hook and put the line in Charnyetski's hand. For whomsoever the flour, it will be ground on the Swedes; and whose is the merit? What do you think? Should the chroniclers inscribe it to some one else? But I have no luck. It will be well even if Charnyetski does not break out on the old man for not having given the letter. Such is human gratitude. This is not my first, not my first--others are sitting in starostaships, and are grown around with fat, like badgers; but do you, old man, shake your poor stomach on a horse as before." Here Zagloba waved his hand. "Human gratitude may go to the hangman! And whether in this or that position you must die, still it is pleasant to serve the country. The best reward is good company. As soon as a man is on horseback, then, with such comrades as you and Michael, he is ready to ride to the end of the world,--such is our Polish nature. If a German, a Frenchman, an Englishman, or a dark Spaniard is on horseback, he is ready at once to gallop into your eyes; but a Pole, having inborn patience, will endure much, and will permit even a Swedish fellow to pluck him; but when the limit is passed and the Pole whacks him in the snout, such a Swede will cover himself three times with his legs. For there is metal yet in the Poles, and while the metal lasts the Commonwealth will last. Beat that into yourself, Yan." And so spoke Zagloba for a long time, for he was very glad; and whenever he was very glad he was talkative beyond usual measure, and full of wise sentences. CHAPTER XXXII. Charnyetski, in truth, did not even dare to think that the marshal of the kingdom would put himself under his command. He wished merely joint action, and he feared that even that would not be attained because of the great ambition of Lyubomirski; for the proud magnate had mentioned more than once to his officers that he wished to attack the Swedes independently, for thus he could effect something; but if he and Charnyetski won a victory together, the whole glory would flow to Charnyetski. Such was the case, in fact. Charnyetski understood the marshal's reasons, and was troubled. He was reading now, for the tenth time, the copy of the letter which he had sent from Pjevorsk, wishing to see if he had written anything to offend so irritable a man as Lyubomirski. He regretted certain phrases; finally he began to regret, on the whole, that he had sent the letter. Therefore he was sitting gloomy in his quarters, and every little while he approached the window and looked out on the road to see if the envoys were not returning. The officers saw him through the window, and divined what was passing in his mind, for evident trouble was on his forehead. "But look," said Polyanovski to Pan Michael, "there will be nothing pleasant, for the castellan's face has become spotted, and that is a bad sign." Charnyetski's face bore numerous traces of small-pox, and in moments of great emotion or disquiet it was covered with white and dark spots. As he had sharp features, a very high forehead and cloudy, Jupiter brows, a bent nose, and a glance cutting straight through, when in addition those spots appeared, he became terrible. The Cossacks in their time called him the spotted dog; but in truth, he was more like a spotted eagle, and when he led men to the attack and his burka spread out like great wings, the likeness struck both his own men and the enemy. He roused fear in these and those. During the Cossack wars leaders of powerful bands lost their heads when forced to act against Charnyetski. Hmelnitski himself feared him, but especially the counsels which he gave the king. They brought upon the Cossacks the terrible defeat of Berestechko. But his fame increased chiefly after Berestechko, when, together with the Tartars, he passed over the steppes like a flame, crushed the uprisen crowds, took towns and trenches by storm, rushing with the speed of a whirlwind from one end of the Ukraine to the other. With this same raging endurance was he plucking the Swedes now. "Charnyetski does not knock out my men, he steals them away," said Karl Gustav. But Charnyetski was tired of stealing away; he thought that the time had come to strike. But he lacked artillery and infantry altogether, without which nothing decisive could be done, nothing important effected; hence his eagerness for a junction with Lyubomirski, who had a small number of cannon, it is true, but brought with him infantry composed of mountaineers. These, though not over-much trained as yet, had still been under fire more than once, and might, for want of better, be used against the incomparable infantry legions of Karl Gustav. Charnyetski, therefore, was as if in a fever. Not being able to endure in the house, he went outside, and seeing Volodyovski and Polyanovski, he asked,-- "Are the envoys not in sight?" "It is clear that they are glad to see them," answered Volodyovski. "They are glad to see them, but not glad to read my letter, or the marshal would have sent his answer." "Pan Castellan," said Polyanovski, whom Charnyetski trusted greatly, "why be careworn? If the marshal comes, well; if not, we will attack as of old. As it is, blood is flowing from the Swedish pot; and we know that when a pot once begins to leak, everything will run out of it." "There is a leak in the Commonwealth too," said Charnyetski. "If the Swedes escape this time, they will be reinforced, succor will come to them from Prussia, our chance will be lost." Then he struck his side with his hand in sign of impatience. Just then was heard the tread of horses and the bass voice of Zagloba singing,-- "Kaska to the bakehouse went her way, And Stah said to her, 'Take me in, let me in, My love. For the snow is falling, and the wind is blowing; Where shall I, poor fellow, put my head Till morning?'" "It is a good sign! They are returning joyously," cried Polyanovski. That moment the envoys, seeing Charnyetski, sprang from their saddles, gave their horses to an attendant, and went quickly to the entrance. Zagloba threw his cap suddenly into the air, and imitating the voice of the marshal so excellently that whoever was not looking on might be deceived, cried,-- "Vivat Pan Charnyetski, our leader!" The castellan frowned, and asked quickly: "Is there a letter for me?" "There is not," answered Zagloba; "there is something better. The marshal with his army passes voluntarily under command of your worthiness." Charnyetski pierced him with a look, then turned to Pan Yan, as if wishing to say: "Speak you, for this one has been drinking!" Zagloba was in fact a little drunk; but Skshetuski confirmed his words, hence astonishment was reflected on the face of the castellan. "Come with me," said he to the two. "I beg you also," said he to Polyanovski and Pan Michael. All entered his room. They had not sat down yet when Charnyetski asked: "What did he say to my letter?" "He said nothing," answered Zagloba, "and why he did not will appear at the end of my story; but now _incipiam_ (I will begin)." Here he told all as it had happened,--how he had brought the marshal to such a favorable decision. Charnyetski looked at him with growing astonishment, Polyanovski seized his own head, Pan Michael's mustaches were quivering. "I have not known you hitherto, as God is dear to me!" cried Charnyetski, at last. "I cannot believe my own ears." "They have long since called me Ulysses," said Zagloba, modestly. "Where is my letter?" "Here it is." "I must forgive you for not delivering it. He is a finished rogue! A vice-chancellor might learn from him how to make treaties. As God lives, if I were king, I would send you to Tsargrad." "If he were there, a hundred thousand Turks would be here now!" cried Pan Michael. To which Zagloba said: "Not one, but two hundred thousand, as true as I live." "And did the marshal hesitate at nothing?" asked Charnyetski. "He? He swallowed all that I put to his lips, just as a fat gander gulps pellets; his eyes were covered with mist. I thought that from delight he would burst, as a Swedish bomb bursts. With flattery that man might be taken to hell." "If it can only be ground out on the Swedes, if it can only be ground out, and I have hope that it will be," said Charnyetski, delighted. "You are a man adroit as a fox; but do not make too much sport of the marshal, for another would not have done what he has to-day. Much depends on him. We shall march to Sandomir itself over the estates of the Lyubomirskis, and the marshal can raise with one word the whole region, command peasants to injure crossings, burn bridges, hide provisions in the forests. You have rendered a service which I shall not forget till death; but I must thank the marshal, for as I believe he has not done this from mere vanity." Then he clapped his hands and cried: "A horse for me at once! Let us forge the iron while it is hot!" Then he turned to the colonels: "Come, all of you gentlemen, with me, so that the suite may be the most imposing." "And must I go too?" asked Zagloba. "You have built the bridge between me and the marshal, it is proper that you be the first to pass over. Besides, I think that they will see you gladly. Come, come, lord brother, or I shall say that you wished to leave a half-finished work." "Hard to refuse. I must draw my belt tighter, however, lest I shake into nothing. Not much strength is left me, unless I fortify it with something." "But with what?" "Much has been told me of the castellan's mead which I have not tasted as yet, and I should like to know if it is better than the marshal's." "We will drink a stirrup cup now, but after our return we shall not limit the cups in advance. You will find a couple of decanters of it in your own quarters." Then the castellan commanded to bring goblets; they drank enough for brightness and good humor, mounted and rode away. The marshal received Charnyetski with open arms, entertained him with food and drink, did not let him go till morning; but in the morning the two armies were joined, and marched farther under command of Charnyetski. Near Syenyava the Poles attacked the Swedes again with such effect that they cut the rearguard to pieces and brought disorder into the main army. Only at daybreak did the artillery disperse them. At Lejaysk, Charnyetski attacked with still greater vigor. Considerable detachments of the Swedes were mired in soft places, caused by rains and inundations, and those fell into the hands of the Poles. The roads became of the worst for the Swedes. Exhausted, hungry, and tortured by desire of sleep, the regiments barely marched. More and more soldiers stopped on the way. Some were found so terribly reduced that they no longer wished to eat or drink, they only begged for death. Others lay down and died on hillocks; some lost presence of mind, and looked with the greatest indifference on the approaching pursuers. Foreigners, who were counted frequently in the ranks of the Swedes, began to disappear from the camp and go over to Charnyetski. Only the unbroken spirit of Karl Gustav held the remnant of its dying strength in the whole army. For not only did an enemy follow the army; various "parties" under unknown leaders and bands of peasants crossed its road continually. Those bodies, unformed and not very numerous, could not, it is true, strike it with offensive warfare, but they wearied it mortally. And wishing to instil into the Swedes the conviction that Tartars had already come with assistance, all the Polish troops gave forth the Tartar shout; therefore "Allah! Allah!" was heard night and day without a moment's cessation. The Swedish soldiers could not draw breath, could not put aside their armor for an instant. More than once a few men alarmed the whole camp. Horses fell by tens, and were eaten immediately; for the transport of provisions had become impossible. From time to time the Polish horsemen found Swedish corpses terribly disfigured; here they recognized at once the hands of peasants. The greater part of the villages in the triangle between the San and the Vistula belonged to the marshal and his relatives; therefore all the peasants in those parts rose up as one man, for the marshal, unsparing of his own fortune, had announced that whoever took up arms would be freed from subjection. Scarcely had this news gone the round of the region when the peasants put their scythes on staffs and began to bring Swedish heads into camp: they brought them in every day till Lyubomirski was forced to prohibit that custom as unchristian. Then they brought in gloves and boots. The Swedes, driven to desperation, flayed those who fell into their hands; and the war became more and more dreadful. Some of the Polish troops adhered yet to the Swedes, but they adhered only through fear. On the road to Lejaysk many of them deserted; those who remained made such tumults in the camp daily that Karl Gustav gave orders to shoot a number of officers. This was the signal for a general withdrawal, which was effected sabre in hand. Few, if any, Poles remained; but Charnyetski, gaining new strength, attacked with still greater vigor. The marshal gave most effectual assistance. During this period, which by the way was short, the nobler sides of Lyubomirski's nature gained, perhaps, the upper hand over his pride and self-love; therefore he omitted no toil, he spared neither his health nor his person, he led squadrons frequently, gave the enemy no rest; and as he was a good soldier he rendered good services. These, added to his later ones, would have secured him a glorious memory in the nation, were it not for that shameless rebellion which toward the end of his career he raised in order to hinder the reform of the Commonwealth. But at this time he did everything to win glory, and he covered himself with it as with a robe. Pan Vitovski, the castellan of Sandomir, an old and experienced soldier, vied with him. Vitovski wished to equal Charnyetski himself; but he could not, for God had denied him greatness. All three crushed the Swedes more and more, and with such effect that the infantry and cavalry regiments, to whom it came to form the rearguard on the retreat, marched with so much fear that a panic arose among them from the slightest cause. Then Karl Gustav decided to march always with the rearguard, so as to give courage by his presence. But in the very beginning he almost paid for this position with his life. It happened that having with him a detachment of the life-guards,--the largest of all the regiments, for the soldiers in it were selected from the whole Scandinavian people,--the king stopped for refreshment at the village of Rudnik. When he had dined with the parish priest he decided to sleep a little, since he had not closed his eyes the night preceding. The life-guards surrounded the house, to watch over the safety of the king. Meanwhile the priest's horse-boy stole away from the village, and coming up to a mare in the field, sprang upon her colt and raced off to Charnyetski. Charnyetski was ten miles distant at this time; but his vanguard, composed of the regiment of Prince Dymitri Vishnyevetski, was marching under Shandarovski, the lieutenant, about two miles behind the Swedes. Shandarovski was just talking to Roh Kovalski, who had ridden up that moment with orders from Charnyetski, when suddenly both saw the lad flying toward them at all horse speed. "What devil is that racing up so," asked Shandarovski, "and besides on a colt?" "Some village lad," said Kovalski. Meanwhile the boy had ridden to the front of the rank, and only stopped when the colt, frightened at horses and men, stood on his hind legs and dug his hoofs into the earth. The youth sprang off, and holding the colt by the mane, bowed to the knights. "Well, what have you to say?" asked the lieutenant, approaching him. "The Swedes are with us at the priest's house; they say that the king himself is among them!" said the youth, with sparkling eyes. "Many of them?" "Not more than two hundred horses." Shandarovski's eyes now flashed in their turn; but he was afraid of an ambush, therefore he looked threateningly at the boy and asked,-- "Who sent you?" "Who was to send me? I jumped myself on the colt, I came near falling, and lost my cap. It is well that the Swedish carrion did not see me!" Truth was beating out of the sunburned face of the youth; he had evidently a great animosity against the Swedes,--he was panting, his cheeks were burning, he stood before the officers holding the mane of the colt with one hand, his hair disordered, the shirt open on his bosom. "Where is the rest of the Swedish army?" asked the lieutenant. "At daybreak so many passed that we could not count them; those went farther, only cavalry remained. But there is one sleeping at the priest's, and they say that he is the king." "Boy," answered Shandarovski, "if you are lying, your head will fall; but if you speak the truth, ask what you please." "As true as I live! I want nothing unless the great mighty lord officer would command to give me a sabre." "Give him some blade," cried Shandarovski to his attendants, completely convinced now. The other officers fell to inquiring of the boy where the house was, where the village, what the Swedes were doing. "The dogs! they are watching. If you go straight they will see you; but I will take you behind the alder grove." Orders were given at once, and the squadron moved on, first at a trot and then at a gallop. The youth rode before the first rank bareback on his colt without a bridle. He urged the colt with his heels, and every little while looked with sparkling eyes on the naked sabre. When the village was in sight, he turned out of the willows and led by a somewhat muddy road to the alder grove, in which it was still muddier; therefore they slackened the speed of the horses. "Watch!" said the boy; "they are about ten rods on the right from the end of the alder grove." They advanced now very slowly, for the road was difficult and heavy; the cavalry horses sank frequently to their knees. At last the alder grove began to grow thinner, and they came to the edge of the open space. Not more than three hundred yards distant, they saw a broad square rising somewhat, and in it the priest's house surrounded by poplars, among which were to be seen the tops of straw beehives. On the square were two hundred horsemen in rimmed helmets and breastplates. The great horsemen sat on enormous lean horses, and were in readiness,--some with rapiers at their shoulders, others with muskets on their thighs; but they were looking in another direction toward the main road, from which alone they expected the enemy. A splendid blue standard with a golden lion was waving above their heads. Farther on, around the house stood guards by twos. One was turned toward the alder grove; but because the sun shone brightly and struck his eyes, and in the alders, which were already covered with thick leaves, it was almost dark, he could not see the Polish horsemen. In Shandarovski, a fiery horseman, the blood began to boil like water in a pot; but he restrained himself and waited till the ranks should be in order. Meanwhile Roh Kovalski put his heavy hand on the shoulder of the youth,-- "Listen, horsefly!" said he; "have you seen the king?" "I saw him, great mighty lord!" whispered the lad. "How did he look? How can he be known?" "He is terribly black in the face, and wears red ribbons at his side." "Did you see his horse?" "The horse is black, with a white face." "Look out, and show him to me." "I will. But shall we go quickly?" "Shut your mouth!" Here they were silent; and Roh began to pray to the Most Holy Lady to permit him to meet Karl, and to direct his hand at the meeting. The silence continued still a moment, then the horse under Shandarovski himself snorted. At that the horseman on guard looked, quivered as if something had been thrown at his saddle, and fired his pistol. "Allah! Allah! Kill, slay! Uha-u, slay!" was heard in the alder grove; and the squadron, coming out of the shadow like lightning, rushed at the Swedes. They struck into the smoke before all could turn front to them, and a terrible hewing began; only sabres and rapiers were used, for no man had time to fire. In the twinkle of an eye the Poles pushed the Swedes to the fence, which fell with a rattle under the pressure of the horses' rumps, and the Poles began to slash them so madly that they were crowded and confused. Twice they tried to close, and twice torn asunder they formed two separate bodies which in a twinkle divided into smaller groups; at last they were scattered as peas thrown by a peasant through the air with a shovel. All at once were heard despairing voices: "The king, the king! Save the king!" But Karl Gustav, at the first moment of the encounter, with pistols in hand and a sword in his teeth, rushed out. The trooper who held the horse at the door gave him the beast that moment; the king sprang on, and turning the corner, rushed between the poplars and the beehives to escape by the rear from the circle of battle. Reaching the fence he spurred his horse, sprang over, and fell into the group of his men who were defending themselves against the right wing of the Poles, who had just surrounded the house and were fighting with the Swedes behind the garden. "To the road!" cried Karl Gustav. And overturning with the hilt of his sword the Polish horseman who was raising his sabre above him, with one spring he came out of the whirl of the fight; the Swedes broke the Polish rank and sprang after him with all their force, as a herd of deer hunted by dogs rush whither they are led by their leader. The Polish horsemen turned their horses after them, and the chase began. Both came out on the highroad from Rudnik to Boyanovka. They were seen from the front yard where the main battle was raging, and just then it was that the voices were heard crying,-- "The king, the king! Save the king!" But the Swedes in the front yard were so pressed by Shandarovski that they could not think even of saving themselves; the king raced on then with a party of not more than twelve men, while after him were chasing nearly thirty, and at the head of them all Roh Kovalski. The lad who was to point out the king was involved somewhere in the general battle, but Roh himself recognized Karl Gustav by the knot of red ribbons. Then he thought that his opportunity had come; he bent in the saddle, pressed his horse with the spurs, and rushed on like a whirlwind. The pursued, straining the last strength from their horses, stretched along over the broad road. But the swifter and lighter Polish horses began soon to gain on them. Roh came up very quickly with the hindmost Swede; he rose in his stirrups for a better blow, and cut terribly; with one awful stroke he took off the arm and the shoulder, and rushed on like the wind, fastening his eyes again on the king. The next horseman was black before his eyes; he hurled him down. He split the head and the helmet of the third, and tore farther, having the king, and the king only, in his eye. Now the horses of the Swedes began to pant and fall; a crowd of Polish horsemen overtook them and cut down the riders in a twinkle. Roh had already passed horses and men, so as not to lose time; the distance between him and Karl Gustav began to decrease. There were only two men between him and the king. Now an arrow, sent from a bow by some one of the Poles, sang near the ear of Pan Roh, and sank in the loins of the rider rushing before him. The man trembled to the right and the left; at last he bent backward, bellowed with an unearthly voice, and fell from the saddle. Between Roh and the king there was now only one man. But that one, wishing evidently to save the king, instead of helping turned his horse. Kovalski came up, and a cannonball does not sweep a man from the saddle as he hurled him to the ground; then, giving a fearful shout, he rushed forward like a furious stag. The king might perhaps have met him, and would have perished inevitably; but others were flying on behind Roh, and arrows began to whistle; any moment one of them might wound his horse. The king, therefore, pressed his heels more closely, bent his head to the mane, and shot through the space in front of him like a sparrow pursued by a hawk. But Roh began not only to prick his own horse with the spurs, but to beat him with the side of the sabre; and so they sped on one after the other. Trees, stones, willows, flashed before their eyes; the wind whistled in their ears. The king's hat fell from his head; at last he threw down his purse, thinking that the pitiless rider might be tempted by it and leave the pursuit; but Kovalski did not look at the purse, and rolled his horse on with more and more power till the beast was groaning from effort. Roh had evidently forgotten himself altogether; for racing onward he began to shout in a voice in which besides threats there was also a prayer,-- "Stop, for God's mercy!" Then the king's horse stumbled so violently that if the king had not held the bridle with all his power the beast would have fallen. Roh bellowed like an aurochs; the distance dividing him from Karl Gustav had decreased notably. After a while the steed stumbled a second time, and again before the king brought him to his feet Roh had approached a number of yards. Then he straightened himself in the saddle as if for a blow. He was terrible; his eyes were bursting out, his teeth were gleaming from under his reddish mustaches. One more stumble of the horse, another moment, and the fate of the Commonwealth, of all Sweden, of the entire war would have been decided. But the king's horse began to run again; and the king, turning, showed the barrels of two pistols, and twice did he fire. One of the bullets shattered the knee of Kovalski's horse; he reared, then fell on his forefeet, and dug the earth with his nose. The king might have rushed that moment on his pursuer and thrust him through with his rapier; but at the distance of two hundred yards other Polish horsemen were flying forward; so he bent down again in his saddle, and shot on like an arrow propelled from the bow of a Tartar. Kovalski freed himself from his horse. He looked for a while unconsciously at the fleeing man, then staggered like one drunk, sat on the road, and began to roar like a bear. But the king was each instant farther, farther, farther! He began to diminish, to melt, and then vanished in the dark belt of pine scrub. Meanwhile, with shouting and roaring, came on Kovalski's companions. There were fifteen of them whose horses held out. One brought the king's purse, another his hat, on which black ostrich feathers were fastened with diamonds. These two began to cry out,-- "These are yours, comrade! they belong to you of right." Others asked: "Do you know whom you were chasing? That was Karl himself." "As God is true! In his life he has never fled before any man as before you. You have covered yourself with immense glory!" "And how many men did you put down before you came up with the king?" "You lacked only little of freeing the Commonwealth in one flash, with your sabre." "Take the purse!" "Take the hat!" "The horse was good, but you can buy ten such with these treasures." Roh gazed at his comrades with dazed eyes; at last he sprang up and shouted,-- "I am Kovalski, and this is Pani Kovalski! Go to all the devils!" "His mind is disturbed!" cried they. "Give me a horse! I'll catch him yet," shouted Roh. But they took him by the arms, and though he struggled they brought him back to Rudnik, pacifying and comforting him along the road. "You gave him Peter!" cried they. "See what has come to this victor, this conqueror of so many towns and villages!" "Ha, ha! He has found out Polish cavaliers!" "He will grow tired of the Commonwealth. He has come to close quarters." "Vivat, Roh Kovalski!" "Vivat, vivat, the most manful cavalier, the pride of the whole army!" And they fell to drinking out of their canteens. They gave Roh one, and he emptied the bottle at a draught. During the pursuit of the king along the Boyanovka road the Swedes defended themselves in front of the priest's house with bravery worthy of their renowned regiment. Though attacked suddenly and scattered very quickly, they rallied as quickly around their blue standard, for the reason that they were surrounded by a dense crowd. Not one of them asked for quarter, but standing horse to horse, shoulder to shoulder, they thrust so fiercely with their rapiers that for a time victory seemed to incline to their side. It was necessary either to break them again, which became impossible since a line of Polish horsemen surrounded them completely, or to cut them to pieces. Shandarovski recognized the second plan as the better; therefore encircling the Swedes with a still closer ring, he sprang on them like a wounded falcon on a flock of long-billed cranes. A savage slaughter and press began. Sabres rattled against rapiers, rapiers were broken on the hilts of sabres. Sometimes a horse rose, like a dolphin above the sea waves, and in a moment fell in the whirl of men and horses. Shouts ceased; there were heard only the cry of horses, the sharp clash of steel, gasping from the panting breasts of the knights; uncommon fury had mastered the hearts of Poles and Swedes. They fought with fragments of sabres and rapiers; they closed with one another like hawks, caught one another by the hair, by mustaches, gnawed with their teeth; those who had fallen from their horses and were yet able to stand stabbed with their knives horses in the belly and men in the legs; in the smoke, in the steam from horses, in the terrible frenzy of battle, men were turned into giants and gave the blows of giants; arms became clubs, sabres lightning. Steel helmets were broken at a blow, like earthen pots; heads were cleft; arms holding sabres were swept away. They hewed without rest; they hewed without mercy, without pity. From under the whirl of men and horses blood began to flow along the yard in streams. The great blue standard was waving yet above the Swedish circle, but the circle diminished with each moment. As when harvesters attack grain from two sides, and the sickles begin to glitter, the standing grain disappears and the men see one another more nearly each moment, thus did the Polish ring become ever narrower, and those fighting on one side could see the bent sabres fighting on the opposite side. Pan Shandarovski was wild as a hurricane, and ate into the Swedes as a famished wolf buries his jaws in the flesh of a freshly killed horse; but one horseman surpassed him in fury, and that was the youth who had first let them know that the Swedes were in Rudnik, and now had sprung in with the whole squadron on the enemy. The priest's colt, three years old, which till that time had walked quietly over the land, shut in by the horses, could not break out of the throng; you would have said he had gone mad, like his master. With ears thrown back, with eyes bursting out of his bead, with erect mane, he pushed forward, bit, and kicked; but the lad struck with his sabre as with a flail; he struck at random, to the right, to the left, straight ahead; his yellow forelock was covered with blood, the points of rapiers had been thrust into his shoulders and legs, his face was cut; but these wounds only roused him. He fought with madness, like a man who has despaired of life and wishes only to avenge his own death. But now the Swedish body had decreased like a pile of snow on which men are throwing hot water from every side. At last around the king's standard less than twenty men remained. The Polish swarm had covered them completely, and they were dying gloomily, with set teeth; no hand was stretched forth, no man asked for mercy. Now in the crowd were heard voices: "Seize the standard! The standard!" When he heard this, the lad pricked his colt and rushed on like a flame. When every Swede had two or three Polish horsemen against him, the lad slashed the standard-bearer in the mouth; he opened his arms, and fell on the horse's mane. The blue standard fell with him. The nearest Swede, shouting terribly, grasped after the staff at once; but the boy caught the standard itself, and pulling, tore it off in a twinkle, wound it in a bundle, and holding it with both hands to his breast, began to shout to the sky,-- "I have it, I won't give it! I have it, I won't give it!" The last remaining Swedes rushed at him with rage; one thrust the flag through, and cut his shoulder. Then a number of men stretched their bloody hands to the lad, and cried: "Give the standard, give the standard!" Shandarovski sprang to his aid, and commanded: "Let him alone! He took it before my eyes; let him give it to Charnyetski himself." "Charnyetski is coming!" cried a number of voices. In fact, from a distance trumpets were heard; and on the road from the side of the field appeared a whole squadron, galloping to the priest's house. It was the Lauda squadron; and at the head of it rode Charnyetski himself. When the men had ridden up, seeing that all was over, they halted; and Shandarovski's soldiers began to hurry toward them. Shandarovski himself hastened with a report to the castellan; but he was so exhausted that at first he could not catch breath, for he trembled as in a fever, and the voice broke in his throat every moment. "The king himself was here: I don't know--whether he has escaped!" "He has, he has!" answered those who had seen the pursuit. "The standard is taken! There are many killed!" Charnyetski, without saying a word, hurried to the scene of the struggle, where a cruel and woful sight presented itself. More than two hundred bodies of Swedes and Poles were lying like a pavement, one at the side of the other, and often one above the other. Sometimes one held another by the hair; some had died biting or tearing one another with their nails; and some again were closed as in a brotherly embrace, or they lay one with his head on the breast of his enemy. Many faces were so trampled that there remained nothing human in them; those not crushed by hoofs had their eyes open full of terror, the fierceness of battle, and rage. Blood spattered on the softened earth under the feet of Charnyetski's horse, which were soon red above the fetlocks; the odor of blood and the sweat of horses irritated the nostrils and stopped breath in the breast. The castellan looked on those corpses of men as the agriculturist looks on bound sheaves of wheat which are to fill out his stacks. Satisfaction was reflected on his face. He rode around the priest's house in silence, looked at the bodies lying on the other side, beyond the garden; then returned slowly to the chief scene. "I see genuine work here, and I am satisfied with you, gentlemen." They hurled up their caps with bloody hands. "Vivat Charnyetski!" "God grant another speedy meeting. Vivat! vivat!" And the castellan said: "You will go to the rear for rest. But who took the standard?" "Give the lad this way!" cried Shandarovski; "where is he?" The soldiers sprang for him, and found him sitting at the wall of the stable near the colt, which had fallen from wounds and was just breathing out his last breath. At the first glance it did not seem that the lad would last long, but he held the standard with both hands to his breast. They bore him away at once, and brought him before Charnyetski. The youth stood there barefoot, with disordered hair, with naked breast, his shirt and his jacket in shreds, smeared with Swedish blood and his own, tottering, bewildered, but with unquenched fire in his eyes. Charnyetski was astounded at sight of him. "How is this?" asked he. "Did he take the royal standard?" "With his own hand and his own blood," answered Shandarovski. "He was the first also to let us know of the Swedes; and afterward, in the thickest of the whirl, he did so much that he surpassed me and us all." "It is truth, genuine truth, as if some one had written it!" cried others. "What is thy name?" asked Charnyetski of the lad. "Mihalko." "Whose art thou?" "The priest's." "Thou hast been the priest's, but thou wilt be thy own!" said Charnyetski. Mihalko heard not the last words, for from his wounds and the loss of blood he tottered and fell, striking the castellan's stirrup with his head. "Take him and give him every care. I am the guaranty that at the first Diet he will be the equal of you all in rank, as to-day he is the equal in spirit." "He deserves it! he deserves it!" cried the nobles. Then they took Mihalko on a stretcher, and bore him to the priest's house. Charnyetski listened to the further report, which not Shandarovski gave, but those who had seen the pursuit of the king by Roh Kovalski. He was wonderfully delighted with that narrative, so that he caught his head, and struck his thighs with his hands; for he understood that after such an adventure the spirit must fall considerably in Karl Gustav. Zagloba was not less delighted, and putting his hands on his hips, said proudly to the knights,-- "Ha! he is a robber, isn't he? If he had reached Karl, the devil himself could not have saved the king! He is my blood, as God is dear to me, my blood!" In course of time Zagloba believed that he was Roh Kovalski's uncle. Charnyetski gave orders to find the young knight; but they could not find him, for Roh, from shame and mortification, had crept into a barn, and burying himself in the straw, had fallen asleep so soundly that he came up with the squadron only two days later. But he still suffered greatly, and dared not show himself before the eyes of his uncle. His uncle, however, sought him out, and began to comfort him,-- "Be not troubled, Roh!" said he. "As it is, you have covered yourself with great glory; I have myself heard the castellan praise you: 'To the eye a fool,' said he, 'so that he looks as though he could not count three, and I see that he is a fiery cavalier who has raised the reputation of the whole army.'" "The Lord Jesus has not blessed me," said Roh; "for I got drunk the day before, and forgot my prayers." "Don't try to penetrate the judgments of God, lest you add blasphemy to other deeds. Whatever you can take on your shoulders take, but take nothing on your mind; if you do, you will fail." "Rut I was so near that the sweat from his horse was flying to me. I should have cut him to the saddle! Uncle thinks that I have no reason whatever!" "Every creature," said Zagloba, "has its reason. You are a sprightly lad, Roh, and you will give me comfort yet more than once. God grant your sons to have the same reason in their fists that you have!" "I do not want that! I am Kovalski, and this is Pani Kovalski." CHAPTER XXXIII. After the affair at Rudnik the king advanced farther toward the point of the wedge between the San and the Vistula, and did not cease as before to march with the rearguard; for he was not only a famous leader, but a knight of unrivalled daring. Charnyetski, Vitovski, and Lyubomirski followed, and urged him on as a wild beast is urged to a trap. Detached parties made an uproar night and day around the Swedes. The retreating troops had less and less provisions; they were more and more wearied and drooping in courage, looking forward to certain destruction. At last the Swedes enclosed themselves in the very corner where the two rivers meet, and rested. On one side the Vistula defended them, on the other the San, both overflowed, as usual in springtime; the third side of the triangle the king fortified with strong intrenchments, in which cannons were mounted. That was a position not to be taken, but it was possible to die there from hunger. But even in that regard the Swedes gained better courage, for they hoped that the commandants would send them provisions by water from Cracow and other river fortresses. For instance, right there at hand was Sandomir, in which Colonel Schinkler had collected considerable supplies. He sent these in at once; therefore the Swedes ate, drank, slept; and when they woke they sang Lutheran psalms, praising God that he had saved them from such dire distress. But Charnyetski was preparing new blows for them. Sandomir in Swedish hands could always come to the aid of the main army. Charnyetski planned, therefore, to take the town with the castle at a blow, and cut off the Swedes. "We will prepare a cruel spectacle for them," said he, at a council of war. "They will look on from the opposite bank when we strike the town, and they will not be able to give aid across the Vistula; and when we have Sandomir we will not let provisions come from Wirtz in Cracow." Lyubomirski, Vitovski, and others tried to dissuade Charnyetski from that undertaking. "It would be well," said they, "to take such a considerable town, and we might injure the Swedes greatly; but how are we to take it? We have no infantry, siege guns we have not; it would be hard for cavalry to attack walls." "But do our peasants," asked Charnyetski, "fight badly as infantry? If I had two thousand such as Mihalko, I would take not only Sandomir, but Warsaw." And without listening to further counsel he crossed the Vistula. Barely had his summons gone through the neighborhood when a couple of thousand men hurried to him, one with a scythe, another with a musket, the third with carabine; and they marched against Sandomir. They fell upon the place rather suddenly, and in the streets a fierce conflict set in. The Swedes defended themselves furiously from the windows and the roofs, but they could not withstand the onrush. They were crushed like worms in the houses, and pushed entirely out of the town. Schinkler took refuge, with the remnant of his forces, in the castle; but the Poles followed him with the same impetuosity. A storm against the gates and the walls began, Schinkler saw that he could not hold out, even in the castle; so he collected what he could of men, articles and supplies of provisions, and putting them on boats, crossed to the king, who looked from the other bank on the defeat of his men without being able to succor them. The castle fell into the hands of the Poles; but the cunning Swede when departing put under the walls in the cellars kegs of powder with lighted matches. When he appeared before the king he told him of this at once, so as to rejoice his heart. "The castle," said he, "will fly into the air with all the men. Charnyetski may perish." "If that is true, I want myself to see how the pious Poles will fly to heaven," said the king; and he remained on the spot with all the generals. In spite of the commands of Charnyetski, who foresaw deceit, the volunteers and the peasants ran around through the whole castle to seek hidden Swedes and treasure. The trumpets sounded an alarm for every man to take refuge in the town; but the searchers in the castle did not hear the trumpets, or would not heed them. All at once the ground trembled under their feet, an awful thunder and a roar tore the air, a gigantic pillar of fire rose to the sky, hurling upward earth, walls, roofs, the whole castle, and more than five hundred bodies of those who had not been able to withdraw. Karl Gustav held his sides from delight, and his favor-seeking courtiers began at once to repeat his words: "The Poles are going to heaven, to heaven!" But that joy was premature; for none the less did Sandomir remain in Polish hands, and could no longer furnish food for the main army enclosed between the rivers. Charnyetski disposed his camp opposite the Swedes, on the other side of the Vistula, and guarded the passage. Sapyeha, grand hetman of Lithuania and voevoda of Vilna, came from the other side and took his position on the San. The Swedes were invested completely; they were caught as it were in a vise. "The trap is closed!" said the soldiers to one another in the Polish camps. For every man, even the least acquainted with military art, understood that inevitable destruction was hanging over the invaders, unless reinforcements should come in time and rescue them from trouble. The Swedes too understood this. Every morning officers and soldiers, coming to the shore of the Vistula, looked with despair in their eyes and their hearts at the legions of Charnyetski's terrible cavalry standing black on the other side. Then they went to the San; there again the troops of Sapyeha were watching day and night, ready to receive them with sabre and musket. To cross either the San or the Vistula while both armies stood near was not to be thought of. The Swedes might return to Yaroslav by the same road over which they come, but they knew that in that case not one of them would ever see Sweden. For the Swedes grievous days and still more grievous nights now began, for these days and nights were uproarious and quarrelsome. Again provisions were at an end. Meanwhile Charnyetski, leaving command of the army to Lyubomirski and taking the Lauda squadron as guard crossed the Vistula above the mouth of the San, to visit Sapyeha and take counsel with him touching the future of the war. This time the mediation of Zagloba was not needed to make the two leaders agree; for both loved the country more than each one himself, both were ready to sacrifice to it private interests, self-love, and ambition. The Lithuanian hetman did not envy Charnyetski, nor did Charnyetski envy the hetman, but each did homage to the other; so the meeting between them was of such character that tears stood in the eyes of the oldest soldiers. "The Commonwealth is growing, the dear country is rejoicing, when such sons of heroes take one another by the shoulders," said Zagloba to Pan Michael and Pan Yan. "Charnyetski is a terrible soldier and a true soul, but put Sapyeha to a wound and it will heal. Would there were more such men! The skin would fly off the Swedes, could they see this love of the greatest patriots. How did they conquer us, if not through the rancor and envy of magnates? Have they overcome us with force? This is how I understand! The soul jumps in a man's body at sight of such a meeting. I will guarantee, too, that it will not be dry; for Sapyeha loves a feast wonderfully, and with such a friend he will willingly let himself out." "God is merciful! the evil will pass," said Pan Yan. "Be careful that you do not blaspheme," said Zagloba; "every evil must pass, for should it last forever it would prove that the Devil governs the world, and not the Lord Jesus, who has mercy inexhaustible." Their further conversation was interrupted by the sight of Babinich, whose lofty form they saw from a distance over the wave of other heads. Pan Michael and Zagloba began to beckon to him, but he was so much occupied in looking at Charnyetski that he did not notice them at first. "See," said Zagloba, "how thin the man has grown!" "It must be that he has not done much against Boguslav," said Volodyovski; "otherwise he would be more joyful." "It is sure that he has not, for Boguslav is before Marienburg with Steinbock, acting against the fortress." "There is hope in God that he will do nothing." "Even if he should take Marienburg," said Zagloba, "we will capture Karl Gustav right away; we shall see if they will not give the fortress for the king." "See! Babinich is coming to us!" interrupted Pan Yan. He had indeed seen them, and was pushing the crowd to both sides; he motioned with his cap, smiling at them from a distance. They greeted one another as good friends and acquaintances. "What is to be heard? What have you done with the prince?" asked Zagloba. "Evil, evil! But there is no time to tell of it. We shall sit down to table at once. You will remain here for the night; come to me after the feast to pass the night among my Tartars. I have a comfortable cabin; we will talk at the cups till morning." "The moment a man says a wise thing it is not I who will oppose," said Zagloba. "But tell us why you have grown so thin?" "That hell-dweller overthrew me and my horse like an earthen pot, so that from that time I am spitting fresh blood and cannot recover. There is hope in the mercy of our Lord Christ that I shall let the blood out of him yet. But let us go now, for Sapyeha and Charnyetski are beginning to make declarations and to be ceremonious about precedence,--a sign that the tables are ready. We wait for you here with great pleasure, for you have shed Swedish pig-blood in plenty." "Let others speak of what I have done," said Zagloba; "it does not become me." Meanwhile whole throngs moved on, and all went to the square between the tents on which were placed tables. Sapyeha in honor of Charnyetski entertained like a king. The table at which Charnyetski was seated was covert with Swedish flags. Mead and wine flowed from vats, so that toward the end both leaders became somewhat joyous. There was no lack of gladsomeness, of jests, of toasts, of noise; though the weather was marvellous, and the sun warm beyond wonder. Finally the cool of the evening separated the feasters. Then Kmita took his guests to the Tartars. They sat down in his tent on trunks packed closely with every kind of booty, and began to speak of Kmita's expedition. "Boguslav is now before Marienburg," said Pan Andrei, "though some say that he is at the elector's, with whom he is to march to the relief of the king." "So much the better; then we shall meet! You young fellows do not know how to manage him; let us see what the old man will do. He has met with various persons, but not yet with Zagloba. I say that we shall meet, though Prince Yanush in his will advised him to keep far from Zagloba." "The elector is a cunning man," said Pan Yan; "and if he sees that it is going ill with Karl, he will drop all his promises and his oath." "But I tell you that he will not," said Zagloba. "No one is so venomous against us as the Prussian. When your servant who had to work under your feet and brush your clothes becomes your master by change of fortune, he will be sterner to you, the kinder you were to him." "But why is that?" asked Pan Michael. "His previous condition of service will remain in his mind, and he will avenge himself on you for it, though you have been to him kindness itself." "What of that?" asked Pan Michael. "It often happens that a dog bites his master in the hand. Better let Babinich tell about his expedition." "We are listening," said Pan Yan. Kmita, after he had been silent awhile, drew breath and began to tell of the last campaign of Sapyeha against Boguslav, and the defeat of the latter at Yanov; finally how Prince Boguslav had broken the Tartars, overturned him with his horse, and escaped alive. "But," interrupted Volodyovski, "you said that you would follow him with your Tartars, even to the Baltic." "And you told me also in your time," replied Kmita, "how Pan Yan here present, when Bogun carried off his beloved maiden, forgot her and revenge because the country was in need. A man becomes like those with whom he keeps company; I have joined you, gentlemen, and I wish to follow your example." "May the Mother of God reward you, as she has Pan Yan!" said Zagloba. "Still I would rather your maiden were in the wilderness than in Boguslav's hands." "That is nothing!" exclaimed Pan Michael; "you will find her!" "I have to find not only her person, but her regard and love." "One will come after the other," said Pan Michael, "even if you had to take her person by force, as at that time--you remember?" "I shall not do such a deed again." Here Pan Andrei sighed deeply, and after a while he said, "Not only have I not found her, but Boguslav has taken another from me." "A pure Turk! as God is dear to me!" cried Zagloba. And Pan Yan inquired: "What other?" "Oh, it is a long story, a long story," said Kmita. "There was a maiden in Zamost, wonderfully fair, who pleased Pan Zamoyski. He, fearing Princess Vishnyevetski, his sister, did not dare to be over-bold before her; he planned, therefore, to send the maiden away with me, as if to Sapyeha, to find an inheritance in Lithuania, but in reality to take her from me about two miles from Zamost, and put her in some wilderness where no one could stand in his way. But I sounded his intention. You want, thought I to myself, to make a pander of me; wait! I flogged his men, and the lady in all maidenly honor I brought to Sapyeha. Well, I say to you that the girl is as beautiful as a goldfinch, but honest. I am now another man, and my comrades, the Lord light their souls! are long ago dust in the earth." "What sort of maiden was she?" asked Zagloba. "From a respectable house, a lady-in-waiting on Princess Griselda. She was once engaged to a Lithuanian, Podbipienta, whom you, gentlemen, knew." "Anusia Borzobogati!" shouted Volodyovski, springing from his place. Zagloba jumped up too from a pile of felt "Pan Michael, restrain yourself!" But Volodyovski sprang like a cat toward Kmita. "Is it you, traitor, who let Boguslav carry her off?" "Be not unjust to me," said Kmita. "I took her safely to the hetman, having as much care for her as for my own sister. Boguslav seized her, not from me, but from another officer with whom Pan Sapyeha sent her to his own family; his name was Glovbich or something, I do not remember well." "Where is he now?" "He is no longer living, he was slain; so at least Sapyeha's officers said. I was attacking Boguslav separately, with the Tartars; therefore I know nothing accurately save what I have told you. But noticing your changed face, I see that a similar thing has met us; the same man has wronged us, and since that is the case let us join against him to avenge the wrong and take vengeance in company. He is a great lord and a great knight, and still I think it will be narrow for him in the whole Commonwealth, if he has two such enemies." "Here is my hand!" said Volodyovski. "Henceforth we are friends for life and death. Whoever meets him first will pay him for both. God grant me to meet him first, for that I will let his blood out is as sure as that there is Amen in 'Our Father.'" Here Pan Michael began to move his mustaches terribly and to feel of his sabre. Zagloba was frightened, for he knew that with Pan Michael there was no joking. "I should not care to be Prince Boguslav now," said he, "even if some one should add Livonia to my title. It is enough to have such a wildcat as Kmita against one, but what will he do with Pan Michael? And that is not all; I will conclude an alliance with you. My head, your sabres! I do not know as there is a potentate in Christendom who could stand against such an alliance. Besides, the Lord God will sooner or later take away his luck, for it cannot be that for a traitor and a heretic there is no punishment; as it is, Kmita has given it to him terribly." "I do not deny that more than one confusion has met him from me," said Pan Andrei. And giving orders to fill the goblets, he told how he had freed Soroka from captivity. But he did not tell how he had cast himself first at the feet of Radzivill, for at the very thought of that his blood boiled. Pan Michael was rejoiced while hearing the narrative, and said at the end,-- "May God aid you, Yendrek! With such a daring man one could go to hell. The only trouble is that we shall not always campaign together, for service is service. They may send me to one end of the Commonwealth and you to the other. It is not known which will meet him first." Kmita was silent a moment. "In justice I should reach him--if only I do not come out again with confusion, for I am ashamed to acknowledge that I cannot meet that hell-dweller hand to hand." "Then I will teach you all my secrets," said Pan Michael. "Or I!" said Zagloba. "Pardon me, your grace, I prefer to learn from Michael," said Kmita. "Though he is such a knight, still I and Pani Kovalski are not afraid of him, if only I had a good sleep," put in Roh. "Be quiet, Roh!" answered Zagloba; "may God not punish you through his hand for boasting." "Oh, tfu! nothing will happen to me from him." Poor Kovalski was an unlucky prophet, but it was steaming terribly from his forelock, and he was ready to challenge the whole world to single combat. Others too drank heavily to one another, and to the destruction of Boguslav and the Swedes. "I have heard," said Kmita, "that as soon as we rub out the Swedes here and take the king, we shall march straight to Warsaw. Then surely there will be an end of the war. After that will come the elector's turn." "Oh, that's it! that's it!" said Zagloba. "I heard Sapyeha say that once, and he, as a great man, calculates better than others; he said: 'There will be a truce with the Swedes; with the Northerners there is one already, but with the elector we should not make any conditions. Pan Charnyetski,' he says, 'will go with Lyubomirski to Brandenburg, and I with the treasurer of Lithuania to Electoral Prussia; and if after that we do not join Prussia to the Commonwealth, it is because in our chancellery we have no such head as Pan Zagloba, who in autograph letters threatened the elector.'" "Did Sapyeha say that?" asked Zagloba, flushing from pleasure. "All heard him. And I was terribly glad, for that same rod will flog Boguslav; and if not earlier, we will surely reach him at that time." "If we can finish with these Swedes first," said Zagloba. "Devil take them! Let them give up Livland and a million, I will let them off alive."' "The Cossack caught the Tartar, and the Tartar is holding him by the head!" said Pan Yan, laughing. "Karl is still in Poland; Cracow, Warsaw, Poznan, and all the most noted towns are in his hands, and father wants him to ransom himself. Hei, we shall have to work much at him yet before we can think of the elector." "And there is Steinbock's army, and the garrisons, and Wirtz," put in Pan Stanislav. "But why do we sit here with folded hands?" asked Roh Kovalski, on a sudden, with staring eyes; "cannot we beat the Swedes?" "You are foolish, Roh," said Zagloba. "Uncle always says one thing; but as I am alive, I saw a boat at the shore. We might go and carry off even the sentry. It is so dark that you might strike a man on the snout and he wouldn't know who did it; before they could see we should return and exhibit the courage of cavaliers to both commanders. If you do not wish to go, I will go myself." "The dead calf moved his tail, wonder of wonders!" said Zagloba, angrily. But Kmita's nostrils began to quiver at once. "Not a bad idea! not a bad idea!" said he. "Good for camp-followers, but not for him who regards dignity. Have respect for yourselves! You are colonels, but you wish to amuse yourselves with wandering thieves!" "True, it is not very becoming," added Volodyovski. "We would better go to sleep." All agreed with that idea; therefore they kneeled down to their prayers and repeated them aloud; after that they stretched themselves on the felt cloth, and were soon sleeping the sleep of the just. But an hour later all sprang to their feet, for beyond the river the roaring of guns was heard; while shouts and tumult rose in Sapyeha's whole camp. "Jesus! Mary!" exclaimed Zagloba. "The Swedes are coming!" "What are you talking about?" asked Volodyovski, seizing his sabre. "Roh, come here!" cried Zagloba, for in cases of surprise he was glad to have his sister's son near him. But Roh was not in the tent. They ran out on the square. Crowds were already before the tents, and all were making their way toward the river, for on the other side was to be seen flashing of fire, and an increasing roar was heard. "What has happened, what has happened?" was asked of the numerous guards disposed along the bank. But the guards had seen nothing. One of the soldiers said that he had heard as it were the plash of a wave, but as fog was hanging over the water he could see nothing; he did not wish therefore to raise the camp for a mere sound. When Zagloba heard this he caught himself by the head in desperation,-- "Roh has gone to the Swedes! He said that he wished to carry off a sentry." "For God's sake, that may be!" cried Kmita. "They will shoot the lad, as God is in heaven!" continued Zagloba, in despair. "Worthy gentlemen, is there no help? Lord God, that boy was of the purest gold; there is not another such in the two armies! What shot that idea into his stupid head? Oh, Mother of God, save him in trouble!" "Maybe he will return; the fog is dense. They will not see him." "I will wait for him here even till morning. Mother of God, Mother of God!" Meanwhile shots on the opposite bank lessened, lights went out gradually, and after an hour dull silence set in. Zagloba walked along the bank of the river like a hen with ducklings, and tore out the remnant of hair in his forelock; but he waited in vain, he despaired in vain. The morning whitened the river, the sun rose, but Roh came not. CHAPTER XXXIV. Zagloba in unbroken despair betook himself to Charnyetski, with a request that he would send to the Swedes to see what had happened to Kovalski. Is he alive yet, is he groaning in captivity, or has he paid with his life for his daring? Charnyetski agreed to this willingly, for he loved Zagloba. Then comforting him in his suffering, he said,-- "I think your sister's son must be alive, otherwise the water would have brought him ashore." "God grant that he is!" answered Zagloba; "still it would be hard for the water to raise him, for not only had he a heavy hand, but his wit was like lead, as is shown by his action." "You speak justly," answered Charnyetski. "If he is alive I ought to give orders to drag him with a horse over the square, for disregard of discipline. He might alarm the Swedish army, but he has alarmed both armies; besides, he was not free to touch the Swedes without command and my order. Is this a general militia or what the devil, that every man has a right to act on his own account?" "He has offended, I agree; I will punish him myself, if only the Lord will bring him back." "But I forgive him in remembrance of the Rudnik affair. I have many prisoners to exchange, and more distinguished officers than Kovalski. Do you go to the Swedes and negotiate about exchange; I will give two or three for him if need be, for I do not wish to make your heart bleed. Come to me for a letter to the king, and go quickly." Zagloba sprang with rejoicing to Kmita's tent, and told his comrades what had happened. Pan Andrei and Volodyovski exclaimed at once that they too would go with him, for both were curious to see the Swedes; besides Kmita might be very useful, since he spoke German almost as fluently as Polish. Preparations did not delay them long. Charnyetski, without waiting for the return of Zagloba, sent the letter by a messenger; then they provided a piece of white cloth fixed to a pole, took a trumpeter, sat in a boat, and moved on. At first they went in silence, nothing save the plash of oars was to be heard; at last Zagloba was somewhat alarmed and said,-- "Lot the trumpeter announce us immediately, for those scoundrels are ready to fire in spite of the white flag." "What do you say?" answered Volodyovski; "even barbarians respect envoys, and this is a civilized people." "Let the trumpeter sound, I say. The first soldier who happens along will fire, make a hole in the boat, and we shall get into the water; the water is cold, and I have do wish to get wet through their courtesy." "There, a sentry is visible!" said Kmita. The trumpeter sounded. The boat shot forward quickly; on the other shore a hurried movement began, and soon a mounted officer rode up, wearing a yellow leather cap. When he had approached the edge of the water he shaded his eyes with his hand and began to look against the light. A few yards from the shore Kmita removed his cap in greeting; the officer bowed to him with equal politeness. "A letter from Pan Charnyetski to the Most Serene King of Sweden!" cried Pan Andrei, showing the letter. The guard standing on the shore presented arms. Pan Zagloba was completely reassured; presently he fixed his countenance in dignity befitting his position as an envoy, and said in Latin,-- "The past night a certain cavalier was seized on this shore; I have come to ask for him." "I cannot speak Latin," answered the officer. "Ignoramus!" muttered Zagloba. The officer turned then to Pan Andrei,-- "The king is in the farther end of the camp. Be pleased, gentlemen, to stay here; I will go and announce you." And he turned his horse. The envoys looked around. The camp was very spacious, for it embraced the whole triangle formed by the San and the Vistula. At the summit of the triangle lay Panyev, at the base Tarnobjeg on one side, and Rozvadov on the other. Apparently it was impossible to take in the whole extent at a glance; still, as far as the eye could reach, were to be seen trenches, embankments, earthworks, and fascines at which were cannons and men. In the very centre of the place, in Gojytsi, were the quarters of the king; there also the main forces of the army. "If hunger does not drive them out of this place, we can do nothing with them," said Kmita. "The whole region is fortified. There is pasture for horses." "But there are not fish for so many mouths," said Zagloba. "Lutherans do not like fasting food. Not long since they had all Poland, now they have this wedge; let them sit here in safety, or go back to Yaroslav." "Very skilful men made these trenches," added Volodyovski, looking with the eye of a specialist on the work. "We have more swordsmen, but fewer learned officers; and in military art we are behind others." "Why is that?" asked Zagloba. "Why? It does not beseem me as a soldier who has served all his life in the cavalry, to say this, but everywhere infantry and cannon are the main thing; hence those campaigns and military man[oe]uvres, marches, and countermarches. A man in a foreign army must devour a multitude of books and turn over a multitude of Roman authors before he becomes a distinguished officer; but there is nothing of that with us. Cavalry rushes into the smoke in a body, and shaves with its sabres; and if it does not shave off in a minute, then they shave it off." "You speak soundly, Pan Michael; but what nation has won so many famous victories?" "Yes, because others in old times warred in the same way, and not having the same impetus they were bound to lose; but now they have become wiser, and see what they are doing." "Wait for the end. Place for me now the wisest Swedish or German engineer, and against him I will put Roh, who has never turned over books, and let us see." "If you could put him," interrupted Kmita. "True, true! I am terribly sorry for him. Pan Andrei, jabber a little in that dog's language of those breeches fellows, and ask what has happened to Roh." "You do not know regular soldiers. Here no man will open his lips to you without an order; they are stingy of speech." "I know that they are surly scoundrels. While if to our nobles, and especially to the general militia, an envoy comes, immediately talk, talk, they will drink gorailka with him, and will enter into political discussion with him; and see how these fellows stand there like posts and bulge out their eyes at us! I wish they would smother to the last man!" In fact, more and more foot-soldiers gathered around the envoys, looking at them curiously. The envoys were dressed so carefully in elegant and even rich garments, that they made an imposing appearance. Zagloba arrested most attention, for he bore himself with almost senatorial dignity; Volodyovski was less considered, by reason of his stature. Meanwhile the officer who received them first on the bank returned with another of higher rank, and with soldiers leading horses. The superior officer bowed to the envoys and said in Polish,-- "His Royal Grace asks you, gentlemen, to his quarters; and since they are not very near we have brought horses." "Are you a Pole?" asked Zagloba. "No, I am a Cheh,--Sadovski, in the Swedish service." Kmita approached him at once. "Do you know me?" Sadovski looked at him quickly. "Of course! At Chenstohova you blew up the largest siege gun, and Miller gave you to Kuklinovski. I greet you, greet you heartily as a famous knight." "And what is going on with Kuklinovski?" asked Kmita. "But do you not know?" "I know that I paid him with that with which he wanted to treat me, but I left him alive." "He died." "I thought he would freeze to death," said Pan Andrei, waving his hand. "Worthy Colonel," put in Zagloba, "have you not a certain Roh Kovalski?" Sadovski laughed: "Of course." "Praise be to God and the Most Holy Lady! The lad is alive and I shall get him. Praise be to God!" "I do not know whether the king will be willing to yield him up," said Sadovski. "But why not?" "Because he has pleased him greatly. He recognized him at once as the same man who had pushed after him with such vigor at Rudnik. We held our sides listening to the narrative of the prisoner. The king asked: 'Why did you pick me out?' and he answered, 'I made a vow.' Then the king asked again, 'But will you do so again?' 'Of course!' answered the prisoner. The king began to laugh. 'Put away your vow,' said he, 'and I will give you your life and freedom.' 'Impossible!' 'Why?' 'For my uncle would proclaim me a fool.' 'And are you so sure that you could manage me in a hand-to-hand fight?' 'Oh, I could manage five men like you,' said he. Then the king asked again: 'And do you dare to raise your hand against majesty?' 'Yes,' said he, 'for you have a vile faith.' They interpreted every word to the king, and he was more and more pleased, and continued to repeat: 'This man has pleased me.' Then wishing to see whether in truth he had such strength, he gave orders to choose twelve of the strongest men in camp and bring them to wrestle in turn with the prisoner. But he is a muscular fellow! When I came away he had stretched out ten one after another, and not a man of them could rise again. We shall arrive just at the end of the amusement." "I recognize Roh, my blood!" said Zagloba. "We will give for him even three famous officers!" "You will find the king in good humor," said Sadovski, "which is a rare thing nowadays." "Oh, I believe that!" answered the little knight Meanwhile Sadovski turned to Kmita, and asked how he had not only freed himself from Kuklinovski, but put an end to him. Kmita told him in detail. Sadovski, while listening, seized his own head with amazement; at last he pressed Kmita's hand again, and said,-- "Believe me, I am sincerely glad; for though I serve the Swedes, every true soldier's heart rejoices when a real cavalier puts down a ruffian. I must acknowledge to you that when a daring man is found among you, one must look with a lantern through the universe to find his equal." "You are a courteous officer," said Zagloba. "And a famous soldier, we know that," added Volodyovski. "I learned courtesy and the soldier's art from you," answered Sadovski, touching his cap. Thus they conversed, vying with one another in courtesy, till they reached Grojytsi, where the king's quarters were. The whole village was occupied by soldiers of various arms. Our envoys looked with curiosity at the groups scattered among the fences. Some, wishing to sleep away their hunger, were dozing around cottages, for the day was very clear and warm; some were playing dice on drums, drinking beer; some were hanging their clothes on the fences; others were sitting in front of the cottages singing Scandinavian longs, rubbing with brick-dust their breastplates and helmets, from which bright gleams went forth. In places they were cleaning horses, or leading them out; in a word, camp life was moving and seething under the bright sky. There were men, it is true, who bore signs of terrible toil and hunger, but the sun covered their leanness with gold; besides, days of rest were beginning for those incomparable warriors, therefore they took courage at once, and assumed a military bearing. Volodyovski admired them in spirit, especially the infantry regiments, famous through the whole world for endurance and bravery. Sadovski gave explanations as they passed, saying,-- "This is the Smaland regiment of the royal guard. This is the infantry of Delekarlia, the very best." "In God's name, what little monsters are these?" cried Zagloba on a sudden, pointing to a group of small men with olive complexions and black hair hanging on both sides of their heads. "Those are Laplanders, who belong to the remotest Hyperboreans." "Are they good in battle? It seems to me that I might take three in each hand and strike with their heads till I was tired." "You could surely do so. They are useless in battle. The Swedes bring them for camp servants, and partly as a curiosity. But they are the most skilful of wizards; each of them has at least one devil in his service, and some have five." "How do they get such friendship with evil spirits?" asked Kmita, making the sign of the cross. "Because they wander in night, which with them lasts half a year or more; and you know that it is easier to hold converse with the Devil at night." "But have they souls?" "It is unknown; but I think that they are more in the nature of animals." Kmita turned his horse, caught one of the Laplanders by the shoulders, raised him up like a cat, and examined him curiously; then he put him on his feet, and said,-- "If the king would give me one such, I would give orders to have him dried and hung up in the church in Orsha, where, among other curiosities, are ostrich eggs." "In Lubni, at the parish church, there were jaws of a whale or even of a giant," said Volodyovski. "Let us go on, for something evil will fall on us here," said Zagloba. "Let us go," repeated Sadovski. "To tell the truth, I ought to have had bags put on your heads, as is the custom; but we have nothing here to hide, and that you have looked on the trenches is all the better for us." They spurred on their horses, and after a while were before the castle at Gojytsi. In front of the gate they sprang from their saddles, and advanced on foot; for the King was before the house. They saw a large number of generals and very celebrated officers. Old Wittemberg was there, Douglas, Löwenhaupt, Miller, Erickson, and many others. All were sitting on the balcony, a little behind the king, whose chair was pushed forward; and they looked on the amusement which Karl Gustav was giving himself with the prisoner. Roh had just stretched out the twelfth cavalier, and was in a coat torn by the wrestlers, panting and sweating greatly. When he saw his uncle in company with Kmita and Volodyovski, he thought at once that they too were prisoners. He stared at them, opened his mouth, and advanced a couple of steps; but Zagloba gave him a sign with his hand to stand quietly, and the envoy stood himself with his comrades before the face of the king. Sadovski presented the envoys; they bowed low, as custom and etiquette demanded, then Zagloba delivered Charnyetski's letter. The king took the letter, and began to read; meanwhile the Polish envoys looked at him with curiosity, for they had never seen him before. He was a man in the flower of his age, as dark in complexion as though born an Italian or a Spaniard. His long hair, black as a raven's wing, fell behind his ears to his shoulders. In brightness and color his eyes brought to mind Yeremi Vishnyevetski; his brows were greatly elevated, as if he were in continual astonishment. In the place where the brows approached, his forehead was raised in a large protuberance, which made him resemble a lion; a deep wrinkle above his nose, which did not leave him even when he was laughing, gave his face a threatening and wrathful expression. His lower lip protruded like that of Yan Kazimir, but his face was heavier and his chin larger; he wore mustaches in the form of cords, brushed out somewhat at the ends. In general, his face indicated an uncommon man, one of those who when they walk over the earth press blood out of it. There was in him grandeur, the pride of a monarch, the strength of a lion, and the quickness of genius; but though a kindly smile never left his mouth, there was lacking that kindness of heart which illuminates a face from within with a mild light, as a lamp placed in the middle of an alabaster urn lights it. He sat in the arm-chair, with crossed legs, the powerful calves of which were indicated clearly from under the black stockings, and blinking as was his wont, he read with a smile the letter from Charnyetski. Raising his lids, he looked at Pan Michael, and said,-- "I knew you at once; you slew Kanneberg." All eyes were turned immediately on Volodyovski, who, moving his mustaches, bowed and answered,-- "At the service of your Royal Grace." "What is your office?" asked the king. "Colonel of the Lauda squadron." "Where did you serve before?" "With the voevoda of Vilna." "And did you leave him with the others? You betrayed him and me." "I was bound to my own king, not to your Royal Grace." The king said nothing; all foreheads were frowning, eyes began to bore into Pan Michael; but he stood calmly, merely moving his mustaches time after time. All at once the king said,-- "It is pleasant for me to know such a famous cavalier. Kanneberg passed among us as incomparable in hand-to-hand conflict. You must be the first sabre in the kingdom?" "_In universo_ (In the universe)!" said Zagloba. "Not the last," answered Volodyovski. "I greet you, gentlemen, heartily. For Pan Charnyetski I have a real esteem as for a great soldier, though he broke his word to me, for he ought to be sitting quietly till now in Syevej." "Your Royal Grace," said Kmita, "Pan Charnyetski was not the first to break his word, but General Miller, who seized Wolf's regiment of royal infantry." Miller advanced a step, looked in the face of Kmita, and began to whisper something to the king, who, blinking all the time, listened attentively; looking at Pan Andrei, he said at last,-- "I see that Pan Charnyetski has sent me chosen cavaliers. I know from of old that there is no lack of daring men among you; but there is a lack of faith in keeping promises and oaths." "Holy are the words of your Royal Grace," answered Zagloba. "How do you understand that?" "If it were not for this vice of our people, your Royal Grace would not be here." The king was silent awhile; the generals again frowned at the boldness of the envoys. "Yan Kazimir himself freed you from the oath," said Karl, "for he left you and took refuge abroad." "From the oath we can be freed only by the Vicar of Christ, who resides in Rome; and he has not freed us." "A truce to that!" said the king. "I have acquired the kingdom by this," here he struck his sword, "and by this I will hold it. I do not need your suffrages nor your oaths. You want war, you will have it. I think that Pan Charnyetski remembers Golembo yet." "He forgot it on the road from Yaroslav," answered Zagloba. The king, instead of being angry, smiled: "I'll remind him of it." "God rules the world." "Tell him to visit me; I shall be glad to receive him. But he must hurry, for as soon as my horses are in condition I shall march farther." "Then we shall receive your Royal Grace," said Zagloba, bowing and placing his hand slightly on his sabre. "I see," said the king, "that Pan Charnyetski has sent in the embassy not only the best sabres, but the best mouth. In a moment you parry every thrust. It is lucky that the war is not of words, for I should find an opponent worthy of my power. But I will come to the question. Pan Charnyetski asks me to liberate this prisoner, offering two officers of distinction in return. I do not set such a low price on my soldiers as you think, and I have no wish to redeem them too cheaply; that would be against my own and their ambition, but since I can refuse Pan Charnyetski nothing, I will make him a present of this cavalier." "Gracious Lord," answered Zagloba, "Pan Charnyetski did not wish to show contempt for Swedish officers, but compassion for me; for this is my sister's son, and I, at the service of your Royal Grace, am Pan Charnyetski's adviser." "In truth," said the king, "I ought not to let the prisoner go, for he has made a vow against me, unless he will give up his vow in view of this favor." Here he turned to Roh, who was standing in front of the porch, and beckoned: "But come nearer, you strong fellow!" Roh approached a couple of steps, and stood erect. "Sadovski," said the king, "ask him if he will let me go in case I free him." Sadovski repeated the king's question. "Impossible!" cried Roh. The king understood without an interpreter, and began to clap his hands and blink. "Well, well! How can I set such a man free? He has twisted the necks of twelve horsemen, and promises me as the thirteenth. Good, good! the cavalier has pleased me. Is he Pan Charnyetski's adviser too? If he is, I will let him go all the more quickly." "Keep your mouth shut!" muttered Zagloba to Roh. "A truce to amusement!" said the king, suddenly. "Take him, and have still one more proof of my clemency. I can forgive, as the lord of this kingdom, since such is my will and favor; but I will not enter into terms with rebels." Here the king frowned, and the smile left his face: "Whoso raises his hand against me is a rebel, for I am his lawful king. Only from kindness to you have I not punished hitherto as was proper. I have been waiting for you to come to your minds; but the hour will strike when kindness will be exhausted and the day of punishment will rise. Through your self-will and instability the country is flaming with fire; through your disloyalty blood is flowing. But I tell you the last days are passing; you do not wish to hear admonitions, you do not wish to obey laws, you will obey the sword and the gallows!" Lightnings flashed in Karl's eyes. Zagloba looked on him awhile with amazement, unable to understand whence that storm had come after fair weather; finally he too began to grow angry, therefore he bowed and said only,-- "We thank your Royal Grace." Then he went off, and after him Kmita, Volodyovski, and Roh Kovalski. "Gracious, gracious!" said Zagloba, "and before you can look around he bellows in your ear like a bear. Beautiful end to an embassy! Others give honor with a cup at parting, but he with the gallows! Let him hang dogs, not nobles! O my God! how grievously we have sinned against our king, who was a father, is a father, and will be a father, for there is a Yagyellon heart in him. And such a king traitors deserted, and went to make friendship with scarecrows from beyond the sea. We are served rightly, for we were not worthy of anything better. Gibbets! gibbets! He is fenced in, and we have squeezed him like curds in a bag, so that whey is coming out, and still he threatens with sword and gibbet. Wait awhile! The Cossack caught a Tartar, and the Tartar has him by the head. It will be closer for you yet.--Roh, I wanted to give you a slap on the face or fifty blows on a carpet, but I forgive you now since you acted so like a cavalier and promised to hunt him still farther. Let me kiss you, for I am delighted with you." "Uncle is still glad!" said Roh. "The gibbet and the sword! And he told that to my eyes," said Zagloba again, after a while. "You have protection! The wolf protects in the same fashion a sheep for his own eating. And when does he say that? Now, when there is goose skin on his own back. Let him take his Laplanders for counsellors, and with them seek Satan's aid. But the Most Holy Lady will help us, as she did Pan Bobola in Sandomir when powder threw him and his horse across the Vistula, and he was not hurt. He looked around to see where he was, and arrived in time to dine with the priest. With such help we will pull them all by the necks like lobsters out of a wicker trap." CHAPTER XXXV. Almost twenty days passed. The king remained continually at the junction of the rivers, and sent couriers to fortresses and commands in every direction toward Cracow and Warsaw, with orders for all to hasten to him with assistance. They sent him also provisions by the Vistula in as great quantities as possible, but insufficient. After ten days the Swedes began to eat horse-flesh; despair seized the king and the generals at thought of what would happen when the cavalry should lose their horses, and when there would be no beasts to draw cannon. From every side too there came unpleasant news. The whole country was blazing with war, as if some one had poured pitch over it and set fire. Inferior commands and garrisons could not hasten to give aid, for they were not able to leave the towns and villages. Lithuania, held hitherto by the iron hand of Pontus do la Gardie, rose as one man. Great Poland, which had yielded first of all, was the first to throw off the yoke, and shone before the whole Commonwealth as an example of endurance, resolve, and enthusiasm. Parties of nobles and peasants rushed not only on the garrisons in villages, but even attacked towns. In vain did the Swedes take terrible vengeance on the country, in vain did they cut off the hands of prisoners, in vain did they send up villages in smoke, cut settlements to pieces, raise gibbets, bring instruments of torture from Germany to torture insurgents. Whoso had to suffer, suffered; whoso had to die, died; but if he was a noble, he died with a sabre; if a peasant, with a scythe in his hand. And Swedish blood was flowing throughout all Great Poland; the peasants were living in the forests, even women rushed to arms; punishments merely roused vengeance and increased rage. Kulesha, Jegotski, and the voevoda of Podlyasye moved through the country like flames, and besides their parties all the pine-woods were filled with other parties. The fields lay untilled, fierce hunger increased in the land; but it twisted most the entrails of the Swedes, for they were confined in towns behind closed gates, and could not go to the open country. At last breath was failing in their bosoms. In Mazovia the condition was the same. There the Barkshoe people dwelling in forest gloom came out of their wildernesses, blocked the roads, seized provisions and couriers. In Podlyasye a numerous small nobility marched in thousands either to Sapyeha or to Lithuania. Lyubelsk was in the hands of the confederates. From the distant Russias came Tartars, and with them the Cossacks constrained to obedience. Therefore all were certain that if not in a week in a month, if not in a month in two, that river fork in which Karl Gustav had halted with the main army of the Swedes would be turned into one great tomb to the glory of the nation; a great lesson for those who would attack the Commonwealth. The end of the war was foreseen already; there were some who said that one way of salvation alone remained to Karl,--to ransom himself and give Swedish Livland to the Commonwealth. But suddenly the fortune of Karl and the Swedes was bettered. Marienburg, besieged hitherto in vain, surrendered, March 20, to Steinbock. His powerful and valiant army had then no occupation, and could hasten to the rescue of the king. From another direction the Markgraf of Baden, having finished levies, was marching also to the river fork with ready forces, and soldiers yet unwearied. Both pushed forward, breaking up the smaller bands of insurgents, destroying, burning, slaying. Along the road they gathered in Swedish garrisons, took the smaller commands, and increased in power, as a river increases the more it takes streams to its bosom. Tidings of the fall of Marienburg, of the army of Steinbock, and the march of the Markgraf of Baden came very quickly to the fork of the river, and grieved Polish hearts. Steinbock was still far away; but the markgraf, advancing by forced marches, might soon come up and change the whole position at Sandomir. The Polish leaders then held a council in which Charnyetski, Sapyeha, Michael Radzivill, Vitovski, and Lyubomirski, who had grown tired of being on the Vistula, took part. At this council it was decided that Sapyeha with the Lithuanian army was to remain to watch Karl, and prevent his escape, Charnyetski was to move against the Markgraf of Baden and meet him as quickly as possible; if God gave him victory, he would return to besiege Karl Gustav. Corresponding orders were given at once. Next morning he trumpets sounded to horse so quietly that they were barely heard; Charnyetski wished to depart unknown to the Swedes. At his recent camp-ground a number of unoccupied parties of nobles and peasants took position at once. They kindled fires and made an uproar, so that the enemy might think that no one had left the place; but Charnyetski's squadrons moved out one after another. First marched the Lauda squadron, which by right should have remained with Sapyeha; but since Charnyetski had fallen greatly in love with this squadron, the hetman was loath to take it from him. After the Lauda went the Vansovich squadron, chosen men led by an old soldier half of whose life had been passed in shedding blood; then followed the squadron of Prince Dymitri Vishnyevetski, under the same Shandarovski who at Rudnik had covered himself with immeasurable glory; then two regiments of Vitovski's dragoons, two regiments of the starosta of Yavorov; the famed Stapkovski led one; then Charnyetski's own regiment, the king's regiment under Polyanovski, and Lyubomirski's whole force. No infantry was taken, because of haste; nor wagons, for the army went on horseback. All were drawn up together at Zavada in good strength and great willingness. Then Charnyetski himself went out in front, and after he had arranged them for the march, he withdrew his horse somewhat and let them pass so as to review well the whole force. The horse under him sniffed, threw up his head and nodded, as if wishing to greet the passing regiments; and the heart swelled in the castellan himself. A beautiful view was before him. As far as the eye reached a river of horses, a river of stern faces of soldiers, welling up and down with the movement of the horses; above them still a third river of sabres and lances, glittering and gleaming in the morning sun. A tremendous power went forth from them, and Charnyetski felt the power in himself; for that was not some kind of collection of volunteers, but men forged on the anvil of battle, trained, exercised, and in conflict so "venomous" that no cavalry on earth of equal numbers could withstand them. Therefore Charnyetski felt with certainty, without doubt, that he would bear asunder with sabres and hoofs the army of the Markgraf of Baden; and that victory, felt in advance, made his face so radiant that it gleamed on the regiments. "With God to victory!" cried he at last. "With God! We will conquer!" answered mighty voices. And that shout flew through all the squadrons like deep thunder through clouds. Charnyetski spurred his horse to come up with the Lauda squadron, marching in the van. The army moved forward. They advanced not like men, but like a flock of ravening birds which having wind of a battle from afar, fly to outstrip the tempest. Never, even among Tartars in the steppes, had any man heard of such a march. The soldiers slept in the saddles; they ate and drank without dismounting; they fed the horses from their hands. Rivers, forests, villages, were left behind them. Scarcely had peasants hurried out from their cottages to look at the army when the army had vanished behind clouds of dust in the distance. They marched day and night, resting only just enough to escape killing the horses. At Kozyenitsi they came upon eight Swedish squadrons under Torneskiold. The Lauda men, marching in the van, first saw the enemy, and without even drawing breath sprang at them straightway and into the fire. Next advanced Shandarovski, then Vansovich, and then Stapkovski. The Swedes, thinking that they had to deal with some mere common parties, met them in the open field, and two hours later there was not a living man left to go to the markgraf and tell him that Charnyetski was coming. Those eight squadrons were simply swept asunder on sabres, without leaving a witness of defeat. Then the Poles moved straight on to Magnushev, for spies informed them that the markgraf was at Varka with his whole army. Volodyovski was sent in the night with a party to learn how the army was disposed, and what its power was. Zagloba complained greatly of that expedition, for even the famed Vishnyevetski had never made such marches as this; therefore the old man complained, but he chose to go with Pan Michael rather than remain with the army. "It was a golden time at Sandomir," said he, stretching himself in the saddle; "a man ate, drank, and looked at the besieged Swedes in the distance; bat now there is not time even to put a canteen to your mouth. I know the military arts of the ancients, of the great Pompey and Cæsar; but Charnyetski has invented a new style. It is contrary to every rule to shake the stomach so many days and nights. The imagination begins to rebel in me from hunger, and it seems to me continually that the stars are buckwheat pudding and the moon cheese. To the dogs with such warfare! As God is dear to me, I want to gnaw my own horses' ears off from hunger." "To-morrow, God grant, we shall rest after finishing the Swedes." "I would rather have the Swedes than this tediousness! O Lord! O Lord! when wilt Thou give peace to this Commonwealth, and to Zagloba a warm place at the stove and heated beer, even without cream? Batter along, old man, on your nag, batter along, till you batter your body to death. Has any one there snuff? Maybe I could sneeze out this sleepiness through my nostrils. The moon is shining through my mouth, looking into my stomach, but I cannot tell what the moon is looking for there; it will find nothing. I repeat, to the dogs with such warfare!" "If Uncle thinks that the moon is cheese, then eat it, Uncle," said Roh Kovalski. "If I should eat you I might say that I had eaten beef; but I am afraid that after such a roast I should lose the rest of my wit." "If I am an ox and Uncle is my uncle, then what is Uncle?" "But, you fool, do you think that Althea gave birth to a firebrand because she sat by the stove?" "How does that touch me?" "In this way. If you are an ox, then ask about your father first, not about your uncle: for a bull carried off Europa, but her brother, who was uncle to her children, was a man for all that. Do you understand?" "To tell the truth, I do not; but as to eating I could eat something myself." "Eat the devil and let me sleep! What is it, Pan Michael? Why have we halted?" "Varka is in sight," answered Volodyovski. "See, the church tower is gleaming in the moonlight." "But have we passed Magnushev?" "Magnushev is behind on the right. It is a wonder to me that there is no Swedish party on this side of the river. Let us go to those thickets and stop; perhaps God may send us some informant." Pan Michael led his detachment to the thicket, and disposed it about a hundred yards from the road on each side, ordering the men to remain silent, and hold the bridles closely so the horses might not neigh. "Wait," said he. "Let us hear what is being done on the other side of the river, and perhaps we may see something." They stood there waiting; but for a long time nothing was to be heard. The wearied soldiers began to nod in the saddles. Zagloba dropped on the horse's neck and fell asleep; even the horses were slumbering. An hour passed. The accurate ear of Volodyovski heard something like the tread of a horse on a firm road. "Hold! silence!" said he to the soldiers. He pushed out himself to the edge of the thicket, and looked along the road. The road was gleaming in the moonlight like a silver ribbon; there was nothing visible on it, still the sound of horses came nearer. "They are coming surely!" said Volodyovski. All held their horses more closely, each one restraining his breath. Meanwhile on the road appeared a Swedish party of thirty horsemen. They rode slowly and carelessly enough, not in line, but in a straggling row. Some of the soldiers were talking, others were singing in a low voice; for the night, warm as in May, acted on the ardent souls of the soldiers. Without suspicion they passed near Pan Michael, who was standing so hard by the edge of the thicket that he could catch the odor of horses and the smoke of pipes which the soldiers had lighted. At last they vanished at the turn of the road. Volodyovski waited till the tramp had died in the distance; then only did he go to his men and say to Pan Yan and Pan Stanislav,-- "Let us drive them now, like geese, to the camp of the castellan. Not a man must escape, lest he give warning." "If Charnyetski does not let us eat then and sleep," said Zagloba, "I will resign his service and return to Sapyo. With Sapyo, when there is a battle, there is a battle; but when there is a respite, there is a feast. If you had four lips, he would give each one of them enough to do. He is the leader for me! And in truth tell me by what devil are we not serving with Sapyo, since this regiment belongs to him by right?" "Father, do not blaspheme against the greatest warrior in the Commonwealth," said Pan Yan. "It is not I that blaspheme, but my entrails, on which hunger is playing, as on a fiddle--" "The Swedes will dance to the music," interrupted Volodyovski. "Now, gentlemen, let us advance quickly! I should like to come up with them exactly at that inn in the forest which we passed in coming hither." And he led on the squadron quickly, but not too quickly. They rode into a dense forest in which darkness enclosed them. The inn was less than two miles distant. When Volodyovski had drawn near, he went again at a walk, so as not to alarm the Swedes too soon. When not more than a cannon-shot away, the noise of men was heard. "They are there and making an uproar!" said Pan Michael. The Swedes had, in fact, stopped at the inn, looking for some living person to give information. But the place was empty. Some of the soldiers were shaking up the main building; others were looking in the cow-house, in the shed, or raising the thatch on the roof. One half of the men remained on the square holding the horses of those who were searching. Pan Michael's division approached within a hundred yards, and began to surround the inn with a Tartar crescent. Those of the Swedes standing in front heard perfectly, and at last saw men and horses; since, however, it was dark in the forest they could not see what kind of troops were coming; but they were not alarmed in the least, not admitting that others than Swedes could come from that point. At last the movement of the crescent astonished and disturbed them. They called at once to those who were in the buildings. Suddenly a shout of "Allah!" was heard, and the sound of shots, in one moment dark crowds of soldiers appeared as if they had grown out of the earth. Now came confusion, a flash of sabres, oaths, smothered shouts; but the whole affair did not last longer than the time needed to say the Lord's Prayer twice. There remained on the ground before the inn five bodies of men and horses; Volodyovski moved on, taking with him twenty-five prisoners. They advanced at a gallop, urging the Swedish horses with the sides of their sabres, and arrived at Magnushev at daybreak. In Charnyetski's camp no one was sleeping; all were ready. The castellan himself came out leaning on his staff, thin and pale from watching. "How is it?" asked he of Pan Michael. "Have you many informants?" "Twenty-five prisoners." "Did many escape?" "All are taken." "Only send you, soldier, even to hell! Well done! Take them at once to the torture, I will examine them." Then the castellan turned, and when departing said,-- "But be in readiness, for perhaps we may move on the enemy without delay." "How is that?" asked Zagloba. "Be quiet!" said Volodyovski. The prisoners, without being burned, told in a moment what they knew of the forces of the markgraf,--how many cannons he had, what infantry and cavalry. Charnyetski grew somewhat thoughtful; for he learned that it was really a newly levied army, but formed of the oldest soldiers, who had taken part in God knows how many wars. There were also many Germans among them, and a considerable division of French; the whole force exceeded that of the Poles by several hundred. But it appeared from the statements of the prisoners that the markgraf did not even admit that Charnyetski was near, and believed that the Poles were besieging Karl Gustav with all their forces at Sandomir. The castellan had barely heard this when he sprang up and cried to his attendant: "Vitovski, give command to sound the trumpet to horse!" Half an hour later the army moved and marched in the fresh spring morning through forests and fields covered with dew. At last Varka--or rather its ruins, for the place had been burned almost to the ground six years before--appeared on the horizon. Charnyetski's troops were marching over an open flat; therefore they could not be concealed from the eyes of the Swedes. In fact they were seen; but the markgraf thought that they were various "parties" which had combined in a body with the intent of alarming the camp. Only when squadron after squadron, advancing at a trot, appeared from beyond the forest, did a feverish activity rise in the Swedish camp. Charnyetski's men saw smaller divisions of horsemen and single officers hurrying between the regiments. The bright-colored Swedish infantry began to pour into the middle of the plain; the regiments formed one after another before the eyes of the Poles and were numerous, resembling a flock of many-colored birds. Over their heads were raised toward the sun quadrangles of strong spears with which the infantry shielded themselves against attacks of cavalry. Finally, were seen crowds of Swedish armored cavalry advancing at a trot along the wings; the artillery was drawn up and brought to the front in haste. All the preparations, all the movements were as visible as something on the palm of the hand, for the sun had risen clearly, splendidly, and lighted up the whole country. The Pilitsa separated the two armies. On the Swedish bank trumpets and kettle-drums were heard, and the shouts of soldiers coming with all speed into line. Charnyetski ordered also to sound the crooked trumpets, and advanced with his squadrons toward the river. Then he rushed with all the breath of his horse to the Vansovich squadron, which was nearest the Pilitsa. "Old soldier!" cried he to Vansovich, "advance for me to the bridge, there dismount and to muskets! Let all their force be turned on you! Lead on!" Vansovich merely flushed a little from desire, and waved his baton. The men shouted and shot after him like a cloud of dust driven by wind. When they came within three hundred yards of the bridge, they slackened the speed of their horses; then two thirds of them sprang from the saddles and advanced on a run to the bridge. But the Swedes came from the other side; and soon muskets began to play, at first slowly, then every moment more briskly, as if a thousand flails were beating irregularly on a barn-floor. Smoke stretched over the river. Shouts of encouragement were thundering from one and the other command. The minds of both armies were bent to the bridge, which was wooden, narrow, difficult to take, but easy to defend. Still over this bridge alone was it possible to cross to the Swedes. A quarter of an hour later Charnyetski pushed forward Lyubomirski's dragoons to the aid of Vansovich. But the Swedes now attacked the opposite front with artillery. They drew up new pieces one after another, and bombs began to fly with a howl over the heads of Vansovich's men and the dragoons, to fall in the meadow and dig into the earth, scattering mud and turf on those fighting. The markgraf, standing near the forest in the rear of the army, watched the battle through a field-glass. From time to time he removed the glass from his eyes, looked at his staff, shrugged his shoulders and said with astonishment: "They have gone mad; they want absolutely to force the bridge. A few guns and two or three regiments might defend it against a whole army." Vansovich advanced still more stubbornly with his men; hence the defence grew still more resolute. The bridge became the central point of the battle, toward which the whole Swedish line was approaching and concentrating. An hour later the entire Swedish order of battle was changed, and they stood with flank to their former position. The bridge was simply covered with a rain of fire and iron. Vansovich's men were falling thickly; meanwhile orders came more and more urgent to advance absolutely. "Charnyetski is murdering those men!" cried Lyubomirski on a sudden. Vitovski, as an experienced soldier, saw that evil was happening, and his whole body quivered with impatience; at last he could endure no longer. Spurring his horse till the beast groaned piteously, he rushed to Charnyetski, who during all this time, it was unknown why, was pushing men toward the river. "Your grace," cried Vitovski, "blood is flowing for nothing; we cannot carry that bridge!" "I do not want to carry it!" answered Charnyetski. "Then what does your grace want? What must we do?" "To the river with the squadrons! to the river! And you to your place!" Here Charnyetski's eyes flashed such lightnings that Vitovski withdrew without saying a word. Meanwhile the squadrons had come within twenty paces of the bank, and stood in a long line parallel with the bed of the river. None of the officers or the soldiers had the slightest suspicion of what they were doing. In a flash Charnyetski appeared like a thunderbolt before the front of the squadrons. There was fire in his face, lightning in his eyes. A sharp wind had raised the burka on his shoulders so that it was like strong wings: his horse sprang and reared, casting fire from his nostrils. The castellan dropped his sword on its pendant, took the rap from his head, and with hair erect shouted to his division,-- "Gentlemen! the enemy defends himself with this water, and jeers at us! He has sailed through the sea to crush our fatherland, and he thinks that we in defence of it cannot swim through this river!" Here he hurled his cap to the earth, and seizing his sabre pointed with it to the swollen waters. Enthusiasm bore him away, for he stood in the saddle and shouted more mightily still,-- "To whom God, faith, fatherland, are all, follow me!" And pressing the horse with the spurs so that the steed sprang as it were into space, he rushed into the river. The wave plashed around him; man and horse were hidden under water, but they rose in the twinkle of an eye. "After my master!" cried Mihalko, the same who had covered himself with glory at Rudnik; and he sprang into the water. "After me!" shouted Volodyovski, with a shrill but thin voice; and he sprang in before he had finished shouting. "O Jesus! O Mary!" bellowed Zagloba, raising his horse for the leap. With that an avalanche of men and horses dashed into the river, so that it struck both banks with wild impetus. After the Lauda squadron went Vishnyevetski's, then Vitovski's, then Stapkovski's, after that all the others. Such a frenzy seized the men that the squadrons crowded one another in emulation; the shouts of command were mingled with the roar of the soldiers; the river overflowed the banks and foamed itself into milk in a moment. The current bore the regiments down somewhat; but the horses, pricked with spurs, swam like a countless herd of dolphins, snorting and groaning. They filled the river to such a degree that the mass of heads of horses and riders formed as it were a bridge on which a man might have passed with dry foot to the other bank. Charnyetski swam over first; but before the water had dropped from him the Lauda squadron had followed him to land; then he waved his baton, and cried to Volodyovski,-- "On a gallop! Strike!" And to the Vishnyevetski squadron under Shandarovski,-- "With them!" And so he sent the squadrons one after another, till he had sent all. He stood at the head of the last himself, and shouting, "In the name of God! with luck!" followed the others. Two regiments of Swedish cavalry posted in reserve saw what was happening; but such amazement had seized the colonels that before they could move from their tracks the Lauda men, urging their horses to the highest speed, and sweeping with irresistible force, struck the first regiment, scattered that, as a whirlwind scatters leaves, hurled it against the second, brought that to disorder; then Shandarovski came up, and a terrible slaughter began, but of short duration; after a while the Swedish ranks were broken, and a disordered throng plunged forward toward the main army. Charnyetski's squadron pursued them with a fearful outcry, slashing, thrusting, strewing the field with corpses. At last it was clear why Charnyetski had commanded Vansovich to carry the bridge, though he had no thought of crossing it. The chief attention of the whole army had been concentrated on that point; therefore no one defended, or had time to defend, the river itself. Besides nearly all the artillery and the entire front of the Swedish army was turned toward the bridge; and now when three thousand cavalry were rushing with all impetus against the flank of that army, it was needful to change the order of battle, to form a new front, to defend themselves even well or ill against the shock. Now rose a terrible haste and confusion; infantry and cavalry regiments turned with all speed to face the enemy, straining themselves in their hurry, knocking one against another, not understanding commands in the uproar, acting independently. In vain did the officers make superhuman efforts; in vain did the markgraf move straightway the regiments of cavalry posted at the forest; before they came to any kind of order, before the infantry could put the butt ends of their lances in the ground to hold the points to the enemy, the Lauda squadron fell, like the spirit of death, into the very midst of their ranks; after it a second, a third, a fourth, a fifth, and a sixth squadron. Then began the day of judgment! The smoke of musketry fire covered, as if with a cloud, the whole scene of conflict; and in that cloud screams, seething, unearthly voices of despair, shouts of triumph, the sharp clang of steel, as if in an infernal forge, the rattling of muskets; at times a flag shone and fell in the smoke; then the gilded point of a regimental banner, and again you saw nothing; but a roar was heard more and more terrible, as if the earth had broken on a sudden under the river, and its waters were tumbling down into fathomless abysses. Now on the flank other sounds were heard. This was Vansovich, who had crossed the bridge and was marching on the new flank of the enemy. After this the battle did not last long. From out that cloud large groups of men began to push, and run toward the forest in disorder, wild, without caps, without helmets, without armor. Soon after them burst out a whole flood of people in the most dreadful disorder. Artillery, infantry, cavalry mingled together fled toward the forest at random, in alarm and terror. Some soldiers cried in sky-piercing voices; others fled in silence, covering their heads with their hands. Some in their haste threw away their clothing; others stopped those running ahead, fell down themselves, trampled one another; and right there behind them, on their shoulders and heads, rushed a line of Polish cavaliers. Every moment you saw whole ranks of them spurring their horses and rushing into the densest throngs of men. No one defended himself longer; all went under the sword. Body fell upon body. The Poles hewed without rest, without mercy, on the whole plain; along the bank of the river toward the forest, as far as the eye could reach you saw merely pursued and pursuing; only here and there scattered groups of infantry offered an irregular, despairing resistance; the cannons were silent. The battle ceased to be a battle; it had turned into a slaughter. All that part of the army which fled toward the forest was cut to pieces; only a few squadrons of Swedish troopers entered it. After them the light squadrons of Poles sprang in among the trees. But in the forest peasants were waiting for that unslain remnant,--the peasants who at the sound of the battle had rushed together from all the surrounding villages. The most terrible pursuit, however, continued on the road to Warsaw, along which the main forces of the Swedes were fleeing. The young Markgraf Adolph struggled twice to cover the retreat; but beaten twice, he fell into captivity himself. His auxiliary division of French infantry, composed of four hundred men, threw away their arms; three thousand chosen soldiers, musketeers and cavalry, fled as far as Mnishev. The musketeers were cut down in Mnishev; the cavalry were pursued toward Chersk, until they were scattered completely through the forest, reeds, and brush; there the peasants hunted them out one by one on the morrow. Before the sun had set, the army of Friederich, Markgraf of Baden, had ceased to exist. On the first scene of battle there remained only the standard-bearers with their standards, for all the troops had followed the enemy. And the sun was well inclined to its setting when the first bodies of cavalry began to appear from the side of the forest and Mnishev. They returned with singing and uproar, hurling their caps in the air, firing from pistols. Almost all led with them crowds of bound prisoners. These walked at the sides of the horses they were without caps, without helmets, with heads drooping on their breasts, torn, bloody, stumbling every moment against the bodies of fallen comrades. The field of battle presented a terrible sight. In places, where the struggle had been fiercest, there lay simply piles of bodies half a spear-length in height. Some of the infantry still held in their stiffened hands long spears. The whole ground was covered with spears. In places they were sticking still in the earth; here and there pieces of them formed as it were fences and pickets. But on all sides was presented mostly a dreadful and pitiful mingling of bodies, of men mashed with hoofs, broken muskets, drums, trumpets, caps, belts, tin boxes which the infantry carried; hands and feet sticking out in such disorder from the piles of bodies that it was difficult to tell to what body they belonged. In those places specially where the infantry defended itself whole breastworks of corpses were lying. Somewhat farther on, near the river, stood the artillery, now cold, some pieces overturned by the onrush of men, others as it were ready to be fired. At the sides of them lay the cannoneers now held in eternal sleep. Many bodies were hanging across the guns and embracing them with their arms, as if those soldiers wished still to defend them after death. The brass, spotted with blood and brains, glittered with ill omen in the beams of the setting sun. The golden rays were reflected in stiffened blood, which here and there formed little lakes. Its nauseating odor was mingled over the whole field with the smell of powder, the exhalation from bodies, and the sweat of horses. Before the setting of the sun Charnyetski returned with the king's regiment, and stood in the middle of the field. The troops greeted him with a thundering shout. Whenever a detachment came up it cheered without end. He stood in the rays of the sun, wearied beyond measure, but all radiant, with bare head, his sword hanging on his belt, and he answered to every cheer,-- "Not to me, gentlemen, not to me, but to the name of God!" At his side were Vitovski and Lyubomirski, the latter as bright as the sun itself, for he was in gilded plate armor, his face splashed with blood; for he had worked terribly and labored with his own hand as a simple soldier, but discontented and gloomy, for even his own regiments shouted,-- "Vivat Charnyetski, _dux et victor_ (commander and conqueror)!" Envy began then to dive into the soul of the marshal. Meanwhile new divisions rolled in from every side of the field; each time an officer came up and threw a banner, captured from the enemy, at Charnyetski's feet. At sight of this rose new shouts, new cheers, hurling of caps into the air, and the firing of pistols. The sun was sinking lower and lower. Then in the one church that remained after the fire in Varka they sounded the Angelus; that moment all uncovered their heads. Father Pyekarski, the company priest, began to intone: "The Angel of the Lord announced unto the Most Holy Virgin Mary!" and a thousand iron breasts answered at once, with deep voices: "And she conceived of the Holy Ghost!" All eyes were raised to the heavens, which were red with the evening twilight; and from that bloody battle-field began to rise a pious hymn to the light playing in the sky before night. Just as they had ceased to sing, the Lauda squadron began to come up at a trot; it had chased the enemy farthest. The soldiers throw more banners at Charnyetski's feet. He rejoiced in heart, and seeing Volodyovski, urged his horse toward him and asked,-- "Have many of them escaped?" Pan Michael shook his head as a sign that not many had escaped, but he was so near being breathless that he was unable to utter one word; he merely gasped with open mouth, time after time, so that his breast was heaving. At last he pointed to his lips, as a sign that he could not speak. Charnyetski understood him and pressed his head. "He has toiled!" said he; "God grant us more such." Zagloba hurried to catch his breath, and said, with chattering teeth and broken voice,-- "For God's sake! The cold wind is blowing on me, and I am all in a sweat. Paralysis will strike me. Pull the clothes off some fat Swede and give them to me, for everything on me is wet,--wet, and it is wet in this place. I know not what is water, what is my own sweat, and what is Swedish blood. If I have ever expected in my life to cut down so many of those scoundrels, I am not fit to be the crupper of a saddle. The greatest victory of this war! But I will not spring into water a second time. Eat not, drink not, sleep not, and then a bath! I have had enough in my old years. My hand is benumbed; paralysis has struck me already; gorailka, for the dear God!" Charnyetski, hearing this, and seeing the old man really covered completely with the blood of the enemy, took pity on his age and gave him his own canteen. Zagloba raised it to his mouth, and after a while returned it empty; then he said,-- "I have gulped so much water in the Pilitsa, that we shall soon see how fish will hatch in my stomach; but that gorailka is better than water." "Dress in other clothes, even Swedish," said Charnyetski. "I'll find a big Swede for Uncle!" said Roh. "Why should I have bloody clothes from a corpse?" said Zagloba; "take off everything to the shirt from that general whom I captured." "Have you taken a general?" asked Charnyetski, with animation. "Whom have I not taken, whom have I not slain?" answered Zagloba. Now Volodyovski recovered speech: "We have taken the younger markgraf, Adolph; Count Falckenstein, General Wegier, General Poter Benzij, not counting inferior officers." "But the Markgraf Friederich?" asked Charnyetski. "If he has not fallen here, he has escaped to the forest; but if he has escaped, the peasants will kill him." Volodyovski was mistaken in his previsions. The Markgraf Friederich with Counts Schlippenbach and Ehrenhain, wandering through the forest, made their way in the night to Chersk; after sitting there in the ruined castle three days and nights in hunger and cold, they wandered by night to Warsaw. That did not save them from captivity afterward; this time, however, they escaped. It was night when Charnyetski came to Varka from the field. That was perhaps the gladdest night of his life, for such a great disaster the Swedes had not suffered since the beginning of the war. All the artillery, all the flags, all the officers, except the chief, were captured. The army was cut to pieces, driven to the four winds; the remnants of it were forced to fall victims to bands of peasants. But besides, it was shown that those Swedes who held themselves invincible could not stand before regular Polish squadrons in the open field. Charnyetski understood at last what a mighty result this victory would work in the whole Commonwealth,--how it would raise courage, how it would rouse enthusiasm; he saw already the whole Commonwealth, in no distant future, free from oppression, triumphant. Perhaps, too, he saw with the eyes of his mind the gilded baton of the grand hetman on the sky. He was permitted to dream of this, for he had advanced toward it as a true soldier, as a defender of his country, and he was of those who grow not from salt nor from the soil, but from that which pains them. Meanwhile he could hardly embrace with his whole soul the joy which flowed in upon him; therefore he turned to Lyubomirski, riding at his side, and said,-- "Now to Sandomir! to Sandomir with all speed! Since the army knows now how to swim rivers, neither the San nor the Vistula will frighten us!" Lyubomirski said not a word; but Zagloba, riding a little apart in Swedish uniform, permitted himself to say aloud,-- "Go where you like, but without me, for I am not a weathercock to turn night and day without food or sleep." Charnyetski was so rejoiced that he was not only not angry, but he answered in jest,-- "You are more like the belfry than the weathercock, since, as I see, you have sparrows in your head. But as to eating and rest it belongs to all." To which Zagloba said, but in an undertone. "Whoso has a beak on his face has a sparrow on his mind." CHAPTER XXXVI. After that victory Charnyetski permitted at last the army to take breath and feed the wearied horses; then he was to return to Sandomir by forced marches, and bend the King of Sweden to his fall. Meanwhile Kharlamp came to the camp one evening with news from Sapyeha. Charnyetski was at Chersk, whither he had gone to review the general militia assembled at that town. Kharlamp, not finding the chief, betook himself at once to Pan Michael, so as to rest at his quarters after the long journey. His friends greeted him joyously; but he, at the very beginning, showed them a gloomy face and said,-- "I have heard of your victory. Fortune smiled here, but bore down on us in Sandomir. Karl Gustav is no longer in the sack, for he got out, and, besides, with great confusion to the Lithuanian troops." "Can that be?" cried Pan Michael, seizing his head. Pan Yan, Pan Stanislav, and Zagloba were as if fixed to the earth. "How was it? Tell, by the living God, for I cannot stay in my skin!" "Breath fails me yet," said Kharlamp; "I have ridden day and night, I am terribly tired. Charnyetski will come, then I will tell all from the beginning. Let me now draw breath a little." "Then Karl has gone out of the sack. I foresaw that, did I not? Do you not remember that I prophesied it? Let Kovalski testify." "Uncle foretold it," said Roh. "And whither has Karl gone?" asked Pan Michael. "The infantry sailed down in boats; but he, with cavalry, has gone along the Vistula to Warsaw." "Was there a battle?" "There was and there was not. In brief, give me peace, for I cannot talk." "But tell me one thing. Is Sapyeha crushed altogether?" "How crushed! He is pursuing the king; but of course Sapyeha will never come up with anybody." "He is as good at pursuit as a German at fasting," said Zagloba. "Praise be to God for even this, that the army is intact!" put in Volodyovski. "The Lithuanians have got into trouble!" said Zagloba. "Ah, it is a bad case! Again we must watch a hole in the Commonwealth together." "Say nothing against the Lithuanian army," said Kharlamp. "Karl Gustav is a great warrior, and it is no wonder to lose against him. And did not you, from Poland, lose at Uistsie, at Volbor, at Suleyov, and in ten other places? Charnyetski himself lost at Golembo. Why should not Sapyeha lose, especially when you left him alone like an orphan?" "But why did we go to a dance at Varka?" asked Zagloba, with indignation. "I know that it was not a dance, but a battle, and God gave you the victory. But who knows, perhaps it had been better not to go; for among us they say that the troops of both nations (Lithuanian and Poland) may be beaten separately, but together the cavalry of hell itself could not manage them." "That may be," said Volodyovski; "but what the leaders have decided is not for us to discuss. This did not happen, either, without your fault." "Sapyo must have blundered; I know him!" said Zagloba. "I cannot deny that," muttered Kharlamp. They were silent awhile, but from time to time looked at one another gloomily, for to them it seemed that the fortune of the Commonwealth was beginning to sink, and yet such a short time before they were full of hope and confidence. "Charnyetski is coming!" said Volodyovski; and he went out of the room. The castellan was really returning; Volodyovski went to meet him, and began to call from a distance,-- "The King of Sweden has broken through the Lithuanian army, and escaped from the sack. There is an officer here with letters from the voevoda of Vilna." "Bring him here!" cried Charnyetski. "Where is he? "With me; I will present him at once." Charnyetski took the news so much to heart that he would not wait, but sprang at once from his saddle and entered Volodyovski's quarters. All rose when they saw him enter; he barely nodded and said,-- "I ask for the letter!" Kharlamp gave him a sealed letter. The castellan went to the window, for it was dark in the cottage, and began to read with frowning brow and anxious face. From instant to instant anger gleamed on his countenance. "The castellan has changed," whispered Zagloba to Pan Yan; "see how his beak has grown red. He will begin to lisp right away, he always does when in anger." Charnyetski finished the letter. For a time he twisted his beard with his whole hand; at last he called out with a jingling, indistinct voice,-- "Come this way, officer!" "At command of your worthiness!" "Tell me the truth," said Charnyetski, with emphasis, "for this narrative is so artfully put together that I am unable to get at the affair. But--tell me the truth, do not color it--is the army dispersed?" "Not dispersed at all, your grace." "How many days are needed to assemble it?" Here Zagloba whispered to Pan Yan: "He wants to come at him from the left hand as it were." But Kharlamp answered without hesitation,-- "Since the army is not dispersed, it does not need to be assembled. It is true that when I was leaving, about five hundred horse of the general militia could not be found, were not among the fallen; but that is a common thing, and the army does not suffer from that; the hetman has even moved after the king in good order." "You have lost no cannon?" "Yes, we lost four, which the Swedes, not being able to take with them, spiked." "I see that you tell the truth; tell me then how everything happened." "_Incipiam_ (I will begin)," said Kharlamp. "When we were left alone, the enemy saw that there was no army on the Vistula, nothing but parties and irregular detachments. We thought--or, properly speaking, Pan Sapyeha thought--that the king would attack those, and he sent reinforcements, but not considerable, so as not to weaken himself. Meanwhile there was a movement and a noise among the Swedes, as in a beehive. Toward evening they began to come out in crowds to the San. We were at the voevoda's quarters. Pan Kmita, who is called Babinich now, a soldier of the first degree, came up and reported this. But Pan Sapyeha was just sitting down to a feast, to which a multitude of noble women from Krasnik and Yanov had assembled--for the voevoda is fond of the fair sex--" "And he loves feasting!" interrupted Charnyetski. "I am not with him; there is no one to incline him to temperance," put in Zagloba. "Maybe you will be with him sooner than you think; then you can both begin to be temperate," retorted Charnyetski. Then he turned to Kharlamp: "Speak on!" "Babinich reported, and the voevoda answered: 'They are only pretending to attack; they will undertake nothing! First,' said he, 'they will try to cross the Vistula; but I have an eye on them, and I will attack myself. At present,' said he, 'we will not spoil our pleasure, so that we may have a joyous time! We will eat and drink.' The music began to tear away, and the voevoda invited those present to the dance." "I'll give him dancing!" interrupted Zagloba. "Silence, if you please!" said Charnyetski. "Again men rush in from the bank saying that there is a terrible uproar. 'That's nothing!' the voevoda whispered to the page; 'do not interrupt me!' We danced till daylight, we slept till midday. At midday we see that the intrenchments are bristling, forty-eight pound guns on them; and the Swedes fire from time to time. When a ball falls it is the size of a bucket; it is nothing for such a one to fill the eyes with dust." "Give no embellishments!" interrupted Charnyetski; "you are not with the hetman." Kharlamp was greatly confused, and continued: "At midday the voevoda himself went out. The Swedes under cover of these trenches began to build a bridge. They worked till evening, to our great astonishment; for we thought that as to building they would build, but as to crossing they would not be able to do that. Next day they built on. The voevoda put the troops in order, for he expected a battle." "All this time the bridge was a pretext, and they crossed lower down over another bridge, and turned your flank?" interrupted Charnyetski. Kharlamp stared and opened his mouth, he was silent in amazement; but at last said,-- "Then your worthiness has had an account already?" "No need of that!" said Zagloba; "our grandfather guesses everything concerning war on the wing, as if he had seen it in fact." "Speak on!" said Charnyetski. "Evening came. The troops were in readiness, but with the first star there was a feast again. This time the Swedes passed over the second bridge lower down, and attacked us at once. The squadron of Pan Koshyts, a good soldier, was at the edge. He rushed on them. The general militia which was next to him sprang to his aid; but when the Swedes spat at them from the guns, they took to their heels. Pan Koshyts was killed, and his men terribly cut up. Now the general militia, rushing back in a crowd on the camp, put everything in disorder. All the squadrons that were ready advanced; but we effected nothing, lost cannon besides. If the king had had more cannon and infantry, our defeat would have been severe; but fortunately the greater number of the infantry regiments with the cannon had sailed away in boats during the night. Of this no one of us knew." "Sapyo has blundered! I knew it beforehand!" cried Zagloba. "We got the correspondence of the king," added Kharlamp, "which the Swedes dropped. The soldiers read in it that the king is to go to Prussia to return with the elector's forces, for, he writes, that with Swedish troops alone he cannot succeed." "I know of that," said Charnyetski. "Pan Sapyeha sent me that letter." Then he muttered quietly, as if speaking to himself: "We must follow him to Prussia." "That is what I have been saying this long time," put in Zagloba. Charnyetski looked at him for a while in thoughtfulness. "It is unfortunate," said he, aloud; "for if I had returned to Sandomir the hetman and I should not have let a foot of them out alive. Well! it has passed and will not return. The war will be longer; but death is fated to this invasion and to these invaders." "It cannot be otherwise!" cried the knights in chorus; and great consolation entered their hearts, though a short time before they had doubted. Meanwhile Zagloba whispered something in Jendzian's ear; he vanished through the door, and soon returned with a decanter. Seeing this, Volodyovski inclined to the knee of the castellan. "It would be an uncommon favor for a simple soldier," he began. "I will drink with you willingly," said Charnyetski; "and do you know why?--because we must part." "How is that?" cried the astonished Pan Michael. "Sapyeha writes that the Lauda squadron belongs to the Lithuanian army, and that he sent it only to assist the forces of the kingdom; that now he will need it himself, especially the officers, of whom he has a great lack. My Volodyovski, you know how much I love you; it is hard for me to part with you, but here is the order. It is true Pan Sapyeha as a courteous man leaves the order in my power and discretion. I might not show it to you.--Well, it is as pleasant to me as if the hetman had broken my best sabre. I give you the order precisely because it is left to my discretion, and do your duty. To your health, my dear soldier!" Volodyovski bowed again to the castellan's knees; but he was so distressed that he could not utter a word, and when Charnyetski embraced him tears ran in a stream over his yellow mustaches. "I would rather die!" cried he, pitifully. "I have grown accustomed to toil under you, revered leader, and there I know not how it will be." "Pan Michael, do not mind the order," cried Zagloba, with emotion. "I will write to Sapyo myself, and rub his ears for him fittingly." But Pan Michael first of all was a soldier; therefore he flew into a passion,-- "But the old volunteer is ever sitting in you. You would better be silent when you know not the question. Service!" "That is it," said Charnyetski. CHAPTER XXXVII. Zagloba when he stood before the hetman did not answer his joyous greeting, but put his hands behind his back, pouted his lips, and looked on him like a just but stern judge. Sapyeha was pleased when he saw that mien, for he expected some pleasantry and said,-- "How are you, old rogue? Why twist your nose as if you had found some unvirtuous odor?" "In the whole camp of Sapyeha it smells of hashed meat and cabbage." "Why? Tell me." "Because the Swedes have cut up a great many cabbage-heads!" "There you are! You are already criticising us. It is a pity they did not cut you up too." "I was with a leader under whom we are the cutters, not the cut." "The hangman take you! if they had even clipped your tongue!" "Then I should have nothing to proclaim Sapyeha's victory with." "Ah, lord brother, spare me! The majority already forget my service to the country, and belittle me altogether. I know too that there are many who make a great outcry against my person; still, had it not been for that rabble of a general militia, affairs might have gone differently. They say that I have neglected the enemy for night feasting; but the whole Commonwealth has not been able to resist that enemy." Zagloba was somewhat moved at the words of the hetman, and answered,-- "Such is the custom with us, always to put the blame on the leader. I am not the man to speak evil of feasting, for the longer the day, the more needful the feast. Pan Charnyetski is a great warrior; still, according to my head, he has this defect,--that he gives his troops for breakfast, for dinner, and for supper nothing but Swedes' flesh. He is a better leader than cook; but he acts ill, for from such food war may soon become disgusting to the best cavaliers." "Was Charnyetski very much enraged at me?" "No, not very! In the beginning he showed a great change; but when he discovered that the army was unbroken, he said at once: 'The will of God, not the might of men! That is nothing! any general may lose a battle. If we had Sapyehas only in the land, we should have a country in which every man would be an Aristides.'" "For Pan Charnyetski I would not spare my blood!" answered Sapyeha. "Every other would have lowered me, so as to exalt himself and his own glory, especially after a fresh victory; but he is not that kind of man." "I will say nothing against him but this,--that I am too old for such service as he expects of soldiers, and especially for those baths which he gives the army." "Then are you glad to return to me?" "Glad and not glad, for I hear of feasting for an hour, but somehow I don't see it." "We will sit down to the table this minute. But what is Charnyetski undertaking now?" "He is going to Great Poland to help those poor people; from there he will march against Steinbock and to Prussia, hoping to get cannon and infantry from Dantzig." "The citizens of Dantzig are worthy people, and give a shining example to the whole Commonwealth. We shall meet Charnyetski at Warsaw, for I shall march there, but will stop a little first around Lublin." "Then have the Swedes besieged Lublin again?" "Unhappy place! I know not how many times it has been in the hands of the enemy. There is a deputation here now from Lubelsk, and they will appear with a petition asking me to save them. But as I have letters to despatch to the king and the hetmans, they must wait awhile." "I will go gladly to Lublin, for there the fair heads are comely beyond measure, and sprightly. When a woman of that place is cutting bread, and puts the loaf against herself, the crust on the lifeless bread blushes from delight." "Oh, Turk!" "Your worthiness, as a man advanced in years, cannot understand this; but I, like May, must let my blood out yet." "But you are older than I." "Only in experience, not in years. I have been able _conservare juventutem meam_ (to preserve my youth), and more than one man has envied me that power. Permit me, your worthiness, to receive the Lubelsk deputation. I will promise to aid them at once; let the poor men comfort themselves before we comfort the poor women." "That is well," said the hetman; "then I will write the letters." And he went out. Immediately after were admitted the deputies from Lubelsk, whom Zagloba received with uncommon dignity and seriousness. He promised assistance on condition that they would furnish the army with provisions, especially with every kind of drink. When the conditions were settled, he invited them in the name of the voevoda to supper. They were glad, for the army marched that night toward Lublin. The hetman himself was active beyond measure, for it was a question with him of effacing the memory of the Sandomir defeat by some military success. The siege began, but advanced rather slowly. During this time Kmita was learning from Volodyovski to work with the sabre, and made uncommon progress. Pan Michael, knowing that his art was to be used against Boguslav's neck, held back no secret. Often too they had better practice; for, approaching the castle, they challenged to single combat the Swedes, many of whom they slew. Soon Kmita had made such advance that he could meet Pan Yan on equal terms; no one in the whole army of Sapyeha could stand before him. Then such a desire to try Boguslav seized his soul that he was barely able to remain at Lublin, especially since the spring brought back to him strength and health. His wounds had healed, he ceased to spit blood, life played in him as of old, and fire gleamed in his eyes. At first the Lauda men looked at him frowningly; but they dared in not attack, for Volodyovski held them with iron hand; and later, when they considered his acts and his deeds, they were reconciled completely, and his most inveterate enemy, Yuzva Butrym, said,-- "Kmita is dead; Babinich is living, let him live." The Lubelsk garrison surrendered at last, to the great delight of the army; then Sapyeha moved his squadrons toward Warsaw. On the road they received tidings that Yan Kazimir himself, with the hetmans and a fresh army, was advancing to aid them. News came too from Charnyetski, who was marching to the capital from Great Poland. The war, scattered through the whole country, was gathering at Warsaw, as a cloud scattered in the sky gathers and thickens to give birth to a storm with thunders and lightnings. Sapyeha marched through Jelehi, Garvolin, and Minsk to the Syedlets highway, to join the general militia of Podlyasye. Pan Yan took command of this multitude; for though living in Lubelsk, he was near the boundary of Podlyasye, and was known to all the nobles, and greatly esteemed by them as one of the most famous knights in the Commonwealth. In fact, he soon changed that nobility, gallant by nature, into a squadron second in no way to regular troops. Meanwhile they moved from Minsk forward to Warsaw very hastily, so as to stop at Praga one day. Fair weather favored the march. From time to time May showers sped past, cooling the ground and settling the dust; but on the whole the weather was marvellously fair,--not too hot, not too cold. The eye saw far through the transparent air. From Minsk they went mounted; the wagons and cannon were to follow next day. An immense eagerness reigned in the regiments; the dense forests on both sides of the whole road were ringing with echoes of military songs, the horses nodded as a good omen. The squadrons regularly and in order flowed on, one after the other, like a river shining and mighty; for Sapyeha led twelve thousand men, besides the general militia. The captains leading the regiments were gleaming in their polished cuirasses; the red flags waved like gigantic flowers above the heads of the knights. The sun was well toward its setting when the first squadron, that of Lauda, marching in advance, beheld the towers of the capital. At sight of this, a joyful shout tore from the breasts of the soldiers. "Warsaw! Warsaw!" That shout flew like thunder through all the squadrons, and for some time was to be heard over two miles of road the word, "Warsaw! Warsaw!" Many of Sapyeha's knights had never been in the capital; many of them had never seen it; therefore the sight made an uncommon impression on them. Involuntarily all reined in their horses; some removed their caps, others made the sign of the cross; tears streamed from the eyes of others, and they stood in silent emotion. All at once Sapyeha came out from the rear ranks on a white horse, and began to fly along the squadrons. "Gentlemen!" cried he, in a piercing voice, "we are here first! To us luck, to us honor! We will drive the Swedes out of the capital!" "We'll drive them! We'll drive them! We'll drive them!" And there rose a sound and a thunder. Some shouted continually, "We'll drive them!" Others cried, "Strike, whoso has manhood!" Others, "Against them, the dog-brothers!" The rattle of sabres was mingled with the shouts of the knights. Eyes flashed lightning, and from under fierce mustaches teeth were gleaming. Sapyeha himself was sputtering like a pine torch. All at once he raised his baton, and cried,-- "Follow me!" Near Praga the voevoda restrained the squadron and commanded a slow march. The capital rose more and more clearly out of the bluish distance. Towers were outlined in a long line on the azure of the sky. The red many-storied roofs of the Old City were gleaming in the evening light. The Lithuanians had never seen anything more imposing in their lives than those white lofty walls pierced with multitudes of narrow windows; those walls standing like lofty swamp-reeds over the water. The houses seemed to grow some out of others, high and still higher; but above that dense and close mass of walls with windows and roofs, pointed towers pierced the sky. Those of the soldiers who had been in the capital previously, either at an election or on private affairs, explained to the others what each pile meant and what name it bore. Zagloba especially, as a person of experience, told all to the Lauda men, and they listened to him eagerly, wondering at his words and the city itself. "Look at that tower in the very centre of Warsaw! That is the citadel of the king. Oh that I could live as many years as I have eaten dinners at the king's table! I would twist Methuselah into a ram's horn. The king had no nearer confidant than me; I could choose among starostaships as among nuts, and give them away as easily as hob-nails. I have given promotion to multitudes of men, and when I came in senators used to bow to me to the girdle, in Cossack fashion. I fought duels also in presence of the king, for he loved to see me at work; the marshal of the palace had to close his eyes." "That is a tremendous building!" said Roh Kovalski: "and to think that these dogs have it all in hand!" "And they plunder terribly," added Zagloba. "I hear that they even take columns out of the walls and send them to Sweden; these columns are of marble and other valuable stones. I shall not recognize the dear corners; various writers justly describe this castle as the eighth wonder of the world. The King of France has a respectable palace, but it is a fool in comparison with this one." "And that other tower over there near it, on the right?" "That is St. Yan. There is a gallery from the castle to it. I had a vision in that church, for I remained behind once after vespers; I heard a voice from the arches, crying, 'Zagloba, there will be war with such a son the Swedish king, and great calamities will follow.' I was running with all my breath to the king to tell him what I had heard, when the primate caught me by the neck with his crosier. 'Don't tell follies,' said he; 'you were drunk!' That other church just at the side belongs to the Jesuit college; the third tower at a distance is the law courts; the fourth at the right is the marshals, and that green roof is the Dominicans. I could not name them all, even if I could wield my tongue as well as I do my sabre." "It must be that there is not another such city in the world," said one of the soldiers. "That is why all nations envy us!" answered Zagloba. "And that wonderful pile on the left of the castle?" "Behind the Bernardines?" "Yes." "That is the Radzeyovski Palace, formerly the Kazanovski. It is considered the ninth wonder of the world; but there is a plague on it, for in those walls began the misfortune of the Commonwealth." "How is that?" asked a number of voices. "When the vice-chancellor Radzeyovski began to dispute and quarrel with his wife, the king took her part. You know, gentlemen, what people said of this; and it is true that the vice-chancellor thought that his wife was in love with the king, and the king with her; then afterward, through hatred, he fled to the Swedes, and war began. To tell the truth, I was in the country at the moment, and did not see the end of the affair, I got it from hearsay; but I know this, that she made sweet eyes, not at the king, but at some one else." "At whom?" Zagloba began to twirl his mustaches: "At him to whom all are hurrying like ants to honey; but it does not beseem me to mention his name, for I have always hated boastfulness. Besides, the man has grown old, and from sweeping out the enemy of the country, I am worn as a broom; but once there was no greater beauty and love maker than I. Let Rob Kovalski--" Here Zagloba saw that by no means could Roh remember those times; therefore he waved his hand, and said,-- "But what does he know of this affair?" Then he pointed out the palaces of Ossolinski and Konyetspolski, palaces which were in size almost equal to the Radzeyovski; finally the splendid villa Regia; and then the sun went down, and the darkness of night began to fill the air. The thunder of guns was heard on the walls of Warsaw, and trumpets were sounded a considerable time and prolonged, in sign that the enemy was approaching. Sapyeha also announced his coming by firing from muskets, to give courage to the inhabitants; and that night he began to transport his army across the Vistula. First the Lauda squadron passed; second the squadron of Pan Kotvich; then Kmita's Tartars; then Vankovich's squadron; after that, eight thousand men. In this way the Swedes, with their accumulated plunder, were surrounded and deprived of communication; but nothing remained to Sapyeha except to wait till Charnyetski from one side, and from the other Yan Kazimir with the hetmans of the kingdom, marched up, and meanwhile to see that no reinforcements stole through to the city. The first news came from Charnyetski, but not overfavorable, for he reported that his troops and horses were so exhausted that at that moment he could not take part in the siege. From the time of the battle of Varka, they were under fire day after day; and from the first months of the year they had fought twenty-one great battles with the Swedes, not counting the engagements of scouting-parties and the attacks on smaller detachments. He had not obtained infantry in Pomerania, and had not been able to advance to Dantzig; he promised, at most, to hold in check with the rest of his forces that Swedish army which under the brother of the king, Radzivill, and Douglas, was stationed at Narev, and apparently was preparing to come to the aid of the besieged. The Swedes prepared for defence with the bravery and skill peculiar to them. They burned Praga before the arrival of Sapyeha; they had begun already to throw bombs into all the suburbs, such as the Cracow and the Novy-Sviat, and on the other side against the church of St. Yerzy and the Virgin Mary. Then houses, great buildings, and churches flamed up. In the daytime smoke rolled over the city like clouds, thick and dark. At night those clouds became red, and bundles of sparks burst forth from them toward the sky. Outside the walls, crowds of people were wandering, without roofs over their heads, without bread; women surrounded Sapyeha's camp, and cried for charity; people were seen as thin as pincers from hunger; children were dying for want of food, in the arms of emaciated mothers; the suburbs were turned into a vale of tears and misery. Sapyeha, having neither infantry nor cannon, waited and waited for the coming of the king. Meanwhile he aided the poor, sending them in groups to the less injured neighborhoods, in which they might survive in some way. He was troubled not a little when he foresaw the difficulties of the siege, for the skilled engineers of Sweden had turned Warsaw into a strong fortress. Behind the walls were three thousand trained soldiers, led by able and experienced generals; on the whole, the Swedes passed as masters in besieging and defending great fortresses. To solace this trouble, Sapyeha arranged daily feasts, during which the goblets circled freely; for that worthy citizen and uncommon warrior had this failing,--he loved company and the clatter of glasses above all things, and therefore neglected frequently service for pleasure. His diligence in the daytime he balanced by negligence at night. Till sunset he worked faithfully, sent out scouts, despatched letters, inspected pickets himself, examined the informants brought in; but with the first star even fiddles were heard in his quarters. And when once he felt joyous he permitted everything, sent for officers even though on guard or appointed to scouting expeditions, and was angry if any one failed to appear, since for him there was no feast without a throng. In the morning Zagloba reproached him seriously, but in the night the servants bore Zagloba himself without consciousness to Volodyovski's quarters. "Sapyeha would make a saint fall," he explained next day to his friends; "and what must happen to me, who have been always fond of sport? Besides, he has some kind of special passion to force goblets on me, and I, not wishing to seem rude, yield to his pressing; this I do to avoid offending the host. But I have made a vow that at the coming Advent I shall have my back well covered with discipline (stripes), for I understand myself that this yielding cannot remain without penance; but now I have to keep on good terms with him, out of fear that I might fall into worse company and indulge myself altogether." There were officers who without the eye of the hetman accomplished their service; but some neglected it terribly in the evenings, as ordinary soldiers do when they feel no iron hand above them. The enemy was not slow to take advantage of this. Two days before the coming of the king and the hetmans, Sapyeha arranged his most splendid feast, for he was rejoiced that all the troops were coming, and that the siege would begin in earnest. All the best known officers were invited; the hetman, ever in search of an opportunity, announced that that feast would be in honor of the king. To Kmita, Zagloba, Pan Yan, Pan Stanislav, and Kharlamp were sent special orders to come without fail, for the hetman wished to honor them particularly for their great services. Pan Andrei had just mounted his horse to go with a party, so that the orderly found the Tartars outside the gate. "You cannot show the hetman disrespect, and return rudeness for kindness," said the officer. Kmita dismounted and went to ask advice of his comrades. "This is dreadfully awkward for me," said he. "I have heard that a considerable body of cavalry has appeared near Babitsi. The hetman himself commanded me to learn absolutely who they are, and now he asks me to the feast. What must I do?" "The hetman has sent an order to let Akbah Ulan go with the scouting-party," answered the officer. "An order is an order!" said Zagloba, "and whoso is a soldier must obey. Be careful not to give an evil example; and besides it would not be well for you to incur the ill-will of the hetman." "Say that I will come," said Kmita to the orderly. The officer went out. The Tartars rode off under Akbah Ulan; and Kmita began to dress a little, and while dressing said to his comrades,-- "To-day there is a feast in honor of his Royal Grace; to-morrow there will be one in honor of the hetmans of the kingdom, and so on to the end of the siege." "Only let the king come and this will be at an end," answered Volodyovski; "for though our gracious lord is fond of amusing himself in every trouble, still service must go on more diligently, since every man, and among others Pan Sapyeha, will endeavor to show his zeal." "We have had too much of this, too much! There is no question on that point," said Pan Yan. "Is it not a wonder to you that such a laborious leader, such a virtuous man, such a worthy citizen, has this weakness?" "Just let night come and straightway he is another person, and from a grand hetman turns into a reveller." "But do you know why these banquets are not to my taste?" asked Kmita. "It was the custom of Yanush Radzivill to have them almost every evening. Imagine that, as if by some wonder, whenever there was a banquet, either some misfortune happened, some evil tidings came, or some new treason of the hetman was published. I do not know whether it was blind chance or an ordinance of God; but it is enough that evil never came except in time of a banquet. I tell you that at last it went so far that whenever they were setting the table the skin began to creep on us." "True, as God is dear to me!" added Kharlamp. "But it came from this, that the prince hetman chose that time to announce his intrigues with the enemy of the country." "Well," said Zagloba, "at least we have nothing to fear from the honest Sapyeha. If he will ever be a traitor, I am of as much value as my boot-heel." "There is nothing to be said on that point. He is as honest as bread without a raw spot," put in Pan Michael. "And what he neglects in the evening he repairs in the day-time," added Kharlamp. "Then we will go," said Zagloba, "for to tell the truth I feel a void in my stomach." They went out, mounted their horses, and rode off; for Sapyeha was on the other side of the city and rather far away. When they arrived at the hetman's quarters they found in the yard a multitude of horses, and a crowd of grooms, for whom a keg of beer had been set out, and who, as is usual, drinking without measure, had begun to quarrel; they grew quiet, however, at sight of the approaching knights, especially when Zagloba fell to striking with the side of his sabre those who were in his way, and to crying with a stentorian voice: "To your horses, rascals, to your horses! You are not the persons invited to the banquet." Sapyeha received the officers as usual, with open arms; and since he had been drinking a little with his guests, he began at once to tease Zagloba. "With the forehead, Lord Commander!" said he. "With the forehead, Lord Kiper," answered Zagloba. "If you call me that," said Sapyeha, "I will give you wine which is working yet." "Very good, if it will make a tippler of a hetman!" Some of the guests, hearing this, were alarmed; but Zagloba, when he saw the hetman in good humor, permitted himself everything, and Sapyeha had such a weakness for Zagloba that he not only was not angry, but he held his sides, and called those present to witness what he endured from that noble. Then began a noisy and joyous banquet. Sapyeha drank to each guest separately, raised toasts to the king, the hetmans, the armies of both peoples (Poland and Lithuania), Pan Charnyetski, the whole Commonwealth. Pleasure increased, and with it noise and talk. From toasts it came to songs. The room was filled with steam from the heads of the guests, and the odor of mead and wines. From outside the windows came in no less of an uproar, and even the noise of steel. The servants had begun to fight with sabres. Some nobles rushed out to restore order, but they increased the confusion. Suddenly there rose a shout so great that the banqueters in the hall became silent. "What is that?" asked one of the colonels. "The grooms cannot make such an uproar as that." "Silence, gentlemen!" said the hetman, disturbed. "Those are not ordinary shouts!" All at once the windows shook from the thunder of cannon and discharges of musketry. "A sortie!" cried Volodyovski; "the enemy is advancing!" "To horse! To sabres!" All sprang to their feet. There was a throng at the door; then a crowd of officers rushed to the yard, calling to their grooms for horses. But in the disturbance it was not easy for each one to find his own. Meanwhile from beyond the yard alarmed voices began to shout in the darkness,-- "The enemy is advancing! Pan Kotvich is under fire!" All rushed with what breath was in their horses to their squadrons, jumping over fences and breaking their necks in the darkness. An alarm began in the whole camp. Not all the squadrons had horses at hand, and those who had not began the uproar first of all. Throngs of soldiers on foot and on horseback struck against one another, not being able to come to order, not knowing who was a friend and who an enemy, shouting and roaring in the middle of the dark night. Some cried that the King of Sweden was advancing with his whole army. The Swedish sortie had really struck with a mighty impetus on Kotvich's men. Fortunately, being sick, he was not at the banquet, and therefore could offer some kind of immediate resistance; still it was not a long one, for he was attacked by superior numbers and covered with musketry fire, hence was forced to retreat. Oskyerko came first to his assistance with his dragoons. They answered musketry fire with musketry fire. But neither could Oskyerko's dragoons withstand the pressure, and in a moment they began to withdraw more and more hastily, leaving the ground covered with corpses. Twice did Oskyerko endeavor to bring them to order, and twice was he beaten back, so that the soldiers could only cover their retreat by firing in groups. At last they scattered completely; but the Swedes pressed on like an irrepressible torrent toward the hetman's quarters. More and more regiments issued from the city to the field; after the infantry came cavalry; they brought out even field-guns. It looked like a general battle, and it seemed as though the enemy sought one. Volodyovski, rushing from the hetman's quarters, met his own squadron, which was always in readiness, half way, going toward the sound of the alarm and the shots. It was led by Roh Kovalski, who, like Kotvich, was not at the banquet; but Roh was not there because he had not been invited. Volodyovski gave orders to set fire with all speed to a couple of sheds, so as to light up the field, and he hurried to the battle. On the road he was joined by Kmita with his terrible volunteers, and that half of the Tartars which had not gone on the scouting expedition. Both came just in time to save Kotvich and Oskyerko from utter disaster. The sheds had now blazed up so well that everything could be seen as at noontide. In this light the Lauda men, aided by Kmita, struck the infantry regiments, and passing through their fire took them on sabres. The Swedish cavalry sprang to assist their own men, and closed mightily with the Lauda squadron. For a certain time they struggled exactly like two wrestlers who seizing each other by the bodies use their last strength,--now this one bends the other, and now the other bends this; but men fell so frequently in their ranks that at last the Swedes began to be confused. Kmita with his fighters rushed into the thick of the struggle. Volodyovski as usual cleared an opening; near him the two gigantic Skshetuskis fought, and Kharlamp with Roh Kovalski; the Lauda men emulated Kmita's fighters,--some shouting terribly, others, as the Butryms, rolling on in a body and in silence. New regiments rushed forward to the aid of the broken Swedes; but Vankovich, whose quarters were near Volodyovski's and Kmita's, was a little later than they and supported them. At last the hetman led all the troops to the engagement, and began to advance in order. A fierce battle sprang up along the whole line from Mokotov to the Vistula. Then Akbah Ulan, who had gone with the scouts, appeared on a foaming horse before the hetman. "Effendi!" cried he; "a chambul of cavalry is marching from Babitsi to the city, and convoying wagons; they wish to enter the gates." Sapyeha understood in one moment what that sortie in the direction of Mokotov meant. The enemy wished to draw away troops on the meadow road, so that that auxiliary cavalry and a provision train might enter the gates. "Run to Volodyovski!" cried the hetman to Akbah Ulan; "let the Lauda squadron, Kmita, and Vankovich stop the road. I will send them reinforcements at once." Akbah Ulan put spurs to his horse; after him flew one, and a second, and a third orderly. All rushed to Volodyovski and repeated the order of the hetman. Volodyovski turned his squadron immediately; Kmita and the Tartars caught up with him; going across the field, they shot on together, and Vankovich after them. But they arrived too late. Nearly two hundred wagons had entered the gate; a splendid detachment of cavalry following them was almost within radius of the fortress. Only the rearguard, composed of about one hundred men, had not come yet under cover of the artillery. But these too were going with all speed. The officer, riding behind, urged them on. Kmita, seeing them by the light of the burning shed, gave forth such a piercing and terrible shout, that the horses at his side were frightened; he recognized Boguslav's cavalry, that same which had ridden over him and his Tartars at Yanov. Mindful of nothing, he rushed like a madman toward them, passed his own men, and fell first blindly among their ranks. Fortunately the two Kyemliches, Kosma and Damian, sitting on the foremost horses, rode with him. At that moment Volodyovski struck the flank like lightning, and with this one blow cut off the rearguard from the main body. Cannon began to thunder from the walls; but the main division, sacrificing their comrades, rushed in with all speed after the wagons. Then the Lauda men and Kmita's forces surrounded the rearguard as with a ring, and a merciless slaughter began. But it was of short duration. Boguslav's men, seeing that there was no rescue on any side, sprang from their horses in a moment, threw down their weapons, and shouted with sky-piercing voices, heard in the throng and the uproar, that they surrendered. Neither the volunteers nor the Tartars regarded their shouts, but hewed on. At this moment was heard the threatening and shrill voice of Volodyovski, who wanted informants,-- "Stop! stop! take them alive!" "Take them alive!" cried Kmita. The biting of steel ceased. The Tartars were commanded to bind the enemy, and with the skill peculiar to them they did this in a twinkle; then the squadrons pushed back hastily from the cannon-fire. The colonels marched toward the sheds,--the Lauda men in advance, Vankovich in the rear, and Kmita, with the prisoners, in the centre, all in perfect readiness to repulse attack should it come. Some of the Tartars led prisoners on leashes; others of them led captured horses. Kmita, when he came near the sheds, looked carefully into the faces of the prisoners to see if Boguslav was among them; for though one of them had sworn under a sword-point that the prince was not in the detachment, still Kmita thought that perhaps they were hiding him purposely. Then some voice from under the stirrup of a Tartar cried to him,-- "Pan Kmita! Colonel! Rescue an acquaintance! Give command to free me from the rope on parole." "Hassling!" cried Kmita. Hassling was a Scot, formerly an officer in the cavalry of the voevoda of Vilna, whom Kmita knew in Kyedani, and in his time loved much. "Let the prisoner go free!" cried he to the Tartar, "and down from the horse yourself!" The Tartar sprang from the saddle as if the wind had carried him off, for he knew the danger of loitering when the "bagadyr" commanded. Hassling, groaning, climbed into the Tartar's lofty saddle. Kmita then caught him above the palm, and pressing his hand as if he wished to crush it, began to ask insistently,-- "Whence do you come? Tell me quickly, whence do you come? For God's sake, tell quickly!" "From Taurogi," answered the officer. Kmita pressed him still more. "But--Panna Billevich--is she there?" "She is." Pan Andrei spoke with still greater difficulty, for he pressed his teeth still more closely. "And--what has the prince done with her?" "He has not succeeded in doing anything." Silence followed; after a while Kmita removed his lynxskin cap, drew his hand over his forehead and said,-- "I was struck in the battle; blood is leaving me, and I have grown weak." CHAPTER XXXVIII. The sortie had attained its object only in part; though Boguslav's division had entered the city, the sortie itself had not done great things. It is true that Pan Kotvich's squadron and Oskyerko's dragoons had suffered seriously; but the Swedes too had strewn the field with many corpses, and one regiment of infantry, which Volodyovski and Vankovich had struck, was almost destroyed. The Lithuanians boasted that they had inflicted greater loss on the enemy than they had endured themselves. Pan Sapyeha alone suffered internally, because a new "confusion" had met him from which his fame might be seriously affected. The colonels attached to the hetman comforted him as well as they could; and to tell the truth this lesson was useful, for henceforward he had no more such wild banquets, and if there was some pleasure the greatest watchfulness was observed during the time of its continuance. The Swedes were caught the day after. Supposing that the hetman would not expect a repetition of the sortie so soon, they came outside the walls again; but driven from their ground and leaving a number of dead, they returned. Meanwhile they were examining Hassling in the hetman's quarters; this made Pan Andrei so impatient that he almost sprang out of his skin, for he wished to have the Scot to himself at the earliest, and talk with him touching Taurogi. He prowled about the quarters all day, went in every little while, listened to the statements, and sprang up whenever Boguslav's name was mentioned in the question. But in the evening he received an order to go on a scouting expedition. He said nothing, only set his teeth; for he had changed greatly already, and had learned to defer private affairs for public service. But he pushed the Tartars terribly during the expedition, burst out in anger at the least cause, and struck with his baton till the bones cracked. They said one to another that the "bagadyr" was mad, and marched silently, as silently as cowards, looking only to the eyes of the leader and guessing his thoughts on the wing. On returning he found Hassling in his quarters, but so ill that he could not speak, for his capture had affected him so cruelly that after the additional torture of a whole day's inquisition he had a fever, and did not understand what was said to him. Kmita therefore was forced to be satisfied with what Zagloba told of Hassling's statements; but they touched only public, not private affairs. Of Boguslav the young officer said only this,--that after his return from the expedition to Podlyasye and the defeat at Yanov he had become terribly ill from rage and melancholy; he fell into a fever, but as soon as he had recovered somewhat, he moved with his troops to Pomerania, whither Steinbock and the elector invited him most earnestly. "But where is he now?" asked Kmita. "According to what Hassling tells me, and he has no reason to lie, he is with the king's brother, at the fortified camp on the Narev and the Bug, where Boguslav is commanding a whole cavalry division," answered Zagloba. "Ha! and they think to come here with succor to the besieged. We shall meet, as God is in heaven, even if I had to go to him in disguise." "Do not grow angry for nothing! To Warsaw they would be glad to come with succor, but they cannot, for Charnyetski has placed himself in their way. Having neither infantry nor cannon, he cannot attack their camp, and they are afraid to go out against him, for they know that their soldiers could not withstand his in the field, and they know too that if they went out, they could not shield themselves with the river. If the king himself were there he would give battle, for under his command the soldiers fight better, being confident that he is a great warrior; but neither Douglas, nor the king's brother, nor Prince Boguslav, though all three are daring men, would venture against Charnyetski." "But where is the king?" "He has gone to Prussia. The king does not believe that we are before Warsaw already, and that we shall capture Wittemberg. But whether he believes or not, he had to go for two reasons,--first, because he must win over the elector, even at the price of all Great Poland; second, because the army, which he led out of the sack, is of no use until it has rested. Toil, watching, and continual alarms have so gnawed it that the soldiers are not able to hold muskets in their hands; and still they are the choicest regiments in the whole army, which through all the German and Danish regions have won famous victories." Further conversation was interrupted by the coming of Volodyovski. "How is Hassling?" asked he on the threshold. "He is sick and imagines every folly," answered Kmita. "And you, my dear Michael, what do you want of Hassling?" asked Zagloba. "Just as if you do not know!" "I could not know that it is a question with you of that cherry-tree which Prince Boguslav has planted in his garden. He is a diligent gardener; he does not need to wait a year for fruit." "I wish you were killed for such jokes!" cried the little knight. "Look at him, tell him the most innocent thing, and immediately his mustaches are quivering like the horns of a mad grasshopper. In what am I to blame? Seek vengeance on Boguslav, not on me." "God grant me to seek and to find!" "Just now Babinich has said the same! Before long I see that he will raise the whole army against the prince; but Boguslav is taking good care of himself, and without my stratagems you will not be able to succeed." Here both young men sprang to their feet and asked,-- "Have you any stratagems?" "But do you think it is as easy to take a stratagem out of the head as a sabre out of the sheath? If Boguslav were here, surely I should find more than one; but at that distance, not only a stratagem, but a cannon will not strike. Pan Andrei, give orders to bring me a goblet of mead, for it is hot here to-day." "I'll give you a keg of it if you will invent something." "First, why do you stand over this Hassling like an executioner? He is not the only man captured; you can ask others." "I have already tortured others, but they are common soldiers; they know nothing, but he, as an officer, was at the court," answered Kmita. "That is a reason!" answered Zagloba. "I must talk with him too; from what he tells me of the person and ways of Prince Boguslav, stratagems may be important. Now the main thing is to finish the siege soon, for afterward we shall move surely against that army on the Narev. But somehow our gracious lord and the hetmans are a long time invisible." "How so?" asked Volodyovski. "I have returned this minute from the hetman, who has just received news that the king will take up position here this evening with the auxiliary divisions, and the hetmans with cavalry will come to-morrow. They are advancing from Sokal itself, resting but little, making forced marches. Besides, it has been known for two days that they are almost in sight." "Are they bringing many troops?" "Nearly five times as many as Sapyeha has, infantry Russian and Hungarian, very excellent; six thousand Tartars under Suba Gazi, but probably it is impossible to let them out for even a day, for they are very self-willed and plunder all around." "Better give them to Pan Andrei to lead," said Zagloba. "Yes," said Kmita, "I should lead them straightway from Warsaw, for they are of no use in a siege; I should take them to the Bug and the Narev." "They are of use," replied Volodyovski, "for none can see better than they that provisions do not enter the fortress." "Well, it will be warm for Wittemberg. Wait, old criminal!" cried Zagloba. "You have warred well, I will not deny that, but you have robbed and plundered still better; you had two mouths,--one for false oaths, the other for breaking promises,--but this time you will not beg off with both of them. The Gallic disease will dry up your skin, and doctors will tear it from you; but we will flay you better, Zagloba's head for that!" "Nonsense! he will surrender on conditions to the king, who will not do anything to him," answered Pan Michael; "and we shall have to give him military honors besides." "He will yield on conditions, will he? Indeed!" cried Zagloba. "We shall see!" Here he began to pound the table with such force that Roh Kovalski, who was coming in at the moment, was frightened and stood as if fixed to the threshold. "May I serve as a waiting-lad to Jews," shouted the old man, "if I let free out of Warsaw that blasphemer of the faith, that robber of churches, that oppressor of widows, that executioner of men and women, that hangman's assistant, that ruffian, that blood-spiller and money-grabber, that purse-gnawer, that flayer! All right! The king will let him out on conditions; but I, as I am a Catholic, as I am Zagloba, as I wish for happiness during life and desire God at death, will make such a tumult against him as no man has ever heard of in this Commonwealth before! Don't wave your hand, Pan Michael! I'll make a tumult! I repeat it, I'll make a tumult!" "Uncle will make a tumult!" thundered Roh Kovalski. Just then Akbah Ulan thrust in his beast-like face at the door. "Effendi!" said he to Kmita, "the armies of the king are visible beyond the Vistula." All sprang to their feet and rushed forth. The king had come indeed. First arrived the Tartar squadrons, under Suba Gazi, but not in such numbers as was expected; after them came the troops of the kingdom, many and well armed, and above all full of ardor. Before evening the whole army had passed the bridge freshly built by Oskyerko. Sapyeha was waiting for the king with squadrons drawn out as if ready for battle, standing one by the side of the other, like an immense wall, the end of which it was difficult to reach with the eye. The captains stood before the regiments; near them the standard-bearers, each with lowered ensign; the trumpets, kettle-drums, crooked trumpets, and drums made a noise indescribable. The squadrons of the kingdom, in proportion as they passed, stood just opposite the Lithuanians in line; between one and the other army was an interval of a hundred paces. Sapyeha with baton in hand went on foot to that open space; after him the chief civil and military dignitaries. On the other side, from the armies of the kingdom approached the king on a splendid Frisian horse, given him by Lyubomirski; he was arrayed as if for battle, in light armor of blue and gold, from under which was to be seen a black velvet kaftan, with a lace collar coming out on the breastplate, but instead of a helmet he wore the ordinary Swedish hat, with black feathers; but he wore military gloves, and long yellow boots coming far above his knees. After him rode the papal nuncio, the archbishop of Lvoff, the bishop of Kamenyets, the priest Tsyetsishovski, the voevoda of Cracow, the voevoda of Rus, Baron Lisola, Count Pöttingen, Pan Kamenyetski, the ambassador of Moscow, Pan Grodzitski, general of artillery, Tyzenhauz, and many others. Sapyeha advanced as marshal of the kingdom to hold the king's stirrup; but the king sprang lightly from the saddle, hurried to Sapyeha and without saying a word, seized him in his embrace. And Yan Kazimir held him a long time, in view of both armies; silent all the while, but tears flowed down his cheeks in a stream, for he pressed to his bosom the truest servant of the king and the country,--a man who, though he did not equal others in genius, though he even erred at times, still soared in honesty above all the lords of that Commonwealth, never wavered in loyalty, sacrificed without a moment's thought his whole fortune, and from the beginning of the war exposed his breast for his king and the country. The Lithuanians, who had whispered previously among themselves that perhaps reprimands would meet Pan Sapyeha because he had let Karl Gustav escape from near Sandomir and for the recent carelessness at Warsaw, or at least a cool reception, seeing this heartiness of the king, raised in honor of the kindly monarch a tremendous heaven-echoing shout. The armies of the kingdom answered it immediately with one thunder-roll, and for some time above the noise of the music, the rattle of drums, the roar of musketry, were heard only these shouts,-- "Vivat Yoannes Casimirus!" "Long life to the armies of the crown!" "Long life to the Lithuanians!" So they greeted one another at Warsaw. The walls trembled, and behind the walls the Swedes. "I shall bellow, as God is dear to me!" cried Zagloba, with emotion; "I cannot restrain myself. See our king, our father!--gracious gentlemen, I am blubbering,--our father, our king! the other day a wanderer deserted by all; now here--now here are a hundred thousand sabres at call! merciful God! I cannot keep from tears; yesterday a wanderer, to-day the Emperor of Germany has not such good soldiers--" Here the sluices were opened in the eyes of Zagloba, and he began to sob time after time; then he turned suddenly to Roh,-- "Be silent! what are you whimpering about?" "And is Uncle not whimpering?" answered Roh. "True, as God is dear to me!--I was ashamed, gracious gentlemen, of this Commonwealth. But now I would not change with any nation! A hundred thousand sabres,--let others show the like. God has brought them to their minds; God has given this, God has given it!" Zagloba had not made a great mistake, for really there were nearly seventy thousand men at Warsaw, not counting Charnyetski's division, which had not arrived yet, and not counting the armed camp attendants who rendered service when necessary, and who straggled after every camp in countless multitudes. After the greeting and a hurried review of the troops, the king thanked Sapyeha's men, amid universal enthusiasm, for their faithful services, and went to Uyazdov. The troops occupied the positions assigned them. Some squadrons remained in Praga; others disposed themselves around the city. A gigantic train of wagons continued to cross the Vistula till the following midday. Next morning the suburbs of the city were as white with tents as if they had been covered with snow. Countless herds of horses were neighing on the adjoining meadows. After the army followed a crowd of Armenians, Jews, Tartars; another city, more extensive and tumultuous than that which was besieged, grew up on the plain. The Swedes, amazed during the first days at the power of the King of Poland, made no sorties, so that Pan Grodzitski, general of artillery, could ride around the city quietly and form his plan of siege. On the following day the camp attendants began to raise intrenchments here and there, according to Grodzitski's plan; they placed on them at once the smaller cannon, for the larger ones were to appear only a couple of weeks later. Yan Kazimir sent a message to old Wittemberg summoning him to surrender the city and lay down his arms, giving favorable conditions, which, when known, roused discontent in the army. That discontent was spread mainly by Zagloba, who had a special hatred of the Swedish commander. Wittemberg, as was easy to foresee, rejected the conditions and resolved on a defence to continue till the last drop of blood was shed, and to bury himself in the ruins of the city rather than yield it to the king. The size of the besieging army did not frighten him a whit, for he knew that an excessive number was rather a hindrance than help in a siege. He was informed also in good season that in the camp of Yan Kazimir there was not one siege gun, while the Swedes had more than enough of them, not taking into consideration their inexhaustible supply of ammunition. It was in fact to be foreseen that they would defend themselves with frenzy, for Warsaw had served them hitherto as a storehouse for booty. All the immense treasures looted in castles, in churches, in cities, in the whole Commonwealth, came to the capital, whence they were despatched in parties to Prussia, and farther to Sweden. But at the present time, when the whole country had risen, and castles defended by the smaller Swedish garrisons did not insure safety, booty was brought to Warsaw all the more. The Swedish soldier was more ready to sacrifice his life than his booty. A poor people who had seized the treasures of a wealthy land had acquired the taste of them to such a degree that the world had never seen more grasping robbers. The king himself had grown famous for greed; the generals followed his example, and Wittemberg surpassed them all. When it was a question of gain, neither the honor of a knight nor consideration for the dignity of rank restrained officers. They seized, they extorted, they skinned everything that could be taken. In Warsaw itself colonels of high office and noble birth were not ashamed to sell spirits and tobacco to their own soldiers, so as to cram their purses with the pay of the army. This too might rouse the Swedes to fury in defence, that their foremost men were at that time in Warsaw. First was Wittemberg himself, next in command to Karl Gustav. He was the first who had entered the Commonwealth and brought it to decline at Uistsie. In return for that service a triumph was prepared for him in Sweden as for a conqueror. In the city was Oxenstiern, the chancellor, a statesman renowned throughout the world, respected for honesty even by his enemies. He was called the Minerva of the king. To his counsel Karl was indebted for all his victories in negotiation. In the capital was also Wrangel, the younger Horn, Erickson, the second Löwenhaupt, and many Swedish ladies of high birth, who had followed their husbands to the country as to a new Swedish colony. The Swedes had something to defend. Yan Kazimir understood, therefore, that the siege, especially through the lack of heavy guns on his side, would be long and bloody. The hetmans understood this also, but the army would not think of it. Barely had Grodzitski raised the intrenchments in some fashion, barely had he pushed forward somewhat to the walls, when deputations went from all the squadrons to ask the king to permit volunteers to storm the walls. The king had to explain to them a long time that fortresses were not taken with sabres, before he could restrain their ardor. Meanwhile the works were pushed forward as rapidly as possible. The troops, not being able to storm, took eager part with the camp servants in raising these works; men from the foremost regiments, nay, even officers brought earth in wheelbarrows, carried fascines, labored. More than once the Swedes tried to hinder, and not a day passed without sorties; but barely were the Swedish musketeers outside the gate, when the Poles, working at the intrenchments, throwing aside wheelbarrows, bundles of twigs, spades and pickaxes, ran with sabres into the smoke so furiously that the Swedes had to hide in the fortress with all haste. In these engagements bodies fell thickly; the fosses and the open space as far as the intrenchments were full of graves, in which were placed sometimes small bundles of the weapons of the dead. At last even time failed for burial, so that bodies lay on the ground spreading a terrible odor around the city and the besiegers. In spite of the greatest difficulty citizens stole forth to the king's camp every day, reporting what happened in the city, and imploring on their knees to hasten the storm. The Swedes, they said, had a plenty of provisions as yet, but the people were dying of hunger on the streets; they lived in want, in oppression under the terrible hand of the garrison. Every day echoes brought to the Polish camp sounds of musket-shots in the city, and fugitives brought intelligence that the Swedes were shooting citizens suspected of good-will to Yan Kazimir. The hair stood on end at the stories of the fugitives. They said that the whole population, sick women, newly born infants, old men, all lived at night on the streets, for the Swedes had driven them from their houses, and made passages from wall to wall, so that the garrison, in case Yan Kazimir's troops should enter, might withdraw and defend themselves. Rains fell on the people in their camping-places; on clear days the sun burned them, at night the cold pinched them. Citizens were not allowed to kindle fires; they had no means of preparing warm food. Various diseases spread more and more, and carried away hundreds of victims. Yan Kazimir's heart was ready to burst when he heard these narratives. He sent therefore courier after courier to hasten the coming of the heavy guns. Days and weeks passed; but it was impossible to undertake anything more important than the repulse of sorties. Still the besiegers were strengthened by the thought that the garrison must fail of provisions at last, since the roads were blocked in such fashion that a mouse could not reach the fortress. The besieged lost hope of assistance; the troops under Douglas, which were posted nearest, were not only unable to come to the rescue, but had to think of their own skin; for Yan Kazimir, having even too many men, was able to harass them. At last the Poles, even before the coming of the heavy guns, opened on the fortress with the smaller ones. Pan Grodzitski from the side of the Vistula, raised in front of himself, like a mole, earth defences, pushed to within six yards of the moat, and vomited a continual fire on the unfortunate city. The magnificent Kazanovski Palace was ruined; and the Poles did not regret it, for the building belonged to the traitor Radzeyovski. The shattered walls were barely standing, shining with their empty windows; day and night balls were dropping on the splendid terraces and in the gardens, smashing the beautiful fountains, bridges, arbors, and marble statues, terrifying the peacocks which with pitiful screams gave notice of their unhappy condition. Pan Grodzitski hurled fire on the Bernardine bell-tower, for he had decided to begin the assault on that side. Meanwhile the camp servants begged permission to attack the city, for they wished greatly to reach the Swedish treasures earliest. The king refused at first, but finally consented. A number of prominent officers undertook to lead them, and among others Kmita, who was imbittered by delay, and not only that, but in general he knew not what to do with himself; for Hassling, having fallen into a grievous fever, lay without consciousness for some weeks and could speak of nothing. Men therefore were summoned to the storm. Grodzitski opposed this to the last moment, insisting that until a breach was made the city could not be taken, even though the regular infantry were to go to the assault. But as the king had given permission, Grodzitski was forced to yield. June 15, about six thousand camp servants assembled; ladders, bundles of brush, and bags of sand were prepared. Toward evening a throng, barefoot and armed for the greater part only with sabres, began to approach the city where the trenches and earth defences came nearest the moat. When it had become perfectly dark, the men rushed, at a given signal, toward the moat with a terrible uproar, and began to fill it. The watchful Swedes received them with a murderous fire from muskets and cannons, and a furious battle sprang up along the whole eastern side of the city. Under cover of darkness the Poles filled the moat in a twinkle and reached the walls in an orderless mass. Kmita, with two thousand men, fell upon an earth fort, which the Poles called "the mole-hill," and which stood near the Cracow gate. In spite of a desperate defence he captured this place at a blow; the garrison was cut to pieces with sabres, not a man was spared. Pan Andrei gave command to turn the guns on the gate and some of them to the farther walls, so as to aid and cover somewhat those crowds who were striving to scale the walls. These men, however, were not so fortunate. They put the ladders in position, and ascended them so furiously that the best trained infantry could not have done better; but the Swedes, safe behind battlements, fired into their very faces, and hurled stones and blocks prepared for the purpose; under the weight of these the ladders were broken into pieces, and at last the infantry pushed down the assaulters with long spears, against which sabres had no effect. More than five hundred of the best camp servants were lying at the foot of the wall; the rest passed the moat under an incessant fire, and took refuge again in the Polish intrenchments. The storm was repulsed, but the little fort remained in the hands of the Poles. In vain did the Swedes roll at it all night from their heaviest guns; Kmita answered them in like manner from those cannon which he had captured. Only in the morning, when light came, were his guns dismounted to the last one. Wittemberg, for whom that intrenchment was as his head, sent infantry at once with the order not to dare return without retaking what had been lost; but Grodzitski sent reinforcements to Kmita, by the aid of which he not only repulsed the infantry, but fell upon and drove them to the Cracow gate. Grodzitski was so delighted that he ran in person to the king with the report. "Gracious Lord," said he, "I was opposed to yesterday's work, but now I see that it was not lost. While that intrenchment was in the enemy's hands I could do nothing against the gate; but now only let the heavy guns come, and in one night I will make a breach." The king, who was grieved that so many good men had fallen, was rejoiced at Grodzitski's words, and asked at once,-- "But who has command in that intrenchment?" "Pan Babinich," answered a number of voices. The king clapped his hands. "He must be first everywhere! Worthy General, I know him. He is a terribly stubborn cavalier, and will not let himself be smoked out." "It would be a mistake beyond forgiveness, Gracious Lord, if we should permit that. I have already sent him infantry and small cannon; for that they will try to smoke him out is certain. It is a question of Warsaw! That cavalier is worth his weight in gold." "He is worth more; for this is not his first, and not his tenth achievement," said the king. Then Yan Kazimir gave orders to bring quickly a horse and a field-glass, and he rode out to look at the earthwork. But it was not to be seen from behind the smoke, for a number of forty-eight-pounders were blowing on it with ceaseless fire; they hurled long balls, bombs, and grape-shot. Still the intrenchment was so near the gate that musket-balls almost reached it; the bomb-shells could be seen perfectly when they flew up like cloudlets, and, describing a closely bent bow, fell into that cloud of smoke, bursting with terrible explosion. Many fell beyond the intrenchment, and they prevented the approach of reinforcements. "In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost!" said the king. "Tyzenhauz, look! A pile of torn earth is all that remains. Tyzenhauz, do you know who is there?" "Gracious King, Babinich is there. If he comes out living, he will be able to say that he was in hell during life." "We must send him fresh men. Worthy General--" "The orders are already given, but it is difficult for them to go, since bombs pass over and fall very thickly on this side of the fort." "Turn all the guns on the walls so as to make a diversion," said the king. Grodzitski put spurs to his horse and galloped to the trenches. After a while cannonading was heard on the whole line, and somewhat later it was seen that a fresh division of Mazovian infantry went out of the nearest trenches, and on a run to the mole-hill. The king stood there, looking continually. At last he cried: "Babinich should be relieved in the command. And who, gentlemen, will volunteer to take his place?" Neither Pan Yan, Pan Stanislav, nor Volodyovski was near the king, therefore a moment of silence followed. "I!" said suddenly Pan Topor Grylevski, an officer of the light squadron of the primate. "I!" said Tyzenhauz. "I! I! I!" called at once a number of voices. "Let the man go who offered himself first," said the king. Pan Topor Grylevski made the sign of the cross, raised the canteen to his mouth, then galloped away. The king remained looking at the cloud of smoke with which the mole-hill was covered, and the smoke rose above it like a bridge up to the very wall. Since the fort was near the Vistula, the walls of the city towered above it, and therefore the fire was terrible. Meanwhile the thunder of cannon decreased somewhat, though the balls did not cease to describe arcs, and a rattle of musketry was given out as if thousands of men were beating threshing-floors with flails. "It is evident that they are going to the attack again," said Tyzenhauz. "If there were less smoke, we should see the infantry." "Let us approach a little," said the king, urging his horse. After him others moved on, and riding along the bank of the Vistula from Uyazdov they approached almost to the Solets itself; and since the gardens of the palaces and the cloisters coming down to the Vistula had been cleared by the Swedes in the winter for fuel, trees did not cover the view, they could see even without field-glasses that the Swedes were really moving again to the storm. "I would rather lose that position," said the king all at once, "than that Babinich should die." "God will defend him!" said the priest Tsyetsishovski. "And Pan Grodzitski will not fail to send him reinforcements," added Tyzenhauz. Further conversation was interrupted by some horseman who was approaching from the direction of the city at all speed. Tyzenhauz, having such sight that he saw better with the naked eye than others through field-glasses, caught his head at sight of him, and said,-- "Grylevski is returning! It must be that Kmita has fallen, and the fort is captured." The king shaded his eyes with his hands. Grylevski rushed up, reined in his horse, and, panting for breath, exclaimed,-- "Gracious Lord!" "What has happened? Is he killed?" asked the king. "Pan Babinich says that he is well, and does not wish any one to take his place; he begs only to send him food, for he has had nothing to eat since morning." "Is he alive then?" cried the king. "He says that he is comfortable there!" repeated Grylevski. But others, catching breath from wonder, began to cry: "That is courage! He is a soldier!" "But it was necessary to stay there and relieve him absolutely," said the king to Grylevski. "Is it not a shame to come back? Were you afraid, or what? It would have been better not to go." "Gracious Lord," answered Grylevski, "whoso calls me a coward, him I will correct on any field, but before majesty I must justify myself. I was in the ant-hill itself, but Babinich flew into my face because of my errand: 'Go,' said he, 'to the hangman! I am at work here, I am almost creeping out of my skin, and I have no time to talk, but I will not share either my glory or command with any man. I am well here and I will stay here, but I'll give orders to take you outside the trench! I wish you were killed!' said he. 'We want to eat, and they send us a commandant instead of food!' What had I to do, Gracious Lord? I do not wonder at his temper, for their hands are dropping from toil." "And how is it?" asked the king; "is he holding the place?" "Desperately. What would he not hold? I forgot to tell besides that he shouted to me when I was going: 'I'll stay here a week and will not surrender, if I have something to eat!'" "Is it possible to hold out there?" "There, Gracious Lord, is the genuine day of judgment! Bomb is falling after bomb; pieces of shells are whistling, like devils, around the ear; the earth is dug out into ditches; it is impossible to speak from smoke. The balls hurl around sand and earth, so that every moment a man must shake himself to avoid being buried. Many have fallen, but those who are living lie in furrows in the intrenchments, and have made defences before their heads of stakes strengthened with earth. The Swedes constructed the place carefully, and now it serves against them. While I was there, infantry came from Grodzitski, and now there is fighting again." "Since we cannot attack the walls until a breach is made," said the king, "we will strike the palace on the Cracow suburbs to-day; that will be the best diversion." "The palace is wonderfully strengthened, almost changed into a fortress," remarked Tyzenhauz. "But they will not hurry from the city to give aid, for all their fury will be turned on Babinich," said the king. "So will it be, as I am here alive, so will it be! I will order the storm at once; but first I will bless Babinich." Then the king took from the priest a golden crucifix in which were splinters of the true cross, and raising it on high he began to bless the distant mound, covered with fire and smoke, saying,-- "O God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, have mercy on Thy people, and give salvation to the dying! Amen! amen! amen!" CHAPTER XXXIX. A bloody storm followed from the side of the Novy Svyat against the Cracow suburbs, not over-successful, but in so far effective that it turned the attention of the Swedes from the intrenchment defended by Kmita, and permitted the garrison enclosed in it to rest somewhat. The Poles pushed forward however, to the Kazimirovski Palace, but they could not hold that point. On the other side they stormed up to the Danillovich Palace and to Dantzig House, equally without result. A number of hundreds of people fell again. The king, however, had this consolation: he saw that even the general militia rushed to the walls with the greatest daring and devotion, and that after those attempts, more or less unsuccessful, their courage not only had not fallen, but on the contrary assurance of victory was growing strong in the army. The most fortunate event of the day was the arrival of Pan Yan Zamoyski and Pan Charnyetski. The first brought very excellent infantry and guns from Zamost, so heavy that the Swedes had nothing like them in Warsaw. The second, in agreement with Sapyeha, having besieged Douglas, and with some Lithuanian troops and the general militia of Podlyasye, under command of Pan Yan, had come to Warsaw to take part in the general storm. It was hoped by Charnyetski as well as others that this would be the last storm. Zamoyski's heavy guns were placed in the position taken by Kmita; they began work immediately against the walls and the gate, and forced the Swedish howitzers to silence at once. General Grodzitski himself occupied the "molehill," and Kmita returned to his Tartars. But he had not reached his quarters when he was summoned to Uyazdov. The king in presence of the whole staff applauded the young knight; neither Charnyetski, Sapyeha, Lyubomirski, nor the hetmans spared praises on him. He stood there in torn garments covered with earth, his face entirely discolored with powder smoke; without sleep, soiled, but joyous because he had held the place, had won so much praise, and gained immeasurable glory in both armies. Among other cavaliers Pan Michael and Pan Yan congratulated him. "You do not know indeed, Pan Andrei," said the little knight, "what great weight you have with the king. I was at the council of war yesterday, for Pan Charnyetski took me with him. They talked of the storm, and then of the news which had just come in from Lithuania, the war there, and the cruelties which Pontus de la Gardie and the Swedes permit. They were considering at the council how to strengthen resistance. Sapyeha said it was best to send thither a couple of squadrons and a man who could be there what Charnyetski was at the beginning of the war in Poland. To which the king answered: 'There is only one such man, Babinich.' The others confirmed this at once." "I would go most willingly to Lithuania, and especially to Jmud," answered Kmita. "I resolved to ask of the king myself permission to go, but I am waiting till Warsaw is taken." "There will be a general storm to-morrow," said Zagloba. "I know, but how is Kettling?" "Who is that? Hassling?" "All one, for he has two names, as is the custom among the English, the Scots, and many other nations." "True," answered Zagloba, "and a Spaniard every day of the week has a new name for himself. Your servant told me that Hassling, or Kettling, is well; he has begun to talk, walks, the fever has left him, he calls for food every hour." "Have you been with him?" asked Kmita of Pan Michael. "I have not, for I have had no time. Who has a head for anything but the storm?" "Then let us go now." "Go to sleep first," said Zagloba. "True! true! I am barely standing on my feet." So when he came to his own quarters Pan Andrei followed Zagloba's advice, especially as he found Hassling asleep. But Zagloba and Volodyovski came to see him in the evening; they sat down in the broad summer-house which the Tartars had made for their "bagadyr." The Kyemliches poured out for them mead a hundred years old, which the king had sent to Kmita; and they drank it willingly, for the air was hot outside. Hassling, pale and emaciated, seemed to draw life and strength from the precious liquid. Zagloba clicked with his tongue, and wiped perspiration from his forehead. "Hei! how the great guns are thundering!" said the young Scot, listening. "To-morrow you will go to the storm--it is well!--for the healthy--God give you blessing! I am of foreign blood, and serve him whom it was my duty to serve, but you have my best wishes. Ah, what mead this is! Life enters me." Thus speaking, he threw back his golden hair and raised his blue eyes toward heaven; he had a wonderful face, half childlike as yet. Zagloba looked at him with a certain emotion. "You speak Polish as well as any of us," said he. "Become a Pole, love this our country, and you will do an honorable deed, and mead will not be lacking to you. It is not difficult for a soldier to receive naturalization with us." "All the more easy since I am a noble," answered Hassling. "My name is Hassling-Kettling of Elgin. My family come from England, though settled in Scotland." "Those countries beyond the sea are far away, and somehow it is more decent for a man to live here," said Zagloba. "It is pleasant for me here." "But unpleasant for us," said Kmita, who from the beginning was twisting impatiently on the bench, "for we are anxious to hear what is going on in Taurogi; but you are talking genealogies." "Ask me; I will answer." "Have you seen Panna Billevich often?" Over the pale face of Hassling blushes passed. "Every day!" said he. Kmita looked at him quickly. "Were you such a confidant? Why do you blush? Every day,--how every day?" "For she knew that I wished her well, and I rendered her some services. That will appear from the further narrative, but now it is necessary to commence at the beginning. You, gentlemen, know, perhaps, that I was not at Kyedani when Prince Boguslav came and took that lady to Taurogi? Therefore I will not repeat why that happened, for different people gave different accounts. I will only say that they had scarcely arrived when all saw at once that the prince was terribly in love--" "God punish him!" cried Kmita. "Amusements followed, such as had not been before,--tilting at the ring and tournaments. Any one would have thought it a time of the greatest peace; but letters were coming in every day, as well as envoys from the elector and from Prince Yanush. We knew that Prince Yanush was pushed by Sapyeha and the confederates; he implored for rescue by the mercy of God, for destruction was threatening him. We did nothing. On the elector's boundary troops were standing ready, captains were coming with letters; but we did not go with assistance, for the prince had no success with the lady." "Is that why Boguslav did not give aid to his cousin?" asked Zagloba. "It is. Patterson said the same, and all the persons nearest the prince. Some complained of this; others were glad that the Radzivills were falling. Sakovich conducted all public business for the prince, answered letters, and held council with the envoys; but the prince was laboring on one idea only, to contrive some kind of amusement, either a cavalcade or hunt. He, a miser, scattered money on every side. He gave orders to fell forests for whole miles, so that the lady might have a better view from her windows; in a word, he really scattered flowers under her feet, and received her in such fashion that had she been Queen of Sweden he could have invented nothing better. Many pitied her and said, 'All this is for her ruin; as to marrying, the prince will not marry, and if he can only catch her heart he will deceive her.' But it appeared that she was not a lady to be conducted whither virtue does not go. Oh!" "Well, what?" cried Kmita, springing up. "I know that better than others!" "How did Panna Billevich receive these royal homages?" asked Pan Michael. "At first with affable face, though it was evident that she was bearing some sorrow in her heart. She was present at the hunts, at the masquerades, cavalcades, and tournaments, thinking indeed that these were usual court amusements with the prince. It happened on a time that the prince, straining his imagination over various spectacles, wished to show the lady the counterfeit of war; he had a settlement burned near Taurogi, infantry defended it, the prince stormed the place. Evidently he gained a great victory, after which, being sated with praise, he fell at the lady's feet and begged for a return of his love. It is not known what he proposed to her, but from that time their friendship was at an end. She began to hold night and day to the sleeve of her uncle, the sword-bearer of Rossyeni; but the prince--" "Began to threaten her, did he?" cried Kmita. "What, threaten! He dressed himself as a Greek shepherd, as Philemon; special couriers were flying to Königsberg for patterns of shepherd's garments, for ribbons and wigs. He feigned despair, he walked under her windows, and played on a lute. And here I tell you, gentlemen, what I really think. He was a savage executioner of the virtue of ladies, and it may be boldly said of him, as is said in our country of such people, his sighs filled out the sails of more than one lady; but this time he fell in love in earnest,--which is no wonder, for the lady reminds one more of a goddess than a dweller in this earthly vale." Here Hassling blushed again, but Pan Andrei did not see it; for seizing his sides with satisfaction and pride, he looked with a triumphant glance at Zagloba and Volodyovski. "We know her, a perfect Diana; she needs only the moon in her hair!" said the little knight. "What, Diana! Diana's dogs would howl at Diana if they could see Panna Billevich." "Therefore I said it is 'no wonder,'" answered Hassling. "Well! But for that 'no wonder' I would burn him with a slow fire; for that 'no wonder' I would have him shod with hob-nails--" "Give us peace!" interrupted Zagloba. "Get him first, then play pranks; but now let this cavalier speak." "More than once I was on watch before the room in which he slept," continued Hassling. "I know how he turned on his bed, sighed, talked to himself, and hissed, as if from pain; evidently desires were burning him. He changed terribly, dried up. It may be, too, that the illness under which he afterward fell was diving into him. Meanwhile news flew through the whole court that the prince had become so distracted that he wanted to marry. This came to Yanush's princess, who with her daughter was living at Taurogi. Then began anger and disputes; for, as you know, Boguslav, according to agreement, is to marry Yanush's daughter when she comes of age. But he forgot everything, so pierced was his heart. Yanush's princess, falling into a rage, went with her daughter to Courland. That same evening he made a proposal to Panna Billevich." "Did he make proposals?" cried Zagloba, Kmita, and Pan Michael, with astonishment. "He did. First to the sword-bearer of Rossyeni, who was no less astonished than you, and would not believe his own ears; but convinced at last he was barely able to control himself from delight, for it was no small splendor for the house of Billevich to be united with the Radzivills. It is true, as Patterson said, that there is some connection already, but it is old and forgotten." "Tell on!" said Kmita, trembling from impatience. "Both went to the lady with all ostentation, as is the custom on such occasions. The whole court was trembling. Evil tidings came from Prince Yanush. Sakovich alone read them, but no one paid attention to them, nor even to Sakovich, for he had fallen out of favor because he had proposed the marriage. But among us some said that it was no novelty for the Radzivills to marry ordinary noble women; that in the Commonwealth all nobles were equal, and that the house of Billevich went back to Roman times. And this was said by those who wished to gain for themselves the favor of the coming princess. Others asserted that this was a stratagem of the prince to come to great intimacy with the lady, which happens not infrequently between persons betrothed." "That was it! Nothing else," said Zagloba. "And so I think," said Hassling; "but listen further. When we were deliberating in the court among ourselves in this fashion, the report went out like a thunderbolt that the lady had cut all doubt as with a sabre, for she refused him directly." "God bless her!" cried Kmita. "She refused him directly," continued Hassling. "It was enough to look at the prince to know that. He, to whom princesses yielded, could not endure resistance, and almost went mad. It was dangerous to appear before him. We all saw that it would not remain long thus, and that the prince would use force sooner or later. In fact, the sword-bearer of Rossyeni was carried off the next day to Tyltsa, beyond the elector's boundary. That day the lady implored the officer keeping guard before her door to give her a loaded pistol. The officer did not refuse that, for being a noble and man of honor he felt compassion for the lady and homage for her beauty and resolution." "Who was that officer?" asked Kmita. "I," answered Hassling, dryly. Pan Andrei seized him by the shoulders, so that the young Scot, being weak, called out from pain. "That is nothing!" cried Kmita. "You are not a prisoner; you are my brother, my friend! Tell me what you wish! In God's name, tell me what you wish!" "To rest awhile," answered Hassling, breathing heavily; and he was silent. He merely pressed the hands which Pan Michael and Zagloba gave him. At last, seeing that all were burning with curiosity, he continued,-- "I forewarned her too of what all knew, that the prince's physician was preparing some intoxicating drug. Meanwhile fears turned out to be groundless, for God interfered in the affair. He touched the prince with his finger, threw him on a bed of sickness, and kept him there a month. It is a marvel, gentlemen, but it happened as if he had been cut from his feet, as with a scythe, that same day, when he intended to attack the virtue of this lady. The hand of God, I say, nothing else! He thought that himself, and was afraid; may be too that during his sickness the desire left him, may be he was waiting to regain his strength; it is enough, that when he came to himself he left her in peace, and even permitted the sword-bearer to come from Tyltsa. It is true, also, that the sickness which confined him to his bed left him, but not the fever, which is, I believe, crushing him to this day. It is true, also, that soon after he left the bed he had to go on the expedition to Tykotsin, where defeat met him. He returned with a still greater fever; then the elector sent for him. But meanwhile a change took place at Taurogi, of which it is wonderful and laughable to tell; it is enough that the prince cannot count on the loyalty of any officer or any attendant, unless on very old ones, who neither hear nor see perfectly, and therefore guard nothing well." "What happened?" asked Zagloba. "During the Tykotsin campaign, before the defeat at Tanov, they captured a certain Panna Anusia Borzobogati, and sent her to Taurogi." "There, Grandmother, you have cakes!" exclaimed Zagloba. Pan Michael began to blink and move his mustaches; at last he said: "Say nothing bad of her, or when you recover you will have to meet me." "Even if I wished I could say nothing bad of that lady. But if she is your betrothed, I say that you take poor care of her; and if she is a relative, you know her too well to deny what I say. It is enough that in one week she made all in the company, old and young, in love with her, and only by using her eyes with the addition of some tricks of witchcraft, of which I can give no account." "She! I should know her in hell by this," muttered Zagloba. "It is a wonderful thing!" said Hassling. "Panna Billevich is equal to her in beauty, but has such dignity and unapproachableness that a man while admiring and doing homage to her does not dare to raise his eyes, much less to conceive any hope. You know yourselves, gentlemen, that there are different kinds of ladies: some are like ancient vestals; others, you have barely seen them and you wish--" "Worthy sir!" said Pan Michael, threateningly. "Don't make a fool of yourself, Michael, for he tells the truth," said Zagloba. "You go around like a young cockerel and show the whites of your eyes; but that she is a coquette we all know, and you have said so more than a hundred times." "Let us leave this matter," said Hassling. "I wished simply to explain to you, gentlemen, why only a few were in love with Panna Billevich, those who could really appreciate her unrivalled perfection [here he blushed again], and with Panna Borzobogati nearly all. As God is dear to me, I had to laugh, for it was just as if some plague had come upon hearts. Disputes and duels increased in the twinkle of an eye. And about what? For what? You must know that there was no one who could boast of the love of the lady; each one believed blindly in this alone, that earlier or later he would have some success--" "He has painted her, as it were!" muttered Pan Michael. "But these two young ladies became wonderfully fond of each other," continued Hassling; "one would not move a step without the other, and Panna Borzobogati manages in Taurogi as it pleases her." "How is that?" asked the little knight. "For she rules everybody. Sakovich did not go on a campaign this time, because he is in love; and Sakovich is absolute master in all the possessions of Prince Boguslav. And Panna Anusia governs through him." "Is he so much in love with her?" asked Pan Michael. "He is, and has the greatest confidence in himself, for he is a very rich man." "And his name is Sakovich?" "You wish, I see, to remember him well." "Certainly!" answered Pan Michael, as it were, carelessly, but at the same time he moved his mustaches so ominously that a shudder went through Zagloba. "I only wish to add," continued Hassling, "that if Panna Borzobogati should command Sakovich to betray the prince and lighten her escape and that of her friend, I think he would do it without hesitation; but so far as I know she wishes to do that without his knowledge, maybe to spite him, who knows? It is enough that an officer, a relative of mine, but not a Catholic, assured me that the departure of the sword-bearer with the ladies is arranged; officers are involved in the conspiracy, and it is to take place soon." Here Hassling began to breathe heavily, for he was weary and was using the last of his strength. "And this is the most important thing that I had to tell you," added he, hurriedly. Volodyovski and Kmita seized their heads. "Whither are they going to flee?" "To the forests and through the forests to Byalovyej." Further conversation was interrupted by the entrance of Sapyeha's orderly, who delivered to Pan Michael and Kmita a quarter of a sheet of paper folded in four. Volodyovski had barely unfolded his when he said,-- "The order to occupy positions for to-morrow's work." "Do you hear how the cannons are roaring?" asked Zagloba. "Well, to-morrow! to-morrow!" "Uf! hot!" said Zagloba, "a bad day for a storm,--may the devil take such heat! Mother of God! But more than one will grow cold in spite of the heat; but not those--not those who commend themselves to Thee, our Patroness-- But the cannons are thundering! I am too old for storms; the open field is something else." Another officer appeared in the door. "Is his grace Pan Zagloba here?" asked he. "I am here." "By the command of our Gracious King, you are to be near his person to-morrow." "Ha! he wishes to keep me from the storm, for he knows that the old man will move first, only let the trumpets sound. He is a kind lord, mindful; I should not like to annoy him; but whether I shall restrain myself I know not, for when the desire presses me I think of nothing, and roll straight into the smoke. Such is my nature! A kind lord! Do you hear how the trumpets are sounding for every one to take his place? Well, to-morrow, to-morrow. Saint Peter will have work; he must have his books ready. In hell too they have put fresh pitch in the kettles, a bath for the Swedes. Uf! uf! to-morrow!" CHAPTER XL. July 1, between Povanski and the settlement afterward called Marymont, was celebrated a great field Mass, which ten thousand men of the quarter-soldiers heard with attentive mind. The king made a vow that in case of victory he would build a church to the Most Holy Lady. Dignitaries, the hetmans, the knights made vows, and even simple soldiers, following the example, each according to his means, for this was to be the day of the final storm. After the Mass each of the leaders moved to his own command. Sapyeha took his position opposite the Church of the Holy Ghost, which at that time was outside the walls; but because it was the key to the walls, it was greatly strengthened by the Swedes, and occupied in fitting manner by the troops. Charnyetski was to capture Dantzig House, for the rear wall of that building formed a part of the city wall, and by passing through the building it was possible to reach the city. Pyotr Opalinski, the voevoda of Podlyasye, with men from Great Poland and Mazovia, was to attack from the Cracow suburbs and the Vistula. The quarter-regiments were to attack the gates of New City. There were so many men that they almost exceeded the approaches to the walls; the entire plain, all the neighboring suburban villages and the meadows were overflowed with a sea of soldiers. Beyond the men were white tents, after the tents wagons far away; the eye was lost in the blue distance before it could reach the end of that swarm. Those legions were standing in perfect readiness, with weapons point forward, and one foot in advance for the run; they were ready at any moment to rush to the breaches made by the guns of heavy calibre, and especially by Zamoyski's great guns. The guns did not cease to play for a moment; the storm was deferred only because they were waiting for the final answer of Wittemberg to the letter which the grand chancellor Korytsinski had sent him. When about midday the officer returned with a refusal, the ominous trumpets rang out around the city, and the storm began. The armies of the kingdom under the hetmans, Charnyetski's men, the regiments of the king, the infantry regiments of Zamoyski, the Lithuanians of Sapyeha, and the legions of the general militia rushed toward the walls like a swollen river. But from behind the walls bloomed out against them rolls of white smoke and darts of flame; heavy cannon, arquebuses, double-barrelled guns, muskets thundered simultaneously; the earth was shaken in its foundations. The balls broke into that throng of men, ploughed long furrows in it; but the men ran on and tore up to the fortress, regarding neither fire nor death. Clouds of powder smoke hid the sun. Each attacked furiously what was nearest him,--the hetmans the gates of New City; Charnyetski, Dantzig House; Sapyeha with the Lithuanians, the Church of the Holy Ghost; the Mazovians and men of Great Poland, the Cracow suburbs. The heaviest work fell to the last-mentioned men, for the palaces and houses along the Cracow suburbs were turned into fortresses. But that day such fury of battle had seized the Mazovians that nothing could stand before their onset. They took by storm house after house, palace after palace; they fought in windows, in doors, in passages. After the capture of one house, before the blood was dry on their hands and faces, they rushed to another; again a hand-to-hand battle, and again they rushed farther. The private regiments vied with the general militia, and the general militia with the infantry. They had been commanded before advancing to the storm to carry at their breasts bundles of unripe grain to ward off the bullets, but in the ardor and frenzy of battle they hurled aside every defence, and ran forward with bare bosoms. In the midst of a bloody struggle the chapel of the Tsar Shuiski and the lordly palace of the Konyetspolskis were captured. The Swedes were destroyed to the last man in the smaller buildings, in the stables of the magnates, in the gardens descending to the Vistula. Near the Kazanovski Palace the Swedish infantry tried to make a stand in the street, and reinforced from the walls of the palace, from the church and the bell-tower of the Bernardines, which was turned into a strong fortress, they received the attack with a cutting fire. But the hail of bullets did not stop the attack for a moment; and the nobles, with the cry of "Mazovians victorious!" rushed with sabres into the centre of the quadrangle; after them came the land infantry, servants armed with poles, pickaxes, and scythes. The quadrangle was broken in a twinkle, and hewing began. Swedes and Poles were so mingled together that they formed one gigantic mass, which squirmed, twisted, and rolled in its own blood between the Kazanovski Palace, the house of Radzeyovski, and the Cracow gate. But new legions of warriors breathing blood came on continually, like a foaming river, from the direction of the Cracow gate. The Swedish infantry was cut to pieces at last, and then began that famous storm of the Kazanovski Palace and the Bernardines' Church which in great part decided the fate of the day. Zagloba commanded, for he was mistaken the day before in thinking that the king called him to his person only to be present; for, on the contrary, he confided to him, as to a famous and experienced warrior, command over the camp servants, who with the quarter-soldiers and the general militia were to go as volunteers to storm from that side. Zagloba was willing, it is true, to go with these men in the rear, and content himself with occupying the palaces already captured; but when in the very beginning all vying with one another were mingled completely, the human current bore him on with the others. So he went; for although he had from nature great circumspection as a gift, and preferred, where it was possible, not to expose his life to danger, he had for so many years become accustomed to battles in spite of himself, had been present in so many dreadful slaughters, that when the inevitable came he fought with others, and even better than others, for he fought with desperation and rage in a manful heart. So at this time he found himself at the gate of the Kazanovski Palace, or rather in the hell which was raging dreadfully in front of that gate; that is, amid a whirlpool, heat, crushing, a storm of bullets, fire, smoke, groans and shouts of men. Thousands of scythes, picks, and axes were driven against the gate; a thousand arms pressed and pushed it furiously. Some men fell as if struck by lightning; others pushed themselves into their places, trampled their bodies, and forced themselves forward, as if seeking death of purpose. No one had seen or remembered a more stubborn defence, but also not a more resolute attack. From the highest stories bullets were rained and pitch poured down on the gate; but those who were under fire, even had they wished could not withdraw, so powerfully were they pressed from behind. You saw single men, wet from perspiration, black from smoke, with set teeth, with wild eyes, hurling at the gate beams of such size that at an ordinary time three strong men would not have been able to lift them. So their strength was trebled by frenzy. All the windows were stormed simultaneously, ladders were placed at the upper stories, lattices were hewn from the walls. But still from those lattices and windows, from openings cut in the walls, were sticking out musket-barrels, which did not cease to smoke for a moment. But at last such smoke ascended, such dust rose, that on that bright sunny day the assailants could scarcely recognize one another. In spite of that they did not desist from the struggle, but climbed ladders the more fiercely, attacked the gate the more wildly, because the sounds from the Church of the Bernardines announced that there other parties were storming with similar energy. Now Zagloba cried with a voice so piercing that it was heard amid the uproar and shots: "A box with powder under the gate!" It was brought to him in a twinkle; he gave command at once to cut just beneath the bolt an opening of such size that the box alone would find place in it. When the box was fitted in, Zagloba himself set fire to the sulphur thread, then commanded,-- "Aside! Close to the wall!" Those standing near rushed to both sides, toward those who had placed the ladders at the farther windows. A moment of expectation followed. A mighty report shook the air, and new bundles of smoke rose toward the sky. Zagloba sprang forward with his men; they saw that the explosion had not rent the gate to small pieces, but had torn the hinges from the right side, wrested away a couple of strong beams, already partly cut, turned the handle, and pulled off one half of the lower part, so that a passage was open through which large men might enter easily. Sharpened stakes, axes, and scythes began to beat violently on the weakened door; a hundred arms pushed it with utmost effort, a sharp crash was heard, and all one half fell, uncovering the depth of the dark antechamber. In that darkness gleamed discharges of musketry; but the human river rushed forward with an irresistible torrent,--the palace was captured. At the same time they broke in through the windows, and a terrible battle with cold weapons began in the interior of the palace. Chamber was taken after chamber, corridor after corridor, story after story. The walls had been so shattered and weakened beforehand that the ceiling in many rooms fell with a crash, covering with their ruins Poles and Swedes. But the Mazovians advanced like a conflagration; they penetrated every place, overturning with their long knives, cutting and thrusting. No man of the Swedes asked for quarter, but neither was it given. In some corridors and passages the piles of bodies so blocked the way that the Swedes made barricades of them; the Poles pulled them out by the feet, by the hair, and hurled them through the windows. Blood flowed in streams through the passages. Groups of Swedes defended themselves yet here and there, and repelled with weakening hands the furious blows of the stormers. Blood had covered their faces, darkness was covering their eyes, more than one sank on his knees, and still fought; pressed on every side, suffocated by the throng of opponents, the Scandinavians died in silence, in accord with their fame, as beseemed warriors. The statues of divinities and ancient heroes, bespattered with blood, looked with lifeless eyes on that death. Roh Kovalski raged specially in the upper stories; but Zagloba rushed with his men to the terraces, and when he had cut to pieces the infantry defending themselves there, he hurried from the terraces to those wonderful gardens which were famed throughout Europe. The trees were already cut down, the rare plants destroyed by Polish balls, the fountains broken, the earth ploughed up by bombshells,--in a word, everywhere a desert and destruction, though the Swedes had not raised their robber hands against this place, out of regard for the person of Radzeyovski. A savage struggle set in there, too; but it lasted only a short time, for the Swedes gave but feeble resistance, and were cut to pieces under the personal command of Zagloba. The soldiers dispersed now through the garden, and the whole palace was plundered. Zagloba betook himself to a corner of the garden, to a place where the walls formed a strong "angle," and where the sun did not come, for the knight wished to rest somewhat; and he rubbed the sweat from his heated forehead. All at once he espied some strange monsters, looking at him with hostility through an iron grating. The cage was fixed in a corner of the wall, so that balls falling from the outside could not reach it. The door of the cage was wide open; but those meagre and ugly creatures did not think of taking advantage of this. Evidently terrified by the uproar, the whistling of bullets, and the fierce slaughter at which they had looked a moment before, they crowded into a corner of the cage, and hidden in the straw, gave note of their terror only by muttering. "Are those monkeys or devils?" said Zagloba to himself. Suddenly anger seized him, courage swelled in his breast, and raising his sabre he fell upon the cage. A terrible panic was the answer to the first blow of his sabre. The monkeys, which the Swedish soldiers had treated kindly and fed from their own slender rations, fell into such a fright that madness simply seized them; and since Zagloba stopped their exit, they began to rush through the cage with unnatural springs, hanging to the sides, to the top, screaming and biting. At last one in frenzy sprang on Zagloba's shoulder, and seizing him by the head, fastened to it with all his power; another hung to his right shoulder, a third caught him in front by the neck, the fourth hung to his long split sleeves which were tied together behind; and Zagloba, stifled, sweating, struggled in vain, in vain struck blindly toward the rear. Breath soon failed him, his eyes were standing out of his head, and he began to cry with despairing voice,-- "Gracious gentlemen! save me!" The cry brought a number of men, who, unable to understand what was happening, rushed to his aid with blood-streaming sabres; but they halted at once in astonishment, they looked at one another, and as if under the influence of some spell they burst out in one great laugh. More soldiers ran up, a crowd was formed; but laughter was communicated to all as an epidemic. They staggered as if drunk, they held their sides; their faces, besmeared with the gore of men, were twisting spasmodically, and the more Zagloba struggled the more did they laugh. Now Roh Kovalski ran down from an upper story, scattered the crowd, and freed his uncle from the Simian embraces. "You rascals!" cried the panting Zagloba, "I would you were slain! You are laughing to see a Catholic in oppression from these African monsters. I would you were slain! Were it not for me you would be butting your heads to this moment against the gate, for you deserve nothing better. I wish you were dead, because you are not worth these monkeys." "I wish you were dead yourself, king of the monkeys!" cried the man standing nearest. "_Simiarum destructor_ (destroyer of monkeys)!" cried another. "Victor!" cried the third. "What, victor! he is _victus_ (conquered)!" Here Roh Kovalski came again to the aid of his uncle, and struck the nearest man in the breast with his fist; the man dropped to the earth that instant with blood coming from his mouth. Others retreated before the anger of Kovalski, some drew their sabres; but further disputes were interrupted by the uproar and shots coming from the Bernardines' Church. Evidently the storm continued there yet in full force, and judging from the feverish musketry-tire, the Swedes were not thinking of surrender. "With succor! to the church! to the church!" cried Zagloba. He sprang himself to the top of the palace; there, from the right wing, was to be seen the church, which seemed to be in flames. Crowds of stormers were circling around it convulsively, not being able to enter and perishing for nothing in a cross tire; for bullets were rained on them from the Cracow gate as thickly as sand. "Cannon to the windows!" shouted Zagloba. There were guns enough, large and small, in the Kazanovski Palace, therefore they were drawn to the windows; from fragments of costly furniture and pedestals of statues, platforms were constructed; and in the course of half an hour a number of guns were looking, out through the empty openings of the windows toward the church. "Roh!" said Zagloba, with uncommon irritation, "I must do something considerable, or my glory is lost through those monkeys,--would that the plague had stifled them! The whole army will ridicule me; and though there is no lack of words in my mouth, still I cannot meet the whole world. I must wipe away this confusion, or wide as this Commonwealth is they will herald me through it as king of the monkeys!" "Uncle must wipe away this confusion!" repeated Roh, with a thundering voice. "And the first means will be that, as I have captured the Kazanovski Palace,--for let any one say that it was not I who did it--" "Let any one say that it was not Uncle who did it!" repeated Roh. "I will capture that church, so help me the Lord God, amen!" concluded Zagloba. Then he turned to his attendants who were there at the guns,-- "Fire!" Fear seized the Swedes, who were defending themselves with despair in the church, when the whole side wall began on a sudden to tremble. Bricks, rubbish, lime, fell on those who were sitting in the windows, at the port-holes, on the fragments of the inside cornices, at the pigeon-holes, through which they were firing at the besiegers. A terrible dust rose in the house of God, and mixed with the smoke began to stifle the wearied men. One man could not see another in the darkness. Cries of "I am suffocating, I am suffocating!" still increased the terror. The noise of balls falling through the windows, of leaden lattice falling to the floor, the heat, the exhalations from bodies, turned the retreat of God into a hell upon earth. The frightened soldiers stood aside from entrances, windows, and port-holes. The panic is changed into frenzy. Again terrified voices call: "I am suffocating! Air! Water!" Hundreds of voices begin to roar,-- "A white flag! a white flag!" Erskine, who is commanding, seizes the flag with his own hand to display it outside. At that moment the entrance bursts, a line of stormers rush in like an avalanche of Satans, and a slaughter follows. There is sudden silence in the church; there is heard only the beast-like panting of the strugglers, the bite of steel on bones, and on the stone floor groans, the patter of blood; and at times some voice in which there is nothing human cries, "Quarter! Quarter!" After an hour's fighting the bell on the tower begins to thunder, and thunders, thunders,--to the victory of the Mazovians, to the funeral of the Swedes. The Kazanovski Palace, the cloister, and the bell-tower are captured. Pyotr Opalinski himself, the voevoda of Podlyasye, appeared in the blood-stained throng before the palace on his horse. "Who came to our aid from the palace?" cried he, wishing to outcry the sound and the roar of men. "He who captured the palace!" said a powerful man, appearing before the voevoda,--"I!" "What is your name?" "Zagloba." "Vivat Zagloba!" bellowed thousands of throats. But the terrible Zagloba pointed with his stained sabre toward the gate,-- "We have not done enough yet. Turn the cannon toward the wall and against the gate. Advance! follow me!" The mad throng rush in the direction of the gate. Meanwhile, oh wonder! the fire of the Swedes instead of increasing is growing weak. At the same moment some voice unexpected and piercing cries from the top of the bell-tower,-- "Charnyetski is in the city! I see our squadrons!" The Swedish fire was weakening more and more. "Halt! halt!" commanded the voevoda. But the throng did not hear him and rushed at random. That moment a white flag appeared on the Cracow gate. In truth, Charnyetski, having forced his way through Dantzig House, rushed like a hurricane into the precincts of the fortress; when the Danillovich Palace was taken, and when a moment later the Lithuanian colors glittered on the walls near the Church of the Holy Ghost, Wittemberg saw that further resistance was vain. The Swedes might defend themselves yet in the lofty houses of Old and New City; but the inhabitants had already taken arms, and the defence would end in a terrible slaughter of the Swedes without hope of victory. The trumpeters began then to sound on the walls and to wave white flags. Seeing this, the Polish commanders withheld the storm. General Löwenhaupt, attended by a number of colonels, went out through the gate of New City, and rushed with all breath to the king. Yan Kazimir had the city in his hands now; but the kind king wished to stop the flow of Christian blood, therefore he settled on the conditions offered to Wittemberg at first. The city was to be surrendered, with all the booty collected in it. Each Swede was permitted to take with him only what he had brought from Sweden. The garrison with all the generals and with arms in hand were to march out of the city, taking their sick and wounded and the Swedish ladies, of whom a number of tens were in Warsaw. To the Poles who were serving with the Swedes, amnesty was given, with the idea that surely none were serving of their own will. Boguslav Radzivill alone was excepted. To this Wittemberg agreed the more readily since the prince was at that moment with Douglas on the Bug. The conditions were signed at once. All the bells in the churches announced to the city and the world that the capital had passed again into the hands of its rightful monarch. An hour later a multitude of the poorest people came out from behind the walls, seeking charity and bread in the Polish camp; for all in the city except the Swedes were in want of food. The king commanded to give what was possible, and went himself to look at the departure of the Swedish garrison. He was surrounded by church and lay dignitaries, by a suite so splendid that it dazzled the people. Nearly all the troops--that is, the troops of the kingdom under the hetmans, Charnyetski's division, the Lithuanians under Sapyeha, and an immense crowd of general militia, together with the camp servants--assembled around his Majesty; or all were curious to see those Swedes with whom a few hours before they had fought so terribly and bloodily. Polish commissioners were posted at all the gates, from the moment of signing the conditions; these commissioners were intrusted with the duty of seeing that the Swedes bore off no booty. A special commission was occupied with receiving the booty in the city itself. In the van came the cavalry, which was not numerous, especially since Boguslav's men were excluded from the right of departure; next came the field artillery with light guns; the heavy pieces were given to the Poles. The men marched at the sides of the guns with lighted matches. Before them waved their unfurled flags, which as a mark of honor were lowered before the Polish king, recently a wanderer. The artillerists marched proudly, looking straight into the eyes of the Polish knights, as if they wished to say, "We shall meet again!" And the Poles wondered at their haughty bearing and courage unbent by misfortune. Then appeared the wagons with officers and wounded. In the first one lay Benedikt Oxenstiern the chancellor, before whom Yan Kazimir had commanded the infantry to present arms, wishing to show that he knew how to respect virtue even in an enemy. Then to the sound of drums, and with waving flags, marched the quadrangle of unrivalled Swedish infantry, resembling, according to the expression of Suba Gazi, moving castles. After them advanced a brilliant party of cavalry, armored from foot to head, and with a blue banner on which a golden lion was embroidered. These surrounded the chief of staff. At sight of them a murmur passed through the crowd,-- "Wittemberg is coming! Wittemberg is coming!" In fact, the field-marshal himself was approaching; and with him the younger Wrangel, Horn, Erskine, Löwenhaupt, Forgell. The eyes of the Polish knights were turned with eagerness toward them, and especially toward the face of Wittemberg. But his face did not indicate such a terrible warrior as he was in reality. It was an aged face, pale, emaciated by disease. He had sharp features, and above his mouth a thin, small mustache turned up at the ends. The pressed lips and long, pointed nose gave him the appearance of an old and grasping miser. Dressed in black velvet and with a black hat on his head, he looked more like a learned astrologer or a physician; and only the gold chain on his neck, the diamond star on his breast, and a field-marshal's baton in his hand showed his high office of leader. Advancing, he cast his eyes unquietly on the king, on the king's staff, on the squadrons standing in rank; then his eyes took in the immense throngs of the general militia, and an ironical smile came out on his pale lips. But in those throngs a murmur was rising ever greater, and the word "Wittemberg! Wittemberg!" was in every mouth. After a while the murmur changed into deep grumbling, but threatening, like the grumbling of the sea before a storm. From instant to instant it was silent; and then far away in the distance, in the last ranks, was heard some voice in peroration. This voice was answered by others; greater numbers answered them; they were heard ever louder and spread more widely, like ominous echoes. You would swear that a storm was coming from a distance, and that it would burst with all power. The officers were anxious and began to look at the king with disquiet. "What is that? What does that mean?" asked Yan Kazimir. Then the grumbling passed into a roar as terrible as if thunders had begun to wrestle with one another in the sky. The immense throng of general militia moved violently, precisely like standing grain when a hurricane is sweeping around it with giant wing. All at once some tens of thousands of sabres were glittering in the sun. "What is that? What does that mean?" asked the king, repeatedly. No one could answer him. Then Volodyovski, standing near Sapyeha, exclaimed: "That is Pan Zagloba!" Volodyovski had guessed aright. The moment the conditions of surrender were published and had come to the ears of Zagloba, the old noble fell into such a terrible rage that speech was taken from him for a while. When he came to himself his first act was to spring among the ranks of the general militia and fire up the minds of the nobles. They heard him willingly; for it seemed to all that for so much bravery, for such toil, for so much bloodshed under the walls of Warsaw, they ought to have a better vengeance against the enemy. Therefore great circles of chaotic and stormy men surrounded Zagloba, who threw live coals by the handful on the powder, and with his speech fanned into greater proportions the fire which all the more easily seized their heads, that they were already smoking from the usual libations consequent on victory. "Gracious gentlemen!" said he, "behold these old hands have toiled fifty years for the country; fifty years have they been shedding the blood of the enemy at every wall of the Commonwealth; and to-day--I have witnesses--they captured the Kazanovski Palace and the Bernardines' Church! And when, gracious gentlemen, did the Swedes lose heart, when did they agree to capitulate? It was when we turned our guns from the Bernardines to the Old City. We have not spared our blood, brothers; it has been shed bountifully, and no one has been spared but the enemy. But we, brothers, have left our lands without masters, our servants without lords, our wives without husbands, our children without fathers,--oh, my dear children, what is happening to you now?--and we have come here with our naked breasts against cannon. And what is our reward for so doing? This is it: Wittemberg goes forth free, and besides, they give him honor for the road. The executioner of our country departs, the blasphemer of religion departs; the raging enemy of the Most Holy Lady, the burner of our houses, the thief of our last bit of clothing, the murderer of our wives and children,--oh, my children, where are you now?--the disgracer of the clergy and virgins consecrated to God! Woe to thee, country! Shame to you, nobles! A new agony is awaiting you. Oh, our holy faith! Woe to you, suffering churches! weeping to thee and complaint, O Chenstohova! for Wittemberg is departing in freedom, and will return soon to press out tears and blood, to finish killing those whom he has not yet killed, to burn that which he has not yet burned, to put shame on that which he has not yet put to shame! Weep, O Poland and Lithuania! Weep, ranks of people, as I weep,--an old soldier who, descending to the grave, must look on your agony! Woe to thee, Ilion, the city of aged Priam! Woe! woe! woe!" So spoke Zagloba; and thousands listened to him, and wrath raised the hair on the heads of the nobles; but he moved on farther. Again he complained, tore his clothing, and laid bare his breast. He entered also into the army, which gave a willing ear to his complaints; for, in truth, there was a terrible animosity in all hearts against Wittemberg. The tumult would have burst out at once; but Zagloba himself restrained it, lest, if it burst too early, Wittemberg might save himself somehow; but if it broke out when he was leaving the city and would show himself to the general militia, they would bear him apart on their sabres before any one could see what was done. And his reckoning was justified. At sight of the tyrant frenzy seized the brains of the chaotic and half-drunken nobles, and a terrible storm burst forth in the twinkle of an eye. Forty thousand sabres were flashing in the sun, forty thousand throats began to bellow,-- "Death to Wittemberg! Give him here! Make mince-meat of him! make mince-meat of him!" To the throngs of nobles were joined throngs more chaotic still and made brutal by the recent shedding of blood, the camp servants; even the more disciplined regular squadrons began to murmur fiercely against the oppressor, and the storm began to fly with rage against the Swedish staff. At the first moment all lost their heads, though all understood what the matter was. "What is to be done?" cried voices near the king. "Oh, merciful Jesus!" "Rescue! defend! It is a shame not to observe the conditions!" Enraged crowds rush in among the squadrons, press upon them; the squadrons are confused, cannot keep their places. Around them are sabres, sabres, and sabres; under the sabres are inflamed faces, threatening eyes, howling mouths; uproar, noise, wild cries grow with amazing rapidity. In front are rushing camp servants, camp followers, and every kind of army rabble, more like beasts or devils than men. Wittemberg understood what was happening. His face grew pale as a sheet; sweat, abundant and cold, covered his forehead in a moment; and, oh wonder! that field-marshal who hitherto was ready to threaten the whole world, that conqueror of so many armies, that captor of so many cities, that old soldier was then so terribly frightened at the howling mass that presence of mind left him utterly. He trembled in his whole body, he dropped his hands and groaned, spittle began to flow from his mouth to the golden chain, and the field-marshal's baton dropped from his hand. Meanwhile the terrible throng was coming nearer and nearer; ghastly forms were surrounding already the hapless generals; a moment more, they would bear them apart on sabres, so that not a fragment of them would remain. Other Swedish generals drew their sabres, wishing to die weapon in hand, as beseemed knights; but the aged oppressor grew weak altogether, and half closed his eyes. At this moment Volodyovski, with his men, sprang to the rescue of the staff. Going wedge-form on a gallop, he split the mob as a ship moving with all sails bears apart the towering waves of the sea. The cry of the trampled rabble was mingled with the shouts of the Lauda squadron; but the horsemen reached the staff first, and surrounded it in the twinkle of an eye with a wall of horses, a wall of their own breasts and sabres. "To the king!" cried the little knight. They moved on. The throng surrounded them from every side, ran along the flanks and the rear, brandished sabres and clubs, howled more and more terribly; but the Lauda men pushed forward, thrusting out their sabres from moment to moment at the sides, as a strong stag thrusts with his antlers when surrounded by wolves. Then Voynillovich sprang to the aid of Volodyovski; after him Vilchkovski with a regiment of the king, then Prince Polubinski; and all together, defending themselves unceasingly, conducted the staff to the presence of Yan Kazimir. The tumult increased instead of diminishing. It seemed, after a time, that the excited rabble would try to seize the Swedish generals without regard to the king. Wittemberg recovered; but fear did not leave him in the least. He sprang from his horse then; and as a hare pressed by dogs or wolves takes refuge under a wagon in motion, so did he, in spite of his gout, throw himself at the feet of Yan Kazimir. Then he dropped on his knees, and seizing the king's stirrup, began to cry: "Save me, Gracious Lord, save me! I have your royal word; the agreement is signed. Save me, save me! Have mercy on us! Do not let them murder me!" The king, at sight of such abasement and such shame turned away his eyes with aversion and said,-- "Field-marshal, pray be calm." But he had a troubled face himself, for he knew not what to do. Around them were gathering crowds ever greater, and approaching with more persistence. It is true that the squadrons stood as if for battle, and Zamoyski's infantry had formed a terrible quadrangle round about; but what was to be the end of it all? The king looked at Charnyetski; but Charnyetski only twisted his beard with rage, his soul was storming with such anger against the disobedience of the general militia. Then the chancellor, Korytsinski, said,-- "Gracious Lord, we must keep the agreement." "We must!" replied the king. Wittemberg, who was looking carefully into their eyes, breathed more freely. "Gracious Lord," said he, "I believe in your words as in God." To which Pototski, the old hetman of the kingdom, cried,-- "And why have you broken so many oaths, so many agreements, so many terms of surrender? With what any man wars, from that will he perish. Why did you seize, in spite of the terms of capitulation, the king's regiment commanded by Wolf?" "Miller did that, not I," answered Wittemberg. The hetman looked at him with disdain; then turned to the king,-- "Gracious Lord, I do not say this to incite your Royal Grace to break agreements also, for let perfidy be on their side alone." "What is to be done?" asked the king. "If we send them to Prussia, fifty thousand nobles will follow and cut them to pieces before they reach Pultusk, unless we give them the whole regular army as a guard, and we cannot do that. Hear, your Royal Grace, how the militia are howling! In truth, there is a well-founded animosity against Wittemberg. It is needful first to safeguard his person, and then to send all away when the fire has cooled down." "There is no other way!" said Korytsinski. "But where are they to be kept? We cannot keep them here; for here, devil take it! civil war would break out," said the voevoda of Rus. Now Sobiepan Zamoyski appeared, and pouting his lips greatly, said with his customary spirit,-- "Well, Gracious Lord, give them to me at Zamost; let them sit there till calm comes. I will defend Wittemberg there from the nobles. Let them try to get him from me!" "But on the road will your worthiness defend the field-marshal?" asked the chancellor. "I can depend on my servants yet. Or have I not infantry and cannon? Let any one take him from Zamoyski! We shall see." Here he put his hands on his hips, struck his thighs, and bent from one side of the saddle to the other. "There is no other way," said the chancellor. "I see no other," added Lantskoronski. "Then take them," said the king to Zamoyski. But Wittemberg, seeing that his life was threatened no longer, considered it proper to protest. "We did not expect this!" said he. "Well, we do not detain you; the road is open," said Pototski, pointing to the distance with his hand. Wittemberg was silent Meanwhile the chancellor sent a number of officers to declare to the nobles that Wittemberg would not depart in freedom, but would be sent to Zamost. The tumult, it is true, was not allayed at once; still the news had a soothing effect. Before night fell attention was turned in another direction. The troops began to enter the city, and the sight of the recovered capital filled all minds with the delight of triumph. The king rejoiced; still the thought that he was unable to observe the conditions of the agreement troubled him not a little, as well as the endless disobedience of the general militia. Charnyetski was chewing his anger. "With such troops one can never be sure of to-morrow," said he to the king. "Sometimes they fight badly, sometimes heroically, all from impulse; and at any outbreak rebellion is ready. "God grant them not to disperse," said the king, "for they are needed yet, and they think that they have finished everything." "The man who caused that outbreak should be torn asunder with horses, without regard to the services which he has rendered," continued Charnyetski. The strictest orders were given to search for Zagloba, for it was a secret to no man that he had raised the storm; but Zagloba had as it were dropped into water. They searched for him in the tents, in the tabor, even among the Tartars, all in vain. Tyzenhauz even said that the king, always kind and gracious, wished from his whole soul that they might not find him, and even undertook a nine days' devotion to that effect. But a week later, after some dinner when the heart of the monarch was big with joy, the following words were heard from the mouth of Yan Kazimir,-- "Announce that Pan Zagloba is not to hide himself longer, for we are longing for his jests." When Charnyetski was horrified at this, the king said,-- "Whoso in this Commonwealth should have justice without mercy in his heart would be forced to carry an axe in his bosom, and not a heart. Faults come easier here than anywhere, but in no land does repentance follow so quickly." Saying this, the king had Babinich more in mind than Zagloba; and he was thinking of Babinich because the young man had bowed down to the king's feet the day before with a petition that he would not hinder him from going to Lithuania. He said that he wished to freshen the war there, and attack the Swedes, as he had once attacked Hovanski. And as the king intended to send there a soldier experienced in partisan warfare, he permitted Babinich to go, gave him the means, blessed him, and whispered some wish in his ear, after which the young knight fell his whole length at his feet. Then, without loitering, Kmita moved briskly toward the east. Suoa Gazi, captured by a considerable present, permitted him to take five hundred fresh Dobrudja Tartars; fifteen hundred other good men marched with him,--a force with which it was possible to begin something. And the young man's head was fired with a desire for battle and warlike achievements. The hope of glory smiled on him; he heard already how all Lithuania was repeating his name with pride and wonder. He heard especially how one beloved mouth repeated it, and his soul gave him wings. And there was another reason why he rode forward so briskly. Wherever he appeared he was the first to announce the glad tidings: "The Swede is defeated, and Warsaw is taken!" Wherever his horse's hoofs sounded, the whole neighborhood rang with these words; the people along the roads greeted him with weeping; they rang bells in the church-towers and sang _Te Deum Laudamus!_ When he rode through the forest the dark pines, when through the fields the golden grain, rocked by the wind, seemed to repeat and sound joyously,-- "The Swede is defeated! Warsaw is taken! Warsaw is taken!" CHAPTER XLI. Though Kettling was near the person of Prince Boguslav, he did not know all, and could not tell of all that was done in Taurogi, for he was blinded himself by love for Panna Billevich. Boguslav had also another confidant, Pan Sakovich, the starosta of Oshmiana; and he alone knew how deeply the prince was involved by love for his charming captive, and what means he was using to gain her heart and her person. That love was merely a fierce desire, for Boguslav's heart was not capable of other feelings; but the desire was so violent that that experienced cavalier lost his head. And often in the evening, when alone with the starosta, he seized his own hair and cried,-- "I am burning, Sakovich, I am burning!" Sakovich found means at once. "Whoso wishes to take honey must drug the bees," said he. "And has your physician few of such intoxicating herbs? Give him the word to-day, and to-morrow the affair will be over." But the prince did not like such a method, and that for various reasons. First, on a time, old Heraclius Billevich, the grandfather of Olenka, appeared to him in a dream, and standing at his pillow, looked with threatening eyes till the first crowing of the cocks. Boguslav remembered the dream; for that knight, without fear, was superstitious, dreaded charms, dream warnings, and supernatural apparitions so much that a shiver passed through him at thought of the terror and the shape in which that phantom might come a second time should he follow Sakovich's counsel. The starosta of Oshmiana himself, who did not believe greatly in God, but who, like the prince, dreaded dreams and enchantments, staggered somewhat in giving advice. The second reason of Boguslav's delay was that the "Wallachian woman" was living with her step-daughter in Taurogi. They called Princess Radzivill, the wife of Yanush, "the Wallachian woman." That lady, coming from a country in which her sex have rather free manners, was not, in truth, over-stern; nay, maybe she understood too well the amusements of courtiers and ladies-in-waiting; still she could not endure that at her side a man, the coming husband of her step-daughter, should do a deed calling to heaven for vengeance. But even later, when through the persuasions of Sakovich, and with the consent of the prince voevoda of Vilna, "the Wallachian woman" went with Yanush's daughter to Courland, Boguslav did not dare to do the deed. He feared the terrible outcry which would rise throughout all Lithuania. The Billeviches were wealthy people; they would not fail to crush him with a prosecution. The law punished such deeds with loss of property, honor, and life. The Radzivills, it is true, were powerful, and might trample on law; but when victory in war was inclining to the side of Yan Kazimir, the young prince might fall into serious difficulties, in which he would lack power, friends, and henchmen. And just then it was hard to foresee how the war would end. Forces were coming every day to Yan Kazimir; the power of Karl Gustav was decreasing absolutely by the loss of men and the exhaustion of money. Prince Boguslav, an impulsive but calculating man, reckoned with the position. His desires tormented him with fire, his reason advised restraint, superstitious fear bridled the outbursts of his blood. At the same time disease fell upon him; great and urgent questions rose, involving frequently the fate of the whole war; and all these causes rent the soul of the prince till he was mortally wearied. Still, it is unknown how the struggle might have ended had it not been for Boguslav's self-love. He was a man of immense self-esteem. He counted himself an unequalled statesman, a great leader, a great knight, and an invincible captor of the hearts of women. Was he to use force or intoxicating drugs,--he who carried around with him a bound casket filled with love-letters from various foreign ladies of celebrity? Were his wealth, his titles, his power almost royal, his great name, his beauty and courtliness not equal to the conquest of one timid noble woman? Besides, how much greater the triumph, how much greater the delight, when the resistance of the maiden drops, when she herself willingly, and with a heart beating like that of a seized bird, with burning face and eyes veiled with mist, falls into those arms which are stretched toward her! A quiver passed through Boguslav at thought of that moment, and he desired it as greatly as he did Olenka herself. He hoped always that that moment would come. He writhed, he was impatient, he deceived himself. At one time it seemed to him nearer, at another farther; and then he cried that he was burning. But he did not cease to work. To begin with, he surrounded the maiden with minute care, so that she must be thankful to him and think that he is kind; for he understood that the feeling of gratitude and friendship is that mild and warm flame which only needs to be fanned and it will turn into a great fire. Their frequent intercourse was to bring this about the more surely; hence Boguslav showed no insistence, not wishing to chill confidence or frighten it away. At the same time every look, every touch of the hand, every word was calculated; nothing passed in vain, everything was the drop wearing the stone. All that he did for Olenka might be interpreted as the hospitality of a host, that innocent friendly attraction which one person feels for another; but still it was done to create love. The boundary was purposely blurred and indefinite, so that to pass it would become easy in time; and thus the maiden might the more lightly wander into those labyrinths where each form might mean something or nothing. That play did not agree, it is true, with the native impulsiveness of Boguslav. Still he restrained himself, for he judged that that alone would lead to the object; and at the same time he found in it such satisfaction as the spider finds when weaving his web, the traitorous bird-catcher when spreading his net, or the hunter tracking patiently and with endurance the wild beast. His own penetration, subtlety, and quickness, developed by life at the French court, amused the prince. He entertained Panna Aleksandra as if she were a sovereign princess; but in such a way that again it was not easy for her to divine whether this was done exclusively for her, or whether it flowed from his innate and acquired politeness toward the fair sex in general. It is true that he made her the chief person in all the entertainments, plays, cavalcades, and hunting expeditious; but this came somewhat from the nature of things. After the departure of Yanush's princess to Courland, she was really first among the ladies at Taurogi. A multitude of noble ladies from all Jmud had taken refuge in Taurogi, as in a place lying near the boundary, so as to be protected by the Swedes under the guardianship of the prince; but they recognized Panna Billevich as first among all, since she was the daughter of the most noted family. And while the whole Commonwealth was swimming in blood, there was no end to entertainments. You would have said that the king's court with all the courtiers and ladies had gone to the country for leisure and entertainment. Boguslav ruled as an absolute monarch in Taurogi and in all adjoining Electoral Prussia, in which he was frequently a guest; therefore everything was at his orders. Towns furnished money and troops on his notes; the Prussian nobles came gladly, in carriages and on horseback, to his feasts, hunts, and tournaments. Boguslav even renewed, in honor of his lady, the conflicts of knights within barriers, which were already in disuse. On a certain occasion he took active part in them; dressed in silver armor, and girded with a silver sash which Panna Billevich had to bind on him, he hurled from their horses four of the first knights of Prussia, Kettling the fifth, and Sakovich the sixth, though the last had such gigantic strength that he stopped carriages in their course by seizing a hind wheel. And what enthusiasm rose in the crowd of spectators when afterward the silver-clad knight, kneeling before his lady, took from her hand the crown of victory! Shouts rang like the thunder of cannon, handkerchiefs were waving, flags were lowered; but he raised his visor and looked into her blushing face with his beautiful eyes, pressing at the same time her hand to his lips. Another time when in the enclosure a raging bear was fighting with dogs and had torn them all one after another, the prince, dressed only in light Spanish costume, sprang in with his spear, and pierced not only the savage beast, but also a soldier, who, seeing the moment of danger had sprung to his aid. Panna Aleksandra, the grand-daughter of an old soldier, reared in traditions of blood, war, and reverence for knightly superiority, could not restrain at sight of these deeds her wonder, and even homage; for she had been taught from childhood to esteem bravery as almost the highest quality of man. Meanwhile the prince gave daily proofs of daring almost beyond human, and always in honor of her. The assembled guests in their praises and enthusiasm for the prince, which were so great that even a deity might be satisfied with them, were forced involuntarily to connect in their conversations the name of Panna Billevich with the name of Boguslav. He was silent, but with his eyes he told her what he did not dare to utter with his lips. The spell surrounded her perfectly. Everything was so combined as to bring them together, to connect them, and at the same time to separate them from the throng of other people. It was difficult for any one to mention him without mentioning her. Into the thoughts of Olenka herself Boguslav was thrust with an irresistible force. Every moment of the day was so arranged as to lend power to the spell. In the evening, after amusements, the chambers were lighted by many colored lamps casting mysterious rays, as if from the land of splendid dreams transferred to reality; intoxicating eastern odors filled the air; the low sounds of invisible harps, lutes, and other instruments fondled the hearing; and in the midst of these odors, lights, sounds, he moved in the glory of universal homage, like an enchanted king's son in a myth-tale, beautiful, knightly, sun-bright from jewels, and as deeply in love as a shepherd. What maiden could resist these spells, what virtue would not grow faint amid such allurements? But to avoid the prince there was no possibility for one living with him under the same roof and enjoying his hospitality, which, though given perforce, was still dispensed with sincerity and in real lordly fashion. Besides, Olenka had gone without unwillingness to Taurogi, for she wished to be far from hideous Kyedani, as she preferred to Yanush, an open traitor, the knightly Boguslav, who feigned love for the deserted king and the country. Hence in the beginning of her visit at Taurogi she was full of friendly feeling for the young prince; and seeing soon how far he was striving for her friendship, she used her influence more than once to do good to people. During the third month of her stay a certain artillery officer, a friend of Kettling, was condemned by the prince to be shot; Panna Billevich, hearing of this from the young Scot, interceded for him. "A divinity may command, not implore," said Boguslav to her; and tearing the sentence of death he threw it at her feet. "Ordain, command! I will burn Taurogi, if at that price I can call forth on your face even a smile. I ask no other reward save this, that you be joyous and forget that which once pained you." She could not be joyous, having pain in her heart, pity and an unutterable contempt for the man whom she had loved with first love, and who at that time was in her eyes a worse criminal than a parricide. That Kmita, promising to sell the king for gold, as Judas sold Christ, became fouler and more repulsive in her eyes, till in the course of time he was turned into a human monster, a grief and reproach to her. She could not forgive herself for having loved him, and at the same time she could not forget him while she hated. In view of these feelings it was indeed difficult for her even to feign gladness; but still she had to be thankful to the prince even for this, that he would not put his hand to Kmita's crime, and for all that he had done for her. It was a wonder to her that the prince, such a knight and so full of noble feeling, did not hasten to the rescue of the country, since he had not consented to the intrigues of Yanush; but she judged that such a statesman knew what he was doing, and was forced by a policy which she, with her simple maiden's mind, could not sound. Boguslav told her also, explaining his frequent journeys to Prussian Tyltsa, which was near by, that his strength was failing him from overwork; that he was conducting negotiations between Yan Kazimir, Karl Gustav, and the elector, and that he hoped to bring the country out of difficulty. "Not for rewards, not for offices, do I do this," said he to her. "I will sacrifice my cousin Yanush, who was to me a father, for I know not whether I shall be able to implore his life for him from the animosity of Queen Ludvika; but I will do what my conscience and love for the dear mother, my country, demands." When he spoke thus with sadness on his delicate face, with eyes turned to the ceiling, he seemed to her as lofty as those heroes of antiquity of which Heraclius Billevich had told her, and of whom he himself had read in Cornelius Nepos. And the heart swelled within her with admiration and homage. By degrees it went so far that when thoughts of the hated Andrei Kmita had tortured her too much, she thought of Boguslav to cure and strengthen herself. Kmita became for her a terrible and gloomy darkness; Boguslav, light in which every troubled soul would gladly bathe itself. The sword-bearer and Panna Kulvyets, whom they had brought also from Vodokty, pushed Olenka still more along that incline by singing hymns of praise from morning till night in honor of Boguslav. The sword-bearer and the aunt wearied the prince, it is true, so that he had been thinking how to get rid of them politely; but he won them to himself, especially the sword-bearer, who though at first displeased and even enraged, still could not fight against the friendship and favors of Boguslav. If Boguslav had been merely a noble of noted stock, but not Radzivill, nor a prince, not a magnate invested with almost the majesty of a monarch, perhaps Panna Billevich might have loved him for life and death, in spite of the will of the old colonel, which left her a choice only between the cloister and Kmita. But she was a stern lady for her own self, and a very just soul; therefore she did not even admit to her head a dream of anything save gratitude and admiration so far as the prince was concerned. Her family was not so great that she could become the wife of Radzivill, and was too great for her to become his mistress; she looked on him, therefore, as she would on the king, were she at the king's court. In vain did Boguslav endeavor to give her other thoughts; in vain did he, forgetting himself in love, partly from calculation, partly from enthusiasm, repeat what he had said the first evening in Kyedani,--that the Radzivills had married ordinary noble women more than once; these thoughts did not cling to her, as water does not cling to the breast of a swan; and she remained as she had been, thankful, friendly, homage-giving, seeking consolation in the thought of a hero, but undisturbed in heart. He could not catch her through her feelings, though often it seemed to him that he was near his object. But he saw himself with shame and internal anger that he was not so daring with her as he had been with the first ladies in Paris, Brussels, and Amsterdam. Perhaps this was because he was really in love, and perhaps because in that lady, in her face, in her dark brows and stern eyes, there was that which enforced respect. Kmita was the one and only man who in his time did not submit to that influence and paid no regard, prepared boldly to kiss those proud eyes and stern lips; but Kmita was her betrothed. All other cavaliers, beginning with Pan Volodyovski and ending with the very vulgar Prussian nobles in Taurogi and the prince himself, were less confident with her than with other ladies in the same condition. Impulsiveness carried away the prince; but when once in a carriage he pressed against her feet, whispering at the same time, "Fear not!" she answered that she did fear to regret the confidence reposed in him, Boguslav was confused, and returned to his former method of conquering her heart by degrees. But his patience was becoming exhausted. Gradually he began to forget the terrible dream, he began to think more frequently of what Sakovich had counselled, and that the Billeviches would all perish in the war; his desires tormented him more powerfully, when a certain event changed completely the course of affairs in Taurogi. One day news came like a thunderbolt that Tykotsin was taken by Pan Sapyeha, and that Prince Yanush had lost his life in the ruins of the castle. Everything began to seethe in Taurogi. Boguslav himself sprang up and went off that same day to Königsberg, where he was to see the ministers of the King of Sweden and the elector. His stay there exceeded his original plan. Meanwhile bodies of Prussian and even of Swedish troops were assembling at Taurogi. Men began to speak of an expedition against Sapyeha. The naked truth was coming to the surface more and more clearly, that Boguslav was a partisan of the Swedes, as well as his cousin Yanush. It happened that at the same time the sword-bearer of Rossyeni received news of the burning of his native Billeviche by the troops of Löwenhaupt, who, after defeating the insurgents in Jmud, at Shavli, ravaged the whole country with fire and sword. The old noble sprang up and set out, wishing to see the damage with his own eyes; and Prince Boguslav did not detain him, but sent him off willingly, adding at parting,-- "Now you will understand why I brought you to Taurogi; for, speaking plainly, you owe your life to me." Olenka remained alone with Panna Kulvyets. They shut themselves up in their own chambers at once, and received no one but a few women. When these women brought tidings that the prince was preparing an expedition against the Poles, Olenka would not believe them at first: but wishing to be certain, she gave orders to summon Kettling, for she knew that from her the young Scot would hide nothing. He appeared before her at once, happy that he was called, that for a time he could speak with her who had taken possession of his soul. "Cavalier," said Panna Billevich, "so many reports are circulating about Taurogi that we are wandering as in a forest. Some say that the prince voevoda died a natural death; others that he was borne apart on sabres. What was the cause of his death?" Kettling hesitated for a while. It was evident that he was struggling with innate indecision. At last he blushed greatly, and said,-- "You are the cause of the fall and the death of Prince Yanush." "I?" asked Panna Billevich, with amazement. "You; for our prince chose to remain in Taurogi rather than go to relieve his cousin. He forgot everything near you, my lady." Now she blushed in her turn like a purple rose, and a moment of silence followed. The Scot stood, hat in hand, with downcast eyes, his head bent, in a posture full of homage and respect. At last he raised his head, shook his bright curls, and said,-- "My lady, if these words have offended you, let me kneel down and beg forgiveness." "Do not," said she, quickly, seeing that the young knight was bending his knees already. "I know that what you have said was said with a clean heart; for I have long noticed that you wish me well." The officer raised his blue eyes, and putting his hand on his heart, with a voice as low as the whisper of a breeze and as sad as a sigh, replied,-- "Oh, my lady! my lady!" At this moment he was frightened lest he had said too much, and again he bent his head toward his bosom, and took the posture of a courtier who is listening to the commands of a queen. "I am here among strangers, without a guardian," said Olenka; "and though I shall be able to watch over myself alone, and God will preserve me from harm, still I need the aid of men also. Do you wish to be my brother? Do you wish to warn me in need, so that I may know what to do, and avoid every snare?" As she said this, she extended her hand; but he kneeled, in spite of her prohibition, and kissed the tips of her fingers. "Tell me," said she, "what is happening around me." "The prince loves you," said Kettling. "Have you not seen that?" She covered her face with her hands. "I saw and I did not see. At times it seemed to me that he was only very kind." "Kind!" repeated Kettling, like an echo. "But when it came into my head that I, unfortunate woman, might rouse in him unhappy wishes, I quieted myself with this, that no danger threatened me from him. I was thankful to him for what he had done, though God sees that I did not look for new kindnesses, since I feared those he had already shown me." Kettling breathed more freely. "May I speak boldly?" asked he. "Speak." "The prince has only two confidants,--Pan Sakovich and Patterson; but Patterson is very friendly to me, for we come from the same country, and he carried me in his arms. What I know, I know from him. The prince loves you; desires are burning in him as pitch in a pine torch. All things done here--all these feasts, hunts, tournaments, through which, thanks to the princess hand, blood is flowing from my mouth yet--were arranged for you. The prince loves you, my lady, to distraction, but with an impure fire; for he wishes to disgrace, not to marry you. For though he could not find a worthier, even if he were king of the whole world, not merely a prince, still he thinks of another,--the princess, Yanush's daughter, and her fortune are predestined to him. I learned this from Patterson; and the great God, whose gospel I take here to witness, knows that I speak the pure truth. Do not believe the prince, do not trust his kindness, do not feel safe in his moderation. Watch, guard yourself; for they are plotting treason against you here at every step. The breath is stopping in my breast from what Patterson has told me. There is not a criminal in the world equal to Sakovich,--I cannot speak of him, I cannot. Were it not for the oath which I have taken to guard the prince, this hand and this sword would free you from continual danger. But I would slay Sakovich first. This is true. Him first, before all men,--even before those who in my own country shed my father's blood, took my fortune, made me a wanderer and a hireling." Here Kettling trembled from emotion. For a while he merely pressed the hilt of his sword with his hand, not being able to utter a word; then he recovered, and in one breath told what methods Sakovich had suggested to the prince. Panna Aleksandra, to his great surprise, bore herself calmly enough while looking at the threatening precipice before her; only her face grew pale and became still more serious. Unbending resolution was reflected in her stern look. "I shall be able to save myself," said she, "so help me God and the holy cross!" "The prince has not consented hitherto to follow Sakovich's counsel," added Kettling. "But when he sees that the road he has chosen leads to nothing--" and he began to tell the reasons which restrained Boguslav. The lady listened with frowning brow, but not with superfluous attention, for she had already begun to ponder on means to wrest herself free of this terrible guardianship. But there was not a place in the whole country unsprinkled with blood, and plans of flight did not seem to her clear; hence she preferred not to speak of them. "Cavalier," said she at last, "answer me one question. Is Prince Boguslav on the side of the King of Sweden or the King of Poland?" "It is a secret to none of us," answered the young officer, "that the prince wishes the division of this Commonwealth, so as to make of Lithuania an independent principality for himself." Here Kettling was silent, and you would have thought that his mind was following involuntarily the thoughts of Olenka; for after a while he added,-- "The elector and the Swedes are at the service of the prince; and since they will occupy the Commonwealth, there is no place in which to hide from him." Olenka made no answer. The young man waited awhile longer, to learn if she would ask him other questions; but when she was silent, occupied with her own thoughts, he felt that it was not proper for him to interrupt her; therefore he bent double in a parting bow, sweeping the floor with the feathers in his cap. "I thank you, cavalier," said Olenka, extending her hand to him. The officer, without turning, withdrew toward the door. All at once there appeared on her face a slight flush. She hesitated a moment, and then said,-- "One word, cavalier." "Every word is for me a favor." "Did you know Pan Andrei Kmita?" "I made his acquaintance, my lady, in Kyedani. I saw him the last time in Pilvishki, when we were marching hither from Podlyasye." "Is what the prince says true, that Pan Kmita offered to do violence to the person of the King of Poland?" "I know not, my lady. It is known to me that they took counsel together in Pilvishki; then the prince went with Pan Kmita to the forest, and it was so long before he returned that Patterson was alarmed and sent troops to meet him. I led those troops. We met the prince. I saw that he was greatly changed, as if strong emotion had passed through his soul. He was talking to himself, which never happens to him. I heard how he said: 'The devil would have undertaken that--' I know nothing more. But later, when the prince mentioned what Kmita offered, I thought, 'If this was it, it must be true.'" Panna Billevich pressed her lips together. "I thank you," said she. And after a while she was alone. The thought of flight mastered her thoroughly. She determined at any price to tear herself from those infamous places, and from the power of that treacherous prince. But where was she to find refuge? The villages and towns were in Swedish hands, the cloisters were ruined, the castles levelled with the earth; the whole country was swarming with soldiers, and with worse than soldiers,--with fugitives from the army, robbers, all kinds of ruffians. What fate could be waiting for a maiden cast as a prey to that storm? Who would go with her? Her aunt Kulvyets, her uncle, and a few of his servants. Whose power would protect her? Kettling would go, perhaps; maybe a handful of faithful soldiers and friends might even be found who would accompany him. But as Kettling had fallen in love with her beyond question, then how was she to incur a debt of gratitude to him, which she would have to pay afterward with a great price? Finally, what right had she to close the career of that young man, scarcely more than a youth, and expose it to pursuit, to persecution, to ruin, if she could not offer him anything in return save friendship? Therefore, she asked herself, what was she to do, whither was she to flee, since here and there destruction threatened her, here and there disgrace? In such a struggle of soul she began to pray ardently; and more especially did she repeat one prayer with earnestness to which the old colonel had constant recourse in evil times, beginning with the words,-- "God saved Thee with Thy Infant From the malice of Herod; In Egypt he straightened the road For Thy safe passage--" At this moment a great whirlwind rose, and the trees in the garden began to make a tremendous noise. All at once the praying lady remembered the wilderness on the borders of which she had grown up from infancy; and the thought that in the wilderness she would find the only safe refuge flew through her head like lightning. Then Olenka breathed deeply, for she had found at last what she had been seeking. To Zyelonka, to Rogovsk! There the enemy would not go, the ruffian would not seek booty. There a man of the place, if he forgot himself, might go astray and wander till death; what must it be to a stranger not knowing the road? There the Domasheviches, the Smoky Stakyans; and if they are gone, if they have followed Pan Volodyovski, it is possible to go by those forests far beyond and seek quiet in other wildernesses. The remembrance of Pan Volodyovski rejoiced Olenka. Oh, if she had such a protector! He was a genuine soldier; his was a sabre under which she might take refuge from Kmita and the Radzivills themselves. Now it occurred to her that he was the man who had advised, when he caught Kmita in Billeviche, to seek safety in the Byalovyej wilderness. And he spoke wisely! Rogovsk and Zyelonka are too near the Radzivills, and near Byalovyej stands that Sapyeha who rubbed from the face of the earth the most terrible Radzivill. To Byalovyej then, to Byalovyej, even to-day, to-morrow! Only let her uncle come, she would not delay. The dark depths of Byalovyej will protect her, and afterward, when the storm passes, the cloister. There only can be real peace and forgetfulness of all men, of all pain, sorrow, and contempt. CHAPTER XLII. The sword-bearer of Rossyeni returned a few days later. In spite of the safe-conduct of Boguslav, he went only to Rossyeni; to Billeviche itself he had no reason to go, for it was no longer in the world. The house, the buildings, the village, everything was burned to the ground in the last battle, which Father Strashevich, a Jesuit, had fought at the head of his own detachment against the Swedish captain Rossa. The inhabitants were in the forests or in armed parties. Instead of rich villages there remained only land and water. The roads were filled with "ravagers,"--that is, fugitives from various armies, who, going in considerable groups, were busied with robbery, so that even small parties of soldiers were not safe from them. The sword-bearer then had not even been able to convince himself whether the barrels filled with plate and money and buried in the garden were safe, and he returned to Taurogi, very angry and peevish, with a terrible animosity in his heart against the destroyers. He had barely put foot out of his carriage, when Olenka hurried him to her own room, and recounted all that Hassling-Kettling had told her. The old soldier shivered at the recital, since, not having children of his own, he loved the maiden as his daughter. For a while he did nothing but grasp his sword-hilt, repeating, "Strike, who has courage!" At last he caught himself by the head, and began to say,-- "_Mea culpa, mea maxima culpa_ (It is my fault, my greatest fault); for at times it came into my head, and this and that man whispered that that hell-dweller was melting from love of you, and I said nothing, was even proud, thinking: 'Well, he will marry! We are relatives of the Gosyevskis, of the Tyzenhauzes; why should we not be relatives of the Radzivills?' For pride, God is punishing me. The traitor prepared a respectable relationship. That's the kind of relative he wanted to be. I would he were killed! But wait! this hand and this sabre will moulder first." "We must think of escape," said Olenka. "Well, give your plans of escape." The sword-bearer, having finished panting, listened carefully; at last he said,-- "Better collect my subjects and form a party! I will attack the Swedes as Kmita did Hovanski. You will be safer in the forest and in the field than in the court of a traitor and a heretic." "That is well," answered the lady. "Not only will I not oppose," said the sword-bearer, "but I will say the sooner the better. And I lack neither subjects nor scythes. They burned my residence, never mind that! I will assemble peasants from other villages. All the Billeviches in the field will join us. We will show you relationship, young man,--we will show what it is to attack the Billevich honor. You are a Radzivill! What of that? There are no hetmans in the Billevich family, but there are also no traitors! We shall see whom all Jmud will follow! We will put you in Byalovyej and return ourselves," said he, turning to Olenka. "It cannot be otherwise! He must give satisfaction for that affair, for it is an injustice to the whole estate of nobles. Infamous is he who does not declare for us! God will help us, our brethren will help us, citizens will help us, and then fire and sword! The Billeviches will meet the Radzivills! Infamous he who is not with us! infamous he who will not flash his sword in the eyes of the traitor! The king is with us; so is the Diet, so is the whole Commonwealth." Here the sword-bearer, red as blood and with bristling forelock, fell to pounding the table with his fist. "This war is more urgent than the Swedish, for in us the whole order of knighthood, all laws, the whole Commonwealth is injured and shaken in its deepest foundations. Infamous is he who does not understand this! The land will perish unless we measure out vengeance and punishment on the traitor!" And the old blood played more and more violently, till Olenka was forced to pacify her uncle. He sat calmly, then, though he thought that not only the country, but the whole world was perishing when the Billeviches were touched; in this he saw the most terrible precipice for the Commonwealth, and began to roar like a lion. But the lady, who had great influence over him, was able at last to pacify her uncle, explaining that for their safety and for the success of their flight it was specially needful to preserve the profoundest secrecy, and not to show the prince that they were thinking of anything. He promised sacredly to act according to her directions; then they took counsel about the flight itself. The affair was not over-difficult, for it seemed that they were not watched at all. The sword-bearer decided to send in advance a youth, with letters to his overseers to assemble peasants at once from all the villages belonging to him and the other Billeviches, and to arm them. Six confidential servants were to go to Billeviche, as it were, for the barrels of money and silver, but really to halt in the Girlakol forests, and wait there with horses, bags, and provisions. They decided to depart from Taurogi in sleighs and accompanied by two servants, as if going merely to the neighboring Gavna; afterward they would mount horses and hurry on with all speed. To Gavna they used to go often to visit the Kuchuk-Olbrotovskis, where sometimes they passed the night; they hoped therefore that their journey would not attract the attention of any one, and that no pursuit would follow, unless two or three days later, at which time they would be in the midst of armed bands and in the depth of impenetrable forests. The absence of Prince Boguslav strengthened them in this hope. Meanwhile the sword-bearer was greatly busied with preparations. A messenger with letters went out on the following morning. The day after that, Pan Tomash talked in detail with Patterson of his buried money, which, as he said, exceeded a hundred thousand, and of the need of bringing it to safe Taurogi. Patterson believed easily; for Billevich was a noble and passed as a very rich man, which he was in reality. "Let them bring it as soon as possible," said the Scot; "if you need them, I will give you soldiers." "The fewer people who see what I am bringing the better. My servants are faithful, and I will order them to cover the barrels with hemp, which is brought often from our villages to Prussia, or with staves which no one will covet." "Better with staves," said Patterson; "for people could feel with a sabre or a spear through the hemp that there was something else in the wagon. But you would better give the coin to the prince on his recognition. I know, too, that he needs money, for his revenues do not come regularly." "I should like so to serve the prince that he would never need anything," answered the old man. The conversation ended there, and all seemed to combine most favorably, for the servants started at once, while the sword-bearer and Olenka were to go next morning. But in the evening Boguslav returned most unexpectedly at the head of two regiments of Prussian cavalry. His affairs seemed to advance not too favorably, for he was angry and fretful. That evening he summoned a council of war, which was composed of the representatives of the elector. Count Seydevitz, Patterson, Sakovich, and Kyritz, a colonel of cavalry. They sat till three in the morning; and the object of their deliberation was the campaign to Podlyasye against Sapyeha. "The elector and the King of Sweden have reinforced me in proportion to their strength," said the prince. "One of two things will happen,--either I shall find Sapyeha in Podlyasye, and in that event I must rub him out; or I shall not find him, and I shall occupy Podlyasye without resistance. For all this, however, money is needed; and money neither the elector nor the King of Sweden has given me, for they haven't it themselves." "Where is money to be found if not with your highness?" asked Seydevitz. "Through the whole world men speak of the inexhaustible wealth of the Radzivills." "Pan Seydevitz," answered Boguslav, "if I received all the income from my inherited estates, I should surely have more money than five of your German princes taken together. But there is war in the country; revenues do not come in, or are intercepted by rebels. Ready money might be obtained for notes from the Prussian towns; but you know best what is happening in them, and that purses are opened only for Yan Kazimir." "But Königsberg?" "I took what I could get, but that was little." "I think myself fortunate to be able to serve you with good counsel," said Patterson. "I would rather you served me with ready money." "My counsel means ready money. Not longer ago than yesterday Pan Billevich told me that he had a good sum hidden in the garden of Billeviche, and that he wishes to bring it here for safety, and give it to your highness for a note." "Well, you have really fallen from heaven to me, and this noble as well!" cried Boguslav. "But has he much money?" "More than a hundred thousand, besides silver and valuables, which are worth perhaps an equal amount." "The silver and valuables he will not wish to turn into money, but they can be pawned. I am thankful to you, Patterson, for this comes to me in time. I must talk to Billevich in the morning." "Then I will forewarn him, for he is preparing to go to-morrow with the lady to Gavna to the Kuchuk-Olbrotovskis." "Tell him not to go till he sees me." "He has sent the servants already; I am only alarmed for their safety." "A whole regiment can be sent after them; but we will talk later. This is timely for me, timely! And it will be amusing if I rend Podlyasye from the Commonwealth with the money of this royalist and patriot." Then the prince dismissed the council, for he had to put himself yet in the hands of his chamber attendants, whose task it was every night before he went to rest to preserve his uncommon beauty with baths, ointments, and various inventions known only in foreign lands. This lasted usually an hour, and sometimes two; besides, the prince was road-weary and the hour late. Early in the morning Patterson detained Billevich and Olenka with the announcement that the prince wished to see them. It was necessary to defer their journey; but this did not disturb them over-much, for Patterson told what the question was. An hour later the prince appeared. In spite of the fact that Pan Tomash and Olenka had promised each other most faithfully to receive him in former fashion, they could not do so, though they tried with every effort. Olenka's countenance changed, and blood came to the face of the sword-bearer at sight of Prince Boguslav; for a time both stood confused, excited, striving in vain to regain their usual calmness. The prince, on the contrary, was perfectly at ease. He had grown a little meagre about the eyes, and his face was less colored than common; but that paleness of his was set off wonderfully by the pearl-colored morning dress, interwoven with silver. He saw in a moment that they received him somewhat differently, and were less glad than usual to see him. But he thought at once that those two royalists had learned of his relations with the Swedes; hence the coolness of the reception. Therefore he began at once to throw sand in their eyes, and, after the compliments of greeting, said,-- "Lord Sword-bearer, my benefactor, you have heard, without doubt, what misfortunes have met me." "Does your highness wish to speak of the death of Prince Yanush?" asked the sword-bearer. "Not of his death alone. That was a cruel blow; still, I yielded to the will of God, Who, as I hope, has rewarded my cousin for all the wrongs done him; but He has sent a new burden to me, for I must be leader in a civil war; and that for every citizen who loves his country is a bitter portion." The sword-bearer said nothing; he merely looked a little askance at Olenka. But the prince continued,-- "By my labor and toil, and God alone knows at what outlay, I had brought peace to the verge of realization. It was almost a question of merely signing the treaties. The Swedes were to leave Poland, asking no remuneration save the consent of the king and the estates that after the death of Yan Kazimir Karl Gustav would be chosen to the throne of Poland. A warrior so great and mighty would be the salvation of the Commonwealth. And what is more important, he was to furnish at once reinforcements for the war in the Ukraine and against Moscow. We should have extended our boundaries; but this was not convenient for Pan Sapyeha, for then he could not crush the Radzivills. All agreed to this treaty. He alone opposes it with armed hand. The country is nothing to him, if he can only carry out his personal designs. It has come to this, that arms must be used against him. This function has been confided to me, according to the secret treaty between Yan Kazimir and Karl Gustav. This is the whole affair! I have never shunned any service, therefore I must accept this; though many will judge me unjustly, and think that I begin a brother-killing war from pure revenge only." "Whoso knows your highness," said the sword-bearer, "as well as we do will not be deceived by appearances, and will always be able to understand the real intentions of your highness." Here the sword-bearer was so delighted with his own cunning and courtesy, and he muttered so expressively at Olenka, that she was alarmed lest the prince should notice those signs. And he did notice them. "They do not believe me," thought he. And though he showed no wrath on his face, Billevich had pricked him to the soul. He was convinced with perfect sincerity that it was an offence not to believe, a Radzivill, even when he saw fit to lie. "Patterson has told me," continued he, after a while, "that you wish to give me ready money for my paper. I agree to this willingly; for I acknowledge that ready money is useful to me at the moment. When peace comes, you can do as you like,--either take a certain sum, or I will give you a couple of villages as security, so that the transaction will be profitable for you.--Pardon," said the prince, turning to Olenka, "that in view of such material questions we are not speaking of sighs or ideals. This conversation is out of place; but the times are such that it is impossible to give their proper course to homage and admiration." Olenka dropped her eyes, and seizing her robe with the tips of her fingers, made a proper courtesy, not wishing to give an answer. Meanwhile the sword-bearer formed in his mind a project of unheard-of unfitness, but which he considered uncommonly clever. "I will flee with Olenka and will not give the money," thought he. "It will be agreeable to me to accommodate your highness. Patterson has not told of all, for there is about half a pot of gold ducats buried apart, so as not to lose all the money in case of accident. Besides, there are barrels belonging to other Billeviches; but these during my absence were buried under the direction of this young lady, and she alone is able to calculate the place, for the man who buried them is dead." Boguslav looked at him quickly. "How is that? Patterson said that you have already sent men; and since they have gone, they must know where the money is." "But of the other money no one knows, except her." "Still it must be buried in some definite place, which can be described easily in words or indicated on paper." "Words are wind; and as to pictures, the servants know nothing of them. We will both go; that is the thing." "For God's sake! you must know your own gardens. Therefore go alone. Why should Panna Aleksandra go?" "I will not go alone!" said Billevich, with decision. Boguslav looked at him inquiringly a second time; then he seated himself more comfortably, and began to strike his boots with a cane which he held in his hand. "Is that final?" asked he. "Well! In such an event I will give a couple of regiments of cavalry to take you there and bring you back." "We need no regiments. We will go and return ourselves. This is our country. Nothing threatens us here." "As a host, sensitive to the good of his guests, I cannot permit that Panna Aleksandra should go without armed force. Choose, then. Either go alone, or let both go with an escort." Billevich saw that he had fallen into his own trap; and that brought him to such anger that, forgetting all precautions, he cried,-- "Then let your highness choose. Either we shall both go unattended, or I will not give the money!" Panna Aleksandra looked on him imploringly; but he had already grown red and begun to pant. Still, he was a man cautious by nature, even timid, loving to settle every affair in good feeling; but when once the measure was exceeded in dealing with him, when he was too much excited against any one, or when it was a question of the Billevich honor, he hurled himself with a species of desperate daring at the eyes of even the most powerful enemy. So that now he put his hand to his left side, and shaking his sabre began to cry with all his might,-- "Is this captivity? Do they wish to oppress a free citizen, and trample on cardinal rights?" Boguslav, with shoulders leaning against the arms of the chair, looked at him attentively; but his look became colder each moment, and he struck the cane against his boots more and more quickly. Had the sword-bearer known the prince better, he would have known that he was bringing down terrible danger on his own head. Relations with Boguslav were simply dreadful. It was never known when the courteous cavalier, the diplomat accustomed to self-control, would be overborne by the wild and unrestrained magnate who trampled every resistance with the cruelty of an Eastern despot. A brilliant education and refinement, acquired at the first courts of Europe; reflection and studied elegance, which he had gained in intercourse with men,--were like wonderful and strong flowers under which was secreted a tiger. But the sword-bearer did not know this, and in his angry blindness shouted on,-- "Your highness, dissemble no further, for you are known! And have a care, for neither the King of Sweden nor the elector, both of whom you are serving against your own country, nor your princely position, will save you before the law; and the sabres of nobles will teach you manners, young man!" Boguslav rose; in one instant he crushed the cane in his iron hands, and throwing the pieces at the feet of the sword-bearer, said with a terrible, suppressed voice,-- "That is what your rights are for me! That your tribunals! That your privileges!" "Outrageous violence!" cried Billevich. "Silence, paltry noble!" cried the prince. "I will crush you into dust!" And he advanced to seize the astonished man and hurl him against the wall. Now Panna Aleksandra stood between them. "What do you think to do?" inquired she. The prince restrained himself. But she stood with nostrils distended, with flaming face, with fire in her eyes like an angry Minerva. Her breast heaved under her bodice like a wave of the sea, and she was marvellous in that anger, so that Boguslav was lost in gazing at her; all his desires crept into his face, like serpents from the dens of his soul. After a time his anger passed, presence of mind returned; he looked awhile yet at Olenka. At last his face grew mild; he bent his head toward his breast, and said,-- "Pardon, angelic lady! I have a soul full of gnawing and pain, therefore I do not command myself." Then he left the room. Olenka began to wring her hands; and Billevich, coming to himself, seized his forelock, and cried,-- "I have spoiled everything; I am the cause of your ruin!" The prince did not show himself the whole day. He even dined in his own room with Sakovich. Stirred to the bottom of his soul, he could not think so clearly as usual. Some kind of ague was wasting him. It was the herald of a grievous fever which was to seize him soon with such force that during its attacks he was benumbed altogether, so that his attendants had to rub him most actively. But at this time he ascribed his strange state to the power of love, and thought that he must either satisfy it or die. When he had told Sakovich the whole conversation with the sword-bearer, he said,-- "My hands and feet are burning, ants are walking along my back, in my mouth are bitterness and fire; but, by all the horned devils, what is this? Never has this attacked me before!" "Your highness is as full of scruples as a baked capon of buckwheat grits. The prince is a capon, the prince is a capon. Ha, ha!" "You are a fool!" "Very well." "I don't need your ideas." "Worthy prince, take a lute and go under the windows of the maiden. Billevich may show you his fist. Tfu! to the deuce! is that the kind of bold man that Boguslav Radzivill is?" "You are an idiot!" "Very well. I see that your highness is beginning to speak with yourself and tell the truth to your own face. Boldly, boldly! Pay no heed to rank." "You see, Sakovich, that my Castor is growing familiar with me; as it is, I kick him often in the ribs, but a greater accident may meet you." Sakovich sprang up as if red with anger, like Billevich a little while before; and since he had an uncommon gift of mimicry, he began to cry in a voice so much like that of Billevich that any one not seeing who was talking, might have been deceived. "What! is this captivity? Do they wish to oppress a free citizen, to trample on cardinal rights?" "Give us peace! give us peace!" said the prince, fretfully. "She defended that old fool with her person, but here there is one to defend you." "If she defended him, she should have been taken in pawn!" "There must be some witchcraft in this place! Either she must have given me something, or the constellations are such that I am simply leaving my mind. If you could have seen her when she was defending that mangy old uncle of hers! But you are a fool! It is growing cloudy in my head. See how my hands are burning! To love such a woman, to gain her--with such a woman to--" "To have posterity!" added Sakovich. "That's so, that's so!--as if you knew that must be; otherwise I shall burst as a bomb. For God's sake! what is happening to me? Must I marry, or what, by all the devils of earth and hell?" Sakovich grew serious. "Your princely highness, you must not think of that!" "I am thinking of just that, precisely because I wish it. I will do that, though a regiment of Sakoviches repeated a whole day to me, 'Your princely highness must not think of that!'" "Oh, I see this is no joke." "I am sick, enchanted." "Why do you not follow my advice at last?" "I must follow it,--may the plague take all the dreams, all the Billeviches, all Lithuania with the tribunals, and Yan Kazimir to boot! I shall not succeed otherwise; I see that I shall not! I have had enough of this, have I not? A great question! And I, the fool, was considering both sides hitherto; was afraid of dreams, of Billeviches, of lawsuits, of the rabble of nobles, the fortune of Yan Kazimir. Tell me that I am a fool! Do you hear? I command you to tell me that I am a fool!" "But I will not obey, for now you are really Radzivill, and not a Calvinist minister. But in truth you must be ill, for I have never seen you so changed." "True! In the most difficult positions I merely waved my hand and whistled, but now I feel as if some one were thrusting spurs into my sides." "This is strange, for if that maiden has given you something designedly, she has not done so to run away afterward; but still, from what you say, it seems that they wish to flee in secret." "Ryff told me that this is the influence of Saturn, on which burning exhalations rise during this particular month." "Worthy prince, rather take Jove as a model, for he was happy without marriage. All will be well; only do not think of marriage, unless of a counterfeit one." All at once the starosta of Oshmiana struck his forehead. "But wait, your highness! I have heard of such a case in Prussia." "Is the Devil whispering something into your ear? Tell me!" But Sakovich was silent for a long time; at last his face brightened, and he said,-- "Thank the fortune that gave you Sakovich as friend." "What news, what news?" "Nothing. I will be your highness's best man" (here Sakovich bowed),--"no small honor for such a poor fellow!" "Don't play the jester; speak quickly!" "There is in Tyltsa one Plaska, or something like that, who in his time was a priest in Nyevorani, but who falling away from the faith became a Lutheran, got married, took refuge under the elector, and now is dealing in dried fish with people of this region. Bishop Parchevski tried to lure him back to Jmud, where in good certainty there was a fire waiting for him; but the elector would not yield up a fellow-believer." "How does that concern me? Do not loiter." "How does that concern your highness? In this way it must concern you; for he will sew you and her together with stitches on the outside, you understand? And because he is a fool of a workman, and does not belong to the guild, it will be easy to rip the work after him. Do you see? The guild does not recognize this sewing as valid; but still there will be no violence, no outcry; you can twist the neck of the workman afterward, and you will complain that you were deceived, do you understand? But before that time _crescite et multiplicamini_. I'll be the first to give you my blessing." "I understand, and I don't understand," said the prince. "The devil I understand there perfectly. Sakovich, you must have been born, like a witch, with teeth in your mouth. The hangman is waiting for you; it cannot be otherwise, O Starosta! But while I live a hair will not fall from your head; a fitting reward will not miss you. I then--" "Your highness will make a formal proposal to Panna Billevich, to her and to her uncle. If they refuse, if they do not consent, then give command to tear the skin from me, make sandal strings out of it, and go on a pilgrimage of penance to--to Rome. It is possible to resist a Radzivill if he wishes simply to be a lover; but if he wishes to marry, he need not try to please any noble. You must only tell Billevich and the lady that out of regard for the elector and the King of Sweden, who want you to marry the Princess of Bipont, your marriage must remain secret till peace is declared. Besides, you will write the marriage contract as you like. Both churches will be forced to declare it invalid. Well, what do you think?" Boguslav was silent for a while, but on his face red fever-spots appeared under the paint; then he cried,-- "There is no time in three days. I must move against Sapyeha." "That is just the position! Were there more time, it would be impossible to justify the pretext. Is not this true? Only through lack of time can you explain that the first priest at hand officiates, as happens in sudden emergencies, and marries on a bolting-cloth. They will think too, 'It is sudden, for it must be sudden!' She is a knightly maiden; you can take her with you to the field. Dear bridegroom, if Sapyeha conquers, even then you will have half the victories of the campaign." "That is well, that is well!" said the prince. But at that moment the first paroxysm seized him so that his jaws closed and he could not say another word. He grew rigid, and then began to quiver and flounder like a fish out of water. But before the terrified Sakovich could bring the physician, the paroxysm had passed. CHAPTER XLIII. After his conversation with Sakovich, Prince Boguslav betook himself on the afternoon of the morrow directly to Billevich. "My benefactor," said he, to begin with, "I was grievously to blame the last time we met, for I fell into anger in my own house. It is my fault, and all the more so that I gave this affront to a man of a family friendly to the Radzivills. But I come to implore forgiveness. Let a sincere confession be satisfaction to you, and my atonement. You know the Radzivills of old; you know that we are not in haste to beg pardon; still, since I was to blame before age and dignity, I come without considering who I am, with a penitent head. And you, old friend of our house, will not refuse me your hand, I am certain." Then he extended his hand; and Billevich, in whose soul the first outburst had passed, did not dare to refuse his own, though he gave it with hesitation. "Your highness, return to us our freedom; that will be the best satisfaction." "You are free, and may go, even to-day." "I thank your highness," said the astonished Billevich. "I interpose only one condition, which you, God grant, will not reject." "What is that?" asked Billevich, with fear. "That you listen patiently to what I am going to say." "If that is all, I will listen even till evening." "Do not give me your answer at once, but think an hour or two." "God sees that if I receive my freedom I wish peace." "You will receive your freedom; but I do not know whether you will use it, or whether you will be urgent to leave my threshold. I should be glad were you to consider my house and all Taurogi as your own; but listen to me now. Do you know, my benefactor, why I was opposed to the departure of Panna Billevich? This is why,--because I divined that you wished to flee simply; and I have fallen in love with your niece, so that to see her I should be ready to swim a Hellespont each day, like Leander." Billevich grew red again in a moment. "Does your highness dare to say that to me?" "To you especially, my benefactor." "Worthy prince, seek your fortune with court ladies, but touch not noble maidens. You may imprison her, you may confine her in a vault, but you may not disgrace her." "I may not disgrace her," said the prince; "but I may bow down to the old man Billevich, and say to him, 'Listen, father, give me your niece as wife, for I cannot live without her.'" The sword-bearer was so amazed that he could not utter a word; for a time he merely moved his mustaches, and his eyes were staring; then he began to rub his hands and look, now on the prince, now around the room; at last he said,-- "Is this in a dream, or is it real?" "Do not hasten! To convince you still better, I will repeat with all the titles: I, Boguslav, Prince Radzivill, Marshal of the Grand Principality of Lithuania, ask you, Tomash Billevich, sword-bearer of Rossyeni, for the hand of your niece, Panna Aleksandra, chief-hunter's daughter." "Is this true? In God's name! have you considered the matter?" "I have considered; now do you consider, my benefactor, whether the cavalier is worthy of the lady." "My breath is stopped from wonder." "Now see if I had any evil intentions." "And would your highness not consider our small station?" "Are the Billeviches so cheap? Do you value your shield of nobility and the antiquity of your family thus? Does a Billevich say this?" "I know, gracious prince, that the origin of our family is to be sought in ancient Rome; but--" "But," interrupted the prince, "you have neither hetmans nor chancellors. That is nothing! You are soldiers, like my uncle in Brandenburg. Since a noble in our Commonwealth may be elected king, there are no thresholds too lofty for his feet. My sword-bearer and, God grant, my uncle, I was born of a Brandenburg princess; my father's mother was an Ostrogski; but my grandfather of mighty memory, Kryshtof I., he whom they called Thunder, grand hetman, chancellor, and voevoda of Vilna, was married the first time to Panna Sobek; but for this reason the coronet did not fall from his head, for Panna Sobek was a noble woman, as honorably born as others. When my late father married the daughter of the elector, they wondered why he did not remember his own dignity, though he allied himself with a reigning house. Such is the devilish pride of you nobles! But acknowledge, my benefactor, you do not think a Sobek better than a Billevich, do you?" Speaking thus, the prince began to tap the old man on the shoulder with great familiarity. The noble melted like wax, and answered,-- "God reward your highness for honorable intentions! A weight has fallen from my heart! But now, if it were not for difference of faith!" "A Catholic priest will perform the ceremony. I do not want another myself." "I shall be thankful for this all my life, since here it is a question of the blessing of God, which certainly the Lord Jesus would withdraw if some vile--" Here the old man bit his tongue, for he saw that he was saying something disagreeable to the prince. But Boguslav did not notice it; he smiled graciously and said,-- "And as to posterity, I shall not be stubborn; for there is nothing that I would not do for that beauty of yours." Billevich's face grew bright as if a ray of the sun had fallen on it; "Indeed, God has not been sparing of beauty to her, it is true. Oh! there will be a shout all over Jmud. And what will the Sitsinskis say when the Billeviches increase so? They would not leave the old colonel at rest, though he was a man of Roman mould, respected by the whole Commonwealth." "We will drive them out of Jmud, worthy Sword-bearer," "O great God, merciful God! undiscoverable are Thy judgments; but if in them it lies that the Sitsinskis are to burst from envy, then let Thy will be done!" "Amen!" added Boguslav. "Your highness, do not take it ill that I do not clothe myself in dignity, as befits a person of whom a man asks a maiden, and that I show too evident rejoicing. But we have been here in vexation, not knowing what was awaiting us and interpreting everything for the worst. It came to this that we thought evil of your highness, until it turns out that our fears and judgments were not just, and that we may return to our previous homage. I say this as if some one had taken a burden from my shoulders." "And did Panna Aleksandra judge me thus?" "She? Even Cicero could not have described properly her previous admiration for your highness. I think that only virtue and a certain inborn timidity stood in the way of love. But when she hears of the sincere intentions of your highness, then I am sure she will at once give the reins to her heart." "Cicero could not have said that better!" said Boguslav. "With happiness comes eloquence. But since your highness has been pleased to listen to everything I have said, then I will be sincere to the last." "Be sincere, Pan Billevich." "Though this maiden is young, she is a woman with a man's cast of mind altogether; it is wonderful what a character she has. Where more than one man of experience would hesitate, she hesitates not a moment. What is evil she puts on the left, what is good on the right, and goes herself to the right as if it were sweet. When she has once chosen the road, even though there were cannon before her, that is nothing to her! She would not go aside for the cannon. She is like her grandfather and me. Her father was a born soldier, but mild; her mother, from the house of Voynillovich, was also strong-willed." "I am glad to hear this, Pan Billevich." "Your highness will not believe how incensed she is against the Swedes, and all enemies of the Commonwealth. If she held any one guilty of treason, she would feel an utter detestation of him, though he were an angel and not a human being. Your highness,--forgive an old man who might be your father in years, if not in dignity,--leave the Swedes; they are worse for the country than Tartars! Move your troops against such sons, and not only I, but she, will follow you to the field. Pardon me, your highness, pardon me. Now I have said what I had on my mind." Boguslav mastered himself after a moment's silence, and said: "My benefactor, you might have supposed yesterday, but you may not suppose to-day that I wish merely to throw sand in your eyes, when I say that I am on the side of the king and the country. Here under oath to you as a relative I repeat that what I stated touching peace and its conditions was the pure truth. I, too, should prefer to march to the field, for my nature draws me thither; but because I saw that salvation was not in the field, I was forced through simple devotion to seize another method. And I can say that I have accomplished an unheard of thing; for after a last war to conclude a peace of such kind that the conquering power serves the conquered,--of this Mazarin, the most cunning of men, need not be ashamed. Not Panna Aleksandra alone, but I equally with her, bear hatred to the enemy. But what is to be done? How save this country? Not even Hercules against many can conquer. Therefore I thought thus, 'Instead of destroying, which would be easier and more amusing, it is needful to save.' And since I had practised in affairs of this kind with great statesmen, since I am a relative of the elector, and since, by reason of my cousin Yanush, I am well considered by the Swedes, I began negotiations; and what their course was and what the benefit to the Commonwealth was, that you know,--an end of the war, freedom from oppression for your Catholic faith, for churches, for clergy, for the estate of nobles, and for the common people; the assistance of the Swedes in the war against Moscow and the Cossacks; and, God grant, an extension of boundary. And this all on one condition,--that Karl Gustav be king after Yan Kazimir. Whoso has done more for his country in these times, let him stand before my eyes." "True, a blind man could see that; but it will be very sad for the nobles that a free election will cease." "And which is more important,--an election or the country?" "They are the same, your highness; for an election is the main basis of the Commonwealth. And what is the country, if not a collection of laws, privileges, and liberties serving the nobles? A king can be found even in a foreign land." Anger and disgust flew like lightning over Boguslav's face. "Karl Gustav," said he, "will sign the _pacta conventa_, as his predecessors have signed it; and after his death we will elect whom we choose, even that Radzivill who will be born of your niece." The sword-bearer stood for a while as if dazzled by the thought; at last he raised his hand and cried with great enthusiasm,-- "_Consentior_ (I agree)!" "I think, too, that you would agree, even if the throne should become hereditary in our family. Such are you all! But that is a later question. Now it is necessary that the stipulations come to reality. You understand, my uncle?" "As true as life, it is necessary!" repeated Billevich, with deep conviction. "They must for this reason,--that I am a mediator agreeable to his Swedish Majesty, and do you know for what reasons? Karl Gustav has one sister married to De la Gardie, and another, Princess Bipont, still unmarried; and he wishes to give her to me, so as to be allied to our house and have a party in Lithuania. Hence his favor toward me, to which my uncle, the elector, inclines him." "How is that?" asked the disquieted sword-bearer. "I would give all the princesses of Bipont[7] for your dove, together with the principalities, not only of the two, but of all the bridges in the world. But I may not anger the Swedish beast, therefore I give willing ear to their discussions; but only let them sign the treaty, then we shall see." "Would they be ready then not to sign if they should discover that you were married?" "Worthy sword-bearer," said the prince, with seriousness, "you have condemned me of crookedness toward the country; but I, as a true citizen, ask you, have I a right to sacrifice public affairs to my private interests?" Pan Tomash listened. "What will happen then?" "Think to yourself what must happen." "As God is true, I see already that the marriage must be deferred; and the proverb says; 'What is deferred, escapes.'" "I will not change my heart, for I have fallen in love for life. You must know that for faithfulness I could put to shame the most enduring Penelope." Billevich was alarmed still more; for he had an entirely opposite opinion touching the prince's constancy, confirmed as it was by Boguslav's general reputation. But the prince added, as if for a finishing stroke,-- "You are right, that no one is sure of his to-morrow. I may fall ill; nay, some kind of sickness is coming on me even now, for yesterday I grew so rigid that Sakovich barely saved me. I may fall in a campaign against Sapyeha; and what delays, what troubles and vexations there will be, could not be written on an ox-hide." "By the wounds of God, give advice, your highness." "What advice can I give?" asked the prince. "Though I should be glad myself to have the latch fall as soon as possible." "Well, let it fall. Marry, and then what will be, will be." Boguslav sprang to his feet. "By the holy Gospel! With your wit you should be chancellor of Lithuania. Another man would not have thought out in three days what has come to your mind in a twinkle. That is it! marry, and remain quiet. There is sense in that! As it is, I shall march in two days against Sapyeha, for I must. During that time secret passages to the lady's chamber can be made; and then to the road! That is the head of a statesman! We will let two or three confidants into the secret, and take them as witnesses, so that the marriage may be formal. I will write a contract, secure the jointure, to which I will add a bequest; and let there be silence for the time. My benefactor, I thank you; from my heart, I thank you. Come to my arms, and then go to my beauty. I will wait for her answer, as if on coals. Meanwhile I will send Sakovich for the priest. Be well, father, and, God grant soon, the grandfather of a Radzivill." When he had said this, he let the astonished noble go from his embrace, and rushed out of the room. "For God's sake!" said the sword-bearer, recovering himself. "I gave such wise advice that Solomon himself would not be ashamed of it, and I should prefer to do without it. A secret is a secret; but break your head, crush your forehead against a wall, it cannot be otherwise. A blind man can see that! Would that the frost might oppress and kill those Swedes to the last! If it were not for those negotiations, the marriage would take place with ceremony, and all Jmud would come to the wedding. But here a husband must walk to his wife on felt, so as not to make noise. Tfu, to the deuce! The Sitsinskis will not burst so soon. Yet, praise be to God! that bursting will not miss them." When he had said this, he went to Olenka. Meanwhile the prince was taking further counsel with Sakovich. "The old man danced on two paws like a bear," said the prince; "but he tormented the life out of me. Uf! but I squeezed him so that I thought that the boots and straw would fly off his feet. And when I called him 'Uncle,' his eyes stuck out, as if a keg of cabbage hash were choking him. Tfu! tfu! wait! I will make you uncle; but I have scores upon scores of such uncles throughout the whole world. Sakovich, I see how she is waiting for me in her room; and she will receive me with her eyes closed and her hands crossed. Wait, I will kiss those eyes for you--Sakovich, you will receive for life the estate of Prudy, beyond Oshmiana. When can Plaska be here?" "Before evening. I thank your highness for Prudy." "That is nothing! Before evening? That means any moment. If the ceremony could be performed to-day, even before midnight! Have you the contract ready?" "I have. I was liberal in the name of your highness. I assigned Birji as the jointure of the lady. The sword-bearer will howl like a dog when it is taken from him afterward." "He will sit in a dungeon, then he will be quiet." "Even that will not be needed. As soon as the marriage is invalid, all will be invalid. But did I not tell you that they would agree?" "He did not make the least difficulty. I am curious to know what she will say. I care nothing about him!" "Oh, they have fallen each into the arms of the other, are weeping from emotion, are blessing your highness, and are carried away by your kindness and beauty." "I don't know that they are by my beauty; for in some way I look wretched. I am all the time out of health, and I am afraid that yesterday's numbness will come again." "No; you will take something warm." The prince was already before the mirror. "It is blue under my eyes. And that fool, Fouret, darkened my eyebrows crooked. See if they are not crooked! I'll give orders to thumbscrew him, and make a monkey my body-servant. Why does the old man not come? I should like to go to the lady now, for she will permit me to kiss her before the marriage. How quickly it grows dark to-day! If Plaska flinches, we must put pincers into the fire." "Plaska will not flinch. He is a scoundrel from under a dark star." "And he will perform the marriage in scoundrel fashion?" "A scoundrel will perform the marriage for a scoundrel in scoundrel fashion." The prince fell into good humor, and said,-- "When there is a pander for best man, there cannot be another kind of marriage." For a while they were silent; then both began to laugh. But their laughter sounded with marvellous ill-omen through the dark room. Night fell deeper and deeper. The prince began to walk through the room, striking audibly with his hammer-staff, on which he leaned heavily, for his feet did not serve him well after the last numbness. Now the servants brought in candelabra with candles, and went out; but the rush of air bent the flames of the candles, so that for a long time they did not burn straight upward, melting meanwhile much wax. "See how the caudles are burning!" said the prince. "What do you prophesy from that?" "That one virtue will melt to-day like wax." "It is wonderful how long that talk lasts." "Maybe the spirit of old Billevich is flying over the flames." "You are a fool!" answered Boguslav, abruptly. "You have chosen a time to talk of spirits!" Silence followed. "They say in England," said the prince, "that when there is a spirit in the room every light burns blue; but see, now they are burning yellow, as usual." "Trash!" answered Sakovich. "There are people in Moscow--" "But be still!" interrupted Boguslav. "The sword-bearer is coming. No! that is the wind moving the shutters. The devils have brought that old maid of an aunt, Kulvyets-Hippocentaurus! Has any one ever heard of the like? And she looks like a chimera." "If you wish, your highness, I'll marry her; then she will not be in the way, Plaska will solder us while you are waiting." "Well, I will give her a maple spade as a marriage present, and you a lantern, so as to have something to light her way." "I will not be your uncle--Bogus." "Remember Castor," answered the prince. "Do not stroke Castor, my Pollux, against the grain, for he can bite." Further conversation was interrupted by the sword-bearer and Panna Kulvyets. The prince stepped up to him quickly, leaning on his hammer. Sakovich rose. "Well, what? May I go to Olenka?" asked the prince. The sword-bearer spread out his arms and dropped his head on his breast. "Your highness, my niece says that Colonel Billevich's will forbids her to decide her own fate; and even if it did not forbid, she would not marry your highness, not having the heart to do so." "Sakovich, do you hear?" said Boguslav, with a terrible voice. "I too knew of that will," continued the sword-bearer, "but at the first moment I did not think it an invincible impediment." "I jeer at the wills of you nobles," said the prince; "I spit on your wills! Do you understand?" "But we do not jeer at them," said the aroused Pan Tomash; "and according to the will the maiden is free to enter the cloister or marry Kmita." "Whom, you sorry fellow? Kmita? I'll show you Kmita! I'll teach you!" "Whom do you call sorry fellow,--a Billevich?" And the sword-bearer caught at his side in the greatest fury; but Boguslav, in one moment, struck him on the breast with his hammer, so that Billevich groaned and fell to the floor. The prince then kicked him aside, to open a way to the door, and rushed from the room without a hat. "Jesus! Mary! Joseph!" cried Panna Kulvyets. But Sakovich, seizing her by the shoulder, put a dagger to her breast, and said,-- "Quiet, my little jewel, quiet, dearest dove, or I will cut thy sweet throat, like that of a lame hen. Sit here quietly, and go not upstairs to thy niece's wedding." But in Panna Kulvyets there was knightly blood too; therefore she had barely heard the words of Sakovich, when straightway her terror passed into despair and frenzy. "Ruffian! bandit! pagan!" cried she; "slay me, for I will shout to the whole Commonwealth. The brother killed, the niece disgraced, I do not wish to live! Strike, slay, robber! People, come see!" Sakovich stifled further words by putting his powerful hand over her month. "Quiet, crooked distaff, dried rue!" said he; "I will not cut thy throat, for why should I give the Devil that which is his anyhow? But lest thou scream like a peacock before roosting, I will tie up thy pretty mouth with thy kerchief, and take a lute and play to thee of 'sighs.' It cannot be but thou wilt love me." So saying, the starosta of Oshmiana, with the dexterity of a genuine pickpocket, encircled the head of Panna Kulvyets with her handkerchief, tied her hands in the twinkle of an eye, and threw her on the sofa; then he sat by her, and stretching himself out comfortably, asked her as calmly as though he had begun an ordinary conversation,-- "Well, what do you think? I suppose Bogus will get on as easily as I have." With that he sprang to his feet, for the door opened, and in it appeared Panna Aleksandra. Her face was as white as chalk, her hair was somewhat dishevelled, her brows were frowning, and threat was in her eyes. Seeing her uncle on the floor, she knelt near him and passed her hand over his head and breast. The sword-bearer drew a deep breath, opened his eyes, half raised himself, and began to look around in the room, as if roused from sleep; then resting his hand on the floor, he tried to rise, which he did after a while with the help of the lady; then he came with tottering step to a chair, into which he threw himself. Only now did Olenka see Panna Kulvyets lying on the sofa. "Have you murdered her?" asked she of Sakovich. "God preserve me!" answered the starosta of Oshmiana. "I command you to unbind her!" There was such power in that voice that Sakovich said not a word, as if the command had come from Princess Radzivill herself, and began to unbind the unconscious Panna Kulvyets. "And now," said the lady, "go to your master, who is lying up there." "What has happened?" cried Sakovich, coming to himself. "You will answer for him!" "Not to thee, serving-man! Be off!" Sakovich sprang out of the chamber as if possessed. CHAPTER XLIV. Sakovich did not leave Boguslav's bedside for two days, the second paroxysm being worse than the first. The prince's jaws closed so firmly that attendants had to open them with a knife to pour medicine into his mouth. He regained consciousness immediately after; but he trembled, quivered, floundered in the bed, and stretched himself like a wild beast mortally wounded. When that had passed, a wonderful weakness came; he gazed all night at the ceiling without saying a word. Next day, after he had taken drugs, he fell into a sound sleep, and about midday woke covered with abundant perspiration. "How does your highness feel?" asked Sakovich. "I am better. Have any letters come?" "Letters from the elector and Steinbock are lying on the table; but the reading must be put off till later, for you have not strength enough yet." "Give them at once!--do you hear?" Sakovich brought the letters, and Boguslav read them twice; then he thought awhile and said,-- "We will move for Podlyasye to-morrow." "You will be in bed to-morrow, as you are to-day." "I will be on horseback as well as you. Be silent, no interference!" The starosta ceased, and for a while silence continued, broken only by the tick-tick of the Dantzig clock. "The advice was stupid, the idea was stupid, and I too was stupid to listen." "I knew that if it did not succeed the blame would fall on me," answered Sakovich. "For you blundered." "The counsel was clever; but if there is some devil at their service who gives warning of everything, I am not to blame." The prince rose in the bed. "Do you think that they employ a devil?" asked he, looking quickly at Sakovich. "But does not your highness know the Papists?" "I know, I know! And it has often come into my head that there might be enchantment. Since yesterday I am certain. You have struck my idea; therefore I asked if you really think so. But which of them could enter into company with unclean power? Not she, for she is too virtuous; not the sword-bearer, for he is too stupid." "But suppose the aunt?" "That may be." "To make certain I bound her yesterday, and put a dagger to her throat; and imagine,--I look to-day, the dagger is as if melted in fire." "Show it." "I threw it into the river, though there was a good turquoise in the hilt. I preferred not to touch it again." "Then I'll tell you what happened to me yesterday. I ran into her room as if mad. What I said I do not remember; but I know this,--that she cried, 'I'll throw myself into the fire first.' You know what an enormous chimney there is there; she sprang right into it, I after her. I dragged her out on the floor. Her clothes were already on fire. I had to quench the fire and hold her at the same time. Meanwhile dizziness seized me, my jaws became fixed,--you would have said that some one had torn the veins in my neck; then it seemed to me that the sparks flying near us were turned into bees, were buzzing like bees. And this is as true as that you see me here." "And what came later?" "I remember nothing, but such terror as if I were flying into an immense well, into some depth without bottom. What terror! I tell you what terror! Even now the hair is standing on my head. And not terror alone, but--how can I explain it?--an emptiness, a measureless weariness and torment beyond understanding. Luckily the powers of heaven were with me, or I should not be speaking with you this day." "Your highness had a paroxysm. Sickness itself often brings visions before the eye; but for safety's sake we may have a hole cut in the river ice, and let the old maid float down." "Oh, devil take her! We will march to-morrow in any event, and afterward spring will come; there will soon be other stars, and the nights will be short, weakening every unclean power." "If we must march to-morrow, then you would better let the girl go." "Even if I wished not, I must. All desire has fallen away from me." "Never mind them; let them go to the devil!" "Impossible!" "Why?" "The old man has confessed that he has a tremendous lot of money buried in Billeviche. If I let them alone, they will dig up the money and go to the forests. I prefer to keep them here, and take the money in requisition. There is war now, and this is permissible. Besides, he offered it himself. We shall give orders to dig up the whole garden, foot by foot; we must find the money. While Billevich is sitting here, at least, he will not make a noise and shout over all Lithuania that he is plundered. Rage seizes me when I think how much I have spent on those amusements and tournaments,--and all for nothing, for nothing!" "Rage against that maiden seized me long ago. And I tell your highness that when she came yesterday and said to me, as to the last camp follower, 'Be off, serving-man! go up, for thy master is lying there!' I came near twisting her head like a starling; for I thought that she had stabbed you with a knife or shot you from a pistol." "You know that I do not like to have any one manage in my house like a gray goose. It is well that you did not do as you say, for I should have given orders to nip you with those pincers which were heated for Plaska. Keep away from her!" "I sent Plaska back. He was terribly astonished, not knowing why he was brought nor why he was sent home. He wanted something for his fatigue, 'because this,' said he, 'is loss in my trade;' but I told him, 'You bear home a sound skin as reward.' Do we really march to-morrow for Podlyasye?" "As God is in heaven. Are the troops sent off according to my orders?" "The cavalry has gone already to Kyedani, whence it is to march to Kovno and wait there. Our Polish squadrons are here yet; I did not like to send them in advance. The men seem reliable; still they might meet the confederates. Glovbich will go with us; also the Cossacks under Vrotynski. Karlström marches with the Swedes in the vanguard. He has orders to exterminate rebels, and especially peasants on the way." "That is well." "Kyritz with infantry is to march slowly, so that we may have some one to fall back upon in difficulty. If we are to advance like a thunderbolt,--and our entire calculation lies in swiftness,--I do not know whether the Prussian and Swedish cavalry will be useful. It is a pity that the Polish squadrons are not reliable; for between us, there is nothing superior to Polish cavalry." "Has the artillery gone?" "It has." "And Patterson too?" "No, Patterson is here; he is nursing Kettling, of whom he is very fond, and who wounded himself rather badly with his own sword. If I did not know Kettling to be a daring officer, I should think that he had cut himself of purpose to avoid the campaign." "It will be needful to leave about a hundred men here, also in Rossyeni and in Kyedani. The Swedish garrisons are small, and De la Gardie, as it is, is asking men every day from Löwenhaupt. Besides, when we march out, the rebels, forgetting the defeat of Shavli, will raise their heads." "They are growing strong as it is. I have heard again that the Swedes are cut down in Telshi." "By nobles or peasants?" "By peasants under the leadership of a priest; but there are parties of nobles, particularly near Lauda." "The Lauda men have gone out under Volodyovski." "There is a multitude of youths and old men at home. These have taken arms, for they are warriors by blood." "The rebellion can do nothing without money." "But we shall get a supply of that in Billeviche." "A man must be a genius like your highness to find means in everything." "There is more esteem in this country," said Boguslav, with a bitter smile, "for the man who can please the queen and the nobles. Neither genius nor virtue has value. It is lucky that I am also a prince of the Empire, and therefore they will not tie me by the legs to a pine-tree. If I could only have the revenues regularly from my estates, I should not care for the Commonwealth." "But will they not confiscate these estates?" "We will first confiscate Podlyasye, if not all Lithuania. Now summon Patterson." Sakovich went out, and returned soon with Patterson. At Boguslav's bedside a council was held, at which it was determined to move before daylight next morning and go to Podlyasye by forced marches. The prince felt so much better in the evening that he feasted with the officers and amused himself with jests till late, listening with pleasure to the neighing of horses and the clatter of arms in the squadrons preparing to march. At times he breathed deeply, and stretched himself in the chair. "I see that this campaign will bring back my health," said he to the officers, "for amid all these negotiations and amusements I have neglected the field notably. But I hope in God that the confederates and our ex-cardinal (the king) in Poland will feel my hand." To this Patterson made bold to answer: "It is lucky that Delilah did not clip Samson's hair." Boguslav looked at him for a while with a strange expression, from which the Scot was growing confused; but after a time the countenance of the prince grew bright with a threatening smile, and he said,-- "If Sapyeha is my pillar, I will shake him so that the whole Commonwealth will fall on his head." The conversation was carried on in German; therefore all the foreign officers understood it perfectly, and answered in chorus,-- "Amen!" The column, with Boguslav at the head of it, marched before daybreak next morning. The Prussian nobles whom the brilliant court attracted, began at the same time to return to their homes. After them marched to Tyltsa those who in Taurogi had sought refuge from the terrors of war, and to whom now Tyltsa seemed safer. Only Billevich, Olenka, and Panna Kulvyets remained, not counting Kettling and the old officer Braun, who held command over the slender garrison. Billevich, after that blow of the hammer, lay for some days bleeding from the mouth at intervals; but since no bone was broken, he recovered by degrees and began to think of flight. Meanwhile an official came from Billeviche with a letter from Boguslav himself. The sword-bearer did not wish at first to read the letter, but soon changed his mind, following in this the advice of Olenka, who thought it better to know all the plans of the enemy. VERY GRACIOUS PAN BILLEVICH!--_Concordia res parvæ crescunt; discordia maximæ dillabuntar_ (By concord small things grow great; by discord the greatest are ruined)! The fates brought it about that we did not part in such harmony as my love for you and your charming niece demands, in which God knows I am not to blame, for you know yourself that you fed me with ingratitude in return for my sincere intentions. But for friendship's sake what in done in anger should not be remembered; I think, therefore, that you will excuse my deeds of impulse, because of the injustice which I experienced at your hands. I, too, forgive you from my heart, as Christian charity enjoins, and I wish to return to a good understanding. To give you a proof that no offence has remained in my heart, I have not thought it proper to refuse the service which you have asked of me, and I accept your money. Here Billevich stopped reading, struck the table with his fist, and cried,-- "He will see me in dreams rather than receive one coin from my caskets!" "Read on!" said Olenka. Billevich raised the letter again to his eyes. "Not wishing to trouble you and expose your health to hazard in the present stormy times while getting this money, we have ordered ourselves to get it and count it." At this point Billevich's voice failed, and the letter fell from his hands to the floor. For a while it seemed that speech was taken from the noble, for he only caught after his hair and pulled it with all his power. "Strike, whoso believes in God!" cried he at last. "One injustice the more, the punishment of God nearer; for the measure will soon be filled," said Olenka. CHAPTER XLV. The despair of the sword-bearer was so great that Olenka had to comfort him, and give assurance that the money was not to be looked on as lost, for the letter itself would serve as a note; and Radzivill, the master of so many estates in Lithuania and Russia, had something from which to recover. But since it was difficult to foresee what might still meet them, especially if Boguslav returned to Taurogi victorious, they began to think of flight the more eagerly. Olenka advised to defer everything till Kettling's recovery; for Braun was a gloomy and surly old soldier, carrying out commands blindly, and it was impossible to influence him. As to Kettling, the lady knew well that he had wounded himself to remain in Taurogi; hence her deep faith that he would do everything to aid her. It is true that conscience disturbed her incessantly with the question whether for self-safety she had the right to sacrifice the career, and perhaps the life, of another; but the terrors hanging over her in Taurogi were so dreadful that they surpassed a hundredfold the dangers to which Kettling could be exposed. Kettling, as an excellent officer, might find service, and a more noble service, elsewhere, and with it powerful protectors, such as the king. Pan Sapyeha, or Pan Charnyetski; and he would, besides, serve a just cause, and would find a career grateful to that country which had received him as an exile. Death threatened him only in case he fell into Boguslav's hands; but Boguslav did not command yet the whole Commonwealth. Olenka ceased to hesitate; and when the health of the young officer had improved, she sent for him. Kettling stood before her, pale, emaciated, without a drop of blood in his face, but always full of respect, homage, and submission. At sight of him tears came to Olenka's eyes; for he was the only friendly soul in Taurogi, and at the same time so thin and suffering that when Olenka asked how his health was, he answered,-- "Alas, my lady, health is returning, and it would be so pleasant to die." "You should leave this service," said she, looking at him with sympathy; "for such an honorable man needs assurance that he is serving a just cause and a worthy master." "Alas!" repeated the officer. "When will your service end?" "In half a year." Olenka was silent awhile; then she raised her wonderful eyes, which at that moment had ceased to be stern, and said,-- "Listen to me. I will speak to you as to a brother, as to a sincere confidant. You can, and you should resign." When she had said this, she confessed to him everything,--both their plans of escape, and that she relied on his assistance. She represented to him that he could find service everywhere, and a service as good as was his spirit, and honorable as knightly honor could obtain. At last she finished with the following words:-- "I shall be grateful to you till death. I wish to take refuge under the guardianship of God, and to make a vow to the Lord in a cloister. But wherever you may be, far or near, in war or in peace, I shall pray for you. I will implore God to give peace and happiness to my brother and benefactor; for I can give him nothing save gratitude and prayer." Here her voice trembled; and the officer listened to her words, growing pale as a kerchief. At last he knelt, put both hands to his forehead, and said, in a voice like a groan,-- "I cannot, my lady; I cannot!" "Do you refuse me?" asked Olenka, with amazement. "O great, merciful God!" said he. "From childhood no lie has risen on my lips, no unjust deed has ever stained me. While still a youth, I defended with this weak hand my king and country. Why, Lord, dost Thou punish me so grievously, and send on me suffering for which, as Thou seest, strength fails me?" Here he turned to Olenka: "My lady, you do not know what an order is for a soldier. In obedience is not only his duty, but his honor and reputation. An oath binds me, my lady,--and more than an oath, the word of a knight,--that I shall not throw up my service before the time, and that I will fulfil what belongs to it blindly. I am a soldier and a noble; and, so help me God, never in my life will I follow the example of those who betray honor and service. And I will not break my word, even at your command, at your prayer, though I say this in suffering and pain. If, having an order not to let any one out of Taurogi, I were on guard at the gate, and if you yourself wished to pass against the order, you would pass only over my corpse. You did not know me, my lady; and you were mistaken in me. But have pity on me; understand that I cannot aid you to escape. I ought not to hear of such a thing. The order is express, for Braun and the five remaining officers of us here have received it. My God, my God! if I had foreseen such an order, I should have preferred to go on the campaign. I shall not convince you; you will not believe me. And still God sees--let God judge me after death whether it is true--that I would give my life without hesitation. But my honor--I cannot, I cannot!" Then Kettling wrung his hands, was silent from exhaustion, and began to breathe quickly. Olenka had not recovered yet from her amazement. She had not time to pause, or estimate properly that spirit, exceptional in its nobleness. She felt only that the last plank of salvation was slipping from her hands, the only means of escape from hated captivity was failing her. But still she tried to resist. "I am," said she, after a while, "the granddaughter and the daughter of a soldier. My grandfather and father also valued honor above life; but, precisely for that reason, they would not let themselves be used blindly for every service." Kettling drew, with trembling hand, from his coat a letter, gave it to Olenka, and said,-- "Judge, my lady, if this command does not concern service." Olenka cast her eyes over the letter, and read as follows:-- "Since it has come to our knowledge that Billevich, the sword-bearer of Rossyeni, intends to leave our residence in secret, with plans hostile to us,--namely, to excite his acquaintances, connections, relatives, and clients to rebellion against his Swedish Majesty and us,--we recommend to the officers remaining in garrison at Taurogi to guard Billevich and his niece as hostages and prisoners of war, and not to permit their flight under pain of loss of honor and court-martial," etc. "The order came from the first stopping-place after the departure of the prince," said Kettling; "therefore it is in writing." "The will of God be done!" said Olenka, after a while. "It is accomplished!" Kettling felt that he ought to go; still he did not stir. His pale lips moved from moment to moment, as if he wished to say something and could not get the voice. He was oppressed by the desire to fall at her feet and implore forgiveness; but on the other hand he felt that she had enough of her own misfortune, and he found a certain wild delight in this,--that he was suffering and would suffer without complaint. At last he bowed and went out in silence; but in the corridor he tore the bandages from his fresh wound, and fell fainting to the floor. When an hour later the palace guard found him lying near the staircase and took him to the barracks, he became seriously ill and did not leave his bed for a fortnight. Olenka, after the departure of Kettling, remained some time as if dazed. Death had seemed to her more likely to come than that refusal; and therefore, at first, in spite of all her firm temper of spirit, strength, energy failed her; she felt weak, like an ordinary woman, and though she repeated unconsciously, "Let the will of God be done!" sorrow for the disappointment rose above her resignation, copious and bitter tears flowed from her eyes. At that moment her uncle entered, and looking at his niece, divined at once that she had evil news to impart; hence he asked quickly,-- "For God's sake, what is it?" "Kettling refuses!" "All here are ruffians, scoundrels, arch-curs! How is this? And he will not help?" "Not only will he not help," answered she, complaining like a little child, "but he says that he will prevent, even should it come to him to die." "Why? by the Lord's wounds, why?" "For such is our fate! Kettling is not a traitor; but such is our fate, for we are the most unhappy of all people." "May the thunderbolts crush all those heretics!" cried Billevich. "They attack virtue, plunder, steal, imprison. Would that all might perish! It is not for honest people to live in such times!" Here he began to walk with hurried step through the chamber, threatening with his fists; at last he said, gritting his teeth,-- "The voevoda of Vilna was better; I prefer a thousand times even Kmita to these perfumed ruffians without honor and conscience." When Olenka said nothing, but began to cry still more, Billevich grew mild, and after a while said,-- "Do not weep. Kmita came to my mind only because that he at least would have been able to wrest us out of this Babylonian captivity. He would have given it to all the Brauns, Kettlings, Pattersons, to Boguslav himself! But they are all the same type of traitors. Weep not! You can do nothing with weeping; here it is necessary to counsel. Kettling will not help,--may he be twisted! We will do without him. You have as it were a man's courage in you, but in difficulty you are only able to sob. What does Kettling say?" "He says that the prince has given orders to guard us as prisoners of war, fearing, Uncle, that you would collect a party and go to the confederates." Billevich put his hands on his hips: "Ha, ha, ha! he is afraid, the scoundrel! And he is right, for I will do so, as God is in heaven." "Having a command relating to service, Kettling must carry it out on his honor." "Well! we shall get on without the assistance of heretics." Olenka wiped her eyes. "And does my uncle think it is possible?" "I think it is necessary; and if it is necessary it is possible, though we had to let ourselves down by ropes from these windows." "It was wrong for me to shed tears; let us make plans as quickly as we can." Her tears were dry, her brows contracted again from thought and her former endurance and energy. It appeared, in fact, that Billevich could find no help, and that the imagination of the lady was much richer in means. But it was difficult for her, since it was clear that they were guarded carefully. They determined, therefore, not to try before the first news came from Boguslav. In this they placed all their hope, trusting that the punishment of God would come on the traitor and the dishonorable man. Besides, he might fall, he might be confined to his bed, he might be killed by Sapyeha, and then without fail there would rise in all Taurogi a panic, and the gate would not be guarded so carefully. "I know Sapyeha," said Billevich, comforting himself and Olenka; "he is a slow warrior, but accurate and wonderfully stubborn. An example of this, his loyalty to the king and country. He pledged and sold everything, and thus has gained a power before which Boguslav is as nothing. One is a dignified senator, the other a fop; one a true Catholic, the other a heretic; one is cleverness itself, the other a water-burner. With whom may victory and the blessing of God be? This Radzivill might well yield to Sapyeha's day. Just as if there are not punishment and justice in this world! We will wait for news, and pray for Sapyeha's success." Then they began to wait; but a month passed--long, wearisome for afflicted hearts--before the first courier came; and he was sent not to Taurogi, but to Steinbock in Royal Prussia. Kettling, who from the time of the last conversation dared not appear before Olenka's eyes, sent her at once a card with the following announcement:-- "Prince Boguslav has defeated Pan Kryshtof Sapyeha near Bransk; some squadrons of cavalry and infantry are cut to pieces. He is marching on Tykotsin, where Horotkyevich is stationed." For Olenka this was simply a thunderbolt. The greatness of a leader and the bravery of a knight meant for her the same thing. Since she had seen Boguslav, at Taurogi, overcoming the most valiant knights with ease, she imagined him to herself, especially after that news, as an evil but invincible power, against which no one could stand. The hope that Boguslav might be defeated died in her completely. In vain did her uncle quiet her and comfort her with this,--that the prince had not yet met Sapyeha; in vain did he guarantee to her that the very dignity of hetman with which the king had invested him recently, must give positive preponderance over Boguslav; she did not believe this, she dared not. "Who can conquer Boguslav; who can meet him?" asked she, continually. Further news seemed to confirm her fears. A few days later Kettling sent another card with information touching the defeat of Horotkyevich and the capture of Tykotsin. "All Podlyasye," writes he, "is in the hands of the prince, who, without waiting for Sapyeha, is moving against him with forced marches." "And Sapyeha will be routed!" thought the maiden. Meanwhile news from other directions flew to them, like a swallow heralding spring-time. To that seashore of the Commonwealth this news came late; but because of its lateness it was decked in all the rainbow gleams of wonderful legend from the first ages of Christianity, when saints proclaiming truth and justice still travelled over the earth. "Chenstohova! Chenstohova!" was repeated by every mouth. Ice thawed from hearts which bloomed like flowers in the earth warmed by the sun of spring. "Chenstohova has defended itself. Men had seen the Queen of Poland Herself (the Virgin Mary) shielding the walls with Her heavenly mantle; the bombs of the robbers at Her holy feet, crouching like house-dogs; the hands of the Swedes were withered, their muskets grew fast to their faces, till they retreated in terror and shame." Men, strangers to one another, when they heard these tidings fell the one into the embraces of the other, weeping from delight. Others complained that the tidings came too late. "But we were here in weeping," said they, "we were in pain, we lived in torment so long, when we should have been rejoicing." Then it began to roar through the whole Commonwealth, and terrible thunders were heard from the Euxine to the Baltic, so that the waves of both seas were trembling; then faithful people, pious people rose up like a storm in defence of their queen. Consolation entered all hearts, all eyes were flashing with fire; what hitherto had seemed terrible and invincible grew small in their eyes. "Who will finish him?" said Billevich. "Who will be his equal? Now do you know who? The Most Holy Lady." The old man and his niece lay for whole days in the form of a cross, thanking God for his mercy on the Commonwealth, and doubting their own rescue no longer. But for a long period there was silence concerning Boguslav, as if he with all his forces had fallen into water. The officers remaining in Taurogi began to be disquieted and to think of their uncertain future. They would have preferred defeat to that deep silence. But no news could come, for just then the terrible Babinich was rushing with his Tartars in front of the prince and stopping all couriers. CHAPTER XLVI. But a certain day Panna Anusia Borzobogati arrived at Taurogi with a convoy of some tens of soldiers. Braum received her very politely, for he had to do so, since he was thus commanded by a letter from Sakovich, signed by Boguslav himself, enjoining him to have every regard for this lady-in-waiting of Princess Griselda Vishnyevetski. The young lady herself was full of vivacity; from the first moment she began to pierce Braun with her eyes, so that the sullen German moved about as if some one were touching him with fire; she began also to command other officers,--in a word, to manage in Taurogi as in her own house. In the evening of the same day she made the acquaintance of Olenka, who received her with distrust, it is true, but politely, in the hope that she would get news from her. In fact, Anusia had news in plenty. Her conversation began with Chenstohova, since the prisoners in Taurogi were most eager for that news. The sword-bearer listened with special diligence; he held his hands behind his ears so as to lose no word, merely interrupting Anusia's narrative from time to time with the exclamation,-- "Praise be to God on high!" "It is a wonder to me," said Anusia, at last, "that news of these miracles of the Most Holy Lady have only just reached you, for that is an old story. I was still in Zamost, and Pan Babinich had not come for me--ai! how many weeks was it before that? Then they began to beat the Swedes everywhere, in Great Poland and with us; but most of all Pan Charnyetski, before whose very name they fly." "Oh, Charnyetski!" cried the sword-bearer, rubbing his hands; "he will give them pepper! I heard of him even from the Ukraine, as of a great warrior." Anusia merely shook her dress, and exclaimed to herself with aversion, as if it were a question of the smallest matter: "Oh, it is all over with the Swedes!" Old Pan Tomash could not restrain himself. Seizing her small hand, he buried the little thing entirely in his enormous mustaches and kissed it eagerly; at last he cried,-- "Oh, my beauty! honey flows from your mouth, as God is dear to me! It cannot be but an angel has come to Taurogi." Anusia began at once to twist the ends of her tresses, tied with rosy ribbons, and cutting with her eyes from under her brows, said,-- "Oh, it is far from me to the angels! But the hetmans of the kingdom have begun to beat the Swedes, and all the quarter soldiers with them, and the knights; and they have formed a confederation in Tyshovtsi. The king has joined it, and they have given out manifestoes; even the peasants are beating the Swedes, and the Most Holy Lady gives Her blessing." She spoke as if a bird were warbling, but from that warbling Billevich's heart grew soft, though some of the news was already known to him. He bellowed at last like an aurochs from delight; tears, too, began to flow over the face of Olenka, silent and many. Seeing this, Anusia, having a good heart from nature, sprang to her at once, and putting her arms around her neck, began to say quickly,-- "Do not cry; I am sorry for you, and cannot see you shed tears. Why do you weep?" There was so much sincerity in her voice that Olenka's distrust vanished at once; but the poor girl wept still more. "You are so beautiful," said Anusia, comforting her. "Why do you cry?" "From joy," answered Olenka, "but also from suffering; for we are here in grievous captivity, knowing neither the day nor the hour." "How is that? Are you not with Prince Boguslav?" "That traitor! that heretic!" roared Billevich. "The same has happened to me," said Anusia; "but I do not cry for that reason. I do not deny that the prince is a traitor and a heretic; but he is a courteous cavalier, and respects our sex." "God grant that in hell they will respect him in the same fashion! Young lady, you know him not, for he has not attacked you as he has this maiden. He is an arch-ruffian, and that Sakovich is another. God give Sapyeha to defeat them both!" "As to defeating, he will defeat them. Prince Boguslav is terribly sick, and he has not a great force. It is true that he advanced quickly, scattered some squadrons, and took Tykotsin and me; but it is not for him to measure with the forces of Pan Sapyeha. You may trust me, for I saw both armies. With Pan Sapyeha are the greatest cavaliers, who will be able to manage Prince Boguslav." "Well, do you see! have I not told you?" asked the old man, turning to Olenka. "I know Prince Boguslav from of old," continued Anusia, "for he is a relative of the Vishnyevetskis and Zamoyski; he came once to us at Lubni, when Prince Yeremi himself was campaigning against the Tartars in the Wilderness. He remembered that I was at home there and nearest the princess. I was such a little thing then, not as I am to-day. My God! who could think at that time that he would be a traitor? But grieve not; for either he will fail to return, or we shall escape from this place in some way." "We have tried that already," said Olenka. "And you did not succeed?" "How could we?" asked Billevich. "We told the secret to an officer whom we thought ready to aid us; but it turned out that he was ready to hinder, not to help. Seniority over all here is with Braun,--the Devil himself could not win that man." Anusia dropped her eyes. "Maybe I can. If Pan Sapyeha would only come, so that we might have some one with whom to take refuge." "God give him at the earliest," answered Pan Tomash, "for among his men we have many relatives, acquaintances, and friends. Among them, too, are former officers of the great Yeremi,--Volodyovski, Skshetuski, Zagloba,--I know them." "But they are not with Sapyeha. Oh, if they were, especially Volodyovski, for Shshetuski is married, I should not be here, for Pan Volodyovski would not let himself be picked up as Pan Kotchyts did." "He is a great cavalier," said Billevich. "The glory of the whole Commonwealth," added Olenka. "Have they not fallen, since you did not see them?" "Oh, no!" answered Anusia, "for the loss of such knights would be spoken of; but nothing was said. You do not know them, they will never yield; only a bullet will kill them, for no man can stand before Skshetuski, Zagloba, or Pan Michael. Though Pan Michael is small, I remember what Prince Yeremi said of him,--that if the fate of the whole Commonwealth depended on a battle between one man and another, he would choose Pan Michael for the battle. He was the man who conquered Bogun. Oh, no, Pan Michael will help himself always." Billevich, satisfied that he had some one with whom to talk, began to walk with long strides through the room, asking,-- "Well, well! Then do you know Pan Volodyovski so intimately?" "Yes; for we lived in the same place so many years." "Indeed! Then certainly not without love!" "I'm not to blame for that," answered Anusia, taking a timid posture; "but before this time surely Pan Michael is married." "And he is just not married." "Even if he were, it is all one to me." "God grant you to meet! But I am troubled because you say that they are not with the hetman, for with such soldiers victory would be easier." "There is some one there who is worth them all." "Who is he?" "Pan Babinich from Vityebsk. Have you heard of him?" "Not a word; which is a wonder to me." Anusia began to relate the history of her departure from Zamost, and everything that happened on the road. Babinich grew in her narrative to such a mighty hero that the sword-bearer was at a loss to know who he was. "I know all Lithuania," said he. "There are houses, it is true, with similar names, such as Babonaubek, Babill, Babinovski, Babinski, and Babiski. Babinich I have not heard, and I think it must be an assumed name; for many who are in parties take such names, so that their property and relatives may not suffer from the enemy. Hm! Babinich! He is some fiery cavalier, since he was able to settle Zamoyski in that fashion." "Oh, how fiery!" cried Anusia. The old man fell into good humor. "How is that?" asked he, stopping before Anusia and putting his hands on his hips. "If I tell you, you'll suppose God knows what" "God preserve me, I will suppose nothing." "Barely had we come out of Zamost when Pan Babinich told me that some one else had occupied his heart, and though he received no rent, still he did not think of changing the tenant." "And do you believe that?" "Of course I believe it," answered Anusia, with great vivacity; "he must be in love to his ears, since after so long a time--since--since--" "Oh, there is some 'since he would not,'" said the old man, laughing. "But I say that," repeated Anusia, stamping her foot, "since-- Well, we shall soon hear of him." "God grant it!" "And I will tell you why. As often as Pan Babinich mentioned Prince Boguslav, his face grew white, and his teeth squeaked like doors." "He will be our friend!" said the sword-bearer, "Certainly! And we will flee to him, if he shows himself." "If I could escape from this place, I would have my own party, and you would see that war is no novelty to me either, and that this old hand is good for something yet." "Go under command of Pan Babinich." "You have a great wish to go under his command." They chatted yet for a long time in this fashion, and always more joyously; he that Olenka, forgetting her grief, became notably more cheerful, and Anusia began at last to laugh loudly at the sword-bearer. She was well rested; for at the last halting-place in Rossyeni she had slept soundly; she left them then only late in the evening. "She is gold, not a maiden!" said Billevich, after she had gone. "A sincere sort of heart, and I think we shall soon come to confidence," answered Olenka. "But you looked at her frowningly at first." "For I thought that she was some one sent here. Do I know anything surely? I fear every one in Taurogi." "She sent? Perhaps by good spirits! But she is as full of tricks as a weasel. If I were younger I don't know to what it might come; even as it is a man is still desirous." Olenka was delighted, and placing her hands on her knees, she put her head on one side, mimicking Anusia, and looking askance at her uncle. "So, dear uncle! you wish to bake an aunt for me out of that flour?" "Oh, be quiet, be quiet!" said the sword-bearer. But he laughed and began to twist his mustache with his whole hand; after a time he added,-- "Still she roused such a staid woman as you; I am certain that great friendship will spring up between you." In truth, Pan Tomash was not deceived, for in no long time a very lively friendship was formed between the maidens; and it grew more and more, perhaps just for this reason,--that the two were complete opposites. One had dignity in her spirit, depths of feeling, invincible will, and reason; the other, with a good heart and purity of thought, was a tufted lark. One, with her calm face, bright tresses, and an unspeakable repose and charm in her slender form, was like an ancient Psyche; the other, a real brunette, reminded one rather of an _ignis fatuus_, which in the night hours entices people into pathless places and laughs at their vexation. The officers in Taurogi, who looked at both every day, were seized with the desire to kiss Olenka's feet, but Anusia's lips. Kettling, having the soul of a Scottish mountaineer, hence full of melancholy, revered and adored Olenka; but from the first glance he could not endure Anusia, who paid him in kind, making up for her losses on Braun and others, not excepting the sword-bearer of Rossyeni himself. Olenka soon won great influence over her friend, who with perfect sincerity of heart said to Pan Tomash,-- "She can say more in two words than I in a whole day." But the dignified lady could not cure her vain friend of one defect, coquetry; for let Anusia only hear the rattle of spurs in the corridor, immediately she would pretend that she had forgotten something, that she wanted to see if there were tidings from Sapyeha; would rush into the corridor, fly like a whirlwind, and coming up against an officer, cry out,-- "Oh, how you frightened me!" Then a conversation would begin, intermingled with twisting of her skirts, glancing from under her brows, and various artful looks, through the aid of which the hardest heart may be conquered. This coquetry Olenka took ill of her, all the more that Anusia after a few days confessed to a secret love for Babinich. They discussed this among themselves more than once. "Others beg like minstrels," said Anusia; "but this dragon chose to look at his Tartars rather than at me, and he never spoke otherwise than in command,--'Come out, my lady! eat, my lady! drink, my lady!' And if he had been rude at the same time, but he was not; if he had not been painstaking, but he was! In Krasnystav I said to myself, 'Do not look at me--wait!' And in Lanchna I was so overcome that it was terrible. I tell you that when I looked into his blue eyes, and when he laughed, gladness seized me, such a prisoner was I." Olenka dropped her head, for blue eyes came to her memory too; and that one spoke in the same way, and he had command ever on his lips, activity ever in his face, but neither conscience nor the fear of God. Anusia, following her own thoughts, continued,-- "When he flew over the field on his horse, with his baton, I thought, That is an eagle or some hetman. The Tartars feared him more than fire. When he came, there had to be obedience; and when there was a battle, fires were striking him from desire of blood. I saw many worthy cavaliers in Lubni, but one such that fear seized me in his presence I have never seen." "If the Lord God has predestined him to you, you will get him; but that he did not love you, I cannot believe." "As to love, he loves me a little, but the other more. He told me himself more than once, 'It is lucky that I am not able to forget or cease loving, for it would be better to confide a kid to a wolf than such a maiden as you are to me." "What did you say to that?" "I said, 'How do you know that I would return your love?' And he answered, 'I should not have asked you.' Now, what are you to do with such a man? That other woman is foolish not to love him, and she must have callousness in her heart. I asked what her name is, but he would not tell me. 'Better,' said he, 'not to touch that, for it is a sore; and another sore,' said he, 'is the Radzivills,--the traitors!' And then he made such a terrible face that I would have hidden in a mouse-hole. I simply feared him. But what is the use in talking? He is not for me!" "Ask Saint Michael for him; I know from Aunt Kulvyets that he is the best aid in such cases. Only be careful not to offend the saint by duping more men." "I never will, except so much,--the least little bit." Here Anusia showed on her finger how much; and she indicated at most about half the length of the nail, so as not to anger Saint Michael. "I do not act so from waywardness," explained she to Billevich, who also had begun to take her frivolity to heart; "but I must, for if these officers do not help us we shall never escape." "Braun will not let us out." "Braun is overcome!" replied Anusia, with a thin voice, dropping her eyes. "But Fitz-Gregory?" "He is overcome too!" with a voice still thinner. "And Ottenhagen?" "Overcome!" "And Von Irhen?" "Overcome!" "May the forest surround you! I see that Kettling is the only man whom you could not manage." "I cannot endure him! But some one else will manage him. Besides, we can go without his permission." "And you think that when we wish to flee they will not hinder?" "They will go with us!" said Anusia, stretching her neck and blinking. "For God's sake! then why do we stay here? I should like to be far away this day." But from the consultation which followed at once, it appeared needful to await the decision of Boguslav's fate and Pan Sapyeha's arrival in the neighborhood of Jmud. Otherwise they would be threatened by terrible destruction from even their own people. The society of foreign officers not only would not be a defence, but would add to their danger; for the peasants were so terribly envenomed against foreigners that they murdered without mercy every one who did not wear a Polish dress. Even Polish dignitaries wearing foreign costume, not to speak of Austrian and French diplomats, could not travel save under the protection of powerful bodies of troops. "You will believe me, for I have passed through the whole country," said Anusia. "In the first village, in the first forest, ravagers would kill us without asking who we are. It is impossible to flee except to an army." "But I shall have my own party." "Before you could collect it, before you could reach a village where you are known, you would lose your life. News from Prince Boguslav must come soon. I have ordered Braun to inform me at once." But Braun reported nothing for a long time. Kettling, however, began to visit Olenka; for she, meeting him on a certain day, extended her hand to him. The young officer prophesied evil from this profound silence. According to him the prince, out of regard for the elector and the Swedes, would not hold silence touching the least victory, and would rather exaggerate by description than weaken by silence the significance of real successes. "I do not suppose that he is cut to pieces," said the young officer; "but he is surely in such a difficult position that it is hard to find a way out." "All tidings arrive here so late," said Olenka, "and the best proof is that we learned first from Panna Borzobogati, the particulars of the miraculous defence of Chenstohova." "I, my lady, knew of that long ago, but, as a foreigner, not knowing the value which that place has for Poles, I did not mention it. That in a great war some small castle defends itself for a time, and repulses a number of storms, happens always, and importance is not attached to it usually." "But still for me that would have been the most welcome news!" "I see in truth that I did ill; for from what has happened since the defence, as I hear now, I know that to be an important event, which may influence the whole war. Still, returning to the campaign of the prince in Podlyasye, it is different. Chenstohova is far away, Podlyasye is nearer. And when the prince succeeded at first, you remember how quickly news came. Believe me, my lady, I am a young man, but from the fourteenth year of my life I am a soldier, and experience tells me that this silence, is prophetic of evil." "Rather good," said the lady, "Let it be good!" answered Kettling. "In half a year my service will be ended. In half a year my oath will cease." A few days after this conversation news came at last. It was brought by Pan Byes of the shield Kornie; called, at Boguslav's court, Cornutus.[8] He was a Polish noble, but altogether foreignized; for serving in foreign armies almost from years of boyhood, he had wellnigh forgotten Polish, or at least spoke it like a German. He had also a foreignized soul, hence was greatly attached to Prince Boguslav. He was going on an important mission to Königsberg, and stopped in Taurogi merely to rest. Braun and Kettling brought him at once to Olenka and Anusia, who at that time lived and slept together. Braun stood like a soldier before Anusia; then turned to Byes and said,-- "This lady is a relative of Pan Zamoyski, therefore of the prince our lord, who has commanded to show her every attention; and she wishes to hear news from the mouth of an eyewitness." Pan Byes in his turn stood erect, as if on service, and awaited the questions. Anusia did not deny relationship with Boguslav, for the homage of the military pleased her; therefore she motioned to Pan Byes to sit down. When he had taken his place she asked,-- "Where is the prince at present?" "The prince is retreating on Sokolka, God grant successfully," said the officer. "Tell the pure truth: how is it with him?" "I will tell the pure truth and hide nothing, thinking that your worthiness will find strength in your soul to hear news less favorable." "I will!" said Anusia, striking one heel against the other under her robe, with satisfaction that she was called "worthiness," and that the news was "less favorable." "At first everything went well with us," said Byes. "We rubbed out on the road several bands of peasants; we scattered the forces of the younger Sapyeha, and cut up two squadrons of cavalry with a regiment of good infantry, sparing no one. Then we defeated Pan Horotkyevich, so that he barely escaped, and some say that he was killed. After that we occupied the ruins of Tykotsin." "We know all this. Tell us quickly the unfavorable news," interrupted Anusia, on a sudden. "Be pleased, my lady, to listen calmly. We came to Drohichyn, and there the map was unfolded. We had news that Sapyeha was still far away; meanwhile two of our scouting parties were as if they had sunk through the earth. Not a witness returned from the slaughter. Then it appeared that some troops were marching in front of us. A great confusion rose out of that. The prince began to think that all preceding information was false, and that Sapyeha had not only advanced, but had cut off the road. Then we began to retreat, for in that way it was possible to catch the enemy and force him to a general battle, which the prince wished absolutely. But the enemy did not give the field; he attacked and attacked without ceasing. From that everything began to melt in our hands; we had rest neither day nor night. The roads were ruined before us, the dams cut, provisions intercepted. Reports were soon circulated that Charnyetski himself was crushing us. The soldiers did not eat, did not sleep; their courage fell. Men perished in the camp itself, as if the ground were swallowing them. In Byalystok the enemy seized a whole party again, camp-chests, the prince's carriages and guns. I have never seen anything like it. It was not seen in former wars, either. The prince was changed. He wanted nothing but a general battle, and he had to fight ten small ones every day, and lose them. Order became relaxed. And how can our confusion and alarm be described when we learned that Sapyeha himself had not come up yet, and that in front of us was merely a strong party which had caused so many disasters? In this party were Tartar troops." Further words of the officer were interrupted by a scream from Anusia, who, throwing herself suddenly on Olenka's neck, cried,-- "Pan Babinich!" The officer was surprised when he heard the name; but he judged that terror and hatred had wrested this cry from the breast of the worthy lady; so only after a while did he continue his narrative:-- "To whomsover God has given greatness, he has given also strength to bear grievous misfortunes; be pleased, therefore, my lady, to calm yourself. Such indeed is the name of this hell-dweller who has undermined the success of the whole expedition, and become the cause of other immense evils. His name, which your worthiness has divined with such wonderful quickness, is repeated now with fear and rage by every mouth in our camp." "I saw that Babinich at Zamost," said Anusia, hastily; "and could I have guessed--" Here she was silent, and no one knew what would have happened in such an event. The officer, after a moment's silence, continued,-- "Thaws and heat set in, despite, it may be said, the regular order of nature; for we had news that in the south of the Commonwealth there was still severe winter; but we were wading in spring mud, which fastened our heavy cavalry to the earth. But he, having light troops, advanced with more ease. We lost wagons and cannon at every step, and were forced at last to go on horseback. The inhabitants round about, in their blind venom, favored the attackers. What God gives will happen; but I left the whole camp in a desperate condition, as well as the prince himself, whom a malignant fever does not leave, and who loses his power for whole days. A general battle will come quickly; but how it will end, God knows. If He favors, we may hope for wonders." "Where did you leave the prince?" "A day's journey from Sokolka. The prince intends to intrench himself at Suhovola or Yanov and receive battle. Sapyeha is two days distant. When I came away, we had a little more freedom; for from a captured informant we learned that Babinich himself had gone to the main camp; without him the Tartars dare not attack, satisfying themselves with annoying scouting parties. The prince, who is an incomparable leader, places all his hopes on a general battle, but, of course, when he is well; if the fever seizes him, he must think of something else, the best proof of which is that he has sent me to Prussia." "Why do you go?" "Either the prince will win the battle or lose it. If he loses it, all Electoral Prussia will be defenceless, and it may happen easily that Sapyeha will pass the boundaries, force the elector to a decision,--I say this, for it is no secret, I go to forewarn them to have some defence prepared for those provinces; for the unbidden guests may come in too great numbers. That is the affair of the elector and the Swedes, with whom the prince is in alliance, and from whom he has the right to expect rescue." The officer finished. Anusia heaped a multitude of other questions on him, preserving with difficulty dignity sufficient. When he went out, she gave way to herself completely. She fell to striking her skirts with her hands, turning on her heels like a top, kissing Olenka on the eyes, pulling Billevich by the sleeves, and crying,-- "Well, now, what did I say? Who has crushed Prince Boguslav? Maybe Pan Sapyeha? A fig for Sapyeha! Who will crush the Swedes in the same style? Who will exterminate traitors? Who is the greatest cavalier, who is the greatest knight? Pan Andrei, Pan Andrei!" "What Andrei?" asked Olenka, growing pale suddenly. "Have I not told you that his name is Andrei? He told me that himself. Pan Babinich! Long life to Babinich! Volodyovski could not have done better!--What is the matter, Olenka?" Panna Billevich shook herself as if wishing to throw off a burden of grievous thoughts. "Nothing! I was thinking that traitors themselves bear that name. For there was one who offered to sell the king, dead or alive, to the Swedes or to Boguslav; and he had the same name,--Andrei." "May God condemn him!" roared Billevich. "Why mention traitors at night? Let us be glad when we have reason." "Only let Pan Babinich come here!" added Anusia. "That's what is needed! I will fool Braun still more. I will, I will, of purpose to raise the whole garrison, and go over with men and horses to Pan Babinich." "Do that, do that!" cried Billevich, delighted. "And afterward--a fig for all those Germans! Maybe he will forget that good-for-nothing woman, and give me his lo--" Then again her thin voice piped; she covered her face with her hands. All at once an angry thought must have come to her, for she clapped her hands, and said,-- "If not, I will marry Volodyovski!" CHAPTER XLVII. Two weeks later it was boiling in all Taurogi. On a certain evening disorderly parties of Boguslav's troops came in,--thirty or forty horsemen in a body, reduced, torn, more like spectres than men,--and brought news of the defeat of Boguslav at Yanov. Everything had been lost,--arms, horses, cannon, the camp. Six thousand choice men went out on that expedition with the prince; barely four hundred returned,--these the prince himself led out of the ruin. Of the Poles no living soul came back save Sakovich; for all who had not fallen in battle, all whom the terrible Babinich had not destroyed in his attacks, went over to Sapyeha. Many foreign officers chose of their own will to stand at the chariot of the conqueror. In one word, no Radzivill had ever yet returned from an expedition more crushed, ruined, and beaten. And as formerly court adulation knew no bounds in exalting Boguslav as a leader, so now all mouths sounded loudly an unceasing complaint against the incompetent management of the war. Among the remaining soldiers there was endless indignation, which in the last days of the retreat brought complete disorder, and rose to that degree that the prince considered it wiser to remain somewhat in the rear. The prince and Sakovich halted in Rossyeni. Kettling, hearing of this from soldiers, went immediately with the news to Olenka. "The main thing," said she, when the news came, "is whether Sapyeha and that Babinich are pursuing the prince, and whether they intend to bring the war to this region." "I could learn nothing from the statements of the soldiers," answered Kettling, "for fear exaggerates every danger. Some say even that Babinich is here; but since the prince and Sakovich have remained behind, I infer that the pursuit cannot be rapid." "Still it must come, for it is difficult to think otherwise. Who after victory would not pursue the defeated enemy?" "That will be shown. I wished to speak of something else. The prince by reason of illness and defeat must be irritated, therefore inclined to deeds of violence. Do not separate now from your aunt and Panna Borzobogati. Do not consent to the journey of your uncle to Tyltsa, as the last time, before the campaign." Olenka said nothing. Her uncle had, in fact, not been sent to Tyltsa; he had merely been ill for some days after the hammer-stroke given by Prince Boguslav. Sakovich, to hide the prince's deed from the people, spread the report that the old man had gone to Tyltsa. Olenka preferred to be silent on this before Kettling, for the proud maiden was ashamed to confess that any man living had struck a Billevich. "I thank you for the warning," said she, after a moment's silence. "I considered it my duty." But her heart swelled with bitterness; for not long before Kettling might have enabled her to avoid this new danger. If he had consented to the flight, she would have been far away, free of Boguslav forever. "It is really fortunate for me," said she, "that this warning does not touch your honor, that the prince has not issued an order for you not to warn me." Kettling understood the reproach, and uttered a speech which Olenka did not expect of him:-- "As to what touches my military service, to guard which my honor commands, I will accomplish that or forfeit my life. Other choice I have not, and do not wish to have. Outside my service I am free to provide against lawlessness. Therefore, as a private man, I leave with you this pistol, and I say, Defend yourself, for danger is near; in case of need, kill! Then my oath will be at an end, and I will hasten to save you." He bowed and turned toward the door, but Olenka detained him. "Cavalier, free yourself from that service! Defend a good cause; defend the injured, for you are worthy to do so; you are honorable. It is a pity that you should be lost on a traitor!" "I should have freed myself long since, and resigned," said Kettling, "had I not thought that by remaining I might serve you. Now it is too late. If the prince had returned victorious, I should not have hesitated a moment; but when he is coming back conquered,--when, perhaps, the enemy is pursuing him,--it would be cowardice to ask for dismissal before the end of the term itself will free me. You will see sufficiently how people of small heart desert in crowds a defeated man. This pistol will send a ball even through armor with ease." Kettling went out, leaving on the table the weapon, which Olenka secreted at once. Fortunately the previsions of the young officer and her own fear proved groundless. The prince arrived in the evening with Sakovich and Patterson, but so crushed and ill that he was barely able to hold himself on his feet. Besides, he did not know well whether Sapyeha was advancing or had sent Babinich in pursuit with the light squadrons. Boguslav had overthrown, it is true, the latter in his attack, together with his horse; but he dared not hope that he had killed him, since it seemed to him that the double-handed sword had turned in the blow on Babinich's helmet. Besides, he had fired before from a pistol straight into his face, and that had not taken effect. The prince's heart was aching at the thought of what such a Babinich would do with his estates should he reach them with his Tartars,--and he had nothing with which to defend them; and not only his estates, but his own person. Among his hirelings there were not many like Kettling, and it was just to suppose that at the first news of the coming of Sapyeha's troops they would desert him to a man. The prince did not purpose to remain in Taurogi longer than two or three days, for he had to hasten to Royal Prussia to the elector and Steinbock, who might furnish him with new forces, and employ him either in capturing Prussian towns, or send him to aid the king himself, who intended an expedition to the heart of the Commonwealth. In Taurogi he had to leave some one of the officers to bring order into the remnant of the army, ward off patriot peasants and nobles, defend the property of the two Radzivills, and continue the understanding with Löwenhaupt, commander-in-chief of the Swedes in Jmud. With this object, after he had come to Taurogi, and after a night's rest, the prince summoned to council Sakovich, the only man whom he could trust, and to whom alone he could open his heart. That first "good day" in Taurogi was wonderful, when the two friends saw each other after the ill-starred campaign. For some time they gazed on each other without a word. The prince broke the silence first,-- "Well, the devils! they carried the day." "They carried the day!" repeated Sakovich. "It must have been so with such weather. If I had had more light squadrons, or if some devil had not brought that Babinich,--twice the same man! The gallow's bird changed his name. Do not tell any one of him, so as not to increase his glory." "I will not tell. But will not the officers trumpet it, for you presented him before your boots as Banneret of Orsha?" "The German officers know nothing of Polish names. It is all one to them,--Kmita or Babinich. But by the horns of Lucifer, if I could get him! I had him; and the scoundrel brought my men into rebellion, besides leading off Glovbich's troops. He must be some bastard of our blood; it cannot be otherwise! I had him, and he escaped,--that gnaws me more than the whole lost campaign." "You had him, Prince, but at the price of my head." "I tell you sincerely that I would let them flay you, if I might make a drum out of Kmita's skin!" "Thank you, Bogus; I could not expect less from your friendship." The prince laughed: "But you would have squirmed on Sapyeha's gridiron. All your scoundrelism would have been fried out of you. I should have been glad to see that!" "I should be glad to see you in the hands of Kmita, your dear relative. You have a different face, but in form you are like each other, and you have feet of the same size; you are sighing for the same maiden, only she without experience divines that he is stronger, and that he is a better soldier." "I could manage two such as you, and I rode over his breast. If I had had two minutes' time, I should be able to give you my word now that my cousin is not living. You have always been rather dull, hence I took a fancy to you; but in these recent days your wit has left you completely." "You have always had your wit in your heels, and therefore you swept away in such fashion before Sapyeha that I have lost all fancy for you, and am ready myself to go to Sapyeha." "On a rope?" "On that with which they will bind Radzivill." "Enough!" "At the service of your highness!" "It would be well to shoot some of the noisiest of those horsemen, and introduce order." "I commanded this morning to hang six of them. They are cold now, and are dancing stubbornly on the ropes, for the wind is fierce." "You have done well. But listen! Do you wish to remain in the garrison at Taurogi, for I must leave some one here?" "I do, and I ask for that office. No one can manage better. The soldiers fear me more than others, for they know that with me there is no trifling. With respect to Löwenhaupt, it is necessary that some one be here more important than Patterson." "Can you manage the rebels?" "I assure your highness that the pine-trees of Jmud will bear weightier fruit than the cones of last year. I will form about two regiments of infantry out of the peasants, and train them in my fashion. I will have my eyes on the estates; and if the rebels attack one of them, I will throw suspicion immediately on some rich noble and squeeze him like cheese in a bag. At first I shall need merely money to pay wages and equip the infantry." "I will leave what I can." "From the dowry money?" "How is that?" "That means from the Billevich money which you took out of the dowry for yourself in advance." "If you could only twist the neck of old Billevich in some polite way, it would be well; for it could be done easily, and he has my letter." "I will try. But the point is in this,--has he not sent the note somewhere, or has the maiden not sewed it into her shift? Would you not like to discover?" "It will come to that; but now I must go, and besides that cursed fever has taken all my strength." "Your highness, envy me for staying in Taurogi." "You have a strange kind of wish; but if you meanwhile-- I should have you torn apart with hooks. Why do you insist on this office?" "For I want to marry." "Whom?" asked the prince, sitting up in bed. "Panna Borzobogati." "That is a good idea, an excellent idea!" said Boguslav. "I have heard of some will." "There is a will from Pan Longin Podbipienta. Your highness knows what a powerful family that is, and the estates of Pan Longin are in a number of districts. It is true that the Moscow troops have occupied some; there will be lawsuits, fights, disputes, and attacks without number; but I will help myself, and will not yield one point to any man. Besides, the girl has pleased me greatly; she is pretty and enticing. I noticed in a moment when we captured her that she feigned terror, and shot at me with her eyes at the same time. Only let me stay here as commandant, and from idleness alone the love-making will begin." "One thing I tell you. I will not forbid you to marry; but listen well,--no excesses, you understand? That maiden is from the Vishnyevetskis; she is a confidant of Princess Griselda herself; and because of my esteem for the princess, I do not wish to offend her, nor do I wish to offend Pan Zamoyski." "There is no need of warning," answered Sakovich; "for since I wish to marry regularly, I must make regular approaches." "I wish you might get a refusal." "-I know a man who got a refusal, though he is a prince; but I think that that will not come to me. That eye-cutting gives me great consolation." "Don't tell that man who got a refusal not to give you horns! I will give an addition to your shield, or you will receive a surname, Sakovich Rogaty.[9] She is Borzobogaty, and he is Bardzorogaty. You will be a chosen pair. But marry, yes, marry, and let me know of the wedding. I will be your best man." Fierce anger appeared on Sakovich's face, terrible without that. His eyes were covered for a moment as if by smoke; but he soon recovered, and turning the prince's words into a jest, he said,-- "Poor man! you are not able to go downstairs alone, and you make threats. You have your Panna Billevich here; go your way, skeleton! go your way! You'll nurse Babinich's children yet!" "God break your tongue, such a son! You are making sport of the sickness which came within a hair of killing me. I would you were enchanted as I was." "What enchantments are there here? At times, when I see how everything goes in the natural world, I think enchantment is stupid." "You are stupid yourself! Be silent! do not summon the Devil. You disgust me more and more." "Would that I were not the last Pole who has remained faithful to your highness! For my loyalty you feed me with ingratitude. I will return to my dens at home, and sit quietly awaiting the end of the war." "Oh, give us peace! You know that I love you." "It is grievous for me to see that. The Devil thrust this love for your highness on me. If there is enchantment in anything, it is in that." The starosta told the truth; for he loved Boguslav really. The prince knew this, and therefore paid him, if not with strong attachment, with gratitude, which vain people ever have for those who do them homage. Therefore Boguslav agreed willingly to Sakovich's plans touching Anusia, and determined to aid him in person. In view of this, about midday, when he felt better, he had himself dressed and went to Anusia. "I have come because of old acquaintance," said he, "to inquire after your health and ask if the visit to Taurogi has pleased you." "In captivity one must be pleased with all things," answered Anusia, sighing. The prince laughed. "You are not in captivity. You were taken together with Sapyeha's soldiers, that is true; and I gave orders to send you here, but only for safety. Not a hair will fall from your head. Be convinced that there are few people whom I respect as I do Princess Griselda, to whose heart you are near; and the Vishnyevetskis and Zamoyskis are connections of mine. You will find here every freedom and every care. I come to you as a well-wishing friend, and I say if you wish to go I will give you an escort, though I have few soldiers myself. I advise you to stay. You, as I have heard, were sent here to seek property willed to you. Be assured that this is not the time to think of such business; and even in time of peace the aid of Sapyeha would not avail in these regions, for he could act only in Vityebsk; here he can do nothing. I shall not touch that affair personally, but through an agent. You need a friendly man, and adroit, esteemed, and feared. If such a man were to take up this matter, surely he would not let people thrust straw instead of grain into his hand." "Where shall I, an orphan, find such a protector?" asked Anusia. "Precisely in Taurogi." "Your highness would be pleased yourself--" Here Anusia put her hands together, and looked so prettily into Boguslav's eyes that if the prince had not been wearied and broken, he would surely have begun to think less sincerely of Sakovich's cause; but since he had no gallantry in his head at that moment, he said quickly,-- "Could I do it myself, I should not intrust such a pleasant office to any man; but I am going away, for I must go. I leave in my place, as commandant of Taurogi, the starosta of Oshmiana, Pan Sakovich, a great cavalier, a famous soldier, and a man so adroit that there is not another such in all Lithuania. So I repeat: Stay in Taurogi, for you have no place to go to, since every point is full of ravagers and ruffians, while rebels infest all the roads. Sakovich will protect you here; Sakovich will defend you. Sakovich will see what can be done to obtain those estates; and once he undertakes the affair, I guarantee that no man on earth could bring it to a favorable issue sooner. He is my friend, therefore I know him, and I will say only this: if I had taken those estates from you, and afterward learned that Sakovich was coming to oppose me, I would give them up of my own will, for it is dangerous to struggle with him." "If Pan Sakovich would be ready to come to the aid of an orphan--" "Only be not unjust to him, and he will do anything for you, for your beauty has touched his heart deeply. He is going around sighing now--" "How could I touch the heart of any man?" "She is a rascal, the maiden!" thought the prince. But he added aloud: "Let Sakovich explain how that happened. Only do him no wrong; for he is a worthy man and of a noted family, therefore I do not wish that disdain should be shown such a person." CHAPTER XLVIII. Next morning the prince received a summons from the elector to go with all speed to Konigsberg to take command of the newly levied troops which were to march to Marienburg or Dantzig. The letter contained also news of the daring campaign of Karl Gustav through the whole length of the Commonwealth to Russian regions. The elector foresaw a disastrous end to the campaign; but just for that reason he desired to be at the head of as many troops as possible, that he might in case of need be indispensable to one side or the other, sell himself dearly, and decide the fate of the war. For those reasons he enjoined on the young prince all possible haste, so greatly was he concerned about avoiding delay; but after the first courier he sent a second, who arrived twelve hours later. The prince, therefore, had not a moment to lose, and not time enough to rest, for the fever returned with its previous violence. Still he had to go. So when he had delegated his authority to Sakovich, he said,-- "Perhaps we shall have to transport Billevich and the maiden to Königsberg. There it will be easier in quiet to handle a hostile man firmly; but the girl I will take to the camp, for I have had enough of these ceremonies." "It is well, and the cavalry may be increased," answered Sakovich at parting. An hour later the prince was no longer in Taurogi. Sakovich remained, an unlimited despot, recognizing no power above himself but that of Anusia. And he began to blow away the dust from before her feet, as on a time the prince had before the feet of Olenka. Restraining his wild nature, he was courteous, anticipating her wishes, divining her thoughts, and at the same time he held himself at a distance, with all the respect which a polished cavalier should have toward a lady for whose hand and heart he is striving. It must be confessed that this reigning in Taurogi pleased Anusia; it was grateful to her to think that when evening came, in the lower halls, in the corridors, in the barracks, in the garden still covered with winter frost, the sighs of old and young officers were heard; that the astrologer was sighing while looking at the stars from his tower; that even old Billevich interrupted his evening rosary with sighs. While the best of maidens, she was still glad that those swift affections went not to Olenka, but to her. She was glad also with respect to Babinich; for she felt her power, and it came to her head that if no man had resisted her anywhere, she must have burned on his heart also permanent marks with her eyes. "He will forget that woman, it cannot be otherwise, for she feeds him with ingratitude; and when he forgets her he knows where to seek me,--and he will seek me, the robber!" Then she threatened him in her soul: "Wait! I will pay you before I console you." Meanwhile, though not in real truth caring much for Sakovich, she saw him with pleasure. It is true that he justified himself in her eyes from reproaches of treason in the same way in which Boguslav had explained himself to the sword-bearer. He said, therefore, that peace was already concluded with the Swedes; that the Commonwealth might recover and flourish, had not Pan Sapyeha ruined everything for his own private ends. Anusia, not knowing over-much of these matters, let the words pass her ears; but she was struck by something else in Sakovich's narrative. "The Billeviches," said he, "scream in heaven-piercing voices of injustice and captivity; but nothing has happened to them here, and nothing will happen. The prince has not let them go from Taurogi, it is true; but that is for their good, for three furlongs beyond the gate they would perish from ravagers or forest bandits. He has not let them go also, because he loves Panna Billevich, and that also is true. But who will not justify him? Who would act otherwise, who had a feeling heart and a breast burdened with sighs? If he had had less honorable intentions, being such a powerful man, he might have given rein to himself; but he wanted to marry her, he wanted to elevate that stubborn lady to his princely estate, to cover her with happiness, place the coronet of the Radzivills on her head; and these thankless people are hurling invectives at him, thus trying to diminish his honor and fame." Anusia, not believing this greatly, asked Olenka that same day if the prince wished to marry her. Olenka could not deny; and because they had become intimate, she explained her reasons for refusal. They seemed just and sufficient to Anusia; but still she thought to herself that it was not so grievous for the Billeviches in Taurogi, and that the prince and Sakovich were not such criminals as Pan Tomash had proclaimed. Then, also, came news that Sapyeha and Babinich were not only not approaching Taurogi, but had gone with forced marches against the King of Sweden, faraway toward Lvoff. Anusia fell into a rage at first, and then began to understand that if the hetman and Babinich had gone, there was no reason to flee from Taurogi, for they might lose their lives, or in the most favorable event change a quiet existence into a captivity full of dangers. For this reason it came to disputes between her on one side, and Olenka and Billevich on the other; but even they were forced to admit that the departure of Sapyeha rendered their flight very difficult, if not quite impossible, especially since the country was growing more and more excited, and no inhabitant could be certain of the morrow. Finally, even should they not accept Anusia's reason, flight without her aid was impossible, in view of the watchfulness of Sakovich and the other officers. Kettling alone was devoted to them, but he would not let himself be involved in any plot against his service; besides, he was absent often, for Sakovich was glad to employ him against armed bands of confederates and ravagers, since he was an experienced soldier and a good officer, therefore he sent him frequently from Taurogi. But it was pleasanter and pleasanter for Anusia. Sakovich made a declaration to her a month after the departure of the prince; but, the deceiver! she answered cunningly that she did not know him, that men spoke variously concerning him, that she had not time yet to love, that without permission of Princess Griselda she could not marry, and finally, that she wished to subject him to a year's trial. The starosta gnawed his anger, gave orders that day to give three thousand stripes to a cavalry soldier for a trifling offence,--after this the poor soldier was buried; but the starosta had to agree to Anusia's conditions. She told the lordling that if he would serve still more faithfully, diligently, and obediently, in a year he would receive whatever love she had. In this way she played with the bear; and she so succeeded in mastering him that he stifled even his growling. He merely said,-- "With the exception of treason to the prince, ask anything of me, even ask me to walk on my knees." If Anusia had seen what terrible results of Sakovich's impatience were falling on the whole neighborhood, she would not have teased him so greatly. Soldiers and residents in Taurogi trembled before him, for he punished grievously and altogether without cause, punished beyond every measure. Prisoners died in chains from hunger, or were burned with hot iron. More than once it seemed that the wild starosta wished to cool in the blood of men his spirit, at once raging and burning with love, for he started up suddenly and went on an expedition. Victory followed him nearly everywhere. He cut to pieces parties of rebels, and ordered, as an example, that the right hands be cut from captured peasants, who were then sent home free. The terror of his name girded Taurogi as with a wall; even the most considerable bodies of patriots did not dare to go beyond Rossyeni. Peace was established in all parts, and he formed new regiments of German vagrants and the local peasants with the money extorted from neighboring citizens and nobles, and increased in power so as to furnish men to the prince in case of urgent necessity. A more loyal and terrible servant Boguslav could not have found. But Sakovich gazed more and more tenderly at Anusia with his terrible, pale-blue eyes, and played to her on a lute. Life, therefore, in Taurogi passed for Anusia joyously and with amusement; for Olenka it was sore and monotonous. From one there went gleams of gladness, like that light which issues at night from the firefly; the face of the other grew paler and paler, more serious, sterner; her dark brows were contracted more resolutely on her white forehead, so that finally they called her a nun. And she had something in her of the nun; she began to accept the thought that she would become one,--that God himself would through suffering and disappointment lead her to peace behind the grating. She was no longer that maiden with beautiful bloom on her face and happiness in her eyes; not that Olenka who on a time while riding in a sleigh with her betrothed, Andrei Kmita, cried, "Hei! hei!" to the pine woods and forests. Spring appeared in the world. A wind strong and warm shook the waters of the Baltic, now liberated from ice; later on, trees bloomed, flowers shot out from their harsh leafy enclosures; then the sun grew hot, and the poor girl was waiting in vain for the end of Taurogi captivity,--for Anusia did not wish to flee, and in the country it was ever more terrible. Fire and sword were raging as though the pity of God were never to be manifest. Nay more, whoso had not seized the sabre or the lance in winter, seized it in spring; snow did not betray his tracks, the pine wood gave better concealment, and warmth made war the easier. News flew swallow-like to Taurogi,--sometimes terrible, sometimes comforting; and to these and to those the maiden devoted her prayers, and shed tears of sorrow or joy. Previous mention had been made of a terrible uprising of the whole people. As many as the trees in the forests of the Commonwealth, as many as the ears of grain waving on its fields, as many as the stars shining on it at night between the Carpathians and the Baltic, were the warriors who rose up against the Swedes. These men, being nobles, were born to the sword and to war by God's will and nature's order; those who cut furrows with the plough, sowed land with grain; those who were occupied with trade and handicraft in towns; those who lived in the wilderness, from bee-keeping, from pitch-making, who lived with the axe or by hunting; those who lived on the rivers and labored at fishing; those who were nomads in the steppes with their cattle,--all seized their weapons to drive out the invader. The Swede was now drowning in that multitude as in a swollen river. To the wonder of the whole world, the Commonwealth, powerless but a short time before, found more sabres in its defence than the Emperor of Germany or the King of France could have. Then came news of Karl Gustav,--how he was marching ever deeper into the Commonwealth, his feet in blood, his head in smoke and flames, his lips blaspheming. It was hoped any moment to hear of his death and the destruction of all the Swedish armies. The name of Charnyetski was heard with increasing force from boundary to boundary, transfixing the enemy with terror, pouring consolation into the hearts of the Poles. "He routed them at Kozyenitsi!" was said one day. "He routed them at Yaroslav!" was repeated a few weeks later; a distant echo repeated: "He has beaten them at Sandomir!" The only wonder was where so many Swedes could still come from after so many defeats. Finally a new flock of swallows flew in, and with them the report of the imprisonment of the king and the whole Swedish army in the fork of the rivers. It seemed that the end was right there. Sakovich stopped his expeditions; he merely wrote letters at night and sent them in various directions. Billevich seemed bewildered. He rushed in every evening with news to Olenka. Sometimes he gnawed his hands, when he remembered that he had to sit in Taurogi. The old soldier soul was yearning for the field. At last he began to shut himself up in his room, and to ponder over something for hours at a time. Once he seized Olenka in his arms, burst out into great weeping, and said,--"You are a dear girl, my only daughter, but the country is dearer." And next day he vanished, as if he had fallen through the earth. Olenka found merely a letter, and in it the following words:-- "God bless thee, beloved child! I understood well that they are guarding thee and not me, and that it would be easier for me to escape alone. Let God judge me, thou poor orphan, if I did this from hardness of heart and lack of fatherly love for thee. But the torment surpassed my endurance. I swear, by Christ's wounds, that I could endure no longer. For when I thought that the best Polish blood was flowing in a river _pro patria el libertate_ (for the country and liberty), and in that river there was not one drop of my blood, it seemed to me that the angels of heaven were condemning me. If I had not been born in our sacred Jmud, where love of country and bravery are cherished, if I had not been born a noble, a Billevich, I should have remained with thee and guarded thee. But thou, if a man, wouldst have done as I have; therefore thou'lt forgive me for leaving thee alone, like Daniel in the lions' den, whom God in His mercy preserved; so I think that the protection of our Most Holy Lady the Queen will be better over thee than mine." Olenka covered the letter with tears: but she loved her uncle still more because of this act, for her heart rose with pride. Meanwhile no small uproar was made in Taurogi. Sakovich himself rushed to the maiden in great fury, and without removing his cap asked,-- "Where is your uncle?" "Where all, except traitors, are,--in the field!" "Did you know of this?" cried he. But she, instead of being abashed, advanced some steps and measuring him with her eyes, said with inexpressible contempt,-- "I knew--and what?" "Ah, if it were not for the prince! You will answer to the prince!" "Neither to the prince nor to his serving-lad. And now I beg you--" And she pointed to the door. Sakovich gnashed his teeth and went out. That same day news of the victory at Varka was ringing through Taurogi, and such fear fell on all partisans of the Swedes that Sakovich himself dared not punish the priests who sang publicly in the neighboring churches _Te Deum_. A great burden fell from his heart, when a few weeks later a letter came from Boguslav, who was before Marienburg, with information that the king had escaped from the river sack. But the other news was very disagreeable. The prince asked reinforcements, and directed to leave in Taurogi no more troops than were absolutely needed for defence. All the cavalry ready marched the next day, and with it Kettling, Oettingen, Fitz-Gregory,--in a word, all the best officers, except Braun, who was indispensable to Sakovich. Taurogi was still more deserted than after the prince's departure. Anusia grew weary, and annoyed Sakovich all the more. The starosta thought of removing to Prussia; for parties, made bold by the departure of the troops, began again to push beyond Rossyeni. The Billeviches themselves had collected about five hundred horse, small nobles and peasants. They had inflicted a sensible defeat on Bützov, who had marched against them, and they ravaged without mercy all villages belonging to Radzivill. Men rallied to them willingly; for no family, not even the Hleboviches, enjoyed such general honor and respect. Sakovich was sorry to leave Taurogi at the mercy of the enemy; he knew that in Prussia it would be difficult for him to get money and reinforcements, that he managed here as he liked, there his power must decrease; still he lost hope more and more of being able to maintain himself. Bützov, defeated, took refuge under him; and the tidings which he brought of the power and growth of the rebellion made Sakovich decide at last on the Prussian journey. As a positive man, and one loving to bring into speedy effect that which he had planned, he finished his preparations in ten days, issued orders, and was ready to march. Suddenly he met with an unlooked for resistance, and from a side from which he had least expected it,--from Anusia Borzobogati. Anusia did not think of going to Prussia. She was comfortable in Taurogi. The advances of confederate "parties" did not alarm her in the least; and if the Billeviches had attacked Taurogi itself, she would have been glad. She understood also that in a strange place, among Germans, she would be at Sakovich's mercy completely, and that she might the more easily be brought there to obligation, for which she had no desire; therefore she resolved to insist on remaining. Olenka, to whom she explained her reasons, not only confirmed the justness of them, but implored with all her power, with tears in her eyes, to oppose the journey. "Here," said she, "salvation may come,--if not to-day, to-morrow; there we should both be lost utterly." "But see, you almost abused me because I wanted to conquer the starosta, though I knew of nothing; as I love Princess Griselda, it only came somehow of itself. But now would he regard my resistance were he not in love? What do you think?" "True, Anusia, true," responded Olenka. "Do not trouble yourself, my most beautiful flower! We shall not stir a foot out of Taurogi; besides, I shall annoy Sakovich terribly." "God grant you success!" "Why should I not have it? I shall succeed, first, because he cares for me, and second, as I think he cares for my property. It is easy for him to get angry with me; he can even wound me with his sabre; but then all would be lost." And it turned out that she was right. Sakovich came to her joyful and confident; but she greeted him with disdainful mien. "Is it possible," asked she, "that you wish to flee to Prussia from dread of the Billeviches?" "Not before the Billeviches," answered he, frowning; "not from fear; but I go there from prudence, so as to act against those robbers with fresh forces." "Then a pleasant journey to you." "How is that? Do you think that I will go without you, my dearest hope?" "Whoso is a coward may find hope in flight, not in me." Sakovich was pale from anger. He would have punished her; but seeing before whom he was standing, he restrained himself, softened his fierce face with a smile, and said, as if jesting,-- "Oh, I shall not ask. I will seat you in a carriage and take you along." "Will you?" asked she. "Then I see that I am held here in captivity against the will of the prince. Know then, sir, that if you do that, I shall not speak another word to you all my life, so help me the Lord God! for I was reared in Lubni, and I have the greatest contempt for cowards. Would that I had not fallen into such hands! Would that Pan Babinich had carried me off for good into Lithuania, for he was not afraid of any man!" "For God's sake!" cried Sakovich. "Tell me at least why you are unwilling to go to Prussia." But Anusia feigned weeping and despair. "Tartars as it were have taken me into captivity, though I was reared by Princess Griselda, and no one had a right to me. They seize me, imprison me, take me beyond the sea by force, will condemn me to exile. It is soon to be seen how they will tear me with pincers! O my God! my God!" "Have the fear of that God on whom you are calling!" cried the starosta. "Who will tear you with pincers?" "Oh, save me, all ye saints!" cried Anusia, sobbing. Sakovich knew not what to do; he was choking with rage. At times he thought that he would go mad, or that Anusia had gone mad. At last he threw himself at her feet and said that he would stay in Taurogi. Then she began to entreat him to go away, if he was afraid; with which she brought him to final despair, so that, springing up and going out, he said,-- "Well! we shall remain in Taurogi, and whether I fear the Billeviches will soon be seen." And collecting that very day the remnant of Bützov's defeated troops and his own, he marched, but not to Prussia, only to Rossyeni, against the Billeviches, who were encamped in the forests of Girlakol. They did not expect an attack, for news of the intended withdrawal of the troops from Taurogi had been repeated in the neighborhood for several days. The starosta struck them while off their guard, cut them to pieces, and trampled them. The sword-bearer himself, under whose leadership the party was, escaped from the defeat; but two Billeviches of another line fell, and with them a third part of the soldiers; the rest fled to the four points of the world. The starosta brought a number of tens of prisoners to Taurogi, and gave orders to slay every one, before Anusia could intercede in their defence. There was no further talk of leaving Taurogi; and the starosta had no need of doing so, for after this victory parties did not go beyond the Dubisha. Sakovich put on airs and boasted beyond measure, saying that if Löwenhaupt would send him a thousand good horse he would rub out the rebellion in all Jmud. But Löwenhaupt was not in those parts then. Anusia gave a poor reception to this boasting. "Oh, success against the sword-bearer was easy," said she; "but if he before whom both you and the prince fled had been there, of a certainty you would have left me and fled to Prussia beyond the sea." These words pricked the starosta to the quick. "First of all, do not imagine to yourself that Prussia is beyond the sea, for beyond the sea is Sweden; and second, before whom did the prince and I flee?" "Before Pan Babinich!" answered she, courtesying with great ceremony. "Would that I might meet him at a sword's length!" "Then you would surely lie a sword's depth in the ground; but do not call the wolf from the forest." Sakovich, in fact, did not call that wolf with sincerity; for though he was a man of incomparable daring, he felt a certain, almost superstitious, dread of Babinich,--so ghastly were the memories that remained to him after the recent campaign. He did not know, besides, how soon he would hear that terrible name. But before that name rang through all Jmud, there came in time other news,--for some the most joyful of joyful, but for Sakovich most terrible,--which all mouths repeated in three words throughout the whole Commonwealth,-- "Warsaw is taken!" It seemed that the earth was opening under the feet of traitors; that the whole Swedish heaven was falling on their heads, together with all the deities which had shone in it hitherto like suns. Ears would not believe that the chancellor Oxenstiern was in captivity; that in captivity were Erskine, Löwenhaupt, Wrangel; in captivity the great Wittemberg himself, who had stained the whole Commonwealth with blood, who had conquered one half of it before the coming of Karl Gustav; that the king, Yan Kazimir, was triumphing, and after the victory would pass judgment on the guilty. And this news flew as if on wings; roared like a bomb through the Commonwealth; went through villages, for peasant repeated it to peasant; went through the fields, for the wheat rustled it; went through the forest, for pine-tree told it to pine-tree; the eagles screamed it in the air; and all living men still the more seized their weapons. In a moment the defeat of Girlakol was forgotten around Taurogi. The recently terrible Sakovich grew small in everything, even in his own eyes. Parties began again to attack bodies of Swedes; the Billeviches, recovering after their last defeat, passed the Dubisha again, at the head of their own men and the remainder of the Lauda nobles. Sakovich knew not himself what to begin, whither to turn, from what side to look for salvation. For a long time he had no news from Prince Boguslav, and he racked his head in vain. Where was he, with what troops could he be? And at times a mortal terror seized him: had not the prince too fallen into captivity? He called to mind the prince's saying that he would turn his tabor toward Warsaw, and that if they would make him commandant over the garrison in the capital, he would prefer to be there, for he could look more easily on every side. There were not wanting also people who asserted that the prince must have fallen into the hands of Yan Kazimir. "If the prince were not in Warsaw," said they, "why should our gracious lord the king exclude him alone from amnesty, which he extended in advance to all Poles in the garrison? He must be already in the power of the king; and since it is known that Prince Yanush's head was destined for the block, it is certain that Prince Boguslav's will fall." In consequence of these thoughts Sakovich came to the same conviction, and wrestled with despair,--first, because he loved the prince; second, because he saw that if this powerful protector were dead, the wildest beast would more easily find a place to hide its head in the Commonwealth than he, the right hand of the traitor. All that seemed left to him was to flee to Prussia without regard to Anusia's opposition, and seek there bread, service. "But what would happen?" asked the starosta of himself more than once, "if the elector, fearing the anger of Yan Kazimir, should give up all fugitives?" There was no issue but to seek safety beyond the sea, in Sweden itself. Fortunately, after a week of this torment and doubt, a courier came from Prince Boguslav with a long autograph letter. "Warsaw is taken from the Swedes," wrote the prince. "My tabor and effects are lost. It is too late for me to recede, for the king's advisers are so envenomed against me that I was excepted from amnesty. Babinich harassed my troops at the very gates of Warsaw. Kettling is in captivity. The King of Sweden, the elector, and I, with Steinbock and all forces, are marching to the capital, where there will be a general battle soon. Karl Gustav swears that he will win it, though the skill of Yan Kazimir in leading armies confounds him not a little. Who could have foreseen in that ex-Jesuit such a strategist? But I recognized him as early as Berestechko, for there everything was done with his head and Vishnyevetski's. We have hope in this,--that the general militia, of which there are several tens of thousands with Yan Kazimir, will disperse to their homes, or that their first ardor will cool and they will not fight as at first. God grant some panic in that rabble; then Karl Gustav can give them a general defeat, though what will come later is unknown, and the generals themselves tell one another in secret that the rebellion is a hydra on which new heads are growing every moment. First of all, 'Warsaw must be taken a second time.' When I heard this from the mouth of Karl, I asked, 'What next?' He said nothing. Here our strength is crumbling, theirs is increasing. We have nothing with which to begin a new war. And courage is not the same; no Poles will join the Swedes as at first. My uncle the elector is silent as usual; but I see well that if we lose a battle, he will begin to-morrow to beat the Swedes, so as to buy himself into Yan Kazimir's favor. It is bitter to bow down, but we must. God grant that I be accepted, and come out whole without losing my property. I trust only in God; but it is hard to escape fear, and we must foresee evil. Therefore what property you can sell or mortgage for ready money, sell and mortgage; even enter into relations with confederates in secret. Go yourself with the whole tabor to Birji, as from there to Courland is nearer. I should advise you to go to Prussia; but soon it will not be safe from fire and sword in Prussia, for immediately after the taking of Warsaw Babinich was ordered to march through Prussia to Lithuania, to excite the rebellion and burn and slay on the road. And you know that he will carry out that order. We tried to catch him at the Bug; and Steinbock himself sent a considerable force against him, of which not one man returned to give news of the disaster. Do not try to measure yourself with Babinich, for you will not be able, but hasten to Birji. "The fever has left me entirely; here there are high and dry plains, not such swamps as in Jmud. I commit you to God, etc." The starosta was as much grieved at the news as he was rejoiced that the prince was alive and in health; for if the prince foresaw that the winning of a general battle could not much better the shattered fortune of Sweden, what could be hoped for in future? Perhaps the prince might save himself from ruin under the robe of the crafty elector, and he, Sakovich, under the prince; but what could be done in the mean while? Go to Prussia? Pan Sakovich did not need the advice of the prince to restrain him from meeting Babinich. Power and desire to do that were both lacking. Birji remained, but too late for that also. On the road was a Billevich party; then a second party,--nobles, peasants, people of the prince, and God knows what others,--who at a mere report would assemble and sweep him away as a whirlwind sweeps withered leaves; and even if they did not assemble, even if he could anticipate them by a swift and bold march, it would be needful to fight on the road with others; at every village, at every swamp, in every field and forest, a new battle. What forces should he have to take even thirty horses to Birji? Was he to remain in Taurogi? That was bad, for meanwhile the terrible Babinich would come at the head of a powerful Tartar legion; all the parties would fly to him; they would cover Taurogi as with a flood, and wreak a vengeance such as man had not heard of till that day. For the first time in his life the hitherto insolent starosta felt that he lacked counsel in his head, strength in undertaking, and decision in danger; and the next day he summoned to counsel Bützov, Braun, and some of the most important officers. It was decided to remain in Taurogi and await tidings from Warsaw. But Braun from that council went straight to another, to one with Anusia. Long, long did they deliberate together. At last Braun came out with face greatly moved; but Anusia rushed like a storm to Olenka,-- "Olenka, the time has come!" cried she, on the threshold. "We must flee!" "When?" asked the valiant girl, growing a little pale, but rising at once in sign of immediate readiness. "To-morrow, to-morrow! Braun has the command, and Sakovich will sleep in the town, for Pan Dzyeshuk has invited him to a banquet. Pan Dzyeshuk was long ago prepared, and he will put something in Sakovich's wine. Braun says that he will go himself and take fifty horse. Oh, Olenka, how happy I am! how happy!" Here Anusia threw herself on Panna Billevich's neck, and began to press her with such an outburst of joy that she asked,-- "What is the matter, Anusia? You might have brought Braun to this long ago." "I might, I might. I have told you nothing yet! O my God! my God! Have you heard of nothing? Pan Babinich is marching hither! Sakovich and all of them are dying of fear! Pan Babinich is marching, burning, and slaying. He has destroyed one party, has beaten Steinbock himself, and is advancing with forced marches, so as to hurry. And to whom can he hurry hither? Tell me, am I not a fool?" Here tears glistened in Anusia's eyes. Olenka placed her hands together as if in prayer, and raising her eyes said,-- "To whomsoever he is hastening, may God straighten his paths, bless him, and guard him!" CHAPTER XLIX. Kmita, wishing to pass from Warsaw to Royal Prussia and Lithuania, had really no easy task in the very beginning, for not farther from Warsaw than Serotsk was a great Swedish force. Karl Gustav in his time had commanded it to take position there purposely to hinder the siege of the capital. But since Warsaw was captured, that army had nothing better to do than stop the divisions which Yan Kazimir might send to Lithuania or Prussia. At the head of the Swedish force were two Polish traitors, Radzeyovski and Radzivill, with Douglas, a skilful warrior, trained as no other of the Swedish generals in sudden warfare; with them were two thousand chosen infantry and cavalry, with artillery of equal number. When the leaders heard of Kmita's expedition, since it was necessary for them in every event to approach Lithuania to save Tykotsin, besieged anew by Mazovians and men of Podlyasye, they spread widely their nets for Pan Andrei in the triangle on the Bug, between Serotsk on one side and Zlotorya on the other, and Ostrolenko at the point. Kmita had to pass through that triangle, for he was hurrying, and there lay his nearest road. He noticed in good season that he was in a net, but because he was accustomed to that method of warfare he was not disconcerted. He counted on this,--that the net was too greatly extended, and therefore the meshes in it were so widely stretched that he would be able to pass through them. What is more, though they hunted him diligently, not only did he double back, not only did he escape, but he hunted them. First, he passed the Bug behind Serotsk, pushed along the bank of the river to Vyshkov in Branshchyk; he cut to pieces three hundred horse sent on a reconnoissance, so that, as the prince had written, not a man returned to give account of the disaster. Douglas himself pushed him into Dlugosyodle; but Kmita, dispersing the cavalry, turned back, and instead of fleeing with all his might, went straight to the eyes of the enemy as far as the Narev, which he crossed by swimming. Douglas stood on the bank waiting for boats; but before they were brought Kmita returned in the dark through the river, and striking the vanguard of the Swedes brought panic and disorder to Douglas's whole division. The old general was amazed at this movement; but next day his amazement was greater, when he learned that Kmita had gone around the whole army, and doubling back to the spot from which they had started him like a wild beast, had seized at Branshchyk Swedish wagons following the army, together with booty and money, cutting down at the same time fifty men of the infantry convoy. Sometimes the Swedes saw Kmita's Tartars for whole days with the naked eye on the edge of the horizon, but could not reach them. Still Pan Andrei carried off something every moment. The Swedish soldiers were wearied, and the Polish squadrons which held yet with Radzeyovski, though formed of dissenters, served unwillingly. But the population served Kmita with enthusiasm. He knew every movement of the smallest scouting-party, of each wagon which went forward or remained in the rear. Sometimes it seemed that he was playing with the Swedes, but that was tiger-play. He spared no prisoners; he ordered the Tartars to hang them, for the Swedes did the same. At times you would say that irrepressible fury had come upon him, for he hurled himself with blind insolence on superior forces. "An insane man leads that division!" said Douglas. "Or a mad dog!" said Radzeyovski. Boguslav thought he was one and the other, but underneath both a consummate soldier. The prince related boastingly to the generals that he had hurled that cavalier twice to the earth, with his own hand. In fact, Babinich attacked Boguslav most furiously. He sought him evidently; the pursued became himself the pursuer. Douglas divined that there must be some personal hatred in the matter. The prince did not deny this, though he gave no explanations. He paid Babinich with the same coin; for following the example of Hovanski, he put a price on his head; and when that availed nothing, he thought to take advantage of Kmita's hatred and through it bring him into a trap. "It is a shame for us to bother so long with this robber," said he to Douglas and Radzeyovski; "he is prowling around us like a wolf around a sheepfold. I will go against him with a small division as a decoy; and when he strikes me I will detain him till you come up; then we will not let the craw-fish out of the net." Douglas, whom this chase had long since annoyed, made only small opposition, asserting that he could not and should not expose the life of such a great dignitary and relative of kings to the chance of being seized by one marauder. But when Boguslav insisted, he agreed. It was determined that the prince should go with a detachment of five hundred troopers, that each man should have behind him a foot soldier with a musket. This stratagem was to lead Babinich into error. "He will not restrain himself when he hears of only five hundred horsemen, and he will attack undoubtedly," said the prince. "When the infantry spit in his eyes, his Tartars will scatter like sand; he will fall himself, or we shall take him alive." This plan was carried out quickly and with great accuracy. First, news was sent out, two days in advance, that a party of five hundred horse was to march under Prince Boguslav. The generals calculated with certainty that the local inhabitants would inform Babinich of this. In fact, they did inform him. The prince marched in the deep and dark night toward Vansosh and Yelonka, passed the river at Cherevino, and leaving his cavalry in the open field, stationed his infantry in the neighboring groves, whence they might issue unexpectedly. Meanwhile Douglas was to push along by the bank of the Narev, feigning to march on Ostrolenko. Radzeyovski was in advance, with the lighter cavalry from Ksyenjopole. Neither of the three leaders knew well where Babinich was at that moment, for it was impossible to learn anything from the peasants, and the cavalry were not able to seize Tartars. But Douglas supposed that Babinich's main forces were in Snyadovo, and he wished to surround them, so that if Babinich should move on Boguslav, he would intercept him on the side of the Lithuanian boundary and cut off his retreat. Everything seemed to favor the Swedish plans. Kmita was really in Snyadovo; and barely had the news of Boguslav's approach reached him, when he fell at once into the forest, so as to come out unexpectedly near Cherevino. Douglas, turning aside from the Narev, struck in a few days upon the traces of the Tartar march, and advanced by the same road, therefore from the rear after Babinich. Heat tormented the horses greatly, as well as the men encased in iron armor; but the general advanced without regard to those hindrances, absolutely certain that he would come upon Babinich's army unexpectedly and in time of battle. Finally, after two days' march he came so near Cherevino that the smoke of the cottages was visible. Then he halted, and occupying all the passages and narrow pathways, waited. Some officers wished to advance as a forlorn hope and strike at once; but Douglas restrained them, saying,-- "Babinich, after attacking the prince, when he sees that he has to do not with cavalry alone, but also with infantry, will be obliged to retreat; and as he can retreat only by the old road, he will fall as it were into our open arms." In fact, it seemed that all they had to do was to listen, and soon Tartar howling would be heard, and the first discharges of musketry. Meanwhile one day passed, and in the forests of Cherevino it was as silent as if a soldier's foot had never been in it. Douglas grew impatient, and toward night sent forward a small party to the field, enjoining on them the utmost caution. The party returned in the depth of the night, without having seen or done anything. At daylight Douglas himself advanced with his whole force. After a march of some hours he reached a place filled with traces of the presence of soldiers. His men found remnants of biscuits, broken glass, bits of clothing, and a belt with cartridges such as the Swedish infantry use; it became certain that Boguslav's infantry had stopped in that place, but they were not visible anywhere. Farther on in the damp forest Douglas's vanguard found many tracks of heavy cavalry horses, but on the edge tracks of Tartar ponies; still farther on lay the carcass of a horse, from which the wolves had recently torn out the entrails. About a furlong beyond they found a Tartar arrow without the point, but with the shaft entire. Evidently Boguslav was retreating, and Babinich was following him. Douglas understood that something unusual must have happened. But what was it? To this there was no answer. Douglas fell to pondering. Suddenly his meditation was interrupted by an officer from the vanguard. "Your worthiness!" said the officer, "through the thicket about a furlong away are some men in a crowd. They do not move, as if they were on watch. I have brought the guard to a halt, so as to report to you." "Cavalry or infantry?" asked Douglas. "Infantry. There are four or five of them in a group; it was not possible to count them accurately, for the branches hide them. But they seem yellow, like our musketeers." Douglas pressed his horse with his knees, pushed forward quickly to the vanguard, and advanced with it. Through the thickets, now thinner, were to be seen in the remoter deep forest a group of soldiers perfectly motionless, standing under a tree. "They are ours, they are ours!" said Douglas. "The prince must be in the neighborhood." "It is a wonder to me," said the officer; "they are on watch, and none of them calls, though we march noisily." Here the thickets ended, and the forest was clean of undergrowth. The men approached and saw four persons standing in a group, one at the side of the other, as if they were looking at something on the ground. From the head of each one rose a dark strip directly upward. "Your worthiness!" said the officer at once, "these men are hanging." "That is true!" answered Douglas. They sprang forward, and stood for a while near the corpses. Four foot-soldiers were hanging together by ropes, like a bunch of thrushes, their feet barely an inch above the ground, for they were on the lower branches. Douglas looked at them indifferently enough; then said as if to himself, "Now we know that the prince and Babinich have passed this way." Then he fell to thinking again, for he did not know well whether to continue on by the forest path or go out on the Ostrolenko highway. Half an hour later they found two other corpses. Evidently they were marauders or sick men whom Babinich's Tartars had seized while pursuing the prince. "But why did the prince retreat?" Douglas knew him too well--that is, both his daring and his military experience--to admit even for a moment that the prince had not sufficient reasons. Therefore something must have intervened. Only next day was the affair explained. Pan Byes Kornie had come from Prince Boguslav, with a party of thirty horse, to report that Yan Kazimir had sent beyond the Bug against Douglas the full hetman Pan Gosyevski, with six thousand Lithuanians and Tartar horse. "We learned this," said Pan Byes, "before Babinich came up; for he advanced very carefully and attacked frequently, therefore annoyingly. Gosyevski is twenty or twenty-five miles distant. When the prince received the tidings, he was forced to retreat in haste, so as to join Radzeyovski, who might be cut to pieces easily. But by marching quickly we made the junction. The prince sent out at once parties of a few tens of men in every direction, with a report to your worthiness. Many of them will fall into Tartar or peasant hands, but in such a war it cannot be otherwise." "Where are the prince and Radzeyovski?" "Ten miles from here, at the river." "Did the prince bring back all his forces?" "He was forced to leave the infantry, which is coming through the thickest forest, so as to escape the Tartars." "Such cavalry as the Tartar is made to go through the densest forests. I do not expect to see that infantry again. But no one is to blame, and the prince acted like an experienced leader." "The prince threw out one party the most considerable to Ostrolenko, to lead Gosyevski into error. He will go to Ostrolenko at once, thinking that our whole force is there." "That is well!" said Douglas, comforted. "We will manage Gosyevski." And he marched without delay to join Boguslav and Radzeyovski. They met that same day, to the great delight, especially, of Radzeyovski, who feared captivity more than death, for he knew that as a traitor and the originator of all the misfortunes of the Commonwealth he would have to give a terrible answer. But now, after the junction with Douglas, the Swedish army had more than four thousand men; therefore it was able to offer an effective resistance to the forces of the full hetman. He had, it is true, six thousand cavalry; but Tartars--except those of Babinich, who were trained--could not be used in offensive battle, and Pan Gosyevski himself, though a skilled and learned warrior, was not able, like Charnyetski, to inspire men with an enthusiasm which nothing could resist. But Douglas was at a loss to understand why Yan Kazimir should send the full hetman beyond the Bug. The Swedish king with the elector was marching on Warsaw; a general battle must therefore follow, sooner or later. And though Yan Kazimir was at the head of a force superior in numbers to the Swedes and the Brandenburgers, still six thousand men formed too great a force for the King of Poland to set aside voluntarily. It is true that Gosyevski had saved Babinich from trouble, but still the king did not need to send out a whole division to the rescue of Babinich. Hence there was in this expedition some secret object, which the Swedish general, despite all his penetration, could not divine. In the letter of the King of Sweden sent a week later great alarm was evident, and as it were astonishment caused by that expedition, but a few words explained the reasons of this. According to the opinion of Karl Gustav, the hetman was not sent to attack Douglas's army, nor to go to Lithuania to aid the uprising there, for in Lithuania the Swedes, as it was, were not able to do anything but to threaten Royal Prussia, namely, the eastern part of it, which was completely stripped of troops. "The calculation is," wrote the king, "to make the elector waver in faithfulness to the treaty of Marienburg and to us; which may easily happen, since the elector is ready to enter into alliance with Christ against the Devil and at the same time with the Devil against Christ, so as to win something from both." The letter ended by enjoining on Douglas to strive with all his forces not to let the hetman go to Prussia, "who if he cannot reach there in the course of a few weeks, will be forced beyond doubt to return to Warsaw." Douglas saw that the task given him did not surpass his powers at all. Not so long before he had met with a certain success in opposing Charnyetski himself; therefore Gosyevski was not terrible. The Swedish general did not hope, it is true, to crush Gosyevski's division, but he felt certain that he would be able to stop him and curb all his movements. In fact, from that moment began very skilful approaches of the two armies, which, avoiding on both sides a general battle, endeavored each to flank the other. Both leaders emulated each other; but the experienced Douglas was in so far superior that he did not let Gosyevski advance beyond Ostrolenko. But Babinich, saved from Boguslav's attack, did not hasten to join the Lithuanian division, for he occupied himself with great zeal on that infantry which Boguslav in his hurried march to Radzeyovski was forced to leave behind. Babinich's Tartars, guided by local woodmen, pursued night and day, finishing every moment the incautious or those who dropped into the rear. Lack of provisions forced the Swedes at last to separate into small detachments which could find food more easily; this was all that Babinich was waiting for. He divided his forces into three commands, under lead of Akbah Ulan, Soroka, and himself, and in a few days he destroyed the greater part of that infantry. It was an untiring hunt after men in forest thickets, in willows, in reeds,--a hunt full of noise, uproar, shouting, shooting, and death. Widely did it spread the glory of Babinich's name among the Mazovians. Bands collected and joined Gosyevski at Ostrolenko itself, when the full hetman, whose march was only a demonstration, received a command from the king to march back to Warsaw. For a short period only could Babinich rejoice with his acquaintances; namely, with Zagloba and Volodyovski, who at the head of the Lauda squadron attended the hetman. But they greeted one another very cordially, for great friendship and intimacy existed already between them. The young colonels were sharply annoyed that they could not act now against Boguslav; but Zagloba consoled them by pouring frequently into their glasses, and saying,-- "That is nothing! My head has been working since May over stratagems, and I have never racked it over anything in vain. I have a number ready,--very excellent stratagems; but there is no time to apply them, unless at Warsaw, whither we are all marching." "I must go to Prussia," said Babinich, "and cannot be at Warsaw." "Can you reach Prussia?" asked Volodyovski. "As God is in heaven, I shall spring through; and I promise you sacredly to make not the worst cabbage-hash, for I shall say to my Tartars, 'Riot, my soul!' They would be glad even here to draw the knife across people's throats; but I have told them that pay for every violence is the rope. But in Prussia I will give way even to my own will. Why should I not spring through? You were not able; but that is another thing, for it is easier to stop a large force than such a party as mine, with which it is easy to hide. More than once was I sitting in the rushes, and Douglas's men passed right there, knowing nothing of me. Douglas too will surely follow you, and leave the field free to me." "But, as we hear, you have wearied him out too," said Pan Michael, with satisfaction. "Ah, the scoundrel!" added Zagloba. "He had to change his shirt every day, he sweated so. You never stole up to Hovanski better than to him, and I must acknowledge that I could not have done better myself, though, in his time, Konyetspolski said that Zagloba in partisan warfare was unsurpassed." "It seems to me," said Pan Michael to Kmita, "that if Douglas returns he will leave Boguslav here to attack you." "God grant it! I have the same hope," answered Kmita, quickly. "Were I to seek him, and he me, we should find each other. He will not pass through me a third time; and if he does, then I shall not rise again. I remember your secrets well; and all the Lubni thrusts I have in memory like 'Our Father.' Every day, too, I try them with Soroka, so as to train my hand." "What are stratagems good for?" exclaimed Pan Michael; "the sabre is the main thing." This maxim touched Zagloba somewhat; therefore he said at once: "Every windmill thinks that the main thing is to whirl its wings. Do you know why, Michael? Because it has chaff under its roof; that is, in its head. Military art rests on stratagems; if not, Roh Kovalski might be grand hetman and you full hetman." "And what is Pan Kovalski doing?" asked Kmita. "Pan Kovalski has now an iron helmet on his head, and justly, for cabbage is best out of a pot. He has grown rich on plunder in Warsaw, has come into good repute, and gone to the hussars, to Prince Polubinski, and all so as to be able to put a spear into Karl Gustav. He comes every day to our tent, and stares to see if the neck of the decanter is sticking out of the straw. I cannot break that lad of drinking. Good example goes for nothing; but I prophesied to him that this desertion of the Lauda squadron would turn out evil. The rogue! the thankless fellow! in return for all the benefits which I have shown him, such a son for a lance!" "But did you rear him?" "My dear sir, do not make me a bear-trainer! To Sapyeha, who asked me the same question. I answered that he and Roh had the same preceptor, but not me; for I in youthful years was a cooper, and knew how to set staves very well."[10] "To begin with, you would not dare to tell that to Sapyeha," said Volodyovski; "and secondly, though you grumble at Kovalski, you love him as the apple of your eye." "I prefer him to you, Pan Michael; for I could never endure May-bugs, nor soapy little fellows who at the sight of the first woman who comes along play antics like German dogs." "Or like those monkeys in the Kazanovski Palace, with which you were carrying on war." "Oh, laugh, laugh! You can take Warsaw without me next time." "Was it you, then, who took Warsaw?" "But who captured the Cracow Gate? Who invented captivity for the generals? They are sitting now on bread and water in Zamost; and when Wittemberg looks at Wrangel, he says, 'Zagloba put us here!' and both fall to weeping. If Sapyeha were not ill, and if he were present, he would tell you who first drew the Swedish claw from the skin of Warsaw." "For God's sake!" said Kmita, "do this for me,--send news of that battle for which they are preparing at Warsaw. I shall be counting the days and nights on my fingers till I know something certain." Zagloba put his finger to his forehead. "Listen to my forecast," said he, "for what I tell you will be accomplished as surely as that this glass is standing before me-- Is it not standing before me?" "It is, it is! Speak on." "We shall either lose this general battle, or we shall win it--" "Every man knows that!" put in Volodyovski. "You might be silent, Michael, and learn something. Supposing that we lose this battle, do you know what will happen? You see you do not know, for you are moving those little awls under your nose like a rabbit. Well, I will tell you that nothing will happen--" Kmita, who was very quick, sprang up, struck his glass on the table, and said,-- "You are beating around the bush!" "I say nothing will happen!" repeated Zagloba. "You are young, therefore you do not know. As affairs now stand, our king, our dear country, our armies may lose fifty battles one after another, and the war will go on in the old fashion,--the nobles will assemble, and with them the lower ranks. But if they do not succeed one time, they will another, until the enemy's force has melted away. But when the Swedes lose one great battle, the Devil will take them without salvation, and with them the elector to boot." Here Zagloba grew animated, emptied his glass, struck it on the table, and continued,-- "Listen,--for you will not hear this from every mouth, for not every one knows how to take a general view of things. Many a man is thinking, 'What is waiting for us now? how many battles, how many defeats,'--which, in warring with Karl, are not unlikely,--'how many tears, how much bloodshed, how many grievous paroxysms?' And many a one will doubt and blaspheme against the mercy of God and the Most Holy Mother. But I tell you this: do you know what is waiting for those vandal enemies?--destruction; do you know what is waiting for us?--victory! If they beat us one hundred times, very well; but we will beat them the hundred and first time, and that will be the end." When he had said this, Zagloba closed his eyes for a moment, but soon opened them. He looked ahead with gleaming vision, and suddenly shouted with the whole force of his breast: "Victory! victory!" Kmita was flushed from delight: "In God's name, he is right, he speaks justly. It cannot be otherwise! Such an end has to come!" "It must be acknowledged that you are not lacking here," said Volodyovski, putting his finger on his forehead. "The Commonwealth may be occupied; but to stay in it is impossible, so at last the Swedes will have to go out." "Well, is that it? I am not lacking!" said Zagloba, rejoiced at the praise. "If that is true, then I will prophesy further. God is with the just!" Here he turned to Kmita. "You will finish the traitor Radzivill; you will go to Taurogi, recover the maiden, marry her, rear posterity. May I have the pip on my tongue if this will not happen as I say! But for God's sake, don't smother me!" Zagloba was rightfully cautious, for Kmita seized him in his arms, raised him, and began to hug him so that the old man's eyes were bursting out. He had barely come to his feet and recovered breath, when Pan Michael, greatly delighted, seized him by the hand,-- "It is my turn! Tell what awaits me." "God bless you, Michael! your pretty tufted lark will hatch out a whole brood,--never fear. Uf!" "Vivat!" cried Volodyovski. "But first, we will make an end of the Swedes," added Zagloba. "We will, we will!" cried the young colonels, shaking their sabres. "Vivat! victory!" CHAPTER L. A Week later Kmita crossed the boundaries of Electoral Prussia at Raygrod. It came to him easily enough; for before the departure of the full hetman he disappeared in the woods so secretly that Douglas felt sure that his party too had marched with the whole Tartar-Lithuanian division to Warsaw, and he left merely small garrisons in the castles for the defence of those parts. Douglas, with Radzeyovski and Radzivill, followed Gosyevski. Kmita heard of this before passing the boundary, and grieved greatly that he could not meet his mortal enemy eye to eye, and lest punishment might come to Boguslav from other hands,--namely, from Volodyovski, who also had made a vow against him. Hence, not being able to wreak vengeance on the person of the traitor for the wrongs done the Commonwealth and himself, he wreaked it in terrible fashion on the lands of the elector. That very night in which the Tartars had passed the boundary pillar, the heavens grew red from flames. An uproar was heard, with the weeping of people trampled by the foot of war. Whoso was able to beg for mercy in the Polish tongue was spared at command of the leader; but German settlements, colonies, villages, and hamlets were turned into a river of fire, and the terrified inhabitants went under the knife. And not so swiftly does oil spread over the sea when the sailor pours it to pacify the waves, as that chambul of Tartars and volunteers spread over quiet and hitherto safe regions. It seemed that every Tartar was able to double and treble himself, to be at the same time in a number of places, to burn, to slay. They spared not even grain in the field, nor trees in the gardens. Kmita had held his Tartars so long in the leash that at last, when he let them free like a flock of birds of prey, they grew almost wild in the midst of slaughter and destruction. One surpassed the other; and since they could not take captives, they swam from morning till evening in blood. Kmita himself, having in his heart no little fierceness, gave it full freedom, and though he did not steep his own hands in the blood of defenceless people, he looked with pleasure on the flow of blood. In his soul he was at rest, and conscience reproached him with nothing; for this was not Polish blood, and besides it was the blood of heretics; therefore he judged that he was doing a work pleasing to God, and especially to the saints of the Lord. The elector, a vassal, therefore a servant of the Commonwealth and living from its bounties, was the first to raise his sacrilegious hand against it; therefore punishment was his due, and Kmita was purely an instrument of God's vengeance. For this reason, when in the evening he was repeating his Litany in peace by the blaze of burning German settlements, and when the screams of the murdered interrupted the tally of his prayers, he began again from the beginning, so as not to burden his soul with the sin of inattention to the service of God. But he did not cherish in his heart savage feelings alone; for, besides piety, various other feelings moved it, connected by memory with distant years. Therefore those times came frequently to his mind when he attacked Hovanski with such glory, and his former comrades stood as if alive before his eyes,--Kokosinski; the gigantic Kulvyets-Hippocentaurus; the spotted Ranitski, with senatorial blood in his veins; Uhlik, playing on the flageolet; Rekuts, on whom human blood was not weighing; and Zend, imitating birds and every kind of beast. They all, save perhaps Rekuts alone, were burning in hell; and behold, if they were living now, they might wallow in blood without bringing sin on their souls, and with profit to the Commonwealth. Here Pan Andrei sighed at the thought of how destructive a thing license is, since in the morning of youth it stops the road for the ages of ages to beautiful deeds. But he sighed more than all for Olenka. The deeper he entered the Prussian country, the more fiercely did the wounds of his heart burn him, as if those fires which he kindled roused at the same time his old love. Almost every day then he said in his heart to the maiden,-- "Dearest dove, you may have forgotten me, or if you remember, disgust fills your heart; but I, at a distance or near, in the night or the day-time, in labor for the country and toils, am thinking ever of you, and my soul flies to you over pine-woods and waters, like a tired bird, to drop down at your feet. Only to the country and to you would I give all my blood; but woe is me, if in your heart you proclaim me an outlaw forever." Thus meditating, he went ever farther to the north along the boundary belt. He burned and slew, sparing no one. Sadness throttled him terribly. He would like to be in Taurogi on the morrow; but the road was still long and difficult, for at last they began to ring all the bells in the province of Prussia. Every one living seized arms to resist the dreadful destroyers; garrisons were brought in from towns the remotest, regiments were formed of even village youths, and soon they were able to place twenty men against every Tartar. Kmita rushed at these commands like a thunderbolt, beat them, hanged men, escaped, hid, and again sailed out on a wave of fire; but still he could not advance so swiftly as at first. More than once it was necessary to attack in Tartar fashion, and hide for whole weeks in thickets or reeds at the banks of a lake. The inhabitants rushed forth more and more numerously, as if against a wolf; and he bit too like a wolf,--with one snap of his jaws he gave death, and not only defended himself, but did not desist from attack. Loving genuine work, he did not leave a given district, in spite of pursuit, until he had annihilated it for miles around with fire and sword. His name reached, it is unknown by what means, the mouths of the people, and bearing terror and fright, thundered on to the shores of the Baltic. Babinich might, it is true, return within the boundaries of the Commonwealth, and in spite of Swedish detachments, move quickly to Taurogi; but he did not wish to do so, for he desired to serve not only himself but the country. Now came news which gave courage for defence and revenge to the people in Prussia, but pierced the heart of Babinich with savage sorrow. News came like a thunderclap of a great battle at Warsaw, which the King of Poland had lost. "Karl Gustav and the elector have beaten all the troops of Yan Kazimir," people repeated to one and another with delight throughout Prussia. "Warsaw is recaptured!" "This is the greatest victory of the war, and now comes the end of the Commonwealth!" All men whom the Tartars seized and put on the coals to obtain information, repeated the same; there was also exaggerated news, as is common in time of war and uncertainty. According to this news the Poles were cut to pieces, the hetmans had fallen, and Yan Kazimir was captured. Was all at an end, then? Was that rising and triumphing Commonwealth naught but an empty illusion? So much power, so many troops, so many great men and famous warriors; the hetmans, the king, Charnyetski with his invincible division, the marshal of the kingdom, other lords with their attendants,--had all perished, had all rolled away like smoke? And are there no other defenders of this hapless country, save detached parties of insurgents who certainly at news of the disaster will pass away like a fog? Kmita tore the hair from his head and wrung his hands; he seized the wet earth, pressed palms-full of it to his burning head. "I shall fall too," said he; "but first this land will swim in blood." And he began to fight like a man in despair. He did not hide longer, he did not attack in the forest and reeds, he sought death; he rushed like a madman on forces three times greater than his own, and cut them to pieces with sabres and hoofs. In his Tartars all traces of human feeling died out, and they were turned into a herd of wild beasts. A predatory people, but not over-much fitted for fighting in the open field, without losing their genius for surprises and ambush, they, by continual exercise, by continual conflict, had trained themselves so that breast to breast they could hold the field against the first cavalry, and scatter quadrangles even of the Swedish guard. In their struggles with the armed mob of Prussia, a hundred of those Tartars scattered with ease two and even three hundred sturdy men armed with spears and muskets. Kmita weaned them from weighting themselves with plunder; they took only money and gold, which they sewed up in their saddles, so that when one of them fell the survivors fought with rage for his horse and his saddle. Growing rich in this manner, they lost none of their swiftness, well-nigh superhuman. Recognizing that under no leader on earth could they find such rich harvests, they grew attached to Babinich, as hounds to the hunter, and with real Mohammedan honesty placed after battle in the hands of Soroka and the Kyemliches the lion's share of the plunder which belonged to the "bagadyr." "Allah!" said Akbah Ulan, "few of them will see Bagche-Serai, but all who go back will be murzas." Babinich, who from of old knew how to live upon war, collected great riches; but death, which he sought more than gold, he found not. A month passed again in battles and labors surpassing belief. The Tartar horses, though fed with barley and Prussian wheat, needed absolutely even a couple of days' rest; therefore the young colonel, wishing also to gain news and fill the gaps in his ranks with fresh volunteers, withdrew, near Dospada, to the Commonwealth. News soon came, and so joyful that Kmita almost lost his wits. It turned out to be true that the equally valiant and unfortunate Yan Kazimir had lost a great three-days' battle at Warsaw, but for what reason? The general militia in an immense majority had gone home, and the part which remained did not fight with such spirit as at the taking of Warsaw, and on the third day of the battle a panic set in. But for the first two days the victory was inclining to the side of Poland. The regular troops, not in sudden partisan warfare, but in a great battle with the most highly trained soldiers of Europe, exhibited such skill and endurance that amazement seized the Swedish and Brandenburg generals themselves. Yan Kazimir had won immortal glory. It was said that he had shown himself a leader equal to Karl Gustav, and that if all his commands had been carried out the enemy would have lost the general battle, and the war would have been ended. Kmita received these tidings from eye-witnesses, for he had stumbled upon nobles who, serving in the general militia, had taken part in the battle. One of them told him of the brilliant attack of the hussars, during which Karl himself, who, despite the entreaties of his generals, would not withdraw, came near perishing. All showed the falsehood of the report that the army had been routed or the hetmans had fallen. On the contrary, the whole force, except the general militia, remained intact, and withdrew in good order along the country. From the bridge of Warsaw which was giving way cannon had fallen; but they were pulled through the Vistula in a breath. The army swore by everything that under such a leader as Yan Kazimir they would, in the coming battle, conquer Karl Gustav, the elector, and whomsoever it might be necessary to conquer. As to the recent battle it was only a trial, though unfavorable, but full of solace for the future. Kmita was at a loss to know how the first news could have been so terrible. They explained to him that Karl Gustav had sent out exaggerated reports purposely; in fact, he did not know well what to do. The Swedish officers whom Pan Andrei seized a week later confirmed this opinion. He learned also from them that beyond others the elector lived in fear, and was thinking more and more of his own safety; for a multitude of his men had fallen at Warsaw, and disease had seized those remaining so terribly that it was destroying them more quickly than battles. At the same time the men of Great Poland, eager to make good Uistsie and all wrongs, had attacked the monarchy of Brandenburg itself, burning and slaying, leaving nothing behind them but land and water. According to the officers, the hour was near in which the elector would abandon the Swedes, and join the more powerful. "It is needful to touch him with fire somewhat," thought Kmita, "so that he may do this the more quickly." And since his horses were rested already, and he had made good the losses among his men, he passed the boundary again at Dospada, and rushed on the German settlements like a spirit of destruction. Various "parties" followed his example. He found a weaker defence; hence he accomplished more. News came ever more joyful, more gladdening, so that it was difficult to believe it. First of all, it was said that Karl Gustav, who, after the Warsaw battle, had pushed on to Radom, was retreating at breakneck speed to Royal Prussia. What had happened? Why was he retreating? There was no answer to this for a time, till at last the name of Charnyetski thundered again through the Commonwealth. He was victorious at Lipets, victorious at Stjemeshno; at Rava itself he had cut to pieces the rearguard of the retreating Karl; then, learning that two thousand cavalry were returning from Cracow, he attacked that body, and did not let one man escape to announce the defeat. Colonel Forgell, brother of the general, thirteen captains, and twenty-four lieutenants went into captivity. Others gave the numbers as twice greater; some insisted in their enthusiasm that Yan Kazimir had not suffered a defeat, but had won a victory at Warsaw, and that his march along the country was only a stratagem for the destruction of the enemy. Kmita himself began to think the same; for being a soldier from youthful years, he understood war, but had never heard of a victory after which the victor was in a worse condition than before. The Swedes were evidently in a worse condition, and just after the battle at Warsaw. Pan Andrei called to mind at that moment the words of Zagloba, when at their last meeting he said that victories would not improve the Swedish cause, but that one defeat might destroy it. "That is a chancellor's head," pondered Kmita, "which reads in the future as in a book." Here he remembered the further predictions,--how he, Kmita or Babinich, would go to Taurogi, find his Olenka, persuade her, marry her, and have descendants to the glory of the Commonwealth. When he remembered this, fire entered his veins; he wished not to lose a moment, but to leave Prussians and slaughter for a time, and fly to Taurogi. On the eve of his starting there came to him a noble of Lauda, of Volodyovski's squadron, with a letter from the little knight. "We are going with Sapyeha and Prince Michael Radzivill against Boguslav and Waldeck," wrote Pan Michael. "Join us, since a field for just vengeance will be found, and it is proper to pay the Prussians for harm done the Commonwealth." Pan Andrei could not believe his own eyes, and for some time he suspected the noble of being sent by some Prussian or Swedish commandant of purpose to lead him with the chambul into ambush. Had Gosyevski come a second time to Prussia? It was impossible not to believe. The handwriting was Volodyovski's, the arms Volodyovski's, and Pan Andrei remembered the noble too. Then he inquired where Gosyevski was, and to what point he intended to go. The noble was rather dull. It was not for him to know whither the hetman was marching; he knew only that he was two days distant, and that the Lauda squadron was with him. Charnyetski had borrowed it for a while, but had sent it back long ago, and now it was marching under lead of the hetman. "They say," concluded the noble, "that we must go to Prussia, and the soldiers are greatly delighted. But our work is to obey and to strike." Kmita, when he had heard the narrative, did not hesitate long. He turned his chambul, went with forced marches to the hetman, and after two days fell late at night into the arms of Volodyovski, who, pressing him, said at once,-- "Count Waldeck and Prince Boguslav are in Prostki, making intrenchments to secure themselves with a fortified camp. We shall march on them." "To-day?" asked Kmita. "To-morrow before daybreak,--that is, in two or three hours." Here they embraced each other again. "Something tells me that God will give him into our hands!" exclaimed Kmita, with emotion. "And I think so too." "I have made a vow to fast till death on the day in which I meet him." "The protection of God will not fail you," said Volodyovski. "I shall not be envious, either, if this lot falls to you, for your wrong is greater. Yendrek, let me look at you! You have grown perfectly black from the weather; but you have acquitted yourself. The whole division looks with the greatest esteem on your labor. Nothing behind you but ruins and corpses! You are a born soldier; and it would go hard with Zagloba himself, were he here, to invent in self-praise deeds better than those you have done." "But where is Zagloba?" "He remained with Sapyeha; for he fell into weeping and despair after Kovalski." "Then has Kovalski fallen?" Volodyovski pressed his lips. "Do you know who killed him?" "Whence should I know? Tell me!" "Prince Boguslav!" Kmita turned in his place, as if thrust with a point, and began to draw in air with a hiss; at last he gritted his teeth, and casting himself on the bench, rested his head on his palms in silence. Volodyovski clapped his hands, and ordered the attendant to bring drink; then he sat near Kmita, filled a cup for him, and began,-- "Ron Kovalski died such a cavalier's death that God grant any man of us to die no worse. It is enough to inform you that Karl Gustav himself after the battle celebrated his funeral, and a whole regiment of the guards fired a salute over his coffin." "If only not at those hands, at those hellish hands!" exclaimed Kmita. "Yes, at the hands of Boguslav; we know that from hussars who with their own eyes saw the sad end." "Were you not there then?" "In battle places are not chosen, but a man stands where he is ordered. If I had been there, either I should not be here now, or Boguslav would not be making trenches at Prostki." "Tell me how it all happened. It will only increase the anger." Pan Michael drank, wiped his yellow mustaches, and began:-- "Of a certainty you are not lacking in narratives of the Warsaw battle, for every one is speaking of it; therefore I shall not dwell on it too long. Our gracious lord--God give him health and long years! for under another king the country would have perished amid disasters--has shown himself a famous leader. Had there been such obedience as there was command, had we been worthy of the king, the chroniclers would have to describe a new Polish victory at Warsaw equal to those at Grünwald and Berestechko. Speaking briefly, on the first day we beat the Swedes; on the second, fortune inclined now to one, now to the other, but still we were uppermost. At that time the Lithuanian hussars, in which Kovalski served under Prince Polubinski, a great soldier, went to the attack. When they were passing I saw them as I see you this moment, for I was with the Lauda men on a height near the intrenchments. They were twelve hundred strong,--men and horses such as the world had not seen. They passed twenty rods distant from our flank; and I tell you that the earth trembled under them. We saw the Brandenburg infantry planting their pikes in the ground in a hurry, to meet the first onrush. Then began firing from muskets, till the smoke covered them entirely. We looked. The hussars had given rein to their horses. O God, what a sweep! They fell into the smoke,--disappeared! My soldiers began to shout, 'They will break them, they will break them!' For a while the hussars were invisible; then something thundered, and there was a sound as if in a thousand forges men were beating anvils with hammers. We look. Jesus! Mary! The elector's men are lying like stones on a street, like wheat through which a tempest has passed; and the hussars far away beyond, their streamers glittering. They are bearing down on the Swedes! They struck cavalry; the cavalry were down like a pavement! They struck a second regiment; they left that like a pavement! There was a roar, cannon were thundering; we saw them when the wind bore the smoke aside. They were smashing Swedish infantry. Everything was fleeing, rolling, opening; they went on as if over a highway. They had passed almost through the whole army, when they struck a regiment of the horse-guard, in which was Karl Gustav himself; and like a whirlwind they scattered the horse-guard." Here Pan Michael stopped, for Kmita had closed his eyes with his fists and was exclaiming,-- "O Mother of God! To see such a thing once and then die!" "Such an attack my eyes will never see again," continued the little knight. "We too were commanded to spring forward. I saw no more, but what I tell I heard from the mouth of a Swedish officer who was at the side of Karl and saw with his own eyes the end. That Forgell who fell into our hands afterward at Rava, rushed up to Karl. 'O King,' cried he, 'save Sweden! save yourself! Aside, aside! Nothing can stop them!' But Karl answered: 'No use to yield; we must meet them or perish.' Other generals rush up, implore, entreat, in vain. The king moved forward; they strike. The Swedes are broken more quickly than you can count ten. One fell, another was trampled, others were scattered like peas. The king defended himself single-handed. Kovalski rode up and knew Karl Gustav, for he had seen him twice before. A horseman shielded the king; but those who were present said that lightning does not kill more quickly than Kovalski cut him in two. Then the king rushed at Pan Roh." Volodyovski again interrupted his narrative and breathed deeply; but Kmita cried at once,-- "Oh, finish, or the soul will go out of me!" "They rushed at each other so that the breasts of the horses struck. They raged. 'I look,' said the officer; 'the king with his horse is on the ground.' He freed himself, touched the trigger of his pistol, missed. The king's hat had fallen. Roh then made for the head of Karl Gustav,--had his sword raised; the Swedes were weak from terror, for there was no time to save Karl, when Boguslav rose as if from under the earth, fired into the very ear of Kovalski, broke his head and his helmet." "O my God! he had not time to bring down the sword?" screamed Pan Andrei, tearing his hair. "God did not grant him that grace," said Pan Michael. "Zagloba and I talked of what had happened. The man had served with the Radzivills from years of youth; he considered them his masters, and at sight of Radzivill it must be that he was confused. Perhaps the thought had never come to his head to raise a hand on Radzivill. It happens that way! Well, he paid with his life. Zagloba is a wonderful man, for he is not Roh's uncle at all, and not his relative; still another man would not have been in such despair for a son. And, to tell the truth, there was no reason, for one might envy Kovalski such a glorious death; a noble and a soldier is born to give his life, if not on the present day then on the morrow; men will write of Kovalski, and posterity will celebrate his name." Pan Michael was silent; after a while he made the sign of the cross and said,-- "Eternal rest give him, O Lord, and may light shine on him forever!" "For the ages of ages!" said Kmita. Both whispered prayers for a certain time, maybe asking for themselves a similar death, if only not at the hands of Prince Boguslav. At last Pan Michael said,-- "Father Pyekarski assured us that Roh went straight to heaven." "Of course he did, and our prayers are not needed for him." "Prayers are always needed; for they are inscribed to the credit of others, and maybe to our own." "My hope is in the mercy of God," said Kmita, sighing. "I trust that for what I have done in Prussia, even a couple of years will be taken from me in purgatory." "Everything there is reckoned. What a man works out here with his sabre, the heavenly secretary records." "I too served with Radzivill," said Kmita, "but I shall not be confused at sight of Boguslav. My God, my God! Prostki is not far away! Remember, O Lord, that he is Thy enemy too, for he is a heretic who more than once has blasphemed Thy true faith." "And is an enemy of the country," added Pan Michael. "We have hope that his end is approaching. Zagloba, speaking in grief and in tears and as if inspired, foretold the same after that attack of the hussars. He cursed Boguslav so that the hair stood on the head of every man listening. Prince Michael Radzivill, who is marching with us against him, saw also in a dream two golden trumpets, which the Radzivills have on their shield, gnawed by a bear, and he said at once next day, 'Misfortune will meet me or some other Radzivill.'" "By a bear?" asked Kmita, growing pale. "By a bear." Pan Andrei's face became clear as if a gleam of the morning dawn had fallen on it; he raised his eyes, stretched his hands toward heaven and said with a solemn voice,-- "I have a bear on my shield. Praise to Thee, O Lord on high! Praise to Thee, Most Holy Mother! O Lord, O Lord! I am not worthy of this grace." When he heard this Pan Michael was greatly moved, for he recognized at once that that was an omen from heaven. "Yendrek!" cried he, "to make sure, press the feet of Christ before the battle; and I will implore him against Sakovich." "Prostki! Prostki!" repeated Kmita, as in a fever. "When do we move?" "Before day, and soon it will begin to dawn." Kmita approached the broken window of the cottage and cried: "The stars are paling already. _Ave, Maria_." Then came the distant crowing of a cock, and with it low trumpeting. A few "Our Fathers" later, movement began in the whole village. The clatter of steel was heard, and the snorting of horses. Dark masses of cavalry assembled on the highway. The air began to be filled with light; a pale gleam was silvering the points of the spears, twinkling on the naked sabres, bringing out of the shade mustached threatening faces, helmets, kolpaks, Tartar sheepskin caps, fur cloaks, quivers. At last the advance with Kmita in the vanguard was moving toward Prostki; the troops stretched in a long line over the road, and marched quickly. The horses in the first ranks fell to snorting greatly, after them others, as a good portent for the soldiers. White mists hid the meadows yet, and the fields. Round about was silence; only land-rails were playing in the grass, wet with dew. CHAPTER LI. September 6, the Polish troops arrived at Vansosh and disposed themselves for rest, so that before battle horses and men might gain strength. Pan Gosyevski, the hetman, decided to halt there four or five days; but events interfered with his reckoning. Babinich, as a man knowing the boundary well, was sent on a reconnoissance; he was given two light Lithuanian squadrons and a fresh chambul of Tartars, for his own Tartars were over-much wearied. Gosyevski enjoined on him earnestly, before starting, to obtain an informant and not to return empty-handed. But Babinich merely laughed, thinking to himself that he needed no urging, and that he would bring prisoners, even if he had to find them in the intrenchments of Prostki. In fact, he returned in forty-eight hours, bringing a number of Prussians and Swedes, and among them an officer of note, Von Rössel, captain in a Prussian regiment under Boguslav. The party was received in the camp with great applause. There was no need of torturing the captain, for Babinich had already done that on the road by putting the sword-point to his throat. From his statements it transpired that not only the Prussian regiments of Count Waldeck were in Prostki, but also six Swedish regiments under command of Major-General Israel; of these, four were of cavalry under Peters, Frytjotson, Tauben, and Ammerstein, with two of infantry under the brothers Engel. Of Prussian regiments, which were very well equipped, besides that of Count Waldeck himself, there were four,--those of the Prince of Wismar, Bruntsl, Konnaberg, General Wahlrat,--with four squadrons of Boguslav's command, two being of Prussian nobles, and two of his own men. Supreme command was held by Count Waldeck; in reality, however, he obeyed in everything Prince Boguslav, to whose influence the Swedish general Israel also yielded. But the most important intelligence given by Rössel was this,--that two thousand chosen infantry of Pomerania were hastening from Elko to reinforce Prostki; but Count Waldeck, fearing lest these men might be taken by the horde, wished to leave the fortified camp, join the Pomeranians, and then make intrenchments a second time. Boguslav, according to Rössel, was so far rather strongly opposed to leaving Prostki, and only during the last days began to incline toward this action. Gosyevski on hearing this news was greatly rejoiced, for he was certain that victory would not miss him. The enemy might defend themselves for a long time in the intrenchments, but neither the Swedish nor the Prussian cavalry could resist the Poles in the open field. Prince Boguslav seemed to understand this fact as well as Gosyevski, and for this special reason he did not much approve Waldeck's plans. But he was too vain not to yield before even the reproach of excessive caution. Besides, he was not distinguished for patience. It might be reckoned almost with certainty that he would grow weary of waiting in trenches, and would seek fame and victory in the open field. Gosyevski had simply to hasten his advance on the enemy at the moment when they were leaving the intrenchments. So thought he; so thought other colonels, such as Hassan Bey, who led the horde; Voynillovich, who led the king's regiment; Korsak, a light-horse colonel; Volodyovski, Kotvich, and Babinich. All agreed on one point,--that it was necessary to give up further rest, and march in the night; that is, in a few hours. Meanwhile Korsak sent his banneret, Byeganski, to Prostki to inform the advancing army every hour of what was taking place in the camp. Volodyovski and Babinich took Rössel to their quarters to learn something more of Boguslav. The captain was greatly alarmed at first, for he felt still at his throat Kmita's sabre-point, but wine soon loosened his tongue. Since he had served once in the Commonwealth in a foreign command, he had learned Polish; therefore he was able to answer the questions of the little knight, who did not know German. "Have you been long in the service of Prince Boguslav?" asked Volodyovski. "I do not serve in his army," answered Rössel, "but in the elector's regiment, which was put under his command." "Then do you know Pan Sakovich?" "I have seen him in Königsberg." "Is he with the prince?" "He is not; he remained in Taurogi." Volodyovski sighed and moved his mustaches. "I have no luck, as usual," said he. "Be not grieved, Michael," said Babinich. "You will find him; if not, I shall." Then he turned to Rössel: "You are an old soldier; you have seen both armies, and you know our cavalry of old: what do you think,--on whose side will be victory?" "If they meet you outside the trenches, on yours; but you cannot take the trenches without infantry and cannon, especially since everything is done there with Radzivill's head." "Then do you consider him such a great leader?" "Not only is that my opinion, but it is the general opinion in both armies. They say that at Warsaw the Most Serene King of Sweden followed his advice, and therefore won a great battle. The prince, as a Pole, has a better knowledge of your method of warfare and can manage more quickly. I saw myself that the King of Sweden after the third day of battle embraced him in front of the army and kissed him. It is true that he owed his life to him; for had it not been for the shot of the prince-- But it is a terror to think of it! He is besides an incomparable knight, whom no man can meet with any weapon." "H'm!" said Volodyovski, "maybe there is such a man." When he had said this, his mustaches trembled threateningly. Rössel looked at him, and grew suddenly red. For a time it seemed that either he would burst a blood-vessel or break into laughter; but at last he remembered that he was in captivity, and controlled himself quickly. But Kmita with his steel eyes looked at him steadily and said,-- "That will be shown to-morrow." "But is Boguslav in good health?" asked Volodyovski; "for the fever shook him a long time, and must have weakened him." "He is, and has been this long time, as healthy as a fish, and takes no medicine. The doctor at first wanted to give him many preservatives, but immediately after the first came a paroxysm. Prince Boguslav gave orders to toss that doctor up from sheets; and that helped him, for the doctor himself got a fever from fright." "To toss him up from sheets?" asked Volodyovski. "I saw it myself," answered Rössel. "Two sheets were placed one above the other, and the doctor put in the centre of them. Four strong soldiers took the sheets by the corners, and threw up the poor doctor. I tell you, gentlemen, that he went nearly ten ells into the air, and he had hardly come down when they hurled him up again. General Israel, Count Waldeck, and the prince were holding their sides from laughter. Many of the officers too were looking at the spectacle, till the doctor fainted. Then the prince was free of his fever, as if some hand had removed it." Though Pan Michael and Babinich hated Boguslav, still they could not restrain themselves from laughter when they heard of this joke. Babinich struck his knees and cried,-- "Ah, the scoundrel! how he helped himself!" "I must tell Zagloba of this medicine," said Pan Michael. "It cured him of the fever," said Rössel; "but what is that, when the prince does not restrain sufficiently the impulses of his blood, and therefore will not live to ripe age?" "I think so too," muttered Babinich. "Such as he do not live long." "Does he give way to himself in the camp?" asked Pan Michael. "Of course," answered Rössel. "Count Waldeck laughed, saying that his princely grace takes with him waiting-maids. I saw myself two handsome maidens; his attendants told me that they were there to iron his lace--but God knows." Babinich, when he heard this, grew red and pale; then he sprang up, and seizing Rössel by the arm began to shake him violently. "Are they Poles or Germans?" "Not Poles," said the terrified Rössel. "One is a Prussian noblewoman; the other is a Swede, who formerly served the wife of General Israel." Babinich looked at Pan Michael and drew a deep breath; the little knight was relieved too, and began to move his mustaches. "Gentlemen, permit me to rest," said Rössel. "I am dreadfully tired, for the Tartar led me ten miles with a lariat." Kmita clapped his hands for Soroka, and committed the prisoner to him; then he turned with quick step to Pan Michael. "Enough of this!" said he. "I would rather perish a hundred times than live in this ceaseless alarm and uncertainty. When Rössel mentioned those women just now, I thought that some one was going at my temple with a club." "It is time to finish!" said Volodyovski, shaking his sabre. At that moment trumpets sounded at the hetman's quarters; soon trumpets answered in all the Lithuanian squadrons, and pipes in the chambuls. The troops began to assemble, and an hour later were on the march. Before they had gone five miles a messenger hurried up from Byeganski of Korsak's squadron, with intelligence for the hetman that a number of troopers had been seized from a considerable body occupied in collecting on that side of the river all the wagons and horses of the peasants. Interrogated on the spot, they acknowledged that the tabor of the whole army was to leave Prostki about eight o'clock in the morning, and that commands were issued already. "Let us praise God and urge on our horses," said Gosyevski. "Before evening that army will be no longer in existence." He sent the horde neck and head to push with utmost endeavor between Waldeck's troops and the Pomeranian infantry hastening to aid them. After the horde went Lithuanians; being mainly of the light squadrons, they came right after the horde. Kmita was in the front rank of the Tartars, and urged on his men till the horses were steaming. On the road he bowed down on the saddle, struck his forehead on the neck of his horse, and prayed with all the powers of his soul,-- "Grant me, O Christ, to take vengeance, not for my own wrongs, but for the insults wrought on the country! I am a sinner; I am not worthy of Thy grace; but have mercy on me! Permit me to shed the blood of heretics, and for Thy praise I will fast and scourge myself every week on this day till the end of my life." Then to the Most Holy Lady of Chenstohova, whom he had served with his blood, and to his own patron besides, did he commit himself; and strong with such protection, he felt straightway that an immense hope was entering his soul, that an uncommon power was penetrating his limbs,--a power before which everything must fall in the dust. It seemed to him that wings were growing from his shoulders; joy embraced him like a whirlwind, and he flew in front of his Tartars, so that sparks were scattered from under the hoofs of his steed. Thousands of wild warriors bent forward to the necks of their ponies, and shot along after him. A river of pointed caps rose and fell with the rush of the horses; bows rattled behind the men's shoulders; in front went the sound from the tramp of iron hoofs; from behind flew the roar of the oncoming squadrons, like the deep roar of a great swollen river. And thus they flew on in the rich starry night which covered the roads and the fields. They were like a mighty flock of ravening birds which had smelled blood in the distance. Fields, oak-groves, meadows, sped past, till at last the waning moon became pale and inclined in the west. Then they reined in their beasts, and halted for final refreshment. It was not farther now than two miles from Prostki. The Tartars fed their horses with barley from their hands, so that the beasts might gain strength before battle; but Kmita sat on a fresh pony and rode farther to look at the camp of the enemy. After half an hour's ride he found in the willows the light-horse party which Korsak had sent to reconnoitre. "Well," asked Kmita, "what is to be heard?" "They are not sleeping, they are bustling like bees in a hive," answered the banneret. "They would have started already, but have not wagons sufficient." "Can the camp be seen from some point near at hand?" "It can from that height which is covered with bushes. The camp lies over there in the valley of the river. Does your grace wish to see it?" "Lead on." The banneret put spurs to his horse, and they rode to the height. Day was already in the sky, and the air was filled with a golden light; but along the river on the opposite low bank there lay still a dense fog. Hidden in the bushes, they looked at that fog growing thinner and thinner. At last about two furlongs distant a square earthwork was laid bare. Kmita's glance was fixed on it with eagerness; but at the first moment he saw only the misty outlines of tents and wagons standing in the centre along the intrenchments. The blaze of fires was not visible; he saw only smoke rising in lofty curls to the sky in sign of fine weather. But as the fog vanished Pan Andrei could distinguish through his field-glass blue Swedish and yellow Prussian banners planted on the intrenchments; then masses of soldiers, cannon, and horses. Around there was silence, broken only by the rustle of bushes moved by the breeze, and the glad morning twitter of birds; but from the camp came a deep sound. Evidently no one was sleeping, and they were preparing to march, for in the centre of the intrenchment was an unusual stir. Whole regiments were moving from place to place; some went out in front of the intrenchments; around the wagons there was a tremendous bustle. Cannon also were drawn from the trenches. "It cannot be but they are preparing to march," said Kmita. "All the prisoners said: 'They wish to make a junction with the infantry; and besides they do not think that the hetman can come up before evening; and even if he were to come up, they prefer a battle in the open field to yielding that infantry to the knife.'" "About two hours will pass before they move, and at the end of two hours the hetman will be here." "Praise be to God!" said the banneret. "Send to tell our men not to feed too long." "According to order." "But have they not sent away parties to this side of the river?" "To this side they have not sent one. But they have sent some to their infantry, marching from Elko." "It is well!" said Kmita. And he descended the height, and commanding the party to hide longer in the rushes, moved back himself with all the breath in his horse to the squadron. Gosyevski was just mounting when Babinich arrived. The young knight told quickly what he had seen and what the position was; the hetman listened with great satisfaction, and urged forward the squadrons without delay. Babinich's party went in advance; after it the Lithuanian squadrons; then that of Voynillovich, that of Lauda, the hetman's own, and others. The horde remained behind; for Hassan Bey begged for that with insistence, fearing that his men might not withstand the first onset of the heavy cavalry. He had also another reckoning. He wished, when the Lithuanians struck the enemy's front, to seize the camp with his Tartars; in the camp he expected to find very rich plunder. The hetman permitted this, thinking justly that the Tartars would strike weakly on the cavalry, but would fall like madmen on the tabor and might raise a panic, especially since the Prussian horses were less accustomed to their terrible howling. In two hours, as Kmita had predicted, they halted in front of that elevation from which the scouting-party had looked into the intrenchments, and which now concealed the march of all the troops. The banneret, seeing the troops approaching, sprang forward like lightning with intelligence that the enemy, having withdrawn the pickets from this side of the river, had already moved, and that the rear of the tabor was just leaving the intrenchments. When he heard this, Gosyevski drew his baton from the holsters of the saddle, and said,-- "They cannot return now, for the wagons block the way. In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost! There is no reason to hide longer!" He beckoned to the bunchuk-bearer; and he, raising the horse-tail standard aloft, waved it on every side. At this sign all the horse-tail standards began to wave, trumpets thundered, Tartar pipes squeaked, six thousand sabres were gleaming in the air, and six thousand throats shouted,-- "Jesus! Mary!" "Allah uh Allah!" Then squadron after squadron rose in a trot from behind the height. In Waldeck's camp they had not expected guests so soon, for a feverish movement set in. The drums rattled uninterruptedly; the regiments turned with front to the river. It was possible to see with the naked eye generals and colonels flying between the regiments; they hurried to the centre with the cannon, so as to bring them forward to the river. After a while both armies were not farther than a thousand yards from each other. They were divided only by a broad meadow, in the centre of which a river flowed. Another moment, and the first streak of white smoke bloomed out from the Prussian side toward the Poles. The battle had begun. The hetman himself sprang toward Kmita's troops,-- "Advance, Babinich! advance in God's name against that line!" And he pointed with his baton to the gleaming regiment of cavalry. "Follow me!" commanded Pan Andrei. And pressing his horse with spurs, he moved at a gallop toward the river. More swiftly than an arrow from a bow did they shoot forward. The horses had gained their highest speed, and were running with ears dropped back, and bodies stretched out like the bodies of hounds. The riders bent forward to the manes of their horses, and howling, lashed onward the beasts, which now did not seem to touch earth; they rushed with that impetus into the river. The water did not restrain them, for they came upon a broad ford, level and sandy; they reached the other bank, and sprang on in a body. Seeing this, the regiment of armored cavalry moved toward them, first at a walk, then at a trot, and did not go faster; but when Kmita's front had come within twenty yards, the command "Fire!" was heard, and a thousand arms with pistols were stretched forward. A line of smoke ran from one end of the rank to the other; then the two bodies struck each other with a crash. The horses reared at the first blow; over the heads of the combatants glittered sabres through the whole length of the line. A serpent as it were of lightning flew from end to end. The ominous clang of blades against helmets and breastplates was heard to the other side of the river. It seemed as if hammers were ringing in forges on plates of steel. The line bent in one moment into a crescent; for since the centre of the German cavalry yielded, pushed back by the first onset, the wings, against which less force was directed, kept their places. But the armored soldiers did not let the centre be broken, and a terrible slaughter began. On one side enormous men covered with armor resisted with the whole weight of horses; on the other the gray host of Tartars pushed with the force of accumulated impetus, cutting and thrusting with an inconceivable rapidity which only uncommon activity and ceaseless practice can give. As when a host of woodcutters rush at a forest of pine-trees there is heard only the sound of axes, and time after time some lofty tree falls to the ground with a fearful crash, so every moment some one of the cavalry bent his shining head and rolled under his horse. The sabres of Kmita's men glittered in their eyes, cut around their faces, eyes, hands. In vain does a sturdy soldier raise his heavy sword; before he can bring it down, he feels a cold point entering his body; then the sword drops from his hand, and he falls with bloody face on the neck of his horse. When a swarm of wasps attack in an orchard him who is shaking down fruit, vainly does the man ward them off with his hands, try to free himself, dodge aside; they reach his face skilfully, reach his neck, and each one drives into him a sharp sting. So did Kmita's raging men, trained in so many battles, rush forward, hew, cut, thrust, spread terror and death more and more stubbornly, surpassing their opponents as much as a skilful craftsman surpasses the sturdiest apprentice who is wanting in practice. Therefore the German cavalry began to fall more quickly; and the centre, against which Kmita himself was fighting, became so thin that it might break at any moment. Commands of officers, summoning soldiers to shattered places, were lost in the uproar and wild shouting; the line did not come together quickly enough, and Kmita pressed with increasing power. Wearing chain-mail, a gift from Sapyeha, he fought as a simple soldier, having with him the young Kyemliches and Soroka. Their office was to guard their master; and every moment some one of them turned to the right or the left, giving a terrible blow; but Kmita rushed on his chestnut horse to the thickest of the fight, and having all the secrets of Pan Michael, and gigantic strength, he quenched men's lives quickly. Sometimes he struck with his whole sabre; sometimes he barely reached with the point; sometimes he described a small circle merely, but quick as lightning, and a horseman flew head downward under his beast, as if a thunderbolt had hurled him from the saddle. Others withdrew before the terrible man. At last Pan Andrei slashed the standard-bearer in the temple; he gave forth a sound like that which a cock gives if his throat is cut, and dropped the standard from his hand. At that moment the centre broke, and the disordered wings forming two chaotic bodies fled swiftly to the farther lines of the Prussian army. Kmita looked through the broken centre into the depth of the field, and saw at once a regiment of red dragoons flying like wind to the aid of the broken cavalry. "That is nothing!" thought he; "Volodyovski will cross the ford in a moment to aid me." At that instant was heard the thunder of cannon so loud that the earth trembled in its foundations; musketry rattled from the intrenchment to those ranks of the Poles who had pushed forward most. The whole field was covered with smoke, and in that smoke Kmita's volunteers and Tartars closed with the dragoons. But from the side of the river no one came with assistance. The enemy had let Kmita pass the ford purposely, and then covered the ford with such a dreadful shower from cannons and muskets that no living foot could pass through it. The troops of Pan Korsak tried first, and turned back in disorder; next the squadron of Voynillovich went to the middle of the ford, and turned back,--slowly, it is true, for that was the king's regiment, one of the most valiant in the army, but with a loss of twelve noted nobles and nineteen soldiers. The water in the ford which was the only passage through the river was plashing under the blows of balls as under a dense pouring rain. Cannon-balls flew to the other bank, casting around clouds of sand. Gosyevski himself rode up on a gallop, and when he had seen this, he knew that it was impossible for one living man to reach the opposite bank. And still that might decide the fate of the battle. Then the forehead of the hetman frowned sternly. For a while he looked through his glass along the whole line of the enemy's troops, and cried to the orderly,-- "Rush to Hassan Bey; let the horde pass the deep bank as it can, and strike the tabor. What they find in the wagons will be theirs! There are no cannon there; it will be only hand to hand." The horseman sprang forward with what breath was in his horse; but the hetman advanced to where under willows on the meadow stood the Lauda squadron, and halted before it. Volodyovski was at the head of the squadron, gloomy and silent; but he looked in the eyes of the hetman, and his mustaches quivered. "What do you think?" asked the hetman; "will the Tartars cross?" "The Tartars will cross, but Kmita will perish!" answered the little knight. "As God lives!" cried the hetman, suddenly; "this Kmita, if he had a head on his shoulders, might win the battle, not perish!" Volodyovski said nothing; still he thought: "It was necessary either not to send any regiment across the river, or to send five." The hetman looked awhile yet through his glass at the distant confusion which Kmita was making beyond the river; but the little knight, not being able to endure any longer, drew near him, and holding his sabre-point upward, said,-- "Your worthiness, if there were an order, I would try the ford again." "Stop!" said Gosyevski, rather sharply; "it is enough that those will perish." "They are perishing already," replied Volodyovski. And in truth the uproar was becoming more definite and greater every moment. Evidently Kmita was retreating to the river. "As God lives, I wanted that!" cried the hetman, suddenly; and he sprang like a thunderbolt to Voynillovich's squadron. In fact, Kmita was retreating. After they had met the red dragoons, his men fought with their last strength; but the breath was already failing in their breasts, their wearied hands were drooping, and bodies were falling faster and faster; only hope that aid might come any moment from beyond the river kept courage in them yet. Half an hour more passed, and the cry of "Strike!" was heard no longer; but to the aid of the red dragoons sprang Boguslav's regiment of heavy cavalry. "Death is coming!" thought Kmita, seeing them approaching from the flank. But he was a soldier who never had a doubt, for a moment, not only of his life, but of victory. Long and hazardous practice had given him also great knowledge of war; therefore lightning at dusk does not flash and then die out so quickly as the following thought flashed to the head of Pan Andrei: Evidently the Poles could not cross the ford to the enemy; and since they could not, he would lead the enemy to them. Boguslav's regiment was coming on at full sweep, and not more than a hundred yards distant; in a moment they could strike and scatter his Tartars. Pan Andrei raised the pipe to his mouth, and whistled so shrilly that the nearest dragoon horses rose on their haunches. That instant other pipes of the Tartar leaders repeated the whistle; and not so swiftly does the whirlwind twist the sand as that chambul turned its horses in flight. The remnant of the mailed cavalry, the red dragoons, and Boguslav's regiment sprang after them with all speed. The shouts of the officers--"Naprzod (Forward)!" and "Gott mit uns (God with us)!"--rang like a storm, and a marvellous sight was seen then. Over the broad meadow rushed the disordered and confused chambul of Tartars, straight to the ford, which was rained on with bullets and balls; and they tore onward, as if carried with wings. Every Tartar lay on the horse, flattened himself, hid himself in the mane and the neck, in such fashion that had it not been for the cloud of arrows flying back toward the cavalry, it might be said that the horses were rushing on riderless; after them, with roaring, shouting, and trampling, followed gigantic men, with upraised swords gleaming in their right hands. The ford was nearer and nearer; there was half a furlong left yet, and evidently the Tartar horses were using their last strength, for the distance between them and the cavalry was quickly decreasing. A few moments later the front ranks of the pursuers began to cut with their swords the Tartars closing the rear. The ford was right there; it seemed that in a few springs the horses would be in it. Suddenly something wonderful happened. Behold, when the chambul had run to the ford, a shrill whistle of pipes was heard again on the wings, and the whole body, instead of rushing into the river to seek safety on the other bank, opened in two, and with the speed of swallows sprang to the right and left, with and against the flow of the river. But the heavy regiments, rushing right on their shoulders with the highest horse-speed, raced into the ford with the same force, and only when in the water did the horsemen begin to hold in their furious beasts. The cannon, which up to that moment had been showering a rain of iron on the gravel, were silent in a second; the gunners had to spare their own army. But Gosyevski was waiting for precisely that instant as for salvation. The cavalry were hardly in the water when the terrible royal squadron of Voynillovich rushed at it like a hurricane; then the Lauda, the Korsak, the two squadrons of the hetman, and the volunteer squadron; after that, the armored squadron of Prince Michael Radzivill. A terrible shout, "Kill, slay!" thundered in the air; and before the Prussian regiments could halt, concentrate, use their swords, the Voynillovich squadron had scattered them as a whirl of air scatters leaves; they crushed the red dragoons, pushed back Boguslav's regiment, cut it in two, and drove it over the field toward the main army of Prussia. In one moment the river was red with blood. The cannon began to play again; but too late, for eight squadrons of Lithuanian cavalry were sweeping with thunder and roar over the meadow, and the whole battle was transferred to the other side of the river. The hetman was flying with one of his own squadrons, his face radiant with joy, and with fire in his eyes; for once he had the cavalry beyond the river, he was certain of victory. The squadrons, emulating one another in slashing and thrusting, drove before them the remnant of the dragoons and the cavalry, which fell in a dense body; for the heavy horses were not able to flee swiftly, and merely covered the pursuers against missiles from the front. Meanwhile Waldeck, Boguslav, Radzivill, and Israel sent forward all their cavalry to restrain the onset, and hastened themselves to put the infantry in line. Regiment after regiment ran out of the tabor, and took their places on the plain. They thrust the butts of their heavy spears into the earth, with the heads pointing forward, inclined like a fence to the enemy. In the next rank musketeers stretched forward the barrels of their muskets. Between the quadrangles of regiments they placed cannon in hot haste. Neither Boguslav nor Waldeck nor Israel flattered themselves that their cavalry could restrain that of the Poles very long, and their whole hope was in the artillery and the infantry. Meanwhile in front of the infantry the mounted regiments struck breast against breast. But that happened which the Prussian leaders foresaw. The pressure of the Lithuanian cavalry was so terrible that their opponents could not restrain them for one moment, and the first hussar regiments split them as a wedge splits wood, and went without breaking a lance through the dense mass, as a ship driven by strong wind goes through waves. The streamers were visible nearer and nearer; at times the heads of the hussar horses rose above the throng of the Prussians. "On your guard!" cried the officers, standing in the quadrangle of infantry. At this word the Prussian soldiers braced themselves more firmly on their feet, and strained their arms holding the spears; and all hearts were beating violently, for the terrible hussars had come wholly in sight, and were bearing down straightway against them. "Fire!" was the word of command. Muskets rattled in the second and third ranks of the quadrangle. Smoke covered the men. A moment later the roar of the coming squadron was nearer. They are right there! All at once, amid the smoke, the first rank of infantry see there above them, almost over their heads, thousands of horses' hoofs, wide nostrils, inflamed eyes; a crash of broken spears is heard; a fearful shout rends the air; Polish voices shouting, "Slay!" and German voices, "Gott erbarme Dich meiner (God have mercy on me)!" That regiment is broken, crushed; but in the spaces between other regiments cannon begin to play. Other squadrons come up. Each one strikes after a moment on a forest of lances; but perhaps not every one will break the forest which it strikes, for none has such terrible force as Voynillovich's squadron. Shouting increases on the whole field of battle. Nothing can be seen; but from the mass of combatants groups of yellow infantry escape in disorder, fleeing from some regiment which evidently was also beaten. Horsemen in gray colors pursue, cut, and trample these men, and shout,-- "Lauda! Lauda!" That was Volodyovski, who with his squadron had fought against a second quadrangle. But others were "sticking" yet; victory might still incline to the Prussians, especially as at the tabor stood two regiments intact, which, since the tabor was safe, might be summoned at any moment. Waldeck had in truth lost his head. Israel was not present, for he had been sent with the cavalry; but Boguslav was watching and managing everything. He led the whole battle, and seeing the increase of great peril, sent Pan Byes for those regiments. Byes urged on his horse, and half an hour later returned bareheaded, with terror and despair in his face. "The horde is in the tabor!" shouted he, hurrying up to Boguslav. At that moment unearthly howling was heard on the right wing; this howling came nearer and nearer. Suddenly appeared crowds of Swedish horsemen approaching in terrible panic; after them were fleeing weaponless, bareheaded infantry; after the infantry, in confusion and disorder, came wagons drawn by wild and terrified horses. All this mass was rushing at random from the tabor toward the infantry in the meadow. In a moment they fell on the infantry, put them into disorder, scattered them, especially when in front they were pressed by Lithuanian cavalry. "Hassan Bey has reached the tabor!" cried Gosyevski, with ecstasy; and he let out his last two squadrons like falcons from their rest. At the same moment that these two squadrons strike the infantry in front, their own wagons rush against them on the flank. The last quadrangles burst as if under the stroke of a hammer. Of the whole brilliant Swedish-Prussian army there is formed one gigantic mass, in which the cavalry are mingled with the infantry. Men are overturning, trampling, and suffocating one another; they throw off their clothing, cast away their arms. The cavalry press them, cut them, crush them, mash them. It is no longer a battle lost; it is a ruin, one of the most ghastly of the war. Boguslav, seeing that all was lost, resolved to save at least himself and some of the cavalry. With superhuman exertion he collected a few hundred horsemen, and was fleeing along the left wing in the direction of the river's course. He had already escaped from the main whirl, when Prince Michael Radzivill, leading his own hussars, struck him on the flank and scattered his whole detachment at a blow. After this Boguslav's men fled singly or in small groups. They could be saved only by the speed of their horses. In fact, the hussars did not pursue, but struck on the main body of infantry, which all the other squadrons were cutting to pieces. The broken detachment fled over the field like a scattered herd of deer. Boguslav, on Kmita's black steed, is rushing like the wind, striving in vain by cries to gather around him even a few tens of men. No one obeys him; each man flees on his own account, glad that he has escaped from the disaster, and that he has no enemy in front of him. But rejoicing was vain. They had not gone a thousand yards when howling was heard in front, and a gray host of Tartars sprang forth from the river, near which they had been lurking till then. This was Kmita with his men. Leaving the field, after he had brought the enemy to the ford, he turned so as to cut off retreat to the fugitives. The Tartars, seeing the cavalry scattered, scattered themselves in a moment to catch them more easily, and a murderous pursuit began. Two or three Tartars cut off one trooper, and he rarely defended himself; more frequently he seized his rapier by the point, and extended the hilt to the Tartars, calling for mercy. But the Tartars, knowing that they could not lead these prisoners home, took only officers who could give ransom; the common soldiers received a knife in the throat, and died, unable to say even "God!" Those who fled to the last were stabbed in the back and shoulders; those under whom the horses did not fall were caught with lariats. Kmita rushed for a time over the field, hurling down horsemen and seeking Boguslav with his eyes; at last he beheld him, and knew him at once by the horse, by the blue ribbon, and the hat with black ostrich feathers. A cloud of white steam surrounded the prince; for just the moment before two Nogais had attacked him. One he killed with a pistol-shot, and the other he thrust through with a rapier; then seeing a larger party rushing from one side, and Kmita from the other, he pressed his horse with spurs, and shot on like a hunted deer followed by hounds. More than fifty men rushed in a body after him; but not all the horses ran equally, so that soon the fifty formed a long serpent, the head of which was Boguslav and the neck Kmita. The prince bent forward in his saddle; the black horse appeared not to touch the earth with his feet, but was black over the green grass, like a swallow sweeping close to the ground; the chestnut stretched his neck like a crane, put back his ears, and seemed as if trying to spring from his skin. Single willows, clumps of them, groups of alder, shot past; the Tartars were behind, a furlong, two, three furlongs, but they ran and ran. Kmita threw his pistols from the holsters to lighten the horse's burden; with eyes fastened on Boguslav, with fixed lips, he almost lay on the neck of the horse, pricked his foaming sides with spurs, till soon the foam falling to the earth became rose-colored. But the distance between him and the prince not only did not decrease a single inch, but began to increase. "Woe!" thought Pan Andrei, "no horse on earth can overtake that one." And when after a few springs the distance increased still more, he straightened himself in the saddle, let the sword drop on its pendant, and putting his hands around his mouth, shouted in a trumpet-like voice: "Flee, traitor, flee before Kmita! I will get you, if not to-day, to-morrow." These words had barely sounded in the air, when on a sudden the prince, who heard them, looked around, and seeing that Kmita alone was pursuing, instead of fleeing farther described a circle, and with rapier in hand rushed upon him. Pan Andrei gave forth a terrible cry of joy, and without lessening speed raised his sabre for a blow. "Corpse! corpse!" shouted the prince; and wishing to strike the more surely, he restrained his horse. Kmita, when he had come up, held in his own beast till his hoofs sank in the earth, and rapier met sabre. They closed in such fashion that the two horses formed almost one body. A terrible sound of steel was heard, quick as thought; no eye could catch the lightning-like movement of rapier and sabre, nor distinguish the prince from Kmita. At times Boguslav's hat appeared black, at times Kmita's steel morion gleamed. The horses whirled around each other. The swords clinked more and more terribly. Boguslav, after a few strokes, ceased to despise his opponent. All the terrible thrusts which he had learned from French masters were parried. Sweat was now flowing freely from his face with the rouge and white; he felt weariness in his right arm already. Wonder seized him, then impatience, then rage; therefore he determined to finish, and he thrust so terribly that the hat fell from his head. Kmita warded with such force that the prince's rapier flew to the side of the horse; and before Boguslav could defend himself again, Kmita cut him with the very end of the sabre in the forehead. "Christ!" cried the prince in German, rolling to the earth. He fell on his back. Pan Andrei was as if stunned for the moment, but recovered quickly. He dropped his sabre on its pendant, made the sign of the cross, sprang from his horse, and seizing the hilt, again approached the prince. He was terrible; for pale as a sheet from emotion, his lips were pressed, and inexorable hatred was in his face. Behold his mortal enemy, and such a powerful one, lying now at his feet in blood, still alive and conscious, but conquered, and not with foreign weapons nor with foreign aid. Boguslav looked at him with widely opened eyes, watching carefully every move of the victor; and when Kmita stood there above him, he cried quickly,-- "Do not kill me! Ransom!" Kmita, instead of answering, stood with his foot on Boguslav's breast, and pressed with all his power; then he placed the point of his sabre on the prince's throat so that the skin yielded under the point,--he only needed to move his hand, to press more firmly. But he did not kill him at once. He wished to sate himself yet with the sight, and make the death of his enemy more grievous. He transfixed Boguslav's eyes with his own eyes, and stood above him, as a lion stands above an overthrown buffalo. The prince, from whose forehead blood was flowing more and more copiously, so that the whole upper part of his head was as if in a pool, spoke again, but now with a greatly stifled voice, for the foot of Pan Andrei was crushing his breast,-- "The maiden--listen--" Barely had Pan Andrei heard these words when he took his foot from Boguslav's breast, and raised his sword. "Speak!" said he. But Boguslav only breathed deeply for a time; at last, with a voice now stronger, he said,-- "The maiden will die, if you kill me. The orders are given." "What have you done with her?" asked Kmita. "Spare me, and I will give her to you. I swear on the Gospel." Pan Andrei struck his forehead with his fist. It was to be seen for a time that he was struggling with himself and with his thoughts; then he said,-- "Hear me, traitor! I would give a hundred such degenerate ruffians for one hair of hers. But I do not believe you, you oath-breaker!" "On the Gospel!" repeated the prince. "I will give you a safe-conduct and an order in writing." "Let it be so. I will give you your life, but I will not let you out of my hands. You will give me the letter; but meanwhile I will give you to the Tartars, with whom you will be in captivity." "Agreed," answered Boguslav. "Remember," said Pan Andrei, "your princely rank did not preserve you from my hand, nor your army, nor your fencing. And be assured that as many times as you cross my path, or do not keep word, nothing will save you,--even though you were made Emperor of Germany. Recognize me! Once I had you in my hands, now you are lying under my feet!" "Consciousness is leaving me," said the prince. "Pan Kmita, there must be water near by. Give me to drink, and wash my wound." "Die, parricide!" answered Kmita. But the prince, secure of life, recovered all his self-command, and said,-- "You are foolish, Pan Kmita. If I die, she too--" Here his lips grew pale. Kmita ran to see if there was not some ditch near at hand, or even some pool. The prince fainted, but for a short time; he revived, happily for himself, when the first Tartar, Selim, son of Gazi Aga, the banneret among Kmita's Tartars, was coming up, and seeing the enemy weltering in blood, determined to pin him to the earth with the spear-point of the banner. The prince in that terrible moment still had strength sufficient to seize the point, which, being loosely fastened, fell from the staff. The sound of that short struggle brought back Pan Andrei. "Stop! son of a dog!" cried he, running from a distance. The Tartar, at the sound of the familiar voice, pushed up to his horse with fear. Kmita commanded him to go for water, and remained himself with the prince; for from afar were to be seen approaching at a gallop the Kyemliches, Soroka, and the whole chambul, who, after they had caught all the horsemen, came to seek their leader. Seeing Pan Andrei, the faithful Nogais threw up their caps with loud shouts. Akbah Ulan sprang from his horse and began to bow to him, touching with his hand his forehead, his mouth, and his breast. Others smacking their lips, in Tartar fashion, looked with greediness into the eyes of the conquered; some rushed to seize the two horses, the chestnut and the black, which were running at a distance each with flying mane. "Akbah Ulan," said Kmita, "this is the leader of the army which we conquered this morning, Prince Boguslav Radzivill. I give him to you; and do you keep him, for dead or alive they will pay you for him liberally. Now take care of him; put on him a lariat, and lead him to camp." "Allah! Allah! We thank the leader! We thank the conqueror!" cried all the Tartars in one voice; and again was heard the smacking of a thousand lips. Kmita mounted and went with a part of the Tartars to the field of battle. From a distance he saw the standard-bearers with their standards, but of the squadrons there were only a few men present; the rest had gone in pursuit of the enemy. Crowds of camp servants were busy on the battle-field, plundering the corpses and fighting here and there with the Tartars, who were plundering also. The latter looked specially terrible, with knives in their hands, and with arms stained to the elbows. You would have said that a flock of crows had dropped from the clouds to the battle-plain. Their wild laughter and shouts were heard over the whole meadow. Some holding in their lips knives still steaming drew with both hands dead men by the feet; others in sport threw at one another severed heads. Some were filling bags; others, as in a bazaar, were holding up bloody garments, praising their value, or examining the weapons which they had taken. Kmita passed over the field where he had first met the cavalry. Bodies of men and horses, cut with swords, lay scattered there; but where squadrons had cut infantry, there were whole piles of corpses, and pools of stiffened blood plashed under foot like muddy water in a swamp. It was difficult to advance through the fragments of broken lances, muskets, corpses, overturned wagons, and troops of Tartars pushing around. Gosyevski was still on the intrenchment of the fortified camp, and with him were Prince Michael Radzivill, Voynillovich, Volodyovski, Korsak, and a number of men. From this height they took in with their eyes the field far away to its uttermost edges, and were able to estimate the whole extent of the victory and the enemy's defeat. Kmita, on beholding these gentlemen, hastened his pace; and Gosyevski, since he was not only a fortunate warrior but an honorable man without a shadow of envy in his heart, had barely seen Pan Andrei, when he cried,-- "Here comes the real victor! He is the cause of winning the day. I first declare this in public. Gracious gentlemen, thank Pan Babinich; for had it not been for him we could not have crossed the river." "Vivat Babinich!" cried a number of voices. "Vivat, vivat!" "Where did you learn war, O soldier," cried the hetman, with enthusiasm, "that you know what to do in a moment?" Kmita did not answer, for he was too tired. He merely bowed on every side, and passed his hand over his face, soiled with sweat and with powder-smoke. His eyes gleamed with an uncommon light, and still the vivats sounded incessantly. Division after division returned from the field on foaming horses; and those who came joined their voices from full breasts in honor of Babinich. Caps flew into the air; whoso had a pistol still loaded gave fire. Suddenly Kmita stood in the saddle, and raising both hands high, shouted,-- "Vivat Yan Kazimir, our lord and gracious father!" Here there was such a shout as if anew battle had begun. Unspeakable enthusiasm seized all. Prince Michael ungirded his sabre, which had a hilt set with diamonds, and gave it to Kmita. The hetman threw his own costly cloak on the shoulders of the hero, who again raised his hands,-- "Vivat our hetman, victorious leader!" "May he increase and flourish!" answered all, in a chorus. Then they brought together the captured banners, and thrust them into the embankment at the feet of the leaders. The enemy had not taken one of theirs. There were Prussian, Prussian of the general militia, nobles', Swedish, and Boguslav flags; the whole rainbow of them was waving at the embankment. "One of the greatest victories of this war!" cried the hetman. "Israel and Waldeck are in captivity, the colonels have fallen or are in captivity, the army is cut to pieces." Here he turned to Kmita: "Pan Babinich, you were on that side, you must have met Boguslav; what has happened to him?" Here Pan Michael looked diligently into Kmita's eyes, but Kmita said quickly,-- "God has punished Boguslav with this hand." Then he stretched forth his right hand; but at that moment the little knight threw himself into his arms. "Yendrek," cried he, "I am not envious! May God bless you!" "You formed my hand!" answered Pan Andrei, with effusion. But a further expression of brotherly feeling was stopped by Pan Michael Radzivill. "Is my cousin killed?" asked he, quickly. "Not killed," answered Kmita, "for I granted him life; but he is wounded and captive, and over there my Nogais are bringing him." At these words astonishment was depicted on Volodyovski's face, and the eyes of the knight were turned to the plain, on which appeared a party of some tens of Tartars approaching slowly; at last, when they had passed a group of broken wagons, they came within some tens of yards of the intrenchment. The hetman and the officers saw that the Tartar riding in advance was leading a prisoner; all recognized Boguslav, but in what a change of fortune! He, one of the most powerful lords in the Commonwealth; he, who even yesterday was dreaming of independent rule; he, a prince of the German Empire,--was walking now with a lariat around his neck, at the side of a Tartar horse, without a hat, with bloody head bound in a filthy rag! But such was the venom in the hearts of the knights against this magnate that his terrible humiliation did not excite the pity of any, and nearly all mouths shouted at the same moment,-- "Death to the traitor! Bear him apart on sabres! Death, death!" Prince Michael covered his eyes with his hand, for still that was a Radzivill led with such humiliation. Suddenly he grew red and shouted,-- "Gracious gentlemen! that is my cousin, that is my blood, and I have spared neither life nor property for the country. He is my enemy who will raise a hand against that ill-fated man." The knights were silent at once. Prince Michael was universally beloved for his bravery, liberality, and devotion to the country. Even when all Lithuania fell into the hands of the Northerners, he alone defended himself in Nyesvyej, and in the time of the Swedish wars he contemned the persuasions of Prince Yanush, and was one of the first to join the confederacy of Tyshovtsi. His voice therefore found hearing at once. Finally, it may be that no one wished to oppose so powerful a man; it is enough that the sabres were placed at once in the scabbards, and even some officers, clients of the Radzivills, exclaimed,-- "Take him from the Tartars! Let the Commonwealth judge him, but let not honorable blood be insulted by Pagans." "Take him from the Tartars!" repeated the prince; "we will find surety, and he will pay the ransom himself. Pan Voynillovich, move your men and let them take him by force, if it is impossible otherwise." "I offer myself as a surety to the Tartars," said Pan Gnoinski. Then Volodyovski pushed up to Kmita and said: "Yendrek, what have you done? He will go safely out of this trouble!" Kmita sprang forward like a wounded wild-cat. "With the permission of your highness," cried he. "This is my prisoner! I granted him life, but under conditions to which he swore by his heretical gospel; and may I fall dead here if he will go out of the hands into which I gave him before he fulfils everything!" When he had said this, he struck his horse, blocked the road, and his inborn impulsiveness had almost carried him away; for his face began to writhe, he distended his nostrils, and his eyes began to cast lightning. Meanwhile Voynillovich pressed him with his horse. "Aside, Pan Babinich!" cried he. "Aside, Pan Voynillovich!" roared Kmita, and struck with the hilt of his sabre Voynillovich's horse with such force that the steed tottered on his legs as if struck by a ball and dug the ground with his nostrils. Then there rose a fierce shout among the knights, so that Gosyevski pushed forward and cried,-- "Silence, gentlemen! Gracious prince, in virtue of my authority as hetman, I declare that Pan Babinich has a right to the prisoner, and that whoso wishes to free him from Tartar hands must give guarantee to his conqueror." Prince Michael mastered his indignation, calmed himself, and said, directing his speech to Pan Andrei,-- "Say what you wish." "That he observe the conditions with me before he leaves captivity." "But he will keep them when he is free." "Impossible! I do not believe him." "Then I swear for him, by the Most Holy Mother, whom I recognize, and on the word of a knight, that all will be observed to you. In the opposite case you may make demand on my honor and property." "That is sufficient for me!" said Kmita. "Let Pan Gnoinski go as hostage, for otherwise the Tartars will make resistance. I will give way on your word." "I thank you, Cavalier!" answered Prince Michael. "Do not fear, either, that he will receive his freedom at once, for I will give him to the hetman by right, and he will remain a prisoner until the king pronounces sentence." "That will be so!" answered the hetman; and ordering Voynillovich to sit on a fresh horse, for that one was hardly able to stand, he sent him with Pan Gnoinski for the prince. But the affair did not pass easily yet; for Hassan Bey made a terrible resistance, and only the sight of Pan Gnoinski and the promise of a ransom of a hundred thousand thalers could pacify him. In the evening Prince Boguslav found himself in the tents of Gosyevski. He was cared for with attention; two physicians did not leave him for a moment, and both guaranteed his life, for the wound, since it had been given with the very end of the sabre, was not too serious. Volodyovski could not forgive Kmita for having granted the prince his life, and from sorrow avoided him all day. It was only in the evening that Pan Andrei himself went to Pan Michael's tent. "Fear the wounds of God!" cried the little knight, at sight of him; "I should have expected this of any other than of you, to let that traitor go alive!" "Listen to me, Michael, before you condemn me," said Kmita, gloomily. "I had him under my foot and held my sabre point at his throat, and then do you know what the traitor said? That there were commands given to kill Olenka in Taurogi if he should be slain. What had I, unfortunate man, to do? I purchased her life with his life. What had I to do? By the cross of Christ, what had I to do?" Here Pan Andrei began to pull his hair, to stamp, from bewilderment; and Volodyovski thought for awhile, then said,-- "I understand your despair; but still--you see, you have let go a traitor who may bring grievous suffering to the country. There is no denying, Yendrek, that you have rendered wonderful service to-day; but at last you sacrificed the public good to your own private ends." "And what would you have done if you were told that there was a knife at the throat of Panna Anusia?" Pan Michael's mustaches quivered fiercely. "I do not offer myself as an example. H'm! what would I have done? But Pan Yan, who has a Roman soul, would not have let him live; and besides, I am certain that God would not have let innocent blood flow for the reason he mentioned." "Let me do penance. Punish me, O God, not according to my heavy sin, but according to Thy mercy; for to sign a sentence against that dove--" Here Kmita closed his eyes. "Angels forefend! Never, never!" "It is passed," said Volodyovski. Here Pan Andrei took a paper out of his bosom. "See, Michael, what I obtained. This is a command to Sakovich, to all the officers of Radzivill, and to the Swedish commandants. We forced him to write it, though he could barely move his hand. Prince Michael himself saw to that. This is freedom for her, safety for her. I will lie in the form of a cross every day for a year, I will have myself scourged, I will build a church, but I will not sacrifice her life. I have not a Roman soul. Well, I am not a Cato like Pan Yan, true! But I will not sacrifice her; no, by a hundred thunders, I will not, even if at last I am roasted in hell on a spit--" Kmita did not finish, for Pan Michael sprang up to him and stopped his mouth with his hand, crying in a terrified voice,-- "Do not blaspheme, for you will draw the vengeance of God on her. Beat your breast, quickly, quickly!" And Pan Andrei began to beat his breast: "Mea culpa! mea culpa! mea maxima culpa!" At last the poor soldier burst into loud weeping, for he did not know himself what to do. Pan Michael let him have his cry out; then he pacified him, and asked,-- "And what will you undertake now?" "I will go with my men whither I am sent, as far as Birji. Only let the men and horses draw breath first. On the road I will shed as much heretical blood as I can, to the glory of God." "And you will have your merit. Do not lose heart, Yendrek. God is merciful!" "I will go directly ahead. All Prussia is open at present; only here and there shall I light upon small garrisons." Pan Michael sighed: "Oh, I would go with you as gladly as to paradise. But I must keep my command. You are fortunate to lead volunteers. Yendrek, listen, brother! and when you find both, take care of that one, so that no evil befall her. God knows, she may be predestined to me." When he had said this, the little knight cast himself into the arms of Pan Andrei. CHAPTER LII. Olenka and Anusia, having freed themselves from Taurogi, under the protection of Braun, came successfully to the sword-bearer's party, which at that time was near Olsha, therefore not very far from Taurogi. The old noble when he saw them both in good health would not believe his eyes at first; then he fell to weeping from delight, and finally came to such military enthusiasm that for him danger existed no longer. Let not only Boguslav appear, but the King of Sweden himself with all his power, Pan Billevich was ready to defend his maidens against every enemy. "I will fall," said he, "before a hair shall drop from your heads. I am no longer the man whom you knew in Taurogi, and I think that the Swedes will long remember Girlakole, Yasvoynya, and those beatings which I gave them at Rossyeni itself. It is true that the traitor Sakovich attacked us unawares and routed us, but you see several hundred sabres on service." Pan Billevich did not exaggerate greatly, for in truth it was difficult to recognize in him the former prisoner of Taurogi fallen in courage. He had another mind now; his energy had revived in the field, on his horse; he found himself in his element, and being a good soldier, he had really handled the Swedes several times roughly. And since he had great authority in the neighborhood, the nobles and common people flocked to him willingly, and even from some remote districts a Billevich brought him now between ten and twenty horsemen, now some tens of horsemen. Pan Tomash's party was composed of three hundred peasant infantry and about five hundred horsemen. It was rare that any man in the infantry had a gun; the greater number were armed with scythes and forks. The cavalry was a collection of the wealthier nobles, who betook themselves to the forest with their attendants, and of the poorer nobles from villages. Their arms were better than those of the infantry, but greatly varied. Hop-poles served as lances for many; some carried rich family weapons, but frequently of a past age; the horses, of various breeds and quality, were not fitted for one rank. With such troops the sword-bearer could block the road to Swedish patrols, he might cut off even detachments of cavalry, he might clear forests and villages of plunderers, whose numerous bands, composed of Swedish fugitives, Prussian and local ruffians, were busied with robbery; but he could not attack any town. The Swedes had grown wiser. Immediately after the outbreak of the rebellion those who were scattered in quarters in the villages were cut down throughout Jmud and Lithuania; but now those who had survived remained mostly in fortified towns, which they left only for short expeditions. Therefore the fields, forests, hamlets, and smaller towns were in Polish hands; but the larger towns were held by Swedes, and there was no power to dislodge them. The sword-bearer's party was one of the best; others could effect still less than he. On the boundary of Livonia the insurgents had grown so bold, it is true, that they besieged Birji twice, and at the second attack it was forced to surrender; but that temporary preponderance came from this,--that Pontus de la Gardie had assembled to the defence of Riga against the forces of the Tsar all the troops from the neighboring districts of Livonia. His brilliant victories, rarely equalled in history, caused the belief, however, that war in that quarter would soon be at an end, and that he would bring to Jmud new Swedish troops intoxicated with triumphs. Still there was safety enough in the forests at that time; and numerous parties of insurgents capable of undertaking little alone might still be certain that the enemy would not seek them in deep wildernesses. Therefore Pan Billevich rejected the thought of hiding in Byalovyej; for the road to it was very long, and on the way were many considerable places with large garrisons. "The Lord God has given a dry autumn," said he to the maidens, "therefore it is easier to live _sub Jove_ (in the open air). I will have a regular tent made for you; I will find a woman to wait on you, and you will stay in the camp. In these times there is no safer refuge than the forest. My Billeviche is burned to the ground; country houses are infested by ravagers and sometimes even by Swedish parties. Where could you incline your heads more safely than with me, who have several hundred sabres at my command? Rains will come later, then some cabin will be found for you in the forest." This idea pleased Panna Anusia greatly; for in the party were many young Billeviches, polite cavaliers, and besides it was said continually that Pan Babinich was marching in that direction. Anusia hoped that when he came he would drive out the Swedes in a twinkle, and then--then would be what God would give. Olenka judged also that it was safest with the party; but she wished to retreat far from Taurogi, fearing the pursuit of Sakovich. "Let us go to Vodokty," said she; "there we shall be among our own people. Although it is burned, Mitruny and all the neighboring villages are there. It is impossible that the whole country is turned into a desert. Lauda will defend us in case of danger." "But all the Lauda men have gone with Volodyovski," said Yur Billevich, in opposition. "The old men and the youths have remained, and even the women there are able to defend in case of need. Besides, forests are greater there than here; the Domasheviches, the hunters, or the Smoky Gostyeviches will take us to Rogovsk, where no enemy will find us." "And when I have secured the camp and you, I will attack the Swedes, and cut to pieces those who dare to touch the rim of the wilderness," said Pan Billevich. "This is an excellent idea! We have nothing to do here; it is possible to render greater service." Who knows whether the sword-bearer did not seize that idea of Olenka so quickly because he too in his soul was somewhat afraid of Sakovich, who brought to despair, might be terrible? The advice, however, was wise in itself; therefore it pleased all immediately. The sword-bearer sent out infantry that very day under command of Yur Billevich, so as to push forward by the forest in the direction of Krakinov; but he went forward himself with the cavalry two days later, obtaining in advance reliable intelligence as to whether there had not gone out from Kyedani or Rossyeni, between which he had to march, some considerable bodies of Swedish troops. Pan Billevich marched slowly and carefully. The ladies travelled in peasants' wagons, and sometimes on ponies which the sword-bearer had provided. Anusia, who had received as a gift from Yur Billevich a light sabre, hung it bravely at her side, and in a cap, placed jauntily on her head, brought up the squadron like some captain. The march amused her, the sabres glittering in the sun, and the fires disposed around at night. Young officers and soldiers were greatly pleased with the lady, and she shot her eyes around in every direction on the march; she let her tresses fall so as to braid them three times daily over the banks of bright brooks, which for her took the place of a mirror. She said often that she wished to see a battle, so as to give an example of bravery; but in very truth she did not want a battle at all. She wanted only to subdue the hearts of all the young warriors; in fact, she did subdue an unreckoned number of them. Olenka too revived again, as it were, after leaving Taurogi. There the uncertainty of her future and continual fear were killing her; now in the depths of the forest she felt safer. The wholesome air brought back her strength. The sight of soldiers, of weapons, the movement and bustle of camp life, acted like balsam on her wearied soul. And the march of troops acted agreeably on her also; possible dangers did not alarm her in the least, for knightly blood was in her veins. Appearing less frequently before the soldiers, not permitting herself to gallop on a pony in front of the ranks, she attracted fewer glances, but general respect surrounded her. The mustached faces of the soldiers were laughing at sight of Anusia; heads were uncovered when Olenka drew near the fires. That was changed later to homage. But it did not pass without this,--that some heart beat for her in a youthful breast; but eyes did not dare to gaze at her so directly as at that brunette of the Ukraine. They advanced through forests and thickets, often sending scouts ahead; and only on the seventh day did they arrive late at night in Lyubich, which, lying on the border of the Lauda region, formed as it were the entrance to it. The horses were so tired that in spite of Olenka's opposition it was impossible to go farther; Billevich therefore forebade the lady to find fault, and disposed his party for the halt. He himself with the young ladies occupied the house, for the night was foggy and very cold. By a marvellous chance the house had not been burned. The enemy had spared it probably through the command of Prince Yanush Radzivill, because it was Kmita's; and though the prince learned later of Pan Andrei's secession, he forgot or had not time to give a new order. The insurgents considered the estate as belonging to the Billeviches; the ravagers did not dare to plunder near Lauda. Therefore nothing had changed in it. Olenka went under that roof with a terrible feeling of bitterness and pain. She knew every corner there, but almost with each one was bound up some memory of Kmita's betrayal. Before her is the dining-hall ornamented with the portraits of the Billeviches and with skulls of wild beasts of the forest; the skulls cracked with bullets are still on the nails; the portraits slashed with sabres are gazing from the walls, as if wishing to say, "Behold, O maiden! behold, our granddaughter! it was he who slashed with sacrilegious hand the pictures of our earthly forms, now resting long in their graves." Olenka felt that she could not close an eye in that branded house. It seemed to her that in the dark corners of the rooms were prowling around yet the ghosts of those terrible comrades breathing fire from their nostrils. And how quickly that man, so loved by her, had passed from violence to transgression, from transgression to crimes, from the slashing of portraits to profligacy, to the burning of Upita and Volmontovichi, to carrying her off from Vodokty; further to the service of Radzivill, to treason, crowned with the promise of raising his hand against the king, against the father of the whole Commonwealth! The night went on swiftly, but sleep did not seize the lids of unhappy Olenka. All the wounds of her soul were reopened and began to burn painfully. Shame again was scorching her cheeks; her eyes dropped no tears in that time, but immeasurable grief surrounded her heart, because it could not find place within that poor heart. Grief for what? For what might have been had he been other,--if with his bad habits, wildness, and violence, he had even had an honest heart; if finally he had even a measure in his crimes, if there existed some boundary over which he was incapable of passing? And her heart would have forgiven so much. Anusia saw the suffering of her companion, and understood the cause; for the old sword-bearer had detailed the whole history to her previously. Since she had a kind heart, she came up to Panna Billevich, and throwing her arms around her neck, said,-- "Olenka, you are writhing from pain in this house." Olenka at first did not wish to speak; then her whole body trembled like an aspen leaf, and at last a terrible, despairing cry burst from her bosom. Seizing Anusia's hand convulsively, she rested her bright head on that maiden's shoulder; sobbing now tore her as a whirlwind tears a thicket. Anusia had to wait long before it passed; at last she whispered when Olenka was pacified somewhat, "Let us pray for him." Olenka covered her eyes with both hands. "I--cannot," said she, with an effort. After a while, gathering back feverishly the hair which had fallen on her forehead, she began to speak with a gasping voice,-- "You see--I cannot-- You are happy; your Babinich is honorable, famous, before God and the country. You are happy; I am not free even to pray-- Here, everywhere, is the blood of people, and here are burned ruins. If at least he had not betrayed the country, if he had not undertaken to sell the king! I had forgiven everything before, in Kyedani; for I thought--for I loved him with my whole heart. But now I cannot--O merciful God! I cannot! I could wish not to live myself, and that he were not living." "It is permitted to pray for every soul," said Anusia; "for God is more merciful than men, and knows reasons which often men do not know." When she had said this, Anusia knelt down to pray, and Olenka threw herself on the floor in the form of a cross, and lay thus till daybreak. Next morning the news thundered through the neighborhood that Pan Billevich was in Lauda. At that news all who were living came forth with greeting. Therefore out of the neighboring forests issued decrepit old men, and women with small children. For two years no one had sowed any seed, no one had ploughed any land. The villages were partly burned and were deserted. The people lived in the forests. Men in the vigor of life had gone with Volodyovski or to various parties; only youths watched and guarded the remnant of cattle, and guarded well, but under cover of the wilderness. They greeted the sword-bearer then as a savior, with a great cry of joy; for to those simple people it seemed that if the sword-bearer had come and the "lady" was returning to the ancient nest, then there must be an end to war and disasters. In fact, they began at once to return to the villages, and to drive out the half-wild cattle from the deepest forest inclosures. The Swedes, it is true, were not far away, defended by intrenchments in Ponyevyej; but in presence of Billevich's forces and other neighboring parties which might be summoned in case of need, less attention was paid to them. Pan Tomash even intended to attack Ponyevyej, so as to clear out the whole district; but he was waiting for more men to rally to his banner, and waiting especially till guns were brought to his infantry. These guns the Domasheviches had secreted in considerable number in the forest; meanwhile he examined the neighborhood, passing from village to village. But that was a gloomy review at Vodokty. The mansion was burned, and half the village; Mitruny in like manner; Volmontovichi of the Butryms, which Kmita had burned in his time, and which had been rebuilt after the fire, by a marvellous chance was untouched; but Drojeykani and Mozgi of the Domasheviches was burned to the ground; Patsuneli was half consumed, and Morezi altogether. Goshchuni experienced the harshest fate; for half the people were cut to pieces, and all the men to boys of a few years had their hands cut off by command of Colonel Rossa. So terribly had war trampled those neighborhoods! such were the results of the treason of Yanush Radzivill! But before Billevich had finished his review and stationed his infantry, fresh tidings came, at once joyful and terrible, which rang with thousand-fold echo from cottage to cottage. Yurek Billevich, who had gone with a few tens of horses on a reconnoissance to Ponyevyej and had seized some Swedes, was the first to learn of the battle at Prostki. Then every report brought more details, so wondrous that they resembled a fable. Pan Gosyevski, it was said, had routed Count Waldeck, Israel, and Prince Boguslav. The army was cut to pieces, the leaders in captivity. All Prussia was blazing in one conflagration. A few weeks later the mouths of men began to repeat one terrible name,--the name of Babinich. Babinich, said they, was the main cause of the victory at Prostki. Babinich cut down with his own hand and captured Prince Boguslav. The next news was: "Babinich is burning Electoral Prussia, is advancing like death toward Jmud, slaying, leaving behind only earth and sky." Then came the end: "Babinich has burned Taurogi. Sakovich has fled before him, and is hiding in forests." The last event had happened too near to remain long in doubt. In fact, the news was verified perfectly. Anusia during the whole time that news was arriving lived as if dazed; she laughed and wept in turn, stamped her feet when no one believed, and repeated to every one, whether that one would listen or not,-- "I know Pan Babinich. He brought me from Zamost to Pan Sapyeha. He is the greatest warrior in the world. I do not know whether Pan Charnyetski is his equal. He is the man who serving under Sapyeha crushed Boguslav utterly in the first campaign. He--I am sure that it is no other--conquered him at Prostki. Yes, he can finish Sakovich and ten like Sakovich; and he will sweep out the Swedes in a month from all Jmud." In fact, her assurances began to be justified speedily. There was not the least doubt that the terrible warrior called Babinich had moved forward from Taurogi toward the northern country. At Koltyni he defeated Colonel Baldon and cut his troops to pieces; at Varni he scattered the Swedish infantry, which retreated before him at Telshi; at Telshi he won a greater victory over two colonels, Norman and Hudenskiöld, in which the latter fell, and Norman with the survivors did not halt till he reached Zagori, on the very boundary of Jmud. From Telshi Babinich marched to Kurshani, driving before him smaller divisions of Swedes, who took refuge in haste with the more important garrisons. From Taurogi and Polangi to Birji and Vilkomir the name of the victor was ringing. They told of the cruelties which he permitted himself against the Swedes. It was said that his forces, composed at first of a small chambul of Tartars and little squads of volunteers, increased day after day; for all who were living rushed to him, all parties joined him, but he bound them in bonds of iron and led them against the enemy. Minds were so far occupied by his victories that tidings of the defeat which Pan Gosyevski had sustained from Steinbock at Filipovo passed almost without an echo. Babinich was nearer, and with Babinich they were more occupied. Anusia implored Billevich daily to advance and join the great warrior. Olenka supported her; all the officers and nobles urged, excited by curiosity alone. But to join the warrior was not easy. First, Babinich was in another district; second, he often disappeared, and was not heard of for weeks, and then appeared again with news of a new victory; third, all the Swedish soldiers and garrisons, protecting themselves from him, had stopped the road with large forces; finally, beyond Rossyeni a considerable body of troops had appeared under Sakovich, of whom tidings were brought saying that he was destroying everything before him, and torturing people terribly while questioning them concerning Billevich's party. The sword-bearer not only could not march to Babinich, but he feared that it would soon be too narrow for him near Lauda. Not knowing himself what to begin, he confided to Yurek Billevich that he intended to withdraw to the forest of Rogovsk on the east. Yurek immediately gave this information to Anusia, and she went straight to the sword-bearer. "Dearest uncle," said she, for she always called him uncle when she wanted to gain something from him, "I hear that we have to flee. Is it not a shame for so celebrated a warrior to flee at the mere report of an enemy?" "Your ladyship must thrust your three coppers into everything," said the anxious sword-bearer. "This is not your affair." "Very well, then, retreat, but I will stay here." "So that Sakovich will catch you,--you'll see!" "Sakovich will not catch me, for Pan Babinich will defend me." "Especially when he knows where you are. I have said already that we are unable to go to him." "But he can come to us. I am his acquaintance; if I could only send a letter to him, I am certain he would come here, after he had beaten Sakovich. He loved me a little, and he would come to rescue me." "But who will undertake to carry a letter?" "It can be sent through the first peasant that comes." "It will do no harm, it will do no harm; in no case will it do harm. Olenka has quick wit, but neither are you without it. Even if we had to retreat to the woods this moment before superior force, it would still be well to have Babinich come to these parts, for we can then join him more easily. Try! Messengers will be found, and trusty men." The delighted Anusia began to try so well that that same day she found two messengers,--and not peasants; for one was Yurek Billevich, the other Braun. Each was to take a letter of the same contents as that which the other carried, so that if one failed the other might deliver the missive to Babinich. With the letter itself Anusia had more trouble; but at last she wrote it in the following words:-- "In the last extremity I write to you. If you remember me, though I doubt if you do, come to rescue me. By the kindness which you showed me on the road from Zamost, I dare to hope that you will not leave me in misfortune. I am in the party of Pan Billevich, the sword-bearer of Rossyeni, who gave me refuge because I brought his relative, Panna Billevich, out of captivity in Taurogi. And him and us both the enemy, namely, the Swedes, have surrounded on every side, and a certain Pan Sakovich, before whose sinful importunities I had to flee and seek safety in the camp. I know that you did not love me, though God sees that I did you no harm. I wished you well, and I shall wish you well from my whole heart. But though you do not love, rescue a poor orphan from the savage hand of the enemy. God will reward you for it a hundred fold, and I will pray for you, whom to-day I call only my good protector, but hereafter my savior." When the messengers were leaving the camp, Anusia, considering to what dangers they were exposed, was alarmed, and at last wished to stop them. Even with tears in her eyes she began to implore the sword-bearer not to permit them to go; for peasants might carry the letters, and it would be easier for the peasants to deliver them. But Braun and Yurek Billevich were so stubborn that no remonstrance could avail. One wished to surpass the other in readiness to serve, but neither foresaw what was awaiting him. A week later Braun fell into the hands of Sakovich, who gave command to flay him; but poor Yurek was shot beyond Ponyevyej while fleeing before a Swedish party. Both letters fell into the hands of the enemy. CHAPTER LIII. Sakovich, after he had seized and flayed Braun, arranged at once a joint attack on the Billevich party with Hamilton, the commandant of Ponyevyej, an Englishman in the Swedish service. Babinich had just disappeared somewhere in the forest, and for a number of days no report of him had come. But Sakovich would not have regarded him, even had he been in the neighborhood. He had, it is true, in spite of all his daring, a certain instinctive dread of Babinich; but this time he was ready to perish himself, if he could accomplish his vengeance. From the time of Anusia's flight rage had not ceased for a moment to tear his soul. Deceived calculations, and wounded love especially, brought him to frenzy; and besides the heart was suffering in him. At first he wished to marry Anusia only for the property willed her by her first betrothed, Pan Podbipienta; but later he fell in love with her blindly, and to the death, as only such a man can fall in love. And it went so far that he who feared no one on earth save Boguslav, he before whose glance alone people grew pale, gazed like a dog into the eyes of that maiden, yielded to her, endured her caprices, carried out all her wishes, strove to divine her thoughts. She used and abused her influence, deluding him with words, with a look; used him as a slave, and finally betrayed him. Sakovich was of those men who consider that only as good and virtuous which is good for them, and as evil and criminal that which brings them harm. In his eyes, therefore, Anusia had committed the most terrible crime, and there was no punishment sufficiently great for her. If the mishap had met another, the starosta would have laughed and jeered at the man; but when it touched his own person, he roared as a wounded wild beast, and thought only of vengeance. He wished to get the guilty woman into his hands, dead or alive. He would have preferred her alive, for then he could exercise a cavalier's vengeance before her death; but if the maiden had to fall in time of attack, he cared little, if only she did not come into possession of another. Wishing to act with certainty, he sent a bribed man to the sword-bearer with a letter as if from Babinich, in which he announced, in the name of the latter, that he would be in Volmontovichi in the course of a week. Billevich believed easily, trusting therefore in the invincible power of Babinich; and he made no secret of the arrangement. He not only took up his headquarters for good in Volmontovichi, but by the announcement of the news he attracted almost all the population of Lauda. What remained of it assembled from the forests,--first, because the end of autumn had come, and there were heavy frosts; and second, through pure curiosity alone to see the great warrior. Meanwhile, from the direction of Ponyevyej marched toward Volmontovichi Hamilton's Swedes, and from the direction of Kyedani was stealing forward in wolf-fashion Sakovich. But Sakovich had no suspicion that on his tracks was advancing in wolf-fashion also a third man, who without invitation had the habit of coming where people expected him least. Kmita knew not that Olenka was with the Billevich party. In Taurogi, which he ruined with fire and sword, he learned that she had gone with Anusia; but he supposed that they had gone to Byalovyej, where Pan Yan's wife was in hiding as well as many other noble women. He might the more easily suppose this, since he knew that Billevich had long intended to take his niece to those impassable forests. It tortured Pan Andrei immensely that he had not found her in Taurogi, but at the same time he was glad that she had escaped from the hands of Sakovich, and would find safe refuge till the end of the war. Not being able to go for her at once to the wilderness, he determined to attack and destroy the enemy in Jmud, until he had crushed them completely. And fortune went with him. For a month and a half victory followed victory; armed men rushed to him in such numbers that soon his chambul was barely one fourth of his force. Finally, he drove the enemy out of all western Jmud; but hearing of Sakovich, and having old scores to settle with the starosta, he set out for his own former district, and followed him. In this way both were now drawing near Volmontovichi. Billevich, who at first had taken a position not far from the village, had been living there a week, and the thought did not even come to his head that he would soon have such terrible guests. One evening the youthful Butryms, herding horses beyond Volmontovichi, informed him that troops had issued from the forest, and were advancing from the south. Billevich was too old and experienced a soldier not to take precautions. Some of his infantry, partly furnished with fire-arms by the Domasheviches, he placed in the houses recently rebuilt, and some he stationed at the gate; with the cavalry he took possession himself of a broad pasture somewhat in the rear, beyond the fences, and which touched with one side the river. He did this mainly to gain the praise of Babinich, who must understand skilful dispositions; the place he had chosen was really a strong one. After Kmita had burned Volmontovichi, in vengeance for the slaughter of his comrades, the village was rebuilt by degrees; but as later on the Swedish war had stopped work on it, a multitude of beams, planks, and boards were lying on the principal street. Whole piles of them rose up near the gate; and infantry, even slightly trained, might make a protracted defence from behind them. In every case the infantry protected the cavalry from the first onset. Billevich was so eager to exhibit his military skill to Babinich, that he sent forward a small party to reconnoitre. What was his amazement, and at the first moment alarm, when from a distance and beyond the grove there came to him the sound of musketry; then his party appeared on the road, but coming at a gallop, with a crowd of enemies at its shoulders. The sword-bearer sprang at once to the infantry to give final orders; but from the grove rushed forth dense groups of the enemy, and advanced locust-like toward Volmontovichi, with arms glittering in the setting sun. The grove was near. When they had approached somewhat, the cavalry pushed forward at once on a gallop, wishing to pass the gate at a blow; but the sudden fire of the infantry stopped them on the spot. The first ranks fell back, and even in considerable disorder; only a few brought their horses' breasts to the defences. The sword-bearer recovered meanwhile, and galloping to the cavalry ordered all who had pistols or guns to advance to the aid of the infantry. Evidently the enemy were equally provided with muskets; for after the first onset they began a very violent, though irregular fire. From both sides it thundered now more quickly, now more slowly; the balls whistling came up to the cavalry, struck on the houses, fence, piles of timber; the smoke rose over Volmontovichi, the smell of powder filled the street. Anusia had what she wanted,--a battle. Both ladies mounted ponies at the first moment, by command of Billevich, so that at a given signal they might retreat with the party should the enemy's forces turn out too great. They were stationed therefore in the rear ranks of the cavalry. But though Anusia had a small sabre at her side and a lynx-skin cap on her head, her soul fled at once into her arms. She who knew so well how to take counsel in peace with officers, had not one pinch of energy when she had to stand eye to eye with the sons of Bellona in the field. The whistle and knocking of balls terrified her; the uproar, the racing of orderlies, the rattle of muskets, and the groans of the wounded took away her presence of mind, and the smell of powder stopped the breath in her breast. She grew faint and weak, her face became pale as a kerchief, and she squirmed and whimpered like a little child, till young Pan Olesha from Kyemnar had to hold her by the arms. He held her firmly, more firmly than was needed; and he was ready to hold her in that way to the end of the world. The soldiers around her began to laugh. "A knight in petticoats!" called voices. "Better set hens and pluck feathers!" Others cried: "Pan Olesha, that shield has come to your arm; but Cupid will shoot you all the more easily through it!" And good-humor seized the soldiers. But others preferred to look at Olenka, who bore herself differently. At first, when bullets flew past at some distance she grew pale too, not being able to forbear inclining her head and closing her eyes; but later knightly blood began to act in her, then with face flushed like a rose she reared her head and looked forward with fearless eye. Her distended nostrils drew in as it were with pleasure the smell of powder. Since the smoke grew thicker and thicker at the gate and decreased the view greatly, the daring lady, seeing that the officers were advancing, went with them, to follow more accurately the course of battle, not even thinking of what she was doing. In the throng of cavalry there rose a murmur of praise. "Oh, that is blood! that is the wife for a soldier; she is the right kind of volunteer!" "Vivat Panna Billevich!" "Let us hasten, gracious gentlemen, for it is worth while before such eyes." "The Amazons did not meet muskets better!" cried one of the younger men, forgetting in his enthusiasm that the Amazons lived before the invention of powder. "It is time to finish. The infantry have borne themselves well, and the enemy are seriously shattered!" In fact, the enemy could do nothing with their cavalry. Every moment they urged on their horses, attacked the gate, but after a salvo drew back in disorder. And as a wave which has fallen upon the flat shore leaves behind mussels, stones, and dead fish, so after each attack a number of bodies of horses and men were left on the road before the gate. At last the onsets ceased. Only volunteers came up, firing in the direction of the village with pistols and guns rather thickly, so as to occupy the attention of Billevich's men. But the sword-bearer, coming out along the gutter of the house, saw a movement in the rear ranks of the enemy toward the fields and thickets extending along the left side of Volmontovichi. "They will try from that side!" cried he; and sent immediately a part of the cavalry between the houses so as to give resistance to the enemy from the gardens. In half an hour a new battle was begun on the left wing of the party and also with fire-arms. The fenced gardens rendered difficult a hand-to-hand struggle, and equally difficult for both sides. The enemy, however, being extended over a longer line, were less exposed to bullets. The battle was becoming more stubborn and more active, and the enemy did not cease to attack the gate. Billevich was growing uneasy. On the right flank he had a field behind him still free, ending with a stream not very wide, but deep and swampy, through which a passage, especially if in haste, might be difficult. In one place only was there a trodden road to a flat shore along which villagers drove cattle to the forest. The sword-bearer began to look around oftener toward that side. All at once among willows which could be seen through, for they had lost their leaves, he saw in the evening light glittering weapons and a dark cloud of soldiers. "Babinich is coming!" thought he. But at that moment Pan Hjanstovski, who led the cavalry, rushed up to him. "Swedish infantry are visible from the river!" cried he, in terror. "Some treason!" cried Pan Tomash. "By Christ's wounds, gallop with your cavalry against that infantry; otherwise it will attack us on the flank." "There is a great force!" answered Hjanstovski. "Oppose it even for an hour, and we will escape in the rear to the forests." The officer galloped away, and was soon rushing over the field at the head of two hundred men; seeing which the enemy's infantry began to form in the willows to receive the Poles. The squadron urged the horses, and in the willow-bushes a musketry fire was soon rattling. Billevich had doubts, not only of victory, but of saving his own infantry. He might withdraw to the rear with a part of the cavalry with the ladies, and seek safety in the forest; but such a withdrawal would be a great defeat, for it meant leaving to the enemy's sword most of the party and the remnant of the population of Lauda, which had collected in Volmontovichi to see Billevich. Volmontovichi itself would be levelled to the ground. There remained still the lone hope that Hjanstovski would break the infantry. Meanwhile it was growing dark in the sky; but in the village the light increased every moment, for the chips, splinters, and shavings, lying in a heap at the first house near the gate, had caught fire. The house itself caught fire from them, and a red conflagration was rising. By the light of the burning Billevich saw Hjanstovski's cavalry returning in disorder and panic; after it the Swedish infantry were rushing from the willows, advancing to the attack on a run. He understood then that he must retreat by the only road open. He rushed to the rest of the cavalry, waved his sword and cried,-- "To the rear, gentlemen, and in order, in order!" Suddenly shots were heard in the rear also, mingled with shouts of soldiery. Billevich saw then that he was surrounded, that he had fallen as it were into a trap from which there was neither issue nor rescue. It remained for him only to perish with honor; therefore he sprang out before the line of cavalry, and cried,-- "Let us fall one upon the other! Let us not spare our blood for the faith and the country!" Meanwhile the fire of the infantry defending the gate and the left side of the village had grown weak, and the increasing shout of the enemy announced their near victory. But what mean those hoarse trumpet sounds in the ranks of Sakovich's party, and the rattle of drums in the ranks of the Swedes? Outcries shriller and shriller are heard, in some way wonderful, confused, as if not triumph but terror rings through them. The fire at the gate stops in a moment, as if some one had cut it off with a knife. Groups of Sakovich's cavalry are flying at break-neck speed from the left flank to the main road. On the right flank the infantry halt, and then, instead of advancing, begin to withdraw to the willows. "What is this?" cried Billevich. Meanwhile the answer comes from that grove out of which Sakovich had issued; and now emerge from it men, horses, squadrons, horsetail standards, sabres, and march--no, they fly like a storm, and not like a storm,--like a tempest! In the bloody gleams of the fire they are as visible as a thing on the hand. They are hastening in thousands! The earth seems to flee from beneath them, and they speed on in dense column; one would say that some monster had issued from the oak-grove, and is sweeping across the fields to the village to swallow it. The air flies before them, driven by the impetus; with them go terror and ruin. They are almost there! Now the attack! Like a whirlwind they scatter Sakovich's men. "O God! O great God!" cries Billevich, in bewilderment; "these are ours! That must be Babinich!" "Babinich!" roared every throat after him. "Babinich! Babinich!" called terrified voices in Sakovich's party. And all the enemy's cavalry wheel to the right, to escape toward the infantry. The fence is broken with a sharp crash, under the pressure of horses' breasts. The pasture is filled with the fleeing; but the new-comers, on their shoulders already, cut, slash,--cut without resting, cut without pity. The whistling of sabres, cries, groans, are heard. Pursuers and pursued fall upon the infantry, overturn, break, and scatter them. At last the whole mass rolls on toward the river, disappears in the brush, clambers out on the opposite bank. Men are visible yet; the chasing continues, with cutting and cutting. They recede. Their sabres flash once again; then they vanish in bushes, in space, and in darkness. Billevich's infantry began to withdraw from the gate and the houses, which needed no further defence. The cavalry stood for a time in such wonder that deep silence reigned in the ranks; and only when the flaming house had fallen with a crash was some voice heard on a sudden,-- "In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, the storm has gone by!" "Not a foot will come out alive from that hunt!" said another voice. "Gracious gentlemen!" cried the sword-bearer, suddenly, "shall we not spring at those who came at us in the rear? They are retreating, but we will come up." "Kill, slay!" answered a chorus of voices. All the cavalry wheeled around and urged their horses after the last division of the enemy. In Volmontovichi remained only old men, women, children, and "the lady" with her friend. They quenched the fire in a twinkle; joy inconceivable seized all hearts. Women with weeping and sobbing raised their hands heavenward, and turning to the point where Babinich had rushed away, cried,-- "God bless thee, invincible warrior! savior who rescued us, with our children and houses, from ruin!" The ancient, decrepit Butryms repeated in chorus,-- "God bless thee, God guide thee! Without thee this would have been the end of Volmontovichi." Ah, had they known in that crowd that the very same hand that had now saved the village from fire and the people from steel had two years before brought fire and the sword to that Volmontovichi! After the fire was quenched, all began to collect in Billevich's wounded; the youths in a rage ran through the battle-field, and killed, with poles from wagon-racks, the wounded left by the Swedes and Sakovich's ravagers. Olenka took command of the nursing. Ever keeping her presence of mind, full of energy and power, she did not cease her labor till every wounded man was resting in a cottage, with dressed wounds. Then all the people followed her example in repeating at the cross a litany for the dead. Through the whole night no one closed an eye in Volmontovichi; all were waiting for the return of the sword-bearer and Babinich, hurrying around at the same time to prepare for the victors a fitting reception. Oxen and sheep, herded in the forests, went under the knife; and fires were roaring till morning. Anusia alone could take no part in anything; for at first fear deprived her of power, and later her joy was so great that it had the seeming of madness. Olenka had to care for her; she was laughing and weeping in turn, and again she threw herself in the arms of her friend, repeating without system or order,-- "Well, what? Who saved Billevich and the party and all Volmontovichi? Before whom did Sakovich flee; who overwhelmed him, and the Swedes with him? Pan Babinich! Well, now! I knew he would come, for I wrote to him. But he did not forget! I knew, I knew he would come. It was I who brought him! Olenka, Olenka! I am happy. Have I not told you that no one could conquer him? Charnyetski is not his equal. O my God, my God! Is it true that he will return? Will it be to-day? If he was not going to return, he would not have come, is it not true? Do you hear, Olenka? Horses are neighing in the distance!" But in the distance nothing was neighing. Only toward morning a tramp was heard, shouting, singing, and Billevich came back. The cavalry on foaming horses filled the whole village. There was no end to the songs, to the shouts, to the stories. The sword-bearer, covered with blood, panting, but joyful, related till sunrise how he had broken a body of the enemy's cavalry, how he had followed them ten miles, and cut them almost to pieces. Billevich, as well as the troops and all the Lauda people, were convinced that Babinich might return at any moment. The forenoon came; then the sun went to the other half of the sky, and was descending; but Babinich came not. Anusia toward evening had sunburned spots on her face. "If he cared only for the Swedes, and not for me!" thought she, in her soul; "still, he got the letter, for he came to the rescue!" Poor woman! she knew not that the souls of Yurek Billevich and Braun were long since in the other world, and that Babinich had received no letter; for if he had received the letter he would have returned like a lightning-flash to Volmontovichi,--but not for thee, Anusia. Another day passed. Billevich did not lose hope yet, and did not leave the village. Anusia held stubborn silence. "He has belittled me terribly! But it is good for me, for my giddiness and my sins!" said she to herself. On the third day Billevich sent some men on a reconnoissance. They returned four days later with information that Babinich had taken Ponyevyej, and spared not a Swede. Then he marched on, it was unknown whither, for tidings of him had ceased. "I shall not find him till he comes up again," said Billevich. Anusia became a nettle; whoever of the nobles or younger officers touched her drew back quickly. But the fifth day she said to Olenka,-- "Pan Volodyovski is just as good a soldier, but less rude." "And maybe," answered Olenka, meditatively, "maybe Pan Babinich has retained his constancy for that other woman, of whom he spoke to you on the road from Zamost." "Well, all one to me!" said Anusia. But she told not the truth; for it was not all one to her yet, by any means. CHAPTER LIV. Sakovich's forces were cut up to such a degree that he was barely able himself to take refuge in the forests near Ponyevyej with four other men. Then he wandered through the forests disguised as a peasant for a whole month, not daring to put his head out into the open light. But Babinich rushed upon Ponyevyej, cut down the infantry posted there as a garrison, and pursued Hamilton, who was unable to flee to Livonia because of the considerable Polish forces assembled in Shavli, and farther on, near Birji, turned toward the east in hope of being able to break through to Vilkomir. He had doubts about saving his own regiment, but did not wish to fall into the hands of Babinich; for the report was spread everywhere that that stern warrior, not to burden himself, gave orders to slay every prisoner. The ill-fated Englishman therefore fled like a deer hunted by wolves, and Babinich hunted him all the more venomously. Hence he did not return to Volmontovichi, and he did not even inquire what party it was that he had saved. The first hoar-frosts had begun to cover the earth in the morning; escape became more difficult thereby, for the tracks of hoofs remained on the earth. In the forest there was no pasture, in the field the horses suffered stern hunger. The foreign cavalry did not dare to remain longer in villages, lest the stubborn enemy might reach them any moment. At last their misery surpassed all bounds; they lived only on leaves, bark, and those of their own horses which fell from fatigue. After a week they began to implore their colonel to turn, face Babinich, and give him battle, for they chose to die by the sword rather than by hunger. Hamilton yielded, and drew up for battle in Andronishki. The Swedish forces were inferior to that degree that the Englishman could not even think of victory, especially against such an opponent. But he was himself greatly wearied, and wanted to die. The battle, begun at Andronishki, ended near Troüpi, where fell the last of the Swedes. Hamilton died the death of a hero, defending himself at a cross by the roadside against a number of Tartars, who wished at first to take him alive, but infuriated by his resistance bore him apart on their sabres at last. But Babinich's squadrons were so wearied too that they had neither the strength nor the wish to advance even to the neighboring Troüpi; but wherever one of them stood during battle there it prepared at once for the night's rest, kindling fires in the midst of the enemy's corpses. After they had eaten, all fell asleep with the sleep of stones. Even the Tartars themselves deferred till next morning the plunder of corpses. Kmita, who was concerned mainly about the horses, did not oppose that rest. But next morning he rose rather early, so as to count his own loss after the stubborn conflict and divide the spoils justly. Immediately after eating he stood on the eminence, at that same cross under which Hamilton had died; the Polish and Tartar officers came to him in their turn, with the loss of their men notched on staffs, and made reports. He listened as a country proprietor listens in summer to his overseers, and rejoices in his heart at the plentiful harvest. Then Akbah Ulan came up, more like a fright than a human being, for his nose had been broken at Volmontovichi by the hilt of a sabre; he bowed, gave Kmita a bloody paper, and said,-- "Effendi, some papers were found on the Swedish leader, which I give according to order." Kmita had indeed given a rigorous order that all papers discovered on corpses should be brought to him straightway after battle, for often he was able to learn from them the plans of the enemy, and act accordingly. But at this time he was not so urgent; therefore he nodded and put the paper in his bosom. But Akbah Ulan he sent to the chambul with the order to move at once to Troüpi, where they were to have a longer rest. The squadrons then passed before him, one after the other. In advance marched the chambul, which now did not number five hundred completely; the rest had been lost in continual battles; but each Tartar had so many Swedish riks thalers, Prussian thalers and ducats sewed up in his saddle, in his coat, and in his cap, that he was worth his own weight. They were in no wise like common Tartars, for whoso of them was weaker had perished from hardship; there remained only men beyond praise, broad-shouldered, of iron endurance, and venomous as hornets. Continual practice had so trained them that in hand-to-hand conflict they could meet even the regular cavalry of Poland; on the heavy cavalry or dragoons of Prussia, when equal in number, they rushed like wolves upon sheep. In battle they defended with terrible fierceness the bodies of their comrades, so as to divide afterward their booty. They passed now before Kmita with great animation, sounding their trumpets, blowing their pipes, and shaking their horse-tail standard; they went in such order that regular troops could not have marched better. Next came the dragoons, formed with great pains by Pan Andrei from volunteers of every description, armed with rapiers and muskets. They were led by the old sergeant, Soroka, now raised to the dignity of officer, and even to that of captain. The regiment, dressed in one fashion in captured uniforms taken from Prussian dragoons, was composed chiefly of men of low station; but Kmita loved specially that kind of people, for they obeyed blindly and endured every toil without uttering a murmur. In the two following squadrons of volunteers only smaller and higher nobles served. They were stormy spirits and restive, who under another leader would have been turned into a herd of robbers, but in Kmita's iron hands they had become like regular squadrons, and gladly called themselves "light horsemen." These were less steady under fire than the dragoons, but were more terrible in their first fury, and were more skilful in hand-to-hand conflict, for they knew every point of fencing. After these marched, finally, about a thousand fresh volunteers,--good men, but over whom it was needful to work yet to make them like regular troops. Each of these squadrons in passing raised a shout, saluting meanwhile Pan Andrei with their sabres. And he was more and more rejoiced. That was a considerable and not a poor force. He had accomplished much with it, had shed much of the enemy's blood, and God knows how much he might do yet. His former offences were great, but his recent services were not slight. He had risen from his fall, from his sin; and had gone to repent, not in the church, but in the field.--not in ashes, but in blood. He had defended the Most Holy Lady, the country, and the king; and now he felt that it was easier in his soul and more joyous. Nay, the heart of the young man swelled with pride, for not every one would have been able to make head as he had. For how many fiery nobles are there, how many cavaliers in that Commonwealth! and why does no one of them stand at the head of such forces,--not even Volodyovski, nor Pan Yan? Besides, who defended Chenstohova, who defended the king in the pass, who slashed down Boguslav, who first brought fire and sword into Electoral Prussia? And behold even now in Jmud there is hardly an enemy. Here Pan Andrei felt what the falcon feels, when, stretching his wings, he rises higher and higher. The passing squadrons greeted him with a thundering shout, and he raised his head and asked himself, "Whither shall I fly?" And his face flushed, for in that moment it seemed to him that within himself he bore a hetman. But that baton, if it comes to him, will come from the field, from wounds, from service, from praise. No traitor will flash it before his eyes as in his time Prince Yanush had done, but a thankful country will place it in his hand, with the will of the king. But it is not for him to think when it will come, but to fight, and to fight to-morrow as he fought yesterday! Here the excited imagination of the cavalier returned to reality. Whither should he march from Troüpi, in what new place strike the Swedes? Then he remembered the letter given him by Akbah Ulan and found on the body of Hamilton. He put his hand in his bosom, took it out and looked, and astonishment at once was reflected on his face; for on the letter was written plainly, in a woman's hand: "To his Grace Pan Babinich, Colonel of Tartar forces and volunteers." "For me!" said Pan Andrei. The seal was broken; therefore he opened the letter quickly, struck the paper with the back of his hand, and began to read. But he had not finished when his hands began to quiver, his face changed, and he cried,-- "Praised be the name of the Lord! O merciful God, the reward comes to me from Thy hand!" Here he seized the foot of the cross with both hands, and began to beat his yellow hair against the wood. In another manner he was not able to thank God at that moment; he found no other words for prayer, because delight like a whirlwind had seized him and borne him far, far away to the sky. That letter was from Anusia. The Swedes had found it on the body of Yurek Billevich, and now it had come to Kmita's hands through a second corpse. Through Pan Andrei's head thousands of thoughts were flying with the speed of Tartar arrows. Therefore Olenka was not in the wilderness, but in Billevich's party; and he had just saved her, and with her that Volmontovichi which on a time he had sent up in smoke in avenging his comrades. Evidently the hand of God had directed his steps, so that with one blow he had made good all wrongs done Olenka and Lauda. Behold, his offences are washed away! Can she refuse now to forgive him, or can that grave brotherhood of Lauda? Can they refuse to bless him? And what will she say, that beloved maiden who holds him a traitor, when she learns that that Babinich who brought down Radzivill, who waded to his girdle in German and Swedish blood, who crushed the enemy out of Jmud, destroyed them, drove them to Prussia and Livonia, was he,--was Kmita; no longer, however, the disorderly, the outlaw, the traitor, but the defender of the faith, of the king, of the country? Immediately after he had crossed the boundary of Jmud, Pan Andrei wished to proclaim to the four sides of the world who that far-famed Babinich was; and if he did not do so, it was only because he feared that at the very sound of his real name all would turn from him, all would suspect him, would refuse him aid and confidence. Two years had barely passed, since bewildered by Radzivill he had cut down those squadrons which were not willing to rise with Radzivill against king and country. Barely two years before, he had been the right hand of the traitor. Now all was changed. Now, after so many victories, in such glory, he had a right to come to the maiden and say, "I am Kmita, but your savior." He had a right to shout to all Jmud, "I am Kmita, but thy savior!" Besides, Volmontovichi was not distant. Kmita had followed Hamilton a week; but Kmita would be at the feet of Olenka in less time than a week. Here Pan Andrei stood up, pale with emotion, with flaming eyes, with gleaming face, and cried to his attendant,-- "My horse quickly! Be alive, be alive!" The attendant brought the black steed, and sprang down to hold the stirrup; but when he had reached the ground he said,-- "Your grace, some strange men are approaching from Troüpi with Pan Soroka, and they are coming at a trot." "I do not care for them!" answered Pan Andrei. Now both horsemen approached to within some yards; then one of them with Soroka pushed forward on a gallop, arrived, and removing his panther-skin cap, uncovered a head red as fire. "I see that I am standing before Pan Babinich!" said he; "I am glad that I have found you." "With whom have I the honor to speak?" asked Kmita, impatiently. "I am Vyershul, once captain of the Tartar squadron with Prince Yeremi Vishnyevetski. I come to my native place to make levies for a new war; and besides I bring you a letter from the grand hetman, Sapyeha." "For a new war?" asked Kmita, frowning. "What do you say?" "This letter will explain better than I," replied Vyershul, giving the letter of the hetman. Kmita opened the letter feverishly. It read as follows:-- My Very Dear Pan Babinich,--A new deluge is on the country. A league of Sweden with Rakotsy has been concluded, and a division of the Commonwealth agreed upon. Eighty thousand Hungarians, Transylvanians, Wallachians, and Cossacks may cross the southern boundary at any moment. And since in these last straits it is necessary for us to exert all our forces so as to leave even a glorious name after our people for coming ages, I send to your grace this order, according to which you are to turn straight to the south without losing a moment of time, and come to us by forced marches. You will find us in Brest, whence we will send you farther without delay. This time _periculum in mora_ (there is danger in delay). Prince Boguslav is freed from captivity; but Pan Gosyevski is to have an eye on Prussia and Jmud. Enjoining haste on you once more, I trust that love for the perishing country will be your best spur. When Kmita had finished reading, he dropped the letter to the earth, and began to pass his hands over his moistened face; at last he looked wanderingly on Vyershul, and inquired in a low, stifled voice,-- "Why is Pan Gosyevski to remain in Jmud, and why must I go to the south?" Vyershul shrugged his shoulders: "Ask the hetman in Brest for his reason; I answer nothing." All at once terrible anger seized Pan Andrei by the throat. His eyes flashed, his face was blue, and he cried with a shrieking voice: "I will not go from here! Do you understand?" "Is that true?" asked Vyershul. "My office was to deliver the order; the rest is your affair. With the forehead, with the forehead! I wished to beg your company for a couple of hours, but after what I have heard I prefer to look for another." Then he wheeled his horse and rode off. Pan Andrei sat again under the cross, and began to look around on the sky, as if wishing to take note of the weather. The attendant drew back some distance with the horses, and stillness set in all around. The morning was clear, pale, half autumnal, half wintry. The wind was not blowing, but from the birch bushes growing at the foot of the crucifix the last leaves were dropping noiselessly, yellow and shrivelled from frost. Countless flocks of crows and jackdaws were flying over the forest; some were letting themselves down with mighty cawing right there near the crucifix, for the field and the road were covered with corpses of Swedes still unburied. Pan Andrei looked at those dark birds, blinking his eyes; you would say that he wanted to count them. Then he closed his lids and sat long without motion; at last he shuddered, frowned; presence of mind came back to his face, and he began to speak thus to himself,-- "It cannot be otherwise! I will go in two weeks, but not now. Let happen what may. It was not I who brought Rakotsy. I cannot! What is too much is too much! Have I hammered and pounded but little, passed sleepless nights in the saddle, shed my own blood and that of other men? What reward for this? If I had not received the first letter, I should have gone; but both have come in one hour, as if for the greater pain, the greater sorrow. Let the world perish, I will not go! The country will not be lost in two weeks; and besides the anger of God is evidently on it, and it is not in the might of man to oppose that. O God! the Hyperboreans [Northern Russians], the Swedes, the Prussians, the Hungarians, the Transylvanians, the Wallachians, the Cossacks, and all of them at once! Who can resist? O Lord, in what has this unfortunate land offended, in what this pious king, that Thou hast turned from them Thy face, and givest neither mercy nor rescue, and sendest new lashes? Is the bloodshed yet too little, the tears too few? People here have forgotten to rejoice,--so the wind does not blow here, it groans; so the rains do not fall, they weep,--and Thou art lashing and lashing! Mercy, O Lord! Salvation, O Father! We have sinned, but still repentance has come. We have yielded our fortunes, we have mounted our horses, we are fighting and fighting. We have abandoned violence, we have abjured private ends. Why not pardon us? Why not comfort us?" Here conscience seized him by the hair suddenly, and shook him till he screamed; for at the same time it seemed to him that he heard some strange voice from the whole dome of heaven, saying,-- "Have you abandoned private ends? But, unfortunate, what are you doing at this moment? You are exalting your services; and when the first moment of trial comes, you rise like a wild horse, and shout, 'I will not go!' The mother is perishing; new swords are piercing her breast, and you turn away from her. You do not wish to support her with your arm; you are running after your own fortune, and crying, 'I will not go!' She is stretching forth bleeding hands; she is just falling, just fainting, just dying, and with her last voice cries, 'Rescue me, children!' But you answer, 'I will not go!' Woe to you! Woe to such people, woe to the Commonwealth!" Here terror raised the hair on Pan Andrei's head, and his whole body began to tremble as if fever had seized it; and that moment he fell with his face to the earth, and began not to cry, but to scream in terror,-- "O Jesus, do not punish! Jesus, have mercy! Thy will be done! I will go, I will go!" Then he lay some time without speaking, and sobbed; and when he rose at last, he had a face full of resignation and perfectly calm; and thus he prayed further,-- "Wonder not, O Lord, that I grieve, for I was on the eve of my happiness; but let it be as Thou hast ordained. I understand now that Thou didst wish to try me, and therefore didst place me as it were on the parting of the roads. Let Thy will be done. Once more I will not look behind. To Thee, O Lord, I offer this my terrible sorrow, this my yearning, this my grievous suffering. Let it all be accounted to me in punishment because I spared Prince Boguslav, at which the country wept. Thou seest now, O Lord, that that was my last work for self-interest. There will be no other. O merciful Father! But now I will kiss once more this beloved earth; yes, I will press Thy bleeding feet again, and I go, O Christ! I go--" And he went. In the heavenly register in which are written the evil and good deeds of men, his sins were at that moment all blotted out, for he was completely corrected. CHAPTER LV. It is written in no book how many battles the armies, the nobles, and the people of the Commonwealth fought with the enemy. They fought in forests, in fields, in villages, in hamlets, in towns; they fought in Prussia, in Mazovia, in Great Poland, in Little Poland, in Russia, in Lithuania, in Jmud; they fought without resting, in the day or the night. Every clod of earth was drenched in blood. The names of knights, their glorious deeds, their great devotion, perished from the memory; for the chronicler did not write them down, and the lute did not celebrate them. But under the force of these exertions the power of the enemy bent at last. And as when a lordly lion, pierced the moment before with missiles, rises suddenly, and shaking his kingly mane, roars mightily, pale terror pierces straightway the hunters, and their feet turn to flight; so that Commonwealth rose ever more terrible, filled with anger of Jove, ready to meet the whole world. Into the bones of the aggressors there entered weakness and fear; not of plunder were they thinking then, but of this only,--to bear away home from the jaws of the lion sound heads. New leagues, new legions of Hungarians, Transylvanians, Wallachians, and Cossacks were of no avail. The storm passed once more, it is true, between Brest, Warsaw, and Cracow; but it was broken against Polish breasts, and soon was scattered like empty vapor. The King of Sweden, being the first to despair of his cause, went home to the Danish war; the traitorous elector, humble before the strong, insolent to the weak, beat with his forehead before the Commonwealth, and fell upon the Swedes; the robber legions of Rakotsy's "slaughterers" fled with all power to their Transylvanian reed-fields, which Pan Lyubomirski ruined with fire and sword. But it was easier for them to break into the Commonwealth than to escape without punishment; therefore when they were attacked at the passage, the Counts of Transylvania, kneeling before Pototski, Lyubomirski, and Charnyetski, begged for mercy in the dust. "We will surrender our weapons, we will give millions!" cried they; "only let us go!" And receiving the ransom, the hetmans took pity on that army of unfortunate men; but the horde trampled them under hoofs at the very thresholds of their homes. Peace began to return gradually to the plains of Poland. The king was still taking Prussian fortresses; Charnyetski was to take the Polish sword to Denmark, for the Commonwealth did not wish to limit itself to driving out the enemy. Villages and towns were rebuilt on burned ruins; the people returned from the forests; ploughs appeared in the fields. In the autumn of 1657, immediately after the Hungarian war, it was quiet in the greater part of the provinces and districts; it was quiet especially in Jmud. Those of the Lauda men who in their time had gone with Volodyovski, were still somewhere far off in the field; but their return was expected. Meanwhile in Morezi, in Volmontovichi, in Drojeykani, Mozgi, Goshchuni, and Patsuneli, women, boys, and girls, with old men, were sowing the winter grain, building with joint efforts houses in those "neighborhoods" through which fire had passed, so that the warriors on their return might find at least roofs over their heads, and not be forced to die of hunger. Olenka had been living for some time at Vodokty, with Anusia and the sword-bearer. Pan Tomash did not hasten to his Billeviche,--first, because it was burned, and second, because it was pleasanter for him with the maidens than alone. Meanwhile, with the aid of Olenka, he managed Vodokty. The lady wished to manage Vodokty in the best manner, for it was to be with Mitruny her dowry for the cloister; in other words, it was to become the property of the Benedictine nuns, with whom on the very day of the coming New Year poor Olenka intended to begin her novitiate. For after she had considered everything that had met her,--those changes of fortune, disappointments, and sufferings,--she came to the conviction that thus, and not otherwise, must be the will of God. It seemed to her that some all-powerful hand was urging her to the cell, that some voice was saying to her,-- "In that place is the best pacification, and the end of all earthly anxiety." She had determined therefore to follow that voice. Feeling, however, in the depth of her conscience that her soul had not been able yet to tear itself from the earth with completeness, she desired first to prepare it with ardent piety, with good works and labor. Frequently also in those efforts echoes from the world hindered her. For example, people began to buzz around that that famous Babinich was Kmita. Some contradicted excitedly; others repeated the statement with stubbornness. Olenka believed not. All Kmita's deeds, Kmita and his service with Yanush Radzivill, were too vividly present in her memory to let her suppose for one instant that he was the crusher of Boguslav, and such a trusty worker for the king, such an ardent patriot. Still her peace was disturbed, and sorrow with pain rose up afresh in her bosom. This might be remedied by a hurried entrance to the cloister; but the cloisters were scattered. The nuns who had not perished from the violence of soldiers during wartime were only beginning to assemble. Universal misery reigned in the land, and whoso wished to take refuge behind the walls of a convent had not only to bring bread for personal use, but also to feed the whole convent. Olenka wished to come with bread to the cloister,--to become not merely a sister, but a nourisher of nuns. The sword-bearer, knowing that his labor was to go to the glory of God, labored earnestly. He went around the fields and the buildings, carrying out the labors of the autumn which with the coming spring were to bear fruit. Sometimes he was accompanied by Anusia, who, unable to endure the affront which Babinich had put upon her, threatened also to enter the cloister, and said she was merely waiting for Volodyovski to bring back the Lauda men, for she wished to bid adieu to her old friend. But more frequently the sword-bearer went with Olenka only on these circuits, for land management was irksome to Anusia. A certain time both rode out on ponies to Mitruny, where they were rebuilding barns and cow-houses burned in time of war. On the road they were to visit the church; for that was the anniversary of the battle of Volmontovichi, in which they were saved from the last straits by the coming of Babinich. The whole day had passed for them in various occupations, so that only toward evening could they start from Mitruny. In going there they went by the church-road, but in returning they had to pass through Lyubich and Volmontovichi. Panna Aleksandra had barely looked at the first smoke of Lyubich when she turned aside her eyes and began to repeat prayers to drive away painful thoughts; but the sword-bearer rode on in silence, and only looked around. At last, when they had passed the gate, he said,-- "That is land for a senator! Lyubich is worth two like Mitruny." Olenka continued to say her prayers. But in Pan Tomash was roused the old landlord by nature, and perhaps also he was given somewhat to lawsuits; for after a while he said again, as if to himself,-- "And yet it is ours by right,--old Billevich property, our sweat, our toil. That unfortunate man must have perished long since, for he has not announced himself; and if he had, the right is with us." Here he turned to Olenka: "What do you think?" "That is a cursed place," answered she. "Let happen with it what may!" "But you see the right is with us. The place was cursed in bad hands, but it will be blessed in good ones. The right is with us." "Never! I do not wish to know anything of it. My grandfather willed it without restriction; let Kmita's relatives take it." Then she urged on the pony. Billevich put spurs also to his beast, and they did not slacken speed till they were in the open field. Meanwhile night had fallen; but there was perfect light, for an enormous red moon had risen from behind the forest of Volmontovichi and lighted up the whole region with a golden shining. "Well! God has given a beautiful night," said the sword-bearer, looking at the circle of the moon. "How Volmontovichi gleams from a distance!" said Olenka. "For the wood in the houses has not become black." Their further conversation was interrupted by the squeaking of a wagon, which they could not see at first, for the road was undulating; soon, however, they saw a pair of horses, and following behind them a pair at a pole, and at the end of the pole a wagon surrounded by a number of horsemen. "What kind of people can these be?" asked the sword-bearer; and he held in his horse. Olenka stopped at his side. "Halt!" cried Billevich. "Whom are you carrying there?" One of the horsemen turned to them and said,-- "We are bringing Pan Kmita, who was shot by the Hungarians at Magyerovo." "The word has become flesh!" said Billevich. The whole world went around suddenly in Olenka's eyes; the heart died within her, breath failed her breast. Certain voices were calling in her soul: "Jesus! Mary! that is he!" Then consciousness of where she was or what was happening left her entirely. But she did not drop from the horse to the ground, for she seized convulsively with her hand the wagon-rack; and when she came to herself her eyes fell on the motionless form of a man lying in the wagon. True, that was he,--Pan Andrei Kmita, the banneret of Orsha; and he was lying on his back in the wagon. His head was bound in a cloth, but by the ruddy light of the moon his pale and calm face was perfectly visible. His eyes were deeply sunk and closed; life did not discover itself by the least movement. "With God!" said Billevich, removing his cap. "Stop!" cried Olenka. And she asked with a low but quick voice, as in a fever: "Is he alive or dead?" "He is alive, but death is over him." Here the sword-bearer, looking at Kmita's face, said: "You will not take him to Lyubich?" "He gave orders to take him to Lyubich without fail, for he wants to die there." "With God! hasten forward." "We beat with the forehead!" The wagon moved on; and Olenka with Billevich galloped in the opposite direction with what breath was in their horses. They flew through Volmontovichi like two night phantoms, and came to Vodokty without speaking a word on the road; only when dismounting, Olenka turned to her uncle,-- "It is necessary to send a priest to him," said she, with a panting voice; "let some one go this moment to Upita." The sword-bearer went quickly to carry out her wish; she rushed into her room, and threw herself on her knees before the image of the Most Holy Lady. A couple of hours after, in the late evening, a bell was heard beyond the gate at Vodokty. That was the priest passing on his way with the Lord Jesus to Lyubich. Panna Aleksandra was on her knees continually. Her lips were repeating the litany for the dying. And when she had finished she struck the floor three times with her head, repeating: "Reckon to him, O God, that he dies at the hands of the enemy; forgive him, have mercy on him!" In this way the whole night passed for her. The priest remained in Lyubich till morning, and on his way home called at Vodokty. Olenka ran out to meet him. "Is it all over?" asked she; and could say no more, for breath failed her. "He is alive yet," answered the priest. During each of the following days a number of messengers flew from Vodokty to Lyubich, and each returned with the answer that the banneret was "alive yet." At last one brought the intelligence, which he had heard from the barber brought from Kyedani, that he was not only alive, but would recover; for the wounds were healing successfully, and strength was coming back to the knight. Panna Aleksandra sent bountiful offerings to Upita for a thanksgiving Mass; but from that day messengers ceased to visit Lyubich, and a wonderful thing took place in the maiden's heart. Together with peace, the former pity for Kmita began to rise. His offences came to her mind again every moment, so grievous that they were not to be forgiven. Death alone could cover them with oblivion. If he returned to health, they weighed on him anew. But still everything that could be brought to his defence Olenka repeated to herself daily. So much had she suffered in these days, so many conflicts were there in her soul, that she began to fail in health. This disturbed Pan Tomash greatly; hence on a certain evening when they were alone, he said,-- "Olenka, tell me sincerely, what do you think of the banneret of Orsha?" "It is known to God that I do not wish to think of him." "For see, you have grown thin-- H'm! Maybe that you still-- I insist on nothing, but I should be glad to know what is going on in your mind. Do you not think that the will of your grandfather should be accomplished?" "Never!" answered Olenka. "My grandfather left me this door open, and I will knock at it on the New Year. Thus will his will be accomplished." "Neither do I believe at all," answered Billevich, "what some buzz around here,--that Babinich and Kmita are one; but still at Magyerovo he was with the country, fought against the enemy, and shed his blood. The reform is late, but still it is a reform." "Even Prince Boguslav is serving the king and the country now," answered the lady, with sorrow. "Let God forgive both, and especially him who shed his blood; but people will always have the right to say that in the moment of greatest misfortune, in the moment of disaster and fall, he rose against the country, and returned to it only when the enemy's foot was tottering, and when his personal profit commanded him to hold to the victor. That is their sin! Now there are no traitors, for there is no profit from treason! But what is the merit? Is it not a new proof that such men are always ready to serve the stronger? Would to God it were otherwise, but Magyerovo cannot redeem such transgression." "It is true! I cannot deny it," answered Billevich. "It is a bitter truth, but still true. All the former traitors have gone over in a chambul to the king." "On the banneret of Orsha," continued the lady, "there rests a still more grievous reproach than on Boguslav, for Pan Kmita offered to raise his hand against the king, at which act the prince himself was terrified. Can a chance shot remove that? I would let this hand be cut off had that not happened; but it has, and it will never drop away. It seems clear that God has left him life of purpose for penance. My uncle, my uncle! we should be tempting our souls if we tried to beat into ourselves that he is innocent. And what good would come of this? Will conscience let itself be tempted? Let the will of God be done. What is broken cannot be bound again, and should not. I am happy that the banneret is alive, I confess; for it is evident that God has not yet turned from him His favor altogether. But that is sufficient for me. I shall be happy when I hear that he has effaced his fault; but I wish for nothing more, I desire nothing more, even if my soul had to suffer yet. May God assist him!" Olenka was not able to speak longer, for a great and pitiful weeping overpowered her; but that was her last weeping. She had told all that she carried in her heart, and from that time forth peace began to return to her anew. CHAPTER LVI. The horned, daring soul in truth was unwilling to go out of its bodily enclosure, and did not go out. In a month after his return to Lyubich Pan Andrei's wounds began to heal; but still earlier he regained consciousness, and looking around the room, he saw at once where he was. Then he called the faithful Soroka. "Soroka," said he, "the mercy of God is upon me. I feel that I shall not die." "According to order!" answered the old soldier, brushing away a tear with his fist. And Kmita continued as if to himself: "The penance is over,--I see that clearly. The mercy of God is upon me!" Then he was silent for a moment; only his lips were moving in prayer. "Soroka!" said he again, after a time. "At the service of your grace!" "Who are in Vodokty?" "The lady and the sword-bearer of Rossyeni." "Praised be the name of the Lord! Did any one come here to inquire about me?" "They sent from Vodokty until we told them that you would be well." "And did they stop then?" "Then they stopped." "They know nothing yet, but they shall know from me," said Kmita. "Did you tell no one that I fought as Babinich?" "There was no order," answered the soldier. "And the Lauda men with Pan Volodyovski have not come home yet?" "Not yet; but they may come any day." With this the conversation of the first day was at an end. Two weeks later Kmita had risen and was walking on crutches; the following week he insisted on going to church. "We will go to Upita," said he to Soroka; "for it is needful to begin with God, and after Mass we will go to Vodokty." Soroka did not dare to oppose; therefore he merely ordered straw to be placed in the wagon. Pan Andrei arrayed himself in holiday costume, and they drove away. They arrived at an hour when there were few people yet in the church. Pan Andrei, leaning on Soroka's arm, went to the high altar itself, and knelt in the collator's seat; his face was very thin, emaciated, and besides he wore a long beard which had grown during the war and his sickness. Whoever looked at him thought that he was some passing personage who had come in to Mass; for there was movement everywhere, the country was full of passing nobles who were going from the field to their own estates. The church filled slowly with people and with neighboring nobles; then owners of inherited land from a distance began to arrive, for in many places churches had been burned, and it was necessary to come to Mass as far as Upita. Kmita, sunk in prayer, saw no one. He was roused first from his pious meditation by the squeaking of footstools under the tread of persons entering the pew. Then he raised his head, looked, and saw right there above him the sweet, sad face of Olenka. She also saw him, and recognized him that moment; for she drew back suddenly, as if frightened. First a flush, and then a deathly pallor came out on her face; but with the greatest exercise of will she overcame her emotion, and knelt there near him; the third place was occupied by the sword-bearer. And Kmita and she bowed their heads, and rested their faces on their hands; they knelt there in silence side by side, and their hearts beat so that both heard them perfectly. At last Pan Andrei spoke,-- "May Jesus Christ be praised!" "For the ages of ages," answered Olenka, in an undertone. And they said no more. Now the priest came out to preach. Kmita listened to him; but in spite of his efforts he could not distinguish the words, he could not understand the preacher. Here she is, the desired one, for whom he had yearned during years, who had not left his mind nor his heart; she was here now at his side. He felt her near; and he dared not turn his eyes to her, for he was in the church, but closing his lids, he caught her breathing with his ear. "Olenka! Olenka is near me!" said he to himself, "see, God has commanded us to meet in the church after absence." Then his thoughts and his heart repeated without ceasing: "Olenka, Olenka, Olenka!" And at moments a weeping joy caught him by the throat, and again he was carried away by such an enthusiasm of thankful prayer that he lost consciousness of what was happening to him. She knelt continually, with her face hidden in her hands. The priest had finished the sermon, and descended from the pulpit. All at once a clatter of arms was heard in front of the church, and a tramp of horses' hoofs. Some one cried before the threshold of the church, "Lauda returning!" and suddenly in the sanctuary itself were heard murmurs, then a bustle, then a still louder calling,-- "Lauda! Lauda!" The crowd began to sway; all heads were turned at once toward the door. With that there was a throng in the door, and a body of armed men appeared in the church. At the head of them marched with a clatter of spurs Volodyovski and Zagloba. The crowd opened before them; they passed through the whole church, knelt before the altar, prayed a short time, and then entered the vestry. The Lauda men halted half-way, not greeting any one, out of respect for the place. Ah, what a sight! Grim faces, swarthy from winds, grown thin from toils of war, cut with sabres of Swedes, Germans, Hungarians, and Wallachians! The whole history of the war and the glory of God-fearing Lauda was written on them with swords. There were the gloomy Butryms, the Stakyans, the Domasheviches, the Gostsyeviches, a few of all; but hardly one fourth returned of those who on a time had left Lauda. Many women are seeking in vain for their husbands, many old men are searching in vain for their sons; therefore the weeping increases, for those too who find their own are weeping from joy. The whole church is filled with sobbing. From time to time some one cries out a beloved name, and is silent; and they stand in glory, leaning on their sabres, but over their deep scars tears too are falling on their mustaches. Now a bell, rung at the door of the vestry, quieted the weeping and the murmur. All knelt; the priest came to finish Mass, and after him Volodyovski and Zagloba. But the priest was so moved that when he turned to the people, saying, "_Dominus vobiscum!_" his voice trembled. When he came to the Gospel, and all the sabres were drawn at once from the scabbards, as a sign that Lauda was ever ready to defend the faith, and in the church it was bright from steel, the priest had barely strength to finish the Gospel. Then amid universal emotion the concluding prayer was sung, and Mass was ended; but the priest, when he had placed the sacrament in the tabernacle, turned, after the last Gospel, to the people, in sign that he wished to say something. There was silence, therefore, and the priest with cordial words greeted first the returning soldiers; then he gave notice that he would read a letter from the king, brought by the colonel of the Lauda squadron. The silence grew deeper, and after a while the voice from the altar was heard through the whole church,-- "We, Yan Kazimir, King of Poland, Grand Duke of Lithuania, Mazovia, Prussia, etc., etc., etc. In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, Amen! "Since wicked people must receive punishment in this temporal life for their crimes against king and country before they stand in presence of the heavenly tribunal, it is equally just that virtue receive a reward, which should add the lustre of glory to virtue itself, and give posterity the desire to follow its examples. "Therefore we make it known to the whole order of knighthood, namely, to men of arms and civilians having office, together with all the inhabitants of the Grand Principality of Lithuania and our Starostaship of Jmud, that whatever accusations have rested on Pan Andrei Kmita, the banneret of Orsha, who is greatly beloved by us, are to vanish from the memory of men, in view of the following services and merit, and are to detract in nowise from the honor and glory of the said banneret of Orsha." Here the priest ceased to read, and looked toward the bench on which Pan Andrei was sitting. Kmita rose for a moment, and sitting down again, rested his haggard head on the railing and closed his lids, as if in a faint. But all eyes were turned to him; all lips began to whisper,-- "Pan Kmita! Kmita! There, near the Billeviches." But the priest beckoned, and began to read on amid deep silence,-- "Which banneret of Orsha, though in the beginning of this unfortunate Swedish invasion he declared himself on the side of the prince voevoda, did it not from any selfishness, but from the purest good-will to the country, brought to this error by Prince Yanush Radzivill, who persuaded him that no road of safety remained to the Commonwealth save that which the prince himself took. "But when he visited Prince Boguslav, who, thinking him a traitor, discovered to him clearly all the hostile intrigues against the country, the said banneret of Orsha not only did not promise to raise his hand against our person, but with armed force carried away Prince Boguslav himself, so as to avenge us and the suffering country." "O God, be merciful to me, a sinner!" cried the voice of a woman right there near Pan Andrei; and in the church there broke out anew a murmur of amazement. The priest read on,-- "He was shot by Boguslav, but had barely recovered when he went to Chenstohova, and there defended with his own breast that most sacred Retreat, giving an example of endurance and valor to all; there, in danger of his life and health, he blew up with powder the greatest siege-gun. Seized after that daring deed, he was condemned to death by cruel enemies, and tortured with living fire." With this the weeping of women was heard here and there through the church. Olenka was trembling as in a paroxysm of fever. "But rescued by the power of the Queen of the Angels from those terrible straits, he came to us in Silesia, and on our return to this dear country, when the treacherous enemy prepared an ambush for us, the said banneret of Orsha rushed himself, with his three attendants, on the whole power of the enemy, to save our person. There, cut down and thrust through with rapiers, swimming in his own blood, he was borne from the field as if lifeless--" Olenka placed both her hands on her temples, and raising her head, began to catch the air into her parted lips. From her bosom came out the groan,-- "O God! O God! O God!" And again the voice of the priest sounded, also more and more moved:-- "And when with our endeavors he returned to health, he did not rest, but continued the war, standing forth with immeasurable praise in every necessity, held up as a model to knighthood by the hetmans of both people, till the fortunate capture of Warsaw, after which he was sent to Prussia under the assumed name of Babinich--" When that name was heard in the church, the noise of the people changed as it were into the roar of a river. "Then he is Babinich? Then he is that crusher of the Swedes, the savior of Volmontovichi, the victor in so many battles,--that is Kmita?" The murmur increased still more; throngs began to push toward the altar to see him more closely. "God bless him! God bless him!" said hundreds of voices. The priest turned to the seat and blessed Pan Andrei, who, leaning continually against the railing, was more like a dead than a living man, for the soul had gone out of him with happiness and had risen toward the sky. The priest read on,-- "He visited the enemy's country with fire and sword, was the main cause of the victory at Prostki; with his own hand he overthrew and captured Prince Boguslav. Called late to our starostaship of Jmud, what immense service he rendered there, how many towns and villages he saved from the hands of the enemy, must be known to the inhabitants of that starostaship better than to others." "It is known, it is known, it is known!" was thundered through the whole church. "Silence!" said the priest, raising the king's letter. "Therefore we, considering all his services to us and the country, so many that a son could not have done more for his father and his mother, have determined to publish them in this our letter, so that so great a cavalier, so great a defender of the faith, of king and Commonwealth, should no longer be pursued by the ill-will of men, but go clothed with the praise and universal love proper to the virtuous. Before then the next Diet, confirming these our wishes, shall remove from him every stain, and before we shall reward him with the starostaship of Upita, which is vacant, we ask earnestly of the inhabitants dear to us of our starostaship of Jmud to retain in their hearts and thoughts these our words, which justice itself, the foundation of States, has commanded us to put into their memory." Here the priest concluded, and turning to the altar began to pray; but Pan Andrei felt on a sudden that a soft hand was seizing his hand. He looked. It was Olenka; and before he had time to come to himself, to withdraw his hand, she had raised it and pressed it to her lips in presence of all, before the altar and the people. "Olenka!" cried the astonished Kmita. But she had arisen, and covering her face with a veil, said to old Billevich,-- "Uncle, let us go, let us go from here quickly!" And they went out through the door of the vestry. Pan Andrei tried to rise to follow her, but he could not. His strength left him entirely. But a quarter of an hour later he was in front of the church, supported on one side by Pan Volodyovski, on the other by Zagloba. The throng of people, small nobles and common men, crowded around. Women, some barely able to tear away from the breast of a husband returned from the war, led by curiosity special to the sex, ran to look at that Kmita, once terrible, now the savior of Lauda and the coming starosta. The throng became greater every instant, till the Lauda men had at last to surround him and protect him from the crush. "Pan Andrei!" cried Zagloba, "see, we have brought you a present. You did not expect such a one. Now to Vodokty, to Vodokty, to the betrothal and the wedding!" Further words of Zagloba were lost in the thundering shout raised at once by the Lauda men, under the leadership of Yuzva Footless,-- "Long life to Pan Kmita!" "Long life!" repeated the crowd. "Long life to our starosta of Upita! Long life!" "All to Vodokty!" roared Zagloba, again. "To Vodokty! to Vodokty!" shouted a thousand throats. "As best men to Vodokty with Pan Kmita, with our savior! To the lady! to Vodokty!" And an immense movement began. Lauda mounted its horses; every man living rushed to wagons, carts, ponies. People on foot began to run across field and forest. The shout "To Vodokty!" rang through the whole place. The roads were thronged with many-colored crowds. Kmita rode in his little wagon between Volodyovski and Zagloba, and time after time he embraced one or the other of them. He was not able to speak yet, he was too much excited; but they pushed on as if Tartars were attacking Upita. All the wagons and carts rushed in like manner around them. They were well outside the place, when Pan Michael suddenly bent to Kmita's ear. "Yendrek," asked he, "but do you not know where the other is?" "In Vodokty." Then, whether it was the wind or excitement that began to move the mustaches of Pan Michael, is unknown; it is enough that during the whole way they did not cease to thrust forward like two awls, or like the feelers of a Maybug. Zagloba was singing with delight in such a terrible bass voice that he frightened the horses,-- "There were two of us, Kasyenko, two in this world; But methinks, somehow, that three are now riding." Anusia was not at church that Sunday, for she had in her turn to stay with the weakly Panna Kulvyets, with whom she and Olenka remained on alternate days. The whole morning she had been occupied with watching and taking care of the sick woman, so that it was late when she could go to her prayers. Barely had she said the last "Amen," when there was a thundering before the gate, and Olenka rushed into the room like a storm. "Jesus! Mary! What has happened?" screamed Anusia, looking at her. "Anusia, you do not know who Pan Babinich is? He is Pan Kmita!" Anusia sprang to her feet: "Who told you?" "The king's letter was read--Pan Volodyovski brought it--the Lauda men--" "Has Pan Volodyovski returned?" screamed Anusia; and she threw herself into Olenka's arms. Olenka took this outburst of feeling as a proof of Anusia's love for her; for she had become feverish, was almost unconscious. On her face were fiery spots, and her breast rose and fell as if from great pain. Then Olenka began to tell without order and in a broken voice everything which she had heard in the church, running at the same time through the room as if demented, repeating every moment, "I am not worthy of him!" reproaching herself terribly, saying that she had done him more injustice than all others, that she had not even been willing to pray for him, when he was swimming in his own blood in defence of the Holy Lady, the country, and the king. In vain did Anusia, while running after her through the room, endeavor to comfort her. She repeated continually one thing,--that she was not worthy of him, that she would not dare to look in his eyes; then again she would begin to speak of the deeds of Babinich, of the seizure of Boguslav, of his revenge, of saving the king, of Prostki, Volmontovichi, and Chenstohova; and at last of her own faults, of her stubbornness, for which she must do penance in the cloister. Further reproaches were interrupted by Pan Tomash, who, falling into the room like a bomb, cried,-- "In God's name, all Upita is rolling after us! They are already in the village, and Babinich is surely with them!" Indeed, a distant shout at that moment announced the approach of the crowds. The sword-bearer, seizing Olenka, conducted her to the porch; Anusia rushed after them. At that moment the throng of men and horses looked black in the distance; and as far as the eye could reach the whole road was packed with them. At last they reached the yard. Those on foot were storming over ditches and fences; the wagons rolled in through the gates, and all were shouting and throwing up their caps. At last appeared the crowd of armed Lauda men, and the wagon, in which sat three persons,--Kmita, Volodyovski, and Zagloba. The wagon stopped at some distance, for so many people had crowded up before the entrance that it was impossible to approach. Zagloba and Volodyovski sprang out first, and helping Kmita to descend, took him at once by the arms. "Give room!" cried Zagloba. "Give room!" repeated the Lauda men. The people pushed back at once, so that in the middle of the crowd there was an open road along which the two knights led Kmita to the porch. He was very pale, but walked with head erect, at once confused and happy. Olenka leaned against the door-post, and dropped her arms without control at her sides; but when he was near she looked into the face of the emaciated man,--who after such a time of separation approached, like Lazarus, without a drop of blood in his face,--then sobbing, rent her breast again. He, from weeping, from happiness, and from confusion, did not know himself what to say,-- "What, Olenka, what?" But she dropped suddenly to his knees,-- "Yendrek!" cried she, "I am not worthy to kiss thy wounds!" At that moment strength came back to the knight; he seized her from the ground like a feather, and pressed her to his bosom. One immense shout, from which the walls of the house trembled and the last of the leaves fell from the trees, dinned every ear. The Lauda men began to fire from pistols; caps flew into the air; around nothing was to be seen but faces carried away by joy, gleaming eyes, and open mouths shouting,-- "Vivat Kmita! vivat Panna Billevich! vivat the young couple!" "Vivat two couples!" roared Zagloba; but his voice was lost in the general storm. Vodokty was turned as it were into a camp. All day they were slaughtering oxen and sheep at command of the sword-bearer, and digging out of the ground barrels of mead and beer. In the evening all sat down to a feast,--the oldest and most noted in the rooms, the younger in the servants' hall; the simple people rejoiced equally at fires in the yard. At the chief table the cup went around in honor of two happy pairs; but when good feeling had reached the highest degree, Zagloba raised the following toast:-- "To thee I return, worthy Pan Andrei, and to thee old friend, Pan Michael! It was not enough to expose your breasts, to shed blood, to cut down the enemy! Your work is not finished; for since a multitude of people have fallen in time of this terrible war, you must now give new inhabitants, new defenders to this Commonwealth. For this I think you will not lack either in manhood or good will. Worthy gentlemen! to the honor of those coming generations! May God bless them, and permit them to guard this legacy which we leave them, restored by our toil, by our sweat, by our blood. When grievous times come, let them remember us and never despair, considering that there are no straits out of which it is impossible to rise, with united forces and the help of God." Pan Andrei not long after his marriage served in a new war which broke out on the eastern side of the Commonwealth; but the thundering victory of Charnyetski and Sapyeha over Hovanski and Dolgoruki, and the hetmans of the kingdom over Sheremetyeff, soon brought it to an end. Then Kmita returned, covered with fresh glory, and settled down permanently in Vodokty. After him his cousin Yakub became banneret of Orsha,--Yakub, who afterward belonged to the unfortunate confederation of the army; but Pan Andrei, standing soul and heart with the king, rewarded with the starostaship of Upita, lived long in exemplary harmony and love with Lauda, surrounded by universal respect. His ill-wishers--for who has them not?--said, it is true, that he listened over-much to his wife in everything. He was not ashamed of that, however, but acknowledged himself that in every important affair he sought her advice. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 1: This name is derived from _baba_ an old woman.] [Footnote 2: Sapyeha.] [Footnote 3: Lvoff.] [Footnote 4: Self-lord Zamoyski.] [Footnote 5: Zamoyski was starosta of Kaluj.] [Footnote 6: "Strachy na Lachy" (Terror on Poles) is a Polish saying, about equivalent to "impossible."] [Footnote 7: "Two-bridged" or "of two bridges," from _bis_ and _pons_.] [Footnote 8: Byes means "devil," so Byes Cornutus is "horned devil."] [Footnote 9: Rogaty means "horned." Borzobogaty means "quickly rich." Bardzorogaty means "greatly horned."] [Footnote 10: This means that if Zagloba had been preceptor to the hetman or Kovalski, they would have had better wit. "Having a stave loose or lacking in his barrel," means, in Polish, that a man's mind is not right.] THE END. _THE ZAGLOBA ROMANCES_ _by Henryk Sienkiewicz. Translated from the Polish by Jeremiah Curtin_. WITH FIRE AND SWORD An Historical Novel of Poland and Russia. Illustrated. Crown 8vo. $1.50 _net_. The first of the famous trilogy of historical romances of Poland, Russia, and Sweden. Their publication has been received as an event in literature. Charles Dudley Warner, in _Harper's Magazine_, affirms that the Polish author has in Zagloba _given a new creation to literature_. _A capital story_. The only modern romance with which it can be compared for fire, sprightliness, rapidity of action, swift changes, and absorbing interest is "The Three Musketeers" of Dumas.--_New York Tribune_. THE DELUGE An Historical Novel of Poland, Sweden, and Russia. A Sequel to "With Fire and Sword." With map. 2 vols. Crown 8vo. $3.00 _net_. Marvellous in its grand descriptions.--_Chicago Inter-Ocean_. Has the humor of a Cervantes and the grim vigor of Defoe.--_Boston Gazette_. PAN MICHAEL An Historical Novel of Poland, Russia, and the Ukraine. A Sequel to "With Fire and Sword" and "The Deluge." Crown 8vo. $1.50 _net_. The interest of the trilogy, both historical and romantic, is splendidly sustained.--_The Dial_, Chicago. * * * * * LITTLE, BROWN, & COMPANY, Publishers Boston, Massachusetts QUO VADIS A Narrative of the Time of Nero. By Henryk Sienkiewicz. Translated from the Polish by Jeremiah Curtin. Illustrated. Crown 8vo. $1.50 _net_. One of the most remarkable books of the decade. It burns upon the brain the struggles and triumphs of the early Church.--_Boston Daily Advertiser_. It will become recognized by virtue of its own merits as the one heroic monument built by the modern novelist above the ruins of decadent Rome, and in honor of the blessed martyrs of the early Church.--_Brooklyn Eagle_. Our debt to Sienkiewicz is not less than our debt to his translator and friend, Jeremiah Curtin. The diversity of the language, the rapid flow of thought, the picturesque imagery of the descriptions are all his.--_Boston Transcript_. _By the same Author_ THE KNIGHTS OF THE CROSS An Historical Romance of Poland and Germany. Translated from the Polish by Jeremiah Curtin. Illustrated. Crown 8vo. $1.75 _net_. The construction of the story is beyond praise. It is difficult to conceive of any one who will not pick the book up with eagerness.--_Chicago Evening Post_. A book that holds your almost breathless attention as in a vise from the very beginning, for in it love and strife, the most thrilling of all worldly subjects, are described masterfully.--_The Boston Journal_. Another remarkable book. His descriptions are tremendously effective; one can almost hear the sound of the carnage; to the mind's eye the scene of battle is unfolded by a master artist.--_The Hartford Courant_. Thrillingly dramatic, full of strange local color and very faithful to its period, besides having that sense of the mysterious and weird that throbs in the Polish blood and infects alike their music and literature.--_The St. Paul Globe_. * * * * * LITTLE, BROWN, & COMPANY, Publishers Boston, Massachusetts 
37027	----	Transcriber's Notes: 1. Page scan source: http://www.archive.org/details/withfireandswor05siengoog 2. The letter with a superscript dot is represented by [.Z], [.z]. The diphthong oe is represented by [oe]. Popular Edition. * * * WITH FIRE AND SWORD. BY HENRYK SIENKIKWICZ. THE WORKS OF HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ. TRANSLATED BY JEREMIAH CURTIN. * * * Hania, 1 vol. Yanko the Musician, and Other Stories, 1 vol. Lillian Morris, and Other Stories, 1 vol. * * * Historical Romances. Poland, Turkey, Russia, and Sweden. With Fire And Sword, 1 vol. The Deluge. 2 vols. Pan Michael. 1 vol. ROME IN THE TIME OF NERO. "QUO VADIS." 1 vol. * * * Novels of Modern Poland. Children of the Soil. 1 vol. Without Dogma. 1 vol. [Illustration: Henryk Sienkiewicz and his Children.] Copyright, 1898, by Little, Brown, and Company. WITH FIRE AND SWORD. An Historical Novel OF POLAND AND RUSSIA. BY HENRYK SIENKIKWICZ. _AUTHORIZED AND UNABRIDGED TRANSLATION FROM THE POLISH BY_ JEREMIAH CURTIN. BOSTON: LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY. 1904. _Copyright, 1890, 1898_, By Jeremiah Curtin. _All rights reserved_. University Press: John Wilson and Son, Cambridge, U.S.A. TO PROF. JOHN FISKE, MY CLASSMATE AND FRIEND, MY FELLOW-TRAVELLER IN BOTH HEMISPHERES, THE LUMINOUS HISTORIAN OF DECISIVE PERIODS IN AMERICA, IS DEDICATED THIS VOLUME CONCERNING A MOMENTOUS CONFLICT IN EUROPE. JEREMIAH CURTIN. Washington, D.C., April 7, 1890. LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. Henryk Sienkiewicz and his Children. From a photograph. Map of the Polish Commonwealth. "The falcon began to draw the hands together." Drawn by J. Wagrez. Vladislav IV., King of Poland. From an engraving by Moncornet. "He raised his eyes and began to pray aloud". Drawn by J. Wagrez. Bogdan Hmelnitski. From an old engraving. "The little knight, having discovered the whole power of his opponent, pushed on him briskly". Drawn by Evert Van Muyden. Yerzy Ossolinski, Chancellor of Poland. From an engraving by Moncornet. "Before them stood a kind of frightful-looking man, or rather an apparition". Drawn by Evert Van Muyden. [Illustration: Map of the Polish Commonwealth.] INTRODUCTION. The history of the origin and career of the two Slav States, Poland and Russia, is interesting not merely because it contains a vast number of surprising scenes and marvellous pictures of life, not merely because it gives us a kaleidoscope as it were of the acts of men, but because these acts in all their variety fall into groups which may be referred each to its proper source and origin, and each group contains facts that concern the most serious problems of history and political development. The history of these two States should be studied as one, or rather as two parts of one history, if we are to discover and grasp the meaning of either part fully. When studied as a whole, this history gives us the life story of the greater portion of the Slav race placed between two hostile forces,--the Germans on the west, the Mongols and Tartars on the east. The advance of the Germans on the Slav tribes and later on Poland presents, perhaps, the best example in history of the methods of European civilization. The entire Baltic coast from Lubeck eastward was converted to Christianity by the Germans at the point of the sword. The duty of rescuing these people from the errors of paganism formed the moral pretext for conquering them and taking their lands. The warrior was accompanied by the missionary, followed by the political colonist. The people of the country deprived of their lands were reduced to slavery; and if any escaped this lot, they were men from the higher classes who joined the conqueror in the capacity of assistant oppressors. The work was long and doubtful. The Germans made many failures, for their management was often very bad. The Slavs west of the Oder were stubborn, and under good leadership might have been invincible; but the leadership did not come, and to the Germans at last came the Hohenzollerns. For the serious student there is no richer field of labor than the history of Poland and the Slavs of the Baltic, which is inseparable from the history of Mark Brandenburg and the two military orders, the Teutonic Knights and the Knights of the Sword. The conquest of Russia by the Mongols, the subjection of Europeans to Asiatics,--not Asiatics of the south, but warriors from cold regions led by men of genius; for such were Genghis Khan, Tamerlane, and the lieutenants sent to the west,--was an affair of incomparably greater magnitude than the German wars on the Baltic. The physical grip of the Mongol on Russia was irresistible. There was nothing for the Russian princes to do but submit if they wished to preserve their people from dissolution. They had to bow down to every whim of the conqueror; suffer indignity, insult, death,--that is, death of individuals. The Russians endured for a long time without apparent result. But they were studying their conquerors, mastering their policy; and they mastered it so well that finally the Prince of Moscow made use of the Mongols to complete the union of eastern Russia and reduce all the provincial princes of the country, his own relatives, to the position of ordinary landholders subject to himself. The difference between the Poles and Russians seems to be this,--that the Russians saw through the policy of their enemies, and then overcame them; while the Poles either did not understand the Germans, or if they did, did not overcome them, though they had the power. This Slav history is interesting to the man of science, it is interesting also to the practical statesman, because there is no country in the Eastern hemisphere whose future may be considered outside of Russian influence, no country whose weal or woe may not become connected in some way with Russia. At the same time there are no states studied by so few and misunderstood by so many as the former Commonwealth of Poland,--whose people, brave and brilliant but politically unsuccessful, have received more sympathy than any other within the circle of civilization,--and Russia, whose people in strength of character and intellectual gifts are certainly among the first of the Aryan race, though many men have felt free to describe them in terms exceptionally harsh and frequently unjust. The leading elements of this history on its western side are Poland, the Catholic Church, Germany; on the eastern side they are Russia, Eastern Orthodoxy, Northern Asia. Now let us see what this western history was. In the middle of the ninth century Slav tribes of various denominations occupied the entire Baltic coast west of the Vistula; a line drawn from Lubeck to the Elbe, ascending the river to Magdeburg, thence to the western ridge of the Bohemian mountains, and passing on in a somewhat irregular course, leaving Carinthia and Styria on the east, gives the boundary between the Germans and the Slavs at that period. Very nearly in the centre of the territory north of Bohemia and the Carpathians lived one of a number of Slav tribes, the Polyane (or men of the plain), who occupied the region afterwards called Great Poland by the Poles, and now called South Prussia by the Germans. In this Great Poland political life among the Northwestern Slavs began in the second half of the ninth century. About the middle of the tenth, Mechislav (Mieczislaw), the ruler, received Christianity, and the modest title of Count of the German Empire. Boleslav the Brave, his son and successor, extended his territory to the upper Elbe, from which region its boundary line passed through or near Berlin, whence it followed the Oder to the sea. Before his death, in 1025, Boleslav wished to be anointed king by the Pope. The ceremony was denied him, therefore he had it performed by bishops at home. About a century later the western boundary was pushed forward by Boleslav Wry-mouth (1132-1139) to a point on the Baltic about half-way between Stettin and Lubeck. This was the greatest extension of Poland to the west. Between this line and the Elbe were Slav tribes; but the region had already become marken (marches) where the intrusive Germans were struggling for the lands and persons of the Slavs. The eastern boundary of Poland at this period served also as the western boundary of Russia from the head-waters of the western branch of the river San in the Carpathian Mountains at a point west of Premysl (in the Galicia of to-day) to Brest-Litovsk, from which point the Russian boundary continued toward the northeast till it reached the sea, leaving Pskoff considerably and Yurieff (now Dorpat) slightly to the east,--that is, on Russian territory. Between Russia, north of Brest-Litovsk and Poland, was the irregular triangle composing the lands of Lithuanian and Finnish tribes. From the upper San the Russian boundary southward coincided with the Carpathians, including the territory between the Pruth to its mouth and the Carpathians. This boundary between Poland and Russia, established at that period, corresponds as nearly as possible with the line of demarcation between the two peoples at the present day. During the two centuries following 1139, Poland continued to lose on the west and the north, and that process was fairly begun through which the Germans finally excluded the Poles from the sea, and turned the cradle of Poland into South Prussia, the name which it bears to-day. At the end of the fourteenth century a step was taken by the Poles through which it was hoped to win in other places far more than had been lost on the west. Poland turned now to the east; but by leaving her historical basis on the Baltic, by deserting her political birthplace, the only ground where she had a genuine mission, Poland entered upon a career which was certain to end in destruction, unless she could win the Russian power by agreement, or bend it by conquest, and then strengthened by this power, turn back and redeem the lost lands of Pomerania and Prussia. The first step in the new career was an alliance with Yagello (Yahailo) of Lithuania, from which much was hoped. This event begins a new era in Polish history; to this event we must now give attention, for it was the first in a long series which ended in the great outburst described in this book,--the revolt of the Russians against the Commonwealth. To reach the motives of this famous agreement between the Lithuanian prince and the nobles and clergy of Poland,--for these two estates had become the only power in the land,--we must turn to Russia. Lithuania of itself was small, and a prince of that country, if it stood alone, would have received scant attention from Poland; but the Lithuanian Grand Prince was ruler over all the lands of western Russia as well as those of his own people. What was Russia? The definite appearance of Russia in history dates from 862, when Rurik came to Novgorod, invited by the people to rule over them. Oleg, the successor of this prince, transferred his capital from Novgorod to Kieff on the Dnieper, which remained the chief city and capital for two centuries and a half. Rurik's great-grandson, Vladimir, introduced Christianity into Russia at the end of the tenth century. During his long reign and that of his son Yaroslav the Lawgiver, the boundary was fixed between Russia and Poland through the places described above, and coincided very nearly with the watershed dividing the two river-systems of the Dnieper and the Vistula, and serves to this day as the boundary between the Russian and Polish languages and the Eastern and Catholic churches. In 1157 Kieff ceased to be the seat of the Grand Prince, the capital of Russia. A new centre of activity and government was founded in the north,--first at Suzdal, and then at Vladimir, to be transferred later to Moscow. In 1240 the conquest of Russia by the Tartars was complete. Half a million or more of armed Asiatics had swept over the land, destroying everything where they went. A part of this multitude advanced through Poland, and were stopped in Silesia and Moravia only by the combined efforts of central Europe. The Tartar dominion lasted about two hundred and fifty years (1240-1490), and during this period great changes took place. Russia before the Tartar conquest was a large country, whose western boundary was the eastern boundary of Poland; liberated Russia was a comparatively small country, with its capital at Moscow, and having interposed between it and Poland a large state extending from the Baltic to the Black Sea,--a state which was composed of two thirds of that Russia which was ruled before the Tartar conquest by the descendants of Rurik; a state which included Little, Red, Black, and White Russia, more than two thirds of the best lands, and Kieff, with the majority of the historic towns of pre-Tartar Russia. How was this state founded? This state was the Lithuanian Russian,--Litva í Rus (Lithuania and Russia), as it is called by the Russians,--and it rose in the following manner. In the irregular triangle on the Baltic, between Russia and Poland of the twelfth century, lived tribes of Finnish and Lithuanian stock, about a dozen in number. In the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries these were all conquered,--the Prussian Lithuanians from the Niemen to the Vistula, by the Teutonic Knights, aided by crusading adventurers from western Europe; the others, Lithuanian and Finnish, by the Knights of the Sword,--with the exception of two tribes, the Lithuanians proper, on the upper waters of the Niemen and its tributaries, and the Jmuds or Samogitians on the right bank of the same river, lower down and between the Lithuanians and the sea. These two small tribes were destined through their princes--remarkable men in the fullest sense of the word--to play a great part in Russian and Polish history. It is needless to say much of the Lithuanians, who are better known to scholars than any people, perhaps, of similar numbers in Europe. The main interest in them at present is confined to their language, which, though very valuable to the philologist and beautiful in itself, has never been used in government or law, and has but one book considered as belonging to literature,--"The Four Seasons" by Donaleitis. Though small, the Lithuanian country, ruled by a number of petty princes, was as much given to anarchy as larger aggregations of men. United for a time under Mindog by reason of pressure from outside, the Lithuanians rose first to prominence under Gedimin (1315-1340), who in a quarter of a century was able to substitute himself for the petty princes of western Russia and extend his power to the south of Kieff. Gedimin was followed by Olgerd, who with his uncle Keistut ruled till 1377; during which time the domains of the Lithuanian prince were extended to the Crimea, and included the whole basin of the Dnieper with its tributaries, together with the upper Dvina. Gedimin and Olgerd respected in all places the clergy of the Eastern Church, and thus acquired rule over a great extent of country with comparative ease and rapidity. Olgerd, who had completed a great state, left it to his sons and his brother Keistut. Yagello (Yahailo), one of these sons, had Keistut put to death; his brothers and cousins fled; Yagello became sole master. At this juncture the nobles and clergy of Poland effected an arrangement by which Yagello, on condition of becoming a Catholic, introducing the Catholic religion into Lithuania, and joining the state to Poland, was to marry the Queen Yadviga (the last survivor of the royal house) and be crowned king of Poland at Cracow. All these conditions were carried out, and with the reign of Yagello Polish history assumes an entirely new character. With the establishment by Gedimin and Olgerd of the Lithuanian dynasty and its conquests, there were two Russias instead of one,--Western Russia, ruled by the house of Gedimin, and Eastern Russia, ruled by the house of Rurik. It had become the ambition of the Lithuanian princes to unite all Russia; it had long been the fixed purpose of the princes at Moscow to recover their ancient patrimony, the lands of Vladimir and Yaroslav; that is, all western Russia to the Polish frontier; consequently all the lands added by the Lithuanian princes to their little realm on the Niemen and its tributaries. This struggle between the two houses was very bitter, and more than once it seemed as though Moscow's day had come, and Vilna was to be the capital of reconstituted Russia. When the question was at this stage, Yagello became King of Poland. The union, purely personal at first, became more intimate later on by means of the two elements of Polish influence, the Church and the nobility. Catholicism was made the religion of the Lithuanians at once; and twenty-seven years later, at Horodlo, it was settled that the Lithuanian Catholics of the higher classes should receive the same privileges as the Polish nobility, with whom they were joined by means of heraldry,--a peculiar arrangement, through which a number of Lithuanian families received the arms of some Polish house, and became thus associated, as the original inhabitants of America are associated under the same _totem_ by the process of adoption. Without giving details, for which there is no space here, we state merely the meaning of all the details. Lithuania struggled persistently against anything more than a personal union, while Poland struggled just as persistently for a complete union; but no matter how the Lithuanians might gain at one time or another, the personal union under a king influenced by Polish ideas joined to the great weight of the clergy and nobility was too much for them, and the end of the whole struggle was that under Sigismond Augustus, the last of the Yagellon kings, a diet was held at Lublin in which a union between Poland and Lithuania was proclaimed against the protest of a large number of the Lithuanians who left the diet. The King, who was hereditary Grand Duke of Lithuania, and childless, made a present to Poland of his rights,--made Poland his heir. The petty nobility of Lithuania were placed on the same legal footing as the princes and men of great historic families. Lithuania was assimilated to Poland in institutions. The northern part of West Russia was attached to Lithuania, and all southern Russia merged directly in Poland. If the work of this diet had been productive of concord, and therefore of strength, Poland might have established herself firmly by the sea and won the first place in eastern Europe; but the Commonwealth, either from choice or necessity, was more occupied in struggling with Russians than in standing with firm foot on the Baltic. Sound statesmanship would have taught the Poles that for them it was a question of life and death to possess Pomerania and Prussia, and make the Oder at least their western boundary. They had the power to do that; they had the power to expel the two military orders from the coast; but they did not exert it,--a neglect which cost them dear in later times. Moscow would not have escaped the Poles had they been masters of the Baltic, and had they, instead of fighting with Cossacks and Russians, attached them to the Commonwealth by toleration and justice. The whole internal policy of Poland from the coronation of Yagello to the reign of Vladislav IV. was to assimilate the nobility of Lithuania and Russia to that of Poland in political rights and in religious profession. The success was complete in the political sense, and practically so in the religious. The Polish nobility, who were in fact the state, possessed at the time of Yagello's coronation all the land, and owned the labor of the people; later on they ceased to pay taxes of any kind. It was a great bribe to the nobles of Lithuania and Russia to occupy the same position. The Lithuanians became Catholics at the accession of Yagello, or soon after; but in Russia, where all belonged to the Orthodox Church, the process was slow, even if sure. The princes Ostrorog and Dominik Zaslavski of this book were of Russian families which held their faith for a long time. The parents of Prince Yeremi Vishnyevetski were Orthodox, and his mother on her death-bed implored him to be true to the faith of his ancestors. All had been done that could be done with the nobility; but the great mass of Russian people holding the same faith as the Russians of the East, whose capital was at Moscow, were not considered reliable; therefore a union of churches was effected, mainly through the formal initiative of the King Sigismond III. and a few ecclesiastics, but rejected by a great majority of the Russian clergy and people. This new or united church, which retained the Slav language with Eastern customs and liturgy, but recognized the supremacy of the Pope, was made the state church of Russia. From this rose all the religious trouble. The Russians, when Hmelnitski appeared, were in the following condition: Their land was gone; the power of life and death over them resided in lords, either Poles or Polonized Russians, who generally gave this power to agents or tenants, not infrequently Jews. All justice, all administration, all power belonged to the lord or to whomsoever he delegated his authority; there was no appeal. A people with an active communal government of their own in former times were now reduced to complete slavery. Such was the Russian complaint on the material side. On the moral side it was that their masters were filching their faith from them. Having stripped them of everything in this life, they were trying to deprive them of life to come. The outburst of popular rage against Poland was without example in history for intensity and volume, and this would have made the revolt remarkable whatever its motives or objects. But the Cossack war was of world-wide importance in view of the issues. The triumph of Poland would have brought the utter subjection of the Cossacks and the people, with the extinction of Eastern Orthodoxy not only in Russia but in other lands; for the triumph of Poland would have left no place for Moscow on earth but a place of subjection. The triumph of the Cossacks would have brought a mixed government, with religious toleration and a king having means to curb the all-powerful nobles. This was what Hmelnitski sought; this was the dream of Ossolinski the Chancellor; this, if realized, might possibly have saved the Commonwealth, and made it a constitutional government instead of an association of irresponsible magnates. It turned out that the Cossacks and the uprisen people were not a match for the Poles, and it was not in the interest of the Tartars to give the Cossacks the fruits of victory. It was the policy of the Tartars to bring the Poles into trouble and then rescue them; they wished the Poles to have the upper hand, but barely have it, and be in continual danger of losing it. The battle of Berestechko, instead of giving peace to the Commonwealth, opened a new epoch of trouble. Hmelnitski, the ablest man in Europe at that time, could be conquered by nothing but death. Though beaten through the treachery of the Khan at Berestechko and perhaps also by treason in his own camp, he rallied, concluded the treaty of Bélaya Tserkoff, which reduced the Cossack army from forty to twelve thousand men, but left Hmelnitski hetman of the Zaporojians. That was the great mistake of the Poles; every success was for them a failure so long as Hmelnitski had a legal existence. The Poles, though intellectual, sympathetic, brave, and gifted with high personal qualities that have made them many friends, have been always deficient in collective wisdom; and there is probably no more astonishing antithesis in Europe than the Poles as individuals and the Poles as a people. After Berestechko the Poles entered the Ukraine as masters. Vishnyevetski went as the ruling spirit. To all appearance the time of his triumph had come; but one day after dinner he fell ill and died suddenly. The verdict of the Russian people was: The Almighty preserved him through every danger, saved him from every enemy, and by reason of the supreme wickedness of "Yarema," reserved him for his own holy and punishing hand. The old order of things was restored in Russia,--landlords, garrisons, Jews; but now came the most striking event in the whole history. Moldavia, the northern part of the present kingdom of Romania, was at that time a separate principality, owning the suzerainty of the Sultan. Formerly it had been a part of the Russian principality of Galich (Galicia), joined to Poland in the reign of Kazimir the Great, but connected, at the time of our story, with Turkey. The Poles had intimate relations with the country, and sought to bring it back. The Hospodar was Vassily Lupul, a man of fabulous wealth, according to report, and the father of two daughters, whose beauty was the wonder of eastern Europe. Prince Radzivil of Lithuania had married the elder; the younger, Domna (Domina) Rosanda, was sought in marriage by three men from Poland and by Timofei Hmelnitski, the son of Bogdan. The first of the Poles was Dmitry Vishnyevetski; the second was Kalinovski, the aged hetman of the Crown, captured by Hmelnitski at Korsún, but now free and more ambitions than any man in the Commonwealth of half his age, which was then near seventy. Lupul, who had consented to the marriage of his daughter with young Hmelnitski, preferred Vishnyevetski; whereupon Bogdan exclaimed, "We will send a hundred thousand best men with the bridegroom." Thirty-six thousand Cossacks and Tartars set out for Yassy, the residence of Lupul. Kalinovski, the Polish hetman, with twenty thousand men, barred the way to young Hmelnitski at Batog on the boundary. It was supposed that Timofei was attended by a party of only five thousand, and Kalinovski intended to finish a rival and destroy the son of an enemy at a blow. This delusion of the hetman was probably caused, but in every case confirmed, by a letter from Bogdan, in which he stated that his son, with some attendants, was on his way to marry the daughter of the Hospodar; that young men are hot-headed and given to quarrels, blood might be spilled; therefore he asked Kalinovski to withdraw and let the party pass. This was precisely what Kalinovski would not do; he resolved to stop Timofei by force. The first day, five thousand Cossacks and Tartars, while passing to the west, were attacked by the Poles, who pursued them with cavalry. When a good distance from the camp, a courier rushed to the hetman with news of a general attack on the rear of the Polish army. The Poles returned in haste, pursued in their turn. Young Hmelnitski had fallen upon a division of the army in the rear of the camp, and almost destroyed it. Darkness brought an end to the struggle. No eye was closed on either side that night. One half of the Polish army resolved to escape in spite of the hetman. At daybreak they were marching. "They shall not flee!" said Kalinovski "Stop them with cavalry; open on the cowards with cannon!" One part of the Polish army hurried to stop the other; there was a discharge of artillery; some of the fugitives rushed on, but most of them stopped. Then a second discharge of artillery, and a battle began. The Cossacks gazed on this wonderful scene; when their amazement had passed, they attacked the enemy, and indescribable slaughter began. It was impossible for the Poles to re-form or make effective defence. At this moment the army-servants, many of whom were Russians, set fire to the camp. Outnumbered and panic-stricken, thousands of Poles rushed into the Bug and were drowned. The Cossacks, with Berestechko in mind, showed mercy to no man; and of the whole army of twenty thousand, less than five hundred escaped. The peasants in all the country about killed the fugitives with scythes and clubs. Those who crossed the river were slaughtered on the other bank; among them was Samuel Kalinovski, son of the hetman. Then Kalinovski himself, seeing that all was lost cried, "I have no wish to live; I am ashamed to look on the sun of this morning!" and rushed to the thick of the fight. He perished; and a Nogai horseman raced over the field, while from his saddle-bow depended the head of the hetman with its white streaming hair. After the battle the body was discovered; on it the portrait of Domna Rosanda and the letter of Bogdan. Farther on, near the Bug, was a division of five thousand Germans under command of Marek Sobieski, the gifted chief who had fought at Zbaraj. Attacked in front by the Cossacks, they stood with manful persistence till Karach Murza, the Nogai commander, at the head of fourteen thousand men, descended upon them from the hills of Botog like a mighty rain from the clouds or a whirlwind of the desert, as the Ukraine chronicler phrases it. Split in the centre, torn through and through, the weapons dropped from their hands, they were ridden down and sabred by Nogais and Cossacks. Sobieski perished; Pshiyemski, commander of artillery, was killed. A year later the Poles at Jvanyets were in greater straits than ever before. They were surrounded by Hmelnitski and the Khan so that no escape was possible; but they had more gold to give than had the Cossacks. They satisfied those in power, from the Khan downward, with gifts, and covenanted to let them plunder Russia and seize Russian captives during six weeks. On these conditions the Tartars deserted Hmelnitski, peace was concluded, and the Polish army and king were saved from captivity. This was the last act of the Cossack-Tartar alliance. Hmelnitski now turned to Moscow; the Zaporojian army took the oath of allegiance to Alexis, father of Peter the Great. Lithuania and western Russia were overrun by the forces of Moscow and the Cossacks. The Swedes occupied Warsaw and Cracow. Karl Gustav, their king, became king of Poland. Yan Kazimir fled to Silesia. Again the Polish king came back, but soon resigned, and ended his life in France. The eastern bank of the Dnieper, with Kieff on the west, went to Russia; but it was not till the reign of Katherine II. that western Russia was united to the east, and Prussia and Austria received all the lands of Poland proper. I feel constrained to ask kindly indulgence from the readers of this sketch. I am greatly afraid that it will seem indefinite and lacking in precision; but the field to be covered is so great that I wrote with two kinds of readers in view,--those who are already well acquainted with Slav history, and those who do not know this history yet, but who may be roused to examine it for themselves. I hope to give a sketch of this history in a future not too remote, with an account of the sources of original information; so that impartial students, as Americans are by position, may have some assistance in beginning a work of such commanding importance as the history of Poland and Russia. Jeremiah Curtin. Washington, D. C, April 4, 1890. WITH FIRE AND SWORD. CHAPTER I. The year 1647 was that wonderful year in which manifold signs in the heavens and on the earth announced misfortunes of some kind and unusual events. Contemporary chroniclers relate that beginning with spring-time myriads of locusts swarmed from the Wilderness, destroying the grain and the grass; this was a forerunner of Tartar raids. In the summer there was a great eclipse of the sun, and soon after a comet appeared in the sky. In Warsaw a tomb was seen over the city, and a fiery cross in the clouds; fasts were held and alms given, for some men declared that a plague would come on the land and destroy the people. Finally, so mild a winter set in, that the oldest inhabitants could not remember the like of it. In the southern provinces ice did not confine the rivers, which, swollen by the daily melting of snows, left their courses and flooded the banks. Rainfalls were frequent. The steppe was drenched, and became an immense slough. The sun was so warm in the south that, wonder of wonders! in Bratslav and the Wilderness a green fleece covered the steppes and plains in the middle of December. The swarms in the beehives began to buzz and bustle; cattle were bellowing in the fields. Since such an order of things appeared altogether unnatural, all men in Russia who were waiting or looking for unusual events turned their excited minds and eyes especially to the Wilderness, from which rather than anywhere else danger might show itself. At that time there was nothing unusual in the Wilderness,--no struggles there, nor encounters, beyond those of ordinary occurrence, and known only to the eagles, hawks, ravens, and beasts of the plain. For the Wilderness was of this character at that period. The last traces of settled life ended on the way to the south, at no great distance beyond Chigirin on the side of the Dnieper, and on the side of the Dniester not far from Uman; then forward to the bays and sea there was nothing but steppe after steppe, hemmed in by the two rivers as by a frame. At the bend of the Dnieper in the lower country beyond the Cataracts Cossack life was seething, but in the open plains no man dwelt; only along the shores were nestled here and there little fields, like islands in the sea. The land belonged in name to Poland, but it was an empty land, in which the Commonwealth permitted the Tartars to graze their herds; but since the Cossacks prevented this frequently, the field of pasture was a field of battle too. How many struggles were fought in that region, how many people had laid down their lives there, no man had counted, no man remembered. Eagles, falcons, and ravens alone saw these; and whoever from a distance heard the sound of wings and the call of ravens, whoever beheld the whirl of birds circling over one place, knew that corpses or unburied bones were lying beneath. Men were hunted in the grass as wolves or wild goats. All who wished, engaged in this hunt. Fugitives from the law defended themselves in the wild steppes. The armed herdsman guarded his flock, the warrior sought adventure, the robber plunder, the Cossack a Tartar, the Tartar a Cossack. It happened that whole bands guarded herds from troops of robbers. The steppe was both empty and filled, quiet and terrible, peaceable and full of ambushes; wild by reason of its wild plains, but wild, too, from the wild spirit of men. At times a great war filled it. Then there flowed over it like waves Tartar chambuls, Cossack regiments, Polish or Wallachian companies. In the night-time the neighing of horses answered the howling of wolves, the voices of drums and brazen trumpets flew on to the island of Ovid and the sea, and along the black trail of Kutchman there seemed an inundation of men. The boundaries of the Commonwealth were guarded from Kamenyets to the Dnieper by outposts and stanitsas; and when the roads were about to swarm with people, it was known especially by the countless flocks of birds which, frightened by the Tartars, flew onward to the north. But the Tartar, if he slipped out from the Black Forest or crossed the Dniester from the Wallachian side, came by the southern provinces together with the birds. That winter, however, the birds did not come with their uproar to the Commonwealth. It was stiller on the steppe than usual. At the moment when our narrative begins the sun was just setting, and its reddish rays threw light on a land entirely empty. On the northern rim of the Wilderness, along the Omelnik to its mouth, the sharpest eye could not discover a living soul, nor even a movement in the dark, dry, and withered steppe grass. The sun showed but half its shield from behind the horizon. The heavens became obscured, and then the steppe grew darker and darker by degrees. Near the left bank, on a small height resembling more a grave-mound than a hill, were the mere remnants of a walled stanitsa which once upon a time had been built by Fedor Buchatski and then torn down by raids. A long shadow stretched from this ruin. In the distance gleamed the waters of the widespread Omelnik, which in that place turned toward the Dnieper. But the lights went out each moment in the heavens and on the earth. From the sky were heard the cries of storks in their flight to the sea; with this exception the stillness was unbroken by a sound. Night came down upon the Wilderness, and with it the hour of ghosts. Cossacks on guard in the stanitsas related in those days that the shades of men who had fallen in sudden death and in sin used to rise up at night and carry on dances in which they were hindered neither by cross nor church. Also, when the wicks which showed the time of midnight began to burn out, prayers for the dead were offered throughout the stanitsas. It was said, too, that the shades of mounted men coursing through the waste barred the road to wayfarers, whining and begging them for a sign of the holy cross. Among these ghosts vampires also were met with, who pursued people with howls. A trained ear might distinguish at a distance the howls of a vampire from those of a wolf. Whole legions of shadows were also seen, which sometimes came so near the stanitsas that the sentries sounded the alarm. This was generally the harbinger of a great war. The meeting of a single ghost foreboded no good, either; but it was not always necessarily of evil omen, for frequently a living man would appear before travellers and vanish like a shadow, and therefore might easily and often be taken for a ghost. Night came quickly on the Omelnik, and there was nothing surprising in the fact that a figure, either a man or a ghost, made its appearance at the side of the deserted stanitsa. The moon coming out from behind the Dnieper whitened the waste, the tops of the thistles, and the distance of the steppe. Immediately there appeared lower down on the plain some other beings of the night. The flitting clouds hid the light of the moon from moment to moment; consequently those figures flashed up in the darkness at one instant, and the next they were blurred. At times they disappeared altogether, and seemed to melt in the shadow. Pushing on toward the height on which the first man was standing, they stole up quietly, carefully, slowly, halting at intervals. There was something awe-exciting in their movements, as there was in all that steppe which was so calm in appearance. The wind at times blew from the Dnieper, causing a mournful rustle among the dried thistles, which bent and trembled as in fear. At last the figures vanished in the shadow of the ruins. In the uncertain light of that hour nothing could be seen save the single horseman on the height. But the rustle arrested his attention. Approaching the edge of the mound, he began to look carefully into the steppe. At that moment the wind stopped, the rustling ceased; there was perfect rest. Suddenly a piercing whistle was heard; mingled voices began to shout in terrible confusion, "Allah! Allah! Jesus Christ! Save! Kill!" The report of muskets re-echoed; red flashes rent the darkness. The tramp of horses was heard with the clash of steel. Some new horsemen rose as it were from beneath the surface of the steppe. You would have said that a storm had sprung up on a sudden in that silent and ominous land. The shrieks of men followed the terrible clash. Then all was silent; the struggle was over. Apparently one of its usual scenes had been enacted in the Wilderness. The horsemen gathered in groups on the height; a few of them dismounted, and examined something carefully. Meanwhile a powerful and commanding voice was heard in the darkness. "Strike a fire in front!" In a moment sparks sprang out, and soon a blaze flashed up from the dry reeds and pitch-pine which wayfarers through the Wilderness always carried with them. Straightway the staff for a hanging-lamp was driven into the earth. The glare from above illuminated sharply a number of men who were bending over a form stretched motionless on the ground. These men were soldiers, in red uniforms and wolf-skin caps. Of these, one who sat on a valiant steed appeared to be the leader. Dismounting, he approached the prostrate figure and inquired,-- "Well, Sergeant, is he alive yet, or is it all over with him?" "He is alive, but there is a rattling in his throat; the lariat stifled him." "Who is he?" "He is not a Tartar; some man of distinction." "Then God be thanked!" The chief looked attentively at the prostrate man. "Well, just like a hetman." "His horse is of splendid Tartar breed; the Khan has no better," said the sergeant. "There he stands." The lieutenant looked at the horse, and his face brightened. Two soldiers held a really splendid steed, who, moving his ears and distending his nostrils, pushed forward his head and looked with frightened eyes at his master. "But the horse will be ours, Lieutenant?" put in, with an inquiring tone, the sergeant. "Dog believer! would you deprive a Christian of his horse in the steppe?" "But it is our booty--" Further conversation was interrupted by stronger breathing from the suffocated man. "Pour gorailka into his mouth," said the lieutenant, undoing his belt. "Are we to spend the night here?" "Yes. Unsaddle the horses and make a good fire." The soldiers hurried around quickly. Some began to rouse and rub the prostrate man; some started off for reeds to burn; others spread camel and bear skins on the ground for couches. The lieutenant, troubling himself no more about the suffocated stranger, unbound his belt and stretched himself on a burka by the fire. He was a very young man, of spare habit of body, dark complexion, very elegant in manner, with a delicately cut countenance and a prominent aquiline nose. In his eyes were visible desperate daring and endurance, but his face had an honest look. His rather thick mustache and a beard, evidently unshaven for a long time, gave him a seriousness beyond his years. Meanwhile two attendants were preparing the evening meal. Dressed quarters of mutton were placed on the fire, a number of bustards and partridges were taken from the packs, and one wild goat, which an attendant began to skin without delay. The fire blazed up, casting out upon the steppe an enormous ruddy circle of light. The suffocated man began to revive slowly. After a time he cast his bloodshot eyes around on the strangers, examining their faces; then he tried to stand up. The soldier who had previously talked with the lieutenant raised him by the armpits; another put in his hand a halbert, upon which the stranger leaned with all his force. His face was still purple, his veins swollen. At last, with a suppressed voice, he coughed out his first word, "Water!" They gave him gorailka, which he drank repeatedly, and which appeared to do him good, for after he had removed the flask from his lips at last, he inquired in a clear voice, "In whose hands am I?" The officer rose and approached him. "In the hands of those who saved you." "It was not you, then, who caught me with a lariat?" "No; the sabre is our weapon, not the lariat. You wrong our good soldiers with the suspicion. You were seized by ruffians, pretended Tartars. You can look at them if you are curious, for they are lying out there slaughtered like sheep." Saying this, he pointed with his hand to a number of dark bodies lying below the height. To this the stranger answered, "If you will permit me to rest." They brought him a felt-covered saddle, on which he seated himself in silence. He was in the prime of life, of medium height, with broad shoulders, almost gigantic build of body, and striking features. He had an enormous head, a complexion dried and sunburnt, black eyes, somewhat aslant, like those of a Tartar; over his thin lips hung a mustache ending at the tips in two broad bunches. His powerful face indicated courage and pride. There was in it something at once attractive and repulsive,--the dignity of a hetman with Tartar cunning, kindness, and ferocity. After he had sat awhile on the saddle he rose, and beyond all expectation, went to look at the bodies instead of returning thanks. "How churlish!" muttered the lieutenant. The stranger examined each face carefully, nodding his head like a man who has seen through everything; then he turned slowly to the lieutenant, slapping himself on the side, and seeking involuntarily his belt, behind which he wished evidently to pass his hand. This importance in a man just rescued from the halter did not please the young lieutenant, and he said in irony,-- "One might say that you are looking for acquaintances among those robbers, or that you are saying a litany for their souls." "You are both right and wrong. You are right, for I was looking for acquaintances; and you are wrong, for they are not robbers, but servants of a petty nobleman, my neighbor." "Then it is clear that you do not drink out of the same spring with that neighbor." A strange smile passed over the thin lips of the stranger. "And in that you are wrong," muttered he through his teeth. In a moment he added audibly: "But pardon for not having first given thanks for the aid and effective succor which freed me from such sudden death. Your courage has redeemed my carelessness, for I separated from my men; but my gratitude is equal to your good-will." Having said this, he reached his hand to the lieutenant. But the haughty young man did not stir from his place, and was in no hurry to give his hand; instead of that he said,-- "I should like to know first if I have to do with a nobleman; for though I have no doubt you are one, still it does not befit me to accept the thanks of a nameless person." "I see you have the mettle of a knight, and speak justly, I should have begun my speech and thanks with my name. I am Zenovi Abdank; my escutcheon that of Abdank with a cross; a nobleman from the province of Kieff; a landholder, and a colonel of the Cossack regiment of Prince Dominik Zaslavski." "And I am Yan Skshetuski, lieutenant of the armored regiment of Prince Yeremi Vishnyevetski." "You serve under a famous warrior. Accept my thanks and hand." The lieutenant hesitated no longer. It is true that armored officers looked down on men of the other regiments; but Pan Yan was in the steppe, in the Wilderness, where such things were less remembered. Besides, he had to do with a colonel. Of this he had ocular proof, for when his soldiers brought Pan Abdank the belt and sabre which were taken from his person in order to revive him, they brought at the same time a short staff with a bone shaft and ivory head, such as Cossack colonels were in the habit of using. Besides, the dress of Zenovi Abdank was rich, and his educated speech indicated a quick mind and social training. Pan Yan therefore invited him to supper. The odor of roasted meats began to go out from the fire just then, tickling the nostrils and the palate. The attendant brought the meats, and served them on a plate. The two men fell to eating; and when a good-sized goat-skin of Moldavian wine was brought, a lively conversation sprang up without delay. "A safe return home to us," said Pan Yan. "Then you are returning home? Whence, may I ask?" inquired Abdank. "From a long journey,--from the Crimea." "What were you doing there? Did you go with ransom?" "No, Colonel, I went to the Khan himself." Abdank turned an inquisitive ear. "Did you, indeed? Were you well received? And what was your errand to the Khan?" "I carried a letter from Prince Yeremi." "You were an envoy, then! What did the prince write to the Khan about?" The lieutenant looked quickly at his companion. "Well, Colonel," said he, "you have looked into the eyes of ruffians who captured you with a lariat; that is your affair. But what the prince wrote to the Khan is neither your affair nor mine, but theirs." "I wondered, a little while ago," answered Abdank, cunningly, "that his highness the prince should send such a young man to the Khan; but after your answer I am not astonished, for I see that you are young in years, but mature in experience and wit." The lieutenant swallowed the smooth, flattering words, merely twisted his young mustache, and inquired,-- "Now do you tell me what you are doing on the Omelnik, and how you come to be here alone." "I am not alone, I left my men on the road; and I am going to Kudák, to Pan Grodzitski, who is transferred to the command there, and to whom the Grand Hetman has sent me with letters." "And why don't you go by water?" "I am following an order from which I may not depart." "Strange that the hetman issued such an order, when in the steppe you have fallen into straits which you would have avoided surely had you been going by water." "Oh, the steppes are quiet at present; my acquaintance with them does not begin with to-day. What has met me is the malice and hatred of man." "And who attacked you in this fashion?" "It is a long story. An evil neighbor, Lieutenant, who has destroyed my property, is driving me from my land, has killed my son, and besides, as you have seen, has made an attempt on my life where we sit." "But do you not carry a sabre at your side?" On the powerful face of Abdank there was a gleam of hatred, in his eyes a sullen glare. He answered slowly and with emphasis,-- "I do; and as God is my aid, I shall seek no other weapon against my foes." The lieutenant wished to say something, when suddenly the tramp of horses was heard in the steppe, or rather the hurried slapping of horses' feet on the softened grass. That moment, also, the lieutenant's orderly who was on guard hurried up with news that men of some kind were approaching. "Those," said Abdank, "are surely my men, whom I left beyond the Tasmina. Not suspecting perfidy, I promised to wait for them here." Soon a crowd of mounted men formed a half-circle in front of the height. By the glitter of the fire appeared heads of horses, with open nostrils, puffing from exertion; and above them the faces of riders, who, bending forward, sheltered their eyes from the glare of the fire and gazed eagerly toward the light. "Hei! men, who are you?" inquired Abdank. "Servants of God," answered voices from the darkness. "Just as I thought,--my men," repeated Abdank, turning to the lieutenant. "Come this way." Some of them dismounted and drew near the fire. "Oh, how we hurried, batko! But what's the matter?" "There was an ambush. Hvedko, the traitor, learned of my coming to this place, and lurked here with others. He must have arrived some time in advance. They caught me with a lariat." "God save us! What Poles are these about you?" Saying this, they looked threateningly on Pan Skshetuski and his companions. "These are kind friends," said Abdank. "Glory be to God! I am alive and well. We will push on our way at once." "Glory be to God for that! We are ready." The newly arrived began to warm their hands over the fire, for the night was cool, though fine. There were about forty of them, sturdy men and well armed. They did not look at all like registered Cossacks, which astonished Pan Skshetuski not a little, especially since their number was so considerable. Everything seemed very suspicious. If the Grand Hetman had sent Abdank to Kudák, he would have given him a guard of registered Cossacks; and in the second place, why should he order him to go by the steppe from Chigirin, and not by water? The necessity of crossing all the rivers flowing through the Wilderness to the Dnieper could only delay the journey. It appeared rather as if Abdank wanted to avoid Kudák. In like manner, the personality of Abdank astonished the young lieutenant greatly. He noticed at once that the Cossacks, who were rather free in intercourse with their colonels, met him with unusual respect, as if he were a real hetman. He must be a man of a heavy hand, and what was most wonderful to Skshetuski, who knew the Ukraine on both sides of the Dnieper, he had heard nothing of a famous Abdank. Besides, there was in the countenance of the man something peculiar,--a certain secret power which breathed from his face like heat from a flame, a certain unbending will, declaring that this man withdraws before no man and no thing. The same kind of will was in the face of Prince Yeremi Vishnyevetski; but that which in the prince was an inborn gift of nature special to his lofty birth and his position might astonish one when found in a man of unknown name wandering in the wild steppe. Pan Skshetuski[1] deliberated long. It occurred to him that this might be some powerful outlaw who, hunted by justice, had taken refuge in the Wilderness,--or the leader of a robber band; but the latter was not probable. The dress and speech of the man showed something else. The lieutenant was quite at a loss what course to take. He kept simply on his guard. Meanwhile Abdank ordered his horse. "Lieutenant, 'tis time for him to go who has the road before him. Let me thank you again for your succor. God grant me to show you a service of equal value!" "I do not know whom I have saved, therefore I deserve no thanks." "Your modesty, which equals your courage, is speaking now. Accept from me this ring." The lieutenant frowned and took a step backward, measuring with his eyes Abdank, who then spoke on with almost paternal dignity in his voice and posture,-- "But look, I offer you not the wealth of this ring, but its other virtues. When still in the years of youth, a captive among infidels, I got this from a pilgrim returning from the Holy Land. In the seal of it is dust from the grave of Christ. Such a gift might not be refused, even if it came from condemned hands. You are still a young man and a soldier; and since even old age, which is near the grave, knows not what may strike it before the last hour, youth, which has before it a long life, must meet with many an adventure. This ring will preserve you from misfortune, and protect you when the day of judgment comes; and I tell you that that day is even now on the road through the Wilderness." A moment of silence followed; nothing was heard but the crackling of the fire and the snorting of the horses. From the distant reeds came the dismal howling of wolves. Suddenly Abdank repeated still again, as if to himself,-- "The day of judgment is already on the road through the Wilderness, and when it comes all God's world will be amazed." The lieutenant took the ring mechanically, so much was he astonished at the words of this strange man. But the man was looking into the dark distance of the steppe. Then he turned slowly and mounted his horse. His Cossacks were waiting at the foot of the height. "Forward! forward! Good health to you, my soldier friend!" said he to the lieutenant. "The times are such at present that brother trusts not brother. This is why you know not whom you have saved, for I have not given you my name." "You are not Abdank, then?" "That is my escutcheon." "And your name?" "Bogdan Zenovi Hmelnitski." When he had said this, he rode down from the height, and his Cossacks moved after him. Soon they were hidden in the mist and the night. When they had gone about half a furlong, the wind bore back from them the words of the Cossack song,-- "O God, lead us forth, poor captives, From heavy bonds, From infidel faith, To the bright dawn, To quiet waters, To a gladsome land, To a Christian world. Hear, O God, our prayers,-- The prayers of the hapless, The prayers of poor captives." The voices grew fainter by degrees, and then were melted in the wind sounding through the reeds. CHAPTER II. Reaching Chigirin next morning, Pan Skshetuski stopped at the house of Prince Yeremi in the town, where he was to spend some time in giving rest to his men and horses after their long journey from the Crimea, which by reason of the floods and unusually swift currents of the Dnieper had to be made by land, since no boat could make head against the stream that winter. Skshetuski himself rested awhile, and then went to Pan Zatsvilikhovski, former commissioner of the Commonwealth,--a sterling soldier, who, though he did not serve with the prince, was his confidant and friend. The lieutenant wanted to ask him if there were instructions from Lubni; but the prince had sent nothing special. He had ordered Skshetuski, in the event of a favorable answer from the Khan, to journey slowly, so that his men and horses might be in good health. The prince had the following business with the Khan; He desired the punishment of certain Tartar murzas, who had raided his estates beyond the Dnieper, and whom he himself had punished severely. The Khan had in fact given a favorable answer,--had promised to send a special envoy in the following April to punish the disobedient; and wishing to gain the good-will of so famous a warrior as the prince, he had sent him by Skshetuski a horse of noted stock and also a sable cap. Pan Skshetuski, having acquitted himself of his mission with no small honor, the mission itself being a proof of the high favor of the prince, was greatly rejoiced at the permission to stop in Chigirin without hastening his return. But old Zatsvilikhovski was greatly annoyed by what had been taking place for some time in Chigirin. They went together to the house of Dopula, a Wallachian, who kept an inn and a wine-shop in the place. There they found a crowd of nobles, though the hour was still early; for it was a market-day, and besides there happened to be a halt of cattle driven to the camp of the royal army, which brought a multitude of people together. The nobles generally assembled in the square at Dopula's, at the so-called Bell-ringers' Corner. There were assembled tenants of the Konyetspolskis, and Chigirin officials, owners of neighboring lands, settlers on crown lands, nobles on their own soil and dependent on no one, land stewards, some Cossack elders, and a few inferior nobles,--some living on other men's acres and some on their own. These groups occupied benches at long oaken tables and conversed in loud voices, all speaking of the flight of Hmelnitski, which was the greatest event of the place. Zatsvilikhovski sat with Skshetuski in a corner apart. The lieutenant began to inquire what manner of ph[oe]nix that Hmelnitski was of whom all were speaking. "Don't you know?" answered the old soldier. "He is the secretary of the Zaporojian army, the heir of Subotoff,--and my friend," added he, in a lower voice. "We have been long acquainted, and were together in many expeditions in which he distinguished himself, especially under Tetera. Perhaps there is not a soldier of such military experience in the whole Commonwealth. This is not to be mentioned in public; but he has the brain of a hetman, a heavy hand, and a mighty mind. All the Cossacks obey him more than koshevoi and ataman. He is not without good points, but imperious and unquiet; and when hatred gets the better of him he can be terrible." "What made him flee from Chigirin?" "Quarrels with the Starosta Chaplinski; but that is all nonsense. Usually a nobleman bespatters a nobleman from enmity. Hmelnitski is not the first and only man offended. They say, too, that he turned the head of the starosta's wife; that the starosta carried off his mistress and married her; that afterward Hmelnitski took her fancy,--and that is a likely matter, for woman is giddy, as a rule. But these are mere pretexts, under which certain intrigues find deeper concealment. This is how the affair stands: In Chigirin lives old Barabash, a Cossack colonel, our friend. He had privileges and letters from the king. Of these it was said that they urged the Cossacks to resist the nobility; but being a humane and kindly man, he kept them to himself and did not make them known. Then Hmelnitski invited Barabash to a dinner in his own house, here in Chigirin, and sent people to Barabash's country-place, who took the letters and the privileges away from his wife and disappeared. There is danger that out of them such a rebellion as that of Ostranitsa may arise; for, I repeat, he is a terrible man, and has fled, it is unknown whither." To this Skshetuski answered: "He is a fox, and has tricked me. He told me he was a Cossack colonel of Prince Dominik Zaslavski. I met him last night in the steppe, and freed him from a lariat." Zatsvilikhovski seized himself by the head. "In God's name, what do you tell me? It cannot have been." "It can, since it has been. He told me he was a colonel in the service of Prince Dominik Zaslavski, on a mission from the Grand Hetman to Pan Grodzitski at Kudák. I did not believe this, since he was not travelling by water, but stealing along over the steppe." "He is as cunning as Ulysses! But where did you meet him?" "On the Omelnik, on the right bank of the Dnieper. It is evident that he was on his way to the Saitch." "He wanted to avoid Kudák. I understand now. Had he many men?" "About forty. But they came to meet him too late. Had it not been for me, the servants of the starosta would have strangled him." "But stop a moment! That is an important affair. The servants of the starosta, you say?" "That is what he told me." "How could the starosta know where to look for him, when here in this place all were splitting their heads to know what he had done with himself?" "I can't tell that. It may be, too, that Hmelnitski lied, and represented common robbers as servants of the starosta, in order to call more attention to his wrongs." "Impossible! But it is a strange affair. Do you know that there is a circular from the hetman, ordering the arrest and detention of Hmelnitski?" The lieutenant gave no answer, for at that moment some nobleman entered the room with a tremendous uproar. He made the doors rattle a couple of times, and looking insolently through the room cried out,-- "My respects, gentlemen!" He was a man of forty years of age, of low stature, with peevish face, the irritable appearance of which was increased by quick eyes, protruding from his face like plums,--evidently a man very rash, stormy, quick to anger. "My respects, gentlemen!" repeated he more loudly and sharply, since he was not answered at once. "Respects! respects!" was answered by several voices. This man was Chaplinski, the under-starosta of Chigirin, the trusted henchman of young Konyetspolski. He was not liked in Chigirin, for he was a terrible blusterer, always involved in lawsuits, always persecuting some one; but for all that he had great influence, consequently people were polite to him. Zatsvilikhovski, whom all respected for his dignity, virtues, and courage, was the only man he regarded. Seeing him, he approached immediately, and bowing rather haughtily to Skshetuski, sat down near them with his tankard of mead. "Well," inquired Zatsvilikhovski, "do you know what has become of Hmelnitski?" "He is hanging, as sure as I am Chaplinski; and if he is not hanging yet, he will be soon. Now that the hetman's orders are issued, let me only get him in my hands!" Saying this, he struck the table with his fist till the liquor was spilled from the glasses. "Don't spill the wine, my dear sir!" said Skshetuski. Zatsvilikhovski interrupted: "But how will you get him, since he has escaped and no one knows where he is?" "No one knows? I know,--true as I am Chaplinski. You know Hvedko. That Hvedko is in his service, but in mine too. He will be Hmelnitski's Judas. It's a long story. He has made friends with Hmelnitski's Cossacks. A sharp fellow! He knows every step that is taken. He has engaged to bring him to me, living or dead, and has gone to the steppe before Hmelnitski, knowing where to wait for him." Having said this, he struck the table again. "Don't spill the wine, my dear sir!" repeated with emphasis Skshetuski, who felt an astonishing aversion to the man from the first sight of him. Chaplinski grew red in the face; his protruding eyes flashed. Thinking that offence was given him, he looked excitedly at Pan Yan; but seeing on him the colors of Vishnyevetski, he softened. Though Konyetspolski had a quarrel with Yeremi at the time, still Chigirin was too near Lubni, and it was dangerous not to respect the colors of the prince. Besides, Vishnyevetski chose such people for his service that any one would think twice before disputing with them. "Hvedko, then, has undertaken to get Hmelnitski for you?" asked Zatsvilikhovski again. "He has, and he will get him,--as sure as I am Chaplinski." "But I tell you that he will not. Hmelnitski has escaped the ambush, and has gone to the Saitch, which you should have told Pan Pototski to-day. There is no fooling with Hmelnitski. Speaking briefly, he has more brains, a heavier hand, and greater luck than you, who are too hotheaded. Hmelnitski went away safely, I tell you; and if perhaps you don't believe me, this gentleman, who saw him in good health on the steppe and bade good-by to him yesterday, will repeat what I have said." "Impossible, it cannot be!" boiled up Chaplinski, seizing himself by the hair. "And what is more," added Zatsvilikhovski, "this knight before you saved him and killed your servants,--for which he is not to blame, in spite of the hetman's order, since he was returning from a mission to the Crimea and knew nothing of the order. Seeing a man attacked in the steppe by ruffians, as he thought, he went to his assistance. Of this rescue of Hmelnitski I inform you in good season, for he is ready with his Zaporojians, and it is evident that you wouldn't be very glad to see him, for you have maltreated him over-much. Tfu! to the devil with such tricks!" Zatsvilikhovski, also, did not like Chaplinski. Chaplinski sprang from his seat, losing his speech from rage; his face was completely purple, and his eyes kept coming more and more out of his head. Standing before Skshetuski in this condition, he belched forth disconnected words,-- "How!--in spite of the hetman's orders! I will--I will--" Skshetuski did not even rise from the bench, but leaned on his elbows and watched Chaplinski, darting like a hawk on a sparrow. "Why do you fasten to me like a burr to a dog's tail?" "I'll drag you to the court with me!--You in spite of orders!--I with Cossacks!" He stormed so much that it grew quieter in other parts of the room, and strangers began to turn their faces in the direction of Chaplinski. He was always seeking a quarrel, for such was his nature; he offended every man he met. But all were astonished, then, that he began with Zatsvilikhovski, who was the only person he feared, and with an officer wearing the colors of Prince Yeremi. "Be silent, sir!" said the old standard-bearer. "This knight is in my company." "I'll take you to the court!--I'll take you to the court--to the stocks!" roared Chaplinski, paying no attention to anything or any man. Then Skshetuski rose, straightened himself to his full height, but did not draw his sabre; he had it hanging low, and taking it by the middle raised it till he put the cross hilt under the very nose of Chaplinski. "Smell that!" said he. "Strike, whoever believes in God!--Ai! here, my men!" shouted Chaplinski, grasping after his sword-hilt. But he did not succeed in drawing his sword. The young lieutenant turned him around, caught him by the nape of the neck with one hand, and with the other by the trousers below the belt raised him, squirming like a salmon, and going to the door between the benches called out,-- "Brothers, clear the road for big horns; he'll hook!" Saying this, he went to the threshold, struck and opened the door with Chaplinski, and hurled the under-starosta out into the street. Then he resumed his seat quietly at the side of Zatsvilikhovski. In a moment there was silence in the room. The argument used by Pan Yan made a great impression on the assembled nobles. After a little while, however, the whole place shook with laughter. "Hurrah for Vislinyevetski's man!" cried some. "He has fainted! he has fainted, and is covered with blood!" cried others, who had looked through the door, curious to know what Chaplinski would do. "His servants are carrying him off!" The partisans of the under-starosta, but few in number, were silent, and not having the courage to take his part, looked sullenly at Skshetuski. "Spoken truth touches that hound to the quick," said Zatsvilikhovski. "He is a cur, not a hound," said, while drawing near, a bulky nobleman who had a cataract on one eye and a hole in his forehead the size of a thaler, through which the naked skull appeared,--"He is a cur, not a hound! Permit me," continued he, turning to Pan Yan, "to offer you my respects. I am Yan Zagloba; my escutcheon 'In the Forehead,' as every one may easily know by this hole which the bullet of a robber made in my forehead when I was on a pilgrimage to the Holy Land in penance for the sins of my youth." "But leave us in peace," said Zatsvilikhovski; "you said yourself that that was knocked out of you with a tankard in Radom." "As I live, the bullet of a robber! That was another affair in Radom." "You made a vow to go to the Holy Land, perhaps; but that you have never been there is certain." "I have not been there, for in Galáts I received the palm of martyrdom; and if I lie, I am a supreme dog and not a nobleman." "Ah, you never stop your stories!" "Well, I am a rogue without hearing. To you, Lieutenant!" In the mean while others came up to make the acquaintance of Skshetuski and express their regard for him. In general Chaplinski was not popular, and they were glad that disgrace had met him. It is strange and difficult to understand at this day that all the nobility in the neighborhood of Chigirin, and the smaller owners of villages, landed proprietors, and agriculturists, even though serving the Konyetspolskis, all knowing in neighbor fashion the dispute of Chaplinski with Hmelnitski, were on the side of the latter. Hmelnitski had indeed the reputation of a famous soldier who had rendered no mean services in various wars. It was known, also, that the king himself had had communication with him and valued his opinion highly. The whole affair was regarded as an ordinary squabble of one noble with another; such squabbles were counted by thousands, especially in the Russian lands. The part of the man was taken who knew how to incline to his side the majority, who did not foresee what terrible results were to come from this affair. Later on it was that hearts flamed up with hatred against Hmelnitski,--the hearts of nobility and clergy of both churches in equal degree. Presently men came up to Skshetuski with liquor by the quart, saying,-- "Drink, brother!" "Have a drink with me too!" "Long life to Vishnyevetski's men!" "So young, and already a lieutenant with Vishnyevetski!" "Long life to Yeremi, hetman of hetmans! With him we will go to the ends of the earth!" "Against Turks and Tartars!" "To Stamboul!" "Long life to Vladislav, our king!" Loudest of all shouted Pan Zagloba, who was ready all alone to out-drink and out-talk a whole regiment. "Gentlemen!" shouted he, till the window-panes rattled, "I have summoned the Sultan for the assault on me which he permitted in Galáts." "If you don't stop talking, you may wear the skin off your mouth." "How so, my dear sir? Quatuor articuli judicii castrensis: stuprum, incendium, latrocinium et vis armata alienis ædibus illata. Was not that specifically vis armata?" "You are a noisy woodcock, my friend." "I'll go even to the highest court." "But won't you keep quiet?" "I will get a decision, proclaim him an outlaw, and then war to the knife." "Health to you, gentlemen!" Some broke out in laughter, and with them Skshetuski, for his head buzzed a trifle now; but Zagloba babbled on just like a woodcock, charmed with his own voice. Happily his discourse was interrupted by another noble, who, stepping up, pulled him by the sleeve and said in singing Lithuanian tones,-- "Introduce me, friend Zagloba, to Lieutenant Skshetuski,--introduce me, please!" "Of course, of course. Most worthy lieutenant, this is Pan Povsinoga." "Podbipienta," said the other, correcting him. "No matter; but his arms are Zervipludry--"[2] "Zervikaptur,"[3] corrected the stranger. "All right. From Psikishki--"[4] "From Myshikishki,"[5] corrected the stranger. "It's all the same. I don't remember whether I said mouse or dog entrails. But one thing is certain: I should not like to live in either place, for it is not easy to get there, and to depart is unseemly. Most gracious sir," said he, turning to Skshetuski, "I have now for a week been drinking wine at the expense of this gentleman, who has a sword at his belt as heavy as his purse, and his purse is as heavy as his wit. But if ever I have drunk wine at the cost of such an original, then may I call myself as big a fool as the man who buys wine for me." "Well, he has given him a description!" But the Lithuanian was not angry; he only waved his hand, smiled kindly, and said: "You might give us a little peace; it is terrible to listen to you!" Pan Yan looked with curiosity at the new figure, which in truth deserved to be called original. First of all, it was the figure of a man of such stature that his head was as high as a wall, and his extreme leanness made him appear taller still. His broad shoulders and sinewy neck indicated uncommon strength, but he was merely skin and bone. His stomach had so fallen in from his chest that he might have been taken for a man dying of hunger. He was well dressed in a gray closely fitting coat of sveboda cloth with narrow arms, and high Swedish boots, then coming into use in Lithuania. A broad and well-filled elk-skin girdle with nothing to support it had slipped down to his hips; to this girdle was attached a Crusader's sword, which was so long that it reached quite to the shoulder of this gigantic man. But whoever should be alarmed at the sword would be reassured in a moment by a glance at the face of its owner. The face, lean like the whole person, was adorned with hanging brows and a pair of drooping, hemp-colored mustaches, but was as honest and sincere as the face of a child. The hanging mustaches and brows gave him an expression at once anxious, thoughtful, and ridiculous. He looked like a man whom people elbow aside; but he pleased Skshetuski from the first glance because of the sincerity of his face and his perfect soldierly self-control. "Lieutenant," said he, "you are in the service of Prince Vishnyevetski?" "I am." The Lithuanian placed his hands together as if in prayer, and raised his eyes. "Ah, what a mighty warrior, what a hero, what a leader!" "God grant the Commonwealth as many such as possible!" "But could I not enter his service?" "He will be glad to have you." At this point Zagloba interrupted the conversation. "The prince will have two spits for his kitchen,--one in you, one in your sword,--or he will hire you as a cook, or he will order robbers to be hanged on you, or he will measure cloth with you to make uniforms! Tfu! why are you not ashamed as a man and a Catholic to be as long as a serpent or the lance of an infidel?" "Oh, it's disgusting to hear you," said the Lithuanian, patiently. "What is your title?" asked Skshetuski; "for when you were speaking Pan Zagloba interrupted so often that if you will pardon me--" "Podbipienta." "Povsinoga," added Zagloba. "Zervikaptur of Myshikishki." "Here, old woman, is fun for you. I drink his wine, but I'm a fool if these are not outlandish titles." "Are you from Lithuania?" asked the lieutenant. "Well, I'm two weeks now in Chigirin. Hearing from Pan Zatsvilikhovski that you were coming, I waited to present my request to the prince with his recommendation." "Tell me, please,--for I am curious,--why do you carry such an executioner's sword under your arm?" "It is not the sword of an executioner, Lieutenant, but of a Crusader, and I wear it because it is a trophy and has been long in my family. It served at Khoinitsi in Lithuanian hands, and that's why I wear it." "But it's a savage machine, and must be terribly heavy. It's for two hands, I suppose?" "Oh, it can be used in two hands or one." "Let me have a look at it." The Lithuanian drew the sword and handed it to him; but Skshetuski's arm dropped in a moment. He could neither point the weapon nor aim a blow freely. He tried with both hands; still it was heavy. Skshetuski was a little ashamed, and turning to those present, said,-- "Now, gentlemen, who can make a cross with it?" "We have tried already," answered several voices. "Pan Zatsvilikhovski is the only man who raises it, but he can't make a cross with it." "Well, let us see you, sir," said Skshetuski, turning to the Lithuanian. Podbipienta raised the sword as if it were a cane, and whirled it several times with the greatest ease, till the air in the room whistled and a breeze was blowing on their faces. "May God be your aid!" said Skshetuski. "You have sure service with the prince." "God knows that I am anxious, and my sword will not rust in it." "But what about your wits," asked Zagloba, "since you don't know how to use them?" Zatsvilikhovski now rose, and with the lieutenant was preparing to go out, when a man with hair white as a dove entered, and seeing Zatsvilikhovski, said,-- "I have come here on purpose to see you, sir." This was Barabash, the Colonel of Cherkasi. "Then come to my quarters," replied Zatsvilikhovski. "There is such a smoke here that nothing can be seen." They went out together, Skshetuski with them. As soon as he had crossed the threshold, Barabash asked,-- "Are there news of Hmelnitski?" "There are. He has fled to the Saitch. This officer met him yesterday in the steppe." "Then he has not gone by water? I hurried off a courier to Kudák to have him seized; but if what you say is true, 'tis useless." When he had said this, Barabash covered his eyes with his hands, and began to repeat, "Oh, Christ save us! Christ save us!" "Why are you disturbed?" "Don't you know the treason he has wrought on me? Don't you know what it means to publish such documents in the Saitch? Christ save us! Unless the king makes war on the Mussulman, this will be a spark upon powder." "You predict a rebellion?" "I do not predict, I see it; and Hmelnitski is somewhat beyond Nalivaika and Loboda." "But who will follow him?" "Who? Zaporojians, registered Cossacks, people of the towns, the mob, cottagers, and such as these out here." Barabash pointed to the market-square and to the people moving around upon it. The whole square was thronged with great gray oxen on the way to Korsún for the army; and with the oxen went a crowd of herdsmen (Chabani), who passed their whole lives in the steppe and Wilderness,--men perfectly wild, professing no religion, ("religionis nullius," as the Voevoda Kisel said). Among them were forms more like robbers than herdsmen,--fierce, terrible, covered with remnants of various garments. The greater part of them were dressed in sheepskin doublets or in untanned skins with the wool outside, open in front and showing, even in winter, the naked breast embrowned by the winds of the steppe. All were armed, but with the greatest variety of weapons. Some had bows and quivers on their shoulders; some muskets or "squealers" (so called by the Cossacks); some had Tartar sabres, some scythes; and finally, there were those who had only sticks with horse-jaws fastened on the ends. Among them mingled the no less wild, though better armed men from the lower country, taking to the camp for sale dried fish, game, and mutton fat. Farther on were the Chumaki (ox-drivers) with salt, bee-keepers from the steppes and forest, wax-bleachers with honey, forest-dwellers with tar and pitch, peasants with wagons, registered Cossacks, Tartars from Bélgorod, and God knows what tramps and "vampires" from the ends of the earth. The whole town was full of drunken men. Chigirin was the place of lodging, and therefore of a frolic before bedtime. Fires were scattered over the market-square, while here and there an empty tar-barrel was burning. From every point were heard cries and bustle. The shrill squeak of Tartar pipes and the sound of drums was mingled with the bellowing of cattle and the softer note of the lyre, to which old men sang the favorite song of the time,-- "Oh, bright falcon, My own brother, Thou soarest high, Thou seest far." And besides this went up the wild shouts "U-ha! u-ha!" of the Cossacks, smeared with tar and quite drunk, dancing the tropak on the square. All this was at once wild and frenzied. One glance was enough to convince Zatsvilikhovski that Barabash was right; that one breath was sufficient to let loose those chaotic elements, inclined to plunder and accustomed to violence, with which the whole Ukraine was filled. And behind these crowds stood the Saitch, the Zaporojie, recently bridled and put in curb after Masloff Stav, still gnawing the bit impatiently, remembering ancient privileges and hating commissioners, but forming an organized power. That power had also on its side the sympathy of a countless mass of peasants, less patient of control than in other parts of the Commonwealth, because near them was Chertomelik, and beyond lordlessness, booty, and freedom. The standard-bearer in view of this, though a Russian himself and a devoted adherent of Eastern orthodoxy, fell into gloomy thought. Being an old man, he remembered well the times of Nalivaika, Loboda, and Krempski. He knew the robbers of the Ukraine better perhaps than any one in Russia; and knowing at the same time Hmelnitski, he knew that he was greater than twenty Lobodas and Nalivaikas. He understood, therefore, all the danger of his escape to the Saitch, especially with the letters of the king, which Barabash said were full of promises to the Cossacks and incitements to resistance. "Most worthy colonel," said Zatsvilikhovski to Barabash, "you should go to the Saitch and neutralize the influence of Hmelnitski; pacify them, pacify them." "Most worthy standard-bearer," answered Barabash, "I will merely say that in consequence of the news of Hmelnitski's flight with the papers of the king, one half of my men have followed him to the Saitch. My time has passed; not the baton awaits me, but the grave!" Barabash was indeed a good soldier, but old and without influence. Meanwhile they had come to the quarters of Zatsvilikhovski, who had regained somewhat the composure peculiar to his mild character; and when they sat down to half a gallon of mead, he said emphatically,-- "All this is nothing, if, as they say, war is on foot against the Mussulman; and it is likely that such is the case, for though the Commonwealth does not want war, and the diets have roused much bad blood in the king, still he may carry his point. All this fire may be turned against the Turk, and in every case we have time on our side. I will go myself to Pan Pototski, inform him, and ask that he, being nearest to us, should come with his army. I do not know whether I shall succeed, for though a brave man and a trained warrior, he is terribly confident in himself and his army. And you, Colonel of Cherkasi, keep the Cossacks in curb--and you, Lieutenant, the moment you arrive at Lubni warn the prince to keep his eyes on the Saitch. Even if they begin action, I repeat it, we have time. There are not many people at the Saitch now; they have scattered around, fishing and hunting, and are in villages throughout the whole Ukraine. Before they assemble, much water will flow down the Dnieper. Besides, the name of the prince is terrible, and if they know that he has his eye on Chertomelik, perhaps they will remain in peace." "I am ready," said the lieutenant, "to start from Chigirin even in a couple of days." "That's right. Two or three days are of no account. And do you, Colonel of Cherkasi, send couriers with an account of the affair to Konyetspolski and Prince Dominic. But you are asleep, as I see." Barabash had crossed his hands on his stomach and was in a deep slumber, snoring from time to time. The old colonel, when neither eating nor drinking,--and he loved both beyond measure,--was sleeping. "Look!" said Zatsvilikhovski quietly to the lieutenant; "the statesmen at Warsaw think of holding the Cossacks in curb through such an old man as that. God be good to them! They put trust, too, even in Hmelnitski himself, with whom the chancellor entered into some negotiations or other; and Hmelnitski no doubt is fooling them terribly." The lieutenant sighed in token of sympathy. But Barabash snored more deeply, and then murmured in his sleep: "Christ save us! Christ save us!" "When do you think of leaving Chigirin?" asked Zatsvilikhovski. "I shall have to wait two days for Chaplinski, who will bring an action, beyond doubt, for what has happened to him." "He will not do that. He would prefer to send his servants against you if you didn't wear the uniform of the prince; but it is ugly work to tackle the prince, even for the servants of the Konyetspolskis." "I will notify him that I am waiting, and start in two or three days. I am not afraid of an ambush, either, having a sabre at my side and a party of men." The lieutenant now took farewell of Zatsvilikhovski, and went out. The blaze from the piles on the square spread such a glare over the town that all Chigirin seemed burning. The bustle and shouts increased with the approach of night. The Jews did not peep from their houses. In every corner crowds of Chabani howled plaintive songs of the steppe. The wild Zaporojians danced around the fires, hurling their caps in the air, firing from their "squealers," and drinking gorailka by the quart. Here and there a scuffle broke out, which the starosta's men put down. The lieutenant had to open a way with the hilt of his sabre. Hearing the shouts and noise of the Cossacks, he thought at times that rebellion was already beginning to speak. It seemed to him, also, that he saw threatening looks and heard low-spoken curses directed against his person. In his ears were still ringing the words of Barabash, "Christ save us! Christ save us!" and his heart beat more quickly. But the Chabani sang their songs more loudly in the town; the Zaporojians fired from their muskets and swam in gorailka. The firing and the wild "U-ha! u-ha!" reached the ears of the lieutenant, even after he had lain down to sleep in his quarters. CHAPTER III. A few days later the lieutenant with his escort pressed forward briskly in the direction of Lubni. After the passage of the Dnieper, they travelled by a broad steppe road which united Chigirin with Lubni, passing through Juki, Semi Mogil, and Khorol. A similar road joined Lubni with Kieff. In times past, before the campaign of the hetman Jolkyevski against Solonitsa, these roads were not in existence. People travelled to Kieff from Lubni by the desert and the steppe; the way to Chigirin was by water, with return by land through Khorol. In general the country beyond the Dnieper, the ancient land of the Pólovtsi, was wild, scarcely more inhabited than the Wilderness, frequently visited by the Tartars, and exposed to Zaporojian bands. On the banks of the Sula immense forests, which had never been touched by the foot of man, gave forth their voices; and in places also on the low shores of the Sula, the Ruda, Sleporod, Korovai, Orjavets, Psel, and other greater and smaller rivers and streams, marshes were formed, partly grown over with dense thickets and pine forests, and partly open in the form of meadows. In these pine woods and morasses wild beasts of every kind found commodious refuge; and in the deepest forest gloom lived in countless multitudes the bearded aurochs, bears, with wild boars, and near them wolves, lynxes, martens, deer, and wild goats. In the swamps and arms of rivers beavers built their dams. There were stories current among the Zaporojians that of these beavers were some a century old and white as snow from age. On the elevated dry steppes roamed herds of wild horses, with shaggy foreheads and bloodshot eyes. The rivers were swarming with fish and water-fowl. It was a wonderful land, half asleep, but bearing traces of the former activity of man. It was everywhere filled with the ruins of towns of previous generations; Lubni and Khorol were raised from such ruins as these. Everywhere the country was full of grave-mounds, ancient and modern, covered already with a growth of pine. Here, as in the Wilderness, ghosts and vampires rose up at night. Old Zaporojians, sitting around their fires, told marvellous tales of what took place in those forest depths, from which issued the howling of unknown beasts,--cries half human, half brute,--terrible sounds as of battle or the chase. Under water was heard the ringing of bells in submerged cities. The land was inhospitable, little accessible, in places too soft, in places suffering from lack of water,--parched, dry, and dangerous to live in; for when men settled down there anyhow and began to cultivate the land, they were swept away by Tartar raids. But it was frequently visited by Zaporojians while hunting--or, as they phrased it, while at "industry"--along all the rivers, ravines, forests, and reedy marshes, searching for beavers in places of which even the existence was known to few. And still settled life struggled to cling to those regions, like a plant which seizes the ground with its roots wherever it can, and though torn out repeatedly, springs up anew. On desert sites rose towns, settlements, colonies, hamlets, and single dwellings. The earth was fruitful in places, and freedom was enticing. But life bloomed up first when these lands came into possession of the princes Vishnyevetski. Prince Michael, after his marriage with a Moldavian lady, began to put his domain beyond the Dnieper into careful order. He brought in people, settled waste regions, gave exemption from service for thirty years, built monasteries, and introduced his princely authority. Even a settler in that country from a time of unreckoned priority, who considered that he was on his own ground, was willing to descend to the status of a tribute-payer, since for his tribute he came under the powerful protection of the prince who guarded him,--defended him from the Tartars and the men from below, who were often worse than the Tartars. But real activity commenced under the iron hand of young Prince Yeremi. His possessions began immediately outside Chigirin, and ended at Konotóp and Komni. This did not constitute all the wealth of the prince, for beginning at Sandomir his lands lay in the voevodstvos of Volynia, Russia, and Kieff; but his domain beyond the Dnieper was as the eye in his head to the victor of Putívl. The Tartar lay long in wait on the Oryól or the Vorskla, and sniffed like a wolf before he ventured to urge his horse to the north. The men from below did not attempt attack. The local disorderly bands entered service. Wild, plundering people, who had long subsisted by violence and raids, now held in check, occupied outposts on the borders, and lying on the boundaries of the state, were like a bull-dog on his chain, threatening intruders with his teeth. Everything flourished and was full of life. Roads were laid out on the trace of ancient highways; rivers were blocked with dams, built by the captive Tartar or men from below caught robbing with armed hand. The mill now resounded where the wind used to play wildly at night in the reeds, and where wolves howled in company with the ghosts of drowned men. More than four hundred wheels, not counting the numerous windmills, ground grain beyond the Dnieper. More than forty thousand men were tributary to the prince's treasury. The woods swarmed with bees. On the borders new villages, hamlets, and single dwellings were rising continually. On the steppes, by the side of wild herds, grazed whole droves of domestic cattle and horses. The endless monotony of pine groves and steppes was varied by the smoke of cottages, the gilded towers of churches,--Catholic and orthodox. The desert was changed into a peopled land. Lieutenant Skshetuski travelled on gladly, and without hurry, as if going over his own ground, having plenty of leisure secured to him on the road. It was the beginning of January, 1648; but that wonderful, exceptional winter gave no sign of its approach. Spring was breathing in the air; the earth was soft and shining with the water of melted snow, the fields were covered with green, and the sun shone with such heat on the road at midday that fur coats burdened the shoulders as in summer. The lieutenant's party was increased considerably in Chigirin, for it was joined by a Wallachian embassy which the hospodar sent to Lubni in the person of Pan Rozvan Ursu. The embassy was attended by an escort, with wagons and servants. Our acquaintance, Pan Longin Podbipienta, with the shield of Zervikaptur, his long sword under his arm, and with a few servants, travelled with Pan Yan. Sunshine, splendid weather, and the odor of approaching spring filled the heart with gladness; and the lieutenant was the more rejoiced, since he was returning from a long journey to the roof of the prince, which was at the same time his own roof. He was returning having accomplished his mission well, and was therefore certain of a good reception. There were other causes, also, for his gladness. Besides the good-will of the prince, whom the lieutenant loved with his whole soul, there awaited him in Lubni certain dark eyes. These eyes belonged to Anusia Borzobogata Krasenska, lady-in-waiting to Princess Griselda, the most beautiful maiden among all her attendants; a fearful coquette, for whom every one was languishing in Lubni, while she was indifferent to all. Princess Griselda was terribly strict in deportment and excessively austere in manner, which, however, did not prevent young people from exchanging ardent glances and sighs. Pan Yan, in common with the others, sent his tribute to the dark eyes, and when alone in his quarters he would seize a lute and sing,-- "Thou'rt the daintiest of the dainty;" or, "The Tartar seizes people captive; Thou seizest captive hearts." But being a cheerful man, and, besides, a soldier thoroughly devoted to his profession, he did not take it too much to heart that Anusia smiled on Pan Bykhovets of the Wallachian regiment, or Pan Vurtsel of the artillery, or Pan Volodyovski of the dragoons, as well as on him, and smiled even on Pan Baranovski of the huzzars, although he was already growing gray, and lisped since his palate had been wounded by a musket-ball. Our lieutenant had even had a sabre duel with Volodyovski for the sake of Anusia; but when obliged to remain too long at Lubni without an expedition against the Tartars, life was tedious there, even with Anusia, and when he had to go on an expedition, he went gladly, without regret or remembrance. He returned joyfully, however, for he was on his way from the Crimea after a satisfactory arrangement of affairs. He hummed a song merrily, and urged his horse, riding by the side of Pan Longin, who, sitting on an enormous Livonian mare, was thoughtful and serious as usual. The wagons of the embassy escort remained considerably in the rear. "The envoy is lying in the wagon like a block of wood, and sleeps all the time," said the lieutenant. "He told me wonders of his Wallachian land till he grew tired. I listened, too, with curiosity. It is a rich country,--no use in denying that,--excellent climate, gold, wine, dainties, and cattle in abundance. I thought to myself meanwhile: Our prince is descended from a Moldavian mother, and has as good a right to the throne of the hospodar as any one else; which rights, moreover, Prince Michael claimed. Wallachia is no new country to our warriors; they have beaten the Turks, Tartars, Wallachians, and Transylvanians." "But the people are of weaker temper than with us, as Pan Zagloba told me in Chigirin," said Pan Longin. "If he is not to be believed; confirmation of what he says may be found in prayer-books." "How in prayer-books?" "I have one myself, and I can show it to you, for I always carry one with me." Having said this, he unbuckled the saddle-straps in front of him, and taking out a small book carefully bound in calfskin, kissed it reverentially; then turning over a few leaves, said, "Read." Skshetuski began: "'We take refuge under thy protection, Holy Mother of God--' Where is there anything here about Wallachia? What are you talking of? This is an antiphone!" "Read on farther." "'That we may be worthy of the promises of Christ our Lord. Amen.'" "Well, here we've got a question." Skshetuski read: "'Question: Why is Wallachian cavalry called light? Answer: Because it is light-footed in flight. Amen.' H'm! this is true. Still, there is a wonderful mixture of matters in this book." "It is a soldiers' book, where, side by side with prayers, a variety of military information is given, from which you may gain knowledge of all nations,--which of them is noblest, and which mean. As to the Wallachians, it appears that they are cowardly fellows, and terrible traitors besides." "That they are traitors is undoubted, for that is proven by the adventures of Prince Michael. I have heard as a fact that their soldiers are nothing to boast of by nature. But the prince has an excellent Wallachian regiment, in which Bykhovets is lieutenant; but to tell the truth, I don't think it contains even two hundred Wallachians." "Well, Lieutenant, what do you think? Has the prince many men under arms?" "About eight thousand, not counting the Cossacks that are at the outposts. But Zatsvilikhovski tells me that new levies are ordered." "Well, may God give us a campaign under the prince!" "It is said that a great war against Turkey is in preparation, and that the king himself is going to march with all the forces of the Commonwealth. I know, too, that gifts are withheld from the Tartars, who, I may add, are afraid to stir. I heard of this even in the Crimea, where on this account, I suppose, I was received with such honor; for the report is, that if the king moves with the hetmans, Prince Yeremi will strike the Crimea and wipe out the Tartars. It is quite certain they will not confide such an undertaking to any one else." Pan Longin raised his hands and eyes to heaven. "May the God of mercy grant such a holy war for the glory of Christianity and our nation, and permit me, sinful man, to fulfil my vow, so that I may receive joy in the struggle or find a praiseworthy death!" "Have you made a vow, then, concerning the war?" "I will disclose all the secrets of my soul to such a worthy knight, though the story is a long one; but since you incline a willing ear I will begin. You are aware that the motto on my shield is 'Tear cowl;' and this has the following origin: When my ancestor, Stoveiko Podbipienta, at the battle of Grünwald saw three knights in monks' cowls riding in a row, he dashed up to them and cut the heads off all three with one blow. Touching this glorious deed, the old chroniclers write in great praise of my ancestor." "Your ancestor had not a lighter hand than you, and he was justly 'Tear cowl.'" "To him the king granted a coat of arms, and upon it three goat-heads on a silver field in memory of those knights, because the same heads were depicted on their shields. Those arms, together with this sword, my ancestor, Stoveiko Podbipienta, left to his descendants with the injunction to strive to uphold the glory of their race and sword." "It is not to be denied that you come of gentle stock." Here Pan Longin began to sigh earnestly; and when he had comforted himself somewhat he continued:-- "Being the last of my race, I made a vow in Troki to the Most Holy Lady to live in continence and not marry till, in emulation of my ancestor Stoveiko Podbipienta, I should sweep off with this same sword three heads at one blow. Oh, merciful God, thou seest that I have done all in my power. I have preserved my purity to this day; I have commanded a tender heart to be still; I have sought war and I have fought, but without good fortune." The lieutenant smiled under his mustache. "And you have not taken off three heads?" "'No! it has not come to pass! No luck! Two at a blow I have taken more than once, but never three. I've never been able to come up to them, and it would be hard to ask enemies to stand in line for a blow. God knows my grief. There is strength in my bones, I have wealth, youth is passing away, I am approaching my forty-fifth year, my heart rushes forth in affection, my family is coming to an end, and still the three heads are not there! Such a Zervikaptur am I. A laughing-stock for the people, as Pan Zagloba truly remarks. All of which I endure patiently and offer to the Lord." The Lithuanian began again to sigh, noticing which his Livonian mare from sympathy for her master fell to groaning and snorting. "Well, I can only tell you," said the lieutenant, "if you do not find an opportunity under Prince Yeremi, then you will find it nowhere." "God grant!" answered Podbipienta; "this is why I am going to beg a favor of the prince." Further conversation was interrupted by an unusual sound of wings. As has been stated, birds of passage did not go beyond the sea that winter; the rivers did not freeze over, therefore the whole country was full of water-fowl, especially over the marshes. Just as the lieutenant and Pan Longin were approaching the bank of the Kagamlik there was a sudden rushing noise above their heads of a whole flock of storks, which flew so near the ground that it was almost possible to strike them with a stick. The flock flew with a tremendous outcry, and instead of settling in the reeds rose unexpectedly through the air. "They rush as if hunted," said Skshetuski. "Ah, see!" said Pan Longin, pointing to a white bird which, cutting the air in sidelong flight, tried to overtake the flock. "A falcon stops them from alighting," said the lieutenant. "The envoy has a falcon; it must be that he has let her out." At that moment Pan Rozvan Ursu rode up at full speed on a black Anatolian steed, and after him a number of his service. "I beg you to come to the sport, Lieutenant," said he. "This falcon is yours, then?" "Yes, and a very noble bird, as you will see." All three rushed forward, followed by the Wallachian falconer with a hoop, who, fixing his eyes on the bird, shouted with all his might, urging her to the struggle. The valiant bird immediately forced the flock to rise in the air, and then in a flash shot up still higher and hung over it. The storks arranged themselves in one enormous circle, making the noise of a storm with their wings. They filled the air with terrible cries, stretched their necks, pointed their bills upward like lances, and waited the attack. The falcon circled above them, at one time descending, at another rising, as if hesitating to sweep down since a hundred sharp beaks were waiting for her breast. Her white plumage, shone on by rays of light, gleamed like the sun itself on the clear blue of the sky. Suddenly, instead of rushing on the flock, the falcon darted like an arrow into the distance, and disappeared at once behind the trees and the reeds. Skshetuski at first rushed after her at full speed. The envoy, the falconer, and Longin followed his example. At the crossing of the roads the lieutenant checked his horse. A new and wonderful sight met his eye. In the middle of the road a carriage lay on its side with a broken axle. Horses detached from the carriage were held by two Cossacks. There was no driver at hand; he had evidently gone for assistance. At the side of the carriage stood two women. One wore a fox-skin cloak and a round-topped cap of the same material; her face was stern and masculine. The other was a young lady of tall stature, and gentle features of great regularity. On the shoulder of the young lady the falcon was sitting quietly. Having parted the feathers on her breast, the bird was stroking them with her bill. The lieutenant reined in his horse till its hoofs dug into the sand of the road, and raised his hand to his cap in uncertainty, not knowing what to say,--whether to greet the ladies or to speak to the falcon. He was confused also because there looked upon him from under a marten-skin hood eyes such as he had never seen in his life,--black, satinlike, liquid, full of life and fire,--near which the eyes of Anusia Borzobogata would be as a tallow candle before a torch. Above those eyes dark velvety brows were defined in two delicate arches; her blushing face bloomed like the most beautiful flower, and through her slightly opened lips of raspberry hue were seen teeth like pearls, and from under her hood flowed out rich dark tresses. "Are you Juno in person or some other divinity?" thought the lieutenant, seeing the form straight as an arrow, the swelling bosom, and the white falcon on her shoulder. Our lieutenant stood with uncovered head and forgot himself as before a marvellous image; his eyes gleamed, and something, as if with a hand, seized his heart, and he was about to begin, "If you are a mortal and not a divinity," when the envoy, the falconer with his hoop, and Pan Longin came up. On seeing them the goddess held her hand to the falcon, which, leaving the shoulder, came to the hand at once, shifting from foot to foot. The lieutenant, anticipating the falconer, wished to remove the bird, when suddenly a wonderful omen was seen. The falcon, leaving one foot on the hand of the lady, caught with the other the hand of the lieutenant, and instead of going to it began to scream joyfully and pull the hands together with such power that they touched. A quiver ran over the lieutenant. The bird allowed herself to be taken only after being hooded by the falconer. Then the old lady began to speak. "Gentlemen!" said she, "whoever you are, you will not deny your assistance to women who, left helpless on the road, know not themselves what to do. It is no more than fifteen miles to our house; but the carriage is broken, and we shall surely have to spend the night in the field. I hurried off the driver to have my sons send even a wagon; but before he reaches the house and returns, darkness will come, and it is a terrible thing to be out in this place, for there are graves in the neighborhood." The old lady spoke rapidly and with such a rough voice that the lieutenant was astonished; still he answered politely,-- [Illustration: "THE FALCON BEGAN TO DRAW THE HANDS TOGETHER."] Copyright, 1898, by Little, Brown, and Company. _From a drawing by J. Wagrez_. "Do not think that we should leave you and your beautiful daughter without assistance. We are going to Lubni, for we are soldiers in the service of Prince Yeremi, and likely our roads are in the same direction; and even if they are not, we shall be glad to go out of our way in case our assistance is acceptable. As to a carriage I have none, for with my companions I am travelling, soldier-fashion, on horseback; but the envoy has, and being an affable gentleman will be glad, I think, to put it at the service of yourself and your daughter." The envoy removed his sable cap, for knowing the Polish language he understood the conversation, and with a delicate compliment as became a gracious boyar, he yielded his carriage to the ladies, and straightway ordered the falconer to gallop for it to the wagons, which had lagged considerably in the rear. Meanwhile the lieutenant looked at the young lady, who, unable to endure his eager glance, dropped her eyes; and the elderly lady, who had a Cossack face, continued,-- "God reward you, gentlemen, for your assistance; and since there is still a long road to Lubni, do not reject my roof and that of my sons, under which we shall be glad to see you. We are from Rozlogi-Siromakhi. I am the widow of Prince Kurtsevich Bulyga; and this is not my daughter, but the daughter of the elder Kurtsevich, brother of my husband, who left his orphan to our care. My sons are not all at home this moment, and I am returning from Cherkasi, where I was performing devotions at the altar of the Holy Mother, and on our way back this accident has met us, and were it not for your politeness, gentlemen, we should undoubtedly have to pass the night on the road." The princess would have said still more, but at that moment the wagons appeared in the distance, approaching at a trot, surrounded by a crowd of the envoy's retinue and the soldiers of Pan Yan. "Then you are the widow of Prince Vassily Kurtsevich?" asked the lieutenant. "No!" retorted the princess, quickly and as if in anger; "I am the widow of Constantine, and this is the daughter of Vassily," said she, pointing to the young lady. "They speak of Prince Vassily often in Lubni. He was a great soldier, and a confidant of the late Prince Michael." "I have not been in Lubni," said she, with a certain haughtiness. "Of his military virtues I have no knowledge. There is no need of mentioning his later acts, since all know what they were." Hearing this, Princess Helena dropped her head on her breast like a flower cut with a scythe, and the lieutenant answered quickly,-- "Do not say that, madam. Prince Vassily, sentenced, through a terrible error in the administration of human justice, to the loss of life and property, was forced to save himself by flight; but later his entire innocence was discovered. By the publication of this innocence he was restored to honor as a virtuous man; and the greater the injustice done him, the greater should be his glory." The princess glanced quickly at the lieutenant, and in her disagreeable sharp face anger was clearly expressed. But though Skshetuski was a young man, he had so much knightly dignity and such a clear glance that she did not dare to dispute him; she turned instead to Princess Helena. "It is not proper for you to hear these things," said she. "Go and see that the luggage is removed from our carriage to the equipage in which, with the permission of these gentlemen, we are to ride." "You will allow me to help you," said the lieutenant to Princess Helena. Both went to the carriage; but as soon as they stood opposite, at the doors on each side of it, the princess raised the lashes of her eyes, and her glance fell upon the face of the lieutenant like a bright, warm ray of the sun. "How can I thank you," said she, in a voice which to him seemed music as sweet as the sound of lyres and flutes,--"How can I thank you for defending the good name of my father against the injustice which is put upon it by his nearest relatives?" The lieutenant felt his heart melting like snow in springtime, and answered: "May God be as good to me as I am ready to rush into the fire or shed my blood for such thanks, though the service is so slight that I ought not to accept a reward." "If you contemn my thanks, then I, poor orphan, have no other way to show my gratitude." "I do not contemn them," said he, with growing emphasis; "but for such favor I wish to perform true and enduring service, and I only beg you to accept me for that service." The princess, hearing these words, blushed, was confused, then suddenly grew pale, raised her hands to her face, and said in a sad voice: "Such a service could bring only misfortune to you." The lieutenant bent through the door of the carriage, and spoke quietly and feelingly: "Let it bring what God gives; even should it bring suffering, still I am ready to fall at your feet and beg for it." "It cannot be that you, who have just seen me for the first time, should conceive such a great desire for that service." "I had scarcely seen you when I had forgotten myself altogether, and I see that it has come to the soldier hitherto free to be changed to a captive; but such clearly is the will of God. Love is like an arrow which pierces the breast unexpectedly; and now I feel its sting, though yesterday I should not have believed this if any man had told it me." "If you could not have believed it yesterday, how am I to believe it to-day?" "Time will convince you best; but you can see my sincerity even now, not only in my words but in my face." Again the princess raised her eyes, and her glance met the manly and noble face of the young soldier, and his look, so full of rapture that a deep crimson covered her face. But she did not lower her glance, and for a time he drank in the sweetness of those wonderful eyes, and they looked at each other like two beings who, though they have met merely on the highroad through the steppe, feel in a flash that they have chosen each other, and that their souls begin to rush to a meeting like two doves. The moment of exaltation was disturbed for them by the sharp voice of Constantine's widow calling to the princess. The carriages had arrived. The attendants began to transfer the packages from the carriages, and in a moment everything was ready. Pan Rozvan Ursu, the gracious boyar, gave up his own carriage to the two ladies, the lieutenant mounted his horse, and all moved forward. The day was nearing its rest. The swollen waters of the Kagamlik were bright with gold of the setting sun, and purple of the evening light. High in the heavens flocks of small clouds reddening drifted slowly to the horizon, as if, tired from flying through the air, they were going to sleep somewhere in an unknown cradle. Pan Yan rode by the side of Princess Helena, but without conversation, since he could not speak to her before strangers as he had spoken a few moments before, and frivolous words would not pass his lips now. But in his heart he felt happiness, and in his head something sounding as if from wine. The whole caravan pushed on briskly, and quiet was broken only by the snorting of the horses or the clank of stirrup against stirrup. After a time the escort at the rear wagons began a plaintive Wallachian song; soon, however, they stopped, and immediately the nasal voice of Pan Longin was heard singing piously,-- "In heaven I caused an endless light to dwell, And mist I spread o'er all the earth." That moment it grew dark, the stars twinkled in the sky, and from the damp plains white mists rose, boundless as the sea. They entered a forest, but had gone only a few furlongs when the sound of horses' feet was heard and five riders appeared before the caravan. They were the young princes, who, informed by the driver of the accident which had happened to their mother, were hurrying to meet her, bringing a wagon drawn by four horses. "Is that you, my sons?" called out the old princess. The riders approached the carriage. "We, mother!" "Come this way! Thanks to these gentlemen, we need no more assistance. These are my sons, whom I commend to your favor, gentlemen,--Simeon, Yury, Andrei, Nikolai-- And who is the fifth?" asked she, looking around attentively. "Oh! if my old eyes can see in the darkness, it is Bogun." The princess drew back quickly to the depth of the carriage. "Greetings to you, Princess, and to you, Princess Helena!" said the fifth. "Ah, Bogun! You have come from the regiment, my falcon? And have you brought your lute? Welcome, welcome! Well, my sons, I have asked these gentlemen to spend the night with us at Rozlogi; and now greet them! A guest in the house is God in the house. Be gracious to our house, gentlemen!" The young men removed their caps. "We entreat you most respectfully to cross our lowly threshold." "They have already promised me,--the envoy has promised and the lieutenant. We shall receive honorable guests, but I am not sure that our poor fare will be savory for men accustomed to castle dainties." "We are reared on the fare of soldiers, not of castles," said Skshetuski. And Pan Rozvan added: "I have tried the hospitality of country-houses, and know that it is better than that of castles." The carriages moved on, and the old princess continued: "Our best days have passed long ago. In Volynia and Lithuania there are still members of the Kurtsevich family who have retinues of attendants and live in lordly fashion, but they do not recognize their poor relations, for which God punish them. We live in real Cossack poverty, which you must overlook, and accept with a good heart what we offer with sincerity. I and my five sons live on one village and a few hamlets, and in addition we have this young lady to care for." These words astonished the lieutenant not a little, for he had heard in Lubni that Rozlogi was no small estate, and also that it belonged to Prince Vassily, the father of Helena. He did not deem it proper, however, to inquire how the place had passed into the hands of Constantine and his widow. "Then you have five sons, Princess?" asked Pan Rozvan Ursu. "I had five, all like lions," answered she; "but the infidels in Bélgorod put out the eyes of the eldest, Vassily, with torches, wherefore his mind has failed him. When the young men go on an expedition I stay at home with him and this young lady, with whom I have more suffering than comfort." The contemptuous tone with which the princess spoke of her niece was so evident that it did not escape the attention of the lieutenant. His breast boiled up in anger, and he had almost allowed an unseemly oath to escape him; but the words died on his lips when he looked at the young princess, and in the light of the moon saw her eyes filled with tears. "What has happened? Why do you weep?" asked he, in a low voice. She was silent. "I cannot endure to see you weep," said Pan Yan, and bent toward her. Seeing that the old princess was conversing with the envoy and not looking toward him, he continued: "In God's name, speak but one word, for I would give blood and health to comfort you!" All at once he felt one of the horsemen press against him so heavily that the horses began to rub their sides together. Conversation with the princess was interrupted. Skshetuski, astonished and also angered, turned to the intruder. By the light of the moon he saw two eyes, which looked at him insolently, defiantly, sneeringly. Those terrible eyes shone like those of a wolf in a dark forest. "What devil is that?" thought the lieutenant,--"a demon or who?" And then, looking closely into those burning eyes, he asked: "Why do you push on me with your horse, and dig your eyes into me?" The horseman did not answer, but continued to look with equal persistence and insolence. "If it is dark, I can strike a light; and if the road is too narrow, then to the steppe with you!" said the lieutenant, in a distinct voice. "Off with you from the carriage, Pole, if you see the steppe!" answered the horseman. The lieutenant, being a man quick of action, instead of an answer struck his foot into the side of his enemy's horse with such force that the beast groaned and in a moment was on the very edge of the road. The rider reined him in on the spot, and for a moment it seemed that he was about to rush on the lieutenant; but that instant the sharp, commanding voice of the old princess resounded. "Bogun, what's the matter?" These words had immediate effect. Bogun whirled his horse around, and passed to the other side of the carriage to the princess, who continued: "What is the matter? You are not in Pereyasláv nor the Crimea, but in Rozlogi. Remember this! But now gallop ahead for me, conduct the carriages; the ravine is at hand, and it is dark. Hurry on, you vampire!" Skshetuski was astonished, as well as vexed. Bogun evidently sought a quarrel and would have found it; but why did he seek it,--whence this unexpected attack? The thought flashed through the lieutenant's mind that Princess Helena had something to do with this; and he was confirmed in the thought, for, looking at her face, he saw, in spite of the darkness, that it was pale, and evident terror was on it. Bogun spurred forward immediately in obedience to the command of the princess, who, looking after him, said half to herself and half to Pan Yan,-- "That's a madcap, a Cossack devil." "It is evident that he is not in his full mind," answered the lieutenant, contemptuously. "Is that Cossack in the service of your sons?" The old princess threw herself back in the seat. "What do you mean? Why, that is Bogun, lieutenant-colonel, a famous hero, a friend of my sons, and adopted by me as a sixth son. Impossible that you have not heard his name, for all know of him." This name was, in fact, well known to Pan Yan. From among the names of various colonels and Cossack atamans this one had come to the top, and was on every lip on both banks of the Dnieper. Blind minstrels sang songs of Bogun in market-places and shops, and at evening meetings they told wonders about the young leader. Who he was, whence he had come, was known to no man. This much was certain,--the steppes, the Dnieper, the Cataracts, and Chertomelik, with its labyrinth of narrows, arms, islands, rocks, ravines, and reeds, had been his cradle. From childhood he had lived and communed with that wild world. In time of peace he went with others to fish and hunt, battered through the windings of the Dnieper, wandered over swamps and reeds with a crowd of half-naked comrades; then again he spent whole months in forest depths. His school was in raids to the Wilderness on the herds of the Tartars, in ambushes, battles, campaigns against Tartar coast towns, against Bélgorod, Wallachia, or with boats on the Black Sea. He knew no days but days on his horse, no nights but nights at a steppe fire. Soon he became the favorite of the entire lower country, a leader of others, and surpassed all men in daring. He was ready to go with a hundred horse even to Bagche Sarai, and start up a blaze under the very eyes of the Khan; he burned Tartar towns and villages, exterminated the inhabitants, tore captive murzas to pieces with horses, came down like a tempest, passed by like death. On the sea he fell upon Turkish galleys with frenzy, swept down upon the centre of Budjak,--rushed into the lion's mouth, as 'tis said. Some of his expeditions were simple madness. Men less daring, less fond of danger, perished impaled on stakes in Stamboul, or rotted at the oar on Turkish galleys; he always escaped unhurt, and with rich booty. It was said that he had collected immense treasures, which he had hidden in the reeds of the Dnieper; but it was also seen more than once how with muddy boots he had stamped upon cloth of gold, and spread carpets under the hoofs of his horse,--how, dressed in satin, he had spotted himself with tar, on purpose to show Cossack contempt for these lordly stuffs. He never warmed any place long. Caprice was the motive of his deeds. At times, when he came to Chigirin, Cherkasi, or Pereyasláv, he had terrible frolics with other Zaporojians; at times he lived like a monk, spoke to no man, escaped to the steppe. Then again he surrounded himself with blind minstrels, and listened to their songs and stories for days at a time, heaping gold on them. Among nobles he knew how to be a polished cavalier; among Cossacks he was the wildest of Cossacks. In knightly company he was a knight; among robbers, a robber. Some held him to be insane; for he was an unbridled, mad spirit. Why he was living in the world, what he wanted, whither he was tending, whom he served, he knew not himself. He served the steppes, the whirlwinds, war, love, his own fancy. This fancy of his distinguished him from all the other rude leaders, and from the whole robber herd who had only plunder as an object, and for whom it was the same whether they plundered Tartars or their own. Bogun took plunder, but preferred war to pillage; he was in love with peril for its own charm; he gave gold for songs; he hunted for glory, and cared for no more. Of all leaders, he alone personified best the Cossack knight; therefore songs had sought him out as a favorite, and his name was celebrated throughout the whole Ukraine. He had recently become the Pereyasláv lieutenant-colonel, but he exercised the power of colonel; for old Loboda held the baton feebly in his stiffening hand. Pan Yan, therefore, knew well who Bogun was, and if he asked the old princess whether the Cossack was in the service of her sons, he did it through studied contempt; for he felt in him an enemy, and in spite of all the reputation of Bogun, his blood boiled up because the Cossack had begun with him so insolently. He understood, too, that what had been begun would not end in a trifle. But Skshetuski was as unbending as an axle, self-confident to excess, yielding before nothing, and really eager for danger. He was ready even that moment to urge his horse after Bogun, but he rode near the princess. Besides, the wagon had already passed the ravine, and lights were gleaming in Rozlogi. CHAPTER IV. The Kurtsevichi Bulygi were of an ancient princely stock which used the escutcheon of Kurts, claimed to be from Koryat, but was really from Rurik. Of the two main lines, one lived in Lithuania, the other in Volynia, till Prince Vassily, one of the numerous descendants of the Volynian line, settled beyond the Dnieper. Being poor, he did not wish to remain among his powerful relatives, and entered the service of Prince Michael Vishnyevetski, father of the renowned "Yarema."[6] Having covered himself with glory in that service, he received from the latter, as a permanent possession, Krasnie Rozlogi, which subsequently, by reason of its vast number of wolves, was called Volchie Rozlogi; and there he settled for good. He went over to the Latin rite in 1629, and married a lady of a distinguished Austrian family of Italian descent. From that marriage a daughter, Helena, came into the world a year later, her mother dying at her birth. Prince Vassily, without thinking of a second marriage, gave himself up altogether to the management of his land and the rearing of his only daughter. He was a man of great character and uncommon virtue. Having acquired a moderate fortune rather rapidly, he remembered at once his eldest brother Constantine, who, rejected by his powerful family, remained in Volynia, and was obliged to live on rented land. He brought him, with his wife and five sons, to Rozlogi, and shared every bit of bread with him. The two Kurtsevichi lived in this way quietly till the end of 1634, when Vassily went with King Vladislav to the siege of Smolensk, where that unfortunate event took place which caused his ruin. In the royal camp was intercepted a letter written to Sheyin (the Russian commander), signed with the name of the prince, with the seal of Kurts added. Such a clear proof of treason on the part of a knight who till then had enjoyed an unspotted fame, astonished and confounded every one. It was in vain that Vassily called God to witness that neither the hand nor the signature on the paper was his; the arms of Kurts on the seal removed every doubt, no one believed that the seal had been lost,--which was the prince's explanation,--and finally the unfortunate prince, sentenced _pro crimine perduelionis_ to the loss of his honor and his head, was forced to seek safety in flight. Arriving at Rozlogi in the night, Vassily implored his brother Constantine, by all that was holy, to care for Helena as his own daughter, and then he disappeared forever. It was said that he wrote a letter from Bar to Vishnyevetski, entreating the prince not to take the bread out of Helena's mouth, and to leave her in peace at Rozlogi under the care of Constantine; after that there was no more word of him. There was a report that he had died suddenly, also that he had joined the imperial army and had perished in battle in Germany. No one, however, had certain knowledge of him; but he must have died, since he inquired no further for his daughter. Soon mention of his name ceased, and he was only remembered when his innocence became evident. A certain Kuptsevich from Vytebsk confessed on his death-bed that he had written, at the siege of Smolensk, the letter to Sheyin, and sealed it with the seal found in camp. In the face of such testimony, pity and confusion seized all hearts. The sentence was revoked, the name of Prince Vassily restored to honor, but for Vassily himself the reward for his sufferings came too late. As to Rozlogi, Yeremi did not think of confiscating that; for the Vishnyevetskis, knowing Vassily better than others, were never entirely convinced of his guilt. He might even have remained under their powerful protection and laughed at the sentence; and if he fled, it was because he was unable to endure disgrace. Helena grew up quietly at Rozlogi under the tender care of her uncle, and only after his death did painful times begin for her. The wife of Constantine, from a family of dubious origin, was a stern, impulsive, and energetic woman, whom her husband alone was able to keep within bounds. After his death she gathered into her iron hand the management of Rozlogi. The serving-men trembled before her, the house-servants feared her as fire, and soon she made herself known to the neighbors. During the third year of her management she attacked the Sivinskis of Brovarki twice with armed hand, dressed in male attire and on horseback, leading her servants with hired Cossacks. Once when the regiments of Prince Yeremi scattered Tartar bands, plundering in the neighborhood of Semi Mogil, the princess at the head of her people cut to pieces the remnant that had escaped as far as Rozlogi. She had settled for good in Rozlogi, and began to consider the place as the property of herself and her sons. She loved these sons as the wolf loves her young, but being rude she had no thought of a proper education for them. A monk of the Greek rite from Kieff taught them to read and write; here their education ended. It was not far to Lubni, where Vishnyevetski's court was, at which the young princes might have acquired polish and trained themselves to public business in the Chancery, or entered the school of knighthood under his banners. The princess, however, had reasons of her own for not sending the young men to Lubni. Prince Yeremi might remember to whom Rozlogi belonged, and might look into the guardianship of Helena, or in memory of Vassily might take that guardianship upon himself; then she would undoubtedly have to move away from Rozlogi. The princess preferred, therefore, that in Lubni they should forget there were Kurtsevichi on earth. So the young princes were reared half wild, more as Cossacks than as nobles. While still young, they took part in the quarrels of the old princess, in attacks on the Sivinskis, and in her expeditions against Tartars. Feeling an innate aversion to books and letters, they fired arrows from bows for whole days, or took exercise in the management of their fists or sabres and lariats. They never occupied themselves with the estate, for their mother would not let that out of her own hands. It was sad to look at those descendants of a noted stock in whose veins princely blood was flowing, but whose manners were harsh and rude, and whose ideas and dull hearts reminded one of the uncultivated steppe. Meanwhile they were growing up like young oaks; seeing their own ignorance, they were ashamed to live with the nobility; on the contrary, the companionship of wild Cossack leaders was more agreeable. When old enough, therefore, they went with companies to the lower country, where they were considered as comrades. Sometimes they stayed half a year in the Saitch; went to "industry" with the Cossacks, took part in campaigns against the Turks and Tartars, which finally became their chief and favorite occupation. Their mother was not opposed to this, for they often brought back abundant booty. But in one of these campaigns the eldest, Vassily, fell into pagan hands. His brothers, it is true, with the aid of Bogun and the Zaporojians, rescued him, but without his eyes. From that time Vassily was forced to remain at home; as formerly he had been the wildest of all, so then he became very mild and was sunk in meditation and religious exercises. The young men continued their warlike occupations, which at last obtained for them the surname of Prince-Cossacks. A glance at Rozlogi-Siromakhi was enough to enable one to guess what kind of people lived there. When the envoy and Pan Yan drove through the gate with their wagons, they saw, not a castle, but rather a roomy shed built of enormous oak planks, with narrow windows like port-holes. Dwellings for servants and Cossacks, the stables, the granaries, and store-rooms were attached directly to the house, composing an irregular building made up of many parts, some high and some low. It would have been difficult to consider such a poor and rude exterior as a human dwelling, but for the lights in the windows. On the square in front of the house were two well-cranes; nearer the gate was a post with a ring on the top, to which was chained a bear. A strong gate of the same kind of planks as the house afforded entrance to the square, which was surrounded by a ditch and a palisade. Evidently it was a fortified place, secure against attacks and incursions. It recalled in every regard the Cossack posts of the frontier; and though the majority of nobles on the border had no houses of fashion different from this, still this was more like some species of robber's nest than any of them. The attendants who came out with torches to meet the guests were bandits in appearance, rather than servants. Great dogs on the square tugged at their chains as if to break away and rush at the newly arrived. From the stable was heard the neighing of horses. The young Bulygi and their mother began to call to the servants with commands and curses. In the midst of this hurly-burly the guests entered the house. But now Pan Rozvan Ursu, who had almost regretted his promise to pass the night there when he saw the wildness and wretchedness of the place, was really astonished at the sight that met his eyes. The inside of the house answered in no way to the unseemly exterior. First they entered a broad ante-room, the walls of which were almost entirely covered with armor, weapons, and skins of wild beasts. Logs of wood were blazing in two enormous fireplaces, and by their bright light were to be seen, on one wall, horse-trappings, shining armor, Turkish steel shirts on which here and there were glittering precious stones; chain-mail with gilt knobs on the buckles, half armor, breast-pieces, neck-pieces, steel armor of great value, Polish and Turkish helmets, steel caps with silver tips. On the opposite wall hung shields, no longer used in that age; near them Polish lances and Oriental javelins, also edged weapons in plenty,--from sabres to daggers and yatagans,--the hilts of which glittered in the firelight with various colors, like stars. In the corners hung bundles of skins of bears, wolves, foxes, martens, and ermine, gained by the hunting of the princes. Farther away, near the walls, dozing on their rings were hawks, falcons, and great golden eagles; the last, brought from the distant steppes of the East, were used in the wolf-hunt. From that antechamber the guests passed to a spacious reception-room, and here in a chimney with a depression in front burned a brisk fire. In this room there was still greater luxury than in the antechamber. The bare planks of the walls were covered with woven stuffs. On the floor lay splendid Oriental carpets. In the centre of the room stood a long, cross-legged table, made of common planks, on which were goblets, gilt or cut from Venetian glass. At the walls were smaller tables, bureaus, and shelves on which were caskets, bottle-cases inlaid with bronze, brass candlesticks and clocks, taken in their time by the Turks from the Venetians and by the Cossacks from the Turks. The whole room was crowded with superfluous objects, of a use very often unknown to the possessor. Everywhere was luxury blended with the extreme rudeness of the steppe. Costly Turkish bureaus, inlaid with bronze, ebony, mother-of-pearl, were standing at the side of unplaned shelves; simple wooden chairs at the side of soft sofas. Cushions lying in Eastern fashion on sofas had covers of brocade or silk stuff, but were rarely filled with down, oftener with hay or pea-stalks. Costly stuffs and superfluous objects were the so-called Turkish or Tartar goods, partly bought for a trifle from the Cossacks, partly obtained in numerous wars by old Prince Vassily, partly during expeditions with men of the lower country by the young Bulygi, who chose rather to go with boats to the Black Sea than to marry or manage the land. All this roused no surprise in Skshetuski, who was well acquainted with houses on the border; but the Wallachian boyar was astonished to see in the midst of all this luxury the Kurtsevichi in leather boots and fur coats not much better than those worn by the servants. Pan Longin Podbipienta, accustomed to a different order of things in Lithuania, was equally astonished. Meanwhile the young princes received the guests heartily and with great welcome. Being little trained in society, they did this in so awkward a manner that the lieutenant was scarcely able to restrain his laughter. The eldest, Simeon, said,-- "We are glad to see you, and are thankful for your kindness. Our house is your house; therefore make yourselves at home. We bow to you, gentlemen, at our lowly thresholds." And though no humility was observable in the tone of his speech, nor a recognition that he received persons superior to himself, he bowed in Cossack fashion to the girdle; and after him bowed the younger brothers, thinking that politeness required it. "The forehead to you, gentlemen, the forehead." Just then the princess, seizing Bogun by the sleeve, led him to another room. "Listen, Bogun," said she, hurriedly, "I've no time for long speeches: I saw you attack that young noble. You are seeking a quarrel with him." "Mother," answered the Cossack, kissing the old woman's hand, "the world is wide,--one road to him, another to me. I have not known him, nor heard of him; but let him not draw near the princess, or as I live I'll flash my sabre in his eyes." "Oh! are you mad? Where, Cossack, is your head? What has come upon you? Do you want to ruin yourself and us? He is a soldier of Prince Yeremi, a lieutenant, a person of distinction, for he was sent as envoy from the prince to the Khan. Let a hair fall from his head while under our roof, do you know what will happen? The prince will turn his eyes to Rozlogi, will avenge this man, send us to the four winds, take Helena to Lubni,--and then what? Will you quarrel with Vishnyevetski, or attack Lubni? Try it if you want to taste an impaling stake, lost Cossack! Whether he comes near the girl or not, he will leave here as he came, and there will be peace. But restrain yourself! If not, then be off to where you came from, for you will bring misfortune to us if you stay." The Cossack gnawed his mustache, frowned, but saw that the princess was right. "They will go away in the morning, mother, and I will restrain myself; only let the princess stay in her own rooms." "Why do you ask this? So that they should think I keep her in confinement? She will appear, because I wish it. Give no orders to me in this house, for you are not master here!" "Be not angry. Princess! Since it cannot be otherwise, I will be as sweet to them as Turkish tidbits. I'll not grind my teeth nor touch my head, even though anger were consuming me, though my soul were ready to groan. Let your will be done." "Oh, that's your talk! Take your lyre, play, sing; then you will feel easier. But now meet the guests." They returned to the reception-room, in which the princes, not knowing how to entertain the guests, continued to ask them to make themselves at home, and were bowing to the girdle before them. Skshetuski looked sharply and haughtily into the eyes of Bogun as soon as he came, but he saw in them neither quarrel nor defiance. The face of the youthful leader was lighted up with good-humor, so well simulated that it might have deceived the most experienced eye. The lieutenant looked at him carefully, for previously he had been unable to distinguish his features in the darkness. He saw now a young hero, straight as a poplar, with splendid brunette face, and rich, dark, drooping mustache. On that face gladness burst through the pensive mood of the Ukraine, as the sun through a mist. The leader had a lofty forehead, on which his dark hair drooped as a mane above his powerful brow. An aquiline nose, dilated nostrils, and white teeth, shining at every smile, gave the face a slight expression of rapacity; but on the whole it was a model of Ukraine beauty, luxuriant, full of character and defiance. His splendid dress also distinguished this hero of the steppe from the princes dressed in skins. Bogun wore a tunic of silver brocade and a scarlet kontush, which color was worn by all the Pereyasláv Cossacks. His loins were girt with a silken sash from which depended a rich sabre; but the sabre and the dress paled before the Turkish dagger at his belt. This dagger was so thickly studded with jewels that sparks flew from it. Arrayed in this fashion, he would have been easily taken by any one for a scion of some great house; rather than a Cossack, especially since his freedom and his lordly manners betrayed no low descent. Approaching Pan Longin, he listened to the story of his ancestor Stoveiko and the cutting off of the three heads. He turned to the lieutenant, and said with perfect indifference, just as if nothing had happened between them,-- "You are on your way from the Crimea, I hear." "From the Crimea," answered the lieutenant, dryly. "I have been there too, though I did not go to Baktche Serai; but I think I shall be there if the favorable news we hear comes true." "Of what news are you speaking?" "It is said that if the king opens war against the Turks, Prince Vishnyevetski will visit the Crimea with fire and sword. This report brings great joy through the whole Ukraine and the lower country, for if under such a leader we do not frolic in Baktche Serai, then under none." "We will frolic, as God is in heaven!" cried the young princes. The respect with which Bogun spoke of the prince captivated the lieutenant; so he smiled and said in a more friendly voice,-- "I see that you are not satisfied yet with the expeditions which you have had with men of the lower country, which however have covered you with glory." "Small war, small glory! Konashevich Sahaidachni did not win it on boats, but in Khotím." At that moment a door opened, and Vassily, the eldest of the Kurtsevichi, came slowly into the room, led by Helena. He was a man of ripe years, pale and emaciated, with a sad ascetic countenance, recalling the Byzantine pictures of saints. His long hair, prematurely gray from misfortune and pain, came down to his shoulders, and instead of his eyes were two red depressions. In his hand he held a bronze cross, with which he began to bless the room and all present. "In the name of God the Father, in the name of the Saviour and of the Holy Most Pure," said he, "if you are apostles and bring good tidings, be welcome on Christian thresholds!" "Be indulgent, gentlemen," muttered the princess; "his mind is disturbed." But Vassily continued to bless them with the cross, and added: "As it is said in the 'Dialogues of the Apostles,' 'Whoso sheds his blood for the faith will be saved; he who dies for gain or booty will be damned.' Let us pray! Woe to you, brothers, woe to me, since we made war for booty! God be merciful to us, sinners! God be merciful! And you, men who have come from afar, what tidings do you bring? Are you apostles?" He was silent, and appeared to wait for an answer; therefore the lieutenant replied,-- "We are far from such a lofty mission. We are only soldiers ready to lay down our lives for the faith." "Then you will be saved," said the blind man; "but for us the hour of liberation has not come. Woe to you, brothers! woe to me!" He uttered the last words almost with a groan, and such deep despair was depicted on his countenance that the guests were at a loss what to do. Helena seated him straightway on a chair, and hastening to the anteroom, returned in a moment with a lute in her hand. Low sounds were heard in the apartment, and the princess began to sing a hymn as accompaniment,-- "By night and by day I call thee, O Lord! Relieve thou my torment, and dry my sad tears; Be a merciful Father to me in my sins; Oh, hear thou my cry!" The blind man threw his head back and listened to the words of the song, which appeared to act as a healing balm, for the pain and terror disappeared by degrees from his face. At last his head fell upon his bosom, and he remained as if half asleep and half benumbed. "If the singing is continued, he will become altogether pacified. You see, gentlemen, his insanity consists in this, that he is always waiting for apostles; and if visitors appear, he comes out immediately to ask if they are apostles." Helena continued:-- "Show me the way, Lord above Lords! I'm like one astray in a waste without end, Or a ship in the waves of a measureless sea, Lost and alone." Her sweet voice grew louder and louder. With the lute in her hands, and eyes raised to heaven, she was so beautiful that the lieutenant could not take his eyes from her. He looked, was lost in her, and forgot the world. He was roused from his ecstasy only by the words of the old princess,-- "That's enough! He will not wake soon. But now I request you to supper, gentlemen." "We beg you to our bread and salt," said the young princes after their mother. Pan Rozvan, as a man of polished manners, gave his arm to the lady of the house. Seeing this, Skshetuski hurried to the Princess Helena. His heart grew soft within him when he felt her hand on his arm, till fire flashed in his eyes, and he said,-- "The angels in heaven do not sing more beautifully than you." "It is a sin for you to compare my singing to that of angels," answered Helena. "I don't know whether I sin or not; but one thing is sure,--I would give my eyes to hear your singing till death. But what do I say? If blind, I could have no sight of you, which would be the same as torture beyond endurance." "Don't say that, for you will leave here to-morrow, and to-morrow forget me." "That will not be. My love is such that to the end of life I can love no one else." The face of the princess grew scarlet; her breast began to heave. She wished to answer, but her lips merely trembled. Then Pan Yan continued,-- "But you will forget me in the presence of that handsome Cossack, who will accompany your singing on a balalaika." "Never, never!" whispered the maiden. "But beware of him; he is a terrible man." "What is one Cossack to me? Even if the whole Saitch were behind him, I should dare everything for your sake. You are for me like a jewel without price,--you are my world. But tell me, have you the same feeling for me?" A low "Yes" sounded like music of paradise in the ears of Pan Yan, and that moment it seemed to him as if ten hearts, at least, were beating in his breast; in his eyes all things grew bright, as if a ray of sunlight had come to the world; he felt an unknown power within himself, as if he had wings on his shoulders. During supper Bogun's face, which was greatly changed and pale, glared several times. The lieutenant, however, possessing the affection of Helena, cared not for his rival. "The devil take him!" thought he. "Let him not get in my way; if he does, I'll rub him out." But his mind was not on Bogun. He felt Helena sitting so near that he almost touched her shoulder with his own; he saw the blush which never left her face, from which warmth went forth; he saw her swelling bosom, and her eyes, now drooping and covered with their lids, now flashing like a pair of stars,--for Helena, though cowed by the old princess and living in orphanhood, sadness, and fear, was still of the Ukraine and hot-blooded. The moment a warm ray of love fell on her she bloomed like a flower, and was roused at once to new and unknown life. Happiness with courage gleamed in her eyes, and those impulses struggling with her maiden timidity painted her face with the beautiful colors of the rose. Pan Yan was almost beside himself. He drank deeply, but the mead had no effect on him; he was already drunk from love. He saw no one at the table save her who sat at his side. He saw not how Bogun grew paler each moment, and, touching the hilt of his dagger, gave no ear to Pan Longin, who for the third time told of his ancestor Stoveiko, nor to Kurtsevich, who told about his expedition for "Turkish goods." All drank except Bogun; and the best example was given by the old princess, who raised a goblet, now to the health of her guests, now to the health of Vishnyevetski, now to the health of the hospodar Lupul. There was talk, too, of blind Vassily and his former knightly deeds, of his unlucky campaign and his present insanity, which Simeon, the eldest, explained as follows:-- "Just think! the smallest bit of anything in the eye prevents sight; why should not great drops of pitch reaching the brain cause madness?" "Oh, it is a very delicate organ," said Pan Longin. At this moment the old princess noticed the changed face of Bogun. "What is the matter, my falcon?" "My soul is suffering, mother," said he, gloomily; "but a Cossack word is not smoke. I will endure." "Hold out, my son; there will be a feast." Supper came to an end, but mead was poured into the goblets unsparingly. Cossacks called to the dance came, therefore, with greater readiness. The balalaikas and drums, to which the drowsy attendants were to dance, began to sound. Later on, the young princes dropped into the prisyadka. The old princess, putting her hands on her sides, began to keep time with her foot and hum. Pan Yan, seeing this, took Helena to the dance. When he embraced her with his arm it seemed to him that he was drawing part of heaven toward his breast. In the whirl of the dance her long tresses swept around his neck, as if she wished to bind him to herself forever. He did not restrain himself; and when he saw that no one was looking, he bent and kissed her lips with all his might. Late at night, when alone with Longin in their sleeping-room, the lieutenant, instead of going to rest, sat on the wooden bedstead and began: "You will go to Lubni tomorrow with another man." Podbipienta, who had just finished his prayers, opened wide his eyes and asked: "How is that? Are you going to stay here?" "I shall not stay, but my heart will remain, and only the _dulcis recordatio_ will go with me. You see in me a great change, since from tender desires I am scarcely able to listen to a thing." "Then you have fallen in love with the princess?" "Nothing else, as true as I am alive before you. Sleep flees from my lids, and I want nothing but sighs, from which I am ready to vanish into vapor. I tell you this, because, having a tender heart famishing for love, you will easily understand my torture." Pan Longin began to sigh, in token that he understood the torments of love, and after a time he inquired mournfully: "Maybe you have also made a vow of celibacy?" "Your inquiry is pointless, for if all made such vows the _genus humanum_ would soon be at an end." The entrance of a servant interrupted further conversation. It was an old Tartar, with quick black eyes and a face as wrinkled as a dried apple. After he came in he cast a significant look at Pan Yan and asked,-- "Don't you wish for something? Perhaps a cup of mead before going to bed?" "No, 'tis not necessary." The Tartar approached Skshetuski and muttered: "I have a word from the young princess for you." "Then be my gift-giver! You may speak before this knight, for he knows everything." The Tartar took a ribbon from his sleeve, saying, "The lady has sent you this scarf, with a message that she loves you with her whole soul." The lieutenant seized the scarf, kissed it with ecstasy, and pressed it to his bosom. After he had become calmer, he asked: "What did the princess tell you to say?" "That she loved you with her whole soul." "Here is a thaler for your message. She said, then, that she loved me?" "Yes." "Here is another thaler for you. May God bless her, for she is most dear to me. Tell her, too--But wait, I'll write to her. Bring me ink, pen, and paper." "What?" asked the Tartar. "Ink, pen, and paper." "We have none in the house. In the time of Prince Vassily we had, and afterward when the young princes learned to write from the monk; but that is a long time ago." Pan Yan clasped his hands. "Haven't you ink and pen?" asked he of Podbipienta. The Lithuanian opened his hands and raised his eyes to heaven. "Well, plague take it!" said the lieutenant; "what can I do?" The Tartar had squatted before the fire. "What is the use of writing?" said he, gathering up the coals. "The young lady has gone to sleep. And what you would write to her now, you can tell her in the morning." "In that case I need no ink. You are a faithful servant to the young lady, as I see. Here is a third thaler for you. Are you long in her service?" "It is now fourteen years since Prince Vassily took me captive, and since that time I have served faithfully. The night he went away through losing his name he left his little child to Constantine, and said to me: 'You will not desert the little girl, and you will be as careful of her as the eye in your head." "Are you doing what he told you?" "Yes, I am; I will care for her." "Tell me what you see. How is she living here?" "They have evil designs against her, for they wish to give her to Bogun, and he is a cursed dog." "Oh, nothing will come of that! A man will be found to take her part." "Yes!" said the old man, pushing the glowing coals. "They want to give her to Bogun, to take and bear her away as a wolf bears a lamb, and leave them in Rozlogi; for Rozlogi is not theirs, but hers from her father, Prince Vassily. Bogun is willing to do this, for he has more gold and silver in the reeds than there is sand in Rozlogi; but she holds him in hatred from the time he brained a man before her face. Blood has fallen between them, and hatred has sprung up. God is one!" The lieutenant was unable to sleep that night. He paced the apartment, gazed at the moon, and had many thoughts on his mind. He penetrated the game of the Bulygi. If a nobleman of the vicinity were to marry the princess, he would remember Rozlogi, and justly, for it belonged to her; and he might demand also an account of the guardianship. Therefore the Bulygi, already turned Cossacks, decided to give the young woman to a Cossack. While thinking of this, Skshetuski clinched his fists and sought the sword at his side. He resolved to baffle these plots, and felt that he had the power to do so. Besides, the guardianship of Helena belonged to Prince Yeremi,--first, because Rozlogi was given by the Vishnyevetskis to old Vassily; secondly, because Vassily himself wrote a letter to the prince from Bar, requesting this guardianship. The pressure of public business alone--wars and great undertakings--could have prevented the prince from looking into the guardianship. But it would be sufficient to remind him with a word, and he would have justice done. The gray of dawn was appearing when Skshetuski threw himself on the bed. He slept soundly, and in the morning woke with a finished plan. He and Pan Longin dressed in haste, all the more since the wagons were ready and the soldiers on horseback waiting to start. He breakfasted in the reception-room with the young princes and their mother, but Bogun was not there; it was unknown whether he was sleeping yet or had gone. After he had refreshed himself Skshetuski said: "Worthy princess! time flies, and we must be on horseback in a moment; but before we thank you with grateful hearts for your entertainment, I have an important affair on which I should like to say a few words to you and your sons apart." Astonishment was visible on the face of the princess. She looked at her sons, at the envoy, and Pan Longin, as if trying to divine from their faces what the question might be; and with a certain alarm in her voice she said: "I am at your service." The envoy wished to retire, but she did not permit him. They went at once to the room which was hung with armor and weapons. The young princes took their places in a row behind their mother, who, standing opposite Skshetuski, asked: "Of what affair do you wish to speak, sir?" The lieutenant fastened a quick and indeed severe glance on her, and said: "Pardon me, Princess, and you, young Princes, that I act contrary to custom, and instead of speaking through ambassadors of distinction, I am the advocate in my own cause. But it cannot be otherwise; and since no man can battle with necessity, I present my humble request to you as guardians to be pleased to give me Princess Helena as wife." If at that moment of the winter season lightning had descended in front of the house at Rozlogi, it would have caused less astonishment to the princess and her sons than those words of the lieutenant. For a time they looked with amazement on the speaker, who stood before them erect, calm, and wonderfully proud, as if he intended not to ask, but to command; and they could not find a word of answer, but instead, the princess began to ask,-- "How is this? Are you speaking of Helena?" "I am, Princess, and you hear my fixed resolve." A moment of silence followed. "I am waiting for your answer, Princess." "Forgive me, sir," said she, coughing; and her voice became dry and sharp. "The proposal of such a knight is no small honor for us; but nothing can come of it, since I have already promised Helena to another." "But be pleased to consider, as a careful guardian, whether that promise was not made against the will of the princess, and if I am not better than he to whom you have promised her." "Well, sir, it is for me to judge who is better. You may be the best of men; but that is nothing to us, for we do not know you." The lieutenant straightened himself still more proudly, and his glances, though cold, became sharp as knives. "But I know you, you traitors!" he burst forth. "You wish to give your relative to a peasant, on condition that he leaves you property unjustly acquired." "You are a traitor yourself!" shouted the princess. "Is this your return for hospitality? Is this the gratitude you cherish in your heart? Oh, serpent! What kind of person are you? Whence have you come?" The fingers of the young princes began to quiver, and they looked along the walls for weapons; but the lieutenant cried out,-- "Wretches! you have seized the property of an orphan, but to no purpose. In a day from now Vishnyevetski will know of this." At these words the princess rushed to the end of the room, and seizing a dart, went up to the lieutenant. The young men also, having seized each what he could lay hands on,--one a sabre, another a knife,--stood in a half-circle near him, panting like a pack of mad wolves. "You will go to the prince, will you?" shouted the old woman; "and are you sure that you will go out of here alive, and that this is not your last hour?" Skshetuski crossed his arms on his breast, and did not wink an eye. "I am on my way from the Crimea," said he, "as an envoy of Prince Yeremi. Let a single drop of my blood fall here, and in three days the ashes of this house will have vanished, and you will rot in the dungeons of Lubni. Is there power in the world to save you? Do not threaten, for I am not afraid of you." "We may perish, but you will perish first." "Then strike! Here is my breast." The princes, with their mother near them, held weapons pointed at the breast of the lieutenant; but it seemed as if invisible fetters held their hands. Panting, and gnashing their teeth, they struggled in vain rage, but none of them struck a blow. The terrible name of Vishnyevetski deprived them of strength. The lieutenant was master of the position. The weak rage of the princess was poured out in a mere torrent of abuse: "Trickster! beggar! you want princely blood. But in vain; we will give her to any one, but not to you. The prince cannot make us do that." Skshetuski answered: "This is no time for me to speak of my nobility. I think, however, that your rank might well bear the sword and shield behind mine. But for that matter, since a peasant was good in your eyes, I am better. As to my fortune, that too may be compared with yours; and since you say that you will not give me Helena, then listen to what I tell you: I will leave you in Rozlogi, and ask no account of guardianship." "Do not give that which is not yours." "I give nothing but my promise for the future. I give it, and strengthen it with my knightly word. Now choose, either to render account to the prince of your guardianship and leave Rozlogi, or give me Helena and you may keep the land." The dart dropped slowly from the hand of the princess, and after a moment fell on the floor with a rattle. "Choose," repeated Skshetuski,--"either peace or war!" "It is lucky," said she, more mildly, "that Bogun has gone out with the falcon, not wishing to look at you; for he had suspicions even yesterday. If he were here, we should not get on without bloodshed." "I do not wear a sword, madam, to have my belt cut off." "But think, is it polite on the part of such a knight as you, after entering a house by invitation, to force people in this way, and take a maiden by assault, as if from Turkish slavery?" "It is right, since she was to be sold against her will to a peasant." "Don't say that of Bogun, for though of unknown parentage, he is a famous warrior and a splendid knight; known to us from childhood, he is like a relative in the house. To take the maiden from him is the same as to stab him with a knife." "Well, Princess, it is time for me to go. Pardon me, then, if I ask you once more to make your choice." The princess turned to her sons. "Well, my sons, what do you say to such an humble request from this cavalier?" The young men looked down, nudged each other with their elbows, and were silent. At last Simeon muttered: "If you tell us, mother, to slay him, we will slay; if you say give the girl, we will give her." "To give is bad, and to slay is bad." Then turning to Skshetuski, she said: "You have pushed us to the wall so closely that there is no escape. Bogun is a madman, ready for anything. Who will save us from his vengeance? He will perish himself through the prince, but he will destroy us first. What are we to do?" "That is your affair." The princess was silent for a time, then said: "Listen to me. All this must remain a secret. We will send Bogun to Pereyasláv, and will go ourselves with Helena to Lubni, and you will ask the prince to send us a guard at Rozlogi. Bogun has a hundred and fifty Cossacks in the neighborhood; part of them are here. You cannot take Helena immediately, for he would rescue her. It cannot be arranged otherwise. Go your way, therefore; tell the secret to no man, and wait for us." "But won't you betray me?" "If we only could; but we cannot, as you see yourself. Give your word that you will keep the secret." "If I give it, will you give the girl?" "Yes, for we are unable not to give her, though we are sorry for Bogun." "Pshaw!" said the lieutenant, turning to the princes, "There are four of you, like oaks, and afraid of one Cossack, and you wish to overcome him by treason! Though I am obliged to thank you, still I say that it is not the thing for men of honor." "Do not interfere in this," cried the princess. "It is not your affair. What can we do? How many soldiers have you against his hundred and fifty Cossacks? Will you protect us? Will you protect Helena herself, whom he is ready to bear away by force? This is not your affair. Go your way to Lubni. How we must act is for us to judge, if we only bring Helena to you." "Do what you like; but one thing I repeat: If any wrong comes to Helena, woe to you!" "Do not treat us in this fashion, you might drive us to desperation." "You wished to bend her to your will, and now, when selling her for Rozlogi, it has never entered your heads to ask whether my person is pleasing to her." "We are going to ask her in your presence," said the princess, suppressing the rage which began to seethe up again in her breast, for she felt clearly the contempt in these words of Skshetuski. Simeon went for Helena, and soon entered the room with her. Amidst the rage and threats which still seemed to quiver in the air like the echoes of a tempest that has passed, amidst those frowning brows, angry looks, and threatening scowls, her beautiful face shone like the sun after a storm. "Well, young lady!" said the princess sullenly, pointing to Pan Yan; "if you choose this man, he is your future husband." Helena grew pale, and with a sudden cry covered her eyes with her two hands; then suddenly stretched them toward Skshetuski. "Is this true?" whispered she, in transport. An hour later the retinue of the envoy and the lieutenant moved slowly along the forest road toward Lubni. Skshetuski with Pan Longin Podbipienta rode in front; after them came the wagons of the envoy in a long line. The lieutenant was completely sunk in thought and longing, when suddenly he was roused from his pensiveness by the words of the song,-- "I grieve, I grieve, my heart is sore." In the depth of the forest appeared Bogun on a narrow path trodden out by the peasants. His horse was covered with foam and mud. Apparently the Cossack, according to habit, had gone out to the steppes and the forest to dissipate with the wind, destroy, and forget in the distance that which over-pained his heart. He was returning then to Rozlogi. Looking on that splendid, genuine knightly form, which only flashed up before him and vanished, Skshetuski murmured involuntarily,-- "It is lucky in every case that he brained a man in her presence." All at once an undefined sorrow pressed his heart. He was sorry as it were for Bogun, but still more sorry that having bound himself by word to the princess, he was unable that moment to urge his horse after him and say,-- "We love the same woman; there is one of us, therefore, who cannot live in the world. Draw your sword, Cossack!" CHAPTER V. When he arrived at Lubni, Pan Yan did not find the prince, who had gone to a christening at the house of an old attendant of his, Pan Sufchinski, at Senchy, taking with him the princess, two young princesses Zbaraskie, and many persons of the castle. Word was sent to Senchy of the lieutenant's return from the Crimea, and of the arrival of the envoy. Meanwhile Skshetuski's acquaintances and comrades greeted him joyfully after his long journey; and especially Pan Volodyovski, who had been the most intimate of all since their last duel. This cavalier was noted for being always in love. After he had convinced himself of the insincerity of Anusia Borzobogata, he turned his sensitive heart to Angela Lenska, one of the attendants of the princess; and when she, a month before, became engaged to Pan Stanishevski, Volodyovski, to console himself, began to sigh after Anna, the eldest princess Zbaraska, niece of Prince Yeremi. But he understood himself that he had raised his eyes so high that he could not strengthen himself with the least hope, especially since Pan Bodzynski and Pan Lyassota came to make proposals for the princess in the name of Pan Pshiyemski, son of the voevoda of Lenchitsk. The unfortunate Volodyovski therefore told his new troubles to the lieutenant, initiating him into all the affairs and secrets of the castle, to which he listened with half an ear, since his mind and heart were otherwise occupied. Had it not been for that mental disquiet which always attends even mutual love, Skshetuski would have felt himself happy on returning, after a long absence, to Lubni, where he was surrounded by friendly faces and that bustle of military life to which he had long grown accustomed. Though Lubni, as a lordly residence, was equal in grandeur to any of the seats of the "kinglets," still it was different from them in this,--that its life was stern, really of the camp. A visitor unacquainted with its usages and order, and coming, even in time of profoundest peace, might suppose that some military expedition was on foot. The soldier there was above the courtier, iron above gold, the trumpet-call louder than sounds of feasts and amusements. Exemplary order reigned in every part, and a discipline elsewhere unknown. On all sides were throngs of knights of various regiments, armored cavalry dragoons, Cossacks, Tartars, and Wallachians, in which served not only the whole Trans-Dnieper, but volunteers, nobles from every part of the Commonwealth. Whoever wished training in a real school of knighthood set out for Lubni; therefore neither the Mazur, the Lithuanian, the man of Little Poland, nor even the Prussian, was absent from the side of the Russian. Infantry and artillery, or the so-called "fire people," were composed, for the greater part, of picked Germans engaged for high wages. Russians served principally in the dragoons, Lithuanians in the Tartar regiments; the men of Little Poland rallied most willingly to the armored regiments. The prince did not allow his men to live in idleness; hence there was ceaseless movement in the camp. Some regiments were marching out to relieve the stanitsas and outposts, others were entering the capital,--day after day drilling and man[oe]uvres. At times, even when there was no trouble from Tartars, the prince undertook distant expeditions into the wild steppes and wildernesses to accustom the soldiers to campaigning, to push forward where no man had gone before, and to spread the glory of his name. So the past spring he had descended the left bank of the Dnieper to Kudák, where Pan Grodzitski, in command of the garrison, received him as a monarch; then he advanced farther beyond the Cataracts to Hortitsa; and at Kuchkasy he gave orders to raise a great mound of stones as a memorial and a sign that no other lord had gone so far along that shore. Pan Boguslav Mashkevich--a good soldier, though young, and also a learned man, who described that expedition as well as various campaigns of the prince--told Skshetuski marvels concerning it, which were confirmed at once by Volodyovski, for he had taken part in the expedition. They had seen the Cataracts and wondered at them, especially at the terrible Nenasytets, which devoured every year a number of people, like Scylla and Charybdis of old. Then they set out to the east along the parched steppes, where cavalry were unable to advance on the burning ground and they had to cover the horses' hoofs with skins. Multitudes of reptiles and vipers were met with,--snakes ten ells long and thick as a man's arm. On some oaks standing apart they inscribed, in eternal memory of the expedition, the arms of the prince. Finally, they entered a steppe so wild that in it no trace of man was found. "I thought," said the learned Pan Mashkevich, "that at last we should have to go to Hades, like Ulysses." To this Volodyovski added: "The men of Zamoiski's vanguard swore that they saw those boundaries on which the circle of the earth rests." The lieutenant told his companions about the Crimea, where he had spent almost half a year in waiting for the answer of the Khan; he told of the towns there, of present and remote times, of Tartars and their military power, and finally of their terror at reports of a general expedition to the Crimea, in which all the forces of the Commonwealth were to engage. Conversing in this way every evening, they waited the return of the prince. The lieutenant presented to his most intimate companions Pan Longin Podbipienta, who as a man of mild manners gained their hearts at once, and by exhibiting his superhuman strength in exercises with the sword acquired universal respect. He did not fail to relate to each one the story of his ancestor Stoveiko and the three severed heads; but he said nothing of his vow, not wishing to expose himself to ridicule. He pleased Volodyovski, especially by reason of the sensitive hearts of both. After a few days they went out together to sigh on the ramparts,--one for a star which shone above his reach, that is, for Princess Anna; the other for an unknown, from whom he was separated by the three heads of his vow. Volodyovski tried to entice Longin into the dragoons; but the Lithuanian decided at last to join the armored regiment, so as to serve with Skshetuski, whom, as he learned in Lubni, to his delight, all esteemed as a knight of the first degree, and one of the best officers in the service of the prince. And precisely in Skshetuski's regiment there was a vacancy in prospect. Pan Zakshevski, nicknamed "Miserere Mei," had been ill for two weeks beyond hope of recovery, since all his wounds had opened from dampness. To the love-cares of Skshetuski was now added sorrow for the impending loss of his old companion and tried friend. He did not go a step, therefore, from Zakshevski's pillow for several hours each day, comforting him as best he could, and strengthening him with the hope that they would still have many a campaign together. But the old man needed no consolation; he was closing life joyfully on the hard bed of the soldier, covered with a horse-skin. With a smile almost childlike, he gazed on the crucifix above his bed, and answered Skshetuski,-- "Miserere mei! Lieutenant, I am on my way to the heavenly garrison. My body has so many holes from wounds that I fear Saint Peter, who is the steward of the Lord and must look after order in heaven, won't let me in with such a rent body; but I'll say: 'Saint Peter, my dear, I implore you, by the ear of Malchus, make no opposition, for it was pagans who injured my mortal coil,' miserere mei. And if Saint Michael shall have any campaigning against the powers of hell, old Zakshevski will be useful yet." The lieutenant, though he had looked so often upon death as a soldier and inflicted it himself, could not restrain his tears while listening to the old man, whose departure was like a quiet sunset. At last, one morning the bells tolled in all the churches of Lubni, announcing the death of Pan Zakshevski. That same day the prince came from Senchy, and with him Bodzynski and Lyassota, with the whole court and many nobles in a long train of carriages, for the company at Pan Sufchinski's was very large. The prince arranged a great funeral, wishing to honor the services of the deceased and to show how he loved brave men. All the regiments at Lubni took part in the procession; from the ramparts guns and cannon were fired; the cavalry marched from the castle to the parish church in battle-array, but with furled banners; after them the infantry, with muskets reversed. The prince himself, dressed in mourning, rode behind the hearse in a gilded carriage, drawn by eight milk-white horses with purple-stained manes and tails, and tufts of black ostrich feathers on their heads. In front of the carriage marched a detachment of janissaries, the body-guard of the prince. Behind the carriage, on splendid steeds, rode pages in Spanish costume; farther on, high officials of the castle, attendants, lackeys; finally, haiduks and guards. The cortége stopped before the church door, where the priest, Yaskolski, made a speech beginning with the words: "Whither art thou hastening, O Zakshevski!" Then speeches were made by some of his comrades, and among them by Skshetuski, as the superior and friend of the deceased. Then his body was borne into the church, and there was heard the voice of the most eloquent of the eloquent, the Jesuit priest Mukhovetski, who spoke with such loftiness and grace that the prince himself wept; for he was a man of rare tenderness of heart and a real father to the soldiers. He maintained an iron discipline, but was unequalled in liberality and kindly treatment of people, and in the care with which he surrounded not only them, but their children and wives. Terrible and pitiless to rebels, he was a real benefactor, not only to the nobility, but to all his people. When the locusts destroyed the crops in 1646 he remitted the rent for a year, and ordered grain to be given from the granaries to his subjects; and after the fire in Khorol he supported all the townspeople at his own expense for two months. Tenants and managers of crown estates trembled lest accounts of any of the abuses or wrongs inflicted by them on the people should come to the ears of the prince. His guardianship over orphans was so good that these orphans were called, in the country beyond the Dnieper, "the prince's children." Princess Griselda herself watched over this, aided by Father Mukhovetski. Order reigned in all the lands of the prince, with plenty, justice, peace, but also terror,--for in case of the slightest opposition the prince knew no bounds to his anger and to the punishments he inflicted; to such a degree was magnanimity joined with severity in his nature. But in those times and in those regions that severity alone permitted life and the labor of men to thrive and continue. Thanks to it alone, towns and villages rose, the agriculturist took the place of the highwayman, the merchant sold his wares in peace, bells called the devout in safety to prayer, the enemy dared not cross the boundaries, crowds of thieves perished, empaled on stakes, or were changed into regular soldiers, and the wilderness bloomed. A wild country and its wild inhabitants needed such a hand; for to the country beyond the Dnieper went the most restless elements of the Ukraine. Settlers came in, allured by the land and the fatness of the soil; runaway peasants from all lands of the Commonwealth; criminals escaping from prison,--in one word, as Livy said, "Pastorum convenarumque plebs transfuga ex suis populis." Only a lion at whose roar everything trembled could hold them in check, make them peaceable inhabitants, and force them into the bonds of settled life. Pan Longin Podbipienta, seeing the prince for the first time at the funeral, could not believe his own eyes. Having heard so much of his glory, he imagined that he must be a sort of giant, a head above the race of common men; while the prince was really of small stature, and rather delicate. He was still young,--in the thirty-sixth year of his age,--but on his countenance military toil was evident; and as he lived in Lubni like a real king, so did he share in time of campaign and expedition the hardships of the common soldier. He ate black bread, slept on the ground in a blanket; and since the greater part of his life was spent in labors of the camp, the years left their marks on his face. But that countenance revealed at the first glance an extraordinary man. There was depicted on it an iron, unbending will, and a majesty before which all involuntarily inclined. It was evident that this man knew his own power and greatness; and if on the morrow a crown were placed on his head, he would not feel astonished or oppressed by its weight. He had large eyes, calm, and indeed mild; still, thunders seemed to slumber in them, and you felt that woe would follow him who should rouse them. No man could endure the calm light of that look; and ambassadors trained at courts on appearing before Yeremi were seen to grow confused and unable to begin their discourse. He was, moreover, in his domain beyond the Dnieper a genuine king. There went out from his chancery privileges and grants headed, "We, by the grace of God Prince and Lord," etc. There were few magnates whom he considered equal to himself. Princes of the blood of ancient rulers were his stewards. Such in his day was the father of Helena, Vassily Bulyga Kurtsevich, who counted his descent, as already mentioned, from Koryat; but really he was descended from Rurik. There was something in Prince Yeremi which, in spite of his native kindness, kept men at a distance. Loving soldiers, he was familiar with them; with him no one dared to be familiar; and still, if he should ask mounted knights to spring over the precipices of the Dnieper, they would do so without stopping to think. From his Wallachian mother he inherited a clearness of complexion like the color of iron at a white glow, from which heat radiates, and hair black as a raven's wing, which, shaven closely at the sides of his head, was cut square above the brows, covering half his forehead. He wore the Polish costume, and was not over-careful of his dress. Only on great occasions did he wear costly apparel; but then he was all glitter from gold and jewels. Pan Longin, a few days later, was present at such a solemnity, when the prince gave audience to Rozvan Ursu. The reception of ambassadors always took place in a Heavenly Hall, so called because on its ceiling was depicted the firmament of heaven with the stars, by the pencil of Helm of Dantzig. On that occasion the prince sat under a canopy of velvet and ermine on an elevated seat like a throne, the footstool of which was bound with a gilded circle. Behind the prince stood the priest Mukhovetski, his secretary, the steward prince Voronich, and Pan Boguslav Mashkevich; farther on, pages and twelve body-guards, in Spanish costume, bearing halberts. The depths of the hall were filled with knights in splendid dress and uniforms. Pan Rozvan asked, in the name of the hospodar, that the prince by his influence and the terror of his name should cause the Khan to prohibit the Budjak Tartars from attacking Wallachia, where they caused fearful losses and devastation every year. The prince answered in elegant Latin that the Budjak Tartars were not over-obedient to the Khan himself; still, since he expected to receive an envoy of the Khan during the coming April, he would remind the Khan through him of the injury done the Wallachians. Pan Yan had already given a report of his embassy and his journey, together with all he had heard of Hmelnitski and his flight to the Saitch. The prince decided to despatch a few regiments to Kudák, but did not attach great importance to this affair. Since nothing appeared therefore to threaten the peace and power of his domain beyond the Dnieper, festivals and amusements were begun in Lubni by reason of the presence of the envoy Rozvan, also because Bodzynski and Lyassota on the part of the son of the voevoda Pshiyemski had made a formal proposal for the hand of Anna, the elder princess, and had received a favorable answer from the prince and the Princess Griselda. Volodyovski suffered not a little from this; and when Skshetuski tried to pour consolation into his heart, he answered,-- "It is easy for you to talk; you have but to wish and Anusia Borzobogata will not avoid you. She spoke of you very handsomely all the time. I thought at first that she was rousing the jealousy of Bykhovets; but I see that she was ready to put him on a hook, feeling living sentiment in her heart for you alone." "Oh! what is Anusia to me? Return to her; I have no objection. But forget Princess Anna, since thinking of her is like wishing to cover the ph[oe]nix on its nest with your cap." "I know she is a ph[oe]nix, and therefore I shall surely die of grief for her." "You'll live and straightway be in love again; but don't fall in love with Princess Barbara, for another son of a voevoda will snatch her away from under your nose." "Is the heart a servant at command, or can the eyes be stopped from looking at such a wonderful being as Princess Barbara, the sight of whom would be enough to move wild beasts themselves?" "Well, devil, here is an overcoat for you!" cried Pan Yan. "I see you will console yourself without my help. But I repeat. Go back to Anusia; you will meet with no hindrance from me." But Anusia was not thinking, in fact, of Volodyovski. Instead of that, her curiosity was roused. She was angry at the indifference of Skshetuski, who on his return from so long an absence did not even look at her. In the evening, when the prince with his chief officers and courtiers came to the drawing-room of the princess to converse, Anusia, looking from behind the shoulder of her mistress (for the princess was tall and Anusia was short), peered with her black eyes into the lieutenant's face, wishing to get at the solution of this riddle. But the eyes of Skshetuski, like his mind, were elsewhere; and when his glance fell on the maiden it was as preoccupied and glassy as if he had never looked upon her, of whom he had once sung,-- "The Tartar seizes people captive; Thou seizest captive hearts!" "What has happened to him?" asked of herself the petted favorite of the whole castle; and stamping with her little foot, she determined to investigate the matter. She didn't love Skshetuski; but accustomed to homage, she was unable to endure neglect, and was ready from very spite to fall in love with the insolent fellow. Once, when running with skeins of thread for the princess, she met Pan Yan coming out of the bedchamber of the prince. She ran against him like a storm, striking him full in the breast; then springing back, she exclaimed,-- "Oh, how you have frightened me! Good-day, sir!" "Good-day. Am I such a monster as to terrify you?" She stood with downcast eyes, began to twist the end of her tresses, and standing first on one foot and then on the other, as if confused, she answered with a smile: "Oh, no! not at all,--sure as I love my mother!" She looked quickly at the lieutenant and dropped her eyes a second time. "Are you angry with me?" asked she. "I? But could Panna Anna care for my anger?" "Well, to tell the truth, no. Maybe you think that I would fall to crying at once? Pan Bykhovets is more polite." "If that is true, there is nothing for me but to leave the field to Pan Bykhovets and vanish from the eyes of Panna Anna." "Do I prevent you?" Having said this, Anusia blocked the way before him. "You have just returned from the Crimea?" asked she. "From the Crimea." "And what have you brought back from the Crimea?" "I've brought back Pan Podbipienta. You have seen him, I think? A very amiable and excellent cavalier." "It is sure he is more amiable than you. And why has he come?" "So there might be some one on whom Panna Anna might try her power. But I advise great care, for I know a secret which makes this cavalier invincible, and Panna Anna can do nothing with him." "Why is he invincible?" "He cannot marry." "What do I care for that? Why can he not marry?" Skshetuski bent to the ear of the young woman, but said very clearly and emphatically: "He has made a vow of celibacy." "Oh, you stupid!" cried Anusia, quickly; and at the same moment she shot away like a frightened bird. That evening, however, she looked for the first time carefully at Pan Longin. The guests were numerous, for the prince gave a farewell dinner to Pan Bodzynski. Our Lithuanian, dressed with care in a white satin tunic and a dark blue velvet coat, had a grand appearance, especially since a light curved sabre hung at his side in a gilded sheath, instead of his death-dealing long sword. The eyes of Anusia shot their darts at Pan Longin, somewhat on purpose to spite Skshetuski. The lieutenant would not have noticed them, however, had it not been for Volodyovski, who, pushing him with his elbow, said,-- "May captivity strike me if Anusia isn't making up to that Lithuanian hop-pole!" "Tell him so." "Of course I will. They will make a pair." "Yes, he might wear her in place of a button in his coat, such is the proportion between them, or instead of a plume in his cap." Volodyovski went up to the Lithuanian and said: "It is not long since you arrived, but I see you are getting to be a great rogue." "How is that, brother? how is that?" "You have already turned the head of the prettiest girl among the ladies in waiting." "Oh, my dear friend!" said Podbipienta, clasping his hands together, "what do you tell me?" "Well, look for yourself at Panna Anusia Borzobogata, with whom we have all fallen in love, and see how she fixes you with her eyes. But look out that she doesn't fool you as she has us!" When he had said this, Volodyovski turned on his heel and walked off, leaving Podbipienta in meditation. He did not indeed dare to look in the direction of Anusia at once. After a time, however, he cast a quick glance at her, but he trembled. From behind the shoulder of Princess Griselda two shining eyes looked on him steadfastly and curiously. "Avaunt, Satan!" thought the Lithuanian; and he hurried off to the other end of the hall, blushing like a schoolboy. Still, the temptation was great. That imp, looking from behind the shoulder of the princess, possessed such charm, those eyes shone so clearly, that something drew Pan Longin on to glance at them even once more. But that moment he remembered his vow. Zervikaptur stood before him, his ancestor Stoveiko Podbipienta, the three severed heads,--and terror seized him. He made the sign of the cross, and looked at her no more that evening. But next morning, early, he went to the quarters of Pan Yan. "Well, Lieutenant, are we going to march soon? What do you hear about the war?" "You are in great straits. Be patient till you join the regiment." Pan Podbipienta had not yet been enrolled in the place of the late Zakshevski; he had to wait till the quarter of the year had expired,--till the first of April. But he was in a real hurry; therefore he asked,-- "And has the prince said nothing about this matter?" "Nothing. The king won't stop thinking of war while he lives, but the Commonwealth does not want it." "But they say in Chigirin that a Cossack rebellion is threatened." "It is evident that your vow troubles you greatly. As to a rebellion, you may be sure there will be none till spring; for though the winter is mild, winter is winter. It is now the 15th of February, and frost may come any day. The Cossacks will not take the field till they can intrench themselves behind earthworks; they fight terribly, but in the field they cannot hold their own." "So one must wait for the Cossacks?" "Think of this, too, that although you should find your three heads in time of rebellion, it is unknown whether you would be released from your vow; for Crusaders or Turks are one thing, and your own people are another,--children of the same mother, as it were." "Oh, great God! what a blow you have planted on my head! Here is desperation! Let the priest Mukhovetski relieve me from this doubt, for otherwise I shall not have a moment's rest." "He will surely solve your doubt, for he is a learned and pious man; but he will not tell you anything else. Civil war is a war of brothers." "But if a foreign power should come to the aid of the rebels?" "Then you would have a chance. Meanwhile I can recommend but one thing to you,--wait, and be quiet." But Skshetuski was unable to follow this advice himself. His melancholy increased continually. He was annoyed by the festivals at the castle, and by those faces on which some time before he gazed with such pleasure. Bodzynski and Rozvan Ursu departed at last, and after their departure profound quiet set in. Life began to flow on monotonously. The prince was occupied with the review of his enormous estates, and every morning shut himself in with his agents, who were arriving from all Rus and Sandomir, so that even military exercises took place but rarely. The noisy feasts of the officers, at which future wars were discussed, wearied Skshetuski beyond measure; so he used to go out with a gun on his shoulder to Solonitsa, where Jolkefski had inflicted such terrible defeats on Nalivaika, Loboda, and Krempski. The traces of these battles had already disappeared from the memory of men, and the field of conflict; but from time to time the earth cast up from its bosom whitened bones, and beyond the water was visible the Cossack breastwork from behind which the Zaporojians of Loboda and the volunteers of Nalivaika had made such a desperate defence. But a dense grove had already spread its roots over the breastwork. That was the place where Skshetuski hid himself from the noise of the castle; and instead of shooting at birds he fell into meditation, and before the eyes of his spirit stood the form of the beloved maiden called hither by his memory and his heart. There in the mist, the rustle of the reeds, and the melancholy of those places he found solace in his own yearning. But later on began abundant rains, the harbinger of spring. Solonitsa became a morass; it was difficult to put one's head from under the roof. The lieutenant was deprived, therefore, even of the comfort which he had found in wandering about alone; and immediately his disquiet began to increase, and justly. He had hoped at first that the princess would come immediately with Helena to Lubni, if she could only succeed in sending Bogun away; but now that hope vanished. The wet weather had destroyed the roads; the steppe for many miles on both sides of the Sula had become an enormous quagmire, which could not be crossed till the warm sun of spring should suck out the superfluous water. All this time Helena would have to remain under guardianship in which Skshetuski had no trust, in a real den of wolves, among wild, uncouth people, ill disposed to him. They had, it is true, to keep faith for their own sake, and really they had no other choice; but who could guess what they might invent, what they might venture upon, especially when they were pressed by the terrible Bogun, whom they seemed both to love and fear? It would be easy for Bogun to force them to yield up the girl, for similar deeds were not rare. In this way Loboda, the comrade of the ill-starred Nalivaika, had forced Pani Poplinska to give him her foster-daughter as wife, although she was of good family and hated the Cossack with her whole soul. And if what was said of the immeasurable wealth of Bogun were true, he might remunerate them for the girl and the loss of Rozlogi. And then what? "Then," thought Pan Yan, "they will tell me with a sneer, 'Your lash is lost,' they will vanish into some Lithuanian or Mazovian wilderness, where even the hand of the prince cannot reach them." Skshetuski shook as if in a fever at the thought, and was impatient as a chained wolf, regretted the word of honor he had given the princess, and knew not what to do. He was a man who was unwilling to let chance pull him on by the beard. There was great energy and enterprise in his nature. He did not wait for what fate would give, he chose to take fate by the shoulder and force it to give him good fortune; hence it was more difficult for him than any other man to sit with folded hands in Lubni. He resolved, therefore, to act. He had a young lad in waiting, Jendzian, from Podlesia,--sixteen years old, but a most cunning rogue, whom no old fox could out-trick,--and he determined to send him to Helena at once to discover everything. February was at an end; the rains had ceased. March appeared rather favorable, and the roads must have improved a little. Jendzian got ready for the journey, Skshetuski provided him with paper, pens, and a bottle of ink, which he commanded him to guard as the eye in his head, for he remembered that those things were not to be had at Rozlogi. The young fellow was not to tell from whom he came, but to pretend that he was going to Chigirin, to keep a sharp eye on everything, and especially to find out carefully where Bogun was, and what he was doing. Jendzian did not wait to have his instructions repeated; he stuck his cap on the side of his head, cracked his whip, and was off. Dreary days of waiting set in for Skshetuski. To kill time, he occupied himself in sword exercise with Volodyovski, who was a great master in this art, or hurled javelins at a ring. There happened in Lubni also something which came near costing the lieutenant his life. One day a bear, having broken away from his chain, wounded two stable-boys, frightened the horse of Pan Hlebovski, the commissary, and finally rushed on the lieutenant, who was on his way to the prince at the armory without a sabre, and had only a light stick with a brass knob in his hand. He would have perished undoubtedly, had it not been for Pan Longin, who, seeing from the armory what was passing, rushed for his long sword, and hurried to the rescue. Pan Longin showed himself a worthy descendant of his ancestor Stoveiko in the full sense, for with one blow he swept off the front half of the bear's head, together with his paw, before the eyes of the whole court. This proof of extraordinary strength was seen from the window by the prince himself, who took Pan Longin afterward to the apartments of the princess, where Anusia Borzobogata so tempted him with her eyes that next morning he had to go to confession, and for three days following he did not show himself in the castle until by earnest prayer he had expelled every temptation. Ten days had passed, and no sign of Jendzian. Skshetuski had grown so thin from waiting and so wretched-looking that Anusia began to ask, through messengers, what the matter was, and Carboni, physician of the princess, prescribed an herb for melancholy. But he needed another remedy; for he was thinking of his princess day and night, and with each moment he felt more clearly that no trivial feeling had nestled in his heart, but a great love which must be satisfied, or his breast would burst like a weak vessel. It is easy to imagine, then, the gladness of Pan Yan when one morning about daybreak Jendzian entered his room covered with mud, weary, thin, but joyful, and with good news written on his forehead. The lieutenant tore himself from the bed, rushed to the youth, caught him by the shoulder, and cried,-- "Have you a letter?" "I have. Here it is." The lieutenant tore it open and began to read. For a long time he had been in doubt whether in the most favorable event Jendzian would bring a letter, for he was not sure that Helena knew how to write. Women in the country were uneducated, and Helena was reared among illiterate people. It was evident now that her father had taught her to write, for she had sent a long letter on four pages of paper. The poor girl didn't know how to express herself elegantly or rhetorically, but she wrote straight from the heart, as follows:-- "Indeed I shall never forget you. You will forget me sooner, for I hear that there are deceivers among you. But since you have sent your lad on purpose so many miles, it is evident that I am dear to you as you are to me, for which I thank you with a grateful heart. Do not think that it is not against my feeling of modesty to write thus to you about loving; but it is better to tell the truth, than to lie or dissemble when there is something altogether different in the heart. I have asked Jendzian what you are doing in Lubni, and what are the customs at a great castle; and when he told me about the beauty and comeliness of the young ladies there, I began to cry from sorrow "-- Here the lieutenant stopped reading and asked Jendzian: "What did you tell her, you dunce?" "Everything good," answered Jendzian. The lieutenant read on:-- --"for how could I, ignorant girl, be equal to them? But your servant told me that you wouldn't look at any of them"-- "You answered well," said the lieutenant. Jendzian didn't know what the question was, for the lieutenant read to himself; but he put on a wise look and coughed significantly. Skshetuski read on:-- --"and I immediately consoled myself, begging God to keep you for the future in such feeling for me and to bless us both,--Amen. I have also yearned for you as if for my mother; for it is sad for me, orphan in the world, when not near you. God sees that my heart is clean; anything else comes from my want of experience, which you must forgive." Farther on in the letter, the charming princess wrote that she and her aunt would come to Lubni as soon as the roads were better, and that the old princess herself wanted to hasten the journey, for tidings were coming from Chigirin of Cossack disturbances. She was only waiting for the return of her sons, who had gone to Boguslav to the horse-fair. "You are a real wizard [wrote Helena] to be able to win my aunt to your side." Here the lieutenant smiled, for he remembered the means which he was forced to use in winning her aunt. The letter ended with assurances of unbroken and true love such as a future wife owed her husband. And in general a genuine good heart was evident in it. Therefore the lieutenant read the affectionate letter several times from beginning to end, repeating to himself in spirit, "My dear girl, may God forsake me if I ever abandon you!" Then he began to examine Jendzian on every point. The cunning lad gave him a detailed account of the whole journey. He was received politely. The old princess made inquiries of him concerning the lieutenant, and learning that he was a famous knight, a confidant of the prince, and a man of property besides, she was glad. "She asked me, too," said Jendzian, "if you always keep your word when you make a promise, and I answered, 'My noble lady, if the Wallachian horse on which I have come had been promised me, I should be sure he wouldn't escape me.'" "You are a rogue," said the lieutenant; "but since you have given such bonds for me, you may keep the horse. You made no pretences, then,--you said that I sent you?" "Yes, for I saw that I might; and I was still better received, especially by the young lady, who is so wonderful that there isn't another like her in the world. When she knew that I came from you, she didn't know where to seat me; and if it hadn't been a time of fast, I should have been really in heaven. While reading your letter she shed tears of delight." The lieutenant was silent from joy, too, and after a moment asked again: "But did you hear nothing of that fellow Bogun?" "I didn't get to ask the old lady or the young princess about him, but I gained the confidence of Chehly, the old Tartar, who, though a pagan, is a faithful servant of the young lady. He said they were all very angry at you, but became reconciled afterward, when they discovered that the reports of Bogun's treasures were fables." "How did they discover that?" "Well, you see, this is how it was. They had a dispute with the Sivinskis which they bound themselves to settle by payment. When the time came, they went to Bogun with, 'Lend us money!' 'I have some Turkish goods,' said he, 'but no money; for what I had I squandered.' When they heard this, they dropped him, and their affection turned to you." "It must be said that you have found out everything well." "If I had found out one thing and neglected another, then you might say that you would give me the horse, but not the saddle; and what is the horse without a saddle?" "Well, well, take the saddle too." "Thank you most humbly. They sent Bogun off to Pereyasláv immediately. When I found that out, I thought to myself, 'Why shouldn't I push on to Pereyasláv? My master will be satisfied with me, and a uniform will come to me the sooner.'" "You'll get it next quarter. So you were in Pereyasláv?" "I was, but didn't find Bogun. Old Colonel Loboda is sick. They say Bogun will succeed him soon. But something strange is going on. Hardly a handful of Cossacks have remained in the regiment; the others, they say, have gone after Bogun, or run away to the Saitch; and this is very important, for some rebellion is on foot. I wanted to know something certain about Bogun, but all they told me was that he had crossed to the Russian bank,[7] 'Well,' thought I, 'if that is true, then our princess is safe from him;' and I returned." "You did well. Had you any adventures on the road?" "No, but I want awfully to eat something." Jendzian went out; and the lieutenant, being alone, began to read Helena's letter again, and to press to his lips those characters that were not so shapely as the hand that had penned them. Confidence entered his heart, and he thought,-- "The road will soon dry, if God gives good weather. The Kurtsevichi, too, knowing that Bogun has nothing, will be sure not to betray me. I will leave Rozlogi to them, and add something of my own to get that dear little star." He dressed with a bright face, and with a bosom full of happiness went to the chapel to thank God humbly for the good news. CHAPTER VI. Over the whole Ukraine and beyond the Dnieper strange sounds began to spread like the heralds of a coming tempest; certain wonderful tidings flew from village to village, from farmhouse to farmhouse,--like those plants which the breezes of spring push along the steppes, and which the people call field-rollers. In the towns there were whispers of some great war, though no man knew who was going to make war, nor against whom. Still the tidings were told. The faces of people became unquiet. The tiller of the soil went with his plough to the field unwillingly, though the spring had come early, mild and warm, and long since the larks had been singing over the steppes. Every evening people gathered in crowds in the villages, and standing on the road, talked in undertones of terrible things. Blind men wandering around with lyres and songs were asked for news. Some persons thought they saw in the night-time reflections in the sky, and that a moon redder than usual rose from behind the pine woods. Disaster or the death of the king was predicted. And all this was the more wonderful, since fear found no easy approach to those lands, long accustomed to disturbances, conflicts, and raids. Some exceptionally ominous currents must have been playing in the air, since the alarm had become universal. It was the more oppressive and stifling, because no one was able to point out the danger. But among the signs of evil omen, two especially seemed to show that really something was impending. First, an unheard-of multitude of old minstrels appeared in all the villages and towns, and among them were forms strange, and known to no one; these, it was whispered, were counterfeit minstrels. These men, strolling about everywhere, told with an air of mystery that the day of God's judgment and anger was near. Secondly, the men of the lower country began to drink with all their might. The second sign was the more serious. The Saitch, confined within too narrow limits, was unable to feed all its inhabitants; expeditions were not always successful; besides, the steppes yielded no bread to the Cossacks. In time of peace, therefore, a multitude of Zaporojians scattered themselves yearly over the inhabited districts. The Ukraine, and indeed all Russia, was full of them. Some rose to be land stewards; some sold liquor on the highways; some labored in hamlets and towns, in trade and industry. In every village there was sure to be a cottage on one side, at a distance from the rest, in which a Zaporojian dwelt. Some of them had brought their wives with them, and kept house in these cottages. But the Zaporojian, as a man who usually had passed through every experience, was generally a benefactor to the village in which he lived. There were no better blacksmiths, wheelwrights, tanners, wax-refiners, fishermen, and hunters than they. The Cossack understood everything, did everything; he built a house, he sewed a saddle. But the Cossacks were not always such quiet inhabitants, for they lived a temporary life. Whoever wished to carry out a decision with armed hand, to make an attack on a neighbor, or to defend himself from an expected attack, had only to raise the cry, and straightway the Cossacks hurried to him like ravens to a ready spoil. The nobility and magnates, involved in endless disputes among themselves, employed the Cossacks. When there was a lack of such undertakings the Cossacks stayed quietly in the villages, working with all diligence, earning their daily bread in the sweat of their brows. They would continue in this fashion for a year or two, till sudden tidings came of some great expedition, either of an ataman against the Tartars or the Poles, or of Polish noblemen against Wallachia; and that moment the wheelwrights, blacksmiths, tanners, and wax-refiners would desert their peaceful occupations, and begin to drink with all their might in every dram-shop of the Ukraine. After they had drunk away everything, they would drink on credit,--not on what they had, but on what they would have. Future booty must pay for the frolic. This phenomenon was repeated so regularly that after a while people of experience in the Ukraine used to say; "The dram-shops are bursting with men from below; something is on foot in the Ukraine." The starostas strengthened the garrisons in the castles at once, looking carefully to everything; the magnates increased their retinues; the nobility sent their wives and children to the towns. That spring the Cossacks began to drink as never before, squandering at random all they had earned, not in one district, not in one province, but throughout all Russia,--the length and the breadth of it. Something was on foot, indeed, though the men from below had no idea of what it was. People had begun to speak of Hmelnitski, of his flight to the Saitch, of the men from Cherkasi, Boguslav, Korsún, and other places who had followed him; but something else was talked of too. For years reports had been current of a great war with the Pagans,--a war desired by the king to give booty to the Cossacks, but opposed by the Poles. This time all reports were blended, and roused in the brains of men uneasiness and the expectation of something uncommon. This uneasiness penetrated the walls of Lubni also. It was not proper to shut one's eyes to such signs, and Prince Yeremi especially had not that habit. In his domain the disturbance did not really come to an outbreak, fear kept all within bounds; but for some time reports had been coming from the Ukraine, that here and there peasants were beginning to resist the nobles, that they were killing Jews, that they wished to force their own enrolment for war against the Pagans, and that the number of deserters to the Saitch was increasing continually. The prince sent envoys in various directions,--to Pan Pototski, to Pan Kalinovski, to Loboda in Pereyasláv,--and collected in person the herds from the steppes and the troops from the outposts. Meantime peaceful news was brought. The Grand Hetman communicated all that he knew concerning Hmelnitski; he did not think, however, that any storm could rise out of the affair. The full hetman wrote that the rabble were accustomed "to bustle in spring like bees," Zatsvilikhovski was the only man who sent a letter imploring the prince to underestimate nothing, for a mighty storm was coming on from the Wilderness. He wrote that Hmelnitski had hurried to the Crimea to ask assistance of the Khan. "And as friends from the Saitch inform me," wrote he, "the koshevoi is collecting the army, horse and foot, from all the meadows and streams, telling no one why he does it. I think, therefore, that this storm will come on us. If it comes with Tartar aid, then God save all Russian lands from ruin!" The prince had more confidence in Zatsvilikhovski than in the hetmans, for he knew that no one in all Russia had such knowledge of the Cossacks and their devices as he. He determined, therefore, to concentrate as many troops as possible, and also to get to the bottom of the truth. One morning he summoned to his presence the lieutenant of the Wallachian regiment, Pan Bykhovets, to whom he said,-- "You will go for me to the Saitch on a mission to the koshevoi, and give him this letter with the seal of my lordship. But that you may know what plan of action to follow, I tell you this letter is a pretext, and the whole meaning of the mission lies in your own wit. You are to see everything that is done there,--what troops they have assembled, and whether they are assembling more. I enjoin you specially to win some people to your person, and find out for me carefully all about Hmelnitski,--where he is, and if it is true that he has gone to the Crimea to ask aid of the Tartars. Do you understand what I say?" "As if it had been written on the palm of my hand." "You will go by Chigirin. Rest but one night on the way. When you arrive, go to Zatsvilikhovski for letters, which you will deliver secretly to his friends in the Saitch. They will tell you all they know. From Chigirin you will go by water to Kudák. Give my respects with this letter to Pan Grodzitski. He will issue orders to convey you over the Cataracts by proper guides. Be fearless in the Saitch, keep your eyes and ears open, and come back if you survive, for the expedition is no easy one." "Your Highness is the steward of my blood. Shall I take many men?" "You will take forty attendants. Start to-day; before evening come for further instructions. Your mission is important." Pan Bykhovets went out rejoicing. In the antechamber he met Skshetuski with some artillery officers. "Well, what is going on?" asked they. "I take the road to-day." "Where, where?" "To Chigirin, and from there farther on." "Then come with me," said Pan Yan. And taking him to his quarters, he began to tease him to transfer his mission to him. "As my friend," said he, "ask what you like,--a Turkish horse, an Arab steed,--you shall have one. I'll spare nothing if I can only go, for my soul is rushing out in that direction. If you want money I'll give it, if you will only yield. The trip will bring you no glory; for if war breaks out it will begin here, and you may be killed in the Saitch. I know, too, that Anusia is as dear to you as to others; if you go they will get her away from you." This last argument went home to the mind of Pan Bykhovets more than any other, but still he resisted. What would the prince say if he should withdraw? Wouldn't he take it ill of him? An appointment like this was such a favor. Hearing this, Skshetuski rushed off to the prince and directed the page at once to announce him. The page returned soon with the answer that the prince permitted him to enter. The lieutenant's heart beat like a hammer, from fear that he should hear a curt "No!" after which he would be obliged to let the matter drop entirely. "Well, what have you to say?" asked the prince, looking at the lieutenant. Skshetuski bent down to his feet. "Mighty prince, I have come to implore you most humbly to intrust me with the expedition to the Saitch. Bykhovets would give it up, perhaps, for he is my friend, and to me it is as important as life. Bykhovets' only fear is that you may be angry with him for yielding the place." "As God lives!" said the prince, "I should have sent no one else, but I thought you would not like to go just after returning from a long journey." "I should rejoice to be sent even every day in that direction." The prince looked at him very attentively with his black eyes, and after a while inquired: "What have you got there?" The lieutenant grew confused, like a culprit unable to bear a searching glance. "I must tell the truth, I see," said he, "since no secret can stand before your reason. Of one thing I am not sure,--your favorable hearing." Thereupon he began to tell how he had become acquainted with the daughter of Prince Vassily, had fallen in love with her and would like to visit her, and on his return from the Saitch to Lubni to remove and save her from Cossack turmoil and the importunities of Bogun. But he said nothing of the machinations of the old princess, for in this he was bound by his word. He began then to beg the prince so earnestly to give him the mission confided to Bykhovets, that Vishnyevetski said,-- "I should permit you to go on your own account and give you men; but since you have planned everything so cleverly that your personal affection agrees with your office, I must arrange this affair for you." Then he clapped his hands and commanded the page to call Pan Bykhovets. The lieutenant kissed the prince's hand with joy. Yeremi took him by the head and commanded him to be quiet. He loved Skshetuski beyond measure as a splendid soldier and officer whom he could trust in all things. Besides, there was between them that bond which is formed between a subordinate reverencing his chief with his whole soul and a chief who feels this clearly. There were not a few courtiers and flatterers who circled around the prince for their own profit; but the eagle eye of Yeremi knew well whom to choose. He knew that Pan Yan was a man without blemish; he valued him, and was grateful to him for his feelings. He rejoiced, too, that his favorite had fallen in love with the daughter of the old servant of the Vishnyevetskis, Vassily Kurtsevich, whose memory was the dearer because of its sadness. "It was not from ungratefulness to the prince," said he, "that I made no inquiry concerning his daughter. Since the guardians did not visit Lubni, and I received no complaint against them, I supposed they were good people. But as you have put me in mind of the lady, I will care for her as for my own daughter." Skshetuski, hearing this, could not admire sufficiently the kindness of the prince, who reproached himself, notwithstanding the multitude of his occupations, with inattention to the child of his former soldier and official. Bykhovets now came in. "Well," said the prince, "my word is given, and if you wish to go you will go; but I ask you to do this for me: yield your mission to Skshetuski,--he has his own special and solid reasons for wanting it,--and I will think of another reward for you." "Oh, your Highness," said Bykhovets, "your favor is great; for while able to command, you ask that which if I refused to give I should be unworthy of your favor." "Thank your friend," said the prince, turning to Pan Yan, "and prepare for the road." Skshetuski thanked Bykhovets heartily indeed, and in a few hours he was ready. For some time it had been irksome for him in Lubni, and this expedition accorded with all his wishes. First, he was to see Helena. True, he had to go from her for a long time; but just such an interval was needed to make the roads passable for wheels, after such measureless rains. The princess and Helena could not come earlier to Lubni. Skshetuski therefore must either wait in Lubni or live at Rozlogi,--which would be against his covenant with the princess, and, what was more, rouse the suspicions of Bogun. Helena could be really safe against his attacks only in Lubni; but since she must in every case wait some time yet in Rozlogi, it appeared best to Pan Yan to depart, and on his return take her under the protection of the armed power of the prince. Having settled the matter thus, the lieutenant hastened his journey,--got everything ready, took letters and instructions from the prince, money for expenses from the treasurer, and made a good start over the road before night, having with him Jendzian and forty horsemen from the Cossack regiment. CHAPTER VII. It was now the second half of March; the grass was growing luxuriantly, the field-roller was blooming, the steppe was stirring with life. In the morning the lieutenant, travelling at the head of his men, rode as if over a sea whose moving wave was the wind-stirred grass. Every place was filled with joy and the voices of spring,--chirruping, whistling, clattering, the shaking of wings, the glad hum of insects; the steppe sounded like a lyre touched by the hand of the Lord. Above the heads of the horsemen floated falcons motionless in the blue ether, like suspended crosses, triangles of wild geese, lines of storks; and on the ground the coursing of flocks run wild. Behold, a herd of steppe horses rush on! They move like a storm, stop before the mounted men in a half-circle suddenly, as if spiked to the earth, their manes spread to the wind, their nostrils dilated, their eyes full of wonder. You would say they are here to trample the unbidden guests. But a moment more they are gone, vanishing as suddenly as they came. Now we have only the sound of the grass and the gleam of the flowers; the clatter is still. Again nothing is heard save the play of birds. The land seems full of joy; yet a kind of sadness is in that joy. It seems crowded, and it is an empty land. Oh, it is wide, and it is roomy! With a horse you cannot surround it; in thought you cannot grasp it,--unless you love the sadness, the desert, and the steppes, and with yearning soul circle above them, linger upon their gravemounds, hearken to their voices, and give answer. It was early morning. Great drops glittered on the grass and reeds; the quick movement of the wind dried the ground, on which after the rains broad ponds were spread, like lakes shining in the sun. The retinue of the lieutenant moved on slowly, for it was difficult to hasten when the horses sank to their knees at times in the soft earth; and he gave them only short resting-spells on the grave-mounds, for he was hastening to a greeting and a parting. The second day, about noon, after he had passed a strip of forest, he saw the windmills of Rozlogi scattered on the hillsides and mounds. His heart beat like a hammer. No one there expected him; no one knew he was coming. What will she say when she sees him? Now he beholds the cottages of the neighbors, nearly hidden, covered in the cherry-orchards; farther on is a straggling village of cottages; and still farther is seen the well-sweep on the square in front of the house. The lieutenant, putting spurs to his horse, galloped swiftly; and after him flew his suite through the village with a clatter and a noise. Here and there a peasant, rushing out of his cottage, made a sign of the cross. Devils!--not devils? Tartars!--not Tartars? The mud spatters from under their hoofs so that you don't know who is hurrying on. Meanwhile they are at the square, and have halted before the closed gate. "Hallo there! Who lives, open!" The bustle and pounding, the barking of dogs, called out the people from the house. They hurried to the gate frightened, thinking it was an attack. "Who goes?" "Open!" "The princes are not at home." "But open, you son of an infidel! We are from the prince at Lubni." The servants at last recognized Skshetuski. "Oh, that is you! Right away! right away!" The gate was thrown open. Then the princess herself appeared before the entrance, and shading her eyes with her hand, looked at the new-comers. Skshetuski sprang from his horse, and coming up to her said: "Don't you know me?" "Oh! that is you. Lieutenant. I thought it was a Tartar raid. I salute you and beg you to enter." "You wonder, no doubt," said Pan Yan, "at seeing me in Rozlogi. Still I have not broken my word, for the prince sends me to Chigirin and farther. He asked me also to stop at Rozlogi and inquire for your health." "I am thankful to his Highness. Does he think of driving us from Rozlogi soon?" "He doesn't think of it at all, for he knows of no cause to drive you out; and what I have said will take place. You will remain in Rozlogi; I have bread enough of my own." Hearing this, the princess grew good-humored at once, and said: "Be seated, and be as glad as I am to see you." "Is Princess Helena well? Where is she?" "I know you. You have not come to see me, my cavalier. She is in good health, she is well; the girl has improved in appearance. But I'll call her to you this minute, and I'll dress a little myself, for I am ashamed to receive guests in this gown." The princess was wearing a faded dress, with a fur coat outside, and heavy boots. At this moment Helena, though not called, rushed into the room; for she had heard from the old Tartar, Chehly, who the visitor was. She ran in panting, and red as a cherry, barely able to catch her breath, but her eyes were laughing from happiness and joy. Skshetuski sprang to her hand, and when the princess had withdrawn discreetly, kissed her on the lips, for he was an impulsive man. She did not defend herself vigorously, feeling that weakness had come upon her from an overflow of happiness and joy. "I did not expect to see you," whispered she, half closing her eyes. "But don't kiss me that way, for it isn't proper." "Why shouldn't I kiss when honey is not half so sweet? I thought I should wither away without you, till the prince himself sent me here." "What does the prince know?" "I told him all, and he was glad when he remembered your father. Oh, you must have given me some herb, my girl, for I cannot see the light of day on account of you." "Your blindness is a favor from God." "But do you remember that omen which the falcon gave when she drew our hands together? It was destiny beyond a doubt." "I remember." "When at Lubni I used to go from sadness to Solonitsa and see you there just as if present, if I stretched forth my hand you disappeared; but you will not escape me again, for I think that nothing will stand in our way now." "If anything does, it will not be my will." "Tell me again that you love me." Helena dropped her eyes, but answered with dignity and decision: "As nobody in the world." "If any one should surround me with honor and gold, I should prefer those words of yours; for I feel that you speak the truth, though I do not know why I deserve such favor from you." "Because you had pity on me, drew me to you, took my part, and spoke words such as I had never heard before." Helena was silent from emotion, and the lieutenant began again to kiss her hand. "You will be my ruler, not my wife." They were silent for a while, but he did not take his eyes from her, wishing to make up for the long time in which he had not seen her. She seemed to him more beautiful than before. In that dim room, in the sunlight broken into rays by the glass window-panes, she looked like those pictures of holy virgins in dusky chapels. At the same time such warmth and life surrounded her, so many splendid womanly graces and charms were pictured in her face and whole form, that it was possible to lose one's head, fall desperately in love with her, and love forever. "I shall lose my sight from your beauty," said the lieutenant. The white teeth of the princess glittered joyously in a smile. "Undoubtedly Anusia Borzobogata is a hundred times better looking than I!" "She is to you as a pewter plate to the moon." "But Jendzian told me a different story." "Jendzian deserves a slap on the mouth. What do I care for her? Let other bees take honey from that flower, and there are plenty of them there." Further conversation was interrupted by the entrance of old Chehly, who came to greet the lieutenant. He looked on him already as his future master, and he bowed to him at the threshold, giving the salaam in Oriental fashion. "Well, old Chehly, I take you too with your mistress. You will serve her till you die." "She won't have long to wait for my death; but while I live I will serve her. God is one!" "In a month or so, when I return from the Saitch, we will go to Lubni," said the lieutenant, turning to Helena; "and there Mukhovetski is ready with his robes." Helena was startled. "Then you are going to the Saitch?" "The prince sends me with letters. But have no fear; the person of an envoy is sacred, even among pagans. I should send you and the princess immediately to Lubni, but the roads are fearful. Even on horseback it is hard to get along." "Will you stay long in Rozlogi?" "I leave this evening for Chigirin. The sooner I go the sooner I shall return. Besides, it is the prince's service; neither my time nor will is at my disposal." "Will you come to dinner, if you have had enough of billing and cooing?" said the princess, coming in. "Ho! ho! the young woman's cheeks are red; 'tis evident you have not been idle, sir! Well, I'm not surprised at you." Saying this, she stroked Helena affectionately on the shoulder, and they went to dinner. The princess was in perfectly good humor. She had given up Bogun long ago, and all was arranged now, owing to the liberality of the lieutenant, so that she could look on Rozlogi, "with its pine woods, forests, boundaries, and inhabitants," as belonging to her and her sons,--no small property, indeed. The lieutenant asked for the princes,--whether they would return soon. "I expect them every day. They were angry at first with you, but afterward, when they scrutinized your acts, they conceived a great affection for you as their future relative; for in truth it is difficult in these mild times to find a man of such daring." After dinner the lieutenant and Helena went to the cherry orchard, which came up to the ditch beyond the square. The orchard was covered with early white blossoms as if with snow; beyond the orchard was a dark oak grove in which a cuckoo was heard. "That is a happy augury for us," said Skshetuski, "but we must make the inquiry." And turning to the oak grove, he asked: "Good cuckoo, how many years shall I live in marriage with this lady?" The cuckoo began to call, and counted fifty and more. "God grant it!" "The cuckoo always tells the truth," remarked Helena. "If that's the case, I'll ask another question," said the enamoured lieutenant. "No, it is not necessary." In converse and merriment like this the day passed as a dream. In the evening came the moment of tender and long parting, and the lieutenant set out for Chigirin. CHAPTER VIII. In Chigirin, Skshetuski found the old man Zatsvilikhovski in great excitement and fever. He looked impatiently at the prince's envoy, for tidings more and more terrible kept coming from the Saitch. There was no doubt that Hmelnitski was preparing to demand with armed hand justice for himself and the ancient rights of the Cossacks. Zatsvilikhovski had news that he had been with the Khan in the Crimea to beg Tartar aid, with which he was expected every day in the Saitch. Then there would be a general campaign from the lower country against the Commonwealth, which with Tartar assistance might be destructive. The storm drew nearer and nearer, more definite and more terrible. It was no longer vague undefined alarm that swept over the Ukraine, but clear certainty of slaughter and war. The Grand Hetman, who at first had made light of the whole affair, was pushing forward with his troops to Cherkasi. The advance guard of the royal armies was advancing mainly to prevent desertion; for the Cossacks of the towns, and the mob had begun to flee to the Saitch in masses. The nobility assembled in the towns. It was said that the general militia were to be called out in the southern provinces. Some, not waiting for the call, sent their wives and children to castles, and assembled in person at Cherkasi. The ill-fated Ukraine was divided into two parties,--one of these hastened to the Saitch, the other to the royal camp; one declared for the existing order of affairs, the other for wild freedom; one desired to keep possession of that which was the fruit of ages of labor, the other desired to deprive these possessors of that property. Both were to imbrue fraternal hands in the blood of each other. The terrible dispute, before it found religious rallying-cries which were completely foreign to the lower country, was breaking out as a social war. But though black clouds were gathering on the heaven of the Ukraine, though a dark and ominous night was descending from these clouds, though within them it rumbled and roared and thunder-claps rolled from horizon to horizon, people still could not tell to what degree the storm would burst forth. Perhaps even Hmelnitski himself could not,--Hmelnitski, who had just sent letters to Pan Pototski, to the Cossack commissioner, and to the royal standard-bearer, full of accusation and complaints, and at the same time of assurances of loyalty to Vladislav IV. and the Commonwealth. Did he wish to win time, or did he suppose that some agreement might yet end the dispute? On this there was a variety of opinions. There were only two men who did not deceive themselves for a single moment. These men were Zatsvilikhovski and Barabash. The old colonel had also received a letter from Hmelnitski. The letter was sarcastic, threatening, and full of abuse. Hmelnitski wrote:-- "We shall begin, with the whole Zaporojian army, to beg most fervently and to ask for that charter of rights which you secreted. And because you secreted it for your own personal profit and advantage, the whole Zaporojian army creates you a colonel over sheep or swine, but not over men. I beg pardon if in any way I failed to please you in my poor house in Chigirin on the feast-day of Saint Nicholas, and that I went off to the Zaporojie without your knowledge or permission." "Do you see," said Barabash to Zatsvilikhovski and Pan Yan, "how he ridicules me? Yet it was I who taught him war, and was in truth a father to him." "He says, then, that the whole Zaporojian army will demand their rights," said Zatsvilikhovski. "That is simply a civil war, of all wars the most terrible." "I see that I must hasten," said Skshetuski. "Give me the letters to those men with whom I am to come in contact." "You have one to the koshevoi ataman?" "I have, from the prince himself." "I will give you a letter to one of the kuren atamans. Barabash has a relative there,--Barabash also. From these you will learn everything. Who knows, though, but it is too late for such an expedition? Does the prince wish to hear what is really to be heard there? The answer is brief: 'Evil!' And he wants to know what to do? Short advice: 'Collect as many troops as possible and join the hetmans.'" "Despatch a messenger, then, to the prince with the answer and the advice," said Skshetuski. "I must go; for I am on a mission, and I cannot alter the decision of the prince." "Are you aware that this is a terribly dangerous expedition?" asked Zatsvilikhovski. "Even here the people are so excited that it is difficult for them to keep still. Were it not for the nearness of the army of the crown, the mob would rush upon us. But there you are going into the dragon's mouth." "Jonah was in the whale's belly, not his mouth, and with God's aid he came out in safety." "Go, then! I applaud your courage. You can go to Kudák in safety, and there you will see what is to be done further. Grodzitski is an old soldier; he will give you the best of advice. And I will go to the prince without fail. If I have to fight in my old age, I would rather fight under him than any one else. Meanwhile I will get boats for you, and guides who will take you to Kudák." Skshetuski slipped out, and went straight to his quarters on the square, in the prince's house, to make his final preparations. In spite of the dangers of the journey mentioned by Zatsvilikhovski, the lieutenant thought of it not without a certain satisfaction. He was going to behold the Dnieper in its whole length, almost to the lower country and the Cataracts; and for the warrior of that time it was a sort of enchanted and mysterious land, to which every adventurous spirit was drawn. Many a man had passed his whole life in the Ukraine, and still was unable to say that he had seen the Saitch,--unless he wished to join the Brotherhood, and there were fewer volunteers among the nobility than formerly. The times of Samek Zborovski had passed never to return. The break between the Saitch and the Commonwealth which began in the time of Nalivaika and Pavlyuk had not lessened, but, on the contrary, had increased continually; and the concourse of people of family, not only Polish, but Russian, differing from the men of the lower country neither in speech nor faith, had greatly decreased. Such persons as the Bulygi Kurtsevichi did not find many imitators. In general, nobles were forced into the Brotherhood at that time either by misfortune or outlawry,--in a word, by offences which were inconvenient for repentance. Therefore a certain mystery, impenetrable as the fogs of the Dnieper, surrounded the predatory republic of the lower country. Concerning it men related wonders, which Pan Yan was curious to see with his own eyes. To tell the truth, he expected to come out of it safely; for an envoy is an envoy, especially from Prince Yeremi. While meditating in this fashion he gazed through the windows into the square. Meanwhile one hour had followed another, when suddenly it appeared to Pan Yan that he recognized a couple of figures going toward the Bell-ringers' Corner to the wine-cellar of Dopula, the Wallachian. He looked more carefully, and saw Zagloba with Bogun. They went arm in arm, and soon disappeared in the dark doorway over which was the sign denoting a drinking-place and a wine-shop. The lieutenant was astonished at the presence of Bogun in Chigirin and his friendship with Zagloba. "Jendzian! are you here?" called he to his attendant. Jendzian appeared in the doorway of the adjoining room. "Listen to me, Jendzian! Go to the wine-shop where the sign hangs. You will find a fat nobleman with a hole in his forehead there. Tell him that some one wants to see him quickly. If he asks who it is, don't tell him." Jendzian hurried off, and in a short time Skshetuski saw him returning in company with Zagloba. "I welcome you," said Pan Yan, when the noble appeared in the door of the room. "Do you remember me?" "Do I remember you? May the Tartars melt me into tallow and make candles of me for the mosques if I forget you! Some months ago you opened the door at Dopula's with Chaplinski, which suited my taste exactly, for in the selfsame way I got out of prison once in Stamboul. And what is Pan Povsinoga, with the escutcheon Zervipludry, doing with his innocence and his sword? Don't the sparrows always perch on his head, taking him for a withered tree?" "Pan Podbipienta is well, and asked to be remembered to you." "He is a very rich man, but fearfully dull. If he should cut off three heads like his own, it would be only a head and a half, for he would cut off three half-heads. Pshaw! how hot it is, though it is only March yet! The tongue dries up in one's throat." "I have some excellent triple mead; maybe you would take a glass of it?" "It is a fool who refuses when a wise man offers. The barber has enjoined me to drink mead to draw melancholy from my head. Troublesome times for the nobility are approaching,--_dies iræ et calamitatis_. Chaplinski is breathless from fear; he visits Dopula's no longer, for the Cossack elders drink there. I alone set my forehead bravely against danger, and keep company with those colonels, though their dignity smells of tar. Good mead! really very excellent! Where do you get it?" "I got this in Lubni. Are there many Cossack elders here?" "Who is not here? Fedor Yakubovich, Old Filon Daidyalo, Danilo Nechai, and their eye in the head, Bogun, who became my friend as soon as I outdrank him and promised to adopt him. Chigirin is filled with the odor of them. They are looking which way to turn, for they do not dare yet to take the side of Hmelnitski openly. But if they do not declare for him, it will be owing to me." "How is that?" "While drinking with them I bring them over to the Commonwealth and argue them into loyalty. If the king does not give me a crown estate for this, then believe me there is no justice in the Commonwealth, nor reward for services; and in such a case it would be better to breed chickens than to risk one's head _pro bono publico_." "It would be better for you to risk your head fighting with them; but it appears to me you are only throwing away your money for nothing in treating them, for in that way you will never win them." "I throw money away! For whom do you take me? Isn't it enough for me to hobnob with trash, without paying their scores? I consider it a favor that I allow them to pay mine." "And that fellow Bogun, what is he doing here?" "He? He keeps his ears open to hear reports from the Saitch, like the rest. That is why he came here. He is the favorite of all the Cossacks. They are after him like monkeys, for it is certain that the Pereyasláv regiment will follow him, and not Loboda. And who knows, too, whom Krechovski's registered Cossacks will follow? Bogun is a brother to the men of the lower country when it is a question of attacking the Turks or the Tartars; but this time he is calculating very closely, for he confessed to me, in drink, that he was in love with a noblewoman, and intended to marry her. On this account it would not befit him, on the eve of marriage, to be a brother to slaves. He wishes, too, that I should adopt him and give him my arms. That is very excellent triple mead!" "Take another drink of it." "I will, I will. They don't sell such mead as that behind tavern-signs." "You did not ask, perhaps, the name of the lady whom Bogun wants to marry?" "Well, my dear sir, what do I care about her name? I know only that when I put horns on Bogun, she will be Madame Deer. In my youthful years I was a fellow of no ordinary beauty. Only let me tell you how I carried off the palm of martyrdom in Galáts. You see that hole in my forehead? It is enough for me to say that the eunuchs in the harem of the local pasha made it." "But you said the bullet of a robber made it." "Did I? Then I told the truth; for every Turk is a robber, as God is my aid!" Further conversation was interrupted by the entrance of Zatsvilikhovski. "Well, my dear lieutenant," said the old man, "the boats are ready, you have trusty men for attendants; you can start, in God's name, this moment, if you like. And here are the letters." "Then I'll tell my people to be off for the shore at once." "But where are you going?" asked Zagloba. "To Kudák." "It will be hot for you there." The lieutenant did not hear his prophecy, for he went out of the room into the court, where the Cossacks with horses were almost ready for the road. "To horse and to the shore!" commanded Pan Yan. "Put the horses on the boats, and wait for me." Meanwhile the old man said to Zagloba: "I hear that you court the Cossack colonels, and drink with them." "For the public good, most worthy standard-bearer." "You have a nimble mind, but inclining rather to disgrace. You wish to bring the Cossacks to your side in their cups, so they may befriend you in case they win." "Even if that were true, having been a martyr to the Turks, I do not wish to become one to the Cossacks; and there is nothing wonderful in that, for two mushrooms would spoil the best soup. And as to disgrace, I ask no one to drink it with me,--I drink it alone; and God grant that it taste no worse than this mead. Merit, like oil, must come to the top." At that moment Skshetuski returned. "The men have started already," said he. Zatsvilikhovski poured out a measure. "Here is to a pleasant journey!" "And a return in health!" added Zagloba. "You will have an easy journey, for the water is tremendous." "Sit down, gentlemen, and drink the rest. It is not a large vessel." They sat down and drank. "You will see a curious country," said Zatsvilikhovski. "Greet Pan Grodzitski in Kudák for me. Ah, that is a soldier! He lives at the end of the world, far from the eyes of the hetman, and he maintains such order that God grant its like might be in the whole Commonwealth. I know Kudák and the Cataracts well. Years ago I used to travel there, and there is gloom on the soul when one thinks of what is past and gone; but now--" Here the standard-bearer rested his milk-white head on his hand, and fell into deep thought. A moment of silence followed, broken only by the tramp of horses heard at the gate; for the rest of Skshetuski's men were going to the boats at the shore. "My God!" said Zatsvilikhovski, starting from his meditation; "and there were better times formerly, though in the midst of turmoil. I remember Khotím, twenty-seven years ago, as if it were to-day! When the hussars under Lyubomirski moved to attack the janissaries, then the Cossacks in the trenches threw up their caps and shouted to Sahaidachny, till the earth trembled, 'Let us die with the Poles!' And what do we see to-day? To-day the lower country, which should be the first bulwark of Christendom, lets Tartars into the boundaries of the Commonwealth, to fall upon them when they are returning with booty. It is still worse; for Hmelnitski allies himself directly with Tartars, with whom he will murder Christians." "Let us drink by reason of this sorrow!" said Zagloba. "What triple mead this is!" "God grant me the grave as soon as possible!" said the old man, continuing. "Mutual crimes will be washed out in blood, but not blood of atonement, for here brother will murder brother. Who are in the lower country? Russians. Who in the army of Prince Yeremi? Russians. Who in the retinues of the magnates? Russians. And are there few of them in the king's camp? And I myself,--who am I? Oh, unhappy Ukraine! pagans of the Crimea will put the chain upon thy neck, and thou wilt pull the oar in the galley of the Turk!" "Grieve not so, worthy standard-bearer," said Pan Yan; "if you do, tears will come to our eyes. A fair sun may shine upon us yet!" In fact, the sun was going down that very moment, and its last rays fell with a red gleam on the white hair of the old man. In the town the bells began to ring "Ave Maria" and "Praise to God." They left the house. Skshetuski went to the Polish church, Zatsvilikhovski to the Russian, and Zagloba to Dopula's at the Bell-ringers' Corner. It was dark when they met again at the shore by the landing. Skshetuski's men were sitting already in the boats. The ferrymen were still carrying in packages. The cold wind blew from the neighboring point where the river entered the Dnieper, and the night gave no promise of being very pleasant. By the light of the fire burning on the bank, the water of the river looked bloody, and seemed to be running with immeasurable speed somewhere into the unknown gloom. "Well, happy journey to you!" said the old man, pressing the lieutenant's hand heartily; "but be careful of yourself!" "I will neglect nothing. God grant us soon to meet!" "Either in Lubni or the prince's camp." "Then you will go without fail to the prince?" Zatsvilikhovski shrugged his shoulders. "What am I to do? If there is war, then war!" "Be in good health." "God guard you!" "Vive, valeque!" said Zagloba. "And if the water bears you all the way to Stamboul, then give my respects to the Sultan. Or rather, let the devil take him! That was very respectable triple mead. Brr! how cold it is!" "Till we meet again!" "Till we see each other!" "May God conduct you!" The oar creaked and plashed against the water, the boats moved on. The fire burning on the shore began to recede quickly. For a long time Skshetuski saw the gray form of the standard-bearer lighted up by the flame of the fire, and a certain sadness pressed his heart. The water is bearing him on, but far away from well-wishing hearts and from the loved one; from known lands it is bearing him as mercilessly as fate, but into wild places and into darkness. They sailed through the mouth of the Tasma into the Dnieper. The wind whistled; the oars plashed monotonously and sadly. The oarsmen began to sing. Skshetuski wrapped himself in a burka, and lay down on the bed which the soldier had fixed for him. He began to think of Helena,--that she was not yet in Lubni, that Bogun was behind, and he departing. Fear, evil presentiments, care, besieged him like ravens. He began to struggle with them, struggled till he was wearied; thoughts tormented him; something wonderful was blended with the whistle of the wind, the plash of the oars, and the songs of the oarsmen,--he fell asleep. CHAPTER IX. Next morning Pan Yan woke up fresh, in good health, and cheerful. The weather was wonderful. The widely overflowed waters were wrinkled into small ripples by the warm, light breeze. The banks were in a fog, and were merged in the plain of waters in one indistinguishable level. Jendzian, when he woke, rubbed his eyes and was frightened. He looked around with astonishment, and seeing shore nowhere, cried out,-- "Oh, for God's sake! my master, we must be out on the sea." "It is the swollen river, not the sea," answered Pan Yan; "you will find the shores when the fog rises." "I think we shall be travelling before long in the Turkish land." "We shall travel there if we are ordered, but you see we are not sailing alone." And in the twinkle of an eye were to be seen many large boats and the narrow Cossack craft, generally called chaiki, with bulrushes fastened around them. Some of these were going down the river, borne on by the swift current; others were being urged laboriously against the stream with oars and sail. They were carrying fish, wax, salt, and dried cherries to towns along the river, or returning from inhabited neighborhoods laden with provisions for Kudák, and goods which found ready sale in the bazaar at the Saitch. From the mouth of the Psel down the banks of the Dnieper was a perfect desert, on which only here and there wintering-posts of the Cossacks whitened. But the river formed a highway connecting the Saitch with the rest of the world; therefore there was a considerable movement on it, especially when the increase of water made it easy for vessels, and when the Cataracts, with the exception of Nenasytets, were passable for craft going with the current. The lieutenant looked with curiosity at that life on the river. Meanwhile his boats were speeding on quickly to Kudák. The fog rose, and the shore appeared in clear outline. Over the heads of the travellers flew millions of water-birds,--pelicans, wild geese, storks, ducks, gulls, curlews, and mews. In the reeds at the side of the river was heard such an uproar, such a plashing of water, such a sound of wings, that you would have said there was either a war or a council of birds. Beyond Kremenchug the shores became lower and open. "Oh, look, my master!" cried Jendzian, suddenly; "the sun is roasting, but snow lies on the fields." Skshetuski looked, and indeed on both sides of the river, as far as the eye could reach, some kind of a white covering glittered in the rays of the sun. "Hallo! what is that which looks white over there?" asked he of the pilot. "Cherry-trees!" answered the old man. In fact there were forests of dwarf cherry-trees, with which both shores were covered from beyond the mouth of the Psel. In autumn the sweet and large fruit of these trees furnished food to birds and beasts, as well as to people losing their way in the Wilderness. This fruit was also an article of commerce which was taken in boats to Kieff and beyond. When they went to the shore, to give the oarsmen time to rest, the lieutenant landed with Jendzian, wishing to examine the bushes more closely. The two men were surrounded by such an intoxicating odor that they were scarcely able to breathe. Many branches were lying on the ground. In places an impenetrable thicket was formed. Among the cherry-trees were growing, also luxuriantly, small wild almond-trees covered with rose-colored blossoms, which gave out a still more pungent odor. Myriads of black bees and yellow bees, with many-colored butterflies, were flitting over this variegated sea of blossoms, the end of which could not be seen. "Oh, this is wonderful, wonderful!" said Jendzian. "And why do not people live here? I see plenty of wild animals too." Among the cherry-trees gray and white rabbits were running, and countless flocks of large blue-legged quails, some of which Jendzian shot; but to his great distress he learned from the pilot that their flesh was poisonous. On the soft earth tracks of deer and wild goats were to be seen, and from afar came sounds like the grunting of wild boars. When the travellers had sated their eyes and rested, they pushed on farther. The shores were now high, now low, disclosing views of fine oak forests, fields, mounds, and spacious steppes. The surrounding country seemed so luxuriant that Skshetuski involuntarily repeated to himself the question of Jendzian: "Why do not people live here?" But for this there was need of some second Yeremi Vishnyevetski to occupy those desert places, bring them to order, and defend them from attacks of Tartars and men from the lower country. At points the river made breaches and bends, flooded ravines, struck its foaming wave against cliffs on the shore, and filled with water dark caverns in the rocks. In such caverns and bends were the hiding-places and retreats of the Cossacks. The mouths of rivers were covered with forests of rushes, reeds, and plants, which were black from the multitude of birds; in a word, a wild region, precipitous, in places sunken, but waste and mysterious, unrolled itself before the eyes of our travellers. Movement on the water became disagreeable; for by reason of the heat swarms of mosquitoes and insects unknown in the dry steppe appeared,--some of them as large as a man's finger, and whose bite caused blood to flow in a stream. In the evening they arrived at the island of Romanovka, the fires of which were visible from a distance, and there they remained for the night. The fishermen who had hurried up to look at the escort of the lieutenant had their shirts, their faces, and their hands entirely covered with tar to save them from insect bites. These were men of rude habits and wild. In spring they assembled here in crowds to catch and dry fish, which afterward they took to Chigirin, Cherkasi, Pereyasláv, and Kieff. Their occupation was difficult, but profitable, by reason of the multitude of fish that in the summer became a misfortune to that region; for, dying from lack of water in the bays and so-called "quiet corners," they infected the air with putrefaction. The lieutenant learned that all the Zaporojians occupied there in fishing had left the island some days before and returned at the call of the koshevoi ataman. Every night, too, from the island were seen fires kindled on the steppe by people hastening to the Saitch. The fishermen knew that an expedition against the Poles was in preparation, and they made no secret of this from the lieutenant. Skshetuski saw that his journey might indeed be too late; perhaps before he could reach the Saitch the Cossack regiments would be moving to the north; but he had been ordered to go, and like a true soldier he did not argue, but resolved to push on, even to the centre of the Zaporojian camp. Early next morning they kept on their way. They passed the wonderful Tarenski Corner, Sukhaya Gora, and Konski Ostrog, famous for its swamps and myriads of insects, which rendered it unfit for habitation. Everything about them--the wildness of the region, the increased rush of the water--announced the vicinity of the Cataracts. At last the tower of Kudák was outlined on the horizon; the first part of their journey was ended. The lieutenant, however, did not reach the castle that night; for Pan Grodzitski had established the order that after the change of guard, just before sunset, no one would be permitted to enter the fortress or leave it. Even if the king himself were to arrive after that hour, he would be obliged to pass the night in the village under the walls of the castle. And this is what the lieutenant did. His lodgings were not very commodious; for the cabins in the village, of which there were about sixty, built of clay, were so small that it was necessary to crawl into some of them on hands and knees. It was not worth while to build any other; for the fortress reduced them to ruins at every Tartar attack, so as not to give the assailants shelter or safe approach to the walls. In that village dwelt "incomers,"--that is, wanderers from Poland, Russia, the Crimea, and Wallachia. Almost every man had a faith of his own, but of that no one raised a question. They cultivated no land because of danger from the horde. They lived on fish and grain brought from the Ukraine; they drank spirits distilled from millet, and worked at handicraft for which they were esteemed at Kudák. The lieutenant was scarcely able to close his eyes that night from the odor of horse-skins, of which straps were made in the village. Next morning at daybreak, as soon as the bell rang and the tattoo was sounded, he gave notice at the fortress that an envoy of the prince had arrived. Grodzitski, who had the visit of the prince fresh in mind, went out to meet him in person. He was a man fifty years of age, one-eyed like a Cyclops, sullen; for, seated in a desert at the end of the world and not seeing people, he had become wild, and in exercising unlimited power had grown stern and harsh. Besides, his face was pitted with small-pox, and adorned with sabre-cuts and scars from Tartar arrows, like white spots on a tawny skin. But he was a genuine soldier, watchful as a stork; he kept his eye strained in the direction of Tartars and Cossacks. He drank only water, and slept but seven hours in twenty-four; often he would spring up in the night to see if the guards were watching the walls properly, and for the least carelessness condemned soldiers to death. Though terrible, he was indulgent to the Cossacks, and acquired their respect. When in winter they were short of provisions in the Saitch, he helped them with grain. He was a Russian like those who in their day campaigned in the steppes with Psheslav, Lantskoronski, and Samek Zborovski. "Then you are going to the Saitch?" asked he of Skshetuski, conducting him first to the castle and treating him hospitably. "To the Saitch. What news have you from there?" "War! The koshevoi ataman is concentrating the Cossacks from all the meadows, streams, and islands. Fugitives are coming from the Ukraine, whom I stop when I can. There are thirty thousand men or more in the Saitch at present. When they move on the Ukraine and when the town Cossacks and the crowd join them, there will be a hundred thousand." "And Hmelnitski?" "He is looked for every day from the Crimea with the Tartars; he may have come already. To tell the truth, it is not necessary for you to go to the Saitch; in a little while you will see them here, for they will not avoid Kudák, nor leave it behind them." "But will you defend yourself?" Grodzitski looked gloomily at the lieutenant and said with a calm, emphatic voice: "I will not defend myself." "How is that?" "I have no powder. I sent twenty boats for even a little; none has been sent me. I don't know whether the messengers were intercepted or whether there is none. I only know that so far none has come. I have powder for two weeks,--no longer. If I had powder enough, I should blow Kudák and myself into the air before a Cossack foot should enter. I am commanded to lie here,--I lie; commanded to watch,--I watch; commanded to be defiant,--I am defiant; and if it comes to dying, since my mother gave me birth, I shall know how to die too." "And can't you make powder yourself?" "For two months the Cossacks have been unwilling to let me have saltpetre, which must be brought from the Black Sea. No matter! if need be I will die!" "We can all learn of you old soldiers. And if you were to go for the powder yourself?" "I will not and cannot leave Kudák; here was life for me, let my death be here. Don't you think, either, that you are going to banquets and lordly receptions, like those with which they welcome envoys in other places, or that the office of envoy will protect you there. They kill their own atamans; and since I have been here I don't remember that any of them has died a natural death. And you will perish also." Skshetuski was silent. "I see that your courage is dying out; you would better not go." "My dear sir," said the lieutenant, angrily, "think of something more fitted to frighten me, for I have heard what you have told me ten times, and if you counsel me not to go I shall see that in my place you would not go. Consider, therefore, if powder is the only thing you need, and not bravery too, in the defence of Kudák." Grodzitski, instead of growing angry, looked with clear eyes at the lieutenant. "You are a biting dog!" muttered he in Russian. "Pardon me. From your answer I see that you are able to uphold the dignity of the prince and the rank of noble. I'll give you a couple of Cossack boats, for with your own you will not be able to pass the Cataracts." "I wished to ask you for them." "At Nenasytets you will have them drawn overland; for although the water is deep, it is never possible to pass,--scarcely can some kind of small boat slip through. And when you are on the lower waters guard against surprise, and remember that iron and lead are more eloquent than words. There they respect none but the daring. The boats will be ready in the morning; but I will order a second rudder to be put on each, for one is not enough on the Cataracts." Grodzitski now conducted the lieutenant from the room, to show him the fortress and its arrangements. It was a model of order and discipline throughout. Night and day guards standing close to one another watched the walls, which Tartar captives were forced to strengthen and repair continually. "Every year I add one ell to the height of the walls," said Grodzitski, "and they are now so strong that if I had powder enough even a hundred thousand men could do nothing against me; but without ammunition I can't defend myself when superior force appears." The fortress was really impregnable; for besides the guns it was defended by the precipices of the Dnieper and inaccessible cliffs rising sheer from the water, and did not require a great garrison. Therefore there were not more than six hundred men in the fortress; but they were the very choicest soldiers, armed with muskets. The Dnieper, flowing in that place in a compressed bed, was so narrow that an arrow shot from the walls went far on to the other bank. The guns of the fortress commanded both shores and the whole neighborhood. Besides, about two miles and a half from the fortress was a lofty tower, from which everything was visible for forty miles around, and in which were one hundred soldiers whom Pan Grodzitski visited every day. Whenever they saw people in the neighborhood they gave signal to the fortress immediately, the alarm was rung, and the whole garrison stood under arms at once. "In truth," said Grodzitski, "there is no week without an alarm; for the Tartars, sometimes several thousands strong, wander around like wolves. We strike them as well as we can with the guns, and many times wild horses are mistaken for Tartars." "And are you not weary of living in such a wild place?" asked Skshetuski. "Even if a place were given me in the chambers of the king, I would not take it. I see more of the world from this place than the king does from his windows in Warsaw." In truth, from the walls an immense stretch of steppes was to be seen, which at that time seemed one sea of green,--to the north the mouth of the Samara; and on the south the whole bank of the Dnieper, rocks, precipices, forests, as far as the foam of the second Cataract, the Sur. Toward evening they visited the tower again, since Skshetuski, seeing for the first time that fortress in the steppe, was curious about everything. Meanwhile in the village boats were being prepared for him, which, provided with rudders at both ends, could be turned more easily. He was to start early in the morning; yet during the night he did not lie down to sleep at all, but pondered what was to be done in face of the inevitable destruction with which his mission to the terrible Saitch was threatened. Life smiled on him indeed; for he was young and in love, and a future at the side of a loved one was promised him. Still honor and glory were dearer. But he remembered that war was near; that Helena, waiting for him in Rozlogi, might be seized by the most terrible misfortune,--exposed to the violence, not of Bogun alone, but of the wild and unbridled mob. Alarm for her and pain had seized his spirits. The steppes must have become dry already; it was surely possible to go from Rozlogi to Lubni. But he had told Helena and the old princess to wait for him; for he had not expected that the storm would burst so soon, he did not know the danger in the journey to the Saitch. He walked therefore with quick steps in his room in the fortress, twisted his beard, and wrung his hands. What was he to do? How was he to act? In his mind he saw Rozlogi already in flames, surrounded by a howling mob, more like devils than men. His own steps were answered by a gloomy echo under the vault of the castle; and it seemed to him that an evil power was already approaching Helena. On the walls the quenching of the lights was signalled, and that seemed to him the echo of Bogun's horn. He gnashed his teeth, and grasped after the hilt of his sword. Oh! why did he insist on this expedition, and get it away from Bykhovets? Jendzian, who was sleeping on the threshold, noticed the change in his master, rose therefore, wiped his eyes, snuffed the torch burning in the iron candlestick, and began to walk around in the room, wishing to arrest the attention of his master. But the lieutenant, buried completely in his own painful thoughts, kept walking on, rousing with his steps the slumbering echoes. "Oh, my master!" said Jendzian. Skshetuski gazed at him with a glassy look. Suddenly he woke up from his revery. "Jendzian, are you afraid of death?" asked he. "How death? What are you saying?" "For who goes to the Saitch does not return." "Then why do you go?" "That is my affair; do not meddle with it. But I am sorry for you; you are a stripling, and though a cunning fellow, cunning cannot save you in the Saitch. Return to Chigirin, and then to Lubni." Jendzian began to scratch his head. "My master, I fear death; for whoever would not fear death would not fear God; for it is his will either to keep a man alive or to put him to death. But if you run to death of your own will, then it is your sin as a master, not mine as a servant. I will not leave you; for I am not a serf, but a nobleman; though poor, still I am not without pride." "I see that you are a good fellow; but I will tell you, if you do not wish to go willingly, you will go by command, since it cannot be otherwise." "Though you were to kill me, I will not go. Do you think that I am a Judas, to give you up to death?" Here Jendzian raised his hands to his eyes, and began to sob audibly. Skshetuski saw that he could not reach him in that way, and he did not wish to command him threateningly, for he was sorry for the lad. "Listen!" said he to him. "You can give me no assistance, and I shall not put my head under the sword voluntarily. You will take letters to Rozlogi, which are of more importance to me than my own life. You will tell the old princess to take the young lady to Lubni at once, without the least delay, otherwise rebellion will catch them; and do you watch to see they go. I give you an important mission, worthy of a friend, not a servant." "You can send somebody else with the letter,--anybody will go." "And what trusted person have I here? Have you lost your senses? I repeat to you: Doubly save my life, and still you do not wish to render me such service, while I am living in torment, thinking what may happen, and my skin is sweating from pain." "Well, as God lives, I see I must go! But I grieve for you; so if you were even to give me that spotted belt, I should take no comfort in it at all." "You shall have the belt; but do your work well." "I do not want the belt, if you will only let me go with you." "To-morrow you will return with the boat which Pan Grodzitski is sending to Chigirin. From there you will go, without delay or rest, straight to Rozlogi. Here is a purse for the road. I will write letters immediately." Jendzian fell at the feet of the lieutenant, "Oh, my master, shall I never see you again?" "As God gives, as God gives," said Skshetuski, raising him up. "But show a glad face in Rozlogi. Now go to sleep." The remainder of the night passed for Skshetuski in writing letters and ardent prayer, after which the angel of rest came to him. Meanwhile the night was growing pale; light whitened the narrow windows from the east; day was coming. Then rosy gleams stole into the room; on the tower and fortress they began to play the morning "tattoo." Shortly after Grodzitski appeared in the room. "The boats are ready." "And I am ready," said Skshetuski, calmly. CHAPTER X. The swift boats bearing the knight and his fortunes shot down the current with the speed of swallows. By reason of high water the Cataracts presented no great danger. They passed Surski and Lokhanny; a lucky wave threw them over the Voronoff bar; the boats grated a little on the Knyaji and Streletski, but they were scratched, not broken. At length they beheld in the distance the foaming and whirling of the terrible Nenasytets. There they were obliged to land and drag the boats along the shore,--a tedious and difficult labor, usually occupying an entire day. Fortunately a great many blocks, apparently left by previous travellers, lay along the whole way; these were placed under the boats to ease them over the ground. In all the region about and on the steppes not a living soul was to be seen, nor a single boat; for none could sail to the Saitch excepting those alone whom Pan Grodzitski permitted to pass Kudák, and Pan Grodzitski cut off the Zaporojie from the rest of the world on purpose. Only the splash of the waves on the cliff of Nenasytets broke the silence. While the men were dragging the boats, Skshetuski examined this wonder of Nature. An awful sight met his eyes. Through the entire width of the river extended crosswise seven rocky ridges, jutting out above the water, black, rent by waves which broke through them gaps and passages after their fashion. The river pressed with the whole weight of its waters against those ridges, and was broken on them; then wild and raging, lashed into white foaming pulp, it sought to spring over like an infuriated horse, but, pushed back again before it could sweep through the passage, it seemed to gnaw the rocks with its teeth, making enormous circles in impotent wrath; it leaped up toward the sky, raging like a monster, panting like a wild beast in pain. And then again a roar from it as from a hundred cannon, howls as from whole packs of wolves, wheezing, struggling, and at every ridge the same conflict. Over the abyss were heard screams of birds, as if terrified by the sight. Between the ridges the gloomy shadows of the cliff quivered like spirits of evil. The men, though accustomed to the place, crossed themselves devoutly while dragging the boats, warning the lieutenant not to approach too near the shore; for there were traditions that whoever should gaze too long on Nenasytets would at last see something at which his mind would be disturbed. They asserted, also, that at times there rose from the whirlpool long black hands which caught the unwary who approached too near, and then terrible laughter was heard through the precipices. The Zaporojians did not dare to drag boats along in the night-time. No man could be received into the Brotherhood of the Saitch who had not crossed the Cataracts alone in a boat; but an exception was made of Nenasytets, since its rocks were never under water. Of Bogun alone blind minstrels sang as if he had stolen through Nenasytets; still belief was not given to the song. The transfer of the boats occupied nearly all the day, and the sun had begun to set when the lieutenant resumed his place in the boat. But to make up for this the succeeding Cataracts were crossed with ease, for the rocks were covered entirely, and after that they sailed out into the quiet waters of the lower country. Along the way Skshetuski saw on the field of Kuchkasi the enormous mound of white stone raised at command of Prince Yeremi as a memorial of his visit, and of which Pan Boguslav Mashkevich had spoken in Lubni. From there it was not far to the Saitch. But the lieutenant did not wish to enter the Chertomelik labyrinth in the dark; he determined therefore to pass the night at Hortitsa. He wished to meet some Zaporojians and announce himself, so that it should be known that an envoy and no one else was coming. Hortitsa, however, appeared to be empty; which surprised the lieutenant not a little, for he had learned from Grodzitski that a Cossack garrison was always stationed there against Tartar attacks. He went himself with some of the men a considerable distance from the shore to reconnoitre; but he could not go over the whole island, for it was more than five miles long, and the night was coming down dark and not very clear. He returned then to the boats, which meanwhile had been dragged up on the sand, and a fire had been made as protection against mosquitoes. The greater part of the night passed quietly. The Cossacks and the guides slept by the fire. Only the guards were awake, and the lieutenant, who had been tormented by a terrible sleeplessness since he left Kudák. He felt also that fever was wearing him. At times he fancied he heard steps approaching from the interior of the island, then again certain strange sounds like the distant bleating of goats. But he thought that his hearing deceived him. Suddenly, when it was near daybreak, a dark figure stood before him. It was a servant from the guard. "People are coming!" said he, hastily. "Who are they?" "Undoubtedly Zaporojians. There are forty of them." "Very well. That is not a great number. Rouse the men! Stir the fire!" The Cossacks sprang to their feet at once. The replenished fire blazed high, and lighted the boats and the handful of soldiers under the lieutenant. The guards ran up also to the circle. Meanwhile the irregular steps of a crowd became distinctly audible. The steps stopped at a certain distance. Immediately some voice inquired in threatening accents,-- "Who is on shore?" "And who are you?" answered the sergeant. "Answer, son of the enemy! if not, we will inquire with a musket." "His Highness, the envoy of Prince Yeremi Vishnyevetski, going to the koshevoi ataman," said the sergeant, with emphasis. The voices in the crowd were silent; evidently there was a short consultation. "But come here yourself," cried the sergeant; "don't be afraid! People do not fall upon envoys, and envoys do not attack." Steps were heard again, and after a while a number of figures came out of the shadow. By the swarthy complexion, low stature, and skin coats with wool outside, the lieutenant knew from the first glance that most of them were Tartars; there were only a few Cossacks among them. The idea flashed like lightning through Skshetuski's brain that if the Tartars were in Hortitsa Hmelnitski had returned from the Crimea. In front of the crowd stood an old Zaporojian of gigantic size, with a wild and savage face. Approaching the fire, he asked,-- "Who is the envoy here?" A strong smell of spirits came from him; the Zaporojian was evidently drunk. "Who is envoy here?" repeated he. "I am," said Skshetuski, haughtily. "Thou!" "Am I a brother to thee that thou sayest 'Thou' to me?" "Learn politeness, you ruffian!" interrupted the sergeant. "You must say, 'Serene great mighty lord envoy.'" "Destruction to you, devils' sons! May the death of Serpyagoff strike you, serene great mighty sons! And what business have you with the ataman?" "It is not thy affair! Know only that thy life depends upon my reaching the ataman as quickly as possible." At that moment another Zaporojian came out from the crowd. "We are here at the command of the ataman," said he, "on guard so that no one from the Poles may approach; and if any man approaches, we are to bind him and deliver him bound, and we will do that." "Whoever goes voluntarily, you will not bind." "I will, for such is the order." "Do you know, clown, what the person of an envoy means? Do you know whom I represent?" Then the old giant interrupted: "We will lead in the envoy, but by the beard,--in this fashion!" Saying this, he reached his hand to the lieutenant's beard. But that moment he groaned, and as if struck by lightning dropped to the earth. The lieutenant had shivered his head with a battle-hammer. "Slash! slash!" howled enraged voices from the crowd. The Cossacks of the prince hurried to the rescue of their leader; muskets roared. "Slash! slash!" was mingled with the clash of steel. A regular battle began. The fire, trampled in the disturbance, went out, and darkness surrounded the combatants. Soon both sides had grappled each other so closely that there was no room for blows and knives; fists and teeth took the place of sabres. All at once, in the interior of the island, were heard numerous fresh shouts and cries. Aid was coming to the attacking party. Another moment and they would have come too late, for the disciplined Cossacks were getting the upper hand of the crowd. "To the boats!" cried the lieutenant, in a thundering voice. The escort executed the command in a twinkle. Unfortunately the boats had been dragged too far on the sand, and could not be pushed at once into the water. That moment the enemy sprang furiously toward the shore. "Fire!" commanded Pan Yan. A discharge of musketry restrained the assailants, who became confused, crowded together, and retreated in disorder, leaving a number of bodies stretched upon the sand. Some of these bodies squirmed convulsively, like fish snatched from the water and thrown on shore. The boatmen, assisted by a number of the Cossacks, planting their oars in the ground, pushed with all their might to get the boats into the water; but in vain. The enemy began their attack from a distance. The splashing of balls on the water was mingled with the whistling of arrows and the groans of the wounded. The Tartars, shouting "Allah!" with increased shrillness, urged one another on. The Cossack cries: "Cut! cut!" answered them; and the calm voice of Skshetuski, repeating faster and faster the command, "Fire!" The dawn was beginning to shine with pale light on the struggle. From the land side was to be seen a crowd of Cossacks and Tartars, some with their muskets held ready to aim, others stooping in the rear and drawing their bowstrings; from the side of the water two boats smoking and flashing with the continual discharges of musketry. Between them lay bodies stretched quietly on the sand. In one of these boats stood Pan Yan, taller than the others, haughty, calm, with the lieutenant's staff in his hand and with uncovered head,--for a Tartar arrow had swept away his cap. The sergeant approached him and whispered,-- "We cannot hold out; the crowd is too great!" But the lieutenant's only thought was to seal his mission with his blood, to prevent the disgrace of his office, and to perish not without glory. Therefore, when the Cossacks made a sort of breastwork for themselves of the provision bags, from behind which they struck the enemy, he remained visible and exposed to attack. "Good!" said he; "we will die to the last man." "We will die, father!" cried the Cossacks. "Fire!" Again the boats smoked. From the interior of the island new crowds came, armed with pikes and scythes. The assailants separated into two parties. One party kept up the fire; the other, composed of more than two hundred Cossacks and Tartars, only waited the proper moment for a hand-to-hand encounter. At the same time from the reeds of the island came out four boats, which were to attack the lieutenant from the rear and from both sides. It was clear daylight now. The smoke stretched out in long streaks in the quiet air, and covered the scene of conflict. The lieutenant commanded his twenty Cossacks to turn to the attacking boats, which, pushed with oars, moved on swiftly as birds over the quiet water of the river. The fire directed against the Tartars and Cossacks approaching from the interior of the island, was notably weakened on that account. They seemed, too, to expect this. The sergeant approached the lieutenant again. "The Tartars are taking their daggers between their teeth; they will rush on us this minute." In fact, almost three hundred of the horde, with sabres in hand and knives in their teeth, prepared for the attack. They were accompanied by some tens of Zaporojians armed with scythes. The attack was to begin from every direction, for the assailing boats were within gunshot; their sides were already covered with smoke. Bullets began to fall like hail on the lieutenant's men. Both boats were filled with groans. In a few moments half of the Cossacks were down; the remainder still defended themselves desperately. Their faces were black, their hands wearied, their sight dim, their eyes full of blood; their gun-barrels began to burn their hands. Most of them were wounded. At that moment a terrible cry and howl rent the air. The Tartars rushed to the attack. The smoke, pushed by the movement of the mass of bodies, separated suddenly and left exposed to the eye the two boats of the lieutenant covered with a dark crowd of Tartars, like two carcasses of horses torn by a pack of wolves. Some Cossacks resisted yet; and at the mast stood Pan Yan, with bleeding face and an arrow sunk to the shaft in his left shoulder, but defending himself furiously. His form was like that of a giant in the crowd surrounding him. His sabre glittered like lightning; groans and howls responded to his blows. The sergeant, with another Cossack, guarded him on both sides; and the crowd swayed back at times in terror before those three, but, urged from behind, pushed on, and died under the blows of the sabre. "Take them alive to the ataman!" was called out in the crowd. "Surrender!" But Skshetuski was surrendering only to God; for he grew pale in a moment, tottered, and fell to the bottom of the boat. "Farewell, father!" cried the sergeant, in despair. But in a moment he fell also. The moving mass of assailants covered the boats completely. CHAPTER XI. At the house of the inspector of weights and measures, in the outskirts of Hassan Pasha, at the Saitch, sat two Zaporojians at a table, fortifying themselves with spirits distilled from millet, which they dipped unceasingly from a wooden tub that stood in the middle of the table. One of them, already old and quite decrepit, was Philip Zakhar. He was the inspector. The other, Anton Tatarchuk, ataman of the Chigirin kuren, was a man about forty years old, tall, with a wild expression of face and oblique Tartar eyes. Both spoke in a low voice, as if fearing that some one might overhear them. "But it is to-day?" asked the inspector. "Yes, almost immediately," answered Tatarchuk. "They are waiting for the koshevoi and Tugai Bey, who went with Hmelnitski himself to Bazaluk, where the horde is quartered. The Brotherhood is already assembled on the square, and the kuren atamans will meet in council before evening. Before night all will be known." "It may have an evil end," muttered old Philip Zakhar. "Listen, inspector! But did you see that there was a letter to me also?" "Of course I did, for I carried the letters myself to the koshevoi, and I know how to read. Three letters were found on the Pole,--one to the koshevoi himself, one to you, the third to young Barabash. Every one in the Saitch knows of this already." "And who wrote? Don't you know?" "The prince wrote to the koshevoi, for his seal was on the letter; who wrote to you is unknown." "God guard us!" "If they don't call you a friend of the Poles openly, nothing will come of it." "God guard us!" repeated Tatarchuk. "It is evident that you have something on your mind." "Pshaw! I have nothing on my mind." "The koshevoi, too, may destroy all the letters, for his own head is concerned. There was a letter to him as well as to you." "He may." "But if you have done anything, then--" here the old inspector lowered his voice still more--"go away!" "But how and where?" asked Tatarchuk, uneasily. "The koshevoi has placed guards on all the islands, so that no one may escape to the Poles and let them know what is going on. The Tartars are on guard at Bazaluk. A fish couldn't squeeze through, and a bird couldn't fly over." "Then hide in the Saitch, wherever you can." "They will find me,--unless you hide me among the barrels in the bazaar? You are my relative." "I wouldn't hide my own brother. If you are afraid of death, then drink; you won't feel it when you are drunk." "Maybe there is nothing in the letters." "Maybe." "Here is misfortune, misfortune!" said Tatarchuk. "I don't feel that I have done anything. I am a good fellow, an enemy to the Poles. But though there is nothing in the letter, the devil knows what the Pole may say at the council. He may ruin me." "He is a severe man; he won't say anything." "Have you seen him to-day?" "Yes; I rubbed his wounds with tar, I poured spirits and ashes into his throat. He will be all right. He is an angry fellow! They say that at Hortitsa he slaughtered the Tartars like swine, before they captured him. Set your mind at rest about the Pole." The sullen sound of the kettledrums which were beaten on the Koshevoi's Square interrupted further conversation. Tatarchuk, hearing the sound, shuddered and sprang to his feet. Excessive fear was expressed by his face and movements. "They are beating the summons to council," said he, catching his breath. "God save us! And you, Philip, don't speak of what we have been saying here. God save us!" Having said this, Tatarchuk, seizing the tub with the liquor, brought it to his mouth with both hands, and drank,--drank as though he wished to drink himself to death. "Let us go!" said the inspector. The sound of the drums came clearer and clearer. They went out. The field of Hassan Pasha was separated from the square by a rampart surrounding the encampment proper, and by a gate with lofty towers on which were seen the muzzles of cannon fixed there. In the middle of the field stood the house of the inspector of weights and measures, and the cabins of the shop atamans, and around a rather large space were shops in which goods were stored. These shops were in general wretched structures made of oak planks, which Hortitsa furnished in abundance, fastened together with twigs and reeds. The cabins, not excepting that of the inspector, were mere huts, for only the roofs were raised above the ground. The roofs were black and smoked; for when there was fire in the cabin the smoke found exit, not only through the smoke-hole, but through every cranny in the roof, and one might suppose that it was not a cabin at all, but a pile of branches and reeds covering a tar-pit. No daylight entered these cabins; therefore a fire of pitch pine and oak chips was kept up. The shops, a few dozen in number, were divided into camp-shops which belonged to individual camps, and those of strangers in which during time of peace Tartars and Wallachians traded,--the first in skins, Eastern fabrics, arms, and every kind of booty; the second, chiefly in wine. But the shops for strangers were rarely occupied, since in that wild nest trade was changed most frequently to robbery, from which neither the inspectors nor the shop atamans could restrain the crowds. Among the shops stood also thirty-eight camp-drinking shops; and before them always lay, on the sweepings, shavings, oak-sticks, and heaps of horse-manure, Zaporojians, half dead from drinking,--some sunk in a stony sleep; others with foam in their mouths, in convulsions or delirium-tremens; others half drunk, howling Cossack songs, spitting, striking, kissing, cursing Cossack fate or weeping over Cossack sorrow, walking upon the heads and breasts of those lying around. Only during expeditions against the Tartars or the upper country was sobriety enforced, and at such times those who took part in an expedition were punished with death for drunkenness. But in ordinary times, and especially in the bazaar, all were drunk,--the inspector, the camp ataman, the buyers, and the sellers. The sour smell of unrectified spirits, mixed with the odor of tar, fish, smoke, and horse-hides, filled the air of the whole place, which in general, by the variety of its shops, reminded one of some little Turkish or Tartar town. Everything was for sale that at any time had been seized as plunder in the Crimea, Wallachia, or on the shores of Anatolia,--bright fabrics of the East, satins, brocades, velvets, cotton cloths, ticking, linen, iron and brass guns, skins, furs, dried fish, cherries, Turkish sweetmeats, church vessels, brass crescents taken from minarets, gilded crosses torn from churches, powder and sharp weapons, spear-staffs, and saddles. In that mixture of objects and colors moved about people dressed in remnants of the most varied garments, in the summer half-naked, always half-wild, discolored with smoke, black, rolled in mud, covered with wounds, bleeding from the bites of gigantic gnats which hovered in myriads over Chertomelik, and eternally drunk, as has been stated above. At that moment the whole of Hassan Pasha was more crowded with people than usual; the shops and drinking-places were closed, and all were hastening to the Square of the Saitch, on which the council was to be held. Philip Zakhar and Anton Tatarchuk went with the others; but Tatarchuk loitered, and allowed the crowd to precede him. Disquiet grew more and more evident on his face. Meanwhile they crossed the bridge over the fosse, passed the gate, and found themselves on the broad fortified square, surrounded by thirty-eight large wooden structures. These were the kurens, or rather the buildings of the kurens,--a kind of military barracks in which the Cossacks lived. These kurens were of one structure and measure, and differed in nothing unless in the names, borrowed from the various towns of the Ukraine from which the regiments also took their names. In one corner of the square stood the council-house, in which the atamans used to sit under the presidency of the koshevoi. The crowd, or the so-called "Brotherhood," deliberated under the open sky, sending deputations every little while, and sometimes bursting in by force to the council-house and terrorizing those within. The throng was already enormous on the square, for the ataman had recently assembled at the Saitch all the warriors scattered over the islands, streams, and meadows; therefore the Brotherhood was more numerous than on ordinary occasions. Since the sun was near its setting, a number of tar-barrels had been ignited already; and here and there were kegs of spirits which every kuren had set out for itself, and which added no small energy to the deliberations. Order between the kurens was maintained by the essauls, armed with heavy sticks to restrain the councillors, and with pistols to defend their own lives, which were frequently in danger. Philip Zakhar and Tatarchuk went straight to the council-house; for one as inspector, and the other as kuren ataman, had a right to a seat among the elders. In the council-room there was but one small table, before which sat the army secretary. The atamans and the koshevoi had seats on skins by the walls; but at that hour their places were not yet occupied. The koshevoi walked with great strides through the room; the kuren atamans, gathering in small groups, conversed in low tones, interrupted from time to time by more audible oaths. Tatarchuk, noticing that his acquaintances and even friends pretended not to see him, at once approached young Barabash, who was more or less in a position similar to his own. Others looked at them with a scowl, to which young Barabash paid no attention, not understanding well the reason. He was a man of great beauty and extraordinary strength, thanks to which he had the rank of kuren ataman. He was notorious throughout the whole Saitch for his stupidity, which had gained him the nickname of "Dunce Ataman" and the privilege of being laughed at by the elders for every word he uttered. "Wait awhile; maybe we shall go in the water with a stone around the neck," whispered Tatarchuk to him. "Why is that?" asked Barabash. "Don't you know about the letters?" "The plague take his mother! Have I written any letters?" "See how they frown at us!" "If I give it to one of them in the forehead, he won't look that way, for his eyes will jump out." Just then shouts from the outside announced that something had happened. The doors of the council-house opened wide, and in came Hmelnitski with Tugai Bey. They were the men greeted so joyfully. A few months before Tugai Bey, as the most violent of the Tartars and the terror of the men from below, was the object of extreme hatred in the Saitch. Now the Brotherhood hurled their caps in the air at the sight of him, as a good friend of Hmelnitski and the Zaporojians. Tugai Bey entered first, and then Hmelnitski, with the baton in his hand as hetman of the Zaporojian armies. He had held that office since his return from the Crimea with reinforcements from the Khan. The crowd at that time raised him in their hands, and bursting open the army treasury, brought him the baton, the standard, and the seal which were generally borne before the hetman. He had changed, too, not a little. It was evident that he bore within himself the terrible power of the whole Zaporojie. This was not Hmelnitski the wronged, fleeing to the steppe through the Wilderness, but Hmelnitski the hetman, the spirit of blood, the giant, the avenger of his own wrongs on millions of people. Still he did not break the chains; he only imposed new and heavier ones. This was evident from his relations with Tugai Bey. This hetman, in the heart of the Zaporojie, took a place second to the Tartar, and endured with submission Tartar pride and treatment contemptuous beyond expression. It was the attitude of a vassal before his lord. But it had to be so. Hmelnitski owed all his credit with the Cossacks to the Tartars and the favor of the Khan, whose representative was the wild and furious Tugai Bey. But Hmelnitski knew how to reconcile with submission the pride which was bursting his own bosom, as well as to unite courage with cunning; for he was a lion and a fox, an eagle and a serpent. This was the first time since the origin of the Cossacks that the Tartar had acted as master in the centre of the Saitch; but such were the times that had come. The Brotherhood hurled their caps in the air at sight of the Pagan. Such were the times that had been accepted. The deliberations began. Tugai Bey sat down in the middle of the room on a large bundle of skins, and putting his legs under him, began to crack dry sunflower-seeds and spit out the husks in front of himself. On his right side sat Hmelnitski, with the baton; on his left the koshevoi; but the atamans and the deputation from the Brotherhood sat farther away near the walls. Conversation had ceased; only from the crowd outside, debating under the open sky, came a murmur and dull sound like the noise of waves. Hmelnitski began to speak:-- "Gentlemen, with the favor, attention, and aid of the serene Tsar[8] of the Crimea, the lord of many peoples and relative of the heavenly hosts; with the permission of his Majesty the gracious King Vladislav, our lord, and the hearty support of the brave Zaporojian armies,--trusting in our innocence and the justice of God, we are going to avenge the terrible and savage deeds of injustice which, while we had strength, we endured like Christians, at the hands of the faithless Poles, from commissioners, starostas, crown agents, from all the nobility, and from the Jews. Over these deeds of injustice you, gentlemen, and the whole Zaporojian army have shed many tears, and you have given me this baton that I might find the speedy vindication of our innocence and that of all our people. Esteeming this appointment as a great favor from you, my well-wishers, I went to ask of the serene Tsar that aid which he has given. But being ready and willing to move, I was grieved not a little when I heard that there could be traitors in the midst of us, entering into communication with the faithless Poles, and informing them of our work. If this be true, then they are to be punished according to your will and discretion. We ask you, therefore, to listen to the letters brought from our enemy. Prince Vishnyevetski, by an envoy who is not an envoy but a spy, who wants to note our preparations and the good-will of Tugai Bey, our friend, so as to report them to the Poles. And you are to decide whether he is to be punished as well as those to whom he brought letters, and of whom the koshevoi, as a true friend of me, of Tugai Bey, and of the whole army, gave prompt notice." Hmelnitski stopped. The tumult outside the windows increased every moment. Then the army secretary began to read, first, the letter of the prince to the koshevoi ataman, beginning with these words: "We, by the grace of God, prince and lord in Lubni, Khorol, Pryluki, Gadyatch, etc., voevoda in Russia, etc., starosta, etc." The letter was purely official. The prince, having heard that forces were called in from the meadows, asked the ataman if that were true, and summoned him at once to desist from such action for the sake of peace in Christian lands; and in case Hmelnitski disturbed the Saitch, to deliver him up to the commissioners on their demand. The second letter was from Pan Grodzitski, also to the chief ataman; the third and fourth from Zatsvilikhovski and the old colonel of Cherkasi to Tatarchuk and Barabash. In all these there was nothing that could bring the persons to whom they were addressed into suspicion. Zatsvilikhovski merely begged Tatarchuk to take the bearer of his letter in care, and to make everything he might want easy for him. Tatarchuk breathed more freely. "What do you say, gentlemen, of these letters?" inquired Hmelnitski. The Cossacks were silent. All their councils began thus, till liquor warmed up their heads, since no one of the atamans wished to raise his voice first. Being rude and cunning people, they did this principally from a fear of being laughed at for folly, which might subject the author of it to ridicule or give him a sarcastic nickname for the rest of his life; for such was the condition in the Saitch, where amidst the greatest rudeness the sense of the ridiculous and the dread of sarcasm were wonderfully developed. The Cossacks remained silent. Hmelnitski raised his voice again. "The koshevoi ataman is our brother and sincere friend. I believe in the koshevoi as I do in my own soul. And if any man were to speak otherwise, I should consider him a traitor. The koshevoi is our old friend and a soldier." Having said this, he rose to his feet and kissed the koshevoi. "Gentlemen," said the koshevoi, in answer, "I bring the forces together, and let the hetman lead them. As to the envoy, since they sent him to me, he is mine; and I make you a present of him." "You, gentlemen of the delegation, salute the koshevoi," said Hmelnitski, "for he is a just man, and go to inform the Brotherhood that if there is a traitor, he is not the man; he first stationed a guard, he gave the order to seize traitors escaping to the Poles. Say, gentlemen, that the koshevoi is not the traitor, that he is the best of us all." The deputies bowed to their girdles before Tugai Bey, who chewed his sunflower-seeds the whole time with the greatest indifference; then they bowed to Hmelnitski and the koshevoi, and went out of the room. After a while joyful shouts outside the windows announced that the deputies had accomplished their task. "Long life to our koshevoi! long life to our koshevoi!" shouted hoarse voices, with such power that the walls of the building seemed to tremble to their foundations. At the same time was heard the roar of guns and muskets. The deputies returned and took their seats again in the corner of the room. "Gentlemen," said Hmelnitski, after quiet had come in some degree outside the windows, "you have decided wisely that the koshevoi is a just man. But if the koshevoi is not a traitor, who is the traitor? Who has friends among the Poles, with whom do they come to an understanding, to whom do they write letters, to whom do they confide the person of an envoy? Who is the traitor?" While saying this, Hmelnitski raised his voice more and more, and directed his ominous looks toward Tatarchuk and young Barabash, as if he wished to point them out expressly. A murmur rose in the room; a number of voices began to cry, "Barabash and Tatarchuk!" Some of the kuren atamans stood up in their places, and among the deputies was heard the cry, "To destruction!" Tatarchuk grew pale, and young Barabash began to look with astonished eyes at those present. His slow mind struggled for a time to discover what was laid to his charge; at length he said,-- "The dog won't eat meat!" Then he burst out into idiotic laughter, and after him others. And all at once the majority of the kuren atamans began to laugh wildly, not knowing themselves why. From outside the windows came shouts, louder and louder; it was evident that liquor had begun to heat their brains. The sound of the human wave rose higher and higher. But Anton Tatarchuk rose to his feet, and turning to Hmelnitski, began to speak:-- "What have I done to you, most worthy hetman of the Zaporojie, that you insist on my death? In what am I guilty before you? The commissioner Zatsvilikhovski has written a letter to me,--what of that? So has the prince written to the koshevoi. Have I received a letter? No! And if I had received it, what should I do with it? I should go to the secretary and ask to have it read; for I do not know how to write or to read. And you would always know what was in the letter. The Pole I don't know by sight. Am I a traitor, then? Oh, brother Zaporojians! Tatarchuk went with you to the Crimea; when you went to Wallachia, he went to Wallachia; when you went to Smolensk, he went to Smolensk,--he fought with you, brave men, lived with you, and shed his blood with you, was dying of hunger with you; so he is not a Pole, not a traitor, but a Cossack,--your own brother; and if the hetman insists on his death, let the hetman say why he insists. What have I done to him? In what have I shown my falsehood? And do you, brothers, be merciful, and judge justly." "Tatarchuk is a brave fellow! Tatarehuk is a good man!" answered several voices. "You, Tatarchuk, are a brave fellow," said Hmelnitski; "and I do not persecute you, for you are my friend, and not a Pole,--a Cossack, our brother. If a Pole were the traitor, then I should not be grieved, should not weep; but if a brave fellow is the traitor, my friend the traitor, then my heart is heavy, and I am grieved. Since you were in the Crimea and in Wallachia and at Smolensk, then the offence is the greater; because now you were ready to inform the Poles of the readiness and wishes of the Zaporojian army. The Poles wrote to you to make it easy for their man to get what he wanted; and tell me, worthy atamans, what could a Pole want? Is it not my death and the death of my good friend Tugai Bey? Is it not the destruction of the Zaporojian army? Therefore you, Tatarchuk, are guilty; and you cannot show anything else. And to Barabash his uncle the colonel of Cherkasi wrote,--his uncle, a friend to Chaplinski, a friend to the Poles, who secreted in his house the charter of rights, so the Zaporojian army should not obtain it. Since it is this way,--and I swear, as God lives, that it is no other way,--you are both guilty; and now beg mercy of the atamans, and I will beg with you, though your guilt is heavy and your treason clear." From outside the windows came, not a sound and a murmur, but as it were the roar of a storm. The Brotherhood wished to know what was doing in the council-room, and sent a new deputation. Tatarchuk felt that he was lost. He remembered that the week before he had spoken in the midst of the atamans against giving the baton to Hmelnitski, and against an alliance with the Tartars. Cold drops of sweat came out on his forehead; he understood that there was no rescue for him now. As to young Barabash, it was clear that in destroying him Hmelnitski wished to avenge himself on the old colonel of Cherkasi, who loved his nephew deeply. Still Tatarchuk did not wish to die. He would not have paled before the sabre, the bullet, or the stake; but a death such as that which awaited him pierced him to the marrow of his bones. Therefore, taking advantage of a moment of quiet which reigned after the words of Hmelnitski, he screamed in a terrified voice,-- "In the name of Christ, brother atamans, dear friends, do not destroy an innocent man! I have not seen the Pole, I have not spoken with him! Have mercy on me, brothers! I do not know what the Pole wanted of me; ask him yourselves! I swear by Christ the Saviour, the Holy Most Pure, Saint Nicholas the wonder-worker, by Michael the archangel, that you are destroying an innocent man!" "Bring in the Pole!" shouted the chief inspector. "The Pole this way! the Pole this way!" shouted the kuren atamans. Confusion began. Some rushed to the adjoining room in which the prisoner was confined, to bring him before the council. Others approached Tatarchuk and Barabash with threats. Gladki, the ataman of the Mirgorod kuren, first cried, "To destruction!" The deputies repeated the cry. Chernota sprang to the door, opened it, and shouted to the assembled crowd,-- "Worthy Brotherhood, Tatarchuk is a traitor, Barabash is a traitor; destruction to them!" The multitude answered with a fearful howl. Confusion continued in the council-room; all the atamans rose from their places; some cried, "The Pole! the Pole!" others tried to allay the disturbance. But while this was going on the doors were thrown wide open before the weight of the crowd, and to the middle of the room rushed in a mass of men from the square outside. Terrible forms, drunk with rage, filled the space, seething, waving their hands, gnashing their teeth, and exhaling the smell of spirits. "Death to Tatarchuk, and Barabash to destruction! Give up the traitors! To the square with them!" shouted the drunken voices. "Strike! kill!" And hundreds of hands were stretched out in a moment toward the hapless victims. Tatarchuk offered no resistance; he only groaned in terror. But young Barabash began to defend himself with desperate strength. He understood at last that they wanted to kill him. Terror, despair, and madness were seen on his face; foam covered his lips, and from his bosom came forth the roar of a wild beast. Twice he tore himself from the hands of his executioners, and twice their hands seized him by the shoulders, by the breast, by the beard and hair. He struggled, he bit, he bellowed, he fell on the ground, and again rose up bleeding and terrible. His clothes were torn, his hair was pulled out of his head, an eye knocked out. At last, pressed to the wall, his arm was broken; then he fell. His executioners seized his feet, and dragged him with Tatarchuk to the square. There, by the light of tar-barrels and the great fires, the final execution began. Several thousand people rushed upon the doomed men and tore them, howling and struggling among themselves to get at the victims. They were trampled under foot; bits of their bodies were torn away. The multitude struggled around them with that terrible convulsive motion of furious masses. For a moment bloody hands raised aloft two shapeless lumps, without the semblance of human form; then again they were trampled upon the earth. Those standing farther away raised their voices to the sky,--some crying out to throw the victims into the water, others to beat them into a burning tar-barrel. The drunken ones began to fight among themselves. In the frenzy two tubs of alcohol were set on fire, which lighted up the hellish scene with trembling blue flames; from heaven the moon looked down on it also,--the moon calm, bright, and mild. In this way the Brotherhood punished its traitors. In the council-chamber, the moment the Cossacks dragged Tatarchuk and young Barabash through the doors there was quiet, and the atamans occupied their former places near the wall; for a prisoner was led forth from the adjoining closet. The shade fell upon his face; in the half-light could be seen only the tall figure, with simple and haughty bearing, though with hands bound together. But Gladki threw a bundle of twigs on the fire, and in a moment a bright flame shot up and covered with a clear light the face of the prisoner, who turned to Hmelnitski. When he saw him Hmelnitski started. The prisoner was Pan Yan. Tugai Bey spat out husks of sunflower-seeds, and muttered in Russian,-- "I know that Pole; he was in the Crimea." "Destruction to him!" cried Gladki. "Destruction!" repeated Chernota. Hmelnitski mastered his surprise, but turned his eyes to Gladki and Chernota, who under the influence of that glance grew quiet; then turning to the koshevoi, he said: "And I know him too." "Whence do you come?" asked the koshevoi of Pan Yan. "I was coming with an embassy to you, kosheroi ataman, when robbers fell upon me at Hortitsa, and, in spite of customs observed among the wildest people, killed my men, and, regarding neither my office of envoy nor my birth, wounded me, insulted me, and brought me here as a prisoner; for which my lord, Prince Yeremi Vishnyevetski, will know how to demand of you account, koshevoi ataman." "And why did you dissemble? Why did you crush the head of a brave man? Why did you kill four times as many people as your own number? And you came with a letter to me to observe our preparations and report them to the Poles! We know also that you had letters to traitors in the Zaporojian army, so as to plan with them the destruction of that whole army; therefore you will be received, not as an envoy, but as a traitor, and punished with justice." "You deceive yourself, koshevoi, and you, self-styled hetman," said the lieutenant, turning to Hmelnitski. "If I brought letters, every envoy does the same when he goes to strange places; for he takes letters from acquaintances to acquaintances, so that through them he may have society. And I came here with a letter from the prince, not to contrive your destruction, but to restrain you from deeds which are an unendurable outrage to the Commonwealth, and which in the end will bring ruin on you and the whole Zaporojian army. For on whom do you raise your godless hands? Against whom do you, who call yourselves defenders of Christianity, form an alliance with Pagans? Against the king, against the nobility, and the whole Commonwealth. You therefore, not I, are traitors; and I tell you that unless you efface your crimes with obedience and humility, then woe to you! Are the times of Pavlyuk and Nalivaika so remote? Has their punishment left your memory? Remember, then, that the patience of the Commonwealth is exhausted, and the sword is hanging over your heads." "Oh, you son of Satan!" shouted the koshevoi. "You bark to squeeze out and escape death; but your threatening and your Polish Latin won't help you." Other atamans began to gnash their teeth and shake their sabres; but Skshetuski raised his head still higher, and said,-- "Do not think, atamans, that I fear death, or that I defend my life, or that I am exhibiting my innocence. Being a noble, I can be tried only by equals. Here I am standing, not before judges, but before bandits,--not before nobility, but before serfdom,--not before knighthood, but before barbarism; and I know well I shall not escape my death, with which you will fill the measure of your iniquity. Before me are death and torment; but behind me the power and vengeance of the Commonwealth, in presence of which you are all trembling." Indeed the lofty stature, the grandeur of his speech, and the name of the Commonwealth made a deep impression. The atamans looked at one another in silence. After a while it seemed to them that not a prisoner, but the terrible messenger of a mighty people, was standing before them. Tugai Bey murmured: "That is an angry Pole!" "An angry Pole!" said Hmelnitski. A violent knocking at the door stopped further conversation. On the square the remains of Tatarchuk and Barabash had been disposed of; and the Brotherhood sent a new deputation. A number of Cossacks, bloody, panting, covered with sweat, drunk, entered the room. They stood near the door, and stretching forth their hands still steaming with blood, began to speak. "The Brotherhood bow to the elders,"--here they bowed to their girdles,--"and ask that the Pole be given them to play with, as they played with Barabash and Tatarchuk." "Let them have the Pole!" cried Chernota. "No," cried others, "let them wait! He is an envoy!" "To destruction with him!" answered a number of voices. Then all were silent, waiting for the answer of the koshevoi and Hmelnitski. "The Brotherhood ask; and if he is not given, they will take him themselves," said the deputies. Skshetuski seemed lost beyond redemption, when Hmelnitski inclined to the ear of Tugai Bey and whispered,-- "He is your captive. The Tartars took him, he is yours. Will you let him be taken from you? He is a rich nobleman, and besides Prince Yeremi will ransom him with gold." "Give up the Pole!" cried the Cossacks, with increasing violence. Tugai Bey straightened himself in his seat and stood up. His countenance changed in a moment; his eyes dilated like the eyes of a wildcat, they began to flash fire. Suddenly he sprang like a tiger in front of the Cossacks who were demanding the prisoner. "Be off, clowns, infidel dogs, slaves, pig-eaters!" bellowed he, seizing by the beard two of the Zaporojians and pulling them with rage. "Be off, drunkards, brutes, foul reptiles! You have come to take my captive, but this is the way I'll treat you." So saying, he pulled some by the beard; at last he threw one down and began to stamp on him with his feet. "On your faces, slaves! I will send you into captivity, I will trample the whole Saitch under foot as I trample you! I will send it up in smoke, cover it with your carcasses." The deputies drew back in fear; their terrible friend had shown what he could do. And, wonderful thing in Bazaluk, there were only six thousand of the horde! It is true that behind them stood the Khan and all the power of the Crimea; but in the Saitch itself there were several thousand Cossacks besides those whom Hmelnitski had already sent to Tomakovka,--but still not one voice was raised in protest against Tugai Bey. It might be that the method with which the terrible murza had defended his captive was the only one practicable, and that it brought conviction at once to the Zaporojians, to whom the aid of the Tartars was at that time indispensable. The deputation went out on the square, shouting to the crowd that they would not play with the Pole, for he was Tugai Bey's captive and Tugai Bey said he himself was wild! "He has pulled our beards!" cried they. On the square they began immediately to repeat: "Tugai Bey is wild!" "Is wild!" cry the crowd, plaintively,--"is wild, is wild!" In a few minutes a certain shrill voice began to sing near the fire,-- "Hei, hei! Tugai Bey Is wild, roaring wild. Hei, hei! Tugai Bey, Don't get wild, my friend!" Immediately thousands of voices repeated: "Hei, hei! Tugai Bey!" And at once rose one of those songs which afterward spread over the whole Ukraine, as if the wind had carried it, and was sung to the sound of lyre and teorban. But suddenly the song was interrupted; for through the gates, from the side of Hassan Pasha, rushed a number of men who broke through the crowd, shouting, "Out of the way! out of the way!" and hastened with all speed to the council-house. The atamans were preparing to go out when these new guests fell into the room. "A letter to the hetman!" shouted an old Cossack. "We are from Chigirin. We have rushed on night and day with the letter. Here it is!" Hmelnitski took the letter from the hands of the Cossack, and began to read. Suddenly his face changed; he stopped the reading, and said with a piercing voice,-- "Atamans! The Grand Hetman Pototski sends his son Stephen with his army against us. War!" In the room there rose a wonderful sound,--uncertain whether of joy or amazement. Hmelnitski stepped forward into the middle of the room, and put his hand on his hip; his eyes flashed lightning, his voice was awful and commanding,-- "Atamans, to the kurens! Fire the cannon from the tower! Break the liquor-barrels! We march at daybreak to-morrow!" Prom that moment the common council ceased, the rule of atamans and the preponderance of the Brotherhood were at an end. Hmelnitski assumed unlimited power. A little while before, through fear that his voice might not be obeyed, he was forced to destroy his opponents by artifice, and by artifice defend the prisoner. Now he was lord of life and death for them all. So it was ever. Before and after expeditions, even if the hetman was chosen, the multitude still imposed its will on the atamans and the koshevoi for whom opposition was coupled with danger. But when the campaign was declared, the Brotherhood became an army subject to military discipline, the atamans officers, and the hetman a dictator in command. Therefore, when they heard the orders of Hmelnitski, the atamans went at once to their kurens. The council was at an end. Soon the roar of cannon from the gates leading from Hassan Pasha to the square of the Saitch shook the walls of the room, and spread with gloomy echoes through all Chertomelik, giving notice of war. It opened also an epoch in the history of two peoples; but that was unknown to the drunken Cossacks as well as to the Zaporojian hetman himself. CHAPTER XII. Hmelnitski and Skshetuski went to spend the night at the house of the koshevoi, and with them Tugai Bey, for whom it was too late to return to Bazaluk. The wild bey treated the lieutenant as a captive who was to be ransomed for a large sum, and therefore not as a slave; and with greater respect indeed than he would have shown perhaps to Cossacks, for he had seen him formerly as an envoy at the court of the Khan. In view of this the koshevoi asked Pan Yan to his own house, and also changed his bearing toward him. The old koshevoi was a man devoted body and soul to Hmelnitski, who had conquered and taken possession of him. He had observed that Hmelnitski seemed anxious to save the life of the captive at the time of the council; but he was more astonished when, after having barely entered the room, Hmelnitski turned to Tugai Bey. "Tugai Bey," said he, "how much ransom do you think of getting for this captive?" Tugai Bey looked at Skshetuski and answered: "You said this was a man of distinction, and I know that he was an envoy of the terrible prince, and the terrible prince is fond of his own men. Bismillah! one pays and the other pays--together--" here Tugai Bey stopped to think--"two thousand thalers." Hmelnitski answered: "I will give you two thousand thalers." The Tartar was silent for a moment. His black eyes appeared to pierce Hmelnitski through and through. "You will give three," said he. "Why should I give three when you asked two yourself?" "For if you wish to have him, it is important for you; and if it is important, you will give three." "He saved my life." "Allah! that is worth a thousand more." Here Skshetuski interfered in the bargain. "Tugai Bey," said he, with anger, "I can promise you nothing from the prince's treasury; but even if I had to injure my own fortune, I would give you three. I have almost that much saved in the prince's hands, and a good village, which will be sufficient. And I do not want to thank this hetman for my freedom and life." "And whence dost thou know what I shall do with thee?" asked Hmelnitski; and then turning to Tugai Bey, he said: "The war will begin. You will send to the prince, and before the return of your messenger much water will flow down the Dnieper, but I will take you the money myself to Bazaluk to-morrow." "Give four, and I will not say another word to the Pole," answered Tugai, impatiently. "I will give four, on your word." "Hetman," said the koshevoi, "I will count it out this minute. I have it here under the wall, maybe more." "To-morrow you will take it to Bazaluk," said Hmelnitski. Tugai Bey stretched himself and yawned. "I am sleepy," said he. "To-morrow before daylight I must start for Bazaluk. Where am I to sleep?" The koshevoi showed him a pile of sheepskins against the wall. The Tartar threw himself on this bed, and a little later was snorting like a horse. Hmelnitski walked a number of times across the room, and said: "Slumber escapes my eyelids; I cannot sleep. Give me something to drink, most worthy koshevoi." "Gorailka or wine?" "Gorailka. I cannot sleep." "It is cockcrow already," said the koshevoi. "It is late. Go you to sleep, old friend! Drink and go!" "Here is to fame and success!" "To success!" The koshevoi wiped his lips with his sleeve, then gave his hand to Hmelnitski, and going to the other corner of the room buried himself almost in sheepskins, for his blood had grown cold through age. Soon his snoring answered the snoring of Tugai Bey. Hmelnitski sat at the table, sunk in silence. Suddenly he started up, looked at Skshetuski, and said: "Well, worthy lieutenant, you are free." "I am thankful to you, Zaporojian hetman, though I do not conceal from you that I should prefer to thank some one else for my freedom." "Then do not thank. You saved my life, I return you good; now we are even. And I must tell you also that I will not let you go immediately unless you give me the word of a knight that when you have returned you will say nothing of our preparation or power or of anything you have seen in the Saitch." "I see only this, that you offer me useless fruit of freedom to taste. I will not give you such a word; for by giving it, I should act precisely as those who go over to the enemy." "My life and the safety of the Zaporojian army lie in this, that the Grand Hetman should not move on us with all his forces, which he would not be slow to do should you inform him of our power. Be not surprised, then, if I detain you until I find myself out of danger, unless you give your word. I know what I have undertaken; I know how formidable is the power opposed to me,--the two hetmans, your terrible prince (who is a whole army himself), the Zaslavskis and Konyetspolskis and all those kinglets who keep their feet on the Cossack neck! Not small was my labor, nor few the letters I wrote before I succeeded in putting their watchfulness to sleep; now I cannot allow you to rouse it. Since the masses of the people, with the Cossacks of the towns, and all who are oppressed in faith and freedom will take my side, as well as the Zaporojian army and the Khan of the Crimea, I expect to manage the enemy, for my power will be considerable; but most of all do I trust in God, who has beheld the injustice done, and who sees my innocence." Here Hmelnitski drank a glass of vudka, and began to walk unquietly around the table. Skshetuski measured him with his eyes, and spoke with power,-- "Do not blaspheme, Zaporojian hetman, by calling upon God and his divine protection; for in truth you will only bring down upon yourself his anger and swift punishment. Is it right for you to call the Highest to your defence,--you, who for the sake of your private squabbles and the injustice done you raise such a terrible storm, kindle the flame of civil war, and join yourself with Pagans against Christians? For what will happen? Whether victorious or vanquished, you will shed a sea of human blood and tears, you will desolate the land worse than locusts, you will shake the Commonwealth, you will raise your hand against majesty, you will desecrate the altars of the Lord; and all this because Chaplinski took some land from you, and threatened you when he was drunk! What do you not attempt? What do you not devote to your private interests? You call upon God; and though I am in your power, though you can take my life and freedom, I tell you that you are a Satan. Call not God to your assistance, for hell alone can give you aid!" Hmelnitski grew purple and reached for his sword. He looked at the lieutenant like a lion about to roar and spring on his victim, but he restrained himself. Fortunately, he was not drunk yet. Perhaps, also, disquiet had seized him, maybe certain voices called from his soul to turn from the road; for suddenly, as if wishing to defend himself before his own thoughts, he said,-- "From another I should not have endured such speech, but do you have a care that your boldness does not exhaust my patience. You frighten me with hell, you speak to me of private interests and of treason. And from whence do you know that I have risen to avenge private wrongs alone? Where should I find assistance, where those thousands who have, already taken my side and who are taking it, if I wished merely to redress wrongs of my own? Look around at what is going on in the Ukraine. Oh, rich land, motherland, native land! And who in her is sure of to-morrow, who in her is happy, who is not robbed of his faith, spoiled of his freedom; who in her is not weeping and sighing?--save only the Vishnyevetskis, the Pototskis, the Zaslavskis, Kalinovskis, Konyetspolskis, and a handful of nobles! For them are crown estates, dignities, land, and people,--for them happiness and golden freedom; and the rest of the nation in tears stretch forth their hands to heaven waiting for the pity of God, since the pity of the king cannot help them. How many, even of the nobility, unable to bear this intolerable oppression, have fled to the Saitch, as I myself have fled? I want no war with the king, I want no war with the Commonwealth! It is the mother, and he is the father. The king is a merciful lord; but the kinglets!--with them it is impossible for us to live; their extortions, their rents, meadow-taxes, mill-taxes, eye and horn taxes, their tyranny and oppression exercised through the agency of Jews, cry for vengeance. What thanks has the Zaporojian army received for great services rendered in numerous wars? Where are the Cossack rights? The king gave them, the kinglets took them away. Nalivaika quartered! Pavlyuk burned in a brazen bull! The blood is not dry on the wounds inflicted by the sabres of Jolkevski and Konyetspolski! The tears have not dried for those killed and empaled an stakes; and now look! What is gleaming in the sky?"--here Hmelnitski pointed through the window at the flaming comet,--"The anger of God, the scourge of God! And if I have to be the scourge of God on earth, then let the will of God be done! I will take the burden on my shoulders." Having said this, he raised his hand above his head and seemed to flame up like a great torch of vengeance, and began to tremble; and then he dropped on the bench, as if bent down by the weight of his destiny. Silence followed, interrupted only by the snoring of Tugai Bey and the koshevoi, and by the plaintive chirp of the cricket in one corner of the cabin. The lieutenant sat with drooping head, as if seeking answers to the words of Hmelnitski, as weighty as blocks of granite; at length he began to speak in a quiet and sad voice,-- "Alas! even if that were true, who art thou, Hetman, to create thyself judge and executioner? With what tyranny and pride art thou carried away? Why dost thou not leave judgment and punishment to God? I do not defend the wicked, I do not praise injustice, I do not call oppression right; but, dost thou believe in thyself, Hetman? Thou complainest of oppression from the kinglets,--that they listen neither to the king nor justice. Thou condemnest their pride, but art thou free of it thyself? Do you not raise your hand upon the Commonwealth, on right and majesty? You see the tyranny of lordlets and nobility, but you do not see that were it not for their breasts, their bosoms, their breastplates, their power, their castles, their cannon, and their legions, this land, flowing with milk and honey, would groan under the hundred times heavier yoke of the Turk and the Tartar! For who would defend it? By whose care and power is it that your children are not serving as janissaries, and your women dragged off to infamous harems? Who settled the desert, founded villages and towns, and raised up the sanctuary of God?" Here the voice of Skshetuski grew stronger and stronger; and Hmelnitski looked with gloomy eyes into the bottle of vudka,[9] put his clinched fists on the table, and was silent as if struggling with himself. "And who are they?" continued Skshetuski. "Have they come from Germany or from Turkey? Is it not the blood of your blood, and the bone of your bone? Are not the nobility yours, and the princelets yours? If that is true, then woe to thee, Hetman; for thou art raising up the younger brothers against the elder, and making parricides of them. Oh, in God's name, even if they were wicked,--even if all of them, as many as there are, have trampled upon justice, violated rights,--let God judge them in heaven, and the Diet on earth, but not you, O Hetman! Are you able to say that among yours there are only just men? Have yours never been guilty, that you have a right to cast a stone at another for his guilt? And if you ask me, Where are the rights of the Cossacks, I answer: Not kinglets betrayed them, but Zaporojians,--Loboda, Sasko, Nalivaika, and Pavlyuk, of whom you falsely say that he was roasted in a brazen bull, for you know well that this is not true! Your seditions, your disturbances and attacks, made like attacks of Tartars, were put down. Who let the Tartars into the boundaries of the Commonwealth, so that when they were coming back laden with booty, they might be attacked? You! Who--God guard us!--gave their own Christian people into captivity? Who raised the greatest disturbances? You! Before whom is neither noble nor merchant nor village safe? Before you! Who has inflamed domestic war, who has sent up in smoke the villages and towns of the Ukraine, plundered the sanctuaries of God, violated women? You! you! What do you want, then? Do you want that the rights of making civil war and of robbing and plundering should be granted you? In truth, more has been forgiven you than taken away! We wished to cure putrid members instead of cutting them off, and I know no power in the world but the Commonwealth that would exhibit equal patience and clemency by permitting such an ulcer in its own bosom. But what is your gratitude in response? There sleeps your ally, but the raging enemy of the Commonwealth,--your friend, but the foe of the cross and Christianity,--not a kinglet of the Ukraine, but a murza of the Crimea; and with him you will go to burn your own home, and with him to judge your own brother. But he will lord it over you, and you will be forced to hold his stirrup." Hmelnitski emptied another glass of vudka. "When we, with Barabash, were with his Majesty the King, and when we wept over the oppression and injustice practised on us, he said, 'But have you not muskets, and have you not sabres at your side?'" "If you were standing before the King of kings, he would say, 'Forgive your enemies, as I forgive mine.'" "I do not wish to war with the Commonwealth." "But you put your sword to its throat." "I go to free the Cossacks from your fetters." "To tie them in Tartar bonds!" "I wish to defend the faith." "In company with the Pagan." "Stop! You are not the voice of my conscience. Stop, I tell you!" "Blood will weigh you down, the tears of men will accuse you, death awaits you, judgment awaits you!" "Screech-owl!" shouted Hmelnitski in rage, and flashed a knife before the breast of Skshetuski. "Strike!" said Skshetuski. Again came a moment of silence; again there was nothing to be heard but the snore of the sleeping men and the plaintive chirp of the cricket. Hmelnitski stood for a time with the knife at Skshetuski's breast; suddenly he trembled, he bethought himself, dropped the knife, and seizing the decanter of vudka, began to drink. He emptied it, and sat heavily on the bench. "I cannot stab him," he muttered,--"I cannot. It is late--is that daylight?--but it is late to turn from the road. Why speak to me of judgment and blood?" He had already drunk much; the vudka was rising to his head. He went on, gradually losing consciousness: "What judgment? The Khan promised me reinforcements. Tugai Bey is sleeping here! To-morrow the Cossacks march. With us is Saint Michael the victorious! But if--if--I ransomed thee from Tugai Bey--remember it, and say--Oh, something pains--pains! To turn from the road--'tis late!--judgment--Nalivaika--Pavlyuk--" Suddenly he straightened himself, strained his eyes in fright, and cried: "Who is there?" "Who is there?" repeated the half-roused koshevoi. But Hmelnitski dropped his head on his breast, nodded a couple of times, muttered, "What judgment?" and fell asleep. Skshetuski grew very pale and weak from recent wounds and from the excitement of talking. He thought therefore that perhaps death was coming, and began to pray aloud. CHAPTER XIII. Next morning early the Cossacks marched out of the Saitch, foot and horse. Though blood had not yet stained the steppes, the war had begun. Regiment followed regiment; just as if locusts, warmed by the spring sun, had swarmed in the reeds of Chertomelik, and were flying to the fields of the Ukraine. In the woods behind Bazaluk the warriors of the horde were waiting, ready for the march. Six thousand chosen men, armed incomparably better than ordinary partisan robbers, composed the contingent which the Khan sent to the Zaporojians and to Hmelnitski. At the sight of them the Cossacks hurled their caps into the air. The guns and muskets rattled. The shouts of the Cossacks, mingling with the "Allah" of the Tartars, struck the dome of heaven. Hmelnitski and Tugai Bey, both under their banners, galloped toward each other on horseback, and exchanged formal greetings. The order of march was formed with the rapidity peculiar to Tartars and Cossacks; then the troops moved on. The horde occupied both Cossack wings; the centre was formed by Hmelnitski and his cavalry, behind which marched the terrible Zaporojian infantry. Farther in the rear were the gunners, with their cannon; still farther the tabor-wagons, in them camp-servants and stores of provisions; finally, the herdsmen, with reserve herds and cattle. After they had passed the forest of Bazaluk the regiments flowed out on the level country. The day was clear, the field of heaven unspotted by a cloud. A light breeze blew from the north to the sea; the sun played on the lances, and on the flowers of the plain. The primeval steppes were spread before the Zaporojians like a boundless sea, and at this sight joy embraced the Cossack hearts. The great red standard, with the archangel, was inclined repeatedly in greeting to the native steppe; and following its example, every bunchuk and regimental standard was lowered. One shout sprang from all breasts. The regiments deployed freely on the plain. The drummers and buglers went to the van of the army; the drums thundered, trumpets and bugles sounded, and in concert with them a song, sung by thousands of voices, reverberated through the air and the earth,-- "O steppes, our native steppes, Ye are painted with beautiful flowers, Ye are broad as the sea!" The teorbanists dropped the reins, and bending back in the saddles, with eyes turned to the sky, struck the strings of their teorbans; the cymbalists, stretching their arms above their heads, struck their brazen disks; the drummers thundered with their kettledrums; and all these sounds, together with the monotonous words of the song and the shrill whistle of the tuneless Tartar pipes, mingled in a kind of mighty note, wild and sad as the Wilderness itself. Delight seized all the regiments; the heads bent in time with the song, and at last it seemed as if the entire steppe, infected with music, trembled together with the men and the horses and the standards. Frightened flocks of birds rose from the steppe and flew before the army like another army,--an army of the air. At times the song and music stopped; then could be heard the rustling of banners, the tramping and snorting of horses, the squeak of the tabor-wagons,--like the cry of swans or storks. At the head of the army, under a great red standard and the bunchuk, rode Hmelnitski, in a red uniform, on a white horse, holding a gilded baton in his hand. The whole body moved on, slowly marching to the north, covering like a terrible wave the rivers, groves, and grave-mounds, filling with its noise and sound the space of the steppe. But from Chigirin, from the northern rim of the Wilderness, there moved against this wave a wave of the armies of the crown, under the leadership of young Pototski. Here the Zaporojians and the Tartars went as if to a wedding, with a joyful song on their lips; there the serious hussars advanced in grim silence, going unwillingly to that struggle without glory. Here, under the red banner, an old experienced leader shook his threatening baton, as if certain of victory and vengeance; there in front rode a youth with thoughtful countenance, as if knowing, his sad and approaching fate. A great expanse of steppe still divided them. Hmelnitski did not hurry, for he calculated that the farther young Pototski went into the Wilderness, the farther he went from the two hetmans, the more easily could he be conquered. Meanwhile new fugitives from Chigirin, Povolochi, and all the shore towns of the Ukraine gave daily increase to the Zaporojian power, bringing also news from the opposite camp. From them Hmelnitski learned that the old hetman had sent his son with only two thousand cavalry by land and six thousand Cossacks, with one thousand German infantry in boats by the Dnieper. Both these divisions were ordered to maintain communication with each other, but the order was violated from the first day; for the boats, borne on by the current of the Dnieper, went considerably in advance of the hussars going along the shore, whose march was greatly delayed by the crossings at all the rivers falling into the Dnieper. Hmelnitski, wishing that the distance between them should be increased still more, did not hurry. On the third day of his march he disposed his camp around Komysha Water, and rested. At that time the scouts of Tugai Bey brought informants,--two dragoons who just beyond Chigirin had escaped from the camp of Pototski. Hurrying on day and night, they had succeeded in getting considerably in advance of their camp. They were brought immediately to Hmelnitski. Their account confirmed what was already known to Hmelnitski concerning the forces of young Stephen Pototski; but they brought him intelligence, besides, that the leaders of the Cossacks sailing down in the boats with the German infantry were old Barabash and Krechovski. When he heard the last name, Hmelnitski sprang up. "Krechovski? the commander of the registered Pereyasláv Cossacks?" "The same, serene hetman!" answered the dragoons. Hmelnitski turned to the colonels surrounding him. "Forward!" commanded he, with thundering voice. Less than an hour later the tabor was moving on, though the sun was already setting and the night did not promise to be clear. Certain terrible reddish clouds rolled along on the western side of the heavens, like dragons or leviathans, and approached one another as if wishing to begin battle. The tabor turned to the left, toward the bank of the Dnieper. The host marched quietly, without songs, without noise of drums or trumpets, and as quickly as the grass permitted, which was so luxuriant in that neighborhood that the regiments buried in it were lost from view at times, and the many-colored flags seemed to sail along the steppe. The cavalry beat a road for the wagons and the infantry, which, advancing with difficulty, soon fell considerably in the rear. Night covered the steppes. An enormous red moon rose slowly in the heavens, but, hidden repeatedly by the clouds, flamed up and was quenched like a lamp smothered by the blowing of the wind. It was well after midnight when, to the eyes of the Cossacks and the Tartars, black gigantic masses seemed outlined clearly on the dark background of the sky. These were the walls of Kudák. Scouts, hidden by darkness, approached the fortress as carefully and quietly as wolves or night-birds. And now perhaps a surprise for the sleeping fortress! But suddenly a flash on the ramparts rent the darkness. A terrible report shook the rocks of the Dnieper, and a fiery ball, leaving a circle of sparks in the air, fell among the grass of the steppe. The gloomy cyclops Grodzitski gave notice that he was watching. "The one-eyed dog!" muttered Tugai Bey to Hmelnitski; "he sees in the night." The Cossacks avoided the fortress and marched on. They could not think of taking it at a time when the armies of the crown were marching against them. But Grodzitski fired after them from his cannon till the walls of the fortress trembled; not so much to injure them--for they passed at a good distance--as to warn the troops sailing down the Dnieper, who at that time might be not far away. But the thunder of the guns of Kudák found echo first of all in the heart and hearing of Pan Yan. The young knight, brought by the command of Hmelnitski with the Cossack tabor, became seriously ill on the second day. In the fight at Hortitsa he had not received, it is true, a mortal wound, but he had lost so much blood that little life was left in him. His wounds, dressed in Cossack fashion by the old inspector of weights and measures, opened; fever attacked him, and that night he lay half senseless in a Cossack telega, unconscious of God's world. The cannon of Kudák first roused him. He opened his eyes, raised himself in the wagon, and began to look around. The Cossack tabor glided along in the darkness, like a circle of dream figures, but the fortress roared and was lighted with rosy smoke; fiery balls sprang along the steppe, snapping and barking, like infuriated dogs. At this sight such sadness and sorrow seized Skshetuski that he was ready to die on the spot, if he could only go even in spirit to his friends. War! war! and he in the camp of the enemy, disarmed, sick, unable to rise from the wagon! The Commonwealth in danger, and he not flying to save it! There in Lubni the troops are surely moving. The prince, with lightning in his eyes, is flying before the ranks; and on whatever side he turns his baton, three hundred lances strike like three hundred thunderbolts. Here a number of well-known faces begin to appear before the eyes of the lieutenant. Little Volodyovski, at the head of his dragoons, with his thin sabre in hand,--the king of swordsmen; whoever crosses weapons with him is as if in the tomb. There Pan Podbipienta raises his executioner's snatch-cowl! Will he cut off the three heads, or will he not? The priest Yaskolski waves the banners, and prays with his hands lifted to heaven. But he is an old soldier; therefore, unable to restrain himself, he thunders out at times, "Strike! kill!" Mailed riders incline half-way to the horse's ear. The regiments rush on, open their ranks, and close. Battle and tumult are there! Suddenly the vision changes. Before the lieutenant stands Helena, pale, with dishevelled hair; and she cries: "Save me, for Bogun pursues!" Skshetuski tears himself from the wagon, till a voice--but a real one--calls to him: "Lie down, child, or I will bind you." That was the essaul of the tabor, Zakhar, whom Hmelnitski had commanded to guard the lieutenant as the eye in his head. He puts him back in the wagon, covers him with a horse-skin, and asks: "What's the matter with you?" Now Skshetuski has perfect presence of mind. The visions vanish. The wagons move along the very bank of the Dnieper. A cool breeze is blowing from the river, and the night is growing pale. Water-birds have begun their morning noise. "Listen, Zakhar! have we passed Kudák already?" asked Skshetuski. "We have," answered the Zaporojian, "And where are you going?" "I don't know. There will be a battle, they say; but I don't know." At these words Skshetuski's heart beat joyfully. He had supposed that Hmelnitski would besiege Kudák, and with that the war would begin. Meanwhile the haste with which the Cossacks pushed on permitted the inference that the armies of the Crown were already near, and that Hmelnitski was passing the fortress so as not to be forced to give battle under its cannon. "I may be free to-day," thought the lieutenant, and raised his eyes to heaven in thanks. CHAPTER XIV. The thunder of the guns of Kudák was heard also by the forces descending in boats under the command of old Barabash and Krechovski. These forces were composed of six thousand registered Cossacks, and one of picked German infantry led by Colonel Hans Flick. Pan Nikolai Pototski, the hetman, hesitated long before he sent the Cossacks against Hmelnitski; but since Krechovski had an immense influence over them, and Pototski trusted Krechovski absolutely, he merely commanded the Cossacks to take the oath of allegiance, and sent them off in the name of God. Krechovski was a soldier full of experience and of great reputation in previous wars. He was a client of the Pototskis, to whom he was indebted for everything,--his rank of colonel, his nobility, which they obtained for him in the Diet, and finally for broad lands situated near the confluence of the Dniester and Lada, which he held for life. He was connected, therefore, by so many bonds with the Commonwealth and the Pototskis, that a shadow of a suspicion could not rise in the mind of the hetman. Krechovski was, besides, a man in his best days, for he was scarcely fifty years old, and a great future was opening before him in the service of the country. Some were ready to see in him the successor of Stephen Hmeletski, who, beginning his career as a simple knight of the steppe, ended it as voevoda of Kieff and senator of the Commonwealth. It was for Krechovski to advance by the same road, along which he was impelled by bravery, a wild energy, and unbridled ambition, equally eager for wealth and distinction. Through this ambition he had struggled a short time before for the starostaship of Lita; and when at last Pan Korbut received it, Krechovski buried the disappointment deep in his heart, but almost fell ill of envy and mortification. This time fortune seemed to smile on him again; for having received from the hetman such an important military office, he could consider that his name would reach the ears of the king; and that was important, for afterward he had only to bow to receive the reward, with the words dear to the heart of a noble: "He has bowed to us and asked that we grant him; and we remembering his services, do grant, etc." In this way were wealth and distinction acquired in Russia; in this way enormous expanses of the empty steppe, which hitherto had belonged to God and the Commonwealth, passed into private hands; in this way a needy stripling grew to be a lord, and might strengthen himself with the hope that his descendants would hold their seats among senators. Krechovski was annoyed that in the office committed to him he must divide authority with Barabash; still it was only a nominal division. In reality, the old colonel of Cherkasi, especially in the latter time, had grown so old and worn that his body alone belonged to this earth; his mind and soul were continually sunk in torpidity and lifelessness, which generally precede real death. At the beginning of the expedition he roused up and began to move about with considerable energy, as if at the sound of the trumpet the old soldier's blood had begun to course more vigorously within him, for he had been in his time a famous Cossack and a leader in the steppe; but as soon as they started the plash of the oars lulled him, the songs of the Cossacks and the soft movement of the boats put him to sleep, and he forgot the world of God. Krechovski ordered and managed everything. Barabash woke up only to eat; having eaten his fill, he inquired, as was his custom, about this and that. He was put off with some kind of answer; then he sighed and said,-- "I should be glad to die in some other war, but God's will be done!" Connection with the army of the crown marching under Stephen Pototski was severed at once. Krechovski complained that the hussars and the dragoons marched too slowly, that they loitered too long at the crossings, that the young son of the hetman had no military experience; but with all that he gave orders to move on. The boats moved along the shores of the Dnieper to Kudák, going farther and farther from the armies of the crown. At last one night the thunder of cannon was heard. Barabash slept without waking. Flick, who was sailing ahead, entered the scout-boat and repaired to Krechovski. "Colonel," said he, "those are the cannon of Kudák! What are we to do?" "Stop your boats. We will spend the night in the reeds." "Apparently Hmelnitski is besieging the fortress. In my opinion we ought to hurry to the relief." "I do not ask you for opinions, but give orders. I am the commander." "But, Colonel--" "Halt and wait!" said Krechovski. But seeing that the energetic German was twitching his beard and not thinking of going away without a reason, he added more mildly: "The castellan may come up to-morrow morning with the cavalry, and the fortress will not be taken in one night." "But if he does not come up?" "Well, we will wait even two days. You don't know Kudák. They will break their teeth on the walls, and I will not go to relieve the place without the castellan, for I have not the right to do so. That is his affair." Every reason seemed to be on Krechovski's side. Flick therefore insisted no longer, and withdrew to his Germans. After a while the boats began to approach the right bank and push into the reeds, that for a width of more than forty rods covered the river, which had spread widely in that part. Finally the plash of oars stopped; the boats were hidden entirely in the reeds, and the river appeared to be wholly deserted. Krechovski forbade the lighting of fires, singing of songs, and conversation. Hence there fell upon the place a quiet unbroken save by the distant cannon of Kudák. Still no one in the boats except Barabash slept. Flick, a knightly man and eager for battle, wished to hurry straight to Kudák. The Cossacks asked one another in a whisper what might happen to the fortress. Would it hold out or would it not hold out? Meanwhile the noise increased every moment. All were convinced that the castle was meeting a violent assault. "Hmelnitski isn't joking; but Grodzitski isn't joking, either," whispered the Cossacks. "What will come tomorrow?" Krechovski was probably asking himself the very same question, as, sitting in the prow of his boat, he fell into deep thought. He knew Hmelnitski intimately and of old. Up to that time he had always considered him a man of uncommon gifts, to whom only a field was wanting to soar like an eagle; but now Krechovski doubted him. The cannon thundered unceasingly; therefore it must be that Hmelnitski was really investing Kudák. "If that is true," thought Krechovski, "he is lost. How is it possible, having roused the Zaporojians and secured the assistance of the Khan, having assembled forces such as none of the Cossack leaders has hitherto commanded, instead of marching with all haste to the Ukraine, rousing the people and attaching to himself the town Cossacks, breaking the hetmans as quickly as possible, and gaining the whole country before new troops could come to its defence, that he, Hmelnitski, an old soldier, is storming an impregnable fortress, capable of detaining him for a whole year? And is he willing that his best forces should break themselves on the walls of Kudák, as a wave of the Dnieper is dashed on the rocks of the Cataracts? And will he wait under Kudák till the hetmans are reinforced and surround him, like Nalivaika at Solonitsa?" "If he does, he is a lost man," repeated Krechovski once more. "His own Cossacks will give him up. The unsuccessful assault will cause discontent and disorder. The spark of rebellion will go out at its very birth, and Hmelnitski will be no more terrible than a sword broken at the hilt. He is a fool! Therefore," thought Krechovski, "to-morrow I will land my Cossacks and Germans on the bank, and the following night will fall on him unexpectedly, when he is weakened by assaults. I will cut the Zaporojians to pieces, and throw down Hmelnitski bound at the feet of the hetman. It is his own fault, for it might have been otherwise." The unbridled ambition of Krechovski soared on the wings of a falcon. He knew well that young Pototski could not arrive on the following night by any possibility. Who, then, was to sever the head of the hydra? Krechovski! Who was to put down the rebellion which might wrap the whole Ukraine in a terrible conflagration? Krechovski! The old hetman might be angry for a while that this had taken place without the participation of his son; but he would soon get over that, and meanwhile all the rays of glory and the favors of the king would descend on the conqueror's head. No! It would be necessary, however, to divide the glory with old Barabash and with Grodzitski. Krechovski scowled darkly; but suddenly his face grew bright. "They will bury that old block Barabash in the ground to-morrow or next day. Grodzitski, if he can only remain at Kudák to frighten the Tartars from time to time with his cannon, will ask for no more. Krechovski alone will remain. If he can only become hetman of the Ukraine!" The stars twinkled in the sky, and it appeared to the colonel that those were the jewels in his baton; the wind sounded in the reeds, and it seemed to him the rustling of the hetman's standard. The guns of Kudák thundered unceasingly. "Hmelnitski has given his throat to the sword," continued the colonel in thought, "but that is his own fault. It might have been otherwise. If he had gone straight to the Ukraine, it might have been otherwise. There all is seething and roaring; there lies powder, only waiting for a spark. The Commonwealth is powerless, but it has forces in the Ukraine; the king is not young, and is sickly. One battle won by the Zaporojians will bring incalculable results." Krechovski covered his face with his hands, and sat motionless. The stars came down nearer and nearer, and settled gradually on the steppe. The quail hidden in the grass began to call. Soon the day would break. At last the meditations of the colonel became strengthened into a fixed purpose. Next day he would strike Hmelnitski and grind him in the dust. Over his body he would go to wealth and dignities. He would be the instrument of punishment in the hands of the Commonwealth, its defender, in the future its dignitary and senator. After victory over the Zaporojians and the Tartars they would refuse him nothing. Still, they had not given him the starostaship of Lita. When he remembered this, Krechovski clenched his fists. They had not given him this, in spite of the powerful influence of his protectors the Pototskis, in spite of his military services, simply because he was a new man and his rival drew his origin from princes. In that Commonwealth it was not enough to be a noble, it was necessary to wait till that nobility was covered with must like old wine, till it was rusty like iron. Hmelnitski alone could introduce a new order of things, to which the king himself would become favorable; but the unfortunate man had preferred to beat out his brains against the walls of Kudák. The colonel gradually grew calm. They had refused him the starostaship,--what of that? They would strive all the more to recompense him, especially after his victory,--after quenching the rebellion, after freeing the Ukraine from civil war, yes, the whole Commonwealth! They would refuse him nothing; then he would not need even the Pototskis. His drowsy head inclined upon his breast, and he fell asleep, dreaming of starostaships, of dignities, of grants from the king and the Diet. When he woke it was daybreak. In the boats all were still sleeping. In the distance the waters of the Dnieper were gleaming in a pale, fugitive light. Around them reigned absolute stillness. It was the stillness that roused him. The cannon of Kudák had ceased to roar. "What is that?" thought Krechovski. "The first attack is repulsed, or maybe Kudák is taken?" But that was unlikely. No; the beaten Cossacks were lying somewhere at a distance from the fortress, licking their wounds, and the one-eyed Grodzitski was looking at them through the port-hole, aiming his guns anew. To-morrow they would repeat the storm, and again break their teeth. The day had now come. Krechovski roused the men in his own boat, and sent a boat for Flick. Flick came at once. "Colonel," said Krechovski, "if the castellan does not come before evening, and if the storm is repeated during the night, we will move to the relief of the fortress." "My men are ready," answered Flick. "Issue powder and balls to them." "I have done so." "We land during the night and go by the steppe in the greatest quiet. We will come upon them with a surprise." "Gut! sehr gut! But mightn't we go on a little in the boats? It is twenty miles to the fortress,--rather far for infantry." "The infantry will mount Cossack horses." "Gut! sehr gut!" "Let the men lie quietly in the reeds, not go on shore; make no noise, kindle no fires, for smoke would betray us. We must not be revealed." "There is such a fog that the smoke will not be seen." Indeed the river, the inlet overgrown with reeds, in which the boats were hidden, and the steppe were covered as far as the eye could see with a white, impenetrable fog. But it was only the beginning of day; so the fog might rise and uncover the expanse of the steppe. Flick departed. The men in the boats woke gradually. Krechovski's commands to keep quiet and take the morning meal without tumult were made known. No person going along the shore or sailing in the middle of the river would have even imagined that in the adjoining thicket several thousand men were hidden. The horses were fed from the hand, so that they should not neigh. The boats, covered with fog, lay tied up in the reeds. Here and there only passed a small two-oared boat carrying biscuits and commands; with this exception, the silence of the grave reigned everywhere. Suddenly in the reeds, rushes, and shore-grass all around the inlet were heard strange and very numerous voices, calling,-- "Pugú! pugú!" Then quiet. "Pugú! pugú!" And again silence, as if those voices, calling on the banks, waited for an answer. But there was no answer. The calling sounded a third time, but more quickly and impatiently. "Pugú! pugú!" This time from the side of the boats was heard in the middle of the fog the voice of Krechovski,-- "But who is there?" "A Cossack from the meadows." The hearts of the Cossacks hidden in the boats beat unquietly. That mysterious call was well known to them. In that manner the Zaporojiana made themselves known to one another in their winter quarters; in that way in time of war they asked to conference their brothers, the registered and town Cossacks, among whom were many belonging in secret to the Brotherhood. The voice of Krechovski was heard again; "What do you want?" "Bogdan Hmelnitski, the Zaporojian hetman, announces that his cannon are turned on the Poles." "Inform the Zaporojian hetman that ours are tamed to the shore." "Pugú! Pugú!" "What more do you want?" "Bogdan Hmelnitski, the Zaporojian hetman, invites his friend Colonel Krechovski to a conference." "Let him give hostages." "Ten kuren atamans." "Agreed." That moment the shores of the inlet bloomed with Zaporojians as if with flowers; they stood up from the grass in which they had been hidden. From the steppe approached their cavalry and artillery, tens and hundreds of their banners, flags, and bunchuks. They marched with singing and beating of kettledrums. All this was rather like a joyful greeting than a collision of hostile forces. The Cossacks on the river answered with shouts. Meanwhile boats came up bringing the kuren atamans. Krechovski entered one of the boats and went to the shore. There a horse was given him, and he was conducted immediately to Hmelnitski. Seeing him, Hmelnitski removed his cap, and then greeted him cordially. "Colonel," said he, "my old friend and comrade! When the hetman of the crown commanded you to seize me and bring me to the camp, you did not do it, but you warned me so that I might save myself by flight; for that act I am bound to you in thankfulness and brotherly love." While saying this he stretched out his hand kindly; but the swarthy face of Krechovski remained cold as ice. "Now, therefore, after you have saved yourself, worthy hetman, you excite rebellion!" "I go to ask reparation for the wrongs inflicted on myself, on you, on the whole Ukraine, with the charter of Cossack rights granted by the king in my hand, and with the hope that our merciful sovereign will not count it evil in me." Krechovski looked quickly into the eyes of Hmelnitski, and asked with emphasis: "Have you invested Kudák?" "I? Do you think I have lost my mind? I passed Kudák without a shot, though the old blind man celebrated it with guns. I was hurrying not to Kudák, but to the Ukraine, and to you, my old friend and benefactor." "What do you wish, then, of me?" "Come a little way in the steppe, and we will talk." They spurred their horses, and rode on. They remained about an hour. On returning, the face of Krechovski was pale and terrible. He took quick farewell of Hmelnitski, who said,-- "There will be two of us in the Ukraine, and above us the king, and no man else." Krechovski turned to the boats. Old Barabash, Flick, and the elders waited for him with impatience. "What's going on? What's going on?" he was asked on every side. "Come out on the shore!" answered Krechovski, with a commanding voice. Barabash raised his sleepy lids; a certain wonderful fire was gleaming in his eyes. "How is that?" asked he. "Come to the shore; we yield!" A wave of blood rushed to the pale and faded face of Barabash. He rose from the kettle on which he had been sitting, straightened himself up, and suddenly that bent and decrepit old man was changed into a giant full of life and power. "Treason!" roared he. "Treason!" repeated Flick, grasping after the hilt of his rapier. But before he could draw it Krechovski's sabre whistled, and with one blow Flick was stretched on the ground. Then Krechovski sprang into the scout-boat standing there, in which four Zaporojians were sitting with oars in their hands, and cried: "To the boats!" The scout-boat shot on like an arrow. Krechovski, standing in the centre of it, with his cap on his bloody sabre, his eyes like flames, cried with a mighty voice,-- "Children, we will not murder our own. Long life to Hmelnitski, the Zaporojian hetman!" "Long life!" repeated hundreds and thousands of voices. "Destruction to the Poles!" "Destruction!" The roar from the boats answered the shouts of the Zaporojians on land. But many men in the boats did not know what was going on till the news spread everywhere that Krechovski had gone over to the Zaporojians. A regular furor of joy seized the Cossacks. Six thousand caps flew into the air; six thousand muskets roared. The boats trembled under the feet of the brave fellows. A tumult and uproar set in. But that joy had to be sprinkled with blood; for old Barabash preferred to die rather than betray the flag under which he had served a lifetime. A few tens of the men of Cherkasi declared for him, and a struggle began, short but terrible,--like all struggles in which a handful of men, asking not quarter but death, defend themselves in a mass. Neither Krechovski nor any one of the Cossacks expected such resistance. The lion of other days was roused in the old colonel. The summons to lay down his arms he answered with shots; and he was seen, with baton in hand and streaming white hair, giving orders with a voice of thunder and the energy of youth. His boat was surrounded on every side. The men of those boats which could not press up jumped into the water, and by swimming or wading among the reeds, and then seizing the edge of the boat, climbed it with fury. The resistance was short. The faithful Cossacks of Barabash, stabbed, cut to pieces, torn asunder with hands, lay dead in the boat. The old man with sabre in hand defended himself yet. Krechovski pushed forward toward him. "Yield!" shouted he. "Traitor! destruction!" answered Barabash, raising his sabre to strike. Krechovski drew back quickly into the crowd. "Strike!" cried he to the Cossacks. It seemed that no one wished to raise his hand first on the old man. But unfortunately the colonel slipped in blood and fell. When lying he did not rouse that respect or that fear, and immediately a number of lances were buried in his body. The old man was able only to cry: "Jesus, Mary!" They began to cut the prostrate body to pieces. The severed head was hurled from boat to boat, like a ball, until by an awkward throw it fell into the water. There still remained the Germans, with whom the settlement was more difficult, for the regiment was composed of one thousand old soldiers trained in many wars. The valiant Flick had fallen, it is true, by the hand of Krechovski, but there remained at the head of the regiment Johann Werner, lieutenant-colonel, a veteran of the Thirty Years' War. Krechovski was certain of victory, for the German boats were hemmed in on every side by the Cossacks; still he wished to preserve for Hmelnitski such a respectable reinforcement of incomparable infantry, splendidly armed, therefore he preferred to begin a parley with them. It seemed for a time that Werner would agree, for he conversed calmly with Krechovski and listened attentively to promises of which the faithless colonel was not sparing. The pay in which the Commonwealth was in arrears was to be paid on the spot, and an additional year in advance. At the expiration of the year the soldiers might go where they pleased, even to the camp of the king. Werner, appeared to meditate over these conditions, but meanwhile he had quietly issued a command for the boats to press up to him, so that they formed a close circle. On the edge of that circle stood a wall of infantry,--well-grown and powerful men, dressed in yellow coats and caps of the same color, in perfect battle-array, with the left foot forward and muskets at the right side ready to fire. Werner stood in the first rank with drawn sword, and meditated long; at last he raised his head. "Colonel, we agree!" "You will lose nothing in your new service," cried Krechovski, with joy. "But on condition--" "I agree to that, besides." "If that is true, then all is settled. Our service with the Commonwealth ends in three months. At the end of three months we will go over to you." A curse was leaving Krechovski's mouth, but he restrained the outburst. "Are you joking, worthy lieutenant?" "No!" answered Werner, phlegmatically; "our soldierly honor commands us to keep our agreement. Our service ends in three months. We serve for money, but we are not traitors. If we were, nobody would hire us, and you yourselves would not trust us; for who could guarantee that we should not go over again to the hetmans in the first battle?" "What do you want, then?" "We want you to let us go." "Why, you crazy man, that is impossible! I shall order you to be cut to pieces." "And how many of your own will you lose?" "A foot of you will not leave here!" "And half of your men will not remain." Both spoke the truth; therefore Krechovski, although the coolness of the German roused all his blood, and rage began to overpower him, did not wish to begin the battle for a while. "Till the sun leaves the inlet," said he, "think the matter over; after that I will give the order to touch the triggers!" And he went off hurriedly in his boat to counsel with Hmelnitski. The silence of expectation began. The Cossack boats surrounded in a dense circle the Germans, who maintained the cool bearing possible only to old and experienced soldiers in the presence of danger. To the threats and insults which burst out on them every moment from the Cossack boats, they answered with contemptuous silence. It was in truth an imposing spectacle,--that calm in the midst of increasing outbursts of rage on the part of the Cossacks, who, shaking their lances and muskets threateningly, gnashed their teeth and, cursing, waited impatiently the signal for battle. Meanwhile the sun, turning from the south to the west, removed gradually its golden rays from the inlet, which was slowly covered with shade. At length it was completely covered. Then the trumpet began to sound, and immediately after the voice of Krechovski was heard in the distance,-- "The sun has gone down! Have you decided yet?" "We have!" answered Werner. And turning to the soldiers, he waved his naked sword. "Fire!" commanded he, with a quiet phlegmatic voice. There was a roar! The plash of bodies falling into the water, the cries of rage, and rapid firing answered the voice of German muskets. Cannon drawn up on shore answered with a deep roar, and began to hurl balls on the German boats. Smoke covered the inlet completely, and only the regular salvos of the muskets amidst the shouts, roaring, whistle of Tartar arrows, and the rattle of guns and muskets, announced that the Germans were still defending themselves. At sunset the battle was still raging, but appeared to be weaker. Hmelnitski, with his companions Krechovski, Tugai Bey, and some atamans, came to the shore to observe the struggle. The dilated nostrils of the hetman inhaled the smoke of powder, and his ears took in with pleasure the sound of the drowning and dying Germans. All three of the leaders looked on the slaughter as on a spectacle, which at the same time was a favorable omen for them. The struggle was coming to an end. As the musketry ceased, the shouts of Cossack triumph rose louder and louder to the sky. "Tugai Bey," said Hmelnitski, "this is our first victory." "There are no captives!" blurted out the murza. "I want no such victories as this!" "You will get captives in the Ukraine. You will fill all Stamboul and Galata with your prisoners!" "I will take even you, if there is no one else!" Having said this, the wild Tugai Bey laughed ominously; then he added: "Still I should be glad to have those 'Franks.'" The battle had ended. Tugai Bey turned his horse to the camp. "Now for Jóltiya Vodi!" cried Hmelnitski. CHAPTER XV. Skshetuski, hearing the battle, waited with trembling for the conclusion of it. He thought at first that Hmelnitski was meeting all the forces of the hetmans. But toward evening old Zakhar led him out of his error. The news of the treason of the Cossacks under Krechovski and the destruction of the Germans agitated Pan Yan to the bottom of his soul; for it was prophetic of future desertions, and the lieutenant knew perfectly that no small part of the armies of the hetmans was made up of Cossacks. The anguish of the lieutenant increased, and triumph in the Zaporojian camp added bitterness to his sorrow. Everything foreshadowed the worst. There were no tidings of Prince Yeremi, and evidently the hetmans had made a terrible mistake; for instead of moving with all their forces to Kudák or waiting for the enemy in fortified camps in the Ukraine, they had divided their forces, weakened themselves of their own accord, and opened a wide field to breach of faith and treason. It is true that mention had been made previously in the Zaporojian camp of Krechovski, and of the special despatch of troops under the leadership of Stephen Pototski; but the lieutenant had given no faith to those reports. He supposed that these troops were strong advance guards which would be withdrawn in time. But it turned out otherwise. Hmelnitski was strengthened several thousand men by the treason of Krechovski, and terrible danger hung over young Pototski. Deprived of assistance and lost in the Wilderness, Hmelnitski might easily surround and crush him completely. In pain from his wounds, in disquiet, during sleepless nights, Skshetuski had consoled himself with the single thought of the prince. The star of Hmelnitski must pale when that of the prince rises in Lubni. And who knows whether he has not joined the hetmans already? Though the forces of Hmelnitski were considerable, though the beginning of the campaign was favorable, though Tugai Bey marched with him, and in case of failure the "Tsar of the Crimea" had promised to move with reinforcements in person, the thought never rose in the mind of Skshetuski that the disturbance could endure long, that one Cossack could shake the whole Commonwealth and break its terrible power. "That wave will be broken at the threshold of the Ukraine," thought the lieutenant. "How have all the Cossack rebellions ended? They have burst out like a flame and have been stifled at the first meeting with the hetmans." Such had been the outcome up to that time. For on one side there rose a crowd of bandits from the lower country, and on the other the power whose shores were washed by two seas. The end was easily foreseen: the storm could not be lasting; it would pass, and calm would follow. This thought strengthened Skshetuski, and perhaps kept him on his feet while he was weighted with such a burden as he had never carried in his life before. The storm, though it would pass might desolate fields, wreck houses, and inflict unspeakable harm. In this storm he had almost lost his life, had lost his strength, and had fallen into bitter captivity just at the time when freedom was worth really as much to him as life itself. What, then, must be the suffering, in this uproar, of beings without power to defend themselves? What was happening to Helena in Rozlogi? But Helena must be in Lubni already. The lieutenant in his sleep saw her surrounded by friendly faces, petted by Princess Griselda and the prince himself, admired by the knights,--and still grieving for her hussar, who had disappeared somewhere in the Saitch. But the time would come at last when he would return, Hmelnitski himself had promised freedom; and besides, the Cossack wave would flow on and on, to the threshold of the Commonwealth, where it would be broken; then would come the end of anxiety, affliction, and dread. The wave flowed on, indeed. Hmelnitski moved forward without delay, and marched to meet the son of the hetman. His power was really formidable; for with the Cossacks of Krechovski and the party of Tugai Bey, he led nearly twenty-five thousand trained men eager for battle. There was no reliable information concerning Pototski's numbers. Deserters declared that he had two thousand heavy cavalry and a number of field-pieces. A battle with that proportion of forces might be doubtful; for one attack of the terrible hussars was often sufficient to destroy ten times the number of troops. Thus Pan Hodkyevich, the Lithuanian hetman, in his time, with three thousand hussars at Kirchholm, ground into the dust eighteen thousand chosen men of the Swedish infantry and cavalry; and at Klushin one armored regiment with wild fury dispersed several thousand English and Scotch mercenaries. Hmelnitski remembered this, and marched, as the Russian chronicler has it, slowly and carefully; "looking, with the many eyes of his mind, on every side, like a cunning hunter, and having sentries posted five miles and farther from his camp." In this fashion he approached Jóltiya Vodi. Two new informants were brought in. These gave assurance of the small number of Pototski's forces, and stated that the castellan had already crossed Jóltiya Vodi. Hearing this, Hmelnitski stopped as if pinned to the earth, and intrenched himself. His heart beat joyfully. If Pototski would venture on a storm, he must be beaten. The Cossacks were unequal to armored men in the field, but behind a rampart they fought to perfection; and with such great preponderance of power they would surely repulse an assault. Hmelnitski reckoned on the youth and inexperience of Pototski. But at the side of the young castellan was an accomplished soldier,--the starosta of Jiwets, Stephen Charnetski, colonel of hussars. He saw the danger, and persuaded Pototski to withdraw beyond Jóltiya Vodi. Nothing was left to Hmelnitski but to follow him. Next day he crossed the swamps of Jóltiya Vodi. The armies stood face to face, but neither of the leaders wished to strike the first blow. The hostile camps began to surround themselves hurriedly with trenches. It was Saturday, the 5th of May. Rain fell all day; clouds so covered the sky that from noon darkness reigned as on a winter day. Toward evening the rain increased still more. Hmelnitski rubbed his hands with joy. "Only let the steppe get soft," said he to Krechovski, "and I shall not hesitate to meet even the hussars on the offensive; for they will be drowned in the mud with their heavy armor." The rain fell and fell, as if Heaven itself wished to come to the aid of the Zaporojians. The armies intrenched themselves lazily and gloomily amidst streams of water. It was impossible to kindle fires. Several thousand Tartars issued from the camp to watch lest the Polish tabor, taking advantage of the fog, the rain, and the night, might try to escape. Then profound stillness fell upon the camp. Nothing was heard but the patter of rain and the sound of wind. It was certain that no one slept on either side that night. In the morning the trumpets sounded in the Polish camp, prolonged and plaintive, as if giving an alarm; then drums began to rattle here and there. The day rose gloomy, dark, damp; the storm had ceased, but still there was rain, fine as if strained through a sieve. Hmelnitski ordered the firing of a cannon. After it, was heard a second, a third,--a tenth; and when the usual "correspondence" of camp with camp had begun. Pan Yan said to Zakhar, his Cossack guardian: "Take me out on the rampart, that I may see what is passing." Zakhar was curious himself, and therefore made no opposition. They mounted a lofty bastion, whence could be seen, as if on the palm of the hand, the somewhat sunken valley in the steppe, the swamp of Jóltiya Vodi, and both armies. But Pan Yan had barely given a glance when, seizing his head, he cried,-- "As God is living! it is the advance guard,--nothing more!" In fact, the ramparts of the Cossack camp extended almost a mile and a quarter, while the Polish intrenchment looked like a little ditch in comparison with it. The disparity of forces was so great that the victory for the Zaporojians was beyond a doubt. Pain straitened the lieutenant's heart. The hour of fall had not come yet for pride and rebellion, and that which was coming was to be a new triumph for them. At least, so it appeared. Skirmishing under cannon-fire had already begun. From the bastion single horsemen, or groups of them, could be seen in hand-to-hand conflict. Now the Tartars fought with Pototski's Cossacks, dressed in dark blue and yellow. The cavalry rushed on one another and retreated quickly; approached from the flanks, hit one another from pistols and bows or with lances, tried to catch one another with lariats. These actions seemed from a distance more like amusement than fighting; and only the horses, running along the field without riders, showed that it was a question of life and death. The Tartars came out thicker and thicker. Soon the plain was black from the dense mass of them. Then, too, new regiments began to issue from the Polish camp, and arrange themselves in battle-array before the intrenchment. This was so near that Pan Yan, with his quick eye, was able to distinguish clearly the flags and ensigns, and also the cavalry captains and lieutenants, who were on horseback a little on one side of the regiments. His heart began to leap within him. A ruddy color appeared on his pale face; and just as if he could find a favorable audience in Zakhar and the Cossacks standing to their guns on the bastion, he cried with enthusiasm as the regiments marched out of the intrenchments,-- "Those are the dragoons of Balaban; I saw them in Cherkasi! That is the Wallachian regiment; they have a cross on their banner! Oh! now the infantry comes down from the ramparts!" Then with still greater delight, opening his hands: "The hussars! Charnetski's hussars!" In fact the hussars came out, above their heads a cloud of wings; a forest of lances embellished with golden tassels and with long green and black bannerets, stood above them in the air. They went out six abreast, and formed under the wall. At the sight of their calmness, dignity, and good order tears of joy came into Skshetuski's eyes, dimming his vision for a moment. Though the forces were so disproportionate; though against these few regiments there was blackening a whole avalanche of Zaporojians and Tartars, which, as is usual, occupied the wings; though their ranks extended so far into the steppe that it was difficult to see the end of them,--Pan Yan believed now in the victory of the Poles. His face was smiling, his strength came back; his eyes, intent on the field, shot fire, but he was unable to stand. "Hei, my child!" muttered old Zakhar, "the soul would like to enter paradise." A number of detached Tartar bands rushed forward, with cries and shouts of "Allah!" They were answered from the camp with shots. But these were merely threats. The Tartars, before reaching the Polish regiments, retreated on two sides to their own people and disappeared in the host. Now the great drum of the Saitch was sounded, and at its voice a gigantic crescent of Cossacks and Tartars rushed forward swiftly. Hmelnitski was trying, apparently, to see whether he could not with one sweep dislodge those regiments and occupy the camp. In case of disorder, that was possible. But nothing of the kind took place with the Polish regiments. They remained quietly, deployed in rather a long line, the rear of which was covered by the intrenchment, and the flanks by the cannon of the camp; so it was possible to strike them only in front. For a while it seemed as if they would receive battle on the spot; but when the crescent had passed half the field, the trumpets in the intrenchment were sounded for attack, and suddenly the fence of spears, till then pointing straight to the sky, was lowered to a line with the heads of the horses. "The hussars are charging!" cried Pan Yan. They had, in fact, bent forward in the saddles, and were moving on, and immediately after them the dragoon regiments and the whole line of battle. The momentum of the hussars was terrible. At the first onset they struck three kurens,--two of Stebloff, and one of Mirgorod,--and crushed them in the twinkle of an eye. The roar reached the ears of Skshetuski. Horses and men, thrown from their feet with the gigantic weight of the iron riders, fell like grain at the breath of a storm. The resistance was so brief that it seemed to Pan Yan as though some enormous dragons had swallowed the three kurens at a gulp. And they were the best troops of the Saitch. Terrified by the noise of the wings, the horses began to spread disorder in the Zaporojian ranks. The Irkleyeff, Kalnibolok, Minsk, Shkurinsk, and Titareff regiments fell into complete disorder, and pressed by the mass of the fleeing, began to retreat in confusion. Meanwhile the dragoons came up with the hussars, and began to help them in the bloody harvest. The Vasyurinsk kuren, after a desperate resistance, turned in flight to the Cossack intrenchments. The centre of Hmelnitski's forces, shaken more and more, beaten, pushed into a disorderly mass, slashed with swords, forced back in the iron onset, was unable to get time to stop and re-form. "Devils! not Poles!" cried old Zakhar. Skshetuski was as if bewildered. Being ill, he could not master himself. He laughed and cried at once, and at times screamed out words of command, as if he were leading the regiments himself. Zakhar held him by the skirts, and had to call others to his aid. The battle came so near the Cossack camp that faces could be almost distinguished. There were artillery discharges from the intrenchments; but the Cossack balls, striking their own men as well as the enemy, increased the disorder. The hussars struck upon the Pashkoff kuren, which formed the guard of the hetman, in the centre of which was Hmelnitski himself. Suddenly a fearful cry was heard through all the Cossack ranks. The great red standard had tottered and fallen. But at that moment Krechovski, at the head of his five thousand Cossacks, rushed to the fight. Sitting on an enormous cream-colored horse, he flew on in the first rank, without a cap, a sabre above his head, gathering before him the disordered Zaporojians, who, seeing the approaching succor, though without order, returned to the attack. The battle raged again in the centre of the line. On both flanks fortune in like manner failed Hmelnitski. The Tartars, repulsed twice by the Wallachian regiments and Pototski's Cossacks, lost all eagerness for the fight. Two horses were killed under Tugai Bey. Victory inclined continually to the side of young Pototski. But the battle did not last long. The rain, which for some time had been increasing every moment, soon became so violent that through the rush of water nothing could be seen. Not streams, but torrents of rain fell on the ground from the open flood-gates of heaven. The steppe was turned into a lake. It grew so dark that one man could not distinguish another at a few paces' distance. The noise of the storm drowned the words of command. The wet muskets and guns grew silent. Heaven itself put an end to the slaughter. Hmelnitski, drenched to the skin, furious, rushed into his camp. He spoke not a word to any man. A tent of camelskin was pitched, under which, hiding himself, he sat alone with his sad thoughts. Despair seized him. He understood at last what work he had begun. See! he is beaten, repulsed, almost broken, in a battle with such a small force that it could be properly considered as a scouting party. He knew how great was the power of resistance in the armies of the Commonwealth, and he took that into account when he ventured on a war. And still he had failed in his reckoning,--so at least it seemed to him at that moment. Therefore he seized himself by his shaven head, and wished to break it against the first cannon he saw. What would the resistance be at his meeting with the hetmans and the whole Commonwealth? His thoughts were interrupted by the entrance of Tugai Bey. The eyes of the Tartar were blazing with rage; his face was pale, and his teeth glittered from behind his lips, unhidden by mustaches. "Where is the booty, where the prisoners, where the heads of the leaders,--where is victory?" asked he, in a hoarse voice. Hmelnitski sprang from his place. "There!" answered he loudly, pointing to the Polish camp. "Go there, then!" roared Tugai Bey; "and if you don't go, I will drag you by a rope to the Crimea." "I will go," said Hmelnitski,--"I will go to-day! I will take booty and prisoners; but you shall give answer to the Khan, for you want booty and you avoid battle." "Dog!" howled Tugai Bey, "you are destroying the army of the Khan!" For a moment they stood snorting in front of each other. Hmelnitski regained his composure first. "Tugai Bey," said he, "be not disturbed! Rain interrupted the battle, just as Krechovski was breaking the dragoons. I know them! They will fight with less fury to-morrow. The steppe will be mud to the bottom. The hussars will be beaten. To-morrow everything will be ours." "That's your word!" blurted out Tugai Bey. "And I will keep it. Tugai Bey, my friend, the Khan sent you for my assistance, not for my misfortune." "You prophesied victory, not defeat." "A few prisoners of the dragoons are taken; I will give them to you." "Let me have them. I will order them to be empaled." "Don't do that. Give them their liberty. They are men from the Ukraine, from Balaban's regiment. I will send them to bring the dragoons over to our side. It will be with them as with Krechovski." Tugai Bey was satisfied; he glanced quickly at Hmelnitski, and muttered: "Serpent!" "Craft is the equal of courage. If we persuade the dragoons to our side, not a man of the Poles will escape,--you understand!" "I will have Pototski." "I will give him to you, and Charnetski also." "Let me have some vudka now, for it is cold." "Agreed." At that moment entered Krechovski. The colonel was as gloomy as night. His future starostaships, dignities, castles, and wealth were covered as if with a fog. To-morrow they may disappear altogether, and perhaps out of that fog will rise in their place a rope or a gibbet. Were it not that the colonel had burned the bridges in his rear by destroying the Germans, he would surely have begun to think how to betray Hmelnitski in his turn, and go over with his Cossacks to Pototski's camp. But that was impossible now. The three sat down, therefore, to a decanter of vudka, and began to drink in silence. The noise of the rain ceased gradually. It was growing dark. Skshetuski, exhausted from joy, weak and pale, lay motionless in the telega. Zakhar, who had become attached to him, ordered the Cossacks to put a little felt roof over him. The lieutenant listened to the dreary sound of the rain, but in his soul it was clear, bright, and joyful. Behold, his hussars had shown what they could do; his Commonwealth had shown a resistance worthy of its majesty; the first impetus of the Cossack storm had broken on the sharp spears of the royal army. And besides there are the hetmans, there is also Prince Yeremi, and so many lords, so many nobles, so much power, and above all these the king, _primus inter pares_. Pride expanded the breast of Skshetuski, as if at that moment it contained all that power. In feeling this, he felt, for the first time since he had lost his freedom in the Saitch, a certain pity for the Cossacks; they were guilty, but blinded, since they tried to go to the sun on a spade. They were guilty, but unfortunate, since they allowed themselves to be carried away by one man, who is leading them to evident destruction. Then his thoughts wandered farther. Peace would come, when every one would have the right to think of his own private happiness. Then in memory and spirit he hovers above Rozlogi. There, near the lion's den, it must be as quiet as the falling of poppy-seeds. There the rebellion will never raise its head; and though it should, Helena is already in Lubni beyond a doubt. Suddenly the roar of cannon disturbed the golden thread of his thoughts. Hmelnitski, after drinking, led his regiments again to the attack. But it ended with the play of cannon-firing. Krechovski restrained the hetman. The next morning was Sunday. The whole day passed quietly and without a shot. The camps lay opposite each other, like the camps of two allied armies. Skshetuski attributed that silence to the discouragement of the Cossacks. Alas! he did not know that then Hmelnitski, "looking forward with the many eyes of his mind," was occupied in bringing Balaban's dragoons to his side. On Monday the battle began at daybreak. Pan Yan looked on it, as on the first one, with a smiling, happy face. And again the regiments of the crown came out before the intrenchment; but this time, not rushing to the attack, they opposed the enemy where they stood. The steppe had grown soft, not on the surface only, as during the first day of the battle, but to its depths. The heavy cavalry could scarcely move; this gave a great preponderance at once to the flying regiments of the Cossacks and the Tartars. The smile vanished gradually from the lieutenant's lips. At the Polish intrenchment the avalanche of attack covered completely the narrow line of the Polish regiments. It appeared as if that chain might break at any moment, and the attack begin directly on the intrenchments. Skshetuski did not observe half of the spirit or warlike readiness with which the regiments fought on the first day. They defended themselves with stubbornness, but did not strike first, did not crush the kurens to the earth, did not sweep the field like a hurricane. The soft soil had rendered fury impossible, and in fact fastened the heavy cavalry to its place in front of the intrenchment. Impetus was the power of the cavalry, and decided victories; but this time the cavalry was forced to remain on one spot. Hmelnitski, on the contrary, led new regiments every moment to the battle. He was present everywhere. He led each kuren personally to the attack, and withdrew only before the sabres of the enemy. His ardor was communicated gradually to the Zaporojians, who, though they fell in large numbers, rushed to the attack with shouts and cries. They struck the wall of iron breasts and sharp spears, and beaten, decimated, returned again to the attack. Under this weight the regiments began to waver, to disappear, and in places to retreat, just as an athlete caught in the iron arms of an opponent grows weak, then struggles, and strains every nerve. Before midday nearly all the forces of the Zaporojians had been under fire and in battle. The fight raged with such stubbornness that between the two lines of combatants a new wall, as it were, was formed of the bodies of horses and men. Every little while, from the battle to the Cossack intrenchments came crowds of wounded men,--bloody, covered with mud, panting, falling from weakness,--but they came with songs on their lips. Fainting, they still cried, "To the death!" The garrison left in the camp was impatient for the fight. Pan Yan hung his head. The Polish regiments began to retreat from the field to the intrenchment. They were unable to hold out, and a feverish haste was observable in their retreat. At the sight of this twenty thousand mouths and more gave forth a shout of joy, and redoubled the attack. The Zaporojians sprang upon the Cossacks of Pototski, who covered the retreat. But the cannon and a shower of musket-balls drove them back. The battle ceased for a moment. In the Polish camp a trumpet for parley was sounded. Hmelnitski, however, did not wish to parley. Twelve kurens slipped from their horses to storm the breastworks on foot, with the infantry and Tartars. Krechovski, with three thousand infantry, was coming to their aid in the decisive moment. All the drums, trumpets, and kettledrums sounded at once, drowning the shouts and salvos of musketry. Skshetuski looked with trembling upon the deep ranks of the peerless Zaporojian infantry rushing to the breastworks and surrounding them with an ever-narrowing circle. Long streaks of white smoke were blown out at it from the breastworks, as if some gigantic bosom were striving to blow away the locusts closing in upon it inexorably from every side. Cannon-balls dug furrows in it; the firing of musketry did not weaken for a moment. Swarms melted before the eye; the circle quivered in places like a wounded snake, but went on. Already they are coming! They are under the breastworks! The cannon can hurt them no longer! Skshetuski closed his eyes. And now questions flew through his head as swift as lightning: When he opens his eyes will he see the Polish banners on the breastwork? Will he see--or will he not see? There is some unusual tumult increasing every moment. Something must have happened? The shouts come from the centre of the camp. What is it? What has happened? "All-powerful God!" That cry was forced from the mouth of Pan Yan when opening his eyes he saw on the battlements the crimson standard with the archangel, instead of the golden banner of the crown. The camp was captured. In the evening he learned from Zakhar of the whole course of the storm. Not in vain had Tugai Bey called Hmelnitski a serpent; for in the moment of most desperate defence the dragoons of Balaban, talked over by the hetman, joined the Cossacks, and hurling themselves on the rear of their own regiments, aided in cutting them to pieces. In the evening the lieutenant saw the prisoners, and was present at the death of young Pototski, who, having his throat pierced by an arrow, lived only a few hours after the battle, and died in the arms of Stephen Charnetski: "Tell my father," whispered the young castellan in his last moments,--"tell my father--that--like a knight--" He could add no more. His soul left the body and flew to heaven. Pan Yan long after remembered that pale face and those blue eyes gazing upward in the moment of death. Charnetski made a vow over the cold body to expiate the death of his friend and the disgrace of defeat in torrents of blood, should God give him freedom. And not a tear flowed over his stern face, for he was a knight of iron, greatly famed already for deeds of daring, and known as a man whom no misfortune could bend. He kept the vow. Instead of yielding to despair, he strengthened Pan Yan, who was suffering greatly from the disgrace and defeat of the Commonwealth. "The Commonwealth has passed through more than one defeat," said Charnetski, "but she contains within her inexhaustible force. No power has broken her as yet, and she will not be broken by a sedition of serfs, whom God himself will punish, since by rising up against authority, they are putting themselves against his will. As to defeat, true, it is sad; but who have endured defeat?--the hetmans, the forces of the crown? No! After the defection and treason of Krechovski, the division which Pototski led could be considered only an advance guard. The uprising will spread undoubtedly through the whole Ukraine, for the serfs there are insolent and trained to fighting; but an uprising in that part is no novelty. The hetmans will quell it, with Prince Yeremi, whose power stands unshaken as yet; the more violent the outburst, when once put down, the longer will be the peace, which may last perhaps forever. He would be a man of little faith and a small heart, who could admit that some Cossack leader, in company with one Tartar murza, could really threaten a mighty people. Evil would it be with the Commonwealth, if a simple outbreak of serfs could be made a question of its fate or its existence. In truth we did set out contemptuously on this expedition," said Charnetski; "and though our division is rubbed out, I believe that the hetmans are able to put down this rebellion, not with the sword, not with armor, but with clubs." And while he was speaking in this manner, it seemed that not a captive, not a soldier after a lost battle was speaking, but a proud hetman, certain of victory on the morrow. This greatness of soul and faith in the Commonwealth flowed like balsam over the wounds of the lieutenant. He had had a near view of the power of Hmelnitski, therefore it blinded him somewhat, especially since success had followed it to that moment. But Charnetski must be right. The forces of the hetmans were still intact, and behind them stood the power of the Commonwealth, the rights of authority, and the will of God. The lieutenant therefore went away strengthened in soul and more cheerful. When going he asked Charnetski if he did not wish to begin negotiations for his freedom with Hmelnitski at once. "I am the captive of Tugai Bey," said Charnetski; "to him I will pay my ransom. But with that fellow Hmelnitski I will have nothing to do; I give him to the hangman." Zakhar, who had made it easy for Skshetuski to see the prisoners, comforted him while returning to the telega. "Not with young Pototski, but with the hetmans is the difficulty. The struggle is only begun, but what will be the end, God knows! The Cossacks and Tartars have taken Polish treasure, it is true, but it is one thing to take and another to keep. And you, my child, do not grieve, do not despair, for you will get your freedom in time. You will go to your own people, and I, old man, shall be sorry for you. It is sad for an old man alone in the world. With the hetmans it will be hard, oh, how hard!" In truth the victory, though brilliant, did not in the least decide the struggle for Hmelnitski. It might even be unfavorable for him, because it was easy to foresee that now the Grand Hetman, to avenge his son, would press upon the Cossacks with special stubbornness, and would leave nothing undone to break them at once. The Grand Hetman, however, cherished a certain dislike for Prince Yeremi, which, though veiled with politeness, was still evident enough in various circumstances. Hmelnetski, knowing this perfectly, admitted that now this dislike would cease, and Pototski would first reach out his hand in reconciliation, which would secure for him the assistance of a famous warrior and his powerful troops. With such forces united under a leader like the prince, Hmelnitski did not dare yet to measure strength, for he had not yet sufficient confidence in himself. He determined therefore to hasten, and together with the news of the defeat of Jóltiya Vodi, appear in the Ukraine, and strike the hetmans before the succor of the prince could arrive. He gave no rest to his troops, therefore, but at daybreak after the battle hurried on. The march was as rapid as if the hetman were fleeing. It was as if an inundation were covering the steppe and rushing forward, collecting all the waters on the way. Forests, oak-groves, grave-mounds were avoided; rivers were crossed without halting. The Cossack forces increased on the road, for new crowds of peasants fleeing from the Ukraine were added to them continually. They brought news of the hetmans, but contradictory. Some said that Prince Yeremi was yet beyond the Dnieper; others that he had joined the forces of the crown. But all declared that the Ukraine was already on fire. The peasants were not only fleeing to meet Hmelnitski in the Wilderness, but burning villages and towns, throwing themselves on their masters, and arming everywhere. The forces of the crown had been fightings for the past two weeks. Stebloff was destroyed; at Derenhovtsi a bloody battle had been fought. The town Cossacks in various places went over to the side of the people, and at all points were merely waiting for the word. Hmelnitski had reckoned on all this, and hastened the more. At last he stood on the threshold. Chigirin opened wide her gates. The Cossack garrison went over at once to his regiments. The house of Chaplinski was wrecked; a handful of nobles, seeking refuge in the town, were cut to pieces. Joyful shouts, ringing of bells, and processions ceased not for a moment. The whole region flamed up at once. All living men, seizing scythes and pikes, joined the Zaporojians; endless crowds hastened to the camp from every side. There came also joyful, because certain, tidings that Yeremi had indeed offered his assistance to the hetmans, but had not yet joined them. Hmelnitski felt relieved. He moved on without delay, and advanced through insurrection, slaughter, and fire. Ruin and corpses bore witness to this. He advanced like an avalanche, destroying everything in his path. The country rose before him, and was a desert behind. He went like an avenger, like a legendary dragon; his footsteps pressed out blood, his breath kindled conflagrations. In Cherkasi he halted with his main forces, sending in advance the Tartars under Tugai Bey and the wild Krívonos, who came up with the Polish hetmans at Korsún and attacked them without delay. The Tartars were forced to pay dearly for their boldness. Repulsed, decimated, scattered, they retreated in confusion. Hmelnitski hurried to their aid. On the way news reached him that Senyavski with some regiments had joined the hetmans, who had left Korsún, and were marching on Boguslav. This was true. Hmelnitski occupied Korsún without resistance, and leaving there his trains and provisions, in a word, his whole camp, hurried after them. He had no need to follow long, for they had not gone far. At Krutaya Balka his advance guard came upon the Polish camp. It was not given to Skshetuski to see the battle, for he remained in Korsún with the camp. Zakhar lodged him on the square, in the house of Zabokshytski, whom the crowd had already hanged, and placed a guard from the remnants of the Mirgorod kuren; for the crowd robbed continually, and killed every man who seemed to them a Pole. Through the broken windows Skshetuski saw the multitude of drunken peasants, bloody, with rolled-up shirt-sleeves, going from house to house, from cellar to cellar, and searching all corners, garrets, lofts; from time to time a terrible noise announced that a nobleman, a Jew, a man, a woman, or a child had been found. The victim was dragged to the square and gloated over in the most fearful manner. The crowd fought with one another for the remnants of the bodies; with delight they rubbed the blood on their faces and breasts, and wound the still steaming entrails around their necks. They seized little Jews by the legs and tore them apart amid the wild laughter of the mob. They rushed upon houses surrounded by guards in which distinguished captives were confined,--left living because large ransoms were expected from them. Then the Zaporojians or the Tartars standing guard repulsed the crowd, thumping the assailants on the heads with their pikestaffs, bows, or ox-hide whips. Such was the case before the house where Skshetuski was. Zakhar gave orders to handle the crowd without mercy, and the Mirgorod men executed the order with pleasure; for the men of the lower country received the assistance of the mob willingly in time of insurrection, but had more contempt for them than they had for the nobility. It was not in vain therefore that they called themselves "nobly born Cossacks." Later Hmelnitski himself presented more than once considerable numbers of the mob to the Tartar, who drove them to the Crimea, where they were sold into Turkey and Asia Minor. The crowd rioted on the square, and reached such wild disorder that at last they began to kill one another. The day was drawing to an end. One side of the square and the priest's house were on fire. Fortunately the wind blew the fire toward the field, and prevented the extension of the conflagration. But the gigantic flame lighted up the square as brightly as the sun's rays. The excitement became too great for restraint. From a distance came the terrible roar of cannon; it was evident that the battle at Krutaya Balka was growing fiercer and fiercer. "It must be pretty hot for ours there," muttered old Zakhar. "The hetmans are not trifling. Ah! Pan Pototski is a real soldier." Then he pointed through the window at the crowd. "Oh!" said he, "they are revelling now; but if Hmelnitski is beaten, then there will be revelling over them." At that moment the tramp of cavalry was heard, and a number of riders rushed to the square on foaming horses. Their faces black from powder, their clothes torn, and the heads of some of them bound in rags showed that they had hurried straightway from battle. "People who believe in God, save yourselves! The Poles are beating ours!" they cried in loud voices. Tumult and disorder followed. The multitude moved like a wave tossed by the wind. Suddenly wild dismay possessed all. They rushed to escape; but the streets were blocked with wagons, one part of the square was on fire, there was no place for flight. The crowd began to press and cry, to beat, choke one another, and howl for mercy, though the enemy was far away. The lieutenant, when he heard what was taking place, grew almost wild from joy. He began to run through the room like a madman, to beat his breast with his hands with all his power, and to cry,-- "I knew that it would be so! As I am alive, I knew it! This is the meeting with the hetmans, with the whole Commonwealth! The hour of punishment has come! What is this?" Again resounded the tramp; and this time several hundred Tartar horsemen appeared on the square. They rushed on at random. The crowd stopped the way before them. They rushed at the crowd, struck, beat, and dispersed it; they lashed their horses, urging them on to the road leading to Cherkasi. "They run like a whirlwind," said Zakhar. Scarcely had Skshetuski moved when a second division flew by, and after that a third. The flight seemed to be general. The guards before the houses began to grow uneasy, and also to show a wish to escape. Zakhar hurried through the porch. "Halt!" cried he to the Mirgorod men. Smoke, heat, disorder, the tramping of horses, sounds of alarm, the howling of the crowd in the light of the conflagration, were blended in one fearful picture on which the lieutenant gazed through the window. "What a defeat there must be! what a defeat!" cried he to Zakhar, not considering that the latter could not share his delight. Now a new division of fugitives rushed by like lightning. The thunder of cannon shook the houses of Korsún to their foundations. Suddenly a shrieking voice began to cry right there at the house,-- "Save yourselves! Hmelnitski is killed! Hmelnitski is killed! Tugai Bey is killed!" On the square there was a real end of the world. People in terror rushed into the flames. The lieutenant fell upon his knees, raised his hands to heaven,-- "Oh, almighty, great, and just God, praise to thee in the highest!" Zakhar interrupted his prayer, running into the room from the antechamber. "Come now," said he, panting, "come and promise pardon to the Mirgorod men, for they wish to go away; and if they go, the crowd will fall upon us." Skshetuski went out to the porch. The Mirgorod men were moving around unquietly before the house, exhibiting a firm determination to leave the place and flee by the road leading to Cherkasi. Fear had taken possession of every one in the town. Each moment new crowds came, fleeing, as if on wings, from the direction of Krutáya Balka,--peasants, Tartars, town Cossacks, Zaporojians, in the greatest disorder. And still Hmelnitski's principal forces must be fighting yet. The battle could not be entirely decided, for the cannon were thundering with redoubled force. Skshetuski turned to the Mirgorod men. "Because you have guarded my person well," said he, loftily, "you need no flight to save yourselves, for I promise you intercession and favor with the hetman." The Mirgorod men uncovered their heads. Pan Yan put his hands on his hips, and looked proudly on the square, which grew emptier each moment. What a change of fate! Here is the lieutenant, a short time since a captive, dragged after the Cossack camp; now he has become among insolent Cossacks as a lord among subjects, as a noble among peasants, as an armored hussar among camp-followers. He, a captive, has now promised favor, and heads are uncovered in his presence, while submissive voices cry with that prolonged tone indicating fear and obedience,-- "Show favor to us, lord!" "It will be as I have said," returned the lieutenant. He was indeed sure of the efficacy of his intercession with the hetman, with whom he was acquainted, for he had often borne letters to him from Prince Yeremi, and knew how to secure his favor. He stood, therefore, with his hands on his hips; and joy was on his face, lighted up with the blaze of the conflagration. "Behold! the war is at an end, the wave is broken at the threshold!" thought he. "Pan Charnetski was right: the forces of the Commonwealth are unexhausted, its power unbroken." When he thought of this, pride swelled his breast,--not ignoble pride, coming from a hoped-for satisfaction of vengeance, from the conquest of an enemy; not the gaining of freedom, which now he expected every moment; nor because caps were removed before him; but he felt proud because he was a son of that victorious and mighty Commonwealth, against whose gates every malice, every attack, every blow, is broken and crushed like the powers of hell against the gates of heaven. He felt proud, as a patriotic nobleman, that he had received strength in his despondency, and was not deceived in his faith. He desired no revenge. "She has conquered like a queen, she will forgive like a mother," thought he. Meanwhile the roar of cannon was changed to prolonged thunder. Horses' hoofs clattered again over the empty streets. A Cossack, bareheaded and in his shirt-sleeves, dashed into the square on a barebacked horse, with the speed of a thunderbolt; his face, cut open with a sword, was streaming with blood. He reined in the horse, stretched forth his hands, and when he had taken breath, with open mouth began to cry,-- "Hmelnitski is beating the Poles! The serene great mighty lords, the hetmans and colonels, are conquered,--the knights and the cavalry!" When he had said this, he reeled and fell to the ground. The men of Mirgorod sprang to assist him. Flame and pallor passed over the face of Skshetuski. "What does he say?" asked he feverishly of Zakhar. "What has happened? It cannot be. By the living God, it cannot be!" Silence! Only the hissing of flames on the opposite side of the square, shaking out clusters of sparks, and from time to time a burnt house falls with a crash. Now more couriers rush in. "Beaten are the Poles,--beaten!" After them follow a detachment of Tartars. They march slowly, for they surround men on foot, evidently prisoners. Skshetuski believes not his own eyes. He recognizes perfectly on the prisoners the uniform of the hetmans' hussars; then he drops his hands, and with a wild, strange voice repeats persistently, "It cannot be! it cannot be!" The roar of cannon was still to be heard. The battle was not finished, but through all the unburnt streets Zaporojians and Tartars were crowding in, their faces black, their breasts heaving, but they were coming as if intoxicated, singing songs. Thus return soldiers from victory. The lieutenant grew pale as a corpse. "It cannot be!" repeated he in a hoarser voice,--"it cannot be! The Commonwealth--" A new object arrested his attention. Krechovski's Cossacks enter the town, bringing bundles of flags. They come to the centre of the square, and throw them down. Polish flags! The roar of the artillery weakens, and in the distance is heard the rumble of approaching wagons. One of them is in advance,--a lofty Cossack telega, and after it a line of others, all surrounded by Cossacks of the Pashkoff kuren, in yellow caps; they pass near the house where the Mirgorod men are standing. Skshetuski put his hand over his eyes, for the glare of the burning blinded him, and looked at the prisoners sitting in the first wagon. Suddenly he sprang back, began to beat the air with his hands, like a man struck with an arrow in the breast, and from his lips came a terrible unearthly cry: "Jesus, Mary! the hetmans!" He dropped into the arms of Zakhar; his eyes became leaden, his face grew stiff and rigid as that of a corpse. A few minutes later three horsemen rode into the square of Korsún, at the head of countless regiments. The middle rider, in red uniform, sat on a white horse, holding a gilded baton at his side. He looked as proud as a king. This was Hmelnitski. On one side of him rode Tugai Bey, on the other Krechovski. The Commonwealth lay prostrate in dust and blood at the feet of a Cossack. CHAPTER XVI. Some days passed by. It appeared to men as if the vault of heaven had suddenly dropped on the Commonwealth. Jóltiya Vodi; Korsún; the destruction of the armies of the crown, ever victorious hitherto in struggles with the Cossacks; the capture of the hetmans; the awful conflagration in the whole Ukraine; slaughters, murders, unheard of since the beginning of the world,--all these came so suddenly that men almost refused to believe that so many misfortunes could come upon one land at a time. Many, in fact, did not believe it; some became helpless from terror, some lost their senses, some prophesied the coming of antichrist and the approach of the day of judgment. All social ties were severed; all intercourse between people and families was interrupted. Every authority ceased; distinction of persons vanished. Hell had freed from its chains all crimes, and let them out on the world to revel; therefore murder, pillage, perfidy, brutality, violence, robbery, frenzy, took the place of labor, uprightness, and conscience. It seemed as though henceforth people would live not through good, but through evil; that the hearts and intentions of men had become inverted, and that they held as sacred that which hitherto had been infamous, and that as infamous which hitherto had been sacred. The sun shone no longer upon the earth, for it was hidden by the smoke of conflagrations; in the night, instead of stars and moon, shone the light of fires. Towns, villages, churches, palaces, forests, went up in flames. People ceased to converse; they only groaned or howled like dogs. Life lost its value. Thousands perished without an echo, without remembrance. And from out all these calamities, deaths, groans, smoke, and burnings, there rose only one man. Every moment loftier and higher, every moment more terribly gigantic, he wellnigh obscured the light of day, and cast his shadow from sea to sea. That man was Bogdan Hmelnitski. A hundred and twenty thousand men, armed and drunk with victory, stood ready at his nod. The mob had risen on all sides; the Cossacks of the towns joined him in every place. The country from the Pripet to the borders of the Wilderness was on fire. The insurrection extended in the provinces of Rus, Podolia, Volynia, Bratslav, Kieff, and Chernigoff. The power of the hetman increased each day. Never had the Commonwealth opposed to its most terrible enemy half the forces which he then commanded. The German emperor had not equal numbers in readiness. The storm surpassed every expectation. The hetman himself did not recognize at first his own power, and did not understand how he had risen so high. He shielded himself yet with justice, legality, and loyalty to the Commonwealth, for he did not know then that he might trample upon these expressions as empty phrases; but as his forces grew there rose in him that immeasurable, unconscious egotism the equal of which is not presented by history. The understanding of good and evil, of virtue and vice, of violence and justice, were confounded in the soul of Hmelnitski with the understanding of injuries done him, or with his personal profit. That man was honorable who was with him; that man was a criminal who was against him. He was ready to complain of the sun, and to count it as a personal injustice if sunshine were not given at his demand. Men, events, nay, the whole world, he measured with his own _ego_. But in spite of all the cunning, all the hypocrisy of the hetman, there was a kind of deformed good faith in this theory of his. All Hmelnitski's crimes flowed from this theory, but his good deeds as well; for if he knew no bounds in his cruelty and tyranny to an enemy, he knew how to be thankful for every even involuntary service which was rendered him. Only when he was drunk did he forget even good deeds, and bellowing with fury, with foam on his lips, issue bloody orders, for which he grieved afterward. And in proportion as his success grew, was he oftener drunk, for unquiet took increasing possession of him. It would seem that triumph carried him to heights which he did not wish to occupy. His power amazed other men, but it amazed himself too. The gigantic hand of rebellion seized and bore him on with the swiftness of lightning and inexorably. But whither? How was all this to end? Commencing sedition in the name of his own wrongs, that Cossack diplomat might calculate that after his first successes, or even after defeats, he could begin negotiations; that forgiveness would be offered him, satisfaction and recompense for injustice and injuries. He knew the Commonwealth intimately,--its patience, inexhaustible as the sea; its compassion, knowing neither bounds nor measure, which flowed not merely from weakness, for pardon was offered Nalivaika when he was surrounded and lost. But after the victory at Jóltiya Vodi, after the destruction of the hetmans, after the kindling of civil war in all the southern provinces, affairs had gone too far. Events had surpassed all expectations, and now the struggle must be for life and death. To whose side would victory incline? [Illustration: VLADISLAV IV., KING OF POLAND.] _From an engraving by Moncornet_. Hmelnitski inquired of soothsayers, took counsel of the stars, and strained his eyes into the future, but saw nothing ahead save darkness. At times, therefore, an awful unquiet raised the hairs on his head, and in his breast despair raged like a whirlwind. What will be?--what will be? For Hmelnitski, observing more closely than others, understood at once, better than many, that the Commonwealth knew not how to use its own forces,--was unconscious of them,--but had tremendous power. If the right man should grasp that power in his hand, who could stand against him? And who could guess whether terrible danger, the nearness of the precipice and destruction, might not put an end to broils, internal dissensions, private grievances, rivalries of magnates, wrangling, the babbling of the Diets, the license of the nobility, and the weakness of the king? Then a half-million of escutcheoned warriors alone could move to the field, and crush Hmelnitski, even if he were aided not only by the Khan of the Crimea, but by the Sultan of Turkey himself. Of this slumbering power of the Commonwealth the late King Vladislav was aware, as well as Hmelnitski; and therefore he labored all his life to initiate a mortal struggle with the greatest potentate on earth, for only in this way could that power be called into life. In accordance with this conviction, the king did not hesitate to throw sparks on the Cossack powder. Were the Cossacks really destined to cause that inundation, in order to be overwhelmed in it at last? Hmelnitski understood, too, that in spite of all the weakness of the Commonwealth its resistance was tremendous. Against this Commonwealth, so disorderly, ill-united, insubordinate, the Turkish waves, the most terrible of all were broken as against a cliff. Thus it was at Khotím which he saw almost with his own eyes. That Commonwealth, even in times of weakness, planted its standards on the walls of foreign capitals. What resistance will it offer, what will it not do when brought to despair, when it must either die or conquer? In view of this, every triumph of Hmelnitski was to him a new danger, for it hastened the moment when the sleeping lion would wake, and brought negotiations nearer the impossible. In every victory lay a future defeat, and in every intoxication bitterness at the bottom. After the storm of the Cossacks would come the storm of the Commonwealth. Already it seemed to Hmelnitski that he heard its dull and distant roar. Behold, from Great Poland, Prussia, populous Mazovia, Little Poland, and Lithuania will come crowds of warriors! They need but a leader. Hmelnitski had taken the hetmans captive, but in that good fortune there lurked also an ambush of fate. The hetmans were experienced warriors, but no one of them was the man demanded by that period of tempest, terror, and distress. The leader at that time could be but one man. That man was Prince Yeremi Vishnyevetski. Just because the hetmans had gone into captivity the choice would be likely to fall on the prince. Hmelnitski in common with all had no doubt of this. Meanwhile news flew from beyond the Dnieper to Korsún, where the Zaporojian hetman had stopped to rest after the battle, that the terrible prince had started for Lubni; that on the road he was stamping out rebellion; that after his passage villages, hamlets, towns, farmhouses, had vanished, and the places in which they had been were bristling with bloody impaling-stakes and gibbets. Terror doubled and trebled the number of his forces; it was said that he led fifteen thousand of the choicest troops to be found in the Commonwealth. In the Cossack camp, shortly after the battle at Krutaya Balka, the cry, "Yeremi is coming!" was heard among the Cossacks and spread a panic among the mob, who began to run away unreasoningly. This alarm astonished Hmelnitski greatly. He had his choice then,--either to march with all his power against the prince and seek him beyond the Dnieper, or, leaving a part of his forces to capture the castles of the Ukraine, move into the heart of the Commonwealth. An expedition against the prince was not without danger, Hmelnitski, in spite of the preponderance of his forces, might suffer defeat in a general engagement, and then all would be lost at once. The mob, who composed the great majority, gave evidence that they would flee at the very name of Yeremi. Time was necessary to change this mob into an army capable of facing the regiments of the prince. Besides, Yeremi would not be likely to accept a general battle, but would be content with defence in castles and partisan war which might last entire months, if not years, and by that time the Commonwealth would surely collect new forces and move to reinforce him. Hmelnitski therefore determined to leave Vishnyevetski beyond the Dnieper, strengthen himself in the Ukraine, organize his power, then march on the Commonwealth and force it to terms. He calculated that the suppression of the rebellion on the east of the Dnieper alone would occupy for a long time all the forces of the prince, and leave a free field to himself. He hoped therefore to foment rebellion by sending single regiments to aid the mob, and finally he thought it would be possible to deceive the prince by negotiations, and retard matters by waiting till the power of Vishnyevetski should be broken. In view of this he remembered Pan Yan. Some days after Krutaya Balka, and on the very day of the alarm of the mob, he had Skshetuski called before him. He received him in the house of the starosta, in presence of Krechovski only, who was long known to Skshetuski; and after he had greeted him kindly, though not without a lofty air corresponding to his present position, he said,-- "Lieutenant Skshetuski, for the kindness which you have shown me I have ransomed you from Tugai Bey and promised you freedom. Now the hour has come. I give you this baton of a colonel to secure a free passage, in case any of the forces should meet you, and a guard for protection against the mob. You may return to your prince." Skshetuski was silent; no smile of joy appeared on his face. "But are you able to take the road, for I see that illness of some kind is looking out through your eyes?" Pan Yan, in truth, seemed like a shadow. Wounds and recent events had weakened the young giant, who looked as though he could give no promise of surviving till the morrow. His face had grown yellow, and the black beard, long untrimmed, added to the wretchedness of his appearance. This rose from internal suffering. The knight's heart was almost broken. Dragged after the Tartar camp, he had been a witness of all that had happened since they issued from the Saitch. He had seen the defeat and disgrace of the Commonwealth, and the hetmans in captivity; he had seen the Cossack's triumph, pyramids of heads cut from fallen soldiers, noblemen hanged by the ribs, the breasts of women cut off, and maidens dishonored; he had seen the despair of daring and the baseness of fear; he had seen everything, endured everything, and suffered the more because the thought was in his bosom and brain, like the stab of a knife, that he himself was the remote cause, for he and no other had cut Hmelnitski loose from the lariat. But was a Christian knight to suppose that succor given one's neighbor could bring such fruit? His pain therefore was beyond measure. When he asked himself what was happening to Helena, and when he thought what might happen if an evil fate should keep her in Rozlogi, he stretched his hands to heaven and cried in a voice in which quivered deep despair, almost a threat: "God! take my life, for I am punished beyond my deserts!" Then he saw that he was blaspheming, fell on his face, and prayed for salvation, for forgiveness, for mercy on his country and that innocent dove, who maybe had called in vain for God's help and his. In one word, he had suffered so much beyond his power that the freedom granted did not rejoice him; and that Zaporojian hetman, that conqueror who wished to be magnanimous by showing his favor, made no impression upon him at all. Seeing this, Hmelnitski frowned and said,-- "Hasten to take advantage of my favor, lest I change my mind; for it is my kindness and belief in a just cause which makes me so careless as to provide an enemy for myself, for I know well that you will fight against me." To which Skshetuski answered: "If God gives me strength." And he gazed at Hmelnitski, till he looked into the depth of his soul. The hetman, unable to endure the gaze, cast his eyes to the ground, and after a moment said,-- "Enough of this! I am too powerful to be troubled by one sick man. Tell the prince your lord what you have seen, and warn him to be less insolent; for if my patience fails I will visit him beyond the Dnieper, and I do not think my visit will be pleasant to him." Skshetuski was silent. "I say, and repeat once more," added Hmelnitski, "I am carrying on war, not with the Commonwealth, but with the kinglets; and the prince is in the first rank among them. He is an enemy to me and to the Russian people, an apostate from our church, and a savage tyrant. I hear that he is quelling the uprising in blood; let him see to it that he does not spill his own." Thus speaking, he became more and more excited, till the blood began to rush to his face, and his eyes flashed fire. It was evident that one of those paroxysms of anger and rage in which he lost his memory and presence of mind altogether was seizing him. "I will command Krívonos to bring him with a rope!" cried he. "I will trample him under foot, and mount my horse on his back!" Skshetuski looked down on the raging Hmelnitski, and then said calmly: "Conquer him first." "Hetman," said Krechovski, "let this insolent noble go his way, for it does not become your dignity to be affected by anger against him; and since you have promised him freedom he calculates that either you will break your word or listen to his invectives." Hmelnitski bethought himself, panted awhile, then said,-- "Let him go then, and give him a baton, as I have said, and forty Tartars, who will take him to his own camp, so that he may know that Hmelnitski returns good for good." Then turning to Pan Yan, he added: "You know that we are even now. I liked you in spite of your insolence, but if you fall into my hands again you will not escape." Skshetuski went out with Krechovski. "Since the hetman has let you off with your life," said Krechovski, "and you can go where you please, I tell you, for old acquaintance' sake, to seek safety in Warsaw rather than beyond the Dnieper, for you will not leave there alive. Your time has passed. If you were wise you would come to our side, but I know that it is useless to tell you this. You would rise as high as we." "To the gallows," muttered Skshetuski. "They would not give me the starostaship of Lita, but now I can take, not only one, but ten such places. We will drive out the Konyetspolskis, Kalinovskis, Pototskis, Lyubomirskis, Vishnyevetskis, Zaslavskis, and all the nobility, and divide their estates; which must be according to the will of God, for he has already given us two great victories." Pan Yan was thinking of something else, and did not hear the prating of the colonel, who continued,-- "When after the battle I saw the high mighty hetman of the crown, my lord and benefactor, bound in Tugai Bey's quarters, and he was pleased immediately to call me a Judas and unthankful, I answered him: 'Serene, great voevoda! I am not unthankful, for when I shall be in possession of your castles and property, I will make you my under-starosta if you will promise not to get drunk.' Oh, ho! Tugai Bey will get ransom for those birds that he has caught, and therefore he spares them; were it not for that, Hmelnitski and I would talk differently to them. But see! the wagon is ready for you and the Tartars are on hand. Where do you wish to go?" "To Chigirin." "'As thou makest thy bed, so wilt thou sleep.' The Tartars will conduct you even to Lubni, for such are their orders. See, however, that your prince does not have them impaled, as he surely would Cossacks. This is why Tartars are given to you. The hetman has ordered that your horse be given you. Farewell! Remember us with kindness. Give our hetman's respects to your prince, and if he be persuaded to come to Hmelnitski with homage, he may find favor. Farewell!" Pan Yan seated himself in the wagon, which the Tartars surrounded at once; and they moved on. It was difficult to pass through the square, which was completely packed with Zaporojians and the mob. Both were cooking kasha for themselves, while singing songs over the victory of Jóltiya Vodi and Korsún, composed by blind minstrels, a multitude of whom came from all sides to the camp. Between the fires burning under the kasha kettles, lay here and there bodies of murdered women over whom orgies had taken place in the night, or stood pyramids of heads cut from the bodies of killed and wounded soldiers. These bodies and heads had begun to decay and give out an offensive odor, which however did not seem to be at all disagreeable to the assembled crowds. The town bore marks of devastation and the wild license of Zaporojians. Doors and windows were torn out; the shivered fragments of a thousand objects, mixed with hair and straw, covered the square. The eaves of houses were ornamented with hanged men, for the greater part Jews; and here and there the crowd amused themselves by clinging to the feet of pendent corpses and swinging on them. On one side of the square were the black ruins of burnt buildings, among them those of the parish church; the ruins were hot, and smoke was rising from them. The odor of burning permeated the air. Beyond the burnt houses was the Tartar camp, which Skshetuski had to pass, and crowds of captives watched by Tartar guards. Men from the neighborhood of Chigirin, Cherkasi, and Korsún, who had been unable to hide, or who had not fallen under the axe of the mob, went into captivity. The prisoners were soldiers, captured in the two battles; and townspeople of the region about, who had been unable or unwilling to join the uprising; nobles living on their own lands, separately or in communes; officials of under-starostas; owners of small tracts of land; village nobles of both sexes, and children. There were no old men, for the Tartars killed them as unfit for sale. They had driven in also whole Russian villages and settlements,--an act which Hmelnitski did not dare to oppose. In many places it happened that men went to the Cossack camp, and as a reward the Tartars burned their cottages, and carried off their wives and children. But in the universal letting loose and growing wild of souls, no one inquired or thought about that. The mob who took arms gave up their native villages, their wives and children. Their wives were taken from them; but they took other and better women, for they were Polish. After they had sated themselves with the charms of these they killed them, or sold them to Tartars. Among the prisoners also were young matrons of the Ukraine, tied by threes and fours to one rope with young women of the petty nobility. Captivity and misfortune equalized condition. The sight of these beings shocked the lieutenant to the bottom of his soul, and roused a thirst for vengeance. Tattered, half naked, exposed to the vile jeers of pagans who were loitering through curiosity in crowds on the square, pushed, struck, or kissed by disgusting lips, they lost their memory and will. Some sobbed, or resisted loudly; others, with staring eyes and bewildered faces, yielded passively to everything. Here and there was heard a shriek wrested from some captive, slaughtered without mercy for an outburst of despairing resistance. The cracking of whips, the whistling of ox-hide lashes, was heard among the crowd of men, and was mingled with screams of pain, with the whining of children, the bellowing of cattle, and the neighing of horses. The booty was not yet divided and arranged for removal; therefore the greatest disorder prevailed everywhere. Wagons, horses, horned cattle, camels, sheep, women, men, heaps of stolen clothing, vessels, arms,--all, thrust into one enormous camp, waited arrangement and order. Scouting-parties drove in from time to time new crowds of people and herds of cattle, laden barges sailed down the Kos, and from the chief camp new people arrived continually to sate their eyes with the sight of the collected wealth. Some, drunk on kumis or vudka, dressed in strange costumes,--in chasubles and surplices, in robes of Russian priests, or even in women's clothes,--began to dispute, quarrel, and scream over the possession of certain articles. The Tartar herdsmen, sitting on the ground among the cattle, amused themselves,--some by giving piercing melodies on their pipes, others by playing dice or beating one another with clubs. Crowds of dogs which had followed their masters barked and howled plaintively. Skshetuski at length passed this human gehenna, full of groans, tears of misery, and hellish sounds. He had expected to breathe more freely; but the moment he was beyond the camp a new and terrible sight struck his eyes. In the distance was the camp proper, from which came a continual neighing of horses, and near which thousands of Tartars swarmed in the field by the side of the road leading to Cherkasi. The youthful warriors amused themselves with shooting for exercise from bows at the weaker prisoners, or the sick who were unable to endure the long road to the Crimea. A number of bodies lay around, thrown on the road, as full of holes as a sieve; some of them still quivered convulsively. Those at whom they were shooting hung bound by the hands to trees near the roadside. Among these were also old women. Shouts accompanied laughter of approval for good arrow-shots. "Fine fellows! The bow is in good hands!" Around the principal camp they were dressing thousands of cattle and horses for the sustenance of the warriors. The ground was drenched with blood. The sickening odor of raw flesh stifled the breath in the breast, and among the piles of meat red Tartars hurried around with knives in their hands. The day was oppressive, the sun scorching. Skshetuski with his escort barely reached the open field after an hour's travelling; but from afar there came for a long time the tumult and bellowing of cattle from the main camp. Along the road traces of the passage of plunderers were evident. Here and there were burnt gardens, chimneys standing alone, young grain trodden under foot, trees broken, cherry-orchards near the cottages cut down for fuel. On the high-road lay thickly, in one place, the carcasses of horses; in another the bodies of men mutilated fearfully, blue, swollen, and above and over them flocks of crows and ravens, flying with tumult and noise at the approach of people. The bloody work of Hmelnitski thrust itself upon the sight everywhere, and it was difficult to understand against whom the man had raised his hands, since his own country groaned first of all under the weight of misfortune. In Mleyeff, Skshetuski met Tartar parties urging on new crowds of prisoners. Gorodische was burned to the ground. There remained standing only the stone bell-tower of the church, and the old oak-tree in the middle of the square, covered with terrible fruit; for upon it were suspended a number of tens of little Jews, hanged there three days before. There were killed also many nobles from Konoplanka, Staroselo, Venjovka, Balaklei, Vodachevo. The town itself was empty; for the men had gone to Hmelnitski, and the women, children, and old men had fled to the woods before the expected invasion by the armies of Prince Yeremi. From Gorodische, Skshetuski went through Smila, Zabotin, and Novoselyets to Chigirin, stopping only to rest his horse. They entered the town on the second day in the afternoon. War had spared the place; only a few houses were wrecked, and among them that of Chaplinski was razed to the ground. In the town was stationed Colonel Naókolopályets, and with him a thousand Cossacks; but both he and they and the whole population lived in the greatest terror, for they all seemed convinced that the prince might come at any moment and wreak vengeance such as the world had never heard of. It was unknown who had circulated these reports, or where they had come from; fear perhaps had created them. Enough that it was repeated continually that the prince was sailing on the Sula, that he was already on the Dnieper, had burned Vasyutinets, and had cut off the people in Borysi, and that every approach of men on horseback caused boundless panic. Skshetuski caught up these reports eagerly; for he understood that though false they prevented the extension of the rebellion beyond the Dnieper, where the hand of the prince pressed directly. Skshetuski wished to learn something more certain from Naókolopályets; but it appeared that the lieutenant-colonel, like others, knew nothing about the prince, and would have been glad himself to extract some news from Skshetuski. Since all boats, large and small, had been brought over to that bank of the river, fugitives from the other shore did not come to Chigirin. Skshetuski, without waiting longer in Chigirin, gave orders to be ferried over, and set out for Rozlogi. The assurance that he would soon convince himself of what had happened to Helena, and the hope that perhaps she was safe, or had taken refuge with her aunt and the princes in Lubni, brought back his strength and health. He left the wagon for his horse, and urged without sparing his Tartars, who, thinking him an envoy and themselves attendants given under his command, dared not oppose him. They flew on therefore as if hunted. Behind them rose yellow clouds of dust hurled up by the hoofs of the horses. They swept past farms, gardens, and villages. The country was empty, the habitations of men depopulated; for a long time they could not find a living soul. It is likely, too, that every one hid at their approach. Here and there Skshetuski gave orders to search in orchards and bee-gardens, grain-mows and the roofs of barns, but they discovered no man. Beyond Pogrebi one of the Tartars first espied a certain human form trying to hide among the rushes which grew on the banks of the Kagamlik. The Tartars rushed to the river, and a few minutes later brought before Skshetuski two persons entirely naked. One of them was an old man; the other a stripling, perhaps fifteen or sixteen years of age. The teeth of both were chattering with terror, and for a long time they were unable to utter a word. "Where are you from?" asked Skshetuski. "Nowhere, sir!" answered the old man. "We go begging with a lyre, and this dumb boy leads me." "Where are you coming from now,--from what village? Speak boldly; nothing will happen to you." "We, sir, travelled through all the villages, till some devil stripped us. We had good boots, he took them; we had good caps, he took them; good coats from people's charity, he took them, and did not leave the lyre." "I ask you, you fool, from what village you come." "I don't know, sir,--I am an old man. See, we are naked; we are freezing at night, in the daytime we ask the charity of people to cover us and feed us; we are hungry!" "Listen, louts! Answer my question, or I will hang you!" "I don't know, my lord. If I am this or that, or there will be anything, let me alone." It was evident that the old man, unable to decide who his questioner was, determined not to give any answer. "Were you in Rozlogi, where the Princes Kurtsevichi live?" "I don't know, sir." "Hang him!" cried Skshetuski. "I was, sir," cried the old man, seeing there was no trifling. "What did you see there?" "We were there five days ago, and then in Brovarki; we heard that the knights had come there." "What knights?" "I don't know, sir; one said Poles, another said Cossacks." "To horse!" shouted Skshetuski to the Tartars. The party rushed on. The sun was setting precisely as on that day when the lieutenant, after meeting Helena and the princess on the road, rode by them at the side of Rozvan's carriage. The Kagamlik shone with purple, just as it had then; the day went to rest with more quiet, more warmth and calm. But that time Pan Yan rode on with a breast full of happiness and awakening feelings of delight; now he rushes on like a condemned man, driven by a whirlwind of trouble and evil forebodings. The voice of despair calls from his soul, "Bogun has carried her away, you will never see her again!" and a voice of hope, "She is safe!" And these voices so pulled him between them that they almost tore his heart asunder. He urged the horses to their last strength. One hour followed another. The moon rose and mounted higher and higher, grew paler and paler. The horses were covered with foam, and snorted heavily. They rushed into the forest, it was passed in a flash; they rushed into the ravine; beyond the ravine was Rozlogi. Another moment, and the fate of the knight would be settled. The wind whistles into his ears from the speed, his cap falls from his head, the horse groans under him as if ready to drop. Another moment, and the ravine opens. At last! at last! Suddenly an unearthly shriek comes from the breast of Skshetuski. The house, granaries, stables, barns, picket-fence, and cherry-orchard had all disappeared. The pale moon shone upon the hill, and on a pile of black ruins which had ceased to smoke. No sound broke the silence. Skshetuski stood before the trench speechless; he merely raised his hands, looked, and shook his head in bewilderment. The Tartars stopped their horses. He dismounted, sought out the remains of the burned bridge, passed the trench on the cross-pieces, and sat on the stone lying in the middle of the yard. Having sat down, he began to look around like a man who tries to recognize a place in which he finds himself for the first time. Presence of mind left him. He uttered no groan. After a while he placed his hands on his knees, dropped his head, and remained motionless; it might have been supposed that he was asleep. Indeed, if not asleep, he had become torpid; and through his brain passed dim visions instead of thoughts. He saw Helena as she looked when he parted with her before his last journey; but her face was veiled as it were by mist, therefore her features could not be distinguished. He wished to bring her out of that misty covering, but could not, and went away with heavy heart. Then there passed before him the square at Chigirin, old Zatsvilikhovski, and the impudent face of Zagloba; that face remained before his eyes with a special persistence, until at length the gloomy visage of Grodzitski took its place. After that he saw Kudák again, the Cataracts, the fight at Hortitsa, the Saitch, the whole journey, and all the events to the last day and hour. But farther there was darkness! What was happening to him at the present he saw not. He had only a sort of indefinite feeling that he was going to Helena, to Rozlogi, but his strength had failed; that he was resting on ruins. He wanted to rise and go farther, but an immeasurable weakness bound him to the place, as if a hundred-pound ball were fastened to his feet. He sat and sat. The evening was advancing. The Tartars arranged themselves for the night, made a fire, cooked pieces of horse-flesh, and having satisfied their hunger, lay down on the ground. But before an hour had passed they sprang to their feet again. From a distance came a noise like the sound made by a great number of cavalry when moving on a hurried march. The Tartars fastened as quickly as possible a white cloth on a pole, and renewed the fire vigorously, so that it might be seen from a distance that they were messengers of peace. The tramp and snorting of horses, the clatter of sabres, came nearer and nearer; and soon there appeared on the road a division of cavalry, which surrounded the Tartars at once. A short parley followed. The Tartars pointed to a figure sitting on the rising ground,--which was perfectly visible, for the light of the moon fell on it,--and said they were escorting an envoy, but from whom he could tell best himself. The leader of the division went with some of his companions to the rising ground, but had scarcely come up and looked into the face of the sitting man, when he opened his arms and cried,-- "Skshetuski! By the living God, it is Skshetuski!" The lieutenant did not move. "But, Lieutenant, don't you know me? I am Bykhovets. What is the matter with you?" The lieutenant was silent. "Rouse yourself, for God's sake! Here, comrade, come to your mind!" This was really Pan Bykhovets, who was marching in the vanguard of all Vishnyevetski's forces. Other regiments came up. News of the discovery of Pan Yan spread like lightning in the regiments, therefore all hurried to greet their favorite comrade. Little Volodyovski, the two Sleshinskis, Dzik, Orpishevski, Migurski, Yakubovich, Lents, Pan Longin Podbipienta, and a number of other officers ran as fast as they could to the eminence. But they spoke in vain to him, called him by name, pulled him by the shoulders, tried to raise him up. Skshetuski looked on them with wide-open eyes, and recognized no man; or rather, on the contrary, he seemed to recognize them, but was completely indifferent to them. Then those who knew of his love for Helena--and indeed all knew that--remembered what place they were in; looking on the black ruins and the gray ashes, they understood all. "He has lost his mind from grief," said one. "Despair has disturbed his mind." "Take him to the priest; when he sees him perhaps he will come to himself." Pan Longin wrung his hands. All surrounded the lieutenant and looked at him with sympathy. Some wiped away their tears, others sighed sadly; till suddenly a lofty figure appeared, and approaching quietly, placed his hands upon the lieutenant's head. This was the priest, Mukhovetski. All were silent and knelt down as if waiting for a miracle; but the priest performed no miracle. Holding his hands on Pan Yan's head, he raised his eyes to the heavens, which were filled with the light of the moon, and began to pray aloud. "'Pater noster, qui es in c[oe]lis! sanctificetur nomen tuum, adveniat regnum tuum, fiat voluntas tua--'" Here he stopped, and after a while repeated more loudly and solemnly: "'Fiat voluntas tua!'" A deep silence reigned. "'Fiat voluntas tua!'" repeated the priest for the third time. From the mouth of Skshetuski came a voice of measureless pain, but also of resignation: "'Sicut in c[oe]lo, et in terra!'" Then the knight threw himself sobbing on the ground. [Illustration: "HE RAISED HIS EYES AND BEGAN TO PRAY ALOUD."] Copyright, 1898, by Little, Brown, and Company. _From a drawing by J. Wagrez_. CHAPTER XVII. To explain what had taken place in Rozlogi, we must return to that night when Pan Yan sent Jendzian from Kudák with a letter to the old princess. The letter contained an earnest request to take Helena and seek with all haste the protection of Prince Yeremi at Lubni, since war might begin at any moment. Jendzian, taking his place in the boat which Pan Grodzitski sent from Kudák for powder, made his way with slow advance, for they went up the river. At Kremenchug he met the forces sailing under command of Krechovski and Barabash, despatched by the hetmans against Hmelnitski. Jendzian had a meeting with Barabash, whom he informed of the possible danger to Pan Yan on his journey to the Saitch; therefore he begged the old colonel not to fail in making urgent demand for the envoy when he met Hmelnitski. After this he moved on. They arrived in Chigirin at daylight. They were surrounded at once by a guard of Cossacks inquiring who they were. They answered that they were going from Kudák with a letter from Grodzitski to the hetmans. Notwithstanding this, the chief of the boat and Jendzian were summoned to answer the colonel. "What colonel?" asked the chief. "Loboda," replied the essauls of the guard. "The Grand Hetman has ordered him to detain and examine every one coming from the Saitch to Chigirin." They went. Jendzian walked on boldly, for he expected no harm since he was sent by authority of the hetman. They were taken to the neighborhood of Bell-ringers' Corner, to the house of Pan Jelenski, where Colonel Loboda's quarters were. But they were informed that the colonel having set out at daybreak for Cherkasi, the lieutenant-colonel occupied his place. They waited rather long; at last the door opened, and the expected lieutenant-colonel appeared in the room. At the sight of him Jendzian's knees trembled under him. It was Bogun. The hetman's power extended really to Chigirin; but since Loboda and Bogun had not yet gone over to Hmelnitski, but adhered publicly to the Commonwealth, the Grand Hetman had appointed them to Chigirin, and ordered them to maintain guard. Bogun took his place at the table and began to question the newly arrived. The chief of the boat, who brought a letter from Grodzitski, answered for himself and Jendzian. On examination of the letter, the young lieutenant-colonel began to inquire carefully what was to be heard in Kudák, and it was evident that he had a great desire to know why Grodzitski had sent men and a boat to the Grand Hetman. But the chief of the boat could not answer this, and the letter was secured with Pan Grodzitski's seal. Having finished his inquiries, Bogun was putting his hand to his purse to give the men something to buy beer, when the door opened, and Zagloba burst like a thunderbolt into the room. "Listen, Bogun!" cried he; "that traitor Dopúla has kept his best triple mead hidden. I went with him to the cellar. I looked, I saw something in the corner; it was hay and it wasn't hay. I asked, 'What is that?' 'Dry hay,' said he. When I looked more closely, the top of a bottle was sticking up, like the head of a Tartar, out of the grass. 'Oh, you son of a such a one,' said I, 'let's divide the labor! Do you eat the hay, for you are an ox; and I will drink the mead, for I am a man.' I brought the fat bottle for an honest trial; only let us have the glasses now!" Having said this, Zagloba put one hand on his hip, and with the other raised the bottle above his head and began to sing,-- "Hei Yagush, hei Kundush, but give us the glasses, Give a kiss, and then care for naught else." Here Zagloba, seeing Jendzian, stopped suddenly, placed the bottle on the table, and said,-- "As God is dear to me! this is Pan Yan's young man." "Whose?" asked Bogun, hastily. "Pan Skshetuski's, the lieutenant who went to Kudák, and before going treated me to such mead from Lubni that I wish all would keep it behind their tavern-signs. What is your master doing? Is he well?" "Well, and asked to be remembered to you," said Jendzian, confused. "He is a man of mighty courage. How do you come to be in Chigirin? Why did your master send you from Kudák?" "My master," said Jendzian, "has his affairs in Lubni, on which he directed me to return, for I had nothing to do in Kudák." All this time Bogun was looking sharply at Jendzian, and suddenly he said: "I too know your master, I saw him in Rozlogi." Jendzian bent his head, and turning his ear as if he had not heard, inquired: "Where?" "In Rozlogi." "That place belongs to the Kurtsevichi," said Zagloba. "To whom?" asked Jendzian again. "Oh, I see you are hard of hearing," said Bogun, curtly. "Because I have not slept enough." "You will sleep enough yet. You say that your master sent you to Lubni?" "Yes." "Doubtless he has some sweetheart there," interrupted Zagloba, "to whom he sends his love through you." "How do I know, worthy sir? Maybe he has, maybe he has not," said Jendzian. Then he bowed to Bogun and Zagloba. "Praise be to--" said he, preparing to go out. "Forever!" said Bogun. "But wait, my little bird; don't be in a hurry! And why did you hide from me that you are the servant of Pan Skshetuski?" "You didn't ask me, and I thought, 'What reason have I to talk of anything?' Praise be to--" "Wait, I say! You have some letters from your master?" "It is his affair to write, and mine to deliver, but only to him to whom they are written; therefore permit me to bid farewell to you, gentlemen." Bogun wrinkled his sable brows and clapped his hands. Two Cossacks entered the room. "Search him!" cried he, pointing to Jendzian. "As I live, violence is done me! I am a nobleman, though a servant, and, gentlemen, you will answer for this in court." "Bogun, let him go!" said Zagloba. But that moment one of the Cossacks found two letters in Jendzian's bosom, and gave them to the lieutenant-colonel. Bogun directed the Cossacks to withdraw at once, for not knowing how to read, he did not wish to expose himself before them; then turning to Zagloba, he said,---- "Read, and I will look after this young fellow." Zagloba shut his left eye, on which he had a cataract, and read the address:-- "To my gracious lady and benefactress, Princess Kurtsevichova in Rozlogi." "So you, my little falcon, are going to Lubni, and you don't know where Rozlogi is?" said Bogun, surveying Jendzian with a terrible look. "Where they send me, there I go!" "Am I to open it? The seal of a nobleman is sacred," remarked Zagloba. "The hetman has given me the right to examine all letters. Open and read!" Zagloba opened and read:-- "My gracious Lady,--I inform you that I have arrived in Kudák, from which, with God's assistance, I shall go to-morrow morning to the Saitch. But now I am writing in the night, not being able to sleep from anxiety lest something may happen to you from that bandit Bogun and his scoundrels. Pan Grodzitski tells me that we are on the eve of a great war, which will rouse the mob; therefore I implore and beseech you this minute,--even before the steppes are dry, even if on horseback,--to go with the princess to Lubni; and not to neglect this, for I shall not be able to return for a time. Which request you will be pleased to grant at once, so that I may be sure of the happiness of my betrothed and rejoice after my return. And what need have you of dallying with Bogun and throwing sand in his eyes from fear, after you have given the princess to me? It is better to take refuge under the protection of my master, the prince, who will not fail to send a garrison to Rozlogi; and thus you will save your property. In the mean while I have the honor, etc." "Ho, ho! my friend Bogun," said Zagloba, "the hussar wants in some way to put horns on you. So you have been paying compliments to the same girl! Why didn't you speak of this? But be comforted, for once upon a time it happened to me--" But the joke that he had begun died suddenly on his lips. Bogun sat motionless at the table, but his face was pale and drawn, as if by convulsions; his eyes closed, his brows contracted. Something terrible had happened to him. "What's the matter?" asked Zagloba. The Cossack began to wave his hand feverishly, and from his lips issued a suppressed hoarse voice: "Read--read the other letter!" "The other is to Princess Helena." "Read! read!" Zagloba began:-- "Sweetest, beloved Halshko, mistress and queen of my heart! Since in the service of the prince I had but little time to stop at Rozlogi, I write therefore to your aunt, that you and she go to Lubni, where no harm can happen to you from Bogun, and our mutual affection cannot be exposed to interruption--" "Enough!" cried Bogun; and jumping up in madness from the table, he sprang toward Jendzian. The unfortunate young fellow, struck straight in the breast, groaned and fell to the floor. Frenzy carried Bogun away; he threw himself on Zagloba and snatched the letters from him. Zagloba, seizing the fat bottle of mead, sprang to the stove and cried out,-- "In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, have you grown wild, man, or mad? Calm down! be mild! Stick your head in the water-pail! A hundred devils take you! Do you hear me?" "Blood! blood!" howled Bogun. "Have you lost your mind? Thrust your head in the water-pail, I tell you! You have blood already,--you have spilt innocent blood. That unfortunate youth is already breathless. The devil has snared you, or you are the devil yourself with something to boot. Come to your senses, the deuce take you, you son of a pagan!" While crying out in this fashion, Zagloba pushed around to the other side of the table, and bending over Jendzian felt of his breast and put his hand to his mouth, from which blood was flowing freely. Bogun seized himself by the head, and howled like a wounded wolf. Then he dropped on the bench, without ceasing to howl, for the spirit within was torn from rage and pain. Suddenly he sprang up, ran to the door, kicked it open, and hurried to the anteroom. "I hope you will break your neck!" muttered Zagloba to himself. "Go and smash your head against the stable or the barn,--though, as a horned beast, you can knock your head without danger. But he is a fury! I have never seen anything like him in my life. He snapped his teeth like a dog going to bite. But this boy is alive yet, poor fellow! In truth, if this mead won't help him, he lied when he said he was a noble." Thus muttering, Zagloba placed Jendzian's head on his knees and began to pour the mead through his blue lips. "We will see if you have good blood in you. If it is Jewish, when mixed with mead or wine it will boil; if clownish, being torpid and heavy, it will sink. Only the blood of a noble becomes lively and forms excellent liquor, which gives manhood and daring to the body. The Lord gave different drinks to different people, so that each one might have his own appropriate pleasure." Jendzian groaned faintly. "Ah, ha! you want more. No, brother, let me have some too,--that's the style. Now, since you have given sign of life, I think I'll take you to the stable and put you somewhere in a corner, so that dragon of a Cossack may not tear you to pieces when he gets back. He is a dangerous friend, the devil take him! for I see that his hand is quicker than his wit." Zagloba raised Jendzian from the floor with ease, showing unusual strength, carried him to the anteroom, and then to the yard, where a number of Cossacks were playing dice on a rug spread on the ground. They greeted him, and he said,-- "Boys, take this youngster for me, put him on the hay, and let some one run for a barber." The command was obeyed immediately, for Zagloba as a friend of Bogun enjoyed consideration among the Cossacks. "And where is the colonel?" he asked. "He ordered his horse and went to the regimental quarters. He commanded us also to be ready and have our horses saddled." "Is mine ready?" "Ready." "Then bring it; I will find the colonel at the regiment. But here he comes!" In fact, Bogun was to be seen through the arched gateway riding from the square. After him appeared in the distance the lances of a hundred and some tens of Cossacks, apparently ready for the march. "To horse!" cried Bogun to the Cossacks who had remained in the yard. All moved quickly. Zagloba went through the gate, and looked attentively at the young leader. "You are going on a journey?" asked he. "Yes." "And whither is the devil taking you?" "To a wedding." Zagloba drew nearer. "Fear God, my son! The hetman ordered you to guard the town. You are going away yourself, and taking the Cossacks with you,--disobeying orders. Here the mob is merely waiting a favorable moment to rush on the nobility. You will destroy the town and expose yourself to the wrath of the hetman!" "To the devil with the hetman and the town!" "It is a question of your head." "What do I care for that?" Zagloba saw that it was useless to talk with the Cossack. He had made up his mind, and though he were to bury himself and others, he was determined to carry his point. Zagloba guessed, too, where the expedition was going; but he did not know himself what to do,--whether to go with Bogun or to remain. It was dangerous to go, for it was the same as to enter upon a hazardous and criminal affair in rough, warlike times. But to remain? The mob was in fact only waiting for news from the Saitch,--the moment of signal for slaughter; and maybe they would not have waited at all had it not been for Bogun's thousand Cossacks and his authority in the Ukraine. Zagloba might have taken refuge in the camp of the hetmans; but he had his reasons for not doing that,--whether it was a sentence for having killed some one or some little defect in accounts he himself only knew; it is sufficient that he did not wish to show himself. He was sorry to leave Chigirin, it was so pleasant for him; no one inquired about anything there, and Zagloba had become so accustomed to everybody,--to the nobility, the managers of crown estates, and the Cossack elders. True, the elders had scattered in different directions, and the nobility sat in their corners fearing the storm; but Bogun was the prince of companions and drinkers. Having become acquainted at the glass, he made friends with Zagloba straightway. After that one was not seen without the other. The Cossack scattered gold for two, the noble lied, and each being of restless mind was happy with the other. But when it came to him either to remain in Chigirin and fall under the knife of the rabble or to go with Bogun, Zagloba decided for the latter. "If you are so determined," said he; "I will go too; I may be of use or restrain you when necessary. We have become altogether accustomed to each other; but I had no thought of anything like this." Bogun made no answer. Half an hour later two hundred Cossacks were in marching order. Bogun rode to the head of them, and with him Zagloba. They moved on. The peasants standing here and there on the square looked at them from under their brows, and whispered, discussing about where they were going, whether they would return soon or would not return. Bogun rode on in silence, shut up in himself, mysterious and gloomy as night. The Cossacks asked not whither he was leading them. They were ready to go with him even to the end of the earth. After crossing the Dnieper, they appeared on the highway to Lubni. The horses went at a trot, raising clouds of dust; but as the day was hot and dry, they were soon covered with foam. They slackened their pace then, and stretched out in a straggling band along the road. Bogun pushed ahead. Zagloba came up abreast of him, wishing to begin conversation. The face of the young leader was calmer, but mortal grief was clearly depicted on it. It seemed as if the distance in which his glance was lost toward the north beyond the Kagamlik, the speed of the horse, and the breeze of the steppe were quieting the storm within him which was roused by the reading of the letters brought by Jendzian. "The heat flies down from heaven," said Zagloba. "It is feverish even in a linen coat, for there is no breeze what ever. Bogun! look here, Bogun!" The leader gazed with his deep, dark eyes as if roused from sleep. "Be careful, my son," said Zagloba, "that you are not devoured by melancholy, which when it leaves the liver, its proper seat, strikes the head and may soon destroy a man's reason. I did not know that you were such a hero of romance. It must be that you were born in May, which is the month of Venus, in which there is so much sweetness in the air that even one shaving begins to feel an affection for another; therefore men who are born in that month have greater curiosity in their bones for women than other men. But he has the advantage who succeeds in curbing himself; therefore I advise you to let revenge alone. You may justly cherish hatred against the Kurtsevichi; but is she the only girl in the world?" Bogun, as if in answer not to Zagloba but to his own grief, said in a voice more like that of revery than conversation,-- "She is the one cuckoo, the only one on earth!" "Even if that were true, if she calls for another, she is nothing to you. It is rightly said that the heart is a volunteer; under whatever banner it wants to serve, under that it serves. Remember too that the girl is of high blood, for the Kurtsevichi I hear are of princely family. Those are lofty thresholds." "To the devil with your thresholds, families, and parchments!" Here Bogun struck with all his force on the hilt of his sword. "This is my family, this is my right and parchment, this is my matchmaker and best man! Oh, traitors! oh, cursed blood of the enemy! A Cossack was good enough for you to be a friend and a brother with whom to go to the Crimea, get Turkish wealth, divide spoils. Oh! you fondled him and called him a son, betrothed the maiden to him. Now what? A noble came, a petted Pole. You deserted the Cossack, the son, the friend,--plucked out his heart. She is for another; and do you gnaw the earth, Cossack, if you like!" The voice of the leader trembled; he ground his teeth, and struck his broad breast till an echo came from it as from an underground cave. Silence followed. Bogun breathed heavily. Pain and anger rent in succession the wild soul of the Cossack, which knew no restraint. Zagloba waited till he should become wearied and quiet. "What do you wish to do, unhappy hero,--how will you act?" "Like a Cossack,--in Cossack fashion." "Oh, I see there is something ahead! But no more of this! One thing I will tell you, that the place is within Vishnyevetski's rule and Lubni is not distant. Pan Skshetuski wrote to the princess to take refuge there with the maiden,--which means that they are under the prince's protection; and the prince is a fierce lion--" "The Khan is a lion, and I rushed up to his throat and held the light to his eyes." "What, you crazy brain! do you wish to declare war against the prince?" "Hmelnitski has rushed on the hetmans. What do I care for your prince?" Pan Zagloba became still more alarmed. "Shu! to the devil with this! This smells simply of rebellion. Vis armata, raptus puellae, and rebellion,--this comes to the executioner, the rope, and the gallows. A splendid six-in-hand, you may go high in it, if not far. The Kurtsevichi will defend themselves." "What of that? Either I must perish, or they. I would have given my life for the Kurtsevichi, since I held them as brothers, and the old princess as a mother. Into her eyes I looked as a dog looks! And when the Tartars caught Vassily, who went to the Crimea and rescued him? I! I loved them and served them as a slave, for I thought that I was earning the maiden. And for this they sold me like a slave to an evil fate and misfortune. They drove me away; but I will go now, and first I will bow down to them in return for the bread and salt that I have eaten in their house, and I will pay them in Cossack fashion. I will go, for I know my road." "And where will you go, when you begin with the prince,--to the camp of Hmelnitski?" "If they had given me the girl, I should have been your Polish brother, your friend, your sabre, your sworn soul, your dog. I should have taken my Cossacks, called others together in the Ukraine, then moved against Hmelnitski, and my own brothers, the Zaporojians, and torn them with hoofs. Did I wish reward for this? No! I should have taken the girl and gone beyond the Dnieper, to the steppes of God, to the wild meadows, to the quiet waters. That would have been enough for me; but now--" "Now you have become enraged." Bogun made no answer, struck his horse with the nogaika, and rushed on. But Zagloba began to think of the trouble into which he had got himself. There was no doubt that Bogun intended to attack the Kurtsevichi, to avenge the injustice done him, and carry off the girl by force. Zagloba would have kept him company, even in an undertaking like this. In the Ukraine such affairs happened frequently, and sometimes they went unpunished. True, when the offender was not a noble, such a deed became complicated, more dangerous; but the enforcement of justice on a Cossack was difficult, for where was he to be found and seized? After the deed he escaped to the wild steppe, beyond the reach of human hand; and how many could see him? When war broke out, and Tartars invaded the country, the offender appeared again, for at such times laws were asleep. In this way Bogun, too, might save himself from responsibility. Besides, Zagloba had no need of giving him active assistance, and taking on himself half the fault. He would not have done this in any case; for though Bogun was his friend, still it did not beseem Zagloba, a noble, to engage with a Cossack against a noble, especially as he was acquainted with Skshetuski, and had drunk with him. Zagloba was a disturber of no common order, but his turbulence had a certain limit. To frolic in the public houses of Chigirin, with Bogun and other Cossack elders, especially at their expense,--but it was well too, in view of Cossack troubles, to have such people as friends. Zagloba, though he had got a scratch here and there, was very careful of his own skin; therefore he saw at once that through this friendship he had got into a desperate muddle. For it was clear that if Bogun should carry off the maiden, the betrothed of Vishnyevetski's lieutenant and favorite, he would come into collision with the prince; then nothing would remain for him but to take refuge with Hmelnitski and join the rebellion. To this Zagloba mentally opposed his positive veto. To join the rebellion for the beautiful eyes of Bogun was altogether beyond his intention, and besides he feared Yeremi as he did fire. "Oh, misery!" muttered he to himself; "I have caught the devil by the tail, and this time he will catch me by the head and twist my neck. May lightning strike this Bogun, with his girl face and his Tartar hand! I've gone to a wedding, indeed, a regular dog-fight, as God is dear to me! May lightning strike all the Kurtsevichi and all the women! What have I to do with them? They are not necessary to me. No matter who has the grist, they will grind it on me. And for what? Do I want to marry? Let the evil one marry, it is all the same to me; what business have I in this affair? If I go with Bogun, then Vishnyevetski will flay me; if I leave Bogun, the peasants will kill me, or he will do it without waiting for them. The worst of all is to be intimate with a bear. I am in a nice plight. I should rather be the horse on which I am sitting, than Zagloba. I've come out on Cossack folly. I've hung to a water-burner; justly, therefore, will they flay me on both sides." While occupied with these thoughts, Zagloba sweated terribly, and fell into worse humor. The heat was great; the horse travelled with difficulty, for he had not been on the road for a long time, and Pan Zagloba was a heavy man. Merciful God! what would he have given then to be sitting in the shade at an inn, over a glass of cool beer, not to weary himself in the heat and rush on over the scorching steppe! Though Bogun was in a hurry, he slackened his pace, for the heat was terrible. They fed the horses a little. During that time Bogun spoke to the essauls,--apparently gave them orders, for up to that time they did not know where they were going. The last word of the command reached Zagloba's ear,-- "Wait the pistol-shot!" "Very well, father." Bogun turned suddenly to Zagloba: "You will go in advance with me." "I?" asked Zagloba, in evident bad humor. "I love you so much that I have already sweated out one half of my soul; why should I not sweat out the other half? We are like a coat and its lining, and I hope the devil will take us together,--which is all the same to me, for I think it cannot be hotter in hell than here." "Forward!" "At breakneck speed." They moved on, and soon after them the Cossacks; but the latter rode slowly, so that in a short time they were a good distance in the rear, and finally were lost to sight. Bogun and Zagloba rode side by side in silence, both in deep thought. Zagloba pulled his mustache, and it was evident that he was working vigorously with his brain; he was planning, perhaps, how to extricate himself from the whole affair. At times he muttered something to himself half audibly; then again he looked at Bogun, on whose face was depicted now unrestrained anger, now grief. "It is a wonder," thought Zagloba to himself, "that though such a beauty, he was not able to bring the girl to his side. He is a Cossack, it is true, but a famous knight and a lieutenant-colonel, who sooner or later will become a noble, unless he joins the rebellion, which depends entirely on himself. Pan Skshetuski is a respectable cavalier and good-looking but he cannot compare in appearance with the Cossack, who is as beautiful as a picture. Ha! they will grapple when they meet, for both are champions of no common kind." "Bogun, do you know Pan Skshetuski well?" asked Zagloba, suddenly. "No," answered the Cossack, briefly. "You will have difficult work with him. I saw him when he opened the door for himself with Chaplinski. He is a Goliath in drinking as well as fighting." Bogun made no reply, and again they were both buried in their own thoughts and anxieties; following which, Zagloba repeated from time to time: "So there is no help!" Some hours passed. The sun had travelled far to the west, toward Chigirin; from the east a cool breeze sprang up. Zagloba took off his lynx-skin cap, raised his hand to his sweat-moistened head, and repeated again: "So there is no help!" Bogun roused himself, as if from sleep. "What do you say?" he inquired. "I say that it will be dark directly. Is it far yet?" "No." In an hour it had grown dark in earnest, but they had already reached a woody ravine. At the end of the ravine a light was gleaming. "That is Rozlogi," said Bogun, suddenly. "Is it? Whew! there is something cold in that ravine." Bogun reined in his horse. "Wait!" said he. Zagloba looked at him. The eyes of the leader, which had the peculiarity of shining in the night, were gleaming at that moment like a pair of torches. Both of them stood for a long time motionless at the edge of the ravine. At length the snorting of horses was heard in the distance. These were Bogun's Cossacks coming on slowly from the depth of the forest. The essaul approached for orders, which Bogun whispered in his ear; then the Cossacks halted again. "Forward!" said Bogun to Zagloba. Soon the dark masses of buildings around the mansion, the storehouses and well-sweeps stood in outline before their eyes. It was quiet in the yard. The dogs did not bark. A great golden moon shone above the buildings. From the garden came the odor of the cherry and apple blossoms. Everywhere it was quiet,--a night so wonderful that in truth it lacked only the sound of a lyre somewhere under the windows of the beautiful princess. There was light yet in some parts of the house. The two horsemen approached the gate. "Who is there?" called the voice of the night-guard. "Don't you know me, Maksim?" "Oh, that is you! Glory to God!" "For the ages of ages. Open the gate! And how is it with you?" "All is well. You haven't been in Rozlogi for a long time." The hinges of the gate squeaked sharply, the bridge fell over the fosse, and the two horsemen rode into the square. "Look here, Maksim! don't shut the gate, and don't raise the bridge, for I am going out directly." "Oh! you hurry as if you had come for fire." "True! Tie the horse to the post!" CHAPTER XVIII. The Kurtsevichi were not sleeping yet. They were supping in that anteroom, filled with weapons, which extended the whole width of the house, from the garden to the square on the other side. At the sight of Bogun and Zagloba, they sprang to their feet. On the face of the princess was reflected not only astonishment, but displeasure and fright as well. Only two of the young men were present,--Simeon and Nikolai. "Oh, Bogun!" exclaimed the princess. "But what are you here for?" "I came to do you homage, mother. Are you not glad to see me?" "I am glad to see yon,--glad; but I wonder that you came, for I heard that you were on guard in Chigirin. But whom has God sent to us with you?" "This is Pan Zagloba,--a noble, my friend." "We are glad to see you, sir," said the princess. "We are glad," repeated Simeon and Nikolai. "Worthy lady!" said Zagloba, "an untimely guest, it is true, is worse than a Tartar; but it is known also that whoever wishes to enter heaven must receive the traveller into his house, give meat to the hungry, and drink to the thirsty"-- "Sit down, then; eat and drink," said the old princess. "We are thankful that you have come. But, Bogun, I did not expect to see you; perhaps you have some business with us." "Perhaps I have," answered Bogun, slowly. "What is it?" asked the princess, disturbed. "When the moment comes, we will talk about it. Let us rest a little. I have come straight from Chigirin." "It is evident that you were in a hurry to see us." "And whom should I be in a hurry to see, if not you? Is Princess Helena well?" "Well," replied the old lady, dryly. "I should like to gladden my eyes with her." "Helena is sleeping." "That is too bad, for I shall not stay long." "Where are you going?" "War, mother! There is no time for aught else. Any moment the hetmans may send us to the field, and it will be a pity to strike Zaporojians. Was it seldom that we went with them for Turkish booty? Isn't it true, Princes? We sailed upon the sea with them, ate bread and salt with them, drank and caroused, and now we are their enemies." The princess looked quickly at Bogun. The thought flashed through her mind that perhaps Bogun intended to join the rebellion, and came to tamper with her sons. "And what do you think of doing?" inquired she. "I, mother? Well, it is hard to strike our own, but it is demanded." "That is what we will do," said Simeon. "Hmelnitski is a traitor!" added the young Nikolai. "Death to traitors!" said Bogun. "Let the hangman light their way," added Zagloba. Bogun began to speak again: "So it is in this world. He who to-day is your friend is to-morrow a Judas. It is impossible to trust any one." "Except good people," said the princess. "True, you can believe good people; therefore I believe and love you; for you are good people, not traitors." There was something so strange in the voice of the leader that in a moment deep silence reigned. Zagloba looked at the princess, and blinked with his sound eye; but the princess fixed her glance on Bogun. He spoke on: "War does not give life to men, but death; therefore I wanted to see you once more before going to the field. And you would mourn over me, for you are my friends from the heart, are you not?" "We are, as God is our aid. From childhood we have known you." "You are our brother," added Simeon. "You are princes, you are nobles, and you did not despise the Cossack; you took him to your house and promised him the maiden, your relative, for you knew that for the Cossack there was neither life nor existence without her; so you had mercy on the Cossack." "There is nothing to talk about," said the princess, hurriedly. "But there is, mother, something to talk about; for you are my benefactress, and I have asked of this noble, my friend, to make me his son and give me his escutcheon, so that you may not be ashamed to give your relative to a Cossack. Pan Zagloba has agreed to this, and we shall seek the permission of the Diet, and when the war is over will go to the Grand Hetman, who is kind to me. He can assist. He too acquired nobility for Krechovski." "God give you aid!" said the princess. "You are sincere people, and I thank you. But before the war I should like to hear once more from your lips that you give me the maiden, and that you will keep your word. The word of a noble is not smoke, and you are a princess." Bogun spoke with a slow and solemn voice, but at the same time in his speech there vibrated, as it were, a threat declaring that there must be consent to what he demanded. The old princess looked at her sons; they looked at her, and for a moment silence continued. Suddenly the falcon, sitting on her perch by the wall, began to make a noise, though it was long before daylight; others followed her. The great eagle woke, shook his wings, and began to scream. The pitch-pine burned low; it was growing gloomy and dark in the room. "Nikolai, put wood on the fire!" said the old princess. The young prince threw on more wood. "Well, do you consent?" inquired Bogun. "We must ask Helena." "Let her speak for herself; you speak for yourselves. Do you promise?" "We promise," said the mother. "We promise," said the sons. Bogun stood up suddenly, and turning to Zagloba, said with a clear voice,-- "My friend Zagloba, ask for the maiden too; maybe they will give her to you." "What do you mean, Cossack? Are you drunk?" cried the princess. Bogun, in place of an answer, took out Skshetuski's letter, and turning to Zagloba, said: "Read!" Zagloba took the letter, and began to read it in the midst of deep silence. When he had finished, Bogun crossed his arms on his breast. "To whom then do you give the girl?" asked he. "Bogun!" The voice of the Cossack became like the hiss of a serpent: "Traitors, murderers, faith-breakers, Judases!" "Sons, to your sabres!" screamed the princess. The princes sprang like lightning to the walls, and seized their arms. "Quiet, gentlemen, quiet!" began Zagloba. But before he had finished speaking, Bogun drew a pistol from his belt and fired. "Jesus!" groaned Prince Simeon. Advancing a step, he began to beat the air with his hands, and fell heavily on the floor. "People, to the rescue!" screamed the princess, in despair. But that moment, in the yard and from the side of the garden, were heard other volleys. The windows and the doors flew open with a crash, and several tens of Cossacks rushed into the room. "Destruction!" thundered wild voices. The alarm-bell was tolled on the square. The birds in the room began to scream. Uproar, firing, and shouts took the place of the recent quiet of a drowsy house. The old princess threw herself, howling like a wolf, on the body of Simeon, shuddering in the last convulsions; but soon two Cossacks seized her by the hair and drew her aside. Meanwhile Nikolai, driven to the corner of the room, defended himself with fury and the boldness of a lion. "Aside!" cried Bogun suddenly, to the Cossacks around him. "Aside!" repeated he, with a thundering voice. The Cossacks withdrew. They thought that he wished to save the life of the young man. But Bogun himself, with sabre in hand, rushed on the prince. Now began a terrible hand-to-hand struggle, on which the princess, whose hair was grasped by four iron hands, looked with glaring eyes and open mouth. The young prince hurled himself like a storm on the Cossack, who, retreating slowly, led him out into the middle of the room. Then suddenly stooping, he parried a powerful blow, and from defence changed to attack. The Cossacks, holding their breath, let their sabres hang, and motionless, as if fastened to the floor, followed with their eyes the course of the conflict. Only the breathing and panting of the combatants were heard in the silence, with the gnashing of teeth, and the sharp click of the swords striking each other. For a while it appeared as if Bogun would yield to the gigantic power and obstinacy of the youth, for he began again to retreat and defend himself. His countenance was contracted as if by over-exertion. Nikolai redoubled his blows; dust rose from the floor and covered the two men with a cloud, but through the masses of it the Cossacks saw blood flowing from the face of their leader. All at once Bogun sprang aside; the prince's sword struck the empty air. Nikolai staggered from the effort and bent forward; that instant the Cossack struck him such a blow on the neck that he dropped as if struck by lightning. The joyful cries of the Cossacks were mingled with the unearthly shriek of the princess. It seemed as though the ceiling would break from the noise. The struggle was finished. The Cossacks rushed at the weapons hanging along the walls, and began to pull them down, tearing from one another the most costly sabres and daggers, and trampling upon the bodies of the princes and their own comrades who had fallen at the hands of Nikolai. Bogun permitted everything. He stood at the door leading to Helena's rooms, guarding the way. He breathed heavily from weariness; his face was pale and bloody, for the sword of the prince had struck his head twice. His wandering look passed from the body of Nikolai to the body of Simeon, and then fell upon the blue face of the princess, whom the Cossacks, holding by the hair, pressed to the floor with their knees, for she was tearing herself from their hands to the bodies of her children. The tumult and confusion in the room increased every moment. The Cossacks tied the servants with ropes and tormented them without mercy. The floor was covered with blood and dead bodies, the room filled with smoke from pistol-shots; the walls were stripped, the birds killed. All at once the door at which Bogun stood was opened wide. He turned and started back. In the door appeared the blind Vassily, and at his side Helena, dressed in a white gown, pale herself as the gown, with eyes starting out from terror, and with open mouth. Vassily carried in both hands a cross, which he held as high as his face. In the midst of the uproar in the room, in the presence of the corpses, and the blood scattered in pools on the floor, in front the glitter of sabres and of flashing eyes, that lofty figure had an appearance of wonderful solemnity. Emaciated, with hair growing gray, and with depressions instead of eyes, you would have said that it was a spirit, or a dead body which had left its shroud and was coming for the punishment of crime. The clamor ceased; the Cossacks drew back in a fright. Silence was broken by the calm, but painful and groaning voice of the prince,-- "In the name of the Father, the Saviour, the Spirit, and the Holy Virgin! Oh, you men who come from distant lands, do you come in the name of God?--for blessed is the wayfarer who goes announcing the word of God. And do you bring good news? Are you apostles?" A deathlike stillness reigned after the words of Vassily; but he turned slowly with the cross to one side and then the other, and continued,-- "Woe to you, brothers, for whoso makes war for gain or vengeance will be damned forever. Let us pray, so that we obtain mercy. Woe to you, brothers, woe to me! Woe! woe! woe!" A groan came from the breast of the prince. "Lord, have mercy upon us!" answered the dull voices of the Cossacks, who under the influence of fear began to make the sign of the cross in terror. Suddenly a wild piercing shriek from the princess was heard: "Vassily! Vassily!" There was something in her voice as full of anguish as in the last voice of life passing away. But the Cossacks pressing her with their knees knew that she could not escape from their hands. The prince shuddered, but immediately covered himself with the cross, on the side from which the voice came, and said: "Oh, lost soul, crying from the abyss, woe to thee!" "Lord, have mercy upon us!" repeated the Cossacks. "To me!" said Bogun to the Cossacks that moment, and he staggered. The Cossacks sprang and supported him under the shoulders. "You are wounded, father?" "I am! But that is nothing; I have lost blood. Here, boys! guard this young woman as the eyes in your head. Surround the house; let no one out! Princess--" He could say no more; his lips grew white, and his eyes were covered with a mist. "Bear the ataman to the rooms!" cried Zagloba, who creeping out of some corner or another appeared unexpectedly at Bogun's side. "This is nothing, nothing at all," said he, feeling the wounds with his fingers. "He will be well to-morrow. I will take care of him. Mix up bread and spider-webs for me! You, boys, go off to the devil with yourselves, to frolic with the girls in the servants' quarters, for you have nothing to do here; but let two carry the ataman. Take him--that's the way! Be off now! What are you standing here for? I will take care of the house, I will look after everything." Two Cossacks carried Bogun to the adjoining room; the rest went out of the antechamber. Zagloba approached Helena, and rapidly blinking his one eye, said in a quick low voice,-- "I am Pan Skshetuski's friend; have no fear. Only put your prophet to bed and wait for me." Having said this, he went to the room in which the two essauls had put Bogun on a Turkish divan. Then he sent them for bread and spider-webs; and when these were brought from the servants' quarters he set about nursing the young ataman with the dexterity which every noble possessed at that period, and which he acquired in plastering heads cut up in duels at the petty Diets. "Tell the Cossacks," said he to the essauls, "that to-morrow the ataman will be as well as a fish, and not to trouble about him. He got a scratch, but came out splendidly, and to-morrow he can have his wedding even without a priest. If there is a wine-cellar in the house, then you may use it. See, his wounds are dressed already! Now go, that the ataman may rest." The essauls moved toward the door. "But don't drink the whole cellar dry," added Zagloba. Sitting at Bogun's pillow, he looked at him attentively. "Well, the devil won't take you on account of these wounds, though you got good ones. You won't move hand or foot for two days," muttered he to himself, looking at the pale face and closed eyes of the Cossack. "The sabre was unwilling to cheat the executioner; for you are his property and from him you will not escape. When they hang you the devil will make a doll out of you for his imps, as you are pretty-faced. No, brother, you drink well, but you will drink no longer with me. You may seek companions for yourself among crawfish-dealers, for I see that you like to kill people, but I will not fall upon noble houses with you in the night. May the hangman light your way!" Bogun groaned slightly. "Oh, groan and sigh! To-morrow you'll groan better. But wait, you Tartar soul, you wanted the princess? I don't wonder, for she is a beauty; but if you get her, then I'll let the dogs eat my wit. Hair will grow on the palms of my hands first." The uproar and hum of many voices came from the square to the ears of Zagloba. "Ah! they have got to the cellar surely," he muttered. "Drink like horseflies, so that you will sleep well. I will watch for all of you, though I don't know whether you will be glad of my watching to-morrow." Then he rose to see if the Cossacks had really made the acquaintance of the princess's cellar, and went to the anteroom, where a terrible sight met his eyes. In the middle of the room lay the bodies of Simeon and Nikolai, already cold, and in the corner of the room the body of the princess in a sitting posture, inclined just as she had been bent by the Cossacks. Her eyes were open, her teeth exposed. The fire, burning in the chimney, filled the whole room with a faint light, trembling in pools of blood; the depth of the room was obscure in the shadow. Zagloba approached the princess to see if she was breathing, and placed his hand on her face; it was cold already. He hurried to the square, for terror seized him in that room. The Cossacks had begun their revel on the outside. Fires had been kindled, by the light of which Zagloba saw barrels of mead, wine, and spirits with the heads broken in. The Cossacks dipped from them as from a well, and drank with all their might. Some, already warmed by drink, chased the young women from the servants' quarters; some of the young women, seized by fright, struggled and ran away, springing through the fire, others amidst bursts of laughter and shouting allowed themselves to be caught and drawn toward the barrels, or fires at which they were dancing the Cosachka. The Cossacks rushed into the dance as if mad; in front of them the girls now pushing forward, now retreating before the violent movements of their partners. The spectators either kept time with tin cups, or sang. Cries of "U-ha!" were heard louder and louder, with the accompaniment of howling of dogs, neighing of horses, and bellowing of cattle to be slaughtered for the feast. At the distant fires were seen peasants from around Rozlogi,--neighbors, who at the sound of shots and cries had rushed from the village in crowds to see what was going on. They did not think of defending the princess, for the Kurtsevichi were hated in the place; they only looked on the revelling of the Cossacks, elbowing one another, whispering, and approaching nearer and nearer the barrels of vudka and mead. The orgies grew more and more tumultuous, the drinking increased. The Cossacks no longer dipped from the barrels with cups, but thrust their heads in up to the neck, and sprinkled the dancing girls with vudka and mead. Their faces were inflamed, steam rose from their heads; and some were already staggering. Zagloba, coming out on the porch, cast his eye on the drinking crowd, then looked carefully at the sky. "Clear, but dark," he muttered; "when the moon goes down you might strike them in the face, they wouldn't see you.--Go on, my boys," he cried, "go on! Don't spare yourselves; your teeth won't grow stiff. A fool is he who won't drink to-day to the health of his ataman! Go on with the barrels! Go on with the girls! U-ha!" "U-ha!" shouted the Cossacks, joyfully. Zagloba looked around on every side. "Oh, you wretches, rogues, good-for-nothings!" shouted he, all at once; "you drink yourselves like horses after a journey, but to the men on guard around the house not a drop. Hallo there! change the guards for me this minute!" The order was executed without delay, and in a moment a number of tipsy Cossacks ran to relieve the guards, who up to that time had taken no part in the revelry. They came in at once with a haste easily understood. "Help yourselves!" cried Zagloba, "help yourselves!" pointing to the barrels. "We thank you!" answered the Cossacks, dipping in the cups. "In an hour relieve these for me." "Very well," said the essaul. It seemed quite natural to the Cossacks that Zagloba should take the command in place of Bogun. It had happened already more than once, and they were glad of it because he always permitted them everything. The guards therefore drank with the others. Zagloba entered into conversation with the peasants of Rozlogi. "Well, my man," asked he of an old "sub-neighbor," "is it far from here to Lubni?" "Oh, very far, very far!" "Could a man get there by morning?" "Oh, no!" "In the afternoon?" "In the afternoon, perhaps." "And how do you go there?" "By the high-road." "Is there a high-road?" "Oh, yes; Prince Yeremi commanded that there should be a road, and there it is." Zagloba spoke loud on purpose, so that in the shouting and noise a large number of Cossacks might hear him. "Give them vudka too," said he to the Cossacks, pointing to the peasants; "but first give me some mead, for the night is cold." One of the Cossacks drew mead from the barrel into a gallon pail, which he passed on his cap to Zagloba. Zagloba took the pail carefully in both hands, so that it should not overflow, raised it to his lips, and pushing his head back, began to drink slowly, but without drawing breath. He drank and drank, till the Cossacks began to wonder. "Look at him," said one to another, "plague take him!" Meanwhile Zagloba's head went back slowly, till at last he took the gallon measure from his reddened face, pursed out his lips, raised his brows, and said, as if to himself,-- "Oh, it is not bad! Old mead!--evident at once that it is not bad. A pity to give such mead to your scoundrelly throats,--dregs would be good enough for you! Strong mead! I know that it has comforted me, and that I feel a little better." Indeed, Pan Zagloba felt better; his head became clear, he grew daring; and it was evident that his blood mixed with mead formed the excellent liquor of which he had spoken himself, and from which bravery and daring went through the whole man. He beckoned to the Cossacks to drink more, and turning, passed with a leisurely step along the whole yard; he examined every corner carefully, crossed the bridge over the fosse, and went around the picket-fence to see if the guards were watching the house carefully. The first sentry was asleep; the second, the third, and the fourth also. They were weary from the journey, and besides had come to their posts drunk, and had fallen asleep straightway. "I might steal any one of them, and make him my man," said Zagloba. Then he turned straight to the yard, entered the ill-omened anteroom again, looked at Bogun, and seeing that he gave no sign of life, withdrew to Helena's door, and opening it quietly, entered the room, from which there came a sound as of prayer. It was really Prince Vassily's room. Helena, however, was there with the prince, with whom she felt in greater safety. The blind Vassily was kneeling before an image of the Holy Virgin, in front of which a lamp was burning. Helena was at his side. Both of them were praying aloud. Seeing Zagloba, she turned her astonished eyes on him. He placed his finger on his lips. "I am a friend of Pan Skshetuski," said he. "Rescue me!" answered Helena. "It is for that I have come; trust in me." "What have I to do?" "It is necessary to escape while that devil is lying unconscious." "What must I do?" "Put on man's clothes; and when I knock at the door, come out." Helena hesitated; distrust shone in her eyes. "Can I trust you?" "What better can you do?" "True, true; but swear that you will not betray me." "Your mind is disturbed, to ask that. But if you wish, I swear. So help me God and the holy cross! Destruction waits you here, salvation is in flight." "That is true, that is true." "Put on male attire as quickly as you can, and wait." "And Vassily?" "What Vassily?" "My crazy cousin." "Destruction threatens you, not him," said Zagloba. "If he is crazy, he is sacred to the Cossacks. Indeed, I noticed that they take him for a prophet." "That is true, and he has offended Bogun in nothing." "We must leave him; otherwise we are lost, and Pan Skshetuski with us. Hurry, my lady, hurry!" With these words Zagloba left the room and went directly to Bogun. The chief was pale and weak, but his eyes were open. "You are better?" asked Zagloba. Bogun wished to speak, but could not. "You cannot speak?" Bogun moved his head in sign that he could not, but at the same time suffering was stamped on his face. His wounds had evidently grown painful from movement. "And you are not able to cry?" Bogun gave a sign only with his eyes that he could not. "Nor move?" The same sign. "So much the better; for you will not speak, nor cry, nor move. Meanwhile I will go to Lubni with the princess. If I don't sweep her away from you, then I will let an old woman grind me to bran in a mill. What a scoundrel! You think that I haven't enough of your company, that I will be hail-fellow-well-met with trash? Oh, you scoundrel! you thought that for your wine, your dice, and your plebeian loves I would kill people and go into rebellion with you? No, nothing of the sort, my handsome fellow!" As Zagloba went on, the dark eyes of the chief opened wider and wider. Was he dreaming, was he awake, or was Zagloba jesting? But Zagloba talked on: "What do you stare so for, like a cat? Do you think that I won't do this? Perhaps you would like to send your respects to somebody in Lubni? A barber could be sent to you, for a good one can be had from the prince." The pale visage of the chief became terrible. He understood that Zagloba was speaking in earnest. Lightning flashes of despair and rage shot from his eyes; a flame rushed into his face. With superhuman effort he raised himself and a cry broke from his lips. "Hi! Cos--" He had not finished when Zagloba, with the speed of lightning, threw Bogun's coat over his head, and in a moment had wound it completely around him and thrown him on his back. "Don't cry, for it hurts you," said he quietly, panting heavily. "Your head might go to aching to-morrow; therefore as a good friend I am careful of you. In this fashion you will be warm and sleep comfortably, not scream your throat out. Lest you tear your clothes, I will bind your hands; and all this through friendship, that you may remember me with gratitude." With the belt on the Cossack he bound his hands; then with his own belt he tied his feet. Bogun felt nothing now; he had fainted. "A sick man should lie quietly," said Zagloba, "so that humor may not fly to his head; from this comes delirium. Well, good health to you! I might rip you with a knife, which would probably be the best use for you, but I am ashamed to kill a man in peasant fashion. Quite another affair if you choke before morning, for that has happened to more than one pig. Good health, and return my love! Maybe we shall have another meeting; but if I try to hasten it, then let some one flay me and make horse-cruppers of my skin." When he had finished this speech Zagloba went to the anteroom, quenched the fire in the chimney, and knocked at Vassily's door. A slender figure emerged from it at once. "Is that you?" asked Zagloba. "It is." "Come on! If we only reach the horses--but then the Cossacks are all drunk, the night is dark; before they wake we shall be far away. Be careful! the princes are lying here." "In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost!" whispered Helena. CHAPTER XIX. Two persons rode quietly and slowly through the woody ravine which skirted the dwelling at Rozlogi. The night had become very dark, for the moon had gone down long before, and besides clouds covered the sky. In the ravine nothing could be seen three steps ahead of the horses, which stumbled over the roots of the trees sticking across the road. They went for a long time with the greatest care, till at length, when they saw the end of the ravine, and the open steppe, lighted a little by the gray reflection of the clouds, one of the riders whispered, "Spur on!" They shot ahead, like two arrows sent from Tartar bows. Nothing followed them but the sound of hoofs. The dark steppe seemed to fly from under their beasts. Single oak-trees standing here and there by the roadside swept past like phantoms, and they fled for a long time without rest or drawing breath, till finally the horses dropped their ears and began to snort from weariness, their gait grew heavy and slow. "There is no help for it, the horses must slacken their pace," said one of the travellers, a heavy man. Just then dawn began to push night from the steppe. Every moment a broader expanse came out from the darkness; the thistles of the steppe were outlined indistinctly, the distant trees, the mounds; every moment more light was diffused in the air. The whitish gleams lighted up the faces of the riders too. They were Pan Zagloba and Helena. "No help for it, we must let the horses slacken their speed," said Zagloba. "Yesterday they came from Chigirin to Rozlogi without resting. They cannot endure this kind of travelling long. I am afraid they may drop dead. How do you feel?" Here Zagloba looked at his companion, and not waiting for her to answer, cried out,-- "Oh, let me look at you in the daylight! Oh, ho! are those your cousin's clothes? It must be said you are a splendid Cossack. I've not had in all my life such another waiting-man; but I think Pan Skshetuski will take him from me soon. But what is this? Oh, for God's sake, twist up your hair! Unless you do there will be no doubt as to your sex." In fact, over Helena's shoulders flowed a torrent of black hair, let loose by the speed of the course and the dampness of the night. "Where are we going?" asked she, winding up her hair with both hands, and trying to put it under her cap. "Where our eyes take us." "Then not to Lubni?" Alarm was reflected on Helena's face, and in the quick glance which she threw at Zagloba reawakened distrust was evident. "Do you see," said he, "I have my own reason; and believe me I have reckoned everything carefully, and my reckoning is based on the following wise maxim: Do not escape in the direction in which you will be pursued. If they are pursuing us at this moment, they are pursuing in the direction of Lubni; for I inquired yesterday in a loud voice about the road, and before setting out I told Bogun that we should go in that direction. Therefore we shall go to Cherkasi. If they follow us, it will not be quickly, for it will take them two days to discover that we are not on the Lubni road. By that time we shall be in Cherkasi, where the Polish regiments of Pivnitski and Rudomina are stationed; and in Korsún are all the forces of the hetmans. Do you understand now?" "I understand, and while life lasts I shall be thankful to you! I do not know who you are or whence you came to Rozlogi; but I think God sent you to defend and save me, for I should stab myself rather than fall into the power of that robber." "He is a dragon, terribly intent on pursuing you." "What in my misfortune have I done to him that he should pursue me? I have known him long, and long have I hated him, long since has he roused in me nothing but fear. Am I the only woman in the world, that he should love me, and shed so much blood on my account,--that he should kill my cousins? When I remember it my blood grows cold. What shall I do? Where shall I hide from him? Do not wonder at my complaining, for I am unhappy. I am ashamed of such affection; I should prefer death a hundred times." Helena's cheeks were flushed; tears were flowing over them, forced out by anger, contempt, and pain. "I will not deny," said Zagloba, "that a great misfortune has come upon your house; but permit me to say that your relatives are partly to blame. They should not have promised your hand to the Cossack, and then betrayed him. When this was discovered he became so enraged that no persuasion of mine could avail. I am sorry for your two dead cousins, and especially for the younger; for he was still a mere youth, but it was evident at a glance that he would have ripened into a mighty warrior." Helena began to cry. "Tears are not proper to those garments which you wear; wipe them away therefore, and say to yourself that this was the will of God. God will punish the outlaw too, who is indeed already punished; for he has shed blood in vain, and has lost you, the one chief object of his desires." Here Zagloba stopped; after a while he spoke again:-- "Oh, dear Lord, what a dressing he would give me if I should fall into his hands! He would make a lizard out of my skin. You do not know that I have already received the crown of martyrdom from the Turks; but I have had enough, I do not wish another; therefore I do not go to Lubni, but to Cherkasi. It would be pleasant to take refuge with the prince, but if they should catch us while going there! You heard, as I was untying the horse from the post, how one of Bogun's serving-men woke up. But if he had raised the alarm then? They would have been ready for the chase at once, and would have caught us in an hour; for they have the fresh horses of Rozlogi, from which I had no time to select. Oh, I tell you he is a wild beast, that Bogun! I have such a horror of him that I would rather take a look at the devil than at him." "God save us from his hands!" "He has ruined himself. He abandoned Chigirin, in spite of the orders of the hetman; he has come into collision with Vishnyevetski. Nothing now remains for him but to flee to Hmelnitski. But he will lose his daring if Hmelnitski is beaten, and that may happen. Jendzian met troops beyond Kremenchug, sailing down the river under Barabash and Krechovski, against Hmelnitski; and, besides, young Stephan Pototski is moving by land with his hussars; but Jendzian waited ten days in Kremenchug to repair his boat. Therefore the battle must have taken place before he reached Chigirin. We were expecting news every moment." "Then Jendzian brought letters from Kudák, did he?" asked Helena. "Yes, there were letters from Skshetuski to the princess and to you; but Bogun seized them, and from them learned everything. Then he struck down Jeodzian at once, and set out to take vengeance on the Kurtsevichi." "Oh, unfortunate youth! He has shed his blood on my account." "Do not grieve; he will recover." "When did this happen?" "Yesterday morning. For Bogun to fell a man is no more than for another to toss off a glass of wine. And after the reading of the letters, he roared so that all Chigirin trembled." Conversation was interrupted for a moment. Daylight had come. The rosy dawn, streaked with opals, bright gold, and purple, was glowing in the east. The breeze was fresh; the horses, now rested, moved gladly. "Let us go on, in God's name, and quickly! Our horses have drawn breath, and we have no time to lose," said Zagloba. They went again at a gallop, and rushed on for two or three miles without rest. All at once a dark point appeared ahead of them, which approached with amazing rapidity. "What can that be?" asked Zagloba. "Let us draw up a little. That's a man on horseback." In fact, some horseman was approaching them at full speed. Bent forward in the saddle, with face hidden in the mane of the horse, he continued to urge with a nagaika the stallion, which seemed not to touch the ground. "What kind of devil can he be, and why does he flee so? But he just flies!" said Zagloba, taking out a pistol from the holsters, to be ready in every event. Meanwhile the courier had come within thirty yards. "Stop!" thundered Zagloba, aiming his pistol; "who are you?" The horseman reined in his steed, and sat erect in the saddle; but the moment he looked he cried, "Pan Zagloba!" "Pleshnyevski, attendant of the starosta of Chigirin! But what are you doing here? Where are you fleeing to?" "Oh, turn back with me! Misfortune! The anger of God, the judgment of God!" "What has happened? Speak!" "Chigirin is taken by the Zaporojians. The peasants are slaughtering the nobles." "In the name of the Father and Son! What do you say? Has Hmelnitski come?" "Pototski is killed, Charnetski in captivity. The Tartars are marching with the Cossacks. Tugai Bey--" "But Barabash and Krechovski?" "Barabash is killed, Krechovski has gone over to Hmelnitski. Krívonos moved on the hetmans last night, Hmelnitski before daybreak this morning. He has tremendous forces. The country is on fire, peasants rising everywhere; blood is flowing. Save yourself!" Zagloba's eyes were starting out, his mouth open, and he was so astonished that he could not speak. "Save yourself!" repeated Pleshnyevski. "Jesus and Mary!" groaned Zagloba. "Jesus and Mary!" repeated Helena, and burst into tears. "Escape! There is no time to be wasted." "Where! To what place?" "To Lubni." "But are you going there?" "Yes; to the prince, the voevoda." "Devil take it all!" cried Zagloba. "But where are the hetmans?" "At Korsún. But Krívonos is fighting with them already." "Krívonos or Prostonos,[10] may the plague consume him! I have no reason to go where he is." "You are running to your own destruction, as into a lion's mouth." "And who sent you to Lubni? Your lord?" "Oh! he escaped with his life; and a friend whom I have among the Zaporojians saved my head, and helped me to flee. I am going to Lubni of my own will, for I don't know where else to take refuge." "But avoid Rozlogi, for Bogun is there. He also wishes to join the rebellion." "Oh, for God's sake, save us! In Chigirin they said that the peasants would rise immediately beyond the Dnieper!" "Maybe I maybe! But go your own way wherever you please, for I have enough to do to think of my own skin." "That is what I'll do," said Pleshnyevski; and lashing his horse with the nagaika, he rushed on. "But avoid Rozlogi!" called Zagloba after him. "Should you meet Bogun, don't tell him that you have seen me. Do you hear?" "I hear," answered Pleshnyevski. "God be with you!" And he raced away as if hunted. "Well, devil, here's an overcoat for you! I've got out of many a trouble, but I have never been in anything like this. Hmelnitski in front, Bogun in the rear; and since this is so, I wouldn't give a broken orta for either my front or rear, or my whole skin. I was a fool not to go to Lubni with you, but it is no time to talk of that now. Pshaw, pshaw! All my wit at the present moment isn't fit to grease a pair of boots with. What is to be done? Where am I to go? In the whole Commonwealth it appears there is not a corner where a man can leave the world with his own death, and not have death given him. I would rather be excused from such presents; let others take them." "Most worthy sir," said Helena, "I know that my cousins Yuri and Fedor are in Zólotonosha; maybe they could save us." "In Zólotonosha? Wait a moment! In Chigirin I knew Pan Unyejitski, who owns the estates of Krapivna and Chernobái, near Zólotonosha. But that place is far from here, farther than Cherkasi. What is to be done? If there is no other place, why, we will take refuge even there. But we must leave the highway; it is safer to go by the steppe and woods. If we hide somewhere a week, even in the woods, perhaps by that time the hetmans will finish with Hmelnitski, and it will be more peaceable in the Ukraine." "God did not save us from the hands of Bogun to let us perish. Have courage!" "Wait a moment! Some spirit enters me anew. I have been in many a trouble. In a leisure hour I will tell you what happened to me in Galáts, and you will see at once that I was in a terrible place that time; still I slipped out by my own wit from those dangers and escaped in safety, though as you see my beard has grown gray a little. But we must leave the highway. Turn, my lady! You ride as well as the best Cossack. The grass is high, and no eye can see us." In fact, the grass became higher and higher as they entered the steppe, so that at last they were hidden in it entirely. But it was difficult for the horses to move through that thicket of stalks, both slender and heavy, and at times sharp and cutting. Soon they became so tired that they were completely exhausted. "If we want these horses to serve us further, we must dismount, unsaddle them, and let them roll and eat awhile, otherwise they will not go on. I see that we shall reach the Kagamlik before long. I should like to be there now. There is no place to hide in like reeds; when you are in them the devil himself can't find you. But we must not go astray." He dismounted and assisted Helena from the horse, then took off the saddles and produced a supply of provisions which he had prudently provided in Rozlogi. "We must strengthen ourselves," said he, "for the road is long; and do you make some vow to Saint Raphael for our safe passage. There is an old fortress in Zólotonosha, and perhaps there is some kind of garrison there now. Pleshnyevski said that beyond the Dnieper the peasants are rising. H'm! this may be true, for the people are quick at rebellion everywhere; but the hand of the prince is on the country behind them, and it is a devil of a hand for weight! Bogun has a strong neck; but if that hand should fall on it, the neck would bend to the earth,--which God grant, amen! But eat something, Princess!" Zagloba took a little knife-case out of his boot-leg and gave it to Helena; then he placed before her, on the saddlecloth, roast beef and bread. "Eat!" said he. "'When there is nothing in the stomach, we have peas and cabbage for brains.' 'If you want to keep your head right, eat roast beef.' But we have made fools of ourselves once, for apparently it would have been better to flee to Lubni; but the chance is gone now. The prince will surely move with his forces to the Dnieper, to assist the hetmans. We have lived to terrible times, when there is civil war, the worst of all evils. There will not be a corner for peaceable persons. It would have been better for me if I had joined the priesthood, for which I had a vocation, being a quiet and sober man; but fortune ordained otherwise. Oh, my God, my God! I should be canon of Cracow now, chanting my prayers, for I have a very beautiful voice. But what is to be done? From my youth up, girls pleased me! You wouldn't believe what a handsome fellow I was; whenever I looked at a woman, it was as if lightning struck her. If I were twenty years younger now, Pan Skshetuski would have something on his hands. Ah, you are a splendid Cossack! No wonder young men are rushing after you, and battling to win you. Pan Skshetuski is no common warrior. I saw the punishment he gave Chaplinski. True, he had something in his head; but when he took him by the neck and--pardon me--by the trousers, and when he battered the door open with him, I tell you that every bone in Chaplinski came out of its pocket. Old Zatsvilikhovski told me too that your betrothed is a great knight, the favorite of the prince. I saw myself in a moment that he was a soldier of uncommon daring and of experience beyond his years. He acts quickly. Though your company may be dear to me, I don't know how much I should give if we were in Zólotonosha now. I see that we must stay in the grass during the day and travel at night. But I don't know whether you will be able to endure such toil." "Oh, I am in good health. I will endure every hardship. We could start even this moment." "You have courage beyond women! The horses have rolled; I will saddle them at once, so as to be ready in every event. I shall not feel at ease till I see the reeds and rushes of the Kagamlik. If we hadn't left the road, we should have come upon the river nearer Chigirin, but here it is about five miles to it from the road. That is my estimate, at least. We shall cross to the other bank at once. I must tell you that I have a great desire to sleep. The entire night before last I went around in Chigirin, yesterday we drove with the Cossacks at a terrible pace to Rozlogi, and last night you and I rode away from Rozlogi. I want to sleep so much that I have lost all wish to talk; and though I have not the habit of being silent,--for philosophers say that a cat should be a hunter, and a man a talker,--still I find my tongue has grown lazy. Pardon me, then, if I doze." "Oh, there is nothing to make excuse for," said Helena. Pan Zagloba had really no need to accuse his tongue of sloth, for it had been going unceasingly since daylight; but in truth he wished to sleep. When he sat on the horse again, he began to doze at once, and soon he was sleeping soundly. He fell asleep from weariness and from the sound of the grass bent apart by the breasts of the horses. Meanwhile Helena gave herself up to the thoughts which were whirling in her head like a flock of birds in the air. Up to that moment events had followed one another so quickly that she was unable to render account of all that had happened to her. The attack, the frightful scenes of death, terror, unexpected rescue, and flight,--all came like a storm in the course of a single night. And besides, so many unintelligible things! Who was this who had saved her? He had told her his name, it is true, but that name explained in no way the motives of his action. Whence did he come to Rozlogi? He said that he had come with Bogun; he had evidently kept company with him, was his acquaintance and friend. But in such a case why did he save her, and expose himself to the greatest danger and the terrible revenge of the Cossack? To understand this it was necessary to know Zagloba well, with his unruly head and his kindly heart. Helena had known him only six hours. And that unknown man with his impudent face, a swaggerer, a drunkard, is her savior. If she had met him three days before, he would have roused in her aversion and distrust; but now she looks on him as a good angel, and flees with him--whither? To Zólotonosha or anywhere else,--she herself knows not yet clearly. What a change of fate! Yesterday she lay down to rest under the quiet roof where she was born; to-day she is in the steppe, on horseback, in male attire, without home, without refuge. Behind her is the terrible chief, with designs on her honor; before her conflagration, peasant rebellion, civil war with all its ambushes, alarms, and horrors. And all her hope is in that man? No! it is still in some one more powerful than violence, war, murder, and conflagration. Here she raised her eyes to heaven and said,-- "Oh, do thou save me, great and merciful God! Rescue the orphan, the unhappy, the wanderer! Let thy will be done, but let thy mercy be manifest." Indeed the mercy had been made manifest, for she had been caught away from the most terrible hands, and saved by an incomprehensible miracle of God. Danger had not passed yet, but perhaps rescue was not distant. Who knows where he is whom she has chosen with her heart? He must have returned already from the Saitch; perhaps he is somewhere in that same steppe. He will seek her and find her, and then joy will take the place of tears, and rejoicing of grief; alarm and terror will disappear forever, peace and pleasure will come. The brave simple heart of the girl was filled with trust, and the steppe rustled sweetly around her; the breeze which moved the grass blew at the same time pleasant thoughts to her brain. She is not an orphan, then, in this world, since she has here at her side one strange, unknown guardian, and still another, known and beloved, who is caring for her. He will not desert her, he will take her for good; and he is a man of iron, stronger and mightier than those rising against her in that hour. The steppe rustled sweetly; from the flowers came odors strong and intoxicating; the ruddy tops of the thistle spread out their purple bunches; the white pearls of the mikalief and the feathers of the steppe grass bent toward her, as if recognizing a maiden sister in that Cossack, with long tresses, milk-white face, and red lips. They bent toward her as if wishing to say: "Cry not, beautiful maiden! we too are in the care of the Lord," A calm, increasing every moment, came to her from the steppe. Pictures of death and pursuit were blotted from her mind, and straightway a sort of weakness seized her, but a sweet one; slumber began to close her eyelids; the horses went slowly, the movement lulled her. She dropped asleep. CHAPTER XX. Helena was wakened by the barking of dogs. Opening her eyes, she saw in the distance before her a great shady oak, an enclosure, and a well-sweep. She roused her companion at once: "Oh, wake up!" Zagloba opened his eyes. "What is this? Where are we?" "I don't know." "Wait a moment! This is a Cossack wintering-place." "So it appears to me." "Herdsmen live here, no doubt. Not too pleasant company! And these dogs howl as if wolves had bitten them. There are horses and men at the enclosure. No help for it; we must ride up to them, lest they pursue us if we pass. You must have been asleep." "I was." "One, two, three, four horses saddled,--four men there at the enclosure. Well, that is no great force. True, they are herdsmen. They are doing something in a hurry. Hallo there, men, come this way!" The four Cossacks approached immediately. They were, in fact, herders who watched horses in the steppe during the summer. Zagloba noticed at once that only one of them had a sabre and a gun. The other three were armed with horse-jaws fastened to staves, but he knew that such herdsmen were often dangerous to travellers. When all four approached they gazed from under their brows at the new-comers; in their bronzed faces could not be found the least trace of welcome. "What do you want?" asked they, without removing their caps. "Glory to God!" said Zagloba. "For the ages of ages! What do you want?" "Is it far to Syrovati?" "We don't know of any Syrovati." "And what is this place called?" "Gusla." "Give our horses water." "We have no water; it is dried up. But where do you ride from?" "From Krivaya Rudá." "Where are you going?" "To Chigirin." The herdsmen looked at one another. One of them, black as a bug and crooked-eyed, began to gaze intently at Zagloba. At last he asked: "Why did you leave the highway?" "It was hot there." The crooked-eyed man put his hand on the reins of Zagloba's horse: "Come down from the horse, come down! You have nothing to go to Chigirin for." "How so?" asked Zagloba, quietly. "Do you see that young fellow there?" asked crooked-eye, pointing to one of the herdsmen. "I do." "He has come from Chigirin. They are slaughtering Poles there." "And do you know, fellow, who is following us to Chigirin?" "Who?" "Prince Yeremi." The insolent face of the herdsman dropped in a moment. All, as if by command, removed their caps. "Do you know, you trash!" continued Zagloba, "what the Poles do to those who slaughter? They hang them. And do you know how many men Prince Yeremi has, and do you know that he is no farther than two or three miles from here? And how have you received us, you dog souls! What stuff you tell!--the well is dried up, you have no water for horses! Ah, basilisks! I'll show you!" "Oh, don't be angry, Pan! The well is dried up. We go to the Kagamlik with our horses, and bring water for ourselves. But say the word and we will run for water." "Oh, I can get on without you! I will go with my attendant. Where is the Kagamlik?" inquired he, sternly. "About a mile and a quarter from here," said the crooked-eyed man, pointing to a line of reeds. "And must I return this way, or can I go along the bank?" "Go by the bank. The river turns to the road about a mile from here." "Dash ahead, young man!" said Zagloba, turning to Helena. The pretended youth turned his horse and galloped on. "Listen!" said Zagloba, turning to the herdsman. "If the vanguard comes up, say that I went to the road along the river." "I will." A quarter of an hour later Zagloba was riding again by the side of Helena. "I invented the prince for them in season," said he, blinking with his cataract-covered eye. "Now they will stay all day waiting for the vanguard. They shuddered at the mere name of the prince." "T see you have such ready wit that you will save us from every trouble," said Helena, "and I thank God for sending me such a guardian." These words went to the heart of the noble. He smiled, stroked his beard, and said,-- "Well, hasn't Zagloba a head on his shoulders? Cunning as Ulysses! and I must tell you, had it not been for that cunning, the crows would have eaten me long ago. Can't help it, I must save myself. They believed easily that the prince was coming, for it is probable that he will appear to-morrow or next day in this neighborhood with a fiery sword like an archangel. And if he should only strike Bogun somewhere on the road, I would make a vow to walk barefoot to Chenstokhova. Even if those herdsmen did not believe, the very mention of the power of the prince was enough to restrain them from attacks on our lives. Still I tell you that their impudence is no good sign to us, for it means that the peasants here have heard of the victories of Hmelnitski, and will become more and more insolent every moment. We must keep therefore to the waste places and visit few villages, for they are dangerous. We have got into such a snare that, as I live, it would be hard to invent a worse one." Alarm again seized Helena. Wishing to get some word of hope from Zagloba, she said: "But you will save me and yourself this time?" "Of course," said the old fox; "the head is given to think about the body. I have become so attached to you that I will struggle for you as for my own daughter. But, to tell the truth, the worst is that we don't know where to take refuge, for Zólotonosha is no safe asylum." "I know surely that my cousins are there." "They are, or they are not; they may have left there and returned to Rozlogi by a different road from the one we are travelling. I count more on the garrison, if there is only half a regiment in the castle. But here is the Kagamlik and plenty of reeds. We will cross to the other side, and instead of going with the current toward the road, we will go up stream to elude pursuit. It is true that we shall go toward Rozlogi, but not far." "We shall approach Brovarki," said Helena, "from which there is a road to Zólotonosha." "That is better. Stop your horse!" They watered the horses. Zagloba, leaving Helena carefully hidden in the reeds, went to look for a ford. He found one easily, for it was only a few yards from the place to which they had come,--just where the herdsmen used to drive their horses through the river, which was shallow enough, but the bank was inconvenient because overgrown with reeds and soft. When they had crossed the river they hurried up stream and rode without resting till night. The road was bad; for the Kagamlik had many tributary streams, which spreading out toward the mouth formed swamps and soft places. Every little while it was necessary to look for fords, or to push through reeds difficult of passage for mounted travellers. The horses were tired and barely able to drag their legs along; at times they stumbled so badly that it seemed to Zagloba they could hold out no longer. At last they came out on a lofty dry bank covered with oaks. But it was night already, and very dark. Further movement was impossible, for in the darkness it was easy to stumble into deep swamps and perish. Zagloba therefore decided to wait till morning. He unsaddled the horses, fettered and let them out to graze; then he gathered leaves for a bed, spread the saddlecloths over them, and covering both with a burka, said to Helena,-- "Lie down and sleep, for you have nothing better to do. The dew will wash your eyes, and that is good. I will put my head on the saddle too, for I don't feel a bone in my body. We will not make a fire, for the light would attract herdsmen. The night is short, and we will move on at daybreak. We doubled on our tracks like hares, not advancing much, it is true; but we have so hidden the trail that the devil who finds us will puff. Good-night!" "Good-night!" The slender young Cossack knelt down and prayed long with eyes raised to the stars. Zagloba took the saddle on his shoulders and carried it to some distance, where he sought out a place to sleep. The bank was well chosen for a halting-place; it was high and dry, also free from mosquitoes. The thick leaves of the oak-trees might furnish a passable protection from rain. Helena could not sleep for a long time. The events of the past night rose at once in her memory as vividly as life. In the darkness appeared the faces of her murdered aunt and cousins. It seemed to her that she was shut up in the chamber with their bodies, and that Bogun would come in a moment. She saw his pale face and his dark sable brows contracted, with pain, and his eyes fixed upon her. Unspeakable terror seized her. But will she really see on a sudden through the darkness around her two gleaming eyes? The moon, looking for a moment from behind the clouds, whitened with a few rays the oaks, and lent fantastic forms to the stumps and branches. Landrails called in the meadows, and quails in the steppes; at times certain strange and distant cries of birds or beasts of the night came to them. Nearer was heard the snorting of their horses, who eating the grass and jumping in their fetters went farther and farther from the sleepers. But all those sounds quieted Helena, for they dissipated the fantastic visions and brought her to reality; told her that that chamber which was continually present before her eyes, and those corpses of her friends, and that pale Bogun, with vengeance in his looks, were an illusion of the senses, a whim of fear, nothing more. A few days before, the thought of such a night under the open sky in the desert would have frightened her to death; now, to gain rest she was obliged to remember that she was really on the bank of the Kagamlik, and far from home. The voices of the quails and landrails lulled her to sleep. The stars twinkled whenever the breeze moved the branches, the beetles sounded in the oak-leaves; she fell asleep at last. But nights in the desert have their surprises too. Day was already breaking, when from a distance terrible noises came to Helena's ears,--howling, snorting, later a squeal so full of pain and terror that the blood stopped in her veins. She sprang to her feet, covered with cold sweat, terror-stricken, and not knowing what to do. Suddenly Zagloba shot past her. He rushed without a cap, in the direction of the cry, pistol in hand. After a while his voice was heard: "U-ha! u-ha!" a pistol-shot, then all was silent. It seemed to Helena as if she had waited an age. At last she heard Zagloba below the bank. "May the dogs devour you, may your skins be torn off, may the Jews wear you in their collars!" Genuine despair was in the voice of Zagloba. "What has happened?" inquired Helena. "The wolves have eaten our horses." "Jesus, Mary! both of them?" "One is eaten, the other is maimed so that he cannot stand. They didn't go more than three hundred yards, and are lost." "What shall we do now?" "What shall we do? Whittle out sticks for ourselves and sit on them. Do I know what we shall do? Here is pure despair. I tell you, the devil has surely got after us,--which is not to be wondered at, for he must be a friend of Bogun, or his blood relation. What are we to do? May I turn into a horse if I know,--you would then at least have something to ride on. I am a scoundrel if ever I have been in such a fix." "Let us go on foot." "It is well for your ladyship to travel in peasant fashion, with your twenty years, but not for me with my circumference. I speak incorrectly, though, for here any clown can have a nag, only dogs travel on foot. Pure despair, as God is kind to me! Of course we shall not sit here, we shall walk on directly; but when we are to reach Zólotonosha is unknown to me. If it is not pleasant to flee on horseback, it is sorest of all on foot. Now the worst thing possible has happened to us. We must leave the saddles and carry on our own shoulders whatever we put between our lips." "I will not allow you to carry the burden alone; I too will carry whatever is necessary." Zagloba was pleased to see such resolution in Helena. "I should be either a Turk or a Pagan to permit you. Those white hands and slender shoulders are not for burdens. With God's help I will manage; only I must rest frequently, for, always too abstemious in eating and drinking, I have short breath now. Let us take the saddle-cloths to sleep on and some provisions; but there will not be much of them, since we shall have to strengthen ourselves directly." Straightway they began the strengthening, during which Pan Zagloba, abandoning his boasted abstemiousness, busied himself about long breath. Near midday they reached a ford through which men and wagons passed from time to time, for on both banks there were marks of wheels and horses' tracks. "Maybe that is the road to Zólotonosha." "There is no one to ask." Zagloba had barely stopped speaking, when voices reached their ears from a distance. "Wait!" whispered Zagloba, "we must hide." The voices continued to approach them. "Do you see anything?" inquired Helena. "I do." "Who are coming?" "A blind old man with a lyre. A youth is leading him, Now they are taking off their boots. They will come to us through the river." After a time the plashing of water indicated that they were really crossing. Zagloba and Helena came out of the hiding-place. "Glory be to God!" said the noble, aloud. "For the ages of ages!" answered the old man. "But who are you?" "Christians. Don't be afraid, grandfather!" "May Saint Nicholas give you health and happiness!" "And where are you coming from, grandfather?" "From Brovarki." "And where does this road lead to?" "Oh, to farmhouses and villages." "It doesn't go to Zólotonosha?" "Maybe it does." "Is it long since you left Brovarki?" "Yesterday morning." "And were you in Rozlogi?" "Yes. But they say that the knights came there, that there was a battle." "Who said that?" "Oh, they said so in Brovarki. One of the servants of the princess came, and what he told was terrible!" "And you didn't see him?" "I? I see no man, I am blind." "And this youth?" "He sees, but he is dumb. I am the only one who understands him." "Is it far from here to Rozlogi, for we are going there?" "Oh, it is far!" "You say, then, that you were in Rozlogi?" "Yes, we were." "So!" said Zagloba; and suddenly he seized the youth by the shoulder. "Ha! scoundrels, criminals, thieves! you are going around as spies, rousing the serfs to rebellion. Here, Fedor, Oleksa, Maksim, take them, strip them naked, and hang or drown them; beat them,--they are rebels, spies,--beat, kill them!" He began to pull the youth about and to shake him roughly, shouting louder and louder every moment. The old man threw himself on his knees, begging for mercy; the youth uttered sounds of terror peculiar to the dumb, and Helena looked with astonishment at the attack. "What are you doing?" inquired she, not believing her own eyes. But Zagloba shouted, cursed, moved hell, summoned all the miseries, misfortunes, and diseases, threatened with every manner of torment and death. The princess thought that his mind had failed. "Go away!" cried he to her; "it is not proper for you to see what is going to take place here. Go away, I tell you!" He turned to the old man. "Take off your clothes, you clown! If you don't, I'll cut you to pieces." When he had thrown the youth to the ground Zagloba began to strip him with his own hands. The old man, frightened, dropped his lyre, his bag, and his coat as quickly as he could. "Throw off everything or you will be killed!" shouted Zagloba. The old man began to take off his shirt. Helena, seeing whither matters were tending, hurried away, and as she fled she heard the curses of Zagloba. After she had gone some distance she stopped, not knowing what to do. Near by was the trunk of a tree thrown down by the wind; she sat on this and waited. The noises of the dumb youth, the groans of the old man, and the uproar of Zagloba came to her ears. At last all was silent save the twittering of birds and the rustle of leaves. After a time the heavy steps of a man panting were heard. It was Zagloba. On his shoulders he carried the clothing stripped from the old man and the youth, in his hands two pair of boots and a lyre. When he came near he began to wink with his sound eye, to smile, and to puff. He was evidently in perfect humor. "No herald in a court would have shouted as I have," said he, "until I am hoarse; but I have got what I wanted. I let them go naked as their mother bore them. If the Sultan doesn't make me a pasha, or hospodar of Wallachia, he is a thankless fellow, for I have made two Turkish saints. Oh, the scoundrels! they begged me to leave them at least their shirts. I told them they ought to be grateful that I left them their lives. And see here, young lady! Everything is new,--the coats and the boots and the shirts. There must be nice order in that Commonwealth, in which trash dress so richly. But they were at a festival in Brovarki, where they collected no small amount of money and bought everything new at the fair. Not a single noble will plough out so much in this country as a minstrel will beg. Therefore I abandon my career as a knight, and will strip grandfathers on the highway, for I see that in this manner I shall arrive at fortune more quickly." "For what purpose did you do that?" asked Helena. "Just wait a minute, and I will show you for what purpose." Saying this, he took half the plundered clothing and went into the reeds which covered the bank. After a time the sounds of a lyre were heard in the rushes, and there appeared, not Pan Zagloba, but a real "grandfather" of the Ukraine, with a cataract on one eye and a gray beard. The "grandfather" approached Helena, singing with a hoarse voice,-- "Oh, bright falcon, my own brother, High dost thou soar, And far dost thou fly!" The princess clapped her hands, and for the first time since her flight from Rozlogi a smile brightened her beautiful face. "If I did not know that it was you, I should never have recognized you." "Well," said Zagloba, "I know you have not seen a better mask at a festival. I looked into the Kagamlik myself; and if ever I have seen a better-looking grandfather, then hang me. As for songs, I have no lack of them. What do you prefer? Maybe you would like to hear of Marusia Boguslava, of Bondarivna, or the death of Sierpahova; I can give you that. I am a rogue if I can't get a crust of bread among the worst knaves that exist." "Now I understand your action, why you stripped the clothing from those poor creatures,--because it is safer to go over the road in disguise." "Of course," said Zagloba; "and what do you suppose? Here, east of the Dnieper, the people are worse than anywhere else; and now when they hear of the war with the Zaporojians, and the victories, of Hmelnitski, no power will keep them from rebellion. You saw those herdsmen who wanted to get our skins. If the hetmans do not put down Hmelnitski at once, the whole country will be on fire in two or three days, and how should I take you through bands of peasants in rebellion? And if you had to fall into their hands, you would better have remained in Bogun's." "That cannot be! I prefer death," interrupted Helena. "But I prefer life; for death is a thing from which you cannot rise by any wit. I think, however, that God sent us this old man and the youth. I frightened them with the prince and his whole army as I did the herdsmen. They will sit in the reeds naked for three days from terror, and by that time we shall reach Zólotonosha in disguise somehow. We shall find your cousins and efficient aid; if not, we will go farther to the hetmans,--and all this in safety, for grandfathers have no fear of peasants and Cossacks. We might take our heads in safety through Hmelnitski's camp. But we have to avoid the Tartars, for they would take you as a youth into captivity." "Then must I too disguise myself?" "Yes; throw off your Cossack clothes, and disguise yourself as a peasant youth,--though you are rather comely to be a clodhopper's child, as I am to be a grandfather; but that is nothing. The wind will tan your face, and my stomach will fall in from walking. I shall sweat away all my thickness. When the Wallachians burned out my eye, I thought that an absolutely awful thing had come upon me; but now I see it is really an advantage, for a grandfather not blind would be suspected. You will lead me by the hand, and call me Onufri, for that is my minstrel name. Now dress up as quickly as you can, since it is time for the road, which will be so long for us on foot." Zagloba went aside, and Helena began at once to array herself as a minstrel boy. Having washed in the river, she cast aside the Cossack coat, and took the peasant's svitka, straw hat, and knapsack. Fortunately the youth stripped by Zagloba was tall, so that everything fitted Helena well. Zagloba, returning, examined her carefully, and said,-- "God save me! more than one knight would willingly lay aside his armor if he only had such an attendant as you; and I know one hussar who would certainly. But we must do something with that hair. I saw handsome boys in Stamboul, but never one so handsome as you are." "God grant my beauty may work no ill for me!" said Helena. But she smiled; for her woman's ear was tickled by Zagloba's praise. "Beauty never turns out ill, and I will give you an example of this; for when the Turks in Galáts burned out one of my eyes, and wanted to burn out the other, the wife of the Pasha saved me on account of my extraordinary beauty, the remnants of which you may see even yet." "But you said that the Wallachians burned your eye out." "They were Wallachians, but had become Turks, and were serving the Pasha in Galáts." "They didn't burn even one of your eyes out." "But from the heated iron a cataract grew on it. It's all the same. What do you wish to do with your tresses?" "What! I must cut them off?" "You must. But how?" "With your sabre." "It is well to cut a head off with this sword, but hair--I don't know how." "Well, I will sit by that log and put my hair across it, you can strike and cut it off; but don't cut my head off!" "Oh, never fear! More than once have I shot the wick from candles when I was drunk, without cutting the candle. I will do no harm to you, although this act is the first of its kind in my life." Helena sat near the log, and throwing her heavy dark hair across it, raised her eyes to Zagloba. "I am ready," said she; "cut!" She smiled somewhat sadly; for she was sorry for those tresses, which near the head could hardly be clasped by two hands. Zagloba had a sort of awkward feeling. He went around the trunk to cut more conveniently, and muttered: "Pshaw, pshaw! I would rather be a barber and cut Cossack tufts. I seem to be an executioner going to my work; for it is known to you that they cut the hair off witches, so that the devils shouldn't hide in it and weaken the power of torture. But you are not a witch; therefore this act seems disgraceful to me,--for which if Pan Skshetuski does not cut my ears, then I'll pay him. Upon my word, shivers are going along my arm. At least, close your eyes!" "All ready!" said Helena. Zagloba straightened up, as if rising in his stirrups for a blow. The metallic blade whistled in the air, and that moment the dark tresses slipped down along the smooth bark to the ground. "All over!" said Zagloba, in his turn. Helena sprang up, and immediately the short-cut hair fell in a dark circle around her face, on which blushes of shame were beating,--for at that period the cutting of a maiden's hair was considered a great disgrace; therefore it was on her part a grievous sacrifice, which she could make only in case of extreme necessity. In fact, tears came to her eyes; and Zagloba, angry at himself, made no attempt to comfort her. "It seems to me that I have ventured on something dishonorable, and I repeat to you that Pan Skshetuski, if he is a worthy cavalier, is bound to cut my ears off. But it could not be avoided, for your sex would have been discovered at once. Now at least we can go on with confidence. I inquired of the old man too about the road, holding a dagger to his throat. According to what he said, we shall see three oaks in the steppe; near them is the Wolf's Ravine, and along the ravine lies the road through Demiánovka to Zólotonosha. He said that wagoners go by the road, and it would be possible to sit with them in the wagons. You and I are passing through a grievous time, which I shall ever remember; for now we must part with the sabre, since it befits neither the minstrel nor his boy to have marks of nobility about their persons. I will push it under this tree. God may permit me to find it here some other day. Many an expedition has this sabre seen, and it has been the cause of great victories. Believe me, I should be commander of an army now were it not for the envy and malice of men who accused me of a love for strong drinks. So is it always in the world,--no justice in anything! When I was not rushing into destruction like a fool, and knew how to unite prudence with valor like a second Cunctator, Pan Zatsvilikhovski was the first to say that I was a coward. He is a good man, but he has an evil tongue. The other day he gnawed at me because I played brother with the Cossacks; but had it not been for that you would not have escaped the power of Bogun." While talking, Zagloba thrust the sabre under the tree, covered it with plants and grass, then threw the bag and lyre over his shoulder, took the staff pointed with flintstones, waved his hands a couple of times, and said,-- "Well, this is not bad. I can strike a light in the eyes of some dog or wolf with this staff and count his teeth. The worst of all is that we must walk; but there is no help. Come!" They went on,--the dark-haired youth in front, the old man following. The latter grunted and cursed; for it was hot for him to travel on foot, though a breeze passed over the steppe. The breeze burned and tanned the face of the handsome boy. Soon they came to the ravine, at the bottom of which was a spring which distilled its pure waters into the Kagamlik. Around that ravine not far from the river three strong oaks were growing on a mound; to these our wayfarers turned at once. They came also upon traces of the road, which looked yellow along the steppe from flowers which were growing on droppings of cattle. The road was deserted; there were neither teamsters, nor tar-spots on the ground, nor gray oxen slowly moving. But here and there lay the bones of cattle torn to pieces by wolves and whitening in the sun. The wayfarers went on steadily, resting only under the shade of oak-groves. The dark-haired boy lay down to slumber on the green turf, and the old man watched. They passed through streams also; and when there was no ford they searched for one, walking for a distance along the shore. Sometimes, too, the old man carried the boy over in his arms, with a power that was wonderful in a man who begged his bread. But he was a sturdy minstrel! Thus they dragged on till evening, when the boy sat down by the wayside at an oak-forest and said,-- "My breath is gone, I have spent my strength; I can walk no farther, I will lie down here and die." The old man was terribly distressed. "Oh, these cursed wastes,--not a house nor a cottage by the roadside, nor a living soul! But we cannot spend the night here. Evening is already falling, it will be dark in an hour,--and just listen!" The old man stopped speaking, and for a while there was deep silence. But it was soon broken by a distant dismal sound which seemed to come from the bowels of the earth; it did really come from the ravine, which lay not far from the road. "Those are wolves," said Zagloba. "Last night we had horses,--they ate them; this time they will get at our own persons. I have, it is true, a pistol under my svitka; but I don't know whether my powder would hold out for two charges, and I should not like to be the supper at a wolf's wedding. Listen! Another howl!" The howling was heard again, and appeared to be nearer. "Rise, my child!" said the old man; "and if you are unable to walk, I will carry you. What's to be done? I see that I have a great affection for you, which is surely because living in a wifeless condition I am unable to leave legitimate descendants of my own; and if I have illegitimate they are heathen, for I lived a long time in Turkey. With me ends the family of Zagloba, with its escutcheon 'In the Forehead.' You will take care of my old age, but now you must get up and sit on my shoulders." "My feet have grown so heavy that I cannot move." "You were boasting of your strength. But stop! stop! As God is dear to me, I hear the barking of dogs. That's it. Those are dogs, not wolves. Then Demiánovka, of which the old minstrel told me, must be near. Praise be to God in the highest! I had thought not to make a fire on account of the wolves; for we should have surely gone to sleep, we are so tired. Yes, they are dogs. Do you hear?" "Let us go on," said Helena, whose strength returned suddenly. They had barely come out of the wood when smoke from a number of cottages appeared at no great distance. They saw also three domes of a church, covered with fresh shingles, which shone yet in the dusk from the last gleams of the evening twilight. The barking of dogs seemed nearer, more distinct each moment. "Yes, that is Demiánovka; it cannot be another place," said Zagloba. "They receive minstrels hospitably everywhere; maybe we shall find supper and lodging, and perhaps good people will take us farther. Wait a moment! this is one of the prince's villages; there must be an agent living in it. We will rest and get news. The prince must be already on the way. Rescue may come sooner than you expect. Remember that you are a mute. I began at the wrong end when I told you to call me Onufri, for since you are a mute you cannot call me anything. I shall speak for you and for myself, and, praise be to God! I can use peasants' speech as well as Latin. Move on, move on! Now the first cottage is near. My God! when will our wanderings come to an end? If we could get some warmed beer, I should praise the Lord God for even that." Zagloba ceased, and for a time they went on in silence together; then he began to talk again. "Remember that you are dumb. When they ask you about anything, point to me and say, 'Hum, hum, hum! niyá, niyá!' I have seen that you have much wit, and besides, it is a question of our lives. If we should chance on a regiment belonging to the hetmans or the prince, then we would tell who we are at once, especially if the officer is courteous and an acquaintance of Pan Skshetuski. It is true that you are under the guardianship of the prince, and you have nothing to fear from soldiers. Oh! what fires are those bursting out in the glen? Ah, there are blacksmiths--there is a forge! But I see there is no small number of people at it. Let us go there." In the cleft which formed the entrance to the ravine there was a forge, from the chimney of which bundles and bunches of golden sparks were thrown out; and through the open doors and numerous chinks in the walls sparkling light burst forth, intercepted from moment to moment by dark forms moving around inside. In front of the forge were to be seen in the evening twilight a number of dark forms standing together in knots. The hammers in the forge beat in time, till the echo was heard all about; and the sound was mingled with songs in front of the forge, with the buzz of conversation and the barking of dogs. Seeing all this, Zagloba turned immediately into the ravine, touched his lyre, and began to sing,-- "Hei! on the mountain Reapers are seen, Under the mountain, The mountain green, Cossacks are marching on." Singing thus, he approached the crowd of people standing in front of the forge. He looked around. They were peasants, for the most part drunk. Nearly all of them had sticks in their hands; on some of these sticks were scythes, double-edged and pointed. The blacksmiths in the forge were occupied specially in the making of these points and the bending of the scythes. "Ah, grandfather! grandfather!" they began to call out in the crowd. "Glory be to God!" said Zagloba. "For the ages of ages!" "Tell me, children, is this Demiánovka?" "Yes, it is Demiánovka. But why do you ask?" "I ask because men told me on the way," continued the grandfather, "that good people dwell here, that they will take in the old man, give him food and drink, let him spend the night, and give him some money. I am old; I have travelled a long road, and this boy here cannot go a step farther. He, poor fellow, is dumb; he leads me because I am sightless. I am a blind unfortunate. God will bless you, kind people. Saint Nicholas, the wonder-worker, will bless you. Saint Onufri will bless you. In one eye there is a little of God's light left me; in the other it is dark forever. So I travel with my lyre. I sing songs, and I live like the birds on what falls from the hands of kind people." "And where are you from, grandfather?" "Oh, from afar, afar! But let me rest, for I see here by the forge a bench. And sit down, poor creature!" said he, showing the bench to Helena. "We are from Ladava, good people, and left home long, long ago; but to-day we come from the festival in Brovarki." "And have you heard anything good there?" asked an old peasant with a scythe in his hand. "We heard, we heard, but whether it is anything good we don't know. Many people have collected there. They spoke of Hmelnitski,--that he had conquered the hetman's son and his knights. We heard, too, that the peasants are rising against the nobles on the Russian bank." Immediately the crowd surrounded Zagloba, who, sitting by Helena, struck the strings of the lyre from time to time. "Then you heard, father, that the people are rising?" "I did; for wretched is our peasant lot." "But they say there will be an end to it?" "In Kieff they found on the altar a letter from Christ, saying there would be fearful and awful war and much blood-spilling in the whole Ukraine." The half-circle in front of the bench on which Zagloba sat contracted still more. "You say there was a letter?" "There was, as I am alive. About war and the spilling of blood. But I cannot speak further, for the throat is dried up within me, poor old man!" "Here is a measure of gorailka for you, father; and tell us what you have heard in the world. We know that minstrels go everywhere and know everything. There have been some among us already. They said that the black hour would come from Hmelnitski on the lords. We had these scythes and pikes made for us, so as not to be the last; but we don't know whether to begin now or to wait for a letter from Hmelnitski." Zagloba emptied the measure, smacked his lips, thought awhile, and then said: "Who tells you it is time to begin?" "We want to begin ourselves." "Begin! begin!" said numerous voices. "If the Zaporojians have beaten the lords, then begin!" The scythes and pikes quivered in strong hands, and gave out an ominous clatter. Then followed a moment of silence, but the hammers in the forge continued to beat. The future killers waited for what the old man would say. He thought and thought; at last he asked,-- "Whose people are you?" "Prince Yeremi's." "And whom will you kill?" The peasants looked at one another. "Him?" asked the old man. "We couldn't manage him." "Oh, you can't manage him, children, you can't manage him! I was in Lubni, and I saw that prince with my own eyes. He is awful! When he shouts the trees tremble in the woods, and when he stamps his foot a ravine is made. The king is afraid of him, the hetmans obey him, and all are terrified at him. He has more soldiers than the Khan or the Sultan. Oh, you can't manage him, children, you can't manage him! He is after you, not you after him. And I know what you don't know yet, that all the Poles will come to help him; and where there is a Pole, there is a sabre." Gloomy silence seized the crowd; the old man struck his lyre again, and raising his face toward the moon, continued: "The prince is coming, he is coming, and with him as many beautiful plumes and banners as there are stars in heaven or thistles on the steppe. The wind flies before him and groans; and do you know, my children, why the wind groans? It groans over your fate. Mother Death flies before him with a scythe, and strikes; and do you know what she strikes at? She strikes at your necks." "O Lord, have mercy on us!" said low, terrified voices. Again nothing was heard but the beating of hammers. "Who is the prince's agent here?" asked the old man. "Pan Gdeshinski." "And where is he?" "He ran away." "Why did he run away?" "He ran away, for he heard that they were making scythes and pikes for us. He got frightened and ran away." "So much the worse, for he will tell the prince about you." "Why do you croak, grandfather, like a raven?" asked an old peasant. "We believe that the black hour is coming on the lords; and there will be neither on the Russian nor Tartar bank lords or princes,--only Cossacks, free people; there will be neither land-rent, nor barrel-tax, nor mill-tax, nor transport-tax, nor any more Jews, for thus does it stand in the letter from Christ which you yourself spoke of. And Hmelnitski is as strong as the prince. Let them go at it!" "God grant!" said the old man. "Oh, bitter is our peasant lot! It was different in old times." "Who owns the land? The prince. Who owns the steppe? The prince. Who owns the woods? The prince. Who has the cattle? The prince. And in old times it was God's woods and God's steppe; whoever came first, took it, and was bound to no man. Now everything belongs to the lords and princes." "All belongs to you, my children; but I tell you one thing you yourselves know, that you can't manage the prince here. I tell you this,--whoever wants to slay lords, let him not stay here till Hmelnitski has tried his hand on the prince, but let him be off to Hmelnitski, and right away, to-morrow, for the prince is on the road already. If Pan Gdeshinski brings him to Demiánovka, the prince won't leave one of you alive; he will kill the last man of you. Make your way to Hmelnitski. The more of you there, the easier for Hmelnitski to succeed. Oh, but he has heavy work before him! The hetmans in front of him, the armies of the king without number, and then the prince more powerful than the hetmans. Hurry on, children, to help Hmelnitski and the Zaporojians; for they, poor men, won't hold out unless you help, and they are fighting against the lords for your freedom and property. Hurry! You will save yourselves from the prince and you will help Hmelnitski." "He speaks the truth!" cried voices in the crowd. "He speaks well!" "A wise grandfather!" "Did you see the prince on the road?" "See him I didn't, but I heard in Brovarki that he had left Lubni, that he is burning and slaying; and where he finds even one pike before him, he leaves only the sky and the earth behind." "Lord, have mercy on us!" "And where are we to look for Hmelnitski?" "I came here, children, to tell you where to look for Hmelnitski. Go, my children, to Zólotonosha, then to Trakhtimiroff, and there Hmelnitski will be waiting for you. There people are collecting from all the villages, houses, and cottages; the Tartars will come there too. Go! Unless you do, the prince will not leave you to walk over the earth." "And you will go with us, father?" "Walk I will not, for the ground pulls down my old legs. But get ready a telega, and I will ride with you. Before we come to Zólotonosha I will go on ahead to see if there are Polish soldiers. If there are, we will pass by and go straight to Trakhtimiroff. That is a Cossack country. But now give me something to eat and drink, for I am hungry, and this lad here is hungry too. We will start off in the morning, and along the road I will sing to you of Pan Pototski and Prince Yeremi. Oh, they are terrible lions! There will be great bloodshed in the Ukraine. The sky is awfully red, and the moon just as if swimming in blood. Beg, children, for the mercy of God, for no one will walk long in God's world. I have heard also that vampires rise out of their graves and howl." A vague terror seized the crowd of peasants; they began to look around involuntarily, make the sign of the cross and whisper among themselves. At last one cried out,-- "To Zólotonosha!" "To Zólotonosha!" repeated all, as if there in particular were refuge and safety. "To Trakhtimiroff!" "Death to the Poles and lords!" All at once a young Cossack stepped forward, shook his pike, and cried: "Fathers, if we go to Zólotonosha to-morrow, we, will go to the manager's house to-night." "To the manager's house!" cried a number of voices at once. "Burn it up! take the goods!" But the minstrel, who held his head drooping on his breast, raised it and said,-- "Oh, children, do not go to the manager's house, and do not burn it, or you will suffer. The prince may be close by, he is going along with his army; he will see the fire, he will come, and there will be trouble. Better give me something to eat and show me a place to rest. And do you keep your peace!" "He tells the truth!" said a number of voices. "He tells the truth, and, Maksim, you are a fool!" "Come, father, to my house for bread and salt and a cup of mead, and rest on the hay till daylight," said an old peasant, turning to the minstrel. Zagloba rose, and pulled the sleeve of Helena's svitka. She was asleep. "The boy is tired to death; he fell asleep under the very sound of the hammers," said Zagloba. But in his soul he thought: "Oh, sweet innocence, thou art able to sleep amidst pikes and knives! It is clear that angels of heaven are guarding thee, and me in thy company." He roused her, and they went on toward the village, which lay at some distance. The night was calm and quiet; the echo of the striking hammers followed them. The old peasant went ahead to show the way in the darkness; and Zagloba, pretending to say his prayers, muttered in a monotone,-- "O God, have mercy on us, sinners--Do you see, Princess--O Holy Most Pure--what would have happened to us without this peasant disguise?--As it is on earth, so in heaven--We shall get something to eat, and to-morrow ride to Zólotonosha instead of going on foot--Amen, amen, amen!--Bogun may come upon our tracks, for our tracks will not deceive him; but it will be late, for we shall cross the Dnieper at Próhorovka--Amen!--May black death choke them, may the hangman light their way! Do you hear, Princess, how they are howling at the forge?--Amen!--Terrible times have come on us, but I am a fool if I don't rescue you even if we have to flee to Warsaw itself." "What are you muttering there, brother?" asked the peasant. "Oh, nothing! I am praying for your health. Amen, amen!" "Here is my cottage." "Glory be to God!" "For the ages of ages!" "I beg you to eat my bread and salt." "God will reward you." A little later the minstrel had strengthened himself powerfully with mutton and a good portion of mead. Next morning early, he moved on with his attendant lad, in a comfortable telega, toward Zólotonosha, escorted by a number of mounted peasants armed with pikes and scythes. They went through Kovraiets, Chernobái, and Krapivna. The wayfarers saw that everything was seething; the peasants were arming at all points, the forges were working from morning till night, and only the terrible name and power of Prince Yeremi still restrained the bloody outburst. West of the Dnieper the tempest was let loose in all its fury. News of the defeat at Korsún had spread over all Russia with the speed of lightning, and every living soul was rushing forth. CHAPTER XXI. Next morning after the flight of Zagloba, the Cossacks found Bogun half suffocated in the coat in which Zagloba had wrapped him; but since his wounds were not serious he returned soon to consciousness. Remembering everything that had happened, he fell into a rage, roared like a wild beast, stained his hands with blood from his own wounded head, and struck at the men with his dagger, so that the Cossacks dared not come near him. At last, being unable to support himself in the saddle, he ordered them to bind a Jew cradle between two horses, and sitting in it, he hurried on as if insane in the direction of Lubni, supposing that the fugitives had gone thither. Resting on the Jew bed on down, and in his own blood, he raced over the steppe like a vampire hurrying back to its grave before daybreak; and after him speeded his trusty Cossacks, with the thought in mind that they were hurrying to evident death. They flew on in this way to Vassílyevka, where there was a garrison of one hundred Hungarian infantry belonging to Prince Yeremi. The furious leader, as if life had become loathsome to him, fell upon these without hesitation, rushing first into the fire himself, and after a struggle of some hours' duration cut the men to pieces, with the exception of a few whom he spared to gain from them a confession through torture. Learning that no noble with a maiden had escaped by that road, and not knowing himself what to do, he tore away his bandages from excess of pain. To go farther was impossible; for everywhere toward Lubni were stationed the forces of the prince, whom the villagers that had run away during the battle at Vassílyevka must have already informed of the attack. The faithful Cossacks therefore bore away their ataman weakened from rage, and took him back to Rozlogi. On their return they found not a trace of the buildings; for the peasants of the neighborhood had plundered and burned them, together with Prince Vassily, thinking that in case the Kurtsevichi or Prince Yeremi should wish to inflict punishment, the blame could be cast easily on Bogun and his Cossacks. They had burned every out-house, cut down the cherry-orchard, and killed all the servants. The peasants had taken unsparing vengeance for the harsh rule and oppression which they had endured from the Kurtsevichi. Just beyond Rozlogi, Pleshnyevski, who was carrying tidings of the defeat at Jóltiya Vodi from Chigirin, fell into the hands of Bogun. When asked where and for what purpose he was going, he hesitated and failed to give clear answers; he fell under suspicion, and when burned with fire, told of the victory of Hmelnitski, and also of Zagloba, whom he had met the day before. The leader rejoiced, and drew a long breath. After he had hanged Pleshnyevski, he hurried on, feeling certain that Zagloba would not escape him. The herdsmen gave some new indications, but beyond the ford all traces disappeared. The ataman did not meet the minstrel whom Zagloba had stripped of his clothing, for he had gone lower down along the Kagamlik, and besides was so frightened that he had hidden like a fox in the reeds. A day and a night more passed; and since the pursuit toward Vassílyevka occupied two days precisely, Zagloba had much time on his side. What was to be done then? In this difficult juncture the essaul came to Bogun with advice and assistance. He was an old wolf of the steppe, accustomed from youth to track Tartars through the Wilderness. "Father," said he, "they fled to Chigirin,--and they have done wisely, for they have gained time,--but when they heard of Hmelnitski and Jóltiya Vodi from Pleshnyevski, they changed their road. You have seen yourself, father, that they left the high-road and rushed to one side." "To the steppe?" "In the steppe I could find them, father; but they went toward the Dnieper, to go to the hetmans; therefore they went either through Cherkas or Zólotonosha and Próhorovka; and if they went even to Pereyasláv, though I don't believe that, still we shall find them. We should go, one to Cherkasi, another to Zólotonosha, along the wagon-road; and quickly, for as soon as they cross the Dnieper, they will hasten to the hetmans, or Hmelnitski's Tartars will pick them up." "You hurry to Zólotonosha, and I will go to Cherkasi," said Bogun. "All right, father." "And keep a sharp lookout, for he is a cunning fox." "Ai, father! I am cunning too." Having settled the plan of pursuit in this way, the leader and the essaul turned immediately,--one to Cherkasi; the other higher up, to Zólotonosha. In the evening of the same day the old essaul Anton reached Demiánovka. The village was deserted; only the women were left, for all the men had gone beyond the river to Hmelnitski. Seeing armed men and not knowing who they were, the women had hidden in the thatch and in the barns. The Cossacks had to search long; but at last they found an old woman, who feared nothing, not even the Tartars. "And where are the men, mother?" asked Anton. "Do I know?" answered she, showing her yellow teeth. "We are Cossacks, mother, don't be afraid; we are not from the Poles." "The Poles? May the evil one--" "You are glad to see us, I suppose?" "You?" The old woman hesitated a moment. "The plague take you!" Anton was at a loss what to do, when suddenly the door of one of the cottages squeaked, and a young, fair-looking woman came out. "Ai! good men, I heard that you were not Poles." "True, we are not." "Are you from Hmelnitski?" "Yes." "Not from the Poles?" "By no means." "And why do you ask for the men?" "I ask if they have gone already." "They have gone." "Glory be to God! And tell us now, did a noble go by here,--a cursed Pole with a young woman?" "A noble? A Pole? I didn't see them." "Was no one here?" "There was a 'grandfather.' He persuaded the men to go to Hmelnitski through Zólotonosha, for he said that Prince Yeremi was coming here." "Where?" "Here. And from here would go to Zólotonosha, so the old man said." "And the old man persuaded the men to rise?" "He did." "And he was alone?" "No, With a dumb boy." "How did he look?" "Who?" "The old man." "Oh, ai! old, very old. He played on a lyre, and complained of the lords. But I did not see him." "And he persuaded the men to rise?" asked Anton. "He did." "Well, good-by, young woman." "God be with you!" Anton stopped in deep thought. If the old man was Zagloba disguised, why did he persuade the peasants to go to Hmelnitski, and where did he get the disguise? Where did he leave the horses, for he fled on horseback? But, above all, why did he incite peasants to rebellion and warn them of the coming of the prince? A noble would not have warned them, and first of all he would have taken refuge under the protection of the prince. And if the prince is really going to Zólotonosha, in which there is nothing strange, then he will pay for Vassílyevka without fail. Here Anton shuddered; for that moment he saw a new picket in the gate, exactly like an empaling stake. "No! That old man was only a minstrel and nothing more. There is no reason to go to Zólotonosha unless they fled that way." But Zagloba had disappeared. What was to be done further? Wait?--but the prince might come up. Go to Próhorovka and cross the Dnieper?--that would be to fall into the hands of the hetmans. It was growing rather narrow for the old wolf of the Wilderness in the broad steppes. He felt also that being a wolf he had come upon a fox in Pan Zagloba. Then he struck his forehead. But why did that "grandfather" take the people to Zólotonosha, beyond which is Próhorovka, and beyond that and the Dnieper the hetmans and the whole camp of the king? Anton determined that come what might, he would go to Próhorovka. "When I am at the river, if I hear that the forces of the hetmans are on the other side, then I will not cross, I will go along the bank and join Bogun opposite Cherkasi. Besides, I shall get news of Hmelnitski along the road." Anton already knew, from the story of Pleshnyevski, that Hmelnitski had occupied Chigirin; that he had sent Krívonos against the hetmans, and was to follow him at once with Tugai Bey. Anton was an experienced soldier, and knowing the situation of the country well, was sure that the battle must have been fought already. In such an event it was necessary to know what was to be done. If Hmelnitski had been beaten, the forces of the hetmans would spread over the whole country along the Dnieper in pursuit; in that case there would be no sense in looking for Zagloba. But if Hmelnitski had won,--which in truth Anton did not greatly believe,--it was easier to beat the son of the hetman than the hetman, a van detachment than the whole army. "Oh," thought the old Cossack, "our ataman would do better to think of his own skin than of a young girl! Near Chigirin he might have crossed the Dnieper, and from there slipped off to the Saitch in time. Here between Prince Yeremi and the hetmans it will be difficult for him to make his way." With these thoughts he moved on quickly with the Cossacks in the direction of the Sula, which he had to cross just beyond Demiánovka, wishing to go to Próhorovka. They went to Mogilna, situated at the river itself. Here fortune served Anton; for Mogilna, like Demiánovka, was deserted. He found, however, scows ready, and ferrymen who took over peasants fleeing to the Dnieper. The Trans-Dnieper did not dare to rise under the hand of the prince; but to make up for this the peasants left all the hamlets, settlements, and villages, to join Hmelnitski and rally to his banners. The news of the victory of the Zaporojians at Jóltiya Vodi flew like a bird through the whole Trans-Dnieper. The wild inhabitants could not remain in quiet, though there especially they had experienced hardly any oppression; for, as has been said, the prince, merciless to rebels, was a real father to peaceful settlers. His overseers on this account feared to commit injustice on people intrusted to them. But that people, changed not long before from robbers into agriculturists, were weary of the harshness of regulations and order. They fled therefore to where the hope of wild freedom gleamed. In many villages even the women fled to Hmelnitski. In Chabanovets and Vysoki the whole population turned out, burning the houses behind them so as to have no place for return. In those villages in which a few people still remained, they were forced to arms. Anton began to inquire at once of the ferrymen for news beyond the Dnieper. There were reports, but contradictory, confused, unintelligible. It was said that Hmelnitski was fighting with the hetmans; some said that he was beaten, others that he was victorious. A peasant fleeing toward Demiánovka said that the hetmans were taken captive. The ferrymen suspected that he was a noble in disguise, but were afraid to detain him because they had heard that the forces of the prince were at hand. A certain fear increased the number of the prince's armies everywhere, and made of them omnipresent divisions; for there was not a single village in the whole Trans-Dnieper in which it was not said that the prince was "right here, close by." Anton saw that they considered his party everywhere as belonging to Prince Yeremi. But soon he set the ferrymen at rest, and began to inquire about the Demiánovka peasants. "Oh yes; they passed. We took them to the other side," said a ferryman. "And there was a minstrel with them?" "Yes, there was." "And a dumb boy with the old man,--a lad?" "Yes; there was." "What did the minstrel look like?" "He was not old, heavy, had eyes like a fish, and on one of them a cataract." "Oh, that is he!" muttered Anton, and inquired further: "And the boy?" "Oh, father ataman," said the ferryman, "an angel, out and out! We have never seen such a boy." In the mean while they were coming to the shore. "Ah, we will bring her to the ataman!" muttered Anton to himself. Then he turned to the Cossacks: "To horse!" They shot on like a flock of frightened bustards, though the road was difficult, for the country was broken into gorges. But they entered a broad ravine at the bottom of which was a kind of natural path formed by the flowing of a spring. The ravine extended to Kavraiets. They rushed on some miles without halting; Anton, on the best horse, ahead. The broad mouth of the ravine was already visible when Anton suddenly pulled in his horse till his hind shoes crushed the stones. "What is this?" The entrance was suddenly darkened with men and horses. A troop entered in pairs, and formed six abreast. There were about three hundred horsemen. Anton looked; and although he was an old soldier hardened to every danger, his heart thumped within his breast and on his face came a deathly pallor. He recognized the dragoons of Prince Yeremi. It was too late to flee. Anton's party was separated from the dragoons by scarcely two hundred yards, and the tired horses of the Cossacks could not go far in escape. The dragoons, seeing them, rode up on a trot. In a moment the Cossacks were surrounded on every side. "Who are you?" asked the commander, sternly. "Bogun's men!" answered Anton, seeing that it was necessary to tell the truth. But recognizing the lieutenant whom he had seen in Pereyasláv, he cried out at once with pretended joy: "Oh, Pan Kushel! Thank God!" "Ah! is that you, Anton?" asked the lieutenant, looking at the essaul. "What are you doing here? Where is your ataman?" "The Grand Hetman has sent our ataman to the prince to ask for assistance; so he has gone to Lubni, and he has commanded us to go along through the villages to catch deserters." Anton lied as if for hire; but he trusted in this,--since the dragoons were going away from the Dnieper, they could not know yet of the attack on Rozlogi, nor of the battle at Vassílyevka, nor of any of Bogun's undertakings. Still the lieutenant added: "One might say you wanted to steal over to the rebellion." "Oh, Lieutenant, if we wanted to go to Hmelnitski, we should not be on this side of the Dnieper." "That," said Kushel,--"is an evident truth which I am not able to deny. But the ataman will not find the prince in Lubni." "Where is he?" "He was in Priluka; but it is possible that he started yesterday for Lubni." "Too bad! The ataman has a letter from the hetman to the prince. And may I make bold to ask if you are coming from Zólotonosha?" "No; we were stationed at Kalenki, and now we have received orders to go to Lubni, like the rest of the army. From there the prince will move, with all his forces. But where are you going?" "To Próhorovka, for the peasants are crossing there." "Have many of them fled?" "Oh, many, many!" "Well, then, go! God be with you!" "Thank you kindly, Lieutenant. God conduct you!" The dragoons opened their ranks, and Anton's escort rode out from among them to the mouth of the ravine. After he had issued from the ravine, Anton stopped and listened carefully; and when the dragoons had vanished from sight, and the last echo had ceased, he turned to his Cossacks, and said,-- "Do you know, you simpletons, that were it not for me, you would soon be gasping, empaled on stakes, in Lubni? And now, forward, even if we drive the last breath out of our horses!" They rushed on with all speed. "We are lucky, and doubly so," thought Anton,--"first, in escaping with sound skins, and then because those dragoons were not marching from Zólotonosha, and Zagloba missed them; for if he had met them, he would have been safe from every pursuit." In truth, fortune was very unfavorable to Zagloba in not letting him come upon Kushel and his company; for then he would have been rescued at once, and freed from every fear. Meanwhile the news of the catastrophe at Korsún came upon Zagloba at Próhorovka like a thunderbolt. Reports had already been passing through the villages and farmhouses on the road to Zólotonosha of a great battle, even of the victory of Hmelnitski; but Zagloba did not lend them belief, for he knew from experience that every report grows and grows among the common people to unheard of dimensions, and that specially of the preponderance of the Cossacks the people willingly told wonders. But in Próhorovka it was difficult to doubt any longer. The terrible and ominous truth struck like a club on the head. Hmelnitski had triumphed, the army of the king was swept away, the hetmans were in captivity, and the whole Ukraine was on fire. Zagloba lost his head at first, for he was in a terrible position. Fortune had not favored him on the road, for at Zólotonosha he did not find the garrison, and the old fortress was deserted. He doubted not for a moment that Bogun was pursuing him, and that sooner or later he would come upon his trail. He had doubled back, it is true, like a hunted hare; but he knew, through and through, the hound that was hunting him, and he knew that that hound would not allow himself to be turned from the trail. Zagloba had Bogun behind, and before him a sea of peasant rebellion, slaughter, conflagration, Tartar raids, and raging mobs. To flee in such a position was a task difficult of accomplishment, especially with a young woman who, though disguised as a minstrel boy, attracted attention everywhere by her extraordinary beauty. In truth, it was enough to make a man lose his head. But Zagloba never lost it long. Amid the greatest chaos in his brain he saw perfectly one thing, or rather felt it most clearly,--that he feared Bogun a hundred times more than fire, water, rebellion, slaughter, or Hmelnitski himself. At the very thought that he might fall into the hands of the terrible leader, the skin crept on his body. "He would flay me," repeated he, continually. "But in front is a sea of rebellion!" One method of salvation remained,--to desert Helena, and leave her to the will of God; but Zagloba did not wish to do that, and did not let the thought enter his head. What was he to do? "Ah," thought he, "it is not the time to look for the prince. Before me is a sea; I will give a plunge into this sea. At least I shall hide myself, and with God's aid swim to the other shore." And he determined to cross to the right bank of the Dnieper. This was no easy task at Próhorovka. Nikolai Pototski had already collected for Krechovski and his men all the scows and boats, large and small, from Pereyasláv to Chigirin. In Próhorovka there was only one leaky scow. Thousands of people, fleeing from the neighborhood of the Dnieper, were waiting for that scow. All the cottages, cow-houses, barns, sheds in the entire village were taken. Everything was enormously dear. Zagloba was in truth forced to earn a bit of bread with his lyre and his song. For twenty-four hours there was no passage. The scow was injured twice, and had to be repaired. Zagloba passed the night sitting on the bank of the river with Helena, together with crowds of drunken peasants who were sitting around fires. The night, too, was windy and cold. The princess was worn out and in pain, for the peasant boots galled her feet; she was afraid of becoming so ill as to be unable to move. Her face grew dark and pale, her marvellous eyes were quenched; every moment she feared that she should be recognized under her disguise, or that Bogun's men would come up. That same night she beheld a terrible sight. A number of nobles who had tried to take refuge in the domains of Vishnyevetski from Tartar attack were brought from the mouth of the Ros by peasants, and put to death on the bank of the river. Besides this, in Próhorovka there were two Jews, with their families. The maddened crowd hurled them into the river; and when they did not go to the bottom at once, they were pushed down with long sticks, together with their wives and children. This was accompanied by uproar and drunkenness. Tipsy men frolicked with tipsy women. Terrible outbursts of laughter sounded ominously on the dark shores of the Dnieper. The winds scattered the fire; red brands, and sparks driven by the wind, flew along, and died on the waves. Occasionally alarm sprang up. At one time and another a drunken, hoarse voice would cry in the darkness, "Save yourselves! Yeremi is coming!" And the crowd rushed blindly to the shore, trampled on one another, and pushed one another into the water. Once they came near running over Zagloba and the princess. It was an infernal night, and seemed endless. Zagloba begged a quart of vudka, drank himself, and forced the princess to drink; otherwise she would have fainted or caught a fever. At last the waves of the Dnieper began to whiten and shine. Light had come. The day was cloudy, gloomy, pale. Zagloba wished to cross, with all haste, to the other side. Happily the scow was repaired, but the throng in front of it was enormous. "A place for the grandfather, a place for the grandfather!" cried Zagloba, holding Helena between his outstretched arms, and defending her from the pressure. "A place for the grandfather! I am going to Hmelnitski and Krívonos. A place for the grandfather, good people! My dear fellows, may the black death choke you and your children! I cannot see well; I shall fall into the water; my boy will be drowned. Give way, children! May the paralysis shake every limb of you; may you die on the stake!" Thus brawling, begging, pushing the crowd apart with powerful arms, he urged Helena forward to the scow, clambered on himself, and then began to brawl again,-- "There are plenty of you here already. Why do you crowd so? You will sink the scow. Why do so many of you push on here? Enough, enough! Your turn will come; and if it doesn't, small matter!" "Enough, enough!" cried those who had got on the scow. "Push off, push off!" The oars bent, and the scow began to move from the shore. A swift current bore it downward at once, somewhat in the direction of Domontov. They had passed about one half the stream, when on the Próhorovka side shouts and cries were heard. A terrible disturbance rose among the people near the river. Some ran as if wild toward Domontov; others jumped into the water. Some shouted and waved their hands, or threw themselves on the ground. "What is that? What has happened?" was asked on the scow. "Yeremi!" cried one voice. "Yeremi, Yeremi! Let us flee," cried others. The oars began to beat feverishly on the water; the scow sped on through the waves like a Cossack boat. At the same moment horsemen appeared on the Próhorovka shore. "The armies of Yeremi!" shouted some on the boat. The horsemen rode along the shore, turned, asked the people about something. At last they began to call out to the boatmen: "Stop, stop!" Zagloba looked, and cold sweat covered him from head to foot. He recognized Bogun's Cossacks. It was, in fact, Anton with his men. But, as already stated, Zagloba never lost his head long. He covered his eyes like a man of poor sight, looking; he must have looked a good while. At last he began to cry, as if some one were pulling him out of his skin,-- "Oh, children, those are the Cossacks of Vishnyevetski! Oh, for the sake of God and his Holy Purest Mother, quick, to the shore! We will resign ourselves to the loss of those who are left, and break the scow; if not, death to us all!" "Oh, hurry, hurry! break the scow!" cried others. A shouting was raised, in which nothing could be heard of the cries from the Próhorovka side. Then the scow grated upon the gravel of the shore. The peasants began to spring out; but some of them were not able to land before others were breaking the railing and cutting the bottom with their axes. The planks and broken pieces began to fly through the air. The ill-fated boat was destroyed with frenzy, torn to pieces; terror lent strength to the raging people. And all this time Zagloba was screaming: "Cut! slash! break! tear! burn! Save yourselves! Yeremi is coming! Yeremi is coming!" Shouting in this fashion, he looked with his sound eye at Helena and began to mutter significantly. Meanwhile from the other shore the shouts increased in view of the destruction of the boat, but it was so far away they could not understand what was said. The waving of hands seemed like threatening, and only increased the speed of destruction. The scow disappeared after a while, but suddenly from every breast there came a cry of horror. "They are springing into the water! they are swimming to us!" roared the peasants. In fact, one horseman in advance and after him a number of others urged their horses into the water to swim to the other shore. It was a deed of almost insane daring; for increased by the spring flood, the river rushed on more powerfully than usual, forming here and there many eddies and whirlpools. Borne away by the impetus of the river, the horses could not swim straight across; the current began to bear them on with extraordinary swiftness. "They will not swim across!" cried the peasants. "They are drowning!" "Glory be to God! Oh! oh! one horse has gone down already! Death to them!" The horses had swum a third part of the river, but the water bore them down with increasing speed. Evidently they began to lose strength; gradually too they sank deeper and deeper. After a little the men on their backs were in the water to their girdles. The peasants from Shelepukhi ran to the water to see what was going on; now only the horses' heads looked out above the water, which reached the breasts of the men. But now they had swum half the river. Suddenly one horse's head and one man disappeared under the water; after that a second, a third, a fourth, a fifth,--the number of swimmers decreased each moment. On both sides of the river a deep silence reigned in the crowds, but all ran with the course of the water to see what would happen. Now two thirds of the river was crossed; the number of swimmers still decreased, but the heavy snorting of horses and the voices of the heroes urging them on was heard; it was clear that some would cross. "Hi, children! to your muskets! Destruction to the prince's men!" Puffs of smoke burst forth; then the rattle of muskets. A cry of despair was heard from the river, and after a while horses and men had vanished. The river was cleared; only here and there in the distance, in the whirl of the waves, looked black for an instant the belly of a horse, gleamed red for a moment the cap of a Cossack. Zagloba looked at Helena, and muttered. CHAPTER XXII. Prince Vishnyevetski knew of the defeat at Korsún before Skshetuski had been found sitting on the ruins of Rozlogi, since Polyanovski, one of his hussar officers, had brought news of it to Segotin. Previous to that the prince had been in Priluka, and from there had sent Boguslav Mashkevich with a letter to the hetmans, inquiring when they would order him to march with all his forces. But as Pan Mashkevich did not return for a long time with the answer of the hetmans, the prince moved on toward Pereyasláv, sending orders on every side to the detachments that the regiments which were scattered here and there in the Trans-Dnieper should assemble as quickly as possible at Lubni. But news came that some Cossack regiments disposed in outposts along the borders next the Tartars had dispersed or joined the insurrection. Thus the prince saw his forces suddenly decreased, and was grieved not a little; for he did not expect that those men whom he had led so often to victory could ever desert him. However, upon meeting with Pan Polyanovski and receiving news of the unexampled catastrophe, he concealed it from the army and went on toward the Dnieper, thinking to march at random into the midst of the storm and uprising, and either revenge the defeat, wipe away the disgrace of the armies, or shed his own blood. He judged that there must be some, and perhaps large, portions of the army of the Crown left after the defeat. These, if joined to his division of six thousand, might measure themselves with Hmelnitski with hope of victory. Halting at Pereyasláv, he ordered Pan Volodyovski and Pan Kushel to send their dragoons in every direction,--to Cherkasi, Mantovo, Sekirnaya, Buchach, Staiki, Trakhtimiroff, and Rjischeff,--to collect all the boats and craft which they could find anywhere. Then the army was to cross from the left side to Rjischeff. The messengers heard of the defeat from fugitives whom they met here and there; but at all the above-mentioned places they could not find a single boat, since, as already stated, the Grand Hetman of the Crown had taken one half of them long before for Krechovski and Barabash, and the rebellious mob on the right bank had destroyed the rest through fear of the prince. But Volodyovski crossed over with ten men to the right bank on a raft which he had fashioned in haste from tree-trunks, and seized a number of Cossacks, whom he brought to the prince, who learned from them of the enormous extent of the rebellion and the terrible fruits of the defeat at Korsún. The whole Ukraine had risen to the last man. The insurrection had spread like a deluge, which covering a level land occupies more and more space at each twinkle of an eye. The nobles defended themselves in large and small castles; but many of these castles had been already captured. Hmelnitski was increasing in power every moment. The captured Cossacks gave the number of his army at two hundred thousand men, and in a couple of days it might be doubled. For this reason he remained in Korsún after the battle, and took immediate advantage of the peace to marshal the people into his countless hosts. He divided the mob into regiments, appointed colonels from the atamans and experienced Zaporojian essauls, and sent detachments or whole divisions to capture neighboring castles. Considering all this. Prince Yeremi saw that on account of the absence of boats the construction of which for an army of six thousand men would occupy several weeks' time, and on account of the strength of the enemy which had increased beyond measure, there was no means of crossing the Dnieper in those parts in which he then found himself. Pan Polyanovski, Colonel Baranovski, the commander of the camp, Alexander Baranovski, Volodyovski, and Vurtsel were in favor of moving to the north toward Chernigoff, which was on the other side of dense forests, thence they would march on Lubech, and cross the river to Braginoff. It was a long and perilous journey; for beyond the Chernigoff forests, in the direction of Braginoff, were enormous swamps, which were not easy of passage even for infantry, and what must they be for heavy cavalry-wagons and artillery. The proposal, however, pleased the prince; but he wished, before going on that long and as he considered unavoidable road, to show himself once more in his Trans-Dnieper domains, prevent immediate outbreak, gather the nobles under his wing, transfix the people with terror, and leave behind the memory of that terror, which in the absence of the master would be the only safeguard to the country and the guardian of all who were unable to march with the army. Besides this, Princess Griselda, the Princesses Zbaraskie, the ladies in waiting, the whole court, and some regiments,--namely, the infantry,--were still in Lubni. The prince therefore determined to go to Lubni for a last farewell. The troops moved that very day, and at their head Pan Volodyovski with his dragoons, who, though all Russian without exception, still held by the bonds of discipline and trained as regular soldiers, almost surpassed in loyalty the other regiments. The country was quiet yet. Here and there had been formed ruffianly bands which plundered castle and cottage alike. These bands the prince destroyed in great part along the road and empaled on stakes. The common people had risen in no place. Their minds were seething, fire was in the eyes and souls of the peasants, they armed in secret and fled beyond the Dnieper; but fear was still superior to the thirst for blood and murder. It might be considered of ill-omen for the future, however, that the inhabitants of those villages from which the peasants had not gone to Hmelnitski fled at the approach of the army, as if fearing that the terrible prince would read in their faces that which was hidden in their hearts and would punish them in advance. And he did punish wherever he found the least sign of incipient rebellion; and as he had a nature unbounded both in rewarding and punishing, he punished without measure and without mercy. It might have been said at that time that two vampires were careering along both banks of the Dnieper,--one, Hmelnitski, devouring nobles; the other, Prince Yeremi, destroying the uprisen people. It was whispered among the peasants that when these two met the sun would be darkened and the water in all rivers run red. But the meeting was not at hand; for Hmelnitski, the conqueror at Jóltiya Vodi and Korsún,--that Hmelnitski who had battered into fragments the armies of the Crown, who had taken captive the hetmans, and who was then at the head of hundreds of thousands of warriors,--simply feared that lord of Lubni, who was going to look for him west of the Dnieper. The armies of the prince had passed Sleporod. The prince himself stopped to rest at Philipovo, where he was informed that envoys had come from Hmelnitski with a letter and begged for an audience. The prince gave orders to produce them at once. Then the six Zaporojians entered the house of the under-starosta where the prince was stopping. They entered boldly enough, especially the chief of them, the ataman Sukhaya Ruká, distinguished through the victory of Korsún and his new rank of colonel. But when they saw the prince such fear seized them that they fell at his feet, not daring to utter a word. The chieftain, surrounded by his principal knights, ordered them to rise, and asked what they had brought. "A letter from the hetman," answered Sukhaya Ruká. The prince fixed his eyes on the Cossack, and answered quietly, but with emphasis on every word,-- "From a bandit, a ruffian, and a robber,--not from a hetman!" The Zaporojians grew pale, or blue rather, and dropping their heads on their breasts stood in silence at the door. Then the prince ordered Pan Mashkevich to take the letter and read it. The letter was humble, though it was after Korsún. The fox had gained the upper hand of the lion in Hmelnitski, the serpent of the eagle, for he remembered that he was writing to Vishnyevetski. He flattered in order to quiet, and then the more easily to sting. He wrote that what had happened was through the fault of Chaplinski, and that the fickleness of fortune had met the hetmans; hence it was not his fault, but their evil fate and the oppressions which the Cossacks had endured in the Ukraine. Still he asked the prince not to be offended, to pardon him, and he would ever remain his obedient and willing servant; and to win favor for his envoys and save them from anger, he declared that he had dismissed in safety Pan Skshetuski, the hussar officer taken in the Saitch. Now followed complaints against the haughtiness of Skshetuski, who had refused to take letters from Hmelnitski to the prince, by which action he had put a great slight upon the dignity of the hetman and the whole Zaporojian army. To haughtiness and contempt like this which the Cossacks met with from the Poles at every step, did Hmelnitski attribute specially all that had happened from Jóltiya Vodi to Korsún. The letter ended with assurances of regret, and of loyalty to the Commonwealth, together with offers of service to Yeremi. The envoys themselves were astonished when they heard this letter; for they had no previous knowledge of its contents, and supposed that it contained abase and harsh challenges rather than requests. One thing was clear to them,--Hmelnitski had no wish to risk everything with such a famous leader, and instead of moving on him with all his forces, was delaying and deceiving him with humility, and waiting apparently till the forces of the prince should be worn out on campaigns and struggles with various detachments; in one word, he seemed to fear the prince. The envoys became still more subservient, and during the reading perused the prince's face carefully to see if they could find in it the hour of their death. Though in coming they were prepared to die, still fear seized them then. The prince listened quietly, but from time to time dropped the lids of his eyes as if wishing to restrain the thunderbolts hidden within, and it was as visible as if on the palm of the hand that he was holding terrible anger in check. When the letter was finished he answered no word to the envoys, but merely ordered Volodyovski to remove and keep them under guard; then he turned to the colonels himself and said,-- "Great is the cunning of this enemy, for he wishes to lull me with that letter so as to attack me asleep; or he will move into the heart of the Commonwealth, conclude terms, and receive immunity from the yielding estates and the king, and then he will feel himself safe,--for if I wanted to war with him after that, not he, but I should act against the will of the Commonwealth, and be held as a rebel." Vurtsel caught himself by the head. "Oh, vulpes astuta!" "Well, gentlemen, what action do you advise?" asked the prince. "Speak boldly, and then I will indicate to you my own will." Old Zatsvilikhovski, who had left Chigirin some time before and joined the prince, said,-- "Let it be according to the will of your Highness; but if we are permitted to speak, then I will say that you have sounded the intentions of Hmelnitski with your usual quickness, for they are what you say and no other. I should think, therefore, that there is no need of paying attention to his letter, but after securing the future safety of the princess, to cross the Dnieper and begin war before Hmelnitski settles any conditions. It would be a shame and dishonor for the Commonwealth to suffer such insults to pass unpunished. But," here he turned to the colonels, "I wait your opinions, not giving my own as infallible." The commander of the camp, Alexander Zamoiski, struck his sabre and said,-- "Worthy colonel, age speaks through you, and wisdom also. We must tear off the head of that hydra before it grows and devours us." "Amen!" said the priest Mukhovetski. Other colonels, instead of speaking, followed the example of the commander, shook their sabres, breathed hard, and gritted their teeth; but Vurtsel said,-- "It is a downright insult to the name of your Highness that that ruffian should dare to write to you. A koshevoi ataman has rank confirmed and recognized by the Commonwealth, with which the kuren atamans can cloak their action. But this is a pretended hetman, who can be considered in no light but that of a robber; and Pan Skshetuski acted in a praiseworthy manner when he refused to take his letters to your Highness." "That is just what I think," said the prince; "and since I cannot reach him, he will be punished in the persons of his envoys." Then he turned to the colonel of the Tartar regiment of his guard: "Vershul, order your Tartars to behead those Cossacks; and for their chief let a stake be trimmed, and seat him on it without delay." Vershul inclined his head, which was red as a flame. The priest Mukhovetski, who usually restrained the prince, crossed his hands as if in prayer, and looked imploringly into his eyes, wishing to find mercy. "I know, priest, what you want," said the prince, "but it cannot be. This is necessary on account of the cruelties which they have committed west of the Dnieper, for our own dignity, and for the good of the Commonwealth. It must be shown convincingly that there is some one yet who is not afraid of that outcast, and treats him as a bandit,--who, though he writes with submission, acts with insolence, and conducts himself in the Ukraine as if he were an independent prince, and has brought such a paroxysm on the Commonwealth as it has not gone through for many a day." "Your Highness, as he states, he liberated Pan Skshetuski unharmed," said the priest, timidly. "I thank you in Skshetuski's name for comparing him with butchers." Here the prince frowned. "But enough! I see," continued he, turning to the colonels, "that your voices are all for war; this too is my will. We march on Chigirin, collecting nobles by the way. We will cross at Bragin, then move to the south. Now to Lubni!" "God be on our side!" said the colonels. At this moment the door opened, and in it appeared Roztvorovski, lieutenant of the Wallachian regiment, sent two days before with three hundred horse on a reconnoissance. "Your Highness," cried he, "the rebellion is spreading. Rozlogi is burned. The garrison at Vassflyevka is cut to pieces!" "How? what? where?" was asked on every side. But the prince motioned with his hand to be silent, and asked: "Who did it,--marauders or troops?" "They say Bogun did it." "Bogun?" "Yes." "When did it happen?" "Three days ago." "Did you follow the trace, catch up with them, seize informants?" "I followed, but could not come up, for I was three days too late. I collected news along the road. They returned to Chigirin, then separated,--one half going to Cherkasi, the other to Zölotonosha and Próhorovka." Here Pan Kushel said: "I met the detachment that was going to Próhorovka, and informed your Highness. They said they were sent by Bogun to prevent peasants from crossing the Dnieper; therefore I let them pass." "You committed a folly, but I do not, blame you. It is difficult not to be deceived when there is treason at every step, and the ground under one's feet is burning," said the prince. Suddenly he seized himself by the head. "Almighty God!" cried he, "I remember that Skshetuski told me Bogun was making attempts on the honor of Kurtsevichovna; I understand now why Rozlogi was burned. The girl must have been carried away. Here, Volodyovski!" said the prince, "take five hundred horse and move on again to Cherkasi; let Bykhovets take five hundred Wallachians and go through Zólotonosha to Próhorovka. Don't spare the horses; whoever rescues the girl for me will have Yeremiovka for life. On! on!" Then to the colonels: "And we will go to Lubni through Rozlogi." Thereupon the colonels hurried out of the under-starosta's house and galloped to their regiments. Soldiers rushed to their horses. They brought to the prince the chestnut steed which he usually rode on his expeditions. And soon the regiments moved, and stretched out like a long and many-colored gleaming serpent over the Philipovo road. Near the gate a bloody sight struck the eyes of the soldiers. On stakes of the hurdle-fence were to be seen the severed heads of the five Cossacks, which gazed on the army marching past with the dead whites of their open eyes; and some distance beyond the gate, on a green mound struggled and quivered the ataman Sukhaya Ruká, sitting upright, empaled on a stake. The point had already passed through half his body; but long hours of dying were indicated yet for the unfortunate ataman, for he might quiver there till night before death would put him to rest. At that time he was not only living, but he turned his terrible eyes on the regiments as each one of them passed by,--eyes which said: "May God punish you, and your children, and your grandchildren to the tenth generation, for the blood, for the wounds, for the torments! God grant that you perish, you and your race; that every misfortune may strike you! God grant that you be continually dying, and that you may never be able either to die or to live!" And although he was a simple Cossack,--although he died not in purple nor cloth of gold but in a common blue coat, and not in the chamber of a castle but under the naked sky on a stake,--still that torment of his, that death circling above his head, clothed him with dignity, and put such a power into his look, such an ocean of hate into his eyes, that all understood well what he wanted to say, and the regiments rode past in silence. But he in the golden gleam of the midday towered above them, shining on the freshly smoothed stake like a torch. The prince rode by, not turning an eye; the priest Mukhovetski made the sign of the cross on the unfortunate man; and all had passed, when a youth from the hussar regiment, without asking any one for permission, urged his horse to the mound, and putting a pistol to the ear of the victim, ended his torments with a shot. All trembled at such daring infraction of military rules, and knowing the rigor of the prince, they looked on the youth as lost; but the prince said nothing. Whether he pretended not to hear or was buried in thought, it is sufficient that he rode on in silence, and only in the evening did he order the young man to be called. The stripling stood before the face of his lord barely alive, and thought that the ground was opening under his feet. But the prince inquired,-- "What is your name?" "Jelenski." "You fired at the Cossack?" "I did," groaned he, pale as a sheet. "Why did you do it?" "Because I could not look at the torment." "Oh, you will see so much of their deeds that at a sight like this pity will fly from you like an angel; but because on account of your pity you risked your life, the treasurer in Lubni will pay you ten golden ducats, and I take you into my personal service." All wondered that the affair was finished in this way; but meanwhile it was announced that a detachment from Zólotonosha had come, and attention was turned in another direction. CHAPTER XXIII. Late in the evening the army arrived in Rozlogi by moonlight. There they found Pan Yan sitting on his Calvary. The knight, as is known, had lost his senses altogether from pain and torment; and when the priest Mukhovetski brought him to his mind, the officers bore him away and began to greet and comfort him, especially Pan Longin Podbipienta, who for three months past had been a popular officer in Skshetuski's regiment. Pan Longin was ready also to be his companion in sighing and weeping, and for his benefit made a new vow at once, that he would fast every Tuesday of his life, if God would in any way send solace to the lieutenant. Skshetuski was conducted straightway to Vishnyevetski at a peasant's cottage. When the prince saw his favorite he said not a word; he only opened his arms to him and waited. Skshetuski threw himself into those arms with loud weeping. Yeremi pressed him to his bosom and kissed him on the forehead, and the officers present saw the tears in his worthy eyes. After a while he began to speak,-- "I greet you as a son, for I thought I should never see you again. Bear your burden manfully, and remember that you will have thousands of comrades in misfortune who will leave wives, children, parents, and friends; and as a drop of water is lost in an ocean, so let your suffering sink in the sea of universal pain. When such terrible times have come on our dear country, whoever is a man and has a sword at his side will not yield himself to weeping over his own loss, but will hasten to the rescue of the common mother, and either find relief in his conscience or lie down in a glorious death, receive a heavenly crown, and with it eternal happiness." "Amen!" said the priest Mukhovetski. "Oh, I should rather see her dead!" groaned the knight. "Weep, then, for great is your loss, and we will weep with you; for you have come not to Pagans, wild Scythians, or Tartars, but to brothers and loving comrades. Say to yourself, 'To-day I will weep over myself, but to-morrow is not mine;' for remember that to-morrow we march to battle." "I will go with you to the end of the world; but I cannot console myself. It is so grievous for me without her that I cannot, I cannot--" The poor fellow seized himself by the head, then put his fingers between his teeth, and gnawed them to overcome the groans, for a storm of despair was tearing him afresh. "You have said, 'Thy will be done!'" said the priest, severely. "Amen, amen! I yield to his will, but with pain. I cannot help it," answered the knight, with a broken voice. They could see how he struggled and writhed, and his suffering wrung tears from them all. The most sensitive were Volodyovski and Podbipienta, who poured out whole streams. The latter clasped his hands and said pitifully: "Brother, dear brother, contain yourself!" "Listen!" said the prince on a sudden, "I have news that Bogun rushed off from here toward Lubni, for he cut down my men at Vassílyevka. Do not despair too soon, for perhaps he did not find her; if he did, why should he rush on toward Lubni?" "As true as life, that may be the case," cried some of the officers. "God will console you." Skshetuski opened his eyes as if he did not understand what they were saying. Suddenly hope gleamed in his mind, and he threw himself at the feet of the prince. "Oh, your Highness!" cried he, "my life, my blood--" He could speak no further. He had grown so weak that Pan Longin was obliged to raise him and place him on the bench; but it was evident from his looks that he had grasped at that hope as a drowning man at a plank, and that his pain had left him. The officers fanned that spark, saying he might find the princess in Lubni. Afterward they took him to another cottage, and then brought him mead and wine. He wished to drink, but could not, his throat was so straitened. His faithful comrades drank instead; and when they had grown gladsome they began to embrace and kiss him, and to wonder at his meagreness and the marks of sickness which he bore on his face. "Oh, you look like one risen from the dead," said portly Pan Dzik. "It must be they insulted you in the Saitch, and gave you neither food nor drink." "Tell us what happened to you." "I will tell you some time," said Skshetuski, with a weak voice. "They wounded me, and I was sick." "They wounded him!" cried Pan Dzik. "They wounded him, though an envoy!" added Pan Sleshinski. The officers, astounded at Cossack insolence, looked at one another, and then began to press forward to Pan Yan with great friendliness. "And did you see Hmelnitski?" "I did." "Well, give him here!" said Migurski; "we will make mince-meat of him in a minute." The night passed in such conversation. Toward morning it was announced that the second party, despatched on the more distant road to Cherkasi, had returned. It was evident the men of this party had not come up with Bogun; they had brought wonderful news, however. They brought many people whom they had found on the road, and who had seen Bogun two days before. These people said that the chief was evidently pursuing some one, for he inquired everywhere if a fat noble had not been seen fleeing with a young Cossack. Besides, he was in a terrible hurry, and flew at breakneck speed. The people also affirmed that they had not seen Bogun taking away a young woman, and they would have seen her without fail if she had been with him, for only a few Cossacks were following the chief. New consolation, but also new anxiety, entered the heart of Pan Yan, for these stories were simply beyond his comprehension. He did not understand why Bogun, pursuing first in the direction of Lubni, threw himself on the garrison at Vassílyevka, and then returned suddenly in the direction of Cherkasi. That he had not carried off Helena appeared to be certain, for Pan Kushel had met Anton's party, and she was not with them. The people now brought from the direction of Cherkasi had not seen her with Bogun. Where could she be then? Where was she hiding? Had she escaped? If so, in what direction? Why should she not escape to Lubni, instead of Cherkasi or Zólotonosha? Still Bogun's parties were pursuing and hunting somebody around Cherkasi and Próhorovka. But why were they inquiring about a noble with a young Cossack? To all these questions the lieutenant found no answer. "Put your heads together, talk the matter over, explain what this means," said he to the officers, "for my head is unequal to the task." "I think she must be in Lubni," said Pan Migurski. "Impossible!" rejoined Zatsvilikhovski; "for if she were in Lubni then Bogun would hurry to Chigirin, and would not expose himself to the hetmans, of whose defeat he could not have known at that time. If he divided his Cossacks and pursued in two directions, I tell you that he was pursuing no one but her." "And why did he inquire for an old noble and a young Cossack?" "No great sagacity is needed to guess that. If she fled, she was not in woman's dress, but surely in disguise, so as not to be discovered. It is my opinion, then, that that Cossack is she." "Sure as life, sure as life!" repeated the others. "Well, but who is the noble?" "I don't know that," replied the old man, "but we can ask about it. The peasants must have seen who was here and what happened. Let's have the man of this cottage brought in." The officers hurried, and brought by the shoulder a "sub-neighbor" from the cow-house. "Well, fellow," said Zatsvilikhovski, "were you here when the Cossacks with Bogun attacked the castle?" The peasant, as was customary, began to swear that he had not been present, that he had not seen anything, did not know anything. But Zatsvilikhovski knew with whom he had to deal; therefore he said,-- "Oh, I know, you son of a Pagan, that you were right here when they plundered the place. Lie to some one else. Here is a gold ducat for you, and there is a soldier with a sword. Take your choice. Besides, if you do not tell, we will burn the village, and harm will come to poor people through you." Then the "sub-neighbor" began to tell of what he had seen. When the Cossacks fell to revelling on the square before the house, he went with others to see what was going on. They heard that the old princess and her sons were killed, but that Nikolai had wounded the ataman, who lay as if lifeless. What happened to the young woman they could not discover; but at daybreak next morning they heard that she had escaped with a noble who had come with Bogun. "That's it! that's it!" said Zatsvilikhovski. "Here is your gold ducat. You see that no harm has come to you. And did you or any one in the neighborhood see that noble?" "I saw him; but he was not from this place." "What did he look like?" "He was as big as a stove, with a gray beard, and swore like a minstrel; blind of one eye." "Oh, for God's sake!" said Pan Longin, "that must be Pan Zagloba." "Zagloba, who else!" "Zagloba? Wait!--Zagloba?--maybe it is. He kept company with Bogun in Chigirin,--drank and played dice with him. Maybe it is he. The description fits him." Here Zatsvilikhovski turned again to the peasant. "And that noble fled with the young lady?" "Yes; so we heard." "Do you know Bogun well?" "Oh, very well! He used to be here for months at a time." "But maybe that noble took her away for Bogun?" "No; how could he do that? He bound Bogun,--tied him up with his coat,--then, they say, carried off the young lady as far as the eye of people could see. The ataman howled like a werewolf, and before daylight had himself bound between horses, and rushed off toward Lubni, but did not find them; then he rushed in another direction." "Praise be to God!" said Migurski; "she may be in Lubni. That he hurried in the direction of Cherkasi is nothing; not finding her in one place, he tried in another." Pan Yan was already on his knees, praying fervently. "Well, well," said the old standard-bearer, "I did not think there was such mettle in Zagloba that he would dare to attack such a hero as Bogun. True, he was very friendly to Skshetuski for the triple mead of Lubni which we drank in Chigirin, He mentioned it to me more than once, and called him a distinguished cavalier. Well, well, this cannot find a place yet in my head, for he drank up no small amount of Bogun's money. But that he should bind Bogun and carry off the lady! I did not expect such a daring deed from him, for I held him a squabbler and a coward. Cunning he is, but a tremendous exaggerator; and all the bravery of such people is generally on their lips." "Let him be as he likes; it is enough that he has snatched the princess from the hands of robbers," said Volodyovski. "And since, as is evident, he has no lack of stratagems, he has surely fled with her in such fashion as to be safe from the enemy himself." "His own life depended on that," said Migurski. Then they turned to Pan Yan and said: "Comfort yourself, dear comrade; we shall all be your best men yet!" "And drink at the wedding." Zatsvilikhovski added: "If he fled beyond the Dnieper and heard of the defeat at Korsún, he was obliged to return to Chernigoff, and in that case we shall come up to him on the road." "Here is to the happy conclusion of all the troubles and sufferings of our friend!" called out Sleshinski. They began to raise their glasses to the health of Pan Yan, the princess, their future descendants, and Zagloba. Thus passed the night. At daybreak the march was sounded, and the forces moved for Lubni. The journey was made quickly, for the troops of the prince went without a train. Pan Yan wished to gallop ahead with the Tartar regiment, but was too weak. Besides, Prince Yeremi kept him near his own person, for he wished to hear the account of his mission to the Saitch. The knight was obliged, therefore, to give an account of how he had travelled, how they attacked him at Hortitsa and dragged him into the Saitch, but was silent concerning his disputes with Hmelnitski, lest it might seem that he was praising himself. The prince was affected most by the news that old Grodzitski had no powder, and therefore could not defend himself long. "That is an unspeakable loss," said he, "for that fortress might cause great damage and hindrance to the rebellion. Grodzitski is a famous man, really a _decus et præsidium_ to the Commonwealth. Why did he not send to me for powder? I should have given it to him from the cellars of Lubni." "He thought evidently that by virtue of his office the Grand Hetman should think of that," said Pan Yan. "I can believe it," added the prince, and was silent. After a while, however, he continued: "The Grand Hetman is an old and experienced soldier, but he had too much self-confidence, and thereby has ruined himself; he underestimated the whole rebellion, and when I hurried to him with assistance he did not look at me at all agreeably. He did not wish to divide the glory with any one, feared the victory would be attributed to me." "That is my opinion too," said Skshetuski, gravely. "He thought to pacify the Zaporojians with clubs. God has punished the insolence. This Commonwealth is perishing through that same kind of pride, which is hateful to God, and of which perhaps no one is free." The prince was right; and in truth he was not himself without blame, for it was not so long since, in his dispute over Gadyach with Pan Alexander Konyetspolski, the prince entered Warsaw with four thousand men, whom he ordered, in case he should be pressed to take the oath in the Senate, to break into the Chamber and fall upon them all; and he did this through nothing else but insolent pride, which would not allow him to be brought to oath instead of giving his word. Maybe he remembered this affair at that moment; for he fell to thinking, and rode on in silence, his eyes wandering over the broad steppes which lay on both sides of the road. Perhaps he thought of the fate of that Commonwealth which he loved with all the power of his ardent spirit, and to which the day of wrath and calamity seemed approaching. After midday the swelling cupolas of Lubni churches and the glittering roof and pointed towers of St. Michael appeared from the lofty bank of the Sula. The army marched without hurry, and entered before evening. The prince went immediately to the castle, where, in accordance with orders sent in advance, everything had been made ready for the road. The regiments were disposed for the night in the town,--which was no easy matter, for there was a great concourse of people in the place. Roused by reports of the progress of civil war on the right bank and of ferment among the peasants, all the nobles east of the Dnieper had crowded to Lubni. They had come even from distant settlements, with their wives, children, servants, horses, camels, and whole herds of cattle. There had come also the prince's agents, under-starostas and all kinds of officials from among the nobles, tenants, Jews; in a word, all against whom the rebellion might turn sharp knives. You would have said that some great annual fair was going on at Lubni; for there were not wanting even merchants of Moscow and Astrakhan Tartars, who, coming to the Ukraine with goods, halted there in view of war. On the square stood thousands of wagons of the most varied forms,--some with willow-bound wheels, others having wheels without spokes, cut out of one piece of wood,--Cossack telegas, and equipages of nobles. The more distinguished guests were lodged in the castle and in inns; the unimportant and servants, in tents near the churches. In the streets fires were kindled, at which food was cooking; and everywhere was a throng, a stir, a bustle, as in a bee-hive. The most varied costumes and colors were to be seen. There were present soldiers of the prince from different regiments, haiduks and Turkish grooms, Jews in black cloaks, peasants, Armenians in violet caps, Tartars in fur coats. The air was full of the sounds of different languages, of shouts, curses, cries of children, barking of dogs, and bellowing of cattle. The people greeted the approaching regiments joyfully, for they saw in them assurance of safety and deliverance. Some went to the castle to shout in honor of the prince and princess. The most varied reports passed through the crowd,--one that the prince would stay in Lubni; another that he was going far away to Lithuania, where it would be necessary to follow him; a third, that he had already defeated Hmelnitski. The prince, after the greeting with his wife was over, and the announcement of the journey on the following day, looked with anxiety on those crowds of wagons and people which were to follow the army, and be fetters to his feet by lessening the speed of the march. His only comfort was the thought that beyond Bragin, in a quieter country, all would disperse, take refuge in various corners, and be a burden no longer. The princess herself, with ladies in waiting and the court, were to be sent to Vishnyovets, so that the prince without care or hindrance might move into the fire with his whole force. The preparations at the castle had been made already,--wagons were filled with effects and valuables, supplies were collected, all persons of the court were ready to take their seats in the wagons and on horseback at a moment's notice. This readiness was the work of Princess Griselda, who in calamity had as great a soul as her husband, and who, in truth, was equal to him in energy and unbending temper. The prince was pleased with what he saw, though his heart was rent at the thought that he must leave the Lubni nest in which he had known so much happiness and had won so much glory. This sorrow, too, was shared by the whole army, the servants, and the entire court; for all felt certain that when the prince would be far away in battle, the enemy would not leave Lubni in peace, but would avenge on those beloved walls all the blows which they had suffered at the hands of Yeremi. Cries and lamentations were not lacking, especially among the women, and among those whose children were born there, and those who were leaving the graves of their parents behind. CHAPTER XXIV. Pan Yan, who had galloped in advance of the regiments to the castle to inquire for the princess and Zagloba, did not find them. They had neither been seen nor heard of, though there was news of the attack on Rozlogi and the destruction of the troops at Vassílyevka. The knight locked himself up in his quarters at the arsenal, together with his disappointed hopes. Sorrow, fear, and affliction rushed upon him again; but he defended himself from them as a wounded soldier on the battle-field defends himself from crows and ravens flocking around to drink his warm blood and tear his flesh. He strengthened himself with the thought that Zagloba, being fertile in stratagems, might make his way to Chernigoff and hide on receiving news of the defeat of the hetmans. He remembered then that old man whom he met on the way to Rozlogi, and who, together with his boy, as he said himself, had been stripped of his clothes by some devil, and had sat three days in the reeds of the Kagamlik, fearing to come out into the world. The thought occurred to Skshetuski at once that it must be Zagloba who had stripped them in order to get a disguise for himself and Helena. "It cannot be otherwise," repeated he; and he found great consolation in this thought, since such disguise made flight much more easy. He hoped that God, who watches over innocence, would not abandon Helena; and wishing the more to obtain this favor for her, he determined to purify himself from his sins. He left the arsenal therefore; and on searching for the priest Mukhovetski, and finding him engaged in consoling some women, he begged to have his confession heard. The priest led him to a chapel, entered the confessional at once, and began to hear him. When he had finished, the priest instructed, edified, and consoled him, strengthened his faith, and then rebuked him, saying: "A Christian is not permitted to doubt the power of God, or an individual to grieve more over his own misfortune than that of his country; but you have more tears for your personal interests--that is, for your friends--than for the nation, and grieve moreover your love than over the catastrophe that has come upon all." Then he described the defeats, the fall, the disgrace of the country, in such lofty and touching speech that he roused at once great patriotism in the heart of the knight, to whom his own misfortunes seemed so belittled that he was almost unable to see them. The priest reproved him for the animosity and hatred against the Cossacks which he had observed in him. "The Cossacks you will crush," said he, "as enemies of the faith and the country, as allies of the Pagan; but you will forgive them for having injured you, and pardon them from your heart, without thought of vengeance. And when you manifest this, I know that God will comfort you, restore your love to you, and send you peace." Then the priest made the sign of the cross over Pan Yan, blessed him, and went out, having enjoined as penance to lie in the form of a cross till morning before the crucified Christ. The chapel was empty and dark; only two candles were burning before the altar, casting rosy and golden gleams on the face of Christ, cut from alabaster and full of sweetness and suffering. Hours passed away, and the lieutenant lay there motionless as if dead; but he felt with increasing certainty that bitterness, despair, hatred, pain, grief, suffering, were unwinding themselves from his heart,--crawling out of his breast, creeping away like serpents, and hiding somewhere in the darkness. He felt that he was breathing more freely, that a kind of new health and new strength were entering into him, that his mind was becoming clearer and a species of happiness was embracing him; in a word, he found before that altar and before that Christ all, whatever it might be, that a man of those ages could find,--a man of unshaken faith, without a trace or a shadow of doubt. Next morning the lieutenant was as if reborn. Work, movement, and bustle began, for this was the day of leaving Lubni. Officers from early morning had to review the regiments to see that horses and men were in proper order, then lead them to the field, and put them in marching array. The prince heard holy Mass in the Church of St. Michael, after which he returned to the castle and received deputations from the Greek clergy and from the townspeople of Lubni and Khoról. Then he mounted the throne, in the hall painted by Helm, surrounded by his foremost knights; and here Grubi, the mayor of Lubni, gave his farewell in Russian in the name of all the places belonging to the prince's Trans-Dnieper domains. He begged him first of all not to depart, not to leave them as sheep without a shepherd; hearing which, other deputies, clasping their hands, repeated, "Do not go away! do not go away!" And when the prince answered that he must go, they fell at the feet of their good lord in regret,--or pretended regret, for it was said that many of them, notwithstanding all the kindness of the prince, were very friendly to the Cossacks and Hmelnitski. But the more wealthy of them were afraid of the disturbance which they feared would arise immediately on the departure of the prince and his forces. Vishnyevetski answered that he had tried to be a father, not a lord, to them, and implored them to remain loyal to the king and the Commonwealth,--the mother of all, under whose wings they had suffered no injustice, had lived in peace, had grown in wealth, feeling no yoke such as strangers would not fail to lay upon them. He took farewell of the Greek clergy with similar words; after that came the hour of parting. Then was heard throughout the whole castle the weeping and lamentation of servants; the young ladies and ladies in waiting fainted, and they were barely able to restore Anusia Borzobogata to her senses. The princess herself was the only woman who entered a carriage with dry eyes and uplifted head, for the proud lady was ashamed to show the world that she suffered. Crowds of people stood near the castle; all the bells in Lubni were tolling; the Russian priests blessed with their crosses the departing company; the line of carriages and equipages could scarcely squeeze through the gates of the castle. Finally the prince mounted his horse. The regimental flags were lowered before him; cannon were fired from the walls. The sounds of weeping, the bustle and shouting of crowds were mingled with the sounds of bells and guns, with the blare of trumpets and the rattle of drums. The procession moved on. In advance went the Tartar regiments, under Roztvorovski and Vershul; then the artillery of Pan Vurtsel, the infantry of Makhnitski; next came the princess with her ladies, then the whole court, and wagons with valuables; after them the Wallachian regiment of Pan Bykhovets; finally, the body of the army, the picked regiments of heavy artillery, the armored regiments, and hussars; the rear was brought up by the dragoons and the Cossacks. After the army came an endless train of wagons, many-colored as a serpent, and carrying the families of all those nobles who after the departure of the prince would not remain east of the Dnieper. The trumpets sounded throughout the regiments; but the hearts of all were straitened. Each one looking at those walls thought to himself: "Dear houses, shall I see you again in life?" It is easy to depart, but difficult to return; and each left as it were a part of his soul in those places, and a pleasant memory. Therefore all turned their eyes for the last time on the castle, on the town, on the towers of the Polish churches, on the domes of the Russian, and on the roofs of the houses. Each one knew what he was leaving behind, but did not know what was waiting there in that blue distance toward which the tabor was moving. Sadness therefore was in the soul of each person. The town called to the departing ones with the voices of bells, as if beseeching and imploring them not to leave it exposed to uncertainty, to the evil fortune of the future; it called out as if by those sad sounds it wished to say farewell and remain in their memory. Though the procession moved away, heads were turned toward the town, and in every face could be read the question: "Is this the last time?" It was the last time. Of all the army and throng of thousands who in that hour were going forth with Prince Vishnyevetski, neither he himself nor any one of them was ever to look again upon that town or that country. The trumpets sounded. The tabor moved on slowly, but steadily; and after a time Lubni began to be veiled in a blue haze, the houses and roofs were blended into one mass brightly distinct. Then the prince urged his horse ahead, and having ridden to a lofty mound stood motionless and gazed long. That town gleaming there in the sun, and all that country visible from the mound was the work of his ancestors and himself. For the Vishnyevetskis had changed that gloomy wilderness of the past into a settled country, opened it to the life of people, and it may be said, created the Trans-Dnieper. And the greater part of that work the prince had himself accomplished. He built those Polish churches whose towers stood there blue over the town; he increased the place, and joined it with roads to the Ukraine; he felled forests, drained swamps, built castles, founded villages and settlements, brought in settlers, put down robbers, defended from Tartar raids, maintained the peace necessary to husbandman and merchant, and introduced the rule of law and justice. Through him that country had lived, grown, and flourished,--he was the heart and soul of it; and now he had to leave all. And it was not that colossal fortune, great as an entire German principality, which the prince regretted, but he had become attached to the work of his hands. He knew that when he was absent everything was absent; that the labor of years would be destroyed at once; that toil would go for nothing, ferocity would be unchained, flames would embrace villages and towns, the Tartar would water his horse in those rivers, woods would grow out of ruins; that if God granted him to return everything would have to be begun anew, and perhaps his strength would fail, time be wanting, and confidence such as he had enjoyed at first would not be given him. Here passed the years which were for him praise before men, merit before God; and now the praise and the merit are to roll away in smoke. Two tears flowed slowly down his face. These were his last tears, after which remained in his eyes only lightning. The prince's horse stretched out his neck and neighed, and this neighing was answered immediately by other steeds under the banners. These sounds roused the prince from his revery and filled him with hope. And so there remains to him yet six thousand faithful comrades,--six thousand sabres with which the world is open to him, and to which the prostrate Commonwealth is looking as the only salvation. The idyl beyond the Dnieper is at an end; but where cannon are thundering, where villages and towns are in flames, where by night the wail of captives, the groans of men, women, and children are mingled with the neighing of Tartar horses and Cossack tumult, there is an open field, and there he may win the glory of a savior and father of his country. Who will reach for the crown, who rescue the fatherland, disgraced, trodden under the feet of peasants, conquered, dying, if not he, the prince,--if not those forces which shine there below him in their armor and gleam in the sun? The tabor passed by the foot of the mound; and at the sight of the prince standing with his baton in his hand on the eminence under the cross, all the soldiers gave forth one shout: "Long live the prince! long live our leader and hetman Yeremi Vishnyevetski!" A hundred banners were lowered to his feet. The hussars sounded their horns, and the drums were beaten to accompany the shouts. Then the prince drew forth his sabre, and raising it with his eyes to heaven, said,-- "I, Yeremi Vishnyevetski, voevoda of Rus, prince in Lubni and Vishnyovets, swear to thee, O God, One in a Holy Trinity, and to thee, Most Holy Mother, that, raising this sabre against ruffianism by which our land is disgraced, I will not lay it down while strength and life remain to me, until I wash out that disgrace and bend every enemy to the feet of the Commonwealth, give peace to the Ukraine, and drown servile insurrection in blood. And as I make this oath with a sincere heart, so God give me aid. Amen!" He stood yet awhile longer looking at the heavens, then rode down slowly from the height to the regiments. The army marched that evening to Basani, a village belonging to Pani Krynitska, who received the prince on her knees at the gate; for the peasants had laid siege to her house and she was keeping them off with the assistance of the more faithful of her servants, when the sudden arrival of the army saved her and her nineteen children, of whom fourteen were girls. When the prince had given orders to seize the aggressors, he sent a Cossack company to Kanyeff under command of Captain Ponyatovski, who brought that same night five Zaporojians of the Vasyutin kuren. These had all taken part in the battle of Korsún, and when burned with fire gave a detailed account of the battle. They stated that Hmelnitski was still in Korsún, but that Tugai Bey had gone with captives, booty, and both hetmans to Chigirin, whence he intended to return to the Crimea. They heard also that Hmelnitski had begged him earnestly not to leave the Zaporojian army, but to march against the prince. The murza, however, would not agree to this, saying that after the destruction of the armies and the hetmans, the Cossacks could go on alone; he would not wait longer, for his captives would die. They put Hmelnitski's forces at two hundred thousand, but of rather poor quality; of good men only fifty thousand,--that is, Zaporojians and Cossacks subject to lords, or town Cossacks who had joined the rebellion. On receiving these tidings the prince grew strong in spirit, for he hoped that he too would increase considerably in strength by the accession of nobles on the west of the Dnieper, stragglers from the army of the Crown, and detachments belonging to Polish lords. Therefore he set out early next morning. Beyond Pereyasláv the army entered immense gloomy forests extending along the course of the Trubej to Kozelets, and farther on to Chernigoff itself. It was toward the end of May, and terribly hot. In the woods, instead of being cool, it was so sultry that men and horses lacked air for breathing. Cattle, driven after the army, fell at every step, or when they caught the smell of water, rushed to it as if wild, overturning wagons and causing dismay. Horses too began to fall, especially those of the heavy cavalry. The nights were unendurable from the infinite number of insects and the overpowering odor of pitch, which the trees dropped in unusual abundance by reason of the heat. They dragged on in this way for four days; at length on the fifth day the heat became unnatural. When night came the horses began to snort and the cattle to bellow plaintively, as if foreseeing some danger which men could not yet surmise. "They smell blood!" was said in the tabor among the crowds of fugitive families of nobles. "The Cossacks are pursuing us! there will be a battle!" At these words the women raised a lament, the rumor reached the servants, panic and disturbance set in; the people tried to drive ahead of one another, or to leave the track and go at random through the woods, where they got entangled among the trees. But men sent by the prince soon restored order. Scouts were ordered out on every side, so as to be sure whether danger was threatening or not. Skshetuski, who had gone as a volunteer with the Wallachians, returned first toward morning and went straightway to the prince. "What is the trouble?" asked Yeremi. "Your Highness, the woods are on fire." "Set on fire?" "Yes; I seized a number of men who confessed that Hmelnitski had sent volunteers to follow you and to set fire, if the wind should be favorable." "He wanted to roast us alive without giving battle. Bring the people here!" In a moment three herdsmen were brought,--wild, stupid, terrified,--who immediately confessed that they were in fact commanded to set fire to the woods. They confessed also that forces were despatched after the prince, but that they were going to Chernigoff by another road, nearer the Dnieper. Meanwhile other scouts returned. All brought the same report: "The woods are on fire." But the prince did not allow himself to be disturbed in the least by this. "It is a villanous method," said he; "but nothing will come of it. The fire will not go beyond the rivers entering the Trubej." In fact, into the Trubej, along which the army marched to the north, there fell so many small rivers forming here and there broad morasses, impassable for fire, that it would have been necessary to ignite the woods beyond each one of them separately. The scouts soon discovered that this was being done. Every day incendiaries were brought in; with these they ornamented the pine-trees along the road. The fires extended vigorously along the rivers to the east and west, not to the north. In the night-time the heavens were red as far as the eye could see. The women sang sacred hymns from dusk to the dawning of the day. Terrified wild beasts from the flaming forests took refuge on the road and followed the army, running in among the cattle of the herds. The wind blew in the smoke, which covered the whole horizon. The army and the wagons pushed forward as if through a dense fog, which the eye could not penetrate. The lungs had no air; the smoke bit the eyes, and the wind kept driving it on more and more each moment. The light of the sun could not pierce the clouds, and there was more to be seen in the night-time than in the day, for flames gave light. The woods seemed to have no end. In the midst of such burning forests and such smoke did Prince Yeremi lead his army. Meanwhile news came that the enemy was marching on the other side of the Trubej. The extent of his power was unknown, but Vershul's Tartars affirmed that he was still far away. One night Pan Sukhodolski came to the army from Bodenki, on the other side of the Desna. He was an old attendant of the prince, who some years before had settled in a village. He was fleeing before the peasants, but brought news as yet unknown in the army. Great consternation was caused when, asked by the prince for news, he answered: "Bad, your Highness! You know already of the defeat of the hetmans and the death of the king?" The prince, who was sitting on a small camp-stool in front of the tent, sprang to his feet. "How?--is the king dead?" "Our merciful lord gave up the spirit in Merech a week before the catastrophe at Korsún." "God in his mercy did not permit him to live to such times!" said the prince; then seizing himself by the head, he continued: "Awful times have come upon the Commonwealth! Convocations and elections,--an interregnum, dissensions, and foreign intrigues,--now, when the whole people should become a single sword in a single hand. God surely has turned away his face from us, and in his anger intends to punish us for our sins. Only King Vladislav himself could extinguish these conflagrations; for there was a wonderful affection for him among the Cossacks, and besides, he was a military man." At this time a number of officers--among them Zatsvilikhovski, Skshetuski, Baranovski, Vurtsel, Makhnitski, and Polyanovski--approached the prince, who said: "Gentlemen, the king is dead!" Their heads were uncovered as if by command. Their faces grew serious. Such unexpected news deprived all of speech. Only after a while came an expression of universal sorrow. "May God grant him eternal rest!" said the prince. "And eternal light shine upon him!" Soon after the priest Mukhovetski intoned "Dies Iræ;" and amidst those forests and that smoke an unspeakable sorrow seized their hearts and souls. It seemed to all as if some expected rescue had failed; as if they were standing alone in the world, in presence of some terrible enemy, and they had no one against him except their prince. So then all eyes turned to him, and a new bond was formed between Vishnyevetski and his men. That evening the prince spoke to Zatsvilikhovski in a voice that was heard by all,-- "We need a warrior king, so that if God grants us to give our votes at an election, we will give them for Prince Karl, who has more of the military genius than Kazimir." "Vivat Carolus rex!" shouted the officers. "Vivat!" repeated the hussars, and after them the whole army. The prince voevoda had no thought, indeed, that those shouts raised east of the Dnieper, in the gloomy forests of Chernigoff, would reach Warsaw, and wrest from his grasp the baton of Grand Hetman of the Crown. CHAPTER XXV. After the nine days' march of which Mashkevich was the Xenophon, and the three days' passage of the Desna, the army reached Chernigoff at last. Skshetuski entered first of all with the Wallachians. The prince ordered him to the place on purpose, so that he might inquire sooner about the princess and Zagloba. But here, as in Lubni, neither in the town nor the castle did he hear anything of them. They had vanished somewhere without a trace, like a stone in the water, and the knight himself knew not what to think. Where could they have hidden themselves? Certainly not in Moscow, nor in the Crimea, nor in the Saitch. There remained only one hypothesis, that they had crossed the Dnieper; but in such an event they would find themselves at once in the midst of the storm. On that side there were slaughter and swarms of drunken peasants, Zaporojians, and Tartars, from whom not even a disguise would protect Helena; for those wild Pagans were glad to take boys captive, for whom they found a great demand in the markets of Stamboul. A terrible suspicion entered Skshetuski's head,--that possibly Zagloba had taken her to that side on purpose to sell her to Tugai Bey, who might pay him more liberally than Bogun; and this thought drove him to the very verge of madness. But Podbipienta, who had known Zagloba longer than Skshetuski, quieted him considerably in this respect. "My dear brother," said he, "cast that thought out of your head! That noble has done nothing of the sort. The Kurtsevichi had treasures enough, which Bogun would have been willing to give him. Had he wished to ruin the girl, he would not have exposed his life, and he would have made his fortune." "True," said the lieutenant; "but why has he fled with her across the Dnieper, instead of going to Lubni or Chernigoff?" "Well, quiet your mind, my dear fellow! I know that Zagloba. He drank with me and borrowed money of me. He does not care for money,--either his own or another man's. If he has his own he will spend it, and he won't repay another's if he borrows; but that he would undertake such a deed I do not believe." "He is a frivolous man," said Pan Yan. "Frivolous he may be, but he is a trickster who will outwit any man, and slip out of every danger himself. And as the priest with prophetic spirit said that God would give her back to you, so will it be; for it is just that every sincere affection should be rewarded. Console yourself with this hope, as I console myself." Here Pan Longin began to sigh deeply, and after a while added: "Let us inquire once more at the castle. Maybe they passed by here." They inquired everywhere, but to no purpose. There was not a trace even of the passage of the fugitives. The castle was full of nobles with their wives and children, who had shut themselves in against the Cossacks. The prince endeavored to persuade them to go with him, and warned them that the Cossacks were following in his tracks. They did not dare to attack the army, but it was likely they would attack the castle and the town after his departure. The nobles in the castle, however, were strangely blinded. "We are safe behind the forests," said they to the prince. "No one will come to us here." "But I have passed through these forests," said he. "You have passed, but the rabble will not. These are not the forests for them." The nobles refused to go, continuing in their blindness, for which they paid dearly later on. After the passage of the prince the Cossacks came quickly. The castle was defended manfully for three weeks, then was captured and all in it were cut to pieces. The Cossacks committed terrible cruelties, and no one took vengeance on them. When the prince arrived at Lubech on the Dnieper he disposed his army there for rest, but went himself with the princess and court to Bragin, situated in the midst of forests and impassable swamps. A week later the army crossed over too. They marched then through Babitsa to Mozir, where, on the day of Corpus Christi, came the moment of separation; for the princess with the court had to go to Turoff to the wife of the voevoda of Vilna, her aunt, but the prince with the army into fire in the Ukraine. At the farewell dinner the prince and princess, the ladies in waiting, and most of the distinguished officers were present. But the usual animation was not evident among the ladies and cavaliers, for more than one soldier heart was cut by the thought that he would soon have to leave the chosen one, for whom he wished to live, fight, and die; more than one pair of bright or dark maiden eyes were filled with tears of sorrow because "_he_ is going to the war among bullets and swords, among Cossacks and wild Tartars,--is going and may not return." When the prince began to speak in taking farewell of his wife and court, the young ladies fell to crying one after another as plaintively as kittens; but the knights, being of sterner stuff, rose from their places, and seizing the hilts of their swords, shouted in unison,-- "We will conquer and return!" "God give you strength!" answered the princess. Then there rose a shout that made the walls and windows tremble. "Long life to the princess! Long life to our mother and benefactress! Long life to her! long life to her!" The officers loved her for her love to them, for her greatness of soul, her liberality and kindness, for her care of their families. Prince Yeremi loved her above all things; for theirs were two natures created as it were for each other, as much alike as two goblets of gold and bronze. Then all went up to her, and each one knelt with his goblet before her chair, and she, embracing the head of each one, spoke some word of kindness. But to Skshetuski she said,-- "It is likely that more than one knight here will receive a scapula or a ribbon at parting; and since you have not here the one from whom most of all you would wish to receive a memento, take this from me as from a mother." While saying this, she removed a golden cross set with turquoise and hung it upon his neck. He kissed her hands with reverence. It was evident that the prince was greatly pleased at this attention shown Skshetuski; for of late he had given him increased affection because in his mission to the Saitch he had upheld the dignity of the prince and refused to take letters from Hmelnitski. They rose from the table. The young ladies, catching on the wing the words of the princess spoken to Pan Yan and receiving them as a sign of approval and permission, began immediately to bring, one a scapula, another a scarf, a third a cross, which seeing, the knights present approached, if not his chosen, at least his favorite one. Therefore Ponyatovski came to Jitinska; Bykhovets to Bogovitinyanka, for recently he had grown pleasing to her; Roztvorovski to Jukovna; red Vershul to Skoropadska; Colonel Makhnitski, though old, to Zavyeska. Only Anusia Borzobogata Krasenska, though the most beautiful of all, stood under the window deserted and alone; her face was flushed, her eyes with drooping lids shot from their corners glances full of anger and of a prayer not to put such an affront on her. Seeing this, the traitor Volodyovski came up and said,-- "I too wished to beg Panna Anna for a memento, but I abandoned, resigned, my wish, thinking I should not be able to push my way to her through the dense throng." Anusia's cheeks burned still more hotly, but without a moment's hesitation she answered,-- "You would like to get a keepsake from other hands than mine, but you will not get it; for if it is not too crowded for you there, it is too high." The blow was well directed and double, for in the first place it turned the sarcasm to the low stature of the knight, and in the second to his passion for Princess Barbara Zbaraska. Pan Volodyovski fell in love first with the elder sister Anna; but when she was betrothed he recovered from his pain and in silence made an offering of his heart to Barbara, thinking that no one suspected it. When therefore he heard this from Anusia, though he was a champion of the first degree both with sword and tongue, he was so confused that he forgot his speech and muttered something wide of the mark,-- "You are aiming high too, as high indeed as the head of Pan Podbipienta." "He is in truth higher than you in arms and in manners," said the resolute girl. "Thank you for reminding me!" Then she called to the Lithuanian: "Will you come this way? I wish to have my knight too, and I do not know that I could bind my scarf on a braver breast than yours." Pan Podbipienta stared as if uncertain whether he heard correctly; finally he cast himself on his knees, so that the floor trembled. "My benefactress!" Anusia fastened the scarf, and then her little hands disappeared entirely under the blond mustaches of Pan Longin. There was heard only the sound of kissing and muttering, hearing which Volodyovski said to Lieutenant Migurski, "One would swear that a bear had broken into a bee-hive and was eating the honey." Then he went away with a certain anger, for he felt Anusia's sting, and moreover he had been in love with her in his time. But the prince had already begun to take farewell of the princess, and an hour later the court set out for Turoff, and the army for the Pripet. During the night at the crossing, while they were building rafts to carry over the cannon, and the hussars were doing the work, Pan Longin said to Skshetuski,-- "Look here, brother, a misfortune!" "What has happened?" asked the lieutenant. "Why, the news from the Ukraine!" "What news?" "The Zaporojians tell me that Tugai Bey has gone with the horde to the Crimea." "Well, what of that? You will not cry over that, I suppose." "But, my brother, you told me--and you were right, were you not?--that I could not count Cossacks' heads, and if the Tartars are gone where am I to get the three Pagan heads? Where should I look for them? and oh, how much I need them!" Skshetuski, though suffering himself, laughed, and answered: "I understand what the matter is, for I saw how you were made a knight to-day." "That is true. Why hide it longer? I have fallen in love, brother,--fallen in love. That is the misfortune." "Don't torment yourself. I do not believe that Tugai Bey has gone, and besides you will meet as many Pagans as there are mosquitoes over our heads." In fact, whole clouds of mosquitoes swept over the horses and men; for the troops went into a country of impassable morasses, swampy forests, soft meadows, rivers, creeks, and streams,--into an empty, gloomy land, one howling wilderness, concerning the inhabitants of which it was said in those times,-- "Nobleman Nakedness (Holota[11]) Gave with his daughter Two kegs of wagon grease, One wreath of mushrooms, One jar of mud-fish, And one ridge of swamp." In this swamp, however, there grew not only mushrooms, but, in spite of the above sarcasm, great lordly fortunes. But at this time the prince's men, who, for the greater part had been reared on the lofty dry steppes of the Trans-Dnieper, could not believe their own eyes. True, there were swamps in their country and forests in places, but here the whole region seemed to be one swamp. The nights were clear and bright. As far as the eye could see by the light of the moon not two yards of dry ground were visible. Only tufts of earth looked black above the water, the trees appeared to grow out of the water, water spattered from under the feet of the horses, water sprinkled the wheels of the wagons and the cannon. Vurtsel fell into despair: "A wonderful march!" said he; "near Chernigoff we were in danger from fire, and now water is drowning us." Indeed the earth, in contradiction to its nature, did not give a firm support to the foot, but bent and trembled as if wishing to open and swallow those who moved upon it. The troops were four days passing the Pripet; then they had to cross almost every day rivers and streams flowing through shaky ground. And nowhere was there a bridge. All the people crossed in boats. After a few days fog and rain began. The men did their utmost to get out of those enchanted regions at last, and the prince urged and pushed them on. The soldiers, seeing too that he did not spare himself,--he was on horseback from dawn till dark, leading the army and overseeing its advance, directing everything in person,--did not dare to murmur, though really they labored beyond their strength. To toil from morning till night and in the water was the common lot of all. The horses began to lose their hoofs; many of the artillery horses died, so that the infantry and Volodyovski's dragoons drew cannon themselves. The picked regiments, such as Skshetuski's and Zatsvilikhovski's hussars, and the armored regiments took their axes to make roads. It was a famous march, in cold and water and hunger, in which the will of the leader and the ardor of the soldiers broke through every barrier. No one hitherto had dared to lead an army through that country during the high water of spring. Happily the march was not interrupted by any accident. The people were peaceable and without thought of rebellion; though afterward roused by the Cossacks and incited by example, they did not wish to rally to the banners of sedition. They looked with sleepy eyes on the passing legions, who issued from the pine woods and swamps as if enchanted, and passed on like a dream; they furnished guides, and did quietly and obediently all that was asked of them. In view of this the prince punished severely every military license, and the army was not followed by groans, curses, and complaints; and when after the passage of the army it was learned in some smoky village that Prince Yeremi had passed, the people shook their heads, and said quietly, "Why, he is good-natured." At last, after twenty days of superhuman toil and effort, the forces of the prince appeared in the region of revolt. "Yarema is coming! Yarema is coming!" was heard over the whole Ukraine, to the Wilderness, to Chigirin and Yagorlik. "Yarema is coming!" was heard in the towns, villages, farms, and clearings; and at the report the scythes, forks, and knives dropped from the hands of the peasants, faces grew pale, wild bands hurried toward the south in the night, like wolves at the sound of the hunter's horn; the Tartar, wandering around for plunder, sprang from his horse and put his ear to the ground from time to time; in the castles and fortresses that were still uncaptured, bells were sounded and "Te Deum laudamus" was sung. And that terrible lion laid himself down on the threshold of a rebellious land and rested. He was gathering his strength. [Illustration; BOGDAN HMELNITSKI.} CHAPTER XXVI. Hmelnitski remained awhile at Korsún, and then pushed on to Bélaya Tserkoff, where he established his capital. The horde was disposed in camp on the other side of the river, sending out parties through the whole province of Kieff. Pan Longin Podbipienta therefore had been grieving in vain over the dearth of Tartar heads. Skshetuski foresaw correctly that the Zaporojians seized by Ponyatovski at Kanyeff gave false information. Tugai Bey not only had not departed, but had not gone even to Chigirin. What is more, new Tartar reinforcements came from every side. The petty sovereigns of Azoff and Astrakhan, who had never been in Poland before, came with four thousand warriors. Twelve thousand of the Nogai horde came, and twenty thousand of the Bélgorod and Budjak hordes,--all sworn enemies hitherto of the Zaporojians and the Cossacks, now brothers and sworn allies against Christian blood. Finally the Khan Islam Giréi himself came with twelve thousand from Perekop. The whole Ukraine suffered from these friends; not only the nobles suffered, but the Russian people, whose villages were burned, cattle driven away, and whose wives and children were hurried into captivity. In those times of murder, burning, and bloodshed there was only one rescue for the peasant, and that was to flee to Hmelnitski,--where from being a victim he became a destroyer, and ravaged his own country; but at least his life was safe. Unhappy country! When rebellion broke out in it Pan Nikolai Pototski punished and wasted it to begin with; then the Zaporojians and the Tartars, who came as if for its liberation; and now Yeremi Vishnyevetski hovered over it. Therefore all who were able fled to Hmelnitski's camp; even nobles fled, for other means of safety were not to be found. Thanks to this, Hmelnitski increased in power; and if he remained long in Bélaya Tserkoff and did not move at once to the heart of the Commonwealth, it was above all to give order to these lawless and wild elements. In his iron hands they changed quickly into military strength. Skeleton regiments of trained Zaporojians were at hand; the mob was divided among these. Colonels were appointed from koshevoi atamans of long standing; single parties were sent out to capture castles, and receive thereby training for battle. They were men valiant by nature, fitted beyond all others for war, used to arms, familiar with fire and the bloody front of battle, through Tartar raids. Two colonels, Handja and Ostap, went to Nestorvar, which they captured, cutting to pieces all the Jews and nobles among its inhabitants, and beheading Prince Chetvertinski's miller on the threshold of the castle. Ostap made the princess his captive. Others went in other directions, and success attended their arms; for a terror of the heart seized the Poles,--a terror "unusual to that people," who dropped the weapons from their hands and lost their strength. More than once it happened that the colonels importuned Hmelnitski: "Why don't you move on Warsaw? Why do you stay resting here, getting information from wizards, and filling yourself with gorailka, letting the Poles recover from their terror and assemble their men?" More than once also the drunken crowd howled in the night-time, surrounding the quarters of Hmelnitski, asking him to lead them against the Poles. The hetman had raised the rebellion and given it a terrible power, but now he began to see that this power was urging him forward to an unknown future; therefore he gazed often into that future with uncertain eye, tried to solve the riddle of it, and in the face of that future was disturbed at heart. As has been said, among those colonels and atamans he alone knew what terrible power there was in the apparent weakness of the Commonwealth. He had raised the rebellion, gained the victory at Jóltiya Vodi, at Korsún had swept away the armies of the Crown,--but what further? He assembled the colonels then in council, and glancing at them with bloodshot eyes before which they all trembled, proposed the very same question,--"What further? What do you want? To go to Warsaw? Then Prince Vishnyevetski will be here, and kill your wives and children with the speed of lightning. He will leave only earth and water behind, and will follow to Warsaw, marching with the whole power of the nobles who will join him. Then, caught between two fires, we shall perish; if not in battle, empaled on stakes. You cannot depend on Tartar friendship. To-day they are with us; to-morrow they may turn against us and rush off to the Crimea, or sell our heads to the Poles. Well, what more will you say? March on Vishnyevetski? He would detain our forces and those of the Tartar till armies could be enrolled in the heart of the Commonwealth and brought to his aid. Choose!" The alarmed colonels were silent, and Hmelnitski continued:-- "Why are you silent? Why do you urge me no longer to go to Warsaw? If you know not what to do, then rely on me, and with God's help I will save my own head and yours, and win satisfaction for the Zaporojian army and all the Cossacks." In fact, there remained one method,--negotiation. Hmelnitski knew well how much he could extort from the Commonwealth in that way. He calculated that the Diets would rather agree to liberal concessions than to taxes, levies of troops, and war, which would have to be long and difficult. Finally, he knew that in Warsaw there was a strong party, and at the head of it the king himself (news of whose death had not yet come), with the chancellor and many nobles, who would be glad to hinder the growth of the colossal fortunes of the magnates of the Ukraine, and to create a power for the hands of the king out of the Cossacks, conclude a permanent peace with them, and use those thousands of warriors for foreign wars. In these conditions Hmelnitski might acquire a distinguished position for himself, receive the baton of hetman from the king, and gain countless concessions for the Cossacks. This was why he remained long in Bélaya Tserkoff. He armed his men, sent general orders in every direction, collected the people, created whole armies, took possession of castles, for he knew they would negotiate only with power, but he did not move into the heart of the Commonwealth. If he could conclude peace by negotiation, then either the weapon would drop from the hand of Vishnyevetski, or, if the prince would not lay it aside, then not Hmelnitski, but Vishnyevetski, would be the rebel carrying on war against the will of the king and the Diets. He would move then on Vishnyevetski, but by command of the king and the Commonwealth; and the last hour would have struck not for Vishnyevetski alone, but for all the kinglets of the Ukraine, with their fortunes and their lands. Thus meditated the self-created Zaporojian hetman; such was the pile that he built for the future. But on the scaffolding of this edifice the dark birds, Care, Doubt, Fear, sat many a time, and ominous was their croaking. Will the peace party be strong enough in Warsaw? Will it begin negotiations with him? What will the Diet and the Senate say? Will they close their ears in the capital to the groans and cries of the Ukraine? Will they shut their eyes to the flames of conflagration? Will not negotiations be prevented by the influence of the magnates possessing those immeasurable estates, the preservation of which will be for their interest? And has the Commonwealth become so terror-stricken that it will forgive him? On the other hand, Hmelnitski's soul was rent by the doubt. Has not the rebellion become too inflamed and too developed? Would those wild masses allow themselves to be confined within any limits? Suppose he, Hmelnitski, should conclude peace, the cut-throats may continue to murder and burn in his name, or take vengeance on his head for their deluded hopes. Then that swollen river, that sea, that storm! An awful position! If the outbreak had been weaker, they would not negotiate with him, by reason of his weakness; but because the rebellion is mighty, negotiations, by the force of things, may be defeated. Then what will happen? When such thoughts besieged the weighty head of the hetman he shut himself up in his quarters, and drank whole days and nights. Then among the colonels and the mob the report went around: "The hetman is drinking!" and following his example, all drank. Discipline was relaxed, prisoners killed, fights sprang up, booty was stolen. The day of judgment was beginning, the reign of horror and ghastliness. Bélaya Tserkoff was turned into a real Inferno. One day Vygovski, a noble captured at Korsún and made secretary to the hetman, came in. He began to shake the drinker without ceremony, till seizing him by the shoulders he seated him on the low bench and brought him to his senses. "What is it? What the plague--" demanded Hmelnitski. "Rise up, Hetman, and come to yourself!" answered Vygovski. "An embassy has come." Hmelnitski sprang to his feet, and in a moment was sober. "Hi, there!" he cried to the Cossack sitting at the threshold, "give me my cap and baton. Who has come? From whom?" "The priest Patroni Lasko, from Gushchi, from the voevoda of Bratslav." "From Pan Kisel?" "Yes." "Glory to the Father and Son, glory to the Holy Ghost and to the Holy Most Pure!" said Hmelnitski, making the sign of the cross. His face became clear, he regained his good humor,--negotiations had begun. But that day there came news of a character directly opposed to the peaceful embassy of Pan Kisel. It was stated that Prince Yeremi, after he had given rest to his army, wearied with its march through the woods and swamps, had entered into the rebellious country; that he was killing, burning, beheading; that a division sent under Skshetuski had dispersed a band of two thousand Cossacks with a mob and cut them to pieces; that the prince himself had taken Pogrébische, the property of the princes Zbaraski, and had left only earth and water behind him. Awful things were related of the storm and taking of Pogrébische,--for it was a nest of the most stubborn murderers. The prince, it was said, told the soldiers: "Kill them so they will feel they are dying." The soldiers therefore allowed themselves the wildest excesses of cruelty. Out of the whole town not a single soul escaped. Seven hundred prisoners were hanged, two hundred seated on stakes. Mention is made also of boring out eyes with augers and burning on slow fires. The rebellion was put down at once in the whole neighborhood. The inhabitants either fled to Hmelnitski or received the lord of Lubni on their knees with bread and salt, howling for mercy. The smaller bands were all rubbed out, and in the woods, as stated by fugitives from Samorodka, Spichina, Pleskoff, Vakhnovka, there was not a tree on which a Cossack was not hanging. And all this was done not far from Bélaya Tserkoff and the many-legioned armies of Hmelnitski. So when Hmelnitski heard of this he began to roar like a wounded aurochs. On one side negotiations, on the other the sword. If he marches against the prince, it will mean that he does not want the negotiations proposed through Pan Kisel, the Lord of Brusiloff. His only hope was in the Tartars. Hmelnitski jumped up and hurried to the quarters of Tugai Bey. "Tugai Bey, my friend!" said he, after giving the usual salaams, "as you saved me at Jóltiya Vodi and Korsún, save me now! An envoy has come here from the voevoda of Bratslav, with a letter, in which the voevoda promises satisfaction, and to the Zaporojian army the restoration of its ancient freedom, on condition that I cease from war, which I must do to show my sincerity and good-will. At the same time news has come that my enemy, Prince Vishnyevetski, has razed Pogrébische and left no man living. He is cutting down my warriors, empaling them, boring out their eyes with augers. I cannot move on him. To you I come, asking that you move on your enemy and mine with your Tartars; otherwise he will soon attack our camp here." The murza, sitting on a pile of carpets taken at Korsún or stolen from the houses of nobles, swayed backward and forward some time, contracted his eyes as if for closer thinking; at last he said,-- "Allah! I cannot do that." "Why?" asked Hmelnitski. "Because, as it is, I have lost for you beys and men enough at Jóltiya Vodi and Korsún, why should I lose more? Yeremi is a great warrior! I will march against him if you march, but not alone. I am not such a fool as to lose in one battle all that I have gained so far; better send out my detachments for booty and captives. I have done enough for you unbelieving dogs. I will not go myself, and I will dissuade the Khan from going. I have spoken." "You swore to give me aid." "I did; but I swore to make war at your side, not instead of you. Go away from here!" "I let you take captives from my own people, gave you booty, gave you the hetmans." "Yes, for if you had not I should have given you to them." "I will go to the Khan." "Be off, I tell you!" The pointed teeth of the murza had already begun to gleam from under his mustache. Hmelnitski knew that he had nothing to get from him, and it was dangerous to stop longer; he rose therefore and went in fact to the Khan. But he got the same answer from the Khan. The Tartars had their own minds and were looking for their own profit. Instead of venturing on a general battle against a leader who was considered invincible, they preferred to send out plundering parties and enrich themselves without bloodshed. Hmelnitski returned in a rage to his own quarters, and from despair was going to the decanter again, when Vygovski took it away from him. "You will not drink, worthy hetman!" said he. "There is an envoy, and you must finish with him first." Hmelnitski was furious. "I will have you and the envoy empaled!" "I will not give you gorailka. Are you not ashamed, when fortune has raised you so high, to fill yourself with gorailka, like a common Cossack? Pshaw! it must not be. News of the envoy's arrival has spread about the army, and the colonels want a council. It is not for you to drink now, but to forge the iron while it is hot; for now you can conclude peace and receive all you want; afterward it will be too late, and my life and yours are involved in this. You should send an envoy at once to Warsaw, and ask the king for favor." "You are a wise head," said Hmelnitski. "Command them to ring the bell for council, and tell the colonels on the square that I shall come out directly." Vygovski went out, and in a moment the bell was ringing for council. At the sound the Zaporojian army began to assemble immediately. The leaders and colonels sat down,--the terrible Krívonos, Hmelnitski's right hand; Krechovski, the sword of the Cossacks; the old and experienced Filon Daidyalo, colonel of Kropivnik; Fedor Loboda, of Pereyaslàv; the cruel Fedorenko, of Kalnik; the wild Pushkarenko, of Poltava, whose command was composed of herdsmen alone; Shumeiko, of Nyejin; the fiery Chernota, of Gadyach; Yakubovich, of Chigirin; besides Nosach, Gladki, Adamovich, Glukh, Pulyan, Panich. Not all the colonels were present; for some were on expeditions, and some were in the other world,--sent there by Prince Yeremi. The Tartars were not invited this time to the council. The Brotherhood assembled on the square. The crowding multitudes were driven away with clubs and even with whirlbats, on which occasion cases of death were not wanting. Finally Hmelnitski himself appeared, dressed in red, wearing his cap, the baton in his hand. By his side walked the priest Patroni Lasko, white as a dove; and on the other side Vygovski, carrying papers. Hmelnitski took a place among the colonels, and sat for a time in silence; then he removed his cap as a sign that the council was open. He rose and began to speak;-- "Gentlemen, colonels, and atamans! It is known to you how we were forced to seize arms on account of the great injustices which we suffered without cause, and with the aid of the most serene Tsar of the Crimea, demand from the Polish lords our ancient rights and privileges, taken from us without the will of his Majesty the King, which undertaking God has blessed; and having sent a terror upon our faithless tyrants, altogether unusual to them, has punished their untruth and oppression, and rewarded us with signal victories, for which we should thank him with grateful hearts. Since, then, their insolence is punished, it is proper for us to think how the shedding of Christian blood may be restrained, which the God of mercy and our orthodox faith command; but not to let the sabres from our hands until our ancient rights and privileges are restored in accordance with the will of his most serene Majesty the King. The voevoda of Bratslav writes me, therefore, that this may come to pass, which I too believe, for it is not we who have left obedience to his Majesty the King and the Commonwealth, but the Pototskis, the Kalinovskis, the Vishnyevetskis, the Konyetspolskis, whom we have punished; therefore a proper concession and reward is due to us from his Majesty and the estates. I beg you therefore, gentlemen, to read the letter of the voevoda of Bratslav, sent to me through Father Patroni Lasko, a noble of the orthodox faith, and to determine wisely whether the spilling of Christian blood is to be restrained, and concessions and rewards made to us for our obedience and loyalty to the Commonwealth." Hmelnitski did not ask whether the war was to be discontinued, but he asked for a decision to suspend the war. Immediately, therefore, murmurs of discontent were raised, which soon changed into threatening shouts, directed mainly by Chernota of Gadyach. Hmelnitski was silent, but noted carefully where the protests came from, and fixed firmly in his memory those who opposed him. Vygovski then rose with the letter of Kisel in his hand. Zorko had brought a copy to be read to the Brotherhood. A deep silence followed. The voevoda began the letter in these words:-- "Chief of the Zaporojian Army of the Commonwealth. "My old and dear Friend,--While there are many who understand you to be an enemy of the Commonwealth, I not only am thoroughly convinced myself of your loyalty to the Commonwealth, but I convince other senators and colleagues of mine of it. Three things are clear to me: First, that though the army of the Dnieper guards its glory and its freedom for centuries, it maintains always its faith to the king, the lords, and the Commonwealth; second, that our Russian people are so firm in their orthodox faith that every one of us prefers to lay down his life rather than to violate that faith in any regard; third, that though there be various internal blood-spillings (as now has happened, God pity us!), still we have all one country in which we were born and use our rights, and there is not indeed in the whole world another such rule and another such land as ours, with respect to rights and liberties. Therefore we are all of us in the same manner accustomed to guard the crown of our mother; and though there be various circumstances (as happens in the world), still reason commands us to consider that it is easier in a free government to make known our injuries than having lost that mother, not to find another such, either in a Christian or a pagan world." Loboda of Pereyasláv interrupted the reading. "He tells the truth," said he. "He tells the truth," repeated other colonels. "Not the truth! He lies, dog-believer!" screamed Chernota. "Be silent! You are a dog-believer yourself!" "You are traitors. Death to you!" "Death to you!" "Listen; wait awhile! Read! He is one of us. Listen, listen!" The storm was gathering in good earnest, but Vygovski began to read again. There was silence a second time. The voevoda wrote, in continuation, that the Zaporojian army should have confidence in him, for they knew well that he, being of the same blood and faith, must wish it well. He wrote that in the unfortunate blood-spilling at Kuméiki and Starets, he had taken no part; then he called on Hmelnitski to put an end to the war, dismiss the Tartars or turn his arms against them, and remain faithful to the Commonwealth. Finally; the letter ended in the following words:-- "I promise you, since I am a son of the Church of God, and as my house comes from the ancient blood of the Russian people, that I shall myself aid in everything just. You know very well that upon me in this Commonwealth (by the mercy of God) something depends, and without me war cannot be declared, nor peace concluded, and that I first do not wish civil war," etc. Now rose immediate tumult for and against; but on the whole the letter pleased the colonels, and even the Brotherhood. Nevertheless, in the first moment it was impossible to understand or hear anything on account of the fury with which the letter was discussed. The Brotherhood, from a distance, seemed like a great vortex, in which swarms of people were seething and boiling and roaring. The colonels shook their batons, sprang at and thrust their fists in one another's eyes. There were purple faces, inflamed eyes, and foam on the mouth; and the leader of all who called for war was Chernota, who fell into a real frenzy. Hmelnitski too, while looking at his fury, was near an outbreak, before which everything generally grew silent as before the roaring of a lion. But Krechovski, anticipating him, sprang on a bench, waved his baton, and cried with a voice of thunder,-- "Herding oxen is your work, not counselling, you outrageous slaves!" "Silence! Krechovski wants to speak!" cried Chernota, first, who hoped that the famous colonel would speak for war. "Silence! silence!" shouted others. Krechovski was respected beyond measure among the Cossacks, for the important services which he had rendered, for his great military brain, and wonderful to relate, because he was a noble. They were silent at once, therefore, and all waited with curiosity for what he would say. Hmelnitski himself fixed an uneasy glance on him. But Chernota was mistaken in supposing that the colonel would declare for war. Krechovski, with his quick mind, understood that now or never might he obtain from the Commonwealth those starostaships and dignities of which he dreamed. He understood that at the pacification of the Cossacks they would try to detach and satisfy him before many others, with which Pan Pototski, being in captivity, would not be able to interfere. On this account he spoke as follows:-- "My calling is to give battle, not advice; but as we are in council, I feel impelled to give my present opinion, since I have earned your favor as well if not better than others. Why did we kindle war? We kindled present war for the restoration of our liberties and rights, and the voevoda of Bratslav writes that this restoration will take place. Therefore, either it will, or it will not. If it will not, then war; if it will, peace! Why spill blood in vain? Let them pacify us, and we will pacify the crowd, and the war will stop. Our father Hmelnitski has arranged and thought out all this wisely,--that we are on the side of his Majesty the King, who will give us a reward for that; and if the lordlings will oppose, then he will let us have our sport with them, and we will have it. I should not advise to send the Tartars off; let them arrange themselves in camps in the Wilderness, and stay till we have one thing or another." Hmelnitski's face brightened when he heard these words; and now the colonels in immense majority, began to call for a suspension of war and an embassy to Warsaw, to ask the Lord of Brusiloff to come in person to negotiate. Chernota still shouted and protested; but the colonel fixed threatening eyes on him and said,-- "You, Chernota, Colonel of Gadyach, call for war and bloodshed; but when the light cavalry of Dmukhovski advanced upon you at Korsún, you squealed like a little pig, 'Oh, brothers, my own brothers, save me!' and you ran away in the face of your whole regiment." "You lie!" roared Chernota. "I am not afraid of the Poles, nor of you." Krechovski squeezed the baton in his hand and sprang toward Chernota; others began also to belabor the Gadyach colonel with their fists. The tumult increased. On the square the Brotherhood bellowed like a herd of wild bulls. Then Hmelnitski himself rose a second time. "Gentlemen, colonels, friends," said he, "you have decided to send envoys to Warsaw, to mention our faithful services to his most serene Majesty the King, and to ask for a reward. But also whoever wishes war may have it,--not with the king nor the Commonwealth, for we have never carried on war with either, but with our greatest enemy, who is now red with Cossack blood, who at Starets bathed himself in it, and still does not cease to bathe himself, and continues in his hatred of the Zaporojian armies; to whom I sent a letter and envoys asking him to abandon that hatred, but who cruelly murdered my envoys, gave no answer to me, not paying respect to your chief, through which he is guilty of contempt against the whole Zaporojian army. And now, having come from the Trans-Dnieper, he has destroyed Pogrébische, punishing innocent people, for whom I have shed bitter tears. From Pogrébische, as I was informed this morning, he marched to Nyemiroff, and left no person alive there. And since the Tartars from fear and terror will not march against him, he will be seen soon on the way to destroy us here, innocent people, against the will of our affectionate king and the whole Commonwealth; for in his insolence he regards no man, and as he is now rebelling, so is he always ready to rebel against the will of his Majesty the King." It grew very still in the assembly; Hmelnitski drew breath and spoke on:-- "God has rewarded us with a victory over the hetmans, but Yeremi is worse than the hetmans and all the kinglets,--a son of Satan, living by pure injustice. Against whom I should march myself were it not that in Warsaw he would begin to cry, through his friends, that I do not want peace, and blacken our innocence before the king. That this should not happen, it is necessary that his Majesty the King and the whole Commonwealth should know that I do not want war, that I am sitting here in quiet, and that he first comes on us with war. Therefore I am not able to move, I must remain for negotiations with the voevoda of Bratslav. That he, devil's son, should not break our power, it is necessary to make a stand against him and destroy his power as we did that of our enemies, those gentlemen, the hetmans at Jóltiya Vodi and Korsún. Therefore I ask some of you to go against him of your own will, and I will write to the king that that took place aside from me, and for our absolute defence against the hatred and attacks of Vishnyevetski." Profound silence reigned in the assembly. Hmelnitski continued:-- "To whomsoever wishes to go on this undertaking I will give men enough, good men, and I will give cannon and artillerists, so that with God's aid he may sweep aside our enemy and gain a victory over him." But not one of the colonels stepped forward. "Sixty thousand chosen men I will give," said crafty Hmelnitski. Silence. And they were all fearless warriors, whose battle-shouts had echoed more than once around the walls of Tsargrad.[12] And perhaps for this very reason each one of them feared to lose the glory he possessed, by meeting the terrible Yeremi. Hmelnitski eyed the colonels, who under the influence of that glance looked to the ground. The face of Vygovski put on a look of satanic malice. "I know a hero," said Hmelnitski, mournfully, "who would speak at this moment, and not avoid this work, but he is not among us." "Bogun!" exclaimed some voices. "Yes. He has already swept away Yeremi's garrison at Vassílyevka; but they wounded him in the engagement, and he lies now in Cherkasi struggling with Mother Death. And since he is not here, there is no one here as I see. Where is Cossack renown? Where are the Pavlyuks, the Nalivaikas, the Lobodas, and the Ostranitsas?" A short, thick man, with a blue and gloomy face, and a mustache red as fire over a crooked mouth, and with green eyes, rose from the bench, pushed forward toward Hmelnitski, and said, "I will go." This was Maksim Krívonos. Shouts of "Glory to him!" rose in thunder; but he stood with his baton at his side, and spoke with a hoarse and halting voice,-- "Do not think, Hetman, that I feel fear. I should have stood up at first, but I thought, 'There are better than I!' But matters being as they are, I will go. Who are you? [turning to the colonels]. You are the heads and the hands; but I have no head, only hands and a sword. Once my mother bore me! War is my mother and my sister. Vishnyevetski slaughters, I will slaughter; he hangs, and I will hang. But you, Hetman, give me good warriors; for with a mob you can do nothing with Vishnyevetski. And so I go to take castles, kill, slaughter, hang! Death to the white hands!" Another ataman stepped forward. "I will go with you, Maksim." This was Pulyan. "And Chernota of Gadyach, and Gladki of Mirgorod, and Nosach will go with you," said Hmelnitski. "We will," said they, in one voice; for the example of Krívonos roused them, and courage entered them. "Against Yeremi, against Yeremi!" thundered shouts through the assembly. "Cut! slay!" repeated the Brotherhood; and after a time the council became a carousal. The regiments assigned to Krívonos drank deeply, for they were going to death. They knew this well themselves, but there was no fear in their hearts. "Once our mother bore us!" repeated they after their leader; and on this account they spared nothing on themselves, as is usual before death. Hmelnitski permitted and encouraged this; the crowd followed their example. The legions began to sing songs in a hundred thousand voices. Horses let loose and prancing through the camp raised clouds of dust, and caused indescribable disorder. They were chased with cries and shouts and laughter. Great crowds loitered along the river, fired muskets, crowded and pushed to the quarters of the hetman himself, who finally ordered Yakubovich to drive them away. Then began fighting and confusion, till a drenching rain drove them all to the wagons and tents. In the evening a storm burst forth in the sky. Thunder rolled from one end of the clouds, to the other; lightning flashed through the whole country, now with white and now with ruddy blaze. In the light of these flashes Krívonos marched out of camp at the head of sixty thousand men,--some from the best warriors, the rest from the mob. CHAPTER XXVII. Krívonos marched then from Bélaya Tserkoff through Skvira and Pogrébische to Makhnovka. Wherever he passed, traces of human habitation vanished. Whoever did not join him perished under the knife. Grain was burned standing, with forests and gardens. At the same time the prince carried annihilation in his hand. After the razing of Pogrébische, and the baptism of blood which Pan Baranovski gave to Nyemiroff, the prince's army destroyed a number of other considerable bands, and halted in camp at Raigorod, where during a month they scarcely got off their horses. They were weakened by toil, and death had decreased them notably. Rest was necessary, for the hands of these reapers in the harvest of blood had relaxed. The prince wavered, therefore, and thought whether it would not be better to go for a time to a more peaceable region to rest and recruit his forces, especially his horses, which were more like skeletons of beasts than living creatures, since they had not eaten grain for a month, subsisting only on trampled grass. But after they had halted a week tidings were brought that reinforcements were coming. The prince went out to meet them, and really met Pan Yanush Tishkyevich, the voevoda of Kieff, who came with fifteen hundred good men, and with him Pan Krishtof Tishkyevich, under-judge of Bratslav; young Pan Aksak, quite a youth yet, but with a well-armed company of his own; and many nobles, such as the Senyuts, the Palubinskis, the Jitinskis, the Yelovitskis, the Kyerdéis, the Boguslavskis,--some with escorts, others without. The entire force formed nearly two thousand horse, besides attendants. The prince was greatly pleased, and invited thankfully to his quarters the voevoda, who could not cease wondering at the poverty and simplicity of the place. For the prince, by so much as he lived like a king in Lubni, by that much did he permit himself no comfort in the field, wishing to give an example to the soldiers. He lived therefore in one room, which the voevoda of Kieff, squeezing through the narrow door, was hardly able to enter, by reason of his enormous thickness, till he ordered his attendant to push him from behind. In the cottage, besides the table, wooden benches, and a bed covered with horse-skin, there was nothing except a little room near the door, in which an attendant slept, always ready for service. This simplicity greatly astonished the voevoda, who lived in comfort and carried carpets with him. He entered finally, and gazed with curiosity on the prince, wondering how so great a spirit could find its place in such simplicity and poverty. He had seen Yeremi from time to time at the Diets in Warsaw, was in fact a distant relative of his, but did not know him intimately. Now, when he began to speak with him, he recognized at once that he had to do with an extraordinary man; and he, an old senator and soldier, who used to clap his senatorial colleagues on the shoulders, and say to Prince Dominik Zaslavski, "My dear," and was familiar with the king himself, could not attain familiarity like this with Vishnyevetski, though the prince received him kindly, for he was thankful for the reinforcements. "Worthy voevoda," said he, "praise be to God that you have come with your people, for I have worked here to my last breath." "I have noticed, by your soldiers, that they have worked, poor fellows, which disturbs me not a little, for I have come with the request that you hasten to save me." "And is there hurry?" "Periculum in mora, periculum in mora! Ruffians to the number of several thousand have appeared, with Krívonos at their head, who, as I have heard, was sent against you; but having received information that you had moved on Konstantinoff, he went there, and on the road has invested Makhnovka, and has wrought such desolation that no tongue can describe it." "I have heard of Krívonos, and waited for him here; but since I find that he has missed me, I must seek him. Really the affair will not bide delay. Is there a strong garrison in Makhnovka?" "There are two hundred Germans in the castle, very good men, who will hold out yet for some time. But the worst is, that many nobles have assembled in the town with their families, and the place is fortified only by earthworks and palisades, and cannot resist long." "In truth, the affair suffers no delay," repeated the prince. Then turning to his attendant, he said: "Jelenksi, run for the colonels!" The voevoda of Kieff was sitting meanwhile on a bench, and panting. He had some expectation of supper; for he was hungry, and liked good eating. Presently the tramp of armed men was heard, and the prince's officers entered,--black, thin, bearded, with sunken eyes, with traces of indescribable labor on their faces. They bowed in silence to the prince and his guests, and waited for his words. "Gentlemen, are the horses at their places?" "Yes, ready as always." "It is well. In an hour we will move on Krívonos." "Hi!" said the voevoda of Kieff; and he looked in wonderment at Pan Kryshtof, the sub-judge of Bratslav. The prince continued: "Ponyatovski and Vershul will march first; after them Baranovski will go with his dragoons, and in an hour we will move with the cannon of Vurtsel." The colonels bowed and left the room, and soon the trumpets were heard sounding to horse. The voevoda of Kieff did not expect such haste, and did not indeed wish it, since he was hungry and tired. He counted on resting about a day with the prince, and then moving. Now he would have to mount his horse at once, without sleeping or eating. "But, your Highness," said he, "are your soldiers able to reach Makhnovka? I see they are terribly tired, and the road is a long one." "Don't let your head ache over that. They go to a battle as to a concert." "I see that; I see they are sulphurous fellows. But my men are road-weary." "You have just said, 'Periculum in mora.'" "Yes; but we might rest for the night. We have come from near Hmelnik." "Worthy voevoda, we have come from Lubni and the Trans-Dnieper." "We were a whole day on the road." "We a whole month." The prince went out to arrange in person the order of march. The voevoda stared at the under-judge, struck his palms on his knees, and said,-- "Ah! I have got what I wanted, you see. As God lives, he will kill me with hunger. Here is swimming in hot water for you! I come for aid, and think that after great solicitation they will move in two or three days; but now they won't give us time to draw breath. May the devil take them! The stirrup-strap has galled my leg; my traitor of an attendant buckled it badly. My stomach is empty. The devil take them! Makhnovka is Makhnovka; but my stomach is my stomach. I am an old soldier, have fought in more wars probably than he has, but never in such helter-skelter fashion. Those are devils, not men; they don't eat, don't sleep,--just fight. As God is dear to me, they never eat anything. They look like ghosts, don't they?" "Yes; but they have fiery courage," answered Pan Kryshtof, who was in love with soldier life. "God bless us, what disorder and tumult in other camps when it comes to marching--how much running, arranging wagons, sending for horses! But now, do you hear? the light cavalry is on the march." "Is it possible? Why, this is terrible," said the voevoda. But young Pan Aksak clasped his boyish hands. "Ah, that is a mighty leader!" said he in ecstasy. "Oh, there is milk under your nose!" snapped the voevoda. "Cunctator too was a great leader! Do you understand?" At this moment the prince came in. "Gentlemen, to horse! We march." The voevoda did not restrain himself. "Order something for us to eat. Prince, for I am hungry," cried he, in an outburst of ill-humor. "Oh, my worthy voevoda," said the prince, laughing and taking hold of him by the shoulder, "forgive me, forgive me! With all my heart. But in war one forgets these things." "Well, Pan Kryshtof, haven't I told you that they don't eat?" asked the voevoda, turning to the under-judge of Bratslav. The supper did not last long, and a couple of hours later even the infantry had left Raigorod. The army marched through Vinnitsa and Litin to Hmelnik; on the way Vershul met a Tartar party in Saverovka, which he and Volodyovski destroyed, and freed a few hundred captives,--almost all young women. There began the ruined country; all around were traces of the hand of Krívonos. Strijavka was burned, and its population put to death in a terrible manner. Apparently the unfortunates had resisted Krívonos; therefore the savage chief had delivered them to sword and flame. On an oak-tree at the entrance to the village hung Pan Strijovski himself, whom Tishkyevich's men recognized at once. He was entirely naked, and had around his neck an enormous necklace of heads strung on a rope; they were the heads of his wife and six children. Everything in the village itself was burned to the ground. They saw on both sides of the road a long row of "Cossack candles,"--that is, people with hands raised above their heads, and tied to stakes driven into the ground, wound around with straw steeped in pitch and set on fire at the hands. The greater part of them had only their hands burned, for the rain had evidently stopped the further burning. But those bodies were terrible, with their distorted faces and black stumps of hands stretched to heaven. The odor of putrefaction spread round about. Above the stakes whirled circles of ravens and crows, which at the approach of the troops flew away with an uproar from the nearer stakes to sit on the farther ones. A number of wolves galloped off before the regiments to the thicket. The men marched on in silence through the alley, and counted the "candles." There were between three and four hundred of them. They passed at length that unfortunate village, and breathed the fresh air of the field. But traces of destruction extended farther. It was the first half of July. The grain was almost ripe, for an early harvest was looked for. But entire fields were partly burned, partly trampled, tangled, trodden into the earth. It might have been thought that a hurricane had passed over the land. In fact, the most terrible of all hurricanes had passed,--civil war. The soldiers of the prince had seen more than once rich neighborhoods ruined by Tartar raids; but such a storm, such mad destruction, they had never seen. Forests were burned as well as grain. Where fire had not devoured the trees the bark and leaves were swept from them by a tongue of fire; they were scorched by its breath, smoked, blackened, and the tree-trunk stuck up like a skeleton. The voevoda of Kieff looked, and could not believe his eyes. Maidyanóe, Zbar,--villages, houses,--nothing but burned ruins! On one side and another the men had run off to Krívonos; the women and children had been taken captive by that part of the horde which Vershul and Volodyovski had crushed out. On the earth a wilderness; in the air flocks of ravens, crows, jackdaws, and vultures, which had flown hither, God knows whence, to the Cossack harvest. Fresher traces of the passage of troops were seen each moment. From time to time they came upon broken wagons, bodies of cattle and men not yet decayed, broken cups, brass kettles, bags of wet flour, ruins still smoking, stacks of grain recently begun and left unfinished. The prince urged his regiments on to Hmelnik without drawing breath. The old voevoda seized himself by the head, repeating sadly,-- "My Makhnovka, my Makhnovka! I see we shall not come in time." Meanwhile news was brought to Hmelnik that Makhnovka was besieged, not by old Krívonos himself, but by his son with several thousand men, and that it was he who had committed such inhuman devastations along the road. The place was already taken, according to accounts. The Cossacks on capturing it had cut to pieces the nobles and the Jews, and taken the women of the nobles to camp, where a fate worse than death awaited them. But the castle, under the leadership of Pan Lyeff, held out yet. The Cossacks stormed it from the Bernardine monastery, in which they had put the monks to death. Pan Lyeff, using all his strength and powder, gave no hope of holding out longer than one night. The prince therefore left the infantry, the guns, and the main strength of the army, which he ordered to go to Bystrika, and galloped on to the relief with the voevoda, Pan Kryshtof, Pan Aksak, and two thousand soldiers. The old voevoda was for delay, for he had lost his head. "Makhnovka is lost! We shall arrive too late! We would better leave it, defend other places, and provide them with garrisons." But the prince would not listen to him. The under-judge of Bratslav urged the advance, and the troops rushed to the fight. "Since we have come thus far, we will not leave without blood," said the colonels; and they went on. About two miles and a half from Makhnovka a few riders, moving as fast as their horses could carry them, halted in front of the troops. It was Pan Lyeff and his companions. Seeing him, the voevoda of Kieff guessed at once what had happened. "The castle is taken!" he cried. "It is!" answered Pan Lyeff; and that moment he fainted, for he was cut with swords, was shot through, and had lost much blood. But the others began to tell what had taken place. The Germans on the wall were cut down to the last man, for they preferred to die rather than yield. Pan Lyeff had forced his way through the thick of the mob and the broken gates. In the rooms of the tower a few tens of nobles were defending themselves; to those speedy succor should be given. The cavalry swept on with all speed. Soon the town and castle were visible on a hill, and above them a dense cloud of smoke from the fire which had already begun. The day was coming to an end. The sky was flushed with gigantic golden and purple lights, which the troops mistook at once for a conflagration. By these flashes the Zaporojian regiments could be seen, and dense masses of a mob rushing through the gates to meet the Polish troops,--the more confidently since no one in the town knew of the approach of Yeremi. It was supposed that the voevoda of Kieff alone was marching with succor. It was evident that vudka had blinded them entirely, or the recent capture of the castle had inspired them with immeasurable insolence; for they descended the hill boldly, and only when they had reached the plain did they form for battle, which they did with great readiness, thundering with their drums and trumpets. In view of this a shout of joy went up from every Polish breast, and the voevoda of Kieff had an opportunity to admire a second time the discipline of Vishnyevetski's troops. Halting in view of the Cossacks, they formed at once in battle-array, the heavy cavalry in the centre, the light horse at the wings, so that there was no necessity of man[oe]uvres, they could begin on the spot. "Oh, Pan Kryshtof, what men!" said the voevoda. "They fell into order at once; they could give battle without a leader." But the prince, like a provident chief, flew, with baton in hand, between the companies, examined, and gave final orders. The evening twilight was reflected on his silver armor, and he was like a bright flame flying between the ranks, he alone glistening amid the dark armor. Three regiments formed the centre of the foremost line. The first of these was led by the voevoda of Kieff himself, the second by young Pan Aksak, the third by Pan Kryshtof Tishkyevich; after these, in the second line, were the dragoons under Baranovski, and finally the gigantic hussars of the prince, led by Pan Yan. Vershul, Kushel, and Ponyatovski occupied the wings. There were no cannon, for Vurtsel had remained in Bystrika. The prince galloped to the voevoda, motioned with his baton, and said,-- "Do you begin, because of the injustice done you!" The voevoda in turn waved his hand; the soldiers bent in their saddles and moved on. It was evident at once by his style of leadership that the voevoda, though heavy and dilatory,--for he was bent with age,--was an experienced and valiant soldier. To spare his troops he did not start them at the highest speed, but led them slowly, quickening the march as he approached the enemy. He went himself in the front rank, with baton in hand; his attendant merely carried his long and heavy sword, but not heavy for the hand of the old voevoda. The mob on foot hurried with scythes and flails against the cavalry, in order to restrain the first impetus and lighten the attack for the Zaporojians. When they were separated by only a few tens of yards, the people of Makhnovka recognized the voevoda by his gigantic stature and corpulence, and began to cry out,-- "Hi! serene great mighty voevoda, the harvest is near; why don't you order out your subjects? Our respects, serene lord! We will perforate that stomach of yours." They sent a shower of bullets on the cavalry, but without harm, for the horses were going like a whirlwind and struck mightily. The clatter of flails and the sound of scythes were heard on the armor; then cries and groans. The lances opened a way in the dense mass of the mob, through which the infuriated horses rushed like a tempest, trampling, overturning, mashing. And as on the meadow when a rank of mowers advance, the rich grass disappears before them and they go on swinging the handles of their scythes, just so did the broad avalanche of the mob contract, melt, disappear, pushed by the breasts of horses. Unable to keep their places, they began to waver. Then thundered the shout, "Save yourselves!" and the whole mass, throwing down scythes, flails, forks, guns, rushed back in wild dismay on the Zaporojian regiments behind. But the Zaporojians, fearing lest the fleeing throng should disorder their ranks, placed their lances against them; the mob, seeing this resistance, rushed with a howl of despair to both sides, but were immediately hurled back by Kushel and Ponyatovski, who had just moved from the wings of the prince's division. The voevoda, now riding over the bodies of the mob, was in the front of the Zaporojians and rushed toward them. They too rushed at him, wishing to answer momentum with momentum. They struck each other like two waves going in opposite directions, which when they meet form a foaming ridge. So horses rose before horses, the riders like a wave, the swords above the wave like foam. The voevoda discovered that he was not working with a mob now, but with stern and trained Zaporojian warriors. The two lines pressed each other mutually, bent, neither being able to break the other. Bodies fell thickly, for there man met man, and steel struck steel. The voevoda himself, putting his baton under his belt, and taking the sword from his attendant, worked in the sweat of his brow, puffing like a blacksmith's bellows. And with him the two Senyuts, the Kyerdéis, the Boguslavskis, the Yelovitskis, and the Polubinskis wriggled as if in boiling water. But on the Cossack side the fiercest of all was Ivan Burdabut, the lieutenant-colonel of the Kalnik regiment, a Cossack of gigantic strength and stature. He was the more terrible because he had a horse which fought as well as its master. More than one man reined in his steed and drew back so as not to meet that centaur spreading death and desolation. The brothers Senyut sprang at him; but the horse caught in its teeth the face of Andrei the younger and mashed it in the twinkle of an eye. Seeing this, the elder brother, Rafal, struck the beast above the eyes; he wounded, but did not kill it, for the sabre hit the great bronze button on the forehead of the horse. At that moment Burdabut plunged a weapon under the beard of Senyut, and deprived him of life. So fell the two brothers, and lay in their gilded armor in the dust, under the hoofs of horses; but Burdabut rushed on like a flame to more distant ranks, and struck in a flash the attendant of Prince Polubinski, a sixteen-year-old stripling, whose right shoulder he cut off together with the arm. Seeing this, Pan Urbanski, wishing to avenge the death of a relative, tired at Burdabut in the very face, but missed,--only shot away his ear and dashed him with blood. Terrible then was Burdabut with his horse, both black as night, both covered with blood, both with wild eyes and distended nostrils, raging like a tempest. And Pan Urbanski did not escape death; for like an executioner, Burdabut cut off his head with a blow, and the head of old Jitinski in his eightieth year, and the heads of the two Nikchemnis, each with one stroke. Others began to draw back with terror, especially as behind the Cossack gleamed a hundred Zaporojian sabres, and a hundred lances, already moistened in blood. The furious chief saw at last the voevoda, and giving an awful shout of joy, hurried toward him, hurling down horses and riders in his path. But the voevoda did not retreat. Trusting in his uncommon strength, puffing like a wounded wild boar, he raised the sword above his head and urging on his horse rushed to Burdabut. His end would have come without doubt,--and Fate had already caught in her shears the thread of his life, which she afterward cut in Okra--had not Silnitski, his sword-bearer, hurled himself like lightning on the Cossack and seized him by the waist before his sword was satisfied. While Burdabut was putting him aside, the Kyerdéis shouted, summoning assistance for the voevoda; several tens of people sprang forth at once, and separated him from Burdabut. Then a stubborn fight set in. But the wearied regiments of the voevoda began to yield to greater Zaporojian strength, draw back, and break ranks, when Pan Kryshtof, under-judge of Bratslav, and Pan Aksak hurried up with fresh regiments. True, new Cossack regiments rushed in at that moment to the fight; but still below stood the prince, with the dragoons of Baranovski and the hussars of Skshetuski, who had taken no part as yet in the action. Then the bloody conflict raged anew. Darkness had already fallen, but flames had caught the outer houses of the town. The fire lighted the field of struggle, and both lines, Polish and Cossack, were seen distinctly pounding each other at the foot of the hill; the colors of the standards could be seen, and even the faces of the men. Vershul, Ponyatovski, and Kushel had already been in fire and action; for having finished with the mob, they struck the Cossack wings, which under their pressure began to move toward the hill. The long line of combatants bent its ends toward the town, and began to extend out more and more; for when the Polish wings advanced, the centre, pressed by superior Cossack power, retreated toward the prince. Three new Cossack regiments went to break it; but at that moment the prince pushed on Baranovski's dragoons, and these raised the strength of the combatants. The hussars alone remained with the prince. From a distance they seemed like a dark grove growing straight from the ground,--a terrible avalanche of iron men, horses, and lances. The breeze of evening stirred the banners above their heads, and they stood quietly, not fretting for battle before the issue of command; patient, for trained and experienced in many a fight they knew that their portion of blood would not miss them. The prince, in his silver armor, with gilded baton in hand, strained his eyes toward the battle; and on the left wing Skshetuski, standing a little sideways at the end,--being lieutenant, his sleeve was rolled up on his shoulder,--with arm bare to the elbow, and holding in his powerful hand a broadsword instead of a baton, waited calmly for the order. The prince shaded with his left hand his eyes from the glare of the burning. The centre of the Polish half-circle retreated gradually toward him, overborne by superior power which was not long kept back by Pan Baranovski,--the same who had razed Nyemiroff. The prince saw, as if on his hand, the heavy work of the soldiers. The long lightning of sabres raised itself above the black line of heads, then vanished in the blows. Riderless horses dropped out of that avalanche of combatants, and neighing ran along the plain with floating mane; the flames of the burning for a background, they were like beasts of hell. The red banner floating for a time over the throng fell suddenly to rise no more; but the eye of the prince ran along the line of combat as far as the hill toward the town, where at the head of two picked regiments stood young Krívonos, waiting the moment to hurl himself on the centre and break the weakened ranks of the Poles. At length he started, running with a terrible shout straight on the dragoons of Baranovski; but the prince was waiting for that moment too. "Lead on!" cried he to Skshetuski. Skshetuski raised his broadsword, and the iron host shot past. They did not run long, for the line of battle had approached them considerably. Baranovski's dragoons opened to the right and left with lightning speed to clear a way for the hussars against the Cossacks. The hussars swept through this pass with their whole momentum against the victorious companies of Krívonos. "Yeremi! Yeremi!" shouted the hussars. "Yeremi!" repeated the whole army. The terrible name contracted the hearts of the Zaporojians with a shudder of fear. In that moment they learned for the first time that it was not the voevoda of Kieff who was leading, but the prince himself. Besides, they were unable to resist the hussars, who crushed them with their weight as falling walls crush people standing beneath. The only safety for them was to open toward both sides, let the hussars through, and then strike them on the flanks; but those flanks were already guarded by the dragoons and light horse of Vershul, Kushel, and Ponyatovski, who, having dislodged the Cossack wings, pushed them to the centre. Now the form of battle changed, for the light regiments became as it were the two sides of a street, along the centre of which flew the hussars with wild impetus, driving, breaking, pushing, overturning men and horses; and before them fled bellowing and howling the Cossacks to the hill and the town. If the wing of Vershul had been able to join the wing of Ponyatovski, the Cossacks would have been surrounded and cut to pieces; but neither Vershul nor Ponyatovski could make the junction by reason of the exceeding rush of fugitives, whom they struck, however, at the flanks till their arms grew weak from cutting. Young Krívonos, though valiant and furious, when he understood that his own inexperience had to meet such a leader as the prince, lost presence of mind and fled at the head of others to the town. Pan Kushel, who was nearsighted, standing at the flank, saw the fugitive, urged on his horse, and gave the young leader a sabre-stroke in the face. He did not kill him, for his helmet turned the sword-edge; but he sprinkled him with blood and deprived him still more of courage. He came near paying for the deed with his life, for that moment Burdabut turned on him with the remnant of the Kalnik regiment. Twice had Burdabut tried to make head against the hussars, but, twice pushed back and beaten by a power as if supernatural, he was obliged to give way with the rest. At last, having collected his men, he determined to strike Kushel on the flank and burst through his dragoons to the open field; but before he could break them the road to the town and the hill was so packed with people that a quick retreat became impossible. The hussars, in view of this press of men, restrained their onset, and having broken their lances, began to hew with swords. Then there was a struggle, confused, disorderly, furious, merciless, seething in the press, uproar, and heat, amid the steam from men and horses. Body fell upon body, horses' hoofs sank in the quivering flesh. At points the masses were so dense that there was no room for sabre-strokes; so they fought with the hilts, with knives, with fists. Horses began to whine. Here and there voices were heard: "Mercy, Poles!" These voices grew louder, increased, outsounded the clash of swords, the bite of iron on the bones of men, the groans and the terrible death-rattle of the perishing. "Mercy, mercy!" was heard with increasing plaintiveness; but mercy shone not above that avalanche of stragglers as the sun above a storm; only the flames of the town shone above them. But Burdabut at the head of the men of Kalnik asked for no mercy. He lacked room for battle. He opened a way with his dagger. He met the big Pan Dzik, and punching him in the stomach rolled him from his horse. Dzik, crying, "O Jesus!" raised himself no more from under the hoofs which tore out his entrails. There was room enough at once. Burdabut laid open with his sabre the head and helmet of Sokolski; then he brought down, together with their horses, Pans Priyam and Chertovich, and there was still more room. Young Zenobius Skalski slashed at his head, but the sabre turned in his hand and struck with its side. Burdabut gave Skalski a back-hand blow with his left fist in the face, and killed him on the spot. The men of Kalnik followed him, cutting and stabbing with their daggers. "A wizard! a wizard!" the hussars began to cry out. "Iron cannot harm him! he is frantic!" He had foam on his mustaches, and rage in his eyes. At last Burdabut saw Skshetuski, and recognizing an officer by the upturned sleeve, rushed upon him. All held their breaths, and the battle stopped, looking at the struggle of the two terrible knights. Pan Yan was not frightened at the cry of "Wizard;" but anger boiled in his breast at the sight of so much destruction. He ground his teeth and pushed on the enemy with fury. The horses of both were thrown on their haunches. The whistle of steel was heard, and suddenly the sabre of the Cossack flew into pieces under the blow of the Polish sword. It seemed as if no power could save Burdabut, when he sprang and grappled with Skshetuski, so that both appeared to form one body, and a knife gleamed above the throat of the hussar. Death stood before the eyes of Pan Yan at that moment, for he could not use his sword. But quick as lightning he dropped the sword, which hung by a strap, and seized the hand of the enemy in his own. For a while the two hands trembled convulsively in the air; but iron must have been the grip of Pan Yan, for the Cossack howled like a wolf, and before the eyes of all the knife fell from his stiffened fingers as grain is squeezed out of its husk. Skshetuski let drop the crushed hand, and grasping the Cossack by the shoulder bent his terrible forehead to the pummel of the saddle, then drawing with his left hand the baton from his own belt, he struck once, twice. Burdabut coughed, and fell from his horse. At the sight of this the men of Kalnik groaned and hastened to take vengeance. Now the hussars sprang forward and cut them to pieces. At the other end of the hussar avalanche the battle did not cease for a moment, for the throng was less dense. Pan Longin, girt with Anusia's scarf, raged with his broadsword. The morning after the battle the knights looked with wonder on those places, pointing out shoulders cut off with armor, heads split from the forehead to the beard, bodies cut into halves, an entire road of men and horses. They whispered to one another, "See, Podbipienta fought here!" The prince himself examined the bodies; and though that morning he was very much afflicted by various reports, he wondered, for he had never seen such blows in his life. But meanwhile the battle seemed to approach its end. The heavy cavalry pushed on again, driving before it the Zaporojian regiments which were seeking refuge in the direction of the hill and the town. The regiments of Kushel and Ponyatovski barred return to the fugitives. Surrounded on all sides, they defended themselves to the very last; but with their death they saved others, for two hours later when Volodyovski entered the place in advance with his Tartars of the guard, he did not find a single Cossack. The enemy, taking advantage of the darkness,--for rain had put out the fire,--had seized the empty wagons of the town in a hurry, and forming a train with that quickness peculiar to Cossacks alone, left the town, passed the river, and destroyed the bridges behind them. The few tens of nobles who had defended themselves in the castle were liberated. Then the prince commanded Vershul to punish the townspeople who had joined the Cossacks, and set out in pursuit of the enemy himself. But he could not capture the tabor without cannon and infantry. The enemy having gained time by burning the bridges, for it was necessary to go far along the river around a dam to cross, disappeared so quickly that the wearied horses of the prince's cavalry were barely able to come up with them. Still the Cossacks, though famous for fighting in tabors, did not defend themselves so bravely as usual. The terrible certainty that the prince himself was pursuing them, so deprived them of courage that they despaired of escape altogether. Their end would surely have come,--for after a whole night's firing Baranovski had seized forty wagons and two cannon,--had it not been for the voevoda of Kieff, who opposed further pursuit and withdrew his men. Between him and the prince sharp words arose, which were heard by many of the colonels. "Why do you," asked the prince, "wish to let the enemy escape, when you showed such bravery against them in battle? The glory which you won yesterday, you have lost to-day by negligence." "I do not know," said the voevoda, "what spirit lives in you, but I am a man of flesh and blood. After labor I need rest; so do my men. I shall always attack the enemy as I have to-day, when they present a front, but I will not pursue them when defeated and fleeing." "Cut them to pieces!" shouted the prince. "What will come of that work?" asked the voevoda. "If we destroy these people, the elder Krívonos will come, burn, destroy, kill, as his son has in Strijavka, and innocent people will suffer for our rage." "Oh, I see," said the prince, with anger, "you belong with the chancellor and with those commanders of theirs, to the peace faction, which would put down rebellion through negotiations; but, by the living God, nothing will come of that as long as I have a sabre in my fist!" To this Tishkyevich answered: "I belong not to a faction, but to God,--for I am an old man, and shall soon have to stand before him; and be not surprised if I do not wish to have too great a burden of blood, shed in civil war, weighing me down. If you are angry because the command passed you by, then I say that for bravery the command belonged to you rightly. Still perhaps it is better that they did not give it to you, for you would have drowned not the rebellion alone in blood, but with it this unhappy country." The Jupiter brows of Yeremi contracted, his neck swelled, and his eyes began to throw out such lightning that all present were alarmed for the voevoda; but at that moment Pan Yan approached quickly, and said,-- "Your Highness, there is news of the elder Krívonos." Immediately the thoughts of the prince were turned in another direction, and his anger against the voevoda decreased. In the mean while four men were brought in who had come with tidings. Two of them were orthodox priests, who on seeing the prince threw themselves on their knees before him. "Save us! save us!" cried they, stretching their hands to him. "Whence do you come?" "We are from Polónnoe. The elder Krívonos has invested the castle and the town; if your sabre is not raised above his neck, we shall all perish." The prince answered: "I know that a mass of people have taken refuge there in Polónnoe, but mostly Russians, as I am informed. Your merit before God is that instead of joining the rebellion you oppose it and remain with your mother the Commonwealth; still I fear some treason on your part, such as I found in Nyemiroff." Thereupon the envoys began to swear by all the saints in heaven that they were waiting for him as a savior, as prince, and that there was not a thought of treason in them. They spoke the truth; for Krívonos, having surrounded them with fifty thousand men, vowed their destruction for this special reason,--that, being Russians, they would not join the rebellion. The prince promised them aid; but since his main forces were in Bystrika, he was obliged to wait. The envoys went away with consolation in their hearts. The prince turned to the voevoda, and said,-- "Pardon me! I see now that we must let the young Krívonos go, so as to catch the old one. I judge therefore that you will not leave me in this undertaking." "Of course not!" answered the voevoda. Then the trumpets sounded the retreat to the regiments who had followed the Cossacks. It was necessary to rest and eat, and let the horses draw breath. In the evening a whole division arrived from Bystrika, and with it Pan Stakhovich, an envoy from the voevoda of Bratslav. Pan Kisel wrote the prince a letter full of homage, saying that like a second Marius he was saving the country from the last abyss; he wrote also of the joy which the arrival of the prince from the Trans-Dnieper roused in all hearts, and wished him success; but at the end of the letter appeared the reason for which it was written. Kisel stated that negotiations had been begun, that he with other commissioners was going to Bélaya Tserkoff, and had hopes of restraining and satisfying Hmelnitski. Finally he begged the prince not to press so hard on the Cossacks before negotiations, and to desist from military action as far as possible. If the prince had been told that all his Trans-Dnieper possessions were destroyed, and all the towns levelled to the earth, he would not have been pained so acutely as he was over that letter. Skshetuski, Baranovski, Zatsvilikhovski, the two Tishkyevichi, and the Kyerdéis were present. The prince covered his eyes with his hands, and pushed back his head as if an arrow had struck him in the heart. "Disgrace! disgrace! God grant me to die rather than behold such things!" Deep silence reigned among those present, and the prince continued,-- "I do not wish to live in this Commonwealth, for to-day I must be ashamed of it. The Cossack and the peasant mob have poured blood on the country, and joined pagandom against their own mother. The hetmans are beaten, the armies swept away. The fame of the nation is trampled upon, its majesty insulted, churches are burned, priests and nobles cut down, women dishonored, and what answer does the Commonwealth give to all these defeats and this shame, at the very remembrance of which our ancestors would have died? Here it is! She begins negotiations with the traitor, the disgracer, the ally of the Pagan, and offers him satisfaction. Oh, God grant me death! I repeat it, since there is no life in the world for us who feel the dishonor of our country and bring our heads as a sacrifice for it." The voevoda of Kieff was silent, and the under-judge of Bratslav answered after a while,-- "Pan Kisel does not compose the Commonwealth." "Do not speak to me of Pan Kisel," said the prince; "for I know well that he has a whole party behind him. He has struck the mind of the primate, the chancellor, and Prince Dominik, and many lords who to-day in the interregnum bear rule in the Commonwealth and represent its majesty, but rather disgrace it by weakness unworthy of a great people; for this conflagration is to be quenched by blood, and not by negotiations, since it is better for a knightly nation to perish than to become low-lived and rouse the contempt of the whole world for themselves." The prince again covered his eyes with his hands. The sight of that pain and sorrow was so sad that the colonels knew not what to do by reason of the tears that came into their eyes. "Your Highness," Zatsvilikhovski made bold to say, "let them use their tongues; we will continue to use our swords." "True," answered the prince; "and my heart is rent with the thought of what we shall do farther on. When we heard of the defeat of our country we came through burning forests and impassable swamps, neither sleeping nor eating, using the last power we had to save our mother from destruction and disgrace. Our hands drop down from toil, hunger is gnawing our entrails, wounds are torturing us, but we regard no toil if we can only stop the enemy. They say that I am angry because command has not come to me. Let the whole world judge if those are more fitted for it who got it; but I, gentlemen, take God and you to witness that I as well as you do not bring my blood in sacrifice for rewards and dignities, but out of pure love for the country. But when we are giving the last breath in our bodies, what do they tell us? Well, that the gentlemen in Warsaw, and Pan Kisel in Gushchi are thinking of satisfaction for our enemy. Infamy, infamy!" "Kisel is a traitor!" cried Baranovski. Thereupon Pan Stakhovich, a man of dignity and courage, rose, and turning to Baranovski, said,-- "Being a friend of the voevoda of Bratslav, and an envoy from him, I permit no man to call him a traitor. His beard too has grown gray from trouble, and he serves his country according to his understanding,--it may be mistakenly, but honorably!" The prince did not hear this answer, for he was plunged in meditation and in pain. Baranovski did not dare to pick a quarrel in his presence; he only fastened his eyes steadily on Pan Stakhovich, as if wishing to say, "I shall find you," and put his hand on his sword-hilt. Meanwhile Yeremi recovered from his revery, and said gloomily: "There is no other choice but to fail in upholding obedience (for during the interregnum they are the government) or the honor of our country for which we are laboring to devote--" "From disobedience flows all the evil in the Commonwealth," said the voevoda of Kieff, with seriousness. "Are we therefore to permit the disgrace of our country? And if to-morrow we are commanded to go with ropes around our necks to Tugai Bey and Hmelnitski, are we to do that for obedience' sake?" "Veto!" called Pan Kryshtof. "Veto!" repeated Kyerdéi. The prince turned to the colonels. "Speak, veterans!" said he. Pan Zatsvilikhovski began: "Your Highness, I am seventy years old. I am an orthodox Russian, I was a Cossack commissioner, and Hmelnitski himself called me father, and ought rather to speak for negotiations; but if I have to speak for _disgrace_ or _war_, then till I go to the grave I shall say war!" "War!" said Skshetuski. "War, war!" repeated several voices, in fact those of all present. "War, war!" "Let it be according to your words," said the prince, seriously; and he struck the open letter of Kisel with his baton. CHAPTER XXVIII. A day later, when the army halted in Ryltsoff, the prince summoned Pan Yan and said,-- "Our forces are weak and worn out, but Krívonos has sixty thousand, and his army is increasing every day, for the mob is coming to him. Besides, I cannot, depend on the voevoda of Kieff, for he belongs at heart to the peace party. He marches with me, it is true, but unwillingly. We must have reinforcements from some source. I learned a little while ago that not far from Konstantinoff there are two colonels,--Osinski with the royal guard, and Koritski. Take one hundred Cossacks of my guard, for safety, and go to these colonels with a letter from me, asking them to come here without delay, for in a couple of days I shall fall upon Krívonos. No one has acquitted himself of important missions better than you, therefore I send you; and this is an important mission." Skshetuski bowed, and set out that evening for Konstantinoff, going at night so as to pass unnoticed; for here and there the scouts of Krívonos or squads of peasants were circling about. These formed robber bands in the forests and on the roads; but the prince gave orders to avoid battles, so that there should be no delay. Marching quietly therefore, he reached Visovati at daylight, where he found both colonels, and was greatly rejoiced at the sight of them. Osinski had a picked regiment of dragoons of the guard, trained in foreign fashion, and Germans. Koritski had a regiment of German infantry, composed almost entirely of veterans of the Thirty Years' War. These were soldiers so terrible and skilful that in the hands of the colonel they acted like one swordsman. Both regiments were well armed and equipped. When they heard of joining the prince, they raised shouts of joy at once, as they were yearning for battles, and knew too that under no other leader could they have so many. Unfortunately both colonels gave a negative answer; for both belonged to the command of Prince Dominik Zaslavski, and had strict orders not to join Vishnyevetski. In vain did Skshetuski tell them of the glory they might win under such a leader, and what great service they could render the country. They would not listen, declaring that obedience was the first law and obligation for military men. They said they could join the prince only in case the safety of their regiments demanded it. Pan Yan went away deeply grieved, for he knew how painful this fresh disappointment would be to the prince, and how greatly his forces were wearied and worn by campaigning, by continual struggling with the enemy, scattering isolated detachments, and finally by continual wakefulness, hunger, and bad weather. To measure himself in these conditions with an enemy tenfold superior in number would be impossible. Skshetuski saw clearly, therefore, that there must be delay in acting against Krívonos; for it was necessary to give a longer rest to the army and to wait for a new accession of nobles to the camp. Occupied with these thoughts, Skshetuski went back to the prince at the head of his Cossacks. He was obliged to go cautiously and at night, so as to escape the scouts of Krívonos and the numerous independent bands, made up of Cossacks and peasants,--sometimes very strong,--which raged in that neighborhood, burning dwellings, cutting down nobles, and hunting fugitives along the highroads. He passed Baklai and entered the forests of Mshyna,--dense, full of treacherous ravines and valleys. Happily he was favored on the road by good weather after the recent rains. It was a glorious night in July, moonless, but crowded with stars. The Cossacks went along in a narrow trail, guided by the foresters of Mshyna,--very trusty men, knowing the forests perfectly. Deep silence reigned among the trees, broken only by the cracking of dry twigs under the horses' hoofs,--when suddenly there came to the ears of Pan Yan and the Cossacks a kind of distant murmur, like singing interrupted by cries. "Listen!" said the lieutenant, in a low voice; and he stopped the line of Cossacks. "What is that?" The old forester bent forward to him. "Those are crazy people who go through the woods now and scream. Their heads are turned from cruelty. Yesterday we met a noblewoman who was going around looking at the pines and crying, 'Children! children!' It is evident that the peasants had killed her children. She stared at us and whined so that our legs trembled under us. They say that in all the forests there are many such." Though Pan Yan was a fearless man, a shudder passed over him from head to foot. "Maybe it is the howling of wolves. It is difficult to distinguish." "What wolves? There are no wolves in the woods now; they have all gone to the villages, where there are plenty of dead men." "Awful times!" answered the knight, "when wolves live in the villages, and people go howling through the woods! Oh, God, God!" After a while silence came again. There was nothing to be heard but the sounds usual among the tops of the pine-trees. Soon, however, those distant sounds rose and became more distinct. "Oh!" said one of the foresters, suddenly, "it seems as though some large body of men were over there. You stay here; move on slowly. I will go with my companions to see who they are." "Go!" said Skshetuski. "We will wait here." The foresters disappeared. They did not return for about an hour. Skshetuski was beginning to be impatient, and indeed to think of treason, when suddenly some one sprang out of the darkness. "They are there!" said he, approaching the lieutenant. "Who?" "A peasant band." "Many of them?" "About two hundred. It is not clear what is best to do, for they are in a pass through which our road lies. They have a fire, though the light is not to be seen, for it is below. They have no guards, and can be approached within arrow-shot." "All right!" said Skshetuski; and turning to the Cossacks, he began to give orders to the two principal ones. The party moved on briskly, but so quietly that only the cracking of twigs could betray their march. Stirrup did not touch stirrup; there was no clattering of sabres. The horses, accustomed to surprises and attacks, went with a wolfs gait, without snorting or neighing. Arriving at the place where the road made a sudden turn, the Cossacks saw at once, from a distance, fires and the indefinite outlines of people. Here Skshetuski divided his men into three parties,--one remained on the spot; the second went by the edge along the ravine, so as to close the opposite exit; the third dismounted, and crawling along on hands and feet, placed themselves on the very edge of the precipice above the heads of the peasants. Skshetuski, who was in the second party, looking down, saw as if on the palm of his hand a whole camp, two or three hundred yards distant. There were ten fires, but burning not very brightly; over these hung kettles with food. The odor of smoke and of boiling meat came distinctly to the nostrils of Skshetuski and the Cossacks. Around the kettles peasants were standing or lying, drinking and talking. Some had bottles of vudka in their hands; others were leaning on pikes, on the ends of which were empaled as trophies the heads of men, women, and children. The gleam of the fire was reflected in their lifeless eyes and grinning teeth; the same gleam lighted up the faces of the peasants, wild and cruel. There, under the wall of the ravine, a number of them slept, snoring audibly; some talked; some stirred the fire, which then shot up clusters of golden sparks. At the largest fire sat, with his back to the ravine and to Skshetuski, a broad-shouldered old minstrel, who was thrumming on his lyre; in front of him was a half-circle of peasants. To the ears of Skshetuski came the following words: "Ai! grandfather,--sing about the Cossack Holota!" "No," cried the others; "sing of Marusia Boguslavka!" "To the devil with Marusia! About the lord of Potok! About the lord of Potok!" shouted the greatest number of voices. The "grandfather" struck his lyre with more force, coughed, and began to sing,-- "Halt! look around! stand in amaze, thou who art master of many! Since thou wilt be equal to him who is owner of nothing on earth; For he who moves all things is manager now, the mighty, the merciful God! And he puts on his scales all our woes, and he weighs them to know. Halt! look around! stand in amaze, thou who dost soar, With thy mind seeing wisdom down deep and afar!" The minstrel was silent, and sighed; and after him the peasants sighed. Every moment more of them collected around him. But Skshetuski, though he knew that all his men must be ready now, did not give the signal for attack. The calm night, the blazing fires, the wild figures, and the song about Nikolai Pototski, still unfinished, roused in the knight certain wonderful thoughts, certain feelings and yearnings of which he could not himself give account. The uncured wounds of his heart opened; deep sorrow for the near past, for lost happiness, for those hours of quiet and peace, pressed his heart. He fell to thinking, and was sad. Then the "grandfather" sang on,-- "Halt! look around! stand in amaze, thou who mak'st war With arrows, bows, powder, and ball, with the sharp-cutting sword! For knights, too, and horsemen, before thee were many, Who fought with such weapons and fell by the sword. Halt! look around! stand in amaze, forget thou thy pride! Thou who from Potok to Slavuta farest, turn then this way. Innocent men thou tak'st by the ears and stripp'st them of will; Thou heedest no king, thou knowest no Diet, art thy own single law; Hei! be amazed, grow not enraged! thou in thy power, With thy baton alone, as thou lustest, thou turnest the whole Polish land." The "grandfather" stopped again, and at that time a pebble slipped from under the arm of one of the Cossacks, which had been resting on it, and began to roll down, rattling as it fell. A number of peasants shaded their eyes with their hands, and looked up quickly into the tree; then Skshetuski saw that the time had come, and fired his pistol into the middle of the crowd. "Kill! slash!" cried he. Thirty Cossacks fired as it were straight into the faces of the crowd, and after the firing slipped like lightning down the steep walls of the ravine, among the terrified and confused peasants. "Kill! slay!" was thundered at one end of the ravine. "Kill! slay!" was repeated by furious voices at the other end. "Yeremi! Yeremi!" The attack was so unexpected, the terror so great, that the peasants, though armed, offered no resistance. It had been related in the camp of the rebellious mob that Yeremi, by the aid of the evil spirit, was able to be present and to fight at the same time in a number of places. This time, his name falling upon men who expected nothing and felt safe--really like the name of an evil spirit--snatched the weapons from their hands. Besides, the pikes and scythes could not be used in the narrow place; so that, driven like a flock of sheep to the opposite wall of the ravine, hewn down with sabres through the foreheads and faces, beaten, cut up, trampled under foot, in the madness of fear they stretched out their hands, and seizing the merciless steel, perished. The still forest was filled with the ominous uproar of the fight. Some tried to escape over the steep wall of the ravine, and wounding their hands with climbing, fell back on the sabre's edge. Some died calmly, others cried for mercy; some covered their faces with their hands, not wishing to see the moment of death; others threw themselves on the ground, face downward; but above the whistling of sabres, the groans of the dying, rose the shout of the assailants, "Yeremi! Yeremi!"--a shout which made the hair stand erect on the heads of the peasants, and death seem more terrible. The minstrel gave a blow on the forehead to one of the Cossacks, and knocked him down; seized another by the hand, to stop the blow of the sabre, and bellowed from fear like a buffalo. Others, seeing him, ran up to cut him to pieces; but Skshetuski interfered. "Take him alive!" shouted he. "Stop!" roared the minstrel. "I am a noble. Loquor latine! I am no minstrel. Stop, I tell you! Robbers, bullock-drivers, sons of--" But the minstrel had not yet finished his litany when Pan Yan looked into his face, and cried, till the walls of the ravine gave back the echo, "Zagloba!" And suddenly rushing upon him like a wild beast, he drove his fingers into the shoulders and thrust his face up to the face of the man, and shaking him as he would a pear-tree, roared: "Where is the princess? where is the princess?" "Alive, well, safe!" roared back the minstrel; "unhand me! The devil take you, you are shaking the soul out of me!" Then that knight, whom neither captivity nor wounds nor grief nor the terrible Burdabut could bring down, was brought down by happiness. His hands dropped at his side, great drops of sweat came out on his forehead; he fell on his knees, covered his face with his hands, and leaning his head against the wall of the ravine, remained in silence, evidently thanking God. Meanwhile the unfortunate peasants had been slaughtered, and were lying dead on the ground, except a few who were bound for the executioner in the camp so as to torture a confession from them. The struggle was over, the uproar at an end. The Cossacks gathered around their leader, and seeing him kneeling under the rock, looked at him with concern, not knowing but he was wounded. He rose, however, with a face as bright as though the light of morning were shining in his soul. "Where is she?" asked he of Zagloba. "In Bar." "Safe?" "The castle is a strong one; no attack is feared. She is under the care of Pani Slavoshevska and with the nuns." "Praise be to God in the highest!" said the knight; and in his voice there trembled deep emotion. "Give me your hand; I thank you from my very soul." Suddenly he turned to the Cossacks. "Are there many prisoners?" "Seventeen." "A great joy has met me, and mercy is in me," said Pan Yan. "Let them be free!" The Cossacks could not believe their ears. There was no such custom as that in the armies of Vishnyevetski. The lieutenant frowned slightly. "Let them go free!" he repeated. The Cossacks went away; but after a while the first essaul returned and said: "They do not believe as; they do not dare to go." "Are their bonds loose?" "Yes." "Then leave them here, and to horse yourselves!" Half an hour later the party was moving on again along the quiet, narrow road. The moon had risen, and sent long white streaks to the centre of the forest and lighted its dark depths. Zagloba and Skshetuski, riding ahead, conversed together. "But tell me everything about her that you know," said the knight. "Then you rescued her from the hands of Bogun?" "Of course; and besides, when going away, I bound up his face so that he could not scream." "Well, you acted splendidly, as God is dear to me! But how did you get to Bar?" "That IS a long story, better at another time; for I am terribly tired, and my throat is dried up from singing to those rapscallions. Haven't you anything to drink?" "I have a little flask of gorailka; here it is." Zagloba seized the flask and raised it to his mouth. A protracted gurgling was heard; and Pan Yan, impatient, without waiting the end, inquired further: "Did you say well?" "What a question!" answered Zagloba; "everything is well in a dry throat." "But I was inquiring about the princess." "Oh, the princess! She is as well as a deer." "Praise be to God on high! And she is comfortable in Bar?" "As comfortable as in heaven,--couldn't be more so. Every one cleaves to her for her beauty. Pani Slavoshevska loves her as her own daughter. And how many men are in love with her! You couldn't count them on a rosary. But she, in constant love for you, thinks as much of them as I do now of this empty flask of yours." "May God give health to her, the dearest!" said Skshetuski, joyfully. "Then she remembers me with pleasure?" "Remembers you? I tell you that I myself couldn't understand where she got breath for so many sighs; these sighs made every one pity her, and most of all the little nuns, for she brought them to her side through her sweetness. Then she sent me too into these dangers, in which I have almost lost my life, to find you without fail and see if you were alive and well. She tried several times to send messengers, but no one would go. At last I took pity on her, and set out for your camp. If it hadn't been for the disguise, I should have laid down my head surely. But the peasants took me for a minstrel everywhere, as I sing very beautifully." Skshetuski became silent from joy. A thousand thoughts and reminiscences thronged into his head. Helena stood as if living before him, as he had seen her the last time in Rozlogi, just before leaving for the Saitch,--charming, beautiful, graceful, and with those eyes black as velvet, full of unspeakable allurement. It seemed to him that he saw her, felt the warmth beating from her cheeks, heard her sweet voice. He recalled that walk in the cherry-garden and the cuckoo, and those questions which he gave the bird, and the bashfulness of Helena. Indeed the soul went out of him; his heart grew weak from love and joy, in presence of which all his past sufferings were like a drop in the sea. He did not know himself what was happening to him. He wanted to shout, fall on his knees and thank God again, then inquire without end. At last he began to repeat:-- "She is alive, well?" "Alive, well," answered Zagloba, like an echo. "And she sent you out?" "Yes." "And you have got a letter?" "I have." "Give it to me." "It is sewed into my clothes; besides, it is night now. Restrain yourself." "I cannot. You see yourself." "I see." Zagloba's answers became more and more laconic; at last he nodded a couple of times and fell asleep. Skshetuski saw there was no help; therefore he gave himself up again to meditation, which was interrupted after a while by the tramp of a considerable body of cavalry approaching quickly. It was Ponyatovski with Cossacks of the guard, whom the prince had sent out to meet Skshetuski, fearing lest some harm might have met him. CHAPTER XXIX. It is easy to understand how the prince received the statement which Skshetuski made of the refusal of Osinski and Koritski. Everything had so combined that it needed such a great soul as that iron prince possessed, not to bend, not to waver, or let his hands drop. In vain was he to spend a colossal fortune on the maintenance of armies; in vain was he to struggle like a lion in a net; in vain was he to tear off one head of the rebellion after another, showing wonders of bravery all for nothing. A time was coming in which he must feel his own impotence, withdraw somewhere to a distance, to a quiet place, and remain a silent spectator of what was being done in the Ukraine. And what was it that rendered him powerless? Not the swords of the Cossacks, but the ill-will of his own people. Was it not reasonable for him to hope when he marched from the Trans-Dnieper in May that when like an eagle from the sky he should strike rebellion, when in the general dismay and confusion he should first raise his sword over his head, the whole Commonwealth would come to his aid, and put its power and its punishing sword in his hand? But what did happen? The king was dead, and after his death the command was put into other hands, and he, the prince, was passed by ostentatiously. That was the first concession to Hmelnitski. The soul of the prince did not suffer for the office he had lost; but it suffered at the thought that the insulted Commonwealth had fallen so low that it did not seek a death-struggle, but drew back before one Cossack, and preferred to restrain his insolent right hand by negotiations. From the time of the victory at Makhnovka worse and worse tidings were brought to the camp,--first news of negotiations sent through Pan Kisel; then news that Volynian Polesia was covered with the waves of insurrection; then the refusal of the colonels, showing clearly how far the commander-in-chief, Prince Dominik Zaslavski-Ostrogski, was hostile. During Skshetuski's absence Pan Korsh Zenkovich came to camp with information that all Ovruch was on fire. The people had been quiet, and not anxious for rebellion; but the Cossacks, coming under Krechovski and Polksenjits, forced the mob to enter their ranks. Castles and villages were burned; the nobles who did not escape were cut to pieces, and among others old Pan Yelets, a former servant and friend of the Vishnyevetskis. In view of this, the prince had decided after a juncture with Osinski and Koritski to overwhelm Krívonos, and then move north toward Ovruch, and after an agreement with the hetman of Lithuania, to seize the rebels between two fires. But all these plans had fallen through now on account of the refusal of both colonels caused by Prince Dominik. For Yeremi, after all the marches, battles, and labors, was not strong enough to meet Krívonos, especially when not sure of the voevoda of Kieff, who belonged heart and soul to the peace party. Pan Yanush yielded before the importance and power of Yeremi, and had to go with him; but the more he saw his authority broken the more inclined was he to oppose the warlike wishes of the prince, as was shown at once. Skshetuski gave his account, and the prince listened to it in silence. All the officers were present; their faces were gloomy at the news of the refusal. All eyes turned to the prince when he said,-- "Prince Dominik, of course, sent them the order." "Yes, they showed it to me in writing." Yeremi rested his arms on the table and covered his face with his hands; after a while he said,-- "This indeed is more than a man can bear. Am I to labor alone, and instead of assistance meet only obstructions? Could I not have gone to my estates in Sandomir and lived quietly? And what prevented me from doing so, except love of country? This is my reward for toil, for loss of fortune and blood." The prince spoke quietly, but such bitterness and pain trembled in his voice that all present were straitened with sorrow. Old colonels--veterans from Putívl, Starets, Kuméiki,--and young men victorious in the last conflicts, looked at him with unspeakable sorrow in their eyes; for they knew what a heavy struggle that iron man was having with himself, how terribly his pride must suffer from the humiliation put upon him. He, a prince, "by the grace of God;" he, a voevoda in Russia, senator of the Commonwealth,--must yield to some Hmelnitski or Krívonos. He, almost a monarch, who recently had received ambassadors from foreign rulers, must withdraw from the field of glory, and confine himself in some little castle, waiting for the outcome of a war directed by others or for humiliating negotiations. He, predestined for great things, conscious of ability to direct them, had to confess that he was without power. This suffering, together with his labors, was marked on his figure. He had become greatly emaciated; his eyes had sunk; his hair, black as the wing of a raven, had begun to grow gray. But a certain grand tragic calm was spread over his countenance, for pride guarded him from betraying his suffering. "Well, let it be so," said he; "we will show this unthankful country that we are able not only to fight, but to die for it. Indeed I should prefer a more glorious death,--to fall in some other war than in a domestic squabble with serfs--" "Do not speak of death," interrupted the voevoda of Kieff; "for though it is unknown what God has predestined to any man, still death may be far away. I do homage to your military genius and your knightly spirit; but I cannot take it ill, either of the viceroy, the chancellor, or the commanders, if they try to stem civil war by negotiations, for in it the blood of brothers is flowing, and who, unless a foreign enemy, can reap advantage from the stubbornness of both sides?" The prince looked long into the eyes of the voevoda, and said emphatically,-- "Show favor to the conquered, and they will accept it with thanks and will remember it, but you will be only despised by conquerors. Would that no one had ever done injustice to these people! But when once insurrection has flamed up, we must quench it with blood, not negotiations; if we do not, disgrace and destruction to us!" "Speedy ruin will come if we wage war each on his own account," answered the voevoda. "Does that mean that you will not go on with me?" "I call God to witness that this is out of no ill-will to you; but my conscience tells me not to expose my men to evident destruction, for their blood is precious, and will be of value to the Commonwealth yet." The prince was silent awhile; then turning to his colonels, he said,-- "You, my old comrades, will not leave me now!" At these words the colonels, as if impelled by one power and one will, rushed to the prince. Some kissed his garments; some embraced his knees; others, raising their hands to heaven, cried,-- "We are with you to the last breath, to the last drop of blood! Lead us, lead us! we will serve without pay." "And let me die with you," cried young Pan Aksak, blushing like a girl. At sight of this the voevoda of Kieff was moved; but the prince went from one to another, pressed the head of each one, and thanked him. A mighty enthusiasm seized on young and old. From the eyes of the warriors sparks flashed; they grasped their sabres from moment to moment. "I will live with you, die with you!" said the prince. "We will conquer!" cried the officers. "Against Krívonos! On Polónnoe! Whoever wishes to leave us, let him leave. We will do without aid. We wish to share neither glory nor death." "It is my will," said the prince, "that before moving on Krívonos we take even a short rest to restore our strength. It is now the third month that we are on horseback, scarcely ever dismounting. The flesh is leaving our bones from excessive toil and change of climate. We have no horses; the infantry are barefoot. Let us go then to Zbaraj; there we will recruit and rest. Perhaps too some soldiers will join us, and we will move into the fire with new forces." "When do you wish to start?" asked old Zatsvilikhovski. "Without delay, old soldier, without delay!" Here the prince turned to the voevoda: "And where do you wish to go?" "To Gliniani, for I hear that forces are collecting there." "Then we will conduct you to a safe place, so that no harm may happen to you." The voevoda said nothing, for he felt rather ill at ease. He was leaving, and the prince still showed care for him and intended to conduct him. Was there irony in the words of the prince? The voevoda did not know. Still the voevoda did not abandon his design; for the colonels of the prince looked on him more inimically every moment, and it was clear that in any other less disciplined army there would have been an outbreak against him. He bowed and went out; and the colonels went, each to his own regiment to make ready for the march. Skshetuski alone remained with the prince. "What kind of soldiers are in those regiments?" asked the prince. "So good that you cannot find better. Dragoons drilled in German fashion, and with infantry of the guard, veterans of the Thirty Years' War. When I saw them I thought they were Roman legionaries." "Many of them?" "Two regiments with the dragoons,--just three thousand men." "Oh, it is a pity, it is a pity! Great things might be done with their assistance." Suffering was already depicted on the face of the prince. After a while he said as if to himself,-- "It is unfortunate that such commanders were chosen in times of defeat! Ostrorog would be the right man if war could be put down with eloquence and Latin; Konyetspolski is my brother-in-law and a warrior by nature; but he is young, without experience. Zaslavski is worst of all. I know him of old. He is a man of small heart and narrow mind. His business is to slumber over the cup, not to manage an army. I do not speak of this in public, lest it might be thought that malice moves me, but I foresee terrible disaster, especially now, at this time, when such people have the helm in their hands! Oh, God, God, remove this cup from me! What will happen to this country? When I think of it I would prefer death, for I am greatly wearied, and I tell you that I shall not last long. My spirit is rushing to the war, but my body lacks strength." "You should care more for your health, in which the whole country is deeply concerned, and which is already greatly injured by toil." "The country thinks differently, it is evident, when it avoids me and drags the sabre out of my hand." "God grant when Prince Karl changes his cap for a crown, he will see whom to elevate and whom to punish; but you are powerful enough to care for no one at present." "I will go my own way." The prince did not notice perhaps that, like the other "kinglets," he was carrying on a policy of his own; but if he had noticed it, he would not have abandoned it, for he felt clearly that that was the only one that could save the honor of the Commonwealth. Again followed a moment of silence, soon broken by the neighing of horses and the sound of trumpets. The regiments were mustering for the march. These sounds roused the prince from meditation. He shook his head as if wishing to shake off suffering and evil thoughts; then he said,-- "You had a quiet journey?" "I met, in the forest, a large body of peasants, a couple of hundred men whom I destroyed." "Well done! And you took prisoners, for that is an important thing now?" "I did, but--" "But you have commanded them to be executed already? Is that true?" "No, I set them free." Yeremi looked with wonderment at Skshetuski; then his brows contracted suddenly. "What was that for? Do you too belong to the peace party?" "Your Highness, I brought an informant; for among the peasants was a disguised noble who remained alive. I freed the others, for God showed mercy to me and comfort. I will bear the punishment. That noble was Pan Zagloba, who brought me tidings of the princess." The prince approached Pan Yan quickly. "She is alive and well?" "Praise be to God on high, she is." "And where is she?" "In Bar." "That is a strong fortress, my boy!" Here the prince raised his hands, and taking Skshetuski's head, kissed him a number of times on the forehead. "I rejoice in your gladness, for I love you as a son." Pan Yan kissed the prince's hand with emotion, and though for many a day he would have willingly shed his blood for him, he felt again that at his command he would spring into rolling flames. To such a degree did that terrible and cruel Yeremi know how to win the hearts of the knights. "Well, I do not wonder that you let those men go free. You will go unpunished. But he's a sharp fellow, that noble! Then he took her from the Trans-Dnieper to Bar, praise be to God! In these grievous times this is a real delight to me also. He must be a fox of no common kind. But let's have a look at this Zagloba." Skshetuski moved quickly toward the door; but at that moment it was opened suddenly, and there appeared in it the flaming head of Vershul, who had been on a distant expedition with the Tartars of the guard. "Your Highness," cried he, panting, "Krívonos has taken Polónnoe, cut down ten thousand people, among them women and children." The colonels began to assemble again, and crowd around Vershul. The voevoda of Kieff hurried up also. The prince was astonished, for he had not expected such news. "But Russians were shut up in there! It cannot be!" "Not a living soul escaped." "Do you hear?" said the prince, turning to the voevoda. "Negotiate with an enemy like that, who does not spare even his own!" The voevoda snorted and said: "Oh, the curs! If that is the case, then may the devils take it all! I will go with you." "Then you are a brother to me," said the prince. "Long live the voevoda of Kieff!" said Zatsvilikhovski. "Success to concord!" The prince turned again to Vershul. "Where did they go after Polónnoe? Unknown?" "To Konstantinoff, probably." "Oh, God save us! Then the regiments of Osinski and Koritski are lost, for they cannot escape with infantry. We must forget our wrongs and hurry to their aid. To horse! to horse!" The face of the prince brightened with joy, and a glow enlivened his emaciated cheeks, for the path of glory was open before him again. CHAPTER XXX. The army passed Konstantinoff and halted at Rosolovtsi; for the prince calculated that when Koritski and Osinski would receive news of the taking of Polónnoe, they would retreat to Rosolovtsi, and if the enemy should pursue them he would fall in among all the forces of the prince as into a trap, and thus meet with sure defeat. That forecast was justified in great part. The troops occupied their positions, and remained in silent readiness for the fight. Smaller and larger scouting-parties were sent in every direction from the camp. The prince, with a number of regiments, took his position in the village and waited. Toward evening Vershul's Tartars brought news that infantry was approaching from the direction of Konstantinoff. Hearing this, the prince went out before the door of his quarters, surrounded by officers, and with them a number of the principal attendants, to look upon the arrival. Meanwhile the regiments, announcing themselves by sound of trumpet, halted before the village; and two colonels hastened, panting and with all speed, to the prince to offer him their service. These were Osinski and Koritski. When they saw Vishnyevetski with a magnificent suite of knights, they were greatly confused, uncertain of their reception, and bowing profoundly, they waited in silence for what he would say. "The wheel of fortune turns and brings down the haughty," said the prince. "You did not wish to come at our request, but now you come at your own desire." "Your Highness," said Osinski, with firmness, "we wished with all our souls to serve with you, but the order was definite. Let him who issued it answer for it. We beg pardon; though we are innocent, for as soldiers we were obliged to obey and be silent." "Then Prince Dominik has withdrawn the order?" asked the prince. "The order is not withdrawn," said Osinski, "but it is no longer binding, since the only salvation and refuge for our forces is with you, under whose command we wish henceforth to live and serve and die." These words, full of manly power, and the form of Osinski produced the very best impression on the prince and the officers; for he was a famous soldier, and though still young, not more than forty years of age, was full of warlike experience which he had acquired in foreign armies. Every military eye rested on him with pleasure. Tall, straight as a reed, with yellow mustaches brushed upward and a Swedish beard, he recalled completely by his uniform and stature the colonels of the Thirty Years' War. Koritski, a Tartar by origin, resembled him in nothing. Low in stature and dumpy, he had a gloomy look, and his appearance was strange in a foreign uniform, not befitting his Oriental features. He led a picked German regiment, and had a reputation for bravery as well as moroseness, and the iron rigor with which he held his soldiers. "We wait the commands of your Highness," said Osinski. "I thank you for your decision, and I accept your services. I know that a soldier must obey; and if I sent for you, it was because I was unaware of the order. Not only shall we pass henceforth good and evil times together, but I hope that you will be pleased with your new service." "If you are pleased with us and with our officers." "Very good!" said the prince. "Is the enemy far behind you?" "Scouting-parties are near, but the main force may arrive here to-morrow." "Very well, we have time then. Order your regiments to march across the square; let me look at them, so I may know what kind of soldiers you bring me, and if much can be done with them." The colonels returned to their regiments, and soon after were marching at the head of them into the camp. Soldiers of the picked regiments of the prince hurried out like ants to look at their new comrades. The royal dragoons, under Captain Giza, marched in front with heavy Swedish helmets and lofty crests. They rode Podolian horses, but matched and well fed. These men, fresh and rested, with bright and glittering uniforms, had a splendid appearance in comparison with the emaciated regiments of the prince, in tattered uniforms, faded from rain and sun. After these followed Osinski with his regiment, and in the rear Koritski. A murmur of applause was heard among the prince's cavalry at the sight of the deep German ranks. Their collars red, on their shoulders shining muskets, they marched thirty in a rank, with the step of a single man, strong and thundering. Tall, sturdy fellows all of them,--old soldiers who had been in more than one country and in more than one battle, for the most part veterans of the Thirty Years' War, skilled, disciplined, and experienced. When they marched up to the prince, Osinski cried, "Halt!" and the regiment stood as if foot-bound to the earth; the officers raised their staffs, the standard-bearer raised his standard, and waving it three times, lowered it before the prince. "Vorwärts!" commanded Osinski, "Vorwärts!" repeated the officers, and the regiments advanced again. In the same way but in almost better form, did Koritski present his troops. At the sight of all this the soldiers' hearts were rejoiced; and Yeremi, judge beyond judges, put his hands on his hips with delight, looked, and smiled,--for infantry was just what he wanted, and he was sure that it would be difficult for him to find better in the whole world. He felt increased in power, and hoped to accomplish great things in war. The suite began to speak of different military topics and of the various kinds of soldiers to be seen in the world. "The Zaporojian infantry is good, especially behind intrenchments," said Sleshinski; "but these are better, for they are better drilled." "Of course a great deal better!" said Migurski. "But they are heavy men," said Vershul. "If I had to do it, I should undertake to tire them out with my Tartars in two days, so that on the third I could slaughter them like sheep." "What are you talking about? The Germans are good soldiers." To this Pan Longin Podbipienta answered in his singing Lithuanian voice: "How God in his mercy has endowed different nations with different virtues! As I hear, there is no cavalry in the world better than ours, and again neither our infantry nor the Hungarian can be compared with the German." "Because God is just," remarked Zagloba. "For instance, he gave you a great fortune, a big sword, and a heavy hand, but small wit." "Zagloba has fastened on him like a horse-leech," said Pan Yan, smiling. But Podbipienta contracted his eyes and spoke with the mildness usual to him: "An outrage to hear! And he gave you too long a tongue." "If you maintain that God did ill in giving me what I have, then you will go to hell with your virtue, for you wish to oppose his will." "Oh, who can out-talk you? You talk and talk." "Do you know how a man is different from an animal?" "How?" "By reason and speech." "Oh, he has given it to him, he has given it to him!" said Mokrski. "If you don't understand why in Poland there is better cavalry and among the Germans better infantry, I will explain it to you." "Why is it? why is it?" asked several voices. "This is why: When the Lord God created the horse he brought him before men, so that they should praise his works. And on the bank stood a German, for the Germans are always pushing themselves everywhere. The Lord God showed the horse to the German, and asked: 'What is this?' 'Pferd!' answered the German. 'What!' exclaimed the Creator; 'do you say "Pfe!" to my work? But you will never ride on this creature, you lubber!--or if you do, you will ride like a fool.' Having said this, the Lord made a present of the horse to the Pole, This is why the Polish cavalry is the best. Then the Germans began to hurry after the Lord on foot and to beg forgiveness of him, and that is why the Germans have become the best infantry." "You have calculated everything very cleverly," said Podbipienta. Further conversation was interrupted by new guests, who hurried up with the tidings that approaching the camp were forces which could not be Cossacks, for they were not from Konstantinoff, but from an entirely different direction,--from the river Zbruch. Two hours later those troops came on with such a thundering of trumpets and drums that the prince became angry and sent an order to them to be quiet, for the enemy was in the neighborhood. It turned out that they were followers of Samuel Lashch, commander of the royal vanguard, an officer of the king, for the rest a celebrated adventurer, wrongdoer, turbulent, quarrelsome, but a great soldier. He led eight hundred men of the same stamp as himself,--part nobles, part Cossacks, all of whom deserved hanging according to sound justice. But Yeremi was not afraid of the insubordination of these warriors, trusting that in his hands they would turn into obedient lambs, and make up in bravery and daring for their other defects. It was a lucky evening. On the previous day the prince, weighed down by the expected departure of the voevoda of Kieff, had determined to defer the war till the arrival of reinforcements, and to retreat to some quiet place for a time. To-day he was again at the head of nearly twelve thousand men; and although Krívonos had five times that number, still since the greater part of the rebel forces was formed of the rabble, the two armies might be considered of equal strength. Now the prince had no thought of rest. Shutting himself up with Lashch, the voevoda of Kieff, Zatsvilikhovski, Makhnitski, and Osinski, he held a council on the conduct of the war. It was determined to give Krívonos battle on the morrow, and if he did not appear himself, to go in search of him. It was already dark night; but since the recent rains, so annoying to the soldiers at Makhnovka, the weather had continued to be splendid. On the dark vault of the heavens glittered swarms of golden stars. The moon appeared on high and whitened all the roofs of Rosolovtsi. No one in the camp thought of sleeping. All were conjecturing about to-morrow's battle, and preparing for it; chatting in ordinary fashion, singing, and promising themselves great pleasure. The officers and the most distinguished attendants, all in excellent humor, gathered around a great fire, and passed the time with their cups. "Tell us further," said they to Zagloba; "when you were crossing the Dnieper, what did you do, and how did you reach Bar?" Zagloba emptied a quart cup of mead, and said,-- "'Sed jam nox humida c[oe]lo præcipitat Suadentque sidera cadentia somnos, Sed si tantus amor casus cognoscere nostros, Incipiam ...' Gentlemen, if I should begin to tell all in detail, ten nights would not suffice, and surely mead would be required; for an old throat, like an old wagon, needs lubrication. It is enough if I tell you that I went to Korsún, to the camp of Hmelnitski himself with the princess, and took her out of that hell in safety." "Jesus, Mary! Did you enchant them?" cried Zatsvilikhovski. "It is true that I enchanted them," said Zagloba, "for I learned that hellish art when I was still in youthful years from a witch in Asia, who, having fallen in love with me, divulged all the secret tricks of her black art. But I could not enchant much, for it was trick against trick. Around Hmelnitski are swarms of soothsayers and wizards, who have brought so many devils into his service that he uses them to work as he would peasants. When he goes to sleep, a devil has to pull his boots off; when his clothes are dusty, a devil beats them with his tail; when he is drunk, Hmelnitski gives this or that devil a box on the snout, saying, 'You don't do your work well.'" The pious Pan Longin crossed himself, and said: "With them the power of hell; with us the power of heaven." "T was afraid the black fellows would betray me to Hmelnitski,--tell who I was, and whom I was conducting; but I conjured them into silence with certain words. I was afraid too that Hmelnitski would know me, for I had met him in Chigirin a year before, twice at Dopula's. There were also other colonels whom I knew; but my stomach had fallen in, my beard had grown to my waist, my hair to my shoulders, my disguise had changed the rest, no one recognized me." "Then you saw Hmelnitski himself, and spoke with him?" "Did I see Hmelnitski? Just as I see you. More than that; he sent me as a spy into Podolia to distribute his manifestoes among the peasants on the road. He gave me a baton as a safeguard against the Tartars, so that from Korsún I went everywhere in safety. Peasants or men from below met me. I put the staff under their noses, and said, 'Smell this, children, and go to the devil!' Then I ordered them everywhere to give me plenty to eat and drink, and they did; and wagons, too, for which I was glad; and I was always looking after my poor princess, lest she might give out after such great fatigues and terror. I tell you, gentlemen, that before we arrived at Bar she had recovered to such a degree that there were few people in Bar who didn't gaze at her. There are many pretty girls in that place, for the nobles have assembled there from distant regions, but in comparison with her they are as owls to a jay. The people admire her, and you would if you could see her." "It must be they couldn't help it," said little Pan Volodyovski. "But why did you go to Bar?" asked Migurski. "Because I said to myself, I will not stop till I come to a safe place. I had no confidence in small castles, thinking that the rebellion might reach them. But if it should go to Bar, it would break its teeth there. Pan Andrei Pototski has built up strong walls, and cares as much for Hmelnitski as I do for an empty glass. Do you think that I did badly in going so far from the conflagration? If I had not, that Bogun would surely have pursued; and if he had caught up, I tell you he would have made tidbits of me for the dogs. You don't know him, but I do. May the devil fly away with him! I shall have no peace till they hang the man. God grant him that happy end--amen! And surely there is no one with whom he has such an account as with me. Brrr! When I think of it a chill passes over me; so that now I am forced to use stimulants, though by nature I am opposed to drink." "What do you say?" interrupted Podbipienta. "Why, my dear brother, you take up liquid like a well-sweep." "Don't look into the well, my dear man, for you will see nothing wise at the bottom. But a truce to this! Travelling then with the baton and manifestoes of Hmelnitski, I met no great hindrances. When I came to Vinnitsa, I found there the troops of Pan Aksak, now present in this camp; but I had not put off my minstrel skin yet, for I feared the peasantry. But I got rid of the manifestoes. There is a saddler there called Suhak, a Zaporojian spy, who was sending intelligence to Hmelnitski. Through this fellow I sent off the manifestoes; but I wrote such sentences on the backs of them that Hmelnitski will surely order the saddler to be flayed when he reads them. But right under the very walls of Bar such a thing happened to me that I came very near being lost at the shore of refuge." "How was that? How?" "I met some drunken soldiers, wild fellows, who heard how I called the princess, 'Your Ladyship,' for I was not so careful then, being near our own people. And they began: 'What sort of minstrel is that? What sort of a lad is it whom he calls "Your Ladyship"?' Then they looked at the princess, and saw she was as beautiful as a picture. 'Bring her nearer to us,' said they. I pushed her behind me into the corner, and to the sabre--" "That is a wonder," said Volodyovski,--"that you, dressed as a minstrel, had a sabre at your side." "That I had a sabre? And who told you that I had a sabre? I had not; but I grabbed a soldier's sabre that lay on the table,--for it was in a public house at Shipintsi, I stretched out two of my assailants in the twinkle of an eye. The others rushed on me. I cried, 'Stop, you dogs, for I am a noble!' Next moment they called out, 'Stop! stop! Scouts are coming!' It appeared that they were not scouts, but Pani Slavoshevska with an escort, whom her son was conducting, with fifty horsemen,--young fellows. These stopped my enemies. I went to the lady with my story, and roused her feelings so that she opened the floodgates of her eyes. She took the princess into her carriage, and we entered Bar. But do you think this is the end? No!" Suddenly Sleshinski interrupted the narrative. "But, look! is that the dawn? What is it?" "Oh, it cannot be the dawn," said Skshetuski. "Too early." "It is toward Konstantinoff." "Yes. Don't you see it is brighter?" "As I live, a fire!" At these words the faces of all became serious. They forgot the narrative and sprang to their feet. "Fire! Fire!" repeated several voices. "That is Krívonos who has come from Polónnoe." "Krívonos with all his forces." "The advance guard must have set fire to the town or the neighboring villages." Meanwhile the trumpets sounded the alarm in low notes. Just then old Zatsvilikhovski appeared suddenly among the knights. "Gentlemen," said he, "scouts have come with news. The enemy is in sight! We move at once. To your posts! to your posts!" The officers hurried with all speed to their regiments. The attendants put out the fires, and in a few moments darkness reigned in the camp. But in the distance from the direction of Konstantinoff the heavens reddened each moment more intensely and over a broader space. In this gleam the stars grew paler and paler. Again the trumpets sounded low. "To horse!" was heard through the mouthpiece. Indistinct masses of men and horses began to move. Amid the silence were heard the tramp of horses, the measured step of infantry, and finally the dull thump of Vurtsel's cannon; from moment to moment the clatter of muskets or the voices of command were heard. There was something threatening and ominous in that night march, in those voices, murmurs, clatter of steel, the gleam of armor and swords. The regiments descended to the Konstantinoff road, and moved over it toward the conflagration like a great dragon or serpent making its way through the darkness. But the luxuriant July night was drawing to a close. In Rosolovtsi the cocks began to crow, answering one another through the whole town. Five miles of road divided Rosolovtsi from Konstantinoff, so that before the army on its slow march had passed half the interval dawn rose behind the brightness of the conflagration, pale as if frightened, and filled the air more and more with light, winning from the darkness forests, woods, groves, the whole line of the highway and the troops marching upon it. It was possible to distinguish clearly the people, the horses, and the close ranks of infantry. The cool morning breeze rose and quivered among the flags above the heads of the knights. Vershul's Tartars marched in front, behind them Ponyatovski's Cossacks, then the dragoons, Vurtsel's artillery, the infantry and hussars last. Zagloba rode near Skshetuski; but he was somewhat uneasy in the saddle, and it was apparent that alarm was seizing him, in view of the approaching battle. "Listen a moment!" said he to Skshetuski, in a low whisper as if he feared some one might overhear him. "What do you say?" "Will the hussars strike first?" "You say that you are an old soldier, and you don't know that hussars are reserved to decide the battle at the moment when the enemy is straining his utmost power?" "I know that, I know that, but I wanted to be sure." A moment of silence ensued. Then Zagloba lowered his voice still more, and inquired further: "Is this Krívonos with all his forces?" "Yes." "How many men is he leading?" "Sixty thousand, counting the mob." "Oh, the devil take him!" said Zagloba. Pan Yan smiled under his mustache. "Don't think that I am afraid," whispered Zagloba. "But I have short breath, and don't like a crowd, for it is hot, and as soon as it is hot I can do nothing. I like to take care of myself in single combat. Not the head, but the hands win in this place. Here I am a fool in comparison with Podbipienta. I have on my stomach here those two hundred ducats which the prince gave me; but believe me I would rather have my stomach somewhere else. Tfu! tfu! I don't like these great battles. May the plague bruise!" "Nothing will happen to you. Take courage!" "Courage? That is all I am afraid of. I fear that bravery will overcome prudence in me. I am too excitable. Besides, I have had a bad omen: when we sat by the fire two stars fell. Who knows, maybe one of them is mine." "For your good deeds God will reward you and keep you in health." "Well, if only he doesn't reward me too soon." "Why didn't you stay in the camp?" "I thought it would be safer with the army." "It is. You will see that there is no great trouble. We are accustomed to this fighting, and custom is second nature. But here is the Sluch and Vishovati Stav already." In fact the waters of Vishovati Stav, divided from the Sluch by a long dam, glittered in the distance. The army halted at once along the whole line. "Is this the place so soon?" asked Zagloba. "The prince will put the army in line," said Skshetuski. "I don't like a throng; I tell you, I don't like a throng." "Hussars on the right wing!" was the command which came from the prince to Pan Yan. It was broad daylight. The fire had grown pale in the light of the rising sun, whose golden rays were reflected on the points of the lances, and it appeared as though above the hussars a thousand lights were gleaming. After its lines were arranged, the army concealed itself no longer, and began to sing in one voice, "Hail, O ye gates of salvation!" The mighty song resounded over the dewy grass, struck the pine grove, and sent back by the echo, rose to the sky. Then the shore on the other side of the dam grew black with crowds of Cossacks. As far as the eye could reach regiment followed regiment,--mounted Zaporojians armed with long lances, infantry with muskets, and waves of peasants armed with scythes, flails, and forks. Behind them was to be seen, as if in fog, an immense camp or movable town. The creaking of thousands of wagons and the neighing of horses reached the ears of the prince's soldiers. But the Cossacks marched without their usual tumult, without howling, and halted on the other side of the dam. The two opposing forces looked at each other for some time in silence. Zagloba, keeping all the time close to Skshetuski, looked on that sea of people and muttered,-- "Lord, why hast thou created so many ruffians? Hmelnitski must be there with his mob and their vermin. Isn't that an outbreak, tell me? They will cover us with their caps. Ah! in the old time it was so pleasant in the Ukraine! They are rolling on, rolling on! God grant that the devils may roll you in hell, and all that is coming on us! May the glanders devour you!" "Don't swear. To-day is Sunday." "True, it is Sunday. Better think of God. 'Pater noster, qui es in c[oe]lis'--No respect to be looked for from these scoundrels--'Sanctificetur nomen tuum'--What is going to be done on that dam?--'Adveniat regnum tuum'--The breath is already stopped in my body--'Fiat voluntas tua'--God choke you, you Hamans! But look! what is that?" A division formed of a few hundred men separated from the dark mass and pushed forward without order toward the dam. "That is a skirmishing-party," said Skshetuski. "Our men will go out to them directly." "Has the battle begun, then, already?" "As God is in heaven!" "May the devil take them!" Here the ill-humor of Zagloba was beyond measure. "And you are looking at it as a theatre in carnival time!" cried he, in disgust at Skshetuski; "just as if your own skin were not in peril." "I told you that we are used to it." "And you will go to the skirmish too, of course?" "It is not very becoming for knights of picked regiments to fight duels with such enemies. No one does that who stands on dignity; but in these times no one thinks of dignity." "Our men are marching already!" cried Zagloba, seeing the red line of Volodyovski's dragoons moving at a trot toward the dam. They were followed by a number of volunteers from each regiment. Among others went the red Vershul, Kushel, Ponyatovski, the two Karvichi, and Pan Longin Podbipienta from the hussars. The distance between the two divisions began to diminish rapidly. "You will see something," said Skshetuski to Zagloba, "Look especially at Volodyovski and Podbipienta. They are splendid fighters. Do you see them?" "Yes." "Well, look at them! You will have something to enjoy." CHAPTER XXXI. When the warriors drew near each other, they reined in their horses and opened in mutual abuse. "Come on! come on! We will feed the dogs with your carrion right away!" cried the prince's soldiers. "Your carrion is not fit even for dogs!" answered the Cossacks. "You will rot here on the dam, you infamous robbers!" "For whom it is fated, that one will rot; but the fish will pick your bones soon." "To the dung-heaps with your forks, you trash! Dung-forks are fitter for you than sabres." "If we are trash, our sons will be nobles, for they will be born of your girls." Some Cossack, evidently from the Trans-Dnieper, pushed forward, and placing his palms around his mouth, cried with a loud voice: "The prince has two nieces; tell him to send them to Krívonos." It grew dim in Volodyovski's eyes when he heard this blasphemy, and he spurred his horse on to the Zaporojian. Skshetuski, on the right wing with his hussars, recognized him from a distance, and cried to Zagloba: "Volodyovski is rushing on! Volodyovski! Look there! there!" "I see!" said Zagloba. "He has already reached him. They are fighting! One, two! I see perfectly. It is all over. He is a swordsman, plague take him!" At the second blow the Cossack fell to the ground as if struck by lightning, and fell with his head to his comrades, as an evil omen to them. Then a second sprang forward, in a scarlet kontush stripped from some noble. He fell upon Volodyovski a little from the flank, but his horse stumbled at the very moment of the blow. Volodyovski turned, and then could be seen the master; for he only moved his hand, making a light, soft motion,--invisible, so to speak,--but still the sabre of the Zaporojian sprang up, flew into the air. Volodyovski seized him by the shoulder, and pulled him with his horse toward the Polish side. "Save me, brothers!" cried the prisoner. He offered no resistance, knowing that in case he did he would be thrust through that moment. He even struck his horse with his heels to urge him on; and so Volodyovski led him as a wolf leads a kid. In view of this, a couple of tens of warriors rushed out from both sides of the river, for no more could find place on the dam. They fought in single combat, man with man, horse with horse, sabre with sabre; and it was a wonderful sight, that series of duels, on which both armies looked with the greatest interest, drawing auguries from them of the future success. The morning sun shone upon the combatants, and the air was so transparent that even the faces might be seen from both sides. Any one looking from a distance would have thought that it was a tournament or games. But at one moment a riderless horse would spring from the tumult; at another, a body would tumble from the dam into the clear mirror of the water, which splashed up in golden sparks and then moved forward in a circling wavelet farther and farther from shore. The courage of the soldiers in both armies grew as they beheld the bravery of their own men and their eagerness for the fight. Each sent good wishes to its own. Suddenly Skshetuski clasped his hands and cried,-- "Vershul is lost; he fell with his horse. Look! he was sitting on the white one." But Vershul was not lost, though he had indeed fallen with his horse; for they had both been thrown by Pulyan, a former Cossack of Prince Yeremi, then next in command to Krívonos. He was a famous skirmisher, and had never left off that game. He was so strong that he could easily break two horseshoes at once. He had the reputation of being invincible in single combat. When he had thrown Vershul he attacked a gallant officer, Koroshlyakhtsits, and cut him terribly,--almost to the saddle. Others drew back in fear. Seeing this, Pan Longin turned his Livonian mare against him. "You are lost!" cried Pulyan, when he saw the foolhardy man. "It can't be helped," answered Podbipienta, raising his sabre for the blow. He had not, however, his Zervikaptur, that being reserved for ends too important to permit its use in desultory combat. He had left it in the hands of his faithful armor-bearer in the ranks, and had merely a light blade of blue steel engraved with gold. Pulyan endured its first blow, though he saw in a moment that he had to do with no common enemy, for his sword quivered to the palm of his hand. He endured the second and the third blow; then, either he recognized the greater skill of his opponent in fencing, or perhaps he wished to exhibit his tremendous strength in view of both armies, or, pushed to the edge of the dam, he feared to be thrown into the water by Pan Longings enormous beast. It is enough that after he had received the last blow he brought the horses side by side, and seized the Lithuanian by the waist in his powerful arms. They grasped each other like two bears when they are fighting for a female. They wound themselves around each other like two pines which, having grown from a single stump, intertwine till they form but one tree. All held breath and gazed in silence on the struggle of the combatants, each one of whom was considered the strongest among his own. You would have said that both had become one body, for they remained a long time motionless. But their faces grew red; and only from the veins which swelled on their foreheads, and from their backs bent like bows, could you suspect under that terrible quiet the superhuman tension of the arms which crushed them. At length both began to quiver; but by degrees the face of Pan Longin grew redder and redder and the face of the Cossack bluer and bluer. Still a moment passed. The disquiet of the spectators increased. Suddenly the silence was broken by a hollow, smothered voice: "Let me go--" "No, my darling!" Something gave a sudden and terrible rattle, a groan was heard as if from under the ground, a wave of black blood burst from Pulyan's mouth, and his head dropped on his shoulder. Pan Longin lifted the Cossack from his seat, and before the spectators had time to think what had happened, threw him on his own saddle and started on a trot toward Skshetuski's regiment. "Vivat!" cried the Vishnyevetski men. "Destruction!" answered the Zaporojians. Instead of being confused by the defeat of their leader, they attacked the enemy the more stubbornly. A crowded struggle followed, which the narrowness of the place made the more venomous; and the Cossacks in spite of their bravery would certainly have yielded to the greater skill of their opponents, had it not been that suddenly the trumpets from the camp of Krívonos sounded a retreat. They withdrew at once; and their opponents, after they had stopped awhile to show that they had kept the field, withdrew also. The dam was deserted; there remained on it only bodies of men and horses, as if in testimony of that which would be,--and that road of death lay black between the two armies,--but a light breath of wind wrinkled the smooth surface of the water and sounded plaintively through the leaves of the willows standing here and there above the banks of the pond. Meanwhile the regiments of Krívonos moved like countless flocks of starlings and plover. The mob went in advance, then the regular Zaporojian infantry, companies of cavalry, Tartar volunteers, and Cossack artillery, and all without much order. They hurried before the others, wishing to force the dam by countless numbers, and then inundate and cover the army of the prince. The savage Krívonos believed in the fist and the sabre, not in military art. Therefore he urged his whole power to the attack, and ordered the regiments marching from behind to push on those in front, so that they must go even if against their will. Cannon-balls began to plunge into the water like wild swans and divers, causing no damage however to the prince's troops, by reason of the distance. The torrent of people covered the dam and advanced without hindrance. A part of that wave on reaching the river sought a passage, and not finding it turned back to the embankment, and marched in such a dense throng that, as Osinski said afterward, one might have ridden on horseback over their heads, and so covered the embankment that not a span of free earth remained. Yeremi looked on this from the high shore, his brows wrinkled, and from his eyes flashed malicious lightning toward those crowds. Seeing the disorder and rush of the regiments of Krívonos, he said to Makhnitski,-- "The enemy begin with us in peasant fashion, and disregarding military art, come on like beaters at a hunt, but they will not reach this place." Meanwhile, as if challenging his words, the Cossacks had come to the middle of the embankment. There they paused, astonished and disquieted by the silence of the prince's forces. But just at that moment there was a movement among these forces, and they retreated, leaving between themselves and the embankment a broad half-circle, which was to be the field of battle. Then the infantry of Koritski opened, disclosing the throats of Vurtsel's cannon, turned toward the embankment, and in the corner formed by the slough and the embankment shone among the thickets along the bank the muskets of Osinski's Germans. It was clear in a moment to military men on whose side the victory must be. Only a mad leader like Krívonos could rush to battle on conditions according to which he could not even pass the river in case Vishnyevetski wished to prevent him. But the prince permitted part of his enemy's army to cross the embankment so as to surround and destroy it. The great leader took advantage of the blunders of his opponents, who did not even consider that it was impossible to reinforce his men on the other bank, except through a narrow passage over which no considerable number of men could be sent at one time; practised soldiers therefore looked with wonder at the action of Krívonos, who was not forced by anything to such a mad undertaking. He was forced by ambition alone and a thirst for blood. He had learned that Hmelnitski, in spite of the preponderance of power under Krívonos, fearing the result of a battle with Yeremi, was marching with all his forces to his aid. Orders came not to deliver battle; but for that very reason Krívonos determined to deliver it. Having taken Polónnoe, he got the taste of blood, and did not like to divide it with any one; therefore he hastened. He would lose half of his men,--well, what of that! With the rest he would overwhelm the slender forces of the prince and cut them to pieces. He would bring the head of Vishnyevetski as a present to Hmelnitski. The billows of the mob had reached the end of the embankment, passed it, and spread over the half-circle abandoned by Yeremi's army. But at this moment the concealed infantry of Osinski opened upon them in the flank, and from the cannon of Vurtsel there bloomed out long wreaths of smoke, the earth trembled from the roar, and the battle began along the whole line. Clouds of smoke concealed the shores of the Sula, the pond, the embankment, and even the field itself, so that all was hidden, save at times the scarlet, glittering uniforms of the dragoons, and the crests gleaming over the flying helmets, as everything seethed in that terrible cloud. The bells of the town were ringing, and mingled their sad groans with the deep bellowing of the guns. From the Cossack camp regiment after regiment rolled on to the embankment. Those who crossed and reached the other side of the river extended in the twinkle of an eye into a long line and rushed with rage on the prince's regiments. The battle extended from one end of the pond to the bend in the river and the swampy meadows, which were flooded that rainy summer. The mob and the men of the lower country had to conquer or perish, having behind them water, toward which they were pushed by the infantry and cavalry of the prince. When the hussars moved forward, Zagloba, though he had short breath and did not like a throng, galloped with the others, because in fact he could not do otherwise without danger of being trampled to death. He flew on therefore, closing his eyes, and through his head there flew with lightning speed the thought, "Stratagem is nothing, stratagem is nothing; the stupid win, the wise perish!" Then he was seized with spite against the war, against the Cossacks, the hussars, and every one else in the world. He began to curse, to pray. The wind whistled in his ears, the breath was hemmed in his breast. Suddenly his horse struck against something; he felt resistance. Then he opened his eyes, and what did he see? Scythes, sabres, flails, a crowd of inflamed faces, eyes, mustaches,--and all indefinite, unknown, all trembling, galloping, furious. Then he was transported with rage against those enemies, because they are not going to the devil, because they are rushing up to his face and forcing him to fight. "You wanted it, now you have it," thought he, and he began to slash blindly on every side. Sometimes he cut the air, and sometimes he felt that his blade had sunk into something soft. At the same time he felt that he was still living, and this gave him extraordinary hope. "Slay! kill!" he roared like a buffalo. At last those frenzied faces vanished from his eyes, and in their places he saw a multitude of visages, tops of caps, and the shouts almost split his ears. "Are they fleeing?" shot through his head. "Yes!" Then daring sprang up in him beyond measure. "Scoundrels!" he shouted, "is that the way you meet a noble?" He sprang among the fleeing enemy, passed many, and entangled in the crowd began to labor with greater presence of mind now. Meanwhile his comrades pressed the Cossacks to the bank of the Sula, covered pretty thickly with trees, and drove them along the shore to the embankment, taking no prisoners, for there was no time. Suddenly Zagloba felt that his horse began to spread out under him; at the same time something heavy fell on him and covered his whole head, so that he was completely enveloped in darkness. "Oh, save me!" he cried, beating the horse with his heels. The steed, however, apparently wearied with the weight of the rider, only groaned and stood in one place. Zagloba heard the screams and shouts of the horsemen rushing around him; then that whole hurricane swept by and all was in apparent quiet. Again thoughts began to rush through his head with the swiftness of Tartar arrows: "What is this? What has happened? Jesus and Mary, I am in captivity!" On his forehead drops of cold sweat came out. Evidently his head was bound just as he had once bound Bogun. That weight which he feels on his shoulder is the hand of a Cossack. But why don't they hang him or kill him? Why is he standing in one place? "Let me go, you scoundrel!" cried he at last, with a muffled voice. Silence. "Let me go! I'll spare your life. Let me go, I say!" No answer. Zagloba struck into the sides of his horse again with his heels, but again without result; the prodded beast only stretched out wider and remained in the same place. Finally rage seized the unfortunate captive, and drawing a knife from the sheath that hung at his belt, he gave a terrible stab behind. But the knife only cut the air. Then Zagloba pulled with both hands at the covering which bound his head, and tore it in a moment. What is this? No Cossack. Deserted all around. Only in the distance was to be seen in the smoke the red dragoons of Volodyovski flying past, and farther on the glittering armor of the hussars pursuing the remnant of the defeated, who were retreating from the field toward the water. At Zagloba's feet lay a Cossack regimental banner. Evidently the fleeing Cossack had dropped it so that the staff hit Zagloba's shoulder, and the cloth covered his head. Seeing all this, and understanding it perfectly, that hero regained his presence of mind completely. "Oh, ho!" said he, "I have captured a banner. How is this? Didn't I capture it? If justice is not defeated in this battle, then I am sure of a reward. Oh, you scoundrels! it is your luck that my horse gave out! I did not know myself when I thought I was greater in strategy than in bravery. I can be of some higher use in the army than eating cakes. Oh, God save us! some other crowd is rushing on. Don't come here, dog-brothers; don't come this way! May the wolves eat this horse! Kill! slay!" Indeed, a new band of Cossacks were rushing toward Zagloba, raising unearthly voices, closely pursued by the armored men of Polyanovski. And perhaps Zagloba would have found his death under the hoofs of their horses, had it not been that the hussars of Skshetuski, having finished those whom they had been pursuing, turned to take between two fires those onrushing parties. Seeing this, the Zaporojians ran toward the water, only to find death in the swamps and deep places after escaping the sword. Those who fell on their knees begging for quarter died under the steel. The defeat was terrible and complete, but most terrible on the embankment. All who passed that, were swept away in the half-circle left by the forces of the prince. Those who did not pass, fell under the continual fire of Vurtsel's cannon and the guns of the German infantry. They could neither go forward nor backward; for Krívonos urged on still new regiments, which, pushing forward, closed the only road to escape. It seemed as though Krívonos had sworn to destroy his own men, who stifled, trampled, and fought one another, fell, sprang into the water on both sides, and were drowned. On one side were black masses of fugitives, and on the other masses advancing; in the middle, piles and mountains and rows of dead bodies; groans, screams, men deprived of speech; the madness of terror, disorder, chaos. The whole pond was full of men and horses; the water overflowed the banks. At times the artillery was silent. Then the embankment, like the mouth of a cannon, threw forth crowds of Zaporojians and the mob, who rushed over the half-circle and went under the swords of the cavalry waiting for them. Then Vurtsel began to play again with his rain of iron and lead; the Cossack reinforcement barred the embankment. Whole hours were spent in these bloody struggles. Krívonos, furious, foaming at the mouth, did not give up the battle yet, and hurried thousands of men to the jaws of death. Yeremi, on the other side, in silver armor, sat on his horse, on a lofty mound called at that time the Kruja Mogila, and looked on. His face was calm; his eye took in the whole embankment, pond, banks of the Sluch, and extended to the place in which the enormous tabor of Krívonos stood wrapped in the bluish haze of the distance. The eyes of the prince never left that collection of wagons. At last he turned to the massive voevoda of Kieff, and said,-- "We shall not capture the tabor to-day." "How? You wished to--" "Time is flying quickly. It is too late. See! it is almost evening." In fact, from the time the skirmishers went out, the battle, kept up by the stubbornness of Krívonos, had lasted already so long that the sun had but an hour left of its whole daily half-circle, and inclined to its setting. The light, lofty, small clouds, announcing fair weather and scattered over the sky like white-fleeced lambs, began to grow red and disappear in groups from the field of heaven. The flow of Cossacks to the embankment stopped gradually, and those regiments that had already come upon it retreated in dismay and disorder. The battle was ended, and ended because the enraged crowd fell upon Krívonos at last, shouting with despair and madness,-- "Traitor! you are destroying us. You bloody dog! We will bind you ourselves, and give you up to Yeremi, and thus secure our lives. Death to you, not to us!" "To-morrow I will give you the prince and all his army, or perish myself," answered Krívonos. But the hoped for to-morrow had yet to come, and the present to-day was a day of defeat and disorder. Several thousand of the best warriors of the lower country, not counting the mob, lay on the field of battle, or were drowned in the pond and river. Nearly two thousand were taken prisoners; fourteen colonels were killed, not counting sotniks, essauls, and other elders. Pulyan, next in command to Krívonos, had fallen into the hands of the enemy alive, but with broken ribs. "To-morrow we will cut them all up," said Krívonos. "I will neither eat nor drink till it is done." In the opposite camp the captured banners were thrown down at the feet of the terrible prince. Each of the captors brought his own, so that they formed a considerable crowd,--altogether forty. When Zagloba passed by, he threw his down with such force that the staff split. Seeing this, the prince detained him, and asked,-- "And you captured that banner with your own hands?" "At your service, your Highness." "I see that you are not only a Ulysses, but an Achilles." "I am a simple soldier, but I serve under Alexander of Macedon." "Since you receive no wages, the treasurer will pay you, in addition to what you have had, two hundred ducats for this honorable exploit." Zagloba seized the prince by the knees, and said, "Your favor is greater than my bravery, which would gladly hide itself behind its own modesty." A scarcely visible smile wandered over the dark face of Skshetuski; but the knight was silent, and even later on he never said anything to the prince, or any one else, of the fears of Zagloba before the battle; but Zagloba himself walked away with such threatening mien that, seeing him, the soldiers of the other regiments pointed at him, saying,-- "He is the man who did most to-day." Night came. On both sides of the river and the pond thousands of fires were burning, and smoke rose to the sky in columns. The wearied soldiers strengthened themselves with food and gorailka, or gave themselves courage for tomorrow's battle by relating the exploits of the present day. But loudest of all spoke Zagloba, boasting of what he had done, and what he could have done if his horse had not failed. "I can tell you," said he, turning to the officers of the prince, and the nobles of Tishkyevich's command, "that great battles are no novelty for me. I was in many of them in Moldavia and Turkey; but when I was on the field I was afraid--not of the enemy, for who is afraid of such trash!--but of my own impulsiveness, for I thought immediately that it would carry me too far." "And did it?" "It did. Ask Skshetuski. The moment I saw Vershul falling with his horse, I wanted to gallop to his aid without asking a question. My comrades could scarcely hold me back." "True," said Skshetuski, "we had to hold you in." "But," interrupted Karvich, "where is Vershul?" "He has already gone on a scouting expedition, he knows no rest." "See then, gentlemen," said Zagloba, displeased at the interruption, "how I captured the banner." "Then Vershul is not wounded?" inquired Karvich again. "This is not the first one that I have captured in my life, but none cost me such trouble." "He is not wounded, only bruised," answered Azulevich, a Tartar, "and has gulped water, for he fell head first into the pond." "Then I wonder the fish didn't die," said Zagloba, with anger, "for the water must have boiled from such a flaming head." "But he is a great warrior." "Not so great, since a half John[13] was enough for him. Tfu! it is impossible to talk with you. You might learn from me how to capture banners from the enemy." Further conversation was interrupted by the youthful Pan Aksak, who approached the fire at that moment. "I bring you news, gentlemen," said he, with a clear half-childish voice. "The nurse hasn't washed his bib, the cat has drunk his milk, and his cup is broken," muttered Zagloba. But Pan Aksak paid no attention to this fling at his youth, and said: "They are burning Pulyan." "The dogs will have toast," said Zagloba. "And he is making a confession. The negotiations are broken. Kisel is nearly wild. Hmel[14] (hops) is coming with all his forces to help Krívonos." "Hops? What hops? Who is making anything of hops? If hops are on the road, there will be beer then. We don't care for hops," said Zagloba, looking at the same time with fierce, haughty eyes at those around. "Hmel is coming; but Krívonos didn't wait, therefore he lost--" "Yes, he played and lost." "Six thousand Cossacks are already in Makhnovka. Two thousand Bogun is leading." "Who? who?" asked Zagloba instantly, in a changed voice. "Bogun." "Impossible!" "That is the confession of Pulyan." "Ah, here is a cake for you, grandmother!" cried Zagloba, piteously. "Can they get here soon?" "In three days. But on the way to battle they will not hurry too much, so as not to tire their horses." "But I will hurry!" muttered Zagloba. "Oh, angels of God, save me from that ruffian! I would gladly give my captured banner if that water-burner would only break his neck on the way to this place. I hope too that we shall not wait here long. We have shown Krívonos what we can do, and now it is time to rest. I hate that Bogun so much that I cannot call to mind his devilish name without abomination. I did make a choice! I couldn't stay in Bar? Bad luck brought me here." "Don't worry yourself," whispered Skshetuski, "for it is a shame! Between you and me nothing threatens you here." "Nothing threatens me? You don't know him! Why, he might creep up to us now among the fires here." Zagloba looked around disquieted. "And he is as enraged at you as at me." "God grant me to meet him!" said Pan Yan. "If that is a favor, then I have no wish to receive it. In my character of Christian I forgive him all his offences willingly, but on condition that he be hanged two days before. I am not alarmed, but you have no idea what surpassing disgust seizes me. I like to know with whom I have to deal,--if with a noble, then a noble; if with a peasant, then a peasant,--but he is a sort of incarnate devil, with whom you don't know what course to take. I ventured many a thing with him; but such eyes as he made when I bound his head, I cannot describe to you,--to the hour of my death I shall remember them. I don't wish to rouse the devil while he sleeps. Once is enough for a trick. I will say to you also that you are ungrateful, have no thought of that unhappy woman." "How so?" "Because," said Zagloba, drawing the knight away from the fire, "you stay here and gratify your military caprice and fancy by fighting day after day, while she is drowning herself in tears, waiting in vain for an answer. Another man with real love in his heart and pity for her grief wouldn't do this, but would have sent me off long ago." "Do you think then of returning to Bar?" "Even to-day, for I have pity on her." Pan Yan raised his eyes yearningly to the stars and said,-- "Do not speak to me of insincerity, for God is my witness that I never raise a bit of bread to my mouth or take a moment of sleep without thinking of her first, and nothing can be stronger in my heart than the thought of her. I have not sent you with an answer hitherto because I wished to go myself to be with her at once. And there are no wings in the world and no speed which I would not use could they serve me in going to her." "Then why don't you fly?" "Because I cannot before battle. I am a soldier and a noble, therefore I must think of honor." "But to-day we are after the battle; therefore we can start, even this minute." Pan Yan sighed. "To-morrow we attack Krívonos." "I don't understand your ways. You beat young Krívonos; old Krívonos came, and you beat old Krívonos. Now what's-his-name (not to mention him in an evil hour), Bogun, will come, you will beat him. Hmelnitski will come. Oh, what the devil! And as it will go on this way it would be better for you to enter into partnership with Podbipienta at once, then there would be a fool with continence plus his mightiness Skshetuski, total two fools and one continence. Let's have peace, for, as God lives, I will be the first to persuade the princess to put horns on you; and at Bar lives Andrei Pototski, and when he looks at her fire flashes out of his eyes. Tfu! if this should be said by some young fellow who had not seen a battle and wanted to make a reputation, then I could understand; but not you, who have drunk blood like a wolf, and at Makhnovka, I am told, killed a kind of infernal dragon of a man-eater. I swear, by that moon in heaven, that you are up to something here, or that you have got such a taste of blood that you like it better than your bride." Skshetuski looked involuntarily at the moon, which was sailing in the high starry heavens like a ship above the camp. "You are mistaken," said he, after a while. "I do not want blood, nor am I working for reputation, but it would not be proper to leave my comrades in a difficult struggle in which the whole regiment must engage, _nemine excepto_. In this is involved knightly honor, a sacred thing. As to the war it will undoubtedly drag on, for the rabble has grown too great; but if Hmelnitski comes to the aid of Krívonos, there will be an intermission. To-morrow Krívonos will either fight or he will not. If he does, with God's aid he will receive dire punishment, and we must go to a quiet place to draw breath. During these two months we neither sleep nor eat, we only fight and fight; day and night we have nothing over our heads, exposed to all the attacks of the elements. The prince is a great leader, but prudent. He does not rush on Hmelnitski with a few thousand men against legions. I know also that he will go to Zbaraj, recruit there, get new soldiers,--nobles from the whole Commonwealth will hurry to him,--and then we shall move to a general campaign. To-morrow will be the last day of work, and after to-morrow I shall be able to accompany you to Bar with a clean heart. And I will add, to pacify you, that Bogun can in no wise come here to-morrow and take part in the battle; and even if he should I hope that his peasant star will pale, not only before that of the prince, but before my own." "He is an incarnate Beelzebub. I have told you that I dislike a throng; but he is worse than a throng, though I repeat it is not so much from fear as from an unconquerable aversion I have for the man. But no more of this. Tomorrow comes the tanning of the peasants' backs, and then to Bar. Oh, those beautiful eyes will laugh at the sight of you, and that face will blush! I tell you, even I feel lonely without her, for I love her as a father. And no wonder. I have no legitimate children; my fortune is far away, for it is in Turkey, where my scoundrelly agents steal it all; and I live as an orphan in the world, and in my old age I shall have to go and live with Podbipienta at Myshekishki." "Oh, no; don't let your head ache over that! You have done something for us; we cannot be too thankful to you." Further conversation was interrupted by some officer who passing along inquired: "Who stands there?" "Vershul!" exclaimed Skshetuski, recognizing him by his voice. "Are you from the scouting-party?" "Yes; and now from the prince." "What news?" "Battle to-morrow. The enemy are widening the embankment, building bridges over the Stira and Sluch, and on the morrow wish to come to us without fail." "What did the prince say to that?" "The prince said: 'All right!'" "Nothing more?" "Nothing. He gave no order to hinder them, and axes are chopping; they will work till morning." "Did you get informants?" "I captured seven. All confessed that they have heard of Hmelnitski,--that he is coming, but probably far away yet. What a night!" "Yes, you can see as in the day. And how do you feel after the fall?" "My bones are sore. I am going to thank our Hercules and then sleep, for I am tired. If I could doze a couple of hours--good-night!" "Good-night!" "Go you to sleep also," said Skshetuski to Zagloba; "for it is late, and there will be work to-morrow." "And the next day a journey," said Zagloba. They turned, said their prayers, and then lay down near the fire. Soon the fires began to go out one after another. Silence embraced the camp; but the moon cast on the men silver rays, with which it illumined every little while new groups of sleepers. The silence was broken only by the universal, mighty snoring, and the call of the sentinels watching the camp. But sleep did not close the heavy lids of the soldiers long. Scarcely had the first dawn whitened the shadows of night when the trumpets in every corner of the camp thundered the _reveille_. An hour later the prince, to the great astonishment of the knights, drew back along the whole line. CHAPTER XXXII. But it was the retreat of a lion needing room for a spring. The prince purposely allowed Krívonos to cross so as to inflict on him the greater defeat. In the very beginning of the battle he had the cavalry turned and urged on as if in flight, seeing which the men of the lower country and the mob broke their ranks to overtake and surround him. Then Yeremi turned suddenly, and with his whole cavalry struck them at once so terribly that they were unable to resist. The prince's troops pursued them five miles to the crossing, then over the bridges, the embankment, and two miles and a half to the camp, cutting and killing them without mercy. The hero of the day was the sixteen-year-old Pan Aksak, who gave the first blow and produced the first disorder. Only with such an army, old and trained, could the prince use such stratagems, and feign flight which in any other ranks might become real. This being the case, the second day ended still more disastrously for Krívonos than the first. All his field-pieces were taken, and a number of flags,--among them several royal flags captured by the Cossacks at Korsún. If the infantry of Koritski and Osinski with the cannon of Vurtsel could have followed the cavalry, the camp would have been taken at a blow. But before they came up it was night, and the enemy had already retreated a considerable distance, so that it was impossible to reach them. But Zatsvilikhovski captured half the camp, and with it enormous supplies of arms and provisions. The crowd seized Krívonos twice, wishing to give him up to the prince; and the promise of an immediate return to Hmelnitski barely sufficed to save him. He fled therefore with the remaining half of his tabor, with a decimated army, beaten and in despair, and did not halt till he reached Makhnovka, where when Hmelnitski came up, in the moment of his first anger, he ordered him to be chained by the neck to a cannon. But when his first anger had passed the Zaporojian hetman remembered that the unfortunate Krívonos had covered Volynia with blood, captured Polónnoe, and sent thousands of nobles to the other world, left their bodies without burial, and had been victorious everywhere till he met Yeremi. For these services the Zaporojian hetman took pity on him, and not only ordered him to be freed immediately from the cannon, but restored him to command, and sent him to Podolia to new conquests and slaughters. The prince now announced to his army the rest so much desired. In the last battle it had suffered considerable losses, especially at the storming of the tabor by the cavalry, behind which the Cossacks defended themselves with equal stubbornness and adroitness. Five hundred soldiers were killed; Colonel Mokrski, severely wounded, died soon after; Pan Kushel, Ponyatovski, and young Aksak were shot, but not dangerously; and Zagloba, becoming accustomed to the throng, took his place manfully with the others, struck twice with a flail, he fell on his back, and being unable to move, lay as dead in Skshetuski's wagon. Fate hindered the plan of going to Bar; for they could not start immediately, especially since the prince had sent Pan Yan, at the head of a number of troops, as far as Zaslav, to exterminate the bands of peasants assembled there. The knight went without mentioning Bar to the prince, and during five days burned and slaughtered till he cleared the neighborhood. At last, even the soldiers became wearied beyond measure by the uninterrupted fighting, distant expeditions, ambuscades, and watching; he decided therefore to return to the prince, who, as he was informed, had gone to Tarnopol. On the eve of his return he stopped at Sukhojintsi, on the Khomor. He disposed his soldiers in the village, took his lodgings for the night in a peasant's cottage, and because he was greatly wearied from labor and want of rest, fell asleep at once, and slept like a stone all night. About morning, when half asleep, half awake, he began to doze and dream. Wonderful images were in movement before his eyes. It seemed to him that he was in Lubni, that he had never left the place, that he was sleeping in his room in the armory, and that Jendzian, as was his wont in the morning, was bustling around with clothes and preparing for his master's rising. Gradually, however, consciousness began to scatter the phantoms. He remembered that he was in Sukhojintsi, not in Lubni. Still the form of his servant did not dissolve in mist, and Pan Yan saw him continually sitting under the window, occupied in oiling armor-straps, which had shrunk considerably from the heat. But he still thought that it was a vision of sleep, and closed his eyes again. After a while he opened them. Jendzian was sitting under the window. "Jendzian," called Skshetuski, "is that you, or is it your ghost?" The young fellow, frightened by the sudden call, dropped the breastplate on the floor with a clatter, spread his arms, and said: "Oh, for God's sake! why do you scream, my master, that I am like a ghost? I am alive and well!" "And you have come back?" "But have you sent me off?" "Come here to me; let me embrace you." The faithful youth fell upon the floor, and caught Skshetuski by the knees. Skshetuski kissed him on the forehead with joy, and repeated: "You are alive, you are alive!" "Oh, my master, I cannot speak from joy that I see you again in health! You shouted so that I let the breastplate fall. The straps have shrunk up,--it is clear that you have had no one. Praise be to thee, O God! Oh, my dear master!" "When did you come back?" "Last night." "Why didn't you wake me up?" "Why should I wake you up? I came early to take your clothes." "Where did you come from?" "From Gushchi." "What were you doing there? What has happened to you? Tell me." "Well, you see the Cossacks came to Gushchi, which belongs to the voevoda of Bratslav, to plunder and burn, and I was there earlier, for I went there with Father Patroni Lasko, who took me to Hmelnitski from Gushchi; for the voevoda sent him to Hmelnitski with letters. I went back with him, therefore, and at that time the Cossacks were burning Gushchi; and they killed Father Patroni for his love to us, and no doubt they would have killed the voevoda too, if he had been there, though he belongs to their church and is their great benefactor--" "But speak clearly and don't confuse things, for I cannot understand. You have been with the Cossacks, then, and spent some time with Hmelnitski. Is that true?" "Yes, with the Cossacks; for when they took me in Chigirin they thought I was one of their men. Now put on your clothes, my master! Dress--Oh, Lord bless me, everything you have is worn out, so there is nothing to lay hands on. But don't be angry with me because I did not deliver in Rozlogi the letter which you wrote in Kudák. That rascal, Bogun, took it from me, and had it not been for that fat noble I should have lost my life." "I know, I know. It is not your fault. That fat noble is in the camp. He has told me everything just as it was. He has also stolen from Bogun the lady, who is in good health and living at Bar." "Praise be to God for that! I knew too that Bogun didn't get her. Then of course the wedding is not far away?" "It is not. From here we shall go by orders to Tarnopol, and from there to Bar." "Thanks be to God on high! He will surely hang himself, that Bogun; but a witch has already foretold him that he will never get her of whom he is thinking, and that a Pole will have her. That Pole is surely you." "How do you know this?" "I heard it. I must tell you everything in order, and do you dress, my master, for they are cooking breakfast for you. When I was going in the boat from Kudák we were a long time sailing, for it was against the current, and besides the boat got injured, and we had to repair it. We were going on then, going on, my master, going on--" "Go on! go on!" interrupted Skshetuski, impatiently. "And we came to Chigirin; and what happened to me there you know already." "I do." "I was lying there in the stable without a sight of God's world. And then Hmelnitski came immediately after the departure of Bogun, with a tremendous Zaporojian force. And as the Grand Hetman had previously punished a great many Chigirin people for their love to the Zaporojians, many of them were killed and wounded. Therefore the Cossacks thought that I was from Chigirin. They didn't kill me, but gave me necessary provisions and care, and didn't let the Tartars take me, though they let them do everything else. When I came to myself I began to think what I was to do. Those rascals by this time had gone to Korsún and defeated the hetmans. Oh, my master, what my eyes saw is not to be described. They concealed nothing from me, knew no shame, because they took me for one of themselves. I was thinking whether to flee or not, but I saw it would be safer to remain until a better opportunity should offer itself. When they began to bring in from the battlefield at Korsún cloths, silver, plate, precious stones, oh, my master, my heart nearly burst, and my eyes almost came out of my head. Such robbers!--they sold six silver spoons for a thaler, and later for a quart of vudka; a golden button or brooch or a hat cockade you might buy with a pint. Then I thought to myself: 'Why should I sit idle? Let me make something. With God's help I will return some time to the Jendzians at Podlesia, where my parents are living. I will give this to them, for they have a lawsuit with the Yavorskis, which has been going on now for fifty years, and they have nothing to continue it with.' I bought then so much stuff of every kind that it took two horses to carry it. This was the consolation of my sorrows, for I was terribly grieved on your account." "Oh, Jendzian, you are always the same; you must have profit out of everything." "What is the harm, if God has blessed me? I do not steal; and if you gave me a purse for the road to Rozlogi, here it is. I ought to return it, for I didn't go to Rozlogi." Saying this, the young fellow unbuckled his belt, took out the purse, and placed it before the knight. Skshetuski smiled and said,-- "Since you had such good luck, you are surely richer than I; but keep the purse." "I thank you very humbly. I have collected a little, with God's favor. My father and mother will be glad, and my grandfather, who is now ninety years old. But they will continue their lawsuit with the Yavorskis till the last penny, and send them out with packs on their backs. You will also be the gainer, for I shall not mention that belt you promised me in Kudák, though it suited me well." "Yes, for you have already reminded me! Oh, such a son of a----! A regular insatiable wolf! I don't know where that belt is; but if I promised, I will give you, if not that one, another." "I thank you, my master," said he, embracing Skshetuski's knees. "No need of that! Go on; tell what happened!" "The Lord then sent me some profit among the robbers. But I was tormented from not knowing what had happened to you, and lest Bogun had carried off the lady; till they brought me word that he was lying in Cherkasi barely alive, wounded by the prince's men. I went to Cherkasi, since, as you are aware, I know how to make plasters and dress wounds. The Cossacks knew that I could do this. Well, Donyéts, a colonel, sent me to Cherkasi, and went with me himself to nurse that robber. There a burden fell from my heart, for I heard that our young lady had escaped with that noble. I went then to Bogun. I was thinking, 'Will he know me or not?' But he was lying in a fever, and at first didn't know me. Later on he knew me, and said, 'You were going with a letter to Rozlogi?' 'Yes,' I answered. Then he said again, 'I struck you in Chigirin?' 'Yes.' 'Then you serve Pan Skshetuski?' 'I am serving no one now,' I replied. 'I had more evil than good in that service, therefore I chose to go to the Cossacks for freedom; and I am nursing you now for ten days, and am restoring you to health.' He believed me, and became very confidential. I learned from him that Rozlogi was burned, that he had killed the two princes. The other Kurtsevichi wished at first to go to our prince, but could not, and escaped to the Lithuanian army. But the worst was when he remembered that fat noble. Then, my master, he gnashed his teeth like a man cracking nuts." "Was he long sick?" "Long, long. His wounds healed quickly; then they opened again, for he didn't take care of them at first. I sat many a night with him,--may he be cut up!--as with some good man. And you must know, my master, that I swore by my salvation to take vengeance on him; and I will keep my oath, though I have to follow him all my life; for he maltreated me, an innocent person, and pounded me like a dog. And I am no trash, either! He must perish at my hand unless somebody else kills him first. I tell you that about a hundred times I had a chance, for often there was no one near him but me. I thought to myself, 'Shall I stab him or not?' But I was ashamed to kill him in his bed." "It was praiseworthy of you not to kill him while sick and weak. That would be the deed of a peasant, not of a noble." "And you know, my master, I had the same thought. I recollected too that when my parents sent me from home my grandfather blessed me, and said, 'Remember, you dunce, that you are a noble. Have ambition, serve faithfully; but don't let any man trample on you.' He said also that when a noble acts in peasant fashion the Lord Jesus weeps. I recalled that phrase and I restrained myself. I had to let the chance pass. And now he was more confidential. More than once he asked, 'How shall I reward you?' And I said, 'Any way you wish,' And I cannot complain. He supplied me bountifully, and I took all he gave me; for I thought to myself, 'Why should I leave it in the hands of a robber?' On his account others gave me presents; for I tell you, my master, that there is no one so beloved as he, both by the men from below and the mob, though there is not a noble in the Commonwealth who has such contempt for the mob as he." Here Jendzian began to twist his head as if he remembered and wondered at something; and after a while he said,-- "He is a strange man, and it must be confessed that he is altogether of noble nature. And that young lady,--but he loves her! Oh, mighty God, but he loves her! As soon as he was a little restored, Dontsovna came to him to soothsay; but she told him nothing good. She is a brazen-faced giantess who is in friendship with devils, but she is a good-looking woman. When she laughs you would swear that a mare was neighing in the meadow. She has white teeth so strong that she might chew up a breastplate. When she walks the ground trembles. And, by the evident visitation of God, my good looks attracted her. Then she wouldn't pass without catching me by the head or the sleeve and jerking me. More than once she said, 'Come!' But I was afraid that the devil might break my neck if I went, and then I should lose all I had gathered; so I answered, 'Haven't you enough of others?' She said, 'You please me; though you are a stripling, you please me.' 'Be off, bass-viol!' I said. Then said she again, 'I like you, I like you!'" "But you saw the soothsaying?" "I did; and I heard it. There was a sort of smudge, a seething and squeaking, and shadows, so that I was frightened. She was standing in the middle of the room, looking stern, with sullen black brows, and repeated: 'The Pole is near her! the Pole is near her! Chili! huk! chili! the Pole is near her!' Then she poured wheat into a sieve, and looked. The grains went around like insects, and she repeated: 'Chili! huk! chili! the Pole is near her!' Oh, my master, if he were not such a robber it would be sad to look at his despair! After every answer she gave he used to grow white as a shirt, fall on his back, clasp his hands over his head, twist and whine, and beg forgiveness of the princess that he came with violence to Rozlogi and killed her cousins. 'Where art thou, cuckoo, the loved one, the only one? I would have borne you in my arms, and now I cannot live without you! I will not approach you. I will be your slave if my eyes can only see you!' Then he remembered Zagloba again, ground his teeth, bit the bed, till sleep overpowered him; and in sleep he groaned and sighed." "But did she never prophesy favorably for him?" "I don't know, my master, for he recovered, and besides I left him. The priest Lasko came, so Bogun arranged that I should go with him to Gushchi. The robbers there found out that I had property of different kinds, and I too made no secret of the fact that I was going to help my parents." "And they didn't rob you?" "Perhaps they would have done so, but fortunately there were no Tartars there then, and the Cossacks did not dare to rob me from fear of Bogun. Besides they took me for one of their own. Even Hmelnitski himself ordered me to keep my ears open and report what would be said at the voevoda's, if there should be a meeting there. May the hangman light his way! I went then to Gushchi. Krívonos's detachments came and killed Father Lasko. I buried half my treasure, and escaped with the rest when I heard that you were near Zaslav. Praise be to God on high that you are in good health, and that you are preparing for your wedding. Then the end of every evil will come. I told those scoundrels who went against the prince our lord, that they wouldn't come back. They have caught it. Now maybe the war is over." "How over? It is only beginning now with Hmelnitski." "And you will fight after the wedding?" "But did you think that cowardice would seize me at the wedding?" "I didn't think that. I know that whomsoever it seizes, it won't seize you. I just ask; for when I take to my parents what I have collected I should like to go with you. Maybe God will help me to avenge my wrong on Bogun; for since it is not proper to take an unfair advantage, where shall I find him, if not in the field? He will not hide himself." "What a determined fellow you are!" "Let every one have his own. And as I promised to follow him to Turkey, it cannot be otherwise. And now I will go with you to Tarnopol, and then to the wedding. But why do you go to Bar by Tarnopol? It is not on the road in any way." "I must take home my regiment." "I understand." "Now give me something to eat," said Pan Yan. "I've been looking out for that. The stomach is the main thing." "After we have eaten we will start at once." "Praise be to God for that, though my poor nag is worn to death." "I will order them to give you a pack-horse; you can ride on it." "Thank you humbly," said Jendzian, smiling with delight at the thought that including the purse and the belt a third present had come to him now. CHAPTER XXXIII. Pan Yan rode at the head of the prince's squadrons, but to Zbaraj instead of Tarnopol, for a new order had come to march to the latter place; and on the road he told his faithful attendant his own adventures,--how he had been taken in captivity at the Saitch, how long he had remained there, and how much he had suffered before Hmelnitski had liberated him. They advanced slowly; for though they had no trains or baggage, their road lay through a country which was so ruined that the greatest exertions were necessary to obtain provisions for men and horses. In places they met crowds of famished people, especially women and children, who implored God for death or Tartar captivity; for then, though in bonds, they would be fed. And still it was harvest time in that rich land flowing with milk and honey; but the parties of Krívonos had destroyed everything that could be destroyed, and the remnant of the inhabitants fed themselves on the bark of the trees. Near Yampol they first entered a country which was not so much injured by war, and having had more rest and provisions in plenty, they went with hurried march to Zbaraj, where they arrived in five days after leaving Sukhojintsi. There was a great concourse in Zbaraj. Prince Yeremi was there with his whole army, and besides him no small number of soldiers and nobles had come. War hung in the air, nothing else was mentioned; the town and neighborhood were swarming with armed men. The peace party in Warsaw, maintained in its hopes by Pan Kisel, the voevoda of Bratslav, had not given up, it is true, negotiations, and continued to believe that it would be possible to allay the storm with them; still they understood that negotiations could have results only when there was a powerful army to support them. The Diet of convocation was held therefore amidst the threatenings and thunderings of war such as usually precede an outbreak. The general militia was called out, and enlisted soldiers were concentrated; and though the chancellor and commanders still believed in peace, the war feeling was predominant in the minds of the nobles. The victories won by Prince Yeremi fired the imagination. The minds of men were burning with a desire for vengeance on the peasants, and a desire to pay back for Jóltiya Vodi and Korsún, for the blood of so many thousands who had died martyrs' deaths, for the disgrace and humiliation. The name of the terrible prince was bright with the sunlight of glory,--it was on every lip, in every heart; and together with that name was heard, from the shores of the Baltic to the Wilderness, the ominous word "War!" War! War! Signs in the heavens announced it also, the excited faces of the populace, the glittering of swords, the nightly howling of dogs before the cottages, and the neighing of horses, catching the odor of blood. War! Escutcheoned men through all the lands and districts and houses and villages drew out their old armor and swords from the storehouses. The youths sang songs about Yeremi; the women prayed before altars; and armored men were marching to the field in Prussia and Livonia as well as in Great Poland and populous Mazovia, and away to God's own Carpathian peaks, and the dark pine forests of Beskid. War lay in the nature of things. The plundering movement of the Zaporojie and the popular uprising of the Ukraine mob demanded some higher watchwords than slaughter and robbery, than a struggle against serfdom and the land-grabbing of magnates. Hmelnitski knew this well, and taking advantage of the slumbering irritation from mutual abuses and oppressions, of which there was never a lack in those harsh times, he changed a social into a religious struggle, kindled popular fanaticism, and dug in the very beginning between the two camps an abyss which could be filled neither with parchments nor negotiations, but only with blood. Wishing for negotiations from his soul, he wished them only to secure his own power; but afterward--what was to be afterward the Zaporojian hetman did not think; he did not look into the future and had no care for it. He did not know, however, that that abyss which he had created was so great that no negotiations could fill it, at least in such a time as he, Hmelnitski, could demand. The quick politician did not guess that he would not be able to enjoy in peace the bloody fruits of his life; and still it was easy to understand that when the armed legions should stand before each other, the parchment for the inscription of treaties would be the field, and the pens, swords and lances. Events tended, by the force of things, toward war; and even ordinary people, led by instinct alone, felt that it could not be otherwise; and throughout the whole Commonwealth the eyes of men were turned more and more to Yeremi, who from the beginning had proclaimed a war of life and death. In the shadow of his gigantic figure the chancellor, the voevoda of Bratslav, and the commanders were more and more effaced, and among them the powerful Prince Dominik, formal commander-in-chief. Their importance drooped, and obedience to their government decreased. The army and the nobles were ordered to march to Lvoff and then to Gliniani, which they did accordingly in larger and larger divisions. The regular troops assembled, and after them men of the nearest provinces; but immediately fresh events began to threaten the authority of the Commonwealth. Now not only the less disciplined squadrons of the militia, not only the private troops, but the regular soldiers when at the place of muster refused obedience to the commanders, and in defiance of orders marched to Zbaraj to place themselves under the command of Yeremi. This was done first by the nobles of Kieff and Bratslav, who had previously served in large part under Yeremi. They were followed by the nobles of Rus and Lubelsk, and these by the troops of the Crown, and it was not difficult to understand that all would follow in their steps. Yeremi, who had been slighted, neglected by design, was becoming, by the force of things, the hetman and supreme leader of all the power of the Commonwealth. The nobles and the army, devoted to him soul and body, waited only for his nod. Authority, war, peace, the future of the Commonwealth, rested in his hands. Each day he grew, for each day new squadrons marched to him, and he was becoming so gigantic that his shadow began to fall not only on the chancellor and the commanders, but on the Senate, on Warsaw, and the whole Commonwealth. In circles hostile to him, those of the chancellor at Warsaw and in the camp of the commander-in-chief, in the suite of Prince Dominik, and around the voevoda of Bratslav, they began to mutter against his measureless ambition and pride; the affair of Gadyach was mentioned, when the insolent prince came with four thousand men to Warsaw, and entering the Senate, was ready to hew down all, not excepting the king himself. "What might not be expected from such a man, and what must he be now after that Xenophontine return from the Trans-Dnieper, after all those military advantages and victories which had given him such an immense reputation? To what unendurable haughtiness must that favor of the soldiers and the nobles raise him? Who will stand against him to-day? What will become of the Commonwealth in which one citizen rises to such power that he can trample upon the will of the Senate, and snatch away their authority from the leaders appointed by the Commonwealth? Does he intend really to decorate Prince Karl with the crown? He is Marius, it is true; but God grant that he become not a Coriolanus or a Catiline, for he is equal to both in ambition and pride." Thus did they speak in Warsaw and in military circles, especially in the suite of Prince Dominik, the rivalry between whom and Yeremi had caused no little damage to the Commonwealth. But that Marius was sitting that moment at Zbaraj, gloomy, unconsulted. Recent victories gave no light to his countenance. Whenever some new squadron of regulars or district militia appeared at Zbaraj he went out to see it, determined its value at a glance, and immediately fell into musing. Soldiers gathered around him with shouts, fell on their knees before him, crying: "Hail, invincible chief, Slavonic Hercules! We will stand by thee to the death." But he answered: "My respects to you, gentlemen! We are all soldiers of Christ, and I am too insignificant in rank to be the steward of your blood;" and he returned to his quarters, fled from men, struggled in solitude with his thoughts. In this way whole days passed. Meanwhile the town was in a tumult with swarm after swarm of new troops. The militia drank from morning till night; walking along the streets, they raised quarrels and disputes with officers of foreign levy. The regular soldiers, feeling also the reins of discipline relaxed, indulged in eating, drinking, and play. Every day there were new guests; consequently new feasts and amusements with the young women of Zbaraj. The troops crammed every street, were stationed too in the neighboring villages; and what a variety of horses, arms, uniforms, plumes, chain armor, and steel caps,--uniforms of various provinces! It seemed like a general carnival to which half the Commonwealth had come. At one moment dashes in a carriage of some magnate, gilt or purple, drawn by six or eight plumed horses; ahead of it outriders in Hungarian or German liveries; attending it household janissaries, Cossacks or Tartars. At another some legionaries appear glittering in velvet or satin without armor, and thrust apart the crowds with their Anatolian or Persian steeds. The plumes of their caps and brooches at their necks are glittering with brilliants and rubies, but all make way for them in sign of respect. Here before a balcony stands an officer of the country infantry, with fresh, bright collar, a long staff in his hand, pride in his face, a village heart in his breast; farther on glitter the rising helmets of the dragoons, the caps of the German infantry, lynx-skin caps of the militia; servants on errands squirm about as if in hot water. Here and there the streets are packed with wagons; in one place the wagons enter, squeaking mercilessly; every place is full of shouts, and cries of "Out of the road!"--curses of servants, disputes, fights, neighing of horses. The narrower streets are packed to such a degree with hay and straw that it is impossible to squeeze through. Amidst this multitude of bright uniforms glittering with all the colors of the rainbow, amidst velvet and cloths and shining satin glittering with brilliants, how strangely appear the regiments of the prince, haggard, tattered, emaciated, with rusty armor, faded and torn uniforms! Soldiers of the best regiments looked like wandering minstrels, worse than the attendants from other commands; but all bow before these rags, before this rust and shabbiness, for they are the banners of heroes. War is a cruel mother; like Saturn, she devours her own children, and whom she does not devour, she gnaws as a dog gnaws bones. Those faded uniforms signify stormy nights, marches amidst the rage of the elements or the burning of the sun; that rust on the steel means the unwiped blood of the man himself, of the enemy, or both together. So the Vishnyevetski men had the first place everywhere. They were the story-tellers in the taverns and the quarters, and others were listeners. Sometimes a spasm would seize one of the listeners, and striking his hands on his hips, he would say, "May the bullets strike you, for you are devils, not men!" But they would answer, "Not ours the merit, but the leader's, whose like the round of the earth has not shown to this day." All feasts therefore ended in shouts: "Vivat Yeremi! Vivat the prince voevoda, the leader of leaders, the hetman of hetmans!" The nobles, after they had drunk awhile, would rush out on the streets and fire guns and muskets. The prince's men warned them that their freedom was but for a time,--that a moment would come when the prince would take them in hand and enforce discipline such as they had never heard of. They took advantage of the opportunity all the more. "Let us rejoice while we are free," they cried. "When the time for obedience comes we will listen, for we have some one to obey who is not _baby_ nor _Latin_ nor _feather-bed_." And the unfortunate Prince Dominik always came out worst, for the soldiers' tongues ground him to bran. They said that he prayed whole days, and in the evening hung to the handle of a mug, spat on his stomach, and with one eye open inquired, "What is that?" They said also that he took "jalap" at night, and that he saw as many battles as there were depicted on his carpet by Dutch art. No one defended him any longer, and no one pitied him; and those who were in open opposition to military discipline attacked him most savagely. But all were surpassed by Zagloba, with his satire and ridicule. He had already recovered from the pain in his back, and was now in his element. How much he ate and drank it is vain to describe, for the thing passes human belief. Crowds of nobles followed and surrounded him continually, and he related, talked, and bantered with those who entertained him; he looked down, as an old soldier, on those who were going to war, and said to them, with all the pride of experience,-- "Gentlemen, you know as much about the hardships of war as a nun does of marriage. You have fresh clothes, and perfumed, the odor of which, though pleasant, I shall try in the first battle to keep on the lee side of me. The man who has not snuffed military garlic does not know how it draws tears. No one will bring you, gentlemen, your mug of hot beer of a morning, or your wine punch. The stomach will fall away from you, and you will shrink up like a pancake in the sun. Believe me, experience is the foundation of everything. I have been in many straits, and have captured more than one flag; but I must tell you, gentlemen, that none came to me with such difficulty as that at Konstantinoff. The devil take those Zaporojians! Seven sweats, I tell you, gentlemen, came out of me before I seized the flag-staff. You may ask Pan Yan, who killed Burdabut; he saw it with his own eyes, and admired the deed. But now all you have to do is to shout in the ear of any Cossack 'Zagloba!' and you will see what he will tell you. But why do I talk to you, who only know how to kill flies on the walls with the palms of your hands?" "But how was it,--how?" asked a crowd of young men. "Well, gentlemen, do you want my tongue to get red-hot with turning in my mouth, like an axle in a wagon?" "Then you must pour wine around it," said the nobles. "We might do that," answered Zagloba; and glad to find grateful listeners, he told them all, from the journey to Galáts and the flight from Rozlogi, to the capture of the banner at Konstantinoff. They listened with open mouths. Sometimes they murmured when, glorifying his own bravery, he presumed too much on their lack of experience; but he was invited and entertained each day in a new place. The time was passed, then, in pleasure and tumult at Zbaraj, till old Zatsvilikhovski and others of a more serious turn wondered that the prince suffered these feasts so long. But Yeremi remained in his own quarters. It was evident that he gave rein to the soldiers, so that all might taste every enjoyment before new conflicts. Skshetuski arrived now, and dropped as it were at once into a whirlpool of boiling water. He wanted rest in the circle of his companions; but still more did he wish to visit Bar,--to go to his loved one, and forget all his past troubles, all his fears and sufferings, in her embrace. He appeared before the prince therefore without delay, to report on his expedition to Zaslav and obtain leave of absence. He found the prince changed beyond recognition, so that he was astonished at his appearance, and asked in his mind: "Is this the chief whom I saw at Makhnovka and Konstantinoff?" For there stood before him a man bent with the burden of care, with sunken eyes and shrivelled lips, as if suffering from a grievous internal disease. When asked for his health he answered briefly and dryly that he was well, so the knight did not dare inquire further. Having made his report, he began immediately to ask for two months' absence from the squadron, that he might marry and take his wife to Skshetushevo. On hearing this the prince woke as it were from sleep. The expression of kindness habitual to him reappeared on his gloomy face, and embracing Pan Yan, he said,-- "This is the end of your suffering. Go, go! May God bless you! I should like to be at your wedding myself, for I owe that to Kurtsevichovna, as the daughter of Vassily, and to you as a friend; but at this time it is impossible for me to move. When do you wish to start?" "To-day, if I could, your Highness." "Then set out to-morrow. You cannot go alone. I will give you three hundred of Vershul's Tartars to bring her home in safety. You will go quickest with them, and you will need them, for bands of ruffians are wandering about. I will give you a letter to Andrei Pototski; but before I write to him, before the Tartars come, and before you are ready, it will be to-morrow evening." "As your Highness commands. I make bold to request further that Volodyovski and Podbipienta go with me." "Very well. Come again to-morrow morning for my farewell and a blessing. I should like also to send your princess a present. She is of a noted family. You will both be happy, because you are worthy of each other." The knight knelt and embraced the knees of his beloved chief, who repeated several times,-- "God make you happy! God make you happy! But come again to-morrow morning." Still the knight did not go; he lingered as if wishing to ask for something else. At last he broke out: "Your Highness!" "And what more do you say?" asked the prince, mildly. "Pardon my boldness, but--my heart is cut, and from sorrow comes great boldness. What affects your Highness? Does trouble weigh you down, or is it disease?" The prince put his hand on Skshetuski's head. "You cannot know this," said he, with sweetness in his voice. "Come to-morrow morning." Skshetuski rose and went out with a straitened heart. In the evening old Zatsvilikhovski came to Skshetuski's quarters, and with him little Volodyovski, Pan Longin, and Zagloba. They took their seats at the table, and Jendzian came into the room bearing a keg and glasses. "In the name of Father and Son!" cried Zagloba. "I see that your man has risen from the dead." Jendzian approached, and embraced Zagloba's knees. "I have not risen from the dead, for I did not die, thanks to you for saving me." Then Skshetuski added: "And afterward he was in Bogun's service." "Oh, that fellow would find promotion in hell," said Zagloba. Then, turning to Jendzian, he said: "You couldn't have found much joy in that service; here is a thaler for pleasure." "Thank you humbly," said Jendzian. "He," cried Pan Yan, "is a perfect rogue. He bought plunder of the Cossacks. You and I couldn't purchase what he has now, even if you were to sell all your estates in Turkey." "Is that true?" asked Zagloba. "Keep my thaler for yourself, and grow up, precious sapling; for if you'll not serve for a crucifix, you will serve at least for a gallows-tree. The fellow has a good eye." Here Zagloba caught Jendzian by the ear, and pulling it, continued: "I like rogues, and I prophesy that you will come out a man, if you don't remain a beast. And how does your master Bogun speak of you, hi?" Jendzian smiled, for the words and caress flattered him, and answered; "Oh, my master, when he speaks of you, he strikes fire with his teeth." "Oh, go to the devil!" cried Zagloba, in sudden anger. "What are you raving about?" Jendzian went out. They began to discuss the journey of the morrow, and the great happiness which was awaiting Pan Yan. Mead soon improved Zagloba's humor; he began to talk to Skshetuski, and hint of christenings, and again of the passion of Pan Andrei Pototski for the princess. Pan Longin sighed. They drank, and were glad with their whole souls. Finally the conversation touched upon military events and the prince. Skshetuski, who had not been in the camp for many days, asked,-- "Tell me, gentlemen, what has happened to our prince? He is somehow another man; I cannot understand it. God has given him victory after victory. They passed him by in the command. What of that? The whole army is rushing to him now, so that he will be hetman without any one's favor, and will destroy Hmelnitski; but it is evident that he suffers, and suffers from something--" "Perhaps the gout is taking hold of him," said Zagloba, "Sometimes when it gets a pull at me in the great toe, I am despondent for three days at a time." "I tell you, brothers," said Podbipienta, nodding his head, "I haven't heard this myself from the priest Mukhovetski, but I heard that he told some one why the prince is so tormented--I do not say this myself; he is a kindly man, good, and a great warrior,--why should I judge him? But since the priest says so--but do I know that it is so?" "Just look, gentlemen, at this Lithuanian!" cried Zagloba. "Am I not right in making fun of him, since he doesn't know human speech? What did you wish to say? You circle round and round, like a rabbit about her nest, but cannot come to a point." "What did you really hear?" asked Skshetuski. "Well, since for that--they say that the prince has shed too much blood. He is a great leader, but knows no measure in punishment, and now sees, it seems, everything red,--red in the daytime, red at night, as if a red cloud were surrounding him--" "Don't talk nonsense!" shouted Zatsvilikhovski, with rage. "Those are old wives' tales. There was no better master for the rabble in time of peace; and as to his knowing no mercy for rebels,--well, what of that? That is a merit, not an offence. What torments, what punishments, would be too great for those who have deluged the country in blood, who have given their own people captive to Tartars, who know neither God, king, country, nor authorities? Where will you show me such monsters as they, where such cruelties as they have perpetrated on women and little children? Where can you find such criminal wretches? For them the empaling stake and the gallows are too much. Tfu, tfu! You have an iron hand, but a woman's heart. I saw how you whined, when they were burning Pulyan, that you would rather have killed him on the spot. But the prince is no old woman; he knows how to reward and how to punish. What is the use of telling me such nonsense?" "But I have said, father, that I don't know," explained Pan Longin. The old man puffed for a long time yet, and smoothing his milk-white hair, muttered: "Red, h'm! red,--that's news. In the head of him who invented that it is green, and not red!" A moment of silence followed, but through the windows came the uproar of the revelling nobles. Little Volodyovski broke the silence reigning in the room. "Well, father, what do you think can be the matter with our prince?" "H'm!" said the old man, "I am not his confidant, therefore I do not know. He is thinking of something, he is struggling with himself,--a hot battle of some kind,--it cannot be otherwise; and the greater the soul, the fiercer the torture." The old knight was not mistaken; for in that same hour the prince, the leader, the conqueror, lay in the dust in his own quarters, before the crucifix, and was fighting one of the most desperate battles of his life. The guards at the castle of Zbaraj called out midnight, but Yeremi was still conversing with God and with his own lofty soul. Reason, conscience, love of country, pride, perception of his own power and great destiny, were turned into combatants within his breast, and fought a stubborn battle with one another, from which his breast was bursting, his head was bursting, and pain contorted all his limbs. Now, in spite of the primate, the chancellor, the senate, the generals, against the will of the government, the regular soldiers, the nobles, the foreign troops in private service, were going over to that conqueror,--in one word, the whole Commonwealth was placing itself in his hands, taking refuge under his wings, committing its fortune to his genius, and in the person of its choicest sons was crying: "Save, for you alone can save!" In one month or in two there will be at Zbaraj one hundred thousand warriors, ready for a struggle to the death with the serpent of civil war. Here pictures of a future surrounded with light immeasurable, of glory and power, began to pass before the eyes of the prince. Those who wished to pass him by and subdue him are trembling, and he takes those iron legions and leads them into the steppes of the Ukraine, to victories and triumphs such as history has not yet known. The prince feels in himself corresponding power, and from his shoulders wings shoot forth like the wings of the archangel Michael. And at that moment he turns into such a giant that the whole castle, all Zbaraj, all Russia, cannot contain him. As God lives, he will rub out Hmelnitski, he will trample the rebellion, he will bring back peace to the fatherland! He sees extended plains, legions of troops; he hears the roar of artillery. A battle! a battle! Victory unheard of, unparalleled! Legions of bodies, hundreds of banners, cover the blood-stained steppe, and he tramples on the body of Hmelnitski, and the trumpets sound victory, and that sound flies from sea to sea. The prince rises, rushes up, extends his hands to Christ, around whose head is a mild purple light. "Oh, Christ, Christ!" he cries, "thou knowest, thou seest that I can; tell me that I should do this." But Christ hung his head on his breast, and was as silent, as sorrowful as if he had been crucified the moment before. "To thee be the praise!" cried the prince. "Non mihi, non mihi, sed nomini tuo da gloriam! To the glory of the faith of the Church and of all Christianity! Oh, Christ, Christ!" And a new image opened before the eyes of the hero. That career was not ended by the victory over Hmelnitski. The prince, having destroyed the rebellion, grows strong on its body. He becomes gigantic in power. Legions of Cossacks are joined to legions of Poles, and he goes farther,--strikes the Crimea, reaches the terrible dragon in his den; he erects the cross where hitherto bells had never called the faithful to prayer. He will go also to those lands which the princes Vishnyevetski have already trampled with the hoofs of their horses, and will extend the boundaries of the Commonwealth, and with them the Church, to the remotest corners of the earth. Where then is the limit to this impetus, where the bounds to this glory, power, and strength? There are none whatever. The pale light of the moon falls into the chamber of the castle, but the clock beats a late hour, and the cocks are crowing. It will soon be day; but will it be a day in which with the sun in heaven a new sun will shine upon earth? Yes, it will. The prince would be a child and not a man if he did not do this, if for any reasons whatever he drew back before the voice of these destinies. Now he feels a certain calm, which the merciful Christ had evidently poured on him,--praise to him for that! His mind has become more sober; he takes in more easily too with the eyes of his soul the condition of the country and all its affairs. The policy of the chancellor and those magnates in Warsaw, as well as of the voevoda of Bratslav, is evil, and destructive for the country. To trample the Zaporojie first, and squeeze an ocean of blood out of it, break it, annihilate it, bend, and conquer, and then only acknowledge that everything is finished; to restrain all oppression; to introduce order, peace; being able to kill, to restore to life,--that was the only path worthy of that great, that lordly Commonwealth. It might have been possible perhaps to choose another path long before, but not now. What in truth could negotiations lead to then? Armed legionaries stand against one another in thousands; and even if negotiations were concluded, what power could they have! No, no! those are dream visions, shadows, a war extended over whole ages, a sea of tears and blood for the future. Let them take the only course which is great, noble, full of power, and he will wish and ask for nothing more. He will settle again in Lubni, and will wait quietly till the terrible trumpets call him to action again. Let them take it? But who? The Senate? The stormy Diet? The chancellor, the primate, or the commanders? Who, besides him, understands this great idea, and who can carry it out? If such a man can be found, it is well. But where is he? Who has the power? He alone,--no one else. To him the nobles come; to him the armies gather; in his hand is the sword of the Commonwealth,--but the Commonwealth when the king is on the throne. But now when there is no king the will of the people rules. It is the supreme law, expressed not only in the Diets, not only through deputies, the Senate, and chancellors, not only through written laws and manifestoes; but still more powerfully, more emphatically, more definitely, by action. And who rules in action? The knightly estate; and this knightly estate is assembling at Zbaraj, and says to him, "You are the leader." The whole Commonwealth without voting gives him authority by the power of events, and repeats, "You are the leader." And should he draw back? What appointment does he wish besides? From whom is he to expect it? Is it from those who are endeavoring to ruin the Commonwealth and to conquer him? Why should he, why should he? Is it because when panic seized upon all, when the hetmans went into captivity, and the armies were lost, magnates hid themselves in their castles, and the Cossack put the foot on the breast of the Commonwealth, he alone pushed away that foot and raised from the dust the fainting head of that mother; sacrificed for her everything,--life, fortune; saved her from shame, from death,--he the conqueror! Let him who has rendered more service, take the power. Let it rest in the hands of the man to whom it belongs more of right. He will resign that burden willingly, and say to God and the Commonwealth, "Let thy servant depart in peace;" for he is wearied, greatly weakened, and besides he is sure that neither the memory of him nor his grave will disappear. But if there is no such person, he would be doubly and trebly a child and not a man if he should resign that power, that bright path, that brilliant, immense future, in which lies the salvation of the Commonwealth, its power, glory, and happiness. And why should he? The prince raised his head again proudly, and his flaming glance fell on Christ; but Christ hung his head on his breast, and remained in silence as painful as if they had crucified him the moment before. Why should he? The hero pressed his heated temples with his hands. Maybe there is an answer. What is the meaning of those voices which amidst the golden rainbow visions of glory, amidst the thunder of coming victories, amidst the forebodings of grandeur, of power, call out so mercilessly to his soul, "Oh, halt, unfortunate one!" What means that unrest which goes through his breast like the shudder of alarm? What means it that when he shows himself most clearly and convincingly that he ought to take the power, something there in the depths of his conscience whispers, "You deceive yourself; pride misleads you; Satan promises you the glories of the kingdom"? And again a fearful struggle began in the soul of the prince; again he was carried away by a whirlwind of alarms, uncertainty, and doubts. What are the nobles doing who join him instead of the commanders? Trampling on law. What is the army doing? Violating discipline. And is he, a citizen, is he, a soldier, to stand at the head of lawlessness? Is he to cover it with his own dignity? Is he to give an example of insubordination, arbitrariness, disregard of law, and all merely to receive power two months earlier; for if Prince Karl shall be elected to the throne, power will not pass him by? Is he to give such a fearful example to succeeding ages? For what will happen? To-day Prince Yeremi acts in this way; to-morrow, Konyetspolski, Pototski Firlei, Zamoyski, or Lyubomirski. And if each one, without reference to law and discipline, acts according to his own ambition; if the children follow the example of their fathers and grandfathers,--what future is before that unhappy country? The worms of arbitrariness, disorder, self-seeking have so gnawed the trunk of that Commonwealth, that under the axe of civil war the rotten wood is scattered, the dry limbs fall from the tree. What will happen when those whose duty it is to guard and save it as the apple of the eye put fire under it? What will happen then? Ob, Jesus, Jesus! Hmelnitski too shields himself with the public good, and does nothing else; still he rises up against law and authority. A shudder passed through the prince from his feet to his head. He wrung his hands. "Am I to be another Hmelnitski, O Christ?" But Christ hung his head on his breast, and was as painfully silent as if crucified the moment before. The prince struggled on. If he should assume power, and the chancellor, the Senate, and the commanders should proclaim him a rebel, then what would happen? Another civil war? And then the question. Is Hmelnitski the greatest and most terrible enemy of the Commonwealth? More than once she has been invaded by still greater powers. When two hundred thousand armored Germans marched at Grünwald on the regiments of Yagello, and when at Khotím half Asia appeared in the fight, destruction seemed still nearer. And what had become of these hostile powers? No; the Commonwealth is not in danger from wars, and wars will not be her destruction. But why, in view of such victories, of such reserved power, of such glory, is she, who crushed the knights of the cross and the Turks, so weak and incompetent that she is on her knees before one Cossack, that her neighbors are seizing her boundaries, that nations are ridiculing her, that no one listens to her voice, or regards her anger, and that all are looking forward to her destruction? Ah! it is specifically the pride and ambition of magnates, each one acting by himself; self-will is the cause of it. The worst enemy is not Hmelnitski, but internal disorder, waywardness of the nobles, weakness and insubordination of the army, uproar of the Diets, brawls, disputes, confusion, weakness, self-seeking, and insubordination,--insubordination, above all. The tree is rotting and weakening from the heart. Soon will men see how the first storm will throw it; but he is a parricide who puts his hand to such work. Cursed be he and his children to the tenth generation! Go then, O conqueror of Nyemiroff, Pogrébische, Makhnovka, Konstantinoff,--go, prince voevoda,--go, snatch command from leaders, trample upon law and authority, give an example to posterity how to rend the entrails of the mother! Terror, despair, and fright were reflected in the face of the prince. He screamed terribly, and seizing himself by the hair, fell in the dust before the crucifix. The prince repented, and beat his worthy head on the stone pavement, and from his breast struggled forth the dull voice,-- "O God, be merciful to me a sinner! O God, be merciful to me a sinner! God, be merciful to me a sinner!" The rosy dawn was already in the sky, and then came the golden sun and lighted the hall. In the cornices the chattering of sparrows and swallows began. The prince rose and went to rouse his attendant Jelenski, who was sleeping on the other side of the door. "Run," said he, "to the orderlies, and tell them to summon to me from the castle and the town the colonels of the regular army and of the militia." Two hours later the hall began to be filled with the mustached and bearded forms of warriors. Of the prince's people there came old Zatsvilikhovski, Polyanovski, Pan Yan with Zagloba, Vurtsel, Maknitski, Volodyovski, Vershul, Ponyatovski, almost all the officers to the ensigns, except Kushel, who was in Podolia on a reconnoissance. From the regular army came Osinski and Koritski. Many of the more distinguished nobles were unable to rise from their feather-beds so early; but no small number, even of these, were assembled,--among them personages of various provinces, from castellans to sub-chamberlains. Murmurs and conversation resounded, and there was a noise as in a hive; but all eyes were turned to the door through which the prince was to come. All grew silent as the prince entered. His face was calm and pleasant; only his eyes reddened by sleeplessness, and his pinched features testified of the recent struggle. But through that calm and even sweetness appeared dignity and unbending will. "Gentlemen," said he, "last night I communed with God and my own conscience as to what I should do. I announce therefore to you, and do you announce to all the knightly order, that for the sake of the country and that harmony needful in time of defeat, I put myself under the commanders." A dull silence reigned in the assembly. In the afternoon of that day, in the court of the castle three hundred of Vershul's Tartars stood ready to journey with Pan Yan; and in the castle the prince was giving to the officers of the army a dinner which at the same time was a farewell feast to our knight. He was seated therefore by the prince as "the bridegroom;" and next to him sat Zagloba, for it was known that his daring and management had saved "the bride" from mortal peril. The prince was in good spirits, for he had cast the burden from his heart. He raised the goblet to the success of the future couple. The walls and windows trembled from the shouts of those present. In the anteroom was a bustle of servants, among whom Jendzian had the lead. "Gentlemen," said the prince, "let this third goblet be for posterity. It's a splendid stock. God grant that the apples may not fall far from the tree! From this falcon may noble falconets spring!" "Success to them! success to them!" "In thanks!" cried Pan Yan, emptying an enormous goblet of Malmoisie. "Success to them! success to them!" "Crescite et multiplicamini!" "You ought to furnish half a squadron," said old Zatsvilikhovski, laughing. "Oh, he will fill the army entirely! I know him," said Zagloba. The nobles roared with laughter. Wine rose to their heads. Everywhere were to be seen flushed faces, moving mustaches; and the good feeling was increasing every moment. Just then at the threshold of the hall appeared a gloomy figure, covered with dust; and in view of the table, the feast, and the gleaming faces, it stopped at the door as if hesitating to enter. The prince saw it first, wrinkled his brows, shaded his eyes, and said,-- "But who is there? Ah, that is Kushel! From the expedition. What news do you bring?" "Very bad, your Highness!" said the young officer, with a strange voice. Suddenly silence reigned in the assembly, as if some one had put it under a spell. The goblets raised to the lips remained half-way; all eyes were turned to Kushel, on whose wearied face pain was depicted. "It would have been better had you not spoken, since I am joyful at the cup," said the prince; "but since you have begun, speak to the end." "Your Highness, I too should prefer not to be an owl, for these tidings halt on my lips." "What has happened? Speak!" "Bar is taken!" CHAPTER XXXIV. Ok a certain calm night a band of horsemen, about twenty in number, moved along the right bank of the Valadinka in the direction of the Dniester. They went very slowly, the horses almost dragging one foot after the other. A short distance in front of the others rode two, as it were an advance guard; but evidently there was no cause for guarding or being on the watch, since for a whole hour they had been talking together instead of looking at the country about them. Reining in their horses every little while, they looked at the party behind, and one of them called out at this moment: "Slowly there! slowly!" And the others went still more slowly, scarcely moving. At last the party, pushing out from behind the eminence which had covered them with its shadow, entered the open country, which was filled with moonlight, and then it was possible to understand the reason of their careful gait. In the centre of the caravan two horses abreast carried a swing tied to their saddles, and in this swing lay the form of some person. The silver rays lighted its pale face and closed eyes. Behind the swing rode ten armed men. From their lances without bannerets, it was evident that they were Cossacks. Some led pack-horses, others rode by themselves; but while the two riders in front seemed to pay not the least attention to the country about them, those behind glanced around on every side with unquiet and alarm. And still the region seemed to be a perfect desert. Silence was unbroken save by the noise of the horses' hoofs and the calling of one of the riders in front, who from time to time repeated his warning: "Slowly! carefully!" At length he turned to his companion. "Horpyna, is it far yet?" he inquired. The companion called Horpyna, who in reality was a gigantic young woman disguised as a Cossack, looked at the starry heavens and replied,-- "Not far. We shall be there before midnight. We shall pass the Enemy's Mound, the Tartar Valley, and right there is the Devil's Glen. Oh, it would be terrible to pass that place between midnight and cockcrow! It's possible for me, but for you it would be terrible, terrible!" The first rider shrugged his shoulders and said: "I know the devil is a brother to you, but there are weapons against the devil." "Devil or not, there are no weapons," answered Horpyna. "If you, my falcon, had looked for a hiding-place through the whole world for your princess, you could not have found a better. No one will pass here after midnight unless with me, and in the glen no living man has yet put foot. If any one wants soothsaying, he waits in front of the glen till I come out. Never fear! Neither Pole nor Tartar will get there, nor any one, any one. The Devil's Glen is terrible, you will see for yourself." "Let it be terrible, but I say that I shall come as often as I like." "If you come in the daytime." "Whenever I please. And if the devil stands in my road, I'll seize him by the horns." "Oh, Bogun, Bogun!" "Oh, Dontsovna, Dontsovna, don't trouble yourself about me! Whether the devil takes me or not is no concern of yours; but I tell you this,--take council with your devils when you please, if only no harm comes to the princess; but if anything happens to her, then neither devils nor vampires will tear you from my grasp." "Oh, they tried to drown me once when I lived with my brother on the Don, another time the executioner was going to cut my head off in Yampol,--I didn't care for that. But this is another thing. I will guard her out of friendship for you, so that no spirit will make a hair of her head fall, and in my hands she is safe from men. She won't escape you." "And, you owl, if you talk this way, why do you prophesy evil? Why do you hoot in my ear, 'Pole at her side! Pole at her side!'" "It was not I that spoke, but the spirits. But now perhaps there is a change. I will prophesy for you to-morrow on the water of the mill-wheel. On the water everything is clearly visible, but it is necessary to look a long time, you will see yourself. But you are a furious dog; if the truth is told, you are angry and wish to kill one." Conversation was interrupted, and only the striking of the horses' feet against the stones was heard, and certain sounds from the direction of the river, like the chirping of crickets. Bogun paid not the least attention to these sounds, though they might astonish one in the night. He raised his face to the moon and fell into deep thought. "Horpyna!" said he, after a while. "What?" "You are a witch; you must know whether or not it is true that there is an herb of some kind that whoever drinks of it must fall in love,--lubystka, is it?" "Yes, lubystka. But unfortunately for you, lubystka will not help. If the princess hadn't fallen in love with some one else, then you might give it to her; but if she is in love, do you know what will happen?" "What?" "She will love the other man still more." "Oh, perish with your lubystka! You know how to prophesy evil, but you don't know how to help." "Listen to me! I know other herbs which grow from the earth; whoever drinks them will be like a stump two days and two nights, knowing nothing of the world. I will give her those herbs, and then--" The Cossack shuddered in his saddle, and fixed on the witch his eyes gleaming in the darkness. "What are you croaking about?" he asked. "Then you can--" said the witch, and burst into loud laughter like the neighing of a mare. This laughter resounded with ill-omened echo through the windings of the glen. "Wretch!" said Bogun. Then the light of his eyes went out gradually; he dropped again into meditation, and at length began to speak as if to himself,-- "No, no! When we captured Bar, I rushed first to the monastery, so as to defend her from the drunken crowd and smash the head of any man who should come near her; but she stabbed herself with a knife, and now has no consciousness of God's world. If I lay a finger on her, she will stab herself again, or jump into the river if you are not careful,--ill-fated that I am!" "You are at heart a Pole, not a Cossack, if you will not constrain the girl in Cossack fashion--" "That I were a Pole, that I were a Pole!" cried Bogun, grasping the cap on his head with both hands, for pain had seized him. "The Polish woman must have bewitched you," muttered Horpyna. "Ai! if she has not," answered he, sadly, "may the first bullet not pass me; may I finish my wretched life on the empaling stake! I love one in the world, and that one does not love me!" "Fool!" cried Horpyna, with anger; "but you have got her!" "Hold your tongue!" cried he, with rage. "If she lays hands on herself, then what? I'll tear you apart and then myself. I'll break my head against a rock, I'll gnaw people like a dog. I would have given my soul for her, Cossack fame. I would have fled beyond the Yagorlik from the regiments to the end of the earth, to live with her, to die at her side. That's what I would have done. But she stabbed herself with a knife, and through whom? Through me! She stabbed herself with a knife! Do you hear?" "That's nothing. She will not die." "If she dies, I will nail you to the door." "You have no power over her." "I have none, I have none. Would she had stabbed me,--it would have been better had she killed me!" "Silly little Pole! She should have been kind to you. Where will she find your superior?" "Arrange this, and I will give you a pot of ducats and another of pearls. In Bar we took booty not a little, and before that we took booty too." "You are as rich as Prince Yeremi, and full of fame. They say Krívonos himself is afraid of you." The Cossack waved his hand. "What is that to me if my heart is sore--" And silence came again. The bank of the river grew wider and more desolate. The pale light of the moon lent fantastic forms to the trees and the rocks. At last Horpyna said,-- "This is the Enemy's Mound. We must ride together." "Why?" "It is a bad place." They reined in their horses, and after a while the party coming on behind joined them. Bogun rose in the stirrups and looked into the cradle. "Is she asleep?" he asked. "She is sleeping as sweetly as an infant," answered an old Cossack. "I gave her a sleeping dose," said the witch. "Slowly, carefully!" said Bogun, fixing his eyes on the sleeper; "don't wake her! The moon is looking straight into her face, my dear one!" "It shines quietly, it will not wake her," whispered one of the Cossacks. The party moved on. Soon they arrived at the Enemy's Mound. It was a low hill lying close to the river and sloping like a round shield on the earth. The moon covered the place entirely with its beams, lighting up the white stones scattered over the whole extent of it. In some spots they lay singly; in others they formed heaps, as it were fragments of buildings, ruined castles, and churches. Here and there stone slabs stuck up, planted endwise in the earth like gravestones in a cemetery. The whole mound was like a great ruin, and perhaps in other ages, long before the days of the Yagellons, human life flourished upon it; now not only the mound but the whole neighborhood as far as Rashkoff was an empty waste, in which wild beasts alone found refuge, and in the night evil spirits held their dances. The party had scarcely reached half the height of the mound, when the light breeze which had been blowing hitherto changed into a regular whirlwind, which began to encircle the mound with a certain gloomy, ominous whistling; and then it appeared to the Cossacks that among those ruins were heard heavy sighs, issuing as it were from straitened breasts, sad groans, laughter, wailing, and puling of infants. The whole mound began to be alive, to call with various voices. From behind the stones lofty dark figures seemed to look, shadows of strange forms glided along quietly among the slabs. Far off in the darkness gleamed lights like the eyes of wolves. Finally, from the other end of the mound, from among the thickest heaps and piles, was heard a low guttural howling, to which other howling responded at once. "Vampires!" whispered a young Cossack, turning to the old essaul. "No, werewolves," answered the old essaul, in a still lower voice. "O Lord, have mercy on us!" said others in terror, removing their caps and crossing themselves devoutly. The horses began to point their ears forward and snort. Horpyna, riding at the head of the party, muttered unintelligible words, as it were a sort of Satanic Pater-noster. When they had arrived at the other end of the mound, she turned and said,-- "Well, it is over. We are safe now. I had to keep them back with a charm, for they were very hungry." A sigh of relief came from every breast. Bogun and Horpyna rode ahead again; but the Cossacks, who a little while before had held their breaths, began to whisper and talk. Each one remembered what had happened to him when he met ghosts or werewolves. "We couldn't have passed without Horpyna," said one. "She is a powerful witch." "And our ataman does not fear even the werewolf. He didn't look, didn't listen, only turned toward his princess." "If what happened to me happened to him, he wouldn't have been so free from danger," said the old essaul. "And what happened to you, Father Ovsivuyu?" "Once, while riding from Reimentarovka to Gulaipolye, I passed near some mounds at night, and I saw something jump from a grave behind me on the saddle. I looked; it was a little child, blue and pale! Evidently the Tartars had taken it captive with its mother and it had died without baptism. Its eyes were burning like candles, and it wailed and wailed. It jumped from the saddle to my neck, and I felt it biting me behind the ear. O Lord, save us! it is a vampire! I had served long in Wallachia, where there are more vampires than people, but where there are weapons against them. I sprang from the horse and thrust my dagger into the ground. 'A vaunt! disappear!' and it groaned, seized the hilt of the dagger, and slipped down along the edge under the grass. I cut the ground in the form of a cross and rode off." "Are there so many vampires in Wallachia, father?" "Every other Wallachian after death becomes a vampire, and the Wallachian vampires are the worst of all. They call them brukolaki." "And who is stronger, father,--the werewolf or the vampire?" "The werewolf is stronger, but the vampire is more stubborn. If you are able to get the upper hand of the werewolf, he will serve you, but vampires are good for nothing except to follow blood. The werewolf is always ataman over the vampires." "And Horpyna commands the werewolves?" "Yes, surely. As long as she lives she will command them. If she had not power over them, then the ataman would not give her his cuckoo, for werewolves thirst for maiden's blood above all." "But I have heard that they have no approach to an innocent soul." "To a soul they have not, but to a body they have." "Oh, it would be a pity! She is a beauty. Blood and milk! our father knew what to take in Bar." Ovsivuyu smacked his tongue. "There is no denying it; she is a golden Pole." "But I am sorry for her," said a young Cossack. "When we were putting her in the swing she clasped her white hands and begged, saying, 'Kill me; do not ruin me, unfortunate one!'" "No harm will come to her." Further conversation was interrupted by the approach of Horpyna. "Hei! young men," said the witch, "this is Tartar Valley, but don't fear; it is terrible here only one night in the year. Right after it is the Devil's Glen, and then my place." In fact, the howling of dogs was soon heard. The party entered the mouth of the glen, running at right angles to the river, and so narrow that four horses could hardly enter it abreast. At the bottom of this chasm flowed a rivulet, changing color in the light of the moon like a snake, and running quickly to the river. But as the party pushed on, the precipitous and jagged walls receded from each other, leaving a rather roomy, slightly ascending valley, enclosed at each side with cliffs. The place was covered here and there with lofty trees. No wind was blowing. Long, dark shadows of the trees lay on the ground, and in the spaces flooded with the light of the moon certain white, round, or prolonged objects gleamed sharply, in which the Cossacks recognized with terror the skulls and leg-bones of men. They looked around therefore with distrust, marking their foreheads from time to time with the cross. Soon a light glimmered in the distance between the trees, and at that same time two terrible dogs ran up, enormous, black, with gleaming eyes, barking and howling at the sight of the men and horses. At the voice of Horpyna they stopped, however, and began to run around the riders, sneezing and panting. "They are not what they seem," whispered the Cossacks. "They are not dogs," said old Ovsivuyu, in a voice betraying deep conviction. Just then a cottage became visible behind the trees; back of it a stable; farther and higher up another dark building. The cottage appeared strong and well-built, and in its windows a light was shining. "This is my dwelling," said Horpyna to Bogun, "and up there is the mill which grinds grain for us; and I tell fortunes from the water on the wheel. I will tell yours. Your princess will live in the best chamber; but if you wish to ornament the walls, we can remove her to the other side immediately. Stop and dismount!" The party halted, and Horpyna began to cry: "Cheremís, I say! Cheremís!" A figure holding a bunch of burning pitch-pine came out in front of the cottage, and raising the torch, began to look in silence at those present. It was an old man, an ugly creature, small, quite a dwarf, with a flat, square face, and slanting eyes, like cracks. "What sort of devil are you?" asked Bogun. "Don't ask him," said the giantess; "his tongue is cut out. Come nearer and listen!" continued the witch; "it is better, perhaps, to carry the princess to the mill. The Cossacks will fit up her chamber, and drive nails that would wake her up." The Cossacks, having dismounted, began to untie the swing carefully. Bogun watched over everything with the greatest care, and carried the head of the swing himself when it was taken to the mill. The dwarf lighted the way in advance with the torch. The princess, put to sleep by Horpyna with a decoction of somniferous herbs, did not wake; her eyelids merely trembled a little from the light of the torch. Her face appeared alive from those red gleams. Perhaps, also, wonderful dreams soothed the girl, for she smiled sweetly during the journey, which was like a funeral. Bogun looked at her, and it appeared to him that his heart would break the ribs in his breast. "My darling, my cuckoo!" whispered he quietly; and the terrible though beautiful face of the chief became mild, and flamed with the great light of love, which had seized him, and was seizing him every moment the more, as fire, forgotten by the traveller, seizes the wild steppe. Horpyna, walking at his side, said: "When she wakes from this sleep she will be well. Her wound will heal, and she will be well." "Glory be to God! glory be to God!" answered the chief. The Cossacks began to loosen from six horses great packs in front of the cottage, and to take out the booty,--rich stuffs, carpets, and other valuables taken at Bar. A good fire was kindled in the room; and when some brought in new tapestry, others put it up to the wooden walls of the room. Bogun not only thought of a safe cage for his bird, but he determined so to furnish it that captivity should not seem unendurable. He came soon from the mill and directed the work himself. The night was passing away, and the moon had already removed its pale light from the summits of the cliffs. In the cottage were still heard the muffled blows of hammers. The simple room had become more like a chamber, when the walls were covered with drapery and the floor carpeted. The sleeping princess was brought back and placed on soft cushions. Then all grew silent, except that in the stable for some time yet bursts of laughter were heard in the stillness like the neighing of a horse: the young witch was wrestling with the Cossacks, giving them fisticuffs and kisses. CHAPTER XXXV. The sun was high when the princess opened her eyes from sleep on the following day. Her glance rested first on the ceiling, and remained there long; then it took in the whole room. In her breast returning consciousness struggled still with the remnants of sleep and visions. On her face were depicted wonder and disquiet. Where is she, whence did she come, and in whose power is she? Is she dreaming yet, or is she awake? What means the splendor with which she is surrounded? What has happened to her? At that moment the awful scenes of the taking of Bar rose before her as if in life. She remembered everything,--the slaughter of thousands of nobles, townspeople, priests, nuns, and children; the faces of the mob smeared in blood, their necks and heads wound around with the still steaming entrails, the drunken uproar, that day of judgment for the ruined town; finally the appearance of Bogun and her seizure. She remembered also how in a moment of despair she had fallen upon a knife held by her own hand, and the cold sweat stood on her temples. It was evident that the knife slipped along her shoulder, for she suffers only a little pain; but immediately she feels that she is alive, that strength and health are returning to her, and finally she remembers that she has been borne a long time somewhere in a swing. But where is she now? In some castle, is she saved, rescued, out of danger? And again her eyes wandered around the room. The windows in it were small, square, as in a peasant's cottage, and the world outside could not be seen through them; for instead of panes o£ glass, they were fitted with pieces of white membrane. Was it really a peasant's cottage? No, for the unbounded luxury within bears witness against that. Instead of a ceiling over her head was an enormous piece of purple silk on which were embroidered golden stars and a moon; the walls were entirely hung in brocade; on the floor lay a many-colored carpet, covered as with living flowers. In front of the fireplace was a Persian rug; golden fringes, silks, velvets, everywhere, from the walls of the ceiling to the pillows on which her head is reposing. The bright light of day, penetrating the window membranes, lighted up the interior, but was lost in the purple, dark violet, and sapphire colors of the velvet, forming a kind of enchanted rainbow darkness. The princess marvelled, did not believe her eyes. Was this some witchery, or had not the troops of Yeremi rescued her from the hands of Cossacks and put her away in one of the prince's castles? She clasped her hands. "Oh, Holy Most Pure! grant that the first face to appear at the door shall be the face of my guardian and friend!" Then through the heavy fringed bed-curtain came to her the flowing sound of a distant lute, and at the same time a voice began to accompany with the familiar song,-- "Oh, this loving Is worse than sickness! Sickness I can live through, And grow well again; But my faithful loving I cannot part with while I live." The princess raised herself, and the longer she listened the wider stared her eyes from terror. At last she screamed and fell as if dead on the cushions. She recognized the voice of Bogun. Her scream passed evidently through the walls of the chamber; for after a while the heavy curtain rustled, and the chief himself appeared on the threshold. Kurtsevichovna covered her eyes with her hands, and her whitened and quivering lips repeated, as if in a fever: "Jesus, Mary! Jesus, Mary!" And yet the sight which so terrified her would have rejoiced the eyes of more maidens than one, for there was a blaze from the apparel and the countenance of the young hero. The diamond buttons of his uniform glittered like stars in heaven, his dagger and sabre were covered with precious stones, his coat of silver cloth and his scarlet kontush doubled the beauty of his brunette face; and he stood before her, lithe, dark-browed, magnificent,--the beauty of all the Ukraine heroes. But his eyes were in mist, like stars curtained by haze, and he looked on her with obedience; and seeing that fear did not leave her face, he began to speak in a low, sad voice,-- "Have no fear, Princess!" "Where am I? where am I?" asked she, looking at him through her fingers. "In a safe place, far from war. Fear not, my dear soul! I brought you here from Bar, so that no harm might come to you from man or war. The Cossacks spared no one in Bar; you alone came out alive." "What are you doing here? Why do you pursue me?" "I pursue you! Oh, merciful God!" And the chief extended his arms as a man who is confronted by a great injustice. "I fear you terribly," she said. "And why do you fear? If you say so, I shall not move from the door. I am your slave; I will sit here at the door and look into your eyes. Evil I do not wish you. Why do you hate me? Oh, merciful God! you thrust a knife into your body at the sight of me, though you have known me long, and knew that I was going to defend you. You know I am not a stranger to you, but a heartfelt friend; and you stabbed yourself with a knife." The pale cheeks of the princess were suddenly suffused with blood. "I preferred death to disgrace; and I swear, if you do not respect me, I will kill myself, even if I were to lose my soul!" The eyes of the maiden flashed fire, and the chief knew that there was no trifling with the princely blood of the Kurtsevichi; for in her frenzy she would carry out her threat, and a second time would point the knife with more success. He made no answer, therefore, merely advanced a couple of steps toward the window, and sitting on bench covered with gold brocade, hung his head. Silence lasted for a time. "Be at rest," said he. "While my head is clear, while Mother Gorailka does not heat my brain, you are for me like an image in the church. But since I found you in Bar I have ceased to drink. Before that I drank and drank, drowning my sorrow with Mother Gorailka. What could I do? But now I take to my mouth neither sweet wine nor spirits." The princess was silent. "I will look on you," he continued, "comfort my eyes with your face, then go." "Give me back my liberty!" said she. "But are you in captivity? You are mistress here. And where do you want to go? The Kurtsevichi have perished, fire has devoured villages and towns; the prince is not in Lubni, he is marching against Hmelnitski and Hmelnitski against him; war is everywhere, blood is flowing; every place is filled with Cossacks and Tartars and soldiers. Who will have sympathy and respect for you? Who will defend you, if not I?" The princess raised her eyes, for she remembered that there was another in the world who would give her protection, sympathy, and defence; but she would not speak his name, so as not to rouse the fierce lion. Deep sorrow therefore pressed her heart. Was he for whom her soul was yearning still alive? While in Bar she knew that he was, for immediately after the departure of Zagloba she heard Skshetuski's name coupled with the victories of the terrible prince. But from that time how many days and nights had passed, how many battles might have been fought, how many perils have reached him. News of him could come to her then only through Bogun, of whom she neither wished nor dared to inquire. Her head then dropped on the cushions. "Am I to remain a prisoner here?" asked she, with a groan. "What have I done to you, that you follow me like misfortune?" The Cossack raised his head, and began to speak so quietly that scarcely could he be heard. "What have you done to me? I know not; but this I do know, that if I am misfortune to you, you too are misfortune to me. If I had not loved you, I should have been free as the wind in the field, free in heart and in soul, and full of glory as was Konashevich Sahaidachny himself. Your face is my misfortune, your eyes are my misfortune; neither freedom is dear to me, nor Cossack glory! What were beauties to me, till from being a child you had grown to be a woman? Once I captured a galley with maidens the most beautiful, for they were on the way to the Sultan; and no one of them touched my heart. The Cossack brothers played with them; then I ordered a stone to the neck of each, and into the water they went. I feared no man, I minded nothing. I went with war against the Pagan. I took booty, and like a prince in his castle was I in the steppe. And to-day what am I? I sit here; I am a slave. I crave a kind word from you and cannot receive it; I have never heard it, even when your aunt and your cousins gave you to me. Oh, if you, girl, had been different to me, then what has come to pass would not have been! I should not have stricken down your cousins, I should not have joined fraternal hands with rebellion and peasants; but through you I have lost my mind. If you had wished to lead me anywhere, you could have led me where you liked, and I should have given you my blood, my soul. Now I am steeped in blood of nobles; but in old times I killed only Tartars, and brought you booty, that you might be clothed in gold and jewels like cherubim of the Lord. Why did you not love me, then? Oh, it is heavy and sad at my heart! I cannot live with you nor without you, nor far away nor near you, neither on the mountain nor in the valley, my dove, my precious heart! But forgive me that I came for you to Rozlogi in Cossack style, with sabre and fire; but I was drunk with anger at the princes, and I drank gorailka on the way,--unhappy outlaw! But afterward, when you escaped me, I howled like a dog, and my wounds tortured me, and I could not eat. I begged death to take me; and you want me to yield you now, to lose you a second time, my dove, my heart!" The chief stopped, for his voice broke in his throat, and he began to groan. Helena's face grew red and pale by turns. The more of measureless love there was in Bogun's words, the greater the gulf which opened before her, bottomless, and without hope of rescue. The Cossack rested awhile, regained self-command, and continued,-- "Ask what you like. See how the room is decorated! This is mine; this is booty from Bar, which I brought for you on six horses. Ask what you wish,--yellow gold, shining garments, bright jewels, willing slaves. I am rich, I have enough of my own; and Hmelnitski will not spare treasures on me, and Krívonos will not spare them. You will be like Princess Vishnyevetski. I will win castles for you, give you half the Ukraine; for though I am a Cossack, not a noble, I am a bunchuk ataman. Under me are ten thousand men,--more than Prince Yeremi commands. Ask what you like, only not to flee from me,--only stay with me and love me, O my dove!" The princess raised herself on the cushions. She was very pale, but her sweet and marvellous face expressed such unbroken will, pride, and power that the dove was most like an eagle at that moment. "If you are waiting for my answer," said she, "then know that if I had even a lifetime to groan out in captivity with you, never, never should I love you, God be my aid!" Bogun struggled with himself a moment. "Do not tell me such things," said he, with a hoarse voice. "Do not speak to me of your love; it brings me shame and offence. I am not for you." The chief rose. "And for whom, then, are you, Princess Kurtsevichovna? And whose would you have been in Bar but for me?" "Whoso saves my life to give me shame and captivity is my enemy, not my friend." "And do you suppose that the peasants would have killed you? The thought is terrible." "The knife would have killed me, but you wrenched it from me." "And I will not give it up, for you must be mine," burst out the Cossack. "Never! I prefer death." "You must and will be." "Never!" "Well, if you were not wounded, after what you have told me, I should send my Cossacks to Rashkoff to-day and have a monk brought here, and to-morrow I should be your husband. Then what? It is a sin not to love your husband and fondle him. Ai! you high mighty lady, the love of a Cossack is an offence, an anger to you. And who are you that I am for you a peasant? Where are your castles and boyars and troops? At what are you angry,--at what are you offended? I took you in war; you are a captive. If I were a peasant, I should teach you reason on the white shoulders with the whip, and without a priest would have enough of your beauty,--if I were a peasant, not a knight!" "Angels of heaven, save me!" whispered the princess. But in the mean while greater and greater fury rose to the face of Bogun, and anger seized him by the hair. "I know," said he, "why you're offended, why you resist me. You preserve for another your maiden modesty. But in vain, as I live, as I am a Cossack! Nakedness[15] the noble! The insincere, miserable Pole barely saw you, merely turned with you in the dance,--death to him!--and took you captive altogether. Then let the Cossack suffer, break his head. But I will reach this Pole, and I will order him torn out of his skin, will nail him up. Do you know that Hmelnitski is marching on the Poles, and I go with him; and I will find your dove even under the ground, and when I return I will throw his head at your feet as a present." Helena did not hear the last words of the ataman. Pain, anger, wounds, emotion, terror, took her strength; an immeasurable weakness came upon all her limbs, her eyes and her thoughts grew dark, and she fell into a swoon. The chief stood some time, pale from anger, with foam on his lips. Then he saw the lifeless head hanging back powerless, and from his lips went out a roar almost unearthly. "It is all over with her! Horpyna! Horpyna!" And he threw himself on the floor. The giantess rushed into the room with all speed. "What is the matter?" "Help! help!" cried Bogun. "I have killed her, my soul, my light!" "What! Did you scold her?" "I have killed her, I have killed her!" groaned he; and he wrung his hands over his head. But Horpyna, approaching the princess, soon discovered that it was not death, but a deep faint, and putting Bogun outside the door, began to assist her. The princess opened her eyes after a time. "My dear, there is nothing the matter with you," said the enchantress. "You were frightened at him, I see, and darkness settled on you; but the darkness will pass and health will come. You are like a nut, my girl; you have long to live in the world and enjoy happiness." "Who are you?" asked the princess, with a weak voice. "I? Your servant, for he so ordered it." "Where am I?" "In the Devil's Glen. A pure wilderness here; you will see no one but him." "Do you live here?" "My farm is here. I am Dontsovna. My brother is a colonel under Bogun; he leads young heroes, and I stay here, and will care for you in this golden chamber. From a cottage it has become a bower, so that light gleams from it. He has brought all this for you." Helena looked at the lively face of the young woman, and it seemed to her full of sincerity. "But will you be good to me?" The white teeth of the young witch gleamed in a smile. "I shall; why shouldn't I? But do you be good also to the ataman. He is a falcon, he is a glorious hero, he will--" Here the witch bent to the ear of Helena, whispered something, then burst into laughter. "Be off!" screamed the princess. CHAPTER XXXVI. Two days later in the morning Horpyna sat with Bogun under the willow near the mill-wheel, and looked at the water foaming on it. "You will be careful of her, you will guard her, you will not let your eye off her, so that she shall never leave the glen." "The glen has a narrow neck near the river, but there is space enough here. Order the neck to be filled with stones, and we shall be as if in the bottom of a jug. When I need to go out I shall find a way." "How do you live here?" "Cheremís plants corn under the cliffs, cultivates grapes, and snares wild fowl. With what you have brought she will want nothing unless bird's milk. Have no fear! She will not leave the glen, and no one will know of her unless your men say she is here." "I have made them swear silence. They are faithful fellows; they will say nothing, even if straps were torn from their skin. But you said yourself that people came here to you as to a soothsayer." "Sometimes they come from Rashkoff, and sometimes when they hear of me they come from God knows what places. But they stay at the river; no one enters the glen, for they are afraid. You saw the bones. These were people who wished to enter; their bones are lying around." "Did you kill them?" "Whoever killed them, killed them! Those in search of soothsaying wait at the opening of the glen and I go to the wheel. What I see in the water, I tell them. I shall examine for you directly, but I don't know whether anything will be seen, for it does not always appear." "If only you see nothing bad!" "If I see something bad, you will not go; and in that case it would be better not to go." "I must. Hmelnitski sent me a letter to Bar to return, and Krívonos ordered me. The Poles are marching on us now with great forces, so we must concentrate." "When will you come back?" "I know not. There will be a great battle such as has not been yet. Either death to us or to the Poles. If they beat us, I will hide here; if we are victorious, I will come for my cuckoo and take her to Kieff." "And if you perish?" "Being a witch, it is for you to tell." "But if you perish?" "Once my mother bore me." "Oh, pshaw! But what shall I do with the girl,--twist her neck, or how?" "But touch her with your hand and I will have you drawn on a stake with oxen." The chief fell into gloomy thought. "If I perish, tell her to forgive me." "Ah, she is a thankless Pole that for such love she does not love. If I were wooed in that way, I should not resist you." Saying this, Horpyna nudged the chief in the side twice, showing all her teeth in laughter. "Go to the devil!" said the Cossack. "Oh, be quiet! I know that you are not for me." Bogun looked into the foaming water on the wheel as if he wished himself to soothsay. "Horpyna!" said he after a while. "Well, what is it?" "When I have gone will she be sorry for me?" "If you are not willing to constrain her in Cossack fashion, then perhaps it is better for you to go." "I will not, I cannot, I dare not. I know that she would die." "Then maybe it is better for you to go. While she sees you she will not wish to know you, but when she has been a couple of months with me and Cheremís, you will be dearer to her." "If she were well, I know what I should do. I should bring a priest from Rashkoff and have a marriage celebrated; but now I am afraid, for if she were frightened, she would die. You have seen yourself." "Leave us in peace. What do you want of a priest and a marriage? You are not a real Cossack. I want neither Pole nor Russian priest here. There are Dobrudja Tartars in Rashkoff, you want to get them on our shoulders too; and if you should bring them, how much of the princess would you see? What has got into your head? Go your way and come back." "But look in the water and tell me what you see. Tell the truth and don't lie, even if you should see me dead." Dontsovna approached the mill-stream and raised a gate holding back the water at the fall. All at once the swift current rushed with redoubled force, the wheel began to turn more swiftly, until at last it was covered with liquid dust; the foam, beaten fine, rolled under the wheel like boiling water. The witch bent her eyes into the boiling mass and seizing the tresses near her ears, began to cry,-- "I call! I call! Appear! In the oaken wheel, in the white foam, in the clear mist, whether evil, whether good, appear!" Bogun approached and sat at her side. His face denoted fear and feverish curiosity. "I see!" screamed the witch. "What do you see?" "The death of my brother. Two bullocks are drawing him on a stake." "To the devil with your brother!" muttered Bogun, who wished to know something else. For a time was heard only the thunder of the wheel whirling around in fury. "Blue is my brother's head, how blue! The ravens are tearing it," said the witch. "What else do you see?" "Nothing. Oh, how blue! I call! I call! In the oaken wheel, in the white foam, in the clear mist, appear! I see--" "What?" "A battle! The Poles are fleeing before the Cossacks." "And I am pursuing?" "I see you too. You encounter a little knight. Hur! hur! hur! Be on your guard against the little knight." "And the princess?" "She is not there. I see you again, and with you some one who is betraying you,--your false friend." Bogun was devouring with his eyes at one instant the foam, at another Horpyna; and at the same time he worked with his brain to aid the soothsaying. "What friend?" "I don't see. I don't know whether old or young." "Old, he must be old!" "Maybe he is old!" "I know who he is. He has betrayed me once already. An old noble with a blue beard and a white eye. Death to him! But he is not a friend of mine." "He is lying in wait for you, I see again--Stop! the princess is here too; she is in a crown, a white dress, above her a hawk." "That is I." "Maybe it is. A hawk--or a falcon? A hawk!" "That is I." "Wait! All has vanished. In the oaken wheel, in the white foam-- Oh! oh! many soldiers, many Cossacks, oh, many, like trees in the forest or thistles in the steppes; and you are above all,--they are bearing three bunchuk standards before you." "And the princess is with me?" "She is not; you are in the camp." The wheel roared till the whole mill trembled. "Oh, how much blood, how much blood! how many corpses,--wolves above them, ravens above them, plague above them! Corpses and corpses,--far away nothing but corpses, nothing to be seen but blood!" Suddenly a breath of wind whirled the mist from the wheel; and at the same time higher up above the mill appeared the deformed Cheremís with a bundle of wood on his shoulders. "Cheremís, let down the sluice!" cried the girl. When she had said this she went to wash her hands and face in the stream, and the dwarf stopped the water at once. Bogun sat in thought. He was roused first by the coming of Horpyna. "You saw nothing more?" he asked. "What appeared, appeared; I shall see nothing more." "And you are not lying?" "By my brother's head, I spoke the truth. They were empaling him, drawing him on with oxen. I grieve for him. But death is written not for him alone. Oh, what bodies appeared! Never have I seen so many; there will be a great war in the world." "And you saw her with a hawk above her head?" "Yes." "And was she in a wreath?" "In a wreath and a white robe." "And how do you know that that hawk was I? I spoke to you of that young Polish noble,--maybe it was he?" The girl wrinkled her brows and grew thoughtful. "No," said she after a while, shaking her head; "if it had been the Pole, it would have been an eagle." "Glory to God, glory to God! I will go now to the Cossacks to prepare the horses for the road. We go to-night." "So you are going surely?" "Hmelnitski has ordered, and Krívonos too. You know well that there will be a great war, for I read the same in Bar in a letter from Hmelnitski." Bogun in reality could not read, but he was ashamed of it; he did not wish to pass for illiterate. "Then go!" said the witch. "You are lucky,--you will be hetman. I saw three bunchuks above you as I see these fingers." "And I shall be hetman and marry the princess,--I cannot take a peasant." "You would talk differently with a peasant girl, but you are afraid of her. You should be a Pole." "I am no worse." Bogun now went to the stable to the Cossacks, and Horpyna set about preparing dinner. In the evening the horses were ready for the road, but the chief was in no hurry to depart. He sat on a roll of carpets in the chamber, with lute in hand, and looked on his princess, who had risen from the couch, but had thrust herself into the other corner of the room, and was repeating in silence the rosary without paying any heed to the chief, just as if he had not been in the room. He, on the contrary, followed with his eyes every movement of hers, caught with his ears every sigh, and knew not what to do with himself. From time to time he opened his mouth to begin conversation, but the words would not leave his throat. The face pale, silent, and with an expression of decisive sternness in the brows and mouth, deprived him of courage. Bogun had not seen this expression on the princess before, and involuntarily he remembered similar evenings at Rozlogi, which appeared before him as if real,--how they sat, he and the Kurtsevichi around an oaken table, the old princess husking sunflower seeds, the princes throwing dice from a cup, he looking on the beautiful princess just as he was looking now. But in the old time he was happy, for then he told of his expeditions with the Zaporojians, she listened, and at times her dark eyes rested on his face, and her open red lips showed with what interest she listened; now she would not even look. Then when he played on the lute she would listen and look, till the heart melted within him. And, wonder of wonders, he is now master of her,--he has taken her with armed hand; she is his captive, his prisoner; he can command her. But nevertheless in the old time he felt himself nearer, more her equal in rank. The Kurtsevichi were her cousins, she was as a sister; she was not only his cuckoo, falcon, dearest, dark-browed, but also a relative. Now she sits before him a proud lady, gloomy, silent, merciless. Ah, but anger is boiling within him! He would like to show her what it means to slight a Cossack; but he loves this merciless woman, he would shed his blood for her. But how many times had anger seized his breast! when suddenly an unseen hand, as it were, grasps him by the hair, and a voice shouts in his ear, "Stop!" He belches forth something like a flame, beats his forehead on the earth, and stops. The Cossack squirms now, for he feels that he is oppressive to her in that room. Let her but smile and give a kind word, he would fall at her feet and go to the devil, to drown in Polish blood all his grief and anger together with the insult put upon him. But in that room he is like a captive before that princess. If he had not known her of old, if she were a Pole taken from the first noble castle, he would have more daring; but she is Princess Helena, for whom he had asked the Kurtsevichi, and for whom he was willing to give up Rozlogi and all he had. And the more ashamed he is of being a slave before her, the less bold is he. An hour passed. From before the cottage came the murmur of the talk of the Cossacks, who were surely in their saddles and waiting for the ataman; but the ataman was in torture. The bright light of the torch falls on his face, on the rich kontush, and on the lute. And she--if she would even look! The ataman felt bitter, angry, sad, and awkward. He would like to bid farewell with tenderness, and he fears the parting,--fears that it will not be such as from his soul he desires,--fears to go away in bitterness, anger, and pain. Oh, if she were not that Princess Helena,--the Princess Helena stabbed with a knife, threatening death with her own hand; but dear, dear, and the more cruel and proud, the dearer is she! Then a horse neighed near the window. The chief mustered courage. "Princess," said he, "it is already my hour for the road." She was silent. "And you will not say to me, 'With God'?" "Go, with God!" said she, with dignity. The Cossack's heart was pressed. She said the words he wanted, but not in the way he wanted. "Well I know," said he, "that you are angry with me, that you hate me; but I tell you that another would have been worse to you than I. I brought you here, for I could not do otherwise; but what harm have I done you? Have not I treated you well, like a queen? Tell me yourself. Am I such an outlaw that you will not give me a kind word? And, moreover, you are in my power." "I am in the power of God," said she, with the same dignity as before; "but because you restrain yourself in my presence, I thank you for that." "Then I go with even such a word. Maybe you will regret me; maybe you will be sorry." Helena was silent. "I am sorry to leave you here alone," said Bogun, "sorry to go away; but I must. It would be easier for me if you were to smile, if you were to give a crucifix with a sincere heart. What can I do to appease you?" "Give me back my freedom, and God will forgive you all, and I will forgive and bless you." "Maybe you will forgive me yet; maybe you will be sorry yet that you have been so harsh to me." Bogun wished to buy a word of farewell, even for half a promise which he did not think of keeping, and got what he wanted, for a light of hope gleamed in Helena's eyes and the harshness vanished from her face. She crossed her arms on her breast and fixed a clear glance on him. "If you would only--" "Well, I don't know," said the Cossack, in a low voice, for shame and pity seized him at the same time by the throat. "I cannot now, I cannot. The Tartars are in the Wilderness, their parties are going everywhere. The Dobrudja Tartars are moving from Rashkoff. I cannot, for it is terrible; but when I come back--I am a child in your presence, you can do what you like with me--I don't know, I don't know--" "May God inspire you! May the Holy Most Pure inspire you! God go with you!" And she stretched out her hand to him. Bogun sprang forward and fastened his lips on it. Suddenly he raised his head, met her look of dignity, and dropped her hand. Then retreating toward the door, he bowed to his girdle in Cossack fashion, bowed again at the door, and disappeared behind the curtain. Soon there came through the window animated conversation, a clatter of arms, and later the words of a song in several voices:-- "Glorious fame will rise Among the Cossacks, Among the heroes, For many a year, Till the end of time." The voices and clatter retreated, and grew fainter each moment. CHAPTER XXXVII. "The Lord has wrought an evident miracle in her favor already," said Zagloba to Volodyovski and Podbipienta, while sitting in Skshetuski's quarters,--"an evident miracle, I say, in permitting me to wrest her from the grasp of those dogs and to guard her the whole way. Let us hope that he will be merciful to her and to us once more. If she is only living! Something whispers to me that Bogun has carried her away; for just think, the informants tell us that after Pulyan he has become the second in command,--may the devils command him!--therefore he must have been present at the taking of Bar." "He might not have found her in that crowd of unfortunates, for twelve thousand people were cut to pieces there," said Volodyovski. "Oh, you don't know him! I would swear that he knew she was in Bar. It cannot be but he has saved her from slaughter and taken her somewhere." "You do not give us much consolation; for in Skshetuski's place, I should rather have her perish than fall into his scoundrelly hands." "The other is no consolation; for if she has perished, she was disgraced." "Desperation!" exclaimed Volodyovski. "Desperation!" repeated Pan Longin. Zagloba pulled his beard; at last he burst out: "May the mange devour the whole race of curs! May the Pagans twist bow-strings out of their entrails! God created all nations, but the devil created these sons of Sodom. May barrenness strike the trash!" "I did not know that sweet lady," said Volodyovski, gloomily, "but I would that misfortune met me rather than her." "Once in my life I saw her," said Pan Longin; "but when I think of her, life is a burden of regret." "You describe your own feelings," said Zagloba; "but what do you think of me, who loved her like a father, and rescued her from that misery,--what do you think of me?" "And what do you think of Pan Yan?" asked Volodyovski. The knights were in despair and sank into silence. Zagloba came to himself first. "Is there no help?" he asked. "If there is no help, it is our duty to take vengeance," said Volodyovski. "Oh, if God would only give a general battle!" sighed Pan Longin. "It is said that the Tartars have already crossed the river, and formed a camp in the steppe." "We cannot leave her," said Zagloba, "the poor thing, without undertaking something for her rescue. I have battered my old bones around the world enough already; it would be better for me now to lie somewhere in a baker's shop quietly, for warmth's sake! But for her I would go again even to Stamboul; I would put on a peasant's coat again and take a lute, on which I cannot look without disgust." "You are fertile in stratagems; think of something," said Podbipienta. "A great many plans have gone through my head already. If Prince Dominik had half as many, Hmelnitski would be disembowelled and hanging by the legs on a gibbet. I have already spoken of this to Skshetuski, but you can say nothing to him at present. Sorrow has seared him, and drags him down more than sickness. You see to it that his reason is not disturbed. It often happens that from great grief the mind, like wine, changes until it is completely soured." "Yes, yes!" answered Pan Longin. Volodyovski started up impatiently, and asked: "What are your plans then?" "My plans? Well, first we must find out whether she--poor dear, may the angels guard her from every evil!--is alive yet; and this we can do in two ways,--either we shall find among the Prince's Cossacks trusty and sure men, who will undertake to escape to the Cossacks, mingle among Bogun's men, and find out something from them--" "I have Russian dragoons," interrupted Volodyovski, "I will find such men." "Wait a moment!--or catch an informant from those scoundrels who took Bar; maybe they know something. They all look at Bogun as at a rainbow, because his devilish daring pleases them; they sing songs about him,--may their throats rot!--and one talks to another about what he did and what he didn't do. If he has carried off our unfortunate lady, then it is not hidden from them." "Well, we can send men to inquire, and to catch an informant also," remarked Podbipienta. "You have struck the point. If we discover that she is alive, that is the chief thing. Now, since you wish sincerely to help Pan Yan, put yourself under my orders, for I have most experience. We will disguise ourselves as peasants, and try to find out where he has concealed her, and once we know that, my head for it, we shall get her. I and Pan Yan risk most, for Bogun knows us, and if he should catch us, our own mothers wouldn't recognize us afterward, but he hasn't seen either of you." "He has seen me," said Podbipienta, "but that is nothing." "Maybe too the Lord will give him into our hands," said Volodyovski. "Well, I don't want to look at him," said Zagloba; "may the hangman look at him! We must begin carefully, so as not to spoil the whole undertaking. It cannot be that he alone knows of her concealment, and I assure you, gentlemen, that it is safer to inquire of some one else." "Maybe too the men whom we send out will discover. If the prince only permits, I will select trusty men, and send them even to-morrow." "The prince will permit it; but that they will discover anything, I doubt. Listen, gentlemen! another method occurs to me,--instead of sending out people or seizing informants, to disguise ourselves as peasants and start without delay." "Oh, that is impossible!" cried Volodyovski. "Why impossible?" "Don't you know military service? When a body of troops is mustered _nemine excepto_, it is sacred. Even if his father and mother were dying, a soldier would not ask leave of absence, for before battle this would be the greatest deed of disgrace which a soldier could commit. After a general engagement, when the enemy is defeated it is permissible, but not before. And consider, Skshetuski at first wanted to rush off, fly away, and rescue her, but he did nothing of the kind. He has a reputation, the prince is fond of him; and he made no request, for he knows his duty. Ours is public duty, and this is a private matter. I do not know how it is in some other land, though I think it is the same everywhere; but with the prince our voevoda it is an unheard of thing to ask leave before a battle, especially for officers! Though Skshetuski's soul were rent, he would not go with such a proposition to the prince." "He is a Roman and a rigorist, I know," said Zagloba; "but if some one should give the prince a hint, maybe he would grant permission of his own instance, to Skshetuski and to you." "That would not enter his mind. The prince has the whole Commonwealth on his mind. Do you think that now, when there is a rush of the most important affairs, affecting the whole nation, he would take up any private question? And even if he should give a permission unasked, which is unlikely, as God is in heaven, no one of us would leave the camp at present; for we too owe our first service to our unhappy country, not to ourselves." "I am aware of that. I am acquainted with service from of old; therefore I told you that this method passed through my head, but I did not say that it stayed there. Besides, to tell the truth, while the power of the rabble stands untouched we could not do much; but when they are defeated and hunted down,--when their only thought will be to save their own throats,--we can go among them boldly and get information more easily. Oh, if the rest of the army would only come up at once! If it does not, we shall surely die of weariness at this Cholganski Kamen. If our prince had the command, we should be moving now; but Prince Dominik, it is evident, stops often for refreshments, since he is not here yet." "He is expected in three days." "God grant as soon as possible! But Konyetspolski will be here to-day?" "Yes." At that moment the door opened, and Skshetuski entered. His features seemed as if chiselled out of stone by pain, such calm and cold came from them. It was strange to look on that young face, as severe and dignified as though a smile had never appeared on it; and it would have been easy to imagine that if death were to strike it there would be little change. Skshetuski's beard had grown half-way to his breast, in which beard, among hairs black as the raven's wing, here and there were winding silver threads. His comrades and trusty friends guessed at his suffering, for he did not exhibit it. He was self-possessed, apparently calm, and almost more diligent, in his military service than usual, and entirely occupied with the impending war. "We have been speaking of your misfortune, which is at the same time our own," said Zagloba; "for God is our witness that we can console ourselves with nothing. This, however, would be a barren sentiment if we were to aid you only in shedding tears; therefore we have determined to shed blood also,--to rescue the unfortunate lady, if she still walks upon the earth." "God reward you!" said Skshetuski. "We will go with you even to Hmelnitski's camp," said Volodyovski. "God reward you!" repeated Skshetuski. "We know that you have sworn to seek her, living or dead; therefore we are ready, even to-day." Skshetuski, having seated himself on a bench, fixed his eyes on the ground and made no answer. At last anger got control of Zagloba. "Does he intend to give her up?" thought he. "If he does, God be with him! I see there is neither gratitude nor memory in the world. But men will be found yet to rescue her, or I shall have to yield my last breath." Silence reigned in the room, interrupted only by the sighs of Pan Longin. Meanwhile little Volodyovski approached Skshetuski and shook him by the shoulder. "Where are you from now?" asked he. "From the prince." "What news?" "I am going out on a reconnoissance to-night." "Far?" "To Yarmolintsi, if the road is clear." Volodyovski looked at Zagloba, and they understood each other at once. "That is toward Bar," muttered Zagloba. "We will go with you." "You must go for permission, and ask if the prince has not appointed other work for you." "We will go together. I have also something else to ask." They rose and went. The quarters of the prince were some distance away, at the other end of the camp. In the antechamber they found a crowd of officers from different squadrons; for forces were marching from every direction to Cholganski Kamen. All were hurrying to offer their services to the prince. Volodyovski had to wait some time before he and Podbipienta were permitted to stand before the face of their chief; but to make up for this, the prince gave them permission at once to go, and to send out some Russian dragoons, who, feigning desertion from the camp, should escape to Bogun's Cossacks and inquire about the princess. To Volodyovski he said,-- "I will find various duties for Skshetuski myself, for I see that suffering has settled in him and is eating him up. I am unspeakably sorry for him. Has he said nothing to you about her?" "But little. At first he wanted to go at random among the Cossacks, but he remembered that the squadron is mustered in full,--that we are at the service of the country, which must be saved before aught else; therefore he did not appear before you at all. God alone knows what is taking place within him." "And is trying him severely. Watch over him; for I see that you are a trusty friend of his." Volodyovski bowed low and went out; for at that moment the voevoda of Kieff entered with the starosta of Stobnik and Pan Denhoff, and a number of other military dignitaries. "Well, what is the result?" asked Pan Yan. "I go with you; but first I must go to my squadron, for I have a number of men to send out." "Let us go together." They went; and with them Podbipienta, Zagloba, and old Zatsvilikhovski, who was on the way to his squadron. Not far from the tents of Volodyovski's dragoons they met Pan Lashch, walking, or rather staggering, at the head of a number of nobles, for he and his comrades were completely drunk. At the sight of this Zagloba sighed. The two men had fallen in love with each other at Konstantinoff, because, from a certain point of view, they had natures as much alike as two drops of water. For Pan Lashch, though a formidable knight, and terrible against Pagans as few men were terrible, was also a notorious drinker and feaster, who loved, above all things, to pass the time free from battle, prayers, attacks, and quarrels, in the circle of men like Zagloba, to drink with might and main, and listen to jokes. He was a roysterer on a grand scale, who himself alone had caused so much disturbance, had so many times risen up against the law, that in any other State he would have lost his life long before. More sentences than one were hanging over him, but even in time of peace he troubled himself little about those; and now, in time of war, everything passed into forgetfulness all the more. He joined the prince at Rosolovtsi, and had rendered no small service at Konstantinoff; but since they had halted at Zbaraj he had become quite unendurable, through the tumults which he raised. No one had given regular count or calculation to the wine that Zagloba had drunk at his quarters, or the stories he had told, to the great delight of the host, who urged him to come every day. But since the news of the taking of Bar, Zagloba had become gloomy, lost his humor and vivacity, and no longer visited Pan Lashch. Pan Lashch, indeed, thought that the jovial nobleman had gone somewhere from the army, when suddenly he saw him. He extended his hand, and said,-- "My greetings to you. Why don't you come to see me? What are you doing?" "I am attending Skshetuski," answered Zagloba, gloomily. The colonel did not like Skshetuski on account of his dignity, and nicknamed him "The Grave." He knew of his misfortune perfectly well, for he was present at the banquet in Zbaraj when news of the capture of Bar came in. But being of unrestrained nature, and drunk at the moment, he did not respect human suffering, and seizing the lieutenant by the button, inquired,-- "So, then, you are crying for a girl? And was she pretty, hei?" "Let me go, please," said Skshetuski. "Wait!" "On my way to service you cannot command me. I am free of you." "Wait!" said Lashch, with the stubbornness of a drunken man. "You have service, but I have none. There is no one to command me here." Then lowering his voice, he repeated the question, "But she was pretty, hei?" The lieutenant frowned, "I tell you, sir, better not touch a sore spot." "Not touch? Never fear! If she was pretty, she is alive." Skshetuski's face was covered with a deathly pallor, but he restrained himself, and said: "I hope I shall not forget with whom I am talking--" Lashch stuck out his eyes. "What! Are you threatening me, threatening me,--for one little wench?" "Go your way!" shouted old Zatsvilikhovski, trembling with anger. "Ah, sneaks, rabble, lackeys!" roared the commander. "Gentlemen, to your sabres!" Drawing his own, he sprang at Skshetuski; but that moment the steel whistled in Skshetuski's hand, and the sabre of the commander hopped like a bird through the air, and staggered by the blow, he fell his whole length on the ground. Skshetuski did not strike again. He became pale as a corpse, as if stunned, and that moment a tumult arose. From one side rushed in the soldiers of the commander; from the other Volodyovski's dragoons hurried like bees from a hive. Many hastened up, not knowing what the matter was; sabres began to rattle; any moment the tumult might have changed into a general battle. Happily Lashch's comrades, seeing that Vishnyevetski's men were arriving every moment, made sober from fear, seized the commander and started off with him. In truth, if Lashch had had to do with other and less disciplined forces, they would have cut him into small pieces with their swords; but old Zatsvilikhovski, recollecting himself, merely cried, "Stop!" and the sabres were sheathed. Nevertheless there was excitement throughout the whole camp, and the echo of the tumult reached the ears of the prince just as Pan Kushel, who was on duty, rushed into the room in which the prince was holding counsel with the voevoda of Kieff, the starosta of Stobnik, and Pan Denhoff, and shouted,-- "Your Highness, the soldiers are fighting with sabres!" At that moment Lashch, pale and beside himself with rage, but sober, shot in like a bomb. "Your Highness, justice! It is in this camp as with Hmelnitski,--no respect for blood or rank. Dignitaries of the Crown are slashed with sabres! If your Highness will not mete out justice, will not punish with death, then I myself will mete it out." The prince sprang up from the table. "What has happened? Who has attacked you?" "Thy officer, Skshetuski." Genuine astonishment was reflected on the face of the prince. "Skshetuski?" Suddenly the doors were opened, and in walked Zatsvilikhovski. "Your Highness, I was a witness," said he. "I have not come here to give reasons, but to demand punishment," cried Lashch. The prince turned and fastened his eyes upon him. "Stop! stop!" said he, quietly and with emphasis. There was something so terrible in his eyes and in his hushed voice that Lashch, though notorious for insolence, became silent at once, as if he had lost his speech, and the spectators grew pale. "Speak!" said the prince to Zatsvilikhovski. Zatsvilikhovski described the whole affair,--how the commander, led by an ignoble sentiment, unworthy not only of a dignitary but of a noble, began to blaspheme against the suffering of Pan Skshetuski, and then rushed upon him with a sabre; with moderation, in truth unusual to his age, the lieutenant had used his weapon only to ward off the aggressor. Finally the old man ended his story thus,-- "And since, as your Highness knows, up to my seventieth year lying has not stained my lips, nor will it while I live, I could not under oath change one word in my story." The prince knew that Zatsvilikhovski's words were equal to gold, and besides he knew Lashch too well. He gave no answer then; he merely took a pen and began to write. When he had finished he looked at the commander. "Justice will be meted out to you," said he. The commander opened his mouth and wished to speak, but somehow the words did not come to him; he merely put his hand on his hip, bowed, and went out proudly from the room. "Jelenski," said the prince, "you will give this letter to Pan Skshetuski." Volodyovski, who had not left the lieutenant, was astonished somewhat at seeing the messenger come in, for he was sure that they would have to appear at once before the prince. The messenger left the letter and went out in silence. When he had read it Skshetuski handed the letter to his friend. "Read!" said he. Volodyovski glanced at it, and shouted: "Promotion to the head of the regiment!" And seizing Skshetuski by the neck, he kissed him on both cheeks. A full lieutenant in the hussar regiment was almost a military dignitary. The captain of that one in which Skshetuski served was the prince himself, and the titular lieutenant was Pan Sufchinski, of Senchi, a man already old and out of service. Skshetuski had long performed the active duties of both offices,--a condition of service often found in regiments like his, in which the first two places were not infrequently merely titular offices. Captain in the royal regiment was the king himself; in that of the primate, the primate. The lieutenant and captain in both were high dignitaries of the court. They were actually commanded by deputies, who on this account were called in ordinary speech colonels and lieutenants. Such an actual lieutenant or colonel was Skshetuski. But between the actual filling of the office, between the dignity accorded in current speech and the real one, there was still a great difference. In the present instance, by virtue of his appointment, Skshetuski became one of the first officers of the prince. But while his friends were overflowing with joy, congratulating him on his new honor, his face did not change for a moment, but remained just the same, severe and stone-like; for there were not offices nor dignities in the world that could brighten it. He rose, however, and went to thank the prince. Meanwhile little Volodyovski walked up and down in his quarters rubbing his hands. "Well, well," he said, "appointed lieutenant in the hussar squadron in youthful years. I think this has happened to no one before." "If God would only return his happiness!" said Zagloba. "That is it, that is it. Did you see that he did not quiver?" "He would prefer resigning," said Pan Longin. "Gentlemen," sighed Zagloba, "what wonder! I would give these five fingers of mine for her, though I captured a banner with them." "Sure enough." "But Pan Sufchinski must be dead," remarked Volodyovski. "He is surely dead." "Who will take the lieutenancy then? The banneret is a stripling, and performs the duties only since the battle at Konstantinoff." This question remained unanswered; but the colonel himself, Skshetuski, brought the answer to it when he returned. "My dear sir," said he to Pan Podbipienta, "the prince has appointed you lieutenant." "Oh, my God, my God!" groaned Pan Longin, placing his hands together as if in prayer. "He might as well have appointed his Livonian mare," muttered Zagloba. "Well, and the scouting-party?" asked Volodyovski, "We shall go without delay," answered Skshetuski. "Has the prince given orders to take many troops?" "One Cossack and one Wallachian squadron, five hundred men altogether." "Hallo! that is an expedition, not a party. If that is the case, it is time for us to take the road." "To the road, to the road!" repeated Zagloba. "Maybe God will help us to get some tidings." Two hours later, precisely at sunset, the four friends rode out from Cholganski Kamen toward the south. About the same time Lashch left the camp with his men. A multitude of knights from different regiments witnessed his departure, not sparing shouts and sneers. The officers crowded around Pan Kushel, who told the reason why the commander was dismissed, and how it happened. "I delivered the order of the prince," said Kushel; "and you may believe it was a perilous mission, gentlemen, for when he read it he began to bellow like a bullock when branded with iron. He was rushing at me with a sword,--a wonder he didn't hit me; but it appears that he saw Pan Koritski's Germans surrounding his quarters, and my dragoons with spears in their hands. Then he began to shout: 'All right! all right! I'll go away, since they drive me off. I'll go to Prince Dominik, who will receive me thankfully. I will not,' said he, 'serve with minstrels; but as I am Lashch, I will have vengeance, as I am Lashch; and from that sneak,' said he, 'I must have satisfaction!' I thought he would stifle from venom; he slashed the table from rage time after time. And I tell you, gentlemen, that I am not sure some evil will not come on Skshetuski, for there is no trifling with the commander. He is a stubborn and proud man, who has never yet allowed an offence to pass. He is daring, and a dignitary besides." "What can touch Skshetuski under the protection of the prince?" asked one of the officers. "The commander, though ready for everything, will be wary of such a hand." Meanwhile the lieutenant, knowing nothing of the vows which the commander had made against him, withdrew at the head of his party farther and farther from the camp, turning his way toward Ojigovtsi to the Bug and Medvedovka. Though September had withered the leaves on the trees, the night was calm and warm as in July; for such, indeed, was that whole year, in which there was scarcely any winter, and in spring everything was in bloom at a time when in former years deep snow was still lying on the steppes. After a rather moist summer, the first months of autumn were dry and mild, with clear days and bright moonlight nights. They travelled along the easy road, not taking special care, for they were still too near the camp to be threatened by any attack. They rode briskly; Skshetuski ahead with a few horsemen, and behind him Volodyovski, Zagloba, and Podbipienta. "Look, gentlemen, how the light of the moon shines on that hill!" whispered Zagloba. "You might swear that it is day. It is said that only in time of war are there such nights, so that spirits may leave their bodies without knocking their heads against trees in the dark, like sparrows against the cross-pieces in a barn, and more easily find the way. Today is Friday, the day of the Saviour, in which poisonous vapors do not issue from the ground, and evil powers have no approach to men. I feel somehow easier, and hope takes possession of me." "That is because we are now on the way and will undertake some rescue." "The worst thing, in grief, is to sit in one place. When you get on horseback, all your despair flies down from the shaking, till you shake it off completely and entirely." "I do not believe," whispered Volodyovski, "that you can shake off everything in that way,--for example, love, which clings to the heart like a wood-tick." "If love is genuine," said Pan Longin, "then even if you should wrestle with it as with a bear, it would throw you." Having said this, Podbipienta relieved his swollen breast with a sigh which was like the puff of a blacksmith's bellows; but little Volodyovski raised his eyes to heaven, as if seeking among the stars that one which was shining on Princess Barbara. The horses began to snort in the whole company, and the soldiers answered, "Health, health!" Then all was silent till some melancholy voice began to sing in the rear ranks: "You are going to the war, my boy, You are going to the war! Your nights will be cold, And your days will be hot--" "Old soldiers say that horses always snort as a good omen, as my deceased father used to tell me," said Volodyovski. "Something whispers, as it were, in my ear, that we are not going for nothing," answered Zagloba. "God grant that some consolation enter the heart of the lieutenant!" sighed Pan Longin. Zagloba began to nod and turn his head like a man who is unable to conquer some idea, and at last said,-- "Something altogether different is in my head, and I must get rid of the thought, for I cannot endure it. Have you noticed that for some time Skshetuski--I am not sure, maybe he dissembles--but still he, as it were, thinks less than any of us of saving that unfortunate lady." "Nonsense!" said Volodyovski. "It is his disposition never to confess anything to any one. He has never been different." "Yes, that so far as it goes; but just remember, when we gave him hope, he said, 'God reward you,' both to me and to you, as coldly as if it had been some common affair. And God is witness, on his part that was black ingratitude; for what that poor woman has wept and grieved for him could not be inscribed on an ox-hide. I have seen it with my own eyes." Volodyovski shook his head. "It cannot be that he has given her up, though it is true that the first time when that devil seized her from him in Rozlogi, he despaired so that we feared he would lose his mind; but now he shows more reflection. If God has poured peace into his soul, it is better. As true friends, it is our duty to be comforted by this." Volodyovski then spurred his horse and sped on toward Pan Yan, but Zagloba rode for some time in silence by the side of Podbipienta. "Are you not of my opinion, that if there were no love affairs a power of evil would cease in the world?" "Whatever God has destined to any one, will not avoid him," answered the Lithuanian. "But you never answer to the point. That is one affair, and this is another. Who caused the destruction of Troy, hei? And isn't this war about fair locks? Hmelnitski wanted Chaplinski's woman, or Chaplinski wanted Hmelnitski's; and we are breaking our necks on account of their sinful desires." "Those are dishonorable loves; but there are honorable ones, through which the glory of God is increased." "Now you have hit the point better. But are you going soon to work in that vineyard yourself? I hear that a scarf is bound to you for the war." "Ah, brother! brother!" "But three heads are in the way, are they?" "Ah, that's the truth!" "Well, I tell you: give a good blow, and cut them off at once from Hmelnitski, the Khan, and Bogun." "Oh, if they would only stand in a row!" said Pan Longin, in a voice full of emotion, raising his eyes to heaven. Meanwhile Volodyovski rode by Skshetuski, and looked from under his helmet in silence at his pallid face, till at last their stirrups touched. "Yan," said he, "it is bad for you to forget yourself." "I am not forgetting myself, I am praying," answered Skshetuski. "That is a holy and praiseworthy thing; but you are not a monk, to be occupied in prayer alone." Pan Yan turned his suffering face slowly to Volodyovski, and inquired with a dull voice, full of deathly resignation: "Tell me, Michael, what is left to me now but a monk's habit?" "It remains to you to rescue her," answered Volodyovski. "I will do that, if it takes my last breath. But even if I should find her alive, will it not be too late? Preserve me, O God, for I can think of everything, only not of that, God save my reason! I desire nothing more than to rescue her from those infamous hands and let her find an asylum, such as I myself shall seek. Evidently it was not the will of God. Let me pray, Michael, and don't touch my bleeding wound." Volodyovski's heart was pressed. He wished still to console his friend, to speak of hope; but the words would not pass his lips, and they rode on in dull silence. Only the lips of Skshetuski moved rapidly in prayer, with which he wished evidently to drive away terrible thoughts. But the little knight was afraid when he looked at that face in the moonlight; for it seemed to him altogether like the face of a monk, stern, emaciated by fasting and mortification. And then that voice began again to sing, in the rear,-- "You will find when the war is over, poor fellow, You will find when the war is over, Everything empty at home, And your skin full of wounds." CHAPTER XXXVIII. Skshetuski so marched with his detachment that he rested during the day in forests and ravines, throwing out pickets carefully, and pushed forward only in the night. Whenever he approached a village he usually surrounded it so that not a man went out, took provisions, feed for his horses, but above all collected information concerning the enemy; then he marched away without inflicting harm on the people. But when out of sight he changed his road abruptly, so that the enemy in the village might not know in what direction he had gone. The object of his expedition was to discover whether Krívonos with his forty thousand men was still besieging Kamenyets, or having given up the fruitless siege, was marching to assist Hmelnitski so as to join him for a general engagement; and further what the Dobrudja Tartars were doing,--whether they had crossed the Dnieper already and joined Krívonos, or were still on the other bank. These were important items for the Polish army, which the commanders should have tried to obtain; but being men without experience, it did not enter their heads to do so. Yeremi therefore took that burden on himself. If it should appear that Krívonos, with the hordes of Bélgorod and Dobrudja, had abandoned the siege of the impregnable Kamenyets and was marching to Hmelnitski, then it behooved them to attack the latter as quickly as possible before he had grown to his highest power. Meanwhile the commander-in-chief. Prince Dominik Zaslavski Ostrogski, was not hastening, and at the time of Skshetuski's departure he was expected at the camp in two or three days. Evidently he was feasting along the road, according to his custom, and felt well; but the most favorable moment for breaking the power of Hmelnitski was passing, and Prince Yeremi was in despair at the thought that if the war should be carried on further in this fashion, not only Krívonos and the forces beyond the Dniester would come to Hmelnitski in season, but also the Khan himself at the head of all the forces from Perekop, Nogai, and Azoff. There were tidings in camp that the Khan had already crossed the Dnieper, and was moving westward day and night with two hundred thousand horse; but day after day passed, and Prince Dominik did not arrive. It became more and more likely that the troops at Cholganski Kamen would have to meet forces five times more numerous, and in case of defeat nothing would prevent the enemy from breaking into the heart of the Commonwealth at Cracow and Warsaw. Krívonos was the more dangerous in this, that in case the commanders wished to push into the heart of the Ukraine, he, by going from Kamenyets directly northward to Konstantinoff, could bar their retreat, and in every case they would be taken then between two fires. Skshetuski determined therefore not only to gain information concerning Krívonos, but to check him. Penetrated with the importance of this task, on the accomplishment of which the fate of the whole army was in part dependent, he risked willingly his own life and the lives of his soldiers, though that undertaking might have been considered insane or mad if the young knight had had the intention of checking with five hundred men in an offensive battle the forty thousand men of Krívonos reinforced by the hordes of Bélgorod and Dobrudja. But Skshetuski was too experienced a soldier to rush into insane undertakings, and he knew perfectly well that in case of battle the torrent would sweep over the bodies of himself and his men in an hour. He seized upon other means. He gave out among his own soldiers that they were merely the advance guard of a whole division of the terrible prince, and this report he spread everywhere in all the farms, villages, and towns through which it came to him to pass. And in truth it spread like a flash of lightning along Zbruch, Smotrich, Studenitsa, Ushka, Kalusik, and from them it reached the Dniester and flew on farther as if driven by the wind from Kamenyets to Yagorlik. It was repeated by Turkish pashas in Khotím, the Zaporojians in Yampol, and the Tartars in Rashkoff. And again was heard that famous cry, "Yarema is coming!" from which the hearts of the rebellious people sank, and from which they trembled, knowing neither the day nor the hour. And no one doubted the truth of the report. The commanders would fall upon Hmelnitski, and Yeremi on Krívonos,--that lay in the order of things. Krívonos himself believed in it, and his hands dropped. What was he to do? Move on the prince? At Konstantinoff there was another spirit in his men and he had more troops; still they were beaten, decimated, barely escaped with their lives. Krívonos was sure that his Cossacks would fight madly against all other armies of the Commonwealth, and against every other leader, but with the approach of Yeremi they would speed away like a flock of swans before an eagle, or like the thistle-down of the steppes before the wind. To wait for the prince at Kamenyets was still worse. Krívonos determined to hurry eastward as far as Bratslav, to avoid his evil spirit and move toward Hmelnitski. He knew, it is true, that circling around in this way he would not arrive in time; but at least he would hear of the results in season, and plan for his own safety. A new report came with the wind, that Hmelnitski was already defeated. Skshetuski had spread it purposely, as he had the previous report. This time the unfortunate Krívonos knew not what to do. Later he determined all the more to march to the east and push on as far as possible into the steppes; maybe he would meet the Tartars and find shelter among them. But first of all he wished to be sure; therefore he looked carefully among his colonels to find a man trusty and prepared for everything, so as to send him with a party to get information. But the choice was difficult; there was a lack of volunteers, and it was absolutely necessary to find a man who in case he should fall into the hands of the enemy would not disclose the plans of retreat, even if burned with fire, empaled on a stake, or broken on a wheel. At last Krívonos found the man. One night he gave the order to call Bogun, and said to him,-- "Do you hear, Yurku, my friend Yarema is marching on us with a great force; we shall all perish, unfortunates!" "I have heard that he is coming,--you have already spoken of that, father. But why should we perish?" "We cannot withstand him. We could another, but not Yeremi. The Cossacks are afraid of him." "But I am not afraid of him. I cut to pieces a regiment of his at Vassílyevka beyond the Dnieper." "I know that you are not afraid of him; your fame of a Cossack and a hero is equal to his as a prince. But I cannot give him battle, for my Cossacks are unwilling. Remember what they said at the council,--how they rushed on me with sabres because I wanted to lead them to slaughter." "Then we will go to Hmelnitski; there we shall find blood and booty." "They say that Hmelnitski is already defeated." "I do not believe that, Father Maksim. Hmelnitski is a fox; he will not strike the Poles without the Tartars." "I think so too, but we must find out. Then we could go around this devil of a Yeremi and join Hmel; but we must have information. Now, if some one who has no fear of Yeremi were to go with a party and take prisoners, I should fill his cap with ruddy sequins." "I'll go, Father Maksim,--not for sequins, but for Cossack, for heroic glory." "You are the next ataman to me, and since you are willing to go, you will become first ataman yet over the Cossacks, good hero, for you are not afraid of Yeremi. Go, my falcon, and hereafter you have but to ask for what you want. Well, I tell you, if you were not going I should go myself; but it is not for me to go." "No; for if you were to go, father, the Cossacks would say that you were saving your head and would scatter over the world, but when I go their courage will increase." "Shall I give you many men?" "I will not take many; it is easier to hide and approach with a small force. But give me about five hundred good warriors, and my head for it, I will bring you informants,--not soldiers, but officers from whom you will learn everything." "Go at once! They are firing cannon from Kamenyets with joy,--salvation to the Poles and destruction to us innocents." Bogun went out, and began to prepare at once for the road. His heroes, as was the fixed practice on such occasions, drank to the verge of destruction, "before Mother Death should clasp them to her breast." He too drank with them till he was snorting from gorailka. He frolicked and revelled, then had a barrel filled with tar, and just as he was, in brocade and serge, sprang into it, sank a couple of times, once over his head, and shouted,-- "I am black as Mother Night. Polish eyes won't see me now!" He rolled himself on Persian carpets, sprang on his horse and rode away. After him clattered, amid the darkness of night, his trusty heroes, followed by shouts: "Glory! Luck!" Skshetuski had already pushed on to Yarmolintsi, where, meeting opposition, he baptized the townspeople in blood, and having told them that Prince Yeremi would arrive next day, gave rest to his wearied horses and men. Then assembling his officers in council, he said to them,-- "So far God has given us success. I see also, by the terror which seizes the peasants, that they take us for the advance guard of the prince, and believe that his whole force is following. We must look out, however, that they do not bethink themselves when they see that one company is going everywhere." "And shall we go about in this way long?" asked Zagloba. "Till we find out what Krívonos has determined." "Then we may not come in time for the battle at the camp?" "Maybe not." "Well, I am not glad of that," said Zagloba. "My hand has become a little exercised on the ruffians at Konstantinoff. I captured something from them there; but that is a trifle. My fingers are itching now." "Perhaps you will get more fighting than you expect," answered Pan Yan, seriously. "How is that?" asked Zagloba, rather alarmed. "Why, any day we may come upon the enemy, and though we are not here to bar the road with arms, we shall have to defend ourselves. But to return to the subject. We must occupy more country, so they may know of us in several places at once; cut down the obstinate here and there, so as to spread terror; and everywhere circulate reports. Therefore I think we must separate." "So I think," said Volodyovski. "We shall increase in their eyes, and those who escape to Krívonos will talk about legions." "Well, Lieutenant, you are leader here, give the orders," said Podbipienta. "I will go through Zinkoff to Solodkovets, and farther if I can," said Skshetuski. "You, Podbipienta, will go straight down to Tatarjiski; and you, Michael, go to Kupin; and Zagloba will press on to Zbruch, near Satanoff." "I!" exclaimed Zagloba. "Yes. You are a man of thought and full of stratagems. I supposed you would undertake the enterprise willingly; but if not, Sergeant Kosmach will lead the fourth party." "I will take it under my command," cried Zagloba, who was suddenly dazzled by the thought that he would be the leader of a separate party. "If I asked, it was because I am sorry to part with you." "But have you experience in military matters?" asked Volodyovski. "Have I experience? It hadn't yet come into the head of any stork to make a present of you to your father and mother when I was commanding larger bodies of men than this. I served all my life in the army, and should have served to this moment had it not been for the mouldy biscuit that stuck in my stomach and stayed there three years. I had to go for a bezoar to Galáts, the details of which journey I will tell in proper time, but now I am in a hurry for the road." "Go on, then, and spread the reports that Hmelnitski is beaten, and that the prince has passed Ploskiroff," said Skshetuski. "Don't take the first informant that comes along; but when you meet scouting-parties from Kamenyets, try to get people who are able to give information about Krívonos, for those whom we have now tell contradictory stories." "I hope I may meet Krívonos himself. I hope he will want to go on a scouting expedition. I should give him pepper and ginger. Don't be afraid! I will teach the ruffians to sing, and dance for that matter." "In three days we shall meet again at Yarmolintsi, and now each one to his journey," said Skshetuski. "And I beg of you to spare your men." "In three days at Yarmolintsi," repeated Volodyovski, Zagloba, and Podbipienta. CHAPTER XXXIX. When Zagloba found himself alone at the head of his party, he felt uncomfortable somehow and terribly alarmed, and would have given much to have at his side Skshetuski, Volodyovski, or Pan Longin, whom in his soul he admired with all his might, and near whom he felt completely safe, so blindly did he believe in their resources and bravery. At first, therefore, he rode rather gloomily at the head of his party, and looking around suspiciously on every side, measured in his mind the dangers which he might meet, and muttered,-- "It would always be livelier if some one of them were here. To whatever God predestined a man, for that he created him; and those three ought to have been born horseflies, for they love to sit in blood. They are in war just as other men are at the cup, or like fish in water. War is their play. They have light stomachs, but heavy hands. I have seen Skshetuski at work, and I know what skill he has. He hurries through men as monks through their prayers. That's his favorite work. That Lithuanian, who has no head of his own, is looking for three strange heads, and he has nothing to risk. I know that little fellow least of all, but he must be a wasp of no common kind, judging from what I saw at Konstantinoff, and what Skshetuski tells me about him,--he must be a wasp! Happily he is marching not far from me, and I think that I shall do better to join him, for if I know where to go may the ducks trample me!" Zagloba felt so lonely in the world that he took pity upon his own loneliness. "Indeed!" muttered he. "Every man has some one to look to; but how is it with me? I have neither comrade nor father nor mother. I am an orphan, and that is the end of it!" At that moment the sergeant, Kosmach, approached him. "Commander, where are we marching to?" asked he. "Where are we marching to?" repeated Zagloba. "What?" Suddenly he straightened himself in the saddle and twisted his mustache. "To Kamenyets, if such should be my will! Do you understand?" The sergeant bowed and withdrew in silence to the ranks, unable to explain to himself what the commander was angry at. But Zagloba cast threatening glances at the neighborhood, then grew quiet and muttered further,-- "If I go to Kamenyets, I'll let a hundred blows of a stick be given on the soles of my feet, Turkish fashion. Tfu! tfu! If I only had one of those fellows with me, then I should feel more courage. What shall I begin to do with these people? I would rather be alone, for when alone a man trusts to stratagem. But now there are too many of us for stratagems and too few for defence. A very unfortunate idea of Skshetuski's to divide the detachment! And where shall I go? I know what is behind me, but who shall tell me what is in front, and who shall assure me that the devils there haven't set some snare? Krívonos and Bogun, a nice pair,--may the devils flay them! God defend me at least from Bogun! Skshetuski wants to meet him; may the Lord listen to him!--I wish him the same as I wish myself, for I am his friend,--amen! I'll work on to Zbruch, return to Yarmolintsi, and bring them more informants than they want themselves. That is not difficult." Kosmach now approached. "Commander, some horsemen are visible behind the hill." "Let them go to the devil! Where are they,--where?" "There, on the other side of the hill, I saw flags." "Troops?" "They appear to be troops." "May the dogs bite them! Are there many of them?" "You can't tell, for they are far away. We might hide here behind these rocks and fall on them unawares, for their road lies this way. If their numbers are too great, Pan Volodyovski is not far off; he will hear the shots and hasten to our aid." Daring rose suddenly to Zagloba's head like wine. It may be that despair gave him such an impulse to action; possibly hope that Volodyovski was still near. Enough that he waved his naked sabre, rolled his eyes terribly, and cried,-- "Hide behind the rocks! We will show those ruffians--" The trained soldiers of the prince turned behind the rocks, and in the twinkle of an eye placed themselves in battle-array, ready for a sudden attack. An hour passed. At last the noise of approaching people was heard. An echo bore the sounds of joyful songs; and a moment later the sounds of fiddles, bagpipes, and a drum reached the ears of the men lurking in ambush. The sergeant came to Zagloba again, and said,-- "They are not troops, Commander, nor Cossacks. It is a wedding." "A wedding? I'll play a tune for them; let them wait a bit." Saying this, he rode out, and after him the soldiers, and formed in line on the road. "After me!" cried Zagloba, threateningly. The line moved on a trot, then a gallop, and passing around the cliff, stood suddenly in front of the crowd of people, frightened and confused by the unexpected sight. "Stop! stop!" was the cry from both sides. It was really a peasant wedding. In front rode the piper, the flute-player, the fiddler, and two drummers, already somewhat intoxicated, and playing dance-music out of tune. Behind them was the bride, a brisk young woman in a dark jacket, with hair flowing over her shoulders. She was surrounded by her bridesmaids, singing songs and carrying wreaths in their hands. All the girls were sitting on horseback, man-fashion, adorned with wild-flowers. They looked at a distance like a party of handsome Cossacks. In another line rode the bridegroom on a sturdy horse, with his groomsmen, having wreaths on long poles, like pikes. The rear of the party was brought up by the parents of the newly married and guests, all on horseback. In light wagons strewn with straw were drawn a number of kegs of gorailka, mead, and beer, which belched out a pleasant odor along the rough, stony road. "Halt! halt!" was shouted from both sides. The wedding-party was confused. The young girls raised a cry of fear, and drew back to the rear. The young men and elder groomsmen rushed forward to protect the young women from the unexpected attack. Zagloba sprang before them, and brandishing his sabre, which gleamed in the eyes of the terror-stricken peasants, began to shout,-- "Ha, you bullock-drivers, dog-tails, rebels! You wanted to join the insurrection! You are on the side of Hmelnitski, you scoundrels! You are going to spy out something; you are blocking the road to troops,--raising your hand against nobles! Oh, I'll give it to you, you foul spirits of curs! I'll order you to be fettered, to be empaled, O rascals, Pagans! Now you will pay for all your crimes." A groomsman, old, and white as a dove, jumped from his horse, approached the noble, and holding his stirrup humbly, began to bow to his girdle and implore,-- "Have mercy, serene knight! Do not ruin poor people! God is our witness that we are innocent. We are not going to a rebellion. We are going from the church at Gusiatyn. We crowned our relative Dmitry, the blacksmith, with Ksenia, the cooper's daughter. We have come with a wedding and with a dance." "These are innocent people," whispered the sergeant. "Out of my sight! They are scoundrels; they have come from Krívonos's to a wedding!" roared Zagloba. "May the plague kill him!" cried the old man. "We have never looked on him with our eyes; we are poor people. Have mercy on us, serene lord, and let us pass; we are doing harm to no man, and we know our duty." "You will go to Yarmolintsi in fetters!" "We will go wherever you command. Our lord, it is for you to command, for us to obey. But you will do us a kindness, serene knight! Order your soldiers to do us no harm, and you yourself pardon us simple people. We now beat to you humbly with the forehead, to drink with us to the happiness of the newly married. Drink, your mercy, to the joy of simple people, as God and the holy Gospels command." "But don't suppose that I forgive you if I drink," said Zagloba, sharply. "No, no, my lord," exclaimed with joy the old man; "we don't dream of it. Hei, musicians!" cried he, "strike up for the serene knight, because the serene knight is kind; and you, young men, hurry for mead,--sweet mead for the knight; he will not harm poor people. Hurry, boys, hurry! We thank you, our lord." The young men ran with the speed of wind to the kegs; and immediately the drums sounded, the fiddles squeaked sharply, the piper puffed out his cheeks and began to press the wind-bag under his arm. The groomsmen shook the wreaths on the poles, in view of which the soldiers began to press forward, twirl their mustaches, laugh, and look at the bride over the shoulders of the young fellows. The song resounded again. Terror had passed away, and here and there too was heard the joyful "U-ha! u-ha!" Zagloba did not become serene-browed in a moment. Even when a quart of mead was brought to him, he still muttered to himself: "Oh, the scoundrels, the ruffians!" Even when he had sunk his mustaches in the dark surface of the mead, his brows did not unwrinkle. He raised his head, winked his eyes, and smacking his lips, began to taste the liquid; then astonishment, but also indignation, was seen on his face. "What times we live in!" muttered he. "Trash are drinking such mead. O Lord, thou seest this, and dost not hurl thy bolts!" Then he raised the cup and emptied it to the bottom. Meanwhile the emboldened wedding-guests came with their whole company to beg him to do them no harm and let them pass; and among them came the bride Ksenia, timid, trembling, with tears in her eyes, blushing and beautiful as the dawn. When she drew near she joined her hands. "Be merciful, our lord!" and she kissed the yellow boot of Zagloba. The heart of the noble became soft as wax in a moment. He loosened his leather girdle, began to fumble in it, and finding the last gold sequin of those which Prince Yeremi had given him, he said to Ksenia,-- "Here! may God bless thee, as he does every innocence!" Emotion did not permit further speech, for that shapely dark-browed Ksenia reminded him of the princess whom Zagloba loved in his own fashion. "Where is she now, poor girl, and are the angels of heaven guarding her?" thought he, completely overpowered, ready to embrace every one and become a brother to all. The wedding-guests, seeing this lordly act, began to shout from joy, to sing, and crowding up to him to kiss his clothes. "He is kind," was repeated in the crowd. "He is a golden Pole! he gives away sequins, he does no harm, he is a kind lord. Glory to him, luck to him!" The fiddler quivered, he worked so hard; the hands of the drummers grew weary. The old cooper, evidently a coward to his innermost lining, had held himself in the rear till that moment. Now he pushed forward, together with his wife, the cooperess, and the ancient blacksmithess, the mother of the bridegroom; and now they began such a bowing to the girdle and insistent invitation to the house for the wedding, because it was a glory to have such a guest, and a happy augury for the young couple; if not, harm would come to them. After them bowed the bridegroom and the dark-browed Ksenia, who, though a simple girl, saw in a twinkle that her request was more effective than any other. The best men shouted that the farm was near, not out of the knight's road; that the old cooper was rich, and would set out mead far better than this. Zagloba gazed at the soldiers; all were moving their mustaches as rabbits do their whiskers, foreseeing for themselves various delights in the dance and the drinks. Therefore, though they did not ask to go, Zagloba took pity on them, and after a while the groomsmen, the young women, and the soldiers were making for the farm in most perfect harmony. In fact the farm was near, and the old cooper rich. The wedding therefore was noisy; all drank heavily, and Zagloba so let himself out that he was the first in everything. Soon strange ceremonies were begun. Old women took Ksenia to a chamber, and shutting themselves in with her, remained a long time; then they came forth and declared that the young woman was as a dove, as a lily. Thereupon joy reigned in the assembly; there rose a shout, "Glory! happiness!" The women began to clap their hands, the young fellows stamped with their feet; each one danced by himself, with a quart cup in his hand, which he emptied to "fame and happiness" before the door of the chamber. Zagloba danced also, distinguishing the importance of his birth by this only, that he drank before the door, not a quart, but half a gallon. Then the friends of the cooper and the blacksmith's wife conducted young Dmitry to the door; but since young Dmitry had no father, they bowed down to Zagloba to take his place. Zagloba consented, and passed in with the others. During this time all became quiet in the house; but the soldiers drinking in the yard before the cottage shouted, crying "Allah!" from joy, in Tartar fashion, and fired from pistols. The greatest rejoicing and uproar began when the parents appeared again in the main room. The old cooper embraced the blacksmith's wife with delight, the young men came to the cooper's wife and raised her from her feet, and the women glorified her because she had guarded her daughter as the eye in her head, kept her as a dove and a lily. Then Zagloba opened the dance with her. They began to stamp in front of each other; and he, keeping time with his hands, dropped into the prisyadka, sprang so high, and beat the floor with his metal-shod heels in such fashion that bits flew from the planks, and sweat poured from his forehead in abundance. They were followed by others,--those who had space dancing in the room, and those who had not in the yard,--the maidens with the young men and soldiers. From time to time the cooper had new kegs brought out. Finally the whole wedding-feast was transferred from the house to the yard; piles of dry thistles and pitch-pine were set on fire, for a dark night had settled down, and the rejoicing had changed to drinking with might and main. The soldiers fired from their pistols and muskets as in time of battle. Zagloba, purple, steaming in perspiration, tottering on his feet, forgot what was happening to him, where he was; through the steam which came from his hair he saw the faces of his entertainers, but if he were to be empaled on a stake he couldn't tell what sort of entertainers they were. He remembered that he was at a wedding, but whose wedding was it? Ha! it must be the wedding of Pan Yan and the princess. This idea seemed to him the most probable, and finally stuck in his head like a nail, and filled him with such joy that he began to shout like a madman: "Long life! let us love each other, brothers!" and every little while he filled new half-gallons. "To your success, brothers! To the health of the prince! Prosperity to us! May this paroxysm of our country pass!" Then he covered himself with tears, and stumbled going to the keg, and stumbled more and more; for on the ground, as on a field of battle, lay many a motionless body. "O God," cried Zagloba, "thou hast no longer any manhood left in this Commonwealth! There are but two men who can drink,--one Pan Lashch, and the other Zagloba. As for the rest, my God, my God!" And he raised his eyes in sorrow to the sky. Then he saw that the heavenly bodies were no longer fastened quietly in the firmament like golden nails, but some were trembling as if they wished to spring from their settings; others were whirling in a round dance; a third party of them were dancing the kazachka face to face with each other. Then Zagloba fell into terribly deep thought, and said to his musing soul,-- "Is it possible that I alone in the universe am not drunk?" But suddenly the earth itself quivered, like the stars, in a mad whirl, and Zagloba fell his whole length on the ground. Soon awful dreams came to him. It seemed as if nightmares were sitting on his breast, pressing him, squeezing him to the ground, binding him hand and foot. At the same time tumult and as it were the sound of shots struck his ears; a glaring light passed his closed lids, and struck his eyes with an unendurable flash. He wished to rouse himself, to open his eyes, and he could not. He felt that something unusual was happening to him,--that his head was dropping back as if he were being carried by hands and feet. Then fear seized him; he felt badly, very badly, very heavy. Consciousness returned in part, but strangely, for in company with such weakness as he had never felt in his life. Again he tried to move; but when he could not, he woke up more and opened his eyelids. Then his gaze met a pair of eyes which were fastened on him eagerly; their pupils were black as coal, and so ill-omened that Zagloba, now thoroughly awake, thought at the first moment that the devil was looking at him. Again he closed his eyes, and again he opened them quickly. Those eyes looked at him continually, stubbornly. The countenance seemed to him familiar. All at once he shivered to the marrow of his bones, cold sweat covered him, and down his spine to his feet passed thousands of ants. He recognized the face of Bogun! CHAPTER XL. Zagloba lay bound hand and foot to his own sabre, which was passed across behind his knees, in that same room in which the wedding was celebrated. The terrible chief sat at some distance on a bench, and feasted his eyes on the terror of the prisoner. "Good-evening!" said he, seeing the open lids of his victim. Zagloba made no answer, but in one twinkle of an eye came to his senses as if he had never put a drop of wine to his mouth; the ants which had gone down to his heels returned to his head, and the marrow in his bones grew cold as ice. They say that a drowning man in the last moment sees clearly all his past,--that he remembers everything, and gives himself an account of that which is happening to him. Such clearness of vision and memory Zagloba possessed in that hour; and the last expression of that clearness was a silent cry, unspoken by the lips,-- "He will give me a flaying now." And the leader repeated, with a quiet voice: "Good-evening!" "Brr!" thought Zagloba, "I would rather go to the furies." "Don't you know me, lord noble?" "With the forehead, with the forehead! How is your health?" "Not bad; but as to yours, I'll occupy myself with that." "I have not asked God for such a doctor, and I doubt if I could digest your medicine; but the will of God be done." "Well, you cured me; now I'll return thanks. We are old friends. You remember how you bound my head in Rozlogi, do you not?" Bogun's eyes began to glitter like two carbuncles, and the line of his mustaches extended in a terrible smile. "I remember," said Zagloba, "that I might have stabbed you, and I did not." "But have I stabbed you, or do I think to stab you? No! For me you are a darling, a dear; and I will guard you as the eye in my head." "I have always said that you are an honorable cavalier," said Zagloba, pretending to take Bogun's words in earnest. At the same time through his mind flew the thought: "It is evident that he is meditating some special delicacy for me. I shall not die in simple style." "You speak well," continued Bogun. "You too are an honorable cavalier; so we have sought and found each other." "What is true is that I have not sought you; but I thank you for the good word." "You will thank me still more before long; and I will thank you for this, that you took the young woman from Rozlogi to Bar. There I found her; and I would ask you to the wedding, but it will not be to-day nor to-morrow,--there is war at present,--and you are an old man, perhaps you will not live to see it." Zagloba, notwithstanding the terrible position in which he found himself, pricked up his ears. "To the wedding!" he muttered. "But what did you think?" asked Bogun. "That I was a peasant, to constrain her without a priest, or not to insist on being married in Kieff. You brought her to Bar not for a peasant, but for an ataman and a hetman." "Very good!" thought Zagloba. Then he turned his head to Bogun. "Give the order to unbind me," said he. "Oh, lie awhile, lie awhile! You will go on a journey. You are an old man, and you need rest before the road." "Where do you wish to take me?" "You are my friend, so I will take you to my other friend, Krívonos. Then we shall both think how to make it pleasant for you." "It will be hot for me," muttered Zagloba; and again the ants were walking over his back. At last he began to speak:-- "I know that you are enraged at me; but unjustly, God knows. We lived together, and in Chigirin we drank more than one bottle. I had for you the love of a father for your knightly daring; a better love you did not find in the whole Ukraine. Isn't that true? In what way have I crossed your path? If I had not gone with you to Rozlogi, we should have lived to this day in kind friendship; and why did I go if not out of friendship for you? And if you had not become enraged, if you had not killed those unhappy people,--God is looking at me,--I should not have crossed your path. Why should I mix in other men's affairs? I would have preferred to see the girl yours; but through your Tartar courtship my conscience was moved, and besides it was a noble's house. You yourself would not have acted otherwise. I might, moreover, have swept you out of the world with the greatest gain to myself. And why did I not do it? Because I am a noble. Be ashamed of yourself too, for I know you wish to take vengeance on me. As it is, you have the girl in your hands. What do you want of me? Have not I guarded as the eye in my head this your property? Since you have respected her it is to be seen that you have knightly honor and conscience; but how will you extend to her the hand which you steep in my innocent blood? How will you say to her, 'The man who led you through the mob and the Tartars I delivered to torment'? Have shame, and let me go from these bonds and from this captivity into which you have seized me by treachery. You are young, and know not what may meet you, and for my death God will punish you in that which is dearest to you." Bogun rose from the bench, pale with rage, and approaching Zagloba, began to speak in a voice stifled with fury,-- "Unclean swine! I will have straps torn from you, I'll burn you on a slow fire, I'll drive spikes into you, I'll tear you into rags." In an access of fury he grasped at the knife hanging from his belt, and for a moment pressed it convulsively in his hand. The edge was already gleaming in Zagloba's eyes, when the chief restrained himself, thrust the knife back into the scabbard, and cried: "Boys!" Six Zaporojians came into the room. "Take that Polish carrion, throw it into the stable, and guard it as the eye in your head!" The Cossacks took Zagloba,--two by his hands and feet, one behind by the hair,--and carrying him out of the house bore him through the yard, and threw him on a dung-heap in the stable standing at one side. Then they closed the door. Complete darkness surrounded the prisoner, but in the cracks between the wall-planks and through holes in the thatch the dim light of night penetrated here and there. After a while Zagloba's eyes grew accustomed to the darkness. He looked around, and saw there were no pigs in the stable, nor Cossacks. The conversation of the latter, however, reached him clearly through all the four walls. Evidently the whole building was surrounded closely; but in spite of these guards Zagloba drew a long breath. First of all, he was alive. When Bogun flashed his knife above him he was convinced that his last moment had come, and he recommended his soul to God,--it is true with the greatest fear. But evidently Bogun decided to save him for a death incomparably more complicated. He desired not only to take revenge, but to glut himself with vengeance on the man who had stolen from him the beauty, belittled his Cossack glory, and covered him with ridicule, swaddling him like a baby. It was therefore a gloomy prospect for Pan Zagloba; but he was comforted by the thought that he was still living, that likely they would take him to Krívonos and begin to torture him there, and consequently he had a few, perhaps a number of days before him. In the mean while he lay in the stable alone, and could in the midst of the quiet night think of stratagems. That was the one good side of the affair; but when he thought of the bad ones the ants began to travel over his spine in thousands. "Stratagems! If a pig lay here in this stable, he would have more stratagems than I, for they would not tie him crosswise to a sabre. If Solomon had been bound in this way, he would have been no wiser than his trousers or my boot-heel. Oh, my God, my God, for what dost thou punish me? Of all people in the world I wanted most to avoid this scoundrel, and such is my luck that he is just the man I have not avoided. I shall have my skin dressed like sviboda cloth. If another had taken me, I might promise to join the rebellion and then run away. But another would not have believed me, and this one least of all. I feel my heart dying within me. The devils have brought me to this place. Oh, my God! my God!" But after a while Zagloba thought that if he had his hands and feet free, he might more easily use some stratagem. Well, let him try! If he could only push the sword from under his knees, the rest would go on more easily. But how was he to push it out? He turned on his side, he could do nothing; then he fell into deep thought. Next he began to rock himself on his back with increasing rapidity, each moment pushing himself half the length of his body ahead. He got heated; his forehead was in greater perspiration than during the dance. At times he stopped and rested; at times he interrupted the work, for it appeared some one of the Cossacks was coming to the door; then he began with renewed ardor. At last he pushed himself forward to the wall. After that he began to sway in another direction, not from head to foot, but from side to side, so that every time he struck lightly against the wall with the sabre, which was pushed in this way from under his knees, moving more and more toward the middle of the stable from the side of the hilt. Zagloba's heart began to beat like a hammer, for he saw that this method might be effectual. He worked on, trying to strike with the least noise, and only when the conversation of the Cossacks was louder than the light blow. At last the moment came when the end of the sheath was on a line with his wrist and his knee, and further striking against the wall could not push it out. But hanging from the other side was a considerable and much heavier part of the sabre, taking into consideration the hilt with the cross usually on sabres. Zagloba counted on that cross. He began to rock himself for the third time, but now the great object of his efforts was to turn himself with his feet toward the wall. Attaining this, he began to push himself up with his feet. The sabre still clung under his knees and his hands, but the hilt became more and more involved in the uneven surface of the ground. At length the cross caught rather firmly. Zagloba pushed the last time. For a moment joy nailed him to the spot; the sabre had dropped out. He removed his hands then from his knees, and though they were still bound he caught the sabre with them. He held the scabbard with his feet and drew out the blade. To cut the bonds on his feet was the work of a moment. It was more difficult in the case of his hands. He was obliged to put his sabre on the ground with the edge up, and draw the cords along the edge until he had cut them. When he had done this he was not only free from bonds, but armed. He drew a long breath, then made a sign of the cross and began to thank God. But it was very far yet from the cutting of the bonds to the rescuing of himself from the hands of Bogun. "What further?" asked Zagloba of himself. He found no answer. The stable was surrounded by Cossacks; there were about a hundred. A mouse could not have passed through unobserved, and what could a man as bulky as Zagloba do? "I see that I am beginning to come to the end of my resources," said he to himself. "My wit is only good to grease boots with, and you could buy better grease than it from the Hungarians at the fair. If God does not send me some idea, then I shall become roast meat for the crows; but if he does send me an idea, then I promise to remain in continence like Pan Longin." The louder conversation of the Cossacks behind the wall interrupted his thoughts. He sprang up and put his ear to a crack between the timbers. The dry pine gave back the voices like the sounding-board of a lute. "And where shall we go from here, Father Ovsivuyu?" asked one voice. "To Kamenyets, of course," said another. "Nonsense! The horses can barely drag their legs; they will not get there." "That's why we stop here; they will have rest by morning." A moment of silence followed; then the first voice was heard lower than before. "And it seems to me, father, that the ataman is going from Kamenyets to Yampol." Zagloba held his breath. "Be silent if your young head is dear to you!" was the answer. Another moment of silence, but from behind the other walls came whispering. "They are all around, on the watch everywhere," muttered Zagloba; and he went to the opposite wall. Meanwhile were heard the noise of chewing oats and the snorting of horses evidently standing right there; among these horses the Cossacks were lying on the ground and talking, for their voices came from below. "Ah!" said one, "we have come here without sleeping, eating, or feeding our horses, so as to go on the stake in the camp of Yeremi." "The people who have fled from Yarmolintsi saw him as I see you. What they tell is a terror. He is as big as a pine-tree; in his forehead are two firebrands, and he has a dragon under him for a horse." "Lord, have mercy on us!" "We ought to take that Pole with the soldiers and be off." "How be off, when as it is the horses are just dying?" "A bad fix, brother! If I were the ataman, I would cut off the heads of those Poles, and go back to Kamenyets, even on foot." "We will take him with us to Kamenyets, and there our ataman will play with him." "The devils will play with you first!" muttered Zagloba. And, indeed, in spite of all his fear of Bogun, and maybe especially because of that, he had sworn that he would not yield himself alive. He was free from bonds, and he had a sabre in his hands,--he would defend himself. If they cut him to pieces, all right; but they wouldn't take him alive. The snorting and groaning of horses excessively road-weary drowned the sound of further conversation, and immediately gave a certain idea to Zagloba. "If I could get through the wall," thought he, "and jump on horseback suddenly--it is night, and before they could see what happened I should be out of sight. It is hard enough to chase through the ravines and valleys by sunlight, but what must it be in the dark? God grant me an opportunity!" But an opportunity was not to be obtained easily. It was necessary either to throw down the wall--and to do that he would have to be Pan Podbipienta--or to burrow under it like a fox; and then they would surely hear, discover, and seize the fugitive by the neck before he could touch the stirrup with his foot. A thousand stratagems crowded into Zagloba's head; but for the very reason that they were a thousand no one of them presented itself clearly. "It cannot be otherwise; only with my life can I pay," thought he. Then he went toward the third wall. All at once he struck his head against something hard. He felt; it was a ladder. The stable was not for pigs, but for buffaloes, and half the length it had a loft for straw and hay. Zagloba without a moment's hesitation climbed up. Then he sat down, drew breath, and began slowly to pull up the ladder after him. "Well, now I am in a fortress!" he muttered. "Even if they should find another ladder, they couldn't bring it here very quickly; and if I don't split the forehead of the man who comes here, then I'll give myself to be smoked into bacon. Oh, devil take it!" he burst out after a while, "in truth they cannot only smoke me, but fry and melt me into tallow. But let them burn the stable if they wish,--all right! They won't get me alive; and it is all the same whether the crows eat me raw or roasted. If I only escape those robber hands, I don't care for the rest; and I have hope that something will happen yet." Zagloba passed easily, it is evident, from the lowest despair to hope,--in fact, such hope entered him as if he were already in the camp of Prince Yeremi. But still his position had not improved much. He was sitting on the loft, and he had a sabre in his hand; he might ward off an attack for some time, but that was all. From the loft to freedom was a road like jumping from the stove on your forehead,--with this difference, that below the sabres and pikes of the Cossacks watching around the walls were waiting for him. "Something will happen!" muttered Zagloba; and approaching the roof he began to separate quietly and remove the thatch, so as to gain for himself an outlook into the world. This was easily done, for the Cossacks talked continually under the walls, wishing to kill the tedium of watching; and besides there sprang up a rather strong breeze, which deadened with its movement among the neighboring trees the noise which was made in removing the bundles. After a time the aperture was ready. Zagloba stuck his head through it and began to look around. The night had already begun to wane, and on the eastern horizon appeared the first glimmer of day. By the pale light Zagloba saw the whole yard filled with horses; in front of the cottage rows of sleeping Cossacks, stretched out like long indefinite lines; farther on the well-sweep and the trough, in which water was glistening; and near it again a rank of sleeping men and a number of Cossacks with drawn sabres in their hands walking along that line. "There are my men, bound with ropes," muttered Zagloba. "Bah!" he added after a while, "if they were mine! But they are the prince's. I was a good leader to them; there is nothing to be said on that point. I led them into the mouth of the dog. It will be a shame to show my eyes if God returns me freedom. And through what was all this? Through love-making and drinking. What was it to me that trash were marrying? I had as much business at this wedding as at a dog's wedding. I will renounce this traitorous mead, which crawls into the legs, not the head. All the evil in the world is from drinking; for if they had fallen upon us while sober, I should have gained the victory in a trice and shut Bogun up in this stable." Zagloba's gaze fell again on the cottage in which the chief was sleeping, and rested at its door. "Sleep on, you scoundrel!" he muttered, "sleep! And may you dream that the devils are skinning you,--a thing which will not miss you in any case! You wanted to make a sieve out of my skin; try to crawl up to me here, and we shall see if I do not cut yours so that it wouldn't do to make boots for a dog. If I could only get myself out of this place,--if I could only get out! But how?" Indeed the problem was not to be solved. The whole yard was so packed with men and horses that even if Zagloba had got out of the stable, even if he had pushed through the thatch and sprung on one of the horses that stood right there, he could in no wise have pushed to the gate; and then how was he to get beyond the gate? Still, it seemed to him that he had solved more than half the problem. He was free, armed, and he sat in the loft as in a fortress. "What the devil good is there," thought he, "in getting out of the rope if you are to be hanged with it afterward?" And again stratagems began to bustle in his head; but there were so many of them that he could not choose. Meanwhile the light increased, the places around the cottage began to emerge from the shadow; the thatch of the cottage was covered as if by silver. Zagloba could distinguish accurately particular groups; he could see the red uniforms of his men, who were lying around the well, and the sheepskin coats under which the Cossacks were sleeping near the cottage. Then suddenly some figure rose from the rank of the sleepers and began to pass with slow step through the yard, halting here and there near men and horses, speaking for a moment with the Cossacks who were guarding the prisoners, and at last approached the stable. Zagloba supposed at first that it was Bogun, for he saw that the guards spoke to that figure as subordinates to a superior. "Eh!" he muttered, "if I had a musket now, I would show you how to cover yourself with your feet." At this moment the figure raised its head, and on its face fell the gray light of the morning. It was not Bogun, but the sotnik Golody, whom Zagloba recognized at once, for he knew Golody well from the time of his own intimacy with Bogun in Chigirin. "Well, boys, you are not asleep?" said Golody. "No, father, though we should like to sleep. It is about time to change guard." "It will be changed immediately. And that devil's imp has not got away?" "No, no!--unless the soul has gone out of him, father, for he hasn't moved." "Ah! he is an old fox. But look, see what he is doing, for he would go through the ground." "This minute!" answered a number of Cossacks, going to the door of the stable. "Throw out hay from the mow! Rub the horses! We will start at sunrise." "All right, father!" Zagloba, leaving at once his lookout in the opening of the thatch, crawled to the hole in the floor. At the same moment he heard the creak of the wooden hinges and the rustling of the straw under the feet of the Cossacks. His heart beat like a hammer in his breast, and he pressed the hilt of the sabre in his hand, renewing in his soul the oath that he would resign himself to be burned with the stable or be cut to pieces rather than be taken alive. He expected every moment that the Cossacks would raise a fearful uproar, but he was deceived. For a time he heard them walking more and more quickly through the whole stable. At last one said,-- "What the devil is the matter? I can't find him. We threw him in here." "He isn't a werewolf, is he? Strike a light, Vassily; it is as dark here as in a forest." A moment of silence followed. Evidently Vassily was looking for flint and tinder, while the other Cossacks began to call in a low voice: "Where are you?" "Kiss the dog's ear!" muttered Zagloba. Steel struck flint, a cluster of sparks flashed forth and lighted the dark interior of the stable and the heads of the Cossacks in their caps, then deeper darkness came down again. "He is not here! he is not here!" cried excited voices. That moment one sprang to the door. "Father Golody! Father Golody!" "What's the matter?" cried the sotnik, approaching the door. "There is no Pole." "How, no Pole?" "He has gone into the ground; he isn't anywhere. O God, have mercy on us! We struck fire; he is not here." "Impossible! Oh, you will catch it from the ataman! Has he escaped, or how is it? You have been asleep." "No, father, we have not slept. He didn't get out of the stable on our side." "Be quiet! don't wake the ataman. If he hasn't gone out, then he must be here. Have you looked everywhere?" "Everywhere." "On the loft too?" "How could he crawl on the loft when he was bound?" "You fool! If he hadn't unbound himself, he would be here. Look on the loft! Strike a light!" Sparks flashed again. The news flew in a moment among all the guards. They began to crowd to the stable with the haste usual on sudden occasions; hurried steps were heard, hurried questions and still more hurried answers. Advices crossed one another like swords in battle. "To the loft! to the loft!" "But watch outside!" "Don't wake the ataman; if you do, there will be terror." "The ladder is gone!" "Bring another!" "There is none anywhere." "Run to the cottage; see if there is one there." "Oh, curse the Pole!" "Go up the corners to the thatch; get in through the thatch." "Impossible; for the roof projects and is fastened with planks." "Bring the lances; we will go up on the lances. Ah, the dog! he has hauled up the ladder." "Bring the lances!" roared Golody. Some ran for the lances, while others stretched their heads up toward the loft. Already scattered light penetrated through the open door into the stable; and with its uncertain gleam was to be seen the square opening in the loft, black and silent. From below were heard single voices. "Now, sir noble, let down the ladder and come. You won't get away, anyhow; why put people to trouble? Come down, oh, come down!" Silence. "You are a wise man. If it would do you any good, you might stay up there; but since it won't help you, come down of your own accord, be a good fellow." Silence. "Come down! If you don't, we will skin your head and throw you head-first into the dung-heap." Zagloba was as deaf to threats as to coaxing, sitting in the dark like a badger in his hole, preparing for a stubborn defence. He only grasped his sabre tighter, panted a little, and whispered his prayers. Lances were now brought, three of them tied together, and placed with their points to the opening. The thought flashed through Zagloba's mind to grasp and draw them up; but he thought that the roof might be too low, and he couldn't draw them up entirely. Besides, others would be brought at once. Meanwhile the stable became crowded with Cossacks. Some held torches, others brought from wagons all kinds of ladders and poles, every one of which turned out to be too short; these they lashed together hurriedly with straps, for it was really difficult to climb on the lances. Still they found volunteers. "I'll go," called a number of voices. "Wait for the ladder!" said Golody. "And what harm is it, father, to try on the lances?" "Vassily will climb; he goes like a cat." "Let him try." But others began to joke immediately. "Be careful! he has a sabre; he will cut your head off. Look out! he will grab you by the head, drag you in, and treat you as a bear would." But Vassily didn't allow himself to be frightened. "He knows," said Vassily, "that if he should lay a finger on me the ataman would give him the devil to eat; and you, brothers." This was a warning to Zagloba, who sat quietly, and did not even mutter. But the Cossacks, as is usual among soldiers, got into good humor, for the whole affair began to amuse them; so they kept on teasing Vassily. "There will be one blockhead less in the white world." "He won't think how we shall pay him for your head. He is a bold hero." "Ho, ho! He is a werewolf. The devil knows into what form he has turned already. He is a wizard! Can't tell, Vassily, whom you will find there behind the opening." Vassily, who had already spat on his palms and was just grasping the lances by the stem, stopped suddenly. "I'll go against a Pole," said he, "but not against the devil." But now the ladders were lashed together and placed at the opening. It was difficult to climb them, too, for they bent immediately where they were tied, and the slender round cracked under the feet, which were placed on the lowest one to try. But Golody himself began to ascend; while going, he said,-- "My dear noble, you see that there is no joking here. If you have made up your mind to stay up there, stay; but don't fight, for we will get you anyhow, even if we have to pull the stable to pieces. Have sense!" At last his head reached the opening and went through it slowly. All at once the whiz of a sabre was heard. The Cossack screamed fearfully, tottered, and fell, with his head cut in two. "Cut! slash!" roared the Cossacks. A fearful tumult began in the stable. Shouts and cries were raised, which were overborne by the thundering voice of Zagloba,-- "Oh, you scoundrels, you man-eaters, you basilisks! I'll cut you to pieces, you mangy ruffians! You'll know a knightly hand. Attacking honest people by night, shutting a noble in a stable! Scoundrels! Come to me by ones or by twos, only come! Come along; but you'll leave your heads on the dung-heap, for I'll hew them off, as I live." "Cut! cut!" shouted the Cossacks. "We will burn the stable." "I'll burn it myself, you ox-tails, and you with it." "Several,--several at a time!" shouted an old Cossack. "Support the ladder, prop it with lances, take bundles of hay on your heads and go on! We must get him." Then he mounted, and with him two comrades. The rounds began to break, the ladders bent still more; but more than twelve strong hands seized them by the sides propped by the lances, others thrust the points of lances through the opening to ward off the blows of the sabre. A few moments later three bodies fell on the heads of those standing below. Zagloba, heated by his triumph, bellowed like a buffalo, and poured out such curses as the world had never heard, and from which the souls of the Cossacks would have died within them, if fury had not begun to possess them. Some thrust their lances into the loft; others hurried on the ladders, though sure death waited them in the opening. Suddenly a shout was heard at the door, and into the stable rushed Bogun himself. He was without a cap, in trousers and shirt; in his hand was a drawn sabre, and in his eyes fire. "Through the thatch!" he shouted. "Tear the thatch apart and take him alive!" But Zagloba, seeing him, roared: "Ruffian, just come up here! I'll cut off your nose and ears. I won't touch your neck, for that belongs to the hangman. Well, are you afraid, my urchin?" Then Zagloba said to the Cossacks: "Tie that scoundrel for me, and you will all be pardoned. Well, gallows-bird! well, Jews' picture! I am alone here; only show your head on this loft! Come, come! I shall be glad to see you, I'll give you such a reception that you'll remember it with your father the devil, and your mother a harlot." The poles of the roof now began to crack. It was evident the Cossacks were up there and tearing through the thatch. Zagloba heard, but fear didn't deprive him of power; he was as if drunk with the battle and with blood. "I'll spring to the corner and perish there," thought he. But that instant gun-shots were heard in the yard. A number of Cossacks rushed to the stable. "Father! father!" they shouted. "This way!" Zagloba at the first moment did not understand what had happened, and was astonished. He looked down through the opening; there was no one there. The rafters were not cracking. "What is it? what has happened?" he cried aloud. "Ah! I understand. They want to burn the stable, and fire from pistols at the roof." Then was heard the uproar of people, more terrible every moment, and the tramp of horses. Shouts mixed with howls and the clatter of steel. "My God, that must be a battle!" thought Zagloba, springing to the opening in the thatch. He looked, and his legs bent under him with delight. In the yard a battle was raging, and soon Zagloba beheld the terrible defeat of Bogun's Cossacks. Attacked on a sudden, struck with fire from pistols placed at their heads and breasts, pushed to the fences, to the cottage and out-houses, cut with swords, thrown down by the rush of horses, trampled with their hoofs, the Cossacks perished almost without resistance. The ranks of red-uniformed soldiers, cutting furiously and pressing on the fugitives, did not allow them to form, to use their sabres, to draw breath, or to reach their horses. Only detached groups defended themselves. Some, favored by the disturbance, uproar, and smoke, succeeded in reaching their loosened saddle-girths, and perished before they touched the stirrups with a foot; others, throwing away lances and sabres, disappeared under the fences, got stuck between the posts, or jumped over the top, shouting and crying with unearthly voices. It seemed to the unfortunates that Prince Yeremi himself had fallen upon them unexpectedly, and was shivering them with his whole power. They had no time to come to their minds to look around. The shouts of the victors, the whistle of sabres, and the rattle of shots chased them like a storm. The hot breath of horses was on their necks. "Save yourselves, men!" was heard on every side. "Slay! kill!" was the response of the assailants. At last Zagloba saw little Volodyovski as, standing near the gate at the head of a number of soldiers, he gave directions with his baton and voice, and sometimes rushed on his gray horse into the whirl, and then the moment he turned or struck, a man fell without uttering a sound. Oh, but he was a master beyond masters, little Volodyovski, and a soldier, blood and bone! He did not lose sight of the battle, but making a correction here and there, returned again, looked and corrected, like the director of an orchestra, who at times plays himself, at times stops, watching carefully over all, so that each man may fill his part. When he saw this, Zagloba stamped on the floor of the loft till the dust rose. He clapped his hands and shouted,-- "Slay the dog-brothers! Kill them! Flay them! Cut, slash, hew, kill! On to them, on! Sabre them to a man!" Thus he shouted and jumped till his eyes were inflamed from exertion, and he lost vision for a moment; but when he regained his eyesight he saw a still more beautiful spectacle. There, at the head of a number of Cossacks, was Bogun, rushing away on horseback like lightning, without a cap, in his shirt and trousers, and after him, at the head of his soldiers, little Volodyovski. "Slay!" shouted Zagloba; "that's Bogun." But his voice did not reach them. That moment Bogun with his heroes was over the fence, Volodyovski over the fence. Some remained behind; horses fell under others in the leap. Zagloba looked. Bogun is on the plain, Volodyovski is on the plain. Then the Cossacks scatter in their flight, and soldiers in their pursuit; individual pursuit begins. Zagloba's breath died within his breast, his eyes were almost bursting through his lids; for what does he see? Volodyovski is almost on the neck of Bogun, like a hound on a wild boar. The chief turns his head, raises his sabre; they fight. Zagloba shouts. Still another moment, and Bogun falls with his horse; and Volodyovski, leaving him, hurries after the others. But Bogun is alive; he rises from the ground and runs to a pile of rocks surrounded with bushes. "Hold him! hold him!" roared Zagloba. "That's Bogun!" Then a new band of Cossacks hurry on, who till that moment had been hiding on the other side of the rocks, but now discovered, seek a new way of escape, pushed by soldiers who are about half a furlong behind. This party comes up to Bogun, bears him away, disappears from sight in the turns of the ravine, and after it disappear the soldiers. In the yard it was silent and empty; for the soldiers of Zagloba, rescued by Volodyovski, chased after the Cossacks and pursued with the others the scattered enemy. Zagloba let down the ladder, slipped from the loft, and coming out of the stable into the yard, said, "I am free!" Then he began to look around. In the yard lay a number of Zaporojian bodies and some Poles. He walked slowly among them, and examined each carefully. At length he knelt over one of them. Soon he rose with a canteen in his hand. "It is full!" he muttered; and placing it to his mouth he raised his head. "Not bad!" Again he looked round, and again he repeated, but with a much clearer voice, "I am free!" He went to the cottage. On the threshold he came upon the body of the old cooper, whom the Cossacks had killed there. He disappeared inside. When he came out, around his hips, over a coat soiled with manure, glittered Bogun's belt, thickly embroidered with gold; at the belt a knife with a great ruby in the hilt. "God has rewarded bravery," he muttered, "for the belt is pretty full. Ah, you wretched robber, I have hope that you will not escape! That little hop-of-my-thumb--may the bullets strike him!--is a lively piece, just like a wasp. I knew he was a good soldier; but to drive Bogun as he would a white-faced mare, I did not expect that of him. That there should be such strength and courage in such a little body! Bogun might carry him on a string at his belt. May the bullets strike Volodyovski!--but better, may God give him luck. He couldn't have known Bogun, or he would have finished him. Phu! how it smells of powder here, enough to pierce the nose! But if I didn't get out of a scrape this time such as I have never been in before! Praise to God! Well, well, but so to drive Bogun! I must examine this Volodyovski again, for it must be there is a devil sitting inside of him." Zagloba sat on the threshold of the stable in meditation, and waited. Presently there appeared at a distance on the plain soldiers returning from the victory, and at their head rode Volodyovski. When he saw Zagloba, Volodyovski galloped up, and springing from his horse, came to him. "Do I see you once more?" called he, at a distance. "Me, in my own person," said Zagloba. "God reward you for coming with reinforcements in time!" "Thanks be to God that I came in time!" said the little knight, pressing the palm of Zagloba with joy. "But where did you hear of the straits in which I was?" "The peasants of this place gave information." "Oh, and I thought they betrayed me." "Why should they? They are honest. The newly married barely got off with their lives, and what happened to the others they know not." "If they are not traitors, then they are killed by the Cossacks. The master of the house lies near the door. But what of that? Tell me, is Bogun alive, did he escape,--he without a cap, in the shirt and trousers, whom you threw with his horse?" "I hit him on the head; but it is too bad that I didn't know him. But tell me, my good Zagloba, what is the best you have done." "What have I done?" repeated Zagloba. "Come, Pan Michael, and see." He took him by the hand and led him into the stable. "Look at that!" Volodyovski saw nothing for a while, for he had come in from the light; but when his eyes had become used to the darkness he saw bodies lying motionless on the dung-heap. "And who cut down these men?" asked he, in astonishment. "I!" said Zagloba. "You have asked what I did. Here it is before you!" "But," said the young officer, "how did you do it?" "I defended myself up there. They stormed me from below and through the roof. I don't know how long it was, for in battle a man doesn't reckon time. It was Bogun, with a strong force and chosen men. He will remember you; he will remember me too. At another time I will tell you how I fell into captivity, what I passed through, and how I settled Bogun; for I had an encounter of tongues with him. But now I am so wearied that I can scarcely stand." "Well," repeated Volodyovski, "it is not to be denied you defended yourself manfully; but I will say this, you are a better swordsman than general." "Pan Michael," said the noble, "it is no time for discussion. Better thank God, who has sent down to us to-day so mighty a victory, the memory of which will not soon vanish from among men." Volodyovski looked with astonishment at Zagloba, since it had appeared to him hitherto that he alone had gained that victory which Zagloba evidently wished to share with him. But he only looked, shook his head, and said, "Let it be so." An hour later the two friends, at the head of their united parties, moved on to Yarmolintsi. Almost no one was missing from Zagloba's men; for sprung upon in their sleep, they offered no resistance. Bogun, being sent specially for informants, had given orders not to kill, but to take prisoners. CHAPTER XLI. Bogun, though a brave, clear-sighted leader, had no luck in this expedition against the supposed division of Prince Yeremi. He was merely confirmed in the belief that the prince had really moved his whole force against Krívonos; for this was the information given by the captives from among Zagloba's men, who believed most sacredly that the prince was marching after them. Nothing remained then for the unfortunate ataman but to withdraw with all speed to Krívonos; but the task was not easy. Scarcely on the third day was a party of two hundred and a few tens of Cossacks collected around him; the others had either fallen in the fight, were lying wounded on the field of struggle, or were wandering yet among the ravines and reeds, not knowing what to do, how to turn, or where to go. Besides, the party left to Bogun was not good for much; for it was beaten, inclined to flee at every alarm, demoralized, frightened. And it was made up too of chosen men; better soldiers it would be difficult to find in the whole Saitch. But the heroes didn't know with what a small force Pan Volodyovski had struck them, and that, thanks only to the unexpected attack on sleeping and unprepared men, could he inflict such a defeat. They believed most sacredly that they had been fighting, if not with the prince himself, at least with a strong detachment several times more numerous than it was. Bogun raged like fire; cut in the hand, run over, sick, beaten, he had let his inveterate enemy out of his hands, and belittled his own fame. For now those Cossacks who on the eve of the defeat would have followed him blindly to the Crimea, to hell, and against the prince himself, had lost faith and courage, and were thinking only how to carry their lives out of the defeat. Still Bogun had done everything that a leader was bound to do; he had neglected nothing, he had established pickets at a distance from the house, and rested only because the horses which had come from Kamenyets almost at one course were altogether unfit for the road. But Volodyovski, whose youth had been passed in surprising and hunting Tartars, approached the pickets like a fox in the night, seized them before they could shout or fire, and fell upon them in such fashion that Bogun could escape only in his shirt and trousers. When the chief thought of this the light grew dark in his eyes, his head swam, and despair gnawed his soul like a mad dog. He who on the Black Sea had rushed upon Turkish galleys, and galloped on the necks of Tartars to Perekop, and lighted up the eyes of the Khan with the blaze of his villages, and under the hand of the prince near Lubni itself had cut a garrison to pieces at Vassílyevka, had to flee in his shirt, bareheaded and without a sabre,--for he had lost that too in his meeting with the little knight. So at the stopping-places where the horses were fed, when no man was looking, the chief seized himself by the head and cried: "Where is my Cossack glory, where my sabre friend?" When he cried in this way a wild raving carried him away, and then he drank as if he were not a creature of God, and wanted to march against the prince, attack all his forces,--perish and disappear for the ages. He wished it, but the Cossacks did not. "Though you kill us, father, we will not go!" was their gloomy answer to his outbursts; and vainly in accesses of fury he cut at them with his sabre and singed their faces with his pistol,--they would not, they did not go. You would have said that the ground was slipping away from the ataman's feet, for this was not the end of his misfortune. Fearing on account of probable pursuit to go straight to the south, and thinking that perhaps Krívonos had already given up the siege, he rushed straight to the east, and came upon the party of Pan Podbipienta. Pan Longin, wakeful as a stork, did not permit an attack, but falling first on Bogun, defeated him the more easily because his Cossacks were unwilling to fight; when he had defeated him he turned him over to Skshetuski, who beat him worst of all; so that Bogun, after long wanderings in the steppes with a few horses only, without glory, without Cossacks, without booty, without informants, made his way back at last to Krívonos. But the wild Krívonos, usually so terrible to subordinates whom fortune did not favor, was not angry this time. He knew from his own experience what an affair with Yeremi meant; therefore he even petted Bogun, comforted him, quieted him, pacified him, and when he fell into a violent fever, gave orders to nurse and cure him with all care. The four officers of the prince, having filled the country with terror and dismay, returned safely to Yarmolintsi, where they remained several days to give rest to the men and horses. There, when they came into the same quarters, they gave to Skshetuski, each in turn, an account of what had happened to them and what they had accomplished; then they sat down by the bottle to relieve their hearts in friendly converse and satisfy their mutual curiosity. But Zagloba gave little chance to any man to speak. He had no desire to listen, but wished only that others should listen to him,--in truth it came out that he had the most to tell. "Gentlemen," said he, "I fell into captivity, it is true; but fortune turns around. Bogun has been all his life victorious, but we beat him this time. That is how it is usually in war. To-day you tan people, to-morrow they tan you. But God punished Bogun because he fell upon us, sleeping sweetly the sleep of the just, and roused us in such a dishonorable way. Ho, ho! he thought to terrify me with his filthy tongue; but I tell you here, gentlemen, that I cornered him so that he lost his boldness, became confused, and said what he didn't want to say. What's the use of talking long? If I hadn't got into captivity. Pan Michael and I would not have defeated him. I say both of us, because in this affair magna pars fui, and I shall not cease to insist on it to my death. So God give me health! Hear my reasons further: If I and Volodyovski had not beaten him, then Podbipienta would not have beaten him, and further Skshetuski would not have beaten him; and finally if we hadn't beaten him he would have beaten us, and who was the cause that this didn't take place?" "Ah! it is with you as with a fox," said Pan Longin; "you wave your tail here, slink away there, and always get out." "It's a foolish hound that runs after his own tail, for he will not catch it and will not smell anything honorable, and besides will lose his wind. How many men have you lost?" "Twelve in all, and some wounded; they didn't strike us very hard." "And you, Pan Michael?" "About thirty, for I fell upon them unawares." "And you, Lieutenant?" "As many as Pan Longin." "And I lost two. See yourselves who is the best leader! That's the question. Why did we come here? On the service of the prince, to get news of Krívonos. Well, I tell you, gentlemen, that I first got news of him, and from the best source, because I got it from Bogun; and I know that he is at Kamenyets, but he thinks of raising the siege, for he is afraid. I know this openly; but I know something else which will put joy into your heart, and of which I have not spoken because I wanted that we should counsel about it together. I was sick till now, for weariness overpowered me, and my bowels rose up against that villanous binding on a stick. I thought my blood would boil over." "Tell us, for God's sake!" cried Volodyovski, "have you heard anything of our unfortunate lady?" "Yes, God bless her," said Zagloba. Skshetuski rose to his full height and then sat down. There followed such a silence that the buzzing of the mosquitoes was heard on the windows till Zagloba began again,-- "She lives, I know that certainly; she is in Bogun's hands. Gentlemen, it is a terrible thing; however, God has not permitted harm or disgrace to meet her. Bogun himself told me this,--he who would rather boast of something else." "How can that be? how can that be?" asked Skshetuski, feverishly. "If I lie, may a thunderbolt strike me!" said Zagloba, with importance, "for this is a sacred thing. Listen to what Bogun said when he wished to jeer at me before I settled him at last. 'Did you think,' said he, 'that you brought her to Bar for a peasant; that I was a peasant to constrain her by force; that I was not to be married in Kieff in the church, and monks sing for me, and three hundred candles burn for me,--me, an ataman, a hetman!' And he stamped his feet and threatened me with his knife, for he thought he was frightening me; but I told him to frighten the dogs!" Skshetuski had now recovered himself. His monk's face lighted up; gladness and uncertainty played on it again. "Where is she now, where is she?" he asked hurriedly. "If you have found that out, then you have come from heaven." "He did not tell me that, but two words are enough for a wise head. Remember, gentlemen, he jeered me all the while till I planted him, and then he went in. 'First I'll take you,' said he, 'to Krívonos, and then I would invite you to the wedding; but now there is war, so it will not come off soon.' Think of it, gentlemen,--'not come off soon;' therefore we have plenty of time. Secondly, think,--'first to Krívonos, then to the wedding;' therefore in no way is she at the camp of Krívonos, but somewhere farther, where the war has not reached." "You are a man of gold," said Volodyovski. "I thought at first," said the delightfully flattered Zagloba, "that maybe he had sent her to Kieff; but no, for he said he would go for the wedding to Kieff with her. If they will go, it means that she is not there; and he is too shrewd to take her there now, for if Hmelnitski should push into Red Russia, Kieff could be taken easily by the Lithuanian forces." "Surely, surely!" cried Pan Longin. "Now, as God is just to me, no man could change minds with you." "But I shouldn't change with every one, lest I might get soup instead of reason,--a thing which might easily happen among the Lithuanians." "Oh, he is beginning again!" said Pan Longin. "Well, since she is not with Krívonos nor in Kieff, where is she?" "There's the difficulty." "If you have worked it out, then tell me quickly, for fire is burning me," said Skshetuski. "Beyond Yampol," said Zagloba, and rolled his one sound eye triumphantly. "How do you know?" inquired Volodyovski. "How do I know? Here is how: I was sitting in the stable,--for that brigand had me shut up in the stable, may the wild boars rip him!--and the Cossacks were talking among themselves all around. I put my ear to the wall then, and what did I hear? 'Now maybe the ataman will go beyond Yampol,' said one; and then the other answered, 'Be silent, if your young head is dear to you!' I'll give my neck that she is beyond Yampol." "Oh, as sure as God is in heaven!" cried Volodyovski. "He did not take her to the Wilderness; therefore, according to my head, he must have hidden her somewhere between Yampol and Yagorlik. I was once in that region when the judges of the king and the Khan met; for in Yagorlik, as you know, cattle questions of the boundary are tried, of which cases there is never a lack. Along the whole Dniester there are ravines, hidden places, and reeds in which living by themselves are people who know no authority, dwell in the wilderness, and see no neighbors. He has hidden her surely among such wild solitaries, for he would be surest of her there." "But how can we go there now, when Krívonos bars the way?" asked Pan Longin. "Yampol too, I hear, is a nest of robbers." To this Skshetuski replied: "Though I had to risk my life ten times, I should try to save her. I will go disguised and look for her. God will help me, I shall find her." "I will go with you, Yan," said Volodyovski. "And I as a minstrel with my lute. Believe me, gentlemen, that I have more experience than any of you; but since the lute has disgusted me to the last degree, I'll take bagpipes." "I too shall be good for something," said Podbipienta. "Of course," added Zagloba. "Whenever we need to cross the Dnieper you will carry us over, like Saint Christopher." "I thank you from my soul, gentlemen," said Pan Yan; "and I accept your readiness with a willing heart. There is nothing to be compared with trusty friends, of whom as I see Providence has not deprived me. May the great God grant me to repay you with my health and property!" "We are all as one man!" shouted Zagloba. "God is pleased with concord, and you will find that we shall soon see the fruit of our labors." "Then nothing else remains to me," said Skshetuski, after a moment's silence, "but to deliver up the squadron to the prince, and start at once. We will go by the Dniester, along through Yampol to Yagorlik, and look everywhere. But if, as I hope, Hmelnitski is already crushed or will be before we reach the prince, then public service will not be in the way. Certain regiments will go to the Ukraine, to finish the remnant of the rebellion, but they will get on without us." "Wait!" said Volodyovski; "doubtless after Hmelnitski, Krívonos's turn will come; maybe we shall go together with the regiments to Yampol." "No, we must go there before," answered Zagloba. "But first of all give up the squadron, so as to have free hand. I hope, too, that the prince will be satisfied with us." "Especially with you." "That's true, for I shall bring him the best news. Believe me, I expect a reward." "When shall we take the road?" "We must rest till morning," said Volodyovski. "Let Skshetuski command, however, for he is chief here; but I forewarn you, if we start to-day my horses will all give out." "I know that it is impossible to start to-day," said Skshetuski; "but I think after good oats we can go to-morrow." They started on the following day. According to the orders of the prince, they were to return to Zbaraj and wait further orders. They went consequently through Kuzmin, aside from Felstin, to Volochisk, from which the old highway led through Hlebanovka to Zbaraj. The roads were bad; for rain was falling, though quietly. Pan Longin, going ahead with one hundred horses, broke up a few disorderly bands that had gathered around the rear of the forces of the commander-in-chief. At Volochisk they stopped for the night. But they had barely begun a pleasant sleep after the long road, when they were roused by an alarm, and the guards informed them that cavalry detachments were approaching. Immediately came the news that it was Vershul's Tartar squadron, therefore their own men. Zagloba, Pan Longin, and Volodyovski met at once in Skshetuski's room; and right after them rushed in, like a storm, an officer of the light cavalry, breathless and covered with mud. When he had looked at him, Skshetuski cried out: "Vershul!" "Yes, it is I," said the newly arrived, unable to catch his breath. "From the prince?" "Yes. Oh for breath, breath!" "What news? All over with Hmelnitski?" "All--over with--the Commonwealth!" "By the wounds of Christ, what do you say? Defeat!" "Defeat, disgrace, shame!--without a battle--a panic--oh! oh!" Skshetuski could not believe his ears. "But speak! speak, in the name of the living God! The commanders--" "Ran away." "Where is our prince?" "Retreating--without an army--I am here from the prince--the order to Lvoff--at once--they are pursuing us--" "Who? Vershul, Vershul, come to your senses, man! Who is pursuing?" "Hmelnitski and the Tartars." "In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost!" cried Zagloba. "The earth is opening." But Skshetuski understood already what the matter was. "Questions later on; now to horse!" "To horse! to horse!" The hoofs of the horses under Vershul's Tartars were clattering by the windows. The townspeople, roused by the arrival of troops, burst from their houses with lanterns and torches in their hands. The news flew through the town like lightning. The alarm was sounded. The town, silent a moment before, was filled with yells, tramping of horses, shouting of orders, and wailing of Jews. The inhabitants wishing to leave with the troops got ready wagons, in which they put their wives and children, with featherbeds. The mayor, at the head of a number of citizens, came to beg Skshetuski not to depart at once, but to convoy the inhabitants even to Tarnopol. Skshetuski would not listen; for the order received was explicit, to go to Lvoff as fast as his breath would let him. They hurried away therefore; and on the road Vershul, recovering breath, told what had happened, and how. "Since the Commonwealth has been a commonwealth," said he, "never has it borne such a defeat. Tsetsora, Jóltiya Vodi, Korsún, are nothing in comparison." Skshetuski, Volodyovski, and Pan Longin bent down to the necks of their horses, now grasping their own heads, now raising their hands to heaven. "The thing passes human belief," said they. "But where was the prince?" "Deserted by all, thrust aside on purpose; he did not command, in fact, his own division." "Who had command?" "No man, and all men. I have been long in service, I have eaten my teeth in war, and yet up to this day I have not seen such armies and such leaders." Zagloba, who had no great love for Vershul and knew him but little, began to shake his head and smack his lips; at last he said,-- "My dear sir, either your vision is confused, or you have taken some partial defeat for a general one; for what you relate passes imagination completely." "That it passes imagination, I confess; and I'll say more to you,--that I should gladly give my head to be severed if by some miracle it should appear that I am mistaken." "But how did you get to Volochisk first after the defeat? For I don't wish to admit that you were the first to run away. Where, then, are the forces in flight? In what direction are they fleeing? What has happened to them? Why didn't the fugitives get ahead of you? To all these questions I seek an answer in vain." Vershul at any other time would not have permitted such questions, but at that moment he could think of nothing but the defeat; therefore he merely answered,-- "I came first to Volochisk, for the others are retreating to Ojigovtsi, and the prince hurried me off on purpose toward the place in which he thought you were, so the avalanche might not catch you through hearing the news too late; and secondly, because the five hundred horse which you have are no small comfort to him, for the greater part of his division is killed or in flight." "Wonderful things!" said Zagloba. "It's a terror to think of! Desperation seizes one, the heart is cut, tears flow," said Volodyovski, wringing his hands. "The country destroyed; disgrace after death,--such forces dispersed, lost. It cannot be that there is anything but the end of the world and the approach of the last judgment." "Don't interrupt him," said Skshetuski; "let him tell all." Vershul was silent for a time, as if collecting his strength; nothing was heard but the plashing of hoofs in the mud, for rain was falling. It was still the depth of night, and very dark, because cloudy; and in that darkness and rain the words of Vershul, who began thus to speak, had a wonderful sound of ill-omen,-- "If I had not expected to fall in battle, I should have lost my reason. You speak of the last judgment,--and I think it will come soon, for everything is going to pieces; wickedness rises above virtue, and antichrist is walking through the world. You have not seen what took place; but if you are not able to bear even the story of it, how is it with me, who saw with my own eyes the defeat and measureless disgrace? God gave us a happy beginning in this war. Our prince, after getting satisfaction at Cholganski Kamen from Pan Lashch, gave the rest to oblivion, and made peace with Prince Dominik. We were all pleased with this concord,--really a blessing of God. The prince gained a second victory at Konstantinoff, and took the place; for the enemy left it after the first storm. Then we marched to Pilavtsi, though the prince did not advise going there. But immediately on the road various machinations were manifest against him,--ill-will, envy, and evident intrigue. He was not listened to in councils, no attention was paid to his words, and above all, efforts were made to separate our division, so that the prince should not have it all in hand. If he should oppose, the blame of defeat would be thrown on him. He was silent, therefore, suffered and endured. By order of the commander-in-chief the light cavalry, together with Vurtsel and the cannon. Colonel Makhnitski, Osinski, and Koritski, were detached, so that there remained with the prince only the hussars and Zatsvilikhovski, two regiments of dragoons, and I, with a part of my squadron,--altogether not more than two thousand men. And they paid no attention to the prince; he was despised; and I heard how the clients of Prince Dominik said: 'They won't say now, after the victory, that it came through Vishnyevetski.' And they said openly that if such immeasurable glory covered Yeremi, his candidate, Prince Karl, could carry the election, and they want Kazimir. The whole army was infected with factions, so that harangues were held in circles, as if they were sending delegates to the Diets; they were thinking of everything but battle, just as if the enemy had been beaten already. But if I were to tell you of the feasting and the applauding, you would not believe me. The legions of Pyrrhus were nothing in comparison with those armies, all in gold, jewels, and ostrich feathers, with two hundred thousand camp followers. Legions of wagons followed us, horses dropped dead under the weight of gold-tipped and silken tents; wagons were breaking under provision chests. You would have thought we were going to the conquest of the world. Nobles of the general militia shook their sticks, saying, 'This is how we will pacify the trash, and not kill them with swords.' We old soldiers, accustomed to fighting without talking, had a foreboding of evil at the sight of this unheard of pride. Then began tumults against Kisel,--that he was a traitor; and tumults for him,--that he was a worthy senator. They cut one another with sabres when they were drunk; there were no commanders of camps, no one looked after order; there was no general. Each one did what he liked, went where it pleased him best, stopped, took his place where it suited him; and the camp followers raised such an uproar! Oh, merciful God! that was a carnival, not a campaign,--a carnival at which the salvation of the Commonwealth was danced away, drunk away, ridden away, and chaffered away, to the last bit." "But we are still alive," said Volodyovski. "And God is in heaven," added Skshetuski. A moment of silence followed; then Vershul said,-- "We shall perish totally, unless God performs a miracle and ceases to chastise us for our sins and shows us unmerited mercy. At times I do not believe myself what I saw with my own eyes, and it seems to me that a nightmare was choking me in my sleep." "Tell further," said Zagloba; "you came to Pilavtsi, and then what?" "We stopped. What the commanders counselled I know not. At the last judgment they will answer for that; if they had struck Hmelnitski at once he would have been shattered and swept away, as God is in heaven, in spite of disorder, insubordination, tumult, and want of a leader. On their side was panic among the rabble; they were already taking counsel how to give up Hmelnitski and the elders, and he himself was meditating flight. Our prince rode from tent to tent, begged, implored, threatened. 'Let us strike,' said he, 'before the Tartar comes!' He tore the hair from his head. Men looked at one another, but did nothing and nothing. They drank, they had meetings. Reports came that the Tartars were marching,--the Khan with two hundred thousand horsemen. The commanders counselled and counselled. The prince shut himself up in his tent, for they had set him aside altogether. In the army they began to say that the chancellor had forbidden Prince Dominik to give battle; that negotiations were going on. Still greater disorder appeared. At last the Tartars came, but God gave us luck the first day. The prince and Pan Osinski fought, and Pan Lashch did very well. They drove the Tartar horde from the field, cut them up considerably; but afterward--" Here Vershul's voice died in his breast. "But afterward?" asked Zagloba. "--came the terrible, inexplicable night which I remember. I was on guard with my men by the river, when on a sudden I heard firing of cannon in the Cossack camp as if in applause, and I heard shouts. Then it occurred to me that yesterday it was said in the camp that the whole Tartar force had not arrived yet,--only Tugai Bey with a part. I thought then: 'If they are making such uproarious applause, the Khan must have come in his own person.' Then in our camp rose a tumult. I hurried thither with a few men. 'What's the matter?' They shout to me: 'The commanders have gone!' I hasten to Prince Dominik's quarters,--he is not to be found; to Ostrorog,--he is gone; to Konyetspolski,--he is not there! Jesus of Nazareth! Soldiers are flying over the square; there are shouts, tumult, yells, blazing torches. 'Where are the commanders? where are the commanders?' cry some. 'To horse! to horse!' cry others. Still others: 'Save yourselves, brothers! Treason! treason!' Hands are raised to heaven, faces are pale, eyes wild. They rush, trample, suffocate one another, mount their horses, flee weaponless at random. Others leave helmets, breastplates, arms, tents. The prince rides up at the head of the hussars in his silver armor, with six torches around him. He stands in the stirrups and cries: 'I am here, gentlemen! Rally around me!' What can he do? They don't hear him, don't see him; they rush on his hussars, break their ranks, overturn horses and men. We were barely able to save the prince himself. Then over the trampled-out fires, in darkness, like a dammed-up torrent, like a river, the whole army in wild panic rush from the camp, flee, scatter, disappear. No more an army, no more leaders, no more a Commonwealth,--nothing but unwashed disgrace and the foot of the Cossack on your neck!" Here Vershul began to groan and to pull at his horse, for the madness of despair had caught him. This madness he communicated to the others, and they rode on in that rain and night as if bewildered. They rode a long time. Zagloba broke silence first,-- "Without battle. Oh, the rascals! Oh, such sons of-- You remember what lordly figures they cut at Zbaraj,--how they promised to eat Hmelnitski without pepper and salt. Oh, the scoundrels!" "How could they?" shouted Vershul. "They ran away after the first battle gained over the Tartars and the mob,--after a battle in which the general militia fought like lions." "The finger of God is in this," said Skshetuski; "but there is some secret too, which must be explained." "If the army had fled, why that sort of thing happens in the world," said Volodyovski; "but here the leaders left the camp first, as if on purpose to lighten the victory for the enemy and give the army to slaughter." "True, true!" said Vershul. "It is said even that they did this on purpose." "On purpose? By the wounds of Christ, that cannot be!" "It is said they did so on purpose; but why? Who can discover, who can guess?" "May their graves crush them, may their race perish, and only a memory of infamy remain behind them!" said Zagloba. "Amen!" said Skshetuski. "Amen!" said Volodyovski. "Amen!" repeated Pan Longin. "There is one man who can save the fatherland yet, if they give him the baton and the remaining power of the Commonwealth. There is only one, for neither the army nor the nobles will hear of another." "The prince!" said Skshetuski. "Yes." "We will rally to him; we will perish with him. Long live Yeremi Vishnyevetski!" cried Zagloba. "Long life!" repeated a few uncertain voices. But the cry died away immediately; for when the earth was opening under their feet and the heavens seemed falling on their heads, there was no time for shouts. Day began to break, and in the distance appeared the walls of Tarnopol. CHAPTER XLII. The first wrecks from Pilavtsi reached Lvoff at daybreak, September 26; and with the opening of the gates the news spread like lightning through the city, rousing incredulity in some, panic in others, and in still others a desperate desire for defence. Skshetuski with his party arrived two days later, when the whole city was packed with fugitive soldiers, nobles, and armed citizens. They were thinking of defence, for the Tartars were expected any moment; but it was not known yet who would stand at the head of the defence or how it would begin. For this reason disorder and panic prevailed everywhere. Some fled from the place, taking their families and their property with them; dwellers in the region round about sought refuge in the city. Those departing and arriving crowded the streets, fought for passage; every place was filled with wagons, packs, bags, horses, soldiers from the greatest variety of regiments; on every face was seen either uncertainty, feverish expectation, despair, or resignation. Every little while terror broke out like a sudden whirlwind, and the cries were heard: "They are coming! they are coming!" and the crowd swept like a wave, sometimes running straight ahead infected with the madness of alarm, until it appeared that another one of the fragments of the wreck was coming,--fragments which increased more and more. But how sad was the sight of these soldiers who a short time before had marched in gold and plumes, with song on their lips and pride in their eyes, to that campaign against peasants! To-day, torn, starved, emaciated, covered with mud, on wasted horses, with shame in their faces, more like beggars than knights, they could only rouse pity, if there was time for pity in that place against the walls of which the whole power of the enemy might soon hurl itself. And each one of those disgraced knights comforted himself in this alone, that he had so many thousands of companions in shame. All concealed themselves in the first hour, so that afterward when they had recovered they might spread complaints, blame, scatter curses with threats, drag along through the streets, drink in the shops, and only increase disorder and alarm. For each one repeated: "The Tartars are here, right here!" Some saw conflagrations in the rear; others swore by all the saints that they had been forced to defend themselves against scouting-parties. The crowds surrounding the soldiers listened with strained attention. The roofs and steeples of the churches were covered with thousands of curious people; the bells tolled alarm, and crowds of women and children suffocated one another in churches in which amid flaming tapers shone the most holy sacrament. Skshetuski pushed slowly from the Galitian gate with his party through dense masses of horses, wagons, soldiers, city guilds standing under their banners, and through people who looked with wonder at that squadron entering the town, not in disorder, but in battle-array. Men shouted that succor was coming; and again joy justified by nothing took possession of the throng, which swayed forward in order to seize Skshetuski's stirrups. Soldiers too ran up, crying: "These are Vishnyevetski men! Long live Yeremi!" The pressure became so great that the squadron was barely able to push forward step by step. At length a party of dragoons appeared opposite, with an officer at the head. The soldiers pushed aside the throng, and the officer cried: "Out of the road! out of the road!" and struck with the side of his sword those who failed to clear the way quickly. Skshetuski recognized Kushel. The young officer greeted his acquaintance heartily. "What times! what times!" said he. "Where is the prince?" asked Pan Yan. "You would have killed him with anxiety if you had delayed. He is looking for you and your men intently. He is now at the Church of the Bernardines. I am sent out to keep order in the city; but the grozwayer has just taken it in hand, and I will go with you to the church. There is a council there at this moment." "In the church?" "Yes. They will offer the command to the prince, for the soldiers declare that they will not defend the town under another leader." "Let us go; I have urgent business also with the prince." The united parties moved on. Along the road Skshetuski inquired about everything that was passing in Lvoff, and if defence was already determined on. "That is just the question under consideration," said Kushel. "The citizens want to defend themselves. What times! People of insignificant position show more courage than nobles and soldiers." "But the commanders, what has happened to them? Are they not here, and will there not be opposition to the prince?" "No, unless he makes it himself. There was a fitter time to give him the command; it is late now. The commanders dare not show their faces. Prince Dominik merely took refreshments in the archbishop's palace, and went away immediately. He did well, for you cannot believe what hatred there is for him among the soldiers. He is gone already, and still they cry: 'Give him up! We will cut him to pieces!' It is sure he would not have escaped such a fate. The royal cup-bearer, Ostrorog, arrived here first, and he began to talk against the prince; but now he sits in silence, for a tumult rose against him. They laid all the blame on him to his face, and he only gulps his tears. In general it is awful, what is going on; such times have come. I say to you, thank God that you were not at Pilavtsi, that you did not flee from the place; for it is a real miracle to us who were there that we did not lose our senses altogether." "And our division?" "Exists no longer,--scarcely anything is left; Vurtsel gone, Makhnitski gone, Zatsvilikhovski gone. Vurtsel and Makhnitski were not at Pilavtsi, for they remained in Konstantinoff. That Beelzebub, Prince Dominik, left them there so as to weaken the power of our prince. Old Zatsvilikhovski has vanished like a stone in water. God grant he has not perished!" "And of all the soldiers have many come here?" "In number sufficient, but what of that? The prince alone could use them, if he would take the command; they will obey no one else. The prince was terribly alarmed about you and the soldiers. This is the only sound squadron. We were already mourning for you." "At present he is the happy man for whom people are mourning!" They rode in silence for a time, looking at the crowd and listening to the shouts and yells: "The Tartars! the Tartars!" In one place they beheld the terrible sight of a man torn to pieces by the mob on suspicion of being a spy. The bells were tolling incessantly. "Will the horde be here soon?" asked Zagloba. "The devil knows,--maybe to-day. This city will not defend itself long, for it cannot hold out. Hmelnitski is coming with two hundred thousand, besides Tartars." "Caput!" answered Zagloba. "It would have been better for us to have gone on at breakneck speed. What have we gained so many victories for?" "Over whom?" "Over Krívonos, over Bogun,--devil knows whom else." "But," said Kushel, in a low voice, turning to Skshetuski, "Yan, has God not comforted you in any way? Have you not found the one whom you were seeking? Have you not at least learned something?" "No time to think of that," said Skshetuski. "What do I and my affairs signify in view of what has happened? All is vanity, vanity, and death at the end." "It seems to me that the whole world will perish before long," said Kushel. Meanwhile they reached the Bernardine Church, which was blazing with light. Immense crowds stood before the door; but they could not enter, for a line of men with halberds closed the passage, admitting only the most important officers of the army. Skshetuski ordered his men to form a second line. "Come," said Kushel; "half the Commonwealth is in this church." They entered. Kushel had not exaggerated greatly. All who were best known in the army and city had assembled for council, including the voevoda, the castellans, the colonels, the captains, officers of foreign regiments, the clergy, as many nobles as the church could hold, a multitude of military of the lower grades, and a number of the town councillors with the grozwayer at their head, who was the leader of the citizens. The prince too was present, the royal cup-bearer, and one of the commanders, the voevoda of Kieff, the starosta of Stobnik, Vessel, Artsishevski, and Osinski. They sat in front of the great altar, so that the public might see them. The council was held hastily and excitedly, as is usual on such occasions. Speakers stood on benches and implored the elders not to yield the city to the hands of the enemy without defending it. "Even if we have to perish, the city will detain the enemy, the Commonwealth will recover. What is needed for defence? There are walls, there are troops, there is determination,--only a leader is wanted." And after speeches of this kind, through the crowd flew murmurs which passed into loud shouts; excitement seized the assembly. "We will perish, we will perish willingly!" they cry. "We will wipe out the disgrace of Pilavtsi, we will shield the fatherland!" And they began to shake their sabres, and the naked edges glittered in the blaze of the candles. Others cried: "Be quiet! Let the deliberations be orderly! Shall we defend or not defend?" "Defend! defend!" roared the assembly till the echo thrown back from the arches repeated, "Defend!" Who is to be the leader? Who should be the leader? "Prince Yeremi,--he is a leader, he is a hero! Let him defend the city; let the Commonwealth give him the baton. Long life to him!" Then such a thundering roar burst forth from a thousand lungs that the walls trembled and the glass rattled in the windows of the church. "Prince Yeremi! Prince Yeremi! Long life to Prince Yeremi! Long life, victory to him!" A thousand sabres flashed; all eyes were turned to the prince. He rose calmly with wrinkled brow. There was silence at once, as if only poppy-seeds were falling. "Gentlemen," said the prince, with a resonant voice, which in that silence reached every ear, "when the Cymbri and the Teutons fell upon the Commonwealth of Rome no one would accept the consulate till Marius took it. But Marius had a right to take it, for there were no leaders appointed by the senate. And I in the present straits would not avoid power, since I wish to serve my dear country with my life; but I cannot accept the command since I should offend the country, the senate, and the authorities, and a self-elected chief I will not be. Among us is the man to whom the Commonwealth has given the baton of command,--the cup-bearer of the Crown." Here the prince could speak no further; for hardly had he mentioned the cup-bearer when there rose a terrible din and the clattering of sabres. The crowd swayed and there was a burst as of powder on which a spark has fallen. "Away with him! Destruction to him! Pereat!" was heard in the throng. "Pereat! pereat!" was roared louder and louder. The cup-bearer sprang from his seat, pale, with drops of cold sweat on his forehead; and then threatening figures approached the stalls, near the altar, and ominous words were heard: "Give him here!" The prince, seeing whither this was tending, rose and stretched out his right hand. The crowds restrained themselves, thinking that he wished to speak. There was silence in the twinkle of an eye. But the prince wished merely to allay the storm and tumult, not to permit the shedding of blood in the church. When he saw that the most threatening moment had passed, he took his seat again. On the second chair from the voevoda of Kieff sat the unfortunate cup-bearer; his gray hair had dropped upon his breast, his hands were hanging, and from his mouth came words interrupted by sobs: "O Lord, for my sins I accept the cross with resignation." The old man might rouse pity in the hardest heart; but a crowd is generally pitiless. Again therefore the tumult began when the voevoda of Kieff rose and gave a sign with his hand that he wanted to speak. He was a partner in the victories of Yeremi, therefore they listened to him willingly. He turned to the prince then, and in the most feeling words adjured him not to reject the baton of command and not to hesitate to save the country. "When the Commonwealth is perishing, let laws slumber; let not the appointed chief save it, but him who has the most power to save. Take the command, then, invincible leader, take it and rescue, not this city alone, but the whole Commonwealth. Behold I, an old man, with the lips of the Commonwealth implore you, and with me all ranks of people,--all men, women, and children,--Save us! save us!" Here followed an incident which moved all hearts. A woman in mourning approached the altar, and casting at the feet of the prince her golden ornaments and jewels, knelt before him, and sobbing loudly, cried out: "We bring you our goods; we give our lives into your hands. Save us, save us; for we perish!" At the sight of this senators, soldiers, and then the whole throng roared with a mighty cry, and there was one voice in that church: "Save us!" The prince covered his face with his hands; and when he raised his head tears were glittering in his eyes. Still he hesitated. What would become of the dignity of the Commonwealth if he should accept the command? Then rose the cup-bearer of the Crown. "I am old," said he, "unfortunate, and crushed. I have a right to resign the charge which is beyond my powers, and to place it on younger shoulders. Here in the presence of this crucified God and of all the knighthood, I deliver the baton to you,--take it." And he extended the insignia to Vishnyevetski. A moment of such silence followed that flies on the wing could be heard. At last the solemn voice of Yeremi was heard: "For my sins--I accept it." Then a frenzy of enthusiasm ruled the assembly. The crowds broke the benches, fell at the feet of Vishnyevetski, cast down their money and treasures before him. The news spread like lightning through the whole city. The soldiers were losing their senses from joy, and shouted that they wished to go against Hmelnitski, the Tartars, the Sultan; the citizens thought no longer of surrender, but of defence to the last drop of blood; the Armenians brought money of their own accord to the city hall, before anything was said of a levy; the Jews in the synagogue raised an uproar of thanksgiving; the guns on the walls thundered forth the glad tidings; along the streets was firing of muskets, pistols, and guns. Shouts of "Long life!" continued all night. Any one not knowing the state they were in might suppose that the city was celebrating a triumph or some solemn festival. And still three hundred thousand enemies--an army greater than any which the German Emperor or the King of France could place in the field, an army wilder than the legions of Tamerlane--might at any moment invest the walls of that city. CHAPTER XLIII. A week later, on the morning of the 6th of October, news as unexpected as terrible burst upon Lvoff. Prince Yeremi, with the greater part of the army, had left the city secretly and had gone it was unknown whither. Crowds gathered before the archbishop's palace; they would not believe the report at first. The soldiers insisted that if the prince had gone, he had gone without doubt at the head of a powerful division on a reconnoissance of the surrounding country. It appeared, they said, that lying spies had spread reports announcing Hmelnitski and the Tartars at any moment; for since September 26 ten days had passed, and the enemy was not yet in sight. The prince wished undoubtedly to convince himself of the danger by actual inspection, and after obtaining intelligence would return without fail. Besides, he had left a number of regiments, and everything was ready for defence. The last was true. Every disposition had been made, the places marked out, the cannon planted on the walls. In the evening Captain Tsikhotski arrived at the head of fifty dragoons. He was surrounded immediately by the curious, but would not speak with the crowd, and went directly to General Artsishevski. Both called the grozwayer, and after consultation they went to the city hall. There Tsikhotski informed the astonished councillors that the prince had gone, not to return. At the first moment the hands of all dropped at their sides, and some insolent lips uttered the word, "Traitor!" But that moment Artsishevski, an old leader famed for achievements in the Dutch service, rose and began to speak as follows to the military and the councillors:-- "I have heard the injurious word, which I wish no one had spoken, for even despair cannot justify it. The prince has gone and will not return. But what right have you to force a leader on whose shoulders the salvation of a whole country rests to defend your city only? What would have happened if the enemy had surrounded in this place the remaining forces of the Commonwealth? There are neither supplies of food nor of arms for so many troops here. I tell you this,--and you may trust in my experience,--that the greater the force shut up here, the shorter the defence would be; for hunger would overpower you sooner than the enemy. Hmelnitski cares more for the person of the prince than for your city; therefore, when he discovers that Vishnyevetski is not here, that he is collecting new troops and may come with relief, he will let you off more easily, and agree to terms. You are murmuring today; but I tell you that the prince, by leaving this city and threatening Hmelnitski from outside, has saved you and your children. Bear up, and defend yourselves! If you can detain the enemy some time, you may save your city, and you will render a memorable service to the Commonwealth; for during that time the prince will collect forces, arm other fortresses, rouse the torpid Commonwealth, and hasten to your rescue. He has chosen the only road of salvation; for if he had fallen here, with his army overcome by hunger, then nothing could stop the enemy, who might march on Cracow, on Warsaw, and flood the whole country, finding resistance in no place. Therefore, instead of murmuring, hurry to the walls, defend yourselves and your children, your city and the whole Commonwealth!" "To the walls! to the walls!" repeated many of the more daring. The grozwayer, an energetic and bold man, answered: "Your determination pleases me; and you know that the prince did not go away without planning defence. Every one here knows what he has to do, and that has happened which should have happened. I have the defence in hand, and I will defend to the last." Hope returned again to timid hearts. Seeing this, Tsikhotski said in conclusion,-- "His Highness informs you also that the enemy is at hand. Lieutenant Skshetuski struck on a party of two thousand Tartars whom he defeated. The prisoners say that a great power is marching behind them." This news made a deep impression. A moment of silence followed; all hearts beat more quickly. "To the walls!" said the grozwayer. "To the walls! to the walls!" repeated the officers and citizens present. Meanwhile a tumult was raised outside the windows; the uproar of a thousand voices, which mingled in one undistinguishable roar like the sound of the waves of the sea. Suddenly the doors of the hall were thrown open with a crash, and a number of citizens burst into the room; and before the councillors had time to inquire what had happened, shouts were raised: "Flames in the sky! flames in the sky!" "The word has become flesh," said the grozwayer. "To the walls!" The hall was deserted. Soon the thunder of cannon shook the walls, announcing to the inhabitants of the city, the suburbs and villages beyond, that the enemy was coming. In the east the heavens were red as far as the eye could see. One would have said that a sea of fire was approaching the city. The prince meanwhile had thrown himself on Zamost, and having dispersed on the road the party which Tsikhotski had mentioned to the citizens, occupied himself with repairing and arming that fortress, naturally strong, which he made impregnable in a short time. Skshetuski, with Pan Longin and a part of the squadron, remained in the fortress with Pan Weyher, the starosta of Volets. The prince went to Warsaw to obtain from the Diet means to assemble new forces, and also to take part in the election which was near. The fortunes of Vishnyevetski and the whole Commonwealth hung upon that election; for if Prince Karl were chosen the war party would win, and the prince would receive chief command of all the forces of the Commonwealth, and it would perforce come to a general struggle for life and death with Hmelnitski. Prince Kazimir, though famous for his bravery and altogether a military man, was justly considered an adherent of the policy of Ossolinski, the chancellor, therefore of the policy of negotiations with the Cossacks, and considerable concessions to them. Neither brother was sparing of promises, and each struggled to gain partisans for himself; considering therefore the equal power of both parties, no one could foresee the result of the election. The partisans of the chancellor feared that Vishnyevetski, thanks to his increasing fame and the favor which he possessed among the knighthood and the nobles, would carry the balance of minds to the side of Prince Karl; Yeremi, for these reasons, desired to support his candidate in person. Therefore he hastened to Warsaw, sure that Zamost would be able to hold in check for a long time the whole power of Hmelnitski and the Crimea. Lvoff, according to every probability, might be considered safe; for Hmelnitski could in no wise spend much time in capturing that city, since he had before him the more powerful Zamost, which barred his way to the heart of the Commonwealth. These thoughts strengthened the resolution of the prince, and poured consolation into his heart, torn by so many terrible defeats of the country. Hope possessed him that even if Kazimir were elected, war would be unavoidable, and the terrible rebellion would have to be drowned in a sea of blood. He hoped that the Commonwealth would again put forth a powerful army, for negotiations were only possible in so far as a powerful army sustained them. Flattered by these thoughts, the prince went under the protection of a few squadrons, having with him Zagloba and Pan Volodyovski, the first of whom swore by everything that he would carry the election of Prince Karl, for he knew how to talk to the brother nobles and how to manage them; the second commanded the escort of the prince. At Sennitsa, not far from Minsk, a delightful though unexpected interview awaited the prince; for he met Princess Griselda, who was going from Brest-Litovsk to Warsaw for safety, with the reasonable hope that the prince would go there too. They greeted each other with emotion after a long separation. The princess, though she had an iron soul, rushed with such weeping into the embrace of her husband that she could not compose herself for several hours; for, oh! how many were the moments in which she had no hope of seeing him again, and still God granted him to return more famous than ever, covered with praise, such as had never yet beamed upon one of his house, the greatest of leaders, the one hope of the Commonwealth. The princess, tearing herself time after time from his breast, glanced through her tears at that face emaciated and embrowned, at that lofty forehead on which cares and toils had ploughed deep furrows, at those eyes inflamed with sleepless nights; and again she shed plentiful tears, and all her ladies wept too from the depths of their excited hearts. When after a time she and the prince had become calm, they went to the house of the priest, and there inquiries were made for friends, attendants, and knights, who as it were belonged to the family, and with whom the memory of Lubni was bound up. The prince quieted the princess concerning Skshetuski, first of all explaining that he had remained in Zamost only because he did not wish to lose himself in the noise of the capital on account of the suffering which God had sent him, and preferred to heal the wounds of his heart in military service. Then he presented Zagloba and told of his deeds. "Vir incomparabilis," said he, "who not only saved Kurtsevichovna from Bogun, but took her through the camps of Hmelnitski and the Tartars; later he was with us to his great glory, and fought admirably at Konstantinoff." Hearing this, the princess did not spare praise on Zagloba, giving him her hand to kiss repeatedly, and promising a still better reward at a proper time; and the "vir incomparabilis" bowed, veiling his heroism with his modesty. Then, he strutted and looked at the ladies in waiting; for though he was old and did not promise himself much from the fair sex, still it was pleasant to him that the ladies had heard so much of his bravery and his deeds. But mourning was not absent from this otherwise glad greeting; for mentioning the grievous times of the Commonwealth, how often did the prince reply to the questions of the princess about various knights: "Killed, killed, lost." Then young women were saddened, for more than one name was mentioned among the dead that was dear. So gladness was mingled with grief, tears with smiles. But the most afflicted of all was Volodyovski; for in vain did he look around and cast his eyes on every side,--Princess Barbara was not there. It is true that amid the toils of war and continual battles, skirmishes, and campaigns, that cavalier had forgotten her somewhat, for he was by nature as prone to love as he was inconstant; but now, when he saw the young ladies of the princess once more, when before his eyes the life at Lubni stood as if actual, he thought to himself that it would be pleasant for him too if the moment of rest should come to sigh and occupy his heart again. Since this did not happen, however, but sentiment, as if through malice, sprang up in him anew, Volodyovski suffered grievously, and looked as if he had been drenched in a pouring rain. He hung his head upon his breast; his slender mustaches, which usually curled upward like those of a May-bug till they reached his nose, were hanging too; his upturned nose had grown long; the usual serenity had vanished from his face, and he stood silent, did not even move when the prince gave unusual praise to his bravery and superiority,--for what mattered all praises to him when she could not hear them? Finally Anusia Borzobogata took pity on him, and though they had had quarrels, she determined to comfort him. With this object, keeping her eyes on the princess, she pushed unobserved toward the knight, and at last was by his side. "Good-day," said she; "we have not seen each other for a long time." "Oh, Panna Anna," answered Pan Michael, in sadness, "much water has flowed past since then. We meet again in unpleasant times, and not all of us." "True, not all! So many knights have fallen." Here Anusia sighed; then continued, after a time: "And we are not the same in number; for Panna Senyntovna has married, and Princess Barbara has remained with the wife of the voevoda of Vilna." "And she is going to marry, of course." "No, she is not thinking much of that. But why do you ask?" Having said this, Anusia closed her dark eyes till two thin lines were left, and looked sideways from under her lashes at the knight. "Oh, through good-will for the family," answered Pan Michael. "Oh, that is proper," answered Anusia, "for Pan Michael has a great friend in Princess Barbara. More than once she inquired; 'Where is that knight who in the tournament at Lubni took off most Turkish heads, for which I gave him a reward? What is he doing? Is he still alive, and does he remember us?'" Pan Michael raised his eyes in thankfulness to Anusia; first he was comforted, and then he observed that Anusia had improved beyond measure. "Did Princess Barbara really say that?" "As true as life; and she remembered, too, how you were riding over the ditch for her when you fell into the water." "And where is the wife of the voevoda of Vilna now?" "She was with us in Brest, and a week ago went to Belsk; from there she will go to Warsaw." Pan Volodyovski looked at Anusia a second time, and could not restrain himself: "But Panna Anusia has attained such beauty that one's eyes ache in looking at her." The girl smiled thankfully. "Pan Michael only says this to capture me." "I wanted to do so in my time," said he, shrugging his shoulders. "God knows I tried to, but failed; and now I wish well to Pan Podbipienta, for he was more fortunate." "And where is Pan Podbipienta?" inquired Anusia, dropping her eyes. "In Zamost, with Skshetuski. He has become lieutenant in the squadron, and must attend to service; but if he knew whom he could see here, as God is in heaven he would have taken leave and come with long steps. He is a great knight, and deserving of every love." "And in war--he met no accident?" "It seems to me that you wish to ask, not about that, but about the three heads that he wanted to cut off." "I do not believe that he really wanted to do that." "But you would better, for without that there will be nothing. And he is not slow in looking for a chance, either. At Makhnovka, when we went to examine the places where he had struggled in the throng of battle, the prince himself went with us; and I tell you I have seen many a fight, but such execution I shall not see again while I live. When he puts on your scarf for battle, he does awful things. He will find his three heads: be at rest on that point." "May each find what he seeks!" said Anusia, with a sigh. Then Volodyovski sighed, raised his eyes, and looked suddenly toward one corner of the room. From that corner peered a visage, angry, excited, and entirely unknown to him, armed with a gigantic nose, and mustaches great as two bushes on a tavern-sign, which moved quickly, as if from pent-up passion. One might be terrified at that nose, those eyes and mustaches; but little Volodyovski was by no means timid; therefore he only wondered, and turning to Anusia asked,-- "What sort of figure is that over there in the corner, which looks at me as if it wished to swallow me whole, and moves its mustaches just like an old tom-cat at prayers?" "What?" said Anusia, showing her white teeth; "that's Pan Kharlamp." "What sort of Pagan is he?" "He is no Pagan at all, but a light-horse captain in the squadron of the voevoda of Vilna, who is escorting us to Warsaw, and has to wait for the voevoda there. Let Pan Michael not come in his way, for he is a dreadful man-eater." "I see that, I see that. But if he is a man-eater, there are others fatter than I. Why should he whet his teeth at me instead of them?" "Because--" said Anusia; and she laughed quietly. "Because?" "Because he is in love with me, and has told me that he will cut to pieces every man who approaches me; and now, believe me, it is only out of regard for the prince and princess that he restrains himself. Were it not for them, he would pick a quarrel with you at once." "Here you've got it," said Volodyovski, merrily. "That's how it is, Panna Anna. It was not for nothing, I see, that we sang, 'Tartars carry captive prisoners, you seize captive hearts.' You remember, I suppose? You cannot move, you know, without making some one fall in love with you." "Such is my misfortune," answered Anusia, dropping her eyes. "Ah, Panna Anna is a Pharisee; and what will Pan Longin say to this?" "How am I to blame if this Pan Kharlamp pursues me? I can't endure him, and I don't want to look at him." "But see to it that blood is not shed on your account. Podbipienta is so mild that you could heal a wound with him, but in love affairs it is dangerous to joke with him." "If he cuts Kharlamp's ears off, I shall be glad." When she had said this, Anusia whizzed off like a top, and tripped to the other side of the room to Carboni, the physician of the princess, to whom she began to whisper something with animation, and then converse; but the Italian fastened his eyes on the ceiling, as if carried away by ecstasy. Meanwhile Zagloba approached Volodyovski, and began in merry mood to wink his one sound eye. "Pan Michael," he asked, "what sort of crested lark is that?" "That is Panna Anusia Borzobogata, lady-in-waiting to the princess. Ah, she is a pretty little rogue,--eyes like plates, a pug as if painted, and a neck--uf!" "Oh, she'll pass, she'll pass! My congratulations to you!" "Oh, give us peace! She is betrothed to Podbipienta, or the same as betrothed." "To Podbipienta! My dear sir, have fear of the Lord's wounds! Why, he has made vows of celibacy. And besides, the disproportion between them! He could carry her at his collar; she might sit on his mustaches, like a fly." "Ah! she will manage him yet. Hercules was stronger, but a woman trapped him." "Yes, if she only doesn't give him horns; though I should be the first to help that about, as I am Zagloba." "There will be more than you of that sort, though in truth the girl is of good stock and honest. This is too bad, for she is young and pretty." "You are an honorable cavalier, and that is why you praise her; but she is a lark." "Beauty attracts people. For example, that captain over there is desperately in love with her." "Pshaw! But look at that raven with whom she is talking now! What sort of devil is he?" "That is an Italian,--Carboni, the physician of the princess." "Look, Pan Michael, how his lanterns are lighted up, and his eyeballs roll as if in delirium. Oh, it is bad for Pan Longin! I know something of this business, for I had more than one experience in my youth. Another time I'll tell you of all the scrapes in which I have been, or if you wish you can listen this minute." Zagloba began to whisper in the ear of the little knight, and to wink with more vigor than usual. But the end of the visit came. The prince seated himself by the princess in the carriage, that they might talk all they wished after the long absence; the ladies occupied carriages, the knights mounted their horses, and all moved on. The court went in advance, and the troops at some distance in the rear; for those parts were peaceable, and the squadrons were needed for ostentation alone, not safety. They went from Sennitsa to Minsk, and thence to Warsaw, stopping frequently for plentiful refreshments, according to the custom of the time. The road was so thronged that it was barely possible to move at a walk. All were going to the election, from near neighborhoods and from distant Lithuania; so that here and there were met lordly households, whole trains of gilded carriages, surrounded by haiduks, gigantic Turkish grooms dressed in Turkish costumes; after which marched household troops,--now Hungarian, now German, now janissaries, now Cossack detachments, and finally squadrons of the matchless heavy cavalry of the Poles. Each one of the more important personages tried to appear in the most showy manner and with the greatest retinues. Among the numerous cavalcades belonging to magnates, came also the smaller local and district dignitaries. Every little while single wagons of nobles appeared from out the dust, covered with black leather and drawn by two or four horses, and in each sat a noble with a crucifix or an image of the Most Holy Lady hung on a silk ribbon around his neck. All were armed,--a musket on one side of the seat, a sabre on the other. Former or actual officers of squadrons also had lances sticking out two yards behind the seat. Under the wagons were dogs,--either setters or hounds,--not for use (for they were not going to the chase), but for the amusement of the owner. Behind were stable-boys leading horses covered with cloth to protect rich saddles from dust or rain. Farther on were drawn squeaking wagons with willow-bound wheels, in which were tents and supplies of provisions for servants and masters. When at times the wind blew the dust from the highway into the fields, the whole road was uncovered and changed like a hundred-colored serpent, or a ribbon artistically woven from gold and brocade. Here and there on the road were heard orchestras of Italians or janissaries, especially before the squadrons of royal or Lithuanian escort, of which there was no lack in this throng, for they had to go in the company of the dignitaries; and every place was full of shouts, calls, questions, disputes, since precedence was not yielded willingly by one to another. From time to time mounted servants and soldiers galloped up to the retinue of the prince, demanding the road for such or such a dignitary, or to ask who was travelling. But when the answer came to their ears, "The voevoda of Rus!" immediately they informed their masters, who left the road free, or if they were in advance, turned aside to see the passing retinue. At places of refreshment the nobles gathered in crowds to feast their eyes with a sight of the greatest warrior of the Commonwealth. Cheers also were not lacking, to which the prince answered with thanks, first by reason of his innate politeness, and secondly wishing with that affability to win adherents for Prince Karl, of which he gained not a few by his appearance alone. With equal curiosity did they look on the squadrons of the prince,--"those Russians," as they were called. They were not so tattered and haggard as after the battle at Konstantinoff, for the prince had given them new uniforms at Zamost; but they were always gazed at as wonders from beyond the sea, since in the opinion of those dwelling in the neighborhood of the capital they came from the end of the earth. Marvels were related of those mysterious steppes and pine-groves in which such a knighthood was born. They wondered at their sunburnt complexions, embrowned from the winds of the Black Sea; at their haughtiness of look, and a certain freedom of bearing acquired from their wild neighbors. But after the prince, most eyes were turned on Zagloba, who, noticing that he was the centre of admiration, looked with such haughtiness and pride, and turned his eyes so threateningly that it was whispered at once in the crowd: "This must be the foremost knight of them all!" And others said: "He must have let a power of souls out of their bodies; he is as fierce as a dragon!" When words like these came to the ears of Zagloba, his only thought was to conceal his inward delight by still greater fierceness. Sometimes he answered the crowd, sometimes he joked with them, but especially with squadrons of the Lithuanian escort, in which the men of the heavy cavalry wore golden, and of the light, silver loops on their shoulders. At sight of this Zagloba would call out, "Pan Loop, there is a hook on you!" More than one officer frowned, gritted his teeth, and grasped his sabre; but remembering that that was a warrior from the squadron of the voevoda of Rus who took such liberty, he spat at last, and let the matter drop. Nearer Warsaw the throng became so dense that it was only possible to push forward at a walk. The election promised to be more crowded than usual; for nobles from remote Russian and Lithuanian districts, who by reason of the distance could not have come for the election itself, assembled now at Warsaw for safety. The day of election was still distant, for the first sessions of the Diet had barely begun; but they had assembled a month or two in advance, so as to locate themselves in the city, renew acquaintance with this one and that, seek for promotion here and there, eat and drink at the houses of great lords, and enjoy luxury in the harvest of the capital. The prince looked with sadness through the windows of his carriage on those crowds of knights, soldiers, and nobles, on that wealth and luxury of costume, thinking what forces could be formed of them, what armies could be put in the field. "Why is this Commonwealth, so powerful, populous, and rich, filled with valiant knights, so weak that it is not able to settle with one Hmelnitski and the Tartar savagery? Why is this? The legions of Hmelnitski could be answered with other legions if those nobles, those soldiers, that wealth and substance, those regiments and squadrons were willing to serve public as well as private interests. Virtue is perishing in the Commonwealth," thought the prince, "and the great body is beginning to decay. Manhood has long since begun to disappear in pleasant leisure; it is not warlike toil that the army and the nobles love!" The prince was right so far; but of the shortcomings of the Commonwealth he thought only as a warrior and a chieftain who wanted to turn all men into soldiers and lead them against the enemy. Bravery could be found, and was found, when wars a hundred times greater threatened soon after. It lacked still something more, which the soldier-prince at that moment saw not, but which his enemy, the chancellor of the Crown, an abler statesman than Yeremi, did see. But behold in the gray and azure distance appeared indistinctly the pointed towers of Warsaw. Further meditations of the prince ceased. He issued orders, which the officer on duty bore immediately to Volodyovski. In consequence of these orders Pan Michael galloped from the carriage of Anusia, around which he had been hovering hitherto, to bring up the squadrons which had lagged considerably in the rear, to strengthen the line and lead it on in order. He had ridden barely a few paces when he heard some one rushing after him. It was Pan Kharlamp, captain of the light cavalry of the voevoda of Vilna, Anusia's worshipper. Volodyovski held in his horse; for he understood at once that it would surely come to some quarrel, and Pan Michael loved such things from his soul. Kharlamp came up with him, and at first said nothing; he only puffed, and moved his mustaches threateningly, as if looking for words. "With the forehead, with the forehead, Pan Dragoon!" "With the forehead, Pan Escort!" "How do you dare to call me Escort," demanded Kharlamp, grinding his teeth,--"me an officer and a captain, hei?" Volodyovski began to throw up a hatchet which he held in his hand, turning his whole attention as it were to catching it by the handle after every turn, and answered as if unwillingly. "For I am not able to recognize rank by the loop." "You offend a whole body of officers with whom you are not equal." "How is that?" asked with pretended simplicity the rogue Volodyovski? "For you serve in the foreign levy." "Put yourself to rest," said Pan Michael. "Though I serve in the dragoons, I belong to that body of officers not of the light, but of the heavy cavalry of the voevoda. You can talk with me therefore as with an equal or as with a superior." Kharlamp reined himself in a little, seeing that he had not to do with so insignificant a person as he had thought; but he did not cease to grit his teeth, for the coolness of Pan Michael brought him to still greater rage. "Why do you get in my way?" "I see that you are seeking a quarrel." "Maybe I am; and I will tell you this [here Kharlamp bent to the ear of Volodyovski and finished in a lower voice], that I'll trim your ears if you come in my way before Panna Anna." Volodyovski began again to throw up the hatchet very diligently, as if that were the special time for such amusement, and answered in a tone of persuasiveness: "Oh, my benefactor, permit me to live a little yet; let me go!" "Oh, no! Nothing will come of that; you won't escape me!" said Kharlamp, seizing the little knight by the sleeve. "I will not get away from you," said Pan Michael, with a mild voice; "but now I am on service, and am going with the order of the prince my master. Let go my sleeve, let go, I beg you; for otherwise what shall I, poor devil! do unless I go at you with this hatchet and tumble you from the horse?" Here the voice of Volodyovski, submissive at first, hissed with such venom that Kharlamp looked at him with involuntary astonishment and dropped his sleeve. "Oh, it is all one!" said he. "You will give me a chance in Warsaw, I'll look after you!" "I won't hide; but how can we fight in Warsaw, be so kind as to instruct me. I have never been there yet in my life; I am a simple soldier, but I have heard of court-martials which execute a man for drawing his sabre in the presence of the king or during an interregnum." "It is evident that you have never been in Warsaw, and that you are an ignorant clown, since you are afraid of court-martials and don't know that in the interregnum a chapter is in session with which the question is easier, and you may be sure they won't take my head for your ears." "Thank you for the information, and I will ask you for information frequently; for I see that you are a man of no ordinary experience, and I, since I practise only the lowest of the rudiments, am barely able to make an adjective agree with a noun, and if I wanted to call (which God forbid) your Honor a fool, then I know that I should say 'stultus,' and not 'stulta' or 'stultum.'" Here Volodyovski began again to throw up the hatchet, and Kharlamp was astonished again. The blood rushed to his face, and he pulled his sabre out of the scabbard; but in the twinkle of an eye the little knight, putting his hatchet under his knee, drew his own. For a moment they looked at each other, like two stags, with distended nostrils, and with fire in their eyes; but Kharlamp considered that he would have an affair with the voevoda himself if he fell upon his officer going with an order, therefore he sheathed his sabre. "Oh, I'll find you, you son of a such a one!" said he. "You'll find me, you'll find me, you fish-broth!" said the little knight. And they parted,--one going to the cavalcade, the other to the squadrons, which had approached considerably during this time, so that through the clouds of dust was heard the clatter of the hoofs on the hard road. Volodyovski straightened the cavalry and the infantry to the proper line, and moved to the head. After a while Zagloba trotted up to him. "What did that scarecrow of the sea want of you?" asked he of Volodyovski. "Oh, nothing!--he called me out to a duel." "Here is trouble for you; he will punch a hole through you with his nose. Look out, Pan Michael, that you don't cut off the biggest nose in the Commonwealth, for you will have to raise a separate mound over it. Happy is the voevoda of Vilna! Others must send scouting-parties out to look for the enemy, but this one could scent them for miles. But why did he challenge you?" "Because I rode by the carriage of Anusia Borzobogata." "You ought to have told him to go to Pan Longin at Zamost. He would have dressed him with pepper and ginger. That fish-broth fellow has struck badly; it is evident that he has less luck than his nose." "I said nothing to him about Pan Podbipienta," said Volodyovski, "for he might have dropped me. I'll pay court now to Anusia with redoubled fervor out of spite. I want to have my sport too; what better employment can we have in Warsaw?" "We'll find it, Pan Michael, we'll find it," said Zagloba, winking. "When in my younger years I was a deputy from the squadron in which I served, I travelled through the whole country, but such life as I found in Warsaw I found nowhere else." "You say it is different from what we have in the Trans-Dnieper?" "Of course it is!" "I am very curious," said Pan Michael. After a while he added: "Still, I'll trim the mustaches of that fish-broth, for they are too long." CHAPTER XLIV. A number of weeks passed. The nobles assembled in greater and greater numbers for the election. The population of the city increased tenfold; for with the crowds of nobles poured in thousands of merchants and shopkeepers of the whole world, from distant Persia to England beyond the sea. On the field of Vola a booth was built for the senate, and around it whitened already thousands of tents, with which the spacious meadows were entirely covered. No one could tell yet which of the two candidates--Prince Kazimir, the cardinal, or Karl Ferdinand, the bishop of Plotsk--would be elected. On both sides great were the efforts and exertions made. Thousands of pamphlets were given to the world, relating the merits and defects of the candidates. Both had numerous and powerful adherents. On the side of Karl stood, as is known, Prince Yeremi, who was the more terrible for his opponents, as it was always likely that he would draw after him the inferior nobles, who were enamoured of him; and with the inferior nobles lay the ultimate decision. But neither did Kazimir lack power. Seniority was in his favor. On his side was the influence of the chancellor; the primate appeared to incline to him. On his side stood the majority of the magnates, each of whom had numerous clients; and among the magnates also was Prince Dominik Zaslavski Ostrogski, voevoda of Sandomir, with greatly injured reputation after Pilavtsi and even threatened with prosecution, but always the greatest lord in the Commonwealth, nay, even in all Europe, and able at any moment to throw the immense weight of his wealth into the scale of his candidate. Still the adherents of Kazimir more than once had bitter hours of doubt; for as has been said, everything depended on the inferior nobles, who, beginning from the 4th of October, had camped in crowds around Warsaw and were coming still in thousands from every side of the Commonwealth, and who in an incalculable majority declared for Prince Karl, attracted by the magic of Vishnyevetski's name and the liberality of the prince in public objects. Karl was a good manager and wealthy; he did not hesitate at that moment to devote considerable sums to the formation of new regiments which were to be placed under command of Yeremi. Kazimir would have followed his example willingly; it was certainly not greed that held him back, but just the opposite,--excessive liberality, the immediate result of which was an insufficiency, and continual lack of money in his treasury. Meanwhile both sides were canvassing. Every day messengers were flying between Nyeporente and Yablonna. Kazimir in the name of his own seniority and brotherly affection adjured Karl to resign; but the bishop held back, answering that it would not become him to contemn, the fortune which might meet him, since that fortune was in the free gift of the Commonwealth, and was his to whom the Lord had designed it. Time passed; the term of six weeks was approaching, and together with it the Cossack storm. News had come that Hmelnitski, having raised the siege of Lvoff, which had ransomed itself after a number of assaults, had invested Zamost, and night and day was storming that last rampart of the Commonwealth. It was said too that besides the delegates whom Hmelnitski had sent to Warsaw with a letter and declaration that as a noble of Poland he would give his vote to Kazimir, there were nobles hidden among the crowd, and that the city itself was full of disguised Cossack elders whom no one could detect, for they had come like regular and wealthy nobles, differing in nothing, even in speech, from other electors, especially those from the Russian provinces. Some, as was said, had crept in through simple curiosity to look at the election and Warsaw; others to spy, to obtain news, to hear talk about the war,--how many troops the Commonwealth thought of putting in the field, and what grants it proposed for the levies. Perhaps there was much truth in the reports concerning these guests; for among the Zaporojian elders were many nobles who had become Cossacks, who had picked up some Latin and therefore were not to be recognized in any way. Besides, in the distant steppes Latin did not flourish as a rule, and such princes as the Kurtsevichi did not know it any better than Bogun and other atamans. But reports like these with which the election field as well as the city were filled, together with news of the movements of Hmelnitski and the Cossack-Tartar expeditions,--which had reached, it was said, the Vistula,--filled people's minds with alarm, and more than once became causes of tumult. In the crowd of nobles to cast on a man the suspicion of being a Zaporojian in disguise was enough to insure his being sabred into small pieces before he could show who he was. In this way innocent men might perish and the dignity of deliberations be destroyed, especially since with the custom of the time sobriety was not too much observed. The chapter "propter securitatem loci" (concerning public peace) was inadequate to stop the endless quarrels in which people were cut down for the slightest cause. But if those tumults, sabre-slashings, and drinking-bouts alarmed orderly people, penetrated with a love of good and peace, through the danger with which they threatened the country, on the other hand the reckless, the disorderly, the gamblers and disturbers felt as it were in their element; they considered this as their own special season, their day of harvest, and the more boldly permitted themselves various misdeeds. It is needless to add that among these Zagloba was first. His primacy was secured by his great fame as a knight, his unquenchable thirst upheld by a supply of drink, a tongue so tanned that it had no equal, and by a self-confidence which nothing could shake. But he had at times his attacks of "melancholy;" then he shut himself up in a room or a tent, and did not go out, or if he did go he was in angry humor, inclined to quarrels and genuine fighting. It happened, in fact, that in such a humor he hacked up Pan Dunchevski badly, only because he had knocked against his sabre in passing. At such times he endured only the presence of Pan Michael, to whom he complained that a longing for Skshetuski and the "poor young lady" was devouring him. "We have deserted her, Pan Michael," he used to say; "we have betrayed her like Judas into godless hands. Don't excuse yourself to me with your _nemine excepto_. What is happening to her, Pan Michael, tell me that?" In vain Pan Michael explained that had it not been for Pilavtsi, they would have been searching for "the poor young lady," but that now when the whole power of Hmelnitski separated them from her it was an impossible thing. Zagloba did not yield himself to consolation, but fell into still greater passion, cursing by what the world stands on,--"Feather-bed," "Baby," and "Latin."[16] But these periods of gloom were of short duration. When they were over Zagloba, as if wishing to reward himself for lost time, generally revelled and drank more than ever. He spent his time in taverns in company with the mightiest drinkers or with women of the capital, in which occupation Pan Michael held him trusty companionship. Pan Michael, a soldier and a splendid officer, possessed not, however, a farthing's worth of that seriousness which misfortune and suffering had developed, for instance, in Skshetuski. Volodyovski understood his duty to the Commonwealth in this way: he killed whomsoever he was ordered to kill,--cared for naught else. He knew nothing of public questions; he was always ready to bewail a military defeat, but it never entered his head that quarrels and tumults were as harmful to public affairs as defeats; in one word, he was a thoughtless young man who, having entered the bustle of the capital, sank in it to his ears, and stuck like a thistle to Zagloba, for he was his master in license. He went therefore with him among the nobles, to whom Zagloba at his cups related things uncreated, winning at the same time adherents for Prince Karl; he drank with him, protected him when necessary; they both circled around in the field of election and the city like flies in a pot, and there was no corner into which they did not crawl. They were at Nyeporente and in Yablonna; they were at all the feasts and dinners given by magnates; they were at taverns,--they were everywhere, and took part in everything. Pan Michael's youthful hand was restive; he wanted to exhibit himself, and to prove at the same time that the nobility of the Ukraine was better than any other and that the soldiers of the prince were higher than all. They went therefore to seek adventures on purpose among the Poles of the kingdom, as the most skilled with the sword, and specially among the partisans of Prince Dominik Zaslavski, for whom both felt a particular hatred. They engaged only with the most celebrated champions, men of undoubted and settled fame, and plotted the quarrels beforehand. "You pick the quarrel," said Pan Michael, "and then I will step in." Zagloba, very skilful in fence and by no means timid in duelling with a brother noble, did not always agree to have a substitute, especially in affairs with adherents of Zaslavski; but when it was a question with some famous swordsman, he halted in the dispute; if the noble was eager for the sword and challenged, Zagloba said: "My good sir, I should be without conscience if I were to expose you to evident death by fighting with you myself; better try my little son and pupil here, and I am not sure that you will be able to manage him." After such words Volodyovski appeared on the scene with his little upturned mustaches, nose in the air, and gaping face. Whether accepted or not, he opened the fight, and being in truth a master above masters, he generally stretched out his antagonist after a few blows. In this fashion the two found sport from which their fame increased among restless spirits and the nobles, but especially the fame of Pan Zagloba, for it was said: "If the pupil is such a man, what must the master be!" Pan Kharlamp was the one person that Volodyovski could not find for a long time. He thought: "Perhaps they have sent him back to Lithuania on business of some sort." In this way nearly six weeks had gone, during which time public affairs had advanced notably. The protracted battle of the candidate brothers, the efforts of their adherents, the fever and storm of passion among partisans had passed, leaving scarcely trace or memory. It was now known to all that Yan Kazimir would be chosen; for Prince Karl had yielded to his brother, and resigned the candidature of his own good-will. It is a wonderful thing that the voice of Hmelnitski had great weight; for it was hoped on every side that he would yield to the authority of the king, especially when chosen according to his wish. These previsions were justified in great part. But for Vishnyevetski--who, like Cato of old, ceased not one moment from repeating that the Zaporojian Carthage must be destroyed--this turn of affairs was a fresh blow. Negotiations must be the order of the day. The prince knew, it is true, that these negotiations would either result in nothing from the start or would be broken off soon from the nature of the case, and saw war in the future; but disquiet seized him at the thought: "What will be the issue of that war? After negotiations the justified Hmelnitski will be still stronger, and the Commonwealth still weaker. And who will lead its forces against a chief so famous as Hmelnitski? Will not there be new defeats and new catastrophes which will exhaust its forces to the last?" For the prince did not deceive himself, and knew that to him, the most eager adherent of Karl, the command would not be given. Kazimir had promised, it is true, to favor his brother's adherents as much as his own. Kazimir was high-souled, but he was a partisan of the chancellor's policy. Some one else will receive the command, not the prince; and woe to the Commonwealth if he be not a leader superior to Hmelnitski! At this thought a twofold pain straitened the soul of Yeremi,--fear for the future of the country, and the unendurable feeling of a man who sees that his services are passed over, that justice will not be done him, and that others will raise their heads above his. He would not have been Yeremi Vishnyevetski if he had not been proud. He felt within himself the power to wield the baton, and he had earned the baton; therefore he suffered doubly. It was reported among officers that the prince would not wait for the close of the election, and would leave Warsaw; but that was not true. The prince not only did not leave, but he visited, in Nyeporente, Prince Kazimir, who received him with unbounded favor; then he returned to the city for a prolonged stay, caused by military affairs. It was a question of finding support for the army, which the prince urged diligently. Besides, new regiments of dragoons and infantry were equipped at Karl's expense. Some had been sent to Russia already; others were to be drilled. For this purpose the prince sent out on every side officers expert in organizing troops. Kushel and Vershul had been sent, and finally the turn came for Volodyovski. One day he was summoned to the prince, who gave him the following order:-- "You will go by way of Babitse and Lipki to Zaborovo, where horses for the regiment are waiting; you will inspect them, reject those unfit, and pay Pan Tshaskovski for those accepted; then you will bring them for the soldiers. The money you will receive here in Warsaw from the paymaster on this my order." Volodyovski set about the work briskly. He took the money, and on the same day he and Zagloba with eight others set out with a wagon bearing the money. They moved slowly, for that side of Warsaw was swarming with nobles, attendants, and horses; the villages as far as Babitse were so packed that in every cottage there were guests. It was easy to meet adventures in a press of people of various humors; and in spite of their greatest efforts and modest bearing, our two friends did not escape them. On reaching Babitse they saw before the public house a number of nobles who were just mounting to continue their journey. The two parties, after saluting each other, were about to pass, when suddenly one of the riders looked at Volodyovski, and without saying a word rode up to him on a trot. "Ah, you are here, my little fellow!" cried he. "You have been skulking, but I have found you. You won't escape me this time! Eh, gentlemen!" shouted he to his comrades, "just wait a bit. I have something to say to this little stub of an officer, and I should like to have you as witnesses of my words." Volodyovski smiled with pleasure, for he recognized Pan Kharlamp. "God is my witness that I was not hiding," said he; "more than that, I was looking for you myself to ask if you still cherished rancor against me, but somehow we couldn't meet." "Pan Michael," whispered Zagloba, "you are on duty." "I remember," muttered Volodyovski. "Come to business!" roared Kharlamp. "Gentlemen, I have promised this milksop, this bald mustache, to clip his ears for him, and I'll clip them as true as I am Kharlamp. Be witnesses, gentlemen, and you, youngster, come up here!" "I cannot, as God is dear to me, I cannot," said Volodyovski; "let me off even for a couple of days." "Why can you not? You are frightened, I suppose. If you do not meet me at once, I will slap you so with my sword that you'll think of your grandfather and grandmother. Oh, you dodger, you venomous gadfly, you know how to get in the way, you know how to buzz, you know how to bite, but when it comes to the sabre you are not there." Here Zagloba interfered. "It seems to me that you are pressing matters rather far," said he to Kharlamp, "and look out that this fly does not sting; if he does, no plaster will help you. Tfu! the devil take it, don't you see that this officer is on duty? Look at that wagon with money which we are taking to the regiment, and understand that his person is not at his own disposal and he cannot meet you. Whoever can't understand that is a dunce and not a soldier. We serve under the voevoda of Rus, and we have fought men different from you; but to-day it is impossible, and what is deferred will not escape." "It is certain," said one of Kharlamp's comrades, "that they are transporting money; he cannot meet you." "What is their money to me?" screamed the irrepressible Kharlamp; "let him stand before me or I'll slap him with my sword." "I will not meet you to-day, but I give you the word of a soldier to meet you in three or four days, wherever you please, the moment I have carried out my orders. And if this does not satisfy you, gentlemen, I shall give order to touch the triggers, for I shall believe that I have to do not with soldiers, but with brigands. Take yourselves off then to all the devils, for I have no time to loiter." On hearing this, the dragoons of the escort turned the muzzles of their guns on the aggressors. That movement, as well as the decisive words of Pan Michael, produced an evident impression on the comrades of Kharlamp. "Oh, let him off!" said they. "You are a soldier yourself, you know what service is; it is certain that you will receive satisfaction. He is a bold piece, like all men of the Russian squadron; restrain yourself, since we ask you." Pan Kharlamp blustered awhile longer, but saw at last that he would either make his companions angry or expose them to an uncertain struggle with the dragoons. He turned therefore to Volodyovski, and said: "Give me your word that you will meet me." "I will seek you myself, were it only because you have asked twice about such a thing. To-day is Wednesday, and let it be Saturday at two o'clock in the afternoon. Select your ground." "Here in Babitse there is a crowd of travellers," said Kharlamp; "something might interfere. Let it be over there at Lipki; it is quieter, and not far for me, because our quarters are in Babitse." "Will there be as large a company of you as to-day?" asked the prudent Zagloba. "Oh, it's not necessary," said Kharlamp; "I shall come only with the Selitskis, my relatives. You will be without your dragoons, I trust." "Perhaps they fight duels with the aid of soldiers among you," replied Pan Michael; "but it is not the custom with us." "In four days then, on Saturday," said Kharlamp. "We shall be in front of the public house at Lipki; and now with God!" "With God!" said Volodyovski and Zagloba. The opponents parted quietly. Pan Michael was made happy by the coming amusement, and promised himself to make a present to Pan Longin of mustaches shorn from the light-horseman. He went therefore in good spirits to Zaborovo, where he found Prince Kazimir, who had come to hunt. But Pan Michael saw his future lord only at a distance, for he was in a hurry. In two or three days he carried out his orders, inspected the horses, paid Pan Tshaskovski, returned to Warsaw, and at the appointed time, yes, an hour earlier, he was at Lipki with Zagloba and Pan Kushel, whom he had asked to be his other second. On arriving in front of the inn kept by a Jew, they entered to moisten their throats a little with mead and amuse themselves with conversation at the glass. "Here, scald-head! is your master at the castle?" asked Zagloba of the innkeeper. "He is away in the town." "Are there many nobles stopping in Lipki?" "My house is empty. Only one has stopped with me, and he is sitting in the next room,--a rich man, with servants and horses." "And why did he not go to the castle?" "Because it is evident he does not know our master. Besides, the place has been closed for a month past." "Maybe it is Kharlamp," said Zagloba. "No," said Volodyovski. "Well, Pan Michael, it seems to me that it is he. I'll go and see who it is. Jew, has this gentleman been long here?" "He came to-day, not two hours ago." "And don't you know where he came from?" "I do not; but it must be from a distance, for his horses are used up; his men said, from beyond the Vistula." "Why did he come here then to Lipki?" "Who knows?" "I'll go and see," repeated Zagloba; "perhaps it is some acquaintance." Approaching the closed door of the room, he knocked with his sword-hilt and said: "Worthy sir, may I enter?" "Who is there?" answered a voice within. "A friend," said Zagloba, opening the door. "Ah, begging your pardon, maybe I'm not in season," he added, pushing his head into the room. He drew back suddenly, and slammed the door as if he had looked on death. On his face was depicted terror coupled with the greatest astonishment. His mouth was open, and he looked with vacant stare on Volodyovski and Kushel. "What is the matter?" asked Volodyovski. "By the wounds of Christ, be quiet!" said Zagloba. "Bogun is there!" "Who? What's happened to you?" "There--Bogun!" Both officers rose to their feet. "Have you lost your reason? Compose yourself! Who is it?" "Bogun! Bogun!" "Impossible!" "As I live! As I stand before you here, I swear to you by God and all the saints." "Why are you so disturbed?" asked Volodyovski. "If he is there, then God has given him into our hands. Compose yourself! Are you sure that it is he?" "As sure as that I am speaking to you, I saw him; he was changing his clothes." "And did he see you?" "I don't know; I think not." Volodyovski's eyes gleamed like coals. "Jew," whispered he, beckoning hurriedly with his hand. "This way! Are there doors from the room?" "No, only through this room." "Kushel, you go under the window!" whispered Pan Michael. "Oh, he will not escape us this time!" Kushel, without speaking a word, ran out of the room. "Come to your senses," said Volodyovski. "Not over you, but over his neck hangs destruction. What can he do to you? Nothing!" "Nothing; but from astonishment I am unable to catch my breath." And he thought to himself: "True, I have nothing to fear. Pan Michael is with me. Let Bogun be afraid!" And putting on a terribly savage look, he grasped the hilt of his sabre. "Pan Michael, he must not escape us." "But is it he?--for still I can't believe. What should he be doing here?" "Hmelnitski has sent him as a spy; that is most certain. Wait! Pan Michael, we will seize him and lay down the condition that unless he gives up the princess, we will deliver him to justice. If he gives up the princess, then let the devil take him." "But are there not too few of us,--two, and Kushel? He will defend himself like a madman, and he has attendants also." "Kharlamp will come with two; there will be six of us. That's enough; be quiet!" At that moment the door opened, and Bogun entered the room. He could not have seen Zagloba looking into his room, for at the sight of him he quivered suddenly, a flush as it were went over his face, and his hand as quick as lightning rested on the hilt of his sabre; but all this lasted only the twinkle of an eye. The flush went from his face, which grew slightly pale. Zagloba looked at him, and said nothing. The ataman also remained silent, and in the room a fly on the wing could be heard. Those two persons whose fates had crossed in such a wonderful manner pretended at the moment not to know each other. The interval was rather long; it appeared to Pan Michael that whole ages were passing. "Jew," said Bogun, all at once, "is it far from here to Zaborovo?" "Not far," answered the Jew. "Are you going now?" "Yes," said Bogun, and turned toward the door leading to the anteroom. "With your permission," sounded the voice of Zagloba. The chief halted at once as if he had grown to the floor, and turning to Zagloba, fastened his dark and terrible eyes on him. "What do you wish?" asked he, curtly. "It seems to me that we made acquaintance somewhere,--at a wedding on a farm in Russia, was it not?" "Yes," said the chief haughtily, putting his hand again on the hilt. "How does your health serve you?" asked Zagloba. "For you rode off in such haste that I had no time to bid you farewell." "And were you sorry for that?" "Of course I was sorry. We should have had a dance, and the company would have been larger." Here Zagloba pointed to Volodyovski. "This is the cavalier who came in, and he would have been glad of a nearer acquaintance with you." "Enough of this!" shouted Pan Michael, rising suddenly. "I arrest you, traitor!" "With what authority?" asked the ataman, raising his head haughtily. "You are a rebel, an enemy of the Commonwealth, and have come here as a spy." "And who are you?" "Oh, I will not explain that to you; but you won't escape me!" "We shall see," said Bogun. "I should not explain to you who I am if you had challenged me to sabres like a soldier; but since you threaten with arrest, then I will explain. Here is a letter which I carry from the Zaporojian hetman to Prince Kazimir, and not finding him in Nyeporente, I am going with it to Zaborovo. How will you arrest me now?" Bogun looked haughtily and sneeringly at Volodyovski. Pan Michael was greatly confused, like a hound which feels that the game is escaping him; and not knowing what to do, he turned an inquiring look at Zagloba. A painful moment of silence followed. "It is difficult indeed," said Zagloba. "Since you are an envoy, we cannot arrest you; and you will not meet this cavalier with a sabre, for you have already fled before him till the earth groaned." Bogun's face grew purple, for that moment he recognized Volodyovski. Shame and wounded pride sprang into play in the fearless chief. The remembrance of that flight scorched him like fire. It was the single stain on the fame of his heroism,--the fame which he loved beyond life, beyond all. The inexorable Zagloba continued in cold blood: "You had almost lost your trousers, when pity penetrated this cavalier. Tfu! young hero, you have a woman's face, and a woman's heart too. You were brave with the old princess and the lad her son, but with a knight you are a wind-bag. Carry letters, steal young ladies,--that's your work, not war! As God is dear to me, I saw with my own eyes how your trousers were flying around. Tfu, tfu! Now you talk of the sabre, for you are carrying a letter. How are we to meet you when you shield yourself with that letter? All dust in the eyes, young hero! Hmelnitski is a good soldier, Krívonos a good one; but among the Cossacks there is many a cowardly sneak." Bogun pushed up suddenly to Zagloba, and Zagloba drew back with equal swiftness behind Volodyovski, so that the two young knights stood before each other, eye to eye. "Not from fear did I retreat before you, but to save my men," said Bogun. "I know not your reasons for fleeing, but I know that you fled," said Volodyovski. "I will meet you anywhere, even here, this minute." "Will you challenge me?" asked Volodyovski, half closing his eyes. "You have touched my fame, tried to cast shame on me, I need your blood." "No dispute on those points," said Volodyovski. "No harm to the consenting party," added Zagloba. "But who will deliver the letter to the prince?" "Give yourself no headache over that; it is my affair." "Fight, then, if it cannot be otherwise," said Zagloba. "But if fortune favors you against this cavalier, remember that you will have to meet me. And now, Pan Michael, come out to the front of the house; I have something important to say." The two friends went out and called Kushel from under the window of the room. "Gentlemen, our affair is a bad one. He has really a letter to the prince; if we kill him, it is a capital crime. Remember that the chapter 'propter securitatem loci' has jurisdiction ten miles from the field of election, and he is the same as an envoy. A weighty question! We must either hide somewhere afterward, or perhaps the prince will protect us; otherwise it may go hard with us. And to let him go free again is still worse. This is the only way to liberate our poor young lady. For when he is no longer in the world we shall find her more easily. The Lord himself evidently wishes to aid her and Skshetuski; that's clear. Let us help." "Will you invent some stratagem?" asked Kushel. "With my stratagem I have already brought him to challenge us. But seconds are necessary,--strangers. My idea is to wait for Kharlamp. I will undertake to make him yield his first place, and in case of need, to testify how we were challenged and obliged to defend ourselves. We must also find out more accurately from Bogun where he hid the young lady. If he has to die, she is nothing to him; perhaps he will tell if we press him. And if he won't tell, then it is better that he should not live. It is necessary to do everything with foresight and discretion. My head is bursting, gentlemen." "Who will fight with him?" asked Kushel. "Pan Michael first, I second," said Zagloba. "And I third." "Impossible!" interrupted Volodyovski. "I will fight with him alone, and that will be the end. If he brings me down, it is his fortune. Let him go in peace." "I've told him already," said Zagloba; "but if it is your wish, I yield." "If it is his wish, he may fight with you, but with no one else." "Let us go to him then." "Let us go." They found Bogun in the main room, drinking mead. He was perfectly calm. "Listen," said Zagloba, "for these are important questions which we want to discuss with you. You have challenged this cavalier. Very well. But you must know that since you are an envoy you are protected by law, for you come among civilized men, not among wild beasts; and therefore we cannot meet you unless you state before witnesses that you have challenged us of your own free will. A number of nobles with whom we had to fight a duel will come here, and you will make this statement before them. We will give you our knightly word that if fortune favors you against Pan Volodyovski you will go away at liberty, and no one will hinder you, unless you wish to make a trial with me." "Agreed," said Bogun. "I will make that statement before those nobles, and I will tell my men to deliver the letter and to inform Hmelnitski, if I perish, that I made the challenge. And if God favors me to vindicate my Cossack fame against this knight, I will ask you to sabres." When he had spoken he looked into Zagloba's eyes, Zagloba was rather confused, coughed, spat, and said,-- "Agreed! When you have made a trial of my pupil, you will know what sort of work you will have with me. But enough of this! There is another and more important point in which we appeal to your conscience; for though a Cossack, we wish to treat you as a knight. You carried off Princess Helena Kurtsevichovna, the betrothed of our comrade and friend, and you hold her secreted. Know that if we had accused you of this it would not have helped you that Hmelnitski made you his envoy, for this is 'raptus puellae,' a capital offence, which would be judged here immediately. But since you are going to combat, and may perish, bethink yourself what will happen to that unfortunate lady if you die. Do you, who love her, wish evil and destruction to her? Will you deprive her of protection and give her to shame and misfortune? Do you wish to be her executioner, even when you are dead?" Here the voice of Zagloba sounded with unusual solemnity for him. Bogun grew pale and asked: "What do you want of me?" "Tell us where she is hidden, so that we may find her if you die, and give her to her betrothed. If you do this, God will have mercy on your soul." The chief rested his head on his hands, and thought deeply. The three comrades watched carefully the changes in that mobile face, which was suddenly covered with such touching grief as if neither anger, rage, nor any fierce feeling had ever played upon it, and as if that man had been created only for love and yearning. A long time this silence lasted, till finally it was broken by the voice of Zagloba, which trembled while uttering the following words,-- "If you have already put her to shame, may God condemn you and let her find shelter in a cloister." Bogun raised his sad, moistened eyes, and said: "If I have shamed her? I know not how you Poles love, knights and cavaliers, but I am a Cossack. I protected her in Bar from death and disgrace, and afterward took her to the desert, and there guarded her as the eye in my head; did no injury to her, fell at her feet and bowed to her as before an image. If she told me to go, I went, and have not seen her since, for war detained me." "God will remember that for you at the judgment," said Zagloba, sighing deeply, "But is she safe? Krívonos and the Tartars are there." "Krívonos is at Kamenyets, and sent me to ask Hmelnitski whether he was to march on Kudák. He has surely gone there, and where she is there are neither Cossacks nor Poles nor Tartars. She is safe." "Where is she, then?" "Listen to me, Poles! Let it be as you wish. I will tell you where she is, and I will give the order to render her up; but you must give me your knightly word that if God favors me, you will not look for her. You promise for yourselves and for Pan Skshetuski, and I will tell you." The three friends looked at one another. "We cannot do that," said Zagloba. "Oh, as true as life we cannot!" cried Kushel and Volodyovski. "Is it possible?" asked Bogun. His brows were frowning and his eyes flashed. "Well, why can you not?" "Because Pan Skshetuski is not present; and besides, you may be sure that none of us would cease to seek for her, even if you have hidden her under ground." "So you would make this bargain with me: 'Cossack, give up your soul, and then we will sabre you!' Oh, don't wait for it! And do you think my Cossack sabre is not made of steel, that you are croaking over me like ravens over a dead carcass? And why am I to die, and not you? You want my blood, but I want yours! We shall see who gets whose." "Then you will not tell?" "Why talk to me? Death to you all!" "Death to you! You deserve to be cut to pieces with sabres!" "Try it!" said the chief, rising quickly. Kushel and Volodyovski sprang at the same moment from the bench. Threatening looks were exchanged, breasts overflowing with anger breathed more violently, and it is unknown what might have happened, had not Zagloba, who had looked through the window, cried: "Kharlamp has come with his seconds!" The light-horse captain with his two companions, the Selitskis, entered the room. After the first greeting, Zagloba took them aside to explain the affair. He spoke so eloquently that he soon convinced them, especially when he declared that Volodyovski asked only for a short delay, and immediately after his struggle with the Cossack would be ready to meet Kharlamp. Here Zagloba related how old and terrible was the hatred of all the soldiers of the prince for Bogun; how he was an enemy of the whole Commonwealth, and was one of the most desperate rebels; and finally, how he had carried off the princess, a lady of a noble house, the betrothed of a noble who was the mirror of every knightly virtue. "And if you are a noble and have some feeling of brotherhood, you know that the wrong inflicted on one is inflicted on the whole order. Can you let it go then unavenged?" Kharlamp raised difficulties at first, and said that since matters were in that state, Bogun should be cut to pieces on the spot. "But let Pan Volodyovski meet me according to agreement." Zagloba had to explain to him again why this could not be, and that it would not be knightly to attack one man from behind in this fashion. Happily the Selitskis helped him, both men of judgment and prudence, so that the stubborn Lithuanian let himself be convinced at last, and agreed to a delay. Meanwhile Bogun went to his men, and returned with the essaul Eliasenko, to whom he told how he had challenged two nobles, and then repeated the same thing aloud, in presence of Kharlamp and the Selitskis. "We on our part declare," said Volodyovski, "that if you come out victorious in the struggle with me, it will depend on your will whether you are to fight with Pan Zagloba, and in no case will any one else call you out, and this company will not attack you; you will go where you please. For this I give my knightly word, and I beg you, gentlemen who have just come, to add the same on your part." "We do," said Kharlamp and the two Selitskis, solemnly. Then Bogun delivered to Eliasenko Hmelnitski's letter to the prince; and said: "You will give this letter to the prince; and if I die you will tell him and Hmelnitski that the fault was mine, and that I was not killed through treachery." Zagloba, who had a watchful eye on everything, saw not the least disquiet on the sullen visage of Eliasenko. It was evident that he was too sure of his ataman. Bogun then turned haughtily to the nobles: "Well, to one death, to another life," said he. "We may begin." "Time, time!" said all, tucking back the skirts of their coats under their belts, and taking their sabres under their arms. They went in front of the inn, and turned down to a creek which flowed among a growth of hawthorns, wild roses, and plum-trees. November had stripped, it is true, the leaves from the bushes, but the thicket was so close that it looked black as a mourning-ribbon along through the empty fields to the forest. The day was pale, but pleasant with that melancholy mildness of autumn full of sweetness. The sun embroidered softly with gold the naked branches of the trees, and lighted up the yellow, sandy banks extending some distance along the right side of the creek. The combatants and their seconds went straight to these banks. "We will stop here," said Zagloba. "Agreed," answered all. Zagloba grew more and more unquiet; at last he approached Volodyovski, and whispered: "Pan Michael--" "Well?" "For the love of God, Pan Michael, exert yourself! In your hands now is the fate of Skshetuski, the freedom of the princess, your own life and mine. God keep you from accident! I could do nothing with this robber." "Why did you challenge him then?" "The word came out of itself. I trusted in you, Pan Michael. I am old, and my breath is short. I choke, and this beauty can jump like a goat. He is a fleet hound, Pan Michael." "I'll do my best," said the little knight. "God give you aid! Don't lose courage!" "Why should I?" At that moment one of the Selitskis came up to them. "He is a trim fellow, your Cossack," he whispered; "he acts with us as if he were an equal, if not a superior. What a bearing! It must be that his mother looked on some noble." "It is more likely," said Zagloba, "that some noble looked on her." "And so it appears to me," said Volodyovski. "To our places!" called Bogun, suddenly. "To our places, to our places!" They took their places,--the nobles in a half-circle, Volodyovski and Bogun opposite each other. Volodyovski, as a man experienced in such affairs though he was young, tested the ground first with his feet to see if it was firm; then he cast his eye about, wishing to know all the unevenness of the place. And it was apparent that he did not underestimate the affair. He had to meet with a knight the most celebrated in the whole Ukraine, of whom the people sang songs, and whose name was known through the breadth of Russia to the Crimea. Pan Michael, a simple lieutenant of the dragoons, promised himself much from that struggle, for it was either a glorious death or an equally glorious victory; therefore he neglected nothing to show himself worthy of such an opponent. He had an unusual seriousness in his face, seeing which Zagloba was frightened. "He is losing courage," thought he; "it is over with him, and then it is over with me!" Meanwhile Volodyovski, having examined the ground carefully, began to unbutton his vest. Bogun followed his example, and both threw off their upper garments, so that they were in trousers and shirts; then they rolled up the sleeves on their right arms. But how insignificant appeared little Pan Michael before the large and powerful ataman! He was almost invisible. The seconds looked uneasily on the broad breast of the Cossack, on the great muscles visible from under the rolled-up sleeve, like knots and cords. It seemed as though a little cock had stood up to fight with a powerful falcon of the steppes. The nostrils of Bogun were distended as if snuffing blood in advance; his face was so contracted that his dark foretop seemed to touch his brow, and the sabre quivered in his hand; he fixed his eyes rapaciously on his opponent and waited the word. Volodyovski looked once more through the light at the edge of his sword, moved his little yellow mustache, and stood in position. "There will be straight cuts here," muttered Kushel to Selitski. Meanwhile the voice of Zagloba, slightly trembling, said: "In the name of God, begin!" CHAPTER XLV. The sabres whistled; edge clashed against edge. The place of conflict was shifted at once; for Bogun pressed on with such fury that Volodyovski sprang back a number of steps, and the seconds had to retreat too. The lightning zigzags of Bogun's sword were so swift that the astonished eyes of those present could not follow them. It seemed to them that Volodyovski was altogether surrounded and covered, and that God alone could snatch him from beneath that storm of thunderbolts. The blows were mingled in one uninterrupted whistle; the rush of the moving air struck all faces. The fury of the Cossack increased; the wild rage of conflict seized him, and like a hurricane he pushed Volodyovski before him. The little knight retreated continually, and merely defended himself. His extended right arm scarcely moved; only his hand described, without stopping, circles narrow but swift as thought, and caught the raging blows of Bogun. He put edge under edge, warded off and again defended and still retreated, fixed his eyes on the eyes of the Cossack, and in the midst of serpentine lightnings appeared calm; but on his cheeks purple spots were coming out. Zagloba closed his eyes, and heard nothing but blow after blow, bite after bite. "He defends himself yet," thought he. "He defends himself yet," said the Selitskis and Kushel. "He is already pushed to the sand-bank," added Kushel, quietly. Zagloba opened his eyes again and looked. True, Volodyovski was pushed to the bank; but evidently he was not wounded yet. The flush on his face had become deeper, and drops of sweat were on his forehead. Zagloba's heart began to beat with hope. "Pan Michael is a master beyond masters," thought he, "and this fellow will become tired at last." In fact Bogun's face had grown pale, sweat stood in drops on his forehead; but resistance only roused his rage, foam shone from under his mustache, and from his breast came the hoarseness of fury. Volodyovski did not let him out of sight, and defended himself continually. Suddenly, feeling the sand-bank behind, he collected himself. It seemed to the spectators that he had fallen; meanwhile he bent, shrunk up, half squatted, and hurled his whole body as if it were a stone against the breast of the Cossack. "He is attacking!" shouted Zagloba. "He is attacking!" repeated the others. So he was, in fact. The Cossack retreated now; and the little knight, having discovered the whole power of his opponent, pushed on him so briskly that the breath stopped in the breasts of the seconds. Evidently he began to warm up; his little eyes shot sparks; he squatted, he sprang, he changed position in a moment, he described circles around the Cossack, and forced him to turn where he stood. "Oh, masterly, masterly!" said Zagloba. "You will perish!" said Bogun, all at once. "You will perish!" answered, like an echo, Volodyovski. At that moment the Cossack threw, his sabre from his right to his left hand,--a feat possible only to the ablest fencers,--and gave with his left hand such a terrible blow that Volodyovski fell to the ground as if struck by lightning. "Jesus, Mary!" screamed Zagloba. But Volodyovski had fallen on purpose, so that the sabre of Bogun might meet only air. Then the little knight sprang up like a wildcat, and with almost the whole length of his blade cut terribly into the open breast of the Cossack. Bogun tottered, advanced a step, and with a last effort gave the last thrust. Volodyovski warded it off with ease, and struck still twice on the inclined head. The sabre dropped from the powerless hands of Bogun, and he fell with his face on the sand, which immediately reddened under him in a broad pool of blood. Eliasenko, present at the duel, rushed to the body of the ataman. The seconds were unable to utter a word for some time. Pan Michael too was silent; he rested both hands on his sabre and panted heavily. Zagloba first broke the silence. "Pan Michael, come to my embrace!" said he, with emotion. Then they surrounded him in a circle. "You are a swordsman of the first water. May the bullets strike you!" said the Selitskis. "You are a deceitful rogue, I see," said Kharlamp; "but I'll meet you, lest it be said that I am afraid. But though you were to slash me in such fashion as this, still I congratulate you." [Illustration "THE LITTLE KNIGHT, HAVING DISCOVERED THE WHOLE POWER OF HIS OPPONENT, PUSHED ON HIM BRISKLY."] Copyright, 1898, by Little, Brown, and Company. "And you should put yourself at rest, for in fact you have nothing to fight about," said Zagloba. "Impossible!" answered the light-horseman, "for it is a question here of my reputation, for which I am glad to give my life." "I have no claim on your life. It is better to drop the matter; for to tell you the truth, I have not come in your way as you imagine. Some other man better than I will stand in your way, but not I." "Is that true?" "My knightly word for it." "Then make peace with each other," cried the Selitskis and Kushel. "Let it be so," said Kharlamp, opening his arms. Volodyovski fell into them, and the two men kissed each other till the echoes resounded along the bank. Kushel said: "I did not think that you could beat such a giant; and he knew too how to use a sabre." "I had no idea that he was such a swordsman. Where could he have learned?" Here the attention of all was directed again to the prostrate chief, whom at that time Eliasenko had turned on his back and was looking with tears for signs of life in him. It was impossible to recognize the features of Bogun, for they were covered with streaks of blood which flowed out of the wounds in his head and which immediately grew stiff in the chill air. The shirt on his breast was all in blood, but he still gave signs of life. Seemingly he was in his last agonies; his feet quivered, and his fingers hooked convulsively like claws in the sand. Zagloba looked and waved his hand. "He has had his fill; he is parting with the world." "Ah," said one of the Selitskis, looking at the body, "that's a corpse already!" "Yes, for he is almost cut into bits." "He was no common knight," muttered Volodyovski, nodding his head. "I know something of that," added Zagloba. Meanwhile Eliasenko tried to raise up and carry away the unfortunate ataman; but being rather a slender man and not young, and since Bogun belonged almost to the giants, he could not. It was some distance to the inn, and Bogun might die at any moment. The essaul, seeing this, turned to the nobles. "Gentlemen," said he, clasping his hands, "for the sake of the Saviour and the Holy Most Pure, help me! Do not let him die here like a dog! I am old, not strong enough, and the men are far away." The nobles looked at one another. Animosity against Bogun had vanished from every heart. "True, it is hard to leave him here like a dog," muttered Zagloba. "Since we met him in a duel, he is no longer a peasant for us, but a soldier, to whom such assistance is due. Who will carry him with me, gentlemen?" "I," said Volodyovski. "Then carry him on my burka," added Kharlamp. In a moment Bogun was lying on the mantle, the ends of which Zagloba, Volodyovski, Kushel, and Eliasenko held; and the whole party, in company with Kharlamp and the Selitskis, moved with slow steps toward the inn. "He has a firm life," said Zagloba; "he is moving yet. My God, if any man had told me that I should become his nurse and carry him in this fashion, I should have thought that he was trifling with me. I have too feeling a heart, I know that myself; but life is cruel. I'll dress his wounds too. I hope we shall meet no more in this world; let him remember me kindly in the next." "Then you think that he will not recover by any means?" asked Kharlamp. "He! I wouldn't give a wisp of old straw for his life. Such was his fate, and he could not escape it; for even if he had succeeded with Pan Volodyovski, he wouldn't have escaped my hands. But I prefer that it has happened as it has, for already there is an outcry against me as a merciless slaughterer. And what am I to do when a man crawls into my way? I had to pay Pan Dunchevski five hundred sequins' fine, and you know, gentlemen, that estates in Russia give no income now." "True, for they have plundered you there to the last," said Kharlamp. "Oh, this Cossack is heavy!" said Zagloba; "I've lost my breath.--Plundered us, yes, plundered; but I hope the Diet will make some provision, otherwise we are reduced to death. But he is heavy, he is heavy! See, the blood is beginning to run again! Hurry, Pan Kharlamp, to the inn; let the Jew mix some dough with spider-web. It won't help the dead man much, but care is a Christian act, and it will be easier for him to die. Hurry, Pan Kharlamp!" Kharlamp pushed ahead; and when at last they carried the chief into the room, Zagloba betook himself, with great knowledge of the art and expertness, to dressing him. He stopped the blood, closed the wounds, then turned to Eliasenko and said,-- "You, grandfather, are not needed here. Ride with all speed to Zaborovo, ask to be placed before the prince, deliver the letter, and tell what you saw, everything as it was. If you lie, I shall know, for I am a confidant of his Highness the Prince, and I shall command your head to be cut off. Give my respects to Hmelnitski, for he knows and loves me. We will give a fitting funeral to your ataman. You do your own work; do not loiter in corners, or some one will settle you before you can tell who you are. Be in good health, and be off!" "Let me stay, gentlemen, even till he gets cold." "Be off, I tell you!" said Zagloba, threateningly; "if not, I'll order the peasants to take you to Zaborovo. And my respects to Hmelnitski." Eliasenko bowed to the girdle and went out. Zagloba said again to Kharlamp and the Selitskis,-- "I've got that Cossack off; for what has he to do here, and if some one should kill him, which might easily happen, then the blame would be laid on us. The partisans of Zaslavski and the curs of the chancellor would be first to roar with all their might that in spite of God's law Vishnyevetski's men murdered the whole Cossack embassy. But a wise head has a remedy for everything. We won't let ourselves be eaten in kasha by these fops, these parasites; and when necessary you, gentlemen, will bear witness how it all happened, and that he challenged us himself. I must order the bailiff of this place to bury him somehow. They don't know here who he was; they will think that he was a noble, and bury him decently. It's time for us too to be on the road, Pan Michael, for we have a report to make to the prince yet." The hoarse breathing of Bogun interrupted these words. "Oh, the soul is seeking a way for itself," said Zagloba. "It is getting dark, and the spirit will go groping to the other world. But since he put no shame on our young lady, may God give him eternal rest,--amen! Let us go, Pan Michael. From my heart I forgive him all his sins, though to tell the truth, I put myself more in his way than he put himself in mine. But the end has come. Gentlemen, I wish you good health. It was a delight to make the acquaintance of such honorable men, but remember to testify in case of need." CHAPTER XLVI. Prince Yeremi heard of the slaying of Bogun with notable indifference, especially when he learned that there were men outside his regiments who were ready at any moment to testify that Volodyovski had been challenged. If the affair had not happened just before the announcement of Yan Kazimir's election, if the struggle of the candidates had been still going on, the opponents of Yeremi and at their head the chancellor would certainly not have failed to forge weapons against him out of this event, in spite of all witnesses and testimony. But after Prince Karl's withdrawal, men's minds were occupied with other things, and it was easy to foresee that the whole affair would be drowned in oblivion. Hmelnitski, it is true, might raise it to show what new injuries he was enduring every day; but Yeremi justly hoped that Prince Kazimir in sending his answer would order it to be stated from himself how the envoy had perished, and Hmelnitski would not dare to doubt the truth of the prince's words. Yeremi was anxious only that no political disturbance should rise through his soldiers. On the other hand he was glad, on Skshetuski's account, of what had happened, for the finding of Kurtsevichovna was really much more likely now. It was possible to find her, to rescue or ransom her; and the prince would surely not spare the outlay, no matter how great, if only he could save his favorite knight from suffering and restore his happiness. Volodyovski went to the prince in great apprehension; for though in general he had little timidity, still he feared as he did fire every frown of the voevoda's brow. What was his astonishment then and joy when the prince, after he had heard the report and meditated awhile on what had happened, took a costly ring from his finger and said,-- "I praise your moderation for not attacking him first, for a great and harmful uproar might have arisen at the Diet from that. But if the princess shall be found, Skshetuski will be indebted to you for life. Reports reach me, Volodyovski, that as others are unable to keep their tongues behind their lips, you are unable to keep your sabre in its scabbard, for which punishment is due you. But since you took the part of a friend and sustained the reputation of our regiments with such a famous hero, take this ring, so as to have some memento of this day. I knew that you were a good soldier and famous at the sword, but this is like a master of masters." "He!" said Zagloba. "He would cut the devil's horns off at the third round. If your Highness should ever have my head cut off, then I ask that no one else cut it but him, for at least I should go to the other world straightway. He cut Bogun in two in the breast, and then passed twice through his wits." The prince was fond of knightly affairs and good soldiers; he smiled therefore with pleasure and asked: "Have you ever found your match at the sabre?" "Skshetuski hacked me a little once, but I paid him back the time your Highness put us both behind the bars. Among others Pan Podbipienta might meet me, for he has power beyond human; and Kushel almost, if he had better eyes." "Don't believe him, your Highness! no man can stand before him." "And Bogun fought long?" "I had grievous work. He knew how to throw the sabre from the right to the left hand." "Bogun told me himself," interrupted Zagloba, "that he fought with the Kurtsevichi whole days for practice, and I saw myself how he did the same with others in Chigirin." "Do you know what you would better do, Volodyovski?" said the prince, with pretended seriousness; "go to Zamost, challenge Hmelnitski, and with one blow free the Commonwealth from all its defeats and anxieties." "I will go at your Highness's order, if Hmelnitski wishes to meet me," answered Volodyovski. To which the prince answered: "We are joking, and the world is perishing! But you, gentlemen, must really go to Zamost. I have news from the Cossack camp that the moment Prince Kazimir's election is declared, Hmelnitski will raise the siege and withdraw to Russia, which he will do from real or simulated affection for the king, or because his power might more easily be broken at Zamost. Therefore you must go and tell Skshetuski what has happened, so that he may set out to look for the princess. Tell him to choose from my squadrons with the starosta of Valets as many soldiers as may be necessary for the expedition. Besides, I shall send him permission by you and give him a letter, for his happiness is very near my heart." "Your Highness, you are a father to us all; therefore we desire to remain in faithful service to you while we live." "I am not sure that my service will not soon be a hungry one," said the prince, "if all my fortune beyond the Dnieper is lost; but while it lasts, what is mine is yours." "Oh," cried Volodyovski, "our poor fortunes will always be at the disposal of your Highness." "And mine with the rest," added Zagloba. "That is not necessary yet," answered the prince, kindly. "I still entertain the hope that if I lose everything the Commonwealth will at least remember my children." Speaking thus, the prince seemed to have a moment of second sight. The Commonwealth in fact a few years later gave to his only son the best it had,--that is, the crown; but at that time the gigantic fortune of Yeremi was really shattered. "Well, we got out of it," said Zagloba, when both had left the prince. "Pan Michael, you may be sure of promotion. But let us see the ring. Upon my word, it is worth about one hundred ducats, for the stone is very beautiful. Ask any Armenian in the bazaar to-morrow. For such an amount we might swim in eating and drinking and other delights. What do you think, Pan Michael? The soldier's maxim is: 'To-day I live, to-morrow decay;' and the sense of it is this,--that it isn't worth while to think of to-morrow. Short is the life of man, Pan Michael. The great thing is this, that henceforth the prince will carry you in his heart. He would give ten times as much to make a present of Bogun to Skshetuski, and you have done it. You may expect great favors, believe me! Are the villages few that the prince has given to knights for life, or made presents of outright? What is such a ring as this? Surely some income will fall to you, and to wind up, the prince will give you one of his relatives in marriage." Pan Michael jumped up. "How do you know that--" "That what?" "I wanted to say, what have you got in your head? How could such a thing take place?" "But does it not take place? Are you not a noble, or are not all nobles equal? Are the distant relatives, male and female, of every magnate among the nobles few in number? These relatives he gives in marriage to his most important men. Very likely Sufchinski of Senchy married some distant relative of the Vishnyevetskis. Though some of us serve, we are all brothers, Pan Michael,--all brothers, since we are all descended in common from Japhet, and the whole difference is in fortune and offices to which each may arrive. There are likely enough in some other countries considerable differences between nobles, but they are mangy nobles. I understand differences between dogs; there are, for instance, pointers, and there are hounds of various kinds. But consider, Pan Michael, it cannot be so among nobles; for then we should be dog-brothers, not nobles,--which disgrace to such an honorable order Thou wilt not permit, O Lord!" "You speak truly," said Volodyovski; "but then the Vishnyevetskis are kingly stock, almost." "Ah, Pan Michael, just as if you are not eligible to the throne! I, first of all, would vote for you, if I should make up my mind like Pan Sigismond Skarshevski, who swears that he will vote for himself unless he is ruined at dice. Everything, thank God, with us is obtained by free vote; our poverty, not our birth, stands in the way." "That's the case precisely," sighed Pan Michael. "What's to be done? We are plundered to the last, and we shall be lost if the Commonwealth doesn't provide some income for us," said Zagloba, "and we shall perish miserably. What wonder is it if a man, though by nature abstemious, should like to get drunk under such oppressions? Let us go, Pan Michael, and drink a glass of small beer; we shall comfort ourselves even a little." Thus conversing, they reached the old town and entered a wine-shop, before which a number of attendants were holding the shubas and burkas of nobles who were drinking inside. Having seated themselves before a table, they ordered a decanter and began to take counsel as to what they should do now, after the killing of Bogun. "If Hmelnitski should leave Zamost and peace follow, then the princess is ours," said Zagloba. "We must go to Skshetuski at once, and not let him off till he finds the girl." "True, we will go at once; but now there is no way of getting to Zamost." "That's all the same, if only God will favor us later." Zagloba raised his glass. "He will, he will," said he. "Do you know, Pan Michael, what I'll tell you?" "What is it?" "Bogun is killed." Volodyovski looked at him with astonishment. "Yes; who should know that better than I?" "May your hands be holy! you know and I know. I saw how you fought; you are now before my eyes, and still I must repeat it to myself continually, for at times it seems as though I had only some kind of a dream. What a care has been removed! what a knot your sabre cut! May the bullets strike you! for God knows, this is too great to be told. No, I cannot restrain myself; let me press you once again, Pan Michael. If you will believe, when I made your acquaintance I thought to myself: 'There is a little whipper-snapper.' A nice whipper-snapper, to slash Bogun in this fashion! Bogun is gone; no trace, no ashes of him,--slain to death for the ages of ages; amen!" Here Zagloba began to hug and kiss Volodyovski, and Pan Michael was moved to tears as if sorry for Bogun. At last, however, he freed himself from Zagloba's embraces and said: "We were not present at his death, and he is hard to kill. Suppose he recovers?" "Oh, in God's name, what are you talking about?" said Zagloba. "I should be ready to go to-morrow to Lipki and arrange the nicest funeral for him, just after his death." "Why should you go? You wouldn't finish a wounded man. After the sabre, whoever does not yield his breath at once is likely to pull through. A sabre is not a bullet." "He cannot recover. He was already in the death-agony when we left. No chance of recovery! I examined his wounds myself. Let him rest, for you cut him open like a hare. We must go to Skshetuski at once and comfort him, or he may die of gnawing grief." "Or he will become a monk; he told me so himself." "What wonder? I should do the same in his place. I do not know a more honorable knight, and a more unhappy one I do not know. The Lord visits him grievously." "Leave off," said Volodyovski, a little drunk, "for I am not able to stop my tears." "Neither am I," added Zagloba; "such an honorable knight, and such a soldier! But the princess--you do not know her; such a darling!" Here Zagloba began to howl in a low bass, for he really loved the princess; and Pan Michael accompanied him in a higher key, and they drank wine mixed with tears. Then, dropping their heads on their breasts, they sat for a time gloomily, till Zagloba struck his fist on the table. "Pan Michael, why do we weep? Bogun is killed!" "True," said Volodyovski. "We ought rather to rejoice. We are fools now if we don't find her." "Let us go," said Volodyovski, rising. "Let us drink," corrected Zagloba. "God grant us to hold their children at the christening, and all because we slew Bogun." "Served him right!" finished Volodyovski, not noticing that Zagloba was already sharing with him the merit of killing Bogun. CHAPTER XLVII. At last "Te Deum laudamus" was heard in the cathedral of Warsaw, and the king was enthroned; cannon thundered, bells were tolled, and confidence began to enter all hearts. The interregnum had passed,--a time of storms and unrest the more terrible for the Commonwealth that it happened in a period of universal disaster. Those who had been trembling at the thought of threatening dangers, now that the election had passed with unusual harmony, drew a deep breath. It seemed to many that the unparalleled civil war was over forever, and that the newly chosen king had but to pronounce sentence on the guilty. Indeed, this hope was supported by the bearing of Hmelnitski himself. The Cossacks at Zamost, while storming the castle wildly, nevertheless spoke loudly in favor of Yan Kazimir. Hmelnitski sent through the priest Huntsel Mokrski letters full of loyalty, and through other envoys obedient requests for favor to himself and the Zaporojian army. It was known also that the king, in accord with the policy of the chancellor, desired to make considerable concessions to the Cossacks. As before the catastrophe of Pilavtsi war was in every mouth, so was peace now. It was hoped that after so many disasters the Commonwealth would recover, and under the new reign would be healed from all its wounds. At last Snyarovski went with a letter of the king to Hmelnitski; and soon the joyful news was circulated that the Cossacks would withdraw from Zamost to the Ukraine, where they would wait quietly the commands of the king and the commission which was to be occupied with examining the wrongs inflicted on them. It seemed that after the storm a seven-colored rainbow hung over the land, heralding calm and fair weather. There were not lacking, it is true, unfavorable prophecies and prognostications, but in view of the favoring reality no weight was attached to them. The king went to Chenstokhova to thank first of all the Divine Protectress for the election and to give himself to her further care, and then to Cracow to the coronation. The dignitaries followed him: Warsaw was deserted; only those exiles from Russia remained who did not dare yet to return to their ruined fortunes, or who had nothing with which to return. Prince Yeremi, as senator of the Commonwealth, had to go with the king; but Volodyovski and Zagloba, at the head of one squadron of dragoons, went with hurried marches to Zamost to give Skshetuski the happy tidings of what had happened to Bogun, and then to go with him in search of the princess. Zagloba left Warsaw not without a certain sadness; for in that immeasurable concourse of nobles, in the uproar of election, in the endless revelry and the brawls raised in company with Volodyovski, he was as happy as a fish in the sea. But he consoled himself with the thought that he was returning to active life, to the search for adventures, and stratagems of which he promised not to spare himself; and besides he had his own opinion about the dangers of the capital, which he laid bare to Volodyovski in the following manner:-- "It is true, Pan Michael," said he, "that we did great things in Warsaw; but God keep us from a longer visit! For I tell you we should become effeminate, like that famous Carthaginian whom the sweetness of the air of Capua weakened to the core. But worst of all are women; they bring every man to destruction. Just think, there is nothing more traitorous than woman! A man grows old, but still she attracts him." "But you might give us peace," said Volodyovski. "I repeat this to myself often, it being time for me to grow sedate; but I am too hot-blooded yet. You are more phlegmatic; in me, however, is passion itself. But a truce to this; we will begin another life now. More than once have I grieved for war of late. We have an excellent squadron; and around Zamost there are bands of marauders with whom we will amuse ourselves while going after the princess. We shall see Skshetuski too, and that giant, that Lithuanian stork, that hop-pole, Pan Longin, and we have not seen him for many a day." "You are longing for him, and when you see him you give him no peace." "Because when he talks it is as if your horse were moving his tail, and he stretches every word as a shoemaker does leather; with him everything went into strength instead of brains. When he takes any one by the shoulders he pushes the ribs through the skin; still there is not a child in the Commonwealth who could not outwit him. How is it possible that a man with such a fortune should be so dull?" "Has he in truth such a fortune?" "He? When I made his acquaintance he had a belt so stuffed that he could not gird himself with it, and he carried it around like a smoked sausage. You could flourish it like a staff and it would not bend. He told me himself how many villages he has,--Myshekishki, Psikishki, Pigvishki, Sirutsiani, Tsiaputsiani, Kapustsiani (or rather, Kapustsiana,[17] but adding _glowa_), Baltupye-- Who could remember all these heathen names? About half the district belongs to him! It's a great family, the Podbipienta--among soup-eaters." "Haven't you exaggerated a little about these estates?" "I do not exaggerate, for I repeat what I heard from him, and during his life he has never told a lie,--he is in fact too stupid for that." "Well, then, Anusia will be a lady with a full mouth. But as to your dictum that he is stupid, I cannot agree to that in any way. He is a solid man, and so clear-headed that no one can give better counsel. But that he is not a rogue,--that is not difficult. The Lord God did not give every one such a nimble tongue as yours. There is no denying that he is a great knight and a man of the utmost honor. As proof of this you love him and are glad to see him." "Oh, the punishment of God on him!" muttered Zagloba; "I am glad only because I can tease him with Anusia." "I don't advise you to do that, for it is a dangerous thing. You might plaster a wound with him, but in the case of Anusia he would surely lose patience." "Let him lose it. I'll clip his ears for him as I did for Pan Dunchevski." "Oh, spare us! I should not like to have you try him as an enemy." "Well, well, let me only see him." This wish of Zagloba was fulfilled sooner than he expected. When they arrived at Konskovoli, Volodyovski determined to stay for the night, as the horses were terribly road-weary. Who can describe the astonishment of the two friends when on entering the dark anteroom of the inn they recognized Pan Podbipienta in the first noble they met! "Oh! how are you? How long, how long!" cried Zagloba; "and the Cossacks did not cut you up in Zamost?" Pan Podbipienta took them one after the other by the shoulders, and kissed them on the cheeks. "And have we met?" he repeated with joy. "Where are you going?" asked Volodyovski. "To Warsaw,--to the prince." "The prince is not in Warsaw; he went to Cracow with the king, before whom he has to carry the globe at the coronation." "But Pan Weyher sent me to Warsaw with a letter inquiring where the prince's regiments are to go, for God be thanked they are required no longer in Zamost." "Then you need go no farther, for we are carrying the orders." Pan Longin frowned; for from his soul he wished to get to the prince, to see the court, and especially one little person at that court. Zagloba began to mutter significantly to Volodyovski. "Then I'll go to Cracow," said the Lithuanian, after a moment's thought. "I was ordered to deliver the letter, and I will deliver it." "Let's go and order them to warm up some beer," said Zagloba. "And where are you going?" asked Pan Longin. "To Zamost, to Skshetuski." "He is not in Zamost." "Now, old woman, you've got a cake. Where is he?" "Somewhere around Khoroschina; he is breaking up disorderly bands. Hmelnitski retreated; but his colonels are burning, robbing, and slaying along the road. The starosta of Valets has ordered Pan Jakob Rogovski to disperse them." "And is Skshetuski with him too?" "Yes, but they act separately; for there is great rivalry between them, of which I will tell you later on." Meanwhile they entered the room. Zagloba ordered three gallons of warmed beer; then approaching the table at which Volodyovski had already sat down with Pan Longin, he said,-- "You do not know, Pan Podbipienta, the greatest and the happiest news,--that I and Pan Michael have slain Bogun." The Lithuanian rose from the bench. "My own brothers, can this be?" "As you see us here alive." "And both of you killed him?" "We did." "That is news. O God, God!" said the Lithuanian, clapping his hands. "And you say that both of you--how both?" "For I, to begin with, by stratagem brought him to this, that he challenged us,--do you understand me? Then Pan Michael met him first, and cut him up, I tell you, like a sucking pig at Easter,--opened him like a roast capon; do you understand?" "Then you were not the second combatant?" "But look here!" said Zagloba. "I see that you must have lost blood, and that your mind totters from weakness. Did you understand that I would fight a duel with a corpse, or that I would kill a prostrate man?" "But you said that you had slain him together." Zagloba shrugged his shoulders. "Holy patience with such a man! Pan Michael didn't Bogun challenge both of us?" "He did." "Do you understand now?" "Well, let it be so," answered Pan Longin. "Skshetuski was looking for Bogun around Zamost; but he was no longer there." "How was that,--Skshetuski was looking for him?" "I must, I see, tell you everything from the beginning exactly as it happened," said Pan Longin. "We remained, as you know, in Zamost, and you went to Warsaw. We did not wait for the Cossacks very long. They came in impenetrable clouds from Lvoff, so that you could not take them all in with the eye. But our prince had supplied Zamost, so that they might have stood two years in front of it. We thought that they wouldn't storm it at all, and great was the grief among us on that account; for each had promised himself delight from their defeats, and since there were Tartars among them I too hoped that God would give me my three heads--" "Beg of him one, but a good one," interrupted Zagloba. "You are always the same; it is disgusting to hear you," said the Lithuanian. "We thought they wouldn't storm; they, however, as if mad in their stubbornness, went at once to building machines, and then for the storming! It transpired later that Hmelnitski himself was unwilling; but Chernota, their camp commander, began to assail him, and to say that he was afraid and wanted to fraternize with the Poles. Hmelnitski therefore permitted it, and sent Chernota first. What followed, brothers, I will not tell you. The light could not be seen from smoke and fire. They went on boldly at first, filled the ditch, mounted the walls; but we warmed them up so that they ran away from the walls and their own machines; then we rushed out after them in three squadrons, and cut them up like cattle." Volodyovski rubbed his hands. "Oh, sorry am I not to have been at that feast!" cried he, in ecstasy. "And I should have been of service there," said Zagloba, with calm confidence. "There Skshetuski and Rogovski distinguished themselves most," continued the Lithuanian. "Both are grand knights; both are altogether hostile to each other. Rogovski was specially angry with Skshetuski, and beyond doubt would have sought a quarrel if Pan Weyher had not forbidden duels on pain of death. We didn't understand at first what the trouble was with Rogovski till it came out at last that he was a relative of Pan Lashch, whom the prince, as you remember, excluded from the camp for Skshetuski's sake; hence the malice in Rogovski against the prince, against us all, and especially against Skshetuski; hence the rivalry between them which covered both in the siege with great glory, for each tried to surpass the other. Both were first on the walls and in the sallies, till at last Hmelnitski got tired of storming, and began a regular siege, not neglecting meanwhile stratagems which might enable him to capture the place." "He confides as much or more in cunning," said Zagloba. "He is a madman and ignorant besides," continued Podbipienta. "Thinking Pan Weyher a German,--it is evident he hadn't heard of the voevodas of Pomorye of that name,--he wrote a letter wishing to persuade the starosta to treason as a foreigner and a mercenary. Then Pan Weyher wrote to him, explaining how everything was and how vainly he had approached him with his attempt. The better to show his importance, the starosta wished to send this letter through some person more important than a trumpeter; and as no officers volunteered, since it was like going to destruction to venture among such wild beasts, and some had scruples about their rank, therefore I undertook it. And now listen, for the most interesting part begins here." "We are listening attentively," said the two friends. "I went then, and found the hetman drunk. He received me angrily. Especially after he had read the letter, he threatened with his baton; and I, commending my soul humbly to God, thought thus to myself: 'If he touches me, I'll smash his head with my fist.' What was to be done, dear brothers,--what?" "It was honorable on your part to have those thoughts," said Zagloba, with emotion. "But the colonels pacified him and barred the road to me against him," said Pan Longin; "and more than all a young man, so bold that he took him by the waist and drew him away, saying, 'Don't go, father, you have been drinking.' I looked to see who was defending me, and wondered at his boldness and intimacy with Hmelnitski, till I saw that he was Bogun." "Bogun!" cried Volodyovski and Zagloba. "Yes, I knew him, for I made his acquaintance in Rozlogi. I listened. 'That is an acquaintance of mine,' said he to Hmelnitski. And Hmelnitski, since decision with drinking men is sudden, answered, 'If he is thy acquaintance, son, then give him fifty thalers, and I will give him an answer.' He gave me the answer; and as to the thalers, not to anger the beast, I told him to put them away for the haiduks, for it was not the custom among officers to take presents. He conducted me politely enough to the door; but I had scarcely come out when Bogun followed me. 'We met in Rozlogi,' said he. 'Yes,' I answer, 'but I did not expect, brother, to see you in this camp.' 'Not my own will, but misfortune, drove me here,' said he. In the conversation I told him that it was we who had defeated him beyond Yarmolintsi. 'I did not know with whom I had to do,' he answered; 'I was cut in the hand, and my men were good for nothing, for they thought that Prince Yeremi himself was beating them.' 'And we did not know,' said I; 'for if Pan Skshetuski had known that you were there, then one of you would not be living now.'" "That is very certain; but what did he say then?" asked Volodyovski. "He changed greatly, and turned the conversation. He told me how Krívonos had sent him with letters to Hmelnitski at Lvoff in order to get a little rest, and Hmelnitski wouldn't send him back, for he thought to employ him in other missions, since he was a man of presence. At last he asked, 'Where is Pan Skshetuski?' and when I answered, 'He is in Zamost,' he said, 'Zamost? Then we may meet;' and with that I bade him farewell." "I think now that Hmelnitski sent him immediately afterward to Warsaw," said Zagloba. "True, but wait! I returned then to the fortress, and made a report of my mission to Weyher. It was already late at night. Next day a new storm, more furious than the first. I had no time to see Skshetuski till the third day. I told him that I had seen Bogun and spoken to him. There were many officers present, and with them Rogovski. Hearing this, he said with a taunt: 'I know it is a question of a woman; but if you are such a knight as report says, now you have Bogun, call him out, and you may be sure that that fighter will not refuse you. We shall have a splendid view from the walls. But there is more talk of you Vishnyevetski men than you deserve.' Skshetuski looked at Rogovski as if he would cut him off his feet. 'Is that your advice?' asked he. 'Very good! But I don't know whether you who criticise our value would have the daring to go among the mob and challenge Bogun for me.' 'The daring I have, but I am neither groomsman nor brother to you, and I will not go.' Then others, with laughter against Rogovski, said: 'Oh, you are small now; but when it was a question of another man's skin you were big!' Then Rogovski as an ambitious fellow got his blood up. Next day he went with a challenge, but couldn't find Bogun. We didn't believe his story at first, but now after what you have told me I see that it was true. Hmelnitski must have sent Bogun away really, and you killed him." "That was it," said Volodyovski. "Tell us now," said Zagloba, "where to find Skshetuski, for we must find him so as to go for the princess immediately." "You will find him easily beyond Zamost, for he is heard of there. He and Rogovski, tossing from one to the other the forces of Kalina, the Cossack colonel, destroyed them. Later Skshetuski alone broke up Tartar parties, twice defeated Burlai, and dispersed a number of bands." "Does Hmelnitski permit that?" "Hmelnitski disavows them, and says that they plunder in spite of his orders; if he didn't do this, no one would believe in his loyalty and obedience to the king." "The beer is very bad in this Konskovoli," remarked Zagloba. "Beyond Lublin you will pass through a ravaged country," continued the Lithuanian; "for the advanced parties reached that place, and the Tartars took captives everywhere, and God only knows how many they seized around Zamost and Grubeshovo. Skshetuski has already sent several thousand rescued prisoners to the fortress. He is working with all his might, regardless of health." Here Pan Longin sighed, bowed his head in thought, and after a while continued: "And I thought: 'God in his supreme mercy will undoubtedly comfort Skshetuski, and give him that in which he sees his happiness; for great are that man's services.' In these times of corruption and covetousness, when every one is thinking of self alone, he has forgotten himself. He might have obtained permission long ago from the prince, and gone to seek the princess; but instead of that, since this paroxysm has come on the country he has not left his duty for a moment, continuing his unceasing labor with torment in his heart." "He has a Roman soul; this cannot be denied," said Zagloba. "We should take example from him." "Especially you, Pan Longin, who have gone to the war, not to serve your country, but to find three heads." "God is looking into my soul," said Podbipienta, raising his eyes to heaven. "God has rewarded Skshetuski with the death of Bogun," said Zagloba, "and with this, that he has given a moment of peace to the Commonwealth; for now the time has come for him to seek what he lost." "You will go with him?" asked the Lithuanian. "And you?" "I should be glad to go; but what will happen to the letters I am taking,--one from the starosta of Valets to the king, another to the prince, and a third from Skshetuski to the prince, with a request for leave?" "We are taking leave to him." "Yes, but how can I avoid delivering the letters?" "You must go to Cracow, it cannot be otherwise; however, I tell you sincerely I should be glad, in this quest after the princess, to have such fists as yours behind my shoulders; but for any other purpose you are useless. There dissimulation will be necessary, and complete disguise in Cossack dress, to appear as peasants; but you are so remarkable with your stature that every one would ask, 'Who is that tall booby? Where did such a Cossack as that come from?' Besides, you don't know their language well. No, no! you go to Cracow, and we will help ourselves somehow." "That is what I think too," said Volodyovski. "Surely it must be so," answered Podbipienta. "May the merciful God bless and aid you! And do you know where she is hidden?" "Bogun would not tell. We know only what I overheard when Bogun confined me in the stable, but that is enough." "But how will you find her?" "My head, my head!" said Zagloba. "I was in more difficult places than this. Now the question is only to find Skshetuski as quickly as possible." "Inquire in Zamost. Pan Weyher must know, for he corresponds with him, and Skshetuski sends him captives. May God bless you!" "And you too," said Zagloba. "When you are in Cracow, at the prince's, give our respects to Pan Kharlamp." "Who is he?" "A Lithuanian of extraordinary beauty, for whom all the maidens and ladies-in-waiting of the princess have lost their heads." Pan Longin trembled. "My good friend, is this joking?" "Farewell! Terribly bad beer in this Konskovoli!" concluded Zagloba, muttering at Volodyovski. CHAPTER XLVIII. So Pan Longin went to Cracow, his heart pierced with an arrow, and the cruel Zagloba with Volodyovski to Zamost, where they remained only one day; for the commandant informed them that he had received no news for a long time from Skshetuski, and thought the regiments which had set out under Skshetuski would go to Zbaraj to protect those regions from disorderly bands. This was the more likely since Zbaraj, being the property of the Vishnyevetskis, was specially exposed to the attacks of the mortal enemies of the prince. There lay therefore before Volodyovski and Zagloba a road long and difficult enough; but since they were going after the princess, they were obliged to pass it; therefore it was all one to them whether they should enter on it earlier or later, and they moved without delay, halting only to rest, or disperse robber bands wandering here and there. They went through a country so ruined that frequently for whole days they did not meet a living soul. Hamlets lay in ashes, villages were burned and empty, the people either killed or gathered into captivity. They saw only corpses along the road, the skeletons of houses, of Polish and Russian churches, the unburnt remnants of villages and cottages, dogs howling on burnt ruins. Whoever had survived the Tartar-Cossack passage hid in the depth of the forest, and was freezing from cold or dying of hunger, not daring yet to leave the forest, not believing that misfortune could have passed so soon. Volodyovski was obliged to feed the horses of his squadron with the bark of trees or with half-burnt grain taken from the ruins of former granaries. But they advanced quickly, supporting themselves mainly by supplies taken from bands of robbers. It was already the end of November; and inasmuch as the preceding winter had passed, to the greatest wonder of people, without snow, frost, and ice, so that the whole order of Nature seemed reversed by it, by so much did the present one promise to be of more than usual rigor. The ground had stiffened, snow was on the fields, river-banks were bordered each morning with a transparent, glassy shell. The weather was dry; the pale sunbeams warmed the world but feebly in the midday hours. Red twilight of morning and evening flamed in the sky,--an infallible herald of an early and stern winter. After war and hunger a third enemy of wretched humanity had to appear,--frost; and still people looked for it with desire because more surely than all negotiations was it a restrainer of war. Volodyovski, as a man of experience and knowing the Ukraine through and through, was full of hope that the expedition for the princess would take place without fail; for the chief obstacle, war, would not soon hinder it. "I do not believe in the sincerity of Hmelnitski, that out of love for the king he withdrew to the Ukraine; for he is a cunning fox! He knows that when the Cossacks cannot intrench themselves they are useless; for in the open field, though five times the number, they cannot stand against our squadrons. They will go to winter quarters now, and send their flocks to the snow-fields; the Tartars also need to take home their captives, and if the winter is severe there will be peace till next grass." "Perhaps longer, for still they respect the king. But we do not need so much time. With God's help we shall celebrate Skshetuski's wedding at the carnival." "If we don't miss him this time, for that would be a new vexation." "There are three squadrons with him, therefore it is not like hunting for a kernel of grain in a pile of chaff. Perhaps we shall come up with him yet at Zbaraj, if he is occupied in the neighborhood of robber bands." "We cannot come up with him, but we ought to find some news of him along the road," answered Volodyovski. Still it was difficult to get news. The peasants had seen passing squadrons here and there; they had heard of their battles with robbers, but did not know whose squadrons they were,--they might be Rogovski's as well as Skshetuski's; therefore the two friends learned nothing certain. But other news flew to their ears of great disasters to the Cossacks from the Lithuanian armies. It circled around in the form of rumors on the eve of Volodyovski's departure from Warsaw, but it was doubted then; now it flew through the whole country with great detail as an undoubted truth. The defeats inflicted by Hmelnitski on the armies of the Crown the Lithuanian armies had avenged with defeat. Polksenjits, an old leader and experienced, had yielded his head, and the wild Nebaba; and more powerful than both, Krechovski, who raised himself not to starostaships and voevodaships, nor to dignities and offices, but to the empaling stake in the ranks of insurgents. It seemed as if some marvellous Nemesis had wished to take vengeance on him for the German blood spilled on the Dnieper,--the blood of Flick and Werner, since he fell into the hands of a German regiment of Radzivil, and though shot and severely wounded was immediately empaled on a stake, on which the unfortunate quivered a whole day before he breathed out his gloomy soul. Such was the end of him who by his bravery and military skill might have become a second Stephan Hmeletski, but whom an overweening desire of wealth and dignities pushed upon the road of treason, perjury, and awful murders worthy of Krívonos himself. With him, with Polksenjits and Nebaba, nearly twenty thousand Cossacks laid down their heads on the field of battle, or were drowned in the morasses of the Pripet; terror then flew like a whirlwind over the rich Ukraine, for it appeared to all that after the great triumphs--after Jóltiya Vodi, Korsún, Pilavtsi--the hour was coming for such defeats as the former rebellions had experienced at Solonitsa and Kuméiki. Hmelnitski himself, though at the summit of glory, though stronger than ever before, was frightened when he heard of the death of his "friend" Krechovski, and again he began to inquire of wizards about the future. They gave various prophecies,--they foretold great wars, victories, and defeats,--but they could not tell the hetman what would happen to himself. The defeat of Krechovski and with it the winter made a prolonged peace more certain. The country began to heal, devastated villages to be populous, and hope entered slowly, gradually, into all weakened and terrified hearts. With that same hope our two friends after a long and difficult journey arrived safely at Zbaraj, and announcing themselves at the castle, went straightway to the commandant, in whom with no small astonishment they beheld Vershul. "And where is Skshetuski?" asked Zagloba, after the first greetings. "He is not here," answered Vershul. "Then you have command over the garrison?" "Yes. Skshetuski had, but he went out and gave me the garrison till his return." "When did he promise to return?" "He said nothing, for he didn't know himself, but he said at parting: 'If any one comes to me, tell him to wait for me here.'" Zagloba and Volodyovski looked at each other. "How long since he went away?" asked Volodyovski. "Ten days." "Pan Michael," said Zagloba, "let Pan Vershul give us supper, for men give poor counsel on an empty stomach. At supper we can talk." "I serve you with my heart, for I was just about to sit down myself. Besides, Pan Volodyovski, as senior officer, takes command. I am with him, not he with me." "Remain in command, Pan Kryshtof," said Volodyovski, "for you are older in years; besides I shall have to go on without doubt." After a while supper was served. They took their places and ate. When Zagloba had quieted somewhat his first hunger with two plates of broth, he said to Vershul,-- "Can you imagine where Skshetuski has gone?" Vershul ordered the attendant serving at the table to go out, and after a moment's reflection began,-- "I can imagine that for Skshetuski secrecy is important, therefore I did not speak before the servant. Pan Yan has taken advantage of a favorable time, for we are sure of peace till spring, and according to my calculation he has gone to seek the princess, who is in Bogun's hands." "Bogun is no longer in the world," said Zagloba. Zagloba related now for the third or fourth time everything as it was, for he told it always with delight. Vershul, like Pan Longin, could not wonder sufficiently at the event; at last he said,-- "Then it will be easier for Pan Yan." "The question is, Will he find her? Did he take any men?" "No, he went alone, with one Russian, a servant, and three horses." "He acted wisely, for in that region the only help is in stratagem. To Kamenyets he might go with a small squadron perhaps; but in Ushitsi and Mogileff Cossacks are surely stationed, for there are good winter quarters in those places, and in Yampol, where their nest is, it is necessary to go either with a division or alone." "And how do you know that he went specially in that direction?" asked Volodyovski. "Because she is secreted beyond Yampol, and he knows it; but there are ravines, hollows, and reeds there so numerous that even for one knowing the place well, it is difficult to find the way, and what would it be for one not knowing? I used to go for horses to Yagorlik, and to lawsuits. I know all about the place. If we were together, perhaps we could succeed; but for him alone--I have doubts. I have doubts, unless some chance indicates the road to him, for he will not be able to make inquiries." "Then did you wish to go with him?" "Yes. But what shall we do now, Pan Michael? Follow him or not?" "I rely on your prudence." "H'm! He went ten days ago--we cannot come up with him; and besides he asked us to wait here. God knows too what road he took. Maybe through Ploskiroff and Bar along the old highway, and maybe through Kamenyets Podolsk. It is a hard question." "Remember, besides," said Vershul, "that these are only suppositions. You are not sure that he went after the princess." "That's it, that's it!" said Zagloba. "Perhaps he went merely to get informants somewhere, and then return to Zbaraj; for he knows that we were to go with him, and that he might expect us at this time, since it is the most favorable. This is a difficult question to settle." "I should advise you to wait about ten days," said Vershul. "Ten days are nothing; we should either wait or not wait at all." "I think we should not wait; for what shall we lose if we move at once? If Skshetuski does not find the princess, God may favor us," said Volodyovski. "You see, Pan Michael, we must not overlook anything in this case. You are still young and want adventures," said Zagloba; "but here is this danger: if he is looking for her by himself, and we look for her by ourselves, some suspicion will be easily roused in the people there. The Cossacks are cunning, and afraid that some one may find out their plans. They may have a secret understanding with the Pasha of the boundary near Khotím, or with the Tartars beyond the Dniester about a future war,--who knows? They will be watchful of strangers, particularly of strangers inquiring the way. I know them. It is easy to betray yourself, and then what?" "The greater the reason to go. Skshetuski may fall into some difficulty where help would be required." "That is true too." Zagloba fell into such deep thought that his temples quivered; at last he roused himself, and said: "Taking everything into consideration, it will be necessary to go." Volodyovski drew a deep breath with satisfaction. "And when?" "When we have rested about three days, so that body and soul may be fresh." Next day the two friends began to make preparations for the road, when unexpectedly on the eve of their journey Tsiga, a young Cossack, Skshetuski's attendant, arrived with news and letters for Vershul. Hearing of this, Zagloba and Volodyovski hurried to the quarters of the commandant, and read the following:-- "I am in Kamenyets, to which the road through Satanoff is safe. I am going to Yampol with Armenian merchants whom Pan Bukovski found for me. They have Tartar and Cossack passes for a free journey to Akerman. We shall go through Ushitsi, Mogileff, and Yampol with silk stuffs, stopping at all places along the road wherever there are living people. God may aid me in finding what I seek. Tell my comrades, Volodyovski and Zagloba, to wait for me in Zbaraj if they have nothing else to do; for by this road which I travel it would be impossible to go in a larger company by reason of deep distrust in the minds of Cossacks who winter in Yampol on the Dniester as far as Yagorlik, where they keep their horses in the snow. What I cannot do alone we three could not do, and I can pass more readily for an Armenian. Thank them, Pan Kryshtof, from the heart's soul for their resolution, which I shall not forget while I live; but I was not able to wait, since every day was a torment to me, and I could not know whether they would come, and it is the best time now to go when all the merchants are travelling with goods. I send back my trusty attendant whom you will care for, as I have no need of him; but I am afraid of his youth, lest he might say something somewhere. Pan Bukovski vouches for these merchants; says they are honest, and I think they are, believing as I do that everything is in the hands of the high God, who if he wishes will show his mercy to us, and shorten our sufferings." Zagloba finished the letter, and looked at his comrades; but they were silent, till at length Vershul said,-- "I knew he went there." "And what are we to do?" asked Volodyovski. "What?" said Zagloba, opening his arms, "We have nothing to go for. It is well that he is with merchants, for he can look in everywhere, and no one will wonder. In every country-house there is something to be bought, for half the Commonwealth has been plundered. It would be difficult for us, Pan Michael, to go beyond Yampol. Skshetuski is as black as a Wallachian, and can pass easily for an Armenian, but they would know you at once by your little oat-colored mustaches. In peasant disguise it would be equally difficult. There is no use for us there, I must confess, though I am sorry that we shall not put our hands to freeing that poor young lady. But we did a great service to Skshetuski when we killed Bogun; for if he were alive, then I would not guarantee the health of Pan Yan." Volodyovski was very much dissatisfied. He had promised himself a journey full of adventures, and now there was left to him a long and tedious stay at Zbaraj. "We might go as far as Kamenyets." "What should we do there, and on what should we live?" asked Zagloba. "It's all one to what walls we fasten like mushrooms. We must wait and wait, for such a journey may occupy Skshetuski long. While a man moves he is young [here Zagloba dropped his head in melancholy on his breast]; he grows old in inaction, but it is hard. Let him get on without us. To-morrow we will offer a solemn prayer for his success. We killed Bogun; that is the main thing. Give orders to have your horses unpacked, Pan Michael! We must wait." In fact, on the morrow began for the two friends long and dreary days of waiting, to which neither drinking nor dice could lend variety, and they dragged on without end. Meanwhile a severe winter had begun. Snow covered the ramparts of Zbaraj, and the whole land, in a shroud three feet thick. Beasts and wild birds approached the dwellings of men. Day after day came the cawing of crows and ravens, in flocks without number. All December passed; then January and February. Of Skshetuski there was not a sound. Volodyovski went to Tarnopol to seek adventures. Zagloba was gloomy, and insisted that he was growing old. CHAPTER XLIX. The commissioners sent by the Commonwealth to negotiate with Hmelnitski forced their way through the greatest difficulties to Novoselki, and there halted, waiting an answer from the victorious hetman, who was stopping at that time in Chigirin. They were gloomy and depressed; for death had threatened them continually during the whole journey, and difficulties increased at every step. Day and night they were surrounded by crowds of the populace, made wild to the last degree by slaughter and war, and who were howling for the death of the commissioners. From time to time they met bands, commanded by no one, formed of robbers or wild herdsmen, without the least idea of the laws of nations, but hungry for blood and plunder. The commissioners had, it is true, a hundred horse as attendants, led by Pan Bryshovski; besides this, Hmelnitski himself, foreseeing what might meet them, sent Colonel Donyéts, with four hundred Cossacks; but that escort might easily prove inadequate, for the throngs of wild men were increasing in number each hour, and assuming a more threatening attitude. If one of the convoy or the attendants separated, even for a moment, from the company, he perished without a trace. They were like a handful of travellers surrounded by a pack of hungry wolves; and thus passed for them whole days, weeks, till at the stopping-place in Novoselki it appeared to all that their last hour had come. The convoy of dragoons and the escort of Donyéts, from evening on, fought a regular battle for the life of the commissioners, who, repeating the prayers for the dying, committed their souls to God. The Carmelite Lentovski gave them absolution, one after another, while outside the window with the blowing of the wind came terrible shouts, the report of shots, hellish laughter, the clatter of scythes, and shouts of "Death to them!" and demands for the head of the voevoda Kisel, who was the main object of their rage. It was an awful night, and long, for it was a winter night. Kisel rested his head on his hands, and sat motionless for many hours. It was not death that he feared; for since he left Gushchi he was so exhausted, tortured, deprived of sleep, that he would have extended his hands with gladness to death; but endless despair was covering his soul. He as a Russian in blood and bone first took upon himself the rôle of pacifier in that unexampled war; he came forth everywhere, in the Senate and in the Diet, as the most ardent partisan of negotiations; he supported the policy of the chancellor and the primate; he condemned most powerfully Yeremi, and he did this in good faith, for the sake of the Cossacks and the Commonwealth; and he believed, with all his ardent spirit, that negotiations and compromises would smooth everything, would pacify, would unite; and just then, in that moment when he was bringing the baton to Hmelnitski and concessions to the Cossacks, he doubted all. He saw with his own eyes the vanity of his efforts; he saw beneath his feet a vacuum and a precipice. "Do they want nothing but blood, do they care for no other freedom than the freedom of plunder and burning?" thought the voevoda in despair, and he stifled the groans which were tearing asunder his noble breast. "The head of Kisel, the head of Kisel! Death to him!" was the answer of the crowds. And the voevoda would have offered them as a willing gift that white and battered head, were it not for the remnant of his belief that it was necessary to give them and all the Cossacks something more,--rescue was immediately necessary for them and the Commonwealth. Let the future teach them to ask for the something more. And when he thought thus, a certain ray of hope and consolation lighted up for a moment that darkness which despair created in his mind, and the unfortunate old man said to himself that that mob was not the whole body of Cossacks,--not Hmelnitski and his colonels,--with whom negotiations would begin. But can these negotiations be lasting while half a million of peasants stand under arms? Will they not melt at the first breath of spring, like the snows which at that moment covered the steppes? Here again came to the voevoda the words of Yeremi: "Kindness may be shown to the conquered alone." Here again his thoughts fell into darkness, and the precipice yawned beneath his feet. Meantime midnight was passing. The shouting and shots had decreased in some degree; the whistle of the wind rose in their place, the yard was filled with a snowdrift; the wearied crowds had evidently begun to disperse to their houses; hope entered the hearts of the commissioners. Voitsekh Miaskovski, a chamberlain from Lvoff, rose from the bench, listened at the window to the drifting of the snow, and said,-- "It seems to me that with God's favor we shall live till morning." "Perhaps too Hmelnitski will send more assistance, for we shall not reach our journey's end with what we have now," said Pan Smyarovski. Pan Zelenski, the cup-bearer from Bratslav, smiled bitterly: "Who would say that we are peace commissioners?" "I have been an envoy more than once to the Tartars," said the ensign of Novgrodek, "but such a mission as this I have not seen in my life. The Commonwealth endures more contempt in our persons than at Korsún and Pilavtsi. I say, gentlemen, let us return, for there is no use in thinking of negotiations." "Let us return," repeated as an echo Pan Bjozovski, the castellan of Kieff; "there can be no peace; let there be war!" Kisel raised his lids and fixed his glassy eyes on the castellan. "Jóltiya Vodi, Korsún, Pilavtsi!" said he, in hollow tones. He was silent, and after him all were silent. But Pan Kulchinski, the treasurer of Kieff, began to repeat the rosary in an audible voice; and Pan Kjetovski, master of the chase, seized his head with both hands, and repeated,-- "What times, what times! God have mercy upon us!" The door opened, and Bryshovski, captain of the dragoons of the bishop of Poznania, commander of the convoy, entered the room. "Serene voevoda," said he, "some Cossack wants to see the commissioners." "Very well," answered Kisel; "has the crowd dispersed?" "The people have gone away; they promised to return to-morrow." "Did they press on much?" "Terribly, but Donyéts' Cossacks killed a number of them. To-morrow they promise to burn us." "Very well, let that Cossack enter." After a while the door was opened, and a certain tall, black-bearded figure appeared at the threshold of the room. "Who are you?" asked Kisel. "Yan Skshetuski, colonel of hussars of Prince Vishnyevetski, voevoda of Rus." The castellan Bjozovski, Pan Kulchinski, and the master of the chase Pan Kjetovski sprang from their seats. All of them had served the past year under the prince at Makhnovka and Konstantinoff, and knew Skshetuski perfectly. Kjetovski was even related to him. "Is it true, is it true? Is this Pan Skshetuski?" repeated they. "What are you doing here, and how did you reach us?" asked Kjetovski, taking him by the shoulder. "In peasant's disguise, as you see," said Skshetuski. "This," cried Bjozovski to Kisel, "is the foremost knight in the army of the voevoda of Rus; he is famous throughout the whole army." "I greet him with thankful heart," said Kisel, "and I see that he must be a man of great resolution, since he has forced his way to us." Then to Skshetuski he said: "What do you wish of us?" "That you permit me to go with you." "You are crawling into the jaws of the dragon, but if such is your wish we cannot oppose it." Skshetuski bowed in silence. Kisel looked at him with astonishment. The severe face of the young knight, with its expression of dignity and suffering, struck him. "Tell me," said he, "what causes drive you to this hell, to which no one comes of his own accord?" "Misfortune, serene voevoda." "I have made a needless inquiry," said Kisel. "You must have lost some of your relatives for whom you are looking?" "I have." "Was it long since?" "Last spring." "How is that, and you start only now on the search? Why, it is nearly a year! What were you doing in the mean while?" "I was fighting under the voevoda of Rus." "Would not such a true man as he give you leave of absence?" "I did not wish it myself." Kisel looked again at the young knight, and then followed a silence, interrupted by the castellan of Kieff. "The misfortunes of this knight are known to all of us who served with the prince. We shed more than one tear over them, and it is the more praiseworthy on his part that he preferred to serve his country while the war lasted instead of seeking his own good. This is a rare example in these times of corruption." "If it shall appear that my word has any weight with Hmelnitski, then believe me I shall not spare it in your cause," said Kisel. Skshetuski bowed a second time. "Go now and sleep," said the voevoda, kindly; "for you must be wearied in no small degree, like all of us who have not had a moment's rest." "I will take him to my quarters, for he is my relative," said Kjetovski. "Let us all go to rest; who knows whether we shall sleep to-morrow night?" said Bjozovski. "Maybe an eternal sleep," concluded the voevoda. Then he went to the small room, at the door of which his attendant was waiting, and afterward the others separated. Kjetovski took Skshetuski to his quarters, which were some houses distant. His attendant preceded them with a lantern. "What a dark night, and it howls louder every moment," said Kjetovski. "Oh, Pan Yan, what a day we have passed! I thought the last judgment had come. The mob almost put the knife to our throats. Bjozovski's arms grew weak, and we had already begun prayers for the dying." "I was in the crowd," said Skshetuski. "To-morrow evening they expect a new band of robbers to whom they sent word about you. We must leave here absolutely. But are you going to Kieff?" "That depends on the answer of Hmelnitski, to whom Prince Chetvertinski has gone. Here are my quarters; come in, I pray you, Pan Yan! I have ordered some wine to be heated, and we will strengthen ourselves before sleep." They entered the room, in which a big fire was burning in the chimney. Steaming wine was on the table already. Skshetuski seized a glass eagerly. "I've had nothing between my lips since yesterday," said he. "You are terribly emaciated. It is clear that sorrow and toil have been gnawing you. But tell me about yourself, for I know of your affair. You think then of seeking the princess there among them?" "Either her or death," answered the knight. "You will more easily find death. How do you know that she may be there?" "Because I have looked for her elsewhere." "Where?" "Along the Dniester as far as Yagorlik. I went with Armenian merchants, for there were indications that she was secreted there; I went everywhere, and now I am going to Kieff, since Bogun was to take her there." Scarcely had the colonel mentioned the name of Bogun when the master of the chase seized himself by the head. "As God lives!" he cried, "I have not told you the most important of all. I heard that Bogun is killed." Skshetuski grew pale. "How is that? Who told you?" "That noble who saved the princess once, and who showed such bravery at Konstantinoff, told me. I met him when I was going to Zamost. We were passing on the road. I merely inquired for the news, and he answered me that Bogun was killed. I asked: 'Who killed him?' 'I,' said he. Then we parted." The flame which had flashed in the face of Skshetuski was suddenly quenched. "That noble!" said he; "it is impossible to believe him. No, no, he couldn't be in a condition to kill Bogun." "And didn't you see him, Pan Yan, for I remember too that he told me he was going to you at Zamost?" "I did not wait for him at Zamost. He must be now at Zbaraj. I was in a hurry to overtake the commission. I did not return from Kamenyets to Zbaraj, and I did not see him. God alone knows whether even that is true which he told me about her, which he as it were overheard while captive with Bogun,--that Bogun had hidden her beyond Yampol, and then intended to take her to Kieff for marriage. Perhaps this too is untrue, like everything Zagloba said." "Why do you go then to Kieff?" Skshetuski was silent; for a moment nothing was heard but the whistling and howling of the wind. "For," said Kjetovski, placing his finger on his forehead, "if Bogun is not killed, you may fall into his hands with ease." "I go to find him," answered Skshetuski, in a hollow voice. "Why?" "Let God's judgment be passed between us." "But he will not fight with you; he will simply bind you, take your life, or sell you to the Tartars." "I am with the commissioners, in their suite." "God grant that we bring our own lives out of this! What is the use of talking of the suite?" "To whom life is heavy, the earth will be light." "But have the fear of God before you, Yan! It is not a question here of death, for that avoids no man, but they can sell you to the Turkish galleys." "Do you think that would be worse for me than the present?" "I see that you are desperate, and trust not in the mercy of God." "You are mistaken! I say that it is evil for me in the world, because it is; but long ago I was reconciled to the will of God. I do not beg, I do not groan, I do not curse. I do not beat my head against the wall; I merely desire to accomplish that which pertains to me while strength and life remain." "But grief is devouring you like poison." "God gave grief to devour, and he will send the cure when he wishes." "I have no answer to such an argument," said Kjetovski. "In God is the only salvation; in him hope for us and the whole Commonwealth. The king went to Chenstokhova. He may obtain something from the Most Holy Lady; otherwise we shall all perish." Silence followed, and from outside the window came only the constant "Who's there?" of the dragoons. "True, true," said Kjetovski. "We all belong more to the dead than the living. People have forgotten to smile in this Commonwealth; they only groan like that wind in the chimney. I too have believed that happier times would come, till I went on this journey with others; but now I see that that was a barren hope. Ruin, war, hunger, murder, and nothing more,--nothing more." Skshetuski was silent; the blaze of the fire lighted his stern, emaciated face. Finally he raised his head and said with a voice of dignity,-- "That is all temporal, which passes away, vanishes, and leaves nothing behind." "You speak like a monk," said Kjetovski. Skshetuski made no answer; the wind only groaned each moment move sadly in the chimney. CHAPTER L. Next morning early the commissioners left Novoselki, and with them Skshetuski; but that was a tearful journey, in which at every stopping-place, in every village, they were threatened with death, and met with contempt, which was worse than death,--worse specially in this, that the commissioners bore in their own persons the dignity and majesty of the Commonwealth. Pan Kisel grew ill, so that at every lodging-place he was borne from the sleigh to the house. The chamberlain of Lvoff wept over his own disgrace and that of the country. Captain Bryshovski fell ill also from sleeplessness and toil. Pan Yan therefore took his place, and led on farther that hapless suite amidst the pressure of crowds, insults, threats, skirmishes, and battles. At Bélgorod it seemed to the commissioners again that their last hour had come. The crowd had beaten the sick Bryshovski, were killing Pan Gnyazdovski; and only the arrival of the metropolitan for an interview with the voevoda put a stop to the intended slaughter. They did not wish to admit the commissioners into Kieff at all. Prince Chetvertinski returned, February 11, from Hmelnitski without an answer. The commissioners did not know what further to do or where to go. Their return was prevented by immense parties waiting only for the breaking of negotiations to kill the envoys. The mob became more and more insolent; the bridles of the dragoons' horses were seized, and the road stopped; stones, pieces of ice, and frozen lumps of snow were thrown into the sleigh of the voevoda. At Gvozdova, Skshetuski and Donyéts had to fight a bloody battle in which they dispersed several hundred of the mob. The ensign of Novgrodek and Pan Smyarovski went with a new argument to persuade Hmelnitski to come to meet the commissioners at Kieff, but the voevoda had little hope that they would live to reach him. Meanwhile the commissioners in Khvastovo were forced to look with folded arms on the crowds killing prisoners of both sexes and of every age. Some were drowned through holes in the ice, some were drenched with water poured over them in the frost, others stabbed with forks or whittled to death with knives. Eighteen of such days passed before at last the answer came from Hmelnitski that he would not go to Kieff, but was waiting in Pereyasláv for the voevoda and the commissioners. When they had crossed the Dnieper at Trypole and reached Voronkovo in the night, from which place it was only thirty miles to Pereyasláv, the unfortunate commissioners drew a breath of relief, thinking that their torment was over. Hmelnitski went out two miles and a half to meet them, wishing to show honor to the royal embassy, but how changed from those days in which he put himself forward as an injured man,--"quantum mutatus ab illo!" as Kisel justly wrote of him. He rode forth with a suite of horsemen, with his colonels and essauls, with martial music, under the standard, bunchuk, and crimson banner, like a sovereign prince. The commissioners with their retinue halted at once; and Hmelnitski, riding up to the front sleigh, in which sat the voevoda, looked for a while at his venerable face, then raised his cap slightly and said,-- "With the forehead to you, Commissioners of the king, and to you, Voevoda. It had been better to commence treating with me long ago, when I was less and did not know my own power; but because the king has sent you to me, I receive you with thankful heart in my own land." "Greetings to you, Hetman!" answered Kisel. "His Majesty the King has sent us to present his favor and mete out justice." "I am thankful for the favor; but justice I have already meted out with this [and here he struck upon his sabre] on your necks, and I will mete out more of it if you do not give me satisfaction." "You do not greet us very affably, Pan Hetman of the Zaporojians,--us, the envoys of the king." "I will not speak in the cold; there will be a better time for that," replied Hmelnitski, dryly. "Let me into your sleigh, Kisel, for I wish to show you honor and ride with you." Then he dismounted and approached the sleigh. Kisel pushed himself to the right, leaving the left side vacant. Seeing this, Hmelnitski frowned and exclaimed: "Give me the right side!" "I am a senator of the Commonwealth," replied Kisel. "And what is a senator to me? Pan Pototski is the first senator and hetman of the Crown; I have him in fetters with others, and can empale him to-morrow, if I wish." A blush appeared on the pale face of Kisel. "I represent the person of the king here!" said he. Hmelnitski frowned still more, but restrained himself and sat on the left side, muttering: "Granted; he is king in Warsaw, but I am in Russia. I see that I have not trodden enough on your necks." Kisel gave no answer, but raised his eyes to heaven. He had already a foretaste of that which waited him, and he thought justly at that time that if the road to Hmelnitski was a Calvary, to be envoy to him was a passion indeed. The horses moved to the town, in which twenty cannon were thundering and all the bells tolling. Hmelnitski, as if fearing that the commissioners should consider these sounds as given out exclusively in their honor, said to the voevoda,-- "I receive in this manner not only you but other ambassadors who are sent to me." And Hmelnitski spoke the truth, for in fact embassies were sent to him as to a reigning prince. Returning from Zamost under the influence of the election and the defeats inflicted by the Lithuanian forces, the hetman had not one half of this pride in his heart; but when Kieff went forth to meet him with torches and banners, when the academy greeted him "tamquam Moijsem, servatorem, salvatorem, liberatorem, populi de servitute lechica et bono omine Bogdan,--God-given;" when finally he was called "illustrissimus princeps,"--then, according to the words of a contemporary, "the beast was elated." He had a real sense of his power, and felt the ground under his feet, which had been wanting to him hitherto. Foreign embassies were a silent recognition as well of his power as of his separateness; the uninterrupted friendship of the Tartars, purchased by the greater part of the booty gained, and by the ill-fated captives whom that leader of the people permitted to be taken from the people, promised support against every enemy; therefore Hmelnitski, who recognized at Zamost the suzerainty and will of the king, was at that time so settled in pride, convinced of his own power, of the disorder of the Commonwealth, the incompetence of its leaders, that he was ready to raise his hand against the king himself, dreaming in his gloomy soul, not of Cossack freedom nor the restoration of the former privileges of the Zaporojians, not of justice for himself, but of a separate lordship, of a princely crown and sceptre. And he felt himself master of the Ukraine. The Zaporojians clung to him, for never under any man's command had they so wallowed in blood and booty. A people wild by nature rallied to him; for while the peasant of Mazovia or of Great Poland bore without a murmur that burden of power and oppression which in all Europe weighed upon the "descendants of Ham," the man of the Ukraine drew into himself with the air of the steppes a love of freedom as unbounded, wild, and vigorous as the steppes themselves. Could he wish to walk after the plough of a master when his gaze was lost in the fields of God, and not of a master; when beyond the Cataracts the Saitch called to him, "Leave your lord, and come to freedom!" when the stern Tartar taught him war, accustomed his eyes to conflagration and slaughter and his hands to weapons? Was it not pleasanter for him to frolic with Hmelnitski and "slay the lords" than to bend his proud back before a land steward? Besides this, the people rallied to Hmelnitski, for whoever did not went into captivity. In Stamboul a prisoner was exchanged for ten arrows, and three for a bow seasoned by the fire,--such was the number of them! The multitude indeed had no choice; and one song, wonderful for that time, has remained, which long afterward succeeding generations sang of that leader called a Moses,--"Oh, that the first bullet might not miss that Hmelnitski!" Villages, towns, and hamlets disappeared; the country was turned into a desert and a ruin,--a wound which ages were not able to heal. But that leader and hetman did not see this, or did not wish to see it; for he never saw anything by reason of himself, and he grew and fattened on blood and fire. In his own monstrous self-love he was destroying his own people and his own country; and now he brings in those commissioners to Pereyasláv with the thunder of cannon and the tolling of bells, as a separate ruler, as a hospodar, as a prince! The commissioners went into the den of the lion hanging their heads, and the remnant of hope was quenched in them. Meanwhile Skshetuski, riding behind the second rank of sleighs, examined carefully the faces of the colonels who had come with Hmelnitski, to find among them Bogun. After fruitless search on the Dniester to a point beyond Yagorlik, the plan had long since matured in the soul of Pan Yan, as the last and only method, to find Bogun and challenge him to a death-struggle. The unfortunate knight knew, it is true, that in such a venture Bogun might destroy him without a struggle or give him up to the Tartars; but he thought better of Bogun. He was aware of his courage and mad daring, and was almost sure that, having the choice, he would fight for the princess. Therefore he formed the plan to bind Bogun by an oath that in case of his death he would let Helena go. Of himself Skshetuski did not care; and supposing that Bogun would say, "If I die, she is neither for me nor for you," he was ready to agree to this and bind himself by oath, if he could only save her from the hands of the enemy. Let her seek peace in the cloister for the rest of her life. He would seek that peace first in war, and then if death did not come to him, would seek it under the habit, as did all suffering souls in that age. The way seemed to Skshetuski straight and clear; and since at Zamost the idea of a struggle with Bogun had been given, now that his search along the reeds of the Dniester was fruitless, that way seemed the only one. With this purpose he hurried from the Dniester in one journey, resting nowhere, hoping to find Bogun without fail either near Hmelnitski or in Kieff, especially since, according to what Zagloba had said in Yarmolintsi, the chief was to be married in Kieff with three hundred tapers. But Skshetuski sought him in vain among the colonels. He found instead many old acquaintances of peace times,--such as Daidyalo, whom he had seen in Chigirin; Yashevski, who had been an envoy from the Saitch to the Prince; Yarosha, a former sotnik of the prince; Naókolopályets, Grusha, and many others. He determined then to ask them. "We are old acquaintances," said Skshetuski, approaching Yashevski. "I knew you in Lubni; you are one of Prince Yeremi's knights. We drank and frolicked together in Lubni. And what is your prince doing?" "He is well." "In spring he will not be well. He hasn't met Hmelnitski yet; but he will meet him, and will have to go to destruction alone." "As God judges." "God is good to our father Hmelnitski. Your prince will never return to his Tartar bank on the east of the Dnieper. Hmelnitski has many a Cossack, and what has your prince? He is a good soldier. And are you not in his service now?" "I attend the commissioners." "Well, I am glad; you are an old acquaintance." "If you are glad, then do me a service, and I shall be thankful." "What service?" "Tell me where is Bogun, that famous ataman, formerly of the Pereyasláv regiment, who must have a high office among you now." "Silence!" answered Yashevski, threateningly. "It is your luck that we are old acquaintances and that I drank with you, otherwise I should stretch you on the snow with this whirlbat." Skshetuski was astonished; but being a man of ready courage, he squeezed his baton and asked: "Are you mad?" "I am not mad, nor do I wish to threaten you; but there is an order from Hmelnitski that if any of you, even one of the commissioners, should ask a question, to kill him on the spot. If I do not do this, another will; therefore I warn you out of good feeling." "But I ask in my own private affair." "Well, it is all one. Hmelnitski told us, the colonels, and commanded us to tell others: * 'If any one asks, even about wood for the stove, or ashes, kill him.' You tell this to your people." "I thank you for good advice," said Skshetuski. "You are the only one; I have warned you alone. I should be the first to stretch another Pole on the ground." They were silent. The party had already reached the gates of the town. Both sides of the road and the street were swarming with the crowd and armed Cossacks, who out of regard for the presence of Hmelnitski did not dare to scatter curses and lumps of snow at the sleighs, but who looked frowningly at the commissioners, clinching their fists or grasping the hilts of their sabres. Skshetuski, having formed his dragoons four deep, raised his head and rode haughtily and calmly through the broad street, not paying the least attention to the threatening looks of the multitude; in his soul he only thought how much cool blood, self-reliance, and Christian patience would be necessary for him to carry through what he had planned, and not sink at the first step in that sea of hatred. CHAPTER LI. On the following day the commissioners had long consultations among themselves, whether to deliver the gifts of the king to Hmelnitski immediately or to wait till he should show greater obedience and a certain compunction. They decided to win him by kindness and the favor of the king. The delivery of the gifts was decided upon therefore, and on the following day that solemn act was accomplished. From early morning bells were tolled and cannon fired. Hmelnitski waited for them before his residence, in the midst of his colonels, all the officers, and countless throngs of Cossacks and people; for he wished that all should see with what honor the king surrounded him. He took his seat upon a raised place under the standard and bunchuk, wearing a mantle of purple brocade lined with sable, having at his side ambassadors from neighboring peoples. With his hand on his side, and feet resting on a velvet cushion trimmed with gold, he waited for the commissioners. In the throng of the assembled mob from moment to moment there escaped murmurs of gladness and flattery at the sight of that leader in whom this throng, valuing power above all things, saw the embodiment of that power. For only thus the imagination of the people could represent to itself its unconquerable champion,--the crusher of hetmans, dukes, nobles, and Poles in general, who up to his time had been clothed with the charm of invincibility. During that year of battle Hmelnitski had grown old somewhat, but had not bent; his gigantic shoulders always indicated power sufficient to overcome kingdoms or to found new ones; his enormous face, red from the abuse of drink, expressed unbending will, unrestrained pride, and an insolent confidence which gave him victories. Storm and anger were slumbering in the wrinkles of that face, and you could easily know that when they were roused men bent before their terrible breath like woods before a tempest. From his eyes, surrounded by a red border, impatience was shooting that the commissioners did not come quickly enough with the presents, and from his nostrils issued two rows of steam, like two pillars of smoke from the nostrils of Lucifer; and in that mist from his own lungs he sat, purple, gloomy, and proud, flanked by envoys, in the midst of his colonels, having around them a sea of the unclean mob. At last the commissioners' party appeared. In front marched drummers beating their drums, and trumpeters with trumpets at their mouths and swollen cheeks, beating and blowing from the brass long sad sounds, as if at the funeral of the dignity and glory of the Commonwealth. After this orchestra Kjetovski bore the baton on a satin cushion; Kulchinski, treasurer of Kieff, a crimson banner with an eagle and an inscription; and next walked Kisel alone, tall, slender, with a white beard flowing over his breast, with pain on his aristocratic face and unfathomable suffering in his soul. A few steps behind the voevoda the rest of the commissioners dropped in, and the rear was brought up by Bryshovski's dragoons, under command of Pan Yan. Kisel walked slowly; for at that moment he saw clearly that behind the torn tatters of negotiations, from under the pretext of offering the favor and forgiveness of the king, another naked, disgusting truth peered forth, which even the blind could see and the deaf could hear, for it shouted: "Thou, Kisel, art going not to offer favor; thou art going to beg for it, thou art going to buy it with that baton and banner; and thou goest on foot to the feet of that peasant leader, in the name of the whole Commonwealth,--thou a senator, a voevoda!" For this reason the soul was rent in the lord of Brusiloff, and he felt as mean as a worm, as lowly as dust; and in his ears the words of Yeremi were roaring: "Better for us not to live, than to live in captivity under peasants and trash." And what was he, Kisel, in comparison with that prince of Lubni, who never showed himself to rebellion, except like Jupiter with frowning brow, in the smell of sulphur, the flame of war, and the smoke of powder,--what was he? Under the weight of these thoughts the heart of the voevoda was breaking, the smile had left his face, and joy his heart forever, and he felt that he would rather a hundred times die than take another step; but he went on, for his whole past pushed him forward,--all his labors, all his efforts, all the inexorable logic of his previous acts. Hmelnitski waited for him with hand on his side, with pouting lips and frowning brow. The party approached at last. Kisel, moving to the front, made a few steps in advance toward the elevation. The drummers stopped drumming, the trumpeters blowing, and deep silence followed in the multitude. Only the frosty wind waved the crimson banner borne by Pan Kulchinski. Suddenly the silence was broken by a certain curt, emphatic, and commanding voice, which sounded with the unspeakable power of desperation resembling nothing and no man: "Dragoons to the rear! follow me!" That was the voice of Pan Yan. All heads were turned toward him. Hmelnitski himself rose somewhat in his seat to see what was taking place. The blood of the commissioners rushed to their faces. Skshetuski stood in his stirrups; erect, pale, with flashing eyes, naked sabre in his hand, half turned to the dragoons, he repeated again the thundering command: "Follow me!" Amidst the silence the hoofs of the horses clattered along the smooth surface of the street. The disciplined dragoons turned their horses on the spot; the colonel placed himself at their head, gave the sign with his sword; the whole party moved slowly back to the residence of the commissioners. Astonishment and uncertainty were depicted on all faces, not excepting that of Hmelnitski; for in the voice and motions of the colonel there was something unusual. Still no one knew clearly whether that sudden disappearance of the escort did not belong to the ceremonial of the occasion. Kisel alone understood that the treaty and the lives of the commissioners together with the escort hung on a thread at that moment; therefore he stood on the elevation, and before Hmelnitski had time to take in what had happened, began to speak. First he offered the favor of the king to Hmelnitski and the whole Zaporojie. But suddenly his speech was interrupted by a new occurrence, which had only this good side, that it turned attention entirely from the previous one. Daidyalo, an old colonel, standing near Hmelnitski, began to shake his baton before the voevoda, to gesticulate and cry,-- "What do you say there, Kisel? The king is king, but you kinglets, princes, nobles, have involved everything. And you, Kisel, bone of our bone, you have gone away from us, and stand with the Poles. We have enough of your talk, for we will get what we want with the sabre." The voevoda looked with offended feeling into the eyes of Hmelnitski. "Is this the discipline in which you keep your colonels?" "Be silent, Daidyalo!" cried the hetman. "Be silent, be silent! You are drunk, though it is early," repeated the other colonels. "Go away, or we will pull you out by the head!" Daidyalo wanted to clamor more, but they took him by the shoulders and put him outside the circle. The voevoda continued with smooth and chosen words, showing Hmelnitski how great were the gifts which he was receiving; for he had the sign of lawful power, which hitherto he had exercised only as a usurper. The king, being able to chastise, had preferred to forgive him, which he did on account of the obedience which he had shown at Zamost, and because his previous acts were committed not during his reign. It was proper therefore that he, Hmelnitski, having offended so much before, should prove thankful now for favor and clemency,--should stop the shedding of blood, pacify the peasants, and proceed to a treaty with the commissioners. Hmelnitski received the baton in silence, and the banner, which he ordered to be unfurled above his head. The mob, at sight of this, began to howl with joyous voices, so that for a time nothing could be heard. Certain satisfaction was reflected on the face of the hetman, who, after he had waited awhile, said,-- "For such great favor shown me by his Majesty the King through you in sending me command over the forces, and overlooking my previous acts, I give humble thanks. I have always said that the king was with me against you faithless dukes and kinglets; and the best proof is that he sends me satisfaction because I have cut your necks, and will further cut them if you will not obey me and the king in everything." Hmelnitski spoke the last words in a loud voice, in a railing tone, and wrinkled his brows as if anger had begun to rise in him. The commissioners grew rigid at such an unexpected turn in his answer; but Kisel said,-- "The king, mighty hetman, commands you to stop the shedding of blood, and to begin a treaty with us." "Blood is not shed by me, but by the Lithuanian forces," answered the hetman, harshly; "for I have intelligence that Radzivil has destroyed my Mozir and Turoff. Should this prove true, then I have enough of your prisoners,--distinguished prisoners,--and I will have their heads cut off at once. I will not proceed to a treaty now. It is difficult to begin at present, for the army is not assembled; there is only a handful of colonels here, the rest being in winter quarters. I cannot begin without them. Besides, what's the use of talking long in the frost? What you had to give me you have given, and all men now see that I am hetman from the hand of the king; and now come to me for a glass of gorailka and dinner, for I am hungry." Having said this, Hmelnitski moved toward his residence, and after him the commissioners and colonels. In the great central room stood a table ready, bending under plundered silver, among which the voevoda, Kisel, might have found some of his own, taken the past year in Gushchi. On the table were piled up mountains of pork, beef, and Tartar pilav; throughout the whole room was an odor of millet vudka, served in silver goblets. Hmelnitski took his place, with Kisel at his right and Bjozovski at his left, and with his hand to the gorailka, said,-- "They say in Warsaw that I drink Polish blood, but I prefer gorailka, leaving the other to the dogs." The colonels burst into laughter, from which the walls of the room trembled. Such an "appetizer" did the hetman give the commissioners before their dinner; and the commissioners gulped it without a word, in order, as the chamberlain of Lvoff wrote, "not to anger the beast." But perspiration in heavy drops covered the pale forehead of Kisel. The entertainment commenced. The colonels took pieces of meat from the platters with their hands, the hetman himself placed pieces on the plates of Kisel and Bjozovski; and the first of the dinner passed in silence, for every one was satisfying his hunger. In the silence could be heard only the crunching of bones under the teeth of the company or the gurgling of the drinkers. At times some one threw out a word which remained without echo till Hmelnitski, who had first satisfied himself somewhat, and emptied a number of glasses of millet vudka, turned suddenly to the voevoda, and asked,-- "Who was the leader of your company?" Disquiet was reflected on Kisel's face. "Skshetuski, an honorable knight." "I know him," said Hmelnitski; "and why did he not wish to be present when you delivered the gifts to me?" "He was not associated with us for assistance, but for safety, and he had an order to that effect." "And who gave him that order?" "I," answered the voevoda; "for I did not think that it was proper, at the delivery of the gifts, that dragoons should be standing over the necks of you and me." "I had another opinion, for I know that soldier is stubborn." Here Yashevski mixed in the conversation. "We don't care for the dragoons," said he. "We used to think Poles powerful through them; but we discovered at Pilavtsi that they are not the Poles of other days, who beat the Turks, Tartars, and Germans." "Not Zamoiskis, Jolkyevskis, Khodkyevichi, Hmelyetskis, and Konyetspolskis," interrupted Hmelnitski, "but Chorzovskis and Zaiontchkovskis,--big fellows, wrapped in iron; and they were dying of terror as soon as they saw us, and ran off, though there were only three thousand Tartars in the place." The commissioners were silent, but the eating and drinking seemed to them more and more bitter each moment. "I beg you humbly to drink and eat," said Hmelnitski, "or I shall think that our simple Cossack fare cannot pass your lordly throats." "Oh, if they are too narrow we can slit them open a little," said Daidyalo. The Cossacks, feeling encouraged, burst into laughter; but Hmelnitski looked threateningly at them, and they grew silent again. Kisel, who had been ill several days, was pale as a sheet. Bjozovski was so red that it seemed as though the blood would burst through his face. At last he could restrain himself no longer, and shouted,-- "Have we come here to dine or to be insulted?" To this Hmelnitski answered: "You have come for a treaty; but meanwhile the Lithuanian forces are burning and slaughtering. I hear they have destroyed Mozir and Turoff; should this prove true, I shall order four hundred captives to be beheaded in your presence." Bjozovski restrained his blood, boiling the moment before. It was true! The lives of the captives depended on the humor of the hetman,--on one twinkle of his eye; therefore it was necessary to endure everything, and besides to calm his outbursts, to bring him "ad mitiorem et saniorem mentem." In this spirit the Carmelite Lentovski, by nature mild and timid, said in a quiet voice,-- "May the God of mercy grant that the news from Lithuania about Mozir and Turoff may be changed!" But scarcely had he finished when Fedor Veshnyak, the colonel of Cherkasi, bent toward him and struck with his baton, wishing to hit the Carmelite on the neck. Fortunately he did not reach him, since there were four men between them; but immediately he cried out,-- "Wordy priest! it is not your affair to give the lie to me. But come outdoors, and I will show you how to respect Zaporojian colonels!" Others, however, hurried to quiet him; but not succeeding, they put him out of the room. "When, mighty hetman, do you wish that the commissioners should meet?" asked Kisel, wishing to give another turn to the conversation. Unfortunately Hmelnitski was no longer sober, therefore he gave a quick and biting answer,-- "To-morrow will be business and discussion, for now I am in drink. Why do you talk now of commissions; you do not give me time to eat and drink. I have enough of this already! Now there must be war!" And he thumped the table till the dishes and cups jumped. "In those four weeks I'll turn you all feet upward and trample you, and sell the remnant to the Turkish Tsar. The king will be king, so as to execute nobles, dukes, princes. If a prince offends, cut off his head; if a Cossack offends, cut off his head! You threaten me with the Swedes, but they cannot stand before me. Tugai Bey is near me, my brother, my soul; the only falcon in the world, he is ready at once to do everything that I wish." Here Hmelnitski, with the rapidity peculiar to drunken men, passed from anger to tenderness, till his voice trembled from emotion. "You wish me to raise my sabre against the Turks and Tartars, but in vain. I'll go against you with my good friends. I have sent my regiments around so as to provender the horses and to be ready for the road, without wagons, without cannon. I shall find all those among the Poles. I will order any Cossack to be beheaded who takes a wagon, and I will take no carriage myself, nothing but packs and bags; in this fashion I will go to the Vistula and say: 'Poles, sit still and be quiet!' And if you say anything beyond the Vistula, then I'll find you there. We have had enough of your lordship and your dragoons, you cursed reptiles living by injustice itself!" Here he sprang from his seat, pulled his hair, stamped with his feet, crying that there must be war, for he had already received absolution and a blessing for it; he had nothing to do with commissions and commissioners, he would not allow a suspension of arms. Seeing at length the terror of the commissioners, and recollecting that if they went away at once, war would begin in the winter, consequently at a time when the Cossacks, not being able to entrench themselves, fought badly in the open field, he calmed down a little and again sat on the bench, dropped his head on his breast, rested his hands on his knees, and breathed hoarsely. Finally he took a glass of vudka. "To the health of the king!" cried he. "To his glory and health!" repeated the colonels. "Now, Kisel, don't be gloomy," said the hetman, "and don't take to heart what I say, for I've been drinking. Fortune-tellers inform me that there must be war, but I'll wait till next grass. Let there be a commission then; I will free the captives at that time. They tell me that you are ill, so let this be to your health!" Again Hmelnitski dropped into momentary tenderness, and resting his hand on the shoulder of the voevoda brought his enormous red face to the pale, emaciated cheeks of Kisel. After him came other colonels, and approaching the commissioners with familiarity shook their hands, clapped them on the shoulders, repeated after the hetman: "Till next grass." The commissioners were in torment. The peasant breaths, filled with the odor of gorailka, came upon the faces of those nobles of high birth, for whom the pressure of those sweating hands was as unendurable as an affront. Threatenings also were not lacking among the expressions of vulgar cordiality. Some cried to the voevoda: "We want to kill Poles, but you are our man!" Others said: "Well, in times past, you killed our people, now you ask favors! Destruction to you!" "You white hands!" cried Ataman Vovk, formerly miller in Nestervar, "I slew my landlord. Prince Chertvertinski." "Give us Yeremi," said Yashevski, rolling along, "and we will let you off!" It became stifling in the room and hot beyond endurance. The table covered with remnants of meat, fragments of bread, stained with vudka and mead, was disgusting. At last the fortune-tellers came in,--conjurers with whom the hetman usually drank till late at night, listening to their predictions,--strange forms, old, bent, yellow, or in the vigor of youth, soothsaying from wax, grains of wheat, fire, water, foam, from the bottom of a flask or from human fat. Among the colonels and the youngest of them there was frolicking and laughing. Kisel came near fainting. "We thank you, Hetman, for the feast, and we bid you good-by," said he, with a weak voice. "Kisel, I will come to you to-morrow to dine," answered Hmelnitski, "and now return home. Donyéts with his men will attend you, so that nothing may happen to you from the crowd." The commissioners bowed and went out. Donyéts with the Cossacks was waiting at the door. "O God! O God! O God!" whispered Kisel, quietly, raising his hands to his face. The party moved in silence to the quarters of the commissioners. But it appeared that they were not to stop near one another. Hmelnitski had assigned them purposely quarters in different parts of the town, so that they could not meet and counsel easily. Kisel, suffering, exhausted, barely able to stand, went to bed immediately, and permitted no one to see him till the following day; then before noon he ordered Pan Yan to be called. "Have you acted wisely?" asked he. "What have you done? You might have exposed our lives and your own to destruction." "Serene voevoda, mea culpa! but delirium carried me away, and I preferred to perish a hundred times rather than behold such things." "Hmelnitski saw the slight put on him, and I was barely able to pacify the wild beast and explain your act. He will be with me to-day, and will undoubtedly ask for you. Then tell him that you had an order from me to lead away the soldiers." "From to-day forth Bjozovski takes the command, for he is well." "That is better; you are too stubborn for these times. It is difficult to blame you for anything in this act except lack of caution; but it is evident that you are young and cannot bear the pain that is in your breast." "I am accustomed to pain, serene voevoda, but I cannot endure disgrace." Kisel groaned quietly, just like an invalid when touched on the sore spot. Then he smiled with a gloomy resignation, and said,-- "Such words are daily bread for me, which for a long time I eat moistened with bitter tears; but now the tears have failed me." Pity rose in Skshetuski's heart at the sight of this old man with his martyr's face, who was passing the last days of his life in double suffering, for it was a suffering both of the mind and the body. "Serene voevoda," said he, "God is my witness that I was thinking only of these fearful times when senators and dignitaries of the Crown are obliged to bow down before the rabble, for whom the empaling stake should be the only return for their deeds." "God bless you, for you are young and honest. I know that you have no evil intention. But that which you say your prince says, and with him the army, the nobles, the Diets, half the Commonwealth; and all that burden of scorn and hatred falls upon me." "Each serves the country as he understands, and let God judge intentions. As to Prince Yeremi, he serves the country with his health and his property." "Applause surrounds him, and he walks in it as in the sunlight," answered the voevoda. "And what comes to me? Oh, you have spoken justly! Let God judge intentions, and may he give even a quiet grave to those who in life suffer beyond measure." Skshetuski was silent, and Kisel raised his eyes in mute prayer. After a while he began to speak,-- "I am a Russian, blood and bone. The tomb of the Princes Sviatoldovichi lies in this land; therefore I have loved it and that people of God whom it nourishes at its breast. I have witnessed injuries committed by both sides; I have seen the license of the wild Zaporojians, but also the unendurable insolence of those who tried to enslave that warlike people. What was I to do,--I, a Russian, and at the same time a true son and senator of this Commonwealth? I joined myself to those who said 'Pax vobiscum!' because my blood and my heart so enjoined; and among the men whom I joined were our father, the late king, the chancellor, the primate, and many others. I saw that for both sides dissension was destruction; I desired all my life to my last breath to labor for concord; and when blood was already shed I thought to myself, 'I will be an angel of union.' I continued to labor, and I labor still, though in pain, torment, and disgrace, and in doubt almost more terrible than all. As God is dear to me, I know not now whether your prince came too early with his sword or I too late with the olive branch; but this I see, that my work is breaking, that strength is wanting, that in vain I knock my gray head against the wall, and going down to the grave I see only darkness before me, and destruction,--O God! destruction on every side." "God will send salvation." "May he send a ray of it before my death, that I die not in despair!--this in return for all my sufferings. I will thank him for the cross which I carry during life,--thank him because the mob cry for my head, because they call me a traitor at the Diets, because my property is plundered, and for the disgrace in which I live,--for all the bitter reward which I have received from both sides." When he had finished speaking, the voevoda extended his dry hands toward heaven; and two great tears, perhaps the very last in his life, flowed out of his eyes. Pan Yan could restrain himself no longer, but falling on his knees before the voevoda, seized his hand, and said in a voice broken by great emotion,-- "I am a soldier, and move on another path; but I give honor to merit and suffering." And the noble and knight from the regiment of Yeremi pressed to his lips the hand of that Russian who some months before he with others had called a traitor. Kisel placed both hands on Skshetuski's head. "My son," said he in a low voice, "may God comfort, guide, and bless you, as I bless you." The vicious circle of negotiations began from that very day. Hmelnitski came rather late to the voevoda's dinner, and in the worst temper. He declared immediately that what he had said yesterday about suspension of arms, a commission at Whitsuntide, and the liberation of prisoners he said while drunk, and that he now saw an intention to deceive him. Kisel calmed him again, pacified him, gave reasons; but these speeches were, according to the words of the chamberlain of Lvoff, "surdo tyranno fabula dicta." The hetman began then with such rudeness that the commissioners were sorry not to have the Hmelnitski of yesterday. He struck Pan Pozovski with his baton, only because he had appeared before him out of season, in spite of the fact that Pozovski was nearly dead already from serious illness. Neither courtesy and good-will nor the persuasions of the voevoda were of use. When he had become somewhat excited by gorailka and the choice mead of Gushchi, he fell into better humor, but then he would not on any account let himself speak of public affairs, saying, "If we are to drink, let us drink,--to-morrow business and discussion,--if not, I'll be off with myself." About three o'clock in the morning he insisted on going to the sleeping-room of the voevoda, which the latter opposed under various pretexts; for he had shut in Skshetuski there on purpose, fearing that at the meeting of this stubborn soldier with Hmelnitski something disagreeable might happen which would be the destruction of the colonel. But Hmelnitski insisted and went, followed by Kisel. What was the astonishment of the voevoda when the hetman, seeing the knight, nodded to him, and cried,-- "Skshetuski, why were you not drinking with us?" And he stretched out his hand to him in a friendly manner. "Because I am sick," replied the colonel, bowing. "You went away yesterday. The pleasure was nothing to me without you." "Such was the order he had," put in Kisel. "Don't tell me that, Voevoda. I know him, and I know that he did not want to see you giving me honor. Oh, he is a bird! But what would not be forgiven another is forgiven him, for I like him, and he is my dear friend." Kisel opened wide his eyes in astonishment. The hetman turned to Pan Yan. "Do you know why I like you?" Skshetuski shook his head. "You think it is because you cut the lariat at Omelnik when I was a man of small note and they hunted me like a wild beast. No, it is not that. I gave you a ring then with dust from the grave of Christ. Horned soul! you did not show me that ring when you were in my hands; but I set you at liberty anyhow, and we were even. That's not why I like you now. You rendered me another service, for which you are my dear friend, and for which I owe you thanks." Pan Yan looked with astonishment at Hmelnitski. "See how he wonders!" said the hetman, as if speaking to some fourth person. "Well, I will bring to your mind what they told me in Chigirin when I came there from Bazaluk with Tugai Bey. I inquired everywhere for my enemy, Chaplinski, whom I did not find; but they told me what you did to him after our first meeting,--that you grabbed him by the hair and trousers, beat the door open with him, drew blood from him as from a dog." "I did in fact do that," said Skshetuski. "You did splendidly, you acted well. But I'll reach him yet, or treaties and commissions are in vain,--I'll reach him yet, and play with him in my own fashion; but you gave him pepper." The hetman now turned to Kisel, and began to tell how it was: "He caught him by the hair and trousers, lifted him like a fox, opened the door with him, and hurled him into the street." Here he laughed till the echo resounded in the side-room and reached the drawing-room. "Voevoda, give orders to bring mead, for I must drink to the health of this knight, my friend." Kisel opened the door, and called to the attendant, who immediately brought three goblets of the mead of Gushchi. Hmelnitski touched goblets with the voevoda and Pan Yan, and drank so that his head was warmed, his face smiled, great pleasure entered his heart, and turning to the colonel he said: "Ask of me what you like." A flush came on the pale face of Skshetuski; a moment of silence followed. "Don't fear!" said Hmelnitski; "a word is not smoke. Ask for what you like, provided you ask for nothing belonging to Kisel." The hetman even drunk was always himself. "If I may use the affection which you have for me, then I ask justice from you. One of your colonels has done me an injury." "Off with his head!" said Hmelnitski, with an outburst. "It is not a question of that; only order him to fight a duel with me." "Off with his head!" cried the hetman. "Who is he?" "Bogun." Hmelnitski began to blink; then he struck his forehead with his palm. "Bogun? Bogun is killed. The king wrote me that he was slain in a duel." Pan Yan was astonished. Zagloba had told the truth. "What did Bogun do to you?" asked Hmelnitski. A still deeper flush came on the colonel's face. He feared to mention the princess before the half-drunk hetman, lest he might hear some unpardonable word. Kisel rescued him. "It is an important affair," said he, "of which Bjozovski the castellan has told me. Bogun carried off the betrothed of this cavalier and secreted her, it is unknown where." "But have you looked for her?" asked Hmelnitski. "I have looked for her on the Dniester, for he secreted her there, but did not find her. I heard, however, that he intended to take her to Kieff, where he wished to come himself to marry her. Give me, O Hetman, the right to go to Kieff and search for her there. I ask for nothing more." "You are my friend; you battered Chaplinski. I'll give you not only the right to go and seek her wherever you like, but I will issue an order that whoever has her in keeping shall deliver her to you; and I'll give you a baton as a pass, and a letter to the metropolitan to look for her among the nuns. My word is not smoke!" He opened the door and called to Vygovski to come and write an order and a letter. Chernota was obliged, though it was after three o'clock, to go for the seal. Daidyalo brought the baton, and Donyéts received the order to conduct Skshetuski with two hundred horse to Kieff, and farther to the first Polish outposts. Next day Skshetuski left Pereyasláv. CHAPTER LII. If Zagloba was bored at Zbaraj, no less bored was Volodyovski, who was longing especially for war and its adventures. They went out, it is true, from time to time with the squadron in pursuit of plundering parties who were burning and slaying on the Zbruch; but that was a small war, principally work for scouts, difficult because of the cold winter and frosts, yielding much toil and little glory. For these reasons Pan Michael urged Zagloba every day to go to the assistance of Skshetuski, from whom they had had no tidings for a long time. "He must have fallen into some fatal trap and may have lost his life," said Volodyovski. "We must surely go, even if we have to perish with him." Zagloba did not offer much opposition, for he thought they had stayed too long in Zbaraj, and wondered why mushrooms were not growing on them already. But he delayed, hoping that news might come from Skshetuski any moment. "He is brave and prudent," answered he to the importunities of Volodyovski. "We will wait a couple of days yet; perhaps a letter will come and render our whole expedition useless." Volodyovski recognized the justice of the argument and armed himself with patience, though time dragged on more and more slowly. At the end of December frost had stopped even robbery, and there was peace in the neighborhood. The only entertainment was in public news, which came thick and fast to the gray walls of Zbaraj. They spoke about the coronation and the Diet, and about the question whether Prince Yeremi would receive the baton which belonged to him before all other warriors. They were terribly excited against those who affirmed that in view of the turn in favor of a treaty with Hmelnitski, Kisel alone could gain advancement. Volodyovski had several duels on this point, and Zagloba several drinking-bouts; and there was danger of the latter's becoming a confirmed drunkard, for not only did he keep company with officers and nobles, but he was not ashamed to go even among townspeople to christenings and weddings, praising especially their mead, for which Zbaraj was famous. Volodyovski reproved him for this, saying that familiarity with people of low degree was not befitting a noble, since regard for a whole order would be diminished thereby; but Zagloba answered that the laws were to blame for that, because they permit townspeople to grow up in luxury and to come to wealth, which should be the portion of nobles alone; he prophesied that no good could come of such great privileges for insignificant people. It was difficult indeed to blame him in a period of gloomy winter days amidst uncertainty, weariness, and waiting. Gradually Vishnyevetski's regiments began to assemble in greater and greater numbers at Zbaraj, from which fact war in the spring was prophesied. Meanwhile people became more lively. Among others came the hussar squadron of Pan Yan, with Podbipienta. He brought tidings of the disfavor in which the prince was at court, and of the death of Pan Yanush Tishkyevich, the voevoda of Kieff, whom, according to general report, Kisel was to succeed, and finally of the serious illness with which Pan Lashch was stricken down in Cracow. As to war, Podbipienta heard from the prince himself that only by force of events and necessity would it come, for the commissioners had gone with instructions to make every concession possible to the Cossacks. This account of Podbipienta's was received by the prince's knights with rage; and Zagloba proposed to make a protest and form a confederation, for he said he did not wish his labor at Konstantinoff to go for nothing. All February passed with these tidings and uncertainties, and the middle of March was approaching; but from Skshetuski there was no word. Volodyovski began to insist all the more on their expedition. "We have to seek now not for the princess," said he, "but for Pan Yan." It was soon shown that Zagloba was right in delaying the expedition from day to day, for at the end of March the Cossack Zakhar came with a letter from Kieff addressed to Volodyovski. Pan Michael summoned Zagloba at once, and when they had closeted themselves with the messenger in a room apart, he broke the seal and read the following:-- I discovered no trace on the Dniester as far as Yagorlik. Supposing that she must be hidden in Kieff, I joined the commissioners, with whom I went to Pereyasláv. Obtaining there the hoped for consent from Hmelnitski, I arrived at Kieff, and am making a search for her everywhere, in which the metropolitan assists me. Many of our people are hidden in private houses and in monasteries, but fearing the mob, they do not declare themselves; therefore search is difficult. God not only guided and protected me, but inspired Hmelnitski with an affection for me; wherefore I hope that He will assist me and have mercy on me for the future. I beg the priest Mukhovetski for a solemn Mass, at which you will pray for my intention. Skshetuski. "Praise be to God the Eternal!" cried Volodyovski. "There is a postscript yet," said Zagloba. "True!" answered the little knight; and he read further:-- "The bearer of this letter, the essaul of the Mirgorod kuren, had me in his honest care when I was at the Saitch and in captivity, and now he has aided me in Kieff and has undertaken to deliver this letter with risk to his life. Have him in your care, Michael, so that nothing may be wanting to him." "'You are an honest Cossack; there is at least one such!" said Zagloba, giving his hand to Zakhar. The old man pressed it with dignity. "You may be sure of reward," interjected the little knight. "He is a falcon," said the Cossack; "I like him. I did not come here for money." "I see you are not lacking in a spirit which no noble would be ashamed of," said Zagloba. "They are not all beasts among you,--not all beasts. But no more of this! Then Pan Skshetuski is in Kieff?" "He is." "And in safety, for I hear that the mob is revelling?" "He stops with Colonel Donyéts. They will do nothing to him, for our father Hmelnitski ordered Donyéts to guard him at the peril of his life as the eye in his head." "Real wonders take place! How did Hmelnitski get such a liking for Pan Yan?" "Oh, he has liked him a long time!" "Did Pan Skshetuski tell you what he was looking for in Kieff?" "Why shouldn't he tell me when he knows that I am his friend? I searched with him and searched by myself; so he had to tell me what he was looking for." "But so far you haven't found her?" "We have not. Whatever Poles are there yet are hiding, one does not know of the other, so that it is not easy to find any one. You heard that the mob kill people, but I have seen it; they kill not only Poles, but those who hide them, even monks and nuns. In the monastery of Nikolai the Good there were twelve Polish women with the nuns; they suffocated them in the cells together with the nuns. Every couple of days a shout is raised on the street, and people are hunted and dragged to the Dnieper. Oh, how many have been drowned already!" "Perhaps they have killed the princess too?" "Perhaps they have." "No," interrupted Volodyovski; "if Bogun took her there, he must have made it safe for her." "Where is it safer than in a monastery? But for all that they kill people there." "Uf!" said Zagloba. "So you think, Zakhar, that she might have perished?" "I don't know." "It is evident that Skshetuski is in good heart," said Zagloba. "God has visited him, but he comforts him. And is it long since you left Kieff, Zakhar?" "Oh, long! I left Kieff when the commissioners were passing there on their return. Many Poles wished to escape with them, and did escape, the unfortunates! As each one was able, over the snow, over pathless tracts, through forests, they hurried to Belogrodki; but the Cossacks pursued and beat them. Many fled, many were killed, and some Pan Kisel ransomed with what money he had." "Oh, the dog-souls! And so you came out with the commissioners?" "With the commissioners to Gushchi, and from there to Ostrog; farther I came alone." "Then you are an old acquaintance of Pan Skshetuski?" "I made his acquaintance in the Saitch, nursed him when he was wounded, and then I learned to like him as if he were my own child. I am old, and have nobody to love." Zagloba called to the servant, gave orders to bring in mead and meat, and they sat down to supper. Zakhar ate heartily, for he was road-weary and hungry; then he sank his gray mustaches eagerly in the dark liquid, drank, smacked his lips, and said: "Splendid mead!" "Better than the blood which you folks drink," said Zagloba. "But I think that you are an honest man, and loving Pan Skshetuski, will not go any more to the rebellion, but remain with us. It will be good for you here." Zakhar raised his head. "I delivered the letter, now I'll go back. I am a Cossack. It is for me to be a brother with the Cossacks, not with the Poles." "And will you beat us?" "I will. I am a Cossack of the Saitch. We elected Hmelnitski hetman, and now the king has sent him the baton and the banner." "There it is for you, Pan Michael! Have not I advised a protest? And from what kuren are you?" "From the Mirgorod; but it is no longer in existence." "What has happened to it?" "The hussars of Pan Charnetski at Jóltiya Vodi cut it to pieces. I am under Donyéts now, with those who survived. Pan Charnetski is a real soldier; he is with us in captivity, and the commissioners have interceded for him." "We have your prisoners too." "That must be so. In Kieff they say that our best hero is a captive with the Poles, though some say he is dead." "Who is that?" "Oh, the famous ataman, Bogun." "Bogun was killed in a duel." "But who killed him?" "That knight there," said Zagloba, pointing proudly to Volodyovski. The eyes of Zakhar, who at that moment had raised the second quart of mead, stared, his face grew purple, and at last he snorted the liquid through his nostrils as he laughed. "That knight killed Bogun?" he asked, coughing violently from laughter. "What's the matter with the old devil?" asked Volodyovski, frowning. "This messenger takes too much liberty on himself." "Be not angry, Pan Michael!" interrupted Zagloba. "He is clearly an honest man, and if a stranger to politeness it is because he is a Cossack. On the other hand, it is the greater praise for you that though you are so paltry in appearance you have wrought such mighty deeds in your time. Your body is insignificant, but your soul is great. I myself, as you remember, when looking at you after the duel, though I saw the struggle with my own eyes, could not believe that such a whipper-snapper--" "Oh, let us have peace!" blurted out Volodyovski. "I am not your father, so don't be angry with me. But I tell you this; I should like to have a son like you, and if you wish, I will adopt you and convey all my property to you; for it is no shame to be great in a small body. The prince is not much larger than you, and Alexander the Great would not deserve to be his armor-bearer." "What makes me angry," said Volodyovski, somewhat mollified, "is specially this, that nothing favorable to Skshetuski is evident from this letter. He did not lay down his head on the Dniester, God be thanked for that; but he has not found the princess yet, and what surety is there that he will find her?" "True. But if God through us has freed him from Bogun, and has conducted him through so many dangers, through so many snares, if he has inspired even the stony heart of Hmelnitski with a wonderful affection for him, you have no reason to dry up from torment and sorrow into smoked bacon. If you do not see in all this the hand of Providence, it is clear that your wit is duller than your sabre,--a reasonable arrangement enough, since no man can have all gifts at once." "I see one thing," answered Volodyovski, moving his mustaches,--"that we have nothing to do here, and still we must stay here till we wither up altogether." "I shall wither up sooner than you, for I am older, and you know that turnips wither and salt meat grows bitter from age. Let us rather thank God for promising a happy end to all our troubles. Not a little have I grieved for the princess,--more indeed than you have, and little less than Skshetuski,--for she is my dear daughter, and it is true that I might not love my own so much. They say indeed that she is as much like me as one cup is like another; but I love her besides that, and you would not see me either happy or at peace if I did not hope that her trouble would soon come to an end. To-morrow I shall write a wedding-hymn; for I write very beautiful verses, though in recent times I have neglected Apollo somewhat for Mars." "What is the use in thinking of Mars now! May the hangman take that Kisel and all the commissioners and their treaties! They will make peace in the spring as true as two and two are four. Pan Podbipienta, who saw the prince, says so too." "Podbipienta knows as much of public affairs as a goat does of pepper. While at the court his mind was more on that tufted lark than anything else, and he pushed up to her as a dog to a partridge. God grant that some one else may get her from him! But enough of this! I do not deny that Kisel is a traitor,--all the Commonwealth knows that; but as to treaties,--well, grandmother talks both ways." Here Zagloba turned to the Cossack. "And what, Zakhar, do they say among your folks? Will there be peace or war?" "There will be peace till next grass, and after that there will be destruction either to us or to the Poles." "Comfort yourself, Pan Michael. I have heard too that the mob are arming everywhere." "There will be such a war as has not been," said Zakhar. "Our people say that the Sultan of Turkey will come and the Khan of all the hordes. Our friend Tugai Bey is near, hasn't returned home at all." "Console yourself, Pan Michael," repeated Zagloba. "There is a prophecy too about the new king, that his whole reign will be passed under arms. It is most likely that the sabre will not be sheathed for a long time to come. Man will tremble from continual war, like a broom from shaking; but that is our soldier lot. When you have to fight, Pan Michael, keep close to me and you will see beautiful things,--you will learn how we used to fight in past and better times. Oh, my God! not such people as at present were those in years gone by. You are not like them either, Pan Michael, though you are a fierce soldier and killed Bogun." "You speak truly, Pan," said Zakhar; "not such are people now as they used to be." Then he began to gaze at Volodyovski and shake his head. "But that this knight killed Bogun,--never, never!" CHAPTER LIII. Old Zakhar went back to Kieff after a few days' rest, and then came tidings that the commissioners had no great hopes of peace, or in fact almost despaired of it. They were able to obtain merely an armistice till the Russian Whitsuntide, in accordance with which a new commission was to begin, with plenary powers. But the demands and conditions put forth by Hmelnitski were so exorbitant that no one believed that the Commonwealth could agree to them. Vigorous arming was commenced therefore on both sides. Hmelnitski sent envoy after envoy to the Khan to hasten at the head of all his forces; he sent also to Stamboul, where Pan Bechinski, on behalf of the king, had resided for a considerable time. In the Commonwealth writs for the national militia were expected every moment. News came of the appointment of fresh leaders,--the cup-bearer, Ostrorog, Lantskoronski, and Firlei,--and the complete removal from military affairs of Yeremi Vishnyevetski, who was able to shield the country only at the head of his own forces. Not merely the soldiers of the prince, not merely the nobles of Russia, but also the partisans of the former commanders were indignant at such a selection and such disfavor, declaring justly that if there had been political reasons for sacrificing Yeremi while there was hope of concluding a treaty, his removal in presence of war was a great, an unpardonable blunder; for he alone was able to meet Hmelnitski, and conquer that famous leader of rebellion. Finally the prince himself came to Zbaraj for the purpose of assembling as many forces as possible, to stand in readiness on the borderland of the conflict. An armistice had been concluded, but at every moment it proved of no avail. Hmelnitski ordered, it is true, the execution of some colonels stationed here and there in camps, who in spite of the armistice had permitted themselves to attack castles, and squadrons encamped in various places; but he was unable to restrain the masses of the people, and the numerous independent bands, who either had not heard of the armistice, or who knew not even the meaning of the word. They attacked therefore continually the boundaries secured by the agreement, thus breaking every engagement made by the hetman. On the other hand, the troops of private persons and of the king in pursuing robbers frequently passed the Pripet and the Goryn in the province of Kieff, continued into the depth of the province of Bratslav, and there, attacked by the Cossacks, fought regular battles, not infrequently bloody and stubborn. Hence continual complaints from the Cossacks and Poles of the violation of the armistice, which it was indeed beyond the power of man to observe. The armistice existed therefore so far as Hmelnitski on one side, and the king and hetmans on the other, had not moved into the field; but the war was raging, in fact, before the main forces had rushed to the combat, and the first warm rays of spring shone again upon burning villages, towns, cities, and castles, giving light to slaughter and human misfortune. Parties from the neighborhood of Bar, Hmelnik, and Makhnovka appeared around Zbaraj, slaying, robbing, burning. Yeremi dispersed these with the hands of his colonels; but he took no part in this small warfare himself, as he intended to move with his whole division when the hetmans should be already in the field. He sent out therefore detachments with orders to pay for blood with blood, for robbery and murder with the stake. Podbipienta went with others and gained a victory at Cherni Ostroff; but he was a knight terrible only in battle,--to prisoners taken with arms in their hands he was too indulgent; therefore he was not sent a second time. But in expeditions of this kind Volodyovski distinguished himself; as a partisan he had no rival save Vershul alone, for no one accomplished such lightning marches. No one knew how to approach the enemy so unexpectedly, break them up with such wild onset, scatter to the four winds, and exterminate by hunting down, hanging, and slaughtering; soon he was invested with terror and the favor of the prince. From the end of March to the middle of April Volodyovski dispersed seven independent parties, each one of which was three times stronger than his own; and he did not grow weary in his work, but showed a continually increasing eagerness, as if gaining it from the blood he was shedding. The little knight, or rather the little devil, teased Zagloba to accompany him in these expeditions, for he loved his company above all things; but the worthy noble opposed every suggestion, and thus explained his inactivity:-- "My stomach is too big, Pan Michael, for these struggles and encounters; and besides, each man has his special power. To strike with hussars in the thick of the enemy in the open day, break through a camp, capture standards,--that's my forte, the Lord God created and fitted me for that; but to hunt a rabble in the night through the brush,--I leave that to you, who are as slender as a needle, and can easily push through everywhere. I am a knight of ancient date, and I prefer to tear through as the lion does, rather than creep along like a bloodhound on trails. Besides, after the evening milking I must to bed, for that is my best time." Volodyovski therefore went alone, and alone conquered, till a certain time when, going out toward the end of April, he returned in the middle of May, as woe-begone and gloomy as if he had met a defeat and wasted his men. Thus it appeared to all; but in that long and difficult expedition Volodyovski had gone beyond Ostrog to the neighborhood of Golovna, and had defeated there, not a common band made up of the rabble, but several hundred Zaporojians, half of whom he killed and the other half captured. The more astonishing, therefore, was the profound gloom which as a fog covered his face, joyous by nature. But Pan Volodyovski said not a word to any man; scarcely had he dismounted when he went for a long conversation with the prince, taking two unknown knights, and then, in company with them, went to Zagloba without stopping, though those eager for news seized him by the sleeve along the way. Zagloba looked with a certain astonishment on the two gigantic men, whom he had never seen before, and whose uniform, with gilt shoulder-knots, showed that they served in the Lithuanian army. Volodyovski said,-- "Shut the door, and give orders to admit no one, for we have to speak on affairs of importance." Zagloba gave the order to the servant; then he began to look unquietly on the strangers, noting from their faces that they had nothing good to tell. "These are," said Volodyovski, pointing to the young man, "the Princes Bulygi Kurtsevichi, Yuri and Andrei." "The cousins of Helena!" cried Zagloba. The princes bowed and said both at once: "Cousins of the deceased Helena." The ruddy face of Zagloba became pale blue in a moment. He began to beat the air with his hands as if he had been struck with a bullet. He opened his lips, unable to catch breath, rolled his eyes, and said or rather groaned: "How?" "There is news," answered Volodyovski, gloomily, "that the princess was murdered in the monastery of Nikolai the Good." "The mob suffocated with smoke in a cell twelve young ladies and some nuns, among whom was our cousin," added Prince Yuri. This time Zagloba's countenance, formerly blue, became so red that those present were afraid of apoplexy. Slowly his lids dropped over his eyes; he covered them with his hands, and from his mouth came a fresh groan: "Oh, world! world! world!" Then he was silent. But the princes and Volodyovski began to complain. "Oh, good lady, we your friends and relatives gathered together,--we who wished to go to save you," said the young knight, sighing time after time; "but it is evident that we were late with our aid. Our willingness was in vain, in vain our sabres and our courage; for you are in another and better than this bad world, waiting upon the Queen of Heaven." "Oh, cousin," cried the gigantic Yuri, who in grief seized his hair anew, "forgive us our faults, and for every drop of your blood we will pour out three gallons." "So help us God!" responded Andrei. The two men stretched their hands to heaven. Zagloba rose from his seat, advanced a few steps toward the bed, tottered like one drunk, and fell on his knees before the image. After a moment the bells in the castle sounded for midday,--sounded as gloomily as if they were death-bells. "She is no more!" said Volodyovski again. "The angels have taken her to heaven, leaving us tears and sighs." Sobbing shook the heavy body of Zagloba, and it trembled; but they complained without ceasing, and the bells were tolling. At last Zagloba calmed himself; they had thought indeed that perhaps wearied by pain he had fallen asleep on his knees. After a time, however, he rose, stood up, sat on the bed; but he had become as it were another man. His eyes were red, bloodshot; his head drooping; his lower lip hung upon his beard; imbecility had settled on his face, and a certain unexampled decrepitude, so that it might in truth appear that the former Zagloba, lively, jovial, full of fancy, had died, and there remained only an old man weighted and wearied with years. Meanwhile, in spite of the protests of the servant at the door, Podbipienta entered; and again began complaints and regrets. The Lithuanian called to mind Rozlogi, and the first meeting with the princess,--her sweetness, youth, beauty. At length he remembered that there was some one more unhappy than any of them,--her betrothed, Pan Skshetuski,--and he began to ask the little knight about him. "Skshetuski is with Prince Koretski, at Korets, to which place he came from Kieff; and he lies there in illness, unconscious of God's world," said Volodyovski. "Should not we go to him?" asked the Lithuanian. "There is no reason to go," replied Volodyovski. "The prince's physician answers for his health. Pan Sukhodolski--one of Prince Dominik's colonels, but a great friend of Skshetuski--is there, and our old Zatsvilikhovski; they both have him in care and watchfulness. He lacks for nothing, and that delirium does not leave him is the better for him." "Oh, God of power!" said the Lithuanian, "have you seen Skshetuski with your own eyes?" "I saw him; but if they had not told me that that was he, I should not have known him, pain and sickness have so devoured him." "Did he recognize you?" "He knew me undoubtedly, though he said nothing, for he smiled and nodded his head. Such pity possessed me that I could stay no longer. Prince Koretski wishes to come here with his squadron. Zatsvilikhovski will come with him, and Pan Sukhodolski swears that he will come too, even if he has an order to the contrary from Prince Dominik. They will bring Pan Yan unless disease gets the better of him." "And whence have you tidings of the princess's death?" asked Pan Longin. "Have these young men brought it?" added he, pointing to the princes. "No. These knights learned all by chance in Korets, where they had come with messages from the voevoda of Vilna, and came here with me, for they had letters from the voevoda to our prince. War is certain, and nothing will come of the commission." "We know that already ourselves, but tell us who informed you of the death of the princess?" "Zatsvilikhovski told me, and he knows it from Skshetuski. Hmelnitski gave Skshetuski permission to search for her in Kieff, and the metropolitan himself had to assist. They searched mainly in the monasteries, for those of our people who remained in Kieff are secreted in them. And they thought surely that Bogun had placed the princess in some monastery. They sought and sought and were of good heart, though they knew that the mob had suffocated twelve young ladies with smoke at Nikolai the Good. The metropolitan contended that they would not have attacked the betrothed of Bogun, but it has turned out otherwise." "Then she was at the convent of Nikolai the Good?" "She was. Skshetuski met Pan Yoakhim Yerlich, who was hiding in a monastery; and as he had asked every one about the princess, he asked him too. Pan Yerlich said that there were certain young ladies whom the Cossacks had taken, but at Nikolai the Good twelve remained, whom afterward they suffocated with smoke,--among them Kurtsevichovna. Skshetuski, since Yerlich is a hypochondriac and only half-witted from continual terror, did not believe him, and hurried off immediately a second time to Nikolai the Good to inquire. Unfortunately the nuns, three of whom were suffocated in the same cell, did not know the names, but hearing the description which Skshetuski gave, they said that she was the one. Then Skshetuski went away from Kieff and straightway fell ill." "The only wonder is that he is still alive." "He would have died undoubtedly but for that old Cossack who nursed him during captivity in the Saitch, and then came here with letters from him, and when he had returned, helped him again in his search. He took him to Korets and gave him into the hands of Zatsvilikhovski." "May God protect him, for he has never yet consoled him!" said Podbipienta. Volodyovski ceased, and a silence of the grave reigned over all. The princes resting upon their elbows sat motionless with frowning brows; Podbipienta raised his eyes to heaven, and Zagloba fixed his glassy gaze on the opposite wall as if sunk in the deepest thought. "Rouse yourself!" said Volodyovski, shaking him by the shoulder. "Of what are you thinking so? You will not think out anything, and all your stratagems will be useless." "I know that," answered Zagloba, with a broken voice. "I am thinking that I am old, that I have nothing to do in this world." CHAPTER LIV. "Picture to yourself," said Volodyovski to Pan Longin a few days later, "that that man has changed in one hour as if he had grown ten years older. So joyous was he, so talkative, so full of tricks, that he surpassed Ulysses himself. Now he does not let two words out of his lips, but dozes away whole days, complains of old age, and speaks as in a dream. I knew that he loved her, but I did not think that he loved her to this degree." "What is there wonderful in that?" answered the Lithuanian, sighing. "He was the more attached to her that he snatched her from the hands of Bogun, and went through so many dangers and adventures in the flight. While there was hope his wit was exerted in inventions, and he kept on foot; but now he has really nothing to do in the world, being alone and without heart for anything." "I tried to drink with him, hoping that drink would restore his former vigor, but in vain. He drinks, but does not think as before, does not talk about his exploits; only becomes sensitive, and then hangs his head on his breast and goes to sleep. I do not know if even Pan Yan is in greater despair than he." "It is an unspeakable loss, for withal he was a great knight. Let us go to him, Pan Michael. He had the habit of scoffing at me and teasing me on every occasion; perhaps the desire will take him now. My God, how people change! He was such a gladsome man." "Let us go," said Volodyovski. "It is already late; but it is most grievous for him in the evening,--for dozing all day, he is unable to sleep at night." Thus conversing, they betook themselves to the quarters of Zagloba, whom they found sitting under the open window with his head resting on his hand. It was late; every movement in the castle had ceased; only the sentinels answered in prolonged tones, and in the thickets separating the castle from the town the nightingales brought out their passionate trills, whistling, smacking, and clapping as quickly as fall the drops in a spring shower. Through the open window came in the warm breeze of May and the clear rays of the moon, which lighted the downcast face of Zagloba and the bald crown bent toward his breast. "Good-evening!" said the two knights. "Good-evening!" answered Zagloba. "Why have you forgotten yourself before the window instead of going to bed?" asked Volodyovski. Zagloba sighed. "It is not a question of sleep with me," said he, with a drawling voice. "A year ago I was fleeing with her on the Kagamlik from Bogun, and in this same way those birds were twittering; and where is she now?" "God has so ordained," said Volodyovski. "Ordained to tears and sorrow, Pan Michael. There is no more consolation for me." They were silent; but through the open window came, with power increasing each moment, the trill of the nightingales, with which all that clear night seemed filled. "Oh, God, God!" sighed Zagloba, "exactly as it was on the Kagamlik." Pan Longin shook a tear from his great mustaches, and the little knight said after a while,-- "Sorrow is sorrow; but drink some mead with us, for there is nothing better against sorrow. At the glass we will talk of better times." "Let us drink," said Zagloba, with resignation. Volodyovski ordered the servant to bring a light and decanter, and afterward, when they had sat down, knowing that reminiscences enlivened Zagloba more than anything else, he inquired: "It is just a year, is it not, since you fled with her before Bogun from Rozlogi?" "It was in May, in May," answered Zagloba. "We passed through the Kagamlik to flee to Zólotonosha. Oh, it is hard in this world!" "And she was disguised?" "As a Cossack. I had to cut off her hair with my sabre, poor thing! so that she shouldn't be discovered. I know the place under the tree where I hid the hair, together with the sabre." "Oh, she was a sweet lady!" added Longin, with a sigh. "I tell you, gentlemen, from the first day I fell in love with her as if I had paid homage to her from youthful years. And she would clasp her hands before me and thank me for her rescue and my care. I wish they had killed me before I had lived to this day! Would that I had not lived to it!" Then came silence again, and the three knights drank mead mixed with tears. After that Zagloba began to speak again. "I thought to pass a calm old age with them, but now"--here his hands hung down powerless--"nowhere solace, nowhere solace, but in the grave--" Before Zagloba had finished speaking a disturbance rose in the anteroom; some one wished to enter, and the servant would not let him in. A wordy struggle followed, in which it seemed to Volodyovski that he recognized some known voice; therefore he called to the servant not to forbid entrance further. The door opened, and in it appeared the plump, ruddy face of Jendzian, who, passing his eyes over those present, bowed and said: "May Jesus Christ be praised!" "For the ages of ages," said Volodyovski. "This is Jendzian?" "I am he," said the young man, "and I bow to your knees. And where is my master?" "Your master is in Korets, and ill." "Oh, for God's sake, what do you tell me? And is he seriously ill, which God forbid?" "He was, but he is better now. The doctor says he will recover." "For I have come with news about the lady to my master." The little knight began to nod his head in melancholy fashion. "You need not hasten, for Pan Skshetuski already knows of her death, and we here are shedding tears of mourning for her." Jendzian's eyes were bursting from his head. "By violence! What do I hear? Is she dead?" "Not dead, but murdered in Kieff by robbers." "What are you talking about? In what Kieff?" "Don't you know Kieff?" "For God's sake, are you fooling with me? What had she to do in Kieff when she is hidden in the ravine at Valadinka, not far from Rashkoff, and the witch was commanded not to move a step till Bogun should come? As God is dear to me, must I run mad?" "What witch are you speaking of?" "Why, Horpyna! I know that bass-viol well." Zagloba stood up suddenly from the bench, and began to strike out with his hands like a man who has fallen into deep water and is trying to save himself from drowning. "By the living God, be quiet!" said he to Volodyovski. "By God's wounds, let me ask him!" The company trembled, so pale was Zagloba, and the perspiration came out on his bald head. He sprang over the bench to Jendzian, and seizing the young fellow by the shoulders, asked in a hoarse voice,-- "Who told you that she is near Rashkoff, secreted?" "Who should tell me? Bogun!" "Are you mad, fellow?" roared Zagloba, shaking him like a pear-tree. "What Bogun?" "Oh, for God's sake," called Jendzian, "why do you shake me so? Let me go, let me collect my wits, for I am losing my senses. You have turned everything over in my head. What Bogun should there be,--or don't you know him?" "Speak, or I'll stab you!" shouted Zagloba. "Where did you see Bogun?" "In Vlodava! What do you want of me?" cried the frightened young man. "Am I a robber?" Zagloba lost the thread of his thought, breath failed him, and he fell on the bench panting heavily. Volodyovski came to his aid. "When did you see Bogun?" asked Volodyovski. "Three weeks ago." "Then he is alive?" "Why shouldn't he be? He told me himself how you split him up, but he has recovered." "And he told you that the young lady is at Rashkoff?" "Who else should tell me?" "Listen, Jendzian! it is a question here of the life of your master and the young lady. Did Bogun himself tell you that she was not in Kieff?" "My master, how could she be in Kieff when he secreted her at Rashkoff, and told Horpyna on peril of her life not to let her escape? But now he has given me a baton and his ring to go to her; for his wounds opened, and he had to lie down himself, it is unknown for how long." Further words from Jendzian were interrupted by Zagloba, who sprang from the bench again, and seizing the remnant of his hair with both hands, began to shout like a madman: "My daughter is living,--by God's wounds, she is living! They didn't kill her in Kieff; she is alive, she is alive, my dearest!" And the old man stamped with his feet, laughed and sobbed. Finally, he seized Jendzian by the head, pressed him to his bosom and began to kiss him, so that the young fellow lost his head altogether. "Let me go, my master, for I am stifled! Of course she is alive--God grant us to go together for her, my master--But, my master!" "Let him go, let him tell his story, for we don't understand anything yet," said Volodyovski. "Speak, speak!" cried Zagloba. "Begin at the beginning, brother," said Pan Longin, on whose mustaches, too, thick dew had settled down. "Permit me, gentlemen, to draw breath," said Jendzian; "and I will close the window, for those wretches of nightingales are tearing away in the bushes at such a rate that it is impossible to speak." "Mead!" cried Volodyovski to the servant. Jendzian closed the window with his usual deliberation, then turned to the company and said; "You will let me sit down, for I am tired." "Sit down!" said Volodyovski, pouring to him from the decanter borne in by the servant. "Drink with us, for you deserve it for the news which you bring. If you will only speak as soon as possible!" "Good mead!" said he, raising the glass toward the light. "May you be split! will you talk?" shouted Zagloba. "You are angry at once, my master! I will talk if you wish; it is for you to command and me to obey, that's why I am a servant. But I see that I must start from the beginning and tell everything in detail." "Speak from the beginning!" "You remember, gentlemen, how the news of the taking of Bar came; how we thought then that the young lady was lost? So I returned to the Jendzians,--to my parents and my grandfather, who is now ninety years old--I speak correctly--no! ninety-and-one." "May he be nine hundred!" burst out Zagloba. "May God give him as many years as possible! I thank you, my master, for the kind word. So I returned home to visit my parents, as I by the assistance of God had passed the robbers; for as you know, the Cossacks took me up in Chigirin last year, and considered me one of themselves because I nursed Bogun when wounded, and arrived at great intimacy with him; and at the same time I collected some little from those criminals,--some silver and precious stones." "We know, we know!" said Volodyovski. "Well, I reached my parents, who were glad to see me, and couldn't believe their eyes when I showed them all I had collected. I had to swear to my grandfather that I had come by it honestly. Then they were glad; for you must know that they have a lawsuit with the Yavorskis about a pear-tree which stands on the line between them,--half its branches are on the land of the Yavorskis, and half on ours. Now the Yavorskis shake the tree and our pears fall, and many of them go to them. They stick to it that those in the middle are theirs, and we--" "Don't bring me to anger, fellow!" interrupted Zagloba, "and don't speak of that which does not belong to the story!" "First, with your pardon, my master, I am no fellow, but a noble, though a poor one, and with an escutcheon as well as you, as Pan Volodyovski and Podbipienta, friends of Pan Skshetuski, will tell you; and I repeat that this lawsuit has lasted fifty years." "Dear little fish!" said Podbipienta, sweetly; "but tell us about Bogun, not about pear-trees." "Of Bogun?" said Jendzian. "Well, let it be about Bogun. That Bogun thinks, my master, that he has not a more faithful friend and servant than me, though he struck me in Chigirin; for it is true I nursed him, took care of him, when the Kurtsevichi had wounded him. I lied then when I said I did not like my master's service and preferred to be with the Cossacks, for there was more profit among them; and he believed me. Why shouldn't he believe me when I brought him to health? Therefore he took a wonderful fancy to me, and what is true, rewarded me most liberally, not knowing that I had sworn to have vengeance on him for the wrong he had done me in Chigirin; and if I did not stab him at once, it was only because it is not proper for a noble to stab an enemy lying in bed, as he would stick a pig." "Well, well," said Volodyovski, "we know that too, but how did you find him this time?" "It was this way: When we had pushed the Yavorskis to the wall (they will have to go out with packs on their backs, it cannot be otherwise), I thought: 'Well, it is time for me to look for Bogun and pay him for the wrong he did me.' I left my parents in secret, and my grandfather; and he (there is good metal in him) said: 'If you have taken an oath, then go; if not, you will be a fool.' I went, for I thought to myself besides: 'When I find Bogun maybe I shall learn something about the lady, if she is alive; and afterward when I shoot him and go to my master with the news, that too will not be without a reward.'" "Certainly it will not; and we will reward you also," said Volodyovski. "And from me, brother, you will have a horse with trappings," added Podbipienta. "I thank you most kindly," said the delighted young man; "a present is a fitting return for good news, and I won't drink away what I get from anybody--" "Oh, the devil take me!" muttered Zagloba. "You went away from your home and friends then?" suggested Volodyovski. "I did; and on the way I thought: 'Where shall I go unless to Zbaraj, for it is not far from Bogun, and I can hear more readily of my master.' I go through Beloe to Vlodava, and in Vlodava I find my little horse terribly used up,--I halt for refreshment. There was a fair in the place; all the inns were full of nobles. I go to townspeople; nobles there too! Then a Jew says to me: 'I have a room, but a wounded noble has taken it. Then I say: 'This has happened well, for I know how to nurse, and your barber, as it is fair-time, cannot get through his work.' The Jew said then that the noble took care of himself, did not wish to see any man; still he went afterward to inquire. It is evident the noble was worse, for he gave orders to admit me. I enter, and I look to see who lies in the bed. Bogun! I bless myself in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost! I was frightened; but he recognized me at once, was very glad (for he takes me as his friend), and says he: 'God sent you to me! I'll not die this time.' And I say: 'What are you doing here, my master?' But he put his finger on his lips, and only afterward did he tell me of what had happened to him,--how Hmelnitski sent him to the king, who at that time was a prince,--sent him from before Zamost, and how Pan Volodyovski cut him up at Lipki." "Did he remember me pleasantly?" asked Volodyovski. "I cannot say, my master, otherwise than pleasantly enough. 'I thought,' says he, 'that he was some little cur; but it turns out that he is a hero of the first water, who almost cut me in two.' But when he thinks of Pan Zagloba, then he grits his teeth in great anger, because he urged you on to this fight--" "May the hangman light him!" said Zagloba, "I am not afraid of him." "We returned then to our former familiarity, yes, even to greater. He told me all,--how near he had been to death; how they removed him to the mansion at Lipki, taking him for a noble, and he gave himself out as Pan Hulevich from Podolia; how they cured him and treated him with great kindness, for which he swore gratitude to them till death." "And what was he doing in Vlodava?" "He was going to Volynia; but in Parcheva his wounds opened, for the wagon turned over with him, and he had to stop, though in great fear, for they might easily cut him to pieces there. He told me this himself. 'I was,' said he, 'sent with letters; but now I have no papers, nothing but a baton; and if they should discover who I am, not only the nobles would cut me to pieces, but the first commandant would hang me without asking permission of any man.' I remember that when he told me that, I said to him: 'It is well to know that the first commandant would hang you.' 'And how is that?' asked he. 'So as to be cautious and say nothing to any man, in which I also will serve you.' Then he began to thank me and to assure me of gratitude, and that reward would not miss me. Then he said: 'I have no money, but what jewels I have I will give you, and later I will cover you with gold; only render me one more service.'" "And now we are coming to the princess?" said Volodyovski. "Yes, my master, I must tell everything in detail. When he said that he had no money, I lost all heart for him, and thought to myself: 'Wait! I'll render you a service.' He said: 'I am sick, I have not strength for the journey, but a long and dangerous road awaits me. If I go to Volynia,--and it is not far from here,--then I shall be among my own; but to the Dniester I cannot go, for my strength is insufficient, and it is necessary to pass through an enemy's country, near castles and troops. Do you go for me!' 'To what place?' I ask. 'To Rashkoff, for she is hidden there with a sister of Donyéts, Horpyna.' I ask, 'Is it the princess?' 'Yes,' says he, 'I hid her there where the eye of man cannot see her; it is pleasant for her there, and she sleeps like the Princess Vishnyevetska, on golden cushions.'" "Tell me quickly, in God's name!" shouted Zagloba. "What is done quickly is done in the devil's fashion," answered Jendzian. "When I heard that, my master, how I rejoiced! But I did not show it, and I say: 'Is she surely there, for it must be a long time since you took her to the place?' He began to swear that Horpyna was devoted to him, would keep her ten years till his return, and that the princess was there as God is in heaven; for neither Poles nor Tartars nor Cossacks could come, and Horpyna would not disobey his order." While Jendzian was telling the story, Zagloba trembled as in a fever, the little knight nodded his head joyfully, Podbipienta raised his eyes to heaven. "That she is there is certain," continued the youth, "for the best proof is that he sent me to her. But I put it off at first so as to betray nothing, and I ask: 'Why should I go?' 'Because I am not able to go. If,' says he, 'I go from Vlodava to Volynia alive, I will have her taken to Kieff, for our Cossacks have the upper hand there everywhere. And you,' says he, 'go to Horpyna, and give her the order to take the princess to the monastery of the Holy Virgin in Kieff.'" "Well, it was not to Nikolai the Good then," burst out Zagloba. "I saw at first that Yerlich was a hypochondriac, or that he lied." "To the Holy Virgin," said Jendzian. "'I'll give you my ring,' says he, 'and baton and knife, and Horpyna will know what they mean, for we have agreed about them; and God has sent you,' says he, 'all the more because she knows you,--knows that you are my best friend. Go at once; don't fear the Cossacks, but look out for the Tartars, if there are any, and avoid them, for they will not respect the baton. Money, ducats, are buried in the ravine; take them out at once. Along the road you need only say, "Bogun's wife is travelling," and you will want for nothing. Besides,' says he, 'the witch is able to help herself. Only go, for my sake! Whom besides can I--unfortunate man!--send, whom can I trust, in this strange country, among enemies?' He begged, my master, till he almost shed tears. Finally the beast asked me to take an oath that I would go; and I took the oath, but in my mind I added: 'With my master!' Then he rejoiced, and gave me the baton, the ring, and the knife at once, and whatever jewels he had; and I took them too, for I thought, better that they be with me than with a robber. At parting he told me what ravine is above the Valadinka, how to go and how to turn so exactly, that I could get there with my eyes bound; which you will see yourselves if you go with me, as I think you will." "Immediately! to-morrow!" said Volodyovski. "What! to-morrow? We will order the horses to be saddled at daylight to-day." Joy seized the hearts of all. At one moment could be heard cries of gratitude to heaven, at another the joyful rubbing of hands; then new questions put to Jendzian, to which he answered with his usual deliberation. "May the bullets strike you!" cried Zagloba; "what a servant Skshetuski has in you!" "Well, what of it?" asked Jendzian. "He will cover you with gold." "I think too that I shall not be without a reward, though I serve my master out of faithfulness." "What did you do with Bogun?" asked Volodyovski. "This, my master, was for me the greatest torment, that he lay sick again, and I could not put a knife into him, for my master would blame me for that. Such was my luck! What had I to do? He had told me all he had to tell, had given me all he had to give, so to my head for wit. 'Why,' say I to myself, 'should such a villain walk through the world? He imprisons a lady, and struck me in Chigirin. Better that he should not be, and let the hangman light his way. For,' I thought to myself, 'if he gets well, he will be after us with his Cossacks.' Not thinking long then, I went to Pan Rogovski, the commandant, who is in Vlodava with his squadron, and I told him that it was Bogun, the worst of the rebels. They must have hanged him before this time." Having said this, Jendzian laughed stupidly enough, and looked on the audience as if waiting for applause; but how astonished was he when answered by silence! After some time Zagloba muttered, "No more of this!" but on the contrary Volodyovski kept silent, and Pan Longin began to click with his tongue, shake his head, and at last he said,-- "You have acted ignobly,--what is called ignobly!" "How so, my master?" asked the astonished Jendzian; "should I have stabbed him?" "And that would have been ugly, and this ugly. I know not which is better, to be a murderer or a Judas." "What do you say, my master? Is it to be a Judas to give up a rebel who is an enemy of the king and the whole Commonwealth?" "True, but still the deed is ignoble. What did you say the name of that commandant is?" "Pan Rogovski. They said his name was Jakob." "Ah, that's the same man!" muttered the Lithuanian. "A relative of Pan Lashch, and an enemy of Skshetuski." But this remark was not heard, for Zagloba began,-- "Gentlemen, there is no reason for delay. God has so arranged through this youth, and has so directed, that we shall seek her under better conditions than hitherto. Praise be to God! We must leave in the morning. The prince has gone away already, but we must start without his permission, for there is no time to wait. Volodyovski will go; I with him, and Jendzian; but you, Pan Longin, would better stay, for your stature and your simplicity of soul might betray us." "No, brother; I'll go too," said the Lithuanian. "For her safety you must stay at home. Whoever has seen you will not forget you for a lifetime. We have the baton, it is true, but they would not believe you, even with the baton. You suffocated Pulyan in sight of Krívonos's whole rabble; and since such a pillar has stood before them, they would recognize it. You cannot go with us. You wouldn't find three heads there, and the one you have wouldn't help us much; you would ruin the undertaking." "Sad," said the Lithuanian. "Sad or not sad, you must stay. When we go to lift birds' nests out of the trees we will take you, but not this time." "Disgusting to hear you!" "Let me kiss you, for joy is in my heart. But stay! one thing more, gentlemen. This affair is of the greatest importance,--a secret. Let it not be known among the soldiers, and go from them to the peasants. Not a word to any man!" "Not to the prince?" "The prince is not here." "But to Skshetuski, if he comes?" "To him especially not a word, for he would race after us at once. He will have time enough to be glad; and God guard us from a new disappointment!--then he would lose his mind. Word of honor, gentlemen!" "Word of honor," said Podbipienta. "Word, word!" "And now let us thank God." Having said this, Zagloba knelt first, after him the others, and they prayed long and fervently. CHAPTER LV. The prince had really set out for Zamost a few days before for the purpose of making new levies of troops, and it was not expected that he would return soon. Volodyovski, Zagloba, and Jendzian therefore started on their journey unknown to any one and in the greatest secrecy,--to which only one person in Zbaraj was admitted, Pan Longin; but he, bound by his word, was as silent as if enchanted. Vershul and other officers who knew of the princess's death did not suppose that the departure of the little knight with Zagloba had any connection with the betrothed of the unfortunate Skshetuski, and thought most likely that the two friends had gone to him the more since they had taken Jendzian, who was known to be a servant of Skshetuski. They travelled straight to Hlebanovka, and there made preparations for the journey. Zagloba bought first of all, with money borrowed from Pan Longin, five Podolian horses, capable of long journeys. Horses of this breed were used by the Polish cavalry and the Cossacks; they could chase a whole day after a Tartar pony, surpassed in speed even the Turkish horses, and endured better every change of weather and cold, and rainy nights. Five such coursers did Zagloba purchase; besides he got sufficient Cossack clothing for himself and his comrades, as well as for the princess. Jendzian busied himself with the packs; and when all was provided and ready they started on the road, putting their undertaking under the guardianship of God and Saint Nikolai, the patron of young ladies. So disguised, it was easy to take them for Cossack atamans, and frequently it happened that soldiers from Polish garrisons fastened on them, and guards scattered as far as Kamenyets; but Zagloba explained himself to them easily. They went for a long time through a safe country; for it was occupied by the squadrons of the commander Lantskoronski, which approached slowly toward Bar, in order to keep an eye on the Cossack bands gathering there. It was known universally that nothing would come of the negotiations. War hung over the country, therefore, though the main forces had not moved yet. The Pereyasláv armistice ended at Whitsuntide; partisan warfare, it is true, had not ended at any time. Now it increased, and both sides were only waiting the word. At that time spring was rejoicing over the steppe. The earth which had been trampled by the hoofs of horses was now covered with a brocade of grass and flowers which had grown up from the bodies of the slain. Above battle-fields the lark pierced the azure of the heavens; various birds coursed through the air with their cries; the overflowed waters rippled in pools under the warm breath of the wind, and in the evenings the frogs swimming in the tepid water carried on joyous converse till late at night. It seemed that Nature herself was eager to heal the wounds and cure the pains, to hide the graves beneath flowers. It was bright in the heavens, and on the earth fresh, breezy, gladsome; and the whole steppe, as if painted, glittered like an asphodel meadow, changed like the rainbow or like a Polish girdle on which the skilled needlewoman has joined all colors with exquisite taste. The steppe was full of the play of birds, and the broad breeze passed over it, drying the water and embrowning the faces of men. At such a time every heart rejoices, and is filled with measureless hope. Our knights therefore were full of just such hope. Volodyovski sang continually. Zagloba straightened himself on the horse, put his shoulders with delight to the sun, and as soon as he was well warmed, said to the little knight,-- "I feel well; for, to tell the truth, next to mead and Hungarian wine there is nothing like the sun for old bones." "It is good for everything," answered Volodyovski. "Just see how animals love to warm themselves in the sun!" "It is lucky that we are going for the princess at such a time, for in the frosts of winter it would have been difficult to escape with the girl." "Let us only get her into our hands, and I am a rascal if any man gets her away from us. I tell you, Pan Michael, I have only one fear, and that is in case of war the Tartars might move in those regions and snap us up; for we can get on with the Cossacks. We will give no account whatever to the peasants, for you have noticed that they take us for starshini; the Zaporojians respect the batons, and the name of Bogun will be a shield to us." "I am acquainted with the Tartars, for while in the Lubni domains life passed in endless disputes with them. Vershul and I never had rest," answered Pan Michael. "And I know them," said Zagloba. "I have told you how I passed several years in their company and might have risen to great dignities among them, but since I didn't wish to become a mussulman I had to leave all. Besides, they wanted to inflict a martyr's death on me because I was persuading their principal mulla to the true faith." "But you said some other time that that was in Galáts." "Galáts in its own way, and the Crimea in its own. But if you think the world ends in Galáts, then surely you don't know where pepper grows. There are more sons of Belial than Christians in this world." Here Jendzian broke into the conversation. "Not only may we receive harm from Tartars," said he, "but I have not informed you that Bogun told me that unclean powers are guarding that ravine. The giantess herself who guards the princess is a powerful witch, intimate with devils who may warn her against us. I have, it is true, a bullet, which I moulded on consecrated wheat, for a common one would not take her; but besides there are probably whole regiments of vampires who guard the entrance. It is for your heads to see that no harm comes to me; if it should, my reward would be lost." "Oh, you drone!" said Zagloba. "We have nothing to think of but your safety. The devil won't twist your neck; and even if he should it is all one, for you will go to hell anyhow for your covetousness. I'm too old a sparrow to be caught with chaff; and beat into yourself that if she is a powerful witch I am a more powerful wizard, for I learned the black art in Persia. She serves the devils, and they serve me, and I could plough with them as with oxen; but I don't want to do so, keeping in mind, as I do, the salvation of my own soul." "That is well, my master; but for this time use your power, for it is always better to be on the safe side." "But I have more confidence in our just cause and the protection of God," said Volodyovski. "Let the devils be the guard of Horpyna and Bogun, but with us are the angels of heaven, whom the best brigade in hell cannot withstand. On our behalf I make an offering of seven white wax candles to Saint Michael the Archangel." "Then I will add one more," said Jendzian, "so that Pan Zagloba shouldn't frighten me with damnation." "I will be the first to pack you off to hell," said the noble, "if it should appear that you don't know the places well." "Why shouldn't I know? If we only reach Valadinka, I can find the place with my eyes bound. We will go along the shore toward the Dniester, and on the right hand will be the ravine, which we shall recognize by this, that the entrance to it is closed with a rock. At the first glance it will seem altogether impossible of entrance, but in the rock is an opening through which two horses can pass abreast. Once inside, no one can escape us, for that is the only entrance and exit. All around, the sides are so high that a bird can barely fly over them. The witch kills people who enter without permission, and there are many bones of men inside. Bogun gave orders not to notice these, but to ride on and shout: 'Bogun! Bogun!' Then she will come out to us with friendship. Besides Horpyna, there is Cheremís, who is a good marksman. We must kill them both." "I say nothing about Cheremís, but it will be enough to tie the woman." "How could you tie her? She is so strong that she tears armor to pieces like a shirt, and a horseshoe crumbles in her hand. Pan Podbipienta might possibly overpower her, but not we. But leave the matter; I have a consecrated bullet. Let the black hour come on that she-devil; otherwise she would fly after us like a wolf, and would howl to the Cossacks, and we should fail to bring back not only the young lady, but our own heads." In such conversation and counsels their time passed on the road. They travelled hurriedly, passing villages, hamlets, farms, and grave-mounds. They went through Yarmolintsi to Bar, from where they were to advance in the direction of Yampol and the Dniester. They went through the neighborhood in which Volodyovski had defeated Bogun and freed Zagloba from his hands; they even came to the same farm and stopped there over night. Sometimes they slept under the open sky in the steppes, and Zagloba enlivened these halting-places by narratives of his previous adventures, some of which had happened and some of which had never taken place. But the conversations were mostly about the princess and her coming liberation from captivity with the witch. Issuing at length from the regions held in curb by the garrisons and squadrons of Lantskoronski, they entered the Cossack country, in which nothing remained of the Poles, for those who had not fled were exterminated by fire and sword. May had departed, followed by a sultry June, while they had barely finished a third of the journey, for the road was long and difficult. Happily no danger threatened them from the side of the Cossacks. They gave no account of themselves to the peasant parties, who usually took them for Zaporojian starshini. Still, they were asked from time to time who they were. Zagloba, if the inquirer was from the lower country, showed Bogun's baton; if a common murderer from the mob, then, without getting from the horse, he struck the man with his foot in the breast and knocked him to the ground. The bystanders, seeing this, opened a way for them, thinking that they were not only their own, but also very distinguished, since they struck people,--"perhaps Krívonos, Burlai, or Father Hmelnitski himself." Zagloba complained greatly of the fame of Bogun, for the Zaporojians annoyed him too much with inquiries about the chief, through which delays on the road were not infrequent. And generally there was no end to the questions,--whether he was well, or alive, for the report of his death had spread as far as Yagorlik and the Cataracts. But when the travellers declared that he was well and free, and that they were his messengers, they were kissed and honored; all hearts were open to them, and even purses, of which the cunning servant of Skshetuski did not omit to take advantage. In Yampol they were received by Burlai who with Zaporojian troops and the rabble was waiting for the Tartars of Budjak. This was an old and distinguished colonel. Years before he had taught Bogun his military craft. He went on expeditions over the Black Sea with him, and in one of these expeditions the two had plundered Sinope in company. He loved him therefore as a son, and received his messengers with gladness, not exhibiting the least distrust, especially since he had seen Jendzian with Bogun the previous year. But when he learned that Bogun was alive and going to Volynia, from joy he gave a feast to the messengers and drank with them himself. Zagloba was afraid that Jendzian, when he had drunk wine, might say something dangerous; but it turned out that the youth, cunning as a fox, knew how to manage, so that speaking the truth only when practicable, he did not imperil their affair, but won still greater confidence. It was strange, however, for our knights to hear those conversations carried on with such terrible sincerity in which their own names were repeated so often. "We heard," said Burlai, "that Bogun was slain in a duel. And don't you know who cut him?" "Volodyovski, an officer of Prince Yeremi," answered Jendzian, calmly. "If I could get my hands on Volodyovski, I would pay him for our falcon. I'd pull him out of his skin." Volodyovski at this moved his oat-colored mustaches, and looked at Burlai with such a look as a hound gives a wolf which he is not permitted to seize by the throat; and Jendzian said,-- "That's why I give you his name, Colonel." "The devil will have real fun with that fellow Jendzian," thought Zagloba. "But," continued Jendzian, "he is not so much to blame himself, for Bogun challenged him without knowing what a sabre he was summoning. There was another noble there, the greatest enemy of Bogun, who had once snatched the princess from his hands." "And who is he?" "Oh, he is an old sot who used to hang around our ataman in Chigirin and pretend to be his best friend." "He'll hang yet!" shouted Burlai. "I'm a fool if I don't cut the ears off that puppy!" muttered Zagloba. "They so cut him up," continued Jendzian, "that another in his place would have been eaten by the crows long ago; but there is a horned soul in our ataman, and he recovered, though he barely dragged himself to Vlodava; and there he would have failed surely but for us. We helped him off to Volynia, where our people have the upper hand, and he sent us here for the princess." "These women will be the death of him," muttered Burlai. "I told him that long ago. Would it not have been better for him to take a girl in Cossack fashion, and then a stone around her neck and into the water, as we did in the Black Sea?" Here Volodyovski scarcely restrained himself, so wounded was he in his feeling for the sex; but Zagloba laughed, and said: "Surely it would have been better." "But you were old friends," said Burlai, "you did not desert him in need; and you, boy [here lie turned to Jendzian], you are the best of them all, for I saw in Chigirin how you nursed and cared for our falcon. I am your friend for that. Tell me what you want,--men or horses? I'll give them to you, so that no harm may meet you on the return." "We do not need men," said Zagloba, "for we shall go through our own country and among our own people, and God keep us from evil adventure! It is worse with a large party than with a small one; but some of the swiftest horses would be of service." "I'll give you such that the ponies of the Khan would not overtake them." Jendzian now spoke up, not to lose an opportunity: "And give us a little money, Ataman, for we have none, and beyond Bratslav a measure of oats is a thaler." "Then come with me to the storeroom," said Burlai. Jendzian didn't let this be said twice, and disappeared through the door with the old colonel; and when after a while he returned joy was beaming from his round face, and his blue coat was bulging out over his stomach. "Well, go with God," said the old Cossack; "and when you get the girl stop in to see me, so that I may look at Bogun's cuckoo." "Impossible, Colonel," said the youth, boldly; "for that Pole is terribly afraid, and once stabbed herself with a knife. We are afraid that something evil may happen to her. Better let the ataman manage her himself." "He will manage her; she won't be afraid of him. The Pole is white-handed, doesn't like the Cossacks," muttered Burlai. "Go! God be with you! You haven't far now." From Yampol to Valadinka it was not so very far; but the road was difficult, or rather a continual absence of roads stretched before the knights; for at that time those regions were still a desert, with rarely a house or a dwelling. They went then from Yampol somewhat to the west, withdrawing from the Dniester, to go afterward with the course of the Valadinka toward Kashkoff; for only thus could they strike the ravine. Light was growing in the heavens; for the feast at Burlai's had lasted till late at night, and Zagloba calculated that they would not find the ravine before sundown; but that was exactly what he wanted, for he wished after freeing Helena, to leave the night behind him. While they were travelling they spoke of how fortune had favored them so far in everything along the whole road; and Zagloba, mentioning the feast with Burlai, said,-- "See how those Cossacks who live in brotherhood uphold one another in every trouble! I do not speak of the mob,--whom they despise, and for whom, if the devil helps them to throw off our dominion, they will be still worse masters than the Poles; but in the Brotherhood one is ready to jump into the fire for another, not like our nobles." "Not at all, my master," said Jendzian. "I was among them a long time, and I saw how they tear one another like wolves; and if Hmelnitski were gone, who sometimes by power, sometimes by policy, keeps them in check, they would devour one another. But this Burlai is a great warrior among them, and Hmelnitski himself respects him." "But you feel contempt for the man, of course, since he let you rob him. Oh, Jendzian, you will not die your own death!" "What is written for each man, my master, that he'll have; but to deceive an enemy is praiseworthy, and pleasing to God." "I do not blame you for that, but for greed, which is the feeling of a peasant, unworthy of a noble; for this you will be damned without fail." "I will not spare money for candles in the church when I succeed in gaining anything, so that God too should have some profit from me and bless me; and it is no sin to help my parents." "What a rascal, what a finished scoundrel!" cried Zagloba to Volodyovski. "I thought my tricks would go with me to the grave; but I see that this is a still greater rogue. So through the cunning of this youth we shall free our princess from Bogun's captivity, with Bogun's permission, and on Burlai's horses! Has any man ever seen such a thing? And to look at him you wouldn't give three copper coins for the fellow!" Jendzian laughed with satisfaction, and said: "Will that be bad for us, my master?" "You please me, and were it not for your greed I should take you into my service; but since you have tricked Bogun in such style, I forgive you for having called me a sot." "It was not I who called you that, but Bogun." "Well, God has punished him." In such conversation the morning passed; but when the sun had rolled up high on the vault of heaven they became serious, for in a few hours they were to see Valadinka. After a long journey they were near their object at last; and disquiet, natural in such cases, crept into their hearts. Was Helena still alive? And if alive, would they find her? Horpyna might have taken her out, or might at the last moment have hidden her somewhere else among the secret places of the ravine, or have killed her. Obstacles were not all overcome yet, dangers were not all passed. They had, it is true, all the tokens by which Horpyna was to recognize them as Bogun's messengers, carrying out his will; but would the devils or the spirits forewarn her? Jendzian feared this most; and even Zagloba, though pretending to be an expert in the black art, did not think of this without alarm. In such a case they would find the ravine empty or (what was worse) Cossacks from Rashkoff ambushed in it. Their hearts beat more strongly; and when finally, after some hours yet of travelling, they saw from the lofty rim of the ravine the glittering ribbon of water, the plump face of Jendzian paled a little. "That is the Valadinka," said he, in a suppressed voice. "Already?" inquired Zagloba, in an equally low voice. "Are we so near as that?" "May God guard us!" replied Jendzian. "Oh, my master, begin your exorcisms, for I am awfully afraid." "Exorcisms are folly. Let us bless the river and the secret places,--that will help more." Volodyovski was the calmest of all, but he kept silent, examining however his pistols carefully, and added new powder; then he felt to see if his sabre would come out of the scabbard easily. "I have a consecrated bullet too in this pistol here," said Jendzian. "In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost! Let us move on!" "Move on! move on!" said Volodyovski. After a time they found themselves on the bank of the little river, and turned their horses in the direction of its course. Here Volodyovski stopped them, and said,-- "Let Jendzian take the baton, for the witch knows him, and let him be the first to talk with her, so that she may not get frightened at us and run off with the princess into some hiding-place." "I will not go first, no matter what you do," said Jendzian. "Then go last, you drone!" Having said this, Volodyovski went first, after him Zagloba, and in the rear with the pack-horses clattered Jendzian, looking around with apprehension on every side. The hoofs of the horses rattled over the stones, around about reigned the dull silence of the desert; but grasshoppers and crickets hidden in the cliff chirped, for it was a sultry day, though the sun had passed the meridian considerably. Night had come at last to the eminence, rounded like an upturned shield, on which rocks fallen apart and burnt from the sun presented forms like ruins, tumble-down houses, and church-steeples; you might have thought it a castle or a place stormed by an enemy. Jendzian looked at Zagloba and said: "This is the Devil's Mound; I know it from what Bogun told me. No living thing passes here by night." "If it does not, it can," answered Zagloba. "Tfu! what a cursed land! But at least we are on the right road." "The place is not far," said Jendzian. "Praise be to God!" answered Zagloba; and his mind was turned to the princess. He had wonderful thoughts, and seeing those wild banks of the Valadinka, that desert and silent wilderness, he scarcely believed that the princess could be so near,--she for whose sake he had passed through so many adventures and dangers, and loved so that when the news of her death came he knew not what to do with his life and his old age. But on the other hand a man becomes intimate, even with misfortune. Zagloba, who had grown familiar with the thought that she had been taken away and was far off in Bogun's power, did not dare to say now to himself: "The end of grief and search has come, the hour of success and peace has arrived." Besides other thoughts crowded to his brain: "What will she say when she sees him? Will she not dissolve into tears when like a thunderbolt comes to her that rescue, after such long and painful captivity? God has his wonderful ways," thought Zagloba, "and so succeeds in correcting everything that from this come the triumph of virtue and the shame of injustice. It was God who first gave Jendzian into the hands of Bogun, and then made friends of them. God arranged that War, the stern mother, called away the wild ataman from the fastnesses to which like a wolf he had carried his plunder. God afterward delivered him into the hands of Volodyovski, and again brought him into contact with Jendzian. All is so arranged that now, when Helena may have lost her last hope and when she expects aid from no side, aid is at hand! Oh, cease your weeping, my daughter! Soon will joy come to you without measure! Oh, she will be grateful, clasp her hands, and return thanks!" Then she stood before the eyes of Zagloba as if living, and he was filled with emotion and lost altogether in thinking of what would happen in an hour. Jendzian pulled him by the sleeve from behind. "My master!" "Well!" said Zagloba, displeased that the course of his thoughts was interrupted. "Did you not see a wolf spring across before us?" "What of that?" "But was it only a wolf?" "Kiss him on the snout." At this moment Volodyovski reined in his horse. "Have we lost the road," he asked, "for it should be here?" "No, we have not," answered Jendzian; "we are going as Bogun directed. I wish to God it were all over." "It will not be long, if we ride well." "I want to tell you another thing. When I am talking to the witch keep an eye on Cheremís; he must be a terribly nasty fellow, but shoots fearfully with his musket." "Oh, cavalry, don't be afraid!" They had barely gone some yards when the horses pricked up their ears and snorted. Jendzian's skin began to creep at once; for he expected that at any moment the howling of vampires might be heard from the cliffs in the rocks, or some unknown and repulsive form would creep out. But it appeared that the horses snorted only because they were passing near the retreat of that wolf who had so disturbed the youth a little while before. Round about was silence; even the grasshoppers had ceased chirping, for the sun had already inclined to the other side of the sky. Jendzian made the sign of the cross and calmed himself. Volodyovski held in his horse suddenly. "I see the ravine," said he, "in the throat of which a rock is thrust, and in the rock there is a breach." "In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost!" muttered Jendzian. "After me!" commanded Pan Michael, turning his horse. Soon they were at the breach, and passed through as under a stone arch. Before them opened a deep ravine, thickly overgrown with bushes at the sides, widening in the distance to a broad half-circle,--a small plain, enclosed as it were by gigantic walls. Jendzian began to shout as loud as the power in his breast permitted: "Bogun! Bogun! Witch, come out! Bogun! Bogun!" They halted and remained for some time in silence; then the youth began to shout again: "Bogun! Bogun!" From a distance came the barking of dogs. "Bogun! Bogun!" On the left rim of the ravine on which the ruddy and golden rays of the sun were falling the thick branches of the plum and wild-cherry trees began to rustle; and after a while there appeared, almost at the very source of the spring, a human form, which bending forward and covering its eyes with its hand looked carefully at the travellers. "That's Horpyna," said Jendzian; and putting his palms around his mouth, he began to shout a third time: "Bogun! Bogun!" Horpyna began to descend, bending back to keep her balance. She came on quickly, and after her rolled along a sort of dumpy little man with a long Turkish gun in his hand. Twigs broke under the weighty step of the witch; stones rolled from under them and rattled to the bottom of the ravine. Bent in that fashion, in the ruddy glare she seemed really some gigantic superhuman creature. "Who are you?" called she in a loud voice, when she had reached the bottom. "How are you, bass-viol!" said Jendzian, to whom his usual deliberation returned at the sight of human beings instead of spirits. "You are Bogun's servant? I know you, you fellow; but who are these?" "Friends of Bogun." "Ah, she is a handsome witch," muttered Pan Michael, under his mustaches. "And what have you come for?" "Here is the baton, the knife, and the ring for you,--you know what they mean?" The giantess took them in her hands and began to examine them carefully; then she said,-- "They are the same! You have come for the princess?" "Yes! Is she well?" "She is. Why didn't Bogun himself come?" "Bogun is wounded." "Wounded? I saw that in the mill." "If you saw it, why do you ask? You lie, you bugle-horn!" said Jendzian, confidently. The witch showed in a smile teeth white as the teeth of a wolf, and doubling her hand nudged Jendzian in the side: "You are a boy, you are a fellow, you are." "Be off!" "You won't give a kiss, will you? And when will you take the princess?" "Right away; we will only rest the horses." "Well, take her! I will go with you." "What do you want to go for?" "Death is fated for my brother; the Poles will empale him on a stake. I will go with you." Jendzian bent toward the saddle as if for easier conversation with the giantess, and his hand rested unobserved on the butt of a pistol. "Cheremís! Cheremís!" said he, wishing to turn the attention of his comrades on the dwarf. "Why do you call him? His tongue is cut out." "I am not calling him, I'm only admiring his beauty. You will not leave him,--he is your husband." "He is my dog!" "And there are only two of you in the ravine?" "Two,--the princess is the third." "That's well. You will not leave him?" "I will go with you," said she. "But I tell you that you will remain." There was something in the voice of the youth of such a character that the giantess turned on the spot with an alarmed face, for suspicion suddenly entered her mind. "What do you mean?" asked she. "This is what I mean!" answered Jendzian; and he thundered at her from the pistol so near that the smoke covered her completely for a moment. Horpyna pushed back with open arms; her eyes protruded, a kind of unearthly yell rose out of her throat; she tottered and fell on her back, full length. At the same moment Zagloba cut Cheremís through the head with a sabre so that the bone gritted under its edge. The deformed dwarf uttered no groan; he merely wound himself in a lump like a worm, and began to quiver. But the fingers of his hand opened and closed in succession like the claws of a dying wild-cat. Zagloba wiped the steaming sabre with the skirt of his coat. Jendzian, springing from the horse and taking up a stone, threw it on the broad breast of Horpyna; then he began to look for something in his bosom. The enormous body of the witch dug the ground yet with its feet, convulsions twisted her face terribly, on her grinning teeth came out a bloody foam, and dull rattles issued from her throat. Meanwhile the youth got from his bosom a piece of consecrated chalk, drew a cross with it on the stone, and said: "Now she will not rise!" Then he sprang into the saddle. "To horse!" commanded Volodyovski. They rushed like a whirlwind along the brook running through the middle of the ravine; they passed the oaks scattered thinly along the road, and a cottage appeared before their eyes. Farther on was the lofty mill, the moist wheel of which glittered like a ruddy star in the rays of the sun. Under the cottage two enormous black dogs, tied with ropes at the corner, sprang at the men, barking with rage and howling. Volodyovski, riding in advance, arrived first, sprang from his horse, ran to the entrance, kicked in the door, and rushed to the anteroom with clattering sabre. In the anteroom on the right through an open door was seen a wide room, with shavings scattered about and a smoking fireplace; on the left the door was closed. "She must be there!" thought Volodyovski; and he sprang toward the door. He pushed; it opened. He stepped on the threshold and stood there as if fastened. In the depth of the room, with head resting on the edge of a couch, was Helena Kurtsevichovna, pale, with hair falling on her neck and shoulders. With frightened eyes fixed on Volodyovski, she asked: "Who are you? What do you want?" for she had never seen the little knight before. He was astonished at the sight of that beauty and that room covered with silk and brocade. At last he came to his speech, and said hurriedly: "Have no fear, we are the friends of Skshetuski." That moment the princess threw herself on her knees: "Save me!" she cried, clasping her hands. Just then Zagloba, trembling, purple, and out of breath, rushed in. "It is we!" cried he,--"it is we with succor!" Hearing these words and seeing the familiar face, the princess bent over like a cut flower, her hands dropped, her eyes were covered with their bordered curtains. She had fainted. CHAPTER LVI. The horses were given barely time to rest, and the return was begun with such speed that when the moon had risen on the steppe the party was already in the neighborhood of Studenka, beyond the Valadinka. Volodyovski rode in front, looking carefully on every side. Next came Zagloba at the side of Helena; and Jendzian closed the procession, driving the pack animals and two saddle-horses, which he had not failed to take from Horpyna's stable. Zagloba's mouth was not closed; and in truth he had something to tell the princess, who shut up in the wild ravine knew nothing of what was passing in the world. He told her how they had looked for her at first; how Skshetuski, without knowing of the duel, had sought Bogun as far as Pereyasláv; how finally Jendzian gained the secret of her concealment from the ataman and brought it to Zbaraj. "Merciful God!" said Helena, raising her beautiful pale face to the moon; "then Pan Skshetuski went beyond the Dnieper for me?" "To Pereyasláv, as I tell you. And surely he would have come with us now, but we had no time to send for him as we wished to hurry to your aid at once. He knows nothing as yet of your safety, and offers prayers for your soul every day; but have no sorrow for him now. Let him suffer a while longer since such a reward is awaiting him." "And I thought that all had forgotten me, and I was only imploring the Lord for death." "Not only did we not forget you, but all the time our single thought was how to come to your aid. Wonders we planned. I was drying my brain, and so was Skshetuski; but that was to be expected. This knight too who is riding in front of us spared neither toil nor sword." "May God reward him!" "It is clear that you both have that which makes people cleave to you; but in truth you owe Volodyovski gratitude, for as I said we cut up Bogun like a pike." "In Rozlogi, Pan Skshetuski spoke much of Volodyovski as of his best friend." "And justly. He has a great soul in a little body. This moment he is somehow dull. It is evident that your beauty has stunned him; but wait, let him only grow used to it and he will come to himself. Oh! he and I worked wonders at the election." "Then there is a new king?" "Poor girl! In this cursed wilderness you don't know that Yan Kazimir was elected last autumn and has been reigning eight months. There will be a great war this time with the rabble. God grant us good fortune, for Yeremi has been set aside and others appointed who are altogether unfitted." "And will Pan Skshetuski go to the war?" "He is a true soldier, and I don't think you can stop him. He and I are alike! When powder entices, nothing can restrain us. Oh, we gave it to the ruffians in grand fashion last year! The whole night would be short were I to tell you all as it happened. We shall be sure to go, but with a light heart now. The main thing is that we have found you, poor girl, without whom life was a burden to us." The princess inclined her sweet face to Zagloba. "I know not why you love me, but it is sure that you do not love me more than I do you." Zagloba began to puff with satisfaction. "Then you love me?" "As I live, I do." "God reward you, for my old age will be lighter. Women pursue me yet, as was the case in Warsaw more than once during the election. Volodyovski is witness of that. But I don't care for love, and in spite of my hot blood, I am content with the feeling of a father." Silence followed; but the horses began to snort violently, one after another,--a favorable omen. "Good health, good health!" said the travellers. The night was clear; the moon rose higher and higher in the sky, which was filled with twinkling stars, that became weaker and paler. The tired horses lessened their speed, and weariness seized the travellers. Volodyovski reined in his horse first. "The dawn is not distant," said he; "it is time to rest." "It is," said Zagloba. "I am so sleepy that my horse seems to have two heads." But before resting, Jendzian prepared supper. He made a fire, removed the saddle-bags from a horse, and took out provisions which he had obtained from Burlai in Yampol, such as corn bread, cold meat, and Wallachian wine. At the sight of these two leather bags, well filled out with liquid which gave forth a pleasant sound, Zagloba forgot his sleep; the others also fell to eating and drinking with a good will. There was abundance for all; and when they were satisfied, Zagloba wiped his mouth and said,-- "Till death I shall not cease to repeat, 'Wondrous are the judgments of God!' Now, my young lady, you are free; and here we sit comforted under the sky, drinking Burlai's wine. I will not say that Hungarian would not be better, for this smells of the skin, but on the road it will pass." "There is one thing at which I cannot wonder sufficiently," said Helena,--"that Horpyna consented so easily to give me up to you." Zagloba looked at Volodyovski, then at Jendzian, and blinked rapidly. "She consented, for she had to. There is nothing to hide, for it is no shame that we rubbed out both Cheremís and the witch." "How?" asked the princess, with fright. "Didn't you hear the shots?" "I heard them, but thought Cheremís was firing." "It was not Cheremís, but this young fellow here, who shot the witch through and through. The devil sits in him, we don't dispute that. But he could not act otherwise; for the witch--whether it was because she knew something, or was stubborn--insisted on going with us. It was difficult to permit that, for she would have seen at once that we were not going to Kieff. He shot her, and I killed Cheremís,--a real African monster,--and I think that God will not count it ill of me. There must be a universal disgust of him in even the regions below. Just before leaving the ravine I went ahead and pulled the bodies aside a little, so that you might not be frightened at them or take it as a bad omen." "In these terrible times I have seen too many dead persons who were kindred of mine to be frightened at the sight of slain bodies," said the princess; "still I should prefer not to have blood shed, so that God might not punish us for it." "It was not a knightly deed," said Volodyovski, harshly. "I would not put my hand to it." "What is the use of thinking over it," said Jendzian, "when it could not be avoided? If we had destroyed some good person I should not speak; but an enemy of God may be killed; and I myself saw how that witch entered into fellowship with devils. It is not for her that I am sorry." "And why is Pan Jendzian sorry?" asked the princess. "Because money is buried there, of which Bogun told me; but you gentlemen were so urgent that I had no time to dig it up, though I know well where it is, near the mill. My heart was cut also at having to leave so much property of every kind in that room where you, my lady, lived." "Just see what a servant you are going to have!" said Zagloba to the princess. "With the exception of his master, there is no one, not the devil himself, from whom he would not strip skin to make a coat-collar for himself." "With God's help, Jendzian will not complain of my ingratitude," answered Helena. "I thank you humbly," said he, kissing her hand. During this time Volodyovski sat with a sullen look, drinking wine quietly from the skin, till his unusual silence attracted Zagloba's attention. "Ah, Pan Michael," said he, "you have given us scarcely a word." Here the old man turned to Helena. "I have not told you that your beauty has deprived him of reason and speech." "You would better take a nap before daylight," was the little knight's reply; and he began to move his mustaches like a rabbit trying to gain courage. But the old noble was right. The beauty of the princess had kept the little knight in a sort of continual ecstasy. He looked at her, looked again, and in his mind he asked: "Can it be that such a woman moves upon the earth?" He had seen much beauty in his day. Beautiful were the Princesses Anna and Barbara Zbaraska, and Anusia Borzobogata, charming beyond expression. Panna Jukovkna, to whom Roztvorovski was paying court, had many a charm, and so had Vershulovna and Skoropadska and Bohovitnianka; but none of these could compare with that marvellous flower of the steppe. In presence of the others Volodyovski was vivacious, full of speech; but now, when he looked on those velvet eyes, sweet and languishing, on the silken lashes, the shade of which fell on the pupils, on the arrowy form, on the bosom lightly moved by the breath, on the bloom of the lips,--when Volodyovski looked at all this, he simply forgot the tongue in his mouth; and what was worse, he seemed awkward, stupid, and above all diminutive,--so small as to be ridiculous. "She is a princess, and I am a little boy," thought he, in bitterness; and he would have rejoiced could some giant have issued from the darkness by chance, for then poor Pan Michael would have shown that he was not so small as he seemed. He was irritated also because Zagloba, evidently glad that his daughter was so attractive, coughed every little while, quizzed, and winked fearfully. And each instant she was more beautiful, as calm and sweet she sat before the fire, shone on by the rosy flame and the white moon. "Confess, Pan Michael," said Zagloba, early next day, when they found themselves alone for a moment, "that there is not such another girl in the Commonwealth. If you show me another such, I will let you call me idiot and give me a drubbing." "I do not deny," said the little knight, "that she is dainty and rare, such as I have not seen till this hour; for even those forms of goddesses cut from marble which seem alive, and which we saw in the Kazanovski palace, are not to be compared with her. I do not wonder that the best men are risking their lives for her, for she is worth it." "Well, well," said Zagloba, "as God lives, you cannot tell when she is better, morning or evening, for she always moves in beauty, like a rose. I have told you that I was once of extraordinary beauty myself, but I should have been forced to yield to her, though some say she resembles me as one cup does another." "Go to the devil!" cried the little knight. "Don't be angry, Pan Michael, for you are bad enough to the eye already. You gaze on her as a goat on a head of cabbage. One might swear that longing has seized you; but the sausage is not for the dog." "Tfu!" cried Volodyovski. "Are you not ashamed, being an old man, to talk such nonsense?" "And why are you frowning?" "Because you think we have passed all danger, like a bird in the air, and are entirely safe; but now careful deliberation is needed, so that when we have escaped one evil we may avoid another. There is a terrible road before us yet, and God knows what may happen, for these regions to which we are going must be already on fire." "When I stole her from Bogun out of Rozlogi it was worse, for there was pursuit in the rear and rebellion in front; still I passed through the whole Ukraine as through a flame, and went to Bar. And why is the head on my shoulders? At the worst, it is not far to Kamenyets." "True; but it is not far for the Turks and Tartars, either." "Oh, what stuff do you tell me?" "I tell you the truth, and say that it is worth thinking over. It is better to avoid Kamenyets and move on towards Bar; for the Cossacks will respect the baton. With the rabble we can get on; but if the Tartars see us, all is lost. I know them of old, and I could flee before a Tartar party with the birds and the wolves; but if we were to meet them I could be of no service." "Then let us go through Bar or around Bar; let the plague take the limes and cherries of Kamenyets. You don't know that Jendzian took a baton from Burlai. We can go everywhere among the Cossacks singing. We have passed the worst of the Wilderness; we shall enter a settled country. We must think of stopping here and there at a farm about the time of evening milking, for such a place is more proper and comfortable for the princess. But it seems to me, Pan Michael, that you look at things in too sombre a light. Just think that three men like us--without flattery to you or me--should not be able to make our way in the steppe! We'll join our stratagems to your sabre; and now for it! Nothing better can be done. Jendzian has Burlai's baton; and that is the main thing, for Burlai commands all Podolia at present, and if we are once beyond Bar, Lantskoronski is there, with the squadrons of the Crown. On, Pan Michael, let us lose no time!" And in fact they lost no time, but tore on through the steppes toward the north and the west as fast as their horses could go. On the heights of Mogileff they entered a more settled land, so that in the evening it was not difficult anywhere to find farms or villages in which to spend the night; but the ruddy dawn always found them on horseback and on the road. Fortunately the summer was dry,--warm days, with dewy nights, and in the early morning the whole steppe was silvered as with frost. The wind dried the waters, the rivers decreased, and they crossed without difficulty. Going for some time along and above Lozova, they stopped for a somewhat longer rest than usual in Shargorod, where there was a Cossack regiment not belonging to Burlai's command. There they found messengers from Burlai, and among them Kuna, a sotnik (captain), whom they had seen in Yampol at the feast with Burlai. He was somewhat surprised that they were not going through Bratslav, Raigorod, and Skvira to Kieff; but no suspicion remained in his mind, especially when Zagloba explained to him that they had not taken that road from fear of the Tartars, who were about to march from the direction of the Dnieper. Kuna told them then that Burlai had sent him to proclaim the campaign, and that he himself was ready to come at any moment, with all the forces at Yampol and the Budjak-Tartars to Shargorod, whence they would advance immediately. Couriers had come from Hmelnitski to Burlai with news that war had begun, and with orders to lead all the regiments to Volynia. Burlai had long wished to move on Bar, and was merely awaiting the Tartar reinforcements, for somehow it had begun to go badly at Bar for the rebellion. Lantskoronski, the Polish commander, had cut up considerable bands there, captured the place, and put a garrison in the castle. Several thousand Cossacks had been killed. Burlai wished to avenge these and recapture the castle; but Kuna said that the final orders of Hmelnitski to march on Volynia prevented these plans, and Bar would not be besieged unless the Tartars should insist on it. "Well, Pan Michael," said Zagloba the next day, "Bar is before us and we might hide the princess there a second time; but the devil take it, I have no more trust in Bar, or any other fortress, since these ruffians have more cannon than the armies of the Crown. This, however, troubles me somewhat, that clouds are gathering around." "Not only are clouds gathering," answered the knight, "but a storm is rolling up behind, namely the Tartars; and if Burlai should come up with us he would be greatly astonished that we are not going to Kieff, but in the opposite direction." "He would be ready to show us another road. May the devil show him first the straightest road to his own kingdom! Let us make an agreement, Pan Michael. I will explain everything to the Cossacks, but let your wit work against the Tartars." "It is easier for you to manage the ruffians who take us for their own," answered Volodyovski. "Against the Tartars there is but one help,--to flee with all swiftness, to slip out of the snare while there is time. We must buy good horses on the road wherever we can, so as to have fresh ones at any moment." "Pan Longin's purse will suffice for that, and if it does not we will take Burlai's money from Jendzian. But now forward!" And they pushed on still more hurriedly, till foam covered the sides of the ponies and fell like snow-flakes on the green steppe. After they had passed Derla and Ladava, Volodyovski bought new horses in Barek, without leaving the old ones; for those which they had as a gift from Burlai were of rare breed, and they kept them attached by the bridle, and drove on, making shorter stops and night-rests. Every one was in good health, and Helena in excellent spirits. Though wearied with the road, she felt that every day gave her new strength. In the ravine she had passed a secluded life and scarcely left her gilded room, not wishing to meet the shameless Horpyna and listen to her talk and persuasion; now the fresh breeze of the steppe brought back her health. The roses bloomed on her face, the sun darkened her complexion, but her eyes gained brightness; and when at times the wind blew the hair over her forehead, you would have said she was some gypsy, the most wonderful soothsayer, or that a gypsy queen was travelling in the wide steppe,--flowers springing up before her, knights following behind. Volodyovski grew accustomed to her beauty by degrees, as the journey brought them together, so that finally he became used to her; then he regained his speech and cheerfulness, and often while riding at her side told of Lubni, and especially of his friendship for Pan Yan, thinking she heard this with gladness; at times he even teased her, saying: "I am Bogun's friend and am taking you to him." Then she would fold her hands as if in great dread, and say in a sweet voice: "Oh, cruel knight, better kill me at once than do that!" "Impossible, I must take you!" answered the stern knight. "Strike!" said she, closing her eyes and stretching her neck to him. Then the ants began to travel along the back of the little knight. "That girl goes to the head like wine!" thought he; "but I cannot drink this wine, for it is another's." The honest Pan Michael then shook himself and urged his horse forward. When he plunged into the grass like a sea-mew into water, the ants fell from him; he turned all his attention to the journey. Was it safe, were they going well, or was any adventure approaching them from any side? He straightened himself in the stirrups, raised his yellow mustaches over the waving grass, looked, sniffed, listened like a Tartar when he is prowling in the wild fields through the grass of the steppe. Zagloba too was in the best of spirits. "It is easier for us to escape now," said he, "than when on the Kagamlik we had to sneak off on foot like dogs, with our tongues hanging out. My tongue at that time was so dried up in my mouth that I could have planed a tree with it, but now, thanks be to God, I have something to sleep on in the evening, and something to wet my throat with from time to time." "Do you remember how you carried me over the water?" "God grant us to wait! you'll have something to carry in your arms; I'll bet Skshetuski's head on that." "Ho! ho!" laughed Jendzian. "Desist, I beg you," whispered the princess, blushing and dropping her eyes. Thus they conversed over the steppe, to shorten the time. Finally, beyond Barek and Yeltushkoff they entered a country recently gnawed by the teeth of war. There bands of armed ruffians raged; there also, not long before, Lantskoronski burned and slew, for it was only a few days since he had withdrawn to Zbaraj. Our travellers learned also from the people of the town that Hmelnitski and the Khan had set out with all their forces against the Poles, or rather against the commanders whose forces were in mutiny and refused to serve except under the command of Prince Yeremi. In this connection it was generally prophesied that destruction or the end of either the Poles or the Cossacks would surely come, for Father Hmelnitski and Yeremi were to meet. The whole country was as if on fire. All were rushing to arms and marching to the north to join Hmelnitski. From the lower Dniester, Burlai was advancing with his entire force; and along the road every regiment was in motion from garrisons, quarters, and pastures, for the order had come to all. They marched then in hundreds, in squadrons, in thousands; and at their flank rolled on like a river the mob, armed with flails, forks, knives, and pikes. Horseboys and herdsmen left their herds, settlers their lands, bee-keepers their bees, wild fishermen their reeds by the Dnieper, hunters the woods. Hamlets, villages, and towns were deserted. In three provinces there remained at home but old women and children, for even the young women had gone with the men against the Poles. Simultaneously from the east approached with his entire main army Hmelnitski, like an ominous storm, crushing by the way with his mighty hand castles, great and small, and killing all who were left from the previous defeats. Having passed Bar, full of gloomy reminiscences for the princess, our travellers took the high-road leading through Latichi and Ploskiri to Tarnopol, and farther to Lvoff. Now, they met more frequently, at one time regular tabors of wagons, at another detachments of Cossack infantry and cavalry; now parties of peasants; now countless herds of cattle surrounded with clouds of dust, and driven on as food for the Cossack and the Tartar armies. The road became dangerous, for they were asked continually what they wanted, whence they came, and where they were going. Zagloba showed the Cossack companies Burlai's baton, and said,-- "We are sent from Burlai; we are taking Bogun's wife." At sight of the baton of the terrible colonel, the Cossacks generally opened the way the more readily, since every one understood that if Bogun was alive he must be near the forces of the commanders in the neighborhood of Zbaraj or Konstantinoff. But it was far more difficult for the travellers to pass the mob with its wild parties of herdsmen, ignorant, drunk, and having almost no idea of the ensigns given by colonels for a safe conduct. Had it not been for Helena, these half-savage people would have taken Zagloba, Volodyovski, and Jendzian for their own,--in fact they did so even as it was; but Helena attracted universal attention by her sex and unusual beauty, hence the dangers had to be overcome with the greatest care. At one time Zagloba showed the baton, at another Volodyovski his teeth, and more than one corpse fell behind them. A number of times the unapproachable steeds of Burlai alone saved them from too grievous adventure, and the journey so favorable at the beginning grew more difficult each day. Helena, although brave by nature, began to fail in health from continual alarm and sleeplessness, and looked in truth like a captive dragged against her will into the tent of an enemy. Zagloba exerted himself savagely, and was continually inventing new stratagems which the little knight put into practice at once; both of them consoled the princess as best they could. "We have only to pass the swarm which is now in front," said Volodyovski, "and reach Zbaraj, before Hmelnitski with the Tartars fills the region about." They learned on the road that the commanders had concentrated at Zbaraj, and intended to defend themselves there. They went to that place, expecting justly that Prince Yeremi would come to the commanders with his division, since a part of his forces (and that a considerable one) had its permanent post at Zbaraj. The swarms grew thinner on the road, for the country occupied by the squadrons of the Crown began only fifty miles beyond. The Cossack parties did not dare therefore to push on farther; they preferred to wait, at a safe distance, the arrival of Burlai from one and Hmelnitski from the other side. "Only fifty miles now! only fifty miles!" repeated Zagloba, rubbing his hands. "If we could but reach the first Polish squadrons, we might go to Zbaraj in safety." But Volodyovski determined to supply himself with fresh horses at Ploskiri, for those which he had bought at Barek were already useless, and it was necessary to spare Burlai's steeds for a black hour. This precaution became imperative, since news came that Hmelnitski was already at Konstantinoff, and the Khan with all his hordes was moving from Pilavtsi. "Jendzian and I will remain here with the princess near the town, for it is better not to show ourselves on the market-place," said the little knight to Zagloba, when they came to a deserted house about two furlongs from the town, "and you go and inquire if there are horses for sale or exchange. It is evening now, but we will travel all night." "I'll return soon," said Zagloba. He went to the town. Volodyovski told Jendzian to let out the saddle-girths a little, so that the horses might rest; then he conducted Helena into the house, begging her to strengthen herself with some wine and with sleep. "I should like to pass those fifty miles before daybreak to-morrow," said he; "then we shall all rest." But he had scarcely brought the wine-skin and food when there was a clatter in front of the house. The little knight looked out through the window. "Zagloba has already returned," said he; "it is evident that he has found no horses." The door opened that moment, and Zagloba appeared in it, pale, blue, sweating, puffing. "To horse!" he cried. Volodyovski was too experienced a soldier to lose time on inquiries. He didn't lose it even in saving the skin of wine,--which Zagloba carried off nevertheless,--but he seized the princess with all haste, took her out, put her on the saddle, gave a last look to see if the girths were drawn, and cried, "Forward!" The hoofs clattered, and soon horses and riders had vanished in the darkness like a party in a dream. They flew on a long time without rest, till at last nearly five miles of road separated them from Ploskiri. Before the rising of the moon darkness became so dense that every pursuit was impossible. Volodyovski drew near Zagloba, and asked,-- "What was the matter?" "Wait, Pan Michael, wait! I am terribly blown. I came near losing the use of my legs. Uf!" "But what was the matter?" "The devil in his own person,--the devil or a dragon! If you cut one head off him, another will grow." "But speak plainly!" "I saw Bogun on the market-square." "Are you mad?" "I saw him on the square, as I live, and with him five or six men, for I nearly lost the use of my legs. They held torches for him, and I thought, 'Some devil is standing in our road.' I lost all hope of a successful end to our undertaking. Can this imp of hell be immortal, or what? Don't speak of him to Helena. Oh, for God's sake, you slew him; Jendzian gave him up! That wasn't enough; he is alive now, free, and stands in the way. Oh, my God, my God! I tell you, Pan Michael, that I would rather see a ghost in a graveyard than him. And what devilish luck that I am the first to meet him everywhere! It's luck to cram down a dog's throat. Are there no other people in the world? Let others meet him. No! always I, and I." "But did he see you?" "If he had seen me, Pan Michael, you wouldn't be looking at me now. That alone was wanting." "It would be important to know whether he is chasing after us, or is going to Valadinka to Horpyna with the intention of seizing us on the road." "It seems to me that he is going to Valadinka." "It must be so. Then we shall go on in one direction and he in the opposite; now there are five miles and more between us, and soon there will be twenty-five. Before he hears about us on the road, and returns, we shall be not only in Zbaraj, but in Jolkvi." "Your speech, Pan Michael, thank God! is like a plaster to me. But tell me how it can be that he is free, when Jendzian gave him into the hands of the commandant of Vlodava?" "Oh, he simply ran away!" "The head of a commandant like that should be struck off. Jendzian! Jendzian!" "What do you wish, my master?" asked the youth, reining in his horse. "To whom did you deliver Bogun?" "To Pan Rogovski." "And who is this Pan Rogovski?" "He is a great knight, a colonel of an armored regiment of the king." "There it is for you!" said Volodyovski, snapping his fingers. "Don't you remember what Pan Longin told about Skshetuski's enmity with Rogovski? He is a relative of Pan Lashch, on account of whose disgrace he has a hatred for Skshetuski." "I understand, I understand!" shouted Zagloba. "He is the one who must have let Bogun out through spite. But that is a capital offence, and smells of death. I'll be the first to report it." "If God lets me meet him," muttered Volodyovski, "we shall be sure not to go to a tribunal." Jendzian did not know yet what the trouble was, for after his answer he pushed forward again to the princess. They were riding slowly. The moon had risen; the mists, which since evening had settled upon the land, fell away, and the night became clear. Volodyovski was sunk in meditation. Zagloba was digesting for some time yet the remnants of his astonishment; at last he said,-- "Bogun would have given it to Jendzian now if he had caught him." "Tell him the news; let him be afraid too, and I'll go immediately to the princess," answered the little knight. "Here, Jendzian!" "Well, what is it?" asked the youth, reining in his horse again. Zagloba came up with him. He was silent for a while, waiting for Volodyovski and the princess to ride far enough away. At last he asked: "Do you know what has happened?" "No." "Pan Rogovski set Bogun at liberty. I saw him in Ploskiri." "In Ploskiri? To-day?" asked Jendzian. "Yes. Why don't you drop from the saddle?" The rays of the moon fell straight on the round face of the youth, and Zagloba saw on it not terror, but, to his utmost astonishment, that expression of stern, almost brutal stubbornness which Jendzian had when he killed Horpyna. "Well, are you not afraid of Bogun?" "My master," answered the youth, "if Pan Rogovski has let him go, then I must seek revenge on him again myself for the wrong done me and the insult. I do not forgive him, for I took an oath; and if we were not conducting the lady, I should turn back on the road at once. Let what belongs to me be mine." "I am glad not to have offended this young fellow." They spurred their horses, and soon came up with the princess and Volodyovski. In an hour they turned through the Medvédovka and entered a forest extending from the very bank of the river in two black walls along the road. "I know the neighborhood well," said Zagloba. "There will soon be an end to this forest; after it is about a mile and a quarter of level land, and then another forest still larger extending to Matchin. God grant us to find Polish squadrons there!" "It is high time that rescue came," muttered Volodyovski. They rode awhile in silence over a road clearly lighted by the rays of the moon. "Two wolves have run across," said Helena, suddenly. "Yes," said Volodyovski, "and here is a third." The gray shadow shot across a little more than a hundred rods in front of the horses. "There is a fourth," said the princess. "No, that is a deer. Look,--two, three!" "What the devil!" cried Zagloba. "Deer chasing wolves! The world, I see, is overturned." "Let us go a little faster," cried Volodyovski, with a voice of alarm. "Jendzian, come this way and go ahead with the lady!" They shot on; but Zagloba bent forward as they rode to Volodyovski's ear, and inquired: "Pan Michael, what tidings?" "Evil!" answered the little knight. "You have seen wild beasts rushing from their lairs and escaping in the night." "But what does that mean?" "It means that they are frightened." "Who frightens them?" "Troops, Cossack or Tartar, are coming toward us from the right hand." "But it may be our squadrons?" "Impossible, for the beasts are fleeing from the east, from Pilavtsi. Doubtless, then, the Tartars are marching in a wide body." "Let us flee, Pan Michael, in God's name!" "There is no help. Oh, if the princess were not here, we could go quite near them; but with her the passage will be very difficult if they set eyes on us." "Have the fear of God, Pan Michael. Shall we turn to the woods and run after the wolves, or what?" "Impossible; for though the enemy would not reach us at once, they would deluge the country in front of us, and then how should we escape?" "May brimstone thunderbolts shake them! This alone was wanting to us. Oh, Pan Michael, are you not mistaken? You know wolves follow an army; they do not run before it." "Those at the flanks follow the army and gather in from every side, but those in front get frightened. Look! on the right, between the trees, there is a fire." "Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews!" "Silence! Is there much more of this forest?" "We shall be at the end in a moment." "And then a field?" "Yes, O Jesus!" "No noise! Beyond the field there is another forest?" "Extending to Matchin." "We shall be all right if they don't overtake us in this field. If we reach the second forest in safety, we are at home. Let us go together then. Luckily the princess and Jendzian are on Burlai's horses." They put spurs to the horses, and joined the princess and Jendzian. "What fire is that on the right?" asked the princess. "There is no use in hiding it from you; that may be Tartars." "Jesus, Mary!" "Have no fear. My neck for it, we shall escape them, and our squadrons are in Matchin." "For God's sake, let us be off!" said Jendzian. They were silent, and sped on like ghosts. The trees began to grow thinner; they were reaching the end of the forest, and the fire was somewhat dimmer too. Suddenly Helena turned to Volodyovski. "Swear to me, gentlemen," said she, "that I shall not go alive into their hands." "You will not," said Volodyovski, "while I am alive." They had barely passed the end and come into an open field about a mile in width, and on the other side of it another line of forest stood dark. That bald space of earth open on every side was all silvered over from the rays of the moon. All things were as visible on it as in the daytime. "This is the worst piece of road," whispered Volodyovski to Zagloba; "for if they are in Chorni Ostroff, they will pass between these forests." Zagloba gave no answer; he only pressed the horse with his heels. They had run to the middle of the field, the opposite forest was growing nearer each moment and more distinct, when suddenly the little knight stretched out his hand to the east. "Look!" said he to Zagloba; "do you see?" "Some kind of branches and thicket in the distance." "Those branches are moving. Now on, on, push on! for they see us beyond a doubt." The wind whistled past the ears of the fleeing; the forest of salvation drew nearer each instant. All at once out of that dark mass approaching from the right side of the field flew on as it were the roar of sea waves, and the next moment one great shout rent the air. "They see us!" bellowed Zagloba. "Dogs, ruffians, devils, wolves, scoundrels!" The forest was so near that the fugitives almost felt its cold, austere breath; but also the cloud of Tartars became each moment more clearly outlined, and from the dark body of it long arms began to push out like the horns of some gigantic monster, and approached the fugitives with inconceivable rapidity. The trained ear of Volodyotski already distinguished clearly: "Allah! Allah!" "My horse has stumbled!" shouted Zagloba. "That is nothing!" cried Volodyovski But through his head that moment there flew like thunderbolts the questions: "What will happen if the horses do not hold out? What will happen if one of them falls?" They were valiant Tartar steeds of iron endurance, but they had come already from Ploskiri, resting but little on that wild flight from the town to the first forest. They might, it is true, take the led horses, but they too were tired. "What is to be done?" thought Volodyovski; and his heart throbbed with alarm,--perhaps for the first time in his life,--not for himself, but for Helena, whom during that long journey he had come to love as his own sister. And he knew too that the Tartars when they had once begun pursuit would not relinquish it very soon. "Let them keep on, they will not catch her," said he, setting his teeth. "My horse has stumbled!" cried Zagloba a second time. "That is nothing!" answered Volodyovski again. They were now in the forest, darkness around them; but single Tartar horsemen were not farther than a few hundred yards behind. But the little knight knew now what to do. "Jendzian," cried he, "turn with the lady to the first path leading out of the highway." "Good, my master!" The little knight turned to Zagloba. "Pistol in hand!" At the same time, seizing the bridle of Zagloba's horse, he began to restrain his course. "What are you doing?" cried the noble. "Nothing! Hold in your horse!" The distance between them and Jendzian, who had escaped with Helena, increased every moment. At last he came with her to a point where the highway turned rather sharply toward Zbaraj, and straight ahead lay a narrow forest-trail half hidden by branches. Jendzian rushed into it, and in a twinkle the two had disappeared in the thicket and the gloom. Meanwhile Volodyovski had stopped his own horse and Zagloba's. "In the name of God's mercy, what are you doing?" roared Zagloba. "We delay the pursuit. There is no other salvation for the princess." "We shall perish!" "Let us perish. Stop here right by the side of the road,--right here!" Both stood close under the trees in the darkness; presently the mighty thumping of Tartar horses approached and roared like a storm till the whole forest was filled with it. "It has come!" said Zagloba, raising the skin of wine to his mouth. He drank and drank, then shook himself. "In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost," coughed he. "I am ready for death." "This minute! this minute!" cried Volodyovski. "Three of them are riding in advance; that is what I wanted." In fact three horsemen appeared on the clear road, mounted evidently on the best horses,--"wolf-hunters," so called in the Ukraine, for they came up with wolves in the chase,--and two or three hundred yards behind them a few hundred others, and still farther a whole dense throng of the horde. When the first three came in front of the ambush two shots were discharged; then Volodyovski sprang like a panther into the middle of the road, and before Zagloba had time to think what was done the third Tartar was on the ground. "Forward!" shouted the little knight. Zagloba did not let the order be repeated, and they rushed over the road like a pair of wolves hunted by a pack of angry dogs. That moment the other Tartars hastened to the corpses, and seeing that those hunted wolves could bite to death they curbed their horses a little, waiting for their comrades. "As you see, I knew that I should stop them," said Volodyovski. But although the fugitives gained a few hundred steps, the interruption in the chase did not last long. Only the Tartars pressed on in a larger crowd, not pushing forward singly. The horses of the fugitives were wearied by the long road, and their speed slackened, especially that of Zagloba's horse, which bearing such a considerable burden stumbled once and twice. What there was left of the old man's hair stood on end at the thought that he should fall. "Pan Michael, dearest Pan Michael, do not abandon me!" cried he, in despair. "Oh, be of good heart!" answered the little knight. "May the wolves tear this hor--" He had not finished this sentence when the first arrow hissed near his ear, and after it others began to hiss and whistle and sing as if they were horseflies and bees. One passed so near that its head almost grazed Zagloba's ear. Volodyovski turned and again fired twice from his pistol at the pursuers. Zagloba's horse stumbled now so heavily that his nostrils were almost buried in the earth. "By the living God, my horse is dying!" shouted he, in a heart-rending voice. "From the saddle to the woods!" thundered Volodyovski. Having given this order, he stopped his own horse, sprang off, and a moment later he and Zagloba vanished in the darkness. But this movement did not escape the slanting eyes of the Tartars, and several tens of them springing from their horses also gave chase. The branches tore the cap from Zagloba's head, beat him on the face and caught his coat, but putting his feet behind his belt he made off as if he were thirty years of age. Sometimes he fell, but he was up again and off quicker than ever, puffing like a bellows. At last he fell into a deep hole, and felt that he could not crawl out again, for his strength had failed him completely. "Where are you?" called Volodyovski, in a low voice. "Down here! It's all over with me,--save me, Pan Michael." Volodyovski sprang without hesitation to the hole and clapped his hand on Zagloba's mouth: "Be silent! perhaps they will pass us! We will defend ourselves anyhow." By that time the Tartars came up. Some of them did in fact pass the hole, thinking that the fugitives had gone farther; others went slowly, examining the trees and looking around on every side. The knights held the breath in their breasts. "Let some one fall in here," thought Zagloba, in despair; "I'll fall on him." Just then sparks scattered on every side; the Tartars began to strike fire. By the flash their wild faces could be seen, with their puffed cheeks and lips sticking out, blowing the lighted tinder. For a time they kept going around a few tens of steps from the hole like ill-omened forest phantoms, drawing nearer and nearer. But at the last moment wonderful sounds of some sort, murmurs, and confused cries began to come from the highway and to rouse the slumbering depths. The Tartars stopped striking fire, and stood as if rooted to the earth. Volodyovski's hand was biting into the shoulder of Zagloba. The cries increased, and suddenly red lights burst forth, and with them was heard a salvo of musketry,--once, twice, three times,--followed by shouts of "Allah!" the clatter of sabres, the neighing of horses, tramping, and confused uproar. A battle was raging on the road. "Ours, ours!" shouted Volodyovski. "Slay! kill! strike! cut! slaughter!" bellowed Zagloba. A second later a number of Tartars rushed past the hole in the wildest disorder, and vanished in the direction of their party. Volodyovski did not restrain himself; he sprang after them, and pressed on in the thicket and darkness. Zagloba remained at the bottom of the hole. He tried to crawl up, but could not. All his bones were aching, and he was barely able to stand on his feet. "Ah, scoundrels!" said he, looking around on every side, "you have fled; it is a pity some one of you did not stay,-- I should have company in this hole, and I would show him where pepper grows! Oh, pagan trash, they are cutting you up like beasts this minute! Oh, for God's sake, the uproar is increasing every moment! I wish that Yeremi himself were here; he would warm you. You are shouting, 'Allah! Allah!' The wolves will shout 'Allah!' over your carrion pretty soon. But that Pan Michael should leave me here alone! Well, nothing wonderful; he is eager, for he is young. After this last adventure I would follow him anywhere, for he is not a friend to leave one in distress. He is a wasp! In one minute he stung three! If at least I had that wine-skin with me! But those devils have surely taken it, or the horses have trampled it. Besides insects are devouring me in this ditch! What's that?" The shouts and discharges of musketry began to recede in the direction of the field and the first forest. "Ah, ah!" thought Zagloba, "they are on their necks. Oh, dog-brothers, you could not hold out! Praise be to God in the highest!" The shouts receded farther and farther. "They ride lustily," muttered he. "But I see that I shall have to sit in this ditch. It only remains now for the wolves to eat me. Bogun to begin with, then the Tartars, and wolves at the end! God grant a stake to Bogun and madness to the wolves! Our men will take care of the Tartars not in the worst fashion. Pan Michael! Pan Michael!" Silence gave answer to Zagloba; only the pines murmured, and from afar came the sounds fainter and fainter. "Shall I lie down to sleep here, or what? May the devil take it! Pan Michael!" But Zagloba's patience had a long trial yet, for dawn was in the sky when the clatter of hoofs was heard again on the road and lights shone in the forest. "Pan Michael, I am here!" "Crawl out." "But I cannot." Volodyovski with a torch in his hand stood over the hole, and giving his hand to Zagloba, said: "Well, the Tartars are gone; we drove them to the other forest." "But who came up?" "Kushel and Roztvorovski, with two thousand horse. My dragoons are with them too." "Were there many of the Pagans?" "A couple of thousand." "Praise be to God! Give me something to drink, for I am faint." Two hours later Zagloba, having eaten and drunk what he needed; was sitting on a comfortable saddle in the midst of Volodyovski's dragoons, and at his side rode the little knight, who said,-- "Do not worry; for though we shall not come to Zbaraj in company with the princess, it would have been worse if she had fallen into the hands of the heathen." "But perhaps Jendzian will come back yet to Zbaraj." "He will not. The highway will be occupied; the party which we drove back will return soon and follow us. Besides Burlai may appear at any moment before Jendzian could come in. Hmelnitski and the Khan are marching on the other side from Konstantinoff." "Oh, for God's sake! Then he will fall into a trap with the princess." "Jendzian has wit enough to spring through between Zbaraj and Konstantinoff in time, and not let the regiments of Hmelnitski nor the parties of the Khan catch him. You see I have great confidence in his success." "God grant it!" "He is a cunning lad, just like a fox. You have no lack of stratagem, but he is more cunning. We split our heads a great deal over plans to rescue the girl, but in the end our hands dropped, and through him the whole has been directed. He'll slip out this time like a snake, for it is a question of his own life. Have confidence,--for God, who saved her so many times, is over her now; and remember that in Zbaraj you bade me have confidence when Zakhar came." Zagloba was strengthened somewhat by these words of Pan Michael, and then fell into deep thought. "Pan Michael," he said after a time, "have you asked Kushel what Skshetuski is doing?" "He is in Zbaraj, and well; he came from Prince Koretski's with Zatsvilikhovski." "But what shall we tell him?" "Ah, there is the rub!" "Does he think yet that the girl was killed in Kieff?" "He does." "Have you told Kushel or any one else where we are coming from?" "I have not, for I thought it better to take counsel first." "I should prefer to say nothing of the whole affair. If the girl should fall again into Cossack or Tartar hands (which God forbid!), it would be a new torture, just as if some one were to tear open all his wounds." "I'll give my head that Jendzian takes her through." "I should gladly give my own to have him do so; but misfortune rages now in the world like a pestilence. Better be silent, and leave everything to the will of God." "So let it be. But will not Podbipienta give the secret to Skshetuski?" "Don't you know him? He gave his word of honor, which for that Lithuanian is sacred." Here Kushel joined them. They rode on together, talking, by the first rays of the rising sun, of public affairs, of the arrival at Zbaraj of the commanders in consequence of Yeremi's wishes, of the impending arrival of the prince himself, and the inevitable and awful struggle with the whole power of Hmelnitski. CHAPTER LVII. Volodyovski and Zagloba found all the forces of the Crown assembled at Zbaraj, and waiting for the enemy. The cup-bearer of the Crown, Ostrorog, who had come from Konstantinoff, was there, and Lantskoronski, castellan of Kamenyets, who had gained the first victory at Bar; the third commander, Pan Firlei of Dombrovitsa, castellan of Belsk, and Andrei Serakovski, secretary of the Crown; Konyetspolski, the standard-bearer, and Pshiyemski, commander of the artillery, a warrior specially expert in the capture and defence of towns; and with them ten thousand troops, not counting a number of Prince Yeremi's squadrons previously quartered at Zbaraj. Pan Pshiyemski, on the southern side of the town and the castle and the two ponds, had laid out a strong camp, which he fortified in foreign fashion, and which it was only possible to capture in front; for at the rear and two sides it was defended by the ponds, the castle, and the river. In this camp the commanders intended to offer resistance to Hmelnitski, and delay his avalanche till the king, with the rest of the forces and the national militia of all the nobility, should come. But was that plan possible of execution in view of the power of Hmelnitski? There was much doubt, and there were reasonable causes for the doubt,--among them the disorder in the camp itself. First of all, secret contention was raging among the leaders. The commanders had come against their will to Zbaraj, yielding in this to the desires of Prince Yeremi. They wished at first to make their defence at Konstantinoff; but when the news went forth that Yeremi would appear in his own person only in case Zbaraj should be the point of defence, the soldiers declared immediately to the leaders of the Crown that they would go to Zbaraj, and would not fight elsewhere. Neither persuasion nor the authority of the baton availed; and in short the commanders discovered that if they should continue in longer resistance, the army, from the heavy hussar regiments to the last soldier of the foreign companies, would leave them and go over to the banners of Vishnyevetski. This was one of those sad cases of military insubordination of increasing frequency in that time, and caused by the incapacity of the leaders, their mutual disagreements, the unexampled terror before the power of Hmelnitski, and the defeats unheard of till then, especially the defeat of Pilavtsi. So the commanders had to march to Zbaraj, where the command, in spite of the appointments made by the king, had by the force of circumstance passed into the hands of Yeremi; for the army would obey only him,--fight and perish under him alone. But that leader _de facto_ was not in Zbaraj yet; therefore unrest was increasing in the army, discipline was relaxed to the last degree, and courage fell. For it was already known that Hmelnitski, together with the Khan, was approaching with forces the like of which the eyes of men had not seen since the days of Tamerlane. Fresh tidings kept flying to the camp like ill-omened birds,--reports, each more recent and more terrible than the preceding,--and weakened the manhood of the soldiers. There were fears that a panic like that of Pilavtsi might break out suddenly and scatter that handful of an army which stood between Hmelnitski and the heart of the Commonwealth. The leaders themselves had lost their heads. Their contradictory orders were not carried out, or if carried out, with unwillingness. In fact Yeremi alone could avert the catastrophe hanging over the camp, the army, and the country. Zagloba and Volodyovski dropped at once into the vortex of army life. They had barely appeared on the square when they were surrounded by officers of various regiments, interrupting one another in their inquiries for news. At sight of the Tartar captives, confidence entered the hearts of the curious. "The Tartars are plucked! Tartar prisoners! God gave a victory!" repeated some. "The Tartars are here, and Burlai with them!" cried others. "To arms! To the walls!" The news flew through the camp, and Kushel's victory was magnified along the road. An increasing throng gathered around the prisoners. "Kill them! What are we to do with them?" Questions fell thick as flakes in a snow-storm. Kushel would give no answer, and went with a report to the quarters of Firlei, the castellan of Belsk. Volodyovski and Zagloba were greeted at once by their acquaintances of the Russian squadron; but they escaped as well as they could, for they were in haste to see Pan Yan. They found him in the castle with Zatsvilikhovski, two Bernardine priests of the place, and Pan Longin Podbipienta. Skshetuski grew a little pale on seeing them, and half closed his eyes, for he was reminded of too much to see them without pain; still he gave a calm and even joyful greeting, inquired where they had been, and was satisfied with the first convenient answer. Since he looked on the princess as dead, he wished for nothing, hoped for nothing, and not the slightest suspicion entered his soul that their long absence related to her. They made no mention of the object of their journey, though Pan Longin looked first on one and then on the other with an inquiring glance, sighed, and turned in his place, wishing to read even a shadow of hope on their faces. But both were occupied with Pan Yan, whom Volodyovski seized by the shoulders repeatedly; for his heart grew soft at the sight of that old and trusty friend, who had passed through so much and lost so much that he had almost nothing to live for. "We shall have all the old comrades together again," said he to Skshetuski, "and you will be happy with us. A war too will come, I see, such as has not been yet, and with it great delights for every soldier soul. If God gives you health, you will lead the hussars many a time to come." "God has already returned me my health, and I wish nothing more for myself than to serve while my service is needed." Skshetuski was in fact well, for youth and his sturdy strength had conquered the illness within him. Grief had bitten his spirit, but it could not bite his body. He had merely grown spare and pallid, so that his forehead, cheeks, and nose seemed formed of church wax. The former austerity had settled firmly on his face, and there was in it the rigid repose that we note in the visage of the dead. An increasing number of silver threads wound through his dark beard. In other regards he differed in nothing from the rest of men, except, contrary to soldier custom, he avoided crowds, noise, and drinking. He conversed more readily with monks, to whose discourse on the life of the cloister and the life to come he listened with eagerness; but he performed his service with diligent care, for the expected siege occupied him equally with all the others. Soon conversation touched on this subject, for no one in the camp, castle, and town thought of aught else. Old Zatsvilikhovski asked about the Tartars and Burlai, with whom he had an acquaintance of ancient date. "That's a great warrior," said he. "It is too bad that he should rise against the country with others. We served together at Khotím. He was still a youth, but already gave promise of ripening into an uncommon man." "But he is from the Trans-Dnieper, and leads men of that region," said Skshetuski. "How is it, father, that he is now marching from the south, from the direction of Kamenyets?" "It seems," answered the old man, "that Hmelnitski fixed winter quarters for him there on purpose, since Tugai Bey remained on the Dnieper, and that great murza has a hatred for him from former times. No one has cut up the Tartars like Burlai." "And now he will be a comrade to them?" "Yes," said Zatsvilikhovski, "such are the times. But Hmelnitski will watch and keep them from devouring each other." "When do they expect Hmelnitski here, father?" asked Volodyovski. "Any day. But who can tell? The commanders should send out scout after scout; but they do not. I was barely able to prevail on them to send Kushel to the south and Piglovski to Cholganski Kamen. I wished to go myself, but there are counsels without end. They should send also the secretary of the Crown with some squadrons. They would better hurry, lest it be too late. God give us the prince at the earliest moment, or we shall be met by disgrace like that of Pilavtsi." "I saw those soldiers as we rode through the square," said Zagloba, "and I think there are more fools among them than good men. They should be market-boys, not comrades to us who are enamoured of glory, esteeming it beyond our own lives." "What are you talking about?" blurted out the old man. "I do not belittle your bravery, though once I was of another mind. But all the knights here are the first soldiers that the Commonwealth has ever had. Only a head is needed,--a leader! Lantskoronski is a good skirmisher, but no general; Firlei is old, and as to the cup-bearer, he and Prince Dominik made a reputation for themselves at Pilavtsi. What wonder that no one wants to obey them! A soldier will shed his blood freely if sure that he will not be destroyed without need. But now, instead of thinking of the siege, they are disputing about positions." "Are there provisions enough?" asked Zagloba, in alarm. "Not so many as are necessary; but we are still worse off for provender. If the siege should last a month, there will be only shavings and stones for the horses." "There is still time to get provender," said Volodyovski. "Then go and tell them so. God give us the prince! I repeat." "You are not the only one who is sighing for him," interrupted Pan Longin. "I know that," answered the old man. "Look out on the square! All at the walls look with longing eyes toward Old Zbaraj; others in the town have climbed the towers; and if any one cries in a joke, 'He is coming,' they are mad with joy. A thirsty stag is not so eager for water as we for the prince. Oh, if he could only get here before Hmelnitski! But I think he must have been delayed." "We too pray, whole days at a time, for his coming," said one of the Bernardines. The prayers and wishes of all the knighthood were soon to gain their object, though the following day brought still greater fears and was full of ominous prophecies. On Thursday, July 8, a terrific storm raged over the town and the freshly raised ramparts of the camp. Rain fell in torrents. A part of the earthworks was swept away. Gnyezna and the two ponds overflowed. In the evening lightning struck the infantry under command of Firlei, castellan of Belsk, killed a number of men, and tore the banner to pieces. This was considered of evil omen,--an evident sign of the anger of God, the more since Firlei was a Calvinist. Zagloba proposed that a deputation be sent to him with the request and prayer to become a Catholic, "for there could be no blessing of God for an army whose leader was living in disgusting errors hateful to Heaven." Many shared this opinion; and only the dignity of the castellan's person and the command prevented the sending of the deputation. But their courage fell all the more. The storm raged without interruption. The bulwark, though strengthened with stones, willows, and stakes, became so soft that the cannon began to sink. They were obliged to put planks under the howitzers, mortars, and even under the eight-pounders. In the deep ditches the water roared to the height of a man. Night brought no rest. The storm drove to the east new gigantic piles of clouds which, concentrating and discharging with terrific noise in the heavens, cast out on Zbaraj their whole stock of rain, thunder, and lightning. Only the servants remained in the tents at the camp; soldiers, officers, and commanders, with the exception of the castellan of Kamenyets, took refuge in the town. If Hmelnitski had come with the storm, he would have taken the camp without a blow. Next day it was a little better, though rain was still falling. About five o'clock in the afternoon the wind drove away the clouds, the blue sky opened above the camp, and in the direction of Old Zbaraj a splendid seven-colored rainbow was shining. The mighty arc with one arm extended beyond Old Zbaraj, while the other, seeming to drink in the moisture of the Black Forest, glittered, changed, and played on the background of fleeing clouds. That moment confidence entered all hearts. The knights returned to the camp and stood on the slippery bulwark to gladden their eyes with the sight of the rainbow. Immediately they began to talk loudly and to guess what this favorable sign might announce, when Volodyovski, standing with others over the very ditch, covered his panther eyes with his hand and cried,-- "Troops are coming from under the rainbow!" There was a stir as if a whirlwind had moved the human mass, and then a sudden murmur. The words "Troops are coming!" flew like an arrow from one end of the rampart to the other. The soldiers began to crowd and push, gathering in groups. Murmurs rose and fell; still all hands rested above the eyes; all eyes were turned, strained with effort, into the distance; hearts were throbbing; and all, holding the breath in their breasts, were suspended between hope and fear. Then something began to sway, and swayed still more definitely, and rose out of the distance, and approached still nearer, and became still more distinctly visible, till at last the banners, flags, and bunchuks appeared, later a forest of streamers. The eyes doubted no longer,--it was an army. Then one gigantic shout rose from the breasts of all, a shout of inconceivable joy,-- "Yeremi! Yeremi! Yeremi!" The oldest soldiers were simply seized with frenzy. Some threw themselves from the ramparts, waded through the ditch, and hurried on foot through the water-covered plain to the advancing regiments; others rushed to their horses; some laughed; others wept, placing their hands together and crying: "Our father is coming,--our savior, our chief!" It might have seemed that the siege was raised, Hmelnitski finished, and the victory won. Meanwhile the regiments of the prince had drawn so near that the banners could be distinguished. In advance came, as usual, the light regiments of the prince's Tartars, the Cossacks, and the Wallachians, after them Makhnitski's foreign infantry, then the cannon of Vershul, the dragoons, and the heavy hussar regiments. The rays of the sun reflected on their armor and on the points of their upraised lances. All marched in unusual splendor, as if the halo of victory were around them. Skshetuski, standing with Pan Longin on the ramparts, recognized from afar his own squadron, which he had left in Zamost, and his faded cheeks colored a little; he drew several deep breaths, as if he had thrown some great weight from his breast, and his eyes grew glad; for days of superhuman toil were near him too, as well as heroic struggles which heal the heart better than all, and hurl down painful memories deeper and deeper somewhere into the bottom of the soul. The regiments continued to approach, and barely a thousand yards separated them from the camp. The officers too had hurried up in order to witness the entrance of the prince; the three commanders also, and with them Pan Pshiyemski, Pan Konyetspolski, Pan Marek Sobieski, starosta of Krasnostav, Pan Korf, and all the other officers, as well of Polish as foreign command. All shared in the universal joy; and especially Lantskoronski, one of the commanders, who was more a knight than a general, but enamoured of military glory. He stretched his baton in the direction from which Yeremi was coming, and called in a voice so loud that all heard him,-- "There is our supreme chief, and I am the first to give him my command and my office." The regiments of the prince began to enter the camp. They were three thousand men in all; but the courage of the garrison increased by a hundred thousand, for they were the victors from Pogrébische, Nyemiroff, Makhnovka, and Konstantinoff. Then acquaintances and friends greeted one another. After the light regiments Vershul's artillery came in at last with difficulty, bringing twelve cannon. The prince, who had sent his regiments from Old Zbaraj, entered after sunset. All that was living assembled to greet him. The soldiers, taking lamps, candles, torches, bits of pitch-pine, surrounded the prince's steed and barred his advance. The horse was caught by the bridle, so that the warriors might sate their eyes with the sight of the hero; they kissed his garments, and almost bore him away on their shoulders. The excitement rose to that degree that not only soldiers of his own regiments but of foreign companies declared they would serve three months without pay. The throng became denser each moment, so that he was unable to move a step. He sat then on his white steed, surrounded by the soldiery as a shepherd by his flocks, and there was no end to shouts and applause. The evening was calm and clear, thousands of stars glittered in the dark sky, and then appeared favorable omens. Just as Lantskoronski approached the prince to deliver the baton into his hand, one of the stars, torn away from the sky and drawing after it a stream of light, fell with a noise, and was quenched in the direction of Konstantinoff, from which Hmelnitski had to come. "That is Hmelnitski's star!" shouted the soldiers. "A miracle! a miracle!" "An evident sign!" "Vivat Yeremi victor!" repeated a thousand voices. Then Lantskoronski approached and gave a sign with his hand that he wanted to speak. Immediately there was silence, and he said,-- "The king gave me this baton, but into your more worthy hands do I yield it, wishing to be first to obey your orders." "And we are with him," repeated two other commanders. Three batons were extended to the prince; but he drew back his hand, saying, "It was not I that gave them, and I will not receive them." "Let there be a fourth with the three," said Firlei. "Vivat Vishnyevetski! vivat the commanders!" shouted the knights. "We will die together!" At that moment the prince's steed raised his head, shook his purple-stained mane, and neighed mightily, so that all the horses in the camp answered him in one voice. This too was considered prophetic of victory. The soldiers had fire in their eyes; their hearts were hot with thirst for battle; the quiver of eagerness ran through their bodies. The officers shared the universal ecstasy. Prince Ostrorog wept and prayed. Lantskoronski and the starosta of Krasnostav began first to wave their sabres, encouraging the soldiers, who, running to the edge of the rampart and stretching out their hands in the darkness, shouted in the direction from which they expected the enemy,-- "Come on, dog-brothers! You will find us ready for you!" That night no man slept in the camp, and till daybreak there was thunder of shouts with the rushing to and fro of lamps and torches. In the morning Pan Serakovski, secretary of the Crown, came with a scouting-party from Cholganski Kamen, and brought news that the enemy were twenty-five miles from the camp. The party had a battle with a superior force of Tartars, in which the two Mankovskis and Pan Oleksich had fallen, with a number of good soldiers. The informants brought in declared that behind this body the Khan and Hmelnitski were marching with all their forces. The day passed in waiting and preparations for defence. The prince, having taken the command, without further delay put the army in order; he showed each part where to stand, how to defend itself, and how to give succor to the rest. The best spirit reigned in the camp, discipline was restored, and instead of the former confusion, antagonism of authority, and uncertainty, accuracy and order were everywhere present. Before mid-day all were in their places. The pickets thrown out before the camp reported at intervals what was doing in the neighborhood. The camp attendants despatched to the adjacent villages brought in provisions and forage, whatever was yet to be found. Soldiers standing on the ramparts chatted merrily and sang, and they passed the night slumbering by the fires, sabre in hand, with the same readiness as if the assault might begin at any moment. At daylight something dark began to appear in the direction of Vishnyovets. The bells in the town rang en alarm, and in the camp the prolonged plaintive sound of the trumpets roused the soldiers to wakefulness. The infantry regiments mounted the ramparts, the cavalry took position in the intervals, ready to rush forward at the signal of attack, and through the whole length of the ditch ascended slender streaks of smoke from the lighted matches. At this moment the prince appeared on his white steed. He was in silver armor, but without a helmet. Not the least concern was visible on his forehead, but gladness shone out of his eyes and his face. "We have guests, gentlemen, we have guests!" he repeated, riding along the ramparts. Silence followed, and then could be heard the waving of banners, which the light breath of air now raised and now wound around the staffs. Meanwhile the enemy came so near that it was possible to take them in with the eye. This was the first wave; not Hmelnitski himself, with the Khan, but a reconnoitring party made up of thirty thousand chosen Tartars, armed with bows, muskets, and sabres. Having captured fifteen hundred men sent out for provisions, they went in a dense mass from Vishnyovets; then, stretching out in a long crescent, they began to ride around from the opposite side toward Old Zbaraj. The prince, satisfied that this was merely a party, ordered the cavalry out of the intrenchments. The voices of command were heard; the regiments began to move and issue from behind the ramparts like bees from a hive. The plain was soon filled with men and horses. From a distance could be seen the captains riding around the squadrons and putting them in line of battle. The horses snorted playfully, and sometimes their neighing went through the ranks. Then from out this mass pushed forth two squadrons of Tartars and Cossacks, and advanced on a light trot; their bows shook on their shoulders, and their caps glittered. They rode in silence: and at their head was the red Vershul, whose horse reared under him as though wild, throwing his front hoofs in the air as if wishing to escape the bit and spring at once into the tumult. The blue of heaven was unspotted by a cloud; the day was clear, transparent, and the assailants were visible as on the palm of the hand. Now there appeared from the side of Old Zbaraj a small wagon-train of the prince, which had not succeeded in entering with the army, and was hurrying with all its might to escape capture at a blow by the Tartars. Indeed it had not escaped their glance, and the long crescent moved swiftly toward it. Cries of "Allah!" flew to the ears of the infantry on the ramparts; the squadrons of Vershul shot on like a whirlwind to the rescue. But the crescent arrived at the train sooner, and engirdled it in a moment as if with a black ribbon; and simultaneously several thousand of the horde turned with an unearthly howl to surround Vershul in like manner. Here might be noted the experience of Vershul and the skill of his soldiers. Seeing that they were flanking him on right and left, he divided his forces into three parts and sprang to the sides; then he divided them into four, then into two; and each time the enemy had to turn with his whole line, for he had no opponent in front and his wings were already broken. The fourth time they met breast to breast; but Vershul struck with all his force in the weakest part, burst through, and immediately found himself in the rear of the enemy, whom he left, and rushed like a tempest to the train, regardless of pursuit. Old soldiers, beholding this from the ramparts, stood with armored hands on their hips, crying: "May the bullets strike them, only the prince's captains lead in that style!" Then Vershul struck in the form of a sharp wedge the ring surrounding the tabor, and pierced it as an arrow pierces a man. In the twinkle of an eye he was in the centre. Now instead of two battles there raged one, but all the more stubborn. It was a marvellous sight. In the centre of the plain was a small tabor, like a moving fortress, throwing out long streaks of smoke and vomiting fire; without, a black and wildly moving swarm, as one gigantic eddy followed another, horses fleeing without riders; within, noise, uproar, and the thunder of guns. In one place some were rushing through others, in another they struggled unbroken. As a wild boar at bay defends himself with his white tusks and tears the raging dogs, so that tabor in the midst of the cloud of Tartars defended itself desperately, hoping that assistance greater than Vershul's would come from the camp. The red coats of the dragoons of Kushel and Volodyovski soon twinkled on the field. You would have said they were red leaves of flowers driven by the wind. They rushed to the cloud of Tartars and disappeared in it as in a black forest; so for a time they were invisible, but the uproar increased. The troops wondered why the prince did not send force enough at once to the succor of the surrounded; but he delayed, wishing to show exactly what he sent, and in this way to raise their courage and prepare them for still greater perils. However, the fire in the tabor grew weak; it was evident they had no time to load, or the barrels of the muskets had grown hot. The shouts of the Tartars increased continually; the prince therefore gave a signal, and three hussar squadrons--one (his guard) under Skshetuski, the second under the starosta of Krasnostav, the third a royal squadron under Piglovski--rushed to the battle from the camp. They struck them as an axe strikes; they broke the ring of Tartars at once, threw them back, scattered them, pressed them to the woods, re-dispersed and drove them more than a mile from the camp. The little tabor entered the intrenchments in safety, amidst joyous shouts and the thunder of cannon. The Tartars, however, feeling that Hmelnitski and the Khan were following, did not disappear altogether, but came again, and shouting "Allah!" galloped around the whole camp, occupying at the same time the roads, highways, and villages, from which pillars of black smoke were soon rising to the sky. Many of their skirmishers came near the trenches; against these the soldiers of the prince and the quarter-soldiers rushed out at once, singly and in parties, especially from the Tartar, Wallachian, and dragoon squadrons. Vershul was unable to take part in the skirmishes; for, struck six times in the head while defending the tabor, he lay as if dead in the tent. Volodyovski, red as a lobster, though untouched, still unsatisfied, took his place, and moved first to the field. These skirmishes, at which the infantry and heavy cavalry looked from the camp as at a spectacle, lasted till evening. Sometimes one side excelled, sometimes the other; they fought in groups or singly; captives were taken alive. But Pan Michael, as soon as he struck any one and finished him, turned again, and his red uniform circled over the whole field of battle. At last Skshetuski pointed him out from a distance to Lantskoronski as a curiosity, for as often as he met with a Tartar it might be said that lightning had struck that man. Zagloba, though beyond the hearing of Pan Michael, encouraged him with shouts from the ramparts. From time to time he turned to the soldiers standing around, and said,-- "Look, gentlemen! I taught him to use the sabre. Well done! If he goes on, with God's help, he will equal me soon." But now the sun had gone down, and each skirmisher began to withdraw slowly from the field, on which remained only bodies of horses and men. From the town the first sounds of the "Ave Maria" were heard. Night fell gradually; still darkness did not come, for fires in the country about gave light. Zalostsitse, Barzyntse, Lublyanki, Striyovka, Kretovitse, Zarudzie, Vakhlovka were burning; and the whole vicinity, as far as the eye could reach, was blazing in one conflagration. The smoke in the night became red; the stars were shining on the rosy background of the sky. Clouds of birds rose from the forests, thickets, and ponds with a tremendous noise, circled in the air lighted by the burning, and looked like flying flames. The cattle in the camp, terrified by the unusual spectacle, began to bellow plaintively. "It cannot be," said old soldiers to one another in the trenches, "that the Tartars of that party have set such fires; surely Hmelnitski, with the Cossacks and the whole horde, are advancing." These were not empty surmises, for Pan Serakovski had brought intelligence on the preceding day that the Zaporojian hetman and the Khan were in the rear of that party. They were expected therefore with certainty. The soldiers were in the trenches to a man; the citizens were on the roofs and towers; all hearts were unquiet; women were sobbing in the churches, stretching out their hands to the most holy sacrament. Uncertainty, worse than all, oppressed with immeasurable weight the town, the castle, and the camp. But it did not last long. Night had not fallen completely when the first ranks of the Cossacks and Tartars appeared on the horizon; then the second, third, tenth, hundredth, thousandth. You would have said all the forests and groves had torn themselves suddenly from their roots, and were marching on Zbaraj. In vain did the eye seek the end of those ranks; as far as the eye reached swarms of men and horses were blackening, vanishing in the smokes and fires of the distance. They moved like clouds, or like locusts which cover the whole country with their terrible moving mass. Before them went the threatening rumble of human voices, like wind in a forest among the branches of the ancient pines; then, halting about a mile and a quarter away, they began to settle down and make fires for the night. "You see the fires," whispered the soldiers; "they extend farther than a horse could go in one journey." "Jesus and Mary!" said Zagloba to Skshetuski. "I tell you there is a lion in me and I feel no alarm; but I would that a blazing thunderbolt might crush them all before morning. As God is dear to me, there are too many of them. Unless perhaps in the valley of Jehoshaphat there will not be a greater crowd. And tell me, what do those scoundrels want? Would not every dog-brother of them be better at home, working his serfage peaceably for his land? What fault is it of ours if God has made us nobles and them trash, and commanded them to obey? Tfu! I am beside myself with rage. I am a mild-mannered man, soft as a plaster; but let them not rouse me to anger! They have had too much freedom, too much bread; they have multiplied like mice in a barn; and now they are dying to get at the cats. Ah, wait! There is one cat here called Yeremi, and another called Zagloba. What do you think, will those two enter upon negotiations? If the rebels had surrendered with obedience, then their lives might be granted, might they not? One thing disturbs me continually,--are there provisions enough in the camp? Oh, to the devil! Look, gentlemen; fires beyond fires, and still fires! May black death fall on such a crowd!" "Why talk about treaties," said Skshetuski, "when they think they have us all under their hands, and will get us to-morrow?" "But they won't get us, will they?" asked Zagloba. "Well, the will of God for that. In any case, since the prince is here, it won't come easy to them." "You have consoled me indeed. I do not care that it should not come easy to them, but that it should not come at all." "It is no small pleasure for a soldier not to yield his life for nothing." "True, true! But may lightning strike the whole affair, and your consolation with it!" At that moment Podbipienta and Volodyovski approached. "They say that the Cossacks with the horde are half a million strong," said the Lithuanian. "I wish that you had lost your tongue," said Zagloba; "you have brought good tidings." "It is easier to kill them in assault than in the field," continued Pan Longin, mildly. "Now that our prince and Hmelnitski have met at last, there will be no talk about negotiations. Either master or monk.[18] To-morrow will be the day of judgment," said Volodyovski, rubbing his hands. He was right. In that war the two most terrible lions had not yet stood eye to eye. One had crushed the hetmans and the commanders; the other powerful Cossack atamans. On the footsteps of both followed victory; each was a terror to his enemies. But whose side will be weightiest in a direct encounter? This was to be decided now. Vishnyevetski looked from the intrenchments on the countless myriads of Tartars and Cossacks, and strove in vain to embrace them with the eye. Hmelnitski looked from the field on the castle and camp, thinking in his soul: "My most terrible enemy is there; when I have finished with him, who can oppose me?" It was easy to guess that the conflict between these two men would be long and stubborn, but the result could not be doubtful. That prince in Lubni and Vishnyovets stood at the head of fifteen thousand troops, counting the camp-servants; while the peasant chieftain was followed by mobs, from the Sea of Azoff and the Don to the mouth of the Danube. The Khan too marched with him at the head of the Crimean, Bélgorod, Nogai, and Dobrudja hordes; men marched with him who dwelt on the tributaries of the Dniester and the Dnieper, men from the lower country, and a countless rabble from the steppes, ravines, woods, towns, hamlets, villages, and farms, and all who had formerly served in private regiments or those of the Crown; Cherkes,[19] Wallachians, Silistrians, Rumelians, Turks, bands of Serbs and Bulgarians were also in that host. It might appear that a new migration of nations had abandoned the dreary abodes on the steppes, and were moving westward to win fresh lands and found a new kingdom. This was the relation of the struggling forces,--a handful against legions, an island against the sea. No wonder then that many a heart was beating with alarm. Not only in that town, not only in that corner of the land, but in the whole Commonwealth they looked on that lonely trench, surrounded by a deluge of wild warriors, as the tomb of great knights and their mighty chief. Hmelnitski too looked on it in just the same way; for scarcely were the fires well kindled in his camps, when a Cossack envoy began to wave a white flag before the trenches, to sound a trumpet, and cry out not to shoot. The guards went and brought him in at once. "From the hetman to Prince Yeremi," said he to them. The prince had not yet dismounted, and was on the bulwark with face as calm as the sky. The flames were reflected in his eyes, and invested his delicate white countenance with rosy light. The Cossack standing before the face of the prince lost his speech; his legs trembled under him, and a shiver went through his body though he was an old wolf of the steppes and had come as an envoy. "Who are you?" asked the prince, fixing his calm glance upon him. "I am the sotnik Sokol,--from the hetman." "And why have you come?" The sotnik began to make bows as low as the stirrups of the prince. "Pardon me, lord! I tell what has been commanded me. I am to blame in nothing." "Speak boldly!" "The hetman commanded me to inform you that he has come as a guest to Zbaraj, and will visit you in the castle to-morrow." "Tell him that not to-morrow, but to-day I give a feast in the castle," answered the prince. In fact an hour later the mortars were thundering salutes, joyous shouts were raised; all the windows of the castle shone with a thousand gleaming lights. The Khan, hearing the salutes of the cannon and the sound of trumpets and drums, went out in front of the tent in company with his brother Nureddin, the Sultan Galga, Tugai Bey, and many murzas, and later sent for Hmelnitski. The hetman, though he had been drinking, appeared at once. Bowing and placing his fingers to his forehead, his beard, and his breast, he waited for the question. The Khan looked long at the castle, shining in the distance like a gigantic lantern, and nodded his head slightly. At last he passed his hand over his thin beard, which fell in two long tresses upon his weasel-skin shuba, and asked, pointing to the gleaming windows,-- "Zaporojian hetman, what is that?" "Most mighty Tsar," answered Hmelnitski, "that is Prince Yeremi giving a feast." The Khan was astonished. "A feast?" "He is giving a feast for the slain of to-morrow," said Hmelnitski. That moment new discharges thundered from the castle, the trumpets sounded, and mingled shouts reached the worthy ears of the Khan. "God is one!" muttered he. "There is a lion in the heart of that infidel." And after a moment of silence he added: "I should rather be with him than with you." Hmelnitski trembled. He paid for the indispensable Tartar friendship, and besides was not sure of his terrible ally. Any whim of the Khan, and all the hordes might turn against the Cossacks, who would be lost beyond redemption. Hmelnitski knew this, and knew too that the Khan was aiding him really for the sake of plunder, gifts, and unfortunate captives, and still looking upon himself as a legitimate monarch, was ashamed in his soul to stand on the side of rebellion against a king, on the side of such a "Hmel" against such a Vishnyevetski. The hetman of the Cossacks often got drunk, not from habit alone, but from desperation. "Great monarch," said he, "Yeremi is your enemy. It was he who took the Trans-Dnieper from the Tartars; he hanged, murdered murzas like wolves on the trees, as a terror; he intended to visit the Crimea with fire and sword." "And have you not done damage in the uluses?" asked the Khan. "I am your slave." The blue lips of Tugai Bey began to quiver. He had among the Cossacks a deadly enemy, who in his time had cut a whole chambul to pieces and almost captured him. The name of that man was pressing to his mouth from the implacable power of revengeful memories; he did not restrain himself, and began to snarl in a low voice: "Burlai! Burlai!" "Tugai Bey," said Hmelnitski, immediately, "you and Burlai, at the exalted and wise command of the Khan, poured water on your swords the past year." A new salvo of artillery from the castle interrupted further conversation. The Khan stretched out his hand and described a circle with it enclosing Zbaraj, the town, the castle, and the trench. "To-morrow will that be mine?" asked he, turning to Hmelnitski. "To-morrow they will die there," answered Hmelnitski, with eyes fastened on the castle. Then he bowed again, and touched with his hand his forehead, beard, and breast, considering the conversation ended. The Khan wrapped himself in his weasel-skin shuba,--for the night was cool, though in July,--and said, turning toward the tent: "It is late already!" Then all began to nod as if moved by one power, and he went to the tent slowly and with dignity repeating in a low voice: "God is one!" Hmelnitski withdrew also, and on the road to his quarters muttered: "I'll give you the castle, the town, booty, and captives; but Yeremi will be mine, even if I have to pay for him with my life." Gradually the fires began to grow dim and die, gradually the dull murmur of thousands of voices grew still; but here and there was heard the report of a musket, or the calling of Tartar herdsmen driving their horses to pasture. Then those voices were silent, and sleep embraced the countless legions of Tartars and Cossacks. But at the castle there was feasting and revelry as at a wedding. In the camp all expected that the storm would take place on the morrow. Indeed the throngs of the mob, Cossacks, Tartars, and other wild warriors marching with Hmelnitski had been moving from early morning, and approached the trenches like dark clouds rolling to the summit of a mountain. The soldiers, though they had tried in vain the day before to count the fires, were benumbed now at the sight of this sea of heads. This was not yet a real storm, but an examination of the field, the intrenchments, the ditch, the ramparts, and the whole Polish camp. And as a swollen wave of the sea, which the wind urges from afar, rolls, advances, rears itself, foams, strikes with a roar and then falls back, so did they strike in one place and another, withdraw, and strike again, as if testing the resistance, as if wishing to convince themselves whether the very sight of them by numbers alone would not crush the spirit of the enemy before they would crush the body. They fired cannon too, and the balls began to fall thickly about the camp, from which answer was given with eight-pounders and small arms. At the same time there appeared a procession on the ramparts with the most holy sacrament in order to freshen the benumbed soldiers. The priest Mukhovetski carried the gilded monstrance; holding it with both hands above his face and sometimes raising it on high, he moved on under a baldachin, calm, with closed eyes and an ascetic face. At his side walked two priests supporting him under the arms,--Yaskolski, chaplain of the hussars, a famous soldier in his time, in military art as experienced as any chief; and Jabkovski, also an ex-soldier, a gigantic Bernardine, second in strength only to Pan Longin in the whole camp. The staffs of the baldachin were supported by four nobles, among whom was Zagloba; before the baldachin walked sweet-faced young girls scattering flowers. They passed over the whole length of the ramparts, and after them the officers of the army. The hearts of the soldiers rose, daring came to them, fire entered their souls at the sight of the monstrance shining like the sun, at the sight of the calmness of the priest, and those maidens clothed in white. The breeze carried about the strengthening odor of the incense burned in the censers; the heads of all were bent down with humility. Mukhovetski from time to time elevated the monstrance and his eyes to heaven, and intoned the hymn, "Before so great a sacrament." The powerful voices of Yaskolski and Jabkovski continued, "We fall on our faces;" and the whole army sang, "Let the old give place to the new law with its testament!" The deep bass of the cannon accompanied the hymn, and at times the cannon-balls flew past, roaring above the baldachin and the priests; sometimes the balls striking lower in the ramparts scattered earth on the people, so that Zagloba wriggled and pressed up to the staff. Fear affected especially his hair. When the procession halted for prayer there was silence, and the balls could be heard distinctly flying like great birds in a flock. Zagloba merely reddened the more; the priest Yaskolski looked to the field, and unable to restrain himself muttered, "They should rear chickens and keep away from cannon!" for in truth the Cossacks had very bad gunners, and he, as a former soldier, could not look calmly on such clumsiness and waste of powder. Again they went on till they reached the other end of the ramparts, where there had been no great pressure from the enemy. Trying here and there, especially from the western pond, to see if they could not create a panic, the Tartars and Cossacks drew back at last to their own positions, and remained in them without sending out even skirmishers. Meanwhile the procession had freshened the minds of the besieged completely. It was evident that Hmelnitski was waiting for the arrival of his tabor; still he felt so sure that the first real storm would be sufficient, that he barely ordered a few trenches to be made for the cannon and did not undertake other earthworks to threaten the besieged. The tabor arrived the following day, and took its place near the camp, wagon after wagon, in a number of tens of rows a mile in length, from Vernyaki to Dembini. With it came also new forces; namely, the splendid Zaporojian infantry, almost equal to the Turkish janissaries in storms and attacks, and far more capable than the Cossacks or the mob. The memorable day, Tuesday, July 13, was passed in feverish preparations on both sides. There was no doubt that the assault would take place, for the trumpets, drums, and kettle-drums were sounding the alarm from daybreak in the Cossack camp; among the Tartars a great sacred drum, called the balt, was roaring like thunder. The evening came, calm and clear, but from both ponds and the Gnyezna thin mists were rising; at length the first star began to twinkle in the sky. At that moment sixty Cossack cannon bellowed with one voice; the countless legions rushed with a terrible cry to the ramparts, and the storm began. It appeared to the soldiers standing on the ramparts that the ground was quivering under their feet; the oldest remembered nothing like it. "Jesus and Mary! what is that?" asked Zagloba, standing near Skshetuski among the hussars, in the interval of the rampart; "those are not men coming against us." "Of course you know they are not men; the enemy are driving oxen ahead, so that we may spend the first shots on them." The old noble became as red as a beet, his eyes were coming out of his head, and from his mouth burst one word, in which all the rage, all the terror, all that he could think at that moment was included: "Scoundrels!" The oxen, as if mad, urged by wild, half-naked herdsmen with clubs and burning brands, were insane from fear; they ran forward with an awful bellowing, now crowding together, now hurrying on, now scattering or turning to the rear; urged with shouts, burned with fire, lashed with rawhides, they rushed again toward the ramparts. At last Vurtsel's guns began to vomit iron and fire; then smoke hid the light, the air was red, the terrified cattle were as if cut by a thunderbolt. Half of them fell, and over their bodies went the enemy. In front ran captives with bags of sand to fill the ditch; they were stabbed from behind with pikes and scorched with musketry fire. These were peasants from around Zbaraj, who had been unable to take refuge in the town before the avalanche came,--young men as well as old, and women. All ran forward with a shriek, a cry, a stretching of hands to heaven, and a wailing for mercy. Hair stood on end from the howl, but pity was dead upon earth at that hour. On one side the pikes of Cossacks were entering their shoulders; on the other the balls of Vurtsel mashed the unfortunates, grape-shot tore them to pieces, dug furrows among them. They ran on, fell, rose again, and went forward; for the Cossack wave pushed them,--the Cossack, the Turk, and the Tartar. The ditch was soon filled with bodies, blood, and sand-bags; at last it was evened, and the enemy rushed over with a shout. The regiments pushed on, one after another; by the light of the cannon-fire were to be seen the officers urging forward new regiments to the ramparts. The choicest men rushed to the quarters and troops of Yeremi, for at that point Hmelnitski knew the greatest resistance would be. The kurens of the Saitch therefore came up; after them the formidable men of Pereyasláv, with Loboda. Voronchenko led the regiment of Cherkasi, Kulak the Karvoff regiment, Nechai the Bratslav, Stepka the Uman, Mrozovetski the Korsún regiment; also the men of Kalnik went, and the strong regiment of Belotserkoff,--fifteen thousand men in all, and with them Hmelnitski himself, in the fire, red as Satan, exposing his broad breast to the bullets, with the face of a lion and the eye of an eagle,--in chaos, smoke, confusion, slaughter, and tempest, in flames, observant of everything, ordering everything. After the Zaporojians went the wild Cossacks of the Don; next, Cherkes fighting with knives; Tugai Bey led chosen Nogais; after them Subahazi, Bélgorod Tartars; then Kurdluk, swarthy men of Astrakhan, armed with gigantic bows and arrows, one of which was almost equal to a spear. They followed one another so closely that the hot breath of those behind was blown on the necks of those in front. How many of them fell before they reached the ditch filled with the bodies of the captives, who shall tell, who shall relate? But they reached and crossed it, and began to clamber on the ramparts. Then you would have said that that starry night was the night of the Last Judgment. The cannon, unable to strike the nearest, bellowed unceasing fire on the farther ranks. Bombs, describing arcs of fire through the air, fell with a hellish laughter, making bright day in the darkness. The German infantry with the Polish land regiments, and at their side the dismounted dragoons of Vishnyevetski poured fire and lead into the faces and breasts of the Cossacks. The first ranks wished to fall back, but pressed from behind they could not; they died in their tracks. Blood spattered under the feet of the advancing. The rampart grew slippery; hands, feet, and breasts went sliding upon it. Men grasped it, and again fell covered with smoke, black from soot, stabbed, cut, careless of wounds and death. In places they fought with cold weapons. Men were as if beside themselves from fury, with grinning teeth and blood-covered faces. The living battled on top of the quivering mass of wounded and dying. Commands were not heard; nothing was heard but a general and terrible roar, in which all sounds were merged,--the thunder of guns, the cough of the wounded, the groans, and the whistling of bombs. This gigantic struggle without quarter lasted whole hours. Around the rampart rose another rampart of corpses, which hindered the approach of the assailants. The Zaporojians were cut almost to pieces, the men of Pereyasláv were lying side by side around the ramparts; the Karvoff, Bratslav, and Uman regiments were decimated; but others pressed on, pushed forward themselves from behind by the guard of the hetman, the Rumelian Turks and Tartars of Urum Bey. But disorder rose in the ranks of the assailants when the Polish land infantry, the Germans, and the dragoons drew back not a step. Panting, dripping with blood, carried away with the rage of battle, streaming in sweat, half mad with the smell of blood, they tore over one another at the enemy, just as raging wolves rush to a flock of sheep. At that juncture Hmelnitski pressed on again with the remnants of his first regiments and with the whole force, as yet intact, of the Belotserkoff Tartars, the Turks and Cherkes. The cannon from the ramparts ceased to thunder, and the bombs to flash; hand-weapons alone were heard through the whole length of the western rampart. Discharges flashed up anew. Finally, musketry fire also stopped. Darkness covered the combatants. No eye could see what was doing there, but something was turning in the darkness like the gigantic body of a monster cast down in convulsions. Even from the cries it could not be told whether it gave forth the sounds of triumph or despair. At times these sounds also ceased, and then could be heard only one measureless groan, as if it were going out on every side, from under the earth, over the earth, in the air, higher and higher, as if spirits were flying away with groans from that field of conflict. But these were short pauses: after such a moment the uproar and howls rose with still greater power, ever hoarser and more unearthly. Then again thundered the fire of musketry. Makhnitski with the rest of the infantry was coming to aid the wearied regiments. The trumpets began to sound a retreat in the rear ranks of the Cossacks. Now came a pause; the Cossack regiments withdrew a furlong from the ramparts, and stood protected by the corpses of their own men. But a half-hour had not passed when Hmelnitski rushed on again and hurried his men to the assault a third time. But this time Prince Yeremi appeared on the rampart himself, on horseback. It was easy to know him, for the banner and bunchuk of the hetman were waving above his head, and before and behind him were borne a number of tens of torches, shining with blood-colored gleams. Immediately they opened the artillery on him; but the awkward cannoneers sent the balls far beyond the Gnyezna, and he stood calm and gazed upon the approaching clouds. The Cossacks slackened their gait as if bewitched by the sight. "Yeremi! Yeremi!" passed in a low murmur, like the sound of a breeze, through the deep ranks. Standing on the rampart in the midst of the blood-colored torches, that terrible prince seemed to them like a giant in a myth tale of the people; therefore a quiver ran over their wearied limbs, and their hands made signs of the cross. He stood motionless. He beckoned with the gilded baton, and immediately an ominous flight of bombs sounded in the air, and fell into the advancing ranks. The host twisted like a mortally wounded dragon; a cry of terror flew from one end of the line to the other. "On a run! on a run!" commanded the Cossack colonels. The dark mass rushed with all its impetus to the ramparts under which refuge from the bombs could be found; but they had not passed half the interval when the prince, ever visible as on the palm of the hand, turned somewhat to the west and again beckoned with his baton. At this signal, from the side of the pond, through the space between it and the ramparts, the cavalry began to push forth, and in the flash of an eye they poured out on the edge of the shore-level. By the light of the bombs were perfectly visible the great banners of the hussars of Skshetuski and Zatsvilikhovski, the dragoons of Kushel and Volodyovski, with the prince's Tartars, led by Roztvorovski. After them pushed out still new regiments of the prince's Cossacks and the Wallachians of Bykhovets. Not only Hmelnitski, but the last camp-follower of the Cossacks, knew in one moment that the daring chief had determined to hurl his entire cavalry into the enemy's flank. That moment the trumpets sounded a retreat in the ranks of the Cossacks. "Face to the cavalry! Face to the cavalry!" was heard in alarmed voices. Hmelnitski endeavored simultaneously to change the front of his troops and defend himself from cavalry with cavalry. But there was no time. Before he could arrange his ranks the prince's regiments had started, moving as if on wings, shouting "Kill! slay!" with rustling of banners, whistling of plumes, and the iron rattle of arms. The hussars thrust their lances into the wall of the enemy, and followed themselves, like a hurricane, overturning and crushing everything on the road. No human power, no command, no leader could hold the infantry on which their first impetus came. Wild panic seized the picked guard of the hetman. The men of Belotserkoff threw down their muskets, pikes, scythes, sabres, and shielding their heads with their hands in helplessness of terror, with the roar of beasts, they rushed against the Tartars in the rear. But the Tartars received them with a storm of arrows. So they rushed to the flank, and ran along the tabor under the infantry fire and the cannon of Vurtsel, covering the ground so thickly that it was rare when one did not fall upon another. But now the wild Tugai Bey, aided by Subahazi and Urum Murza, struck with rage on the onrush of hussars. He did not hope to break; he wished merely to restrain them till the Silistrian and Rumelian janissaries might form in a quadrangle and protect the men of Belotserkoff from the first panic. He sprang at them as if into smoke, and flew on in the front rank, not as a leader, but as a simple Tartar; he cut and killed,--exposed himself with the others. The crooked sabres of the Nogais rang upon chain-mail and breastplates, and the howl of the warriors drowned all other voices. But they could not hold out. Pushed from their places, crushed with the terrible weight of the iron horsemen, against whom they were unaccustomed to stand with open front, they were driven toward the janissaries, hacked with long swords, whirled from their saddles, thrust through, beaten down, twisted like poisonous reptiles; but they defended themselves with such venom that in fact the onset of the hussars was stopped. Tugai Bey rushed like a destroying flame, and the Nogais went with him, as wolves with their female. Still they gave way, falling more frequently on the plain. When the cry of "Allah!" thundering from the field, announced that the janissaries had formed, Skshetuski rushed on the raging Tugai Bey, and struck him on the head with, a double-handed sword. But it was evident either that the knight had not regained his whole strength, or perhaps the helmet forged in Damascus withstood the blow; it is enough that the blade turned on the head, and striking with the side was shivered to fragments. But that instant darkness covered the eyes of Tugai Bey; he dropped into the arms of his Nogais, who, seizing their leader, hurried away on two sides with a terrible uproar, like a cloud blown by a mighty wind. All the prince's cavalry was then in front of the Silistrian and Rumelian janissaries and Mohammedanized Serbs, who together with the janissaries formed one great quadrangle, and were withdrawing slowly to the tabor with their front to the enemy, bristling with muskets, lances, javelins, battle-axes, and swords. The squadrons of armored dragoons and the Cossacks of the prince rushed on like a whirlwind; and in the very front, with a roar and heavy tramp, Skshetuski's hussars. He flew on himself in the first rank, and at his side Pan Longin on his Livonian mare, his terrible broadsword in his hand. A red ribbon of fire flies from one end of the quadrangle to the other; bullets whistle in the ears of the riders; here and there a man groans, here and there a horse falls. The line of cavalry is broken, but pushes on,--is approaching. The janissaries now hear the snorting and blown breath of the horses; the quadrangle forms more closely still, and inclines its wall of spears, held by sinewy arms, against the furious chargers. How many points are in that wall? With how many deaths does it threaten the knights? Just then a certain hussar of gigantic size rushes upon the wall of the quadrangle with an irresistible impulse; in a moment the forefeet of his great horse are in the air; and the knight with his steed falls into the middle of the throng, splintering lances, overturning men, breaking, mashing, destroying. As an eagle swoops on a flock of white partridges, and they, crouching before him in a timid group, become the prey of the robber, who grasps them in his talons and his beak, so Pan Longin Podbipienta, falling into the midst of the enemy, rages with his broadsword. And never has a whirlwind made such destruction in a young and thick forest as he is making in the throng of janissaries. He is terrible; his form assumes superhuman proportions. His mare becomes a species of dragon, snorting flame from her nostrils; and the double-handed sword triples itself in the hands of the knight. Kislar-Bak, a gigantic aga, hurls himself upon him and falls, cut in two. In vain do the strongest men put forth their hands, stopping him with their spears. They die as if struck by lightning. He tramples them, pushes on to the densest throng, and when he strikes they fall, like grass beneath the scythe. An open space is made; the uproar of terror is heard,--groans, the thunder of blows, the biting of steel on the helmets, and the snorting of the infernal mare. "A div! a div!"[20] cried terrified voices. That instant the iron mass of the hussars, with Skshetuski at the head of it, bore down the gate opened by the Lithuanian. The walls of the quadrangle burst, like the walls of a falling house, and the masses of janissaries rushed fleeing in every direction. It was not a moment too soon, for the Nogais under Subahazi were returning to the fight like bloodthirsty wolves, and from the other side Hmelnitski, rallying the men of Belotserkoff, was coming to the aid of the janissaries; but now everything was in confusion. Cossacks, Tartars, renegade Serbs, janissaries, fled in the greatest disorder and panic to the tabors, giving no resistance. The cavalry pressed on them, cutting as they came. Those who did not perish in the first furlong perished in the second. The pursuit was so envenomed that the squadrons went ahead of the rear ranks of the fugitives; their hands grew weary from hewing. The fugitives threw away arms, banners, caps, and even coats. The white caps of the janissaries covered the field, like snow. The entire chosen force of Hmelnitski's infantry, cavalry, artillery, the auxiliary Tartar and Turkish divisions formed one disorderly mass; distracted, wild, blinded with terror, whole companies fled before one man. The hussars, having broken the infantry and cavalry, had done their work; now the dragoons and light squadrons emulated them, and with Volodyovski and Kushel at their head extended this catastrophe, passing human belief. Blood covered the terrible field, and plashed like water under the violent blows of the horse-hoofs, sprinkling the armor and faces of the knights. The fleeing crowds were resting in the centre of their tabors when the trumpets called back the cavalry of the prince. The knights returned with singing and shouts of joy, counting on the way with their streaming sabres the corpses of the enemy. But who could with a cast of his eye estimate the extent of the defeat? Who could count all when at the trench itself bodies were lying to the height of a man? Soldiers were as if dizzy from the odor of the blood and the sweat. Fortunately from the side of the ponds there was rather a strong breeze, which carried the odor to the tents of the enemy. Thus ended the first meeting of the terrible Yeremi and Hmelnitski. But the storm was not ended; for while Vishnyevetski was repulsing the attacks directed against the right wing of the camp, Burlai on the left barely missed becoming master of the ramparts. Having surrounded the town and the castle in silence at the head of his warriors of the Trans-Dnieper, he pushed on to the eastern pond, and fell violently upon Firlei's quarters. The Hungarian infantry stationed there were unable to withstand the attack, for the ramparts at that pond were not yet completed; the first squadron fled from its banner; Burlai sprang to the centre, and after him his men, like an irresistible torrent. The shouts of victory reached the opposite end of the camp. The Cossacks, rushing after the fugitive Hungarians, scattered a small division of cavalry, captured a number of cannon, and were coming to the quarters of the castellan of Belsk, when Pan Pshiyemski at the head of a number of German companies hurried to the rescue. Stabbing the flag-bearer with a single thrust, he seized the flag, and hurled himself on the enemy. Then the Germans closed with the Cossacks. A fearful hand-to-hand struggle raged, in which on one side the fury and crushing numbers of Burlai's legions, on the other the bravery of the old lions of the Thirty Years' War, were contending for superiority. In vain Burlai pressed into the densest ranks of the combatants, like a wounded wild boar. Neither the contempt of death with which the Cossacks fought nor their endurance could stop the irresistible Germans, who going forward in a wall, struck with such force that they swept them out of their places, pushed them against the trenches, decimated them, and after half an hour's struggle drove them beyond the ramparts. Pshiyemski, covered with blood, first planted the banner on the unfinished bulwark. Burlai's position was now desperate,--he had to retreat on the same road by which he had come; and since Yeremi had crushed the assailants on his right wing, he could easily cut off Burlai's whole division. It is true that Mrozovetski had come to his aid with his mounted Cossacks of Korsún; but at that moment the hussars of Konyetspolski, supported by Skshetuski returning from the attack on the janissaries, fell upon Burlai, hitherto retreating in order. With a single onset they scattered his forces, and then began a fearful slaughter. The Cossacks, having the road to the camp closed, had open to them only the road to death. Some without asking for quarter defended themselves with desperation, in groups or singly; others stretched forth their hands in vain to the cavalry, thundering like a hurricane over the field. Then began pursuit, artifice, single struggles, search for the enemy hidden in holes or uneven places. Tar-buckets were now thrown out from the trenches to light up the field. These flew like fiery meteors with flaming manes. By the aid of these red gleams they finished the remainder of the Trans-Dnieper Cossacks. Subahazi, who had shown wonders of valor that day, sprang to the aid of the Cossacks; but the brave Marek Sobieski, starosta of Krasnostav, stopped him on the spot, as a lion stops a wild buffalo, Burlai saw now that there was no salvation for him from any side. But, Burlai, thou didst love thy Cossack glory beyond life; therefore thou didst not seek for safety. Others escaped in the darkness, hid themselves in openings, slipped out between the feet of horses; but he still sought the enemy. He cut down with his own hand Pan Dombka and Pan Rusitski, and the young lion Pan Aksak, the same who had covered himself with undying glory at Konstantinoff; then Pan Savitski; then he stretched out together two winged hussars upon their native earth. At last, seeing a noble enormous in size coursing over the field and roaring like an aurochs, he sprang forward and went at him like a glittering flame. Zagloba, for it was he, bellowed still louder from fear, and turned his horse in flight. What hair he had left stood straight on his head; but still he did not lose his presence of mind. Stratagems were flashing through his head like lightning, and at the same time he roared with all his power: "Whoever believes in God!" and he drove like a whirlwind toward the thickest mass of Polish cavalry. Burlai was heading him off from the side, as a bow the string. Zagloba closed his eyes, and in his head a voice was roaring, "I shall perish now with my fleas!" He heard behind him the rushing of the horse, saw that no one was coming to his aid, that there was no escape, and that no other hand but his own could tear him from the grasp of Burlai. But in that last moment, almost in the agony of death, his despair and terror suddenly turned to rage; he bellowed as no wild bull has ever bellowed, and wheeling his horse in his tracks, turned against his opponent. "You are pursuing Zagloba!" cried he, pushing on with drawn sabre. At that moment a new lot of burning tar-buckets was thrown from the trenches, and there was light. Burlai saw and was astounded. He was not astounded at hearing the name, for he had never heard it in his life before; but he was astounded when he recognized the man whom a short time before he had feasted in Yampol as the friend of Bogun. But just that unfortunate moment of surprise destroyed the brave leader of the Cossacks, for before he recollected himself Zagloba cut him on the temple, and with one blow rolled him from his horse. This was in view of the whole army. A joyful shout from the hussars answered a cry of terror from the Cossacks, who seeing the death of their old lion of the Black Sea, lost the rest of their courage, and abandoned all resistance. Those who were not rescued by Subahazi perished to a man; no prisoners were taken in that night of terror. Subahazi fled to the camp, pursued by Sobieski and the light cavalry. The assault along the whole line of trenches was repulsed; only near the Cossack tabor was the cavalry sent out by the prince in pursuit still at work. A shout of triumph and joy shook the whole camp of the attacked, and mighty cries went up to heaven. The bloody soldiers, covered with sweat, dust, black from powder, with raging faces and brows still contracted, with fire still unquenched in their eyes, stood leaning on their weapons, catching the air with their breasts, ready again to rush to the fight if the need should come. But the cavalry too returned gradually from the bloody harvest near the tabor. Then the prince himself rode out on the field, and behind him the commanders, the standard-bearer, Marek Sobieski, and Pshiyemski. All that brilliant retinue moved slowly along the intrenchment. "Long live Yeremi!" cried out the army. "Long live our father!" The prince, without helmet, inclined his head and his baton on every side. "I thank you, gentlemen, I thank you!" repeated he, in a clear, ringing voice. Then he turned to Pshiyemski. "This trench," said he, "encloses too much space." Pshiyemski nodded his head in sign of agreement. The victorious leaders rode from the western to the eastern pond, examining the battle-field, the injuries done to the ramparts by the enemy, and the ramparts themselves. Immediately after the retinue of the prince, the soldiers, carried away by enthusiasm, bore Zagloba in their arms to the camp, as the greatest conqueror of the day. Borne aloft by twenty sturdy arms, appeared the form of the warrior, who, purple, sweating, waving his arms to keep his balance, cried with all his power,-- "Ha! I gave him pepper. I pretended to flee, so as to lure him on. He won't bark at us any more, the dog-brother! It was necessary to show an example to the younger men. For God's sake, be careful, or you will let me fall and kill me! Hold on tight; you have something to hold! You may believe me, I had work with him. To-day every trash was thrusting itself on nobles; but they have got their own. Be careful! Devil take it, let me down!" "Long life to him, long life!" cried the nobles. "To the prince with him!" repeated others. "Long life to him! long life to him!" The Zaporojian hetman, rushing into his camp, roared like a wounded wild beast; he tore the coat on his breast and disfigured his face. The officers who had escaped the defeat surrounded him in gloomy silence, without bringing a word of consolation, and madness almost carried him away. Foam was on his lips; he drove his heels into the ground, and with both hands tore his hair. "Where are my regiments, where are my heroes?" asked he, in a hoarse voice. "What shall I tell the Khan, what Tugai Bey? Give me Yeremi! Let them put my head on the stake!" The officers were gloomily silent. "Why have the soothsayers promised victory? Off with the heads of the witches! Why have they said that I should get Yeremi?" Generally when the roar of that lion shook the camp the colonels were silent; but now that the lion was conquered, trampled, and fortune seemed to be forsaking him, defeat gave insolence to the officers. "You cannot withstand Yeremi," muttered Stepka. "You are destroying us and yourself," added Mrozovetski. The hetman sprang at them like a tiger. "And who gained Jóltiya Vodi, who Korsún, who Pilavtsi?" "You!" answered Voronchenko, roughly, "but Vishnyevetski was not there." Hmelnitski tore his hair. "I promised the Khan lodgings in the castle to-night!" howled he, in despair. To this Kulak replied: "What you promised the Khan concerns your head. Have a care lest it drop from your neck; but do not push us to the storm, do not destroy servants of God! Surround the Poles with trenches, put ramparts round your guns, or woe to you!" "Woe to you!" repeated gloomy voices. "Woe to you!" answered Hmelnitski. And thus they conversed, terrible as thunders. At last Hmelnitski staggered, and threw himself on a bundle of sheepskins covered with carpet in the corner of the tent. The colonels stood around him with hanging heads, and silence lasted for a long time. At length the hetman looked up, and cried hoarsely: "Gorailka!" "You will not drink!" said Vygovski, "The Khan will send for you." At that time the Khan was about five miles from the field of battle, without knowledge of what was passing. The night was calm and warm. He was sitting at the tent in the midst of mullahs and agas in expectation of news; while waiting, he was eating dates from a silver plate standing near. At times he looked at the starry heavens and muttered, "Mohammed Rosulla!" Meanwhile Subahazi, on a foaming horse, rushed in, breathless, and covered with blood. He sprang from the saddle, and approaching quickly, began to make obeisance, waiting for a question. "Speak!" said the Khan, with his mouth full of dates. The words were burning Subahazi's mouth like flame, but he dared not speak without the usual titles. He began therefore in the following fashion, bowing continually,-- "Most mighty Khan of all the hordes, grandson of Mohammed, absolute monarch, wise lord, fortunate lord, lord of the tree commended from the east to the west, lord of the blooming tree--" Here the Khan waved his hand and interrupted. Seeing blood on Subahazi's face, and in his eyes pain, sorrow, and despair, he spat out the uneaten dates on his hand and gave them to one of the mullahs, who took them as a mark of extraordinary honor and began to eat them. The Khan said,-- "Speak quickly, Subahazi, and wisely! Is the camp of the unbeliever taken?" "God did not give it." "The Poles?" "Victorious." "Hmelnitski?" "Beaten." "Tugai Bey?" "Wounded." "God is one!" said the Khan. "How many of the Faithful have gone to Paradise?" Subahazi raised his arm and pointed with a bloody hand to the sparkling heavens. "As many as of those lights at the foot of Allah," said he, solemnly. The heavy face of the Khan became purple; rage seized him by the breast. "Where is that dog," inquired he, "who promised that I should sleep to-night in the castle? Where is that venomous serpent whom God will trample under my foot? Let him stand before me and give an account of his disgusting promises." A number of murzas hurried off for Hmelnitski. The Khan calmed himself by degrees, and at last said: "God is one!" Then he turned to Subahazi. "There is blood on thy face!" "It is the blood of the unbeliever," answered the warrior. "Tell how you shed it, and console our ears with the bravery of the believers." Here Subahazi began to give an extended account of the whole battle, praising the bravery of Tugai Bey, of Galga, of Nureddin; he was not silent either of Hmelnitski, but praised him as well as the others,--the will of God alone and the fury of the unbelievers were the causes of the defeat. But one circumstance struck the Khan in the narrative; namely, that they did not fire at the Tartars in the beginning of the battle, and that the cavalry of the prince attacked them only when at last they stood in the way. "Allah! they did not want war with me," said the Khan, "but now it is too late." So it was in reality. Prince Yeremi, from the beginning of the battle, had forbidden to fire at the Tartars, wishing to instil into the soldiers that negotiations with the Khan were already commenced, and that the hordes were standing on the side of the mob merely for show. It was only later that it came to meeting the Tartars by the force of events. The Khan shook his head, thinking at that moment whether it would not be better yet to turn his arms against Hmelnitski, when the hetman himself stood suddenly before him. Hmelnitski was now calm, and came up with head erect, looking boldly into the eyes of the Khan; on his face were depicted daring and craft. "Approach, traitor!" said the Khan. "The hetman of the Cossacks approaches, and he is not a traitor, but a faithful ally, to whom you have pledged assistance not in victory alone," said Hmelnitski. "Go pass the night in the castle! Go pull the Poles out of the trenches as you promised me!" "Great Khan of all the hordes!" said Hmelnitski, with a powerful voice, "you are mighty, and except the Sultan the mightiest on earth; you are wise and powerful, but can you send forth an arrow from your bow to the stars, or can you measure the depth of the sea?" The Khan looked at him with astonishment. "You cannot," continued Hmelnitski, with still more force; "so can I not measure all the pride and insolence of Yeremi! If I could dream that he would not be terrified at you, O Khan, that he would not be submissive at sight of you, would not beat with his forehead before you, but would raise his insolent hand against your person, shed the blood of your warriors, and insult you, O mighty monarch, as well as the least of your murzas,--if I could have dared to think that, I should have shown contempt to you whom I honor and love." "Allah!" said the Khan, more and more astonished. "But I will tell you this," continued Hmelnitski, with increasing assurance in his voice and his manner: "you are great and powerful; nations and monarchs from the east to the west incline before you and call you a lion; Yeremi alone does not fall on his face before your beard. If then you do not rub him out, if you do not bend his neck and ride on his back, your power is in vain, your glory is empty; for they will say that one Polish prince has dishonored the Tsar of the Crimea and received no punishment,--that he is greater, that he is mightier than you." Dull silence followed; the murzas, the agas, and the mullahs looked on the face of the Khan, as on the sun, holding the breath in their breasts. He had his eyes closed, and was thinking. Hmelnitski was resting on his baton and waiting confidently. "You have said it," answered the Khan at last. "I will bend the neck of Yeremi; I will sit on his back as on a horse, so it may not be said from the east to the west that an unbelieving dog has disgraced me." "God is great!" cried the murzas, with one voice. Joy shot from the eyes of Hmelnitski. At one step he had averted destruction hanging over his head, and turned a doubtful ally into a most faithful one. At every moment that lion knew how to turn himself into a serpent. Both camps till late at night were as active as bees warmed by the spring sun in the swarming-season, while on the battle-field slept--an endless and eternal sleep--the knights thrust through with spears, cut with swords, pierced with arrows and bullets. The moon rose, and began her course over the field of death, was reflected in pools of stiffened blood, brought forth from the darkness every moment new piles of slain, passed from some bodies, came quietly to others, looked into open and lifeless eyeballs, lighted up blue faces, fragments of broken weapons, bodies of horses; and her rays grew pale, at times very pale, as if terrified with what they saw. Along the field there ran here and there, alone and in little groups, certain ominous figures,--camp-followers and servants, who had come to plunder the slain, as jackals follow lions. But superstitious fear drove them away at last. There was something awful and mysterious in that field covered with corpses, in that calmness and quiet of human forms recently alive, and in that silent harmony with which Poles, Turks, Tartars, and Cossacks lay side by side. The wind at times rustled in the bushes growing over the field, and to the soldiers watching in the trenches it seemed that those were the souls of the slain, circling above their bodies. It was said in fact that when midnight had struck in Zbaraj, over the whole field, from the bulwark of the Poles to the tabor of the Cossacks, there rose with a rustle as it were a countless flock of birds. Wailing voices were heard also in the air, enormous sighs, which made men's hair stand on end, and groans. Those who were yet to fall in that struggle, and whose ears were more open to cries from beyond the earth, heard clearly the Polish spirits, when flying away, cry: "Before thy eyes, O Lord, we lay down our sins;" and the Cossacks groan: "O Christ, O Christ, have mercy on us!" As they had fallen in a war of brothers, they could not fly straight to light eternal, but were predestined to fly somewhere in the dark distance, and hover in the wind over this vale of tears, to weep and groan by night, till the full remission of their offences,--till they should receive pardon at the feet of Christ, and oblivion for their sins. But at that time the hearts of men grew harder yet, and no angel of peace flew over the field. CHAPTER LVIII. Next morning, before the sun had scattered its golden rays over the sky, a new protecting rampart encircled the Polish camp. The old ramparts included too much space. Defence and the giving of mutual assistance were difficult within them. The Prince and Pan Pshiyemski, in view of this, decided to enclose the troops within narrower intrenchments. They worked vigorously, the hussars as well as all the other regiments, and the camp-servants. Only at three o'clock in the morning did sleep close the eyes of the wearied knights, but at that hour all save the guards were sleeping like stones. The enemy labored also, and then was quiet for a long time, after the recent defeat. No assault was looked for that day. Skshetuski, Pan Longin, and Zagloba sat in their tent drinking beer, thickened with bits of cheese, and talked of the labors of the past night with that satisfaction peculiar to soldiers after victory. "It is my habit to lie down about the evening milking, and rise with the dawn, as did the ancients," said Zagloba, "but in war it is difficult! You sleep when you can, and you rise when they wake you. I am vexed that we must incommode ourselves for such rubbish; but it cannot be helped, such are the times. We paid them well yesterday; if they get such a feast a couple of times more, they won't want to wake us." "Do you know whether many of ours have fallen?" asked Podbipienta. "Oh, not many; more of the assailants always fall. You are not so experienced in this as I am, for you have not been through so many wars. We old soldiers have no need to count bodies; we can estimate the number from the battle itself." "I shall learn from you, gentlemen," said Pan Longin, with amiability. "Yes, if you have wit enough; but I haven't much hope of that." "Oh, give us peace!" said Skshetuski. "This is not Podbipienta's first war. God grant the foremost knights to act as he did yesterday." "I did what I could," said the Lithuanian, "not what I wanted." "Still your action was not bad," said Zagloba, patronizingly; "and that others surpassed you [here he began to curl his mustaches] is not your fault." The Lithuanian listened with downcast eyes and sighed, thinking of his ancestor Stoveiko and the three heads. At that moment the tent door opened and Pan Michael entered quickly, glad as a goldfinch on a bright morning. "Well, we are here," said Zagloba; "give him some beer." The little knight pressed the hands of his three comrades, and said: "You should see how many balls are lying on the square; it passes imagination! You can't pass without hitting one." "I saw that too," said Zagloba, "for when I rose I walked a little through the camp. All the hens in the province of Lvoff won't lay so many eggs in two years. Oh, I only wish they were eggs! Then we should have them fried; and you must know, gentlemen, that I consider a plate of fried eggs the greatest delicacy. I am a born soldier, and so are you. I eat willingly what is good, if there is only enough of it. On this account too I am more eager for battle than the pampered youngsters of to-day who can't eat anything unusual without getting the gripes." "But you scored a success yesterday with Burlai," said Volodyovski. "To cut down Burlai in that fashion! As I live I did not expect that of you, and he was a warrior famous throughout the Ukraine and Turkey." "Pretty good work, wasn't it?" asked Zagloba, with satisfaction. "It's not my first, it's not my first, Pan Michael. I see we were all looking for poppyseed in the bottom of the bushel; but we have found four, and such another four you could not find in the whole Commonwealth. If I should go with you, gentlemen, and with our prince at the head, we could reach even Stamboul! Just think! Skshetuski killed Burdabut, and yesterday Tugai Bey." "Tugai Bey is not killed," interrupted the colonel. "I felt that the sabre was turning in my hand; then they separated us." "All one; don't interrupt me, Pan Yan! Pan Michael cut up Bogun at Warsaw, as we have said--" "It is better not to mention that," interrupted the Lithuanian. "What is said is said," answered Zagloba, "though I should prefer not to mention it. But I go further: Here is Pan Podbipienta from Myshekishki, who finished Pulyan, and I Burlai. I will not hide from you, however, that I would give all these for Burlai alone; and this perhaps because I had terrible work with him. He was a devil, not a Cossack. If I had sons like him legitimately born, I should leave them a splendid name. I am only curious to know what his Majesty the King and the Diet will say when they reward us,--who live more on brimstone and saltpetre than anything else." "There was a knight greater than all of us," said Pan Longin; "and no one knows his name or mentions it." "I should like to know who he was,--one of the ancients?" asked Zagloba, offended. "No; he was that man, brother, who at Tshtsiana brought the king Gustavus Adolphus to the ground with his horse, and took him prisoner." "I heard it was at Putsek," interrupted Volodyovski. "But the king tore away from him, and escaped," said Skshetuski. "He did," said Zagloba, closing his eyes. "I know something about that matter, for I was then under Konyetspolski, father of the standard-bearer. Modesty did not permit that knight to mention his own name, therefore no one knows it; and believe me, Gustavus Adolphus was a great warrior,--almost equal to Burlai; but in the hand-to-hand conflict with Burlai I had heavier work. It is I who tell you this." "That means that you overthrew Gustavus Adolphus?" said Volodyovski. "Have I boasted of it, Pan Michael? Then let it remain unremembered. I have something to boast of to-day; no need of bringing up old times! This horrid beer rattles terribly in the stomach, and the more cheese there is in it the worse it rattles. I prefer wine, though God be praised for what we have! Soon perhaps we shall not have even the beer. The priest Jabkovski tells me that we are likely to have short rations; and he is all the more troubled, for he has a belly as big as a barn. He is a rare Bernardine, with whom I have fallen desperately in love. There is more of the soldier than the monk in him. If he should hit a man on the snout, then you might order his coffin on the spot." "But," said Volodyovski, "I have not told you how handsomely the priest Yaskolski acted last night. He fixed himself in that corner of the tower at the right side of the castle, and looked at the fight. You must know that he is a wonderfully good shot. Said he to Jabkovski: 'I won't shoot Cossacks, for they are Christians after all, though their deeds are disgusting to the Lord; but Tartars,' said he, 'I cannot stand;' and so he peppered away at the Tartars, and he spoiled about a score and a half of them during the battle." "I wish all priests were like him," sighed Zagloba; "but our Mukhovetski only raises his hands to heaven and weeps because so much Christian blood is flowing." "But give us peace," said Skshetuski, earnestly. "Mukhovetski is a holy man, and you have the best proof of it in this, that though he is not the senior of these two, they bow down before his worthiness." "Not only do I not deny his holiness," retorted Zagloba, "but I suppose he would be able to convert the Khan himself. Oh, gentlemen, his Majesty the Khan must be so mad that the lice on him are standing on their heads from fright. If we have negotiations with the Khan, I will go with the commissioners. The Khan and I are old acquaintances. Once he took a great fancy to me. Perhaps he will remember me now." "They will surely choose Yanitski to negotiate," said Skshetuski, "for he speaks Tartar as well as Polish." "And so do I. The murzas and I are as well acquainted as white-faced horses. They wanted to give me their daughters when I was in the Crimea so as to have beautiful grandchildren, as I was young in those days, and had made no _pacta conventa_ with my innocence like Podbipienta. I played many a prank." "Ah, it is disgusting to hear him!" said Pan Longing dropping his eyes. "And you repeat the same thing like a trained starling. It is clear that the Botvinians are not well acquainted with human speech yet." Further conversation was interrupted by a noise beyond the tent. The knights went out therefore to see what was going on. A multitude of soldiers were on the ramparts looking at the place round about, which during the night had changed considerably and was still changing before their eyes. The Cossacks had not been idle since the last assault; they had made a breastwork and placed cannon in it, longer and carrying farther than any in the Polish camp; they had begun traverses, zigzags, and approaches. From a distance these embankments looked like thousands of gigantic mole-hills; the whole slope of the field was covered with them; the freshly dug earth lay black everywhere in the grass, and every place was swarming with men at work. The red caps of the Cossacks were glittering on the front ramparts. The prince stood on the works with Sobieski and Pshiyemski. A little below, Firlei was surveying the Cossack works through a field-glass, and said to Ostrorog,-- "The enemy are beginning a regular siege. I see we must abandon defence in the trenches and go to the castle." Prince Yeremi heard these words, and said, bending from above to the castellan: "God keep us from that, for we should be going of our own choice into a trap. Here is the place for us to live or die." "That's my opinion too, even if I had to kill a Burlai every day," put in Zagloba. "I protest in the name of the whole army against the opinion of the castellan of Belsk." "This matter does not pertain to you!" said the prince. "Quiet!" whispered Volodyovski, jerking him by the sleeve. "We will exterminate them in those hiding-places like so many moles," said Zagloba, "and I beg your serene Highness to let me go out with the first sally. They know me already, and they will know me better." "With a sally!" said the prince, and wrinkled his brow. "Wait a minute! The nights are dark in the beginning now." Here he turned to Sobieski, Pshiyemski, and the commanders, and said: "I ask you, gentlemen, to come to counsel." He left the intrenchment, and all the officers followed him. "For the love of God, what are you doing?" asked Volodyovski, "What does this mean? Why, you don't know service and discipline, that you interfere in the conversation of your superiors. The prince is a mild-mannered man, but in time of war there is no joking with him." "Oh, that is nothing, Pan Michael! Konyetspolski, the father, was a fierce lion, and he depended greatly on my counsels; and may the wolves eat me up to-day, if it was not for that reason that he defeated Gustavus Adolphus twice. I know how to talk with magnates. Didn't you see now how the prince was astonished when I advised him to make a sally? If God gives a victory, whose service will it be,--whose? Will it be yours?" At that moment Zatsvilikhovski came up. "What's this? They are rooting and rooting, like so many pigs!" said he, pointing to the field. "I wish they were pigs," said Zagloba. "Pork sausage would be cheap, but their carrion is not fit for dogs. Today the soldiers had to dig a well in Firlei's quarters, for the water in the eastern pond was spoiled from the bodies. Toward morning the bile burst in the dog-brothers, and they all floated. Now next Friday we cannot use fish, because the fish have eaten their flesh." "True," said Zatsvilikhovski; "I am an old soldier, but I have not seen so many bodies, unless at Khotím, at the assault of the janissaries on our camp." "You will see more of them yet, I tell you." "I think that this evening, or before evening, they will move to the storm again." "But I say they will leave us in peace till to-morrow." Scarcely had Zagloba finished speaking, when long white puffs of smoke blossomed out on the breastwork, and balls flew over the intrenchment. "There!" exclaimed Zatsvilikhovski. "Oh, they know nothing of military art!" said Zagloba. Old Zatsvilikhovski was right. Hmelnitski had began a regular siege. He had closed all roads and escapes, had taken away the pasture, made approaches and breastworks, had dug zigzags near the camp, but had not abandoned assaults. He had resolved to give no rest to the besieged; to harass, to frighten, to keep them in continual sleeplessness, and press upon them till their arms should fall from their stiffened hands. In the evening, therefore, he struck upon the quarters of Vishnyevetski, with no better result than the day before, especially since the Cossacks did not advance with such alacrity. Next day firing did not cease for an instant. The zigzags were already so near that musketry fire reached the ramparts; the earthworks smoked like little volcanoes from morning till evening. It was not a general battle, but a continual fusillade. The besieged rushed out sometimes from the ramparts; then sabres, flails, scythes, and lances met in the conflict. But scarcely had a few Cossacks fallen in the ranks, when the gaps were immediately filled with new men. The soldiers had no rest for even a moment during the whole day; and when the desired sunset came, a new general assault was begun. A sally was not to be thought of. On the night of the 16th of July two valiant colonels--Gladki and Nebaba--struck upon the quarters of the prince, and suffered a terrible defeat. Three thousand of the best Cossacks lay on the field; the rest, pursued by Sobieski, escaped to the tabor, throwing down their arms and powder-horns. An equally unfortunate result met Fedorenko, who, taking advantage of the thick fog, barely failed to capture the town at daybreak. Pan Korf repulsed him at the head of the Germans; then Sobieski and Konyetspolski cut the fugitives almost to pieces. But this was nothing in comparison with the awful attack of July 19. On the previous night the Cossacks had raised in front of Vishnyevetski's quarters a lofty embankment, from which guns of large calibre vomited an uninterrupted fire. When the day had closed, and the first stars were in the sky, tens of thousands of men rushed to the attack. At the same time appeared some scores of terrible machines, like towers, which rolled slowly to the intrenchment. At their sides rose bridges, like monstrous wings, which were to be thrown over the ditches; and their tops were smoking, blazing, and roaring with discharges of small cannon, guns, and muskets. These towers moved on among the swarm of heads like giant commanders,--now reddening in the fire of guns, now disappearing in smoke and darkness. The soldiers pointed them out to one another from a distance, whispering: "Those are the 'travelling towers.' We are the men that Hmelnitski is going to grind with those windmills." "See how they roll, with a noise like thunder!" "At them from the cannon! At them from the cannon!" cried some. In fact the prince's gunners sent ball after ball, bomb after bomb, at those terrible machines; but since they were visible only when the discharges lighted the darkness, the balls missed them most of the time. Meanwhile the dense mass of Cossacks drew nearer and nearer, like a black wave flowing in the night from the distant expanse of the sea. "Uf!" said Zagloba, in the cavalry near Skshetuski, "I am hot as never before in my life. The night is so sultry that there is not a dry thread on me. The devils invented those machines. God grant the ground to open under them, for those ruffians are like a bone in my throat,--amen! We can neither eat nor sleep. Dogs are in a better condition of life than we. Uf! how hot!" It was really oppressive and sultry; besides, the air was saturated with exhalations from bodies decaying for several days over the whole field. The sky was covered with a black and low veil of clouds. A storm or tempest was hanging over Zbaraj. Sweat covered the bodies of soldiers under arms, and their breasts were panting from exertion. At that moment drums began to grumble in the darkness. "They will attack immediately," said Skshetuski. "Do you hear the drum?" "Yes. I wish the devils would drum them! It is pure desperation!" "Cut! cut!" roared the crowds, rushing to the ramparts. The battle raged along the whole length of the rampart. They struck at the same time on Vishnyevetski, Lantskoronski, Firlei, and Ostrorog, so that one could not give aid to the other. The Cossacks, excited with gorailka, went still more ragingly than during the previous assaults, but they met a still more valiant resistance. The heroic spirit of their leader gave life to the soldiers. The terrible quarter infantry, formed of Mazovians, fought with the Cossacks, so that they became thoroughly intermingled with them. They fought with gun-stocks, fists, and teeth. Under the blows of the stubborn Mazovians several hundred of the splendid Zaporojian infantry fell. The battle grew more and more desperate along the whole line. The musket-barrels burned the hands of the soldiers; breath failed them; the voices of the commanders died in their throats from shouting. Sobieski and Skshetuski fell with their cavalry upon the Cossack flank, trampling whole regiments. Hour followed hour, but the assault relaxed not; for Hmelnitski filled the great gaps of the Cossack ranks, in the twinkle of an eye, with new men. The Tartars increased the uproar, at the same time sending clouds of arrows on the defending soldiers; men from behind drove the mob to the assault with clubs and rawhide whips. Rage contended with rage, breast struck breast, man closed with man in the grip of death. They struggled, as the raging waves of the sea struggle with an island cliff. Suddenly the earth trembled; the whole heavens were in blue flames, as if God could no longer witness the horrors of men. An awful crash silenced the shouts of combatants and the roar of cannon. The artillery of heaven then began its more awful discharges. Thunders rolled on every side, from the east to the west. It seemed as though the sky had burst, together with the cloud, and was rolling on to the heads of the combatants. At moments the whole world seemed like one flame; at moments all were blind in the darkness, and again ruddy zigzags of lightning rent the black veil. A whirlwind struck once and again, tore away thousands of caps, streamers, and flags, and swept them in the twinkle of an eye over the battle-field. Thunders began to roll, one after another; then followed a chaos of peals, flashes, whirlwind, fire, and darkness; the heavens were as mad as the men. The unheard-of tempest raged over the town, the castle, the trenches, and the tabor. The battle was stopped. At last the flood-gates of heaven were open, and not streams, but rivers of rain poured down upon the earth. The deluge hid the light; nothing could be seen a step in advance. Bodies were swimming in the ditch. The Cossack regiments, abandoning the assault, fled one after the other to the tabor; going at random, they stumbled against one another, and thinking that the enemy was pursuing, scattered in the darkness; guns and ammunition wagons followed them, sticking and getting overturned on the way. Water washed down the Cossack earthworks, roared in the ditches and zigzags, filled the covered places, though provided with ditches, and ran roaring over the plain as if pursuing the Cossacks. The rain increased every moment. The infantry in the trenches left the ramparts, seeking shelter under the tents. But for the cavalry of Sobieski and Skshetuski there came no order to withdraw; they stood one by the other as if in a lake, and shook the water from their shoulders. The tempest began gradually to slacken. After midnight the rain stopped entirely. Through the rents in the clouds here and there the stars glittered. Still an hour passed, and the water had fallen a little. Then before Skshetuski's squadron appeared the prince himself unexpectedly. "Gentlemen," inquired he, "your pouches are not wet?" "Dry, serene prince!" answered Skshetuski. "That's right! dismount for me, advance through the water to those machines, put powder to them and fire them. Go quietly! Sobieski will go with you." "According to orders!" replied Skshetuski. The prince now caught sight of the drenched Zagloba. "You asked to go out on a sally; go now with these," said he. "Ah, devil, here is an overcoat for you!" muttered Zagloba. "This is all that was wanting." Half an hour later, two divisions of knights, two hundred and fifty men, wading to their waists in the water with sabres in hand, hastened to those terrible moving towers of the Cossacks, standing about half a furlong from the trench. One division was led by that "lion of lions," Marek Sobieski, starosta of Krasnostav, who would not hear of remaining in the trench; the other by Skshetuski. Attendants followed the knights with buckets of tar, torches, and powder. They went as quietly as wolves stealing in the dark night to a sheepfold. Volodyovski went, as a volunteer with Skshetuski, for Pan Michael loved such expeditions more than life. He tripped along through the water, joy in his heart and sabre in hand. At his side was Podbipienta, with his drawn sword, conspicuous above all, for he was two heads higher than the tallest. Among them Zagloba pushed on panting, while he muttered with vexation and imitated the words of the prince,-- "'You asked to go on a sally; go now with these.' All right! A dog wouldn't go to a wedding through such water as this. If ever I advise a sally in such weather may I never drink anything but water while I live! I am not a duck, and my belly isn't a boat. I have always held water in horror, and what kind of water is this in which peasant carrion is steeping?" "Quiet!" said Volodyovski. "Quiet yourself! You are not bigger than a gudgeon, and you know how to swim, it is easy for you. I say even that it is unhandsome on the part of the prince to give me no peace. After the killing of Burlai, Zagloba has done enough; let every one do as much, and let Zagloba have peace, for you will be a pretty-looking crowd when he is gone. For God's sake, if I fall into a hole, pull me out by the ears, for I shall fill with water at once." "Quiet!" said Skshetuski. "The Cossacks are sitting in those dark shelters; they will hear you." "Where? What do you tell me?" "There in those hillocks, under the sods." "That is all that was wanting! May the bright lightning smash--" Volodyovski stopped the remaining words by putting his hand on Zagloba's mouth, for the shelters were barely fifty yards distant. The knights went silently indeed, but the water spattered under their feet; happily rain began to fall again, and the patter deadened the noise of their steps. The guards were not at the shelters. Who could have expected a sally after an assault in such a tempest, when the combatants were divided by something like a lake? Volodyovski and Pan Longin sprang ahead and reached the shelter first. Volodyovski let his sabre drop, put his hand to his mouth and began to cry: "Hei, men!" "What?" answered from within the voices of Cossacks, evidently convinced that some one from the Cossack tabor was coming. "Glory to God!" answered Volodyovski; "let us in!" "Don't you know the way?" "I do," replied Volodyovski, and feeling for the entrance he jumped in. Podbipienta, with a few others, rushed after him. At that moment the interior of the shelter resounded with the terrified shout of men; at the same instant the knights rushed with a shout to the other shelter. In the darkness were heard groans and clash of steel; here and there some dark figures rushed past, others fell on the ground, then came the report of a shot; but all did not last longer than a quarter of an hour. The Cossacks, surprised for the most part while in a deep sleep, did not even defend themselves, and were destroyed before they could seize their weapons. "To the marching towers! to the marching towers!" cried Sobieski. They hurried to the towers. "Fire them from within, for they are wet outside!" shouted Skshetuski. But the command was not easy of execution. In these towers built of pine planks there was neither door nor opening. The Cossack gunners mounted them on ladders. The guns, since only those of the smaller calibre could be carried, were drawn up with ropes. The knights therefore ran around the towers some time yet, cutting the planks in vain with their sabres or grasping with their hands on corners. Happily the attendants had axes; they began to cut. Sobieski ordered them to place boxes underneath with powder, prepared on purpose. The buckets with tar, as well as the torches were lighted; and flame began to lick the planks, wet outside but full of pitch within. Before, however, the planks had caught fire or the powder had exploded. Pan Longin bent down and raised an enormous stone, dug out of the ground by the Cossacks. Four of the strongest men could not move it from its place; but he raised it, and only through the light of the tar-buckets could it be seen that the blood came to his face. The knights grew dumb with amazement. "He is a Hercules! May the bullets strike him!" cried they, raising their hands. Pan Longin approached the still unkindled machine, bent and hurled the stone at the very centre of the wall. Those present bent their heads, so loud was the whistle of the stone. The mortises were broken by the blow; a rattle was heard all around; the tower twisted as if broken in two, and fell with a crash. The pile of timber was covered with pitch and fired in a moment. Soon gigantic flames illuminated the whole plain. Rain fell continually; but the fire was too strong, and those moving towers were burning, to the astonishment of both armies, since the night was so wet. Stepka, Kulak, and Mrozovetski hurried from the Cossack tabor with several thousand men, to quench the fire. Pillars of flame and red smoke shot up toward the sky, with power increasing each moment, and were reflected in the lakes and ponds formed by the tempest on the battle-field. The knights began to return in serried ranks to the rampart. They were greeted even at that distance with shouts of joy. Suddenly Skshetuski looked around, cast his eyes into the heart of the company, and called with a thundering voice: "Halt!" Pan Longin and the little knight were not among the returning. It was evident that, carried away by ardor, they had remained too long at the last tower, and perhaps found Cossacks hidden somewhere; it was enough that, seemingly, they had not noticed the retreat. "Return!" commanded Skshetuski. Sobieski, at the other end of the line, did not know what had happened and ran to inquire. At that moment the two knights showed themselves as if they had risen out of the earth, half-way between the towers and the other knights. Pan Longin with his gleaming broadsword strode with gigantic steps, and at his side ran Pan Michael on a trot. Both had their heads turned to the Cossacks, who were chasing them like a pack of dogs. By the red light of the flames the whole pursuit was perfectly visible. One would have said that an enormous elk with her young was retreating before a crowd of hunters ready to hurl herself at any moment on the enemy. "They will be killed! By the mercy of God, forward!" cried Zagloba, in a heart-rending voice; "they will be shot with arrows or muskets! By the wounds of Christ, forward!" And not considering that a new battle might begin in a moment he flew, sabre in hand, with Skshetuski and others, to the succor; he thrust, twisted, sprang up, panted, cried, was shaking all over, and rushed on with what legs and breath remained to him. The Cossacks, however, did not fire, for their muskets were wet, and the strings of their bows damp; they only pressed on. Some had pushed to the front and were about to run up, when both knights at bay turned to them and giving an awful shout, raised their sabres on high. The Cossacks halted. Pan Longin, with his immense sword, seemed to them some supernatural being. As two tawny wolves pressed overmuch by hounds turn and show their white teeth, and the dogs whining at a distance do not dare to rush on, so these turned repeatedly, and each time their pursuers halted. Once only a man, evidently of bolder nature, ran up to them with a scythe in his hand; but Pan Michael sprang at him like a wildcat and bit him to death. The rest waited for their comrades, who were coming on the run in a dense body. But the line of Cossacks came nearer and nearer, and Zagloba flew with his sabre over his head, shouting with an unearthly voice: "Kill! slay!" Then there was a report from the bulwarks, and a bomb screaming like a screech-owl described a red arc in the sky and fell in the dense crowd; after it a second, a third, a tenth. It seemed that battle would begin anew. Till the siege of Zbaraj, projectiles of that kind were unknown to the Cossacks, and when sober they feared them terribly, seeing in them the sorcery of Yeremi. The crowd therefore stopped for a moment, then broke in two; the bombs burst, scattering death and destruction. "Save yourselves! save yourselves!" was shouted in tones of terror. All fled. Pan Longin and Volodyovski dropped into the saving ranks of the hussars. Zagloba threw himself on the neck of one and the other, and kissed them on the cheeks and eyes. Joy was choking him; but he restrained it, not wishing to show the softness of his heart, and cried,-- "Oh, the ox-drivers! I won't say that I love you, but I was alarmed about you! Is that the way you understand service, to lag in the rear? You ought to be dragged behind horses over the square by your feet. I shall be the first to tell the prince, that he may think of a punishment for you. Now we'll go to sleep. Thank God for that too! Those dog-brothers were lucky to run away before the bombs, for I should have cut them up like cabbage. I prefer fighting to seeing my friends die. We must have a drink to-night. Thank God for that too! I thought we should have to sing the requiem over you to-morrow. But I am sorry there was no fight, for my hand is itching awfully, though I gave them beans and onions in the shelters." CHAPTER LIX. The Poles had to raise new ramparts to render the earthworks of the Cossacks useless and make defence easier for their own reduced forces. They dug therefore all night after the storm. On this account the Cossacks were not idle. Having approached quietly in the dark night between Thursday and Friday, they threw up a second and much higher wall around the camp. All shouted at dawn, and began to fire at once, and four whole days and nights they continued firing. Much damage was done on both sides, for from both sides the best gunners emulated one another. From time to time masses of Cossacks and the mob rushed to attack, but did not reach the ramparts. Only the musketry fire became hotter. The enemy, having strong forces, changed the divisions in action, leading some to rest and others to fight. But in the Polish camp there were no men for change; the same persons had to shoot, rush to the defence at any moment under danger of assaults, bury the dead, dig walls, and raise the ramparts for better defence. The besieged slept, or rather dozed, on the ramparts under fire, while balls were flying so thickly that every morning they could be swept from the square. For four days no one removed his clothing. The men got wet in the rain, dry in the sun, were burning in the daytime and chilled at night. During four days not one of them had anything warm in his mouth; they drank gorailka, mixing powder with it for greater strength; they gnawed cakes, and tore with their teeth hard dried meat; and all this in the midst of smoke and fire, the whistling of balls and the thunder of cannon. It was nothing to get struck on the head or body; a soldier tied a nasty bit of cloth around his bloody head and fought on. They were wonderful men,--with torn coats, rusty weapons, shattered muskets in their hands, eyes red from sleeplessness; ever on the alert, ever willing day and night, wet weather or dry; always ready for battle. The soldiers were infatuated with their leader, with danger, with assaults, with wounds and death. A certain heroic exaltation seized their souls; their hearts became haughty, their minds callous. Horror became to them a delight. Different regiments strove for pre-eminence in enduring hunger, sleeplessness, toil, daring, and fury. This was carried to such a degree that it was difficult to keep the soldiers on the walls; they were breaking out against the enemy as wolves ravenous from hunger against sheep. In all the regiments reigned a kind of wild joy. If a man were to mention surrender, he would be torn to pieces in the twinkle of an eye. "We want to die!" was repeated by every mouth. Every command of the leader was carried out with lightning rapidity. Once it happened that the prince, in his evening tour of the ramparts, hearing that the fire of the quarter-regiment of Leshchinski was weakening, came to the soldiers, and asked: "Why don't you fire?" "Our powder is gone; we have sent to the castle for more." "You have it nearer!" said the prince, pointing to the enemy's trench. He had scarcely spoken when the whole body sprang from the rampart, rushed to the enemy, and fell like a hurricane on the intrenchment. The Cossacks were clubbed with muskets and stabbed with pikes, four guns were spiked; and after half an hour the soldiers, decimated but victorious, returned with a considerable supply of powder in kegs and hunting-horns. Day followed day. The Cossack approaches enclosed the Polish rampart with an ever-narrowing ring, and pushed into it like wedges into a tree. The firing was so close that without counting the assaults ten men a day fell in each battalion; the priests were unable to visit them with the sacrament. The besieged sheltered themselves with wagons, tents, skins, and suspended clothing. In the night they buried the dead wherever they happened to lie; but the living fought the more desperately over the graves of their comrades of the day before. Hmelnitski expended the blood of his people unsparingly, but each storm brought him only greater loss. He was astonished himself at the resistance. He counted only on this,--that time would weaken the hearts and strength of the besieged. Time did pass, but they showed an increasing contempt for death. The leaders gave the example to their men. Prince Yeremi slept on bare ground at the rampart, drank gorailka, and ate dried horse-flesh, suffering changes of weather and toils beyond his lordly position. Konyetspolski and Sobieski led regiments to the sallies in person; in time of assault they exposed themselves without armor in the thickest rain of bullets. Even leaders who, like Ostrorog, were lacking in military experience, and on whom the soldiers looked with distrust, appeared now, under the hand of Yeremi, to become different men. Old Firlei and Lantskoronski slept also at the ramparts; and Pshiyemski put guns in order during the day, and at night dug under the earth like a mole, putting counter-mines beneath the mines of the enemy, throwing out approaches, or opening underground roads by which the soldiers came like spirits of death among the sleeping Cossacks. Finally Hmelnitski determined to try negotiations, with the idea too that in the mean while he might accomplish something by stratagem. On the evening of July 24 the Cossacks began to cry from the trenches to the Poles to stop firing. The Zaporojians declared that the hetman wanted to see old Zatsvilikhovski. After a short consultation the commanders agreed to the proposition, and the old man went out of the camp. The knights saw from a distance that caps were removed before him in the trenches; for Zatsvilikhovski, during the short period that he was commissioner, succeeded in gaining the good-will of the wild Zaporojians, and Hmelnitski himself respected him. The firing ceased. The Cossacks with their approaches were close to the ramparts, and the knights went down to them. Both sides were on their guard, but there was nothing unfriendly in those meetings. The nobles had always esteemed the Cossacks more than the common herd, and now, knowing their bravery and endurance in battle, they spoke with them on terms of equality as cavaliers with cavaliers. The Cossacks examined with wonder that impregnable nest of lions which checked all their power and that of the Khan. They began to be friendly, therefore, to talk and complain that so much Christian blood was flowing; finally they treated one another to tobacco and gorailka. "All, gentlemen," said the old Zaporojians, "if you had stood up like this always, there would have been no Jóltiya Vodi, Korsún, or Pilavtsi. You are real devils, not men, such as we have not seen yet in the world." "Come to-morrow and the day after; you will always find us the same." "We'll come; but thank God now for the breathing-spell! A power of Christian blood is flowing; but, anyhow, hunger will conquer you." "The king will come before hunger; we have just eaten a hearty meal." "If provisions fail us, we will go to your tabors," said Zagloba, with his hand on his hip. "God grant Father Zatsvilikhovski to make some agreement with our hetman! If he doesn't, we shall have an assault this evening." "We are already tired of waiting for you." "The Khan has promised that you'll all get your 'fate.'" "And our prince has promised the Khan that he will drag him by the beard at his horse's tail." "He is a wizard, but he can't do that." "Better for you to go with our prince against the Pagans than to raise your hands against the authorities." "H'm! with your prince! Nice work indeed!" "Why do you revolt? The king will come; fear the king. Prince Yeremi was a father to you too--" "Such a father, as Death is mother. The plague has not killed so many brave heroes as he." "He will be worse; you don't know him yet." "We don't want to know him. Our old men say that whatever Cossack looks him in the eye is given to death." "It will be so with Hmelnitski." "God knows what will be. This is sure, that it is not for them both to live in the white world. Our father says if you would give him up Yeremi he would let you all go free, and bow down to the king with all of us." Here the soldiers began to frown and grit their teeth. "Be silent, or we'll draw our sabres!" "You Poles are angry, but you'll have your 'fate.'" And so they conversed, sometimes pleasantly and sometimes with threats, which, in spite of them, burst out like thunder-peals. In the afternoon Zatsvilikhovski returned to the camp. There were no negotiations, and a cessation of arms was not obtained. Hmelnitski put forth monstrous demands,--that the prince and Konyetspolski should be given up to him. Finally he told over the wrongs of the Zaporojians, and began to persuade Zatsvilikhovski to remain with him for good; whereupon the old knight was enraged, sprang up, and went away. In the evening followed an assault, which was repulsed with blood. The whole camp was in fire for two hours. The Cossacks were not only hurled from the walls, but the infantry captured the first intrenchment, destroyed the embrasures, the shelters, and burned fourteen moving towers. Hmelnitski swore that night to the Khan that he would not withdraw while a man remained alive in the camp. The next day at dawn brought fresh musketry-firing, digging under the ramparts, and a battle till evening with flails, scythes, sabres, stones, and clods of earth. The friendly feeling of the day before, and regret at the spilling of Christian blood gave way to still greater obstinacy. Rain began to fall in the morning. That day half-rations were issued to the soldiers, at which Zagloba complained greatly, but in general empty stomachs redoubled the rage of the Poles. They swore to fall one after the other, and not to surrender to the last breath. The evening brought new assaults from the Cossacks, disguised as Turks, lasting, however, but a short time. A night full of uproar and cries followed, "a very quarrelsome night." Firing did not cease for a moment. Both sides challenged each other; they fought in groups and pairs. Pan Longin went out to the skirmish, but no one would stand before him; they merely fired at him from a distance. But Stempovski covered himself with great glory, and also Volodyovski, who in single combat killed the famous partisan Dundar. At last Zagloba himself came out, but only to encounters of the tongue. "After killing Burlai," said he, "I cannot meet every common scrub!" But in the encounter of tongues he found no equal among the Cossacks, and he brought them to despair; when covered with a good embankment he cried, as if under the ground, with a stentorian voice,-- "Sit here at Zbaraj, you clowns, but the Lithuanian soldiers are going down the Dnieper. They are saluting your wives and young women. Next spring you will find crowds of little Botvinians in your cottages, if you find the cottages." The Lithuanian army was really descending the Dnieper, under Kadzivil, burning and destroying, leaving only land and water. The Cossacks knowing this fell into a rage, and in answer hailed bullets on Zagloba, as a man shakes pears from a tree. But Zagloba took good care of his head behind the embankment, and cried again,-- "You have missed, you dog-spirits, but I didn't miss Burlai. I am alone here; come to a duel with me! You know me! Come on, you clowns! shoot on while you have a chance, for next winter you'll be taking care of young Tartars in the Crimea, or making dams on the Dnieper. Come on, come on! I'll give a copper for the head of your Hmel. Give him a whack on the snout from me, from Zagloba, do you hear? Hei! you filthy fools, is it little of your carrion that lies on the field smelling like dead dogs? The plague sends her respects to you. To your forks, to your ploughs, to your boats, you scurvy villains! It is for you to tug salt and dried cherries against the current of the Dnieper, not to stand in our way." The Cossacks had their laugh too at the "Panowie[21] who have one biscuit for three," and they were asked why they did not collect their taxes and tithes. But Zagloba got the upper hand in the disputes. These conversations rattled on, interrupted by curses and wild outbursts of laughter for whole nights, under fire and with more or less fighting. Then Pan Yanitski went out to negotiate with the Khan, who repeated again that all would meet their "fate," till the impatient envoy said: "You promised that long ago, but nothing has happened to us yet! Whoever comes for our heads will leave his own!" The Khan asked Prince Yeremi to meet his vizier in the field; but that was simply treachery, which was discovered, and the negotiations were finally broken off. All this time there was no intermission in the struggle,--assaults in the evening, during the day cannonading and musketry fire, sallies from the ramparts, encounters, hand-to-hand conflict of battalions, and wild attacks of cavalry. A certain mad desire of fighting, of blood, and danger upheld the soldiers. They went to battle with songs, as if to a wedding. They had indeed become so accustomed to uproar and tumult that those divisions which were detailed to sleep slept soundly under fire, amidst thickly falling bullets. Provisions decreased every day, for the commanders had not supplied the camp sufficiently before the coming of the prince. The price of everything was enormously high, but those who had money and bought bread or gorailka shared it gladly with others. No one cared for the morrow, knowing that one of two things would not miss them,--either succor from the king, or death! They were equally ready for either, but more ready for battle. An unheard-of case in history, tens meeting thousands with such resistance and such rage that each assault was a new defeat for the Cossacks! Besides, there was no day in which there were not several attacks from the ramparts on the enemy in his own trenches. Those evenings when Hmelnitski thought that weariness must overcome the most enduring and was quietly preparing an assault, joyful songs would come to his ears. Then he struck his hands on his legs with wonder, and thought, "In truth Yeremi is a greater wizard than any in the Cossack camp." Then he was furious, hurried to the fight, and poured out a sea of blood; for he saw that his star was beginning to pale before the star of the terrible prince. In the tabor they sang songs about Yeremi, or in a low voice related things of him, which made the hair stand on the heads of the Cossacks. They said that he would appear at times in the night on the ramparts, and would grow up before one till his head was higher than the towers of Zbaraj; that his eyes were then like two moons, and the sword in his hand like that star of ill omen which God sometimes sends out in the sky for the destruction of men. It was said that when he shouted, the Poles who had fallen in battle rose up with clanking armor and took their places in the ranks with the living. Yeremi was in every mouth,--they sang about him, minstrels spoke of him, the old Zaporojians, the ignorant mob, and the Tartars; and in those conversations, in that hatred, in that superstitious terror there was a certain wild love with which that people of the steppes loved their bloody destroyer. Hmelnitski paled before him, not only in the eyes of the Khan and the Tartars, but in the eyes of his own people; and he saw that he must take Zbaraj, or the spell which he exercised would be dissipated, like darkness before the morning dawn,--he must trample that lion, or perish himself. But the lion not only defended himself, but each day he issued more terrible from his lair. Neither stratagem, nor treachery, nor evident preponderance availed. Meanwhile the mob and the Cossacks began to murmur. It was difficult for them to sit in smoke and fire, in a rain of bullets, with the odor of corpses, in rain, in heat, before the face of death. But the valiant Cossacks did not fear toil, nor bad weather, nor storms with fire and blood and death; they feared "Yarema." CHAPTER LX. Many a simple knight covered himself with undying glory on that memorable rampart of Zbaraj; but the lyre will celebrate Pan Longin Podbipienta among the first, since the greatness of his gifts could be equalled only by his modesty. The night was gloomy, dark, and wet; the soldiers, wearied with watching at the ramparts, dozed, leaning on their weapons. After the recent ten days of firing and assaults, this was the first moment of quiet and rest. From the neighboring trenches of the Cossacks--for they were scarcely thirty yards distant--there were neither cries, curses, nor the usual uproar. It appeared as though the enemy, wishing to weary the Poles, had grown weary themselves. Here and there only glittered the faint light of a fire, covered under a mound; from one place came the sweet, low sound of a lute, on which some Cossack was playing; far away in the Tartar camp the horses neighed; and on the embankments, from time to time, was heard the voice of the guards. The armored cavalry of the prince was on infantry duty that night. Skshetuski, Podbipienta, Volodyovski, and Zagloba on the bulwark were whispering quietly among themselves; in the intervals of the conversation they listened to the sound of the rain falling into the ditch. "This quiet is strange to me," said Skshetuski. "My ears are so accustomed to thundering and uproar that silence rings in them; but I hope treachery is not hidden in this silence." "Since I am on half-rations it is all one to me," muttered Zagloba, gloomily. "My courage demands three things,--to eat well, to drink well, and to sleep well. The best strap, if not oiled, will grow dry and break; what if, in addition, you soak it in water, like hemp? The rain soaks us, the Cossacks hackle us, and why should not strips fall from us? Beautiful conditions!--a biscuit costs a florin, and a measure of vudka five. A dog would not take this foul water in his mouth, for in the wells is the essence of the dead; and I am as thirsty as my boots, which have their mouths open like fish." "But your boots drink water without extravagant talk." "You might keep your mouth shut, Pan Michael! You are no bigger than a titmouse; you can live on a grain of millet and drink out of a thimble. But I thank God that I am not so delicate, and that a hen did not scratch me out of the sand with her hind legs, but a woman gave me birth; therefore I must live by eating and drinking, like a man, not like a May-bug; and as I have had nothing in my mouth but spittle since yesterday noon, your jokes are not at all to my taste." Here Zagloba began to puff with anger, and Pan Michael put his hand on his side and said,-- "I have in my pocket a flask, which I got of a Cossack to-day; but if a hen scratched me out of the sand, I think gorailka from such an insignificant person would not be to your taste. Here's to you, Yan!" said he, turning to Skshetuski. "Give it here," said Skshetuski, "for the air is cold." "Drink to Pan Longin." "You are a rogue, Pan Michael," said Zagloba, "but you are one in a hundred; you take from yourself and give to others. A blessing on hens that scratch such soldiers from the sand! But there are none such, and I was not thinking of you." "Then take it after Podbipienta. I have no wish to offend you." "What are you doing? Leave some to me!" cried Zagloba in alarm, when he saw the Lithuanian drinking. "Why do you throw your head back so far? God grant it to remain in its usual place. You are too long; it is no small task to moisten you. May you burst!" "I've barely touched it," said Podbipienta, handing him the flask. Zagloba turned over the flask completely, and drank to the bottom; then he snorted, and said,-- "The only consolation is that if our miseries come to an end, and God lets us take our heads out of these dangers in safety, we'll reward ourselves for all. They will be sure to prepare some loaves for us. The priest Jabkovski has fine skill in eating, but I'll make a ram's-horn of him." "And what word of truth have you and Jabkovski heard to-day from Mukhovetski?" "Silence!" said Skshetuski; "there is some one coming in the square." They were silent; and soon a dark figure stood near them, and asked in a hushed voice: "Are you watching?" "We are," answered Skshetuski, straightening himself. "Give careful attention; this calm is of evil augury." The prince passed on to see if sleep had overcome the wearied soldiers anywhere. Pan Longin clasped his hands: "What a leader! what a warrior!" "He takes less rest than we do," said Skshetuski. "He examines the whole rampart in this way every night as far as the second pond." "God grant him health!" "Amen!" Silence followed. All looked with strained eyes into the darkness, but nothing could be seen. The Cossack trenches were quiet, the last light in them quenched. "They might be caught napping now, like susliks," muttered Volodyovski. "Who knows?" answered Skshetuski. "Sleep torments me," said Zagloba, "so that my eyes are coming out, and sleep is not permitted. I am curious to know when it will be permitted. Whether there is firing or not, one must stand under arms and nod from weariness, like a Jew on the Sabbath. It's a dog's service! I don't know myself what has got hold of me,--whether it's the gorailka, or the irritation from that blow which I with the priest Jabkovski was forced to endure without reason." "How was that?" asked Podbipienta; "you began to tell us, and didn't finish." "I'll tell you now. Maybe we'll shake off sleep somehow. I went this morning with Jabkovski to the castle, hoping to come upon something to gnaw. We search and search, look everywhere, find nothing; we return in bad humor. In the yard we meet a Calvinist minister who had been giving the last consolation to Captain Shenberk, of Firlei's battalion, who was shot yesterday. I opened on him: 'Haven't you,' said I, 'strolled around about long enough, and displeased the Lord sufficiently? You will draw a curse on us.' But he, relying evidently on the protection of the castellan of Belsk, answered: 'Our faith is as good as yours, if not better!' And he spoke in such a way that we were petrified from horror. But we kept silent. I thought to myself: 'Jabkovski is here; let him do the arguing.' But my Jabkovski snorted, and whacked him under the ribs with arguments. He made no answer to this strongest of reasons, for he went spinning around till he was brought up standing against the wall. That moment the prince came in with Mukhovetski and fell upon us; said that we were making an uproar and disturbance; that it was neither the time nor the place, nor were ours the arguments. They washed our heads for us, as if we had been a couple of boys. I wish they were right; for unless I am a false prophet, these ministers of Firlei will bring misfortune to us yet." "And did not that Captain Shenberk renounce his errors?" asked Volodyovski. "What, renounce! He died, as he had lived, in abomination!" "Oh that men should yield up their salvation rather than their stubbornness!" sighed Pan Longin. "God is defending us against Cossack predominance and witchcraft," continued Zagloba; "but these heretics are offending him. It is known to you, gentlemen, that yesterday, from this very intrenchment before us, they shot balls of thread into the square; and the soldiers say that immediately on the place where the balls fell the ground was covered with a leprosy." "It's a known fact that devils wait on Hmelnitski," said the Lithuanian, making the sign of the cross. "I saw the witches myself," added Skshetuski, "and I'll tell you--" Further conversation was stopped by Volodyovski, who pressed Skshetuski's arm suddenly, and whispered: "Silence!" Then he sprang to the very edge of the rampart, and listened attentively. "I hear nothing," said Zagloba. "Ts! the rain drowns it," answered Skshetuski. Pan Michael began to beckon with his hand not to interrupt him, and he listened carefully for some time. At last he approached his comrades. "They are marching!" whispered he. "Let the prince know; he has gone to Ostrorog's quarters," whispered Pan Yan. "We will run to warn the soldiers." Straightway they hurried along the ramparts, stopping from moment to moment and whispering everywhere to the soldiers on guard: "They are coming! they are coming!" The words flew like silent lightning from mouth to mouth. In a quarter of an hour the prince, already on horseback, was present, and issuing orders to the officers. Since the enemy wished, evidently, to spring into the camp while the Poles were asleep and off guard, the prince enjoined on all to maintain this error. The soldiers were to remain in immovable stillness and let the assaulters come to the very rampart, and when cannon-shot was given as a signal, to strike unexpectedly. The soldiers were ready. They dropped the muzzles of their guns, bent forward noiselessly, and deep silence followed. Skshetuski, Pan Longin, and Volodyovski drew long breaths, side by side. Zagloba stayed near them, for he knew by experience that most balls fell on the square, and that it was safest on the ramparts near three such sabres. They merely drew back a little, that the first onrush might not strike them. Podbipienta knelt somewhat to one side with his double-handed sword; Volodyovski crouched near Skshetuski, and whispered in his very ear,-- "They are coming, surely." "With measured tread." "That's not the mob, nor the Tartars." "Zaporojian infantry." "Or janissaries; they march well. We could strike them better with cavalry." "It is too dark for cavalry to-night." "Do you hear them now?" "Ts! Ts!" The camp seemed sunk in deepest sleep. In no place movement, in no place life; everywhere the most profound silence, broken only by the rustle of rain fine as if scattered from a sieve. Gradually, however, there rose in this another rustle, low, but more easily caught by the ear, for it was measured, drawing nearer, growing clearer; at last, a few steps from the ditch, appeared a sort of prolonged dense mass, visible in so far that it was blacker than the darkness, and halted. The soldiers held their breaths; but the little knight punched Skshetuski in the side, as if wishing in this way to show his delight. The assailants reached the ditch, let down their ladders into it, descended on them, and moved toward the rampart. The rampart was as silent as if on it and behind it everything had expired; a silence of the grave succeeded. Here and there, in spite of all the care of the assailants, the ladder-rounds squeaked and trembled. "You'll get beans!" thought Zagloba.0 Volodyovski stopped punching Skshetuski, Pan Longin pressed the hilt of his double-handed sword, and distended his eyes, for he was nearest the edge of the rampart and expected to give the first blow. Three pairs of hands appeared on the outer rim, and grasped it firmly; after them began to rise slowly and carefully three helmet points, higher and higher. "Those are Turks!" thought Pan Longin. At that moment was heard the awful roar of several thousand muskets; it was clear as day. Before the light had gone out Pan Longin had drawn his weapon and cut terribly, so that the air whined under his sword-edge. Three bodies fell into the ditch, three heads in helmets rolled to the knees of the kneeling knight. Then, though hell was raging on earth, heaven opened before Pan Longin; wings grew from his shoulders; choirs of angels were singing in his breast, and he was as if caught up to heaven; he fought as in a dream, and the blows of his sword were like thanks giving prayers. All the Podbipientas, long since dead, beginning with Stoveiko, the founder of the line, were rejoicing in heaven that the last surviving, Zervikaptur Podbipienta, was such a man. This assault, in which auxiliary forces of Rumelian and Silistrian Turks, with guards from the janissaries of the Khan, took a preponderant part, received a more terrible repulse than others, and drew a fearful storm on Hmelnitski's head. He had guaranteed in advance that the Poles would fight with less rage against the Turks, and if those companies were given him he would capture the camp. He was obliged therefore to mollify the Khan and the enraged murzas, and at the same time win them with presents. He gave the Khan ten thousand thalers; Tugai Bey, Korz Aga, Subahazi, Nureddin, and Galga, two thousand each. Meanwhile the camp-servants drew the bodies out of the ditch. In this they were not hindered by firing from the intrenchment. The soldiers rested till morning, for it was certain that the assault would not be repeated. All slept uninterruptedly, except the troops on guard and Podbipienta, who lay, in the form of a cross, all night on his sword, thanking God, who had permitted him to accomplish his vow and cover himself with such renown that his name had gone from mouth to mouth in the camp and the town. Next morning the prince summoned him, and praised him greatly, and the soldiers came in crowds all day to congratulate him and look at the three heads which the attendants had brought before his tent, and which were already blackening in the air. There was wonder and envy not a little, and some would not believe their eyes, for the heads and the capes of the helmets were cut off as evenly as if some one had cut them with shears. "You are an awful tailor!" said the nobles. "We knew that you were a good knight; but the ancients might envy such a blow, for the best executioner could not give a better." "The wind does not take off caps as those heads were taken!" said another. All pressed the palms of Pan Longin; but he stood with downcast eyes, sunshiny, sweet, timid as a maiden before marriage, and said as if in explanation: "They were in good position." Then they tested the sword; but since it was the double-handed sword of a crusader, no man could move it freely, not excepting even the priest Jabkovski, though he could break a horse-shoe like a reed. Around the tent it grew noisier; and Zagloba, Skshetuski, and Volodyovski did the honors to the visitors, treating them with stories, for they had nothing else to give them since the last biscuits in the camp had been eaten; they had long had no other meat than dried horse-flesh. But valor gave them meat and drink. Toward the end, when the others began to disperse, Marek Sobieski appeared with his lieutenant, Stempovski. Pan Longin ran out to meet him; the starosta greeted him with thanks, and said,-- "It is a holiday with you?" "In truth it is a holiday," answered Zagloba, "for our friend has fulfilled a vow." "Praise be to the Lord God!" answered the starosta. "Then it is not long, brother, till we may congratulate you on your marriage. And have you any one in mind?" Pan Longin was extremely confused, grew red to his ears; and the starosta continued,-- "I see by your confusion that you have. It is your sacred duty to remember that such a stock should not perish." Then he pressed the hands of Pan Longin, Skshetuski, Zagloba, and the little knight; and they were rejoiced in their hearts to hear praise from such lips, for the starosta of Krasnostav was the mirror of bravery, honor, and every knightly virtue,--he was an incarnate Mars. All the gifts of God were richly united in him, for in remarkable beauty he surpassed even his younger brother Yan, who was afterward king. He was equal in fortune and name to the very first, and the great Yeremi himself exalted his military gifts to the skies. He would have been a wonderful star in the heaven of the Commonwealth, but that by the disposition of God, the younger, Yan, took his glory to himself, and Marek vanished before his time in a day of disaster. Hitherto our knights had rejoiced greatly at the praises of this hero; but he did not stop at that, and continued,-- "I have heard much of you from the prince himself, who loves you beyond others. I do not wonder that you serve him without reference to promotion, which comes more readily in the regiments of the king." "We are all," answered Skshetuski, "really enrolled in the hussar regiment of the king, except Pan Zagloba, who is a volunteer from native valor. We serve under the prince, first, out of love for his person, and, secondly, because we wish to have as much as we can of the war." "If such be your wish, you have chosen well. Surely Pan Podbipienta could not have found his heads under any other command so easily. But as to war in these times, we all have enough of it." "More than of anything else," said Zagloba. "Men have been coming here from early morning with praises; but if any one would ask us to a bite of food and a drink of gorailka, he would honor us best." Having said this, Zagloba looked diligently into Sobieki's eyes, and muttered unquietly; but the starosta sighed, and said,-- "Since yesterday noon I have taken nothing into my mouth. A gulp of gorailka, however, I think can be found somewhere. I am at your service, gentlemen, for that." Skshetuski, Pan Longin, and Volodyovski began to draw back and scold Zagloba, who extricated himself as he could and explained matters as he was able. "I did not press myself," said he, "for it is my ambition rather to give away my own than touch what belongs to another; but when such a distinguished person invites, it would be churlish to refuse." "Well, come on!" said the starosta. "I like to sit in good company, and while there is no firing we have time. I do ask you to eat, for it is difficult to get horse-flesh,--for each horse killed on the square a hundred hands are stretched forth; but there are two flasks of gorailka which certainly I shall not keep for myself." The others were unwilling, and refused; but when he insisted urgently, they went. Pan Stempovski hurried on in advance, and exerted himself so that a few biscuits and some bits of horse-flesh were found as a bite after the gorailka. Zagloba was in better spirits immediately, and said,-- "God grant the king, to liberate us from this siege, then we will go at once to the wagons of the general militia. They always carry a world of good things with them, and care more for their stomachs than they do for the Commonwealth. I'd rather eat with them than fight in their company; but being under the eye of the king, perhaps they will fight fairly well." The starosta grew serious. "Since we have sworn," said he, "to fall one after another without surrender, we shall do so. We must be ready for still harder times. We have scarcely any provisions, and what is worse, our powder is coming to an end. I should not say this to others, but to you I can speak. Soon we shall have nothing but desperate determination in our hearts and sabres in our hands, readiness for death, and nothing more. God grant the king to come at the earliest moment, for this is our last hope! He is a military man, and is sure not to spare life, health, or comfort in rescuing us; but his forces are too few, and he must wait,--you know how slowly the general militia muster. Besides, how is the king to know the conditions in which we are defending ourselves, and that we are eating the last fragments?" "We have sacrificed ourselves," said Skshetuski. "But couldn't we let him know?" asked Zagloba. "If there could be found a man of such virtue as to undertake to steal through," said the starosta, "he would win immortal glory in his lifetime,--he would be the savior of the whole army, and would avert defeat from the fatherland. Even if the general militia has not all appeared yet, perhaps the nearness of the king might disperse the rebellion. But who will go, who will undertake it, since Hmelnitski has so possessed every road and exit that a mouse could not squeeze through from the camp? Such an undertaking is clear and evident death!" "But what are stratagems for?--and one is now entering my head." "What is it, what is it?" asked the starosta. "This. Every day we take prisoners: bribe one of these; let them feign escape from us, and run to the king." "I must mention this to the prince," said the starosta. Pan Longin fell into deep thought; his brows were covered with furrows, and he sat a whole hour in silence. Suddenly he raised his head, and spoke with his usual sweetness: "I will undertake to steal through the Cossacks." The knights, hearing these words, sprang from their seats in amazement. Zagloba opened his mouth, Volodyovski's mustaches quivered, Skshetuski grew pale; and the starosta, striking himself on the breast, cried: "Would you undertake to do this?" "Have you considered what you say?" asked Pan Yan. "I considered it long ago," answered the Lithuanian; "for this is not the first day that the knights say that notice must be given the king of our position. And I, hearing this, thought to myself: 'If the Most High God permits me to fulfil my vow, I will go at once. I am an obscure man; what do I signify? What harm to me, even am killed on the road?'" "But they will cut you to pieces, without doubt!" cried Zagloba, "Have you heard what the starosta says,--that it is evident death?" "What of that, brother? If God wishes, he will carry me through; if not, he will reward me in heaven." "But first they will seize you, torture you, give you a fearful death. Have you lost your reason, man?" asked Zagloba. "I will go, anyhow," answered the Lithuanian, mildly. "A bird could not fly through, for they would shoot it from their bows. They have surrounded us like a badger in his hole." "Still I will go!" repeated the Lithuanian. "I owe thanks to the Lord for permitting me to fulfil my vow." "Well, look at him, examine him!" said Zagloba, in desperation. "You would better have your head cut off at once and shoot it from a cannon over the tabor, for in this way alone could you push through them." "But permit me, my friends," said Pan Longin, clasping his hands. "Oh, no; you will not go alone, for I will go with you," said Skshetuski. "And I with you both!" added Volodyovski, striking his sword. "And may the bullets strike you!" cried Zagloba, seizing himself by the head. "May the bullets strike you with your 'And I,' 'And I,' with your daring! They have not had enough of blood yet, not enough of destruction, not enough of bullets! What is doing here is not sufficient for them; they want more certainty of having their necks twisted. Go to the dogs, and give me peace! I hope you will be cut to pieces." When he had said this he began to circle about in the tent as if mad. "God is punishing me," cried be, "for associating with whirlwinds instead of honorable, solid men. It serves me right." He walked through the tent awhile longer with feverish tread; at last he stopped before Skshetuski; then, putting his hands behind his back and looking into his eyes, began to puff terribly: "What have I done that you persecute me?" "God save us!" exclaimed the knight. "What do you mean?" "I do not wonder that Podbipienta invents such things; he always had his wit in his fist. But since he has killed the three greatest fools among the Turks he has become the fourth himself--" "It is disgusting to hear him," interrupted the Lithuanian. "And I don't wonder at _him_," continued Zagloba, pointing at Volodyovski. "He will jump on a Cossack's bootleg, or hold to his trousers as a burr does to a dog's tail, and get through quicker than any of us. The Holy Spirit has not shone upon either of the two; but that you, instead of restraining their madness, should add excitement to it, that you are going yourself, and wish to expose us four to certain death and torture,--that is the final blow! Tfu! I did not expect this of an officer whom the prince himself has esteemed a valiant knight." "How four?" asked Skshetuski, in astonishment. "Do you want to go?" "Yes!" cried Zagloba, beating his breast with his fists, "I will go. If any of you go, or all go together, I will go too. My blood be on your heads! I shall know next time with whom to associate." "Well may you!" said Skshetuski. The three knights began to embrace him; but he was angry in earnest, and puffed and pushed them away with his elbows, saying: "Go to the devil! I don't want your Judas kisses." Then was heard on the walls the firing of cannon and muskets. "There it is for you, go!" "That is ordinary firing," remarked Pan Yan. "Ordinary firing!" repeated Zagloba, mocking him. "Well, just think this is not enough for them. Half the army is destroyed by this ordinary firing, and they turn up their noses at it." "Be of good cheer," said Podbipienta. "You ought to keep your mouth shut, Botvinia. You are most to blame; you have invented an undertaking which if it is not a fool's errand then I'm a fool." "But still I'll go, brother," said Pan Longin. "You'll go, you'll go; and I know why. Don't exhibit yourself as a hero, for they know you. You have virtue for sale, and are in a hurry to take it out of camp. You the worst among knights, not the best,--simply a drab, trading in virtue. Tfu! an offence to God,--that's what you are. It is not to the king you want to go, but you would like to snort through the villages like a horse through a meadow. Look at him! There is a knight with virtue for sale! Vexation, vexation, as God is dear to me!" "Disgusting to hear him!" cried the Lithuanian, thrusting his fingers in his ears. "Let disputes rest," said Skshetuski, seriously. "Better let us think about this question." "In God's name," said the starosta, who had listened hitherto with astonishment to Zagloba, "this is a great question, but we can decide nothing without the prince. This is no place for discussion. You are in service and obliged to obey orders. The prince must be in his quarters; let us go to him and see what he will say to your offer." "I agree to that," answered Zagloba; and hope shone in his face. "Let us go as quickly as possible." They went out and crossed the square on which already the balls were falling from the Cossack trenches. The troops were at the ramparts, which at a distance looked like booths at a fair, so overhung were they with many-colored clothing sheepskin coats, packed with wagons, fragments of tents, and every kind of object which might become a shelter against the shots which at times ceased neither day nor night. And now above those rags hung a long bluish line of smoke, and behind them ranks of prostrate red and yellow soldiers, working hard against the nearest trenches of the enemy. The square itself was like a ruin; the level space was cut up with spades, or trampled by horses; it was not made green by a single grass-blade. Here and there were mounds of earth freshly raised by the digging of walls and graves; here and there lay fragments of broken wagons, cannon, barrels, or piles of bones, gnawed, and whitening before the sun. Bodies of horses were nowhere visible, for each one was removed immediately as food for the soldiers; but everywhere were piles of iron,--mostly cannon-balls, red from rust, which fell every day on that piece of land. Grievous war and hunger were evident at every step. On their way our knights met greater or smaller groups of soldiers,--some carrying wounded or dead, others hurrying to the ramparts to relieve their overworked comrades. The faces of all were black, sunken, overgrown with beard; their fierce eyes were inflamed, their clothing faded and torn; many had filthy rags on their heads in place of caps or helmets; their weapons were broken. Involuntarily came the question. What will happen a week or two later to that handful hitherto victorious? "Look, gentlemen," said the starosta; "it is time to give notice to the king." "Want is showing its teeth, like a dog," said the little knight. "What will happen when we have eaten the horses?" asked Skshetuski. Thus conversing, they reached the tents of the prince, situated at the right side of the rampart, before which were a few mounted messengers to carry orders through the camp. Their horses, fed with dried and ground horse-flesh and excited by continual fire, reared restively, unable to stand in one place. This was the case too with all the cavalry horses, which in going against the enemy seemed like a herd of griffins or centaurs going rather by air than by land. "Is the prince in the tent?" asked the starosta of one of the horsemen. "Yes, with Pan Pshiyemski," answered the orderly. The starosta entered first without announcing himself, but the four knights remained outside. After a while the canvas opened, and Pshiyemski thrust out his head. "The prince is anxious to see you," said he. Zagloba entered the tent in good humor, for he hoped the prince would not expose his best knights to certain death; but he was mistaken, for they had not yet bowed when he said,-- "The starosta has told me of your readiness to issue from the camp, and I accept your good will. Too much cannot be sacrificed for the country." "We have only come for permission to try," said Skshetuski, "since your Highness is the steward of our blood." "Then you want to go together?" "Your Highness," said Zagloba, "they want to go, but I do not. God is my witness that I have not come here to praise myself or to make mention of my services; and if I do mention them, I do so lest some one might suppose that I am afraid. Pan Skshetuski, Volodyovski, and Podbipienta of Myshekishki are great knights; but Burlai, who fell by my hand (not to speak of other exploits), was also a famous warrior, equal to Burdabut, Bogun, and the three heads of the janissaries. I mean to say by this that in knightly deeds I am not behind others. But heroism is one thing, and madness another. We have no wings, and we cannot go by land; that is certain." "You will not go then?" said the prince. "I have said that I do not wish to go, but I have not said that I will not go. Since God has punished me with their company, I must remain in it till death. If we should be hard pressed, the sabre of Zagloba will be of service yet; but I know not why death should be put upon us four, and I hope that your Highness will avert it from us by not permitting this mad undertaking." "You are a good comrade," answered the prince, "and it honorable on your part not to wish to leave your friends; you are mistaken in your confidence in me, for I accept your offer." "The dog is dead!" muttered Zagloba, and his hands dropped. At that moment Firlei, castellan of Belsk, entered the tent. "Your Highness, my people have seized a Cossack who says that they are preparing an assault for to-night." "I have received information too," answered the prince. "All is ready, only let our people hurry with the ramparts." "They are nearly finished." "That is well! We will occupy them in the evening." Then he turned to the four knights. "It is best to try after the storm, if the night is dark." "How is that?" asked Firlei; "are you preparing a sally?" "The sally in its own order,--I will lead it myself; but now we are talking about something else. These gentlemen undertake to creep through the enemy and inform the king of our condition." The castellan was astonished, opened his eyes, and looked at the knights in succession. The prince smiled with delight. He had this vanity,--he loved to have his soldiers admired. "In God's name!" said the castellan; "there are such hearts then in the world? As God lives, I will not dissuade you from the daring deed." Zagloba was purple from rage; but he said nothing, he only puffed like a bear. The prince thought awhile, then said,-- "I do not wish, however, to spend your blood in vain, and I am not willing that all four should go together. One will go first; if the enemy kill him, they will not delay in boasting of it, as they have once already boasted of the death of my servant whom they seized at Lvoff. If they kill the first, the second will go; afterward in case of necessity the third and the fourth. But perhaps the first will pass through; in such an event I do not wish to expose the others to a useless death." "Your Highness," interrupted Skshetuski. "This is my will and command," said Yeremi, with emphasis. "To bring you to agreement, I say that he shall go first who offered himself first." "It was I!" cried Pan Longin, with a beaming face. "To-night, after the storm, if it is dark," added the prince. "I will give no letters to the king; you will tell what you have seen,--merely take a signet-ring as credential." Podbipienta took the signet-ring and bowed to the prince, who caught him by the temples and held him awhile with his two hands; then he kissed him several times on the forehead, and said in a voice of emotion,-- "You are as near to my heart as a brother. May the God of Hosts and our Queen of Angels carry you through, warrior of the Lord! Amen!" "Amen!" repeated Sobieski, the castellan of Belsk, and Pan Pshiyemski. The prince had tears in his eyes, for he was a real father to the knights. Others wept, and a quiver of enthusiasm shook the body of Pan Podbipienta. A flame passed through his bones; and rejoiced to its depth was his soul, pure, obedient, and heroic, with the hope of coming sacrifice. "History will write of you!" cried the castellan. "Non nobis, non nobis, sed nomini tuo, Domine, da gloriam (Not to us, not to us, but to thy name, Lord, give the glory)," said the prince. The knights issued from the tent. "Tfu! something has seized me by the throat and holds me," said Zagloba; "and it is as bitter in my mouth as wormwood, and there they are firing continually. Oh, if the thunders would fire you away!" said he, pointing to the smoking trenches of the Cossacks. "Oh, it is hard to live in this world! Pan Longin, are you really going out? May the angels guard you! If the plague would choke those ruffians!" "I must take farewell of you," said Podbipienta. "How is that? Where are you going?" asked Zagloba. "To the priest Mukhovetski,--to confess, my brother. I must cleanse my sinful soul." Pan Longin hastened to the castle; the others returned to the ramparts. Skshetuski and Volodyovski were silent, but Zagloba said,-- "Something holds me by the throat. I did not think to be sorrowful, but that is the worthiest man in the world. If any one contradicts me, I'll give it to him in the face. Oh, my God, my God! I thought the castellan of Belsk would restrain the prince, but he beat the drums still more. The hangman brought that heretic! 'History,' he says, 'will write of you.' Let it write of him, but not on the skin of Pan Longin. And why doesn't he go out himself? He has six toes on his feet, like every Calvinist, and he can walk better. I tell you, gentlemen, that it is getting worse and worse on earth, and Jabkovski is a true prophet when he says that the end of the world is near. Let us sit down awhile at the ramparts, and a go to the castle, so as to console ourselves with the company of our friend till evening at least." But Pan Longin, after confession and communion, spent whole time in prayer. He made his first appearance at the storm in the evening, which was one of the most awful, for the Cossacks had struck just when the troops were transporting their cannon and wagons to the newly raised ramparts. For a time it seemed that the slender forces of the Poles would fall before the onrush of two hundred thousand foes. The Polish battalions had become so intermingled with the enemy that they could not distinguish their own, and three times they closed in this fashion. Hmelnitski exerted all his power; for the Khan and his own colonels had told him that this must be the last storm, and that henceforth they would only harass the besieged with hunger. But after three hours all attacks were repulsed with such terrible losses that according to later reports forty thousand of the enemy had fallen. One thing is certain,--after the battle a whole bundle of flags was thrown at the feet of the prince; and this was really the last great assault, after which followed more difficult times of digging under the ramparts, capturing wagons, continual firing, suffering, and famine. Immediately after the storm the soldiers, ready to drop from weariness, were led by the tireless Yeremi in a sally, which ended in a new defeat for the enemy. Quiet then soothed the tabor and the camp. The night was warm but cloudy. Four black forms pushed themselves quietly and carefully to the eastern edge of the ramparts. They were Pan Longin, Zagloba, Skshetuski, and Volodyovski. "Guard your pistols well, to keep the powder dry," whispered Pan Yan. "Two battalions will be ready all night. If you fire, we will spring to the rescue." "Nothing to be seen, even if you strain your eyes out!" whispered Zagloba. "That is better," answered Pan Longin. "Be quiet!" interrupted Volodyovski, "I hear something." "That is only the groan of a dying man,--nothing!" "If you can only reach the oak grove." "Oh, my God! my God!" sighed Zagloba, trembling as if in a fever. "In three hours it will be daylight." "It is time!" said Pan Longin. "Time! time!" repeated Skshetuski, in a stifled voice. "Go with God!" "With God, with God!" "Farewell, brothers, and forgive me if I have offended any of you in anything." "You offend? O God!" cried Zagloba, throwing himself into his arms. Skshetuski and Volodyovski embraced him in turn. The moment came. Suppressed gulping shook the breasts of these knights. One alone, Pan Longin, was calm, though full of emotion. "Farewell!" he repeated once more; and approaching the edge of the rampart, he dropped into the ditch, and soon appeared as a black figure on the opposite bank. Once more he beckoned farewell to his comrades, and vanished in the gloom. Between the road to Zalostsitse and the highway from Vishnyovets grew an oak-grove, interspersed with narrow openings. Beyond and joining with it was an old pine-forest, thick and large, extending north of Zalostsitse. Podbipienta had determined to reach that grove. The road is very perilous, for to reach the oaks it was necessary to pass along the entire flank of the Cossack tabor; but Pan Longin selected it on purpose, for it was just around the camp that most people were moving during the whole night, and the guards gave least attention to passers-by. Besides, other roads, valleys, thickets, and narrow places were set by guards who rode around continually, by essauls, sotniks, and even Hmelnitski himself. A passage through the meadows and along the Gnyezna was not to be dreamt for the Cossack horse-herders were watching there from dusk till daylight with their herds. The night was gloomy, cloudy, and so dark that at ten paces not only could a man not be seen, but not even a tree. This circumstance was favorable for Pan Longin; though on the other hand he was obliged to go very slowly and carefully, so as not to fall into any of the pits or ditches, occupying the whole expanse of the battle-field and dug by Polish and Cossack hands. In this fashion he made way to the second Polish rampart, which had been abandoned just before evening, and had passed through the ditch. He stopped and listened; the trenches were empty. The sally made by Yeremi after the storm had pushed the Cossacks out, who either fell, or took refuge in the tabor. A multitude of bodies were lying on the slopes and summits of these mounds. Pan Longin stumbled against bodies every moment, stepped over them, and passed on. From time to time a low groan or sigh announced that some one of the prostrate was living yet. Beyond the ramparts there was a broad expanse stretching to another trench made before the arrival of Yeremi, also covered with corpses; but some tens of steps farther on were those earth-shelters, like stacks of hay in the darkness. But they were empty. Everywhere the deepest silence reigned,--nowhere a fire or a man; no one on that former square but the prostrate. Pan Longin began the prayer for the souls of the dead, and went on. The sounds of the Polish camp, which followed him to the second rampart, grew fainter and fainter, melting in the distance, till at last they ceased altogether. Pan Longin stopped and looked around for the last time. He could see almost nothing, for in the camp there was no light; but one window in the castle glimmered weakly as a star which the clouds now expose and now conceal, or like a glow-worm which shines and darkens in turn. "My brothers, shall I see you again in this life?" thought Pan Longin; and sadness pressed him down like a tremendous stone. He was barely able to breathe. There, where that pale light was trembling, are his people; there are brother hearts,--Prince Yeremi, Pan Yan, Volodyovski, Zagloba, the priest Mukhovetski; there they love him and would gladly defend him. But here is night, with desolation, darkness, corpses; under his feet choruses of ghosts; farther on, the blood-devouring tabor of sworn, pitiless enemies. The weight of sadness became so great that it was too heavy even for the shoulders of this giant. His soul began to waver within him. In the darkness pale Alarm flew upon him, and began to whisper in his ear: "You will not pass, it is impossible! Return, there is still time! Fire the pistol, and a whole battalion will rush to your aid. Through those tabors, through that savageness nothing will pass." That starving camp, covered every day with balls, full of death and the odor of corpses, appeared at that moment to Pan Longin a calm, peaceful, safe haven. His friends there would not think ill of him if he returned. He would tell them that the deed passed human power; and they would not go themselves, would not send another,--would wait further for the mercy of God and the coming of the king. But if Skshetuski should go and perish! "In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost! These are temptations of Satan," thought Pan Longin. "I am ready for death, and nothing worse can meet me. And this is Satan terrifying a weak soul with desolation, corpses, and darkness; for he makes use of all means." Will the knight return, cover himself with shame, suffer in reputation, disgrace his name, not save the army, renounce the crown of heaven? Never! And he moved on, stretching out his hands before him. Now a murmur reached him again, not from the Polish camp, however, but from the opposite side, still indefinite, but as it were deep and terrible, like the growling of a bear giving sudden answer in a dark forest. Disquiet had now left Pan Longin's soul; sadness had ceased, and changed into a mere sweet remembrance of those near to him. At last, as if answering that menace coming up from the tabor, he repeated once more in spirit: "But still I will go." After a certain time he found himself on that battle-field ere on the first day of the storm the prince's cavalry had defeated the Cossacks and janissaries. The road here was more even,--fewer pits, ditches, shelters, and no corpses, those who had fallen in the earlier struggles had been buried by the Cossacks. It was also somewhat clearer, for the ground was not covered with various obstacles. The land inclined gradually toward the north. But Pan Longin turned immediately to the flank, wishing to push through between the western pond and the tabor. He went quickly now, without hindrance, and it seemed him already that he was reaching the line of the tabor, when some new sound caught his attention. He halted at once, and after waiting a quarter of an hour heard the tramp and breathing of horses. "Cossack patrols!" thought he. The voices of men reached his ears. He sprang aside with speed, and searching with his foot for the first depression in the ground, fell to the earth and stretched out motionless, holding his pistol in one hand and his sword the other. The riders approached still nearer, and at last were abreast of him. It was so dark he could not count them; but he heard every word of their conversation. "It is hard for them, but hard for us too," said some sleepy voice. "And how many good men of ours have bitten the dust!" "Oh, Lord!" said another voice, "they say the king is far. What will become of us?" "The Khan got angry with our father; and the Tartars threaten to take us, if there will be no other prisoners." "And in the pastures they fight with our men. Father has forbidden us to go to the Tartar camp, for whoever goes there is lost." "They say there are disguised Poles among the market-men. I wish this war had never begun." "It is worse this time than before." "The king is not far away, with the Polish forces. That is the worst!" "Ha, ha! You would be sleeping in the Saitch at this hour; now you have got to push around in the dark like a vampire." "There must be vampires here, for the horses are snorting." Their voices receded gradually, and at last were silent. Pan Longin rose and went on. A rain fine as mist began to fall. It grew still darker. On the left side of Pan Longin gleamed at the distance of two furlongs a small light; after that a second, a third, and a tenth. Then he knew he was on the line of the tabor. The lights were far apart and weak. It was evident that all were sleeping, and only here and there might they be drinking or preparing food for the morrow. "Thank God that I am out after the storm and the sally," said Pan Longin to himself. "They must be mortally weary." He had scarcely thought this when he heard again in the distance the tramp of horses,--another patrol was coming. But the ground in this place was more broken; therefore it was easier to hide. The patrol passed so near that the guards almost rode over Pan Longin. Fortunately the horses, accustomed to pass among prostrate bodies, were not frightened. Pan Longin went on. In the space of a thousand yards he met two more patrols. It was evident that the whole circle occupied by the tabor was guarded like the apple of the eye. But Pan Longin rejoiced in spirit that he was not meeting infantry outposts, who are generally placed before camps to give warning to mounted patrols. But his joy was of short duration. Scarcely had he advanced another furlong of the road when some dark figure shifted before him not more than twenty yards distant. Though unterrified, he felt a slight tremor along his spine. It was too late to withdraw and go around. The form moved; evidently it had seen him. A moment of hesitation followed, short as the twinkle of an eye. Then a suppressed voice called,-- "Vassil, is that you?" "I," said Pan Longin, quietly. "Have you gorailka?" "I have." "Give me some." Pan Longin approached. "Why are you so tall?" asked the voice, in tones of terror. Something rustled in the darkness. A scream of "Lor--!" smothered the instant it was begun, came from the mouth the picket; then was heard the crash as it were of broken bones, heavy breathing, and one figure fell quietly to the earth. Pan Longin moved on. But he did not pass along the same line, for it was evidently a line of pickets; he turned therefore a little nearer to the tabor, wishing to go between the pickets and the line of wagons. If there was not another line of pickets, Pan Longin could meet in that space only those who went out from camp to relieve those on duty. Mounted patrols had no duty here. After a time it became evident that there was no second line of pickets. But the tabor was not farther than two bow-shots; and wonderful! it seemed to grow nearer continually, though he tried to go at an equal distance from line of wagons. It was evident too that not all were asleep in the tabor. At the fires smouldering here and there sitting figures were visible. In one place the fire was greater,--so large indeed it almost reached Pan Longin with its light, and he was forced to draw back toward the pickets so as not to pass through the line of illumination. From the distance he distinguished, hanging on cross-sticks near the fire, oxen which the butchers were skinning. Disputing groups of looked on. A few were playing quietly on pipes for butchers. It was that part of the camp occupied by herdsmen. The more distant rows of wagons were surrounded by darkness. But the line of the tabor lighted by the smouldering fires again appeared as if nearer to Pan Longin. In the beginning he had it only on his right hand; suddenly he saw that he had it in front of him. Then he halted and meditated what to do. He was surrounded. The tabor, the Tartar camp, and the camps of the mob encircled all Zbaraj like a ring. Inside this ring sentries were standing and mounted guards moving, that no one might pass through. The position of Pan Longin was terrible. He had now the choice either to go through between the wagons or seek another exit between the Cossacks and the Tartars. Otherwise he would have to wander till daylight along that rim, unless he wished to return to Zbaraj; but even in the latter case he might fall into the hands of the mounted patrol. He understood, however, that the very nature of the ground did not permit that one wagon should stand close to another. There had to be intervals in the rows, and considerable ones. Such intervals were necessary for communication, for an open road, for necessary travel. He determined to look for such a passage, and with that object approached still nearer to the wagons. The gleam of fires burning here and there might betray him, but on the other hand they were useful, for without them he could see neither the wagons nor the road between them. After a quarter of an hour he found a road, and recognized it easily, for it looked like a black belt between the wagons. There was no fire on it; there could be no Cossacks there, since the cavalry had to pass that way. Pan Longin put himself on his knees and hands, and began to crawl to that dark throat like a snake to a hole. A quarter of an hour passed, half an hour; he crawled continually, praying at the same time, commending his body and soul to the protection of the heavenly powers. He thought that perhaps the fate of all Zbaraj was depending on him then, could he pass that throat; he prayed therefore not for himself alone, but for those who at that moment in the trenches were praying for him. On both sides of him all was silent,--no man moved, no horse snorted, no dog barked; and Pan Longin went through. The bushes and thickets looked dark before him; behind them was the oak-grove; behind the oak-grove the pine-woods, all the way to Toporoff; beyond the pine-woods, the king, salvation, and glory, service before God and man. What was the cutting of three heads in comparison with this deed, for which something was needed beyond an iron hand? Pan Longin felt the difference, but pride stirred not that clean heart; it was only moved like that of a child with tears of thankfulness. Then he rose and passed on. Beyond the wagons there were either no pickets or few easily avoided. Now heavier rain began to fall, pattering on the bushes and drowning the noise of his steps. Pan Longin then gave freedom to his long legs, and walked like a giant, trampling the bushes; every step was like five of a common man,--the wagons every moment farther, the oak-grove every moment nearer, and salvation every moment nearer. Here are the oaks. Night beneath them is as black as under the ground; but that is better. A gentle breeze sprang up; the oaks murmured lightly,--you would have said they were muttering a prayer; "O great God, good God, guard this knight, for he is thy servant and a faithful son of the land on which we have grown up for thy glory!" About seven miles and a half divided Pan Longin from the Polish camp. Sweat poured from his forehead, for the air was sultry, as if gathering for a storm; but he went on, caring nothing for the storm, for the angels were singing in his heart. The oaks became thinner. The first field is surely near. The oaks rustle more loudly, as if wishing to say: "Wait; you were safe among us." But the knight has no time, and he enters the open field. Only one oak stands on it, and that in the centre; but it is larger than the others. Pan Longin moves toward that oak. All at once, when he was a few yards from the spreading branches of the giant, about a dozen figures push out and approach him with wolf-springs: "Who are you? who are you?" Their language is unknown; their heads are covered with something pointed. They are the Tartar horse-herders, who have taken refuge from the rain. At that moment red lightning flashed through the field, revealing the oak, the wild figures of the Tartars, and the enormous noble. A terrible cry shook the air, and the battle began in a moment. The Tartars rushed on Pan Longin like wolves on a deer, I seized him with sinewy hands; but he only shook himself, and all the assailants fell from him as ripe fruit from a tree. Then the terrible double-handed sword gritted in scabbard; and then were heard groans, howls, calls for aid, the whistle of the sword, the groans of the wounded, the neighing and the frightened horses, the clatter of broken Tartar swords. The silent field roared with all the wild sounds that can possibly find place in the throats of men. The Tartars rushed on him repeatedly in a crowd; but he put his back to the oak, and in front covered himself with the whirlwind of his sword, and slashed awfully. Bodies lay dark under his feet; the others fell back, impelled by panic terror. "A div! a div!" howled they, wildly. The howling was not without an answer. Half an hour had not passed when the whole field swarmed with footmen and horsemen. Cossacks ran up, and Tartars also with poles and bows and pieces of burning pitch-pine. Excited questions began to fly from mouth to mouth. "What is it, what has happened?" "A div!" answered the Tartars. "A div!" repeated the crowd. "A Pole! A div! Take him alive, alive!" Pan Longin fired twice from his pistols, but those reports could not be heard by his comrades in the Polish camp. Now the crowd approached him in a half-circle. He was standing in the shade, gigantic, supported by the tree, and he waited with sword in hand. The crowd came nearer, nearer. At last the voice of command shouted: "Seize him!" They rushed ahead. The cries were stopped. Those who could not push on gave light to the assailants. A whirl of men gathered and turned under the tree. Only groans came out of that whirl, and for a long time it was impossible to distinguish anything. At last a scream of terror was wrested from the assailants. The crowd broke in a moment. Under the tree remained Pan Longin, and at his feet a crowd of bodies still quivering in agony. "Ropes, ropes!" thundered a voice. The horsemen ran for the ropes, and brought them in the twinkle of an eye. Then a number of strong men seized the two ends of a long rope, endeavoring to fasten Pan Longin to the tree; but he cut with his sword, and the men fell on the ground on both sides. Then the Tartars tried, with the same result. Seeing that too many men in a crowd interfere with one another, a number of the boldest Nogais advanced once more, wishing absolutely to seize the enormous man alive; but he tore them as a wild boar tears resolute dogs. The oak, which had grown together from two great trees, guarded in its central depression the knight; whoever approached him from the front within the length of his sword perished without uttering a groan. The superhuman power of Pan Longin seemed to increase with each moment. Seeing this, the enraged hordes drove away the Cossacks, and around were heard the wild cries: "Bows! bows!" At the sight of the bows, and of the arrows poured out at the feet of his enemies from their quivers, Pan Longin saw that the moment of death was at hand, and he began the litany to the Most Holy Lady. It became still. The crowds restrained their breath, waiting for what would happen. The first arrow whistled, as Pan Longin was saying, "Mother of the Redeemer!" and it scratched his temple. Another arrow whistled, as he was saying, "O glorious Lady," and it stuck in his shoulder. The words of the litany had mingled with the whistling of arrows; and when Pan Longin had said, "Morning Star," arrows were standing in his shoulders, his side, in his legs. The blood from his temples was flowing into his eyes; he saw as through a mist the field and the Tartars; he heard no longer the whistle of the arrows. He felt that he was weakening, that his legs were bending under him; his head dropped on his breast. At last he fell on his knees. Then he said, with a half groan: "Queen of the Angels--" These words were his last on earth. The angels of heaven took his soul, and placed it a clear pearl at the feet of the "Queen of the Angels." CHAPTER LXI. Zagloba and Volodyovski were standing on the rampart next morning among the soldiers, looking carefully toward the tabor, from the side of which masses of peasants were approaching. Pan Yan was in counsel with the prince; but they, taking advantage of the moment of quiet, were talking about the preceding day and the present movement in the enemy's tabor. "That forebodes no good for us," said Zagloba, pointing at the dark masses moving like an enormous cloud. "They are surely coming to an assault again, and here our hands will not move in their joints." "Why should there be an assault in the clear day? They will do nothing more this time," said the little knight, "than occupy our rampart of yesterday, dig into our new one, and fire from morning till evening." "We might stir them up nicely with our cannon." Volodyovski lowered his voice. "We haven't much powder. With our present use it will not last six days probably; but by that time the king will come surely." "Let him do what he likes. If only our Pan Longin, poor man, has got through in safety! I could not sleep the whole night. I was thinking only of him, and whenever I dozed I saw him in trouble; and such sorrow seized me that sweat stood out on my body. He is the best man to be found in the Commonwealth, looking with a lantern for three years and six weeks." "And why did you always jeer at him?" "Because my lip is worse than my heart. But don't make it bleed, Pan Michael, with remembrances, for as matters are I reproach myself; and God forbid that anything should happen to Pan Longin! I should have no peace till my death." "Don't grieve so much. He never had any ill feeling against you, and I have heard him say himself, 'An evil mouth, but a golden heart.'" "God give him health, the worthy friend! He never knew how to talk in human fashion, but he made up for a hundred such deficiencies by great virtue. What do you think, Pan Michael, did he pass through?" "The night was dark, and the peasants after the defeat were terribly tired. We had not a good watch; what must it have been with them?" "Praise God for that! I told Pan Longin to inquire carefully whether our poor princess had been seen anywhere, for I think Jendzian must have taken her to the king's headquarters. Pan Longin will be sure not to rest; he will not come back without the king. In that case we shall have news again soon." "I have faith in the wit of that lad Jendzian, and think that he saved her somehow. I should know no peace if harm met her. I did not know her intimately, and I believe if I had a sister she would not have been dearer to me." "She was a sister to you, but to me a daughter. From these troubles my beard will grow white altogether, and my heart break from sorrow. When you love some one,--one, two, three, and that one is gone; then you sit, console yourself, worry, grieve, meditate,--having besides an empty stomach, and holes in your cap through which the water is falling on your bald head like rain through a broken thatch. Dogs have at present a pleasanter life in the Commonwealth than the nobles, and we four are the worst off of all. It is time to go to a better world, Pan Michael, what do you think?" "I have thought more than once whether it would not be better to tell Skshetuski all; but this restrains me, that he himself never speaks of her, and when any one utters a word he just quivers as if something pierced his heart." "Tell him, open the wounds dried up in the fire of this war, while now some Tartar maybe is leading her by the hair through Perekop! Flaming fires stand in my eyes when I think of such a thing. It is time to die, it cannot be otherwise; for there is torture alone in this world, nothing more. If only Pan Longin gets through!" "He must have more favor in heaven than others, for he is virtuous. But look! what are the rabble doing?" "There is such a glitter from the sun to-day that I cannot see." "They are cutting up our rampart of yesterday." "I said there would be an assault. Let us go, Pan Michael; we have stood here long enough." "They are not digging to make an assault; they must have an open road to return, and besides they will surely bring machines to shoot from. Just see how the shovels are working; they have levelled the ground about forty yards already." "I see now; but there is a terrible glare to-day." Zagloba covered his eyes with his hand, and looked. At that moment through the cut made in the rampart rushed a stream of people who scattered in the twinkle of an eye along the space between the ramparts. Some fell to firing; others, digging the ground with spades, began to raise a new mound and trenches to enclose the Polish camp with a third ring. "Oh, ho!" cried Volodyovski, "the word is scarcely out of my mouth, and they are rolling in the machines." "Well, there will be an assault soon. Let us leave this place," said Zagloba. "No; this is another kind of tower," said the little knight. Really, the machines which appeared in the cut were built differently from the ordinary moving-tower. The walls were composed of ladders fastened together with hasps, covered with cloth and skins, from behind which the best marksmen, sitting from half the height of the machine to the top, struck the enemy. "Come away! Let the dogs gnaw on where they are!" "Wait!" answered Volodyovski. They began to count the machines, as new ones appeared in the cut. "One, two, three--it is evident they have no small supply--four, five, six--they are coming yet--seven, eight--they can kill a dog on our square, for there must be splendid marksmen there--nine, ten--evident as on your hand, for the sun shines on it--eleven--" All at once Pan Michael stopped counting. "What is that?" he asked, in a voice of amazement. "Where?" "There on the highest one--a man is hanging!" Zagloba strained his glance. Indeed, on the highest machine the sun was shining on the naked body of a man, swaying on a rope with the movement of the machine, like a great pendulum. "True," said Zagloba. Then Volodyovski grew pale as a sheet, and cried with a terrified voice: "Almighty God! it is Podbipienta!" A murmur rose on the ramparts like wind through the leaves of trees, Zagloba bent his head, covered his eyes with his hands, and whispered with blue lips, groaning: "Jesus, Mary! Jesus, Mary!" The murmur changed into a noise of confused words, and then into a roar as of a stormy sea. The men on the ramparts saw that by that infamous cord was hanging the comrade of their sufferings, a knight without reproach. All knew that that was Pan Longin Podbipienta, and terrible anger began to raise the hair on the heads of the soldiers. Zagloba at last took his hands from his eyes. He was a terror to look at. On his mouth was foam, his face was blue, his eyes bursting from his head. "Blood! blood!" roared he, with such a voice that a quiver passed through those standing near him. He sprang into the ditch. After him rushed everything that had life on the ramparts. No power--not even the commands of the prince--could have restrained that outburst of rage. They climbed out of the ditch, one over the shoulders of the other; they seized the bank of the ditch with their hands and with their teeth, and when one sprang out he ran without looking, not turning to see whether others were following. The machines were smoking like tar-factories, and trembled from the roar of musketry, but nothing availed. Zagloba rushed on in advance, his sabre above his head, raging like a mad bull. The Cossacks sprang forward too with scythes and flails on the assailants. Two walls, as it were, struck with a crash. But fat dogs cannot defend themselves long against hungry and raging wolves. Pushed from their place, cut with sabres, torn with teeth, beaten, crushed, the Cossacks could not withstand the fury; they were soon confused, and then fled to the cut. Zagloba, raging, rushed into the thickest crowd, like a lioness whose cubs are gone. An opening was made before him; and at his side went, like another devouring flame, Volodyovski, wild as a wounded leopard. The marksmen in the machines were cut to pieces; the rest pursued to the cut in the ramparts. Then the soldiers mounted the machine and freed Pan Longin, letting him down carefully to the ground. Zagloba fell on his body. Volodyovski's heart was rent in like degree, and he was covered with tears at the sight of his dead friend. It was easy to see how Pan Longin had perished, for his whole body was covered with spots from the wounds inflicted by arrows. But the arrows had not injured his face, except one, which had left a long line on his temple. The few drops of blood had grown dry on his cheek; his eyes were closed, and on his pale face was a quiet smile, and had it not been for the azure paleness of the visage, the chill of death in the features, it might have seemed that Pan Longin was sleeping calmly. His comrades took him at last and bore him on their shoulders to the rampart, and then to the chapel of the castle. Before evening a coffin was made, and the funeral celebrated by night at the Zbaraj cemetery. All the clergy were present except the priest Jabkovski, who, shot in the back during the last assault, was near death. Having given the command to Sobieski, the prince had come; also Konyetspolski, Pshiyemski, Skshetuski, Volodyovski, Zagloba, and the officers of the squadron in which the dead man had served. The coffin was placed at the newly dug grave, and the ceremony began. It was a starry night. The torches burned with an even flame, gleaming on the yellow planks of the freshly made coffin, on the figure of the priest, and the stern faces of the knights standing in a circle. The smoke from the censer rose slowly, spreading the odor of myrrh and juniper. The silence was broken only by the stifled sobs of Zagloba, the deep sighs of the strong breasts around, and the distant roar of discharges on the ramparts. But the priest Mukhovetski raised his hand in sign that he was about to speak. The knights therefore held their breaths. He was silent a little longer; then fixing his eyes on the starry heights, he began at length as follows:-- "'What knocking do I hear at night on the door of heaven?' asks the hoary warden of Christ, springing up from sweet slumber. 'Open, holy Peter, open! I am Podbipienta.' But what deeds, what offices, what services embolden you, O Podbipienta, to trouble so important a doorkeeper? By what right do you wish to enter where neither birth, though as honorable as your own, nor senatorial dignity, nor offices of the Crown, nor the majesty even of the purple, of themselves alone give free entrance, since men cannot drive there by the broad highway in a carriage and six, with haiduks, but must climb by the steep and thorny path of virtue? Ah, open, holy Peter, open quickly, for by just such a steep and thorny path did our fellow-soldier and dear comrade Podbipienta pass, till he came to your presence like a dove wearied after long flight; came naked, like Lazarus; came like Saint Stephen, torn with Pagan arrows; like poor Job; like the virgin who has never known a husband,--pure, obedient as a lamb, patient and quiet, without a spot of sin, with a sacrifice of blood joyfully shed for his earthly fatherland. Admit him, holy Peter; for if you do not admit him, whom will you admit in these days of corruption and ungodliness? Admit him, holy warden! admit this lamb; let him pasture in the heavenly meadow; let him nip its grass, for he came hungry from Zbaraj." In this manner the priest Mukhovetski began his discourse; and then he depicted the whole life of Pan Longin with such eloquence that every one acknowledged himself wicked in the presence of the silent coffin of the knight without reproach, who had surpassed the lowliest in modesty and the loftiest in virtue. All then beat their breasts. Every moment greater sadness seized them, and they saw more clearly what the country had suffered and Zbaraj had lost. The priest took a lofty flight, and when at last he described the passage through the enemy and the martyr death of Pan Longin, he forgot altogether his rhetoric and quotations; and while taking leave of the mortal remains in the name of the clergy, the officers, and the army, he broke into weeping himself, and said, sobbing like Zagloba: "Give us your blessing, brother; give us your blessing, comrade! Not to an earthly, but to a heavenly king--to the surest tribunal--have you carried our groans, our famine, our misery and sufferings. You will gain for us there a more certain salvation. But you will never return yourself; therefore do we weep, therefore do we pour tears upon your coffin,--for we loved you, dearest brother!" All wept with the worthy priest,--the prince, the commanders, the army, and most of all the friends of the deceased; but when the priest intoned for the first time, "Requiem æternam dona ei Domine! (Grant him eternal rest, Lord!)," there was a universal outburst, though all were men hardened against death, and long accustomed to it, through their daily service. When the coffin was placed on the ropes it was as difficult to tear Zagloba away as if his father or brother had died. But at last Skshetuski and Volodyovski drew him aside. The prince approached and took a handful of earth; the priest began to say, "Anima ejus;" the ropes rattled; the earth began to fall,--it was thrown in with hands, with helmets; and soon above the remains of Pan Longin rose a lofty mound, shone on by the pale sad light of the moon. Three friends were returning from the town to the square, from which came an uninterrupted sound of firing. They walked in silence, for neither wished to speak the first word; but other groups were speaking of the deceased, giving him unanimous praise. "It was a splendid funeral," said an officer passing at the side of Skshetuski; "they did not give a better to Serakovski, the secretary of the Crown." "For he deserved it," answered another officer; "who else would have undertaken to break through to the king?" "But I heard," added the third, "that among Vishnyevetski's men there was a number of volunteers; but after such a terrible example the desire will surely desert them all." "Besides, the thing is impossible. A snake could not creep through." "As I live, it would be pure madness." The officers passed on. A new moment of silence followed. Suddenly Volodyovski said: "You heard, Yan, what they said?" "Yes," answered Skshetuski; "it is my turn now." "Yan," said Volodyovski, seriously, "you know me of old, and you know that I am not quick to withdraw before peril; but peril is one thing, and downright suicide is another." "And you, Michael, say this?" "Yes, for I am your friend." "And I am your friend. Give me your word of honor that you will not go third if I perish." "Impossible!" cried Volodyovski. "Ah, you see, Michael! How can you ask that of me which you will not do yourself? Let the will of God be done." "Then let me go with you." "The prince has prohibited that,--not I. You are a soldier, and you must obey." Pan Michael was silent, for he was a soldier first of all; then his mustaches only quivered violently by the light of the moon. At last he said: "The night is very clear; don't go now." "I should prefer a darker one, but delay is impossible. The weather is, as you see, settled for a long time, our powder is almost gone, our provisions are at an end. The soldiers are digging through the square, looking for roots; the gums of some of them are rotting from the rubbish they have eaten. I will go to-night,--at once; I have taken farewell of the prince already." "I see that you are simply desperate." Skshetuski smiled gloomily. "God guard you, Michael! It is certain that we are not swimming in luxury, but I shall not seek death of my own will, for that is a sin; besides, it is not a question of perishing, but of getting through, going to the king, and saving the camp." Volodyovski was suddenly seized with such a desire to tell Skshetuski all about the princess that he almost opened his mouth; but he thought to himself, "His head will be turned by the news, and they will catch him the more easily," He bit his tongue therefore, was silent, and then asked: "Which way are you going?" "I told the prince that I should go through the pond, and then by the river till I passed far beyond the tabor. He said that this was a better road than others." "There is no help, I see," said Volodyovski. "Since death is predestined to a man, it is better on the field of glory than in bed. God attend you, God attend you, Yan! If we do not meet in this world we shall in the other, and I shall surely keep my heart for you." "As I shall mine for you. God reward you for all the good you have done! And listen to me, Michael! If I die, they will perhaps not put me up as they did Pan Longin, for they have received too severe a lesson; but they will be sure to boast of it in some way, in which case let old Zatsvilikhovski go to Hmelnitski for my body, for I do not wish that dogs should drag me through their camp." "Rest assured!" said Volodyovski. Zagloba, who from the beginning had listened in semiconsciousness, understood the conversation at last, but he felt unable to restrain or dissuade; he only groaned deeply: "Yesterday that one, to-day this one. My God, my God, my God!" "Have faith," said Volodyovski. "Pan Yan--" began Zagloba, and he could go no further. His gray, suffering head rested on the breast of the knight, and he drew up to him like a helpless little child. An hour later Skshetuski sank into the water of the western pond. The night was very clear, and the middle of the pond looked like a silver shield; but Skshetuski vanished straightway from the eye. The shore was thickly overgrown with rushes and reeds; farther on, where the reeds were thinner, was a rich growth of pond-weed and plants. That mixture of wide and narrow leaves, slippery stalks, snaky stems winding around the legs and body to the waist hindered his advance greatly, but at least concealed him from the patrol. To swim across the clear centre of the pond was out of the question, for any dark object would have been seen easily. Skshetuski determined therefore to pass along the shore of the pond to the swamp at the other side, through which the river entered the pond. Patrols of Cossacks or Tartars were likely to be there; but the place was overgrown with a whole forest of reeds, only the edge had been cut down to make cabins for the mob. The swamp once attained, it would be possible to push on through the reeds, even in the daytime, unless the quagmire should be too deep. But that road also was a terrible one. Under the sleeping water, not farther than a yard from the shore, the mud was an ell or more in depth. After every step Skshetuski took there rose to the surface of the water bubbles, the gurgling of which could be heard distinctly in the stillness. Besides, in spite of the slowness of his movements, ripples were formed which ran every moment farther from their source to the open water, in which the light of the moon was reflected. In time of rain Skshetuski would have swum straight across the pond, and in half an hour, at most, would have come to the swamp; but there was not a cloud in the sky. Whole torrents of greenish light fell upon the pond, changing the leaves of the lily into silver shields, and the tufts on the reeds to brushes of silver. No breeze was blowing. Happily the gurgling of the bubbles was lost in the noise of the guns, noticing which, Skshetuski moved only when the discharges on the ramparts and trenches became more lively. But that calm, pleasant night caused another difficulty,--legions of mosquitoes rose from the reeds and swarmed over the head of the knight, fastening on his face and eyes, biting him, buzzing and singing above his ears their mournful vespers. Pan Yan in selecting this road did not deceive himself as to its difficulties, but he did not foresee everything. He did not foresee, for instance, its terrors. Every depth of water, even the best known, has in it something mysterious and terrifying, and involuntarily urges the question, What is down at the bottom? And this pond of Zbaraj was simply awful. The water in it seemed to be thicker than common water, and exuded the odor of corpses, for hundreds of Cossacks and Tartars had decayed there. Both sides had drawn out corpses, but how many of them might be hidden among the reeds, the plants, and the thick growth! The cold of a wave embraced Pan Yan, and sweat stood on his forehead. What if some slippery arm should seize him suddenly, or if greenish eyes should look at him from under the leaves? The long stems of the water-lily wound around his knees, and the hair stood on his head, because that may be the spirit of a drowned man to keep him from going farther. "Jesus, Mary! Jesus, Mary!" whispered he unceasingly, pushing ahead. At times he raised his eyes, and at the sight of the moon, the stars, and the silence of the sky he found a certain rest. "There God is," repeated he, in an undertone, so that he might hear himself. Then he would look on the shore, and it seemed to him that he was looking on the ordinary world of God from some condemned world beyond the earth,--a world of swamps, black depths, pale moonlight, ghosts, corpses, and night. Yearning took such hold of him that he wanted immediately to rush forth from that net of reeds. But he pushed along the shore unceasingly, and he had already gone so far from the camp that on that God's world (outside) he saw at some paces distant from the shore a Tartar on horseback; he stopped then and looked at the figure, which, nodding with uniform motion toward the neck of the horse, seemed to be sleeping. It was a strange sight. The Tartar nodded continually, as if bowing in silence to Skshetuski, and the latter did not take his eye from him. There was something terrible in this; but Skshetuski breathed with satisfaction, for in presence of that definite fear fancies a hundred times more difficult to be borne disappeared. The world of ghosts fled somewhere, his coolness returned at once; and only questions like these began to crowd into his head: "Does he sleep, or not? Must I go on, or wait?" At length he went on, moving still more quietly, still more cautiously than at the beginning of his journey. He already half-way to the swamp and the river when the first breath of a light wind rose. The reeds moved therefore, and gave forth a strong sound by striking one another; and Skshetuski was rejoiced, for in spite of all his care, in spite of the fact that sometimes he lost several minutes in taking a step, an involuntary movement, a stumble, a splash might betray him. Now he advanced more boldly, covered by the loud noise of the reeds with which the whole pond was filled; and everything grew vocal about him, the water on the bank began to plash with its rocking wave. But this movement evidently roused not the plants along the shore alone, for at that time some dark object appeared before Pan Yan and began to move toward him as if preparing for a spring. He almost screamed at first; but fear and aversion restrained the voice in his bosom, and at the same time a terrible odor came to him. But after a while, when the first idea that this might be a drowned person barring his road on purpose disappeared, and there remained only aversion, the knight passed on. The talk of the reeds continued and increased every moment. Through, their moving tufts Skshetuski saw a second and a third Tartar patrol. He passed these, passed a fourth also. "I must have gone around half the pond," thought he; and he raised himself a little to look through the reeds and see where he was. Something pushed his legs; he looked around and saw there at his knees a human face. "This is the second," thought he. This time he was not frightened, for the second body lay on its back, without signs of life or movement. Skshetuski merely hastened his steps so as not to become dizzy. The reeds grew thicker, which on the one hand gave him a safe shelter, but on the other greatly impeded his advance. Half an hour passed, an hour; he went on unceasingly, but grew more and more weary. The water in some places was so shallow that it just reached above his ankles, but in others it came almost to his waist. He was tortured beyond measure by the slow dragging of his feet out of the mud. His forehead was streaming with perspiration, and from time to time a quiver went through him from head to foot. "What is this?" thought he, with terror in his heart; "is delirium seizing me? Somehow the swamp does not appear; I don't recognize the place among the reeds. Shall I miss it?" It was a terrible danger; for in that way he might circle about the pond all night, and in the morning find himself at the same point from which he had started, or fall into the hands of the Cossacks at another place. "I have chosen a bad road," thought he, failing in spirits; "it is impossible to get through the pond. I will return, and in the morning go as Pan Longin did. I might rest till morning." But he went on, for he saw that by promising to return and rest he was tempting himself; it also occurred to him that by going so slowly and halting every moment he could not have reached the swamp yet. Still the thought of rest grew on him more and more. At moments he wished to lie down somewhere in the reeds, just to draw breath. He struggled with his own thoughts and prayed at the same time. The trembling passed over him oftener; he drew his legs out of the mud with less force. The sight of the Tartar patrol sobered him; but he felt that his head as well as his body was tormenting him, and that a fever was coming upon him. Again half an hour passed; the swamp was not visible yet. But bodies of drowned men appeared more frequently. Night, fear, corpses, the noise of reeds, toil, and sleeplessness benumbed his thoughts. Visions began to come to him. Now Helena is in Kudák; and he is sailing with Jendzian in a boat down the Dnieper. The reeds are rustling; he hears the boatmen sing. The priest Mukhovetski is waiting in his stole; Pan Grodzitski takes the place of a father. The girl is there looking day after day on the river, from the walls. Suddenly she sees something, claps her hands, and cries: "He is coming! he is coming!" "My master," says Jendzian, pulling him by the sleeve, "the lady is here--" Skshetuski wakes. It is the tangled reeds that stop him on the way. Visions disappear; consciousness returns. Now he does not feel such weariness, for the fever lends him strength. "Oh, is not this the swamp yet?" But around him the reeds were still the same as if he had not stirred from the spot. Near the river there must be open water; therefore this is not the swamp yet. He goes on, but his thoughts return with invincible stubbornness to the pleasant vision. In vain he defends himself; in vain he begins to say, "Oh, Venerable Lady!" in vain he tries to retain all his consciousness. Again he is sailing down the Dnieper; he sees the boats, the skiffs, Kudák, the Saitch; only this time the vision is more disordered, there is a multitude of persons in it. At the side of Helena are the prince and Hmelnitski, the koshevoi ataman, Pan Longin, Zagloba, Bogun, Volodyovski,--all in gala attire for his wedding. But where is the wedding? They are in some strange place,--neither Lubni nor Rozlogi nor the Saitch nor Kudák,--in unknown waters among floating corpses. Skshetuski wakes a second time, or rather he is roused by a loud rustling coming from the direction in which he is going; he halts therefore, and listens. The rustling approaches; a kind of grating and plashing is heard,--it is a boat, visible already through the reeds. Two Cossacks are sitting in it,--one is pushing with an oar; the other holds in his hand a long pole gleaming in the distance like silver, and he pushes the water-plants aside with it. Skshetuski sank in the water up to his neck, so that only his head was sticking out above the lilies, and he looked. "Is that an ordinary picket," thought he, "or are they already on the trail?" But soon he concluded by the quiet and careless motions of the Cossacks that it must be an ordinary picket. There must be more than one boat on the pond, and if the Cossacks were on his trail a number of boats would be assembled and a crowd of men. Meanwhile they passed by, the noise of the reeds deafened their words; he caught only the following snatch of conversation:-- "Devil take them, they have given orders to patrol this filthy water." The boat pushed on behind bunches of reeds; but the Cossack standing at the prow struck continually with measured blows of his pole among the water-plants, as if he wished to frighten the fish. Skshetuski hurried on. After a time he saw a Tartar picket standing at the bank. The light of the moon fell straight on the face of the Nogai, which was like the snout of a dog. But Skshetuski feared these pickets less than loss of consciousness. He exerted all his will, therefore, to give himself a clear account of where he was and whither he was going. But the struggle only increased his weariness, and soon he discovered that he was seeing double and treble, and at moments the pond seemed to him the square and the camp, and the bunches of reeds tents. At such moments he wished to call Volodyovski to go with him, but he had sufficient consciousness to restrain himself. "Don't call, don't call!" repeated he to himself; "that would be death." But the struggle with himself was more and more difficult. He left Zbaraj tormented with hunger and terrible sleeplessness, from which soldiers there were dying already. That night-journey, the cold bath, the odor of corpses in the water, weakened him completely. Added to this were the excitement of fear, and pain from the biting of mosquitoes which pierced his face so that it was covered with blood. He felt therefore that if he did not reach the swamp soon he would either go out on the shore and let what might meet him meet him quickly, or he would fall among the reeds and be drowned. That swamp and the mouth of the river seemed to him a port of salvation, though in fact new difficulties and dangers began there. He defended himself feverishly, and went on, taking less care each moment. In the rustle he heard the voices of men,--conversation; it seemed to him that the pond was talking about him. Will he reach the swamp or not? Will he go on shore or not? The mosquitoes sang with their thin voices more sadly. The water became deeper; soon it reached to his belt, then to his breast. He thought that if he should have to swim, he would be entangled in the thick web and drown. Again an almost irrestrainable, unconquerable desire of calling Volodyovski seized him. He had already put his hand to his mouth to cry: "Michael! Michael!" Fortunately some kind reed struck him with its wet, dripping brush in the face. He came to his mind, and saw in front but a little to one side a dim light. He looked steadily at the light, and went straight toward it for a while. He stopped suddenly; he saw a belt of clear water lying athwart him. He drew breath. It was the river, and on both sides of it a swamp. "I will stop going by the shore, and will go into that wedge," thought he. On both sides of the wedge extended two strips of reeds. The knight entered that one to which he had come. After a while he saw he was on a good road. He looked around. The pond was already behind him. He moved parallel with the narrow strip of water, which could be nothing but the river. The water there was cooler also. But after a time terrible weariness possessed him. His legs trembled, and before his eyes rose as it were a dark fog. "It cannot be helped; I will go to the shore and lie down. I will not go farther; I will rest." Then he fell on his knees. His hands felt a dry tuft covered with moss; it was like a little island among the rushes. He sat down and began to wipe his bloody face with his hands, and then to draw long breaths. After a while the odor of smoke reached his nostrils. Turning to the shore, he saw, about a hundred paces from the brink, a fire, and around it a knot of people. He was directly in front of this fire, and at moments when the wind bent the reeds he could see everything perfectly. At the first glance he recognized the Tartar horse-herds, who were sitting at the fire eating. Then he felt a fearful hunger. Yesterday morning he had eaten a bit of horse-flesh which would not have satisfied a wolf-whelp two months old; since then he had had nothing in his mouth. He began to pluck the round stems growing about him and suck them greedily. He allayed his thirst as well as his hunger,--for thirst tormented him too. At the same time he looked continually at the fire, which grew paler and dimmer. The people near it began to be hidden by a mist, and seemed to go into the distance. "Oh, sleep torments me! I will sleep here on the mound," thought the knight. But there was a noise by the fire. The horse-herds rose. Soon there came to Skshetuski's ears the cries: "Losh! losh!" They were answered by a short neigh. The fire was deserted and went out. After a time he heard whistling and the dull thump of hoofs on the moist meadow. Skshetuski could not understand why the horse-herds had ridden away. Then he saw the tops of the reeds and the broad leaves of the lilies were somewhat pale; the water received a different light from that of the moon; the air was shrouded with a light of joy. He looked around. The day was breaking. He had spent the whole night in going around the pond before reaching the river and the swamp. He was barely at the beginning of the road. Now he must go by the river and pass through the tabor in the day. The air was filled more and more with the light of dawn. In the east the sky took on a pale sea-green color. Skshetuski slipped down again from the tuft into the swamp, and pushing toward the shore, after a short interval thrust his head out of the reeds. At the distance of five hundred yards, perhaps, a Tartar picket was visible; with this exception the meadow was empty,--only the fire shone with a dying light on a dry place at some little distance. Skshetuski determined to crawl to it through the high grass interspersed here and there with tall rushes. Having crawled to the place, he looked carefully to find some remnants of food. He found in fact freshly picked mutton bones with bits of sinew and fat, then some pieces of roasted turnips thrown into the hot ashes. He began to eat with the greed of a wild beast, and ate till he saw that the pickets stationed along the road which he had passed were approaching him through the meadow on their way to the tabor. Then he began to retreat, and in a few minutes disappeared in the wall of reeds. Having found his tuft, he put himself on it without a rustle. The pickets rode by at the same time. Skshetuski began at once on the bones which he had brought with him, and which he broke in his jaws, powerful as those of a wolf. He gnawed off the fat and the sinews, sucked out the marrow, chewed the bone-fat,--allayed his first hunger. Such a morning feast he had not had for a long time in Zbaraj. He felt stronger now. The food, as well as the rising day, strengthened him. It became brighter every moment. The eastern side of the sky from greenish became rosy and golden. The cool of the morning troubled him greatly, it is true; but he was comforted by the thought that the sun would soon warm his wearied body. He examined the place carefully. The tuft was pretty large, rather short, because round, but wide enough for two persons to lie side by side with ease. The reeds stood around like a wall, hiding it completely from the eyes of men. "They will not find me here," thought he, "unless they go fishing in the reeds; and there are no fish, for they have died of infection. Here will I rest and think what further to do." And he began to think whether he should go on by the river or not. Finally he determined to go if the wind should rise and the reeds tremble; if not, the noise and rustle might betray him,--especially as most likely he would have to pass near the tabor. "Thanks to thee, O Lord, that I am alive till now," whispered he quietly; and he raised his eyes to Heaven. Then his thoughts flew away to the Polish ramparts. The castle was visible from that tuft, especially since it was gilded by the first rays of the rising sun. Maybe some one is looking from the tower to the pond and reeds through a field-glass. Volodyovski is there surely; and Zagloba will pass the whole day in looking from the ramparts to see if he can find him hanging on some moving tower. "They will not see me," thought the knight, and his breast was full of the happy feeling of security. "They will not see me, they will not see me," he repeated several times. "I have passed only a short road, but it had to be passed. God will help me to go farther." Here he saw, with the eyes of his imagination, beyond the tabor, in the forest, behind which stand the armies of the king, the general militia of the whole country,--hussars, infantry, foreign regiments. The earth groaned under the weight of men, horses, and cannon, and in the midst of this swarm of people is the king himself. Then he saw an immense battle, broken tabors, the prince with all his cavalry flying over piles of bodies, the greetings of armies. His eyes, aching and swollen, closed beneath the excess of light, and his head bent under the excess of thought; a kind of pleasant weakness began to embrace him. At last he stretched himself at full length and fell asleep. The reeds rustled. The sun rose high in the sky, warmed with its burning glance the knight, and dried the clothing on his body. He slept soundly without motion. Whoever should see him lying thus on the tuft with bloody face, would think that a corpse thrown up by the water was lying there. Hours passed; still he slept. The sun reached the zenith, and began to descend the other side of the sky; he was sleeping yet. He was roused by the piercing cry of horses feeding on the meadow, and the loud calls of the herdsmen lashing the stallions with whips. He rubbed his eyes, remembered where he was, looked in the sky; stars were twinkling in the red and still unquenched gleams of the sunset. He had slept the whole day. He felt neither refreshed nor stronger; all his bones were aching. He thought, however, that new toil would restore the activity of his body, and putting his feet into the water he moved on his journey without delay. He went now through clear water by the reeds, so as not to rouse the attention of the horse-herds on shore by the rustle. The last gleams had disappeared and it was quite dark, for the moon had not risen yet from behind the woods. The water was so deep that Skshetuski lost bottom in places and had to swim, which was difficult to do, for he was dressed, and he swam against the current, which, though slow, still pushed him back toward the pond. But as a recompense the sharpest Tartar eyes could not see that head advancing along the dark wall of reeds. He pushed on therefore rather boldly, swimming at times, but for the greater part wading to his waist and armpits, till at last he reached the place from which his eyes beheld, on both sides of the river, thousands upon thousands of lights. "These are the tabors," thought he; "now God aid me!" And he listened. The bustle of mingled voices reached his ear. Yes, these were the tabors. On the left bank of the river stood the Cossack camp with thousands of wagons and tents; on the right the Tartar camp,--both noisy, uproarious, full of conversation, wild sounds of drums and flutes, bellowing of cattle, camels, neighing of horses, shouts. The river divided them, forming a barrier against disputes and fights; for the Tartars could not remain in peace at the side of the Cossacks. The river was widest at this place, and perhaps dug out on purpose. On one side the wagons, on the other reed huts were near the bank, judging by the fires, within a few score of yards; but at the water itself there were surely pickets. The reeds and rushes became thinner; opposite the camps the banks were evidently bare. Skshetuski pushed on some yards farther, and halted. A certain power and terror came out against him from those swarms. At that moment it seemed to him that all the watchfulness and rage of those thousands of human beings were turned upon him, and in presence of them he felt perfectly helpless. He was alone. "No one can pass them," thought he; but he pushed on still, for a certain painful, irrestrainable curiosity attracted him. He wished to look more nearly on that terrible power. Suddenly he stopped. The forest of reeds ended as if cut with a knife; perhaps they had been cut to make cabins. Farther on the clear water was red from the reflection of the fires. Two great and clear flames were blazing there at the banks. Before one stood a Tartar on horseback; before the other a Cossack with a long lance in his hand. Both looked at each other and at the water. In the distance were to be seen others standing on guard in the same way and looking. The gleam of the piles threw as it were a fiery bridge across the river. Under the banks were to be seen rows of small boats used by the guards on the pond. "An impossibility!" muttered Skshetuski. Despair seized him at once. He could neither go backward nor forward. The time had been passing as he was pushing through the swamps and reeds breathing the infected air and soaked in water, only to discover after he had come to those very camps through which he had undertaken to pass, that it was impossible. But it was impossible to go back; the knight knew that he might find sufficient strength to drag himself ahead, but he could not find it to go back. In his despair there was at the same time a dull rage; for the first time he wished to emerge from the water, throttle the guard, then rush on the crowd and perish. Again the wind began to move along the reeds with a wonderful whisper, bringing with it the sound of bells from Zbaraj. Skshetuski began to pray ardently and beat his breast, imploring aid from heaven with the strength and the desperate faith of a drowning man; he prayed, but the two camps roared ominously as if in answer to his prayer. Black figures and figures red from fire pushed around like herds of devils in hell. The guards stood motionless; the river flowed on with its blood-colored water. "The fires will go down when deep night comes," said Pan Yan to himself, and waited. One hour passed, and another. The noise decreased; the fires really began to smoulder, except the two fires of the guards, which blazed up more brightly. The guards were changed, and it was evident that the fresh ones would remain till morning. The thought came to Skshetuski that perhaps he might be able to slip through more easily in the daytime; but he soon abandoned that idea. In the daytime they took water, watered the cattle, bathed; the river must be full of people. Suddenly his glance fell upon the boats. On both banks of the river there was a number of them in a line, and on the Tartar side the rushes extended to the first boat. Skshetuski sank in the water to his neck, and pushed slowly toward the boats, keeping his eyes fastened on the Tartar guard as on a rainbow. At the end of half an hour he was at the first boat. His plan was simple. The sterns of the boats were raised over the water, forming above it a kind of arch through which the head of a man might pass easily. If all the boats stood side by side there, the Tartar guard could not see a head pushing under them. There was more danger from the Cossack; but he might not see it, for under the boats, notwithstanding the opposite fire, it was dark. Anyhow there was no other passage. Skshetuski hesitated no longer, and soon found himself under the sterns of the boats. He crawled on his hands and feet, or rather dragged himself, for the water was shallow. He was so near the Tartar standing on the bank that he heard the breathing of his horse. He stopped a moment and listened. Fortunately the boats were placed side by side. He had his eyes then fastened on the Cossack guard, whom he saw as on the palm of his hand. The Cossack was looking at the Tartar camp. Skshetuski had passed fifteen boats, when suddenly he heard steps on shore and Tartar voices. He stopped immediately and listened. In his journeys to the Crimea he had learned Tartar. Now a shiver ran through his whole body when he heard the words of command: "Get in and go!" He grew feverish, though he was in the water. If they should take the boat under which he was hiding, that moment he was lost; if they should take the one before him he was lost too, for there remained an open lighted space. Each second seemed to him an hour. Soon steps sounded on the planks. The Tartars sat in the fourth or fifth boat behind him, pushed it out and began to sail in the direction of the pond. But that movement directed the eyes of the Cossack guard to the boats. Skshetuski did not stir for something like half an hour. Only when the guards were changed did he resume his onward movement. In this way he reached the end of the boats. After the last boat began the rushes again, and farther on the reeds. When he reached the rushes the knight, breathless, dripping with perspiration, fell upon his knees and thanked God with his whole heart. He hastened on somewhat more boldly, taking advantage of every breeze which filled the banks with rustling. From time to time he looked around. The guard-fires began to retreat, to be hidden, to glimmer, to weaken. The lines of rushes and reeds became darker and thicker, for the shores were more swampy. The guards could not stand close to one another; the noise of the camp grew less. A kind of superhuman power strengthened the limbs of the knight. He pushed through reeds, clumps of earth, sank in the swamp, went under water, swam, and rose again. He did not dare yet to go on shore; but he almost felt that he was saved. He could not render account to himself of how long he advanced, wading in this way; but when he looked around again the watch-fires seemed like little points gleaming in the distance. A few hundred yards farther, and they vanished altogether. The moon went down; around about was silence. Now a noise was heard louder and more solemn than the rustle of the reeds. Skshetuski came near screaming with joy,--the woods were on both sides of the river. He turned then to the bank and came out of the reeds. The pine-forest began here, beyond the rushes and reeds. The odor of rosin came to his nostrils; here and there in the depths shone the fern, like silver. He fell a second time on his knees, and kissed the earth in prayer. He was saved! Then he entered the forest darkness, asking himself where he should go, where those forests would take him, where the king and the army were. His journey was not finished; it was not easy, it was not safe; but when he thought that he had come out of Zbaraj,--that he had stolen through the guards, swamps, tabors, and almost half a million of enemies,--then it seemed to him that all dangers were passed, that that forest was a clear highway which would lead him straight to his Majesty the King; and that wretched-looking, hungry, shivering man, bespattered with his own blood, with red filth, and black mud, passed on with joy in his heart, and hope that he would soon return in different circumstances and with greater power. "They will not be left hungry and hopeless," thought he of his friends in Zbaraj, "for the king will come." His heart rejoiced at the near rescue of the prince, the commanding officers, Volodyovski, Zagloba, and all those heroes confined in the ramparts. The forest depths opened before him and covered him with their shade. CHAPTER LXII. In the drawing-room of the Court at Toporoff sat three magnates one evening in secret consultation. A number of bright lights were burning on a table covered with maps of the surrounding country; near them lay a tall cap with a dark plume, a field-glass, and a sword with hilt set in pearls, on which was thrown a handkerchief embroidered with a crown, and a pair of elk-skin gloves. Near the table, in a high-armed chair, sat a man about forty years of age, rather small and slender, but powerfully built. He had a swarthy, sallow, wearied face, black eyes, and a Swedish wig of the same color, with long locks falling on his neck and shoulders; a thin black mustache, trimmed upward at the ends, adorned his upper lip. His lower lip with his beard protruded strongly, giving his whole physiognomy a characteristic mark of pride and stubbornness. It was not a beautiful face, but unusually lofty. A sensuous expression, indicating an inclination to pleasure, was combined in it with a certain sleepy torpor and coldness. The eyes were as if smouldering; but it was easy to guess that in a moment of exaltation, joy, or anger they could cast lightnings which not every eye might meet. At the same time kindness and affability were depicted on his countenance. The black dress, composed of a satin doublet with lace ruffles, from under which a gold chain was visible, increased the distinction of this uncommon figure. On the whole, in spite of sadness and anxiety evident in the face and form, there was something majestic in them. In fact it was the king himself, Yan Kazimir Vaza, who had succeeded his brother Vladislav somewhat less than a year before. A little behind him, in the half-shade, sat Hieronim Radzeyovski, the starosta of Lomjin, a thick, corpulent, low-set, red-visaged man with the unblushing face of a courtier; and opposite him, at the table, a third personage, leaning on his elbow, looking at the maps representing the country around, raising from time to time his eyes to the king. His face had less majesty, but almost more official distinction, than that of the king. The cool and reasoning face of the statesman was furrowed with cares and thought, the severity of which had not marred his unusual beauty. He had penetrating blue eyes; his complexion was delicate, in spite of his age; a magnificent Polish dress, a beard trimmed in Swedish fashion, and the lofty tuft above his forehead, added still something of senatorial dignity to his features, regular as if chiselled from stone. This was Yerzy Ossolinski, chancellor of the Crown, a prince of the Roman Empire, an orator, and a diplomat admired by the courts of Europe,--the famous opponent of Yeremi Vishnyevetski. His unusual abilities turned upon him early in life the attention of preceding reigns, and soon raised him to the highest offices, in virtue of which he guided the ship of state, at the present moment near its final wreck. But still the chancellor was as if created to be the helmsman of such a ship. Laborious, enduring, wise, looking to the distant future, calculating for long years, he would have directed any other State but the Commonwealth to a safe harbor with a sure and steady hand; for every other State he would have secured internal power and long years of strength,--if he had only been the absolute minister of such a monarch, for example, as the King of France or Spain. Reared beyond the boundaries of his own country, furnished with foreign models, in spite of all his innate quickness of mind, in spite of long years of practice, he was unable to accustom himself to the helplessness of government in the Commonwealth; and all his life he could not learn to reckon with it, though that was the rock on which all his plans, designs, and efforts were wrecked, though by reason of this he saw now in the future a precipice and ruin, and later died with despair in his heart. He was a genial theorist who did not know how to be genial in practice, and he fell into a circle of errors without issue. Possessing an idea which might give fruit in the future, he went to the realization of it with the stubbornness of a fanatic, not observing that that idea, saving in theory, might, in view of the actual condition of affairs, bring terrible disasters. Wishing to strengthen the government and the State, he let loose the terrible Cossack element, not foreseeing that the storm would turn not only against the nobles, the great estates of the magnates, the abuses, license of the nobility, but against the most vital interests of the State itself. [Illustration: YERZY OSSOLINSKI, CHANCELLOR OF POLAND.] _From an engraving by Moncornet_. Hmelnitski rose out of the steppes and grew into a giant. On the Commonwealth fell the defeats of Jóltiya Vodi, Korsún, Pilavtsi. At the first step this Hmelnitski joined with the enemy, the Crimean power. Thunderbolt followed thunderbolt; there remained only war and war. The terrible element should have been crushed first of all, so as to use it in the future; but the chancellor, occupied with his idea, was still negotiating and delaying, and still believed even Hmelnitski. The power of events crushed his theories; it became clearer every day that the results of the chancellor's efforts were directly opposed to his expectations, till at last came Zbaraj and confirmed it most convincingly. The chancellor was staggering under the burden of regrets, bitterness, and universal hatred. He did that therefore which in times of failure and disaster people do whose faith in themselves is greater than all disasters,--he looked for the guilty. The whole Commonwealth was to blame, and all the estates,--the past, and the aristocratic structure of the State; but he who fearing lest a rock lying on the incline of a mountain might fall to the bottom, wishes to roll it to the top without calculating the necessary force to do this, only hastens its fall. The chancellor did more and worse, for he called in the rushing and terrible Cossack torrent, not considering that its force could only wash out and carry off the foundation on which the rock was resting. When he sought then for persons to blame, all eyes were turned upon himself as the cause of the war, the calamities and misfortune. But the king believed in him yet, and believed in him the more because the voice of all without sparing his Majesty accused him in an equal degree with the chancellor. The king sat therefore in Toporoff suffering and sad, not knowing well what to do, for he had only twenty-five thousand troops. The conscript writs had been sent out too late, and barely a part of the general militia had assembled up to that time. Who was the cause of this delay, and was it not one more mistake of that stubborn policy of the chancellor?--the mystery was lost between the king and the minister; it is enough that both felt disarmed at that moment before the power of Hmelnitski. What was more important yet, they had no accurate information concerning him. In the camp of the king it was still unknown whether the Khan with all his forces was with Hmelnitski, or only Tugai Bey and a few thousands of the horde were accompanying the Cossacks. This was a matter as important as life or death. With Hmelnitski himself the king might in extremities try his fortune, though the rebellious hetman disposed of ten times greater power. The magic of the king's name meant much for the Cossacks,--more perhaps than the crowds of the general militia of unformed and untrained nobles; but if the Khan were present, it was an impossibility to meet such superior force. Meanwhile there were the most varied reports on this head, and no one knew anything accurately. The careful Hmelnitski had concentrated his forces; he had not let out a single party of Cossacks or Tartars on purpose, that the king might not capture an informant. The rebellious hetman had another plan,--it was to shut in with a part of his forces Zbaraj, already dying, and appear himself unexpectedly with the whole Tartar and remaining Cossack force before the king, surround him and his army, and deliver him into the hands of the Khan. It was not without reason then that a cloud covered the royal face, for there is no greater pain for a king than a feeling of weakness. Yan Kazimir leaned impotently on the back of the chair, threw his hands on the table and said, pointing to the maps,-- "These are useless. Get me informants." "There is nothing I wish for more," answered Ossolinski. "Have the scouts returned?" "They have returned, but brought no one." "Not a single prisoner?" "Only neighboring peasants who know nothing." "But Pan Pelka, has he returned? He is a splendid partisan." "Your Majesty," said the starosta of Lomjin, from behind the chair. "Pan Pelka has not returned, and he will not, for he is killed." A moment of silence followed. The king fixed his gloomy look on the flickering light, and began to drum with his fingers on the table. "Have you no help?" asked he at length. "Wait!" said the chancellor, with importance. The forehead of Yan Kazimir was covered with wrinkles, "Wait?" repeated he; "and Vishnyevetski and the commanders will be in worse condition under Zbaraj." "They will hold out awhile yet," said Radzeyovski, carelessly. "You might be silent if you have nothing good to offer," said the king. "I have my own counsel, your Majesty." "What is it?" "To send some one as if to negotiate with Hmelnitski at Zbaraj. The envoy will discover whether the Khan is there in his own person, and will report when he returns." "Impossible!" said the king. "Now when we have proclaimed him a rebel and laid a price on his head, have given the baton of the Zaporojians to Zabuski, it is not becoming our dignity to enter into negotiations with him." "Then send to the Khan," said the starosta. The king turned an inquiring glance on the chancellor, who raised upon him his blue, severe eye, and after a moment's thought answered: "The counsel would be good were it not that Hmelnitski, beyond a doubt, would detain the envoy, and for this reason it would serve no purpose." Yan Kazimir waved his hand. "I see," said he, slowly, "that you have no plan; then I will tell you mine. I will order to horse, and move with the whole army to Zbaraj. Let the will of God be done! There we shall discover whether the Khan is present or not." The chancellor knew the daring of the king, restrainable by nothing, and he doubted not that he was ready to do this. On the other hand he knew from experience that when the king had something in view and was opposed in the undertaking, no dissuasion was of avail. Therefore he did not oppose him at once, he even praised the idea; but he dissuaded from haste, explained to the king that it could be done to-morrow or the day after. In the mean while favorable news might come. Every day would increase the dissension of the rabble, weakened by disasters at Zbaraj and by the news of his Majesty's approach. The rebellion might dissolve from the presence of the king, as snow from the rays of the sun, but time was necessary. "The king bears within himself the salvation of the whole Commonwealth, and responsibility before God and posterity. He should not expose himself, especially since, in case of misfortune, the forces at Zbaraj would be lost beyond redemption." "Do what you like, if I only have an informant tomorrow." Again a moment of silence. An enormous golden moon shone in through the window; but it was darker in the room, for the tapers needed trimming. "What o'clock?" asked the king. "Almost midnight," answered Radzeyovski. "I will not sleep to-night. I will go around the camp, and do you go with me. Where are Ubald and Artsishevski?" "In the camp. I will go and order the horses," answered the starosta. He approached the door. At that moment there was some movement in the antechamber; a lively conversation was audible, the sound of hurried steps; then the doors opened half-way, and Tyzenhauz, the personal attendant of the king, rushed in panting. "Your Majesty," cried he, "an officer has come from Zbaraj!" The king sprang from his chair; the chancellor rose too, and from the mouths of both came the cry: "Impossible!" "Yes, he is standing in the antechamber." "Bring him here!" cried the king, clapping his hands. "Let him end our anxiety. This way with him, in the name of the Most Holy Mother!" Tyzenhauz vanished through the door, and after a moment there appeared instead of him some tall, unknown form. "Nearer!" cried the king, "nearer! We are glad to see you." The officer pushed up to the table; and at sight of him, the king, the chancellor, and the starosta of Lomjin drew back in astonishment. Before them stood a kind of frightful-looking man, or rather an apparition. Rags torn to shreds barely covered his emaciated body; his face was blue, covered with mud and blood, his eyes burning with feverish light; his black tangled beard fell toward his breast; the odor of corpses went forth from him round about, and his legs trembled to such a degree that he was forced to lean on the table. The king and the two dignitaries looked on him with staring eyes. At that moment the doors opened and a crowd of dignitaries, military and civil, came in; and among them, the generals Ubald and Artsishevski, with Sapieha, vice-chancellor of Lithuania. All stood behind the king, looking at the newly arrived. The king asked: "Who are you?" [Illustration: "Before them stood a kind of frightful-looking man, or rather an apparition."] Copyright, 1898, by Little, Brown, and Company. The miserable-looking man tried to speak, but a spasm seized his jaw; his beard began to tremble, and he was able only to whisper: "From--Zbaraj!" "Give him wine!" said a voice. In the twinkle of an eye a goblet was filled; he drank it with difficulty. By this time the chancellor had taken off his own cloak and covered the man's shoulders with it. "Can you speak now?" inquired the king after a time. "I can," he answered, with a voice of more confidence. "Who are you?" "Yan Skshetuski, colonel of hussars." "In whose service?" "The voevoda of Rus." A murmur spread through the hall. "What news have you, what news have you?" asked the king, feverishly. "Suffering--hunger--the grave--" The king covered his eyes. "Jesus of Nazareth! Jesus of Nazareth!" said he in a low voice. After a while he asked again: "Can you hold out long?" "There is lack of powder. The enemy is on the ramparts." "In force?" "Hmelnitski--the Khan with all his hordes." "Is the Khan there?" "He is." Deep silence followed. Those present looked at one another; uncertainty was on every face. "How could you hold out?" asked the chancellor, with an accent of doubt. At these words Skshetuski raised his head, as if new power entered him. A flash of pride passed over his face, and he answered with a voice strong beyond expectation: "Twenty assaults repulsed, sixteen battles in the field won, seventy-five sallies." Again silence followed. Then the king straightened himself, shook his wig as a lion would his mane, on his sallow face came out a blush, and his eyes flashed. "As God lives!" cried he, "I've enough of these councils, of this halting, of this delay! Whether the Khan is there or not, whether the general militia has come or not, I have enough of this! We will move to-day on Zbaraj." "To Zbaraj! to Zbaraj!" was repeated by a number of powerful voices. The face of the newly arrived brightened like the dawn. "Your Majesty, we will live and die with you." At these words the noble heart of the king grew soft as wax, and without regarding the repulsive appearance of the knight, he pressed his head with his hands and said: "You are dearer to me than others in satin. By the Most Holy Mother, men for less service are rewarded with starostaships. But what you have done will not pass unrewarded. I am your debtor." Others began immediately to call out after the king: "There has been no greater knight!" "He is the first among the men of Zbaraj!" "You have won immortal glory!" "And how did you push through the Cossacks and Tartars?" "I hid in the swamp, the reeds, went through the woods--got astray--ate nothing--" "Give him to eat!" cried the king. "To eat!" repeated others. "Clothe him!" "They will give you horses and clothing to-morrow," said the king again. "You shall want for nothing." All, following the king, surpassed one another in praises of the knight. Then they began again to hurl questions at him, to which he answered with the greatest difficulty, for growing weakness had seized him; he was barely half-conscious. Meanwhile they brought him refreshments; and at the same time entered the priest Tsetsishovski, the chaplain of the king. The dignitaries made way for him, for he was a very learned man, and respected. His word had almost more weight with the king than that of the chancellor, and from the pulpit he gave utterance to words such as few would dare to say at the Diet. The priest was surrounded then, and they began to tell him that an officer had come from Zbaraj; that the prince was there, though in hunger and wretchedness, and was still beating the Khan, who was present in his own person, as well as Hmelnitski, who during the whole past year had not lost so many men as at Zbaraj; finally, that the king was going to move to his succor, even if he had to lose his whole army. The priest listened in silence, moving his lips and looking every moment at the emaciated knight, who was eating at the time, for the king had commanded him not to mind his presence; and he even waited on him himself, and from time to time drank to him from a little silver goblet. "What is the name of this knight?" asked the priest at last. "Skshetuski." "Yan?" "Yes." "Colonel with the voevoda of Rus?" "Yes." The priest raised his wrinkled face, prayed again, and said: "Let us praise the name of the Lord, for undiscoverable are the ways by which he brings a man to happiness and peace. Amen! I know this officer." Skshetuski heard, and involuntarily turned his eyes to the face of the priest; but his face, form, and voice were completely unknown to him. "You are the man out of the whole army who undertook to pass through the enemy's camp?" asked the priest. "A worthy man tried before me, but he perished." "The greater is your service, since after him you dared. I see by your suffering that the road must have been an awful one. God looked on your sacrifice, on your virtue, on your youth, and he led you through." Suddenly the priest turned to Yan Kazimir. "Your gracious Majesty," said he, "it is then your unchangeable decision to march to the rescue of the voevoda of Rus?" "To your prayers, father," answered the king, "I commit the country, the army, and myself, for I know it is an awful undertaking. But I cannot permit that the prince should perish behind those unfortunate ramparts, with such knights as this officer." "God send down victory!" cried a number of voices. The priest raised his hands to heaven, and silence followed in the hall. "I bless you in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost." "Amen!" said the king. "Amen!" repeated all the voices. Peace was spread over the face of Yan Kazimir after his previous suffering; but his eyes shot forth unusual gleams. Among all assembled rose the buzz of conversation about the impending campaign, for it was much doubted yet whether the king could move at once. He took his sword, however, from the table, and nodded to Tyzenhauz to gird him. "When does your Majesty think of marching?" asked the chancellor. "God has granted a pleasant night," said the king; "the horses will not be heated. Commander of the camp," he added, turning to the dignitaries, "order the march to be sounded!" The commander of the camp left the room at once. Ossolinski, the chancellor, said with quiet dignity that all were not ready; that they could not move the wagons before day. But the king answered immediately: "Let that man remain to whom the wagons are dearer than the country." The hall grew empty. Each man hastened to his standard, put everything in order, and prepared for the march. Only the king, the chancellor, the priest, with Skshetuski and Tyzenhauz, remained in the room. "Gentlemen," said the priest, "you have learned already from this officer what you had to learn. He should now get rest, for he is barely able to stand on his feet. Allow me, your Majesty, to take him to my quarters for the night!" "All right, father," replied the king. "Your demand is just. Let Tyzenhauz and some one else conduct him, for surely he cannot walk alone. Go, go, dear friend," said he; "no one has earned his rest better than you. And remember that I am your debtor; henceforth I shall forget myself rather than you." Tyzenhauz caught Skshetuski under the arm and they passed into the antechamber. They met Sapieha, who supported the tottering knight on the other side. The priest went in advance, before him a boy with a lantern; but the boy carried it to no purpose, for the night was clear, calm, and warm. The great golden moon sailed over Toporoff like a boat. From the square of the camp came the bustle of men, the creaking of wagons, the noise of trumpets sounding the tattoo. At some distance, in front of the church lighted by the gleams of the moon, were already visible crowds of soldiers, infantry and cavalry. Horses were neighing in the village. To the creaking of wagons was joined the clatter of chains and the dull thump of cannon. The uproar increased every moment. "They are moving already!" said the priest. "On Zbaraj--to the rescue--" whispered Pan Yan. And whether from joy or from the toils he had endured, or from both together, he grew so weak that Tyzenhauz and the starosta were obliged almost to drag him along. When they were turning to the priests' house they went among the soldiers standing in front of the building. These were the cavalry of Sapieha and the infantry of Artsishevski. Not in rank yet for the march, they stood without order, crowded in places and hindering the passage. "Out of the road, out of the road!" cried the priest. "Who wants the road?" "An officer from Zbaraj--" "With the forehead to him! with the forehead to him!" cried many voices. A way was opened at once; but some crowded the more to see the hero. They looked with astonishment on that suffering, on that terrible face, lighted by the gleam of the moon, and they whispered in wonder: "From Zbaraj! from Zbaraj!" The priest brought Skshetuski to the house with the greatest difficulty. After he had been bathed and washed from the mud and blood, he had him put in the bed of the priest of the place, and went out himself at once to the army, which was moving to the march. Skshetuski was half conscious. Fever did not let him sleep immediately; he knew not where he was, or what had happened. He heard only the noise,--the tramp, the rumble of wagons, the thundering tread of infantry, the shouts of soldiers, then the blare of trumpets; and all this was mingled in his ears in one enormous sound. "The army is moving," he muttered. That sound began to retreat, to weaken, to vanish, to melt, till at last silence embraced Toporoff. Then it seemed to Skshetuski that together with the bed he was flying into some bottomless abyss. CHAPTER LXIII. Skshetuski slept a number of days, and when he woke he had a violent fever, and suffered long. He talked of Zbaraj, of the prince, of the starosta of Krasnovstav; he talked with Pan Michael, with Zagloba; he cried, "Not this way!" to Pan Longin; of the princess alone he spoke not a word. It was clear that the great power with which he had confined in himself the memory of her did not desert him a moment even in weakness and pain. At that moment, he seemed to see hanging over him the chubby face of Jendzian, precisely as he saw it when the prince after the battle of Konstantinoff sent him with troops to Zaslav to cut down lawless bands, and Jendzian appeared to him unexpectedly at his night quarters. This face brought confusion to his mind; for it seemed to him that time halted in its flight, and that nothing had changed from that period. So he is again at Khomor, is sleeping in the cottage, is marching to Tarnopol to give over his troops; Krívonos, beaten at Konstantinoff, has fled to Hmelnitski; Jendzian has come from Gushchi, and sits with him. Skshetuski wanted to talk,--wanted to order the lad to have the horse saddled,--but could not. And again it comes into his head that he is not at Khomor; that since that time too was the taking of Bar. Here Skshetuski halted in his pain, and his unfortunate head sank in darkness. He knows nothing now, sees nothing; but at times out of that chaos comes the heroism of Zbaraj, the siege. He is not at Khomor then? But still Jendzian is sitting over him, bending toward him. Through an opening in the shutters a narrow bright ray comes into the room, and lights completely the face of the youth, full of care and sympathy. "Jendzian!" cried Skshetuski, suddenly. "Oh, my master! do you know me already?" cried the youth, and fell at the feet of his master. "I thought you would never wake again!" A moment of silence followed; only the sobbing of the youth could be heard as he continued to press the feet of his master. "Where am I?" asked Skshetuski. "In Toporoff. You came from Zbaraj to the king. Praise be to God!" "And where is the king?" "He went with the army to rescue the prince.'" Silence followed. Tears of joy continued to flow along the face of Jendzian, who after a while began to repeat with a voice of emotion: "That I should look on your body again!" Then he opened the shutters and the window. Fresh morning air came into the room, and with it the bright light of day. With this light came all Skshetuski's presence of mind. Jendzian sat at the foot of the bed. "Then I came out of Zbaraj?" "Yes, my master. No one could do that but you, and on your account the king went to the rescue." "Pan Podbipienta tried before me, but he perished--" "Oh, for God's sake! Pan Podbipienta,--such a liberal man, so virtuous! My breath leaves me. How could they kill such a strong man?" "They shot him with arrows." "And Pan Volodyovski and Zagloba?" "They were well when I came out." "Praise be to God! They are great friends of yours, my master--But the priest won't let me talk." Jendzian was silent, and for a time was working at something with his head. Thoughtfulness was expressed on his ruddy face. After a while he said: "My master?" "Well, what is it?" "What will be done with the fortune of Pan Podbipienta? Very likely he has villages and every kind of property beyond measure--unless he has left it to his friends; for, as I hear, he has no relatives." Skshetuski made no answer. Jendzian knew then that he did not like the question, and began as follows:-- "But God be praised that Pan Zagloba and Pan Volodyovski are well. I thought that the Tartars had caught them. We went through a world of trouble together--But the priest won't let me talk. Oh, my master, I thought that I should never see them again; for the horde so pressed upon us that there was no help." "Then you were with Pan Volodyovski and Zagloba? They did not tell me anything about that." "For they didn't know whether I was dead or alive." "And where did the horde press on you so?" "Beyond Ploskiri, on the road to Zbaraj. For, my master, we travelled far beyond Yampol--But the priest Tsetsishovski won't let me talk." A moment of silence. "May God reward you for all your good wishes and labors," said Skshetuski; "for I know why you went there. I was there before you to no purpose." "Oh, my master, if only that priest-- But this is how it is. 'I must go with the king to Zbaraj, and do you,' says he, 'take care of your master; don't you tell him anything, for the soul will go out of him.'" Pan Yan had parted long since from every hope to such a degree that even these words of Jendzian did not rouse in him the least spark. He lay for a time motionless, and then inquired: "Where did you come from to Tsetsishovski and the army?" "The wife of the castellan, Pani Vitovska, sent me from Zamost to inform her husband that she would join him at Toporoff. She is a brave lady, my master, and wishes to be with the army, so as not to be away from her husband. I came to Toporoff the day before you. She will be here soon,--ought to be here now. But what if he has gone away with the king?" "I don't understand how you could be in Zamost when you went with Volodyovski and Zagloba beyond Yampol. Why didn't you come to Zbaraj with them?" "You see, my master, the horde pressed us sorely. There was no help. So they two alone resisted a whole chambul, and I fled and never drew bridle till I reached Zamost." "It was happy they were not killed; but I thought you were a better fellow. Was it manly of you to leave them in such straits?" "But, my master, if there had been only three of us, I should not have left them, you may be sure; but there were four of us; therefore they threw themselves against the horde, and ordered me to save--if I were sure that joy wouldn't kill you--for beyond Yampol we found--but since the priest--" Skshetuski began to look at the youth, and to open and shut his eyes like a man waking from sleep. Suddenly it seemed as though something had broken within him, for he grew pale, sat up in the bed, and cried with a thundering voice: "Who was with you?" "My master, my master!" called the youth, struck with the change that had come on the face of the knight. "Who was with you?" cried Skshetuski; and seizing Jendzian by the shoulder, he shook him, began himself to tremble as in a fever, and press the youth in his iron hands. "I'll tell anyhow," shouted Jendzian, "let the priest do what he likes. The princess was with us, and she is now with Pani Vitovska." Pan Yan grew rigid; he closed his eyes, and his head fell heavily on the pillow. "Help!" cried Jendzian. "Surely, my master, you have breathed your last. Help! What have I done? Better I had been silent. Oh, for God's sake! my master, dearest master, but speak! For God's sake! the priest was right. My master, my master!" "Oh, this is nothing!" said Skshetuski at length. "Where is she?" "Praise be to God that you have revived! Better for me to say nothing. She is with Pani Vitovska; you will soon see them here. Praise be to God, my master! only don't die; you will see them soon. The priest gave her to Pani Vitovska for safe keeping, because there are libertines in the army. Bogun respected her, but misfortune is easily found. I had a world of trouble; but I told the soldiers, 'She is a relative of Prince Yeremi,' and they respected her. I had to give away no small money on the road." Skshetuski lay motionless again; but his eyes were open, turned to the ceiling, and his face very serious. It was evident he was praying. When he had finished, he sprang up, sat on the bed, and said: "Give me my clothes, and have the horse saddled." "If you knew, my master, what a plenty of everything there is; for the king before going gave much, and others gave. And there are three splendid horses in the stable--if I only had one like them--but you would better lie and rest a little, for you have no strength yet." "There is nothing the matter with me. I can sit on a horse. In the name of the living God, make haste!" "I know that your body is of iron; let it be as you say! But defend me from the priest! Here are your clothes; better cannot be had from the Armenian merchants. You can choose, and I'll tell them to bring wine, for I told the priest's servant to heat some." Jendzian occupied himself with the food, and Skshetuski began to put on hastily the clothes presented by the king and others. But from time to time he seized the youth by the shoulders and pressed him to his bosom. Jendzian told him everything from the beginning,--how Bogun, stricken down by Volodyovski, but already partly recovered, had met him in Vlodava, and how he had learned of the princess from him, and received the baton; how he had gone subsequently with Volodyovski and Zagloba to Valadinka, and having killed the witch and Cheremís, had taken away the princess; and finally, what peril they were in while fleeing before the forces of Burlai. "Pan Zagloba killed Burlai," interrupted Skshetuski, feverishly. "He is a valiant man," answered Jendzian. "I have never seen his equal; for one is brave, another eloquent, a third cunning, but all these are sitting together in Zagloba. But the worst of all that happened was in those woods behind Ploskiri, when the horde pursued us. Pan Volodyovski with Zagloba remained behind to attract them and stop the pursuit, I rushed off sidewise toward Konstantinoff, leaving Zbaraj; for I thought this way,--that after they had killed the little man and Zagloba they would pursue us to Zbaraj. Indeed, I don't know how the Lord in his mercy rescued the little man and Pan Zagloba. I thought they were cut to pieces. Meanwhile I with the princess slipped through between Hmelnitski, who was marching from Konstantinoff, and Zbaraj, to which the Tartars were marching." "They did not go there, for Pan Kushel stopped them. But hurry!" "Yes, if I had known that! But I did not know it; therefore I pressed through with the princess between the Tartars and the Cossacks, as through a defile. Happily the country was empty; nowhere did we meet a living man, neither in the villages nor in the towns, for all had fled, each where he could, before the Tartars. But my soul was sitting on my shoulders from terror, lest that should catch me which I did not escape in the end." Skshetuski stopped dressing and asked: "What was that?" "This, my master. I came upon the division of the Cossack Donyéts, brother of that Horpyna with whom the princess was lodged in the ravine. Fortunately I knew him well, for he saw me with Bogun. I brought him a greeting from his sister, showed him Bogun's baton, and told him all, how Bogun had sent me for the lady, and how he was waiting for me beyond Vlodava. But being Bogun's friend, he knew that his sister had been guarding the lady. As a matter of course, I thought he would let me go and give me provisions and money for the road; but, said he: 'Ahead there the general militia is assembling; you'll fall into the hands of the Poles. Stay with me. We'll go to Hmelnitski, to his camp; there the girl will be safest of all, for there Hmelnitski himself will take care of her for Bogun.' When he told me this I thought I should die, for what could I say to it? I said then: 'Bogun is waiting for me, and my life depends on bringing her at once.' But he said: 'We'll tell Bogun; but don't you go, for the Poles are on that side.' Then I began to dispute, and he disputed, till at last he said: 'It is a wonder to me that you are afraid to go among the Cossacks. Ho! ho! are you not a traitor?' Then I saw there was no other help but to slip away by night, for he had already begun to suspect me. Seven sweats came out on me, my master. I had prepared everything for the road, when Pan Pelka, from the armies of the king, fell upon us that night." "Pan Pelka?" asked Pan Yan, holding his breath. "Yes, my master. A splendid partisan,--Pan Pelka, who was killed the other day. May the Lord light his soul! I don't know whether there is any one who could lead a detachment better and creep up to the enemy better than he, unless Volodyovski alone. Pan Pelka came then, and cut up the detachment of Donyéts so that not a foot got away. They took Donyéts himself prisoner. They drew him on a stake with oxen a couple of weeks ago,--served him right! But with Pan Pelka I had trouble not a little, for he was a man desperately intent on the virtue of women,--God light his soul! I was afraid that the princess, who had escaped harm from the Cossacks, would be worse treated by her own. But I told Pan Pelka that the lady was a relative of our prince. And I must tell you that he, whenever he mentioned our prince, removed his hat, and was always preparing to enter his service. He respected the princess therefore, and conducted us to Zamost to the king; and there the priest Tsetsishovski--he is a very holy priest, my master--took us in care, and gave the lady to Pani Vitovska, wife of the castellan of Sandomir." Skshetuski drew a deep breath, then threw himself on the neck of Jendzian. "You shall be a friend to me, a brother, not a servant. When was Pani Vitovska to come here?" "The week after I left, but it is now ten days. You lay eight days without consciousness." "Let us go, let us go!" exclaimed Skshetuski, "for joy is tearing me to pieces." But before he had finished speaking the tramp of horses was heard outside, and the window was suddenly darkened by horses and men. Skshetuski saw through the glass, first the old priest Tsetsishovski, and then the emaciated faces of Zagloba, Volodyovski, Kushel, and other acquaintances among the red dragoons of the prince. A shout of joy was given forth, and in a moment a crowd of knights with the priest at the head of them burst into the room. "Peace concluded at Zborovo, the siege raised!" cried the priest. But Skshetuski inferred this immediately by the look of his companions of Zbaraj; and at once he was in the embraces of Zagloba and Volodyovski, who disputed for him with each other. "They told us that you were alive," cried Zagloba, "but the joy is the greater that we see you so soon in health. We have come here for you, purposely. Yan, you don't know with what glory you have covered yourself, and what reward awaits you." "The king has rewarded you," said the priest, "but the King of Kings has provided something better." "I know already," said Skshetuski. "May God reward you! Jendzian has told all." "And joy did not kill you? So much the better! Vivat Skshetuski! vivat the princess!" shouted Zagloba. "Well, Yan, we didn't whisper a word to you about her, for we didn't know that she was alive. But Jendzian is a cunning rogue; he escaped with her, _vulpes astuta!_ The prince is waiting for you both. Oh, we went for her to Yagorlik. I killed the hellish monster that was guarding her. Those twelve boys got out of your sight, but now you'll see them, and more. I'll have grandchildren, gentlemen! Jendzian, tell us if you met great obstacles. Imagine to yourself that I with Pan Michael checked the whole horde. I rushed first on the Tartar regiment. They were trembling before us; nothing could help them. Pan Michael stood up well too. Where is my daughter? Let me see my daughter." "God give you happiness, Yan!" said the little knight, taking Skshetuski again by the shoulders. "God reward you for all you have done for me! Words fail me. My life and blood would not suffice to repay," answered Skshetuski. "Enough of this!" cried Zagloba. "Peace is concluded,--a fool's peace, gentlemen, but the position was difficult. It is well that we have left that pestilent Zbaraj. There will be peace now, gentlemen. It is by our labors, especially mine; for if Burlai had been living the negotiations would have come to nothing. We'll go to the wedding. After that, Yan, keep your eyes open. But you cannot guess what a wedding present the prince has for you! I'll tell you some other time; but where the hangman is my daughter? Let me have my daughter. Bogun won't get her this time; first he'll have to break the rope that binds him. Where is my dearest daughter?" "I was just getting into the saddle to meet Pani Vitovska," said Skshetuski. "Let us go, for I am losing my senses." "Come on, gentlemen! Let us go with him, not to lose time. Come on!" "The lady of Sandomir cannot be far distant," said the priest. "To horse!" added Pan Michael. But Skshetuski was already outside the door, and sprang on his horse as lightly as if he had not just risen from a bed of sickness. Jendzian kept close to his side, for he preferred not to be alone with the priest. Volodyovski and Zagloba joined them, and they rode as fast as their horses could gallop in advance of all. The whole party of nobles and red dragoons flew along by the Toporoff road like poppy leaves borne by the wind. "Come on!" cried Zagloba, beating his horse with his heels. And so they flew on about ten furlongs, till at the turn of the highway they saw before them a line of wagons and carriages surrounded by a number of attendants. Seeing armed men in front of them, some of these hurried with all speed to inquire who they were. "Ours, from the king's army!" cried Zagloba. "And who is coming there?" "The lady of Sandomir," was the answer. Such emotion seized Skshetuski that not knowing what he did, he slipped from the horse and stood tottering at the roadside. He removed his cap, his temples were covered with drops of perspiration, and he trembled in every limb in presence of his happiness. Pan Michael sprang also from the saddle, and caught his enfeebled friend by the shoulder. Behind them all the others formed with uncovered heads at the side of the highway. Meanwhile the line of wagons and carriages had come up and begun to pass by. In company with Pani Vitovska were travelling a number of other ladies, who looked with astonishment, not understanding what this military procession at the roadside could mean. At last, in the centre of the retinue, appeared a carriage richer than the rest. The eyes of the knights beheld through its open windows the dignified countenance of the gray-haired lady, and at her side the sweet and beautiful face of the princess. "Daughter!" roared Zagloba, rushing straight to the carriage, "daughter! Skshetuski is with us, my daughter!" They began to cry, "Stop! stop!" along the line. Hurry and confusion followed; then Kushel and Volodyovski conducted or rather drew Skshetuski to the carriage; he had weakened altogether, and became heavier every moment in their hands. His head hung upon his breast; he could walk no farther, and fell on his knees at the steps of the carriage. But a moment later the strong and beautiful arms of the princess held his weakened and emaciated head. Zagloba, seeing the astonishment of the lady of Sandomir, cried: "This is Skshetuski, the hero of Zbaraj. He worked through the enemy; he saved the army, the prince, the whole Commonwealth. May God bless them, and long may they live!" "Long may they live! Vivant! vivant!" cried the nobles. "Long may they live! Long may they live!" repeated the Vishnyevetski dragoons, till the thunder of their voices was heard over the fields of Toporoff. "To Tarnopol, to the prince, to the wedding!" cried Zagloba. "Well, daughter, your sorrows are over, and for Bogun the executioner and the sword." The priest Tsetsishovski had his eyes raised to heaven, and his lips repeated the wonderful words: "They sowed in tears, and reaped in joy." Skshetuski was seated in the carriage at the side of the princess, and the retinue moved on. The day was wonderfully bright; the oak-groves and the fields were floating in sunlight. Low down on the fallow land, and higher above them, and still higher in the blue air drifted here and there silver threads of spider-web, which in the later autumn cover the fields in those parts as if with snow. And there was great stillness all around; but the horses snorted distinctly in the retinue. "Pan Michael," said Zagloba, knocking his stirrup against that of Volodyovski, "something has caught me by the throat, and holds me as in that hour when Pan Longin--eternal rest to him!--went out from Zbaraj. But when I think that these two have found each other at last, it is as light in my heart as if I had drunk a quart at a draught. If the accident of marriage does not strike you, in old age we'll nurse their children. Every one is born for something special, Pan Michael, and both of us it seems are better for war than wedlock." The little knight made no answer, but began to move his mustaches more vigorously than usual. They were going to Toporoff and thence to Tarnopol, where they were to join Prince Yeremi, and thence with his troops to the wedding at Lvoff. On the way Zagloba told the lady of Sandomir what had happened recently. She learned therefore that the king, after a murderous, indecisive battle, had concluded a treaty with the Khan, not over favorable, but securing peace to the Commonwealth, for some time at least. Hmelnitski in virtue of the treaty remained hetman, and had the right to select for himself forty thousand registered Cossacks, for which concession he swore loyalty and obedience to the king and the estates. "It is an undoubted fact," said Zagloba, "that it will come to war again with Hmelnitski; but if only the baton does not pass by our prince, all will go differently." "Tell Skshetuski the most important thing," said Volodyovski, urging his horse nearer. "True," answered Zagloba, "I wanted to begin with that, but I couldn't catch my breath till now. You know nothing, Yan, of what has happened since you came out,--that Bogun is a captive of the prince." Skshetuski and the princess were astonished at this unexpected news to such a degree that they could not speak a word. Helena merely raised her hands, a moment of silence followed; then she asked: "How? In what manner?" "The finger of God is there," answered Zagloba,--"nothing else but the finger of God. The negotiations were concluded, and we were just marching out of that pestilent Zbaraj. The prince hurried with the cavalry to the left wing to watch lest the horde should attack the army, for frequently they do not observe treaties; when suddenly a leader with three hundred horse rushed upon the cavalry of the prince." "Only Bogun could do such a thing," said Skshetuski. "It was he too. But it is not for Cossacks to fall upon soldiers of Zbaraj. Pan Michael surrounded and cut them to pieces; and Bogun, wounded by him a second time, went into captivity. He has no luck with Pan Michael, and he must be convinced of it now, since that was the third time he tried him; but he was only looking for death." "It appeared," added Volodyovski, "that Bogun wished to reach Zbaraj from Valadinka; but the road was a long one. He failed; and when he learned that peace was concluded, his mind was confused from rage, and he cared for nothing." "Who draws the sword will perish by the sword, for such is the fickleness of fortune," said Zagloba. "He is a mad Cossack, and the madder since he is desperate. A terrible uproar arose on his account between us and ruffiandom. We thought that it would come to war again, for the prince cried first of all that they had broken the treaty. Hmelnitski wanted to save Bogun; but the Khan was enraged at him, for, said he, 'he has exposed my word and my oath to contempt.' The Khan threatened Hmelnitski with war, and sent a messenger to the king with notice that Bogun was a private robber, and with a request that the prince would not hesitate, but treat Bogun as a bandit. It is probable too that it was important for the Khan to get the captives away in quiet. Of these the Tartars have taken so many that it will be possible to buy a man in Stamboul for two hob-nails." "What did the prince do with Bogun?" inquired Skshetuski, unquietly. "The prince was about to give orders to shave a stake for him at once, but he changed his mind and said: 'I'll give him to Skshetuski; let him do what he likes with him.' Now the Cossack is in Tarnopol under ground; the barber is taking care of his head. My God, how many times the soul tried to go out of that man! Never have dogs torn the skin of any wolf as we have his. Pan Michael alone bit him three times. But he is a solid piece; though, to tell the truth, an unhappy man. But let the hangman light him! I have no longer any ill-feeling against him, except that he threatened me terribly and without cause; for I drank with him, associated with him as with an equal, till he raised his hand against you, my daughter. I might have finished him at Rozlogi. But I know of old that there is no thankfulness in the world, and there are few who give good for good. Let him--" Here Zagloba began to nod his head. "And what will you do with him, Yan?" asked he. "The soldiers say you will make an outrider of him, for he is a showy fellow; but I cannot believe you would do that." "Surely I shall not. He is a soldier of eminent daring, and because he is unhappy is another reason that I should not disgrace him with any servile function." "May God forgive him everything!" said the princess. "Amen!" answered Zagloba. "He prays to Death, as to a mother, to take him, and he surely would have found it if he had not been late at Zbaraj." All grew silent, meditating on the marvellous changes of fortune, till in the distance appeared Grabovo, where they stopped for their first refreshments. They found there a crowd of soldiers returning from Zborovo; Vitovski, the castellan of Sandomir, who was going with his regiment to meet his wife, and Marek Sobieski, with Pshiyemski and many nobles of the general militia who were returning home by that road. The castle at Grabovo had been burned, as well as all the other buildings; but as the day was wonderful,--warm and calm,--without seeking shelter for their heads, all disposed themselves in the oak-grove under the open sky. Large supplies of food and drink were brought, and the servants immediately set about preparing the evening meal. Pan Vitovski had tents pitched in the oak grove for the ladies and the dignitaries,--a real camp, as it were. The knights collected before the tents, wishing to see the princess and Pan Yan. Others spoke of the past war; those who had not been at Zbaraj asked the soldiers of the prince for the details of the siege; and it was noisy and joyous, especially since God had given so beautiful a day. Zagloba, telling for the thousandth time how he had killed Burlai, took the lead among the nobles; Jendzian, among the servants who were preparing the meal. But the adroit young fellow seized the fitting moment, and drawing Skshetuski a little aside, bent obediently to his feet. "My master," said he, "I should like to beg a favor." "It would be difficult for me to refuse you anything," answered Skshetuski, "since through you everything that is best has come to pass." "I thought at once," said the youth, "that you were preparing some reward for me." "Tell me what you want." Jendzian's ruddy face grew dark, and from his eyes shot hatred and stubbornness. "One favor I ask,--nothing more do I want. Give me Bogun, my master." "Bogun!" said Skshetuski, with astonishment. "What do you want to do with him?" "Oh, my master, I'll think of that. I'll see that my own is not lost, and that he shall pay me with interest for having put me to shame in Chigirin. I know surely that you will have him put out of the way. Let me pay him first." Skshetuski's brows contracted. "Impossible!" said he, with decision. "Oh, for God's sake! I'd rather die," cried Jendzian, piteously. "To think that I have lived for disgrace to fasten to me." "Ask what you like, I'll refuse you nothing; but this cannot be. Ask your grandfather if it is not more sinful to keep such a promise than to abandon it. Do not touch God's punishing hand with your own, lest you suffer. Be ashamed, Jendzian! This man as it is prays to God for death; and besides he is wounded and in bonds. What do you want to be to him,--an executioner? Do you want to put shame on a man in bonds, to kill a wounded man? Are you a Tartar or a Cossack man-slayer? While I live I will not permit this, and do not mention it to me!" In the voice of Pan Yan there was so much power and will that the youth lost every hope at once; therefore he added with a tearful voice: "When he is well he could manage two like me, and when he is sick it is not becoming to take vengeance. When shall I pay him for what I have suffered?" "Leave vengeance to God," said Pan Yan. The youth opened his mouth. He wished to say something more, inquire about something; but Pan Yan turned away and went to the tents, before which a large assembly had collected. In the centre sat Pani Vitovska, at her side the princess, around them the knights. In front of them stood Zagloba, cap in hand. He was telling those who had been only at Zborovo of the siege of Zbaraj. All listened to him with breathless attention; their faces moved with emotion, and those who had not taken part in the siege regretted that they had not been there. Pan Yan sat near the princess, and taking her hand, pressed it to his lips: then they leaned one against the other and sat quietly. The sun was already leaving the sky, and evening was gradually coming. Skshetuski was lost in attention, as if hearing something new for himself. Zagloba wiped his brows, and his voice sounded louder and louder. Fresh memory or imagination brought before the eyes of the knights those bloody deeds. They saw therefore the ramparts as if surrounded by a sea, and the raging assaults; they heard the tumult and the howling, the roar of cannon and musketry; they saw the prince, in silver armor, standing on the ramparts, amidst the hail of bullets; then suffering, famine; those red nights in which death circled like a great ill-omened bird over the intrenchments; the departure of Podbipienta, of Skshetuski. All listened, sometimes raising their eyes to heaven or grasping their swords, and Zagloba finished thus:-- "It is now one tomb, one mighty mound; and if beneath it are not now lying the glory of the Commonwealth, the flower of its knighthood, the prince voevoda, I, and all of us, whom the Cossacks themselves call the lions of Zbaraj, it is owing to him!" And he pointed to Skshetuski. "True as life!" cried Marek Sobieski and Pan Pshiyemski. "Glory to him,--honor, thanks!" strong voices began to cry. "Vivat Skshetuski! vivat the young couple! Long life to the hero!" was cried louder and louder. Enthusiasm seized all present. Some ran for the goblets; others threw their caps in the air. The soldiers began to rattle their sabres, and soon was heard one general shout: "Glory! glory! Long life!" Skshetuski, like a true Christian knight, dropped his head obediently; but the princess rose, shook her tresses, a glow came in her face, her eyes were gleaming with pride,--for this knight was to be her husband, and the glory of the husband falls on the wife like the light of the sun on the earth. Late at night the assembly parted, going in two directions. Vitovski, Pshiyemski, and Sobieski marched with their regiments toward Toporoff; but Skshetuski, with the princess and the squadron of Volodyovski, to Tarnopol. The night was clear as day. Myriads of stars shone in the sky; the moon rose and illuminated the fields covered with spider-webs. The soldiers began to sing. Then white mists rose from the meadows and turned the land as it were into one gigantic lake, shining in the light of the moon. On such a night Skshetuski once went forth from Zbaraj, and on such a night now he felt the heart of Kurtsevichovna beating near his own. EPILOGUE. But this tragedy of history was finished neither at Zborovo nor Zbaraj, and not even the first act of it. Two years later all Cossackdom rushed forth to do battle with the Commonwealth. Hmelnitski rose mightier than ever before; and with him marched the Khan of all the hordes, attended by the same leaders who had fought at Zbaraj,--the wild Tugai Bey, Urum Murza, Artimgirei, Nureddin, Galga, Amurat, and Subahazi. Pillars of flame and groans of men went on before them; thousands of warriors covered the fields, filled the forests; half a million of mouths sent forth shouts of war, and it seemed to men that the end of the Commonwealth had come. But the Commonwealth had risen from its lethargy, had broken with the past policy of the chancellor, with treaties and negotiations. It was seen at last that the sword alone could win enduring peace. When the king therefore marched against the hostile inundation, there went with him an army of one hundred thousand soldiers and nobles, besides legions of irregulars and attendants. No one living of the personages in the foregoing narrative was absent. Prince Yeremi Vishnyevetski was there with his whole division, in which were serving, as of old, Skshetuski and Volodyovski, with the volunteer Zagloba; both hetmans, Pototski and Kalinovski, were there, ransomed at that time from Tartar captivity. There were present also Stephen Charnetski, later on the crusher of Karl Gustav, the Swedish king; Pan Pshiyemski, commander of all the artillery; General Ubald: Pan Artsishevski; Marek Sobieski, starosta of Krasnostav, with his brother, Yan Sobieski, starosta of Yavorov, afterward King Yan III.; Ludvik Weyher, voevoda of Pomorie; Yakob, voevoda of Marienburg; Konyetspolski, the standard-bearer; Prince Dominik Zaslavski; the bishops, the dignitaries of the Crown, the senators,--the whole Commonwealth, with its supreme leader the king. On the fields of Berestechko those many legions met at last, and there was fought one of the greatest battles of history,--a battle the echoes of which thundered through all contemporary Europe. It lasted for three days. During the first two the fates wavered; on the third a general engagement decided the victory. Prince Yeremi began that engagement; and he was seen in front of the entire left wing as, armorless and bareheaded, he swept like a hurricane over the field against those gigantic legions, formed of all the mounted heroes of the Zaporojie, and all the Tartars,--Crimean, Nogai, and Bélgorod,--of Silistrian and Rumelian Turks, Urumbalis, Janissaries, Serbs, Wallachians, Periotes, and other wild warriors assembled from the Ural, the Caspian, and the swamps of Mæotis to the Danube. As a river vanishes from the eye in the foaming waves of the sea, so vanished from the eye the regiments of the prince in that sea of the enemy. A cloud of dust moved on the plain like a mad whirlwind and covered the combatants. The whole army and the king stood gazing on this superhuman struggle. Leshchinski, the vice-chancellor, raised aloft the wood of the Holy Cross, and with it blessed the perishing. Meanwhile, on the other flank, the army of the king was approached by the whole Cossack tabor, two hundred thousand strong, bristling with cannon, which vomited fire. It was like a dragon pushing slowly out of the woods his gigantic claws. But before the bulk of the enemy had issued from the dust in which Vishnyevetski's regiments had disappeared, horsemen began to drop away from their ranks, then tens, hundreds, thousands, and tens of thousands of them, and rush to the height on which stood the Khan surrounded by his chosen guard. The wild legions fled in mad panic and disorder, pursued by the Poles. Thousands of Cossacks and Tartars strewed the battle-field; and among them lay, cut in two by a double-handed sword, the sworn enemy of the Poles but the trusty ally of the Cossacks, the wild and manful Tugai Bey. The terrible prince had triumphed. But the king looked with the eye of a leader on the triumph of the prince, and determined to break the hordes before the Cossacks could come up. All the forces moved, all the cannon thundered, scattering death and disorder. Soon the brother of the Khan, the lordly Amurat, fell struck in the breast with a bullet. The hordes roared with pain. Wounded in the very beginning of the battle, the Khan looked on the field with dismay. From the distance came Pshiyemski in the midst of cannon and fire, and the king with the horse; from both flanks the earth thundered beneath the weight of the cavalry rushing to the fight. Then Islam Girei quivered, left the field, and fled; and after him fled in disorder all the hordes,--the Wallachians, the Urumbali, the mounted warriors of the Zaporojie, the Silistrian Turks, and the renegades,--as a cloud before a whirlwind. The despairing Hmelnitski caught up with the fugitives, wishing to prevail on the Khan to return to the battle; but the Khan, bellowing with rage at the sight of the hetman, ordered the Tartars to seize, bind him to a horse, and bear him away. Now there remained but the Cossack tabor. The leader of that tabor, colonel of Krapivna, Daidyalo, knew not what had happened to Hmelnitski; but seeing the defeat and shameful flight of all the hordes, he stopped the advance, and pushing back with the tabor, halted in the marshy forks of the Pleshova. Now a storm burst in the heavens, and measureless torrents of rain rushed down. "God was washing the land after a just battle." The rain lasted some days, and some days the armies of the king rested, wearied from struggles; during this time the tabor surrounded itself with ramparts, and was changed into a gigantic movable fortress. With the return of fair weather began a siege, the most wonderful ever seen in life. The hundred thousand warriors of the king besieged the twice one hundred thousand Zaporojians. The king needed cannon, provisions, ammunition. The Zaporojians had immeasurable supplies of powder and all necessaries, and besides seventy cannon of heavier and lighter calibre. But at the head of the king's armies was the king, and the Cossacks had not Hmelnitski. The armies of the king were strengthened by a recent victory; the Cossacks were in doubt of themselves. Several days passed; hope of the return of Hmelnitski and the Khan disappeared. Then negotiations began. The Cossack colonels came to the king, and beat the forehead to him, asking for pardon; they visited the senators' tents, seizing them by their garments, promising to get Hmelnitski even from under the earth and deliver him to the king. The heart of Yan Kazimir was not opposed to forgiveness. He wished to let the rabble return to their homes if all the officers were surrendered; these he determined to keep till Hmelnitski should be rendered up. But such an agreement was not to the mind of the officers, who, from the enormity of their offences, had no hope of forgiveness. Therefore in time of negotiations battles continued, desperate sallies, and every day Polish and Cossack blood flowed in abundance. The Cossacks fought in the daytime with bravery and the rage of despair; but at night whole clouds of them hung round the camp of the king, howling dismally for pardon. Daidyalo was inclined to compromise, and was willing to give his head as a sacrifice to the king, if he could only ransom the army and the people. But dissension rose in the Cossack camp. Some wished to surrender, others to defend themselves to the death; but all were thinking how to escape from the tabor. To the boldest, however, this seemed impossible. The tabor was surrounded by the forks of the river and by immense swamps. Defence was possible for whole years, but to retreat only one road was open,--through the armies of the king. Of that road no one in the camp thought. Negotiations, interrupted by battles, dragged on lazily. Dissensions among the Cossacks became greater and more frequent. In one of these Daidyalo was deposed from leadership, and a new man chosen. His name gave fresh strength to the fallen spirits of the Cossacks, and striking a loud echo in the camp of the king, roused in some hearts forgotten memories of past sorrows and misfortunes. The name of the new leader was Bogun. He had already occupied a lofty position among the Cossacks in council, and in action the general voice indicated him as the successor of Hmelnitski. Bogun, foremost of the Cossack colonels, stood with the Tartars at Berestechko at the head of fifty thousand men. He took part in the three days' cavalry fight, and defeated with the Khan and the hordes by Yeremi, he succeeded in bringing out of the defeat the greater part of his forces and finding shelter in the camp. Then after Daidyalo the party opposed to conciliation gave him chief command, hoping that he was the one man able to save the tabor and the army. In truth the young leader would not hear of negotiations. He wanted battle and blood, even if he had to drown in that blood himself. But soon he saw that with his troops it was vain to think of passing with armed hand over the bodies of the king's army. Therefore he grasped after other means. History has preserved the memory of those matchless efforts which to contemporaries seemed worthy of a giant, and which might have saved the army and the mob. Bogun determined to pass through the bottomless swamp of the Pleshova, and build over those quagmires a bridge of such make that all the besieged might cross. Whole forests began then to fall under the axes of the Cossacks and sink in the swamp. Wagons, tents, coats, sheepskins were thrown in, and the bridge extended day by day. It appeared that there was nothing impossible to that leader. The king deferred the assault, from aversion to bloodshed. But seeing these gigantic works, he recognized that there was no other way, and ordered the trumpets to sound in the evening for the final struggle. No one knew of that intention in the Cossack camp, and the bridge lengthened all night as before. In the morning Bogun went forth at the head of the officers to examine the work. It was Monday, July 7, 1651. The morning of that day rose pale, as if from fright; the dawn was bloody in the east; the sun appeared, red, sickly; a sort of bloody reflection lighted the woods and forests. From the Polish camp they were driving the horses to pasture; the Cossack tabor sounded with the voices of awakened men. Fires were lighted, the morning meal prepared. All saw the departure of Bogun, his retinue and the cavalry going with him, by the aid of which he intended to drive away the voevoda of Bratslav, who had occupied the rear of the tabor and was injuring the Cossack works with his cannon. The crowd looked on the departure quietly, and even with hope in their hearts. Thousands of eyes followed the young commander, and thousands of mouths said: "God bless thee, my falcon!" The leader, the retinue, and the cavalry receded gradually from the tabor, came to the edge of the forest, glittered once more in the early sunlight, and began to disappear in the thicket. Then some awful, terrified voice shouted, or rather howled, at the gate of the tabor: "Save yourselves, men!" "The officers are fleeing!" roared hundreds and thousands of voices. The roar passed through the crowd, as when a whirlwind strikes a pine-wood; and then a terrible, unearthly cry burst forth from two hundred thousand throats: "Save yourselves! Save yourselves! The Poles! The officers are fleeing!" Masses of men rose at once, like a mad torrent. Fires were trodden out, wagons and tents overturned, palings broken to pieces, men trampled and suffocated. Piles of bodies barred the road. They rushed over corpses, amidst howls, shouts, uproar, groans. Crowds poured from the square, burst on to the bridge, stuck in the swamp; the drowning seized one another with convulsive embraces, and crying to heaven for mercy, sank in the cold moving swamp. On the bridge began a battle and slaughter for place. The waters of the Pleshova were filled with bodies. The Nemesis of history took terrible payment for Pilavtsi with Berestechko. The awful shouts came to the ears of the young leader, and he knew at once what had happened. But in vain did he return at that moment to the tabor; in vain did he turn to meet the crowd with hands raised to heaven. His voice was lost in the roar of thousands. The terrible river of fugitives bore him away, with his horse, his retinue, and all the cavalry, and carried him on to destruction. The armies of the king were amazed at the sight of this movement, which some mistook at first for a desperate attack. But it was difficult not to believe the eyes of all. A few moments later, when their amazement had passed, all the regiments, without waiting even for command, rushed upon the enemy. First went like a whirlwind the dragoon regiment; in the front of it Volodyovski, with sabre above his head. The day of vengeance, defeat, and judgment had come, Whoever was not trampled or drowned went under the sword. The rivers were so filled with blood, that it could not be told whether blood or water flowed in them. The bewildered crowds, still more disordered, began to trample and push one another into the water, and drown. Death filled those awful forests, and reigned in them the more terribly since strong divisions began to defend themselves with rage. Battles were fought in the swamp, on the stumps, in the field. The voevoda of Bratslav cut off retreat to the fugitives. In vain did the king give orders to restrain the soldiers. Mercy had perished; and the slaughter lasted till night,--a slaughter such as the oldest warriors did not remember, and at the recollection of which the hair rose on their heads in later times. When at last darkness covered the earth, the victors themselves were terrified at their work. No "Te Deum" was sung, and not tears of joy, but of regret and sorrow, flowed from the eyes of the king. So ended the first act in the drama of which Hmelnitski was the author. But Bogun did not lay down his head with others in that day of horror. Some say that, seeing the defeat, he was the first to save himself by flight; others, that a certain knight of his acquaintance saved him. No one was able to reach the truth. This alone is certain, that in succeeding wars his name came out frequently among the names of the most noted leaders of the Cossacks. A shot from some vengeful hand struck him a few years later, but even then his last day did not come. After the death of Prince Vishnyevetski, from military toils, when the domains of Lubni fell away from the body of the Commonwealth, Bogun obtained possession of the greater part of their area. It was said that at last he would not recognize Hmelnitski over him. Hmelnitski himself, broken, cursed by his own people, sought aid from abroad; but the haughty Bogun refused every guardianship, and was ready to defend his Cossack freedom with the sword. It was said, too, that a smile never appeared on the lips of this strange man. He lived not in Lubni, but in a village which he raised from its ashes, and which was called Rozlogi. Intestine wars survived him, and continued for a long time; then came the plague and the Swedes. The Tartars were almost continual visitors in the Ukraine, carrying legions of people into captivity. The Commonwealth became a desert; a desert the Ukraine. Wolves howled on the ruins of former towns, and a land once flourishing became a mighty graveyard. Hatred grew into the hearts and poisoned the blood of brothers. NOTES. POLISH ALPHABET. Since the Polish alphabet has many peculiar phonetic combinations which are difficult to one who does not know the language, it was decided to transliterate the names of persons and places in which such combinations occur in this book. The following are the letters and combinations which are met with most frequently;-- Polish Letters. English Sounds. _c_ _ts_ _cz_ _ch_ in "chief" _sz_ _sh_ in "ship" _szcz_ _shch_ _rz_ _r_ followed by the French _j_ _w_ _v_ _[.z]_ _j_ in French In this transliteration _ch_ retains its ordinary English sound. _Kh_ is used as the German _ch_, or the Gaelic _ch_ in "loch;" so is _h_, as in Hmelnitski, and a few names in which it is used at the beginning and preceding a consonant, where it has the power of the German _ch_. _J_ is the French _j_; the vowels _e_, _i_, _u_, are, respectively, _ai_ in "bait," _ee_ in "beet," _oo_ in "pool," when long; when short, "bet," "bit," "put" swould represent their values. The following names will illustrate the method of this transliteration:-- Polish Form of Name. Form in Transliteration. Potocki Pototski Kulczinski Kulchinski Gdeszinski Gdeshinski Leszczinski Leshchinski Rzendzian Jendzian Woronczenko Voronchenko [.Z]abkowski Jabkovski In Jendzian the initial R has been omitted, on account of the extreme difficulty of its sound to any one not a Pole. In Skrzetuski, a very difficult name also, _sh_ has been used instead of the French _j_, because in this word the two sounds are almost identical, and the sound of _sh_ is known to all, while _j_ is not. ACCENT. All Polish words, with few exceptions, are accented on the syllable next the last, the penult. The exceptions are foreign names, some compounds, some words with enclitics. Polish names of men and places are generally accented on the penult. In Russian--both of the Ukraine and the North, or of Little and Great Russia--there is much freedom in placing the accent. In this book there are many Russian names of men and places; but the majority of names are accented on the penult. It has been thought best, therefore, to state this fact, and place accents only on words accented on syllables other than the penult. Some of these were accented in the body of the book; the rest are accented here. The following names of men are accented on the last syllable:-- Balaban Burdabut Barabash Chernota Bogun The following names of places are accented as indicated:-- Bakche Seraí Korovái Bazalúk Mírgorod Bélgorod Perekóp Bóguslav Sekírnaya Gálata Sléporod Hassan Pashá Volochísk Kámenyets Yagorlík Polish names in _ski_ and _vich_ are adjectives, regularly declined, with masculine and feminine endings. The titles of address _Pan_, _Pani_, _Panna_, refer respectively to a gentleman, a married lady, an unmarried lady. The following are examples:-- Pan Kurtsevich, Pani Kurtsevichova, Panna Kurtsevichovna. These three forms when applied to one family refer to the father, mother, and an unmarried daughter. The ending in _ski_ is not so complicated; for instance,-- Pan Pototski, Pani Pototska, Panna Pototska. The names in _vich_ denote descent; those in _ski_, origin in, or lordship over, a place. Nikolai Pototski, Grand Hetman, captured at Korsún, was Pan Pototski, which means lord of Potok (Potok being the name of the place which he inherited); he was also Pan Krakovski, lord of Krakov (Cracow), because he was castellan of Krakov (Cracow), an office to which he was appointed by the king. The names of villages which Zagloba mentions as belonging to Podbipienta are curious enough, whether real or invented by the whimsical narrator; as is also the name Povsinoga, which he gives the tall Lithuanian, and which means "tramp." The villages--taken in the order in which he gives them on page 540--Myshikishki, Psikishki, Pigvishki, Sirutsiani, Tsiaputsiani, Kapustsiana glowa, Baltupye, are--excluding the first two, the meanings of which are given on page 20--Crabapple town, Homespunville, Simpletown, Cabbagehead, and Slabtown. The soup botvinia, mentioned in connection with Podbipienta and Pan Kharlamp, which is made of vegetables and fish in eastern Russia, may be made, it seems, without fish in Lithuania. The word is used figuratively to designate a rustic or stay-at-home villager. OFFICES AND THINGS. _Balalaika_, a stringed instrument used in southern Russia, resembling the guitar. _Cástellan_, the chief of a town or city under Polish rule, as well as the district connected with it. The castellan was always a senator, and was appointed by the king. _Chambul_, a party of mounted Tartars. _Koshevói_, chief of a Cossack camp. _Kurén_, a company or group of Cossacks as well as the barracks in which they lived. _Sotnik_, a captain of Cossacks. This word is exactly equivalent to "centurion," and is derived from _sto_, "one hundred," with the nominative ending _nik_. _Stanitsa_, a Cossack village. _Stárosta_, chief of a town under Polish control. _Starshiní_, elders. This word meant for the Cossacks the whole body of their officers. _Telega_, the ordinary springless wagon of Russia, smaller than the country wagon in the United States. _Teorbán_, or _Torbán_, a large musical instrument of twenty strings or more. _Voevoda_, governor and commander of troops in a province, corresponding to the military governor of modern times. This office was common to the Poles and the Russians of the East or Moscow. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 1: The author uses Skshetuski, the family name of his hero, oftener than Yan, his Christian name, prefixing Pan = Mr. in both cases. I have taken the liberty of using Yan oftener than Skshetuski because more easily pronounced in English.] [Footnote 2: Tear-trousers.] [Footnote 3: Tear-cowl.] [Footnote 4: Dog entrails.] [Footnote 5: Mouse entrails.] [Footnote 6: This is the popular form in Little Russian; therefore it is quoted.] [Footnote 7: The right bank of the Dnieper was called Russian; the left, Tartar.] [Footnote 8: Hmelnitski is made to apply the title Tsar to the Khan, either to give him more importance in the eyes of the Cossacks or because Tugai Bey was present.] [Footnote 9: The author uses sometimes the word _vudka_ and sometimes _gorailka_. The first is Polish; the second Little Russian. Both mean a liquor distilled generally from rye. When _vudka_ is used it might mean that the liquor was from Poland, and when _gorailka_ that it was of Ukraine origin; but here the words are used indifferently.] [Footnote 10: _Krívonos_ signifies "crooked nose;" _Prostonos_, "straight nose."] [Footnote 11: "Holota" (Nakedness) was used as a nickname in those days to designate a poor nobleman. Abstract nouns were used by the Cossacks also as names; e. g., Colonel Chernota, which means "blackness."] [Footnote 12: City of the Tsar = Constantinople.] [Footnote 13: A pun on "Pulyan," which in Polish means "half Yan," or John.] [Footnote 14: "Hmel," a nickname for Hmelnitski among the Poles, = "hops."] [Footnote 15: Holota (Nakedness) was often given as a nickname to a poor noble.] [Footnote 16: Nicknames given by Hmelnitski to the three Polish commanders.] [Footnote 17: _Kapustsiani_, "of cabbage," the masculine form of the adjective. _Kapustsiana glowa_ means "a cabbage head; a stupid fellow." _Glowa_ is the ordinary word for _head_ in Polish, and takes the feminine adjective ending in _a_: hence _Kapustsiana_. For explanation of the other names see list of names and places.] [Footnote 18: This means, "Everything or nothing;" "Carry the day or go to a monastery."] [Footnote 19: Circassians from the Caucasus.] [Footnote 20: _Div_ is a Persian word for "demon" or "evil spirit." This word meant "a divinity" in times anterior to Zoroaster, and is identical with the root _div_ in our word "divine." In India and Europe it retained its original signification, and became of evil import only in Persia, in consequence of the triumph of Zoroastrianism.] [Footnote 21: "Panowie" is the plural of Pan.] 
44939	----	Transcriber's Note Certain typographical features such as italics and small capital letters cannot be reproduced in this version. Italics are denoted using the underscore character as a delimiter (e.g., _italic_). Any words printed in small capitals have been simply shifted to all upper case. The 'oe' ligature is rendered here as separate characters. Quoted text was printed in a smaller font. These passages are indented here to indicate this. The few footnotes, which appeared at the bottom of the page containing their references, have been moved to the end of each chapter. Please consult the notes at the end of this text for more detail about the text and the resolution on any printing anomalies. CHILDREN OF THE SOIL WORKS OF Henryk Sienkiewicz IN DESERT AND WILDERNESS WITH FIRE AND SWORD THE DELUGE. _2 Vols._ PAN MICHAEL CHILDREN OF THE SOIL "QUO VADIS" SIELANKA, A FOREST PICTURE THE KNIGHTS OF THE CROSS WITHOUT DOGMA WHIRLPOOLS ON THE FIELD OF GLORY LET US FOLLOW HIM CHILDREN OF THE SOIL. BY HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ, AUTHOR OF "WITH FIRE AND SWORD," "THE DELUGE," "PAN MICHAEL," "WITHOUT DOGMA," "YANKO THE MUSICIAN," "LILLIAN MORRIS," ETC. _AUTHORIZED AND UNABRIDGED TRANSLATION FROM THE POLISH BY_ JEREMIAH CURTIN. BOSTON LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY 1917 _Copyright, 1895_, BY JEREMIAH CURTIN. _All rights reserved._ Printers S. J. PARKHILL & CO., BOSTON, U.S.A. TO HIS EXCELLENCY, HON. FREDERIC T. GREENHALGE, Governor of Massachusetts. SIR,--You are at the head of a Commonwealth renowned for mental culture; you esteem the Slav Race and delight in good literature;--to you I beg to dedicate this volume, in the hope that it will give pleasure to you and to others in that State which you govern so acceptably. JEREMIAH CURTIN WARREN, VERMONT, April 19, 1895. INTRODUCTORY STATEMENT. The title of this book in the original is Rodzina Polanieckich (The Family of the Polanyetskis); "Children of the Soil" has been substituted, because of the difficulty of the Polish title for American and English readers, because the Polanyetskis are called children of the soil in the text of the volume, and because all the other characters are children of the soil in the same sense. For most readers this book will have a double interest,--the interest attaching to a picture of Polish life, and the general human interest inseparable from characters like those presented in the narrative of Pan Stanislav's fortunes. The Poles form a part of the great Slav race, which has played so important a rôle in the world's history already, and which is destined to play a far more important one yet in the future. The argument involved in the career and meditations of Pan Stanislav is of interest to every person in civilized society; it is an argument presented so clearly, and reinforced with such pointed examples, that neither comment nor explanation is needed. Were it not for the change of title, I might escape even this brief statement; but now I may add that the following translation was made in many places, in different countries, at various intervals, and at moments snatched from other work. I began "Children of the Soil" in Cahirciveen, Ireland, and continued it in London, Edinburgh, Fort William near the foot of Ben Nevis, Rome, Naples, and Florence, Tsarskoe Selo, Russia, and South Uist, an island of the Outer Hebrides. From the Outer Hebrides I was called home before I wished to come, and left that little granite kingdom in the Atlantic with sincere regret. The translation was finished in Warren, Vermont, and revised carefully. To new readers of Sienkiewicz I may state that Pan, Pani, and Panna, when prefixed to names, mean Mr., Mrs., and Miss respectively. JEREMIAH CURTIN. CHILDREN OF THE SOIL. CHAPTER I. It was the first hour after midnight when Pan Stanislav Polanyetski was approaching the residence in Kremen. During years of childhood he had been twice in that village, when his mother, a distant relative of the present owner of Kremen, was taking him home for vacation. Pan Stanislav tried to remember the place, but to do so was difficult. At night, by the light of the moon, everything took on an uncertain form. Over the bushes, fields, and meadows, a white mist was lying low, changing the whole region about into a shoreless lake, as it were,--an illusion increased by choruses of frogs in the mist. It was a July night, very calm and perfectly bright. At moments, when the frogs became silent, landrails were heard playing in the dew; and at times, from afar, from muddy ponds, hidden behind reeds, the call of the bittern sounded as if coming from under the earth. Pan Stanislav could not resist the charm of that night. It seemed to him familiar in some way; and that familiarity he felt all the more, since he had returned only the previous year from abroad, where he had spent his first youth and had become engaged afterward in mercantile matters. Now, while entering that sleeping village, he recalled his childhood, memorable through his mother, now five years dead, and because the bitterness and cares of that childhood, compared with the present, seemed perfect bliss to him. At last the brichka rolled up toward the village, which began with a cross standing on a sand mound. The cross, inclining greatly, seemed ready to fall. Pan Stanislav remembered it because in his time under that mound had been buried a man found hanging from a limb in the neighboring forest, and afterward people were afraid to pass by that spot in the night-time. Beyond the cross were the first cottages, but the people were sleeping; there was no light in any window. As far as the eye could reach, only roofs of cottages were gleaming on the night background of the sky, lighted up by the moon, and the roofs appeared silvery and blue. Some cottages were washed with lime and seemed bright green; others, hidden in plum orchards, in thickets of sunflowers or pole beans, barely came out of the shadow. In the yards, dogs barked, but in their sleep, as it were, accompanying the croaking of frogs, the calling of landrails and bitterns, and all those sounds with which a summer night speaks, and which strengthen the impression of silence still more. The brichka, moving slowly along the soft sandy road, entered at last a dark alley, spotted only here and there by the moonlight, which pushed in between the leaves. Beyond the alley, night watches whistled; and in the open was seen a white dwelling, in which some windows were lighted. When the brichka rattled up to the entrance, a serving-man hurried out of the house and began to assist Pan Stanislav to alight; but in addition the night watch appeared and two white dogs, evidently very young and friendly, for, instead of barking, they began to fawn and to spring on the guest, showing such delight at his coming that the watch had to moderate their effusiveness with a stick. The man took Pan Stanislav's things from the brichka, and after a moment the guest found himself in a dining-room where tea was waiting. Nothing had changed from the time of his childhood. At one wall was a sideboard in walnut; at one end of this a clock with heavy weights and a cuckoo; at the other were two badly painted portraits of women in robes of the eighteenth century; in the centre of the room stood a table with a white cloth, and surrounded by chairs with high arms. That room, lighted brightly, full of steam rising from a samovar, seemed rather hospitable and gladsome. Pan Stanislav began to walk along the side of the table; but the squeaking of his boots struck him in that silence, therefore he went to the window and looked through the panes at the yard filled with moonlight. Over this yard the two white dogs, which had greeted him so effusively, were chasing each other. After a time the door of the next room opened, and a young lady entered in whom Pan Stanislav divined the daughter of the master of Kremen by his second wife; at sight of her he stepped from the window curtains, and, approaching the table in his squeaking boots, bowed, and announced his name. The young lady extended her hand, and said,-- "We learned of your arrival from the despatch. Father is a trifle ill, and was obliged to lie down; but he will be glad to see you in the morning." "I am not to blame for coming so late," answered Pan Stanislav; "the train reaches Chernyov only at eleven." "And from Chernyov it is ten miles to Kremen. Father tells me that this is not your first visit." "I came here with my mother when you were not in the world yet." "I know. You are a relative of my father." "I am a relative of Pan Plavitski's first wife." "Father esteems family connections very highly, even the most distant," said the young lady; and she began to pour out tea, pushing aside from time to time the steam, which, rising from the samovar, veiled her eyes. When conversation halted, only the tick of the clock was heard. Pan Stanislav, who was interested by young ladies, looked at Panna Plavitski carefully. She was a person of medium height, rather slender; she had dark hair, a face calm, but subdued, as it were, a complexion sunburnt somewhat, blue eyes, and a most shapely mouth. Altogether it was the face of a self-possessed and delicate woman. Pan Stanislav, to whom she seemed not ill-looking, but also not beautiful, thought that she was rather attractive; that she might be good; and that under that exterior, not too brilliant, she might have many of those various qualities which young ladies in the country have usually. Though he was young, life had taught him one truth,--that in general women gain on near acquaintance, while in general men lose. He had heard also touching Panna Plavitski, that the whole management in Kremen--a place, by the way, almost ruined--lay on her mind, and that she was one of the most overworked persons on earth. With reference to those cares, which must weigh on her, she seemed calm and unmoved; still he thought that surely she must wish to sleep. This was evident, indeed, by her eyes, which blinked in spite of her, under the light of the hanging lamp. The examination would have come out on the whole in her favor, were it not that conversation dragged somewhat. This was explained by the fact that they saw each other for the first time in life; besides, she received him alone, which might be awkward for a young lady. Finally, she knew that Pan Stanislav had not come to make a visit, but to ask for money. Such was the case in reality. His mother had given, a very long time before, twelve thousand and some rubles for a mortgage on Kremen, which Pan Stanislav wished to have redeemed,--first, because there were enormous arrears of interest, and second, since he was a partner in a mercantile house in Warsaw, he had entered into various transactions and needed capital. He had promised himself beforehand to make no compromise, and to exact his own absolutely. In affairs of that sort, it was a point with him always to appear unyielding. He was not such by nature, perhaps; but he had made inflexibility a principle, and therewith a question of self-love. In consequence of this, he overshot the mark frequently, as people do who argue something into themselves. Hence, while looking at that agreeable, but evidently drowsy young lady, he repeated to himself, in spite of the sympathy which was roused in him,-- "That is all well, but you must pay." After a while he said, "I have heard that you busy yourself with everything; do you like land management?" "I love Kremen greatly," answered she. "I too loved Kremen when I was a boy; but I should not like to manage the place,--the conditions are so difficult." "Difficult, difficult. We do what we can." "That is it,--you do what you can." "I assist father, who is often in poor health." "I am not skilled in those matters, but, from what I see and hear, I infer that the greater number of agriculturists cannot count on a future." "We count on Providence." "Of course, but people cannot send creditors to Providence." Panna Plavitski's face was covered with a blush; a moment of awkward silence followed; and Pan Stanislav said to himself,-- "Since thou hast begun, proceed farther;" and he said,-- "You will permit me to explain the object of my coming." The young lady looked at him with a glance in which he might read, "Thou hast come just now; the hour is late. I am barely alive from fatigue: even the slightest delicacy might have restrained thee from beginning such a conversation." She answered aloud,-- "I know why you have come; but it may be better if you will speak about that with my father." "I beg your pardon." "But I beg pardon of you. People have a right to mention what belongs to them, and I am accustomed to that; but to-day is Saturday, and on Saturday there is so much work. Moreover, in affairs of this sort, you will understand--sometimes, when Jews come, I bargain with them; but this time I should prefer if you would speak with my father. It would be easier for both." "Then till to-morrow," said Pan Stanislav, who lacked the boldness to say that in questions of money he preferred to be treated like a Jew. "Perhaps you would permit me to pour you more tea?" "No, I thank you. Good-night." And, rising, he extended his hand; but the young lady gave hers far less cordially than at the greeting, so that he touched barely the ends of her fingers. In going, she said,-- "The servant will show you the chamber." And Pan Stanislav was left alone. He felt a certain discontent, and was dissatisfied with himself, though he did not wish to acknowledge that fact in his heart. He began even to persuade himself that he had done well, since he had come hither, not to talk politely, but to get money. What was Panna Plavitski to him? She neither warmed nor chilled him. If she considered him a churl, so much the better; for it happens generally that the more disagreeable a creditor, the more people hasten to pay him. But his discontent was increased by that reasoning; for a certain voice whispered to him that this time it was not merely a question of good-breeding, but also in some degree of compassion for a wearied woman. He felt, besides, that by acting so urgently he was satisfying his pose, not his heart, all the more because she pleased him. As in that sleeping village and in that moonlight night he had found something special, so in that young lady he found something which he had looked for in vain in foreign women, and which moved him more than he expected. But people are often ashamed of feelings which are very good. Pan Stanislav was ashamed of emotions, especially; hence he determined to be inexorable, and on the morrow to squeeze old Plavitski without mercy. Meanwhile the servant conducted him to the bed-chamber. Pan Stanislav dismissed him at once, and was alone. That was the same chamber which they gave him, when, during the life of Plavitski's first wife, he came to Kremen with his mother; and remembrances beset him again. The windows looked out on a garden, beyond which lay a pond; the moon was looking into the water, and the pond could be seen more easily than in former times, for it was hidden then by a great aged ash-tree, which must have been broken down by a storm, since on that spot there was sticking up merely a stump with a freshly broken piece at the top. The light of the moon seemed to centre on that fragment, which was gleaming very brightly. All this produced an impression of great calm. Pan Stanislav, who lived in the city amid mercantile labors, therefore in continual tension of his physical and mental powers, and at the same time in continual unquiet, felt that condition of the country around him as he would a warm bath after great toil. He was penetrated by relief. He tried to reflect on business transactions, how were they turning, would they give loss or profit, finally on Bigiel, his partner, and how Bigiel would manage various interests in his absence,--but he could not continue. Then he began to think of Panna Plavitski. Her person, though it had made a good impression, was indifferent to him, even for this reason, that he saw her for the first time; but she interested him as a type. He was thirty years old and something more, therefore of the age in which instinct, with a force almost invincible, urges a man to establish a domestic hearth, take a wife, and have a family. The greatest pessimism is powerless against this instinct; neither art nor any calling in life protects a man against it. In consequence of this, misanthropes marry in spite of their philosophy, artists in spite of their art, as do all those men who declare that they give to their objects not a half, but a whole soul. Exceptions confirm the principle that, in general, men cannot live a conventional lie and swim against the currents of nature. For the great part, only those do not marry for whom the same power that creates marriage stands in the way of it; that is, those whom love has deceived. Hence, celibacy in advanced life, if not always, is most frequently a hidden tragedy. Stanislav Polanyetski was neither a misanthrope nor an artist; neither was he a man proclaiming theories against marriage. On the contrary, he wanted to marry, and he was convinced that he ought to marry. He felt that for him the time had arrived; hence he looked around for the woman. From that came the immense interest which women roused in him, especially unmarried ones. Though he had spent some years in France and Belgium, he had not sought love among married women, even among those who were over giddy. He was an active and occupied person, who contended that only idle men can romance with married women, and in general that besieging other men's wives is possible only where men have very much money, little honor, and nothing to do, consequently in a society where there is a whole class long since enriched, sunk in elegant idleness, and of dishonest life. He was himself, in truth, greatly occupied, hence he wished to love in order to marry; therefore only unmarried women roused in him curiosity of soul and body. When he met a young lady, the first question he asked himself was, "Is she not the woman?" or at least, "Is she not the kind of woman?" At present his thoughts were circling around Panna Plavitski in this manner. To begin with, he had heard much of her from her relative living in Warsaw; and he had heard things that were good and even touching. Her calm, mild face was before his eyes now. He recalled her hands, very shapely, with long fingers, though somewhat sunburnt, her dark blue eyes, then the slight shadow over her mouth. Her voice too pleased him. Notwithstanding all this, he repeated his promise that he would make no compromise and must have his own; still he was angry at the fate which had brought him to Kremen as a creditor. Speaking to himself in mercantile language, he repeated in spirit, "The quality is good, but I will not 'reflect,' as I did not come for it." Still he "reflected," and that to such a degree that after he had undressed and lain down, he could not sleep for a long time. The cocks began to crow, the window panes were growing pale and green; but under his closed eyelids he saw yet the calm forehead of Panna Plavitski, the shadow over her mouth, and her hands pouring out the tea. Then, when sleep became overpowering, it seemed to him as though he were holding those hands in his own and drawing her toward him, and she was pulling back and turning her head aside, as if to escape a kiss. In the morning he woke late, and remembering Panna Plavitski, thought, "Ah, she will look like that!" CHAPTER II. He was roused by the servant, who brought coffee and took his clothes to be brushed. When the servant brought them back, Pan Stanislav asked if it were not the custom of the house to meet in the dining-room for coffee. "No," answered the servant; "because the young lady rises early, and the old gentleman sleeps late." "And has the young lady risen?" "The young lady is at church." "True, to-day is Sunday. But does not the young lady go to church with the old gentleman?" "No; the old gentleman goes to high Mass, and then goes to visit the canon, so the young lady prefers early Mass." "What do they do here on Sunday?" "They sit at home; Pan Gantovski comes to dinner." Pan Stanislav knew this Gantovski as a small boy. In those times they nicknamed him "Little Bear," for he was a thick little fellow, awkward and surly. The servant explained that Pan Gantovski's father had died about five years before, and that the young man was managing his estate in the neighboring Yalbrykov. "And does he come here every Sunday?" "Sometimes he comes on a week day in the evening." "A rival!" thought Pan Stanislav. After a while he inquired,-- "Has the old gentleman risen?" "It must be that he has rung the bell, for Yozef has gone to him." "Who is Yozef?" "The valet." "And who art thou?" "I am his assistant." "Go and inquire when it will be possible to see the old gentleman." The servant went out and returned soon. "The old gentleman sends to say that when he dresses he will beg you to come." "Very well." The servant went out; Pan Stanislav remained alone and waited, or rather was bored, a good while. Patience began to fail him at last; and he was about to stroll to the garden, when Yozef came with the announcement that the old gentleman begged him to come. Yozef conducted him then to a chamber at the other end of the house. Pan Stanislav entered, and at the first moment did not recognize Pan Plavitski. He remembered him as a person in the bloom of life and very good-looking; now an old man stood before him, with a face as wrinkled as a baked apple,--a face to which small blackened mustaches strove in vain to lend the appearance of youth. Hair as black as the mustaches, and parted low at the side of the head, indicated also pretensions as yet unextinguished. But Plavitski opened his arms: "Stas! how art thou, dear boy? Come hither!" And, pointing to his white shirt, he embraced the head of Pan Stanislav, and pressed it to his bosom, which moved with quick breathing. The embrace continued a long time, and for Pan Stanislav, much too long. Plavitski said at last,-- "Let me look at thee, Anna, drop for drop! My poor beloved Anna!" and Plavitski sobbed; then he wiped with his heart finger[1] his right eyelid, on which, however, there was not a tear, and repeated,-- "As like Anna as one drop is like another! Thy mother was always for me the best and the most loving relative." Pan Stanislav stood before him confused, also somewhat stunned by a reception such as he had not expected, and by the odor of wax, powder, and various perfumes, which came from the face, mustaches, and shirt of the old man. "How is my dear uncle?" asked he at last, judging that this title, which moreover he had given in years of childhood to Plavitski, would answer best to the solemn manner of his reception. "How am I?" repeated Plavitski. "Not long for me now, not long! But just for this reason I greet thee in my house with the greater affection,--I greet thee as a father. And if the blessing of a man standing over the grave, and who at the same time is the eldest member of the family, has in thy eyes any value, I give it thee." And seizing Pan Stanislav's head a second time, he kissed it and blessed him. The young man changed still more, and constraint was expressed on his face. His mother was a relative and friend of Plavitski's first wife: to Plavitski himself no affectionate feelings had ever attracted her, so far as he could remember; hence the solemnity of the reception, to which he was forced to yield, was immensely disagreeable to him. Pan Stanislav had not the least family feeling for Plavitski. "This monkey," thought he, "is blessing me instead of talking money;" and he was seized by a certain indignation, which might help him to explain matters clearly. "Now sit down, dear boy," said Plavitski, "and be as if in thy own house." Pan Stanislav took a seat, and began, "Dear uncle, for me it is very pleasant to visit uncle. I should have done so surely, even without business; but uncle knows that I have come also on that affair which my mother--" Here the old man laid his hand on Pan Stanislav's knee suddenly. "But hast thou drunk coffee?" asked he. "I have," answered Pan Stanislav, driven from his track. "Marynia goes to church early. I beg pardon, too, that I have not given thee my room; but I am old, I am accustomed to sleep here. This is my nest." Then, with a circular sweep of the hand, he directed attention to the chamber. Unconsciously Pan Stanislav let his eyes follow the motion of the hand. On a time this chamber had been to him a ceaseless temptation, for in it had hung the arms of Plavitski. The only change in it was the wall, which in the old time was rose-colored, and represented, on an endless number of squares, young shepherdesses, dressed _à la Watteau_, and catching fish with hooks. At the window stood a toilet-table with a white cover, and a mirror in a silver frame. On the table was a multitude of little pots, vials, boxes, brushes, combs, nail files, etc. At one side, in the corner, was a table with pipes and pipe-stems with amber mouth-pieces; on the wall, above the sofa, was the head of a wild boar, and under it two double-barrelled guns, a hunting-bag, horns, and, in general, the weapons of hunting; in the depth was a table with papers, open shelves with a certain number of books. Everywhere the place was full of old furniture more or less needed and ornamental, but indicating that the occupant of the chamber was the centre around which everything turned in that house, and that he cared greatly for himself. In one word, it was the chamber of an old single man,--an egotist full of petty anxiety for his personal comfort, and full of pretensions. Pan Stanislav did not need long reflection to divine that Plavitski would not give up his chamber for anything, nor to any man. But the hospitable host inquired further, "Was it comfortable enough for thee? How didst thou spend the night?" "Perfectly; I rose late." "But thou wilt stay a week or so with me?" Pan Stanislav, who was very impulsive, sprang up from his chair. "Doesn't uncle know that I have business in Warsaw, and a partner, who at present is doing all our work alone? I must go at the earliest; and to-day I should like to finish the business on which I have come." To this Plavitski answered with a certain cordial dignity, "No, my boy. To-day is Sunday; and besides, family feeling should go before business. To-day I greet thee, and receive thee as a blood relative; to-morrow, if thou wish, appear as a creditor. That is it. To-day my Stas has come to me, the son of my Anna. Thus will it be till to-morrow; thus should it be, Stas. This is said to thee by thy eldest relative, who loves thee, and for whom thou shouldst do this." Pan Stanislav frowned a little, but after a while he answered, "Let it be so till to-morrow." "Anna spoke through thee then. Dost smoke a pipe?" "No, only cigarettes." "Believe me, thou doest ill. But I have cigarettes for guests." Further conversation was interrupted by the rattle of an equipage at the entrance. "That is Marynia, who has come from early Mass," said Plavitski. Pan Stanislav looked out through the window, and saw a young lady in a straw hat stepping out of the equipage. "Hast made the acquaintance of Marynia?" asked Plavitski. "I had the pleasure yesterday." "She is a dear child. I need not tell thee that I live only for her--" At that moment the door opened, and a youthful voice asked, "May I come in?" "Come in, come in; Stas is here!" answered Plavitski. Marynia entered the chamber quickly, with her hat hanging by ribbons over her shoulder; and when she had embraced her father, she gave her hand to Pan Stanislav. In her rose-colored muslin, she looked exceedingly graceful and pretty. There was about her something of the character of Sunday, and with it the freshness of that morning, which was bright and calm. Her hair had been ruffled a little by her hat; her cheeks were blooming; and youth was breathing from her person. To Pan Stanislav, she seemed more joyous and more shapely than the previous evening. "High Mass will be a little later to-day," said she to her father; "for immediately after Mass the canon went to the mill to prepare Pani Siatkovski; she is very ill. Papa will have half an hour yet." "That is well," said Plavitski; "during that time thou wilt become more nearly acquainted with Stas. I tell thee, drop for drop like Anna! But thou hast never seen her. Remember, too, Marynia, that he will be our creditor to-morrow, if he wishes; but to-day he is only our relative and guest." "Very well," answered the young lady; "we shall have a pleasant Sunday." "You went to sleep so late yesterday," said Pan Stanislav, "and to-day you were at early Mass." She answered merrily, "The cook and I go to early Mass that we may have time afterward to think of dinner." "I forgot to mention," said Pan Stanislav, "that I bring you salutations from Pani Emilia Hvastovski." "I have not seen Emilia for a year and a half, but we write to each other often. She is about to visit Reichenhall, for the sake of her little daughter." "She was ready to start when I saw her." "But how is the little girl?" "She is in her twelfth year; she has grown beyond measure, and is pale. It does not seem that she is very healthy." "Do you visit Emilia often?" "Rather often. She is almost my only acquaintance in Warsaw. Besides, I like Pani Emilia very much." "Tell me, my boy," inquired Plavitski, taking a pair of fresh gloves from the table, and putting them into a breast-pocket, "what is thy particular occupation in Warsaw?" "I am what is called an 'affairist;' I have a commission house in company with a certain Bigiel. I speculate in wheat and sugar, sometimes in timber; in anything that gives profit." "I have heard that thou art an engineer?" "I have my specialty. But on my return I could not find occupation at any factory, and I began at mercantile transactions, all the more readily that I had some idea of them. But my specialty is dyeing." "How dost thou say?" inquired Plavitski. "Dyeing." "The times are such now that one must take up anything," said Plavitski, with dignity. "I am not the man to take that ill of thee. If thou wilt only retain the honorable old traditions of the family, no occupation brings shame to a man." Pan Stanislav, to whom the appearance of the young lady had brought back his good nature, and who was amused by the sudden "grandezza" of the old man, showed his sound teeth in a smile, and answered,-- "Praise God for that!" Panna Plavitski smiled in like manner, and said, "Emilia, who likes you very much, wrote to me once that you conduct your business perfectly." "The only difficulty in this country is with Jews; still competition is easy. And with Jews it is possible to get on by abstaining from anti-Semitic manifestoes. As to Pani Emilia, however, she knows as much about business as does her little Litka." "Yes; she has never been practical. Had it not been for her husband's brother, Pan Teofil Hvastovski, she would have lost all she has. But Pan Teofil loves Litka greatly." "Who doesn't love Litka? I, to begin with, am dying about her. She is such a marvellous child, and such a favorite; I tell you that I have a real weakness for her." Panna Marynia looked attentively at his honest, vivacious face, and thought, "He must be a little whimsical, but he has a good heart." Plavitski remarked, meanwhile, that it was time for Mass, and he began to take farewell of Marynia in such fashion as if he were going on a journey of some months; then he made the sign of the cross on her head, and took his hat. The young lady pressed Pan Stanislav's hand with more life than at the morning greeting; he, when sitting in the little equipage, repeated in his mind, "Oh, she is very nice, very sympathetic." Beyond the alley, by which Pan Stanislav had come the night before, the equipage rolled over a road which was beset here and there with old and decayed birches standing at unequal distances from one another. On one side stretched a potato-field, on the other an enormous plain of wheat, with heavy bent heads, which seemed to sleep in the still air and in the full light of the sun. Before the carriage, magpies and hoopoes flew among the birches. Moving along paths through the yellow sea of wheat, and hidden in it to their shoulders, went village maidens with red kerchiefs on their heads, which resembled blooming poppies. "Good wheat," said Pan Stanislav. "Not bad. What is in man's power is done, and what God gives He gives. Thou art young, my dear, so I give thee a precept, which in future will be of service to thee more than once, 'Do always that which pertains to thee, and leave the rest to the Lord God.' He knows best what we need. The harvest will be good this year; I know that beforehand, for when God is going to touch me with anything, He sends a sign." "What is it?" asked Pan Stanislav, with astonishment. "Behind my pipe-table--I do not know whether thou hast noted where it stands--a mouse shows himself to me a number of days in succession when any evil is coming." "There must be a hole in the floor." "There is no hole," said Plavitski, closing his eyes, and shaking his head mysteriously. "One might bring in a cat." "I will not bring in a cat, for if it is the will of God that that mouse should be a sign to me, or forewarning, I shall not go against that will. Nothing has appeared to me this year. I mentioned this to Marynia; maybe God desires in some way to show that He is watching over our family. Listen, my dear; people will say, I know, that we are ruined, or at least in a very bad state. Here it is; judge for thyself: Kremen and Skoki, Magyerovka and Suhotsin, contain about two hundred and fifty vlokas of land; on that there is a debt of thirty thousand rubles to the society, not more, and about a hundred thousand mortgage, including thy sum. Therefore we have about a hundred and thirty thousand. Let us estimate only three thousand rubles a vloka; that will make seven hundred and fifty thousand,--altogether eight hundred and eighty thousand--" "How is that?" asked Pan Stanislav, with astonishment; "uncle is including the debt with the property." "If the property were worth nothing, no one would give me a copper for it, so I add the debt to the value of the property." Pan Stanislav thought, "He is a lunatic, with whom it is useless to talk;" and he listened further in silence. "I intend to parcel out Magyerovka. The mill I will sell; but in Skoki and Suhotsin I have marl, and knowest thou at how much I have estimated it? At two million rubles." "Has uncle a purchaser?" "Two years ago a certain Shaum came and looked at the fields. He went away, it is true, without speaking of the business; but I am sure that he will come again, otherwise the mouse would have appeared behind the pipe-table." "Ha! let him come again." "Knowest thou another thing that comes to my head? Since thou art an 'affairist,' take up this business. Find thyself partners, that is all." "The business is too large for me." "Then find me a purchaser; I will give ten per cent of the proceeds." "What does Panna Marynia think of this marl?" "Marynia, how Marynia? She is a golden child, but still a child! She believes that Providence watches over our family." "I heard that from her yesterday." Meanwhile they had drawn near Vantory and the church, on a hill among linden-trees. Under the hill stood at number of peasant-wagons with ladder-like boxes, some brichkas and carriages. Pan Plavitski made the sign of the cross, and said, "This is our little church, which thou must remember. All the Plavitskis lie here, and I, too, shall be lying here soon. I never pray better than in this place." "There will be many people, I see," said Pan Stanislav. "Gantovski's brichka, Zazimski's coach, Yamish's carriage, and a number of others are there. Thou must remember the Yamishes. She is an uncommon woman; he pretends to be a great agriculturist and a councillor, but he is an old dotard, who never did understand her." At that moment the bell began to sound in the church tower. "They have seen us, and are ringing the bell," said Plavitski; "Mass will begin this moment. I will take thee, after Mass, to the grave of my first wife; pray for her, since she was thy aunt. She was an honest woman; the Lord light her." Here Plavitski raised his finger again to rub his right eye. Pan Stanislav therefore asked, wishing to change the conversation,-- "But was not Pani Yamish once very beautiful? or is this the same one?" Plavitski's face gleamed suddenly. He thrust out for one moment the end of his tongue from his blackened little mustaches, and patting Pan Stanislav on the thigh, said,-- "She is worth a sin yet,--she is, she is." Meanwhile they drove in, and after walking around the church, entered the sacristy at the side; not wishing to push through the crowd, they sat on side seats near the altar. Plavitski occupied the collator's place, in which were also the Yamishes. Yamish was a man very old in appearance, with an intelligent face, but weighed down; she was a woman well toward sixty, dressed almost like Panna Marynia,--that is, in a muslin robe and a straw hat. The bows, full of politeness, which Pan Plavitski made to her, and the kind smiles with which she returned them, showed that between those two reigned intimate relations founded on mutual adoration. After a while the lady, raising her glasses to her eyes, began to observe Pan Stanislav, not understanding apparently who could have come with Pan Plavitski. In the seat behind them one of the neighbors, taking advantage of the fact that Mass had not begun yet, was finishing some narrative about hunting, and repeated a number of times to another neighbor, "My dogs, well--" then both stopped their conversation, and began to speak to Plavitski and Pani Yamish so audibly that every word reached the ears of Pan Stanislav. The priest came out to the altar then. At sight of the Mass and that little church, Pan Stanislav's memory went back to the years of his childhood, when he was there with his mother. Wonder rose in him involuntarily when he thought how little anything changes in the country, except people. Some are placed away in consecrated earth; others are born. But the new life puts itself into the old forms; and to him who comes from afar, after a long absence, all that he saw long ago seems of yesterday. The church was the same; the nave was filled, as of old, with flaxen-colored heads of peasants, gray coats, red and yellow kerchiefs with flowers on the heads of the maidens; it had precisely the same kind of odor of incense, of sweet flag, and the exhalations of people. Outside one of the windows grew the same birch-tree, whose slender branches, thrown against the panes by the wind as it rose, cast shade which gave a green tinge to light in the church. But the people were not the same: some of the former ones were crumbling quietly into dust, or had made their way from beneath the earth in the form of grass; those who were left yet were somehow bent, as if going under ground gradually. Pan Stanislav, who plumed himself on avoiding all generalizing theories, but who in reality had a Slav head, which, as it were, had not emerged yet from universal existence, occupied himself with them involuntarily; and all the time he was thinking that there is still a terrible precipice between that passion for life innate in people and the absoluteness of death. He thought, also, that perhaps for this reason all systems of philosophy vanish, like shadows; but Mass is celebrated, as of old, because it alone promises further and unbroken continuity. Reared abroad, he did not believe in it greatly; at least, he was not certain of it. He felt in himself, as do all people of to-day, the very newest people, an irrestrainable repugnance to materialism; but from it he had not found an escape yet, and, what is more, it seemed to him that he was not seeking it. He was an unconscious pessimist, like those who are looking for something which they cannot find. He stunned himself with occupations to which he was habituated; and only in moments of great excess in that pessimism did he ask himself, What is this all for? Of what use is it to gain property, labor, marry, beget children, if everything ends in an abyss? But that was at times, and did not become a fixed principle. Youth saved him from this, not the first youth, but also not a youth nearing its end, a certain mental and physical strength, the instinct of self-preservation, the habit of work, vivacity of character, and finally that elemental force, which pushes a man into the arms of a woman. And now from the recollections of childhood, from thoughts of death, from doubts as to the fitness of marriage, he came to this special thought, that he had no one to whom he could give what was best in him; and then he came to Panna Marynia Plavitski, whose muslin robe, covering a young and shapely body, did not leave his eyes. He remembered that when he was leaving Warsaw, Pani Emilia, a great friend of his and of Panna Marynia's, had said laughingly,-- "If you, after being in Kremen, do not fall in love with Marynia, I shall close my doors against you." He answered her with great courage that he was going only to squeeze out money, not to fall in love, but that was not true. If Panna Plavitski had not been in Kremen, he would surely have throttled Plavitski by letter, or by legal methods. On the way he had been thinking of Panna Marynia and of how she would look, and he was angry because he was going for money, too. Having talked into himself great decision in such matters, he determined above all to obtain what belonged to him, and was ready rather to go beyond the mark than not to reach it. He promised this to himself, especially the first evening, when Marynia, though she had pleased him well enough, had not produced such a great impression as he had expected, or rather had produced a different one; but that morning she had taken his eye greatly. "She is like the morning herself," thought he; "she is nice and knows that she is nice,--women always know that." This last discovery made him somewhat impatient, for he wished to return as soon as possible to Kremen, to observe the young woman further. In fact, Mass was over soon. Plavitski went out immediately after the blessing, for he had two duties before him,--the first, to pray on the graves of his two wives who were lying under the church; the second, to conduct Pani Yamish to her carriage. Since he wished to neglect neither of these, he had to count with time. Pan Stanislav went with him; and soon they found themselves before the stone slabs, erected side by side in the church wall. Plavitski kneeled and prayed awhile with attention; then he rose, and wiping away a tear, which was hanging really on his lids, took Pan Stanislav by the arm, and said, "Yes, I lost both; still I must live." Meanwhile Pani Yamish appeared before the church door in the company of her husband, of those two neighbors who had spoken to her before Mass, and of young Gantovski. At sight of her Pan Plavitski bent to Pan Stanislav's ear and said,-- "When she enters the carriage, take notice what a foot she has yet." After a while both joined the company; bows and greetings began. Pan Plavitski presented Pan Polanyetski; then, turning to Pani Yamish, he added, with the smile of a man convinced that he says something which no common person could have hit upon,-- "My relative, who has come to embrace his uncle, and squeeze him." "We will permit only the first; otherwise he will have an affair with us," said the lady. "But Kremen[2] is hard," continued Plavitski; "he will break his teeth on it, though he is young." Pani Yamish half closed her eyes. "That ease," said she, "with which you scatter sparks, _c'est inoui!_ How is your health to-day?" "At this moment I feel healthy and young." "And Marynia?" "She was at early Mass. We wait for you both at five. My little housekeeper is breaking her head over supper. A beautiful day." "We shall come if neuralgia lets me, and my lord husband is willing." "How is it, neighbor?" asked Plavitski. "I am always glad to go," answered the neighbor, with the voice of a crushed man. "Then, _au revoir_." "_Au revoir_," answered the lady; and turning to Pan Stanislav, she reached her hand to him. "It was a pleasure for me to make your acquaintance." Plavitski gave his arm to the lady, and conducted her to the carriage. The two neighbors went away also. Pan Stanislav remained a while with Gantovski, who looked at him without much good-will. Pan Stanislav remembered him as an awkward boy; from the "Little Bear," he had grown to be a stalwart man, somewhat heavy perhaps in his movements, but rather presentable, with a very shapely, light-colored mustache. Pan Stanislav did not begin conversation, waiting till the other should speak first; but he thrust his hands into his pockets, and maintained a stubborn silence. "His former manners have remained with him," thought Pan Stanislav, who felt now an aversion to that surly fellow. Meanwhile Plavitski returned from Yamish's carriage. "Hast taken notice?" asked he of Pan Stanislav, first of all. "Well, Gantos," said he then, "thou wilt go in thy brichka, for in the carriage there are only two places." "I will go in the brichka, for I am taking a dog to Panna Marynia," answered the young man, who bowed and walked off. After a while Pan Plavitski and Pan Stanislav found themselves on the road to Kremen. "This Gantovski is uncle's relative, I suppose?" asked Pan Stanislav. "The tenth water after a jelly. They are very much fallen. This Adolph has one little farm and emptiness in his pocket." "But in his heart there is surely no emptiness?" Pan Plavitski pouted. "So much the worse for him, if he imagines anything. He may be good, but he is simple. No breeding, no education, no property. Marynia likes him, or rather she endures him." "Ah, does she endure him?" "See thou how it is: I sacrifice myself for her and stay in the country; she sacrifices herself for me and stays in the country. There is no one here; Pani Yamish is considerably older than Marynia; in general, there are no young people; life here is tedious: but what's to be done? Remember, my boy, that life is a series of sacrifices. There is need for thee to carry that principle in thy heart and thy head. Those especially who belong to honorable and more prominent families should not forget this. But Gantovski is with us always on Sunday for dinner; and to-day, as thou hast heard, he is bringing a dog." They dropped into silence, and drove along the sand slowly. The magpies flew before them from birch to birch, this time in the direction of Kremen. Behind Plavitski's little carriage rode in his brichka Pan Gantovski, who, thinking of Pan Stanislav, said to himself,-- "If he comes as a creditor to squeeze them, I'll break his neck; if he comes as a rival, I'll break it too." From childhood, he had cherished hostile feelings toward Polanyetski. In those days they met once in a while. Polanyetski used to laugh at him; and, being a couple of years older, he even beat him. Plavitski and his guest arrived at last, and, half an hour later, all found themselves at table in the dining-room, with Panna Marynia. The young dog, brought by Gantovski, taking advantage of his privilege of guest, moved about under the table, and sometimes got on the knees of those present with great confidence and with delight, expressed by wagging his tail. "That is a Gordon setter," said Gantovski. "He is simple yet; but those dogs are clever, and become wonderfully attached." "He is beautiful, and I am very grateful to you," answered Marynia, looking at the shining black hair and the yellow spots over the eyes of the dog. "Too friendly," added Plavitski, covering his knees with a napkin. "In the field, too, they are better than common setters." "Do you hunt?" asked Pan Stanislav of the young lady. "No; I have never had any desire to do so. And you?" "Sometimes. But I live in the city." "Art thou much in society?" inquired Plavitski. "Almost never. My visits are to Pani Emilia, my partner Bigiel, and Vaskovski, my former professor, an oddity now,--those are all. Of course I go sometimes to people with whom I have business." "That is not well, my boy. A young man should have and preserve good social relations, especially when he has a right to them. If a man has to force his way, the question is different; but as Polanyetski, thou hast the right to go anywhere. I have the same story, too, with Marynia. The winter before last, when she had finished her eighteenth year, I took her to Warsaw. Thou'lt understand that the trip was not without cost, and that for me it required certain sacrifices. Well, and what came of it? She sat for whole days with Pani Emilia, and they read books. She is born a recluse, and will remain one. Thou and she might join hands." "Let us join hands!" cried Pan Stanislav, joyously. "I cannot, with a clear conscience," answered Marynia; "for it was not altogether as papa describes. I read books with Emilia, it is true; but I was much in society with papa, and I danced enough for a lifetime." "You have no fault to find?" "No; but I am not yearning." "Then you did not bring away memories, it seems?" "Evidently there remained with me only recollections, which are something different." "I do not understand the difference." "Memory is a magazine, in which the past lies stored away, and recollection appears when we go to the magazine to take something." Here Panna Marynia was alarmed somewhat at that special daring with which she had allowed herself this philosophical deduction as to the difference between memory and recollection; therefore she blushed rather deeply. "Not stupid, and pretty," thought Pan Stanislav; aloud he said, "That would not have come to my head, and it is so appropriate." He surveyed her with eyes full of sympathy. She was in fact very pretty; for she was laughing, somewhat confused by the praise, and also delighted sincerely with it. She blushed still more when the daring young man said,-- "To-morrow, before parting, I shall beg for a place,--even in the magazine." But he said this with such joyousness that it was impossible to be angry with him; and Marynia answered, not without a certain coquetry,-- "Very well; and I ask reciprocity." "In such case, I should have to go so often to the magazine that I might prefer straightway to live in it." This seemed to Marynia somewhat too bold on such short acquaintance; but Plavitski broke in now and said,-- "This Stanislav pleases me. I prefer him to Gantos, who sits like a misanthrope." "Because I can talk only of what may be taken in hand," answered the young man, with a certain sadness. "Then take your fork, and eat." Pan Stanislav laughed. Marynia did not laugh: she was sorry for Gantovski; therefore she turned the conversation to things which were tangible. "She is either a coquette, or has a good heart," thought Pan Stanislav again. But Pan Plavitski, who recalled evidently his last winter visit in Warsaw, continued, "Tell me, Stas, dost thou know Bukatski?" "Of course. By the way, he is a nearer relative to me than to uncle." "We are related to the whole world,--to the whole world literally. Bukatski was Marynia's most devoted dancer. He danced with her at all the parties." Pan Stanislav began to laugh again; "And for all his reward he went to the magazine, to the dust-bin. But at least it is not necessary to dust him, for he is as careful of his person as uncle, for instance. He is the greatest dandy in Warsaw. What does he do? He is manager of fresh air, which means that when there is fair weather he walks out or rides. Besides, he is an original, who has peculiar little closets in his brain. He observes various things of such kind as no other would notice. Once, after his return from Venice, I met him and asked what he had seen there. 'I saw,' said he, 'while on the Riva dei Schiavoni, half an egg-shell and half a lemon-rind floating: they met, they struck, they were driven apart, they came together; at last, paf! the half lemon fell into the half egg-shell, and away they went sailing together. In this see the meaning of harmony.' Such is Bukatski's occupation, though he knows much, and in art, for instance, he is an authority." "But they say that he is very capable." "Perhaps he is, but capable of nothing. He eats bread, and that is the end of his service. If at least he were joyous, but at bottom he is melancholy. I forgot to say that besides he is in love with Pani Emilia." "Does Emilia receive many people?" inquired Marynia. "No. Vaskovski, Bukatski, and Mashko, an advocate, the man who buys and sells estates, are her only visitors. "Of course she cannot receive many people; she has to give much time to Litka." "Dear little girl," said Pan Stanislav, "may God grant at least that Reichenhall may help her." And his joyous countenance was covered in one moment with genuine sadness. Marynia looked at him with eyes full of sympathy, and in her turn thought a second time, "Still he must be kind really." But Plavitski began to talk as if to himself. "Mashko, Mashko--he too was circling about Marynia. But she did not like him. As to estates, the price now is such that God pity us." "Mashko is the man who declares that under such conditions it is well to buy them." Dinner came to an end, and they passed into the drawing-room for coffee; while at coffee Pan Plavitski, as his wont was in moments of good-humor, began to make a butt of Gantovski. The young man endured patiently, out of regard for Marynia, but with a mien that seemed to say, "Ei! but for her, I would shake all the bones out of thee." After coffee Marynia sat down at the piano, while her father was occupied with patience. She played not particularly well, but her clear and calm face was outlined pleasantly over the music-board. About five Pan Plavitski looked at the clock and said,-- "The Yamishes are not coming." "They will come yet," answered Marynia. But from that moment on he looked continually at the clock, and announced every moment that the Yamishes would not come. At last, about six, he said with a sepulchral voice,-- "Some misfortune must have happened." Pan Stanislav at that moment was near Marynia, who in an undertone said,-- "Here is a trouble! Nothing has happened, of course; but papa will be in bad humor till supper." At first Pan Stanislav wished to answer that to make up he would be in good-humor to-morrow after sleeping; but, seeing genuine anxiety on the young lady's face, he answered,-- "As I remember, it is not very far; send some one to inquire what has happened." "Why not send some one over there, papa?" But he answered with vexation, "Too much kindness; I will go myself;" and ringing for a servant, he ordered the horses, then stopping for a moment he said,-- "_Enfin_, anything may happen in the country; some person might come and find my daughter alone. This is not a city. Besides, you are relatives. Thou, Gantovski, may be necessary for me, so have the kindness to come with me." An expression of the greatest unwillingness and dissatisfaction was evident on the young man's face. He stretched his hand to his yellow hair and said,-- "Drawn up at the pond is a boat, which the gardener could not launch. I promised Panna Marynia to launch it; but last Sunday she would not let me, for rain was pouring, as if from a bucket." "Then run and try. It is thirty yards to the pond; thou wilt be back in two minutes." Gantovski went to the garden in spite of himself. Plavitski, without noticing his daughter or Pan Stanislav, repeated as he walked through the room,-- "Neuralgia in the head; I would bet that it is neuralgia in the head; Gantovski in case of need could gallop for the doctor. That old mope, that councillor without a council, would not send for him surely." And needing evidently to pour out his ill humor on some one, he added, turning to Pan Stanislav, "Thou'lt not believe what a booby that man is." "Who?" "Yamish." "But, papa!" interrupted Marynia. Plavitski did not let her finish, however, and said with increasing ill humor, "It does not please thee, I know, that she shows me a little friendship and attention. Read Pan Yamish's articles on agriculture, do him homage, raise statues to him; but let me have my sympathies." Here Pan Stanislav might admire the real sweetness of Marynia, who, instead of being impatient, ran to her father, and putting her forehead under his blackened mustaches, said,-- "They will bring the horses right away, right away, right away! Maybe I ought to go; but let ugly father not be angry, for he will hurt himself." Plavitski, who was really much attached to his daughter, kissed her on the forehead and said, "I know thou hast a good heart. But what is Gantovski doing?" And he called through the open gate of the garden to the young man, who returned soon, wearied out, and said,-- "There is water in the boat, and it is drawn up too far; I have tried, and I cannot--" "Then take thy cap and let's be off, for I hear the horses have come." A moment later the young people were alone. "Papa is accustomed to society a little more elegant than that in the country," said Marynia; "therefore he likes Pani Yamish, but Pan Yamish is a very honorable and sensible man." "I saw him in the church; to me he seemed as if crushed." "Yes; for he is sickly, and besides has much care." "Like you." "No, Pan Yamish manages his work perfectly; besides, he writes much on agriculture. He is really the light of these parts. Such a worthy man! She too is a good woman, only to me she seems rather pretentious." "An ex-beauty." "Yes. And this unbroken country life, through which she has become rather rusty, increases her oddness. I think that in cities oddities of character and their ridiculous sides efface one another; but in the country, people turn into originals more easily, they grow disused to society gradually, a certain old-fashioned way is preserved in intercourse, and it goes to excess. We must all seem rusty to people from great cities, and somewhat ridiculous." "Not all," answered Pan Stanislav; "you, for example." "It will come to me in time," answered Marynia, with a smile. "Time may bring changes too." "With us there is so little change, and that most frequently for the worse." "But in the lives of young ladies in general changes are expected." "I should wish first that papa and I might come to an agreement about Kremen." "Then your father and Kremen are the main, the only objects in life for you?" "True. But I can help little, since I know little of anything." "Your father, Kremen, and nothing more," repeated Pan Stanislav. A moment of silence came, after which Marynia asked Pan Stanislav if he would go to the garden. They went, and soon found themselves at the edge of the pond. Pan Stanislav, who, while abroad, had been a member of various sporting clubs, pushed to the water's edge the boat, which Gantovski could not manage; but it turned out that the boat was leaky, and that they could not row in it. "This is a case of my management," said Marynia, laughing; "there is a leak everywhere. And I know not how to find an excuse, since the pond and the garden belong to me only. But before it is launched I will have the boat mended." "As I live, it is the same boat in which I was forbidden to sail when a boy." "Quite possibly. Have you not noticed that things change less by far, and last longer than people? At times it is sad to think of this." "Let us hope to last longer than this moss-covered boat, which is as water-soaked as a sponge. If this is the boat of my childhood, I have no luck with it. In old times I was not permitted to sail in it, and now I have hurt my hand with some rusty nail." Saying this, he drew out his handkerchief and began to wind it around a finger of his right hand, with his left hand, but so awkwardly that Marynia said,-- "You cannot manage it; you need help;" and she began to bind up his hand, which he twisted a little so as to increase the difficulty of her task, since it was pleasant for him to feel her delicate fingers touching his. She saw that he was hindering her, and glanced at him; but the moment their eyes met, she understood the reason, and, blushing, bent down as if tying more carefully. Pan Stanislav felt her near him, he felt the warmth coming from her, and his heart beat more quickly. "I have wonderfully pleasant memories," said he, "of my former vacations here; but this time I shall take away still pleasanter ones. You are very kind, and besides exactly like some flower in this Kremen. On my word, I do not exaggerate." Marynia understood that the young man said that sincerely, a little too daringly perhaps, but more through innate vivacity than because they were alone; she was not offended, therefore, but she began to make playful threats with her pleasant low voice,-- "I beg you not to say pretty things to me; if you do, I shall bind your hand badly, and then run away." "You may bind the hand badly, but stay. The evening is so beautiful." Marynia finished her work with the handkerchief, and they walked farther. The evening was really beautiful. The sun was setting; the pond, not wrinkled with a breath of wind, shone like fire and gold. In the distance, beyond the water, the alders were dozing quietly; the nearer trees were outlined with wonderful distinctness in the ruddy air. In the yard beyond the house, storks were chattering. "Kremen is charming, very charming!" said Pan Stanislav. "Very," answered Marynia. "I understand your attachment to this place. Besides, when one puts labor into anything, one is attached to it still more. I understand too that in the country it is possible to have pleasant moments like this; but, besides, it is agreeable here. In the city weariness seizes men sometimes, especially those who, like me, are plunged to their ears in accounts, and who, besides, are alone. Pan Bigiel, my partner, has a wife, he has children,--that is pleasant. But how is it with me? I say to myself often: I am at work, but what do I get for it? Grant that I shall have a little money, but what then?--nothing. To-morrow ever the same as to-day: Work and work. You know, Panna Plavitski, when a man devotes himself to something, when he moves with the impetus of making money, for example, money seems to him an object. But moments come in which I think that Vaskovski, my original, is right, and that no one whose name ends in _ski_ or _vich_ can ever put his whole soul into such an object and rest in it exclusively. He declares that there is in us yet the fresh memory of a previous existence, and that in general the Slavs have a separate mission. He is a great original, a philosopher, and a mystic. I argue with him, and make money as I can; but now, for example, when I am walking with you in this garden, it seems to me in truth that he is right." For a time they walked on without speaking. The light became ruddier every instant, and their faces were sunk, as it were, in that gleam. Friendly, reciprocal feelings rose in them each moment. They felt pleasant and calm in each other's society. Of this Pan Stanislav was sensible seemingly, for, after a while, he remarked,-- "That is true, too, which Pani Emilia told me. She said that one has more confidence, and feels nearer to you in an hour than to another in a month. I have verified this. It seems to me that I have known you for a long time. I think that only persons unusually kind can produce this impression." "Emilia loves me much," answered Marynia, with simplicity; "that is why she praises me. Even if what she says were true, I will add that I have not the power to be such with all persons." "You made on me, yesterday, another impression, indeed; but you were tired then and drowsy." "I was, in some degree." "And why did you not go to bed? The servants might have made tea for me, or I might have done without it." "No; we are not so inhospitable as that. Papa said that one of us should receive you. I was afraid that he would wait himself for you, and that would have injured him; so I preferred to take his place." "In that regard thou mightst have been at ease," thought Pan Stanislav; "but thou art an honest maiden to defend the old egotist." Then he said, "I beg your pardon for having begun to speak of business at once. That is a mercantile habit. But I reproached myself afterward. 'Thou art this and that kind of man,' thought I; and with shame do I beg your pardon." "There is no cause for pardon, since there is no fault. They told you that I occupy myself with everything; hence you turned to me." Twilight spread more deeply by degrees. After a certain time they returned to the house, and, as the evening was beautiful, they sat down on the garden veranda. Pan Stanislav entered the drawing-room for a moment, returned with a footstool, and, bending down, pushed it under Marynia's feet. "I thank you, I thank you much," said she, inclining, and taking her skirt with her hand; "how kind of you! I thank you much." "I am inattentive by nature," said he; "but do you know who taught me a little carefulness? Litka. There is need of care with her; and Pani Emilia has to remember this." "She remembers it," answered Marynia, "and we will all help her. If she had not gone to Reichenhall, I should have invited her here." "And I should have followed Litka without invitation." "Then I beg you in papa's name, once and for all." "Do not say that lightly, for I am ready to abuse your kindness. For me it is very pleasant here; and as often as I feel out of sorts in Warsaw, I'll take refuge in Kremen." Pan Stanislav knew this time that his words were intended to bring them nearer, to establish sympathy between them; and he spoke with design, and sincerely. While speaking, he looked on that mild young face, which, in the light of the setting sun, seemed calmer than usual. Marynia raised to him her blue eyes, in which was the question, "Art speaking by chance, or of purpose?" and she answered in a somewhat lower voice,-- "Do so." And both were silent, feeling that really a connection between them was beginning. "I am astonished that papa is not returning," said she, at last. The sun had gone down; in the ruddy gloaming, an owl had begun to circle about in slow flight, and frogs were croaking in the pond. Pan Stanislav made no answer to the young lady's remark, but said, as if sunk in his own thoughts: "I do not analyze life; I have no time. When I enjoy myself,--as at this moment, for instance,--I feel that I enjoy myself; when I suffer, I suffer,--that is all. But five or six years ago it was different. A whole party of us used to meet for discussions on the meaning of life,--a number of scholars, and one writer, rather well known in Belgium at present. We put to ourselves these questions: Whither are we going? What sense has everything, what value, what end? We read the pessimists, and lost ourselves in various baseless inquiries, like one of my acquaintances, an assistant in the chair of astronomy, who, when he began to lose himself in interplanetary spaces, lost his reason; and, after that, it seemed to him that his head was moving in a parabola through infinity. Afterward he recovered, and became a priest. We, in like manner, could come to nothing, rest on nothing,--just like birds flying over the sea without a place to light on. But at last I saw two things: first, that my Belgians were taking all this to heart less than I,--we are more naïve; second, that my desire for labor would be injured, and that I should become an incompetent. I seized myself, then, by the ears, and began to color cottons with all my might. After that, I said in my mind: Life is among the rights of nature; whether wise or foolish, never mind, it is a right. We must live, then; hence it is necessary to get from life what is possible. And I wish to get something. Vaskovski says, it is true, that we Slavs are not able to stop there; but that is mere talk. That we cannot be satisfied with money alone, we will admit. But I said to myself, besides money there are two things: peace and--do you know what, Panna Plavitski?--woman. For a man should have some one with whom to share what he has. Later, there must be death. Granted. But where death begins, man's wit ends. 'That is not my business,' as the English say. Meanwhile, it is needful to have some one to whom a man can give that which he has or acquires, whether money or service or fame. If they are diamonds on the moon, it is all the same, for there is no one to learn what their value is. So a man must have some one to know him. And I think to myself, who will know me, if not a woman, if she is only wonderfully good and wonderfully reliable, greatly mine and greatly beloved? This is all that it is possible to desire; for from this comes repose, and repose is the one thing that has sense. I say this, not as a poet, but as a practical man and a merchant. To have near me a dear one, that is an object. And let come then what may. Here you have my philosophy." Pan Stanislav insisted that he was speaking like a merchant; but he spoke like a dreamer, for that summer evening had acted on him, as had also the presence of that youthful woman, who in so many regards answered to the views announced a moment earlier. This must have come to Pan Stanislav's head, for, turning directly to her, he said,-- "This is my thought, but I do not talk of it before people usually. I was brought to this somehow to-day; for I repeat that Pani Emilia is right. She says that one becomes more intimate with you in a day than with others in a year. You must be fabulously kind. I should have committed a folly if I had not come to Kremen; and I shall come as often as you permit me." "Come,--often." "I thank you." He extended his hand, and Marynia gave him hers, as if in sign of agreement. Oh, how he pleased her with his sincere, manly face, with his dark hair, and a certain vigor in his whole bearing and in his animated eyes! He brought, besides, so many of those inspirations which were lacking in Kremen,--certain new horizons, running out far beyond the pond and the alders which hemmed in the horizon at Kremen. They had opened in one day as many roads as it was possible to open. They sat again a certain time in silence, and their minds wandered on farther in silence as hastily as they had during speech. Marynia pointed at last to the light, which was increasing behind the alders, and said, "The moon." "Aha! the moon," repeated Pan Stanislav. The moon was, in fact, rising slowly from behind the alders, ruddy, and as large as a wheel. Now the dogs began to bark; a carriage rattled on the other side of the house; and, after a while, Plavitski appeared in the drawing-room, into which lamps had been brought. Marynia went in, Pan Stanislav following. "Nothing was the matter," said Plavitski. "Pani Hrometski called. Thinking that she would go soon, they did not let us know. Yamish is a trifle ill, but is going to Warsaw in the morning. She promised to come to-morrow." "Then is all well?" asked Marynia. "Well; but what have you been doing here?" "Listening to the frogs," answered Pan Stanislav; "and it was pleasant." "The Lord God knows why He made frogs. Though they don't let me sleep at night, I make no complaint. But, Marynia, let the tea be brought." Tea was waiting already in another room. While they were drinking it, Plavitski described his visit at the Yamishes. The young people were silent; but from time to time they looked at each other with eyes full of light, and at parting they pressed each other's hands very warmly. Marynia felt a certain heaviness seizing her, as if that day had wearied her; but it was a wonderful and pleasant kind of weariness. Afterward, when her head was resting on the pillow, she did not think that the day following would be Monday, that a new week of common toil would begin; she thought only of Pan Stanislav, and his words were sounding in her ears: "Who will know me, if not a woman, if she is only wonderfully good and wonderfully reliable, greatly mine and greatly beloved?" Pan Stanislav, on his part, was saying to himself, while lighting a cigarette in bed, "She is kind and shapely, charming; where is there such another?" FOOTNOTES: [1] Third, or ring finger. [2] Kremen means flint in Polish. CHAPTER III. But the following day was a gray one, and Panna Plavitski woke with reproaches. It seemed to her that, the day before, she had let herself be borne away on some current farther than was proper, and that she had been simply coquetting with Pan Stanislav. She was penetrated with special dissatisfaction, for this reason principally: that Pan Stanislav had only come as a creditor. She had forgotten that yesterday; but to-day she said to herself, "Undoubtedly it will come to his head that I wanted to win him, or to soften him;" and at this thought the blood flowed to her cheeks and her forehead. She had an honest nature and much ambition, which revolted at every idea that she might be suspected of calculation. Believing now in the possibility of such a suspicion, she felt in advance as if offended by Pan Stanislav. Withal, there was one thought which was bitter beyond every expression: she knew that, as a rule, a copper could not overtake a copper in the treasury of Kremen; that there was no money; and that if, in view of the proposed parcelling of Magyerovka, there were hopes of having some in future, her father would make evasions, for he considered other debts more urgent than Pan Stanislav's. She promised herself, it is true, to do all in her power to see him paid absolutely, and before others; but she knew that she was not able to effect much. Her father assisted her willingly in management; but in money matters he had his own way; and it was rarely that he regarded her opinion. His rôle consisted really in evading everything by all means,--by promises never kept, by delays, by presenting imaginary calculations and hopes, instead of reality. As the collection of debts secured by mortgage on land is difficult and tedious, and defence may be kept up almost as long as one wishes, Plavitski held on to Kremen, thanks to his system. In the end, all this threatened ruin inexorable, as well as complete; but, meanwhile, the old man considered himself "the head of affairs," and listened the more unwillingly to the opinions and counsels of his daughter, since he suspected at once that she doubted his "head." This offended his self-esteem to the utmost. Marynia had passed, because of this "head" and its methods, through more than one humiliation. Her country life was only an apparent ideal of work and household occupations. There was wanting to it neither bitterness nor pain; and her calm countenance indicated, not only the sweetness of her character, but its strength, and a great education of spirit. The humiliation which threatened her this time, however, seemed harder to bear than the others. "At least, let him not suspect me," said she to herself. But how could she prevent his suspicion? Her first thought was to see Pan Stanislav before he met her father, and describe the whole state of affairs to him; treat him as a man in whom she had confidence. It occurred to her then that such a description would be merely a prayer for forbearance, for compassion; and hence a humiliation. Were it not for this thought, Marynia would have sent for him. She, as a woman noting keenly every quiver of her own heart and the hearts of others, felt half consciously, half instinctively, that between her and that young man something was foreshadowed; that something had begun, as it were; and, above all, that something might and must be inevitable in the future, if she chose that it should be; but, as affairs stood, it did not seem to her that she could choose. Only one thing remained,--to see Pan Stanislav, and efface by her demeanor yesterday's impressions; to break the threads which had been fastened between them, and to give him full freedom of action. Such a method seemed best to her. Learning from the servants that Pan Stanislav not only had risen, but had drunk tea and gone out to the road, she decided to find him. This was not difficult, since he had returned from his morning walk, and, standing at the side wall of the entrance, which was grown over with wild grape-vines, was talking with those two dogs which had fawned on him so effusively at his arrival. He did not see her at once; and Marynia, standing on the steps, heard him saying to the dogs,-- "These big dogs take pay for watching the house? They eat? They don't bark at strangers, but fawn on them. Ei! stupid dogs, lazy fellows!" And he patted their white heads. Then, seeing her through the openings of the grape-vines, he sprang up as quickly as if thrown from a sling, and stood before her, glad and bright-faced. "Good-morning. I have been talking with the dogs. How did you rest?" "Thank you." And she extended her hand to him coldly; but he was looking at her with eyes in which was to be seen most clearly how great and deep a pleasure the sight of her caused him. And he pleased poor Marynia not less; he simply pleased her whole soul. Her heart was oppressed with regret that she had to answer his cordial good-morning so ceremoniously and coldly. "Perhaps you were going out to look after affairs? In that case, if you permit, I will go with you. I must return to the city to-day; hence one moment more in your company will be agreeable. God knows if I could I would remain longer. But now I know the road to Kremen." "We beg you to come, whenever time may permit." Pan Stanislav noticed now the coolness of her words, of her face; and began to look at her with astonishment. But if Marynia thought that he would do as people do usually,--accommodate himself to her tone readily and in silence,--she was mistaken. Pan Stanislav was too vivacious and daring not to seek at once for the cause; so, looking her steadfastly in the eye, he said,-- "Something is troubling you." Marynia was confused. "You are mistaken," replied she. "I see well; and you know that I am not mistaken. You act toward me as you did the first evening. But then I made a blunder: I began to speak of money at a wrong time. Yesterday I begged your pardon, and it was pleasant,--how pleasant! To-day, again, it is different. Tell me why!" Not the most adroit diplomacy could have beaten Marynia from her path. It seemed to her that she could chill him and keep him at a distance by this demeanor; but he, by inquiring so directly, rather brought himself nearer, and he continued to speak in the tone of a man on whom an injustice had been wrought:-- "Tell me what is the matter; tell me! Your father said I was to be a guest yesterday, and a creditor to-day. But that is fol--that is nothing! I do not understand such distinctions; and I shall never be your creditor, rather your debtor. For I am already indebted to you, and grateful for yesterday's kindness; and God knows how much I wish to be indebted to you always." He looked into her eyes again, observing carefully whether there would not appear in them yesterday's smile; but Marynia, whose heart was oppressed more and more, went on by the way which she had chosen: first, because she had chosen it; and second, lest by acknowledging that to-day she was different, she might be forced to explain why she was so. "I assure you," said she, at last, with a certain effort, "that either you were mistaken yesterday, or you are mistaken to-day. I am always the same, and it will always be agreeable to me if you bear away pleasant memories." The words were polite, but uttered by a young woman so unlike her of yesterday that on Pan Stanislav's face impatience and anger began to appear. "If it is important for you that I should feign to believe this, let it be as you wish. I shall go away, however, with the conviction that in the country Monday is very different from Sunday." These words touched Marynia; for from them it seemed as if Pan Stanislav had assumed certain rights by reason of her conduct with him yesterday. But she answered rather with sadness than with anger,-- "How can I help that?" And after a while she went away, saying that she had to go and wish good-day to her father. Pan Stanislav remained alone. He drove away the dogs, which had tried to fawn on him anew, and began to be angry. "What does this mean?" asked he in his mind. "Yesterday, kind; to-day, surly,--altogether a different woman. How stupid all this is, and useless! Yesterday, a relative; to-day, a creditor! What is that to her? Why does she treat me like a dog? Have I robbed any one? She knew yesterday, too, why I came. Very well! If you want to have me as a creditor--not Polanyetski--all right. May thunderbolts crush the whole business!" Meanwhile Marynia ran into her father's chamber. Plavitski had risen, and was sitting, attired in his dressing-gown, before a desk covered with papers. For a while he turned to answer the good-day of his daughter, then occupied himself again with reading the papers. "Papa," said Marynia, "I have come to speak of Pan Stanislav. Does papa--" But he interrupted her without ceasing to look at the papers,-- "I will bend thy Pan Stanislav in my hand like wax." "I doubt if that will be easy. Finally, I should wish that he were paid before others, even with the greatest loss to us." Plavitski, turning from the desk, gazed at her, and asked coolly,-- "Is this, I pray, a guardianship over him, or over me?" "It is a question of our honor." "In which, as thou thinkest, I need thy assistance?" "No, papa; but--" "What pathetic day has come on us? What is the matter with thee?" "I merely beg, papa, by all--" "And I beg thee also to leave me. Thou hast set me aside from the land management. I yielded; for, during the couple of years that remain to me in life, I have no wish to be quarrelling with my own child. But leave me even this corner in the house,--even this one room,--and permit me to transact such affairs as it is possible to transact here." "Dear papa, I only beg--" "That I should move out into a cottage, which, for the fourth time, thou art choosing for me?" Evidently the old man, in speaking of the "pathetic day," wished merely that no one should divide this monopoly with him. He rose now, in his Persian dressing-gown, like King Lear, and grasped at the arm of his chair; thus giving his heartless daughter to understand that, if he had not done this, he should have fallen his whole length on the floor, stricken down by her cruelty. But tears came to her eyes, and a bitter feeling of her own helplessness flowed to her heart. For a while she stood in silence, struggling with sorrow and a wish to cry; then she said quietly, "I beg pardon of papa," and went out of the room. A quarter of an hour later, Pan Stanislav entered, at the request of Plavitski, but ill-humored, irritated through striving to master himself. Plavitski, after he had greeted his visitor, seated him at his side in an armchair prepared previously, and, putting his palm on the young man's knee, said,-- "Stas, but thou wilt not burn this house? Thou wilt not kill me, who opened my arms to thee as a relative; thou wilt not make my child an orphan?" "No," answered Pan Stanislav; "I will not burn the house, I will not cut uncle's throat, and I will not make any child an orphan. I beg uncle not to talk in this manner, for it leads to nothing, and to me it is unendurable." "Very well," said Plavitski, somewhat offended, however, that his style and manner of expression had found such slight recognition; "but remember that thou didst come to me and to this house when thou wert still a child." "I came because my mother came; and my mother, after the death of Aunt Helen, came because uncle did not pay interest. All this is neither here nor there. The money rests on a mortgage of twenty-one years. With the unpaid interest, it amounts to about twenty-four thousand rubles. For the sake of round numbers, let it be twenty thousand; but I must have those twenty, since I came for them." Plavitski inclined his head with resignation. "Thou didst come for that. True. But why wert thou so different yesterday, Stas?" Pan Stanislav, who half an hour earlier had put that same question to Marynia, just sprang up in his chair, but restrained himself and said,-- "I beg you to come to business." "I do not draw back before business; only permit me to say a couple of words first, and do not interrupt me. Thou hast said that I have not paid the interest. True. But knowest thou why? Thy mother did not give me all her property, and could not without permission of a family council. Perhaps it was worse for you that the permission was not given, but never mind. When I took those few thousand rubles, I said to myself: The woman is alone in the world with one child; it is unknown how she will manage, unknown what may happen. Let the money which she has with me be her iron foundation; let it increase, so that at a given moment she may have something for her hands to seize hold on. And since then I have been in some fashion thy savings bank. Thy mother gave me twelve thousand rubles; to-day thou hast in my hands almost twenty-four thousand. That is the result. And wilt thou repay me now with ingratitude?" "Beloved uncle," answered Pan Stanislav, "do not take me, I pray, for a greater dunce than I am, nor for a madman. I say simply that I am not caught with such chaff; it is too coarse. Uncle says that I have twenty-four thousand rubles; where are they? I am asking for them, without talk, and moreover such talk." "But be patient, I pray thee, and restrain thyself, even for this reason, that I am older," answered Plavitski, offended and with dignity. "I have a partner, who in a month will contribute twelve thousand rubles to a certain business. I must pay the same amount. I say clearly and declare that, after two years of annoyance with letters, I cannot and will not endure any longer." Plavitski rested his arm on the desk, his forehead on his palm, and was silent. Pan Stanislav looked at him, waiting for an answer; he gazed with increasing displeasure, and in his mind gave himself this question: "Is he a trickster or a lunatic; is he an egotist, so blinded to himself that he measures good and evil by his own comfort merely; or is he all these together?" Meanwhile Plavitski held his face hidden on his palm, and was silent. "I should like to say something," began Pan Stanislav, at last. But the old man waved his hand, indicating that he wished to be alone with his thoughts for a time yet. On a sudden he raised his face, which had grown radiant,-- "Stas," said he, "why are we disputing, when there is such a simple way out of it?" "How?" "Take the marl." "What?" "Bring thy partner, bring some specialist; we will set a price on my marl, and form a company of three. Thy--what's his name? Bigiel, isn't it? will pay me so much, whatever falls to him; thou wilt either add something or not; and we'll all go on together. The profits may be colossal." Pan Stanislav rose. "I assure you," said he, "that there is one thing to which I am not accustomed, that is to be made sport of. I do not want your marl; I want only my money; and what you tell me I regard simply as an unworthy or stupid evasion." A moment of oppressive silence followed. Jove's anger began to gather on the brows and forehead of Plavitski. For a while he threatened boldly with his eyes, then, moving quickly to the hooks on which his weapons were hanging, he took down a hunter's knife, and, offering it to Pan Stanislav, said,-- "But there is another way, strike!" and he opened his dressing-gown widely; but Pan Stanislav, mastering himself no longer, pushed away the hand with the knife, and began to speak in a loud voice,-- "This is a paltry comedy, nothing more! It is a pity to lose words and time with you. I am going away, for I have had enough of you and your Kremen; but I say that I will sell my debt, even for half its value, to the first Jew I meet. He will be able to settle with you." Then the right hand of Plavitski was stretched forth in solemnity. "Go," said he, "sell. Let the Jew into the family nest; but know this, that the curse, both of me and of those who have lived here, will find thee wherever thou art." Pan Stanislav rushed out of the room, white with rage. In the drawing-room he cursed as much as he could, looking for his hat; finding it at last, he was going out to see if the brichka had come, when Marynia appeared. At sight of her he restrained himself somewhat; but, remembering that she it was, precisely, who was occupied with everything in Kremen, he said,-- "I bid farewell to you. I have finished with your father. I came for what belonged to me; but he gave me first a blessing, then marl, and finally a curse. A nice way to pay debts!" There was a moment in which Marynia wished to extend her hand to him and say,-- "I understand your anger. A while ago I was with father also, and begged him to pay you before all others. Deal with us and with Kremen as may please you; but do not accuse me, do not think that I belong to a conspiracy against you, and retain even a little esteem for me." Her hand was already extending, the words were on her lips, when Pan Stanislav, rousing himself internally, and losing his balance still more, added,-- "I say this because, when I spoke to you the first evening, you were offended, and sent me to your father. I give thanks for the effective advice; but, as it was better for you than for me, I will follow my own judgment hereafter." Marynia's lips grew pale; in her eyes were tears of indignation, and, at the same time, of deep offence. She raised her head, and said,-- "You may utter what injuries you like, since there is no one to take my part;" then she turned to the door, with her soul full of humiliation and almost despair, because those were the only returns she had received for that labor in which she had put her whole strength and all the zeal of her honest young soul. Pan Stanislav saw, too, that he had exceeded the measure. Having very lively feelings, he passed in one instant to compassion, and wished to hurry after her to beg her pardon; but it was late: she had vanished. This roused a new attack of rage. This time, however, the rage included himself. Without taking farewell of any one, he sat in the brichka, which came up just then, and drove out of Kremen. In his soul such anger was seething that for a time he could think of nothing but vengeance. "I will sell it, even for a third of the value," said he to himself, "and let others distrain you. I give my word of an honest man that I will sell. Even without need, I will sell out of spite!" In this way his intention was changed into a stubborn and sworn resolve. Pan Stanislav was not of those who break promises given to others or themselves. It was now a mere question of finding a man to buy a claim so difficult of collection; for to receive the amount of it was, without exaggeration, to crack a flint with one's teeth. Meanwhile the brichka rolled out of the alley to the road in the open field. Pan Stanislav, recovering somewhat, began to think of Marynia in a form of mind which was a mosaic composed of the impressions which her face and form had made on him,--of recollections of the Sunday conversation; of repulsion, of pity, of offence, animosity; and, finally, dissatisfaction with himself, which strengthened his animosity against her. Each of these feelings in turn conquered the others, and cast on them its color. At times he recalled the stately figure of Marynia, her eyes, her dark hair, her mouth, pleasing, though too large, perhaps; finally, her expression; and an outburst of sympathy for her mastered him. He thought that she was very girlish; but in her mouth, in her arms, in the lines of her whole figure, there was something womanly, something that attracted with irresistible force. He recalled her mild voice, her calm expression, and her very evident goodness. Then, at thought of how harsh he had been to her before going,--at thought of the tone with which he had spoken to her,--he began to curse himself. "If the father is an old comedian, a trickster, and a fool," said he to himself; "and if she feels all this, she is the unhappier. But what then? Every man with a bit of heart would have understood the position, taken compassion on her, instead of attacking the poor overworked child. I attacked her. I!" Then he wanted to slap his own face; for at once he imagined what might have been, what an immeasurable approach, what an exceptional tenderness would have arisen, if, after all the quarrels with her father, he had treated her as was proper,--that is, with the utmost delicacy. She would have given him both hands when he was leaving; he would have kissed them; and he and she would have parted like two persons near to each other. "May the devils take the money!" repeated he to himself; "and may they take me!" And he felt that he had done things which could not be corrected. This feeling took away the remnant of his equilibrium, and pushed him all the more along that road, the error of which he recognized. And he began a monologue again, more or less like the following,-- "Since all is lost, let all burn. I will sell the claim to any Jew; let him collect. Let them fly out on to the pavement; let the old man find some office; let her go as a governess, or marry Gantovski." Then he felt that he would agree to anything rather than the last thought. He would twist Gantovski's neck. Let any one take her, only not such a wooden head, such a bear, such a dolt. Beautiful epithets began to fall on the hapless Gantovski; and all the venom passed over on to him, as if he had been really the cause of whatever had happened. Arriving in such a man-eating temper at Chernyov, Pan Stanislav might, perhaps, like another Ugolino, have gnawed at once into Gantovski with his teeth, "where the skull meets the neck," if he had seen him at the station. Fortunately, instead of Gantovski's "skull," he saw only some officials, some peasants, a number of Jews, and the sad, but intelligent face of Councillor Yamish, who recognized him, and who, when the train arrived soon, invited him--thanks to good relations with the station-master--to a separate compartment. "I knew your father," said he; "and I knew him in his brilliant days. I found a wife in that neighborhood. I remember he had then Zvihov, Brenchantsa, Motsare, Rozvady in Lubelsk,--a fine fortune. Your grandfather was one of the largest landowners in that region; but now the estate must have passed into other hands." "Not now, but long since. My father lost all his property during his life. He was sickly; he lived at Nice, did not take care of what he had, and it went. Had it not been for the inheritance which, after his death, fell to my mother, it would have been difficult." "But you are well able to help yourself. I know your house; I have had business in hops with you through Abdulski." "Then Abdulski did business with you?" "Yes; and I must confess that I was perfectly satisfied with our relations. You have treated me well, and I see that you manage affairs properly." "No man can succeed otherwise. My partner, Bigiel, is an honest man, and I am not Plavitski." "How is that?" asked Yamish, with roused curiosity. Pan Stanislav, with the remnant of his anger unquenched, told the whole story. "H'm!" said Yamish; "since you speak of him without circumlocution, permit me to speak in like manner, though he is your relative." "He is no relative of mine: his first wife was a relative and friend of my mother,--that is all; he himself is no relative." "I know him from childhood. He is rather a spoiled than a bad man. He was an only son, hence, to begin with, his parents petted him; later on his two wives did the same. Both were quiet, mild women; for both he was an idol. During whole years matters so arranged themselves that he was the sun around which other planets circled; and at last he came to the conviction that everything from others was due to him, and nothing to others from him. When conditions are such that evil and good are measured by one's own comfort solely, nothing is easier than to lose moral sense. Plavitski is a mixture of pompousness and indulgence: of pompousness, for he himself is ever celebrating his own glory; and indulgence, for he permits himself everything. This has become almost his nature. Difficult circumstances came on him. These only a man of character can meet; character he never had. He began to evade, and in the end grew accustomed to evasion. Land ennobles, but land also spoils us. An acquaintance of mine, a bankrupt, said once to me, 'It is not I who evade, but my property, and I am only talking for it.' And this is somewhat true,--truer in our position than in any other." "Imagine to yourself," answered Pan Stanislav, "that I, who am a descendant of the country, have no inclination for agriculture. I know that agriculture will exist always, for it must; but in the form in which it exists to-day I see no future for it. You must perish, all of you." "I do not look at it in rose-colors either. I do not mention that the general condition of agriculture throughout Europe is bad, for that is known. Just consider. A noble has four sons; hence each of these will inherit only one-fourth of his father's land. Meanwhile, what happens? Each, accustomed to his father's mode of living, wishes to live like the father; the end is foreseen easily. Another case: A noble has four sons; the more capable choose various careers; you may wager that the least capable remains on the land. A third case: what a whole series of generations have acquired, have toiled for, one light head ruins. Fourth, we are not bad agriculturists, but bad administrators. Good administration means more than good cultivation of land; what is the inference, then? The land will remain; but we, who represent it at present under the form of large ownership, must leave it most likely. Then, do you see, when we have gone, we may return in time." "How is that?" "To begin with, you say that nothing attracts you to land; that is a deception. Land attracts, and attracts with such force that each man, after he has come to certain years, to a certain well-being, is unable to resist the desire of possessing even a small piece of land. That will come to you too, and it is natural. Finally, every kind of wealth may be considered as fictitious, except land. Everything comes out of land; everything exists for it. As a banknote is a receipt for metallic money in the State Bank, so industry and commerce and whatever else you please is land turned into another form; and as to you personally, who have come from it, you must return to it." "I at least do not think so." "How do you know? To-day you are making property; but how will you succeed? And that, too, is a question of the future. The Polanyetskis were agriculturists; now one of them has chosen another career. The majority of sons of agriculturists must choose other careers also, even because they cannot do otherwise. Some of them will fail; some will succeed and return--but return, not only with capital, but with new energy, and with that knowledge of exact administration which is developed by special careers. They will return because of the attraction which land exercises, and finally through a feeling of duty, which I need not explain to you." "What you say has this good side, that then my such-an-uncle-not-an-uncle Plavitski will belong to a type that has perished." Pan Yamish thought a while and said,-- "A thread stretches and stretches till it breaks, but at last it must break. To my thinking, they cannot hold out in Kremen, even though they parcel Magyerovka. But do you see whom I pity?--Marynia. She is an uncommonly honest girl. For you do not know that the old man wanted to sell Kremen two years ago; and that that did not take place partly through the prayers of Marynia. Whether this was done out of regard to the memory of her mother, who lies buried there, or because so much is said and written about the duty of holding to the soil, it is sufficient that the girl did what she could to prevent the sale. She imagined, poor thing, that if she would betake herself with all power to work, she could do everything. She abandoned the whole world for Kremen. For her it will be a blow when the thread breaks at last, and break it must. A pity for the years of the girl!" "You are a kind person, councillor!" cried Pan Stanislav, with his accustomed vivacity. The old man smiled. "I love that girl: besides, she is my pupil in agriculture; of a truth it will be sad when she is gone from us." Pan Stanislav fell to biting his mustaches, and said at last, "Let her marry some man in the neighborhood, and remain." "Marry, marry! As if that were easy for a girl without property. Who is there among us? Gantovski. He would take her. He is a good man, and not at all so limited as they say. But she has no feeling for him, and she will not marry without feeling. Yalbrykov is a small estate. Besides, it seems to the old man that the Gantovskis are something inferior to the Plavitskis, and Gantovski too believes this. With us, as you know, that man passes for a person of great family who is pleased to boast himself such. Though people laugh at Plavitski, they have grown used to his claim. Moreover, one man raises his nose because he is making property, another because he is losing it, and nothing else remains to him. But let that pass. I know one thing, whoever gets Marynia will get a pearl." Pan Stanislav had in his mind at that moment the same conviction and feeling. Sinking, therefore, into meditation, he began again to muse about Marynia, or, rather, to call her to mind and depict her to himself. All at once it even seemed to him that he would be sad without her; but he remembered that similar things had seemed so to him more than once, and that time had swept away the illusion. Still he thought of her, even when they were approaching the city; and when he got out at Warsaw, he muttered through his teeth,-- "How stupidly it happened! how stupidly!" CHAPTER IV. On his return to Warsaw, Pan Stanislav passed the first evening at the house of his partner, Bigiel, with whom, as a former schoolmate, he was connected by personal intimacy. Bigiel, a Cheh by descent, but of a family settled in the country for a number of generations, had managed a small commercial bank before his partnership with Pan Stanislav, and had won the reputation of a man not over-enterprising, it is true, but honorable and uncommonly reliable in business. When Pan Stanislav entered into company with him, the house extended its activity, and became an important firm. The partners complemented each other perfectly. Pan Stanislav was incomparably more clever and enterprising; he had more ideas and took in a whole affair with greater ease; but Bigiel watched its execution more carefully. When there was need of energy, or of pushing any one to the wall, Pan Stanislav was the man; but when it was a question of careful thought, of examining interests from ten sides, and of patience, Bigiel's rôle began. Their temperaments were directly opposite; and for that reason, perhaps, they had sincere friendship for each other. Preponderance was relatively on the side of Pan Stanislav. Bigiel believed in his partner's uncommon capacity; and a number of ideas really happy for the house, which Pan Stanislav had given, confirmed this belief. The dream of both was to acquire in time capital sufficient to build cotton-mills, which Bigiel would manage, and Pan Stanislav direct. But, though both might count themselves among men almost wealthy, the mills were in a remote future. Less patient, and having many relatives, Pan Stanislav tried, it is true, immediately after his return from abroad, to direct to this object local, so-called "our own," capital; he was met, however, with a general want of confidence. He noticed at the same time a wonderful thing: his name opened all doors to him, but rather injured than helped him in business. It might be that those people who invited him to their houses could not get it into their heads that one of themselves, hence a man of good family and with a name ending in _ski_, could conduct any business successfully. This angered Polanyetski to such a degree that the clever Bigiel had to quench his outburst by stating that such want of confidence was in fact caused by years of experience. Knowing well the history of different industrial undertakings, he cited to Pan Stanislav a whole series of cases, beginning with Tyzenhaus, the treasurer, and ending with various provincial and land banks, which had nothing of the country about them except their names,--in other words, they were devoid of every home basis. "The time has not come yet," said Bigiel; "but it will come, or, rather, it is in sight. Hitherto there have been only amateurs and dilettanti; now for the first time are appearing here and there trained specialists." Pan Stanislav who, in spite of his temperament, had powers of observation rather well developed, began to make strange discoveries in those spheres to which his relatives gave him access. He was met by a general recognition for having done something. This recognition was offered with emphasis even; but in it there was something like condescension. Each man let it be known too readily that he approved Polanyetski's activity, that he considered it necessary; but no one bore himself as if he considered the fact that Polanyetski was working at some occupation as a thing perfectly common and natural. "They all _protect_ me," said he; and that was true. He came also to the conclusion that if, for example, he aspired to the hand of any of the young ladies of so-called "society," his commercial house and his title of "affairist" would, notwithstanding the above recognition, have injured more than helped him. They would rather give him any of those maidens if, instead of a lucrative business, he had some encumbered estate, or if, while living as a great lord, he was merely spending the interest of his capital, or even the capital itself. When he had made dozens of observations of this kind, Pan Stanislav began to neglect his relatives, and at last abandoned them altogether. He restricted himself to the houses of Bigiel and Pani Emilia Hvastovski, and to those male acquaintances who were a necessity of his single life. He took his meals at Francois's with Bukatski, old Vaskovski, and the advocate Mashko, with whom he discussed and argued various questions; he was often at the theatre and at public amusements of all kinds. For the rest, he led rather a secluded life; hence he was unmarried yet, though he had great and fixed willingness to marry, and, besides, sufficient property. Having gone after his return from Kremen almost directly to Bigiel's, he poured out all his gall on "uncle" Plavitski, thinking that he would find a ready and sympathetic listener; but Bigiel was moved little by his narrative, and said,-- "I know such types. But, in truth, where is Plavitski to find money, since he has none? If a man holds mortgages, he should have a saint's patience. Landed property swallows money easily, but returns it with the greatest difficulty." "Listen, to me, Bigiel," said Pan Stanislav; "since thou hast begun to grow fat and sleep after dinner, one must have a saint's patience with thee." "But is it true," asked the unmoved Bigiel, "that thou art in absolute need of this money? Hast thou not at thy disposal the money that each of us is bound to furnish?" "I am curious to know what that is to thee, or Plavitski. I have money with him; I must get it, and that is the end of the matter." The entrance of Pani Bigiel, with a whole flock of children, put a curb on the quarrel. She was young yet, dark-haired, blue-eyed, very kind, and greatly taken up with her children, six in number,--children liked by Pan Stanislav uncommonly; she was for this reason his sincere friend, and also Pani Emilia's. Both these ladies, knowing and loving Marynia Plavitski, had made up their minds to marry her to Pan Stanislav; both had urged him very earnestly to go to Kremen for the money. Hence Pani Bigiel was burning with curiosity to know what impression the visit had made on him. But as the children were present, it was impossible to speak. Yas, the youngest, who was walking on his own feet already, embraced Pan Stanislav's leg and began to pull it, calling "Pan, Pan!" which in his speech sounded, "Pam, Pam!" two little girls, Evka and Yoasia, climbed up without ceremony on the knees of the young man; but Edzio and Yozio explained to him their business. They were reading the "Conquest of Mexico," and were playing at this "Conquest." Edzio, raising his brows and stretching his hands upwards, spoke excitedly,-- "I will be Cortez, and Yozio a knight on horseback; but as neither Evka nor Yoasia wants to be Montezuma, what can we do? We can't play that way, can we? Somebody must be Montezuma; if not, who will lead the Mexicans?" "But where are the Mexicans?" asked Pan Stanislav. "Oh," said Yozio, "the chairs are the Mexicans, and the Spaniards too." "Then wait, I'll be Montezuma; now take Mexico!" An indescribable uproar began. Pan Stanislav's vivacity permitted him to become a child sometimes. He offered such a stubborn resistance to Cortez that Cortez fell to denying him the right to such resistance, exclaiming, not without historic justice, that since Montezuma was beaten, he must let himself be beaten. To which Montezuma answered that he cared little for that; and he fought on. In this way the amusement continued a good while. And Pani Bigiel, unable to wait for the end, asked her husband at last,-- "How was the visit to Kremen?" "He did what he is doing now," answered Bigiel, phlegmatically: "he overturned all the chairs, and went away." "Did he tell thee that?" "I had no time to ask him about the young lady; but he parted with Plavitski in a way that could not be worse. He wants to sell his claim; this will cause evidently a complete severance of relations." "That is a pity," answered Pani Bigiel. At tea, when the children had gone to bed, she questioned Pan Stanislav plainly concerning Marynia. "I do not know," said he; "perhaps she is pretty, perhaps she is not. I did not linger long over the question." "That is not true," said Pani Bigiel. "Then it is not true; and she is lovable and pretty, and whatever you like. It is possible to fall in love with her, and to marry her; but a foot of mine will never be in their house again. I know perfectly why you sent me there; but it would have been better to tell me what sort of a man her father is, for she must be like him in character, and if that be true, then thanks for the humiliation." "But think over what you say: 'She is pretty, she is lovable, it is possible to marry her,' and then again: 'She must be like her father.' These statements do not hold together." "Maybe not; it is all one to me! I have no luck, and that is enough." "But I will tell you two things: first, you have come back deeply impressed by Marynia; second, that she is one of the best young ladies whom I have seen in life, and he will be happy who gets her." "Why has not some one taken her before now?" "She is twenty-one years old, and entered society not long since. Besides, don't think that she has no suitors." "Let some other man take her." But Pan Stanislav said this insincerely, for the thought that some other man might take her was tremendously bitter for him. In his soul, too, he felt grateful to Pani Bigiel for her praises of Marynia. "Let that rest," said he; "but you are a good friend." "Not only to Marynia, but to you. I only ask for a sincere, a really sincere, answer. Are you impressed or not?" "I impressed? to tell the truth,--immensely." "Well, do you see?" said Pani Bigiel, whose face was radiant with pleasure. "See what? I see nothing. She pleased me immensely,--true! You have no idea what a sympathetic and attractive person she is; and she must be good. But what of that? I cannot go a second time to Kremen, I came away in such anger. I said such bitter things, not only to Plavitski, but to her, that it is impossible." "Have you complicated matters much?" "Rather too much than too little." "Then a letter might soften them." "I write a letter to Plavitski, and beg his pardon! For nothing on earth! Moreover, he has cursed me." "How, cursed?" "As patriarch of the family; in his own name and the names of all ancestors. I feel toward him such a repulsion that I could not write down two words. He is an old pathetic comedian. I would sooner beg her pardon; but what would that effect? She must take her father's part; even I understand that. In the most favorable event, she would answer that my letter is very agreeable to her; and with that relations would cease." "When Emilia returns from Reichenhall we will bring Marynia here under the first plausible pretext, and then it will be your work to let misunderstandings vanish." "Too late, too late!" repeated Pan Stanislav; "I have promised myself to sell the claim, and I will sell it." "That is just what may be for the best." "No, that would be for the worst," put in Bigiel; "but I will persuade him not to sell. I hope, too, that a purchaser will not be found." "Meanwhile Emilia will finish Litka's cure." Here Pani Bigiel turned to Pan Stanislav: "You will learn now how other young ladies will seem to you after Marynia. I am not so intimate with her as Emilia is, but I will try to find the first convenient pretext to write to her and find out what she thinks of you." The conversation ended here. On the way home, Pan Stanislav saw that Marynia had taken by no means the last place in his soul. To tell the truth, he could hardly think of aught else. But he had at the same time the feeling that this acquaintance had begun under unfavorable conditions, and that it would be better to drive the maiden from his mind while there was time yet. As a man rather strong than weak mentally, and not accustomed to yield himself to dreams simply because they were pleasant, he resolved to estimate the position soberly, and weigh it on all sides. The young lady possessed, it is true, almost every quality which he demanded in his future wife, and also she was near his heart personally. But at the same time she had a father whom he could not endure; and, besides the father, a real burden in the form of Kremen and its connections. "With that pompous old monkey I should never live in peace; I could not," thought Pan Stanislav. "For relations with him are possible only in two ways: it is necessary either to yield to him (to do this I am absolutely unable), or to shake him up every day, as I did in Kremen. In the first case, I, an independent man, would enter into unendurable slavery to an old egotist; in the second, the position of my wife would be difficult, and our peace might be ruined." "I hope that this is sober, logical reasoning. It would be faulty only if I were in love with the maiden already. But I judge that this is not the case. I am occupied with her, not in love with her. These two are different. _Ergo_, it is necessary to stop thinking of Marynia, and let some other man take her." At this last idea, a feeling of bitterness burned him vividly, but he thought, "I am so occupied with her that this is natural. Finally, I have chewed more than one bitter thing in life; I will chew this one as well. I suppose also that it will be less bitter each day." But soon he discovered that besides bitterness there remained in him also a feeling of sorrow because the prospects had vanished which had been opening before him. It seemed to him that a curtain of the future had been raised, and something had shown him what might be; then the curtain had fallen on a sudden, and his life had returned to its former career, which led finally to nothing, or rather led to a desert. Pan Stanislav felt in every ease that the old philosopher Vaskovski was right, and that the making of money is only a means. Beyond that, we must solve life's riddle in some fashion. There must be an object, an important task, which, accomplished in a manner straightforward and honorable, leads to mental peace. That peace is the soul of life; without it life has, speaking briefly, no meaning. Pan Stanislav was in some sense a child of the age; that is, he bore in himself a part of that immense unrest which in the present declining epoch is the nightmare of mankind. In him, too, the bases on which life had rested hitherto were crumbling. He too doubted whether rationalism, stumbling against every stone at the wayside, could take the place of faith; and faith he had not found yet. He differed, however, from contemporary "decadents" in this,--that he had not become disenchanted with himself, his nerves, his doubts, his mental drama, and had not given himself a dispensation to be an imbecile and an idler. On the contrary, he had the feeling, more or less conscious, that life as it is, mysterious or not mysterious, must be accomplished through a series of toils and exploits. He judged that if it is impossible to answer the various "whys," still it behooves a man to do something because action itself may, to a certain degree, be an answer. It may be inconclusive, it is true; but the man who answers in that way casts from himself at least responsibility. What remains then? The founding of a family and social ties. These must, to a certain degree, be a right of human nature and its predestination, for otherwise people would neither marry nor associate in societies. A philosophy of this kind, resting on Pan Stanislav's logical male instinct, indicated marriage to him as one of the main objects of life. His will had for along time been turned and directed to this object. A while before, Panna Marynia seemed to him the pier "for which his ship was making in that gloomy night." But when he understood that the lamp on that pier had not been lighted for him, that he must sail farther, begin a new voyage over unknown seas, a feeling of weariness and regret seized him. But his reasoning seemed to him logical, and he went home with an almost settled conviction that "it was not yet that one," and "not yet this time." Next day, when he went to dine, he found Vaskovski and Bukatski at the restaurant. After a while Mashko also came in, with his arrogant, freckled face and long side whiskers, a monocle on his eye, and wearing a white waistcoat. After the greeting, all began to inquire of Pan Stanislav touching his journey, for they knew partly why the ladies had insisted on his personal visit, and, besides, they knew Marynia through Pani Emilia. After they had heard the narrative, Bukatski, transparent as Sevres porcelain, said with that phlegm special to him,-- "It is war, then? That is a young lady who acts on the nerves, and now would be the time to strike for her. A woman will accept more readily the arm offered on a stony path than on a smooth road." "Then offer an arm to her," said Pan Stanislav, with a certain impatience. "See thou, my beloved, there are three hindrances. First, Pani Emilia acts on my nerves still more; second, I have a pain in my neck every morning, and in the back of my head, which indicates brain disease; third, I am naked." "Thou naked?" "At least now. I have bought a number of Falks, all _avant la lettre_. I have plucked myself for a month, and if I receive from Italy a certain Massaccio, for which I have been bargaining, I shall ruin myself for a year." Vaskovski, who from his features, or rather from the freckles on his face, was somewhat like Mashko, though much older, and with a face full of sweetness, fixed his blue eyes on Bukatski, and said,-- "And that too is a disease of the age,--collecting and collecting on all sides!" "Oh, ho! there will be a dispute," remarked Mashko. "We have nothing better to do," said Pan Stanislav. And Bukatski took up the gauntlet. "What have you against collecting?" "Nothing," answered Vaskovski. "It is a kind of old-womanish method of loving art, worthy of our age. Do you not think there is something decrepit about it? To my thinking, it is very characteristic. Once people bore within them enthusiasm for high art: they loved it where it was, in museums, in churches; to-day they take it to their own private cabinets. Long ago people ended with collecting; to-day they begin with it, and begin at oddities: I am not talking at Bukatski; but to-day the youngest boy, if he has a little money, will begin to collect--and what? Not objects of art, but its oddities, or in every case its trifles. You see, my dear friend, it has seemed to me always that love and amateurism are two different things; and I insist that a great amateur of women, for example, is not a man capable of lofty feeling." "Perhaps so. There is something in that," said Pan Stanislav. "How can this concern me?" inquired Mashko, passing his fingers through his English side whiskers. "It contains, to begin with, the decree of an ancient pedagogue about modern times." "Of a pedagogue?" repeated Vaskovski. "Why, since a morsel of bread fell to me, as from heaven,[3] I renounced the slaughter of innocents and the rôle of Herod; secondly, you are mistaken in saying that I utter a decree. Almost with joy I see and note new proofs every hour that we are at the end of an epoch, and that a new one will begin shortly." "We are in the open sea, and will not turn to shore soon," muttered Mashko. "Give us peace," said Pan Stanislav. But the unconquered Vaskovski continued,-- "Amateurism leads to refinement; in refinement great ideals perish, and yield to desire for enjoyment. All this is nothing but paganism. No one can realize to what a degree we are paganized. But is there something? There is the Aryan spirit, which does not ossify, which never grows cold,--a spirit which has within it the divine afflatus, hence creative power; and this spirit feels hampered in pagan fetters. The reaction has set in already, and a rebirth in Christ will begin in this field, as in others. That is undoubted." Vaskovski, who had eyes like a child,--that is, reflecting only external objects and ever fixed, as it were, on infinity,--fixed them on the window, through which were visible gray clouds pierced here and there by sun-rays. "It is a pity that my head aches, for that will be a curious epoch," said Bukatski. But Mashko, who called Vaskovski "a saw," and was annoyed by his discussions, begun from any cause or without cause, took from the side-pocket of his coat a cigar, bit off the end, and, turning to Pan Stanislav, said,-- "Here, Stas, wouldst thou really sell that claim on Kremen?" "Decidedly. Why dost thou ask?" "Because I might consider it." "Thou?" "Yes. Thou knowest that I consider this kind of business frequently. We can talk about it. I cannot say anything certain to-day; but to-morrow I will ask thee to send me the mortgage on Kremen, and I will tell thee whether the thing is possible. Perhaps after dinner to-morrow thou wilt come to me to drink coffee; we may settle something then." "Well. If anything is to be done, I should prefer it done quickly; for the moment I finish with Bigiel, I wish to go abroad." "Whither art thou going?" asked Bukatski. "I do not know. It is too hot in the city. Somewhere to trees and water." "Another old prejudice," said Bukatski. "In the city there is always shade on one side of the street, which there is not in the country. I walk on the shady side quietly and feel well; therefore I never go out of the city in summer." "But Professor, art thou not going somewhere?" asked Pan Stanislav. "Of course. Pani Emilia has been urging me to go to Reichenhall. Perhaps I shall go." "Then let us go together. It is all one to me where I go. I like Salzburg, and, besides, it will be pleasant to see Pani Emilia and Litka." Bukatski stretched forth his transparent hand, took a tooth-pick from a glass, and, picking his teeth, began to speak in his cool and careless voice,-- "There is such a mad storm of jealousy raging within me that I am ready to go with you. Have a care, Polanyetski, lest I explode, like dynamite." There was something so amusingly contradictory between the words and the tone of Bukatski that Pan Stanislav laughed, but after a while he answered,-- "It had not occurred to me that it is possible to fall in love with Pani Emilia. Thank thee for the idea." "Woe to you both!" said Bukatski. FOOTNOTES: [3] He had received an inheritance some time before. CHAPTER V. Next day, after an early dinner at Bigiel's, Pan Stanislav betook himself to Mashko's at the appointed hour. The host was waiting for him evidently; for in the study he found an exquisite coffee service ready, and glasses for liqueurs. Mashko himself did not appear at once, however; for, as the servant said, he was receiving some lady. In fact, his voice and the words of a woman came through the door from the drawing-room. Meanwhile, Pan Stanislav fell to examining Mashko's ancestors, a number of whose portraits were hanging on the walls. The authenticity of these the friends of the young advocate doubted. A certain cross-eyed prelate afforded Bukatski a special subject for witticisms; but Mashko was not offended. He had determined, cost what it might, to force on the world himself, his ancestors, his genius for business, knowing that, in the society in which he moved, people would ridicule him, but no one would have energy to attack his pretensions. Possessing energy, limitless insolence, and a real turn for business besides, he determined to force himself upward by those qualities. People who did not like him called him shameless; and he was, but with calculation. Coming from a family uncertain even as to its nobility, he treated people of undoubted ancient families as if he were of incomparably better birth than they, people who were of undoubted wealth, as if he were wealthier than they. And this succeeded: those tactics of his were effective. He was careful not to fall into complete ridicule; but he had marked out for himself in this procedure uncommonly wide margins. At last he reached the point which he sought: he was received everywhere, and had established his credit firmly. Certain transactions brought him really generous profits; but he did not hoard money. He judged that the time for that had not come yet, and that he must invest more in the future, with the intent that it would repay him in the way which he wanted. He did not squander money, and was not over liberal, for he looked on those as marks of a parvenu; but, when the need came, he showed himself, to use his own phrase, "solidly munificent." He passed for a very smooth man in business, and, above all, a man of his word. His word rested on credit, it is true; but it kept him in a high position, which in turn permitted him to make really important transactions. He did not draw back before trifles. He possessed daring, and a certain energy which excluded long hesitation; he had faith, too, in his own fortune. Success strengthened that faith. He did not know, in fact, how much property he had; but he handled large sums of money, and people considered him wealthy. Finally, Mashko's life motive was vanity, rather than greed. He wanted to be rich, it is true; but, beyond all, he wanted to pass for a great lord in English fashion. He went so far as to adapt his exterior thereto, and was almost proud of his personal ugliness: it seemed to him even aristocratic. There was, indeed, a certain something, which, if not uncommon, was at least peculiar, in his pouting mouth, in his broad nostrils, and the red freckles on his face. There was a certain power and brutality, such as the English have sometimes, and that expression was increased by his monocle. To wear this, he had to rear his head somewhat; and when he passed his fingers through his light side whiskers, he reared it still more. Pan Stanislav could not endure the man at first, and concealed his dislike even too slightly. Later on he became accustomed to him, especially since Mashko treated him differently from others,--perhaps through secret regard; perhaps because, wishing to gain in advance a man so demanding, to act otherwise would be to expose himself to an immediate account, disagreeable in the best case. At last, the young men, by meeting often, grew used to each other's weaknesses, and endured each other perfectly. On this occasion, for example, when Mashko had conducted the lady to the door, he showed himself in the study, set aside for the moment his greatness, and, greeting Pan Stanislav, began to speak like an ordinary mortal, not like a great lord or an Englishman. "With women! with women! _c'est toujours une mer à boire_ (there is always a sea to drink). I have invested their little capital, and I pay them the interest most regularly. Not enough! They come at least once a week to inquire if there has not been some earthquake." "What wilt thou say to me?" asked Pan Stanislav. "First of all, drink some coffee." And, igniting the alcohol under the lamp, he added,-- "With thee there will be no delay. I have seen the mortgage. The money is not easy of recovery; but we need not look on it as lost. Evidently the collection will involve costs, journeys, etc. Hence I cannot give thee what the face of the mortgage indicates; but I will give two-thirds, and pay in three instalments in the course of a year." "Since I have said to myself that I would sell the claim, even for less than the face of it, I agree. When will the first instalment be paid?" "In three months." "Then I will leave my power of attorney with Bigiel in case I must go on a journey." "But art thou going to Reichenhall?" "Possibly." "Ai! Who knows but Bukatski has given thee an idea?" "Every one has his own thoughts. Thou, for example. Why art thou buying this claim on Kremen? The business is too small for thee, is it not?" "Among great affairs small ones too are transacted. But I will be outspoken. Thou knowest that neither my position nor my credit belongs to the lowest; both one and the other will increase when I have behind me a piece of land, and that such a large one. I have heard myself from Plavitski that he would sell Kremen. I will suppose that he is still more inclined now, and that it will be possible to acquire all that property cheaply, even very cheaply, for some payments, for some unimportant ready money, with a life annuity in addition; I shall see! Afterward, when it is put in order a little, like a horse for the market, it may be sold; meanwhile I shall have the position of a landholder, which, _entre nous_, concerns me very greatly." Pan Stanislav listened to Mashko's words with a certain constraint, and said,-- "I must tell thee plainly that the purchase will not be easy. Panna Plavitski is very much opposed to selling. She, in woman fashion, is in love with her Kremen, and will do all she can to retain it in the hands of herself and her father." "Then in the worst case I shall be Plavitski's creditor, and I do not think that the money will be lost to me. First, I may sell it, as thou hast; second, as an advocate, I can dispose of it with far greater ease. I may myself find means of paying, and indicate them to Plavitski." "Thou canst foreclose too, and buy it at auction." "I might if I were some one else, but to foreclose would be devilishly unbecoming in Mashko. No; other means will be found, to which ready consent may be given by Panna Plavitski herself, for whom, by the way, I have great esteem and regard." Pan Stanislav, who at that moment was finishing his coffee, put his cup suddenly on the table. "Ah," said he, "and it is possible in that way to get at the property." Again a feeling of great anger and bitterness seized him. At the first moment he wished to rise, say to Mashko, "I will not sell the claim!" and go out. He restrained himself, however, and Mashko, passing his fingers through his side whiskers, answered,-- "But if?--I can assure thee, on my word, that at this moment I have no such plan; at least I have not placed it before myself definitely. But if?--I made the acquaintance of Panna Plavitski once in Warsaw, in the winter, and she pleased me much. The family is good, the property ruined, but large, and can be saved. Who knows? Well, that is an idea like any other. I am perfectly loyal with thee, as, for that matter, I have been always. Thou didst go there as if for money, but I knew why those ladies sent thee. Thou hast returned, however, as angry as the devil; therefore I take it that thou hast no intentions. Say that I am mistaken, and I will withdraw at once, not from the plan, for, as I have assured thee, I have no plan yet, but even from thinking over it as something possible. I give thee my word on that. In the opposite case, however, do not hold to the position, 'Not for me, not for any one,' and do not bar the lady's way. But now I listen to thee." Pan Stanislav, recalling his reasonings of yesterday, thought also that Mashko was right when he said that in such a case he ought not to bar any one's road to the lady, and after a certain time he said,-- "No, Mashko, I have no intentions touching Panna Plavitski. Thou art free to marry her or not. I will say, nevertheless, openly, there is one thing which does not please me, though for me it is profitable; namely that thou art buying this claim. I believe that thou hast no plan yet; but in case thou shouldst have one, it will seem somewhat strange--But any pressure, any trap--this, however, is thy affair." "It is so much my affair that if some one else, and not thou, had said this, I should have been quick to remind him. I may tell thee, however, that should I form such a plan, which I doubt, I shall not ask the hand of Panna Plavitski as interest for my money. Since I can say to myself conscientiously that I would buy the debt in any case, I have the right to buy it. Above all, as matters stand to-day, I wish to buy Kremen, for I need it; hence I am free to use all honorable means which may lead to that end." "Very well; I will sell. Give directions to write the contract, and send it, or bring it thyself to me." "I have directed my assistant. It is ready, and needs only the signatures." In fact, the contract was signed a quarter of an hour later. Pan Stanislav, who spent the evening of that day at Bigiel's, was in such anger as he had never been before; Pani Bigiel could not hide her vexation; and Bigiel, thinking the whole over carefully said, toward the end of the evening, with his usual balance and deliberation,-- "That Mashko has a plan is beyond doubt. The question is merely whether he is deceiving thee by saying that he has no plan, or is deceiving himself!" "God preserve her from Mashko!" answered Pani Bigiel. "We all saw that she pleased him greatly." "I supposed," said Bigiel, "that a man like Mashko would look for property, but I may be mistaken. It may be also that he wants to find a wife of good stock, strengthen thereby his social position, become related to numerous families, and at last take into his hands the business of a certain whole sphere of society. That also is not badly calculated, especially since, if he uses his credit, which will be increased by Kremen, it may with his cleverness clear him in time." "And as you say," remarked Pan Stanislav, "Panna Plavitski pleases him really. I remember now that Plavitski said something too on this subject." "What then?" asked Pani Bigiel; "what will happen then?" "Panna Plavitski will marry Pan Mashko if she wishes," said Pan Stanislav. "But you?" "Oh I am going to Reichenhall straightway." CHAPTER VI. In fact, Pan Stanislav went a week later to Reichenhall; but before that he received a letter from Pani Emilia inquiring about his journey to Kremen. He did not write in return, for he intended to answer the letter orally. He heard too, but only on the eve of his departure, that Mashko had gone to Kremen the day before; and that news touched him more than he thought it would. He said to himself, it is true, that he would forget the affair when no farther away than Vienna; but he could not forget it, and he had his head so occupied with thinking whether Panna Plavitski would marry Mashko or not, that he wrote to Bigiel from Salzburg, as it were on business, but really asking him to send news of Mashko. He listened without attention to the discussions of his travelling companion, Vaskovski, about the mutual relations of nationalities in Austria, and the mission of modern nations in general. More than once he was so occupied with thinking about Marynia that he simply did not answer questions. It astonished him, too, that at times he saw her as clearly as if she had been standing before him, not only as an exact image, but as a living person. He saw her pleasant, mild face, with shapely mouth, and the little ensign on the upper lip; the calm gaze of her eyes, in which were visible the attention and concentration with which she listened to his words; he saw her whole posture, lithe, supple, from which came the warmth of great and genuine maiden youthfulness. He remembered her bright robe, the tips of her feet, peeping from under it, her hands, delicate, though slightly sunburnt, and her dark hair, moved by the breeze in the garden. He had never thought that there could be a memory almost palpable, and that the memory of a person seen during such a brief time. But he understood this to be a proof of how deep an impression she had, in truth, made on him; and when at moments it passed through his head that all this, which had fixed itself thus in his memory, might be possessed by Mashko, he could hardly believe it. In those moments his first feeling, which was, moreover, in accord with his active nature, was an irresistible impulse to hinder it. He had to remember then that the affair was decided already, and that he had resolved to drop Panna Plavitski. He and Vaskovski reached Reichenhall early in the morning; and that very day, before they had learned the address of Pani Emilia, they met her and Litka in the park. She had not expected to see either, especially Pan Stanislav, and was sincerely delighted when she met them; her delight was darkened only by this, that Litka, a child exceptionally sensitive, and ailing with asthma and heart-disease, was still more delighted, so much delighted, indeed, that she had a violent palpitation of the heart, with stifling and almost a swoon. Such attacks were frequent with her; and, when this one passed, calmness came back to all faces. On the way to the house, the child held "Pan Stas" by the hand, and in her eyes, usually pensive, there shone deep delight. From time to time she pressed his hand, as if to convince herself that he had come really to Reichenhall and was near her. Pan Stanislav had simply no time to speak to Pani Emilia, or to make an inquiry, for Litka was showing him Reichenhall, and chattering unceasingly; she wanted to show him all the nice places at once. Every moment she said,-- "This is nothing yet. Thumsee is prettier; but we will go there to-morrow." Then turning to her mother, "Mamma will let me go, isn't it true? I can walk much now. It is not far. Mamma will let me go, will she not?" At moments again she pushed away from Pan Stanislav, and, without dropping his hand, looked at him with her great eyes, repeating,-- "Pan Stas, Pan Stas!" Pan Stanislav showed her the greatest tenderness, or tenderness as great as an elder brother might show; time after time he chided her good-naturedly,-- "Let the kitten not run so; she will choke." And she nestled up to him, pouted, and answered, as if in anger,-- "Hush, Pan Stas!" Pan Stanislav glanced, however, frequently at the serene face of Pani Emilia, as if desiring to let her know that he wished to converse with her. But there was no opportunity, since she did not like to destroy Litka's joyousness, and preferred to leave their mutual friend in her possession exclusively. Only after dinner, which they ate in the garden together, amid foliage and the twittering of sparrows, when Vaskovski had begun to tell Litka about birds, and the love which Saint Francis Assisi had felt for them, and the child, with her head on her hand, was lost completely in listening, did Pan Stanislav turn to Pani Emilia and ask,-- "Do you not wish to walk to the end of the garden?" "I do," answered she. "Litka, stay here a minute with Pan Vaskovski; we will come back in that time." They walked along, and Pani Emilia asked immediately,-- "Well, what?" Pan Stanislav began to tell; but whether it was that he wished to appear better before Pani Emilia, or that he determined to reckon with that delicate nature, or, finally, that the last thoughts concerning Marynia had attuned him to a note more sensitive than usual, it is sufficient that he changed the affair altogether. He confessed, it is true, to a quarrel with Plavitski, but he was silent touching this, that before his departure from Kremen he had answered Marynia almost with harshness; besides, he did not spare praises on her in his story, and finally he finished,-- "Since that debt became a cause of misunderstanding at once between me and Plavitski,--a thing which must be reflected on Panna Marynia,--I chose to sell it; and just before I left Warsaw, I sold it to Mashko." Pani Emilia, who had not the slightest conception of business, and, besides, was of a simplicity truly angelic, remarked,-- "You did well. There should be no such thing as money between you." Ashamed to deceive such a simple soul, he answered,-- "True! Or rather the contrary, I think I did badly. Bigiel, too, is of the opinion that it was not well. Mashko may press them; he may put various demands before them; he may offer Kremen for sale. No, that was not a delicate act, nor one to bring us nearer; and I should not have committed it, were it not that I came to the conviction that it was necessary to drive all that out of my head." "But no; do not say so. I believe that there is predestination in everything; and I believe, too, that Providence designed you for each other." "I do not understand that. If that be true, then I need not do anything, for in every case I must marry Panna Plavitski." "I have a woman's head, and say stupid things, perhaps; but it seems to me that Providence wills and arranges everything for the best, but leaves people freedom. Frequently they do not wish to follow that which is predestined, and this is why so many are unhappy." "Maybe. It is difficult, however, to follow anything but one's own convictions. Reason is like a lantern, which God puts in our hands. Who will assure me meanwhile that Panna Marynia will marry me?" "I ought to have news from her of your visit to Kremen, and I wonder that so far I have none. I think that a letter will come to-morrow at latest, for we write every week to each other. Does she know of your departure for Reichenhall?" "She does not. I did not know myself when in Kremen where I should go." "That is well; for she will be outspoken, though she would be so in any case." The first day's conversation ended here. In the evening it was decided at Litka's request to walk to Thumsee, and go in the morning so as to dine at the lake, return in a carriage, or on foot, if Litka was not tired and they could return before sunset. The two men presented themselves at the lady's villa before nine in the morning. Pani Emilia and Litka were dressed and waiting on the veranda; both were so like visions that Vaskovski, the old pedagogue, was astonished at sight of them. "The Lord God makes perfect flowers of people sometimes," said he, pointing at mother and daughter from a distance. Indeed, Pani Emilia and Litka were admired by all Reichenhall. The first, with her spiritualized, angelic face, appeared the incarnation of love, motherly tenderness, and exaltation; the other, with her great pensive eyes, yellow hair, and features that were almost too delicate, seemed rather the idea of an artist than a living little girl. Bukatski, the decadent, said that she was formed of mist made just a trifle rosy by light. Indeed, there was something in the little maiden, as it were, not of earth, which impression was heightened by her illness and exceeding sensitiveness. Her mother loved her blindly; those who surrounded her loved her also; but attention did not spoil this child, exceptionally sweet by nature. Pan Stanislav, who visited Pani Emilia in Warsaw a number of times every week, was sincerely attached to both mother and daughter. In a city where woman's reputation is less respected than anywhere else in the world, scandal was created by this, without the least cause, of course; for Pani Emilia was as pure as an infant, and simply carried her exalted head in the sky as if she knew not that evil existed. She was even so pure that she did not understand the necessity of paying attention to appearances. She received gladly those whom Litka loved; but she refused a number of good offers of marriage, declaring that she needed nothing on earth except Litka. Bukatski alone insisted that Pani Emilia acted on his nerves. Pan Stanislav adapted himself to those azure heights surrounding that crystal woman, so that he never approached her with a thought dimmed by temptation. Now he answered with simplicity Vaskovski's remark,-- "In truth, they both seem marvellous." And, greeting them, he repeated more or less the same thing to Pani Emilia, as something that in the given case had attracted his attention. She smiled with pleasure,--likely because the praise included Litka,--and, gathering up her skirt for the road, she said,-- "I received a letter to-day, and have brought it to you." "May I read it right away?" "You may; I beg you to do so." They set out by the forest road for Thumsee--Pani Emilia, Vaskovski, and Litka in advance, Pan Stanislav a little behind them, his head bent over the letter, which was as follows:-- MY DEAR EMILKA,--To-day I have received thy litany of questions, and will answer at once, for I am in haste to share my thoughts with thee. Pan Stanislav Polanyetski went from here on Monday; hence, two days ago. The first evening I received him as I receive every one, and nothing whatever came to my head; but the next day was Sunday. I had time to spare; and almost the entire afternoon we were not only together, but alone, for papa went to the Yamishes. What shall I say? Such a sympathetic, sincere, and, at the same time, honest man! From what he said of Litka and of thee, I saw at once that he has a good heart. We walked a long time by the pond in the garden. I bound up his hand, for he cut himself with the boat. He spoke so wisely that I forgot myself in listening to his words. Ah, my Emilka, I am ashamed to confess it, but my poor head was turned a little by that evening. Thou knowest, moreover, how alone I am and overworked, and how rarely I see men like him. It seemed to me that a guest had come from another world, and a better one. He not only pleased, but captivated me with his heartiness, so that I could not sleep, and was thinking all the time of him. It is true that in the morning he quarrelled with papa, and even I received a little; though God sees how much I would give that there might be no question of that kind between us. At the first moment it touched me greatly; and if that ugly man had known how much I cried in my chamber, he would have pitied me. But, afterward, I thought that he must be very sensitive; that papa was not right; and I am not angry now. I will say, also, in thy ear, that a certain voice whispers to me continually that he will not sell to any one the claim which he has on Kremen, if only to be able to come here again. That he parted in such anger with papa is nothing. Papa himself does not take it to heart; for those are his ways, not his convictions or feelings. Pan Stanislav has in me a true friend, who, after the sale of Magyerovka, will do everything to end all causes of misunderstanding, and in general all those nasty money questions. He will have to come then, even to take what belongs to him,--is it not true? It may be also that I please him a little. That a man as quick as he is should say something bitter gives no cause for wonder. Speak not of this when thou seest him, and do not scold him; God keep thee from that. I know not why I feel a certain confidence that he will do no injustice to me, or papa, or my beloved Kremen; and I think it would be well in the world if all were like him. My dear, I embrace thee and Litka most heartily. Write to me of her health minutely, and love me as I do thee. When he had finished reading, Pan Stanislav put the letter in the side-pocket of his coat, which he buttoned. Then he pushed his hat down to the back of his head, and felt a certain intense desire to break his cane into small bits and throw them into the river: he did not do this, however; he only began to mutter, while gritting his teeth,-- "Yes; very well. Thou knowest Polanyetski! Be confident that he will not injure thee! Thou wilt come out in safety." Then he addressed himself as follows,-- "Thou hast thy deserts; for she is an angel, and thou art not worthy of her." And again a desire seized him to break his cane into bits. Now he saw clearly that the soul of that maiden had been ready to give itself with all faith and trust to him; and he prepared for her one of those painful and wounding disillusions, the memory of which, fixed once and forever, pains eternally. To sell the claim was nothing; but to sell it to a man wishing to buy it with the intention which Mashko had, was to say to the woman, "I do not want thee; marry him, if it please thee." What a bitter disillusion for her, after all that he had said to her on that Sunday,--after those words friendly, open, and at the same time intended to enter her heart! They were chosen for that purpose, and he felt that she had taken them in that sense. He might repeat as often as he pleased that they bound him to nothing; that in the first meeting and in the first conversation which a man has with a woman, he merely pushes out horns, like a snail, and tries the ground to which he has come. That would be no consolation to him now. Besides, he was not merely not in humor for self-justification, but wished rather to give himself a slap on the face. He saw for the first time so definitely that he might have received Marynia's heart and hand; and the more real that possibility was to him, the more the loss seemed irreparable. Moreover, from the moment of reading that letter, a new change appeared in him. His own reasoning that now he ought to let Marynia go, seemed pitiful and paltry. With all his faults, Pan Stanislav had a grateful heart; and that letter moved him to a high degree, by the kindness and understanding, by the readiness to love, which were revealed in it. Hence the remembrance of Marynia became rosy in his heart and mind all at once,--became rosy even with such power that he thought,-- "As God is in heaven, I shall fall in love with her now!" And such a tenderness seized him that in presence of it even anger at himself had to yield. He joined the company after a while, and, pushing forward a little with Pani Emilia, said,-- "Give me this letter." "With the greatest pleasure. Such an honest letter, is it not? And you did not confess to me that she suffered somewhat at parting; but I will not reprove, since she herself takes you under her protection." "If it would help, I would beg you to beat me; but there is nothing to be said, for those are things incurable." Pani Emilia did not share this opinion; on the contrary, seeing Pan Stanislav's emotion, she felt sure that an affair in which both sides had such vivid feelings was in the best state and must end satisfactorily. At that very thought her sweet face became radiant. "We shall see after some months," said she. "You do not even divine what we may see," said Pan Stanislav, thinking of Mashko. "Remember," continued Pani Emilia, "that he who once wins Marynia's heart will never be disappointed." "I am certain of that," answered he, gloomily; "but also such hearts, when once wounded, do not return again." They could not speak further, for Litka and Pan Vaskovski caught up with them. After a while the little girl took Pan Stanislav, as usual, for her own exclusive property. The forest, sunk in the mild morning light of a fair day, occupied her uncommonly; she began to inquire about various trees; every little while she cried out with pleasure,-- "Mushrooms!" But he answered mechanically, thinking of something else,-- "Mushrooms, kitten, mushrooms." At last the road descended, and they beheld Thumsee under their feet. In the course of half an hour they came down to a beaten path, stretching along the shore, on which were visible here and there wooden foot-piers, extending a few yards into the lake. Litka wished to look from near by at big fish which were visible in the clear water. Pan Stanislav, taking her by the hand, led her out on to one of the piers. The fish, accustomed to crumbs thrown by visitors, instead of fleeing, approached still nearer, and soon a whole circle surrounded Litka's feet. In the blue water were visible the golden-brown backs of the carp, and the gray spotted scales of the salmon trout, while the round eyes of these creatures were fixed on the little girl as if with an expression of entreaty. "Coming back, we will bring lots of bread," said Litka. "How strangely they look at us! What are they thinking of?" "They are thinking very slowly," said Pan Stanislav; "and only after an hour or two will they say: 'Ah! here is some little girl with yellow hair and rosy dress and black stockings.'" "And what will they think of Pan Stas?" "They will think that I am some gypsy, for I have not yellow hair." "No. Gypsies have no houses." "And I have no house, Litka. I had the chance of one, but I sold it." He uttered this last phrase in a certain unusual manner, and in general there was sadness in his voice. The little girl looked at him carefully; and all at once her sensitive face reflected his sadness, just as that water reflected her form. When they joined the rest of the company, from time to time she raised her sad eyes with an inquiring and disturbed expression. At last, pressing more firmly his hand, which she held, she asked,-- "What troubles Pan Stas?" "Nothing, little child; I am looking around at the lake, and that is why I do not talk." "I was pleasing myself yesterday, thinking to show Pan Stas Thumsee." "Though there are no rocks here, it is very beautiful But what house is that on the other side?" "We will take dinner there." Pani Emilia was talking merrily with Vaskovski, who, carrying his hat in his hand, and seeking in his pockets for a handkerchief to wipe his bald head, gave his opinions about Bukatski,-- "He is an Aryan," concluded he; "and therefore in continual unrest, he is seeking peace. He is buying pictures and engravings at present, thinking that thus he will fill a void. But what do I see? This, those children of the century bear in their souls an abyss like this lake, for example; besides, the abyss in them is bottomless, and they think to fill it with pictures, strong waters, amateurship, dilettantism, Baudelaire, Ibsen, Maeterlinck, finally dilettante science. Poor birds, they are beating their heads against the sides of their cages! It is just I tried to fill this lake by throwing in a pebble." "And what can fill life?" "Every sincere idea, all great feelings, but only on condition that they begin in Christ. Had Bukatski loved art in the Christian way, it would have given him the peace which he is forced to seek." "Have you told him that?" "Yes, that and many other things. I urge him and Pan Stanislav always to read the Life of Saint Francis of Assisi. They are not willing to do so, and laugh at me. Yet he was the greatest man and the greatest saint of the Middle Ages,--a saint who renewed the world. If such a man were to come now, a renewal in Christ would follow, still more sincerely and with greater completeness." Midday approached, and with it heat. The forest began to have the odor of resin; the lake became perfectly smooth in the calm air full of glitter, and, while reflecting the spotless blue of the sky, seemed to slumber. At last they reached the house and the garden, in which them was a restaurant, and sat under a beech-tree at a table already laid. Pan Stanislav called a waiter in a soiled coat, ordered dinner, then looked about silently at the lake and the mountains around it. A couple of yards from the table grew a whole bunch of iris, moistened by a fountain fixed among stones. Pani Emilia, looking at the flowers, said,-- "When I am at a lake and see irises, I think that I am in Italy." "For nowhere else are there so many lakes or so many irises," answered Pan Stanislav. "Or so much delight for every man," added Vaskovski. "For many years I go there in the autumn to find a refuge for the last days. I hesitated long between Perugia and Assisi, but last year Rome gained the day. Rome seems the anteroom to another life, in which anteroom light from the next world is visible already. I will go there in October." "I envy you sincerely," said Pani Emilia. "Litka is twelve years old," began Vaskovski. "And three months," interrupted Litka. "And three months: therefore for her age she is very small and a great little giddy-head; it is time to show her various things in Rome," continued Vaskovski. "Nothing is so remembered as that which is seen in childhood. And though childhood does not feel many things completely, nor understand them, that comes later, and comes very agreeably, for it is as if some one were to illuminate on a sudden impressions sunk in shadow. Come with me to Italy in October." "In October I cannot; I have my woman's reasons, which detain me in Warsaw." "What are they?" Pani Emilia began to laugh. "The first and most important, but purely womanly, reason, is to marry that gentleman sitting there so gloomy," said she, pointing to Pan Stanislav, "but really so much in love." He woke from thoughtfulness, and waved his hand. But Vaskovski inquired with his usual naïveté of a child,-- "Always with Marynia Plavitski?" "Yes," replied Pani Emilia. "He has been in Kremen, and it would be vain for him to deny that she took his heart greatly." "I cannot deny," answered Pan Stanislav. But further conversation was interrupted in an unpleasant manner, for Litka grew weak on a sudden. In a moment she was choking, and had one of her attacks of palpitation of the heart, which alarmed even doctors. The mother seized her at once in her arms; Pan Stanislav ran to the restaurant for ice; Vaskovski began to draw the garden bench with effort toward the table, so that she might stretch on it and breathe with more freedom. "Thou art wearied, my child, art thou not?" asked Pani Emilia, with pale lips. "See, my love, it was too far--Still the doctor permitted. So anxious! But this is nothing; it will pass, it will pass! My treasure, my love!" And she began to kiss the damp face of the little girl. Meanwhile Pan Stanislav came with ice, and after him the mistress of the place hurried out with a pillow in her hand. They laid the little girl on the bench, and while Pani Emilia was wrapping the ice in a napkin, Pan Stanislav bent over the child and asked,-- "How art thou, kitten?" "I was only choking a little; but I am better," answered she, opening her mouth, like a fish to catch breath. She was not much better, however, for even through her dress one could see how violently the little sick heart was beating in her breast. But under the influence of ice, the attack decreased gradually, and at last ceased altogether, leaving behind only weariness. Litka began again to smile at her mother, who also recovered from her alarm somewhat. It was needful to strengthen the child before they returned home. Pan Stanislav ordered dinner, which was scarcely touched by any one except Litka, for all looked at her from moment to moment with secret fear lest the choking might seize her a second time. An hour passed in this way. Guests began now to enter the restaurant. Pani Emilia wished to go home, but she had to wait for the carriage, which Pan Stanislav had sent for to Reichenhall. The carriage came at last, but new alarm was in wait for them. On the road, though they moved at a walk and the road was very smooth, even light jolting troubled Litka, so that when they were just near Reichenhall, a choking attacked her again. She begged permission to get out of the carriage; but it appeared that walking wearied her. Then Pani Emilia decided to carry the child. But Pan Stanislav, anticipating that motherly devotion, which moreover was not at all in proportion to the woman's strength, said,-- "Come, Litus, I will carry thee. If not, mamma will weary herself and be sick." And without asking further, he lifted her lightly from the ground, and carried her with perfect ease on one arm only; to assure both her and Pani Emilia that it did not trouble him in the least, he said playfully,-- "When such a kitten is walking on the ground, she seems not at all heavy; but now, see where those great feet are hanging. Hold on by my neck; thou wilt be steadier." And he went on, as firmly as he could, and quickly, for he wished the doctor to attend her as soon as possible; as he went, he felt her heart beating against his shoulder, and she, while grasping him with her thin, meagre arms, repeated,-- "Let me down; I cannot--Let me down!" But he said,-- "I will not. Thou seest how bad it is to be tired out from walking. In future we will take a big easy armchair on wheels; and when the child is wearied, we will seat her in it, and I will push her." "No, no!" said Litka, with tears in her voice. He carried her with the tenderness of an elder brother or a father; and his heart was overflowing: first, because really he loved that little maid; and second, because this came to his head of which he had never thought before,--or, at least, had never felt clearly,--that marriage opens the way to fatherhood and to all its treasures of happiness. While carrying that little girl, who was dear to him, though a stranger, he understood that God had created him for a family; not only to be a husband, but a father; also that the main object and meaning of life were found specially in the family. And all his thoughts flew to Marynia. He felt now with redoubled force that of women whom he had met so far he would have chosen her for a wife before all, and would wish her to be the mother of his children. CHAPTER VII. During some days that succeeded the choking, Litka was not ill, but she felt weak; she went out, however, to walk, because the doctor not only ordered her to go, but recommended very urgently moderate exercise up hill. Vaskovski went to the doctor to learn the condition of her health. Pan Stanislav awaited the old man's return in the reading-room, and knew at once from his face that he was not a bearer of good tidings. "The doctor sees no immediate danger," said Vaskovski; "but he condemns the child to an early death, and in general gives directions to watch over her, for it is impossible, he says, to foresee the day or the hour." "What a misfortune, what a blow!" said Pan Stanislav, covering his eyes with his hand. "Her mother will not be able to survive her. One is unwilling to believe in the death of such a child." Vaskovski had tears in his eyes. "I asked whether she must suffer greatly. 'Not necessarily,' said the doctor; 'she may die as easily as if falling asleep.'" "Did he tell the mother anything about her condition?" "He did not. He said, it is true, that there was a defect of the heart; but he added that with children such things often disappear without a trace. He has no hope himself." Pan Stanislav did not yield to misfortune easily. "What is one doctor!" said he. "We must struggle to save the child while there is a spark of hope. The doctor may be mistaken. We must take her to a specialist at Monachium, or bring him here. That will alarm Pani Emilia, but it is difficult to avoid it. Wait; we can avoid it. I will bring him, and that immediately. We will tell Pani Emilia that such and such a celebrated doctor has come here to see some one, and that there is a chance of taking counsel concerning Litka. We must not leave the child without aid. We need merely to write to him, so that he may know how to talk to the mother." "But to whom will you write?" "To whom? Do I know? The local doctor here will indicate a specialist. Let us go to him at once, and lose no time." The matter was arranged that very day. In the evening the two men went to Pani Emilia. Litka was well, but silent and gloomy. She smiled, it is true, at her mother and her friend; she showed gratitude for the tenderness with which they surrounded her; but Pan Stanislav had not power to amuse her. Having his head filled with thoughts of the danger which threatened the child, he considered her gloom a sign of increasing sickness and an early premonition of near death, and with terror he said in his soul that she was not such as she had been; it seemed as if certain threads binding her to life had been broken. His fear increased still more when Pani Emilia said,-- "Litka feels well, but do you know what she begged of me to-day? To go back to Warsaw." Pan Stanislav with an effort of will put down his alarm, and, turning to the little one, said while feigning joyfulness,-- "Ah, thou good-for-nothing! Art thou not sorry for Thumsee?" The little maid shook her yellow hair. "No!" answered she, after a time, and in her eyes tears appeared; but she covered these quickly with her lids, lest some one might see them. "What is the matter with her?" thought Pan Stanislav. A very simple thing was the matter. In Thumsee she had learned that her friend, her "Pan Stas," her dearest comrade, was to be taken from her. She had heard that he loved Marynia Plavitski; until then she had felt sure that he loved only her and mamma. She had heard that mamma wanted him to marry Marynia; but up to that time she, Litka, had looked on him as her own exclusive property. Without knowing clearly what threatened her, she felt that this "Pan Stas" would go, and that a wrong would be done her, the first which she had experienced in life. She would have suffered less if some one else had inflicted the wrong; but, just think, her mamma and "Pan Stas" were wronging her! That seemed a vicious circle out of which the child knew not how to escape and could not. How could she complain to them of what they were doing! Evidently they wanted this, wished it; it was necessary for them, and they would be happy if it happened. Mamma said that "Pan Stas" loved Panna Marynia, and he did not deny; therefore Litka must yield, must swallow her tears, and be silent in presence of her mamma even. And she hid in herself her first disappointment in life. Yes, she had to yield; but because grief is a bad medicine for a heart sick already, this yielding might be more thoroughly and terribly tragic than any one around her could imagine. The specialist came two days later from Monachium, and remaining two days, confirmed fully the opinion of the doctor in Thumsee. He set Pani Emilia at rest, though he told Pan Stanislav that the life of the child might continue months and years, but would be always as if hanging on a thread which might break from any cause. He gave directions to spare the little girl every emotion, as well joyous as sad, and to watch over her with the greatest alertness. They surrounded her therefore with care and attention. They spared her even the slightest emotion, but they did not spare her the greatest, which was caused by Marynia's letters. The echo of the one which came a week later struck her ears, which were listening then diligently. True, it might dispel her fears touching "Pan Stas," but it was a great shock to her. Pani Emilia had hesitated all day about showing Pan Stanislav that letter. He had been asking daily for news from Kremen; she had to lie simply to conceal the arrival of the letter. Finally, she felt bound to tell the truth, so that he might know the difficulties which he had to encounter. The next evening after receiving the letter, when she had put Litka to sleep, she began conversation herself on this subject. "Marynia has taken it greatly to heart that you sold the claim on Kremen." "Then you have received a letter?" "I have." "Can you show it to me?" "No; I can only read you extracts from it. Marynia is crushed." "Does she know that I am here?" "It must be that she has not received my letter yet; but it astonishes me that Pan Mashko, who is in Kremen, has not mentioned it to her." "Mashko went to Kremen before I left Warsaw; and he was not sure that I would come here, especially as I told him that doubtless I should change my plan." Pani Emilia went to her bureau for the package of letters. Returning to the table, she trimmed the lamp, and, sitting opposite Pan Stanislav, took the letter from the envelope. "You see," said she, "that for Marynia it is not a question of the sale alone. You know that her head was a little imaginative, therefore this sale had for her another meaning. A great disenchantment has met her indeed!" "I should not confess to any other person," said Pan Stanislav, "but I will to you. I have committed one of the greatest follies of my life, but I have never been so punished." Pani Emilia raised her pale blue eyes to him with sympathy. "Poor man, are you so captivated, then, by Marynia? I do not ask through curiosity, but friendship, for I should like to mend everything, but wish to be certain." "Do you know what conquered me?" broke in Pan Stanislav, excitedly,--"that first letter. In Kremen she pleased me; I began to think about her. I said to myself that she would be more agreeable and better than others. She is such precisely as I have been seeking. But what next? Long before, I had said to myself that I would not be a soft man, and yield what belongs to me. You understand that when a man makes a principle of anything, he holds to it even for pride's sake. Besides, in each one of us there are, as it were, two distinct persons; the second of these criticises whatever is done by the first one. This second man began to say to me: 'Drop this affair; you cannot live with the father.' In truth, he is unendurable. I resolved to drop the affair. I got rid of the claim. That is how it happened. Only later did I find that I could not dismiss the thought of Panna Plavitski; I had always this same impression: 'She is such as thou art seeking.' I saw that I had committed a folly, and was sorry. When that letter came, and I convinced myself that on her side there was a feeling that she could love me and be mine, I loved her. And I give you my word that either I am losing my head, or this is true. It is nothing while a man is fancying something; but when he sees that there were open arms before him, what a difference! That letter conquered me; I cannot help myself." "I prefer not to read you all this letter," said Pani Emilia, after a while. "Naturally she writes that the brief dream ended by an awakening more sudden than she had looked for. She writes that Pan Mashko is very considerate in money questions, though he wishes them to turn to his profit." "She will marry him, as God is in heaven!" "You do not know her. But of Kremen she writes: 'Papa has a wish to dispose of his property, and settle in Warsaw. Thou knowest how I love Kremen, how I grew up with it; but in view of what has happened, I doubt whether my work can be of service. I shall make one more struggle to defend the dear bit of land. Still papa says that his conscience will not let him imprison me in the country, and this is all the more bitter, since it is as if I were the question. Indeed, life seems at times to be touching on irony. Pan Mashko offers papa three thousand life annuity, and the whole amount for the parcelling of Magyerovka. I do not wonder that he seeks his own profit, but through such a bargain he would get the property for almost nothing. Papa himself said to him, "In this way, if I live one year I shall get from Kremen three thousand, for Magyerovka is mine anyhow." Pan Mashko answered that in the present state of affairs the creditors would take the money for Magyerovka; but if papa agrees to the conditions proposed he will receive ready money and may live thirty years, perhaps longer. Which is true also. I know that this project pleases papa in principle; the only question with him is to get as much as he can. In all this there is one consolation,--that if we live in Warsaw, I shall see thee, dear Emilia, and Litka oftener. Sincerely and from my whole soul do I love you both, and know that on your hearts at least I can count always.'" "So then I deprived her of Kremen, but sent her a suitor," said Pan Stanislav, after a moment of silence. While saying this, he did not know that Marynia had put almost the same words into the letter. Pani Emilia had omitted them purposely, not wishing to wound him. During the last visit of the Plavitskis in Warsaw, Mashko had made some advances for the hand of Marynia; she had no need, therefore, of great keenness to divine his reason for buying the claim and coming to Kremen. Just in this was the bitterness that filled her heart, and the deep offence which she felt that Polanyetski had inflicted on her. "It is absolutely needful to explain all this," said Pani Emilia. "I have sent her a suitor!" repeated Pan Stanislav. "I cannot even make the excuse that I did not know of Mashko's designs." Pani Emilia turned Marynia's letter in her delicate fingers some time, and then said suddenly,-- "It cannot rest this way. I wanted to unite you with her because of my friendship for both of you, but now there is a motive the more; to wit, your suffering. It would be a reproach for me to leave you as you are, and I cannot. Do not lose hope. There is a pretty French proverb, and a very ugly Polish one, about woman's strength and will. In truth, I wish greatly to help you." Pan Stanislav seized her hand and raised it to his lips. "You are the best and most honorable person that I have met in the world." "I have been very happy," answered Pani Emilia; "and since I think that there is only one road to happiness, I wish those who are near me to go by it." "You are right. That road, or none! Since I have life, I wish that life to be of use to some one else and to me." "As to me," said Pani Emilia, laughing, "since I have undertaken the rôle of matchmaker for the first time in life, I wish to be of service. But it is necessary to think what must be done now." Saying this, she raised her eyes. The light of the lamp fell directly on her delicate face, which was still very youthful; on her light hair, which was somewhat disarranged above her forehead. There was something in her so bewitching and at the same time so virginal that Pan Stanislav, though he had a head occupied with other things, recalled the name, "maiden widow," which Bukatski had given her. "Marynia is very candid," said she, after a moment's thought, "and will understand better if I write the pure truth to her. I will tell her what you told me: that you went away much pleased with her; that what you have done was done without reckoning with yourself, purely under the influence of the thought that you could not come to an agreement with her father; but at present you regret this most sincerely, you beg her not to take it ill, and not to take away the hope that she will yield to entreaty." "And I will write to Mashko that I will purchase the debt of him at whatever profit he likes." "See," said Pani Emilia, smiling, "that sober, calculating Pan Stanislav, who boasts that he has freed himself from the Polish character and from Polish fickleness." "Yes, yes!" cried Pan Stanislav, with a more joyous tone. "Calculation consists in this, to spare nothing on an object that is worth it." At that moment, however, he grew gloomy and said, "But if she answers that she is Mashko's betrothed?" "I will not admit that. Pan Mashko may be the most honorable of men, but he is not for her. She will not marry without affection. I know that Mashko did not please her at all. That will never take place; you do not know Marynia. Only do, on your part, what you can, and be at rest as to Mashko." "Then, instead of writing, I will telegraph to him to-day. He cannot stop in Kremen long at one time, and must receive my despatch in Warsaw." CHAPTER VIII. Mashko's answer, which Pan Stanislav received two days later, was, "I bought Kremen yesterday." Though it might have been foreseen from Marynia's letter that affairs would take this and no other turn, and the young man was bound to be prepared for it, the news produced the impression of a thunder-clap. It seemed to him that a misfortune had happened, as sudden as it was incurable,--a misfortune for which the whole responsibility fell on him. Pani Emilia, knowing better than any one else Marynia's attachment to Kremen, had also a presentiment which she could not conceal, that by this sale the difficulty of bringing these two young people nearer each other would be increased greatly. "If Mashko does not marry Marynia," said Pan Stanislav, "he will strip old Plavitski in such fashion as to save himself and leave the old man without a copper. If I had sold my claim to the first usurer I met, Plavitski would have wriggled out, paid something, promised more; and the ruin of Kremen would have been deferred for whole years, in the course of which something favorable might have happened; in every case there would have been time to sell Kremen on satisfactory conditions. Now, if they are left without a copper, the fault will be mine." But Pani Emilia looked on the affair from another side: "The evil is not in this alone," said she, "that Kremen is sold. You have caused this sale, and that immediately after seeing Marynia. If some one else had done so, the affair would not have such a significance; but the worst is just this, that Marynia was greatly confident that you would not act thus." Pan Stanislav felt this as vividly as she; and since he was accustomed to give himself a clear account of every position, he understood also that Marynia was the same as lost to him. In view of this, one thing remained,--to acknowledge the fact and seek another wife. But Pan Stanislav's whole soul revolted against this. First, his feeling for Marynia, though sudden, strengthened neither by time nor nearer acquaintance, though resting mainly on the charm, almost exclusively physical, which her form had wrought on him, had grown considerably in recent days. Her letter effected this, and the conviction that he had inflicted a wrong on her. Compassion for her seized him now, and he could not think of her without emotion; in consequence of this, the feeling itself increased through two causes, which play a very important rôle in each masculine heart. First, that energetic, muscular man could never yield passively to the course of events. His nature simply could not endure this. The sight of difficulty roused him to action particularly. Finally, his self-love also was opposed to letting Marynia go. The thought which he must acknowledge to himself sometimes,--that he was only a springe in the hand of that Mashko and one of the means to his objects; that he had let himself be abused, or at least used by the advocate,--filled him with rage. Though Mashko should not receive Marynia's hand, though the affair should end with Kremen, even that was more than Pan Stanislav could suffer. Now an irrestrainable desire seized him to go and take the field against Mashko, to throw a stone under his feet, to cross his further plans, at least, and show him that his keenness of an advocate was not enough in a meeting with real manly energy. All these, as well as the more noble motives, urged Pan Stanislav with irresistible force to undertake something, to do something. Meanwhile the position was such that there remained well-nigh nothing to do. Precisely in this contradiction was hidden the tragedy. To remain in Reichenhall, let Mashko carry out his plans, extend his nets, work for the hand of Panna Plavitski--no! not for anything! But what was he to do? To this last question there was no answer. For the first time in life Pan Stanislav felt as if he were chained; and the less he was accustomed to such a position, the more did he bear it with difficulty. He learned too, for the first time, what sleeplessness means, what excited nerves are. Since Litka, during the days just preceding, felt worse again, there hung over the whole society a leaden atmosphere in which life was becoming unendurable. After a week another letter came from Marynia. This time there was no mention either of Pan Stanislav or Mashko. Marynia wrote only about the sale of Kremen, without complaint, and without explanation of how the affair had taken place. But from this alone he might infer how deeply the sale had wounded her. It would have pleased Pan Stanislav more had she complained. He understood clearly, too, that silence in the letter touching him showed how far he had been excluded from the heart of that lady, while silence touching Mashko might show directly the opposite. Finally, if she valued that Kremen so much, she might return to it by giving her hand to its present owner; perhaps she had become reconciled by that thought. Old Plavitski had his prejudices of a noble, it is true, and Pan Stanislav counted on them; but, considering the man as an egotist above all, he admitted that in the present case he would sacrifice his daughter and his prejudices. In the end of ends, to remain with folded arms at Reichenhall, and wait for news as to whether Pan Mashko would be pleased to offer his hand to Panna Plavitski, became for Pan Stanislav simply impossible. Litka, too, from time to time begged her mother to return to Warsaw. Pan Stanislav determined, therefore, to return, all the more as the time was approaching when he and Bigiel had to begin a new affair. This decision brought him great solace at once. He would return; he would examine the position with his own eyes, and perhaps undertake something. In every case it would be better than sitting at Reichenhall. Both Pani Emilia and Litka heard the news of his departure without surprise. They knew that he had come only for a few weeks, and they hoped to see him soon in Warsaw. Pani Emilia was to go in the middle of August. For the rest of the month she decided to remain with Vaskovski in Salzburg, and return then to Warsaw. Meanwhile she promised to inform Pan Stanislav of Litka's health frequently, and besides correspond with Marynia and learn what her thoughts really were touching Mashko. On the day of his departure, Pani Emilia and Litka, with Vaskovski, took farewell of him at the station. When in the compartment, he was rather sorry to go. Happen what might, he knew not how things would turn out at Warsaw; here he was surrounded by persons who were the sincerest well-wishers that he had in the world. Looking out through the window, he beheld the sad eyes of Litka raised toward him, and the friendly face of Pani Emilia, with the same feeling as if they had been his own family. And again that uncommon beauty of the young widow struck him,--her features, delicate to the verge of excess, her angelic expression of face, and her form perfectly maidenlike, dressed in black. "Farewell," said Pani Emilia, "and write to us from Warsaw; we shall see each other in three weeks or sooner." "In three weeks," repeated Pan Stanislav. "I will write certainly. Till we meet again, Litus!" "Till we meet again! Bow from me to Evka and Yoasia." "I will do so." And he stretched out his hand through the window again: "Till our next meeting! Remember your friend." "We will not forget; we will not forget. Do you wish me to repeat a novena for your intention?" asked Pani Emilia, smiling. "Thank you for that too. Do so. Till we meet again, Professor." The train moved that moment. Pani Emilia and Litka waved their parasols till the more frequent puffing of the engine hid, with rolls of steam and smoke, the window through which Pan Stanislav was looking. "Mamma," asked Litka, "is it really necessary to say a novena for Pan Stas?" "Yes, Litus. He is so kind to us, we must pray to God to make him happy." "But is he unhappy?" "No--that is--seest thou, every one has trouble, and he has his." "I know; I heard in Thumsee," said the little girl. And after a while she added in a low voice,-- "I will say a novena." But Professor Vaskovski, who was so honest that he could not hold his tongue, said after a time to Pani Emilia, when Litka had gone forward,-- "That is a golden heart, and he loves you both as a brother. Now that the specialist has assured us that there is not the least fear, I can tell everything. Pan Stanislav brought him here purposely, for he was alarmed about the little girl in Thumsee." "Did he bring him?" asked Pani Emilia. "What a man!" And tears of gratitude came to her eyes. After a while she said, "But I will reward him, for I will give him Marynia." Pan Stanislav went away with a heart full of good wishes and gratitude to Pani Emilia, for the man who has failed and for that reason falls into trouble, feels the friendship of people more keenly than others. Sitting in the corner of the compartment, with the image of Pani Emilia fresh in his mind, he said to himself,-- "If I had fallen in love with her! What rest, what certainty of happiness! An object in life would have been found; I should know for whom I am working, I should know whose I am, I should know that my existence has some meaning. She says, it is true, that she will not marry, but me!--she might, who knows? That other is perfection, perhaps, but she may have a very dry heart." Here he feels suddenly: "Still I can think calmly about Pani Emilia; while at every recollection of that other a certain unquiet seizes me, which is at once both bitter and agreeable. I am drawn by something toward that other. I have just pressed Pani Emilia's hand, and that pressure has left no sensation; while even now I remember the warm palm of Marynia, and feel a certain species of quiver at the very thought of it." As far as Salzburg, Pan Stanislav thought only of "that other." This time his thoughts began to take the form, if not of resolves, at least of questions,--how is he to act toward her, and what in this state of affairs is his duty? "It is not to be denied that I caused the sale of Kremen," said he to himself. "Kremen had for her not only the money value, which might perhaps have been drawn from it had the sale not been hastened, but also the value with which her heart was bound to the place. I have deprived her of both. Briefly speaking, I have wronged her. I have acted legally; but for a conscience made up of something more than paragraphs, that is not sufficient. I have offended her, I confess, and I must correct my fault in some way. But how? Buy Kremen from Mashko? I am not rich enough. I might perhaps do so by dissolving partnership with Bigiel and withdrawing all my capital; but that is materially impossible. Bigiel might fail, should I do that; hence I will not do it. There is one other way,--to keep up relations as best I can with Plavitski, and propose later on for the hand of his daughter. If rejected, I shall have done at least what behooves me." But here that second internal man, of whom Pan Stanislav made mention, raised his voice and began,-- "Do not shield thyself with a question of conscience. If Panna Plavitski were ten years older and ugly, thou mightst have caused in the same way the sale of Kremen, and taken from her everything which thou hast taken, and still it would not have come to thy head to ask for her hand. Tell thyself straightway that Panna Plavitski draws thee, as with nippers, by her face, her eyes, her lips, her arms, her whole person, and do not tempt thyself." But, in general, Pan Stanislav held that second internal man firmly, and treated him sometimes with very slight ceremony. Following this method, he said to him,-- "First, thou knowest not, fool, that even in that case I should not try to make good the injury. That at present I wish to make it good by proposing for the lady is natural. Men always ask to marry women who please them, not those for whom they feel repulsion. If thou hast nothing better to say, then be silent." The internal man ventured a few more timid remarks, as, for instance, that Plavitski might give command to throw Pan Stanislav downstairs; that in the best case he might not permit him to cross the threshold. But somehow Pan Stanislav was not afraid of this. "People," thought he, "do not use such means now; and if the Plavitskis do not receive me, so much the worse for them." He admitted, however, that if they had even a little tact they would receive him. He knew that he would see Marynia at Pani Emilia's. Meditating in this way, he arrived at Salzburg. There was one hour till the arrival of the train from Monachium, by which he was to go to Vienna; hence he decided to walk about the town. That moment he saw in the restaurant the bright-colored pea-jacket of Bukatski, his monocle, and his small head, covered with a still smaller soft cap. "Bukatski or his spirit!" cried he. "Calm thyself, Pan Stanislav," answered Bukatski, phlegmatically, greeting him as if they had parted an hour before. "How art thou?" "What art thou doing here?" "Eating a cutlet." "To Reichenhall?" "Yes. But thou art homeward?" "Yes." "Thou hast proposed to Pani Emilia?" "No." "Then I forgive thee. Thou mayst go." "Keep thy conceits for a fitter season. Litka is in very great danger." Bukatski grew serious, and said, raising his brows,--"Ai, ai! Is that perfectly certain?" Pan Stanislav told briefly the opinion of the doctor. Bukatski listened for a while; then he said,-- "And is a man not to be a pessimist in this case? Poor child and poor mother! In the event of misfortune, I cannot imagine in any way how she will endure it." "She is very religious; but it is terrible to think of this." "Let us walk through the town a little," said Bukatski; "one might stifle here." They went out. "And a man in such straits is not to be a pessimist!" exclaimed Bukatski. "What is Litka? Simply a dove! Every one would spare her; but death will not spare her." Pan Stanislav was silent. "I know not myself now," continued Bukatski, "whether to go to Reichenhall or not. In Warsaw, when Pani Emilia is there, even I can hold out. Once a month I propose to her, once a month I receive a refusal; and thus I live from the first of one month to the first of the next. The first of the month has just passed, and I am anxious for my pension. Is the mother aware of the little girl's condition?" "No. The child is in danger; but perhaps a couple of years remain yet to her." "Ah! perhaps no more remain to any of us. Tell me, dost thou think of death often?" "No. How would that help me? I know that I must lose the case; therefore I do not break my head over it, especially before the time." "In this is the point,--we must lose, but still we keep up the trial to the end. This is the whole sense of life, which otherwise would be simply a dreary farce, but now it is a dull tragedy as well. As to me, I have three things at present to choose from: to hang myself, go to Reichenhall, or go to Monachium to see Boecklin's pictures once more. If I were logical, I should choose the first; since I am not, I'll choose Reichenhall. Pani Emilia is worth the Boecklins, both as to outline and color." "What is to be heard in Warsaw?" asked on a sudden Pan Stanislav, who had had that question on his lips from the first of the conversation. "Hast thou seen Mashko?" "I have. He has bought Kremen, he is a great landholder, and, since he has wit, he is using all his power not to seem too great. He is polite, sensible, flattering, accessible; he is changed, not to my advantage, it is true, for what do I care? but surely to his own." "Isn't he going to marry Panna Plavitski?" "I hear that he wants to. Thy partner, Bigiel, said something of this, also that Mashko bought Kremen on conditions more than favorable. Thou wilt find clearer news in the city." "Where are the Plavitskis at present?" "In Warsaw. They are living in the Hotel Rome. The young woman is not at all ugly. I called on them as a cousin, and talked about thee." "Thou mightst have chosen a more agreeable subject for them." "Plavitski, who is glad of what has happened, told me that thou hadst done them a service, without wishing it certainly, but thou hadst done it. I asked the young lady how it was that she saw thee in Kremen for the first time. She answered that during her visit in Warsaw thou must have been in foreign countries." "In fact, I was gone then on business of the firm to Berlin, and I remained there some time." "Indeed, I did not observe that they were offended at thee. I heard so much, however, of the young lady's love of country life, that she must, I admit, be a little angry at thee for having taken Kremen from her. In every case, she does not show any anger." "Perhaps she will show it only to me; and the opportunity will not be lacking, for I shall visit them immediately after my return." "In that case do me one little service: marry the lady, for of two evils I prefer to be thy cousin rather than Mashko's." "Very well," replied Pan Stanislav, curtly. CHAPTER IX. After his return to Warsaw, Pan Stanislav went first of all to Bigiel, who told him minutely the conditions on which Kremen was sold. Those conditions were very profitable for Mashko. He bound himself to pay at the end of a year thirty-five thousand rubles, which were to come from the parcelling of Magyerovka, and besides to pay three thousand yearly till the death of Pan Plavitski. To Pan Stanislav the bargain did not seem at first too unfavorable for Plavitski; but Bigiel was of another opinion. "I do not judge people too hastily," said he; "but Plavitski is an incurable old egotist who has sacrificed the future of his child to his own comfort, and, besides, he is frivolous. In this case the annuity is placed as it were on Kremen; but Kremen, as a ruined estate, on which there is need to spend money, has a fictitious value. If Mashko puts it in order, very well; if not, in the most favorable event he will fall behind in payment, and Plavitski may not see a copper for years. What will he do then? He will take Kremen back. But before that time Mashko will contract new debts, even to pay the old ones; and, in case of his bankruptcy, God knows how many creditors will stretch their hands after Kremen. Finally, all depends on the honesty of Mashko, who may be a correct man, but he is carrying on business riskily; if he takes one false step, it may ruin him. Who knows if this very purchase of Kremen be not such a step?--for, wishing to bring the estate into order, he must draw on his credit to the utmost. I have seen men who succeeded a long time until they turned to buying great estates." "The ready money for Magyerovka will remain with the Plavitskis always," said Pan Stanislav, as if wishing to quiet his own fears for their future. "If old Plavitski does not eat it up, or play it away, or waste it." "I must think of something. I caused the sale; I must help." "Thou?" asked Bigiel, with astonishment. "I thought that thy relations were broken forever." "I shall try to renew them. I will visit the Plavitskis to-morrow." "I do not know that they will be glad to see thee." "And I myself do not know." "Dost wish I will go with thee? For it is a question of breaking the ice. They may not receive thee alone. It is a pity that my wife is not here. I sit by myself whole evenings and play on the violoncello. During the day I have time enough too; I can go with thee." Pan Stanislav, however, refused, and next day he dressed himself with great care and went alone. He knew that he was a presentable man; and though usually he did not think much of this, he resolved now to omit nothing which might speak in his favor. On the way he had his head full of thoughts as to what he should say, what he should do in this case or that one, and he tried to foresee how they would receive him. "I will be as simple and outspoken as possible," said he to himself; "that is the best method absolutely." And, before he noted it, he found himself at the Hotel Rome. His heart began to beat then more quickly. "It would not be bad," thought he, "if I should not find them at home. I could leave a card and see later on if Plavitski would acknowledge my visit." But straightway he said to himself, "Don't be a coward," and went forward. Learning from the servant that Plavitski was at home, he sent in his card, and after a while was invited to enter. Plavitski was sitting at a table writing letters, drawing at intervals smoke from a pipe with a great amber mouthpiece. At sight of Pan Stanislav he raised his head, and, looking at him through gold-rimmed glasses, said,-- "I beg, I beg!" "I learned from Bigiel that you and Panna Plavitski were in Warsaw," said Pan Stanislav, "and I came to pay my respects." "That was very pretty on thy part," answered Plavitski, "and, to tell the truth, I did not expect it. We parted in a bitter manner and through thy fault. But since thou hast felt it thy duty to visit me, I, as the older, open my arms to thee a second time." The opening of the arms, however, was confined to reaching across the table a hand, which Pan Stanislav pressed, saying in his own mind,-- "May the Evil One take me, if I come here to thee, and if I feel toward thee any obligation!" After a while he asked, "You and your daughter are coming to live in Warsaw?" "Yes. I am an old man of the country, accustomed to rise with the sun and to work in the fields; it will be grievous for me in your Warsaw. But it was not right to imprison my child; hence I made one sacrifice more for her." Pan Stanislav, who had spent two nights in Kremen, remembered that Plavitski rose about eleven in the forenoon, and that he labored specially about the business of Kremen, not its fields; he passed this, however, in silence, for he had a head occupied with something else at that moment. From the chamber which Plavitski occupied, an open door led to another, which must be Marynia's. It occurred to Pan Stanislav, who was looking in the direction of that door from the time of his entrance, that perhaps she did not wish to come out; therefore he inquired,-- "But shall I not have the pleasure of seeing Panna Marynia?" "Marynia has gone to look at lodgings which I found this morning. She will come directly, for they are only a couple of steps distant. Imagine to thyself a plaything, not lodgings. I shall have a cabinet and a sleeping-room; Marynia also a very nice little chamber,--the dining-room is a trifle dark, it is true; but the drawing-room is a candy-box." Here Plavitski passed into a narrative concerning his lodgings, with the volubility of a child amused by something, or of an old lover of comfort, who smiles at every improvement. At last he said,-- "I had barely looked around when I found myself at home. Dear Warsaw is my old friend; I know her well." But at that moment some one entered the adjoining room. "That is Marynia, surely," said Plavitski. "Marynia, art thou there?" called he. "I am," answered a youthful voice. "Come here; we have a guest." Marynia appeared in the door. At sight of Pan Stanislav, astonishment shone on her face. He, rising, bowed; and when she approached the table, he stretched out his hand in greeting. She gave him her own with as much coldness as politeness. Then she turned to her father, as if no one else were present in the room,-- "I have seen the lodgings; they are neat and comfortable, but I am not sure that the street is not too noisy." "All streets are noisy," answered Plavitski. "Warsaw is not a village." "Pardon me; I will go to remove my hat," said Marynia. And, returning to her room, she did not appear for some time. "She will not show herself again," thought Pan Stanislav. But evidently she was only arranging her hair before the mirror, after removing her hat; she entered a second time, and asked,-- "Am I interrupting?" "No," said Plavitski, "we have no business now, for which, speaking in parenthesis, I am very glad. Pan Polanyetski has come only through politeness." Pan Stanislav blushed a little, and, wishing to change the subject, said,-- "I am returning from Reichenhall; I bring you greetings from Pani Emilia and Litka, and that is one reason why I made bold to come." For a moment the cool self-possession on Marynia's face vanished. "Emilia wrote to me of Litka's heart attack," said she. "How is she now?" "There has not been a second attack." "I expect another letter, and it may have come; but I have not received it, for Emilia addressed it very likely to Kremen." "They will send it," said Plavitski; "I gave directions to send all the mail here." "You will not go back to the country, then?" asked Pan Stanislav. "No; we will not," answered Marynia, whose eyes recovered their expression of cool self-possession. A moment of silence followed. Pan Stanislav looked at the young lady, and seemed to be struggling with himself. Her face attracted him with new power. He felt now more clearly that in such a person precisely he would find most to please him, that he could love such a one, that she is the type of his chosen woman, and all the more her coldness became unendurable. He would give now, God knows what, to find again in those features the expression which he saw in Kremen, the interest in his words, and the attention, the transparency in those eyes full of smiles and roused curiosity. He would give, God knows what, to have all this return, and he knew not by what method to make it return, by a slow or a quick one; for this cause he hesitated. He chose at last that which agreed best with his nature. "I knew," said he, suddenly, "how you loved Kremen, and in spite of that, perhaps, it is I who caused its sale. If that be the case, I tell you openly that I regret the act acutely, and shall never cease to regret it. In my defence I cannot even say that I did it while excited, and without intent. Nay, I had an intent; only it was malicious and irrational. All the greater is my fault, and all the more do I entreat your forgiveness." When he had said this, he rose. His cheeks were flushed, and from his eyes shone truth and sincerity; but his words remained without effect. Pan Stanislav went by a false road. He knew women in general too slightly to render account to himself of how far their judgments, especially their judgments touching men, are dependent on their feelings, both transient and permanent. In virtue of these feelings, anything may be taken as good or bad money; anything interpreted for evil or good, recognized as true or false; stupidity may be counted reason, reason stupidity, egotism devotion, devotion egotism, rudeness sincerity, sincerity lack of delicacy. The man who in a given moment rouses dislike, cannot be right with a woman, cannot be sincere, cannot be just, cannot be well-bred. So Marynia, feeling deep aversion and resentment toward Pan Stanislav from the time of Mashko's coming to Kremen, took sincerity simply ill of him. Her first thought was: "What kind of man is this who recognizes as unreasonable and bad that which a few days ago he did with calculation?" Then Kremen, the sale of the place, Mashko's visit and the meaning of that visit, which she divined, were for her like a wound festering more and more. And now it seemed to her that Pan Stanislav was opening that wound with all the unsparingness of a man of rough nature and rude nerves. He rose, and with eyes fixed on her face, waited to see if a friendly and forgiving hand would not be extended to him, with a clear feeling that one such stretching forth of a hand might decide his fate; but her eyes grew dark for a moment, as if from pain and anger, and her face became still colder. "Let not that annoy you," said she, with icy politeness. "On the contrary, papa is very much satisfied with the bargain and with the whole arrangement with Pan Mashko." She rose then, as if understanding that Pan Stanislav wished to take leave. He stood a moment stricken, disappointed, full of resentment and suppressed anger, full of that feeling of mortification which a man has when he is rejected. "If that is true, I desire nothing more." "It is, it is! I did a good business," concluded Plavitski. Pan Stanislav went out, and, descending a number of steps at a time with hat pressed down on his head, he repeated mentally,-- "A foot of mine will not be in your house again." He felt, however, that, if he were to go home, anger would stifle him; he walked on, therefore, not thinking whither his feet were bearing him. It seemed to him at that moment that he did not love Marynia, that he even hated her; but still he thought about her, and if he had thought more calmly he would have told himself that the mere sight of her had affected him deeply. He had seen her now a second time, had looked on her, had compared that image of her which he had borne in his memory with the reality; the image became thereby still more definite, more really attractive, and acted the more powerfully on him. And, in spite of the anger, in the depth of his soul an immense liking for her raised its head, and a delight in the woman. There existed, as it were, for him two Marynias,--one the mild, friendly Marynia of Kremen, listening and ready to love; the other that icy young lady of Warsaw, who had rejected him. A woman often becomes dual in this way in the heart of a man, which is then most frequently ready to forgive this unfriendly one for the sake of that loved one. Pan Stanislav did not even admit that Marynia could be such as she had shown herself that day; hence there was in his anger a certain surprise. Knowing his own undeniable worth, and being conceited enough, he carried within him a conviction, which he would not acknowledge to himself, that it was enough for him to extend his hand to have it seized. This time it turned out differently. That mild Marynia appeared suddenly, not only in the rôle of a judge, who utters sentences and condemns, but also in the rôle, as it were, of a queen, with whom it is possible to be in favor or disfavor. Pan Stanislav could not accustom himself to this thought, and he struggled with it; but such is human nature that, when he learned that for that lady he was not so much desired as he had thought, that she not only did not over-value him, but esteemed him lower than herself, in spite of his displeasure, offence, and anger, her value increased in his eyes. His self-love was wounded; but, on the other hand, his will, in reality strong, was ready to rush to the struggle with difficulties, and crush them. All these thoughts were circling chaotically in his head, or, instead of thoughts, they were rather feelings torn and tearing themselves. He repeated a hundred times to himself that he would drop the whole matter, that he must and wished to do so; and at the same time he was so weak and small that somewhere in the most secret corner of his soul he was counting that very moment on the arrival of Pani Emilia, and on the aid which her arrival would bring him. Sunk in this mental struggle, he did not recollect himself till he was halfway on the Zyazd, when he asked, "Why the misery have I gone to Praga?" He halted. The day was fine and was inclining toward evening. Lower down, the Vistula was flowing in the gleam of the sun; and beyond it and beyond the nearer clumps of green, a broad country was visible, covered on the horizon with a rosy and blue haze. Far away, beyond that haze, was Kremen, which Marynia had loved and which she had lost. Pan Stanislav, fixing his eyes on the haze, said to himself,-- "I am curious to know what she would have done had I given Kremen to her." He could not imagine that to himself definitely; but he thought that the loss of that land was for her a great bitterness really, and he regretted it. In this sorrow his anger began to scatter and vanish as mist. His conscience whispered that he had received what he earned. Returning, he said to himself, "But I am thinking of all this continually." And really he was. Never had he experienced, in the most important money questions, even half the disquiet, never had he been absorbed so deeply. And again he remembered what Vaskovski had said of himself, that his nature, like Pan Stanislav's, could not fix its whole power on the acquisition of money. Never had he felt with such clearness that there might be questions more important than those of wealth, and simply more positive. For the second time a certain astonishment seized him. It was nearly nine when he went to Bigiel's. Bigiel was sitting in a spacious, empty house with doors opening on the garden veranda; he was playing on a violoncello in such fashion that everything through the house was quivering. When he saw Pan Stanislav he broke off a certain tremolo and inquired,-- "Hast thou been at the Plavitskis' to-day?" "Yes." "How was the young lady?" "Like a decanter of chilled water. On such a hot day that is agreeable. They are polite people, however." "I foresaw this." "Play on." Bigiel began to play "Träumerei," and while playing closed his eyes, or turned them to the moon. In the stillness the music seemed to fill with sweetness the house, the garden, and the night itself. When he had finished, he was silent for a time, and then said,-- "Knowest what? When Pani Emilia comes, my wife will ask her to the country, and with her Marynia. Maybe those ices will thaw then between you." "Play the 'Träumerei' once more." The sounds were given out a second time, with calmness and imagination. Pan Stanislav was too young not to be somewhat of a dreamer; hence he imagined that Marynia was listening with him to the "Träumerei," with her hand in his hands, with her head on his bosom, loving much, and beloved above all in the world. CHAPTER X. Pan Plavitski was what is called a well-bred man, for he returned Pan Stanislav's visit on the third day. He did not return it on the second, for such haste would have indicated a wish to maintain intimate relations; and not on the fourth nor the fifth, for that would have shown a want of acquaintance with the habits of society,--but only within the period most specially and exclusively indicated by command of _savoir vivre_. Plavitski prided himself all his life on a knowledge of those commands, and esteemed them as his own; the observances of them he considered as the highest human wisdom. It is true that, as a man of sense, he permitted other branches of knowledge to exist, on condition, however, that they should not be overestimated; and especially, that they should not have the claim to force themselves on to people who were truly well-bred. Pan Stanislav--for whom everything was desirable that would strengthen in any way the thread of further relations with Marynia--was hardly able to conceal his delight at the arrival of Plavitski. That delight was evident in his agreeable reception, full of good-humor. He must have been astonished, besides, at Plavitski, and the influence which the city had exercised on him. His hair shone like the wing of a raven; his little mustaches were sticking up, vying with the color of his hair; his white shirt covered a slender form; his scarf-pin and black vest gave a certain holiday brilliancy to his whole figure. "On my word, I did not recognize my uncle at the first moment!" cried Pan Stanislav. "I thought that some youngster was coming." "_Bon jour, bon jour!_" answered Plavitski. "The day is cloudy; a little dark here. It must be for that reason that thou didst mistake me for a stripling." "Cloudy or clear, what a figure!" answered Pan Stanislav. And seizing Plavitski by the side, without ceremony, he began to turn him around and say-- "A waist just like a young lady's! Would that I might have such a one!" Plavitski, offended greatly by such an unceremonious greeting, but still more delighted at the admiration roused by his person, said, defending himself,-- "_Voyons!_ Thou art a lunatic. I might be angry. Thou art a lunatic!" "But uncle will turn as many heads as he pleases." "What dost thou say?" asked Plavitski, sitting down in an armchair. "I say that uncle has come here for conquest." "I have no thought whatever of that. Thou art a lunatic!" "But Pani Yamish? or haven't I seen with my own eyes--" "What?" Here Plavitski shut one eye and thrust out the point of his tongue; but that lasted only an instant, then he raised his brows, and said,-- "Well, as to Pani Yamish? She is well enough in Kremen. Between thee and me, I cannot endure affectation,--it savors of the country. May the Lord God not remember, for Pani Yamish, how much she has tortured me with her affectation: a woman should have courage to grow old, then a relation would end in friendship; otherwise it becomes slavery." "And my dear uncle felt like a butterfly in bonds?" "But don't talk in that way," answered Plavitski, with dignity, "and do not imagine that there was anything between us. Even if there had been, thou wouldst not have heard a word about it from me. Believe me, there is a great difference between you of this and us of the preceding generation. We were not saints, perhaps; but we knew how to be silent, and that is a great virtue, without which what is called true nobility cannot exist." "From this I infer that uncle will not confess to me where he is going, with this carnation in his buttonhole?" "Oh, yes, yes! Mashko invited me to-day to dine with a number of other persons. At first I refused, not wishing to leave Marynia alone. But I have sat so many years in the country for her sake that in truth a little recreation is due to me. But art thou not invited?" "No." "That astonishes me: thou art, as thou sayest, an 'affairist'; but thou bearest a good family name. For that matter, Mashko is an advocate himself. But, in general, I confess that I did not suspect in Mashko the power to place himself as he has." "Mashko could place himself even on his head--" "He goes everywhere; all receive him. Once I had a prejudice against him." "And has uncle none now?" "I must acknowledge that he has acted with me in all that business of Kremen like a gentleman." "Is Panna Marynia of the same opinion?" "Certainly; though I think that Kremen lies on her heart. I got rid of it for her sake, but youth cannot understand everything. I knew about her views, however, and am ready to endure every bitterness with calm. As to Mashko, in truth, she cannot cast reproach at him for anything. He bought Kremen, it is true, but--" "But he is ready to give it back?" "Thou art of the family, so, speaking between us, I think that that is true. Marynia occupied him greatly, even during our former visit to Warsaw; but somehow the affair did not move. The maiden was too young; he did not please her sufficiently; I was a little opposed myself, for I was prejudiced as to his family. Bukatski sharpened his teeth at him, so it ended in nothing." "It did not end, since it is beginning again." "It is, for I am convinced that he comes of a very good family, once Italian and formerly called Masco. They came here with Queen Bona, and settled in White Russia at that time. He, if thou hast noticed it, has a face somewhat Italian." "No; he has a Portuguese face." "That is all one, however. But the plan to sell Kremen and still to keep it--no common head could have worked that out. As to Mashko--yes I think that such is his plan. Marynia is a strange girl, though. It is bitter to say this, that a man understands a stranger sooner than his own child. But if she will only say as Talleyrand did, '_Paris vaut la messe_.'" "Ah, I thought that it was Henry IV. who said that." "Thou didst, for thou art an 'affairist,' a man of recent times. History and ancient deeds are not to the taste of you young men, ye prefer to make money. Everything depends, then, on Marynia; but I will not hurry her. I will not, for, finally, with our connections, a better match may be found. It is necessary to go out a little among people and find old acquaintances. That is only toil and torment; but what is necessary, is necessary. Thou thinkest that I go to this dinner with pleasure. No! but I must receive young people sometimes. I hope too that thou wilt not forget us." "No, no; I will not." "Dost know what they say of thee?--that thou art making money infernally. Well, well, I don't know whom thou art like--not like thy father! In every case, I am not the man to blame thee, no, no! Thou didst throttle me without mercy, didst treat me as the wolf did the lamb; but there is in thee something which pleases me,--I have for thee a kind of weakness." "The feeling is mutual." said Pan Stanislav. In fact, Plavitski did not lie. He had an instinctive respect for property, and that young man, who was gaining it, roused in him a certain admiration, bordering on sympathy. He was not some poor relative who might ask for assistance; and therefore Plavitski, though for the moment he had no calculations in regard to Pan Stanislav, resolved to keep up relations with him. At the end of the visit he began to look around on the apartments. "Thou hast fine lodgings!" said he. That, too, was true. Pan Stanislav had a dwelling furnished as if he were about to marry. The furnishing itself caused him pleasure, for it gave a certain show of reality to his wishes. Plavitski, looking around at the drawing-room, beyond which was another smaller apartment furnished very elegantly, inquired,-- "Why not marry?" "I will when I can." Plavitski smiled cunningly, and, patting Pan Stanislav on the knee, began to repeat,-- "I know whom; I know whom." "Wit is needed in this case!" cried Pan Stanislav; "try to keep a secret from such a diplomat." "Ah ha! whom? The widow, the widow--whom?" "Dear uncle!" "Well? May God bless thee, as I bless thee! But now I am going, for it is time to dine, and in the evening there will be a concert in Dolina." "In company with Mashko?" "No, with Marynia; but Mashko too will be there." "I will go also, with Bigiel." "Then we shall see each other. A mountain cannot meet a mountain, but a man may meet a man any time." "As Talleyrand said." "Till our next meeting, then!" Pan Stanislav liked music at times; he had had no thought, though, of going to this concert; but when Plavitski mentioned it, a desire of seeing Mashko seized him. After Plavitski had gone, he thought some time yet whether to go or not; but it might be said that he did this for form's sake, since he knew in advance that he would not hold out and would go. Bigiel, who came to him for a business consultation in the afternoon, let himself be persuaded easily, and about four o'clock they were in Dolina. The day, though in September, was so warm and pleasant that people had assembled numerously; the whole audience had a summer look. On all sides were bright-colored dresses, parasols, and youthful women, who had swarmed forth like many-colored butterflies, warmed by the sun. In this swarm, predestined for love, or already the object of that feeling and entertaining it, and assembled there for the pursuit of love and for music, Marynia also was to appear. Pan Stanislav remembered his student years, when he was enamoured of unknown maidens whom he sought in throngs of people, and made mistakes every moment, through similarity of hat, hair, and general appearance. And it happened now to him, to mistake at a distance a number of persons for Marynia,--persons more or less like her; and now, as before, whenever he said to himself, "This is she!" he felt those quivers at the heart, that disquiet which he had felt formerly. To-day, however, anger came on him, for this seemed to him ridiculous; and, besides, he felt that such eagerness for meetings and interviews, by occupying a man, and fixing his attention on one woman, increases the interest which she excites, and binds him all the more to her. Meanwhile the orchestra began to play before he could find her for whom he was looking. It was necessary to sit down and listen, which he did unwillingly, secretly impatient with Bigiel, who listened with closed eyes. After the piece was ended, he saw at last Plavitski's shining cylinder, and his black mustaches; beyond him the profile of Marynia. Mashko sat third, calm, full of distinction, with the mien of an English lord. At times he talked to Marynia, and she turned to him, nodding slightly. "The Plavitskis are there," said Pan Stanislav. "We must greet them." "Where dost thou see them?" "Over there, with Mashko." "True. Let us go." And they went. Marynia, who liked Pani Bigiel, greeted Bigiel very cordially. She bowed to Pan Stanislav not with such coolness as to arrest attention; but she talked with Bigiel, inquiring for the health of his wife and children. In answer, he invited her and her father very earnestly to visit them on the following week, at his place in the country. "My wife will be happy, very happy!" repeated he. "Pani Emilia too will come." Marynia tried to refuse; but Plavitski, who sought entertainment, and who knew from his former stay in Warsaw that Bigiel lived well, accepted. It was settled that they would dine, and return in the evening. The trip was an easy one, for Bigiel's villa was only one station distant from Warsaw. "Meanwhile sit near us," said Plavitski; "right here a number of seats are unoccupied." Pan Stanislav had turned already to Marynia,-- "Have you news from Pani Emilia?" "I wished to ask if you had," answered she. "I have not; but to-morrow I shall inquire about Litka by telegram." Here the conversation stopped. Bigiel took the seat next to Plavitski, Pan Stanislav on the outside. Marynia turned to Mashko again, so that Pan Stanislav could see only her profile, and that not completely. It seemed to him that she had grown somewhat thin, or at least her complexion had become paler and more delicate during her stay of a few weeks in Warsaw; hence her long eyelashes were more sharply defined and seemed to cast more shade. Her whole form had become more exquisite, as it were. The effect was heightened by a careful toilet and equally careful arrangement of hair, the style of which was different from what it had been. Formerly she wore her hair bound lower down, now it was dressed more in fashion; that is, high under her hat. Pan Stanislav noted her elegant form at a glance, and admired with his whole soul the charm of it, which was evident in everything, even in the way in which she held her hands on her knees. She seemed very beautiful to him. He felt again with great force that if every man bears within him his own type of female charm, which is the measure of the impression that a given woman makes on him, Marynia is for him so near his type that she and it are almost identical, and, looking at her, he said to himself,-- "Oh to have such a wife, to have such a wife!" But she turned to Mashko. Perhaps she turned even too often; and if Pan Stanislav had preserved all his coolness of blood, he might have thought that she did so to annoy him, and that was the case, perhaps. Their conversation must have been animated, however, for, from time to time, a bright blush flashed over her face. "But she is simply playing the coquette with him," thought Pan Stanislav, gritting his teeth. And he wanted absolutely to hear what they were saying; that was difficult, however. The audience, during the long intervals, was noisy enough. Separated by two persons from Marynia, Pan Stanislav could not hear what she said; but after a new piece of music had been finished, he heard single words and opinions from Mashko, who had the habit of speaking with emphasis, so as to give greater weight to each word. "I like him," said Mashko. "Every man has a weakness; his weakness is money--I am grateful to him, for he persuaded me--to Kremen--I think, besides, that he is a sincere well-wisher of yours, for he has not spared--I confess, too, that he roused my curiosity." Marynia answered something with great vivacity; then Pan Stanislav heard again the end of Mashko's answer,-- "A character not formed yet, and intelligence perhaps less than energy, but a nature rather good." Pan Stanislav understood perfectly that they were talking of him, and recognized Mashko's tactics equally well. To judge, as it were, with reason and impartially, rather, to praise, or at least to recognize various qualities, and at the same time to strip them of every charm, was a method well known to the young advocate. Through this he raised himself to the exceptional, and, as it were, higher position of a judge. Pan Stanislav knew, too, that Mashko spoke not so much with intent to lower him, as to exalt himself, and that likely he would have said the same thing of every other young man in whom he might suspect a possible rival. They were finally the tactics which Pan Stanislav himself might have used in a similar case; this did not hinder him, however, from considering them in Mashko as the acme of perversity, and he determined to pay him if the opportunity offered. Toward the end of the concert he was able to see how far Mashko was assuming the rôle of suitor. When Marynia, wishing to tie her veil, had removed her gloves and they had fallen from her knees, Mashko raised them and held them, together with her parasol; at the same time he took her wrap from the side of the chair and placed it across his arm, so as to give it to her when they were leaving the garden,--in a word, he was entirely occupied with the lady, though he preserved the coolness and tact of a genuine man of society. He seemed also sure of himself and happy. In fact, Marynia, beyond the brief conversation with Bigiel, talked only with Mashko during the time when she was not listening to the music. When they moved toward the gate, she went with him and before her father. Again Pan Stanislav saw her smiling profile turning to Mashko. While talking, they looked into each other's eyes. Her face was vivacious, and her attention directed exclusively to what he was saying. She was, in fact, coquetting with Mashko, who saw it himself, without admitting, however, for a moment, in spite of his cleverness, that she could do so merely to worry Pan Stanislav. Before the gate a carriage was waiting in which Mashko seated her and her father. He began then to take leave of them; but Marynia, inclining toward him, said,-- "How is this? Papa has invited you; is it not true, papa?" "He was to come with us," said Plavitski. Mashko took his seat in the carriage, and they drove away, exchanging bows with Bigiel and Pan Stanislav. The two friends walked on a good while in silence; at last Pan Stanislav said, feigning calmness in his voice,-- "I am curious to know if they are betrothed." "I do not think they are," said Bigiel; "but it is tending that way." "I too see that." "I thought that Mashko would seek property. But he is in love, and that may happen even to a man who is thinking only of a career. Mashko is in love. Besides, by taking her he will free himself from paying for Kremen. No, the business is not so bad as it seems, and the lady is very pretty; what is true, is true." And they were silent again. But Pan Stanislav felt so oppressed that he could not control himself. "This thought that she will marry him is simply a torment to me. And this helplessness! I should prefer anything to such helplessness. I speak to thee openly. What a stupid and ridiculous rôle I have played in the whole affair!" "Thou hast gone too far,--that may happen to any one; that thou wert her father's creditor is the fault of remarkable circumstances. Thy understanding of such matters differs utterly from his: thou and he are men from two different planets, hence the misunderstanding. Perhaps the affair was too sharply put by thee; but when I think it all over, too great mildness was not proper, even out of regard to Panna Marynia. By making too great abatements thou wouldst have made them for her,--is it not true? What would have resulted? This, that she helped her father in exploiting thee. No; it was for thee to finish the matter." Here the prudent Bigiel checked himself, thought a moment, and said,-- "And as to thy rôle, there is one escape: to withdraw completely, leave events to their course, and tell thyself that all is going according to thy idea." "How will it help me," cried Pan Stanislav, violently, "to say that, when all is going against my idea?--and since I feel foolish, there is no help for it. How could there be? To begin with, I did all this myself, and now I want to undo it. All my life I have known what I wanted, but this time I have acted as if I didn't know." "There are passages in life to be forgotten." "That may be, my dear man, but meanwhile interest in life falls away. Is the question whether I am well or ill, rich or naked, the same to me now as it once was? I feel sick at the very thought of the future. Thou art established and connected with life; but what am I? There was a prospect; now there is none. That gives a great distaste for things." "But surely Panna Marynia is not the only woman on earth." "Why say that? She is the only one now; were there another, I should think of that other. What is the use of such talk? In this lies the question, in this the whole evil,--that she is the only one. A year from now a tile may fall on my head, or I may find another woman: what will happen to-morrow I know not; but that the deuce is taking me to-day, I do know. This is connected in me with other things too, of which to-day I do not care to speak. In external life it is necessary to eat bread in peace,--is not that true? In internal life it is the same. And this is an urgent affair; but I defer internal life till after marriage, for I understand that new conditions work out a new way of thinking, and moreover, I wish to finish one thing before beginning another. But everything grows involved,--not only involved, but vanishes. Barely has something appeared when it is gone. This is the case now. I live in uncertainty. I would prefer if they were already betrothed, for then all would end of itself." "I tell thee only this," said Bigiel: "when I was a boy, I got a thorn in me sometimes; it pained much less to draw the thorn out myself than to let some one else draw it." "In that thou art right," said Pan Stanislav, who added after a while, "The thorn may be drawn if it has not gone in too deeply, and one can seize it. But what are comparisons! When a thorn is drawn out, nothing is lost; but my hope of the future is ruined." "That may be true; but if there is no help for it?" "To accept that view is just what grieves the man who is not an imbecile." The conversation stopped here. At the moment of parting Pan Stanislav said,-- "By the way, I should prefer not to be with you on Sunday." "Maybe thou wilt do well to stay away." CHAPTER XI. A surprise was waiting at home for Pan Stanislav; he found the following despatch from Pani Emilia, "I leave here for home to-morrow evening; Litka is well." This return was unexpected, or at least uncommonly hurried; but since the despatch contained an assurance as to Litka's health, Pan Stanislav understood that Pani Emilia was returning for the sole purpose of occupying herself with his affair, and his heart rose in gratitude. "There is an honest nature," said he to himself; "that is a friend." And with thankfulness there rose in his heart such hope, as if Pani Emilia had the ring of an enchantress, or a magic rod, with which she could change the heart of Panna Marynia in an instant. Pan Stanislav did not know clearly how this could be done; but he knew that one person at least wished him well with deep sincerity, would speak for him, would justify him, would exalt his heart and character and diminish prejudices, which the course of events had accumulated against him. He calculated that Pani Emilia would be very persevering, and that for her this would be a question of duty. A man who is troubled by something is glad to find a person on whom to put responsibility. So in moments of rising bitterness, especially, it seemed to Pan Stanislav that Pani Emilia was responsible for his relations with Marynia; for if she had not shown that letter from which Marynia's readiness to love him was evident, he would have been able to take his mind and heart from her. Perhaps this was true, since in the history of his feelings this letter did in fact play a leading part. It showed him how near happiness had been, almost secured; to what extent in her own mind Marynia had given him heart and soul. It is more difficult to throw away happiness which is not only desired, but begun; and, had it not been for that letter, Pan Stanislav might have regretted the past less, forgotten it more easily, and reconciled himself to the position more readily. At present he thought it even her duty to help him with all her power. Finally, he understood that the affair would move, as it were, of itself; he hoped to see Marynia often, and in conditions most favorable, since he would see her in a house where he was loved and esteemed, and where like feelings must be communicated to each guest. All this strengthened Pan Stanislav's hope; but it added new links to those which bound his thoughts to Marynia. Previously he had promised himself not to go to Bigiel's (on Sunday); now he changed his decision, thinking that, if only health permitted, Pani Emilia too would take part in the trip. Aside from reasons connected with Marynia, he rejoiced from his whole soul to see the beloved faces of Pani Emilia and Litka, who were his greatest attachments in life so far. That same evening he wrote a few words to Plavitski touching the arrival, supposing that Marynia would be thankful for that information; he gave notice at Pani Emilia's, so that servants would be waiting in the morning with tea; and he hired a commodious carriage to take her and Litka to their home. Next morning at five he was at the station; while waiting for the train, he began to run briskly along the platform to warm himself somewhat, since the morning was cool. Remote objects, the station buildings, and the cars standing on the near rails, were sunk in fog, which, very dense near the ground, became rose-colored and shining higher up, announcing that the day would be pleasant. Except officials and servants, there was no one on the platform yet, because of the early hour; gradually, however, people began to arrive. All at once two forms came out of the fog; in one of these Pan Stanislav, with beating heart, recognized Marynia, who was hastening, with her maid, to greet Pani Emilia. As he had not expected the meeting, he was greatly confused at the first moment. She stopped short, as if astonished or troubled. After a while, however, he approached and extended his hand to her,-- "Good-day!" said he. "And truly it will be a good day for us both if our travellers arrive." "Then is it not certain?" asked Marynia. "Of course it is certain, unless something unlooked for prevents. I received a despatch yesterday, and sent the news to Pan Plavitski, thinking that you would be glad to hear it." "Thank you. The surprise was so pleasant!" "The best proof of that is that you have risen so early." "I have not lost the habit of early rising yet." "We came too soon. The train will arrive only in half an hour. Meanwhile I advise you to walk, for the morning is cool, though the day promises to be fine." "The fog is clearing," said Marynia, raising her blue eyes, which to Pan Stanislav seemed violet in the light of the morning. "Do you wish to walk along the platform?" "Thank you; I prefer to sit in the waiting-room." And, nodding, she went away. Pan Stanislav began to fly with hurried steps along the platform. It was somewhat bitter to think that she would not remain; but he explained to himself that perhaps this was not proper, and, besides, the bitterness was overcome by the pleasant thought of how the coming of Pani Emilia would bring them nearer, and how many meetings it would cause. A certain wonderful solace and good-humor continued to rise in him. He thought of the violet eyes of Marynia, and her face made rosy by the coolness of the morning; he rushed past the windows of the hall in which she was sitting, and said to himself almost joyfully,-- "Ah, ha! sit there, hide thyself! I will find thee." And he felt with greater force than ever how dear she might become to him, if she would be kind even in a small degree. Meanwhile bells sounded; and a few minutes later, in the fog, still dense at the earth, though the sky above was blue, appeared the dim outlines of the train, which, as it approached, became more clearly defined. The engine, puffing interrupted clumps of smoke, rolled in with decreasing movement, and, stopping, began with noise and hissing to belch forth under its front wheels the useless remnant of steam. Pan Stanislav sprang to the sleeping-car; the first face at the window was Litka's, which at sight of him grew as radiant as if a sudden sunbeam had fallen on it. The little girl's hands began to move joyously, beckoning to Pan Stanislav, who was in the car in one moment. "My dearest little kitten!" cried he, seizing Litka's hand, "and hast thou slept; art thou well?" "I am well; and we have come home. And we'll be together--and good-day, Pan Stas!" Right behind the little girl stood Pani Emilia, whose hand "Pan Stas" kissed very cordially; and he began to speak quickly, as people do at time of greeting,-- "Good day to the dear lady. I have a carriage. You can go at once. My servant will take your baggage; I ask only for the check. They are waiting for you at home with tea. Pray give the check. Panna Plavitski is here too." Panna Plavitski was waiting, in fact, outside the car; and she and Pani Emilia shook hands, with faces full of smiles. Litka looked for a moment at Marynia, as if hesitating; after a while, however, she threw herself on her neck with her usual cordiality. "Marynia, thou wilt go with us to tea," said Pani Emilia. "It is ready, and thou art fasting, of course." "Thou art tired, travelling all night." "From the boundary we slept as if killed; and when we woke, we had time to wash and dress. In every case we must drink tea. Thou wilt go with us?" "I will, with the greatest pleasure." But Litka began to pull at her mother's dress. "Mamma, and Pan Stas." "But, naturally, Pan Stas too,--he thought of everything. Thanks to him, everything is ready. He must go with us, of course." "He must; he must!" cried Litka, turning to Pan Stanislav, who answered, smiling,-- "Not he must; but he wants to." And after a moment all four took their places in the carriage. Pan Stanislav was in excellent humor. Marynia was before him, and at his side little Litka. It seemed to him that the morning brightness was entering him, and that better days were beginning. He felt that henceforth he would belong to an intimate circle of beings bound together by comradeship and friendship, and in that circle would be Marynia. Now she was sitting there before him, near his eye, and near the friendship which both felt for Pani Emilia and Litka. Meanwhile all four were talking joyously. "What has happened, Emilka," asked Marynia, "that thou hast come so soon?" "Litka begged so every day to come home." "Dost not like to live abroad?" asked Pan Stanislav. "No." "Homesick for Warsaw?" "Yes." "And for me? Now tell quickly, or it will be bad." Litka looked at her mother, at Marynia, and then at Pan Stanislav; and at last she said,-- "And for Pan Stas too." "Take this for that!" said Pan Stanislav, and he seized her little hand to kiss it; but she defended herself as she could. At last she hid her hand. He, turning to Marynia, and showing his sound white teeth, said,-- "As you see, we are always quarrelling; but we love each other." "That is the way generally," answered Marynia. And he, looking her straight and honestly in the eyes, said,-- "Oh that it were the way generally!" Marynia blushed slightly and grew more serious, but said nothing, and began to converse with Pani Emilia. Pan Stanislav turned to Litka. "But where is Professor Vaskovski? Has he gone to Italy?" "No. He stopped at Chenstohova, and will come the day after to-morrow." "Is he well?" "He is." Here the little girl looked at her friend, and said,-- "But Pan Stas has grown thin; hasn't he, mamma?" "Indeed he has," answered Pani Emilia. Pan Stanislav was changed somewhat, for he had been sleeping badly, and the cause of that sleeplessness was sitting before him in the carriage. But he laid the blame on cares and labor in his business. Meanwhile they arrived at Pani Emilia's. When the lady went to greet her servants, Litka ran after her. Pan Stanislav and Marynia remained alone in the dining-room. "You have no nearer acquaintance here, I suppose, than Pani Emilia?" said Pan Stanislav. "None nearer; none so beloved." "In life kindness is needed, and she is very kind and well-wishing. I, for example, who have no family, can look on this as the house of a relative. Warsaw seems different to me when they are here." Then he added, with a voice less firm, "This time I comfort myself also with their arrival, because there will be at last something mutual and harmonious between us." Here he looked at her, with a prayer in his eyes, as if he wished to say, "Give me a hand in conciliation; be kind to me, too, since a pleasant day has come to us." But she, just because she could not be for him altogether indifferent, went always farther in the direction of dislike. The more he showed cordial kindness, the more sympathetic he was, the more his action seemed to her unheard of, and the more offended she felt at heart. Having a delicate nature, and being, besides, rather timid, and feeling really that a reply, if too ill-natured, might spoil the day's harmony, she preferred to be silent; but he did not need an answer in words, for he read in her eyes as follows: The less you try to improve our relations, the better they will be; and they will be best if most distant. His joy was quenched in one moment; anger took its place, and regret, still stronger than anger,--for it rose from that charm which nothing could conquer, and to which Pan Stanislav yielded himself with the conviction, too, that the gulf between him and Marynia was in reality growing deeper each day. And now, looking on her sweet and kind face, he felt that she was as dear as she was lost irrecoverably. The arrival of Litka put an end to that interval, grievous to him beyond description. The little girl ran in with great delight, her hair in disorder, a smile on her lips; but seeing them, she stopped suddenly, and looked now at one, now at the other, with her dark eyes. At last she sat down quietly at a table with tea. Her joyousness had vanished too, though Pan Stanislav, confining the pain in his heart, strove to talk and be gladsome. But he turned scarcely any attention to Marynia; he occupied himself only with Pani Emilia and Litka; and, wonderful thing! Marynia felt that as an additional bitterness. To the series of offences still another was added. On the following day Pani Emilia and Litka were invited to tea in the evening at the Plavitskis'. Plavitski invited Pan Stanislav too, but he did not go. And such is human nature that this again touched Marynia. Dislike, as well as love, demands an object. Involuntarily Marynia looked toward the door all the evening, till the hour struck in which it was certain that Pan Stanislav would not come; then she began to coquet so with Mashko that she transfixed Pani Emilia with amazement. CHAPTER XII. Mashko was a very clever man, but full of self-love; he had no reason, however, not to take the kindness which Marynia showed him in good earnest. The unequal degree of it he attributed a little to coquetting, a little to the changing disposition of the young lady; and though the latter filled him with a certain alarm, this alarm was not great enough to restrain him from taking a decisive step. Bigiel divined the true state of affairs when he declared that Mashko was in love. Such was the case really. At first Panna Plavitski pleased him in a high degree; afterward, when he had thought the pros and cons over, he came to the conviction that the pros had prevailed. The young advocate valued property, it is true; but, gifted with great sobriety of mind, and understanding perfectly the conditions in which he found himself, he concluded that a very wealthy lady he could not find and would not get. Richly dowered young ladies were found either among the aristocracy of descent,--and for him their thresholds were too lofty,--or among the world of financiers, who sought connections with families bearing names more or less famous. Mashko knew perfectly that his painted bishops and armored men, whom Bukatski ridiculed, would not open bankers' safes to him. He understood that even if they had been less fantastic, his profession of advocate would itself be a certain _diminutio capitis_ in the eyes of great financial whales. On the other hand, he had, in truth, a certain racial repugnance to that kind of connection; while maidens of good descent had the uncommon attraction which they have for parvenus generally. Panna Plavitski had no dower, or at least a very insignificant one. In taking her, however, he would free himself from all obligations to the Plavitskis created by the purchase of Kremen. Secondly, by connecting himself with a good family, he would endeavor to bring in a whole group of noble clients, and this might be a very real profit; finally, through the family relations of Marynia, he might in time manage the business of a number, or a number of tens, of really wealthy families,--a thing which had long been the object of his efforts. The Plavitskis, like all who are a little above middling country families, had indeed relatives whom they did not greatly recognize; they had also others who did not greatly recognize them. This, however, was done not so much from reasons of pride as involuntarily, by virtue of a certain social selection, through which people seek in society persons who are more or less in the same conditions of life as they themselves are. Great family festivals united such separated relatives temporarily; and Mashko not only found it agreeable to think that at his wedding there would be perfectly well-sounding names, but he foresaw various possible profits. The question would be merely one of cleverness to give people of this kind an idea that it would be well on their part, good and safe, to intrust their business to a man noted for energy, and, more than all, one of their own class, since he is a relative. That would be something like a dower given to a poor cousin. Mashko, taking note of his own qualities, hoped to force himself on them, and in time tower above them. He knew that this man or that would come at first to him for such counsel as he might find in conversation with an acquaintance, or a distant relative, who happened to understand various questions; later on, as the counsels proved good, he would come oftener, and at last put everything into the hands of the counsellor. Helping others in this fashion, he could himself sail out into broad waters, clear Kremen in time, advance to considerable property, throw aside at last legal pursuits, which he did not like, and which he considered only as a means of reaching his object, and fix himself finally in lofty spheres of society as an independent man, and at the same time a representative of superior landed property resting on a firm basis. He had foreseen all this, calculated and counted, before he determined to try for the hand of Panna Plavitski. He had not foreseen, however, one thing; to wit, that he would fall in love to such a degree as he had. For the time this made him angry, for he judged that too strong a feeling was something opposed to the balance which a man of high society should preserve at all times. That balance was one of his illusions. If he had had no need of forcing himself into that society, or had been born in it, he might have permitted himself to love to his heart's satisfaction. In spite of all his keenness, he had not understood that one of the chief privileges of this society, which considers itself privileged, is freedom. For this reason he was not altogether content when his heart melted too much in presence of Marynia. But, on the other hand, the object toward which he strove grew identified the more in him with that personal happiness which was verging almost on intoxication. These were new things for him, so new that the brightness of those unknown horizons blinded him. Mashko had arrived at thirty and some years of his life without knowing what rapture is. Now he understood what happiness and charms were described by that word, for he was enraptured with Marynia to the depth of his soul. Whenever Plavitski received him in his room, and she was in the adjoining one, Mashko was with her in thought to such a degree that hardly could he understand what the old man was saying. When she entered, there rose in his heart feelings utterly unknown to him hitherto,--feelings tender and delicate, which made him a better man than he was usually. His blue eyes changed their ordinary steel and cold gleam to an expression of sweetness and delight; the freckles on his face, by which he called to mind Professor Vaskovski, became still more distinct; his whole form lost its marks of formality, and he passed his fingers through his light side whiskers, not like an English lord, but an ordinary love-stricken mortal. He rose at last so high that he wished not only his own good, but her good, evidently not understanding it otherwise than through him and in him. He was so much in love that, if rejected, he might become dangerous, especially in view of his want of moral development, his great real energy, and lack of scruples. Till then he had not loved, and Marynia roused first in him all that was capable of loving. She was not a brilliant beauty; but she possessed in the highest degree the charm of womanliness, and that womanliness was the reason that she attracted energetic natures specially. In her delicate form there was something in common with a climbing plant; she had a calm face, clear eyes, and a mouth somewhat thoughtful,--all this, taken together, did not produce a mighty impression at the first glance, but after a time every man, even the most indifferent, saw that there was in her something peculiar, which made him remember that he had in his presence a woman who might be loved. In so far as Mashko felt himself better than usual, and in reality was so during that epoch of his life, in that far had the spiritual level of Marynia sunk since the Plavitskis came to Warsaw. The sale of Kremen had deprived her of occupation and a moral basis of life. She lacked a lofty object. Besides, the course of events had accumulated in her bitterness and dissatisfaction, which turn always to the injury of the heart. Marynia felt this herself distinctly; and a few days after that evening when Pan Stanislav did not come to them, she began first to speak of this to Pani Emilia, when at twilight they were left by themselves in the drawing-room adjoining Litka's chamber. "I see," said she, "that we are not so outspoken with each other as we used to be. I have wished to speak with thee openly, and I cannot bring myself to do so, for it has seemed to me that I am not worthy of thy friendship." Pani Emilia brought her sweet face up to Marynia's head, and began to kiss her on the temples. "Ai, thou Marynia, Marynia! What art thou saying, thou, always calm and thoughtful?" "I say so, for in Kremen I was more worthy than I am now. Thou wilt not believe how attached I was to that corner. I had all my days occupied, and had some sort of wonderful hope that in time something very happy would come to me. To-day all that has passed; and I cannot find myself in this Warsaw, and, what is worse, I cannot find my former honesty. I saw how astonished thou wert because I was coquetting with Pan Mashko. Do not tell me that thou didst not see it. And dost thou think that I myself know why I acted so? It must be because I am worse, or from some anger at myself, at Pan Stanislav, at the whole world. I do not love Mashko; I will not marry him. Therefore I act dishonestly, and with shame I confess it; but moments come in which I should like to do an intended injustice to some one. Thou shouldst break thy old friendship with me, for in truth I am other than I have been." Here tears began to roll down Marynia's face, and Pani Emilia fell to quieting her and fondling her all the more; at last she said,-- "Pan Mashko is striving for thee most evidently; and I thought, I confess, that thou hadst the intention of accepting him. I tell thee now sincerely that that pained me, for he is not the man for thee; but, knowing thy love for Kremen, I admitted thy wish to return to it in this way." "At first I had such thoughts, it is true. I wished to persuade myself that Pan Mashko pleased me; I did not like to repulse him. It was a question with me of something else too, but it was a question also of Kremen. But I could not convince myself. I do not want even Kremen at such a price; but precisely in this lies the evil. For, in such a case, why am I leading Pan Mashko into error, why am I deluding him? Through simple dishonesty." "It is not well that thou art deluding him; but it seems to me that I understand whence that flows. From repugnance to some one else, and from the offence given by him. Is it not true? Console thyself, however, with this, that the evil is not beyond remedy; for thou mayst change thy action with Pan Mashko to-morrow. And, Marynia, it is needful to change it while there is time yet, while nothing is promised." "I know, Emilia; I understand that. But see, when I am with thee I feel as formerly, like an upright and honest woman; I understand, that not only a word binds, but conduct. And he may say that to me." "Then tell him that thou hast tried to convince thyself that thou wert in love with him, but could not. In every case, that is the only way." Silence followed; but both Marynia and Pani Emilia felt that they had not begun yet to talk of that which, if it did not concern both, concerned Pani Emilia most seriously. So, taking Marynia's hands, she said,-- "Now confess, Marynia, thou art coquetting with Mashko because thou art offended by Pan Stanislav?" "That is true," answered Marynia, in a low voice. "But does not this mean that the impression of his visit to Kremen, and of thy first conversations with him, are not effaced yet?" "Better if it were." Pani Emilia began to stroke her dark hair. "Thou wilt not believe how good, clever, and noble a man he is. For us he has some friendship. He has liked Litka always; this makes me grateful from my whole soul to him. But thou knowest what an unardent and lukewarm feeling friendship is usually. He in this regard even is exceptional. When Litka was sick in Reichenhall, wilt thou believe it, he brought a celebrated doctor from Monachium; but, not wishing to alarm us, he said that the doctor had come to another patient, and that we should take advantage of his presence. Think what care and kindness! He is extremely reliable, a man to be trusted; and he is energetic and just. There are intelligent men, but without energy; others have energy, but lack delicacy of heart. He unites one to the other. I forgot to tell thee that when Litka's property was in danger, and when my husband's brother set about saving it, he found the greatest aid in Pan Stanislav. If Litka were grown up, I would give her to no one in the world with such confidence as to him. I could not even recount to you how much kindness we have experienced from him." "If as much as I have of evil, then very much." "Marynia, he did not intend that. If thou couldst but know how he suffers for his rashness, and how sincerely he acknowledges his fault touching thee." "He told me that himself," answered Marynia. "I, my Emilka, have pondered much over this,--to tell the truth, I have not thought of another thing; and I cannot find that he is to blame. In Kremen he was so pleasant that it seemed to me--to thee alone will I say this; for to thee I have written it already--that on the Sunday evening which he passed in our house I went to sleep with my head and heart so filled with him that I am ashamed to speak of it now. And I felt that one day longer, one friendly word more on his part, and I should love him for my lifetime. It seemed to me that he also-- The next day he went away in anger. The fault was my father's; it was mine also. I was able to understand that; and dost remember the letter I wrote thee at Reichenhall? Precisely the same trust which thou hast in him, I too had. He went away; I myself do not know why I thought, that he would return, or would write to me. He did not return; he did not write. Something told me that he would not take away Kremen; he took it. And afterward--I know that Pan Mashko talked with him openly, and he urged Pan Mashko, and assured him that he was thinking of nothing himself. Oh, my Emilia! If it please thee, he is not to blame; but how much harm has he done to me! Through him I have lost not only a beloved corner in which I was working; but more, I have lost faith in life, in people, in this,--that better and nobler things in this world conquer the low and the evil. I have become worse. I tell thee sincerely that I cannot find myself. He had the right to act as he has acted, I admit that; I say so, and do not say that he is guilty. But he has broken some vital spring in me. There is no cure for that; it cannot be mended. How can it? What is it to me that a change rose in him afterward; that he regrets what he did; that he would be ready even to marry me? What is that to me, if I, who almost loved him, not only do not love him now, but must guard against repugnance? That is worse than if I did not care for him. I know what thy wish is; but life must be built on love, not on repugnance. How can I give my hand to him with that feeling of offence in my soul and with that regret, that through him, guilty or not guilty, so much has been lost to me? Thou thinkest that I do not see his charm; but what can I do, when the more I see him, the more I am repulsed, and if I had to choose I should choose Pan Mashko, though he is less worthy? To everything good which thou canst say of him I agree; but to everything I answer: I do not love him; I never will love him." Pani Emilia's eyes were filled with tears. "Poor Pan Stas," said she, as if to herself. And after a moment of silence she asked, "And art thou not sorry for him?" "I am sorry for him when I think of him as he was in Kremen; I am sorry for him when I do not see him. But from the moment that I see him, I feel nothing but--repulsion." "Yes; because thou knowest not how unhappy he was in Reichenhall, and now he is still more unhappy. He has no one in the world." "He has thy friendship, and he loves Litka." "My Marynia, that is something different. I am thankful to him from my whole soul for his attachment to Litka; but that is something different altogether, and thou knowest thyself that he loves thee a hundred times more than Litka." In the chamber it had grown dark already; but soon the servant brought in a lamp, and, placing it on the table, went out. By the lamplight Pani Emilia beheld a whitish form crouched on the sofa near the door which led to Litka's room. "Who is there? Is that Litka?" "I, mamma." In her voice there was something; Pani Emilia rose and went hurriedly toward her. "When didst thou come out? What is the matter?" "I feel so ill in some way." Pani Emilia sat down on the sofa, and, drawing the little girl up to her, saw tears in her eyes. "Art thou crying, Litus? What is the matter?" "Oh, so sad, so sad!" And, inclining her head to her mother's shoulder, she began to cry. She was in reality sad, for she had learned that "Pan Stas" was more unhappy than in Reichenhall, and that he loves Marynia a hundred times more than her. That evening, when going to sleep and in her nightdress, she nestled up to her mother's ear and whispered,-- "Mamma, mamma, I have one very great sin on my conscience." "My poor little girl, what is troubling thee?" She whispered in a still lower voice, "I do not like Panna Marynia." CHAPTER XIII. Pani Emilia, with Litka and Marynia, and with them Plavitski, were going to the Bigiels to dine at their country house, which stood in a forest at the distance of one hour and a half from the city. It was a fine day in September; there were myriads of glittering spider-webs in the air and on the stubbles. Leaves still fresh and green adhered to the trees yet; here and there, through leafy openings, were visible as it were fountains and bouquets of red and yellow. That pale and faded autumn brought to Marynia's mind her occupations in the country, the odor of grain in the barns, the fields with stacks, and the clear extent of the meadows, bounded way off somewhere on the horizon by stretches of alder. She felt a yearning for that life and that composure, in comparison with which the city, notwithstanding the labor which seethed in its every-day existence, but which Marynia was unable to appreciate, seemed to her idle and empty. She felt now that that life in which she had found her own worth and merit was lost beyond return to her, and on the other hand there was not outlined before her anything that could take its place and redeem it. She might, it is true, return by becoming Pani Mashko; but her heart was filled with bitterness at that thought alone, and Mashko, with his Warsaw self-confidence, with his freckles and his side whiskers, with his aping an English lord, seemed to her simply repulsive. Never had she felt withal a deeper feeling against Pan Stanislav, who had taken Kremen from her, and put Mashko in place of it. She was disgusted with Mashko at that moment, and it seemed to her that she hated Pan Stanislav. She saw before her life with her father on the pavement of Warsaw, without an object, without occupation, without an ideal, with regret for the past and in view of the past, and with emptiness in the future. For this reason that calm autumn day, instead of quieting her, filled her with bitterness and sorrow. On the whole, the journey was not joyous. Litka sat in gloom because "Pan Stas" was not with them. Pani Emilia gave all attention to her, fearing lest that gloomy feeling might be connected with her health. Plavitski alone was in genuine good-humor, especially at the beginning of the journey. In his buttoned frock-coat, with a red flower in the buttonhole, with a light-colored overcoat, and with mustaches as pointed as needles, he thought himself beautiful, and was sprightly, since rheumatism, which he felt at times, was not troubling him, by reason of the good weather; secondly, before him sat one of the most presentable women in Warsaw, who, as he supposed, would not remain indifferent to so many charms, or in any case would esteem them in so far as she would be able to note them. Let her say at least to herself, "Oh, what a charming man that must have been!" In the worst event, Plavitski would have been satisfied with such a retrospective recognition. In this hope he was really enchanting; for at one time he was lofty and fatherly, at another sportive, setting out with the theory that young men of the present do not know how to act politely with ladies. In politeness, as he told Pani Emilia, he went as far as mythology, which was true under a certain aspect, for he looked at her as would a satyr. But all this was received with a faint smile and with too little attention, hence he grew offended at last and began to speak of something else; namely, that, thanks to the relations of his daughter, he would become acquainted with the bourgeoisie, of which he was glad, however, for hitherto he had seen that society only on the stage, but it is necessary in life to meet the most varied kinds of people, for it is possible to learn something from each of them. He added finally, that it is the duty of certain circles not to estrange the commonalty, but on the contrary to gather them in, and thus plant in them sound principles; therefore he who had striven always to fulfil his social duties did not halt before that mission. Here the noble expression of his face took on a certain style of pensiveness, and in that state of feeling they drove up to the villa of the Bigiels. It stood in a forest of unmixed pines, in the neighborhood of other villas, among old trees, which in places were felled, in places standing in groups of a few, or of a few tens. They seemed to wonder a little what such a new house was doing among them in the old forest stillness; but they hospitably shielded it from the wind; on fine days they surrounded it with balsamic air, permeated with the odor of gum and resin. The Bigiels, with a row of children, came out to meet the guests. Pani Bigiel, who liked Marynia much, greeted her very cordially, desiring, besides, to prepossess her thereby for Pan Stanislav; she considered that the better Marynia understood how pleasant it might be for her among them, the less difficulty would she make. Plavitski, who, during his previous stay with Marynia in Warsaw, had made the acquaintance of the Bigiels at Pani Emilia's, but had limited himself to leaving cards with them simply, showed himself now such a gracious prince as was possible only to the most refined man, who at the same time was fulfilling his mission of gathering in the "bourgeoisie." "At the present day it is agreeable for any man to find himself under the roof of a person like you; but all the more for me, since my cousin, Polanyetski, has entered the career of commerce and is your partner." "Polanyetski is a strong man," answered Bigiel, with directness, pressing the gloved hand of Plavitski. The ladies retired for a moment to remove their hats; then, the air being quite warm, they returned to the veranda. "Is Pan Stanislav not here yet?" inquired Pani Emilia. "He has been here since morning," answered Bigiel; "but now he is visiting Pani Kraslavski. The place is near by," added he, turning to Marynia; "not even half a verst distant. There are summer residences everywhere about, and those ladies are our nearest neighbors." "I remember Panna Terka Kraslavski since the time of the carnival," said Marynia. "She was always very pale." "Oh, she is very pale yet. The past winter she spent in Pau." Meanwhile the little Bigiels, who loved Litka wonderfully, drew her out to play in front of the house. The little girls showed her their gardens, made in the sand among the pines, in which gardens, to tell the truth, nothing would grow. These surveys were interrupted every little while by the girls, who stood on their toes and kissed Litka's cheeks; she, bending her beautiful flaxen head, returned these kisses with tenderness. But the boys wanted their share as well. First, they stripped to the stalk the georgina at the house, gathering for Litka the most beautiful blossoms; then they disputed about this,--what play does Litka like; and they went to Pani Emilia for information. Edzio, who had the habit of speaking in a very loud voice, and closing his eyes at the same time, called out,-- "Please, Pani, I say that she likes ball better, only I don't know that you will let her play ball." "Yes; if she will not run, for that hurts her." "Oh, she will not, Pani; we will throw the ball so that it will go straight to her every time, then she will not run any. And if Yozio doesn't know how to throw that way, let her throw the ball." "I want to play with her," said Yozio, pitifully. And at the very thought that he might be deprived of that pleasure, his mouth took the form of a horseshoe and began to quiver; but Litka anticipated his outburst of sorrow, saying,-- "I will throw to thee, Yozio; I'll throw to thee very often." Yozio's eyes, already moist, began to smile at once. "They will not hurt her," said Bigiel to Pani Emilia. "This is remarkable: the boys are what is called regular tearers; but with her they are wonderfully careful. It is Pan Stanislav who has trained them in this devotion to her." "Such lovely children! there are few in the world like them," remarked Pani Emilia. In a moment the children gathered in a group to arrange the play. In the middle of the group stood Litka, the oldest and the tallest; and though the little Bigiels were well-behaved children, she, with her sweet, poetic face and features, almost over-refined, seemed, among those ruddy, round faces, like a being from another planet. Pani Bigiel turned attention to that first of all. "Is she not a real queen?" asked she. "I say truly that never can I look at her sufficiently." "She is so noble in appearance," added Bigiel. And Pani Emilia looked at her only one with a glance in which there was a sea of love. The children ran apart now, and stood in a great circle forming, on the gray background of fallen pine needles, parti-colored spots, which seemed as small under the immense pines as colored mushrooms. Marynia went from the veranda and stood near Litka, to assist her in catching the ball, for which it was necessary to run, and in that way save her from exertion. On the broad forest road leading to the villa, Pan Stanislav appeared at that moment. The children did not notice him at once; but he took in with a glance the veranda, as well as the space in front; and, seeing the bright robe of Marynia under a pine, he hastened his steps. Litka, knowing her mamma's alarm at every more animated movement which she made, and, not wishing to disquiet her for anything, stood almost without stirring from her place, and caught on her club only those balls which came directly toward her. Marynia ran after all that went farther. By reason of that running, her hair was loosened so that she had to arrange it; and, at the moment when Pan Stanislav was coming in at the gate, she stood bent backward somewhat and with arms raised to her head. He did not take his eyes from her, and saw no one save her. She seemed to him on that broad space younger and smaller than usual, and therewith so maidenlike, so unapproachably attractive, so created for this, that a man should put his arms around her and press her to his boson; she was so feminine, so much the dearest creature on earth,--that never till that moment had he felt with such force how he loved her. At sight of him, the children threw down their balls and clubs, and ran with a cry to meet him. The amusement was stopped. Litka at the first instant sprang also toward Pan Stas, but restrained herself on a sudden, and looked with her great eyes, now toward him, now toward Marynia. "But thou art not rushing to meet Pan Polanyetski," said Marynia. "No." "Why, Litus?" "Because--" And her cheeks flushed somewhat, though the child did not know and did not dare to express her thought, which might be expressed in the words: "Because he does not love me any more; he loves only thee, and looks only at thee." But he approached, freeing himself from the children, and repeating,-- "Do not hang on, little rogues, or I'll throw you." And he extended his hand to Marynia, looking at her in the eyes, with an entreaty for a pleasant smile and a greeting even a whit less indifferent than usual; then he turned to Litka,-- "But is the dearest kitten well?" At sight of him, and under the influence of his voice, she, forgetting all the suffering of her little heart, gave him both hands, saying,-- "Oh, yes, well; but yesterday Pan Stas did not come to us, and it was sad. To-day I'll take Pan Stas to mamma to give account." After a while all were on the veranda. "How are Pani Kraslavski and her daughter?" asked Pani Emilia. "They are well, and are coming here after dinner," answered Pan Stanislav. Just before dinner Professor Vaskovski came, bringing Bukatski, who had returned to Warsaw the evening before. His intimacy with the Bigiels permitted him to come without being invited; and the presence of Pani Emilia was too great a temptation to be resisted. He met her, however, without a trace of sentiment, in his usual jesting fashion; she was glad to see him, for he amused her with his strange and original way of uttering ideas. "Were you not going to Monachium and Italy?" asked she, when they had sat down to dinner. "Yes; but I forgot a card-knife in Warsaw, and came back to get it." "Oh, that was a weighty reason." "It always makes me impatient that people do everything from weighty reasons. What privilege have weighty reasons, that every man must accommodate himself to them? Besides, I gave, without wishing it, the last services to a friend, for yesterday I was at the funeral of Lisovich." "What! that thin little sportsman?" inquired Bigiel. "The same. And imagine that to this moment I cannot escape astonishment that a man who played the jester all his life could bring himself to such a serious thing as death. Simply I cannot recognize my Lisovich. At every step a man meets disappointment." "But," said Pan Stanislav, "Pani Kraslavski told me that Ploshovski, he with whom all the women of Warsaw were in love, shot himself in Rome." "He was a relative of mine," said Plavitski. This news affected Pani Emilia mainly. She scarcely knew Ploshovski himself, but she had often seen his aunt, for whom her husband's elder brother was agent. She knew also how blindly this aunt loved her sister's son. "My God, what a misfortune!" said she. "But is it true? A young man so capable, so wealthy--poor Panna Ploshovski!" "And such a great estate will be without an heir," added Bigiel. "I know their property, for it is near Warsaw. Old Panna Ploshovski had two relatives: Pani Krovitski, though she was distant, and Leo Ploshovski, who was nearer. Neither are living now." These words moved Plavitski again. He was indeed some sort of a distant relative of Panna Ploshovski, and even had seen her two or three times in his life; but there remained to him merely the remembrance of fear, for she had told him the bitter truth each time without circumlocution, or rather, speaking simply, had scolded him as much as he could hold. For this reason, in the further course of his life he avoided her most carefully, and all communication between them was stopped, though on occasions he liked to say a word in society of his relationship with a family so well known and important. He belonged to that category of people, numerous in our country, who are convinced that the Lord God created for their special use an easy road to fortune through inheritance, and who consider every hope of that kind as certain. He cast a solemn glance, therefore, on the assembly, and said,-- "Perhaps, too, Providence decided that those properties should pass to other hands, which are able to make better use of them." "I met Ploshovski abroad once," said Pan Stanislav; "and on me he made the impression of a man altogether uncommon. I remember him perfectly." "He was so brilliant and sympathetic," added Pani Bigiel. "May God show him mercy!" said Professor Vaskovski. "I too knew him; he was a genuine Aryan." "Azoryan," said Plavitski. "Aryan," repeated the professor. "Azoryan," corrected Plavitski, with emphasis and dignity. And the two old men looked at each other with astonishment, neither knowing what the other wanted, and this to the great delight of Bukatski, who, raising his monocle, said,-- "How is that, Aryan or Azoryan?" Pan Stanislav put an end to the misunderstanding by explaining that Azorya was the name of the family escutcheon of the Ploshovskis, that therefore it was possible to be at once an Aryan and an Azoryan; to which Plavitski agreed unwillingly, making the parenthetical remark that whoso bears a decent name, need not be ashamed of it, nor modify it. Bukatski, turning to Pani Emilia, began to converse in his usual frigid tone,-- "One kind of suicide alone do I consider justifiable, suicide for love; therefore I am persuading myself for a number of years to it, but always in vain." "They say that suicide is cowardice," put in Marynia. "This is a reason too why I do not take my life: I am excessively brave." "Let us not speak of death, but of life," said Bigiel, "and of that which is best in it, health. To the health of Pani Emilia!" "And Litka," added Pan Stanislav. Then he turned to Marynia and said, "To the health of our mutual friends!" "Most willingly," answered Marynia. Then he lowered his voice and continued, "For see, I consider them not only as friends of mine, but also--how is it to be expressed?--as advocates. Litka is a child yet, but Pani Emilia knows to whom friendship may be offered. Therefore if a certain person had a prejudice against me, even justly; if I had acted with that person not precisely as I should, or simply ill, and if that person knew me to be suffering from my act,--that person ought to think that I am not the worst of men, since Pani Emilia has sincere good-will for me." Marynia was confused at once; she was sorry for him. He finished in a still lower voice,-- "But in truth I am suffering. This is a great question for me." Before she had answered, Plavitski raised a health to Pani Bigiel, and made a whole speech, the substance of which was that the Queen of Creation is no other than woman; therefore all heads should incline before woman, as the queen, and, for this reason, he had bowed down all his life before woman in general, and at present he bowed before Pani Bigiel in particular. Pan Stanislav from his soul wished him to choke, for he felt that he might have received some kind word from Marynia, and he felt that the moment had passed. In fact, Marynia went to embrace Pani Bigiel; on her return she did not resume the interrupted conversation, and he dared not ask her directly for an answer. Immediately after dinner came Pani and Panna Kraslavski: the mother, a woman about fifty years old, animated, self-confident, talkative; the daughter, the complete opposite of her mother, formal, dry, cold, pronouncing "tek," instead of "tak," but for the rest with a full, though pale face, reminding one somewhat of the faces of Holbein's Madonnas. Pan Stanislav began out of malice to entertain her; but, looking from time to time at the fresh face and blue eyes of Marynia, he said to himself, "If thou hadst given even one kind word! thou,--thou, the pitiless." And he grew more and more angry, so that when Panna Kraslavski said "memme" instead of "mamma," he inquired harshly,-- "Who is that?" "Memme," however, displayed her whole supply of facts, or rather suppositions, concerning the suicide of Ploshovski. "Imagine," said she, with warmth, "it came to my head at once that he shot himself because of the death of Pani Krovitski. Lord light her soul! she was a coquette, and I never liked her. She coquetted with him so that I was afraid to take Terka to any place where they were together, because her conduct was simply a bad example for such a young girl. What is true, is true! Lord light her soul! Terka, too, had no sympathy for her." "Ah, Pani," said Pani Emilia, "I have always heard that she was an angel." And Bukatski, who had never seen Pani Krovitski in his life, turned to Pani Kraslavski and said phlegmatically,-- "Madame, _je vous donne ma parole d'honneur_ that she was an archangel." Pani Kraslavski was silent a moment, not knowing what to answer; then, flushing up, she would have answered something sharp, were it not that Bukatski, as a man of wealth, might in a given event be a good match for Terka. Pan Stanislav enjoyed the same consideration in her eyes; and for these two exclusively she kept up summer relations with the Bigiels, whom she did not recognize when they met her by chance on the street. "With gentlemen," said she, "every presentable woman is an angel or an archangel. I do not like this, even when they say it to me about Terka. Pani Krovitski might be a good person, but she had no tact; that is the whole question." In this way conversation about Ploshovski dropped, the more since the attention of Pani Kraslavski was turned exclusively to Pan Stanislav, who was entertaining Panna Terka. He was entertaining her a little out of anger at himself, a little out of anger at Marynia, and he tried to convince himself that it was pleasant for him near her; he tried even to find in her a charm, and discovered that her neck was too slender and her eyes as it were quenched eyes, which grew lively and turned inquiringly at him when there was no place for a question. He observed, too, that she might be a quiet despot, for when the mother began to talk too loudly, Panna Terka put her glasses to her eyes and looked at her attentively; and under the influence of that look the mother lowered her voice, or grew silent altogether. In general, Panna Terka annoyed him immensely; and if he occupied himself more with her than he ever had before, he did so from sheer desperation, to rouse at least a shade of jealousy in Marynia. Even people of sound sense grasp at such vain methods when the misery of their feelings presses them too keenly. These methods produce usually results opposite to those intended, for they increase the difficulty of subsequent approach and explanations; besides, they merely strengthen the feeling cherished in the heart of the person using them. Toward the end Pan Stanislav longed so much for Marynia that he would have agreed to listen even to an unpleasant word from her, if he could only approach her and speak; and still it seemed to him more difficult now than an hour before. He drew a deep breath when the visit was over, and the guests were preparing to go. Before that, however, Litka approached her mother, and, putting her arms around her neck, whispered. Pani Emilia nodded, and then approached Pan Stanislav,-- "Pan Stanislav," said she, "if you do not think of spending the night here, ride with us. Marynia and I will take Litka between us, and there will be room enough." "Very well. I cannot pass the night here; and I am very thankful," answered he; and, divining easily who the author of this plan was, he turned to Litka and said,-- "Thou, my best little kitten, thou." She, holding to her mother's dress, raised to him her eyes, half sad, half delighted, asking quietly,-- "Is that good, Pan Stas?" A few minutes later they started. After a fine day there came a night still finer, a little cool, but all bright and silvery from the moon. Pan Stanislav, for whom the day had passed grievously and in vain, breathed now with full breast, and felt almost happy, having before him two beings whom he loved very deeply, and one whom he loved beyond everything on earth. By the light of the moon he saw her face, and it seemed to him mild and peaceful. He thought that Marynia's feelings must be like her face in that moment; that perhaps her dislike of him was softening amid that general quiet. Litka dropped into the depth of the seat, and appeared to be sleeping. Pan Stanislav threw a shawl, taken from Pani Emilia, over her feet, and they rode on a while in silence. Pani Emilia began to speak of Ploshovski, the news of whose death had impressed her deeply. "There is hidden in all that some unusually sad drama," said Pan Stanislav; "and Pani Kraslavski may be right in some small degree when she insists that these two deaths are connected." "There is in suicide," said Marynia, "this ghastly thing, that one feels bound to condemn it; and while condemning there is an impression that there should be no sympathy for the misfortune." "Sympathy," answered Pan Stanislav, "should be had for those who have feeling yet,--hence for the living." The conversation ceased, and they went on again for some time in silence. After a while Pan Stanislav pointed to the lights in the windows of a house standing in the depth of a forest park, and said,-- "That is Pani Kraslavski's villa." "I cannot forgive her for what she said of that unfortunate Pani Krovitski," said Pani Emilia. "That is simply a cruel woman," added Pan Stanislav; "but do you know why? It is because of her daughter. She looks on the whole world as a background which she would like to make as black as possible, so that Panna Terka might be reflected on it the more brightly. Perhaps the mother had designs sometime on Ploshovski; perhaps she considered Pani Krovitski a hindrance,--hence her hatred." "That is a nice young lady," said Marynia. "There are persons for whom behind the world of social forms begins another and far wider world; for her nothing begins there, or rather everything ends. She is simply an automaton, in whom the heart beats only when her mother winds it with a key. For that matter, there are in society very many such young ladies; and even those who give themselves out for something different are in reality just like her. It is the eternal history of Galatea. Would you believe, ladies, that a couple of years since an acquaintance of mine, a young doctor, fell in love to distraction with that puppet, that quenched candle. Twice he proposed, and twice he was rejected; for those ladies looked higher. He joined the Holland service afterwards, and died there somewhere, with the fever doubtless; for at first he wrote to me inquiring about his automaton, and later on those letters ceased to come." "Does she know of this?" "She does; for as often as I see her, I speak of him. And what is characteristic is this,--that the memory of him does not ruffle her composure for an instant. She speaks of him as of any one else. If he expected from her even a posthumous sorrow, he was deceived in that also. I must show you, ladies, sometime, one of his letters. I strove to explain to him her feeling; he answered me, 'I estimate her coolly, but I cannot tear my soul from her.' He was a sceptic, a positive man, a child of the age; but it seems that feeling makes sport of all philosophies and tendencies. Everything passes; but feeling was, is, and will be. Besides, he said to me once, 'I would rather be unhappy with her than happy with another.' What is to be said in this case? The man looked at things soundly, but could not tear his soul away,--and that was the end of it." This conversation ended also. They came out now on to a road planted with chestnut-trees, the trunks of which seemed rosy in the light of the carriage lamps. "But if any one has misfortune, he must endure it," said Pan Stanislav, following evidently the course of his own thoughts. Meanwhile Pani Emilia bent over Litka,-- "Art sleeping, child?" inquired she. "No, mamma," answered Litka. CHAPTER XIV. "I have never run after wealth," said Plavitski; "but if Providence in its inscrutable decrees has directed that even a part of that great fortune should come to our hands, I shall not cross its path. Of this not much will come to me. Soon I shall need four planks and the silent tear of my child, for whom I have lived; but here it is a question of Marynia." "I would turn your attention to this," said Mashko, coldly,--"that, first of all, those expectations are very uncertain." "But is it right not to take them into consideration?" "Secondly, that Panna Ploshovski is living yet." "But sawdust is dropping out of the old woman. She is as shrivelled as a mushroom!" "Thirdly, she may leave her property for public purposes." "But is it not possible to dispute such a will?" "Fourthly, your relationship is immensely distant. In the same way all people in Poland are related to one another." "She has no nearer relatives." "But Polanyetski is your relative." "No. God knows he is not! He is a relative of my first wife, not mine." "And Bukatski?" "Give me peace! Bukatski is a cousin of my brother-in-law's wife." "Have you no other relatives?" "The Gantovskis claim us, as you know. People say that which flatters them. But there is no need of reckoning with the Gantovskis." Mashko presented difficulties purposely, so as to show afterward a small margin of hope, therefore he said,-- "With us people are very greedy for inheritances; and let any inheritance be in sight, they fly together from all sides, as sparrows fly to wheat. Everything in such cases depends on this: who claims first, what he claims, and finally through whom he claims. Remember that an energetic man, acquainted with affairs, may make something out of nothing; while, on the other hand, a man without energy or acquaintance with business, even if he has a good basis of action, may effect nothing." "I know this from experience. All my life I have had business up to this." Here Plavitski drew his hand across his throat. "Besides, you may become the plaything of advocates," added Mashko, "and be exploited without limit." "In such a case I could count on your personal friendship for us." "And you would not be deceived," answered Mashko, with importance. "Both for you and Panna Marynia I have friendship as profound as if you belonged to my family." "I thank you in the name of the orphan," answered Plavitski; and emotion did not let him speak further. Mashko put on dignity, and said, "But if you wish me to defend your rights, both in this matter, which, as I said, may prove illusive, and in other matters, then give me those rights." Here the young advocate seized Plavitski's hand,-- "Respected sir," continued he, "you will divine that of which I wish to speak; therefore hear me to the end patiently." He lowered his voice; and although there was no one in the room, he began to speak almost in a whisper. He spoke with force, with dignity, and at the same time with great self-command, as befitted a man who never forgot who he was nor what he offered. Plavitski closed his eyes at moments; at moments he pressed Mashko's hand; finally, at the end of the conference, he said,-- "Come to the drawing-room; I will send in Marynia. I know not what she will say to you; in every case, let that come which God wills. I have at all times known your value; now I esteem you still more--and here!" The arms of Plavitski opened wide, and Mashko bent toward them, repeating, not without emotion, but always with lofty dignity,-- "I thank, I thank--" After a while he found himself in the drawing-room. Marynia appeared with a face which had grown very pale; but she was calm. Mashko pushed a chair toward her, seated himself in another, and began,-- "I am here by the approval of your father. My words can tell you nothing beyond what my silence has told already, and which you have divined. But since the moment has come in which I should mention my feelings explicitly, I do this then with all confidence in your heart and character. I am a man who loves you, on whom you may lean; therefore I put in your hands my life, and I beg you from the bottom of my heart to consent to go with me." Marynia was silent for a moment, as if seeking words, then she said,-- "I ought to answer you clearly and sincerely. This confession is for me very difficult; but I do not wish such a man as you to deceive himself. I have not loved you; I do not love you, and I will not be your wife, even should it come to me never to be any one's." Then a still more prolonged silence followed. The spots on Mashko's face assumed a deeper hue, and his eyes cast cold steel gleams. "This answer," said he, "is as decided as it is painful to me and unexpected. But will you not give yourself a few days to consider, instead of rejecting me decisively at this moment?" "You have said that I divined your feelings; I had time then to make my decision, and the answer which I gave you, I give after thorough reflection." Mashko's voice became dry and sharp now,-- "Do you think that by virtue of your bearing with me, I had not the right to make such a proposal?" And he was sure in that moment that Marynia would answer that he understood her bearing incorrectly, that there was nothing in it authorizing him to entertain any hope,--in one word, that she would seek the crooked road taken usually by coquettes who are forced to redeem their coquetry by lying; but she raised her eyes to him and said,-- "My conduct with you has not been at times what it should have been; I confess my fault, and with my whole soul I beg pardon for it." Mashko was silent. A woman who evades rouses contempt; a woman who recognizes her fault dashes the weapon from the hand of every opponent in whose nature, or even in whose education, there lies the least spark of knightly feeling. Besides this, there is one final method of moving the heart of a woman in such a ease, and that is to overlook her fault magnanimously. Mashko, though he saw before him a precipice, understood this, and determined to lay everything on this last card. Every nerve in him quivered from anger and offended self-love; but he mastered himself, took his hat, and, approaching Marynia, raised her hand to his lips. "I knew that you loved Kremen," said he; "and I bought it for one purpose only, to lay it at your feet. I see that I went by a mistaken road, and I withdraw, though I do so with endless sorrow; I beg you to remember that. Fault on your part there has not been, and is not. Your peace is dearer to me than my own happiness; I beg you, therefore, as an only favor, not to reproach yourself. And now farewell." And he went out. She sat there motionless a long time, with a pale face and a feeling of oppression in her soul. She had not expected to find in him so many noble feelings. Besides, the following thought came to her head, "That one took Kremen from me to save his own; this one bought it to return it to me." And never before had Pan Stanislav been so ruined in her thoughts. At that moment she did not remember that Mashko had bought Kremen, not from Pan Stanislav, but from her father; second, that he had bought it profitably; third, that though he wished to return it, he intended to take it again with her hand, thus freeing himself from the payments which weighed on him; and finally, to take the matter as it was in reality, neither Pan Stanislav nor any one else had taken Kremen from her,--Plavitski had sold it because he was willing and found a purchaser. But at that moment she looked on the matter in woman fashion, and compared Mashko with Pan Stanislav, exalting the former beyond measure, and condemning the latter beyond his deserts. Mashko's action touched her so much that if she had not felt for him simply a repulsion, she would have called him back. For a while it seemed to her even that she ought to do so, but strength failed her. She did not know either that Mashko went down the stairs with rage and despair in his soul; in fact, a precipice had opened before him. All his calculations had deceived him: the woman whom he loved really did not want him, and rejected him; and though she had striven to spare him in words, he felt humbled as never before. Whatever he had undertaken in life hitherto, he had carried through always with a feeling of his own power and reason, with an unshaken certainty of success. Marynia's refusal had taken that certainty from him. For the first time he doubted himself; for the first time he had a feeling that his star was beginning to pale, and that perhaps an epoch of defeats was beginning for him on all fields on which he had acted hitherto. That epoch had begun even. Mashko had bought Kremen on conditions exceptionally profitable, but it was too large an estate for his means. If Marynia had not rejected him, he would have been able to manage; he would not have needed to think of the life annuity for Plavitski, or the sum which, according to agreement, came to Marynia for Magyerovka. At present he had to pay Marynia, Pan Stanislav, and the debts on Kremen, which must be paid as soon as possible, for, by reason of usurious interest, they were increasing day by day, and threatening utter ruin. For all this he had only credit, hitherto unshaken, it is true, but strained like a chord; Mashko felt that, if that chord should ever snap, he would be ruined beyond remedy. Hence at moments, besides sorrow for Marynia, besides the pain which a man feels after the loss of happiness, anger measureless, almost mad, bore him away, and also an unbridled desire for revenge. Therefore, when he was entering his residence, he muttered through his set teeth,-- "If thou do not become my wife, I'll not forgive thee for what thou hast done to me; if thou become my wife, I'll not forgive thee either." Meanwhile Plavitski entered the room in which Marynia was sitting, and said,-- "Thou hast refused him, or he would have come to me before going." "I have, papa." "Without hope for the future?" "Without hope. I respect him as no one in the world, but I gave him no hope." "What did he answer?" "Everything that such a high-minded person could answer." "A new misfortune. Who knows if thou hast not deprived me of a morsel of bread in my old age? But I knew that no thought of this would come to thee." "I could not act otherwise; I could not." "I have no wish to force thee; and I go to offer my sufferings there where every tear of an old man is counted." And he went to Lour's to look at men playing billiards. He would have consented to Mashko; but at the root of the matter he did not count him a very brilliant match, and, thinking that Marynia might do better, he did not trouble himself too much over what had happened. Half an hour later Marynia ran in to Pani Emilia's. "One weight at least has fallen from my heart," began she. "I refused Pan Mashko to-day decisively. I am sorry for him; he acted with me as nobly and delicately as only such a man could act; and if I had for him even a small spark of feeling, I would return to him to-day." Here she repeated the whole conversation with Mashko. Even Pani Emilia could not reproach him with anything; she could not refuse a certain admiration, though she had blamed Mashko for a violent character, and had not expected that, in such a grievous moment for himself, he would be able to show such moderation and nobleness. But Marynia said,-- "My Emilka, I know thy friendship for Pan Stanislav, but judge these two men by their acts, not their words, and compare them." "Never shall I compare them," answered Pani Emilia, "comparison is impossible in this case. For me, Pan Stanislav is a nature a hundred times loftier than Mashko, but thou judgest him unjustly. Thou, Marynia, hast no right to say, 'One took Kremen from me; the other wished to give it back.' Such was not the case. Pan Stanislav did not take it from thee at any time; but to-day, if he could, he would return it with all his heart. Prepossesion is talking through thee." "Not prepossession, but reality, which nothing can change." Pani Emilia seated Marynia before her, and said, "By all means, Marynia, prepossession, and I will tell thee why. Thou art not indifferent to Pan Stanislav now." Marynia quivered as if some one had touched a wound which was paining her; and after a while she replied, with changed voice,-- "Pan Stanislav is not indifferent to me; thou art right. Everything which in me could be sympathy for him has turned to dislike; and hear, Emilka, what I will tell thee. If I had to choose between those two men, I should choose Mashko without hesitation." Pani Emilia dropped her head; after a while Marynia's arms were around her neck. "What suffering for me, that I cause thee such pain! but I must tell truth. I know that in the end thou, too, wilt cease to love me, and I shall be all alone in the world." And really something like that had begun. The young women parted with embraces and kisses; but still, when they found themselves far from each other, both felt that something between them had snapped, and that their mutual relations would not be so cordial as hitherto. Pani Emilia hesitated for a number of days whether to repeat Marynia's words to Pan Stanislav; but he begged her so urgently for the whole truth that at last she thought it necessary, and that she would better tell it. When all had been told, he said,-- "I thank you. If Panna Plavitski feels contempt for me, I must endure it; I cannot, however, endure this,--that I should begin to despise myself. As it is, I have gone too far. My dear lady, you know that if I have done her a wrong, I have tried to correct it, and gain her forgiveness. I do not feel bound to further duties. I shall have grievous moments; I do not hide that from you. But I have not been an imbecile, and am not; I shall be able to bring myself to this,--I shall throw all my feelings for Panna Plavitski through the window, as I would something not needed in my chamber, I promise that sacredly." He went home filled with will and energy. It seemed to him that he could take that feeling and break it as he might break a cane across his knee. This impulse lasted a number of days. During that time he did not show himself anywhere, except at his office, where he talked with Bigiel of business exclusively. He worked from morning till evening and did not permit himself even to think about Marynia in the daytime. But he could not guard himself from sleepless nights. Then came to him the clear feeling that Marynia might love him, that she would be the best wife for him, that he would be happy with her as never with any one else, and that he would love her as his highest good. The regret born of these thoughts filled his whole existence, and did not leave him any more, so that sorrow was consuming his life and his health, as rust consumes iron. Pan Stanislav began to grow thin; he saw that the destruction of a feeling gives one sure result,--the destruction of happiness. Never had he seen such a void before him, and never had he felt, with equal force, that nothing would fill it. He saw, too, that it was possible to love a woman not as she is, but as she might be; therefore his heart-sickness was beyond measure. But, having great power over himself, he avoided Marynia. He knew always when she was to be at Pani Emilia's, and then he confined himself at home. It was only when Litka fell ill again that he began to visit Pani Emilia daily, passing hours with the sick child, whom Marynia attended also. CHAPTER XV. But poor Litka, after a new attack, which was more terrible than any preceding it, could not recover. She spent days now lying on a long chair in the drawing-room; for at her request the doctor and Pani Emilia had agreed not to keep her in bed the whole time. She liked also to have Pan Stanislav sitting near her; and she spoke to him and her mother about everything that passed through her mind. With Marynia she was silent usually; but at times she looked at her long, and then raised her eyes to the ceiling, as if wishing to think out a thought, and give herself an account of something. More than once these meditations took place when she was left alone with her mother. On a certain afternoon she woke as if from a dream, and turning to her mother, said,-- "Mamma, sit near me here on the sofa." Pani Emilia sat down; the child put her arms around her neck, and, resting her head on her shoulder, began to speak in a caressing voice, which was somewhat enfeebled. "I wanted to ask mamma one thing, but I do not know how to ask it." "What is thy wish, my dear child?" Litka was silent a moment, collecting her thoughts; then she said,-- "If we love some one, mamma, what is it?" "If we love some one, Litus?" Pani Emilia repeated the question, not understanding well at first what the little girl was asking, but she did not know how to inquire more precisely. "Then what is it, mamma?" "It is this,--we wish that one to be well, just as I wish thee to be well." "And what more?" "And we want that person to be happy, want it to be pleasant in the world for that person, and are glad to suffer for that person when in trouble." "And what more?" "To have that one always with us, as thou art with me; and we want that one to love us, as thou lovest me." "I understand now," said Litka, after a moment's thought; "and I think myself that that is true,--that it is that way." "How, kitten?" "See, mamma, when I was in Reichenhall, mamma remembers? at Thumsee I heard that Pan Stas loves Panna Marynia; and now I know that he must be unhappy, though he never says so." Pani Emilia, fearing emotion for Litka, said,-- "Does not this talk make thee tired, kitten?" "Oh, no, not a bit, not a bit! I understand now: he wants her to love him, and she does not love him; and he wants her to be near him always, but she lives with her father, and she will not marry him." "Marry him?" "Marry him. And he is suffering from that, mamma; isn't it true?" "True, my child." "Yes, I know all that; and she would marry him if she loved him?" "Certainly, kitten; he is such a kind man." "Now I know." The little girl closed her eyes, and Pani Emilia thought for a while that she was sleeping; but after a time she began to inquire again,-- "And if he married Marynia, would he cease to love us?" "No, Litus; he would love us always just the same." "But would he love Marynia?" "Marynia would be nearer to him than we. Why dost thou ask about this so, thou kitten?" "Is it wrong?" "No, there is nothing wrong in it, nothing at all; only I am afraid that thou wilt weary thyself." "Oh, no! I am always thinking of Pan Stas anyhow. But mamma mustn't tell Marynia about this." With these words ended the conversation, after which Litka held silence for a number of days, only she looked more persistently than before at Marynia. Sometimes she took her hand and turned her eyes to the young woman, as if wishing to ask something. Sometimes when Marynia and Pan Stanislav were near by, she gazed now on her, now on him, and then closed her lids. Often they came daily, sometimes a number of times in the day, wishing to relieve Pani Emilia, who permitted no one to take her place in the night at Litka's bedside; for a week she had been without rest at night, sleeping only a little in the day, when Litka herself begged her to do so. Still Pani Emilia was not conscious of the whole danger which threatened the little girl; for the doctor, not knowing what that crisis of the disease would be, whether a step in advance merely, or the end, pacified the mother the more decisively because Pan Stanislav begged him most urgently to do so. She had a feeling, however, that Litka's condition was not favorable, and, in spite of assurances from the doctor, her heart sank more than once from alarm. But to Litka she showed always a smiling and joyous face, just as did Pan Stanislav and Marynia; but the little girl had learned already to observe everything, and Pani Emilia's most carefully concealed alarm did not escape her. Therefore on a certain morning, when there was no one in her room but Pan Stanislav, who was occupied with inflating for her a great globe of silk, which he had brought as a present, the little girl said,-- "Pan Stas, I see sometimes that mamma is very anxious because I am sick." He stopped inflating the globe, and answered,-- "Ai! she doesn't dream of it. What is working under thy hair? But it is natural for her to be anxious; she would rather have thee well." "Why are all other children well, and I alone always sick?" "Nicely well! Weren't the Bigiel children sick, one after another, with whooping-cough? For whole months the house was like a sheepfold. And didn't Yozio have the measles? All children are eternally sick, and that is the one pleasure with them." "Pan Stas only talks that way, for children are sick and get well again." Here she began to shake her head. "No; that is something different. And now I must lie this way all the time, for if I get up my heart beats right away; and the day before yesterday, when they began to sing on the street, and mamma wasn't in the room, I went to the window a little while, and saw a funeral. I thought, 'I, too, shall die surely.'" "Nonsense, Litus!" cried Pan Stanislav; and he began to inflate the globe quickly to hide his emotion, and to show the child how little her words meant. But she went on with her thought,-- "It is so stifling for me sometimes, and my heart beats so--mamma told me to say then 'Under Thy protection,' and I say it always, for I am terribly afraid to die! I know that it is nice in heaven, but I shouldn't be with mamma, only alone in the graveyard; yes, in the night." Pan Stanislav laid down the globe suddenly, sat near the long chair, and, taking Litka's hand, said,-- "My Litus, if thou love mamma, if thou love me, do not think of such things. Nothing will happen to thee; but thy mother would suffer if she knew what her little girl's head is filled with. Remember that thou art hurting thyself in this way." Litka joined her hands: "My Pan Stas, I ask only one thing, not more." He bent his head down to her: "Well, ask, kitten, only something sensible." "Would Pan Stas be very sorry for me?" "Ah! but see what a bad girl!" "My Pan Stas, tell me." "I? what an evil child, Litus! Know that I love thee, love thee immensely. God preserve us! there is no one in the world that I should be so sorry for. But be quiet at least for me, thou suffering fly! thou dearest creature!" "I will be quiet, kind Pan Stas." And in the moment when Pani Emilia came, and he was preparing to go, she asked,-- "And Pan Stas is not angry with me?" "No, Litus," answered Pan Stanislav. When he had gone to the antechamber he heard a light knocking at the door; Pani Emilia had given orders to remove the bell. He opened it and saw Marynia, who came ordinarily in the evening. When she had greeted him, she asked,-- "How is Litka to-day?" "As usual." "Has the doctor been here?" "Yes. He found nothing new. Let me help you!" Saying this, he wished to take her cloak, but she was unwilling to accept his services, and refused. Having his heart full of the previous talk with Litka, he attacked her most unexpectedly,-- "What I offer you is simple politeness, nothing more; and even if it were something more, you might leave your repugnance to me outside this threshold, for inside is a sick child, whom not only I, but you, profess to love. Your response lacks not merely kindness, but even courtesy. I would take in the same way the cloak of any other woman, and know that at present I am thinking of Litka, and of nothing else." He spoke with great passionateness, so that, attacked suddenly, Marynia was a little frightened; indeed, she lost her head somewhat, so that obediently she let her cloak be taken from her, and not only did not find in herself the force to be offended, but she felt that a man sincerely and deeply affected by alarm and suffering might talk so, therefore a man who was really full of feeling and was good at heart. Perhaps, too, that unexpected energy of his spoke to her feminine nature; it is enough that Pan Stanislav gained on her more in that moment than at any time since their meeting at Kremen, and never till then was she so strongly reminded of that active young man whom she had conducted once through the garden. The impression, it is true, was a mere passing one, which could not decide their mutual relations; but she raised at once on him her eyes, somewhat astonished, but not angry, and said,-- "I beg your pardon." He had calmed himself, and was abashed now. "No; I beg pardon of you. Just now Litka spoke of her death to me, and I am so excited that I cannot control myself; pray understand this, and forgive me." Then he pressed her hand firmly, and went home. CHAPTER XVI. On the following day Marynia offered to stay at Pani Emilia's till Litka should recover perfectly. Litka supported this offer, which Pani Emilia, after a short opposition, was forced to accept. In fact, she was dropping down from weariness; the health of the sick girl demanded unceasing and exceptional watchfulness, for a new attack might come at any instant. It was difficult to calculate or be sure that a servant, even the most faithful, would not doze at the very moment in which speedy assistance might save the child's life; hence the presence of Marynia was a real aid to the anxious mother, and calmed her. As to Plavitski, he preferred to eat at the restaurant, and made no trouble. Marynia, moreover, went in every day to inquire about his health and bring domestic accounts into order; then she returned to Pani Emilia to sit half the night by the little girl. In this way Pan Stanislav, who passed at Pani Emilia's all the time free from occupation, and received, or rather dismissed with thanks, those who came to inquire for Litka's health, saw Marynia daily. And she in truth amazed him; Pani Emilia herself did not show more anxiety for the child, and could not nurse her more carefully. In a week Marynia's face had grown pale from watching and alarm; there were dark lines beneath her eyes; but her strength and energy seemed to grow hourly. There was in her also so much sweetness and kindness, something so calm and delicate in the services which she rendered Litka, that the child, despite the resentment which she cherished in her little soul, began to be kind to her; and when she went for some hours to her father, Litka looked for her with yearning. Finally the little girl's health seemed to improve in the last hours. The doctor permitted her to walk in the chamber and sit in an armchair, which on sunny days was pushed to the door opening on the balcony, so that she might look at the street and amuse herself with the movement of people and carriages. At such times Pan Stanislav, Pani Emilia, and Marynia stood near her frequently; their conversation related to what was passing on the street. Sometimes Litka was wearied, and, as it were, thoughtful; at other times, however, her child nature got the upper hand, and everything amused her,--hence the October sun, which covered the roofs, the walls, and the panes of the shop windows with a pale gold; the dresses of the passers-by; the calling of the hucksters. It seemed that those strong elements of life, pulsating in the whirl of the city, entered the child and enlivened her. At times wonderful thoughts came to her head; and once, when before the balcony a heavy wagon was pushing past which carried lemon-trees in tubs, and these, though tied with chains, moved with the motion of the wagon, she said,-- "Their hearts do not palpitate." And then, raising her eyes to Pan Stanislav, she asked,-- "Pan Stas, do trees live long?" "Very long; some of them live a thousand years." "Oh, I would like to be a tree. And which does mamma like best?" "The birch." "Then I would like to be a little birch; and mamma would be a big birch, and we should grow together. And would Pan Stas like to be a birch?" "If I could grow somewhere not far from the little birch." Litka looked at him shaking her head somewhat sadly, said,-- "Oh, no! I know all now; I know near what birch Pan Stas would like to grow." Marynia was confused, and dropped her eyes on her work; Pan Stanislav began to stroke lightly with his palm the little blond head, and said,-- "My dear little kitten, my dear, my--my--" Litka was silent; from under her long eyelids flowed two tears, and rolled down her cheeks. After a while, however, she raised her sweet face, radiant with a smile,-- "I love mamma very much," said she, "and I love Pan Stas, and I love Marynia." CHAPTER XVII. Professor Vaskovski inquired every day about the health of the little one; and though most frequently they did not receive him, he sent her flowers. Pan Stanislav, meeting him somewhere at dinner, began thanking him in Pani Emilia's name. "Asters, only asters!" said Vaskovski. "How is she to-day?" "To-day not ill, but, in general, not well; worse than in Reichenhall. Fear for each coming day seizes one; and at the thought that the child may be missing--" Here Pan Stanislav stopped, for further words failed him; at last he burst out,-- "What is the use in looking for mercy? There is nothing but logic, which says that whoso has a sick heart must die. And may thunderbolts split such existence!" Now came Bukatski, who, when he had learned what the conversation was, attacked the professor; even he, as he loved Litka, rebelled in his soul at thought of that death which was threatening her. "How is it possible to deceive oneself so many years, and proclaim principles which turn into nothing in view of blind predestination?" But the old man answered mildly: "How, beloved friends, estimate with your own measure the wisdom of God and His mercy? A man under ground is surrounded by darkness, but he has no right to deny that above him are sky, sun, heat, and light." "Here is consolation," interrupted Pan Stanislav; "a fly couldn't live on such doctrines. And what is a mother to do, whose only and beloved child is dying?" But the blue eyes of the professor seemed to look beyond the world. For a time he gazed straightforward persistently; then he said, like a man who sees something, but is not sure that he sees it distinctly, "It appears to me that this child has fixed herself too deeply in people's hearts to pass away simply, and disappear without a trace. There is something in this,--something was predestined to her; she must accomplish something, and before that she will not die." "Mysticism," said Bukatski. But Pan Stanislav interrupted: "Oh, that it were so, mysticism or no mysticism! Oh, that it were so! A man in misfortune grasps even at a shadow of hope. It never found place in my head that she had to die." But the professor added, "Who knows? she may survive all of us." Polanyetski was in that phase of scepticism in which a man recognizes certainty in nothing, but considers everything possible, especially that everything which at the given time his heart yearns for; he breathed therefore more easily, and received certain consolation. "May God have mercy on her and Pani Emilia!" said he. "I would give money for a hundred Masses if I knew they would help her." "Give for one, if the intention be sincere." "I will, I will! As to the sincerity of intention, I could not be more sincere if the question involved my own life." Vaskovski smiled and said, "Thou art on the good road, for thou knowest how to love." And all left relieved in some way. Bukatski, if he was thinking of something opposed to what Vaskovski had said, did not dare mention it; for when people in presence of real misfortune seek salvation in faith, scepticism, even when thoroughly rooted, pulls its cap over its ears, and is not only cowardly, but seems weak and small. Bigiel, who came in at that moment, saw more cheerful faces, and said,-- "I see by you that the little one is not worse." "No, no," said Pan Stanislav; "and the professor told us such wholesome things that he might be applied to a wound." "Praise be to God! My wife gave money for a Mass to-day, and went then to Pani Emilia's. I will dine with you, for I have leave; and, since Litka is better, I will tell you another glad news." "What is it?" "Awhile ago I met Mashko, who, by the way, will be here soon; and when he comes, congratulate him, for he is going to marry." "Whom?" asked Pan Stanislav. "My neighbor's daughter." "Panna Kraslavski?" "Yes." "I understand," said Bukatski; "he crushed those ladies into dust with his grandeur, his birth, his property, and out of that dust he formed a wife and a mother-in-law for himself." "Tell me one thing," said the professor; "Mashko is a religious man--" "As a conservative," interrupted Bukatski, "for appearance' sake." "And those ladies, too," continued Vaskovski. "From habit--" "Why do they never think of a future life?" "Mashko, why dost thou never think of a future life?" cried Bukatski, turning to the advocate, who was coming in at that moment. Mashko approached them and asked, "What dost thou say?" "I will say Tu felix, Mashko, nube!" (Thou, Mashko, art fortunate in marriage!) Then all began to offer congratulations, which he received with full weight of dignity; at the end he said,-- "My dear friends, I thank you from my whole heart; and, since ye all know my betrothed, I have no doubt of the sincerity of your wishes." "Do not permit thyself one," said Bukatski. "But Kremen came to thee in season," interjected Pan Stanislav. Indeed, Kremen had come to Mashko in season, for without it he might not have been accepted. But for that very cause the remark was not agreeable; hence he made a wry face, and answered,-- "Thou didst make that purchase easy; sometimes I am thankful to thee, and sometimes I curse thee." "Why so?" "For thy dear Uncle Plavitski is the most annoying, the most unendurable figure on earth, omitting thy cousin, who is a charming young lady; but from morning till evening she rings changes on her never to be sufficiently regretted Kremen, through all the seven notes, adding at each one a tear. Thou art seldom at their house; but, believe me, to be there is uncommonly wearisome." Pan Stanislav looked into his eyes and answered, "Listen, Mashko: against my uncle I have said everything that could hit him; but it does not follow, therefore, that I am to listen patiently if another attacks Plavitski, especially a man who has made profit by him. As to Panna Marynia, she is sorry, I know, for Kremen; but this proves that she is not an empty puppet, or a manikin, but a woman with a heart; dost understand me?" A moment of silence followed. Mashko understood perfectly whom Pan Stanislav had in mind when he mentioned the empty doll and manikin; hence the freckles on his face became brick-colored, and his lips began to quiver. But he restrained himself. He was in no sense a coward; but even the man who is most daring has usually some one with whom he has no wish to quarrel, and for Mashko Polanyetski was such a one. Therefore, shrugging his shoulders, he said,-- "Why art thou angry? If that is unpleasing to thee--" But Pan Stanislav interrupted, "I am not angry; but I advise thee to remember my words." And he looked him in the eyes again. Mashko thought, "If thou wilt have an adventure anyhow, thou canst have it." "Thy words," said he, "I can remember; only do thou take counsel also from me. Permit not thyself to speak in that tone to me, else I might forget myself also, and call thee to reckoning." "What the deuce--?" began Bukatski. "What is the matter with thee?" But Pan Stanislav, in whom irritation against Mashko has been gathering for a long time, would beyond doubt have pushed matters to extremes had not Pani Emilia's servant rushed into the room at that moment. "I beg," said he, with a panting voice; "the little lady is dying!" Pan Stanislav grew pale, and, seizing his hat, sprang to the door. A long, dull silence followed, which Mashko interrupted at last. "I forgot," said he, "that everything should be forgiven him at present." Vaskovski, covering his eyes with his hands, began to pray. At length he raised his head and said,-- "God alone has bridled death, and has power to restrain it." A quarter of an hour later, Bigiel received a note from his wife with the words, "The attack has passed." CHAPTER XVIII. Pan Stanislav hurried to Pani Emilia's, fearing that he would not find Litka living; for the servant told him on the way that the little lady was in convulsions, and dying. But when he arrived, Pani Emilia ran to meet him, and from the depth of her breast threw out in one breath the words, "Better! better!" "Is the doctor here?" "He is." "But the little one?" "Is sleeping." On the face of Pani Emilia the remnants of fear were struggling with hope and joy. Pan Stanislav noticed that her lips were almost white, her eyes dry and red, her face in blotches; she was mortally wearied, for she had not slept for twenty-four hours. But the doctor, a young man, and energetic, looked on the danger as passed for the time. Pani Emilia was strengthened by what he told her in presence of Pan Stanislav, especially this: "We should not let it come to a second attack, and we will not." There was real consolation in these words, for evidently the doctor considered that they were able to ward off another attack; still there was a warning that another attack might be fatal. But Pani Emilia grasped at every hope, as a man falling over a precipice grasps at the branches of trees growing out on the edge of it. "We will not; we will not!" repeated she, pressing the doctor's hand feverishly. Pan Stanislav looked into his eyes unobserved, wishing to read in them whether he said this to pacify the mother, or on the basis of medical conviction, and asked as a test,-- "You will not leave her to-day?" "I do not see the least need of staying," answered he. "The child is exhausted, and is like to sleep long and soundly. I will come to-morrow, but to-day I can go with perfect safety." Then he turned to Pani Emilia,-- "You must rest, too. All danger has passed; the patient should not see on your face any suffering or alarm, for she might be disturbed, and she is too weak to endure that." "I could not fall asleep," said Pani Emilia. The doctor turned his pale blue eyes to her, and, gazing into her face with a certain intensity, said slowly,-- "In an hour you will lie down, and will fall asleep directly; you will sleep unbrokenly for six or eight hours,--let us say eight. To-morrow you will be strong and refreshed. And now good-night." "But drops to the little one, if she wakes?" asked Pani Emilia. "Another will give the drops; you will sleep. Good-night." And he took farewell. Pan Stanislav wished to follow him to inquire alone about Litka, but he thought that a longer talk of that kind might alarm Pani Emilia; hence he preferred to omit it, promising himself that in the morning he would go to the doctor's house and talk there with him. After a while, when he was alone with Pani Emilia, he said,-- "Do as the doctor directed; you need rest. I promise to go to Litka's room now, and I will not leave her the whole night." But Pani Emilia's thoughts were all with the little girl; so, instead of an answer, she said to him directly,-- "Do you know, after the attack, she asked several times for you before she fell asleep. And for Marynia too. She fell asleep with the question, 'Where is Pan Stas?'" "My poor beloved child, I should have come anyhow right after dinner. I flew here barely alive. When did the attack begin?" "In the forenoon. From the morning she was gloomy, as if foreboding something. You know that in my presence she says always that she is well; but she must have felt ill, for before the attack she sat near me and begged me to hold her hand. Yesterday, I forgot to tell you that she put such strange questions to me: 'Is it true,' inquired she, 'that if a sick child asks for a thing it is never refused?' I answered that it is not refused unless the child asks for something impossible. Some idea was passing through her head evidently, for in the evening, when Marynia ran in for a moment, she put like questions to us. She went to sleep in good humor, but this morning early she complained of stifling. It is lucky that I sent for the doctor before the attack, and that he came promptly." "It is the greatest luck that he went away with such certainty that the attack would not be repeated. I am perfectly sure that that is his conviction," answered Pan Stanislav. Pani Emilia raised her eyes: "The Lord God is so merciful, so good, that--" In spite of all her efforts, she began to sob, for repressed alarm and despair were changed to joy in her, and she found relief in tears. In that noble and spiritualized nature, innate exaltation disturbed calm thought; by reason of this, Pani Emilia never gave an account to herself of the real state of affairs; now, for example, she had not the least doubt that Litka's illness had ended once for all with this recent attack, and that thenceforth a time of perfect health would begin for the child. Pan Stanislav had neither the wish nor the heart to show her a middle road between delight and despair; his heart rose with great pity for her, and there came to him one of those moments in which he felt more clearly than usually how deeply, though disinterestedly, he was attached to that enthusiastic and idealistic woman. If she had been his sister, he would have embraced her and pressed her to his bosom; as it was, he kissed her delicate, thin hands, and said,-- "Praise be to God; praise be to God! Let the dear lady think now of herself, and I will go to the little one and not stir till she wakes." And he went. In Litka's chamber there was darkness, for the window-blinds were closed, and the sun was going down. Only through the slats did some reddish rays force their way; these lighted the chamber imperfectly and vanished soon, for the sky began to grow cloudy. Litka was sleeping soundly. Pan Stanislav, sitting near her, looked on her sleeping face, and at the first moment his heart was oppressed painfully. She was lying with her face toward the ceiling; her thin little hands were placed on the coverlid; her eyes were closed, and under them was a deep shadow from the lashes. Her pallor, which seemed waxen in that reddish half-gloom, and her open mouth, finally, the deep sleep,--gave, her face the seeming of such rest as the faces of the dead have. But the movement of the ruffles on her nightdress showed that she was living and breathing. Her respiration was even calm and very regular. Pan Stanislav looked for a long time at that sick face, and felt again, with full force, what he had felt often, when he thought of himself,--namely, that nature had made him to be a father; that, besides the woman of his choice, children might be the immense love of his life, the chief object and reason of his existence. He understood this, through the pity and love which he felt at that moment for Litka, who, a stranger to him by birth, was as dear to him then as would have been his own child. "If she had been given to me," thought he; "if she lacked a mother,--I would take her forever, and consider that I had something to live for." And he felt also that were it possible to make a bargain with death, he would have given himself without hesitation to redeem that little "kitten," over whom death seemed then to be floating like a bird of prey over a dove. Such tenderness seized him as he had not felt till that hour; and that man, of a character rather quick and harsh, was ready to kiss the hands and head of that child, with a tenderness of which not even every woman's heart is capable. Meanwhile it had grown dark. Soon Pani Emilia came in, shading with her hand a blue night-lamp. "She is sleeping?" asked she, in a low voice, placing the lamp on the table beyond Litka's head. "She is," answered Pan Stanislav, in an equally low voice. Pani Emilia looked long at the sleeping child. "See," whispered Pan Stanislav, "how regularly and calmly she breathes. To-morrow she will be healthier and stronger." "Yes," answered the mother, with a smile. "Now it is your turn. Sleep, sleep! otherwise I shall begin to command without pity." Her eyes continued to smile at him thankfully. In the mild blue light of the night-lamp she seemed like an apparition. She had a perfectly angelic face; and Pan Stanislav thought in spite of himself that she and Litka looked really like forms from beyond the earth, which by pure chance had wandered into this world. "Yes," answered she; "I will rest now. Marynia has come, and Professor Vaskovski. Marynia wishes absolutely to remain." "So much the better. She manages so well near the little girl. Good-night." "Good-night." Pan Stanislav was alone again, and began to think of Marynia. At the very intelligence that he would see her soon he could not think of aught else; and now he put the question to himself: "In what lies this wonderful secret of nature in virtue of which I, for example, did not fall in love with Pani Emilia, decidedly more beautiful than Marynia, likely better, sweeter, more capable of loving,--but with that girl whom I know incomparably less, and, justly or unjustly, honor less?" Still with every approach of his to Marynia there rose in him immediately all those impulses which a man may feel at sight of a chosen woman, while a real womanly form, like that of Pani Emilia, made no other impression on him than if she had been a painting or a carving. Why is this, and why, the more culture a man has, the more his nerves become subtile, and his sensitiveness keener, the greater difference does he make between woman and woman? Pan Stanislav had no answer to this save the one which that doctor in love with Panna Kraslavski had given him: "I estimate her coolly, but I cannot tear my soul from her." That was rather the description of a phenomenon than an answer, for which, moreover, he had not the time, since Marynia came in at that moment. They nodded in salutation; he raised a chair then, and put it down softly at Litka's bed, letting Marynia know by a sign that she was to sit there. She began to speak first, or rather, to whisper. "Go to tea now. Professor Vaskovski is here." "And Pani Emilia?" "She could not sit up. She said that it was a wonder to her, but she must sleep." "I know why: the doctor hypnotized her, and he did well. The little girl is indeed better." Marynia gazed into his eyes; but he repeated,-- "She is really better--if the attack will not return, and there is hope that it will not." "Ah! praise be to God! But go now and drink tea." He preferred, however, to whisper to her near by and confidentially, so he said,-- "I will, I will; but later. Let us arrange meanwhile so that you may rest. I have heard that your father is ill. Of course you have been watching over him." "Father is well now, and I wish to take Emilia's place absolutely. She told me that the servants had not slept either all last night, for the child's condition was alarming before the attack. It is needful now that some one be on the watch always. I should wish, therefore, so to arrange that we--that is, I, you, and Emilka--should follow in turn." "Very well; but to-day I will remain. If not here, I shall be at call in the next chamber. When did you hear of the attack?" "I did not hear of it. I came as I do usually in the evening to learn what was to be heard." "Pani Emilia's servant hurried to me while I was dining. You can imagine easily how I flew hither. I was not sure of finding her alive. What wonder, since during dinner I talked almost all the time of Litka with Bukatski and Vaskovski, till Mashko came with the announcement of his marriage." "Is Mashko going to marry?" "Yes. The news has not gone around yet; but he announced it himself. He marries Panna Kraslavski; you remember her?" "She who was at the Bigiels that evening. She is a good match for Mashko, Panna Kraslavski." There was silence for a moment. Marynia, who, not loving Mashko, had rejected his hand, but who more than once had reproached herself for her conduct with regard to him, thinking that she had exposed him to deception and suffering, could find only comfort in the news that the young advocate had borne the blow so easily. Still the news astonished her for the time, and also wounded her. Women, when they sympathize with some one, wish first that some one to be really unhappy, and, secondly, they wish to alleviate the misfortune themselves; when it turns out that another is able to do that, they undergo a certain disillusion. Marynia's self-love was wounded also doubly. She had not thought that it would be so easy to forget her; hence she had to confess that her idea of Mashko as an exceptional man had no basis. He had been for her hitherto a kind of ace in the game against Pan Stanislav; now he had ceased to be that. She felt, therefore, let matters be as they might, somewhat conquered. This did not prevent her, it is true, from informing Pan Stanislav, with a certain accent of truth, that his news caused her sincere and deep joy, but at bottom she felt in some sort offended by him because he had told her. For a certain time Pan Stanislav had acted with her very reservedly, and in nothing had he betrayed what was happening within him. He did not feign to be too cool, for they had to meet; therefore, in meeting her he maintained even a certain kindly freedom, but for this very reason she judged that he had ceased to love her, and such is human nature, that though the old offence was existing yet, and had even increased in the soul of the young woman, though her first disillusion had changed as it were into a spring, giving forth new bitterness continually, still the thought that her repugnance was indifferent to him irritated Marynia. Now it seemed to her that Pan Stanislav must even triumph over her mistake as to Mashko; and at this, that in every case she, who shortly before had the choice between Mashko and him, has that choice no longer, and will fall, as it were, into a kind of neglect somewhat humiliating. But he was far from such thoughts. He was glad, it is true, that Marynia should know that, by exalting Mashko above him, she had been mistaken fundamentally; but he had not dreamed even of taking pleasure in this or triumphing because of her isolation, for at every moment and at that time more than any other he was ready to open his arms to her, press her to his bosom, and love her. He was working, it is true, continually and even with stubbornness to break in himself those feelings; but he did this only because he saw no hope before him, and considered it an offence against his dignity as a man to put all the powers of his soul and heart into a feeling which was not returned. To use his own expression, he wished to avoid surrender, and he did avoid surrender, to the best of his power; but he understood perfectly that such a struggle exhausts, and that even if it ends with victory it brings a void, instead of happiness. Besides, he was far yet from victory. After all his efforts he had arrived at this only,--that his feeling was mingled with bitterness. Such a ferment dissolves love, it is true, for the simple reason that it poisons it; and in time this bitterness might have dissolved love in Pan Stanislav's heart. But what an empty result! Sitting then near Marynia and looking at her face and head, shone on by the light of the lamp, he said to himself, "If only she wished!" That thought made him angry; but since he wanted to be sincere with himself, he had to confess that if only she wished he would bend to her feet with the greatest readiness. What an empty result, then, and what a position without escape! For he felt that the misunderstanding between them had increased so much that even if Marynia desired a return of those moments passed in Kremen, self-love and fear of self-contradiction would close her lips. Their relations had become so entangled that they might fall in love more easily a second time than come to an understanding. After a short conversation there was silence between them, interrupted only by the breathing of the sick child and the slight, but mournful, sounds of the window-panes, on which fine rain was striking. Outside, the night had grown wet; it was autumnal, bringing with it oppression, gloom, pessimism, and discontent. Equally gloomy seemed that chamber, in whose dark corners death appeared to be lurking. Hour followed hour more slowly. All at once forebodings seized Pan Stanislav. He looked at Litka on a sudden, and it seemed to him madness to suppose that she could recover. Vain was watching! vain were hopes and illusions! That child must die! she must all the more surely, the dearer she was. Pani Emilia will follow her; and then there will be a desert really hopeless. What a life! See, he, Polanyetski, has those two, the only beings in the world who love him,--beings for whom he is something; therefore it is clear that he must lose them. With them there would be something in life to which he could adhere; without them there will be only nothingness and a certain kind of future, blind, deaf, unreasoning, with the face of an idiot. The most energetic man needs some one to love him. Otherwise he feels death within, and his energy turns against life. A moment like that had come now to Pan Stanislav. "I do not know absolutely why I should not fire into my forehead," thought he, "not from despair at losing them, but because of the nothing without them. If life must be senseless, there is no reason to permit this senselessness, unless through curiosity to learn how far it can go." But this thought did not appear in him as a plan; it was rather the effort of a man writhing at the chain of misfortune, a burst of anger in a man seeking some one against whom to turn. In Pan Stanislav this anger turned suddenly on Marynia. He did not know himself why; but it seemed to him at once that all the evil which had happened, had happened through her. She had brought into their circle a dislike not there before, suffering not there before, and had thrown, as it were, some stone into their smooth water; and now the wave, which was spreading more and more widely, covered not only him, but Pani Emilia and Litka. As a man governing himself by judgment, not by nerves, he understood how vain were reproaches of this sort; still he could not put down the remembrance that before Marynia came it was better in every way, and so much better even, that he might consider that as a happy period of his life. He loved then only Litka, with that untroubled, fatherly feeling, which did not and could not bring bitterness for a moment. Who knows, besides, if in time he might not have been able to love Pani Emilia? She, it is true, had not for him other feelings than those of friendship, but perhaps only because he did not desire other feelings. High-minded women frequently refuse themselves feelings which go beyond the boundary of friendship, so as not to render difficult and involved the life of some one who might, but does not wish to become dear. Meanwhile in the depth of the soul lies a calm secret melancholy; they find sweetness and consolation in the tenderness permitted by friendship. Pan Stanislav, by becoming acquainted with Marynia, gave her at once the best part of his feelings. Why? for what purpose? Only to give himself suffering. Now, to complete the misfortune, that Litka, the one ray of his life, had died, or might die any moment. Pan Stanislav looked again at her, and said in his soul,-- "Remain even, thou dear child; thou knowst not how needful thou art to me and to thy mother. God guard thee; what a life there will be without thee!" Suddenly he saw that the eyes of the child were looking at him. For a while he thought himself mistaken, and did not dare to stir; but the little maiden smiled, and finally she whispered,-- "Pan Stas." "It is I, Litus. How dost thou feel?" "Well; but where is mamma?" "She will come right away. We had a great struggle to make her go to bed to sleep, and we hardly persuaded her." Litka turned her head, and, seeing Marynia, said,-- "Ah! is that Aunt Marynia?" For some time she had called her aunt. Marynia rose, and, taking the vial which stood on the shelf, poured drop after drop into a spoon; then she gave them to Litka, who, when she had finished drinking, pressed her lips to Marynia's forehead. A moment of silence followed; then the child said, as if to herself,-- "There is no need of waking mamma." "No; no one will wake her," answered Pan Stanislav. "All will be as Litus wishes." And he began to stroke her hand, which was lying on the coverlid. She looked at him, repeating, as was her wont,-- "Pan Stas, Pan Stas!" For a while it seemed that she would fall asleep; but evidently the child was thinking of something with great effort, for her brows rose. At last, opening widely her eyes, she looked now at Pan Stanislav, and now at Marynia. In the room nothing was heard save the sound of rain on the windows. "What is the matter with the child?" asked Marynia. But she, clasping her hands, whispered in a voice barely audible, "I have a great, great prayer to Aunt Marynia, but--I am afraid to say it." Marynia bent her mild face toward the little girl. "Speak, my love; I will do everything for thee." Then the little girl, seizing her hand, and pressing it to her lips, whispered,-- "I want Aunt Marynia to love Pan Stas." In the silence which followed after these words was to be heard only the somewhat increased breathing of the little girl. At last the calm voice of Marynia was heard,-- "Very well, my love." A spasm of weeping seized Pan Stanislav suddenly by the throat; everything, not excluding Marynia, vanished from his eyes before that child, who, at such a moment, sick, powerless, and in the face of death, thought only of him. Litka asked further,-- "And will aunt marry Pan Stas?" In the light of the blue lamp Marynia's face seemed very pale; her lips quivered, but she answered without hesitation,-- "I will, Litus." The little girl raised Marynia's hand to her lips a second time; her head fell on the pillow, and she lay for a while with closed lids; after some time, however, two tears flowed down her cheeks. Then followed a longer silence; the rain was beating against the window-panes. Pan Stanislav and Marynia were sitting motionless without looking at each other; both felt, however, that their fates had been decided that night, but they were as if dazed by what had happened. In the chaos of thought and feelings neither of them knew how to note or indicate what was passing within them. In that silence, which was kept instinctively, lest perchance they might look each other in the eyes, hour followed hour. The clock struck midnight, then one; about two Pani Emilia slipped in like a shadow. "Is she sleeping?" inquired she. "No, mamma," answered Litka. "Art thou well?" "Well, mamma." And when Pani Emilia sat near her bed, the little one embraced her neck; and, nestling her yellow head at her breast, she said,-- "I know now, mamma, that when a sick child begs for anything, people never refuse." And she nestled up to her mother some time yet; then, drawing out each word as sleepy children do, or very tired ones, she said,-- "Pan Stas will not be sad any more; and I will tell mamma why--" But here her head became heavy on her mother's breast, and Pani Emilia felt the cold sweat coming on the hands of the child, as well as on her temples. "Litus!" exclaimed she, with a suppressed, frightened voice. And the child began,-- "I feel so strange, so weak--" Her thoughts grew dim; and after a while she continued,-- "Oh, the sea is rolling--such a big sea!--and we are all sailing on it. Mamma! mamma!" And a new attack came, dreadful, pitiless. The little girl's body was drawn in convulsions, and her eyesight turned toward the back of her head. There was no chance of illusion this time; death was at hand, and visible in the pale light of the lamp, in the dark corner of the room, in the sound of the window-panes, stricken by the rain, and in the noise of the wind, full of terrified voices and cries. Pan Stanislav sprang up and ran for the doctor. In a quarter of an hour both appeared before the closed doors of the room, uncertain whether the child was living yet, and they disappeared through it immediately,--first Pan Stanislav, then the doctor, who, from the moment that they had pulled him out of bed, kept repeating one phrase, "Is it fear or emotion?" Some of the servants, with sleepy and anxious faces, were gathered at the door, listening; and in the whole house followed a silence, long continued, which weighed down like lead. It was broken at last by Marynia, who was the first to come out of the closed chamber, her face as pale as linen, and she said hurriedly,-- "Water for the lady! the little lady is living no longer." CHAPTER XIX. Autumn, in its last days, smiles on people at times with immense sadness, but mildly, like a woman dying of decline. It was on such a mild day that Litka's funeral took place. There is pain mingled with a certain consolation in this,--that those left behind think of their dead and feel the loss of them. Pan Stanislav, occupied with the funeral, was penetrated by that calm and pensive day with still greater sadness; but, transferring Litka's feelings to himself, he thought that the child would have wished just such a day for her burial, and he found in this thought a certain solace. Till that moment he had not been able simply to measure his sorrow; such knowledge comes later, and begins only when the loved one is left in the graveyard, and a man returns by himself to his empty house. Besides, preparations for the funeral had consumed Pan Stanislav's whole time. Life has surrounded with artificial forms, and has complicated, such a simple act as death. Pan Stanislav wished to show Litka that last service, which, moreover, there was no one else to perform. All those springs of life through which man thinks, resolves, and acts, were severed in Pani Emilia by the death of her child. This time the wind seemed too keen for the fleece of the lamb. Happily, however, excessive pain either destroys itself, or benumbs the human heart. This happened with Pani Emilia. Pan Stanislav noticed that the predominant expression of her face and eyes was a measureless, rigid amazement. As in her eyes there were no tears, so in her mouth there were no words,--merely a kind of whisper, at once tragic and childish, showing that her thought did not take in the misfortune, but hovered around the minutiæ accompanying it; she seized at these, and attended to them with as much carefulness as if her child were alive yet. In the room, now turned into a chamber of mourning, Litka, reposing on a satin cushion amid flowers, could want nothing; meanwhile the heart of the mother, grown childish from pain, turned continually to this: what could be lacking to Litka? When they tried to remove her from the body, she offered no resistance; she merely lost the remnant of her consciousness, and began to groan, as if pained beyond endurance. Pan Stanislav and her husband's brother, Pan Hvastovski, who had come just before the funeral, strove to lead her away at the moment Litka was covered with the coffin-lid; but when Pani Emilia began to call the little one by name, courage failed the two men. The procession moved at last with numerous torches, and drew after it a train of carriages, preceded by priests, chanting gloomily, and surrounded by a crowd of the curious, who in modern cities feed their eyes with the sorrow of others, as in ancient times they fed them in the circus with the blood of people. Pani Emilia, attended by her husband's brother, and having Marynia at her side, walked also behind the caravan with dry and expressionless face. Her eyes saw only one detail, and her mind was occupied with that alone. It had happened that a lock of Litka's flaxen, immensely abundant hair was outside the coffin. Pani Emilia did not take her eyes from it the whole way, repeating again and again, "O God, O God! they have nailed down the child's hair!" In Pan Stanislav's sorrow, weariness, nervous disturbance, resulting from sleeplessness, became a feeling of such unendurable oppression that at moments he was seized by an invincible desire to turn back when he had gone halfway,--return home, throw himself on a sofa, not think of anything, not wish anything, not love any one, not feel anything. At the same time this revulsion of self-love astounded him, made him indignant at himself: he knew that he would not return; that he would drain that cup to the bottom, that he would go to the end, not only because it would happen so, but because sorrow for Litka, and attachment to her, would be stronger than his selfishness. He felt, too, at that moment, that all his other feelings were contracted and withered, and that for the whole world he had in his heart merely nothing, at least, at that moment. For that matter his thoughts and feelings had fallen into perfect disorder, composed of external impressions received very hastily, observations made, it was unknown why, and mixed all together mechanically with a feeling of sorrow and pain. At times he looked at the houses past which the procession was moving, and he distinguished their colors. At times some shop sign caught his eye; this he read, not knowing why he did so. Then again he thought that the priests had ceased to sing, but would begin directly; and he was waiting for that renewed continuance of sad voices, as if in a kind of dread. At times he reasoned like a man who, waking from sleep, wishes to give himself an account of reality: "Those are houses," said he to himself; "those are signs; that is the odor of pitch from the torches; and there on the bier lies Litka; and we are going to the graveyard." And all at once there rose in him a wave of sorrow for that sweet, beloved child, for that dear face which had smiled so many times at him. He recalled her from remoter and from recent days; remembered her in Reichenhall, where he carried her when returning from Thumsee; and later at Bigiel's, in the country; and in Pani Emilia's house, when she said that she wanted to be a birch-tree; and finally, when, a few hours before her death, she entreated Marynia to marry him. Pan Stanislav did not say directly to himself that Litka loved him as a grown woman loves, and that, in betrothing him to Marynia, she had performed an act of sacrifice, for the feelings of the little girl were not known, and could not be defined with precision; he felt perfectly, however, that there was something like that love in her, and that the sacrifice took place, flowed, in fact, from that deep and exceptional attachment which Litka had felt for him. Since the loss of even those who are dearest is felt most of all through the personal loss which we suffer, Pan Stanislav began to repeat to himself: "That was the one soul that loved me truly; I have no one in the whole world now." And, raising his eyes to the coffin, to that tress of blond hair which was waving in the wind, he cried out in spirit to Litka with all those tender expressions with which he had spoken to her while in life. Finally, he felt that tears were choking him, because that was a call without echo. There is something heart-rending in the indifference of the dead. When the one who reflected every word and glance has become indifferent, when the loving one is icy, the one who was near in daily life, and next the heart, is full of solemnity, and far away, it avails not to repeat to one's self: "Death, death!" In addition to all pain connected with the loss, there is a harrowing deception, as if an injustice to the heart had been wrought by that lifeless body, which remains deaf to our pain and entreaty. Pan Stanislav had, in this manner, at the bottom of his soul, a feeling that Litka, by taking herself from him, and going to the region of death, had done an injustice; and from being one who is near, she had become one remote; from being a confidant, she had become formal, far away, lofty, sacred, and also perfectly indifferent to the despair of her mother and the deep loneliness of her nearest friend. There was much selfishness in those feelings of Pan Stanislav; but were it not for that selfishness, which, first of all, has its own loss and loneliness in mind, people, especially those who believe in life beyond the grave and its happiness, would feel no grief for the dead. The procession passed out at last from the city to clearer and more open spaces, and beyond the barrier advanced along the cemetery wall, which was fronted with a garland of beggars, and with garlands of immortelles and evergreens intended for grave mounds. The line of priests in white surplices, the funeral procession with torches, the hearse with the coffin, and the people walking behind it, halted before the gate; there they removed Litka. Pan Stanislav, Bukatski, Hvastovski, and Bigiel bore her to the grave of her father. That silence, and the void which, after each funeral, is waiting for people at home when they return from fresh graves, seemed this time to begin even at the cemetery. The day was calm, pale, with here and there the last yellowed leaves dropping from the trees without a rustle. The funeral procession was belittled amid these wide, pale spaces, which, studded with crosses, seemed endless,--as if, in truth, that cemetery opened into infinity. The black, leafless trees with tops formed of slender branches, as it were, vanishing in the light, gray and white tombstones resembling apparitions, the withered leaves on the ground, covering long and straight alleys,--all these produced at once a genuine impression of Elysian fields of some sort, fields full of deep rest, but full also of deep, dreamy melancholy, certain "cold and sad places" of which the gloomy head of Cæsar dreamed, and to which now was to come one more "animula vagula." The coffin stopped at last above the open grave. The piercing "Requiem æternam" was heard, and then "Anima ejus." Pan Stanislav, through the chaos of his thoughts and impressions, and through the veil of his own sorrow, saw, as in a dream, the stony face and glassy eyes of Pani Emilia, the tears of Marynia, which irritated him at that moment, the pale face of Bukatski, on whose features the expression was evident that his philosophy of life, having no work to do at that graveyard, had left him and Litka's coffin at the gate. When each threw a handful of sand on the coffin-lid, he followed the example of others; when they lowered the coffin on straps into the depth of the grave, and closed the stone doors, something seized him anew by the throat, so that all of which he had been thinking, and had learned hitherto, was changed into one nothingness. He repeated in his soul the simple words: "Till we meet, Litus!"--words which, when he recalled them afterwards, seemed to have no relation to the torturing mental storm within him. This was the end. The funeral procession began to decrease and melt away. After a time Pan Stanislav was roused by the wind, which came from afar from between the crosses. He saw now at the grave Pani Emilia with Marynia, Pani Bigiel, Vaskovski, and Litka's uncle; he said to himself that he would go out last, and waited, repeating in his soul, "Till we meet, Litus!" He was thinking of death, and of this,--that he, too, would come to this place of monuments, and that it is an ocean into which all thoughts, feelings, and efforts are flowing. It seemed to him then as if he and all who were there at the grave, or had returned home, were on a ship sailing straight to the precipice. Of life beyond the grave he had no thought at that moment. Meanwhile the short autumn twilight came on; the crosses grew still less distinct. The old professor and Pan Hvastovski conducted Pani Emilia to the cemetery gate without resistance on her part. Pan Stanislav repeated once more, "Till we meet, dear child!" and passed out. Beyond the gate he thought: "It is fortunate that the mother is unconscious, for what a terrible thought to leave a child there alone. The dead forsake us, but we too forsake them." In fact, he saw from a distance the carriage in which Pani Emilia was riding away, and it seemed to him that such an order of things in the world has in it something revolting. Still when he had sat down alone in his droshky, he felt a moment of selfish relief, flowing from the feeling that a certain torturing and oppressive act had been ended, after which would come rest. On returning to his own dwelling, it appeared empty, without a ray of gladness, without consolation or hope; but when at tea, he stretched himself on the sofa, an animal delight in repose after labor took possession of him, with a feeling of solace, and even as it were of satisfaction, that the funeral was over and Litka was buried. He remembered then the opinion of a certain thinker: "I know no criminals; I know only honest people, and they are disgusting." Pan Stanislav seemed to himself repulsive at that moment. In the evening he remembered that it was needful to inquire about Pani Emilia, whom Marynia was to take for some weeks to her own house. While going out, he saw a photograph of Litka on the table, and kissed it. A quarter of an hour later he rang the bell at the Plavitskis'. The servant told him that Plavitski had gone out, but that Professor Vaskovski and Father Hylak were there beside Pani Emilia. Marynia received him in the drawing-room; her hair was badly dressed, her eyes red; she was almost ugly. But her former way of meeting him had changed entirely, as if she had forgotten all offences in view of more unhappy subjects. "Emilia is with me," whispered she, "and is in a bad state; but it seems that at least she understands what is said. Professor Vaskovski is with her. He speaks with such feeling. Do you wish to see Emilia absolutely?" "No. I have come merely to inquire how she feels, and shall go away directly." "I do not know--she might like to see you. Wait a moment; I will go and say that you are here. Litka loved you so; for that reason alone perhaps it would be pleasant for Emilia to see you." "Very well." Marynia went to the next chamber; but evidently did not begin conversation at once, for to Pan Stanislav there came from the door, not her voice, but that of Vaskovski, full of accents of deep conviction, and also, as it were, of effort, striving to break through the armor of insensibility and suffering. "It is as if your child had gone to another room after play," said the old professor; "and as if she were to return at once. She will not return, but you will go to her. My dear lady, look at death, not from the side of this world, but from the side of God. The child lives and is happy; for, being herself in eternity, she considers this separation from you as lasting one twinkle of an eye. Litka is living," continued he, with emphasis; "she is living and happy. She sees that you are coming to her, and she stretches forth her hands to you; she knows that in a moment you will come, for from God's point of view life and pain are less than the twinkle of an eye,--and then eternity with Litka. Think, dearest lady, with Litka in peace, in joy,--without disease, without death. Worlds will pass away, and you will be together." "It would be well were that certain," thought Pan Stanislav, bitterly. But after a while he thought, "If I felt that way, I should have some cause to go in; otherwise not." Still in spite of this thought he went in, not waiting even for Marynia's return; for it seemed to him that if he had no cause, he had a duty, and he was not free to be cowardly in presence of the suffering of others. Selfishness is "cotton in the ears against human groans," and excuses itself in its own eyes by saying that nothing can be said to great suffering to relieve it. Pan Stanislav understood that this was the case, and was ashamed to withdraw comfortably instead of going to meet the sorrow of a mother. When he entered, he saw Pani Emilia sitting on the sofa; above the sofa was a lamp, and lower than the lamp a palm, which cast a shadow on that unhappy head, as if gigantic fingers were opened above it. Near Pani Emilia sat Vaskovski, who was holding her hands and looking into her face. Pan Stanislav took those hands from him, and, bending down, began to press them to his lips in silence. Pani Emilia blinked a while, like a person striving to rise out of sleep; then she cried suddenly, with an unexpected outburst,-- "Remember how she--" And she was borne away by a measureless weeping, during which her hands were clasped, her lips could not catch breath, and her bosom was bursting from sobs. At last strength failed her, and she fainted. When she recovered, Marynia led her to her own chamber. Pan Stanislav and Vaskovski went to the adjoining reception-room, where they were detained by Plavitski, who had come in just that moment. "Such a sad person in the house," said he,--"it spoils life terribly. A little peace and freedom should be due to me; but what is to be done, what is to be done? I must descend to the second place, and I am ready." At the end of half an hour Marynia came with the announcement that at her request Pani Emilia had gone to bed, and was a little calmer. Pan Stanislav and Vaskovski took leave, and went out. They walked along in a dense fog, which rose from the earth after a calm day, hiding the streets and forming parti-colored circles around the lamps. Both were thinking of Litka, who was passing her first night among the dead, and at a distance from her mother. To Pan Stanislav this seemed simply terrible, not for Litka, but for Pani Emilia, who had to think of it. He meditated also over the words spoken by Vaskovski, and said at last,-- "I heard thy words. If they gave her solace, it is well; but if that were true, we should make a feast now, and rejoice that Litka is dead." "But whence dost thou know that we shall not be happy after death?" "Wilt thou tell me whence thou hast the knowledge that we shall?" "I do not know; I believe." There was no answer to this; therefore Pan Stanislav said, as if to himself, "Mercy, empyrean light, eternity, meeting; but what is there in fact? The corpse of a child in the grave, and a mother who is wailing from pain. Grant that death has produced thy faith at least; yet it brings doubt, because thou art grieving for the child. I am grieving still more; and this grief casts on me directly the question, 'Why did she die? Why such cruelty?' I know that this question is a foolish one, and that milliards of people have put it to themselves; but, if this knowledge is to be my solace, may thunderbolts split it! I know, too, that I shall not find an answer, and for that very reason I want to gnash my teeth and curse. I do not understand, and I rebel; that is all. That is the whole result, which thou canst not recognize as the one sought for." Vaskovski answered also, as if speaking to himself, "Christ rose from the dead, for He was God; but He rose as man, and He passed through death. How can I, poor worm, do otherwise than magnify the Divine Will and Wisdom in death?" To this Pan Stanislav answered.-- "It is impossible to talk with thee!" "It is slippery," answered Vaskovski; "give me thy arm." And, taking Pan Stanislav by the arm, he leaned on him, and said, "My dear friend, thou hast an honest and a loving heart; thou didst love that little girl greatly, thou wert ready to do much for her. Do this one thing now,--whether thou believest or not,--say for her, 'Eternal rest!' If thou think that that will be no good to her, say to thyself, 'I can do no more, but I will do that.'" "Give me peace!" answered Pan Stanislav. "That may not be needful to her, but thy remembrance of her will be dear; she will be grateful, and will obtain the grace of God for thee." Pan Stanislav remembered how Vaskovski, at news of Litka's last attack, said that the life of the child could not be purposeless, and that if she had to die she was predestined to do something before death; and now he wished to attack Vaskovski on this point, when the thought flashed on him that, before her death, Litka had united him with Marynia; and it occurred to him that perhaps she had lived for this very purpose. But at that moment he rebelled against the thought. Anger at Marynia seized him; he was full of stubbornness, and almost contempt. "I do not want Marynia at such a price!" thought he, gritting his teeth; "I do not! I have suffered enough through her. I would give ten such for one Litka." Meanwhile Vaskovski, trotting near him, said,-- "Nothing is to be seen at a step's distance, and the stones are slippery from fog. Without thee I should have fallen long ago." Pan Stanislav recovered himself, and answered,-- "Whoso walks on the earth, professor, must look down, not up." "Thou hast good legs, my dear friend." "And eyes which see clearly, even in a fog like this which surrounds us. And it is needful, for we all live in a fog, and deuce knows what is beyond it. All that thou sayest makes on me such an impression as the words of a man who would break dry twigs, throw them into a torrent, and say, Flowers will come from these. Rottenness will come, nothing more. From me, too, this torrent has torn away something from which I am to think that a flower will rise? Folly! But here is thy gate. Good-night!" And they separated. Pan Stanislav returned to his own house barely alive, he was so weary; and, when he had lain down in bed, he began to torture himself with thoughts further continued, or rather with visions. To begin with, before his eyes appeared the figure of Pani Emilia, powerless from pain; she was sitting in Marynia's parlor, under the palm-leaf, which was hanging over her head like an immense ill-omened hand, with outspread, grasping fingers, and it cast a shadow on her face. "I might philosophize over that till morning," muttered he. "Everything out of which life is constructed is a hand like that, from which a shadow falls,--nothing more. But if there were a little mercy besides, the child would not have died; but with what Vaskovski says, you couldn't keep life in a sparrow." Here he remembered, however, that Vaskovski not only spoke of death, but begged him also to say "eternal rest" for Litka. Pan Stanislav began now to struggle with himself. His lips were closed through lack of a deep faith that Litka might hear his "eternal rest," and that it might be of good to her. He felt, besides, a kind of shame to speak words which did not flow from the depth of his conviction, and felt also the same kind of shame not to say the "eternal rest." "For, finally, what do I know?" thought he. "Nothing. Around is fog and fog. Likely nothing will come to her from that; but, let happen what may, that is in truth the only thing that I can do now for my kitten,--for that dear child,--who was mindful of me on the night that she died." And he hesitated for a time yet; at last he knelt and said, "eternal rest." It did not bring him, however, any solace, for it roused only the more sorrow for Litka, and also anger at Vaskovski, because he had pushed him into a position in which he had either to fall into contradiction with himself or be, as it were, a traitor to Litka. He felt, finally, that he had had enough of that kind of torment, and he determined to go early in the morning to his office and occupy himself with Bigiel on the first commercial affair that presented itself, if it were only to tear away his thought from the painful, vicious circle in which for some days he had been turning. But in the morning Bigiel anticipated him, and came to his house; maybe, too, with the intent to occupy him. Pan Stanislav threw himself with a certain interest into the examination of current business; but he and Bigiel were not long occupied, for an hour later Bukatski came to say farewell to them. "I am going to Italy to-day," said he, "and God knows when I shall return. I wish to say to you both, Be in good health. The death of that child touched me more than I thought it would." "Art thou going far?" "Oh, there would be much talk in the answer. With us, this is how it happens: Be a Buddhist, or whatever may please thee, the kernel of the question is this: one believes a little, trusts a little in some sort of mercy, and thus lives. Meanwhile, what happens? Reality slaps us daily in the face, and brings us into mental agony and anguish, into moral straits. With us, one is always loving somebody, or is tormented with somebody's misfortune; but I do not want this. It tortures me." "How will the Italians help thee?" "How will they help me? They will, for in Italy I have the sun, which here I have not; I have art, which here I have not, and I feel for it a weakness; I have chianti,[4] which does good to the catarrh of my stomach; and finally, I have people for whom I care nothing and nothing, and who may die for themselves in hundreds without causing me any bitterness. "I shall look at pictures, buy what I need, nurse my rheumatism, my headache; and I shall be for myself a more or less elegant, a more or less well nourished, a more or less healthy animal,--which, believe me, is still the kind and condition of life most desired. Here I cannot be that beast which, from my soul, I wish to be." "Thou art right, Bukatski. We, as thou seest, are sitting with our accounts, also somewhat for this,--to become more idiotic, and not think of aught else. When we acquire such a fortune as thou hast, I don't know how it is with Bigiel, but I will follow in thy steps." "Then till we see each other again in time and space!" said Bukatski. A while after his departure, Pan Stanislav said,-- "He is right. How happy I should be, for example, if I had not become attached to that child and Pani Emilia! In this respect we are incurable, and we spoil our lives voluntarily. He is right. In this country one is always loving some person or something; it is an inherited disease. Eternal romanticism, eternal sentimentalism,--and eternally pins in the heart." "Old Plavitski bows to thee," said Bigiel. "That man loves nobody but himself." "In reality, this is perhaps true; but he lacks the courage to tell himself that that is permissible and necessary. Nay, what is more, he is convinced that it is needful to act otherwise; and through this he is in continual slavery. Here, though a man have a nature like Plavitski's, he must feign even to himself that he loves some one or something." "But will you visit Pani Emilia to-day?" asked Bigiel. "Of course! If I were to say, for example, 'I have the malaria,' I should not cure myself by saying so." And, in fact, not only was he at Pani Emilia's that day, but he was there twice; for at his first visit he did not find the ladies at home. To the question where his daughter was, Plavitski answered, with due pathos and resignation, "I have no daughter now." Pan Stanislav, not wishing to tell him fables, for which he felt a sudden desire, went away, and returned only in the evening. This time Marynia herself received him, and informed him that Pani Emilia had slept for the first time since Litka's funeral. While saying this, she left her hand a certain time in his. Pan Stanislav, in spite of all the disorder in which his thoughts were, could not avoid noticing this; and, when he looked at last with an inquiring glance into her eyes, he discovered that the young lady's cheeks flushed deeply. They sat down, and began to converse. "We were at Povanzki," said Marynia, "and I promised Emilia to go there with her every day." "But is it well for her to remember the child so every day, and open her wounds?" "But are they healed?" answered Marynia, "or is it possible to say to her, 'Do not go'? I thought myself that it would not be well, but grew convinced of the contrary. At the graveyard she wept much, but was the better for it. On the way home she remembered what Professor Vaskovski had told her, and the thought is for her the only consolation,--the only." "Let her have even such a one," answered Pan Stanislav. "You see, I did not dare to mention Litka at first, but she speaks of her all the time. Do not fear to speak to her of the child, for it gives her evident solace." Here the young lady continued in a lower, and, as it were, an uncertain voice, "She reproaches herself continually for having listened to the assurances of the doctor the last night, and gone to sleep; she is sorry for those last moments, which she might have passed with Litka, and that thought tortures her. To-day, when we were returning from the graveyard, she asked about the smallest details. She asked how the child looked, how long she slept, whether she took medicine, what she said, whether she spoke to us; then she implored me to remember everything, and not omit a single word." "And you did not omit anything?" "No." "How did she receive it?" "She cried very, very much." Both grew silent, and were silent rather long; then Marynia said,-- "I will go and see what is happening to her." After a while she returned. "She is sleeping," said the young lady. "Praise be to God!" Indeed, Pan Stanislav did not see Pani Emilia that evening; she had fallen into a kind of lethargic slumber. At parting, Marynia pressed his hand again long and vigorously, and inquired almost with submission,-- "You do not take it ill of me that I repeated to Pani Emilia Litka's last wish?" "At such moments," answered Pan Stanislav, "I cannot think of myself: for me it is a question only of Pani Emilia; and if your words caused her solace, I thank you for them." "Till to-morrow, then?" "Till to-morrow." Pan Stanislav took farewell, and went out. While descending the steps, he thought,-- "She considers herself my betrothed." And he was not mistaken; Marynia looked on him as her betrothed. She had never been indifferent to him; on the contrary, the greatness of his offence had been for her the measure of that uncommon interest which he had roused in her. And though, during Litka's illness and funeral, he could discover in himself unfathomable stores of selfishness, he seemed to her so good that she was simply unable to compare him with any one. Litka's words did the rest. In real truth, her heart desired love first of all; and now, since before Litka's death she had made her a promise, since she had bound herself to love and to marry, it seemed to her that even if she had not loved, it was her duty to command herself, and that she was not free at present not to love. Pan Stanislav had entered the sphere of her duty; she belonged to those straightforward, womanly natures, not at all rare even now, for whom life and duty mean one and the same thing, and who for this reason bring good-will to the fulfilment of duty, and not only good, but persistent will. Such a will brings with it love, which lights like the sun, warms like its heat, and cherishes like the blue, mild sky. In this way life does not become a dry, thorny path, which pricks, but a flowery one, which blooms and delights. This country maiden, straightforward in thought, and at once simple and delicate in feelings, possessed that capacity for life and happiness in the highest degree. So, when Pan Stanislav had gone, she, in thinking about him, did not name him in her mind otherwise than "Pan Stas," for he had indeed become her "Pan Stas." Pan Stanislav, on his part, when lying down to sleep, repeated to himself somewhat mechanically, "She considers herself my betrothed." Litka's death, and the events of the last days, had pushed Marynia, not only in his thoughts, but in his heart, to more remote, and even very remote places. Now he began to think of her again, and at the same time of his future. All at once he beheld, as it were, a cloud of countless questions, to which, at that moment, at least, he had no answer. But he felt fear in presence of them; he felt that he lacked strength and willingness to undertake this labor. Again he began to live with the former life; again to fall into that sentimental, vicious circle; again to disquiet himself; again to make efforts, and struggle over things which bring only bitterness,--to struggle with himself over questions of feeling. Would it not be better to labor with Bigiel on accounts,--make money,--so as to go sometime, like Bukatski, to Italy, or some other place where there is sun, art, wine good for the stomach, and, above all, people to whom one is indifferent, whose happiness will not enliven the heart of a stranger, but in return whose death or misfortune will not press a single tear from him. FOOTNOTES: [4] An Italian wine. CHAPTER XX. During all the mental struggles through which Pan Stanislav had passed, the interests of his commercial house were developed favorably. Thanks to Bigiel's sound judgment, diligence, and care, current business was transacted with a uniform thoroughness which removed every chance of dissatisfaction or complaint from the patrons of the house. The house gained reputation every day, extended its activity slowly and regularly, and was growing rich. Pan Stanislav, on his part, labored, not indeed with such mental peace as hitherto, but no less than Bigiel. He passed the morning hours daily in the office; and the greater his mental vexation, the deeper his misunderstanding with Marynia since her coming to Warsaw, the more earnest was his labor. This labor, often difficult, and at times requiring even much intense thought, but unconnected with the question which pained him, and incapable of giving any internal solace, became, at last, a kind of haven, in which he hid from the storm. Pan Stanislav began to love it. "Here, at least, I know what I am doing, and whither I am tending; here everything is very clear. If I do not find happiness, I shall find at least that enlargement of life, that freedom, which money gives; and all the better for me if I succeed in stopping at that." Recent events had merely confirmed him in those thoughts; in fact, nothing but suffering had come to him from his feelings. That sowing had yielded a bitter harvest, while the only successes which he had known, and which in every case strengthen and defend one against misfortune, were given by that mercantile house. Pan Stanislav thought with a certain surprise that this was true; but it was not. He himself felt the narrowness of that satisfaction which the house could give; but he said to himself at the same time, "Since it cannot be otherwise, this must be accepted; and it is safer to stop here, for it is better to be only a merchant, who succeeds, than a dreamer, who fails in everything." Since Litka's death, then, he resolved all the more to stifle in himself those impulses to which reality did not answer, and which had brought him nothing but regrets. Evidently Bigiel was pleased with a state of mind in his partner which could bring only profit to the house. Still Pan Stanislav could not grow wholly indifferent in a few weeks to all that with which, on a time, his heart had been connected. Hence he went sometimes to visit Litka, whose gravestone was covered in the morning with white winter frost. Twice he met Pani Emilia and Marynia in the cemetery. Once he attended them home to the city, and Pani Emilia thanked him for remembering the little girl. Pan Stanislav noticed that she did this with evident calmness; he understood the cause of this calmness when, at parting, she said to him,-- "I keep always in mind now that for her separation from me is as short as one twinkle of an eye; and you know not what comfort it is to me that at least she is not yearning." "Well, what I know not, I know not," said Pan Stanislav, in his soul. Still the deep conviction of Pani Emilia's speech struck him. "If these are illusions," thought he, "they are really life-giving, since they are able to draw forth juices for life from the dungeon of the grave." Marynia asserted, besides, in her first conversation with Pan Stanislav, that Pani Emilia lived only through that thought, which alone softened her grief. For whole days she mentioned nothing else, and said, with such persistence, that from God's point of view death is separation for one twinkle of an eye, that she began to alarm Marynia. "She talks, too, of Litka," said Marynia, in conclusion, "as if the child had not died, and as if she should see her to-morrow." "That is happy," answered Pan Stanislav. "Vaskovski rendered tangible service; such a nail in the head gives no pain." "Still, she is right, for it is so." "I will not contradict you." Marynia was alarmed, it is true, by the persistence with which Pani Emilia returned to one thought; but on the other hand she herself did not look on death otherwise. Hence that tinge of scepticism, evident in Pan Stanislav's words, touched her a little, and pained her; but, not wishing to let this be evident, she changed the conversation. "I gave directions to enlarge Litka's photograph," said she. "Yesterday they brought me three copies; one I will give Emilia. I feared at first that it would excite her too much, but now I see that I may give it; nay, more, it will be very dear to her." She rose then, and went to a bookcase on which were some photographs in a wrapper; these she took, and, sitting at Pan Stanislav's side before a small table, opened them. "Emilia told me of a certain talk which you had with Litka a short time before her death, when the child wished you three to be birches growing near one another. Do you remember that talk?" "I do. Litka wondered that trees live so long; she thought awhile what kind of tree she would like to be, and the birch pleased her most." "True; and you said that you would like to grow near by, therefore, around these photographs I wish to paint birches on a passe-partout. Here I have begun, you see, but I have no great success. I cannot paint from memory." Then she took one of the photographs, and showed Pan Stanislav the birches painted in water-colors; but since she was a little near-sighted, she bent over her work, so that her temple for one moment was near Pan Stanislav's face. She was no longer that Marynia of whom he had dreamed when returning evenings from Pani Emilia's, and who at that time had filled his whole soul for him. That period had passed: his thoughts had gone in another direction; but Marynia had not ceased to be that type of woman which produced on his masculine nerves an impression exceptionally vivid; and now, when her temple almost touched his own, when, with one glance of the eye, he took in her face, her cheeks slightly colored, and her form bent over the picture, he felt the old attraction with its former intensity, and the quick blood sent equally quick thoughts to his brain. "Were I to kiss her eyes and mouth now," thought he, "I am curious to know what she would do;" and in a twinkle the desire seized him to do so, even were he to offend Marynia mortally. In return for long rejection, for so much fear and suffering, he would like such a moment of recompense, and of revenge, perhaps, with it. Meanwhile, Marynia, while examining the painting, continued,-- "This seems worse to-day than yesterday; unfortunately trees have no leaves now, and I cannot find a model." "The group is not bad at all," said Pan Stanislav; "but if these trees are to represent Pani Emilia, Litka, and me, why have you painted four birches?" "The fourth represents me," said Marynia, with a certain timidity; "I, too, have a wish sometimes to grow with you." Pan Stanislav looked at her quickly; and she, wrapping the photographs up again, said, as it were, hurriedly,-- "So many things are connected in my mind with the memory of that child. During her last days I was with her and Emilia almost continually. At present Emilia is one of the nearest persons on earth to me. I belong to them as well as you do; I know not clearly how to explain this. There were four of us, and now there are three, bound together by Litka, for she bound us. When I think of her now, I think also of Emilia and of you. This is why I decided to paint the four birches; and you see there are three photographs,--one for Emilia, one for me, and one for you." "I thank you," said Pan Stanislav, extending his hand to her. Marynia returned the pressure very cordially, and said,-- "For the sake of her memory, too, we should forget all our former resentments." "This has happened already," answered Pan Stanislav; "and as for me, I wish that it had happened long before Litka's death." "My fault began then; for this I beg forgiveness," and she extended her hand to him. Pan Stanislav hesitated awhile whether to raise it to his lips; but he did not raise it, he only said,-- "Now there is agreement." "And friendship?" asked Marynia. "And friendship." In her eyes a deep, quiet joy was reflected, which enlivened her whole face with a mild radiance. There was in her at the moment so much kindness and trustfulness that she reminded Pan Stanislav of that first Marynia whom he had seen at Kremen when she was sitting on the garden veranda in the rays of the setting sun. But since Litka's death he had been in such a frame of mind that he considered remembrances like that as unworthy of him; hence he rose and began to take leave. "Will you not remain the whole evening?" asked Marynia. "No, I must return." "I will tell Emilia that you are going," said she, approaching the door of the adjoining room. "She is either thinking of Litka at present, or is praying; otherwise she would have come of herself. Better not interrupt her; I will come to-morrow in any case." Marynia approached him, and, looking into his eyes, said with great cordiality, "To-morrow and every day. Is it not true? Remember that you are 'Pan Stas' for us now." Since Litka's death Marynia had named him thus for the second time, so in going home he thought, "Her relations to me are changed thoroughly. She feels herself simply as belonging to me, for she bound herself to that by the promise given the dying child; she is ready even to fall in love with me, and will not permit herself not to love. With us there are such women by the dozen." And all at once he fell into anger. "I know those fish natures with cold hearts, but sentimental heads filled with so-called principles,--everything for principle, everything for duty, nothing spontaneous in the heart. I might sigh out my last breath at her feet and gain nothing; but when _duty_ commands her to love me, she will love even really." Evidently Pan Stanislav in his wanderings abroad had grown used to another kind of women, or at least he had read of them in books. But since with all this he had a little sound judgment too, that judgment began to speak thus to him,-- "Listen, Polanyetski," it said. "These are exceptional natures because they are uncommonly reliable: on them one may build; on them a life may be founded. Art thou mad? With thee it was a question of finding a wife, not an ephemeral love affair." But Pan Stanislav did not cease to resist, and he answered his judgment, "If I am to be loved, I want to be loved for my own sake." Judgment tried once more to explain that it was all one how love began; since later on he could be loved only for his own sake, that in the present case, after his recent efforts and vexations, it was almost miraculous, almost providential, that something natural had intervened in a way to break resistance immediately; but Pan Stanislav did not cease from being furious. At last judgment was strengthened by that attraction and pleasure which he found in Marynia, by virtue of which he saw in her more charms than in any other woman; this attraction spoke in its turn,-- "I do not know if thou love her, and I care not; but to-day, when her arm and face approached thee, thou wert near jumping out of thy skin. Why is it that such a shiver does not pass through thee when thou art near another? Think what a difference in that." But to everything Pan Stanislav answered: "A fish, a duty-bound fish." And again the thought came to him, "Catch her, if thou prefer that to any other kind. People marry; and for thee, it is time. What more dost thou want, is it a kind of love which thou wouldst be the first to laugh into ridicule? Thy love has died out. Suppose it has; but the attraction remains, and the conviction, too, that this woman is reliable and honest." "True," thought he further, "but from love, whether stupid or wise, comes choice, and have I that at present? No, for I hesitate, while formerly I did not hesitate; second, I ought to decide which is better,--Panna Plavitski, or debit and credit in the house of Bigiel and Polanyetski. Money gives power and freedom; the best use is made of freedom when a man carries no one in his heart or on his shoulders." Thus meditating, he reached home, and lay down to sleep. During the night he dreamed of birches on sand hills, calm blue eyes, and a forehead shaded with dark hair, from which warmth was beating. CHAPTER XXI. Some mornings later, before Pan Stanislav had gone to his office, Mashko appeared. "I come to thee on two affairs," said he, "but I will begin with money, so as to leave thee freedom of action; shall I, or not?" "My dear friend, I attend to money questions in my office, so begin with the other." "The money matter is not a question of thy house, but a private one; for this reason I prefer to speak of it privately. I am going to marry, as thou knowest; I need money. I have to make payments as numerous as the hairs on my head, and the wherewithal does not correspond. The term is near to pay the first instalment of my debt to thee for the claim on Kremen; canst thou extend the time another quarter?" "I will be frank," replied Pan Stanislav; "I can, but I am unwilling to do so." "Well, I will be equally sincere, and ask what thou wilt do in case I fail to pay." "The like happens in the world," answered Pan Stanislav; "but this time thou art looking on me as simpler than I am, for I know that thou wilt pay." "Whence is that certainty?" "Thou art going to marry, and marry a fortune; how expose thyself to the evil fame of bankruptcy? Thou wilt squeeze money from under the earth, perhaps, but thou wilt pay." "Even Solomon could not pour out of the empty." "Because he did not take lessons from thee. My dear friend, no one is listening to us, so I may say that all thy life thou hast been doing nothing else." "Then thou art sure that I will pay thee?" "I am." "Thou art right; I wanted of thee a favor to which I have no claim. But even I feel wearied at last of all this,--to take something here and thrust it in there; to live eternally in such a whirl passes human power in the long run. I am sailing, as it were, into the harbor. In two months I shall be on a new footing, but meanwhile I am using the last of my steam; 'tis not in thy way to oblige me; the position is difficult. There is a small forest in Kremen; I will cut that and pay, since there is no other way." "What forests are there in Kremen? Old Plavitski shaved off everything that could be taken." "There is a large oak grove behind the house, toward Nedzyalkov." "True, there is." "I know that thou and Bigiel take up such affairs. Buy that forest; it will spare me the search for a purchaser, and he and thou can come out of the business with profit." "I will discuss it with Bigiel." "Then thou wilt not refuse in advance?" "No; if thou give it cheaply, I may even take the forest myself. But in such matters I need to calculate the possible profits or losses; I want also to know thy terms. Make thy own estimates. Send me thy list; how many trees there are, and what kinds." "I will send it in an hour." "In that case I will give thee an answer in the evening." "I advise thee beforehand of one thing,--thou wilt not have the right to cut oak for two months." "Why is that?" "Because Kremen will lose greatly by losing that ornament; hence I propose that it be resold to me after the marriage, of course at a good profit to thee." "We shall see." "Besides, I have marl in Kremen; thou hast spoken to me of this. Plavitski reckoned it at millions,--that, of course, is nonsense; but in the hands of clever men it might be made a paying business. Think that over, too, with Bigiel; I would take thee into partnership." "Should the business seem good, we may take it; our house exists to gain profit." "Then we will talk of the marl later on; but now I return to the oak. Let the general outline of our bargain be this,--that I, instead of the first payment, give thee the oak grove, or a part of it, according to estimate. I give it in some sense in pledge, and thou art obliged not to cut trees before the close of the following quarter." "I can do that; evidently there will be questions later on as to removal of the oak, which we shall mention when writing the contract, if, in general, we write one." "Then there is at least one burden off my head," said Mashko, rubbing his forehead with his hand. "Imagine that I have ten or fifteen such every day, not counting conversations on business with Pani Kraslavski, which are more wearying than all else, and then waiting on my betrothed, who"--here Mashko interrupted himself for a moment, but suddenly waved his hand, and added--"which also is not easy." Pan Stanislav looked at him with amazement. On the lips of Mashko, who, in every word, followed society observances so closely, this was something unheard of. Mashko, however, spoke on,-- "But let that pass; thou knowest how near we were to quarrelling before Litka's death. I had not in mind thy great love for that little maiden; I forgot that thou wert disturbed and annoyed. I acted rudely; the fault was on my side entirely, and I beg thy pardon." "That is a forgotten affair," said Pan Stanislav. "I revive it because I have a service to beg of thee. The affair is of this kind: I have not friends, blood relatives; I haven't them, or if I have, it is not worth while to exhibit them. Now, I must find groomsmen, and, in truth, I do not know well where to look for them. I have managed the business of various young lords, as thou knowest; but to ask the first young fellow whom I meet, because he has a title, does not beseem me, and I am unwilling to do so. With me it is a question of having groomsmen who are people of position, and, I tell thee openly, with prominent names. Those ladies, too, attach great importance to this matter. Wilt thou be a groomsman for me?" "In other circumstances I would not refuse; but I will tell thee how it is. Look at me: I have no crape on my hat nor white tape on my coat, therefore I am not in mourning; but I give thee my word that I am in deeper mourning than if my own child were dead." "That is true; I had not thought of that," said Mashko. "I beg thy pardon." These words impressed Pan Stanislav. "But if this is very important; if, in truth, thou art unable to find another,--let it be according to thy wish; but I say sincerely that for me, after such a funeral, it will be difficult to assist at a wedding." Pan Stanislav did not say, it is true, at such a wedding, but Mashko divined his thought. "There is another circumstance, too," continued he. "Thou must have heard of a certain poor little doctor, who fell in love to the death with thy betrothed. She was free not to return his love, no man will reproach her for that; but he, poor fellow, went his way somewhere to the land where pepper grows, and the deuce took him. Dost understand? I was in friendship with that doctor; he confided his misfortune to me, and wept out his secret. Dost understand? In these conditions to be groomsman for another--say thyself." "And did that man really die of love for my betrothed?" "But hast thou not heard of it?" "Not only have I not heard, but I cannot believe my own ears." "Knowest thou what, Mashko, marriage changes a man; but I see that betrothal does also,--I do not recognize thee simply." "Because, as I have said, I am so weary that breath fails me, and at such times the mask falls." "What dost thou mean by that?" "I mean that there are two kinds of people,--one, of people who never limit themselves by anything, and arrange their modes of action according to every circumstance; the other, of people having a certain system which they hold to with more or less sequence. I belong to the second. I am accustomed to observe appearances, and, what is more, accustomed so long that at last it has become a second nature to me. But, for example, when travelling in time of great heat, a moment may come on the man who is most _comme il faut_, when he will unbutton not only his coat, but his shirt; such a moment has come on me, therefore I unbutton." "This means?--" "It means that I am transfixed with astonishment that any man could fall in love to the death with my betrothed, who is, as thou on a time didst give me to understand, cold, formal, and as mechanical in words, thoughts, and movements as if wound up with a key; that is perfectly true, and I confirm it. I do not wish thee to hold me for a greater wretch than I am; I do not love her, and my wife will be as formal as my betrothed. I loved Panna Plavitski, who rejected me. Panna Kraslavski I take for her property. Call this iniquity, if it suit thee to do so; I will answer that such iniquity has been committed, or will be committed, by thousands among those so-called honorable people, to whom thou art ready to give thy hand. Moreover, life does not flow on in delight for people thus married, but also not in tragedy; they limp, but go forward. Later on they are aided by years spent together, which bring a species of attachment, by children who are born to them; and they get on in some fashion. Such are most marriages, for the majority choose to walk on the earth, rather than scale summits. Sometimes there are even worse marriages: when a woman wishes to fly, and a man to creep, or _vice versa_, there is no chance for an understanding. As to me, I have worked like an ox. Coming from a reduced family, I wished to gain distinction, I confess. If I had consented to remain an obscure attorney, and acquire merely money, perhaps I should have unlocked and thrown open to my son the door to light; but I have no love for my children before they come into the world, hence I wished not only to have money myself, but to be somebody, to mean something, to occupy a position, to have such weight as with us it is possible to have, at least in society. From this it has happened that what the advocate gained, the great lord expended; position obliges. This is why I have not money. Struggling of this sort has wearied me. Opening holes in one place to fill them in another,--for this reason I marry Panna Kraslavski; who again marries me for the reason that, if I am not really a great lord, amusing himself in the legal career, I am so apparently. The match is even; there is no injustice to any one, and neither has tricked the other, or, if it please thee, we have tricked each other equally. Here is the whole truth for thee; now despise me if thou wish." "As God lives, I have never respected thee more," answered Pan Stanislav; "for now I admire not thy sincerity merely, but also thy courage." "I accept the compliment because thou art candid; but in what dost thou see courage?" "In this,--that having so few illusions as to Panna Kraslavski, thou art going to marry her." "I marry her because I am more wise than foolish. I looked for money, it is true; but thinkest thou that for money I would marry the first woman I met who possessed it? By no means, my dear friend. I take Panna Kraslavski, and I know what I am doing. She has her great qualities, indispensable under the circumstances in which I take her, and in which she marries me. She will be a cold, unagreeable wife, sour, and even contemptuous, in so far as she does not fear me; but, on the other hand, Panna Kraslavski, as well as her mother, has a religious respect for appearances,--for what is fitting, or, speaking generally, for what is polite. This is one point. Further, there is not even one germ in her from which love intrigues could grow; and life with her, be it disagreeable as it may, will never end in scandal. This is the second. Third, she is pedantic in everything, as well in religion as in fulfilment of all the duties which she may take on herself. This is, indeed, a great quality. I shall not be happy with her, but I can be at peace; and who knows if this is not the maximum possible to ask of life, and I tell thee, my dear friend, that when a man takes a wife he should think before all of future peace. In a mistress seek what pleases thee,--wit, temperament, a poetical form of sensitiveness. But with a wife one must live years; seek in her that on which one can rely,--seek principles." "I have never thought thee a fool," said Pan Stanislav; "but I see that thou hast more wit than I suspected." "Our women--take those, for example, of the money world--are formed really on the French novel; and what comes of that is known to thee." "More or less; but to-day thou art so eloquent that I listen to thy description with pleasure." "Well, a woman becomes her own God and her own measure of right." "And for her husband?" "A chameleon and a tragedy." "This happens a little in the world of much money and no traditions; there everything is appearance and toilet, beneath which sits not a soul, but a more or less exquisite wild beast. And this wealthy and elegant world, amusing itself, and permeated with artistic, literary, and even religious dilettantism, wields the baton and directs the orchestra." "Not yet with us." "Not yet altogether. For that matter, there are exceptions, even in the society mentioned; all the more must there be outside it. Yes, there are women of another kind among us,--for instance, Panna Plavitski. Oh, what security, and withal what a charm of life, with a woman like her! Unhappily, she is not for me." "Mashko, I was ready to recognize in thee cleverness, but I did not know thee to have enthusiasm." "What's to be done? I was in love with her, but now I am going to marry Panna Kraslavski." Mashko pronounced the last words, as if in anger, then followed a moment of silence. "Then thou wilt not be my groomsman?" "Give me time to consider." "In three days I am going away." "To what place?" "To St. Petersburg. I have business there; I will stay about two weeks." "I will give my answer on thy return." "Very well; to-day I will send thee the estimate of my oak in three sizes. To save the instalment!" "And the conditions on which I will buy it." Here Mashko took leave and went out. Pan Stanislav hastened to his office. After a conversation with Bigiel, he decided, if the affair should seem practicable and profitable, to buy the oak alone. He could not account to himself why he felt a certain wonderful desire to be connected with Kremen. After business hours he thought also of what Mashko had said of Panna Plavitski. He felt that the man had told the truth, and that, with a woman of this kind, life might be not only safe and peaceful, but full of charm; he noticed, however, that in those meditations he rendered justice rather to the type of which Marynia was a specimen, than to Marynia in person. He observed also in himself a thousand inconsistencies; he saw that he felt a certain repugnance, and even anger, at the thought of loving any one or anything, or letting his heart go into bonds and knots, usually fastened so firmly that they were painful. At the very thought of this he was enraged, and repeated in spirit, "I will not; I have had enough of this! It is an unwholesome exuberance, which leads people only to errors and suffering." At the same time he took it ill,--for example, that she did not love him with a certain exuberant and absolute love, and opened her heart to him only when duty commanded. Afterward, when he did not want love, he was astonished that it began to pall on him so easily, and that he desired Marynia far more when she was opposed, than now, when she was altogether inclined to him. "All leads to this at last," thought he: "that man himself does not know what he wants, or what he must hold to; that is his position. May a thunderbolt split it! Panna Plavitski has more good qualities than she herself suspects. She is dutiful, just, calm, attractive; my thoughts draw me toward her; and still I feel that Panna Plavitski is not for me what she once was, and that the devils have taken something that was in me. But what is it? As to the capacity for loving," continued Pan Stanislav, in his monologue, "I have come to the conclusion that loving is most frequently folly, and loving too much folly at all times; hence I should now be content, but I am not." After a while it came to his mind that this was merely a species of weakness,--such, for example, as follows an operation in surgery, or an illness that a man has passed through,--and that positive life will fill out in time that void which he feels. For him positive life was his mercantile house. When he went to dine, he found Vaskovski and two servants, who winked at each other when they saw how the old man at times held motionless an uplifted fork with a morsel of meat on it, and fell to thinking of death, or talking to himself. Professor Vaskovski had for some time been holding these monologues, and spoke to himself on the street so distinctly that people looked around at him. His blue eyes were turned on Pan Stanislav for a while vacantly; then he roused himself, as if from sleep, and finished the thought which had risen in his head. "She says that this will bring her near the child." "Who says?" inquired Pan Stanislav. "Pani Emilia." "How will she be nearer?" "She wants to become a Sister of Charity." Pan Stanislav grew silent under the impression of that news. He was able to meditate over that which passed through his head, to expel feeling, to philosophize on the unwholesome excesses of the society in which he lived; but in his soul he had two sacred images,--Litka and Pani Emilia. Litka had become simply a cherished memory, but he loved Pani Emilia with a living, brotherly, and most tender affection, which he never touched in his meditations. So for a time he could not find speech; then he looked sternly at Vaskovski, and said,-- "Professor, thou art persuading her to this. I do not enter into thy mysticism and ideas from beneath a dark star, but know this,--that thou wilt take her life on thy conscience; for she has not the strength to be a Sister of Charity, and will die in a year." "My dear friend," answered Vaskovski, "thou hast condemned me unjustly without a hearing. Hast thou stopped to consider what the expression 'just man' means?" "When it is a question of one dear to me, I jeer at expressions." "She told me yesterday of this, most unexpectedly, and I asked, 'But, my child, will you have the strength? That is arduous labor.' She smiled at me, and said: 'Do not refuse me, for this is my refuge, my happiness. Should it seem that I have not strength enough, they will not receive me; but if they receive me, and my strength fails afterward, I shall go sooner to Litka, and I am yearning so much for her.' What had I to answer to such a choice, and such simplicity? What art thou able to say, even thou, who art without belief? Wouldst thou have courage to say: 'Perhaps Litka is not in existence; a life in labor, in charity, in sacrifice, and death in Christ, may not lead to Litka at all'? Invent another consolation; but what wilt thou invent? Give her another hope, heal her with something else; but with what wilt thou heal her? Besides, thou wilt see her thyself; speak to her sincerely. Wilt thou have courage to dissuade her?" "No," answered Pan Stanislav, briefly; and after a while he added, "Only suffering on all sides." "One thing might be possible," continued Vaskovski. "To choose instead of Sisters of Charity, whose work is beyond her strength, some contemplative order; there are those in whom the poor human atom is so dissolved in God that it ceases to lead an individual existence, and ceases to suffer." Pan Stanislav waved his hand. "I do not understand these things," said he, dryly, "and I do not look into them." "I have here somewhere a little Italian book on the Ladies of Nazareth," said Vaskovski, opening his coat. "Where did I put it? When going out, I stuck it somewhere." "What can the Ladies of Nazareth be to me?" But Vaskovski, after unbuttoning his coat, unbuttoned his shirt in searching; then he thought a while and said, "What am I looking for? I know that little Italian book. In a couple of days I am going to Rome for a long, very long time. Remember what I said, that Rome is the antechamber to another world. It is time for me to go to God's antechamber. I would persuade Emilia greatly to go to Rome, but she will not leave her child; she will remain here as a Sister of Charity. Maybe, however, the order of Nazareth would please her; it is as simple and mild as was primitive Christianity. Not with the head, my dear, for there they know better what to do, but with the heart, childlike but loving." "Button thy shirt, professor," said Pan Stanislav. "Very good; I will button it. I have something at my heart, and I would tell it thee; thou art as mobile as water, but thou hast a soul. Seest thou, Christianity not only is not coming to an end, as some philosophizing, giddy heads imagine, but it has only made half its way." "Dear professor," said Pan Stanislav, mildly, "I will listen to what thou hast to tell me willingly and patiently, but not to-day; for to-day I am thinking only of Pani Emilia, and there is simply a squeezing at my throat. This is a catastrophe." "Not for her, since her life will be a success, and her death also." Pan Stanislav began to mutter, "As God lives, not only every mightier feeling, but simple friendship, ends in regret; never has any attachment brought me a thing except suffering. Bukatski is right: from general attachments there is nothing but suffering, from personal attachments nothing but suffering; and now live, man, in the world so surrounded." The conversation broke off, or rather was turned into the monologue of Professor Vaskovski, who began a discourse with himself about Rome and Christianity. After dinner they went out on the street, which was full of the sound of sleighbells and the gladsome winter movement. Though in the morning of that day snow had fallen in sufficient abundance, toward evening the weather had become fair, calm, and frosty. "But, professor, button thy shirt." "Very well; I will button it," answered Vaskovski; and he began to draw the holes of his vest to the buttons of his frockcoat. "Still I like that Vaskovski," said Pan Stanislav, to himself, when on the way home. "If I were to grow attached to him for good, the deuce would take him surely, for such is my fate. Fortunately I am insensible enough to him so far." And thus he persuaded himself untruly, for he had a sincere friendship for Vaskovski, and the man's fate was not indifferent in the least to him. When he reached home, Litka's face smiled at him from a large photograph as he entered; this had been sent by Marynia during his absence, and moved Pan Stanislav to the depth of his soul. He experienced, moreover, this species of emotion whenever he remembered Litka on a sudden, or saw unexpectedly one of her portraits. He thought then, that love for the child, hidden away somewhere in the depth of his heart, rose suddenly with its previous vividness and power, penetrating his whole being with indescribable tenderness and sorrow. This revival of sorrow was even so painful that he avoided it as a man avoids a real suffering usually. This time, however, there was something sweet in his emotion. Litka was smiling at him by the light of the lamp, as if she wished to say "Pan Stas;" around her head on the white margin of the picture were four green birches. Pan Stanislav stopped and looked for a long time; at last he thought, "I know in what may be the happiness of life, in children!" But he said to himself a few moments later, "I never shall love my own as I loved that poor child." The servant entered now and gave him a letter from Marynia, which came with the photograph. She wrote as follows:-- "My father asks me to pray you to spend the evening with us. Emilia has moved to her own house, and receives no visits to-day. I send you Litka's photograph, and beg you to come without fail. I wish to speak with you of Emilia. Papa has invited Pan Bigiel, who has promised to come; therefore you and I can talk quietly." Pan Stanislav, after reading the letter, dressed, read a certain time, then went to the Plavitskis'. Bigiel had been there a quarter of an hour, and was playing piquet with Plavitski; Marynia was sitting at some distance, by a small table, occupied in work of some kind. After he had greeted all, Pan Stanislav sat near her,-- "I thank you most earnestly for the photograph," began he. "I saw it unexpectedly, and Litka stood before my eyes in such form that I could not control myself. Moments like that are the measure of sorrow, of which a man cannot even give account to himself. I thank you most earnestly, and for the four birches too. Touching Pani Emilia, I know everything from Vaskovski. Is this merely a project, or a fixed resolve?" "Rather a fixed resolve," answered Marynia; "and what do you think?" Marynia raised her eyes to him as if waiting for some counsel. "She has not strength for it," said she, finally. Pan Stanislav was silent a while; then he opened his arms helplessly, and said,-- "I have talked about this with Vaskovski. I attacked him, since I thought that the idea was his; but he swore to me that he had nothing to do with it. He asked then what other consolation I could think out for her, and I could give him no answer. What in life has remained to her really?" "What?" returned Marynia, in a low voice. "Do I not understand, think you, whence that resolve came? She does not wish to violate her religious principles in any way, but she wants to die as soon as possible; she knows that those duties are beyond her strength, and therefore she assumes them." "True," answered Marynia; and she inclined her face so closely to her work that Pan Stanislav saw only the parting of the dark hair on her small head. Before her stood a box full of pearls, which she was sewing on to various articles to be used in a lottery for benevolent purposes; and tears, which were flowing from her eyes, began to drop on those pearls. "I see that you are weeping," said Pan Stanislav. She raised tearful eyes to him, as if to say, "Before thee I shall not hide tears," and answered, "I know that Emilia is doing well, but such a pity--" Pan Stanislav, partly from emotion, and partly because he knew not himself what to answer, kissed her hand for the first time. Pearls began then to drop more thickly from Marynia's eyes, so that she had to rise and go out. Pan Stanislav approached the players, as Plavitski was saying in a sour, outspoken tone, to his partner,-- "Rubicon after Rubicon. Ha! it is difficult. You represent new times, and I old traditions. I must be beaten." "What has that to do with piquet?" asked Bigiel, calmly. Marynia returned soon, with the announcement that tea was ready; her eyes were somewhat red, but her face was clear and calm. When, a little later, Bigiel and Plavitski sat down at cards again, she conversed with Pan Stanislav in that quiet, confiding tone which people use who are very near to each other, and who have many mutual relations. It is true that those mutual relations between them had been created by the death of Litka and the misfortune of Pani Emilia,--hence the conversation could not be gladsome; but in spite of that, Marynia's eyes, if not her lips, smiled at Pan Stanislav, and were at once thoughtful and clear. Later in the evening, after his departure, Marynia did not name him in her mind, when she thought of him, otherwise, than "Pan Stas." Pan Stanislav, on his part, returned home feeling calmer by far than he had since Litka's death. While pacing his chamber, he made frequent halts before the little girl's photograph, and looked, too, at the four birches painted by Marynia. He thought that the bond fastened between him and Marynia by Litka was becoming closer each day, as if without any one's will, and simply by some mysterious force of things. He thought, too, that if he lacked the former original desire to make that bond permanent, his courage would almost fail to cut it decisively, especially so soon after Litka's death. Late in the night he sat down to the lists sent by Mashko. At times, however, he made mistakes in the reckoning, for he saw before him Marynia's head inclining forward, and her tears falling on the box of pearls. Next morning he bought the oak in Kremen, very profitably, for that matter. CHAPTER XXII. Mashko returned in two weeks from St. Petersburg, well pleased with his arrangements for credit, and bringing important news, which had come to him, as he stated, in a way purely confidential,--news not known yet to any man. The preceding harvest had been very poor throughout the whole empire; here and there hunger had begun to appear. It was easy to divine, therefore, that, before spring, supplies would be gone in whole neighborhoods, and that the catastrophe of hunger might become universal. In view of this, people of the inner circle began to whisper about the chance of stopping the grain export; and this kind of echo Mashko brought back, with the assurance that it came to his ears through people extremely well versed in affairs. This news struck Pan Stanislav so vividly that he shut himself in for some days, pencil in hand; then he hurried to Bigiel with the proposition that the ready money at command of the house, as well as its credit, should be turned to prompt purchases of grain. Bigiel was afraid, but he began by being afraid of every new enterprise. Pan Stanislav did not conceal from him that this would be a large operation, on the success or failure of which their fate might depend. Complete failure, however, was little likely, and success might make them really rich at one sweep. It was to be foreseen that, in view of the lack of grain, prices would rise in every event. It was also to be foreseen that the law would limit the possibility of making new contracts with foreign merchants, but would respect contracts made before its promulgation; but even if it failed in this regard, the rise of prices in the country itself was a thing almost certain. Pan Stanislav had foreseen and calculated everything, in so far as man could; and Bigiel, who, in spite of his caution, was a person of judgment, was forced to confess that the chances of success were really considerable, and that it would be a pity to miss the opportunity. In fact, after a number of new consultations, during which Bigiel's opposition grew weaker and weaker, they decided on that which Pan Stanislav wished; and after a certain time their chief agent, Abdulski, went out with power to make contracts in the name of the house, as well for grain on hand as for grain not threshed yet. After Abdulski's departure, Bigiel went to Prussia. Pan Stanislav remained alone at the head of the house, toiled from morning till evening, and made scarcely a visit. But time did not drag, for he was roused by hope of great profit and a future of fuller activity. Pan Stanislav, in throwing himself into that speculation, and drawing in Bigiel, did so, first of all, because he thought it good; but he had another thought, too,--the mercantile house with all its affairs was too narrow a field for his special training, abilities, and energies, and Pan Stanislav felt this. Finally, what was the question in affairs handled by the house? To buy cheap, sell dear, and put the profit in a safe; that was its one object. Purchases direct, or through another,--nothing more. Pan Stanislav felt confined in those limits. "I should like to dig up something, or make something," said he to Bigiel, in moments of dissatisfaction and distaste; "at the root of the matter we are simply trying to direct to our own pockets some current from that stream of money which is flowing in the business of men, but we produce nothing." And that was true. Pan Stanislav wished to advance to property, to acquire capital, and then undertake some very large work, giving a wider field for labor and creativeness. The opportunity had come, as it seemed to him; hence he grasped with both hands at it. "I will think of other things afterward," thought he. By "other things," he meant his affairs of mind and heart,--that is, his relations to religion, people, country, woman. He understood that to be at rest in life one must explain these relations, and stand on firm feet. There are men who all their lives do not know their position with reference to these principles, and whom every wind turns toward a new point. Pan Stanislav felt that a man should not live thus. In his state of mind, as it then was, he saw that these questions might be decided in a manner direct to dryness, as well as positive to materialism, and in general negatively; but he understood that they must be decided. "I wish to know clearly whether I am bound to something or not," thought he. Meanwhile he labored, and saw people little; he could not withdraw from them altogether. He convinced himself, also, that questions most intimately personal cannot be decided otherwise than internally, otherwise than by one's own brain or heart, within the four walls of the body; but that most frequently certain external influences, certain people, near or distant, hasten the end of meditation, and the decisions flowing from it. This happened at his farewell with Pani Emilia, who was now shortening daily, and almost feverishly, the time before her entrance on her novitiate with the Sisters of Charity. Amid all his occupations, Pan Stanislav did not cease to visit her; but a number of times he failed to find her at home. Once he met Pani Bigiel at her house, and also Pani and Panna Kraslavski, whose presence constrained him in a high degree. Afterward, when Marynia informed him that Pani Emilia would begin her novitiate in a few days, he went to take farewell of her. He found her calm and almost joyous, but his heart was pained when he looked at her. Her face was transparent in places, as if formed of pearl; the blue veins appeared through the skin on her temples. She was very beautiful, in a style almost unearthly, but Pan Stanislav thought: "I will take the last leave of her, for she will not hold out even a month; from one more attachment, one more grief and unhappiness." She spoke to him of her decision as of a thing the most usual, to be understood of itself,--the natural outcome of what had happened, the natural refuge from a life deprived of every basis. Pan Stanislav understood that for him to dissuade her would be purely conscienceless, and an act devoid of sense. "Will you remain in Warsaw?" asked he. "I will, for I wish to be near Litka; and the mother superior promised that I should be in the house first, and afterward, when I learn something, in one of the hospitals. Unless unusual events come to pass, while I am in the house I shall be free to visit Litka every Sunday." Pan Stanislav set his teeth, and was silent; he looked only at the delicate hands of Pani Emilia, thinking in his soul,-- "She wishes to nurse the sick with those hands." But at the same time he divined that she wanted, beyond all, something else. He felt that under her calmness and resignation there was immense pain, strong as death, and calling for death with all the powers of her heart and soul; but she wished death to come without her fault, not through her sin, but her service,--her reward for that service was to be her union with Litka. And now, for the first time, Pan Stanislav understood the difference between pain and pain, between sorrow and sorrow. He, too, loved Litka; but in him, besides sorrow for her, and remembrance of her, there was something else,--a certain interest in life, a certain curiosity touching the future, certain desires, thoughts, tendencies. To Pani Emilia there remained nothing,--it was as if she had died with Litka; and if anything in the world occupied her yet, if she loved those who were near her, it was only for Litka, through Litka, and in so far as they were connected with Litka. These visits and that farewell were oppressive to Pan Stanislav. He had been deeply attached to Pani Emilia, but now he had the feeling that the cord binding them had snapped once and forever, that their roads parted at that moment, for he was going farther by the way of life; she, however, wished her life to burn out as quickly as possible, and had chosen labor,--blessed, it is true,--but beyond her strength, so as to make death come more quickly. This thought closed his lips. In the last moments, however, the attachment which he had felt for her from of old overcame him; and he spoke with genuine emotion while kissing her hand. "Dear, very dear lady, may God guard and comfort you!" Here words failed him; but she said, without dropping his hand,-- "Till I die, I shall not forget you, since you loved Litka so much. I know, from Marynia, that Litka united you and her; and for that reason I know that you will be happy, otherwise God would not have inspired her. As often as I see you in life, I shall think that Litka made you happy. Let her wish be accomplished at the earliest, and God bless you both!" Pan Stanislav said nothing; but, when returning home, he thought,-- "Litka's will! She does not even admit that Litka's will can remain unaccomplished; and how was I to tell her that the other is not for me now what she once was?" Still Pan Stanislav felt with increasing distinctness that it was not right to remain as he was any longer, and that those bonds connecting him with Marynia ought soon to be tightened, or broken, so as to end the strange condition, and the misunderstandings and sorrows which might rise from it. He felt the need of doing this quickly, so as to act with honor; and new alarm seized him, for it seemed that, no matter how he acted, his action would not bring him happiness. When he reached home, he found a letter from Mashko, which read as follows,-- "I have called on thee twice to-day. Some lunatic has insulted me before my subordinates on account of the oak which I sold thee. His name is Gantovski. I need to speak with thee, and shall come again before evening." In fact, he ran in before the expiration of an hour, and asked, without removing his overcoat,-- "Dost thou know that Gantovski?" "I know him; he is a neighbor and relative of the Plavitskis. What has happened, and how has it happened?" Mashko removed his overcoat, and said,-- "I do not understand how news of the sale could get out, for I have not spoken of it to any one; and it was important for me that it should not become known." "Our agent, Abdulski, went to Kremen to look at the oak. Gantovski must have heard of the sale from him." "Listen; this is the event. To-day Gantovski's card is brought into my office; not knowing who he is, I receive the man. A rough fellow enters, and asks if 't is true that I sold the oak, and if I wish to depopulate a part of Kremen. Evidently I reply by asking how that may concern him. He answers that I have bound myself to pay old Plavitski a yearly annuity from Kremen; and that, if I ruin the place by a plundering management, there will be nothing through which to compel me. In answer, as thou canst understand, I advise him to take his cap, button up closely, in view of the frost, and go to the place whence he came. Hereupon he falls to making an uproar, calling me a cheat and a swindler. At last he says that he lives in the Hotel Saxe, and goes out. Hast thou the key to this? Canst thou tell me its meaning?" "Of course. First, this Gantovski is of limited mind, by nature he is rude; second, for whole years he has been in love with Panna Plavitski, and has wished to be her knight." "Thou knowest that I have rather cool blood; but, in truth, it seems at times a dream. That a man should permit himself to insult me because I sell my own property, simply passes human understanding." "What dost thou think of doing? Old Plavitski will be the first to warm Gantovski's ears, and force him to beg thy pardon." Mashko's face took on such a cold and determined expression of wrath that Pan Stanislav thought,-- "Well, 'the bear' has brewed beer of a kind that he did not expect; now he must drink it." "No one has ever offended me without being punished, and no one ever will. This man not only has insulted me, but has done me a wrong beyond estimation." "He is a fool, simply irresponsible." "A mad dog, too, is irresponsible, but people shoot him in the head. I talk, as thou seest, coolly; listen, then, to what I say: a catastrophe has come to me, from which I shall not rise." "Thou art speaking coolly; but anger is stifling thee, and thou art ready to exaggerate." "Not in the least; be patient, and hear me to the end. The position is this: If my marriage is stopped, or even put off, a few months, the devils will take me, with my position, my credit, my Kremen, and all that I have. I tell thee that I am travelling with the last of my steam, and I must stop. Panna Kraslavski does not marry me for love, but because she is twenty-nine years of age, and I seem to her, if not the match she dreamed of, at least a satisfactory one. If it shall seem that I am not what she thinks, she will break with me. If those ladies should discover to-day that I sold the oak in Kremen from necessity, I should receive a refusal to-morrow. Now think: the scandal was public, for it was in presence of my subordinates. The matter will not be kept secret. I might explain to those ladies the sale of the oak, but yet I shall be an insulted man. If I do not challenge Gantovski, they may break with me, as a fellow without honor; if I challenge him,--remember that they are devotees, and, besides, women who keep up appearances as no others that I know,--they will break with me then as a man of adventures. If I shoot Gantovski, they will break with me as a murderer; if he hits me, they will break with me as an imbecile, who lets himself be insulted and beaten. In a hundred chances there are ninety that they will act in this way. Is it clear to thee now why I said that the devils will take me, my credit, my position, and Kremen in addition?" Pan Stanislav waved his hand with all the easy egotism to which a man can bring himself in reference to another, who, at the bottom of things, is of little account to him. "Bah!" said he; "maybe I will buy Kremen of thee. But the position is difficult. What dost thou think, then, of doing with Gantovski?" To this Mashko answered: "So far I pay my debts. Thou dost not wish to be my groomsman; wilt thou be my second?" "That is not refused," answered Pan Stanislav. "I thank thee. Gantovksi lives in the Hotel Saxe." "I will be with him to-morrow." Immediately after Mashko's departure, Pan Stanislav went to spend the evening at Plavitski's; on the road he thought,-- "There are no jokes with Mashko, and the affair will not finish in common fashion; but what is that to me? What are they all to me, or I to them? Still, how devilishly alone a man is in the world!" And all at once he felt that the only person on earth who cared for him, and who thought of him, not as a thing, was Marynia. And, in fact, when he came, he knew from the very pressure of her hand that this was true. She said to him, in greeting, with her mild and calm voice,-- "I had a presentiment that you would come. See, here is a cup waiting for you." CHAPTER XXIII. When Pan Stanislav came to the Plavitskis' he found there Gantovski. The young men greeted each other at once with evident coldness and aversion. There was not in the whole world that day an unhappier man than Gantovski. Old Plavitski bantered him as usual, and even more than usual, being in excellent humor because of his relative, the old lady from whom he expected a considerable inheritance. Gantovski's presence was awkward for Marynia; and she strove in vain to hide this annoyance by kindness and a cordial reception. At last Pan Stanislav almost feigned not to see him. It was evident, too, that Gantovski had not confessed anything before old Plavitski, and that he was trembling lest Pan Stanislav might refer to his adventure with Mashko, or tell it outright. Pan Stanislav understood this at once, as well as the advantage over "the bear" which was given him by his silence; wishing to use it in the interest of Mashko, he was silent for a time, but could not forego the pleasure of punishing Gantovski in another way. He occupied himself the whole evening with Marynia, as he had not done since Litka's death. This filled Marynia with evident delight. Leaving Gantovski to her father, she walked with Pan Stanislav through the room and talked confidentially; then they sat under the palm, where Pan Stanislav had seen Pani Emilia after the funeral, and talked about her approaching admission to the order of Sisters of Charity. To Gantovski it seemed at times that only people who were betrothed could speak in that way; and he felt then what must be felt by a soul not in purgatory, for in purgatory a soul has hope yet before it, but what is felt by a soul when entering the gate with the inscription "_Lasciate ogni speranza_" (Leave every hope). Seeing them together in this way, he thought, too, that perhaps Polanyetski had bought the oak with the land so as to obtain for Marynia even a part of Kremen, and therefore with her will and knowledge. And this being the case, the hair rose on his head at the mere thought of how he had blundered in raising a scandal with Mashko. Plavitski, on his part, hearing his half conscious, but altogether inappropriate answers, amused himself still more at the expense of the "rustic," who on the city pavement had lost what remained of his wit. Plavitski considered himself now as the model of a man of the "capital." The moment came, however, when the young men were left alone, for Marynia was occupied with tea in the next room, and Plavitski had gone for cigars to his study; Pan Stanislav turned then to Gantovski,-- "Let us go together after tea," said he; "I wish to speak with you touching your collision with Pan Mashko." "Of course," answered Gantovski, gloomily, understanding that Polanyetski was Mashko's second. Meanwhile they had to remain for tea, and sit long enough after that, for Plavitski did not like to go to bed early, and summoned Gantovski to a game of chess. During the play, Marynia and Pan Stanislav sat apart and conversed with animation, to the heartfelt torment of "the bear." "The arrival of Gantovski must be pleasing to you," said Pan Stanislav, all at once, "for it brings Kremen to your mind." Astonishment flashed over Marynia's face that he was the first to mention Kremen. She had supposed that, in virtue of a tacit agreement, he would cover that question with silence. "I think no more now of Kremen," answered she, after a pause. This statement was not true, for in her heart's depth she was sorry for the place in which she had been reared,--the place of her labor for years, and of her shattered hopes; but she thought herself forced to speak thus by duty, and by the feeling for Pan Stanislav, which was increasing continually. "Kremen," added she, with a voice of some emotion, "was the cause of our earliest quarrel; and I wish now for concord, concord forever." While saying this, she looked into Pan Stanislav's eyes with a coquetry full of sweetness, which a bad woman is able to put on at any time, but an honest woman only when she is beginning to love. "She is wonderfully kind," thought he. Straightway he added aloud, "You might have a fabulous weapon against me, for you might lead me to perdition with kindness." "I do not wish to lead you to that," replied she. And in sign that she did not, she began to shake her dark, shapely head laughingly; and Pan Stanislav looked at her smiling face, and her mouth a trifle too large, and said mentally,-- "Whether I love her, or love her not, no one attracts me as she does." In fact, she had never occupied him and never pleased him more, even when he felt no shade of doubt that he loved her, and when he was struggling with that feeling. But at last he took farewell of her, for it had grown late; and after a while he and Gantovski found themselves on the street. Pan Stanislav who never had been able to guard himself from impulsiveness, stopped the unfortunate "bear," and asked almost angrily,-- "Did you know that it was I who bought the oak at Kremen?" "I did," answered Gantovski; "for your agent, that man who says that he is descended from Tartars--I forget what his name is--was at my house in Yalbrykov, and told me that it was you." "Why, then, did you make the scandal with Pan Mashko, not with me?" "Do not push me to the wall so," answered Gantovski, "for I do not like it. I raised the scandal with him, not with you, because the Plavitskis have nothing to do with you; but that man is obliged to pay them yearly from Kremen the amount he has engaged to pay, and if he ruins Kremen, he will have nothing to pay from. If you wished to know why I attacked him, you know now." Pan Stanislav had to confess in his soul that there was a certain justice in Gantovski's answer; hence he began the conversation at once from another side,-- "Pan Mashko has begged me to be his second, that's why I interfere in this question. I shall call on you to-morrow as a second; but as a private man, and a relative, though a distant one, of Pan Plavitski, I can tell you to-day only this,--that you have rendered the poorest service to Pan Plavitski, and if he and his daughter are left without a morsel of bread, they will have you to thank for it. This is the truth!" Gantovski's eyes became perfectly round. "Without a morsel of bread? They will thank me for it?" "That is the position," repeated Pan Stanislav. "But listen carefully. Without reference to the result of the scandal, the circumstances are such that it may have the most fatal results. I say this to you, on my word: you have, perhaps, ruined Pan Plavitski, and taken from him and his daughter the way, or rather the means, of living." If Gantovski really did not like to be pressed to the wall, it was time for him then to show his dislike; but Gantovski had lost his head utterly, and stood in amazement, with open mouth, unable to find an answer; and only after a time did he begin,-- "What? How? In what way? Be sure that it will not come to that, even if I have to give them Yalbrykov." "Pan Gantovski," interrupted Pan Stanislav, "it is a pity to lose words. I have known your neighborhood from the time I was a little boy. What is Yalbrykov, and what have you in Yalbrykov?" It was true, Yalbrykov was a poor little village, with nine vlokas of land; and, besides, Gantovski had, as is usual, inherited debts higher than his ears; so his hands dropped at his sides. It occurred to him, however, that perhaps matters did not stand as Pan Stanislav represented them; and he grasped at this thought as at a plank of salvation. "I do not understand what you say," said he. "God is my witness that I would choose my own ruin rather than injure the Plavitskis; and know this, that I would be glad to twist the neck of Pan Mashko; but, if it is necessary,--if it is a question of the Plavitskis,--then let the devils take me first! "Immediately after the scandal, I went to Pan Yamish, who is here at the session, and told him all. He said that I had committed a folly, and scolded me, it is true. If it were a question of my skin, it would be nothing,--I would not move a finger; but, since it touches something else, I will do what Pan Yamish tells me, even should a thunderbolt split me next moment. Pan Yamish lives at the Hotel Saxe, and so do I." They parted on this; and Gantovski went to his hotel, cursing Mashko, himself, and Polanyetski. He felt that it must be as Polanyetski had said,--that some incurable misfortune had happened,--and that he had wrought grievous injustice against that same Panna Marynia for whom he would have given his last drop of blood; he felt that if there had been for him any hope, he had destroyed it completely. Plavitski would close his door on him. Panna Marynia would marry Polanyetski, unless he didn't want her. But who would not want her? And, at the same time, Pan Gantovski saw clearly that among those who might ask her hand, he was the last man she would marry. "What have I? Nothing," said he to himself; "that measly Yalbrykov, nothing more,--neither good name nor money. Every man knows something; I alone know nothing. Every one means something; I alone mean nothing. That Polanyetski has learning and money; but that I love her better,--the devils to me for that, and as much to her, if I am such an idiot that through loving I harm instead of helping her." Pan Stanislav, on his way home, thought of Gantovski in the same way, and in general had not for him even one spark of sympathy. At home he found Mashko, who had been waiting an hour, and who said, as greeting,-- "Kresovski will be the other second." Pan Stanislav made somewhat of a wry face, and answered,-- "I have seen Gantovski." "And what?" "He is a fool." "He is that, first of all. Hast thou spoken to him in my name?" "Not in thy name. As a relative of Pan Plavitski, I told him that he had given Pan Plavitski the worst service in the world." "You gave no explanations?" "None. Hear me, Mashko: it is a question for thee of complete satisfaction; it is no point for me that ye should shoot each other. In virtue of what I have told Gantovski, he is ready to agree to all thy conditions. Happily, he has committed himself to Yamish. Yamish is a mild, prudent man, who understands also that Gantovski has acted like an idiot, and will be glad to give him a lesson." "Very well," said Mashko. "Give me a pen and piece of paper." "Thou hast them at the desk." Mashko sat down and wrote. When he had finished, he gave the written sheet to Pan Stanislav, who read as follows:-- "I testify this day that I attacked Pan Mashko while I was drunk, in a state of unconsciousness, and without giving myself account of what I was saying. To-day, having become sober, in presence of my seconds, the seconds of Pan Mashko, and the persons who were present at the scene, I acknowledge my act as rude and senseless, and turn with the greatest sorrow and contrition to the good sense and kindness of Pan Mashko, begging him for forgiveness, and acknowledging publicly that his conduct was and is in everything above the judgment of men like me." "Gantovski is to declaim this, and then subscribe it," said Mashko. "This is devilishly unmerciful; no one will agree to it," said Pan Stanislav. "Dost thou acknowledge that this fool has permitted to himself something unheard of with reference to me?" "I do." "And remember what result this adventure may have for me?" "It is impossible to know that." "Well, I know; but I will tell thee only this much,--those ladies will regret from their souls that they are bound to me, and will use every pretext which will excuse them before society. That is certain; I am ruined almost beyond rescue." "The devil!" "Thou canst understand now that what is troubling me must be ground out on some one, and that Gantovski must pay me for the injustice in one form or another." "Neither have I any tenderness for him. Let it be so," said Pan Stanislav, shrugging his shoulders. "Kresovski will come for thee to-morrow morning at nine." "Very well." "Then, till we meet again. By the way, should you see Plavitski to-morrow, tell him that his relative, Panna Ploshovski, from whom he expected an inheritance, has died in Rome. Her will was here with her manager, Podvoyni, and is to be opened to-morrow." "Plavitski knows of that already, for she died five days ago." Pan Stanislav was left alone. For a certain time he thought of his money without being able to foresee a method by which he might receive it from the bankrupt Mashko, and the thought disturbed him. He remembered, however, that the debt could not be removed from the mortgage on Kremen until it was paid in full; that in this last case he would continue as he had been previously,--a creditor of Kremen. Kremen, it is true, was not a much better debtor than Mashko, hence this was no great consolation; but for the time he was forced to be satisfied with it. Later on, something else also came to his head. He remembered Litka, Pani Emilia, Marynia, and he was struck by this,--how the world of women, a world of feelings purely, a world whose great interest lies in living in the happiness of those near us, differs from the world of men, a world full of rivalry, struggles, duels, encounters, angers, torments, and efforts for acquiring property. He recognized at that moment what he had not felt before,--that if there be solace, repose, and happiness on earth, they are to be sought from a loving woman. This feeling was directly opposed to his philosophy of the last few days, hence it disturbed him. But, in comparing further those two worlds, he could not withhold the acknowledgment that that feminine and loving world has its foundation and reason of existence. If Pan Stanislav had been more intimate with the Holy Scriptures, beyond doubt the words, "Mary has chosen the better part," would have occurred to him. CHAPTER XXIV. Kresovski was almost an hour late on the following morning. He was, according to a noted description among us, one of the administrators of fresh air in the city,--that is, one of the men who do nothing. He had a name sufficiently famous, and had squandered rather a large fortune. On these two foundations he lived, he went everywhere, and was recognized universally as a man of good breeding. How the above titles can provide a man everything is the secret of great cities; it is enough that not only Kresovski's position was recognized and certain, but he was considered a person to whom it was possible to apply with safety in delicate questions. In courts of honor he was employed as an arbiter; in duels, as a second. High financial circles were glad to invite him to dinners, weddings, christenings, and solemnities of that sort, since he had a patrician baldness, and a countenance extremely Polish; hence he ornamented a table perfectly. He was a man in the essence of things greatly disenchanted with people, a little consumptive, and very satirical. He possessed, however, a certain share of humor, which permitted him to see the laughable side of things, especially of very small things; in this he resembled Bukatski somewhat, and made sport of his own fault-finding. He permitted others to make sport of it also, but within measure. When the measure was passed, he straightened himself suddenly, and squeezed people to excess; in view of this he was looked on as dangerous. It was said of him that in a number of cases he had found courage where many would have lacked it, and that, in general, he could "carry his nose high." He did not respect any one nor anything, except his own really very noble physiognomy; time, especially, he did not respect, for he was late always and everywhere. Coming in to Pan Stanislav's on this occasion, he began at once, after the greeting, to explain his tardiness,-- "Have you not noticed," asked he, "that if a man is in a real hurry, and very anxious to hasten, the things he needs most vanish purposely? The servant seeks his hat,--it is gone; looks for his overshoes,--they are not there; hunts for his pocket-book,--it is not to be had. I will wager that this is so always." "It happens thus," said Pan Stanislav. "I have, in fact, invented a cure. When something has gone from me as if it had fallen into water, I sit down, smile, and say aloud: 'I love to lose a thing in this way, I do passionately;' my man looks for it, becomes lively, stirs about, passes the time,--that is very wholesome and agreeable. And what will you say? Right away the lost article is found." "A patent might be taken for such an invention," answered Pan Stanislav; "but let us speak of Mashko's affair." "We must go to Yamish. Mashko has sent me a paper which he has written for Gantovski. He is unwilling to change a word; but it is an impossible statement, too harsh,--it cannot be accepted. I understand that a duel is waiting for us, nothing else; I see no other outcome." "Gantovski has intrusted himself to Pan Yamish in everything, and he will do all that Yamish commands. But Yamish, to begin with, is also indignant at Gantovski; secondly, he is a sick man, mild, calm, so that who knows that he may not accept such conditions." "Pan Yamish is an old dotard," said Kresovski; "but let us go, for it is late." They went out. After a while the sleigh halted before the hotel. Pan Yamish was waiting for them, but he received them in his dressing-gown, for he was really in poor health. Kresovski, looking at his intelligent, but careworn and swollen face, thought,-- "He is really ready to agree to everything." "Sit down, gentlemen," said Pan Yamish; "I came only three days ago, and though I do not feel well, I am glad, for perhaps the affair may be settled. Believe me that I was the first to rub the ears of my water-burner." Here he shrugged his shoulders, and, turning to Pan Stanislav, inquired,-- "What are the Plavitskis doing? I have not visited them yet, though I long to see my golden Marynia." "Panna Marynia is well," answered Pan Stanislav. "But the old man?" "A few days ago a distant relative of his died,--a very wealthy woman; he is counting, therefore, on an inheritance. He told me so yesterday; but I hear that she has left all her property for benevolent purposes. The will is to be opened to-day or to-morrow." "May God have inspired her to leave something to Marynia! But let us come to our affair. I need not tell you, gentlemen, that it is our duty to finish it amicably, if we can." Kresovski bowed. Introductions like this, which he had heard in his life God knows how often, annoyed him. "We are profoundly convinced of this duty." "So I had hoped," answered Yamish, benevolently. "I confess myself that Pan Gantovski had not the least right to act as he did. I recognize even as just that he should be punished for it; hence I shall persuade him to all, even very considerable, concessions, fitted to assure proper satisfaction to Pan Mashko." Kresovski took from his pocket the folded paper, and gave it, with a smile, to Pan Yamish, saying,-- "Pan Mashko demands nothing more than that Pan Gantovski should read this little document, to begin with, in presence of his own and Pan Mashko's seconds, as well as in presence of Pan Mashko's subordinates, who were present at the scene, and then write under it his own respected name." Pan Yamish, finding his spectacles among his papers, put them on his nose, and began to read. But as he read, his face grew red, then pale; after that he began to pant. Pan Stanislav and Kresovski could scarcely believe their eyes that that was the same Pan Yamish who a moment before was ready for every concession. "Gentlemen," said he, with a broken voice, "Pan Gantovski has acted like a water-burner, like a thoughtless man; but Pan Gantovski is a noble, and this is what I answer in his name to Pan Mashko." When he said this, he tore the paper in four pieces, and threw them on the floor. The thing had not been foreseen. Kresovski began to meditate whether Yamish had not offended his dignity of a second by this act, and in one moment his face began to grow icy, and contract like that of an angry dog; but Pan Stanislav, who loved Pan Yamish, was pleased at his indignation. "Pan Mashko is injured in such an unusual degree that he cannot ask for less; but Pan Kresovski and I foresaw your answer, and it only increases the respect which we have for you." Pan Yamish sat down, and, being somewhat asthmatic, breathed rather heavily for a time; then he grew quiet, and said,-- "I might offer you an apology on the part of Pan Gantovski, but in other expressions altogether; I see, however, that we should be losing time merely. Let us talk at once of satisfaction, weapon in hand. Pan Vilkovski, Pan Gantovski's other second, will be here soon; and if you can wait, we will fix the conditions immediately." "That is called going straight to the object," said Kresovski, who quite agreed with Pan Yamish. "But from necessity,--and sad necessity," replied Yamish. "I must be in my office at eleven," said Pan Stanislav, looking at his watch; "but, if you permit, I will run in here about one o'clock, to look over the conditions and sign them." "That will do. We cannot draw up conditions that will rouse people's laughter, that I understand and inform you; but I count on this,--that you, gentlemen, will not make them too stringent." "I have no thought, I assure you, of quarrelling to risk another man's life." So saying, Pan Stanislav started for his office, where, in fact, a number of affairs of considerable importance were awaiting him, and which, in Bigiel's absence, he had to settle alone. In the afternoon he signed the conditions of the duel, which were serious, but not too stringent. He went then to dinner, for he hoped to find Mashko in the restaurant. Mashko had gone to Pani Kraslavski's; and the first person whom Pan Stanislav saw was Plavitski, dressed, as usual, with care, shaven, buttoned, fresh-looking, but gloomy as night. "What is my respected uncle doing here?" asked Pan Stanislav. "When I have trouble, I do not dine at home usually, and this to avoid afflicting Marynia," answered Plavitski. "I go somewhere; and as thou seest, the wing of a chicken, a spoonful of preserve, is all that I need. Take a seat with me, if thou hast no pleasanter company." "What has happened?" "Old traditions are perishing; that has happened." "Bah! this is not a misfortune personal to uncle." Plavitski glanced at him gloomily and solemnly. "To-day," said he, "a will has been opened." "Well, and what?" "And what? People are saying now throughout Warsaw: 'She remembered her most distant relatives!' Nicely did she remember them! Marynia has an inheritance, has she? Knowest thou how much? Four hundred rubles a year for life. And the woman was a millionnaire! An inheritance like that may be left to a servant, not to a relative." "But to uncle?" "Nothing to me. She left fifteen thousand rubles to her manager, but mentioned no syllable about me." "What is to be done?" "Old traditions are perishing. How many people gained estates formerly through wills, and why was it? Because love and solidarity existed in families." "Even to-day I know people on whose heads thousands have fallen from wills." "True, there are such,--there are many of them; but I am not of the number." Plavitski rested his head on his hand, and from his mouth issued something in the style of a monologue. "Yes, always somewhere somebody leaves something to somebody." Here he sighed, and after a while added, "But to me no one leaves anything, anywhere, at any time." Suddenly an idea equally cruel and empty occurred to Pan Stanislav on a sudden to cheer up Plavitski; therefore he said,-- "Ai! she died in Rome; but the will here was written long ago, and before that one there was another altogether different, as people tell me. Who knows that in Rome a little codicil may not be found, and that my dear uncle will not wake up a millionnaire some day?" "That day will not come," answered Plavitski. Still the words had moved him; he began to gaze at Polanyetski, to squirm as if the chair on which he was sitting were a bed of torture, and said, at last, "And you think that possible?" "I see in it nothing impossible," answered Pan Stanislav, with real roguish seriousness. "If the wish of Providence." "And that may be." Plavitski looked around the hall; they were alone. He pushed back his chair on a sudden, and, pointing to his shirt-bosom, said,-- "Come here, my boy!" Pan Stanislav inclined his head, which Plavitski kissed twice, saying at the same time, with emotion,-- "Thou host consoled me; thou hast strengthened me. Let it be as God wills, but thou hast strengthened me. I confess to thee now that I wrote to Panna Ploshovski only to remind her that we were living. I asked her when the rent term of one of her estates would end; I had not, as thou knowest, the intention to take that place, but the excuse was a good one. May God reward thee for strengthening me! The present will may have been made before my letter. She went to Rome later; on the way she must have thought of my letter, and therefore of us; and, to my thinking, that is possible. God reward thee!" After a while his face cleared up completely; all at once he laid his hand on Pan Stanislav's knee, and, clicking with his tongue, cried,-- "Knowest what, my boy? Perhaps in a happy hour thou hast spoken; and might we not drink a small bottle of Mouton-Rothschild on account of this codicil?" "God knows that I cannot," said Pan Stanislav, who had begun to be a little ashamed of what he had said to the old man. "I cannot, and I will not." "Thou must." "'Pon my word, I cannot. I have my hands full of work, and I will not befog my head for anything in the world." "A stubborn goat,--a regular goat! Then I will drink half a bottle to the happy hour." So he ordered it, and asked,-- "What hast thou to do?" "Various things. Immediately after dinner I must be with Professor Vaskovski." "What kind of a figure is that Vaskovski?" "In fact," said Pan Stanislav, "an inheritance has fallen to him from his brother, who was a miner,--an inheritance, and a considerable one. But he gives all to the poor." "He gives to the poor, but goes to a good restaurant. I like such philanthropists. If I had anything to give the poor, I would deny myself everything." "He was ailing a long time, and the doctor ordered him to eat plentifully. But even in that case he eats only what is cheap. He lives in a poor chamber, and rears birds. Next door he has two large rooms; and knowest, uncle, who passes the night in them? Children whom he picks up on the street." "It seemed to me right away that he had something here," said Plavitski, tapping his forehead with his finger. Pan Stanislav did not find Vaskovski at home; hence after an interview with Mashko he dropped in to see Marynia about five in the afternoon. His conscience was gnawing him for the nonsense he had spoken to Plavitski. "The old man," said he to himself, "will drink costly wines on account of that codicil; while to my thinking they are living beyond their means already. The joke should not last too long." He found Marynia with her hat on. She was going to the Bigiels', but received him, and since he had not come for a long time, he remained. "I congratulate you on the inheritance," said he. "I am glad myself," replied she; "it is something sure, and in our position that is important. For that matter, I should like to be as rich as possible." "Why so?" "You remember what you said once, that you would like to have enough to establish a manufactory, and not carry on a mercantile house. I remember that; and since every one has personal wishes, I should like to have much, much money." Then, thinking that she might have said too much, and said it too definitely, she began to straighten the fold of her dress, so as to incline her head. "I came, for another thing, to beg your pardon," said Pan Stanislav. "To-day at dinner I told a pack of nonsense to Pan Plavitski, saying that Panna Ploshovski had changed her will, perhaps, and left him a whole estate. Beyond my expectation he took it seriously. I should not wish to have him deceive himself; and if you will permit me, I will go at once to him and explain the matter somehow." "I have explained it to him already," said Marynia, smiling; "he scolded me, and that greatly. You see how you have involved matters. You have cause indeed to beg pardon." "Therefore I beg." And, seizing her hand, he began to cover it with kisses; and she left it with him completely, repeating as if in sarcasm, but with emotion,-- "Ah, the wicked Pan Stas, the wicked Pan Stas!" That day Pan Stanislav felt on his lips till he fell asleep the warmth of Marynia's hand; and he thought neither of Mashko nor Gantovski, but repeated to himself with great persistence,-- "It is time to decide this." CHAPTER XXV. Kresovski, with a doctor and a case containing pistols, entered one carriage, Pan Stanislav with Mashko another, and the two moved toward Bielany. The day was clear and frosty, full of rosy haze near the ground. The wheels turned with a whining on the frozen snow; the horses were steaming, and covered with frost; on the trees abundant snow was resting. "Frost that is frost," said Mashko. "Our fingers will freeze to the triggers. And the delight of removing one's furs!" "Then be reconciled; make no delay. My dear man, tell Kresovski to begin the work straightway." Here Mashko wiped his damp eye-glass, and added, "Before we reach the place, the sun will be high, and there will be a great glitter from the snow." "Finish quickly, then," answered Pan Stanislav. "Since Kresovski is in time, there will be no waiting for the others; they are used to early rising." "Dost know what makes me anxious at this moment?" asked Mashko. "This, that there is in the world one factor with which no one reckons in his plans and actions, and through which everything may be shattered, involved, and ruined,--human stupidity. Imagine me with ten times the mind that I have, and unoccupied with the interests of Pan Mashko. Imagine me, for example, some great statesman, some Bismark or Cavour, who needs to gain property to carry out his plans, and who calculates every step, every word,--what then? A beast like this comes along, stupid beyond human reckoning, and carries all away on his horns. That is something fabulous! Whether this fellow will shoot me or not, is the least account now; but the brute has spoiled my life-work." "Who can calculate such a thing?" said Pan Stanislav. "It is as if a roof were to fall on thy head." "For that very reason rage seizes me." "But as to his shooting thee, don't think of that." Mashko recovered, wiped his glass again, and began,-- "My dear, I see that from the moment of our starting thou hast been observing me a little, and now 'tis thy wish to add to my courage. That is natural. On my part, I must calm thee; and on my word I give assurance that I will not shame thee. I feel a little disquiet,--that is simple; but knowest why? That which constitutes danger of life, the firing at one, is nothing. Let weapons be given me and him; let us into the woods. God knows that I should fire away at that idiot half a day, and meet his shots half a day. I have had a duel already, and know what it is. It is the comedy that disconcerts one, the preparations, the seconds, the idea that men will look at thee, and the fear touching how thou wilt appear, how thou wilt acquit thyself. It is simply a public exhibition, and a question of self-love,--nothing more. For nervous natures a genuine trial. But I am not over nervous. I understand, also, that in this regard I am superior to my opponent, for I am more accustomed to men. 'Tis true such an ass has less imagination, and is not able to think; for example, how he would look as a corpse; how he would begin to decay, and so on. Still I shall be able to command myself better. Besides, I will tell thee another thing: Philosophy is philosophy; but in matters like this the decisive elements are temperament and passion. This duel will not bring me to anything, will not save me in any regard; on the contrary, it may bring me to trouble. But still I cannot deny it to myself, so much indignation has collected in my soul, I so hate that idiot, and would like so to crush and trample him,--that I cease to reason. Thou mayest be certain of one thing,--that as soon as I see the face of the blockhead I shall forget disquiet, forget the comedy, and see only him." "I understand that well enough," said Pan Stanislav. And the spots on Mashko's face increased and became blue from the frost, wherewith he had a look as stubborn as it was ugly. Meanwhile they arrived. Almost simultaneously squeaked the carriage bringing Gantovski, with Yamish and Vilkovski. When they alighted, these gentlemen saluted their opponents; then the seven, counting the doctor, withdrew to the depth of the forest to a place selected on the preceding day by Kresovski. The drivers, looking at the seven overcoats outlined strangely on the snow, began to mutter to themselves. "Do you know what is going to happen?" asked one. "Is it my first time?" answered the other. "Let the world grow polite; let fools go to fight!" Meanwhile the seven, clattering on in their heavy overshoes, and blowing lines of white steam from their nostrils, went toward the other end of the forest. On the way, Yamish, somewhat against the rules binding in such cases, approached Pan Stanislav, and began,-- "I wished sincerely that my man should beg pardon of Pan Mashko, but under the conditions it is not possible." "I proposed to Mashko, too, to tone down that note, but he would not." "Then there is no escape. All this is immensely foolish, but there is no escape!" Pan Stanislav did not answer, and they walked on in silence. Pan Yamish began to speak again,-- "But I hear that Marynia Plavitski has received some inheritance?" "She has, but a small one." "And the old man?" "He is angry that the whole property is not left to him." Yamish tapped his forehead with his glove. "He has a little something here, that Plavitski;" then, looking around, he said, "Somehow we are going far." "We shall be on the ground in a moment." And they went on. The sun had risen above the undergrowth; from the trees there fell bluish shadows on the snow; but more and more light was coming into the forest every instant. The crows and daws, hidden somewhere among the tree-tops, shook the snow, dry as down, and it fell without noise to the ground, forming under the trees little pointed piles. Everywhere there was immense silence and rest. Men alone were disturbing it to shoot at each other. They halted at last on the edge of the forest where it was clean. Then Yamish's short discourse concerning the superiority of peace over war was listened to by Mashko and Gantovski with ears hidden by fur collars. When Kresovski loaded the pistols, each made his choice; and the two, throwing their furs aside, stood opposite each other with the barrels of their weapons turned upward. Gantovski breathed hurriedly; his face was red, and his mustaches were in icicles. From his whole posture and face it was clear that the affair disconcerted him greatly; that through shame and force of will he controlled himself; and that, had he followed the natural bent of his feelings, he would have sprung at his opponent and smashed him with the butt of his pistol, or even with his fist. Mashko, who previously had feigned not to see his opponent, looked at him now with a face full of hatred, stubbornness, and contempt. His cheeks were all in spots. He mastered himself more, however, than Gantovski; and, dressed in a long frock-coat, with a high hat on his head, with his long side-whiskers, he seemed too stiff, too much like an actor playing the rôle of a duelling gentleman. "He will shoot 'the bear' like a dog," thought Pan Stanislav. The words of command were heard, and two shots shook the forest stillness. Mashko turned then to Kresovski, and said coolly,-- "I beg to load the pistols." But at the same moment at his feet appeared a spot of blood on the snow. "You are wounded," said the doctor, approaching quickly. "Perhaps; load the pistols, I beg." At that moment he staggered, for he was wounded really. The ball had carried away the very point of his kneepan. The duel was interrupted; but Gantovski remained some time yet on the spot with staring eyes, astonished at what had happened. After the first examination of the wound he approached, however, pushed forward by Yamish, and said as awkwardly as sincerely,-- "Now I confess that I was not right in attacking you. I recall everything that I said, and I beg your pardon. You are wounded, but I did not wish to wound you." After a moment, when he was going away with Yamish and Vilkovski, he was heard to say, "As I love God most sincerely, it was a pure accident; I intended to fire over his head." Mashko did not open his mouth that day. To the question of the doctor if the wound caused much pain, he merely shook his head in sign that it did not. Bigiel, who had just returned from Prussia with his pockets full of contracts, when he heard all that had happened, said to Pan Stanislav,-- "Mashko seems an intelligent man, but, as God lives, every one of us has some whim in his head. He, for example, has credit; he has many splendid business cases; he might have a considerable income, and make a fortune. But no, he wants to force matters, strain his credit to the utmost, buy estates, give himself out as a great proprietor, a lord,--be God knows what, only not what he is. All this is wonderful, and the more so that it is so common. More than once I think that life in itself is not bad, but that all ruin it through want of mental balance, and certain devilish whims,--through a kind of wasp, which every one has behind his collar. I understand that a man wants to have more than he has, and to mean more than he means; but why strive for it in fantastic fashion? I am first to recognize energy and cleverness in Mashko; but, taking everything into consideration, he has something here, as God is true, he has." Bigiel now tapped his forehead with his finger a number of times. Meanwhile Mashko, with set teeth, was suffering, since his wound, though not threatening life, was uncommonly painful. In the evening he fainted twice in presence of Pan Stanislav. Afterward, weakness supervened, during which that boldness of spirit which had upheld the young advocate through the day gave way completely. When the doctor departed, after dressing the wound, Mashko lay quietly for a time, and then began,-- "But I am in luck!" "Do not think of that," answered Pan Stanislav; "thou wilt get more fever." But Mashko continued, however, "Insulted, ruined, wounded,--all at one blow." "I repeat to thee that this is no time to think of that." Mashko rested his elbow on the pillow, hissed from pain, and said,-- "Never mind; this is the last time that I shall converse with a decent man. One week or two from now I shall be of those whom people avoid. What do I care for this fever? There is something so unendurable in ruin so complete, in a wreck of fate so utter, that the first idiot, the first goose that comes along will say: 'I knew that long ago; I foresaw that.' So it is: all of them foresee everything after the event; and of him whom the thunderbolt has struck, they make in addition a fool, or a madman." Pan Stanislav recalled Bigiel's words at that moment. But Mashko, by a marvellous coincidence, spoke on in such fashion as if wishing to answer those words. "And dost think that I did not give account to myself that I was going too sharply; that I was hurrying with too much force; that I wanted to be something greater than I was; that I carried my nose too high? No one will render me that justice; but knowest thou that I said it to myself? But I said to myself, too: 'It is needful to do this; this is the one way to rise to distinction. Maybe things are wrong, maybe life, in general, goes backward; but had it not been for that adventure unforeseen, and of unfathomable stupidity, I should have succeeded just because I was such as I was. If I had been a modest man, I should not have got Panna Kraslavski. With us it is necessary always to pretend something; and if the devils take me, it is not through my pride, but that blockhead." "But how the deuce art thou to know surely that thy marriage will fail?" "My dear man, thou hast no knowledge of those women. They agreed on Pan Mashko through lack of something better, for Pan Mashko had good success. But if any shadow falls on my property, my position, my station, they will throw me aside without mercy, and then roll mountains on to me to shield themselves before the world of society. What knowledge hast thou of them? Panna Kraslavski is not Panna Plavitski." A moment of silence followed, then Mashko spoke further, with a weakening voice: "She could have rescued me. For her I should have gone on another road,--a far quieter one. In such conditions Kremen would have been saved; the debt on it would have fallen away, as well as Plavitski's annuity. I should have waded out. Dost thou know that, besides, I fell in love with her in student fashion? It came so, unknown whence. But she chose rather to be angry with thee than love me. Now I understand; there is no help for it." Pan Stanislav, who did not relish this conversation, interrupted it, and spoke with a shadow of impatience,-- "It astonishes me that a man of thy energy thinks everything lost, while it is not. Panna Plavitski is a past on which thou hast made a cross, by proposing to Panna Kraslavski. As to the present, thou wert attacked, it is true; but thou hast fought, thou wert wounded, but in such a way that in a week thou wilt be well; and finally, those ladies have not announced that they break with thee. Till thou hast that, black on white, thou hast no right to talk thus. Thou art sick, and that is why thou art reading funeral services over thyself prematurely. But I will tell thee another thing. It is for thee to let those ladies know what has happened. Dost wish, I will go to them to-morrow, then they will act as they please; but let them be informed by thy second, not by city gossips." Mashko thought a while, and said: "I wished to write in every case to my betrothed; but if thou go, it will be better. I have no hope that she will hold to me, but it is needful to do what is proper. I thank thee. Thou wilt be able to present the affair from the best side,--only not a word touching troubles of any kind. Thou must lessen the sale of the oak to zero, to a politeness which I wished to show thee. I thank thee sincerely. Say that Gantovski apologized." "Hast thou some one to sit with thee?" "My servant and his wife. The doctor will come again, and bring a surgeon. This pains me devilishly, but I am not ill." "Then, till we meet again." "Be well. I thank thee--thou art--" "Sleep soundly." Pan Stanislav went out. Along the way he meditated on Mashko's course, and meditated with a species of anger: "He is not of the romantic school; still he is inclined to pretend something of that sort. Panna Plavitski! he loved her--he would have gone by another road--she might have saved him!--this is merely a tribute to sentimentality, and, besides, in false coin, since a month later he proposed to that puppet--for money's sake! Maybe I am duller-witted; I do not understand this, and do not believe in disappointments cured so easily. Had I loved one woman, and been disappointed, I do not think that I should marry another in a month. Devil take me if I should! He is right, however, that Marynia is of a different kind from Kraslavski. There is no need whatever to discuss that; she is different altogether! different altogether!" And that thought was immensely agreeable to Pan Stanislav. When he reached home, he found a letter from Bukatski, who was in Italy, and a card from Marynia, full of anxiety and questions concerning the duel. There was a request to send news early in the morning of what had happened, especially to inform her if everything was really over, and if no new encounter was threatened. Pan Stanislav, under the influence of the idea that she was different from Panna Kraslavski, answered cordially, more cordially even than he wished, and commanded his servant to deliver the note at nine the next morning. Then he set about reading Bukatski's letter, shrugging his shoulders from the very beginning. Bukatski wrote as follows:-- May Sakya Muni obtain for thee blessed Nirvana! Besides this, tell Kaplaner not to forward my three thousand rubles to Florence, but to keep them at my order. These days I have resolved to entertain the design of forming the plan of becoming a vegetarian. Dost note how decisive this is? If the thought does not annoy me, if this plan becomes a determination, and the determination is not beyond my power, I shall cease to be a flesh-eating animal; and life will cost me less money. That is the whole question. As to thee, I beg thee to be satisfied with everything, for life is not worth fatigue. I have discovered why the Slavs prefer synthesis to analysis. It is because they are idlers, and analysis is laborious. A man can synthesize while smoking a cigar after dinner. For that matter, they are right in being idlers. It is comfortably warm in Florence, especially on Lung-Arno. I walk along for myself and make a synthesis of the Florentine school. I have made the acquaintance here of an able artist in water-colors,--a Slav, too, who lives by art; but he proves that art is swinishness, which has grown up from a mercantile need of luxury, and from over-much money, which some pile up at the expense of others. In one word, art is, to his thinking, meanness and injustice. He fell upon me as upon a dog, and asserted that to be a Buddhist and to be occupied with art is the summit of inconsistency; but I attacked him still more savagely, and answered, that to consider consistency as something better than inconsistency was the height of miserable obscurantism, prejudices, and meanness. The man was astonished, and lost speech. I am persuading him to hang himself, but he doesn't want to. Tell me, art thou sure that the earth turns around the sun, or isn't this all a joke? For that matter, it is all one to me! In Warsaw I was sorry for that child who died, and here too I think of her frequently. How stupid that was! What is Pani Emilia doing? People have their rôle in the world fixed beforehand, and her rôle came to her with wings and suffering. Why was she good? She would have been happier otherwise. As to thee, O man, show me one kindness. I beg thee, by all things, marry not. Remember that if thou marry, if thou have a son, if thou toil to leave him property, thou wilt do so only for this that that son may be what I am, irreparably so. Farewell burning energy, farewell mercantile house, commission firm, O transitory form, vicious toil, effort for money, future father of a family, rearer of children and trouble. Embrace for me Vaskovski. He, too, is a man of synthesis. May Sakya Muni open thy eyes to know that it is warm in the sun and cool in the shade, and to lie down is better than to stand! Thy BUKATSKI. "Hash!" thought Pan Stanislav. "All this is artificial, all self-deception through a kind of exaggeration. But if a man accustoms himself to this, it will become in time a second nature to him, and, meanwhile, the devils take his reason; his energy and soul decay like a corpse. A man may throw himself headlong into such a hole as Mashko has, or into such a one as Bukatski. In both cases he will go under the ice. What the devil does it mean? Still there must be some healthy and normal life; only it is needful to have a little common sense in the head. But for a man like Bigiel, it is not bad in the world. He has a wife whom he loves, children whom he loves; he works like an ox. At the same time he has a great attachment for people, loves music and his violoncello, on which he plays in the moonlight, with his face raised toward the ceiling. It cannot be said that he is a materialist. No; in him one thing agrees with another somehow, and he is happy." Pan Stanislav began to walk through the room, and look from time to time at Litka's face, smiling from between the birches. The need of balancing accounts with his own self seized hold of him with increasing force. Like a merchant, he set about examining his debit and credit, which, for that matter, was not difficult. On the credit side of his life, his feeling for Litka once occupied the chief place; she was so dear to him in her time that if a year before it had been said, "Take her as your own child," he would have taken her, and considered that he had something to live for. But now this relation was only a remembrance, and from the rubric of happiness it had passed over to the rubric of misfortune. What was left? First of all, life itself; second, that mental dilettantism, which in every case is a luxury; further, the future, which rouses curiosity; further, the use of material things; and finally, his commercial house. All this had its value; but Pan Stanislav saw that there was a lack of object in it. As to the commercial house, he was pleased with the successes which he experienced, but not with the kind of work which the house demanded; on the contrary, that kind of work was not enough for him,--it was too narrow, too poor, and angered him. On the other hand, dilettantism, books, the world of mind,--all had significance as an ornament of life, but could not become its basis. "Bukatski," said Pan Stanislav to himself, "has sunk in this up to his ears; he wished to live with it, and has become weak, incompetent, barren. Flowers are good; but whoso wishes to breathe the odor of them exclusively will poison himself." In truth, Pan Stanislav did not need to be a great sage to see around him a multitude of people who were out of joint, whose health of soul mental dilettantism had undermined,--just as morphine undermines one's health of body. This dilettantism had wrought much harm to him, too, if only in this,--that it had made him a skeptic. He had been saved from grievous disease only by a sound organism, which felt the absolute need of expending its superfluous energy. But what will come later? Can he continue in that way? To this Pan Stanislav answered now with a decisive No! Since the business of his house could not fill out his life, and since it was simply perilous to fill it out with dilettantism, it was necessary to fill it out with something else,--to create new worlds, new duties, to open up new horizons; and to do this, he had to do one thing,--to marry. On a time when he said this to himself, he saw before him a certain undefined form, uniting all the moral and physical requisites, but without a body and without a name. Now it was a real figure; it had calm blue eyes, dark hair, a mouth a trifle too large, and was called Marynia Plavitski. Of any one else there could not be even mention; and Pan Stanislav placed her before himself with such vividness that the veins throbbed in his temples with more life. He was perfectly conscious, however, that something was lacking then in his feeling for Marynia,--namely, that around which the imagination lingers, which dares not ask anything, but hopes everything; which fears, trembles, kneels; which says to the loved woman, "At thy feet;" the love in which desire is at the same time worship, homage,--a feeling which adds a kind of mystic coloring to the relations of a man to a woman; which makes of the man, not merely a lover, but a follower. That had gone. Pan Stanislav, in thinking now of Marynia, thought soberly, almost insolently. He felt that he could go and take her, and have her; and if he did so, it would be for two reasons: first, because Marynia was for him a woman more attractive than all others; and second, reason commanded him to marry, and to marry her. "She is wonderfully reliable," thought he; "there is nothing in her fruitless or dried up. Egotism has not destroyed the heart in her; and it is undoubted that such a one will not think merely of what belongs to her. She is honesty incarnate, duty incarnate; and in life the only need will be to prevent her from thinking too little of herself. If reason commands me to marry, I should commit a folly, were I to look for another." Then he asked whether, if he abandoned Marynia, he would not act dishonorably. Litka had united them. Something in his heart revolted at the very thought of opposing the will and sacrifice of that child. If he wished, however, to act against that will, should he have borne himself as he had? No. In such an event he ought not to have shown himself at the Plavitskis' since Litka's death, nor have seen Marynia, nor kissed her hand, nor let himself be borne away by the current which had borne him,--by the power of events, perhaps,--but borne him so far that to-day he would disappoint Marynia, and fall in her eyes to the wretched position of a man who knows not himself what he wishes. For he would have to be blind not to see that Marynia considers herself his betrothed; and that, if she were not disquieted by his silence so far, it was simply because she ascribed it to the mourning which both had in their hearts for Litka. "Looking, then," said Pan Stanislav, "from the side of reason and conservative instinct, from the side of sense and honor, I ought to marry her. Therefore what? Therefore I should be an imbecile if I hesitated, and did not consider the question as settled. It is settled." Then he drew breath, and began to walk through the room. Under the lamp lay Bukatski's letter. Pan Stanislav took it, and read from the place where his eyes fell by chance. "I beg thee, by all things, marry not. Remember that if thou marry, if thou have a son, if thou toil to leave him property, thou wilt do so only for this: that that son may be what I am." "Here is a nice quandary for thee," said Pan Stanislav, with a certain stubbornness. "I will marry. I will marry Marynia Plavitski; dost hear? I will gain property; and if I have a son, I will not make of him a decadent; dost understand?" And he was pleased with himself. A little later he looked at Litka, and felt that a sudden emotion seized him. A current of sorrow for her, and of feeling, rose with a new power in his heart. He began to converse with the child, as in important moments of life people speak usually with beloved dead,-- "Thou art pleased, kitten? Is it not true?" asked he. And she smiled at him from among the birches painted by Marynia; she seemed to blink at him, and to answer,-- "True, Pan Stas; true." That evening, before going to bed, he took back from the servant the note which was to be given to Marynia in the morning, and wrote another still more affectionate, and in the following words,-- DEAR LADY,--Gantovski made a scene with Mashko--rather an awkward one--from which a duel came. Mashko is slightly wounded. His opponent begged his pardon on the spot. There will be no further results, save this: that I am still more convinced of how kind you are, and thoughtful and excellent; and to-morrow, if you permit, I will come with thanks to kiss your beloved and dear hands. I will come in the afternoon; for, in the morning, after visiting my office, I must go to Pani Kraslavski's, and then say farewell to Professor Vaskovski, though, were it possible, I should prefer to begin the day not with them. POLANYETSKI. After writing these words, he looked at the clock, and, though it was eleven already, he gave command to deliver the letter, not in the morning, but straightway. "Thou wilt go in through the kitchen," said he to the servant; "and, if the young lady is asleep, thou wilt leave it." When alone, he said the following words to the lady,-- "Thou art a very poor diviner, unless thou divine why I am coming to-morrow!" CHAPTER XXVI. Pani Kraslavski received Pan Stanislav with great astonishment, because of the early hour; but still she received him, thinking that he had come for some uncommon reason. He, on his part, without long introductions, told her what had happened, disguising at the same time only what was necessary for shielding Mashko from suspicion of bankruptcy or unfavorable business. He noticed that the old lady, while he was talking, kept her green eyes--made, as it were, of stone, and devoid of glitter--fixed on him, and that no muscle of her face moved. Only when he had ended did she say,-- "There is one thing in all this which I do not understand. Why did Pan Mashko sell the oak? That is no small ornament to any residence." "Those oaks stand far from the house," answered Pan Stanislav, "and injure the land,--for nothing will grow in the shade of them; and Pan Mashko is a practical man. Besides, to tell the truth, we are old friends, and he did that through friendship for me. I am a merchant; I needed the oak, and Pan Mashko let me have all he could spare." "In such an event, I do not understand why that young man--" "If you are acquainted with Pan Yamish," interrupted Pan Stanislav, "he, because he lives near both Kremen and Yalbrykov, will explain to you that that young man is not of perfect mind, and is known as such in the whole neighborhood." "In that case Pan Mashko was not obliged to fight a duel with him." "In such matters," answered Pan Stanislav, with a shade of impatience, "we have different ideas from ladies." "You will permit me to say a couple of words to my daughter." Pan Stanislav thought it time to rise and take farewell; but since he had come, as it were, on a reconnaissance, and wished to take some information to Mashko, he said,-- "If the ladies have any message to Pan Mashko, I am going to him directly." "In a moment," answered Pani Kraslavski. Pan Stanislav remained alone and waited rather long, so long indeed that he began to be impatient. At last both ladies appeared. Though her hair had not been dressed with sufficient care, the young lady, in a white chemisette and a sailor's tie, seemed to Pan Stanislav quite beautiful, in spite of a slight inflammation of the eyes, and a few pimples on her forehead, which were powdered. There was about her a certain attractive languor, from which, having risen very late apparently, she had not been able yet to rouse herself, and a certain equally charming morning carelessness. For the rest, there was no emotion on her bloodless face. After salutations were exchanged with Pan Stanislav, she said, with a cool, calm voice,-- "Be so kind as to tell Pan Mashko that I was greatly pained and alarmed. Is the wound really slight?" "Beyond a doubt." "I have begged mamma to visit Pan Mashko; I will take her, and wait in the carriage for news. Then I will go again for mamma, and so every day till Pan Mashko has recovered. Mamma is so kind that she consents to this." Here a slight, barely evident blush passed over her pale face. To Pan Stanislav, for whom her words were an utter surprise, and whom they pierced with astonishment, she seemed then perfectly comely; and a moment later, when going to Mashko, he said to himself,-- "Well, the women are better than they seem. But they are two decanters of chilled water; still the daughter has some heart. Mashko did not know her, and he will have an agreeable surprise. The old woman will go to him, will see all those bishops and castellans with crooked noses over which Bukatski amused himself so much; but she will believe in Mashko's greatness." Meditating in this way, he found himself in Mashko's house, and had to wait, for he came at the moment of dressing the wound. But barely had the doctor gone, when Mashko gave command to ask him to enter, and, without even a greeting, inquired,-- "Well, hast thou been there?" "How art thou; how hast thou slept?" "Well. But never mind--hast thou been there?" "I have. I will tell thee briefly. In a quarter of an hour Pani Kraslavski will be here. The young lady told me to say that she would bring her mother, and would wait to hear how thou art; and to tell thee that she is greatly alarmed, that she is very unhappy, but thanks God that there is nothing worse. Thou seest, Mashko! I add, besides, that she is good-looking, and has attracted me. Now I am going, for I have no time to wait." "Have mercy; wait a moment. Wait, my dear; I have not a fever, and if thou speak through fear--" "Thou art annoying," said Pan Stanislav; "I give thee my word that I tell the truth, and that thou hast spoken ill of thy betrothed prematurely." Mashko dropped his head on the pillow, and was silent for a time; then he said, as if to himself,-- "I shall be ready to fall in love with her really." "That is well. Be in health; I am going to take farewell of Vaskovski." But instead of going to Vaskovski, he went to the Plavitskis', whom he did not find at home, however. Plavitski was never at home, and of Marynia they said that she had gone out an hour before. Usually when a man is going to a woman who rouses vivid interest in him, and makes up his mind on the way what to say to her, he has rather a stupid face if he finds that she is not at home. Pan Stanislav felt this, and was vexed. He went to a greenhouse, however, bought a multitude of flowers, and had them sent to Marynia. When he thought of the delight with which she would receive them, and with what a beating heart she would wait for evening, he was so pleased that after dinner he dropped into Vaskovski's in the very best humor. "I have come to take farewell, Professor; when dost thou start on the journey?" "How art thou, my dear?" answered Vaskovski. "I had to delay for a couple of days; for, as thou seest, I am wintering various small boys here." "Young Aryans, I suppose, who in hours of freedom draw purses out of pockets?" "No, they are good souls; but I cannot leave them without care. I must seek out a successor who will live in my place." "But who would roast himself here? How dost thou live in such heat?" "Because I sit without a coat; and wilt thou permit me not to put it on? It is a little warm here; but perspiration is wholesome, and these little feathered creatures crave heat." Pan Stanislav looked around. In the room there were at least a dozen and a half of buntings, titmice, finches. Sparrows, accustomed evidently to be fed, looked in in flocks through the window. The professor kept in his room only birds purchased of dealers; sparrows he did not admit, saying that if he did there would be no end to their numbers, and that it would be unjust to receive some and reject others. The chamber birds had cages fastened to the walls and the inner sash of the window, but went into them only at night; during daylight they flew through the chamber freely, filling it with twitter, and leaving traces on books and manuscripts, with which all the corners and the tables were filled. Some of the birds which had become very tame sat on Vaskovski's head even. On the floor husks of hemp-seed cracked under one's feet. Pan Stanislav, who knew that chamber thoroughly, still shrugged his shoulders, and said,-- "All this is very good, but that the professor lets them light and sing on his head; that, God knows, is too much. Besides, it is stifling here." "That is the fault of Saint Francis of Assisi," answered Vaskovski, "for I learned from him to love these little birds. I have even a pair of doves, but they are home-stayers." "Thou wilt see Bukatski, of course; I received a letter from him,--here it is." "May I read it?" "I give it to thee for that very purpose." Vaskovski read the letter, and said when he had finished, "I have always liked this Bukatski; he is a good soul, but--he has a little something here!" Vaskovski began, to tap his forehead with his fingers. "This is beginning to amuse me," exclaimed Pan Stanislav. "Imagine to thyself, Professor, for a certain number of days some one taps himself on the forehead and says of some one of our acquaintance, 'He has something here!' A charming society!" "If it is a little so, it is a little so!" answered Vaskovski, with a smile. "And knowest thou what this is? It is the usual Aryan trouble of soul; and in us, as Slavs, there is more of that than in the west, for we are the youngest Aryans, and therefore neither reason nor heart have settled yet into a balance. We are the youngest Aryans: we feel with more vividness; we take everything to heart more feverishly; and we arrange ourselves to the practice of life with more passion. I have seen much; I have noticed this for a long time. What wonderful natures! Just look, for example, the German students can carouse,--that doesn't hinder them from either working or fashioning themselves into practical people; but let a Slav take this habit, and he is lost, he will do himself to death! And so with everything. A German will become a pessimist and write volumes on this,--that life is despair; but he will drink beer meanwhile, rear children, make money, cultivate his garden, and sleep under a feather tick. A Slav will hang himself, or ruin himself with mad life, with excess, smother himself in a swamp into which he will wade purposely. My dear, I remember men who Byronized themselves to death. I have seen much; I have seen men who, for example, took a fancy to peasants, and ended with drinking vodka in peasant dramshops. There is no measure with us, and there cannot be, for in us, to the excessive acceptance of every idea, are joined frivolousness and knowest what vanity. O my God, how vain we are! how we wish to push ourselves forward always, so that we may be admired and gazed at! Take this Bukatski: he has sunk in scepticism up to his ears in fact; in pessimism, Buddhism, decadency, and in what else besides--do I know?--and in these too there is a chaos at present. He has sunk so deeply that those miasmas are really poisoning him; but dost thou think that with this he is not posing? What wonderful natures! those who are most sincere, who have the most vivid feelings, taking all things to heart most powerfully,--are at the same time comedians. When a man thinks of this, he loves them, but he wants to laugh and to weep." Pan Stanislav recalled how during his first visit to Kremen he had told Marynia of his Belgian times, when, living with some young Belgians, occupying himself with pessimism, he noticed finally that he took all these theories far more to heart than the Belgians, and that, through this, these theories spoiled his life more. Hence he said now,-- "Professor, thy speech is truthful. I have seen such things too, and the devils will take us all." Vaskovski fixed his mystic eyes on the frosty window-panes, and said,-- "No; some one else will take us all. That hotness of blood, that capacity for accepting an idea, are the great basis of the mission which Christ has designed for the Slavs." Here Vaskovski pointed to a manuscript stained by the birds, and said mysteriously,-- "I am going with that; that is the labor of my life. Dost wish I will read from it?" "As God lives, I haven't time; it is late already." "True. It is growing dark. Then I will tell thee in brief words. Not only do I think, but I believe most profoundly, that the Slavs have a great mission." Here Vaskovski halted, began to rub his forehead, and said,-- "What a wonderful number,--'three.' There is some mystery in it." "Thou wert going to speak of a mission," said Pan Stanislav, disquieted. "Never fear; the one has connection with the other. There are three worlds in Europe: the Roman, the German, and the Slav. The first and second accomplished what they had to do. The future is for that third." "And what has that third to do?" "Social conditions, justice, the relations of man to man, the life of individuals, and that which is called private life, are founded on Christian science, no matter what comes. The incoherence of men has deformed this science, but still everything stands on it. Only the first half of the problem is solved,--the first epoch. There are people who think that Christianity is nearing its end. No; the second epoch is about to begin. Christ is in the life of individuals, but not in history. Dost understand? To bring Him into history, to found on Him the relations of peoples, to create the love of our neighbor in the historical sense,--that is the mission which the Slav world has to accomplish. But the Slavs are deficient in knowledge yet; and the need is to open their eyes to this mission." Pan Stanislav was silent, for he had nothing to answer. Vaskovski continued: "This is what I have been pondering over a lifetime, and have explained in this work." Here he pointed to a manuscript. "This is the labor of my life. Here _this_ mission is outlined." "On which meanwhile the buntings are--" thought Pan Stanislav. "And surely it will be that way a long time." But aloud he said, "And it is thy hope, Professor, that when such a work is printed--" "No; I hope nothing. I have a little love, but I am a man too insignificant, too weak in mind. This will vanish, as if some one had thrown a stone into water; but there will be a circle. Let some chosen one come later on; for I know that what is predestined will not fail. He will not refuse the mission even if he wishes. There is no use in bending men from their predestination, nor in changing them by force. What is good in a different place may be bad in this, for God made us for another use. The labor is vain. Vainly too wilt thou persuade thyself that thy only wish is to gain money; thou, like others, must follow the voice of predestination and nature." "I am following it indeed, for I am going to marry; that is, if I be accepted." Vaskovski embraced him. "I wish thee happiness! This is perfect! May God bless thee! I know that the little maid indicated it to thee. But remember how I told thee that she had something to do, and that she would not die till she had done it. May God give her light, and a blessing to both of you! Besides, Marynia is golden." "And to thee, beloved Professor, a happy journey and a successful mission!" "And to thee, thy wish for thyself." "What do I wish?" asked Pan Stanislav, joyfully. "Well, so, half a dozen little missionaries." "Ah rogue! thou wert always a rogue!" answered Vaskovski. "But fly off, fly off; I will visit thee once more." Pan Stanislav flew out, sat on a droshky, and gave command to take him to the Plavitskis'. On the road he was arranging what to say to Marynia; and he prepared a little speech, partly sentimental, and partly sober, as befits a positive man who has found really that which he was seeking, but who also is marrying through reason. Evidently Marynia looked for him much later; for there was no light in the chamber, though the last gleam of twilight was quenched. Pan Stanislav, for a greeting, began to kiss both her hands, and, forgetting completely his wise introduction, asked in a voice somewhat uncertain and excited,-- "Have you received the flowers and the letter?" "I have." "And did you guess why I sent them?" Marynia's heart beat with such force that she could not answer. Pan Stanislav inquired further, with a still more broken voice,-- "Do you agree to Litka's wish,--do you want me?" "I do," answered Marynia. Then he, in the feeling that it was proper to thank her, sought words in vain; but he pressed her hands more firmly to his lips, and, holding them both, drew her gently nearer and nearer. Suddenly a flame seized him; he put his arms around her, and began to seek her lips with his own. But Marynia turned away her head so that he could kiss only the hair on her temples. For a while only their hurried breathing was heard in the darkness; at last Marynia wrested herself from his arms. A few moments later the servant brought a light. Pan Stanislav, recovering himself, was alarmed at his own boldness, and looked into Marynia's eyes with disquiet. He was sure that he had offended her, and was ready to beg her forgiveness. But he saw with wonder that there were no traces of anger in her face. Her eyes were downcast, her cheeks flushed, her hair disarranged somewhat; it was evident that she was disturbed and, as it were, dazed, but withal only penetrated with the perfect sweetness of that fear which comes to a woman who is loved, and who, in passing over the new threshold, feels that she must yield something there, but who passes over and yields because she wishes. She loves, and she is obliged to yield in view of the rights which she accords to the man. But a vivid feeling of gratitude passed through Pan Stanislav at sight of her. It seemed to him then that he loved her as he had loved of old, before Litka's death. He felt also that in that moment he could not be too delicate nor too magnanimous; hence, taking her hand again, he raised it to his lips with great respect, and said,-- "I know that I am not worthy of you; there is no discussion on that point. God knows that I shall always do for you what is in my power." Marynia looked at him with moist eyes and said, "If only you are happy." "Is it possible not to be happy with you? I saw that from the first moment at Kremen. But afterward, you know, everything was spoiled. I thought you would marry Mashko, and how I worried--" "I was angry, and I beg forgiveness--my dear--Pan Stas." "This very day the professor said, 'Marynia is gold,'" exclaimed Pan Stanislav, with great ardor. "This is true! all say the same--not only gold, but a treasure--a very precious one." Her kindly eyes began to smile at him: "Maybe a heavy one." "Let not your head ache over that. I have strength enough; I shall be able to bear it. Now at least I have something to live for." "And I," answered Marynia. "Do you know that I have been here already to-day? I sent chrysanthemums later. After yesterday's letter to you, I said to myself, 'That is simply an angel, and I should lack, not only heart, but common-sense to delay any longer.'" "I was so alarmed about that duel, and so unhappy. But is it all over now?" "I give you my word, most thoroughly." Marynia wanted to make further inquiries, but at that moment Plavitski came. They heard him cough a little, put away his cane, and remove his overcoat; he opened the door then, and, seeing them alone, said,-- "So you are sitting all by yourselves?" But Marynia ran up to him, and placing her hands on his shoulders, and putting forth her forehead for a kiss, said,-- "As betrothed, papa." Plavitski stepped back a little and inquired, "What dost thou say?" "I say," answered she, looking quietly into his eyes, "that Pan Stanislav wishes to take me, and that I am very happy." Pan Stanislav approached, embraced Plavitski heartily, and said, "I do with uncle's consent and permission." But Plavitski exclaimed, "Oh, my child!" and, advancing with tottering step to a sofa, he sat on it heavily. "Wait a moment," said he, with emotion. "It will pass--do not mind me--my children! If that is needed, I bless you with my whole heart." And he blessed them; wherewith still greater emotion mastered him, for, after all, he loved Marynia really. The voice stuck in his throat repeatedly; and the two young people heard only such broken expressions as, for example, "Some corner near you--for the old man, who worked all his life--an only child--an orphan." They pacified him together, and pacified him so well that half an hour later Plavitski struck Pan Stanislav on the shoulder suddenly, and said,-- "Oh robber! Thou wert thinking of Marynia, and I was thinking thee a little--" He finished the rest in Pan Stanislav's ear, who grew red with indignation, and answered,-- "How could uncle suppose such a thing? If any one else had dared to say that?" "Well, well, well!" answered Plavitski, smiling; "there is no smoke without fire." That evening Marynia, taking farewell of Pan Stanislav, asked,-- "You will not refuse me one thing?" "Nothing that you command." "I have said long to myself that if a moment like the present should come, we would go to Litka together." "Ah, my dear lady," answered Pan Stanislav; and she continued,-- "I know not what people will say; but what do we care for the world--what indeed?" "Nothing. I am thankful to you from my heart and soul for the thought--My dear lady--my Marynia!" "I believe that she looks at us and prays for us." "Then she is our little patroness." "Good-night." "Good-night." "Till to-morrow." "Till to-morrow," said he, kissing her hands,--"till after to-morrow, daily;" and here he added in a low voice, "Until our marriage." "Yes," answered Marynia. Pan Stanislav went out. In his head and in his heart he felt a great whirl of feelings, thoughts, impressions, above which towered one great feeling,--that something unheard of in its decisiveness had happened; that his fate had been settled; that the time of reckoning, of wavering and changing, had passed; that he must begin a new life. And that feeling was not unpleasant to him,--nay, it verged on a kind of delight, especially when he remembered how he had kissed Marynia's hair and temples. That which was lacking in his feelings shrank and vanished almost utterly in this remembrance; and it seemed to Pan Stanislav that he had found everything requisite to perfect happiness. "I shall never grow sated with this," thought he; and it seemed to him simply impossible that he should. He remembered then the goodness of Marynia, and how reliable she was; how on such a heart and character he might build; how in living with her nothing could ever threaten him; how she would not trample on any quality of his, nor make it of no avail; how she would receive as gold that which in him was gold; how she would live for him, not for herself. And, meditating in this way, he asked what better could he find? and he wondered indeed at his recent hesitation. Still he felt that what was coming was a change so gigantic, so immensely decisive, that somewhere at the bottom, in the deepest corner of his soul, there was roused a kind of alarm before this unknown happiness. But he did not hesitate. "I am neither a coward nor an imbecile," thought he. "It is necessary to go ahead, and I will go." Returning home, he looked at Litka; and immediately there opened before him, as it were, a new, clear horizon. He thought that he might have children, have such a bright dear head as this--and with Marynia. At the very thought his heart began to beat with greater life, and to the impulse of thoughts was joined such a solace of life as he had not known previously. He felt almost perfectly happy. Looking by chance at Bukatski's letter, which he took from his pocket before undressing, he laughed so heartily that the servant looked in with astonishment. Pan Stanislav wished to tell him that he was going to marry. He fell asleep only toward morning, but rose sprightly and fresh; after dressing, he flew to his office to announce the news to Bigiel at the earliest. Bigiel embraced him, then, with his usual deliberation, proceeded to consider the affair, and said finally,-- "Reasoning the matter over, this is the wisest thing that thou hast done in life;" then, pointing to a box of papers, he added, "Those contracts ought to be profitable, but thine is still better." "Isn't it?" exclaimed Pan Stanislav, boastfully. "I will fly to tell my wife," said Bigiel, "for I cannot contain myself; but go thou home, and go for good. I will take thy place till the wedding, and during the honeymoon." "Very well; I will hurry to see Mashko, and then Marynia and I will go to Litka." "That is due from you both to her." Pan Stanislav bought more flowers on the way, added a note to them that he would come soon, and dropped in to see Mashko. Mashko was notably better, under the care of Pani Kraslavski, and was looking for her arrival every moment. When he had heard the news, he pressed Pan Stanislav's hand with emotion, and said,-- "I will tell thee only one thing,--I do not know whether she will be happy with thee, but certainly thou wilt be happy with her." "Because women are better than men," answered Pan Stanislav. "After what has happened to thee, I hope that thou art of this opinion." "I confess that to this moment I cannot recover from astonishment. They are both better, and more mysterious. Imagine to thyself--" Here Mashko halted, as if hesitating whether to continue. "What?" inquired Pan Stanislav. "Well, thou art a discreet man, and hast given me, besides, such proofs of friendship that there may not be secrets between us. Imagine, then, that yesterday, after thy departure, I received an anonymous letter. Here, as thou art aware, the noble custom of writing such letters prevails. In the letter were tidings that Papa Kraslavski exists, is alive, and in good health." "Which, again, may be gossip." "But also may not be. He lives, probably, in America. I received the letter while Pani Kraslavski was here. I said nothing; but after a time, when she had examined those portraits, and began to inquire of my more distant family relations, I asked her, in turn, how long she had been a widow. She answered,-- "'My daughter and I have been alone in the world nine years; and those are sad events, of which I do not wish to speak to-day.' "Observe that she did not say directly when her husband died." "And what dost thou think?" "I think that if papa is alive, he must be that kind of figure of which people do not speak, and that in truth those may be 'sad events.'" "The secret would have come out long ago." "Those ladies lived abroad some years. Who knows? That, however, will not change my plans in any way. If Pan Kraslavski is living in America, and does not return, he must have reasons; it is as if he were not in the world, then. In fact, I am gaining the hope now that my marriage will come to pass, for I understand that when people have something to hide, they exact less." "Pardon my curiosity," said Pan Stanislav, taking his hat; "but with me it is a question of my money, and now touching the Kraslavskis. Dost thou know surely that these ladies have money?" "It seems that they have much; still, I am playing against a card somewhat hidden. It is likely that they have much ready money. The mother told me repeatedly that her daughter would not need to look to her husband's property. I saw their safe; they keep a big house. I know nearly all the money-lenders--Jews and non-Jews--in Warsaw, and I know surely that these ladies are not in debt a copper to any one; as thou knowest thyself, they have a nice villa not far from the Bigiels. They do not live on their capital, for they are too prudent." "Thou hast no positive figures, however?" "I tried to get them, but in roundabout fashion. Not being too certain of my connection with the ladies, I could not insist overmuch. It was given me to understand that there would be two hundred thousand rubles, and perhaps more." Pan Stanislav took leave, and on the way to the Plavitskis' thought, "All this is a kind of mystery, a kind of darkness, a kind of risk. I prefer Marynia." Half an hour later he was driving with Marynia to the cemetery, to Litka. The day was warm, as in spring, but gray; the city seemed sullen and dirty. In the cemetery the melting snow had slipped in patches to the ground from the graves, and covered the yellow, half-decayed grass. From the arms of crosses and leafless tree-branches large drops were falling, which, borne from time to time by gusts of warm wind, struck the faces of Pan Stanislav and Marynia. These gusts pulled Marynia's dress, so that she had to hold it. They stopped at last before Litka's grave. And here all was wet, sloppy, gloomy, half-stripped of the melting snow. The thought that that child, once so cared for, so loved, and so petted, was lying in that damp dungeon darkness, could hardly find a place in Pan Stanislav's head. "All this may be natural," thought he; "but it is not possible to be reconciled with death." And, in truth, whenever he visited Litka, he returned from the cemetery in a kind of irrepressible rebellion, with a species of passionate protest in his soul. These thoughts began to rend him in that moment also. It seemed to him simply terrible to love Litka, and to reconcile his love with the knowledge that a few steps lower down she is lying there, black and decaying. "I ought not to come," said he to himself, "for I grow mad, lose my head here, and lose every basis of life." But, above all, he suffered, for, if it is impossible not to think of death, it is equally impossible to explain it; hence everything touching it, which comes to the head, is, in so far as a man does not stretch forth his hand toward simple faith, at once despairing and shallow, trivial and common. "For me there is a greater question here than that of existence itself, but I am only able to answer with a commonplace. A perfectly vicious circle!" And it was true; for if he considered, for example, that at the first thought of death everything becomes smoke, and he felt that unfortunately it does, he felt at the same time that thousands of people had come to that thought before he had, and that no one had found in it either solace or even such satisfaction as the discovery of a truth gives. Everything that he could say to himself was at once terrifying and petty. It was easy for him to understand that the whole life of man, general history, all philosophies, are at bottom merely a struggle with incessant death,--a struggle despairing, a struggle utterly senseless, and at the same time infinitely foolish and devoid of object, for it is lost in advance. But such reasoning could not bring him any comfort, since it was merely the confirmation of a new vicious circle. For if the one object of all human efforts is life, and the only result death, the nonsense passes measure, and simply could not be accepted, were it not for that loathsome and pitiless reality, which turns beings beloved and living into rotten matter. Pan Stanislav, during every visit to the cemetery, poisoned himself with such thoughts. To-day, while going, he thought that the presence of Marynia would liberate him from them; meanwhile, rather the opposite happened. Litka's death, which had broken in him trust in the sense and moral object of life, undermined in him also that first, former love for Marynia, which was so naïve and free of doubt; now, when with Marynia, he was standing at Litka's grave, when that death, which had begun to be only a memory, had become again a thing almost tangible, its poisoning effect was increasing anew. Again it seemed to him that all life, consequently love, too, is merely an error, and the processes of life utterly useless and vain. If above life there is neither reason nor mercy, why toil, why love and marry? Is it to have children, become attached to them with every drop of one's blood, and then look on helplessly, while that blind, stupid, insulting, brutal force chokes them, as a wolf chokes a lamb, and come to their graves, and think that they are mouldering in damp and darkness? See, Litka is down there. A day wonderfully gloomy only strengthened the bitterness of these feelings. At times, during his previous visits, the cemetery had seemed to Pan Stanislav a kind of great void in which life was dissolving, but in which every misfortune, too, was dissolving,--something enormously dreamy, soothing. To-day there was no rest in it. Pieces of snow fell from the trees and gravestones; ravens pushed about among the wet trees with their croaking. Sudden and strong blasts of wind hurled drops of moisture from the branches, and, driving them about, produced a certain desperate struggle around the stone crosses, which stood firm and indifferent. Just then Marynia ceased praying, and said, with that slightly suppressed voice with which people speak in cemeteries,-- "Now her soul must be near us." Pan Stanislav made no answer; but he thought first that he and Marynia were beings as if from two distinct worlds, and then that if there were even a particle of truth in what she said, all his mental struggles would be less important than that melting snow. "In such case," said he to himself, "there is dying and there are cemeteries, but there is simply no death." Marynia began to place on the grave immortelles, which she had bought at the gate, and he to think hurriedly, rather by the aid of his impressions than his ideas, "In my world there is no answer to anything; there are only vicious circles, which lead to the precipice." And this struck him,--that if such ideas of death as Marynia had, did not come from faith, or if they had been unknown altogether, and if all at once some philosopher had formulated them as a hypothesis, the hypothesis would be recognized as the most genial of the genial, because it explains everything, gives an answer to questions, gives light, not only to life, but to death, which is darkness. Mankind would kneel with admiration before such a philosopher and such a scientific theory. On the other hand, he felt that still something of Litka was there with them. She herself was falling into dust, but something had survived her; there remained, as it were, currents of her thought, of her will, of her feeling. This,--that she had brought him to Marynia; that they were betrothed; that they were then standing at her grave; that they were to be united; that their lives would go on together; that they would have children, who in their turn would live and love and increase,--what was that, if not such a current, which, coming forth from that child, might go on and on through eternity, renewing itself in an endless chain of phenomena? How then understand that from a mortal being should issue an immortal and ceaseless energy? Marynia, in the simplicity of her faith, had found an answer; Pan Stanislav had not. And still Marynia was right. Litka was with them. Through Pan Stanislav's head there flew at that moment a certain hypothesis, dim, and not fixed in close thought yet,--a hypothesis, that, perhaps, all which man thinks during life, all that he wishes, all that he loves, is a hundred times more intangible, a hundred times more subtile, than ether, from which rises an astral existence, conscious of itself, either eternal or successively born into beings more and more perfect, more subtile, on to infinity. And it seemed to him that atoms of thought and feeling might collect into a separate individuality, specially because they came forth from one brain or one heart; that they are related,--hence tend to one another with the same mysterious principle by which physical elements combine to form physical individualities. At present he had not time to meditate over this, but it seemed to him that he had caught something, that in the veil before his eyes, he saw, as it were, an opening that might turn out to be a deception; but at the moment, when he felt that still Litka was with them, he thought that her presence could be understood only in that manner. Just then some funeral came, for, in the tower, which stood in the middle of the cemetery, the bell began to sound. Pan Stanislav gave Marynia his arm, and they went towards the gate. On the way Marynia, thinking evidently more about Litka, said,-- "Now I am certain that we shall be happy." And she leaned more on Pan Stanislav's arm, for the gusts of wind had become so violent that it was difficult for her to resist them. One of these carried her veil around his neck. Reality began to call to him. He pressed the arm of the living woman to his side, and felt that loving, if it cannot ward away death, can at least harmonize life. When they were seated in the carriage, he took Marynia's hand, and did not let it go during the whole way. At moments solace returned to him almost perfectly, for he thought that that maiden, true and kind to the core of her nature, would be able to make good what was lacking in his feeling, and revivify in him that which was palsied. "My wife! my wife!" repeated he, in mind, looking at her; and her honest, clear eyes answered, "Thine." When they arrived at the house, Plavitski had not returned from his walk before dinner; they were all by themselves then. Pan Stanislav sat down by her side, and under the influence of those thoughts which had passed through his head on the way, he said,-- "You declared that Litka was with us; that is true. I have always returned from the cemetery as if cut down; but it is well that we were there." "It is; for we went as if for a blessing," said Marynia. "I have that same impression; and, besides, it seems to me as if we were united already, or, at least, were nearer than before." "True; and this will be both a sad and a pleasant remembrance." He took her hand again, and said,-- "If you believe that we shall be happy, why defer happiness? My kind, my best, I, too, trust that it will be well with us; let us not defer the day. We have to begin a new life; let us begin it promptly." "Make the decision. I am yours with all my soul." Then he drew her toward him, as he had the day before, and began to seek her lips with his lips; and she, whether under the influence of the thought that his rights were greater on that day, or under the influence of awakening thoughts, did not turn her head away any more, but, half closing her eyes, she herself gave him her lips, as if they had been thirsty a long time. CHAPTER XXVII. For Pan Stanislav began now the period of ante-nuptial cares and preparations. He had, it is true, a dwelling furnished for more than a year,--that is, from a period before he knew Marynia. At that time he made no denial when Bukatski laughed at the lodgings, seeing in them a proof of how anxious his friend was to marry. "Yes," said he; "I have property enough to permit this. I think, too, that I am doing something toward it, and that my plans are growing real." Bukatski said this was prevision worthy of praise, and wondered that a man of such foresight did not engage also a nurse and a midwife. At times conversation of this kind ended in a quarrel, for Pan Stanislav could not let any one deny him sound judgment in worldly matters. Bukatski affirmed that it was bird romance, worthy of a bunting, to start with building a poetic nest. One friend contended that there could be no wiser method than to build a cage, if you want a bird; the other retorted that if the bird were not found yet, and the chase was uncertain, the cage was a joke on one's appetite. It ended with allusions to the slim legs of Bukatski, which, for him, made the chase after birds of all kinds impossible, even though they were wingless. Bukatski, on such occasions, fell into excellent humor. Now, however, when the cage was ready, and the bird not only caught, but willing, there remained so much to be done that Pan Stanislav was seized more than once by surprise that an act so simple by nature as marriage, should be so complex in civilized societies. It seemed to him that if no one has the right to look into the moral side of the connection, since it is the outcome of genuine free-will, the formal side should be looked at still less. But he thought so because he was not a law-giver, and was an impulsive man made impatient by the need of getting "papers." Once he had resolved on marriage, he ceased to think or to analyze, and hastened, as a man of action, to execute. He was even filled more than once with pride, on comparing himself with such a man, for instance, as Ploshovski, whose history had been circling from mouth to mouth in society, before people had begun to learn it from his diary. "But I am of different metal," thought Pan Stanislav, with a certain satisfaction. At moments, again, when he recalled Ploshovski's figure, his noble, delicate, and also firmly defined profile, his refinement, subtlety, and mental suppleness, his rare gift of winning people, especially women, it occurred to him that he, Polanyetski, is a less refined type, less noble, and, in general, a man cut from ruder materials. But to this he answered that evidently, in the face of conditions in life and the resistance required by it, too much refinement is simply fatal to mind as well as body. In himself he saw also far more ability for living. "Finally," said he, "I can be of some service, while he would have been good only on social shelves with curiosities. I am able to win bread; he was able only to make pellets out of bread when baked. I know how, and I know well how, to color cotton; he only knew how to color women's cheeks. But what a difference between us with reference to women! That man over-analyzed his life and the life of the woman whom he loved; he destroyed her and himself by not being able to escape from the doubt whether he loved her sufficiently. I, too, have doubts whether my love is perfect; but I take my little woman, and should be an imbecile, not a man, to fear the future, and fail to squeeze from it in simple fashion what good and happiness it will let me squeeze." Here Pan Stanislav, though he had forsworn analysis, began to analyze, not himself, it is true, but Marynia. He permitted this, however, only because he foresaw certainly favorable conclusions; he understood that, in calculating the future of two people, good-will on one side is not sufficient, and becomes nothing, if good-will fails on the other. But he was convinced that in taking Marynia he was not taking a dead heart. Marynia had brought to the world not only an honest nature, but from years of childhood she had been in contact with work and with conditions in which she was forced to forget herself, so as to think of others. Besides, there was above her the memory of a mother, a kind of endless blessing from beyond the grave,--a mother whose calmness, candor, and uprightness, whose life, full of trials, were remembered to the present with the utmost respect, throughout the whole region of Kremen. Pan Stanislav knew this, and was persuaded that, building on the heart and character of Marynia, he was building on a foundation well-nigh immovable. More than once he recalled the words of a woman, an acquaintance and friend of his mother's, who, when some one asked her whether she was more anxious about the future of her sons than her daughters, answered, "I think only of my sons; for my daughters, in the worst case, can be only unhappy." So it is! School and the world rear sons, and both may make them scoundrels; daughters, in whom the home ingrafts honorableness, can, in the worst case, be only unhappy. Pan Stanislav understood that this was true with regard to Marynia. So that if he analyzed her, his analysis was rather the examination of a jeweller and his admiration for his gems, than a scientific method intended to reach results unknown and unexpected. Still he quarrelled once with Marynia very seriously, because of a letter from Vaskovski, which Pan Stanislav received from Rome a few weeks after the professor's departure, and which he read in its integrity to Marynia. This letter was as follows:-- MY DEAR,--I am lodging at Via Tritone, Pension Française. Visit my Warsaw lodgings; see if Snopchinski looks after my little boys properly, and if the birds of Saint Francis have seeds and water in plenty. When spring comes, it will be needful to open the windows and cages; whichever bird wishes to stay, let it stay, and whichever one wishes to go, let it fly. The boys of the genus _homo sapiens_ should have good food, since I left money therefor, and besides little moralizing, but much love. Snopchinski is a worthy man, but a hypochondriac. He says this comes from snows. When he is attacked by what he calls "chandra," he looks for whole weeks on his boots, and is silent; but one must talk with little boys, to give them confidence. This is all that touches Warsaw. I am printing here in French, in the typography of the journal "L'Italie," that work of mine which I discussed with thee. They laugh at my French a little, and at me, but I am used to that. Bukatski came here. He is a good, beloved fellow! he has grown strange to the last degree, and says that he drags his feet after him, though I have not noticed it. He loves both Marynia and thee, and indeed every one, though he denies it. But when he begins to talk, one's ears wither. May the Lord God bless thee, dear boy, and thy honest Marynia! I should like to be at thy wedding, but I know not whether I shall finish my work before Easter; listen, therefore, now to what I tell thee, and know that I write this letter to that end. Do not think that the old man is talking just to talk. Thou knowest, besides, that I have been a teacher; that the inheritance from my brother freed me from that occupation; that I have had experience and have seen things. If ye have children, do not torture them with knowledge; let them grow up as God wills. I might stop here; but thou art fond of figures, hence I will give thee figures. A little child has as many hours of labor as a grown man in office, with this difference, that the man talks during office hours with his colleagues, or smokes cigarettes; the child must strain its attention continually, or lose the clew of lessons, and cease to understand what is said to it. The man goes home when his work is done; the child must prepare for the following day, which takes four hours from a capable child, from one less capable six. Add to this, that poorer pupils give lessons frequently, the rich take them, which, added, gives twelve hours. Twelve hours' labor for a child! Dost understand that, my dear? Canst thou realize what sickly natures must grow up in such conditions,--natures out of joint, inclined to the wildest manias, crooked, wilful? Dost thou understand how we are filling cemeteries with our children, and why the most monstrous ideas find supporters? Ah, at present they are limiting the hours of labor in factories even for grown people, but touching children at school philanthropy is silent. Oh, but that is a field! that is a service to be rendered; that is a coming glory and sainthood. Do not torture thy children with learning, I beg thee--and I beg Marynia; promise me both of you. I do not speak just to speak, as Bukatski says sometimes, but I speak from the heart; and this is the greatest reform for which future ages are waiting, the greatest after the introduction of Christ into history. Something wonderful happened to me in Perugia a few days since, but of that I will tell thee sometime, and now I embrace both of you. Marynia listened to this letter, looking at the tips of her shoes, like that Snopchinski of whom the Professor wrote. But Pan Stanislav laughed, and said,-- "Have you ever heard anything like this? It is long before our marriage; but he is lamenting over our children, and takes the field on their behalf. This is somewhat the history of my nest." After a while he added, "To tell the truth, the fault is mine; for I made him various promises." And, inclining so that he could see Marynia's eyes, he asked, "But what do you say to this letter?" Pan Stanislav, inquiring thus, had chanced on that unhappy moment when a man is not himself, and acts not in accordance with his own nature. He was rather a harsh person generally, but not brutal, and at times was even capable of delicate acts, really womanlike. But now, in his look and in the question directed to a young lady so mimosa-like as Marynia, there was something simply brutal. She knew as well as others that after marriage come children; but this seemed to her something indefinite, not to be mentioned, or if mentioned, mentioned in allusions as delicate as lace, or in a moment of emotion, with beating heart, with loving lips at the ear, with solemnity,--as touching what is most sacred in a mutual future. Hence Pan Stanislav's careless tone outraged and pained her. She thought, "Why does he not understand this?" and she in turn acted not in accordance with her nature; for, as happens frequently with timid persons in moments of bitterness and confusion, they exhibit greater anger than they feel. "You should not treat me in this way!" cried she, indignantly. "You should not speak to me in this way!" Pan Stanislav laughed again with feigned gayety. "Why are you angry?" inquired he. "You do not act with me as is proper." "I do not understand the question." "So much the worse." The smile vanished from his lips; his face grew dark, and he spoke quickly, like a man who has ceased to reckon with his words. "Perhaps I am stupid; but I know what is right and what is not. In this way life becomes impossible. Whoever makes great things out of nothing must not blame others. But, since my presence is disagreeable, I go!" And, seizing his hat, he bowed, and went out. Marynia did not try to detain him. For a while offence and anger stifled in her all other sensations; then there remained to her only an impression, as if from the blow of a club. Her thoughts scattered like a flock of birds. Above them towered only one dim idea: "All is over! he will not return!" Thus fell the structure which had begun to unite in such beautiful lines. Emptiness, nothingness, a torturing, because objectless life, and a chilled heart,--that is what remained to her. And happiness had been so near! But that which had taken place so suddenly was something so strange that she could not explain immediately. She went to the writing-desk, and began mechanically to arrange papers in it, with a certain objectless haste, as if there could be any reason at that moment for arranging them. Then she looked at Litka's photograph, and sat down quickly with her hands on her eyes and temples. After a time it occurred to her that Litka's will must be stronger than the will of them both, and a ray of hope shone in on her suddenly. She began to walk in the room, and to think on what had passed; she recalled Pan Stanislav, not only as he had been just then, but earlier,--two, three days, a week before. Her regret became greater than her feeling of offence, and it increased with her affection for Pan Stanislav. After a time she said in her soul that she was not free to forget herself; that it was her duty to accept and love Pan Stanislav as he was, and not strive to fix him to her ideas. "That is, he is a living man, not a puppet," repeated she, a number of times. And a growing feeling of fault seized her, and after that compunction. A heart submissive by nature, and greatly capable of loving, struggled against sound sense, which she possessed undoubtedly, and which now told her in vain that reason was not on Pan Stanislav's side, and that, moreover, she had said nothing which needed pardon. She said to herself, "If he has a good heart, even to a small extent, he will return;" but she was seized also with fear in view of the self-love of men in general, and of Pan Stanislav in particular,--she was too intelligent not to note that he cared greatly to pass for an unbending person. But considerations of that kind, which an unfriendly heart would have turned to his disadvantage, had made her tender only on his behalf. Half an hour later she was convinced to the depth of her soul that the fault lay only on her side; that "she had tormented him so much already" that she ought to yield now,--that is, to be the first to extend a hand in conciliation. That meant in her mind to write a few peace-making words. He had suffered so much from that affair of Kremen that this was due to him. And she was ready even to weep over his fate. She hoped, withal, that he, the bad, ugly man, would estimate what it cost her to write to him, and would come that same evening. It had seemed to her that nothing was easier than to write a few cordial phrases, which go directly from one heart to another. But how difficult! A letter has no eyes, which fill with tears; no face, which smiles both sadly and sweetly; no voice, which trembles; no hands to stretch forth. You may read and understand a letter as you like; it is merely black letters on paper as impassive as death. Marynia had just torn the third sheet, when the face of Pan Plavitski, as wrinkled as a roast apple, and with mustaches freshly dyed, showed itself at the door partly open. "Is Polanyetski not here?" inquired he. "He is not, papa." "But will he come this evening?" "I do not know," answered she, with a sigh. "If he comes, my child, tell him that I will return not later than an hour from now; and that I wish to speak with him." "And I too wish to speak with him," thought Marynia. And when she had torn the third sheet she took the fourth and was thinking whether to turn the whole quarrel into a jest, or simply to beg his pardon. The jest might not please him; in the pardon there was something warmer, but how difficult it was! If he had not fled, it would have sufficed to extend her hand; but he flew out as if shot from a sling, the irritable man, though so much loved. And, raising her eyes, she began to work intently with her dark head, when on a sudden the bell sounded in the entrance. Marynia's heart was beating like a hammer; and through her head flew these questions, like lightning,-- "Is it he? Is it not he?" The door opened; it was he. He came in with the look of a wolf, his head down, his face gloomy. Evidently he was very uncertain how she would receive him; but she sprang up, her heart beating like a bird's heart; her eyes radiant, happy, touched greatly by his return; and, running to him, she laid her hands on his shoulders. "But how good! how nice! And do you know, I wanted to write to you." Pan Stanislav, pressing her hands to his lips, was silent for some time; at last he said,-- "You ought to give the order to throw me downstairs." In a rapture of thankfulness he drew her up to him, kissed her lips, eyes, temples, and hair, which became unbound in the pressure. In such moments it seemed to him always that he would find everything that goes to make great and perfect love. At last he released her and continued,-- "You are too good. Though that is better, it subdues me. I came to beg your forgiveness, nothing more. I regained my senses at once. I reproached myself for my last words, and I cannot tell you how sorry I was. I walked along the street, thinking to see you in the window, perhaps, and note from your face whether I might come in. After that I could not restrain myself, and returned." "I beg pardon; it was my fault. You see the torn paper; I wrote and wrote." He devoured with his eyes her hair, which she had arranged hastily. With blushing face, from which joy was beaming, with eyes laughing from happiness, she seemed to him more beautiful than ever, and desired as never before. Marynia noticed, too, that he was looking at her hair; and confusion struggled with pure womanly coquetry. She had fastened it awkwardly by design, so that the tresses were falling more and more on her shoulders; while she said,-- "Do not look, or I'll go to my room." "But that is my wealth," said Pan Stanislav; "and in my life I have never seen anything like it." He stretched his hands to her again, but she evaded. "Not permitted, not permitted," said she; "as it is; I am ashamed. I ought to have left you." Her hair, however, came gradually to order; then both sat down and conversed quietly, though looking into each other's eyes. "And you wished really to write?" asked Pan Stanislav. "You see the torn paper." "I say that, in truth, you are too good." She raised her eyes, and, looking at the shelf above the bureau, said,-- "Because the fault was mine. Yes; only mine." And, judging that she could not be too magnanimous, she added after a moment, blushing to her ears and dropping her eyes,-- "For, after all, the professor is correct in what he writes about learning." Pan Stanislav wanted to kneel down and kiss her feet. Her charm and goodness not only disarmed him, but conquered him thoroughly. "That I am annihilated is true," cried he, as if finishing some unexpressed thought with words. "You conquer me utterly." She began to shake her head joyously. "Ei! I don't know; I am such a coward." "You a coward? I will tell you an anecdote: In Belgium I knew two young ladies named Wauters, who had a pet cat, a mild creature, mild enough, it would seem, to be put to a wound. Afterward one of the young ladies received a tame hare as a gift. What do you think? The cat was so afraid that from terror he jumped on to every shelf and stove. One day the ladies went to walk; all at once they remembered that the cat was alone with the hare. 'But will not Matou hurt the hare?' 'Matou? Matou is so terrified that he is ready to go out of his skin!' And they walked on quietly. They came home an hour later. And guess what had happened? They found only the ears of the hare. That is precisely the relation of young ladies to us. They are afraid seemingly; but afterward nothing is left of us but ears." And Pan Stanislav began to laugh, and Marynia with him; after a while he added,-- "I know that of me only ears will be left." He did not tell the truth, however; for he felt that it would be otherwise. Marynia too, after thinking a while, said,-- "No; I have not such a character." "That is better too; for I will tell you sincerely what conclusions I have drawn from my life observations: the greater egotism always conquers the less." "Or the greater love yields to the less," answered Marynia. "That comes out the same. As to me, I confess that I should like to hold some Herod, see, this way, in my hand" (here Pan Stanislav opened his fingers and then closed them into a fist); "but with such a dove as you, it is quite different. With you I think we shall have to fight to restrain you from too much self-abnegation, too much personal sacrifice. Such is your nature, and I know whom I take. For that matter all say so, and even Mashko, who is no Solomon, said: 'She may be unhappy with thee; thou with her, never.' And he is right. But I am curious to know how Mashko will be for his wife. He has a firm hand." "But is he loved much?" "Not so much as awhile ago, when a certain young lady coquetted with him." "Yes; for he wasn't so wicked as a certain 'Pan Stas.'" "That will be a wonderful marriage. She is not ill-looking, though she is pale, and has red eyes. But Mashko marries for property. He admits that she doesn't love him; and when that adventure with Gantovski took place (he is brave, too), he was certain that those ladies would choose the opportunity to break with him. Meanwhile it turned out just the opposite; and imagine, Mashko is now alarmed again, because everything moves as if on oil. It seems to him suspicious. There are certain strange things there; there exists also, as it seems, a Pan Kraslavski--God knows what there is not. The whole affair is stupid. There will be no happiness in it,--at least, not such as I picture to myself." "And what do you picture to yourself?" "Happiness in this,--to marry a reliable woman, like you, and see the future clearly." "But I think it is in this,--to be loved; but that is not enough yet." "What more?" "To be worthy of that love, and to--" Here Marynia was unable for a time to find words, but at last she said,-- "And to believe in a husband, and work with him." CHAPTER XXVIII. Pan Stanislav was not mistaken. Everything went so favorably for Mashko, Pani and Panna Kraslavski acted so admirably, that he was more and more alarmed. At moments he laughed at this; and since he had had no secret from Pan Stanislav for some time, he said one day, with complete cynicism,-- "My dear, those are simply angels; but my hair stands on end, for something is hidden in this." "Better thank the Lord God." "They are too ideal; they are faultless; they are even without vanity. Yesterday, for example, I gave them to understand that I am an advocate only because to my thinking sons of the best families should undertake something in these times, be something. Guess what they answered? That that is as good a position as any other; that every employment is worthy in their eyes, provided it is work; and that only poor and empty natures could be ashamed of work. They shot out so many packages of commonplace that I wanted to answer with a sentence from copy-books, such as 'Honor is a steep cliff,' or something of that sort. Polanyetski, I tell thee there is something concealed there. I thought that it was papa, but it is not papa. I have news of him: he lives in Bordeaux; he calls himself De Langlais; and he has his own domestic hearth, not so much legally, as numerously, surrounded, which he maintains with a pension received from Pani Kraslavski." "What harm is that to thee?" "None whatever." "If it is that way, they are unhappy women,--that is all." "True; but if their income answers to the misfortune? Remember that I have burdens. Besides, seest thou, if they are such women as they pretend, and if, also, they are rich, I am ready to fall in love really, and that would be stupid; if it appears that they have nothing, or little, I am ready, also, to fall in love, and that would be still more stupid. She has charms for me." "No; that would be the one wise thing in every case. But think of thyself, Mashko, a little of me and the Plavitskis. It is known to thee that I have not the habit of being mild in those matters, and the dates of payment are approaching." "I'll fire up the boiler once more with credit. For that matter, thou and they have a mortgage on Kremen. In a couple of days there will be a betrothal party at Pani Kraslavski's, after which I hope to learn something reliable." Here Mashko began a monologue,-- "But that a positive man, such as I am, should go into a forest in this way, passes belief. On the other hand, there is not a man, even among those who know best how every one stands, who would let himself doubt of Pani Kraslavski's property. And they are so noble!" "Thy fears are probably baseless," interrupted Pan Stanislav, with certain impatience. "But thou, my dear fellow, art not positive in any sense, for thou hast been always pretending, and art pretending still, instead of looking to that which gives thee bread." A few days later the betrothal party took place in fact. Marynia was there; for Pani Kraslavski, who liked Plavitski, whose relatives were known to her, did not avoid association with him as she did with the Bigiels. Mashko brought such of his acquaintances as had well-known names. They had monocles on their eyes, and their hair parted in the middle; for the greater part very young, and mainly not very quick-witted. Among them were the five brothers Vyj, who were called Mizio, Kizio, Bizio, Brelochek, and Tatus. They were nicknamed the five sleeping brothers, since they felt the impulses of life in their legs exclusively, and were active only in the carnival, but became perfectly torpid, at least in a mental sense, during Lent. Bukatski loved them, and amused himself with them. Baron Kot was there, who, because he had heard something from some one of a certain ancient Kot of Dembna, added always, when he was presented, "of Dembna," and who always answered everything that was said to him with: "_Quelle drôle d'histoire!_" Mashko was on the footing of _thou_ with all these, though he treated them with a certain species of disregard, as well as Kopovski,--a young man with a splendid ideal head, and also splendid eyes without thought. Pan Stanislav and Kresovski represented the category of Mashko's more clever friends. Pani Kraslavski had invited a number of ladies with daughters, among whom the five brothers circled carelessly and coolly, and whose maiden hearts fluttered at the approach of Kopovski, caring less for his mental resemblance to Hamlet, resting on this,--that if not he, his brain might be put into "a nutshell." A number of dignified bald heads completed the company. Panna Kraslavski was dressed in white; in spite of her red eyes, she looked alluring. There was in her, indeed, a certain womanly charm, resting on a wonderful, almost dreamy repose. She recalled somewhat the figures of Perugini. At times she grew bright, like an alabaster lamp, in which a flame flashes up on a sudden; after a while she paled again, but paled not without charm. Dressed in a thin white robe, she seemed more shapely than usual. Pan Stanislav, looking at her, thought that she might have a heart which was dry enough, and a dry enough head, but she could be a genteel wife, especially for Mashko, who valued social gentility above everything else. Their manner toward each other seemed like a cool and pale day, in which the sun does not burn, but in which also a storm is not threatening. They were sitting at the end of the drawing-room, not too near, but also not too far, from the rest of the company; they occupied themselves with each other no more and no less than was proper. In his conversation with her as much feeling was evident as was required, but, above all, the wish to appear a "correct" betrothed; she paid him on her part in the same coin. They smiled at each other in a friendly way. He, as the future leader and head of the house, spoke more than she; sometimes they looked into each other's eyes,--in a word, they formed the most correct and exemplary couple of betrothed people that could be imagined, in the society sense of the term. "I should not have held out," said Pan Stanislav to himself. Suddenly he remembered that while she was sitting there in conventional repose, white, smiling, the poor little doctor, who could not "tear his soul from her," was in equal repose somewhere between the tropics turning to dust, under the ground, forgotten, as if he had never existed; and anger bore him away. Not only did he feel contempt for the heart of Mashko's betrothed, but that repose of hers seemed now bad taste to him,--a species of spiritual deadness, which once had been fashionable, and which, since they saw in it something demonic, the poets had struck with their thunderbolts, and which, in time, had grown vulgar, and dropped to be moral nonentity and folly. "First of all, she is a goose, and, moreover, a goose with no heart," thought Pan Stanislav. At that moment Mashko's alarm at the noble conduct of those ladies grew clear to him to such a degree that Mashko rose in his esteem as a man of acuteness. Then he fell to comparing his own betrothed with Panna Kraslavski, and said to himself with great satisfaction, "Marynia is a different species altogether." He felt that he was resting mentally while looking at her. In so much as the other seemed, as it were, an artificial plant, reared, not in broad fresh currents of air, but under glass, in that much did there issue from this one life and warmth, and still the comparison came out to the advantage of Marynia, even in respect to society. Pan Stanislav did not overlook altogether "distinction," so-called, understanding that, if not always, it frequently answers to a certain mental finish, especially in women. Looking now at one, now at the other, he came to the conviction that that finish which Panna Kraslavski had was something acquired and enslaving, with Marynia it was innate. In the one it was a garment thrown on outside; in the other, the soul,--a kind of natural trait in a species ennobled through long ages of culture. Taking from Bukatski's views as many as he needed,--that is, as many as were to the point,--Pan Stanislav remembered that he had said frequently that women, without reference to their origin, are divided into patricians, who have culture, principles, and spiritual needs, which have entered the blood, and parvenues, who dress in them, as in mantillas, to go visiting. At present, while looking at the noble profile of Marynia, Pan Stanislav thought, with the vanity of a little townsman who is marrying a princess, that he was taking a patrician in the high sense of the word; and, besides, a very beautiful patrician. Frequently women need only some field, and a little luck, to bloom forth. Marynia, who seemed almost ugly to Pan Stanislav when he was returning from the burial of Litka, astonished him now, at times, with her beauty. Near her Panna Kraslavski seemed like a faded robe near a new one; and if the fortune of Panna Plavitski had been on a level with her looks, she would have passed, beyond doubt, for a beauty. As it was, the five brothers, putting their glasses on their equine noses, looked at her with a certain admiration; and Baron Kot, of Dembna, declared confidentially that her betrothal was real luck, for had it not taken place, who knows but he might have rushed in. Pan Stanislav could note also that evening one trait of his own character which he had not suspected,--jealousy. Since he was convinced that Marynia was a perfectly reliable woman, who might be trusted blindly, that jealousy was simply illogical. In his time he had been jealous of Mashko, and that could be understood; but now he could not explain why Kopovski, for example, with his head of an archangel and his brains of a bird, could annoy him, just because he sat next to Marynia, and doubtless was asking her more or less pertinent questions, to which she was answering more or less agreeably. At first he reproached himself. "Still, it would be difficult to ask her not to speak to him!" Afterward he found that Marynia turned to Kopovski too frequently, and answered too agreeably. At supper, while sitting next her, he was silent and irritated; and when she asked the reason, he answered most inappropriately,-- "I have no wish to spoil the impression which Pan Kopovski produced on you." But she was pleased that he was jealous; contracting the corners of her mouth to suppress laughter, and looking at him sedately, she answered,-- "Do you find, too, that there is something uncommon in Pan Kopovski?" "Of course, of course! When he walks the streets even, it seems that he is carrying his head into fresh air, lest the moths might devour it." The corners of Marynia's mouth bore the test, but her eyes laughed evidently; at last, unable to endure, she said, in a low voice,-- "Outrageously jealous!" "I? Not the least!" "Well, I will give you an extract from our conversation. You know that yesterday there was a case of catalepsy during the concert; to-day they were talking of that near us; then, among other things, I asked Pan Kopovski if he had seen the cataleptic person. Do you know what he answered? 'Each of us may have different convictions.' Well, now, isn't he uncommon?" Pan Stanislav was pacified, and began to laugh. "But I tell you that he simply doesn't understand what is said to him, and answers anything." They passed the rest of the evening with each other in good agreement. At the time of parting, when the Plavitskis, having a carriage with seats for only two persons, were unable to take Pan Stanislav, Marynia turned to him and inquired,-- "Will the cross, whimsical man come to-morrow to dine with us?" "He will, for he loves," answered Pan Stanislav, covering her feet with the robe. She whispered into his ear, as it were great news, "And I too." And although he at the moment of speaking was perfectly sincere, she spoke more truth. Mashko conducted Pan Stanislav home. On the road they talked of the reception. Mashko said that before the arrival of guests he had tried to speak to Pani Kraslavski of business, but had not succeeded. "There was a moment," said he, "when I thought to put the question plainly, dressing it of course in the most delicate form. But I was afraid. Finally, why have I doubts of the dower of my betrothed? Only because those ladies treat me with more consideration than I expected. As a humor, that is very good; but I fear to push matters too far, for suppose that my fears turn out vain, suppose they have money really, and are incensed because my curiosity is too selfish. It is necessary to count with this also, for I may be wrecked at the harbor." "Well, then," answered Pan Stanislav, "admit this, and for that matter it is likely that they have; but if it should turn out that they have not, what then? Hast a plan ready? Wilt thou break with Panna Kraslavski, or wilt thou marry her?" "I will not break with her in any case, for I should not gain by it. If my marriage does not take place, I shall be a bankrupt. But if it does, I will state my financial position precisely, and suppose that Panna Kraslavski will break with me." "But if she does not, and has no money?" "I shall love her, and come to terms with my creditors. I shall cease to 'pretend,' as thy phrase is, and try to win bread for us both; I am not a bad advocate, as thou knowest." "That is fairly good," answered Pan Stanislav, "but that does not pacify me touching the Plavitskis and myself." "Thou and they are in a better position than others, for ye have a lien on Kremen. In a given case thou wilt take everything in thy firm grasp, and squeeze out something. It is worse for those who have trusted my word; and I tell thee to thy eyes that I am concerned more for them. I had, and I have great credit even now. That is my tender point. But if they give me time, I will come out somehow. If I had a little happiness at home, and a motive there for labor--" They came now to Pan Stanislav's house, so Mashko did not finish his thought. At the moment of parting, however, he said suddenly,-- "Listen to me. In thy eyes I am somewhat crooked; I am much less so than seems to thee. I have _pretended_, as thou sayst, it is true! I had to wriggle out, like an eel, and in those wrigglings I slipped sometimes from the beaten road. But I am tired, and tell thee plainly that I wish a little happiness, for I have not had it. Therefore I wanted to marry thy betrothed, though she is without property. As to Panna Kraslavski, dost thou know that there are moments when I should prefer that she had nothing, but, to make up, that she would not drop me when she knows that I too have nothing. I say this sincerely--and now good-night." "Well," said Pan Stanislav to himself, "this is something new in Mashko." And he entered the gate. Standing at the door, he was astonished to hear the piano in his apartments. The servant said that Bigiel had been waiting two hours for him. Pan Stanislav was alarmed, but thought that if something unfavorable had caused his presence, he would not play on the piano. In fact, it turned out that Bigiel was in haste merely to get Pan Stanislav's signature for an affair which had to be finished early next morning. "Thou mightest have left the paper, and gone to bed," said Pan Stanislav. "I slept awhile on thy sofa, then sat at the piano. Once I played on the piano as well as on the violin, but now my fingers are clumsy. Thy Marynia plays probably; such music in the house is a nice thing." Pan Stanislav laughed with a sincere, well-wishing laugh. "My Marynia? My Marynia possesses the evangelical talent: her left hand does not know what her right hand is doing. Poor dear woman! She has no pretensions; and she plays only when I beg her to do so." "Thou art as it were laughing at her," said Bigiel; "but only those who are in love laugh in that way." "Because I am in love most completely. At least it seems so now to me; and in general I must say that it seems so to me oftener and oftener. Wilt thou have tea?" "Yes. Thou hast come from Pani Kraslavski's?" "I have." "How is Mashko? Will he struggle to shore?" "I parted with him a moment ago. He came with me to the gate. He says things at times that I should not expect from him." Pan Stanislav, glad to have some one to talk with, and feeling the need of intimate converse, began to tell what he had heard from Mashko; and how much he was astonished at finding a man of romantic nature under the skin of a person of his kind. "Mashko is not a bad man," said Bigiel. "He is only on the road to various evasions; and the cause of that is his vanity and respect for appearances. But, on the other hand, that respect for appearances saves him from final fall. As to the man of romance, which thou hast found in him--" Here Bigiel cut off the end of a cigar, lighted it with great deliberation, wrinkling his brows at the same time, and, sitting down comfortably, continued,-- "Bukatski would have given on that subject ten ironical paradoxes about our society. Now something stuck in my head that he told me, when he attacked us because always we love some one or something. It seems to him that this is foolish and purposeless; but I see in this a great trait. It is necessary to become something in the world; and what have we? Money we have not; intellect, so-so; the gift of making our way in a position, not greatly; management, little. We have in truth this yet--that almost involuntarily, through some general disposition, we love something or somebody; and if we do not love, we feel the need of love. Thou knowest that I am a man of deliberation and a merchant, hence I speak soberly. I call attention to this because of Bukatski. Mashko, for instance, in some other country, would be a rogue from under a dark star; and I know many such. But here even beneath the trickster thou canst scratch to the man; and that is simple, for, in the last instance, while a man has some spark in his breast yet, he is not a beast utterly; and with us he has the spark, precisely for this reason, that he loves something." "Thou bringest Vaskovski to my mind. What thou art saying is not far from his views concerning the mission of the youngest of the Aryans." "What is Vaskovski to me? I say what I think. I know one thing: take that from us, and we should fly apart, like a barrel without hoops." "Well, listen to what I will tell thee. This is a thing decided in my mind rather long since. To love, or not to love some one, is a personal question; but I understand that it is needful to love something in life. I too have meditated over this. After the death of that child, I felt that the devil had taken certain sides of me; sometimes I feel that yet. Not to-day; but there are times--how can I tell thee?--times of ebb, exhaustion, doubts. And if, in spite of this, I marry, it is because I understand that it is necessary to have a living and strong foundation under a more general love." "For that, and not for that," answered Bigiel the inexorable in judgment, "for thou are marrying not at all from purely mental reasons. Thou art taking a comely and honest young woman, to whom thou art attracted; and do not persuade thyself that it is otherwise, or thou wilt begin to pretend. My dear friend, every man has these doubts before marrying. I, as thou seest, am no philosopher; but ten times a day I asked myself before marriage, if I loved my future wife well enough, if I loved her as was necessary, had I not too little soul in the matter, and too many doubts? God knows what! Afterward I married a good woman, and it was well for us. It will be well for you too, if ye take things simply; but that endless searching in the mind and looking for certain secrets of the heart is folly, God knows." "Maybe it is folly. I too have no great love for lying on my back and analyzing from morn in till night; but I cannot help seeing facts." "What facts?" "Such facts, for example, as this, that my feeling is not what it was at first. I think that it will be; I acknowledge that it is going to that. I marry in spite of these observations, as if they did not exist; but I make them." "Thou art free to do so." "And see what I think besides: still it is necessary that the windows of a house should look out on the sun; otherwise it will be cold in the dwelling." "Thou hast said well," answered Bigiel. CHAPTER XXIX. Meanwhile winter began to break; the end of Lent was approaching, and with it the time of marriage for Pan Stanislav, as well as Mashko. Bukatski, invited as a groomsman to the former, wrote to him among other things as follows,-- "To thrust forth the all-creative energy from its universal condition,--that is, from a condition of perfect repose,--and force it by means of marriages concluded on earth to incarnate itself in more or less squalling particulars which require cradles and which amuse themselves by holding the great toe in the mouth, is a crime. Still I will come, because stoves are better with you than in this place." In fact, he came a week before the holidays, and brought as a gift to Pan Stanislav a sheet of parchment ornamented splendidly with something in the style of a grave hour-glass, on which was the inscription, "Stanislav Polanyetski, after a long and grievous bachelorhood." Pan Stanislav, whom the parchment pleased, took it next day about noon to Marynia. He forgot, however, that it was Sunday, and felt, as it were, disappointed, at finding Marynia with her hat on. "Are you going out?" inquired he. "Yes. To church. To-day is Sunday." "Ah, Sunday! True. But I thought that we should sit here together. It would be so agreeable." She raised her calm blue eyes to him, and said with simplicity, "But the service of God?" Pan Stanislav received these words at once as he would have received any other, not foreseeing that, in the spiritual process which he was to pass through later on, they would play a certain rôle by reason of their directness, and said as if repeating mechanically,-- "You say the service of God. Very well! I have time; let us go together." Marynia received this offer with great satisfaction. "I am the happier," said she, on the way, "the more I love God." "That, too, is the mark of a good nature; some persons think of God only as a terror." And in the church that came again to his mind of which he had thought during his first visit to Kremen, when he was at the church in Vantory, with old Plavitski: "Destruction takes all philosophies and systems, one after another; but Mass is celebrated as of old." It seemed to him that in that there was something which passed comprehension. He who, because of Litka, had come in contact with death in a manner most painful, returned to those dark problems whenever he happened to be in a cemetery, or a church at Mass, or in any circumstances whatever in which something took place which had no connection with the current business of life, but was shrouded in that future beyond the grave. He was struck by this thought,--how much is done in this life for that future; and how, in spite of all philosophizing and doubt, people live as if that future were entirely beyond question; how much of petty personal egotisms are sacrificed for it; how many philanthropic deeds are performed; how asylums, hospitals, retreats, churches are built, and all on an account payable beyond the grave only. He was struck still more by another thought,--that to be reconciled with life really, it is necessary to be reconciled with death first; and that without faith in something beyond the grave this reconciliation is simply impossible. But if you have faith the question drops away, as if it had never existed. "Let the devils take mourning; let us rejoice;" for if this is true, what more can be desired? Is there before one merely the view of some new existence, in the poorest case, wonderfully curious,--even that certainty amounts to peace and quiet. Pan Stanislav had an example of that, then, in Marynia. Because she was somewhat short-sighted, she held her head bent over the book; but when at moments she raised it, he saw a face so calm, so full of something like that repose which a flower has, and so serene, that it was simply angelic. "That is a happy woman, and she will be happy always," said he to himself. "And, besides, she has sense, for if, on the opposite side, there were at least certainty, there would be also that satisfaction which truth gives; but to torture one's self for the sake of various marks of interrogation is pure folly." On the way home, Pan Stanislav, thinking continually of this expression of Marynia's, said,-- "In the church you looked like some profile of Fra Angelico; you had a face which was indeed happy." "For I am happy at present. And do you know why? Because I am better than I was. I felt at one time offended in heart, and I was dissatisfied; I had no hope before me, and all these put together formed such suffering that it was terrible. It is said that misfortune ennobles chosen souls, but I am not a chosen soul. For that matter, misfortune may ennoble, but suffering, offence, ill-will, destroy. They are like poison." "Did you hate me much then?" Marynia looked at him and answered, "I hated you so much that for whole days I thought of you only." "Mashko has wit; he described this once thus to me: 'She would rather hate you than love me.'" "Oi! that I would rather, is true." Thus conversing, they reached the house. Pan Stanislav had time then to unroll his parchment hour-glass and show it to Marynia; but the idea did not please her. She looked on marriage not only from the point of view of the heart, but of religion. "With such things there is no jesting," said she; and after a while she confessed to Pan Stanislav that she was offended with Bukatski. After dinner Bukatski came. During those few months of his stay in Italy he had become still thinner, which was a proof against the efficacy of "chianti" for catarrh of the stomach. His nose, with its thinness, reminded one of a knife-edge; his humorous face, smiling with irony, had become, as it were, porcelain, and was no larger than the fist of a grown man. He was related both to Pan Stanislav and Marynia; hence he said what he pleased in their presence. From the threshold almost, he declared to them that, in view of the increasing number of mental deviations in the world at present, he could only regret, but did not wonder, that they were affianced. He had come, it is true, in the hope that he would be able to save them, but he saw now that he was late, and that nothing was left but resignation. Marynia was indignant on hearing this; but Pan Stanislav, who loved him, said,-- "Preserve thy conceit for the wedding speech, for thou must make one; and now tell us how our professor is." "He has grown disturbed in mind seriously," replied Bukatski. "Do not jest in that way," said Marynia. "And so much without cause," added Pan Stanislav. But Bukatski continued, with equal seriousness: "Professor Vaskovski is disturbed in mind, and here are my proofs for you: First, he walks through Rome without a cap, or rather, he walked, for he is in Perugia at present; second, he attacked a refined young English lady, and proved to her that the English are Christians in private life only,--that the relations of England to Ireland are not Christian; third, he is printing a pamphlet, in which he shows that the mission of reviving and renewing history with the spirit of Christ is committed to the youngest of the Aryans. Confess that these are proofs." "We knew these ways before his departure; if nothing more threatens the professor, we hope to see him in good health." "He does not think of returning." Pan Stanislav took out his note-book, wrote some words with a pencil, and, giving them to Marynia, said,-- "Read, and tell me if that is good." "If thou write in my presence, I withdraw," said Bukatski. "No, no! this is no secret." Marynia became as red as a cherry from delight, and, as if not wishing to believe her eyes, asked,-- "Is that true? It is not." "That depends on you," answered Pan Stanislav. "Ah, Pan Stas! I did not even dream of that. I must tell papa. I must." And she ran out of the room. "If I were a poet, I would hang myself," said Bukatski. "Why?" "For if a couple of words, jotted down by the hand of a partner in the house of Bigiel and Company, can produce more impression than the most beautiful sonnet, it is better, to be a miller boy than a poet." But Marynia, in the rapture of her joy, forgot the notebook, so Pan Stanislav showed it to Bukatski, saying, "Read." Bukatski read:-- "After the wedding Venice, Florence, Rome, Naples. Is that well?" "Then it's a journey to Italy?" "Yes. Imagine, she has not been abroad in her life; and Italy has always seemed to her an enchanted land, which she has not even dreamed of seeing. That is an immense delight for her; and what the deuce wonder is there, if I think out a little pleasure for her?" "Love and Italy! O God, how many times Thou hast looked on that! All that love is as old as the world." "Not true! Fall in love, and see if thou'lt find something new in it." "My beloved friend, the question is not in this, that I do not love yet, but in this,--that I love no longer. Years ago I dug that sphinx out of the sand, and it is no longer a riddle to me." "Bukatski, get married." "I cannot. My sight is too faint, and my stomach too weak." "What hindrance in that?" "Oh, seest thou, a woman is like a sheet of paper. An angel writes on one side, a devil on the other; the paper is cut through, the words blend, and such a hash is made that I can neither read nor digest it." "To live all thy life on conceits!" "I shall die, as well as thou, who art marrying. It seems to us that we think of death, but it thinks more of us." At that moment Marynia came in with her father, who embraced Pan Stanislav, and said,-- "Marynia tells me that 't is thy wish to go to Italy after the wedding." "If my future lady will consent." "Thy future lady will not only consent," answered Marynia, "but she has lost her head from delight, and wants to jump through the room, as if she were ten years of age." To which Plavitski answered, "If the cross of a solitary old man can be of use in your distant journey, I will bless you." And he raised his eyes and his hand toward heaven, to the unspeakable delight of Bukatski; but Marynia drew down the raised hand, and, kissing it, said with laughter,-- "There will be time for that, papa; we are going away only after the wedding." "And, speaking plainly," added Bukatski, "then there will be a buying of tickets, and giving baggage to be weighed, and starting,--nothing more." To this Plavitski turned to the cynic, and said, with a certain unction,-- "Have you come to this,--that you look on the blessing of a lonely old man and a father as superfluous?" Bukatski, instead of an answer, embraced Plavitski, kissed him near the waistcoat, and said,-- "But would the 'lonely old man' not play piquet, so as to let those two mad heads talk themselves out?" "But with a rubicon?" asked Plavitski. "With anything you like." Then he turned to the young couple: "Hire me as a guide to Italy." "I do not think of it," answered Pan Stanislav. "I have been in Belgium and France, no farther. Italy I know not; but I want to see what will interest us, not what may interest thee. I have seen men such as thou art, and I know that through over-refinement they go so far that they love not art, but their own knowledge of it." Here Pan Stanislav continued the talk with Marynia. "Yes, they go so far that they lose the feeling of great, simple art, and seek something to occupy their sated taste, and exhibit their critical knowledge. They do not see trees; they search simply for knots. The greatest things which we are going to admire do not concern them, but some of the smallest things, of which no one has heard; they dig names out of obscurity, occupy themselves in one way or another, persuade themselves and others that things inferior and of less use surpass in interest the better and more perfect. Under his guidance we might not see whole churches, but we might see various things which would have to be looked at through cracks. I call all this surfeit, abuse, over-refinement, and we are simply people." Marynia looked at him with pride, as if she would say, "Oh, that is what is called speaking!" Her pride increased when Bukatski said,-- "Thou art quite right." But she was indignant when he added,-- "And if thou wert not right, I could not win before the tribunal." "I beg pardon," said Marynia; "I am not blinded in any way." "But I am not an art critic at all." "On the contrary, you are." "If I am, then, I declare that knowledge embraces a greater number of details, but does not prevent a love of great art; and believe not Pan Stanislav, but me." "No; I prefer to believe him." "That was to be foreseen." Marynia looked now at one, now at the other, with a somewhat anxious face. Meanwhile Plavitski came with cards. The betrothed walked through the rooms hand in hand; Bukatski began to be wearied, and grew more and more so. Toward the end of the evening the humor which animated him died out; his small face became still smaller, his nose sharper, and he looked like a dried leaf. When he went out with Pan Stanislav, the latter inquired,-- "Somehow thou wert not so vivacious?" "I am like a machine: while I have fuel within, I move; but in the evening, when the morning supply is exhausted, I stop." Pan Stanislav looked at him carefully. "What is thy fuel?" "There are various kinds of coal. Come to me: I will give thee a cup of good coffee; that will enliven us." "Listen! this is a delicate question, but some one told me that thou hast been taking morphine this long time." "For a very short time," answered Bukatski; "if thou could only know what horizons it opens." "And it kills--Fear God!" "And kills! Tell me sincerely, has this ever occurred to thee, that it is possible to have a yearning for death?" "No; I understand just the opposite." "But I will give thee neither morphine nor opium," said Bukatski, at length; "only good coffee and a bottle of honest Bordeaux. That will be an innocent orgy." After some time they arrived at Bukatski's. It was the dwelling of a man of real wealth, seemingly, somewhat uninhabited, but full of small things connected with art and pictures and drawings. Lamps were burning in a number of rooms, for Bukatski could not endure darkness, even in time of sleep. The "Bordeaux" was found promptly, and under the machine for coffee a blue flame was soon burning. Bukatski stretched himself on the sofa, and said, all at once,-- "Perhaps thou wilt not admit, since thou seest me such a filigree, that I have no fear of death." "This one thing I have at times admitted, that thou art jesting and jesting, deceiving thyself and others, while really the joke is not in thee, and this is all artificial." "The folly of people amuses me somewhat." "But if thou think thyself wise, why arrange life so vainly?" Here Pan Stanislav looked around on bric-à-brac, on pictures, and added, "In all this surrounding thou art still living vainly." "Vainly enough." "Thou art of those who _pretend_. What a disease in this society! Thou art posing, and that is the whole question." "Sometimes. But, for that matter, it becomes natural." Under the influence of "Bordeaux" Bukatski grew animated gradually, and became more talkative, though cheerfulness did not return to him. "Seest thou," said he, "one thing,--I do not pretend. All which I myself could tell, or which another could tell me, I have thought out, and said long since to my soul. I lead the most stupid and the vainest life possible. Around me is immense nothingness, which I fear, and which I fence out with this lumber which thou seest in this room; I do this so as to fear less. Not to fear death is another thing, for after death there are neither feelings nor thoughts. I shall become, then, a part also of nothingness; but to feel it, while one is alive, to know of it, to give account to one's self of it, as God lives, there can be nothing more abject. Moreover, the condition of my health is really bad, and takes from me every energy. I have no fuel in myself, therefore I add it. There is less in this of posing and pretending than thou wilt admit. When I have given myself fuel, I take life in its humorous aspect; I follow the example of the sick man, who lies on the side on which he lies with most comfort. For me there is most comfort thus. That the position is artificial, I admit; every other, however, would be more painful. And see, the subject is exhausted." "If thou would undertake some work." "Give me peace. To begin with, I know a multitude of things, but I don't understand anything; second, I am sick; third, tell a paralytic to walk a good deal when he cannot use his legs. The subject is exhausted! Drink that wine there, and let us talk about thee. That is a good lady, Panna Plavitski; and thou art doing well to marry her. What I said to thee there in the daytime does not count. She is a good lady, and loves thee." Here Bukatski, enlivened and roused evidently by the wine, began to speak hurriedly. "What I say in the daytime does not count. Now it is night; let us drink wine, and a moment of more sincerity comes. Dost wish more wine, or coffee? I like this odor; one should mix Mocha and Ceylon in equal parts. Now comes a time of more sincerity! Knowest thou what I think at bottom? I have no clear idea of what happiness fame may give, for I do not possess it; and since the Ephesian temple is fired, there is no opening to fame before me. I admit, however, so, to myself, that the amount of it might be eaten by a mouse, not merely on an empty stomach, but after a good meal in a pantry. But I know what property is for I have a little of it; I know what travelling is, for I have wandered; I know what freedom is, for I am free; I know what women are--oi, devil take it!--too well, and I know what books are. Besides, in this chamber, I have a few pictures, a few drawings, a little porcelain. Now listen to what I will say to thee: All this is nothing; all is vanity, folly, dust, in comparison with one heart which loves. This is the result of my observations; only I have come to it at the end, while normal men reach it at the beginning." Here he began to stir the coffee feverishly with a spoon; and Pan Stanislav, who was very lively, sprang up and said,-- "And thou, O beast! what didst thou say some months since,--that thou wert going to Italy because there no one loved thee, and thou didst love no one? Dost remember? Thou'lt deny, perhaps." "But what did I say this afternoon to thy betrothed? That thou and she had gone mad; and now I say that thou art doing well. Dost wish logic of me? To talk and to say something are two different things. But now I am more sincere, for I have drunk half a bottle of wine." Pan Stanislav began to walk through the room and repeat: "But, as God lives, it is fabulous! See what the root of the matter is, and what they all say when cornered." "To love is good, but there is something still better,--that is, to be loved. There is nothing above that! As to me, I would give for it all these; but it is not worth while to talk of me. Life is a comedy badly written, and without talent: even that which pains terribly is sometimes like a poor melodrama; but in life, if there be anything good, it is to be loved. Imagine to thyself, I have not known that, and thou hast found it without seeking." "Do not say so, for thou knowest not how it came to me." "I know; Vaskovski told me. That, however, is all one. The question is this,--thou hast known how to value it." "Well, what dost thou wish? I understand that I am loved a little; hence I marry, and that is the end of the matter." Thereupon Bukatski put his hand on Pan Stanislav's shoulder. "No, Polanyetski; I am a fool in respect to myself, but not a bad observer of what is passing around me. That is not the end, but the beginning. Most men say, as thou hast, 'I marry,--that is the end;' and most men deceive themselves." "That philosophy I do not understand." "But thou seest what the question is? It is not enough to take a woman; a man should give himself to her also, and should feel that he does so. Dost understand?" "Not greatly." "Well, thou art feigning simplicity. She should not only feel herself owned, but an owner. A soul for a soul! otherwise a life may be lost. Marriages are good or bad. Mashko's will be bad for twenty reasons, and among others for this, of which I wish to speak." "He is of another opinion. But, as God lives, it is a pity that thou art not married, since thou hast such a sound understanding of how married life should be." "If to understand and to act according to that understanding were the same, there would not be the various, very various events, from which the bones ache in all of us. For that matter, imagine me marrying." Here Bukatski began to laugh with his thin little voice. Joyfulness returned to him on a sudden, and with it the vision of things on the comic side. "Thou wilt be ridiculous; but what should I be? Something to split one's sides at. What a moment that is! Thou wilt see in two weeks. For instance, how thou wilt dress for church. Here, love, beating of the heart, solemn thoughts, a new epoch in life; there, the gardener, with flowers, a dress-coat, lost studs, the tying of a cravat, the drawing on of patent-leather boots,--all at one time, one chaos, one confusion. Deliver me, angels of paradise! I have compassion on thee, my dear friend; and do thou, I beg, not take seriously what I say. There is a new moon now, and I have a mania for uttering commonplace sentiment at the new moon. All folly!--the new moon, nothing more! I have grown as soft-hearted as a ewe who has lost her first lamb; and may the cough split me, if I haven't uttered commonplace!" But Pan Stanislav attacked him: "I have seen many vain things; but knowest thou what seems to me vainest in thee and those like thee? Thou and they, who absolve yourselves from everything, recognize nothing above you, and fear like fire every honest truth, for the one reason that some one might sometime declare it. How bad this is words cannot tell. As to thee, my dear friend, thou wert sincerer a while since than now. Again, thou'rt a poodle, dancing on two legs; but I tell thee that ten like thee could not show me that I have not won a great prize in the lottery." He took farewell of Bukatski with a certain anger; on the road home, however, he grew pacified and repeated continually: "See where the truth is; see what Mashko, and even Bukatski, says, when ready to be sincere; but I have won simply a great prize, and I will not waste what I have won." When he entered his lodgings and saw Litka's photograph, he exclaimed, "My dearest kitten!" Up to the moment of sleeping he thought of Marynia with pleasure, and with the calmness of a man who feels that some great problem of life has been settled decisively, and settled well. For, in spite of Bukatski's words, he was convinced that, since he was going to marry, all would be decided and ended by that one act. CHAPTER XXX. The "catastrophe," as Bukatski called it, came at last. Pan Stanislav learned by experience that if in life there are many days in which a man cannot seize his own thoughts, to such belong above all the day of his marriage. At times a number of these thoughts circled in his brain at one moment, and were so indefinite, that, speaking accurately, they were rather unconscious impressions than thoughts. He felt that a new epoch in life was beginning, that he was assuming great obligations which he ought to fulfil conscientiously and seriously; and at the same time, but exactly at the same time, he wondered that the carriage wasn't coming yet, and expressed his astonishment in the form of a threat: "If those scoundrels are late, I'll break their necks for them." At moments a solemn, and, as it were, noble fear of that future for which he had assumed responsibility was mastering him; he felt within him a certain elevation, and in this feeling of elevation he began to lather his beard, and he thought whether on such an exceptional day it would not be exceptionally worth while to bring in a barber to his somewhat dishevelled hair. Marynia at the same time was at the basis of all his impressions. He saw her, as if present. He thought: "At this moment, she too is dressing, she is standing in her chamber in front of the mirror, she is talking to her maid, her soul is flying toward me, and her heart beats unquietly." That instant tenderness seized him and he said to himself, "But have no fear, honest soul, for, as God lives, I will not wrong thee;" and he saw himself in the future, kind, considerate, so that he began to look with a certain emotion at the patent-leather boots standing near the armchair, on which his wedding-suit was lying. He repeated from time to time too, "If to marry, then marry!" He said to himself that he was stupid to hesitate, for another such Marynia there was not on earth; he felt that he loved her, and thought at the same time that the weather was not bad, but that perhaps rain might fall; that it might be cold in the Church of the Visitation; that in an hour he would be kneeling by Marynia, that a white necktie is safer knotted than pinned; that marriage is indeed the most important ceremony in life; that there is in it something sacred, and that one must not lose one's head anyhow, for in an hour it will be over; to-morrow they will depart, and then the normal quiet life of husband and wife will begin. These thoughts, however, flew away at moments like a flock of sparrows, into which some one has fired from behind a hedge suddenly, and it grew empty in Pan Stanislav's head. Then phrases of this kind came to his lips mechanically: "The eighth of April--to-morrow will be Wednesday! to-morrow will be Wednesday! my watch! to-morrow will be Wednesday!" Later he roused himself, repeated, "One must be an idiot!" and the scattered birds flew back again in a whole flock to his head, and began to whirl around in it. Meanwhile Abdulski, the agent of the house of Polanyetski, Bigiel, and Company came in. He was to be the second groomsman, with Bukatski as first. Being a Tartar by origin and a man of dark complexion, though good-looking, he seemed so handsome in the dress-coat and white cravat that Pan Stanislav expressed the hope that surely he would marry soon. Abdulski answered,-- "The soul would to paradise;" then he commenced a pantomime, intended to represent the counting of money, and began to speak of the Bigiels. All their children wanted to be at the marriage. The Bigiels decided to take only the two elder ones; from this arose disagreements and difference of opinion, expressed on Pani Bigiel's side by means of slaps. Pan Stanislav, who was a great children's man, was exceedingly indignant at this, and said,-- "I'll play a trick on the Bigiels. Have they gone already?" "They were just going." "That is well; I will run in there on the way to Plavitski's, take all the children, and pour them out before Pani Bigiel and my affianced." Abdulski expressed the conviction that Pan Stanislav would not do so; but he merely confirmed him thereby in his plan all the more. In fact, when he entered the carriage, they drove for the children directly. The governess, knowing Pan Stanislav's relations with the family, dared not oppose him; and half an hour later, Pan Stanislav, to the great consternation of Pani Bigiel, entered Plavitski's lodgings at the head of a whole flock of little Bigiels, in their every-day clothing, with collars awry, hair disarranged for the greater part, and faces half happy, half frightened, and, hurrying up to Marynia, he said, kissing her hands already enclosed in white gloves,-- "They wanted to wrong the children. Say that I did well." This proof of his kind heart entertained and pleased Marynia; hence she was glad from her whole soul to see the children, and even glad of this,--that the assembled guests considered her future husband an original,--and glad because Pani Bigiel, straightening the crooked collars hurriedly, said in her worry,-- "What's to be done with such a madman?" Somewhat of this opinion too was old Plavitski. But Pan Stanislav and Marynia were occupied for the moment with each other so exclusively that everything else vanished from their eyes. The hearts of both beat a little unquietly. He looked at her with a certain admiration. All in white, from her slippers to her gloves, with a green wreath on her head, and a long veil, she seemed to him other than usual. There was in her something uncommonly solemn, as in the dead Litka. Pan Stanislav did not make, it is true, that comparison; but he felt that this white Marynia, if not more remote from him, made him hesitate more than she of yesterday, arrayed in her ordinary costume. Withal she seemed less comely than usual, for the wedding wreath is becoming to women only exceptionally, and, besides, disquiet and emotion reddened her face; which, with the white robe, seemed still redder than it was in reality. But a wonderful thing! Just this circumstance moved Pan Stanislav. In his heart, rather kind by its nature, there rose a certain feeling resembling compassion or tenderness. He understood that Marynia's heart must be panting then like a captive bird, and he began to calm her; to speak to her with such good and kind words that he was astonished himself where he could find them in such numbers, and how they came to him so easily. But they came to him easily just because of Marynia. It was to be seen that she gave herself to him with a panting of the heart, but also with confidence; that she gave him her heart, her soul, and her whole being, her whole life, and that not only for good, but for every moment of her life--and to the end of it. In this regard no shadow rose in Pan Stanislav's mind, and that certainty made him better at that moment, more sensitive and eloquent, than he was ordinarily. At last they held each the other's hand and looked into each other's eyes, not only with love, but with the greatest friendship and confidence. Both felt the double reality. Yet a few moments, and that future will begin. But now the thoughts of both began to grow clear; and that internal disquiet, from which they had not been free, yielded more and more and turned into a solemn concentration of thought, as the religious ceremony drew near. Pan Stanislav's thoughts did not fly apart like sparrows; there remained to him only a certain astonishment, as it were, that he with all his scepticism had such a feeling even of the religious significance of the act which was about to be accomplished. At heart he was not a sceptic. In his soul there was hidden even a certain yearning for religious sensations; and if he had not returned to them it was only through a loss of habit and through spiritual negligence. Scepticism, at most, had shaken the surface of his thoughts, just as wind roughens the surface of water; the depths of which are still calm. He had lost, too, familiarity with forms; but to regain it was a work for the future and Marynia. Meanwhile this ceremony to which he must yield seemed to him so important, so full of solemnity and sacredness, that he was ready to proceed to it with bowed head. But first he had another ceremony, which, equally solemn in itself, was disagreeable enough to Pan Stanislav; namely, to kneel before Pan Plavitski, whom he considered a fool, receive his blessing and hear an exhortation, which, as was known, Plavitski would not omit. Pan Stanislav had said in his mind, however, "Since I am to marry, I must pass through all which precedes it, and with a good face; little do I care what expression that monkey, Bukatski, will have at such moments." Therefore he knelt with all readiness at Marynia's side before her father, and listened to his blessing with an exhortation, which, by the way, was not long. Plavitski himself was moved really; his voice and his hands trembled; he was barely able to pronounce something in the nature of an adjuration to Pan Stanislav, not to prevent Marynia from coming even occasionally to pray at his grave before it was grown over completely with grass. Finally, the solemnity of the moment affected Yozio Bigiel. Seeing Pan Plavitski's tears, seeing Marynia and Pan Stanislav on their knees (kneeling at Bigiel's house was not only a punishment, but frequently the beginning of more vigorous instruction), Yozio gave expression to his sympathy and fear by closing his eyes, opening his mouth, and breaking into as piercing a wail as he could utter. When the rest of the little Bigiels followed his example in great part, and all began to move, for the time to pass to the church had arrived, the grave of Pan Plavitski grown over with grass could not call forth an impression sufficiently elegiac. Sitting in the carriage between Abdulski and Bukatski, Pan Stanislav hardly answered their questions in half words; he took no part in the conversation, but kept up a monologue with himself. He thought that in a couple of minutes that would come to pass of which he had been dreaming whole months; and which till the death of Litka he had desired with the greatest earnestness of his life. Here for the last time he was roused by a feeling of the difference between that past which not long since had vanished, and the present moment; but there was a difference. Formerly he strove and desired; to-day he only wished and consented. That thought pierced him like a shudder, for it shot through his head that perhaps there was lacking in his own personality that basis on which one may build. But he was a man able to keep his alarms in close bonds, and to scatter them to the four winds at a given moment. He said to himself, therefore: "First, there is no time to think of this; and second, reality does not answer always to imaginings; this is a simple thing." Then what Bukatski had said pushed again into his memory: "It is not enough to take, a man must give;" but he thought this a fabric of such fine threads that it had no existence whatever, and that life should be taken more simply, that there is no obligation to come to terms with preconceived theories. Here he repeated what he had said to himself frequently, "I marry, and that is the end." Then reality embraced him, or rather the present moment; he had nothing in his head but Marynia, the church, and the ceremony. She on the way meanwhile implored God in silence to help her to make her husband happy; for herself she begged also a little happiness, being certain, moreover, that her dead mother would obtain that for her. Then they went arm in arm between the lines of invited and curious people, seeing somewhat as through a mist lights gleaming in the distance on the altar, and at the sides faces known and unknown. Both saw more distinctly the face of Pani Emilia, who wore the white veil of a Sister of Charity, her eyes at once smiling and filled with tears. Litka came to the minds of both; and it occurred to them that it was precisely she who was conducting them to the altar. After a while they knelt down; before them was the priest, higher up the gleaming of the candles, the glitter of gold, and the holy face of the principal image. The ceremony commenced. They repeated after the priest the usual phrases of the marriage vow; and Pan Stanislav, holding Marynia's hand, was seized suddenly by emotion such as he had not expected, and such as he had not felt since his mother had brought him to first communion. He felt that that was not a mere every-day legal act, in virtue of which a man receives the right to a woman; but in that binding of hands, in that vow, there is present a certain mysterious power from beyond this world,--that it is simply God before whom the soul inclines and the heart trembles. The ears of both were struck then in the midst of silence by the solemn words, "_Quod Deus junxit, homo non disjungat_;" but Pan Stanislav felt that that Marynia whom he had taken becomes his body and blood, and a part of his soul, and that for her too he must be the same. That moment a chorus of voices in the choir burst out with "_Veni Creator_," and a few moments after the Polanyetskis went forth from the church. On the way out, the arms of Pani Emilia embraced Marynia once again: "May God bless you!" and when they drove to the wedding reception, she went to the cemetery to tell Litka the news, that Pan Stas was married that day to Marynia. CHAPTER XXXI. Two weeks later, in Venice, the doorkeeper of the Hotel Bauer gave Pan Stanislav a letter with the postmark of Warsaw. It was at the moment when he and his wife were entering a gondola to go to the church of Santa Maria della Salute, where on that day, the anniversary of her death, a Mass was to be offered for the soul of Marynia's mother. Pan Stanislav, who expected nothing important from Warsaw, put the letter in his pocket, and asked his wife,-- "But is it not a little too early for Mass?" "It is; a whole half hour." "Then perhaps it would please thee to go first to the Rialto?" Marynia was always ready to go. Never having been abroad before, she simply lived in continual rapture, and it seemed to her that all which surrounded her was a dream. More than once, in the excess of her delight, she threw herself on her husband's neck, as if he had built Venice, as if she ought to thank him alone for its beauty. More than once she repeated,-- "I look and I see, but cannot believe that this is real." So they went to the Rialto. There was little movement yet, because of the early hour; the water was as if sleeping, the day calm, clear, but not very bright,--one of those days in which the Grand Canal with all its beauty has the repose of a cemetery; the palaces seem deserted and forgotten, and in their motionless reflection in the water is that peculiar deep sadness of dead things. One looks at them then in silence, and as if in fear, lest by words the general repose may be broken. Thus did Marynia look. But Pan Stanislav, less sensitive, remembered that he had a letter in his pocket, hence he drew it forth, and began to read. After a time he exclaimed,-- "Ah! Mashko is married; their wedding was three days after ours." But Marynia, as if roused from a dream, inquired, while blinking, "What dost thou say?" "I say, dreaming head, that Mashko's wedding is over." She rested her head on his shoulder, and, looking into his eyes, inquired,-- "What is Mashko to me? I have my Stas." Pan Stanislav smiled like a man who kindly permits himself to be loved, but does not wonder that he is loved; then he kissed his wife on the forehead, with a certain distraction, for the letter had begun to occupy him, and read on. All at once he sprang up, as if something had pricked him, and cried,-- "Oh, that is a real catastrophe!" "What has happened?" "Panna Kraslavski has a life annuity of nine thousand rubles, which her uncle left her; beyond that, not a copper." "But that is a good deal." "A good deal? Hear what Mashko writes:-- "'In view of this, my bankruptcy is an accomplished fact, and the declaration of my insolvency a question of time.' "They deceived each other; dost understand? He counted on her property, and she on his." "At least they have something to live on." "They have something to live on; but Mashko has nothing with which to pay his debts, and that concerns us a little,--me, thee, and thy father. All may be lost." Here Marynia was alarmed in earnest. "My Stas," said she, "perhaps thy presence is needed there; let us return, then. What a blow this will be to papa!" "I will write Bigiel immediately to take my place, and save what is possible. Do not take this business to heart too much, my child. I have enough to buy a bit of bread for us both, and for thy father." Marynia put her arms around his neck. "Thou, my good--With such a man one may be at rest." "Besides, something will be saved. If Mashko finds credit, he will pay us; he may find a purchaser, too, for Kremen. He writes me to ask Bukatski to buy Kremen, and to persuade him to do so. Bukatski is going to Rome this evening, and I have invited him to lunch. I will ask him. He has a considerable fortune, and would have something to do. I am curious to know how Mashko's life will develop. He writes at the end of the letter: "'I discovered the condition of affairs to my wife; she bore herself passively, but her mother is wild with indignation.' #/ "Finally he adds that at last he has fallen in love with his wife, and that if they should separate, it would be the greatest unhappiness in life for him. That lyric tale gives me little concern; but I am curious as to how all this will end." "She will not desert him," said Marynia. "I do not know; I thought myself once that she would not, but I like to contradict. Wilt thou bet?" "No; for I do not wish to win. Thou ugly man, thou hast no knowledge of women." "On the contrary, I know them; and I know them because all are not like this little one who is sailing now in a gondola." "In a gondola in Venice, with her Stas," answered Marynia. They were now at the church. When they went from Mass to the hotel, they found Bukatski, dressed for the road, in a cross-barred gray suit,--which, on his frail body, seemed too large,--in yellow shoes and a fantastic cravat, tied as fancifully as carelessly. "I am going to-day," said he, after he had greeted Marynia. "Do you command me to prepare a dwelling in Florence for you? I can engage some palace." "Then you will halt on the road to Rome?" "Yes. First, to give notice in the gallery of your coming, and to put a sofa on the stairs for you; second, I halt for black coffee, which is bad throughout Italy in general, but in Florence, at Giacosa's, Via Tornabuoni, it is exceptionally excellent. That, however, is the one thing of value in Florence." "What pleasure is there for you in always saying something different from what you think?" "But I am thinking seriously of engaging nice lodgings on Lung-Arno for you." "We shall stop at Verona." "For Romeo and Juliet? Of course; of course! Go now; later you would shrug your shoulders if you thought of them. In a month it would be too late for you to go, perhaps." Marynia started up at him like a cat; then, turning to her husband, said,-- "Stas, don't let this gentleman annoy me so!" "Well," answered Pan Stanislav, "I will cut his head off, but after lunch." Bukatski began to declaim:-- "It is not yet near day: It was the nightingale, and not the lark, That pierc'd the fearful hollow of thine ear." Then, turning to Marynia, he inquired, "Has Pan Stanislav written a sonnet for you?" "No." "Oh, that is a bad sign. You have a balcony on the street; has it never come once to his head to stand under your balcony with a guitar?" "No." "Oh, very bad!" "But there is no place to stand here, for there is water." "He might go in a gondola. With us it is different, you see; but here in Italy the air is such that if a man is in love really, he either writes sonnets, or stands under a balcony with a guitar. It is a thing perfectly certain, resulting from the geographical position, the currents of the sea, the chemical make-up of the air and the water: if a man does not write sonnets, or stand out of doors with a guitar, surely he is not in love. I can bring you very famous books on this subject." "It seems that I shall be driven to cut his head off before lunch," said Pan Stanislav. The execution, however, did not come, for the reason that it was just time for lunch. They sat down at a separate table, but in the same hall was a general one, which for Marynia, whom everything interested, was a source of pleasure, too, for she saw _real_ English people. This made on her such an impression as if she had gone to some land of exotics; for since Kremen is Kremen, not one of its inhabitants had undertaken a similar journey. For Bukatski, and even Pan Stanislav, her delight was a source of endless jokes, but also of genuine pleasure. The first said that she reminded him of his youth; the second called his wife a "field daisy," and said that one was not sorry to show the world to a woman like her. Bukatski noticed, however, that the "field daisy" had much feeling for art and much honesty. Many things were known to her from books or pictures; not knowing others, she acknowledged this openly, but in her expressions there was nothing artificial or affected. When a thing touched her heart, her delight had no bounds, so that her eyes became moist. At one time Bukatski jested with her unmercifully; at another he persuaded her that all the connoisseurs, so called, have a nail in the head, and that she, as a sensitive and refined nature, and so far unspoiled, was for him of the greatest importance in questions of art; she would be still more important if she were ten years of age. At lunch they did not talk of art, because Pan Stanislav remembered his news from Warsaw, and said,-- "I had a letter from Mashko." "And I, too," answered Bukatski. "And thou? They must be hurried there; Mashko must be pressed in real earnest. Is the question known to thee?" "He persuades me, or rather, he implores me, to buy--dost thou know what?" Bukatski avoided Kremen, knowing well what trouble it had caused, and was silent through delicacy toward Marynia. But Pan Stanislav, understanding his intention, said,-- "Oh, my God! Once we avoided that name as a sore spot, but now, before my wife, it is something different. It is hard to be tied up a whole lifetime." Bukatski looked at him quickly; Marynia blushed a little, and said,-- "Stas is perfectly right. Besides, I know that it is a question of Kremen." "Yes, it is of Kremen." "Well, and what?" asked Pan Stanislav. "I should not buy it even because of this,--that the lady might have the impression that people are tossing it about like a ball." "If I do not think at all of Kremen?" said Marynia, blushing still more. She looked at her husband; and he nodded in sign of praise and satisfaction. "That is a proof," answered he, "that thou art a child of good judgment." "At the same time," continued Marynia, "if Pan Mashko does not hold out, Kremen will either be divided, or go into usurers' hands, and that to me would be disagreeable." "Ah, ha!" said Bukatski, "but if you do not think at all of Kremen?" Marynia looked again at her husband, and this time with alarm; he began to laugh, however. "Marynia is caught," said he. Then he turned to Bukatski. "Evidently Mashko looks on thee as the one plank of salvation." "But I am not a plank; look at me! I am a straw, rather. The man who wishes to save himself by such a straw will drown. Mashko has said himself more than once to me, 'Thou hast blunted nerves.' Perhaps I have; but I need strong impressions for that very reason. If I were to help Mashko, he would work himself free, stand on his feet, give himself out as a lord still further; his wife would personate a great lady, they would be terribly _comme il faut_, and I should have the stupid comedy, which I have seen already, and which I have yawned at. If, on the other hand, I do not help him, he will be ruined, he will perish, something interesting will happen, unexpected events will come to pass, something tragic may result, which will occupy me more. Now, think, both of you, I must pay for a wretched comedy, and dearly; the tragedy I can have for nothing. How is a man to hesitate in this case?" "Fi! how can you say such things?" exclaimed Marynia. "Not only can I say them, but I shall write them to Mashko; besides, he has deceived me in the most unworthy manner." "In what?" "In what? In this, that I thought: 'Oh, that is a regular snob! that is material for a dark personage; that is a man really without heart or scruples!' Meanwhile, what comes out? That at bottom of his soul he has a certain honesty; that he wants to pay his creditors; that he is sorry for that puppet with red eyes; that he loves her; that for him separation from her would be a terrible catastrophe. He writes this to me himself most shamelessly. I give my word that in our society one can count on nothing. I will settle abroad, for I cannot endure this." Now Marynia was angry in earnest. "If you say such things, I shall beg to break relations with you." But Pan Stanislav shrugged his shoulders, and added: "In fact, thy talk is ever on some conceit to amuse thyself and others, and never wilt thou think with judgment and in human fashion. Dost understand, I do not persuade thee to buy Kremen, and all the more because I might have a certain interest to do so; but there would be some occupation for thee there, something to do." Here Bukatski began to laugh, and said after a while,-- "I told thee once that I like, above all, to do what pleases me, and that it pleases me most to do nothing; hence it is that doing nothing I do what pleases me most. If thou art wise, prove that I have uttered nonsense. Take the second case: Suppose me a buckwheat sower; that, however, simply passes imagination. I, for whom rain or fine weather is merely the question of choosing a cane or an umbrella, would have, in my old age, to stand on one leg, like a stork, and look to see whether it pleases the sun to shine, or the clouds to drop rain. I should have to tremble as to whether my wheat is likely to grow, or my rape-seed shed, or rot fall on the potatoes; whether I shall be able to stake my peas, or furnish his Worship of Dogweevil as many bushels as I have promised; whether my plough-horses have the glanders, and my sheep the foot-rot. I should, in my old age, come to this,--that from blunting of faculties I would interject after every three words: 'Pan Benefactor,' or 'What is it that I wanted to say?' _Voyons! pas si bête!_ I, a free man, should become a _glebæ adscriptus_, a 'Neighbor,' a 'Brother Lata,' a 'Pan Matsyei,' a 'Lechit.'"[5] Here, roused a little by the wine, he began to quote in an undertone the words of Slaz in "Lilla Weneda":-- "Am I a Lechit? What does this mean? Are boorishness, Drunkenness, gluttony, gazing from my eyes With the seven deadly sins, a passion for uproar, Pickled cucumbers, and escutcheons?" "Argue with him," said Pan Stanislav, "especially when at the root of the matter he is partly right." But Marynia, who as soon as Bukatski had begun to speak of work in the country, grew somewhat thoughtful, shook thoughtfulness now from her forehead, and said,-- "When papa was not well,--and never in Kremen has he been so well as recently,--I saved him a little in management, and later that work became for me a habit. Though God knows there was no lack of troubles, it gave me a pleasure that I cannot describe. But I did not understand the cause of this till Pan Yamish explained it. 'That,' said he, 'is the real work on which the world stands, and every other is either the continuation of it, or something artificial.' Later I understood even things which he did not explain. More than once, when I went out to the fields in spring, and saw that all things were growing, I felt that my heart, too, was growing with them. And now I know why that is: In all other relations that a man holds there may be deceit, but the land is truth. It is impossible to deceive the land; it either gives, or gives not, but it does not deceive. Therefore land is loved, as truth; and because one loves it, it teaches one to love. And the dew falls not only on grain, and on meadows, but on the soul, as it were; and a man becomes better, for he has to deal with truth, and he loves,--that is, he is nearer God. Therefore I loved my Kremen so much." Here Marynia became frightened at her own speech, and at this, what would "Stas" think; at the same time reminiscences had roused her. All this was reflected in her eyes as the dawn, and on her young face; and she was herself like the dawn. Bukatski looked at her as he would at some unknown newly discovered master-piece of the Venetian school; then he closed his eyes, and hid half of his small face in his enormous fantastic cravat, and whispered,-- "_Délicieuse!_" Then, thrusting forth his chin from his cravat, he said,-- "You are perfectly right." But the logical woman would not let herself be set aside by a compliment. "If I am right, you are not." "That is another matter. You are right because it becomes you; a woman in that case is always right." "Stas!" said Marynia, turning to her husband. But there was so much charm in the woman at that moment, that he also looked on her with delight, his eyes smiled, his nostrils moved with a quick motion; for a moment he covered her hand with his, and said,-- "Oh, child, child!" Then he inclined to her, and whispered,-- "If we were not in this hall, I would kiss those dear eyes and that mouth." And, speaking thus, Pan Stanislav made a great mistake, for at that moment it was not enough to feel the physical charm of Marynia, to be roused at the color of her face, her eyes, or her mouth, but it was necessary to feel the soul in her; to what an extent he did not feel it was shown by his fondling words, "O child, child!" She was for him at that moment only a charming child-woman, and he thought of nothing else. Just then coffee was brought. To end the conversation, Pan Stanislav said,-- "So Mashko has come out a lover, and that after marriage." Bukatski swallowed a cup of boiling coffee, and answered, "In this is the stupidity, that Mashko is the man, not in this,--that the love was after marriage. I have not said anything sensible. If I have, I beg pardon most earnestly, and promise not to do so a second time. I have burned my tongue evidently with the hot coffee! I drink it so hot because they tell me that it is good for headache; and my head aches, aches." Here Bukatski placed his palm on his neck and the back of his head, and blinked, remaining motionless for a few seconds. "I am talking and talking," said he, then, "but my head aches. I should have gone to my lodgings, but Svirski, the artist, is to come to me here. We are going to Florence together; he is a famous painter in water-colors, really famous. No one has brought greater force out of water-colors. But see, he is just coming!" In fact, Svirski, as if summoned by a spell, appeared in the hall, and began to look around for Bukatski. Espying him at last, he approached the table. He was a robust, short man, with hair as black as if he were an Italian. He had an ordinary face, but a wise, deep glance, and also mild. While walking, he swayed a little because of his wide hips. Bukatski presented him to Marynia in the following words,-- "I present to you Pan Svirski, a painter, of the genus genius, who not only received his talent, but had the most happy idea of not burying it, which he might have done as well, and with equal benefit to mankind, as any other man. But he preferred to fill the world with water-colors and with fame." Svirski smiled, showing two rows of teeth, wonderfully small, but white as ivory, and said,-- "I wish that were true." "And I will tell you why he did not bury his talent," continued Bukatski; "his reasons were so parochial that it would be a shame for any decent artist to avow them. He loves Pognembin, which is somewhere in Poznan, or thereabouts, and he loves it because he was born there. If he had been born in Guadeloupe he would have loved Guadeloupe, and love for Guadeloupe would have saved him in life also. This man makes me indignant; and will the lady tell me if I am not right?" To this Marynia answered, raising her blue eyes to Svirski, "Pan Bukatski is not so bad as he seems, for he has said everything that is good of you." "I shall die with my qualities known," whispered Bukatski. Svirski was looking meanwhile at Marynia, as only an artist can permit himself to look at a woman, and not offend. Interest was evident in his eyes, and at last he muttered,-- "To see such a head all at once, here in Venice, is a genuine surprise." "What?" asked Bukatski. "I say, that the lady is of a wonderfully well-defined type. Oh, this, for example" (here he drew a line with his thumb along his nose, mouth, and chin). "And also what purity of outline!" "Well, isn't it true?" asked Pan Stanislav, with excitement. "I have always thought the same." "I will lay a wager that thou hast never thought of it," retorted Bukatski. But Pan Stanislav was glad and proud of that interest which Marynia roused in the famous artist; hence he said,-- "If it would give you any pleasure to paint her portrait, it would give me much more to have it." "From the soul of my heart," answered Svirski, with simplicity; "but I am going to Rome to-day. There I have begun the portrait of Pani Osnovski." "And we shall be in Rome no later than ten days from now." "Then we are agreed." Marynia returned thanks, blushing to her ears. But Bukatski began to take farewell, and drew Svirski after him. When they had gone out, he said,-- "We have time yet. Come to Floriani's for a glass of cognac." Bukatski did not know how to drink, and didn't like spirits; but since he had begun to take morphine, he drank more than he could endure, because some one had told him that one neutralized the other. "What a delightful couple those Polanyetskis are!" said Svirski. "They are not long married." "It is evident that he loves her immensely. When I praised her, his eyes were smiling, and he rose as if on yeast." "She loves him a hundred times more." "What knowledge hast thou in such matters?" Bukatski did not answer; he only raised his pointed nose, and said, as if to himself,-- "Oh, marriage and love have disgusted me; for it is always profit on one side, and sacrifice on the other. Polanyetski is a good man, but what of that? She has just as much sense, just as much character, but she loves more; therefore life will fix itself for them in this way,--he will be the sun, he will be gracious enough to shine, to warm, will consider her as his property, as a planet made to circle around him. All this is indicated to-day. She has entered his sphere. There is in him a certain self-confidence which angers me. He will have her with an income, but she will have him alone without an income. He will permit himself to love, considering his love as virtue, kindness, and favor; she will love, considering her love as a happiness and a duty. Look, if you please, at him, the divine, the resplendent! I want to go back and tell them this, in the hope that they will be less happy." Meanwhile the two men had taken seats in front of Floriani's, and soon cognac was brought to them. Svirski thought some time over the Polanyetskis, and then inquired,-- "But if the position is pleasant for her?" "I know that she has short sight; she might be pleased quite as well to wear glasses." "Go to the deuce! glasses on a face like hers--" "This makes thee indignant; but the other makes me--" "Yes, for thou hast a kind of coffee-mill in thy head, which grinds, and grinds everything till it grinds it into fine dust. What dost thou want of love in general?" "I, of love? I want nothing of love! Let the devil take him who wants anything of love! I have sharp pains in my shoulder-blades from it. But if I were other than I am, if I had to describe what love ought to be, if I wanted anything of it, then I should wish--" "What? hop! jump over!" "That it were composed in equal parts of desire and reverence." Then he drank a glass of cognac, and added after a while,-- "It seems to me that I have said something which may be wise, if it is not foolish. But it is all one to me." "No! it is not foolish." "As God lives, it is all one to me." FOOTNOTES: [5] Polish noble. CHAPTER XXXII. After a stay of one week in Florence, Pan Stanislav received his first letter from Bigiel concerning the business of the house, and news so favorable that it almost surpassed his expectations. The law prohibiting export of grain because of the famine was proclaimed. But the firm had enormous supplies bought and exported previously; and because prices, especially at the first moment, had risen excessively abroad, Bigiel and Polanyetski began to do perfect business. Speculation, planned and carried through on a great scale, turned out so profitable that from well-to-do people, which they were before, they had become almost rich. For that matter Pan Stanislav had been sure of his business from the beginning, and entertained no fears; the news, however, pleased him both with reference to profit and his own self-love. Success intoxicates a man and strengthens his self-confidence. So, in talking with Marynia, he was not able to refrain from giving her to understand that he had an uncommon head, unquestionably higher than all those around him, like a tree the loftiest in the forest; that he is a man who always reaches the place at which he has aimed,--in a word, a kind of phoenix in that society, abounding in men who know not how to help themselves. In the whole world he could not have found a listener more willing and ready to accept everything with the deepest faith. "Thou art a woman," said he, not without a shade of loftiness; "therefore why tell thee the affair from the beginning, and enter into details. To thee, as a woman, I can explain all best if I say thus: I was not in a condition yesterday to buy the medallion with a black pearl which I showed thee at Godoni's; to-day I am, and will buy it." Marynia thanked him, and begged that he would not do so; but he insisted, and said that nothing would restrain him, that that was resolved on, and Marynia must consider herself the owner of the great black pearl, which, on such a white neck as hers, would be beautiful. Then he fell to kissing that neck; and when finally he had satisfied himself, but still felt the need of a listener of some sort, he began to walk in the room, smiling at his wife and at his own thoughts, saying,-- "I do not mention those who do nothing: Bukatski, for instance, who is known to be good for nothing, nor asses like Kopovski, who is known to have a cat's head; but take even men who do something,--men of mind seemingly. Never would Bigiel seize a chance on the wing: he would set to thinking over it, and to putting it off; to-day he would decide, and to-morrow be afraid, and the time would be gone. What is the point in question? First, to have a head, and second, to sit down and calculate. And if one decides to act, then act. It is needful, too, to be cool, and not pose. Mashko is no fool, one might think; but see what he has worked out! I have not gone his way, and shall not follow him." Thus speaking, he continued to walk and to shake his thick, dark hair; and Marynia, who, in every case, would have listened to his words with faith, received them now as an infallible principle, all the more that they rested on tangible success. He stopped before her at last, and said,-- "Knowest what I think? that coolness is judgment. It is possible to have an intelligent head, to take in knowledge as a sponge absorbs liquid, and still not to have sound, sober judgment. Bukatski is for me a proof of this. Do not think me vain; but if I, for instance, knew as much about art as he does, I should have a sounder judgment concerning it. He has read so much, and caught up so many opinions, that at last he has none of his own. Surely, from the materials which he has collected, I should have squeezed out something of my own." "Oh, that is sure," said Marynia, with perfect confidence. Pan Stanislav might have been right in a certain view. He was not a dull man by any means, and it may be that his intelligence was firmer and more compact than Bukatski's; but it was less flexible and less comprehensive. This did not occur to him. He did not think, also, that in that moment, under the influence of boastfulness, he was saying things before Marynia which the fear of ridicule and criticism would have restrained him from saying before strangers, sceptical persons. But he did not restrain himself before Marynia; he judged that if he could permit himself such little boastfulness before any one, it was before his wife. Besides, as he himself said, "He had taken her, and all was over." Moreover, she was his own. In general, he had not felt so happy and satisfied at any time in life as then. He had experienced material success, and considered the future as guaranteed; he had married a woman, young, charming, and clever, for whom he had become a dogma,--and the position could not be otherwise, since her lips were not dry for whole days from his kisses,--and whose healthy and honest heart was filled with gratitude for his love. What could be lacking to him? What more could he wish? He was satisfied with himself, for he ascribed in great part to his own cleverness and merit, his success in so arranging life that everything promised, peace and prosperity. He saw that life was bitter for other men, but pleasant for him, and he interpreted the difference to his own advantage. He had thought once that a man wishing peace had to regulate his connection with himself, with mankind, with God. The first two he looked on as regulated. He had a wife, a calling, and a future; hence he had given and secured to himself all that he could give and secure. As to society, he permitted himself sometimes to criticise it, but he felt that in the bottom of his soul he loved it really; that even if he wished, he could not do otherwise; that if in a given case it were necessary to go into water or fire for society, he would go,--hence he considered everything settled on that side too. His relation with God remained. He felt that should that become clear and certain, he might consider all life's problems settled, and say to himself definitely, "I know why I have lived, what I wanted, and why I must die." While not a man of science, he had touched enough on science to know the vanity of seeking in philosophy so-called explanations or answers which are to be sought rather in intuition, and, above all, in feeling, in so far as the one and the other of these are simple,--otherwise they lead to extravagance. At the same time, since he was not devoid of imagination, he saw before him, as it were, the image of an honest, well-balanced man, a good husband, a good father, who labors and prays, who on Sunday takes his children to church, and lives a life wonderfully wholesome from a moral point of view. That picture smiled at him; and in life so much is done for pictures. He thought that a society which had a great number of such citizens would be stronger and healthier than a society which below was composed of boors, and above of sages, dilettanti, decadents, and all those forbidden figures with sprained intellects. One time, soon after his acquaintance with Marynia, he had promised himself and Bigiel that on finishing with his own person, and with people, he would set about this third relation seriously. Now the time had come, or at least was approaching. Pan Stanislav understood that this work needed more repose than is found on a bridal trip, and among the impressions of a new life and a new country, and that hurry of hotels and galleries in which he lived with Marynia. But, in spite of these conditions, in the rare moments when he was with his own thoughts, he turned at once to that problem, which for him was at that time the main one. He was subject meanwhile to various influences, which, small in themselves, exercised a certain action, even because he refrained purposely from opposing them. Of these was the influence of Marynia. Pan Stanislav was not conscious of it, and would not have owned to its existence; still the continual presence of that calm soul, sincerely and simply pious, extremely conscientious in relation to God, gave him an idea of the rest and peace to be found in religion. When he attended his wife to church, he remembered the words which she said to him in Warsaw, "Of course; it is the service of God." And he was drawn into it, for at first he went to church with her always not to let her go alone, and later because it gave him also a certain internal pleasure,--such, for example, as the examination of phenomena gives a scientist specially interested in them. In this way, in spite of unfavorable conditions, in spite of journeys, and a line of thought interrupted by impressions of every sort, he advanced on the new road continually. His thoughts had at times great energy and decisiveness in this direction. "I feel God," said he to himself. "I felt Him at Litka's grave; I felt Him, though I did not acknowledge it, in the words of Vaskovski about death; I felt Him at marriage; I felt Him at home, in the plains, and in this country, in the mountains above the snow; and I only ask yet how I am to glorify Him, to honor and love Him? Is it as pleases me personally, or as my wife does, and as my mother taught me?" In Rome, however, he ceased at first to think of these things; so many external impressions were gathered at once in his mind that there was no room for reflection. Moreover, he and Marynia came home in the evening so tired that he remembered almost with terror the words of Bukatski, who, at times, when serving them as cicerone for his own satisfaction, said, "Ye have not seen the thousandth part of what is worth seeing; but that is all one, for in general it is not worth while to come here, just as it is not worth while to stay at home." Bukatski was then in a fit of contradiction, overturning in one statement what he had seemed to affirm in the preceding one. Professor Vaskovski came, too, from Perugia to greet them, which pleased Marynia so much that she met him as she would her nearest relative. But, after satisfying her first outbursts of delight, she observed in the professor's eyes, as it were, a kind of melancholy. "What is the matter?" inquired she. "Do you not feel well in Italy?" "My child," answered he, "it is pleasant in Perugia, and pleasant in Rome--oh, how pleasant! Know this, that here, while walking on the streets, one is treading on the dust of the world. This, as I repeat always, is the antechamber to another life--but--" "But what?" "But people--you see, that is, not from a bad heart, for here, as well as everywhere, there are more good than bad people; but sometimes I am sad, for here, as well as at home, they look on me as a little mad." Bukatski, who was listening to the conversation, said,-- "Then the professor has more cause for sadness here than at home." "Yes," answered Vaskovski; "I have so many friends there, like you, who love me--but here, no--and therefore I am homesick." Then he turned to Pan Stanislav: "The journals here have printed an account of my essay. Some scoff altogether. God be with them! Some agree that a new epoch would begin through the introduction of Christ and His spirit into history. One writer confessed that individuals treat one another in a Christian spirit, but that nations lead a pagan life yet. He even called the thought a great one; but he and all others, when I affirm this to be a mission which God has predestined to us, and other youngest of the Aryans, seize their sides from laughter. And this pains me. They give it to be understood also that I have a little here--" And poor Vaskovski tapped his forehead with his finger. After a while, however, he raised his head and said,-- "A man sows the seed in sadness and often in doubt; but the seed falls on the field, and God grant that it spring up!" Then he began to inquire about Pani Emilia; at last he turned to them his eyes, which were as if wakened from sleep, and asked naïvely,-- "But it is pleasant for you to be with each other?" Marynia, instead of answering, sprang to her husband, and, nestling her head up to his shoulder, said,-- "Oh, see, Professor, this is how we are together,--so!" And Pan Stanislav stroked her dark head with his hand. CHAPTER XXXIII. A week later Pan Stanislav took his wife to Svirski's on Via Margutta. Svirski they saw almost daily. They had grown accustomed to the artist and liked him; now he was to paint Marynia's portrait. At the studio they found the Osnovskis, with whom acquaintance was made the more easily since the ladies had met some years before at a party, and Pan Stanislav had been presented on a time to Pani Osnovski, at Ostend; he needed merely to remember her now. Pan Stanislav, it is true, did not recollect whether at that epoch, when, after looking at every young and presentable woman, he asked himself, "Is it this one?" he had asked this touching the present Pani Osnovski; he might have done so, however, for she had the reputation then of being a comely, though rather flighty young person. Now she was a woman of six or seven and twenty, very tall, a fresh, though dark brunette, with cherry lips, dishevelled forelock, and somewhat oblique violet eyes, which gave her face a resemblance to Chinese faces, and at the same time a certain expression of malice and wit. She had a strange way of bearing herself, which consisted in thrusting back her shoulders and pushing forward her body; in consequence of this, Bukatski said of her that she carried her bust _en offrande_. Almost immediately she told Marynia that, as they were sitting in the same studio, they ought to consider each other as colleagues; and told Pan Stanislav that she remembered him, from the ball at Ostend, as a good dancer and _causeur_, and therefore that she would not delay in taking advantage of that knowledge now. To both she said that it was very agreeable to her, that she was delighted with Rome, that she was reading "Cosmopolis," that she was in love with the Villa Doria, with the view from the Pincian, that she hoped to see the catacombs in company with them, and that she knew the works of Rossi, in Allard's translations. Then, pressing Svirski's hand, and smiling coquettishly at Pan Stanislav, she went out, declaring that she gave way to one worthier than herself, and left the impression of a whirlwind, a Chinese woman, and a flower. Pan Osnovski, a very young man, with a light blond face without significance, but kindly, followed her, and hardly had he been able to put in a word. Svirski drew a deep breath. "Oh, she is a storm!" said he; "I have a thousand difficulties in keeping her at rest two minutes." "But what an interesting face!" said Marynia. "Is it permitted to look at the portrait?" "It lacks little of being finished; you may look at it." Marynia and Pan Stanislav approached the portrait, and could express admiration without excess of politeness. That head, painted in water-colors, had the strength and warmth of an oil painting, and at the same time the whole spiritual essence of Pani Osnovski was in it. Svirski listened to the praises calmly; it was clear that he was pleased with his work. He covered the picture, and carried it to a dark corner of the studio, seated Marynia in an armchair already in position, and began to study her. His persistent gaze confused her somewhat,--her cheeks began to flush; but he smiled with pleasure, muttering,-- "Yes; this is another type,--earth and heaven!" At moments he closed one eye, which confused Marynia still more; at moments he approached the cardboard, and again drew back, and again studied her; and again he said, as if to himself,-- "In the other case, one had to bring out the devil, but here womanliness." "As you have seen that immediately, I feel sure of a masterpiece," said Pan Stanislav. All at once Svirski stopped looking at the paper and at Marynia, and, turning to Pan Stanislav, smiled joyously, showing his sound teeth. "Yes, womanliness! and her own womanliness, that is the main characteristic of the face." "And seize it, as you seized the devil in the other one." "Stas!" exclaimed Marynia. "It is not I who invented that, but Pan Svirski." "If you wish, we will say imp, not devil,--a comely imp, but a dangerous one. While painting, I observe various things. That is a curious type,--Pani Osnovski." "Why?" "Have you observed her husband?" "Somehow I was so occupied with her that I had no time." "There it is: she hides him in such a degree that he is hardly visible; and, what is worse, she herself does not see him. At the same time he is one of the most worthy men in the world, uncommonly well-bred, considerate to others in an unheard-of degree, very rich, and not at all stupid. Moreover, he loves her to distraction." Here Svirski began to paint, and repeated, as if in forgetfulness,-- "Lo-ves her to dis-trac-tion. Be pleased to arrange your hair a little about the ear. If your husband is a talker, he will be in despair, for Bukatski declares that when I begin work my lips never close, and that I let no one have a word. She, do you see, may be thus far as pure as a tear, but she is a coquette. She has an icy heart with a fiery head. A dangerous species,--oh, dangerous! She devours books by whole dozens,--naturally French books. She learns psychology in them, learns of feminine temperaments, of the enigma of woman, seeks enigmas in herself, which do not exist at all in her, discovers aspirations of which yesterday she knew nothing. She is depraving herself mentally; this mental depravation she considers wisdom, and makes no account of her husband." "But you are a terrible man," remarked Marynia. "My wife will hide to-morrow from fear, when the hour for sitting comes," said Pan Stanislav. "Let her not hide; hers is a different type. Osnovski is not at all dull; but people, and especially, with your permission, women, are so unwise, that if a man's cleverness does not hit them on the head, if a man lacks confidence in himself, if he does not scratch like a cat and cut like a knife, they do not value him. As God lives, I have seen this in life a hundred times." After a while he closed one eye again, gazed at Marynia, and continued,-- "In general, how foolish human society is! More than once have I put to myself this question: Why is honesty of character, heart, and such a thing as kindness, less valued than what is called mind? Why, in social life, are two categories pre-eminent, wise and foolish? It is not the custom, for example, to say, virtuous and unvirtuous; to such a degree is it not the custom, that the very expressions would seem ridiculous." "Because," said Pan Stanislav, "mind is the lantern with which virtue and kindness and heart must light the way for themselves, otherwise they might break their noses, or, what is worse, break the noses of other people." Marynia did not utter, it is true, a single word; but in her face it was possible to read distinctly, "How wise this Stas is--terribly wise!" "Wise Stas" added meanwhile,-- "I am not speaking of Osnovski now, for I do not know him." "Osnovski," said Svirski, "loves his wife as his wife, as his child, and as his happiness; but she has her head turned, God knows with what, and does not repay him in kind. Women interest me, as an unmarried man, immensely; more than once have I talked whole days about women, especially with Bukatski, when they interested him more than they do now. Bukatski divides women into plebeian souls, by which he means poor and low spirits, and into patrician souls,--that is, natures ennobled, full of the higher aspirations, and resting on principles, not phrases. There is a certain justice in this, but I prefer my division, which is simply into grateful and ungrateful hearts." Here he withdrew from the sketch for a moment, half closed his eyes, then, taking a small mirror, placed it toward the picture, and began to look at the reflection. "You ask what I mean by grateful and ungrateful hearts," said he, turning to Marynia, though she had not asked about anything. "A grateful heart is one which feels when it is loved, and is moved by love; and in return for the loving, loves more and more, yields itself more and more, prizes the loving, and honors it. The ungrateful heart gets all it can from the love given; and the more certain it feels of this love, the less it esteems it, the more it disregards and tramples it. It is enough to love a woman with an ungrateful heart, to make her cease loving. The fisherman is not concerned for the fish in the net; therefore Pani Osnovski does not care for Pan Osnovski. In the essence of the argument this is the rudest form of egotism in existence,--it is simply African; and therefore God guard Osnovski, and may the Evil One take her, with her Chinese eyes of violet color, and her frizzled forelock! To paint such a woman is pleasant, but to marry--we are not such fools. Will you believe it, I am in so much dread of an ungrateful heart that I have not married so far, though my fortieth year has sounded distinctly?" "But it is so easy to recognize such a heart," said Marynia. "May the Evil One take what is bad!" answered Svirski. "Not so easy, especially when a man has lost sense and reason." Bending his athletic form, he looked at the sketch some time, and said,-- "Well, enough for to-day. As it is, I have talked so continuously that flies must have dropped from the walls. To-morrow, if you hear too much, just clap your hands. I do not talk so with Pani Osnovski, because she herself likes to talk. But how many titles of books have I heard? Enough of this! I wanted to say something more, but have forgotten. Ah! this is it,--you have a grateful heart." Pan Stanislav laughed, and invited Svirski to dinner, promising him the society of Bukatski and Vaskovski. "With great delight," answered Svirski; "I am as much alone here as a wild beast. As the weather is clear and the moon full, we will go later to see the Colosseum by moonlight." The dinner took place, however, without Bukatski's mental hobbies, for he felt out of health, and wrote that he could not come. But Svirski and Vaskovski suited each other excellently, and became friends right away. Only while he was working did Svirski let no one have a word; in general, he liked to hear others, knew how to listen, and, though the professor and his views seemed to him comical sometimes, so much sincerity and kindness was evident in the old man that it would have been difficult for him not to win people. His mystic face and the expression of his eyes struck the artist. He sketched him a little in his mind; and, while listening to his talk about the Aryans, he thought how that head would look if all that was in it were brought out distinctly. Toward the end of the dinner the professor asked Marynia if she would like to see the Pope. He said that in three days a Belgian pilgrimage was to arrive, and that she might join it. Svirski, who knew all Rome and all the monsignores, guaranteed to effect this with ease. When he heard this, the professor looked at him, and inquired,-- "Then you are almost a Roman?" "Of sixteen years' standing." "Is it possible!" Here the professor was somewhat confused, fearing lest he had committed some indiscretion, but still wishing to know what to think of a man so sympathetic, he overcame his timidity, and inquired,-- "But of the Quirinal, or the Vatican?" "From Pognembin," answered Svirski, frowning slightly. The end of the dinner interrupted further explanations and converse. Marynia could scarcely sit still at the thought that she would see the Capitol, the Forum, and the Colosseum by moonlight. In fact, somewhat later they were driving toward the ruins along the Corso, which was lighted by electricity. The night was calm and warm. Around the Forum and Colosseum the place was completely deserted; as, for that matter, it is in the day sometimes. Near the church of Santa Maria Liberatrice some person in an open window was playing on a flute, and one could hear every note in the stillness. On the front of the Forum a deep shadow fell from the height of the Capitol and its edifices; but farther on it was flooded with clear, greenish light, as was also the Colosseum, which seemed silver. When the carriage halted at the arches of the gigantic circus, Pan Stanislav, Svirski, and Vaskovski entered the interior, and pushed toward the centre of the arena, avoiding the fragments of columns, friezes, piles of bricks, stones, and bases of columns standing here and there, and fragments piled up near the arches. Under the influence of silence and loneliness, words did not rise to their lips. Through the arched entrances came to the interior sheaves of moonlight, which seemed to rest quietly on the floor of the arena, on the opposite walls, on the indentations, on openings in the walls, on breaks, on the silvered mosses and ivy, covering the ruin here and there. Other parts of the building, sunk in impenetrable darkness, produced the impression of black and mysterious gulleys. From the low-placed cunicula came the stern breath of desolation. Reality was lost amidst that labyrinth and confusion of walls, arches, bright spots, bright stripes, and deep shadows. The colossal ruin seemed to lose its real existence, and to become a dream vision, or rather, a kind of wonderful impression composed of silence, night, the moon, sadness, and the remembrance of a past, mighty, but full of blood and suffering. Svirski began to speak first, and in a subdued voice,-- "What pain, what tears, were here! what a measureless tragedy! Let people say what they please, there is something beyond human in Christianity; and that thought cannot be avoided." Here he turned to Marynia, and continued,-- "Imagine that might: a whole world, millions of people, iron laws, power unequalled before or since, an organization such as has never been elsewhere, greatness, glory, hundreds of legions, a gigantic city, possessing the world,--and that Palatine hill over there, possessing the city; it would seem that no earthly power could overturn it. Meanwhile two Jews come,--Peter and Paul, not with arms, but a word; and see, here is a ruin, on the Palatine a ruin, in the Forum a ruin, and above the city crosses, crosses, crosses and crosses." Again there was silence; but from the direction of Santa Maria Liberatrice the sound of the flute came continually. After a while Vaskovski said, pointing to the arena,-- "There was a cross here, too, but they have borne it away." Pan Stanislav was thinking, however, of Svirski's words; for him they had a more vital interest than they could have for a man who had finished the spiritual struggle with himself. At last he said, following his own course of thought,-- "Yes, there is something beyond human in this; some truth shines into the eyes here, like that moon." They were going slowly toward the entrance, when a carriage rattled outside. Then in the dark passage leading to the centre of the circus, steps were heard; two tall, figures issued from the shade into the light. One of these, dressed in gray stuff, which gleamed like steel in the moonlight, approached a number of steps to distinguish the visitors better, and said all at once,-- "Good-evening! The night is so beautiful that we, too, came to the Colosseum. What a night!" Pan Stanislav recognized the voice of Pani Osnovski. Giving her hand, she spoke with a voice as soft as the sound of that flute which came from the direction of the church,-- "I shall begin to believe in presentiments, for really something told me that here I should find acquaintances. How beautiful the night is!" CHAPTER XXXIV. On returning to the hotel, Pan Stanislav and Marynia were surprised somewhat to find the Osnovskis' cards; and their astonishment rose from this, that, being newly married, it was their duty to make the first visit. For this unusual politeness it was needful to answer with equal politeness, hence they returned the visit on the following day. Bukatski, who saw them before they made it, though he was very unwell, and could barely drag his feet along, brought himself still to one of his usual witticisms, and said to Pan Stanislav, when they were alone for a moment,-- "She will play the coquette; but if thou suppose that she will fall in love with thee, thou art mistaken. She is a little like a razor,--she needs a strap to sharpen herself; in the best event, thou wilt be a strap for her." "First, I do not wish to be her strap," answered Pan Stanislav; "and second, it is too early." "Too early? That means that thou art reserving the future for thyself." "No; it means that I am thinking of something else, and also that I love my Marynia more and more. And when that ends, too early will be too late, and that Pani Osnovski might dent, but not sharpen herself, on me." And Pan Stanislav, in saying this, was sincere: he had his thoughts occupied really with something else; he was too honorable to betray his wife at any time, but even if not, it was too early to begin. He was so greatly sure of his strength that he felt a certain readiness to expose himself to trial. In other words, it would have given the man a kind of pleasure if Pani Osnovski had dented herself on him. After lunch he went with Marynia to sit to Svirski; the sitting, however, was short, since the artist was judge in some exhibition, and had to hasten to a meeting. They returned home, and Pan Osnovski came to them a quarter of an hour later. Pan Stanislav, after his conversation with Svirski, had a kind of compassion for Osnovski, but also a sort of small opinion. Marynia, however, felt for him a living sympathy; she was won by what she had heard of his kindness and delicacy, as well as his attachment to his wife. It seemed to her now that all these qualities were as if written on his face,--a face by no means ugly, though it had pimples here and there. After the greeting, Osnovski began to speak with the confident freedom of a man accustomed to good society: "I come at the instance of my wife with a proposal. Praise to God, visiting ceremonies are ended between us, though abroad it is not worth while to reckon too precisely in this matter. The affair is this: We are going to St. Paul's to-day, and then to the Three Fountains. That is outside the city; there is an interesting cloister in the place, and a beautiful view. It would be very agreeable to us if you would consent to make the trip in our company." Marynia was always ready for every trip, especially in company, and with pleasant conversation; in view of this she looked at her husband, waiting for what he would say. Pan Stanislav saw that she wished to go, and, besides, he thought in his soul, "If the other wants to dent herself, let her do it." And he answered,-- "I would consent willingly, but this depends on my superior power." His "superior power" was not sure yet whether the obedient subordinate meant that really; but, seeing on his face a smile and good-humor, she made bold to say at last,-- "With much thankfulness; but shall we not cause trouble?" "Not trouble, but pleasure," answered Osnovski. "In that event the matter is ended. We'll be here in a quarter of an hour." In fact, they set out a quarter of an hour later. Pani Osnovski's Chinese eyes were full of satisfaction and repose. Wearing an iris-colored robe, in which she might pass for the eighth wonder of the world, she looked really like a rusalka.[6] And before they had reached St. Paul's, Pan Stanislav did not know how Pani Osnovski, who had not spoken on this subject to him, had been able somehow to say to him, or at least to give him to understand, more or less as follows: "Thy wife is a pleasant little woman from the country; of my husband nothing need be said. We two only are able to understand each other and share impressions." But he resolved to torment her. When they arrived at St. Paul's, which Pani Osnovski did not mention otherwise than as "San Poolo fuori le Mura,"[7] her husband wished to stop the carriage, but she said,-- "We will stop when returning, for we shall know then how much time is left for this place; but now we'll go straight to the Three Fountains." Turning to Pan Stanislav, she continued, "There are in this famous place various things, about which I should like to ask you." "Then you will do badly, for I know nothing at all of these matters." It appeared soon, on passing various monuments, that of the whole party Pan Osnovski knew most. The poor man had been studying the guide-books from morning till evening, so that he might be a guide for his wife, and also to please her with his knowledge. But she cared nothing for explanations which her husband could give, precisely because they came from him. The insolent self-assurance with which Pan Stanislav had confessed that he had no idea of antiquities was more to her taste. Beyond St. Paul's opened out a view on the Campagna with its aqueducts, which seemed to run toward the city in haste, and on the Alban hills, veiled, as they were, with the blue haze of distance,--a view at once calm and bright. Pani Osnovski gazed for some time with a dreamy look, and then inquired,-- "Have you been in Albani or Nemi?" "No," answered Pan Stanislav; "sitting to Svirski breaks the day so for us that we cannot make long excursions till the portrait is finished." "We have been there; but when you are going, take me with you, take me with you! Is it agreed? Will you permit?" added she, turning to Marynia. "I shall be a fifth wheel to some extent, but never mind. Besides, I shall sit quietly, very quietly, in a corner of the carriage, and not give out one mru mru! Is it agreed?" "Oi! little one, little one," said Pan Osnovski. But she continued, "My husband will not believe that I am in love with Nemi; but I am. When I was there, it seemed to me that Christianity had not reached the place yet; that in the night certain priests come out and celebrate pagan rites on the lake. Silence and mystery! there you have Nemi. Will you believe that when I was there the wish came to me to be a hermit, and it has not left me to this moment? I would build a cell on the bank of the lake for myself, and wear a robe long and gray, like the habit of Saint Francis of Assisi, and go barefoot. What would I give to be a hermit! I see myself at the lake--" "Anetka,[8] but what would become of me?" inquired Osnovski, half in jest, half in earnest. "Oh, thou wouldst console thyself," said she, curtly. "Thou wouldst be a hermitess," thought Pan Stanislav, "if on the other side of the lake there were a couple of dozen dandies gazing through glasses to see what the hermitess was doing, and how she looked." He was too well-bred to tell her this directly; but he told her something similar, and which could be understood. "Naturally," said she, laughing; "I should live by alms, and should have to see people sometimes; if you came to Nemi, I should come to you too and repeat in a very low voice, 'Un soldo! un soldo!'" Saying this, she stretched her small hands to him, and shook them, repeating humbly,-- "Un soldo per la povera! un soldo!" And she looked into his eyes. Pan Osnovski spoke meanwhile to Marynia. "This is called Three Fountains," said he, "for there are three springs here. Saint Paul's head was cut off at this place; and there is a tradition that the head jumped three times, and that on those places springs burst forth. The place belongs now to the Trappists. Formerly people could not pass a night here, there was such fever; now there is less, for they have planted a whole forest of eucalyptuses on the hills. Oh, we can see it already." But Pani Osnovski, bending back somewhat, half closed her eyes for a moment, and said to Pan Stanislav,-- "This Roman air intoxicates me. I am as if beside myself. At home I cannot force from life more than it gives me; but here I am demoralized, I feel that something is wanting to me. Do I know what? Here one feels something, divines something, yearns for something. Maybe that is bad. Maybe it is not right for me to say this. But I say always what passes through my mind. At home, when a child, they called me Little Sincerity. I shall beg my husband to take me hence. It may be better to live in my own narrow shell, like a nut, or a snail." "It may be pleasant in shells for nuts or snails," answered Pan Stanislav, with gravity, "but not for birds, and besides birds of paradise, of which there is a tradition that they have no legs and can never rest, but must fly and fly." "What a beautiful tradition!" exclaimed Pani Osnovski. And, raising her hands, she began to move them, imitating the motion of wings, and repeating,-- "This way, forever through the air." The comparison flattered her, though she was astonished that Pan Stanislav had uttered it with a serious voice, but with an inattentive and, as it were, ironical face. He began to interest her, for he seemed very intelligent, and more difficult to master than she had expected. Meanwhile they arrived at Three Fountains. They visited the garden, the church, and the chapel, in the basement of which three springs were flowing. Pan Osnovski explained, in his kind, somewhat monotonous voice, what he had read previously. Marynia listened with interest; but Pan Stanislav thought,-- "Still to live three hundred and sixty-five days in a year with him, must be a little tiresome." That justified Pani Osnovski in his eyes for the moment; she, taking upon herself now the new role of bird of paradise, did not rest for a moment, not merely on the ground, but on any subject. First she drank eucalyptus liquor, which the cloister prepared as a means against fever; then she declared decisively that if she were a man she would be a Trappist. Later, however, she remembered that her sailing career would be agreeable "ever between sea and sky, as if living in endlessness;" at last the wish to become a great, a very great writer, gained the day against everything else,--a writer describing the minutest movements of the soul, half-conscious feelings, desires incompletely defined, all forms, all colors, all shades. The party learned also, as a secret, that she was writing her memoirs, which "that honest Yozio" considers a masterpiece; but she knows that that is nothing, she has not the least pretensions, and she ridicules Yozio and the memoirs. "Yozio" looks at her with loving eyes, and with great affection on his pimpled face, and says with a protest,-- "As to the memoirs, I beg pardon greatly." They drove away about sundown. There were long shadows from the trees; the sun was large and red. The distant aqueducts and the Alban hills were gleaming in rose-color. They were halfway when the "Angelus" was sounded in the tower of St. Paul's, and immediately after were heard a second, a third, a tenth. Each church gave the signal to the succeeding one; and such a mighty chorus was formed as if the whole air were ringing, as if the "Angelus" had been sounded not merely by the city, but the whole region, the plains, and the mountains. Pan Stanislav looked on Marynia's face, lighted by the golden gleams. There was great calm in it and attention. It was evident that she was repeating the "Angelus" now, as she had repeated it in Kremen, when it was sounded in Vantory. Always and everywhere the same. Pan Stanislav remembered again the "service of God." It seemed to him more simple and pacifying than ever. But now, while approaching the city, he understood the permanence, the vitality, the immensity, of those beliefs. "All this," thought he, "has endured thus for a thousand and a half of years; and the strength and certainty of this city is only in those towers, those bells, that permanence of the cross, which endures and endures." Again Svirski's words came to him: "Here a ruin, on the Palatine a ruin, in the Forum a ruin, but over the city crosses, crosses, crosses and crosses." It seemed to him beyond a doubt that in that very permanence there is something superhuman. Meanwhile the bells sounded, and the heavens above the city were covered with twilight. Under the impression produced by the praying Marynia, and the bells, and that vesper feeling, which seemed to hover over the city and the whole land, the following thought began to take form in Pan Stanislav, who had much mental directness: "What an idiot and vain fool should I be, in view of the needs of faith and that feeling of God, were I to seek some special forms of love and reverence of my own, instead of accepting those which Marynia calls 'service of God,' and which still must be the best, since the world has lived nearly two thousand years in them!" Then the reasoning side of this thought struck him as a practical man, and he continued to himself, almost joyously: "On one side the traditions of a thousand years, the life of God knows how many generations and how many societies, for which there was and is delight in those forms, the authority for God knows how many persons who consider them as the only forms; on the other side, who? I, a partner in the commission house of Bigiel and Polanyetski; and I had the pretension to think out something better into which the Lord God would fit Himself more conveniently. For this it is needful at least to be a fool! I, besides, am a man sincere with myself; and I could not endure it if from time to time the thought came to me,--I am a fool. But my mother believed in this, and my wife believes; and I have never seen greater peace in any one than in them." Here he looked at Marynia once and a second time; she had finished evidently her "Angelus," for she smiled at him in answer, and inquired,-- "Why so silent?" "We are all silent," he answered. And so it was, but for various reasons. While Pan Stanislav was occupied with his thoughts, Pani Osnovski attacked him a number of times with her eyes and her words. He answered her words with something disconnected, and did not notice her glances in any way. He simply offended her: she might have forgiven him, she might have been pleased even, if to her statement that she wished to be a nun, he had answered with impudence concealed in polished words; but he wounded her mortally when he ceased to notice her, and in punishment she ceased also to notice him. But as a person of good breeding she became all the politer to Marynia. She inquired touching her plans on the following day; and, learning that they were to be at the Vatican, she announced that she and her husband had tickets of admission, and would use the opportunity also. "You know the dress?" inquired she. "A black robe, and black lace on the head. One looks a little old in them, but no matter." "I know; Pan Svirski forewarned me," answered Marynia. "Pan Svirski always talks of you to me when I am sitting to him. He has great regard for you." "And I for him." During this conversation they arrived at the hotel. Pan Stanislav received such a slight and cool pressure of the hand from the fair lady that, though his head was occupied with something else, he noticed it. "Is that a new method," thought he, "or have I said something that displeased her?" "What dost thou think of Pani Osnovski?" asked he of Marynia in the evening. "I think that Pan Svirski may be right in some measure." And Pan Stanislav answered: "She is writing at this moment 'memoirs,' which 'Yozio' considers a masterpiece." FOOTNOTES: [6] River-maiden among the Slavs. [7] Thus printed to show her style of Italian. [8] A diminutive of Aneta. CHAPTER XXXV. Next morning when Marynia came out to her husband he hardly knew her. Dressed in black, and with a black lace veil on her head, she seemed taller, more slender, darker, and older. But he was pleased by a certain solemnity in her which recalled the ceremony of their marriage. Half an hour later they started. On the road Marynia confessed to fear, and a beating of the heart. He pacified her playfully, though he, too, was moved somewhat; and when, after a short drive, they entered the gigantic half-circle in front of St. Peter's, he felt also that his pulse was not beating as every day, and, besides, he had a strange feeling of being smaller than usual. Near the steps, where stood a number of Swiss guards, arrayed in the splendid uniform invented by Michael Angelo, they found Svirski, who led them up with a throng of people, mostly Belgians. Marynia, who was somewhat dazed, did not know herself when she entered a very spacious hall, in which the throng was still denser, excepting on a space in the centre, where the Swiss guards were posted in lines, and kept a broad passage open. The crowd, among which the French and Flemish languages were to be heard, whispered in low voices, and turned their heads and eyes toward a passage, in which, from time to time, appeared, through the adjoining hall, forms in remarkable costumes, which reminded Pan Stanislav of galleries in Antwerp or Brussels. It seemed to him that the Middle Ages were rising from the dead: now it was some knight of those ages, in a helmet, different indeed from helmets on the ancient portraits, but with steel on his breast; now a herald in a short red dalmatica, and with a red cap on his head; at times through the open door appeared purple cardinals, or violet bishops, ostrich feathers, lace on black velvet, and heads immensely venerable, white hair and faces, as if from a sarcophagus. But it was evident that the glances of the throng were falling on those peculiar dresses and colors and faces, as if, in passing, that their eyes were waiting for something beyond, something higher, some other heart; it was clear that in people's minds attention was fixed as was feeling in their souls, in waiting for a moment which comes once in a lifetime, and is memorable ever after. Pan Stanislav, holding Marynia by the hand, so as not to lose her in the throng, felt that hand tremble from emotion; as to him, in the midst of those silent crowds and beating hearts, before that historical dignity of former ages rising from the dead, as it were, in the midst of that attention and expectation, he felt a second time the wonderful impression of becoming smaller and smaller, till he was the smallest that he had ever been in life. At that moment a low and rather panting voice whispered near them,-- "I have been looking for you, and found you with difficulty. The ceremony will begin at once, it seems." But it was not to begin at once. The monsignor acquaintance greeted Svirski meanwhile, and, speaking a few words to him, conducted the whole party politely to the adjoining hall, which was fitted in crimson damask. Pan Stanislav saw with astonishment that this hall, too, was full of people, with the exception of one end, which was reserved by a guard of honor, and in which was an armchair on an elevation, and before it a number of prelates and bishops conversing confidentially. Here expectation and attention were more expressly visible. It was evident that people were holding their breath; and all faces had a solemn, mysterious expression. The azure clearness of the day, mingled with the purple reflections of the tapestry, filled that hall with a kind of unusual light, in which the rays of the sun, breaking in here and there through the window-panes, appeared very ruddy and of a deeper red. They waited some time yet; at last, in the first hall a murmur was heard, then a muttering, then a shout, and, finally, in the open side door appeared a white figure borne by the noble guard. Marynia's hand pressed Pan Stanislav's nervously; he returned the pressure; and swift impressions, merged in one general feeling of the exceptional and solemn import of the moment, flashed through their minds, as during the ceremony of their marriage. One of the cardinals began to speak, but Pan Stanislav neither heard nor understood what he said. His eyes, his thoughts, his whole soul, were with the figure clothed in white. Nothing in it escaped his attention,--its unparalleled emaciation, its frailness, its thinness, and its face as pale, and at the same time as transparent, as faces of the dead are. There was in it something which had no physical strength, or in every case it seemed to him simply half body, half apparition, as it were, a light shining through alabaster; a spirit, fixed in some transparent matter; an intermediate link between two worlds; a link human yet, though already preterhuman, earthly so far, but also above earthly things. And through a marvellous antithesis the matter in it seemed to be something apparitional, and the spirit something material. Afterward, when people began to approach it for a blessing; when Pan Stanislav saw his Marynia at its feet; when he felt that to those knees, already half empyrean, one might still incline as to those of a father,--an emotion surpassing everything seized him; his eyes were as if mist-covered; never in life had he felt himself such a small grain of sand, but at the same time he felt himself a grain of sand in which the grateful heart of a little child was throbbing. After they had gone out, all were silent. Marynia had eyes as if roused from sleep; Vaskovski's hands were trembling. Bukatski dragged himself in to lunch; but, being ill, he could not excite conversation in any one. Svirski, strange to say, talked little while Marynia was sitting, and returned continually to the same subject; from time to time he repeated,-- "Yes, yes; whoever has not seen that can have no conception of it. That will remain." In the evening Pan Stanislav and Marynia went to see the sunset from Trinità dei Monti. The day ended very beautifully. The whole city was buried in a kind of hazy golden gleam; under their feet, far down in the valley, on the Piazza di Spagna, darkness was beginning, but a darkness yet lighted, in the mild tones of which irises and white lilies were visible among the flowers set out on both sides of the Via Condotti. In the whole picture there was great and undisturbed repose,--a kind of soothing announcement of night and sleep. Then the Piazza di Spagna began to sink more and more in the shade, but the Trinità was shining continually in purple. Pan Stanislav and Marynia felt this calmness reflected in themselves; they descended the giant stairs then with a wonderful feeling of peace in their souls. All the impressions of the day settled down in them in lines as great and calm as those twilight belts, which were still shining above them. "Knowest thou," said Pan Stanislav, "what I remember yet from childhood's years? That with us at home they always said the evening rosary together." And he looked with an inquiring glance into Marynia's eyes. "Oh, my Stas!" said she, with a voice trembling from emotion, "I did not dare to mention this--my best." "'Service of God,'--dost thou remember?" But she had said that formerly with such simplicity, and as a thing so self-evident, that she remembered nothing whatever about it. CHAPTER XXXVI. But Pan Stanislav was in permanent disfavor with Pani Osnovski. Meeting him at Svirski's, between one sitting and another, she spoke to him only in so far as good breeding and politeness demanded. He saw this perfectly, and asked himself sometimes, "What does that woman want of me?" but troubled himself little. He would have troubled himself still less if "that woman," instead of being eight and twenty, had been eight and fifty years of age; if she had been without those violet eyes and those cherry lips. And such is human nature that, in spite of the fact that he wanted nothing of her, and expected nothing, he could not refrain from thinking what might happen should he strive really for her favor, and how far would she be capable of going. They had another trip of four to the catacombs of St. Calixtus, for Pan Stanislav wished to repay politeness with politeness,--that is, a carriage with a carriage. But this trip did not bring reconciliation; they only conversed so far as not to call attention to themselves. At last this began to anger Pan Stanislav. In fact, Pani Osnovski's bearing developed a special relation between them, unpleasant in a way, but known only to them, hence something between them exclusively,--a kind of secret, to which no one else was admitted. Pan Stanislav considered that all this would end with the work on her portrait; but though the face had been finished some time, there remained many little details, for which the presence of the charming model was indispensable. Even for the simple reason that Svirski did not wish to lose time, it happened that when Pan Stanislav and his wife came, the Osnovskis were in the studio. Sometimes they stopped a little for greeting and a short talk touching yesterday's impressions; sometimes Osnovski was sent by his wife on an errand, or for some news. In that event he went out first, leaving the carriage for her before the studio. And it happened once that when Marynia had taken her place for a sitting, Pani Osnovski had not gone yet; after a while, learning that Marynia had been at the theatre the evening before, she, while putting on her hat and gloves before the mirror, inquired about singers and the opera, then, turning to Pan Stanislav, she said,-- "And now, I pray you, conduct me to the carriage." She threw on her wrap, and began to look for the ribbons sewn behind to the lining, so as to fasten it around her waist, but she stopped suddenly at the entrance,-- "I cannot find the ribbons because I have my gloves on; take pity on me." Pan Stanislav had to look for the ribbons, but in doing so he was forced to put his arm almost around her; after a moment the brewing of desire poured about him, all the more since she bent toward him, and the warmth of her face and body struck him. "But why are you angry with me?" inquired she, in an undertone; "that is bad. I am in such need of friendly souls. What have I done to you?" He found the ribbons, recovered himself, and with that somewhat coarse satisfaction of a rude man, who desires to use his triumph, and to signify that he has not yielded, answered simply, with an impertinence,-- "You have done nothing to me, and you can do nothing." But she repulsed the impoliteness, as if it were a ball at tennis. "Because sometimes I notice persons so little that I hardly see them." They went in silence to the carriage. "But is it that way?" thought Pan Stanislav, returning to the studio; "a man might advance there as far as he pleased;" and a quiver passed through him. "As far as he pleased," repeated he. Herewith he was not conscious that he had made such a mistake as is made daily by dozens of men who are lovers of hunting in other men's grounds. Pani Osnovski was a coquette: she had a dry heart, and her thought was dishonorable already; but she was hundreds of miles yet from complete physical fall. Meanwhile Pan Stanislav returned to the studio feeling that he had made an immense sacrifice for Marynia, and with a certain regret in his heart, first, because she would not know what had happened, and second, if she should know, she would consider his action as perfectly simple. This feeling angered him; and when he looked at her, at her clear eyes, her calm face, and her fair, honest beauty, a comparison of those two women urged itself into his mind in spite of him, and in his soul he said,-- "Ah, Marynia! such as she would rather sink through the earth; of her it is possible to be certain." And--singular thing--there was in this an undoubted recognition, but there was also a shade of regret, and as it were, of irritation, that that was a woman so greatly his own that he did not feel bound to a continual admiration of her worthiness. And for the rest of the sitting he turned his thought to Pani Osnovski. He supposed that in future she would simply cease to give her hand to him, and it turned out that he was mistaken again. On the contrary, wishing to show that she attached no importance to him or to his words, she was more polite to him than hitherto. Pan Osnovski, however, had an offended look, and became more and more icy every day toward him. This was caused, undoubtedly, by conversations with "Anetka." A few days later, however, impressions of another sort effaced that adventure from Pan Stanislav's mind. Bukatski had long been ill; he complained more and more of a pain in the back of his head, and a strange feeling of separating from his own muscles. His humor revived still at moments, but it shot up and went out like fireworks. He came to the _table d'hôte_ more rarely. At last Pan Stanislav received his card one morning; on it these words were written with a very uncertain hand,-- MY DEAR,--After to-night it seems that I am about to get on horseback. If thou wish to see my departure, come, especially in lack of anything better to do. Pan Stanislav hid the card from Marynia, but went straightway. He found Bukatski in bed, and a doctor with him, whom Bukatski sent away that moment. "Thou hast frightened me terribly," said Pan Stanislav. "What ails thee?" "Nothing great,--a little paralysis of the lower part of the body." "Have the fear of God!" "Thou speakest wisely, if there were time for it; but now I have no power in my left arm, in my left leg, and I cannot rise. Thus did I wake this morning. I thought that I had lost speech, too, and began to declaim to myself, 'Per me si va;' but, as thou seest, I have not lost speech. My tongue remained, and now I am trying to find calmness of thought." "But art thou sure that it is paralysis? It may be a temporary numbness." "What is life?--Ah, only a moment," Bukatski began to declaim; "I cannot move, and that is the end, or, if thou prefer, the beginning." "That would be a terrible thing, but I do not believe it; any one may be benumbed for a time." "There are moments in life which are somewhat bitter, as the carp said when the cook was scraping his scales off with a knife. I confess that at first terror took hold of me. Hast thou ever felt the hair rising on thy head? It is not to be reckoned altogether among feelings of delight. But I have recovered my balance, and now, at the end of three hours, it seems to me that I have lived ten years with my paralysis. It is a question of habit! as the mushroom said when in the frying-pan. I am chatting much, for I haven't much time. Dost thou know, my dear friend, that I shall die in a couple of days?" "Indeed, thou art chatting! Paralyzed people live thirty years." "Even forty," answered Bukatski. "Paralysis in that case is a luxury which some may permit themselves, but not men like me. For a strong man, who has a good neck, good shoulders, good breast, and proper legs, it may be even a species of rest, a kind of vacation after a frolicsome youth, and an opportunity for meditation; but for me! Dost remember how thou wert laughing at my legs? Well, I tell thee that they were elephantine at that time if compared with what they are to-day. It is not true that every man is a clod; I am only a line,--I am not joking,--and, moreover, a line vanishing _in infinity_." Pan Stanislav began to shrug his shoulders, to contradict, and to quote known examples; but Bukatski resisted. "Stop! I feel and know that in a couple of days paralysis of the brain will set in. I have been expecting this a whole year, but told no one, and for a year have been reading books on medicine. A second attack will come, and that will be final." Here he was silent, but after a time continued,-- "And, believe me, I do not like this. Think of it: I am as much alone as a finger cut off from its hand; I have no one. Here, and even in Warsaw, only people who are paid would take care of me. Life is terribly wretched when a man is without power of movement, and without a living soul who is related. When I lose speech, as I have lost power of motion, any woman in attendance, or any man, may strike me on the face as much as she or he pleases. But thou must know one thing. I feared paralysis at the first moment; but in my weak body there is a brave spirit. Remember what I said to thee,--that I fear not death; and I do not fear it." Here there gleamed in Bukatski's eyes a certain pale reflection of daring and energy, hidden somewhere in the bottom of that disjointed and softened soul. But Pan Stanislav, who had a good heart, put his hand on the palm already paralyzed, and said, with great feeling,-- "My Adzia! But do not suppose that we will leave thee thus, desert thee as thou art; and do not say that thou hast no one. Thou hast me, and besides me, my wife, and Svirski, Vaskovski, and the Bigiels. For us thou art not a stranger. I will take thee to Warsaw, I will put thee in the hospital, and we will care for thee, and no attendant will strike thee on the face,--first, because I should break the bones of such a person; secondly, we have Sisters of Charity, and among them is Pani Emilia." Bukatski was silent, and grew pale a little; he was more moved than he wished to show. A shadow passed over his eyes. "Thou art a good fellow," said he, after a prolonged silence. "Thou knowest not what a miracle thou hast worked, for thou hast brought it about that I wish something yet. Yes; I should like wonderfully to go to Warsaw, to be among you all. I should be immensely pleased there." "Here thou must go at once to some hospital, and be under constant care. Svirski must know where the best one is. Yield thyself to me, wilt thou? Let me arrange for thee." "Do what may please thee," answered Bukatski, whom consolation began to enter now, in view of the new plans and the energy of his friend. Pan Stanislav wrote to Svirski and to Vaskovski, and sent out messengers immediately. Half an hour later both appeared, Svirski with a famous local physician. Before mid-day Bukatski found himself in a hospital, in a well-lighted and cheerful chamber. "What a pleasant and warm tone!" said he, looking at the golden color, and the walls and ceiling. "This is nice." Then, turning to Pan Stanislav, he said, "Come to me in the evening, but go now to thy wife." Pan Stanislav took farewell of him, and went out. When he reached home he told Marynia the whole story cautiously, for he did not wish to frighten her with sudden news, giving the idea that he was in a dangerous condition. Marynia begged him to take her to Bukatski, if not in the evening, in the morning early, which he promised to do. They went immediately after lunch, for that day there was no sitting in the studio. But before they arrived, Vaskovski was there, and he did not leave Bukatski for a moment. When the patient had settled himself well in the new bed, the old man told him how once he had thought himself dying, but after confession and receiving the sacraments, he grew better, as if by a miracle. "A well-known method, dear professor," said Bukatski, with a smile; "I divine what thy object is." The professor was as confused as if caught in some evil deed, and crossed his hands. "I will lay a wager that it would help thee," said he. Bukatski answered with a gleam of his former humor, "Very well. In a couple of days I shall convince myself, on the other side of the river, how much it will help me." The arrival of Marynia pleased him, all the more that it was unexpected. He said that he had not thought to see any woman on this side of the river, and, moreover, one of his own. Therewith he began to scold them all a little, but with evident emotion. "What sentimentalists they are!" said he. "It is simply a judgment to be occupied with such a skeleton grandfather as I am. Ye will never have reason. What is this for? What good in it? See, even before death, I am forced to be grateful; and I am sincerely, very sincerely grateful." But Marynia did not let him talk about death; on the contrary, she said with great firmness that he must go to Warsaw, and be among his friends. She spoke of this as a thing the execution of which was not subject to the least doubt, and she succeeded gradually in convincing Bukatski of it. She told him how to prepare, and at last he listened to her eagerly. His thoughts passed into a certain condition of yielding, in which they let themselves be led. He felt like a child, and, besides, a poor child. That same day Osnovski visited him, and also showed as much interest and feeling as if he had been his own brother. Bukatski had out and out not expected all this, and had not counted on anything similar. Therefore, when later in the evening Pan Stanislav came a second time, and no others were present, he said to him,-- "I tell thee sincerely that never have I felt with such clearness that I made life a stupid farce, that I have wasted it like a dog." And soon after he added, "And if I had found a real pleasure in that method by which I was living; but I had not even that satisfaction. How stupid is our epoch! A man makes two of himself; all that is best in him he hides away, shuts in somewhere in corners, and becomes a kind of ape. He rather persuades himself of the uselessness of life than feels it. How wonderful this is! One thing consoles me,--that in truth death is the only thing real in life, though, on the other hand, this again is not a reason why, before it comes, we should say of it as a fool says of wine, that it is vinegar." "My dear friend," answered Pan Stanislav, "thou hast always tortured thyself with this endless winding of thought around some bobbin. Do not do that at present." "Thou art right. But I am unable not to think that while I was walking around and was well in a fashion, I jeered at life; and now--I tell thee as a secret--I want to live longer." "Thou wilt live longer." "Give use peace. Thy wife was persuading me of that, but now again I do not believe it. And it is painful to me,--I have thrown myself away. But hear why I wanted to speak with thee. I know not whether any account is waiting for me; I say sincerely that I know not, but still I feel a kind of strange alarm, as if I were afraid. And I will tell thee something: during life I did nothing for my fellows, and I was able! I was able! In presence of this thought fear seizes me; I give thee my word! That is an unworthy thing. I did nothing; I ate bread without paying for it, and now--death. If there are any whips beyond, and if they are waiting for me, it is to punish that; and listen, Stas, it is painful to me." Here, although he spoke with the careless tone usual to him, his face expressed real dread, his lips grew pale somewhat, and on his forehead drops of sweat appeared. "But stop!" said Pan Stanislav; "see what comes to his head. Thou art injuring thyself." But Bukatski spoke on: "Listen! wait! I have property which is rather considerable; let even that do something for me. I will leave thee a part of it, and do thou use the remainder for something useful. Thou art practical, so is Bigiel. Think of something, thou and he, for I do not believe that I shall have time. Wilt thou do this?" "That, and thy every wish." "I thank thee. How wonderful are fears and reproaches of this kind! And still I cannot escape a feeling of guilt. The conditions are such that I am not right! One should do something honorable even just before death. But it is no joke,--death. If that were something visible, but it is so dark. And one must decay, corrupt, and rot _in the dark_. Art thou a believer?" "Yes." "But I, neither yes nor no. I amused myself with Nirvana, as with other things. Dost thou know, were it not for the feeling of guilt, I should be more at rest? I had no idea that this would pain me so; I have the impression that I am a bee which has robbed its hive, and that is a low thing. But at least my property will remain after me. This is true, is it not? I have spent a little, but very little, on pictures, which will remain, too; isn't this true? But now, how I should like to live longer, even a year, even long enough not to die here!" He meditated a while, and then said,-- "I understand one thing now: life may be bad, for a man may order it foolishly; but existence is good." Pan Stanislav went away late in the night. Through the following week the health of the patient was wavering. The doctors were unable to foresee anything; they judged, however, that a journey was not dangerous in any case. Svirski and Vaskovski volunteered to go to Warsaw with the sick man, who was yearning for home more and more, and who mentioned Pani Emilia, the Sister of Charity, almost daily. But on the eve of the day on which he was to go he lost speech suddenly. Pan Stanislav's heart was bleeding when he looked at his eyes, in which at moments a terrible alarm was depicted, and at moments a kind of great, silent prayer. He tried to write, but could not. In the evening came paralysis of the brain, and he died. They buried him in the Campo Santo temporarily. Pan Stanislav thought that his looks uttered a prayer to be carried to his own country, and Svirski confirmed that thought. Thus vanished that bubble which gleamed sometimes with the colors of the rainbow, but was as empty and evanescent as any bubble. Pan Stanislav was sincerely afflicted by his death, and meditated afterward for whole hours on that strange life. He did not share these thoughts with Marynia, for somehow it had not become a custom with him yet to confide to her anything that took place in his mind. Finally, as happens often with people who are thinking of the dead, he drew from these thoughts various conclusions to his own advantage. "Bukatski," said he to himself, "was never able to come to harmony with his own mind: he lacked the understanding of life; he could not fix his position in that forest, and he travelled always according to the fancy of the moment. But if he had felt contented with that system, if he had squeezed something out of life, I should own that he had sense. But it was unpleasant for him. It is really a foolish thing to persuade one's self, before death comes, that wine is vinegar. But I look at matters more clearly, and, besides, I have been far more sincere with myself. Happen what may, I am almost perfectly in order with God and with life." There was truth in this, but there was also illusion. Pan Stanislav was not in order with his own wife. He judged that if he gave her protection, bread, good treatment, and put kisses on her lips from time to time, he was discharging all possible duties assumed with regard to her. Meanwhile their relations began to be more definitely of this sort,--that he only deigned to love and receive love. In the course of his observations of life this strange phenomenon had struck him more than once,--that when, for example, a man well-known for honor does some noble deed, people wave their hands as if with a certain indifference, saying, "Oh, that is Pan X----; from him this is perfectly natural!" When, however, some rogue chanced to do something honorable, these same people said with great recognition, "But there is something in the man." A hundred times Pan Stanislav observed that a copper from a miser made more impression than a ducat from a generous giver. He did not notice, however, that with Marynia he followed the same method of judgment and recognition. She gave him all her being, all her soul. "Ah, Marynia! that is natural!" and he waved his hand too. Had her love not been so generous, had it come to him with supreme difficulty, with the conviction that it was a treasure, and given as such, with the conviction that she was a divinity demanding a bowed head and honor, Pan Stanislav would have received it with a bowed head, and would have rendered the honor. Such is the general human heart; and only the choicest natures, woven from rays, have power to rise above this level. Marynia had given Pan Stanislav her love as his right. She considered his love as happiness, and he gave it as happiness; he felt himself the idol on the altar. One ray of his fell on the heart of the woman and illumined it: the divinity kept the rest of the rays for itself; taking all, it gave only a part. In his love there was not that fear which flows from honor, and there was not that which in every fondling says to the woman beloved, "at thy feet." But they did not understand this yet, either of them. CHAPTER XXXVII. "I do not ask if thou art happy," said Bigiel to Pan Stanislav after his return to Warsaw; "with such a person as thy wife it is not possible to be unhappy." "True," answered Pan Stanislav; "Marynia is such an honest little woman that it would be hard to find a better." Then, turning to Pani Bigiel, he said,-- "We are both happy, and it cannot be otherwise. You remember, dear lady, our former conversations about love and marriage? You remember how I feared to meet a woman who would try to hide the world from her husband with herself, to occupy all his thoughts, all his feelings, to be the single object of his life? You remember how I proved to you and Pani Emilia that love for a woman could not and should not in any case be for a man everything; that beyond it there are other questions in the world?" "Yes; but I remember also how I told you that domestic occupations do not hinder me in any way from loving my children; for I know in some fashion, as it seems to me, that these things are not like boxes, for example, of which, when you have put a certain number on a table, there is no room for others." "My wife is right now," said Bigiel. "I have noticed that people often deceive themselves when they transfer feelings or ideas into material conditions. When it is a question of feelings or ideas, space is not to be considered." "Oh, stop! Thou art conquered to the country," said Pan Stanislav, humorously. "But if the position is pleasant for me?" said Bigiel, promptly. "Moreover, thou, too, wilt be conquered." "I?" "Yes; with honesty, kindness, and heart." "That is something different. It is possible to be conquered, and not be a slipper. Do not hinder me in praising Marynia; I have succeeded in a way that could not be improved, and specially for this reason,--that she is satisfied with the feeling which I have for her, and has no wish to be my exclusive idol. For this I love her. God has guarded me from a wife demanding devotion of the whole soul, whole mind, whole existence; and I thank Him sincerely, since I could not endure such a woman. I understand more easily that all may be given of free will, and when not demanded." "Believe me, Pan Stanislav," answered Pani Bigiel, "that in this regard we are all equally demanding; but at first we take frequently that part for the whole which they give us, and then--" "And then what?" interrupted Pan Stanislav, rather jokingly. "Then those who have real honesty in their hearts attain to something which for you is a word without meaning, but for us is often life's basis." "What kind of talisman is that?" "Resignation." Pan Stanislav laughed, and added, "The late Bukatski used to say that women put on resignation frequently, as they do a hat, because it becomes them. A resignation hat, a veil of light melancholy,--are they ugly?" "No, not ugly. Say what you please; they may be a dress, but in such a dress it is easier to reach heaven than in another." "Then my Marynia is condemned to hell, for she will never wear that dress, I think. But you will see her in a moment, for she promised to come here after office hours. She is late, the loiterer; she ought to be here now." "Her father is detaining her, I suppose. But you will stay to dine with us, will you not?" "We will stay to dine. Agreed." "And some one else has promised us to-day, so the society will only be increased. I will go now to tell them to prepare places for you." Pani Bigiel went out; but Pan Stanislav asked Bigiel,-- "Whom hast thou at dinner?" "Zavilovski, the future letter-writer of our house." "Who is he?" "That poet already famous." "From Parnassus to the desk? How is that?" "I do not remember, now, who said that society keeps its geniuses on diet. People say that this man is immensely capable, but he cannot earn bread with verses. Our Tsiskovski went to the insurance company; his place was left vacant, and Zavilovski applied. I had some scruples, but he told me that for him this place was a question of bread, and the chance of working. Besides, he pleased me, for he told me at once that he writes in three languages, but speaks well in none of them; and second, that he has not the least conception of mercantile correspondence." "Oh, that is nonsense," answered Pan Stanislav; "he will learn in a week. But will he keep the place long, and will not the correspondence be neglected? Business with a poet!" "If he is not right, we will part. But when he applied, I chose to give the place to him. In three days he is to begin. Meanwhile, I have advanced a month's salary; he needed it." "Was he destitute?" "It seems so. There is an old Zavilovski,--that one who has a daughter, a very wealthy man. I asked our Zavilovski if that was a relative of his; he said not, but blushed, so I think that the old man is his relative. But how it is with us? A balance in nothing. Some deny relationship because they are poor; others, because they are rich. All through some fancy, and because of that rascally pride. But he'll please thee; he pleased my wife." "Who pleased thy wife?" asked Pani Bigiel, coming in. "Zavilovski." "For I read his beautiful verses entitled, 'On the Threshold.' At the same time he looks as if he were hiding something from people." "He is hiding poverty, or rather, poverty was hiding him." "No; he looks as if he had passed through some severe disappointment." "Thou wert able to see in him a romance, and to tell me that he had suffered much. Thou wert offended when I put forth the hypothesis that it might be from worms in childhood, or scald-head. That was not poetical enough for her." Pan Stanislav looked at his watch, and was a little impatient. "Marynia is not coming," said he; "what a loiterer!" But the "loiterer" came at that moment, or rather, drove up. The greeting was not effusive, for she had seen the Bigiels at the railway. Pan Stanislav told his wife that they would stay to dine, to which she agreed willingly, and fell to greeting the children, who rushed into the room in a swarm. Now came Zavilovski, whom Bigiel presented to Pan Stanislav and Marynia. He was a man still young,--about seven or eight and twenty. Pan Stanislav, looking at him, considered that in every case his mien was not that of a man who had suffered much; he was merely ill at ease in a society with which he was more than half unacquainted. He had a nervous face, and a chin projecting prominently, like Wagner's, gladsome gray eyes, and a very delicate forehead, whiter than the rest of his face; on his forehead large veins formed the letter _Y_. He was, besides, rather tall and somewhat awkward. "I have heard," said Pan Stanislav to him, "that in three days you will be our associate." "Yes, Pan Principal," answered the young man; "or rather, I shall serve in the office." "But give peace to the 'principal,'" said Pan Stanislav, laughing. "With us it is not the custom to use the words 'grace,' or 'principal' unless perchance such a title would please my wife by giving her importance in her own eyes. But listen, Pani Principal_ess_," said he, turning to Marynia, "would it please thee to be called principal_ess_? It would be a new amusement." Zavilovski was confused; but he laughed too, when Marynia answered,-- "No; for it seems to me that a principal_ess_ ought to wear an enormous cap like this" (here she showed with her hands how big), "and I cannot endure caps." It grew pleasanter for Zavilovski in the joyous kindness of those people; but he was confused again when Marynia said,-- "You are an old acquaintance of mine. I have read nothing of late, for we have just returned home; has anything appeared while we were gone?" "No, Pani," answered he; "I occupy myself with that as Pan Bigiel does with music,--in free moments, and for my own amusement." "I do not believe this," said Marynia. And she was right not to believe, for it was not true at all. Zavilovksi's reply was lacking also in candor, for he wished to let it be known that he desired beyond all to pass as the correspondent of a commercial house, and to be considered an employee, not a poet. He gave a title to Bigiel and Pan Stanislav, not through any feeling of inferiority, but to show that when he had undertaken office work he considered it as good as any other, that he accommodated himself to his position, and would do so in the future. There was in this also something else. Zavilovski, though young, had observed how ridiculous people are, who, when they have written one or two little poems, pose as seers, and insist on being considered such. His great self-esteem trembled before the fear of the ridiculous; hence he fell into the opposite extreme, and was almost ashamed of his poetry. Recently, when suffering great want, this feeling became almost a deformity, and the least reference by any one to the fact that he was a poet brought him to suppressed anger. But meanwhile he felt that he was illogical, since for him the simplest thing would have been not to write and publish poems; but he could not refrain. His head was not surrounded with an aureole yet, but a few gleams had touched it; these illuminated his forehead at one moment, and then died, in proportion as he created, or neglected. After each new poem the gleam began again to quiver; and Zavilovski, as capable as he was ambitious, valued in his heart those reflections of glory more than aught else on earth. But he wanted people to talk of him only among themselves, and not to his eyes. When he felt that they were beginning to forget him, he suffered secretly. There was in him, as it were, a dualism of self-love, which wanted glory, and at the same time rejected it through a certain shyness and pride, lest some one might say that too much had been given. And many contradictions besides inhered in him, as a man young and impressionable, who takes in and feels exceptionally, and who, amidst his feelings, is not able frequently to distinguish his own personal _I_. For this reason it is that artists in general seem often unnatural. Now came dinner, during which conversation turned on Italy, and people whom the Polanyetskis had met there. Pan Stanislav spoke of Bukatski and his last moments, and also of the dead man's will, by which he became the heir to a fairly large sum of money. By far the greater part was to be used for public objects, and touching this he had to confer with Bigiel. They loved Bukatski, and remembered him with sympathy. Pani Bigiel had even tears in her eyes when Marynia stated that before death he had confessed; and that he died like a Christian. But this sympathy was of the kind that one might eat dinner with; and if Bukatski had, in truth, sighed sometimes for Nirvana, he had what he wanted at present, since he had become for people, even those near him, and who loved him, a memory as slight as it was unenduring. A week longer, a month, or a year, and his name would be a sound without an echo. He had not earned, in fact, the deep love of any one, and had not received it; his life flowed away from him in such fashion that after even a child like Litka, there remained not only a hundred times more sorrow, but also love and memorable traces. His life roused at first the curiosity of Zavilovski, who had not known him; but when he had heard all that Pan Stanislav narrated, he said, after thinking a while, "An additional copy." Bukatski, who joked at everything, would have been pained by such an epitaph. Marynia, wishing to give a more cheerful turn to conversation, began to tell of the excursions they had made in Rome and the environs, either alone, with Svirski, or the Osnovskis. Bigiel, who was a classmate of Osnovski, and who from time to time saw him yet, said,-- "He has one love,--his wife; and one hatred,--his corpulence, or rather, his inclination to it. As to other things, he is the best man on earth." "But he seems quite slender," said Marynia. "Two years ago he was almost fat; but since he began to use a bicycle, fence, follow the Banting system, drink Karlsbad in summer, and go in winter to Italy or Egypt to perspire, he has made himself slender again. But I have not said truly that he has a hatred for corpulence; it is his wife who has, and he does this through regard for her. He dances whole nights, too, at balls, for the same reason." "He is a _sclavus saltans_," said Pan Stanislav. "Svirski has told us of this already." "I understand that it is possible to love a wife," said Bigiel; "it is possible to consider her, according to the saying, as the apple of the eye. Very well! But, as I love God, I have heard that he writes verses to his wife; that he opens books with his eyes closed, marks a verse with his finger, and divines to himself from what he reads whether he is loved. If it comes out badly, he falls into melancholy. He is in love like a student,--counts all her glances, strives to divine what this or that word is to mean, kisses not only her feet and hands, but when he thinks that no one is looking, he kisses her gloves. God knows what it is like! and that for whole years." "How much in love!" said Marynia. "Would it be to thy liking were I such?" asked Pan Stanislav. She thought a while, and answered, "No; for in that case thou wouldst be another man." "Oh, that is a Machiavelli," said Bigiel. "It would be worth while to write down such an answer, for that is at once a praise, and somewhat of a criticism,--a testimony that as it is, is best, and that it would be possible to wish for something still better. Manage this for thyself, man." "I take it for praise," said Pan Stanislav, "though you" (here he turned to Pani Bigiel), "will say surely that it is resignation." "The outside is love," answered Pani Bigiel, laughing; "resignation may come in time, as lining, if cold comes." Zavilovski looked on Marynia with curiosity; she seemed to him comely, sympathetic, and her answer arrested his attention. He thought, however, that only a woman could speak so who was greatly in love, and one for whom there was never enough of feeling. He began to look at Pan Stanislav with a certain jealousy; and because he was a great hermit, the words of the song came at once to his head, "My neighbor has a darling wife." Meanwhile, since he had been silent a whole hour, or had spoken a couple of words merely, it seemed to him that he ought to engage in the conversation somehow. But timidity restrained him, and, besides, a toothache, which, when the sharpest pain had passed, was felt yet at moments acutely enough. This pain had taken all his courage; but he rallied finally, and asked,-- "But Pani Osnovski?" "Pani Osnovski," said Pan Stanislav, "has a husband who loves for two; therefore she has no need to fatigue herself, so Svirski, at least, insists. She has Chinese eyes; she is Aneta by name; has filling in her upper teeth, which is visible when she laughs much, therefore she prefers to smile; in general, she is like a turtle-dove,--she turns in a circle, and cries, 'Sugar! sugar!'" "That is a malicious man," said Marynia. "She is beautiful, lively, witty; and Pan Svirski cannot know how much she loves her husband, for surely he hasn't mentioned the matter to her. All these are simply suppositions." Pan Stanislav thought two things: first, that they were not suppositions; and second, that he had a wife who was as naïve as she was honest. But Zavilovski said,-- "I am curious to know what would happen were she as much in love with him as he is with her." "It would be the greatest double egotism that the world has ever witnessed," said Pan Stanislav. "They would be so occupied with each other that they would see no other thing or person on earth." Zavilovski smiled, and said, "Light does not prevent heat; it produces it." "Taking matters strictly, that is rather a poetical than a physical comparison," said Pan Stanislav. But Zavilovski's answer pleased the two ladies, so both supported him ardently; and when Bigiel joined them, Pan Stanislav was outvoted. After that they talked of Mashko and his wife. Bigiel said that Mashko had taken up an immense case against Panna Ploshovski's million-ruble will, in which a number of rather distant heirs appeared. Pan Plavitski had written of this to Marynia while she was in Italy; but, considering the whole affair such an illusion as were aforetime the millions resting on the marl of Kremen, she barely mentioned it to her husband, who waved his hand on the whole question at once. Now, as Mashko had taken up the affair, it seemed more important. Bigiel supposed that there must be some informality in the will, and declared that if Mashko won, he might stand on his feet right away, for he had stipulated an immense fee for himself. The whole affair roused Pan Stanislav's curiosity greatly. "But Mashko has the elasticity of a cat," said he; "he always falls on his feet." "And this time thou shouldst pray that he may not break his back," answered Bigiel; "for it is a question of no small amount, both for thee and thy father-in-law. Ploshov alone with all its farms is valued at seven hundred thousand rubles; and, besides, there is much ready money." "That would be wonderful, such unexpected gain!" said Pan Stanislav. But Marynia heard with pain that her father had indeed appeared among the other heirs in the suit against the will. "Stas" was for her a rich man, and she had blind faith that he could make millions if he wished; her father had an income, and, besides, she had given him the life annuity from Magyerovka; hence poverty threatened no one. It would have been pleasant indeed for her to be able to buy Kremen, and take "Stas" there in summer, but not for money got in this way. "I am only pained by this," said she, with great animation. "That money was bequeathed so honestly. It is not right to change the will of the dead; it is not right to take bread from the poor, or schools. Panna Ploshovski's brother's son shot himself; it may have been for her a question of saving his soul, of gaining God's mercy. This breaking of the will is not right. People should think and feel differently." She grew even flushed somewhat. "How determined she is!" said Pan Stanislav. But she pushed forward her somewhat too wide mouth, and called out with the expression of a pouting child,-- "But say that I am right, Stas; say that I am right. 'T is thy duty to say so." "Without doubt," answered Pan Stanislav; "but Mashko may win the case." "I wish him to lose it." "How determined she is!" repeated Pan Stanislav. "And how honest, what a noble nature!" thought Zavilovski, framing in his plastic mind conceptions of goodness and nobility in the form of a woman with dark hair, blue eyes, a lithe form, and mouth a trifle too wide. After dinner Bigiel and Pan Stanislav went for a cigar and black coffee to the office, where they had to hold meanwhile the first consultation concerning the objects for which Bukatski's property had been bequeathed. Zavilovski, as a non-smoker, remained with the ladies in the drawing-roam. Then Marynia, who, as lady principal_ess_, felt it her duty to give courage to the future employee of the "house," approached him, and said,-- "I, as well as Pani Bigiel, wish that we should all consider one another as members of one great family; therefore I hope that you will count us too as your good acquaintances." "With the greatest readiness, if you permit me," answered Zavilovski. "As it is, I would have testified my respect." "I made the acquaintance of all the gentlemen in the office only at my wedding. We went abroad immediately after; but now it will come to a nearer acquaintance. My husband told me that he should like to have us meet one week at Pan Bigiel's, and the next week at our house. This is a very good plan, but I make one condition." "What is that?" asked Pani Bigiel. "Not to speak of any mercantile matter at those meetings. There will be a little music, for I hope that Pan Bigiel will attend to that; sometimes we'll read something, like 'On the Threshold.'" "Not in my presence," said Zavilovski, with a forced smile. "Why not?" inquired she, looking at him with her usual simplicity. "We have spoken of you more than once in presence of people really friendly, and thought of you before it came to an acquaintance; and why should we not all the more now?" Zavilovski felt wonderfully disarmed. It seemed to him that he had fallen among exceptional persons, or at least that Pani Polanyetski was an exceptional woman. The fear, which burned him like fire, that he might appear ridiculous with his poetry, his over-long neck, and his pointed elbows, began to decrease. He felt in a manner free in her presence. He felt that she said nothing for the mere purpose of talking, or for social reasons, but only that which flowed from her kindness and sensitiveness. At the same time her face and form delighted him, as they had delighted Svirski in Venice. And since he was accustomed to seek forms for all his impressions, he began to seek them for her too; and he felt that they ought to be not only sincere, but exquisite, charming, and complete, just as her own beauty was exquisite and complete. He recognized that he had a theme, and the artist within him was roused. She began now to ask with great friendliness about his family relations; fortunately the appearance of Bigiel and Pan Stanislav in the drawing-room freed him from more positive answers, which would have been disagreeable. His father had been a noted gambler and roisterer on a time, and for a number of years had been suffering in an institution for the insane. Music was to interrupt that dangerous conversation. Pan Stanislav had finished the discussion with Bigiel, who said,-- "That seems to me a perfect project, but it is necessary to think the matter over yet." Then, leaning on his violin, he began to meditate really, and said at last,-- "A wonderful thing! When I play, it is as if there were nothing else in my head, but that is not true. A certain part of my brain is occupied with other things; and it is exactly then that the best thoughts come to me." Saying this, he sat down, took the violoncello between his knees, closed his eyes, and began the "Spring Song." Zavilovski went home that day enchanted with the people and their simplicity, with the "Spring Song," and especially with Pani Polanyetski. She did not even suspect that in time she might enrich poetry with a new thrill. CHAPTER XXXVIII. The Mashkos visited the Polanyetskis in a week after their return. She, in a gray robe, trimmed with marabout feathers of the same color, looked better than ever before. Inflammation of the eyes, from which she had suffered formerly, had disappeared. Her face had its usual indifferent, almost dreamy mildness, but at present this only enhanced her artistic expression. The former Panna Kraslavski was about five years older than Marynia; and before marriage the lady looked still older, but now it seemed as if she had grown young. Her slender form, really very graceful, was outlined in a closely fitting dress as firmly as a child's form. It was strange that Pan Stanislav, who did not like the lady, found in her something attractive, and whenever he looked at her said to himself, "But there is something in her." Even her monotonous and somewhat childlike voice had a certain charm for him. At present he said to himself plainly that she looked exceptionally charming, and had improved more than Marynia. Mashko, on his part, had unfolded like a sunflower. Distinction was just beaming from him; and at her side self-confidence and pride were softened by affability. It seemed impossible that he could visit all his lands within one day,--in a word, he _pretended_ more than ever. But he did not pretend love for his wife, since it was evident from every look of his that he felt it really. In truth, it would have been difficult to find a woman who could answer better to his idea of refinement, good taste, and the elegance of high society. Her indifference, her, as it were, frozen manner with people, he considered as something simply unapproachable. She never lost this "distinction" at any time, even when she was alone with him. And he, as a genuine parvenu who had won a princess, loved her precisely because she seemed a princess, and because he possessed her. Marynia inquired where they had passed the honeymoon. Pani Mashko answered on "my husband's estate," in such a tone as if that "husband's estate" had been entailed during twenty generations; wherewith she added that they were not going abroad till next year, when her husband would finish certain affairs. Meanwhile they would go again to her "husband's estate" for the summer months. "Do you like the country?" inquired Marynia. "Mamma likes the country," answered Pani Mashko. "And does Kremen please your mamma?" "Yes. But the windows in the house are like those in a conservatory. So many panes!" "That is somewhat needed," said Marynia; "for when one of those panes is broken, any glazier of the place can put in a new one, but for large panes it would be necessary to send to Warsaw." "My husband says that he will build a new house." Marynia sighs in secret, and the conversation is changed. Now they talk of mutual acquaintances. It appears that Pani Mashko had taken lessons in dancing once, together with "Anetka" Osnovski and her young relative, Lineta Castelli; that they are well acquainted; that Lineta is more beautiful than Anetka, and, besides, paints, and has a whole album of her own poems. Pani Mashko has heard that Anetka has returned already and that Lineta is to live in the same villa till June together with her aunt Bronich, "and that will be very pleasant, for they are so nice." Pan Stanislav and Mashko make their way to the adjoining room, and talk over Panna Ploshovski's will. "I can inform thee that I have sailed out very nearly," said Mashko. "I was almost over the precipice; but that action put me on my feet, by this alone, that I began it. For years there has not been such a one. The question is one of millions. Ploshovski himself was richer than his aunt; and before he shot himself, he willed his property to Pani Krovitski's mother, and when she didn't accept it, the whole fortune went to old Panna Ploshovski. Thou wilt understand now how much property the woman must have left." "Bigiel mentioned something like seven hundred thousand rubles." "Tell thy Bigiel, since he has such love for giving figures, that it is more than twice that amount. Well, in justice it should be said that I have strength to save myself, and that it is easier to throw me into water than to drown me. But I will tell thee something personal. Knowest thou whom I have to thank for this? Thy father-in-law. Once he mentioned the affair to me, but I waved my hand at it. Afterward I fell into the troubles of which I wrote thee. I had a knife at my throat. Well, three weeks since I chanced to meet Pan Plavitski, who mentioned among other persons Panna Ploshovski, and invented against her all that he could utter. Suddenly I slap my forehead. What have I to lose? Nothing. I ask Vyshynski, clerk of the court, to bring the will to me. I find informalities,--small ones, but they are there. In a week I have power of attorney from the heirs, and begin an action. And what shall I say? At a mere report of the fee which I am to get in case of success, confidence returns to people, patience returns to my creditors, credit returns to me, and I am firm. Dost remember? there was a moment when I was lowering my tone, when through my head were passing village ideas of living by an ant-like industry, of limiting my style of living. Folly! That is difficult, my dear. Thou hast reproached me because I pretend; but with us pretence is needful. To-day I must give myself out as a man who is as sure of his property as he is of victory." "Tell me sincerely, is this a good case?" "How a good case?" "Simply will it not be needful to pull the matter too much by the ears against justice?" "Thou must know that in every case there is something to be said in its favor, and the honor of an advocate consists just in saying this something. In the present case the special questions are, who are to inherit, and is the will so drawn as to stand in law; and it was not I who made the law." "Then thou hast hopes of gaining?" "When it is a question of breaking a will, there are chances almost always, because generally the attack is conducted with a hundred times more energy than is the defence. Who will defend against me? Institutions; that is, bodies unwieldy by nature, of small self-help, whose representatives have no personal interest in the defence. They will find an advocate; well! but what will they give him, what can they give him? As much as is allowed by law; now that advocate will have more chances of profit in case I win, for that may depend on a personal bargain between him and me. In general, I tell thee that in legal actions, as in life, the side wins which has the greater wish to win." "But public opinion will grind thee into bran, if thou break such wills. My wife is interested a little, thou seest." "How a little?" interrupted Mashko. "I shall be a genuine benefactor to both of you." "Well, my wife is indignant, and opposed to the whole action." "Thy wife is an exception." "Not altogether; it is not to my taste either." "What's this? Have they made thee a sentimentalist also?" "My dear friend, we have known each other a long time; use that language with some other man." "Well, I will talk of opinions only. To begin with, I tell thee that a certain unpopularity for a man genuinely _comme il faut_ rather helps than harms him; second, it is necessary to understand those matters. People would grind me into bran, as thou hast said, should I lose the case; but if I win, I shall be considered a strong head--and I shall win." After a while he continued, "And from an economical point of view, what is the question? The money will remain in the country; and, as God lives, I do not know that it will be put to worse use. By aid of it a number of sickly children might be reared to imbecility and help dwarf the race, or a number of seamstresses might get sewing-machines, or a number of tens of old men and women live a couple of years longer; not much good could come to the country of that. Those are objects quite unproductive. We should study political economy some time. Finally, I will say in brief, that I had the knife at my throat. My first duty is to secure life to myself, my wife, and my coming family. If thou art ever in such a position as I was, thou'lt understand me. I chose to sail out rather than drown; and such a right every man has. My wife, as I wrote thee, has a considerable income, but almost no property, or, at least, not much; besides, from that income she allows something to her father. I have increased the allowance, for he threatened to come here, and I didn't want that." "So thou art sure, then, that Pan Kraslavski exists? Thou hast mentioned him, I remember." "I have; and for that very reason I make no secret of the matter now. Besides, I know that people talk to the prejudice of my father-in-law and my wife, that they relate God knows what; hence I prefer to tell thee, as a friend, how things are. Pan Kraslavski lives in Bordeaux. He was an agent in selling sardines, and was earning good money, but he lost the position, for he took to drinking, and drinks absinthe; besides, he has created an illegal family. Those ladies send him three thousand francs yearly; but that sum does not suffice him, and, between remittance and remittance, need pinches the man. Because of this he drinks more, and torments those poor women with letters, threatening to publish in newspapers how they maltreat him; and they treat him better than he deserves. He wrote to me, too, immediately after my marriage, begging me to increase his allowance a thousand francs. Of course he informs me that those women have 'eaten him up;' that he hasn't had a copper's worth of happiness in life; that their selfishness has gnawed him, and warns me against them." Here Mashko laughed. "But the beast has a nobleman's courage. Once, from want, he was going to sell handbills in the corridor of the theatre; but the authorities ordered him to don a kind of helmet, and he could not endure that. He wrote to me as follows: 'All would have gone well, sir, but for the helmet; when they gave me that, I could not.' He preferred death by hunger to wearing the helmet! My father-in-law pleases me! I was in Bordeaux on a time, but forget what manner of helmets are worn by the venders of handbills; but I should like to see such a helmet. Thou wilt understand, of course, that I preferred to add the thousand francs, if I could keep him far away, with his helmet and his absinthe. This is what pains me, however: people say that even here he was a sort of tipstaff, or notary; and that is a low fiction, for it is enough to open the first book on heraldry to see who the Kraslavskis were. Here connections are known; and the Kraslavskis are in no lack of them. The man fell; but the family was and is famous. Those ladies have dozens of relatives who are not so and so; and if I tell this whole story, I do so because I wish thee to know what the truth is." But the truth touching the Kraslavskis concerned Pan Stanislav little; so he returned to the ladies, and all the more readily that Zavilovski had just come. Pan Stanislav had invited the young man to after-dinner tea, so as to show him photographs brought from Italy. In fact, piles of them were laid out on the table; but Zavilovski was holding in his hand the frame containing the photograph of Litka's head, and was so enchanted that immediately after they made him acquainted with Mashko, he looked again at the portrait, and continued to speak of it. "I should have thought it the idea of an artist rather than a portrait of a living child. What a wonderful head! What an expression! Is this your sister?" "No," answered Marynia; "that is a child no longer living." In the eyes of Zavilovski, as a poet, that tragic shadow increased his sympathy and admiration for that truly angelic face. He looked at the photograph for some time in silence, now holding it away from his eyes, and now drawing it nearer. "I asked if it was your sister," said he, "because there is something in the features, in the eyes rather; indeed, there is something." Zavilovski seemed to speak sincerely; but Pan Stanislav had such a respect for the dead child, a respect almost religious, that, in spite of his recognition of Marynia's beauty, the comparison seemed to him a kind of profanation. Hence, taking the photograph from Zavilovski's hands, he put it back on the table, and began to speak with a certain harsh animation,-- "Not the least; not the least! There is not one trait in common. How is it possible to compare them! Not one trait in common." This animation touched Marynia somewhat. "I am of that opinion, too," said she. But her opinion was not enough for him. "Did you know Litka?" asked he, turning to Pani Mashko. "I did." "True; you saw her at the Bigiels'." "I did." "Well, there wasn't a trace of likeness, was there?" "No." Zavilovski, who adored Marynia, looked at Pan Stanislav with a certain astonishment; then he glanced at the tall form of Pani Mashko, outlined through the gray robe, and thought,-- "How elegant she is!" After a while the Mashkos rose to take farewell. Mashko, when kissing Marynia's hand at parting, said,-- "Perhaps I shall go to St. Petersburg soon; at that time remember my wife a little." During tea Marynia reminded Zavilovski of his promise to bring at his first visit, and read to her, the variant of "On the Threshold;" he had grown so attached to the Polanyetskis already that he gave not only the variant, but another poem, which he had written earlier. It was evident that he was amazed himself at his own self-confidence and readiness; so that when he had finished reading, and heard the praises, which were really sincere, he said,-- "I declare truly that with you, after the third meeting, it seems as though we were acquainted from of old. So true is this that I am astonished." Pan Stanislav remembered that once he had said something similar to Marynia in Kremen; but he received this now as if it included him also. But Zavilovski had her only in mind; she simply delighted him with her straightforward kindness, and her face. "That beast is really capable," said Pan Stanislav, when Zavilovski had gone. "Hast thou noticed that he is changed a little in the face?" "He has cut his hair," answered Marynia. "Ah, ha! and his chin sticks out a trifle more." Thus speaking, Pan Stanislav rose and began to put away the photographs on the shelves above the table; finally, he took Litka's portrait, and said,-- "I will take this to my study." "But thou hast that one there with the birches, colored." "True; but I do not want this here so much in view. Every one makes remarks, and sometimes that angers me. Wilt thou permit?" "Very well, my Stas," answered Marynia. CHAPTER XXXIX. Bigiel persuaded Pan Stanislav emphatically not to extend the house, and not to throw himself too hurriedly into undertakings of various sorts. "We have created," said he, "an honorable mercantile firm of a kind rare in this country; hence we are useful." He maintained that from gratitude alone they ought to continue a business through which they had almost doubled their property. At the same time he expressed the conviction that they would show more sense if at this juncture specially they managed matters with care and solidly, and that their first bold speculation, though it had been fortunate, should not only not entice them to others, but should be the last. Pan Stanislav agreed that it was necessary to show moderation, especially in success; but he complained that he could not find a career in the house, and that he wanted to produce something. He had common-sense enough not to think yet of a factory on his own capital. "I do not wish to carry on a small one," said he, "since a large one producing _en gros_ attracts me, and I have not capital for it; one with shares, I should be working not for myself, but for others." He understood, too, that it was not easy to find shareholders among the local elements, and he did not want strangers; he knew, moreover, that he could not rouse confidence in them, and that his name alone would be a hindrance. Bigiel, for whom it was a question of the "house," was sincerely pleased with this sobriety of view. In Pan Stanislav was roused still another desire, which is as old as man,--the desire of possession. After the lucky grain speculation and the will of Bukatski, he was quite wealthy; but with all his real sobriety, he had a certain strange feeling that that wealth, consisting even of the most reliable securities shut up in fire-proof safes, was just paper, and would remain so till he owned something real, of which he could say, "This is mine." That strange desire was seizing him with growing force. For him it was not a question of anything great, but of some corner of his own, where he might feel at home. He tried to philosophize over this, and to explain to Bigiel that such a desire of ownership must be some inborn passion which might be repressed, but which, in riper age, would appear with new strength. Bigiel acknowledged that that might be true, and said,-- "That is proper. Thou art married, hence hast the wish to have thy own hearth, not a hired one; and since thou hast the means, then make such a hearth for thyself." Pan Stanislav had been thinking for some time of building a large house in the city,--a house which would satisfy his desire of ownership, and also bring income. But one day he noted a bad side in this practical project,--namely, it had no charm. It is necessary to love that something of which he said, "It is mine;" and how love a brick building, in which any one may live who will hire lodgings. At first he was ashamed of this thought, for it seemed sentimental; but afterward he said to himself, "No; since I have means, it is not only not sentimental to use them in a way which will assure satisfaction, but a proof of judgment." He was more attracted by the thought of a smaller house in the city, or outside the city,--one in which only he and his wife would live. But he wanted with it even a piece of land on which something would grow; he felt, for example, that the sight of trees growing in his garden or before his house, on his land, would cause him great pleasure; he was astonished himself that this was so, but it was. At last he came to the conviction that it would be more agreeable to have some little place near the city, something in the style of that summer house which Bigiel owned, but with a piece of land, a piece of forest, some acres of garden, finally, with grounds, and with a stork's nest somewhere on an old linden-tree. "Since I have means to get it, I prefer it to be thus, not otherwise,--that is, to be beautiful, not ugly," said he. And he began to consider the affair on every side. He understood that since it was a question of a nest in which he was to live out his life, he ought to select with care; hence he did not hurry. Meanwhile meditation over this occupied all his hours free from counting-house toil, and caused him real pleasure. Various people learned soon that Pan Stanislav was seeking to buy with ready money; hence propositions came from various sides, often strange, but at times attractive. On occasions he had to drive to villas in the city, or outside it. Frequently, after his return from the counting-house, or after dinner, Pan Stanislav shut himself in with plans, with papers, and came out only in the evening. In those days Marynia had much leisure. She noted at last that something occupied him unusually, and tried to learn what it was by questioning; but he answered,-- "My child, when there is a result, I will tell thee; but while I know nothing, it would be difficult to talk about nothing. That is so opposed to my nature." She learned at last what the question was from Pani Bigiel, who had learned it from her husband, to whose nature it was not repugnant to speak with his wife about all undertakings and plans for the future. For Marynia it would have been also immensely agreeable to speak with her husband of everything, and especially of the chance of a nest. Her eyes laughed at the very thought of that; but since "Stas's" disposition stood in the way, she preferred through delicacy not to inquire. He had no ill-will in this, but simply it did not occur to him to initiate her into any affair in which there was a question of money. It might have been otherwise had she brought him a considerable dower, or had he been forced to manage her property. In such affairs he was very scrupulous. But since he was managing only his own, he did not feel now any more than in his past unmarried years any need of confessing, especially while nothing was determined. With Bigiel alone did he talk, because he was accustomed to talk with him of business. With his wife he spoke of things which, according to him, "pertained to her;" hence, among other things, of the acquaintances which they should make. Toward the end of his single life he had been scarcely anywhere; but he felt that at present he could not act thus. They returned, therefore, visits to the Mashkos; and on a certain evening they began to consider whether they ought to visit the Osnovskis, who had returned from abroad, and would remain in Warsaw till the middle of June. Marynia said that they ought, because they should see them at Pani Mashko's; and she wished to make a visit, for she liked Pan Osnovski, who had moved her sympathy. Pan Stanislav seemed less willing, and the decision was according to his wish at first; but some days later the Osnovskis met Marynia and greeted her so cordially, Pani Osnovski repeated so often, "We Roman women," and both put such emphasis on the hope of seeing and meeting her, that it was not possible to avoid the visit. When the visit was made, politeness was shown first of all to Marynia. The husband vied with his wife in this regard. Like well-bred people, they were faultlessly polite to Pan Stanislav, but colder. He understood that Marynia played the first, and he only the second rôle, and that irritated him a little. Pan Osnovski, for that matter, had no need to make an effort in being polite to Marynia; for, feeling that she had for him earnest sympathy, he repaid her with interest, though, in general, to act thus was not his habit. He seemed to her more in love with his wife than ever. It was evident that his heart beat with more life when he was looking at her. When speaking to her, he seemed to offer his expressions with a certain fear, as it were, lest he might offend her with something. Pan Stanislav looked on with a kind of pity; but the sight was also touching. In his struggle with corpulence, however, Pan Osnovski had gained such a crushing victory that his clothing seemed too large for him. The pimples on his blond face had vanished, and, in general, he was more presentable than he had been. But the lady had, as ever, her incomparable, sloping violet eyes, and thoughts, which, like birds of paradise, were playing in the air continually. The Polanyetskis made new acquaintances at the Osnovskis,--namely, Pani Bronich and her sister's daughter, Panna Castelli; these ladies had arrived for the "summer carnival" in Warsaw, and were living in the same villa, which the late Pan Bronich had sold to the Osnovskis, with the reservation of one pavilion for his wife. Pani Bronich was a widow after Pan Bronich, whom she mentioned as the last relative of the Princes Ostrogski, and as the last descendant of Rurik. She was known in the city also under the title of "Sweetness;" for this name she was indebted to the fact that, when talking, especially to persons whom she needed, she became so pleasing that it seemed as if she were speaking through a lump of sugar held in her mouth. Marvels were told of her lies. Panna Castelli was the daughter of Pani Bronich's sister, who, in her day, to the great offence of her family and of society, married an Italian, a music-teacher, and died in labor, leaving a daughter. When, a year later, Pan Castelli was drowned at Venice, in the Lido, Pani Bronich took her niece, and reared her. Panna Lineta was a beauty, with very regular features, blue eyes, golden hair, and a complexion too fair, for it was almost like porcelain. Her eyelids were rather heavy; this gave her a dreamy look, but that dreaminess might seem also concentration. It might be supposed that she was a person who led an immensely developed inner life, and hence bore herself indifferently toward all that surrounded her. If any man had not come on that idea unaided, he might be sure that Pani Bronich would help him. Pani Osnovski, who had passed through the grades of enchantment over her cousin, said of Lineta's eyes, "They are as deep as lakes." The only question was what is at the bottom; and it was precisely this secret which gave her charm to the young lady. The Osnovskis came with the intention of remaining in Warsaw; but Pani Aneta had not seen Rome in vain. "Art, and art!" said she to Pani Marynia; "I wish to know of nothing else." Her professed plan was to open an "Athenian" salon; but her secret one was to become the Beatrice of some Dante, the Laura of some Petrarch, or, at least, something in the nature of Vittoria Colonna for some Michael Angelo. "We have a nice garden with the villa," said she. "The evenings will be beautiful, and we shall pass them in such Roman and Florentine conversations. You know" (here she raised her hands to the height of her shoulders, and began to move them), "the gray hour, a little twilight, a little moonlight, a few lamps, a few shadows from the trees; we shall sit and talk in an undertone about everything,--life, feelings, art. In truth, that is worth more than gossip! My Yozio, perhaps thou wilt be annoyed; but be not angry, do this for my sake, and, believe me, it will be very nice." "But, my Anetka, can I be annoyed by what pleases thee?" "Especially now, while Lineta is with us; she is an artist in every drop of her blood." Here she turned to Lineta. "What fine thread is that head spinning now? What dost thou say of such Roman evenings?" Lineta smiled dreamily; and the widow of "Rurik's last descendant" began to speak, with an expression of indescribable sweetness, to Pan Stanislav,-- "You do not know that Victor Hugo blessed her when she was yet a little girl." "Then did you ladies know Victor Hugo?" asked Marynia. "We? no! I would not know him for anything in the world; but once, when we were going through Passy, he stood on a balcony, and I know not whether through something prophetic, or through inspiration, the moment he set eyes on Lineta, he raised his hand and blessed her." "Aunt!" said Panna Castelli. "When it is true, my child; and what is true, is true! I called at once to her, 'See, see! he is raising his hand!' and Pan Tsardyn, the consul, who was sitting on the front seat, saw also that he raised his hand, and gave a blessing. I tell this freely, for perhaps the Lord God forgave him his sins, of which he had many, because of this blessing. He was of such perverse mind; and still, when he saw Lineta, he blessed her." There was in the tale this much truth,--those ladies, while going through Passy, really saw Victor Hugo on a balcony. As to the blessing which they said he gave Lineta, malicious tongues in Warsaw declared that he raised his hand because he was yawning at the moment. Meanwhile Pani Aneta continued,-- "We'll make for ourselves here a little Italy; and should the attempt fail, next winter we'll escape to the great one. It has entered my head already to open a house in Rome. Meantime Yozio has bought a number of nice copies of statues and paintings. That was so worthy on his part, for he doesn't care much about them; he did this only for me. There are very good things among them; for Yozio had the wit not to trust himself, and begged the aid of Pan Svirski. It is a pity that they are not here; it is a pity, too, that Pan Bukatski died, as it were, through perversity, for he would have been useful. At times he was very nice; he had a certain subtlety, snake-like, and that in conversation, gives life. But" (here she turned to Marynia) "do you know that you have conquered Pan Svirski utterly? After you had left Rome, he talked of no one else, and he has begun a Madonna with your features. You'll become a Fornarina! Evidently you have luck with artists; and when my Florentine evenings begin, Lineta and I must be careful,--if not, we shall go to the corner." But Pani Bronich, casting hostile glances at Marynia, said,-- "If it is a question of faces which make an impression on artists, I'll tell the company what happened once in Nice." "Aunt!" interrupted Panna Castelli. "But if it is true, my child; and what's true, is true! A year ago--no! two years ago--Oh, how time flies!--" But Pani Aneta, who had heard more than once, surely, what had happened at Nice, began to inquire of Marynia,-- "But have you many acquaintances in the world of artists?" "My husband has," answered Marynia, "I have not; but we know Pan Zavilovski." Pani Aneta fell into real enthusiasm at this news. It was her dream to know Zavilovski, and let "Yozio" say if it was not her dream. Not long before, she and Lineta had read his verses entitled "Ex imo;" and Lineta, who, at times, knows how to describe an impression with one word, as no one else can, said,--what is it that she said so characteristic? "That there was in that something bronze-like," added Pani Bronich. "Yes, something bronze-like; I imagined to myself also Pan Zavilovski as something cast. How does he look in reality?" "He is short, fat, fifty years old," said Pan Stanislav, "and has no hair on his head." At this the faces of Pani Aneta and Lineta took on such an expression of disenchantment that Marynia laughed, and said,-- "Do not believe him, ladies; he is malicious, and likes to torment. Pan Zavilovski is young, somewhat shy, a little like Wagner." "That means that he has a chin like Punch," added Pan Stanislav. But Pani Aneta paid no heed to Pan Stanislav's words, and obtained from Marynia a promise to make her acquainted with Pan Zavilovski, and soon, "very soon, for summer is at the girdle!" "We will try to make it pleasant for him among us, and that he shouldn't be shy; though, if he is a little shy, that is no harm, for he ought to be, and, like an eagle in a cage, withdraw when people approach him. But we will come to an understanding with Lineta; she, too, is wrapped up in herself, and is as mysterious as a sphinx." "It seems to me that every uncommon soul--" began Aunt Sweetness. But the Polanyetskis rose to go. In the entrance they met the wonderful Kopovski, whose shoes the servants were dusting, and who was arranging meanwhile the hair on his statuesque head, which was as solid as marble. When outside, Pan Stanislav remarked,-- "He, too, will be useful for their 'Florentine' evenings; he, too, is a sphinx." "If he were to stand in a niche," said Marynia. "But what beautiful women they are!" "It is a wonderful thing," answered Pan Stanislav, "though Pani Osnovski is good-looking, I, for example, prefer Pani Mashko as a beauty. As to Castelli, she is, in truth, beautiful, though too tall. Hast thou noticed how they speak of her all the time, but she not a word?" "She has a very intelligent opinion," answered Marynia, "but is, perhaps, a little timid, like poor Zavilovski." "It is necessary to think of arranging for that acquaintance." But an accident disturbed these plans of making the acquaintance. Marynia, on the day following this visit, slipped on the stone stairs, and struck her knee against the step with such violence that she had to lie in bed several days. Pan Stanislav, on returning from the office, learned what had happened. Alarmed at first, then pacified by the doctor, he upbraided his wife rather sharply. "Thou shouldst remember that it may be a question not of thee alone," said he. She suffered severely from the fall and from these words, which seemed to her too unsparing; for she considered that with him it should above all be a question of her, especially as other fears were baseless so far. Aside from this, he showed great attention; neither on the next nor the following day did he go to the counting-house, but remained to take care of her. In the forenoon he read to her; after lunch, he worked in the adjoining room with open doors, so that she might call him at any moment. Affected by this care, she thanked him very warmly; in return he kissed her, and said,-- "My child, it is a simple duty. Thou seest that even strangers inquire about thee daily." In fact, strangers did inquire daily. Zavilovski inquired in the counting-house, "How does the lady feel?" Pani Bigiel came in the forenoon, and Bigiel in the evening; without going to the chamber of the sick woman, he played on the piano in the next room to entertain her. The Mashkos and Pani Bronich left cards twice. Pani Osnovski, leaving her husband in the carriage below, broke into Marynia a little by violence, and sat with her about two hours, talking, with her usual gift of jumping from subject to subject, of Rome, of her intended evenings, of Svirski, of her husband, of Lineta, and of Zavilovski, who didn't let her sleep. Toward the end of the visit, she declared that they ought to say _thou_ to each other, and that she invited Marynia to give aid in one plan: "that is, not a plan, but a conspiracy;" or, rather, in a certain thing which had so struck into her head that it was burning, and burning to such a degree that her whole head was on fire. "That Zavilovski has so stuck in my mind that Yozio has begun to be jealous of him; but in the end of the affair, Yozio, poor fellow, doesn't know himself what to think. I am sure that he and Lineta are created for each other,--not Yozio and Lineta, but Zavilovski and Lineta. That poetry, that poetry! And don't laugh, Marynia; don't think me moonstruck. Thou dost not know Lineta. She needs some uncommon man. She wouldn't marry Kopovski for anything, though Kopovski looks like an archangel. Such a face as Kopovski has, I have never seen in life. In Italy, perhaps, in some picture, and even then not. Knowest thou what Lineta says of him?--'C'est un imbécile.' But still she looks at him. Think how beautiful that would be, if they should become acquainted, and love, and take each other,--that is, not Kopovski and Lineta, but Zavilovski and Lineta. That would be a couple! Lineta, with her aspirations, whom can she find? Where is there a man for her? What we have seen, that we have seen. I imagine how they would live. It is so wearisome in the world that when it is possible to have such a plan, it is worth while to work for it. Moreover, I know that that will succeed without difficulty, for Aunt Bronich is wringing her hands,--where can she find a husband for Lineta? I am afraid that I have worn thee out, and surely I have tormented thee; but it is so nice to talk, especially when one is making some plan." In fact, Marynia felt, as it were, a turning of the head after Pani Aneta had gone. Still when Pan Stanislav came in, she told him of the plans prepared against Zavilovski, and, laughing a little at the eagerness of Pani Aneta, said at last,-- "She must have a good heart, and she pleases me; but what an enthusiast! What is there that doesn't rush through her head?" "She is impetuous, but no enthusiast," answered Pan Stanislav; "and see what the difference is,--enthusiasm comes almost always from the warmth of a good heart, while impetuousness frequently agrees with a dry heart, and often comes even from this, that the head is hot, and the heart is asleep." "Thou hast no liking for Pani Aneta," said Marynia. Pan Stanislav did not indeed like her; but this time, instead of confirming or contradicting, he looked at his wife with a certain curiosity, and that moment her beauty struck him,--her hair flowing in disorder on the pillow, and her small face coming out of the dark waves, just like a flower. Her eyes seemed bluer than usual; through her open mouth was to be seen the row of small white teeth. Pan Stanislav approached her, and said in an undertone,-- "How beautiful thou art to-day!" And, bending over her, with changed face, he fell to kissing her eyes and mouth. But every kiss moved her, and each movement caused pain. It was disagreeable, besides, that he had noticed her beauty as if by accident; his expression of face was distasteful to her, and his inattention; therefore she turned away her head. "Stas, do not kiss me so roughly; thou knowest that I am suffering." Then he stood erect, and said with suppressed anger,-- "True; I beg pardon." And he went to his room to examine the plan of a certain summer house with a garden, which had been sent to him that morning. CHAPTER XL. But Marynia's illness was not lasting, and a week later she and her husband were able to visit the Bigiels, who had moved to their summer residence; for the weather, notwithstanding the early season, was fine, and in the city summer heats were almost beginning. Zavilovski, who had grown accustomed to them, went also, taking an immense kite, which he was to fly in company with Pan Stanislav and the children. The Bigiels, too, liked Zavilovski, since he was simple, and, except his shyness, a pleasant man, on occasions even childlike. Pani Bigiel maintained, moreover, that he had a peculiar head; which was in so far true, that he had a scar on his eyelid, and that his prominent chin gave him an expression of energy which was contradicted utterly by his upper face, which was delicate, almost feminine. At first Pani Bigiel sought in him an original; but he mastered everything, and therefore himself, too quickly. He was simply a great enthusiast of unequal temper, because he was timid; and he was not without hidden pride. At dinner they mentioned the Osnovskis to him, and the projected Athenian-Roman-Florentine evenings, Panna Castelli, and the curiosity which he had roused in the ladies. When he heard this, he said,-- "Oh, it is well to know that; I shall not go there now for anything in the world." "You will make their acquaintance first at our house," said Marynia. "I shall escape from the entrance," said he, clasping his hands. "Why?" asked Pan Stanislav. "It is needful to have the courage not only of one's convictions, but of one's verses." "Evidently," said Pani Bigiel. "What is there to be ashamed of? I should look people in the eyes boldly and say: I write; yes, I write." "I write; yes, I write," repeated Zavilovski, raising his head and laughing. But Marynia continued: "You will make their acquaintance at our house; then you will leave your card with them, and after that we will visit them some evening." "I cannot hide my head in snow," said he, "because there is none; but I'll find some place of hiding." "But if I entreat you greatly?" "Then I will go," answered Zavilovski, after a while, blushing slightly; and he looked at her. Her face, somewhat pale after protracted lying in bed, had become more delicate, and looked like the face of a maiden of sixteen. She seemed so wonderful to the young man that he could refuse her nothing. In the evening, Pan Stanislav was to take him back to the city; but before that Marynia said to him,-- "Now you must be constrained, for you have not seen Panna Lineta Castelli; but as soon as you have seen her, you will fall in love." "I, Pani?" cried Zavilovski, putting his hand on his breast; "I, with Panna Castelli?" And there was so much sincerity in his question that he was confused again; but this time Marynia herself was confused somewhat. Meantime Pan Stanislav has finished his conversation with Bigiel about the dangers of investing capital in land, and they drive away. Marynia remembers how once she returned with her father, Pani Emilia, Litka, and Pan Stanislav from the Bigiels, in a moonlight night such as this; how "Pan Stanislav" was in love with her then; how unhappy he was; how severe she was with him; and her heart begins to beat with pity for that "Pan Stanislav," who suffered so much on a time. She wants to nestle up to him and implore pardon for those evil moments of the past; and but for the presence of Zavilovski, she would do so. But that old-time Pan Stanislav is sitting there calm and self-confident at her side, and smoking his cigar. Moreover, she is his; he has taken her and has her; all is over. "Of what art thou thinking, Stas?" inquired she. "Of the business of which I was talking with Bigiel." And, shaking the ashes from his cigar, he replaced it in his mouth, and drew so vigorously that a ruddy gleam lighted his mustache and a part of his face. Zavilovski, looking at Marynia's face, thought in his young soul that if she were his wife he would not smoke a cigar, nor think of business of which he had been talking with Bigiel, but might kneel before her and adore her on his knees. And gradually, under the influence of the night and that sweet womanly face, which he glorified, exaltation possessed him. After a time he began to declaim, at first in silence, as if to himself, then more audibly, his verses entitled, "Snows on the Mountains." There was in that poem, as it were, an immense yearning for something unapproachable and immaculate. Zavilovski himself did not know when they arrived in the city, and when lamps began to gleam on both sides of the street. At Pan Stanislav's house Marynia said,-- "To-morrow, then, to a five o'clock." "Yes," answered he, kissing her hand. Marynia was sunk somewhat in revery under the influence of the ride, the night, and maybe the verses. But from the time of their stay in Rome, she and her husband had repeated the rosary together. And after these prayers a great tenderness possessed her suddenly,--as it were, an influx of feeling, hidden for a time by other impressions. Approaching him, she put her arms around his neck, and whispered,-- "My Stas, but we feel so pleasant together, do we not?" He drew her toward him, and answered with a certain careless boastfulness,-- "But do I complain?" And it did not occur to him that there was in her question something like a shade of doubt and sorrow, which she did not like to admit to her soul, and desired him to calm and convince her. Next morning in the office Zavilovski gave Pan Stanislav a cutting from some paper of "Snows on the Mountains;" he read it during dinner, but with the sound of forks the verses seemed less beautiful than amid the night stillness and in moonlight. "Zavilovski told me," said Pan Stanislav, "that a volume would be issued soon; but he has promised to collect first everything printed in various journals, and bring it to thee." "No," said Marynia; "he should keep them for Lineta." "Ah, they are to meet to-morrow for the first time. Ye wish absolutely to make an epoch in Zavilovski's life?" "We do," answered Marynia, with decisiveness. "Aneta astonished me at first; but why not?" Indeed, the meeting took place. The Osnovskis, Pani Bronich, and Panna Castelli came very punctually at five; Zavilovski had come still earlier, to avoid entering a room in presence of a whole society. But as it was he was not only frightened, but more awkward than usual, and never had his legs seemed so long to him. There was, however, a certain distinction even in his awkwardness; and Pani Aneta was able to see that. The first scenes of the human comedy began, in which those ladies, as well-bred persons, guarding against every rudeness and staring at Zavilovski, did not, however, do anything else; he, feigning not to see this, was not thinking of anything else than how they were looking at him and judging him. This caused him great constraint, which he strove to hide by artificial freedom; he had so much self-love, however, that he was interested in having the judgment favorable. But the ladies were so attuned previously that the decision could not be unfavorable; and even had Zavilovski turned out flat and dull it would have been taken for wisdom and poetic originality: More indifferent was the bearing of Lineta, who was somewhat astonished that for the moment, not she was the sun, and Zavilovski the moon, but the contrary. The first impression which he made on her was: "What comparison with that stupid Kopovski!" And the incomparable, wonderful face of that "stupid" stood before her eyes as if living; therefore her lids became dreamier still, and the expression of her face called to mind a sphinx in porcelain more than ever. She is irritated, however, that Zavilovski turns almost no attention to her form of a Juno, nor to that something "mysterious and poetic," which, as Pani Bronich insists, fetters one from the first glance. She begins to observe him gradually; and, having, besides her poetic inclination, the sense of social observation developed powerfully, she sees that he has much expression indeed, but that his coat fits badly, that he dresses, of course, at a poor tailor's, and that the pin in his cravat is mauvais genre simply. Meanwhile he casts occasional glances at Marynia, as the one near and friendly soul, and converses with Pani Aneta, who considers it as the highest tact not to mention poetry on first acquaintance, and, knowing that Zavilovski had passed the early years of his childhood in the country, begins to chatter about her inclinations for rural life. Her husband prefers the city always, having his friends and pleasures in the city, but as to her!--"Oh, I am sincere, and I confess at once that I cannot endure land management and accounts; for this I have been scolded more than once. Besides, I am a trifle lazy; therefore I should like work in which I could be lazy. What should I like, then?" Here she spreads out her extended fingers so as to count more easily the occupations which would suit her taste: "First, I should like to herd geese!" Zavilovski laughs; she seems to him natural, and, besides, the picture of Pani Osnovski herding geese amuses him. Her violet eyes begin to laugh also; and she falls into the tone of a free and joyous maiden, who talks of everything which runs through her head. "And you would like that?" inquires she of Zavilovski. "Passionately." "Ah, you see! What else? I should like to be a fisherman. The morning dawn must be reflected beautifully in the water. Then the damp nets before the cottage, with films of water between the meshes of the net. If not a fisherman, I should like to be at least a heron, and meditate in the water on one leg, or a lapwing in the fields. But no! the lapwing is a sad kind of bird, as if in mourning." Here she turned to Panna Castelli,-- "Lineta, what wouldst thou like to be in the country?" Panna Lineta raised her lids, and answered after a while,-- "A spider-web." The imagination of Zavilovski as a poet was touched by this answer. Suddenly a great yellow sweep of stubble stood before his eyes, with silver threads floating in the calm blue and in the sun. "Ah, what a pretty picture!" said he. He looked more carefully at Lineta; and she smiled, as if in thankfulness that he had felt the beauty of the image. But at that moment the Bigiels came. Pani Bronich took Zavilovski into her sphere of influence, and so hemmed him in with her chair that he had no chance to escape. It was easy to divine the subject of their dialogue, for Zavilovski raised his eyes from time to time to Lineta, as if to convince himself that he was looking at that about which he was hearing. At last, though the conversation was conducted in subdued tones, those present heard these words, spoken as if through sugar,-- "Do you know that Napoleon--that is, I wanted to say Victor Hugo--blessed her?" In general, Zavilovski had heard so many uncommon things that he might look at Lineta with a certain curiosity. She had been, according to those narratives, the most marvellous child in the world, always very gentle, and not strong. At ten years she had been very ill; sea air was prescribed, and those ladies dwelt a long time on Stromboli. "The child looked at the volcano, at the sea, and clapped her little hands, repeating, 'Beautiful, beautiful!' We went there by chance, wandered in on a hired yacht, without object; it was difficult to stay long, for that is an empty island. There was no proper place to live in, and not much to eat; but she, as if with foreknowledge that she would regain her health there, would not leave for anything. In fact, in a month, and if not in a month, in two, she began to be herself, and see what a reed she is." In fact, Lineta, though shapely and not too large, in stature was somewhat taller than Pani Aneta. Zavilovski looked at her with growing interest. Before the guests separated, when he was freed at last from imprisonment, he approached her, and said,-- "I have never seen a volcano, and I have no idea what impression it may make." "I know only Vesuvius," answered she; "but when I saw it there was no eruption." "But Stromboli?" "I do not know it." "Then I have heard incorrectly, for--your aunt--" "Yes," answered Lineta, "I don't remember; I was small, I suppose." And on her face displeasure and confusion were reflected. Before she took leave, Pani Aneta, without destroying her rôle of charming prattler, invited Zavilovski for some evening, "without ceremony and without a dress-coat, for such a spring might be considered summer, and in summer freedom is the most agreeable. That such a man as you does not like new acquaintances, I know, but for that there is a simple remedy: consider us old acquaintances. We are alone most generally. Lineta reads something, or tells what passes through her head; and such various things pass through her head that it is worth while to hear her, especially for a person who beyond others is in a position to feel and understand her." Panna Lineta pressed his hand at parting with unusual heartiness, as if confirming the fact that they could and should understand each other. Zavilovski, unused to society, was a little dazed by the words, the rustle of the robes, the eyes of those ladies, and by the odor of iris which they left behind. He felt besides some weariness, for that conversation, though free and apparently natural, lacked the repose which was always found in the words of Pani Polanyetski and Pani Bigiel. For a time there remained with him the impression of a disordered dream. The Bigiels were to stay to dinner. Pan Stanislav therefore kept Zavilovski. They began to talk of the ladies. "Well, and Panna Castelli?" asked Marynia. "They have much imagination," answered Zavilovski, after a moment's hesitation. "Have you noticed how easy it is for them to speak in images?" "But really, what an interesting young lady Lineta is!" Lineta had not made a great impression on Pan Stanislav; besides, he was hungry and in a hurry for dinner, so he said somewhat impatiently,-- "What do you see in her? Interesting until she becomes an every-day subject." "No; Lineta will not become an every-day person," said Marynia. "Only those ordinary, simple beings become every-day subjects who know how to do nothing but love." To Zavilovski, who looked at her that moment, it seemed that he detected a shade of sadness. Perhaps, too, she was weak, for her face had lily tones. "Are you wearied?" inquired he. "A little," answered she, smiling. His young, impressionable heart beat with great sympathy for her. "She is in truth a lily," thought he; and in comparison with her sweet charm Pani Osnovski stood before him as a chattering nut-cracker, and Panna Castelli as the inanimate head of a statue. At first, after sight of Marynia, he was dreaming of a woman like her; this evening he began to dream, not of one like her, but of her. And since he was quickly aware of everything that happened in him, he noticed that she was beginning to be a "field flower," but a beloved one. Pan Stanislav, meeting him next day in the counting-room, asked,-- "Well, did the dreamy queen come to you in a vision?" "No," answered Zavilovski, blushing. Pan Stanislav, seeing that blush, laughed, and said,-- "Ha! it's difficult! Every one must pass that; I, too, have passed it." CHAPTER XLI. Marynia did not complain even to herself of her husband. So far there had not been the least misunderstanding between them. But she was forced to confess that genuine, very great happiness, and especially very great love, such as she had imagined when Pan Stanislav was her betrothed, she had imagined as different. Of this each day convinced her: her hopes had been of one kind; reality proved to be of another. Marynia's honest nature did not rebel against this reality; but a shade of sadness came over her, and the feeling that that shade might in time be the basis of her life. With a soul full of good-will, she tried to explain to herself at the beginning that those were her own fancies. What was lacking to her, and in what could Pan Stanislav have disappointed her? He had never caused her pain purposely; as often as it occurred to him that a given thing might please her, he tried to obtain it; he was liberal, careful of her health; at times he covered her face and hands with kisses,--in a word, he was rather kind than ill-natured. Still there was something lacking. It was difficult for Marynia to describe this in one word, or in many; but her mind was too clear not to understand what her heart felt every day more distinctly, every day with more sadness. Something was wanting! After a great and solemn holiday of love, a series of common days had set in, and she regretted the holiday; she would have it last all her life; she saw now, with sorrow, that to her husband this common life seemed precisely what was normal and wished for. It was not bad, such as it was; but it was not that high happiness which "such a man" should be able to feel, create, and impart. But there was a question of other things also. She felt, for example, that she was more his than he was hers; and that though she gave him her whole soul, he returned to her only that part of his which he had designed in advance for home use. It is true that she said to herself, "He is a man; besides me he has a whole world of work and thought." But she had hoped once that he would take her by the hand and lead her into that world,--that in the house, at least, he would share it with her; at present she could not even flatter herself that he would do so. And the reality was worse than she had imagined. Pan Stanislav, as he expressed himself, took her, and had her; and when their mutual feeling became at the same time a simple mutual obligation, he judged that it was not needful otherwise to care for her, or otherwise to be occupied with her than with any duty of every-day life. It did not come to his head simply that to such a fire it was not enough to bring common fuel, such as is put in a chimney, but that there was need to sprinkle on it frankincense and myrrh, such as is sprinkled before an altar. If a man were to tell him something like this, he would shrug his shoulders, and look on him as a sentimentalist. Hence there was in him the carefulness of a husband, perhaps, but not the anxiety of a lover,--concern, watching, or awe of that kind which, in the lower circles of earthly feelings, corresponds to fear of God in religion. On a time when, after the sale of Kremen, Marynia was indifferent to him, he felt and passed through all this; but now, and even beginning with Litka's death, when he received the assurance that she was his property, he thought no more of her than was necessary to think of property. His feeling, resting pre-eminently on her physical charm, possessed what it wanted, and was at rest; while time could only vulgarize, cool, and dull it. Even now, though still vivid, it lacks the alert and careful tenderness which existed, for example, in his feeling for Litka. And Marynia noticed this. Why was it so? To this she could not answer; but still she saw clearly that she was for this man, to whom she wished to be everything, something more common and less esteemed than the dead Litka. It did not occur to her, and she could not imagine by any means, that the only reason was this,--that that child was not his, while she had given him soul and body. She judged that the more she gave, the more she ought to receive and have. But time brought her in this regard many disappointments. She could not but notice, too, that all are under a certain charm of hers; that all value her, praise her; that Svirski, Bigiel, Zavilovski, and even Pan Osnovski, look on her, not only with admiration, but with enthusiasm almost; while "Stas" regards her distinguishing traits less than any man. It had not occurred to her for a moment that he could be incapable of seeing in her and valuing that which others saw and valued so easily. What was the cause, then, of this? These questions tormented her night and day now. She saw that Pan Stanislav feigned to have in all cases a character somewhat colder and more serious than he had in reality, but to her this did not seem a sufficient answer. Unfortunately only one answer remained: "He does not love me as he might, and therefore does not value me as others do." There was in this as much truth as disappointment and sadness. The instinct of a woman, which, in these cases, never deceives her, warned Marynia that she had made an uncommon impression on Zavilovski; that that impression increased with every meeting. And this thought did not make her indignant; she did not burst out with the angry question, "How dare he?" since, for that matter, he had not dared anything,--on the contrary, it gave her a certain comfort, certain confidence in her own charm, which at moments she had begun to lose, but withal it roused the greater sorrow that such honor, such enthusiasm, should be shown her by some stranger, and not by "Stas." As to Zavilovski, she felt nothing for him save a great sympathy and good-will; hence her thoughts remained pure. She was incapable of amusing herself through vanity by the suffering of another; and for that reason, not wishing him to go too far, she associated herself willingly with the plan of Pani Aneta of bringing him into more intimate relations with Panna Castelli, though that plan seemed to her as abrupt as it was unintelligible. Moreover, her heart and mind were occupied thoroughly with the questions: Why does that kind, wise, beloved "Stas" not go to the heights with her? why does he not value her as he might? why does he only love her, but is not in love with her? why does he consider her love as something belonging to him, but not as something precious? whence is this, and where lies the cause of it? Every common, selfish nature would have found all the fault in him; Marynia found it in herself. It is true that she made the discovery through foreign aid; but she was always so eager to remove from "Stas" every responsibility, and take it on herself, that though it caused fear, this discovery brought her delight almost. Once, on an afternoon, she was sitting by herself, with her hands on her knees, lost in thoughts and questions to which she could find no answer, when the door opened, and in it appeared the white head-dress and dark robe of a Sister of Charity. "Emilka!" cried Marynia, with delight. "Yes; it is I," said the Sister. "This is a free day for me, and I wished to visit thee. Where is Pan Stanislav?" "Stas is at the Mashkos, but he will return soon. Ah, how glad he will be! Sit down and rest." Pani Emilia sat down and began to talk. "I should run in oftener," said she, "but I have no time. Since this is a free day, I was at Litka's. If you could see how green the place is, and what birds are there!" "We were there a few days ago. All is blooming; and such rest! What a pity that Stas is not at home!" "True; besides, he has a number of Litka's letters. I should like to ask him to lend them to me. Next week I'll run in again and return them." Pani Emilia spoke calmly of Litka now. Maybe it was because there remained of herself only the shadow of a living person, which was soon to be blown away; but for the time there was in it undisturbed calm. Her mind was not absorbed so exclusively now by misfortune, and that previous indifference to everything not Litka had passed. Having become a Sister of Charity, she appeared again among people, and had learned to feel everything which made their fortune or misfortune, their joy or their sorrow, or even pleasure or suffering. "But how nice it is in this house! After our naked walls, everything here seems so rich to me. Pan Stanislav was very indolent at one time: he visited the Bigiels and us, never wished to be elsewhere; but now I suppose he bestirs himself, and you receive many people?" "No," answered Marynia; "we visit only the Mashkos, Pani Bronich, and the Osnovskis." "But wait! I know Pani Osnovski; I knew her before she was married. I knew the Broniches, too, and their niece; but she had not grown up then. Pan Bronich died two years ago. Thou seest how I know every one." Marynia began to laugh. "Really, more people than I do. I made the acquaintance of the Osnovskis in Rome only." "But I lived so many years in Warsaw, and everything came to my ears. I was in the house apparently, but the world occupied me. So frivolous was I in those days! For that matter, thy present Pan Stas knew Pani Osnovski." "He told me so." "They met at public balls. At that time she was to marry Pan Kopovski. There were tears and despair, for her father opposed it. But she succeeded well, did she not? Pan Osnovski was always a very good man." "And to her he is the very best. But I did not know that she was to marry Kopovski; and that astonishes me, she is so intelligent." "Praise to God, she is happy, if she would think so! Happiness is a rare thing, and should be used well. I have learned now to look at the world quite impartially, as only those can who expect nothing for themselves from it; and knowest thou what comes more than once to my head? That happiness is like eyes,--any little mote, and at once tears will follow." Marynia laughed a little sadly, and said,-- "Oi! that's a great truth." A moment of silence ensued; then Pani Emilia, looking attentively at Marynia, laid her transparent hand on her hand mildly, and asked,-- "But thou, Marynia, art happy, art thou not?" Such a desire to weep seized Marynia on a sudden that she resisted it only with the utmost effort; that lasted, however, one twinkle. Her whole honest soul trembled suddenly at the thought that her tears or sorrow would be a kind of complaint against her husband; therefore she mastered her emotion by strength of will, and said,-- "If only Stas is happy!" And she raised her eyes, now perfectly calm, to Pani Emilia, who said,-- "Litka will obtain that for thee. I inquired only because thou wert in appearance somehow gloomy, as I entered. But I know best how he loved thee, and how unhappy he was when thou wert angry with him because of Kremen." Marynia's face was bright with a smile. So pleasant to her was every word of his former love that she was ready to listen to that kind of narrative, even if it went on forever. Pani Emilia continued, while touching her hand: "But thou, ugly child, wert so cruel as neither to value nor regard his true attachment, and I was angry at times with thee. At times I feared for the honest Pan Stanislav; I was afraid that he would grow sick of life, lose his mind, or become misanthropic. For seest thou when one wrinkle is made in the depth of the heart, it may not be smoothed for a lifetime." Marynia raised her head, and began to blink as if some light had struck her eyes suddenly. "Emilka, Emilka!" cried she, "how wise thy discourse is!" Pani Emilia was called now "Sister Aniela;" but Marynia always gave her her old name. "What! wise? I am just talking of old times. But Litka will implore for thee happiness, which God will grant, for thou and Stas deserve it, both of you." And she made ready to go. Marynia tried to detain her till "Stas" came, but in vain, for work was awaiting her in the institution. She chatted, however, at the door, fifteen minutes longer, in the manner of women; at last she went away, promising to visit them again the coming week. Marynia returned to her armchair at the window, and, resting her head on her hand, fell to meditating on Pani Emilia's words; after a while she said, in an undertone,-- "The fault is mine." It seemed to her that she had the key to the enigma,--she had not known how to respect a power so true and so mighty as love is. And now, in her terrified heart, that love seemed a kind of offended divinity which punishes. In the old time Pan Stanislav had been on his knees in her presence. As often as they met, he had looked into her eyes, watching for forgiveness from her heart, and from those memories, pleasant, departed, but dear, which connected them. If at that time she had brought herself to straightforwardness, to magnanimity; if she had extended her hands to him, as her secret feeling commanded,--he would have been grateful all his life, he would have honored her, he would have honored and loved with the greater tenderness, the more he felt his own fault and her goodness. But she had preferred to swaddle and nurse her feeling of offence, and coquet at the same time with Mashko. When it was necessary to forget, she would not forget; when it was necessary to forgive, she would not forgive. She preferred to suffer herself, provided he suffered also. She had given her hand to Pan Stanislav when she could not do otherwise, when not to give it would have been simply dishonorable and stupid stubbornness. That stifled love, it is true, rose up in its whole irrepressible might then, and she loved, heart and soul, but too late. Love had been injured; something had broken, something had perished. In his heart there had come an ill-omened wrinkle like that of which Pani Emilia had spoken; and now she, Marynia, was harvesting only what she had sown with her own hand. He is not guilty of anything in this case, and if any one has spoiled another's life, it is not he who has spoiled her life; it is she who has spoiled his. Such a terror possessed her at this thought, and such sorrow, that for a moment she looked at the future with perfect amazement. And she wished to weep, too, and weep like a little child. If Pani Emilia had not gone, she would have done so on her shoulder. She was so penetrated with the weight of her own offences that if at that moment some one had come and tried to free her of this weight, if this one had said to her, "Thou art as guilty as a dove," she would have considered the speech dishonest. The most terrible point in her mental conflict was this,--that at the first moment the loss seemed irreparable, and that in the future it might be only worse and worse, because "Stas" would love her less and less, and would have the right to love her less and less,--in one word, she saw no consolation before her. Logic said this to her: "To-day it is good in comparison with what it may be to-morrow; after to-morrow, a month, or a year. And here it is a question of a lifetime!" And she began to exert her poor tortured head to discover, if not a road, at least some path, by which it would be possible to issue from those snares of unhappiness. At last, after a long effort, after God knows how many swallowed tears, it seems to her that she sees a light, and that that light, in proportion as she looks at it, increases. There is, however, something mightier than the logic of misfortune, mightier than committed offences, mightier than an offended divinity, which knows nothing but vengeance,--and this is the mercy of God. She has offended; therefore she ought to correct herself. It is needful, then, to love "Stas," so that he may find all which has perished in his heart; it is needful to have patience, and not only not to complain of her present lot, but to thank God and "Stas" that it is such as it is. If greater griefs and difficulties should come, it is necessary to hide them in her heart in silence, and endure long, very long, even whole years, till the mercy of God comes. The path began to change then into a highway. "I shall not go astray," said Marynia to herself. She wanted to weep from great joy then; but she judged that she could not permit that. Besides, "Stas" might return at any moment, and he must find her with dry eyes. In fact, he returned soon. Marynia wished at the first moment to throw herself on his neck, but she felt such guilt in reference to him that some sudden timidity stopped her; and he, kissing her on the forehead, inquired,-- "Was any one here?" "Emilia was, but she could not stay longer. She will come next week." He was irritated at this. "But, my God! thou knowest that it is such a pleasure for me to see her; why not let me know? Why didst thou not think of me, knowing where I was?" She, like a child explaining itself, spoke with a voice in which tears were trembling, but in which there was at the same time a certain trust,-- "No, Stas, on the contrary, as I love, I was thinking all the time of thee." CHAPTER XLII. "But you see I was there," said Zavilovski, joyously, at the Bigiels'. "They looked on me somewhat as they might on a panther, or a wolf, but I turned out a very tame creature; I tore no one, killed no one, answered with more or less presence of mind. No; I have long since considered that it is easier to live with people than it seems, and only in the first moments have I a wish always to run away. But those ladies are indeed very free." "I beg you not to put us off, but tell exactly how it was," said Pani Bigiel. "How it was? Well, first, I entered the inclosure of the villa, and did not know what to do further, or where the Osnovskis lived, or Pani Bronich; whether to pay them a visit at once, or whether it was necessary to visit both separately." "Separately," said Pan Stanislav; "Pani Bronich has separate apartments, though they have one drawing-room, which they use in common." "Well, I found all in that drawing-room; and Pani Osnovski first brought me out of trouble, for she said that she would share me with Pani Bronich, and that I should make two visits at one time. I found Pani Mashko there and Pan Kopovski; and he is such a man, so beautiful that he ought to have on his head one of those velvet-crowned caps which jewellers wear. Who is Kopovski?" "An idiot!" answered Pan Stanislav. "In that is contained his name, his manner of life, his occupation, and personal marks. Another description of the man would not be needed even in a passport." "Now I understand," said Zavilovski; "and certain words which I heard have become clear for me. That gentleman was sitting, and the young ladies were painting him. Pani Osnovski, his full face in oil; Panna Castelli, his profile in water-colors. Both had print skirts over their dresses, and both were beautiful. Evidently Pani Osnovski is just beginning to paint, but Panna Castelli has had much practice." "Of what did they talk?" Zavilovski turned to Marynia. "First, those ladies asked about your health; I told them that you looked better and better." He did not say, however, that on that occasion he had blushed like a student, and that at present he consoled himself only with the thought that all had been so occupied in painting that they did not notice him, in which he was mistaken. He was confused now a little, and, wishing to hide this, continued,-- "Later we spoke of painting, of course, and portraits. I observed that Panna Castelli took something from the head of Kopovski; she answered me,-- "'It is not I, but nature.' "She is a witty young lady; she said this in a perfectly audible voice. I began to laugh, all the others too, and with us Kopovski himself. He must have an accommodating character. He declared later on that if he looked worse to-day than usual, it was because he had not slept enough, and that he was in a hurry for the embraces of Orpheus." "Orpheus?" "That's what he said. Pan Osnovski corrected him without ceremony; but he did not agree to the correction, saying Orpheus at least ten times, and that he remembered well. Those ladies amused themselves a little with him, but he is such a fine-looking fellow that they are glad to paint him. But what an artist Panna Castelli is! When she went to showing me various plain surfaces with the brush, and lines on the portraits of Pan Kopovski, which she had begun, she touched colors, 'What a line, that is! and what tones these are!' I must do her the justice to say that she looked at the time like one of the Muses. She told me that it pleases her beyond everything to paint portraits, and that she meditates on a face to begin with, as on a model, and that she dreams of those heads in which there is anything uncommon." "Oh, ho! and you will appear to her in a dream first, and then sit for her, I am sure," said Marynia. "And that will be well." Zavilovski added with a voice somewhat uncertain,-- "She told me, it is true, that that is a tribute which she likes and extorts from good acquaintances; she did not turn to me, however, directly, with this request. Had it not been for Pani Bronich, there would have been no talk of it." "Pani Bronich saved the Muse the trouble," said Pan Stanislav. "But that will be well," said Marynia. "Why?" inquired Zavilovski; and he looked at her with a glance at once submissive and alarmed. The idea that she might push him to another woman purposely, because she divined what was passing in his heart, attracted him, and at the same time filled him with fear. "Because," answered Marynia, "I, indeed, am almost unacquainted with Panna Lineta, and judge only from my first impressions and from what I hear of her; but it seems to me that hers is an uncommon nature, and that there is something deep in her heart. It is well, then, that you should become acquainted." "I also judge from first impressions," answered Zavilovski, quieted; "and it is true that Pani Castelli seems to me less shallow than Pani Osnovski. In general, those are beautiful and pleasant ladies; but--maybe I cannot define it, because I am not acquainted enough with society--but, coming away from them, I had a feeling as if I had been travelling on the railway with exceedingly charming foreign ladies, who amused themselves by conversing very wittily--but nothing more. Something foreign is felt in them. Pani Osnovski, for example, is exactly like an orchid,--a flower very peculiar and beautiful, but a kind of foreign flower. Panna Castelli is also that way, and in her there is nothing homelike. With them there is no feeling that one grew up on the same field, under the same rain and same sunshine." "What intuition this poet has!" said Pan Stanislav. Zavilovski became so animated that on his delicate forehead the veins in the form of the letter Y became outlined more distinctly. He felt that his blame of those ladies was also praise for Marynia, and that made him eloquent. "Besides," continued he, "there exists a certain instinct which divines the real good wishes of people; it is not divined in that house. They are pleasant, agreeable, but their society has the appearance of form only; therefore I think that an earnest man, who becomes attached to people easily, might experience there many deceptions. It is a bitter and humiliating thing to mistake social tares for wheat. As to me, that is just why I fear people; for though Pan Stanislav says that I have intuition, I know well that at the root of the matter I am simple. And such things pain me tremendously. Simply my nerves cannot endure them. I remember that when still a child I noticed how people acted toward me in one way before my parents, and in another when my parents were absent; that was one of the great vexations of my childhood. It seemed to me contemptible, and pained me, as if I myself had done something contemptible." "Because you have an honest nature," said Pani Bigiel. He stretched forth his long arms, with which he gesticulated, when, forgetting his timidity, he spoke freely, and said,-- "O sincerity! in art and in life, that is the one thing!" But Marynia began, in defence of those ladies: "People, and especially men, are frequently unjust, and take their own judgments, or even suppositions, for reality. As to Pani Osnovski and Lineta, how is it possible to suspect them of insincerity? They are joyful, kind, cordial, and whence should that come if not from good hearts?" Then, turning to Zavilovski, she began at him, partly in earnest, partly in jest, "You have not such an honest nature as Pani Bigiel says, for those ladies praise you, and you criticise them--" But Pan Stanislav interrupted her with his usual vivacity: "Oh, thou art an innocent, and measurest all things with thy own measure. Wilt thou understand this, that petty cordiality and kindness may flow also from selfishness, which likes to be cosey and comfortable. "If you," said he, turning to Zavilovski, "pay such homage to sincerity, it is sitting before you! You have here a real type of it." "I know that! I know that!" said Zavilovski, with warmth. "But is it thy wish to have me otherwise?" inquired Marynia, laughing. He laughed also, and answered: "No, I would not. But, by the way, what a happiness it is that thou are not too small, and hast no need of heels; for shouldst thou wear them, chronic inflammation of the conscience would strike thee for deceiving people." Marynia, seeing that Zavilovski's eyes were turned toward her feet, hid them under the table involuntarily, and, changing the subject, said,-- "But your volume is coming out these days, I think?" "It would have been published already, but I added one poem; that causes delay." "And may we know what the poem is called?" "Lilia" (Lily). "Is it not Lilia-Lineta?" "No; it is not Lilia-Lineta." Marynia's face grew serious. For her, it was easy to divine from the answer that the poem was to her and about her; hence she felt a sudden vexation, because she alone and one other, Zavilovski, knew this, and that there had arisen between them, for this cause, a sort of secret known to them only. This seemed to her not in accord with that honesty of hers mentioned a moment earlier, and a kind of sin against "Stas." For the first time, she saw the mental trouble into which a woman may fall, even though she be most in love with her husband and most innocent, if only the not indifferent look of another man fall on her. It seemed to her impossible, in any case, to lead her husband into the secret of her supposition. For the first time, she was seized by a certain anger at Zavilovski, who felt this straightway with his nerves of an artist, just as the barometer reflects a change of atmosphere; and, being a man without experience, he took the matter tragically. He imagined that Marynia would close her doors on him, would hate him, that he would not be able to see her; and the world appeared in mourning colors all at once to him. In his artistic nature there existed a real mixture of selfishness and fantasy with genuine tenderness, well-nigh feminine, which demanded love and warmth. Having become acquainted with Marynia, he cleaved to her with the selfishness of a sybarite, to whom such a feeling is precious, and who thinks of nothing else; next, his fancy raised her to poetic heights, and enhanced her charm a hundredfold, made her a being almost beyond the earth; and, finally, his native sensitiveness, to which loneliness and the want of a near heart caused actual pain, was so moved by the goodness with which he was received, that from all this was produced something having every appearance of love. A physical basis was lacking to this feeling, however. Besides his capacity for impulses, as ideal as the soul itself is, Zavilovski, like most artists, had the thoughts of a satyr. Those thoughts were sleeping at that time. He arrayed Marynia in so many glories and so much sacredness that he did not desire her; and if, against every likelihood, she were to cast herself on his neck unexpectedly, she would cease to be for him æsthetically that which she was, and which he wished her to be in future,--that is, a stainless being. All the more, therefore, did he judge that he could permit himself such a feeling, and all the more was he grieved now to part with that intoxication which had lulled his thought in such a beautiful manner, and filled the void of his life. It had been so pleasant for him, on returning home, to have a womanly figure at whose feet he had placed his soul,--to have one of whom to dream, and to whom he might write verses. Now he understands that if she discovers definitely what is taking place in him, if he does not succeed in hiding this better than hitherto, their relations cannot endure, and the former void, more painful than ever, will surround him a second time. He began then to think how he was to escape this, and how, not only not to lose anything of what he had enjoyed so far, but to see Marynia still oftener. In his quick imagination, there was no lack of methods. When he had made a hasty review, he found and chose one which, as it seemed to him, led directly to his object. "I will fall in love, as it were, with Panna Castelli," said he to himself, "and will confess to Pani Polanyetski my torments. That not only will not separate us, but will bring us nearer. I will make her my patroness." And straightway he begins to arrange the thing as if he were arranging objects. He imagines that he is in love with that "dreamy queen;" that he is unhappy, and that he will confess his secret to Marynia, who will listen to him willingly, with eyes moist from pity, and, like a real sister, will place her hand on his head. This play of fancy seemed to him so actual, and his sensitiveness was so great, that he composed expressions with which he would confess to Marynia; he found simple and touching ones, and he did this with such occupation that he himself was moved sincerely. Marynia, returning home with her husband, thought of that poem entitled "Lilia," which had delayed the issue of the book. Like a real woman, she was somewhat curious about it, and feared it a little. She feared too in general the difficulty which the future might bring in the relation with Zavilovski. And under the influence of these fears she said,-- "Knowest thou of what I am thinking? That Lineta would be a great prize for Zavilovski." "Tell me," answered Pan Stanislav, "what shot this Zavilovski and that girl into thy head." "I, my Stas, am not a matchmaker, I say only that it would not be bad. Aneta Osnovski is rather a hot head, it is true; but she is so lively, such a fire spark." "Abrupt, not lively; but believe me that she is not so simple as she seems, and that she has her own little personal plan in everything. Sometimes I think that Panna Lineta concerns her as much as she does me, and that at the root of all this something else is hidden." "What could it be?" "I don't know, and I don't know, perhaps, because I don't care much. In general, I have no faith in those women." Their conversation was interrupted by Mashko, who was just driving in by the road before their house; and, seeing them, he hastened to greet Marynia, and said then to Pan Stanislav,-- "It is well that we have met, for to-morrow I am going away for a couple of days, and to-day is my time for payment, so I bring thee the money." "I have just been at your father's," said he, turning to Marynia. "Pan Plavitski seems in perfect health; but he told me that he yearns for the country and land management, therefore he is thinking whether to buy some little place near the city, or not. I told him that if we win the will case he can stay at Ploshov." Marynia did not like this conversation, in which there was evident, moreover, a slight irony; hence she did not wish to continue it. After a while Pan Stanislav took Mashko to his study,-- "Then is all going well?" asked he. "Here is the instalment due on my debt," answered Mashko; "be so kind as to give a receipt." Pan Stanislav sat down at his desk, and wrote a receipt. "But now there is another affair," continued Mashko: "I sold some oak in Kremen once, on condition that I might redeem it, returning the price and a stipulated interest. Here is the price and the interest. I trust that thou hast nothing to add; I can only thank thee for a real service rendered, and shouldst thou ever need something of me, I beg thee,--without any ceremony, I beg thee to come to me, service for service. As is known to thee, I like to be grateful." "This monkey is beginning to patronize me," thought Pan Stanislav. And if he had not been in his own house, he might have uttered the silent remark aloud; but he restrained himself and said,-- "I have nothing to add; such was the contract. Besides, I have never considered that as business." "All the more do I esteem it," answered Mashko, kindly. "Well, what is to be heard in general?" inquired Pan Stanislav. "Thou art moving with all sails, I see. How is it with the will?" "On behalf of the benevolent institutions a young little advocate is appearing named Sledz (herring). A nice name, isn't it? If I should call a cat by that name, she would miau for three days. But I'll pepper that herring and eat him. As to the lawsuit? It stands this way, that at the end of it I shall be able to withdraw from law in all likelihood, which, moreover, is not an occupation befitting me--and I will settle in Kremen permanently." "With ready money in thy pocket?" "With ready money in my pocket, and in plenty. I have enough of law. Of course, whoso came from the country is drawn to it. That is inherited with the blood. But enough of this matter, for the present. To-morrow, as I told thee, I am going away; and I recommend my wife to thee, all the more that Pani Kraslavski has gone just now to an oculist in Vienna. I am going besides to the Osnovskis' to ask them too to remember her." "Of course we shall think of her," said Pan Stanislav. Then the conversation with Marynia occurred to him, and he asked,-- "Thy acquaintance with the Osnovskis is of long standing?" "Rather long, though my wife knows them better. He is a very rich man; he had one sister who died, and a miserly uncle, after whom he received a great fortune. As to her, what shall I say to thee? she read when still unmarried all that came to her hand; she had pretensions to wit, to art,--in a word, to everything to which one may pretend,--and in her way fell in love with Kopovski: here she is for thee _in toto_." "And Pani Bronich and Panna Castelli?" "Panna Castelli pleases women rather than men; moreover, I know nothing of her, except that it is said that this same Kopovski tried for her, or is trying now, but Pani Bronich--" Here Mashko began to laugh. "Pani Bronich the Khedive conducted in person over the pyramid of Cheops; the late Alphonso of Spain said every day to her in Cannes, 'Bon jour, Madame la Comtesse.' In the year 56, Musset wrote verses in her album, and Moltke sat with her on a trunk in Karlsbad,--in one word, she has been at every coronation. Now, since Panna Castelli has grown up, or rather luxuriated up to five feet and some inches, Aunt 'Sweetness' makes those imaginary journeys, not on her own account, but her niece's, in which for some time past Pani Osnovski helps her so zealously that it is difficult to understand what her object is. This is all, unless it is thy wish to know something of the late Pan Bronich, who died six years ago, it is unknown of what disease, for Pani Bronich finds a new one every day for him, adding, besides, that he was the last of the descendants of Rurik, not stating, however, that the second last descendant--that is, his father--was manager for the Rdultovskis, and made his property out of them. Well, I have finished,--'Vanity fair!' Be well, keep well, and in case of need count on me. If I were sure that such a need would come quickly, I would make thee promise to turn to no one but me. Till we meet!" When he had said this, Mashko pressed his friend's hand with indescribable kindness; and when he had gone, Pan Stanislav, shrugging his shoulders, said,-- "Such a clever man apparently, and doesn't see the very same vanity in himself that he is laughing at in others! How different he was such a little while ago! He had almost ceased to pretend; but when trouble passed, the devil gained the upper hand." Here he remembered what Vaskovski had said once about vanity and playing a comedy; then he thought,-- "And still such people have success in this country." CHAPTER XLIII. Pani Osnovski forgot her "Florentine-Roman" evenings so thoroughly that she was astonished when her husband reminded her once of them. Such evenings are not even in her head now; she has other occupations, which she calls "taming the eagle." If any one does not see that the _eagle_ and Lineta are created for each other, then, with permission of my husband and lord, he has very short sight; but there is no help for that. In general, men fail to understand many things, for they lack perception. Zavilovski may be an exception in this regard; but if Marynia Polanyetski would tell him, through friendship, to dress with more care and let his beard grow, it would be perfect! "Castelka"[9] is so thoroughly æsthetic that the least thing offends her, though on the other hand he carries her away,--nay, more, he hypnotizes her simply. And with her nature that is not wonderful. Pan Osnovski listened to this chattering, and, dissolving from ecstasy, watched the opportunity to seize his wife's hands, and cover them, and her arms to the elbow, with kisses; once, however, he put the perfectly natural question, which Pan Stanislav too had put to Marynia,-- "Tell me what concern thou hast in this?" But Pani Aneta said coquettishly,-- "_La reine s'amuse!_ It is not a trick to write books. If there be only a little talent, that's enough; but to bring into life that which is described in books is a far greater trick, and, besides, what amusement!" And after a while she added,-- "I may have some personal object; and if I have, let Yozio guess it." "I'll tell it in thy ear," answered Osnovski. She put out her ear with a cunning mien, blinking her violet eyes with curiosity. But Osnovski only brought his lips to her ear to kiss it; for the whole secret he repeated simply,-- "_La reine s'amuse!_" And there was truth in this. Pani Aneta might have her own personal object in bringing Zavilovski near "Castelka;" but in its own way that development of a romance in life and the rôle of a little Providence occupied and amused her immensely. With these providential intentions she ran in often to Marynia, to learn something of the "eagle," and returned in good spirits usually. Zavilovski, wishing to lull Marynia's suspicions, spoke more and more of Lineta; his diplomacy turned out so effectual that once, when Pani Aneta inquired of Marynia directly if Zavilovski were not in love with her, she answered, laughing,-- "We must confess that he is in love, my Anetka, but not with me, nor with thee. The apple is adjudged to Lineta, and nothing is left to us but to cry or be comforted." On the other hand, feelings and thoughts were talked into and attributed continually to Lineta which self-love itself would not let her deny. From morning till evening she heard that this "eagle" of wide wings was in love with her; that he was at her feet; and that such a chosen one, such an exceptional being, as she was, could not be indifferent to this. It flattered her also too much to make it possible for her to be indifferent. While painting Kopovski, she admired always, it is true, the "splendid plain surfaces" on his face, and liked him because he offered her a field for various _successes_, which were repeated later as proofs of her wit and cleverness; she liked him for various reasons. Zavilovski, too, was not an ill-looking man, though he did not wear a beard, and did not dress with due care. Besides, so much was said of his wings, and of this,--that a soul such as hers should understand him. All said this, not Pani Aneta only. Pani Bronich, who, on a time, did not understand how any one could avoid falling in love with herself, transferred later on to her niece this happy self-confidence, and accepted the views of Pani Aneta, ornamenting at the same time the canvas of reality with flowers from her own mind. At last Pan Osnovski, too, joined the chorus. Out of love for his wife, he loved "Castelka" and Pani Bronich, and was ready to love whatever had remote or near relation to "Anetka," hence he took the matter seriously. Zavilovski was for him sympathetic; the information which he collected touching him was favorable. In general, he learned only that he was misanthropic, ambitious, and pursued stubbornly whatever he aimed at; besides, he was secretive, and greatly gifted. Since all this pleased the ladies, Osnovski began to think with perfect seriousness "if that were not well." Zavilovski justified so far the serious view of affairs,--he had begun for some time to visit more frequently the "common drawing-room," and to speak oftener with Lineta. The first, it is true, he did always at the cordial invitation of Pani Aneta, but the other flowed from his will. Pani Aneta noticed, also, that his glance rested more and more on the golden hair and the dreamy lids of "Castelka," and his eyes followed her when she passed through the drawing-room. Indeed, he began to survey her more carefully, a little through diplomacy, a little through curiosity. The affair became much more important when the first volume of his poetry was issued. The poems had won attention already and were much spoken of; but the effect was weakened through this,--that they had appeared at considerable intervals, and unconnected. Now the book struck people's eyes; it was brilliant, strong, sincere. The language had freshness and metallic weight, but still bent obediently, and assumed the most subtile forms. The impression increased. Soon the murmur of praise changed to a roar filled with admiration. With the exaggeration usual in such cases, the work was exalted above its value, and in the young poet people began to foresee the coming heir of great glory and authority; his name passed from newspaper offices to publicity. People spoke of him everywhere, were occupied with him, sought him; curiosity became the greater that he was little known personally. The old rich Zavilovski, Panna Helena's father, who said that the two greatest plagues existing were perhaps the gout and poor relatives, repeated now to every one who asked him, "_Mais oui, mais oui,--c'est mon cousin_;" and such testimony had also its social weight for many persons, and, among others, weight of first order for Pani Bronich. Pani Aneta and Lineta ceased even to suffer because of the pin of "poor taste" in Zavilovski's necktie, for now everything about him might pass as original. She was pained yet that his name was Ignatsi. They would have preferred another more in keeping with his fame and his poetry; but when Osnovski, who from Metz had brought home a little Latin, explained to them that it meant "fiery," they answered that if that were true, it was another thing; and they were reconciled with Ignatsi. Sincere and great joy reigned at Bigiel's, at Pan Stanislav's, and in the counting-house, because the book had won such fame; they were not envious in the counting-house. The old cashier, the agent, and the second book-keeper were proud of their colleague, as if his glory had brightened the counting-house also. The cashier even said, "But we have shown the world what our style is!" Bigiel was thinking for two days whether in view of all this Zavilovski should remain in a modest position in the house of Polanyetski and Bigiel; but Zavilovski, when questioned by him, answered,-- "This is very good of you, kind sir. Because people are talking a little about me, you want to take my morsel of bread from me, and my pleasant associates. I found no publishers; and had it not been for your book-keeper, I could not have published the volume." To such an argument there was no answer, and Zavilovski remained in the counting-house. But he was a more frequent guest both at Bigiel's and at Pan Stanislav's. At the Osnovskis' he had not shown himself for a whole week after the volume was published, just as if something had happened. But Pani Bigiel and Marynia persuaded him to go; he had a secret desire, too,--hence one evening he went. But he found the company just going to the theatre. They wished to remain at home absolutely, but he would not consent; and to the evident delight of Pani Osnovski and Lineta, it ended in this,--that he went with them. "Let Yozio buy a ticket for a chair if he wishes." And Yozio took a ticket for a chair. During the play Zavilovski sat in the front of the box with Lineta, for Pani Aneta had insisted that Pani Bronich and she would play "mother" for them. "You two can say what you please; and if any one comes, I will so stun him that he'll not have power to trouble you." The eyes of people were turned frequently to that box when it was known who were sitting there, and Lineta felt that a kind of halo surrounded her; she felt that people not only were looking at him, but at the same time inquiring, "Whose is that head with golden hair and dreamy lids, to whom he is inclining and speaking?" She, on her part, looking at him sometimes, said to herself, "Were it not for the too prominent chin, he would be perfectly good-looking; his profile is very delicate, and a beard might cover his chin." Pani Aneta carried out her promise nobly; and when Kopovski appeared, she occupied him so much that he could barely greet Lineta, and say to Zavilovski,-- "Ah, you write verses!" After this happy discovery he succeeded in adding, but rather as a monologue, "I should like verses immensely; but, a wonderful thing, the moment I read them I think of something else right away." Lineta, turning her face, cast a long glance at him; and it is unknown which was stronger in this glance, the maliciousness of the woman, or the sudden admiration of the artist, for that head without brains, which, issuing from the depth of the box, seemed, on the red background of the wall, like some masterly thought of an artist. After the theatre, Pani Aneta would not let Zavilovski go home; and all went to drink tea. Hardly had they reached the house, when Pani Bronich began to make reproaches. "You are an evil man; and if anything happens to Lineta, it will be on your conscience. The child doesn't eat, doesn't sleep; she only reads you, and reads." Pani Aneta added immediately,-- "True! I, too, have cause of complaint: she seized your book, and will not give it to any one for an instant; and when we are angry, do you know what she answers? 'This is mine! this is mine!'" And Lineta, though she had not the book in her hands at that moment, pressed them to her bosom, as if to defend something, and said in a low, soft voice,-- "For it is mine, mine!" Zavilovski looked at her and felt that something had, as it were, thrilled in him. But on returning home late he passed by Pan Stanislav's windows, in which light was still shining. After the theatre and conversation at the Osnovskis' he felt a certain turning of the head. Now the sight of those windows brought him to himself; he felt suddenly such a pleasant impression as one experiences on thinking of something very good and very dear. His immense, pure homage for Marynia arose in him with its former power: he was possessed by that kind of mild exaltation in which the desires fall asleep, and a man becomes almost entirely a spirit; and he returned home, muttering passages from the poem "Lilia," the most full of exaltation of any which he had written in his life yet. There was light at Pan Stanislav's because something had happened, which seemed to Marynia that mercy of God expected and hoped for. In the evening, after tea, she was sitting breaking her head, as usual, over daily accounts, when she put the pencil down on a sudden. After a while she grew pale, but her face became clear; and she said, with a voice slightly changed,-- "Stas!" Her voice surprised him somewhat; therefore he approached her, and asked,-- "What is the matter? Thou art a little pale." "Come nearer; I'll tell thee something." And, taking his head with her hands, she whispered into his ear, and he listened; then, kissing her on the forehead, he said,-- "Only be not excited, lest thou hurt thyself." But in his words emotion was evident. He walked through the room, looked at her a while, kissed her again on the forehead; at last he said,-- "Usually people wish a son first, but remember that it be a daughter. We'll call her Litka." Neither of them could sleep that night for a long time, and that was why Zavilovski saw light in the windows. FOOTNOTES: [9] Familiar for Castelli. CHAPTER XLIV. In a week, when probability had become certainty, Pan Stanislav gave the news to the Bigiels. Pani Bigiel flew the same day to Marynia, who fell to weeping with gladness on her honest shoulders. "It seems to me," said she, "that Stas will love me more now." "How more?" "I wished to say still more," answered Marynia. "Seest thou, for that matter, I have never enough." "He would have to settle with me if there were not enough." The tears dried on Marynia's sweet face, and only a smile remained. After a time she clasped her hands, as if in prayer, and said,-- "Oh, my God, if it is only a daughter! for Stas wants a daughter." "And what wouldst thou like?" "I--but don't tell Stas--I should like a son; but let it be a daughter." Then she grew thoughtful, and asked,-- "But there is no help, is there?" "There is not," answered Pani Bigiel, laughing; "for that they have not found yet any remedy." Bigiel, on his part, gave the news to every one whom he met; and in the counting-house he said, in Pan Stanislav's presence, with a certain unction in his voice,-- "Well, gentlemen, it seems that the house will be increased by one member." The employees turned inquiring glances on him; he added,-- "Thanks to Pan and Pani Polanyetski." Then all hurried to Pan Stanislav with good wishes, excepting Zavilovski, who, bending over his desk, began to look diligently at columns of figures; and only after a while, when he felt that his conduct might arrest attention, did he turn with a changed face to Pan Stanislav, and, pressing his hand, repeat, "I congratulate, I congratulate!" It seemed to him then that he was ridiculous, that something had fallen on his head; that he felt empty, boundlessly stupid; and that the whole world was fabulously trivial. The worst, however, was the feeling of his own ridiculousness; for the affair was so natural and easily foreseen that even such a man as Kopovski might foresee it. At the same time, he, an intelligent man, writing poetry, pervaded with enthusiasm, grasping everything which happened around, slipped into such an illusion that it seemed to him then as if a thunderbolt had struck him. What overpowering ridiculousness! But he had made the acquaintance of Marynia as Pani Polanyetski, and imagined to himself unconsciously that she had always been, and would be, Pani Polanyetski in the future as she was in the present, and simply it had not occurred to him that any change might supervene. And behold, observing lily tones once on her face, he called her Lily, and wrote lily verses to her. And now that lost sense, which to vexation adds something of ridicule, whispered in his ear, "Ah, a pretty lily!" And Zavilovski felt more and more crushed, more and more ridiculous; he wrote verses, but Pan Stanislav did not write any. In that apposition there was a gnawing bitterness, and something idiotic; he took deep draughts from that cup, so as not to lose one drop in the drinking. If his feelings had been betrayed; if he had made them known to Marynia; if she had repulsed him with utter contempt, and Pan Stanislav had thrown him downstairs,--there would have been something in that like a drama. But such an ending,--"such flatness!" He had a nature feeling everything ten times more keenly than common men; hence the position seemed to him simply unendurable, and those office hours, which he had to sit out yet, a torture. His feeling for Marynia had not sunk in his heart deeply; but it occupied his imagination altogether. Reality now struck its palm on his head without mercy; the blow seemed to him not only painful and heavy, but also given sneeringly. The desperate thought came to his head to seize his cap, go out, and never come back again. Fortunately, the usual hour for ending work came at last, and all began to separate. Zavilovski, while passing through the corridor, where, at a hat-rack, a mirror was fixed, saw his projecting chin and tall form in it, and said to himself, "Thus looks an idiot." He did not go to dine that day with the second book-keeper, as usual; he would have been even glad to flee from his own person. Meanwhile he shut himself in at home, and with the exaggeration of a genuine artist, heightened to impossible limits his misfortune and ridiculous position. After some days he grew calm, however; he felt only a strange void in his heart,--precisely as if it were a dwelling vacated by some one. He did not show himself at Pan Stanislav's for a fortnight; but at the end of that time he saw Marynia at the Bigiels', and was astonished. She seemed to him almost ugly. That was by no means his prejudice, for, though it was difficult to notice a change in her form, still she had changed greatly. Her lips were swollen; there were pimples on her forehead; and she had lost freshness of color. She was calm, however, but somewhat melancholy, as if some disappointment had met her. Zavilovski, who, in truth, had a good heart, was moved greatly by her ugliness. Before, it seemed to him that he would disregard her; now that seemed to him stupid. But her face only had changed, not her kindness or good-will. Nay, feeling safe now from superfluous enthusiasms on his part, she showed him more cordiality than ever. She asked with great interest about Lineta; and when she found that a subject on which he, too, spoke willingly, she began to laugh with her former laughter, full of indescribable sweetness, and said almost joyously,-- "Well, well! People wonder there why you have not visited them for so long a time; and do you know what Aneta and Pani Bronich told me? They told me--" But here she stopped, and after a while said,-- "No; I cannot tell this aloud. Let us walk in the garden a little." And she rose, but not with sufficient care, so that, stumbling at the first step, she almost fell. "Be careful!" cried Pan Stanislav, impatiently. She looked at him with submission, almost with fear. "Stas," said she, blushing, "as I love thee, that was inadvertent." "But do not frighten her so," said Pani Bigiel, quickly. It was so evident that Pan Stanislav cared more at that moment for the coming child than Marynia, that even Zavilovski understood it. As to Marynia, this was known to her long before that day; she had passed through a whole mental battle with herself just because of it. Of that battle she had not spoken to any one; and it was the more difficult, the more the state of her health advised against excitement, unquiet, and an inclination to gloomy brooding. She had passed through grievous hours before she said to herself, "It must be as it is." Pan Stanislav would have been simply astonished had any one told him that he did not love, and especially that he did not value, his wife as duty demanded. He loved her in his own way, and judged at once that, if ever, it was then that the child should be for both a question beyond every other. Vivacious and impulsive by nature, he pushed this care at moments too far, but he did not account this to himself as a fault; he did not even stop to think of what might take place in the soul of Marynia. It seemed to him that among other duties of hers one of the first was the duty of giving him children; that it was a simple thing, therefore, that she should accomplish this. Hence he was thankful to her, and imagined that, being careful of a child, he was by that very act careful of her, and careful in a degree that few husbands are. If he had considered it proper to call himself to account touching his treatment of her, he would have considered it a thing perfectly natural also that her charm, purely feminine, attracted him now less than it had hitherto. With each day she became uglier, and offended his æsthetic sense sometimes; he fancied that, concealing this from her, and trying to show her sympathy, he was as delicate as a man could well be to a woman. She, on her part, had the impression that the hope on which she had counted most had deceived her; she felt that she had descended to the second place, that she would descend more and more. And in spite of all her affection for her husband, in spite of the treasures of tenderness which were collecting in her for the future child, rebellion and regret seized her soul at the first moment. But this did not last long; she battled with these feelings also, and conquered. She said to herself that here it was no one's fault; life is such that this issues from the natural condition of things, which, again, is a result of God's will. Then she began to accuse herself of selfishness, and crush herself with the weight of this thought: Has she a right to think of herself, not of "Stas," and not of her future child? What can she bring against "Stas"? What is there wonderful in this, that he, who had loved even a strange child so much, has his soul occupied now, above all, with his own; that his heart beats first for it? Is there not an offence against God in this,--that she permits herself to bring forward first of all rights of her own, happiness of her own, she, who has offended so much? Who is she, and what right has she to an exceptional fate? And she was ready to beat her breast. The rebellion passed; there remained only somewhere in the very depths of her heart a little regret that life is so strange, and that every new feeling, instead of strengthening a previous one, pushes it into the depths. But when that sorrow went from her heart to her eyes, under the form of tears, or began to quiver on her lips, she did not let it have such an escape. "I shall be calm in a moment," thought she, in her soul. "Such it is, such it will be, and such is right; for such is life, and such is God's will, with which we must be reconciled." And at last she was reconciled. By degrees she found repose even, not giving an account to herself that the basis of this was resignation and sadness. It was sadness, however, which smiled. Being young, it was almost bitter at times to her, when all at once, in the eyes of her husband, or of even some stranger, she read clearly, "Oh, how ugly thou hast grown!" But because Pani Bigiel had said that "afterward" she would be more beautiful than ever, she said in her soul to them, "Wait!"--and that was her solace. She answered also something similar to Zavilovski. She was at once glad, and not glad, of the impression she had made on him; for if on the one hand her self-love had suffered a little, on the other she felt perfectly safe, and could speak with him freely. She wished to speak, and speak with full seriousness, for a few days before, Pani Aneta had told her directly that "The Column" was in love to the ears, and that Zavilovski had every chance with her. This forging the iron while hot disquieted her somewhat; she could not understand why it was so, even taking into consideration the innate impetuosity of Pani Aneta. For Zavilovski, who had become somehow the Benjamin of both houses, she, as well as the Bigiels and Pan Stanislav, had great friendship; and, besides, she was grateful to him, for, be things as they might, he had appreciated her. He had known her truly, hence she would help him with gladness in that which seemed to her a great opportunity; but she thought also, "Suppose it should be bad for him." She feared responsibility a little, and her own previous diplomacy. Now, therefore, she wishes to learn first what he thinks really, and then give him to understand how things are, and finally advise him to examine and weigh with due care in the given case. "They are wondering there, because you have not called for a long time," said she, when they had gone to the garden. "What did Pani Osnovski say?" inquired Zavilovski. "I will tell you only one thing, though I am not sure that I ought to repeat it. Pani Aneta told me--that--but no! First, I must learn why you have not called there this long time." "I was not well, and I had a disappointment. I made no visits; I could not! You have stopped talking." "Yes, for I wished to know if you were not angry at those ladies for some cause. Pani Aneta told me that Lineta supposed you were, and that she saw tears in her eyes a number of times, for that reason." Zavilovski blushed; on his young and impressionable face real tenderness was reflected. "Ah, my God!" answered he; "I angry, and at a lady like Panna Lineta? Could she offend any one?" "I repeat what was said to me, though Pani Aneta is so impulsive that I dare not guarantee all she says to be accurate. I know that she is not lying; but, as you understand, very impulsive people see things sometimes as if through a magnifying-glass. Satisfy yourself. Lineta seems to me agreeable, very uncommon, and very kind--but judge for yourself; you have such power of observation." "That she is kind and uncommon is undoubted. You remember how I said that they produced the impression of foreign women; that is not true altogether. Pani Osnovski may, but not Panna Lineta." "You must look yourself, and look again," said Marynia. "You understand that I persuade you to nothing. I should have a little fear, even of Stas, who does not like those ladies. But I say sincerely that when I heard of Lineta's tears, my heart was touched. The poor girl!" "I cannot even tell you how the very thought of that stirs me," replied Zavilovski. Further conversation was interrupted by the coming of Pan Stanislav, who said,-- "Well? always matchmakers! But these women are incurable. Knowest thou, Marynia, what I will tell thee? I should be most happy wert thou to refrain from such matters." Marynia began to explain; but he turned to Zavilovski, and said,-- "I enter into nothing in this case, and know only this,--that I have not the least faith in those ladies." Zavilovski went home full of dreams. All the strings of his imagination had been stirred and sounded, so that the wished-for sleep fled from him. He did not light a lamp, so that nothing might prevent him from playing on those quivering strings; he sat in the moonlight and mused, or rather, created. He was not in love yet; but a great tenderness had possessed him at thought of Lineta, and he arranged images as if he loved already. He saw her as distinctly as though she were before him; he saw her dreamy eyes, and her golden head, bending, like a cut flower, till it reached his breast. And now it seems to him that he is placing his fingers on her temples, and that he is feeling the satin touch of her hair, and, bending her head back a little, he looks to see if the fondling has not dried her tears; and her eyes laugh at him, like the sky still wet from rain, but sunny. Imagination moves his senses. He thinks that he is confessing his love to her; that he presses her to his bosom, and feels her heart beating; that he kneels with his head on her knees, from which comes warmth through the silk garment to his face. And he began in reality to shiver. Hitherto she had been for him an image; now he feels her for the first time as a woman. There is not in him even one thought which is not on her; and he so forgets himself in her that he loses consciousness of where he is, and what is happening within him. Some kind of hoarse singing on the street roused him; then he lighted a lamp, and began to think more soberly. A kind of alarm seized him now, because one thing seemed undoubted,--if he did not cease to visit Pani Bronich and the Osnovskis altogether, he would fall in love with that maiden past memory. "I must choose, then," said he to himself. And next day he went to see her, for he had begun to yearn; and that same night he tried to write a poem with the title of "Spider-web." He dared not go to Pani Bronich herself, so he waited till the hour when he could find all at tea, in the common drawing-room. Pani Aneta received him with uncommon cordiality, and outbursts of joyous laughter; but he, after greeting her, began to look at Lineta's face, and his heart beat with more force when he saw in her a great and deep joy. "Do you know what?" cried Pani Aneta, with her usual vivacity. "Our 'Poplar' likes beards so much that I thought this of you: 'he is letting his beard grow, and does not show himself.'" "No, no!" said the "Poplar," "stay as you were when I made your acquaintance." But Pan Osnovski put his arm around Zavilovski, and said, in that pleasant tone of a man of good breeding, who knows how to bring people at once to more intimate and cordial relations,-- "Did Pan Ignas hide himself from us? Well, I have means to compel him. Let Lineta begin his portrait, then he must come to us daily." Pani Aneta clapped her hands. "How clever that Yozio is, wonderfully clever!" His face was radiant because he had said a thing pleasing to his wife, and he repeated,-- "Of course, my Anetka, of course." "I have promised already to paint it," said Lineta, with a soft voice, "but I was afraid to be urgent." "Whenever you command," answered Pan Ignas. "The days are so long now that about four, after Pan Kopovski; for that matter, I shall finish soon with that insufferable Kopovski." "Do you know what she said about Pan Kopovski?" began Pani Aneta. But Lineta would not permit her to say this for anything; she was prevented, moreover, by Pan Plavitski, who came in at that moment, and broke up the conversation. Pan Plavitski, on making the acquaintance of Pani Aneta at Marynia's, lost his head for her, and acknowledged this openly; on her part, she coquetted with him unsparingly, to the great delight of herself and of others. "Let papa sit near me here," said she; "we will be happy side by side, won't we?" "As in heaven! as in heaven!" replied Plavitski, stroking his knees with his palms time after time, and thrusting out the tip of his tongue from enjoyment. Zavilovski drew up to Lineta and said,-- "I am so happy to be able to come every day. But shall I not occupy your time, really?" "Of course you will occupy it," answered she, looking him in the eyes; "but you will occupy it as no one else can. I was really too timid to urge, because I am afraid of you." Then he looked into the depth of her eyes, and answered with emphasis,-- "Be not afraid." Lineta dropped her eyelids, and a moment of rather awkward suspense followed; then the lady inquired, in a voice somewhat lowered,-- "Why did you not come for such a long time?" He had it on his tongue to say, "I was afraid," but he had not the daring to push matters that far; hence he answered,-- "I was writing." "A poem?" "Yes, called 'Spider-web;' I will bring it to-morrow. You remember that when I made your acquaintance, you said that you would like to be a spider-web. I remembered that; and since then I see continually such a snowy thread sporting in the air." "It sports, but not with its own power," answered Lineta, "and cannot soar unless--" "What? Why do you not finish?" "Unless it winds around the wing of a Soarer." When she had said this, she rose quickly and went to help Osnovski, who was opening the window. Zavilovski remained alone with mist in his eyes. It seemed to him that he heard the throbbing of his temples. The honeyed voice of Pani Bronich first brought him to his senses,-- "A couple of days ago old Pan Zavilovski told me that you and he are related; but that you are not willing to visit him, and that he cannot visit you, since he has the gout. Why not visit him? He is a man of such distinction, and so pleasant. Go to him; it is even a disappointment to him that you do not go. Go to visit him." "Very well; I can go," answered Zavilovski, who was ready that moment to agree to anything. "How kind and good you must be! You will see your cousin, Panna Helena. But don't fall in love with her, for she too is very distinguished." "No, there is no danger," said Zavilovski, laughing. "They say besides that she was in love with Ploshovski, who shot himself, and that she wears eternal mourning in her heart for him. But when will you go?" "To-morrow, or the day after. When you like." "You see, they are going away. The summer is at our girdles! Where will you be in the summer?" "I do not know. And you?" Lineta, who during this time had returned and sat down not far away, stopped her conversation with Kopovski, and, hearing Pan Ignas's question, replied,-- "We have no plan yet." "We were going to Scheveningen," said Pani Bronich, "but it is difficult with Lineta." And after a while she added in a lower voice: "She is always so surrounded by people; she has such success in society that you would not believe it. Though why should you not? It is enough to look at her. My late husband foretold this when she was twelve years of age. 'Look,' said he, 'what trouble there will be when she grows up.' And there is trouble, there is! My husband foresaw many things. But have I told you that he was the last of the Rur--Ah, yes! I have told you. We had no children of our own, for the first one didn't come to birth, and my husband was fourteen years older than I; later on he was to me more,--a father." "How can that concern me?" thought Pan Ignas. But Pani Bronich continued,-- "My late husband always grieved over this, that he had no son. That is, there was a son, but he came halfway too early" (here tears quivered in the voice of Pani Bronich). "We kept him some time in spirits. And, if you will believe it, when there was fair weather he rose, and when there was rain he sank down. Ah, what a gloomy remembrance! How much my husband suffered because he was to die,--the last of the Rur--. But a truce to this; 't is enough that at last he was as attached to Lineta as to a relative,--and surely she was his nearest relative,--and what remains after us will be hers. Maybe for that reason people surround her so. Though--no! I do not wonder at them. If you knew what a torment that is to her, and to me. Two years ago, in Nice, a Portuguese, Count Jao Colimaçao, a relative of the Alcantaras, so lost his head as to rouse people's laughter. Or that Greek of last year, in Ostend!--the son of a banker, from Marseilles, a millionnaire. What was his name? Lineta, what was the name of that Greek millionnaire, that one who, thou knowest?" "Aunt!" said Lineta, with evident displeasure. But the aunt was in full career already, like a train with full steam. "Ah, ha! I recollect," said she,--"Kanafaropulos, Secretary of the French Embassy in Brussels." Lineta rose and went to Pani Aneta, who was talking at the principal table with Plavitski. The aunt, following her with her eyes, said,-- "The child is angry. She hates tremendously to have any one speak of her successes; but I cannot resist. Do you understand me? See how tall she is! How splendidly she has grown! Anetka calls her sometimes the column, and sometimes the poplar; and really, she is a poplar. What wonder that people's eyes gaze at her! I haven't mentioned yet Pan Ufinski. That's our great friend. My late husband loved him immensely. But you must have heard of Pan Ufinski? That man who cuts silhouettes out of paper. The whole world knows him. I don't know at how many courts he has cut silhouettes; the last time he cut out the Prince of Wales. There was also a Hungarian." Osnovski, who sat near by amusing himself with a pencil at his watch-chain, now drawing it out, now pushing it back, grew impatient at last, and said,-- "A couple of more such, dear aunt, and there would be a masquerade ball." "Precisely, precisely!" answered Pani Bronich. "If I mention them, it is because Lineta doesn't wish to hear of any one. She is such a chauviniste! You have no idea what a chauviniste that child is." "God give her health!" said Pan Ignas. Then he rose to take farewell. At parting, he held for some time the hand of Lineta, who answered also with an equally prolonged pressure. "Till to-morrow," said he, looking into her eyes. "Till to-morrow--after Pan Kopovski. And do not forget 'Spider-web.'" "No, I will not forget--ever," answered Zavilovski, with a voice somewhat moved. He went out with Plavitski; but they had scarcely found themselves on the street, when the old man, tapped him lightly on the arm, and stopping, said,-- "Young man, do you know that I shall soon be a grandfather?" "I know." "Yes, yes!" repeated Plavitski with a smile of delight, "and in addition to that, I will tell you only this much: there is nothing to surpass young married women!" And, laughing, he began to clap Pan Ignas time after time on the shoulder; then he put the ends of his fingers to his lips, took farewell, and walked off. But his voice, slightly quivering, came to Pan Ignas from a distance,-- "There is nothing to surpass young married women." Noise on the street drowned the rest. CHAPTER XLV. From that time Pan Ignas went every day to Aunt Bronich's. He found Kopovski there frequently, for toward the end something had been spoiled in the portrait of "Antinoüs." Lineta said that she had not been able to bring everything out of that face yet; that the expression in the picture was not perhaps what it should be,--in a word, she needed time for reflection. With Pan Ignas her work went more easily. "With such a head as Pan Kopovski's," said she once, "it is enough to change the least line, it is enough to have the light wrong, to ruin everything. While with Pan Zavilovski one must seize first of all the character." On hearing this, both were satisfied. Kopovski declared even that it was not his fault; that God had created him so. Pani Bronich said later on that Lineta had said apropos of that: "God created him; the Son of God redeemed him; but the Holy Ghost forgot to illuminate him." That witticism on poor Kopovski was repeated throughout Warsaw. Pan Ignas liked him well enough. After a few meetings he seemed to him so unfathomably stupid that it did not occur to him that any one could be jealous of the man. On the contrary, it was always pleasant to look at him. Those ladies too liked him, though they permitted themselves to jest with him; and sometimes he served them simply as a ball, which they tossed from hand to hand. Kopovski's stupidity was not gloomy, however, nor suspicious. He possessed a uniform temper and a smile really wonderful; of this last he was aware, perhaps, hence he preferred to smile rather than frown. He was well-bred, accustomed to society, and dressed excellently; in this regard he might have served as a model to Pan Ignas. From time to time he put astonishing questions, which filled the young ladies with merriment. Once, hearing Pani Bronich talk of poetic inspirations, he asked Pan Ignas, "If anything was taken for it or not," and at the first moment confused him, for Pan Ignas did not know what to answer. Another time Pani Aneta said to him,-- "Have you ever written poetry? Make some rhyme, then." Kopovski asked time till next day; but next day he had forgotten the request, or could not make the verses. The ladies were too well-bred to remind him of his promise. It was always so agreeable to look at him that they did not wish to cause him unpleasantness. Meanwhile spring ended, and the races began. Pan Ignas was invited for the whole time of their continuance to the carriage of the Osnovskis. They gave him a place opposite Lineta; and he admired her with all his soul. In bright dresses, in bright hats, with laughter in her dreamy eyes, with her calm face flushing somewhat under the breath of fresh breezes, she seemed to him spring and paradise. Returning home, he had his eyes full of her, his mind and his heart full. In that world in which they lived, in the society of those young men, who came up to the carriage to entertain the ladies, he was not at home, but the sight of Lineta recompensed him for everything. Under the influence of sunny days, fair weather, broad summer breezes, and that youthful maiden, who began to be dear to him, he lived, as it were, in a continuous intoxication; he felt youth and power in himself. In his face there was at times something truly eagle-like. At moments it seemed to him that he was a ringing bell, sounding and sounding, heralding the delight of life, the delight of love, the delight of happiness,--a great jubilee of loving. He wrote much, and more easily than ever before; there was besides in his verses that which recalled the fresh odor of newly ploughed fields, the vigor of young leaves, the sound of wings of birds flying on to fallow land to the immense breadth of plains and meadows. He felt his own power, and ceased to be timid about poetry even before strangers, for he understood that there was something about him, something within him, and that he had something to lay at the feet of a loved one. Pan Stanislav, who, in spite of his mercantile life, had an irrestrainable passion for horses, and never neglected the races, saw Pan Ignas every day with the Osnovskis and Panna Castelli, and gazing at the latter as at a rainbow; when he teased him in the counting-house for being in love, the young poet answered,-- "It is not I, but my eyes. The Osnovskis will go soon, those ladies too; and all will disappear like a dream." But he did not speak truth, for he did not believe that all could disappear like a dream. On the contrary, he felt that for him a new life had begun, which with the departure of Panna Lineta might be broken. "And where are Pani Bronich and Panna Castelli going?" continued Pan Stanislav. "For the rest of June and during July they will remain with the Osnovskis, and then go, as they say, to Scheveningen; but this is not certain yet." "Osnovski's Prytulov is fifteen miles from Warsaw," said Pan Stanislav. For some days Pan Ignas had been asking himself, with heart beating, whether they would invite him or not; but when they invited him, and besides very cordially, he did not promise to go, and with all his expressions of gratitude held back, excusing himself with the plea of occupation and lack of time. Lineta, who was sitting apart, heard him, and raised her golden brows. When he was going, she approached him and asked,-- "Why will you not come to Prytulov?" He, seeing that no one could hear them, said, looking into her eyes,-- "I am afraid." She began to laugh, and inquired, repeating Kopovski's words,-- "Is it necessary to take anything for that?" "It is," answered he, with a voice somewhat trembling; "I need to take the word, come, from you!" She hesitated a moment; perhaps she did not dare to tell him directly in that form which he required, but she blushed suddenly and whispered;-- "Come." Then she fled, as if ashamed of those colors on her face, which, in spite of the darkness, were increasingly evident. On the way home it seemed to Pan Ignas that a shower of stars was raining down on him. The departure of the Osnovskis was to take place in ten days only. Up to that time, the painting of portraits was to continue its usual course, and to go on in the same fashion till the last day, for Lineta did not wish to lose time. Pani Aneta persuaded her to paint Pan Ignas exclusively, since Kopovski would need only as many sittings as could be arranged in Prytulov just before their departure for Scheveningen. For Pan Ignas those sittings had become the first need of his life, as it were; and if by chance there was any interruption, he looked on that day as lost. Pani Bronich was present at the sittings most frequently. But he divined in her a friendly soul; and at last the manner in which she spoke of Lineta began to please him. They both just composed hymns in honor of Lineta, whom in confidential conversation Pani Bronich called "Nitechka."[10] This name pleased Pan Ignas the more clearly he felt how that "Nitechka" (thread) was winding around his heart. Frequently, however, it seemed to him that Pani Bronich was narrating improbable things. It was easy to believe that Lineta was and could be Svirski's most capable pupil; that Svirski might have called her "La Perla;" that he might have fallen in love with her, as Pani Bronich gave one to understand. But that Svirski, known in all Europe, and rewarded with gold medals at all the exhibitions, could declare with tears, while looking at some sketch of hers, that saving technique, he ought rather to take lessons of her, of this even Pan Ignas permitted himself to doubt. And somewhere, in some corner of his soul, in which there was hidden yet a small dose of sobriety, he wondered that Panna "Nitechka" did not contradict directly, but limited herself to her words usual on such occasions: "Aunt! thou knowest that I do not wish you to repeat such things." But at last he lost even those final gleams of sobriety, and began to have feelings of tenderness even over the late Bronich, and almost fell in love with Pani Bronich, for this alone,--that he could talk with her from morning till night of Lineta. In consequence of this repeated insistence of Pani Bronich, he visited also, at this time, old Pan Zavilovski, that Croesus, at whose house he had never been before. The old noble, with milk-white mustaches, a ruddy complexion, and gray hair closely trimmed, received him with his foot in an armchair, and with that peculiar great-lord familiarity of a man accustomed to this,--that people count more with him than he with them. "I beg pardon for not standing," said he, "but the gout is no joke. Ha, what is to be done! An inheritance! It seems that this will be attached to the name for the ages of ages. But hast thou not a twist in thy thumb sometimes?" "No," answered Pan Ignas, who was a little astonished, as well at the manner of reception as that the old noble said _thou_ to him from the first moment. "Wait; old age will come." Then, calling his daughter, he presented Pan Ignas to her, and began to speak of the family, explaining to the young man how they were related. At last he said,-- "Well, I have not written verses, for I am too dull; but I must tell thee that thou hast written them for me, and that I was not ashamed, though I read my name under the verses." But the visit was not to end successfully. Panna Zavilovski, a person of thirty years, good-looking, but, as it were, untimely faded and gloomy, wishing to take some part in the conversation, began to inquire of her "cousin" whom he knew, and where he visited. To every name mentioned, the old noble appended, in one or two words, his opinion. At mention of Pan Stanislav, he said, "Good blood!" at Bigiel's, he inquired, "How?" and when the name was repeated, he said, "_Connais pas_;" Pani Aneta he outlined with the phrase, "Crested lark!" at mention of Pani Bronich he muttered, "Babbler;" at last, when the young man named, with a certain confusion, Panna Castelli, the noble, whose leg twitched evidently at that moment, twisted his face terribly, and exclaimed, "Ei! a Venetian _half-devil_!" At this, it grew dark in the eyes of Pan Ignas, who, notwithstanding his shyness, was impulsive; his lower jaw came forward more than ever, and, rising, he measured with a glance the old man from his aching foot to his crown, and said,-- "You have a way of giving sharp judgments, which does not suit me; therefore it is pleasant to take farewell." And, bowing, he took his hat and departed. Old Pan Zavilovski, who permitted himself everything, and to whom everything was forgiven, looked at his daughter some time with amazement, and only after long silence exclaimed,-- "What! has he gone mad?" The young man did not tell Pani Bronich what had happened. He said merely that he had made a visit, and that father and daughter alike did not please him. She learned everything, however, from the old man himself, who, for that matter, did not call Lineta anything but "Venetian half-devil," even to her eyes. "But to make the matter perfect, you have sent me a full devil," said he; "it is well that he did not break my head." Still in his voice one might note a species of satisfaction that it was a _Zavilovski_ who had shown himself so resolute; but Pani Bronich did not note it. She took the affair somewhat to heart, and, to the great astonishment of the "full-devil," said to him,-- "He is wild about Lineta, and with him this is a sort of term of tenderness; besides, one should forgive a man much who has such a position, and in this age. It must be that you haven't read Krashevski's novel, 'Venetian Half-Devil.' This is a title in which there is a certain poetry ever since that author used it. When the old man grows good-natured, write him a couple of words, will you not? Such relations should be kept up." "Pani," answered Pan Ignas, "I would not write to him for anything in the world." "Even if some one besides me should ask?" "That is--again, I am not a stone." Lineta laughed when she heard these words. In secret she was pleased that Pan Ignas, at one word touching her which to him seemed offensive, sprang up as if he had heard a blasphemy. So that during the sitting, when for a while they were alone, she said,-- "It is wonderful how little I believe in the sincerity of people. So difficult is it for me to believe that any one, except aunt, should wish me well really." "Why?" "I don't know. I cannot explain it to myself." "But, for example, the Osnovskis? Pani Aneta?" "Pani Aneta?" repeated Lineta. And she began to paint diligently, as if she had forgotten the question. "But I?" asked Pan Ignas, in a lower voice. "You--yes. You, I am sure, would not let any one speak ill of me. I feel that you are sincerely well-wishing, though I know not why, for in general I am of so little worth." "You of little worth!" cried Pan Ignas, springing up. "Remember that, in truth, I will let no one speak ill of you, not even you yourself." Lineta laughed and said,-- "Very well; but sit down, for I cannot paint." He sat down; but he looked at her with a gaze so full of love and enchantment that it began to confuse her. "What a disobedient model!" said she; "turn your head to the right a little, and do not look at me." "I cannot! I cannot!" answered Pan Ignas. "And I, in truth, cannot paint, for the head was begun in another position. Wait!" Then she approached him, and, taking his temples with her fingers, turned his head toward the right slightly. His heart began to beat like a hammer; everything went around in his eyes; and, holding the hand of Lineta, he pressed her warm palm to his lips, and made no answer,--he only pressed it more firmly. "Talk with aunt," said she, hurriedly. "We are going to-morrow." They could not say more, for that moment Osnovski, Kopovski, and Pani Aneta, who had been sitting in the drawing-room adjoining, came into the studio. Pani Aneta, seeing Lineta's blushing cheeks, looked quickly at Pan Ignas, and asked,-- "How is it going with you to-day?" "Where is aunt?" inquired Lineta. "She went out to make visits." "Long since?" "A few minutes ago. How has it gone with you?" "Well; but enough for to-day." Lineta put down her brush, and after a moment went to wash her hands. Pan Ignas remained there, answering, with more or less presence of mind, questions put to him; but he wanted to go. He feared the conversation with Pani Bronich, and, with the habit of cowards, he wished to defer it till the morrow; he wanted, besides, to remain a while with his own thoughts, to arrange them, to estimate better the significance of what had happened. For at that moment he had in his head merely a certain chaos of indefinite thoughts; he understood that something unparalleled had happened,--something from which a new epoch in life would begin. At the very thought of this, a quiver of happiness passed through him, but also a quiver of fear, for he felt that now it was too late to withdraw; through love, through confession, through declaration to the lady and to her family, he must advance to the altar. He desired this with his whole soul; but he was so accustomed to consider everything that was happiness as a poetic imagining, as something belonging exclusively to the world of thought, art, and dreams, that he almost lacked daring to believe that Lineta could become his wife really. Meanwhile he had barely endurance to sit out the time; and when Lineta returned, he rose to take leave. She gave him her hand, cooled by fresh water, and said,-- "Will you not wait for aunt?" "I must go; and to-morrow I will take farewell of you and Pani Bronich." "Then till our next meeting!" This farewell seemed to Pan Ignas, after what had happened, so inappropriate and cold that despair seized him; but he had not the daring to part before people otherwise, all the more that Pani Aneta was looking at him with uncommon attention. "Wait! I have something to do in the city; we'll go together," said Osnovski, as he was going out. And they went together; but barely were they outside the gate of the villa, when Pan Osnovski stopped, and put his hand on the poet's arm. "Pan Ignas, have you not quarrelled a little with Lineta?" Pan Ignas looked at him with great eyes. "I? with Panna Lineta?" "Yes, for you parted somehow coldly. I thought you were as far, at least, as hand-kissing." Pan Ignas's eyes grew still larger; Osnovski laughed, and said,-- "Well, I'll tell you the truth. My wife, as a woman who is curious, looked at you, and said that something had happened. My Pan Ignas, you have in me a great friend, who, besides, knows what it is to love. I can say to you only one thing,--God grant you to be as happy as I am!" When he had said this, he began to shake his guest's hand; and Pan Ignas, though confused to the highest degree, was barely able to refrain from falling on his neck. "Have you really some work to-day? Why did you go?" "I will tell you sincerely. I wanted to collect my thoughts, and, besides, fear of Pani Bronich seized me." "Then you do not know aunt? Her head, too, is warm with the question. Come with me a bit of the road, and then go back without ceremony. On the way you will collect your thoughts; by that time Pani Bronich will be at home, and you will tell her your little story, at which she will weep. Nothing else threatens you. Remember, too, that if you are fortunate you are to thank mainly my Aneta, for, as God lives, she has filled Castelka's head, as your own sister might. She has such an impetuous head, and at the same time such an honest heart. Equally good women there may be, but a better there is not on earth. It seemed to us a little that that fool Kopovski was inclined to Castelka, and Aneta was tremendously angry. They like Kopovski; but to let her marry such a man--that would be too much." Thus talking, he took Pan Ignas by the hand, and after a moment, continued, "We are to be relatives soon; let us drop ceremony and say _thou_ to each other. I must tell thee further: I have no doubt Castelka loves thee with her whole heart, for she is a true woman also. Besides, they have turned her head with thee greatly; but she is so young yet that I tell thee to throw fuel on the fire--throw it! Dost understand? What is begun should become rooted; this can happen easily, for hers is really an uncommon nature. Do not think that I wish to forewarn or to frighten thee. No; it is a question only of making things permanent. That she loves thee is not subject to doubt. If thy eyes had but seen her when she was carrying thy book around, or what happened when she and thou were returning from the theatre. A stupid thought came to my head then. I spoke of having heard that old Zavilovski wished to make thy acquaintance because he had planned to marry thee to his daughter, so that his property might not leave the name; and imagine to thyself, that poor girl, when she heard this, became as pale as paper, so that I was frightened, and took back my words in all haste. What is thy answer to this?" Pan Ignas wanted to laugh and to weep; but he merely pressed to his side, and pressed with all his force, Osnovski's hand, which he held under his arm, and said, after a while,-- "I am not worthy of her, no." "Well, and after that 'no' perhaps thou wilt say, 'No, I do not love her properly.'" "That may be true," answered Pan Ignas, raising his eyes. "Well, go back now, and tell thy little story to Aunt Bronich. Do not fear being too pathetic; she likes that. Till we meet again, Ignas! I shall be back myself in an hour or so, and we shall have a betrothal evening." They pressed each other's hands, and Osnovski said, with a feeling which was quite brotherly,-- "I repeat once more: God grant thee to find in Castelka such a wife as my Anetka!" On the way back Pan Ignas thought that Osnovski was an angel, Pani Osnovski another, Pani Bronich a third, and Lineta, soaring above them all on the wings of an archangel, something divine and sacred. He understood at that moment that a heart might love to pain. In his soul he was kneeling at her knees, bowing to the earth at her feet; he loved her, deified her, and to all these feelings, which were playing in him one great hymn, as it were, to greet the dawn, was joined a feeling of such tenderness, as if that magnified woman was also a little child, alone, and wonderfully loved, but a little thing, needing care. He recalled Osnovski's story of how she had grown pale when they told her that there was a plan to marry him to another; and in his soul he repeated, "Ah, but thou art mine, thou art mine!" He grew tender beyond measure, and gratitude so filled his heart that it seemed to him that he could not repay her in a lifetime for that one moment of paleness. He felt happier than ever before; and at moments the immensity of this happiness almost frightened him. Hitherto he had been a theoretical pessimist, but now reality gave the lie to those passing theories with such power that it was hard for him to believe that he could have deceived himself to such a degree. Meanwhile he was returning to the villa, inhaling along the way the odor of blooming jasmines, and having some species of dim feeling that that intoxicating odor was nothing external, but simply a part and component of his happiness. "What people! what a house! what a family!" said he to himself; "only among them could my White One be reared!" Then he looked on the sun, setting in calmness; he looked at the golden curtains of evening, bordered with purple; and that calmness began to possess him. In those immense lights he felt boundless love and kindness, which look on the world, cherish, and bless it. He did not pray in words, it is true; but everything was singing one thanksgiving prayer in his soul. At the gate of the villa he recovered as if from a dream; he saw an old serving-man of the Osnovskis, who was looking at the passing carriages. "Good-evening, Stanislav," said he; "but has not Pani Bronich returned?" "I am just looking, but I do not see her." "Are the ladies in the drawing-room yet?" "They are; and Pan Kopovski, too." "But who will open for me?" "The door is open. I've come out only this minute." Pan Ignas went up; but, finding no one in the common drawing-room, he went to the studio. There, too, he found no one; but in the adjoining smaller chamber certain low voices reached him through the portière dividing that room from the studio. Thinking to find there both ladies and Kopovski, he drew aside the portière slightly, and, looking in, was stupefied. Lineta was not in the room; but Kopovski was kneeling before Pani Osnovski, who, holding her hands thrust into his abundant hair, was bending his head back, inclining her face at the same time, as if to place a kiss on his forehead. "Anetka, if thou love me--" said Kopovski, with a voice stifled from passion. "I love--but no! I don't want that," answered Pani Osnovski, pushing him away somewhat. Pan Ignas dropped the portière with an involuntary movement; for a moment he stood before it as if his feet had grown leaden. Finally, without giving himself a clear account of what he was doing, he passed through the studio, where the sound of his steps was deadened on the thick carpet, as it had been when he entered; he passed the main drawing-room, the entrance, the front steps, and came to himself at the gate of the villa. "Is the serene lord going out?" inquired the old serving-man. "Yes," answered Pan Ignas. He walked away as quickly as if escaping from something. After a time, however, he stopped, and said aloud to himself,-- "Why have I not gone mad?" And suddenly madness seemed to him possible, for he felt that he was losing the thread of his thoughts; that he could not give himself an account of anything; that he understood nothing, believed nothing. Something began to tear in him, fall away. How was it? That house which a moment before he thought to be some kind of blessed retreat of exceptional souls, conceals the usual falsehood, the usual wickedness, the usual vileness of life,--a wretched and shameful comedy. And his Lineta, his White One, is breathing such an atmosphere, living in such an environment, existing with such beings! Here Osnovski's words occurred to him: "God grant thee to find in Castelka such a wife as I have in my Anetka!" "I thank thee," thought Pan Ignas, and he began to laugh, in spite of himself. Neither evil nor vileness were to him a novelty: he had seen them, and he knew that they existed; but for the first time life showed them to him with such a merciless irony, as that through which Pan Osnovski,--a man who had shown him the heart of a brother; a man honest, just, kind as few people in the world are--turned out to be also a fool, a kind of exalted idiot, exalted through his faith and his feeling; an idiot through a woman. And for the first time, too, he saw clearly what a bad and contemptible woman may make of a man, without any fault of his. On a sudden new, dreadful horizons of life opened before him,--whole regions, the existence of which he had not suspected; he had understood before that an evil woman, like a vampire, may suck the life out of a man, and kill him, and that seemed to him demonic, but he had not imagined that she could make a fool of him also. He could not master that thought. But still, Osnovski was ridiculous when he wished him to be as happy with his future wife as he with Anetka; there was no help for this case either. One should not so love as to grow blind to that degree. Here his thoughts passed to Lineta. At the first moment he had a feeling that from that vileness in the house of the Osnovskis, and from that doubt which was born in his heart, a certain shadow fell on her also. After a while he began, however, to cast out that feeling as though it were profanation, treason against innocence, treason against a being as pure as she was beloved, and defiling in thought her and her angelic plumage. Indignation at himself seized him. "Does such a dove even think evil?" asked he, in his soul. And his love rose still more at the thought that "such a super-pure child" must come in contact with such depravity. He would take her with the utmost haste possible from Pani Osnovski's, guard her from that woman's influence, seize her in his arms, and bear her from that house, in which her innocent eyes might be opened on evil and depravity. A certain demon whispered at moments to his ear, it is true, that Osnovski, too, believes as he does, and that he would give his own blood in pledge for his wife's honesty; he too would count every doubt a profanation of her sacredness. But Pan Ignas drove away those whisperings with dread. "It is enough to look into her eyes," said he; and at the mere thought of those eyes, he was ready to beat his own breast, as if lie had sinned most grievously. He was also angry at himself because he had come out, because he had not waited for Pani Bronich, and had not strengthened himself with the sight of Lineta. He remembered now how he had pressed her hand to his lips; how she, changing from emotion, said to him, "Speak with aunt." How much angelic simplicity and purity there was in those words! what honesty of a soul, which, loving, wishes to be free to love before the whole world! Pan Ignas, when he thought of this, was seized by a desire to return; but he felt that he was too much excited, and that he could not explain his former presence if the servant should mention it. Then again the picture rose before his eyes of Kopovski kneeling to Pani Osnovski; and he fell to inquiring of himself what he was to do in view of this, and how he was to act. Warn Osnovski? he rejected this thought at once with indignation. Shut himself in with Pani Osnovski, and give her a sermon, eye to eye? She would show him the door. After a time it came to his head to threaten Kopovski, and force from him a promise to cease visiting the Osnovskis. But soon he saw that that, too, was useless. Kopovski, if he had even a small share of courage, would give him the lie, challenge him; in such a case he would have to be silent, and people would think that the scandal rose because of Panna Castelli. Pan Ignas was sorry for Osnovski; he had conceived for the man a true friendship, and, on the other hand, he was too young to be reconciled at once with the thought that evil and human crookedness were to continue unpunished. Ah! but if at that juncture he could have counselled with some one,--for instance, with Pan Stanislav or Marynia. But that could not be. And after long thought he resolved to bury all in himself, and be silent. At the same time, from the passionate prayer of Kopovski and the answer of Pani Aneta, he inferred that the evil might not have passed yet into complete fall. He did not know women; but he had read no little about them. He knew that there exists some for whom the form of evil has more charm than the substance; that there are women devoid of moral sense, but also of passion, who have just as much desire for a prohibited adventure as they have repugnance to complete fall,--in a word, those who are incapable of loving anybody, who deceive their lovers as well as their husbands. He recalled the words of a certain Frenchman: "If Eve had been Polish, she would have plucked the apple, but not eaten it." A similar type seemed to him Pani Aneta; vice might be in her as superficial as virtue, and in such case the forbidden relation might annoy her very soon, especially with a man like Kopovski. Here, however, Pan Ignas lost the basis of reasoning and the key to the soul of Pani Aneta. He would have understood relations with any other man more readily than with Kopovski,--that archangel with the brains of an idiot. "A poodle understands more of what is said to him," thought Pan Ignas; "and a woman with such aspirations to reason, to science, to art, to the understanding of every thought and feeling, could lower herself for such a head!" He could not explain this to himself, even with what he had read about women. And still reality said more definitely than all books that it was so. Suddenly Pan Ignas remembered what Osnovski had said to him about their fear lest that fool might have plans against Castelka, that the mention of this had angered Pani Aneta immensely, and that she filled Lineta's head with feeling for another. So then, for Pani Aneta the question consisted in this, that Kopovski should not pay court to Lineta. She wanted to save him for herself. Here Pan Ignas shivered all at once, for the thought struck him, that if that were true, Kopovski must have had some chance of success; and again a shadow pursued the bright form of Lineta. If that were true, she would fall in his eyes to the level of Pani Aneta. After a time he felt bitterness in his mouth and fire in his brain. Anger sprang upon him, like a tempest; he could not forgive her this, and the very suspicion would have poisoned him. Halting again on the street, he felt that he must throttle that thought in himself, or go mad from it. In fact, he put it down so effectively that he recognized himself as the lowest fool for this alone,--that the thought could come to him. That Lineta was incapable of loving Kopovski was shown best by this,--that she had fallen in love with him, Pan Ignas; and the fears and suspicions of Pani Aneta flowed only from the self-love of a vain woman, who was afraid that another might be recognized as more attractive and beautiful than she was. Pan Ignas had the feeling of having pushed from his breast a stone, which had oppressed him. He began then in spirit to implore on his knees pardon of the unspotted one; and thenceforth his thoughts touching her were full of love, homage, and contrition. Now he made the remark to himself that evil, though committed by another, bears evil; how many foul thoughts had passed through his mind only because he had seen a fool at the feet of a giddy head! He noted that consideration down in his memory. When near his lodgings he met Pan Stanislav with Pani Mashko on his arm; and that day had so poisoned him that a sudden suspicion flashed through his mind. But Pan Stanislav recognized him in the light of the moon and a lamp, and had no desire to hide evidently, for he stopped him. "Good-evening," said he. "Why home so early to-day?" "I was at Pani Bronich's, and I am just strolling about, for the evening is beautiful." "Then step in to us. As soon as I conduct this lady home, I will return. My wife has not seen you this long time." "I will go," said Pan Ignas. And a desire to see Pani Marynia had seized him really. So many thoughts and feelings had rushed through him that he was weary; and he knew that the calm and kind face of Marynia would act on him soothingly. Soon he rang the bell at Pan Stanislav's. When he had entered, he explained, after the greeting, that he came at the request of her husband, to which she answered,-- "Of course! I am very glad. My husband at this moment is escorting home Pani Mashko, who visited me, but he will return to tea. The Bigiels will be here surely, and perhaps my father will come, if he has not gone to the theatre." Then she indicated a place at the table to him, and, straightening the lamp shade, began on the work with which she was occupied previously,--making little rosettes of narrow red and blue ribbons, of which there was a pile lying before her. "What are you making?" asked Pan Ignas. "Rosettes. They are sewed to various costumes." After a while she added,-- "But this is far more interesting,--what are you doing? Do you know that all Warsaw is marrying you to Lineta Castelli? They have seen you both in the theatre, at the races; they see you at the promenades; and it is impossible to persuade them that the affair is not decided already." "Since I have spoken with you so openly, I will tell you now that it is almost decided." Marynia raised to him eyes enlivened with a smile and with curiosity. "Is that true? Ah, that is a perfect piece of news! May God give you such happiness as we wish you!" Then she stretched her hand to him, and afterward inquired with roused curiosity,-- "Have you spoken with Lineta?" Pan Ignas told her how it was, and acknowledged his conversation with Lineta and with Osnovski; then, letting himself be borne away in the narrative, he confessed everything that had happened to him--how, from the beginning, he had observed, criticised, and struggled with himself; how he had not dared to hope; how he had tried to drive that feeling from his head, or rather, from his heart, and how he could not resist it. He assured her that he had promised himself a number of times to cut short the acquaintance and the visits, but strength failed him each time; each time he saw with amazement that the whole world, the whole object of his life, was there; that without her, without Lineta, he would not know what to do with his life--and he went back to her. Pan Ignas had not observed himself less truthfully, but he criticised and struggled less than he said. He spoke sincerely, however. He added at the end that he knew with certainty that he loved, not his own feelings involved in Lineta, but Lineta herself, for herself, and that she was the dearest person on earth to him. "Think," said he, "others have families, mothers, sisters, brothers; I, except my unfortunate father, have no one, and therefore my love for the whole world is centred in her." "True," said Marynia; "that had to come." "This seems a dream to me," continued he; "it cannot find place in my head that she will be my wife really. At times it seems to me that this cannot happen; that something will intervene; that all will be lost." In fact, this feeling was strengthened in him by exaltation, to which he was more inclined than other men, and at last he began to tremble nervously; then he covered his eyes with his hands, and said,-- "You see I must shield my eyes to imagine this properly. Such happiness! such fabulous happiness! What does a man seek in life, and in marriage? Just that, and in its own course that exceeds his strength. I do not know whether I am so weak or what? but I say sincerely that at times breath fails me." Marynia placed her rosette on the table, and, putting her hands on it, looked at him for a while, then said,-- "You are a poet, and are carried away too much; you should look more calmly. Listen to what I will tell you. I have a little book from my mother, in which, while she was sick and without hope of recovery, she wrote for me what she thought was good. About marriage she wrote down something which later I have not heard from any one, and have not read in any book,--that is, that one should not marry to be happy, but to accomplish those duties which God imposes at marriage; and that happiness is only an addition, a gift of God. You see how simple this is; and still it is true that not only have I not heard it since, but I have not seen any woman or any man about to marry who thought more of duty than of happiness. Remember this, and repeat it to Lineta,--will you?" Pan Ignas looked at her with astonishment. "Do you know this is so simple that really it will never come to any one's mind?" She laughed a little sadly, and, taking her rosette, began again to sew. After a while she repeated,-- "Tell that to Lineta." And she sewed on, drawing out with quick movement her somewhat thin hand, together with the needle. "You will understand that if one has such a principle in the heart, one has perpetual peace, more joyous, or sadder, as God grants, but still deep. But without that there is only a kind of feverish happiness, and deceptions always at hand, even if only for this reason,--that happiness may be different from what we imagine it." And she sewed on. He looked at her inclined head, at her moving hand, at her work; he heard her voice; and it seemed to him that that peace of which she had spoken was floating above her, was filling the whole atmosphere, was suspended above the table, was burning mildly in the lamp, and finally, was entering him. He was so occupied with himself, with his love, that it did not even occur to him that her heart could be sad. Meanwhile he was penetrated, as it were, by a double astonishment: first, that these truths which she had told him were such an _a_, _b_, _c_, that they ought to lie on the very surface of every thought; and second, that in spite of this, his own thought had not worked them out of itself, or, at least, had not looked at them. "What is that," thought he, "our wisdom, bookish in comparison with that simple wisdom of an honest woman's heart?" Then, recalling Pani Aneta, and looking at Marynia, he began this monologue in his soul, "That woman and this woman!" And suddenly there came to him immense solace; all his disturbed thoughts settled down to their level. He felt that he was resting while looking at that noble woman. "In Lineta," said he to himself, "there is the same calmness, the same simplicity, and the same honesty." Now Pan Stanislav came, a little later the Bigiels, after which the violoncello was brought. At tea Pan Stanislav spoke of Mashko. Mashko conducted the suit against the will with all energy, and it advanced, though there were difficulties at every step. The advocate on the side of the benevolent institutions--that young Sledz (herring), whom Mashko promised to sprinkle with pepper, cover with oil, and swallow--turned out not to be so easily eaten as had seemed. Pan Stanislav heard that he was a man cool, resolute, and at the same time a skilled lawyer. "What is amusing, withal," said he, "is, that Mashko, as Mashko, considers himself a kind of patrician, who is fighting with a plebeian, and says this will be a test of whose blood is thicker. It is a pity that Bukatski is not living; this would give him amusement." "But is Mashko in St. Petersburg all this time?" asked Bigiel. "He returns to-day; for that reason she could not stay for the evening," answered Pan Stanislav; after a while he added, "I had in my time a prejudice against her; but I have convinced myself that she is not a bad woman, and, besides, is poor." "How poor? Mashko hasn't lost the case yet," said Pani Bigiel. "But he is always from home. Pani Mashko's mother is in an optical hospital in Vienna, and will lose her eyes, perhaps. Pani Mashko is alone whole days, like a hermitess. I say that I had a prejudice against her, but now I am sorry for her." "It is true," said Marynia, "that since marriage she has become far more sympathetic." "Yes," answered Pan Stanislav; "and besides she has lost no charm. Red eyes injured her formerly; but now the redness has vanished, and she is as maiden-like as ever." "But it is unknown whether Mashko is equally pleased with that," remarked Bigiel. Marynia was anxious to tell those present the news about Pan Ignas; but since he was not betrothed yet officially, she did not know that it might be mentioned. When, however, after tea, Pani Bigiel began to inquire of him how the matter stood, he himself said that it was as good as finished, and Marynia put in her word announcing that the matter stood in this form,--that they might congratulate Pan Ignas. All began then to press his hand with that true friendship which they had for him, and genuine gladness possessed all. Bigiel, from delight, kissed Pani Bigiel; Pan Stanislav commanded to bring glasses and a bottle of champagne, to drink the health of the "most splendid couple" in Warsaw; Pani Bigiel began to joke with Pan Ignas, predicting what the housekeeping of a poet and an artist would be. He laughed; but was really moved by this, that his dreams were beginning to be real. A little later, Pan Stanislav punched him, and said,-- "The happiness of God, but I will give you one advice: what you have in poetry, put into _business_, into work; be a realist in life, and remember that marriage is no romance." But he did not finish, for Marynia put her hand suddenly over his mouth, and said, laughing, "Silence, thou wise head!" And then to Pan Ignas, "Don't listen to this grave pate: make no theories beforehand for yourself; only love." "True, Pani, true," answered Pan Ignas. "In that case, buy a harp for yourself," added Pan Stanislav, jeeringly. At mention of the harp, Bigiel seized his violoncello, saying that they ought to end such an evening with music. Marynia sat at the piano, and they began one of Handel's serenades. Pan Ignas had the impression that the soul was going out of him. He took those mild tones into himself, and was flying amid the night, lulling Lineta to sleep with them. Late in the evening, he came out, as if strengthened with the sight of those worthy people. FOOTNOTES: [10] "Nitechka" (little thread) is the diminutive of "Nitka," itself a diminutive of "Nits," which means thread. CHAPTER XLVI. Marynia had such peace "as God gave," but really deep. A great aid to finding it was that voice from beyond the grave,--the little book, yellowed by years, in which she read "that a woman should not marry to be happy, but to fulfil the duties which God imposes on her then." Marynia, who looked frequently into this little book, had read more than once those lines before that; but real meaning they had taken on for her only of late, in that spiritual process through which she had passed after her return from Italy. It ended in this way, that she was not only reconciled with fate, but at present she did not admit even the thought that she was unhappy. She repeated to herself that it was a happiness different, it is true, from what she had imagined, but none the less real. It is certain that, if God had given her the power of arranging people's hearts, she would have wished "Stas" to show her, not more honor, but more of that tenderness of which he was capable, and which he had shown in her time to Litka; that his feeling for her might be less sober, and have in it a certain kernel of poetry which her own love had. But, on the other hand, she cherished always somewhere, in some little corner of her heart,--first, the hope that that might come to pass; and, second, she thought in her soul that, even if it did not, then, as matters stood, she ought to thank God for having given her a brave and honest man, whom she could not only love, but esteem. More than once she stopped to compare him with others, and could not find any one to sustain the comparison. Bigiel was worthy, but he had not that dash; Osnovski, with all his goodness, lacked practical knowledge of life and work; Mashko was a person a hundred times lower in everything; Pan Ignas seemed to her rather a genial child than a man,--in a word, from every comparison "Stas" came out always victorious, and the one result was that she felt for him an increasing trust as to vital questions, and loved him more and more. At the same time, while denying herself, subjecting to him her own _I_, bringing in sacrifice her imaginings and her selfishness, she had the feeling that she was developing more and more in a spiritual sense, that she was perfecting herself, that she was becoming better, that she was not descending to any level, but rising to some height, whence the soul would be nearer to God; and all at once she saw that in such a feeling lies the whole world of happiness. Pan Stanislav at that time was away from home often, therefore she was alone frequently; and, more than once, she reasoned with the great simplicity of an honest woman: "People should strive to be better and better; but if I am not worse than I was, it is well. Were it otherwise, maybe I should be spoiled." She did not come, however, to the thought that there was more wisdom in this than in all the ideas and talks of Pani Osnovski. It seemed to her natural, too, that she had less charm at that time for "Stas" than formerly. Looking into her mirror, she said to herself: "Well, the eyes do not change, but what a figure! what a face! If I were Stas, I would run out of the house!" And she thought an untruth, for she would not have run out; but it seemed to her that in this way she was increasing "Stas's" merit. She got comfort, too, from Pani Bigiel, who said that afterward she would be fairer than ever, "just like some young girl." And, at times, joy and thankfulness rose in her heart, because all is so wisely arranged; and if, at first, one is a little uglier and must suffer a little, not only does all return, but, as a reward, there is a beloved "bobo" which attaches one to life, and creates a new bond between wife and husband. In this way, she had times, not only of peace, but simply of joyfulness, and sometimes she said to Pani Bigiel,-- "Dost thou know what I think?--it is possible to be happy always, only we must fear God." "What has one to do with the other?" asked Pani Bigiel, who from her husband had gained a love of clear thinking. "This," answered Marynia,--"that we should rest with what He gives us, and not importune Him, because He hasn't given that which seems to us better." Then she added joyously, "We mustn't tease for happiness." And both began to laugh. Frequently, too, in the tenderness almost exaggerated which Pan Stanislav showed his wife, it was clearly evident that he was thinking chiefly of the child; but Marynia did not take that ill of him now. In truth, she never had; but at present she was willing to count it a merit in him, for she thought it the duty of both to care above all for the child, as for their future mutual love. Yielding up daily in this way something of her own care for self, she gained more and more peace, more and more calmness; these feelings were reflected in her eyes, which were more beautiful than ever. Her main anxiety now was that it should be a daughter. She was ready even in this to yield to the will of God, but she feared "Stas" a little; and one day she asked him in jest,-- "Stas, and thou wilt not kill me if it is a son?" "No," answered he, laughing and kissing her hand; "but I should prefer a daughter." "But I have heard from Pani Bigiel that men always prefer sons." "But I am such a man that I prefer a daughter." Not always, however, were her thoughts so joyous. At times it came to her head that she might die, for she knew that death happens in such cases; and she prayed earnestly that it should not happen, for first she feared it, second, she would be sorry to go away, even to heaven, when she had such a prospect of loving, and finally she imagined to herself that "Stas" would mourn for her immensely. And at that thought she grew as tender over him as if he had been at that moment a man more deserving of pity than all other unfortunates living. Never had she spoken to him of this, though it seemed to her that sometimes he had feared it. But she deceived herself thoroughly. The doctor, who came to Marynia weekly, assured both her and her husband after each visit that all was and would be most regular; hence Pan Stanislav had no fear for his wife's future. The cause of his alarm was something quite different, which happily for herself Marynia had not suspected, and which Pan Stanislav himself had not dared even to name in his own mind. For some time something had begun to go wrong in his life calculations, of which he had been so proud, and which had given him such internal security. A little while before he had considered that his theories of life were like a house built of firm timbers, resting on solid foundations. In his soul he was proud of that house, and in secret exalted himself above those who had not the skill to build anything like it. Speaking briefly, he thought himself a better life architect than others. He judged that the labor was finished from foundation to summit, only go in, live, and rest there. He forgot that a human soul, like a bird when it has soared to a given height, not only is not free to rest, but must work its wings hard to support itself, otherwise the very first temptation will bring it to the earth again. The worse and vainer the temptation, the more was he enraged at himself because he gave way to it. A mean desire, a low object,--he had not even anything to explain to himself; and still the walls of his house had begun to crack. Pan Stanislav was a religious man now, and that from conviction; he was too sincere with himself to enter into a compromise with his own principles, and say to himself that such things happen even to the firmest of believers. No! He was by nature a man rather unsparing, and logic said to him "either, or;" hence he felt that speaking thus it spoke justly. Hitherto he had not given way to temptation; but still he was angry because he was tempted, for temptation brought him to doubt his own character. Considering himself as better than others, he stood suddenly in face of the question, was he not worse than others, for not only had temptation attacked him, but he felt that in a given case he might yield to it. More than once, while looking at Pani Osnovski, he repeated to himself the opinion of Confucius: "An ordinary woman has as much reason as a hen; an extraordinary woman as much as two hens." In view of Pani Mashko, it occurred to him that there are women with reference to whom this Chinese truth, which makes one indignant, is flattery. Had it been at least possible to say of Pani Mashko that she was honestly stupid, it would become a certain individual trait of hers; but she was not. A few, or a few tens of formulas had made of her a polite nonentity. Just as two or three hundred phrases make up the whole language of the inhabitants of New Guinea, and satisfy all their wants, so those formulas satisfied Pani Mashko as to social relations, thoughts, and life. For that matter, she was as completely passive within that shade of automatic dignity which narrowness of mind produces, and a blind faith that if proper formalities are observed, there can be no error. Pan Stanislav knew her as such, and as such ridiculed her more than once while she was unmarried. He called her a puppet, a manikin; he felt enraged at her because of that doctor who had perished for her in some place where pepper grows; he disregarded her and did not like her. But even then, as often as he saw her, whether at the Bigiels', or when on Mashko's business he went to Pani Kraslavski, he always returned under the physical impression which she made on him, of which he gave himself an account. That quenched face, that passive, vegetable calm of expression, that coldness of bearing, that frequent reddening of the eyes, that slender form, had in them something which affected him unusually. He explained that to himself then by some law of natural selection; and when he had outlined the thing technically, he stopped there, for the impression which Marynia had made on him was still greater, hence he had followed it. At present, however, Marynia was his, and he had grown used to her beauty, which, moreover, had disappeared for a period. It so happened that because of Mashko's frequent journeys, he saw Pani Mashko almost daily, in consequence of which former impressions not only revived, but, in the conditions in which Pan Stanislav found himself with reference to Marynia, they revived with unexpected vigor. And it happened finally that he who would not consent to be in leading strings for the ten times more beautiful and charming Pani Osnovski; he, who had resisted her Roman fantasies; he, who had looked on himself as a man of principles, stronger in character and firmer in mind than most people,--saw now that if Pani Mashko wished to push that edifice with her foot, all its bindings might be loosened, and the ceiling tumble on his head. Of a certainty, he would not cease to love his wife, for he was sincerely and profoundly attached to her; but he felt that he might be in a condition to betray her,--and then not only her, but himself, his principles, his conceptions of what an honest and a moral man should be. With a certain terror as well as anger, he found in himself not merely the human beast, but a weak beast. He was alarmed by this, he rebelled against this weakness; but still he could not overcome it. It was a simple thing in view of this, not to see Pani Mashko, or to see her as seldom as possible; meanwhile he was finding reasons to see her the oftenest possible. At first he wanted to lull himself with these reasons; but, in view of his innate consistency, that was impossible, and it ended with this, that he merely invented them. Straightway, he deceived with them his wife, and whomever he wished. When in company with Pani Mashko, he could not refrain from looking at her, from embracing with his glance her face and whole person. A sickly curiosity seized him as to how she would bear herself in case he appeared before her with what was happening within him. What would she say then? And he took pleasure in spite of himself in supposing that she would bear herself with perfect passiveness. He despised her beforehand for this; but she became the more desired by him thereby. In himself he discovered whole mountains of depravity, which he referred to long stay in foreign countries; and, having considered himself up to that time a fresh and healthy nature, he began to grow alarmed. Had he not been deceived in himself, and was not that wonderful impression produced on him by a being so little attractive the appearance of some neurosis consuming him without his knowledge? It had not occurred to him that there might exist even such conditions in which the soul of a man simply despises a woman, but the human beast longs for her. In her, instinct had taken the place of mental keenness; besides, she was not so naïve as not to know what his glance meant as it slipped over her form, or what his eyes said when talking, especially when they were alone, and he looked into her face with a certain persistence. At first she felt a kind of satisfaction for her self-love, which it is difficult for even an honest woman to resist when she sees the impression produced by her; when she feels herself distinguished, desired beyond others,--in a word, victorious. Besides, she was ready not to recognize and not to see the danger, just as a partridge does not wish to see it, when it hides its head in the snow, on feeling the hawk circling above it. For Pani Mashko appearances were this snow; and Pan Stanislav felt that. He knew also from his experience as a single man that there are women for whom it is a question above all of preserving certain, frequently even strange, appearances. He remembered some who burst out in indignation when he said to them in Polish that which they heard in French with a smile; he had met even those who were unapproachably firm at home and in the city, and so free in summer residences, at watering, or bathing places, and others who endured an attempt, but could not endure words, and others for whom the decisive thing was light or darkness. In all places where virtue did not come from the soul, and from principles ingrafted like vaccination into the blood, resistance or fall depended on accident or surroundings, or external, frequently favoring circumstances, personal ideas of polite appearances. He judged that it might be thus with Pani Mashko; and if hitherto he had not entered the road of testing and trying, it was simply because he was battling with himself, because he did not wish to give way, and, despising her in the bottom of his soul, he wished to escape the position of despising himself. Attachment to Marynia restrained him too, and sympathy, as it were, mingled with respect for her condition and gratitude to her, and the hope of fatherhood, which moved him, and a remembrance of the shortness of the time which they had lived together, and honesty, and a religious feeling. These were chains, as it were, at which the human beast was still tugging. They did not hold, however, with equal strength always. Once, and, namely, that evening on which Pan Ignas had met them, he had almost betrayed himself. At the thought that Mashko was returning and that Pani Mashko was hastening home, therefore, a low, purely physical jealousy seized him; and he said with a certain anger, repressed, but visible,-- "True! I understand your haste! Ulysses is coming, and Penelope must be at home, but--" Here he felt a desire to curse. "But what?" inquired Pani Mashko. Pan Stanislav answered without any hesitation,-- "Just to-day I wished to detain you longer." "It is not proper," answered she briefly, with a voice as thin as though strained through a sieve. And in that, "It is not proper," was her whole soul. He returned, cursing earnestly her and himself. When he reached home he found in the clear, peaceful room Marynia and Pan Ignas, she proving to the poet that when they marry, people should not look for some imagined happiness, but the duties which God imposes at that time. CHAPTER XLVII. "What is Pani Osnovski to me, and what are all her affairs to me?" said Pan Ignas to himself next morning on the way to Pani Bronich's: "I am not going to marry her, but _my own one_. Why did I so tear and torment myself yesterday?" And when he had said this "to his lofty soul," he began to think only of what he would say to Pani Bronich; for in spite of Osnovski's assurances, in spite of every hope that that conversation would be merely a certain form for observance, in spite of his confidence in Lineta's heart and the kindness of Pani Bronich, the "lofty soul" was in fear. He found aunt and niece together; and, emboldened by yesterday, he pressed to his lips the hand of the young lady, who said, blushing slightly,-- "But I will run away." "Nitechka, stop!" said Pani Bronich. "No," answered she; "I fear this gentleman, and I fear aunt." Thus speaking, she began to rub her golden head, like a petted kitten, against the shoulder of Pani Bronich, saying,-- "Do not wrong him aunt; do not wrong him." And looking at him, she ran away really. Pan Ignas, from emotion and excess of love, was as pale as linen; Pani Bronich had tears on her lids. And, seeing that his throat was so pressed that it would have been easier for him to cry than to talk, she said,-- "I know why you have come. I have noticed this long time what was passing between you, my children." Pan Ignas seized her hands, and began to press them to his lips one after the other; she on her part continued,-- "Oh, I myself have felt too much in life not to know real feelings; I will say more: it is my specialty. Women live only by the heart, and they know how to divine hearts. I know that you love Nitechka truly; and I am certain that if she did not love you, or if I should refuse her to you, you would not survive. Is it not true?" Here she gazed at him with an inquiring glance, and he said with effort,-- "Beyond doubt! I know not what would happen to me." "I guessed that at once," answered she, with radiant face. "Ah, my dear friend, a look is enough for me; but I shall not be an evil spirit as your genius. No, I shall not, I cannot be that. Whom shall I find for Nitechka? Where a man worthy of her? Who would have in him all that she loves and esteems chiefly? I cannot give her to Kopovski, and I will not. You perhaps do not know Nitechka as I do; but I cannot and will not give her." In spite of all his emotion, that energy with which Pani Bronich refused "Nitechka's" hand to Kopovski astonished Pan Ignas, just as if he had declared for Kopovski, not for himself; and the aunt continued, moved, but evidently enjoying her own words and delighted with the position,-- "No! there can be no talk of Kopovski. You alone can make Nitechka happy. You alone can give her what she needs. I knew yesterday that you would talk with me to-day. I did not close an eye the whole night. Do not wonder at that. Here it is a question of Nitechka, and I was hesitating yet; therefore fear seized me in view of to-day's conversation, for I knew in advance that I would not resist you, that you would bear me away with your feeling and your eloquence, as yesterday you bore away Nitechka." Pan Ignas, who neither yesterday nor to-day was able to buzz out one word, could not explain somehow to himself in what specially lay the power of his eloquence, or when he had time to exhibit it; but Pani Bronich did not permit him to hesitate longer on this question. "And do you know what I did? This is what I do always in life's most serious moments. Speaking yesterday with Nitechka, I went early this morning to the grave of my husband. He is lying here in Warsaw--I know not whether I have told you that he was the last descendant of Rurik--Ah, yes, I have! Oh, dear friend, what a refuge for me that grave is; and how many good inspirations I have brought from it! Whether it was a question of the education of Nitechka, or of some journey, or of investing capital which my husband left me, or of a loan which some one of my relatives or acquaintances wished to make, I went there directly at all times. And will you believe me? More than once a mortgage is offered: it seems a good one; the business is perfect; more than once my heart even commands me to give or to lend,--but my husband, there in the depth of his eternal rest, answers: 'Do not give,' and I give not. And never has evil resulted. Oh, my dear, you who feel and understand everything, you will understand how to-day I prayed, how I asked with all the powers of my soul, 'Give Nitechka, or not give Nitechka?'" Here she seized Pan Ignas's temples with her hands, and said through her tears,-- "But my Teodor answered, 'Give;' therefore I give her to thee, and my blessing besides." Tears quenched indeed further conversation in Pani Bronich. Pan Ignas knelt before her; "Nitechka," who came in, as if at a fixed moment, dropped on her knees at his side; Pani Bronich stretched her hands and said sobbing,-- "She is thine, thine! I give her to thee; I and Teodor give her." Then the three rose. Aunt Bronich covered her eyes with her handkerchief, and remained some time without motion; gradually, however, she slipped away the handkerchief, looking from one side at the two young people. Suddenly she laughed, and, threatening with her finger, said,-- "Oi! I know what you would like now,--you would like to be alone. Surely you have something to say to each other. Is it not true?" And she went out. Pan Ignas took Lineta's hands that moment, and looked into her eyes with intoxication. They sat down; and she, leaving her hands in his, rested her temple on his shoulder. It was like a song without words. Pan Ignas inclined his head toward her bright face. Lineta closed her eyes; but he was too young and too timid, he respected too much and he loved, hence he did not venture yet to touch her lips with his. He only kissed her golden hair, and even that caused the room in which they were sitting to spin with him; the world began to whirl round. Then all vanished from his eyes; he lost memory of where he was, and what was happening; he heard only the beating of his own heart; he felt the odor of the silken hair, which brushed his lips, and it seemed to him that in that was the universe. But that was only a dream from which he had to wake. After a certain time the aunt began to open the door gently, as if wishing to lose the least possible of the romance, in which, with Teodor's aid, she was playing the rôle of guardian spirit; in the adjoining chamber were heard the voices of the Osnovskis; and a moment later Lineta found herself in the arms of her aunt, from which she passed into the embraces of Pani Aneta. Osnovski, pressing Ignas's hands with all his power, said,-- "But what a joy in the house, what a joy! for we have all fallen in love with thee,--I, and aunt, and Anetka, not to speak of this little one." Then he turned to his wife and said,-- "Knowest, Anetka, what I wished Ignas, even yesterday? that they should be to each other as we are." And, seizing her hands, he began to kiss them with vehemence. Pan Ignas, though he knew not in general what was happening to him, found still presence of mind enough to look into the face of Pani Aneta; but she answered joyously, withdrawing her hands from her husband,-- "No, they will be happier; for Castelka is not such a giddy thing as I, and Pan Ignas will not kiss her hands so stubbornly before people. But, Yozio, let me go!" "Let him only love her as I thee, my treasure, my child," answered the radiant Yozio. Pan Ignas stayed at Pani Bronich's till evening, and did not go to the counting-house. After lunch he drove out in the carriage with the aunt and Lineta, for Pani Bronich wanted absolutely to show them to society. But their drive in the Alley was not a success altogether, because of a sudden hard shower, which scattered the carriages. On their return, Pan Osnovski, good as he ever was, made a new proposition which delighted Pan Ignas. "Prytulov will not escape us," said he. "We live here as if we were half in the country; and since we have remained till the end of June, we may stay a couple of days longer. Let that loving couple exchange rings before our departure, and at the same time let it be free to Aneta and me to give them a betrothal party. Is it well, aunt? I see that they have nothing against it, and surely it will be agreeable for Ignas to have at the betrothal his friends the Polanyetskis and the Bigiels. It is true that we do not visit the latter, but that is nothing! We will visit them to-morrow, and the affair will be settled. Is it well, Ignas; is it well, aunt?" Ignas was evidently in the seventh heaven; as to aunt, she didn't know indeed what Teodor's opinion would be in this matter, and she began to hesitate. But she might inquire of Teodor yet; and then she remembered that he had answered, "Give," with such a great voice from his place of eternal rest that it was impossible to doubt his good wishes,--hence she agreed at last to everything. After dinner Kopovski, the almost daily guest, came; and it turned out that he was the only being in the villa to whom news of the feelings and betrothal of the young couple did not cause delight. For a time his face expressed indescribable astonishment; at last he said,-- "I never should have guessed that Panna Lineta would marry Pan Ignas." Osnovski pushed Pan Ignas with his elbow, blinked, and whispered, with a very cunning mien,-- "Hast noticed? I told thee yesterday that he was making up to Castelka." Pan Ignas left the villa of the Osnovskis late in the evening. When he reached home he did not betake himself to verses, however, though it seemed to him then that he was a kind of harp, the strings of which played of themselves, but to the counting-house, to unfinished correspondence and accounts. At the counting-house all were so pleased with this that when the Bigiels returned the visit of the Osnovskis, and at the same time made the first visit to Pani Bronich, Bigiel said,-- "The worth of Pan Zavilovski's poetry is known to you ladies, but perhaps you do not know how conscientious a man he is. I say this because that is a rare quality among us. Since he remained all day with you here, and could not be at the counting-house, he asked to have it opened by the guard in the night; he took home the books and papers in his charge, and did what pertained to him. It is pleasant to think that one has to do with such a man, for such a man may be trusted." Here, however, the honorable partner of the house of Bigiel and Polanyetski was astonished that such high praise from his lips made so little impression, and that Pani Bronich, instead of showing gladness, replied,-- "Ah, we hope that in future Pan Zavilovski will be able to give himself to labor more in accordance with his powers and position." In general, the impression which both sides brought away from their acquaintance showed that somehow they were not at home with each other. Lineta pleased the Bigiels, it is true; but he, in going away, whispered to his wife, "How comfortably they live for themselves in this place!" He had a feeling that the spirit of that whole villa was a sort of unbroken holiday, or idling; but he was not able at once to express that idea, for he had not the gift of ready utterance. But Pani Bronich, after their departure, said to "Nitechka,"-- "Of course, of course! They must be excellent people--true, perfect people! I am certain--yes, certain--" And somehow she did not finish her thought; but "Nitechka" must have understood her, however, for she said,-- "But they are no relatives of his." A few days later the relatives, too, made themselves heard. Pan Ignas, who, in spite of the wishes of Pani Bigiel, had not gone yet with excuses to old Zavilovski, received the following letter from him,-- PAN WILDCAT!--Thou hast scratched me undeservedly, for I had no wish to offend thee; and if I say always what I think, it is permitted me because I am old. They must have told thee, too, that I never name, even to her eyes, thy young lady otherwise than Venetian half-devil. But how was I to know that thou wert in love and about to marry? I heard of this only yesterday, and only now do I understand why thou didst spring out of my sight; but since I prefer water-burners to dullards, and since through this devil of a gout I cannot go myself to thee to congratulate, do thou come to the old man, who is more thy well-wisher than seems to thee. After this letter Pan Ignas went that same day, and was received cordially, though with scolding, but so kindly that this time the old truth-teller pleased him, and he felt in him really a relative. "May God and the Most Holy Lady bless thee!" said the old man. "I know thee little; but I have heard such things of thee that I should be glad to hear the like touching all Zavilovskis." And he pressed his hand; then, turning to his daughter, he said,-- "He's a genial rascal, isn't he?" And at parting he inquired,-- "But 'Teodor,' didn't he trouble thee too much? Hei?" Pan Ignas, who, as an artist, possessed in a high degree the sense of the ridiculous, and to whom in his soul that Teodor, too, seemed comical, laughed and answered,-- "No. On the contrary, he was on my side." The old man began to shake his head. "That is a devil of an accommodating Teodor! Be on the lookout for him; he is a rogue." Pani Bronich had so much genuine respect for the property and social position of old Zavilovski that she visited him next day, and began almost to thank him for his cordial reception of his relative; but the old man grew angry unexpectedly. "Do you think that I am some empty talker?" asked he. "You have heard from me that poor relatives are a plague; and you think that I take it ill of them that they are poor. No, you do not know me! But, know this, when a noble loses everything, and is poor, he becomes almost always a sort of shabby fellow. Such is our character, or rather, its weakness. But this Ignas, as I hear from every side, is a man of honor, though poor; and therefore I love him." "And I love him," answered Pani Bronich. "But you will be at the betrothal?" "_C'est décidé._ Even though I had to be carried." Pani Bronich returned radiant, and at lunch could not restrain herself from expressing suppositions which her active fancy had begun to create. "Pan Zavilovski," said she, "is a man of millions, and greatly attached to the name. I should not be astonished at all were he to make our Ignas his heir, if not of the chief, of a considerable part of his property, or if he were to entail some of his estates in Poznan on him. I should not be surprised at all." No one contradicted her, for events like that in the world had been seen; therefore after lunch, Pani Bronich, embracing Nitechka, whispered in her ear,-- "Oi, thou, thou, future heiress!" But in the evening she said to Pan Ignas,-- "Be not astonished if I so mix up in everything, but I am your mamma. So mamma is immensely curious to know what kind of ring you are preparing for Nitechka? It will be something beautiful, of course. There will be so many people at the betrothal. And, besides, you have no idea what a fastidious girl! She is so æsthetic even in trifles; and she has her own taste, but what a taste! ho, ho!" "I should like," answered Pan Ignas, "the stones to be of colors denoting faith, hope, and love, for in her is my faith, my hope, and my love." "A very pretty idea! have you said this to Nitechka? Do you know what? Let there be a pearl in the middle, as a sign that she is a pearl. Symbols are in fashion now. Have I told you that Pan Svirski, when he gave her lessons, called her 'La Perla'? Ah, yes, I did. You do not know Pan Svirski? He, too--Yozio Osnovski told me that he would come to-morrow. Well, then, a sapphire, a ruby, an emerald, and in the middle a pearl? Oh, yes! Pan Svirski, too--Will you be at the funeral?" "Whose funeral?" "Pan Bukatski's. Yozio Osnovski told me that Pan Svirski brought home his body." "I did not know him; I have never seen him in my life." "That is better; Nitechka would prefer that you had not known him. God in His mercy forgive him in spite of this,--that for me he was never a sympathetic person, and Nitechka could not endure him. But the little one will be glad of the ring; and when she is glad, I am glad." The "Little One" was glad not only of the ring, but of life in general. The rôle of an affianced assumed for her increasing charm. Beautiful nights came, very clear, during which she and Pan Ignas sat together on the balcony. Nestling up to each other, they looked at the quivering of light on the leaves, or lost their gaze in the silver dust of the Milky Way, and the swarms of stars. From the acacia, growing under the balcony, there rose a strong and intoxicating odor, as from a great censer. Their powers seemed to go to sleep in them; their souls, lulled by silence, turned into clear light, were scattered in some way amidst the depth of night, and were melted into unity with the soft moonlight; and so the two, sitting hand in hand, half in oblivion, half in sleep, lost well-nigh the feeling of separate existence and life, preserving a mere semi-consciousness of some sort of general bliss and general "exaltation of hearts." Pan Ignas, when he woke and returned to real life, understood that moments like those, in which hearts melt in that pantheism of love, and beat with the same pulsation with which everything quivers that loves, unites, and harmonizes in the universe, form the highest happiness which love has the power to give, and so immeasurable that were they to continue they would of necessity destroy man's individuality. But, having the soul of an idealist, he thought that when death comes and frees the human monad from matter, those moments change into eternity; and in that way he imagined heaven, in which nothing is swallowed up, but everything simply united and attuned in universal harmony. Lineta, it is true, could not move with his flight; but she felt a certain turning of the head, as it were, a kind of intoxication from his flight, and she felt herself happy also. A woman even incapable of loving a man is still fond of her love, or, at least, of herself, and her rôle in it; and, therefore, most frequently she crosses the threshold of betrothal with delight, feeling at the same time gratitude to the man who opens before her a new horizon of life. Besides, they had talked love into Lineta so mightily that at last she believed in it. And once, when Pan Ignas asked her if she was sure of herself and her heart, she gave him both hands, as if with effusion, and said,-- "Oh, truly; now I know that I love." He pressed her slender fingers to his lips, to his forehead, and his eyes, as something sacred; but he was disquieted by her words, and asked,-- "Why 'now' for the first time, Nitechka? Or has there been a moment in which thou hast thought that thou couldst not love me?" Lineta raised her blue eyes and thought a moment; after a while, in the corners of her mouth and in the dimples of her cheeks, a smile began to gather. "No," said she; "but I am a great coward, so I was afraid. I understand that to love you is another thing from loving the first comer." And suddenly she began to laugh. "Oh, to love Pan Kopovski would be as simple as _bon jour_; but you--maybe I cannot express it well, but more than once it seemed to me that that is like going up on some mountain or some tower. When once at the top, a whole world is visible; but before that one must go and go, and toil, and I am so lazy." Pan Ignas, who was tall and bony, straightened himself, and said,-- "When my dear, lazy one is tired, I'll take her in my arms, like a child, and carry her even to the highest." "And I will shrink up and make myself the smallest," answered Lineta, closing her arms, and entering into the rôle of a little child. Pan Ignas knelt before her, and began to kiss the hem of her dress. But there were little clouds, too, on that sky; the betrothed were not the cause, however. It seemed to the young man at times that his feelings were too much observed, and that Pani Bronich and Pani Aneta examined too closely whether he loves, and how he loves. He explained this, it is true, by the curiosity of women, and, in general, by the attention which love excites in them; but he would have preferred more freedom, and would have preferred that they would not help him to love. His feelings he considered as sacred, and for him it was painful to make an exhibition of them for uninvited eyes; at the same time every movement and word of his was scrutinized. He supposed also that there must be female sessions, in which Pani Bronich and Pani Aneta gave their "approbatur;" and that thought angered him, for he judged that neither was in a situation to understand his feelings. It angered him also that Kopovski was invited to Prytulov, and that he went there in company with all; but in this case it was for him a question only of Osnovski, whom he loved sincerely. The pretext for the invitation was the portrait not finished yet by Lineta. Pan Ignas understood now clearly that everything took place at the word of Pani Aneta, who knew exactly how to suggest her own wishes to people as their own. At times even it came to his head to ask Lineta to abandon the portrait; but he knew that he would trouble her, as an artist, with that request, and, besides, he feared lest people might suspect him of being jealous of a fop, like "Koposio."[11] FOOTNOTES: [11] Nickname for Kopovski. CHAPTER XLVIII. Svirski had come indeed from Italy with Bukatski's body; and he went at once on the following day to Pan Stanislav's. He met only Marynia, however, for her husband had gone outside the city to look at some residence which had been offered for sale. The artist found Marynia so changed that he recognized her with difficulty; but since he had liked her greatly in Rome, he was all the more moved at sight of her now. At times, besides, she seemed to him so touching and so beautiful in her way, with the aureole of future maternity, and besides she had brought to him so many artistic comparisons, with so many "types of various Italian schools," that, following his habit, he began to confess his enthusiasm audibly. She laughed at his originality; but still it gave her comfort in her trouble, and she was glad that he came,--first, because she felt a sincere sympathy with that robust and wholesome nature; and second, she was certain that he would be enthusiastic about her in presence of "Stas," and thus raise her in the eyes of her husband. He sat rather long, wishing to await the return of Pan Stanislav; he, however, returned only late in the evening. Meanwhile there was a visit from Pan Ignas, who, needing some one now before whom to pour out his overflowing happiness, visited her rather often. For a while he and Svirski looked at each other with a certain caution, as happens usually with men of distinction, who fear each other's large pretensions, but who come together the more readily when each sees that the other is simple. So did it happen with these men. Marynia, too, helped to break the ice by presenting Pan Ignas as the betrothed of Panna Castelli, who was known to Svirski. "Indeed," said Svirski, "I know her perfectly; she is my pupil!" Then, pressing the hand of Pan Ignas, he said,-- "Your betrothed has Titian hair; she is a little tall, but you are tall, too. Such a pose of head as she has one might look for with a candle. You must have noticed that there is something swan-like in her movements; I have even called her 'The Swan.'" Pan Ignas laughed as sincerely and joyously as a man does when people praise that which he loves most in life, and said with a shade of boastfulness,-- "'La Perla,' do you remember?" Svirski looked at him with a certain surprise. "There is such a picture by Raphael in Madrid, in the Museum del Prado," answered he. "Why do you mention 'La Perla'?" "It seems to me that I heard of it from those ladies," said Pan Ignas, beaten from the track somewhat. "It may be, for I have a copy of my own making in my studio Via Margutta." Pan Ignas said in spirit that there was need to be more guarded in repeating words from Pani Bronich; and after a time he rose to depart, for he was going to his betrothed for the evening. Svirski soon followed, leaving with Marynia the address of his Warsaw studio, and begging that Pan Stanislav would meet him in the matter of the funeral as soon as possible. In fact, Pan Stanislav went to him next morning. Svirski's studio was a kind of glass hall, attached, like the nest of a swallow, to the roof of one in a number of many storied houses, and visitors had to reach him by separate stairs winding like those in a tower. But the artist had perfect freedom there, and did not close his door evidently, for Pan Stanislav, in ascending, heard a dull sound of iron, and a bass voice singing,-- "Spring blows on the world warmly; Hawthorns and cresses are blooming. I am singing and not sobbing, For I have ceased to love thee too! Hu-ha-hu!" "Well," thought Pan Stanislav, stopping to catch breath, "he has a bass, a real, a true bass; but what is he making such a noise with?" When he had passed the rest of the steps, however, and then the narrow corridor, he understood the reason, for he saw through the open doors Svirski, dressed to his waist in a single knitted shirt, through which was seen his Herculean torso; and in his hands were dumb-bells. "Oh, how are you?" he called out, putting down the dumb-bells in presence of his guest. "I beg pardon that I am not dressed, but I was working a little with the dumb-bells. Yesterday I was at your house, but found only Pani Polanyetski. Well, I brought our poor Bukatski. Is the little house ready for him?" Pan Stanislav pressed his hand. "The grave is ready these two weeks, and the cross is set up. We greet you cordially in Warsaw. My wife told me that the body is in Povanzki already." "It is now in the crypt of the church. To-morrow we'll put it away." "Well, to-day I will speak to the priest and notify acquaintances. What is Professor Vaskovski doing?" "He was to write you. The heat drove him out of Rome; and do you know where he went? Among the youngest of the Aryans. He said that the journey would occupy two months. He wishes to convince himself as to how far they are ready for his historical mission; he has gone through Ancona to Fiume, and then farther and farther." "The poor professor! I fear that new disillusions are waiting for him." "That may be. People laugh at him. I do not know how far the youngest of the Aryans are fitted to carry out his idea; but the idea itself, as God lives, is so uncommon, so Christian, and honest, that the man had to be a Vaskovski to come to it. Permit me to dress. The heat here is almost as in Italy, and it is better to exercise in a single shirt." "But best not to exercise at all in such heat." Here Pan Stanislav looked at Svirski's arms and said,-- "But you might show those for money." "Well; not bad biceps! But look at these deltoids. That is my vanity. Bukatski insisted that any one might say that I paint like an idiot; but that it was not permitted any one to say that I could not raise a hundred kilograms with one hand, or that I couldn't hit ten flies with ten shots." "And such a man will not leave his biceps nor his deltoids to posterity." "Ha! what's to be done? I fear an ungrateful heart; as I love God, I fear it so much. Find me a woman like Pani Polanyetski, and I will not hesitate a day. But what should I wish you,--a son or a daughter?" "A daughter, a daughter! Let there be sons; but the first must be a daughter!" "And when do you expect her?" "In December, it would seem." "God grant happily! The lady, however, is healthy, so there is no fear." "She has changed greatly, has she not?" "She is different from what she was, but God grant the most beautiful to look so. What an expression! A pure Botticelli. I give my word! Do you remember that portrait of his in the Villa Borghese? Madonna col Bambino e angeli. There is one head of an angel, a little inclined, dressed in a lily, just like the lady, the very same expression. Yesterday that struck me so much that I was moved by it." Then he went behind the screen to put on his shirt, and from behind the screen he said,-- "You ask why I don't marry. Do you know why? I remember sometimes that Bukatski said the same thing. I have a sharp tongue and strong biceps, but a soft heart; so stupid is it that if I had such a wife as you have, and she were in that condition, as God lives, I shouldn't know whether to walk on my knees before her, or to beat the floor with my forehead, or to put her on a table, in a corner somewhere, and adore her with upraised hands." "Ai!" said Pan Stanislav, laughing, "that only seems so before marriage; but afterward habituation itself destroys excess of feeling." "I don't know. Maybe I'm so stupid--" "Do you know what? When my Marynia is free, she must find for thee just such a wife as she herself is." "Agreed!" thundered Svirski, from behind the screen. "Verbum! I give myself into her hands; and when she says 'marry,' I will marry with closed eyes." And appearing, still without a coat, he began to repeat, "Agreed, agreed! without joking. If the lady wishes." "Women always like that," answered Pan Stanislav. "Have you seen, for instance, what that Pani Osnovski did to marry our Pan Ignas to Panna Castelli? And Marynia helped her as much as I permitted; she kept her ears open. For women that is play." "I made the acquaintance of that Pan Ignas at your house yesterday. He is an immensely nice fellow; simply a genial head. It is enough to look at him. What a profile, and what a woman-like forehead! and with that insolent jaw! His shanks are too long, and his knees must be badly cut, but his head is splendid." "He is the Benjamin of our counting-house. Indeed, we love him surpassingly; his is an honest nature." "Ah! he is your employee? But I thought he was of those rich Zavilovskis; I have seen abroad often enough a certain old original, a rich man." "That is a relative of his," said Pan Stanislav; "but our Zavilovski hasn't a smashed copper." "Well," said Svirski, beginning to laugh, "old Zavilovski with his daughter, the only heiress of millions, a splendid figure! In Florence and Rome half a dozen ruined Italian princes were dangling around this young lady; but the old man declared that he wouldn't give his daughter to a foreigner, 'for,' said he, 'they are a race of jesters.' Imagine to yourself, he considers us the first race on earth, and among us, of course, the Zavilovskis; and once he showed that in this way: 'Let them say what they like,' said he; 'I have travelled enough through the world, and how many Germans, Italians, Englishmen, and Frenchmen have cleaned boots for me? but I,' said he, 'have never cleaned boots for any man, and I will not.'" "Good!" answered Pan Stanislav, laughing; "he thinks boot-cleaning not a question of position in the world, but of nationality." "Yes, it seems to him that the Lord God created other 'nations' exclusively so that a nobleman from Kutno may have some one to clean his boots whenever he chooses to go abroad. But doesn't he turn up his nose at the marriage of the young man? for I know that he thinks the Broniches of small account." "Maybe he turns up his nose; but he has become acquainted with our Pan Ignas not long since. They had not met before, for ours is a proud soul, and would not seek the old man first." "I like him for that. I hope he has chosen well, for--" "What! do you know Panna Castelli? What kind of a person is she?" "I know Panna Castelli; but, you see, I am no judge of young ladies. Ba! if I knew them, I would not have waited for the fortieth year as a single man. They are all good, and all please me; but since I have seen, as married women, a few of those who pleased me, I do not believe in any. And that makes me angry; for if I had no wish to marry--well, I should say, leave the matter! but I have the wish. What can I know? I know that each woman has a corset; but what sort of a heart is inside it? The deuce knows! I was in love with Panna Castelli; but for that matter I was in love with all whom I met. With her, perhaps, even more than with others." "And how is it that a wife did not come to your head?" "Ah, the devil didn't come to my head! But at that time I hadn't the money that I have to-day, nor the reputation. I was working for something then; and believe me that no people are so shy of workers as the children of workers. I was afraid that Pan Bronich or Pani Bronich might object, and I was not sure of the lady; therefore I left them in peace." "Pan Ignas has no money." "But he has reputation, and, besides, there is old Zavilovski; and a connection like that is no joke. Who among us has not heard of the old man? Besides, as to me, to tell the truth, I disliked the Broniches to the degree that at last I turned from them." "You knew the late Pan Bronich, then? Be not astonished that I ask, for with me it is a question of our Pan Ignas." "Whom have I not known? I knew also Pani Bronich's sister,--Pani Castelli. For that matter I have been twenty-four years in Italy, and am about forty,--that is said for roundness. In fact, I am forty-five. I knew Pan Castelli, too, who was a good enough man; I knew all. What shall I say to you? Pani Castelli was an enthusiast, and distinguished by wearing short hair; she was always unwashed, and had neuralgia in the face. As to Pani Bronich, you know her." "But who was Pan Bronich?" "'Teodor'? Pan Bronich was a double fool,--first, because he was a fool; and second, because he didn't know himself as one. But I am silent, for '_de mortuis nil nisi bonum_.' He was as fat as she is thin; he weighed more than a hundred and fifty kilograms, perhaps, and had fish eyes. In general, they were people vain beyond everything. But why expatiate? When a man lives a while in the world, and sees many people, and talks with them, as I do while painting, he convinces himself that there is really a high society, which rests on tradition, and besides that a _canaille_, which, having a little money, apes great society. The late Bronich and his present widow always seemed to me of that race; therefore I chose to keep them at a distance. If Bukatski were alive, he would let out his tongue now at their expense. He knew that I was in love with Panna Castelli; and how he ridiculed me, may the Lord not remember it against him! And who knows whether he did not speak justly? for what Panna Lineta is will be shown later." "It concerns me most of all to learn something of her." "They are good, all good; but I am afraid of them and their goodness,--unless your wife would go security for some of them." At this point the conversation stopped, and they began to talk of Bukatski, or rather, of his burial of the day following, for which Pan Stanislav had made previously all preparations. On the way from Svirski's he spoke to the priest again, and then informed acquaintances of the hour on the morrow. The church ceremony of burial had taken place at Rome in its own time, so Pan Stanislav, as a man of religious feeling, invited a few priests to join their prayers to the prayers of laymen; he did this also through attachment and gratitude to Bukatski, who had left him a considerable part of his property. Besides the Polanyetskis came the Mashkos, the Osnovskis, the Bigiels, Svirski, Pan Plavitski, and Pani Emilia, who wished at the same time to visit Litka. The day was a genuine summer one, sunny and warm; the cemetery had a different seeming altogether from what it had during Pan Stanislav's former visits. The great healthy trees formed a kind of thick, dense curtain composed of dark and bright leaves, covering with a deep green shade the white and gray monuments. In places the cemetery seemed simply a forest full of gloom and coolness. On certain graves was quivering a shining network of sunbeams, which had filtered in through the leaves of acacias, poplars, hornbeams, birch, and lindens; some crosses, nestling in a thick growth, seemed as if dreaming in cool air above the graves. In the branches and among the leaves were swarms of small birds, calling out from every side with an unceasing twitter, which was mild, and, as it were, low purposely, so as not to rouse the sleepers. Svirski, Mashko, Polanyetski, and Osnovski took on their shoulders the narrow coffin containing the remains of Bukatski, and bore it to the tomb. The priests, in white surplices now gleaming in the sun, now in the shade, walked in front of the coffin; behind it the young women, dressed in black; and all the company went slowly through the shady alleys, silently, calmly, without sobs or tears, which usually accompany a coffin. They moved only with dignity and sadness, which were on their faces as the shadow of the trees on the graves. There was, however, in all this a certain poetry filled with melancholy; and the impressionable soul of Bukatski would have felt the charm of that mourning picture. In this way they arrived at the tomb, which had the form of a sarcophagus, and was entirely above ground, for Bukatski during life told Svirski that he did not wish to lie in a cellar. The coffin was pushed in easily through the iron door; the women raised their eyes then; their lips muttered prayers; and after a time Bukatski was left to the solitude of the cemetery, the rustling trees, the twitter of birds, and the mercy of God. Pani Emilia and Pan Stanislav went then to Litka; while the rest of the company waited in the carriages before the church, for thus Pani Aneta had wished. Pan Stanislav had a chance to convince himself, at Litka's grave, how in his soul that child once so beloved had gone into the blue distance and become a shade. Formerly when he visited her grave he rebelled against death, and with all the passion of fresh sorrow was unreconciled to it. To-day it seemed to him well-nigh natural that she was lying in the shadow of those trees, in that cemetery; he had the feeling almost that it must end thus. She had ceased all but completely to be for him a real being, and had become merely a sweet inhabitant of his memory, a sigh, a ray, simply one of that kind of reminiscences which is left by music. And he would have grown indignant at himself, perhaps, were it not that he saw Pani Emilia rise after her finished prayer with a serene face, with an expression of great tenderness in her eyes, but without tears. He noticed, however, that she looked as sick people look, that she rose from her knees with difficulty, and that in walking she leaned on a stick. In fact, she was at the beginning of a sore disease of the loins, which later on confined her for years to the bed, and only left her at the coffin. Before the cemetery gate the Osnovskis were waiting for them; Pani Aneta invited them to a betrothal party on the morrow, and then those "who were kind" to Prytulov. Svirski sat with Pani Emilia in Pan Stanislav's carriage, and for some time was collecting his impressions in silence; but at last he said,-- "How wonderful this is! To-day at a funeral, to-morrow at a betrothal; what death reaps, love sows,--and that is life!" CHAPTER XLIX. Pan Ignas wished the betrothal to be not in the evening before people, but earlier; and his wish was gratified all the more, since Lineta, who wished to show herself to people as already betrothed, supported him before Aunt Bronich. They felt freer thus; and when people began to assemble they appeared as a young couple. The light of happiness shone from Lineta. She found a charm in that rôle of betrothed; and the rôle added charm to her. In her slender form there was something winged. Her eyelids did not fall to-day sleepily over her eyes; those eyes were full of light, her lips of smiles, her face was in blushes. She was so beautiful that Svirski, seeing her, could not refrain from quiet sighs for the lost paradise, and found calmness for his soul only when he remembered his favorite song,-- "I am singing and not sobbing, For I have ceased to love thee too! Hu-ha-hu!" For that matter her beauty struck every one that day. Old Zavilovski, who had himself brought in his chair to the drawing-room, held her hands and gazed at her for a time; then, looking around at his daughter, he said,-- "Well, such a Venetian half-devil can turn the head, she can, and especially the head of a poet, for in the heads of those gentlemen is fiu, fiu! as people say." Then he turned to the young man and asked,-- "Well, wilt thou break my neck to-day because I said Venetian half-devil to thee?" Pan Ignas laughed, and, bending his head, kissed the old man's shoulder. "No; I could not break any one's neck to-day." "Well," said the old man, evidently rejoiced at those marks of honor, "may God and the Most Holy Lady bless you both! I say the Most Holy Lady, for her protection is the basis." When he had said this, he began to search behind in the chair, and, drawing forth a large jewel-case, said to Lineta,-- "This is from the family of the Zavilovskis; God grant thee to wear it long!" Lineta, taking the box, bent her charming figure to kiss him on the shoulder; he embraced her neck, and said to the bridegroom,-- "But thou might come." And he kissed both on the forehead, and said, with greater emotion than he wished to show,-- "Now love and revere each other, like honest people." Lineta opened the case, in which on a sapphire-colored satin cushion gleamed a splendid _rivière_ of diamonds. The old man said once more with emphasis, "From the family of the Zavilovskis," wishing evidently to show that the young lady who married a Zavilovski, even without property, was not doing badly. But no one heard him, for the heads of the ladies--of Lineta, Pani Aneta, Pani Mashko, Pani Bronich and even Marynia--bent over the flashing stones; and breath was stopped in their mouths for a time, till at last a murmur of admiration and praise broke the silence. "It is not a question of diamonds!" cried Pani Bronich, casting herself almost into the arms of old Zavilovski, "but as the gift, so the heart." "Do not mention it Pani; do not mention it!" said the old man, warding her off. Now the society broke into pairs or small groups; the betrothed were so occupied with each other that the whole world vanished from before them. Osnovski and Svirski went up to Marynia and Pani Bigiel. Kopovski undertook to entertain the lady of the house; Pan Stanislav was occupied with Pani Mashko. As to Mashko himself, he was anxious evidently to make a nearer acquaintance with the Croesus, for he so fenced him off with his armchair that no one could approach him, and began then to talk of remote times and the present, which, as he divined easily, had become a favorite theme for the old man. But he was too keen-witted to be of Zavilovski's opinion in all things. Moreover, the old man did not attack recent times always; nay, he admired them in part. He acknowledged that in many regards they were moving toward the better; still he could not take them in. But Mashko explained to him that everything must change on earth; hence nobles, as well as other strata of society. "I, respected sir," said he, "hold to the land through a certain inherited instinct,--through that something which attracts to land the man who came from it; but, while managing my own property, I am an advocate, and I am one on principle. We should have our own people in that department; if we do not, we shall be at the mercy of men coming from other spheres, and often directly opposed to us. And I must render our landholders this justice, that for the greater part they understand this well, and choose to confide their business to me rather than to others. Some think it even a duty." "The bar has been filled from our ranks at all times," answered Pan Zavilovski; "but will the noble succeed in other branches? As God lives, I cannot tell. I hear, and hear that we ought to undertake everything; but people forget that to undertake and to succeed are quite different. Show me the man who has succeeded." "Here he is, respected sir, Pan Polanyetski: he in a commission house has made quite a large property; and what he has is in ready cash, so that he could put it all on the table to-morrow. He will not deny that my counsels have been of profit to him frequently; but what he has made, he has made through commerce, mainly in grain." "Indeed, indeed!" said the old noble, gazing at Pan Stanislav, and staring from wonder, "has he really made property? Is it possible? Is he of the real Polanyetskis? That's a good family." "And that stalwart man with brown hair?" "Is Svirski the artist." "I know him, for I saw him abroad; and the Svirskis did not make fires as an occupation." "But he can only paint money, for he hasn't made any." "He hasn't!" said Mashko, in a confidential tone. "Not one big estate in Podolia will give as much income as aquarelles give him." "What is that?" "Pictures in water-colors." "Is it possible? not even oil paintings! And he too--? Ha! then, perhaps, my relative will make something at verses. Let him write; let him write. I will not take it ill of him. Pan Zygmund was a noble, and he wrote, and not for display. Pan Adam was a noble also; but he is famous,--more famous than that brawler who has worked with democracy-- What's his name? Never mind! You say that times are changing. Hm, are they? Let them change for themselves, if only with God's help, for the better." "The main thing," said Mashko, "is not to shut up a man's power in his head, nor capital in chests; whoever does that, simply sins against society." "Well, but with permission! How do you understand this,--Am I not free to close with a key what belongs to me; must I leave my chests open to a robber?" Mashko smiled with a shade of loftiness, and, putting his hand on the arm of the chair, said,-- "That is not the question, respected sir." And then he began to explain the principles of political economy to Pan Zavilovski; the old noble listened, nodding his head, and repeating from time to time,-- "Indeed! that is something new! but I managed without it." Pani Bronich followed the betrothed with eyes full of emotion, and at the same time told Plavitski (who on his part was following Pani Aneta with eyes not less full of emotion) about the years of her youth, her life with Teodor, and the misfortune which met them because of the untimely arrival in the world of their only descendant, and Plavitski listened with distraction; but, moved at last by her own narrative, she said with a somewhat quivering voice,-- "So all my love, hope, and faith are in Lineta. You will understand this, for you too have a daughter. And as to Lolo, just think what a blessing that child would have been had he lived, since even dead he rendered us so much service--" "Immensely touching, immensely touching!" interrupted Plavitski. "Oh, it is true," continued Pani Bronich. "How often in harvest time did my husband run with the cry, 'Lolo monte!' and send out all his laboring men to the field. With others, wheat sprouted in the shocks, with us, never. Oh, true! And the loss was the greater in this, that that was our last hope. My husband was a man in years, and I can say that for me he was the best of protectors; but after this misfortune, only a protector." "Here I cease to understand him," said Plavitski. "Ha, ha! I fail altogether to understand him." And, opening his mouth, he looked roguishly at Pani Bronich; she slapped him lightly with her fan, and said,-- "These men are detestable; for them there is nothing sacred." "Who is that, a real Perugino,--that pale lady, with whom your husband is talking?" asked Svirski now of Marynia. "An acquaintance of ours, Pani Mashko. Have you not been presented to her?" "Yes; I became acquainted with her yesterday at the funeral, but forget her name. I know that she is the wife of that gentleman who is talking with old Pan Zavilovski. A pure Vannuci! The same quietism, and a little yellowish; but she has very beautiful lines in her form." And looking a little longer he added,-- "A quenched face, but uncommon lines in the whole figure. As it were slender; look at the outline of her arms and shoulders." But Marynia was not looking at the outlines of the arms and shoulders of Pani Mashko, but at her husband; and on her face alarm was reflected on a sudden. Pan Stanislav was just inclining toward Pani Mashko and telling her something which Marynia could not hear, for they were sitting at a distance; but it seemed to her that at times he gazed into that quenched face and those pale eyes with the same kind of look with which during their journey after marriage he had gazed at her sometimes. Ah, she knew that look! And her heart began now to beat, as if feeling some great danger. But immediately she said to herself, "That cannot be! That would be unworthy of Stas." Still she could not refrain from looking at them. Pan Stanislav was telling something very vivaciously, which Pani Mashko listened to with her usual indifference. Marynia thought again: "Something only seemed to me! He is speaking vivaciously as usual, but nothing more." The remnant of her doubt was destroyed by Svirski, who, either because he noticed her alarm and inquiring glance, or because he did not notice the expression on Pan Stanislav's face, said,-- "With all this she says nothing. Your husband must keep up the conversation, and he looks at once weary and angry." Marynia's face grew radiant in one instant. "Oh, you are right! Stas is annoyed a little, surely; and the moment he is annoyed he is angry." And she fell into perfect good-humor. She would have been glad to give a _rivière_ of diamonds, like that which Pan Zavilovski had brought to Lineta, to make "Stas" approach at that moment, to say something herself to him, and hear a kind word from him. In fact, a few minutes later her wish was accomplished, for Osnovski approached Pani Mashko; Pan Stanislav rose, and, saying a word or two on the way to Pani Aneta, who was talking to Kopovski, sat down at last by his wife. "Dost wish to tell me something?" he inquired. "How wonderful it is, Stas, for I called to thee that moment, but only in mind; still thou hast felt and art here with me." "See what a husband I am," answered he, with a smile. "But the reason is really very simple: I noticed thee looking at me; I was afraid that something might have happened, and I came." "I was looking, for I wanted something." "And I came, for I wanted something. How dost thou feel? Tell the truth! Perhaps thou hast a wish to go home?" "No, Stas, as I love thee, I am perfectly comfortable. I was talking with Pan Svirski of Pani Mashko, and was entertained well." "I guessed that you were gossiping about her. This artist says himself that he has an evil tongue." "On the contrary," answered Svirski, "I was only admiring her form. The turn for my tongue may come later." "Oh, that is true," said Pan Stanislav; "Pani Osnovski says that she has indeed a bad figure, and that is proof that she has a good one. But, Marynia, I will tell thee something of Pani Osnovski." Here he bent toward his wife, and whispered, "Knowest what I heard from Kopovski's lips when I was coming to thee?" "What was it? Something amusing?" "Just as one thinks: I heard him say thou to Pani Aneta." "Stas!" "As I love thee, he did. He said to her, 'Thou art always so.'" "Maybe he was quoting some other person's words." "I don't know. Maybe he was; maybe he wasn't. Besides, they may have been in love sometime." "Fi! Be ashamed." "Say that to them--or rather to Pani Aneta." Marynia, who knew perfectly well that unfaithfulness exists, but looking on it rather as some French literary theory,--she had not even imagined that one might meet such a thing at every step and in practice,--began to look now at Pani Aneta with wonder, and at the same time with the immense curiosity with which honest women look at those who have had boldness to leave the high-road for by-paths. She had too truthful a nature, however, to believe in evil immediately, and she did not; and somehow it would not find a place in her head that really there could be anything between those two, if only because of the unheard-of stupidity of Kopovski. She noticed, however, that they were talking with unusual vivacity. But they, sitting somewhat apart between a great porcelain vase and the piano, had not only been talking, but arguing for a quarter of an hour. "I fear that he has heard something," said Pani Aneta, with a certain alarm, after Pan Stanislav had passed. "Thou art never careful." "Yes, it is always my fault! But who is forever repeating, 'Be careful'?" In this regard both were truly worthy of each other, since he could foresee nothing because of his dulness, and she was foolhardy to recklessness. Two persons knew their secret now; others might divine it. One needed all the infatuation of Osnovski not to infer anything. But it was on that that she reckoned. Meanwhile Kopovski looked at Pan Stanislav and said,-- "He has heard nothing." Then he returned to the conversation which they had begun; but now he spoke in lower tones and in French,-- "Didst thou love me, thou wouldst be different; but since thou dost not love, what harm could that be to thee?" Then he turned on her his wonderful eyes without mind, while she answered impatiently,-- "Whether I love, or love not, Castelka never! Dost understand? Never! I would prefer any other to her, though, if thou wert in love with me really, thou wouldst not think of marriage." "I would not think of it, if thou wert different." "Be patient." "Yes! till death? If I married Castelka, we should then be near really." "Never! I repeat to thee." "Well, but why?" "Thou wouldst not understand it. Besides, Castelka is betrothed; it is too bad to lose time in discussing this." "Thou thyself hast commanded me to pay court to her, and now art casting reproaches. At first I thought of nothing; but afterward she pleased me,--I do not deny this. She pleases all; and, besides, she is a good match." Pani Aneta began to pull at the end of her handkerchief. "And thou hast the boldness to say to my eyes that she pleased thee," said she at last. "Is it I, or she?" "Thou, but thee I cannot marry; her I could, for I saw well that I pleased her." "If thou wert better acquainted with women, thou wouldst be glad that I did not let it go to marriage. Thou dost not know her. She is just like a stick, and, besides, is malicious in character. Dost thou not understand that I told thee to pay court to her out of regard to people, and to Yozio? Otherwise, how explain thy daily visits?" "I could understand, wert thou other than thou art." "Do not oppose me. I have fixed all, as thou seest, to keep thy portrait from being finished, and give thee a chance to visit Prytulov. Steftsia Ratkovski, a distant relative of Yozio's, will be there soon. Dost understand? Thou must pretend that she pleases thee; and I will talk what I like into Yozio. In this way thou wilt be able to stop at Prytulov. I have written to Panna Ratkovski already. She is not a beauty, but agreeable." "Always pretence, and nothing for it." "Suppose I should say to thee: Don't come." "Anetka!" "Then be patient. I cannot be angry long with thee. But now go thy way. Amuse Pani Mashko." And a moment later Pani Aneta was alone. Her eyes followed Kopovski a while with the remnant of her anger, but also with a certain tenderness. In the white cravat, with his dark tint of face, he was so killingly beautiful that she could not gaze at him sufficiently. Lineta was now the betrothed of another; still the thought seemed unendurable that that daily rival of hers might possess him, if not as husband, as lover. Pani Aneta, in telling Kopovski that she would yield him to any other rather than to Castelka, told the pure truth. That was for her a question, at once of an immense weakness for that dull Endymion, and a question of self-love. Her nerves simply could not agree to it. Certain inclinations of the senses, which she herself looked on as lofty, and rising from a Grecian nature, but which at the root of the matter were common, took the place in her of morality and conscience. By virtue of these inclinations, she fell under the irresistible charm of Kopovski; but having not only a heated head, but a temperament of fishy coldness, she preferred, as Pan Ignas divined intuitively, the play with evil to evil itself. Holding, in her way, to the principle, "If not I, then no one!" she was ready to push matters to the utmost to prevent the marriage of Kopovski to Lineta, the more since she saw that Lineta, in spite of all her "words" about Kopovski, in spite of the irony with which she had mentioned him and her jests about the man, was also under the charm of his exceptional beauty; that all those jests were simply self-provocation, under which was concealed an attraction; and that, in general, the source of her pleasure and Lineta's was the same. But she did not observe that, for this reason, she at the bottom of her soul had contempt for Lineta. She knew that Lineta, through very vanity, would not oppose her persuasion, and the homages of a man with a famous name. In this way, she had retained Kopovski, and, besides, had produced for herself a splendid spectacle, on which women, who are more eager for impressions than feelings, look always with greediness. Besides, if that famous Pan Ignas, when his wife becomes an every-day object, should look somewhere for a Beatrice, he might find her. Little is denied men who have power to hand down, to the memory of mankind and the homage of ages, the name of a loved one. These plans for the future Pani Aneta had not outlined hitherto expressly; but she had, as it were, a misty feeling that her triumph would in that case be perfect. Moreover, she had triumphed even now, for all had gone as she wished. Still Kopovski made her angry. She had considered him as almost her property. Meanwhile, she saw that, so far as he was able to understand anything, he understood this, that the head does not ache from abundance, and that Aneta might not hinder Lineta. That roused her so keenly that at moments she was thinking how to torment him in return. Meanwhile, she was glad that Lineta paraded herself as being in love really, soul and heart, with Pan Ignas, which for Kopovski was at once both a riddle and a torture. These thoughts flew through her head like lightning, and flew all of them in the short time that she was alone. At last she was interrupted by the serving of supper. Osnovski, who desired that his wife should be surrounded by such homage from every one as he himself gave, and to whom it seemed that what he had said to Pan Ignas about his married life was very appropriate, had the unhappy thought to repeat at the first toast the wish that Pan Ignas might be as happy with Lineta as he with his wife. Hereupon, the eyes of Pan Ignas and Pan Stanislav turned involuntarily to Pani Osnovski, who looked quickly at Pan Stanislav, and doubts on both sides disappeared in one instant; that is, she gained the perfect certainty that Pan Stanislav had heard them, and he, that Kopovski had not quoted the words of another, but had said _thou_ in direct speech to the lady. Pani Aneta had guessed even that Pan Stanislav must have spoken of that to Marynia, for she had seen how, after he had passed, both had talked and looked a certain time at her with great curiosity. The thought filled her with anger and a desire of revenge, so that she listened without attention to the further toasts, which were given by her husband, by Pan Ignas, by Plavitski, and at last by Pan Bigiel. But, after supper, it came to her head all at once to arrange a dancing-party; and "Yozio," obedient as ever to each beck of hers, and, besides, excited after feasting, supported the thought enthusiastically. Marynia could not dance, but besides her there were five youthful ladies,--Lineta, Pani Osnovski, Pani Bigiel, Pani Mashko, and Panna Zavilovski. The last declared, it is true, that she did not dance; but, since people said that she neither danced, talked, ate, nor drank, her refusal did not stop the readiness of others. Osnovski, who was in splendid feeling, declared that Ignas should take Lineta in his arms, for surely he had not dared to do so thus far. It turned out, however, that Pan Ignas could not avail himself of Pan Osnovski's friendly wishes, for he had never danced in his life, and had not the least knowledge of dancing, which not only astonished Pani Bronich and Lineta, but offended them somewhat. Kopovski, on the other hand, possessed this art in a high degree; hence he began the dance with Lineta, as the heroine of the evening. They were a splendid pair, and eyes followed them involuntarily. Pan Ignas was forced to see her golden head incline toward Kopovski's shoulder, to see their bosoms near each other, to see both whirling to the time of Bigiel's waltz, joined in the harmony of movement, blending, as it were, into one tune and one unity. Even from looking at all this, he grew angry, for he understood that there was a thing which he did not know, which would connect Lineta with others and disconnect her with him. Besides, people about him mentioned the beauty of the dancing couple; and Svirski, sitting near him, said,-- "What a beautiful man! If there were male houris, as there are female, he might be a houri in a Mussulman paradise for women." They waltzed long; and there was in the tones of the music, as in their movements, something, as it were, intoxicating, a kind of dizzy faintness, which incensed Pan Ignas still more, for he recalled Byron's verses on waltzing,--verses as cynical as they are truthful. At last, he said to himself, with complete impatience: "When will that ass let her go?" He feared, too, that Kopovski might tire her too much. The "ass" let her go at last at the other end of the hall, and straightway took Pani Aneta. But Lineta ran up to her betrothed, and, sitting down at his side, said,-- "He dances well, but he likes to exhibit his skill, for he has nothing else. He kept me too long. I have lost breath a little, and my heart is beating. If you could put your hand there and feel how it beats--but it is not proper to do so. How wonderful, too, for it is your property." "My property!" said Pan Ignas, holding out his hand to her. "Do not say 'your' to me to-day, Lineta." "Thy property," she whispered, and she did not ward off his hand, she only let it drop down a little on her robe, so that people might not notice it. "I was jealous of him," said Pan Ignas, pressing her fingers passionately. "Dost wish I will dance no more to-day? I like to dance, but I prefer to be near thee." "My worshipped one!" "I am a stupid society girl, but I want to be worthy of thee. As thou seest, I love music greatly,--even waltzes and polkas. Somehow they act on me wonderfully. How well this Pan Bigiel plays! But I know that there are things higher than waltzes. Hold my handkerchief, and drop my hand for a moment. It is thy hand, but I must arrange my hair. It is time to dance; to dance is not wrong, is it? But if thou wish, I will not dance, for I am an obedient creature. I will learn to read in thy eyes, and afterward shall be like water, which reflects both clouds and clear weather. So pleasant is it for me near thee! See how perfectly those people dance!" Words failed Pan Ignas; only in one way could he have shown what he felt,--by kneeling before her. But she pointed out Pan Stanislav, who was dancing with Pani Mashko, and admired them heartily. "Really he dances better than Pan Kopovski," said she, with gleaming eyes; "and she, how graceful! Oh, I should like to dance even once with him--if thou permit." Pan Ignas, in whom Pan Stanislav did not rouse the least jealousy, said,-- "My treasure, as often as may please thee. I will send him at once to thee." "Oh, how perfectly he dances! how perfectly! And this waltz, it is like some delightful shiver. They are sailing, not dancing." Of this opinion, too, was Marynia, who, following the couple with her eyes, experienced a still greater feeling of bitterness than Pan Ignas a little while earlier; for it seemed a number of times to her that Pan Stanislav had looked again on Pani Mashko with that expression with which he had looked when Svirski supposed that either he was annoyed, or was angry. But now such a supposition was impossible. At moments both dancers passed near her; and then she saw distinctly how his arm embraced firmly Pani Mashko's waist, how his breath swept around her neck, how his nostrils were dilated, how his glances slipped over her naked bosom. That might be invisible for others, but not for Marynia, who could read in his face as in a book. And all at once the light of the lamps became dark in her eyes; she understood that it was one thing not to be happy, and another to be unhappy. This lasted briefly,--as briefly as one tact of the waltz, or one instant in which a heart that is straitened ceases to beat; but it sufficed for the feeling that life in the future might be embroiled, and present love changed into a bitter and contemptuous sorrow. And that feeling filled her with terror. Before her was drawn aside, as it were, a curtain, behind which appeared unexpectedly all the sham of life, all the wretchedness and meanness of human nature. Nothing had happened yet, absolutely nothing; but a vision came to Marynia, in which she saw that there might be a time when her confidence in her husband would vanish like smoke. She tried, however, to ward away doubts; she wished to talk into herself that he was under the influence of the dance, not of his partner; she preferred not to believe her eyes. Shame seized her for that "Stas" of whom she had been so proud up to that time; and she struggled with all her strength against that feeling, understanding that it was a question of enormous importance, and that from that little thing, and from that fault of his, hitherto almost nothing, might flow results which would act on their whole future. At that moment was heard near her the jesting voice of Pani Aneta. "Ah, Marynia, nature has created, as it were, purposely, thy husband and Pani Mashko to waltz with each other. What a pair!" "Yes," answered Marynia, with an effort. And Pani Aneta twittered on: "Perfectly fitted for each other. It is true that in thy place I should be a little jealous; but thou, art thou jealous? No? I am outspoken, and confess freely that I should be; at least, it was so with me once. I know, for that matter, that Yozio loves me; but these men, even while loving, have their little fancies. Their heads do not ache the least on that score; and that our hearts ache, they do not see, or do not wish to see. The best of them are not different. Yozio? true! he is a model husband; and dost thou think that I do not know him? Now, when I have grown used to him, laughter seizes me often, for they are all so awkward! I know the minute that Yozio is beginning to be giddy; and knowest thou what my sign is?" Marynia was looking continually at her husband, who had ceased now to dance with Pani Mashko, and had taken Lineta. She felt great relief all at once, for it seemed to her that "Stas," while dancing with Lineta, had the same expression of face. Her suspicions began to fade; and she thought at once that she had judged him unjustly, that she herself was not good. She had never seen him dancing before; and the thought came to her head that perhaps he danced that way always. Then Pani Aneta repeated, "Dost know how I discover when Yozio is beginning to play pranks?" "How?" inquired Marynia, with more liveliness. "I will teach thee the method. Here it is: the moment he has an unclean conscience, he puts suspicion on others, and shares these suspicions with me, so as to turn attention from himself. Dear Yozio! that is their method. How they lie, even the best of them!" When she had said this, she went away, with the conviction that on the society chessboard she had made a very clever move; and it was clever. In Marynia's head a kind of chaos now rose; she knew not what to think at last of all this. Great physical weariness seized her also. "I am not well," said she to herself; "I am excited, and God knows what may seem to me." And the feeling of weariness increased in her every moment. That whole evening seemed a fever dream. Pan Stanislav had mentioned Pani Aneta as a faith-breaking woman; Pani Aneta had said the same of all husbands. Pan Stanislav had been looking with dishonest eyes on Pani Mashko, and Pani Aneta had said _thou_ to Kopovski. To this was added the dancing couples, the monotonous tact of the waltz, the heads of the lovers, and finally, a storm, which was heard out of doors. What a mixture of impressions! what a phantasmagoria! "I am not well," repeated Marynia in her mind. But she felt also that peace was leaving her, and that this was the unhappy evening of her life. She wished greatly to go home, but, as if to spite her, there was a pouring rain. "Let us go home! let us go home!" If "Stas" should say some good and cordial word besides. Let him only not speak of Pani Aneta or Pani Mashko; let him speak of something that related to him and her, and was dear to them. "Oh, how tired I am!" At that moment Pan Stanislav came to her; and at sight of her poor, pale face, he felt a sudden sympathy, to which his heart, kind in itself, yielded easily. "My poor dear," said he, "it is time for thee to go to bed; only let the rain pass a little. Thou art not afraid of thunder?" "No; sit near me." "The summer shower will pass soon. How sleepy thou art!" "Perhaps I ought not to have come, Stas. I have great need of rest." He had a conscience which was not too clear, and was angry at himself. But it had not come to his mind that what she was saying of rest might relate to him and his attempts and conduct with Pani Mashko; but he felt all at once that if she had suspected, her peace would be ruined forever through his fault, and since he was not a spoiled man, fear and compunction possessed him. "To the deuce with all dances!" said he. "I will stay at home, and take care of that which belongs to me." And he said this so sincerely that a shadow of doubt could not pass through her head, for she knew him perfectly. Hence a feeling of immense relief came upon her. "When thou art with me," said she, "I feel less tired right away. A moment ago I felt ill somehow. Aneta sat near me; but what can I care for her? When out of health, one needs a person who is near, who is one's own, and reliable. Perhaps thou wilt scold me for what I say, since it is strange to say such things at a party, among strangers, and so long after marriage. I understand myself that it is somewhat strange; but I need thee really, for I love thee much." "And I love thee, dear being," answered Pan Stanislav, who felt then that love for her could alone be honest and peaceful. Meanwhile the rain decreased; but there was lightning yet, so that the windows of the villa were bright blue every moment. Bigiel, who, after the dancing, had played a prelude of Chopin's, was talking now with Lineta and Pan Ignas about music, and, defending his idea firmly, said,-- "That Bukatski invented various kinds and types of women; and I have my musical criterion. There are women who love music with their souls, and there are others who love it with their skin,--these last I fear." A quarter of an hour later the short summer storm had passed by, and the sky had cleared perfectly; the guests began to prepare for home. But Zavilovski remained longer than others, so that he might be the last to say good-night to Lineta. Out of fear for Marynia, Pan Stanislav gave command to drive the carriage at a walk. The picture of her husband dancing with Pani Mashko was moving in her tortured, head continually. Pani Aneta's words, "Oh, how they lie! even the best of them," were sounding in her ears. But Pan Stanislav supported her meanwhile with his arm, and held her resting against him during the whole way; hence her disquiet disappeared gradually. She wished from her soul to put some kind of question to him, from which he might suspect her fears and pacify her. But after a while she thought: "If he did not love me, he would not show anxiety; he could be cruel more readily than pretend. I will not ask him to-day about anything." Pan Stanislav, on his part, evidently under the influence of the thought which moved in his head, and under the impression that she alone might be his right love and true happiness, bent down and kissed her face lightly. "I will not ask him about anything to-morrow either," thought Marynia, resting her head on his shoulder. And after a while she thought again, "I will never tell him anything." And fatigue, both physical and mental, began to overpower her, so that before they reached home her eyes were closed, and she had fallen asleep on his arm. Pani Bronich was sitting, meanwhile, in the drawing-room, looking toward the glass door of the balcony, to which the betrothed had gone out for a moment to breathe the air freshened by rain, and say good-night to each other without witnesses. After the storm the night had become very clear, giving out the odor of wet leaves; it was full of stars, which were as if they had bathed in the rain, and were smiling through tears. The two young people stood some time in silence, and then began to say that they loved each other with all their souls; and at last Pan Ignas stretched forth his hand, on which a ring was glittering, and said,-- "My greatly beloved! I look at this ring, and cannot look at it sufficiently. To this moment it has seemed to me that all this is a dream, and only now do I dare to think that thou wilt be mine really." Then Lineta placed the palm of her hand on his, so that the two rings were side by side; and she said, with a voice of dreamy exaltation,-- "Yes; the former Lineta is no longer in existence, only thy betrothed. Now we must belong with our whole lives to each other; and it is a marvel to me that there should be such power in these little rings, as if something holy were in them." Pan Ignas's heart was overflowing with happiness, calm, and sweetness. "Yes," said he; "for in the ring is the soul, which yields itself, and in return receives another. In such a golden promise is ingrafted everything which in a man says, 'I wish, I love, and promise.'" Lineta repeated like a faint echo, "I wish, I love, and promise." Next he embraced her and held her long at his breast, and then began to take farewell. But, borne away by the might of love and the impulse of his soul, he made of that farewell a sort of religious act of adoration and honor. So he gave good-night to those blessed hands which had given him so much happiness, and good-night to that heart which loved him, and good-night to the lips which had confessed love, and good-night to the clear eyes through which mutuality gazed forth at the poet; and at last the soul went out of him, and changed itself, as it were, into a shining circle, around that head which was dearest in the world and worshipped. "Good-night!" After a while Pani Bronich and Lineta were alone in the drawing-room. "Art wearied, child?" inquired Pani Bronich, looking at Lineta's face, which was as if roused from sleep. And Lineta answered,-- "Ah, aunt, I am returning from the stars, and that's such a long journey." CHAPTER L. Pan Ignas could say to himself that sometimes a lucky star shines even for poets. It is true that since the day of his betrothal to Lineta it had occurred to him frequently that there would be need now to think of means to furnish a house, and meet the expenses, as well of a marriage as a wedding; but, being first of all in love, and not having in general a clear understanding of such matters, he represented all this to himself only as some kind of new difficulty to be overcome. He had conquered so many of these in his life that, trusting in his power, he thought that he would conquer this too; but he had not thought over the means so far. Others, however, were thinking for him. Old Zavilovski, in whom, with all his esteem for geniuses, nothing could shake the belief that every poet must have "fiu, fiu" in his head, invited Pan Stanislav to a personal consultation, and said,-- "I will say openly that this youngster has pleased me, though his father was, with permission, a great roisterer; nothing for him but cards and women and horses. He came to grief in his time. But the son is not like the father; he has brought to the name not discredit, but honor. Well, others have not accustomed me much to this; but the Lord God grant that I shall not forget the man. I should like, however, to do something for him at once; for though a distant relative, he is a relative, and the name is the same,--that is the main thing." "We have been thinking of this," said Pan Stanislav, "but the thing is difficult. If aid be spoken of, he is so sensitive that one may make the impatient fellow angry." "Indeed! How stubborn he is!" said Zavilovski, with evident pleasure. "True! He has kept books and written letters for our house a short time. But we have conceived a real liking for him; therefore my partner and I have offered him credit ourselves. 'Take a few thousand rubles,' said we, 'for expenses and furnishing a house, and return them to us in the course of three years from thy salary.' He would not: he said that he had trust in his betrothed; she would accommodate herself to him, he felt sure, and he did not want the money. Osnovski, too, wanted to offer aid but we stopped him, knowing that it was useless. Your project will be difficult." "Maybe, then, he has something?" "He has, and he hasn't. We have just learned that some thousands of rubles came to him from his mother; but with the interest he supports his father in an insane asylum, and considers the capital as inviolable. That he takes nothing from it, is certain, for before he began with us, he suffered such poverty that he was simply dying of hunger, and he didn't touch a copper. Such is his character. And you will understand why we esteem him. He is writing something, it seems, and thinks that he will meet the expense of first housekeeping with it. Maybe he will; his name means much at present." "Pears on willows!" said Pan Zavilovski. "You tell me that his name means much--does it? But that's pears on willows!" "Not necessarily; only it will not come quickly." "Well, he was ceremonious with you because you were strangers, but I am a relative." "We are strangers, but older acquaintances than you, and we know him better." Zavilovski, unaccustomed to contradiction, began to move his white mustaches, and pant from displeasure. For the first time in his life he had to trouble himself about the question, would the man to whom he wished to give money be pleased to accept it? This astonished, pleased, and angered him all at once; he recalled, then, something which he did not mention to Pan Stanislav, and this was it,--how many times had he paid notes for the father of the young man?--and what notes! But see, the apple has fallen so far from the tree that now there is a new and unexpected trouble. "Well," said he, after a while, "may the merciful God grant the young generation to change; for now, O devil, do not go even near them!" Here his face grew bright all at once with an immense honest pleasure. The inexhaustible optimism, lying at the bottom of his soul, when it found a real cause to justify itself, filled his heart with glad visions. "Bite him now, lord devil," said he, "for the beast is as if of stone!--a capable rascal! resolute in work, and character; that is what it is,--character." Here he stared, and, shaking his head, fixed his lips as a sign of wonder, as if to whistle, and after a moment, added,-- "Indeed! and that in a noble! As God lives, I didn't expect it." But talking in this way he deceived himself, for all his life he had expected everything. "It seems, then," said Pan Stanislav, "that there is no help but this, Panna Castelli must accommodate herself to him." But the old noble made a wry face all at once. "That is talk! tfu! Will she accommodate, or will she not? the deuce knows her! She is young; and as she is young, maybe she is ready for everything; but who will give assurance, and for how long? Besides, there is her aunt and that accommodating dead man; when he shouts from under the ground, go and talk with him. As God is true, I esteem people who have acquired property; but when any one has crept out of a cottage, and not a mansion, and pretends that he lived always in palaces, he wants palaces. And so it was with old Bronich. Neither of them was lacking in vanity; the young woman was reared in such a school,--nothing but comfort and abundance. Ignas does not know them in that respect--and you do not. Such a woman as this" (here he pointed to his daughter) "would go to a garret even, once she had given her word; but that other one, she may not go easily." "I do not know them," said Pan Stanislav, "though I have heard various reports; but through good-will for Ignas, I should like to know definitely what to think of them." "What to think of them! I have known them a long time, and I, too, do not know much. Well, judging from what Bronich herself says, the women are saints, the most worthy. And pious! Ha! they should be canonized while living! But you see it is this way,--there are women among us who bear God and the commands of faith in their hearts, and there are such, too, who make of our Catholic religion, Catholic amusement; and such talk the loudest, and grow up where no one sowed them. That's what the case is." "Ah, how truly you have spoken!" said Pan Stanislav. "Well, is it not true?" inquired Zavilovski. "I have seen various things in life; but let us return to the question. Have you any method to make this wild cat accept aid, or not?" "It is necessary to think of something; but at this moment nothing occurs to me." Thereupon Panna Helena Zavilovski, who, occupied with embroidery on canvas, was silent up to that moment as if not hearing the conversation, raised her steel cold eyes suddenly, and said,-- "There is a very simple method." The old noble looked at her. "See, she has found it! What is this simple method?" "Let papa deposit sufficient capital for Pan Ignas's father." "It would be better for thee not to give that advice; I have done enough in my life for Pan Ignas's father, though I had no wish to see him, and prefer now to do something for Pan Ignas himself." "I know; but if his father has an income assured till his death, Pan Ignas will be able to command that which he has from his mother." "As God is dear to me, that is true!" said Pan Zavilovski, with astonishment. "See! we have both been breaking our heads for nothing, and she has discovered it. True, as God is dear to me!" "You are perfectly right," said Pan Stanislav, looking at her with curiosity. But she had inclined to the embroidery her face, which was without expression of interest, and, as it were, faded before its time. The news of such a turn of affairs pleased Marynia and Pani Bigiel greatly, and gave at the same time occasion to speak of Panna Helena. Formerly she was considered a cold young lady, who placed form above everything; but it was said that later a way was broken through that coldness to her heart by great feeling, which, turning into a tragedy, turned also that society young lady into a strange woman, separated from people, confined to herself, jealous of her suffering. Some exalted her great benevolence; but if she was really benevolent, she did her good work so secretly that no one knew anything definite. It was difficult, also, for any one to approach her, for her indifference was greatly like pride. Men declared that in her manner there was something simply contemptuous, just as if she could not forgive them for living. Pan Ignas had been in Prytulov, and returned only the week following the old man's talk with Pan Stanislav,--that is, when the noble had deposited in the name of his father twice the amount of capital which had served so far to pay his expenses at the asylum. When he learned of this, Pan Ignas rushed off to thank the old man, and to save himself from accepting it; but Zavilovski, feeling firm ground under his feet, grumbled him out of his position. "But what hast thou to say?" asked he. "I have done nothing for thee; I have given thee nothing. Thou hast no right to receive or not to receive; and that it pleased me to go to the aid of a sick relative is a kind of act permitted to every man." In fact, there was nothing to answer; hence the matter ended in embraces and emotion, in which these two men, strangers a short time before, felt that they were real relatives. Even Panna Helena herself showed "Pan Ignas" good-will. As to old Zavilovski, he, grieving in secret over this, that he had no son, took to loving the young man heartily. A week later, Pani Bronich, who had visited Warsaw on some little business, went to Yasmen to learn what was to be heard about the gout, and to speak of the young couple. When she repeated a number of times, to the greater praise of "Nitechka," that she was marrying a man without property, the old noble grew impatient, and cried,-- "What do you say to me? God knows who makes the better match, even with regard to property, omitting mention of other things." And Pani Bronich, who moreover endured all from the old truth-teller, endured smoothly even the mention of "other things." Nay, a half an hour later, she spread the wings of her imagination sufficiently. Visiting the Polanyetskis on the way, she told them that Pan Zavilovski had given her a formal promise to make an entail for "that dear, dear Ignas," with an irrepressible motherly feeling that at times he took the place of Lolo in her heart. Finally, she expressed the firm conviction that Teodor would have loved him no less than she, and that thereby sorrow for Lolo would have been less painful to both of them. Pan Ignas did not know that he had taken the place of Lolo in Pani Bronich's heart, nor did he know of the entail discovered for him, but he noticed that his relations with people had begun already to change. The news of that entail must have spread through the city with lightning-like swiftness, for his acquaintances greeted him in some fashion differently; and even his colleagues of the bureau, honest people, began to be less familiar. When he returned from Prytulov, he had to visit all persons who had been present at the betrothal party at the Osnovskis'; and the quickness with which the visit was returned by such a man as Mashko, for example, testified also to the change in his relations. In the first period of their acquaintance, Mashko treated him somewhat condescendingly. Now he had not ceased, it is true, to be patronizing, but there was so much kindness and friendly confidence in his manner, such a feeling for poetry even. No! Mashko had nothing against poetry; he would have preferred, perhaps, if Pan Ignas's verses were more in the spirit of safely thinking people; but in general he was reconciled to the existence of poetry, and even praised it. His favorable inclination both to poetry and the poet were evident from his look, his smile, and the frequent repetition, "but of course,--of course,--but very!" Pan Ignas, who was in many regards naïve, but at the same exceptionally intelligent, still understood that in all this there was some pretence, hence he thought: "Why does this, as it were, thinking man pose in such style that it is evident?" And that same day he raised this question in a talk with the Polanyetskis; at their house it was that he had made Mashko's acquaintance. "Were I to pose," said he, "I should try so to pose that people could not recognize it." "Those who pose," answered Pan Stanislav, "count on this, that, though people notice the posing, still, through slothfulness or a lack of civic courage, they will agree to that which the pose is intended to express. Moreover, the thing is difficult. Have you noticed that women who use rouge lose gradually the sense of measure? It is the same with posing. The most intelligent lose this sense of measure." "True," answered Pan Ignas, "as it is true also that one can reproach people with everything." "As to Mashko," continued Pan Stanislav, "he knows, besides, that you are marrying a lady who passes for wealthy; he knows that you are a favorite with Pan Zavilovski, and perhaps he would like to approach him through your favor. Mashko must think of the future; for they tell me that the action to break the will, on which his fate depends, is not very favorable." Such was the case really. The young advocate who had appeared in defence of the will had shown much energy, adroitness, and persistence. Here ceased their conversation about Mashko, for Pani Marynia had begun to inquire about Prytulov and its inhabitants,--a subject which for Pan Ignas was inexhaustible. In his expressive narrative, the residence at Prytulov appeared, with its lindens along the road, then its shady garden, ponds, reeds, alders, and on the horizon a belt of pine-wood. Kremen, which had faded in Marynia's memory, stood before her now as if present; and, in that momentary revival of homesickness, she thought that sometime she would beg "Stas" to take her even to Vantory, to that little church in which she was baptized, and where her mother was buried. Maybe Pan Stanislav remembered Kremen at that moment, for, waving his hand, he said,-- "It is always the same in the country. I remember Bukatski's statement, that he loved the country passionately, but on condition 'that there should be a perfect cook in the house, a big library, beautiful and intelligent women, and no obligation to stay longer than two days in a twelvemonth.' And I understand him." "But still," said Marynia, "it is thy wish to have a piece of land of thy own near the city." "To live in our own place in summer, and not with the Bigiels, as we must this year." "But in me," said Pan Ignas, "certain field instincts revive the moment I am in the country. For that matter, my betrothed does not like the city, and that is enough for me." "Does Lineta dislike the city really?" inquired Marynia, with interest. "Yes, for she is a born artist. I gaze on nature too, and feel it but she shows me things which I should not notice myself. A couple of days ago, we all went into the forest, where she showed me ferns in the sun, for instance. They are so delicate! She taught me also that the trunks of pine-trees, especially in the evening light, have a violet tone. She opens my eyes to colors which I have not seen hitherto, and, like a kind of enchantress going through the forest, discloses new worlds to me." Pan Stanislav thought that all this might be a proof of artistic sense, but also it might be an expression of the fashion, and of that universal love for painting color which people talk into themselves, and in which any young lady at present may be occupied, not from love of art, but for show. He had not occupied himself with painting; but he noticed that, for society geese, it had become of late a merchandise, exhibited willingly in Vanity Fair, or, in other words, a means to show artistic culture and an artistic soul. But he kept these thoughts to himself; and Pan Ignas talked on,-- "Besides, she loves village children immensely. She says that they are such perfect models, and less vulgarized than the little Italians. When there is good weather, we are all day in the fresh air, and we have become sunburnt, both of us. I am learning to play tennis, and make great progress. It is very easy, but goes hard at first. Osnovski plays passionately, so as not to grow fat. It is difficult to tell what a kind and high-minded person that man is." Pan Stanislav, who during his stay in Belgium had played tennis no less passionately than Osnovski, began to boast of his skill, and said,-- "If I had been there, I should have shown you how to play tennis." "Me you might," answered Pan Ignas; "but they play perfectly, especially Kopovski." "Ah, is Kopovski in Prytulov?" asked Pan Stanislav. "He is," said Pan Ignas. And suddenly they looked into each other's eyes. In one instant each divined that the other knew something; and they stopped talking. A moment of silence and even of awkwardness ensued, for Pani Marynia blushed unexpectedly; and not being able to hide this, she blushed still more deeply. Pan Ignas, who had thought that he was the exclusive possessor of the secret, was astonished at seeing her blush, and was confused too; then, wishing to cover the confusion with talk, he went on hurriedly,-- "Yes; Kopovski is in Prytulov. Osnovski invited him, so that Lineta might finish his portraits, for later on there will be no time. Besides, there is a relative of Osnovski's there also, Panna Ratkovski; and I think that Kopovski is courting her. She is a pleasing and quiet young lady. In August we are all going to Scheveningen, for those ladies do not like Ostend. If Pan Zavilovski had not come with such cordial assistance to my father, I should not have been able to go; but now my hands are free." When he had said this, he began to talk with Pan Stanislav about his position in the counting-house, which he did not wish to leave. On the contrary, he asked a leave of some months, in view of exceptional circumstances; then he took farewell and went out, for he was in a hurry to write to his betrothed. In a couple of days he was to go to Prytulov again; but meanwhile he wrote sometimes even twice a day. And on the way to his lodgings he composed to himself the words of the letter, for he knew that Lineta would read it in company with Pani Bronich; that both would seek in it not only heart but wings; and that the most beautiful passages would be read in secret to Pani Aneta, Pan Osnovski, and even Panna Ratkovski. But he did not take this ill of his beloved "Nitechka,"--nay, he was thankful to her that she was proud of him; and he used all his power to answer to her lofty idea of him. The thought did not anger him either, that people would know how he loved her. "Let them know that she was loved as no one else in the world." He thought then a little of Marynia too. Her blushes moved him, for he saw in them a proof of a most pure nature, which not only was incapable of evil itself, but which was even ashamed, offended, and alarmed by evil in others. And, comparing her with Pani Aneta, he understood what a precipice divided those women, apparently near each other by social position and mental level. When Pan Ignas had gone, Pan Stanislav said,-- "Hast thou seen that Zavilovski must have noticed something? Now I have no doubt. That Osnovski is blind, blind!" "Just his blindness should restrain and hold her back," said Marynia. "That would be terrible." "That is not 'would be,' it is terrible. Thou seest, noble souls pay for confidence with gratitude; mean ones, with contempt." CHAPTER LI. These words were a great consolation to Marynia, for, remembering her previous alarms, she thought at once that Pan Stanislav would not have said anything like them had he been capable of betraying her confidence; for she did not suppose that a man can have one measure for his neighbors and another for himself, and that in life these different measures meet at every step. She said to herself that to restrain her husband from everything, it was enough to show perfect trust in him; and she thought now with less fear of the nearness of Pani Kraslavski's country house to the house of the Bigiels, in which she and her husband were to pass the summer. It was easy to divine that Pani Mashko, who had moved already into her mother's house, would be a frequent guest at the Bigiels' from very tedium. Mashko did not send her to Kremen, for he did not wish to be separated from her during summer. From Warsaw, where he had to be on business, it was easy to go every day to Pani Kraslavski's villa, one hour's ride from the city barrier, while to distant Kremen such journeys were not possible. To Mashko, really in love with his wife, her presence was requisite to give him strength, for trying times had come again. The case against the will was not lost yet by any means; but it had taken a turn which was unfavorable, since the defence was very vigorous. It had begun to drag, so people began to doubt; and for Mashko doubt approached defeat. His credit, almost fallen at the opening of the case, had bloomed forth like an apple-tree in spring, but was beginning now to waver a second time. Sledz (the opposing advocate), hostile personally to Mashko, and in general a man of strong will, not only did not cease to spread news of the evil plight of his opponent, but strove that doubts as to the favorable issue of the will case should make their way into the press. A merciless legal and personal warfare set in. Mashko strove with every effort to lame his enemy; and when they met, he bore himself defiantly. This brought no advantage, however. Credit became more and more difficult; and creditors, though so far paid regularly, lost confidence. Again a feverish hunt began for money, to stop one debt with another, and uphold the opinion of ready solvency. Mashko exhibited such intelligence and energy in this struggle that, had it not been for the fundamental error in his life relations, he would have advanced to fame and great prosperity. The breaking of the will might save all, but to break the will it was needful to wait; meanwhile to mend threads breaking here and there was difficult as well as humiliating. It came to this, that in two weeks after the Polanyetskis had moved to Bigiel's, when the Mashkos came to them with a visit, Mashko was forced to ask of Pan Stanislav a "friendly service;" that is, his signature to a note for a few thousand rubles. Pan Stanislav was by nature an obliging man and inclined to be liberal, but he had his theory, which in money affairs enjoined on him to be difficult, hence he refused his signature; but to make up he treated Mashko to his views on money questions between friends,-- "When it is a question not of a mutually profitable affair," said he to him, "but of a personal service, I refuse on principle to sign; but I will oblige with ready money as far as an acquaintance or a friend may need it in temporary embarrassment, but not in a desperate position. In this last case I prefer to keep my service till later." "That means," answered Mashko, dryly, "that thou art giving me a small hope of support when I am bankrupt." "No; it means that should a catastrophe come, and thou borrow of me, thou'lt be able to keep the loan, or begin something anew with that capital. At present thou wilt throw it into the gulf, with loss to me, without profit to thyself." Mashko was offended. "My dear friend," said he, "thou seest my position in a worse light than I myself see it, and than it is in reality. It is merely a temporary trouble, and a small one. I esteem thy good wishes, but this very day I would not give my prospects for thy actual property. Now I have one other friendly request; namely, that we speak no more of this." And they went to the ladies,--Mashko angry at himself for having made the request, and Pan Stanislav for having refused it. His theory, that in money questions it was proper to be unaccommodating, caused him such bitter moments more than once, not to mention the harm which it had done him in life. When with the ladies his ill-humor increased because of the contrast between Pani Mashko and Marynia. To Mashko's intense disappointment nothing announced that Pani Mashko was to be a mother. On the contrary, she preserved all the slenderness of maiden forms; and now, especially in her muslin summer robes, she looked, near Marynia, who was greatly changed and unwieldy, not only like a maiden, but younger than her neighbor by some years. Pan Stanislav, to whom it had seemed that the strange attraction which she exercised on him was overcome, felt suddenly that it was not, and that because of their living near each other, and of his seeing her frequently, he would yield more and more to her physical charm. Still his relations with his wife had become warmer since Pan Ignas's betrothal evening, and Marynia was in better spirits than before; so now after the Mashkos had gone, she, seeing that the men had parted more coolly than usual and that in general Pan Stanislav was ill-humored, inquired if they had not quarrelled. Pan Stanislav had not the habit of talking with her about business; but at this moment he was dissatisfied with himself, and felt that need of telling what troubled his mind which a man who is somewhat egotistical feels when he is sure that he will find sympathy in a heart devoted to him. Therefore he said,-- "I refused Mashko a loan; and I tell thee sincerely that it pains me now that I did so. He has certain chances of success yet; but his position is such that before he reaches his object he may be ruined by any obstacle. Of course we have never been in friendship; I almost do not like him. He irritates, he angers me; still life brings us together constantly, and he rendered us once a great service. It is true that I have rendered him services too; but now he has a knife at his throat again." Marynia heard these words with pleasure, for she thought that if "Stas" were really under the charm of Pani Mashko, he would not have refused the loan, and second, she saw in his sorrow the proof of a good heart. She too was sorry for their neighbor, but as she had brought her husband hardly any dower, she did not venture to ask "Stas" directly to assist Mashko, she merely inquired,-- "But dost thou think that the loan would be lost?" "Perhaps so, perhaps not," answered Pan Stanislav. Then with a certain boastfulness: "I can refuse. Bigiel has a softer heart." "But don't say that. Thou art so kind. The best proof is this, that the present matter is so disagreeable to thee." "Naturally it cannot be agreeable to think that a man, though a stranger, is squirming like a snake because of a few thousand rubles. I know what the question is. Mashko has given to-morrow as the last day of payment. Hitherto he has sought money everywhere, but sought guardedly, not wishing to make a noise and alarm his creditors; and in straits he relied on me. So thou seest, he will not pay to-morrow. I will suppose that in a few days he will find money as much as he needs; but meanwhile the opinion of his accuracy will be shaken, and in the position in which he is anything may be ruin for him." Marynia looked at her husband; at last she said with a certain timidity,-- "And would this be really difficult for thee?" "If thou wish the truth, not at all. I have even a check-book here with me; I took it to give earnest-money, if I found a place to buy. Oh, interest in a former adorer and sympathy for him give me something to think of," said he, laughing. Marynia laughed too, for she was glad that she had brightened her husband's face; but, shaking her charming head, she said,-- "No! not sympathy for an adorer, but vile egotism, for I think to myself, are the two thousand rubles worth the sorrow of my husband?" Pan Stanislav began to smooth her hair with his hand. "But thou," said he, "art an honest little woman to thy bones." Then he said, "Well, now, decide; one, two, three! to give?" She made no answer, but began to wink her eyes like a petted child, as a sign to give. Both became joyous at once; but Pan Stanislav pretended to complain and mutter. "See what it is to be under the slipper. Drag on through the night, man, and beg Pan Mashko to take thy money, because it pleases that fondled figure there." And her heart was overflowing with delight, simply that he called her a "fondled figure." All her former sorrows and alarms vanished as if enchanted by those words. Her radiant eyes looked at her husband with indescribable love. After a while she inquired,-- "Is it necessary to go there right away?" "Of course. Mashko will go to the city at eight in the morning, and be flying all day." "Then give order to make Bigiel's horse ready." "No! The moon is shining, and it is not far; I'll go on foot." Thus saying, he took farewell of Marynia, and, seizing his check-book, went out. On the road he thought,-- "But Marynia might be applied to a wound. She is such a golden woman that though at times a man might like to play some prank, he simply hasn't the heart for it. God has given me a wife of the kind of which there are few on earth." And he felt at the moment that he loved her in truth. He felt also that love alone in itself, as a mutual attraction between persons of different sexes, is not happiness yet, and if ill directed may be even a misfortune; but that, on the other hand, the imagination of people cannot dream out a truer happiness on earth than great and honest love in marriage. "There is nothing superior to that," said Pan Stanislav to himself; "and to think that it lies at hand; that it is accessible to each one; that it is simply an affair of good and honest will; and that people trample on that ready treasure and sacrifice their peace for disturbance, and their honor for dishonor." Thus meditating, he went to the villa of the Mashkos, the windows of which were shining like lanterns on the dark ground of the forest. When he had passed through the gate to the yard lighted by the moon, and had drawn near the porch, he saw, through the window of the room next the entrance, Mashko and his wife, sitting on a low sofa formed like a figure eight, near which was a small table and a lamp. Mashko was embracing his wife with one arm; with his other hand he held her hand, which he raised to his lips, and then lowered, as if thanking her. All at once he embraced the young woman, with both arms drew her toward him, and inclining, began to kiss her mouth passionately; she, with hands dropped without control on her knees, not returning his fondling, but also not refusing, yielded as passively as if she had been deprived of blood and will. For a time Pan Stanislav saw only the top of Mashko's head, his long side whiskers moving from the kissing; and at sight of that the blood rushed to his head. And he was dashed with just such a flood of desire as when looking for the ribbons of Pani Osnovski's mantle (in Rome), and the more burning that it was strengthened by a whole series of temptations. This purely physical attraction, surprising to Pan Stanislav himself, and with which he had struggled long, revived now with irresistible force. In a twinkle were roused in him the wild instincts of the primitive man, who, when he sees the woman desired in the embrace of another, is enraged and ready to fight to the death for her with the fortunate rival. Together with desire, jealousy burned him,--an unjust, a pitiful, and the lowest of all kinds of jealousy, because purely physical, but still so unbridled that he, who the moment before had understood that only honest love for a wife might be real happiness, was ready to trample that happiness and that love, if he could trample Mashko, and seize himself in his arms that slender body of a woman, and cover with kisses that face of a puppet, without mind, and less beautiful than the face of his own wife. That sight beyond the window not only excited him, but he could not suffer it; hence he sprang to the door and pulled the bell feverishly. The thought that that sound, heard on a sudden in the silence, would stop that fondling of husband and wife roused a savage and malicious delight in him. When the servant opened the door, Pan Stanislav gave command to announce him, and endeavored to calm himself and compose somehow that which he had to tell Mashko. After a while Mashko came out with a face somewhat astonished,-- "Pardon that I come so late, but my wife scolded me because I refused thee a service; and since I knew that thou wilt go early in the morning, I have come to settle the business to-night." On Mashko's face a secret joy was reflected. He divined straightway that such a late visit from his neighbor had relation to their previous talk; he did not hope, however, that the affair would go so smoothly and at once. "I beg thee," said he. "My wife is not sleeping yet." And he brought him into that room the interior of which Pan Stanislav had seen the minute before. Pani Mashko was sitting on the same sofa; in her hand she held a book and a paper-knife, which evidently she had taken from the table that moment. Her quenched face seemed calm, but traces of the fresh kisses were evident on her cheeks; her lips were moist, her eyes misty. The blood seethed up again in Pan Stanislav; and in spite of all efforts to keep himself indifferent, he so pressed the hand given him that Pani Mashko's lips contracted as if from pain. But when he touched her hand, a shiver ran through him from feet to crown. There was in that very giving of her hand something so passive that it ran through his head involuntarily that that woman was not capable of resisting any man who had the courage and daring to attack her directly. Meanwhile Mashko said,-- "Imagine to thyself, we have both raised a storm,--thou for refusing me a service, and I for requesting it. Thou hast an honest wife, but mine is no worse. Thine took me into her protection, and mine thee. I revealed to her plainly my temporary trouble, and she scolded me for not having done so before. Evidently she did not speak to me as a lawyer, for of that she has no idea; but in the end of ends she said that Pan Polanyetski refused me justly; that one should give some security to a creditor; and this security she is ready to give with her life annuity, and in general with all that she has. I was just thanking her when you came." Here Mashko laid his hand on Pan Stanislav's arm. "My dear friend, I agree with thee that thy wife is the best person on earth; and I agree all the more that I have fresh proof of it, on condition, however, that thou assure me that mine is no worse. It ought not to surprise thee, then, that I hide my troubles from her, for, as God is true, I am always ready to share the good with such a beloved one, but the evil, especially the temporary, to keep for myself; and if thou knew her as I do, this would be no wonder to thee." Pan Stanislav, who, despite all the temptation which Pani Mashko was for him, entertained by no means a high opinion of the woman, and had not considered her in the least as capable of sacrifice, thought,-- "She is, in truth, a good woman; and I was mistaken, or Mashko has lied to her, so that she really considers his position as brilliant, and this trouble as purely a passing one." And he said aloud to her,-- "I am an accurate man in business; but for whom do you hold me, when you think that I would ask security on your property? I refused simply through sloth, and I am terribly ashamed of it; I refused to avoid going at a given time to Warsaw for a new supply. In summer a man becomes lazy and egotistical. But the question is a small one; and to a man like your husband, who is occupied in property, such troubles happen daily. Not infrequently loans are needed only because one's own money cannot be raised at a given moment." "Just that has happened to me," answered Mashko, satisfied, evidently, that Pan Stanislav had presented affairs to his wife in this manner. "Mamma occupied herself with business, therefore I have no knowledge of it," put in Pani Mashko; "but I thank you." Pan Stanislav began to laugh. "Finally, what do I want of your security? Suppose for a moment that you will be bankrupt, and I will suppose so just because nothing similar threatens you; can you imagine me in such an event bringing an action against you, and taking your income?" "No," said Pani Mashko. Pan Stanislav raised her hand to his lips, but with all the seeming of society politeness; he pressed his lips to it with all his force, and at the same time there was in the look that he gave her such passion that no declaration in words could have said more. She did not wish to betray that she understood, though she understood well that the show of politeness was for her husband, and the power of the kiss for herself. She understood, also, that she pleased Pan Stanislav, that her beauty attracted him; still better, however, she understood that she was triumphing over Marynia, of whose beauty, while still unmarried, she was jealous, hence, first of all, she felt her self-love deeply satisfied. For that matter she had noticed for a long time that Pan Stanislav was ardent in her presence; hers was not a nature either so honest or so delicate that that action could offend or pain her. On the contrary, it roused in her curiosity, interest, and vanity. Instinct warned her, it is true, that he is an insolent man, who, at a given moment, is ready to push matters too far,--and that thought filled her at times with alarm; but since nothing similar had happened yet, the very fear had a charm for her. Meanwhile she said to Pan Stanislav,-- "Mamma mentions you always as a man to be relied on in every case." She said this with her usual thin voice, which Pan Stanislav had laughed at before more than once; but now everything in her became more attractive thereby, and hence, looking her fixedly in the eyes, he said,-- "Think the same of me." "Have mutual confidence in each other," put in Mashko, jestingly; "but I will go to my study to prepare what is needed, and in a moment we will finish the matter." Pani Mashko and her guest were left alone. On her face a certain trouble was apparent. To hide this she began to straighten the shade on the lamp; but he approached her quickly, and began,-- "I shall be happy if you think the same of me. I am a man greatly devoted to you; I should be glad to have even your friendship. Can I rely on it?" "You can." "I thank you." When he had said this, he extended his hand to her, for all that he had said was directed only to this, to get possession of her hand. In fact, Pani Mashko did not dare to refuse it; and he, seizing it, pressed it to his lips a second time, but this time he did not stop with one kiss,--he fell to devouring it almost. It grew dark in his eyes. A moment more, and in his madness he would have seized and drawn that desired one toward him. Meanwhile, however, Mashko's squeaking boots were heard in the adjoining room; hearing which, Pani Mashko began to speak first, hurriedly,-- "My husband is coming." At that moment Mashko opened the door, and said,-- "I beg thee." Then, turning to his wife, he added,-- "Give command at once to bring tea; we will return soon." In fact, the business did not occupy much time, for Pan Stanislav filled out a check, and that was the end. But Mashko treated him to a cigar, and asked him to sit down, for he wished to talk. "New troubles are rolling on to me," said he; "but I shall wade out. More than once I have had to do with greater ones. It is only a question of this,--that the sun should get ahead of the dew, and that I should open some new credit for myself, or some new source of income, before the conclusion of the will case, and in support of it." Pan Stanislav, all roused up internally, listened to this beginning of confidences with inattention, and chewed his cigar impatiently. On a sudden, however, the dishonest thought came to him that, were Mashko to be ruined utterly, his wife would be a still easier prey; hence he asked dryly,-- "Hast thought of this, what thou art to do should the case be lost?" "I shall not lose it." "Everything may happen; thou knowest that best thyself." "I do not wish to think of it." "Still it's thy duty," said Pan Stanislav, with an accent of a certain pleasure, which Mashko did not notice. "What wilt thou do in such a case?" Mashko rested his arms on his knees, and looking gloomily on the floor, said,-- "In such a case I shall have to leave Warsaw." A moment of silence came. The young advocate's face became gloomier and gloomier; at last he grew thoughtful, and said,-- "Once, in my best days, I knew Baron Hirsh, in Paris. We met a number of times, and once we took part in some affair of honor. Sometimes now, when doubts come upon me, I remember him; he has withdrawn, apparently, from business, but really has much on hand, especially in the East. I know men who have made fortunes by him, for the field there is open at every step." "Dost think it possible to go to him?" "Yes; but besides that I can shoot into my forehead." But Pan Stanislav did not take this threat seriously. From that short conversation he convinced himself of two things: first, that Mashko, in spite of apparent confidence, thought often of possible ruin; and second, that in such an event he had a plan, fantastic, it may be but ready. Mashko shook himself suddenly out of his gloomy visions, and said,-- "My strength has lain always in this,--that I never think of two things at once. Therefore I am thinking only of the will case. That scoundrel will do everything to ruin me in public opinion, I know that; but I sneer at public opinion, and care only for the court. Should I fail before the decision, that might have a bad influence, perhaps. Dost understand? They would consider the whole case then as the despairing effort of a drowning man, who grasps at what he can. I have no wish for that position; therefore I must seem to be a man standing on firm feet. This is a sad necessity, and I am not free now to be even economical. I cannot diminish my scale of living. As thou seest me, I have troubles to my ears; as for that matter, who knows it better than thou, who art giving me a loan? And still, as late as yesterday, I was buying Vyborz, a considerable property in Ravsk, simply to throw dust in the eyes of my creditors and opponents. Tell me, dost thou know old Zavilovski well?" "Not long. I made his acquaintance through the young man." "But thou hast pleased him, for he has immense admiration for men with noble names who make property. I know that he is his own agent; but he is growing old, and the gout is annoying him. I have put several thoughts before him; therefore, if he asks thee about anything, recommend me. Understand that I do not wish to get at his money chest, though, as agent, I should have some income, which would be greatly to my hand; but the main question for me is that it should become noised abroad that I am the agent of such a millionnaire. Is it true that he intends to create an entail for the young man out of his estates in Poznan?" "So Pani Bronich says." "That would be a proof that it is not true; but all things are possible. In every case the young man, too, will receive with his wife a certain dower; and, being a poet, he has not the least idea, surely, how to handle such matters. I might serve him, too, with advice and aid." "I must refuse you decisively in his name, for we have engaged to occupy ourselves with his interests in future,--that is, my partner and I." "It is not a question with me of his interest either," said Mashko, frowning slightly, "but that I might tell people that I am Zavilovski's agent; for, dost understand, before it is known which Zavilovski, my credit can only gain by it?" "Thou knowest that I never look into other men's business; but I tell thee sincerely that for me it would be a terrible thing to exist in this way only on credit." "Ask the greatest millionnaires on earth if they made fortunes on another basis." "And ask all bankrupts if they did not fail from that cause." "As to me, the future will show." "It will," said Pan Stanislav, rising. Mashko thanked him once more for the loan; and both went to tea to the lady, who inquired,-- "Well, the business is finished?" Pan Stanislav, whom her appearance roused again, and who remembered suddenly that a little while before she said to him, "My husband is coming!" as if half guilty, answered her without reference to Mashko,-- "Between your husband and me it is, but between us two--not yet." Pani Mashko, though she had cool blood, was still confused, as if frightened at his daring; and Mashko asked,-- "How is that?" "This way," answered Pan Stanislav: "that the lady thought me capable of asking her property in pledge, and I cannot pardon her that yet." Pani Mashko looked at him with her indefinite gray eyes, as if with a certain admiration. His boldness had imposed on her, and the presence of mind with which he was able to give a polite society turn to his words. He seemed to her also at that moment a fine-looking man, beyond comparison better-looking than Mashko. "I beg pardon," said she. "That will not be given easily. You do not know what a stubborn and vengeful man I am." Then she answered with a certain coquetry, like a person conscious of her charm and her power,-- "I don't believe that." He sat near her; and taking, with a somewhat uncertain hand, the cup, he began to stir the tea with the spoon. Greater and greater alarm seized him. More than once before he had called Pani Mashko, while unmarried, a fish; but now he felt warmth passing through her light garments from her body, and felt as if some one were scattering sparks on him. Again he remembered her words, "My husband is coming;" and waves of blood rushed to his heart, for it seemed to him that only a woman could speak thus who was prepared and ready for everything. Some voice in his soul said, "That is only a question of opportunity;" and at this thought his unbridled desire was turned at once to unbridled delight. He ceased altogether to control himself. Soon he began to seek her foot with his; but suddenly that act seemed to him passing rude and peasant-like. Finally he said to himself that since it was a question of opportunity only, he ought to know how to wait. He foresaw that the time would come, the opportunity be found. Meanwhile his position was awkward; he had to keep up a conversation quite in disaccord with the state of his mind, and to answer Mashko, who asked about the future plans of Pan Ignas, and various things of like tenor. At last he rose to leave; but before going, he turned and said to Mashko,-- "Some dogs attacked me on the way, and I forgot my cane; lend me thine." No dogs had attacked, but with him it was a question of remaining even one minute alone with the young woman, so that when Mashko went out he approached her quickly, and said, with a sort of stifled and unnatural voice,-- "You see what is taking place with me?" She saw, indeed, his excitement, his eyes glittering with desire, and his distended nostrils. Alarm and fear seized her at once; but he remembered only her words, "My husband is coming," and one feeling, described by the words, "let happen what may," made the man, who, a moment before, said to himself that he ought to know how to wait, put everything on one card in the twinkle of an eye, and whisper,-- "I love you." She stood before him with downcast eyes, as if stunned, and turned into a pillar under the influence of those words, from which simple infidelity must begin, and then a new epoch in life. She turned her head away slightly, as if to avoid his gaze. Silence followed, broken only by the somewhat panting breath of Pan Stanislav. But in the next room Mashko's squeaking boots were heard. "Till to-morrow," said Pan Stanislav. And in that whisper there was something almost commanding. Pani Mashko stood all this time with downcast eyes, motionless as a statue. "Here is the cane," said Mashko. "To-morrow morning I go to the city, and return only in the evening. If the weather is good, maybe thou and Pani Polanyetski would like to visit my hermitess." "Good-night," said Pan Stanislav. And after a while he found himself on the empty road, which was lighted by the moon. It seemed to him that he had sprung out of a flame. The calm of the night and the forest was in such contrast to his tempest that it struck him like something uncommon. The first impression which he was able to note was the feeling that his internal conflict was closed, his hesitations ended; that the bridges were burned, and all was over. Some internal voice began to shout in his soul that first of all it had transpired that he was a wretch; but in this thought precisely there was a kind of desperate solace, for he said to himself if it were true, he must come to terms with himself as with a wretch, and in that event "let everything perish, and let the devils take all." In every case a wretch will not need to fight with his own inclinations, and may indulge himself. Yes, all is over, and the bridges are burned! He will be false to Marynia, trample her heart, trample honesty, trample the principles on which he built his life; but in return he will have Pani Mashko. Now one of two, either she will complain of him to her husband, and to-morrow there will be a duel,--if so be, let it come,--or she will be silent, and in that case will be his partner. To-morrow Mashko will go to Warsaw; and he, Pan Stanislav, will gain all that he desires, even if the world had to sink the next moment. If she will not expose him, it is better for her not to try resistance. He imagined even that she would not try, or if she did, she would do so only to preserve appearances. And it began to seethe in him again; that helplessness of hers, which formerly roused so much contempt in him, had become now an additional charm. He imagined the morrow, and the passiveness of that woman. In spite of all his chaos of thought, he understood perfectly that just in that passiveness she would seek later on an excuse: she would say to herself that she was not a partaker in the guilt, because she was forced to it; and in this way she would calumniate God, her own conscience, and, if need be, her husband. And thinking thus, he despised her as much as he desired her; but he felt at the same time that he himself was not much worthier, and that by virtue of a certain selection, not only natural, but moral, they ought to belong to each other. He understood, also, that for him it was too late to with draw from that road, and that once those same lips of his, which had sworn faith and love to Marynia, had said to another woman, "I love!" the greatest evil was committed. The rest was simply a sequence, which it was not proper to reject, even for this reason,--that in every case it was a pleasure. He imagined that all must reason thus who throw honesty through the window, and resolve on deeds of vileness; and the reasoning seemed to him as exact as it was immoral. And the more soberly he reflected, the more he was astonished at his own degradation. He had seen much evil and hidden vileness in the world under the guise of refinement and polish. He knew that corruption had worked out for itself, somehow, under the influence of bad books, a right of citizenship; but he remembered that he was indignant at this, that he wished simplicity and strictness for the society in which he lived, in the conviction that only on such bases could social strength and permanence be developed. Nothing has roused in him so many fears for the future as that refined evil of the West sown on the wild Slav field, and growing up on it with a sickly bloom of dilettantism, license, weakness, and faithlessness. More than once, as he remembered, he had reproached with such sowings, at one time high financial spheres, at another aristocracy of birth; and more than once he had attacked them without mercy. Now he understood that whoso lives in an atmosphere filled with carbonic gas, must suffocate. In what was he better than others? Or rather, how much worse was he than those who, floating in corruption, as sticks float in water, do not, at least, amuse themselves with hypocrisy, nor deceive themselves, nor prescribe rules to others, nor erect ideals of a healthy man spiritually, an honest husband, an honest father, as a binding model. And he almost refused to believe that he was the man, who once gave Pani Emilia ideal friendship, and promised faithfulness to Marynia, and who considered that he had a clear intellect and a character juster and stronger than others. He stronger? His strength was only deception, coming from lack of temptation. If he had loved Pani Emilia with the ideal feeling of a brother; if he had resisted the coquetry of Pani Aneta,--it was only because they did not rouse in him that animal feeling which that puppet with her red eyes roused, she whom his soul rejected, but for whom his senses were striving this long time. He thought then, too, that his feeling for Marynia had never been honest, for at the basis of things it was not anything else than just such an animal attraction. Familiarity had dulled it; and, restrained by the condition of Marynia, he had turned to where he was able, and turned without restraint or scruple hardly half a year after his marriage. And Pan Stanislav, who, on leaving Mashko's house, had the feeling that he was a wretch, thought all at once that he was more of a wretch than at first he had imagined, for he remembered now that he was to be a father. At home, in Marynia's windows, the lights had not been extinguished; he would have given much to find her sleeping. It came to his mind, even, to walk on and not return till there was darkness in the chamber. But suddenly he saw her profile in the window. She must be looking for him; and, since it was clear in front of the house, she must have seen him,--hence he halted and went in. She received him in a white night wrapper, and with unbound hair. There was in that unbound hair a certain calculated coquetry, for she knew that she had beautiful hair, and that he liked to fondle it. "Why art thou not sleeping?" asked he, coming in. She approached him, sleepy, but smiling, and said,-- "I was waiting for thee to say the evening prayer." Since their stay in Rome they had prayed together; but at present the very thought of this seemed to him insupportable. Meanwhile Marynia inquired,-- "Well, Stas, art content that thou hast saved him? Thou art, I think." "Yes," answered he. "But she does not know of his position?" "She does and does not. It is late. Let us go to sleep." "Good-night. Dost thou know of what I have been thinking here alone? That thou art so good and honest." And, extending her face to him, she put her arms around his neck; he kissed her, feeling at the same time the pure honesty of her kiss, and his own vileness, and the whole series of vilenesses which he would have to commit later on. One of these he committed right there, kneeling down to the prayer, which Marynia repeated aloud. He could not avoid saying it; and in saying it, he merely played a pitiful comedy, for he could not pray. After the prayer was finished and a second good-night given, he could not sleep. It seemed to him that, when coming from Mashko's, he had embraced with his mind his action and all its moral consequences. Meanwhile it turned out that he had not. It came to his head now that it is possible not to believe in God, but not permitted to make sport of Him. To commit, for example, a perfidy, to return home to-morrow, or the following day, after having committed adultery, and kneel down to prayer, that would be too much. He felt that it was necessary to choose either religious feeling and sincere faith, or Pani Mashko. To reconcile these was not possible. And all at once he saw that everything which he had worked out and elaborated in himself purposely for years, that all that immense calm, resulting from the solution of life's chief enigma,--in a word, that which composed the essence of his spiritual existence,--must be rejected outright. On the other hand, he understood equally well that, from to-morrow forward, he must give the lie to his own social principles, to his recognition of the family as the basis of social existence. It is not permitted to proclaim such principles, and seduce other men's wives in secret. It was necessary to choose here too. As to Marynia, perfidy against her had been committed already. With one sweep, then, his relations with God, with society, with his wife, had gone to ruin; the ceiling of that spiritual house, reared with great labor, and in which he had been dwelling, had tumbled on his head. And that chilling cold of evil filled him with wonder. He had not expected that, on cutting a single thread, the whole fabric would unravel so quickly; and with astonishment he asked himself how there can exist in the world opportunism of that kind, which reconciles faith-breaking in life with honesty and honor? For that is what is done. He knew many so-called decent people, married men, loving their wives, as it were, religious,--and at the same time pursuing every woman they met. These same men, who would account to their wives every deviation from duty as a crime, permitted themselves conjugal infidelity without a scruple. He remembered how one of his acquaintances, pushed to the wall on this point, wriggled out humorously with the well-known street witticism that he was not a Swedish match. Absolute infidelity was obliterated, and among men passed as something permitted, almost customary. That thought brought Pan Stanislav a moment of consolation, but a short one, for he was consistent, if not in his actions, at least in his reasoning. True! The world is not composed of thieves and hypocrites alone, but in great part of thoughtless and frivolous people; and this opportunism, reconciling adultery with honor and honesty, is nothing else than frivolity. For in what can custom excuse a man, who recognizes the immorality and stupidity of that custom? For a fool, infidelity may be a joke, thought Pan Stanislav; for a man who thinks seriously, it is scoundrelism, as much opposed to ethics as a crime, as the signing of other men's names to notes, as the breaking of an oath, as the breaking of a word, as swindling in trade, or in cards. Religion may forgive the sin of adultery as a momentary fall; but adultery which excuses itself beforehand, excludes religion, excludes society, excludes honesty, excludes honor. Pan Stanislav, who, in his reasonings with himself, was always consistent and in general utterly unsparing, did not withdraw before this last induction. But he was frightened when he saw the precipice. If he did not withdraw, he would break his neck; but at the same time he began to fret at his own weakness. He knew himself well enough, with sorrow and with contempt also for his own weakness; he knew in advance that when he should see Pani Mashko, the human beast would get the upper hand of his soul. To withdraw? But he had repeated that to himself, and determined it after every temptation; and afterward, in presence of each succeeding one, passion had run away with his will at breakneck speed, just as a wild horse runs away with a rider. At the very remembrance of this he wanted to curse. If he had been unhappy at home, if his passion had grown up on the ground of great love, he would have had some excuse for it; but he did not love Pani Mashko,--he only desired her. He could never give himself an account of this dualism in the nature of man,--he knew only that he desired and would desire after every meeting, after every thought of her. There remained one escape, not to see her,--an impossible escape, not only with reference to relations of acquaintance of every kind, but even with reference to this, that then Marynia would begin to suspect something. Pan Stanislav did not even suppose that that had taken place already, and that she merely concealed from him her suffering; he gave account to himself, however, that if his treason should in any way come out, it would be a blow simply beyond the strength of that mild and trusting woman. And his reproaches increased still more. Great pity and compassion for her seized him, as well as increased contempt for himself. In spite of darkness, the blood rushed to his face when he remembered that the fatal words had fallen; that he had said, "I love," to Pani Mashko; that he had deceived and betrayed Marynia, that honest, truthful woman; and that he was capable of betraying her trust, and trampling on her heart. For a while it seemed to him a pure impossibility; but his conscience answered him, Thou art capable! Still, in that sorrow and pity for her he found a kind of consolation, when he saw that his feeling for her was and is something more than animal attraction, and that there were in him certain attachments, flowing out of the community of life and mutual possession; from the marriage vow; from comradeship in good and evil fortune; from the great esteem and affection which in future was to be strengthened by a child. Never had he loved her more than in that moment of internal torture, and never had there risen in him greater tenderness. Day began to break; through the openings of the window the dawn was entering, and filled the chamber with a pale light, in which he could see indistinctly her dark head sunk in the pillow. His heart was filled with the feeling that that was his only and best treasure,--his greatly beloved comrade sleeping there, his best friend, his wife, and the future mother of his child. And no conclusions, no reasonings about religion and social unvirtue, filled him with such disgust for that unvirtue and for himself as the sight of that mild, sleeping face. The light through the openings entered more and more, and her head emerged more distinctly each moment from the shade. The half-circles of her eyelids were visible already on her cheeks and Pan Stanislav, looking at her, began to say to himself, "Thy honesty will help me!" All at once better feelings gained the victory in him: the beast abandoned his son and a certain consolation seized him, for he thought that if he were such a wretch as he had imagined, he would have followed the voice of passion with a lighter heart, and would not have passed through such suffering. He woke late in the morning, wearied and somewhat ill; he felt such dissatisfaction and exhaustion as he had never felt before. But by the light of day, and besides a rainy and gloomy day, the whole affair stood before him differently,--it seemed more sober, ordinary; the future did not appear to him so terrible, nor his fault so great. Everything grew smaller in his eyes; he began to think then principally of this, whether Pani Mashko had confessed all to her husband or not. At moments he had the feeling of a man who has crawled into a great and sore trouble needlessly. Gradually, however, this feeling was changed into an ever increasing and more vivid alarm. "The position is stupid," said he to himself. "Every reproach may be made against Mashko, but not this, that he is an incompetent or a coward; and he will not put such an insult as that into his pocket. Hence there will be an explanation, a scandal, perhaps a duel. May the thunderbolts shatter it! What a fatal history, if the thing reaches Marynia!" And he began to be angry with the whole world. Till then he had had perfect peace; he had cared for no one, counted with no one. To-day, however, he is turning to every side; in his head is the question, "Has she told; has she not told?" and from the morning he could not think of aught else. It went that far that finally he put to himself this question: "What the deuce! am I afraid of Mashko? I?" It was not Mashko whom he feared, but Marynia, which was in like manner something both new and astonishing, for a couple of days earlier he would have admitted anything rather than this,--that he would ever fear Marynia. And as midday approached, the affair, which seemed to him diminished in the morning, began again to increase in his eyes. At moments he strengthened himself with the hope that Pani Mashko would be silent; at moments he lost that hope. And then he felt that he would not dare to look into the eyes, not of Marynia, merely, but of any one; and he feared Bigiel, too, and Pani Bigiel, and Pani Emilia, Pan Ignas,--in a word, all his acquaintances. "See what it is to make a muddle!" thought he. "How much one stupidity costs!" His alarm increased to the degree that at last, under pretext of returning the cane, he sent a servant boy to Pani Mashko with a bow, and an inquiry as to her health. The servant returned in half an hour. Pan Stanislav saw him through the window, and, going down hurriedly to meet him, learned that he had brought a note from Pani Mashko to Marynia. Taking the note, he gave it to Marynia; and his heart beat with still greater alarm while watching her face as she read it. But Marynia, when she had finished, raised her calm eyes to him, and said,-- "Pani Mashko invites us to supper to-day--and the Bigiels also." "A-a!" answered Pan Stanislav, drawing a full breath. And in his soul he added, "She has not told." "We will go, shall we not?" asked Marynia. "If thou wish--that is, go with the Bigiels, for after dinner I must go to the city. I must see Svirski; perhaps I shall bring him here." "Then we may send an excuse?" "No, no! go with the Bigiels. Maybe I shall call in on the way and explain to her; but even that is not necessary. Thou wilt explain for me." And he went out, for he needed to be alone with his thoughts. "She has not told;" a feeling of relief and delight now possessed him. She had not told her husband; she was not offended; she had invited them. She has agreed, therefore, to everything; she is ready to go farther, and to go everywhere, whithersoever he may wish to lead her. What is that invitation itself, if not a wish to put him at ease, if not an answer to his, "Till to-morrow"? Now all depends on him alone; and shivers begin again to go from his feet to his head. There are no hindrances unless in himself. The fish has swallowed the hook. Temptations attacked him with new power, for uncertainty restrained them no longer. Yes, the fish had swallowed the hook; she had not resisted. Here a feeling of triumph seized him, and of satisfaction for his self-love; and at the same time, thinking of Pani Mashko, he began almost to beg pardon of her in his soul, because he had at moments been capable of doubting her, and thinking her an honest woman, for even five minutes. Now, at least, he knew what to think of her, and he was thankful. After a while he laughed at his previous fears. In this way he rendered the first tribute due her, contempt. She had ceased to be for him something unattainable, something for which a battle between hope and fear is fought. In spite of himself, he imagined her now as something of his, as his own, always attractive, but for this very reason less valuable. The thought also caused him pleasure, that if he resisted temptation at present, it would be a pure merit. Now, when the doors stood open, he saw with wonder that the desire of resistance increased in him. Once more all that he had said during the sleepless night about faith-breaking flew through his mind. Once more his heart reminded him of Marynia, her justness, her honesty, her approaching motherhood, and that great peace, that real happiness, which he could find only near her; and in the end of all these considerations he decided to go to the city, and not be at Pani Mashko's. After midday he gave command to bring the horses. When he was seated in Bigiel's carriage he bent over, embraced Marynia at parting, "Amuse thyself well," and drove away. His morning exhaustion had passed; he recovered even his humor, for he felt satisfied with himself. Confidence in his own power and character returned to him. Meanwhile, a certain exciting pleasure was caused in his mind by the thought of Pani Mashko's astonishment when she should learn that he had gone, and had no intention to visit her. He felt a certain need of revenge on the woman for the physical impression which she had produced on him. Since the coming of that note, which she had written to Marynia, his contempt for her had increased with such force that soon he began to think that he would be in a position to come off victorious, even should he visit her. "And if I should go there, indeed, and give another meaning to yesterday's words," said he. But directly he thought, "I will not be a deceiver, at least, with reference to myself." He was certain, however, that she would not be astonished at his coming. After what he had told her yesterday, she might suppose that he would find some excuse for visiting her before the arrival of Marynia and the Bigiels, or for remaining behind them. But should she see him driving past, she might think that he feared her, or consider him a boor, or jester. "There is no doubt," monologued he, further, "that a man who does not consider himself a fool, or a dolt, incapable of resisting any puppet, would go in and try to correct in some fashion yesterday's stupidity." But at the same moment fear seized him. That same voice which yesterday evening shouted in his soul that he was a wretch, began to shout again with redoubled energy. "I will not go in," thought Pan Stanislav. "To understand and to be able to refrain are two different matters." Pani Kraslavski's villa was visible now in the distance. Suddenly it flew into his head that Pani Mashko, through vexation and the feeling of being contemned, through offended self-love, through revenge, might tell Marynia something that would open her eyes. Maybe she would do that with one word, with one smile, giving even, it might be, to understand further, that certain insolent hopes of his had been shattered by her womanly honesty, and in that way explain his absence. Women rarely refuse themselves such small revenges, and still more rarely are they merciful one toward another. "If I had the courage to go in--" At that moment the carriage was even with the gate of the villa. "Stop!" said Pan Stanislav to the driver. He saw on the balcony Pani Mashko, who, however, withdrew at once. He walked through the yard; the servant received him at the door. "The lady is upstairs," said he. Pan Stanislav felt that his legs were trembling under him, when he walked up the steps; meanwhile the following thoughts flew through his head,-- "He may permit himself everything who takes life lightly, but I do not take it lightly. If, after all that I have considered and thought over and said, I could not master myself, I should be the last among men." Now, standing at the door of the room pointed out by the servant, he inquired,-- "Is it permitted?" "I beg," said the thin voice. And after a while he found himself in Pani Mashko's boudoir. "I have come in," said he, giving her his hand, "to explain that I cannot be at supper. I must go to the city." Pani Mashko stood before him with head a little inclined, with drooping eyes, confused, full of evident fear, having in her posture and expression of face something of the resigned victim, which sees that the decisive moment has come, and that the misfortune must happen. That state of mind came on Pan Stanislav, too, in one flash; hence, approaching her suddenly, he asked with stifled voice,-- "Are you afraid? Of what are you afraid?" CHAPTER LII. Next morning Pani Polanyetski received a letter from her husband, stating that he would not return that day, for he was going to look at a place situated on the other side of the city. On the following day, however, he returned, and brought Svirski, who had promised Bigiel and Pan Stanislav before that he would visit them at their summer residence. "Imagine to thyself," said Pan Stanislav, after greeting his wife, "that that Buchynek, which I have been looking at, lies next to old Zavilovski's Yasmen; when I learned that, I visited the old man, who is not feeling well, and in Yasmen I found Pan Svirski, unexpectedly. He helped me to look at Buchynek, and the house pleased him much. There is a nice garden, a large pond, and some forest. Once it was a considerable property; but the land has been sold away, so that little remains now with the residence." "A pretty, very pretty place," said Svirski. "There is much shade, much air, and much quiet." "Wilt thou buy it?" inquired Marynia. "Perhaps. Meanwhile I should like to rent it. We could live there the rest of the summer, and satisfy ourselves as to whether it would suit us. The owner is so certain that a stay there will be agreeable to us that he agrees to rent it. I should have given him earnest-money at once, but I wished to know what thy thought would be." Marynia was a little sorry to lose the society of the Bigiels; but, noticing that her husband was looking into her eyes earnestly, and that he had an evident wish that they should live the rest of the summer by themselves, she said that she would agree most willingly. The Bigiels began to oppose, and offer a veto; but when Pan Stanislav represented to them that it was a question of trying a house in which he and Marynia would be likely to live every summer to the end of their lives, they had to confess that the reason was sufficient. "To-morrow I will engage the place, and carry out all the furniture necessary from Warsaw, and we can move in the day after." "That is just as if you wished to flee from us as soon as possible," said Pani Bigiel; "why such haste?" "There is no trouble with packing," answered he, hurriedly; "and you know that I do not like delay." Finally it was left in this way: that the Polanyetskis were to go to Buchynek in four days. Now dinner was served, during which Svirski told how Pan Stanislav had found him at Zavilovski's in Yasmen. "Panna Helena wished me to paint her father's portrait," said he, "and to paint it in Yasmen. I went because I was eager for work, and, besides, the old man has an interesting head. But nothing could come of that. They are in a residence with walls two yards thick; for that reason there is poor light in the rooms. I would not paint under such conditions; and then another hindrance appeared,--the model was attacked by the gout. The doctor, whom they took with them to the country, told me that the old man's condition is not good, and may end badly." "I am sorry for Pan Zavilovski," said Marynia, "for he seems a worthy man. And poor Panna Helena! In the event of his death she will be quite alone. And does he understand his own condition?" "He does, and he does not; it is his way. He is always an original. Ask your husband how he received him." Pan Stanislav laughed, and said,-- "On the way to Buchynek I learned that Yasmen was near, and I resolved to go there. Panna Helena took me to her father; but he was just finishing his rosary, and did not greet me till he had said the last 'Hail Mary.' Then he begged my pardon, and said thus: 'Those heavenly matadors in their own order; but with Her a man has more courage, and in old fashion, when She is merciful, all is well, for nothing is refused Her.'" "What a type he is!" exclaimed Svirski. The Bigiels laughed, but Marynia said that there was something affecting in such confidence. With this Svirski agreed, and Pan Stanislav continued,-- "Then he said that it was time for him to think of his will, and I did not oppose him, in usual fashion, for with me it is a question of our Pan Ignas. On the contrary, I told him that that was a purely legal matter, for which it was never too early, and that even young people ought to think of it." "That is my opinion, too," put in Bigiel. "We spoke also of Pan Ignas; the old man has come to love him heartily." "Yes!" exclaimed Svirski. "When he learned that I had been in Prytulov, he began at once to inquire about him." "Then have you been in Prytulov?" inquired Marynia. "Four days. I like Osnovski immensely." "And Pani Osnovski?" "I gave my opinion in Rome of her, and, as I remember, let my tongue out like a scourge." "I remember too. You were very wicked. How is it with the young couple?" "Oh, nothing! They are happy. But Panna Ratkovski is there,--a very charming young lady. I lacked little of falling in love with her." "There it is for you! But Stas told me that you are in love with all ladies." "With all, and therefore always in love." Bigiel, hearing this, stopped and said earnestly,-- "That is a good way never to marry." "Unfortunately it is," said Svirski. Then, turning to Marynia, he said, "Pan Stanislav must have told you of our agreement,--that when you say to me 'marry,' I shall marry. That was the agreement with your husband; therefore I should wish you to see Panna Ratkovski. Her name is Stefania, which means the crowned. A pretty name, is it not? She is a calm kind of person, not bold, fearing Pani Aneta and Panna Castelli, but clearly honest. I had a proof of this. Whenever a young lady is in question, I observe everything and note it down in my memory. Once a beggar came to me in Prytulov with a face like that of some Egyptian hermit from Thebes. Pani Aneta and Panna Castelli rushed out at him with their cameras and photographed him, profile and full face, as much as was possible. But the old man wanted food, I think. He had come hoping for alms, but evidently he hated to ask. Peasants have that kind of feeling. Well, none of those ladies observed this, or at least did not note it; they treated him as a thing, till Panna Ratkovski told them that they were humiliating and hurting the old man. That is a small incident, but it shows heart and delicate feelings. That handsome Kopovski dangles about her; but she is not charmed with the man, like those ladies, who are occupied with him, who paint him, invent new costumes for him, hand him around, and almost carry him in their arms, like a doll. No; she told me herself that Kopovski annoys her; and that pleases me, too, for he has as much sense as the head of a walking-stick." "As far as I have heard," said Bigiel, "Pan Kopovski needs money; and Panna Ratkovski is not rich. I know that her father, when dying, was in debt to a bank for a sum which, with interest, was due on the last day of last month." "What is that to us?" interrupted Pani Bigiel. "Thou art right,--that is not our affair." "But how does Panna Ratkovski look?" inquired Marynia. "Panna Ratkovski? She is not beautiful, but she has a sweet face, pale complexion, and dark eyes. You will see her, for those ladies expressed a wish to come here some day. And I persuaded them to it, for I want you to see her." "Well," answered Marynia, laughing, "I shall see her, and declare my sentence. But if it be favorable?" "I will propose; I give my word. In the worst case, I'll get a refusal. If you say 'no,' I'll go after ducks. At the end of July shooting is permitted." "Oh, those plans are important!" said Pani Bigiel,--"a wife or ducks! Pan Ignas would not have spoken that way." "Well, of what use is reason when one is in love?" said Marynia. "You are right, and I envy him that very condition; not Panna Castelli, though I was in love with her once myself--oh, no! but just that condition in which one does not reason any longer." "But what have you against Panna Castelli?" "Nothing. I owe her gratitude, for--thanks to her--I had my time of illusions; therefore I shall never say an evil word of her, though some one is pulling me by the tongue greatly. So, ladies, do not pull me." "On the contrary," said Pani Bigiel, "you must tell us of both. I will ask you only on the veranda, for I have directed to bring coffee there." After a time they were on the veranda. The little Bigiels were running about in a many-colored crowd among the trees, circling about like bright butterflies. Bigiel placed cigars before Svirski. Marynia, taking advantage of the moment, went up to her husband, who was standing aside somewhat, and, raising her kindly eyes to him, asked: "Why so silent, Stas?" "I am tired. In the city there was heat, and in our house one might smother. I couldn't sleep, for Buchynek got into my head." "I, too, am curious about that Buchynek, dost thou know? In truth, I am curious. Thou hast done well to see the place and hire it; very well." And she looked at him with affection; but, seeing that he seemed really not himself, she said,-- "We will occupy Pan Svirski here, and do thou go and rest a while." "No; I cannot sleep." Meanwhile Svirski talked on. "There is no breeze," said he; "not a twig in motion. A genuine summer day! Have you noticed that in the season of heat, and in time of such calm, the whole world seems as if sunk in meditation. I remember that Bukatski found always in this something mystical, and said that he would like to die on such a sunny day,--to sit thus in an armchair, then fall asleep, and dissipate into light." "Still, he did not die in summer," remarked Bigiel. "No, but in spring, and in good weather. Besides, taking things in general, he did not suffer, and that is beyond all." Here he was silent a while, and then added,-- "As to death, we may and should be reconciled to it, and death has never made me indignant; but why pain exists, that, as God lives, passes human understanding." No one took up the consideration, so Svirski, shaking the ashes from his cigar, said,-- "But never mind that. After dinner, and with black coffee, it is possible to find a more agreeable subject." "Tell us of Pan Ignas," said Pani Bigiel. "He pleases me. In all that he does and says the lion's claw is evident, and, in general, his nature is uncommon, immensely vital. During those two days in Prytulov we became acquainted a little more nearly, and grew friendly. You have no idea how Osnovski has grown to like the man; and I told Osnovski openly that I feared that Pan Ignas might not be happy with those ladies." "But why?" asked Marynia. "That is difficult to say, since one has no facts; but it is felt. Why? Because his nature is utterly different from theirs. You see, that all the loftier aspirations, which for Pan Ignas are the soul of his life, are for those ladies merely an ornament,--something like lace on a dress worn for guests, while on common days the person who owns it goes about in a dressing-gown; and that is a great difference. I fear lest they, instead of soaring with his flight, try to make him jog along by their side, at their own little goose-trot, and convert that which is in him into small change for their every-day social out-go. And there is something in him! I do not presuppose that catastrophes of any kind are to come, for I have not the right to refuse them ordinary petty honesty, but there may be non-happiness. I say only this much: you all know Pan Ignas, and you know that he is wonderfully simple; but still, according to me, his love for Castelka is too difficult and exclusive. He puts into it all his soul; and she is ready to give a little bit--so! The rest she would like to keep for social relations, for comforts, for toilets, for visits, for luxuries, for five o'clocks, for lawn-tennis with Kopovski,--in a word, for that mill in which life is ground into bran." "This may not fit Panna Castelli, and if it does not, so much the better for Pan Ignas," said Bigiel; "but in general it is pointed." "No," said Pani Bigiel, "that first of all is wicked; in truth, you hate women." "I hate women!" exclaimed Svirski, raising his hands toward heaven. "Do you not see that you are making Panna Castelli a common little goose?" "I gave her lessons in painting, but I have never been occupied in her education." Marynia, hearing all this, said, threatening Svirski,-- "It is wonderful that such a kind man should have such a wicked tongue." "There is a certain justice in that," answered Svirski; "and more than once have I asked, am I really a kind man? But I think that I am. For there are people who calumniate their neighbors through a love for digging in the mud, and that is vile; there are others who do this through jealousy, and that is equally vile. Such a man as Bukatski talks even for a conceit; but I, first of all, am talkative; second, a human being, and especially a woman, interests me more than aught else in existence; and finally, the shabbiness and flatness and petty vanities of human nature pain me terribly. And, as God lives, it is because I could wish that all women had wings; but since I see that many of them have only tails, I begin, from amazement alone, to shout in a heaven-piercing voice--" "But why do you not shout in the same way against men?" inquired Pani Bigiel. "Oh, let the men go! What do I care for them? Though, to speak seriously, we deserve perhaps to be shouted at more than the ladies." Here Pani Bigiel and Marynia attacked the unfortunate artist; but he defended himself, and continued,-- "Well, ladies, take such a man as Pan Ignas, and such a woman as Panna Castelli: he has worked hard since his childhood; he has struggled with difficulties, thought hard, given something to the world already,--but what is she? A real canary in a cage. They give the bird water, sugar, and seed; it has only to clean its yellow plumage with its little bill, and twitter. Or is this not true? We work immensely, ladies. Civilization, science, art, bread, and all on which the world stands is absolutely our work. And that is a marvellous work. Oh, it is easy to talk of it, but difficult to do it. Is it right, or is it natural, that men push you aside from this work? I do not know, and at this moment it is not for me a question; but taking the world in general, only one thing has remained to you,--loving; therefore you should know, at least, how to love." Here his dark face took on an expression of great mildness, and also, as it were, melancholy. "Take me, for example; I am working apparently for this art of ours. Twenty-five years have I been daubing and daubing with a brush on paper or on canvas; and God alone knows how I slaved, how I toiled before I worked anything out of myself. Now I feel as much alone in the world as a finger. But what do I want? This, that the Lord God, for all this toil, might vouchsafe me some honest little woman, who would love me a little and be grateful for my affection." "And why do you not marry?" "Why?" answered Svirski, with a certain outburst. "Because I am afraid; because of you, one in ten knows how to love, though you have nothing else to do." Further discourse was interrupted by the coming of Pan Plavitski and Pani Mashko; she, in a dark blue foulard dress with white spots, looked from afar like a butterfly. Pan Plavitski looked like a butterfly also; and, approaching the veranda, he began to cry out,-- "I seized Pani Mashko, and brought her. Good-evening to the company; good-evening, Marynia! I was coming here to you on a droshky till I saw this lady standing out on the balcony; then I seized her, and we came on foot. I dismissed the droshky, thinking that you would send me home." Those present began to greet Pani Mashko; and she, ruddy from the walk, fell to explaining joyously, while removing her hat from her ash-colored hair, that really Pan Plavitski had brought her away almost by force; for, awaiting the return of her husband, she did not like to leave home. Pan Plavitski pacified her by saying that her husband, not finding her at home, would guess where she was, and for the flight and the lonely walk he would not be angry, for that was not the city, where people raise scandal for any cause (here he smoothed his white shirt-front with the mien of a man who would not be at all astonished if scandal were roused touching him); "but the country has its own rights, and permits us to disregard etiquette." When he had said this, he looked slyly at Pani Mashko, rubbed his hands, and added,-- "Ha, ha! the country has its rights; I said well, has its rights, and so there is no place for me like the country." Pani Mashko laughed, feeling that the laugh was becoming, and that some one might admire her. But Bigiel, who, being himself a strict reasoner, demanded logic from all, turned to Plavitski, and said,-- "If there is no place like the country, why do you not move out of the city in summer?" "How do you say?" asked Plavitski. "Why do I not move out? Because in the city, on one side of the street there is sun, and on the other shade. If I wish to warm myself, I walk in the sun; if it is hot for me, I walk in the shade. There is no place in summer like the city. I wanted to go to Karlsbad, but--" Here he was silent for a moment; and, remembering only then that what he was giving to understand might expose a young woman to the evil tongues of people, he looked with a gloomy resignation on those present, and added,-- "Is it worth while to think of that pair of years left of any life, that are of no value to me, or to any one?" "Here it is!" cried Marynia. "If papa will not go to Karlsbad, he will drink Millbrun with us in Buchynek." "In what Buchynek?" asked Plavitski. "True, we must announce _la grande nouvelle_." And she began to tell that Buchynek had been found and rented and probably would be bought; and that in three days she and her husband would move into that Buchynek for the whole summer. Pani Mashko, hearing the narrative, raised her eyes to Pan Stanislav in wonder, and inquired,-- "Then are you really going to leave us?" "Yes," answered he, with a trace of snappishness. "A-a!" And for a while she looked at him with the glance of a person who understands nothing and asks, "What does all this mean?" but, receiving no answer, she turned to Marynia and began an indifferent conversation. She was so instructed in the forms of society that only Pan Stanislav himself could perceive that the news about Buchynek had dulled her. But she had divined that her person might come into question, and that those sudden movings might be in connection with her. With every moment that truth stood before her with increasing clearness, and her cold face took on a still colder expression. Gradually a feeling of humiliation possessed her. It seemed to her that Pan Stanislav had done something directly opposed to what she had a right to expect of him; that he had committed a grave offence not only against her, but against all those observances which a man of a certain sphere owes to a woman. And her whole soul was occupied in this because it pained her more than his removal to Buchynek. In certain cases women demand more regard the less it belongs to them, and the more respect the less they are worthy of it, because they need it for their own self-deception, and often too because the infatuation, or delicacy, or comedian character in men gives women all they demand, at least for a season. Still, in this intention of moving in a few days to the opposite side of the city, was involved, as it were, a confession of breaking off relations which was worthy of a boor. Faith-breaking has its own style of _a posteriori_ declaration, and has it always, for there is not on earth an example of a permanent relation resting on faithlessness. But this time the rudeness surpassed every measure, and the sowing had given an untimely, peculiar harvest. Pani Mashko's mind, though not very keen by nature, needed no extra effort to conclude that what had met her was contempt simply. And at this very moment Pan Stanislav thought, "She must have a fabulous contempt for me." It did not occur to them at the time that in the best event this contempt was a question of time merely. But Pani Mashko caught after one more hope, that this might be some misunderstanding, some momentary anger, some excitability of a fantastic man, some offence which she could not explain to herself,--in a word, something which might be less decisive than seemed apparent. One word thrown out in answer might explain everything yet. Judging that Pan Stanislav might feel the need of such a conversation, she determined to get it for him. Hence after tea she began to prepare for home, and, looking at Pan Stanislav, said,-- "Now I must request one of the gentlemen to conduct me." Pan Stanislav rose. His tired, and at the same time angry face, seemed to say to her, "If 'tis thy wish to have the pure truth, thou wilt have it;" but unexpectedly Bigiel changed the arrangement by saying,-- "The evening is so pleasant that we can all conduct you." And they did. Plavitski, considering himself the lady's knight for that day, gave her his arm with great gallantry, and during the whole way entertained her with conversation; so that Pan Stanislav, who was conducting Pani Bigiel, had no chance to say one word except "good-night" at the gate. That "good-night" was accompanied by a pressure of the hand which was a new inquiry--without an answer. Pan Stanislav, for that matter, was glad that he had not to give explanations. He could have given only unclear and disagreeable ones. Pani Mashko roused in him then as much mental distaste as physical attraction, and for both those reasons he considered that if he remained in Bigiel's house, she would be too near him. Moreover, he had sought Buchynek and found it chiefly because active natures, if confined too much, are forced instinctively to undertake and act even when that which they do is not in immediate connection with that which gives them pain. He had not the least feeling, however, that flight from danger was equivalent to a return to the road of honesty, or even led to it; it seemed to him then that it was too late for that, that honesty was a thing lost once and forever. "To flee," said he to himself; "there was a time to flee. At present flight is merely the egotism of a beast disturbed in one lair and seeking another." Having betrayed Marynia to begin with, he will betray Pani Mashko now out of fear that the relation with her may become too painful; and he will betray her in a manner as wretched as it is rude, by trampling on her. That is only a new meanness, which he permits himself like a desperado, in the conviction that, no matter how he may struggle, he will sink into the gulf ever deeper. At the bottom of these thoughts was hidden, moreover, an immense amazement. If this had happened to some other man, who took life lightly, such a man might wave his hand and consider that one more amusing adventure had met him. Pan Stanislav understood that many would look on the affair in that way precisely. But he had worked out in himself principles, he had had them, and he fell from the whole height of them; hence his fall was the greater, hence he thought to himself, "That which I won, that to which I attained, is no protection whatever from anything. Though a man have what I had, he may break his neck as quickly as if he had nothing." And the position seemed to him simply beyond understanding. Why is this? What is the reason of it? To this question he had no answer; and, having doubted his own honesty and honor, he began now to doubt his own intellect, for he felt that he could grasp nothing, give no answer. In general, he felt like a man lost in some mental wilderness; he could recover nothing, not even attachment to his wife. It seemed to him that, having lost in himself all human sides, he had lost at the same time the power and right to love her. With no less astonishment did he see that in the bottom of his heart he cherished a feeling of offence against her for his own fall. Up to that time he had not injured any one; hence he could not have known that usually a man has a feeling of offence and even hatred against a person whom he has wronged. Meanwhile the society, after taking farewell of Pani Mashko, returned home. Marynia walked at her husband's side; but, supposing that he was occupied in calculations touching the purchase of the place, and remembering that he did not like to be interrupted in such cases, she did not break the silence. The evening was so warm that after returning they remained some time on the veranda. Bigiel tried to detain Svirski for the night, saying in jest that such a Hercules could not find room in his little brichka with Plavitski. Pan Stanislav, to whom the presence of any guest was convenient, supported Bigiel. "Remain," said he. "I am going to the city to-morrow morning; we can go then together." "But I am in a hurry to paint. To-morrow I wish to begin work early, and if I stay here there will be delay." "Have you any work to be finished on time?" asked Marynia. "No; but one's hand goes out of practice. Painting is a kind of work in which one is never permitted to rest. I have loitered much already, at one time in Prytulov, at another here; meanwhile my colors are drying." Both ladies began to laugh; for that was said by a famous master, who ought to be free from fear that he would forget how to paint. "It seems to people that when a man has reached a certain skill, he owns it," answered Svirski. "It is a wonderful thing, this human organism, which must either advance or fall back. I know not if this is so in everything, but in art it is not permitted to say to one's self, 'This is enough;' there is no leave to stop. If I cease to paint for a week, not only do I lose adroitness of hand, but I do not feel in power. The hand dulls,--that I can understand,--but the artistic sense dulls also; talent simply dulls. I used to think that this was the case only in my career, for in it technique has enormous significance; but, will you believe me, Snyatinski, who writes for the theatre, told me the same. And in literature like his, in what does technique consist, if not in this? Not to have any technique, or at least, to seem not to have it. Still, even Snyatinski says that he may not stop, and that he falls back or advances in proportion to his efforts. The services of art,--that sounds beautifully. Ah, what a dog service, in which there is never rest, never peace!--nothing but toil and terror. Is that the predestination of the whole race, or are we alone those tortured figures?" Svirski, it is true, did not look like a tortured figure in any sense; he did not fall into a pathetic tone either, complaining of his occupation. But in his sweeping words there was a sincerity which gave them power. After a while he raised his fist; and, shaking it at the moon, which was showing itself just then above the forest, he cried out, half in joy, half in anger,-- "See that chubby face there! Once it learned to go around the earth, it was sure of its art. Oh, to have one moment like that in one's life!" Marynia began to laugh, and, raising her eyes unwittingly in the direction of Svirski's hand, said,-- "Do not complain. It is not merely artists who are not free to stop; whether we work on a picture, or on ourselves, it is all one, we must work every hour, otherwise life is injured." "There is immense need of work," interrupted Plavitski, with a sigh. But Marynia continued, seeking a comparison with some effort, and raising her brows at the same time,-- "And you see, if any man were to say to himself, even for a moment, 'I am wise enough, and good enough,' that very saying would be neither good nor wise. Now it seems to me that we are all swimming across some deep place to a better shore; but whoso just wishes to rest and stops moving his hands, is drawn to the bottom by his own weight." "Phrases!" exclaimed Pan Stanislav, on a sudden. But she, pleased with the aptness of her comparison, answered,-- "No, Stas, as I love thee, they are not phrases." "If God would grant me to hear such things always," said Svirski, with animation. "The lady is perfectly right." Pan Stanislav, in reality, was also convinced that she was right; and, what was more, in that darkness, which surrounded him, something began to gleam like a lamp. He was just the man who had said to himself, "I am wise enough, I am good enough,--and I can rest;" he was just the man who had forgotten that there was need of continual effort; he had ceased to move his hands over the depth, and therefore his own weight took him down to the bottom. Such was the case! All these lofty religious and moral principles, which he had gained, he had enclosed in his soul, as a man encloses money in a chest,--and he made dead capital of them. He had them, but, as it were, hidden away. He fell into the blindness of the miser, who cheers himself with hoarded gold, but lives like a mendicant. He had them, but he did not live on them; and, trusting in his wealth, he imagined that his life accounts were closed, and that he might rest. But now a gray dawn, as it were, began in that night which surrounded his thoughts; and out of the darkness began to rise toward him a truth hazy, and as yet undefined, declaring that accounts of that sort could never be closed, and that life is an immense daily, ceaseless labor, which, as Marynia had said, ends only there, somewhere on the other and better shore. CHAPTER LIII. "My dear Pan Ignas, why do you not dress like Pan Kopovski?" asked Pani Bronich. "Naturally, Nitechka values your poetry more than all costumes on earth; but you will not believe how æsthetic that child is, and what perfect knowledge she has in such matters. Yesterday, the poor dear came to me with such a pretty face that if you had seen her you would have melted. 'Aunt,' said she, 'why does Pan Ignas not have white flannel costumes in the morning? It is so elegant for all gentlemen to be in such costumes.' Have something like that made; she will be so glad. You see that Yozio Osnovski too has a flannel suit; he has even a number of them, through attention to Aneta. These are little things, I know; but they affect a woman greatly when she considers what they mean. You have no idea how she sees everything. In Scheveningen all wear such costumes till midday; and it would be disagreeable to her if any one should think that you did not belong to society which knows how to dress. You are so kind, you will buy such a costume; will you not? You will do that for her; and you will not take it ill of me that I speak of what Nitechka likes?" "Oh," said Pan Ignas, "I'll do so, most willingly." "How good you are! But, what else did I wish to say? Oh, yes!--and a nice yellow-leather travelling-case. My dear Pan Ignas, Nitechka loves immensely nice travelling-cases; and abroad, as a man looks, so is he valued. Yesterday--I will tell you this as a secret--we looked at Pan Kopovski's travelling-case. It is very nice, and in perfect taste, bought in Dresden. It pleased Nitechka much. Look at it, and buy one something in that style. I beg pardon of you for entering into this matter, but this is a trifle. You see, I know women in general, and I know Nitechka. There is no better way with her than to yield in little things. When it comes to great ones, she will give up everything. Besides, you have heard what chances of marriage she had, and still she chose you. Show her, then, gratitude even in small things. Have you not, as a student of character, noticed that natures capable of great sacrifice reserve themselves for exceptional occasions; but in every-day life they like to be gratified." "Perhaps I have not thought of this so far." "Oh, it is true beyond doubt, and that is just Nitechka's nature. But you are not in a position to know what kind of a nature she has, though you should know, for the reason that she chose you. But you men are not able to perceive so many shades of feeling. If it should come to some crisis, you would see that in her there is not one trace of selfishness. May the Lord God preserve her from every trial! but should it come to anything, you would see." "I know that you esteem Panna Nitechka," said Pan Ignas, with certain animation; "but still you do not think so much good of her as I do." "Ah, how I love you when you say things like that!" cried Pani Bronich, with delight. "My dear! But, if it is thus, then I will whisper still more in your ear: she loves passionately that gentlemen should wear black silk stockings; but remember that one look is enough for her to see what is silk and what is Scotch thread. My God! do not suppose that I wish to mix in everything. No one is able to keep away so well as I; but it is only a question of this,--that Nitechka should never think that you are not equal to others in any regard whatever. What's to be done? You are marrying a real artist, who loves that everything around her should be beautiful. And, in truth, she will not be so poor as not to have a right to this. Will she?" Pan Ignas took out his notebook, and said,-- "I will write down your orders, so as not to forget them." There was a shade of irony in what he said. Pani Bronich, with her excess of words, her manner of talking, and especially her evident infatuation for things of exceptional superfluity, had made him impatient very often. Pan Ignas was offended by a certain parvenu element in her nature. Since he did not see what palaces she was building with the property of old Zavilovski, he was unable to understand that a sensitive woman could be so unceremonious with him in demands for "Nitechka" when it was a question of the style of their future life. He had supposed previously that it would be just the opposite, and that those ladies would be even over-scrupulous and delicate; this was his first disillusion. On the other hand, he was pained by the bad taste with which Pani Bronich mentioned almost daily the great matches which "Nitechka" might have made, and also her self-denials for his sake; these _self-denials_ had not taken place yet. Pan Ignas did not over-estimate himself, but also he did not carry his head lower than was needful; and with that which was in him he considered himself not a worse, but a better match than such men as Kopovski, and the various Colimaçaos, Kanafaropuloses, and similar operatic lay figures. He was indignant at the very thought that they dared to compare these men with him, especially to his disadvantage. Having poetry and love in his soul, he judged that he had that which even princes of this world cannot command always. What his every-day life with Lineta would be, of that he had not thought much hitherto, or had thought in a general way only; but feeling strong, and being ready to seize every fate by the forelock, he trusted that it would be agreeable. To chaffer with this future he had no intention; and when Pani Bronich expressed wishes like these, he had to restrain himself from telling her that they seemed to him vulgar. Svirski, when stopping at Prytulov, gave out once the striking opinion that love was not blind altogether, but only suffering from daltonism. Pan Ignas thought that the painter had Osnovski in mind, and did not suspect that he himself was a perfect example of a man subject to the infirmity mentioned. He was blind, however, only in reference to Lineta; except her he saw and observed everything with greater readiness than others. And certain observations filled him with astonishment. Omitting his observations on Pani Aneta, her Yozio, and Kopovski, he noticed, for example, that his own relations with Pani Bronich began to change; and from the time that he had become near to her, and she had grown accustomed to him, and confidential, as with a future relative, and the future husband of "Nitechka," she began to have less esteem for his person, his work, and his talent. To an ordinary eye this was invisible, perhaps, but to Pan Ignas it was clear, though he could not explain its origin. The future alone was to teach him that common natures, by contact with persons or things which are higher, lose esteem for them through this familiarity, as if showing involuntarily that whatever becomes near to them must thereby be infected with vulgarity and meanness, and cannot, for that very reason, continue lofty. Meanwhile Pani Bronich disenchanted him more and more. He was impatient at that convenient "Teodor," whose rôle it was to shield with his dignity from beyond the tomb every act of hers; he was amazed at that bird-like mobility of her mind which seized on the wing everything from the region of the good and the beautiful, and turned it at once into empty and meaningless phrases. Besides, her enormous ill-will for people astonished him. Pani Bronich, almost servile in presence of old Zavilovski, spoke of him with animosity in private; Panna Helena she simply disliked; of Pani Kraslavski and Pani Mashko she spoke with endless irony; of the Bigiels, with contempt; more specially salt in her eye was Marynia. She listened to the praises rendered Marynia by Svirski, Pan Ignas, and Osnovski with the same impatience as if they had been detractions from Lineta. Pan Ignas convinced himself that, in truth, Pani Bronich cared for no one on earth except "Nitechka." But just this love made up in his mind for all her disagreeable peculiarities; he did not understand yet that such a feeling, when associated with hate and exclusiveness, instead of widening the heart, makes it narrow and dry, and is merely a two-headed selfishness, and that such selfishness may be as rude and harsh as if one-headed. Loving Lineta himself with his whole soul, and feeling better and kinder from the time that he had begun thus to love her, he considered that a person who loved really could not be evil at heart; and in the name of their common love, "Nitechka," he forgave Pani Bronich all her shortcomings. But with reference to Lineta, that quick observer could not see anything. The strongest men make in love so many unhappy mistakes for one reason,--that they array the beloved in all their own sunbeams, not accounting to themselves afterward that this glory with which they are blinded has been put by themselves there. So it was with, Pan Ignas. Lineta became accustomed more and more every day to him, and to her own rôle of betrothed. The thought that he had distinguished her, raised her above others, chosen her, loved her, from having been, as once, a continual living source of satisfaction to her vanity and pride, was beginning to lose the charm of novelty, and grow common. Everything which it was possible to win from it for her own personal glory had been won by the aid of Aunt Bronich. The admiration of people had been also "juggled out" of it, as Svirski said; and the statue was so near her eyes now that instead of taking in the whole, she began to discover defects in the marble. At moments yet, under the influence of the opinion or admiration of others, she regained the recollection and knowledge of its proportions; but she was seized by a kind of astonishment that that man in love with her, looking into her eyes, and obedient to every beck of hers, was that Zavilovski over whom even Svirski loses his head, and whom such a man as Osnovski esteems as some precious public treasure. She could send him at any moment for fresh strawberries, if she wished, or for yarn; the knowledge of this caused her a certain pleasure, hence he was needed. She admired her own power in him, and sometimes she detailed to him impressions of this kind quite sincerely. Once, when they went out to damp fields, Pan Ignas returned for her overshoes. Kneeling by an alder-tree, he put them on her feet, which he kissed. Then she, looking at that head bent to her feet, said,-- "People think you a great man, but you put on my overshoes." Pan Ignas raised his eyes to her and, amused by the comparison, answered joyously, without rising from his knees,-- "Because I love immensely." "That is all right; but I am curious to know what people would say of it?" And the last question seemed to occupy her most of all; but Pan Ignas quarrelled that moment with her because she said "you" to him, but he did not notice, however, that, in her "that is all right," there was that peculiar indifference with which things too familiar or less important are slipped over. With a similar half-attention she heard what he said then,--that not being vain, he considers himself a man like his fellows, but that he respects his career, and counts a life the greatest happiness in which it is possible to serve loftily, and love simply. In the feeling of this happiness he embraced her with his arm, so as to have his simple love as near his breast as possible. But when his prominent chin pushed forward still more, as happened whenever he spoke with enthusiasm, Lineta begged him to leave off the habit, as it made him look stern, and she liked joyous faces around her. While her hand was in now, she reminded him also that yesterday, when they were sailing over the pond, and he was tired after rowing, he breathed very loudly. She did not like to tell him then how that "acted on her nerves." Any little thing "acts on her nerves;" but nothing acts like some one who is tired, and breathes loudly near her. Saying this, she took off her hat and began to fan her face. The breeze raised her bright hair; and in the green shade of the alder-trees, quivering in the sun, which shone in through the leaves, she looked like a vision. Pan Ignas delighted his eyes with her, and in her words admired, above all, the charm of a spoiled child. There was perhaps something more in them; but he neither sought nor found it, just because his love, with all its force, was simple. Simplicity, however, does not exclude loftiness. Lineta had, in fact, clung like a spider-web to the wings of the bird, which, in spite of her, bore her to heights where one had to feel every movement with the heart, to divine all, to understand all, and where even the mind must exert itself to give expression to feeling. But Lineta was "so lazy,"--she had said so on a time to her soarer, who at present did not even suspect that those heights merely made her tired and dizzy, nothing more. It happened to her now oftener and oftener to wake in the morning, and remember that she must meet her betrothed, that she must tune herself up to his high note; and this gave her the feeling that a child has, for whom a hard lesson is waiting. She had recited that lesson already; she had answered more or less everything which had been taught her; and she judged that her betrothed ought to give a vacation now. Finally, she had enough of all those uncommonnesses, both of herself and of others, those original sayings, those apt answers, with which she had campaigned in society so far. She felt, moreover, that the supply was exhausted, that the bottom of the well could be seen. There remained to her yet only certain artistic feelings, and that unendurable "Pan Ignas" might be satisfied, if from time to time she showed him now a broad field, now a bit of forest, now a strip of land with yellow grain, as if scattered in the light, and said, "Beautiful! beautiful!" That was easier. He, it is true, could not find words to express admiration of the artistic depth of soul hidden in such a single word as "beautiful;" but if that were true, what more did he want? and why, in conversation, in feelings, in method of loving, did he force her to those useless efforts? If he did not force her, if that came without his knowledge, so much the worse for him, that, being by nature so abrupt, he did not even know it. In such a case let him talk with Steftsia Ratkovski. With "Koposio," on the other hand, there was no need of effort; his society was real rest for Lineta. The mere sight of him made her gladsome, called out a smile on her face, inclined her to jesting. It is true that Pan Stanislav had once in his life been jealous of Kopovski; but to Pan Ignas, a man who lived a mental life far more exclusively, and therefore measured everything with a measure purely mental, it did not even occur that a maiden so spiritualized and so "wise" as "Nitechka," could for a moment consider Kopovski as other than a subject for witticisms, which she permitted herself continually. Had not Pani Bronich, in spite of all her mental shallowness, grown indignant at the mere hint of giving Lineta to Kopovski? What Pan Ignas had seen between Kopovski and Pani Aneta was no lesson, for he considered his "Nitechka" as the opposite pole of Aneta. "Nitechka," besides, had chosen him, and he was the antithesis of Kopovski; that alone set aside every doubt. "Nitechka" amused herself with "Koposio," painted him, conversed with him, though Pan Ignas could not exhaust his astonishment at this,--how she could avoid falling asleep while he talked; she joked with him, she followed him with a look of amusement, but only because she was a child yet, needing moments of amusement, and even of vanity. But no one saw better than she his whole measureless stupidity, and no one spoke of it more frequently. How often had she ridiculed it to Pan Ignas! Not all eyes, however, looked at this amusement of hers in that way, and, above all, Pani Aneta looked at it differently; from time to time she told her husband directly that Castelli was coquetting with Kopovski; to "Yozio" himself this seemed at times to be true, and he had the wish to send Kopovski away from Prytulov politely. This Pani Aneta would not permit: "Since he is paying attention to Steftsia, we have no right to hinder that poor girl's fortune." Osnovski was sorry to lose that dear Steftsia on Kopovski; but since, in fact, she had no property, and since Aneta wished the match, he would not oppose it. But he was not able to control himself from astonishment and indignation at Castelka: "To have such a man as Ignas, and coquet with such a fool; to act so, a woman must be a soulless puppet surely." At first he could not understand it. On the hypothesis, however, that Aneta must have been mistaken, he began to observe the young lady diligently; and since, aside from his personal relation to his wife, he was not by any means dull-witted, he saw a number of things which, in view of his friendship for Pan Ignas, disquieted him greatly. He did not admit, it is true, that anything might take place to change the position; but he asked himself what Ignas's future would be with a woman who knew so little how to value him, and who was so slightly developed morally that she not only found pleasure in the society of such a brainless fop, but allowed herself to turn his head, and allure him. "Anetka judges others by herself," thought Osnovski, "and has really deceived herself, ascribing certain deep feelings to Castelka. Castelka is a puppet; and, if spirits like Anetka and Ignas do not come, nothing rouses her." In this way that unfortunate man, affected with the daltonism of love, while discovering truth on one side, fell into greater and greater error on the other. On "Castelka," therefore, he looked more justly every day, and needed no excessive effort to convince himself that in the relations of that "ideal" "Nitechka" with Kopovski there were jests, it is true, there was much contradiction, teasing, even ridicule; but there was also such an irresistible weakness, and such an attraction, as women with the souls of milliners have for nice and nicely dressed young men. The phenomenal stupidity of Kopovski seemed to increase in country air; but as a recompense the sun gilded his delicate complexion, through which his eyes became more expressive, his teeth whiter, while the beard on his face was lighter, and gleamed like silk. Indeed, brightness shone not only from his youth and beauty, but also from his linen, from his neckties, from his exquisite and simple costumes. In the morning, dressed for lawn-tennis, in English flannel, he had in him the freshness of morning and the dreaminess of sleep. His slender, finished form appeared as if fondlingly through the soft cloth; and how could that bony Pan Ignas, with his insolent Wagner jaw and his long legs, be compared, in the eyes of those ladies, with that "mignon" who called to mind at once the gods of Greece and the fashion sheets, the glyptotheks of Italy and the _table d'hôtes_ of Biarritz or Ostend. One should be such an original as that still-water Steftsia to insist, unless from malice, that he was an insufferable puppet. Castelka, it is true, laughed when Svirski said that Kopovski, especially when some question was put to him on a sudden, had an expression in which were evident the sixteen "quarterings" of stupidity in his escutcheon, both on the male and female side. In truth, he had a somewhat absent look, and, in general, could not understand at first what people said to him. But he was so joyous, he seemed so good-natured, and, in spite of a way of thinking which was not over elevated, he was so well-bred, beautiful, and fresh that everything might be forgiven him. Pan Ignas deceived himself in thinking that only Pani Bronich was pining for things of external richness, and that his betrothed did not even know of those requests with which her aunt comes. Castelka did know of them. Having lost hope that "Pan Ignas" could ever be equal to Kopovski, she wanted at least that he should approach him. For things of external richness she had an inborn leaning, and "aunt," when begging Pan Ignas to buy this or that for himself, merely carried out Lineta's wishes. For her, really, one glance was enough to distinguish silk from Scotch thread, and all her soul was rushing instinctively to silk; for her Kopovski was among men what silk is among textures. Had it not been for Pani Aneta, who restrained the young man, and for the various lofty feelings which she had talked into Lineta, Lineta, without fail, would have married Kopovski. Osnovski, knowing nothing of all this, was even astonished that that had not taken place; for he, in the end of his observations, had come to the conclusion that both for Lineta and Pan Ignas this would have been perhaps better. One day he confided these thoughts to his wife, but she grew angry, and said, with great animation,-- "That did not happen, because it could not. No one is obliged to accommodate himself to Yozio's plans. I, first of all, saw that Castelka was coquetting with Kopovski. Who could know that she was such a nature? To be betrothed and to coquet with other men,--that passes human understanding. But she does it through vanity, and through spite against Steftsia Ratkovski, and maybe to rouse jealousy in Pan Ignas. Who knows why? It is easy for Yozio to talk now, and to throw all the blame on me for having made this marriage; let Yozio remember better how many times he was enchanted with Castelka, how many times he said that hers was an uncommon nature, and that just such a one would make Pan Ignas happy. A pretty uncommon nature! Now she is coquetting with Kopovski, and if she were his betrothed she would coquet with Pan Ignas. Whoever is vain, will remain so forever. Yozio says that she was fitted for Kopovski; it was necessary to have that way of thinking at first, not at present, when she is the betrothed of Pan Ignas. But Yozio says this purposely to show me what a folly I committed in helping Pan Ignas." And the whole affair was so turned by Pani Aneta that Pan Ignas and Castelka descended to the second place, but in the first appeared the cruelty and malice of Yozio. Osnovski, however, began to justify himself, and, opening his arms, said,-- "Anetka! How canst thou even suppose that I wanted to do anything disagreeable to thee? I know, besides, how honest and cordial thy wishes were; but terror takes hold of me when I think of the future of Ignas, for I love him. I should wish from the soul of my heart that God had given him such a person as thou art. My dearest little bird, thou knowest that I would rather lose my tongue than say one bitter thing to thee. I came to thee so just to talk and take counsel, for I know that in that dear head of thine there is always some cure for everything." When he had said this, he began to kiss her hands and then her arms and face with great affection, and with increasing enthusiasm; but she turned her head aside, twisting away from his kisses, and saying,-- "Ah, how Yozio is sweating!" He was, in fact, almost always in perspiration, for he played whole days at tennis, raced on horseback, rowed, wandered through fields and forests, to grow thin as far as was possible. "Only tell me that thou art not angry," said he, dropping her hand, and looking into her eyes tenderly. "Well, I am not; but what help can I give? Let them go as quickly as possible to Scheveningen, and let Kopovski stay here with Steftsia." "See, thou hast found a plan. Let them go at the beginning of August. But hast thou noticed that somehow Steftsia is not very--somehow Kopovski has not pleased her heart so far?" "Steftsia is secretive as few are. Yozio doesn't know women." "Thou art right surely in that. But I even see that she doesn't like Castelka. Maybe, also, she is angry in her heart with Kopovski, too." "What!" inquired Aneta, with animation, "has Yozio seen anything with reference to Castelka? "Koposio laughs at her, for he has good teeth; but if I should see anything, he wouldn't be in Prytulov. Maybe, too, Castelka is coquetting with him, because such is her nature--without knowing it. That itself is bad, but that it should go as far as looking at each other seriously, I don't believe. "But it is necessary to examine Koposio as to Steftsia. Knowest what, Yozio? I will go this very day with him on horseback to Lesnichovka, and I will talk with him rather seriously. Go thou in another direction!" "Good, my child. But see, thy head is finding measures already!" Going out, he stopped on the threshold, thought a while, and said,-- "But how wonderful all this is! and how it passes understanding! This Ignas catches everything on the wing; and at the same time he worships Castelka as if she were some divinity, and sees nothing and nothing." In the afternoon, when Kopovski and Pani Aneta were riding along the shady road to the forest cottage, Pan Ignas followed them with his eyes, and looked at her figure on horseback, outlined in the well-fitting riding-dress. "She is shaped like a slender pitcher," thought he. "But how elegant and enticing she is! There is in this some irony of life, that that honest and kindly Osnovski divines nothing." And truly there was irony of life in that, but not in that only. CHAPTER LIV. Since the day when Pani Aneta and Kopovski made the trip to Lesnichovka, something had changed in the social relations of the dwellers in Prytulov. Pan Ignas looked, it is true, as formerly, into the eyes of his affianced, and was enchanted with her beyond measure; but in her intercourse with him and with others there was a certain light shade of ill-humor. Kopovski felt as if bound; he looked at Lineta by stealth only. He approached her hurriedly, and only in the absence of Pani Aneta; but he sat oftener near Panna Ratkovski, to whom he spoke, as it were, with his mind in another place. Pani Aneta was, moreover, more determined than usual; and, to the great satisfaction of "Yozio," she extended now such watchful care over every affair in Prytulov, that she took Kopovski aside twice for personal explanations. Lineta's glance did not follow Kopovski with that former half-gladsome, half-ironical freedom; but the cloudy eyes of Panna Ratkovski turned to Pan Ignas with a certain sympathy,--in one, word, something had changed both in looks and relations. But those were changes observable only to a very quick eye, and one accustomed to look at life of that kind, in which, for lack of greater objects and severe daily labor, the least shade of feelings and the most subtle movement of thoughts, and even dispositions, take on not only the form, of far-reaching events, but frequently conceal the actual germs of such events in themselves. Externally life remained just the same it had been; that is, a kind of daily festival, a May day, country idleness, interwoven with love, æsthetic impressions, more or less witty conversations, and, finally, amusements. The arrangement of a whole series of these amusements, to fill out the day, was the sole occupation which weighed on their thoughts; and even this, for the greater part, Pan Osnovski took on himself as master of the house. But on a certain day the uniform calm of that life was broken by a thunderbolt, under the form of two black-bordered envelopes addressed to Osnovski and Pan Ignas. When they were brought in, the whole society was at after-dinner coffee; and the eyes of the ladies were turned with curiosity and alarm at the readers, who, taking cards from the unsealed envelopes, cried almost simultaneously,-- "Pan Zavilovski is dead!" The news made a deep impression. Pani Bronich, as a person of the old school, and remembering those days when the coming of a courier in the country obliged the most sensitive ladies to faint, even before it was known what the courier had brought, fell into a kind of numbness, joined to loss of speech; Panna Ratkovski, who had spent some time at Pan Zavilovski's, and cherished great friendship for him and his daughter, grew pale in real earnest; Panna Lineta, seizing Pani Bronich's hand, tried to restore her to consciousness, whispering, "_Voyons, chère, tu n'es pas raisonnable!_" Pani Aneta, as if wishing to verify with her own eyes the substance of the announcement, took the card from her husband's hands, and read,-- "The respected Pan Eustachius Zavilovski departed this life on the 25th day of July. His grief-stricken daughter invites relatives and friends to the funeral, at the parish church in Yasmen, on the 28th day of the current month." Then followed a moment of silence, which was broken by Pan Ignas. "I knew him little," said he, "and was prepossessed against him once; but now I grieve for him sincerely, for I know that at heart he was a worthy man." "And he loved thee sincerely," answered Osnovski. "I have proofs of that." Pani Bronich, who, during this time, had recovered, declared that those proofs might appear now in their fulness, and that the heart of the deceased would very likely prove itself still greater than they imagined. "Pan Eustachius always loved Nitechka much, and such a man cannot be malicious." At times he had reminded her--that is, Pani Bronich--of Teodor, and therefore she had become so attached to him. He was, it is true, as abrupt on occasions as Teodor was gentle at all times; but both had that honesty of spirit which the Lord God is best able to value. Then she turned to "Nitechka," reminding her that the least emotion would add to the sinking of her heart, and begging her to strive this time not to yield to innate sensitiveness. Pan Ignas, too, with the feeling that a common sorrow had struck him and Lineta for the first time, began to kiss her hands. This state of mind was broken by Kopovski, who said, as if in meditation on the transitory nature of human affairs,-- "I am curious to know what Panna Helena will do with the pipes left by her father." In fact, the old noble's pipes were famous throughout the whole city. Through dislike for cigarettes and cigars, he had in his day made a great collection in his mansion for lovers of the pipe. Kopovski's anxiety about the pipes was not quieted, however,--first, because at that moment they brought Pan Ignas a letter from Pan Stanislav, containing also intelligence of the old man's decease, and an invitation to the funeral; secondly, because Osnovski began to advise with his wife about the trip to Yasmen. It ended in this,--that all were to go at once to the city, where the ladies would set about buying various small articles of mourning, and on the second day, the day of the funeral, they would be in Yasmen. Thus did they do. Pan Ignas, immediately after their arrival, went to his lodgings to carry home things, and prepare a black suit for mourning; and then he went to the Polanyetskis, supposing that they, too, perhaps, had come in from the Bigiels. The servant informed him that his master had been there the day before, but had gone at once to Yasmen, near which place he had hired, or even bought, a house two weeks earlier. Hearing this, he returned to Osnovski's villa to spend the evening with his betrothed. At the entrance, the tones of a waltz by Strauss, coming from the depth of the house, astonished him. Meeting in the next salon Panna Ratkovski, he inquired who was playing. "Lineta is playing with Pan Kopovski," answered she. "Then Pan Kopovski is here?" "He came a quarter of an hour since." "And Pani and Pan Osnovski?" "They have not returned yet; Aneta is making purchases." Pan Ignas, for the first time in his life, felt a certain dissatisfaction with Lineta. He understood that the deceased was nothing to her; still the moment for playing a four-handed waltz with Kopovski seemed inappropriate. He had a feeling that that showed want of taste. Pani Bronich, who did not lack society keenness, divined evidently that impression on his face. "Nitechka was moved greatly, and worn out," said she; "and nothing calms her like music. I was much alarmed, for sinking of the heart had begun with her; and when Pan Kopovski came, I myself proposed that they play something." They stopped playing; and Pan Ignas's unpleasant impression disappeared by degrees. There was for him in that villa a multitude of recent and precious remembrances. About dusk he took Lineta's arm, and they walked through the rooms. They stopped in various places; he called to mind something every moment. "Dost remember," asked he, in the studio, "when painting, thou didst take me by the temple to turn my head aside, and for the first time in life I kissed thy hand; and thy words, 'Talk with aunt'?--I lost not only consciousness, but breath. Thou, my chosen, my dearest!" And she answered,-- "And how pale thou wert then!" "It is difficult not to be pale when the heart is dying in one from emotion; and I loved thee beyond memory." Lineta raised her eyes, and said after a while,-- "How wonderful all this is!" "What, Nitechka?" "That it begins somehow, and begins as if it were a kind of trial, a kind of play; then one goes farther into it, and all at once the trap falls." Pan Ignas pressed her arm to his bosom, and said,-- "Ah, yes! it has fallen! I have my bright maiden, and I won't let her go." Then, walking on, they came to the great drawing-room. Pan Ignas pointed to the glass door, and said,-- "Our balcony, our acacia-tree." It grew darker and darker. Objects in the room were sunk in shade; only here and there, on golden picture frames, gleamed points of light, like eyes of some kind gazing at the young couple. "Dost thou love me?" asked Pan Ignas. "Thou knowest." "Say yes." "Yes." Then he pressed her arm more, and said with a voice changed through rising emotion,-- "Thou hast no idea, simply, how much happiness is in thee. I give thee my word; thou hast no idea. Thou knowest not how I love thee. I would give my life for thee. I would give the world for one hair of thine. Thou art my world, my life, my all. I should die without thee." "Let us sit down," whispered Lineta; "I am so wearied." They sat down, resting against each other, hidden in the dark. A moment of silence followed. "What is the matter? Thou art trembling all over," whispered Lineta. But she too, whether stirred by remembrances, or borne on by his feeling, or by nearness, began to breathe hurriedly, and, closing her eyes, was the first to put her lips forward toward his. Meanwhile Kopovski was bored evidently in the adjoining room with Panna Ratkovski and Pani Bronich, for at that moment the tones of the waltz which he had played before with Lineta were heard. When Pan Ignas returned to his own lodgings, the place seemed the picture of sadness and loneliness, a kind of objectless nomad dwelling, after which there will not be one memory; and he thought that that golden "Nitechka" had so wound herself around his heart that in truth he would not live without her, and could not. The funeral, on the third day, was not numerously attended. The neighboring estates, as lying near the city belonged for the greater part to rich people, who passed the summer season abroad; hence not many of Pan Zavilovski's acquaintances had remained in the city. But numerous throngs of villagers had assembled, who, crowding into the church, looked at the coffin as if with wonder that a man of such wealth, wading in property, in money and riches, was going into the ground like the first chance peasant who lived in a hut somewhere. Others looked with envy on the young lady to whom "so much wealth" was to fall. And such is human nature that not only peasants, but refined people, distant or near acquaintances of Pan Zavilovski, were unable even during the burial itself to refrain from thinking what that Panna Helena would do with these millions which were left her for the drying of tears. There were some too, who, supposing young Zavilovski as the last relative of that name, the heir of a considerable part of the property, gave themselves in secret the question whether that lucky poet, and millionnaire of the morrow, perhaps, would stop writing verses. And they thought, as if with a certain unexplained satisfaction, that he would probably. But the chief attention was turned to Panna Helena. All wondered at the resignation with which she bore the loss,--the more painful, since after the death of her father she remained in the world all alone, without relatives nearer than the young poet, and even without friends, concerning whom she had long since ceased to busy herself. She walked after the coffin with a face over which tears were flowing, but which was calm, with that calmness usual to her, but somewhat lifeless and stony. On her return from the church, she spoke of the death of her father as if a number of months at least had passed since it happened. The ladies of Prytulov could not understand that an immense faith was speaking through her; and that in virtue of her faith, that death, in comparison with another, which she had survived, but which had rent her soul, seemed something that was sad, it is true, but at the same time a blessing, pressing out tears of sorrow, but not of despair. In fact, old Pan Zavilovski died very piously, though almost suddenly. From the time of his arrival in Yasmen, he had the habit of confessing twice a week; hence he did not lack religious consolation. He died with the rosary in his hand, in his armchair, having fallen previously into a light sleep, without any suffering; his usual pain having left him a few days before, so that he had even begun to gain the hope of a perfect return of health. Panna Helena, while speaking of this, in her low uniform voice, turned at last to Pan Ignas and said,-- "He mentioned you very often. Perhaps an hour before death he said that if you should come to Buchynek to Pan Polanyetski, to let him know, for he wished to see you without fail. Father loved and esteemed you greatly, greatly." "Dear lady," said Pan Ignas, raising her hands to his lips, "I join you in mourning for him sincerely." There was something noble and truthful, as well in his tones as in his words, therefore Panna Helena's eyes filled with tears; but the weeping of Pani Bronich was so loud that, had it not been for a flask of salts given her by Lineta, it would have passed into a nervous attack, very likely. But Panna Helena, as if not hearing those sobs, thanked Pan Stanislav for the aid which she had received from him,--he had occupied himself with those cares which the death of a near friend imposes, in addition to their misfortune, on those who are bereaved. He took all that on himself because of his active nature, and because at that juncture he seized every chance to occupy himself with something to deaden his thoughts, and escape from the torturing circle of his own meditations. Marynia did not go to the grave, for her husband did not wish her exposed to crowding and fatigue, but she kept company with Panna Helena in the house, giving her consolation, as she could. Afterward she wished to take her, with the Prytulov ladies, to Buchynek, and even to keep her there a few days. Pan Stanislav supported this request; but as Panna Helena had her old governess at the mansion, she refused, assuring Marynia that in Yasmen it would not be disagreeable at all to her, and that she did not wish to leave it for the first days especially. But the ladies from Prytulov, who, at the persuasion of Svirski, had intended to visit the Polanyetskis, went willingly with their acquaintances to Buchynek,--all the more since Pani Bronich desired to learn from Pan Stanislav nearer details touching the last moments of the deceased. Marynia, who had looked most curiously at Panna Ratkovski, took her in her carriage, and that happened which happens sometimes in society,--that the two youthful women felt at once an irrestrainable attraction to each other. In Panna Ratkovski's pensive eyes, in her expression, in her "retiring" face, as Svirski called it, there was something of such character that Marynia divined, at the first glance almost, a nature not bold, accustomed to retire into itself, delicate and sensitive. On the other hand, Panna Ratkovski had heard so much of Marynia from Pan Ignas, and heard because other ladies in Prytulov were not willing to lend their ears to praises of their neighbors, that, seeing in her eyes interest and sympathy, to which, in her poverty and loneliness, she was not accustomed, she nestled up with her whole heart to her. In this way they arrived at Buchynek as good friends, and Svirski, who was with Pan Stanislav, Osnovski, and Kopovski, arrived right after them; it did not need any great acuteness to divine that the judgment of Marynia would be for Panna Steftsia. But he wished to hear it. Marynia began to show the guests her new residence, which was to be her property, for Pan Stanislav had decided already to buy it. They looked specially at the garden, in which were growing uncommonly old white poplars. Svirski, taking advantage of this walk, gave his arm to Marynia; and on the way back to the house, when the party had scattered somewhat along all the paths, he asked with great precipitance,-- "Well, what is the first impression?" "The best possible. Ah, what a good and sensitive child that must be! Try to know her." "I? What for? I will propose this day. You think I will not do that? Upon my word, I will, to-day--and in Buchynek! I have no time for examination and meditation. In those affairs there must be a little daring. I will make a declaration this day, as true as I am here before you." Marynia began to laugh, thinking that he was jesting; but he answered,-- "I am laughing, too, for there is nothing sad in this; it is no harm that this is a funeral day. I am not superstitious; or rather, I am, for I believe that nothing from your hand can be evil." "But it is not from my hand; I only made her acquaintance to-day." "It is all one to me. I have been afraid of women all my life; but of this one, somehow, I have no fear. She simply cannot be a thankless heart." "I think, too, that she cannot." "And do you see? this is my last chance. If she accepts me, I will carry her all my life, see?" (here he put his hand in the bosom of his coat); "if not, then--" "Then what?" "I'll shut myself in, and for a whole week will paint from morning till night. I have said that I would go to shoot ducks--but no! This is more important than you think. I judge, however, that she ought to accept me. I know that she does not like that ladies' butterfly, that Kopovski; she is alone in the world, an orphan; she will do me a kindness, for which I shall be grateful all my days, because, really, I am a kind man--but I fear to grow embittered." Marynia saw now, for the first time, that Svirski might speak seriously; and she answered,-- "You are, in truth, a kind man; hence you will never be embittered." "On the contrary," answered he, with great animation, "it might end in that; I will be outspoken with you. Do you think that I am as happy as I seem? God knows that I am not. I have gained a little money and fame; that is true. But perhaps there has not been among men another who has so stretched forth his hands to a womanly ideal as I have. What is the result? I have met you, Pani Bigiel, maybe two or three others, worthy, true, sensible, pure as tears. Permit me! I do not wish to say pleasant things to you; but in what I say now I do not wish to announce a criticism, but to discover my suffering. I have seen among our women so much tinsel, so many common, frivolous natures, so much egotism, so much shallowness, so many thankless hearts, so many dolls from a picture, so many false aspirations, that from sight of them ten such men as I am might be embittered." After a while he added: "This child seems different; quiet, mild, and very honest. God grant that it come to pass; God grant her to want me!" At the same time Pani Bronich, taking Pan Stanislav aside openly, spoke with uplifted eyes,-- "Oh, yes! he reminded me of my years of youth; and, as you see, in spite of this--that for a long time relations between us were broken--I preserved friendship for him to the end of his life. You must have heard! but no! you could not have heard, for I have never mentioned this to any one, that it depended on me alone--to be the mother of Helena. Now there is no longer any need to keep the secret. Twice he proposed to me, and twice I refused him. I respected and loved him always; but you will understand that when one is young, something else is sought for,--that is sought for which I found in my Teodor. Oh, that is true! Once he proposed in Ischia, a second time in Warsaw. He suffered much; but what could I do? Would you have acted otherwise if in my place? Tell me sincerely." Pan Stanislav, not having the least desire to say, either sincerely or insincerely, how he would have acted in the position of Pani Bronich, replied,-- "Did you wish to ask me about something?" "Yes, oh, yes! I wanted to ask you about his last moments. Helena said that he died suddenly; but you, who lived so near him, must have visited him, therefore you will remember what he said. Maybe you know what his last intentions and thoughts were? Personally I have not the least interest in the matter. My God! would it not be difficult to act more disinterestedly? You do not know Nitechka? But Pan Zavilovski gave me his word that he would leave Pan Ignas his estates in Poznan. If he did not keep his word, or if he did not try to keep it, may the Lord God forgive him, as I forgive him! Wealth, of course, amounts to nothing. Who has given a better example than Nitechka of disregard for wealth? Were it the opposite, she would not have refused such matches as the Marquis Jao Colimaçao, or Pan Kanafaropulos. You must have heard also of Pan Ufinski,--that same who, with his famous silhouettes, bought for himself a palace in Venice. His last work was to cut out the Prince of Wales. This very year he proposed to use for Nitechka. Oh, true! if any one has sought wealth, it is not we. But I should not wish Nitechka to think that she had made a sacrifice, for still, between us, she is making a sacrifice, and if considered in society fashion, a great sacrifice." Pan Stanislav was an energetic man; angered by the last words of Pani Bronich, he answered,-- "I have not known either the Marquis Jao Colimaçao or Pan Kanafaropulos, but in this country they are rather fantastic names. I will suppose that Panna Castelli marries Pan Zavilovski out of love; in that case, every sacrifice is excluded. I am an outspoken man, and I say what I think. Whether Pan Ignas is a practical man is another question; but Pan Ignas does not know, and he does not want to ask, what Panna Castelli brings him. The ladies know perfectly what he brings, even from a society point of view." "Oh, but you have not heard that the Castellis are descended from Marino Falieri." "That is precisely what neither I nor any one else has heard. Let us suppose that for me and you such views have no meaning; but since you say, first, that, taking things from a society point of view, Panna Castelli is making a great sacrifice, I do not hesitate to deny that, and to say that, omitting Pan Ignas's talents and social position, the match is equal." From his tone and face it was evident that if Pani Bronich would not stop at what he said, he was ready to speak more openly; but Pani Bronich, having evidently more than one arrow in her quiver, seized Pan Stanislav's hand, and, shaking it vigorously, exclaimed,-- "Oh, how honest you are, to take the part of Ignas so earnestly, and how I love him, as my own son! Whom have I in the world if not those two? And if I inquire whether you know of any arrangement made by Pan Zavilovski, I do so only through love for Pan Ignas. I know that old people like to put off and put off, just as if death let itself be delayed by that. Oh, death will not be delayed! no, no! Helena has no use for all those millions; but Ignas--he might then spread his wings really. For me and Nitechka the question beyond all questions is his talent. But if anything should come to pass--" "What can I tell you?" said Pan Stanislav. "That Pan Zavilovski was thinking of Ignas is for me undoubted, and I tell you why. About ten days since, he gave command to bring some old arms to show them to me; thereupon he turned to his daughter, and I heard him say to her, 'These are not worth enumerating in the will; but after my death give them to Ignas, for you have no use for them.' From this I infer that either he made some will in favor of Ignas, or thought of it. Further I know nothing, for I made no inquiry of him. Should there be any new will, it will be known in a couple of days, and Panna Helena of a certainty will not hide it." "Do you know that honest Helena well? But no, no! You do not know her as I know her, and I can be a surety for her. Never suspect her in my presence! Helena hide a will? Never, sir!" "Let the lady be so kind as not to ascribe to me a thought which I have not, and from which I guard myself. The will can in no case be concealed, for it is made before witnesses." "And do you see that it is not even possible to conceal it, for it is drawn up before witnesses? I was sure that it could not be concealed; but Pan Zavilovski loved Nitechka so much that even out of regard for her, he could not forget Ignas. He carried her in his arms when she was so big, see." Here Pani Bronich put one hand above the other, so as to give Pan Stanislav in that manner an idea of how big Lineta might have been at the time; but after a while she added, "And maybe she wasn't even that big." Then they returned to the rest of the company, who, having finished a survey of the garden, were assembling for dinner. Pan Stanislav, looking at the charming face of Lineta, thought that when Pan Zavilovski carried her in his arms, she might, in fact, have been a nice and pretty child. Suddenly he remembered Litka, whom he carried in his arms also, and inquired,-- "Then are you an old acquaintance of the deceased?" "Oh--so," answered Lineta. "About four years. Aunt, how long is it since we became acquainted with Pan Zavilovski?" "Of what is that dear head thinking?" exclaimed Pani Bronich. "Ah, my dear, what a happy age! and what a happy period!" During this time Svirski, who was sitting near Panna Ratkovski, felt that it would not be so easy for him to carry out the promise given Marynia as it had seemed to him. Witnesses hindered him, and, still more, a certain alarm about the heart, joined to a loss of usual presence of mind and freedom. "To think," said he to himself, "that I am a greater coward than I supposed." And he did not succeed. He wanted at least to prepare the ground, and he talked of something different from what he wished; he noticed now that Panna Ratkovski had a beautiful neck, and pearl tones about her ears, and a very charming voice--but he noticed with astonishment that this made him still more timid. After lunch the whole company sat together as if through perversity. The ladies were wearied by the funeral; and when, an hour later, Pani Aneta announced that it was time to return, he felt at once a sensation of disappointment and relief. "It is not my fault," thought he; "I had a fixed purpose." But when the ladies were taking their places, the feeling of solace changed into sorrow for himself. He thought of his loneliness, and of this, that he had no one on whom to bestow his reputation or his property; he thought of his sympathy for Panna Ratkovski, of the confidence which she had roused in him, of the sincere feeling which he had conceived for her at the first glance,--and at the last moment he took courage. Giving his arm to the young lady to conduct her to the carriage, he said,-- "Pan Osnovski has asked me to come again to Prytulov, and I will come, but with a brush and palette; I should like to have your head." And he stopped, trying how to pass from that which he had said to that which he wished to say, and feeling at the same time that he needed to hurry immensely, for there was no time. But Panna Ratkovski, evidently unaccustomed to this, that any man should occupy himself with her, inquired with unfeigned astonishment,-- "Mine?" "Permit me to be your echo," replied Svirski, hurriedly, and in a somewhat stifled voice, "and to repeat that word." Panna Ratkovski looked at him as if not understanding what the question was; but at that moment Pani Aneta called her to the carriage, so Svirski had barely time to press her hand and say,-- "Till we meet again." The carriage moved on. Her open parasol hid the face of Panna Ratkovski quickly; the artist followed with his eyes the departing ladies, and at last gave himself the question,-- "Have I made a declaration, or not?" He was certain, however, that Panna Ratkovski would think, during the whole drive, of what he had told her. He thought, also, that he had answered adroitly, and that he had made good use of her question. In this regard he was satisfied; but at the same time he was astonished that he felt neither great joy nor fear, and that he had a certain dull feeling that something was lacking in the whole matter. It seemed to him that, in a moment so important, he was too little moved. And he returned from the gate to the house in thoughtfulness. Marynia, who had seen the parting from a distance, had red ears from curiosity. Though her husband was not in the room at that moment, she dared not ask first; but Svirski read so clearly in her eyes the question, "Have you proposed?" that he laughed, and answered just as if she had inquired,-- "Yes, almost. Not completely; there was no chance for further conversation, so I could not receive an answer. I do not know even whether I was understood." Marynia, not seeing in him that animation with which he had spoken to her before, and, ascribing this to alarm, wished to give him consolation, but the entrance of Pan Stanislav prevented her. Svirski too began to take farewell at once; but wishing evidently to satisfy her curiosity before he went away, he said, not regarding the presence of Pan Stanislav,-- "In every case I shall be in Prytulov to-morrow, or I shall write a letter; I hope that the answer will be favorable." Then he kissed her hands with great friendship, and, after a while, found himself alone in his droshky, in clouds of yellow dust, and in his own thoughts. As an artist he was so accustomed to seizing in artist fashion various details which intruded themselves on his eyes that he did so even now, but mechanically, without proper consciousness, as if only at the surface of his brain. But in the depth of it he was meditating on everything that had happened. "What the devil, Svirski!" said he to himself; "what is happening to thee? Hast thou not passed twenty-five years so as to be able to jump over this ditch? Has not that happened for which thou wert eager this morning? Where is thy transport? thy delight? Why art thou not shouting, At last! Thou art about to marry! Dost understand, old man? At last! At last!" But that was vain urging. The internal man remained cold. He understood that what had happened ought to be happiness; but he did not respond to it. Greater and greater astonishment was seizing him. He had acted, it seems, with all knowledge and will and choice. He was not a child, nor frivolous, nor a hysterical person, who knows not what he wants. Having reasoned out, finally, that it would be well, he had not changed his opinion. Panna Ratkovski, too, was ever that same retiring, "very reliable person;" why did the thought that she would be the "little woman," desired from of old, not warm him more vigorously? Why did hope, changed now almost into certainty, not turn into joy? And at the bottom of his soul there remained a certain feeling of disappointment. "What I told her," thought he, "might be adroit, but it was dry. Let a thunderbolt strike me, if it was not, and, besides, it was unfinished. Simply I have no certainty yet, and I do not feel the thing as finished." Here the impressions of an artist interrupted the thread of his thought. Sheep scattered on a sloping field visible from the road shaded by distance, and also bathed in the sunlight, seemed on the green background bright spots, with a strong tint of blue fringed with gold. "Those sheep are sky blue,--impressionists are right in a small degree," muttered Svirski; "but may the devil take them! I am going to marry!" And he returned to his meditations. Yes! The result did not answer to his hope and expectation. There are various thoughts which a man does not wish to confess to himself; there are feelings also which he does not wish to turn into definite thoughts. So it was with Svirski. He did not love Panna Ratkovski, and here was the direct answer to all the questions which he put to himself. But he dodged this answer as long as he could. He did not like to confess that he took that girl only because he had a great wish to marry. He wanted to explain to himself that he did not feel the affair finished, which was an evasion. He was not in love! Others reached love through a woman; but he wanted to fit a woman to his general internal demand for loving,--that is, he went by a road the reverse of the usual one. Others, having a divinity, built for it a church; he, having a church ready, was bringing into it a divinity, not because he had worshipped the divinity with all his power previously, but because it seemed to him not badly fitted for the architecture of the temple. And now he understood why he had shown so much ardor and resolution in the morning, but was so cold at that moment. By this was explained too the immense impetus in carrying out his plan, and the want of spiritual "halleluia," after it had been carried out. Svirski's astonishment began to pass into sadness. He thought that he would have done better, perhaps, if, instead of thinking so much about a woman, instead of forming theories of what a woman ought to be, he had caught up the first girl who pleased his heart and senses. He understood now that a man loves the woman whom he does love, and that he does not fit to her any preconceived ideas, for ideas of love--like children--can be born only of a woman. All this was the more felt by him since he was conscious that he could love immensely; and he saw more and more positively that he was not loving as he might love. He remembered what in his time Pan Stanislav had told him in Rome of a certain young doctor, who, trampled by a thoughtless puppet, said: "I know what she is; but I cannot tear my soul from her." There was love strong as death; that man loved! It is unknown why Panna Castelli and Pan Ignas came at once to Svirski's mind; he remembered also Pan Ignas's face as he had seen it in Prytulov, lost in contemplation and, as it were, rapt into Heaven. And again was roused in him the artist, who by whole years of custom takes the place of the man, even when the man is thinking of things the most personal. For a while he forgot himself and Panna Ratkovski, and thought of Pan Ignas's face, and of that which formed specially its most essential expression. Was it a certain concentrated exaltation? Yes! but there was something else which was still more essential. And suddenly he trembled. "A wonderful thing," thought he; "that is a tragic head." CHAPTER LV. A few days later Pan Ignas was summoned by Pan Stanislav, and went to the city. The young man had a great desire to remain in Prytulov; but Panna Helena wished absolutely that he should be present at the opening of her father's will. He went, therefore, with Pan Stanislav and the grand-nephew of old Pan Zavilovski,--the advocate Kononovich,--for that purpose to Yasmen. But when Pan Ignas, during the two following days, in his letters to "Nitechka," poured forth on paper only his feelings, and made not the least reference to the will, Pani Bronich, whom such effusions had delighted up to that time, confessed now, as a secret, to Pani Aneta, that that was a stupid way of writing to a betrothed, and that there was _quelque chose de louche_ in a silence which was as if designed. The first of those letters was sent, it is true, from the city, the second immediately after his arrival in Yasmen; the old lady insisted, however, that in every case Pan Ignas should have mentioned his hopes, at least, for by silence he showed "Nitechka" a lack of confidence, and simply offended her. Osnovski insisted, on the contrary, that Pan Ignas was silent concerning his hopes through delicacy toward Lineta; and on this subject it came to a little dispute between him and Pani Bronich, who on that occasion uttered a psychic principle, that men in general have too weak a conception of two things: logic and delicacy. "Oh, that is true! As to logic, it is not your fault, perhaps; but you are that way, my Yozio, all of you." Not being able, however, to stay two days in one place, she went to the city on some plausible pretext, so as to find an informant in the question of the will. Returning on the following day, she brought with her, first, Pani Mashko, whom she met at the Prytulov station, and who had been wishing for a long time to visit "that dear Anetka," and second, information that no new will of Pan Zavilovski had been found, and that the only and sole heiress of his immense property was Panna Helena. This news had been received in Prytulov already, by the third letter from Pan Ignas, which Lineta had received meanwhile; still its confirmation by Pani Bronich produced an uncommon impression, so that the arrival of Pani Mashko passed unobserved, as it were. This was all very strange. Those ladies had made the acquaintance of Pan Ignas as a man without property. Lineta became his betrothed when there were no hopes of a will. The affair had been arranged first under the influence of Pani Aneta, who was "firing the boilers, since there was need to move, and move quickly;" it took place under the influence of the general enthusiasm roused by Pan Ignas's poetry, under the influence of his fame; through the vanity of Pani Bronich and Lineta, which vanity felt not only satisfied, but borne away by this fact, that that famous and celebrated Zavilovski, who had turned all eyes to himself, was kneeling at the feet of no one else, but just "Nitechka." It took place, finally, for the sake of public opinion, which could not but glorify a young lady who had no thought for property, but only for that mental wealth which Pan Ignas possessed. It is true that, having begun in this way, everything went farther by the force too of that elemental rush, which, when once it has seized people, bears them on, without their will, as the currents of rivers bear objects swept away by them. Be what might, Lineta became the betrothed of a man without property; and had it not been for those hopes which rose afterward, neither she nor Pani Bronich, nor any one else, could have or would have taken it ill of Pan Ignas that he had no inherited fortune. But such is human nature, that just because those hopes had risen, and by rising had made Pan Ignas an imposing match in the full measure, no one could help feeling a certain disappointment when they were blown apart now by the wind of reality. Some were grieved sincerely; others, like Kopovski and like Pani Mashko, who did not know herself why, felt a certain satisfaction at such a turn of affairs, but even such a true friend as Osnovski could not resist some feeling of disappointment. Pan Ignas, in his last letter to Lineta, wrote among other things: "I should like to have wealth for thy sake; but what meaning has all wealth for me if compared with thee! I say sincerely that I have ceased to think of it; and I know that thou, whose feet walk not on the earth, art troubled no more than I am. And, as truly as I love thee, I am not troubled at all. These great assurances which I make are for me immensely sacred; hence thou must believe ma. Various wants and lacks threaten people in life, but I tell thee this simply, I will not give thee to any one. Thou art my golden! my one dear child, and lady." Lineta showed this letter to Pani Aneta, to Panna Ratkovski, and on the arrival of her aunt, to her aunt, of course. Pan Ignas had, indeed, not deceived himself as to her in this regard at least, that if in all Prytulov there was no talk of anything but old Pan Zavilovski's will, Lineta would be silent amid those conversations and regrets. It may be that her eyes assumed to a certain degree their former dreamy expression; maybe at the very corners of her mouth, when people spoke of Pan Ignas, something like a minute wrinkle of contempt might be gathered; maybe, finally, she talked very much with "aunt" evenings, when, after the general good-night, they went to their own rooms; but like a person who "does not walk on the earth," never did she raise her voice in this question before people. "Koposio," once on a time, when they were left alone for a minute, began to talk with her about it; but she put her finger first to her own lips, and then pointed from a distance toward his lips, in sign that she did not wish such conversation. What is more, even Pani Bronich spoke before her little and guardedly concerning her disappointment. But when "Nitechka" was not in the room, the old woman could not stop the flow to her mouth of that bitterness which had risen in her heart; this flow carried her a number of times so far that she lacked little of quarrelling with Osnovski. Osnovski, casting from his soul that feeling of disappointment which he had not been able to ward off at first, tried now with all his power to decrease the significance of the catastrophe, and show that Ignas was in general an exceptional match, and even in a financial view, quite a good one. "I do not think," said he, "that he would have stopped writing had he been old Zavilovski's heir; but the mere management of such an immense property would have taken so much time that his talent might have suffered. As the question is of Ignas, I remember, aunt, what Henry VIII. said, when some prince threatened Holbein: 'I can make ten lords out of ten peasants, if the fancy comes to me; but out of ten lords I cannot make one Holbein.' Ignas is an exceptional man. Believe me, aunt, I have always considered Lineta a charming and honest girl, and have always loved her; but she really rose in my eyes only when she appreciated Ignas. To be something in the life of a man like him, is what any woman might envy her. Is it not true, Anetka?" "Of course," answered Pani Osnovski; "it is pleasant for a woman to belong to a man who is something." Osnovski seized his wife's hand, and, kissing it, said, half in jest, half in earnest,-- "And dost thou not think that this often torments me, that such a being as thou art should belong to such a zero as Yozio Osnovski? But it is hard to help it! The thing has happened; and, besides, the zero loves much." Then he turned to Pani Bronich,-- "Think, aunt," said he, "Ignas has a number of thousands of rubles of his own; and, besides, after his father's death he will have what old Zavilovski secured to him. Poor he will not be." "Oh, naturally," answered Pani Bronich, shaking her head contemptuously; "Nitechka, in accepting Zavilovski, did not look for money, of course; if she had looked for money, it would have been enough for us to raise a hand at Pan Kanafaropulos." "Aunt! Mercy!" exclaimed Pani Aneta, laughing. "But nothing has happened," said Osnovski. "It is sure that Panna Helena will not marry, and the property will pass sometime, if not to Ignas, to his children,--that's the whole affair." Seeing, however, that the face of Pani Bronich was depressed continually, he added after a while,-- "Well, aunt, more agreement with the will of God! more calmness. Ignas is not an inch less." "Of course," answered she, with a tinge of anger; "of course all that changes nothing. Zavilovski in his way has talent; and every one must confess that in his way he forms a match beyond all expectations. Oh, yes; of this there cannot be two opinions. Of course nothing is to be said of the property, all the more since people tell various things of the ways by which old Pan Zavilovski increased it so greatly. May God be good to him, and pardon him for having deceived me, it is unknown why! This very day Nitechka and I prayed for his soul. It was difficult to do otherwise. Of course I should prefer that he had not had that inclination to untruth, for it may be a family trait. Nitechka and I would prefer, too, that Pan Ignas had given us less frequently to understand that he would be an heir of Pan Zavilovski." "I beg pardon most earnestly," interrupted Osnovski, with vigor. "He never gave that to be understood. Aunt will permit--this is too much. He did not wish to mention it; aunt asked him in my presence." But Pani Bronich was in her career, and nothing could stop her; so she said, with growing irritation,-- "He did not give Yozio to understand this, but he gave me to understand it. Nitechka can testify. Besides, I said to Yozio, 'Never mind this matter.' Of course nothing has changed; and if we have some grief, it is at least not from this cause. Yozio has never been a mother; and as a man he can never understand how much fear we mothers feel at the last moment before giving a child into strange hands. I have learned of late, just now, that Zavilovski, with all his qualities, has a violent temper; and he has. I have always suspected him of something similar; and that being so, it would be simply death for Nitechka. Pan Polanyetski himself did not deny that he has a violent temper. Pan Polanyetski himself, though his friend, so far as men can be friends, gave to understand that his father, too, had a violent temper, and because of it fell into insanity, which may be in the family. I know that Pan Ignas seems to love Nitechka, in as far as men can love truly; but will that love last long? That he is selfish, Yozio himself will not deny; for that matter, you are all selfish. Then let Yozio not be astonished that in these recent hours terror seizes me when I think that my darling may fall into the hands of a tyrant, a madman, and an egotist." "No," cried Osnovski, turning to his wife; "as I love thee, one's ears simply wither; one may simply lose one's head." But Pani Aneta seemed to amuse herself with that conversation as she would in a theatre. The quarrels of her husband with Pani Bronich always amused her; but now she was carried away more than usual, for Pani Bronich, looking at Osnovski as if with pity, continued,-- "Besides, that sphere! All those Svirskis and Polanyetskis and Bigiels! We are blinded in Zavilovski, all of us; but, to tell the truth, is that sphere fit for Nitechka? Hardly. The Lord God himself made a difference between people; and from that comes a difference in breeding. Perhaps Yozio does not give himself a clear account of this, for, in general, men are unable to give account to themselves of such matters; but I tell Yozio that there are shades and shades, which in life may become enormously important. Has Yozio forgotten who Nitechka is, and that if anything pains such a person as Nitechka, if anything wounds her, she may pay for it with her life? Let Yozio think who those people are, speaking among ourselves,--such people as the Polanyetskis, and such men as Svirski, and that whole company with which Pan Ignas associates, and with which he will force Nitechka to associate, perhaps!" "Well, let us take things from that point of view," interrupted Osnovski. "Very well! Let it be so. First of all, then, who was old Pan Zavilovski? That aunt knows clearly enough, even out of regard to her own relations with him. If it is a question, aunt, of the sphere, I have the honor to say that we all, in relation to such people as the Polanyetskis, are parvenus, and are taking liberties with them. I never enter into genealogies; but since aunt wants them, let aunt have them. Aunt must have heard that the Svirskis are princes. That line which settled in Great Poland dropped the title, but has the right to it; that is who they are. As to us, my grandfather was a manager in the Ukraine, and I do not think of denying that. Out of what did the Broniches grow? Aunt knows better than I do. I do not touch that matter; but, since we are alone, we can speak openly. Of the Castellis, too, aunt knows." "The Castellis are descended from Marino Falieri," exclaimed Pani Bronich, with enthusiasm. "Beloved aunt! I remind thee that we are alone." "But it depended on Nitechka to become the Marchioness Colimaçao." "_La vie parisienne!_" answered Osnovski. "Aunt knows that operetta. There is a Swiss admiral in it." Pani Aneta was amused to perfection; but it became disagreeable to Osnovski that he had raised in his own house reminiscences which were not agreeable to Pani Bronich, hence he added,-- "But why all our talk? Aunt knows how I have always loved Nitechka, and how from the core of my heart I wished her to be worthy of Ignas." But this was pouring oil on the flames, for Pani Bronich, hearing this blasphemy, lost the last of her cool blood, and exclaimed,-- "Nitechka worthy of Ignas? Such a--" Happily the entrance of Pani Mashko interrupted further conversation. Aunt Bronich was silent, as if indignation had stopped the words in her mouth; Pani Aneta began to inquire of Pani Mashko what the rest of the company were doing, and where she had left them. "Pan Kopovski, Lineta, and Stefania remained in the conservatory," answered Pani Mashko; "the two ladies are painting orchids, and Pan Kopovski amused us." "How?" asked Osnovski. "With conversation; we laughed heartily. He told us that his acquaintance, Pan Vyj, who very likely is a great man at heraldry, told him in all seriousness that there is a family in Poland with the escutcheon, 'Table legs.'" "If there is one," muttered Osnovski, humorously, "it is the family of the Kopovskis, beyond doubt." "And did Steftsia remain, too, in the conservatory?" asked Pani Aneta. "Yes; they are sketching together." "Dost wish to go to them?" "Let us go." But at that moment the servant brought letters, which Pan Osnovski looked over, and delivered. "For Anetka, for Anetka!" said he; "this little literary woman has an enormous correspondence always. For you," added he, turning to Pani Mashko; "for aunt; and this is for Steftsia,--somehow a known hand, quite familiar. The ladies will permit me to carry her this letter." "Of course; go," said Pani Aneta, with animation; "and we will read ours." Osnovski took the letter and went in the direction of the conservatory, looking at it, and repeating, "Whence do I know this hand?--as if--I know that I have seen this hand." In the conservatory he found three young people, sitting under a great arum at a yellow iron table, on which the orchid was standing. Both ladies were painting it in albums. Kopovski, a little behind them, dressed in a white-flannel costume and black stockings, was looking over the shoulders of the young ladies into the albums, smoking meanwhile a slender cigarette, which he had taken from an elegant cigarette-case lying near the flower-pot. "Good-day!" said Osnovski. "What do you think of my orchids? Splendid, aren't they? What peculiar flowers they are! Steftsia, here is a letter; ask the company to excuse thee, and read it, for it seems to me that I know the handwriting, but I cannot in any way remember whose it can be." Panna Ratkovski opened the letter, and began to read. After a while her face changed; a flame passed over her forehead, then paleness, and again a flame. Osnovski looked at her with curiosity. When she had finished reading, she showed him the signature, and said, with a voice which trembled somewhat,-- "See from whom the letter is." "Ah!" said Osnovski, who understood everything at once. "May I ask thee for a moment's talk?" "At once, my child," answered he, as if with a certain tenderness; "I will serve thee." And they went out of the conservatory. "But they have left us alone for once even," said Kopovski, naïvely. Lineta did not answer; but, taking Kopovski's white-leather cigarette-case, which was lying on the table, began to draw it across her face gently. He looked at that beautiful face with his wonderful eyes, beneath which she simply melted. Lineta had known for a long time what to think of him; his boundless stupidity had no longer any secret from her. Still the exquisiteness and incomparable beauty of that dullard brought her plebeian blood into some uncommon movement. Every hair in his beard had a certain marvellous and irresistible charm for her. "Have you noticed that for a long time they are watching us, like I know not whom?" continued Kopovski. But she, feigning not to hear, continued to draw the cigarette-case across her delicate face, and, bringing it nearer and nearer to her lips, said,-- "How soft this is; how pleasant to the touch!" Kopovski took the cigarette-case; but he put it to his lips and began to kiss lightly the part which a while before had touched Lineta's face. Then a moment of silence rose between them. "We must go from here," said Lineta. And, taking the pot of orchids, she wished to put it on steps in the conservatory; she was not able to do so, however, because of the slope of those steps. "Permit me," said Kopovski. "No, no!" answered Lineta; "it would fall, and be broken; I will put it on the other side." Saying this, she went with the pot of orchids in her hands around to the other side of the steps, where between them and the wall was a narrow passage. Kopovski followed her. There she stepped on to a pile of bricks, and put the orchids on the highest step; but at the moment when she turned to descend, the bricks moved under her feet, and she began to totter. Just at that moment, Kopovski, who was standing behind, caught her by the waist. For a few seconds they remained in that posture, she leaning with her shoulder against his breast, he drawing her toward him. Lineta leaned over more, so that at last her head was on his shoulder. "What are you doing? This is wrong!" she began to whisper, with panting breast, surrounding him with her hot breath. But he, instead of an answer, pressed his mustaches to her lips. All at once her arms embraced his neck with a passionate movement, and she began breathlessly and madly to return his kisses. In their ecstasy, neither observed that Osnovski, in returning through the open doors of the conservatory, passed along on the soft sand beyond the entrance, and looked at them with a face changed and pale as linen from emotion. CHAPTER LVI. Meanwhile Pan Ignas spent the time between Warsaw and Buchynek, going from one place to the other daily, remaining now here, now there, just as his work and business commanded. Since his marriage was to take place in the fall, immediately after the season in Scheveningen, Pan Stanislav told him that it was time to find a dwelling, and furnish it, even in some fashion. He and Bigiel promised every assistance in that affair. Pani Bigiel was to see to the part which pertained to housekeeping. Pan Ignas's presence in Buchynek was necessary also in view of his relations with Panna Helena. Though the will of her father, bearing date a year earlier, made her the only heiress of the whole immense property, she did not hide in the least that she knew that her father did not make another will simply because either he had not foreseen a death so sudden, or had deferred the matter from day to day, in the manner of old people. She had not the least doubt, however, that her father wished to do something for a man of the same name, and a relative; and she said openly that she held it a duty to carry out her father's wish. No one, it is true, could foresee in what measure she would decide to do that; and for her too it was difficult to answer such a question, before she had made an exact inventory of all the properties and moneys; meanwhile, however, she began to present Pan Ignas with everything which, in her opinion, male heirs should inherit. In this way, she gave him a part of the household plate, left after the deceased, as well as a considerable and valuable collection of arms, which the old man prized, and horses greatly esteemed by him,--these Polanyetski took on commission; and, finally, that collection of pipes the fate of which had concerned Kopovski so much. Cold, and apparently indifferent to all, intimidating people by her severe and concentrated expression of face, she had for Pan Ignas alone, in her voice and look, a certain something almost motherly; just as if with the property she had inherited from her father his inclination for the young man. He was indeed the only person on earth with whom she was connected by bonds of blood, or at least by identity of name. Learning from Pan Stanislav of the steps taken by Pan Ignas toward furnishing a house, she begged him to put in the bank for her a considerable sum in the name of "Pan Ignas," for outlays toward that end, begging, however, not to mention the matter to him immediately. Pan Ignas, who had a young and grateful heart, became attached to her quickly, as to an elder sister; and she felt perfectly that sympathy of two natures, who wish each other well, and feel mutual confidence. Time usually changes original sympathies of that sort into great, enduring friendship, which in evil periods of life may be of great support. But at that juncture, Pan Ignas could devote to her barely a tiny part of his soul; for he had applied soul, heart, and all his powers, with the entire exclusiveness of a fanatic in love, to the greater and greater adoration of "Nitechka." Meanwhile he was as busy as a fly in a pot, between Buchynek and the city, and even made new acquaintances. One of these was Professor Vaskovski; who had returned from his pilgrimage among the "youngest of the Aryans." He had visited the shores of the Adriatic, and the entire Balkan peninsula; but the state of his health was so pitiful that Pan Stanislav took him for good to Buchynek, to save the poor man from being cheated, and to give him needful care, which in his loneliness he could not have found in another place. Pan Ignas, himself a person of lofty soul, and ready to grasp every broad idea, though it might seem absurd to common-sense fools, conceived from the first day a love for the old man, with his theory of a historical mission predestined to the youngest of the Aryans. Of this theory he had heard already more than once from Svirski and Polanyetski, and considered it a splendid dream. But it struck him and Svirski and the Polanyetskis that the professor, on returning from his journey, answered only that "No one could escape the service which Christ had preordained to him;" then he gazed forward with his mystic eyes, as if seeking something, or looking for something in infinity, and his old face took on an expression of such deep sorrow, and even of such pain, that no one had the heart to touch that particular question. The doctor called in by Polanyetski declared that the greasy kitchen of the youngest of the Aryans had given the old man a serious catarrh of the stomach, to which was added _marasmus senilis_. The professor had, in fact, a serious catarrh of the stomach; but Pan Ignas divined in him something else,--namely, a desperate struggle between doubt and that in which he believed, and to which, as a real maniac-idealist, he had devoted a lifetime. Pan Ignas alone understood the whole tragedy of such a final _ergo erravi_; and he was doubly moved,--first, as a man with a heart, second, as a poet, who at once saw a theme for a poem: the old man before the house, in the sun, sitting on the ruin of his life and beliefs, with the words, "vanity, vanity," on his lips, and waiting for death, whose steps he hears now in the distance. But with the professor it was not so bad, perhaps, as Pan Ignas had imagined. "The youngest of the Aryans" might, indeed, have disappointed him; but there remained the faith that Christianity had not uttered its last word yet, and that the coming epoch in the life of humanity would not be anything else than a spreading of the spirit of Christ, and a transfer of it from relations between individuals to general human relations. "Christ in history" did not cease to be for him a vision of the future. He believed even always that the mission of introducing love into history was predestined to the youngest of the Aryans; but from the time of his journey a deep sadness had seized him, for he understood that, before that could be realized, not only he, but whole generations, must die of catarrh of the stomach, caused by the indigestible kitchen of principalities on the Danube. Meanwhile he shut himself up in himself, and in silence which had more the appearance of life-sorrow than it was in reality. Of his "idea," he hardly ever spoke directly, but the idea was evident. Just as the hand of a clock, stopped at a certain hour, never indicates any hour but that, so the indicator of his thought did not desert that idea; for to various questions he answered with words which were rather connected with it than the thing touching which he was questioned. Whenever they wished to call him back to reality, it was needful to rouse him. In dress he neglected himself utterly, and seemed every day to forget more and more that buttons on a vest, for example, are there to be buttoned. With his eternal absence of mind; with his eyes both short-sighted and child-like, reflecting in some mechanical way external impressions; with a face of concern, on which pimples had become still more evident because of defective digestion; finally, with a neglect of dress, and his wonderful trousers, which, it is unknown for what reason, were twice as wide as the trousers of other men,--he roused mirth in strangers, and became frequently the object of jokes more or less malicious. It seems that he roused such feelings first of all in the "youngest of the Aryans." In general, they considered him as a man in whose head the staves lacked a hoop; but some showed him compassion. The word "harmless" struck his ears frequently, but he feigned not to hear it. He felt, however, that at Pan Stanislav's he was comfortable; that no one laughed at him, no one showed him the compassion shown idiots. Finally, neither the too greasy kitchen of the "youngest of the Aryans," nor the catarrh of the stomach, had taken away his boundless forbearance, and his kindness to people. He was always that dear old professor who fell into revery, but who recovered his senses when it was a question of others. He loved, as of old, Marynia, Pan Stanislav, Pani Emilia, Svirski, the Bigiels, even Mashko,--in a word, all those with whom life had brought him in contact. In general, he had a certain strange understanding of people; namely, that all, whether willing or unwilling, were serving some purpose, and were like pawns which the hand of God is moving for reasons which He Himself knows. Artists, like Svirski, he esteemed as envoys who "reconcile." He looked in the same way on Pan Ignas, whose poetry he had read before. On becoming acquainted with the author, he looked at him as curiously as at some peculiar object; but in the morning, when the poet had gone to the city, and they began to talk about him during tea, the old man raised his finger, and, turning to Marynia, said, with a look of mystery,-- "Oh, he is God's bird! He does not know what God wrote on his head nor to what He designed him." Marynia told him of Pan Ignas's approaching marriage, of his feeling for Panna Lineta, and of her, praising her goodness and beauty. "Yes," said the professor, when he had heard all, "you see she too has her mission, and she too is 'chosen.' God commanded her to watch over that flame; and since she is chosen, she should be honored for having been chosen. Do you see? Favor is upon her." Then he grew thoughtful and added, "All this is precious for humanity in the future." Pan Stanislav looked at his wife, as if wishing to say that the professor was dreaming disconnectedly; but the latter blinked somewhat, and, looking before him, continued,-- "There is in the sky a Milky Way; and when God wishes, He takes dust from it and makes new worlds. And you see, I think there is likewise a spiritual Milky Way, made up of all that people have ever thought and felt. Everything is in it,--what genius has accomplished, what talent has wrought; in it are the efforts of men's minds, the honesty of women's hearts, human goodness, and people's pains. Nothing perishes, though everything turns to dust, for out of that dust, by the will of God, new spiritual worlds are created for people." Then he began to blink, weighing what he had said; after that, as if coming to himself, he looked for the buttons of his vest, and added,-- "But that young woman must have a soul pure as a tear, since God pointed her out and designated her to be the guardian of that fire." Svirski's arrival interrupted further conversation. For Marynia it was not a surprise, as the artist had promised her that either he would come himself or write to inform her what turn his affair had taken. Marynia, seeing him now through the window, was nearly certain that all had ended auspiciously; but when he had entered the room and greeted every one, he looked at her with such a strange face that she did not know what to divine from it. Evidently he wished to speak of the affair, and that immediately; but he did not like to do so before the old professor and Pan Stanislav. So the latter, to whom Marynia had told everything, came to his aid, and, pointing to his wife, said,-- "She needs a walk greatly; take her to the garden, for I know that she and you have some words to say." After a while they found themselves in the alley among the white poplars. They walked a time in silence, he swaying on his broad hips of an athlete, and seeking for something from which to begin, she bent somewhat forward, with her kindly face full of curiosity. Both were in a hurry to speak, but Svirski began at another point. "Have you told all to your husband?" asked he, on a sudden. Marynia blushed as if caught in a fault, and answered,-- "Yes; for Stas is such a friend of yours, and I do not like to have secrets from him." "Of course not," said Svirski, kissing her hand. "You did well. I am not ashamed of that, just as I am not ashamed of this, that I got a refusal." "Impossible! You are joking," said Marynia, halting. "I give you my word that I am not." And, seeing the pain which the news caused her, he began to speak as if with concern. "But don't take it more to heart than I do. That happened which had to happen. See, I have come; I am standing before you; I have not fired into my forehead, and have no thought of doing so; but that I got a basket[12] is undoubted." "But why? what did she answer you?" "Why? what did she answer me?" repeated Svirski. "You see, just in that is hidden something from which there is a bitter taste in my mouth. I confess to you sincerely that I did not love Panna Ratkovski deeply. She pleased me; they all please me. I thought that she would be an honest and grateful heart, and I made a declaration here; but more through calculation, and because it was time for me. Afterward I had even a little burning at the heart. There was even a moment when I said to myself, 'Thy declaration in Buchynek was not precise enough: better put it forward another corner.' I grew shamefaced. 'What the deuce!' thought I; 'thou hast crossed the threshold with one foot; go over with the other.' And I wrote her a letter, this time with perfect precision; and see what she has written as an answer." Then he drew a letter from his coat-pocket, and said, before he began to read it,-- "At first there are the usual commonplaces, which you know. She esteems me greatly; she would be proud and happy (but she prefers not to be); she nourishes for me sincere sympathy. (If she will nourish her husband as she does that sympathy, he will not be fat.) But at the end she says as follows:-- "'I have not the power to give you my heart with such delight as you deserve. I have chosen otherwise; and if I never shall be happy, I do not wish at least to reproach myself hereafter with not having been sincere. In view of what has happened here I cannot write more; but believe me that I shall be grateful to you all my life for your confidence, and henceforth I shall pray daily that God permit you to find a heart worthy of you, and to bless you all your life.' "That is all." A moment of silence followed; then Svirski said,-- "So far as I am concerned, these are empty words; but they mean, I love another." "That is the case, I suppose," replied Marynia, sadly. "Poor girl! for that is an honest letter." "An honest letter, an honest letter!" cried Svirski. "They are all honest, too. That is why it is a little bitter for me. She doesn't want me. All right; that is permitted to every one. She is in love; that, too, is permitted. But with whom is she in love? Not with Osnovski or Pan Ignas, of course. With whom, then? With that head of a walking-stick, that casket, that pretty man, that tailor's model,--with that ideal of a waiting maid. You have seen such beautiful gentlemen depicted on pieces of muslin? That is he, perfectly. If he should stand in a barber's window, young women would burst in the glass. When he wishes, he puts on a dress-coat; when not, he goes so, and all right! You remember what I said of him,--that he was a male houri? And this is bitter, and this is ill-tasting" (he spoke with growing irritation, accenting with special emphasis the word _is_), "and this speaks badly of women; for be thou, O man, a Newton, a Raphael, a Napoleon, and wish thou as thy whole reward one heart, one woman's head, she will prefer some lacquered Bibisi. That's how they are." "Not all women, not all. Besides, as an artist, you should know what feeling is. Something falls on a person, and that is the end of all reasoning." "True," said Svirski, calmly; "I know that not all women are so. And as to love, you say that something falls, and there is an end. Perhaps so. That is like a disease. But there are diseases by which the more noble kinds of creatures are not affected. There is, for instance, a disease of the hoofs. You will permit me to say that it is needful to have hoofs in order to get this disease. But there has never been a case that a dove fell in love with a hoopoo, though a hoopoo is a very nice bird. You see that doesn't happen to the dove. Hoopoos fall in love with hoopoos. And let them fall in love for themselves, if only they will not pretend to be doves. That is all I care. Remember how I spoke once against Panna Castelli at Bigiel's. And still she chose Pan Ignas at last. For me, it is a question of those false aspirations, that insincerity, and those phrases. If thou art a hoopoo's daughter, have the courage to own it. Do not pretend; do not lie; do not deceive. I, a man of experience, would have wagered my neck on this, that Panna Ratkovski is simply incapable of falling in love with Kopovski; and still she has. I am glad that here it is not a question of me, but of comedy, of that conventional lying,--and not of Panna Ratkovski, but of this, that such a type as Kopovski conquers." "True," said Marynia; "but we ought to find out why all this has become entangled somehow." But Svirski waved his hand. "Speaking properly," said he, "it is rather unravelled. If she had married me! surely I should have carried her at last in my arms. I give you my word. In me immensely much tenderness is accumulated. I should have been kind to her, and it would have been pleasant for both of us. I am also a little sorry for it. Still, she is not the only one on earth. You will find some honest soul who will want me; and soon, my dear lady, for in truth at times I cannot endure as I am. Will you not?" Marynia began to be amused, seeing that Svirski himself did not take the loss of Panna Ratkovski to heart so very greatly. But, thinking over the letter a little more calmly, she remembered one phrase, to which she had not turned attention at first, being occupied entirely with the refusal, and she was disquieted by the phrase. "Have you noticed," asked she, "that in one place, she says, 'After what has happened here I cannot write more'? Can you think what that may be?" "Perhaps Kopovski has made a declaration." "No; in such a case she would have written more explicitly. If she has become attached to him, she is a poor girl indeed, for likely she has no property, and neither is Pan Kopovski rich, they say; therefore he would hardly decide?" "True," said Svirski; "you know that that came to my mind, too. She is in love with him,--that is undoubted; but he will not marry her." Then he stopped, and said, "In such a case, why is he staying there?" "They amuse themselves with him, and he amuses himself," answered Marynia, hurriedly, while turning away her face somewhat, so that Svirski might not notice her confusion. And she answered untruly. Since Pan Stanislav had shared his views with her touching Kopovski's relations with Pani Osnovski, she had thought of them frequently; the stay of the young man in Prytulov seemed to her suspicious more than once, and explaining it by the presence of Panna Ratkovski dishonest. This dishonesty was increased, if Panna Ratkovski had fallen in love really with Kopovski. But all those intrigues might come to the surface any moment; and Marynia thought with alarm then whether the words of Panna Ratkovski--"after what has happened here"--had not that meaning precisely. In such a case it would be a real catastrophe for that honest Pan Osnovski and for Panna Steftsia. Really everything might be involved in a tragic manner. "I will go to-morrow to Prytulov," said Svirski; "I wish to visit the Osnovskis, just to show that I cherish no ill-feelings. If anything has happened there really, or if any one has fallen ill, I shall discover it and let you know. Pan Ignas is not there at this moment." "No. Pan Ignas is in the city. To-morrow, or after to-morrow surely, he will come here, or go to Yasmen. Stas, too, is preparing for the city to-day. Sister Aniela is ill, and we wish to bring her here. Since I cannot go, Stas is going." "Sister Aniela? That one whom your husband calls Pani Emilia,--a Fra Angelico face, a perfectly sainted face, a beautiful face! I saw her perhaps twice at your house. Oh, if she were not a religious!" "She is sick, the poor thing. She can barely walk. She has disease of the spine, from overwork." "Oh, that is bad," said Svirski. "You will have the professor, and that poor woman? But what kind people you are!" "That is Stas," replied Marynia. At that moment Pan Stanislav appeared at the end of the walk, and approached them with a hurried step. "I hear that you are going to the city to-day," said Svirski; "let us go together." "Agreed!" And, turning to his wife, he said,-- "Marynia, hast thou not walked enough? Wilt thou lean on me?" Marynia took his arm, and they walked to the veranda together; after that she went in to give command to bring the afternoon tea. "I have received a wonderful despatch," said Pan Stanislav; "I did not wish to show it before my wife. Osnovski asks me where Ignas is, and asks that I go to the city on his affair. What can that be?" "It is a wonderful thing," answered Svirski. "Panna Ratkovski writes me that something has happened there." "Has any one fallen ill?" "They would have sent for Pan Ignas directly. If it were Panna Castelli or Pani Bronich, they would summon him at once." "But if Osnovski didn't wish to frighten him, he would telegraph to me." And both looked each other in the eyes with alarm. FOOTNOTES: [12] Was rejected. CHAPTER LVII. Next day, half an hour after Pan Stanislav's arrival, Osnovski rang at his house. At the sound of the bell, Pan Stanislav, who had been in great alarm since the day before, went himself to the door. He had admitted for some time that a bomb might burst in Prytulov any day; but he struggled in vain with his thoughts, to discover what connection the explosion might have with Pan Ignas. Osnovski pressed his hand at greeting with special force, as is done in exceptional circumstances; and when Pan Stanislav invited him to his study, he asked on the way,-- "Are you living in Buchynek?" "I am; we are perfectly alone." In the study, Osnovski, when he had sat in the armchair pointed out to him, bent his head and was silent for a while, breathing hurriedly meantime; for in consequence of excessive exercise he was affected somewhat with distention of the lungs. At present emotion, and the steps, obstructed his breath still more. Pan Stanislav waited patiently for some time; at last his inborn curiosity conquered, and he asked,-- "What has happened?" "A misfortune has happened," said Osnovski, in deep sorrow. "Ignas's marriage is broken off." "Why?" "Those are things so disagreeable that it would be better for Ignas perhaps not to know the reasons. For a time, I even hesitated to mention them. But he ought to know all; for this is a question of more importance than his self-love. Indignation and disgust may help him to bear the misfortune. The marriage is broken, for Panna Castelli is not worthy of such a man as Pan Ignas; and if to-day there could be a talk of renewing the relation, I would be the first to veto it decisively." Here Osnovski began to catch breath again; but Pan Stanislav, who had been listening as if fixed to the floor, burst out suddenly,-- "By the dear God, what has happened?" "This has happened, that those ladies went abroad three days ago, with Kopovski as the betrothed of Panna Castelli." Pan Stanislav, who a moment before had sprung up from the chair, sat down again. On his face, with all its emotion and alarm, was reflected unspeakable astonishment. He looked for some time at Osnovski, and then, as if unable to collect his thoughts, said,-- "Kopovski?--and has Panna Castelli gone too?" But Osnovski was too much occupied with the affair itself to turn attention to the particular form of Pan Stanislav's inquiry. "It is unfortunate," said he; "you know that I am related to those ladies: my mother was a sister of Pani Bronich, and also of Lineta's mother; and for a time we were reared together. You will understand that I would rather spare them. But let that go. Our relations are broken; and, besides, if Lineta were my own sister, I would say what I say now. As to Pan Ignas, since my wife and I are going, and that to-day I may not find him, I will even say openly that I lack courage to talk with him; but I will tell you what I saw. You, as his near friend, may be able to soften the blow; he should know everything, for in a misfortune of this kind, there is no better cure than disgust." Here he began to tell Pan Stanislav what he had seen in the conservatory. Excited himself, he lost breath at moments, but was unable to resist a certain astonishment at sight of the feverishness with which Pan Stanislav listened. He had hoped for cool blood in the man; he could not, of course, divine that Pan Stanislav had personal reasons, in virtue of which a narrative of that sort acted more powerfully on his nerves than would news even of the death of Pan Ignas or Panna Castelli. "At the first moment I lost my head," continued Osnovski; "I am not hasty, but how I avoided breaking his bones, I know not. Perhaps I remembered that he was my guest; perhaps, since it is a question here of something more important than he, I thought of Ignas; perhaps I thought of nothing. I lost my head, and went out. After a time I returned, and told him to follow me. I saw that he was pale, but decided. In my own room I told him that he had acted unworthily; that he had abused the hospitality of an honorable house; and that Lineta was a wretch, for whom I had not sufficient words of contempt; that, by this same act, her marriage with Pan Ignas was broken,--but that I would force him to marry her, though I had to go to extremities. Here it turned out that they must have taken counsel during the interval in which I left them alone; for he told me that he had been in love with Lineta a long time, and that he was ready to marry her at any moment. As to Pan Ignas, I felt that Kopovski was repeating words which Lineta had dictated, for he told me that which he could not have come at himself. He said that he was ready to give every satisfaction, but that he was not bound to count with Pan Ignas, for he had no obligations touching him: 'Panna Lineta has chosen me finally; that,' said he, 'is all the worse for him, but it is her affair.' What was going on meanwhile between aunt and Lineta, I cannot tell; it is enough that before I had finished with Kopovski, Aunt Bronich rushed in like a fury, with reproaches, saying that I and my wife had not permitted Lineta to follow the natural impulse of her heart; that we had thrust her on Pan Ignas, whom she had never loved; that Lineta had cried whole nights, and that she would have paid for that marriage with her life; that what happened now was by the express will of God,--and so for a whole hour. We are to blame; Pan Ignas is to blame,--they alone are faultless." Here Osnovski rubbed his forehead with his hand, and said,-- "I am thirty-six years of age; but before this affair I could not even imagine what woman's perversity may be. I cannot understand yet such an inconceivable power of perverting things, of placing them bottom upward. I understand what the situation was; I understand that they thought everything finished with Pan Ignas, even for this alone, that I hindered, and that there was no one left for them save Kopovski. But the ease with which white was made black, and black white; that lack of moral sense, that absence of truth and justice,--that egotism without bound or bottom. The deuce might take them were it not for Ignas. He would have been most unhappy with them; but what a blow for a man of such nature, and so much in love; what a deception! But Lineta! Who could have supposed? Kopovski, such a fool, such a fool! And that young woman thought to be so full of impulses; she who a few weeks before exchanged rings, and gave her word! And she the betrothed of Pan Ignas! As God lives, a man might lose his senses." "A man might lose his senses," repeated Pan Stanislav, as an echo. A moment of silence followed. "But is it long since this happened?" asked Pan Stanislav, at last. "Three days ago they went to Scheveningen together. They started that very day; Kopovski had a passport. See how a supreme ass may still have some cunning. He had a passport ready, for he pretended to pay court to Panna Ratkovski, my cousin, and to be ready to go abroad with us; he pretended to be courting this one, so as to have the chance of turning the other one's head. Ai, poor Pan Ignas, poor man! I give you my word, that if he had been my brother, I should not have had more sympathy for him. Better, better, that he had not bound himself to such a Lineta; but what a crash!" Here Osnovski took out a handkerchief and rubbed his glasses, blinking meanwhile with a suffering and helpless expression of face. "Why did you not inform us earlier?" inquired Pan Stanislav. "Why did I not inform you earlier? Because my wife fell ill. Nervous attacks--God knows what! You will not believe how she took it to heart. And no wonder! Such a woman as she is--and in our house! With her sensitiveness, that was a blow, for it was a deception on the part of Lineta, whom she loved so much; and her sorrow for Ignas, and that contact with evil, and her disgust! On such a pure and sensitive nature as hers is, that was more than was needed. At the first moments I thought that she would be dangerously ill, and even now I say, God grant that it have no fatal effect on her nerves! We simply cannot give an account to ourselves of what takes place in a soul like hers at the very sight of evil." Pan Stanislav looked carefully at Osnovski, bit his mustache, and was silent. "I sent for the doctor," continued Osnovski, after a while, "and lost my head a second time. Happily, Stefania Ratkovski was there, and that worthy Pani Mashko. Both occupied themselves with Anetka so earnestly that I shall be grateful to them for a lifetime. Pani Mashko seems cold, but she is such a cordial person--" "I judge simply," said Pan Stanislav, wishing to turn the conversation from Pani Mashko, "that if old Zavilovski had left his property to Ignas, all this would not have happened." "Perhaps not; but for me again it is not subject to doubt that if Lineta had married Ignas, and even if he owned all Pan Zavilovski's property, her instinct would attract her toward as many Kopovskis as she might chance to meet in her lifetime; she is that kind of soul. But I understand some points; I have said that it is possible to lose one's mind at the thought that things are as they are, but I give a partial account to myself of what has happened. Hers is too common a nature to love really such a man as Pan Ignas; she needs Kopovskis. But they talked into her various lofty impulses, and finally she talked into herself that which did not exist. They seized on Ignas through vanity, through self-love, because of public opinion, and because they had no true knowledge of themselves; but what is insincere cannot last. From the moment when their vanity was satisfied, Ignas ceased to interest those ladies. Then they were afraid that with him, perhaps, they would not have such a life as alone is of worth to them; perhaps he, with his too lofty style, began to weary them. Add to this the story of the will, which, without being certainly the main cause of the catastrophe, diminished Pan Ignas in their eyes; add, before all, the instincts of Lineta's nature; add Kopovski, and you have an answer to all. There are women like Pani Polanyetski or my Anetka; there are women, also, like Lineta and her aunt." Here Osnovski was silent again for a time; then he said,-- "I see the regret and indignation of your wife, and I am sorry that you have not seen how this affected mine--or even Pani Mashko. Yes, there are women and women; but I tell you that we ought to thank God every day on our knees for having given us such wives as we have." And his voice trembled with emotion. Pan Stanislav, though for him it was a question mainly of Pan Ignas, was simply astounded that a man who, some minutes before, understood things so profoundly and well, could be so naïve. A bitter smile came on him, too, at mention of Pani Mashko's indignation. In general, he was seized by a feeling of a certain crushing irony of life, the whole immensity of which he had never seen before so distinctly. "Will you not see Ignas?" asked he, after a while. "I tell you plainly that I do not feel sufficient courage; to-day I return to Prytulov, and to-day we will go from our station. I must take my wife abroad,--first, because she herself begged me tearfully to do so, and second, perhaps her health will be restored by change of air. We will go somewhere to the seaside, only not to Scheveningen, where they went with Kopovski. But I have a great request to make of you. You know how I love and value Ignas? Let me know by letter how the poor man receives the news, and what happens to him. I would ask the favor of Svirski, but I may not see him." Then Osnovski covered his face and said,-- "Ai! how sad all this is, how sad!" "Very well," said Pan Stanislav; "send me your address, and I will report to you how matters turn. But since the grievous mission falls to me of telling Ignas what has happened, lighten it for me. It is necessary that he receive information not from a third person, or a fourth, but from some one who saw everything. If he hears of the event from me, he may think that I represent the affair inaccurately. In such cases a man grasps at every shadow of a hope. Sit down and write to him. I will give him your letter in support of what I tell him; otherwise he may be ready to fly after them to Scheveningen. I consider such a letter indispensable." "Will he not come here soon?" "No; his father is sick, and he is with him. He thinks that I shall be here only in the afternoon. Write to him surely." "You are right, perfectly right," said Osnovski. And he sat down at the writing-desk. "Irony of life, irony of life!" thought Pan Stanislav; "bloody irony is this which has met Pan Ignas. What is such a person as Panna Castelli, with her bearing of a swan, and her instincts of a chambermaid,--that 'chosen of God,' as Vaskovski said only yesterday? What is Pani Bronich, and Osnovski, with faith in his wife, and the nervous attacks of that wife, caused by the mere contact with evil, of _such a pure_ soul, and the indignation of Pani Mashko? Nothing but a ridiculous human comedy, in which some are deceiving others, and others deceiving themselves; nothing but deceived and deceivers; nothing but mistakes, blindness, and errors, and lies of life, and victims of error, victims of deceit, victims of illusions; a complication without issue; a ridiculous, farcical, and desperate irony, covering the feelings, the passions, and hopes of people, just as snow covers fields in winter--and that is life." These thoughts were for Pan Stanislav more grievous because, rising on a basis purely personal, they became at once a kind of reckoning with his conscience. He was enough of an egoist to refer everything to himself; and he was not fool enough not to see that in that most ironical human comedy he was playing a rôle immensely abject. His position was of that sort that he wished with all the power of his breath to hiss that Panna Castelli; and still he understood that if there was any one who was not free to judge her, it was he. In what was he better? In what was he less vile? She had betrayed a man for a fool; he had betrayed his wife for a brainless puppet. She had followed her instincts of a milliner; he had followed his instincts of an ape. But she had trampled on artificial phrases merely, with which she deceived herself and others; he had trampled on principles. She had betrayed confidence, and broken her word; he had betrayed confidence also, and broken more than a word,--he had broken an oath. And in view of this what can he say? Has he the right to condemn her? If there is no way to justify her, if he is ready to acknowledge that it would be unjust and deserving of indignation for a person like her to become the wife of Pan Ignas, with what right is he the husband of Marynia? If he can find even one word of condemnation for Panna Castelli,--and it is impossible not to find it,--and he wishes to be consistent, he should separate from Marynia, which he will never have either the will or the power to do. There is a vicious circle for you. Pan Stanislav had passed many bitter moments because of his _success_; but this moment was so grievous that it even filled him with amazement. By degrees it became simply a torture. At last, through the simple instinct of self-preservation, he began to seek for something to give him even momentary relief. But in vain did he say to himself that such people as Kopovski would not have taken his position to heart so. That was the same consolation to him as if he had thought that a cat or a horse would not have taken it to heart so either. In vain he remembered the words of Balzac: "Infidelity, when undiscovered, is nothing; when discovered, it is a trifle." "That's a lie," repeated he, gritting his teeth, "a pleasant _nothing_, which burns so!" He understood, it is true, that behind the fact itself there may be something which heightens or lessens its criminality; and he understood also that in his case all the circumstances are of a kind to make the fault immense and unpardonable. "Here," thought he, "it takes from me the right of judging, the right of serving with may conscience. Those women sacrificed a man of the loftier kind for an idiot; they trampled him; they pushed him into misfortune, into tragedy, which may break him; they did this in a mean and abject manner, and I cannot, even in my soul, brand such a woman as Panna Castelli." And never before had the truth become to him so nearly tangible that as a man for certain crimes is deprived of a share in public life, so he now had become deprived of a share in moral life. He had had remorse enough already, but now he saw still new desolations, which he had not noted at first. The more he thought over the tragedy of Pan Ignas, and took in its extent with growing clearness, the more he was seized by a dull alarm, and a kind of prescience that in virtue of a higher and mysterious logic, something terrible must happen in his fate as well. For the man who bears in his system the germs of mortal disease, death is a question of time simply. At last, however, he found this relief, that his thoughts turned exclusively to the present, and to Pan Ignas. How will Pan Ignas receive the news? How will he hear it? In view of the man's exaltation, in view of his deep, blind faith in Lineta, and the love which he feels for her, these questions were simply terrible. "Everything in him will be broken; all will slide away from under his feet in a moment," thought Pan Stanislav. It seemed to him that there was something repulsive and monstrous in this, that even those relations of life which do not bear in them germs of tragedy, and which ought to end well, end badly without any reason; and that life is, as it were, a forest in which misfortunes hunt a man more venomously than dogs hunt a wild beast, for they hunt in silence. Pan Stanislav felt suddenly that besides faith in himself, which he had lost already, there might fail in him various other things too, which are more important, because they are more fundamental. In this moment, however, he thought more of Pan Ignas than of anything else. He had a good heart, and Pan Ignas was near him; hence he was touched sincerely by his misfortune. "But that man is simply writing his sentence," thought he, as he heard the squeak of Osnovski's pen in the next room. "Poor fellow! And this is so undeserved." Osnovski finished the letter at last, and, opening the door, said,-- "I have written guardedly, but written the whole truth. May God give him strength now! Could I think that I should have to send him such news!" But under the sincere sorrow was evident, as it were, a certain satisfaction with his own work. Clearly he judged that he had succeeded in writing better than he had expected. "And now I repeat once again an earnest prayer: send me even a couple of words about Ignas. Oh, if this were not so irreparable!" said he, extending his hand to Pan Stanislav. "Till we meet again! till we meet again! I will write to Ignas, too, but now I must go, for my wife is waiting. God grant us to see each other in happier times! Till we meet! A most cordial greeting to the lady," and he went out. "What is to be done?" thought Pan Stanislav. "Limit myself to sending the letter to Pan Ignas in his lodgings, or look for him, or wait for him here? It would be well not to leave him alone at such a time; but I must return in the evening to Marynia, so that he will be alone in any case. Besides, who can hinder him from hiding? In his place, I should hide too,--I must go to Pani Emilia's." He felt so tired from that sudden tragedy, from thoughts about himself, and thoughts about the difficult rôle which he had to play with Pan Ignas, that he remembered with some satisfaction that he must go to Pani Emilia's and take her to Buchynek. For a moment he was tempted to defer the interview with Pan Ignas, and the delivery of the letter, till the following day; but it occurred to him that if Pan Ignas did not find him at home, he might go to Buchynek. "Better let him know everything here," thought he; "in view of Marynia's condition, I must keep everything perfectly secret from her,--both what has happened, and what may happen hereafter. I must warn every one to be silent. Pan Ignas would do better to go abroad; I could tell Marynia that he is in Scheveningen, and later, that they disagreed and separated there." Now again he began to walk with long strides through the room, and repeat,-- "The irony of life! the irony of life!" Then bitterness and reproaches flamed in on his soul with a new current. He was seized by a wonderful feeling, as it were, of some kind of responsibility for what had happened. "Deuce take it!" repeated he; "but I am not to blame at least in this matter." After a while, however, it cane to his head that if he were not to blame personally, he, in every case, was a stick from the same forest as Panna Castelli, and that such as he had infected that social-moral atmosphere in which such flowers might spring up and blossom. At this thought he was carried away by savage anger. The bell in the entrance was heard now. Pan Stanislav was a man of courage, but at the sound of that bell he felt his heart beat in alarm. He had forgotten his promise to lunch with Svirski, and at the first moment he was sure that Pan Ignas was coming. He recovered only when he heard the voice of the artist, but he was so wearied that Svirski's coming was disagreeable. "Now he will let out his tongue; he will talk," thought he, with displeasure. But he decided to tell Svirski all, for the affair could not be kept secret in any case. The point for him was that Svirski, if he visited Buchynek, should know how to bear himself before Marynia. He was mistaken in supposing that Svirski would annoy him with theories about ungrateful hearts. The artist took the matter, not from the side of general conclusions, but that of Pan Ignas. To conclusions he was to come later; at present, while listening to the narrative, he only repeated, "A misfortune! May God protect!" But at times, too: "May the thunderbolts crush!" when his fists of a Hercules were balled in anger. Pan Stanislav was carried away somewhat, and attacked Panna Castelli without mercy, forgetting that he was uttering thereby a sentence on himself. But, in general, the conversation gave him relief. He regained at last his usual power of management; he concluded that in no case could he leave Pan Ignas at such a moment, so he begged Svirski to take his place, conduct Pani Emilia to Buchynek, and excuse to Marynia his absence with counting-house duties. Svirski, who had no reason now to visit Prytulov, agreed very willingly, and since the carriage engaged by Pan Stanislav had arrived, both drove to Pani Emilia's. Labor beyond her strength--labor which, as a Sister of Charity, she had to fulfil--brought on a disease of the spine. They found her emaciated and changed, with a transparent face and eyelids half closed. She walked yet, but by leaning on two sticks and not having full use of her lower limbs. As labor had brought her near life, so sickness had begun to remove her from it. She was living in the circle of her own thoughts and reminiscences, looking at the affairs of people somewhat as though a dream, somewhat as from the other shore. She suffered very little, which the doctors considered a bad sign; but, as a Sister of Charity, she had learned something of various diseases, and knew that there was no help for her, or, at least, that help was not in human power, and she was calm. To Pan Stanislav's inquiries she answered, raising her eyelids with effort,-- "I walk poorly; but it is well for me that way." And it was well for her. One moral scruple alone gave her trouble. In her soul she believed most profoundly that were she to visit Lourdes she would regain her health surely. She did not wish to go because of the remoteness of Lourdes from Litka's grave, and because of her own wish for death. But she did not know whether she had a right to neglect anything to preserve the life given her, and especially whether she had a right to put a hindrance in the way of grace and miracles, and she was disturbed. At present, however, the thought of seeing Marynia smiled on her, and she was ready for the road; Svirski was to take her at five. The two men went now to the lunch agreed on, for Svirski, in spite of his amazement at the affair of Pan Ignas, felt as hungry as a wolf. After they had sat down at table, they remained a while in silence. "I wanted to make one other request of you," said Pan Stanislav at last, "to inform Panna Helena of everything that has happened, and also to tell her not to mention the matter to my wife." "I will do so," said Svirski. "I will go this very day to Yasmen, as if to walk, and try to see her. Should she not receive me, I will send her a note, stating that it is a question of Pan Ignas. If she wishes to come to Warsaw, I will bring her, for I shall return to-day in every case. Did Osnovski say whether Panna Ratkovski had gone with them," inquired the artist, after a pause, "or will she stay in Prytulov?" "He said nothing. Usually Panna Ratkovski lives with her old relative, Pani Melnitski. If she goes, it will be as company for Pani Osnovski, whose angelic nature got a palpitation of the heart at sight of what has happened." "Ah!" said Svirski. "Yes. There is no other cause for it. Panna Ratkovski was stopping with the Osnovskis, so that Kopovski might seem to court her; but since he was courting another, there is no further reason for her stay there." "As God lives, this is something fabulous!" said Svirski; "so that all, with the exception of Pani Osnovski, fell in love with that hoopoo." Pan Stanislav smiled ironically and nodded his head; on his lips were sticking the words, "without exception, without exception!" But now Svirski began his conclusions about women, from which he had refrained so far. "Do you see; do you see? I know German and French and especially Italian women. The Italians in general have fewer impulses, and less education, but they are honester and simpler. May I not finish this macaroni, if I have seen anywhere so many false aspirations and such discord between natures which are vulgar and phrases which are lofty! If you knew what Panna Ratkovski told me of Kopovski! Or take that 'Poplar,' that 'Column,' that 'Nitechka,' that Panna Castelli, that Lily, is it not? You would swear that she was a mimosa, an artist, a sibyl, a golden-haired tall ideal. And here she is for you! She has shown herself! She has chosen, not a living person, but a lay-figure; not a man, but a puppet. When it came to the test, the sibyl turned into a waiting-maid. But I tell you that they are all palpitating for fashionable lay-figures. May thunderbolts singe them!" Here Svirski extended his giant fist, and wanted to strike the table with it; but Pan Stanislav stopped the hand in mid-air, and said,-- "But you will admit that something exceptional has happened." Svirski began to dispute, and to maintain that "they are all that way," and that all prefer the measure of a tailor to that of Phidias. Gradually, however, he began to regain his balance, and acknowledge that Panna Ratkovski might be an exception. "Do you remember when you inquired touching the Broniches, I said the ladies are _canaille, canaille_! neither principles nor character, parvenu souls, nothing more? He was a fool, and you know her. God guarded me; for if they had known then that I have some stupid old genealogical papers, wouldn't they have made sweet faces at me, and I might have fixed myself nicely! May the woods cover me! I will go, as you see me, with Pan Ignas abroad, for I have enough of this." They paid, and went out on to the street. "What will you do now?" inquired Svirski. "I shall go to look for Pan Ignas." "Where will you find him?" "I think among the insane, with his father; if not, I will wait for him at my own house." But Pan Ignas was approaching the restaurant just at that moment. Svirski was the first to see him at a distance. "Ah, there he goes!" "Where?" "On the other side of the street. I should know him a verst away by his jaw. Will you tell him everything? If so, I will go. You have no need of spectators." "Very well." Pan Ignas, on seeing them, hurried his steps and stood before them, dressed elegantly, almost to a fit, and with a glad face. "My father is better," said he, with a voice panting a little; "I have time and will drop in at Prytulov to-day." But Svirski, pressing his hand firmly, went off in silence. The young man looked after him with surprise. "Was Pan Svirski offended at anything?" asked he, looking at Pan Stanislav; and he noticed then that his face too had a serious, almost stern, expression. "What does this mean?" asked he, "or what has happened?" Pan Stanislav took him by the hand, and said, with a voice full of emotion and cordiality,-- "My dear Pan Ignas, I have esteemed you always, not only for exceptional gifts, but for exceptional character; I have to announce very bad news to you, but I am sure that you will find in yourself strength enough, and will not give way to the misfortune." "What has happened?" asked Pan Ignas, whose face changed in one moment. Pan Stanislav beckoned to a droshky, and said,-- "Take a seat. To the bridge!" cried he, turning to the driver. Then, taking out Osnovski's letter, he gave it to Pan Ignas. The young man tore open the envelope hurriedly, and began to read. Pan Stanislav put his arm with great tenderness around his friend's body, not taking his eyes from his face, on which as the man read were reflected amazement, incredulity, stupefaction, and, above all, terror without limit. His cheeks became as white as linen; but it was evident that, feeling the misfortune, he did not grasp its extent yet, and did not understand it thoroughly, for he looked at Pan Stanislav as if without sense, and inquired with a low voice, full of fear,-- "How--how could she?" Then, removing his hat, he passed his hand through his hair. "I do not know what Osnovski has written," said Pan Stanislav, "but it is true. There is no reason to diminish the affair. Have courage; say to yourself that this has happened, and happened beyond recall. You were lost on her, for you are worth more than all that. There are people who know your worth, and who love you. I am aware that this is a mighty misfortune; your own brother would not be pained on your behalf more than I am. But it has happened! My dear Pan Ignas, they have gone, God knows whither. The Osnovskis too. There is no one in Prytulov. I understand what must take place in you; but you have a better future by yourself than with Panna Castelli. God destined you to higher purposes, and surely gave greater power to you than to others. You are the salt of the earth. You have exceptional duties to yourself and the world. I know that it is difficult to wave your hand at once on that which has been loved, and I do not ask you to do so; but you are not permitted to yield to despair like the first comer. My dear, poor Pan Ignas!" Pan Stanislav spoke long, and spoke with power, for he was moved. In the further course of his speech he said things which were not only heartfelt, but wise: that misfortune has this in itself, that it stands still; while a man, whether he wishes or wishes not, must move on into the future; therefore he goes away from it ever farther and farther. A man drags, it is true, a thread of pain and remembrance behind him; but the thread grows ever more slender, for the force of things is such that he lives in the morrow. All this was true, but it was something by itself; far nearer, more real, more tangible was that which Osnovski's letter mentioned. Beyond the fact described in that letter there existed only empty sounds, striking on his ears externally, but without meaning, and for Pan Ignas as devoid of sense as the rattle of the iron lattice-work on the bridge, past which he was driving with Pan Stanislav. Pan Ignas could feel and think only in an immensely dull way; he had, however, the feeling first that what had happened was simply impossible, but still it had happened; second, that in no measure could he be reconciled to it, and never would he be reconciled,--a fact, however, which had not the least significance. There was no place in his head for another idea. He was not conscious of having lost anything except Lineta. He was not conscious of pain or sorrow or ruin or desolation, or the loss of every basis of life; he knew only that Lineta had gone, that she had not loved him, that she had left him, that she had gone with Kopovski, that the marriage was broken, that he was alone, that all this had happened, and that he did not want it,--as a thing incredible, impossible, and dreadful. Still, it had happened. The droshky moved slowly beyond the bridge, for they were passing through a herd of oxen driven toward the city; and in the midst of the heavy tramping of these beasts, Pan Stanislav continued. Pan Ignas's ears were struck by the words, "Svirski, abroad, Italy, art;" but he did not understand that Svirski meant an acquaintance, abroad a journey, Italy a country. Now, he was talking to Lineta: "That is all well," said he; "but what will become of me? How couldst thou forget that I love thee so immensely?" And for a time it seemed to him that if he could see her, if he could tell her that one must think of the suffering of people, she would fall to weeping and throw herself on his neck. "And so many things unite us," said he to her; "besides, I am the same, thine." And suddenly his jaw protruded; it began to tremble; the veins swelled in his forehead, and his eyes were filled with a mist of tears. Pan Stanislav, who had an uncommonly kind hearty and who thought, besides, that he might touch his feelings, put his arm around his neck suddenly, and, being affected himself, began to kiss him on the cheek. But Pan Ignas's emotion did not continue; he returned to the feeling of reality. "I will not tell her that," thought he, "for I shall not see her, since she has gone with her betrothed,--with Kopovski." And at that thought his face became rigid again. He began then to take in effectively the whole extent of the misfortune. The thought struck him for the first time that if Lineta had died, his loss would have been less. The gulf caused by death leaves to believers the hope of a common life on the other shore; to unbelievers, a common nothingness; hence, to some the hope of a union, to others a common fate. Death is powerless against love which passes beyond the grave; death may wrest a dear soul from us, but cannot prevent us from loving it, and cannot degrade it. On the contrary, death makes that soul sacred; makes it not only beloved, but holy. Lineta, in taking from Pan Ignas herself,--that is, his most precious soul,--took from him at once the right of loving and grieving and yearning and honoring; by going herself, she left a memory behind her which was ruined in full measure. Now Pan Ignas felt clearly that if he should not be able to cease loving her; he would thereby become abject; and he felt that he would not be able to cease loving. Only in that moment did he see the whole greatness of his wreck, ruin, and suffering. In that moment he understood that it was more than he could bear. "Go with Svirski to Italy," said Pan Stanislav. "Suffer out the pain, my dear friend; endure till it is over. You cannot do otherwise. The world is wide! There is so much to see, so much to love. Everything is open before thee; and before no one as before thee. Much is due to the world from thee; but much also to thee from the world. Go, my dear. Life is around thee; life is everywhere. New impressions will come; thou wilt not resist them; they will occupy thy thought, soften thy pain. Thou wilt not be circling around one existence. Svirski will show thee Italy. Thou wilt see what a comrade he is, and what horizons he will open. Besides, I tell thee that a man such as thou art, should have that power which the pearl oyster has, of turning everything into pearl simply. Listen to what thy true friend says. Go, and go at once. Promise me that thou wilt go. God grant my wife to pass her illness safely; then we may journey there also in spring. Thou wilt see how beautiful it will be for us. Well, Ignas, promise me. Dost thou say yes?" "Yes." answered Pan Ignas, hearing the last word, but not knowing in general what the question was. "Well, now, praise God," replied Pan Stanislav. "Let us return to the city, and spend the evening together. I have something to do in the counting-house, and I have left home for two days." Then he gave command to turn back, for the sun was toward setting. It was a beautiful day, of those which come at the end of summer. Over the city a golden, delicate dust was borne; the roofs, and especially the church towers, gleamed at the edges, as it were with the reflection of amber, and, outlined clearly in the transparent air, seemed to delight in it. The two men rode for some time in silence. "Wilt thou go to my house, or to thy own lodgings?" asked Pan Stanislav, when they entered the city. The city movement seemed to calm Pan Ignas, for he looked at Pan Stanislav with perfect presence of mind, and said,-- "I have not been at home since yesterday, for I spent the night with my father. Perhaps there are letters for me; let us drive to my lodgings." And he foresaw correctly, for at his lodgings a letter from Pani Bronich in Berlin was awaiting him. He tore open the envelope feverishly, and began to read; Pan Stanislav, looking at his changing face, thought,-- "It is evident that some hope is hidden yet in him." Here he remembered all at once that young doctor, who in his time said of Panna Kraslavski, "I know what she is, but I cannot tear my soul from her." Pan Ignas finished reading, and, resting his head on his hand, looked without thought on the table and the papers lying on it. At last he recovered, and gave the letter to Pan Stanislav. "Read," said he. Pan Stanislav took the letter and read as follows:-- "I know that you believed really in your feeling for Nitechka, and that at the first moment what has happened will seem to you a misfortune; believe me, too, that to me and to her it was not easy to resolve on the decisive step. Perhaps you will not be able to estimate Nitechka well,--there are so many things which men cannot estimate; but you ought to know her at least enough to know how much it costs her when she is forced to cause the slightest pain, even to a stranger. But what can we do! such is the will of God, which it would be a sin not to obey. We both act as our consciences dictate; and Nitechka is too just to give her hand to you without a real attachment. What has taken place, has taken place not only in conformity with the will of God, but in conformity with your good and hers; for if, without loving you sufficiently, she had become your wife, how would she be able to resist the temptations to which such a being would with certainty be exposed in view of the corruption of society? Besides, you have your talent; therefore you have something. Nitechka has only her heart, which violence would break in one moment; and if it seems to you that she has disappointed you, think conscientiously whose fault is the greater? You have done much harm to Nitechka, for you fettered her will, and you did not let her follow the natural impulse of her heart; and by thus doing you sacrificed, or were ready to sacrifice, through your selfishness, her happiness, and even her life, for I am convinced that under such conditions she would not have survived a single year. Nevertheless may God forgive you as we forgive; and be it known to you that this very day we prayed for you at a Mass ordered purposely for your intention, in the church of Saint Yadviga. "You will be pleased to send the ring to Pan Osnovski's villa; your ring, since the Osnovskis had to go abroad too, will reach you through the hands of Panna Ratkovski. Once more, may God forgive you everything, and keep you in His protection!" "This is something unparalleled!" said Pan Stanislav. "It is evident that truth may be treated as love is," said Pan Ignas, with a heart-rending sorrow; "but I had not supposed that." "Listen to me, Ignas," said Pan Stanislav, who under the impulse of sympathy had begun to say _thou_ to Zavilovski; "this is not merely a question of thy happiness, but of thy dignity. Suffer as much as may please thee; but it is thy duty to find strength to show that thou art indifferent to all this." A long silence followed. But Pan Stanislav, remembering the letter, repeated from time to time,-- "This passes human understanding." Finally he turned to Pan Ignas,-- "Svirski is returning to-day from Buchynek, and late in the evening he will come to my house. Come thou too. We will pass the evening together, and he and thou will talk of the journey." "No," said Pan Ignas; "on my return from Prytulov, I was to spend the night with my father, so I must go to him. To-morrow morning I will be with you and see Svirski." But he merely said that, for he wanted to be alone. Pan Stanislav did not oppose his intention of spending the night at the institution, for he judged that occupation near the sick man, and care for him, would occupy his mind, then weariness and need of sleep would come. He determined, however, to drive with him to the institution. In fact, they took farewell only at the gate. Pan Ignas, however, after he had remained a few minutes in the institution and inquired of the overseer touching his father, went out and returned home by stealth. He lighted a candle, read Pani Bronich's letter once more, and, covering his face with his hands, began to meditate. In spite of Osnovski's letter and in spite of everything which Pan Stanislav had told him, a certain doubt and a certain hope had lingered in his soul, yet he knew that _all was over_; but at moments he had the feeling that that was not reality, but an evil dream. It was only Pani Bronich's letter that had penetrated to that little corner of his soul which was unwilling to believe, and burned out in it the remnant of illusion. So there was no Lineta any longer; there was no future, no happiness. Kopovski had all that; for him were left only loneliness, humiliation, and a ghastly vacuum. There was left to him also the impression that if "Nitechka" could have snatched from him that talent too, of which Pani Bronich made mention, she would have snatched it and given it to Kopovski. What was he for her in comparison with Kopovski? "I shall never really understand this," thought he; "but it is so." And he began to meditate over this, what was there in him so abject that she should sacrifice him thus without mercy, without the least consideration, to take less note of him than the meanest worm. "Why does she love Kopovski and not me, the man to whom she confessed love?" And he recalled how once she had quivered in his arms, when after the betrothal he gave her good-night. But now she is quivering in Kopovski's arms in precisely the same way. And at this thought he seized his handkerchief and squeezed it between his teeth, so as not to scream from pain and madness. "What is this? Why has it happened?" But there was a time when he, Ignas, did not love her; why did she not marry Kopovski at that time? What motive could she have to trample him without need? And again he caught after the letter of Pani Bronich, as if hoping to find in it an answer to these terrible questions. He read once more the passage about the will of God, and about this,--that he was guilty, that he had done much harm to "Nitechka," and that she forgave him, and about the Mass, which was celebrated for his intention in Saint Yadviga's; and when he had ended he began to gaze at the light, blinking and saying,-- "How is that possible? How have I offended?" And suddenly he felt that the understanding of what truth is and what falsehood, of what evil is, and what good, and what is proper and improper, began to desert him. Lineta had gone from him, taken herself from him, taken his future, and now one after another all the bases of life were gliding away--and reason and thought and life itself. He saw yet that he had always loved this "Nitechka" of his beyond life, and in no way was he able to wish any harm to her; but besides that impression, everything which composes a thinking being was crushed into dust in him, and flew apart like dust in that mighty wind of misfortune. Still he loved. Lineta became divided for him now into the Lineta of to-day and the Lineta of the past. He began to call to mind her voice, her face, her bright golden hair, her eyes and mouth, her tall form, her hands, and that warmth which so many times he had felt from her lips. His powerful imagination recreated her almost tangibly; and he saw that not only had he loved his own distant one, but he loved her yet,--that is, he yearned for her beyond measure, and was suffering beyond measure for the loss of her. And, recognizing this, he began again to speak to her: "How couldst thou think me able to bear this?" At that moment he had not the least doubt of this either, that God knew the position very well. He sat a long time more in silence, and the light had burned out half its length almost when he came to himself. But something uncommon took place in him then. He had an impression as if he were going from land in a ship, and that seemed to him which seems always on such an occasion, that it was not he who was moving away, but the shore on which he had dwelt hitherto. Everything--that was he, and in general his life; all thoughts, hopes, ambitions, objects, plans, even love, even Lineta, even his loss; and those vicious circles, and those tortures through which he had passed--seemed not merely removed from him, but foreign, and belonging exclusively to that land off there. And gradually they sank, gradually they melted, becoming ever smaller, ever more visionary, ever more dreamlike; and he went on, he became more distant, feeling that to that foreignness he does not wish to return, that he cannot return, and that all which is left of him belongs to the space which has taken him to itself, and opened its bosom before him, immense and mysterious. CHAPTER LVIII. Four days later, on the Assumption of the Most Blessed Lady, which was also Marynia's name's[13] day, the Bigiels and Svirski went to Buchynek. They did not find Marynia at home, for she was at vespers in the church of Yasmen with Pani Emilia. When Pani Bigiel learned this, she followed them with the whole crowd of little Bigiels. The men, left alone, began to talk of the event of which for a number of days the whole city had been talking,--that was of the attempted suicide of the poet Zavilovski. "I went to see him to-day three times," said Bigiel; "but Panna Helena's servants have the order to admit no one except the doctors." "As for me," said Pan Stanislav, "this is the first day on which I have not been able to visit him; but during the previous days I spent a number of hours with him regularly. I tell my wife that I am at the counting-house on business." "Tell me how it happened," said Bigiel, who wanted to know all the details, so as to consider them exactly afterward in his fashion. "It happened this way," said Pan Stanislav. "Ignas told me that he was going to the institution, to his father. I was glad, for I judged that that would keep him away from his thoughts. I took him, however, to the gate, and he promised to visit me next day. Meanwhile it turned out that he wanted to be rid of me, so as to shoot himself undisturbed." "Then you were not the first to find him?" "No; I suspected nothing of that kind, and I should have looked for him next day. Luckily Panna Helena came at the mere news that the marriage was broken." "I informed her," said Svirski, "and she took the matter to heart so much that I was astonished. She had a forewarning, as it were, of what would follow." "She is a wonderful person," said Pan Stanislav. "I have not been able to learn how it happened; but she found him; she saved him; she called in a whole circle of doctors, and finally gave command to take him to her house." "But the doctors insist that he will live?" "They know nothing yet definitely. In shooting, he must have turned the pistol so that the ball, after passing through his forehead, went up and lodged under the skull. They found the ball, and extracted it easily enough; but whether he will live--and if he lives, whether his mind will survive--is unknown. One doctor fears a disturbance in his speech; but his life is in question yet." The event, though known generally, and described every day in the papers, had made so great an impression that silence continued awhile. Svirski, who, with his muscles of an athlete, had the sensitiveness of a woman, burst forth,-- "Through such women!" But Vaskovski, sitting near, said in a low voice,-- "Leave them to the mercy of God." "Is it possible?" said Bigiel, turning to Pan Stanislav; "and thou hadst no suspicion?" "It did not come to my head even that he would shoot himself. I saw clearly that he was struggling with his feelings. For a while, when we were riding, his chin trembled, as if he wished to burst into weeping; but he is a brave soul. He restrained himself at once, and to appearance was calm. He deceived me mainly by his promise to come next day." "Do you know what seems to me?" continued he, after a while; "the last drop which overflowed the cup was Pani Bronich's letter. Ignas gave it to me to read. She wrote that what had happened was the will of God; that the fault was on his side; that he was an egotist; but that they were obeying the voice of conscience and justice; that they forgave him, and begged God to forgive him too,--in a word, unheard of things! I saw that that made a desperate impression on him, and I imagine what must have taken place in a man so injured and of such spirit, when he saw that in addition to everything else injustice was attributed to him; when he understood that it is possible for people to set everything at naught and distort it, to trample on reason, truth, and the simplest principles of justice, and then shield themselves behind the Lord God. For that matter I was not concerned; but when I saw the cynicism, the want of moral understanding, as God lives, I asked myself this question: Am I mad, and are truth and honesty mere illusions on earth?" Here Pan Stanislav was so indignant at Pani Bronich's letter that he tugged at his beard feverishly, and Svirski said,-- "I understand that even a believer may spit upon life in such moments." Here Vaskovski rubbed his forehead with his hand, and then said to himself,-- "Yes; I have seen that kind, too. For there are people who believe, not through love, but as it were because atheism is bankrupt, as it were from despair, who imagine to themselves that somewhere, off behind phenomena, there is not a merciful Father, who places his hand on every unfortunate head, but some kind of He, unapproachable, inscrutable, indifferent; it is all one, in such case, whether that He is called the Absolute, or Nirvana. He is only a concept, not love. It is impossible to love this He; and when misfortune comes, people spit on life." "That is well," answered Svirski, testily; "but meanwhile Pan Ignas is lying with a broken skull, and they have gone to the seashore, and it is pleasant for them." "Whence do you know that it is pleasant for them?" answered Vaskovski. "The deuce fire them!" said Svirski. "But I say to you that they are unhappy. No one may trample on truth and go unpunished. They will talk various things into each other, but one thing they will not be able to talk into each other,--that is, self-respect; they will begin to despise themselves in secret, and at last even that attachment which they had for each other will be turned into secret dislike. That is inevitable." "The deuce fire them!" repeated Svirski. "The mercy of God is for them, not for the good," concluded Vaskovski. Meanwhile Bigiel talked with Pan Stanislav, admiring the kindness and courage of Panna Helena. "For there will be a fabulous amount of gossip from this," said he. "She does not care for that," answered Pan Stanislav. "She does not count with society, for she wants nothing of it. She, too, is a resolute soul. She showed Pan Ignas always exceptional attachment, and his act must have shocked her tremendously. Do you know the history of Ploshovski?" "I knew him personally," said Svirski. "His father was the first man in Rome to predict success to me. Of Panna Helena they say, I think, that she was betrothed to Ploshovski." "No, she was not; but in her secret heart perhaps she loved him greatly. Such was his fortune. It is certain that since his death she has become different altogether. For a woman so religious as she is, his suicide must in truth have been dreadful, for just think, not to be able even to pray for a man whom one has loved. And now again Pan Ignas! If any one, it is she who is doing everything to save him. Yesterday I was there; she came out to me barely alive, pale, weary, without having slept. And there is some one else to watch with her. Panna Ratkovski told me of her, that for four days she hadn't slept one hour, perhaps." "Panna Ratkovski?" inquired Svirski, quickly; and he began mechanically to seek with his hand in the coat pocket where he had her letter. He remembered then her words: "_I have chosen otherwise, and if I shall never be happy, I do not wish at least to reproach myself afterwards with insincerity_." "Now for the first time I understand the meaning and real tragedy of those words. Now, in spite of all social appearances, without regard to the tongues of people, this young girl has gone to watch over that suicide. What could this mean? The case is clear as the sun. It is true that Kopovski went abroad with another; but she had expressed always openly what she thought of Kopovski, and if she had cared nothing for Pan Ignas, she would not have gone this time to watch at his bedside. It seems to me that I am an ass," muttered Svirski. But that was not the only conclusion to which he came after mature consideration. All at once a yearning for Panna Ratkovski took hold of him, and sorrow that that had not happened which might have happened, as well as immense pity for her. "Thou hast become a poodle again, old fellow," said he to himself, "and it serves thee right! A good man would have felt sorrow, but thou didst begin to be angry and condemn her for loving a fool and pretending to aspiration, and for having a low nature; thou didst talk ill of her before Pani Polanyetski and before him; didst do injustice to a kind and unfortunate person, not because her refusal pained thee too greatly, but through thy own self-love. Served thee right, right! thou art an ass; thou art not worthy of her; and thou wilt be knocking around alone till death, like a mandrill, behind a menagerie grating." In these reproaches there was a portion of truth. Svirski had not fallen in love decidedly with Panna Ratkovski; but her refusal pained him more deeply than he acknowledged, and, not being able to master his vexation, he gave way to general conclusions about women, citing Panna Ratkovski as an example, and to her disadvantage. Now he saw the whole vanity of such conclusions. "These stupid syntheses have ruined me always," thought he. "Women are individuals like all people; and the general concept woman explains nothing whatever. There is a Panna Castelli, there is a Pani Osnovski, in whom I admit various rascalities, without, however, having proof of them; but on the other hand there is a Pani Polanyetski, a Pani Bigiel, a Sister Aniela, a Panna Helena, and a Panna Stefania. Poor child! and so it serves me right. She was there suffering in silence, and I was gnashing my teeth. If that girl isn't worth ten times more than I, then that sun isn't worth my pipe. She had a sacred reason in giving a refusal to such a buffalo. I will go to the Orient, and that is the end of the matter. Such light as there is in Egypt, there is nowhere else on earth. And what an honest woman! Moreover, she has done me good, even with her refusal, for through her I have convinced myself that my theory about women should be broken on the back of a dog. But if Panna Helena puts a whole regiment of dragoons before her door, I must see that poor girl and say what I think to her." In fact, he went on the following morning to Panna Helena's. They did not wish to admit him, but he insisted so much that at last he was admitted. Panna Helena, judging that friendship and anxiety alone had brought him, conducted him even to the chamber in which the wounded man was lying. There, in the gloom of fastened blinds, he saw Pan Ignas, from whom came the odor of iodine, his head bound, his jaw protruding; and with him those two wearied out women, the fever of sleeplessness on their faces, and really like two shadows. The wounded man lay with open lips; he was changed, and resembled himself in nothing. He was as if incomparably older; his eyelids were swollen, and protruding from under the bandage. Svirski had liked him greatly, and with his sensitiveness had not less sympathy for him than had Pan Stanislav and Osnovski; he was struck, however, this time by his deformity. "He has fixed himself," thought he; then, turning to Panna Helena, he asked in an undertone,-- "Has he not regained consciousness?" "No," answered she, in a whisper. "What does the doctor say?" Panna Helena moved her thin hand in sign that all was uncertain yet. "This is the fifth day," whispered she again. "And the fever decreases," said Panna Ratkovski. Svirski wished to offer his services in watching the sick man; but Panna Helena indicated with her eyes a young doctor, whom he was not able to distinguish at once in the darkness, but who, sitting in an armchair near the table, with a basin and pile of iodine wadding, was dozing from weariness, waiting till another should relieve him. "We have two," said Panna Ratkovski, "and besides people from the hospital, who know how to nurse the sick." "But you ladies are wonderfully wearied." "It is a question here of the sick man," answered she, looking toward the bed. Svirski followed her glance. His eyes were better accustomed now to the gloom, and saw distinctly the face, motionless, with lips almost black. The long body was motionless also, only the fingers of his emaciated hand, lying on the coverlet, stirred with a monotonous movement, as if scratching. "They will take him out in a couple of days, as God is in Heaven!" thought he, remembering his colleague, that "Slav" with whom Bukatski had disputed in his time, and who, when he had shot himself in the head, died only after two weeks of torture. Wishing, however, to give comfort to the women, he said, in spite of that of which he was certain,-- "Wounds of this kind are either mortal at once, or are cured." Panna Helena made no answer, but her face contracted nervously, and her lips grew pale. Evidently there was a terrible thought in her soul, that he _also_ might die, and she did not wish to admit that she had had enough with that other suicide, and at the same time it was for her a question of something more than saving his life for Pan Ignas. Svirski began to take farewell. He entered with a speech prepared for Panna Ratkovski, to whom he had resolved to acknowledge that he had judged her unjustly, and to express all the homage which he felt for her, and to beg for her friendship; but in presence of the real tragedy of those two women, and of the danger of death, and of that half corpse, he saw at once that everything which he intended to say would be poor and petty, and that it was not the time for such empty and personal matters. He merely pressed to his lips in silence the hand of Panna Helena, and then that of Panna Ratkovski; and, going out of that room filled with misfortune and permeated with iodine, he drew a deep breath. In his artistic imagination was represented distinctly the changed Pan Ignas, ten years older, with bound head and black lips. And in spite of all the sympathy which he had for the man, indignation seized him all at once. "He made a hole in his skull," muttered he; "he made a hole in his talent,--and doesn't care! and those souls there are dragging themselves to death and trembling like leaves." Then a feeling, as it were of jealousy, took hold of him, as if he were sorry for himself, and he began to speak in a monologue,-- "Well, old man! but if thou, for example, were to pack a bit of lead into thy talent, no one would walk at thy bedside on tiptoe." Further meditation was interrupted by Pan Plavitski; who, meeting him at the cross-street, stopped him, and began conversation,-- "I am just from Karlsbad," said he. "O Lord, how many elegant women! I am going to Buchynek to-day. I have just seen Stanislav, and know that my daughter is well; but he has grown thin somehow." "Yes for he has had trouble. Have you heard of Pan Ignas?" "I have, I have! But what will you say of that?" "A misfortune." "A misfortune; but this too, that there are no principles at present. All those new ideas, those atheisms of yours, and hypnotisms, and socialisms. The young generation have no principles,--that is where the trouble lies." FOOTNOTES: [13] Name's day, day of that saint whose name a given person bears. CHAPTER LIX. Pan Stanislav, under the impression of the catastrophe, forgot utterly his promise to inform Osnovski by letter how Pan Ignas had borne the rupture of the marriage and the departure of Lineta. But Osnovski, having learned from the newspapers what had happened, inquired every day by telegraph about the condition of the patient, and was greatly alarmed. In the press and in public the most contradictory accounts were current. Some journals declared that his condition was hopeless; others predicted a speedy recovery. For a long time Pan Stanislav could report nothing certain; and only after two weeks did he send a despatch that the sick man had ceased to waver between death and life, and that the doctors guaranteed his recovery. Osnovski answered with a long letter, in which he gave various news from Ostend,-- "God reward you for good news! All danger has passed then decisively? I cannot tell you what a weight fell from the hearts of both of us. Tell Pan Ignas that not only I, but my wife received the news of his recovery with tears. She does not speak of any one else now, and thinks only of him. Oh, what women are! volumes might be written on this subject; but Anetka is an exception, and will you believe, that in spite of all her terror and sorrow and sympathy, Ignas has increased in her eyes through this unhappy event? They seek romantic sides always; so far does this reach that even in Kopovski, as the originator of the misfortune, Anetka, who knows all his stupidity, sees now something demonic. But beyond all she praises God for the recovery of Ignas. May he live to the glory of our society, and may he find a being worthy of him! From your despatch, I infer that he is under the care of Panna Helena. May God grant her too every blessing for such an honest heart! Really she has no one in the world nearer to her than Ignas, and I imagine that he is still dearer to her through remembrance of Ploshovski. "Now, since you have quieted me as to Ignas's recovery, I can send you some news about Aunt Bronich and Lineta. Perhaps you have heard that they are here with Kopovski. They went first to Scheveningen; but, hearing that the small-pox was there, they escaped to Ostend, not supposing that we were here. We met a number of times in the Cursaal, but pretended not to know them. Kopovski even left cards with us; but we did not return his visit, though, as my wife says justly, he is far less to blame in all this than the two women. When I received your despatch, stating that Ignas is saved surely, I thought that humanity itself commanded me to send the news to them, and I did so. As matters stand, life is unpleasant for them here, since their acquaintances withdraw; so I wished them to know at least that they have no human life on their consciences, all the more since Lineta, as it would seem, felt the deed of Ignas. In fact, they called the same day on us, and my wife received them. She says truly that evil is moral sickness, and that we should not desert relatives in sickness. In general, this first meeting was awkward and painful for both sides. Of Ignas we said not a word. Kopovski appears here as Lineta's betrothed; but they do not seem very happy, though, to tell the truth, she is better fitted for him than for Ignas, and in that view at least what has happened may be considered God's work. I know also from persons aside that Aunt Bronich mentions it as such. I need not tell you how that abuse of the name of God angers me. I know that she tried to talk into some acquaintances stopping here that she and her niece broke with Ignas because of his want of religious feelings; to others she told tales of his despotism and of his disagreement in temper with Lineta. In all this she deceives not only the world, but herself. Aunt, through persuading herself and others of it unceasingly, believes at last in the lofty character of Lineta, and in this too she is immensely disappointed. She feels bound really to defend her; she invents God knows what in her behalf, and struggles like a mad woman; but a feeling of disappointment sticks in her, and I think that she grieves over it, for she has grown very thin. Evidently they value relations with us, which, as they hope, may bring them back to society; but though my wife received them, our relations cannot return to their former condition, of course. I, first of all, could not permit this, from regard to my duty of choosing a proper society for my wife. Lineta's marriage with Kopovski is to be in Paris two months from now. Of course we shall not be present. Moreover, my wife looks on the marriage very skeptically. I have written thus at length hoping to oblige you to write as much, with all details about Ignas. If his health permits, press his hand for me, and tell him that he has and will have in me a most cordial friend, who is devoted heart and soul to him." Marynia, notwithstanding the lateness of the season, was living yet in Buchynek; so that Pan Stanislav, when he received this letter in the counting-house, showed it first of all to the Bigiels, with whom he dined. "I am glad of one thing," said Pani Bigiel, when she had finished the letter; "she will marry that Kopovski right away. Otherwise I should be afraid that something might spring up again in Ignas, and that after he had recovered he might be ready to return to her." "No; Pan Ignas has much character, and I think that he would not return in any case," said Bigiel. "What is thy thought, Stas?" Bigiel was so accustomed to ask the opinion of his partner in every question, that he could not get on without it in this one. "I think that they, when they look around on what they have done, will be rather ready to return. As to Ignas, I have lived so many years, and seen so many improbable things, that I will not answer for any one." At that moment these words occurred again to Pan Stanislav: "I know what she is, but I cannot tear my soul from her." "But wouldst thou return in his place?" inquired Bigiel. "I think not; but I will not answer for myself even. First of all, I shouldn't have shot myself in the forehead; but still, I don't know even that." And he said this with great discouragement, for he thought that if there was any man who had no right to answer for himself it was he. But Pani Bigiel began,-- "I would give I do not know what to see Ignas; but really it is easier to take a fortress than to go to him. And I cannot understand why Panna Helena keeps him from people so, even from such friends as we are." "She keeps him from people because the doctor has ordered absolute quiet. Besides, since he has regained consciousness, the sight of his nearest friends, even, is terribly painful to him; and this we can understand. He cannot talk with them about his deed; and he sees that every one who approaches him is thinking of nothing else." "But you are there every day." "They admit me because I was connected with the affair from the beginning; I was the first to report the rupture of the marriage, and I watched him." "Does he mention that girl yet?" "I asked Panna Helena and Panna Ratkovski about this; they answered, 'Never.' I have sat for hours with him alone, and have heard nothing. It is wonderful: he is conscious; he knows that he is wounded, knows that he is sick; but he seems at the same time to remember nothing of past events, just as if the past had no existence whatever. The doctors say that wounds in the head cause various and very peculiar phenomena of this kind. For the rest, he recognizes every one who approaches him, exhibits immense gratitude to Panna Helena and Panna Ratkovski. He loves Panna Ratkovski especially, and evidently yearns for her when she goes for a while from him. But they are both, as God lives!--there are no words to tell how good they are." "Panna Ratkovski moves me especially," said Pani Bigiel. Bigiel put in, "Meditating over everything carefully, I have come to the conclusion that she must have fallen in love with him." "Thou hast spent time for nothing in meditating," answered Pan Stanislav, "for that is as clear as the sun. The poor thing hid this feeling in herself till misfortune came. Why did she reject such an offer as Svirski's? I make no secret of this, for Svirski himself tells it on every side. It seems to him that he owes her satisfaction because he suspected her of being in love with Kopovski. When Pan Ignas shot himself, she was living with her relative, Pani Melnitski, after the Osnovskis had gone; but when she learned that Panna Helena had taken Ignas, she went and begged permission to remain with her. All know perfectly how to understand this; but she does not mind such considerations, just as Panna Helena herself does not mind them." Here Pan Stanislav turned to Pani Bigiel,-- "Panna Ratkovski moves you deeply; but think, as God lives, what a tragic figure Panna Helena is. Pan Ignas is alive, at least, but Ploshovski aimed better; and, according to her ideas, there is no mercy for him, even in that world. But she loves him. There is a position! Finally, after such a suicide, comes another; it tears open all wounds, freshens every memory. Panna Ratkovski may be a touching figure; but the other has her life broken forever, and no hope, nothing left but despair." "True, true! But she must be attached to Ignas, since she cares for him so." "I understand why she does it; she wants to beg of the Lord God mercy for the other man, because she has saved Pan Ignas." "That may be," said Bigiel. "And who knows that Pan Ignas may not marry Panna Ratkovski, when he recovers?" "If he forgets that other, if he is not broken, and if he recovers." "How, if he recovers? Just now thou hast said that his recovery is undoubted." "It is undoubted that he will live; but the question is, will he be the former Ignas? Even though he had not fired into his head, it would be difficult to say whether such an experience would not break a man who is so sensitive. But add a broken head; that must be paid for. Who knows what will happen further? but now, for example, though he is conscious, though he talks with sense, at times he breaks off, and cannot recollect the simplest expression. Before, he never hesitated. This, too, is strange,--he remembers the names of things well, but when it is a question of any act, he stops most generally, and either remembers with effort, or forgets altogether." "What does the doctor say?" "In God is his hope that it will pass; the doctor does not lose hope. But even yesterday, while I was going in, Ignas said, 'Pani--' and stopped. Evidently he was thinking of Marynia, whom he recalled on a sudden, but he could not ask about her. Every day he talks more, it is true; but before he recovers, much time may pass, and certain traces may remain forever." "But does Marynia know of everything?" "While there was no certainty that he would live, I kept everything in secret; but after that I thought it better to tell her. Of course I was very cautious. It was hard to keep the whole matter from her longer. People were talking too much about it, and I feared that she might hear from people on one side. I told her, moreover, that the wound was slight, and that nothing threatened him, but that the doctors forbade him visitors. Even thus she was greatly affected." "When will you bring her to the city?" "While the weather is good, I prefer to keep her in the country." Further conversation was interrupted by a letter, which the servant gave Pan Stanislav. The letter was from Mashko, and contained the following words:-- "I wish to see thee in thy own interest. I will wait for thee at my house till five." "I am curious to know what he wants," said Pan Stanislav. "Who is it?" "Mashko; he wants to see me." "Business and business," said Bigiel; "he has business above his ears. Sometimes I wonder really whence he gets endurance and wit for all this. Dost thou know that Pani Kraslavski has come home, and that she has lost her sight altogether? She sees nothing now, or what is called nothing. We visited those ladies before they left their country house. Wherever one turns there is misery, so that at last pity seizes one while looking." "But in misfortune each man or woman shows his or her real nature," said Pani Bigiel. "You remember that we considered Pani Mashko as somewhat dry in character, but you will not believe how kind she is now to her mother. She does not let a servant come near her; she attends her herself everywhere, waits on her, reads to her. Really she has given me a pleasant surprise, or rather both of them, for Path Kraslavski has lost her former pretentiousness thoroughly. It is pleasant to see how those women love each other. It seems that there was something in Pani Mashko which we could not discover." "Both, too, were terribly indignant at the behavior of Panna Castelli," added Bigiel. "Pani Kraslavski said to us, 'If my Terka had acted in that way, I should have denied her, though I am blind, and need care.' But Pani Mashko is as she is, and she would not have acted in that way, for she is another kind of woman." Pan Stanislav drank his cup of black coffee, and began to take farewell. For some time past every conversation about Pani Mashko had become for the man unendurable; it seemed to him, moreover, that he was listening again to an extract from that strange human comedy which people were playing around him, and in which he, too, was playing his empty part. It did not occur to him that human nature is so composed that even in the very worst person some good element may be found, and that Pani Mashko might be, after all, a loving daughter. In general, he preferred not to think of that, but began to halt over the question, what could Mashko want of him? Forgetting that Mashko had written in the letter that he wanted to see him, not in his own, but in his (Pan Stanislav's) interest, he supposed, with a certain alarm, that he wanted money a second time. "But I," thought he, "will not refuse now." And it occurred to him that life is like the machinery of a watch. When something is out of order in one wheel, all begin to act irregularly. What connection could there be between his adventure with Pani Mashko and his business, his money, his mercantile work? And still he felt that even as a merchant he had not, at least with reference to Mashko, the freedom that he once had. But his suppositions proved faulty. Mashko had not come to ask money. "I looked for thee in the counting-house, and at thy residence," said he; "at last I divined that thou must be at the Bigiels', and I sent my letter there. I wished to speak with thee on thy own business." "How can I serve thee?" asked Pan Stanislav. "First of all, I beg that what I say may remain between us." "It will; I am listening." Mashko looked for a time in silence at Pan Stanislav, as if to prepare him by that silence for some important announcement; at last he said, with a wonderful calmness, weighing out every expression,-- "I wished to tell thee that I am lost beyond redemption." "Hast lost the will case?" "No; the case will come up only two weeks from now but I know that I shall lose it." "Whence hast thou that certainty?" "Dost remember what I told thee once, that cases against wills are won almost always because the attack is more energetic than the defence; because usually the overthrow of the will concerns some one personally, while maintaining it does not? Everything in the world may be attacked; for though a thing be in accordance with the spirit of the law, almost always, in a greater degree or less, it fails to satisfy the letter, and the courts must hold to the letter." "True. Thou hast said all that." "Well, so it is, too, in this case which I took up. It was not so adventurous as may seem. The whole question was to break the will; and I should, perhaps, succeed in proving certain disagreements in it with the letter of the law, were it not that there is a man striving with equal energy to prove that there are none such. I will not talk long about this; it is enough for thee to know that I have to contend not merely with an opponent who is a lawyer and a finished trickster, but a personal enemy, for whom it is a question, not only to win the case, but to ruin me. Once I slighted him, and now he is taking revenge." "In general, I do not understand why you have to do with any one except the State Attorney." "Because there were legacies to private people in defence of which the opposite side employed Sledz, that advocate. But let this rest. I must lose the case, for it is in conditions for being lost; and if I were Sledz, I would win just as he wins. I know this in advance, and I do not deceive myself. Enough now of this whole matter." "But go on; appeal." "No, my dear friend, I cannot go on." "Why?" "Because I have more debts than there are hairs on my head; because, after my first defeat, creditors will rush at me; and because"--here Mashko lowered his voice--"I must flee." Silence followed. Mashko rested his elbow on his knee, his head on his palm, and sat some time with his head inclined; but after a while he began to speak, as if to himself, without raising his head,-- "It is broken. I tied knots desperately, till my hands were wearied; strength would have failed any man, still I kept knotting. But I cannot knot any longer! God sees that I have no more strength left. Everything must have its end; and let this finish sometime." Here he drew breath, like a man who is terribly tired; then he raised his head, and said,-- "This, however, is my affair merely, and I have come to talk of thy affairs. Listen to me! According to contract concluded at the sale of Kremen, I was to make payments to thy wife after the parcelling of Magyerovka; thou hast a few thousand rubles of thy own money with me. I was to pay thy father-in-law a life annuity. Now I come to tell thee that if not in a week, then in two, I shall go abroad as a bankrupt, and thou and they will not see a copper." Mashko, while telling all this with the complete boldness and insolence of a man who no longer has anything to lose, looked Pan Stanislav in the eyes, as if seeking for a storm. But he was deceived most thoroughly. Pan Stanislav's face grew dark for one twinkle of an eye, it is true, as if from suppressed anger; but he calmed himself quickly, and said,-- "I have always expected that this would end so." Mashko, who, knowing with whom he had to deal supposed that Pan Stanislav would seize him by the shoulder, looked at him with amazement, as if wishing to ask what had happened. But at that moment Pan Stanislav thought,-- "If he had wanted to borrow money for the road, I could not have refused him." But aloud he said, "Yes; this was to be foreseen." "No," answered Mashko, with the stubbornness of a man who will not part with the thought that only a concurrence of exceptional circumstances is to blame for everything. "Thou hast no right to say this. The moment before death, I should be ready to repeat that it might have gone otherwise." But Pan Stanislav inquired, as if with a shade of impatience,-- "My dear, what dost thou want of me specially?" Mashko recovered, and answered,-- "Nothing. I have come to thee only as to a man who has shown me good-will at all times, and with whom I have contracted a money debt, as well as a debt of gratitude; I have come to confess openly how things stand, and also to say to thee: save what is possible, and as much as possible." Pan Stanislav set his teeth; he judged that even in that irony of life, whose chattering he heard round about him continually for some time past, there ought to be a certain measure. Meanwhile Mashko's words about friendship and a debt of gratitude seemed to him as simply passing that measure. "May the devils take the money and thee--if thou would only go!" thought he, in spirit. But compressing in himself the wish to utter this audibly, he said,-- "I see no way." "There is only one way," answered Mashko. "While it is still unknown to people that I must break, while hopes are connected with the will case, while my name and signature mean something, thou hast a chance to sell thy wife's claim. Thou wilt say to the purchaser that it is thy wish to capitalize the whole property, or something of that sort. Appearances are easy. A purchaser will be found always, especially if thou decide to sell at a certain reduction. In view of profit, any Jew will buy. I prefer that any other should lose rather than thou; it is permitted thee not to hear what I have told thee of my coming bankruptcy, and it is permitted thee to hope that I shall win the case. Thou canst be sure that he who will buy the claim of thee, would sell it to thee, even though he knew that it would not be worth a broken copper on the morrow. The world is an exchange; and on the exchange most business is transacted on this basis. This is called cleverness." "No," answered Pan Stanislav, "it has a different name. Thou hast mentioned Jews; there are certain kinds of business which they describe with one word, '_schmuzig!_' I shall save my wife's claim in another way." "As may please thee. I, my clear friend, know the value of my system; but, seest thou, in spite of all, I said to myself that I ought to tell thee this. It is perhaps the honor of a bankrupt; but now I cannot have another. It is easy for thee to divine how hard it is for me to say this. For that matter, I knew in advance that thou wouldst refuse; hence with me it was a question only of doing my own. And now give me a cup of tea and a glass of cognac, for I am barely living." Pan Stanislav rang for the tea and the cognac. Mashko continued,-- "I must pluck a certain number of people,--there is no help for that; hence I prefer to pluck indifferent ones rather than those who have rendered me service. There are positions in which a man must be an opportunist with his own conscience." Here Mashko laughed with bitterness. "I did not know of that myself," continued he; "but now new horizons open themselves before me. One is learning till death. We bankrupts have a certain point of honor too. As to me, I care less for those who would have plucked me in a given case than those who are near me, and to whom I owe gratitude. This may be the morality of Rinaldini, but morality of its own kind." The servant brought in tea now. Mashko, needing to strengthen himself evidently, added to his cup an overflowing glass of cognac, and, cooling the hot tea in that way; drank it at a gulp. "My dear friend," said Pan Stanislav, "thou knowest the position better than I. All that I could say against flight, and in favor of remaining and coming to terms with creditors, thou hast said to thyself of course, therefore I prefer to ask of something else: Hast thou something to grasp with thy hand? Hast thou even money for the road?" "I have. Whether a man fails for a hundred thousand, or a hundred and ten thousand, is all one; but I thank thee for the question." Here Mashko added cognac to a second cup of tea, and said,-- "Do not think that I am beginning to drink from despair; I have not sat down since morning, and I am terribly tired. Ah, how much good this has done me! I will say now to thee openly that I have not thrown up the game. Thou seest that I have not fired into my forehead. That is a melodrama! that is played out. I know, indeed, that everything is ended for me here; but in this place I could not sail out anyhow. Here the interests are too small simply, and there is no field. Take the west, Paris! There men make fortunes; there they take a somersault, and rise again. What is to be said in the case if it is so? Dost thou know that Hirsh had not, perhaps, three hundred francs on leaving this country? I know, I know! from the standpoint of local mustiness and stupidity here, this will seem a dream,--the fever of a bankrupt. But still, men inferior to me have made millions there,--inferior to me! Lose or win. But if I come back at any time--" And evidently the tea and cognac had begun to rouse him, for, clinching his fist, he added,-- "Thou wilt see!" "If that is not dreaming," answered Pan Stanislav, with still greater impatience than before, "it is the future. But now what?" "Now," said Mashko, after a while, "they will count me a swindler. No one will think that there are falls and falls. I will tell thee, for instance, that I have not taken from my wife a single signature, a single surety, and that she will have everything which she had before marriage. I am going now; and until I am settled she will remain here with her mother. I do not know whether you have heard that Pani Kraslavski has lost her sight. I cannot take them at present, for I am not even sure where I shall live,--in Paris perhaps, perhaps in Antwerp. But I hope that our separation will not be lasting. They know nothing yet. See in what the drama is! See what tortures me!" And Mashko put his palm on the top of his head, blinking at the same time, as if from pain in his eyes. "When wilt thou go?" inquired Pan Stanislav. "I cannot tell. I will let thee know. Thou hast had the evident wish to aid me, and thou mayest, though not in money. People will avoid my wife at first; show her, then, a little attention; take her under thy protection. Is it agreed? Thou hast been really friendly to me, and I know that thou art friendly to her." "As God lives, one might go mad," thought Pan Stanislav; but he said aloud,-- "Agreed." "I thank thee from the soul of my heart; and I have still a prayer. Thou hast much influence over those two ladies. They will believe thy words. Defend me a little in the first moments before my wife. Explain to her that dishonesty is one thing, and misfortune another. I, as God lives, am not such a rogue as people will consider me. I might have brought my wife also to ruin, but I have not done so. I might have obtained from thee a few thousand more rubles; but I preferred not to take them. Thou wilt be able to put this before her, and she will believe thee. Is it agreed?" "Agreed," replied Pan Stanislav. Mashko covered his head with his hands once more, and said, with a face contracted as if from physical pain,-- "See where real ruin is! See what pains the most!" After a while he began to take farewell, thanking Pan Stanislav, meanwhile, again for good-will toward his wife, and future care of her. Pan Stanislav went out with him, sat in a carriage, and started for Buchynek. On the road he thought of Mashko and his fate; but at the same time he repeated to himself, "I too am a bankrupt!" And that was true. Besides this, for a certain time some sort of general uncomprehended alarm had tormented him; against this he could not defend himself. Round about he saw disappointment, catastrophes, ruin; and he could not resist the feeling that all these were for him, too, a kind of warning and threat of the future. He proved to himself, it is true, that such fears could not be logically justified; but none the less, the fears did not cease to stick in the bottom of his soul somewhere, and sometimes he said to himself again, "Why should I be the one exception?" Then his heart was straitened with a foreboding of misfortune. This was still worse than those pins which, without wishing it, people, even the most friendly, drove into him by any word, unconsciously. In general, his nerves had suffered recently, so that he had become almost superstitious. He returned daily to Buchynek in alarm, lest something bad might have happened in the house during his absence. This evening, he returned later than usual because of Mashko's call, and drove in about the time when real darkness had come. Stepping out before the entrance on the sandy road, which dulled the sound of the carriage, he saw through the window Marynia, Pani Emilia, and the professor sitting near a table in the middle of the parlor. Marynia was laying out patience, and was evidently explaining the play to Pani Emilia, for her head was turned toward her, and she had one finger on the cards. At sight of her Pan Stanislav thought that which for some time he had been repeating mentally, and which filled him at once with a feeling of happiness, and with greater anger at himself: "She is the purest soul that I have met in life." And with that thought he entered the room. "Thou art late to-day," said Marynia, when he raised her hand to his lips with greeting; "but we are waiting for thee with supper." "Mashko detained me," answered he. "What is to be heard here?" "The same as ever. All happy." "And how art thou?" "As well as a fish!" answered she, joyously, giving him her forehead for a kiss. Then she began to inquire about Pan Ignas. Pan Stanislav, after the disagreeable talk with Mashko, breathed for the first time more freely. "She is in health, and all is right," thought he, as if in wonder. And really he felt well in that bright room, in that great peace, among those friendly souls and at the side of that person so good and reliable. He felt that everything was there which he needed for happiness; but he felt that he had spoiled that happiness of his own will; that he had brought into the clear atmosphere of his house the elements of corruption and evil, and that he was living under that roof without a right. CHAPTER LX. In the middle of September such cold days came that the Polanyetskis moved from Buchynek to their house in the city. Pan Stanislav, before the arrival of his wife, had the house aired and ornamented with flowers. It seemed to him, it is true, that he had lost the right to love her, but he had lost only his former freedom with reference to her; but perhaps, just because of this, he became far more attentive and careful. The right to love no one gives, and nothing can take away. It is another case when a man has fallen, and in presence of a soul incomparably more noble than his own, feels that he is not worthy to love; he loves then with humility, and does not dare to call his feeling by its name. What Pan Stanislav had lost really was his self-confidence, his commanding ways, and his former unceremoniousness in his treatment of his wife. At present in his intercourse with her he bore himself sometimes as if she were Panna Plavitski, and he a suitor not sure of his fate yet. Still that uncertainty of his had the aspect of coldness at times. Finally, their relation, in spite of Pan Stanislav's increased care and efforts, had become more distant than hitherto. "I have not the right!" repeated Pan Stanislav, at every more lively movement of his heart. And Marynia at last observed that they were living now somehow differently, but she interpreted this to herself variously. First, there were guests in the house, before whom, be what may, freedom of life must be diminished; second, that misfortune had happened to Pan Ignas,--a thing to shock "Stas" and carry his mind in another direction; and finally Marynia, accustomed now to various changes in his disposition, had ceased also to attach to them as much meaning as formerly. Having gone through long hours of meditation and sadness, she came at last to the conviction that in the first period, while certain inequalities and bends of character are not accommodated into one common line, such various shades and changes in the disposition are inevitable, though transient. The sober judgment of Pani Bigiel helped her also to the discovery of this truth; she, on a time when Marynia began to praise her perfect accord with her husband, said,-- "Ai! it didn't come to that at once. At first we loved each other as it were more passionately, but we were far less fitted for each other; sometimes one pulled in one and the other in another direction. But because we both had honesty and good-will the Lord God saw that and blessed us. After the first child all went at once in the best way; and this day I wouldn't give my old husband for all the treasures of earth, though he is growing heavy, and when I persuade him to Karlsbad he will not listen to me." "After the first child," inquired Marynia, with great attention. "Ah! I would have guessed at once that it was after the first child." Pani Bigiel began to laugh. "And how amusing he was when our first boy was born! During the first days he said nothing at all; he would only raise his spectacles to his forehead and look at him, as at some wonder from beyond the sea, and then come to me and kiss my hands." The hope of a child was also a reason why Marynia did not take this new change in "Stas" to heart too much. First, she promised herself to enchant him completely both with the child, which she knew in advance would be simply phenomenal, and with her own beauty after sickness; and second, she judged that it was not permitted her to think of herself now, or even exclusively of "Stas." She was occupied in preparing a place for the coming guest, as well in the house, as in her affections. She felt that she must infold such a figure not only in swaddling clothes, but in love. Hence she accumulated necessary supplies. She said to herself at once that life for two living together might be changeable; but for three living together it could not be anything but happiness and the accomplishment of that expected grace and mercy of God. In general, she looked at the future with uncommon cheerfulness. If, finally, Pan Stanislav was for her in some way a different person, more ceremonious, as it were, and more distant, he showed such delicacy as he had never shown before. The care and anxiety which she saw on his face she referred to his feeling for Pan Ignas, for whose life there was no fear, it is true, but whose misfortune she felt with a woman's heart, understanding that it might continue as long as his life lasted. The knowledge of this gave more than one moment of sadness to her, and to the Bigiels, and to all to whom Pan Ignas had become near. Moreover, soon after the arrival of the Polanyetskis in the city, news came all at once from Ostend which threatened new complications. A certain morning Svirski burst into the counting-house like a bomb, and, taking Bigiel and Pan Stanislav to a separate room, said, with a mien of mysteriousness,-- "Do you know what has happened? Kresovski has just been at my studio, and he returned yesterday from Ostend. Osnovski has separated from his wife, and broken Kopovski's bones for him. A fabulous scandal! All Ostend is talking of nothing else." Both were silent under the impression of the news; at last Pan Stanislav said,-- "That had to come sooner or later. Osnovski was blind." "But I understand nothing," said Bigiel. "An unheard of history!" continued Svirski. "Who could have supposed anything like it?" "What does Kresovski say?" "He says that Osnovski made an arrangement one day to go with some Englishmen to Blanckenberg to shoot dolphins. Meanwhile he was late at the railroad, or tramway. Having an hour's time before him, he went home again and found Kopovski in his house. You can imagine what he must have seen, since a man so mild was carried away, and lost his head to that degree that, without thinking of the scandal, he pounded Kopovski, so that Kopovski is in bed." "He was so much in love with his wife that he might have gone mad even, or killed her," said Bigiel. "What a misfortune for the man!" "See what women are!" exclaimed Svirski. Pan Stanislav was silent. Bigiel, who was very sorry for Osnovski, began to walk back and forth in the room. At last he stopped before Svirski, and, thrusting his hands into his pockets, said,-- "But still I don't understand anything." Svirski, not answering directly, said, turning to Pan Stanislav, "You remember what I said of her in Rome, when I was painting your wife's portrait? Old Zavilovski called her a crested lark. I understand how just that was; for a crested lark has another name,--'the soiler.' What a woman! I knew that she was not of high worth, but I did not suppose that she could go so far--and with such a man as Kopovski! Now I see various things more clearly. Kopovski was there all the time, as if courting Panna Castelli, then as if courting Panna Ratkovski; and of course he and the lady were in agreement, inventing appearances together. What a cheery life the fellow had! Castelli for dinner, and Pani Osnovski for dessert! Pleasant for such a man! Between those two women there must have been rivalry; one vying with the other in concessions to attract him to herself. You can understand that in such a place woman's self-esteem had small value." "You are perfectly right," said Pan Stanislav. "Pani Osnovski was always most opposed to the marriage of Kopovski to Castelli; and very likely for that reason she was so eager to have her marry Pan Ignas. When, in spite of everything, Kopovski and Castelli came to an agreement, she went to extremes to keep Kopovski for herself. Their relation is an old story." "I begin to understand a little," said Bigiel; "but how sad this is!" "Sad?" said Svirski; "on the contrary. It was cheerful for Kopovski. Still, it was not. 'The beginning of evil is pleasant, but the end is bitter.' There is no reason to envy him. Do you know that Osnovski is hardly any weaker than I? for, through regard for his wife, he was afraid of growing fat, and from morning till evening practised every kind of exercise? Oh, how he loved her! what a kind man he is! and how sorry I am for him! In him that woman had everything,--heart, property, a dog's attachment,--and she trampled on everything. Castelli, at least, was not a wife yet." "And have they separated really?" "So really that she has gone. What a position, when a man like Osnovski left her! In truth, the case is a hard one." But Bigiel, who liked to take things on the practical side, said, "I am curious to know what she will do, for all the property is his." "If he has not killed her on the spot, he will not let her die of hunger, that is certain; he is not a man of that kind. Kresovski told me that he remained in Ostend, and that he is going to challenge Kopovski to a duel. But Kopovski will not rise out of bed for a week. There will be a duel when he recovers. Pani Bronich and Panna Castelli have gone away, too, to Paris." "And the marriage with Kopovski?" "What do you wish? In view of such open infidelity, it is broken, of course. Evil does not prosper; they, too, were left in the lurch. Ha! let them hunt abroad for some Prince Crapulescu[14]--for after what they have done to Ignas, no one in this country would take Castelli, save a swindler, or an idiot. Pan Ignas will not return to her." "I told Pan Stanislav that, too," said Bigiel; "but he answered, 'Who knows?'" "Ai!" said Svirski, "do you suppose really?" "I don't know! I don't know anything!" answered Pan Stanislav, with an outburst. "I guarantee nothing; I guarantee nobody; I don't guarantee myself even." Svirski looked at him with a certain astonishment. "Ha! maybe that is right," said he, after a while. "If any one had told me yesterday that the Osnovskis would ever separate, I should have looked on him as a madman." And he rose to take farewell; he was in a hurry to work, but wishing to hear more about the catastrophe of the Osnovskis, had engaged to dine with Kresovski. Bigiel and Pan Stanislav remained alone. "Evil must always pay the penalty," said Bigiel, after some thought. "But do you know what sets me thinking? that the moral level is lowering among us. Take such persons as Bronich, Castelli, Pani Osnovski,--how dishonest they are! how spoiled! and, in addition, how stupid! What a mixture, deuce knows of what! what boundless pretensions! and with those pretensions the nature of a waiting-maid. So that it brings nausea to think of them, does it not? And men, such as Ignas and Osnovski, must pay for them." "And that logic is not understood," answered Pan Stanislav, gloomily. Bigiel began to walk up and down in the room again, clicking his tongue and shaking his head; all at once he stopped before Pan Stanislav with a radiant face, and, slapping him on the shoulder, said,-- "Well, my old man, thou and I can say to ourselves that we drew great prizes in life's lottery. We were not saints either; but perhaps the Lord God gave us luck because we have not undermined other men's houses like bandits." Pan Stanislav gave no answer; he merely made ready to go. Conditions had so arranged themselves lately that everything which took place around him, and everything which he heard, became, as it were, a saw, which was tearing his nerves. In addition, he had the feeling that that was not only terribly torturing and painful, but was beginning to be ridiculous also. At moments it came to his head to take Marynia and hide with her somewhere in some tumbledown village, if only far away from that insufferable comedy of life which was growing viler and viler. But he saw that he could not do that, even for this reason,--that Marynia's condition hindered it. He stopped, however, the bargaining for Buchynek, which had been almost finished, so as to find for himself a more distant and less accessible summer place. In general, relations with people began to weigh on him greatly; but he felt that he was in the vortex, and could not get out of it. Sometimes the former man rose in him, full of energy and freshness, and he asked himself with wonder, "What the devil! why does a fault which thousands of men commit daily, swell up in my case beyond every measure?" But the sense of truth answered straightway that as in medicine there are no diseases, only patients, so in the moral world there are no offences, only offenders. What one man bears easily, another pays for with his life; and he tried in vain to defend himself. For a man of principles, for a man who, barely half a year before, had married such a woman as Marynia, for a man whom fatherhood was awaiting, his offence was beyond measure; and it was so inexcusable, so unheard of, that at times he was amazed that he could have committed it. Now, while returning home under the impression of Osnovski's misfortune, and turning it over in his head in every way, he had again the feeling as if a part of the responsibility for what had happened weighed on him. "For I," said he to himself, "am a shareholder in that factory in which are formed such relations and such women as Castelli or Pani Osnovski." Then it occurred to him that Bigiel was right in saying that the moral level was lowering, and that the general state of mind which does not exclude the possibility of such acts is simply dangerous. For he understood that all these deviations flowed neither from exceptional misfortunes, nor uncommon passions, nor over-turbulent natures, but from social wantonness, and that the name of such deviations is legion. "See," thought he, "only in the circle of my acquaintances, Pani Mashko, Pani Osnovski, Panna Castelli; and over against them whom shall I place? My Marynia alone." And at that moment it did not occur to him that, besides Marynia, there were in his circle Pani Emilia, Pani Bigiel, Panna Helena, and Panna Ratkovski. But Marynia stood out before him on that ground of corruption and frivolity so unlike them, so pure and reliable, that he was moved to the depth of his soul by the mere thought of her. "That is another world; that is another kind," thought he. For a moment he remembered that Osnovski, too, had called his own wife an exception; but he rejected this evil thought immediately. "Osnovski deceived himself, but I do not deceive myself." And he felt that the skepticism which would not yield before Marynia would be not only stupid, but pitiable. In her there was simply no place for evil. Only swamp birds can sit in a swamp. He himself had said once in a jest to her, that if she wore heels, she would have inflammation of the conscience from remorse, because she was deceiving people. And there was truth in this jest; he saw her now just there before him as clearly as one always sees the person one thinks of with concentrated feeling. He saw her changed form and changed face, in which there remained always, however, that same shapely mouth, a little too wide, and those same clear eyes; and he was more and more moved. "Indeed, I did win a great prize in life's lottery," thought he; "but I did not know how to value it. 'Evil must always pay the penalty,' said Bigiel." And Pan Stanislav, to whom a similar thought had come more than once, felt now a superstitious fear before it. "There is," thought he, "a certain logic, in virtue of which evil returns, like a wave hurled from the shore, so that evil must return to me." And all at once it seemed to him perfectly impossible that he could possess such a woman in peace, and such happiness. Just in that was lacking the logic which commands the return of the wave of evil. And then what? Marynia may die at childbirth, for instance. Pani Mashko, through revenge, may say some word about him, which will stick in Marynia's mind, and in view of her condition, will emerge afterward in the form of a fever. Not even the whole truth is needed for that effect. On the contrary, Pani Mashko may boast even that she resisted his attempts. "And who knows," said Pan Stanislav to himself, "if Pani Mashko is not making a visit to Marynia this moment? in such an event the first conversation about men--and a few jesting words are sufficient." Thinking thus, he felt that the cap was burning on his head; and he reached home with a feeling of alarm. At home he did not find Pani Mashko; but Marynia gave him a card from Panna Helena, asking him to come after dinner to see her. "I fear that Ignas is worse," said Marynia. "No; I ran in there for a moment in the morning. Panna Helena was at some conference with the attorney, Kononovich; but I saw Panna Ratkovski and Pan Ignas. He was perfectly well, and spoke to me joyously." At dinner Pan Stanislav resolved to tell Marynia of the news which he had heard, for he knew that it could not be concealed from her anyhow, and he did not wish that it should be brought to her too suddenly and incautiously. When she asked what was to be heard in the counting-house and the city, he said,-- "Nothing new in the counting-house; but in the city they are talking about certain misunderstandings between the Osnovskis." "Between the Osnovskis?" "Yes; something has happened in Ostend. Likely the cause of all is Kopovski." Marynia flushed from curiosity, and asked,-- "What dost thou say, Stas?" "I say what I heard. Thou wilt remember my remarks on the evening of Pan Ignas's betrothal? It seems that I was right; I will say, in brief, that there was a certain history, and, in general, that it was bad." "But thou hast said that Kopovski is the betrothed of Panna Castelli." "He has been, but he is not now. Everything may be broken in their case." The news made a great impression on Marynia; she wanted to inquire further, but when Pan Stanislav told her that he knew nothing more, and that in all likelihood more detailed news would come in some days, she fell to lamenting the fate of Osnovski, whom she had always liked much, and was indignant at Pani Aneta. "I thought," said she, "that he would change her, and attract her by his love; but she is not worthy of him, and Pan Svirski is right in what he says about women." The conversation was interrupted by Plavitski, who, after an early dinner at the restaurant, had come to tell the "great news," which he had just heard, for all the city was talking of it. Pan Stanislav thought then that he had done well to prepare Marynia, for in Plavitski's narrative the affair took on colors which were too glaring. Plavitski mentioned, it is true, in the course of his story, "principles and matrons" of the old time; but apparently he was satisfied that something of such rousing interest had happened, and evidently he took the affair, too, from the comic side, for at the end he said,-- "But she is a mettlesome woman! she is a frolicker! Whoever was before her was an opponent! She let no man pass, no man! Poor Osnosio! but she let _no man_ pass." Here he raised his brows, and looked at Marynia and Pan Stanislav, as if wishing to see whether they understood what "no man" meant. But on Marynia's face disgust was depicted. "Fe! Stas," said she, "how all that is not only dishonorable, but disgusting!" FOOTNOTES: [14] A fanciful Roumanian name formed from the French _crapule_, a debauchee. CHAPTER LXI. After dinner Pan Stanislav went to Panna Helena's. Pan Ignas wore a black bandage on his forehead yet, with a wider plaster in the centre, covering a wound; he stuttered, and, when looking, squinted somewhat; but, in general, he was coming to himself more and more, and looked on himself as recovered already. The doctor asserted that those marks which remained from the wound yet were disappearing without a trace. When Pan Stanislav entered, the young man was sitting at a table in a deep armchair, in which old Pan Zavilovski used to sit formerly, and was listening with closed eyes to verses which Panna Ratkovski was reading. But she closed the book at sight of a visitor. "Good-evening," said Pan Stanislav to her. "How art thou, Ignas? I see that I have interrupted a reading. In what are you so interested?" Panna Ratkovski turned her closely-clipped head to the book,--her hair had been luxuriant before, but she cut it so as not to occupy time needed for the sick man,--and answered,-- "This is Pan Zavilovski's poetry." "Thou art listening to thy own poetry?" said Pan Stanislav, laughing. "Well, how does it please thee?" "I hear it as if it were not my own," replied Pan Ignas. After a while he added, speaking slowly, and stuttering a little, "But I shall write again as soon as I recover." It was evident that this thought occupied him greatly, and that he must have mentioned it more than once; for Panna Ratkovski, as if wishing to give him pleasure, said,-- "And the same kind of beautiful verses, and not too long." He smiled at her with gratitude, and was silent. But at that moment Panna Helena entered the room, and pressing Pan Stanislav's hand, said,-- "How well it is that you have come! I wanted to take counsel with you." "I am at your service." "I beg you to come to my room." She conducted him to the adjoining room, indicated a chair to him, then, sitting down opposite, was silent, as if collecting her thoughts. Pan Stanislav, looking at her under the lamp, noticed, for the first time, a number of silvery threads in her bright hair, and remembered that that woman was not thirty yet. She began to speak in her cool and decisive voice,-- "I do not request counsel precisely, but assistance for my relative. I know that you are a real friend of his, and, besides, you have shown me so much kindness at the death of my father that I shall be grateful the rest of my life for it; and now I will speak more openly with you than with any one else. For personal reasons, which I will not touch, and of which I can only say that they are very painful, I have decided to create for myself other conditions of life,--conditions for me more endurable. I should have done so long since, but while my father was living I could not. Then Ignas's misfortune came. It seemed to me my duty not to desert the last relative bearing our name, for whom, besides, I have a heartfelt and real friendship. But now, thanks be to God! he is saved. The doctors answer for his life; and if God has given him exceptional capacities and predestined him to great things, nothing stands in the way of his activity." Here she stopped, as if she had fallen to thinking suddenly of something in the future, after which, when she had roused herself, she spoke on,-- "But by his recovery my last task is finished, and I am permitted to return to my original plan. There remains only the property of which my father left a considerable amount, and which would be altogether useless to me in my coming mode of life. If I could consider this property my own personally, I might dispose of it otherwise, perhaps; but since it is family property, I consider that I have no right to devote it to foreign objects while any one of the family is alive who bears the name. I do not conceal from you that attachment to my cousin moves me; but I judge that I do above all that which conscience commands, and besides carry out the wish of my father, who did not succeed in writing his will, but who--I know with all certainty--wished to leave a part of his property to Ignas. I have provided for myself not in the degree which my father thought of doing, but still I take more than I need. Ignas inherits the rest. The act of conveyance has been written by Pan Kononovich according to all legal rules. It includes this house, Yasmen, the property in Kutno, the estates in Poznan and the moneys with the exception of that portion which I have retained for myself, and a small part which I have reserved for Panna Ratkovski. It is a question now only of delivering this document to Ignas. I have asked two doctors if it is not too early, and if the excitement might not harm him. They assure me that it is not too early, and that every agreeable news may only act on his health beneficially. This being the case, I wish to finish the matter at once, for I am in a hurry." Here she smiled faintly. Pan Stanislav, pressing her hand, asked, with unfeigned emotion,-- "Dear lady, I do not inquire through curiosity, What do you intend?" Not wishing evidently to give an explicit answer, she said,-- "A person has the right always to take refuge under the care of God. As to Ignas, he has an honest heart and a noble character, which will not be injured by wealth; but the property is very considerable, and he is young, inexperienced; he will begin life in conditions changed altogether,--hence I wish to ask you, as a man of honor and his friend, to have guardianship over him. Care for him, keep him from evil people, but above all remind him that his duty is to write and work further. For me it was a question, not only of saving his life, but his gifts. Let him write; let him pay society, not for himself only, but for those too whom God created for His own glory and the assistance of men, but who destroyed both themselves and their gifts." Here her lips became pale on a sudden, her hands closed, and the voice stopped in her throat. It might seem that the despair accumulated in her soul would break all bounds immediately; but she mastered herself after a while, and only her clinched hands testified what the effort was which that action had cost her. Pan Stanislav, seeing her suffering, judged that it would be better to turn her thought in another direction, toward practical and current affairs; hence he said,-- "Evidently this will be an unheard of change in the life of Ignas; but I too hope that it will result only in good. Knowing him, it is difficult to admit another issue. But could you not defer the act for a year, or at least half a year?" "Why?" "For reasons which do not lie in Ignas himself, but which might have connection with him. I do not know whether the news has reached you that the marriage of Panna Castelli to Kopovski is broken, and that the position of those ladies is tremendously awkward in consequence. Through breaking with Ignas, they have made public opinion indignant, and now their names are on people's tongues again. It would be for them a perfect escape to return to Ignas; and it is possible to suppose that when they learn of your gift, they will surely attempt this, and it is unknown whether Ignas, especially after so short an interval, and weakened as he is, might not let himself be involved by them." Panna Helena looked at Pan Stanislav with brows contracted from attention, and, dwelling on what he said, she answered,-- "No. I judge that Ignas will choose otherwise." "I divine your thought," said Pan Stanislav; "but think,--he was attached to that other one beyond every estimate, to such a degree that he did not wish to outlive the loss of her." Here something happened which Pan Stanislav had not expected, for Panna Helena, who had always such control of herself and was almost stern, opened her thin arms in helplessness, and said,-- "Ah, if that were true,--if there were not for him any other happiness save in her! Oh, Pan Polanyetski, I knew that he ought not to do that; but there are things stronger than man, and they are things which he needs for life absolutely--and besides--" Pan Stanislav looked at her with astonishment; after a while she added,-- "Besides, while one lives, one may enter on a better road any moment." "I did not suppose that I should hear anything like this from her," thought Pan Stanislav. And he said aloud,-- "Then let us go to Ignas." Pan Ignas received the news first with amazement, and then with delight; but that delight was as if external. It might be supposed that, by the aid of his brain, he understood that something immensely favorable had met him, and that he had told himself that he must be pleased with it, but that he did not feel it with his heart. His heart declared itself only in the care and interest with which he asked Panna Helena what she intended to do with herself, and what would become of her. She was not willing to answer him, and stated, in general terms, that she would withdraw from the world, and that her resolve was unchangeable. She implored of him this, which clearly concerned her most, not to waste his powers and disappoint people who were attached to him. She spoke as a mother, and he, repeating, "I will write again the moment I recover," kissed her hands and had tears in his eyes. It was not known, however, whether those tears meant sympathy for her, or the regret of a child abandoned by a good and kind nurse; for Panna Helena told him that from that moment she considered herself a guest in his house, and in two days would withdraw. Pan Ignas would not agree to this, and extorted the promise from her to remain a week longer. She yielded at last, through fear of exciting him and injuring his health. Then he grew calm, and was as gladsome as a little boy whose prayer has been granted. Toward the end of the evening, however, he grew thoughtful, as if remembering something, looked around with astonished eyes on those present, and said,-- "It is wonderful, but it seems to me as if all this had happened before some time." Pan Stanislav, wishing to give a more cheerful tone to the conversation, asked, laughing,-- "Was it during previous existences on other planets? It was, was it not?" "In that way everything might have happened some other time," said Pan Ignas. "And you have written the very same verses already--on the moon?" He took up a book lying on the table, looked at it, grew thoughtful, and said at last,-- "I will write again, but when I recover completely." Pan Stanislav took farewell and went out. That evening Panna Ratkovski removed to her little chamber at Pani Melnitski's. CHAPTER LXII. The separation of the Osnovskis, who in social life occupied a position rather prominent, and the great fortune which fell on a sudden to Pan Ignas, were the items of news with which the whole city was occupied. People who supposed that Panna Helena had taken the young man to her house to marry him were stunned from amazement. New gossip and new suppositions rose. People began to whisper that Pan Ignas was a son of old Zavilovski; that he had threatened his sister with a law-suit for concealing the will; that she chose to renounce all and go abroad rather than be exposed to a scandalous law-suit. Others declared that the cause of her departure was Panna Ratkovski; that between those two young ladies scenes had taken place unparalleled,--scenes to arouse indignation. In consequence of this, self-respecting houses would not permit Panna Ratkovski to cross their thresholds. There were others, too, who, appearing in the name of public good, refused simply to Panna Helena the right of disposing of property in that fashion, giving at the same time to understand that they would have acted more in accord with public benefit. In a word, everything was said that gossip and meddling and frivolity and low malice could invent. Soon new food for public curiosity arrived under the form of news of a duel between Osnovski and Kopovski, in which Osnovski was wounded. Kopovski returned to Warsaw soon after with the fame of a hero of uncommon adventures in love and arms,--stupider than ever, but also more beautiful, and in general so charming that at sight of him hearts young and old began to beat with quickened throb. Osnovski, wounded rather slightly, was under treatment in Brussels. Svirski received from him a brief announcement soon after the duel, that he was well, that in the middle of winter he would go to Egypt, but, before that, would return to Prytulov. The artist came to Pan Stanislav with this news, expressing at the same time the fear that Osnovski was returning only to avenge his wrongs afresh on Kopovski. "For I am sure," said he, "that if he is wounded, it is because he permitted it. According to me, he wished to die simply. I have shot with him more than once at Brufini's, and know how he shoots. I have seen him hit matches, and am convinced that had he wished to blow out Koposio, we shouldn't see him to-day." "Perhaps not," answered Pan Stanislav; "but since he talks of going to Egypt, 't is clear that he does not intend to let himself be killed. Let him go, and let him take Pan Ignas." "It is true that Pan Ignas ought to see the world a little. I should like to go from here to see him. How is he?" "I will go with you, for I have not seen him to-day. He is well, but somehow strange. You remember what a proud soul he was, shut up in himself. Now he is in good health, as it were, but has become a little child; at the least trouble there are tears in his eyes." After a while the two went out together. "Is Panna Helena with Pan Ignas yet?" inquired Svirski. "She is. He takes her departure to heart so much that she has pity on him. She was to go away in a week; now, as you see, the second week has passed." "What does she wish specially to do with herself?" "She says nothing precise on this point. Probably she will enter some religious order and pray all her life for Ploshovski." "But Panna Ratkovski?" "Panna Ratkovski is with Pani Melnitski." "Did Pan Ignas feel her absence much?" "For the first days. Afterward he seemed to forget her." "If he does not marry her in a year, I will repeat my proposal. As I love God, I will. Such a woman, when she becomes a wife, grows attached to her husband." "I know that in her soul Panna Helena wishes Ignas to marry Panna Ratkovski. But who knows how it will turn out?" "I am sure that he will marry her; what I say is the imagining of a weak head. I shall not marry." "My wife said that you told her that yesterday; but she laughed at the threat." "It is not a threat; it is only this, that I have no happiness." Their conversation was interrupted by the coming of a carriage, in which were Pani Kraslavski and Pani Mashko. Those ladies were going in the direction of the Alley, wishing evidently to take the air. The day was clear, but cold; and Pani Mashko was so occupied with drawing a warm cloak on her mother that she did not see them, and did not return their salutation. "I called on them the day before yesterday," said Svirski. "She is a kindly sort of woman." "I hear that she is a very good daughter," answered Pan Stanislav. "I noticed that when I was there; but, as is usual with an old sceptic, it occurred to me at once that she finds pleasure also in the rôle of a careful daughter. Do you not see women often doing good of some special sort because they think that it becomes them?" And Svirski was not mistaken. In fact, Pani Mashko found pleasure in the rôle of a self-sacrificing daughter. But that itself was very much, since such a satisfaction flowed still from real attachment to her mother, and because at sight of her misfortune something was roused in the woman, something quivered. At the same time Svirski did not wish, or did not know how, to draw this further conclusion from his thoughts: that as in the domain of the toilet a woman in addition to a new hat needs a new cloak, a new dress, new gloves, so in the domain of good deeds once she has taken up something she wants to be fitted out anew from head to foot. In this way the rebirth of a woman is never quite impossible. Meanwhile they arrived at Pan Ignas's, who received them with delight; because, for some time past, the sight of people gave him pleasure, as it does usually to patients returning to life. When he had learned from Svirski that the latter would go soon to Italy, he began to insist that he should take him. "Ah, ha!" thought Svirski; "then somehow Panna Ratkovski is not in thy head?" Pan Ignas declared that he had been thinking long of Italy; that nowhere else would he write as there, under those impressions of art, and those centuries crumbling into ruins entwined with ivy. He was carried away and pleased by that thought; hence the honest Svirski agreed without difficulty. "But," said he, "I cannot stay long there this time, for I have a number of portraits to paint in this city; and, besides, I promised Pan Stanislav to return to the christening." Then he turned to Pan Stanislav,-- "Well, what is it finally, the christening of a son or a daughter?" "Let it be what it likes," answered Pan Stanislav, "if only, with God's will, in good health." And while the other two began to plan the journey, he took farewell, and went to his counting-house. He had a whole mail from the previous day to look over, so, shutting himself in, he began to read letters, and dictate to a writer in short-hand those which touched affairs needing immediate transaction. After a while, however, a newly hired servant interrupted his labor by announcing that some lady wished to see him. Pan Stanislav was disturbed. It seemed to him, it is unknown why, that this could be no other than Pani Mashko; and, foreseeing certain explanations and scenes, his heart began to beat unquietly. Meanwhile the laughing and glad face of Marynia appeared in the door most unexpectedly. "Ah, well, haven't I given a surprise?" inquired she. Pan Stanislav sprang up at sight of her, with a feeling of sudden and immense delight, and, seizing her hands, began to kiss them, one after the other. "But, my dear, this is really a surprise!" said he. "Whence did it come to thy head to look in here?" And thus speaking, he pushed an armchair toward her, and seated her as a dear and honored guest; from his radiant face it was evident what pleasure her presence was giving him. "I have something curious to show thee," said Marynia; "and because I must walk a good deal, anyhow, I came in. And thou, what didst thou think? Whom didst thou look for? Own up, right away!" Thus speaking, she began to threaten him while laughing; but he answered,-- "So much business is done here, in every case I didn't think it was thou. What hast thou to show?" "See what a letter I have!" DEAR AND BELOVED LADY,--It will astonish you perhaps that I turn to you; but you, who are to become a mother soon, are the only person on earth who will understand what must take place in the heart of a mother--even if she is only an aunt--who sees her child's unhappiness. Believe me it is a question for me of nothing else than bringing even temporary relief to an unhappy child; and it interests me the more, that in all this that has happened I myself am to blame chiefly. Perhaps these words too will astonish you, but it is the case. I am to blame. If a bad and spoilt man, at the moment when Nitechka was tottering and losing her balance, dared to touch her with his unworthy lips, I should not have lost my head and sacrificed the child. Indeed, Yozio Osnovski is to blame too: he put the question of marriage on a sharp knife; he suspected something and wanted to rid his house of Kopovski. May God forgive him, for it is not proper to defend one's self at the cost of another's happiness and life. My dear lady! it seemed to me at the first moment that the only issue was marriage with the unworthy Kopovski, and that Nitechka had no longer the right to become the wife of Ignas. I wrote even purposely to Ignas that she followed the impulse of her heart, and that she would give her hand to Kopovski with attachment; and I thought that in this way Ignas would bear the loss of her more easily, and I wanted to decrease his pain. Nitechka for Kopovski! The merciful God did not permit that; and when I too saw that that union would have been death for Nitechka, we were thinking only of this, how to be free of those bonds. It is no longer a question for me of returning to former relations, for Nitechka too has lost faith in people and in life, so that probably she would never be willing to agree to a return. She does not even know that I am writing this letter. If the beloved lady had seen how Nitechka has paid for all this with her health, and how terribly she felt the act of Pan Ignas, she would have pitied her. Pan Ignas should not have done what he has done, even out of regard for Nitechka; alas! men in such cases count only with their own wishes. She is as much to blame in all this as a newly born infant; but I see how she melts before my eyes, and how from morning till evening she is grieving because she was the unconscious cause of his misfortune, and might have broken his life. Yesterday, with tears in her eyes, she begged me in case of her death to be a mother to Ignas, and to watch over him as over my own son. Every day she says that maybe he is cursing her, and my heart is breaking, for the doctor says that he answers for nothing if her condition continues. O God of mercy! but come to the aid of a despairing mother; let me know even from time to time something about Ignas, or rather write to me that he is well, that he is calm, that he has forgotten her, that he is not cursing her, so that I might show her that letter and bring her even a little relief from her torture. I feel that I am writing only in half consciousness, but you will understand what is taking place in me, when I look on that unhappy sacrifice. God will reward you and I will pray every day that your daughter, if God gives you a daughter, be happier than my poor Nitechka. "What is thy thought about that?" inquired Marynia. "I think," said Pan Stanislav, "that news of the change in Pan Ignas's fortune has spread rather widely; and second, I think that this letter, sent to your address, is directed really to Ignas." "That may be. It is not an honest letter; but still they may be very unhappy." "It is certain that their position cannot be pleasant. Osnovski was right when he wrote that there is even for Pani Bronich an immense disappointment in all this, and that she is trying vainly to deceive herself. As for Panna Castelli, you know what Svirski told me? I do not repeat to thee his words literally; but he said that now only a fool, or a man without moral value, would marry her. They understand this themselves, and certainly it is not pleasant for them. Perhaps, too, conscience is speaking; but still, see how many dodges there are in that letter. Do not show it to Ignas." "No, I will not," answered Marynia, whose warmest wishes were on the side of Panna Ratkovski. And Pan Stanislav, following the thought which was digging into him for some time past, repeated to her, word for word almost, what he had repeated to himself,-- "There is a certain logic which punishes, and they are harvesting what they sowed. Evil, like a wave, is thrown back from the shore and returns." Hereupon Marynia began to draw figures on the floor with her parasol, as if meditating on something; then, raising her clear eyes to her husband, she said,-- "It is true, my Stas, that evil returns; but it may return, too, as remorse and sorrow. In that case the Lord God is satisfied with such penance, and punishes no further." If Marynia had known what was troubling him, and wanted to soften his suffering, and console the man, she could not have found anything better than those few simple words. For some time Pan Stanislav had been oppressed by a foreboding that some misfortune must meet him, and he was in ceaseless fear of it. From her only did he learn that his sorrow and remorse might be that returning wave. Yes, he had had no little remorse, and sorrow had not been wanting in him; he felt, too, that if suffering might and could be a satisfaction, he would be ready to suffer twice as grievously. Now a desire took him to seize in his arms that woman full of simplicity and honesty, from whom so much good came to him; and if he did not do so, it was only from fear of emotions for her, and out of regard for her condition, and that indecision which fettered him in his relations with her. But he raised her hand to his lips, and said,-- "Thou art right, and art very kind." She, pleased with the praise, smiled at him, and began to prepare for home. When she had gone, Pan Stanislav went to the window, and followed her with his eyes. From afar he saw her curved form advancing with heavy step, her dark hair peeping from under her hat; and in that moment he felt with new force, greater than ever, that she was the dearest person in the world to him, and that he loved her only, and would love her till his death. CHAPTER LXIII. Two days later Pan Stanislav received a note from Mashko, containing a few words of farewell. "I go to-day," wrote he. "I shall try absolutely to run in once more to thee; but in every case I bid thee farewell, and thank thee for all proofs of friendship which thou hast shown me. May the Lord God prosper thee better than He has prospered me so far! I should like to see thee, even for a moment; and if I can, I shall run in about four o'clock. Meanwhile I repeat the request to remember my wife, and protect her a little when people drop her. I pray thee also to defend me before her against people's tongues. I am going to Berlin at nine in the evening, and quite openly. Till we meet again I and in every case, be well,--and once more, thanks for everything. "MASHKO." Pan Stanislav went to the counting-house about four, but he waited beyond an hour in vain. "He will not come," thought he, at last; "so much the better." And he went home with the feeling of satisfaction that he had succeeded in avoiding a disagreeable meeting. But in the evening a species of pity for Mashko began to move him: he thought that the man had gone by a bad and feverish road, it is true; but he had had his fill of torment and tearing, and in the end had paid dearly; that all which had happened was to be foreseen long before; and if those who foresaw it had associated with him, and received him at their houses, they ought not to show him contempt in the day of his downfall. He knew, too, that he should give Mashko pleasure by his appearance at the station; and after a moment of hesitation he went. On the road he remembered that likely he should find Pani Mashko, too, at the station; but he knew that in any event he must meet her, and he judged that to withdraw because of her would be a kind of vain cowardice. With these thoughts he went to the station. In the hall of the first class, which is not large, there were several persons, and on the tables whole piles of travelling-cases, but nowhere could he see Mashko; and only after he had looked around carefully did he recognize in a young veiled lady, sitting in one corner of the hall, Pani Mashko. "Good-evening," said he, approaching her. "I have come to say good-by to your husband. Where is he?" She bowed slightly, and answered, with the thin, cold voice usual to her,-- "My husband is buying tickets." "How tickets? Are you going with him?" "No; my husband is buying a ticket." Further conversation under these conditions seemed rather difficult; but, after a while, Mashko appeared in company with a railway servant, to whom he gave the ticket and money, with the order to check the baggage. Wearing a long travelling overcoat and a soft silk cap, he looked, with his side whiskers and gold glasses, like some travelling diplomat. Pan Stanislav deceived himself, too, in thinking that Mashko would show uncommon delight at his coming. Mashko, when he saw him, said, it is true, "Oh, how thankful I am that thou hast come!" but, as it were, with a kind of indifference, and with the hurry usual to people who are going on a journey. "Everything is checked," said he, looking around the hall. "But where are my hand packages? Ah, here they are! Good!" Then he turned to Pan Stanislav, and said,-- "I thank thee for having come. But do me still one kindness, and conduct my wife home; or, at least, go out with her, and help her to find a carriage. Terenia, Pan Polanyetski will take thee home. My dear friend, come one moment; I have something more to say to thee." And, taking Pan Stanislav aside, he began to speak feverishly,-- "Take her home without fail. I have given a plausible form to my journey; but do thou say to her, so, in passing, that thou art surprised that I am going such a short time before the calling of the will case, for if any event should detain me, the case must be lost. I wanted to go to thy house just to ask this of thee; but, as thou knowest, on the day of a journey--The case will come up in a week. I shall fall ill; my place will be taken by my assistant, a young advocate, a beginner, and of course he will lose. But the affair will be plausible through my illness. I have secured my wife; everything is in her name, and they will not take one glass from her. I have a plan which I shall lay before a shipbuilding company in Antwerp. If I make a contract, timber will rise in price throughout this whole country; but who knows, in that case, if I shall not return, for the whole affair of Ploshov is a trifle in comparison with this business? I cannot speak more in detail. Were it not for the grievous moments which my wife must pass, I should keep regret away; but that just throttles me." Here he touched his throat with his hand, and then spoke still more hurriedly,-- "Misfortune fell on me; but misfortune may fall on any man. For that matter, it is too late to speak of this. What has been, has been; but I did what I could, and I shall do yet what I can. And this, too, is a relief to me,--that thou wilt get thy own even from Kremen. If I had time to tell thee what I have in mind, thou couldst see that it would not come to the head of every man. Maybe I shall have business even with thy firm. I do not give up, as thou seest--I have secured my wife perfectly. Well, it's over, it's over! Another in my place might have ended worse. Might he not? But let us return to my wife now." Pan Stanislav listened to Mashko's words with a certain pain. He wondered, it is true, at his mental fertility; but at the same time he felt that in him there was lacking that balance which makes the difference between a man of enterprise and an enterprising adventurer. It seemed to him, too, that there was in Mashko already something of the future worn-out trickster, who will struggle for a long time yet, but who, with his plans, will be falling lower and lower till he ends, with boots worn on one side, in a second-rate coffee-house, telling, in a circle of the same kind of "broken men," of his former greatness. He thought, also, that the cause of all this was a life resting to begin with on untruth; and that Mashko, with all his intelligence, can never work himself out of the fetters of falsehood. See, he pretends yet, and even before his wife. He had to do so; but when the hall began to fill with people, some acquaintances stepped up to greet the two men, and exchange a couple of such hurried phrases as are used at railroads. Mashko answered them with such a tinge of loftiness and favor that anger seized Pan Stanislav. "And to think," said he, "that he is fleeing from his creditors! What would happen were that man to reach fortune?" But now the bell sounded, and beyond the window was heard the hurried breath of the engine. People began to move about and hasten. "I am curious to know what is going on in him now?" thought Pan Stanislav. But even at that moment Mashko could not free himself from the bonds of lying. Maybe his heart was straitened by an evil foreboding: maybe he had a gleam of second sight, that that wife whom he loved he should never see again; that he was going to want, to contempt, to fall; but it was not permitted him to show what he felt, or even to say farewell to his wife as he wished. The second bell sounded. They went out on the platform, and Mashko stood still a wile before the sleeping-car. The gleam of the lamp fell directly on his face, on which two small wrinkles appeared near the month. But he spoke calmly, with the tone of a man whom business constrains to a few days' absence, but who is sure that he will return. "Well, till we meet again, Terenia! Kiss mamma'a hands for me, and be well. Till we meet, till we meet!" Thus speaking, he raised her hand, which, moreover he kept long at his lips. Pan Stanislav, going aside a little by design, thought,-- "They see each other now for the last time. In some half year a separation in form will follow." And the peculiar lot of those two women struck him, the same for mother and daughter. Both married with great appearances of brilliancy; and the husbands of both had to run away from their domestic hearths, leaving only shame to their wives. But now the bell sounded the third time. Mashko entered. For a while, in the wide pane of the sleeping-car, his side whiskers were visible, and his gold-rimmed eye-glasses; then the train pushed out into darkness. "I am at your service," said Pan Stanislav to Pani Mashko. He was almost certain that she would thank him dryly for his society, and reject it; he was even angry, for the reason that he had determined to tell her not only something about her husband, but something from himself. But she inclined her head in agreement; she, too, had her plan. So much bitter dislike for Pan Stanislav and such a feeling of offence had been rising in her heart for a long time, that, thinking him likely to take advantage again of a moment which they were to pass together, she determined to give him a slap which he would remember for many a day. But she was mistaken altogether. First, through her he had been crushed as ice is crushed against a cliff, and therefore for some time he had felt for her not only dislike, but even hatred. Second, if later, through a feeling of conviction that the fault was on his side exclusively, that hatred had passed, then he had changed so much that he had become almost entirely another man. His mercantile reckoning with himself had taught him that such transgressions are paid for too dearly; he was in a phase of immense desire for a life without deceit; and finally remorse and sorrow had eaten up desire in him as rust eats up iron. When assisting her into the carriage, and when he touched her shoulder, he remained calm; and when he had taken his seat, he began at once to speak of Mashko, for he judged that through a feeling of humanity alone he ought to prepare her for the coming catastrophe, and soften its significance. "I wonder at the daring of your husband," said he. "Let one bridge fall on the road during his stay in Berlin, he will not be able to return to the will case, on which, as you know, of course, all his fate depends. He must have gone for important reasons; but it is always hazardous to act thus." "The bridges are strong," answered Pani Mashko. But he, unconquered by that not over-encouraging answer, spoke on, drawing aside before her gradually the curtain of the future; and he spoke so long that while he was talking they arrived before the Mashko dwelling. Then she, not understanding the meaning of his words evidently, and angry, perhaps, that she had not had the chance to give him the intended blow, said, when she had stepped out of the carriage,-- "Had you any personal object in disquieting me?" "No," answered Pan Stanislav, who saw that the moment had come to tell her that which he had resolved to say from himself. "In relation to you, I have only one object,--to declare that, with reference to you, I have offended unworthily, and that from my whole soul I beg your pardon." But the young woman went into her house without answering a single word. Pan Stanislav, to the end of his life, did not know whether that was the silence of hatred or forgiveness. Still he returned home with a certain encouragement, for it seemed to him that he ought to have acted thus. In his eyes that was a small act of penitence; it was all one to him how Pani Mashko understood him. "Maybe she judged," said he to himself, "that I begged pardon of her for my subsequent treatment; in every case I shall be able to look her more boldly in the eyes now." And in that thought of his there was undoubtedly some selfishness; but there was also the will to escape from the toils. CHAPTER LXIV. Panna Helena, also, before her departure, received a letter from Pani Bronich, in the style of that which Marynia had received, and, like Marynia, she did not show it to Pan Ignas. Besides, Pan Ignas went away with Svirski a week later without visiting any acquaintance except Panna Ratkovski. Svirski, in person, kept him from all visits; and Pan Stanislav, in conversations with his wife, declared that he had acted rightly. "At present," said he, "it would be disagreeable both for Ignas, and for us. Those who saw him every day are different, for they are used to him; but no one else could refrain from looking at the scar which is left on his forehead. Besides, Ignas has changed very much. During the journey he will recover perfectly; on his return we shall receive him as if nothing had happened; and strangers will see in him, above all, a wealthy young lord." And it might have been so in reality. But meanwhile, there was loneliness around the Polanyetskis, because of that departure. Their circle of acquaintances had scattered on all sides. Osnovski remained still in Brussels; where Pani Aneta had gone no one knew. Pani Bronich and Panna Castelli were in Paris; there was no one at Yasmen. Pani Kraslavski and her daughter shut themselves in, and lived only for each other; and finally sickness had confined to her bed poor Pani Emilia, once and forever. There remained only the Bigiels and the professor. But he was sick, too, and, moreover, he had become so peculiar that strangers considered him a lunatic. Some said with a certain irony that a man who thinks that the spirit of Christianity will penetrate into politics as it has into private life, must be indeed of sound mind. He began himself to think about death, and to make preparations for it. Frequently he repeated to Pan Stanislav his desire to die "in the ante-chamber to the other world," and in view of that was preparing for Rome. But since he loved Marynia greatly, he wished to wait till after her sickness. In this way time passed in great seclusion for the Polanyetskis. It was for that matter necessary for Marynia, who in recent days had felt very ill, and necessary for her state of feeling. Pan Stanislav worked over business in the counting-house, and over himself; he was working out in himself a new man, and watching over his wife. She, too, was preparing herself for a new epoch in life; and she was preparing herself gladly, for it seemed to her that what she did would act upon both of them. Pan Stanislav became daily less absolute in some way, more condescending in his judgments of people, and milder, not only in relation to her, but in relation to all persons with whom life brought him into contact. He surrounded her with exceptional, with thoughtful care; and though she supposed that this care had in view not so much her person as the child, she recognized this as proper, and was grateful. She was astonished at times by a kind of timidity and, as it were, hesitation in his treatment of her; but not being able to divine that he was simply curbing his feeling for her, she ascribed such exhibitions to "Stas's" fear as to whether all would end well in her case. Whole weeks passed in this manner. Their monotony was broken sometimes by a letter from Svirski, who, when he could seize a free moment, reported what he could of himself and Pan Ignas. In one of those letters he inquired in Pan Ignas's name if Pani Polanyetski would permit him to send a description of his impressions in the form of letters to her. "I spoke with him of this in detail," wrote Svirski. "He contends first that it might be agreeable to the lady to have echoes from a land which has left her so many pleasant memories; and second, that it would lighten his work greatly were he to write as if privately. He is well; he walks, eats, and sleeps perfectly. Every evening I see too that he sits at his desk and prepares to write. I concluded that he was trying poetry, also. Somehow it does not succeed, for he has not written anything yet, so far as I know. I suppose, however, that all will come out by degrees, and in season. Meanwhile the form of letters would lighten his work, perhaps, really. I will add in conclusion that he mentions Panna Helena with immense gratitude; and at every mention of Panna Ratkovski, his eyes become bright. I speak of her to him frequently, for what can I, poor man, do? When anything is not predestined, there is no help in the case; and when it is written down to a man that he must remain like a stake in a hedge, he will not put forth leaves in spring even." In the middle of November a letter came from Rome, which roused much thought in the Polanyetskis. Svirski wrote as follows:-- "Imagine to yourselves that Pani Bronich is here and Panna Castelli, and that I have had an interview with them. In Rome I am as if at home; hence I learned of their coming on the second day. And do you know what I did immediately? I persuaded Ignas to go to Sicily, in which, moreover, I found no great difficulty. I thought to myself, 'he will sit in Syracuse or in Taormina; and if by chance he falls into the hands of the Mafia the cost of his ransom will be less than what he paid for the privilege of wearing Panna Nitechka's ring for a short time.' I said to myself, 'if he and she are to meet on earth and be reconciled, let them meet and be reconciled; but I have no wish to take that work on my conscience, especially after what has happened.' Ignas is well to all seeming; but he has not recovered yet mentally, and in that state he might be brought easily to something which he would regret for a lifetime. As to those ladies, I divined at once why they came here, and I was delighted in soul that I had hindered their tricks; that my supposition was to the point is shown by this, that some days later a letter came to Ignas, on which I recognized the handwriting of the widow of that heaven-dwelling Teodor. I wrote on the envelope that Pan Ignas had gone away, it was unknown whither, and sent the letter retro. "That, however, was only the beginning of the history. Next morning I received a letter with an invitation to a talk. I answered that I must refuse with regret; that my occupations do not permit me to give myself such a pleasure. In answer to this, I received a second letter with an appeal to my character, my talent, my descent, my heart, my sympathy for an unhappy woman: and with the prayer that I should either go myself, or appoint an hour in my studio. There was no escape,--I went. Pani Bronich herself received me with tears, and a whole torrent of narratives which I shall not repeat, but in which 'Nitechka' appears as a Saint Agnes the martyr. 'With what can I serve,' ask I? She answers: 'It is not a question of anything, but a kind word from Pan Ignas. The child is sick, she is coughing, in all likelihood she will not live the year out; but she wants to die with a word of forgiveness.' At this I confess that I was softened a little, but I held out. Moreover, I could not give the address of Pan Ignas, for I did not know really at what hotel he had stopped. I was sweating as in a steam bath; and at last I promised something in general, that if Ignas would begin at any time to talk with me about Panna Castelli, that I would persuade him to act in accordance with the wish of Pani Bronich. "But this was not all yet. When I was thinking of going, Panna Lineta herself rushed in on a sudden, and turned to her aunt with the request to let her talk with me alone. I will say in parenthesis that she has grown thin, and that she seems taller than usual, really like 'a poplar,' which any wind might break. Hardly were we left alone when she turned to me and said, 'Aunt is trying to make me innocent, and is doing so through love for me. I am thankful to her; but I cannot endure it, and I declare to you that I am guilty, that I am not worthy of anything, and that if I am unhappy I have deserved it a hundred times.' When I heard this I was astonished; but I saw that she was talking sincerely, for her lips were quivering and her eyes were mist-covered. You may say to yourselves that I have a heart made of butter; but I confess that I was moved greatly, and I inquired what I could do for her. To this she answered that I could do nothing; but she begged me to believe at least that she took no part in those efforts of her aunt to renew relations, that after Pan Ignas's act her eyes were opened to what she had done, and that she would never forget it in her life. At last she said once again, that she alone was the cause of everything, and begged me to repeat our conversation to Pan Ignas, not immediately, however, but only when he could not suspect that she wished to influence him. "Well, and what do you think? Would you lend belief to anything like that? I see clearly two things, first, that Pan Ignas's attempt on his life, happen what may, must have shaken her terribly; and second, that she is fabulously unhappy,--who knows, she may be sick really. So the opinion of Panna Helena comes to my mind, who, as you repeated to me, says that we must not despair of a man while he is living. In every case it is something uncommon. I believe too that even if Pan Ignas wished now to return to her, she would not consent, simply because she does not feel that she is worthy of him. As to me, I think that there are many better and nobler female natures than hers in the world; but may the deuce take me if I act against her!" In continuation Svirski inquired about health, and sent obeisances to the Bigiels. This letter made a great impression on all, and was the occasion of numerous discussions between the Polanyetskis and the Bigiels. It appeared at once too how far Pan Stanislav was changed. Formerly he would not have found words enough to condemn Panna Castelli, and never would he have believed that any chord of honor would make itself heard in a woman of her kind; but at present, when Pani Bigiel, who, as well as the other ladies, belonged soul and body to Panna Ratkovski's side, expressed doubts, and said, "Is not that merely a change of tactics on the part of Panna Castelli?" he said,-- "No; she is too young for that, and she seems to me sincere. It is a great thing if she acknowledges her fault so unconditionally, for it proves that untruth in life has disgusted her." After a moment's hesitation, he added,-- "I remember, for example, that more than once Mashko acknowledged, as it were, that he was going by a wrong and false road; but right away he sought reasons to justify himself: 'With us it is necessary to do so;' 'That is the fault of our society;' 'I pay with the money that is current.' How much of this have I heard! And that was all untrue, too. Meanwhile there is a certain bravery in declaring, It is my fault absolutely. And whoso has that bravery has something left yet." "Then do you judge that Pan Ignas would do well to return to her?" "I do not judge at all, nor do I suppose that it could happen." But the living interest roused by news from Rome, together with anxiety for Pan Ignas and Panna Castelli, passed away soon, under the pressure of a more important anxiety, which was hanging over the house of the Polanyetskis. Toward the end of November Marynia's health began to fail evidently. It had been failing for some time, but she concealed this fact as long as possible. A painful palpitation of the heart came on her, and weakness so great that there were days when she could not move out of an armchair. Next came pains in her back and giddiness. In the course of a week she changed so much in the eyes, and grew thin to such a degree, that even the doctors, who up to that time had considered those symptoms as the ordinary forerunners of approaching labor, began to be alarmed at them. Her transparent face assumed at times a bluish tinge; and seemed, especially when the sick woman kept her eyes closed, like the face of a dead person. Even Pani Bigiel, the greatest optimist near Marynia, could not at last resist fears; the doctor declared to Pan Stanislav plainly that under such conditions the expected event might be dangerous, both in itself and in sequences. Marynia, though weaker every day and more exhausted, was indeed the only one who did not lose hope now. But Pan Stanislav lost it. Such a grievous time came on him that all sufferings and misfortunes which hitherto in life he had gone through seemed to him nothing in comparison with his terrible dread, which often and often became utter despair. Formerly after his wedding, in his conceptions of marriage and his hopes of the future, a child was the main thing; now for the first time he felt that he would give not only one, but all the children that he could ever have, to save that one beloved Marynia. And his heart was cut when at times Marynia repeated with her weakened voice the question which before she had asked more than once, "Stas, but if it is a boy?" He would have been glad to fall at her feet, embrace them, and say, "Let the devil take it, boy or girl, if only thou art left;" but he had to smile at her, and assure her calmly that it was all one to him. His former terrors fell upon him again; and that hope, roused by Marynia's words, that by God's favor a wave of evil returns as remorse only, was dissipated without a trace. Now, at moments, he had again the feeling that Marynia's sickness might be just that returning wave. How it might be that wave he could not tell, for in vain did reason say to him that between the offence of Pani Osnovski or of Panna Castelli, for example, and the punishment which met them, there is an immediate connection which there is not in his case. Fear answered him, that evil may filter through life by such secret channels that the reason of man cannot follow it. And at this thought a dread seized him that was simply mysterious. A man in misfortune loses power of accurate reasoning; he lives under the weight of terror, and under such a weight was Pan Stanislav living. He saw only the precipice, and his own helplessness. More than once, while looking at the haggard face of Marynia, he said to himself, "One must be mad to suppose that she may not die;" and he sought desperately on the faces of those surrounding her for even a shade of hope, and with every drop of his blood, with every atom of his brain, with his whole soul and heart, he rose up against her death. It seemed to him an inconceivable injustice that she will have to close her eyes forever before he can show her how he loves her beyond every estimate; before he rewards her for all his carelessness, harsh treatment, egotism, and faithlessness; before he tells her that she has become the soul of his soul, something not only loved above all in his life, but revered. He repeated to himself that if God would not do this for him He ought to do it for her, so that in going from the world she might leave it with a feeling at least of that happiness which she had deserved. From these insolent suggestions to God of how He ought to act, he passed again to compunction, to humility, and to prayer. But meanwhile Marynia was daily more and more dangerously ill, and he, between two despairs, one of which shouted, "This cannot be," and the other, "It must be,"--he struggled as if in a vice. Finally, from necessity, from the fear of taking hope from Marynia, he was forced to pretend in her presence that he paid little attention to her sickness. And the doctor and Pani Bigiel warned him daily not to alarm her; his own reason indicated the same to him. And here was a new torture, since it came to his mind that she might look on this as a lack of feeling, and die with the conviction that he had never loved her. Thus everything was changed in him utterly. Sleeplessness, torment, and alarm brought him to a kind of sickly exaltation, in which even the danger, which of itself was too evident, he saw in a still higher degree. It seemed to him that there was no hope, and at times he thought of Marynia as if already dead. For whole days he was thinking over every good point of her character,--her words, her kindness, her calmness. He remembered how all loved her, and he reproached himself desperately, saying that he had never been worthy of her, that he had not loved her sufficiently, that he had not valued her enough, and, to crown all, had broken faith with her; and therefore he must lose her, and lose her deservedly. And in the feeling that a thing so terrible was also deserved, and that it was too late for any correction, was something simply heart-rending. Even persons who during life were always loved greatly, when they go from this world, leaving their friends in sorrow because they did not love the departed enough, leave behind, of all sorrows, that which is sorest. At the beginning of December, Svirski and Pan Ignas returned, after two months' journey, from Italy. Pan Stanislav had grown so thin and haggard in that interval that they hardly knew him; and he, quite sunk in misery, turned scarcely any attention to them, and listened as in a dream to words of hope and consolation from both, as well as narratives, with which the honest artist tried to divert his suffering mind. What did he care now for Pan Ignas, Pani Bronich, Panna Castelli, in face of the fact that Marynia might die any day? Svirski, who had immense friendship for him, wishing to find from some point a little hope, betook himself to Pani Bigiel; but even she had not much hope to offer. The doctors themselves did not know well what the trouble was, for to her condition were added various complications, which could not be defined even. It was only known that the heart of the sick woman acted irregularly; they feared above all that, as a result of defective circulation, some coagulation in the veins might result, which would cause sudden death. Besides, even in case of a happy delivery, they feared a number of things,--exhaustion, loss of strength, and all those results which come only later. Svirski convinced himself that Pani Bigiel did not deceive herself either when, at the end of the conversation, she fell into tears, and said,-- "Poor Marynia! but he, poor man too. If even a child should be left him, he might find strength to bear the blow." And when she had dried her tears, she added,-- "As it is, I do not understand how he endures it all." That was true; Pan Stanislav did not eat and did not sleep. He had not shown himself at the counting-house for a long time; he went out only for flowers, which Marynia loved always, and the sight of which cheered her. But she was so sick that whenever he went for a bunch of chrysanthemums he returned with the terrible thought that perhaps he was bringing it for her coffin. Marynia's own eyes opened to this,--that perhaps her death was coming. She did not wish to speak of this to her husband; but before Pani Bigiel she fell to weeping one day in grief for her own life and for "Stas." She was tortured by the thought, how would he bear it, for she wanted that he should be awfully sorry for her, and at the same time, that he should not suffer much. Before him she pretended yet a long time to feel sure that all would end happily. But later, when fainting spells came, she summoned courage to talk with him openly; this seemed to her a duty. Therefore one night, when Pani Bigiel, overcome by drowsiness, went to sleep, and he was watching near her as usual, she stretched her hand to him, and said,-- "Stas, I wanted to talk with thee, and beg for one thing." "What is it, my love?" asked Pan Stanislav. She thought for a time evidently how to express her prayer; and then she began to speak,-- "Promise me--I know that I shall recover surely--but promise me that should it be a boy, thou wilt love and be kind." Pan Stanislav, by a superhuman effort, restrained the sobbing which seized his breast, and said calmly,-- "My dear love, I will always love thee and him, be sure." Thereupon Marynia tried to raise his hand to her lips, but from weakness she was not able to do so; then she smiled at him from thankfulness. And again she said, "Do not think that I suppose for a moment anything terrible, not at all! but I should like to confess." A shiver went through Pan Stanislav from head to feet. "Well, my child," answered he, with a voice of fear, and as it were not his own voice. And, recollecting that once her expression "service of God" pleased him, and wishing to let him know that it was not the question of anything else here but the performance of ordinary religious duties, she repeated, with an almost glad smile,-- "The service of God." The confession took place next morning. Pan Stanislav was so sure that that was the end that he was almost astonished because Marynia was alive yet, and because she was even a little better in the evening. He did not dare to admit hope into his soul. But she became brighter, and said that she breathed more easily. About midnight she began the usual warfare with him about his going to rest. Indeed, from trouble of mind and toil he looked not much better than she did. He refused at first, contending that he had slept in the daytime, and that he was refreshed, which was not true; but she insisted absolutely. He yielded all the more that there was a special woman and Pani Bigiel, besides the doctor, who for a week had slept in their house, and who assured him now that for the time there was no reason to expect any turn for the worse. But when he went out, he did as he did usually; that is, he sat in an armchair at the door, and began to listen to what was happening in the room. In this way the hours of night passed. At the least noise he sprang up; but when the noise ceased he sat down again and began to think hurriedly and chaotically, as people do over whom danger is hanging. But at times his thoughts pressed one another, grew confused from weariness, forming, as it were, a dense crowd in which he was wandering without power to know anything. Sleep also tortured him. He had uncommon strength; but for ten days he knew not how he lived. Only black coffee and feverishness kept him on his feet. He did not yield even then, though his head was as heavy as lead and the crowd of his thoughts changed, as it were, into a black cloud, without a clear spot. He merely repeated to himself yet that Marynia was sick and he ought not to fall asleep; but these words had not the least meaning for him now. At last toil, exhaustion, and sleepless nights conquered. A stony invincible sleep seized him,--a sleep in which there was no dreaming, in which reality perished, in which the whole world perished, and in which life itself was benumbed. He was only roused toward morning by a knocking at the door. "Pan Stanislav!" called the smothered voice of Pani Bigiel. He sprang to his feet, and, gaining consciousness that moment, ran out of that room. With one glance he took in Marynia's bed; and at sight of the closed curtains his feet tottered under him. "What has happened?" whispered he, with whitening lips. But Pani Bigiel answered with a voice equally low, panting a trifle,-- "You have a son." And she put her finger on her lips. CHAPTER LXV. There were grievous days yet, and very grievous. Such weakness came on Marynia that her life began to quiver, like the flame of a taper. Would it quench, or would it flicker up again? At moments all were convinced that the flame was just, just dying. Still youth, and the relief brought by the coming of a child to the world, turned the scale on the life side. On a certain day the sick woman woke after long sleep, and seemed healthier. The old doctor in attendance, who witnessed the improvement, wished to convince himself more clearly that there was no deception, and asked to call in a physician with whom he had held counsel earlier. Pan Stanislav went to find him, and drove himself out of his mind almost while searching the city half a day for him; he did not dare hope yet that that turn in her sickness and in his misfortune was decisive. When at last he found the hunted doctor and brought him to the house, Pani Bigiel received him in the room adjoining the sick chamber, with moist eyelids, but with a glad face, and said,-- "She is better! decidedly better." The woman could not say more, for tears flowed from her eyes. Pan Stanislav grew pale from emotion; but she controlled her delight with an effort, and said, smiling through her tears,-- "She is fighting for food now. A while since she asked to have the child brought. She asked also why you did not come. But now she is fighting for food; and how she is fighting! Ah, praise be to God! Praise be to God!" And in her excitement she threw her arms around Pan Stanislav; then he kissed her hand and did not take it from his mouth for a long time. He trembled in every limb in the struggle to repress his delight, and also the groans which had gathered in him through many days of dread and torture, and which sought to burst forth now in spite of every effort. Meanwhile the doctors came to Marynia, and sat rather long at her bedside. When the consultation was over, and they appeared again, satisfaction was evident on their faces. After Pan Stanislav's feverish inquiry, the doctor in regular attendance, an impetuous old man, with gold-rimmed glasses on his nose, and a golden heart in his breast, happy himself now, but greatly wearied, said, grumbling,-- "How is she? Go and thank God,--that is what!" And Pan Stanislav went. Even had he been a man without belief, he would have gone at that moment, and thanked God with a heart swollen from tears and thankfulness, for having taken pity on him and let the wave return in the guise of pain and suffering, and not in the guise of death. Later, when he had calmed himself, he went on tiptoe to his wife's room, where Pani Bigiel was. Marynia was gazing straight ahead with gladsome eyes, and at the first glance it was evident that she was much better really. When she saw him, she said,-- "Ah, see, Stas--I am well!" "Well, my love," answered Pan Stanislav, quietly. It was not time yet for outbursts; therefore he sat down in silence near her bed. But after a while joy and great feeling for her overcame him so far that, bending down, he embraced with both hands her feet covered with the quilt, and, putting his face down to them, remained motionless. And she, though very weak yet, smiled with satisfaction. She looked some time at him; then, just like a child which is happy because it is fondled, she said to Pani Bigiel, pointing with her transparent finger to that dark head nestled at her feet,-- "He loves me!" Next day Marynia felt still stronger, and from that moment almost every hour brought improvement. At last that was not a gradual return to health, but a bloom, as it were, a sudden return of spring after winter, which astonished the doctor himself. Pan Stanislav wanted at moments to shout from the joy which was stifling him, as formerly sorrow had stifled. They kept Marynia in bed still, through excess of caution; but when her strength, her bloom, her wish for life, her humor, had returned, she began to call people to her, and say every evening that she would rise from her bed on the morrow. In one respect only the long illness and weakness had brought a change in her manner, which was to pass, however, with other traces of sickness. This was it,--she, who had been such a calm and wise woman formerly, had become for a certain time a kind of spoiled child, who insisted on various things frequently, and felt a real disappointment if they were refused. Pan Stanislav, in speaking with her, entered involuntarily into her tone, hence those "grimaces" were an occasion also of merriment. Once she began to complain to him that Pani Bigiel would not give her red wine. Pani Bigiel explained that she gave as much as the doctor permitted, and must wait for permission to give more. Pan Stanislav set about comforting Marynia at once, speaking to her just as he used to speak formerly to Litka,-- "They will give the child wine,--they will give it!--the moment the doctor comes." To which Marynia said, "Red!" "But how red must it be!" answered Pan Stanislav; and then both began to laugh, and Pani Bigiel with them. As some time before, the fear of death and misfortune had hung over that room, so now it was lighted with frequent joy, as with sunlight. At times they fell into perfect humor, and grandfather Plavitski formed part of the company too on occasions. He, since the advent to the world of his grandson, had grown full of patriarchal, but kindly importance, which did not drive away merriment. It was varied, however, for at times a lofty and solemn manner gained the upper hand in him. On a certain day he brought his will, and forced all to listen to its paragraphs from beginning to end. In the touching words of the introduction he took farewell of life, of his daughter, of Pan Stanislav, and of his grandson, not sparing directions regarding the education of the latter into a good grandson, a good son, a good father, and a good citizen; then he made him heir of all he possessed. And in spite of the fact that since Mashko's bankruptcy he possessed only as much as Pan Stanislav gave him, still he was moved by his own munificence and preserved all that evening the mien of a pelican, which nourishes its young with its own proper blood. A person who returns to the world after a grievous illness passes anew through all the periods of childhood and first youth, with this difference only,--that that which formerly was counted by years is counted now by weeks, or even days. So it was with Marynia. Pam Bigiel, who at first called her "baby," said, in laughing, that gradually "baby" had changed into a little girl, the little girl into a maiden. But the maiden began to find her feminine coquetry. Now, when they combed her hair, she insisted that they should place on her knees a small mirror, which she had received from her mother; and she looked into it carefully, to see if Pani Bigiel's promise that "afterward she would be still more beautiful," was being justified. On the first occasions the examinations did not satisfy her over-much, but afterwards more and more. At last she gave command one day to bring the mirror again, after her hair was dressed; and once more she made a thorough review of her complexion, her eyes, her mouth, her hair, her expression,--in a word, of everything which there was to look at. And the review must have turned out well, for she began to smile, and grow radiant; at last she turned toward Pan Stanislav's chamber, threatening with her thin fist, and said, with a very aggressive mien,-- "But wait now, Pan Stas!" In truth, she had never been so comely. Her complexion, always very pure, had become still clearer, and more lily-like than it was when Pan Ignas had lost his head, and rhymed from morning till evening about it. Besides, the first rosy dawn of health was shining on her cheeks. From her eyes, from her mouth, from her face, which had grown smaller after sickness, there shone a species of light, a rebirth into life, a spring. It was a wonderful head simply, full of bright and clear colors, and at the same time of delicate outline,--really exquisite, and, as Pan Ignas had expressed himself once, belonging to the field, so wonderful that at moments, when it was lying on the pillow, and on its own dark hair, it was not possible to look at it sufficiently. That so-called "Pan Stas," who saw everything clearly, and who, according to the description of Bigiel, "could not move hand or foot from love," did not need to "wait" at all. Not only did he love her now as a woman and one dear to him, but he felt for her gratitude beyond bounds because she had not died, and he showed his gratitude by striving to divine her thoughts. Marynia had not even imagined at any time that she would become to such a degree the motive of his life, the sight of his eye, the soul of his thought and activity. Never had it been disagreeable to them with each other; but now, with Marynia's return to health, an unexampled happiness, an unexampled delight, came to their household. And young Polanyetski, too, contributed actively. Marynia was not able to nourish him herself; and her husband, foreseeing this, got a nurse for his son. Wishing, moreover, to give the sick woman pleasure, he brought in an old acquaintance of hers in Kremen. She had served once with the Plavitskis; after their departure she happened in Yalbrykov, and there a misfortune befell her. It was never known strictly who the cause was; but if it was possible to reproach any of the greater proprietors with want of love for the people, it was not possible to reproach Pan Gantovski, for all Yalbrykov was full of proofs of how Gantovski loved the people. Even in the negotiations about peasant privileges of the co-residents of Yalbrykov, among other points raised was this,--that "the lord heir rides on a white horse, shoots from pistols, and looks into the girls' eyes;" and if on the one hand it was not easy to see what particular connection the above habits of Gantovski had with the agreements about peasant privileges, it became perfectly clear on the other that, thanks to those habits, Pan Stanislav found with ease a nurse for his son in Yalbrykov. But as that was a youthful, vigorous, and buxom Mazovian, the young man could only succeed in her care. In general, that little Polanyetski was a personage who, from the first moment of his arrival in the world, became more and more a lord in the house, not counting with any one, nor thinking of anything, save his own wants and pleasures. According to his method, in moments free from sleep and feasting, he occupied himself with noise-making, and the development of his little lungs, by means of a cry which was as piercing as his early age could attain. At such times he was brought frequently to Marynia. On those occasions endless sessions began, at which all his physical and mental traits were investigated minutely, as well as every striking resemblance to his life-givers. It was asserted that he had the nose of his mother, the remark of his nurse, that he had a nose like a cat, being rejected with remarkable unanimity; it was settled, also, that he would have an immensely interesting smile; that he would be dark, with brown hair; that he would be tall without fail; that he was very lively, and would have an astonishing memory. Pani Bigiel, while Marynia was lying in bed, made, also, on her own account, various discoveries, which she announced to all in general. Once she rushed into Marynia's room with delight and haste worthy of every recognition, and said,-- "Imagine to thyself, he spread out his little fingers on one hand, and with the other thou wouldst swear that he was counting. He'll be a mathematician, beyond doubt." And Marynia answered in all seriousness,-- "Then he'll take after his father." Still she made a discovery earlier, even with reference to date, than all those of Pani Bigiel,--namely, that he was "a dear little love of a creature." As to Pan Stanislav, at the first moment he looked at the new acquaintance with astonishment and a certain distrust. In his time he had wished greatly to have a daughter, with this reason chiefly, that, being in make-up of heart a great child-man, he imagined that he could give all the tenderness in him only to a girl. There was sticking in him, it is unknown why, an idea that a son would be some kind of a big lump of a fellow with mustaches almost, speaking in a bass voice, snorting somewhat like a horse, whom it would not be worth while to approach with tenderness, for he would hold it in contempt. Only gradually, after looking at this little figure sleeping on pillows, did he begin to reach the conviction that not only was that no big "lump of a boy," but simply a poor little thing, deserving of tenderness, small, weak, defenceless, needing care and love as much as any little girl in the world. At last he said to himself, "So he is that kind of boy!" And thenceforth he became more and more tender toward the little thing; and after a few days he even tried to carry him to Marynia, which, however, he did with such an amount of purely superfluous caution, and also so awkwardly, that he brought to laughter, not only Marynia and Pani Bigiel, but, with a loss to his own dignity, even the nurse. And laughter was heard now in the dwelling of the Polanyetskis from morning till evening. Both, waking in the morning, woke with that happy feeling that the day would bring them new delight. Bigiel, who, from the time that Marynia left her bed, was admitted in the evening with his violoncello, looking at their life, said once, after a moment of necessary meditation, "Misfortune may come to good people, as to every one; but when it is well for them, as God lives, it is better for no one else." And, in truth, life was pleasant for them. Marynia, according to what she had heard in her time from Pani Bigiel, and what she thought herself, judged that the cause of this new bloom of love in her husband was the child, which bound them by new bonds. One day she began even to speak of this to Pan Stanislav; but he answered with all simplicity,-- "No; I give thee my word! I love him in his way; but thee I loved already fabulously before he came to the world, for thyself, because thou art as thou art. Look around," said he, "think what is going on in the world; and to whom can I compare thee?" Then, taking her hands, he began to kiss them, not only with immense love, but also with the greatest respect, and added,-- "Thou wilt never know what thou art for me, and how I love thee." But, nestling up to him, she asked, with a face bright as the sun in heaven,-- "Indeed, Stas, shall I never know? Try to tell me." CHAPTER LXVI. The christening came. Immediately after his arrival in the world, the young man had been baptized with water by Pani Bigiel, to whom, impressed by the sickness of the mother, it seemed that the little one might die any moment. But he had not even thought of that, and had waited, in the best of health and appetite, for the time of the solemnity, in which he was to play the leading part. Pan Stanislav had invited all his acquaintances. Besides people of the house, and grandfather Plavitski, there were Pani Emilia, who, for that day, had rallied the remnant of her strength, the Bigiels, with the little Bigiels, Professor Vaskovski, Svirski, Pan Ignas, and Panna Ratkovski. Pani Polanyetski, now in health, and happy, looked so enchanting that Svirski, gazing at her, caught his hair with both hands, and said, with his usual outspokenness,-- "This just passes every understanding! As God lives! a man might lose his eyes." "Well," said Pan Stanislav, puffing with satisfaction, and with that conceit evident in him that he had always seen that which others saw only now for the first time. But Svirski answered,-- "Kneel down, nations! I will say nothing further." Marynia was confused at hearing this, but flushed with pleasure, feeling that Svirski was right. She had, however, to occupy herself with the guests and the ceremony, and all the more since a certain disorder had crept in, to begin with. The first couple, Pani Emilia and Bigiel, were to hold little Stas; the second couple were Panna Ratkovski and Svirski. Meanwhile, this last man began to create unexpected difficulties, discovering hindrances, and evading, it was unknown why. "He would be very glad--he had come from Italy purposely--of course. That was an arranged affair; but he had never before held a child at a christening, therefore he didn't know if his god-child would remain in good health, and especially if he would have luck with women." At this Pan Stanislav laughed, and called him a superstitious Italian, but Marynia divined the trouble more quickly. She took advantage of the moment in which he had pushed back toward the window to escape, and whispered,-- "A gossip[15] of the second couple is no hindrance in this case." Svirski raised his eyes to her, then laughed, showing his small sound teeth, and said on a sudden, turning to Panna Ratkovski,-- "It is true, this is only in the second couple; therefore, I will serve you." All surrounded the little Stas, who, in the arms of the nurse, and dressed in muslin and lace, looked valiant, with his bald spot and his staring round eyes, in which the external world was reflected as mechanically as in a mirror. Bigiel took him now in his arms, and the ceremony began. Those present listened with due attention to the solemn sacramental words, but the young pagan exhibited exceptional hardness of heart. First he began to kick, so that he half freed himself from Bigiel's arms; later, when Bigiel, in his name, renounced the devil and his works, the young man did all in his power to drown the words. It was only when he saw, all at once, in the midst of his screaming, Bigiel's spectacles, that he stopped suddenly, as if to let people know that if there are such astonishing objects in the world, it is a different thing. However, the ceremony ended, and immediately after they gave him into the hands of the nurse, who put him into a splendid cradle, in the form of a wagon, the gift of Svirski, and wished to roll him out of the room. But Svirski, who never in his life, perhaps, had seen so nearly such a small person, and in whose breast beat a heart long yearning for fatherhood, stopped the nurse, and, bending down to the cradle, took the child in his arms. "Carefully, carefully!" cried Pan Stanislav, pushing up quickly. But the artist turned to him, and said,-- "Sir, I have held in my hands the works of Luca della Robbia." And, in fact, he lifted the little creature, and began to swing him with as much dexterity as if he had had care of children all his life. Then he approached Professor Vaskovski, and asked,-- "Well, what does the beloved professor think of his young Aryan?" "What?" answered the old man, looking with tenderness at the child; "naturally, an Aryan, an Aryan of purest water." "And a coming missionary," added Pan Stanislav. "He will not turn from that in the future; he will not evade, just as you cannot evade," answered the professor. It was not possible, in fact, to prejudge the future; but for the moment the young Aryan avoided all missions in a manner so unmistakable, and simply insulting, that it was necessary to give him to the nurse. The ladies, however, did not cease to smack their lips at him, and to be charmed with him, until they came to a decisive conclusion that he was a perfectly exceptional child, that his whole bearing showed this clearly, and that any one must be without eyes not to see that that would be the nicest man in the country, and, moreover, a genius. But the "genius" fell asleep at last, as if he had been stunned by the incense, and meanwhile lunch was served. Marynia, in spite of all her friendship for the artist, seated Pan Ignas next to Panna Ratkovski. She wished, as, for that matter, all wished, not excepting even Svirski, that something should be made clear in their relations, for Pan Ignas acted strangely. Svirski held that he was not yet entirely normal. He was healthy; he slept and ate well; he had grown a little heavier; he spoke with judgment, even more deliberately than had been his habit,--but there appeared in him a certain infirmity of will, a certain lack of that initiative for which he had been so distinguished before. In Italy he grew radiant at remembrance of Panna Ratkovski; and when he spoke of her his eyes filled with tears at times. On his return, when some one reminded him that it would be well to make a visit to Panna Ratkovski, and especially when that one offered to go with him, he answered, "It is true," and he went with delight. But the visit made, it seemed as though he did not remember her existence. At times it was evident that in the depth of his soul something was troubling him, swallowing all his mental force. Svirski supposed for a while that it might be the remembrance of Panna Castelli; but he convinced himself, with a certain astonishment, that it was not, and at last he began to think that Pan Ignas never mentioned her because he had lost the feeling that she was real, or that she seemed to him now an impression so remote, a remembrance so blown apart, that it could not be brought into a real living whole. He was not melancholy. On the contrary, one might note at times in him satisfaction with life and the joy which he experienced, as it were, in this his second birth in it. Really sad, more and more confined in herself, and increasingly quiet, was Panna Ratkovski. It may be that, besides a lack of mutual feeling, other things in Pan Ignas alarmed her; but she did not mention those alarms to any one. Marynia and Pani Bigiel, judging that the only cause of her sadness was the conduct of Pan Ignas, showed the most heartfelt sympathy, and were ready to do anything to help her. Marynia saw Pan Ignas now for the first time since his return from Italy; but Pani Bigiel spoke to him daily, praising Panna Ratkovski, reminding him how much he owed her, and giving him to understand more and more clearly that it was his duty to pay something of the debt which he owed her. The honest Svirski, to the detriment of his own hopes, repeated the same to him; and Pan Ignas agreed to everything, but, as it were, unwillingly, or without being able to add the final conclusion. He spoke of his approaching second trip abroad, of plans of still greater journeys in the future,--in a word, of things which, by their nature, excluded the co-operation of Panna Ratkovski. And now, sitting side by side, they spoke little to each other. Pan Ignas ate abundantly, and with appetite, even with attention; he followed with his eyes the new courses which were served first to the elder guests. Panna Ratkovski, noticing this, looked on him at moments, as if with painful sympathy. At last this began to vex Marynia; so, wishing to rouse a conversation between them, she said, bending over the table,-- "You have come so recently from travels, tell me and Steftsia something of Italy. Hast thou never been there, Steftsia?" "I have not," answered Panna Ratkovski; "but not long since I read the account of a journey--but to read and to see are different." And she blushed slightly, for she had betrayed the fact that she had been reading about Italy just when Pan Ignas was there. "Pan Svirski persuaded me to go as far as Sicily," said he, "but it was hot there at that time; that would be the place to visit at this season." "Ah!" said Marynia, "it is well that I think of it--but my letters? You asked through Pan Svirski if I wished you to write your impressions, but afterward I did not receive a single letter." Pan Ignas blushed; he was confused, and then in a kind of strange and uncertain voice, answered,-- "No, for I have not been able yet; I will write very much, but later." Having heard these words, Svirski approached Marynia after lunch, and indicating Pan Ignas with his eyes, said,-- "Do you know the impression which he makes on me sometimes?--that of a costly vessel which is cracked." FOOTNOTES: [15] With Panna Ratkovski, Svirski wished to avoid spiritual relationship, a hindrance to marriage. CHAPTER LXVII A couple of days after the christening, Svirski visited Pan Stanislav in the counting-house, to inquire for Marynia's health, and to talk about various things which lay at his heart. Seeing, however, that he was late, and that Pan Stanislav was preparing to go, he said,-- "Do not stop for me. Let us talk on the street. The light is so sharp to-day that I cannot work; therefore I will walk to your door with you." "In every case I should have been forced to beg your pardon," said Pan Stanislav. "My Marynia goes out to-day for the first time, and we are to dine with the Bigiels. She must be dressed by this time, but we have twenty minutes yet." "As she goes out, she is well?" "Praise be to God, as well as a bird!" answered Pan Stanislav, with delight. "And the little Aryan?" "The little Aryan bears himself stoutly." "O happy man, if I had such a toad at home, not to mention such a wife, I should not know what to do--unless to walk upon house-tops." "You will not believe how that boy takes my heart. Every day more, and in general, in a way that I did not expect, for you must know that I wanted a daughter." "It is not evening yet; the daughter will come. But you are in a hurry; let us go then." Pan Stanislav took his fur coat, and they went to the street. The day was frosty, clear. Around was heard the hurried sound of sleigh-bells. Men had their collars over their ears, their mustaches were frosty, and they threw columns of steam from their mouths. "It is a gladsome sort of day," said Pan Stanislav. "I rejoice, for my Marynia's sake, that it is clear." "It is gladsome for you in life; therefore everything seems clear to you," said Svirski, taking him by the arm. But all at once he dropped the arm, and stopping the way, said, with an expression as if he wished to quarrel,-- "Do you know that you have the most beautiful woman in Warsaw as wife? It is I who tell you this--I!" And he began to strike his breast with his hand as if to increase thereby the certainty that it was he and no one else who was speaking thus. "Of course!" answered Pan Stanislav, laughing, "and also the best and most honest on earth; but let us go on, for it is cold." When Svirski took him again by the arm, Pan Stanislav added with some emotion,-- "But what I went through during her sickness, the Lord God alone knows--Better not mention it--She gave me a surprise simply by her return to life; but if God grants me to live till spring, I will give a surprise that will gladden her." "There is nothing with which to compare her," answered Svirski. Then, halting again, he said, as if in astonishment, "And; as I love God, so much simplicity at the same time." They walked on a while in silence, then Pan Stanislav asked Svirski of his journey. "I shall stay three weeks in Florence," answered the artist. "I have some work there. Besides, I have grown homesick for the light on San Miniato and Ginevra, with which, and with Cimabue, I was in love on a time. Do you remember in Santa Maria Novella, in the chapel of Rucellai? After a three weeks' stay I shall go to Rome. I wanted to talk with you about the journey, for this morning Pan Ignas came to me with the proposition that we should go again together." "Ah! and did you agree?" "I had not the heart to refuse, though, between ourselves, he is sometimes a burden. But you know how I loved him, and how I felt for him, so it is hard for me to say it, but he is burdensome occasionally. What is to be said in this case? he is changed immensely. At the christening I told Pani Polanyetski that at times he seems to me like a costly vessel which is cracked; and that is true. For I saw how he struggled over those letters, in which he wished to describe Italy for her. He walked whole hours through the room, rubbed his shot forehead, sat down, stood up; but the paper remained just as it was, untouched. God grant him to recover his former power. At present he repeats to every one that he will write; but he begins to doubt himself, and to grieve. I know that he grieves." "The loss of his power would be a misfortune both for him and Panna Helena. If you knew how she was concerned to the verge of despair, not only for his life, but his talent." "The loss of that would be a public misfortune; but the person for whom I am most sorry is Panna Ratkovski. She too begins to doubt whether he will be what he was, and that tortures her, perhaps, more than other griefs." "Poor girl!" said Pan Stanislav, "and the more so since from all his plans of travelling one thing is clear, that he does not even think of her. It is fortunate that Panna Helena secured her independence." "I will wait a year," answered Svirski, "and after a year I will propose a second time. She has taken hold of me, it is not to be denied! Have you noticed how becoming short hair is to her? She ought to wear it that way always. I will wait a year," and he was silent; "but after that I shall consider my hands free. It is not possible either that in her something will not change in a year, especially if he gives no sign of life. All this is wonderfully strange. Do you think that I do not do everything in my power to blow into life some spark for her? As God is true, a man has never done more against his own heart than I have. Pani Bigiel too does what she can. But it is difficult. Again, no one has the right to say to him expressly: marry! if he does not love her. And this is the more wonderful, since he does not seem even to think of the other. One Panna Ratkovski is worth more than a whole grove of such 'Poplars;' but that is another affair! For me the point is that she should not suppose that I am taking him away purposely. I have not dissuaded him, for I could not; but, my dear sir, should there ever be a conversation about our journey, say to her that, as God lives, I did not persuade Pan Ignas to the journey, and that I would give more than she supposes to make her happy, even were it at the cost of an old dog like me." "Of course we shall do so." "Thank you for that. Before going, I shall be with you again to say good-by to Pani Polanyetski." "Surely in the evening, so that we may sit longer. I think too that you will return in summer; you and Pan Ignas will spend some time with us." "In Buchynek?" "In Buchynek or not, that is unknown yet." Further conversation was interrupted by the sight of Osnovski, who at that moment was coming out of a fruit-shop, with a white package in his hand. "See, there is Osnovski!" said Svirski. "How changed!" said Pan Stanislav. And indeed he was changed immensely. From under his fur cap gazed a pale face, grown yellow, and, as it were, much older. His fur coat seemed to hang on him. Seeing his two friends, he was vexed; it was evident that for a while he hesitated whether or not to go around, pretending that he did not see them. But the sidewalk was empty, and they had come so near that he changed his intention, and, coming up, began to speak with unnatural haste, as if wishing to cover with talk that of which all three were thinking exclusively. "A good day to you, gentlemen! Oh, this is a chance that we meet, for I am shut up in Prytulov, and come rarely to the city. I have just bought some grapes, for the doctor orders me to eat grapes. But they are imported in sawdust, and have the odor of it; I thought they would be better here. There is frost to-day, indeed. In the country sleighing is perfect." And they walked on together, all feeling awkward. "You are going to Egypt, are you not?" inquired Pan Stanislav at last. "That is my old plan, and perhaps I shall go. In the country there is nothing to do in winter; it is tedious to be alone there." Here he stopped suddenly, for he saw that he was touching a delicate subject. And they went on in a silence still more oppressive, feeling that unspeakable awkwardness which is felt always when, by some tacit agreement, people talk of things of no interest, while hiding the main ones, which are painful. Osnovski would have been glad to leave his two friends; but people accustomed for long years to observe certain forms pay attention to appearances unconsciously, even in the deepest misfortune, hence he wanted to find some easy and natural means of leaving Pan Stanislav and the artist; but not being able to find it, he merely continued the awkward position. Finally, he began to take farewell of them in the unexpected and unnatural way of a man who has lost his head. At the last moment, however, he determined otherwise. Such a comedy seemed to him unendurable. He had had enough of it. It flashed into his head that he ought not to make a secret of anything; that in avoidance of every mention of misfortune there is something abject. On his face constraint was clear, and suffering; but, halting, he began to say with a broken voice, losing breath every moment,-- "Gentlemen, I beg pardon for detaining you longer. But you know that I have separated from my wife--I do not see any reason why I should not speak of it, especially with persons so honorable and so near--I declare to you, gentlemen, that that was--that that happened so--that is, that I wished it myself, and that to my wife nothing--" But the voice stuck in his throat, and he could not speak further. Evidently he wanted to take the fault on himself; but on a sudden he felt all the incredibility, all the extent and desperate emptiness of a lie like that, which must be a mere sound of words, so that not even the feeling of any duty, nor any social appearance could justify him. And, losing his head altogether, he went into the crowd, bearing with him his grapes and unfathomable misfortune. Svirski and Pan Stanislav went on in silence under the impression of this misfortune. "As God is true," said Pan Stanislav at length, "his heart is breaking." "For such a man," answered the artist, "there is nothing except to wish death." "And still he has not deserved such a fate." "I give you my word," said Svirski, "whenever I think of him, I see him kissing her hands. He did it so often that I cannot imagine him otherwise. And what sets me to thinking again is this, that misfortune, like death, severs the relations of people, or if it does not sever relations completely, it estranges people. You have not known him long, but I, for example, lived on intimate terms with him, and now he is to me somehow farther away, while I am to him more a stranger; there is no help in this case, and that is so sad." "Sad and wonderful--" But Svirski stopped on a sudden, and exclaimed,-- "Do you know what? May a thunderbolt burn that Pani Osnovski! Panna Helena said that it was not permitted to despair of a man while he was living; but as to that one, let a thunderbolt shake her!" "There was not in the world, perhaps, a woman more worshipped than she," said Pan Stanislav. "There you have them," answered Svirski, passionately. "Women, taking them in general--" But all at once he struck his glove across his mouth. "No!" cried he. "To the devil with my old fault! I have promised myself not to make any general conclusions about women." "I said that he worshipped her," continued Pan Stanislav, "because now I simply do not understand how he can live without her." "But he must." Osnovski was forced really to live without his wife, but he was not able. In Prytulov and in Warsaw, which were full of reminiscences of her, life soon became for him unendurable; hence a month later he started on a journey. But, already out of health when he left Warsaw, he caught cold in an over-heated car, and in Vienna fell so ill that he had to take to his bed. The cold, which at first was considered influenza, turned into a violent typhus. After a few days the sick man lost consciousness, and lay in a hotel at the mercy of strange doctors and strange people, far from home and his friends. But afterward in the fever which heated his brain and confused his thoughts it seemed to him that he saw near his bedside the face dearest in life to him, beloved at all times, beloved in loneliness, in sickness, and in presence of death. It seemed to him that he saw it even when he had regained consciousness, but was so weak that he could not move yet, nor speak, nor even arrange his own thoughts. Later the vision disappeared. But he began to inquire about it from the Sisters of Charity, who were sent, it was unknown by whom, and who surrounded him with the most tender care; and he began to yearn beyond measure. CHAPTER LXVIII. After the solemnity of the christening, and after the departure of Svirski and Pan Ignas, the Polanyetskis began to live again a secluded and home life, seeing scarcely any one except the Bigiels, Pani Emilia, and Vaskovski. But it was pleasant for them in that narrow circle of near friends, and pleasantest of all with themselves. Pan Stanislav was greatly occupied; he sat long in the counting-house and outside the counting-house, settling some business of which no one else knew anything. But, after finishing his work, he hurried home now with greater haste than when, as betrothed, he flew every day to the lodgings of the Plavitskis. His old liveliness returned, his old humor and confidence in life. Soon he made a discovery which seemed to him wonderful,--namely, that not only did he love his wife with all his power as his wife and the one dearest to him, but that he was in love with her as a woman, without alarm or effort, it is true, without transitions from joy to doubts and despair, but with all the emotions of sincere feeling, with a whole movement of desire, with a continually uniform fresh sensitiveness to her feminine charm, and with an untiring care, which watches, foresees, acts, anticipates, wishes, and strives continually not to injure happiness, and not to lose it. "I shall change into an Osnovski," said he, humorously; "but to me alone is it permitted to be an Osnovski, because my little one will never become a Pani Aneta." He said "my little one" to her often now, but there was in that as much respect as petting. He understood, too, that he never should have loved her so, if she had been other than she was; that all was the result of her immense, honest will, and of that sort of wonderful rectitude which issued from her as naturally as heat from a hearth. Pan Stanislav knew that his mind was the more active, his thought the more far-reaching, and his knowledge profounder than her knowledge; still he felt that through her, and through her alone, all that which was in him had become in some way more finished and more noble. Through her influence all those principles acquired by him passed from his head, where they had been a dead theory, to his heart, where they became active life. He noticed, too, that not only happiness, but he himself was her work. There was in this even a little disillusion for him, since he saw, without any doubt, that had he found some common kind of woman he might have turned out some common kind of man. At times he wondered even how she could have loved him; but he called to mind then her expression, "service of God," and that explained to him everything. For such a woman marriage, too, was "service of God," as was love also, not by some wild power lying beyond the will of people, but precisely by an act of honest will, by serving an oath, by serving God's law, by serving duty. Marynia loved him because he was her husband. Such was she, and that was the end of the question! For a long time Pan Stanislav was not able to see that all that which he worshipped in her was enjoined directly by the first catechism which one might take up, and that in her training had not killed the catechism. Perhaps she had not been reared with sufficient care; but she had been taught that she must serve God, and not use God to serve herself. Pan Stanislav, not understanding well the reasons why she was what she was, admired her increasingly, honored and loved her. As to her, while taking things without exaggeration, she did not conceive an excessive opinion of herself; she understood, however, that life had never been so pleasant for her as it then was; that she had passed through certain trials; that during those trials she had acted honorably; that she had endured the trials with patience; that the Lord God had rewarded her. And this feeling filled her with peace. Her health came back completely; she felt, therewith, very pleasant, and very much beloved. That "Stas," whom formerly she had feared a little, inclined his dark head frequently to her knees with submissiveness almost; and she thought with delight that "that man was not at all bending by nature, and that if he did bend, it was because he loved much." And she just grew every day. Gratitude rose in her, and she paid him for his love with her whole heart. The young "Aryan" filled his rôle of a ray in the house splendidly. Sometimes it was, indeed, a ray connected with noise; but when he was in good-humor, and when, lying in his favorite position, with his legs raised at right angles, he drew cries of delight from himself, all the male and female population of the house gathered around his cradle. Marynia covered his legs, calling him "naughty boy;" but he pulled off the cover every instant, thinking, evidently, that if a man of character has determined to kick, he should hold out in his undertaking bravely. He laughed while he kicked, showing his little toothless gums, crowing, twittering like a sparrow, cooing like a dove, or mewing like a cat. On such occasions his nurse and mother talked for whole hours with him. Professor Vaskovski, who had lost his head over the boy altogether, maintained with perfect seriousness that that was an "esoteric speech," which should be phonographed by scientists, for it might either disclose thoroughly the mystery of astral existence, or, at least, touch on its main indications. In this way the winter months passed in the house of the Polanyetskis. In January, Pan Stanislav began to make journeys on some business, and after each return he had long consultations with Bigiel. But from the middle of January he stayed at home permanently, never going out, unless to the counting-house, or to take short excursions with Marynia and Stas in the carriage. The uniformity of their life, or rather the uniformity of its calmness and happiness, was interrupted only by news of acquaintances in the city, brought most frequently by Pani Bigiel. In this way Marynia learned that Panna Ratkovski, who, of late, had not shown herself anywhere, had established a refuge for children from the income secured her by Panna Helena, and that Osnovski had gone really to Egypt, not alone, however, but with his "Anetka," with whom, after returning to health, he reunited himself. Pan Kresovski, the former second of Mashko, had seen them in Trieste, and declared to Pan Stanislav ironically that "the lady had the look of a submissive penitent." Pan Stanislav, knowing from experience how a person is crushed in misfortune, and what sincerity there may be in penitence, replied with perfect seriousness that since her husband had received Pani Osnovski, no decent man had a right to be more exacting than he was. But later news came from Italy which was more wonderful, and so unheard of that it became the subject of talk, not only for the Polanyetskis and the Bigiels, but the whole city,--namely, that the artist Svirski had asked in Rome for the hand of Panna Castelli, and that they would be married immediately after Easter. Marynia was so much roused by this that she persuaded her husband to write to Svirski and ask if it were true. An answer came in ten days; and when Pan Stanislav entered his wife's room at last with the letter, holding it by the corner of the envelope, and with the words, "Letter from Rome!" the serious Marynia ran up to him, with cheeks red from curiosity, and the two, standing temple to temple, read as follows:-- "Is it true? No, dear friends, it is not true! But that you should understand why that could not take place, and can never take place, I must speak to you of Pan Ignas. He came here three days since. First I persuaded him to remain in Florence, then to glance at Sienna, Parma, and especially Ravenna. Thence I send him to Athens, and to-morrow he will go by way of Brindisi. Meanwhile he sat with me from morning till evening. I saw that something was troubling the man, and wishing to turn direct conversation to things which concerned him more closely, I asked yesterday carelessly if he had not in his portfolio a half a dozen sonnets on Ravenna. And do you know what took place? At first he grew pale, and answered, 'Not yet,' but added that he would begin to write soon; then he threw his hat on the floor suddenly, and began to sob like a child. Never have I seen an outburst of similar suffering. He just wrung his hands, saying that he had murdered his talent; that there was nothing more left in him; that never would he have power to write another line; that he would prefer a hundred times that Panna Helena had not saved him. You see what is happening within him; while people will say, surely, that he does not write because he has money. And this, beyond doubt, will remain so. They have killed the poor man, murdered soul and talent in him, put out the strong fire from which light and warmth might have come to people. And that, see you, I could not forget. God be with Panna Castelli! but it was not right for her to pluck such feathers to make for herself a fan, which she threw out of the window soon after. No! I could not forget this! Never mind what I said in Warsaw, that now she must find a Prince Crapulescu, since no one else will take her; for, besides that kind, there are blind men in the world also,--plenty of them. As to me, I am neither Prince Crapulescu, nor blind. It is permitted to forgive wrongs done to one's self, but not those done to others; for that would be too easy. And this is all that I can tell you touching this matter, for you yourselves know the rest. I am waiting out the year; then I shall repeat my prayer to Panna Ratkovski. If she wants me, or rejects me, may God bless her in every case; but still that is my unchangeable decision." "Indeed!" interrupted Marynia; "but whence did such news come?" But in the continuation of the letter Svirski gave an exact answer. "All this gossip" (wrote he), "may have arisen from this that I have seen those ladies rather often. You remember that, during my former stay in Rome, Pani Bronich wrote to me first, and I was with them. Panna Castelli, instead of seeking evasions, blamed herself. I confess that that affected me. Let people say what they like, still in an open confession of fault there is a certain awakening of honesty, a certain courage, a certain turn, a groan of sorrow, which, if it does not redeem the offence, may redeem the soul. And believe me that in this which I say there is more than my heart of butter. Think, also, that in truth it is evil for them. Are the times few in which I have seen the hesitation with which they approach people, and how they are received by persons who have the courage of their principles? So much bitterness has gathered in these two women, that, as Vaskovski said with truth once, they are beginning to be embittered against themselves. That is a terrible position, in which one belongs, as it were, to the world, and carries the burden of a notable scandal. God be with them! Much might be written of this; but I remember always what Panna Helena said,--that one must not despair of a man while he lives. That unfortunate Lineta has changed from grief; she has grown thin and ugly, and I am very sorry for her. I am sorry even for Pani Bronich, who, it is true, bores holes in people's ears with her lies; but she does it out of attachment to that girl. Still, as I have said, it is permitted only to forgive wrongs done ourselves; but a man would be a kind of gorilla, and not a Christian, if he did not feel a little pity over the misfortunes of people. Whether I shall have the heart to go to them again after having seen the despair of Ignas, I know not. I am not sorry, however, that I was there. People will talk; they will stop talking; and after a year or so, if God grant me and that dear maiden to wait it out, they will see that they are talking nonsense." The letter finished with a reference to the Osnovskis, of whose reunion Svirski knew; he had heard, even, various details which were unknown to Pan Stanislav. "To think" (wrote he) "that God is more powerful than the perversity of man, and also is fabulously merciful, and that sometimes He permits misfortune to beat a man on the head as with a hammer, so as to knock some spark of honesty out of him. I believe now even in the rebirth of such as Pani Aneta. Maybe it is naïve in me, but at times I admit that there are no people in the world who are completely bad. See, something quivered in Pani Aneta even; she nursed him in his sickness. Oi, those women! Everything is so turned around in my head that soon I shall not have an opinion, not merely about them, but about anything." Further on were questions about Stas, and heartfelt words for his life-givers, and finally a promise to return in the first days of spring. CHAPTER LXIX. But spring was coming really, and, besides, it was as warm as it was early. Pan Stanislav, at the end of March and the beginning of April, began again to make journeys, and sometimes to spend a number of days away from home. He and Bigiel were so busied that often they remained in the counting-house till late in the evening. Pani Bigiel supposed that they must be undertaking something large; but it astonished her that her husband, who always spoke with her about his business, and almost thought aloud in her presence, and even frequently took counsel with her, was as silent now as if spell-bound. Marynia noticed also that "Stas" had his head filled with something in an unusual manner. He was more tender toward her than ever; but it seemed to her that in that tenderness of his, as well as in every conversation and every petting, there was some third thing, another thought, which occupied him so thoroughly that lie could not keep away from it even a moment. And this state of distraction increased daily till the beginning of May, when it passed into something feverish. Marynia began to hesitate whether to ask or not, what the matter was. She was a little afraid to intrude; but for her it was important also that he should not think that his affairs concerned her too little. In this uncertainty, she determined to wait for a favorable moment, hoping that he himself would begin to touch on his business, even remotely. In fact, it seemed to her, on a certain day soon after, that the opportune moment had come. Pan Stanislav returned from the counting-house earlier than usual, and with a face in some way wonderfully radiant, though serious, so that, looking him in the eyes, she asked, almost mechanically,-- "Something favorable must have happened, Stas?" He sat near hers and instead of answering directly, began to talk with a voice which was strange in some sort,-- "See how calm and warm. The windows might be opened now. Dost thou know what I've been thinking of these last days? That for thy health and Stas's we ought to go soon from the city." "But is not Buchynek rented?" asked Marynia. "Buchynek is sold," answered he. Then, taking both her hands and looking into her eyes with immense affection, he said,-- "Listen, my dear, I have something to tell thee, and something which ought to please thee; but promise not to be excited too much." "Well, what is it, Stas?" "Seest thou, my little one? Mashko fled to foreign parts; for he had more debts than property. His creditors threw themselves on everything which was left after him, so as to recover even something. Everything went into liquidation. Magyerovka has been parcelled, and is lost; but Kremen, Skoki, and Suhotsin could be saved. Do not grow excited, my love; I have bought them for thee." Marynia looked at him some time, blinking, and as if not believing her ears. But no! He was so moved himself that he could not jest. Her eyes were darkened with tears, and all at once she threw both arms around his neck. "Stas!" And at that moment she could not find other words; but in this one exclamation there were thanks and great love, and a woman's homage for the efficiency of that man who had been able to do everything. Pan Stanislav understood this; and in the feeling of that immense happiness which he had not known hitherto, he began to speak, holding her still at his breast,-- "I knew that this would comfort thee, and God knows there is no greater pleasure for me than thy delight. I remembered that thou wert sorry for Kremen, that that was an injustice to thee, and that it was possible to correct it; therefore I corrected it. But that is nothing! If I had bought ten such Kremens for thee, I should not have repaid thee for the good which thou hast done me, and still I should not be worthy of thee." And he spoke sincerely; but Marynia removed her head from his shoulder, and, raising on him her eyes, which were at once moist and bright, said,-- "It is I, Stas, that am not worthy of thee; and I did not even hope to be so happy." Then they began to dispute who was the more worthy; but in that dispute there were frequent intervals of silence, for Marynia, every moment embracing him, pushed up to him her mouth, beautiful, though a little too wide, and kissed him; and then he kissed in turn her eyes and her hands. For a long time yet she wanted now to cry, now to laugh from delight; for really her happiness surpassed everything which she had ever hoped for. Her mother had written once, with a weakening hand, "One should not marry to be happy, but to fulfil the duties which God imposes; happiness is only an addition and a gift of God." Meanwhile this addition was now too great to find place in her heart. There had been trials, there had been moments of grief to her, and even of doubt; but all had passed, and at last that "Stas" not only loved her as the sight of his eye, but he had done more than he had ever promised. And at that moment, while walking with long strides through the room, still excited, but pleased with himself, and with an expression of complete boastfulness on his dark, challenging face, he said,-- "Well, Marys[16]! Now for the first time will work begin, will it not? For I haven't the least idea of country life and that will be thy affair. But I think that I shall not be the worst of managers. We shall both work, for that Kremen is a big undertaking." "My golden Stas," answered she, clasping her hands, "I know that thou hast done that for me; but will it not injure thee in business?" "In business? It is thy idea, perhaps, that I let myself be stripped. Not at all! I bought cheaply, very cheaply. Bigiel, who is afraid of everything, still confesses that that is a good purchase; besides, I remain in company with him for the future. But only be not afraid of Kremen, Marys, or the old troubles. There will be something to work with; and I tell thee sincerely that if to-day all Kremen were to sink in the earth, we should have enough to support us, together with Stas." "I," said Marynia, looking at him more or less as she would on Napoleon, or some other conqueror of similar size, "am certain that thou wilt do all that thou wishest, but I know that it was only for me that Kremen was bought." "And I hope that I bought it, too, because thy mother is lying there, because I love thee, and because thou lovest Kremen," answered Pan Stanislav. "But in thy way thou hast brought me back to the soil. I recall thy words in Venice when Mashko wanted to sell Kremen to Bukatski. Thou hast no idea of how I am under thy influence. Sometimes thou wilt say a thing, and I for the moment make no answer; still it remains in me, and later it is heard unexpectedly. So it was in this business. It seems strange to me now for a man to dwell on this planet, to have some wealth, as it were, and not have three square ells of this earth, concerning which he might say 'mine.' Then the question was settled. Then came the purchase. Perhaps thou hast noticed that for some months I have been buzzing about like a fly in a caldron. I did not wish to speak to thee till all was finished; I preferred a surprise. And thou hast it! This is because thou hast recovered, and art so beloved." Here he seized her hands, and began to press them again to his mouth and his forehead. She wanted to kiss his hands, too, but he would not permit that; and at last they began to run after each other, like children, through the room, speaking to each other words which were kindly, and bright as sunbeams. Marynia wanted so much to go straight to Kremen, and to such a degree was she unable to think of aught else, that at last he threatened to grow jealous of Kremen, and to sell it. "Oi! thou wilt not sell," said she, shaking her head. "Why not?" "Because," said she, taking his ear, and whispering into it, "thou lovest me." And he began to nod in sign that that was true. But they agreed, to the great delight of Marynia, to go with their whole household to Kremen at the end of the week,--a thing perfectly possible, for Pan Stanislav had made the house ready for the coming of the "heiress." He assured her, too, that almost nothing had changed, and he had tried only that the rooms should not seem too empty; then he began to laugh suddenly, and said, "I am curious to know what papa will say to this." The conjectural astonishment of "papa" was a new cause of delight to Marynia. For that matter, there was no need to wait long for Plavitski, since he came to dinner half an hour later. He had barely showed himself when Marynia, throwing herself on his shoulder, told with one breath the happy news; he was really astonished, and even moved. Perhaps he felt the happiness of his daughter; perhaps there was roused in him an attachment for that corner, in which he had lived so many years; it is enough that his eyes grew moist. First he mentioned his sweat, with which that soil was soaked; then he began to say something of the "old man," and of his "refuge in the country;" at last, pressing Pan Stanislav's head between his palms, he said,-- "God grant thee luck to manage as well as I have managed, and be assured that I shall not refuse thee either my assistance or my counsels." In the evening, at the Bigiels', Marynia, still intoxicated with her happiness, said to Pani Bigiel,-- "Well, now, tell me, how could I help loving a man like that?" FOOTNOTES: [16] Pronounced Márees, a diminutive of Marynia. CHAPTER LXX. Next morning after the arrival of the Polanyetskis in Kremen, it was Sunday. Pan Stanislav himself rose late, for they had come at one o'clock the night previous. In Kremen the servants had been waiting with bread and salt for them. Marynia, laughing and weeping in turn, examined every corner in the house, and after that was unable to fall asleep, from emotion, till almost daylight. For all these reasons Pan Stanislav did not permit her to rise; but since she wanted to go to Mass at Vantory rather early, so as to pray at the church for her mother, he promised to have the carriage ready, and let her know when it was time. Immediately after breakfast he went out to look at his new inheritance. It was the second half of May, and the day was exceptionally beautiful. Rain had fallen in the night, and the sun was shining on little pools in the yard; and on the buildings it was reflected in diamond brightness in raindrops hanging on the leaves, and it made the wet roofs of the barns, cow-houses, and sheep-houses gleam. In that glitter, and in the bright May green of the trees, Kremen seemed altogether charming. Around the buildings there was hardly any movement, for it was Sunday; but at the stable were busied some men, who had to drive to church. This silence and sleepiness struck Pan Stanislav strangely. Having intended for some time to buy Kremen, he had been there repeatedly, and knew that it was a neglected property. Mashko had begun, it is true, to build a granary, which was covered with a red roof, but he had not finished it. He had never lived in the place himself, and toward the end could not expend anything on the property, hence neglect was visible at every step. But never had it seemed to Pan Stanislav neglected so absolutely as now, when he was able to say to himself, "This is mine." The buildings were somehow leaning; the walls in them not very solid; the fences were inclining and broken; under the walls were lying fragments of various broken agricultural implements. Everywhere the earth seemed desirous of drawing into itself that which was on its surface; everywhere was seen a kind of passive abandonment of things to themselves; everywhere carelessness was visible. Of agriculture Pan Stanislav knew only this, that there was need to be careful in expenses; for the rest, he had not the least conception of it, save some general information, which had struck his ears in childhood. But, looking at his kingdom, he divined that cultivation of its fields must coincide exactly with that carelessness which he saw around; he had a clear feeling that if anything was done there it was rather from custom, from routine, as it were, and because of this alone, that some such thing had been done ten, twenty, a hundred years earlier. That exertion, that untiring, watchful energy, which is the basis of commerce, of industry, and of city industry in general,--of that there was not a trace. "If I brought nothing more than that to this torpor," said Pan Stanislav, "it would be very much, for there is an absolute lack of energy. Besides, I have money, and at least this much knowledge,--that I know to begin with that I know nothing, and second, I know that I must learn and inquire." He remembered, besides, from his Belgian times, that even abroad, even there in Belgium, the spirit of man and the exertion of will meant more than the most powerful machines. And in this regard he counted on himself, and he was able to count. He felt that he was a persistent and active man. Everything taken in hand by him hitherto had to move, whether it would or not. He felt, besides, that in business he had a head that was not fantastic, but one reckoning accurately; and, thanks to this feeling, not only did he not lose confidence at sight of the neglect which he saw before him, but he found in it something like a spur. That torpor, that neglect, that inertia, that sleepiness, seemed to challenge him; and, casting his eyes around, he said to them almost with pleasure, "That's all right; we'll have a trial!" And he was even in a hurry for the trial. These first reviews and thoughts did not spoil his humor, but took much time. Looking at his watch, he saw that if he wished to be in Vantory for Mass, it was time to start at once; giving the order, then, to attach the horses, he returned hastily to the house, and knocked at Marynia's door. "Lady heiress!" called he, "the service of God!" "Yes, yes!" answered the gladsome voice of Marynia through the door, "I am ready." Pan Stanislav went in, and saw her in a light summer robe, like that in which he saw her at his first visit in Kremen. She had dressed thus purposely; and he, to her great delight, understood her intention, for he exclaimed, stretching out his hands to her,-- "Panna Plavitski!" And she, as if embarrassed, put her nose up to his face, and pointed to the cradle, in which Stas was sleeping. Then they drove to the church with Papa Plavitski. It was a spring day, bright, full of warm breezes and gladness. In the groves the cuckoos were calling, and on the fields striding storks were visible. Along the road hoopoos and magpies flew from tree to tree before the carriage. From time to time a breeze sprang up and flew over the green fleeces, as over waves, bending the blades of grass, and forming quivering shades on the green of the fields. Around about was the odor of the soil, of grass, of spring. He and she were seized by a swarm of reminiscences. In her was called forth, though a little blunted by life in the city, that love of hers for land, and the country, the forest and green fields, the fruits in the fields, the pastures narrowing in the distance, the broad expanses of air, and that extent of the sky which is far greater than in cities. All this filled her with a half-conscious feeling which verged on the intoxication of delight. And Pan Stanislav remembered how once, in the same way, he had ridden to church with Pan Plavitski, and how, in like manner, the hoopoos and magpies flew from tree to tree before him. But now he felt at his side that rosy woman, whom he had seen then for the first time,--that former Panna Plavitski. In one word, he made present in his mind all that had taken place between them: the first acquaintance, and that charm with which she possessed him; their later disagreement; that strange part which Litka played in their lives; their marriage, later life, and the hesitations of happiness; the changes which, under the influence of that clear spirit, took place in him, and the present clearing up of life. He had also a blissful feeling that the evil had passed; that he had found more than he had dreamed of; that at present, it is true, misfortunes of every kind might come on him; but with reference to relations with her, his life had become clear once for all, and very honorable, almost equally the same as "the service of God," and as much more sunny than the past as that horizon which surrounded them was sunnier than that of the city. At this thought, happiness and affection for her overflowed his heart. Arriving at Vantory, he repeated "eternal repose" for the soul of that mother to whom he was thankful for such a wife, with no less devotion than Marynia herself. It seemed to him that he loved that dust, buried under the church, with the same filial affection as the dust of his own mother. But now the bell sounded for Mass. In the church again old memories thronged into his mind. Everything around him was known somehow, so that at moments he felt the illusion that he had been there yesterday. The nave of the church was filled with the same gray crowd of peasants, and the odor of sweet flag; the same priest was celebrating Mass at the altar: the same birch branches, moved by the breeze, were striking the window from the outside; and Pan Stanislav thought again, as before, that everything passes, life passes, pains pass, hopes, impulses, pass, directions of thought and whole systems of philosophy pass, but Mass, as of old, is celebrated, as if in it alone were eternal indestructibility. Marynia alone was a new form in the old picture. Pan Stanislav, looking at moments on her calm face, and her eyes raised to the altar, divined that she was praying with her whole soul for their future life in the country; hence he accommodated himself to her, and prayed with her. But after Mass, on the church square, neighbors surrounded them, old acquaintances of Pan Plavitski and Marynia. Plavitski, however, looked around in vain for Pani Yamish; she had been in the city for a number of days. Councillor Yamish was cured completely from catarrh of the stomach; and therefore well, and made young, at the sight of Marynia he fell into genuine enthusiasm. "Here is my pupil!" cried he, kissing her hand, "the house mistress! my golden Marynia! Aha! the birds have come back to the old nest. But how beautiful she is always, as God is true,--a young lady, just a young damsel to look at, though I know that there is a son in the house." Marynia was blushing from delight; but at that moment the Zazimskis approached, with their six children, and with them also Pan Gantovski, called commonly "Little Bear," the former unsuccessful rival for Marynia, and the incomplete slayer of Mashko. Gantovski approached awkwardly and with some confusion, as if dazzled by Marynia's beauty, and seized with sorrow for the happiness which had missed him. In fact, Marynia greeted him with comic awkwardness; but Pan Stanislav stretched his hand to him in friendliness, with the magnanimity of a conqueror, and said,-- "Oh, I find here acquaintances even from years of childhood. How are you?" "In the old fashion," answered Gantovski. But Pan Yamish, who was in excellent humor, said, looking teasingly at the young man,-- "He has his cares in regulating peasant privileges." Gantovski grew still more confused, for the whole neighborhood was talking of those troubles. For some years the poor fellow had been barely able to live in that Yalbrykov of his. The regulation of peasant privileges and the selling of timber might have brought him to the open road at length, when in opposition to all the conditions, which more than once had been near settlement, there rose the eternal unchangeable reproach on the part of his Yalbrykov neighbors that "the lord heir rides on a white horse, fires from pistols, and looks into the girls' eyes." Gantovski, though accustomed from years of youth to various country troubles, lost at times his patience and cried out in genuine despair,-- "Well, dog blood! what has one to do with the other? May the brightest thunderbolts shake every one of you!" But after such a convincing dictum, the Yalbrykov peasant representatives assembled as usual a new mature council, and, after a careful consideration of everything, _for_ and _against_, announced again, while scratching the backs of their heads, that all would be right, but that "the lord heir rides on a white horse, fires from pistols, and looks at the girls." Meanwhile Marynia, who had as much attachment for Pan Yamish as if he had been one of the family, when she heard that he was a straw widower, invited him to dinner. But beyond expectation Plavitski, angry because he had not found Pani Yamish in Vantory, and mindful of his Sunday whist parties with "Gantos," invited Gantovski too, in consequence of which the Polanyetskis drove ahead very hurriedly, so that Marynia might have time to make needful arrangements. Behind them came Plavitski and the councillor; Gantovski dragged on in the rear in his brichka drawn by a lean Yalbrykov nag. Along the road Plavitski said to Councillor Yamish,-- "I cannot tell you. My daughter is happy. He is a good man and an energetic piece, but--" "But what?" asked Pan Yamish. "But flighty. Thou hast in mind, neighbor, that he pressed me so hard for some wretched twelve thousand rubles that I was forced to sell Kremen. And what then? Then he bought back that same Kremen. If he had not squeezed me, he would not have had to buy Kremen, for he would have had it for nothing with Marynia after my death. He is a good-natured man, but here" (and while he was saying this, Plavitski tapped his forehead with his finger) "there is something lacking! What is true, is not a sin." "Hm!" answered Yamish, who did not wish to cause bitterness to Plavitski by the remark that if Kremen had remained longer in _his_ hands nothing would have been left of it. Plavitski sighed, and said,-- "But for me in my old age new toil, for now everything must go by my head." With difficulty did Pan Yamish restrain himself from shouting, "May God forbid!" but he knew Pan Stanislav well enough to know that there was no danger. Plavitski did not believe much in what he himself said; he was a little afraid of his son-in-law, and he knew well that now everything would go by another head. Thus conversing, they drove up to the porch. Marynia, who had arranged everything already for the dinner, received them with Stas in her arms. "I wanted to present my son to you before we sat down to table," said she; "a big son! a tremendous boy! a nice son!" And in time to these words she began to sway him toward Pan Yamish. Pan Yamish touched Stas's face with his fingers, whereupon the "nice son" first made a grimace, then smiled, and all at once gave out a sound which might have a certain exceptionally important meaning for investigators of "esoteric speech;" but for an ordinary ear it recalled wonderfully the cry of a magpie or a parrot. Meanwhile Gantovski came, and having hung up his overcoat on a peg in the entrance, he was looking in it for a handkerchief, when, by a strange chance, Rozulka, young Stas's nurse, found herself also in the entrance, and approaching Gantovski, embraced his knees, and then kissed his hands. "Oh! how art thou, how art thou? What wilt thou say?" asked the heir of Yalbrykov. "Nothing! I only wished to make obeisance," said Rozulka, submissively. Gantovski bent a little to one side, and began to search for something with his fingers in his breast pocket; but evidently she had come only to bow to the heir, for, without waiting for a gift, she kissed his hand again, and walked away quietly to the nursery. Gantovski went with a heavy face to the rest of the company, muttering to himself in bass,-- "Um-dree-dree! Um-dree-dree! Um-dramta-ta!" Then all sat down at the table, and a conversation began about the return of the Polanyetskis to the country. Pan Yamish, who, of himself, was an intelligent man, and, as a councillor, must be wise by virtue of his office, and eloquent, turned to Pan Stanislav, and said,-- "You come to the country without a knowledge of agriculture, but with that which is lacking mainly to the bulk of our country residents,--a knowledge of administration, and capital. Hence, I trust, and I am sure, that you will not come out badly in Kremen. Your return is for me a great joy, not only with reference to you and my beloved pupil, but because it is also a proof of what I say always, and assert, that the majority of us old people must leave the land; but our sons, and if not our sons, our grandsons, will come back; and will come back stronger, better trained in the struggle of life, with calculation in their heads, and with the traditions of work. Do you remember what I told you once,--that land attracts, and that it is genuine wealth? You contradicted me, then, but to-day--see, you are the owner of Kremen." "That was through her, and for her," answered Pan Stanislav, pointing to his wife. "Through her, and for her," repeated the councillor; "and do you think that in my theory there is no place for women, and that I do not know their value? They divine with heart and conscience where there is real obligation, and with their hearts they urge on to it. But land is a real obligation, as well as real wealth." Here Pan Yamish, who, in the image and likeness of many councillors, had this weakness, that he was fond of listening to himself, closed his eyes, so as to listen still better, and continued,-- "Yes, you have returned through your wife! Yes, that is her merit; and God grant us that such women be born more frequently! But in your way you have all come out of the soil, and therefore soil attracts you. We ought to have the plough on our escutcheons, all of us. And I tell you more, not only did Pan Stanislav Polanyetski return, not only did Pani Marynia Polanyetski return, but the family of the Polanyetskis returned, for in it was awakened the instinct of whole generations, who grew out of the soil, and whose dust is enriching it." When he had said this, Pan Yamish rose, and taking a goblet, exclaimed,-- "In the hands of Pani Polanyetski, the health of the family of the Polanyetskis!" "To the health of the family of the Polanyetskis!" cried Gantovski, who, having a feeling heart, was ready to forgive the family of the Polanyetskis all the sufferings of heart through which he had passed by reason of them. And all went with their glasses to Pani Marynia, who thanked them with emotion; but to Pan Stanislav, who approached her, she whispered,-- "Ai, Stas, how happy I am!" But when all in the company found themselves again at their places, Papa Plavitski added, on his part,-- "Keep the soil to the very last! that is what I have been advocating all my life." "That is certain!" confirmed Gantovski. But in his soul he thought, "If it were not for those dog blood troubles!" And at that very time, in the nursery, Rozulka was singing little Stas to sleep with the sad village song,-- "Those ill-fated chambers. Oi, thou my Yasenku!" After dinner, the guests were making ready to separate; but Plavitski kept them for a "little party," so that they went away only when the sun was near setting. Then the Polanyetskis, having amused themselves first with little Stas, went out on the porch, and further, to the garden, for the evening was calm and clear. Everything reminded them of that first Sunday which they had spent there together; it seemed to them like some wonderful and pleasant dream, and reminiscences of that kind were there without number at every step. The sun was going down in the same way, large and shining; the trees stood motionless in the stillness of evening, reddening at the tops from the evening light; on the other side of the house the storks were chattering in the same way on their nests; there was the same mood of all things around them, cherishing and vesperal. They began to walk about, to pass through all the alleys, go to the fences, look at the fields, which lost themselves in the distance, at the narrow strips of woods barring the horizon, and to say quiet things to each other, and also as quietly as that evening was quiet. All this which surrounded them was to be their world. Both felt that that village was taking them into itself; that some relation was beginning to weave itself between them and it; that henceforth their life must flow there, not elsewhere,--laborers, devoted to the "service of God" in the field. When the sun had gone down, they returned to the porch; but, as on that first occasion, so now they remained on it, waiting for perfect darkness. But formerly Marynia had kept at a distance from Pan Stanislav; now she nestled up to his side, and said, after some silence,-- "It will be pleasant for us here with each other, Stas, will it not?" And he embraced her firmly, so as to feel her at his very heart, and said,-- "My beloved, my greatly beloved!" Then from beyond the alder-trees, which were wrapped in haze, rose the ruddy moon; and the frogs in the ponds, having learned, evidently, that the lady had returned, she whom they had seen so often at the shore, called in the midst of the evening silence, in one great chorus,-- "Glad! glad!" THE END. Transcriber's Note Page numbers given in these notes refer those of the printed source. Certain compound words appear with and without hyphens. Should the sole use of a hyphen appear at a line break in the original, the most common form is followed, or modern usage applied if no other instances exist. The list below describes the various textual issues encountered, most of them likely printer's errors, and their resolution. The printer seems to have particular trouble with the Polish proper names and honorifics. Where there were inconsistent or apparently incorrect usages, a Polish language text was used to confirm the correct forms. This text is organized as three books. The translator for our edition eliminated the books and re-numbered the chapters consecutively. In Chapter LXIV, the first name of Mashko's wife appears once as both 'Terenia' (p. 624) and 'Teresia' (p. 626). 'Terenia' is to be the correct spelling. p. 57 I never go out of the city in summer.["] Added. p. 82 and be at rest as to Mashko.['/"] Corrected. p. 119 and from the offence given by him[.] Added. p. 140 answered Pani Emilia[,] Added. p. 153 in whom irritation against Mashko [has] _sic._ been gathering p. 233 Pan Mashko is a practical man[.] Added. p. 258 and kiss her feet[.] Added. p. 304 Bukat[ks/sk]i was then in a fit Transposed. p. 357 But, my Ane[kt/tk]a Transposed. p. 387 Pann[i/a] Castelli Corrected. p. 408 Sche[w/v]eningen Changed to match all other instances. p. 411 had shown himse[l]f Added. p. 422 looked at her with a[s]tonishment Added. p. 429 those formulas sati[s]fied Pani Mashko Added. p. 451 those "who were kind" to Prytulov[.] Added. p. 462 down at his side, said,[--] Added. but at the same [time?] exceptionally _sic._ p. 523 Osno[sv/vs]ki, knowing nothing Transposed. p. 524 spite against Steftsia Ratkov[ks/sk]i Transposed. p. 525 ["]Koposio laughs at her Added. p. 528 ["]They have not returned yet; Added. p. 604 "What does Kresov[s]ki say?" Added. p. 626 Tere[s/n]ia Corrected.